Fist Cities
Now Playing: Eric Burdon and War--"Tobacco Road"

Synecdoche, New York (2008): My dictionary identifies a "synecdoche" as "a figure of speech by which a part is put for the whole," etc., i.e. saying "boards" when one means "stage" or "sail" when one means "ships." In the directorial debut of screenwriter Charlie Kaufman (Being John Malkovich, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Adaptation), it appears to refer to the central character's dominating obsession, while doubling as a homonym for "Schenectady." Caden Cotard (Philip Seymour Hoffman) is a theater director and all-around miseryguts who has a succession of disasters befall him in his personal life: his wife (Catherine Keener) leaves him with their daughter for Berlin, he can't seem to make his career get anywhere, and his health is atrocious. After a series of abortive relationships with his secretary (Samantha Morton) and lead actress (Michelle Williams), he gets the idea to produce a groundbreaking theater piece that recreates his own life as it actually happens. Just when things are about to hit rock bottom, he recveives an apparently never-ending Macarthur Genius Grant that allows him to work the piece out in a gargantuan soundstage in New York City, one that starts to grow and grow until it apparently encompasses the actual physical space of the play's setting, rather like that Borges story in which the cartographer decides to make the most accurate map ever in a 1:1 ratio, one that essentially covers its entire subject. The play and real life start to impact each other in mnid-bending ways, until the film ends (I'm told; I had to go to the bathroom as it happened ) in a rather conventional way for this day and age. I had some friends over to watch movies the other night, which I hadn't done in a long time. We had a fun chat and Josh brought Synecdoche over, which I think split opinion down the middle. Nikki's friend Mark said it was the most boring movie he'd ever seen (he's obviously never experienced the delights of Total Eclipse or Ulysses' Gaze), while others were more charitable. I'm still not quite sure what to make of it.l There are a lot of good ideas knocking around in it, but Kaufman the screenwriter definitely needed the skills of Kaufman the director. I've never been much for the auteur theory, but if there's one movie that really underscores the need for a good director at the helm (ironically enough, given the movie's subject), it's this one. The film's supposed to have a dream-like feel, but too many characters (I think mainly of the wonderful Hope Davis' psychiatrist) speak with a forced whimsy that made me think of Synecdoche as the McSweeney's version of Falling Down. Fortunately, the cast is excellent. Hoffman can play parts like this in his sleep now, I think, and he's quite believable and extremely depressing as a man with a complete inability to let those parts of the past go which need it. Among the others, Morton especially stands out as the woman whose devotion to her director and his vision take the film into some very interesting places. Anthony Lane has a pretty good take on it in The New Yorker (amusingly pairing it with High School Musical 3). All in all, it was one of the most unique films of last year, although that hardly means it was one of the most artistically successful.

The Long Ships (1964): In conversations with my co-worker Greg, we've realized that Richard Widmark is awesome, and so I approached The Long Ships with high hopes for an entertaining movie. Based on Frank Bengtsson's potboiler about roving Vikings and swashbuckling Moors searching for a golden bell, it was one of the only movies I know of directed by famous cinematographer Jack Cardiff (responsible for the inimitable look of Powell and Pressburger classics like Black Narcissus and The Red Shoes), and so my hopes might have been higher than otherwise, especially as Viking movies don't generally have a great track record. The Vikings (1958) was amusing enough (especially with Tony Curtis and Ernest Borgnine as Vikings and Janet Leigh as a characteristically feisty damsel in distress), but didn't quite live up to its promise. Revenge of the Barbarians (1986), a piece of Eurocrap made available by my co-worker Joe that I vividly remember being available at my childhood video store (never got around to watching it) was terrible its only saving grace being the striking Icelandic scenery. The Long Ships comes closer to the former, thankfully, although I really wish someone would do one of these right. Rolf (Widmark) and his longship are shipwrecked in North Africa or Spain (was never quite sure) and taken prisoner by the local ruler Aly Mansuh (Sidney Poitier in startling James Brown-style pompadour), who's obsessed with a golden bell hidden by some monks somewhere in the vicinity. Rolf hears of the bell and escapes for home, to find that his father (OScar Homolka) and brother (Russ Tamblyn!!) are being oppressed by the local ruler (Clifford Evans) and his demands for tribute. After hijacking the ruler's ship, Rolf and his merry men head for the Mediterranean, intent on finding the bell. What results is a weird hodgepodge of wacky swashbuckler and  typical early 60s high-minded drama. The film can't quite decide what it wants to be, with some sort of mutual admiration between Widmark and Poitier built up through the movie but then concluding somewhat unconvincingly. One of the high points is the now sadly late Edward Judd as the Viking ruler's committed henchman, who finds himself in Widmark's power and schemes to get the ship and bell back for his master. His performance offers a vision of what the film might have been had someone been a little more focused.

Vale Canem
Now Playing: Frederick Delius--"Brigg Fair"
Our family's dog of fifteen years, Isabel, a Labrador-Catahoula, passed away this weekend. She was obviously very old and this didn't come as much of a shock, but I'll certainly miss her. My family were with her during her last moments which, by all accounts, were peaceful and painless. She became a great friend of mine when I came home from college and in my few years of independent residence in Baton Rouge. Many's the time I can remember watching movies with her, taking her for walks along the beautiful University Lakes, and stopping by McDonald's in my car to get her some water after a long slog around campus. We greatly enjoyed each other's company and it'll be more than a little odd when I go back to Louisiana for Thanksgiving and she isn't there. It's strange that this wave of nostalgia comes as the weather in Michigan starts to warm up and carry certain undeniable smells that take my mind back to the halcyon days of the late 90s. I didn't live here then, but today for some reason it feels similar. RIP Isabel.

Bloggery
Now Playing: XTC--"Towers of London"

I've been blogging now for almost four years (next week!), beginning with the inspiration and example offered by a couple of other local blogs. Since that time, many of these blogs have gone out of business, either through declining interest on the part of the bloggers or because said bloggers moved away. My own frequency this year so far has been a little spotty for a number of reasons--a pyrotechnic social life for the first month and a half and increased writing, both in fiction and inasmuch as I'm trying an actual journal again. I have no intention of giving it up, but I do sometimes wonder as to its purpose. Often it seems like I'm the only one still doing this, and then I run across a friend's blog which just kicked off last month. It gives me a happily cyclical feeling to think about this, and only renews my determination to keep plugging away, despite the collegiate solitude I sometimes feel.

Unfortunately, I have nothing today. For one thing, it's way too nice outside.

The Wiggly World of Walter Walrus
Now Playing: David Bowie--"A New Career In A New Town"
More activity means a lot less blogging, apparently. Michigan has been hit by a wave of freak weather which has brought the temperature up to 60 degrees Fahrenheit, and I think it's made everyone a little loopier than usual, myself included. I may very well be seeing someone again (after last time, I really don't want to jump the gun), the dreams have been getting a lot weirder and narratively richer, and I'm being published again, probably later this year, in The Third BHF Anthology of Horror Stories. I've hardly seen any movies or done any cooking apart from chicken paprikash (still working through my store of sauce from Christmas, as it lives quite comfortably in my freezer), sauteed brussel sprouts and roasted asparagus. Whereas last month was--apart from the engrossing and inspiring national drama--conventionally terrific, February looks to be a much more interestingly and unusually great time. This despite its hosting Valentine's Day, not that anyone should care about that.

Paging David Lockwood
Now Playing: Robyn Hitchcock--"The Bones In The Ground"

Anyone looking for a beyond-awesome experience this Saturday night should head down to the Elbow Room in Ypsilanti, Michigan, where the Tickled Fancy Burlesque Company will be holding court around 9 p.m. with its lovely ladies and gentlemen, as well as alternately stirring and amusing skits and performances.

Rock 'N' Roll Nightmare (1987): The brother told me about this one, also known, it seems, as The Edge of Hell (for the European market), and it went straight to the top of my Netflix. Rock band "The Tritonz," led by Jon (flaxen-mulleted bodybuilder and "Thor" frontman Jon-Mikl Thor), need some peace and quiet to make good on recordings for their record deal, and so their manager Phil takes them to an old farmhouse in Missisauga, Ontario, to lay down some tracks (although the location filming was actually done ion Markham, another Toronto suburb). When one of the band members complains of having to visit Canada, Jon, in the first of many dialogue glories, lauds Toronto's promotion of "the arts." The band's a motley mix of cartoonishly, possibly satirical newlyweds and horny singles (including an alternately Cockney and Australian drummer, judging from the accent and slang). It turns out, of course, that all isn't well in the farmhouse, and anyone interested in watching the movie should follow my brother's advice, stop reading now, and find the thing. The house is infested by demons who did away with the previous owners, and they pick off the band one by one until they have to come face to face with the enigmatic Jon, who confronts the ultimate evil in a magnificently ludicrous plot twist set to some perfect music (do you "accept the challenge?"). A little self-deprecating pomposity goes a long way, and some of the lines really have to be heard to be believed (this is arguably the greatest Mystery Science Theater 3000 episode never made; listen for the "electro-choir, Space Mutiny moments on the soundtrack), but the demons are fun and entertainingly designed, and have some amusing (and even creepy) moments. Thor is hardly the hack one might imagine (he produced and wrote the screenplay); he comes across as a likably goofy metalhead in the interviews on the DVD extras (who refreshingly seems to have a general idea of how far his talent extends), which include shocking footage of his 1976 appearance on The Merv Griffin Show covering a Sweet number. I drank a little too much last week, and so I decided to forgo the 40 of Pabst Blue Ribbon for which Rock 'N' Roll Nightmare positively shrieked. If anyone from Babs' is reading this, though, you could do a hell of a lot worse than show this one for "Movie Night Tuesday" (at which they do, in fact, have PBR 40s for $4.00).

Children of the Stones (1976): I haven't watched Nickelodeon since I was a kid, and when I was a kid, it was nearly entirely devoted to Canadian shows like Pinwheel and You Can't Do That On Television! (the network itself might have started out Canadian) and a few Commonwealth imports. Many of the latter premiered on these shores under the auspices of the series The Third Eye, featuring stories about kids with abnormal powers. Children of the Stones was without doubt the most memorable, with its creepy, possessed villagers and haunting, sinister sarsens, or standing stones, so famous from places like Stonehenge and Carnac. As it's now available on Region 1, I was curious to see how it stood up after thirty years (and two and a half decades after I'd seen it), and it's actually better than I remember. Made for British ITV (the assortment of regional companies, such as Thames, Granada, and Anglia, that function as a commercial counterpart to the publicly owned BBC--in this case, Harlech Television), the seven-part series was written by Jeremy Burnham and Trevor Ray and directed by TV vet Peter Graham Scott, with episodes of adult shows like The Avengers and The Prisoner under his belt. Astrophysicist Adam Brake (Gareth Thomas, the future star of Blake's 7*) and his teenage son Matthew (Peter Demin) arrive in the bucolic village of Milbury in order to study the possible astronomical significance of the stones, and instantly find things to be a lot weirder than they'd imagined, especially afte rmeeting the mysterious local magnate (Iain Cuthbertson), Welsh poacher Dai (the great Freddie Jones), and (relative) fellow parent-child new arrivals Margaret (Veronica Strong) and Sandra (Katherine Levy). Children plays out like a combination of Doctor Who, The Wicker Man, Village of the Damned, The Quatermass Conclusion, and The Brady Bunch. The Who influence comes through in the striking mix of traditional horror and sci-fi that the plot manages, sometimes mystifyingly but always with enough plausibility to keep the story going; there are some really wild ideas flying around here. The cast is terrific, especially Demin, who the director didn't seem to praise very highly in the extras interview but who manages a very believable performance as an overachieving teenager that doesn't turn bratty or obnoxious. The relationships between the two parents and their children form just one of Children's strong points, especially as the two are often shown as equal in trying to solve the mystery of the village. Some might find the ending a little unsatisfying, but I suspect it was one of those "written into a corner" things with which I can sympathize (and it does work well with some of the show's themes). The wobbly nature of some of the sets and special effects actually adds to the sinister atmosphere, as does some of the innovative camerawork and moody lighting. The location filming in the Wiltshire village of Avebury, using its real-life standing stones, is an incalculable contribution to the series' success. Not far from Stonehenge, Avebury is arguably a cooler version of its more famous counterpart--older, less touristy (although apparently less so every day), and you can actually walk among the stones there. Of particular interest is Sydney Sager's almost entirely chanted musical score (with occasional 70s grooves), cranking the creep factor up to 11 and paying tribute to the stones' Neolithic builders. The thinking was that Neolithic peoples lacked what we would understand as "language" and communicated almost entirely by grunts or unformed sounds (my Neolithic knowledge is somewhat lacking, so I don't know if this theory is still widely credited). It's a great idea, and makes an unforgettable mark on a milestone in my personal visual education and Anglophone kids' TV that I'm happy to find still holds up over thirty years later.

* One of the best books I read last year was Junot Diaz' critically acclaimed The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, about a Dominican-American geek and sci-fi/fantasy fanatic who tries to find love and happiness while statying true to himself. Among many things to love about it--the haunting, sympathetic hero, the fascinating footnoted asides on Dominican history--it actually mentioned Blake's 7, which is awesome.

The Weird Hotness of Candace Hilligoss
Now Playing: The Supremes--"Forever Came Today"

January has been quite the month, I must say. Hardly a day's gone by without some interesting event, mild personal revelation, or weird dream. Add to this the constant irritation of my psycho Russian housemate having his creepy, controlling mother stay in his room for three fucking weeks (which I'm pretty sure is against house rules, as there's only supposed to be one person per room) and it becomes quite entertainingly surreal (all the more so as he was defending his physics dissertation--that must have been something to see), to the point where I can indulge my inner asshole by blasting the above song next door at one in the morning (the song is a masterpiece; the volume less).

I asked someone out on a date for the first time in almost four years (nearly a decade if we're talking "flying blind"). Events are strangely unfolding, so maybe more on that later.

Due to my landlords' son's probable laziness (my landlords are in Florida), I shoveled our sidewalk snow and ice the other day, which should, of course, be the landlord's responsibility, but some Zorro type has taken to scattering leaflets about the ghetto end of Geddes Avenue decrying the tendency of absentee landlords letting their properties go to pot, especially in largely studen-rented areas, and I became irritated to think that my house might have been a public safety menace (the ice hasn't been that bad this year, but you never know). Was that a long sentence? The people responsible for the leaflets are absolutely right, but I can't help thinking that they did this directly after taking some class on political movements, and had some garish paisley light bulb ignite over their heads as a result. I'll be very annoyed if my endeavors make some heroically anonymous character feel worthy of comparison to Emma Goldman, but something really had to be done. It was actually quite pleasant--the sun was out, I got some non-walking, non-work exercise, the passersby were attractive, I had the feeling of taking things into my own hands (I'd call it "ownership" if it weren't hackneyed and legally inaccurate), and I got to watch the rest of Children of the Stones (more on that later) afterward. I'm a little abashed to admit that part of my determination was inspired by President Obama's inaugural speech, but that's inspiration for you.

I've grown into my mustache by leaps and bounds (I have one, by the way). It resembles Wyatt Earp's, although a friend of mine also suggested that I looked like I belonged in some German prog-rock band of the early 1970s, something with which I can also deal. It was partly inspired by a number of co-workers with mustaches, and it feels a hell of a lot more me than the beard ever did. The only drawbacks, really, are eating and drinking fluids with fruit pulp in them (if you can imagine).

Farting Squirrel Hot Sauce
Now Playing: The Fratellis--"Chelsea Dagger"

If it ever shows up at the grocery store, I'll be partially to blame.

Sarah Vowell, The Wordy Shipmates (2008): Sarah Vowell is a writer and broadcaster who has appeared frequently on This American Life, the ultra-twee NPR oral-story icon making sense of an often strange and confusing world for people who don't get out that much. From everything I'd read and heard of Vowell, I was ready to hate this book with a passion. My idea of her veered close at times to the female version of the proudly mediocre Chuck Klosterman (who's also appeared on This American Life) in the excessive dollops of irony and frequent pop-culture references used to season her work, and her reported stories on the show reveal that she has a voice akin to Sara Gilbert's when the latter did her impression of Jenna von Oy in the Saturday Night Live parody of the NBC sitcom Blossom during the early nineties (a classic sketch probably better remembered for Mike Meyers' Joey Lawrence). The voice issue is hardly unappealing, but everything I'd read about The Wordy Shipmates prepared me to revile it, especially a review by Virginia Heffernan in The New York Times Book Review. The Wordy Shipmates, you see, is an impressionistic analysis of the New England Puritans and the influence they've had on American history and literature. Vowell, a noted history buff, previously published Assassination Vacation, the story of her journeys to various famous assassination sites throughout the U.S., and The Wordy Shipmates promised to be another chapter in her quest to quirkily snark on some cherished myths about our collective past. The first twenty pages or so were profoundly unpromising, Vowell gassing on about how she saw the Puritans during her childhood, referencing Brady Bunch episodes and so forth, with hipster slang cast this way and that, that I was halfway prepared to give up, as I'd already read Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs and really don't want to relive the experience. I'm not sure how to describe what happened next. It was somewhere between instant seduction (maybe unfortunately, I think Vowell's cute, and coupled with the voice, that might have had some effect)* and getting used to the pool temperature. After the first few pages, it just becomes fantastic, Vowell recounting the stories of colonial power-players like Massasoit, John Cotton and John Winthrop, and lusty "heretics" like Roger Williams and Anne Hutchinson, and making frequent asides to later centuries, when political figures such as Reagan, Dubya and Mario Cuomo bandied about Winthrop's classic "city on a hill" vision to describe America. I fell in love with it, pperhaps largely through Vowell's unabashed personal fondness for many of these people. She feels that the Puritans don't get a fair shake in conventional accounts of American culture, and her vehemence struck a chord, as I share a similar defiant affection for the Puritans' contemporaries (and nominal superiors), the Roundheads of the English Civil War (Harry Vane, one of the condemned regicides of 1660--the men still alive who'd condemned Charles I to death in 1649, makes a surprise appearance in The Wordy Shipmates, as an idealistic young whippersnapper out to make a name for himself in 1630s Massachusetts). One thing Vowell does very well is to expose how human and vivacious the supposedly strait-laced Puritans really were, citing poetry and sermons (the latter for which she confesses an uncontrollable love). At times this book reminds me of one of those sermons, supposedly cool and ironic but with a torrent of affection bursting forth for those marginalized or despised in the historical consciousness, an affection hardly sparing of its beloved's genuine flaws and misdeeds (her accuont of the Narragansett-Pequot War of 1636-37, in which the Puritan colonists revealed a side of combat devastating to the indigenous population is both well-done and bracingly incongruous to the tone of the rest of the book). The chatty style and breakneck alternation of ironic distance and deep emotional identification start to create a gently disorienting feeling, especially by page 162, where she cites Elliott Gould's performance in Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye (1973) as an example of the Algonquin spiritual concept Manitou (as understood, anyway, by Roger Williams). By the time she arrived at a triumphant conclusion, I felt quite intellectually ravished.

*Not that it should, really; I've thought Natalie Merchant a goddess for twenty years and only stopped loathing her music a few years ago. 

I Keep Eating My Moustache
Now Playing: The Temptations--"Ball of Confusion"
I don't really have much to say about the last year, to be honest. In terms of incident, it was arguably more important than '07: I got a new job and we got a new President. Still, it didn't seem as eventful somehow. The departure of a couple of good friends didn't quite generate the gaping hole I feared (though they can never be replaced) and my new job has yielded both new learning opportunities and the possibility of social interactions I hadn't previously considered. I wrote more, I think, than I ever did on a yearly basis and I had four straight stories in a row that I'm now quite proud of--the quality's been more (relatively) consistent than ever. Maybe it all just seems too pat, but that's all the more reason to look forward to this year, which I hope will be a happily interesting one, as I hope it is for all of you. 

The Cries of Pod Six
Now Playing: Nick Lowe--"Marie Prevost"

Every time I get irritated at being mistaken for homeless simply because I use the library computers (that is, when I'm not down on my hands and knees thanking whoever for not being homeless), I'm treated to a spectacle such as two grown men (who I used to see at the Michigan Cinema Guild) indulging in a "shut up-no, you shut up" test of strength. Sometimes life really does give back. 

Over Christmas, I came into temporary possession of a few Great Lakes area films, made on microscopic budgets and all of them intriguing in their own ways. Regional, transnational holiday personal film fests are fun.

Death (2005): The first of two short (forty-minute or so) features available involving Ann Arbor band Counter Cosby was made in 2005 by Justin Brewer (using a number of recognizable Ann Arbor and Ypsilanti locations) and tells the story of Bill (Aaron Howard), whose grief over his girlfriend's recent death brings him to question the existence of God, the nature of reality, and the meaning of death. This all comes about through his leaving increasingly angry messages on his pastor's answering machine, extended hallucinations and song-and-dance sequences, and visitations by "angels" (in reality mutant humanoids from the future). The movie is well put together, with a storytelling approach that manages to genuinely convey Bill's grief while remaining unsentimental and hilarious. The songs are a mixed bag, but my favorite was probably Bill's realization that he might be dead, which kicks the film into a high gear it doesn't lose for the rest of its running time.

Asshole Drunkard (2006):  Langel Bookbinder of Counter Cosby put together this Hong Kong-style kung fu flick, again using local settings (with a couple of very funny scenes set in the Middle Eastern restaurant Jerusalem Garden, the Vault of Midnight hobby store, and along what looks like the railroad bridge above Washington Street) and taking the merry piss out of kung fu movies in a way that manages to satirize one of the most unspeakably smug towns on Earth (look for a great turn by Death director Justin Brewer during the Jerry Garden scene). Si Feud (Bookbinder) lives with his king fu master's daughter (Anna Chen), who throws him out for his laziness and denies him return until he finishes a number of tasks. Hooking up with Prince Ass of Dingus Province (Aaron Howard again, whose weaselly, sniveling performance really deserves some kind of award), Si Feud shows Ass the "Asshole Drunkard" way in order to build his young student's skill and to best his own archrival, Pak Mei (Drew Schmeiding), whose bitter struggles with Si Feud over a long-ago jar of pickled eggs have hardened into a deadly hatred. A rather more obviously amusing affair than Death, Asshole Drunkard is unforgivably entertaining. Bookbinder does an excellent job of spoofing the braggart heroes of Hong Kong kung fu (and maybe even Japanese films; I was reminded of Toshiro Mifune in The Seven Samurai on occasion), and the supporting cast gives great value, especially Counter Cosby drummer Justin O'Neill as "Hippie Guy," who has a number of scene-stealing moments. Best of all are the authentic sounds used for the various kicks, punches, and slaps of "martial arts," culminating in the final battle with Pak Mei and some pantswettingly funny special effects.

Infest Wisely (2007): As mentioned some time back, my favorite living fiction author is probably Jim Munroe, the Canadian wunderkind whose DIY prowess gave works like Flyboy Action Figure Comes With Gasmask (1998) and Angry Young Spaceman (2000) to the world. His multimedia projects are just as interesting, ranging from both print and online zines to the graphic novel Therefore Repent! (2007) and Infest Wisely, a dystopian sci-fi film written by Munroe and directed by himself and six other directors in an episodic format for artound $700. In Toronto of the near-future, a newly-marketed nanotechnology ingested through chewing gum promises to fundamentally alter reality by computerizing the brain. What could possibly go wrong? The spread of the new technology's effects makes itself felt through a now-familiar hipster milieu that only Munroe and, in the US, Andrew Bujalski--and arguably J.J. Abrams at the beginning of Cloverfield--have ever really gotten right. A number of Luddite spoilsports--including a brilliant but socially retarded hacker (Sean Lerner), a hottie lab technician and guitarist (Andrea Battersby), and a smartass grad student (Kevin Hainey)--just don't get it, rising up in various ways against the nanotech onslaught. A cast of both actors and non-actors blends together quite well in a story which I think is a more successful take on issues Munroe examined in his earlier 2002 novel Everyone In Silico (which I found a little too obviously cyberpunk for my taste). Western consumption patterns, advertising, and commercialism take the brunt of some well-deserved satire, with an especially funny subplot concerning hustling artists on the make. Points are made without being hammered, save for a somewhat cartoonish but more-entertaining-for-all-that ad guy (Sean MacMahon). Spaces of time pass between episodes in a peripheral, unobtrusive way, rather refreshing from a narrative standpoint. All in all, Infest Wisely is a fantastic example of thought-provoking, low-budget cinema, and an excellent model for other filmmakers to progress in a similar vein.

A Very Messy Kweznuz
Now Playing: LCD Soundsystem--"Someone Great"

A happy holiday season to all. At present I'm probably cooking, watching movies, writing, drinking, or doing laundry (probably all five), but whatever you're doing, I hope it's a terrific day and week for you. Can't be any better than this kid's, I'm guessing.