Chinatown
Director: Roman Polanski
1974
Chinatown does not usually make the short list of best American films. In fairness, it probably shouldn’t. It will have to settle for merely being the only perfect American film ever made. Perfect? Well, perfection is in the eye of the beholder, and the definition of perfect might include the notion that there is no such thing as perfection in art. Nevertheless, by any number of criteria, Chinatown continues to satisfy more than thirty years on. In the final analysis it’s the magnificent sum of its considerable parts: it’s tragic, it’s hilarious, it’s (at times) scary, it’s challenging, it’s complicated, it is unnerving. It is, in short, America. Or at least it does the near impossible: it articulates the symbiotic relationship between greed and power that props up capitalism, a narrative that played an ever-increasing role in 20th century America. Much could—and should—be said along these lines, and how Robert Towne’s meticulous screenplay was ideal fodder for Roman Polanski’s dark and utterly authentic vision (Polanski also deserves extensive praise for resisting the happier ending Towne wanted).
That is all well and good, but why does Chinatown remain compelling, and worthy of repeated viewings? Speaking personally, I’ve seen the film at least 15 times in the last 20 years, and each viewing has revealed new layers or nuance, and has only confirmed that initial impression: it’s perfect. The screenplay, the soundtrack, the casting: all unassailable. Memorable scenes? Really, the entire movie is just a series of memorable scenes. Or, more accurately, a continuous stream of indelible moments: Gittes (Jack Nicholson) in the barber shop, covered in shaving cream, angrily inviting the wiseass banker to step outside and “discuss things”; Gittes sardonically lamenting the loss of his shoe (“Son of a bitch! Goddamn Florsheim shoe!”); Gittes telling the dirty joke unaware of his soon-to-be-client and lover standing behind him; Gittes driving frantically through an orange grove to escape some pissed off farmers whose land he is trespassing upon; Noah Cross (John Huston as the flawlessly named incarnation of evil) persistently, and quite intentionally, mispronouncing Gittes name (Mr. Gits); Gittes calling the officious jerk in the public library a weasel; Gittes imploring Evelyn Mulwray (Faye Dunaway) to let the police intervene against Cross (her father) and her unsettling response: “He owns the police!”… the list could go on.
Perhaps most importantly, this is, quite simply a beautifully crafted work, the type of movie that can be savored without the sound on. One example: Gittes sits patiently at the top of a sloping cliff, overlooking the Los Angeles coastline as day slides into evening. He waits, lighting cigarette after cigarette, totally unaware that he has already stumbled into a hornet’s nest of corruption. The beauty of what he sees (and we see) perfectly masks the brutal ugliness of what is really going on: unwittingly, Gittes is about to lift up the rock and behold the guts and machinery of what gets sold as the American dream.
Naturally, Chinatown passes the ultimate test: is it still meaningful, today? Does it still tell us about something about ourselves? Sadly, it does. Impossible as it may have been for Towne and Polanski to imagine, there would come a time where public trust of those in power deteriorated beyond even the Watergate era nadir of Nixonland. Today, as the fabricated sheen of Wall Street crumbles around us, we might ask the wizards who wrought this mess the same question Gittes asks Cross—and expect the same answer:
“Why are you doing it? How much better can you eat? What could you buy that you can’t already afford?”
“The future, Mr. Gits! The future!”
There it is: the most accurate and succinct depiction of unfettered greed you’re likely to hear. And to see John Huston convey it is to appreciate, and be appalled by, the allure and immorality of depraved power. Jake hears it, and sees it, and for him—and the country—it’s too little, too late. As always. “Forget it, Jake, it’s Chinatown,” his partner admonishes him. But Jake can’t forget it, and we know he won’t forget it. Neither will we.
--Sean Murphy
http://www.popmatters.com/pm/feature/64305/cinema-qua-non-indispensable-dvds-part-1b
Showing posts with label Multimedia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Multimedia. Show all posts
Monday, October 13, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Here's The Thing... (from Popmatters.com Blog)
Past Perfect
18 June 2008
Here’s The Thing…
In the late summer of 1982, two distinct entities from outer space infiltrated planet earth. One was a prehistoric creature with the ability to kill, then imitate its prey: it could attack its victims while remaining disguised amongst them by, in effect, becoming them. The other was an unusual looking but friendly creature, a voyager from another place with god-like powers of healing, an odd voice, and an affinity for Reese’s Pieces.
Guess which one fared better?
Of course, Steven Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial was the hit of ’82, and John Carpenter’s remake of The Thing had the famously unfortunate timing of opening two weeks later. That many people did not see it is a shame; that many critics dismissed it is typical. To be certain, it didn’t help matters that the assembled brain trust agonized over the relatively brief, but exceptionally gory special effects. Inevitably, they aged quickly—and rather poorly. While one can appreciate the attention paid to these ostensibly “scary” scenes, they are (ironically? inexorably?) the weaker moments in the film. It being a Carpenter production, cohesion and plot are occasionally undermined in ways that seem half-assed or ham-fisted. Still, after repeated viewings it manages to work on multiple levels, and despite any nitpicking it seems impossible to improve upon. The definition of a classic, perhaps, but it is something more, something more complicated than that. It is a unique and enigmatic movie; in hindsight it is easy to understand how it evolved, over time, from a cult classic to its current status as must-own DVD material (alas, no 25th anniversary deluxe edition arrived in 2007, but the existing Collector’s Edition—from 1998—is quite satisfactory): it needed time to truly find its audience.
So, aside from bad timing and a final product that feels, at times, oddly forced despite the obvious (and well documented) care and consideration that went into it, what is it that remains so right about this movie? For starters, it is to Carpenter’s credit that he assembled such a spectacular cast: virtually all of the actors make the absolute most of their relatively limited screen time, but Keith David, Richard Dysart, Donald Moffat and Richard Masur are in particularly fine form. As for Kurt Russell, it is amazing to recall that his role as R.J. MacReady came only a year after his testosterone-athon as Snake Plissken in Escape from New York (also directed by Carpenter), making this quite the one-two punch for both men. Considerable credit must also be given to Bill Lancaster’s excellent screenplay (to read John W. Campbell’s novella Who Goes There? is both to appreciate where the spirit of this film comes from—more so than the sci-fi classic The Thing from Outer Space that it was ostensibly updating—and appreciate how much Lancaster did with relatively little, in terms of actual plot, character development and drama).
It is, as intended, Kurt Russell’s film, but special mention must be made for the near miraculous performance of Wilford Brimley—a man who is perhaps best known as the wise-cracking senior citizen from Cocoon or as the Quaker Oats guy, or recently (and, thanks to the brilliant monkeys working around the clock on youtube, amusingly), the spokesperson with a tendency to mispronounce the most unamusing word in the English language, diabetes. As Dr. Blair, Brimley’s presence provides an austere integrity and the necessarily brainy moral grounding for events that would otherwise be in constant jeopardy of degenerating into parody. His dead-serious assessment of what is going on—before anyone else has figured things out—invests the growing unease inside the camp with a gravitas that makes it painfully clear, to the viewer, what is at stake. Later, after being secluded in a storage shed, the men visit him in a scene that manages to be sad, disturbing and comical.
One scene in particular offers perhaps the best illustration of why this movie continues to resonate, and why it was not fully successful as either a slam-bam action flick or a serious drama: Blair sits alone, at his desk, running a computer simulation of the diabolically efficient way the alien is infecting his team. In less than thirty seconds, the look on his face turns from world-weary stoicism to resigned acknowledgment of the likely consequences—for the men, and the rest of the world. Interestingly (and again, ironically?) it is probable that the impetus for this particular sequence, in addition to the obvious and necessary advancement of the plot in as succinct and clear a manner as possible, was to show-off the high-tech computer programming, circa 1982. Like the over-the-top transformation scenes, it is more hilarious than harrowing to look at the extraordinarily primitive technology, today. And yet, it worked, then, and works now, because of its stark imagery: in its way, it’s ten times more terrifying to watch the simulated organism at work, one blob on a screen capturing and assimilating its prey, than it is to watch the scattered “money shots” when the creature reveals itself.
Perfection is a word that should never be used lightly, but no other word will suffice for the wonders Ennio Morricone works, scoring this film. The name Morricone is—and should be—associated with brilliance, variety and superhuman productivity, just to pick a few obvious choices. While the list of only his very best efforts is not short, his work here must be considered amongst the top tier: The Thing would be unimaginable without it. Rather than overwhelming, or distracting the action on the screen—as film scores do with distressing regularity these days—Morricone’s music exists mostly on the periphery, in the corners and inside the shadows. Its effectiveness serves an almost opposite purpose to the handful of over-the-top alien transformations: the real horror of the story lies in the tension of not knowing, the dread of isolation and the fear of being assailed by an inexplicable enemy. Morricone subtly embellishes the otherwise silent scenes, where the only sounds are the Antarctic winds, the silence and the darkness. As the paranoia increases, strings are plucked like raw nerves, while stark, almost soulless keyboard drones mirror the growing desperation: the music exists as a wind chill factor, making everything colder and more forlorn than it already is.
And last but certainly not least: The Thing provides one of the best endings of any movie, ever. To use the word perfect, again, would seem silly, but there is no getting around it: the ending is perfect. Indeed, it’s even better than perfect, considering the pressure Carpenter must have felt to inject the type of horseshit heroic conclusion American audiences usually require. Carpenter’s decision to go with the ambivalent ending (which, actually, is truly heroic as opposed to some manufactured deus ex machina sequel-ready sendoff) very likely killed his chance at commercial viability. Carpenter knew this and did it anyway, saving both the movie’s integrity and his soul in the process. The fact that The Thing has attracted video sales ever since is wonderfully poetic justice, and confirms that you can occasionally scoff at the big studio machine and come out okay. Bottom line: Spielberg’s alien may have won the box office battle, but everyone knows that his maudlin Peter Pan wouldn’t have stood a chance at Outpost 31.
—Sean Murphy 1:45 am
18 June 2008
Here’s The Thing…
In the late summer of 1982, two distinct entities from outer space infiltrated planet earth. One was a prehistoric creature with the ability to kill, then imitate its prey: it could attack its victims while remaining disguised amongst them by, in effect, becoming them. The other was an unusual looking but friendly creature, a voyager from another place with god-like powers of healing, an odd voice, and an affinity for Reese’s Pieces.
Guess which one fared better?
Of course, Steven Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial was the hit of ’82, and John Carpenter’s remake of The Thing had the famously unfortunate timing of opening two weeks later. That many people did not see it is a shame; that many critics dismissed it is typical. To be certain, it didn’t help matters that the assembled brain trust agonized over the relatively brief, but exceptionally gory special effects. Inevitably, they aged quickly—and rather poorly. While one can appreciate the attention paid to these ostensibly “scary” scenes, they are (ironically? inexorably?) the weaker moments in the film. It being a Carpenter production, cohesion and plot are occasionally undermined in ways that seem half-assed or ham-fisted. Still, after repeated viewings it manages to work on multiple levels, and despite any nitpicking it seems impossible to improve upon. The definition of a classic, perhaps, but it is something more, something more complicated than that. It is a unique and enigmatic movie; in hindsight it is easy to understand how it evolved, over time, from a cult classic to its current status as must-own DVD material (alas, no 25th anniversary deluxe edition arrived in 2007, but the existing Collector’s Edition—from 1998—is quite satisfactory): it needed time to truly find its audience.
So, aside from bad timing and a final product that feels, at times, oddly forced despite the obvious (and well documented) care and consideration that went into it, what is it that remains so right about this movie? For starters, it is to Carpenter’s credit that he assembled such a spectacular cast: virtually all of the actors make the absolute most of their relatively limited screen time, but Keith David, Richard Dysart, Donald Moffat and Richard Masur are in particularly fine form. As for Kurt Russell, it is amazing to recall that his role as R.J. MacReady came only a year after his testosterone-athon as Snake Plissken in Escape from New York (also directed by Carpenter), making this quite the one-two punch for both men. Considerable credit must also be given to Bill Lancaster’s excellent screenplay (to read John W. Campbell’s novella Who Goes There? is both to appreciate where the spirit of this film comes from—more so than the sci-fi classic The Thing from Outer Space that it was ostensibly updating—and appreciate how much Lancaster did with relatively little, in terms of actual plot, character development and drama).
It is, as intended, Kurt Russell’s film, but special mention must be made for the near miraculous performance of Wilford Brimley—a man who is perhaps best known as the wise-cracking senior citizen from Cocoon or as the Quaker Oats guy, or recently (and, thanks to the brilliant monkeys working around the clock on youtube, amusingly), the spokesperson with a tendency to mispronounce the most unamusing word in the English language, diabetes. As Dr. Blair, Brimley’s presence provides an austere integrity and the necessarily brainy moral grounding for events that would otherwise be in constant jeopardy of degenerating into parody. His dead-serious assessment of what is going on—before anyone else has figured things out—invests the growing unease inside the camp with a gravitas that makes it painfully clear, to the viewer, what is at stake. Later, after being secluded in a storage shed, the men visit him in a scene that manages to be sad, disturbing and comical.
One scene in particular offers perhaps the best illustration of why this movie continues to resonate, and why it was not fully successful as either a slam-bam action flick or a serious drama: Blair sits alone, at his desk, running a computer simulation of the diabolically efficient way the alien is infecting his team. In less than thirty seconds, the look on his face turns from world-weary stoicism to resigned acknowledgment of the likely consequences—for the men, and the rest of the world. Interestingly (and again, ironically?) it is probable that the impetus for this particular sequence, in addition to the obvious and necessary advancement of the plot in as succinct and clear a manner as possible, was to show-off the high-tech computer programming, circa 1982. Like the over-the-top transformation scenes, it is more hilarious than harrowing to look at the extraordinarily primitive technology, today. And yet, it worked, then, and works now, because of its stark imagery: in its way, it’s ten times more terrifying to watch the simulated organism at work, one blob on a screen capturing and assimilating its prey, than it is to watch the scattered “money shots” when the creature reveals itself.
Perfection is a word that should never be used lightly, but no other word will suffice for the wonders Ennio Morricone works, scoring this film. The name Morricone is—and should be—associated with brilliance, variety and superhuman productivity, just to pick a few obvious choices. While the list of only his very best efforts is not short, his work here must be considered amongst the top tier: The Thing would be unimaginable without it. Rather than overwhelming, or distracting the action on the screen—as film scores do with distressing regularity these days—Morricone’s music exists mostly on the periphery, in the corners and inside the shadows. Its effectiveness serves an almost opposite purpose to the handful of over-the-top alien transformations: the real horror of the story lies in the tension of not knowing, the dread of isolation and the fear of being assailed by an inexplicable enemy. Morricone subtly embellishes the otherwise silent scenes, where the only sounds are the Antarctic winds, the silence and the darkness. As the paranoia increases, strings are plucked like raw nerves, while stark, almost soulless keyboard drones mirror the growing desperation: the music exists as a wind chill factor, making everything colder and more forlorn than it already is.
And last but certainly not least: The Thing provides one of the best endings of any movie, ever. To use the word perfect, again, would seem silly, but there is no getting around it: the ending is perfect. Indeed, it’s even better than perfect, considering the pressure Carpenter must have felt to inject the type of horseshit heroic conclusion American audiences usually require. Carpenter’s decision to go with the ambivalent ending (which, actually, is truly heroic as opposed to some manufactured deus ex machina sequel-ready sendoff) very likely killed his chance at commercial viability. Carpenter knew this and did it anyway, saving both the movie’s integrity and his soul in the process. The fact that The Thing has attracted video sales ever since is wonderfully poetic justice, and confirms that you can occasionally scoff at the big studio machine and come out okay. Bottom line: Spielberg’s alien may have won the box office battle, but everyone knows that his maudlin Peter Pan wouldn’t have stood a chance at Outpost 31.
—Sean Murphy 1:45 am
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
The Tomorrow Show With Tom Snyder [DVD] (Popmatters.com Review)
http://www.popmatters.com/pm/tv/reviews/57999/tom-snyder-the-tomorrow-show-with-tom-snyder-dvd/
The Tomorrow Show With Tom Snyder [DVD]
[John, Paul Tom and Ringo]
by Sean Murphy
Before Conan O’Brien in the ‘90s and David Letterman in the ‘80s, there was another—even ‘whiter’—dude who regularly hosted many of the hippest artists and promoted some of the best new music week in and week out: Tom Snyder. That this overly earnest bundle of contradictions turned out to be the ideal advocate of cool seems increasingly less ironic in hindsight, considering the bleach-teethed, teleprompter reading robots who currently spoon feed the masses with what is supposed to be ‘entertaining’.
By turns ostensibly too eager or too serious, or else too anxious to ingratiate himself to his guests, it eventually becomes clear that once the viewer’s cynical defenses are charmed into submission, the impossible is the case: Snyder was, quite simply, a decent and genuinely nice person. He was goofy, gregarious, and utterly without guile; in other words, he was perfect. The Tomorrow Show With Tom Snyder was not just big in the ‘70s, it was the ‘70s. And so, it was understandable, and more than a little appropriate for him to re-air an interview with John Lennon from 1975, the day after he was shot in 1980, to officially close the books on one decade and begin another.
AmazonThe cleverly named John, Paul, Tom and Ringo is one in a series of DVDs commemorating some of Snyder’s more memorable moments, focusing on a particular theme (other DVDs include his “punk and new wave” musical guests as well as those associated with the ‘60s counterculture), this one being his interviews with all the members of The Beatles, sans George Harrison—hence the amusing title. Who is the audience for this DVD? Beatles fans, rock ‘n’ roll fans, and pop culture fans—anyone interested in some authentic recent cultural history, straight from the proverbial horses’ mouths.
With the abundance of unauthorized biographies, critical appraisals, and testimonials dedicated to this most influential of bands; it is astonishing to consider how little (relatively speaking, in our instant karma Internet age) actual footage exists of the Beatles talking about the Beatles. And so, for a couple of priceless hours, this DVD provides the still-living legends in a mostly unguarded environment, reminiscing about the world and their considerable place in it.
John, Paul, Tom and Ringo’s first disc is devoted to Lennon, and Snyder introduces his April 1975 discussion (Lennon’s last televised interview), reprised the day after the music died: 9 December 1980. The initial jolt for the viewer, particularly a viewer like me who remembers the day of Lennon’s assassination, is hearing Snyder downplay the importance of the interview, since it was “five years old”, considering that it is now 33-years-old. Snyder (who was so brilliantly and, I think lovingly, lampooned by Dan Aykroyd on Saturday Night Live) should be appreciated for being consistently up to the task of taking on big players like Lennon, because his M.O. was straightforward: he was genuinely curious, had done his homework, and was actively invested in the culture of his time; he was, after all, not only commenting on it—but he was a part of it, and he knew it.
Perhaps most importantly, his square-shooting credibility offered a refreshingly opposite vibe from the insufferably serious, or self-important, ever pretentious arena of journalists talking to rock stars, elevating themselves by elevating the relative import of the act. In this case, Snyder was speaking with one of the genuine heavyweights, and he understood (and respected) that Lennon actually did have something (some things, really) to say about the bigger picture, and engaged him accordingly. Lennon, through his lyrics and recalcitrant remarks, had always been easy to label as “subversive” (think of the controversy his “Beatles are bigger than Jesus” joke instigatated), but by the mid-70s, he found himself experiencing official interference with his attempt to become an American citizen—a topic he discussed in some detail later in the show.
Lennon was typically honest and amusing when asked some of the obligatory questions. What is the initial goal of every aspiring musician? To get laid. Why did The Beatles break up? Boredom. Why are you not bored now? Because I can play music with whomever I choose. When Snyder puts on his curmudgeonly old crank hat and pushes Lennon to comment on how the music may not change much with imitators always aping the best of the past, Lennon graciously suggestes that the influence of The Beatles (and others) will linger and resonate—just as the blues music the lads from Liverpool loved found its way into their tunes, first as paint-by-numbers covers, later as vividly reimagined original work—but musicians will be using new instruments to create new sounds: one thinks of the evolution of funk to hip hop to trip hop and beyond, and can appreciate the prescience of Lennon’s appraisal.
One thing is certain: they don’t make ‘em (rock stars or talk-show hosts) like they used to. In a moment that could only be real (otherwise the irony would suck the action right off the screen), Snyder pulls out another in an endless stream of cigarettes and, as he lights up, asks Lennon his views on drugs and whether he feels an obligation to speak out against them. Only in America.
The proceedings lose considerable steam when the topic turns to Lennon’s immigration woes. To be certain, this was a serious issue, and it was unfortunate that Lennon had to dance around the petty politics of officious reactionaries. Nevertheless, listening to his lawyer pontificate is rather less than compelling video. Later in the show, journalist Lisa Robinson reflects on her numerous interactions with John and Yoko, and producer Jack Douglas reminisces about his collaboration with Lennon on albums ranging from Imagine to Double Fantasy. While it is truly touching to hear Douglas (who had been with Lennon in the studio hours before his death) talk about how optimistic and excited his friend was about the future, it is inexorably an unwelcome—and still quite painful—reminder of how much life Lennon had left to live, and how much poorer all of us are for the loss.
Disc two is dedicated to Paul and Ringo, featuring interviews that originally aired in December ’79 and November ’81, respectively. Snyder interviews Paul and his wife Linda via satellite and seems as excited about this cutting-edge technology as he is about having the opportunity to speak with the man he introduces, correctly, as the most successful singer/songwriter on the planet (at the time in the middle of a successful run with his group Wings). The show commences with Snyder promoting a “videotape to go along as sort of a visual counterpart to their latest album”, a quaint way to describe the phenomenon that would launch its own TV show less than two years later. Time has not been kind to the song, “Spin it On”, and it’s hard to say which is worse: the tune or the video, but it remains a worthwhile artifact of a medium that would be perfected to great effect in short order, if not by McCartney, by many others.
As is often the case, McCartney comes across as grounded, amusing and self-deprecating. He talks about being happily married, and is an obviously dedicated father and family man. Watching him interact with Linda, and knowing he was with her until her death, only reinforces why Paul remains so universally revered and respected. This is not to imply that McCartney is uncomplicated; rather, his comfort level with the world carried over, always, to the music he made. Snyder asks at one point if he wishes he could do it all over again with The Beatles and he replies, without rancor or sarcasm, that he has no need, since they already did it. When discussing his involvement in the pre-Live Aid concert for Cambodian aid, Snyder inquires if he has every done anything political like that, and McCartney provides the inspiring and satisfactory response: “Well, I don’t think about it as political, I think about it as human.”
And last but not least, Ringo! Hooking up with Snyder in Los Angeles to discuss his new album and his starring role in the cinematic tour de force Caveman, Ringo is in fine form. Although his struggles with drink are well documented, Ringo—perhaps more than the other Beatles, and arguably because he was slightly less worshipped—always seemed a bit better equipped for a post-Beatles life. Doubtless this can be attributed to his wisdom in recognizing that, despite his own considerable talents, he was fortunate to associate with Lennon & McCartney, the twin towers of 20th Century pop music. Ringo discusses how he came by his famous nickname, invites his new wife Barbara Bach to join the conversation, and mostly invites any and all questions that Snyder will ask. The Beatles are, ultimately, inconceivable without Ringo, so it is appropriate that he gets his due on this DVD.
In what could (should?) be considered bonus material, the original show that aired with Ringo also included an interview with Angie Dickinson, who was then coming off the controversial and (mostly) critically acclaimed role in Brian de Palma’s Dressed to Kill. She talks about the insurance policy taken out on her famous legs (true story) and mostly charms the pants off a smitten Snyder: even though she was no longer the white-hot Hollywood vixen (she was almost 50-years-old by then), she is still gorgeous and gracious, and the inclusion of her interview can be regarded as the sexy icing on an already decadent cake.
RATING:
— 12 May 2008
The Tomorrow Show With Tom Snyder [DVD]
[John, Paul Tom and Ringo]
by Sean Murphy
Before Conan O’Brien in the ‘90s and David Letterman in the ‘80s, there was another—even ‘whiter’—dude who regularly hosted many of the hippest artists and promoted some of the best new music week in and week out: Tom Snyder. That this overly earnest bundle of contradictions turned out to be the ideal advocate of cool seems increasingly less ironic in hindsight, considering the bleach-teethed, teleprompter reading robots who currently spoon feed the masses with what is supposed to be ‘entertaining’.
By turns ostensibly too eager or too serious, or else too anxious to ingratiate himself to his guests, it eventually becomes clear that once the viewer’s cynical defenses are charmed into submission, the impossible is the case: Snyder was, quite simply, a decent and genuinely nice person. He was goofy, gregarious, and utterly without guile; in other words, he was perfect. The Tomorrow Show With Tom Snyder was not just big in the ‘70s, it was the ‘70s. And so, it was understandable, and more than a little appropriate for him to re-air an interview with John Lennon from 1975, the day after he was shot in 1980, to officially close the books on one decade and begin another.
AmazonThe cleverly named John, Paul, Tom and Ringo is one in a series of DVDs commemorating some of Snyder’s more memorable moments, focusing on a particular theme (other DVDs include his “punk and new wave” musical guests as well as those associated with the ‘60s counterculture), this one being his interviews with all the members of The Beatles, sans George Harrison—hence the amusing title. Who is the audience for this DVD? Beatles fans, rock ‘n’ roll fans, and pop culture fans—anyone interested in some authentic recent cultural history, straight from the proverbial horses’ mouths.
With the abundance of unauthorized biographies, critical appraisals, and testimonials dedicated to this most influential of bands; it is astonishing to consider how little (relatively speaking, in our instant karma Internet age) actual footage exists of the Beatles talking about the Beatles. And so, for a couple of priceless hours, this DVD provides the still-living legends in a mostly unguarded environment, reminiscing about the world and their considerable place in it.
John, Paul, Tom and Ringo’s first disc is devoted to Lennon, and Snyder introduces his April 1975 discussion (Lennon’s last televised interview), reprised the day after the music died: 9 December 1980. The initial jolt for the viewer, particularly a viewer like me who remembers the day of Lennon’s assassination, is hearing Snyder downplay the importance of the interview, since it was “five years old”, considering that it is now 33-years-old. Snyder (who was so brilliantly and, I think lovingly, lampooned by Dan Aykroyd on Saturday Night Live) should be appreciated for being consistently up to the task of taking on big players like Lennon, because his M.O. was straightforward: he was genuinely curious, had done his homework, and was actively invested in the culture of his time; he was, after all, not only commenting on it—but he was a part of it, and he knew it.
Perhaps most importantly, his square-shooting credibility offered a refreshingly opposite vibe from the insufferably serious, or self-important, ever pretentious arena of journalists talking to rock stars, elevating themselves by elevating the relative import of the act. In this case, Snyder was speaking with one of the genuine heavyweights, and he understood (and respected) that Lennon actually did have something (some things, really) to say about the bigger picture, and engaged him accordingly. Lennon, through his lyrics and recalcitrant remarks, had always been easy to label as “subversive” (think of the controversy his “Beatles are bigger than Jesus” joke instigatated), but by the mid-70s, he found himself experiencing official interference with his attempt to become an American citizen—a topic he discussed in some detail later in the show.
Lennon was typically honest and amusing when asked some of the obligatory questions. What is the initial goal of every aspiring musician? To get laid. Why did The Beatles break up? Boredom. Why are you not bored now? Because I can play music with whomever I choose. When Snyder puts on his curmudgeonly old crank hat and pushes Lennon to comment on how the music may not change much with imitators always aping the best of the past, Lennon graciously suggestes that the influence of The Beatles (and others) will linger and resonate—just as the blues music the lads from Liverpool loved found its way into their tunes, first as paint-by-numbers covers, later as vividly reimagined original work—but musicians will be using new instruments to create new sounds: one thinks of the evolution of funk to hip hop to trip hop and beyond, and can appreciate the prescience of Lennon’s appraisal.
One thing is certain: they don’t make ‘em (rock stars or talk-show hosts) like they used to. In a moment that could only be real (otherwise the irony would suck the action right off the screen), Snyder pulls out another in an endless stream of cigarettes and, as he lights up, asks Lennon his views on drugs and whether he feels an obligation to speak out against them. Only in America.
The proceedings lose considerable steam when the topic turns to Lennon’s immigration woes. To be certain, this was a serious issue, and it was unfortunate that Lennon had to dance around the petty politics of officious reactionaries. Nevertheless, listening to his lawyer pontificate is rather less than compelling video. Later in the show, journalist Lisa Robinson reflects on her numerous interactions with John and Yoko, and producer Jack Douglas reminisces about his collaboration with Lennon on albums ranging from Imagine to Double Fantasy. While it is truly touching to hear Douglas (who had been with Lennon in the studio hours before his death) talk about how optimistic and excited his friend was about the future, it is inexorably an unwelcome—and still quite painful—reminder of how much life Lennon had left to live, and how much poorer all of us are for the loss.
Disc two is dedicated to Paul and Ringo, featuring interviews that originally aired in December ’79 and November ’81, respectively. Snyder interviews Paul and his wife Linda via satellite and seems as excited about this cutting-edge technology as he is about having the opportunity to speak with the man he introduces, correctly, as the most successful singer/songwriter on the planet (at the time in the middle of a successful run with his group Wings). The show commences with Snyder promoting a “videotape to go along as sort of a visual counterpart to their latest album”, a quaint way to describe the phenomenon that would launch its own TV show less than two years later. Time has not been kind to the song, “Spin it On”, and it’s hard to say which is worse: the tune or the video, but it remains a worthwhile artifact of a medium that would be perfected to great effect in short order, if not by McCartney, by many others.
As is often the case, McCartney comes across as grounded, amusing and self-deprecating. He talks about being happily married, and is an obviously dedicated father and family man. Watching him interact with Linda, and knowing he was with her until her death, only reinforces why Paul remains so universally revered and respected. This is not to imply that McCartney is uncomplicated; rather, his comfort level with the world carried over, always, to the music he made. Snyder asks at one point if he wishes he could do it all over again with The Beatles and he replies, without rancor or sarcasm, that he has no need, since they already did it. When discussing his involvement in the pre-Live Aid concert for Cambodian aid, Snyder inquires if he has every done anything political like that, and McCartney provides the inspiring and satisfactory response: “Well, I don’t think about it as political, I think about it as human.”
And last but not least, Ringo! Hooking up with Snyder in Los Angeles to discuss his new album and his starring role in the cinematic tour de force Caveman, Ringo is in fine form. Although his struggles with drink are well documented, Ringo—perhaps more than the other Beatles, and arguably because he was slightly less worshipped—always seemed a bit better equipped for a post-Beatles life. Doubtless this can be attributed to his wisdom in recognizing that, despite his own considerable talents, he was fortunate to associate with Lennon & McCartney, the twin towers of 20th Century pop music. Ringo discusses how he came by his famous nickname, invites his new wife Barbara Bach to join the conversation, and mostly invites any and all questions that Snyder will ask. The Beatles are, ultimately, inconceivable without Ringo, so it is appropriate that he gets his due on this DVD.
In what could (should?) be considered bonus material, the original show that aired with Ringo also included an interview with Angie Dickinson, who was then coming off the controversial and (mostly) critically acclaimed role in Brian de Palma’s Dressed to Kill. She talks about the insurance policy taken out on her famous legs (true story) and mostly charms the pants off a smitten Snyder: even though she was no longer the white-hot Hollywood vixen (she was almost 50-years-old by then), she is still gorgeous and gracious, and the inclusion of her interview can be regarded as the sexy icing on an already decadent cake.
RATING:
— 12 May 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
The David Lynch Dilemma
Sound Affects
The PopMatters Music Blog
12 May 2008
The David Lynch Dilemma
David Lynch is very much like God. I watch his movies the way I look at the creation of the world: most of the time I can’t claim to discern what’s going on, but someone seems to have gone to a great deal of trouble.
There are some movies that require a certain commitment of time to figure out what is going on. David Lynch’s movies, I’ve become convinced, are about trying to figure out what’s going on. And that’s fine, as far as it goes. In its art-for-art’s sake, uber-pretentious, anti-commercial, anti-audience sensibility, Lynch hoists a freak flag that is, upon closer inspection, a fuck you flag. The question, as it is with all challenging art, ultimately must be: is it worth it? His films are odd and unsettling, and they are often unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. And yet: is that enough?
Well…take any of his films, then take away the attractive female characters, their inexorable (contractual?) nudity, and the handful of very brief—but very brilliant—scenes, and Lynch’s work seems to be a series of somethings that seek to defy being identified for what they look and smell like. You are left with an oeuvre that seems to separate viewers into three camps: the good (those who claim to “get it”), the bad (those who don’t, or can’t), and the ugly (or, the angry; those who tried to get it, failed, and then, upon repeat viewings, determine that they are unworthy and, most importantly, uninterested).
Consider me ugly. Not angry, but certainly perplexed at the consistent, and reflexive, critical accolades. And let’s acknowledge the fact that Lynch does not merely have fans, he has advocates. Defenders of the faith. Crusaders. As a proponent of acquired taste anomalies running the gamut of high and low culture and all points in between (especially the points in between), I appreciate the allure, and I don’t begrudge it. What I am curious about is, who are these people, and what is it they actually see in these films?
First—and this may well elucidate my dilemma—the only Lynch film that has spoken to me, post Elephant Man, is Wild at Heart, which generally seems to be ranked amongst his weaker efforts. For my money, this one could practically be validated by Willem Dafoe alone: Bobby Peru is not only indelibly sinister, sick and hilariously oleaginous, he represents what is best about David Lynch: extreme weirdness in adept (and mercifully brief) quantities. But the movie abounds with minor tour de force performances by all involved, with Nicolas Cage and Laura Dern doing some career-best work, even when their clothes are on. Wonderful supporting work is delivered by a wickedly over-the-top Diane Ladd and a typically sullen (here bordering on docile) Harry Dean Stanton.
But, of course, Blue Velvet is the one that, in order to assert one’s pointy-headed credibility, you have to sanction. I call bullshit. To be sure, I don’t fall in with the camp who loves it, but I also don’t loathe it; I just think it’s…okay. More bad than good, but containing enough intriguing scenes (“Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!”) to make it memorable. But still. I saw it in the ‘80s, saw it in the ‘90s and have seen it during this decade, and it’s simply impossible to look past the (typically) improbable—bordering on intelligence-insulting—story line, the (typically) maudlin, fifth-rate dialogue, and the ostensibly bold assessment of American sadomasochism that quickly unravels like so much stylized soft porn. Granted, an authentic sense of surreal tension is nailed—then hammered into submission, and Dennis Hopper’s (overboard, over-praised) Frank Booth is scary enough, kind of the like the boogeyman is frightening, despite being fake. In terms of peeling back the layers of plastic conformity of an older (or even contemporary) America, captured in the notable but not revelatory opening scene, it works. That it is considered one of the seminal films of the ‘80s strikes me as disconcerting, akin to the way I’d concede that New Kids on the Block were one of the most successful bands of that decade. Mobs are mobs, even when they are different sizes.
But the mystery train truly goes off the tracks with Lost Highway, the ultimate “you’re with us or against us” entry in the Lynch catalog. For me, it really boils down to two pretty straightforward questions. One, can anyone claim to know what the movie is about? Two, can anyone claim to have actually enjoyed it? Hearing ten different people offer ten different interpretations of a movie is, in one regard, evidence of a successfully engaging work of art. But that sure seems to be setting the bar embarrassingly low for a director with Lynch’s obvious talent. (My personal favorite bent-over-backwards attempt to put lipstick on this pig is the claim that Lost Highway is a highly illusory homage of Ambrose Bierce’s masterful short story “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”. Even making the exceedingly generous indulgence that this is the case, an adaptation of any classic work of literature should actually be good, shouldn’t it?)
Listen: weirdness for the sake of weirdness is fine, and in shrewdly doled out doses, it can be instructive and enjoyable—like eating fish eyes, for instance. And I don’t begrudge Lynch one bit for being that one-in-a-billion artist whom remarkable numbers of critics and fans have designated as their go-to guy. My issue lies with the same fans and critics who lazily defend his work by asserting that anyone who doesn’t like it simply doesn’t get it. Remember Gary Larson’s The Far Side cartoons? It was true that if you had to explain one to someone, it was hopeless. However, if you had to explain it, you could; it would lose most of its humor and punch, but virtually every one of them was explicable. In other words, it’s a much more impressive—and worthwhile—piece of entertainment if it provokes or even befuddles, but is still, on some level, intelligible.
Granted, all willfully difficult artists will attract ardent (I won’t say fanatical) proponents—to a certain extent, that’s the point of their excessively abstruse vision. Too often, a self-indulgent, or unpersuasive (I won’t say incapable) effort is credited for being authentic because it is impenetrable, and that is where the fans and critics come into play with Lynch. Analysis is unnecessary, it’s already understood that the work is brilliant, and it’s a given that, with Lynch, you are about to see something that confronts your puny, preconceived notions of reality. The less sense it makes, the more adeptly he is revealing how ensnared you are in the linear charade of conventional storytelling. Or the system. Or something. Where this becomes insufferable is when esoteric artistes inherit a priori acquiescence in a fashion too similar to the ideological blank slate politicians count on from their compliant bases. We know how this works: an already-accepted conclusion is invoked, or promoted, and the appraisal (of the product, of the candidate) is liberated from subjective analysis, it’s already understood. Discourse is discarded for absolution in ways that say more about how the viewers view themselves than the film. And perhaps that is, if unconsciously, the entire point?
In the final analysis, I’ll admit that David Lynch is very much like God. I watch his movies the way I look at the creation of the world: most of the time I can’t claim to discern what’s going on, but someone seems to have gone to a great deal of trouble. Beauty, not to mention intelligent design, is always in the brain of the beholder. The question remains: is that enough?
The PopMatters Music Blog
12 May 2008
The David Lynch Dilemma
David Lynch is very much like God. I watch his movies the way I look at the creation of the world: most of the time I can’t claim to discern what’s going on, but someone seems to have gone to a great deal of trouble.
There are some movies that require a certain commitment of time to figure out what is going on. David Lynch’s movies, I’ve become convinced, are about trying to figure out what’s going on. And that’s fine, as far as it goes. In its art-for-art’s sake, uber-pretentious, anti-commercial, anti-audience sensibility, Lynch hoists a freak flag that is, upon closer inspection, a fuck you flag. The question, as it is with all challenging art, ultimately must be: is it worth it? His films are odd and unsettling, and they are often unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. And yet: is that enough?
Well…take any of his films, then take away the attractive female characters, their inexorable (contractual?) nudity, and the handful of very brief—but very brilliant—scenes, and Lynch’s work seems to be a series of somethings that seek to defy being identified for what they look and smell like. You are left with an oeuvre that seems to separate viewers into three camps: the good (those who claim to “get it”), the bad (those who don’t, or can’t), and the ugly (or, the angry; those who tried to get it, failed, and then, upon repeat viewings, determine that they are unworthy and, most importantly, uninterested).
Consider me ugly. Not angry, but certainly perplexed at the consistent, and reflexive, critical accolades. And let’s acknowledge the fact that Lynch does not merely have fans, he has advocates. Defenders of the faith. Crusaders. As a proponent of acquired taste anomalies running the gamut of high and low culture and all points in between (especially the points in between), I appreciate the allure, and I don’t begrudge it. What I am curious about is, who are these people, and what is it they actually see in these films?
First—and this may well elucidate my dilemma—the only Lynch film that has spoken to me, post Elephant Man, is Wild at Heart, which generally seems to be ranked amongst his weaker efforts. For my money, this one could practically be validated by Willem Dafoe alone: Bobby Peru is not only indelibly sinister, sick and hilariously oleaginous, he represents what is best about David Lynch: extreme weirdness in adept (and mercifully brief) quantities. But the movie abounds with minor tour de force performances by all involved, with Nicolas Cage and Laura Dern doing some career-best work, even when their clothes are on. Wonderful supporting work is delivered by a wickedly over-the-top Diane Ladd and a typically sullen (here bordering on docile) Harry Dean Stanton.
But, of course, Blue Velvet is the one that, in order to assert one’s pointy-headed credibility, you have to sanction. I call bullshit. To be sure, I don’t fall in with the camp who loves it, but I also don’t loathe it; I just think it’s…okay. More bad than good, but containing enough intriguing scenes (“Heineken? Fuck that shit! Pabst Blue Ribbon!”) to make it memorable. But still. I saw it in the ‘80s, saw it in the ‘90s and have seen it during this decade, and it’s simply impossible to look past the (typically) improbable—bordering on intelligence-insulting—story line, the (typically) maudlin, fifth-rate dialogue, and the ostensibly bold assessment of American sadomasochism that quickly unravels like so much stylized soft porn. Granted, an authentic sense of surreal tension is nailed—then hammered into submission, and Dennis Hopper’s (overboard, over-praised) Frank Booth is scary enough, kind of the like the boogeyman is frightening, despite being fake. In terms of peeling back the layers of plastic conformity of an older (or even contemporary) America, captured in the notable but not revelatory opening scene, it works. That it is considered one of the seminal films of the ‘80s strikes me as disconcerting, akin to the way I’d concede that New Kids on the Block were one of the most successful bands of that decade. Mobs are mobs, even when they are different sizes.
But the mystery train truly goes off the tracks with Lost Highway, the ultimate “you’re with us or against us” entry in the Lynch catalog. For me, it really boils down to two pretty straightforward questions. One, can anyone claim to know what the movie is about? Two, can anyone claim to have actually enjoyed it? Hearing ten different people offer ten different interpretations of a movie is, in one regard, evidence of a successfully engaging work of art. But that sure seems to be setting the bar embarrassingly low for a director with Lynch’s obvious talent. (My personal favorite bent-over-backwards attempt to put lipstick on this pig is the claim that Lost Highway is a highly illusory homage of Ambrose Bierce’s masterful short story “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”. Even making the exceedingly generous indulgence that this is the case, an adaptation of any classic work of literature should actually be good, shouldn’t it?)
Listen: weirdness for the sake of weirdness is fine, and in shrewdly doled out doses, it can be instructive and enjoyable—like eating fish eyes, for instance. And I don’t begrudge Lynch one bit for being that one-in-a-billion artist whom remarkable numbers of critics and fans have designated as their go-to guy. My issue lies with the same fans and critics who lazily defend his work by asserting that anyone who doesn’t like it simply doesn’t get it. Remember Gary Larson’s The Far Side cartoons? It was true that if you had to explain one to someone, it was hopeless. However, if you had to explain it, you could; it would lose most of its humor and punch, but virtually every one of them was explicable. In other words, it’s a much more impressive—and worthwhile—piece of entertainment if it provokes or even befuddles, but is still, on some level, intelligible.
Granted, all willfully difficult artists will attract ardent (I won’t say fanatical) proponents—to a certain extent, that’s the point of their excessively abstruse vision. Too often, a self-indulgent, or unpersuasive (I won’t say incapable) effort is credited for being authentic because it is impenetrable, and that is where the fans and critics come into play with Lynch. Analysis is unnecessary, it’s already understood that the work is brilliant, and it’s a given that, with Lynch, you are about to see something that confronts your puny, preconceived notions of reality. The less sense it makes, the more adeptly he is revealing how ensnared you are in the linear charade of conventional storytelling. Or the system. Or something. Where this becomes insufferable is when esoteric artistes inherit a priori acquiescence in a fashion too similar to the ideological blank slate politicians count on from their compliant bases. We know how this works: an already-accepted conclusion is invoked, or promoted, and the appraisal (of the product, of the candidate) is liberated from subjective analysis, it’s already understood. Discourse is discarded for absolution in ways that say more about how the viewers view themselves than the film. And perhaps that is, if unconsciously, the entire point?
In the final analysis, I’ll admit that David Lynch is very much like God. I watch his movies the way I look at the creation of the world: most of the time I can’t claim to discern what’s going on, but someone seems to have gone to a great deal of trouble. Beauty, not to mention intelligent design, is always in the brain of the beholder. The question remains: is that enough?
Friday, May 9, 2008
Requiem for The Regal Beagle: A Mostly Fond Recollection of Three's Company
Requiem for The Regal Beagle: A Mostly Fond Recollection of Three’s Company
The last thing I want to be accused of is venerating the same sitcom that, it seemed, virtually everyone who was not a teenager in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s felt certain signaled the end of the world as we knew it. But we felt fine. Hey, I lived through those dangerous days and survived. I watched Three’s Company and not only enjoyed it, then, I certainly don’t regret it, now. I regard that show kind of like I view my Catholic upbringing: it was probably not necessary and it’s likely that those hours (in church, in front of the TV) could have been better spent. But, for better or worse, they helped make me what I am, so I’ll make no tardy attempts to excommunicate Cardinal O’Connor or Jack Tripper from my memory bank. In this much-maligned shows defense, and unlike the Catholic church, it never pretended to be something it was not: an enterprise that puts profit above product and always answerable to a higher authority.
Not sure, in hindsight, if Father So-and-So’s sermons gave me more nightmares than Joyce DeWitt’s curious allure, or who was the worse actor—my divorced CCD teacher or Suzanne Somers (I’m pretty sure Somers wins purely on aesthetic points). We can point to Don Knotts’s (R.I.P.) floral crimes against fashion, but at least he was a product of the times, unlike the enduring sartorial styles still in vogue at the Vatican. And let’s get real: if Jack Tripper (R.I.P.!!) were, well, real, and he was running for president, which candidate would you rather have a beer with at The Regal Beagle?
But special props must be set aside for the immortal (yes, I said immortal) Norman Fell (R.I.P.!!!). If there was ever a “sixth man” award for TV shows, Mr. Roper would be a lock. In fact, it should henceforth be known as “The Norman Fell Factor” when a minor—but indispensable—character is given props by fans in the know. His sardonic asides to the camera were revolutionary in their own understated way; breaking the fourth wall to make inside jokes with the audience, edging toward something approximating postmodern long before, say, movies like Ferris Bueller or subsequent TV shows like Moonlighting made it an almost obligatory—and far less subtle—device. Of course, this strategy already existed on TV, dating as far back as stories have been told to audiences, and are recurrent in Cervantes, Shakespeare and Sterne, not to mention Melville (call him Ishmael) and the late, great Kurt Vonnegut. In other words, Fell was neither the first nor the most effective practitioner of this tactic—he was simply one of the funniest. In his relatively quick moments on screen, he could throw the audience, and himself, a bone each week—his antics would not have been nearly as amusing if his role were larger.
Maybe it’s a guy thing. Check that: did any women ever watch Three’s Company? Stanley Roper’s self-satisfied mugging was a highlight of each episode, and while the mere name Ralph Furley prompts a chuckle, by the time that bug-eyed, pants suit wearing rascal came on the scene, the shows best days were behind it (bet: that is the first time the words “the shows best days” have ever appeared in any appraisal of Three’s Company). And don’t kid yourself: I’m not about to forget our favorite used car salesman, Larry Dallas. Larry was more than just Eddie Haskell grown up and acid-tested; in many ways he anticipated both George Costanza and Cosmo Kramer (in other words, he was the original poor man’s Larry David). Okay, that’s stretching it, but one thing is for certain: while the Ropers got their chance to grasp the brass ring, the biggest crime Three’s Company ever committed was not spinning off Larry’s character for his own series. Just kidding. Sort of.
—Sean Murphy
http://www.popmatters.com/pm/blogs/sound-affects/
The last thing I want to be accused of is venerating the same sitcom that, it seemed, virtually everyone who was not a teenager in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s felt certain signaled the end of the world as we knew it. But we felt fine. Hey, I lived through those dangerous days and survived. I watched Three’s Company and not only enjoyed it, then, I certainly don’t regret it, now. I regard that show kind of like I view my Catholic upbringing: it was probably not necessary and it’s likely that those hours (in church, in front of the TV) could have been better spent. But, for better or worse, they helped make me what I am, so I’ll make no tardy attempts to excommunicate Cardinal O’Connor or Jack Tripper from my memory bank. In this much-maligned shows defense, and unlike the Catholic church, it never pretended to be something it was not: an enterprise that puts profit above product and always answerable to a higher authority.
Not sure, in hindsight, if Father So-and-So’s sermons gave me more nightmares than Joyce DeWitt’s curious allure, or who was the worse actor—my divorced CCD teacher or Suzanne Somers (I’m pretty sure Somers wins purely on aesthetic points). We can point to Don Knotts’s (R.I.P.) floral crimes against fashion, but at least he was a product of the times, unlike the enduring sartorial styles still in vogue at the Vatican. And let’s get real: if Jack Tripper (R.I.P.!!) were, well, real, and he was running for president, which candidate would you rather have a beer with at The Regal Beagle?
But special props must be set aside for the immortal (yes, I said immortal) Norman Fell (R.I.P.!!!). If there was ever a “sixth man” award for TV shows, Mr. Roper would be a lock. In fact, it should henceforth be known as “The Norman Fell Factor” when a minor—but indispensable—character is given props by fans in the know. His sardonic asides to the camera were revolutionary in their own understated way; breaking the fourth wall to make inside jokes with the audience, edging toward something approximating postmodern long before, say, movies like Ferris Bueller or subsequent TV shows like Moonlighting made it an almost obligatory—and far less subtle—device. Of course, this strategy already existed on TV, dating as far back as stories have been told to audiences, and are recurrent in Cervantes, Shakespeare and Sterne, not to mention Melville (call him Ishmael) and the late, great Kurt Vonnegut. In other words, Fell was neither the first nor the most effective practitioner of this tactic—he was simply one of the funniest. In his relatively quick moments on screen, he could throw the audience, and himself, a bone each week—his antics would not have been nearly as amusing if his role were larger.
Maybe it’s a guy thing. Check that: did any women ever watch Three’s Company? Stanley Roper’s self-satisfied mugging was a highlight of each episode, and while the mere name Ralph Furley prompts a chuckle, by the time that bug-eyed, pants suit wearing rascal came on the scene, the shows best days were behind it (bet: that is the first time the words “the shows best days” have ever appeared in any appraisal of Three’s Company). And don’t kid yourself: I’m not about to forget our favorite used car salesman, Larry Dallas. Larry was more than just Eddie Haskell grown up and acid-tested; in many ways he anticipated both George Costanza and Cosmo Kramer (in other words, he was the original poor man’s Larry David). Okay, that’s stretching it, but one thing is for certain: while the Ropers got their chance to grasp the brass ring, the biggest crime Three’s Company ever committed was not spinning off Larry’s character for his own series. Just kidding. Sort of.
—Sean Murphy
http://www.popmatters.com/pm/blogs/sound-affects/
Five Easy Pieces (from Popmatters.com: 50 DVDS Every Film Fan Should Own)
1970
Five Easy Pieces
MacMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; Jake Gittes in Chinatown; Jack “Here’s Johnny!” Torrence in The Shining—these aren’t characters from famous movies, they are permanent fixtures of American culture. Robert Dupea from Five Easy Pieces seldom registers on the short list of all-time great acting performances, at least in part because the character—like the movie—is not easy to admire or understand. The type of role tailor-made for an artist who insists upon working without a net, Bobby Dupea is at once emotional, withdrawn, silent, boisterous, ambitious and lethargic to the point of apathy. Five Easy Pieces is a study of the restless soul of a gifted individual (who could have been, and still could be, an artist) who is too smart for his own good, and has thus far squandered his youth, talent and energy in an ennui-ridden funk where he drifts from job to meaningless job, woman to faceless woman, sensation to numbing sensation.
All of us can discern something of ourselves in the unsatisfied, insatiable drifter; the citizen who is not content to live in a banal, preordained existence even as his every action (and lack of action) further ensnares him in a perpetuation of the life he abhors. In this regard, Five Easy Pieces is not only a commentary on the itinerant American rebel, it also examines the suffocating dynamics of a dysfunctional family, and the paralyzing dilemma of an individual blessed with extraordinary faculties he feels compelled to suppress. Dupea leads a life of not-so-quiet desperation, equally out of place amongst the working class and the class-conscious, condescending academics. And then there is the scene, which is one of the most amusing—and satisfying—in cinema history, when he clashes with the truck-stop waitress and the system she represents. In the disquieting climax, when he unsuccessfully attempts to persuade the first woman who seems perfect for him, she poses a rhetorical question that underscores the tragic paradox his muted antipathy: “How can a man who has no love of himself ask for love in return?” His inability to answer her, and his unwillingness to change himself, creates the taciturn resolution which leaves the viewer both saddened, and exasperated.
This DVD is an essential addition for any collection, and can be returned to over time: the nuances of the story and the subtle mastery of Rafelson’s direction are to be savored. All the performances are stellar, yet special kudos are warranted for Karen Black, the patient yet pathetic girlfriend and Helena Kallianiotes, the furious yet refreshing hitchhiker. The currently available DVD offers no extra material, but if any movie warrants the critical reissue with commentary, interviews and (if available) deleted scenes, Five Easy Pieces begs for the bonus treatment. This could be Nicholson’s penultimate performance and the reverberations from this urgent yet honest portrayal still linger on the lower frequencies of our collective consciousness.
—Sean Murphy
Five Easy Pieces
MacMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; Jake Gittes in Chinatown; Jack “Here’s Johnny!” Torrence in The Shining—these aren’t characters from famous movies, they are permanent fixtures of American culture. Robert Dupea from Five Easy Pieces seldom registers on the short list of all-time great acting performances, at least in part because the character—like the movie—is not easy to admire or understand. The type of role tailor-made for an artist who insists upon working without a net, Bobby Dupea is at once emotional, withdrawn, silent, boisterous, ambitious and lethargic to the point of apathy. Five Easy Pieces is a study of the restless soul of a gifted individual (who could have been, and still could be, an artist) who is too smart for his own good, and has thus far squandered his youth, talent and energy in an ennui-ridden funk where he drifts from job to meaningless job, woman to faceless woman, sensation to numbing sensation.
All of us can discern something of ourselves in the unsatisfied, insatiable drifter; the citizen who is not content to live in a banal, preordained existence even as his every action (and lack of action) further ensnares him in a perpetuation of the life he abhors. In this regard, Five Easy Pieces is not only a commentary on the itinerant American rebel, it also examines the suffocating dynamics of a dysfunctional family, and the paralyzing dilemma of an individual blessed with extraordinary faculties he feels compelled to suppress. Dupea leads a life of not-so-quiet desperation, equally out of place amongst the working class and the class-conscious, condescending academics. And then there is the scene, which is one of the most amusing—and satisfying—in cinema history, when he clashes with the truck-stop waitress and the system she represents. In the disquieting climax, when he unsuccessfully attempts to persuade the first woman who seems perfect for him, she poses a rhetorical question that underscores the tragic paradox his muted antipathy: “How can a man who has no love of himself ask for love in return?” His inability to answer her, and his unwillingness to change himself, creates the taciturn resolution which leaves the viewer both saddened, and exasperated.
This DVD is an essential addition for any collection, and can be returned to over time: the nuances of the story and the subtle mastery of Rafelson’s direction are to be savored. All the performances are stellar, yet special kudos are warranted for Karen Black, the patient yet pathetic girlfriend and Helena Kallianiotes, the furious yet refreshing hitchhiker. The currently available DVD offers no extra material, but if any movie warrants the critical reissue with commentary, interviews and (if available) deleted scenes, Five Easy Pieces begs for the bonus treatment. This could be Nicholson’s penultimate performance and the reverberations from this urgent yet honest portrayal still linger on the lower frequencies of our collective consciousness.
—Sean Murphy
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Kids in the Hall--from Popmatters.com
The Kids in the Hall existed in a sort of parallel universe to the much more popular, much less brilliant Saturday Night Live. Though comparisons between the two are inevitable, perhaps because of the Lorne Michaels connection, Kids in the Hall should be appraised—and appreciated—as part of the crooked line connecting Monty Python, which preceded it, and Mr. Show, which followed. While attracting an intense cult fan base, the Kids faced at least three major obstacles that made crossover success pretty much an impossibility. They were Canadian and had a pronounced—and, for fans, most welcome—quirkiness. They were disarmingly intelligent, yet always willing and eager to embrace the oddness of life. Their one-two punch of ingenuity and eccentricity could be like Gary Larson’s Far Side cartoons—you either got them, immediately, or you did not. Lastly, they dressed in drag. Often, and convincingly. Too convincingly, perhaps, for the average American sensibility circa 1990-something.
Although only one member of the ensemble is gay, queer culture was featured prominently—or, at least unabashedly—waaaaay before it was as widely accepted, or commonplace as it would thankfully be less than two decades later. Perhaps the primary reason it was easier for some to describe, or dismiss the show as a bunch of dudes in dresses is because it was, and remains, pretty difficult to pinpoint what they were up to. Precious few impersonations, less than a little political pot-shotting, The Kids in the Hall managed to consistently skewer piety and send up our ever-uptight social mores through the creation of insanely indelible characters: they understood that to effectively ridicule the world they had to make themselves ridiculous. In one skit, fur trappers cruise office buildings, killing yuppies in order to sell their “pelts” to a high-end haberdashery. In another a harried corporate big shot, in the midst of a stress-driven cardiac arrest, rips his heart out of his chest, pouring coffee on it and yelling “Get back to work!” And how inadequate would our world be without the Head Crusher, the Chicken Lady, Buddy Cole or Cabbage Head?
The definitive sketch? Every fan will claim one, but it’s difficult to deny the exceptional “Retelling of a Complicated Italian Movie”, which features everything that made The Kids in the Hall so inimitable: as two guys in a bar discuss a foreign film, the happy hour crowd slowly assumes the roles being described. All of a sudden the storyteller is holding a pistol and melodramatic shots ring out. “Wow, what a complicated plot!” his friend says, still holding his buffalo wing as he collapses, clutching his bleeding stomach. You have to see it to disbelieve it, but it manages to be clever, surreal and, as always, hysterical. Naturally, one character is dressed in drag.
—Sean Murphy
Although only one member of the ensemble is gay, queer culture was featured prominently—or, at least unabashedly—waaaaay before it was as widely accepted, or commonplace as it would thankfully be less than two decades later. Perhaps the primary reason it was easier for some to describe, or dismiss the show as a bunch of dudes in dresses is because it was, and remains, pretty difficult to pinpoint what they were up to. Precious few impersonations, less than a little political pot-shotting, The Kids in the Hall managed to consistently skewer piety and send up our ever-uptight social mores through the creation of insanely indelible characters: they understood that to effectively ridicule the world they had to make themselves ridiculous. In one skit, fur trappers cruise office buildings, killing yuppies in order to sell their “pelts” to a high-end haberdashery. In another a harried corporate big shot, in the midst of a stress-driven cardiac arrest, rips his heart out of his chest, pouring coffee on it and yelling “Get back to work!” And how inadequate would our world be without the Head Crusher, the Chicken Lady, Buddy Cole or Cabbage Head?
The definitive sketch? Every fan will claim one, but it’s difficult to deny the exceptional “Retelling of a Complicated Italian Movie”, which features everything that made The Kids in the Hall so inimitable: as two guys in a bar discuss a foreign film, the happy hour crowd slowly assumes the roles being described. All of a sudden the storyteller is holding a pistol and melodramatic shots ring out. “Wow, what a complicated plot!” his friend says, still holding his buffalo wing as he collapses, clutching his bleeding stomach. You have to see it to disbelieve it, but it manages to be clever, surreal and, as always, hysterical. Naturally, one character is dressed in drag.
—Sean Murphy
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Roky Erickson: You're Gonna Miss Me (Popmatters.com Review)
Roky Erickson
You’re Gonna Miss Me: A Film About Roky Erickson [DVD]
(Palm Pictures) Rated: N/A
US release date: 10 July 2007
UK release date: 10 July 2007
by Sean Murphy
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Genius
Preface
You’re Gonna Miss Me is an instant classic and will likely be regarded as essential years from now. Two critical things it has going for it: one, its subject, Roky Erickson, is a filmmaker’s fantasy—the type of character who could never be adequately fictionalized because the story outstrips imagination, and two, instead of being overwhelmed by the material or trying to either sensationalize or sterilize it, director Keven McAlester, by simply standing in the right places at the right times, captures success, insanity, disintegration and redemption. It’s almost impossible to imagine the viewer coming away from this documentary without a better understanding of popular music, mental illness, frailty and faith. It’s likely viewers will something about themselves, as well. What else could one ask for?
I. Pictures (Leave Your Body Behind)
There are a handful of artistic archetypes we know and love—or loathe—in cinema, literature, and music, especially rock ‘n’ roll music. To take just a sampling of some of the more obvious ones, there is the cautionary tale (see Keith Moon); the tragic hero case study (see Jimi Hendrix); the unrecognized master (see Shuggie Otis); the posthumously recognized master (see Nick Drake); the redemption song (see Brian Wilson), et cetera . And yet, has there ever been an individual who encompasses several of the above, creating an entirely unique category? Yes: Roky Erickson. Who? Exactly. Roky Erickson is indeed many things, all at once. The greatest singer not many people have ever heard. The saddest could-have-been-a-contender parable in the annals of rock. An authentic icon who, while written off even by those who at one time followed him, attracted artists such as R.E.M., ZZ Top, Julian Cope and The Jesus and Mary Chain to take part in the excellent 1990 tribute album Where The Pyramid Meets The Eye .
So, who was Roky Erickson? Envision a psychedelic era band that combined the darker energy of Love and The Doors with the bluesy kitchen sink vocal assault of Janis Joplin, alongside the musical proficiency of The Yardbirds or The Mothers of Invention. That amalgamation begins to approximate what the 13th Floor Elevators, from Austin Texas, sounded like before the Summer of Love. When they eventually (inevitably) headed up the coast toward the burgeoning Bay Area scene in 1966, they blew the minds, so to speak, of many of the groups who were still cultivating a more mellow, folk-based sound. The Elevators were heavier, edgier and more exotic, drawing on an electric blues foundation that at once assimilated the aggression of The Who and the more cerebral introspection of Dylan. It was anything but a simple, hit-seeking sound, yet their first album yielded a song, “You’re Gonna Miss Me”—featuring the full range of Erickson’s vocals and the trademark electric jug playing of Tommy Hall—that caused some excitement, reaching #55 on the charts.
Much like seemingly everyone else on the accelerating edge of the rock scene, Erickson found stimulation, solace and eventually (inevitably) distraction via the LSD he ingested like lemon drops. Along with his better-known acid casualty compatriots Syd Barrett and Brian Wilson, Erickson fell to earth. Chronic behavioral and legal issues ensued. Unlike Wilson, who headed for the relative security of his sandbox, and Barrett, who — after turning on and tuning in — dropped out entirely and disengaged from the outside world, Erickson returned to Austin and found himself the target of an overly enthusiastic police department anxious to make an example out of him. Popped for possession of marijuana joint and facing the possibility of serious jail time, Erickson’s lawyer proposed the dubious stratagem of pleading insanity, which led to an eventual confinement in Rusk State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He remained there for three years.
II. Roller Coaster
You’re Gonna Miss Me traces the early adventures that led Roky to Rusk, and fills in the following decades, which have mostly been a tragic void for all but the most dedicated fans. Erickson may have been gone, but he was far from forgotten, as evidenced by the commentary provided by an impressively disparate array of musicians, including Billy Gibbons (of Texas legends ZZ Top), Patti Smith, Thurston Moore (Sonic Youth) and Gibby Haynes (Butthole Surfers). It is a documentary that unfolds like a mystery story, each anecdote and interview revealing another layer that helps explain who he was, who he became, and who he is now.
III. Slip Inside This House
Seminal scene number one: Roky Erickson, now under the exclusive care of his mother back in Texas (circa 1999), enters his modest and messy apartment. He turns on the radio. Then he turns on a second radio. Then he turns on a television, and another. Then he turns on an electric Casio piano. Eventually he has plugged in or turned on a beehive of competing sounds; the room is a cacophony of random stimulation. He puts on a pair of sunglasses and announces in a soft voice (barely audible above the chaos) “Okay, I’m gonna lay down now.” His mother, who had presumably seen it all before, remarks matter-of-factly: “He falls asleep with all that stuff on…it’s when I turn it off that he wakes up.”
IV. If You Have Ghosts
A few things that the assembled evidence seems to render indisputable: Roky Erickson was, and remains, a sensitive and sweet human being; he was blessed with an extraordinary voice and had an intense interest in music very early on; his upbringing was complicated, even when measured against the understood assumption that some dysfunctional families are more dysfunctional than others.
V. Earthquake
Seminal scene number two: The camera pans down a long, empty hallway with white walls. A voice speaks; it is Roky, taped in a 1975 interview: “I felt like a male Jane Eyre in that place…all I had to look forward to was (being told) ‘You’re still insane.’” Back-story: June ’68, Roky abruptly returns home from San Francisco. He is filthy, scab-ridden and incoherent. Alarmed, his mother takes him to a doctor, who promptly, if blithely, declares him an incurable schizophrenic. He is subsequently “rescued” by one of his band mates and they hitchhike back to the Bay Area, where Roky eschews LSD for heroin. He begins hearing voices. Upon contracting serum hepatitis from a dirty needle, he returns to Austin, and that fateful marijuana bust. In a matter of months Roky has gone from the center of a psychedelic summertime to bunking up amongst the profoundly disturbed, and violent, residents of Rusk Hospital.
VI. Fire Engine
The similarities between Roky Erickson and Syd Barrett, while obvious, are nevertheless extraordinary. Barrett was more popular, his story more often told, and he was more missed once he was gone. But once Syd was gone, he stayed gone: after 1975, when he shocked his old mates by showing up at the studio as they were putting the finishing touches on the Barrett-inspired Wish You Were Here, he retreated to the care of his mother and abandoned all interest in music. Erickson, despite a similar appetite for acid (not to mention the heroin abuse) and regular shock treatments at Rusk, never stopped thinking about music. Unlike Syd, the fire of creating and making music never died inside Roky and was, ultimately, inextinguishable.
VII. Unforced Peace
Seminal scene number three: Bob Priest, Rusk’s resident psychologist, recalls how Roky played in a makeshift band that included a rapist, and two murderers. “Most of the time he’d have a yellow legal pad, sitting in the hallway writing music…he was a real nice little guy, he didn’t have a whole lot to say; he wanted to write his music, he wanted to play his music — and that’s all.”
VIII. I Walked With A Zombie
It’s 1972: finally released from Rusk, Rocky begins making music, but is plagued by paranoia and the aftereffects of what was, to say the least, his not exactly salubrious recent environment. Increasingly, he is convinced that he’s an alien and conniving humans are “zapping” his mind. His attorney takes him to the dime store several times to buy toy laser guns so he can zap them back. It does not work. Finally, she hits upon the idea of preparing a document declaring that Roky is, in fact, an alien, with the hope that whoever is sending telepathic shocks to his head will stop. It works.
IX. Starry Eyes
Seminal scene number four: A man out of time, he looks like it’s 1969, he sounds like it’s 1969, but it’s actually 1983. The same year synth-heavy pop was lip-synched around the clock on MTV, the man who may have invented psychedelic rock is in his mother’s house, being videotaped as he strums a song he wrote for her. He is disheveled and most of his teeth are now gone. It is poignant, but also more than a little painful to watch. And yet. That voice, those eyes, the honesty. As Melville wrote “You cannot hide the soul.”
X. She Lives in a Time of Her Own
At this point you are thinking: his mother is a saint. She took him in when no one else would, and every indication suggests that she accepts him and genuinely loves him, without reservation. If her rigid distrust of doctors and medication is unfortunate, it is also understandable, considering how she has seen her eldest son suffer. Certainly, she is eccentric; she could easily be the focus of a captivating documentary herself, recalling how Robert Crumb’s brothers occasionally, if chillingly, stole the spotlight in Terry Zwigoff’s justly celebrated film (speaking of controversial, odd artists). When Roky is interviewed at one point he confesses, sounding not only vulnerable and guileless, but childlike, “I wish I could be somewhere else.” The door of domestic unease creaks open and one wonders: how much of a good thing is this arrangement, after all?
XI. Don’t Slander Me
While the documentary keeps the focus firmly on Roky, the broiling undercurrent of familial tension (past and present) moves to the forefront when Erickson’s younger brother, Sumner (who plays tuba with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra) asserts that years of therapy have helped him understand how domineering their mother has always been. While at first his sentiments seem more driven by an obsession to exorcise painful childhood demons, Sumner’s intentions to assist Roky are made touchingly clear when he offers to let his brother come live with him.
Eventually, it is up to a judge to determine who is best able to help Roky: his mother correctly claims to have helped him out when nobody else was able or interested; his brother insists that Roky now deserves the opportunity to help himself. The judge ultimately concurs with Sumner’s assessment that his mother, by refusing to let Roky take any medication, is effectively suppressing any possibility of improvement and, intentionally or not, keeping him in a state of dependence. The documentary, at this point, has portrayed enough candid incidents and interviews that the viewer will likely endorse the judge’s decision, but it is still an uneasy resolution.
XII. I Have Always Been Here Before
Seminal scene number five: After the court rules that Sumner can take his brother back with him to Pittsburgh, their mother silently leaves the courthouse. She stops by Roky’s apartment and, one by one, turns off the machines he’d left on when he left home, leaving her behind.
XIII. Splash I (Now I’m Home)
One year later, Roky is preparing to return home to visit his mother for the first time. Sumner, who seems wary whenever her name is mentioned, acknowledges that she probably did the best that she could to provide for her son. Nevertheless, Sumner’s influence has been profound, and positive: Roky’s teeth are fixed, he has been prescribed (and is taking) modern meds, and he is seeing a therapist, who encourages him to play songs. He seems happy and healthy, sitting outside on a balcony, playing his guitar again. The voice is still not of this earth, but there can no longer be any doubt, if there ever was any, that Roky Erickson is indeed an earthling. The greatest ending of all is that the story has not ended.
(Postscript)
Special mention must be made of the extra features, which are generous bordering on mind-boggling. In an era where, unfortunately, one almost expects to get less for more (if there is material for two albums, try and stretch it into three; if there are any leftovers, package them up and push it for the “deluxe” edition), the bonus footage could comprise another full documentary—one of equal value and interest.
Huge kudos to McAlester and company for doing the right thing for the fans, and for Erickson: newcomers who see this footage will almost certainly be inclined to check out some vintage 13th Floor Elevators, as well as the unconscionably overlooked post-Elevators music Erickson made. In addition to an incredible collection of vintage performances from over the years (mostly solo acoustic), there are deleted scenes and readings of original material by Roky and his mother.
Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, at least one more amazing chapter is presented here: the documentary wrapped in 2002, but Roky’s astonishing recovery saw him performing live for the first time in almost 20 years at the 2005 Austin City Limits Festival. To watch the reception he gets, to hear how great he sounds, and to behold how fulfilled he appears, it is not possible to be unmoved. “It’s a cold night for alligators,” he sings. Damn right it is.
You're Gonna Miss Me Trailer
RATING:
EXTRAS:
— 9 August 2007
You’re Gonna Miss Me: A Film About Roky Erickson [DVD]
(Palm Pictures) Rated: N/A
US release date: 10 July 2007
UK release date: 10 July 2007
by Sean Murphy
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Genius
Preface
You’re Gonna Miss Me is an instant classic and will likely be regarded as essential years from now. Two critical things it has going for it: one, its subject, Roky Erickson, is a filmmaker’s fantasy—the type of character who could never be adequately fictionalized because the story outstrips imagination, and two, instead of being overwhelmed by the material or trying to either sensationalize or sterilize it, director Keven McAlester, by simply standing in the right places at the right times, captures success, insanity, disintegration and redemption. It’s almost impossible to imagine the viewer coming away from this documentary without a better understanding of popular music, mental illness, frailty and faith. It’s likely viewers will something about themselves, as well. What else could one ask for?
I. Pictures (Leave Your Body Behind)
There are a handful of artistic archetypes we know and love—or loathe—in cinema, literature, and music, especially rock ‘n’ roll music. To take just a sampling of some of the more obvious ones, there is the cautionary tale (see Keith Moon); the tragic hero case study (see Jimi Hendrix); the unrecognized master (see Shuggie Otis); the posthumously recognized master (see Nick Drake); the redemption song (see Brian Wilson), et cetera . And yet, has there ever been an individual who encompasses several of the above, creating an entirely unique category? Yes: Roky Erickson. Who? Exactly. Roky Erickson is indeed many things, all at once. The greatest singer not many people have ever heard. The saddest could-have-been-a-contender parable in the annals of rock. An authentic icon who, while written off even by those who at one time followed him, attracted artists such as R.E.M., ZZ Top, Julian Cope and The Jesus and Mary Chain to take part in the excellent 1990 tribute album Where The Pyramid Meets The Eye .
So, who was Roky Erickson? Envision a psychedelic era band that combined the darker energy of Love and The Doors with the bluesy kitchen sink vocal assault of Janis Joplin, alongside the musical proficiency of The Yardbirds or The Mothers of Invention. That amalgamation begins to approximate what the 13th Floor Elevators, from Austin Texas, sounded like before the Summer of Love. When they eventually (inevitably) headed up the coast toward the burgeoning Bay Area scene in 1966, they blew the minds, so to speak, of many of the groups who were still cultivating a more mellow, folk-based sound. The Elevators were heavier, edgier and more exotic, drawing on an electric blues foundation that at once assimilated the aggression of The Who and the more cerebral introspection of Dylan. It was anything but a simple, hit-seeking sound, yet their first album yielded a song, “You’re Gonna Miss Me”—featuring the full range of Erickson’s vocals and the trademark electric jug playing of Tommy Hall—that caused some excitement, reaching #55 on the charts.
Much like seemingly everyone else on the accelerating edge of the rock scene, Erickson found stimulation, solace and eventually (inevitably) distraction via the LSD he ingested like lemon drops. Along with his better-known acid casualty compatriots Syd Barrett and Brian Wilson, Erickson fell to earth. Chronic behavioral and legal issues ensued. Unlike Wilson, who headed for the relative security of his sandbox, and Barrett, who — after turning on and tuning in — dropped out entirely and disengaged from the outside world, Erickson returned to Austin and found himself the target of an overly enthusiastic police department anxious to make an example out of him. Popped for possession of marijuana joint and facing the possibility of serious jail time, Erickson’s lawyer proposed the dubious stratagem of pleading insanity, which led to an eventual confinement in Rusk State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He remained there for three years.
II. Roller Coaster
You’re Gonna Miss Me traces the early adventures that led Roky to Rusk, and fills in the following decades, which have mostly been a tragic void for all but the most dedicated fans. Erickson may have been gone, but he was far from forgotten, as evidenced by the commentary provided by an impressively disparate array of musicians, including Billy Gibbons (of Texas legends ZZ Top), Patti Smith, Thurston Moore (Sonic Youth) and Gibby Haynes (Butthole Surfers). It is a documentary that unfolds like a mystery story, each anecdote and interview revealing another layer that helps explain who he was, who he became, and who he is now.
III. Slip Inside This House
Seminal scene number one: Roky Erickson, now under the exclusive care of his mother back in Texas (circa 1999), enters his modest and messy apartment. He turns on the radio. Then he turns on a second radio. Then he turns on a television, and another. Then he turns on an electric Casio piano. Eventually he has plugged in or turned on a beehive of competing sounds; the room is a cacophony of random stimulation. He puts on a pair of sunglasses and announces in a soft voice (barely audible above the chaos) “Okay, I’m gonna lay down now.” His mother, who had presumably seen it all before, remarks matter-of-factly: “He falls asleep with all that stuff on…it’s when I turn it off that he wakes up.”
IV. If You Have Ghosts
A few things that the assembled evidence seems to render indisputable: Roky Erickson was, and remains, a sensitive and sweet human being; he was blessed with an extraordinary voice and had an intense interest in music very early on; his upbringing was complicated, even when measured against the understood assumption that some dysfunctional families are more dysfunctional than others.
V. Earthquake
Seminal scene number two: The camera pans down a long, empty hallway with white walls. A voice speaks; it is Roky, taped in a 1975 interview: “I felt like a male Jane Eyre in that place…all I had to look forward to was (being told) ‘You’re still insane.’” Back-story: June ’68, Roky abruptly returns home from San Francisco. He is filthy, scab-ridden and incoherent. Alarmed, his mother takes him to a doctor, who promptly, if blithely, declares him an incurable schizophrenic. He is subsequently “rescued” by one of his band mates and they hitchhike back to the Bay Area, where Roky eschews LSD for heroin. He begins hearing voices. Upon contracting serum hepatitis from a dirty needle, he returns to Austin, and that fateful marijuana bust. In a matter of months Roky has gone from the center of a psychedelic summertime to bunking up amongst the profoundly disturbed, and violent, residents of Rusk Hospital.
VI. Fire Engine
The similarities between Roky Erickson and Syd Barrett, while obvious, are nevertheless extraordinary. Barrett was more popular, his story more often told, and he was more missed once he was gone. But once Syd was gone, he stayed gone: after 1975, when he shocked his old mates by showing up at the studio as they were putting the finishing touches on the Barrett-inspired Wish You Were Here, he retreated to the care of his mother and abandoned all interest in music. Erickson, despite a similar appetite for acid (not to mention the heroin abuse) and regular shock treatments at Rusk, never stopped thinking about music. Unlike Syd, the fire of creating and making music never died inside Roky and was, ultimately, inextinguishable.
VII. Unforced Peace
Seminal scene number three: Bob Priest, Rusk’s resident psychologist, recalls how Roky played in a makeshift band that included a rapist, and two murderers. “Most of the time he’d have a yellow legal pad, sitting in the hallway writing music…he was a real nice little guy, he didn’t have a whole lot to say; he wanted to write his music, he wanted to play his music — and that’s all.”
VIII. I Walked With A Zombie
It’s 1972: finally released from Rusk, Rocky begins making music, but is plagued by paranoia and the aftereffects of what was, to say the least, his not exactly salubrious recent environment. Increasingly, he is convinced that he’s an alien and conniving humans are “zapping” his mind. His attorney takes him to the dime store several times to buy toy laser guns so he can zap them back. It does not work. Finally, she hits upon the idea of preparing a document declaring that Roky is, in fact, an alien, with the hope that whoever is sending telepathic shocks to his head will stop. It works.
IX. Starry Eyes
Seminal scene number four: A man out of time, he looks like it’s 1969, he sounds like it’s 1969, but it’s actually 1983. The same year synth-heavy pop was lip-synched around the clock on MTV, the man who may have invented psychedelic rock is in his mother’s house, being videotaped as he strums a song he wrote for her. He is disheveled and most of his teeth are now gone. It is poignant, but also more than a little painful to watch. And yet. That voice, those eyes, the honesty. As Melville wrote “You cannot hide the soul.”
X. She Lives in a Time of Her Own
At this point you are thinking: his mother is a saint. She took him in when no one else would, and every indication suggests that she accepts him and genuinely loves him, without reservation. If her rigid distrust of doctors and medication is unfortunate, it is also understandable, considering how she has seen her eldest son suffer. Certainly, she is eccentric; she could easily be the focus of a captivating documentary herself, recalling how Robert Crumb’s brothers occasionally, if chillingly, stole the spotlight in Terry Zwigoff’s justly celebrated film (speaking of controversial, odd artists). When Roky is interviewed at one point he confesses, sounding not only vulnerable and guileless, but childlike, “I wish I could be somewhere else.” The door of domestic unease creaks open and one wonders: how much of a good thing is this arrangement, after all?
XI. Don’t Slander Me
While the documentary keeps the focus firmly on Roky, the broiling undercurrent of familial tension (past and present) moves to the forefront when Erickson’s younger brother, Sumner (who plays tuba with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra) asserts that years of therapy have helped him understand how domineering their mother has always been. While at first his sentiments seem more driven by an obsession to exorcise painful childhood demons, Sumner’s intentions to assist Roky are made touchingly clear when he offers to let his brother come live with him.
Eventually, it is up to a judge to determine who is best able to help Roky: his mother correctly claims to have helped him out when nobody else was able or interested; his brother insists that Roky now deserves the opportunity to help himself. The judge ultimately concurs with Sumner’s assessment that his mother, by refusing to let Roky take any medication, is effectively suppressing any possibility of improvement and, intentionally or not, keeping him in a state of dependence. The documentary, at this point, has portrayed enough candid incidents and interviews that the viewer will likely endorse the judge’s decision, but it is still an uneasy resolution.
XII. I Have Always Been Here Before
Seminal scene number five: After the court rules that Sumner can take his brother back with him to Pittsburgh, their mother silently leaves the courthouse. She stops by Roky’s apartment and, one by one, turns off the machines he’d left on when he left home, leaving her behind.
XIII. Splash I (Now I’m Home)
One year later, Roky is preparing to return home to visit his mother for the first time. Sumner, who seems wary whenever her name is mentioned, acknowledges that she probably did the best that she could to provide for her son. Nevertheless, Sumner’s influence has been profound, and positive: Roky’s teeth are fixed, he has been prescribed (and is taking) modern meds, and he is seeing a therapist, who encourages him to play songs. He seems happy and healthy, sitting outside on a balcony, playing his guitar again. The voice is still not of this earth, but there can no longer be any doubt, if there ever was any, that Roky Erickson is indeed an earthling. The greatest ending of all is that the story has not ended.
(Postscript)
Special mention must be made of the extra features, which are generous bordering on mind-boggling. In an era where, unfortunately, one almost expects to get less for more (if there is material for two albums, try and stretch it into three; if there are any leftovers, package them up and push it for the “deluxe” edition), the bonus footage could comprise another full documentary—one of equal value and interest.
Huge kudos to McAlester and company for doing the right thing for the fans, and for Erickson: newcomers who see this footage will almost certainly be inclined to check out some vintage 13th Floor Elevators, as well as the unconscionably overlooked post-Elevators music Erickson made. In addition to an incredible collection of vintage performances from over the years (mostly solo acoustic), there are deleted scenes and readings of original material by Roky and his mother.
Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, at least one more amazing chapter is presented here: the documentary wrapped in 2002, but Roky’s astonishing recovery saw him performing live for the first time in almost 20 years at the 2005 Austin City Limits Festival. To watch the reception he gets, to hear how great he sounds, and to behold how fulfilled he appears, it is not possible to be unmoved. “It’s a cold night for alligators,” he sings. Damn right it is.
You're Gonna Miss Me Trailer
RATING:
EXTRAS:
— 9 August 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
Pink Floyd: Meddle (Popmatters.com Review)
Pink Floyd
Meddle: A Classic Album Under Review [DVD]
(Chrome Dreams / Music Video Distributors) Rated: N/A
US release date: 12 March 2007
UK release date: 19 March 2007
by Sean Murphy
1971’s Meddle captured the moment when Floyd finally found their sound.
Pink Floyd were hardly an inconsequential group in the late ‘60s and very early ‘70s, and yet, without 1973’s The Dark Side of the Moon and the albums that followed, their status today would be decidedly diminished. Most everyone would agree that Dark Side made them who they are today, but not as many people might appreciate that, if it were not for 1971’s Meddle, there would have been no The Dark Side of the Moon.
Meddle is indeed a classic album that is not accorded the level of attention it would otherwise receive if it did not exist within the ever expanding shadow of the subsequent string of albums it helped inspire. This is not an uncommon occurrence in rock (or any genre of music for that matter): it’s likely, to take one obvious example, that The Who Sell Out would receive those accolades generally reserved for Tommy or Who’s Next, the better known albums that came just after it.
It is appropriate then that, 40 years after the release of their first album, we have a serious critical appraisal of the pivotal record that served to end one era and instigate another. Regarding that earlier era, casual fans might not realize that Pink Floyd made as many albums before Meddle than they did after it (more casual fans might not even realize that Floyd made any albums before Meddle).
For this reason alone, the first section of this DVD provides an excellent overview of not only the group, but also the London underground for which they served as de facto house band. There were, really, three different Pink Floyds: the initial one led by Syd Barrett, the one forced to soldier on after Barrett’s LSD-induced demolition (at which point he was replaced by his good friend David Gilmour), and the one that eventually made the string of masterpieces starting with The Dark Side of the Moon.
Getting from Piper to Dark Side required several years and several albums, none of which sounded especially alike—a fact that seems more remarkable with the benefit of hindsight. Each album, however, had one particular track, often an extended instrumental piece, that served as a centerpiece that at once set it apart and connected the sonic dots that burst through the pyramid in 1973: “Interstellar Overdrive” (from Piper), “Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun” (from A Saucerful Of Secrets), “Quicksilver” (from More), “The Narrow Way” (from Ummagumma) and “Atom Heart Mother Suite” (from Atom Heart Mother). As the band has indicated repeatedly over the years, there would be no “Echoes” without “Atom Heart Mother Suite”, and so on working backward.
The assembled critics interviewed for this DVD express varying opinions on the overall merits of these transitional albums (all of them generally agree that Piper is a masterpiece, although that one was Syd Barrett’s baby whereas the others were assuredly group efforts), but the consensus seems to be that while Floyd should be commended for their bold experimentation and constant evolution, the results were decidedly mixed. True, yet the participants seem to overlook how important Floyd’s live performances were in terms of reshaping and refining many older songs. The critics correctly single out “Set The Controls” as a crucial track, but none of them mention the title track of that album as a major cornerstone that Floyd built a foundation of sound upon.
The ways in which “A Saucerful Of Secrets” expanded and crystallized is documented on the live section of Ummugumma, as well as the definitive version, which they recorded live for their movie Live At Pompeii: Gilmour’s guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as the major musical force within the group (a very positive development), forging an increasingly melodic and ethereal sound. The point that cannot be overemphasized is that Meddle was not so much an inspired product of its time as much as it was the realization of a sound and style the band had been inching toward, carving away at the stone with each successive effort, until the pieces finally came together (or fell apart, if you like) in the form of “Echoes”.
Ping…ping…ping. That is how it begins: the song that many still consider their definitive statement, the first track completed for the new album (like “Atom Heart Mother Suite”, it was a side-long opus; unlike the previous album, it was saved for the second side): “Echoes” unfolds deliberately, with carefully structured precision. This remains a striking departure from the previous album’s centerpiece which, in fairness, might well enjoy a better reputation, or at least seem less pretentiously impenetrable for many fans, if Floyd had stuck with its working title, “The Amazing Pudding”—quite apropos for such a gloppy, sweet, not especially easy to digest jumble.
Virtually every element Floyd had attempted to incorporate into their best songs is unified in “Echoes”, with no false notes or forced feeling: the moods and colors captured on those shorter instrumental pieces remain, stretched out to utilize the group’s considerable ambition and enthusiasm. The merging of Gilmour and Wright’s voices—a harbinger of good things to come, although on “Time” Wright sings the choruses while Gilmour handles the verses—is appropriately mesmerizing, and the two remain uncannily in synch on their respective instruments. “Echoes” also signals a minor step forward for Waters lyrically (the major step would be Dark Side of the Moon :
Strangers passing in the streetBy chance two separate glances meetAnd I am you and what I see is me…
The pace intensifies, with some extraordinary playing by Gilmour who employs an array of distortion, feedback and effects, culminating in a groove that inspired a billion jam bands. Then, the bottom drops out, spiraling into the great disintegration, an abyss of whale cries and subterranean shadows (courtesy of Wright and Gilmour, and what at the time was cutting edge use of an echo unit, which is discussed in some detail on the DVD). Out of the darkness the song slowly returns, bringing release as well as realization as the music fades into infinity.
What elevates Meddle from being a very good album to a great album is the fact that most of the remaining songs are quite memorable. The opening track signals the artistic leap forward Floyd had taken in only one year: “One of These Days” features contributions from the entire band, creating a sound that, like “Echoes”, manages to be abrupt yet unrestrained. The song materializes out of a sonic fog, like a laser closing in from a great distance, with Waters’ bass and Mason’s drums offering thudding contrast to Wright’s icy keyboards, then—after Mason’s singular, and amusing, vocal contribution: “One of these days I’m going to cut you into little pieces!”—Gilmour torches the track with a slide guitar assault, the most powerful soloing he’d put on record to this point.
The future is now; Pink Floyd have found their sound. Gilmour, having already assumed primary vocal duties on the recent albums, is now firmly established at the forefront, his guitar truly (finally?) a lead instrument. Like the album itself, this is more a culmination than a revelation: on the less self-consciously psychedelic soundtrack More, Gilmour smokes on several tunes (listen to “Main Theme”, “More Blues”, “Ibiza Bar” and “Dramatic Theme” for hints at what was to come, and how overdue this unfettered sound, either overly refined or actively suppressed, really was).
The next song encapsulates much of what Floyd had attempted, but not quite mastered, on songs such as “If” and “Grantchester Meadows”. “A Pillow of Winds” is a fuller, more realized take on the Pink Floyd pastoral song, variations of it having appeared on each album after Piper. Again, Gilmour figures prominently; where his vocals had been, at times, tentative and even frail, there is a warmth and authority here that suggests augmented confidence and comfort with the superior material.
Two elements solidly established (the guitar sound and the vocals), a final one—Roger Waters’ increasingly mature and topical lyrics—comes to fruition on the third track, “Fearless”. This tune, which could be viewed as a poignant nod to Syd Barrett, is definitely an early installment of a growing Waters obsession: namely the alienated and isolated protagonist railing against (or reeling from) a mechanized, soulless machine called society. Another distinctly Floydian touch is the decision to insert a recording of fans at Liverpool’s football stadium chanting “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, which concludes the song on a hopeful and human note. This tactic also serves as an early blueprint for the sound effects and ironic employment of actual voices used on later albums, specifically The Dark Side of the Moon.
The next two tracks are considered less than essential by most fans (and certainly the critics assembled on the DVD), but “San Tropez” is not without its charms. Despite pleasant enough vocals from Waters, this one might have worked rather nicely as an instrumental (no doubt to Waters’ considerable chagrin), as it once again features some incandescent guitar work from Gilmour. The song that closes the first side, “Seamus” is a throwaway…and yet. The idea of incorporating a dog howling alongside the band in a lighthearted call and response literally anticipates Animals, but indirectly, and importantly, reveals a band doing everything they can to avoid and obliterate cliché.
So, it can fairly be asked: who would want to watch a bunch of British music critics talking about a semi-obscure Pink Floyd album? The usual suspects, obviously: the hardcore fans and the curious novices. Neither will be disappointed. Of course, it must be reiterated that no members of the group participate which, while not shocking, is still disappointing. The collected writers know their stuff, but their remarks are similar and mostly surface-level, making the absence of input from the artists more glaring.
One delightful exception is the presence of Norman Smith, whose gentlemanly observations on producing the first three Floyd albums are charming and heartwarming. Heartbreaking, too, when he discusses the challenges (to put it kindly) he faced while trying to record the Salvation Army band Syd Barrett dragged into the studio for the track that eventually became “Jugband Blues”, Syd’s last song with the band.
The somewhat paltry extras include “The Hardest Interactive Pink Floyd Trivia Quiz In The World Ever” which is ridiculously challenging. There are screen shot bios of the participating commentators and a short but sweet special feature entitled “The Remarkable Syd Barrett”. This 10-minute bonus examines, in some depth, Syd Barrett and his fleeting trajectory, including another interview with Norman Smith who, it’s fair to say, was Pink Floyd’s George Martin—which brings things somewhat full circle as he worked as an engineer on the early Beatles’ albums.
— 1 June 2007
Meddle: A Classic Album Under Review [DVD]
(Chrome Dreams / Music Video Distributors) Rated: N/A
US release date: 12 March 2007
UK release date: 19 March 2007
by Sean Murphy
1971’s Meddle captured the moment when Floyd finally found their sound.
Pink Floyd were hardly an inconsequential group in the late ‘60s and very early ‘70s, and yet, without 1973’s The Dark Side of the Moon and the albums that followed, their status today would be decidedly diminished. Most everyone would agree that Dark Side made them who they are today, but not as many people might appreciate that, if it were not for 1971’s Meddle, there would have been no The Dark Side of the Moon.
Meddle is indeed a classic album that is not accorded the level of attention it would otherwise receive if it did not exist within the ever expanding shadow of the subsequent string of albums it helped inspire. This is not an uncommon occurrence in rock (or any genre of music for that matter): it’s likely, to take one obvious example, that The Who Sell Out would receive those accolades generally reserved for Tommy or Who’s Next, the better known albums that came just after it.
It is appropriate then that, 40 years after the release of their first album, we have a serious critical appraisal of the pivotal record that served to end one era and instigate another. Regarding that earlier era, casual fans might not realize that Pink Floyd made as many albums before Meddle than they did after it (more casual fans might not even realize that Floyd made any albums before Meddle).
For this reason alone, the first section of this DVD provides an excellent overview of not only the group, but also the London underground for which they served as de facto house band. There were, really, three different Pink Floyds: the initial one led by Syd Barrett, the one forced to soldier on after Barrett’s LSD-induced demolition (at which point he was replaced by his good friend David Gilmour), and the one that eventually made the string of masterpieces starting with The Dark Side of the Moon.
Getting from Piper to Dark Side required several years and several albums, none of which sounded especially alike—a fact that seems more remarkable with the benefit of hindsight. Each album, however, had one particular track, often an extended instrumental piece, that served as a centerpiece that at once set it apart and connected the sonic dots that burst through the pyramid in 1973: “Interstellar Overdrive” (from Piper), “Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun” (from A Saucerful Of Secrets), “Quicksilver” (from More), “The Narrow Way” (from Ummagumma) and “Atom Heart Mother Suite” (from Atom Heart Mother). As the band has indicated repeatedly over the years, there would be no “Echoes” without “Atom Heart Mother Suite”, and so on working backward.
The assembled critics interviewed for this DVD express varying opinions on the overall merits of these transitional albums (all of them generally agree that Piper is a masterpiece, although that one was Syd Barrett’s baby whereas the others were assuredly group efforts), but the consensus seems to be that while Floyd should be commended for their bold experimentation and constant evolution, the results were decidedly mixed. True, yet the participants seem to overlook how important Floyd’s live performances were in terms of reshaping and refining many older songs. The critics correctly single out “Set The Controls” as a crucial track, but none of them mention the title track of that album as a major cornerstone that Floyd built a foundation of sound upon.
The ways in which “A Saucerful Of Secrets” expanded and crystallized is documented on the live section of Ummugumma, as well as the definitive version, which they recorded live for their movie Live At Pompeii: Gilmour’s guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as the major musical force within the group (a very positive development), forging an increasingly melodic and ethereal sound. The point that cannot be overemphasized is that Meddle was not so much an inspired product of its time as much as it was the realization of a sound and style the band had been inching toward, carving away at the stone with each successive effort, until the pieces finally came together (or fell apart, if you like) in the form of “Echoes”.
Ping…ping…ping. That is how it begins: the song that many still consider their definitive statement, the first track completed for the new album (like “Atom Heart Mother Suite”, it was a side-long opus; unlike the previous album, it was saved for the second side): “Echoes” unfolds deliberately, with carefully structured precision. This remains a striking departure from the previous album’s centerpiece which, in fairness, might well enjoy a better reputation, or at least seem less pretentiously impenetrable for many fans, if Floyd had stuck with its working title, “The Amazing Pudding”—quite apropos for such a gloppy, sweet, not especially easy to digest jumble.
Virtually every element Floyd had attempted to incorporate into their best songs is unified in “Echoes”, with no false notes or forced feeling: the moods and colors captured on those shorter instrumental pieces remain, stretched out to utilize the group’s considerable ambition and enthusiasm. The merging of Gilmour and Wright’s voices—a harbinger of good things to come, although on “Time” Wright sings the choruses while Gilmour handles the verses—is appropriately mesmerizing, and the two remain uncannily in synch on their respective instruments. “Echoes” also signals a minor step forward for Waters lyrically (the major step would be Dark Side of the Moon :
Strangers passing in the streetBy chance two separate glances meetAnd I am you and what I see is me…
The pace intensifies, with some extraordinary playing by Gilmour who employs an array of distortion, feedback and effects, culminating in a groove that inspired a billion jam bands. Then, the bottom drops out, spiraling into the great disintegration, an abyss of whale cries and subterranean shadows (courtesy of Wright and Gilmour, and what at the time was cutting edge use of an echo unit, which is discussed in some detail on the DVD). Out of the darkness the song slowly returns, bringing release as well as realization as the music fades into infinity.
What elevates Meddle from being a very good album to a great album is the fact that most of the remaining songs are quite memorable. The opening track signals the artistic leap forward Floyd had taken in only one year: “One of These Days” features contributions from the entire band, creating a sound that, like “Echoes”, manages to be abrupt yet unrestrained. The song materializes out of a sonic fog, like a laser closing in from a great distance, with Waters’ bass and Mason’s drums offering thudding contrast to Wright’s icy keyboards, then—after Mason’s singular, and amusing, vocal contribution: “One of these days I’m going to cut you into little pieces!”—Gilmour torches the track with a slide guitar assault, the most powerful soloing he’d put on record to this point.
The future is now; Pink Floyd have found their sound. Gilmour, having already assumed primary vocal duties on the recent albums, is now firmly established at the forefront, his guitar truly (finally?) a lead instrument. Like the album itself, this is more a culmination than a revelation: on the less self-consciously psychedelic soundtrack More, Gilmour smokes on several tunes (listen to “Main Theme”, “More Blues”, “Ibiza Bar” and “Dramatic Theme” for hints at what was to come, and how overdue this unfettered sound, either overly refined or actively suppressed, really was).
The next song encapsulates much of what Floyd had attempted, but not quite mastered, on songs such as “If” and “Grantchester Meadows”. “A Pillow of Winds” is a fuller, more realized take on the Pink Floyd pastoral song, variations of it having appeared on each album after Piper. Again, Gilmour figures prominently; where his vocals had been, at times, tentative and even frail, there is a warmth and authority here that suggests augmented confidence and comfort with the superior material.
Two elements solidly established (the guitar sound and the vocals), a final one—Roger Waters’ increasingly mature and topical lyrics—comes to fruition on the third track, “Fearless”. This tune, which could be viewed as a poignant nod to Syd Barrett, is definitely an early installment of a growing Waters obsession: namely the alienated and isolated protagonist railing against (or reeling from) a mechanized, soulless machine called society. Another distinctly Floydian touch is the decision to insert a recording of fans at Liverpool’s football stadium chanting “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, which concludes the song on a hopeful and human note. This tactic also serves as an early blueprint for the sound effects and ironic employment of actual voices used on later albums, specifically The Dark Side of the Moon.
The next two tracks are considered less than essential by most fans (and certainly the critics assembled on the DVD), but “San Tropez” is not without its charms. Despite pleasant enough vocals from Waters, this one might have worked rather nicely as an instrumental (no doubt to Waters’ considerable chagrin), as it once again features some incandescent guitar work from Gilmour. The song that closes the first side, “Seamus” is a throwaway…and yet. The idea of incorporating a dog howling alongside the band in a lighthearted call and response literally anticipates Animals, but indirectly, and importantly, reveals a band doing everything they can to avoid and obliterate cliché.
So, it can fairly be asked: who would want to watch a bunch of British music critics talking about a semi-obscure Pink Floyd album? The usual suspects, obviously: the hardcore fans and the curious novices. Neither will be disappointed. Of course, it must be reiterated that no members of the group participate which, while not shocking, is still disappointing. The collected writers know their stuff, but their remarks are similar and mostly surface-level, making the absence of input from the artists more glaring.
One delightful exception is the presence of Norman Smith, whose gentlemanly observations on producing the first three Floyd albums are charming and heartwarming. Heartbreaking, too, when he discusses the challenges (to put it kindly) he faced while trying to record the Salvation Army band Syd Barrett dragged into the studio for the track that eventually became “Jugband Blues”, Syd’s last song with the band.
The somewhat paltry extras include “The Hardest Interactive Pink Floyd Trivia Quiz In The World Ever” which is ridiculously challenging. There are screen shot bios of the participating commentators and a short but sweet special feature entitled “The Remarkable Syd Barrett”. This 10-minute bonus examines, in some depth, Syd Barrett and his fleeting trajectory, including another interview with Norman Smith who, it’s fair to say, was Pink Floyd’s George Martin—which brings things somewhat full circle as he worked as an engineer on the early Beatles’ albums.
— 1 June 2007
Invitation To A Suicide (DVD Review from PopMatters.com)
http://www.popmatters.com/pm/film/reviews/6136/invitation-to-a-suicide-2004/
Invitation to a Suicide
Director: Loren Marsh
by Sean G. Murphy
Taking the Concept of “Pay-per-view” to New and Unusual Places
Stop me if you’ve heard this story before: guy wants money, guy steals from mobster, guy gets caught, guy is informed that his father is dead unless money gets repaid by the end of the week. Naturally, guy decides to hang himself and sell tickets to pay the debt and save his father. Oh, that last part doesn’t sound so familiar? Of course it doesn’t, and it’s exactly this morbidly fascinating—and quite original—solution to the clichéd dilemma that provides Invitation to a Suicide its intriguing potential. Perhaps unfairly, perhaps inevitably, a premise this potent elevates expectations that, alas, the film is not able to deliver. It’s a shame, as this movie has every opportunity to find new ways around old corners and offer an alternate spin on the dark comedy, but, maddeningly, a series of facile shortcuts and self-conscious stylizing call to mind other, far better efforts.
Kaz Malek (Pablo Schreiber) is the dissatisfied son of a humble father who operates a modest bakery in the Polish section of a busy Brooklyn neighborhood. Not particularly anxious to follow in his father’s footsteps, Kaz daydreams about Eva (Katharine Moennig), the beautiful girl he’s loved since childhood, whom he wants to accompany him to happily-ever-after in California. Neither his father nor his would-be girlfriend seem particularly impressed with Kaz, the goofy, if good-natured, underachiever who might not have any idea what he wants to do, but is beginning to understand that doing nothing is not an option.
What is an uninspired and unimaginative guy to do? Rob the Russian mobster upstairs, obviously. Fame, fortune, and a road trip to California are one picked lock away. Predictably, the break-in goes up in smoke (literally), and Kaz ends up burning a wad of cash before he and his accomplice flee the scene. The mobster Ferfichkin (Joseph Urla) tracks them down and in short order Kaz has one dead friend and a dire predicament: come up with $10,000 or watch his father get murdered. So what does our hapless hero do to come up with the money no one in his working class neighborhood is able—or willing—to lend him?
The stakes are vivid enough: this is a matter of life and death, and the moment when Kaz decides to sell tickets to his own suicide should propel the movie into a different, if recondite direction. And yet, everything that follows seems familiar and predictable, from the lazily drawn characters to the outrageous, yet obvious, situations that arise. For instance, Kaz’s friend Krysztof, who agrees to host the event at his funeral parlor, is eager to participate and convinced this will generate business. It’s not so much that this isn’t funny so much as it doesn’t make any sense. And yet this is a minor issue that only underscores the more troublesome fact that Kaz is an increasingly difficult character to like or feel much compassion for. After his accomplice gets whacked, Kaz doesn’t give him a second thought, and that false note encapsulates most of what never feels quite right about this film: the putative consequences are very real, yet the various reactions of everyone involved undermine the narrative’s integrity.
No one in the neighborhood, including his own father, seems particularly troubled about his imminent death, and Kaz himself spends more time worrying about Eva’s attention than the fact that he won’t be around much longer to enjoy it. This handicaps the awkward momentum the movie seems to strive for: since none of the characters seem to be taking this seriously, the viewer has little reason to get invested, especially since there is never much doubt that it’s all going to somehow work out in the end. If all the ostensible nonchalance is supposed to provide a perverse commentary on voyeurism and violence, the writing is not clever enough to pull it off, making it a semi-dark comedy that is neither dark nor funny enough. Or, put a different way, the funny parts seem too forced and the occasional, but crucial, moments of import feel strained.
In the end, the wisest move Loren Marsh makes is having secured the involvement of the ever reliable John Zorn, who composed the remarkable soundtrack. The music accompanies the action like a quirky chorus, providing an alternately buoyant and somber counterpoint for the increasingly predictable proceedings. One wishes more was made of the Brooklyn locale, but the Polish experience and surroundings never come to life or function as a vibrant backdrop the way James Gray utilized Brighton Beach in the overlooked but brilliant Little Odessa . Instead, the clunky camerawork and too-cutesy caricatures call to mind the punk affectations of Clerks , that inordinately praised but obviously influential indie caper.
The marketing materials claim that Invitation to a Suicide is in the absurdist tradition of comedies like Harold and Maude , but this type of flattering comparison only serves to amplify the many ways it falls far short of the masterpiece it unwisely attempts to invoke. In order to rank in the pantheon of indelible black comedies, a filmmaker needs to produce an engaging story with memorably eccentric characters, while creating new ways of working through familiar scenarios. Invitation to a Suicide is simply full of too many obvious faces and easy answers: in a big budget movie they’d be clichés; in this film they are merely disappointments. Nevertheless, it seems fair to hope and even expect that if Loren Marsh could conjure up an idea with this much potential, he has a few more surprises up his sleeve.
Invitation to a Suicide
Director: Loren Marsh
by Sean G. Murphy
Taking the Concept of “Pay-per-view” to New and Unusual Places
Stop me if you’ve heard this story before: guy wants money, guy steals from mobster, guy gets caught, guy is informed that his father is dead unless money gets repaid by the end of the week. Naturally, guy decides to hang himself and sell tickets to pay the debt and save his father. Oh, that last part doesn’t sound so familiar? Of course it doesn’t, and it’s exactly this morbidly fascinating—and quite original—solution to the clichéd dilemma that provides Invitation to a Suicide its intriguing potential. Perhaps unfairly, perhaps inevitably, a premise this potent elevates expectations that, alas, the film is not able to deliver. It’s a shame, as this movie has every opportunity to find new ways around old corners and offer an alternate spin on the dark comedy, but, maddeningly, a series of facile shortcuts and self-conscious stylizing call to mind other, far better efforts.
Kaz Malek (Pablo Schreiber) is the dissatisfied son of a humble father who operates a modest bakery in the Polish section of a busy Brooklyn neighborhood. Not particularly anxious to follow in his father’s footsteps, Kaz daydreams about Eva (Katharine Moennig), the beautiful girl he’s loved since childhood, whom he wants to accompany him to happily-ever-after in California. Neither his father nor his would-be girlfriend seem particularly impressed with Kaz, the goofy, if good-natured, underachiever who might not have any idea what he wants to do, but is beginning to understand that doing nothing is not an option.
What is an uninspired and unimaginative guy to do? Rob the Russian mobster upstairs, obviously. Fame, fortune, and a road trip to California are one picked lock away. Predictably, the break-in goes up in smoke (literally), and Kaz ends up burning a wad of cash before he and his accomplice flee the scene. The mobster Ferfichkin (Joseph Urla) tracks them down and in short order Kaz has one dead friend and a dire predicament: come up with $10,000 or watch his father get murdered. So what does our hapless hero do to come up with the money no one in his working class neighborhood is able—or willing—to lend him?
The stakes are vivid enough: this is a matter of life and death, and the moment when Kaz decides to sell tickets to his own suicide should propel the movie into a different, if recondite direction. And yet, everything that follows seems familiar and predictable, from the lazily drawn characters to the outrageous, yet obvious, situations that arise. For instance, Kaz’s friend Krysztof, who agrees to host the event at his funeral parlor, is eager to participate and convinced this will generate business. It’s not so much that this isn’t funny so much as it doesn’t make any sense. And yet this is a minor issue that only underscores the more troublesome fact that Kaz is an increasingly difficult character to like or feel much compassion for. After his accomplice gets whacked, Kaz doesn’t give him a second thought, and that false note encapsulates most of what never feels quite right about this film: the putative consequences are very real, yet the various reactions of everyone involved undermine the narrative’s integrity.
No one in the neighborhood, including his own father, seems particularly troubled about his imminent death, and Kaz himself spends more time worrying about Eva’s attention than the fact that he won’t be around much longer to enjoy it. This handicaps the awkward momentum the movie seems to strive for: since none of the characters seem to be taking this seriously, the viewer has little reason to get invested, especially since there is never much doubt that it’s all going to somehow work out in the end. If all the ostensible nonchalance is supposed to provide a perverse commentary on voyeurism and violence, the writing is not clever enough to pull it off, making it a semi-dark comedy that is neither dark nor funny enough. Or, put a different way, the funny parts seem too forced and the occasional, but crucial, moments of import feel strained.
In the end, the wisest move Loren Marsh makes is having secured the involvement of the ever reliable John Zorn, who composed the remarkable soundtrack. The music accompanies the action like a quirky chorus, providing an alternately buoyant and somber counterpoint for the increasingly predictable proceedings. One wishes more was made of the Brooklyn locale, but the Polish experience and surroundings never come to life or function as a vibrant backdrop the way James Gray utilized Brighton Beach in the overlooked but brilliant Little Odessa . Instead, the clunky camerawork and too-cutesy caricatures call to mind the punk affectations of Clerks , that inordinately praised but obviously influential indie caper.
The marketing materials claim that Invitation to a Suicide is in the absurdist tradition of comedies like Harold and Maude , but this type of flattering comparison only serves to amplify the many ways it falls far short of the masterpiece it unwisely attempts to invoke. In order to rank in the pantheon of indelible black comedies, a filmmaker needs to produce an engaging story with memorably eccentric characters, while creating new ways of working through familiar scenarios. Invitation to a Suicide is simply full of too many obvious faces and easy answers: in a big budget movie they’d be clichés; in this film they are merely disappointments. Nevertheless, it seems fair to hope and even expect that if Loren Marsh could conjure up an idea with this much potential, he has a few more surprises up his sleeve.
A History of Violence
A History Of Violence: I wish I had more hands so i could give it 4 thumbs down
3/21/06
time for a quick sanity check.
i am guilty as charged as someone who pretty much hates most movies that everyone else raves about (and i’m talking about the ostensibly “good” movies; as opposed to the obviously awful hollywood schlock mega-hit monstrosities).
so….i’d heard/read good (bordering on great) things about ‘a history of violence’. as usual, didn’t catch it in the theater. as always, ensured it was safely in my netflix queue. that’s how i roll.
ok. finally saw it.
and?
i almost can’t articulate how AWFUL i thought it was. in the interest of time (and the fear that everyone—even, and especially the folks whose opinions in these matters i usually advocate—will disagree with me), let’s do some quick bullet points:
story: clichéd, tired and unintentionally amusing at points (any plot that you can drive a truck through that is not actually starring burt reynolds driving a truck in the late 70’s is nothing to be proud of, and nothing that should garner even mediocre props from obviously burnt-out critics who are so shell-shocked by the shit they have to sit through and so numb from trying to make so much out of so little that they pounce on anything that is being buzzed about, even if it’s the same recycled crapola).
dialogue: oh god.
acting: terrible. and what’s truly a shame is an opportunity obviously wasted: there was some not insignificant talent assembled here (although as much as i always enjoy ed harris, i don’t think he really stretches out too much in these increasingly imitative tough guy roles), but viggo was let down by a story he could do nothing with, and asked to utter words that do the wrong type of violence: to the english language, to the discerning mind. but william hurt? it’s time to put this clown out to pasture. the same man i loved in ‘altered states’ has kind of, in a sort of twilight zone perverse art-mirroring-art (or life mirroring art) trajectory, devolved just like the character from his first (and last?) great role; becoming more insufferable and exposed as someone who can’t (and NEVER should attempt) to try any sort of accent (he was in another movie a few years back called, i think, ’smoke’, which, predictably, also was highly praised and i thought was almost insultingly bad…and had hurt butchering a half-assed insufferable new yaawk accent that was cringe worthy, making me realize there should be a new rule, called the Keitel/Hurt decree: the former should never be allowed to play a character that is not from the big apple, the latter should never attempt anything but the laconic semi-drawl of the slightly spaced out thinking man’s burnout who knows better yet…keeps…on….acting….)
lastly, lest anyone think i’m being too harsh or spending too much time & energy on a movie that i obviously didn’t care for, there is some small insult in the way this movie was reviewed and described: for a film chock-full of that many clichés, one of two things is happening: the writer/director (in this case the same, incidentally the vastly over-rated cronenberg) has gotten lazy and is substituting formula for actual thought (which is a sin), or he simply doesn’t know the difference (which is a travesty). look: clichés are the weeds of art and anyone who not only doesn’t seek to destroy them (in their own work or in that of others, hence my indignant j’accuse for the critics) but embraces them is a hack with a capital H. let them get rich, let them enjoy the spoils of their soulless schlock, but please don’t delude yourself that they are visionaries; don’t kid yourself that this crap is iconoclastic. iconoplastic perhaps.
3/21/06
time for a quick sanity check.
i am guilty as charged as someone who pretty much hates most movies that everyone else raves about (and i’m talking about the ostensibly “good” movies; as opposed to the obviously awful hollywood schlock mega-hit monstrosities).
so….i’d heard/read good (bordering on great) things about ‘a history of violence’. as usual, didn’t catch it in the theater. as always, ensured it was safely in my netflix queue. that’s how i roll.
ok. finally saw it.
and?
i almost can’t articulate how AWFUL i thought it was. in the interest of time (and the fear that everyone—even, and especially the folks whose opinions in these matters i usually advocate—will disagree with me), let’s do some quick bullet points:
story: clichéd, tired and unintentionally amusing at points (any plot that you can drive a truck through that is not actually starring burt reynolds driving a truck in the late 70’s is nothing to be proud of, and nothing that should garner even mediocre props from obviously burnt-out critics who are so shell-shocked by the shit they have to sit through and so numb from trying to make so much out of so little that they pounce on anything that is being buzzed about, even if it’s the same recycled crapola).
dialogue: oh god.
acting: terrible. and what’s truly a shame is an opportunity obviously wasted: there was some not insignificant talent assembled here (although as much as i always enjoy ed harris, i don’t think he really stretches out too much in these increasingly imitative tough guy roles), but viggo was let down by a story he could do nothing with, and asked to utter words that do the wrong type of violence: to the english language, to the discerning mind. but william hurt? it’s time to put this clown out to pasture. the same man i loved in ‘altered states’ has kind of, in a sort of twilight zone perverse art-mirroring-art (or life mirroring art) trajectory, devolved just like the character from his first (and last?) great role; becoming more insufferable and exposed as someone who can’t (and NEVER should attempt) to try any sort of accent (he was in another movie a few years back called, i think, ’smoke’, which, predictably, also was highly praised and i thought was almost insultingly bad…and had hurt butchering a half-assed insufferable new yaawk accent that was cringe worthy, making me realize there should be a new rule, called the Keitel/Hurt decree: the former should never be allowed to play a character that is not from the big apple, the latter should never attempt anything but the laconic semi-drawl of the slightly spaced out thinking man’s burnout who knows better yet…keeps…on….acting….)
lastly, lest anyone think i’m being too harsh or spending too much time & energy on a movie that i obviously didn’t care for, there is some small insult in the way this movie was reviewed and described: for a film chock-full of that many clichés, one of two things is happening: the writer/director (in this case the same, incidentally the vastly over-rated cronenberg) has gotten lazy and is substituting formula for actual thought (which is a sin), or he simply doesn’t know the difference (which is a travesty). look: clichés are the weeds of art and anyone who not only doesn’t seek to destroy them (in their own work or in that of others, hence my indignant j’accuse for the critics) but embraces them is a hack with a capital H. let them get rich, let them enjoy the spoils of their soulless schlock, but please don’t delude yourself that they are visionaries; don’t kid yourself that this crap is iconoclastic. iconoplastic perhaps.
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