Me And Orson Welles

Technically, the title of this post should be "Orson Welles and I", but I'm going for a cheap laugh by stealing the title of the Zac Efron film released last year. But before I get to Orson in all his fat, ego-mad glory, I have two personal announcements to make... 1) Imma change my slogan up weekly, make sure to check it out at the top o' the blog. AND 2) I've finally finished a piece of writing. Or at least a chapter of something, something that I have something resembling a vision for. It's called Death to Mr. Darcy, and here's a snyopsis;

H.D. Shea is a janitor by day, but by night he is a self-declared "Ares of Academia", waging a citizens war on chick-lit, experimental colleges, the movies, and Jane Austen. As he wreaks havoc on his latest target, a discount bookstore, we journey deep into the bizarre recesses of his past, meeting the mother he idolized, the father he failed to understand, the women (and men) he attempted to love, and the mysterious, ancient Professor Beckstein, who may be the key to understanding this strange, sad creature and his aberrant worldview. Enlivened by sly, absurdist humour and shot through with a tragic lyricism, "Death to Mr. Darcy" is a wry, insightful reminder of the corrupting and redeeming powers of art. I've spent three weeks hammering away at the characters, researching the real-life lit that appears in the piece, and, of course, carefully selecting the right font (hey, I'm OCD about this stuff). In short, I'd appreciate it if you read this, the first chapter, and gave me some thoughts. As a matter o' fact, everytime somebody reads a chapter and inboxes me with SPECIFIC commentings (more than one or two wee sentences) regarding what you like and don't, I'll award you fifty Jewpoints for your troubles.. :) Any problems, lemme know. Read away, but then come back to here!

Read? Commented. Great. Buckle dem seatbelts, chillins. I be writin' bout what Roger Ebert done called the best movie that be existin'. Evah.

CITIZEN KANE

The 25: The classic that won't die-and for good reason.

Citizen Kane is the single most praised thing since that dude who did the whole water-into-wine shebang back in pre-feminism days. As such, when talking about Orson Welles pseudo-biographical boundary-breaker, its difficult to separate fact from opinion. But, after much stubble-scratching, I have found a way...

Objective: This film has occupied the "#1" spot on more all-time best lists than any other.
Subjective: I wouldn't go that far, but in my eyes it's definitely a great American epic, and one of the best products of the late 30's-early 40's celluloid gold rush.
Objective: Director/actor/demi-god Orson Welles made the decision early on to tell the story of newspaper tycoon Charles Foster Kane (Welles!) and the mystery of his final word ("Rosebud...") using multiple narrators, an experimental choice that's freed everyone from Allen to Tarantino to play with structure as they please.
Subjective: The oldest tricks truly are the most effective, for as effects-reliant pictures (George Lucas, nyuk nyuk nyuk) from four years ago already look aged, Kane, released 50 years before my birth, remains affecting and arresting simply because it knows how to tell its story.
Objective: This film was the first to employ the concept of "deep focus" photography extensively and successfully, implementing a style of camerawork that's still used today.
Subjective: I beat it to death, I know, but I truly find that there's nothing quite so exciting as a picture that believes in its audience, and boy, oh boy, does this one; the camera never blurs out the background, never instructs us where to look, lets us pick out what really matters from the bric-a-brac-that great sweeping shot of Kane's myriad possessions in the finale is but one example of this.
Objective: Welles was a stage actor before this picture.
Subjective: I believe that, thanks to his theatrical experience, Welles was devoid of the sort of glitterati vanity many big-screen actors possessed at the time, and because of it his Kane performance is both awesome in its crazed grandeur and terrifying in its quiet rawness; this performance, one of the best ever captured by a camera, was ground zero for the slow but sure rise of realism in screen acting.
Objective: Citizen Kane featured major innovations in the areas of music, lighting, editing, special effects and make-up design.
Subjective: The great mark of a groundbreaking picture is that it doesn't date, and, indeed, to these eyes, it almost looks like they made this one yesterday.
Objective: Critics who do take issue with the picture do so on account of its "lack of emotional pull".
Subjective: Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis?!?! Seriously, look at Kane's final scene with Susan (Dorothy Comingore), at how he finally comes to comprehend what love is but fails miserably in his attempt to manufacture it-"lack of emotional pull" my ass.
Objective: Kane's story bears much resemblance to that of real-life legend William Randolph Hearst.
Subjective: True, Welles probably used Hearst's story as a rough outline of his own, but this film is about America. It is about our roots, how we've strayed from them, what we've discovered and lost along the way. It is about us, and I cannot imagine the movies without it.

Citizen Kane teaches all artists a valuable lesson; do not contemplate your own boundaries, even for a minute. Welles wrote his script without the slightest idea of how to bring his vision to the screen, and as such, created a work of untamed, imaginative id. His naivete led to the creation of a good 50% of the techniques modern directors use to this day. In short, do not worry about the journey; first, imagine the destination, and if there is no road, pave it yourself.
The Singular Scene: "Rosebud" revealed.

A Dream (Within A Dream) Come True

The rest of this post will be an uncharacteristically positive and disorganized piece of fanboy-freakout exegesis, but first, a proposal; I suggest we stage an international search to find all people who block entire parking lot exits by stopping their car to have little chats with passersby, and then force those people to sit through a lifelong screenwriting class with George Lucas. Just a thought. But now, onto what is, quite simply, a big fucking deal. A Savior of Cinema has appeared in our own time, bursting onto the 2010 movie scene to complete the task initiated by Pixar a few weeks ago; to save us from popcorn movie-hell and renew us unto the incomparable joys of a great piece of popular art;

INCEPTION (SPOILER FREE, DEMIT!)

The 25: Cements Chris Nolan as our primary cinematic pop artist.

A lot rode on Inception for me personally, because I knew going in that, if it succeeded, the American cinema could add a new Great Director to its ranks. I suppose I should explain why, in my eyes, I'm only now considering Christopher Nolan eligible for that title despite his consistently impressive filmography. This leads me to myTHREE TIMES THE CHARM RULE (TM), which I tend to use to determine whether a specific member of the filmmaking community can truly be deemed "great" at what they do. As implied by the title, I only declare actors, directors, screenwriters, cinematographers, caterers and other cinematic artists "great" if they produce three great works; one to announce their considerable promise, another to consummate that promise, and a third just to prove that sheer luck's lightning didn't somehow strike twice. While actors have been inducted into the Greatness Club with an exciting frequency this millennia-Clooney, Seymour Hoffman, Winslet, and Swinton to name a few-I haven't really inducted a new director since, oh, Sofia Coppola made Marie Antoinette in '06. I feared that, after Memento and The Dark Knight Nolan would screw me over with numero tres. But I secretly hoped it'd be three strikes for the guy, and, after seeing his latest and best work, it's a wonder I ever doubted him at all!

Trying to explain the astonishing maze of a plot is like trying to teach sight reading to blind people. Suffice to say its about Dom (Leo DiCaprio), whose power to invade dreams gets him wrapped up in a dangerous scheme that requires him and his literal "dream team" (Tom Hardy, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Ellen Page) to invade a very disturbed subconscious. Also involved are two competing businessmen (Ken Wantanabe, Cillian Murphy), and Dom's wife (Marion Cotillard), whose cryptic past really starts to fuck things up for our heroes. But now I want to talk about what makes this film great;

1) Pure Imagination-The inside of a dream has been done to death cinematically, but rarely as completely and cleverly imagined as in this picture. Nolan spent ten arduous years creating a set of rules by which to define his dream-verse; laws that allow entire cities to change shapes like origami and scores of characters to shatter basic tenets of physics, but laws that also create concrete consequences, all the while fitting in with our own perceptions of dreaming like pieces in a puzzle. (Example: Death in these dreams isn't dangerous because you wake up from dreams when you die, but non-fatal pain is a very real concern, as it isn't enough to rouse you from your nightmare.) As movies slowly creep past their centennial, there is a very real fear that there's very little new ground left to break. Well, folks, there's a scene here where Gordon-Levitt's character defies gravity twice, first by transcending it and a second time by re-instating it. I dare skeptics to watch this scene, along with that mind-boggling Paris sequence, and not feel their minds expand just a bit. In a day and age where we have to pick through film after ossified film to find fresh imagery and ideas, Inception brims over with original thought.

2) Confidence-Ah, isn't it bliss to find a film that believes in us?!?! That thinks we're smart, that demands our involvement and then repays it amply and often! AAAAAAAH ORGASM--Anyway. Seriously, its breathtaking how much this film trusts us. Within the first ten minutes, we've entered not just a dream, but a dream-within-a-dream, and we've been informed of almost the entire mythology of the world these people inhabit. Your noggin spins as the plot careens from one twist to the next, always with a sly confidence that says "more where that came from!" Sometimes you're barely keeping up with Dom and his cohorts, and other times you're about half-a-step behind them. This is an exhausting experience, and you'll leave the movie with no energy, blank-faced and worked-over. Which, of course, means that this is great stuff. You can't appreciate this film if you see it with bff's you txt, kids you babysit, or partners-in-crime you want to make back-row babies with. It requires that you lose yourself in the film, which of course, is a hallmark of intelligent, truly transcendent cinema. I saw something at today's screening that gave me great hope for the future of the form. Throughout the previews, Iphones and Icee straws received plenty o' lovin', and couples young and old whispered. But slowly, phone screens went dark, slurping faded away, and even the tiniest titter died out entirely. Pathetic and estrogen-y though it may be, I got a lump in my throat as I realized that audiences were still more than willing to give a movie their all-it just had to do the same.

I'm going to attempt to do some real-world good now. I'm telling you to fork over whatever cashmonies you have to see Inception-it's worth it. Then, I'm telling you to see it again, re-evaluate the spells it casts. Spread the word. Go in groups. Hell, go with me on my fourth or fifth or sixth planned viewing and we'll discuss the two hours of mind blowing that just occurred over dinner. The point is, lovelies, I want you to make Inception the highest grossing film of the summer. It won't fix Hwood's creative hepatitis, but hell, it might encourage them to churn out a few more big-budget works with the kind of unorthodox spirit that powers this modern-day masterpiece. (I give it an A. Duh!)

The Singular Scene: That ending. Witness it in theaters and be a part of the group-gasp of total shock and awe.

Nosy, Nosy Nicholson

CHINATOWN

Screenwriters, welcome to Heaven. Here's my pick for the best-written movie of all time. It's not as quotable as Gone With The Wind, nor is it as line-for-line stunning as Casablanca. But this gritty, shockingly nihilistic neo-noir, penned by Robert Towne and directed by Roman Polanski, takes the cake due to its skillful structure, keen attention to character, staggering intelligence, and, most of all, its extraordinary economy. There is not a second that could conceivably be cut from Chinatown. Each self-contained shot, each crackling exchange of hard-boiled bons mots, each action, big or small, desperate or cunningly mapped out, sends the story zooming forward like an out-of-control freight train, until at last we arrive at that bloodcurdling final revelation, a twist so unimaginable and unwieldy in its power that, to this day, it's still the iconic silver-screen whoah! moment.

Our hero is PI JJ Gittes (Jack Nicholson), a detective with all the rapier wit and hard-won ingenuity of one of Bogie's famous shamuses, but none of the bitterness; no matter what's happened to him before-and we learn, ultimately, that quite a lot has happened-he's a courtly, businesslike guy. He's hired by Mrs. Evelyn Mulwray to tail her husband, water tycoon Hollis (Darrell Zwerling). She thinks he's fooling around, and Gittes uncovers evidence of just that. However, it turns out the Evelyn Mulwray he met with was, in fact, an impersonator. The real one (Faye Dunaway), is disgraced, furious, and ready to press charges. Things really get complicated when Hollis is found drowned, most likely murdered. Hired by the real Evelyn to investigate her husband's death, Gittes uncovers a city-wide political conspiracy, and finds himself up against not just a few evasive suspects, but instead an entire far-reaching system of merciless exploitation and utter corruption.

One man versus The Man-not an uncommon conceit. But most heroes bring down the baddies without breaking a nail or a real sweat. No matter what obstacles were thrown at Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe we never felt any they were in any real danger. Good would triumph. Gittes, by contrast, must stoop to jarring levels of hostility, almost sadism, in order to make headway in his quest for answers. In the film's first act, Gittes conducts a polite interrogation with Evelyn over dinner and cigarettes. By the final act, he's callously slapping her around, infuriated by her constant lack of forthrightness. He goes from covertly taking photos and digging through old record books to thrashing a man half to death against a gate. Watching this decent man snap under pressure gives the film its terrifying pull, reminding us of the reservoirs of evil that lie deep within the hearts of all good people, waiting to be tapped.


Nicholson plays brilliantly on his loose-cannon public image here, presenting us at first with the most restrained, relatable character he's ever created, only to drag him deeper and deeper into the depths of despairing mania. He may not display his psychosis in deranged babble or jittery tics, but we know from the look in his eyes in the film's morbid finale that he's just as broken inside as Randall Patrick McMurphy or The Joker. He's been lied to and manipulated and taken advantage of so much-as have so many of the people he's come to know whilst on the Mulwray case-that he's lost all his faith in the human race, and by extension, his ability to connect with the rest of its members.

Chinatown is an embarrassment of riches. Dunaway deserved an Oscar for making despondency repulsive and seductive all at once, and on the technical side of things, Jerry Goldsmith's score evokes the spare, spit-tobacco pseudo-beauty of the movie's setting, a bone-dry Los Angeles in its days of burning. However, for all its successes, I believe the essentials reasons for the film's considerable achievement are threefold. Two have already been mentioned-Towne's flawless script, Nicholson's knowing performance. The third is Polanski's superfluous direction. His methods are questionable (word is he physically abused Dunaway to draw out her darkest side). His results, however, are not. Having lost his wife to the Manson murders just before shooting began, Polanski truly understood the nature of the metaphysical, almost viral despair Towne was trying to document, and thus captured it perfectly. There is a fearlessness to this movie that floors you. It inspires true, bone-deep horror without a single jump scene or bloodbath. The true monsters, Polanski explains, are us, and isn't that the most terrifying thought of all?

Movies like Chinatown marked a sea change in the moral fabric of the American cinema. As the Golden Age of Hollywood slowly but surely dimmed, movies were shaken out of their Technicolor reverie by the plunge of an economy, the dissolution of a long-prevalent sub-culture, and the death of a president. It was post-Zapruder, post-Altamont, post-My Lai, and the climate of national malaise was so strong it infected even our escapism. We didn't go to our movies for dreams-we went for nightmares.
From the mid-1960's up until the watershed release of the first Star Wars in 1977, theaters were filled with a string of cinematic screeds that viewed a shifting (rotting?) America through a lense of Nietszchean abnegation, and Chinatown was the arguable apotheosis of the genre. Whereas Casablanca and Best Years of Our Lives inspire unchecked pride by showcasing the beauty of human sacrifice, this picture accomplishes the opposite, steeping us in the shameful foibles of our sinful nature and delivering a chilling message that grows more and more prophetic with every schoolyard shooting or suicide bomb, a message best summed up by Evelyn's father (John Huston); "You see...most people never have to face the fact that in the right time and the right place...they are capable of anything."

Classic, Schmassic; The Most Overrated Films of All Time

O hai guyz. I hope everyone's getting into colleges. I hope everyone is equally uneasy about the fact that, ten years from now, the average human being is married with children. And I hope everyone will listen to my bitching, as is the norm...

So I saw Never Let Me Go last week. It's astoundingly photographed and flawlessly acted, but underdeveloped characters make the experience a bit less than it could be. Still, it's the kind of Oscar-ready film that will probably be mistakenly hailed as a classic for years to come. It got me to thinking; what films truly got off easy when it came to public approval. What slices of sorry treacle has been masquerading as masterpieces for too, too long? I don't mean the slightly over-hyped (The Dark Knight), or the decent sentimental goop that bleeding-heart soccer moms put on a pedestal (Forrest Gump....shoot me, the heartlessness comes with the religious territory)-I'm talking the really awful stuff that's been passed off as the really great stuff. I'd be shocked if the remainder of this post doesn't piss a few people off. In fact, I'd be dissappointed.

THE MOST OVERRATED FILMS OF ALL TIME (in no particular order):

West Side Story

The Consensus: With its lush score, intricately choreographed dance numbers, and ingenious re-imagining of the traditional tragedy, this is one at the summit of stage-to-screen adaptations.

Jew Says: Okay, the greatness of Jerome Robbins choreography isn't up for debate. Viewed out of context with the actual story, the sangin' and a-hoofin' are both impeccably orchestrated and captured with infectious energy by Robert Wise's camera. But, judged as a part of the movie's whole, they reveal that this one's attempting the damning practice of having its cake and eating it, too. West Side Story the motion picture doesn't work for the same reason West Side Story the show doesn't work-its two conceivable reasons to be cancel each other out. The gangsters in Guys and Dolls could sing and dance up a storm convincingly because they weren't really gangsters; they were broadly rendered caricatures who, despite their "fuhgeddaboutits" and hackneyed scowls, never dipped deeper into the pool of vice and vanity than a little gambling. Here, however, the members of the Sharks and Jets are supposed to be the real thing, hot-blooded, impetuous hoods who open up old wounds in midnight "rumbles" just to feel something. So why are these people we're supposed to be at least little afraid of doing ballet? The story could've worked as a straight examination of the gang mentality-there's certainly potential there. Or, it could've been a parody of said gangs, reveling in the singular absurdity of its dancing ruffians. As it is, WSS attempts to manufacture menace in the dialogue scenes, and then undoes the effects of that menace by reaching fervently and frequently for jazz-hand glory. Or, looked at the other way, it creates a inventive, winningly idiosyncratic musical conceit that's constantly being abandoned for scenes of jarring violence. In the end, both incarnations of this piece commit artistic suicide in so many ways that all I can do is weep for what could've been done with such a talented roster of writers, choreographers, and actors. Wow, have I ever incurred the wrath of the theatre kids with this review. Please still talk to me guys! I like My Fair Lady and Hello, Dolly! as much as the next guy!

La Dolce Vita

The Consensus: Federico Fellini was the greatest visual stylist in the history of film, and he puts his talent to good use here, exposing the seedy underbelly of celebrity life and creating an erotically despairing vision of Italy that still astounds today.

Jew Says: Fellini had serious behind-the-camera chops (see 8 1/2 and La Strada), and judging by this picture he knew it too. The film follows a cadre of disillusioned starlets, raging hubbies, greasy hucksters and hungry paparazzo for seven tempestuous, oversexed nights of vacuous happiness and camouflaged misery. As you may have noticed, it's not the most tightly focused plot, and the director chooses to tell what little story there is in a series of whiz-bang setpieces that are individually thrilling but cumulatively empty. Every scene is staggeringly self-conscious; you can always feel the auteur behind the curtain weaving wonders just to show off, straining to entertain us for his own ego's sake. The picture reminds me of those too-talented musicians who can jam incessantly and ostentatiously for hours without ever settling on a coherent melody. For all its beauty, it's just too high on itself to leave some kind of lasting impression.

Raging Bull

The Consensus: The screen's answer to Othello, Scorsese's peak, and the best film of the last 30 years.

Jew Says: Look, any subject can be made watchable. Schindler's List could've been agony, but juxtaposing the compelling story of Oskar's personal evolution with what critic Owen Gleiberman terms "grace notes of cruelty" made it bearable enough to sit through without doing injustice to the nerve-frying horrors of the Shoah. Cool Hand Luke gives us plenty of keenly observed, deeply felt moments of comradery between the prisoners, which softens (but doesn't dull) the effects of the Captain's startling sadism. Hell, Scorsese himself did it in Goodfellas by leavening the gore of mob life with the chintzy glamor. Here, we have a film about Jake LaMotta (Robert Deniro), a man who beats people up in and out of the boxing ring and makes his wife and brother into mental punching bags so as to vent his sexual insecurities. And that's it. No moments where we're allowed a relief from the anger, the tension, the impotent fury. Not a second where someone isn't shouting or clearly building to a shout. Scorsese can find nothing to do but stage fight after fight after fight, so that every punch and epithet becomes a little less effective than the last, because, quite frankly, we're just worn out by it all. To see how this sort of personality is corrected portrayed onscreen, see A Streetcar Named Desire, where Kazan and Brando probe the simple, stormy soul of a man with animal tendencies. Here, because Scorsese finds no technique to make Lamotta's story anything less than hell to sit through, I felt like I was watching an Animal Planet documentary on a creature that incidentally shared some traits with homo sapiens. DeNiro puts his heart and soul into realizing Scorsese's vision, but the vision itself is one of the few flawed ones in the director's career.

Dances With Wolves
The Consensus: A great American epic the likes of which we don't see anymore, gilded with spectacular production values and boasting the first accurate cinematic portrayal of Native Americans in ages.

Oh come on now, kiddies. That's just bullshit. No one can deny the waving wheat and rampaging buffalo fill the screen and the speakers impressively, but my problem with this shameful, pandering wreck of a film is how earnestly it pretends to be exactly what it isn't. As former Civil War combatant John Dunbar (Kevin Costner, directing himself and therefore miscasting himself) becomes an observer of, participant in and activist for Sioux culture, we're treated to scene after scene of Nice Indians and Big Bad White People. Okay, for accuracy's sake, I should mention there is one mean Indian who-spoiler alert-turns out to be a good ol' boy deep down, and this revelation did indeed move me-to get up and find a toilet to vomit in, that is. The point I'm trying to make here is that flagrant oversimplification is a two-way street. For years, Hollywood was viciously vilified for casting the entire Native American people as spear-brandishing armies just waiting to get plowed down by John Wayne and co. Costner was showered with Oscars and box-office moolah for finally breaking the mold, but think about it. Isn't this picture just a three-hour act of revisionist racism? Now the whites are the sneering sociopaths, and the Indians get the saint role. Is canonizing an entire people any better than condemning them? God, how I hate this movie so! Costner's "magnum opus" (ha ha, he's done TONS better) is a meat-and-potatoes Western stretched to bladder-busting length and drenched in sickly-sweet preachiness; in short, pleasing to the eye, downright offensive to the intellect.

The Third Man

The Consensus: Carol Reed's stunningly shot thriller doubles as an insightful character piece that says something eerie but essential about the post-WWII world. Also, its score is among the best ever written.

Films should either A) Give us a story told with energy and originality or B) in the absence of conventional narrative, provide us with characters whom are interesting enough that our desire to study them supplants our agitation with the lack of conventional plot. In short, get me into the events, or the people. Or, if you can, both. This film does neither. Our lead Holly Martins (Joseph Cotten) is an incalculably dumb pulp writer who's capable only of smart-ass remarks and shows no real emotion, so the Interest In Character technique doesn't work. And, seeing as the entire film consists of Martins walking around post-war Vienna trying to uncover what led to the death of his BFF Harry Lime (Orson Welles), intercut with the occasional random close-up of a "random" figure in shadow, we know that, unless the screenwriter really intends to rob us of our monies, the dead dude is really alive and-gasp-is the guy whose been lurking around the whole time! Some films are said to "telegraph" their plot twists; this one grabs a megaphone and shouts it louder and for longer than a senator the month before election time. Of all the films I've talked about in the course of this post, it is this one's success that baffles me most. How can you praise the depth of a character who undergoes no real change-who goes from slightly bitter to really fucking bitter, not gradually, but suddenly because the plot requires him to? How can you laud camerawork and background music so showy and pretentious that it's at right angles to the barely existent drama? Most importantly, tell me; how can you praise this as a great work when every single personage involved in the making of this film also produced masterpieces of inconceivably greater quality?

Hopefully I've made you re-think some "classics" (lawl). Your turn. What are your picks for the most overrated films ever made? Ready set go.

Silencio!

Shalom, lovelies! Before I plunge into my moviefilm of the week, I have two things to say. The first is this; I am currently working on a novel, mah first, called Gideon's Giant. I'll be ripping off all my favorite authors in order to tell a story involving Jewish mythology, schlock monster movies, the American dream, and (for good measure) prostitutes. First chapter up next week for sure. No bullshit. Really. I'm saying this specifically so I force mahself to write!

Secondly, I need to alert you to a real rarity; a great album, not just a collection of really good singles but the best cohesive aural work I've loosed my earbuds upon since, oh, probably sinceKid A came out a decade ago. It's called Hadestown, and it's billed as a "folk opera", but don't let that scare you off; the sound is less traditional roots music and more of something unclassifiable and indescribable, a magical melding of the familiar and the fresh, a potent mixture zydeco and alt-acoustic rock and classic blues shot through with the gravelly gravity of a Tom Waits ballad and the lyrical inventiveness of a Dylan anthem . The brainchild of Anais Mitchell, a singer/songwriter I've loved since the Jesus I don't believe in was a baby, the album is a retelling of the Orpheus myth (you know, the one where the dude isn't supposed to look back but does), set during the Great Depression in what is presumably N'awlins (LOVE). Mitchell wrote all the songs, and then brought in some friends to sing the different characters in the myth, which is pretty badass when the characters include Olympian gods and your friends include Ani DiFranco and Bon Iver. This is one of the most ambitious musical projects undertaken in recent years, and it's a rousing success, filled with songs of such transportive genius that listeners can enjoy them without even trying to follow the story, though, if you do pull up Mitchell's website and go along with her plot summary, your goosebump attacks will double in their frequency. Mitchell's done more than make the best concept album in ages, she's created a series of sublime standalone songs that will remain, I suspect, both timeless and of their moment; check out "Wedding Song"and "If It's True" and I bet you'll agree.

Onto this week's film, not for the faint of heart. To pseudo-paraphrase Judge Trudy, bring in the smooching lesbians!

MULHOLLAND DRIVE

The 25: Cinema's mad scientist experiments successfully with the subconscious.

Mulholland Drive is a film that’s hard to swallow for many simply because snooty-ass critics and couch potatoheads have spent so much time telling us to appreciate it as something it isn’t. It’snot a massive metaphysical mystery that takes hours of re-watching to figure out (though critics would love it to be, because they could engage in so much more pointless intellectual masturbation if there were hundreds of Hidden Meanings) What it is is a staggeringly successful experiment in using the tools of the medium to reconstruct how and what we feel while we’re dreaming.

The dream belongs to Hollywood actress (Naomi Watts), and depending on your interpretation (again, no Hidden Meanings), the actress is either suicidally depressed Diane, escaping into a sunny fantasia, or happy-go-lucky newcomer Betty, descending into a perverse nightmare. Just like our real dreams, the film is a disjointed series of moments that affect us, and we do not for the life of us know why. There are moments that inspire total dread, absurd laughter, maddening confusion, unchecked awe, and even sexual arousal (yeah, yeah), despite not really contributing to the advancement of a traditional narrative. Perfect, say I; while we’re dreaming, we’ve neither the time nor the capacity to analyze what’s going on-it simply flashes before us, and in the walled-off corners of our subconscious, we form a purely emotional reaction to it all. Also, in our dreams, names and traits we connect to those close to us are redistributed in strange ways. Lynch evokes this wonderfully by having the same names and faces pop up in connection with seemingly different people; “Betty” is a name that we ascribe to both an actress and a waitress at a diner, “Diane” is non-existent or a disturbed woman or maybe a dead body. Finally, the film recreates that indescribable sort of floaty sensation we get in a dream; the use of clever focus tricks and transitions give us the strange feeling that we’re hovering a few feet above whatever’s going on.

This isn’t a film that benefits from lots of tech talk, nor description of the “story”; to discuss the ins and outs of how this was made detracts from its otherwordly allure, and this experiment only pretends to have a narrative, so why bother? A note though, to Naomi Watts; in addition to being smokin’ hot, you gave the best performance of 2001 in this movie, and you may steal Halle Berry’s undeserved Oscar if you like. As my final defense of a film that confuses and frustrates many, I will say this; before action flicks, we are told to turn off our brain, because if we think, we’ll notice the steaming bag of shit we’ve been treated to. Here, turn off your brain, because if you can successfully do so, David Lynch’s daring vision starts to work on your soul.

The Singular Scene: The visit to Club Silencio tends to be the point where viewers start to cry, jump out of their skin in fright (count me in), or turn the film off in revulsion. I’m curious to hearyour reaction.

We'll Always Have Paris...and Anti-Semitism

RANT:

I had much I wanted to talk about this week, but I'm setting most of it aside because of a rare political incident that has gone beyond the realm of skeptic scoffs and couldn't-get-worse morbid humour to just flat out PISS ME OFF. This week, Elena Kagan, Obama's (Jewish) choice for Supreme Court nominee, was subjected to a series of pointless, horribly conducted hearings where GOP senators dropped comments like these; "Well, I think Americans should know she's had a..different upbringing than we're used to seeing..." "Ms. Kagan's West Side childhood was..." "I wonder if her decisions as a member of upper-class Manhattan would..." Read "Jewish" for all the italicized words. This is subtle anti-semitism, which I'm used to. What I'm NOT used to is seeing a senator pose a question such as this: "Now, explain me your experience the night of the...(major emphasis) Christmas Day bombings." "I was eating Chinese food like any other Jew on Christmas!", the firebrand Kagan snapped back. But a witty reply doesn't calm my fury at what's nothing less than an insanely obvious and intolerable breach of the separation of church and state. That religious beliefs should ever become a part, in ANY magnitude, of a major government decision is solid proof that even the highest-up among us are blinded by mass ignorance. I'm not making a statement about Kagan's competence or lack thereof; politically speaking, I'm just a child. But I do know this; in a nation where comparative religion classes are offered in schools, interfaith discussions are more widely encouraged than ever, and members of every major religion contribute actively to 99% of all industries, senators, of all people, should NOT be in such a state of paranoid cultural tunnel vision that they feel the need to slip in subliminal messages alerting Americans that a political candidate doesn't Believe What Most People Believe. My main point here is that the Kagan's suitability for the job, not her religious preferences, ought to be the big deal here. This gets to the heart of a fundamental national problem; allowed more opportunities to become intellectually worldly than any other country, many of us elect, instead, to never leave our backyards. Tolerance is just too much work, I suppose. Ah hell, enough. I'm done doling out my hatred. Let's show some love for-

CASABLANCA

The 25: The world will never envy these lovers, but we'll always get lost in their story.

Except for maybe three or four people (three of whom I know-shame, shame!), everyone's seen Casablanca and loved it, so I don't really need to convince anyone that it's great. Instead, here are three reasons why it holds a place of paramount significance in the cinema and in our national cultural makeup-

1) This is the best example of the glorious Old Hollywood filmmaking style. Films made during this era are free of any real irony; they do not comment on themselves or society at large, instead opting to just tell a good story, simple and truthful. This plot is bursting at the seams with supporting characters and subplots, but it's told with such lean, indulgence-free efficiency that damn near anyone could follow it, and packed with such abundance of comedy, melodrama, and intrigue that damn near anyone could enjoy it. During their early years, Hollywood's big studio systems aimed to produce tasteful, smart pictures that would entertain the whole family, and never did they hit bullseye quite like they did here.

2) This is Bogie's best work: Humphrey Bogart is the ultimate American icon, and Casablanca gets to the heart of why. On the exterior, his tough-skinned wiseguys are who we'd like to be; smart, sassy, ruggedly handsome men of the world who have cultivated such an impenetrable inner strength that they're almost invulnerable to the wrenches life hurls at them. However,on the inside, these people are just like us; hurt and angry and searching for the right mask to hide behind. The brilliant mixture of escapist fantasy and brutal reality that makes him so relatable is never more visible than in his career-high portrayal of Rick Blaine, American expat who's forced to confront his past face-to-face when old flame Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman) steps into his bar with a new lover (Paul Henreid) and a serious problem (they're on the run from the Nazis). As the situation develops, we first thrill to Rick's smart-ass remarks, then cringe as he slumps into an all-too-familiar state of heartbreak, and finally, tear up with pride in that airplane scene, when he makes a selfless decision we only hope we'd make, too. Rick, Sam Spade, Phillip Marlowe; they're bigger and better than us, but they really are us.

3) This has the best replay value of any movie ever made: I think it's because of the sheer amount of fascinating relationships on display here. You can watch the picture each time and tune into a different thread. Upon my first viewing, I was enamored by Rick’s dealings with the French police officer Louis(the great Claude Rains), how their relationship consists of a series of bad jokes and needy favors, how it is not based upon any kind of emotional connection or shared interests but upon usefulness; Rick wants Louis to help cover up his gambling operation, the copper likes to use Rick’s local hot-spot to make very public, headline-grabbing arrests. The second go-round, I was touched by the melancholy, days-gone-by repartee between Rick and his long-time companion, Sam (Dooley Wilson, who gets to croon the film’s theme…”As Time Goes By”? Perhaps you’ve heard of it?) Even Rick’s brief encounter with the woman he stood up the night before speaks volumes; entire movies have struggled and failed to sum up a relationship as tellingly as this heated little exchange of dialogue does. The multitude of fully realized people, along with the elegant production values, dreamy romanticism, touching universality, and iconic performances, make this one a movie to surrender to.

The Singular Scene: The dueling anthems scene is guaranteed to infect even the healthiest cynic with a case of lump-in-throat disease.