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Saturday, May 26, 2007

Riding cabs is the mode of the realm for travelers in any city not their own. Rental cars and trains and trams work, with more money or a bit of initiative, still, cabs are probably the cheapest means of purchasing mobility and possibly even scoring quick information about the local bests in eats, attractions, edification, and sundry merry-making.


Or not . . . depending on whose back seat you end up occupying.


Of course, it isn’t always a back seat. Since, in certain venues, custom dictates taking the shotgun seat. However, without a guidebook in hand (and then why pay for the cabbie for those choice informational tidbits?), it is not always clear which seat to take. It seems to me that once in Dresden when I took up the seat in the back of a cab, the driver did a double-take. Like: “who do you think I am, pal? Your chauffeur?”


Some people adopt the weirdest points of view.


 


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Friday, May 25, 2007


For those unfamiliar with geek lore, yesterday, 25 May, 2007, was a true nerd milestone. On said date, 30 years ago, an unknown sci-fi spectacle with very little advance buzz opened on movie screens across America. It starred nobody famous, was created by a filmmaker best known for his nostalgic nod to the 1950s, and confused critics with its jumbled genre crossing designs. Granted, the new fangled special effects looked mighty cool, but would audiences really queue up to see a bunch of basic eye candy wrapped around an obviously allegorical narrative? After all, three of the main characters were a pair of bumbling robots and an interstellar first mate who looked like Bigfoot. How could this possibly succeed?


Well, two sequels, three god-awful prequels, and umpteen billions of dollars later, its eventual conquest is now a glorified given. Indeed, Star Wars has come to mean more than just a novel 1977 popcorn flick that carried its creator George Lucas to both the zenith and nadir of fan obsession. It’s a corporate tag, a merchandising behemoth, a licensing label that has expanded across all marketing paradigms to prove its value as a type, a logo and a motion picture mission statement. Anyone who sat in the theaters some three decades past and thought they would see characters like Luke Skywalker, Han Solo and Darth Vader mythologized into fictional keepers of the science fiction faith would have been declared insane. But thanks to rampant fandom, the rise of recordable home video, and the arrival of the Internet as a new form of implied community, all speculative fiction now finds itself compared to the worlds of Wars.


Granted, there was nothing wrong with Lucas’ lucky lament. Upon a first viewing, the original Star Wars was like a stick of imagination imploding TNT. As you sat in your seat, whisked away to planetoids never dreamed of, with characters you couldn’t have conceived, the cinematic scales fell from your eyes. In their place remained indelible images that still stand strong today – the figure of our hero, Luke Skywalker, standing against the backdrop of a multi-mooned sky; the devious orb of destruction known as the Death Star; the black hooded Darth Vader commanding respect from his easily replaceable crew; Han Solo saving the day, blaster blazing away in a flurry of laser light glory. From the initial space shot to the final interstellar dogfight, Star Wars stands a singular work of inspired genius. Like all exceptional art, it taps into many elements at once, combining to easily transcend and transform them all.


The sequels remain the first step in ruining all that. No matter how great you think Empire Strikes Back or Return of the Jedi are, they destroyed the initial aesthetic generated by Lucas and their team. They took what was probably a one-off experiment (though Georgie constantly disagrees with such claims) and expanded it far beyond anyone’s ability to control. No longer a personal or private vision, the new films had to be retrofitted to meet the demands of a blockbuster craving public. Thankfully, Lucas understood his own lame limits and turned the projects over to others (Leigh Brackett, Lawrence Kasdan, Irvin Kershner and Richard Marquand) to fulfill their newly compromised promise. He went on to make fledgling F/X house Industrial Light and Magic a definitive dream machine. The hope was to provide an outlet to secure any and all filmmaker’s wildest vision. And as said business plan resoundingly succeeded, Star Wars continued to become more and more culturally relevant.


This didn’t mean it mattered cinematically or artistically. Instead of finding a way of making his spin-offs feel organic and original, Lucas continually rehashed the same old storylines (Skywalker’s in trouble, Vader is mad, Solo is suave, Leah is lost) and accessorizing their similarities with new characters (Yoda, Jabba the Hut) and ever expanding vistas. What he had initially was something very special, something that spoke to a generation eager to experience imagery and imagination unbridled and unfettered. In it’s place, Lucas simply created a cottage industry (and, eventually, a major motion picture force), one that forgot that fun was also part of the motion picture mix. Near the end of Jedi, with familial connections revealed, loyalties tested and tried, and every last manipulated emotion employed, our filmmaker let his cuddly duddly Ewok characters announce last call. Slightly satisfied, the crowds disbanded and went on their way.


It’s important to note that all of this occurred in an era with no reliable home theater construct. VCRs had been around since the early ‘70s, but few owned them and studios basically balked at the idea of releasing first run films onto a magnetic tape format (they had just caved on cable a couple of years previous). When movies finally started arriving on both Beta and VHS, they were incredibly expensive (well over $100 dollars) and limited in their reproduction quality. So for most of us, memory – and the occasional revival at the local arthouse – was all we had. And inside such wistful thoughts, Star Wars became something much more than its inauspicious origins. It became a phenomenon, a rite of passage, a part of everyone’s collective memory and any other lame metaphysical cliché you can clamp to it. Reality remained far off in the distance. In its place was the new religion – with new cathedrals built to its amusement immortality.


The first church eventually evolved from said videocassette. When Lucas finally put his War films out on the market, they were pan and scan shadows of their former big screen selves. Holding back as long as he arrogantly could, he turned each and every release into an epiphany. When the devoted demanded widescreen versions, mimicking the larger than life theatrical experience, he eventually complied. Soon, the digital technology that ILM helped found was firm enough to allow Lucas to tinker with his titles. The outrage was, initially, overwhelming, but with the promise of additional sequences and improved interstellar opulence, the whiners soon quieted. All three original movies were tweaked, and 1997 saw a 20th anniversary celebration of all things spacey. And like new prophecies from up on high, the faithful drank them in and learned their slightly different dogma.


The next logistical place of worship was the Internet. While continuously stereotyped as a place where freaks and dweebs tend to meet and greet, there is no denying the support group mentality inside the Information Superhighway. There, individuals who believe their obsessions are wholly and completely their own learn that others exist outside their sphere of experience and – believe it or not – their fetishism was the same as everyone else’s. It was here where Lucas’s sovereign state went nuclear. Fellow Warlords used bulletin boards, free Geocities webpages, and college computer lab time to outline their defense of the subtext strewn Skywalker realm. They opined on minutia, imagined plotlines of their own, and coalesced the entire Lucas empire (books, movies, video games, TV shows, comics, trading cards) into a doctrine drenched in exaggerated meaning and overhyped worth.


Naturally, their loose canon L. Ron had to respond, and Lucas solidified the sorry state of Star Wars’ artistic merits by delivering three of the stupidest space operas ever. The perfunctory prequels – movies predating the events in the original trilogy – did an amazing job of hallowing out everything that had come before. Darth Vader, an icon of imposing evil, was turned into a pitter-patter bratling with a tendency to express his joy in diaper wetting shouts. Even worse, as the films moved along, adolescence found the future Sith sulking like a paperboy who just been bitten by a teacup Chihuahua. By the end of the turgid third film, a lava-pruned Vader was reduced to an archetype – that is, a love lorn loser whose emotional depth is, again, reduced to monosyllabic shouts.


Failing to see how he pissed on perspective, Lucas did what any self-determined god does, and declared his works to be “good”. Then, he went on to deliver his final Soviet state revisionist sentence. The original Star Wars, he said, was never to exist again. Instead, it would only be available in the CGI revamped Special Edition. Those who didn’t like the decision needed to get with the times, he insisted, and stop living in the past. The problem was, the past was decidedly better. Forgetting the dated look of the fantasy for a moment, the spirit imbued throughout the original film was lost in a gloss of fake fictional creatures and overdone sci-fi cityscapes. Sure, the story remained the same – sort of (No, the whole Greedo episode will not be discussed here), but the heart of the narrative had been ripped out and replaced by something that looked like shameless self-promotion.


There is a bigger picture problem involved here as well. By purposefully thwarting art’s inherent element of timelessness, Lucas and others open up the entire category to unnecessary interference. For example, an owner of Picasso’s “Guernica” who believes it would look better in full color, or a studio convinced that a movie’s box office appeal was limited by a director’s choice of subplot are now supported in their frequently misguided notions of reconfiguration. And before you toss out the typical “they’re his films” mantra, remember two things. One day, they won’t be (no one lives forever) and Lucas didn’t make these movies just for himself. He put them out into the marketplace to be accepted and/or rejected. Once taken, a creative contract is implied. He can pragmatically retrieve and rewrite the original entertainment agreement, but by doing so, he opens himself to claims of fraud and falsehood. It may not hold up legally, but it sure stinks ethically.


And the worst was yet to come. Last year, among much hoopla and hand wringing, Lucas reneged on his ‘no original versions’ dicta and provided long suffering fans with a chance to own the initial ‘70s standards canoodling free. Of course, there was a catch, and DVD lovers soon learned that these transfers would be non-anamorphic and non-remastered. Amid rumors of a 30th Anniversary HD release, the shilling appeared shameless. Yet even this latest laugh in the face of the fanbase couldn’t dampen Star Wars’ freakish faithful. Many lined up this week to sit through all six films in this over-inflated franchise, and here’s hoping that mental health officials were standing by to treat the traumatized. To anyone who stood for hours to see the 1977 original – sometimes more than once – the irony is caustic. Today, there are dozens of ways to enjoy Lucas’ lumbering legacy. Back then, there was only the Bijou. We had no choice but to wait. Perhaps that’s why so many of us are Star worn today.


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Friday, May 25, 2007

The question of whether pop musicians have sold out never seems to get old, even though it seems as though no argument is possible: these are professional musicians, who intend to make money by selling their product. Perhaps our joy in music is feels so direct that we can’t imagine calculation in its making; we presume the musicians feel as straightforward and unguarded as we do toward the music. We don’t want to imagine them calculating just how to manipulate our emotions and coax dollars out of our wallets.


So it’s perfectly understandable that we would want to mythologize pop music “artists” and regard them as being true to some autonomous purpose (as Yglesias highlights) other then selling more Coke (though the history of pop-music Coke themes is long). And the listener’s vicarious appreciation of a song is radically diminished when a product is shouldering in to claim some of the song’s signifying potential, to colonize some of the space for fantasy a good pop song evokes. It feels like theft when you’ve bought a song hoping to make it about yourself, only to discover that the band’s sold it elsewhere to make it about jeans or cars. Of course, there are probably many who feel validated in having something they like be adopted by advertisers—it suggests maybe they too could make it as musical supervisors. But typiclly we feel some blend of the two: for example, until a month ago the name Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich meant nothing to me other than that they sang the idiotic “Zabadak” in the 1960s. Then I saw Grindhouse in which their song “Hold Tight” is used. I think the song’s pretty great, and I’m grateful to Tarantino for using it, but I’m also annoyed that every time I hear the song I have to think about Tarantino and that idiotic film. I can’t form my own mental picture for a song I’d probably never have heard in the first place if not for Tarantino’s strong intention to use it to convey his mental picture.


Anyway, I agree wholly with Scott Lemieux, who points out that authenticity is an absurd criterion, since there is not a way of convincingly conveying it without becoming wholly inauthentic in the attempt. Authenticity doesn’t sounds like anything in particular; instead we apply it to sounds we like as a way of bolstering them ideologically and enhancing our enjoyment. So I would argue that only listeners can be authentic or not—working musicians can not be in bad faith. Listeners can knowingly begin listening to music to accomplish something other than aural enjoyment. (It gets more complicated when you admit the possibility that these extra-musical motives could be subconscious.)


And Amanda Marcotte is right that filesharing has permanently altered the terms of conditions of being a professional musician. Without being able to rely on the music companies for a steady income stream, musicians have take money where they find it, and probably need to be open to alternative ways of garnering publicity. I think this is why its harder for musicians to claim to be above commercialization—they no longer have an effective and powerful music industry to run interference for them and promote the fact that the bands are not selling out.


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Thursday, May 24, 2007


It’s another of those infamous long holiday weekends, meaning no one is really thinking about sitting in front of their television screens. Want proof? Look at the lame offerings being premiered this week on the pay cable channels. While one film is from 2005, the other three are lesser entries in 2006’s cinematic sweepstakes. Not quite up to SE&L‘s leisure time liking. If, however, you enjoy half-baked horror, a stilted dance-based drama, and the kind of 3D animation that’s actually killing the genre, then make sure to include Saturday’s selections as part of your three days of rest and relaxation. Of course, many of you can’t care. You will be braving the sell-out crowds to witness the last piece of the Pirates of the Caribbean puzzle. Here’s a hint – wait until next week. If you want to be aggravated while trying to have some motion picture fun, you can sit at home and enjoy any of the irritating entries here, including SE&L‘s reluctant 26 May selection:


Premiere Pick
Over the Hedge


Need further proof that computer animation has more or less run its course after only a decade and a half as a vital cinematic art form? Take a gander at this demographically correct quasi-comedy and decide for yourself. Guilty of each and every cinematic pitfall that currently plagues the genre (stunt voice casting, overly simplistic storyline, far too many puerile pop culture references), this sometimes clever take on suburban sprawl and the many facets of friendship just can’t overcome its highly commercialized gloss. Unlike Pixar films that always seem to find the proper note between precocious and perfection, Hedge (based on a far cleverer comic strip by Michael Fry and T Lewis) appears designed deliberately to force Moms and Dads to dig deep into their pockets for endless items of tie-in merchandising. While not as bad as Open Season or Barnyard, this CGI candy is decidedly sour. (26 May, HBO, 8PM EST)

Additional Choices
Final Destination 3


A lot of critics pick on this clever horror franchise, and it’s really unfair. Though they do tend to push the limits of logic and believability, all three films deliver lots of gooey gore goodness – this merely average offering no exception. While theatrical audiences may be growing tired of this series’ tricks, there are dozens of direct to DVD delights still left in this creepshow concept. (26 May, Cinemax, 10PM EST)

Step Up


It’s your typical teen coming of age angst-fest. Nora Clark’s a budding dancer at the Maryland School of the Arts. Bad boy Tyler Gage is a delinquent sent to do some court-ordered community service at the institution. Lust blossoms as snobbery substitutes for storytelling in this star crossed lover’s lament. Toss in some youth oriented street dancing, and you’ve got one dull drama. (26 May, Starz, 9PM EST)


Lord of War


Nicholas Cage has been on a weird career bender as of late. For every oddball acting choice (Ghost Rider, Next, The Wicker Man), he’s shown up in unexpected cinematic places like this. As an arms dealer facing a moral crisis in Andrew Niccol’s (Gattaca) forgotten film, he’s mesmerizing. Our filmmaker is no slouch either, bringing a gutsy authenticity to this spellbinding material. (26 May, Showtime, 11:15PM EST)

Indie Pick
The Filth and the Fury


The Sex Pistols’ saga is a sad one, indeed. It’s a tale about greed and gullibility, ego and excess, infinite possibilities and eventual implosion. The legend is laced with inaccuracies, fan fictions, and several outright lies. It seemed that individuals saddened over the band’s lack of lasting respect would never get the straight story – that is, until longtime associate Julian Temple decided to make a documentary about them. Allowing the remaining members to speak for themselves while contextualizing their rapid rise and unnecessary fall, the results are truly astounding. Temple salvages the sonic significance they still carry, while explaining all the fairytale fables surrounding their myth. In addition, he solidifies the Pistols’ place as one of the all time great rock and roll rebellions. Only meaningless manager Malcolm McLaren comes up short – and when all is said and done, that’s how it should be. (30 May, IFC, 11PM EST)

Additional Choices
American Graffiti


Remember the days when George Lucas wasn’t an egomaniacal misfit retrofitting his Star Wars movies with more and more pointless digital effects? Right, neither do we. Maybe this blast from the past, the last legitimate major motion picture the intergalactic geek ever directed, will fresh our memory. It couldn’t hurt – not like the pain he’s been inflicting on us for the last 20 years. (26 May, Sundance, 10PM EST)

8½ Women


It used to be, when film fans noted the experimental directors who really mattered, Peter Greenaway (The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover) was high on everyone’s list. Now he’s a humorous afterthought, disappearing from the scholarly radar long before this eccentric combination of sex for sale and Fellini’s famous film. It’s worth a look, if only to see how the avant-garde treads wasted opportunity waters.  (29 May, IFC, 9PM EST)

Down to the Bone


Back in 2004, everyone at Sundance was talking about this amazing independent drama revolving around a mother desperate to hide her drug habit from her family. Winning awards for Vera Farmiga’s brilliant lead performance, and director Debra Granik’s deft handling, it went on to simply fade away. Now’s your chance to catch up with this lo-fi look at how secrets can literally destroy a person.  (31 May, Sundance, 10PM EST)

Outsider Option
Once Upon a Time in the West


Here it is – the greatest horse opera of all time. Though many might balk at such a statement, there is no denying the visual power and narrative potency of Sergio Leone’s ultimate spaghetti Western. Featuring Henry Fonda as a cold-eyed killer, Charles Bronson as a well-meaning mercenary, and Claudia Cardinale as the sexiest frontier woman ever, the famed Italian auteur created a masterpiece so mannered and stylized that you could almost count the individual frames used to deliver each decisive moment. Long celebrated for how it deconstructed the mythical American West as well as its strength of story and character, classic filmmaking really doesn’t get any better than this. If you don’t already own the definite two disc DVD of this cinematic landmark, here’s your opportunity to see what you’re missing. (29 May, Turner Classic Movies, 10PM EST)

Additional Choices
The Old Dark House


Skip the repeat of Freaks. Avoid the pointless Mark of the Vampire. Instead, stay up to see James Whale’s definitive take on the haunted house movie. With remarkable turns by Boris Karloff and Ernest Thesinger, there are not a lot of fear factors here. But the mood will more than make up for the lack of legitimate scares. (25 May, Turner Classic Movies, 4:45AM EST)

Bad Moon


Eric Red road the original hype from his screenplay for The Hitcher (1986) to a stint as b-movie’s scribe in residence. After Near Dark and Blue Steel, he finally got a shot behind the camera. The result was this unique take on the werewolf genre. Instead of going strictly for gore, Red attempts something more metaphysical. He almost gets there. (28 May, Encore, 3:30AM EST)

Kiss Me Quick


It’s the birth of the Nudie Cutie as us exploitation fans know (and love) it. Harry Novak’s decision to move bare bodkins from the censorship safe nudist camps and into more comical settings turned the entire industry upside down. Now, thanks to the Great White North’s favorite grindhouse channel, we can re-experience the risqué naiveté all over again. (29 May, Drive In Classics, Canada, 2:45AM EST)

 


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Thursday, May 24, 2007

Benedict Shaw is my new kid-hero: eight years old and he’s managed to read more than 60 books for a library reading challenge. To score a gold medal in his school’s Monster Reading Challenge, Shaw need only have ticked off 24. He’s tripled that and more. Benedict’s mum told the Omskirk Advertiser that her son is a chronic reader, staying up long nights finishing chapter after chapter. Her other son, a chipper four year old, is, she notes, as keen on stories as his older brother.


This got me thinking; reminiscing really, about a reading challenge I participated in yearly when in primary school. I looked forward to the MS Read-a-thon like most kids looked forward to the swimming sports. The read-a-thon worked as a fundraiser for multiple sclerosis, with money raised through individual sponsorship. I’d get about a dollar for every book read, and only from my parents as I wasn’t prone to door-knocking for solicitations like some other kids I knew. For me, though, it was never about the money—I used it as a chance to show off my reading habits, which I thought were way awesome. This was the one time out of every year, you must understand, that reading books was suddenly cool. I filled out my “Books read” form with vigor, proud to record my re-readings of Ralph S. Mouse and The BFG next to the hordes of easy-peasy kiddie books I’d scan just to get the form entirely filled up.


Still, with all that reading, I wouldn’t have come close to Benedict Shaw’s haul. I do secretly wonder, though, how many “Tom has a ball” books he’s flown through to grab those extra gold medals, but that’s the primary school competitor in me talking, who just knew the kids at my school weren’t reading half the books they said they were. I remember Lizzie Wyke, for instance, including Stephen King’s It on her form, but never once telling me in any detail exactly what the book was about. I know she mentioned snakes. Snakes? But I’ll take Benedict’s word for it—I’m not in competition with him, after all. Then again, perhaps I am. I’ve long been a recorder of books read, so I’m well aware 60 books takes me over a year to get through. Sure, there’s less time these days. And with my new full-time job, I’m anticipating less still. I dream about a life like Benedict’s—under the covers with a torch, turning those pages, not worrying about falling asleep in class the next day because those books were a proper education, free of written tests and recess (and swimming). There’s just no hiding in the back room at work to read, and barely enough time before bed to get that last chapter in. Ah—to be eight again.


As it happens, the MS Read-a-thon still exists. A Google search reveals the challenge going strong in Australia and in Canada. The fundraiser, turns out, is over 30 years in existence, and continues as a major event for the MS Foundation worldwide. I hope Benedict discovers it soon.


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