Classic, Schmassic!

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 inGuys 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 feelsomething. 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.

One is the loneliest number

MAGNOLIA

The 25: Wondrous, wrenching rebel cry that strikes nerve after unguarded nerve.

As far as openers go, an attempted suicide turned manslaughter ain’t bad. In the prologue of Paul Thomas Anderson’s Magnolia, we swoop over the roof of an apartment building as 17-year-old Sydney Barringer leaps to his death, eyes closed, fists clenched, farewell note crumpled up in his pants pocket. We follow him down, down, down towards the asphalt in a conventional Hollywood camera angle, only to have our carefully established expectations shattered when the unthinkable happens-a gunshot bursts from an apartment window and rips a gaping hole in Sydney’s stomach. Flashback to a few seconds ago (another original concept); Sydney’s parents are arguing vehemently when his mother, intimidated and empowered in equal measure, pulls out a gun that would have been empty had Sydney not coincidentally loaded it a few days ago. She pulls the trigger and a bullet goes through the window, hitting her son in mid-fall. In one of the most morbid punchlines I’ve seen, Sydney Barringer ruins his own laboriously planned suicide. As mommy lets out shriek after lachrymose shriek, we slowly inch back down the hallway, away from her, away from this story….the lighting becomes overexposed, hellish, eerie….voices echo on the soundtrack…a dissonant whine in the music builds, builds, builds-

Cue credits.

It’s my favorite opening scene in all of cinema, but that’s not the reason I choose to spill so much ink over this film’s first five minutes. In addition to setting up a key motif I daren't reveal, this sequence makes a promise, one so mad and thrilling and grandiose that you don’t believe Anderson and co. will deliver on it. How could he possibly sustain such a rich, resounding note of orgasmic, operatic intensity for three hours?! The thing is, he does, and from this breathtaking opening scene Magnolia only grows in its power and mystery. Hell, even after you’ve taken the ride once, you’ll appreciate the picture even more with each viewing-trust the guy who’s seen it nine times. This is an appallingly underappreciated tour-de-force, an exhilarating example of the cinema busting out of its own predetermined boundaries. Here, lovelies, is the best movie of the 90’s.

What's it about? So there’s Earl Partridge (Jason Robards), a dying millionaire whose trophy wife Linda, once a balm in bed, is now an overmedicated, undersexed wreck who employs male nurse Phil (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) to ease her husband’s pain and help him tie up loose ends before he goes. Only one unresolved conflict really interests Earl; his broken relationship with his son, Frank (Tom Cruise), a brazenly chauvinist motivational speaker who runs “Seduce and Destroy” seminars for men half as rich and twice as lonely as he is.

Frequently on Earl’s TV is Jimmy Gator (Phillip Baker Hall), a philandering game show host who plows away at his work even as his ticker starts to give out and his daughter Claudia (Melinda Waters) slips deeper and deeper into coked-out oblivion. However, redemption might await her in the arms of painfully endearing cop Jim (John C. Reilly).

Finally, there’s Quiz Kid Donnie Smith (William H. Macy), a former contestant on Gator’s show who’s grappling with his sexual identity, and Stanley (Jeremy Blackman), a current contestant desperate to break free of his pile-driving father Rick (Michael Bowen). They are all brought together in the film’s final hour, not by Crash-esque coincidence but by a shocking, supernatural occurrence straight out of Exodus. Oh, and there’s a sing-along, too.

None of this would work without the screenplay, which, at almost 200 pages, is still a model of economy. Go through Magnolia 190 minutes. Go on, do it. Tell me if you can find one scene that isn’t completely instrumental. There is something of the divine in this script; surely no mere mortal could juggle scenes of such startling variety with such staggering agility. We get a brief scene of anal sex so bruising we have to look away, followed by a wryly amusing moment where Macy gets fitted for adult braces. Cruise’s horrifying “Seduce and Destroy” sermon comes not long after Reilly and Waters take part in one of the most genuine meet-cutes in movies. Any single story thread could be plucked out and spun into a comedy/drama/romance/thriller of its own. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a screenplay more confident of where it’s going. You can always tell when a writer’s slapped a sequence of events down on paper for an easy paycheck and when they’ve planned their work, when it fits together like pieces of a jigsaw. There’s an underlying arc here that I want you to pay attention to; each individual plot plays like a long, squirmy, excruciating buildup following by a breathtaking, brutal emotional eruption. Each character drifts through life like a driver asleep at the wheel, headed for a jarring collusion yet fatally unprepared for it all.

Yes, it is as depressing as it sounds, but, like an actual car wreck, we never want to look away. The most brilliant aspect of the screenplay is how it teases us with poignant glimpses of these peoples innate goodness. Moore comes off as a spoiled bitch, but her meltdown at the pharmacy (how did it not win her the Oscar?!) shows a long- slumbering moral center finally reawakening. We're angry at Waters for throwing her life away, but touched by her quirky adherences to little niceties like offering guests a cup of coffee. Even Cruise's merciless man-child reveals a twisted compassion for those who attend his seminars. We stick around because, through the grind of vice and vanity, little glints of rock-solid goodness keep peeking in through the slits. We stay riveted, because, if these people's redemption is plausible, isn't ours as well?

If the screenplay is the tightrope, the actors are the walkers, and its a thrill to watch them at work. Anderson assembles the ensemble of a generation, and smartly plays on the performers public personas in order to expedite characterization. We already believe Tom Cruise is an arrogant prick, so we quickly accept that he's playing one. Phillip Seymour Hoffman has always seemed like an endearing teddy-bear of a man, so his nurse immediately has our sympathy. And, for all Moore's considerable skill, hasn't something about her always seemed a little cold off-screen? Mind you, this isn't to deny these thespians any credit. Each individual performance is flawless, filled with astonishing line readings and indelible non-verbals. Cruise in particular is an emotionally naked marvel as a character who, instead of ascending, shrinks, who starts off trying to drown out the world with his ignorant shouting and winds up crumpled beside a hospital bed, humbled and broken. Waters is an undernoticed wonder; she makes her keening despair alternately seductive and repulsive.

But in the end, it all comes down to Anderson's vision. It's a testament to the man's boundless inventiveness that this entire vision spewed forth onto scrap paper in a few weeks when he shut himself off in a cabin due to a bout of agoraphobia. It's a testament to his courage that this picture was made without compromise. He takes the piece exactly where it needs to go. When things build to such exaggerated proportions that only music will resolve the tension, he lets his characters burst into song, even though this is decidedly not a musical. This is a move most filmmakers would've quickly nixed; they'd recognize its brilliance but note that its not "essential to the story being told" or something like that. But Anderson sees beyond the mechanics of plot; he recognizes film as a medium of emotions, one that must provide structure, yes, but first and foremost supply us with awe, with agony, with catharsis. This is one of maybe a half-dozen films that seems to be made without the slightest self-doubt, with well-placed confidence that each carefully calculated risk will pay off. It's cinema on all cylinders. Aspiring auteurs would do well to check it out.

As you've noticed, this post is longer than my average column. That's because Magnolia isn't just a masterpiece. It's a milestone in my own moviegoing history. I was cultishly obsessed my freshman year, and I still pop the DVD in whenever I a) need a good cry b) a good envy binge courtesy of the screenplay or c) my faith in film renewed. But above all, I think, what brings me back to this movie again and again is one of its central themes. Look at these characters; almost all are disconnected. Buoyed on by the advent of transportation and technology, they have slunk off into urban anonymity, attempting to clip all close connections, and, thus, avoid the pain of loving. Frank ignores his father. Rick denies his son even the slightest affection. Linda parcels out her wifely duties to others now that sex is out of the equation. Yet, over the course of three glorious hours, these people come to a realization summed up eloquently by the Macy character; "I have a lot of love to give, I just don't know where to put it." The people on display here have tried to sever themselves from emotion, but, Anderson tells us, our desire to supply and need to demand compassion will catch up to us in the end. We will feel. We will grieve. We will grow. Get used to it. It's a message for the Twitter generation, delivered here without a drop of sermon-ific sap or false uplift. I can't think of a picture I feel more strongly about. Above and beyond its considerable technical successes lies the fact that this one nourishes something deep and vital within us. Take that, Marmaduke.

Leave My Lit Alone!

So, no Koran burnings, "not today, not ever", according to the venerable Rev. Terry Jones, who called off his media blitz..ermm, I mean holy war....early this morning. I'm glad. No, really. Hopefully he finds a way to sell all those extra "Islam is of the Devil" t-shirts, though. I think his high school classmate, Rush Limbaugh, would enjoy one. (That would've been a fun lunch table...) But Jones's decision to call off the public expression of his massive misconception doesn't represent an acknowledgment that his core beliefs about Islam are substantially mistaken, nor does it erase from my memory an incident that occurred on a recent family trip to Waco. We're sitting on the couch watching the ever-eventful Waco news, which frequently consists of 25 minutes of world news pilfered from better channels, and 5 minutes of local paraphernalia regarding ball games, yard sales and school supplies. Today, the former section features a report on a "nearby" (read: "Somewhere in the state of Texas"). A picture of the Koran appears onscreen.

"What book is that?", my grandma asks.

"That?", my grandfather responds, "that's them Al-Qaeda's Bible. Made them do all kinds of bad things. Told them to attack our country."

Ever the respectful grandchild, I just nursed at my cookies and coffee and let him crumple up on the couch and succumb to his delusion. Had I twice the balls and half the social decency, here's what I'd've said;

Papaw,

I love you. I do, I really do. I appreciate your adherence to tried and true values, your emphasis on supporting the financially vulnerable, and your fierce devotion to TCM's "Summer Under The Stars" month-a devotion we share, as you know. What I don't appreciate is your near zealous devotion to one of the most idiotic, ill-supported theories of modern popular culture. But, hey, if it makes you feel better, half the country's doing it. Perhaps now, on the anniversary of saddest yet most misunderstood occurrence in our history, is the time to correct it.

If I told you that, on September 11, 2001, 19 Korans climbed on an airplane, assumed control of the cockpit, and crashed it into the World Trade Center, would you believe me? Of course not. How about this? On December 8, 1980, a rogue copy of Catcher in the Rye hit outside the Dakota and shot John Lennon in the back. Plausible? No, sirree.

Why is it, then, that the Koran is blamed for the 9/11 attacks, when, A) it actively preaches against such extremism in verse 2.190 and, B) IT'S AN INANIMATE OBJECT?!! Why does JD Salinger get a bad rap because his book just happened to be picked up by a psychopath? Why does Martin Scorsese still get castigated to this day because last week's featured film, Taxi Driver, was listed by would-be presidential assassin John Hinckley as a major inspiration? You should know, Papaw, that, as an artist, nothing angers me more than to see the creator blamed for the actions of the consumer. But what interests me is this. Why do we blame works of art (for, like the Bible and my people's Tanakh before it, the Koran is a work of literature before it is anything else) for human foibles? I've an idea why.

What disturbs us more than anything is the idea that we are not all intrinsically good. For every one of us who starts a charity organization or saves a life, there are four who swindle money and bomb city streets. More disturbing than that fact is the idea that a mind in its own right can make such diseased decisions. How could one have such an innately skewered moral compass that acts of terrorism and bloodletting would appear to be morally acceptable? The said answer is, they simply do. Science proves me right, lists chemical imbalances, bodily toxins, bloodflow blockages that erase for some any possibility of sanity. For whatever reason, some members of the human race simply have deeper, darker reservoirs of evil lying within than the rest of us. But, like that mom who just can't acknowledge her baby made a boo-boo, we constantly dodge the idea that members of the human family are inherently bad. Instead, we point to intangible things that corrupted them.

Abuse made this man shoot a pop star.

A book made these people knock down a building.

This makes the problem of evil easy to solve. If we take away the art that's doing the corruption, the mind itself will cease to be corrupted. Not the case. There are those among us drawn inexplicably and completely towards the sinister, and no book they read or film they watch should be held responsible.

Actions are actions. Words are words. What someone reads cannot and should not be confused with what they do. The Koran has served as a call to peace and tolerance, not just to violence. Yet its reputation is tarnished because a select few misinterpreted its prose for their own depraved cause. The Catcher in the Rye alerted many to a higher purpose, but is best remembered for uncloaking one man's darker nature. I've had enough of folks using art as a scapegoat to avoid confrontation with inbred human folly. Some people are bad. Many are good. Books are books. Movies are movies. Music is music. Think about it.

If you ever really want to piss me off, Papaw, go to Listverse.com and show me the list entitled "Top 10 Books That Screwed Up the World". After an hour-plus bitch session, I will inform you what that page should be called; "Top 10 Books Whose Readers Screwed Up the World."

Sincerely,

Mason

"I'm the only one here..."

I just saw this one for the first time this weekend. Where has it been all my life?!?!

TAXI DRIVER

The 25: Pseudo-noir slash social commentary slash character study slash classic.

The plot: Suffering from relentless insomnia, Vietnam vet Travis Bickle (Robert DeNiro) becomes a cabbie, encountering a cross-section of later-20th century American-politicos, pimps, and everything in between. What he sees in his backseat sends his already volatile psyche hurtling toward the breaking point...

Martin Scorsese's just as important and astute a philosopher as Aristotle or Nietzsche; his dissertations just happen to masquerade as pulpy genre pictures. Mean Streets appears to be a story of small-time criminals, but it's really about the evils of institutionalized guilt; Goodfellas sells itself as the ultimate Mafia flick, but actually serves as a cautionary tale of seductive excess in the modern world; Taxi Driver borrows liberally from the conventions of the boilerplate thriller, but at its mournful center the picture is a heartbreaking exploration of how loneliness damages, and complete loneliness damages completely. We see what happens when a man is denied of attention and purpose, needs as pressing as air and water; we watch with growing horror as he goes to appalling lengths to justify his own existence. This is Scorsese's best work, and perhaps the seminal cinematic event of the 1970's.

Even if it had no other cultural relevance (it does), this one would be a time capsule essential simply because it's the best documentation of the Scorsese Style. Paul Schrader's script is great, but it's the director's iconic techniques that bring it to life. Take the scene preceding perhaps the film's most infamous moment, Travis and Betsy's (Cybill Sheperd) moribund date at a porno flick. The screenplay says this: "Travis, dressed to the teeth, walks brightly down the sidewalk." As written, this split-second moment serves as mere transitional filler, bridging the previous Big Scene (a presidential candidate rides in Travis's cab) with the next Big Scene (aforementioned date night from hell). As directed, it's a doozy; he's decked out in bright red, hair combed, posture straight, clearly conscious of his appearance for the first time. He walks towards us in slowly motion, feeling like James Dean but looking like a feeble impersonator, believing he stands above these people when he's really just another pair of feet trudging down Broadway. Scorsese has turned a single sentence in a galvanizing sequence of impeccable composition and thrilling vision. No one who sees Taxi Driver forgets this moment. There are a thousand other instances where smart screenwriting and transcendent direction blend with astonishing results; the scene where Travis buys a gun, and Scorsese and editor Thelma Schoonmaker use a series of slow, deliberate cuts to build up almost unbearable suspense during the simplest of scenes; Travis's first encounter with a tween prostitute (holy shit, Jodie Foster!), which takes place in front of what look like votive candles, transforming a two-person exchange into an indelible mockery of human morality; and, of course, the "you talkin' to me?" sequence, where Scorsese employs a startling jump-cut rhythm that turns the most austere of scenes (Travis stands in front of a mirror with a gun, repeats the same line over and over) into a moment that's so iconic, even those who've never heard of the picture can imitate it. Perhaps Scorsese's smartest decision of all was to film his beloved New York as the run-down, ruthless inferno Travis sees ; the streetlights are harsh, the traffic is blaring, profanities leap over graffiti-choked walls and great clouds of smoke and soot sift up into the starless sky. Deglamorizing the world's most idealized city is no small potatoes, and Schrader's script wouldn't work without it; because we see this universe through Travis's eyes, we come to understand his aberrant worldview, even if it doesn't become our own.

I could (and probably should), spill some cyber-ink over DeNiro's work here, but any attempt to describe the circus-freak gutsiness with which he combines subdued creepiness and warped compassionate will fall flat. Foster's performance also evades simple summary; suffice to say it's one of the most confident and fearless youth performances since Judy Garland donned those ruby slippers. What I can talk about, and will talk about (ad nauseum, bitches), is Bernard Herrman's score. Herrman, probably the greatest Hollywood composer not named John Williams, employed full orchestras to create haunting themes that punctuate some of our most frightening movie memories. That Cape Fear horn dirge, one of the few pieces of movie music that's scary even when freed from the specifics of its film? He penned it. The theme to Twisted Nerve, such a perfect work of whimsical eeriness that Quentin Tarantino optioned it for a crucial moment in his Kill Bill saga? Bernie wrote that one, too. Ever heard of a show called The Twilight Zone? Yeah, he's responsible for the theme song. Oh, and he wrote the music for this obscure little movie called Psycho. Still, his score for Taxi Driver (his last), happens to be my favorite. We get two main themes here, polar opposites cleverly employed in counterpoint. First, there's an old-fashioned studio movie piece-a full orchestra backed by a wailing saxophone solo. The music conjures images of lipstick on trenchoats, swanky broads clopping down neon-splashed streets-it invokes the pulpy power of the movies, which makes sense seeing as Travis begins to consider himself a one-man justice squad when handed a gun. This track represents Travis's impression of himself. Soon, another theme reveals itself-this one features stabbing low brass instruments that repeat a jarringly dissonant two-note progression over and over while snare drums burst in at random, growing in volume, quickening in tempo. Travis Bickle, this music tells us, may think he has everything under control, but he's really a runaway freight train, and as he goes off the rails big-time during the films violent finale, this theme takes precedent over the first one. With work like this, Herrman should be a household name.

No spoilers, but let me talk about the ending for a moment. The final fifteen minutes blend reality with hallucination, plunge headfirst into a confrontation of grisly bloodletting that shocks and shakes even today, and then leaves us with one of the most sudden and surreal upbeat endings in the history of not just cinema but art itself. Okay NOW IMMA SPOIL SHIT SO READ THIS AFTER YOU WATCH KTHNXBI. As much hell as people raise about it, I truly do think this ending is perfect. Travis denied his opportunity to run away with Iris earlier because it did not afford him purpose; he needed to save her to redeem himself. That's why his all-out attack on Sport and Co. is so necessary; he doesn't want her to be rescued so much as he wants desperately to be the rescuer. The sudden happy ending is necessary, too. It may be Travis's dying dream or an actual chain of real life events, and it speaks volumes that Scorsese gives us enough evidence to support either claim. Either way, its a happy ending for Travis; if he dies after saving Iris, he's provided purpose for himself; better yet, if the media coverage after the shootout is real, society has assigned him one. It's in this home stretch that Taxi Driver really gets its point across; before the need to be loved, to be fed, to be clothed, to be safe, to be free, is the need for a reason to be at all.

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.