The Flying Burrito Brothers, “Christine’s Tune (Devil in Disguise).”
Jerry Jeff Walker, “I’m Gonna Tell on You.”
Arlo Guthrie, “Every Hand in the Land.”
John Hiatt, “Feels Like Rain.”
Karen Dalton, “Down on the Street (Don’t You Follow Me Down).”
Nick Drake, “River Man.”
Mary Gauthier, “Falling Out of Love.”
Kevin Ayers, “Girl on a Swing.”
Judy Collins, “I Think It’s Going to Rain Today.”
Steve Earle, “This City.”
joel selvin, altamont: the rolling stones, the hells angels, and the inside story of rock's darkest day, and gimme shelter (albert maysles, david maysles, charlotte zwerin, 1970)
I just finished Joel Selvin's book on Altamont, and then watched Gimme Shelter again. The concluding section of the book discusses Gimme Shelter. Selvin is less interested in assigning blame than in getting to the details behind the legend ... by the time we get to the movie, we've come to know many of the people who turn up in that movie, and have a better understanding of where they were coming from.
First, a few words about Selvin’s book, since I’ve written a lot about Gimme Shelter in the past. The book is long, detailed, and seems to be well-researched. Selvin was well-placed to write the book, being a Bay Area native who has had a long career as a music critic, and is an author of several books on music. In his afterword, he notes that “I knew better than to go to Altamont”, then offers the observations of friends who did attend (“[M]y friends knew nothing about what had really gone on. They had a good time ...”). This mirrors my own experience ... I had friends who went, and they returned speaking joyfully about “Woodstock West”. (In later years, they talked about how awful it was ... the vagaries of memory.) The book works in part as a warm-up for the movie, filling in what was largely left unreported in the film. But the movie is never far from Selvin’s mind:
That movie became the accepted account of the day, the official record of history, despite the fact that the Rolling Stones themselves were partners in the film’s production.... The story needed to be told, as fully and completely as possible. The tangled threads of the movie and the concert needed to be unbraided.
Selvin may be up to more than handing out blame, but he does make himself clear. “[W]hen all the facts are presented, it’s hard to see true responsibility lying with anyone but the Rolling Stones.” And he connects this to Gimme Shelter:
[W]hy did the Rolling Stones go through with the concert? That crucial decision – and the underlying determination that went into it – made the difference in everything that happened at Altamont. There is only one plausible reason: the final scene to the concert movie. There is no other good explanation for why Jagger and company proceeded with this concert in the days before the show as it unraveled in front of their eyes.... It is simply not true that this free concert was some magnanimous, beneficent gesture. The Stones wanted something out of the deal, and what they wanted was a big finish for their epochal movie that they hoped would document their magnificent return to glory.
What the book Altamont does is place the above in context. He doesn’t absolve everyone other than the Stones, but “The Hells Angels needed to be portrayed as they were – real people with names who were placed in a treacherous, untenable situation – not cardboard cutout villains. The role of the Grateful Dead and their ultimate betrayal by the Stones needed to be detailed.... The massive use of toxic drugs was not examined.”
So, Gimme Shelter. I have huge emotional reactions to the film every time I see it. Over the years, I have a more solid appreciation for the techniques and vision of the Maysles. But maybe "appreciation" is the wrong word, as is my reference to "Maysles". For on this watching, I decided the true artist was editor Charlotte Zwerin.
My friend Charlie Bertsch wrote a strong piece on the movie a few years ago. A big portion of that essay is devoted to refuting Pauline Kael’s take. She resisted the pull of “direct cinema”, emphasizing the “manipulative possibilities of filmmaking”. Charlie responds, “[T]he Maysles’ approach ... demands witnessing events without knowing how they will turn out”, as if this precludes the possibility of manipulation.
But Charlie also points us in the direction of what is really happening in Gimme Shelter when he rightfully praises the work of editor Charlotte Zwerin, “who earned co-director billing for the brilliant editing she did after filming was complete” [emphasis added]. He singles out scenes of Mick Jagger and Charlie Watts looking at footage from the film, which he calls “a brilliant idea for which Charlotte Zwerin gets the credit”. But if the Maysles want to fall back on "we don't stage stuff", those scenes would seem to contradict that idea. Jagger and Watts were invited, and filmed, by the filmmakers to watch the footage, which didn’t happen “naturally”.
Ultimately, the truest statement in Charlie’s piece is this: "The finished product’s success depends entirely on how the raw footage is edited together." No matter what the circumstances under which the Maysles worked, the film is made when Zwerin gets her talented hands on it. And film editing is as crucial, and as vulnerable to manipulation, as the shooting of the original footage. The Maysles may not have had a preformed idea of what they wanted the events to show, but Gimme Shelter requires that someone edit the footage. Charlotte Zwerin, whether working on her own or with the direction of the Maysles, manipulates the raw footage into the movie we see today. We can argue what Gimme Shelter is saying, but we can’t argue about the role the filmmakers had in making that statement. Michael Sragow, who Charlie quotes, is half right when he says “Gimme Shelter is not about manipulating events – it’s about letting events get away from you.” The latter part is true, which is one reason I find the movie so disturbing. But the first part is false.
#39: Primitive Radio Gods: “Standing Outside of a Broken Phone Booth with Money in My Hand.” I’ve been downhearted, baby, ever since the day we met.
#19: Oasis, “Champagne Supernova.” Where were you while we were getting high?
#17: Jewel, “Who Will Save Your Soul?” After all the lies you told.
#10: Butthole Surfers, “Pepper.” Flipper died a natural death.
#1: Tracy Bonham, “Mother Mother.” Everything’s fine.
Do I want to talk about “Slow Cinema” (or should I call it “Contemporary Contemplative Cinema”?), or do I want to just talk about Colossal Youth on its own and be done with it?
I feel a bit like I’m getting a crash course on this stuff, given my recent dive into the works of Andrei Tarkovsky. And part of me thinks I’m just warming up for the challenge of Sátántangó (Phil Dellio, who is the person who got me to put Sátántangó on my Request List, said of Colossal Youth, “Only 156 minutes, though--that's like a trailer for Sátántangó.”)
I don’t want to be reductive ... well, of course I want to be reductive, but I’m also trying to combat that tendency in myself ... I resist the very idea of “Slow Cinema”, not as an option for artists, but as something I want to watch. I wonder what my reaction to Colossal Youth would be if I’d known what it was in advance? (For some reason, I thought it was a 100-minute Japanese pop movie.)
Apparently I like these movies more than I realize. The Wikipedia entry for “Slow cinema” lists more than 40 “notable examples” of the style, and among them are movies like 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, which I placed at #44 on my list of 50 favorite movies of all time; Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, which I loved; and Once Upon a Time in Anatolia, which I also loved. In other words, as with all genres, there are going to be ones I like and ones I don’t.
Colossal Youth reminded me of Terrence Malick movies. I rarely like them, but I admire Malick’s ability to make the movies he wants, following his vision without much compromise. Based on Colossal Youth, and on things I’ve read about him, Pedro Costa makes the movies he wants to make. As I once said about Malick, Costa doesn’t care if I thought Colossal Youth was boring. He didn’t make it for me, he made it for himself. I admire him for that.
But I didn’t like watching his movie.
The film looks great. It’s often so dark you can barely see, but that fits with the settings. There are occasional shots that stun:
But honestly, it’s like watching paint dry. I often call movies like this “Coffee Table Movies”. The picture above looks great, but it would look as good in a book you had on your coffee table as it does on the screen, and I don’t have to stare at the book for 156 minutes.
So, call me a philistine. But I don’t let that fact prevent me from watching movies like Colossal Youth. You never know when one of them will end up on my Top 50 list. #548 on the They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They list of the top 1000 films of all time, and #45 on the 21st century list. 6/10.
In the first scene of The Leftovers, a busy mom’s baby disappears from its car seat. A young boy’s dad disappears while pushing a shopping cart. A speeding car (driverless?) crashes into another car. We hear a cacophony of voices on the 911 line. Then silence, and on the screen we read “THREE YEARS LATER”.
From the beginning, a few things were apparent, if not quite clear. As the title suggested, The Leftovers wasn’t going to be a series about the people who were taken in a rapture-like event (2% of the world’s population, it is later explained). Instead, it would be about the 98% of the people who were left behind. Also, while it wasn’t clear from what was on the screen, the series’ co-creator, Damon Lindelof (working with Tom Perrotta, who wrote the novel on which the show is based), made sure to tell anyone who would listen that this new series wasn’t going to be a guessing game about what happened that day three years ago. Lindelof was co-creator of Lost, a series that spent six seasons making us guess what the hell was going on and then in the end didn’t answer the question clearly enough for many viewers. At the end of three seasons of The Leftovers, it’s possible to claim that the Departure was just a MacGuffin.
Which leaves the question, what, if anything, was The Leftovers about? For all of the surprises the narrative showed us, the answer isn’t found in a list of “what happened next”. I was reminded of Battlestar Galactica, a genre show with a simple basic storyline (humans create robots to serve them, robots rebel). Sure, BSG was “about” the battle between humans and cylons. But its reach was so great, so ambitious, that a mere description of the storyline was inadequate. The series was about what it means to be human, it was about the role of the military in a time of crisis, it was about politics, it was about religion, and yes, it was also a space opera. Similarly, The Leftovers is about our place in the universe, our relationship to religion/god, and, over everything, about grief.
The plot was often so loopy you needed a notepad to keep up. Maureen Ryan, who had some of the best writing on the series (including one piece I’ll get to later), began a review of one episode as follows:
For my own amusement, I sometimes imagine describing individual episodes of “The Leftovers” to people who’ve never seen the show.
Let’s try it with this installment, shall we?
“A former sheriff from a small town in New York is in Australia, where his father has become convinced of the existence of a song that will stop the planet from being engulfed in a world-ending flood. The father drowns his son, and the son, Kevin, travels to an alternate realm that he has visited before, where he met God, did karaoke, and killed a woman who had been appearing to him in his ‘real’ life. When Kevin enters this realm again, he is both an assassin (as he was the first time he went there), and also the President of the United States, who was elected on a platform of wearing all-white clothes, ending marriage and engaging in the total destruction of basically everything.
“The woman he met and killed the first time through is there; she is the Secretary of Defense and she wants him to launch the nukes that will kill everyone. Another person he knew from his ‘real’ life is there — she’s the Vice President — and she tries to stop the launch from happening, and the VP also helps him find the room that will allow him to communicate with the Prime Minister of Australia. The Prime Minister, Christopher Sunday, may know the crucial song Kevin needs, and despite the fact that she helps him, Kevin kills the Vice President.
“By the way, the ‘real’ Kevin can occupy the body of either Kevin — the President or the assassin — and he switches back and forth between them by looking at reflective surfaces. Eventually there’s a showdown between the Kevins, with the Secretary of Defense urging Kevin to launch the nukes, and he does that after killing one of his selves. Oh, and God is giving Kevin instructions part of the time, and a romance novel one of the Kevins wrote — which was hidden behind a White House portrait of Millard Fillmore — ends up figuring pretty prominently in the whole thing.”
It was fun to watch stuff like this. But the crucial moment in the episode came from the simple act of Kevin nuking the world. For he had used his ... what, ability? ... ability to move back and forth between realms (by dying in the “real” world) to avoid dealing with the complications of life (in the “real” world). It is an enormous step for Kevin to finally cut off access to the “other world” to which he would escape.
You could get hung up on how all of this works ... Ryan gets a lot of humor out of a simple plot description. But you can also avoid the MacGuffin. It’s not about trips to alternate worlds, it’s about a troubled, depressed man trying to access his place in the world, trying to figure out if it is possible for him to be a part of that world, to live.
If this all sounds too depressing to watch, well, most people think the first season was too depressing, but that things changed after that. To be honest, I thought they were exaggerating how Season One came across, but then I looked at what I’d written at the time: “The Leftovers is one of the most relentlessly depressing shows ever made.”
All of which might help you understand how surprised I was in a good way that the series offered what could be perceived as a happy ending. Not a happy ending that explained the Departure, or made everything turn out great for everyone, but an ending with two survivors finally understanding each other, with a life they will now live together.
After Season Two, I wrote, “What makes it so good? The way it looks so closely at how events affect the various characters ... this is part of why it is an uncomfortable series, pain and guilt and depression aren’t comfortable. It has just enough magical elements to keep us on our toes. And there are so many actors doing such great jobs.” This pretty much describes Season Three as well, but where before, I singled out Justin Theroux, now it’s time to give Carrie Coon her due.
Before The Leftovers, I had never heard of Carrie Coon. Now, she’s everywhere (currently starring in Fargo). And she is so amazing, it’s almost impossible to believe we didn’t already know her. Coon, and her character Nora Durst, goes on arguably the greatest journey of everyone. Nora sneaks up on us ... you wouldn’t know in the first episodes that she was a particularly important character (she is the anti-MacGuffin). She is noteworthy mainly because while everyone seems to have lost someone, she has lost her entire family. She would seem to have more reason to grieve than others. But she is stoic. Then, in an episode in the middle of Season One, she hires a prostitute to shoot her while Nora wears a bulletproof vest. She is alive only when she feels pain.
Over the course of the series, Nora as a character takes on more importance, and much of this is thanks to Coon. You can imagine the people behind the show thinking, “This woman is incredible, we have to give her more to do.” She never fails. For this reason among many, it is only appropriate that she gives the long monologue that closes the series. The close-ups are so powerful (props to Mimi Leder, who directed the finale and many other episodes).
The crucial lines are “I believe you” and “I’m here”. It’s not a case of what is true, of whether Nora is “explaining” the Departure. It’s a case of finding someone willing to believe that your world as you experience it is real. And for all of the metaphysical aspects of The Leftovers, it ends with something concrete: “I’m here.”
Finally, I would be remiss without mentioning one of the great pieces of criticism I have ever read. Check that ... great pieces of writing. Mo Ryan, one of our most reliably excellent TV critics, wrote a long and very personal essay.
Whatever our damage, we all just want to be known, to be seen unflinchingly — and maybe even compassionately — no matter how many worlds we inhabit or places we hide. Human beings can find those bonds — those momentary, subatomic collisions — in the most unlikely places: At the bottom of a well, at a dinner table, on a bridge in Texas, on a Tasmanian sex boat.
If we’re lucky, our shaggy, spectacular, evolving, terrible selves are recognized in this life, once in a while. Maybe even all at once — the dream is for all of our quantum locations to be spotted. What if, for the briefest span of time, an observer could pause the hurtling energy of the universe and pin down every single place and time in which we exist? Everything seen, mapped, understood.
I have had some moments like that. More than a few courtesy of an HBO drama featuring an orgy. (I know.)
Those flashes of recognition are not just enough. They are everything.
I wish I didn’t identify with Nora Durst so much, some days. Because Carrie Coon is such a great actress, and because this show is working on such an enormously accomplished level, Nora’s heroic effort to seem normal slays me. It’s perfect, it’s wrenchingly real, it’s a meteor screaming across the sky, one that I can see from every plane of existence.
In flashes, in small moments, Carrie shows you just how monumentally difficult it has always been for Nora to go through the motions, to get through the day, to tell herself that everything is more or less OK. She’s got this.
No one sees the strain, the gears working at capacity, the levers and pistons giving off steam, the boiler close to exploding. But it’s in her eyes; even when she’s silent, she crackles with ropey, alert energy. It’s so much damn work to live, much less to care. Nora can’t stop, she won’t stop, she’s afraid to stop. She can’t afford to know what happens if she does.
For years after the Departure, she kept going, because she didn’t have a choice. Did she?
Actually, for a long time, she chose a lie. I get it.
What monster would deny Nora her lies? That she loves (loved?) Kevin, that she could survive losing her family, that she could find a new career and reasons to keep living, and that it would be OK. Sometimes you fake it ’til you make it, and who’s to say she wouldn’t have made it, if she believed hard enough, if she tried hard enough, if she just endured?
I’ve had people tell me they like when I assign grades to shows. I’m not sure why I often resist this ... I have no problem attaching number rankings to movies. In the case of The Leftovers, the question of ranking is surprising, beyond the fact that rankings are silly. Well, I gave Season One of The Leftovers an A. I gave Season Two of The Leftovers an A, and gave the season finale an A+. And now I’m repeating myself: grade for Season Three, A, grade for series finale, A+. Grade for series? If every season is an A, and the season finales are A+, then it’s safe to say, we’re talking about a really good series. I’m not prepared to say anything beyond that. But I am as surprised as anyone that over the course of three seasons, The Leftovers became a legitimate candidate for what Alan Sepinwall and Matt Zoller Seitz call “The Inner Circle”.
Not the band, the album: Big Brother and the Holding Company. It’s the much-disdained debut, a year before Cheap Thrills hit #1.
The production is crappy. The band recorded a single in September of 1966 that did nothing, and then recorded ten more songs at the end of the year. Nothing much happened until the band blew people away at Monterey in June of 1967. By August, Mainstream Records, who had the band’s contract, finally released the earlier songs in a rather haphazard manner. The album, which contained only ten songs and ran barely over 23 minutes, contained eight of the later songs, along with the earlier single ... two other later songs were released as a single. Columbia Records then took over the band’s contract and re-released the album with all twelve songs.
As I recall, the general feeling at the time was that Big Brother and the Holding Company didn’t capture the group’s live sound. Heard today, the thin production and psychedelic guitars make the album sound a bit like a lost garage rock classic. But there probably isn’t enough Janis to satisfy the new fans who thought it was Janis Joplin and Her Band of Amateurs. Columbia did what they could. Here’s the original album cover:
And here’s the Columbia re-release:
In the meantime, the band did a short program on the local public television station just as Cheap Thrills was released that included this incendiary version of “Ball and Chain”:
The “underground” FM station took to playing this version at least as often as the one on Cheap Thrills. Meanwhile, Monterey Pop, which featured yet another fiery version of “Ball and Chain”, didn’t come out until December, and I don’t believe there was an audio version of the festival until 1992. Whatever ... both the public TV version and the Cheap Thrills version are great. (And just to show where many minds were, in Monterey Pop, the mid-song guitar break is edited out.)
At this point, that first album was almost forgotten, not a bad trick considering it was only a year old. Which is unfair, for there is some good stuff on there. “Down on Me” was an almost-hit that Janis carried with her into her solo career. “Woman Is Losers” is another good Janis showcase. “Light Is Faster Than Sound” is a cheesy pseudo-sci-fi effort. The version of the all-time classic “Coo Coo” is solid. And “All Is Loneliness” is special.
Still, it probably says something that I spent so much of this post about the first album talking about other music.
I didn’t expect this post. I didn’t expect that Sense8 would already belong in the “Throwback” category.
No matter how corny the song, or Pink's delivery of the same, it's quite a moment when all those youngsters throw the peace sign in the air and sing "hey hey hey hey, what's going on?" In fact, it's this element of pop community that I like best about Pink concerts ... So now Pink sings that song as if she's known it all her life, and based on the voices in the Fillmore who sang every word, her audience has known it all their lives as well, and it's a great pop moment that reflects the optimism of the young just as other Pink songs reflect their sadness. The song indeed no longer belongs to Linda Perry, it belongs to Pink and the fans who know and sing all the words.
After Season Two, I connected my attachment to Sense8 to my connection to the world:
When I see the characters in Sense8 merging, I experience the most beautiful community of them all, one that results from the blending of the eight into one. It is as if my long-ago dreams are manifested on my television screen.
When I wrote those words about Pink, I was reeling from the news that Sleater-Kinney was going on “indefinite hiatus”. As the years approached a decade, “indefinite” seemed like a tease.
But then Sleater-Kinney came back.
After 23 episodes, 16 cities and 13 countries, the story of the Sense8 cluster is coming to an end ... It is everything we and the fans dreamed it would be: bold, emotional, stunning, kick ass, and outright unforgettable. Never has there been a more truly global show with an equally diverse and international cast and crew, which is only mirrored by the connected community of deeply passionate fans all around the world.
And so, one more time:
Just about every Memorial Day weekend, my wife and I go to Santa Cruz, where we spent our honeymoon, to celebrate our anniversary. And just about every one of those weekends, we see a movie, more often than not some popular new movie. (Well, the movie we saw on our honeymoon in 1973 was Hitler, the Last Ten Days with Alec Guinness.) Which is why we were at a multiplex to catch Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2.
I was not the biggest fan of Volume 1 (5/10), so I wasn’t exactly looking forward to Vol. 2. So I am happy to say I was pleasantly surprised. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I liked it very much. But the thing that annoyed me the most about the first one (Bradley Cooper’s raccoon) wasn’t as obnoxious this time, for some reason.
There were a couple of things I actively liked. Dave Bautista’s laugh was always fun ... he took such joy in the simplest things. And it’s always nice to see Karen Gillan, although to be honest I don’t remember her from the first Guardians movie. Overall, I guess the best thing I can say about the movie is that it gave me little reason to hate it.
Although it came close. The father/son stuff didn’t do anything for me. And while I appreciate the attempt to add humor, I was reminded of what I said about the first one: “the dialogue isn’t exactly Whedon-esque”.
So I’m missing out. I’d much rather Marvel had somehow managed to get another season of Agent Carter on ABC. But this was an improvement on Volume 1. 6/10.