Cahiers du Merde
Now Playing: The Roots--"Star/Pointro"
I went to see The Descent at Showcase Cinemas on Carpenter Road, the first time I've been to see a movie at the googolplex in just under two years (and it'll probably be at least that long before I go again). The near hourlong bus ride there did much to put me off. I'm as much of a public transit booster as the next progressive type, but I suspected that a mere movie maybe wasn't enough to warrant the time and expense of going to see it. The "going" part, of course, only set me back a couple of bucks. I spent the forty-five minutes or so jotting down story notes, listening to an annoying old man outline a projected policy for East Asian peace to a half-Taiwanese, half-Thai cluster of students toward the front, and reading some of Laurie Notaro's humorous essays (picked it up on a whim at Kiwanis this morning and she's already turned into a favorite).

"Seeing?" Tracy unexpectedly pulled up next to me and said hi as I walked towards the theatre. She'd actually just been to see The Descent and liked it, so I took that as a good omen. Afterwards, though, I delivered a series of low moans (the bad kind) on seeing a poster for The Wicker Man... starring Nicolas Cage (I'd actually no idea it was so close to opening). Neil LaBute comes highly recommended, to be sure, and it'll be interesting to see how his sensibilities as a practicing Mormon will impact one of the ultimate cinematic tales of religious fanaticism, but come on--this has got to be one of the most pointless remakes ever, the most pointless since...probably the last one that got made.

A ticket and refreshments cost a medium-sized grocery bill. The refreshments in question included an extra-large Pepsi, which I bought after being told it only cost a dime extra than the large. The counter girl presented me with a cup upon which was fastened a transparent plastic model of an ice-cream swirl. Who comes up with this shit? On leaving after the movie, I felt bad for throwing it away (okay, no I didn't, if we're talking about the lid design and not the plastic) but what would I have done with it?

The movie began at more or less the right time. When I say "the movie," I mean of course the commercials, which took up at least a good ten minutes. I think Kevin Murphy posed the question in A Year At The Movies regarding the relationship between these ads and the rising prices. Are they the reason we're paying so much? Does that mean that we're all officially subsidizing the advertising agencies by seeing these movies? I prefer to do so through buying the products advertised (and as little of that as possible, thank you). We had an ad for the theatre, of course, but that was after I'd already bought my fucking ticket: "Sir, we appreciate your business. Here are some of the additional features you may enjoy. You've sat through the rest of the commercials, why not enjoy the previews as well?" Kevin James showed up in the last of many cloying, obnoxious ads to remind us all how to behave in a movie theatre. After what I'd just seen, that was kind of an insult. I'm guessing the Powers That Be knocked the previews together based on the "horror demographic" (divide and conquer, I guess), so we then saw a lot of purposefully grainy footage with screaming people running around amid various metallic noises. There was one preview that made me think "oh, how many times can they remake Texas Chainsaw Massacre?" It turned out to be The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning. Tobe, I hope you're milkin' it for all you're worth. Saw III??? I suppose studying art direction by locking yourself in a room and watching incessant loops of Tool videos is one way to go. But three movies out of that? At one point, I began to realize that I'd come to the theatre for a reason.

The Descent is actually pretty good, although not worth the trouble it took to go to the theatre. I mean that: I probably would have been just as scared watching it at home (although, in fairness, our television's fairly large). I could have waited until it showed up at Liberty Street and paid $1.11. But no, these movies aren't the same unless we see them on the BIG SCREEN, as the Academy President (I still don't care what his name is) and poor Jake Gyllenhaal told us at the Oscars. A mixture of Bridget Jones' Diary, Deliverance and C.H.U.D., The Descent follows... the descent of a group of young women (refreshingly in their mid-to-late twenties and probably professionals or grad students, unlike the usual psycho-bait) into a cave complex in North Carolina (my guess from the license plates), where they encounter a colony of humanoid cannibals. Before I forget, are they actually cannibals if they're a different species from homo sapiens sapiens? When does cannibalism begin? If a human (for whatever reason) got hold of a Neanderthal (again, for whatever reason, alive) and ate it, would that count? Probably, which is why I find it an interesting question. The "cannibals" show up rather late in the movie, and it's impressive how many of the scares and shocks revolve around the natural dangers one might find (I assume; there's no way you're getting me into one of those narrow passages) in the natural course of rock-climbing and spelunking. At times, I thought it might be interesting if the caves themselves turned out to be the horror, like an homage to Picnic at Hanging Rock (an homage, not a remake). The women have a better backstory than you usually find in these flicks, and the fates of most are genuinely disturbing. As in Dog Soldiers, director Neil Marshall has quite a way with the grimmer aspects of the great outdoors (like Dog Soldiers, The Descent was actually filmed in Scotland). The performances are generally good, especially Natalie Mendoza, who plays the pushy Juno (Juno??). Perhaps not coincidentally, she's the only American in the group, and I suspect a little satire in the way the script makes her some kind of postmodern imperialist. She goes on about "discovering" and "naming" the cave complex as therapy for Sarah (Shauna McDonald), the death of whose husband and daughter provide much of the backstory and emotional heft for the plot. Coronation Street fans may recognize Nora-Jane Noone (the Irish lass who briefly came between Steve and Tracy Barlow before the latter's malevolent lunacy encouraged her to make herself scarce) as Holly, Juno's punky... best friend with benefits? It didn't seem clear to me. There's been talk about a final plot twist, I understand, but it's not really a twist so much as it's a plot strand that's allowed to lay decently at rest, surfacing at odd occasions, until its time arrives. That's the way to handle plot twists, Mr. Shyamalan, and an effective ending for the movie. If only the surrounding experience was as enjoyable.

Motions of Going
Now Playing: Starling Electric--"A Snowflake"
Starling Electric, discussed earlier, released their CD, Clouded Staircase, at a lively Blind Pig show Friday night. The fact that it was finally out in its finished form made my week, but the show itself and its aftermath made for one of the best Fridays on record. The openers were rather interesting, an ascending ladder of quality, starting with Lazy Sunday (a great Small Faces song for a name, good beat and decent vocals but little melody), running through the Dardanelles (again, a great name for a band; they started out a little blah but suddenly shifted into proper gear halfway through their set), then the Satin Peaches (a local batch of relative younglings who nevertheless managed to rock out, even when the lead guitarist's tuner broke), and then Starling Electric. The show was fantastic, as most of their shows were that I've sen. I hung for the most part with Sara, then Adam and Margot, talked with Brandon and John, and managed to dance a good deal, even though I thought I might be too tired after that week. The afterparty at the band's house in the Old West Side was maybe the most pleasanlty weird I'd attended in a good long while. The living arrangements, with all members but one living there, put me in mind of Traffic. There were two DVDs of Once Upon A Time In The West I counted, which in turn put me in mind of the last place I lived, with Mike and Sean; all three of us owned Belle and Sebastian's The Boy With The Arab Strap. I'd actually been to that same house a couple of years before, following bad directions given by my friends to a party of theirs; it turned out there was a party at the house, just not the right one. It being Ann Arbor, I milled around nevertheless for about ten minutes just to see if I could do it. One guy actually did come in off the street and struck up a conversation. I employed my own example in persuading him to remain. Through the course of the early morning, I donned a baby mask and wielded a toy submachine gun (what they were doing there remains unexplained), talked regional accents with Jessica, a friend of Caleb's, soaked up Sara's exuberant chipperness, watched Adam and Margot flaunt their screwball-comedy chops by knocking over an outdoor bookcase while making out, traded secondhand Saturday Night Live impressions of Charles Nelson Reilly and Harry Caray with Adam, dipped into a discussion on musical showmanship and artistic integrity (it had to do with pacing the sets and the songs to draw an audience, and there were good points on both sides; I trust the lads not to do anything extreme, like staging an ice-skating Arthurian musical a la Rick Wakeman), and finally left at four-thirty in the morning. I had an hour of sleep, but didn't really feel it.

The album itself is a marvel, encapsulating the lush sounds of 60s and 70s sunshine and jangle pop (references to a later era, but I think the phrases still fit) while including darker textures. It never becomes too airy, or an exercise in futile nostalgia. I've thought for some time that pop music's reached the fail-safe point in terms of artistic progress--this may, of course, be a symptom of age, but it seems like all the musical styles have come around once or twice already and are now being put together and pulled apart like Legos.* I think Starling Electric are simply more honest about the situation than others, without becoming unoriginal or obsessively referential. The grandeur of the arrangements and melodies breaks through any possibility of cheap irony, surging and swelling with a sincerity you don't often see nowadays. It works like a classic album of the old school, at time, evoking Pet Sounds or early Pink Floyd (even the Allman Brothers) while retaining its own character. You can dig the obvious singles like "Camp-Fire" or "Black Ghost/Black Girl" early on and later wallow in the more leisurely pace of "She Goes Through Phases" or the third title track. The loveliest moment, though, is the first vocal gap on the second title track, where the guitars and percussion suddenly meet a gorgeous little swirl of harpsichord and organ (I think--the effect ended up sounding something like a flute). The latter continues throughout the song, but as usual, it's the first encounter that's the beauty (and the most ephemeral). It's pop music for thinking, and prog-rock that actually remembers it has an audience to delight.

*There's nothing wrong with this; in my view, orchestral music hit a wall after Schoenberg pioneered atonalism with Pierrot Lunaire early last century (believe it or not, I used to have it on vinyl back when I still had the capability). After that, it seemed like everything new hearkened to something done before without any serious breakthroughs like Orfeo or the Eroica. Good music was still there, though--Gershwin managed to combine late romanticism with jazz, Vaughan Williams and Delius did the same thing with English folk music (more in the former's case), and someone like Arvo Part does very well with his modern stuff (I don't care for Philip Glass myself, but he's got an audience). The same thing seems to be happening with postmodern pop music. The whole idea of artistic "progress" implies a teleological narrative of the kind I learned to distrust before I left my teens, like Marxism or Christianity. The fact that I even used the phrase "teleological narrative" suggests that this whole entry's gotten way too serious, and now I'm off to watch Captain Kronos or something.

Chemicals Come Back To Haunt Me
Now Playing: Blondie--"Hanging On The Telephone"
It seems like it's hot and humid everywhere; correspondents in London and Edinburgh complain of the incessant sultritude (it should be a word--it looks great), and the USA Today weather map shows a huge splotch of red lying all over the Great Plains and Midwest (inducing curious geographical phenomena--it seemed hotter in Winnipeg than in New Orleans at one point). Normally this kind of weather would betoken apathy and prevent change, but it seems like the opposite keeps happening.

I'm feeling very creative right now, which is strange, because by rights I should be lolling about, moaning "it's so hot." Saying I feel very creative sounds way too much like saying "I'm so horny right now," something I'm absolutely certain I've never said out loud.* I never said "I'm not so horny right now," of course, probably because people rightly wouldn't give a shit. Whatever happens, I'll probably be doing a lot of writing this weekend. It all comes in the midst of minor changes that add up to a lot (among them the last-minute surprise of one of my two best friends from high school contacting me Thursday after I haven't heard from him in ten years! More on that later).

1. I have a new housemate. Her name's Gloria and she's a Spanish Ph.D. student in biochemistry .I'm still getting used to the new arrangements (I don't exactly crave solitude, but it seems thirstier for company in Ann Arbor than in other places I've lived, and I've found ways over the years to explore the positive aspects of being alone), and so haven't really talked very much with her. She seems very nice, though. My landlord has made life here both harder and easier by turning on the air-conditioning. I was fine without it last year--simply headed downstairs where it's cooler (and you can't even tell in the basement). It doesn't help that my only social interactions downstairs were with my buffoons of former housemates. We'll see how this all pans out.

2. The Casionauts are no more. The East Lansing pop-punk-prog-metal band (okay, you try defining them) played their last show at Mac's in their hometown Saturday night, a show I was sadly unable to attend. I'm guessing it was fabulous, as each show of theirs I saw in Ann Arbor (three in total) was better than just about anything else available here. Incorporating the keyboard into a thrashing yet melodic musical experience, Ryan Balderas, Jon Cendrowski and company turned the energy up to unimaginable degrees, infusing each of their sets with a Gotterdammerung finesse (they were the last act on at all three shows I saw). "Inject It Or Eat It, RNA Will Make You Smarter" ended every set--frenetic musical butt-kicking as ritual. I danced my ass off for every one, and the Michigan music scene (hell, music scene period) is poorer for their absence. Brandon has their shows archived for the curious. Thanks, guys.

3. My friend Meredith, former community relations honcho for Planned Parenthood Mid-Michigan Alliance, is leaving for law school at American University in D.C. I only hung out with Meredith thgouth Planned Parenthood and WRAP (she introduced me to Dan, my first volunteer "boss" there), but she was always a good friend for chats and the odd event, like staffing the wretched PPMMA booth at Art Fair (in "Death Alley," the non-profit section), or helping to sell off local gay activist Jim Toy's crap at the WRAP "garage sale" (Jim's battered old "Hang in there, baby!" cardboard poster still stares at me from behind my computer monitor, although the raccoon dangling over water, one set of limbs on a boat and one on a wharf post, forever faces the other way). We had a sendoff at Leopold Brothers' Tuesday night, and, as I always do at Leopolds', I drank more than I should have (of course, I always end up having more fun at Leopolds' than at most places--with the glaring exception of Election Night 2004, and I suspect the people who thought they were having fun then increasingly realize that they were also fooling themselves). It was all good fun, though, and I got to wish her the best. Good luck, Meredith. "It really was better when it was just us."

There may be even more changes in the offing, but these are enough for now. Until then, I'll just have to beat the heat, as will you all.

*"Me so horny?" Perhaps.

Sea Lampreys VII--The Battle Continues
Now Playing: Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band--"Pachuco Cadaver"
They're taking over the Great Lakes, it seems. The downtown library hosted a tank of the critters for a week--you could squeegee the glass in order to get a better look at their cavernous, sucking maws, greedily facing curious human faces. I ran into Sara and Dug there and we spent about five minutes riffing on unpleasant and weird marine life. Invertebrates seem harmless now (except for the giant squid, maybe), but just wait a bit... keep watching the water... "the battle continues" indeed...

Plague Week ends yet again in Ann Arbor--the yearly infestation of the "Art Fair" that generally finds me tenanting the Planned Parenthood booth for some period of time. This year wasn't all bad; stultifying temperatures at the beginning of the week dissipated to yield several lovely days. In the middle of that wekeend, I got to hear Umberto, a.k.a. Gina Pensiero, at Crazy Wisdom. Opening the show were Emily Bate (something of a throatier, sligtly more upbeat Joni Mitchell) and the always wonderful Misty Lyn (backed by Matt Jones and Colette Alexander, for some time without the microphone, which was pretty impressive). I'd met Gina one night while drunk, and hadn't heard her play before. Chalk Umberto down as another delightful and largely unexpected surprise. The songs are fairly simple and almost a little too whimsical, the usual preserve of cutesy, inside-joke sensibilities and purposefully "ironic" off-key warbling. None of that here--numbers like "I Want To Be Terry Gross" (and I do confess to wondering what it would be like to start every weekday noon saying "this--is Frrrrrrresh Aaaaair!") featured clear, cool vocals and a jarringly funky, bluesy sound (something which the local folk scene could certainly use more). Excellent show, the three (actually, seven, I think), of them.

Growing up in the South, I found the whole issue of American slavery to be more relevant than people from the North and West probably did. It used to be discussed with a mixture of forgetfulness and even nostalgia by certain whites, but mostly forgetfulness. The attitude was often one of "It was abolished and that's that--why are people still complaining?" Those questions aside, the "peculiar institution" has generally had a somewhat sanitized treatment even in cultural productions--TV, movies--critical thereof (and since the sixties, that's been most of them). Such an accusation can't be laid at the feet of last week's Cinema Guild selection--Addio Zio Tom ("Goodbye, Uncle Tom") (1971), an Italian "documentary" by Mondo Cane makers Gualtieri Jacopetti and Franco Prosperi that, despite (occasionally because of) its unnerving depiction of slavery's brutality, doesn't rise much above a queer mishmash of nonfiction reportage, historical lecture, radical-chic late-sixties leftism, and exploitation. The latter actually has its uses; Zio Tom brings to the fore the vitally important place sexual violence held in American slavery, unflinchingly showing rape and sadomasochistic torment of slaves (especially women) by white planters, indentured servants, and even other slaves. While the film frankly comments on an aspect of slavery that's been relatively hushed up in popular American culture, it really wallows in the nudity and violence to an extent that reveals the filmmakers' priorities to be less than savory (the Mark of the Devil- and Last House on the Left-like soundtrack accompanying said sequences doesn't help; shorn of its context, Riz Ortolani's music is actually tremendously groovy, but the shearing is well-nigh impossible after you've seen the movie). In the end, Zio Tom commendably raises issues that many Americans would probably wish swept under the carpet (thirty-five years ago or today), but does so at a price that undermines its effectiveness as a movie, "documentary" or otherwise. There's an excellent review at allmovie.com, saying pretty much the same thing only better.

Sunday in the Park with Non-Pointillists
Now Playing: Manuel de Falla--"Cancion del amor dolido" from El Amor Brujo
I spent early Sunday evening sprawled in the grass, dogs nosing around, the sun setting, and a baseball game nearby, listening to Jim Roll, Ryan Balderas and Adam Theriault play to an audience at the West Park bandshell, nestled among wooded hills in the Old West Side of Ann Arbor. The weather reports called for rain but were thankfully proven wrong. The show was supposed to feature a lot more people, but they never showed. It didn't matter to me, as Jim and Ryan were more than enough, playing their usual sterling games. Adam, who I got to know a few months ago, was a pleasant surprise as I had no idea he even played music, among other things the potential novelty hit "Diet Dracula". Lying flat with my eyes closed, the sun on my face, is a way to experience music I should try more often.

The show was a needed comedown after the World Cup final, a thrilling game between France and Italy that scored a point for each and then went into two overtimes and a series of penalty kicks. I'd been a tepid France supporter, because (a) they seemed to be the underdog, although not by much, (b) I thought Italy suspiciously lucky in the matches I'd seen, (c) Italy had beaten the U.S., and that matters, no matter how average our team played, and (d) most of the soccer fans in Ann Arbor seemed to be Azzurri partisans, so my contrarian impulses rather demanded that. All that changed in the last few minutes, as Zinedine Zidane disgraced himself and his team (and probably cost France the World Cup), leaving a sour taste from an otherwise terrific couple of hours. England's Wayne Rooney had been bad enough, but that little tantrum at least seemed to be a result of the heat of passion; Zidane actually turned around and walked back to deliver Mazzerati his savage headbutt. No matter how tired you are, no matter what kind of shit people try to talk, when the stakes are that high, isn't a better form of vengeance simply plowing ahead and winning, especially if it's your very last game ever? I suppose the guy'll have grief enough to deal with--as he's retiring anyway, one thing for which people will remember him is that he probably pissed away his team's chances through unthinking machismo. Lesson for us all there, really.

Me And You And Everyone We Know (2005), which I'd seen the previous day, is pretty much the polar opposite of L'Affair Zidane; a beautiful, luminous movie written and directed by the beautiful, luminous Miranda July, who also stars as Christine, a video artist and taxi driver who searches for enlightenment and happiness through personal encounters. She eventually runs into shoe salesman Richard (John Hawkes, Sol Star on Deadwood), who has his own problems to deal with in the form of his two precocious children. It sounds unbearably twee and pretentious, but somehow skillfully avoids it. I still haven't figured out how July pulled it off. It probably has something to do with the simplicity of the ideas and the acting, as well as the frequently insane dialogue: "How do you computerize soup?" Christine and Richard's problems are linked to those of a variety of individuals, a perspective amplifying the struggles faced by people simply searching for happiness in the knowledge of others. Sometimes the subplots become extremely disturbing, but if Todd Solondz can apparently get away with it, I see no reason not to give July the benefit of the doubt. The last scene is a beaut, but the penultimate scene is one of the most romantic cinematic sequences I've ever encountered, redeeming the occasional slightness of plot or direction. I had a smile on my face (occasionally bemused, but generally beatific) the whole time I was watching this, and that's not something that happens very often.

What Freedom Means To Me, Etc. Etc.
Now Playing: The Go! Team--"Ladyflash"
I spent the days surrounding the Fourth as a semi-recluse; on running into a friend while leaving the Arboretum the evening of the Fourth, I babbled for a few minutes, perhaps not remembering how to converse. I suppose it was worth it to get some writing done and check out a few flicks, all of which turned out to have some sort of relevance for the holiday...

John Carpenter's They Live (1988), of course, was the conceptual basis for the classic Casionauts number "i came here to kick ass and chew bubble gum. (and i'm all out of bubble gum)," off Bailemos Muriemos Juntos! (2005). The music on the actual soundtrack is nowhere near as good, since (a) the first song mentioned was by the fucking Casionauts, and (b) on They Live, as in the Escape From Iconic American Coastal Cities movies, John Carpenter made the tragic decision to score the movie himself, which means a bland, slightly oppressive soundscape of unimaginative blues-rock. Some of you may be familiar with the plot: WWF legend "Rowdy" Roddy Piper plays a drifter in L.A. who discovers that skeletal aliens have infiltrated America's political and economic ruling class, among whom they've found a host of only too willing collaborators--the resemblances to the superior V (1983) were striking. In order to consolidate their rule, they implant subliminal messages ("obey," etc.) throughout the media. Once Piper learns of this nefarious plot, he grabs a shotgun and basically annihilates every alien he finds (discernible by a pair of special sunglasses)--a good eleven years before The Matrix. It's all very imaginative, slightly ridiculous, and in the end downbeat. So it's a lot like the Eighties, which the first half-hour magnificently skewers, focusing on the plight of L.A.'s working class and homeless population--a useful corrective to all those annoying VH1 shows. Piper's insanely uneven, surprisingly good in milder moments, as when he reminisces about his upbringing, but his delivery of lines such as the Casionauts song title and (even better) "Mama don't like tattletales" curiously lacks power. Keith David's good in an early role as Piper's co-worker and eventual ally, as is Meg Foster as the sort-of-love-interest. This is one of those flicks, like The President's Analyst, that just grow more depressingly believable with every year.

I've wanted to see Pickup on South Street (1953) forever, as Samuel Fuller is one of my artistic heroes. His autobiography A Third Face (1997, published near the time of his death) is probably one of the most entertaining works published about the cinema (and perhaps any art form). Pickup, one of his most famous movies, shows the Cold War through the worm's eye view of New York pickpocket Richard Widmark, who accidentally walks away with purloined microfilm that the Commies are after. Various attempts by the Red bastards and probably crooked police send Widmark through a variety of double-crosses before he can win free of both groups' clutches. Fuller's ahead-of-their time camera angles and editing struggle with Widmark's performance for mastery, and I love them both. Widmark was always at his best as lowlifes, sneering their way through their problems, and his avoidance of patriotic rhetoric ("don't wave the flag at me") makes this a rather subversive statement on American society during the 50s; the small fry have to protect themselves from the foreign threat, but they have to keep their backs to the wall so no one sneaks up on them. This, apparently, is "what freedom means" to the down and out, and it ain't pretty. There's a great interview with Fuller on the DVD extras where one can see what an amazing character (and American) this guy was.

The HBO flick Iron Jawed Angels (2004) visits the comparatively underused (at least in historical movie terms) field of first-wave American feminism. Alice Paul (Hilary Swank) and Lucy Burns (Frances O'Connor) have grown weary of Carrie Chapman Catt (Anjelica Huston) and her cautious approach to a constitutional amendment for women's suffrage. Forming the National Women's Party, they begin to directly press the federal government (as opposed to working through state legislatures), a strategy leading to protests, picketing, the gimlet stare of Woodrow Wilson (Bob Gunton, so you know he's bad news), and imprisonment, the latter punctuated by brutal treatment, hunger strikes, and force-feeding. The cast is great (and, I must admit, easy on the eyes)--the only other thing I'd actually seen Swank in, believe it or not, was this TV movie from the mid-90s with Mark-Paul Gosselaar and Jenna von Oy about evil sorority girls causing suicide among their would-be anorexic pledges; as soon as I get a chance, I mean to check out Boys Don't Cry and Million Dollar Baby (mind you, I did see her hilarious impersonation of Loretta Lynn on Saturday Night Live, supported by Will Forte's cadaverous Jack White). O'Connor, who womanfully served through the trashy magnificence of Timeline, provides able support as Burns, Laura Fraser pops up as a mousy yet stalwart volunteer, and the great Brooke Smith makes everything three times better (as usual) as the imperturbable Mabel Vernon. Occasionally, Angels becomes a little too cartoonishly didactic and empowering. The unusual direction reminds me of a music video, with the frequent camera trickery and pop music on the soundtrack. I actually think this a good thing, as far too many movies (especially TV movies) dealing with historical subjects fall into a semi-reverential tone--Angels seems much more modern and immediate, which is fitting as many of the conflicts haven't been worked out yet (if they ever will). All the more reason to remember Independence Day.* Full circle, thank you.

*Yes and no, anyway--last week my Mexican co-worker asked our superior how Independence Day came to be, and the latter, in turn, asked me (because I was "brainy") whether it was the British who had formerly governed us. I was tempted to answer that it was the Ukrainians, but there are limits even to my nastiness.

The Ronaldinho Repose
Now Playing: Hector Berlioz--Roman Carnival Overture
The World Cup is here, and I've decided to keep up with it this year as best I can. ABC televised several of the games this year (the commentary was interesting--I'm not sure whether Brent Musberger's always followed soccer or had to bone up once they decided to start carrying it) and I watched three of them: US vs. Italy, Brazil vs. Australia, and France vs. South Korea (so understandably remote is the possibility of Pyongyang's ever fielding a side that the latter was billed simply as "Korea"). Watching soccer (and as long as the NCAA exists, that's what I'll keep calling it) is a lot different for me than, say, watching football, as I used to play soccer when a child. Not for long and not very well, but I do have a basic understanding of what the players are going through out on the field, so it becomes more interesting to watch, despite (or maybe because of) the relative paucity of goals scored. So I spent pretty much all Saturday and Sunday watching soccer and reading The 9/11 Commission Report.

I read the last mentioned as part of a general brushing up on recent history, along with James Patterson's Restless Giant, Haynes Johnson's Sleepwalking Through History and The Best of Times, Sidney Blumenthal's The Clinton Wars, and E.J. Dionne's Why Americans Hate Politics. It's interesting to go back and take stock of one's place in the larger picture. In retrospect, the 90s were kind of a golden age (relatively speaking), and I find it instructive to piece together the accounts and form a whole. Dionne's book is particularly good--a concise yet thorough analysis of right- and left-wing thought since the 50s and how both have affected American politics and widespread popular cynicism.

Ann Arbor garage gods the Avatars played the Blind Pig Saturday night in honor of their newly-released CD, Never A Good Time, for which I've been waiting for around two years. I felt rather listless during the actual show, even though the band was great (and their openers, the Defectors, were a lot of fun, further upholding the great Danish musical tradition of Carl Nielsen and Victor Borge--only other Danish musicians I know). The album was good, songs like "Honey Do," "Wait," and the title track (as well as all of "Wonderin' Why") in particular. I'm not sure the energy of the live shows can be recaptured on CD. It's a situation similar to Canada, another group whose superb live shows don't seem to translate well to recording, at least on the EP I own. Still, that just means that they're definitely bands to catch live.

Speaking of Canada, I also watched the Stanley Cup finals. Events here conspired from the first to interest me, at least marginally, in hockey. My first roommate in Ann Arbor was a Red Wings obsessive, and with so much Canadian media available in southeast Michigan, it was, perhaps, inevitable. I caught Saturday night's steamrolling of the Carolina Hurricanes, and then watched part of the latter's vengeance Monday, before I realized a win was inevitable and went to bed. I think I've watched more sports in the past three days (outside of the Olympics) than at any time outside of college football season. This really has to stop, man.

Clean Grandfathers
Now Playing: Oingo Boingo (believe it or not)--"It Was The Life"
The accidental "theme nights" continue... crazy teenyboppers, music, and 1964.

I didn't think it was necessary to see A Hard Day's Night (1964) on the big screen; I didn't remember it having the epic visual sweep of Lawrence of Arabia or The Good, The Bad and the Ugly. Night played as part of the Classic Film Series at the Michigan, and I almost skipped it. Why see it on the big screen for $8.50 when I could probably grab it from LSV for $0.99? Well, ol' Wendell forgot about the music. There's nothing like hearing great Beatles songs, belted out by the lads themselves onscreen, with a whole cinema sound system to deliver. From the very first scene, when the title song begins in that Ninth Symphony quality lightning strum, and the epochal Scousers flee ravening mobs of swarming youth, there's a rush that never lets go, perfectly punctuated by the musical numbers. After it was over, I barely repressed the urge to run out of the theater and down Liberty Street, weaving in and out of what half-assed traffic there was. The Beatles are great*, but the supporting cast more than holds its own--the always welcome Richard Vernon as a stuffy train passenger John propositions; Norman Rossington (who seemed to show up in much of the great British cinema of the era, from Lawrence of Arabia to Death Line) as Norm, the lovably gruff manager; and, of course, Wilfred Brambell as John McCartney, Sr., who makes life miserable for the lads (and great for the audience) as he gets himself and Ringo into all sorts of scrapes. It wouldn't be complete, of course, without the fans, their tearful closeups at the end pure fun-filled hysteria.

Mind you, none of them actually stalk the Beatles, or ruin their cuckolding and force them to leave the country. That takes a special kind of dedication--grit, gumption and good old-fashioned American knowhow, as Peter Sellers finds to his cost in The World of Henry Orient (again, 1964). One of those deliciously weird movies I could easily have overlooked and gone my entire life without even seeing (to my cost), Orient, directed by George Roy Hill, looks at an obnoxious, womanizing concert pianist (Sellers) and his effect on fourteen-year-old friends Val and Marian (wonderful performances from Tippy Walker and Merrie Spaeth). The latter develop an obsessive crush, especially Val, whose distant parents (Tom Bosley and Angela Lansbury) send her looking for love... well, you know where. All sorts of amusing and occasionally moving complications ensue, with some gorgeous location footage of New York in winter and a fairly happy ending, but I was left mainly with the sweet friendship between Val and Marian, which has tremendous resonance that probably wasn't in the minds of the filmmakers. The end implies that they're going to be causing the boys no end of trouble. As we'll never know, I'll pretend that they both moved to the Village after graduating from whatever Seven Sisters college they attended and ended up in the front lines at Stonewall, fists raised and love in their souls.

I'm also holding out for a civil union, but I'm not holding my breath.

*Probably the dumbest part of a sentence I've ever written.

White Or Orange Cheese?
Now Playing: Robert Turner--Manitoba Memoir
For most of last week, I managed to stay off the internet. As addictive as it gets when one has a connection at home, it gets worse when accessed mainly through the library (that the library's on my way home from work is no excuse). I feel strangely refreshed, to be honest. It's a great invention, but one can be too attached to it.

The past few days have been mainly enjoyable as well. Work's actually been less annoying, even with a colossal set of caterings we had to prepare over Thursday and Friday; I spent Saturday morning putting together shish kebabs and listening to Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me on NPR (and there are far, far worse ways to spend a Saturday morning). Saturday evening I took some biscones and feta cream-cheese cucumbers to the party Sari Brown and Jim Roll threw for housewarming and Sari's graduation. It was a fine time, particularly with Sari reading her rather moving graduation speech and local writer Steve Amick getting us involved in a fascinating discussion regarding the house's defensive capabilities (set atop a low rise at the end of a long, relatively wide street, and smack in the middle of the lump of renter-vs.-owner dry tinder that is the Old West Side of Ann Arbor, I suppose it was only a matter of time). Trebuchets were proposed. That night I reversed my earlier decision and decided to go to the show at the Blind Pig, featuring Chris Bathgate, Canada, and Kelly Caldwell. On my way, I ran into Ryan Balderas, his colleague John, and their friends Megan and Ryan outside of Borders, all on their way to the same show. On our way, we picked up other friends of the other Ryan's, and I wondered whether our numbers would further swell before we got there. I stopped in at the Parthenon to say hi to Phill (they'd only had one table that entire night, which was pretty disconcerting), and skipped on over to the Pig, where most of the usual suspects were present. I had fun chats with Becca, Maria and Laura, Matt Jones tried his hand at cracking my head together with Annie's, Bathgate was great, and I prefer Caldwell's earlier stuff. For the most part, it was a very fun, rather social day. Canada continues to be a great live act, even if I only heard two of their songs. I lost the mood and left early, because...

When getting my third beer, a Labatt Blue, the bartender yelled at me for not tipping him--"Dude, if you're not gonna tip me, don't order from me!" When at the Pig, where you only have as much time at the bar as it takes to get your drink, I follow one of two customs: I include the tip with the price of one beer, or I keep a tally (which I would anyway) and leave the tip at the end of the evening (or, more often, beginning of the morning). I've done it both ways for the past three years and nobody has once complained (including this guy, usually nice as pie). It sounds like I'm outrageously overreacting, but tipping is very important to me.* In lieu of widespread and effective labor unions, it's the only way in which I can really express any meaningful solidarity with fellow service industry workers. I almost always overtip, even if it's at the end of the night. For this guy to yell at me was rather shocking (and a little bracing). I didn't blame him for being irritated; perhaps he'd just had a bad day or had been stiffed earlier. I do blame him for yelling at me; no matter how obnoxious or unpleasant a customer's been, I've never yelled at them or been rude until out of earshot. Add to that the fact that tipping, while it should always be done, especially in restaurants, isn't legally (or sometimes even customarily) mandated outside of large parties (even though it becomes more complicated when speaking of workers making minimum or over). I'm usually pretty conflict-averse, so I was proud of myself for answering back and telling him how I did things, and to his credit, he said he was sorry. It's good, I think, for something like that to happen every now and again.

*It's also mildly embarrassing to note that this was probably the most exciting incident my life has seen for a number of weeks.

Girl, I'm Just A Hamster For Your Love
Now Playing: The Stone Roses--"She Bangs The Drums"
I'd hardly consider myself "macho," but it's always entertaining and instructive to think about how easily jealous and immature I get in a romantic situation. The possessive instinct is always very strong, and I always find myself fighting it, especially when in a romantic relationship. I haven't been in one in six years, and nothing of that sort is even close to occurring, so I'm not sure why I've begun thinking about this sort of thing recently. It might be the random mental associations I've had from conversations with the sensible and intelligent females of my acquaintance (practically all of them, really). I recently had a long phone talk with my long-not-really-lost-but-just-out-of-touch-and-it-wasn't-really-anybody's-fault-the-out-of-touch-thing-that-is first ex-girlfriend Jessica, which was very enjoyable, and had a swell chat with my friend Maria after listening to the tail end of Jim Roll's show at the Old Town a couple of weeks ago. I suppose I think that I should be on my game and watch myself the next time I get into a relationship, thinking that perhaps I'll be "prepared" that time. I came close to ruining a relationship through jealousy (it petered out anyway, but I'd rather have that than screwing it up myself), and I terribly fear it happening again. And, of course, it could (yet again) be the movies I've been watching.

Bad Day At Black Rock (1954) and A History of Violence (2005) feature Spencer Tracy and Viggo Mortensen. Reluctant alpha males. Deceptively iconic rural settings in, respectively, inland California and Indiana. John Sturges and David Cronenberg directing. Black Rock has mysterious WW2 vet Spencer Tracy arriving in the title town and immediately running afoul of the small-town machismo that's caused this country so much damage and embarrassment over the years (especially the last six). Chief among his foes is Robert Ryan, the unreconstructed, unapologetic badass swingin' cock, whose dark secret has brought Tracy to Black Rock. Anne Francis, as Ryan's adoring admirer, unknowingly embodies just about every negative female stereotype cherished by "sensitive" guys from that moment on (attracted to bullies and money, etc.), lending the flick complications I doubt they were all too concerned about in the Fifties. Violence has Mortensen (no stranger, as in Lord of the Rings, to playing the strong, silent type) as an almost cartoonishly loving and stalwart huband and father, which makes sense, as Violence goes on to satirize the whole phenomenon. Mortensen, as kindly diner owner Tom Stall, may or may not be ruthless Philly mob enforcer Joey Cusack, facing down his wife (Maria Bello), alleged former adversary (Ed Harris), and alleged estranged brother (William Hurt), in a desperate quest to maintain a normal life. As with most Cronenberg movies I've seen, the ending isn't quite happy or conventional. Cronenberg is actually a director I respect far more than I like--I don't really share many of his obsessions or concerns, but I admire his commitment to exposing humanity's fascination with mental and physical mutilation (and then relentlessly displaying it, particularly the latter).