Brown paper packages tied up with strings...

Everytime I do a "favorite things" post, comments regarding my blog seem to skyrocket as if I'm Oprah's whitebread Jewboy cowboy cousin or something. As such, here's what I've been hooked on of late...

Foundling, David Gray-As Peter Gabriel and Paul Simon slink off into VH1 tribute anonymity, we're in desperate need of an artist who can blend mainstreams sentiments with worldly eclecticism. Foundling is the album Gray's been building toward his whole career-it has all of White Ladder's creamy harmonies but none of its overproduction, twice the orchestral genius of Life in Slow Motion but only a quarter of its self-indulgence. This is a prime example of artist as mad scientist, integrating influences without flaunting them (the title track has just the right dose of career-peak Genesis to liven the sad-eyed mysticism of the lyrics) and straddling the fine fine line between ballsy experimentation and tried-and-true technique ("Forgetting" has a pop-muzak hook bound to give Chris Martin a hard-on, but also boasts a rhyme scheme the likes of which you've never heard before). In short, its an intelligent, intoxicating helping of guilt-free pop. Hallelujah. Listen to "Forgetting"

Opposite You, Marin Mazzie, Jason Danieley-Not since Kurt Weill and Lotte Lenya has the Broadway boasted a more boffo golden couple. Her spinny soprano and his robust tenor blend gorgeously on this marvelous meringue of a duets album. Offstage, they're absolute sweethearts (I've met them AAAAH) and onstage they're remarkable versatile, headlining in everything from Ragtime to Curtains to their current hit, Next To Normal. They're just as boundlessly brilliant in the recording studio as well; Jason socks over a ramped-up patter piece ("I Want To Be") just before turning in a stirring, Goulet-esque rendition of a Jerry Herman weepie ("I Won't Send Roses"), Marin feels equally at home with a cheeky pop serenade ("A Sorta Love Song") and an obscure old Streisand ballad ("Who Are You Now"), and together they successfully tackle everything from vaudevillian kitsch ("The Aba Daba Honeymoon") to an exhilarating ten-minute Sondheim suite. Those whose theatre knowledge stops at Phantom of the Opera may very well be the definition of bored for these 45 minutes. But for those who know their showtunes, appreciate vocal technique and go gaga over dramatic singing done 100% right, Opposite You is the opposite of hell. The twosome in concert.

"The News From Lake Wobegon" Podcast, Garrison Keillor-Lake Wobegon, Minnesota-"where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average"-is one of the great fictional locations in pop culture. For the past 20-odd years Garrison Keillor's been exploring the lives of its denizens in a weekly segment that serves as the centerpiece of A Prairie Home Companion, perhaps the last Great Traditional Radio Show. Every one of Keillor's fifteen-minute monologues washes over you with the warmth of a home-cooked homily, albeit one freed of the squirmy specifics of religious judgement. He incorporates stand-up comedy and potent pathos, quotes Shakespeare and bluegrass, explores botox and the Bible and everything in between. Listening to Keillor is like sitting by the fading campfire with a slightly tipsy grandpa who gets off-topic over and over, but does so with such drama that you don't care how far he strays from the original narrative. In one of my favorite monologues, Keillor starts out discussing his oddball sister, exalts the virtues of banana bread, plunges headlong into his boy scout days when he got lost and had to search for a spot to take a piss in the freezing cold, recalls the reappearance of a long-lost family member, and concludes with a gentle plea for compassion and forgiveness. In another, he muses about migration, tells of a Wobegoner's heartbreaking excursion to the city, explains a crotchety old man's disillusionment with the Lutheran church ("Trinity? I don't think so."), proffers his opinions on vodka, botox, and religious trends, and caps the whole thing off with a celebration of American motherhood. It's all over the place, and all of it is abusrd, but it's shot through with an urgent poetry and simple humour that makes it steadily addicting. You'll tune into "The News" more than once, I guarantee it. Prepare to be hooked.

Translations, Sylvie Lewis-This plays like Norah Jones on steroids-or Nellie McKay on relaxants, depending on your viewpoint. With this, her sophomore album, Lewis proves she's here to stay as a major songwriter. Tricks that could seem gimmicky if attempted by other artists-writing as an omniscient figure ("Say In Touch") or taking the POV of a desperate man-child ("Of Course, Isabelle")-are pulled off here with style to spare. Throughout the album, you'll shake your head in disbelief at her adept wordplay (my favorite couplet? "You flirt like a married man/The way you do it only the married can"). It doesn't hurt that these arrangements are gorgeous-it's a kick to see country twang and cabaret class mingle so freely. And that voice, while a little thin, is undeniably expressive. The album won't change your life. But, to steal the title of one of Lewis's best songs, it's "Something to Dream To". (Sorry, no quality Youtube recordings)

"Harrison Bergeron", Kurt Vonnegut-A world with no competition-paradise, right? Not according to post-modernism's piss-n-vinegar grandpa. In seven stunning pages, using only two characters, a living room and a faulty TV, Vonnegut maps out a doomy dystopia that gives Orwell a run for his money. In this sterilized hell, the best and brightest are saddled with mental and physical handicaps so we're all at the same stage of collective commonality. This ranks with Kurtmeister's best writing, and therefore, some of the best writing ever done. AHHH READ

George the Goldfish

If you survived the first week of schoolings, congratulations and thanks for taking time out of your hellishly hectic schedule to read this. If this weekend represents the dog days of your summer, don't talk to me. Anywho, I'm in the midst of writing a new chapter of my novel and I shall post next week. I'm doing fine, if you care to know. And the following piece is my favorite I've written in a very, very long time-

SABRINA

The 25: The best transformation story there ever was.

The plot: Sad-sack chaffeur's daughter Sabrina Fairchild (Audrey Hepburn), returns from Paris newly radiant and refined, ready to woo silky-smooth rich boy David Larrabee (William Holden). Both fate and David's brother Linus (Bogie) have other plans.

It's not unusual for critics and everyday connoisseurs alike to label this one "the ultimate cinematic Cinderella story". That's mighty praise, but not mighty enough. Sabrina, one of the most enchanting romance films ever made, does the Mrs. Wuss-With-The-Pumpkin Carriage one better. If it hasn't wooed you to the nth degree by the end of the opening monologue, you're romantically impotent and should probably burn your DVD collection and join the monastery. The first time I saw the picture was on a faulty TV that dyed the black-and-white visuals a strange shade of light pink (weird, considering "life in pink" is the translated title of a Piaf song that Sabrina sings), and that color scheme seemed appropriate for a film that basically functions as one protracted, swooning sigh of giddy, girlish delight. I mean that in the best way possible.

Credit director Billy Wilder for turning a wafer-thin bonbon of a plot into something that seriously sticks. If there's one skill the man had in spades, it was the rare and incalculably valuable ability to make absolute absurdity look like the natural order of things. Characters in his films hold elaborate funerals for pet chimps, cross-dress to escape from gangsters, and sustain serious injuries from sitting on empty champagne glasses. But his pseudo-obsessive control of every variable from camera angles to music volume makes these moments scary, hysterical, touching, thrillingly alive. What they never are is fake. In both this picture and his other masterpiece,Sunset Boulevard, he discovered a clever way of both acknowledging and avoiding reality. For the majority of both movies, he placed his main characters in a mansion, enshrouded in luxury yet walled off from commonality. Out there in the Wide World, folks go about their business just as we do, but inside the Desmond pleasure palace, or, in this case, the Larrabee manor, people act differently. Notice how just about every nutty action in the film is undertaken by someone from that house, which is more like a world of its own, both literally (it has two swimming pools, twotennis courts) and figuratively.

If Wilder makes the universe convincing, the luminous A-Hep authenticates the actions of its inhabitants. After all, for the entire first half of the film, until her "bonjour, Paris!" makeover (one of many in her career), we're supposed to believe that no one in the Larrabee household is really attracted to Sabrina. Think about it. We're actually being asked to believe that no one finds Audrey fucking Hepburn physically attractive! The good news is, Audrey's aware that, no matter the frumpiness factor of the garbs she dons, she will never ever look ugly. Still, for the sake of the character, she manages to make Sabrina unattractive in another way. Look at her eyes pre-Paris. She comes off like a puppy being kicked over and over and over. Every line is rank with self-pity. We see how her confidence in herself is so low no one could ever be confident enough in her to get a real relationship going. When she gets back from France, her clothes and hair and makeup are all more alluring, but what's really changed is her opinion of herself. She knows she's beautiful, and that knowledge makes her attractive. Audrey's acting choices sell the entire love story. This is why people who claim her brains didn't match her beauty should be promptly sterilized.

Now back to my first comments. What makes this better even than good ol' Cinderelly? In that fairy tale, you're left with the impression that her reward for her beauty is a prince. Look like the boy wants you to, and you'll get him. It's basically a medieval take on Grease. In Sabrina, Hepburn's reward isn't a debonair cina-dude (though do you really doubt she'll get one in a film like this?), but a better understanding of herself. Even if she doesn't initially wind up with a great guy, she now knows she's worthy of one.

The Singular Scene: Watch how Sabrina attempts suicide and marvel at how Wilder makes it funny and wrenching and wondrous all at once.

Thumbs Up and Much Thanks

"The movies that are made more thoughtfully or made with more ambition often get just get drowned out by the noise", Roger Ebert once said. Not if he and his colleagues Gene Siskel and Richard Roeper could do anything about it. Up until the recent invention (or heavenly design?) of StumbleUpon, television was the easiest way to develop tastes and expand horizonss, and for over twenty seasons, At The Movies, a recorded two-critic discussion of the latest releases, has done just that. Now, the show's getting the guillotine. Tomorrow, pundits AO Scott and Michael Phillips will consider the virtues (or lack thereof) of Julia Roberts, Sly Stallone, and Michael Cera. Then the lights in the balcony will go out for good.
Any attempt to explain how sad this makes me will fail to do my state of mind justice. I grew up watching the Ebert and Roeper edition, taking a morning dose of cinematic theory with my mini-wheats and milk. When Ebert got sick and Roeper quit and someone got that immeasurably dumbassed idea to turn the show into an E!-influenced calamity, I backtracked to the old Siskel shows for comfort, finding almost twenty years worth of fiery debate, ecstatic praise, and scathing put-downs. When AO Scott and Michael Phillips were brought in for the show's final years, I tuned in oncemore, a loyal viewer till the bitter end. I'll miss this show, and the public will too whether they know it or not. Too often, deafening hype wins the day; commerce kills art. But these critics were gladiators for the cinema. They fought to get the buried masterworks seen, be it Hoop Dreams or In the Bedroom. Every week, the average American could turn on their television and feel their knowledge of cinema deepen and widen. Now that's an absolute good. A thunderous round of applause to Siskel, Ebert, Roeper, Phillips, and Scott. You've turned movie watchers into movie lovers, and movie lovers into movie understanders. As a farewell gift, I present a list of the show's most memorable moments. I thank you. The movies thank you. And now, an early birthday present to myself-I get to write about la Streisand!

YENTL
The 25: Barbra's best. Tell me otherwise, but know you're wrong.
People who demand realism from their musicals always crack me up. I mean, based on their appellation alone, we know that the base concept here involves people who burst into song, accompanied by full orchestras and random, shimmy-shake-inclined people who strut in from the corner of the frame. And you expect realism? I expect you also take issue with Tom and Jerry's stubborn aversion to following the laws of physics. In short, anyone who knocks Yentl because Barbra Streisand does not make a plausible teenager, or because the accents aren't consistent or Eastern Europe looks too bright or the ending is too happy can go fuck themselves. Or they can attempt to lock their cynicism away for two hours and be greeted with an sumptuous, enchanting piece of personal filmmaking from the 20th's centuries greatest jack-of-all-arts.

We good? Good. I'll get the plot out of the way quickly; in a time where women are forbidden to learn Jewish philosophy, 18-year-old Yentl (La Streisand) disguises herself as a man and joins the yeshiva (Jewish seminary), only to find her simple plans of study disrupted by Avigdor (Mandy Patinkin), who she falls in love with (she can't act on it, she's a "boy!"), and his fiance Hadass (Amy Irving), who falls in love with Yentl (who can't opt out of it, she's a "BOY!")! It's a slightly confusing, fairly preposterous conceit (hell, it's based on a Yiddish fable), ripe with the ever-present possibility of careening out of control, sinking into sap or soaring up and away into the stratosphere of silliness. But it doesn't, not once, and here's why; Streisand is in control. Though I am the greatest fan of the greatest star, even I must admit she has a serious flaw in her artistic makeup; she's too gifted. She can hold notes too long, milk a comic line for more its worth; she's blessed with such righteous, roiling energy she could do a whole movie or song or what have you at about 1000 watts. The disadvantage here is, in the early-to-mid 60's, we got a lot of 100 watt work performed at ten times that voltage (check out her version of "Jingle Bells" and see what I mean). However, starting with Funny Girl and ending at its zenith with this picture, Barbra realized the key to greatness was actually in reigning herself in. Those who find La Streisand's vocals too screechy, her acting too hammy or her direction too heavy-handed will be all the more blown away by Yentl. Streisand directs with a swift, subtle touch, acts with impeccable focus, and sings with impressive variety, wisely holding back on the more showy vocal fireworks until the final act. I can't say whether or not she was responsible for the breathtaking camerawork, the commendably precise editing ("Tomorrow Night" remains one of the all time uses of the "match cut" technique), or the equally first-rate work done by Patinkin and Irving. What I can say is that what makes Yentl fundamentally underrated and unmissable is the fact that it presents on of the last Great Performing Personalities of our time at her peak in every way. If you aren't a Babs fan, this film will make you one.

Of course, I have to mention my insane bias towards the picture. It's not just Barbra. It's the story, the way it deals with Judaism and with fundamental questions of justice, honor, fate, and tradition. This movie is a virtuous one, not preachy but powered by a red-blooded good heart, with morals solid as rock and sweet optimism to bask in like a healthy does of sunlight. Yentl is my go-to catharsis, my pick-me-up-or-help-me-cry film, one that leaves me an sopping-wet idealistic mess before the credits roll, without fail. In short, I kinda like it.
The Singular Scene: "A Piece of Sky", Barbra's final solo, finally gives us the Streiso-gasm high note we've been building to all along. Behind and in front of the camera, it's her shining hour.

It D

NASHVILLE

Nashville is not the best written film of all time, but it is perhaps the most successful at convincing us that it is not written. Here's a movie bursting at the seams with over 30 characters and jam-packed with at least ten full-length musical performances and almost three hours in length. But yet each individual moment seems startlingly spontaneous; every action these people take seems like an extension of their gloriously idiosyncratic personas instead of a function of the screenwriter's sweaty-palmed desire to move the story along. You'd think Robert Altman's pitiless, perceptive Polaroid of red-state, post-Watergate America would've aged like cheap milk, but, as with many immortal works of art, this one finds astonishing universality in its specificity.

The plot? Non-existent. There's a presidential convention going on in Nashville, and the camera weaves in and out of concert mobs, plants itself in the back of smoke-choked bars, lurks in the corners of sad little hotel rooms and houses, giving us brief, biting vignettes of the people who happen to be in town at the time and what they're up to. Scenes flash past with blink-and-you'll-miss-it brevity-a gospel singer (Lily Tomlin) converses with her deaf son, a spacey hipster type (Shelley Duvall) ditches her dying grandma to go manhunting, a gaga BBC reporter (Geraldine Chaplin) ambles around a junkyard mumbling gibberish into her tape recorder, an Opry starlet (Ronee Blake, best in show) has an onstage meltdown and so on. And, thank god, in no way do all these little pieces add up to some soppy sobriquet about how We're All Really The Same (o hai, Crash!)

Of course, infinite praise is due Joan Tewkesbury's screenplay, a marvel of structural ingenuity. It show us the struggles of these sad, strange individuals while addressing the problems that plague our country at large. The storytelling here doesn't mask the social commentary; it is the social commentary. One of my favorite moments in the picture comes at the beginning of songstress Connie White's (Karen Black) Opry performance. Working the crowd, she gives an autograph and a photo-op to a young boy flanking the stage. "Study real hard!", she proclaims, "You can be the next president!" But her ad-lib flops; there's a smattering of golf-clapping and then a moment of devastating silence before she launches into her first song. Within about half-a-minute, Tewkesbury has planted two questions in our head. First of all, what place do Connie and her music-patriotic to the hilt-have in an age of irony and countercultural sprawl? But just after our heart breaks for her, a second thought comes to mind: What's wrong with our country when the phrase "You can be the next president" seems more like a threat than a compliment? Moments like this one abound in Nashville. You find yourself in a pleasant predicament; you want to run out of the theater now now now and discuss these pearls of wisdom with everyone, but you also hope the picture will run forever, will keep getting at more and more of what makes America American and humans all too human.

The other unique aspect of the script is rather sad; it is, to this day, one of the only major Hollywood classics penned by a woman. As such, the film's portrayal of American women is deeper, angrier, and more honest than most any other. Roger Ebert says it best; "They are prized for their talent, their beauty, their services in bed, but never once in this movie for themselves." Tewkesbury gets at a sad truth here. It's not that men don't praise women; even worse, we praise them for the wrong things. We extol their looks, skills, and sensual prowess so often that some of them begin to think those are the only aspects worth improving. Look at Sueleen (Gwen Welles), a talentless singer who hits paydirt because she's willing to strip when she sings. Or Martha (Shelley Duvall), whose all-consuming desire for physical intimacy sidetracks her journey to the sickbed of a dying relative. Or, for Tewkesbury's most piercing evocation of sexual cruelty, watch the film's most famous scene-insolent but ingenious folk-rocker Tom Frank (Keith Carradine) serenades a bar full of women. He has slept with all of them. He loves none of them. They have come because they believe that after the show, he might, just might, take them home. By objectifying their appearances and tuning out their personalities, he has created in them a want that can neither be fulfilled nor forgotten.

If the script's the tinder, Robert Altman's the match. Ah, the Altman Style, perhaps the most distinctive directorial touch in movie history! Not only would he encourage his actors to riff on the written dialogue (causing many a screenwriter many a conniption), but he'd often station the characters (and his camera) in the midst of a crowd, then encourage extras and ensemble members to have in-depth conversations of their own-and talk over the leads! By refusing to a) provide meat-and-potatoes plot-pusher dialogue or b) hone in on one particular exchange, Altman makes you work. You must listen up, you must choose what's important and why. You can watch Nasvhille three or four or five times and focus on different strands of conversation, different people on the fringes of the frame. By broadening the soundtrack and the shot angles, Altman brilliantly refutes the moronic-but-abiding notion that a movie must mean the one thing to all people. The picture is a Homeric odyssey, with you as Odysseus; each viewer has an individual journey, as opposed to the conventional group experience. You know I like a movie that believes in its audience. This picture is one giant cinematic trust fall.

Now that I've devoted a full paragraph of idolatry to Altman, it's time I turned my attention to the cast. Students of performance would be wise to check this one out. I don't know what combination of written word and internal choice was involved, but here are thespians entirely devoid of vanity. Take Blake's work, for example. The role of a country diva collapsing under the enormity of her self-sustained legend offers enormous showboating potential. Instead, as a disturbed person would be more likely to do, she plays her character with the frenzied desperation of someone trying to pass as sane, and when she does lapse into delirium, it is petty and pathetic. There are myriad examples of such note-perfect realism here-by staying true to even the ugliest impulse, these actors endear us to their characters twice as much as if they'd attempt to make them "sympathetic". Appropriate for this tough-love classic, a timeless portrait of tortured souls caught in the sometimes treacherous, sometimes triumphant act of surprising themselves-and us.

Oh, and one more thing. During the making of Nashville, one of the great apocryphal stories of cinematic folklore was born. As Altman geared up to shoot the final scene, he was over-budget, over-drugged, and caught in the midst of a brewing storm. At the end of his rope, he shut off the camera, stretched out his arms, and yelled "STOP RAINING!". The rain, knowing a great director when it heard one, did just that. Or so the story goes.

Preverts!

Those of you who are currently locked in the fetal position on top of a makeshift bed of pretzels and empty Budweiser bottles, take heart; after a week's break, I'm back and blogging again. I've even added a new section-"List o' The Week", because I am indeed a compulsive ranker of things. So take a look at my Top Ten Movie Posters In the History of Ever!

Also, 'tis time for college updatings; University of Rochester is my current first choice, though I'm still holding out in hopes that one of the West Coast schools bowls me over, 'cause I'm not exactly sure how I'd do trudging to class in four feet of upstate New Yawk snow. NYU and Oberlin also filled me with awe...and SAT-score related intimidation (don't talk to meeeee). One things for certain though; far down the road though it may be, I'm hell bent on making Columbia happen for grad school. A Jew can dream, right? (Well, according to some, the answer to that question is no, but I beg to differ). ANYWHOOOO, in these dog days of summer, I decided I'd introduce you, the reader, to a film that ought to provide a very generous amount of much-needed laughs-

DR. STRANGELOVE (OR HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE BOMB)

The 25: Biting Cold War satire that still pinches a nerve.

This is either the funniest tragedy ever captured on celluloid or the most despairing comedy. Maybe it's both. Hell, maybe it's neither. The point is that this savage, caustic epic of human stupidity doesn't just resist categorization. It transcends it. Love it or hate it (I can almost guarantee you won't be stranded in the middle ground), but you've gotta acknowledge its originality. The Molotov cocktail of a final product is a mixture of such preternaturally precise ingredients that no one's had the balls to try recreating the recipe for over four decades. As with Stanley Kubrick's other masterworks, 2001, The Shining, Full Metal Jacket and Eyes Wide Shut (if you disagree, shah!), to watch this picture is to come down a serious case of cinematic doublethink-you pine for more like it, but deep down you know that even a thousand well-financed replications couldn't bottle the magic captured here, entrancingly and exclusively.

The more plot I reveal, the less you'll pee yourself with rampant delight at Terry Southern's high-wire act of satirical storytelling. So, stripped of the scintillating specifics, it's about General Jack E. Ripper, who goes behind the government's back to order the nuking of Russia (the why and how are quite funny), and the efforts of the nebbishy President (Peter Sellers), a patriotic nutjob of a general (George C. Scott), a somewhat rational British group captain (Sellers again) and the ex-Nazi scientist of the title (Sellers numero tres) to stop said bombing (how they go about this is quite, QUITE funny). In short, we're peeling back the veil of secrecy surrounding government ops. When Hollywood movies attempt to do this, they tend to go one of two ways. The administration is either A) Full of stereotypically slimy characters with real-life parables tacked on to a select few (hey, that dude behaves like Cheney) or B) Full of garden-variety moles (o hai, Salt). Either way, we are almost always delivered from the bone-chilling idea that evil runs amuck in our government agencies; for every Raymond Shaw there's a Bennett Marco or Pamela Landy ready to save the day and assure us that our lawmaking bodies, while riddled with corruption, are receiving just the right, IV-drip amount of virtue to keep us safe and sound. But Kubrick goes a ballsier, more bruising route, suggesting that behind closed doors lies a kindergarten playground of such flagrant self-obsession and overwrought prejudice that the upright few are silenced or just flat-out ignored. Every laugh is a nervous one. Take the famous "War Room" scene for example. A general and a Russian diplomat roll around on the floor wrestling over a camera. "He was taking pictures of the big board!", the general pouts, pointing emphatically to the massive strategic map on the wall. "Gentleman", the president shouts, "you can't fight in here, this is the War Room!" We crack up because obviously this shit is absurd, but also because we're afraid to face the fact that such absurdities are, at this rate, pretty much inevitable in years to come, and the few principled people around to put a stop to them may be able to do nothing but helplessly chastise the crazed perpetrators. See what I mean about this really being a tragedy? This is a portrayal of the possible future so unflinching it would give Kurt Vonnegut blue balls.

How did Kubrick do it? Oh, I know his techniques, sure-how he kept some actors in a vice grip of deception(he never told Hayden the film was supposed to be a comedy until after its release, and he used Scott's warm-up takes rather than his word-for-word ones, to the actor's chagrin) and let some have free reign (Sellers, whose comic know-how was so overpowering that production often ground to a halt as the cast and crew ruined thousands of takes with spontaneous laughter). But that still doesn't answer my question; how did he create a prankish gut-buster that also serves as a horrifying work of modern-day prophesy? How did he put up on screen the most despairing vision of human nature ever backed by a mainstream studio...and make us laugh? And do so without creating an unholy MESS?! But then again, Kubrick is the most mysterious of all filmmaking legends, and any attempt to discern exactly how he achieved what he achieved will be a failed one. I'll wonder how the man pulled it off till my dying day, but what matters is this; he did do it and it worked then and it works now and by God I marvel at it.

Singular Scene: Strangelove lays out potential post-apocalypse plans.