Shining Like A National Guitar

Shining Like A National Guitar: Paul Simon and the Power of Good Art

Why write concert reviews? I never understood. After all, unless they're pulling a Barbra and doing a week-long stint at the Garden, the act you're reviewing is only in town for one night, and by the time your review's out, they've already hung up their costumes, piled their props into a UHaul, and left on that midnight train for Georgia or what have you. Last night, midway through the greatest concert of my life, I got it. The reviews aren't so much a resource for potential ticket buyers as they are an attempt to pin down a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Only by committing such ephemeral moments to language can we convince ourselves, and others, that they actually happened. I could certainly use such confirmation; the two hours I spent in the presence of the inimitable Paul Simon still give off a strange sheen of the otherworldly; I've gotta write about this night to convince myself it isn't a dream, but a dream come true.

A bit of backstory; in my mind, Paul Simon is nothing less than our greatest living American singer/songwriter. I'll take arguments for Billy Joel and Carole King, but good luck changing my mind--from the moment Paul said he was walking out to look for America, I'd made up my mind to walk right alongside him. What makes his music both timely and ageless is his gutsy approach to pop culture convention; he submits to it and subverts it all at once. His songs are set in the traditional chorus-verse-chorus mold, peppered with irresistible guitar hooks and awash in hippie harmonies. But beneath the Billboard-friendly surface thrums a compressed lyrical power that'd make Hemingway blush. He can squeeze a whole world into a couplet, breathe it into being with his trademark Chet Baker-meets-Bob Dylan baritone, and send the final product straight into our souls, That's how he makes songs about loss of innocence ("Kodachrome"), existential ennui ("The Sound of Silence"), infidelity ("Cecilia"), middle age ("You Can Call Me Al") and even displaced immigrants ("Rene and Georgette Magritte...") not just listenable, but lovable as well. Armed with a set of strings and a sharply tuned intellect, he's not just a skilled songwriter, but an aural oracle for the post-Beatles age, documenting subtle but striking shifts in culture and politics and the human heart with the gentle, precise touch of a good poet. The indelible musical moments we owe to the guy are too numerous to mention: the sparse picking of strings in the opening measures of "Silence", the glib glee of the "Mrs. Robinson" verses, the soaring, cathartic chorus of "Bridge Over Trouble Water"...who can top Simon and Garfunkel?

Naturally, Simon himself.

His post-breakup work has been nothing short of awesome, in the truest sense of the word. In the late 80s and early 90s, the singer, galvanized by a recent trip to Soweto, combined rockabilly sensibilities with African choral tradition to create Graceland and The Obvious Child, easily two of the best albums from their respective decades. Graceland is particularly monolithic; it's a sonically sumptuous full-course meal of an album, filled with radical new ideas, but also blessed with a sturdy pop-music backbone. Experimental but accessible, probing but affectionate, emotional but also a damn good time, it's a flawless collection of eleven songs made to re-kindle what's missing in our lives; a genuine sense of wonder. Factor Miss Funny Girl's work out of the equation, and it's probably my all-time favorite album. Paul must've known this about me, as almost all the songs from Graceland appeared in one form or another throughout the evening. In fact, he started right out of the gate, opening with that album's glorious first track, "The Boy In the Bubble". Filled with throbbing bass drums, swooping synths, and an instantly singable refrain ("This is the long distance ca-a-all!"), it's the closest thing to an arena anthem the man's ever written, and he knows it. Standing center stage, guitar strapped to his chest, foot tapping to the wild rhythms of his boffo band, he delivers the verses with a conversational intimacy, slowly roping us in until he socks out that brilliant chorus all the way into the cheap seats. The applause is deafening. The electricity is palpable. A giant screen lights up center stage: "Paul Simon: So Beautiful or So What Tour." This is going to be quite an evening, I think to myself.

Just to make things clear, the Paul Simon I saw is not the Touring Paul that you hear about. Infamously shy, Simon's known for deliver stellar renditions of his biggest hits, but he's also known for being sort of a schlub in the working-the-crowd department. "I wrote this song in 1969" or "I like this one a lot" is about all you hear on his live albums. Not last night. He began with his typical "Hello, my friends", but then went beyond that. "I know it's a momentous evening", he said, referring to our Texas Rangers. "I wish you luck", he said, and winked. When we cheered for him, he even did a little "woo-hooing" of his own. After finishing his first song, he let out a triumphant "YEAH!" just as the lights went out. Shy, my ass.

This little outburst was just the beginning. As he settled into his setlist, Simon became positively loosey-goosey, doing a little hand-jive during "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover", even indulging in a N'awlins shuffle during the zydeco-zapped "That Was Your Mother". Then, he strutted up to the front of the stage and gave us a little background. "This city is special to me. I may be from New York, but my wife's from this city. As such, if you all lose tonight...I'm boycotting St. Louis. Forever. Forever, I tell you!" Playing just a few miles away from his beloved's birthplace, Simon clearly felt as if he had something to prove. And boy, did he prove it. He was fiercely funny, perfectly in tune, and absolutely on fire when he picked up a guitar or harmonica--his strum-off with two other guitarists, a banjoist, and a mandolin player on "Rewrite" was a cannily organized fireworks display of great musicianship. With entertainment like this, who needs massive sets or pricey meat dresses or giant fruit-shaped tits?

Having said that, Simon did allow a few minimal effects, and they worked wonderfully well. In addition to rotating through a mind-boggling eighteen different guitars, Simon spices things up by using the aforementioned lit screen to project abstract colors, shapes, and images that drifted dreamily in and out of focus, punctuating what we already know; this man's songs contain a little bit of infinity. These displays added to the experience without distracting from the music. They underlined the title of "Dazzling Blue", bounced along to pulsating bass of "50 Ways", and, in a truly unforgettable moment, cast giant red shadows on Simon, illuminating the mournful furrowing of his brows while he performed "Hearts and Bones", easily the most honest, bruising, and catchiest song ever written about an adult breakup. Traditional photographs were used sparingly but effectively; in a particularly neat bit of stagecraft, the screen zooms out on a series of blurred pastel colors until Paul plays the intro to "Mother and Child Reunion" and they snap into a crystal-clear shot of the first vinyl recording of that very song. It's this sort of attention to detail that makes for good concerts. However, if you want a great concert, Damn Yankees said it best--"you gotta have heart". And Paul had it in spades. After sailing through his wonderfully weird new composition "Love Is Eternal Sacred Light" (it's the only song ever written that could be called an existential boogie), he put the finished touches on the concert proper with a jubilant one-two punch featuring a duo of Graceland heavy hitters, "Diamonds On the Souls of Her Shoes" and "Gumboots". They were showstoppers, but nothing prepared us for what came next--an encore to end all encores. Comprising so many songs and so much banter that it was almost as long as the first half of the concert, this blissfully prolonged farewell would've redeemed the show even if the songs preceding it were total bat poo-poo. In these relaxed, deeply soulful thirty minutes, Paul Simon knocked the ball so far out of the park that I doubt if anyone I ever see live will match his swing. (Baseball puns intentional.)

It begins in total darkness. The band and, for the first time, Simon himself, are absent from the stage. The cheering is louder than any sound that has come from the stage thus far. This guy has given us a night to remember, but we're not through with him yet, and, thank god, he's not through with us.

A single spotlight comes up center stage. Paul walks out, simple acoustic in hand, contemplative sadness etched in the lines of his face. He looks up, and something in that look tells us exactly what he's going to do. He does it;

Hello darkness, my old friend

I've come to talk with you again.

They're perhaps the most recognizable opening lines in pop music. They're greeted with round applause, but by the time he's finished with that couplet, there is a dead silence in the room. Anyone who was moving is standing still. Everyone's holding up their camera and holding back their sniffles. It's a song that means something to all of us, whether we thrilled to it on the radio or teared up to it at the end of The Graduate. And here's the man who wrote it, alone in the light, throwing us all a little piece of eternity. It's ours, and we're his. That final chord hits us like a shot. A moment of silence, then a two minute standing ovation. Then a giant whoosh, one delayed, collective discharge into a thousand Kleenexes That great, ineffable connection, that rare alchemy of audience and artist, has been achieved. We know it. So does Paul, who goes into full gear for the last part of the evening. As his band trickles back on, he talks with the audience. Not banters. Talks. "How we doin', how we doin'?!", he says, referring to the game. When he finds out his (and our) Rangers are losing, he shakes his head and holds up his guitar. "Oh no! Well", he proclaims with a devilish grin in his eye "I have the perfect song, then." He launches into a sweetly strummed version of "Here Comes the Sun", which he double-dedicates to the Rangers and "of course, to George". Everyone waves their hands in tandem, and I close my eyes, letting it all run over me. So this is how the Baby Boomers felt. Having gotten us high on nostalgia, he straps on his electric and sprints through "Kodachrome", much to the delight of my 'rents. Then a gospel re-working of "Gone At Last" that goes on for a good ten minutes, getting everyone on their feet and into the game. I've never seen fifty year olds dance like this. He heads offstage, presumably for the last time. In the darkness, people whip out their phones and uncover a sad truth: the Rangers have lost. "Well, they tried", my mother whispers to me. No sooner has she uttered this than the lights come up again, first on the band, and then on Paul Simon, clad in a Rangers shirt. The crowd goes crazy.

"We love you Paul!"

"Rangers forever!"

"Graceland! Play Graceland."

This last cry is of particular interest to me. You see, the title track of the Graceland album is easily my favorite song written since Golden Age of Gershwin. It's my go to belt-it-out-in-the-car piece, and it's situated towards the top of my Itunes most played list. Combining an uncanny vulnerability ("They say losing love is like a window in your heart") with an oddball agility ("There is a girl in New York City who calls herself the Human Trampoline!"), the song tells the story of a single father and his child as they head out on a road trip to see Elvis's resting place. But, in this English major's opinion, Simon's getting at something deeper; it's not Elvis they're looking to reclaim. It's what he represented--1950's America, the age of change rooted into idealism before our growth was blighted by violence--the very violence that sent Simon in a dark room with a dripping faucet one winter day to write about people talking without speaking, hearing without listening. It's a poem, a prayer, and a helluva song. But Paul's got a habit of playing what he wants to play, and the Paul Simon forums that help me avoid schoolwork claim that he's left the song off the setlist.....

"You know", Paul says, gesturing to his shirts, "We've all got good things in our lives." It's not a question, it's a statement, one I found extremely moving. Here's a guy who's seen it all, wrestled with it all, and finally cast out his demons in song--and he wants to help us do the same, to stop asking if there are possibilities for kindness and awe and transcendent glory in the world and start knowing it.

"Here we go. A one, two, three, four."

Paul launches into "Graceland". Anyone who says it isn't possible to laugh, cry, dance, and scream all at once wasn't sitting in my vicinity. All the sad-faced baseball fans were up on their feet. So were all those who had a hard day at work, who lost a friend or a family member recently, or who were stressed out by midterms or worried they'd never find a job or a house or even a wife, and they were all dancing dancing dancing, and any doubt I had about the healing, unifying power of good art was forever erased. Paul helped me confirm what I already knew; I will use my life to facilitate this powerful, singular connection, this bond between the artistic creations of others and our very real effort to create ourselves. "I have a reason to believed we all will be received in Graceland", Simon sang, and he was right--I felt at home. Take that, Ke$ha.

Paul can't quite top his post-loss "Graceland" coup, but he comes close. He does a rollicking rendition of "Late in the Evening", which segues into a Bo Diddley cover that serves not just as an homage to his rockabilly roots, but as a moving "thank-you" to his band. Paul's a musicians musician whose ensemble is as tight as any this side of E Street, and this is their song. The guitarist, saxophonist, and percussionists all get their due, and even take turns singing lead. Many of these guys have been with him since the beginning, and, as he plays backup for them, he can't help grinning like a proud papa. Pride is the word here; Paul is proud of his work, his musicians, his art, his audience, and his country. As he should be. After a series of heartfelt thank-yous, Paul takes center stage one last time, delivering a languid, touching rendition of one of his greatest songs; "Still Crazy After All These Years". Everytime he sings those words, the audience breaks into applause. Some idiot was even whooping, screaming, and declaring his love for Paul. I confess that idiot was me. You are indeed still crazy after all these years, Mr. Simon. And thank God you are. Thank God you are.

The Horror of Politics, The Politics of Horror

The Ides Of March

The Ides of March's opening scene packs one helluva punch, and not just because of what's onscreen. As the camera comes into focus and locks in tight on Ryan Gosling's wounded-puppy gaze, you realize that a New Great Director is on the scene, one with technical control and a distinctive mise en scene and a set of urgently important themes that he employs his considerable talents to explore. His name? George Clooney. As Roger Ebert says, directing one good movie proves that you had a good movie in you; directing two proves that you've got a knack for the job. With the one-two punch of Good Night and Good Luck and this stinging political potboiler, the man has passed the test. Welcome to the club, George.

If Clooney the Actor is drawn to moody, tightly wound tales of graceful men cracking under pressure, and Clooney the Director to closely observed, intensely conversational political dramas, it's appropriate that a movie in which he wears both hats fits into both categories. If critics knock it for not saying anything new about the election process, they're on the wrong track; it's an examination, not an expose, a solid, memorable entry in the Good Men Gone Wrong category, like Citizen Kane or Network, a cautionary tale of wide-eyed idealism eroded by the powerful, insistent currents of the status quo. In one corner, we've Gosling's Stephen, running a clean presidential campaign for Mike Morris (Clooney), a former governor running on a platform of hope and change we can believe in (sound familiar?). In the other, there's Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti), playing dirty in hopes of winning his candidate the Democratic presidential primary. It all seems black and white, until two women blur the lines--a shifty Times reporter (Marisa Tomei), and a promiscuous intern (Evan Rachel Wood) with a buried secret. Yes, it's your average shifting-allegiances, talking-heads topical drama, but although you've heard this song before, I doubt if you've ever seen it done by musicians quite this good. This movie might as well be titled "Orgasmic Displays of Good Acting". Every five minutes or so, there's a knockout of a small group scene in which some of the greatest performers of our time light up the screen not with blunt-force overacting, but with subtle, savvy technique. Note that not a single scene in this film features belligerent yelling; it doesn't need to. These actors are so good that they can create a sense of surging suspense and cathartic payoff without ever raising their voices. Gosling in particular scores a triumph, redeeming himself from the miscast mess of Drive. He makes Stephen's struggle with temptation not just palpable but potent and scary--his haunted glances will follow you out of the theater. Wood also breaks out in a big way, laying herself bare and displaying a mournful rawness at odds with her external beauty. Noting that Clooney, Giamatti and Tomei turn in good performances is like pointing out that Mel Gibson has made a few mistakes lately--it just goes without saying. However, it's worth mentioning Phillip Seymour Hoffman's work here. As Stephen's co-worker Paul, a man bent on maintaining honor in an honorless business, he delivers a killer monologue that's the true heart of the picture, and does so with such unforced fervency that you almost lay down your grievances and start to believe in the Big American Government again, if just for a moment. Hoffman's already racked up a career full of memorable moments; this one's my personal favorite.

With a cast like this, what's a director to do? Clooney knows what; step back and let them act. Cannily allowing his experience as a performer to influence his behind the camera style, he favors lingering, carefully composed shots that allow his actors time to really slip into the scene. However, he can move when he needs to; watch how he makes use of an old-fashioned slow zoom during a crucial scene (the one set outside of a van), and think of how any other kind of shot would've killed the suspense. But it isn't just Clooney's know-how that makes his arrival on the directing scene so thrilling; it's his moral fiber. Even when the film's middle section sags, or the script strains a tad too hard for relevance, you don't mind because you're watching the work of a newly risen artist asking important questions, and doing it in a way that provokes the mind and excites the senses. The guy's come a long way since ER. A-.

Paranormal Activity 3

I get a kick out out of well-done horror just as much as the next guy, but well-done horror is just about impossible to find these days. Yes, just about any half-decent slasher flick can jump-start your pulse, but do these movies really chill your blood? Do they follow inside your garage, up your stairs, into your bedroom? No. These stories of spirits and serial killers and demons in the dark startle and disturb, but never truly terrify, because, while childhood shadow-fears are still good for a few goosebumps, they fail to realize that every story of man vs. monster is inextricably linked with something much more terrifying--the conflict between man and his own inner darkness. That's why The Exorcist and The Shining and Alien and Apocalypse Now (a horror movie no matter what it says on the label) linger in the windmills of our minds for years, while we sleep off the Blair Witch Projects of this world in a matter of minutes. Still, there's something to be said for a horror movie that shoots low and hits its target, that cares not for true, insightful terror, but simply endeavors to hang as many well-crafted scares as it can on a paper thin string of plot. Paranormal Activity 3 sets out to achieve this simple task and does so, oh, about 60% of the time. It's not a movie, it's a theme park ride, one that gets in some nifty twists and turns but also goes off the rails just a little too often for it's own good.

The plot of all three Paranormal films can easily be collapsed into a single sentence: a couple of thirtysomethings set up a camera to track some otherwordly force they suspect is prowling 'round the house, and then we watch through the lens as they fall victim to said force. The pros and cons of this format are glaringly obvious; it lends the proceedings a gritty immediacy, but also stipulates that characters sacrifice reason for the sake of narrative. In order to give us anything resembling a cohesive plot, the filmmakers are contractually obligated to create characters with the IQ of a slow lori, people so stupid that they prize getting the right camera angle over snatching their beloved from the grip of death or what have you. PA3 bypasses this problem by putting budding videographer Dennis (Christopher Nicholas Smith) at the center of the story. It's a clever idea, and co-directors Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman (Catfish) have some deliciously freaky fun with it, especially in the film's mid-section. As he and his wife (Lauren Bittner) try to pin down whatever's going in the kids' room, Dennis's idiosyncratic methods of surveillance grow more and more ingenious--he uses mirrors, wide-angle lenses, and, in a particularly memorable setpiece, a fan that allows for constant panning and scanning. Like all good suspense scenes, these have a palpable something's-off tingle--you could know exactly what was going to happen and still get goosebumps from the infectiously eerie mise en scene. Here it is, I thought to myself, a voyeuristic picture that successfully overcame the constraints that plague such films. Nope. Having played a steady game of sturm und drang for about an hour, Joost and Schulman forfeit their hand with a finale so batshit insane that no human being, no matter how deluded, would film it. There are ninety-year old murderers running around and levitating bodies and bloodied corpses and all manner of genuinely creepy images, and all we can think is I'm really glad Dennis's camera hasn't run out of battery. I'm all for suspension of disbelief, but the messy final act practically asks the viewer to shoot disbelief in the head and then flee the scene. The sad thing is, there's a genuinely scary climax here when you factor out the "found footage" angle. And so the very gimmick that puts asses in seats to see Paranormal Activity 3 is also it's Achilles heel.

One of the (small) joys of the picture is watching Joost and Schulman make a confident transition from documentary filmmaking to genre work. These guys clearly know how to craft a confident piece of mainstream entertainment. But with good talent comes great responsibility, and, while the directors certainly know their way around a jump scene, they also seem incapable of refraining from cheap shots. One prankster jumping out in a monster mask is no biggie, but a false scare every ten minutes, combined with jump cuts straight out of a 90's music video, is pushing it. For some, this won't be an issue; a scare is a scare, no matter how it's presented. But that's just a tad worrisome; movies put us in an altered state the way (I'm assuming) good drugs do, and so we ought to be awful picky about the quality of the product we're being sold. Nonetheless, while we shy away from bad comedy or drama, but, for whatever reason, mediocre horror movies have become something of an addiction for us; we know the effect will be half-decent at best, but every Halloween season we start using again out of pure habit. It's about time we whip out some of the oldies-and-goodies and remind ourselves that, right now, we're settling for horror pictures that lack morals, and, even worse, often even lack the technique to do amorality right. And that's the true terror. C.

Hotties on Parade: New Offerings from Pitt and Gosling

Moneyball

The opening sentence of the pre-packaged, bigwig approved synopsis for Moneyball claims that it's a "movie for anyone who has ever dreamed of taking on the system." That's true, but it's also a movie for those of us who want ever so desperately to believe in the system, if the system we're talking about is mainstream Hollywood. Here's a smart, cannily crafted piece of studio product, created with passion and patience and great attention to detail. It's also probably the best film you'll ever see about statistics.

Based on a true story that captivated the nation in 2002, the film stars Brad Pitt as Billy Beane, a cooled-off hotshot who blew a contract with the Mets and isn't exactly making headlines as the Oakland Athletics general manager either. Then Pete Brand (Jonah Hill) comes into the picture, a bespectacled egghead of a young man who believes he can re-invent baseball with a simple plan: shit-can the sentimentality and recruit based on not star power or likability but concrete data. Computational analysis. Objective fact. Not surprisingly, no one, from the commissioners to the sportscasters to Billy's own coach Art Howe (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), is a fan of said approach, and Beane and Brandt are left with the singular task of winning the series, and, by extension, changing the sport.

It's a conventional underdog's tale, that's for sure. But what it isn't is a sports movie. Yes, baseball is a prominent part of the plot, but to call it the movie's main focus is infantile and reductive--the equivalent of calling Nashville a movie about country music. This is a character study before it is anything else, and it rides on the shoulders of its cast. The story of the Athletics 2002 season is bursting at the seams with larger-than-life individuals ready-made for the big screen. You've got Brandt, a Yale grad alternately emboldened and embarrassed by his genius. You've got Howe, a seen-it-all survivor who treats the game like a lover who's broken his heart one too many times. There's Scott Hattenberry (Chris Pratt), an injured player whose recovery and athletic resurrection deserve a movie all their own. We have the old recruiters, who refuse to go gently into that good night, and view "moneyball" with a potent mixture of can't-help-it awe and lion-in-the-winter fury. But front and center, we have Beane, a charismatic catastrophe of a single fortysomething who embodies all that's good and bad about middle age. A drinker, a dreamer, a thrower of tantrums, and a deeply lost soul, he's the kind of character that comes with a little tag saying "Overplay Me!" Pitt knows better, and does his business with a quiet austerity that's at first off-putting but works wonders in the long run. If nothing else, Moneyball marks the final stage in his evolution from Brad the Body Beautiful to Brad the True Blue Actor; here he uses everything he's learned about life, love, and the cinema, to deliver a real knockout of a performance, one that shows off Billy's agreeable charm and commendable commitment to the game, but doesn't do away with the demons festering underneath it all. To paraphrase Hemingway, he has burned the fat off his soul, giving a performance that contains everything it needs and absolutely nothing it doesn't. Look at the movie's raw final scene and take a moment to realize that Pitt's been building up to it all along, not with the "a-ha" gimmickry of a cheap magician, but with the steady, unforced confidence of a ball player who knows he's got a home run in him. It's a career performance, and the other actors match him move for move--Hill reaches new heights by staying grounded, Hoffman breaks your heart and then patches it back together, and damn near every player on the team gets their thirty seconds to shine. Screen Actors Guild, pay attention.

Even if the cast is perfect, the movie isn't. Aaron Sorkin, the toast of the screenwriting community after his monumental Social Network, packs the film with his famed dynamite dialogue, but he also tacks on one of those flabby, multiple-ending finales. Some of the game-time scenes indulge in unfortunate running-man-in-slo-mo cliches, and Brand's game of numbers is often overwhelming and occasionally exasperating. Still, give Team Moneyball props--they've turned a story of facts and figures into an emotionally engaging work of flesh and blood. Here's a mainstream movie that steps up to the plate. Time for the rest of Hollywood to follow suit. B+.

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Drive

"I'm a fetish filmmaker", Nicholas Windig Refn declared in an interview earlier this year, and indeed, much of Drive is comprised of the director's almost obsessive attention to the little things that turn him on; fast cars, lonely heroes, and explosions of pent-up, impotent brutality. But for all the passion Refn pours into his American debut, it comes off like one of those sky-high-priced cars on display at an auction; sleek and impressive, but also more than a little remote.

There isn't much plot; we've got the Driver (Ryan Gosling), stunt double by day, getaway assistant by night. We've got Irene (Carey Mulligan), the dotty mother he befriends. And we've a couple of crooks (Ron Perlman and Albert Brooks) the Driver gets all mixed up with as he attempts to protect both Irene from the wreckage wrought by her husband-with-a-shady-past (Oscar Isaac). As the plot stipulates, there isn't much to these characters, either. Mulligan furrows her brow alot and cries on command. Perlman does a decent Goodfellas impression. And Gosling just stares. And stares. And stares. I know, I know, by nature, the Driver is a mystery. But if you're gonna play the Enigma Game, you've got to find an actor who can convey everything that the writers leave out. Look at Clint Eastwood's Man with No Name, or, more recently, Uma Thurman's bride. Because these actors specialize in finding hidden layers of meaning in conventional stoicism, their demeanor reflects that of a person, who, through years of hard living, have whittled themselves down to the essentials, carrying with them food and water and clothes and nothing more, not even their old nomenclature. However, while Gosling is more talented than any one human has a right to be, he can't play it straight; he gets by on his idiosyncratic charisma and puppy dog charm, which he maintains in even his grimmest roles (Half-Nelson, anyone?). Stripped of that singular it quality, he's got nothing to do but narrow his eyes and pout. It's like watching James Dean's mumbly, Method-ized work in the final 15 minutes of Giant, but for a full hour and a half.

So, with the skeletal plot and character development, what's left? Style. That's supposedly the picture's Big Draw, and it certainly has a look all its own, mixing Scorsese's Brooklyn immediacy with Bergman-esque European ennui, with a dash of Michael Mann's neon-jungle color schemes thrown in for good measure. It's a helluva movie to look at. Unfortunately, the mise en scene, gorgeous as it is, is at odds with the picture's thematic content; long, contemplative shots of seascapes and eyeballs and downtown LA have no place in a movie where death by fork is a viable possibility. Refn has a true, Cronenbergian gift for orchestrating outbursts of violence that hit so hard they seem to leave viscera splattered all over the cinema seats, but these moments are so awkwardly sandwiched between exasperating moments of shoegazing and deep-dish philosophizing that their power is dulled considerably. Only in the opening car chase does Refn successfully implement his aesthetic experiment.

Experiment. That's the best word to describe Drive, and it's why I don't regret seeing the picture, even if I was immeasurably disappointed. Refn isn't blending pulp and prestige in hopes of maximizing both box office glory and critical hosannas (I don't like that). He's an international man out to break down barriers between cinematic cultures, mix up the melting pots of modern moviemaking and create a heady concoction all his own. It's got a flavor like none other, even if you do want to spit it back out.

I should note that there is one truly great thing about Drive, and his name is Albert Brooks. He internalizes his famed comic exasperation and turns it into something deeper, truer, and scarier--existential fury. His character comes off like the movie itself--bold and brilliant, but destined to fall apart. C.