Minutiae

Just Keep Drawin' Up the Plans and Re-erect It

Thu, 24 Aug 2006 16:24:01 GMT

To all future visitors:

Hi. Thanks for coming. I used to write here, but don't so much anymore. Now, I write at http://moviehawk.net. Go check it out there...or if you're an LJ-only person, add http://syndicated.livejournal.com/moviehawk to your friends list...or leave a message at the beep.

...beep.

Kick Asp

Tue, 22 Aug 2006 15:18:07 GMT

The people who made Snakes on a Plane should be stripped of their SAG memberships, their director's chairs, and every business card in their Rolodexes that are remotely related to Hollywood. The movie has perhaps the campiest title of any film in the past four decades, has relied almost solely on Internet hype as marketing, and capitalizes on the public's glee at hearing Samuel L. Jackson scream profanities. Without a doubt, Snakes is the single dumbest idea for a movie that has made it through to production in the last five years. It's barely even a movie; at best, it's a bunch of calculated beats of horror and action thrown into a paper-thin plot. And yet, for all the same reasons, it's awesome.

At this point in the review, it is customary to give a plot summary, but Snakes on a Plane is essentially as advertised: there's snakes on a plane. Also on the plane is Agent Flynn (Jackson), an FBI agent charged with transporting a key witness (Nathan Phillips) from Hawaii to Los Angeles to testify against a dangerous Japanese mobster. Unfortunately for the movie, the mobster disappears from the screen midway through the second act, left only to be remembered as a mentioned threat and the man who organizes the placement of snakes on the plane. Did I mention that, by the way? That there's snakes on the plane? Because there are, and it's important that you know that.

In watching Snakes, you realize that you get what you paid for: ridiculously clichéd characters (a flight attendant, played by Julianna Margulies, who's a day away from leaving the profession for law school; a rapper and his posse; a pair of oversexed newlyweds; Mr. Nervous Flier and his soothing wife...they're all there), laughable dialogue, and cheap thrills that make you laugh more than jump in fear. In a movie that marketed itself as a serious horror flick, this might be a problem, but Snakes seems more like a remarkably self-aware satire of the genre. Sure, it goes for the same scares as all the other horror movies, but when you have an entire audience on the edge of its collective seat, waiting to hear Jackson say the line that made us all fall in love with the hype, you aren't taking yourself seriously. Thank goodness.

The biggest challenge for Snakes was to live up to all the excitement that was built up over so many months of the blogosphere's love fest with it, and, believe it or not, it does just that. Snakes will keep its venomous bite on most of the cult following that anticipated its release and, because it's such a fun film to watch, wrap some new fans as well.

Rating: * * * 1/2 of 5

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Tue, 15 Aug 2006 16:26:00 GMT

It should come as no surprise that Matrix trilogy veteran Keanu Reeves was cast as the lead in Richard Linklater's A Scanner Darkly, an adaptation of Philip K. Dick's novel about drugs and paranoia in a police state seven years in our future. The role of Bob Arctor, a personality split between a Substance D addict and a faceless undercover "Agent Fred" charged with narcing himself out, is one that perhaps only Reeves can master, so seasoned is his familiarity with altered mental states. And, after watching the film, it seems only natural that Linklater was the one responsible for bringing the tale to the screen: his patented rotoscoping technique, in which he computer animates live action film, is the perfect medium for bringing the audience into the same anxious haze as the characters. In fact, there's not much surprising about the makeup of A Scanner Darkly - it is even being praised as the most faithful word-to-screen translations that Dick's work has received. The only surprise, then, is how well it all works together.

Reeve's Arctor is a homeowner who hosts a threesome of other druggie layabouts: James Barris (Robert Downey Jr.), Ernie Luckman (Woody Harrelson), and Donna Hawthorne (Winona Ryder), none of whom know that Arctor spends his days dressed in a scramble suit - a jumpsuit that allows him to see out but is visible as randomized rotating body parts to those looking at him - rewatching their life and trying to break down the underground that produces Substance D. And, in a way, Arctor doens't realize it either. One of the side effects of D is a disconnect between the two hemispheres of the brain, and the substance has turned Arctor and "Fred" into two different people unaware that they share the same body. Even as Barris runs to the cops to rat out his buddies in exchange for unpromsied immunity, "Fred" listens intently, eager to bust Arctor. The duality creates a dark, paranoid, and intriguing maze.

The star of the movie, though Reeves is the focus, is Downey. Maybe it's that he knows what it's like to be an addict, maybe it's that he's the only one in the cast who could think past the live action filming to see what his actions would look like rotoscoped, but his jittery portrayal of Barris brings out the best animation in the film. His performance is disturbed, fractioned, and brilliant, and with Harrelson as a comic sidekick, he ratchets up the funny. Reeves plays Arctor in the same way he played Neo: overwhelmed, confused, and yet somehow distanced from the weight of the plot. The only way that this doesn't work is that it's hard to differentiate between Reeves as Arctor and Reeves as "Fred." This, of course, is likely an intentional choice, but it adds to the viewer's confusion.

The script is baffling, and, like many adaptations of Dick's writings, may take more than one viewing to completely understand. But, under Linklater's direction, the form that the confusion takes on screen is one that will stick with you long after you've finally figured out what it all meant.

Rating: * * * 1/2 of 5

What's in a Name?

Sun, 13 Aug 2006 17:42:41 GMT

There will be significant changes to Minutiae coming in the somewhat-near future; namely, another move away from LiveJournal, for personal and professional reasons. The professional: the commenting system here is rough, and I want to try to encourage more comments, expand my readership, and hopefully eventually parlay this whole reviewing gig into a freelancing opportunity somewhere. What does that mean for you? The same content, with some new additions, including a possible podcast.

What I need before I move again is help in choosing a domain name. The following names are taken:

minutiae.com
jeffmartin.com
jeffreymartin.com

I don't want to deal with putting numerals in my domain name (no more minutiae31.com or sjuhawk31.com, for my own sake). I don't know that minutiaeblog, theminutiaeblog, or minutiaetheblog are good names; you can help me decide that. What other ideas? You know what I write, who I am, and so on. The tone of the site isn't going to change much; hopefully it will get a bit funnier, but I'm not going for iaimtomisbehave.com (taken from a line in Serenity), so try to keep that in mind. Who has suggestions?

Let the Sunshine In

Sat, 12 Aug 2006 16:02:30 GMT

It's fascinating how Steve Carell has tiptoed up from behind us to become one of the best, most versatile comedic actors of at least the last ten years: as scene stealer (in Anchorman and Bruce Almighty), leading man (The 40-Year-Old Virgin), or ensemble member in a TV show full of hilarious actors (The Daily Show, The Office), Carell has not wasted a second on screen. He can play a loud dolt, a lovable loser, or an arrogant jerk and still be funny every time. In Little Miss Sunshine, the dark, subtle, broken comedy by first-time screenwriter Michael Arndt, Carell knocks it out of the park again as Frank, a gay scholar recovering from a suicide attempt, showing that he can excel in any role.

Not that he doesn't have plenty of help. Unable to play for the medical bills associated with around-the-clock psychiatric care, Frank is dumped in the collective lap of his extended family: his sister Sheryl (Toni Collette), a matriarch who preaches honesty to her children but is frazzled by how honestly pathetic their lives are; her husband Richard (Greg Kinnear), a motivational speaker so attuned to his own nine-step program to success that he doesn't realize he's a failure; their son Dwayne (Paul Dano), who's taken a vow of silence inspired by Nietzsche until he can become a fighter pilot; and daughter Olive (Abigail Breslin), an ordinary 7-year-old who dreams to be a beauty queen. Franks floats along the outside of the family with Richard's father (Alan Arkin), a foul-mouthed heroin addict who coaches Olive in a secret technique they believe will win any pageant. The family is forced to deal with each other in closed quarters when Olive qualifies for the Little Miss Sunshine competition and the only option the cash-strapped Hoovers have is to pile into their VW bus and drive from Albuquerque to Redondo Beach, California.

Along the way, the family encounters the same problems you'd see in any other road movie: the bus's clutch is faulty and they all have to push it until Richard can safely start it in third gear, they leave Olive behind at a diner, the horn sticks, and they get pulled over by a cop who discovers Grandpa's collection of smut. But nowhere do these beats seem tired; in fact, the gag about running alongside the bus is done several times, and it doesn't even get old in the context of the movie. The jokes work because they're honest. Each serves to further break down the families barriers from each other and puts into perspective their own delusions about how normal they are, and what it mean to win in life, one of Richard's biggest obsessions.

As the Hoovers reach their psychological breaking point, the movie just gets funnier thanks to the pitch-perfect casting. Carrel, of course, is perfect, providing both the subtlety and they comedic timing necessary as Frank bewilderedly realizes he, the attempted suicide, is the most normal in the family. The adults are completely believable and, as a result, completely hilarious. Breslin shows considerable maturity to hold her own against the ensemble cast. And in perhaps the most surprising role in the film, Dano's eye-rolling and shrugs are as funny as any actor's best-timed jokes.

In a summer full of comedies that have tried entirely too hard to win over their audiences, Little Miss Sunshine is a ray of hope that understated, measured comedies can win the day. Only time will tell if it joins films like Wes Anderson's in the great halls of quirky indie flicks, but it's certainly one of this year's best.

Rating: * * * * of 5

Exclusive Interview: Suri Cruise

Thu, 10 Aug 2006 18:00:52 GMT

Currently buried under a handful of headlines on CNN.com about some kind of terror thing is today's biggest, most important story: Vanity Fair has apparently gotten their grubby little hands on the first pictures of Suri Cruise, daughter of noted Scientologists Tom Cruise and Kate Holmes. Why is this story important, you ask? It's only a picture of a baby, you say? Clearly your finger is far from the pulse of America. But Vanity Fair is one step behind. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but if those words are "here's a picture of a baby," they're useless. That's why Minutiae's own Jeff Martin got a hold of little Suri for a sit-down - or in her case, lying-on-your-back, interview.

Jeff Martin: Suri, there has been quite a bit of hubbub surrounding the public release of your first photo shoot. Why did it take five months for you to step out of your parents' shadows?

Suri Cruise: To be honest with you, I didn't want to appear that I at all supported my father's role in Mission: Impossible III.

JM: But that movie was well received...why the hostility?

SC: The second movie was crap, there should never have been a third. Besides, there wasn't a lick of Scientology in that movie. L. Ron would have been appalled.

JM: Have you spoken with your contemporary Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt? Are you two close?

SC: I don't talk to that bitch. Takes me half an hour just to say the kid's name. But I am in negotiations with her publicist. How she got People and I'm stuck with Vanity Fair, I'll never know.

JM: Suri, do you understand America's fascination with celebrity babies?

SC: Absolutely. You know the old saying "even ugly people can have cute kids," right? Well imagine what the kids of beautiful people look like. It's probably not even safe that you're looking at me. Celebrity babies bring down self esteem quicker than having Mel Gibson drunkenly insult your faith. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go get burped.

Of Vice and Men

Tue, 08 Aug 2006 15:59:09 GMT

One would think that aren't many people more qualified to bring an update of the 80's cop drama "Miami Vice" to the big screen than Michael Mann. Acclaimed for his directorial work on films including The Insider and Collateral, Mann has become known for his slick visual style and his dark, understated storytelling. On top of all that, he was there at the beginning of "Vice" and executive produced the thing for five years; if anyone were to prepare Crockett and Tubbs for movie life, it'd be Mann. Judging by the totality with which Mann's update fails, then, perhaps it's safe to assume that all our memories of "Vice" should be kept wrapped in pastel linen suits.

Mann brings Crockett (Colin Farrell) and Tubbs (Jamie Foxx) to the new millennium (no matter what Farrell's haircut might suggest), where they act as undercover agents after a breakdown in the FBI's handling of a case forces them to work with Miami's finest. Crockett and Tubbs act as cocaine dealers, where they get to sit in on stereotypical drug deals, where they say things like "if they didn't do the time with us, they can't do the crime with us." Their world is an ominously dark, whisper-serious one, and as they uncover more and more of the crime plot, Crockett and Tubbs find that they're almost part of the nasty underworld that they're supposed to be fighting, and in over their heads.

The film is, too; Vice, as a movie, is too dark and serious for its own good. Capitalizing on calculated pace with which he moved Collateral's plot, Mann keeps Vice on a slow burn. It's as if he's overcompensating for the cheesy machismo and over-the-top action of the series, making the point that he's a real film maker now. He even shoots without a steadicam, that pro. The technique achieves its goal, leaving behind a movie that starts with a bang but quickly plummets into non-action, the only bit of movement happening from the shaking of the camera - a true headache waiting to happen. Farrell is bland for two and a half acts, and by the time he wakes up, the audience is asleep. Foxx does reasonably well but has no chemistry with his partner in crime/crime fighting.

With only a few chases and gunfights worthy of the original series, Miami Vice leaves you wanting one of two very simple things: to be in the 80's, when the plot and characters behind the title were interesting; or to be in any other theatre, watching any other film.

Rating: * of 5

Wild Night

Mon, 07 Aug 2006 18:02:08 GMT

At some point, you have to wonder how many times Will Ferrell can successfully trap his comedic lightning in a bottle. Sure, he's had his instances of misfire, mostly when he tries too hard to put a dramatic spin on his mania (Bewitched) or takes a small role in an eclectic arthouse film (the terrible A Winter Passing), but when Will Ferrell decides to just be himself - the sometimes arrogant, often empty headed man-child we've seen in Elf, Old School, and Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy - it's gold. Anchorman, in particular, has rocketed Ferrell's stock higher than most people could have imagined: it started as a mid-level comedy that did well in the box office, but with the release of the DVD it has turned into a phenomenon. Ferrell teamed back up with Anchorman writer/director Adam McKay on Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, and as far as I can tell, they've struck that gold again.

Ferrell plays Ricky Bobby, a pit crew flunkie for NASCAR's worst racing team, at least until the driver quits a race to get a chicken sandwich and Ricky Bobby gets a chance to fulfill his single life's dream - driving as fast as he possibly can. Soon, he's dominating the sport and adding his best friend Cal (John C. Reilly), another pit crew member, to the driving team. The first act of the movie, which follows Ricky Bobby's quick rise to fame, give Ferrell the room to be brilliant - he interviews that he wakes up in the morning and pees excellence, does commercials for everything under the sun, and gets into arguments with his family about how to say grace (he says that the infant Jesus is his favorite "version").

The wheels begin to come out from under Ricky Bobby's life, though, when an erudite Formula One driver with a funny accent (Sacha Baron Cohen, popularly known as Ali G.) makes the switch to NASCAR and threatens to turn the redneck world upside-down. Ricky Bobby wrecks his car and career trying to win his first race against Cohen's Jean Girard and spends the rest of the movie getting his racing mojo back. Thankfully, even as the action moves away from the racetrack, the laughs stay on track.

Ferrell is classically himself as Ricky Bobby, as if he were Ron Burgundy's southern cousin. There's no doubt that he's the king of the hill in the film. Like Anchorman, though, so many of the laughs come from the supporting cast. Reilly is very funny as a man who tries to balance his friendship with Ricky Bobby with his own desire to win. Cohen, though his mangled accent steps over the border into obnoxious territory, is a hilarious villain, and is given plenty of great scenes. And if you want to look for scene-stealing performances, look at the kids who play Ricky Bobby's two sons, Walker and Texas Ranger. They are brilliantly devilish without being profane, and their line deliver mocks Ferrell's to a T. It's classic.

The best thing about Talladega Nights is that, like Anchorman, it will probably get funnier with every viewing. For pure quotability, it might not ever reach the level of "I want to be on you" or "I love lamp," but the jokes here are more seamless and understated. One day, people might get tired of Ferrell. Mercifully, it doesn't look like that day is coming any time soon.

Rating: * * * 1/2 of 5 (if some of the cut scenes that roll over the credits had been included in the movie, it would be even higher. Stick around after the movie for multiple takes on the dinner table scene.)

She's So Good With Her Stiletto

Tue, 01 Aug 2006 18:01:35 GMT

When a book is turned into a movie, there are, more often than not, considerable cuts to make. Multiple background characters are sometimes rolled into one sidekick, main character histories are glossed over in favor of starting in media res, and motivations are explained on the fly to make way for plot advancement. From what I understand of Lauren Weisberger's "The Devil Wears Prada," the opposite tactic was used in readying the story for the screen; the most used adjective describing her book is "glossy," as if there's not much beneath the high sheen of what's on the page. The film adaptation, while keeping much of the veneer that I assume the book has, is not quite as shallow as it lets on, and the added depth lets the actors, particularly genius Meryl Streep, a chance to breathe in their roles.

Streep plays Miranda Priestly, the all-business editor of top fashion magazine "Runway;" in the world where fashion is king, Miranda is the ice queen. Coming on board at "Runway" as one of Miranda's assistants is Andrea (Andy) Sachs (Anne Hathaway), a fashionless would-be journalist who only takes the job for networking opportunities and the lack of any other job in New York. Andy is initially overwhelmed by the job and the fact that she's completely out of place in the world of undersized waistlines and oversized eyewear, but with the help of one of the magazine's editors (Stanley Tucci as Nigel), she gets a new look and the confidence to succeed. As the demanding Miranda gives her more responsibility and pushes her to choose work and fashion over everything else, though, Andy begins to feel the strain in her relationships with her friends and live-in boyfriend (Adrian Grenier).

The majority of the movie is pure mindless fun: Miranda sends Andy on impossible tasks like securing the manuscript for an unpublished Harry Potter book, in a montage heaps her various coats and bags on Andy's desk (and later walks by unaccessorized but still says "coat, bag"), and is generally the overbearing boss who drives young naive girls in Andy's position crazy. Streep is divine in the role, breezing into the frame, chewing all available scenery, and leaving before anyone can assess the carnage. She is perfectly cast, even adding the necessary dramatic touches when things inevitably go wrong for Miranda, teaching Andy a lesson about what it's like to lead life handcuffed to your handbag.

It would be easy for Hathaway to be left in Streep's wake, but she holds her own, showing off her acting skills as Andy goes from clueless fashion disaster to Miranda's Frankenstein monster made up of genuine Italian silk and too many hours at the office. The supporting actors, especially Tucci, add a great bit of comedic flair to the whole enterprise.

Director David Frankel, who knows the genre after having directed a few episodes of "Sex and the City," paces the action nicely, letting all the right things sink in and timing all the jokes perfectly (especially the "coat, bag" which still kills me). Like this book, The Devil Wears Prada isn't the kind of film that will stick with viewers much longer than the time before the next movie they watch, but thanks to everyone involved, the time spent in the theater is certainly a blast, making Prada one of the most successful comedies of the year so far.

Rating: * * * 1/2 of 5

Slightly Waterlogged

Tue, 01 Aug 2006 02:03:43 GMT

You have to give M. Night Shyamalan credit for his body of work. He's often panned as a one-hit wonder, that hit being 1999's The Sixth Sense. But Shyamalan has created entertaining films in Signs, The Village, and the criminally underrated Unbreakable. Though his latest effort, Lady in the Water, may not join the ranks of his other films - it's by far his most self-serving, egotistical venture to date, and it doesn't have the fresh bite of Sixth Sense - but it certainly doesn't deserve the beating it's getting from critics.

Based on a bedtime story that Shyamalan told his children, which in itself is possibly an amalgamation of other fairy tales, Lady in the Water tells the tale of Cleveland Heep (Paul Giamatti), the superintendent at a Philadelphia-area (if you say so, M. Night) apartment complex called The Cove. The tenants complain to Heep about an unseen late-night swimmer in their community pool, and one night, he finds the cause: Story (Bryce Dallas Howard), a young sea nymph from the Blue World. Together with the residents, Heep must find a way to get Story home before a terrifying beast gets to her.

The story is really quite interesting, and Shyamalan deserves props for bringing his brand of storytelling to the fantasy genre - after all, if Tolkien can have his hobbits and Balrogs, Shyamalan should be allowed his narfs and scrunts. Giamatti proves an interesting and sympathetic character, leading his motley crew in discovering who and what Story is. Most of the people who call The Cove home are fun, quirky additions to the narrative, ranging from the wacky Reggie (Freddy Rodríguez), who is a half-bodybuilder, to the intriguing Mr. Dury (Jeffrey Wright), a crossword master, and Vick, an aspiring writer played by the director himself. On the surface, what's happening on screen makes for a good movie.

As Shyamalan wades into the deep end, though, he loses control of the story. He includes among The Cove's residents a pair of Chinese women who connect Story's story to a Eastern tale, and guide Heep in his decisions on what to do with her. Their constant interruption of the story serves little purpose, other than to set up what's about to happen over the next ten or so minutes. Every so often they'll reveal a fascinating nugget of information, but they are more obnoxious stereotypes than anything else. The chief annoyance in Shyamalan's script is film critic Mr. Farber (Bob Balaban), who pops in to offer a snide comment about storytelling. If it didn't interrupt the plot flow, it would be far more interesting.

Incredibly imaginative and fresh, Lady in the Water fails in its execution. Perhaps as a bedtime story, it is pared down enough to be great, and perhaps Shyamalan's commentary on narrative could find a respectable home in print somewhere (I know I'd buy it; the critic's role seems snarky enough to make a good read). In turning the tale into a movie, though, he added too much bulk that could have been saved for another time.

Rating: * * 1/2 of 5

Scare Shack

Mon, 31 Jul 2006 19:44:32 GMT

Everybody has some experience with the creepy house down the block. Legend has it that the place is haunted, and even though all the kids know that nobody lives there, the window shades somehow are open one day and closed the next. There's even websites dedicated to all the creepy places that people claim are haunted (scroll about a quarter of the way down the page, and see the high school my sister went to in Drexel Hill). It should be no surprise, then, that this almost universal childhood experience made its way into a movie. The only real head scratcher is why Monster House, a brilliantly balanced family-comedy- meets-horror-film, was released in the middle of the summer and not at Halloween.

The kids so obsessed with the title house are D.J. (voiced by Mitchel Musso), his cape-clad doofus of a best friend Chowder (Sam Lerner), and the object of their pubescent affection, Jenny (Spencer Locke). The house gobbles up everything that touches its property, from tricycles to basketballs to jerk boyfriends voiced by Jason Lee. They believe that it's mean old Mr. Nebbercracker (Steve Buscemi) who's orchestrating the house's poor temper, but as they discover more about it, they learn that the house is a living, breathing beast. Of course, none of the adults believe them, and the kids have to try to defeat the house on their own.

Though the movie never went near Pixar's studios, it embraces the idea that action and visuals for kids can exist in the same place as jokes for adults. Chowder, in particular, is an unforgettable character with some great throwaway lines. Yes, the house upchucks objects when its uvula (a chandelier; the porch's floorboards turn up for teeth and a hallway rug is the tongue) is stimulated, and there are several crude jokes about bodily functions, but there is much more to enjoy in the film. Great side roles voiced by Nick Cannon, Kevin James, and Jon Heder in a role that makes him extremely tolerable serve to augment the already immensely enjoyable action.

The movie might be a bit too scary for the crowd who'd mistake its animation for a "Jimmy Neutron" clone, but should be enjoyable for the tweeners whose age matches that of the protagonists. Robert Zemeckis and Steven Spielberg get nods as executive producers, but probably deserve a good bit of credit for the feel of the movie, as does first-time director Dan Harmon, who keeps the story tight and interesting. It's funny, eerie, and imaginative, and could easily stand next to E.T. or The Nightmare Before Christmas and not be overwhelmed.

Rating: * * * 1/2 of 5

Open Up Your Eyes

Thu, 27 Jul 2006 18:22:02 GMT

It must be hard to be a synth pop band from the British Isles. After all, for all its cushy sentiment, Coldplay has put an effective stranglehold on America's taste for imported wimp rock. Don't get me wrong, I'm among the many who have swallowed their gallon of the Coldplay Kool-Aid. Their brand of music has become so well-liked in the States that every band whose sound reaches the radio on this side of the pond is immediately compared to them. Every vocalist is a "raspy" or "stronger" Chris Martin, every guitar hook echoes one song or another from A Rush of Blood to the Head. Though most would imagine that Coldplay's popularity built a transatlantic bridge for like minded British artists, perhaps it's the very reason that, until their song "Run" turned into a megahit after appearing on the teen drama of the day on the WB, a band like Snow Patrol didn't make waves on American airwaves.

The band's newest album, Eyes Open, tries to make the leap to a much bigger sound than the catalog that had them lumped in with Coldplay and Belle & Sebastian. 2003's Final Straw started that transition, with "Run" and another great number, "Chocolate," but popping this disc into the player tells you right away that Snow Patrol means it this time. The first two tracks, "You're All That I Have" and "Hands Open" ready the listener for a stadium-rocking set of balladesque, up-tempo numbers. The latter throws a bone to the indie kids who played the band's stuff on college radio, saying "Put Sufjan Stevens on / and we'll play your favorite song." It's lead singer Gary Lightbody's way of saying "we're trying to sound more radio friendly, but we're still hip, you guys." Both numbers are energetic, romantic, familiar, and unique all at the same time. They set the table for a huge album. Unfortunately, there's not much sustenance beyond the opening course.

"Chasing Cars," the third track, is a nice bit of forgettable alternative pop, and if there were fewer songs that sound exactly like it on the album, it would stand out. Instead, it lulls the listener into a pattern that refuses to excite anybody. Again, the Coldplay comparisons seem unfair, but it's like listening to "Daylight" bleed into "Green Eyes" and back again. One must-listen is Lightbody's sweet duet with Martha Wainwright on "Set Fire to the Third Bar."

Individually, each of the tracks on Eyes Open is very listenable and, in most cases, very good. Lightbody's earnest lyrics and hungry singing make the music quite enjoyable. It even makes a case for a further exploration of the band, further beyond Final Straw. As a collective though, they form an album that starts by rocking the rafters, quickly declines, and plateaus in the mezzanine.

Rating: * * * of 5

Stand Out

Wed, 26 Jul 2006 19:30:36 GMT

I was trying to post at least one meaningful entry each day this week, but I'm so tired right now I can't even think. So I will treat you to a spectacular video.

Oh, and if you want to see why I'm so ridiculously tired, come see Beauty and the Beast at Upper Darby Performing Arts Center this weekend and next. I'll be the guy backstage the entire show.

Vloggers Unite

Tue, 25 Jul 2006 18:36:19 GMT

Some very exciting news from the LiveJournal world...users can now embed videos. This will undoubtedly provide me with way too much stuff to post. As an introduction to the feature, I bring you this:

Monkeying Around

Tue, 25 Jul 2006 14:09:23 GMT

Whenever a film comes out that is based on a published novel, you are bound to hear bunches of people coming out saying "I like the book better," and for good reason. In most cases, the characterization and detail that an author can spread liberally over 400 pages is too heavy a load for a screenwriter to condense into 160 pages of dialogue and action beats.

As I searched through the archives of this blog, I realized that I never gave the late TV series Love Monkey the attention I gave it in real life. I adored the show, and am still secretly hoping that I see Tom Cavanaugh back on the screen at the helm of his own series. The show featured a host of fascinating characters, each of whom could have had a whole season dedicated to them through the eyes of Cavanaugh's character. If that much detail could be hinted at in what amounted to a miniseries, certainly you'd see as much breadth of character in the source material, right?

Well, yes and no. "Love Monkey," the source book by first-time novelist Kyle Smith, spends all of its time focusing solely on main character Tom Farrell, in the book an early-thirtysomething headline writer for fictional New York Post clone the Tabloid. Tom is a self-described "manboy," the adolescent in adult's clothing. He ascribes deep personal connections to favorite albums, spends the time he's not at work munching on chocolaty cereal, and has an impressive collection of ex-girlfriends. The book follows Tom through five months in 2001, during which he juggles four women, the most prominent of which is Julia, a vixenish sprite with a killer body and the skill to string Tom along even though she's technically attached. Tom's obsession with Julia is so strong that he can't pay proper attention to the other three girls.

If Tom sounds familiar, it's either because you're a lot like him, or because you've read the character before, either in female form as Bridget Jones or as Rob in "High Fidelity." The connection to the latter is so logical, in fact, that Smith alludes to Nick Hornby's novel right off the bat in his own. "Love Monkey" is unfortunately placed directly in the shadow of "High Fidelity," then, and it can't quite muster the wit or excitement to venture into the sunlight.

Smith's prose is slick and accessible, and his references to pop culture come at the reader rapid-fire, but, save for thematic references to Bob Dylan and Bugs Bunny, none of them manage to stick. The comedy, along with the plot, is so flighty that you would expect the book to derail when Tom experiences 9/11, but the change that he and the women he's chasing go through adds some much-needed heft and intrigue, finally making the characters worth caring about.

Love Monkey is one of those cases where the film medium is more effective than the original is in print. Time allowed character like Shooter, Tom's cocky buddy, and Bran, his date-worthy best friend, to expand into three dimensions, where the book doesn't give them much breathing room except for their relative use to Tom's ends. Nevertheless, Smith's novel is a fun read and, if you've already read "High Fidelity," you should give its American cousin a shot as well.

Rating: * * * of 5

Note: I wanted to read the book partly because of the show, but mostly because of the recommendation of Shallow Center's Tom Durso. His review here.

The Golden Mile

Mon, 24 Jul 2006 20:50:16 GMT

After the jump, photo evidence of my car passing the 10,000 mile mark. My little Tucson is growing up, ladies and gentlemen.

The fortunate thing is that I was stopped when I took the picture, so it was,What's the depressing thing about the milestone? It was, not surprisingly, spent driving from my house to Upper Darby Performing Arts Center. Hey, at least it wasn't on my way to work in the morning.

Oh, and while I'm on my phone digging up photos, I should share this, which I took at the Granite Run Mall. I call it "But if you choose to disobey the sign, please use the hypocritical ashtray placed directly beneath it."

Randal Redux

Mon, 24 Jul 2006 15:54:31 GMT

It's almost hard to believe that it was twelve years ago that Kevin Smith first took Hollywood by storm with Clerks, his grainy, black and white opus to his own life as a counter jockey at a local convenience store. Smith has since become a cult hero, a champion for aspiring film makers who have plenty of attitude but no budget, and a figurehead for geeks in mainstream culture. And though his movies haven't always resonated with the majority of America - and his last film, Jersey Girl, was pandered by critics and fans alike (I'm on the record as a low-level fan of the flick) - he's remained a respected storyteller and a successful pusher of his own brand. As a present to his friend Jason Mewes, who went into a battle with drugs and came out the other side sober, Smith decided to revisit the scene of the crime that made him so popular in the first place.

The easy road in making a Clerks sequel would be to see Dante (Brian O'Halloran) and Randal (Jeff Anderson) still stuck in their jobs at the block of stores, with nothing changed from twelve years ago. And while that would present plenty of fodder for the vulgarity-filled dialogue that people still quote from the first movie, it wouldn't be telling much of a story, and that's what Smith does best. The movie begins with a "flashback" to a year before our present time, when a disaster forces the duo to leave their jobs at Quick Stop and RST. Instead of taking the opportunity to let a flame be lit under their rears, though, they opt for flame-broiled burgers, taking a job at the conglomerated fast food joint Mooby's. In the year since starting at Mooby's, Dante has found a fiancé (Jennifer Schwalbach, Smith's real-life wife) and a promising future in Florida, close to her parents. Even so, neither he nor Randal has grown up much since we last saw them, and the action of the movie focuses on Dante's last day at Mooby's, when they are both forced to look at the fact that adulthood has been sneaking up on them all along.

The focus on picking apart pop culture minutiae (a phrase that Smith has used and that inspired this blog's name) has survived the transfer to the sequel, and there's twelve years of new culture for Randal to pander to whomever will listen. The recipient of most of his rants, though, isn't Dante in all cases, it's young Elias (Trevor Fehrman), representative of today's brand of geeks, raised on "Transformers" and the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Though Elias is basically a 19-year-old Randal, Mr. Graves can't help but pick on him; that's just his nature. Also held over these twelve years is the risque vulgarity, a fact that frankly might turn off some new viewers but delight Clerks fans. Peppered in with the vulgarity is Smith's acute sense for dialogue, which has only ripened with age.

At the heart of the movie is that story of growing up, and a worthy addition to the View Askewniverse is Rosario Dawson, whose Becky serves as a romantic foil for Dante. Her sweet, energetic acting make her more irresistible than any girl who has been in Smith's movies, save for maybe Liv Tyler in Jersey Girl. O'Halloran and Anderson do a remarkable job reprising their roles, adding some real dramatic flair to the silly fights that sprinkled both films.

Here's something people wouldn't think to say about Smith's work: it looks great. The man who started with fewer cameras that an episode of I Love Lucy actually makes Clerks II look like a Hollywood movie, all while holding onto the rough edges that made his career. I'm convinced that one scene when the camera spins around Dante and Randall is a jab at those who bashed the style of his films before.

Too often, sequels are made when they shouldn't be. While there wasn't an aching need for Clerks II to be made, it is a worthy follow up to the original. Dante and Randall are great characters, even in their failed cartoon forms, and it's great to see them on screen again. If we never see the duo again, something that I'm not entirely convinced of (Clerks: Sell Out, anyone?), this will serve as a great wrap-up of the Clerks story, one that should please old fans and new viewers alike.

Rating: * * * * of 5

Bossa Nova! Chevy Nova?

Fri, 21 Jul 2006 04:20:49 GMT

For the past few years, the reality of a CGI "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" movie was only hinted at, and only recently (in my mind) did it become real enough to start following the news. At long last, though, the dream is taking a concrete shape: the "TMNT" trailer hit the Apple.com trailer list today.

Frankly, I couldn't be happier with the trailer. It's a teaser, yes, and that hints at the fact that none of the footage would actually be in the movie, but think about it: a TMNT trailer! The turtles look great, there looks to be a ton of action, and best of all, a great comedic beat.

If this and "Transformers" are done well, I might not grow up for another 15 years. I'd explain more, and write more coherently, but I'm too excited.

Three's a Crowd

Mon, 17 Jul 2006 16:58:53 GMT

Count me among the many who just don't understand the appeal of the brothers Wilson. While I've almost uniformly enjoyed every movie I've seen either Luke or Owen in, I consider them opportunists. Each time around, they've found themselves surrounded by better, funnier actors, and their job is to poke their head into the plot every so often and insert a decent joke. Owen's had some decent success with Zoolander (featuring a much funnier Ben Stiller) and Wedding Crashers (sharing time with the hilarious Vince Vaughn), and Luke scored big in Old School (thanks to Vaughn and Will Ferrell). Maybe the best work done by the brothers is in Wes Anderson's The Royal Tenenbaums; in fact, it's the only movie in which they are both what I'd consider funny. The real test for one Wilson's skill comes in You, Me and Dupree, in which Owen shoulders the brunt of the comedic load, with straight man Matt Dillon and vanilla-ice-cream-in-a-sugar-cone Kate Hudson, who is known more for her looks than her laughs.

Wilson is the Dupree in the title. He's the slacker buddy we all had in high school or college, the one who just couldn't get it together. When skipping work for a week to be the best man at his friend Carl's (Dillon) wedding gets Dupree fired, he's forced to beg for shelter in the newlywed love den of Carl and his bride, Molly. In the traditional sitcom plot outline, here's the part where you say "hilarity ensues."

Except it doesn't, really. Dupree is an overbearing house guest, sleeping in the buff and hanging ties on the front door to let his friends know that he has a lady friend inside. But that's the breadth of the annoying things that Dupree does to apparently wear out his welcome. Yes, he adds HBO to Carl's cable package without asking, but in the next scene, you see Carl watching "The Sopranos" and ignoring his wife. Sure, he sets the living room ablaze while setting the mood for a date with some candles, but he cleans it up. Dupree is set up to be the foil to Carl and Molly's relationship, but the fact of the matter is that he's not, well, dumb enough. Someone like Ferrell's Frank in Old School would really mess things up for the newly minted marriage, but Dupree doesn't seem like that much of a screwball. Sure, he makes bad judgments now and again, but he knows better, and finds ways to balance the bad with the good. Wilson plays the role well, bringing equal parts from his characters in Tenenbaums and Wedding Crashers to find a goofy but lovable Dupree.

The real villain in the movie is the combination of Carl and his father-in-law (Michael Douglas), who together seem like Adam Sandler's character in Click. Mr. Thompson pushes Carl to succeed in the family business, and Carl folds under the pressure, putting more focus on work than his wife. Carl turns into the jerk that Dupree is supposed to be in this scenario; the difference is that Wilson could pull it off, but Matt Dillon certainly can't. The in-law relationship is a graveyard for comedy in this case, as Dillon finds more comedic possibilities with Wilson but is not paired with him enough, and Douglas seems completely out of place playing a knock-off of Jack Byrnes from Meet the Parents, without that threatening vibe.

Written by first-time scribe Mike LeSieur and directed by the Russo brothers, whose greatest success was a cup of coffee with "Arrested Development," Dupree starts and stops more than the 1982 Ford Festiva that used to sit idle outside my house. Seth Rogen is slightly miscast but criminally underused as Carl and Dupree's friend Neil, and scenes between Carl, Dupree, and some neighborhood kids aren't played up for all the comedy that they could hold. Perhaps the movie is stymied by its PG-13 rating, perhaps it's that Wilson is better off hanging in the shadows of funnier men. The fact is that, while it's a solid effort, You, Me and Dupree is decidedly mediocre.

Rating: * * 1/2 of 5

Update: I suddenly feel like Dennis the Menace, having wrongfully slighted Luke and Owen Wilson in my review above. I am one of the few who truly appreciate the Wilson brothers, especially for their roles in the films mentioned. I think when I was collecting my thoughts I was arguing the opposite position in my head, and it's what wound up on...um...paper. Thanks to Beth for pointing out my error. I'm a big fan of Luke and Owen, most especially for their part in Wes Anderson's career. Why I said I wasn't, I'll never know...guess I was having a confusing morning. Point stands, though. This was a chance for a Wilson brother to take the ball and run with it, but because of the writing and directing, he fumbled.

Haven't You Always Wanted a Monkey?

Wed, 12 Jul 2006 14:21:05 GMT

This past weekend, Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest became the highest-grossing opening weekend movie in history, surpassing 2002's Spider-Man and this spring's Aquaman. When I went to the theatre to catch Pirates, I was struck not by how many people were out to see it, but by the diversity of the crowd. Young or old, geek or prep, people showed up in droves to see Johnny Depp swashing and buckling. Why? Because pirates - the 16th century kind that are portrayed in the Caribbean movies, at least - have a wide appeal. Where aliens creep some people out and superheroes might only entice those familiar with their pulpy comic origins, pirates live the kind of life we all wish we had: free of the law, out on the sea, snatching up all the booty, booze, and beauties that they can find. As I was walking out of Dead Man's Chest, I began to think about another series that featured a newbie pirate, an island of cannibals, and quite a bit of quirky humor. After much consideration...okay, fine, in the time it took to walk from my seat in the theatre to my car...I came to an important decision: I want to bring that series to the silver screen. After all, if Pirates of the Caribbean can succeed, so can this. And so, I announce to you, my readers, the next big project for Minutiae: developing and selling a screenplay for the 1990 video game The Secret of Monkey Island.*

The game follows the adventures of Guybrush Threepwood, a young man who lands on Melee Island with dreams of becoming a pirate. On the advice of some drunken pirates in a local bar, he starts a three-part quest to assert his ability: dig up a treasure, master swordfighting, and steal a significant item. Along the way he meets the lovely governor of the island, with whom he quickly becomes smitten, and learns the legend of the ghost pirate LeChuck. LeChuck captures Governor Marley, and Guybrush uses his newfound piracy to trek to the mysterious Monkey Island in an attempt to save his love.

But not all of Guybrush's adventure is in the tri-island area are stereotypical piracy. The trick to swordplay is not your athletic ability or strength, it's your quickness in insulting your opponent. Cannibals are only dangerous to you if you can't convince them to take up a vegan diet. It's not "yo ho ho and a bottle of rum" with the privateers of Melee Island; their drink of choice is grog, a strange concoction that can melt through a ceramic mug or metal prison bars. It's quite probably the funniest game you'll play, if you can get your hands on a machine that runs DOS.

How can you help me in my quest to see Monkey Island on film?

Money: Of course, this project will require some serious cash flow, especially if we're to pull off the ghost pirate sequences without dubbing over scenes from the first POTC movie. Besides, Guybrush doesn't look much like Johnny Depp.
Gossip: Do you know a movie star? Start a whisper campaign. Tell them to spread the word around the studios that a "great new movie idea" is coming across their desk, and how hasn't it been picked up yet?
Networking: My ideal Guybrush: Zach Braff. Did anyone work on Scrubs or Garden State and is still close with ZB? Hell, I'll even throw Natalie Portman in as Governor Marley if that seals the deal for Dr. Dorian.
Influence: The game was originally distributed by LucasArts. Someone out there knows someone who knows George Lucas. Yes, he effectively ruined the greatest memories of our childhood by augmenting them with too many special effects, but if I can wrest control of the Monkey franchise from him, I can promise positive results.
Method: I can write, but I need actors and a crew to get this thing off the ground. I'll announce an open casting call later.

That's what I expect my initial needs to be. If I think of any more, I'll let you know.

*I am in no way obligated to actually follow through with this idea.

Cut Me, Mick

Tue, 11 Jul 2006 12:54:11 GMT

A quick bit of news, because a) I'm from Philly, and I love sports, so this is appropriate material for this blog and b) I don't know that I'll have much else to write about today: a nice, clean version of the Rocky Balboa trailer has turned up online. I'm pretty much with popular opinion on the Rocky movies: I loved the first two, was okay with the third, really enjoyed the fourth, and don't accept the fact that Rocky V ever happened. I would love for Rocky Balboa to succeed, but the trailer just makes it look like a really lazy bit of film making. I once named a character in a short story "Justin Kase" because I was tired and on deadline for a workshop. The difference is that my story wasn't for public consumption; Rocky Balboa has a boxer named Mason "The Line" Dixon...really, folks, how cheesy is that? The trailer also has a gratuitous cameo by a SportsCenter anchor, a trick usually reserved for dumb comedies like The Waterboy. I really can't imagine Rocky Balboa being any good. Even so, I'd love to be proven wrong.

A Sequel's Life for Some

Mon, 10 Jul 2006 14:43:53 GMT

I remember seeing trailers for Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl and thinking that it was going to be really, really dumb. Don't get me wrong; I love pirates (more on that later this week), but the idea for the movie just looked terrible. Then I saw it. And wow, was I ever wrong. Johnny Depp redefined cool as Captain Jack Sparrow, <td valign="top">Orlando Bloom</td><td valign="top" nowrap="1"></td> showed he could be an interesting character, and, well, Keira Knightley is pretty. Really pretty. Besides, watching the movie was just about the most fun I had in a theater that year or almost any since. As soon as I walked out of the movie, I knew that there would be a sequel, and probably a trilogy before all was said and done. After all, it seems that every big summer blockbuster these days gets turned into a trilogy, not matter how ill advised. But Pirates had a chance to be different, because it came from virtually nowhere to give new life to the swashbuckling comedy. That very same fact made me wary going into the second film of the trilogy, Dead Man's Chest. After all, this one came will all those damn... expectations.

Dead Man's Chest picks up almost immediately after Black Pearl ended: Jack is back at the helm of the Pearl and Will Turner (Bloom) and Elizabeth Swann (Knightley) are preparing to marry. On their planned wedding day, they are both arrested for their hand in Sparrow's escape from the gallows, but Will is offered clemency if he can track Jack down and offer him a plea bargain. While all this is happening, Jack is confronted by Davy Jones (Bill Nighy), to whom Jack owes service on his ghostly ship that was exchanged for the opportunity to captain the Pearl in the first place. What each of these plot elements sets up is a grand battle for Jack and Will's souls, Will's relationship with Elizabeth, and the mysterious contents of the chest in the title that Jones has the key for.

If it all sounds a bit confusing, that's because it is. Like The Empire Strikes Back, Dead Man's Chest sends its three main characters to different corners of the world and takes an act and a half to put them back together, but it's all for one common goal. Like Empire, this movie is a feast for the eyes, with more special effects than you could possible imagine (and they're done well...the entire crew of the Flying Dutchman looks spot-on realistic, to the point that it's creepy). Like Empire, the film ends with a hell of a cliffhanger that makes you curse the fact that Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End doesn't come out next week.

But Dead Man's Chest is no Empire. Heck, it's not even as good as Curse of the Black Pearl. My side was sore from being nudged so many times with references to how important the damn rum is to our pirate friends. There's a ton of wink-wink references to the first film, precious time in a two-and-a-half hour movie that could have been cut. It's funny, yeah, but the line that it draws back to the first chapter is rather unnecessary. The plot is confusing as all get out, and though it may have been necessary to jam so much into a second movie, it seems disjointed to me. There's a whole bunch of visual stimulation in things that go clang and boom, but the big, twisting plot is little more than a way to make those things go clang and boom.

The lead trio does a fine job reprising their roles, Bloom's Will growing the most out of anybody. Nighy is outstanding in his role, using the CGI tentacles on his face to suck the scenery from around all the actors in his scenes. Perhaps the best surprise in the movie, besides Nighy, is the character change in Jack Davenport's Commodore Norrington. He and Nighy are worth the price of admission alone.

Dead Man's Chest gives you all the action that you enjoyed so much in Curse of the Black Pearl, but a good bit of heart was lost in the move from a single film that was an instant classic to a three-story arc. While At World's End may prove me wrong, and I hope it does, Dead Man's Chest doesn't convince me that it was necessary, other than to see Depp don his captain's hat one more time. But hey, it's a heck of a lot of fun to watch.

Rating: * * * of 5

Is Trading the Answer the Answer?

Wed, 05 Jul 2006 17:23:18 GMT

Ever since Larry Brown left town (Philly, that is...he's since grown accustomed to short-term jobs), fans have wondered if their beloved Sixers could win a championship with Allen Iverson. As the team continued to slip further and further into the basement of the league, the wondering has turned into an oft-repeated clamoring for GM Billy King's head if he doesn't get rid of Iverson by such and such a date. As King failed time and time again to pull a trigger on a deal that would send Iverson packing, the ire of the fans died down because if the team can't win, they might as well enjoy watching one of the greatest players of our generation, if not all time, do his thing in their back yard. This offseason, it once again seems "certain" that AI will be traded, quite possibly to the archrival Celtics, and once again fans are pretending like it's what they've wanted all along. That sentiment was echoed in the local media yesterday, when David Aldridge spun his own version of the Declaration of Independence, with the Sixers playing the role of the revolutionary colonies and Iverson as the stifling mother country.

The shameless cheese in Aldridge's approach I can forgive, but casting Iverson as such an oppressor is unacceptable. It's been a while since I've cared deeply about Philadelphia pro basketball - I've been a casual Mavericks fan since before Nash left, and a longtime fan of the Malone-Stockton Utah Jazz - and I only paid special attention to the Sixers in the 2001 Finals run and for the five games that I had tickets to this year, but I know that Iverson has meant more to the Sixers than perhaps any other athlete to his team in Philly pro sports since the early days of Eric Lindros. Within two years of drafting Iverson in 1996, the Sixers were playoff contenders. The diminutive guard from Hampton, Va., has more fully embraced the rough-and-tumble, down-and-dirty attitude that Philadelphia fans want out of their athletes than anyone since the Broad Street Bullies. Up-and-coming superstar Dwayne Wade markets himself as the guy who got knocked down seven times and got up eight; that mentality is most completely lived by Iverson, who has never feared going in against bigger defenders if it meant getting the points. Is Iverson getting old and run-down? Sure; at thirty years old, he's lost more than a step. But that still puts him a step ahead of many defenders.

The Sixers cannot win a title with Allen Iverson on the team, this much I'll agree with. But it's not because Iverson is the problem, as Aldridge's article so smugly implies. Iverson is the kind of player that the "new" NBA - the one where the Suns and Mavericks are in title contention every year - should embrace. And Boston makes sense for him; in Paul Pierce and Iverson, the Celtics would have a formidable run-and-gun pairing. But tell me you don't want to see Iverson score his 20,000th career point in a Sixers' uniform. Tell me you don't want to see one of the three greatest Sixers of all time retire in Philadelphia, instead of making a stop here on his league wide farewell tour six years from now with the Celtics. Like I said, I don't care all that much about the Sixers, and even I would consider that a travesty.

Iverson may not be the Answer to the Sixers' problems anymore, but he is far from the cause of them. And that's why trading him is a bad idea.

Unless we get Delonte West out of the deal.

Just Watch the Fireworks

Tue, 04 Jul 2006 13:00:00 GMT

I've already mentioned the confounding nature of trying to figure out exactly what indie music is. In my exploits as consumer of all things not on the radio, I've come across some truly strange, but truly beautiful music, as evidenced by my forays into the Sufjan Stevens and Decembersits catalogs. And even though I am proud of myself for finding these bands and giving them a home on my iPod, I still sport a soft spot for radio-ready tunes, be they the unplayed (Brendan Benson) or the overplayed (Teddy Geiger). The singer-songwriter edge of the great underbelly of indie music features some incredibly talented artists, even if they don't fit nicely into that mode of "anti-establishment" that the hipsters who push indie music would have you embrace exclusively. One of these talented artists ready for radio exposure, but somehow not getting it, is Matt Nathanson, who after David Mead (one of my new favorite singers) is the second artist to whom the great Pandora music service has converted me.

Nathanson has been a force in the underground pop/rock world (that seems like an oxymoron, doesn't it) since 1993, but his 2003 release Beneath These Fireworks (no, I didn't plan to review the album on July 4, it just happened that way) was his first major label release. On tour, he's known as a hybrid singer and comedian, keeping crowds entertained between songs with witty commentary. He hunkers down to real music business on the record, though, putting out an album of songs that fit nicely into the groove that John Mayer and Howie Day have carved out for songwriting popsters but maintaining his originality.

Take for instance, "Sad Songs." Mashing lovelorn lyrics with a catchy beat, Nathanson's music is instantly relatable and almost immediately singable. "I Saw," too, is a catchy song that calls for singing along but still has a marked bite. I could go on describing every song the same way, but it wouldn't do the listening experience justice. Deeper cuts like "Pretty the World," "Curve of the Earth," and "Little Victories" are musical treats buried in the album's quick pacing. The songs seems to flow into one another, aided by Nathanson's somewhat breathy tenor voice and the music's infectious hooks. I listened to the album for the first time while running some errands Friday, and though it's hard to describe it as a "quick listen," as you're stuck with the running time the album predefines, I felt that it went by too quickly and I couldn't wait to rush into my house, rip the songs to my computer, and spend the rest of the early evening listening all over again.

Beneath These Fireworks doesn't exactly provide many; Nathanson doesn't seem very concerned with making waves and gets cozy in the cookie cutter of singer/songwriter pop, but sometimes experiencing new music in the comfort of old formulae is just what you need.

Rating: * * * 1/2 of 5

* Post title courtesy Jimmy Eat World

Long Walk off a Short Pier

Sun, 02 Jul 2006 22:53:29 GMT

Call me a sucker for temporal displacement. I enjoy watching films that rise to the challenge of explaining time travel, a subject so vastly removed from real science that it's left to the hands of H.G. Wells or Robert Zemeckis to explain to us. There's just too many fascinating problems that have to be dealt with, whether it be a simple mental paradox or the entire disruption of the space-time continuum. There are plenty of movies that try to take on the logical mess known as time travel, with some significant successes. The interesting thing about these successes is that they span all genres, from action (The Terminator series) to comedy (the Back to the Future series) to serious drama (Frequency). Each takes a different view on the challenges, science, and consequences of jumping to another time to prevent or ensure a certain event. The latest attempt at this comes in The Lake House, a story of two people who fall in love despite the greatest of chasms between them - time.

The house in the title is alternately owned by Kate Forrester (Sandra Bullock), a lonely single doctor, and Alex Wyler (Keanu Reeves), a boring single architect. She moves out of the house and leaves a note for the next tenant with good wishes and instructions to forward her mail to a new address. He retrieves the message and is confused, as nobody has lived in the house in years. Instead of sending that reply to the address as instructed (he does eventually go there, but the fact that he didn't right away is just the first bit of twisted logic you'll have to jump over) he drops a reply in the lake house mailbox, which she retrieves. They soon begin to exchange letters through the mailbox, and though they fall in love, they realize they can't meet right away. Why? Because she lives in 2006, he two years earlier.

The concept is interesting, and perhaps in the hands of better actors (particularly in the male lead), it could have been a much better movie. I remember seeing the trailers and saying "why isn't John Cusack in this movie?" If there's one actor who could pull off a plot as ridiculous as sending letters through time in a magical mailbox, it's Cusack. Reeves just can't act unless he's utterly bewildered the entire movie, which is why he was good in The Matrix and looks decent in the upcoming A Scanner Darkly. His Alex plays one note the entire movie, no matter how much back story he's given. Bullock is cute, but she has no chemistry with Reeves, and the fact that they see each other precisely four times in the movie doesn't help much.

Yes, there are cute moments to spare in the movie, and the end of it actually had me squirming in my seat hoping for the best for our protagonists. I actually enjoyed myself watching the whole movie unfold. But the paradoxes that arise in the movie, including a resolution that logically erases the way that Kate and Alex meet, are just gigantic holes in a plot that is already too trite to believe.

Rating: * * 1/2 of 5