A few short comments about a few Oscar-nominated short films.
World of Tomorrow (Don Hertzfeldt, 2015). Up for Best Animated Short. Hertzfeldt stuffs a lot into his seventeen minutes. It’s a philosophical examination of cloning, a clever futuristic sci-fi tale, a delightful presentation of a four-year-old, and an odd combination of dystopia and hope. 8/10.
Last Day of Freedom (Dee Hibbert-Jones and Nomi Talisman, 2015). Nominated for Best Short Documentary. Uses rotoscoping blended with other drawings (more than 30,000 total), and occasionally, the distancing rotoscoping inserts into our viewing experience can be “more real than real”. Last Day of Freedom is one of those occasions. Several things contribute to its excellence. The drawing as a whole is remarkable, and serves the story well. The story, of a man with PTSD, is a strong one. And the decision to tell the story through interviews with that man’s brother adds a heartbreaking element. You can come away from the movie feeling angry about the ways our society mistreats its downtrodden, but you also come away with an affecting insight into the brother. It’s both a social commentary and a personal voyage. 9/10.
Chau, beyond the lines (Courtney Marsh, 2015). Also up for Best Documentary Short. This is the most straightforward of the three films I watched. Chau is a Vietnamese victim of Agent Orange. Marsh follows his story over the course of eight years (this isn’t always clear), as he attempts to live with his severe disabilities. Marsh lets the context of the U.S. use of Agent Orange lie in the background ... it’s evident in all of the kids in the care center where we meet Chau. But ultimately, what we get is an uplifting story about a boy with a dream, who begins fulfilling that dream as he becomes a man. Chau wants to be an artist, and after many struggles, he teaches himself to paint with his mouth. The resulting works are quite remarkable ... my expertise is limited, but his use of color is beautiful. 7/10.
Supergirl is a perfectly good show. The cast is perfectly pleasant, a mixture of veterans and youngsters, most of whom you’ll remember from other shows ... Melissa Benoist, who plays the title character, was on Glee, Mehcad Brooks, who plays “James” Olson, was on so many shows you’re sure to say “hey, it’s that guy!” (for me, it was his role as “Eggs” on True Blood), then there’s David Harewood (Homeland) and Calista Flockhart, and Peter Facinelli (Nurse Jackie) and, in stunt casting, Helen Shaver (Supergirl in the movie of that name) and Dean Cain (Superman on Lois and Clark). It has a perfectly good overarching theme about family and belonging, and perfectly good action scenes whenever Supergirl is needed. Perhaps most importantly, I’m still watching after 13 episodes.
But Supergirl is spoiled by a couple of other shows that couldn’t be more different. Angie Tribeca is a hit-and-miss comedy that brings back the Police Squad/Naked Gun approach to television. Some of us have missed that kind of humor, and Angie Tribeca is OK ... the nice thing about a show like that is if one joke falls flat, another four jokes will follow immediately.
Is Angie Tribeca a “better” show than Supergirl? I don’t know. I prefer watching it, but it’s mostly a toss-up. But Angie Tribeca, like its spiritual father Police Squad, is so relentless is its destruction of clichés that it’s hard to watch an ordinary show after seeing an episode of Angie. Things that aren’t supposed to be funny on Supergirl remind you of something similar on Angie Tribeca that was supposed to be funny, and you end up laughing inappropriately.
Which is unfair to Supergirl, because that show isn’t trying to be funny, or to remind us of Angie Tribeca. But the latter makes it harder to sit through the former.
Coming from the other direction is The 100. This is a show that spoils you for other shows that are perfectly good, because The 100 sets a higher standard. A show like Supergirl offers interesting extensions of the usual, but with the emphasis on “usual”. The title character is marginally different from other superheroes, Jimmy Olson is a grown-up black guy named “James”, Calista Flockhart is a catty Perry White. Over time we get to care about the characters, at least the primary ones. The occasional death of one of those characters can hit us emotionally. But ultimately, Supergirl is comfort food, with just enough changes from what came before to keep our attention.
There is nothing comfortable about The 100. In almost every episode, one or more characters must make life-or-death decisions that can affect hundreds, and the writers make sure that we understand all aspects of what brings the character to the moment of decision. Maureen Ryan, who has written smart pieces on The 100 (and in fact is the one who convinced me to give the series a try), writes:
When a person on “The 100” is given an array of bad options, a viewer will understand why a character picked a certain path, even if the viewer doesn’t necessarily agree with that choice. Hand-waving away concerns about set-up and follow-through doesn’t work with this show, because half the appeal of “The 100” centers on our ability to empathize with people who often do terrible things. We need to know why they do those things, and we need to care even if they make choices that ends up working out very badly for them and for others.
Consequences ... that word pops up constantly when thinking about the actions of the characters on The 100. Thus far, at least, there are no happy endings ... we’re a few episodes into Season 3, and there has been maybe one brief scene in all that time that conveyed a sense of joy. (When one character, Indra, smiled on a recent episode, Twitter went wild ... who could have believed she had it in her?) The 100 takes place a hundred years in the future, on a post-apocalyptic Earth, where everyone must make daily choices the likes of which most of us could never imagine. Yet the characters on The 100 are recognizably human, with all the depth and complexity that suggests. There are no superheroes on The 100, just people doing their best.
A few years ago, in a post about The Empire Strikes Back, I wrote, “it’s time to admit that I am not the audience for these films. That was clear when the new trilogy came along … only Revenge of the Sith was even tolerable to me. But the fact that I don’t have any real desire to watch Star Wars movies over and over, even as I’m always ready to sit through Attack of the Crab Monsters one more time, says it all.” This holds true for the new Star Wars movie, which I finally saw almost two months after its release.
How does it compare to other Star Wars movies? I’d say it’s a contender with The Empire Strikes Back for the best of the series. But never have personal taste preferences been more illuminating. Watching Episode VII, I got the feeling the true fans of the series probably like this one, which is respectful to traditions (hello, Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher) while moving forward in good and entertaining ways (hello, Daisy Ridler and John Boyega). Casting Adam Driver was also perfect ... the first time he takes off his helmet and speaks in his unmistakable accent, we understand the emotional turmoil inside the character. Not everything is good, again if we’re talking about my preferences. I had thought to myself, “at least we don’t have to put up with that damned C-3PO”, and within minutes, the sucker turned up.
The key for fans is to place the film in the context of the series. But that’s useless for someone like me, who doesn’t care about the series. Which is why my saying it’s arguably the best movie in that series is largely irrelevant. Because once I compare Episode VII to other movies I like, Star Wars doesn’t do well. For my tastes, there was a superb action picture in 2015, one that extended a favorite series of mine, one that I greatly anticipated, and one that fulfilled my every hope: Mad Max: Fury Road. But is Fury Road a better movie than Episode VII, or does it just better match my tastes? I prefer stunts done by humans to space ships fighting each other, CGI style. But that’s not fair to Star Wars, which is a space opera ... it’s not like they can put stunt people on space ships. I do think Fury Road has visual creativity that the Star Wars series has rarely approached ... think of the men on the poles, or the flame-throwing guitar.
I enjoyed Daisy Ridler, and was reminded of how revolutionary it seemed in the first film when Leia was part of the action scenes. We’ve moved far beyond that, now. John Boyega presented a different problem ... one more time, from my perspective. He was in Attack the Block, a favorite of mine that cost around $13 million to make. Is Attack the Block a better movie than The Force Awakens? Let’s just say I liked it more.
When a movie gets five Oscar nominations and none of them are “people” categories like picture or director or acting, I am wary. Episode VII is nominated in editing and sound and visual effects and soundtrack. If we compare it to other films that pile up the nominations in these kinds of categories, I think The Force Awakens looks quite good. But I’m guessing I'll watch Attack the Block again a few more times before I ever get around to watching this Star Wars movie a second time. To say nothing of Attack of the Crab Monsters. 7/10.
This hurts me the most of all the recent deaths. I've told my Dan Hicks stories a million times ... I'll make it a million and one, and then I'll be done.
The night before our wedding (May 25, 1973), I was nervously watching TV when Dan Hicks and His Hot Licks came on. I had seen them live once, in the summer of 1970. He sang his great song, "I Scare Myself", and I realized he was telling my story. So at the wedding the next day, I read the lyrics to that song as my "statement".
A few years later we went to see Dan at a converted movie theater in Rodeo. I saw him sitting in the seats before the show, and went up to him and told him my story about the wedding, asking if perhaps he might play "I Scare Myself" that night. He was very drunk, and mostly laughed at my story ... not at me, mind you, just the story.
He took the stage ... I can't remember if there was a bass player, but Naomi Ruth Eisenberg was with him. Robin and the friends we were with worked for Naomi Ruth's brother at a fabric store. Dan got through one song, maybe two, broke strings, talked to himself as he restrung his guitar. We walked up to the stage and asked Naomi to autograph a poster from the show. Dan said something like "I'm up here suffering and people are getting Naomi's autograph." He left the stage soon afterwards.
He was a real person.
I scare myself just thinking about you I scare myself when I'm without you I scare myself the moments that you're gone I scare myself when I let my thoughts run
and when they're runnin' I keep thinking of you and when they're runnin' what can I do?
I scare myself and I don't mean lightly I scare myself it can get frightenin' I scare myself to think what I could do I scare myself it's some kinda voodoo
and with that voodoo I keep thinking of you and with that voodoo what can I do?
but it's oh so, so, so different when we're together and I'm oh so so much calmer, I feel better for the stars have crossed our paths forever and the sooner that you realize it, the better
then I'll be with you and I won't scare myself and I'll know what to do and I won't scare myself and then I'll think of you and I won't scare myself and then my thoughts'll run and I won't scare myself
I just finished Gina Arnold’s fine book on Exile in Guyville, another entry in the 33 1/3 series. I spent the 90s reading Arnold’s “Fools Rush In” column ... she seemed to inspire a lot of vitriol, not just from people whose missives appeared in Letters to the Editor segments, but from people who wore “KILL GINA ARNOLD” t-shirts. Often, what I loved about Arnold’s columns was the very things that irritated her detractors. She regularly inserted her personal life into her writing. Here she is in a 2001 interview:
I have always felt that one of the flaws in a lot of rock criticism (besides the boring prose style) was that it tried to be objective–which is impossible, with something like music. The best you can hope to be is descriptive: you know: this is who I am, this is what happened to me, this is why it means something to me, if you agree you might like it too. And if you don’t, well then, ignore it.
A typical week for Gina would involve receiving a gift certificate for the services of Jack Kevorkian from a bunch of slighted Rolling Stones fans (yep, it really happened) or one or two letters making fun of her affinity for you-know-who. Everyone had different reasons for disliking her -- either she didnt get her facts right, or she didnt support the local scene, or she talked about herself too much, or she was too jaded and stuck in 1990.
In the same article, Arnold offers an on-point comment on the criticism she often received:
People would say to me, ... Why do I want to hear about your life every week? And I would say, You think I write about my life? Okay, what do you actually know about my life? And they wouldnt have an answer. I write about music and how it relates to things in my life, but very few people actually know me.
Is it any wonder I loved her? I’ve often argued that rock criticism learned a lot from Pauline Kael’s approach, and you can’t find a better example than this.
Her Exile in Guyville book is unlike her columns, but in a way I think makes sense. There is an academic feel to much of the book, and indeed, since the 90s, Arnold has gotten a Ph.D. from Stanfurd. Her writing now reflects this, and why not? She’s just continuing her personal touch.
She spends a part of the introduction informing us that she wrote much of the book in Seoul. I can already hear those haters from the past ... who cares where she was when she wrote? But one of her primary arguments in the book is that Exile in Guyville is informed by a community, “Guyville”, and what better way to remind us of this than by describing the community where she is writing, and how it helps her both gain the necessary distance from her subject, and also to see similarities between then and now.
The first two sections are the best, as she places Exile within the cultural context of its time. For me, the section where she compares Phair’s songs, one by one, to the corresponding tracks on the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main St., is the book’s least successful. I know that Phair encourages the comparisons, but after such excellent cultural criticism, it’s a bit disappointing to read compare-and-contrast lyric analysis. Arnold does her best with the idea, but I got antsy. She recovers in her brief final section, which brings us full circle to Seoul.
Of course, now I’m going to do precisely what I’m complaining about. Here is Phair’s “Never Said”, chosen as much as anything because there’s an official video:
“Never Said” is about keeping secrets, probably the secret of who is sleeping with whom. Liz, alas, was unable to keep whom she was sleeping with secret and suffered the tortures of the dammed when her record came out. People guessed this and that and accused her of “sleeping her way” to the top ... People know who Mick Jagger sleeps with too ... but somehow it never seemed to have the same repercussions as Liz’s peccadilloes.
The very act of making an album that seems to take on the canonical favorite Exile on Main St. is irritating enough to those who make canons that they will find reasons to dismiss Phair from the start.
The Stones’ counterpart, using the track-for-track comparisons, is “Tumbling Dice”, where “The women, alas, are always trying to drag him down, with their bitchin’ and itchin’, but the men – i.e. the proverbial ‘tumblin dice’ of the title – can’t be tied down.... Great riff. Nice metaphor. Internal meaning not so pleasant, but that’s the Stones all over.”
I wonder what Arnold made of Linda Ronstadt’s version of “Tumbling Dice”:
The obvious question arises: what do I think of Exile in Guyville? I loved it at the time, and I think it holds up well. We saw her on her solo tour in 1995, playing songs from Guyville and Whipsmart, and she was admittedly unassuming, but that didn’t change my feelings towards the album. Here’s a very low-fi song from a different show on that tour:
I often think of Phair and PJ Harvey at the same time. In fact, back in 2010, I had an entire blog post about this:
Harvey, on the other hand, has never had to worry about being taken seriously. She didn’t turn into Avril Lavigne … she added theatricality, but in the context of indie rock blues that kept her sound rooted in the “authentic.” She followed up Rid of Me with arguably the best album of her career, To Bring You My Love. Her weirdness always seemed to call on primitive urges, where Phair wasn’t really that weird at all, in the end. Harvey remains uncompromising, remarkably so, really. And I’ve come to realize over the years that yes, PJ Harvey is a “better” artist than Liz Phair. But it still feels like Phair loses because her idea of uncompromising is seen as mainstream, even as she releases new material on her website instead of through a label … if you think Liz Phair is mainstream, you haven’t been listening to the stream for some time now.
I don’t know if I still think PJ is “better”. But I do know that to this day I play Exile on Guyville more than I play any PJ Harvey album. Having said that, I’m always looking for an excuse to post videos of Harvey performing “Rid of Me”, which I love more than any individual song of Phair’s.
Documentary of the late singer’s life relies on archival footage, much of it taken from home movies and the like. The family (read, her father) isn’t happy about the way these films are used, and indeed, her father comes across poorly.
But the use of this footage, along with you-are-there examples of the crush of the paparazzi as experienced from the inside, while illuminating, perhaps unintentionally place Kapadia with those paparazzi. Winehouse is gone now, so I suppose you could say that she can no longer be hurt. But Amy is in many respects a post-mortem extension of the ways Winehouse was used by the media when she was alive. We learn about her life by peeking into her most private moments. It’s a revealing film, but it also left me feeling a bit dirty, not because of Winehouse, but because as I watched the movie I became complicit with things that made her life difficult.
One of the most crucial criticisms of father Mitch Winehouse comes when he turns up when Amy has found a place to escape the daily pressures (she also finds a place to drink constantly). Mitch is filming a television series, and he arrives with cameras, precisely the thing Amy is trying to avoid. There is something opportunistic about Mitch’s intrusions on his daughter ... he barely seems better than the paparazzi. But Kapadia has no qualms about using this footage in his own documentary. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the only reason Kapadia didn’t join the paparazzi was because Winehouse was dead when he made his documentary. Instead, he uses paparazzi footage to support his movie.
Having said that, Amy is an eye-opener. Her vocals are more than jazz-inflected ... oftentimes, they are jazz. Her confessional lyrics, printed on the screen as the songs are presented, match well with the narrative the film offers of Winehouse’s life. That narrative shows that Winehouse had problems before fame magnified everything. She was extremely talented, which is why we know who she is and why she gets an Oscar-nominated documentary about her life. Without that great voice, her story is still tragic, but it’s sadly like too many other stories.
Tony Bennett gets the best line. An artist who had his own personal traumas, some drug-related, Bennett came out on the other side, and still has an audience as he approaches 90. He recognized Winehouse’s excellence, and the scenes of the two recording the Grammy-winning “Body and Soul” are lovely, as he encourages her and brings a fine performance out of her. At the movie’s end, he remarks, “Life teaches you really how to live it, if you could live long enough.”
This photo popped up on Facebook, where we tagged as many people as we could (our friends the Isaacs family, and another friend, Dale). What interests me at the moment is the stuff in the background.
Most of it is stereo gear, circa 1984-87. There’s a red bottle ... that’s liquid you put on the record cleaner thingie before you cleaned your vinyl. A turntable sits atop a receiver. On the right side of the picture is a dual cassette deck.
I think the books on the other side of the receiver were music-related. It’s hard to make out, but at the top of the photo, near the right, is a postcard of two boxers, one of whom is landing a punch on the other. The postcard was from Greil Marcus, in reply to a fan mail I sent him. Ah, those were the days.