Movie Review: Superman vs. The Elite

So I recently finished watching Stanley Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon.  All of my homeboys in the hood will beat me senseless when I confess that until last night I had never seen this movie before.  I know it is a sacrilege for us movie lovers but for whatever reason this film was always strangely elusive to me, never in any rental stores, I never had a friend from whom I could steal a copy and I have not seen it on Netflix.  Finally, I was able to obtain a copy through a special order down at my favorite retail conglomerate and once said copy was purchased via several Federal Reserve notes I sat down with a large bowl of Frosted Shredded Wheat and watched away.  I loved the film, it is a gorgeous work.  God, I love Kubrick so much.  Though it clocks in at a meaty three hours I’m sure I will be watching it again very soon.  In the meantime I will do a little research to pick up on all the nuances and art references which I could only understand on the most basic of levels since a college education is worth absolutely nothing these days.  I left Barry Lyndon feeling as though I had experienced something beautiful and majestic.  The film was much like sipping a sumptuous earthy red while nibbling on brie.  Two nights ago I watched Inland Empire – David Lynch’s last movie (please make more soon Dave, I love you and I need you!) and that movie was much like drinking several bottles of red before dropping acid and then taking copious amounts of angel dust.  That was also a three-hour epic and also a film I will watch again very soon for it too moved me.  I can’t say I understood it at all but I was severely creeped out before experiencing an amazing euphoric relief in the final scene (very common when I watch Lynch films).  I have often wished that my life at some point would become a David Lynch movie or an H.P. Lovecraft story, I will never stop hoping for this.  Lovecraft is so good!  Damn you Kubrick and Lynch and Lovecraft!  You are all so amazing it makes me realize how little I have done and will ever do in my life!  The sheer splendor of your art makes me want to leap from the top of the highest skyscraper and then realize too late what a mistake suicide is and consequently die feeling nothing but intense fear and regret.   

Oddly, I’m not here today to talk about either of those movies or a Lovecraft story but rather the latest film in Warner Brothers and DC Comics slate of animated flicks: Superman vs. The Elite. 

I was once speaking to my beloved friend Calvin Black (student of the dark arts and master of distortion) about various comic book heroes.  I recall the scene with such clarity it is as though I am now watching it on an anamorphic widescreen blu-ray recording via a Sony blu-ray player and a 56” Panasonic high definition television set.  We were having dinner at Lizarraga’s, a great little Mexican place in the dark heart of downtown Portland.  Truth be told, Portland is not world renowned for it’s Mexican food however this fine establishment seems to live well within its own pocket universe.  The waitress was a lovely woman named Chopita who was only just starting to show in her pregnancy.  I said a silent prayer that future pregnancy weight would also be distributed to her already generous hips and thighs and that I may see this glorious sight again upon a return visit. 

Without warning Black turned to me while chewing on a thick and greasy piece of chicken enchilada and with sauce running down his chin and staining his Green Bay t-shirt said, “The complexities of the narratives and the undeniable talent inherent in the creation and continued evolution of sequential art notwithstanding, I am a bit nonplussed by the seemingly stagnant and frankly dogmatic views on the vigilante’s role in punishment doling so commonly ascribed to Spider-Man, Batman and especially Superman, particularly in this contemporary post modern world.  How do you rationalize that character trait?”

I took a greedy gulp from a bottle of Corona and followed Chopita’s full figured sway as she walked by our table.  I reminded myself she was with child and vowed to find her one day on the other side, where all are equal.  And though I can recall all the details of her sumptuous curvature I cannot recall with any degree of clarity the answer I gave to Black on that great evening, where friends were friends and lovers were lovers and we could all be free if only for a moment. 

Fortunately we have this new movie that answers his question a lot better than I ever could.  In a tortoise shell the premise of Superman vs. The Elite finds the man of steel wondering if he is outdated, particularly in his choice not to be executioner to the criminals he apprehends.  A new super group called the Elite shows up and they are willing to take the step that ol’ blue eyes won’t.  As the world reacts with approving applause to their extreme ways Superman must question the validity of his moral code in today’s more violent world and if there is a still a need for his brand of justice.

The premise is gold (not to be confused with The Artist Formerly Known As Prince song “Gold” from the superb 95’ release The Gold Experience) and is one explored before in the comics medium.  Knightfall, Knightquest and Knightsend were all long running story arcs in Batman comic books throughout the 90’s which saw the Dark Knight put out of commission through a brutal injury and replaced by an increasingly more extreme mantel-bearer.  The stories really examined the need for restraints, the need for a moral code and why even these heroes should not be above the law in these respects.  

Flash forward to 2001 and Action Comics #775, a beefy anniversary special that condensed some primary themes of the aforementioned several years worth of storylines into a single splendid issue titled “What’s so funny about truth, justice and the American way?” (Elvis Costello rocks so hard!).  The comic itself has received countless accolades with some calling it the best Superman story of all time and one of the best comics of the past 30 years (I can’t be bothered to find out who said those things but I am sure they were said).  But I am not here to review the comic but rather the animated film adaptation.  Does this stand up as it’s own separate work?  Will folks who don’t read comics be able to follow and appreciate the narrative?  Are the themes fleshed out enough to bring it all home like Mark McGrath after a juicy cocktail of roids and self-loathing (eagle eyed observers and sports or pop music enthusiasts will note that in my attempt to bring a bit of acerbic humor into the mix I foolishly confused famed baseball cheater Mark McGwire with Sugar Ray front-man Mark McGrath, truly both men are giants in their respective field but only one do I consider worthy of inviting to my upcoming 59^th birthday where we will share a piece of tres leches cake while waxing poetic on the frivolities of life and reveling in our own oily disenchantment with it all)?  I am pleased as a rat bastard to answer yes to all of these questions. 

Let me hit on all the main points.

The story is as smooth and captivating as it was in the source.  It is always a delight to see these much beloved tales brought to life and that excitement has not diminished from the very first of these releases several years ago.  Very often these animated films are better than their live action counterparts.  The writing here is excellent and the central question at the story’s heart is addressed and more than adequately answered in a way that feels organic and quite thrilling.  Especially noteworthy is the climax, which I will touch upon again in a moment. 

The voice is acting is superb with the two leads George Newbern as Superman and Robin Atkin Downs as Manchester Black – charismatic leader of the Elite and one of the more memorable Superman antagonists of recent years – doing great work.  Newbern in particular brings his A-game in a performance that really hits a high during the last ten minutes.  Indeed the last ten minutes is an intense and phenomenal scene.  Without spoiling any fruit the scene in question begins with an organized televised confrontation in the streets of Metropolis and then goes to the moon.  Speaking of the moon I know the Zelda game Ocarina of Time received all the accolades and it’s an amazing game to be sure but am I the only one who prefers Majora’s Mask?  That was a killer game!  The moon crashing into the earth would be such a downer. 

There’s something I need to address here.  Two of my favorite artists of all time are David Bowie and Amaral (which is technically a band though the only permanent members appear to be Eva Amaral and Juan Aguirre).  Is it just me or does Amaral seem to borrow a bit of the melody of the stupendous, classic Bowie track “Rebel Rebel” for their own great song “Todo La Noche En La Calle”?  Seriously, listen to the damn songs, the feel of them, the rhythm; it’s similar, right?  It’s damn near exactly the same, right?!  I’m not just a crazy old bastard imagining things!  The songs are both below, pay extra special and extra loveable attention to the post chorus section of the Bowie song at 1:24 with that crazy awesome iconic guitar riff and where he sings “do do do do do do do do”, that is the EXACT same melody Eva Amaral uses in the chorus of their song at 0:44 when she sings “todo la noche en la calle”!  Hell, at 3:12 she even starts singing in the background something like “na na na na na na na na” which sounds just like what Bowie does in his song!  I know it’s the same, I know it is!  I’ve lain awake at nights, endless nights, with those melodies rolling around in the dark inner corridors of my mind.  Turn on both songs at the same time and blow out your speakers and you will see that I’m right!  Could be a coincidence, who knows?!  They are both great songs and I will continue to love them both.  They should tour together and duet on these respective songs.  I would kill anyone – except these artists – and bath merrily in their blood to see that happen.  Oh Eva, oh David, I’ve prepared the room, won’t you join me tonight?  Please just hold me for awhile…I’m so alone…I’m so cold….  

Sadly, there are faults to this release and it’s pains me to list them as is this is typically a line of films of the utmost quality.  The animation here may actually be the worst of this entire series of DC animated movies.  Doug Mahnke (the penciller for Action Comics #775) has a very distinct exaggerated but detailed style of art and it is obvious why it was difficult to translate to an animated setting.  Unfortunately it does not seem like nearly the same effort was put into the attempt in comparison to past movies.  Stacked up against the gorgeous animation in Batman Year One, Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths, Wonder Woman or the other two Superman movies – All Star and Doomsday – it is hard not to view the renderings here as something of a lazy let down.  There are moments when the animation really clicks (again, EVERYTHING during the last, most pivotal scenes is near flawless) and it definitely works better in the close ups where more detail can be brought in.  Overall, I do not feel this movie will be revered or remembered for it’s animation and it is a letdown that this aspect could not have been as top notch as the story. 

Actually, upon watching the movie again after completing the last paragraph I realized it’s not the animation I should criticize but the character designs.  The animation is actually as smooth and precise as ever but the designs are too sloppy.  What a dumbass I am, not able to distinguish between the two, simply content to hide behind the security of my computer screen and type away on my sticky keyboard, spewing my venom.  Sorry animators, I owe you all a drink.  What the hell, I’ll buy drinks for the fine folks who did the character designs as well, who am I judge?  I’ve never done anything worth a damn in my life.  The only thing I know how to do well is push away those I love most. 

The blu-ray/dvd itself comes with the usual set of special features we’ve all come to expect from these releases.  The commentary track by the writer (of the comic and movie) Joe Kelly and editor Eddie Berganza is informative and fun.  I have slavishly adored past commentary tracks by the voice actors, casting director and Bruce Timm and miss those folks but these gentlemen are obviously very close to the material and their commentary is of near equal delight.  This track is the main noteworthy special feature here.  The two documentaries – one on the Elite themselves and the other a philosophical examination of Superman’s code of honor – will only interest hardcore fans who will likely already know all the information discussed.  Trailers, bonus episodes from Superman: the Animated Series and a sneek peek at the next movie in this series (an ass-penetratingly awesome looking adaptation of Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns which will actually be divided into TWO movies!!!!!) round out the set.  The feature itself is definitely the main attraction here, as it should be. 

Ultimately, some dodgy animation does nothing to diminish the hearty recommend I give to this latest release.  The storyline and acting are fantastic and thematically it stands up against the best Superman movies including the Christopher Reeve films.  This is a major contender for the best film of this entire animated line and I hope everyone has a chance to see it.  I especially hope Calvin Black watches it at some point during our miserable lives.  Hopefully it will answer his question in ways my ignorant, inadequate largesse never could. 

Movie Review: Dark Shadows

The credits rolled and the lights came on.  I began to exit the theatre alongside my faithful friend Willem Joseph Montejamo and the two lasses we’d met at the deli section of WinCo earlier in the day.  Our cravings for meat can rarely be satiated.  As we began descending the stairs like Gods riding down on their hallowed chariots from the heavens Willem Joseph turned to me and with his chin jutting out at a grotesque angle he dared to ask me the question which had sat unspoken between the two of us for the duration of this latest Timothy Burton adventure:

“Branden,” he said, his voice like wet gravel, “would you have rather watched this movie or a video of famed Telemundo journalist Maria Celeste – host of Al Rojo Vivo con Maria Celeste – while she is wearing nylons for the equivalent amount of time?”

We continued to descend and his words echoed in my ears like a haunting refrain that damned me with its uncompromising insistence.  In that instant I wanted to grab him by his layered collars – one navy blue and one yellow sherbet – and hurl him down the stairs in a brazen act of random, unprovoked and unqualified violence.  The only thing that stayed my trembling hands was the sweaty, naked truth that beckoned to me from his coldly cavalier question. 

There was no contest, no need for thought or consideration, the answer was as painfully obvious as the cheap cologne I’d selected for the evening’s festivities: Of course I would have rather watched the lovely Maria Celeste in nylons for the equivalent amount of time.  How was any other option even worth a passing though?  Oh Senora Celeste, you only grow more voluptuous and beautiful with each passing year, you report the news directly to my dark heart, you leave me quaking in a mass of journalistic jelly.  I wanted to scream these proclamations from the steps for the fleeing audience to hear.  Maria, you are pure class, pure full figured glory.  Murders, scandals and life-claiming natural disasters never sound as seductive and alluring as they do coming from your honeyed lips.  And the sight of you in nylons is one of the increasingly few reasons I have to go on living.  Oh I imagine…on a warm day…after you have been on your feet the whole time in those heels, running from one breaking story to the next…and then you finally stop for a break…demanding I act as your foot rest…and then that sweet sound – like the gates of heaven opening – as the nylon parts ways with the leather and the air is perfumed with divinity…

Yes, I would much rather watch two hours of this than 2 hours of this new Dark Shadows movie.  

The past few weeks have been a real doozy, hum-dinger, ball-breaker, butt-shaker and elbow raker for your faithful writer.  I am listening to the 1993 album Lastima Que Seas Ajena by Vicente Fernandez as I write this.  El Chente is in fine form on this release but when isn’t The King always putting his best foot forward?  That’s a question I would only dare ask myself while lurking at the very edges of the night itself, seeing strange faces behind doors that have been left ajar and hearing conspiratorial whispers coming from my balcony.  I personally had a chance to see El Chente back in 1984 (a real dystopian year for me unfortunately) at a concert in Mexico’s Plaza de Toros and I can attest that his voice is even more powerful live that what a mere disc is able to capture.  The man has a presence few others can even approach and it is truly a blessing that he is still recording music.  While working for the Monterrey based periodical Voz de la Gente I was even able to interview The King by telephone as part of the press junket for his 1990 album Palabra de Rey.  He is a generous, unstoppable musical force and that interview – brief though it was – remains one of my favorites from all my years of beat-walking and lead-chasing.  Incidentally, the aforementioned concert was recently released on CD and DVD entitled Un Mexicano en la Mexico and is well worth checking out. 

The evening I was discussing before this tangent started out as any other but would sadly culminate in viewing perhaps the most irrelevant film of Tim Burton’s career.  As such, I am not sure whether to consider the night a success or failure. Before I continue please allow me time to indulge in the requisite praise of this man’s work before detailing my feelings on his latest release. 

I remember vividly watching the movie Beetlejuice during its initial release at an old one-dollar theatre on the east side of San Francisco.  I was dating a woman named Amalia at the time (this was during a great era where the border patrol was just as misguided but far more underutilized).  As this was the roaring 80’s – a time where the industrialization of America was just reaching a fever pitch – Amalia had a rather distinct and stunning style.  Her hair was a lush mountain of black curls that she teased to impossible heights.  Her makeup was bold purples, blues and greens and it’s application was almost as generous as her hips and thighs which constantly threatened to tears the seems of her impossibly tight black spandex pants.  Those pants lived a very noble life and I often associate their place in the universe with my more personal thoughts and wishes on reincarnation.  Amalia enjoyed the film but the language barrier prevented her from fully appreciating many of the subtle nuances (she and I remain good friends to this day and when the DVD came out I mailed her copy for her birthday, she loved it and said she was going to watch it with her children).  Burton was able to illicit manic, unhinged performances from all his leads; Michael Keaton and Winona Ryder were impeccable (this would become a pattern for both these fine performers, damn fine actors the both of them!) and Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis were super fine as well (both in acting and appearance.  Brother Baldwin may have let himself slip in recent years but when has Ms. Davis not been bizarrely attractive?).  But it was the sheer creativity on display that blew my mind as though someone had stuck a shotgun in mouth and finally did what my parents desired but never had the courage to see through.  Burton had birthed a wholly unique creation, something audiences can still view today and truthfully say that there is nothing similar.  I immediately hunted down a copy of Pee Wee’s Big Adventure and was delighted to find the same level of artistic insanity.  A year later when the young director brought the Dark Knight himself to the big screen in a way more grand and sense shattering than anyone could have imagined I knew this man – nay, this artist – was someone to be reckoned with.  Follow up films like Edward Scissorhands, Ed Wood and personal favorite Batman Returns only solidified my love. 

Batman Returns is such a beautiful movie, such a gorgeous piece of art.  I will put it up there any day with the new Christopher Nolan movies and I will brutally murder anyone who dares challenge my assertion.  I could probably write at least 547 pages in brail on my love and interpretation of that film but I will save that for another blog post.  But damnit!  The chemistry between Michael Keaton and Michelle Pfieffer!  I have rarely seen it paralleled in any other movie, which shows the almighty importance of proper casting (ditto for Shaq in the classic Kazaam).  Burton, you made a movie that will stay with me for all my miserable, worthless life and for that I am forever in your debt…

Flash forward the to booming 00’s in which we now live and this once dark creative force has been reduced to a glossy parlor trick that impresses less with each subsequent turn.  Big Fish was beautiful but those moments of beauty have sadly reversed and become the exception of this man’s work rather than the rule.  We can add Dark Shadows to the ever growing list of disappointments, the same list that includes Alice in Wonderland and Willa Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and Planet of the Apes (the one with Marky Mark, not the one with James Dean).  I brought up those bat-films earlier since Batman is well known to comics aficionados as being the world’s greatest detective.  However we don’t need the Dark Knight to deduce the common factor in the stinkers of recent years (except for Planet of the Apes!  God, all my arguments are flimsy at best): Johnny Depp. 

If I accuse Burton of resting on his laurels where would I even begin with Johnny Depp?  I know this man is a great actor.  I know he has been in great movies.  And I believe that at any time he has the potential to unleash another stellar performance.  Heck, he could be doing it right now in a hotel room somewhere or at dinner with a girlfriend or just on the streets of L.A. to some lucky sightseeing tourists.   But he tries that faith with every movie he is in these days.  Honestly, when was the last time he gave an honest to Gosh dramatic performance and didn’t just play an over the top cartoon?  It has to be that movie Blow from like 27 years ago!  That was a good flick and Depp gave a good performance.  The man has so much talent and I am not saying these characters are without merit but is this all he has left?  Pirates and vampires and mad hattering chocolate factory owners, all the same with each successive one more boring and predictable than the last.  Damn you Depp!  You used to be one of my favorites and now you break my heart almost as much as Burton.  What the hell is the matter with the two of you?  And what does he have coming up?  Hmmm, let’s just peruse the internet movie base of Data (such an asskicking character!  Brent Spiner is truly underrated as an actor): The Lone Ranger, that is next in store for Depp, a movie where he plays the Indian sidekick in a costume that looks exactly the Mad Captain Wonka from his last few movies.  Fuck!  It’s that sort of thing that makes me hate the DJ’s of today; you’re just using a laptop motherfuckers!  Where are the actual records?  The vinyl, the bacon grease?  I can string together beats in 5 fucking seconds using any number of basic programs (I just can’t think of any of the names right now).  When did it become the norm to go on autopilot?  Damn everything! Depp’s charisma is so raw – like a hunky slab of uncooked beef that I want to sink my teeth into and let the juices roll down my stubbly chin – that he has a lot more leeway on these things than almost anyone else but I still hope the next forty years of his career will be more than simply variations on this tired theme. 

There are some positives to be found.  The movie looks spectacular; with a rich color scheme and a slickness that would be more easily appreciated if it didn’t look exactly like every movie Burton’s made in the past 7 years or so.  Odd that this paragraph started out as a list of positives only to devolve so quickly into a negative.  It’s in these moments of blinding negativity that I try and think of The Neill.  He always makes me feel better about myself and better about life in general.  He fills my spirit with positive energy and lets me know that it will all be okay.  Those who know me best know how much I love this man.  The Neill walks among us mere mortals and we are helpless to do anything but look on in slack jawed awe.  What are my favorite films of The Neill you may be wondering?  My Brilliant Career?  Jurassic Park?  The Piano?  The Vow?  Possession?  Merlin?  I can’t get into something like that now for the amount of pages I could write on Batman Returns is dwarfed dramatically by the literary tomes I could fill analyzing the works of this man.  I just love him so much; I can’t even express it poetically because the love pours out of me before I have a chance.  Thank you sir, for everything.  

But I think I know the answer to the aforementioned enigma on why a list of positives turned so quickly into negatives.  As hard as some try to forget I think we all remember the Star Wars prequels of recent years.  Personally, I found those movies to be a good shot better than many gave them credit for but who really give a flying fuck, am I right?  However, something that did always grind my gears were the visuals.  It took me years and endless nights spent at the seediest of taverns, grinding my teeth and getting rear ended in filthy bathroom stalls to figure out why the visuals bothered me so: there was nothing grimy in this new display of the old Star Wars universe, nothing had a speck of dirt or left a trail of slime.  All the environments, a hero’s home, a villain’s lair, a restaurant, every muthafuckin’ ship in the universe was completely sterile and clean.  As a result nothing quite looked real.  It’s like the uncanny valley everyone and their dog Shiloh keeps talking about these days (actually, even the slightest bit of research shows that my comparison to the Uncanny Valley is deeply flawed).  I think I once read a digital recording of Tom Waits where he wrote that one of his problems with Sci-Fi movies these days is everything looks too darn clean and he wondered why there is nothing dirty in these hypothetical futures and alternate universes.  Tom Waits has an amazing voice just like the previously mentioned Vicente Fernandez but I find their musical stylings strangely difficult to compare.  If I were a big shot record producer I would organize a duet between these two men and subsequently have a massive crossover hit that would momentarily cross borders and unite us all in musical jubilation.  We would all join hands and merrily skip naked through the streets, finally realizing once and for all that size and skin color does not matter.  Speaking of musical jubilation I hope everyone has heard the song “Walk Away Renee” at least once in their lives.  That is such an amazing song.  A lot of dope fiends and martial artists mistakenly think it is by The Four Tops and though they did a slamming, soulful version it is originally by The Left Banke and this remains the definitive one, the one to seek out and listen on repeat for 29 hours straight.  Truly, it is such a good song that almost every version sounds great.  I bet Jack White couldn’t even make this song sound like garbage (though I’ve lost many a bet on that man). 

Aside from Johnny D. there is a lot of other great talent in this movie.  Jackie Earle Haley plays some kind of servant to the main family who then becomes a slave to Depp’s character.  Fans will likely remember Haley as the tortured, incredibly creepy pedophile from Little Children.  They may also remember him as Rorschach from Watchmen or Freddy Krueger from the God-awful Nightmare on Elm Street remake.  In many ways Freddy Krueger was like a father to me whilst I was growing up and Platinum Dune’s travesty broke my heart worse than the first 20 girls I ever asked out who all said I was too ugly to date.  But he does good reliable work here.  Three super attractive dames figure heavily in the story: Michelle Pfeiffer, Helena Bonham Carter and Eva Green.  They all look weird and Burtonized but this oddly makes them more appealing.  This is especially true of Green who oozes evil in most of her scenes.  I have always found evil to be devastatingly attractive and have longed to meet a woman who would viciously torture me while cruelly laughing and mocking my many deficiencies.  Beginners in the arts of sadomasochism always go for the physical stuff right away but that is a mistake.  It is the verbal jabs and the emotional abuse that really make degradation and humiliation an irresistible cocktail that I come back to again and again. 

Untold days after watching Dark Shadows I was sitting alone in my living room and drinking copious amounts of alcohol.  I drink quite often, always in an increasingly futile effort to block out the shame of my worthless life and as such I have a great deal of trouble in acquiring even the slightest buzz but my passion for the task remains undaunted.  On this particular night in question I was watching the movie Godzilla 2000.  Those unfamiliar with the rich mythology of the original G-ster may confuse this feature film with the late nineties Hollywood movie Godzilla directed by Roland Emmerich (he of such classics as 2012, Independence Day, and the 10,000 B.C. remake) but they would be as equivalently wrong as I was right when I famously slammed Emmerich’s film in my old column at The New York Times (“Emmerich’s Godzilla Has No Bite”, NYT volume 218, issue 167, June 1998).  Godzilla 2000 is actually the first film in the third incarnation of the screen icon and it truly is a GREAT movie.  The storyline is clear and moves at a good, smooth pace.  The characters are all fleshed out and have clear motivations.  The dialogue avoids unnecessary exposition and serves the story.  Organic events lead to logical outcomes and the whole thing moves to a stirring climax.  These are all qualities that cannot be found in Dark Shadows.  If someone is threatening to slit your throat unless you watch one of these movies you would do well to pick Godzilla 2000.

I actually ventured into the wide world of web in the middle of writing this latest masterwork and saw that I was a bit hard on Burton earlier.  Sweeney Todd and Corpse Bride were both groovy and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t pissing my pants at this very moment in excitement for Frankenweenie!  Forgive me Burton!  I was a bastard for being critical.  Maybe my tastes have just changed over the years.  He is still doing good work, I’m the fool!  I’m the son of a bitch who doesn’t deserve to live!  I was wrong about Depp too.  Every few years there’s a Public Enemies or a Rum Diary or a Rango.  Good Lord, you would think I could take 2 minutes to do a little fucking research before crapping out these reviews but I guess that would be giving yours truly a little too much credit, huh?  I guess I just wish the ratios were reversed for both these gentlemen.  Depp, you are far too good looking for me to ever chastise.  I feel no shame in admitting this, facts are facts after all.  But damn if you are not a fine actor as well, I will never stop hoping good sir.  Nevah. 

By now all my loyal fan (the plurality was left off as a clever joke to indicate that no one actually reads my blog) will have noticed this review to be unusually rambling and seemingly a pastiche of only peripherally related paragraphs.  This was actually an intentional act done to mimic and illuminate the structure of Dark Shadows.  There is no real story to this movie, only peripherally related scenes stitched together.  A love story is introduced early on and then forgotten until the last ten minutes.  Dead-beat fathers walk in and out, something about a fish business seems important, a werewolf pops up out of nowhere and even Alice Cooper stops by to liven things up a little (by the way, The Coop is a kickass rocker who shows no signs of slowing down.  Seriously, check out his newest albums like Along Came a Spider or last years Welcome 2 My Nightmare.  I’ll be damned if they aren’t as killer as his older stuff and I’ll damned if I see another chick on your arm!) 

I am now listening to the new Santana album which came out a couple weeks ago entitled Shape Shifter.  It is a surprisingly great album.  I say surprisingly not because Carlos isn’t talented.  He and his band have always been super talented and albums like Abraxas, Caravanserai and III are legendary for a reason.  But for over a decade prior to this most recent release he’d been churning out nothing but insipid collaborations with everyone from Bobby Thomas to Michelle Branch to the Insane Klown Posse (man those Juggalos are like just the coolest, sure wouldn’t want to mess with them, come at me bros!  I’m calling all you sleaze bags out right now!) to Engelbert Humperdinck.  I had desperately been hoping for the return of the classic Santana sound and this new record delivers in a huge way.  Great summer record, so says I.  Savvy readers will no doubt pick up that I’m trying to relate this return to form to my hope that perhaps one day Burton and Depp will have a similar creative revival.  But that in turn leads to an odd bit of harsh self-reflection.  What makes my opinion better than anyone else’s, what gives me the right? 

“I’m not wearing hockey pads,” I say to myself in a gravelly voice. 

Cut.  End scene and a crisp brand new fifty-seven dollar bill to the first full figured, dark haired woman in cheetah print pants that can corner me in a dangerous alley and tell me what I was just referencing in that last paragraph. 

Movie Review: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

We took our usual seats in the back row right hand side (if one is facing the seats). This spot is perfect for making out with liberal groping and maximum saliva exchange but the subject never came to light during the course of the film. I glanced around the theatre and noted the attendance was expectedly low with perhaps ten other patrons present for the enjoyment of this spy flick. The previews began and were of such variety as to through off our expectations. Typically the trailers inform one of the type of film that shall immediately follow. But these previews included drama, action, horror and comedy thus making it difficult to commit to a proper emotional state. The January Liam Neeson actioner seems to have become an annual fixture and I await The Gray (or is the Grey?) with much anticipation (of course now the movie has come out and I have already seen it but I refuse to change that line. It adds to the verisimilitude of this review. Richard Donner spoke often of verisimilitude when directing Superman: The Movie, saying it was an absolute must that the film possesses this quality. He succeeded and that film has great verisimilitude which is one of the many reasons it remains a classic to this day, I could watch that movie twelve times a day for the rest of my life and never tire of it) I’ve been a fan of Neeson’s since I first watched Darkman back in an old dollar theatre in Detroit when I working for an underground music magazine reporting on the local ambient music scene. Drum N’ Bass was still years from taking off as a viable genre but I’ve since received numerous accolades for those early articles for really being at the forefront of the house music movement. Neeson’s performance in the pulply Sam Raimi directed thriller was not so unlike that innovative sound: it was propulsive, electric and with an air of danger. I had the fortune of meeting Mr. Neeson a few years back when he was doing press for K-19: the Widowmaker and he is without question one of the most respectful and intelligent individuals I’ve come across.

I showed up at the bookstore wearing a sharp looking suit and black winter overcoat. I love winter and feel I truly look best in that cold climate. I was late on this particular evening and committed the discourtesy of leaving my good friend Willem Joseph waiting for at least 30 minutes. My heart yearned for a good excuse that could act as a panacea for the ache I had inadvertently aroused in our friendship but it was truly nothing more than poor planning on my part. Those of us from the city know how grueling the traffic can be on the freeway - especially during that peak rush hour - yet I brazenly ignored common sense and did not bother to leave early. If I’m honest with myself I have to admit I do enjoy the road in those crammed moments. Everyone darting in and out of lanes, passing on the right and braking suddenly when they spot a police officer, the sight of my car’s headlights hitting the black street and casting a haunting glow. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to just stare and allow my car to go careening into whomever is to the front or side me. I like to imagine in those moments my seatbelt suddenly subject to manufacturer’s error and tearing free before my body is violently hurled through the windshield (even though I know the glass on cars is specially designed not to cut human flesh in my imagination I have a thousand cuts on my face and upper torso, the blood streams out and the glass cuts through my eyes like good conversation cuts through monotony) like a human missile and then landing on the aforementioned pavement where my skull is unceremoniously cracked open and my brains spill out in a delightful undercooked stew. Nothing like that happened of course and I made it to the bookstore in good physical shape and fine spirits save for my regret of tardiness.

Willem Joseph was reading a fitness magazine of the sort which was always has a massive piece of chiseled, rippling beefcake on the cover. I always prefer the ones with female body builders as I like to imagine their hands around my throat, squeezing the life out of me while telling me how useless I truly am but this was not to be. For the better part of eight months my friend has been training for an extensive body building competition. Long have been the conversations held over his philosophical viewpoints on the matter. Willem Joseph views his body as a portal through which he can communicate with a higher power, whether that is God or something else - perhaps something a few degrees warmer if the murmurs of strange writings and ancient occultist texts found in lockers are to be trusted - is anyone’s guess. To that end, he worships his body as the vessel for this communication and eventual ascension where he shall be granted the true immortality he has always sought. I asked him once how he planned to bulk up and he told me the easy answer to bulk is very simple and can be found in thick juicy cheeseburgers with three or sometimes four patties and extra slices of Colby Jack cheese as well as generous helpings of maple bars, ice cream and tall frosty glasses of whole milk, the kind that have the pink and not light blue caps. Indeed, this was the diet he stuck with for several months before adding in a delightful combination of weight training, including aquatic weights (the likes of which can be found at any local gym or fitness center which has a swimming pool. Incidentally I can recall with great clarity the instructor who taught me how to swim as a child. Her name was Jenni and she was tall, generous in thigh and free in spirit. I can still feel the way she gently put her hands on me, one on my stomach and one on my back as I mastered the floating technique. Outside my concentration was firmly locked on the backstroke but inside I was already floating in a sea of unrequited love, I gazed into her large dark eyes and wondered what secrets they held. How I wanted to swim in those eyes, how I wanted to kiss those full, red lips….) Now, whenever he is in public his firm buttocks are barely contained in the tight hip hugging jeans he insists upon wearing. They draw many a stare from female admirers and when he pulls off his jacket to reveal his trademark muscle-tee everyone gasps and blushes, as they all want to feel his ever-growing biceps. He would never admit to it but I know his favorite part of the competition is the oiling up before the show, his muscles glisten and his eyes come alive with boyish enthusiasm. After each competition he always secures a hotel room and requests an order of two large plates of oysters while entertaining whatever guests he has purchased for the evening. I never ask what they do behind closed doors. I have received several kind-hearted invitations to these post competition rituals but due to bad luck have been unable to attend.

The movie began in earnest and despite its slow pace never seemed to drag and was over in a second. I was completely taken by its dense, interlocking narrative. Now, if one were to put a standard police issue glock nine millimeter handgun to my head and ask that I reveal my favorite actor I don’t know that I would have the presence of mind to come up with a cogent response before having my head blown clean off. However during the thinking process I am sure that Gary Oldman would be one of the absolute top contenders. The man has a Bowie-like chameleon nature that allows him to simply become whatever role he is taking on and this is no different. He becomes George Smiley and what we see on screen is a careful, highly intelligent, calculating man whose eyes only reveal exactly what he wants. But in little moments throughout the film – particularly an astounding monologue type scene where he reenacts an early encounter between himself and his nemesis Karla – we see that this is a man who carries a tremendous amount of emotional weight with him at all times and we also sense that he is an individual capable of great violence when the situation calls for it. The film implies so much so well and this is a like a feast for patient viewers who have a thirst for subtle story telling. It is a Powerade of subtlety (Gatoride has always been trash, except for G2 which is easily far and away the greatest drink ever known to man, though extremely overrated) and it is a privilege to see this seasoned master in a top shelf performance.

The movie was set to begin in around 35 minutes. This did not afford us a lot of time for dinner, which was unfortunate, as we both agree that dinner is something to be savored and not rushed. We briefly considered having dinner after the film but Tuesdays in the city are notoriously slow when it comes to the restaurant scene. There was actually a study done a few years back that found the increased immigration from Japan and parts of Europe coupled with the inordinate amount of fiscal matters that build up o Mondays and Tuesdays (Everett Electric is used by nearly 70% of the population on the east side for electricity and their bills are uniformly sent out to businesses and citizens on one of those two days) actually contributes to a diminished early week return in restaurants, golf courses and some specialized interests such as helicopter of scuba lessons. Understand, Willem Joseph and I were not looking for a nutty night on the town - both of us had work the next day - but there is something in the ambience of a nice full restaurant that we were both craving. For my part there may have been another motive for not wanting to postpone our meal.

Yes, the restaurant was already a foregone conclusion [Oddly, I was watching Michael Mann’s classic Manhunter earlier today and Dennis Farina’s character also used the phrase “foregone conclusion” in reference to saving a family before they became the next victims of Tom Noonan’s character. Savvy folk will know that Dennis Farina plays Jack Crawford in that movie, a character played by Scott Glenn in Silence of the Lambs and Harvey Keitel in Red Dragon. It is strange yet fascinating that such a largely inconsequential character should have three very different – yet very talented – actors across three films. It’s hard to say who my favorite Jack Crawford is. Farina was slick and hard-edged, Glenn was subdued and intellectual and Keitel was rough and stony. I’m feeling depressed and suicidal right now, wondering why I lead such a worthless life and knowing that I will never achieve any of my dreams but that I will always be too cowardly to try harder or take the necessary action to end my futile existence. These thoughts are substantially clouding my ability to judge who is the best Crawford. However I can still say with absolute certainty that Manhunter is a much better film than Red Dragon (and no, I am not a Brett Ratner hater, the Rush Hour movies are great fun, X-Men: The Last Stand was a superb surprise and After the Sunset is an underrated little gem that deserves praise if only for all scenes which feature Salma Hayek, oh Salma please stay with me…forever…. Still, there is no comparison; Manhunter is a rich feast for the senses.)] If it’s Tuesday then there really is only one logical choice: Federico’s. This is a Mexican restaurant located on the lower east side, down the street from the Four Seasons and conveniently right next to our favored multiplex. While true that the location helped with our endeavors this is not the reason why the restaurant was selected. The lovely Claudia and the lovely Irma were the true motivating factors here. Oh sweet Irma, with your bold makeup, the lovely blue eye shadow, thick brows and radiant smile. How I long to hold one of those heavily bejeweled hands. And Claudia, do you know the dangers you present to my cholesterol strained heart with those pants you wear? You are even shapelier than Willem Joseph! These two women - these two Diosas - know me well and the rapport between us deepens my unhealthy obsession on every return trip. W.J. has long since learned to cope with my obsessions, he understands that we are all merely slaves to our passions just as he understand the necessity of concealing the true darkness in his own blackened heart.

Though Oldman is exceptional I’d be remiss if I did not mention the rest of the cast. Tom Hardy, who is appearing in more and more flicks these days (and who has amazing lips) is particularly effective as Ricki Tarr, the scalphunter whose tragic Russian liason may hold the key to the rotten core of the Circus (spy central for these guys). Perhaps the centerpiece of the movie is the flashback where he details this meeting and the shocking events that followed its discovery. This in itself feels like a small movie within a movie and is one of the most captivating sequences in recent memory, made all the more effective by the haunted looks in Hardy’s eyes throughout the film. Mark Strong turns in another strong performance (haha, God I’m good!) and shows why he is the one of the best and perhaps most underutilized actors around today. The man’s face is an emotional palette rife with expressive color. Benedict Cumberbatch, aside from having a great name, also turns in stirring work as Peter Guillam, a character of fierce integrity who has some interesting and unexpected secrets of his own.

With bellies full of chicken taquitos and my heart full of lust we stole through the night and arrived at the Regal Cinema with only minutes to spare. An elderly couple in front of us bought tickets for New Year’s Eve after a lengthy search for their rewards card. I briefly ruminated on the strange enchantment discounts seem to hold for those in their golden years and wondered if I too would turn out the same. With tickets firmly in hand we made our to the concession stand where Willem Joseph promptly purchased an extra large helping of Nachos and two ball park franks. He applied extra cheese to the nachos and extra mustard, relish and sauerkraut to the hot dogs. I noted the elation in his eyes as he watched that gooey cheese drip down and spread across the hard, angular chips. He consumed one of the dogs before the “stubs” were even ripped from the tickets. Dear reader, you most certainly noticed how the word stubs appeared in quotation marks, indicating some type of extra significance. One of the chief joys in my life has always been that moment right before entering the theatre where the stub is torn along the perforated line and then handed back to me. I would hold my breath to see if the tear would be perfect or if my stub would be returned uneven or bent. I keep my stubs secure in various tomes on my bookshelves. Sometimes I take them out, spread them on the floor and admire them while cracking my knuckles in a threatening way. But it seems those days are numbered and I am helpless to do anything but punch myself in the face and watch old recordings of the legendary luchadora Lola “Dinamita” Gonzalez. The nobility, skill and beauty of this woman are incredible. Her talents as a luchadora were unparalleled in her time and she still remains a living legend, her presence in the ring still a pure display of power and grace that commands the utmost admiration and respect. One day, when I have untold billions of dollars I will track down all recordings of her and digitally remaster them George Lucas style (except I won’t add any additional, superfluous scenes or dodgy CGI, damn you Lucas!) and then release an amazing, lush set of dvd’s, blu-rays, ultraviolets, red lightnings, purple passions or whatever format is popular. I will also produce a multilayered in depth documentary on her life and wrestling career, if anyone wants to help with this project now, feel free to contact me. Oh Lola! Why have you forsaken me (in your heart, forsaken me)? One day I will see this promise to fruition, I promise! For you Lola, oh Lola, oh Salma, mi Salmita, oh Irma, oh Claudia, how can I go on living when there is so much beauty in this world? How can I be so useless and miserable when I am surrounded by such wonders? And has the economy really become so fragile that movie tickets can no longer made on the stiffer, thicker card stock and must now be relegated to that thin, cheap, easily smudged receipt paper?



The mystery aspect is quite compelling in terms of who is the mole within the organization but in many ways seems to be beside the point of the narrative. This is a meticulous portrait of the lifestyle and mindset of individuals whose entire existence is predicated upon secrets and what that does to external personal lives and their interior selves. The crisp, assured writing allows the ensemble cast to reveal so much with only the smallest lines of dialogue or quick facial tics. There is no information spoon fed to the audience at any point and crucial moments are displayed as seemingly offhanded as throwaways. The score is appropriately unassuming, creeping in unnoticed at first but adding immensely to the overall tension-filled tone. This is most evident during the “climactic” scene where the mole’s identity is finally revealed. This flick also has one of the best-structured finales I’ve witnessed in a good long while, all set to the tune of Julio Iglesias’s “La Mer” (not to be confused with the also excellent “La Mer” by Nine Inch Nails, The Fragile owns my body and soul…)

I’ve been listening to a lot of Krautrock, a lot of electonic music and a lot of Tom Waits and Captain Beefheart as of late. Aside from the obvious sonic similarities between artists like Waits and someone like Brian Eno or Klaus Schulze the principal unifying factor in that music is the precise and practiced pacing. The albums by those artists are masterful with the mature understanding that so much relies upon those spaces between the notes. The passion that music exudes is as much from the carefully crafted restraint as it is from the moments of reckless cacophonic abandon. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is the filmic equivalent of those albums and a glorious slow burn of a movie. Layers upon layers of names, numbers and information, it is a rich, delicious cake of nuanced performances and meticulous detail. This is actually one of those rare instances where I feel this could (not sure about should) have been a bit longer. But this is a not fault of the film but rather a compliment to director Tomas Alfredson and his crew who have all crafted a wonderful film that repeatedly rewards concentration and complete submission (which I love) to the art form and the narrative. This movie becomes even more satisfying on subsequent viewings where one can fully grasp the story and appreciate the careful craft in its execution. I have seen it twice and would have gone back to see it a third time had it not left the theatre in a such a hurry (looks like Brooks from The Shawshank Redemption was right). I am currently ass deep in the book and am thoroughly enjoying that as well however this film truly stands on it’s own. I would love to call it the first must see of 2012 – this, the year of our reckoning – however that wouldn’t really be accurate as it came out in 2011. Maybe I could call it the last must see movie of 2011 but I can’t say for sure if that is true either. Perhaps it is best to just leave it as a must see movie, beautiful, impeccably crafted art that reaffirms my faith in film and reminds me what I love so much about this medium. No doubt, I will rush to a local conglomerate the day it comes out on blu ray to purchase it that I may lock myself in my home and watch it in privacy, while gulping down tall glasses of red wine. For two hours I was completely immersed in this world of intrigue, danger, political machinations and lives treated as pieces on a chessboard. It is an experience I look forward to having again and again.

Movie Review: Immortals

I took a trip down to the local multiplex this past weekend, eager to catch the new Twilight movie, I was all decked out in my Team Jacob t-shirt and underneath my skinny jeans (which accentuate my full frame) I was wearing twilight-theme black thong underwear. It put a little spring in my step. The theater was jam packed and I had to park way the bleep out in the next lot over by a local ice creamery and Latin bar (which I frequent often because I only like myself when I’m drunk and because the bartenders are beautiful, curvaceous and with seductive tempestuous eyes, they draw me in and force me to drink and they put those thoughts in my head, please forgive me Father, please forgive me).
As I gazed longingly at the marque (not to be confused music giant Biz Markie, he’s just a friend) my defacto date for the evening - Willem Joseph Montejamo - finally showed up, fashionably late as usual. I informed him of the current predicament and we ran through the list of films to decide upon an appropriate substitute. Finally, we settled on Immortals, thinking we would just be a couple of totally cool bros for the night and really start things off right with a manly, action packed flick.
We sat down, 27 previews rolled and then we were off. From the opening seconds - the opening seconds - I knew we were in trouble. Unless you’re The Shawshank Redemption or another great movie that I’m too stupid to think of right now narration is an awful device to start off with. And I’ll be darned if narration for these movies doesn’t always sound like the same guy, always that old wise phlegm filled voice. Maybe if they had thrown me a curve ball and had Gilbert Gottfriend narrating or hired a beautiful Mexican woman with generous hips to read it seductively while also putting me down and telling me how much of a loser I am I could have been sucked in from the start. As it was while we were treated to the stone carvings of these immortals and so much mindless exposition I couldn’t help but think this was not going to turn out well
I cursed myself then and demanded I remain positive. I kept telling myself that for the entire movie and it became increasingly difficult. The story unfolded neatly as so: Gods don’t interfere with mortal stuff unless Titans are unleashed, an evil king wants to conquer the locals, obtain a magic bow and release the Titans (not sure why on the last one since it doesn’t seem like it benefits him), the bow is found, armies fight.
Mickey Rourke shows up early on as the main antagonist and adds much needed gravitas to the proceedings. Actually, he adds the only gravitas whatsoever to the movie. His sneering, snacking gruff deep voiced villain is intriguing (his ball busting scene early on is literally the only scene that has any genuine tension) initially but is soon revealed to be just as surface as everything else (more on that). He does good with what he’s given and arguably fares the best of any cast member but in the end this is just another by the numbers villain.
That is only the start of the movie’s problems.
Willem Joseph and I had a drink afterward and discussed this film at great length. We were both reminded of another movie: Roland Emmerich’s 10,000 B.C. All do respect to an individual I have never met but I rarely find comparisons to Emmerich movies being done in a favorable sense. Similar to 10,000 B.C. this movie is filled with ideas that could be good if more time and attention was given to story and character. The end result is that everything comes across half baked, very weak and sometimes silly. Every single scene with the Oracle - from the first time we see her and accompanying bff’s sitting on a posh floor cushion to her random sex scene - is laughter inducing. Freida Pinto is given nothing to do except look beautiful.
The setting itself also only works about half the time. Sometimes it is convincing, sometimes it looks like the actors are strolling around on sets built out of paper mache. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know squat about Greek mythology (except for what I’ve read in Wonder Woman comics and seen in other movies) so I have no idea how accurate the costumes were but the Gods looked completely ridiculous and it was very hard to take any of them seriously. Their costumes appeared to be molded from plastic and purchased at the last minute for a Halloween party. When the story is non existent, those are the sorts of details one has to concentrate on.
The editing in this is all over the place. Characters pop in and out with no explanation or reason for being. They are dealt quick deaths and I was left wondering “Who the hell was that and why should I even give a damn?!”. I frequently shouted this at the screen and drew more than a few angry glances. Willem Joseph, ever the more well mannered gentleman, simply kept nodding off. Plot-wise nothing ever takes place that is interesting or not exactly what one would expect.
There are some positives in the movie. The action scenes - particularly the lengthy final battle between armies, Superman and Whiplash, gods and titans - are very well staged and well executed. There are no punches pulled and blood is flying all over the place, this movie earns it’s R rating. However as I’ve screamed to anyone who would dare listen to me it’s not enough just to have good action scenes. If I do not care about a single character or am not invested at all in the storyline then I cannot enjoy the action because it is meaningless. Any movie can have good effects and choreography these days, what makes or breaks it (hip new phrase I’m coining) is the writing behind everything. The script is key motherfuckers! Back to the positives: the cinematography is also quite good and when the sets are convincing the film itself is often beautiful to look at. Aside from Rourke, the only other actor that leaves an impression is Henry Cavill as Theseus. He doesn’t have many opportunities to do much other than flex and fight but when he’s given the chance - particularly in the obligatory rally-an-entire-army-at-the-last-minute with-a-single-loud-speech scene - he shines. I look forward to seeing him as Superman in Zack Snyder’s upcoming Man of Steel.
Inevitable comparisons arise to Clash of the Titans and 300. I have blocked out Clash from my brain (Sam Worthington always has that effect on me) but I remember 300 well enough. There is some similarity in the fight scenes and photography and the fact that they are both reasonably boring “epic” movies but the similarities end there. I am not a big fan of 300 but it is a much better movie. The only real interesting idea in Immortals is what they lay out for a possible sequel.
I saw this for a tongue slicing $5.50 which a stunning deal in this day and age. There are worse ways to spend 2 hours and I only checked my watch a couple of times. If you can check your brain at the door and are in the mood for some action and pretty things to look at you’ll probably be entertained. In the final analysis I did not feel ripped off (I make far to much coin for that to happen) but just based on principal I’m glad I didn’t see a late showing.

Album Review: Station to Station by David Bowie

Ah Bowie, how I love you so. David Bowie is one of those artists who is in a class and league all his own. His massive influence on popular music is undeniable and his talent often seems limitless. If one is new to this artist it can be a bit daunting to find a good entry point in his vast catalogue. Bowie’s been called a chameleon so many times in the press (though it was I who first famously used the term back in my original write up of his David Live album from 1974, it’s hard to believe I’ve been following the man’s career for so long) that the moniker has started to lose meaning for some. When someone has become so entrenched in the popular zeitgeist – with echoes of his work being heard in everything from the Pixies to Lady GaGa to Nine Inch Nails – it can be easy to forget just how groundbreaking the original stuff was.

I spent the last 17 days (so let the rain come down, the rain come down, let the rain come down down) or so trying to decide what Bowie album to start with. His catalogue is so rich and varied one would be justifiable in starting from any point as all his different guises offer something unique and worthwhile. Those who know me best know that I typically spend my Friday nights wearing a latex suit and ball gag and hanging from apartment ceilings of people I’ve only just met that night. But they also know that of all the eras of Major Tom my favorite has always been the Berlin era. I’m not quite ready to delve into that hallowed period yet but the 1976 gem Station to Station – which was a precursor to that time and saw David moving beyond his previous “plastic soul” era – is among his most accessible works while also showing off the brilliant songcraft I mentioned.

Mr. Stardust was doing enough cocaine in this era to take out 12 Keith Richards and 9 Charlie Sheens all put together so it’s little wonder that he claims being unable to remember the writing and recording process for this album.

Station to Station: This song is over ten minutes long and worth every single second. It starts off with the sounds of a train mingling with some industrialized factory noises before turning into pure rhythmic bliss. After a few minutes the vocals start with the haunting refrain, “The return of the Thin White Duke, throwing darts in lovers eyes”. Oh Bowie, do you know the things you do to me? Oh God! Oh David, yes!!! YES!!! The track continues in this dark sleek manner before doing a complete 270 about halfway through and shifting to something devastatingly funky and rocking that has me bobbing my head and singing along until the finale. Despite the changes, the track does not feel like several ideas crammed together but one mammoth progressive unit whose shifts are natural, not forced. Also, am I the only one who hears this song when I listen to “Reptile” by the aforementioned Nine Inch Nails? Either way, both songs cause my face to melt off and land in a grotesque pile of amorphous skin at my feet. This opening song is a stunner and sets a lofty precedent that few could match? Does Bowie do it? Read on for answers so thrilling that your heart will literally beat right of your chest and squirt blood everywhere before slamming against a wall in such a way as to create an abstract painting so innovative that you will soon be recognized as the next great thing in new wave avante garde self expressionistic painting. Much has been made of the Nietzscheian and occultist writing and imagery that found it’s way into this album, particularly with this song, which is also a good indication of his state of mind during this era. The imagery is quite striking but I don’t think it matters so much what the artist’s inspiration was so much as what he is making you feel.

Golden Years: Here’s a song I’ve probably listened to around 77 million times in my life yet it always sounds as fresh as the very first time I bought the single on vinyl and chilled out with my girl Lorena [no, not Lorena Velazquez, star of so many fantastic b movie Mexican genre films including personal favorite Nave de los Monstruos, oh Lorena your tempestuous eyes and divine voluptuous hips are forever immortalized in the seductive evil alien and vampire queens that you put into my dreams every night, I will never forget and never stop loving you Lorena (see below, how I wish I was that alien)].



Getting back to the task at hand, Golden Years is one of Dave’s most beloved singles and with good reason. I don’t know what’s catchier, the funkified guitar or the insistent driving bassline, the groove is strong enough to motivate anyone to dance and the little touches like the syncopated handclaps only enrich that musical stew. But in the end it’s all backdrop for a standout vocal performance that shows off the man’s vocal range the way Velazquez’s alien wardrobe showed off her gorgeous gams. This is the song easiest to fall in love with right away and would fit comfortably on any mix of the man’s work.

Word On A Wing: The drug use and macabre interest mentioned earlier afforded Bowie something of a spiritual moment of clarity that is explained with this track. The chordal progression is gorgeous but once again there is little doubt that despite the rich musical tapestry it is that voice which is the primary draw. His vocals are inviting, melodic and supple. The harmonies and piano keys come together into something warm enough to melt chocolate (strange analogy, I don’t think it quite works but it’s jarring enough that I’m going to leave it). Every time he arrives at that bass accompanied chorus “Lord, my prayer flies like a word on a wing…” my heart breaks all over again. You feel the anguish in his voice, he believes every word and this is the purest expression he could have written at this time. I think this song often gets overlooked, even within this very album. It is something of a challenging track, asking questions about faith and personal convictions. I think anyone going through a similar crisis would find something powerful here. At its heart it does still feel like a love song, albeit to a higher power that even those deep in prayer supplication cannot fully comprehend. Regardless of whether his feelings changed later on this remains an incredibly beautiful statement on and exploration of God, spirituality and the quest to retrieve one’s own fleeting soul.

TVC15: This is a song about a man traveling inside a “hologramic” television set after said appliance has just eaten his girlfriend, I think that’s a situation we can all relate to which really serves to make this a welcoming and comfortable track. This has another great piano hook from Roy Bittan and some nice crunchy guitar. The production is thick on this one, which gives the track a different feel to match its bizarre subject matter and retro qualities. This song isn’t quite as dizzying in its heights as Golden Years but its mines much the same territory and when I’m in that quirky off beat mood it always hits the spot. It does have a slight feel to it in comparison to the other songs but perhaps that was the point, especially when considering its placement on the album.

Stay: We start off with a great guitar and bass interplay and right away you know this is continuing the fast pace set by TVC15. Whether playing it himself or merely providing the direction one thing that is true of Ziggy’s entire career is his ear for good basslines and this one is rock hard and holds down the entire groove which allows the rest of the music to go as crazy as it likes. And crazy it does go with a disco drenched chorus that carries this surreal and cerebral rave well into the late night hours. Bowie’s voice seems mixed more within the instruments themselves as opposed to how upfront they were in prior tracks, which gives this song it’s own unique color. The percussion is off the chain yo and this song is that last wild ride before the reality of the after party sets in. Try listening to this song with a strobe last in your room while drinking several bottles of white wine and spinning around, it is a truly wonderful feeling.

Wild is the Wind: Some may call it unusual to end an album with a cover (a Johnny Mathis tune to be specific, check out the infamous X-Files episode “Home” for GREAT use of another Johnny Mathis tune) but not me since that would necessitate more extrapolation and research than I’m inclined to partake in at this moment. The almost lounge like feel of this song reminds me a little of Riders on the Storm by the Doors, but I only until I listen them back to back and realize what an idiot I am since they sound absolutely nothing alike. This is song is host to yet another amazing vocal performance – perhaps the best on the album. His voice is otherworldly here and when the music cuts out altogether and leaves only him, the effect is the cold, isolated beauty of creation done by starlight (whatever the hell that means, man I’m really phoning it in, and it’s only a six track album for fuck’s sake!) But indeed, this song is like a smoke filled lounge at three in the morning. The drinks are being cut off and you’re just about ready to stumble home, the night is at it’s darkest and you can let it protect you for just those few minutes longer but you run the risk of being swallowed whole before the sun rises. I believe that is the reason Bowie chose to end the album with this track, it’s evocative of a last call, a final hurrah before we all vanish into the darkness. There are few sounds that would be as perfect to hear at that moment of closure as this.

Station to Station is a sprawling widescreen work of beautiful and pastoral musical landscapes. Bowie’s vocals take a turn here for the lower pitched crooning style he would employ to great effect for the remainder of his career. I can’t say that I believe this to be his best album because many could hold that title, depending on the time, my mood and the particulars of my medication at that moment. However there is no doubt that this is among his best and always a huge fan (if not general audience) favorite. It is also a great starting point for new listeners as the songs never feel too cloistered or impenetrable as on some of his other albums. This is one of those rare works that I can listen to for energy and drive in the morning and for calm centeredness in the evening. The remaster is fantastic and shows off the consummate artistry on display here, with musical details leaping from my second rate stereo speakers and slapping me across my cleanly shaven face and firm, hirsute buttocks. It is also comes with a long bootlegged and treasured concert Live at Nassau Coliseum 76’ which features performances of many of the songs here as well as some older glammier material. The 2010 package also includes a detailed booklet and several photographs which I like to stare at inappropriately while listening to the album.

So there we have it. The album is 6 songs but does not feel truncated in anyway. Part of that may be due to the generous song lengths and part may be due to the quality of the songs. There isn’t a hint of filler and any one of these tracks could be considered a highlight. When taken into consideration with our modern digital era this work functions exceedingly well as a straight through listen or as a shuffle but it also reveals nicely it’s origins with a clear cohesion between “side 1” of tracks 1 through 3 and “side 2” of the remaining songs. Music like this just isn’t made anymore (not even Bowie himself who seems to have retired, the selfish, lazy jerk). This disc receives top kudos from this humble writer and is a must for any collection.

Album Review: Ayer, Hoy y Siempre by Los Horoscopos De Durango

Look out world because I am about to set a bold yet dangerous precedent. Over the years I have noticed more and more a serious need for music review sites that cater also to more foreign affairs. Sure, it’s easy to find reviews and analysis on Norwegian death metal or the latest Australian power trio but few would deny that there is a great lack of attention devoted to foreign language releases. We could argue endlessly over why that is and I would likely make some inflammatory statements that would result in a severe and much deserved public beating but rather than go down that path I have opted to provide a cleaner, lead-by-example sort of solution. This blog, this phenomenon that I have created, this Pandora’s box that I have opened shall be THE source of foreign language music reviews, at least Latin ones. See, already I’m backtracking, the sheer magnitude of my ambitions is too much for one man alone to handle. You, my loyal and faithful readers will have to carry some of the weight for me. So read on, read on and then listen, open up your ear holes and keep that diseased brain open as well. We are about to venture into nigh uncharted territory, you may feel afraid at first but in the end you may discover that the world around you is much more beautiful than you ever could imagined. I promise the world dear followers and like a certain perennially smiling antagonist I’m a man of my word.

So here we go with the review part of this thing. First I think I’ll provide a little back story, a little context, it’s just a trick I learned while serving as head speech writer during the Reagan era. Is it any wonder years later that particular era is still among the most celebrated in the history of our fair country?

Los Horoscopos De Durango is one of the most popular groups in the genre duranguense (I think). They are currently fronted by two sisters: Vicky y Marisol Terrazas who sing and – at least sometimes in concert – play a variety of instruments. These two are backed by a slew of talented gentlemen whose names I can’t place to an instrument because the liner notes of the album do not specify (sorry guys, but you all did great) . If you don’t know what duranguense is, don’t feel bad. It was years before I could even say the word properly but now duranguense and I are as tight as a bologna and whip cream sandwich. It’s an oddly addicting genre – like a lot of Mexican music. I have read that regional Mexican music is an acquired taste not unlike that of wine and I think that is a fair statement. Obviously if you grew up hearing a certain type of music that is one thing but for those who are not accustomed this wide and rich musical landscape can be a bit impenetrable at first. I must admit I had my own difficulties for a while despite (or perhaps because of) hearing it quite often while I was a young lad, gleefully wetting myself daily. However now I can safely say that I love this vast field and am discovering new artists and facets of it all the time. Is it a coincidence that my ever expanding love of this music - and in this case duranguense - also pre empted my onset into extreme alcoholism? I do not know. But I can say that earlier metaphor about wine is deadly accurate and all the empty bottles and banda tinged cd’s littering the floors of my abode can attest that both highly addicting once said taste is acquired. My point is that many people give up on something before even getting their feet wet (I love getting wet, butt-naked, ill, sherms, dust, PCP, primos, p-dog) This – like so much music – rewards on repeated listens and had I dismissed early on I would be a poorer man for it.

When I listen to this album I sometimes think of the book Needful Things by Stephen King [not to be confused with tennis great Billie Jean King (who herself should not be confused with Billie Jean, Michael Jackson’s #1 smash from the classic Thriller album)]. The two don’t really share many themes or characteristics but I often enjoy a little music in the background whilst I read and at the time of reading that book I was listening to this album a lot. Twas’ a good book, perhaps I shall review it someday but right now is my review of Ayer, Hoy Y Siempre by Los Horoscopos de Durango so King will have to take a temporary backseat.

Now for a brief explanation on what duranguense is for the heretofore uninitiated. Originally I had called upon all my years of experience as an investigative reporter for an underground paper in New York (Empire Statement) and used Wikipedia to get a good definition of the genre. But then I thought No damnit, music is about feeling, it’s about emotion, not dry definitions so I decided to excise the proper definition and instead write in something very inadequate by comparison. Duranguense is beautiful and unique sounding music; it is striking in its use of the bass drum, which a steady and soothing pounding in your gut and the eternal snare roll, which stimulates the pleasure center. For me, it is those dual drum sounds that always identify it early on. It makes the tempo quick and danceable and even grindable if you’re lucky. There is also some of the tasty brass you would find in other regional Mexican music but synthesizers have replaced the bassline normally done by the tuba. Those keyboards also contribute some sun drenched melodies as well. Wow, truly that definition was garbage. Honestly, if you listen to any artist of this genre you will recognize those characteristics I just mentioned and probably come up with your own observations. I feel that is the best way to discover something new anyway. But enough about advanced music theory and composition, lets get to the songs:

Bazar - I can recall with great clarity when I first heard this song. I was having lunch at Casa Ortega Mexican Restaurant with a business associate trying to negotiate a big trade deal for the company I was with at the time when I immediately told him to shut the hell up because of the great music I was hearing. I lost the account but that was fine because I was enthralled by this track (I was also enthralled by a gorgeous and curvaceous waitress named Lenora – whose supple curves suggested a healthy enjoyment of the food she served and a lusty zest for life that would have undoubtedly made her a spectacular kisser but that is another hopeless unrequited love story for another day). The rhythm was what struck me initially about this song. It was fast and insistent and as irresistible as a life preserver thrown to a drowning man. I wanted to jump on the tables and dance maniacally (and subsequently win Mayra’s heart as a result) but I resisted this urge. The second thing that struck me was the harmonies. Las Hermanas Terrazas are singing in perfect melodic harmony on this one and the results are stunning. I have read others compare this group to ABBA and I can definitely see that here. This is a great track with catchy and cute-as-a-button lyrics. Those who have not should also check out the original by Flans.

Hoy Y Siempre: This starts off with a male vocal, unfortunately I am not sure who exactly in the group it is and could not locate any corresponding information from the booklet. Initially, it is disappointing to hear another singer because Vicky and Marisol both have such sweet voices [sweet as in lovely, not sweet as in jive talkin’ (which is a great song by the Bee Gees incidentally)]. This is especially true of Vicky who has a voice like honey. If it were possible I would happily strip naked and cover myself with her voice and then go lay down on a red anthill. But alas, it seems that dream is simply not meant to be. At any rate Las Terrazas and this as yet unnamed gentlemen also harmonize well together. I do like this song but I feel it is overshadowed a little by what comes before and after.

Te Amo - A simple glance at the album’s liner notes (for dopes like me who still buy music in the plastic form) tell me that this song was written by none other than the great Marco Antonio Solis, he from Los Bukis and subsequent solo career who has sold zillions of albums and written songs for countless artists (he even wrote a song for my upcoming mariachi album which is set for release at the beginning of the new year). Point being, this guy knows how to write great music (everyone knows the song Tu Carcel, and if you don’t then you better check it out right this second) And this song is just one more brick in his wall of song goodiness. The duranguense instrumentation really shines on this track and the snare and keyboards have ample room to breathe and provide the perfect backdrop for the singing. Vicky’s vocal is as strong and passionate as we’ve come to expect, with each chorus ever more powerful and thick with simultaneous expressions love and heartbreak. The keyboard line gets stuck in my head for weeks on end. The video is quite elegant as well. I will attempt to post it here within this blog but will probably fail since I’m a blathering idiot who doesn’t know dick about computers.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xggfRQHYHN8&ob=av2e

There it is, wow, I have to be one of the dumbest people online right now.

Could this be my favorite song on the album? As Patrick Bateman once said "It’s difficult to choose a favorite among so many great tracks" but this definitely ranks up there. A contemporary classic of the genre I would dare say and an all around gorgeous gem of a song.

Niegalo: I once knew a beautiful free spirit who loved this song, we danced to this one in a private room away from the bureaucracy that would eventually and unjustly remove her from the life she loved. Now is not the time to discuss that topic but perhaps later. I’m going to sound like redundant jerk who just repeats himself a lot and says the same thing over and over again but the bloody harmonizing, the BLOODY harmonizing, always punctuated with a lead vocal that switches between the two. Ultimately, this is a standout track – not as major or impacting as Te Amo – but definitely essential on this album.

Corazon Romantico: I could be mistaken but I believe the lead vocal on this song is by Marisol. Her voice is a little rougher than that of her sister and she strains a bit to hit the right notes sometimes but she comes with her own unique charm. The bassline really kicks (I’m so hip with the musical vernacular) and that drum keeps things chugging along. The keyboard melody is also quite nice and this song ultimately lives up to its title and is a neat little love letter of a song, the type that’ll tuck you in at night after a kiss on the forehead.

Vamonos: Another track featuring prominent male vocals. The little touches of guitar (I think it’s guitar but I’m probably wrong) add a lot this one. Honestly, this song usually passes by without my noticing.

Eras Tu: This song immediately slaps me hard across the face - drawing blood and sending me crashing into a nearby wall - because of the sheer prettiness of the melodies and romantic instrumentation. That’s right, I used the word "prettiness", nothing else fits. This song is not at all like making out with a stranger with each respective tongue down one another’s throat - thoroughly exchanging saliva and all manner of germs - while fondling one another with greedy hands like an eager and awkward teen on homecoming night. No, this song is like that small, intimate kiss your significant other gives in those quiet yet impassioned moments where s/he knows that it is the intimacy - the suggestion - that is the most enthralling, it is the kiss of an experienced, confident and irresistible woman. On a quick side note you may have noticed how I used "s/he" instead of the more common and some would say subtly chauvinistic he/she. Holy shit am I progressive, look at all the change I’m bringing about with a single blog post. Vicky’s singing is a highlight and the harmonies once again shine. This is may be the centerpiece of the album, a beautiful and touching ballad that works well within the conventions of the genre while showing why those conventions work so well in the first place.

Ya No Voy a Llorar: This is more an up tempo track, especially wedged in between these other two. The piano sections during the chorus stick to my brain like expired mustard to the roof of the mouth. This is a good track but a little slight. The piano and strong vocals bring it up a few notches.

Tan Solo en Ti: Vicky hits one of her great high-pitched notes near the end. Another elegant song, a lullaby for a lover (that’s such a good description that you should expect to see it show up in many future reviews, self plagiarism may not be as fun as self love but it is at least a little less messy and without the self loathing that always follows). This song builds to that final crescendo in subtle ways, the vocals guide it all. I can’t decide if I think this group does ballads or the faster tracks better but these tender love songs are truly effective.

Ahora Que No Estas: We get to this track and I am struck by the variety in this album. It is definitely duranguense through and through but the group manages to work in several different influences and textures throughout. Credit must be given to the band whose playing is always supportive while often producing musical lines that still sound great when isolated, not an easy feat (I always had trouble with this during my days as a session drummer for Island Records). Los Horoscopos sometimes have nice juicy slices of Latin Pop cut into their music and this song reminds me a good deal of Ana Gabriel (swoon). Very interesting Coda to this one and every time I listen this album or song I am always looking forward to those last 20 seconds or so.

Julio Castro: The first of two Corridos on this disc. A Corrido is essentially a song that tells a story and I don’t know too much else about the structure or how to describe it (see how well my ambition of being a premiere source for Latin music reviews and analysis is starting up?!). This and the other near the end are two faves. I can’t discuss the lyrics much because I foolishly haven’t paid a lot of attention to them but the corridos in particular on this disc have such pure instrumentation and sound even better when drinking heavily.

Que Bello Error: This is standard mid tempo fare. There are some interesting keyboard melodies but this song spends too much time in one spot and doesn’t really make its presence known. Not bad, not great.

Para Volver A Mi: This is a cute little number where the gals are singing about that universal theme of an ex that did way wrong and all the things said ex will have to do to if s/he hopes to win that love back. Good singing and lyrics, a little slight like an earlier track but enjoyable.

Juntos: The last track here with a co-lead male vocal and the most successful in my opinion. The reason being is this song is built on melodies and those hooks stick right in my mouth and rip out of my cheek, pulling me forward in a bloody mess. The brass really accentuates those melodies. The ending reminds me a bit of Ahora Que No Estas from a few songs prior and that is most assuredly a good thing. Yet another elegant love song.

Catarino y Los Rurales: Y quien dicen que las mujeres no cantan corridos? Vicky poses the question we all ask ourselves from time to time at the beginning of this song: Who says women don’t sing corridos? Certainly not me. In fact, if I ever do meet someone who says this I will have no choice but to savagely beat them to within an inch of their life. Those who know me best know that I typically spend my nights masquerading across rooftops and fighting crime. But they also know that the female singing voice is something I hold in very high regard. In fact it downright cheeses me off how so many people (mostly dudes who, to be fair, are often too busy being totally awesome bros) dismiss female singers. Oh well, it is there loss I suppose. Mexican music is FILLED with female singers with beautiful voices but I’m getting way off topic here which is unlike me so I apologize. This is the second of the corridos I mentioned and my personal favorite of the two. These songs just demand parties and dancing and good times. The instrumentation is unrestrained and the vocals let lose with those glorious yelps. The production on this track is worth noting and definitely has a less polished feel to it which adds to the thick regional flavor. Slammin’ conclusion to a slammin’ album. What more can I – whoa, wait, hold on a minute, I guess I spoke too soon....

There’s a sly bonus track here: La Virgen De Las Novias: Well, sly really isn’t the right word for it. Maybe reductive or pedantic or lugubrious. Nope, none of those words fit either, oh well. I don’t want to speak out of turn here but this song seems to be something of a prayer and I think might be about brides somehow (man I’m stupid). The sisters take turns on lead vocal and the soft melodies gently float up and down. The song overall is a final kiss goodnight as the last candle is blown out. Another highlight and one that may be the true sleeper here. A good ending.

And there we have it. This album is slightly long in the tooth (an issue they would remedy on later works) but is overall a stellar and creative effort and a great introduction to the genre and a great work to have in your collection. I’ve had this one for a couple years now and it still receives regular spins. I recommend this album to anyone who has ever had a semi-coherent thought. If you’ve never seriously listened to regional mexican music or duranguense I would just say to go in with an open mind and a willingness to explore new music. Fortunately Los Horoscopos De Durango always inject a little Latin pop flavor into their songs which may help to make them more palatable for the uninitiated. However don’t be surprised if this first disc acts a gateway drug to this wonderful music as it was for me.

I give this album two big toes way up! Thanks for reading!