So, Sarah Palin is the official pick for the VP of the Republican ticket. Never heard of her? You're not alone.
This is being described as a Hail Mary pick, and that's probably fair. But this is not a graceful Doug Flutie wing and a prayer to the endzone. It's more akin to a Rex Grossman, third and long unthinking heave into mid-air. It's a pass off the back foot, made by a stumbling candidate who's panicking under pressure.
A lot is being made of the impact this pick will have on disgruntled Hillary cupporters, but I don't see it. The argument is that women across the nation will choose a fanatically anti-choice creationist with a year and a half of experience as Governor of a sparsely populated state with a history of major governmental corruption (to which Palin has made her own notable contribution as of late) to be the next in line to be President... because she's a woman. Which is just about as offensive to Clinton supporters and, frankly, women in general, as one can get.
I don't think any Clinton supporters are really that disgruntled. The Palin choice may help to energize women who are already in the Republican base, but that base consists for the most part of people who already believe that President Obama will confiscate every firearm in America and enforce mandatory abortions to pave the way for the coming Islamic invasion. The point being, you're probably not picking up a ton of votes here.
The timing is an inspired way of stealing bounce from a great speech by Barack Obama who, in front of a TV audience of 38 million, finally went on the attack against McCain. And ain't it about damn time. The Obama campaign is to be lauded for it's valiant efforts to remain above the fray of the typical presidential smear campaign, but at some point this high mindedness is just going to reduce a great candidate to a punching bag. So far, apart from a couple of ads regarding McCain's housing situation, Obama's campaign has remained frustratingly above the fray. This is American politics, and when someone hits you in front of a crowd of people, you hit them back. It's time to loose the hounds and draw some blood. McCain is not George Bush, but he represents a continuation of his ruinous policies, and that deserves to be said. And with the appointment of an inexperienced vice presidential candidate, McCain just made his age a valid campaign issue. The man is unlikely to make it through two terms, and that means that everyone who is thinking about voting for President McCain has to consider that they also may be voting for President Palin. And I can't wait to see what a debate with Joe Biden makes that prospect look like.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Snap Judgment: Son of Rambow
On the heels of his first feature, 2005’s critically bashed but not half bad adaptation of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, director Garth Jennings is hitting from the other side of the plate in his latest effort. Son of Rambow leaves behind the territory of the sci-fi epic in favor of a coming of age tale that’s charming and kid friendly but has enough genuine laughs that it avoids getting stuck in the “aw, shucks” territory that it could have occupied.
Son of Rambow follows two British youngsters, hooligan Lee Carter and quiet, religious Will Proudfoot. Both boys are navigating the path to manhood without the benefit of a father figure. Instead, they find John Rambo to latch onto, and in their raucous, harebrained remake of First Blood, they find strength in one another, supporting each other and bringing one another’s dream (such as a menacing flying dog) to vivid life. And while Jennings is apparently unable to leave his music video background completely behind, which results in a couple of fantasies and dream sequences that are out of touch with the rest of the film, the film within a film crafted by Lee and Will is an unabashed love letter to the joys and catharsis of filmmaking.
And yeah, it’s all a little pat, especially with a third act that you’ll swear you’ve seen before. And some moments will have you scratching your head, like a pee wee new wave club that’s apparently nestled in the halls of a British prep school. But warts and all, Son of Rambow is a fun romp through the perils of childhood that even the most cinematically hard hearted can find themselves warming up to.
Son of Rambow follows two British youngsters, hooligan Lee Carter and quiet, religious Will Proudfoot. Both boys are navigating the path to manhood without the benefit of a father figure. Instead, they find John Rambo to latch onto, and in their raucous, harebrained remake of First Blood, they find strength in one another, supporting each other and bringing one another’s dream (such as a menacing flying dog) to vivid life. And while Jennings is apparently unable to leave his music video background completely behind, which results in a couple of fantasies and dream sequences that are out of touch with the rest of the film, the film within a film crafted by Lee and Will is an unabashed love letter to the joys and catharsis of filmmaking.
And yeah, it’s all a little pat, especially with a third act that you’ll swear you’ve seen before. And some moments will have you scratching your head, like a pee wee new wave club that’s apparently nestled in the halls of a British prep school. But warts and all, Son of Rambow is a fun romp through the perils of childhood that even the most cinematically hard hearted can find themselves warming up to.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Snap Judgment: The Fall
I walked out of The Fall thinking about some things that I don’t understand, and here are just a few.
I don’t understand why director Tarsem Singh has directed only one other feature length film, 2000’s visually stimulating but otherwise abominable Jennifer Lopez vehicle The Cell.
I don’t understand why Lee Pace doesn’t get more work in film.
But mostly I don’t understand why more movies like this don’t get made. The Fall is hands down the most beautiful film I’ve seen this year; Tarsem’s eye for stirring landscapes and intriguing, surreal images creates some of the most remarkable sequences put to film in recent memory. Images like a blood soaked burial cairn set against a stunning desert horizon seem like they’re pulled right from a dream, or, in the case of the stunning and all too briefly explored Labyrinth of Despair, a nightmare.
Indeed, these scenes are crafted in the mind’s eye of Alexandria, (played by the adorable and perfectly cast Cantica Untaru) the precocious, charming and wily young migrant laborer whose broken arm keep her confined to a hospital in sun washed 1920’s L.A. It’s during her stay here that she meets Roy Walker (Pace), a silent film stuntman who recently lost his legs performing a foolhardy stunt.
Determined to take his own life but powerless to put his plan into motion, Roy enlists Alexandria’s unwitting assistance. As he begins weaving the story of 5 legendary heroes, the bored and lonely girl latches on to the tale, becoming as much storyteller as audience. Eventually, she reluctantly fetches the morphine that Roy needs as much as she needs the escape provided by this epic tale that Roy’s simple story becomes to her. It’s through her eyes that we see Roy’s fantastic tale unravel, and she also provides the frame for the story inside the hospital. It’s refreshing to note that, while less awe inducing than it’s more mythic counterpart, is compelling and carefully crafted, and some of the film’s finest performances take place not in the shimmering fantasy, but the shady and isolated hospital corridors.
But the fantastic elements of the story take the cake. From an elephant swimming through a sapphire reef to a daring raid on a desert caravan to the legion of ebon helmed warriors that floods the staircases of an Escheresque courtyard, The Fall presents one breathtaking image after another, topping itself with grace and ease. Through Alexandria’s imagination and Tarsem’s innovative and masterful vision, we too become enraptured by Roy’s story, staring at the screen slack jawed and moved beyond all reason. Ultimately, The Fall succeeds because it succeeds in making one remember the sense of wonder that we watched movies with as children. I can pay it no higher compliment than that.
I don’t understand why director Tarsem Singh has directed only one other feature length film, 2000’s visually stimulating but otherwise abominable Jennifer Lopez vehicle The Cell.
I don’t understand why Lee Pace doesn’t get more work in film.
But mostly I don’t understand why more movies like this don’t get made. The Fall is hands down the most beautiful film I’ve seen this year; Tarsem’s eye for stirring landscapes and intriguing, surreal images creates some of the most remarkable sequences put to film in recent memory. Images like a blood soaked burial cairn set against a stunning desert horizon seem like they’re pulled right from a dream, or, in the case of the stunning and all too briefly explored Labyrinth of Despair, a nightmare.
Indeed, these scenes are crafted in the mind’s eye of Alexandria, (played by the adorable and perfectly cast Cantica Untaru) the precocious, charming and wily young migrant laborer whose broken arm keep her confined to a hospital in sun washed 1920’s L.A. It’s during her stay here that she meets Roy Walker (Pace), a silent film stuntman who recently lost his legs performing a foolhardy stunt.
Determined to take his own life but powerless to put his plan into motion, Roy enlists Alexandria’s unwitting assistance. As he begins weaving the story of 5 legendary heroes, the bored and lonely girl latches on to the tale, becoming as much storyteller as audience. Eventually, she reluctantly fetches the morphine that Roy needs as much as she needs the escape provided by this epic tale that Roy’s simple story becomes to her. It’s through her eyes that we see Roy’s fantastic tale unravel, and she also provides the frame for the story inside the hospital. It’s refreshing to note that, while less awe inducing than it’s more mythic counterpart, is compelling and carefully crafted, and some of the film’s finest performances take place not in the shimmering fantasy, but the shady and isolated hospital corridors.
But the fantastic elements of the story take the cake. From an elephant swimming through a sapphire reef to a daring raid on a desert caravan to the legion of ebon helmed warriors that floods the staircases of an Escheresque courtyard, The Fall presents one breathtaking image after another, topping itself with grace and ease. Through Alexandria’s imagination and Tarsem’s innovative and masterful vision, we too become enraptured by Roy’s story, staring at the screen slack jawed and moved beyond all reason. Ultimately, The Fall succeeds because it succeeds in making one remember the sense of wonder that we watched movies with as children. I can pay it no higher compliment than that.
The Nature of the Beast
It occurs to me that Robert Christgau might not know what business he’s in.
In his National Public Radio review of Blame it on Gravity, the latest album by the Old 97’s, Christgau decides to spend a good chunk of time openly wondering whether some of the songs on the album reflect actual troubles in the lovelife of frontman Rhett Miller. That’s a reasonable speculation for a music critic to make, great. It's a standard, is somewhat pat, observation. What rankled me was the fact that Christgau follows this statement almost immediately by stating that he’s “not in the gossip business,” and patting himself on the back for not publicly speculating on the condition of marriage.
Now I’m not saying that the gossip business is a bad business. It’s a fine business, nobler than some and better than most. But it is what it is, and when you talk about rock stars for a living, you, my friend, are in the gossip business.
In his National Public Radio review of Blame it on Gravity, the latest album by the Old 97’s, Christgau decides to spend a good chunk of time openly wondering whether some of the songs on the album reflect actual troubles in the lovelife of frontman Rhett Miller. That’s a reasonable speculation for a music critic to make, great. It's a standard, is somewhat pat, observation. What rankled me was the fact that Christgau follows this statement almost immediately by stating that he’s “not in the gossip business,” and patting himself on the back for not publicly speculating on the condition of marriage.
Now I’m not saying that the gossip business is a bad business. It’s a fine business, nobler than some and better than most. But it is what it is, and when you talk about rock stars for a living, you, my friend, are in the gossip business.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Let The Hate Flow Through You: Towards a Finer Understanding of Irrational Prejudices
Yesterday, I learned to hate Zack Snyder. It's not for his lukewarm remake of George Romero's classic Dawn of the Dead. It's not even for his universally overrated adaptation of Frank Miller's 300, a blissfully short film stretched to a terminally long trainwreck by slowing down every action scene to a slow motion crawl. It's not even because I'm pretty sure he's going to trim the incredible story of Watchmen to a whiz bang seminar on how to use CGI effects to make people forget that you're not actually telling much of a story. I find all these things annoying, certainly, and I think they are all reasons to dislike Snyder. And I did. But up until yesterday, hate would have been far too strong a word to describe how I felt about the guy.
No longer.
So what happened? Zack Snyder didn't do me any personal slight in the last twenty four hours. He didn't punch me in the nose or publish a snarky blog post about me or puncture the tire on my bike. In fact, I'm sure Snyder is a perfectly nice guy who calls his mom every week and would never dream of kicking a puppy, even an ugly one. But yesterday, in an NPR interview about the return of Brett Favre, I found out that Snyder is a Green Bay Packers fan. And as a life long Bears fan in the mold of Bill Swerski, I am thus honor bound to dislike the guy.
I put it to you that there is nothing wrong with this.
While I, like any other liberal arts major in the U.S., abhor racism, sexism, and pretty much all "-isms" as a matter of principle, I firmly believe that hanging on to a couple of bone deep long held prejudices do much to build character, to give one a complete and fully realized personality. In this day and age, so much of our identity is tied into the things we like. The bands we listen to, the clothes we wear, teh food we eat - we display the things we like for all to see. But what we dislike, we hold closer to our chests. But as any playmate questionairre teaches us, our dislikes say as much about us as anything we enjoy.
Now, like any properly prejudiced person, I have a few buddies who are gold and green diehards. Some of my best friends and all that. I've learned, through effort and practice, to play down my distaste for this deep and basic personality flaw. I like having beers with these guys. I would be sad if any of them were struck by a heavy object moving at a high velocity, and I would make the appropriate hue and cry. But at the end of the day - well, it's like knowing someone you're close to is a pathological liar. There's not much the poor bastard can do about it, sure, but it's just sort of an oily thing for a person to be.
And why shouldn't it be so? Does this hate make me a bad person? No, it doesn't. It makes me a person who doesn't like things, and we all don't like things. Lots of things. People who, in the year of our Lord 2008, still cannot use an ATM, bad grammar, the clicking of pens, people with no inside voice, cell phones in movie theaters - these are all things that incur our wrath, and rightly so. But rather than grit our teeth at these petty irritations as polite society dictates, I'm urging the opposite. Embrace your hate. Be comfortable with the things that annoy you. As Peter Finch would put it, "Get mad as hell!" and don't feel bad about it. Because it is as much who you are as your loyalties, your loves and your My Top Rated playlist. And it deserves a little respect.
No longer.
So what happened? Zack Snyder didn't do me any personal slight in the last twenty four hours. He didn't punch me in the nose or publish a snarky blog post about me or puncture the tire on my bike. In fact, I'm sure Snyder is a perfectly nice guy who calls his mom every week and would never dream of kicking a puppy, even an ugly one. But yesterday, in an NPR interview about the return of Brett Favre, I found out that Snyder is a Green Bay Packers fan. And as a life long Bears fan in the mold of Bill Swerski, I am thus honor bound to dislike the guy.
I put it to you that there is nothing wrong with this.
While I, like any other liberal arts major in the U.S., abhor racism, sexism, and pretty much all "-isms" as a matter of principle, I firmly believe that hanging on to a couple of bone deep long held prejudices do much to build character, to give one a complete and fully realized personality. In this day and age, so much of our identity is tied into the things we like. The bands we listen to, the clothes we wear, teh food we eat - we display the things we like for all to see. But what we dislike, we hold closer to our chests. But as any playmate questionairre teaches us, our dislikes say as much about us as anything we enjoy.
Now, like any properly prejudiced person, I have a few buddies who are gold and green diehards. Some of my best friends and all that. I've learned, through effort and practice, to play down my distaste for this deep and basic personality flaw. I like having beers with these guys. I would be sad if any of them were struck by a heavy object moving at a high velocity, and I would make the appropriate hue and cry. But at the end of the day - well, it's like knowing someone you're close to is a pathological liar. There's not much the poor bastard can do about it, sure, but it's just sort of an oily thing for a person to be.
And why shouldn't it be so? Does this hate make me a bad person? No, it doesn't. It makes me a person who doesn't like things, and we all don't like things. Lots of things. People who, in the year of our Lord 2008, still cannot use an ATM, bad grammar, the clicking of pens, people with no inside voice, cell phones in movie theaters - these are all things that incur our wrath, and rightly so. But rather than grit our teeth at these petty irritations as polite society dictates, I'm urging the opposite. Embrace your hate. Be comfortable with the things that annoy you. As Peter Finch would put it, "Get mad as hell!" and don't feel bad about it. Because it is as much who you are as your loyalties, your loves and your My Top Rated playlist. And it deserves a little respect.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
On Disturbing Trends
So, prior to last week, I can't recall the last time I heard about someone being decapitated. I understand that people die all the falling off of buildings and being struck by leaping sea rays. But I thought that, like powdered wigs and print news, were a thing of the distant past, that had gone out of style along with the guillotine.
I was wrong. In the last week, there have been a pair of horrific murders in vastly disparate regions of the world sharing this common thread - after the were finished stabbing, the assailants severed the heads of their victims and displayed them to terrified onlookers.
On Thursday, Vince Weiguang Li, a 40 year old Canadian newspaper delivery person with no prior criminal history sat down next to Tim Mclean on a Greyhound bus travelling from Edmonton to Winnipeg. Li then proceeded to stab his 23 year old seatmate to death with what one witness termed "a Rambo knife." After terrified passengers abanodoned the bus and sealed the murder and victim inside, Li proceeded to decapitate McLean's corpse and calmly carry the severed head to the front of the bus. Further reports imply that Li, while dismembering the corpse, may also have eaten his victim.
Fast forward to today, when a 35 year old as yet unnamed suspect on the tiny Greek island of Santorini was apprehended after being shot several times following a high speed car chase. And just why was he being chased by the police at a high speed? Well, because he killed his girlfriend and then went for a stroll along the streets of his village holding her decapitated head in his hands. Which is the sort of thing that tends to impel people to report you to the police.
While 2 reports in a week is probably not necessarily a spree, it's a little troubling to think that otherwise normal people separated by continents both decided to cut off people's heads. Here's hoping this isn't exactly a trend.
In other news, Russian author and dissident Alexander Solzhenitsyn died today aged 89, with his head still presumably attached. If you haven't read A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, you should really check it out. Brief, stark and stunningly told, I read it when I was 17 and it's stayed with me ever since, one of two books (along with Jack Abbot's prison memoir In The Belly of the Beast) stolen from a high school civics teacher that almost made up for the horrendous class.
I was wrong. In the last week, there have been a pair of horrific murders in vastly disparate regions of the world sharing this common thread - after the were finished stabbing, the assailants severed the heads of their victims and displayed them to terrified onlookers.
On Thursday, Vince Weiguang Li, a 40 year old Canadian newspaper delivery person with no prior criminal history sat down next to Tim Mclean on a Greyhound bus travelling from Edmonton to Winnipeg. Li then proceeded to stab his 23 year old seatmate to death with what one witness termed "a Rambo knife." After terrified passengers abanodoned the bus and sealed the murder and victim inside, Li proceeded to decapitate McLean's corpse and calmly carry the severed head to the front of the bus. Further reports imply that Li, while dismembering the corpse, may also have eaten his victim.
Fast forward to today, when a 35 year old as yet unnamed suspect on the tiny Greek island of Santorini was apprehended after being shot several times following a high speed car chase. And just why was he being chased by the police at a high speed? Well, because he killed his girlfriend and then went for a stroll along the streets of his village holding her decapitated head in his hands. Which is the sort of thing that tends to impel people to report you to the police.
While 2 reports in a week is probably not necessarily a spree, it's a little troubling to think that otherwise normal people separated by continents both decided to cut off people's heads. Here's hoping this isn't exactly a trend.
In other news, Russian author and dissident Alexander Solzhenitsyn died today aged 89, with his head still presumably attached. If you haven't read A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, you should really check it out. Brief, stark and stunningly told, I read it when I was 17 and it's stayed with me ever since, one of two books (along with Jack Abbot's prison memoir In The Belly of the Beast) stolen from a high school civics teacher that almost made up for the horrendous class.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Thermals News = Excessive Slavering
Lots of Thermals news recently, which always makes me a happy camper. After being transformed into stuffed dolls earlier this month, and releasing two demos from their upcoming album they've finally replaced erstwhile drummer Lorin Coleman - with Jar Jar Binks, god help us all.
The band has a more or less final track listing for their upcoming album Now We Can See, even if, after turning down a two album deal with Sub Pop, they don't exactly know who's going to release it quite yet. Hutch Harris in a recent interview with Pitchfork:
Since every Thermals album seems to be even better than the one that preceded it, it's no surprise if labels are tipping over themselves to license Now We Can See, which should be out before the end of the year. And if you needed another reason to be super psyched about a new Thermals album, it's being produced by The Paper Chase's John Congleton, which promises to make for a darker album than Thermals fans are used to.
And if you can't wait for new Thermals to hear more from Kathy Foster, don't despair - September 23 sees the first album in five years from All Girl Summer Fun Band. Hooray!
The band has a more or less final track listing for their upcoming album Now We Can See, even if, after turning down a two album deal with Sub Pop, they don't exactly know who's going to release it quite yet. Hutch Harris in a recent interview with Pitchfork:
...Kathy [Foster] and I just felt that we needed to go it alone again, for ourselves, for our "art," if even for just a short while. We've considered releasing the record ourselves, or licensing it ourselves to different territories. We are currently talking to many great labels, one of them being Sub Pop. It's still my favorite label.
Since every Thermals album seems to be even better than the one that preceded it, it's no surprise if labels are tipping over themselves to license Now We Can See, which should be out before the end of the year. And if you needed another reason to be super psyched about a new Thermals album, it's being produced by The Paper Chase's John Congleton, which promises to make for a darker album than Thermals fans are used to.
And if you can't wait for new Thermals to hear more from Kathy Foster, don't despair - September 23 sees the first album in five years from All Girl Summer Fun Band. Hooray!
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