It’s that one special Sunday again where people across the nation come together to watch expensive and funny advertisements. Unfortunately I won’t be able to partake in this little festivity this year; luckily I found this more than fitting substitute. Some of these work better than others (the Werner Herzog clip is easily the funniest), but it’s certainly intriguing to imagine what the Super Bowl might look like in the hands of competent direction. Enjoy.
Oh, and go Saints, or something…
Yesterday morning the Academy announced its nominees for the 2010 Oscars. This year everyone is talking about the expansion of the Best Picture category to include ten nominees rather than the traditional five. An idealist might have assumed that this decision was made in order to include lesser-known films that deserved the nod but were too far under the radar to garner the nomination, some such films might have included The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call, New Orleans or Adventureland. The realist however would be quick to point this out for what it actually is: a half-assed attempt to bolster the sales of these releases by slapping the Academy’s seal of approval on their DVD cases.
Truth is, Best Picture hasn’t meant a whole lot in quite some time. Of the winners 1960 and beyond that I’ve seen, only a handful of them are actually good movies – The Apartment, the French Connection, and Amadeus come to mind. Beyond 1990, however, only two of the winners are even remotely decent movies – Silence of the Lambs, No Country for Old Men – and only the latter of the two actually sorta deserved the award. Therefore it should come as no surprise that the expansion of Best Picture category hasn’t so much expanded the diversity of the category as it has made room for even more mediocrity.
James Cameron’s Avatar left me feeling bitter and angry in a way that not many movies have. Pretty odd for a seemingly benign and good-natured space opera. Dig a little deeper, however, and you’ll discover some fairly insulting elements to Cameron’s overblown opus, none more so than the stupendously misguided response to the film, culminating in it receiving the Golden Globe for best drama. I gave myself a week to digest that hatred, fearing that if I were to write what I thought immediately after viewing it, it would resemble little more than an unfocused, juvenile rant. Now that the anger has subsided I can approach Avatar with a far more measured attack (although, given the quantity of my hatred, it will likely still comes across as an unfocused rant).
In fairness, I should admit that Avatar is not a horrible film, just merely a bad one; but one that has benefited immensely from the trumped up response of critics. Even the notoriously picky Austin critic Marc Savlov suffered a momentary lapse in his otherwise hate-filled life to give the film a curiously positive review. What I think needs to be pulled out of all this is the fact that Avatar deserves whatever backlash it receives not because of what it is, but as a result of what it’s being made out to be, namely the kind of film that deserves the be lavished with awards.
What I want to make clear is that my disdain for the film is in no way a reflection of what I feel for those who happen to enjoy it. I think, for the most part, audiences regard it for what it is: a high-concept spectacle with little to offer in depth and meaning (those who don’t believe this might be advised to experience a bit more of what cinema has to offer). My point of contention lies mainly with the critics, film juries and Cameron himself who seem to believe that what is on display here is either art or politically-charged cinema since on the most basic level it fails to successfully construct even the most contrived of archetypes with its characters. The same mistake was made when District 9 came out earlier last year. Critics and audiences alike hailed it as a clever metaphor for racial inequality. Fair enough, but if you’re going to make a film that explores race relations, why not just make a film about race relations? Why make it about aliens, especially when you’re ultimately going to draw so directly from real-world situations? Is the assumption that most Americans won’t give a fuck about social strife unless it’s paired up with explosions and a hackneyed sci-fi construct? If so, I find that a bit insulting.
Of all the insulting and infuriating circumstances surrounding the American remake of Let the Right One In, none feels as enraging as the decision to rename the film Let Me In. For those who have seen the Swedish original, you’ll recall that there is no explicit reference to a decision regarding letting the right one in, rather the title refers to a very specific vampire myth concerning the belief that a vampire cannot enter your home until you invite him or her in.
The original contains a scene related to this in which Eli attempts to enter Oskar’s apartment without being properly invited that leads to some unsettling results. However, the title isn’t related to that specific scene and potentially expands to include a more vague and interesting theme of who we let into our life, and what effect it might have. Understandably, the movie revolves around the relationship between Eli and Oskar. Yet, what many misinterpreted as love may in fact represent something far more insidious. The final scene suggests that while Oskar’s decision to be with Eli may have helped him in the short-term, a more protracted outlook on his decision is far more troubling, if not completely bleak and hopeless. It is, as with all good films, open to debate, but such is my reading of the film. I will leave it at that for those who may have not seen the film.
Recently Criterion released a peculiar little box set called The Golden Age of Television. The set contains a mixed bag of hour-long television dramas from the 1950s. In spite of the potency of stars contained on this release, the set has perhaps somewhat fallen under the radar (at least in terms of a Criterion release) and received little critical support. Slant Magazine’s Joseph Jon Lanthier called the collection “a series of funhouse mirrors unintentionally reflecting the paranoid, conservative zeitgeist of their time.” While Lanthier makes some compelling arguments concerning the complacent conservatism of the shows’ style, I think his criticisms fall short in regard to some of the stronger entries in the collection, particularly “Requiem for a Heavyweight” and “The Comedian,” both written for the screen by Rod Serling, with the latter directed by a young John Frankenheimer (quick aside, the opening shots in “The Comedian” are absolutely brilliant. See if you can identify how they might have been a huge influence on the style Brian De Palma would adopt for the majority of his career).
Happy Holidays, or whatever it is you people say to each other around this time of year. Decade’s coming to an end in a few days and just in time for me to put the finishing touches on my lists. After this I’ll be taking a little break and enjoying what’s left of this miserable decade. See you next year!
Every list needs at least one obscure pick, right? Well, with Roy Andersson’s Songs from the Second Floor, I’ve fulfilled that obligation and then some. What else can you say about a grotesquely dark comedy involving the living dead, a never-ending traffic jam, a man being accidentally sawed in half, child sacrifices and what may very well be the biblical apocalypse? All jesting aside, Andersson’s film – despite being vastly under-appreciated and bizarre – is absolutely brilliant. Surrealism hasn’t found a proper place in cinema since the death of Buñuel and while many might argue that the so-called experiments of Lynch suffice, they lack both the imagination and execution of truly great surrealist filmmaking. In steps Roy Andersson who at the age of 57 at the time of this film’s release had only two previous feature length films under his belt. Purportedly relegated to either short film projects and Swedish television commercials which must be absolutely insane (hey, I found some and – surprise, surprise – they’re remarkably similar to his films), Andersson didn’t really break into the film community until this decade. Songs contains a barely discernible narrative structure featuring a series of grotesque and hilarious vignettes each shot with a painterly eye and resembling a surrealistic landscape come to life. Within, Andersson covers topics as wide-ranging as the emptiness of corporate life, the commercialization of religion, the sterility of modern medicine and pretty much all the peculiarities of contemporary society. There may very well be a message hidden within this bewildering film or, perhaps, no point whatsoever (although I sincerely doubt that). Either way, it makes no difference since Andersson’s film will no doubt leave you with some lasting images, regardless of whether they ultimately horrify or inspire you. To drum up one of those tired clichés regarding film, Songs from the Second Floor is quite simply something you have to see to believe.
Initially I had no intention of undertaking an end-of-the-decade list for films. The task seemed rather daunting and I personally felt that I had neglected to see far too many films to justify such an authoritative retrospective. However, working on my albums list made me reconsider. So, here it is, rushed out haphazardly for your enjoyment.
Looking back over the list, I’m struck by the somber tone running throughout. Not a single film here seems to embody anything remotely resembling a sunny disposition. Then again, I’ve never been regarded as very sunny person, so by that token this list feels quite appropriate. It is by no means definitive, but if nothing else, it stands as a collection of films that, for whatever reason, remain very personal to me.
At this point in time it’s safe to say that Pixar has pretty much cornered the market in animation. Pity, since it has become something of a death sentence for traditional animation in the States. Abroad, however, there still exists some vestiges of hope for traditional animation emodied in the films of Miyazaki and now Frenchman Sylvain Chomet. Chomet doesn’t achieve anything revolutionary in The Triplets of Belleville in terms of technique. However, in regard to his story, Chomet has channeled something as unique as it is frightnening. The world of Triplets is something to behold. By turns grotesque and beautiful, it plays as an odd homage to the physical comedy of the great Jacques Tati. In fact, the entire film is presented with virtually no dialogue whatsoever, save for a brief exchange at the very beginning and end of the film. What struck me watching it again recently was the pervasive sense of loneliness and isolation running throughout the film. There’s something troubling about the motivation of its protagonist, an elderly lady searching for her abducted grandson, that seems almost the product of either obsession or fear of being alone. Largely, Chomet explores a world of corruption, fading antiquity and, well, obesity with Triplets and through it he has crafted one of the most memorable of animated features this decade.
After the expansive and jumbled pop of I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One, Yo La Tengo’s subdued and insular And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out must have felt alienating, like the sound of a band deliberately shedding the fan base brought in with the breakthrough success of their previous album. Helping along this theory is the fact that Nothing deals explicitly with the relationship between Ira Kaplan and Georgia Hubley complete with references to inside jokes, arguments and pretty much all the trials and tribulations of their life together as husband and wife. Alongside this personal narrative exists a kaleidoscope of peculiar pop culture references, including but not restricted to reclusive author Thomas Pynchon, obscure quotes from Simpsons episodes and a nod to enigmatic filmmaker Whit Stillman. Definitely not the most accessible concept for an album. But while And Then Nothing definitely has the potential to become an annoyingly exclusive affair, Yo La Tengo keeps that threat at bay with a lush sound that instantly seizes the listener not through its catchy melodies, rather with its opulent soundscapes. For a band known for random outbursts of noise and distortion, And Then Nothing contains only marginal surges of electric guitar and even what few do appear seem out of place. Instead, Yo La Tengo rely on droning keyboards, fluid guitar textures and an odd assortment of random ambient noises to drive the album. Not often does a band deliver the finest work of their career on their eight record, but Yo La Tengo have achieved just that. And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out may be the most gentle and serene album from the group, but it also succeeds at being their most accomplished and rewarding.
Ingenuity isn’t one of the Rapture’s strongest suits. Pick any track off Echoes and you’re likely to hear the seeds of other bands germinating throughout. Want the Happy Mondays? Well, you’ve got “I Need Your Love.” How about Wire? They cover that on the album’s opener “Olio.” Gang of Four? Try the entire fucking album. Hell, they even take a detour into Bends-era Radiohead on “Open Up Your Heart.” Seems the album’s title may be letting on a bit more than The Rapture would like. With this in mind, how do I justify Echoes‘ lofty placement on this list? Simple, what it lacks in invention it makes up for in determination and attitude. Yeah, the Rapture sound like a bunch of other bands on Echoes, but they embody their influences with such foolhardy zeal that it rarely matters who or what they sound like while doing it. Plain and simple, Echoes is a damn entertaining album, easily one of the catchiest and most danceable punk albums of the decade. For all the critical acclaim tossed carelessly at the Strokes, they too wore their influences on their sleeve (ahem, Lou Reed). On top of that, their music was also a bit dull. So why should the Rapture suffer when they’re simply following the trend set up by their contemporaries, especially when they put out a product that is miles above what everyone else is doing? If anything, Echoes captures so perfectly what makes that post-punk sound so influential and important that in that regard it can’t be ignored. It will never rank alongside landmark albums like Entertainment or Chairs Missing, but its ability to harness the power and ferocity that made those albums so amazing makes it an album that is well worth your while.
Hailing from Montreal and led by husband and wife duo Olga Goreas and Jace Lasek, the Besnard Lakes will undoubtedly conjure up comparisons to the Arcade Fire, if only for their geographical and conjugal similarities. Given the material present on The Besnard Lakes Are the Dark Horse, however, they deserve more than to be pigeonholed as opportunistic disciples of their Quebecois contemporaries, especially since their music shares very few common threads. The album’s name says it all, as the Besnard Lakes certainly don’t have the notoriety yet to make waves, but have the potential to be that out-of-nowhere indie gem poised for great things. The Lakes mostly explore an exceedingly gloomy variety of chamber pop on The Dark Horse, which isn’t to say the album is dreary by an stretch of the imagination, quite the contrary, it feels exceptionally beautiful, crafted with such painstaking detail it’s breathtaking. The number of producer credits to Monsieur Lasek’s name may explain why this debut sounds so confident and doesn’t shy away from the grandiose. Goreas and Lasek have a penchant for haunting orchestral arrangements that weave in and out of the bombastic guitar work laced throughout the album. The Besnard Lakes Are the Dark Horse doesn’t “rock” very often, at least, not in the traditional sense, but when the Lakes do open up a bit, as they do on a track like “Devastation,” it’s all the more invigorating. For the most part, though, the album takes a low key approach, favoring swirling organs, ghostly vocals and longer, more slowly-developed songs (the album contains only 8 tracks, but the Lakes make each one of them count) . It’s as graceful as it is haunting in its texture and themes. For those willing to dig up this hidden gem of a band, it’s well worth the listen.
