Exclusive Preview: DNA TEST FEST

“I don’t really give a fuck about half of the shit that…Pitchfork talks about. I don’t care about the shit’s that’s on BYT(noted pornography website Brightest Young Things) and I don’t go party.”

This humble manifesto of sorts was uttered by one Sean Gray. For those familiar with the bespectacled, outspoken, suitably profane prince of College Park’s WMUC radio, Gray’s views regarding the current status of the DC music scene should come as little to no surprise. Whereas an average fan devoid of any particular ambition would relegate such feelings to Internet message boards and Zaireeka listening parties, Gray and his partner Christopher Berry decided to do something about it, to create their very own odd niche of the independent music world where one is just as likely to undergo the sonic assault of Drunkdriver as be pleased by the avant acoustics of Kurt Vile.

To Gray and Berry, the variety of the talent at their imprint, Fan Death Records is by design rather than a contradiction. Gray offered almost a guiding creed of their business: “Because the Internet is so vast, there is a lot of bands that kind of get shuffled over. They don’t really get attention paid to them. My thought was that if I group these bands together that wouldn’t normally be grouped. My hope and Chris’s hope in this is that somebody will walk away who was originally there to see…True Womahood, they end up seeing Screen Vinyl Image or…Pygymy Shrews, and they’re like ‘that was awesome I’m glad that I saw them’…All I care about is…when people leave that venue on the 24th and the 25th, they say “I’m really glad this happened.” Berry added, “We both have that attitude where…we will take a chance on a record.”

The two nearly finish each other’s sentences and one detects little to no disagreement amongst them. In fact, the story of their first meeting has a romantic tinge to it. Berry, already having ordered a record from Gray’s first venture, Hit-Dat Records, only encountered Gray in person upon joining the University of Maryland and hearing of “a cool kid with a walker” and a “Devo t-shirt.” Thus, began their fruitful partnership. They manage essentially all aspects of the business together from marketing to accounting to even packaging and shipping the Vinyl records themselves. Fan Death becomes them.

Their transformation from die hard “record collectors” to mini moguls might seem new fangled and endemic of an Internet age where tools such as Myspace and Blogs have rapidly drained control from the coffers of musical conglomerate into the hands of tech literate consumers. Yet, Berry and Gray argue that Fan Death is really nothing new at all. Berry was dismissive, saying, “Well people did it before us.” Gray simply placed Fan Death into the long lineage of independent labels: “It happened 20 years ago… in the 60s, it happened in the 70s. It’s going to continue happening. The Internet is just another tool…To me it hasn’t revolutionized really anything.”

Still, there is a vast difference between the approach of a bloated, rich major label and the lithe Fan Death. Though Fan Death wishes to release “as many records as possible,” Berry describes their more enlightened aspirations: “We aren’t just in it to make a shitload of money and chill…Everything that we put out we really care about.” Qualifying Berry’s statements, Gray states, “There’s nothing wrong with selling records. We just want to make enough money to be able to keep putting out records.I know and Chris knows that we’re going to have to have regular jobs. We’re not going to be the next Matador records.” The duo is literally invested in the success of their label as virtually each release carries with it the risk of not having “rent money.”

So what to make of two punks who are the first to both readily acknowledge that the entire idea of using their pocketbooks and passion to help guide your listening habits is “really fucking pretentious” and are still just as “aggressive” in producing and pushing their favorite LPs? The answer is simple and can be gleaned simply by attending both nights of DNA TEST FEST at the Velvet Lounge in Washington D.C. on April 24th and 25th. You might love it, hate it or want to fight Berry and Gray. All that matters is that you escape the Drunkdriver set with limbs intact and Smirinoff Ice unspilt.

-Vman

Fan Death Records

DNA TEST FEST

Album Review (EP): Blood Bank – Bon Iver

In the indie world of today, it is all too easy to rapidly win the hearts and minds of the NPR faithful and then lose them just as quickly. Considering that For Emma, Forever Ago was actually recorded during a cabin sabbatical in 2007, doubts that Vernon —now with Mike Noyce and Sean Carey — might prove unable to expand upon his heartfelt, folk masterpiece were entirely justified. His latest EP under the band name Bon Iver, Blood Bank — though unfairly burdened with far more pressure than the four rewarding tracks contained are meant to bear – is a gorgeous, lush effort which mines Vernon’s rich past while still developing the sound and the meaning of Emma even further.

Judging by his music, Vernon cares little about appeasing critics or fans hungrily awaiting miracles from the Wisconsin man with the body of a lumberjack and the soul of a transcendentalist poet. The songs arise naturally and openly from Vernon. “Blood Bank” begins with a gentle, building phrase on strings which quickly gives way to Vernon’s falsetto cooing and distorted, quickly strummed chords. Most notable about the song are the changes in tempo as Vernon goes from triumphant to philosophical in his story of fresh love. Stanzas about that initial rush of flirtation, “Well I met you at the blood ban/We were looking at the bags/Wondering if any of the colors/Matched any of the names we knew on the tags” play like the opening scenes of an indie movie, quirky but charming. To deliver the chorus, Vernon halts his arrangements and delivers the chorus: “And I said I know it well.” The line is simple but doused in enough emotion and yearning that it works exactly as well as the refrains in Emma.

The most experimental songs on the album are closing tracks “Babys” and “Woods.” The former is notable for being driven by a constantly repeating melodic phrase on piano rather than Vernon’s trusted steel string guitar. The lyrics, however, are vintage — spare and filled with ambiguity: “Summer comes to multiply/But I, I’m the carnival of peace.” It is a deliberate allusion to and rejection of the season largely responsible for shaping Vernon, winter. This peace is short lived, ended by the dark statement “But my woman and I, my woman and I know what we’re for.”

Though Vernon had flirted with autotune in Emma during “The Wolves (Act I and II),” he takes the device to heretofore unseen lengths. “Woods” consists layer upon layer of Vernon’s vocals, each at a different pitch and distorted to a different degree until there is a ascendant, harmonizing chorus with digitally inflected tenor and bass. Kanye West used the program to distance himself from his emotions — trusting only a robotic imitation of himself to deliver what he felt, knowing his limited, expressive rapping voice could not carry the emotions. Vernon’s motivations are far more mysterious. It is apparent he can sing and sing well, endowed with an angelic falsetto, just short of a castrati. Whatever the reasons may be, one must marvel at how Vernon casts off expectations and brings to light the beauty and the darkness he discovered in those woods.

RATING:

-Vman

Buy It!

Album Review: Noble Beast – Andrew Bird

“Let’s get out of here/past the atmosphere” implores singer/songwriter/multi instrumentalist Andrew Bird in “Oh No,” the opening track of his latest effort, Noble Beast. Listening to his rich soundscapes — immaculately constructed down to the last note — Bird’s simple lyric begins to take on increasingly added significance.

Noble Beast is by no means a revolutionary, atmosphere abandoning effort. Bird strays only moderately from the standard pop structures he has gradually adopted ever since ably crossing over from the world of classical music. Yet, his instrumental acuity is such that even tunes eerily similar to his previous work yield a bounty of new discoveries.

The violin introducing “Oh No” sounds extraordinarily familiar in a way, as if sprung from the confines of some old 45 but also gorgeously original with its tone of measured romanticism. The melody, which Bird extracted from the utterance of a small child seems just right, almost as if Bird put into song everything the little boy felt when he cried “oh no.”

In fact, each of Bird’s arrangements is an adventure in and of itself as evidenced by one of Beast’s standouts, “Anonanimal.” Though seemingly titled by Flight of the Conchords, it assuredly swings through a variety of moods created by the clash and combination of Bird’s swelling violin, up tempo guitar picking and lyrical dalliances with consonance and rapidly morphing meters. Ultimately, Bird coos and his violin weeps, making one feel a great deal for whatever an “anonanimal” is.

Also featured is Bird’s recent experimentation — assisted by collaborator Martin Dosh — with unconventional percussive rhythms. “Not a Robot, But a Ghost” begins with a spare digital-inflected beat seemingly offered by Thom Yorke before the addition of a full drum kit propels the insistent rhythm to the forefront.

Similarly, Bird’s guitar playing has matured to the point that his fingerpicking even propels selected songs such as “Natural Disaster” rather than merely providing the pleasant rhythmic background. One could easily assume it was Paul McCartney who composed the guitar line, fresh off of writing “Blackbird.”

More pop revivalist than mere formalist, Bird mainly employs spaced, unconventional timbres to avoid structural monotony. Whether it’s the violin plucking, the whistling or the glockenspiel playing, Bird never quite stops refracting his melodies through various mediums. After all, “Tenuousness” is essentially the repetition of the same melodic phrase, first by guitar then eventually by violin, bass and Bird’s ethereal whistle.

Lyrically, Bird sticks to his long held conviction that words exist to serve the melody and not the other way around. It is the sound and rhythmic quality of each syllable which seduces Bird rather than the literal meaning of the words themselves. Stanzas such as “Under the elders/the older get younger/the younger get over/over the elders/and under the elders/pretend that you’re older now” from the peak of the album, “Souverian” sound equal parts nonsensical and wonderfully poetic.

Fortunately, Bird is as witty as he is melodically perceptive. In “The Privateers,” Bird issues the most elegant rebuttal of product pitchmen in recent memory, singing “Don’t sell me anything/Your onetime offer so uncalled for…” with all the appropriate emotional inflections.

The only pseudo-fault of Beast is that it cannot compare to Bird’s much darker masterpiece, The Mysterious Production of Eggs. Granted, the musicianship is better than ever but Beast simply lacks the emotional punch of Bird singing “You’re what happens when two substances collide/ And by all accounts you really should have died” on Eggs. It is easy to point to that line alone and understand the album as a treatise on life and the various difficulties involved in its creation and conclusion. No such thesis is provided for Beast other than vague allusions to invented creatures and animals.

By now it is well established that Bird is a meticulous artisan of sound. It appears, however, that amidst all his perfectionism he has lost sight of the big picture. Even the highlight of the album,”Souverian” is left stranded without any songs kindred in spirit to support its masterful atmospheres. Still, Noble Beast is worth hearing for those small pleasures alone. We are never quite sure what it all adds up to but to quote one of Bird’s previous albums: “Oh! the Grandeur.”

RATING:

-Vman

Noble Beast is a reconciling of the tenderness and openness of The Mysterious Production of Eggs with the edginess of Armchair Apocrypha (Armchair Apocrypha and …Eggs being his previous two albums). It’s not so much of a balancing act because the darkness that preoccupied Armchair Apocrypha is mostly gone. Both in lyrical and tonal measurements, Noble Beast is a much more cheerful record.

The deluxe edition (Noble Beast and an album of instrumentals, Useless Creatures) packaging is excellent.

– R.H.

Buy It!

Review: Notorious

Courtesy: Fox Searchlight

The Biggie Smalls biopic Notorious is, predictably enough, a family affair in numerous ways. Biggie’s mother, Voletta Wallace was involved extensively, even anointing Jamal Woolard as her son in an open casting call. Furthermore, her grandson, CJ Wallace, plays the young incarnation of his father apparently blissfully ignorant of the implications his performance entailed. While it is perfectly acceptable that Mrs.Wallce, a woman who by all accounts was the most positive voice in Biggie’s tumultuous life, be involved in her son’s biopic, it places an artistic chokehold on the material. Watching the film, one is forced to look around in incredulity, wondering if anybody else in the theatre was buying the glossy depictions of Saint Smalls and his madonna of a mother. Aside from that of Mrs. Wallace, the other prominent meddling that can be detected in the film comes directly from the diamond studded hand of Sean ‘Puffy/P.Diddy/Diddy’ Combs. Derek Luke plays Combs as Biggie’s guardian angel, a helpful and selfless model of benevolence who was only too happy to turn Biggie’s life around and take him to the promise land while asking relatively little in return. Naturally, there is little hint of the shameless profiteering Combs clearly engaged in as he built his empire off of the life but mostly the death of Biggie. Lil Kim even gets recast as simply a wounded soul madly in love. One begins to wonder how the sweetheart on the screen ended up a convicted felon and noted crazy person.

In fact, Notorious bears little resemblance to Biggie’s masterpiece debut, Ready to Die or even to the lesser sequel, Life After Death. Rather it is kin to Born Again, the post humous collection of botched and brazenly cynical remixes and unreleased tracks created by Combs and Biggie’s estate to cash in one last time before Biggie lost his hold on the national consciousness. Granted, Notorious is not without its small successes. Woolard’s Biggie, if nothing else, is especially charming and winsome, qualities often overlooked when discussing the man. In addition, hee can certainly look like Biggie, an accomplishment not be dismissed. Angela Bassett brings appropriate gravitas and regal bearing as Voletta even if her theatrics square very rarely with the largely buoyant tone of the movie. There is even a modicum of style in director George Tillman’s camera work, even if the first act seemingly pilfered its visuals from Everybody Hates Chris.

As much as the talent involved tries, however, the calculated stench of the Hollywood biopic never quite washes off. Woolard is funny but he is severely lacking in gravitas. Although meant to be indelible, shots of Biggie on his throne,cane in hand and hat on head, end up almost comic as one sees not the king of the game but a chubby poseur out of his league. As much as Mrs. Wallace and everyone involved would like to ignore it, Biggie was, at times, a dark, dark motherfucker. Ready to Die is a nightmare of a record whose foreboding atmosphere of doom is only matched by its penchant for brilliant fatalist musings. If Notorious had followed the grand, tragic arc set forth in that classic then it might have achieved a Shakespearean heft equal to that of its protagonist. What should be transcendent tragedy is molded by Tillman Jr. into a pandering, inept and ultimately incomplete portrait. Shots of Biggie doing bad things like selling crack to a pregnant woman or exploding in anger seems requisite rather than revelatory. The crackhead even goes on to miraculously have a productive life and a fine son leaving one to wonder if Saint Smalls was kind and magnanimous enough to supply her with magical crack. When that final, fated bullet ends the life of Christopher Wallace one is left  happy and hopeful, confident that Biggie, joyous and well fed in heaven, is delivering the voiceover with a smile and a warm heart. Well, fuck that shit.

Allow me to quote a great poet who deserves better:

“When I die, fuck it I wanna go to hell

Cause Im a piece of shit, it aint hard to fuckin tell
It dont make sense, goin to heaven wit the goodie-goodies
Dressed in white, I like black tims and black hoodies
God will probably have me on some real strict shit
No sleepin all day, no gettin my dick licked
Hangin with the goodie-goodies loungin in paradise
Fuck that shit, I wanna tote guns and shoot dice

All my life I been considered as the worst”

-Vman

The Best Music of 2008

2008 was a pretty good year for new music.

The Best albums released in 2008 (Album –  Artist):

1. Brighter Than Creation’s Dark –  Drive-By Truckers
2. The Evening Descends –  Evangelicals
3. The Chemistry of Common Life –  F**ked Up
4. At Mount Zoomer –  Wolf Parade
5. HLLLYH –  The Mae Shi
6. Hold On Now, Youngster… –  Los Campesinos!
7. Liver! Lung! FR! –  Frightened Rabbit
8. Ice Cream Spiritual –  Ponytail
9. Jim –  Jamie Lidell
10. Heretic Pride –  The Mountain Goats

“You! Me! Dancing!” by Los Campesinos!, from their debut album, Hold On Now, Youngster… (also found on the 2007 EP Sticking Fingers Into Sockets)

The rest of the best (in no particular order):

• 808s & Heartbreak –  Kanye West
• Vampire Weekend – Vampire Weekend
• Third –  Portishead
• We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed –  Los Campesinos!
• Vivian Girls –  Vivian Girls
• In The Future –  Black Mountain
• Distortion – The Magnetic Fields
• Ferndorf –  Hauschka
• Life…The Best Game in Town –  Harvey Milk
• Cities of Glass –  AIDS Wolf
• Microcastle –  Deerhunter
• The Odd Couple –  Gnarls Barkley
• Skeleton –  Abe Vigoda
• The Midnight Organ Fight –  Frightened Rabbit
• The Twilight Sad Killed My Parents and Hit the Road –  The Twilight Sad
• Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea – Silver Jews
• Methods: (EP) –  Imperial China
• Sing Along (EP)  –  Caverns
• Kittens! (EP)  –  Caverns
• Music Needs You –  Ryan Blotnick
• Red, Yellow & Blue –  Born Ruffians
• A Certain Feeling –  Bodies of Water
• Nouns –  No Age
• Smile –  Boris
• Pop-Up –  Yelle
• Made In The Dark –  Hot Chip
• Lost and Found –  The Dexateens
• Long Gone And Nearly There –  Julie Ocean
• Litany of Echoes –  James Blackshaw
• Arm’s Way –  Islands
• Magnificent Fiend –  Howlin’ Rain
• High Places –  High Places
• Flight Of The Conchords –  Flight Of The Conchords
• Christmas On Mars (Soundtrack)  –  The Flaming Lips
• Street Horrrsing –  F**k Buttons
• Visiter –  The Dodos
• Nothing Is Precious Enough for Us –  Death Vessel
• Drippers and  Bonus Drippers –  Black Moth Super Rainbow
• Rip It Off –  Times New Viking

Best Re-issue of 2008:

1. Otis Blue: Otis Redding Sings Soul –  Otis Redding

– R.H.

The Best Albums of 2008 :

1. Is it the Sea – Bonnie Prince Billy : Our favorite melancountry superstar delivers a live album that reminds one of his greatness while examining it in a whole new light.

2. Stay Positive – The Hold Steady : Working class is not a label that readily describes Craig Finn and co but their tales of townies and misguided teenagers are just as funny, touching and perfect in their own scrappy way as ever. The world’s best bar music as interpreted by indie elitists.

3. Glasvegas – Glasvegas : Melodic catharsis in spades delivered by four Glasgowians. This young band is not infallible as a whispered poem over Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata suffers in comparison to the original but they got spirit, energy and stories of absent fathers, wounded teens and overall angst that really should not work as well as they do.

4. We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed – Los Campesinos : Cheeky and clever but much more than that. Nihilists on the outside but pop craftsmen at heart, their ruminations on youth’s assured end in dejected failure are all good fun until you stop and realize they’re telling you the party’s going to be over and there’s nothing you can do.

5. Microcastle – Deerhunter : There’s something ethereal about this band and especially this album. Playing with avant garde ideas without sacrificing listenability, these ambassadors of indie keep winning.

6. You and Me – The Walkmen : The Bob Dylan comparisons become ever more pronounced especially with frontman Hamilton Leithauser affecting nasally intonations. Still, their chief appeal is heartfelt, esoteric storytelling, aged and cackling.

7. Skeletal Lamping – Of Montreal : The hype machine finally broke down and Kevin Barnes began to tumble critically while selling out shows. The music, however, is just as inventive and grand as it ever was. Though lacking the darkness of Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?, Barnes’ latest is rife with the new ideas he keeps discovering and surely will stand more prominently in the cannon once the sobering influence of time takes hold.

8. Modern Guilt – Beck : The dream team of Beck and The Gray Album mastermind Dangermouse creates surprisingly ignored quality tunes. Beck is still haunted by his demons from Sea Change but he still finds time to offer Dangermouse jubilant, sampled pop ditties to wash down the depression.

9. Saturnalia – The Gutter Twins : An album that abounds with apocalypse throughout as two musical legends push each other to the limits of their sensibilities, one high the other low.

10.That Lucky Old Sun – Brian Wilson : A musical legend who seems to be experimenting with the harmonies and arrangements that have fascinated him throughout his career not for the audience’s benefit but his own. The results are as reliably stunning as ever.

Honorable Mention: 808s and Hearbreak – Kanye West, Untitled – Nas, A Larum – Johnny Flynn and the Sussex Wit, The ’59 Sound – The Gaslight Anthem

– Vman

Review: Synecdoche, New York

Courtesy: Sony Classics

A review of this film would be more inconsequential than usual and mere folderol to the spectacle of it all. Therefore, it is much more prudent to jot down some thoughts had a fair bit ago upon experiencing the piece. After all, Charlie Kaufman himself said Synecdoche is constructed more like a dream than a rational, linear film. Caden Cotard(Philip Seymour Hoffman) is a theater director heading headlong for death. This knowledge is conveyed to him through the various failures of his body. The blood in his stool, the pains in his body, the pus, the headaches, the insolvency are all harbingers, signaling that the road is ending and there is no detour. Yet, Caden still wants to find a way out the same as we all do, his conduit being theater. Having won a MacArthur genius grant for his interpretation of Death of a Salesman, he sets about creating meaning in the existential void by bringing all of life into the theater, a venue he can manage and mold to his liking. His wife having left him with his kid and quickly finding himself all alone in the world, Caden connects with the world by bringing it into his. Actors are cast, mammoth sets are built and much like the world itself, everything is begun with grand ambitions and hopes as larger than the titanic warehouse in which Caden creates his world. It is with this premise that the film leaves the pathetic trepidations of the masses behind and one begins to see Charlie Kaufman playing with the puzzle he has just created, attempting to solve it not for the audience but for his own pleasure. Eventually he puts the pieces together and finds that they form a picture of nothing. Caden sees his love rejected universally as his daughter and ex wife scorn him, his relationships end in chaos or awkward stalemates. While he was busy bringing his life onto the stage, he forgot to live it. No matter, life is theater isn’t it? Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead and no matter what Caden comes up with it is gone. The stage is ephemeral and as unforgiving as the world, the performances disappearing into vapor as quickly as they come. Still, Caden wants to learn a thing or two before his time runs out. The stage becomes a prism, refracting, reflecting and extracting his life mercilessly. It is all there, the bleak sadness of his rituals: cleaning up his ex wife’s apartment while she is away, falling in and out of love with the same woman, smart enough to see it yet too stupid to do anything about it. It all comes out but Caden needs much more. Every extra is a lead, it’s real life man. Like life, the experiment ages. Actors become weary, sets begin to decay and Kaufman creates it all with exactitude. Reappearing for brief instants almost subliminally, certain images and motifs began to seep into the film. There is a pattern to it all, sad as one finds to be once discovered. Caden does not know that he’s just a little person, however, and he begins to get stage directions seemingly from on high. Wandering through his shattered reality and the one he did not create Caden has no refuge but in melancholy and the slight comfort of another. That’s it isn’t it? The song goes “I’ll find a second little person who will look at me and say… I know you, you’re the one I’ve waited for. Let’s have some fun.” A cautionary odyssey after it all happens, Caden cannot win and neither can we. Therefore, the least we can do is get the little moments that Caden sacrifices right. Regrets, however, cannot be fixed. The full weight of this bears on Caden but before he can do much more about it or nothing at all, there is a final stage command, die. I’m just a little person and so are you. This film might seem big but it isn’t. In actuality, it’s made for the little people like you and me by a little person. Kaufman knew he could not succeed where Caden had failed yet he got on with it, as we all must. See it and weep if you can, then forget about it forever, no good in fighting time.

RATING: 5 out of 5 stars
– Vman

Review: Milk

Courtesy: Focus Features

Perhaps the unsung hero in the praised to the heavens Gus Van Sant helmed Harvey Milk biopic Milk is director of cinematography Harris Savides. Bringing the same visual acumen he did to Zodiac, Savides seems to have undeniably mastered the palette of the 1970s. The images he and Gus Van Sant put on the screen are as, if not more stunning than the bravura performance by Sean Penn and co.

Case in point is the first sexual encounter between Harvey Milk and his lover, Scott Smith (James Franco). Naturally, the performances are perfectly tuned and calibrated. Franco calls upon a hitherto largely suppressed charm (think of the dour Harry Osborn in Spiderman 3) and glances knowingly at the considerably less attractive Penn, easily conveying that he just cannot help but be captivated by this funny looking Jew from long island. Meanwhile, Penn’s halting downward glances reveal that though Harvey was brazen enough to proposition Scott in the subway, he still retains a sweet, easily wounded core underneath that freedom fighter exterior. These performances, however, are stunning precisely because of the visual mastery of Savides and Van Sant. A handheld camera is placed within inches of the performers, providing startlingly intimate close ups as it lapses in and out of focus. The larger image appears beautifully worn with lighting dim and hazy enough to hint at the illicit nature of the activity.

Of course,  Milk does not just contain a flawless opening scene. Rather, the film picks up righteous steam as Harvey moves from Long Island to San Francisco to find a purpose. Eventually he discovers this to be politically crusading for gay rights and more specifically, representing Castro street, the center of the burgeoning homosexual scene. Harvey starts riots, boycotts anti gay businesses and generally causes hell. He runs repeatedly and loses just as often but refuses to stop being a nuisance to the man. His hard nosed head on charge into the establishment — gay and straight — forces homosexuals to demand more than just gay friendly leaders and challenges those leaders to deliver the rights they promised in exchange for gay votes. Eventually, Harvey becomes the first openly gay public official and begins fighting the good fight, mainly against Orange juice spokesman Anita Bryant and her campaign to ban gay teachers in California schools.

Although by now Harvey has most assuredly been canonized as a gay saint, Van Sant and screenwriter Dustin Lance Black approach his story with a determined realism, balancing scenes of Harvey loudly pumping his fist and infecting a generation with his fervor with his domestic failures and rocky personal life. Above all though, credit is due to the supporting players in the film for grounding the story. Emile Hirsch plays Harvey–recruited gay activist Cleve Jones with both humor and a subterranean anger. When he tells Harvey he doesn’t do losing, the apathy of disaffected youth fully gives way to the fire started by Harvey.

Likewise, Josh Brolin’s portrayal of Harvey’s assassin, Dan White lends another, even more vital dimension to the film. Refusing to sentimentalize a universally reviled man, Brolin nevertheless explores the reasons for White’s egregious murders aside from the now infamous “twinkie defense” — arguing that an excess of fast food consumption caused the act — employed during his subsequent trial. An oft -stated armchair phycologist diagnosis would be that White was simply an extremely repressed homosexual, whose internalized homophobia caused him to lash out. Fortunately, Brolin does not settle with such an easy, convenient conclusion instead portraying White as the ultimate misfit, a lone working class conservative in gay, liberal San Francisco whose lack of political strength leaves him at the mercy of the world around him, a man who just wished to seize control for once in his life even if it was with a revolver.

Gus Van Sant is an oddity in American cinema,  a director who can delve as deftly deeply into the calculatedly mainstream (Good Will Hunting) as he can into the aesthetically experimental (Paranoid Park ). His presence and more importantly the mise en scene he perfects in the film are what elevate Milk above the innumerable perfectly acceptable biopics into the realm of American classics.

– Vman

Review: Valkyrie

Courtesy: United Artists

Bryan Singer had  a lot of potential.

Pretty much everybody who cared enjoyed The Usual Suspects. Everybody praised his take on Marvel’s beloved gang of organized misfits in X-Men. And X2 was well-received, as well.

But he has squandered his talents on his last two films. Superman Returns? No thank you, sir. He can go back to where he came from. Spider-Man is helping us out just fine.

(Below is a tangent about Superman Returns. Feel free to skip this.)

One of the problems with Singer’s first entry in the Superman film franchise (Superman: Man of Steel has been announced for 2011) is that he made it more of an iffy love story than an action film. The movie was fine. But people do not go to see Superman get all mushy.

But let’s make this clear: It’s not really much of a love story. And let’s make this clear: The movie is a stinker. Kevin Spacey is horrifically campy, and that’s not always a good thing. Writers Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris need to quit the blockbuster film industry if this is the kind of drivel they are coming up with. A pathetic attempt at resurrecting a hero.

Spider-Man, Batman: they are real humans (at least as we know them). Superman is an alien. With a heck of a lot of superpowers (too many, if you ask me. Where’s the fun in being basically invincible?). What the kids want to see at a Superman show is bang! bang! wham! ka-pow! Not a whimper of a bang, some sentimental 1950s imagery and a bald Kevin Spacey. No. Superman was made a monster of unstoppable force so we could see him beat the bad guys up. Not worry about marriage.

In any event… (tangent over)

Valkyrie is another stinker. But disturbingly, it might be on par with Superman Returns in quality. But who knows any more. Both films are forces meant to depress; not worth anyone’s time.

As you might know, Valkyrie is about the successful assassination of one of the world’s greatest evils, Adolf Hitler. Or rather, that’s what it should have been about.

Claus Philipp Maria Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg (Tom Cruise) is the German officer leading one assassination plot against Hitler’s life. You can probably imagine the end result of their mission.

Unfortunately for Singer and company (Christopher McQuarrie and Nathan Alexander write the screenplay (and yes, this is “based on true events”)), the best portion of the film is when it seems like Hitler really is dead. Valkyrie could have been an infinitely better film if it became an alternative universe fantasy and killed Hitler off. And then the allies ride off on unicorns, etcetera, etcetera.

Cruise’s American accent is no fun when some of the Nazis have British accents, some have German accents – I wouldn’t be too surprised if I went back and found a Russian accent.

Valkyrie manages to be captivating for about ten minutes. (and those ten minutes are fifteen minutes after you awake from slumber) The narrative might be more interesting if we felt some kind of compassion for the characters. But most of the audience seemed to be rooting for their deaths just as much as the head honcho Nazis.

Valkyrie will succeed in the mainstream, though. It’s all ready a mild “hit.” But don’t you worry. It won’t be invading art house cinema complexes any time soon.

This film deserves the assassination Hitler never got.

– – – – – – –

Let it be known, the below trailer is an early one. (Note the end: “Summer 2008.”)

Review: Gran Torino

Courtesy Warner Brothers

It is remarkable to consider the gifts of Clint Eastwood, a man with a near miraculous ability to tap into the ideological mainstream of American life while offering enough of a critique to justify it as art. Gran Torino is focused on the final days of a typical Eastwood character, Walt Kowalski. A veteran of the Korean war, Kowalski delivers profanity monologues on respectively the “gooks”, “zipper-heads” and “chinks” rife with squints, scowls and even growls in the iconic manner of Dirty Harry. One is left with the impression that all he wants out of life is for people to stay off his lawn, leaving him alone with his demons from the war and the grief resulting from his wife Dorothy’s death.

Nevertheless, the world refuses to leave him with his misery when a neighboring Hmong boy, Thao, attempts to steal his beloved Ford Gran Torino, a vintage muscle car Kowalski himself helped assemble during his time at Ford. Kowalski then deals with Thao’s family with a mix of paternal care and knee jerk racism. Noble acts such as saving Thao’s sister Sue from thugs harassing her on the street and providing Thao with a guiding male presence he never had are offset by crude evocations of stereotypes such as instructing the hmongs to stay away from his dog when he learns of an ongoing barbeque. Eventually, Walt cannot help but be thrust into the middle of the conflict involving a local Hmong gang and Thao that brings out the heart of his character.

It is all too easy and painfully reductionist to dismiss Walt as the archetypical American stoic Eastwood has made a career out of perfectly capturing on celluloid. In fact, it is precisely the well worn familiarity of the narrative that lends the film potency. Gran Torino is one of the few films to zestfully tap into the vein of the American soul in a time when citizens are increasingly devoid of national spirit.  Everything about the film is an espousal of every classical value. When Thao asks Walt what about the type of work he should do. Walt vouches for Thao and gets him a job in construction, deriding how his son works in sales. It is a casual remark but it appeals to the American ethos of a generation past, valuing the creation of something material (construction, building cars) rather than the shuffling of immaterial goods such as credit default swaps.

Furthermore, Walt fights not out of anger but a sense of steadfast moral determination for Thao to live in peace. A sentiment that harkens back to a time when America did not rush headlong into wars full of misplaced Jingoism. In the same way that Walt attempts to teach his spoiled grandchildren about modesty and manners, Eastwood seems to be firing a blast square into the heart of the current culture. Gran Torino demands much of the viewer. It requires one to not only begrudgingly accept racism and proud political incorrectness  but laugh at and even celebrate it. Yet, the film’s pleasures extend far beyond that. It captures one’s emotions and attention almost subliminally, through a series of exceedingly creative racial epithets and quick shots of Walt’s blood on his napkin only to deliver a searing indelible gut punch of an ending. Gran Torino ends as an ideal symbiosis of character, film and director.

– Vman

Top Ten Films of 2008

What a fascinating year in film. Although it is questionable whether or not this list will have any impact, here are my top ten movies of a very fruitful and rewarding year in film with a snippet or two about their greatness when necessary.

1. Synecdoche, New York – By far the most ambitious film of the year. Charlie Kaufman has come close to doing what Caden never managed to do. Most assuredly, it is not for everyone but delving into the despair at its heart yields immeasurable joy.

2. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button – The best mainstream film of the year, rife with deep sadness. Fincher and Pitt continue to put out excellent work. An instantly classic American epic.

3. Milk – This movie oozes style and talent. Gus Van Sant seared the feel of the 70s into every frame. His impressionistic, empathetic camera combined with Sean Penn’s tour de force were a spectacular combination.

4. Rachel Getting Married – Jonathon’s Demme’s seemingly simple hand held cinematography and unaffected performances all around yielded a near flawless, naturalistic masterpiece.

5. Waltz With Bashir – completely redefines the documentary format with visuals that are near revolutionary.

6. The Wrestler – Aronofsky is much more subtle but just as great. Mickey Rourke brings out his demons and hits exactly the right note of bittersweet.

7. The Dark Knight – Imbued with far more depth than it had any right to have. The Dark Knight was an example of the greatness that can result when artists are allowed to tackle a mainstream film. Heath Ledger is simply stunning.

8. WALL-E – Animation is no longer for the kids. Although wrapped in a layer of sweetness, it is deeply affecting satire that is near perfectly crafted.

9. The Wackness – A perfect portrait of 90s New York City. Levine takes stylistic risks and they all pay off, creating the overlooked gem of 2008.

10. Burn After Reading – The best comedy of the year. The Coen Brothers berate their audience with darkness and constantly push boundaries, making you laugh and cringe simultaneously.

Honorable Mention (in order of Honor attained): Frost/Nixon, In Bruges, Hancock, Funny Games, Mongol, Australia, Pineapple Express, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Iron Man, W., Tropic Thunder, Religulous,

-Vman

Review: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Courtesy: Paramount

And what a curious case it is. Very loosely based on an F.Scott Fitzgerald short story of the same name, the film follows the titular protagonist Benjamin Button (Brad Pitt) as he lives his life. Button journeys, loves and ultimately mourns just like any other man. The reason why his story is remarkable is that he was born with the body of an 80 year old man after the end of WWI and continued to grow ever younger while the world and most importantly the love of his life, Daisy (Cate Blanchett) slowly eroded and decayed in typical fashion.

Admittedly off putting, Button’s central concept is difficult to accept and easy to deride as mere fantasy.  That, however, would be missing the point since it is far more accurate to regard Button as more of a thought experiment than an actual chronicle. It is a theoretical construct whose main purpose is to prod the viewer into examining his or her own beliefs and fears about mortality. When asked by Daisy if he notices the process and effects of becoming a younger man, Benjamin replies that all he sees when he looks in the mirror are his own eyes. This casually tossed off line is symbolic in more ways than one. Button just has a transcendental quality about it lacking from screenwriter Eric Roth’s perfectly fine previous work, Forrest Gump, because it goes through the greatest generations greatest hits( WW2 and the Beatles make predictable cameos) yet refuses to be defined by them. In fact, what one notices most about Button’s life is not that he had an affair with a woman who would go on to swim the English channel but that he adored Daisy and longed for a simple life together being a good father to their child. He just wanted to keep living, not setting records, changing the world or advancing humanity, but rather to just enjoy a quiet motorcycle ride or a furlough on his boat.

Not only philosophically sound, Button is also testament to the  artistic mastery of the people involved in its creation. After a haunting performance in The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, Pitt continues to deliver exponential returns. His performance is restrained but perfectly so. His Button comes across successfully as both a thoughtful wanderer and a regular man with sound values and decency. Although he wrestles with his celebrity, no actor working today, George Clooney excluded, has managed to carry on the tradition of the grand American leading man and create such meaningful work. He has a remarkable charisma that makes a simple shot of him riding a classic motorcycle adorned in a leather jacket and aviators instantly iconic.

Furthermore, it is a bit odd that the man carrying on the tradition of the American epic is none other than Seven and Fight Club director David Fincher. Always prodigiously gifted, Fincher has thus far preferred to toil on the edges of mainstream American cinema, making movies about sociopathic pugilists and sadistic serial killers. Now, he’s making a downright Speilbergian story. Luckily, Fincher’s dark sensibility and visual mastery matches perfectly with the material even as the script seems to have inspired a blossoming romanticism in the director. Though he would never admit it, his swooning visuals of Daisy dancing in the mist and Benjamin pondering death against an elegiac sunrise speak to this newly softened edges while the dark undercurrents — ironic hurricane Katrina references, the unflinchingly grotesque appearance of young Benjamin — harken back to his earlier days of shock and awe.

Button asks many questions of the audience and even inspires a few fits of existential despair. While the year’s other premier film, Synecdoche, New York left viewers in this emotional maw, Button offers viewers an answer of sorts with a simple montage of its characters. They are all dead and long gone as they knew they would be. Yet, they are still shown as they would want to be remembered: laughing, crying and living.

-Vman

Review: The Wrestler

Film fans seeking to appreciate the remarkable range of Mickey Rourke, who plays aging wrestler Randy “The Ram” Ramsinski in Darren Arnofsky’s The Wrestler, should view Barry Levinson’s classic debut Diner and note Rourke’s charming performance as Boogie, the charismatic sweet talker always prepared with an anecdote and a wry, knowing smile. Now, Rourke’s face has traded its fresh, handsome luster for lines, scars and wrinkles galore. In fact, Rourke looks like he can now almost play his character in Robert Rodriguez’s Sin City, Marv without make up. Of course a weathered countenance does not a great performance make. Rather it is Rourke’s protean talents and his aforementioned incredible range. Rourke can effortlessly createpathos for Randy, by suggesting the simplicity and purity at the heart of the character yet still hint at a lost intelligence. His Randy is a man seeking lost glory who is willing to man the deli counter at ACME  and endure all the indignities that entails for his rapidly fading dream. He is an oddly gentle character, preferring to inflict pain upon himself rather than others. He tells people he’s alone and washed up but does not beg for their pity. Rourke imbues Randy with far too much grace for that.

The film, though centered on Randy’s turbulent personal and professional lives, is driven by the juxtaposition between Randy and an aging stripper named Cassidy (Marisa Tomei). The implication being that they play similar roles in show business, displaying their bodies and  their souls in return for meager compensation and adoration. Unfortunately for them, they are largely becoming obsolete and unnecessary. While her colleagues are gyrating to hip hop, Cassidy is stripping to classic metal. Randy enters to the ring greeted by Guns N Roses. The comedic highlight of the film is a joint rant on how much the 90s sucked. Their stumbling relationship is simultaneously beautiful and painful to watch. Rourke’s easy charm, most evident in his terrible dancing to his adored hair metal, combined with the wounded humanity he exudes with every teary glance, bring unexpected resonance to an otherwise cliched courtship. Likewise, Randy’s reconciliation with his daughter Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood) works in the larger context of the film, simply because it refuses to take the easy way out, unflinching in its simple, messy honesty.

That last phrase could apply to Arnofsky’s work in the film as well. Abandoning the expressive, technically masterful style of previous films such as Requiem for a Dream and The Fountain,  Arnofsky shoots for subtly drawn realism and succeeds. Eschewing metaphorical visual odysseys rife with a variety of lenses and surrealist effects, Arnofsky empathetically frames Rourke from behind with a shaky, imperfect handheld camera. Using largely close ups, the camera generally remains trained on Rourke, refusing to miss a second of his tour de force as it brings the viewer directly into contact with every cut, crushing blow and searing staple. Essentially, Arnofsky filmed the movie the way Randy talks, starkly, sweetly and bluntly. The Wrestler finds poetry in its titular subject’s life without artifice or cynical calculation, a fact that makes it a rarity among Hollywood biopics and easily of the finest films of the year.

-Vman

Do not doubt The Wrestler‘s ambitions. A fine film, steeped in the depression of life we all know.

– R.H.

Review: ‘Liver! Lung! FR!’ by Frightened Rabbit

Live albums can be a tired product, devoid of any real valid excuse for existence. But when you get a hold of a good one, a really good one, you cannot help but to be excited.

That’s how you should feel listening to Frightened Rabbit’s first live disc, Liver! Lung! FR! Not only is it a wonderful collection of wonderful songs but the Scottish band’s live sound is worthy enough to capture and promote as a separate entity from their studio albums.

That last statement is especially notable when you register the fact that this live album is being released in the same year as Frightened Rabbit’s critically acclaimed second album, The Midnight Organ Fight (April), and the two releases share the exact same tracklist (save for two short songs ones from Organ Fight: “Bright Pink Bookmark” and “Extrasupervery”).

Recorded in July in a Glasgow (home to a great number of exciting acts) venue, Liver! Lung! FR! expands upon Organ Fights’ already adored songs by giving extra room to lead singer Scott

Hutchinson’s voice and the band’s concentrated playing. The tracks include heart-warming and swelling choruses followed by an innumerable number of “Cheers” said by the band, in addition to the applause from the enthusiastic crowd.

The songs, of course, are the greatest part of Liver! Lung! FR! (okay, maybe the album title is the greatest part). The album is filled with FR’s (as the band is affectionately known by fans and lazy music critics) earnest songs about relationships (love, sex, heartbreak, the whole shebang).

In Organ Fight single “Fast Blood,” Scott humbly sings, “And now I tremble/because this fumble/has become biblical.” Heavy stuff.

This live album is also justified by the fact that the record keeps intact some of the between song banter. Probably not all of the banter from the show is included (nor the songs, considering they probably played material from their first album, the also great Sing the Greys), but just enough is included to give us a taste of the band’s personality, in addition to a few laughs.

When frontman Scott invites fairly well-known (in those parts) Glasgow singer-songwriter Ross Clark onstage to help them perform “Old Old Fashioned,” it seems as though Clark stumbles in picking up his instrument. A verbal exchange results in the search’s conclusion: “A mandolin from Ross’ arse!”

The harmonies are more immediate and touching live, stripped of the studio’s hug (and this is not a claim against the record. The record is great and the harmonies on it are great, too.).

Songs like “Old Old Fashioned” take on an exciting and revitalized feeling when played live. The track goes from a “let-me-tell-you” type song to an anthem begging for the revival of the good things we seem to have left behind with our ever-consuming electronics biting at our feet: “I turn off the TV/It’s killing us/We never speak.”

And seeing them live is a whole other experience. Drummer Grant Hutchinson (brother of Scott) pounds on his kit with the intensity of a crazed industrial percussionist. You might even stop and wonder if that grimace on his face is healthy.

His drumming shines in the live sound too. Much like his performance and facial expressions in-person, his agile pounding propels the strong and, well, intense beats that come your way through the stereo.

Another valid excuse to have a live album: capturing something unique to the show. Along with the Ross Clark contribution, we’re treated to the beautiful voice of James Graham on the straightforward “Keep Yourself Warm” (sample lyric: “It takes more than f**king someone you don’t know to keep yourself warm”).

Graham is the lead singer of another Scottish band: the great Twilight Sad, who happen to be some FR’s best friends.

Graham’s emotive howl is a staple of the Twilight Sad’s songs, but taking on “Keep Yourself Warm,” he takes his voice to a falsetto fans have never heard before (perhaps we will hear more? The band goes into the studio to record their second album this January).

To repeat a common and well-informed sentiment: FR!

– R.H.

Review: ‘Who Killed Harry Houdini?’ by I’m From Barcelona

Who Killed Harry Houdini? Mammoth-size rock band I’m From Barcelona try to answer that question on their second album (named after that particular question). Or, rather, they don’t. They just thought it would be a good title.

In any event, the question is irrelevant. I’m From Barcelona delivers another enjoyable record, even though it is considerably less happy and joy-filled than their first.

I’m From Barcelona broke out on the scene with its 2006 twee-pop debut, Let Me Introduce My Friends. And friends they have. Singer/songwriter Emanuel Lundgren leads the group, which had 29 members play on the band’s debut, a self-released EP made all in the name of fun. And none of the members of the Swedish group are from Barcelona (far as we know).

Let Me Introduce My Friends is a record that can simply and easily be described as a delight. After all, it is a (quality) twee record. Who Killed Harry Houdini? is also an enjoyable record but…the twee is gone.

Unlike its predecessor, Houdini has no songs about treehouses or chicken pox or oversleeping. Possibly, for just this reason (the lack of happy), Houdini is not as good a record as Friends. But to be fair, it is a good album that stands on its own.

Starting off a bit spookily, album opener “Andy” evokes Halloween imagery. These images are not a result of the lyrics but of the atmosphere of the song.

The song asks the Andy in question to join the already huge band: “Andy, you really want to go there?/They’re messing up your hair…/We could need someone like you in our band/Andy/No audition and you don’t have to pretend.” These lyrics display the classic silliness of I’m From Barcelona (so long as you translate “They’re messing up your hair” as a silly line in a serious-sounding song).

The happy that fans of I’m From Barcelona were so enamored with from the first album still exists in Houdini; it is just not as abundant.

“Paper Planes” sounds joyous with a cavalcade of voices singing (albeit about being surrounded by strangers). The song does not promise to take your money but rather dissects the art of “throwing paper planes to clear [one’s] head.” Sounds like therapy we could all use.

The somber side of the album shines on “Gunhild,” featuring vocals from French singer and actress Stéphanie Sokolinski, known in the music world as SoKo. A sweetly melancholy song, “Gunhild” is the first track in I’m From Barcelona’s catalog to really spotlight the sincerity in Lundgren’s kind voice. SoKo’s backing-into-lead vocals are a nice addition and play well alongside Lundgren’s vocals.

“Mingus” is an obvious album highlight with its bouncy use of the glockenspiel (a favorite instrument of the band).

On “Houdini,” there’s more darkness. Or at least, it sounds that way. To the undistinguishing ear, we hear “You’re like a demon!” when really, it is “You’re like Houdini!” Or maybe it is all a trick, and we cannot distinguish the truth any which way.

While the album is darker than I’m From Barcelona’s first, this does not detract from the record a great deal.

I’m From Barcelona is still sweet. But there is no need to brush your teeth.

– R.H.

2,000 Hits!

On October 11, 2008, Two Silenced Voices received its 2,000th site visit!

Thank you!