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Friday, Aug 8, 2008

According to the reports, it was a rather surreal Comic-con for the members of the Mystery Science Theater 3000 mythos. With almost everyone involved in the show participating in a panel discussion in association with the show’s 20th anniversary (and upcoming DVD releases from new distributor Shout! Factory), hope sprang eternal (and internal) that some major announcement would be made - perhaps a fan-mandated and prayed for coming together of the so-far divergent Cinematic Titanic/RiffTrax crews. On the one side is Mike Nelson, Bill Corbett, and Kevin Murphy, larger than life talents who carried on the in-theater mockery motif long after others gave up on the concept. On the opposite end sits the CT crew - Joel Hodgson, Trace Beaulieu, J. Elvis Weinstein, Frank Conniff, and Mary Jo Pehl, flush with success from their own self-promoted releases and collective critical acceptance.


Yet aside from Patton Oswalt’s genuine geekdom and some rather uncomfortable stares, it was clear that, at least for the time being, the geniuses behind the classic cowtown puppet show won’t be having a meeting of the minds anytime soon. Nelson et.al. seem content to add their smart alecky attacks to recent releases (via their audio only offerings) while Hodgson and his cohorts crank out original DVD titles in the old, silhouettes against the screen format. Prior to attending the notorious nerd herding in San Diego, the group even offered up a salvo for those desperate for more Cinematic Titanic goodness. Unlike the release of The Doomsday Machine, which took almost six months to materialize, their next effort, the Roger Corman retardation from 1959, The Wasp Woman, would be out in a matter of weeks. Sure enough, 8 August saw the release of the downloadable version of the project, and as usual, it’s another dose of daffy satiric goodness.


For those unfamiliar with the ultimate ‘b’ movie, Susan Cabot plays Janice Starling, the aging magnate of a major cosmetics firm. Where once she was the spry and youthful face of her product, her advancing years (she’s all of 38!) have meant a significant lag in sales. When a weirdly accented doctor named “Mr.” Eric Zintrop writes to her, explaining his rejuvenation techniques using the royal jelly from wasps, she’s instantly intrigued. She sets up a lab for the potential madman, and allows him to experiment on her. After nearly a month of no results, Janice takes matters into her own hands. She shoots up a significant amount of the bug enzyme, and sure enough, she becomes instantly younger. Of course, Zinthrop fails to fully inform his patient of the side effects. Apparently, along with headaches and occasional moodiness, Janice will intermittently turn into a giant insect - one that craves human flesh and plenty of it!


While previous Cinematic Titanic wonders like The Oozing Skull really delivered on the new series’ promise, Wasp Woman finally feels like home. As a matter of fact, if one closed their eyes, they could easily envision a late night rerun of a first year Comedy Channel episode of the old MST. With its barely there cast and certified Corman corner cutting, what starts out schlocky turns tacky in a matter of minutes. Cabot, whose career was cut short when her dwarf of a son bludgeoned her to death (no, we are not making this up), has to play dour and depressed for most of the movie, her fading beauty an evidently painful subject for the high powered and excessively rich CEO. Of course, since this is the ‘50s, our heroine must be surrounded by piggish chauvinists who smirk at her concern with crowsfeet over constantly puffing pipes and liquor laced breath.


Clearly influenced by the massive success of 1958’s The Fly, one has to give Wasp Woman credit for attempted ingenuity. Corman could have easily gone for the “man mutates” formula that made the Al Hedison horror show a hit. Instead, this narrative goes gaga for entomology, providing us with a precursory prologue where the benefits of royal jelly and all other bug butt extracts are explored. Zintrop even gives a little speech about respecting nature - of course, he’s addressing the insects he apparently confides in on a regular basis. As the story moves along to its standard spookshow sequences, we also see some patented Filmgroup falderal. Two obvious typing pool ‘broads’, whose names could be Mavis and Trixie for all their Brooklyn bar maid mannerisms, discuss their lagging love lives in a way that would make even the most desperate gent run in easy pickings paranoia.



Of course, all of this is prime material for the CT staff, and they come up with one of their most satisfying slam dunks yet. Thematically, it’s all heroin and insect riffs, the quintet taking every opportunity to mock anthropods and ridicule those who ride the white horse. The quips get so intense that J. Elvis begins a kind of comedy withdraw, arguing that if he doesn’t come up with another smack joke soon, he’ll die. It’s brilliant stuff, as is the pun-demonium over the word “bee” (sadly, no shout out to everyone’s favorite ambiguously asexual music sprite fro years past). Frank even references the unusual way in which Cabot died, starting everything off with a strikingly off comment that had this critic running to Google for confirmation. Of course, finding the origin of a Joel or Trace take is part and parcel of the overall MST/CT experience.


Elsewhere, the series is really coming into its own, concept wise. The time tube, explained in more depth last time, gets its status reaffirmed again, while the notion of a backstory (living pods? plasma beds?) also receives a mention. As for skit or scripted material, Wasp Woman doesn’t really lend itself to easy associations. Still, Mary Jo grinds things to a halt so she can get a boardroom power fix, while Frank brings back his ‘controversial’ variety spot so he can showcase an abusive and belligerent Buddy Rich. One of the things that fans have argued over here is the lack of the old Mystery Science sketch comedy. Even the Rifftrax offshoot, The Film Crew, were less than successful in recapturing that retro humor magic. Part of the problem is that everyone involved in these new projects are playing themselves - not characters trapped in space or working in an underground lab. And second, budget restrictions limit the amount of material they can generate. No funds = no additional funny business. 


Still, with a schedule that promises a more robust release strategy, and a growing appreciation for their efforts (EZTakes, who provides the downloadable versions of the CT discs, typically find their website swamped with retail requests) it looks like this latest attempt to recapture the old Mystery magic will finally get the mainstream acceptance the TV show failed to find. Of course, everything could change tomorrow, what with Shout! Factory promising an aggressive model for their upcoming DVD releases of the original series. And with three viable reminders of all the talent pooled for these projects, only the most cynical fan would complain. Cinematic Titanic continues to put out the amazing attractions, and The Wasp Woman truly lives up to their standards.


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Thursday, Aug 7, 2008

There is is a big difference between legitimate cool and faked cool. The real thing is hard to define and rather ephemeral. It exudes off the subject - film, album, individual - in ways that literally defy description. The counterfeit version is easy to spot. It announces itself like an overly tan lounge lizard in tacky gold chains, and demands that you respect its forced bravado. The latest attempt at recapturing the exploitation vibe from three decades ago, Hell Ride, has a decent pedigree. Executive produced by Quentin Tarantino and created by old school drive-in vet Larry Bishop (Wild in the Streets, The Savage Seven), this is yet another contemporary tap into the original post-modern movie ideal. Unfortunately, the few things this grindhouse wannabe gets right can’t compensate for a distinct aura of unnatural swagger.


Back in ‘76, biker Pistolero promised the soon-to-be-murdered Cherokee Kisum that he would protect a key to a safety deposit box. The contents - supposedly untold amounts of drug money - were for her son, Comanche. Now, over four decades later, an older Pistoler leads the vagabond gang known as the Victors, along with his right hand man The Gent. When member St. Louie is killed by the rogue renegade 666’ers, led by the notoriously unsane Billy Wings and The Deuce, he vows vengeance. He also hopes to locate the last two keys so that Comanche (now part of his crew) can earn his birthright and satisfy the age old vendetta. Of course, any action against the 666’ers will upset the status quo, and that means an end to beer and babes and the beginning of an all out motorcycle holocaust.


Right from the very first image, Hell Ride comes off as a Devil’s Rejects reject. Unfortunately, you quickly realize that Rob Zombie was much more in tune with the exploitation ethic than wannabe Mahon Larry Bishop. Soon, the Tarantino nods start pouring in, staid amalgamations of spaghetti westerns, Asian crime dramas, and overworked schlock motifs. About 40 minutes in you’ve had enough. You can’t stand the back and forth posing, the hopscotching homages, the lack of anything remotely looking like a linear narrative or dimensional character. It’s at this moment when cast and crew make their stand, demanding that you accept them, or simply ignore their over-earnest motion picture pastiche outright and move along. If you can handle such a head on aesthetic collision, you just might enjoy the last act.


But if you don’t, Hell Ride will seem like a literal journey into Satan’s gaping maw. It will test your bare breasting faculties and push the very limits of your need for unnecessary posturing. There is no acting here, just useless channeling of personas past, and when he can’t think of anything clever to convey, writer/director Bishop simply tosses out a few Leone riffs and calls it a day. There are so many mock meaningful close-ups, uses of zoom and soft focus falderal that you swear Guy Madden had discovered the ‘60s and was updating his canon of D.W. Griffith-inspired artiness. Processed to purgatory and back in post-production, the movie tries to super saturate some depth into what is, in essence, a nostalgia borne out of boredom. This is about as ‘grindhouse’ as the similarly styled (and named) films released by QT and his buddy Robert Rodriguez early last year.


Still, if you can stomach Bishop’s bravado, if you can get behind his cut and paste imagination, you may cotton to this Ride. There are definitely scenes that spark with untapped potential. Michael Madsen’s Gent takes on Eric Balfour’s Comanche in a one on one bar fight that discovers some heretofore untapped humor. There is another hilarious moment when a sheepish Dennis Hopper asks a biker babe for a joint (his face is classic). Sure, for every segment that gets you smiling, there’s one like Bishop’s “fire” based stand-off with his ‘old lady’, the lovely Cassandra Hepburn. The duo tosses so many conflagration entendres at each other that you can actually count the ones that ‘burn’, and the many that merely irritate. Some of this film feels like it would read better on the page. Besides, trying to mimic the crudity of the past is no longer clever.   


Indeed, this is Hell Ride‘s biggest problem. Very few filmmakers can accurately recreate the look and feel of ancient b-grade drive-in fare. Zombie is one. The Manson Family‘s Jim Van Bebber is another. Not only do they capture the visuals, they understand the off the cuff, on the run nature of how many of these movies were shot. To suggest that this can be done in some geek’s laptop is ludicrous. Besides, Bishop should know better. He was around when this kind of cinema ruled the subculture, and even acted in a few famous examples. Here, he seems to be looking through digital rose colored glasses. Everything plays like a flashback - albeit one told in a terrific, flashy style that tries desperately to hide how cornball the motoring and machismo really are.


All one can do is submit to Hell Ride‘s ridiculousness and simply allow the movie to make up its own creative logic. You might actually find that you like Bishop’s Birdman of Razzmatazz personality (he’s all grumbles and Van Dykes). If you don’t mind wallowing in excess that never achieves the T&A bounty the narrative suggests (here’s hoping the Unrated DVD solves this problem, pronto), you could find yourself fooled. Had he simply made a standard biker flick, a post-modern update of an old fashioned raincoat crowder, Larry Bishop’s ambition might be more acceptable. But combining 2008 with 1968 (or ‘78) just won’t work, and by the time you’ve surrendered to Hell Ride‘s chopper chic surrealism, you’ll realize what a true waste of time it’s been.


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Wednesday, Aug 6, 2008

It sounds beautifully naïve - the notion that if one man could get everyone in the world to sing together, there’d be a lot less war and animosity among the citizens. Even more foolhardy is the belief that anyone would be willing to try it. But Pete Seeger is not just ‘anyone’. As the founding father of the modern folk movement, as instrumental as Woody Guthrie in bringing the muse of the people to the supposedly sophisticated city streets, he suffered for both his art and his politics. In his time he was both pop star and pariah, a Billboard chart topper who saw his early fascination with Communism cost him dearly. Still, he never apologizes for the roads he’s taken. To Pete Seeger, they’re all paths to one thing - getting people to sing.


From the time he was very young, Seeger was influenced by his musically inclined parents. During a tour of rural regions (where the family tried to bring classical composers to the “masses”), elder Seeger was introduced to traditional folk music. It would soon become a passion he would share with his gifted son. Over the years, Pete grew into a student of sound, working with famed archivists and attending Harvard. But his true calling was performance, and when he began celebrating and recording the pro-union tunes of the Depression era, he instantly found his calling. Over the next 50 years, he would change the way the world looked at folk, arguing for the value in local artists and sound social principles. Of course, his conviction would cost him. No one can stand on their morals for long without being knocked down. But the great thing about Pete Seeger is that he kept getting back up, and at almost 90, he’s still fighting for the inherent force in music. 


In a category that is growing in greatness exponentially, the stunning documentary Pete Seeger: The Power of Song (new to DVD from The Weinstein Company and their Miriam Collection label) brilliantly immortalizes an already living legend. For many decades removed from the fascinating folk movement of the ‘50s and early ‘60s, this activist artist is perhaps a Dylan-descended footnote, a name they recognize but fail to fully understand the import of. But thanks to director Jim Brown, who previously captured Seeger as part of the equally amazing The Weavers: Wasn’t That a Time, allows the man his proper place in history. One cannot walk away from this spellbinding narrative and not feel both proud to live in a country that offers such talents and freedoms and sad for the government policies and blinkered politicians who twisted those tenets into something sordid and evil.


One of the most striking elements of Seeger’s story is his 17 year banishment from the commercial airwaves. Accused of being a Communist by the House UnAmerican Activities Committee (and he had been a card carrying member in the past), the “red” stain resulted in an equally shocking color - black (as in ‘list’). While still a viable concert draw, Seeger also added to his troubles by being an outspoken supporter of civil rights. His hatred of segregation and the South’s disgusting Jim Crow laws led to appearances and protests, as well as confrontations with agitators and threats against his life. Yet all the while, Seeger still believed in the command of music. He was certain that if people heard the message and understood the tradition, they’d give up on outdated notions of hate and prejudice.


Pete Seeger: The Power of Song is definitely a summarization of the man’s amazing career. Before we know it, he’s working for the Library of Congress, serving in World War II, and turning “We Shall Overcome” into an anthem for Dr. Martin Luther King. As to the latter claim, the now nearly 90 year old is rather sheepish. It’s how he’s been most of his life. Seeger has been at the forefront of many significant changes in our culture, and yet when it seems like time to canonize the participants, his beatification is left for another, not so contentious day. There are moments in Power of Song that show us such late in life reverence. President Bill Clinton (who awarded Seeger the Kennedy Center honor in 1994) speaks of him in sacred terms, while the musician is approached by an older woman in Washington Square Park, her praise of his influence on her life and children almost overwhelming in its sincerity.


With its talking head approach and archival nostalgia, Power of Song paints a authoritative portrait. Everyone from Dylan to Baez, Peter, Paul, and Mary to Bruce Springsteen step up to put the man in perspective, and ever the hero, Seeger takes it all in humble stride. We only seem him worked up when discussing his infamous return to TV in 1967. Scheduled to sing his latest anti-war anthem “Waist Deep in the Big Muddy” on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, it marked a major return for him. After performing the song (among several), he was shocked to see it edited out of the final airing. Turns out CBS, bowing to White House pressure, removed the segment, the lyrical phrase “and the big fool says push on” viewed as a slam against then President Johnson.


During this material, Seeger seems tense, mortified at a media that, even today, will succumb to censorship for the sake of some ambiguous political goals. He’s saddened to see that his beloved country is still making the same mistakes, and takes small pleasures in providing the impetus to support the withdrawal of troops from Iraq and the clean up of the Hudson River Valley. Because of its inability to be totally in-depth, it would have been nice for this DVD to include more contextual bonuses. Seeger’s story is that important. Instead, we get three somewhat preachy ‘deleted’ scenes, and five short films his family made focusing on skill like how to play the banjo and how to make a steel drum. It’s not that these extras have no value, it’s just that with a life as compelling as his, Power of Song could have added several hours of intriguing supplements.


We’ll just have to be satisfied with the film at hand, and in a category that’s seen lots of amazing artist biographies, Pete Seeger: The Power of Song is simply one of the best. It takes it subject and his importance seriously while never sugarcoating the complications that brought on many of his misfortunes. Watching him perform “Guatanamera” with his grandson and Arlo Guthrie at Carnegie Hall, voice wispy and faded after 80+ years of singing, we’re reminded of how important and influential he really was/is. Without Pete Seeger, modern music would be missing many of its most important components. And as long as he’s around, there’s hope for a brighter tomorrow. That’s the power of Pete Seeger. That’s the power of Power of Song


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Tuesday, Aug 5, 2008

For some reason, the stoner fails to get the same cinematic respect as other substance abusing characters. The alcoholic and the heroin addict are usually wrapped in semi-seriousness, while the pot head gets demoted to pharmaceutical comic relief. Granted, it’s hard to take the personality type seriously when incessant giggling, non-stop gluttony, and a lack of world perspective follows their wake and bake activities. From Cheech and Chong to Harold and Kumar, the standard strategies apply - toke, smoke, and joke. But not in the latest entry from the Apatow factory. Pineapple Express wants to take the blunt into some uncharted cinematic territory. And thanks to some sensational performances, and an interesting perspective behind the camera, it more than succeeds.


Process server Dale Denton really loves his life. He spends his days smoking pot and delivering subpoenas. He spends the rest of his time doing bong hits and hanging out with his high school aged girlfriend Angie. Dale buys his dope from a well meaning dealer named Saul Silver. Typical with most marijuana merchants, this long haired ‘dude’ feels a close bond with his clientele. When Dale witnesses a murder, he runs to Saul for help. Seems the weed may connect the witness to the crime, and since a local mobster and a crooked cop are involved, our hemp-infused heroes are not safe. With the help of Red, another chronic connection, they will try to survive this trip down the potentially lethal ‘Pineapple Express’.


Wonderfully vulgar, brilliantly performed, and accented with action reminiscent of an ‘80s buddy film, Pineapple Express is one late summer success. It takes the patented funny business formula that resurrected comedy over the last few years and fine tunes it into something both inventive and indicative, retro in its drug-fueled farce while up to date in its more dangerous elements. Concentrating on character more than situations, and drive by expert direction from indie icon David Gordon Green (George Washington, Snow Angels) many will find this clever combination off putting. While we like other unlikely cinematic amalgamations (horror/satire, crime/comic book) the often jarring juxtaposition between dope and danger does take some getting used to. But once it clicks, Pineapple Express becomes that rare experience where we’re satisfied on both accounts.


Acting is key to accepting such strategies, and both Seth Rogen and James Franco deliver amazing performances. The Knocked Up/Superbad star finds new ways to turn his hound dog delivery and personal pathos into a winning, often aggravating soul. We want to see Dale succeed, but not in the hedonistically juvenile manner he seems to prefer. Rogen’s moments with Amber Heard as his barely legal gal pal Angie have an uneasy, ‘go on and grow up’ kind of immediacy. Later, when he finally meets her parents, the foul mouthed confrontation confirms that this relationship may not be the best thing for either party. Rogen is the audience’s window into a world most probably never knew (or, at the very least, haven’t revisited since college), and he does a fine job as a narrative casement.


But it’s Franco that’s the real revelation here, offering up a kind of permanently stunned slacker with a code of ethics so scattered they tend to blur the lines between truth and THC. Most of the time, it’s hard to tell who’s talking - Saul or the smoke. With his eyes glazed over and his cadence recalling the classic character type, we expect this performance to be pat and kind of stereotyped. But Franco fools us over and over with his unbridled brilliance. He uses elements that might seem maudlin or meaningless (he only deals so his grandmother can live in a “nice” nursing home) and infuses them with power and emotion. When the last act gunplay hits the fan, we’re struck at how concerned we are for this dope peddling drone’s well being.


Most of this comes from the screenplay, another Rogen/Evan Goldberg gem. But the influence of filmmaker Green should never be discounted. Because his movies have mainly focused on people and how they react to specific circumstances, he’s the perfect guide to turn the outrageous into something believable and worth rooting for. Even when Danny McBride shows up as the weirdly anti-hip Red, with an unreal collection of pop culture leftovers, Green makes him into something endearing. Even better, the direction here flaunts the requirements of a big screen stunt spectacle. The showdown between our heroes and the basic bad guys (Gary Cole and Rosie Perez in sheer scenery chewing mode) doesn’t come as a shock so much as a natural extension of the environment these individuals function in.


This is, in fact, Pineapple Express‘s most interesting conceit. We often fail to realize that marijuana, while somewhat socially acceptable and highly recreational, remains a very illegal substance. Police and Federal Drug Enforcers no longer turn a blind eye toward the casual user, and the money to be made on such an in-demand diversion puts everyone involved on edge. That things suddenly explode between Dale, Saul and Red, and eventually with the local crime syndicate is to be expected. Yet most stoner comedies treat the law and the lawless as something to be mocked or merely ignored. Pineapple Express is perhaps the first pot laughfest that actually takes its crime and punishment seriously.


That sudden shift into outsized reality will definitely lose some fans. ‘Feel good’ should never be combined with ‘feel scared’, at least for most moviegoers. But the brazen way in which Pineapple Express messes with the formula, the way it flaunts genre while moving beyond its limits suggests the future of the format. For a long time now, the movie comedy has suffered from a stagnancy borne out of laziness and a lack of ideas. The Apatow camp consistently proves that almost anything can be added to the satiric mix with maximum results. Whether it’s a hit or not is beside the point. Pineapple Express satisfies on so many levels that to undermine its effectiveness seems pointless.


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Monday, Aug 4, 2008

Not every composer gets to add the soundtrack to a major motion picture. With so many small movies out there, and so many potential musicians, there must be some manner of professional pecking order to see who accents the blockbusters, and who toils away in obscurity. Of course, all film scorers had to start somewhere. John Williams started out in B-movies and TV (Lost in Space) while Danny Elfman took a rock star to cult icon (Pee Wee Herman) path to importance. From Randy Newman to Elmer Bernstein, fame was not instantaneous, especially in the mostly unsung world of such craft. Few films are remembered exclusively for their music. Instead, when functioning perfectly, a score solidifies its place as part of the overall cinematic experience, neither overly intrusive nor singularly memorable.


It usually takes an entire career (or one huge commercial success) to bring a movie musician out into the limelight. In the case of the four artists featured in this week’s edition of SE&L‘s Surround Sound, many were part of the journeymen aspect of the artform before universal acknowledgement arrived. In the case of two of these individuals, there work may speak louder than their actual names. What all four albums represent, however, is the everyday product of artisans hoping to define themselves to the next potential employer. A composer is only as good as his next job, so to speak, and the level of proficiency shown here illustrates why they represent some of the industry’s best.


The Life Before Her Eyes - Original Motion Picture Soundtrack [rating: 8]


James Horner has had a very interesting career trajectory. Many first noticed him in large part to his steel drum tinged music for the Eddie Murphy/Nick Nolte hit 48 Hours. But there were many facets to this composer’s character, aspects he explored while creating the soundtrack for Star Trek II and III, Aliens, and Commando. By the late ‘90s, however, he had become a more mainstream fixture, earning Oscar nods for Field of Dreams, Apollo 13, and Braveheart. It was another collaboration with James Cameron, that finally earned him Academy gold. Titanic remains the biggest film of all time, and Horner’s score, and the song “My Heart Will Go On”, are now part of cinema history. Oddly enough, that was 11 years ago, and Horner remains a fixture in filmmaking. His most recent work on the Uma Thurman thriller The Life Before Her Eyes, proves how provocative and daring his work can be.


Built around simple piano lines ala Michael Nyman, and yet structured in a way that recalls the moody atmosphere and tension inherent in the storyline, Horner’s music for Life is very haunting. It aches in places, recalling lost memories and painful experiences. Elsewhere, as in the final track “Young Diana’s Future - A Future that Could Have Been” some of his familiar ‘mechanisms of dread’ come to the fore. What’s most compelling about this collection is that it could easily be enjoyed outside the cinematic experience. Almost ambient in the way it approaches its form and melody, Horner really excels in selling a certain sentiment and feeling. You can practically feel the emotion buried beneath the unseen storyline. While The Life Before Her Eyes was not a box office success, this score certainly is a triumph of his talent.


Definitely, Maybe - Original Motion Picture Score [rating: 8]


Like Danny Elfman before him, Clint Mansell got his start as part of a rock act. As the former lead singer and guitarist for ersatz industrial badboys Pop Will Eat Itself, he was known to explore all facets of sound. When the group disbanded in 1996, he got a shot at film scoring thanks to his friend Darren Aronofsky. After supplementing the sci-fi surrealism of , he would gain massive fame and obsessive recognition for his work on Requiem for a Dream and The Fountain. Much of his material has focused on the spooky, spatial New Age evocations of tone and environment. But Mansell has been known to break out of that dreamscape mode now and again. He did so with 2007’s Smokin’ Aces, and he does again with his charts for the amiable romantic comedy Definitely, Maybe. While there are times he reverts to the epic, most of the music is a grab bag combination of influences, inflections, and straight ahead instrumental fun.


Sometimes rendered in evocative snippets only, Definitely Maybe is a celebration of all that modern music has to offer. There are nods to the ‘60s, the bombast and Beatlemania. Mansell tosses in Eastern accents, Latin beats, and lots of rock posing. By the time the familiar strains of one track have settled in (“It’s April”, “Panic Stations…”, “Summer’s Over”) we jarringly move onto another composition. There are long form wonders like the horn and fuzz guitar driven “The Candidate” and the beautiful piano solo “The Happy Ending is You”. Toward the end, a trio of tracks - “Brooklyn Bridge”, “Countdown”, and “April’s Story” suggest Mansell’s work on Aronofsky;‘s magnificent immortality allegory. But luckily for listeners here, this is one artist who also acknowledges his previous work. For all its career spanning references, Definitely Maybe is definitely good. Very good.


The Promotion - Original Motion Picture Score [rating: 7]


While his name is relatively new to the mainstream movie scoring department, Alex Wurman has a long and studied career behind the composer’s desk. After nearly a decade writing in relative obscurity, he got a huge break when George Clooney pegged him to create the time traveling treats of the A-lister’s directorial debut, the Chuck Barris biopic Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. From their, he went on to give the Will Ferrell/Adam McKay hit Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy its retro kick. After another collaboration with the pair (Talladega Nights), Wurman went back to smaller films, focusing on such efforts as The Nines and the Simon Pegg RomCom Run Fatboy, Run. The Promotion, his most recent score, is perhaps the greatest nostalgic shout out Carter Burwell never wrote. But thanks to an infusion of sly humor, Wurman’s work stands on its own.


Like listening to a time traveling Esquivel as channeled through an indie rock heartthrob, the work here is stunning in its recall. You literally feel the old ‘50s business model manufactured by films like The Apartment in Wurman’s arrangements. Sometimes, the material maneuvers over into kitsch, as with the feisty “Fight Dance” or the follow-up track, “Masculari Horriblus”. But for the most part, this soundtrack keeps itself low to the ground and very enjoyable. Of course, with any invocation of a certain time and place (although the film is set in our current social clime), things tend to get overly familiar after a while. By the time “I Am Peanuts” and “Four Handed Promotion” roll around, we’ve had more than enough of the sly pseudo jazziness. For all its pointed positives, Wurman’s work on The Promotion is just like the film it defines - fun, if ultimately overstaying its welcome a little.


Before the Rains - Original Motion Picture Soundtrack [rating: 6]


Mark Kilian’s is a name mostly unknown to film score fanatics. After a time as a TV composer, working on such efforts as F/X: The Series and Jake In Progress, he got lots of recognition for creating the fascinating backdrop for Gavin Hood’s Oscar winning foreign film Tsotsi. Now he’s back with another cross culture creation. Working with renowned Indian cinematographer turned director Santosh Sivan, he provides the sweet, sassy, and quite savory aural environ for the filmmaker’s first English language effort (the nationalist themed Before the Rains). With its exotic mix of ethnic sounds, tone poem pieces, and standard symphonics, what could be a tired bit of traditionalism actually comes across as exciting and quite evocative.


The first three pieces prepare us for the various soundscapes to come. “Main Titles”, “Honey Drives”, and “Hand Lines” all summon the spirit of Hindi culture, a mix of modern and authentic instrumentation taking us into the heart of this complex civilization. There are frequent nods to Islam, with call to prayer cries subtly working in the background. The familiar call of tabla and mukhavina is ever-present, and there are even some aboriginal and other tribal tinges here as well. Around track 10 - “Sanjani’s Struggle”, things begin to turn more mainstream and maudlin. The next few pieces offer the kind of simple piano and string arrangements we come to expect from such soundtracks. It makes Before the Rains a little disconcerting. Where once we had music that dared to combine the elements of all environs, the finish (except for tracks “Coming for TK” and “End Credits”) is devoid of such out of the ordinary flourishes.



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