Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens...

Happy summer, everyone! Now that I got time to breathe, think, and even form coherent sentences, it's time to discuss some of MY favorite things.
Oprah ain't got shit on me.

1) Jizz-worthy international posters-back in the day when rat-a-tat dialogue was banged out on typewriters and "Technicolor" was a buzzword, film posters were hand-drawn, in painstaking detail. Because of this, several films have stunning, unique posters created specifically for their runs in other countries. They're normally hard to find, but the good folks at dominiquebesson.com gots 'em all in one place. They're priced in the hundreds, but until I've accrued the money to fill my room with these pieces, I'm content to just look up at them in awe as they fill my computer screen-



Get ready for an orgasm, Bogie devotees-

I think I might sink a chunk of leftover Bar Mitzvah change into buying the Chinatown one. Whaddya think?

2) "Stay With Me"-One of my good friends, former fellow Jesus School attendee Trevor Garza, directs some pretty badass shorts. We've collaborated before, and we plan to again this summer on a project I'll talk about at length in a future post. "Stay with Me" is my favorite work of his. If Charlie Kaufman skimped on his Prozac, he might come up with a heady, ravishing fever dream like this one. Trevor and I share a fascination with the life of the mind, the way it can adapt to seemingly any situation. He explores that concept here with no dialogue, and its a thrill to see a film that revels so astonishingly in the purely visual capabilities of the medium. It's something his favorite director, Stanley Kubrick, liked to do. Look at Trevor's confidence with the camera, and you'll see some similarities between the two.

Stay With Me from Obsessive Imagemaking on Vimeo.

How does the mind perceive Love?

3) Raya Yarbrough (Demit, what a name!)-Jazz fans (Erin Little/Karen Hess COUGH) take note. Yarbrough is part of a school of artists-Spalding, Gardot, and Peyroux amongst her cohorts-who are reinventing the form by dispatching album after album of original, intelligent, pop-inflected soon-to-be standards. Yarbrough, an Armenian vocalist and guitarist who looks like Maya Rudolph after a few chasers, delivers sultry string-driven ballads with a striking plaintiveness that reminds me of Stevie Holland. In her own works, the lyric imagery is stunning-"Vice and Vanity" plays like a Maya Angelou poem set to music-and the melodies are memorable-the bass-driven "Sorrow's Eyes" is as slyly sexy and hummable a jazz song we've had since Norah Jones's "I've Got To See You Again". Her covers are few, but well-chosen and delivered with impeccable phrasing-one of my favorite oldies, "Early Autumn", is given a lush, laidback treatment here that recasts the bitter ballad as a sweetly melancholy depiction of post-heartbreak laziness. No genre has a past like jazz, and thanks to Yarbrough and her ilk, its got a helluva future as well.

4) Cindi's Challah french toast-Eat it before the summer ends. Challah is a Jew bread with extra egg and a little soethin' sweet that, when properly prepared makes for an orgasmic, melt-in-your mouth rendition of my favorite breakfast item. This item was once only available during Jew gatherings at the Walker house (thanks, Grandma Sally), but now the unbeatable Cindi's has it on their menu, and I'm proud to say it comes with my stamp of Yid approval.
and of course,
5) My HEAVENLY HUNDRED PICK OF THE WEEK-

Good Morning Vietnam

The 25: Williams gone wild.

I've got no pretenses here. This film purports to be about Adrian Cronauer (Robin Williams), a military DJ stationed in 'Nam who riles the tight-assed officers in charge when he breaks the Lawrence Welk mold and provides a radio hour jam-packed with four-letter words and rock music. It does a reasonable job of telling this story, getting from scene to scene without choking on much sentimental sap (though, as is usual in this type of picture, the Establishment is painted in frustratingly generic colors of black and white only), but its real purpose is this; it allows our greatest living comedian to riff like a modern-day Marx Brother for nearly two hours. There was a script, yes, but its our great good luck that Williams basically refused to stick to it. He riffs on everything-fashion, bad sex, Elvis-and director Barry Levinson, luckily, was shrewd enough to leave Williams alone and just shoot what he saw. Fans of comedy in general-prepare to have your funnybone broken.

Fans of Williams himself (like me) just sit there scratching their heads every viewing-how does this man come up with jokes of such broad relevance and scathing specificity at the same time? How does he nail the articulation of every phrase while never seeming smug or pedantic? And how in God's name can one man impersonate so many others SO flawlessly?! Williams's talents are normally mishandled-in films like Patch Adams or Flubber, his motormouthed talents are toned down to fit this conceit or that plotline-his raunchy style of comedy canNOT be made accessible to all audiences, no matter how hard the suits of the screen try to fight that fact. But for this film, this one film, Levinson, for the mostpart, lets Williams off the leash, letting him revel in R-rated heaven... that is, until the script saddles him with one subplot too many, and the proceedings get a tad too maudlin for my picky tastes. But for its golden middle act, Good Morning Vietnam, picked with golden 60's rebel-rock and thrilling to its stars comic invention, is a prime exhibit of one man's dirty, delicious genius.

The Singular Scene: The first time Williams shouts out those immortal, titular words. He's dropped a bomb of a different kind-a verbal one. The intercutting of Cronauer's wild-man routine with the stunned reactions of listening soldiers gives us our first taste of the movies spicy sense of humour.

Of Shitbag Sequels and Samuel L. Jackson

Summer is upon us! (Movie-wise, if not I'm-free-and-clear-of-the-deadweight-on-my-back-known-as-secondary-education-wise). As such, I'll be going to the movie films alot. I'll post brief reviews of what I see, so's as you know whether to see or skip it.
Let's start with:

IRON MAN 2: Like a cinematic piece of swiss cheese; it's not bad, and it's got some bite, but you can't ignore all the holes. The film is impressively designed and surprisingly well-acted-Robert Downey Jr. and Mickey Rourke are on fire here as our hero and villain, especially when they share the screen, Sam Rockwell and ScarJo are welcome additions to the fold, and returning actors acquit themselves honorably. However, it's also quite dumb, something part uno of the Tony Stark saga never was. Some of the plot machinations here make the James Bond films look like exercises in logical soundness. It's passable, silly summer fun, but from such an illustrious cast and crew I expected smarts as well as snazz. B-.

Ah, yet another disappointing sequel. But what are the most disappointing of all time? In recent years, Quantum of Solace and, of course, Star Wars: Attack of the Clones let me down, but the biggest kick in the teeth so to speak is, without a doubt....


Spider Man 3, which played like a cut-rate Scary Movie parody of itself. Spidey gettin' down to "Stayin' Alive?". Pass the Pepto-Bismol, por favor! What's YOUR pick? (Hint: I'm subtly suggesting you comment upon this blog.)
But enough of the shit. Let's talk of the sugar, the cream of the cinematic crop, the HEAVENLY HUNDRED! This week;

EVE'S BAYOU:

The 25: Think Voodoo's just hammer-horror hokum? This engrossing backwoods barnburner makes you think twice.


Toni Morrison, eat your heart out. This picture is everything that Morrison's books are, and that the adaptations of her books are not; excitingly intelligent, intriguingly mystical, and deeply, deeply disturbing. We start with a simple, shocking revelation; Eve Batiste (Jurnee Smollet), accidentally killed her father at 14. From there, we spiral backwards into a twisty plot that involves several generations of a French-American black family, and effortlessly incorporates a range of supernatural elements, from prophesy to, yes, voodoo dolls. I won't say much more about characters or specific moments in the picture. It's a blast going into this one without knowing what's going to happen or who's who-thanks to a richly detailed, dialect-heavy (but always accessibly) script by director Kasi Lemmons, and note-perfect work from the ensemble (especially Smollet, who carries the proceedings on her small but more-than-capable shoulders), these characters and surroundings are so fully realized that you feel as if you're reading a novel about them, for rarely does a movie manage to provide such depth of insight into the people who populate its world. Even the smallest character is fascinating in their own way; even locations that only function as backgrounds shimmer with a you-are-there shantytown allure.

What pulls you in and floors you, although the sweeping visuals don't hurt, is its novelistic quality, the fact that its filled with the kind of shades-of-grey complexity the cinema tends to shy away from in order to provide cheap laughs or luxuriant tears. In this film, you won't cry at all, and you won't laugh much. What the film provides instead is a sense of wonder; it bequeaths unto us the thrill of discovering a staggeringly original universe the likes of which we can only stumble upon in the movies. You've never seen a world like the one Eve calls home, and I guarantee you never will again. How often can one say that?!

(PS-I couldn't fit this anywhere else into the review, but as a philandering doctor, Samuel L. Jackson forever proves he's not just a cariacature; here, he provides an unflinchingly portrait of self-rationalizing evil that deserves to be remembered. Fans of black music history will be interested to know that the great Diahann Carroll makes a scene-stealing appearance here as well.)

The Singular Scene: As Eve's Aunt Mozelle (Debbi Morgan), reveals how one of her many husbands was killed, she walks directly into a mirror, re-living the memory as Eve watches in the reflection, mortified and spellbound...just like us.

Fun Fact: The L in Jackson name stands for Leroy.

Movie Mamas and Jailbirds!

"Mama who bore me, mama who gave me..."

That's right, its the week to honor the woman from between whose legs you oh-so gracefully emerged. In honor of this occasion, I present a tribute to the greatest maternal mistresses ever to hold their own in a darkened theater.

Oh, so many to choose from! Elaine from Almost Famous, Edna from Hairspray (whether its Travolta OR Divine filling those high heels), Beverly in Serial Mom, Erin in, well, Erin Brokovich, all come to mind. But in the end, I gotta give pride of place to these two lovely ladies:


Aurora Greenway (Shirley Maclaine), Terms of Endearment

If the film doesn't quite live up to its reputation, Maclaine's performance certainly does. You think your mum is clingy? Take a look at this woman. She often insists on sleeping in the same bed as her daughter, automatically disapproves of every single penis-bearing personage she brings home, and refuses to attend her kid's wedding because of the groom's low-paying job. Aurora's helicopter-mom antics are a hoot, until the films final half-hour, when the story slides into tragic territory, and her fierce, wolf-like devotion to her offspring becomes heart-tuggingly touching. When she dishes out an exquisite helping of hellfire to the nurse who won't give her ailing child pain meds, we find ourselves wishing our mom would behave the exact same way under the circumstances.

And, of course,

The Bride (Uma Thurman), Kill Bill Films
The killer formerly known as Beatrix Kiddo takes loyalty to new levels in Quentin Tarantino's pulp epic. Don't you wish your mother would slice and dice her way through 88 crazy Asians, a rock-salt wielding hick, and a one-eyed skank with a Hanzo sword in the name of love? And after all that, as evidenced by the film's final scenes, she looks to be a pretty good mama as well (awww, they're watching cartoons together!) Exuding blood-pumping ire and parental warmth all at once is quite a task. And, being a Tarantino film, she does it all barefoot, cold-eyed, and with sex appeal to spare.


Now, on to this week's film:

O BROTHER WHERE ART THOU

The 25: The Odyssey in overalls, and the first of many Coen works to make my list.


There are about 5 filmmakers that will make this list several times each, for they are, after all, my favorite filmmakers. Look for lots of Altman, Allen, Spielberg, Tarantino, and, the makers of this oddball crowd-pleaser, the Coens.

You keep rubbing your eyes in this movie (films that make you want to rub other parts of your body will be addressed in future posts), not because you're tired, but because you can't believe what you're seeing. The Coens are adept at exploring the dark side of human nature in their work, poking fun at it without ever skimping on the bone-deep honesty needed to make their point. But here, they're really just cutting loose, spinning a great American yarn with all the skill of an ace magician.

The film is an uber-loose retelling of The Odyssey, set in the 1930's Deep South, with George Clooney as a Ulysess Everett McGill, jailbird fleeing home to return to his wife (Holly Hunter). He's accompanied by a pair of yokels, Pete (John Turturro)and Delmar(Tim Blake Nelson), because, well, they're literally chained to him. I suppose McGill's quest to reach wifey is really the "plot" per se, but here, as my sophomore English teacher liked to say, The Journey Is The Reward. The Coens (who also wrote the film) use each new destination on our hero's road home as an opportunity to stage one hysterical comic setpiece after another-we're talking belly-laugh material here. The fugitives encounter famous bluesman Robert Johnson (or do they)? They accidentally crash a KKK rally. They get caught in a car with a cow-slaughtering would-be gangster. They get the shit beat of them by a half-man, half-animal entrepreneur (John Goodman ftw). They unintentionally sabotage a political campaign. Hell, they even lay down a hit record!

The Coens are masters of comedic timing as always, and all the actors do a bang-up job, which isn't surprising considering they're playing archetypes more than people. What's surprising about the picture is the way it becomes more than situational comedy-there's a mystical element here. There's a discussion about the nature of the devil, a baptism, a sudden, larger-than-life occurrence that takes the plot in an entirely different direction. The filmmakers manage to create one of the flat-out funniest films of the past decade, and to wrestle-playfully, yes, but palpably-with the supernatural at the same time. This element renders the movie too substantial to be a here-today, gone-tomorrow comedy.

But forget all the spiritual shtuff. The simple fact of the matter is watching this movie is such a flat-out fun experience it'll give you a warm tingle. It's a joy to look at-great actors cut loose, captured by the best cinematographer of his generation, Roger Deakins, who makes the ol' South magical and menacing all at once. There's a nice big bowl of ear candy for you to snack on as well-the dialogue, shaped by two writers who have a unique, visionary way of working with the language, the Grammy-winning musical accompaniment. In the end, this film about a bunch of unshaven po' boys is, ironically, an embarrassment of riches.

The Singular Scene: Clooney and Co. perform the film's signature tune, "I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow", at a political rally, in a moment of sheer exuberance the likes of which we don't see on screen much anymore. Gotta love them Soggy Bottom Boys.

The Face Debate

I made a comment last post about the lack of Great Movie Faces current gracing our silver screens. It provoked a small (and I do mean small-three people were involved) uproar. Nein, nein, nein! They shouted! Robert Downey Jr. and Brad Pitt sure possessed top-grade movie mugs. Oh yes, yes, yes, I replied. Those faces are nice-lookin', sure (I have a man-crush on Downey's, if you must know), but they lack something. It's not that they're unpleasant to look at. It's that you don't conceivably have to look at them-they don't exude that unnameable magnetism many Old Hollywood-ers did.

A great cinematic face dares you not to look at it-fills the the screen so totally and vibrantly that every emotion, every tiny expression, every detail registers. Even looking at the shape of their facial features is, in its own way, a pleasurable act-pleasurable enough to carry us through mediocre material, and to elevate great material to stratospheric levels of excellence.

The two all time greats?

Bogie.

Audrey.


Alas, no such faces grace our screen today. I should note, while few actors come close to the Classic Hollywood Face Template, a couple of stars exude their own unique kind of power-I'm thinking the aforementioned Terence Stamp, the lovable, wounded-puppy charisma of John Cusack, the cool-cat allure of Uma Thurman, and the beacon of sensual ravishment also known as Cate Blanchett. However, the best Screen Face in the world right now belongs, I think, to this guy;



Oh, Georgio. You throw effortless confidence and world-weary vulnerability into a blender, and somehow produce the Best Movie Face of your generation. It made
Ocean's 11 good. It made the two sequels...watchable. And, in that tour de force final act (filled, mind you, with close-ups and one-shots designed specifically to show off that visage) it made Up In The Air great. Those are my thoughts on The Faces of Film. Your turn.

Ah, but I'm not done, faithful reader. Let's talk for a bit about #97 on my Heavenly Hundred List. We've had a group of Yiddish-influenced space rebels, a French chanteuse, and a Cockney gunslinger. Now (continuing through Europe, unintentionally, I assure you) we have an Irish busker who makes beautiful music in the quiet triumph that is-

ONCE

The 25: Two musicians flirt with the notion of romance. Their music, meanwhile, flirts with brilliance.

What makes this movie notable is not what it has, but what it doesn't-no major stars (or even B or C listers), no prestigious director, no acclaimed screenwriter or cinematographer. It was directed by a music video artiste, and stars two musicians who never acted before and probably will not act again. It's one of those happy accidents that occurs when people with no experience in an art form manage to master it anyway.

Once, the sweetest, most unassuming movie I can imagine, belongs to the Guy (Glen Hansard), an Irish street singer, and the Girl (Market Irglova), a Czech immigrant who plays the piano and hides a shocking secret. They fall in...well not quite love. They can't seem to work out the nature of their relationship, and (SEMI-SPOILER) they really never do. But this picture isn't really about a story. It's about feelings, about capturing that tentative hope with which broken-hearted people eye each other, and their silent desperation to mend. It achieves this, mostly, through the music, which is folk-rock at its finest-comparisons to Ray Lamontagne and Damien Rice come to mind, but this score is a thing of beauty all on its own. Director John Carney made a crucial decision regarding the use of said score; the characters sing, yes, but not frequently. We get only a handful of songs, all seen in realistic settings such as rehearsal rooms or the alley where the Guy plays. The thing is, we get all of them-Carney doesn't cut away mid-song, but instead stations his camera right up in his performers faces, so close that the emotion seems to seep out of their eyes and into our souls.

Sounds cheesy.
Holds true.

Credit is also due to the principles. Hansard and Irglova weren't really acting-they were trying to figure out their own feelings for each other during the shoot (offscreen, they dated for a short time, then sadly, split). As such, the usual problems that plague romances-the overacting, the forced attempts at "eloquence"-are nowhere to be found. Neither actor feels compelled to shout-they talk as normal people would talk, stuttering, mumbling, letting thoughts stream out in messy strands of shabbily disguised longing and need. They seem to be not Movie People, but real life people, scrappy, good-hearted beings of hidden hurts and treasured little joys. You wouldn't be surprised to see two people just like this on the street. Who knows how much behind-the-scenes emotions informed the onscreen interaction, but who cares!The two of them sell this film, helping it to pull off a plot twist that would sink many a Big-Budget Weepie.

Once is a mere 89 minutes, was shot mostly in one-take snippets with primitive hand-helds, and consists of little more than two person conversations punctuated by the occasional musical interlude. It sounds slight, like one of those art-house trifles that vanishes from your conscious when the lights come up. But this one stays with you. You won't necessarily think about it much-its not an intellectual work. It's a work about feelings. And the emotional impact of this one is subtle but strong, true, and long-lasting.

THE SINGULAR SCENE: The two perform "Falling Slowly". I wish you could've seen this scene in a theater. 15 minutes into the film and already we were all engulfed by stunned silences, started by our quickened pulse, embarrassed and excited by our silent tears.