The "dinner and several movies" plan hit yet another snag this week as I sickened once more. Thankfully, the illness comes in the middle of what looks to be a slim couple of months at work. The Midwestern weather has officially begun its perennially cruel (if you're sick) "spring fakeout" (which lasts from late February to around mid-May). My leaving early Monday didn't really inconvenience anyone, and I figured the following two days off could be used for recuperation. Sadly, all I'd be eating would be Sudafed and the occasional basic foodstuff, as I'd have little energy or desire to cook. I'm already slavering for the future, and the inevitable craving for sushi I'll probably have tomorrow or... all right, now. At present, it's a bittersweet affair, as the sun's been shining outside and I can hear the "chirping of birds" (once cited by my former spacey co-worker in a hilariously abortive attempt to cheer up my notoriously and relentlessly negative other co-worker). Within, my place has taken on the free-wheeling vibe of a medieval charnel house, as I can hear two of my housemates coughing and sneezing as well. I'm spending much of the first day in bed--catching up on some internet and listening to John Barry soundtracks--and plan to spend some of the second seasoning the Dutch oven my mom gave me for Christmas. Thankfully, I can still watch movies, and there are probably few more fitting for my present state of mind than those concerning the travails of American women on the fringes, portrayed by some fine actresses.

Wendy and Lucy (2008): Michelle Williams was my favorite part of the three or four episodes of Dawson's Creek I've seen in my lifetime, and it's been great to see her forge a respectable career out of what could easily have been teen-flick hell. I thought she was the best thing about the overrated Brokeback Mountain (Anne Hathaway being the most surprising), and she managed to shine through the majestic ruin that was Synecdoche, New York. In Wendy and Lucy, she's broke with a dog, Lucy, and a car in the Pacific Northwest en route to Alaska to work in the canneries (something I have to admit crossed my mind once or twice during college). The car breaks down and the viewer is treated to the kind of existence that far too many people face in this country every day. Wendy shoplifts out of desperation and gets caught, Lucy left waiting outside in the parking lot. When the police release her, Lucy has vanished and Wendy nearly loses her mind trying to find her over the course of the film, which ends on a somewhat bittersweet note (though I still look decidedly askance at all those "traveling" kids on the streets of Ann Arbor with dogs). Sometimes the setup seems a little too simple and clear-cut, with Wendy's good set against everyone else's lack of concern, but it all balances pretty well in the end, especially with a winning performance by actor and former Barney Miller writer Walter Dalton as a friendly security guard, and despite the appearance of Will Oldham as... one of those "traveling" kids, who's as annoying as you can probably imagine. Williams, to be sure, is superb, a number of scenes making me wonder why she wasn't nominated for an Oscar for this as well as for her turn in Brokeback Mountain. Forced to sleep on the streets for a night after she takes her car in to get fixed, she faces a unnerving encounter with a homeless man in which the top half of her face gives a performance in itself (you'd have to see it). Director Kelly Reichardt (working from a short story--"Night Choir"--and screenplay by Jonathan Raymond) really works to deliver these quiet scenes in a way that gives Wendy and Lucy a silent but overwhelming force throughout.

Frozen River (2008): Melissa Leo was nominated for an Oscar for Frozen River, and little surprise, as it's thoroughly excellent (best out of these three, and that's certainly a source for pride). Ray (Leo) works part-time in some sort of drug store in upstate New York, raising two children on her own and trying to pay off the new pre-fab home she's ordered so that the family can move out of their trailer. When work prospects don't look so hot, she runs into a Mohawk woman, Lila (Misty Upham), who offers to pay her for a ride across the border into Canada (I'm assuming the "frozen river" they're crossing is the St. Lawrence). Ray needs the money, and only starts asking serious questions once she sees a couple of burly-looking Quebecois hustle some people into her trunk. Ray becomes the northern version of a "coyote," ferrying illegal immigrants from Canada into the States ("free trade between nations," claims Lila, as they technically never leave Mohawk territory on either side of the international border), and she and Lila start to make a habit of their new sideline until the cops, led by Trooper Finnerty (Michael O'Keefe--it's a measure of this film's power that not once was I inspired to yell "Noonan!") start to catch on. Leo, who was so excellent on Homicide, is outstanding as Ray, sympathetic yet with a cold core that helps to inure her to the possible consequences of her deeds, one that fits very well with the bleak upstate woods and windswept terrain. Upham is just as good, parrying Ray's taunts and jibes and showing how much of Lila's toughness is dependent on the goodwill of her native community--the tribal police know they have to make an example of one of their own but act by and large as honest brokers. A number of (purposefully?) throwaway points are made about "homeland security," driving home how little these issues genuinely affect many people's daily lives. Writer-director Courtney Hunt gets the most out of her actors and especially the beautifully desolate landscape that surrounds them--yet another piece of America that appears on our screens too seldom.

Turn The River (2008): Famke Janssen was one of those actresses who'd never have the career I imagined; she was certainly the most striking performer in Pierce Brosnan's James Bond debut GoldenEye (1995) as lascivious villainess Xenia Onatopp. Since then she's been in a number of high- and low-profile flicks, of which I can only remember The Faculty (1998) and the thoroughly ridiculous Deep Rising (same)--I haven't seen her turn as Jean Grey in the X-Men films. Chris Eigeman was arguably the emblematic figure of Whit Stillman's supremely dull New York preppie films of the 90s--Metropolitan (1990; haven't seen it--actually, I think I did and have unsurprisingly forgotten it), Barcelona (1994), and The Last Days of Disco (1998)--as well as the best thing about them. That certainly wasn't hard, but Eigeman's snotty, arch charisma survived for other productions, especially Noah Baumbach's Kicking and Screaming (1995--worth watching for Eric Stoltz's turn as an eternal college student and Eigeman calling someone a "jackanapes") and Malcolm in the Middle, where he played the "adult Krelboin" teacher Mr. Herkabe. Eigeman directs Janssen in a gritty little piece of the kind that makes you feel good about the lower-to-middle-class of the American film industry, the type of film you know has probably played on IFC at some point. Kaley (Janssen) is a poolshark and mother whose middle-class ex-husband David (Matt Ross) keeps a tight leash on their son Gulley (Jaymie Dornan), largely due to the terrifying emotional manipulation of his own mother Abby (Lois Smith), an oppressively devout Catholic. Kaley's friend and occasional benefactor, pool hall owner Teddy (Rip Torn, and looking both verbs in full) sets her up for a few games, and she gets the idea for a really big score that will enable her to take Gulley away and raise him with a sense of what it means to be free. Naturally, things don't go according to plan. Turn The River veers dangerously towards a cartoon at times. I once again half-regret not being raised Catholic, as it's sometimes hard to take Abby's incredibly domineering personality seriously, despite personal familiarity with my own equivalents. Fortunately, Smith's performance keeps us just this side of three dimensions, and Ross is haunting and terrifying as a grown man (whose career in the priesthood was derailed by his marriage and fatherhood)wholly under his mother's thumb, matched by Janssen's feral performance as a mother with nothing to lose and everything to gain. It doesn't light any fires, necessarily, but it's a good, solid piece of work with some near-noir New York sensibility (plus a small role for Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist's Ari Graynor).

I'd intended to start a semi-regular "dinner and (several) movies" series, but it's been snowing steadily for the past few days and I decided to spend the entirety of my days off inside this week, thereby rejecting the opportunity to forage for berries and hunt for game--I mean, stop by Hiller's. Next week, I'll hopefully be on the case. In the meantime, I've been catching up on at least one web series, writing, cleaning, and watching NBC podcasts of the Winter Olympics in Vancouver, with some great skiing, snowboarding, and skating action and entirely avoiding Bob Costas' self-important, narrative-clutching blather. As with Torino, I've taken a huge shine to some of the Canadian athletes--back then, it was Cindy Klassen and Clara Hughes; now it's Maelle Ricker and Ashleigh McIvor. Sadly, following links willy-nilly leads to lame Internet puff pieces about certain intramural skiing rivalries and the largely witless, misogynistic and illiterate comments, especially on Yahoo. I'm sorry, I have to do this; it's just too awful. From one "fan" on a slightly controversial skiier: "She is a sensual woman. A woman of passion! Watch her climb atop the man and pursue the heights of her inclinations. Look at how excited she is! Under the designer label satin of dawn, the colour of summer when one closes their eyes..." I'm torn between hilarity, disgust, and a certain amount of jealousy that I didn't come up with that as a snippet of dialogue. The Internet giveth and the Internet taketh away, I suppose, although I still managed a few movies to make up for my culinary negligence.

 Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist (2008): I'd meant to see this when it came out, and now I can't remember the reason for my initial enthusiasm. Teen movie? Taunting "middle America" for not living in New York? A toothachingly twee indie soundtrack? Speaking of the latter, Michael Cera? It was almost like Nick and Norah's was begging me not to watch it. I wasn't reassured by the opening scenes, featuring a notebook covered with logos for bands who probably got way too much time on WCBN. Fortunately, it's not that bad, with some pleasant performances that lift it slightly above the pack. Nick (Michael Cera) is dumped by his girlfriend Tris (Alexis Dziena), and turns to his gay bandmates for support. Norah (Kat Dennings), a fan of Nick's band and his mixes that Tris routinely throws in the garbage (she doesn't know that the musician and mixer are one and the same), tries to keep a level head while looking after her wild chum Caroline (Ari Graynor). In the course of a mad night in search of a secret show put on by the mysterious Fluffy (some doubtlessly god-awful Vampire Weekend clone), Nick and Norah come together despite the obstacles thrown in their path. The big story here is Dennings, whose remarkable performance as Norah manages to completely sidestep the various stereotypes the aughties have thrown up for young women (in particular the egregious "manic pixie dream-girl," most grotesquely essayed by Natalie Portman in Garden State) and who really creates something all her own; there's a scene (and particularly one shot) in a recording studio in which she's absolutely breathtaking. Cera's a happy surprise, eschewing the lovable indie dork persona from Arrested Development, Juno and Superbad to show some genuine, non-"ironic" charm (hopefully the fact that he drives a yellow Yugo is some kind of purposeful, Lady Gaga-like exaggeration of hipster pretension meant as mockery). Graynor is hilarious, perfecting the drunk party girl wandering the streets of Manhattan to such an extent (in some pretty gross sequences), that it's hard to believe it all wasn't really happening (something tells me it's pretty hard to convincingly fake that kind of soused abandon). The bandmates, in making it their mission to bring Nick and Norah together, come dangerously close to whatever gay equivalent exists of the "magic Negro" phenomenon, but there have been many worse jobs. Maybe the most interesting job is done by Dziena, who's given the cartoonish "mean girl" to play but who seems to be straining at the bit to subvert it at every opportunity; it creates some compellingly weird character interactions. There are some great cameos (Andy Samberg, Kevin Corrigan) and some lame ones (Devendra Banhart), and who should show up at one point but Bishop Allen, led by Justin Rice of Mutual Appreciation fame! I've only spent one night as an adult in New York, but based on that admittedly slim experience, Nick and Norah's comes closer to recapturing my personal impressions of the city than any other of the eight bajillion flicks set there (probably doesn't hurt that at least one scene's clearly set in St. Mark's Place in the East Village, where I spent a wonderful few hours with friends at the Grassroots Tavern). Some interesting photography and images help to make a difference, too, creating a Manhattan that's at once both fantasy and all too real, a paradox the two central characters seem to be living in their growing relationship.

Jinnah (1998): Sir Christopher Lee, judging from some of the interviews he's given since the late 1990s, might be very satisfied if you remembered him as Count Dooku from those "Star Wars" "movies" or as Saruman from the Lord of the Rings trilogy, rather than from the record-breaking number of other films in which he's appeared over the years (to my knowledge, he's still listed in the Guinness Book as the actor with the most credits to his name). Of them, he's primarily remembered for his several iconic performances as Dracula for the Hammer films of the 1950s-70s and is just as primarily pissed off because of it (I don't blame him, to be honest, as he was a bit crap in them)*. Fortunately, along with some of the dubious big-budget stuff he landed in his twilight years, he found a role that he apparently prizes as one of his finest, and I'm tempted to agree. Muhammad Ali Jinnah (1876-1948), lawyer, politician, and primary founder of Pakistan, was seen in Attenborough's Gandhi (1982) as a vaguely unsavory figure, allowing his oversensitivity to the minority status faced by Indian Muslims to sabotage the chances of a fully independent India that included the entire territory of the British Raj, essentially both India and Pakistan. Considering the shared, frequently fraught history of the two nations since then (not to mention the latter's problematic present relations with the United States), with three, arguably four wars fought since the tragedy of Partition in 1947, and the frequent discussion of Pakistan as a "failed state" in the Western media, it's hard not to feel a certain amount of wistfulness at the thought that the potential of a fundamentally free and open state, the most populous such in the world, could have been an even greater and more powerful force had it not split into two. It's a view that gains a lot of purchase in Jinnah, which centers around the curious conceit of the recently deceased Jinnah in a heavenly waiting room (heaven just upgraded to computers--there's a great shot of the classic "flying toaster" screensaver that instantly made me as nostalgic for the 1990s as, say, listening to Lush), attended by the celestial Narrator (a jovial Shashi Kapoor), who takes Jinnah through his life's formative experiences and later triumphs and failures to determine just where he fits into history. The whole thing has a slightly didactic feel to it but gets across much of the history quite well--Jinnah's early Westernized upbringing, his youthful romance with a beautiful Parsee (a radiant young Indira Varma), his rise to power in the Indian National Congress and later the Muslim League, and his dealings with and suspicions of Jawaharlal Nehru (Robert Ashby) and Lord Mountbatten (James Fox). His relationship with Gandhi (Sam Dastor) is perhaps the most interesting, as his attachment to Western lifeways as well as political ideals ran athwart Gandhi's often stubborn mysticism. All in all, it's a much more evenhanded portrayal of the situation than in the later portions of Attenborough's Gandhi--though sympathetic, Jinnah isn't let off the hook, with his own stubbornness contributing to the deteriorating political situation up to independence and problems in his personal life, as his daughter Dina ironically falls in love with a Parsee and he opposes the marriage. There are a couple of bravura scenes in the afterlife, once when he tries Lord Mountbatten in a celestial court for primarily contributing to the bloodshed of Partition through slothful action, and when he confronts Nehru and Gandhi in a heavenly television studio as they watch scenes of Hindu mobs attacking Muslims in the late 90s India of the BJP ("you realize these are the same people who killed me," Gandhi reminds him as Jinnah becomes self-righteous on his Hindu colleagues' responsibility for the violence). There were understandable complaints raised on the issue of European actors portraying Asians during the movie's production, but the portrayal on all sides seems to be quite respectful and fair (maybe a little too much). All in all, it's definitely good for learning (or being inspired to learn) more on South Asian history, and a fine late feather for Lee's cap.

Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog (2008): Joss Whedon's brilliantly creative musical web series was probably the biggest thing to come out of the Hollywood writer's strike a few years back, and it was fun to follow its progress through outlets like Entertainment Weekly (my chief guilty pleasure, despite/because of Owen Glieberman and Lisa Schwarzbaum's godawful film reviews, of which I've complained in the past). Dr. Horrible (Neil Patrick Harris), a two-bit "supervillain," is anxious to get into the prestigious Evil League of Evil rather than settle for the "Henchman's Union," as his chum Moist (The Big Bang Theory's Simon Helberg) advises. His plans, naturally, are threatened by his archenemy Captain Hammer (Nathan Fillion), and so he sets to work on the ultimate weapon. Against all odds, though, his latest heist is interrupted by his longtime laundromat crush Penny (Felicia Day). Can he juggle business and pleasure, become a supervillain, and win Penny from the squeaky-clean clutches of Captain Hammer? It's a good, slightly unclean hoot, with winning performances all round. This is hardly a surprise from Harris and Fillion, who could probably do this kind of thing in their sleep (but, to their credit, do not). Whedon, too, honed his musical chops on the now-iconic Buffy all-singing episode "Once More With Feeling"  (2001).** One happy surprise was Day, who I didn't think I'd seen in anything before, but who turned out to have played one of the apprentice Slayers in the final season of Buffy. She not only more than holds her own against her co-stars, but also wrote and starred in the web series The Guild, on which more later. The writing is often laugh-out-loud funny, with some slightly lame gags balanced out with immortal moments (the end of one laundromat exchange between Harris and Fillion in particular). One thing I noticed again is how foreign Whedon's California always looks to me; I can't explain it. The same thing happened with Buffy, especially, I think, with "Once More With Feeling." The most extravagant "Old Hollywood" productions don't manage to make it seem as faraway and dreamlike as Joss Whedon does. Mind you, I was there for a week several years ago, and my memories are mysteriously hazy. That should be a compliment, I think; I greatly admire his work in general, after all. Whatever the case, it adds an extra level to these films and shows that enriches them for me if for nobody else.

*His Lord Summerisle in The Wicker Man (1973), though in my opinion not quite up to the late Edward Woodward's brilliant turn as Sergeant Howie, is apparently his favorite role, and I'm very fond of his Rochefort in the Richard Lester Musketeers films (1973-74). As far as Hammer is concerned, he's outstanding in their "pirate films" of the early 1960s: The Pirates of Blood River (1962) and The Devil-Ship Pirates (1964), the latter an interesting backdating of the Nazi takeover dreaded during the war (that showed up in classic British sci-fi TV like 1955's Quatermass II and the 1964 Doctor Who classic "The Dalek Invasion of Earth") to post-Spanish Armada England. One of his weirdest roles (and he's very good) is in the 1981 US TV oddity Goliath Awaits, about a sunk 1940s luxury liner in which the crew and passengers have not only survived but created an alternate society. Avoid the Jess Franco Fu Manchu "films" of the 1960s at all costs.

**It's hard to overestimate the effect--on several levels--the duet between Alyson Hannigan and Amber Benson had on me. Arguably one of the all-time sexiest moments on TV.

The year's shaking up to be a jittery one on all sorts of fronts, which I think more than justifies my new personal mantra of "at least it's not boring." I haven't had cause to rue those words yet, I don't think, despite some national political disappointments (the health care thing's messy enough, but Citizens United???? Hard to think of a less-fitting name for an organization) and certain Ann Arbor bars deciding that "fun" = "unprofitable." The writing front's all awash with ideas (a great one took shape today), and I've got another review coming out at some point, but all I can seem to do here is talk about movies.

The Last Starfighter (1984): I remember going apeshit over Nick Castle's trailer-park space opera when I was young. Presumably the idea of a kid saving the universe by being really good at video games was like crack for guys my age. Fortunately, The Last Starfighter is no mere arcade-junkie apologia, mainly due to sympathetic characters and a genuine appreciation for scifi's appeal for the young. Alex Rogan (Lance Guest) lives in a California trailer park with his mom and bratty younger brother, and has a troubled relationship with girlfriend Maggie (Catherine Mary Stewart). His only apparent release as he waits for college scholarships is to play the park's "Starfighter" arcade game, at which he gets very good, like Dave Nelson in NewsRadio with "Stargate Defender."* After dwarfing the game's high score, Alex is visited by the mysterious Centauri (Robert Preston), who takes him on a trip revealing that the game's premise, "defending the galaxy against the evil Xur and the Ko-Dan Armada," is real and that he's just completed a training program for fledgling "Starfighters." Can he survive his first mission and save the universe? The premise arrived at exactly the right time, and it was interesting to learn that writer Jonathan Betuel originally set it in a Spielbergian suburban setting before Castle shifted it to a trailer park. In the political and economic climate of the 1980s, when there weren't supposed to be any poor people, this unusual emphasis was striking indeed, and the contrast between Alex's mundane origins and the importance of his interstellar activities serves the story well. The Last Starfighter was historically important in that it was the first movie in which nearly all the special effects were done with the kind of computer effects that would later evolve into CGI. I have tremendous issues with the latter (although people do seem to be getting the hang of it, as with Lord of the Rings and Doctor Who), but the relatively primitive effects of The Last Starfighter work well (and certainly looked fantastic when seen in the theater, from what I can remember). The villain is rather lame, but much of the acting is excellent, from Hill Street Blues' Barbara Bosson as Alex's perpetually worried mother to Stewart's feisty Maggie to Chris Hebert as Alex's porn addict brother. Dan O'Herlihy (as Marshal Ney, one of the few featured actors in Bondarchuk's 1971 Waterloo not to appear asleep, and shortly to become famous for his role as Ronnie Cox's boss in Robocop), offers endearingly gruff support as Alex's lizard-faced navigator Grig, and screen and stage legend (particularly for The Music Man) Robert Preston capped a fifty-year career (one of his early roles was as one of the Geste brothers in Beau Geste with Gary Cooper and Ray Milland) with his performance as con man Centauri, who enables Alex's adventures with his specially designed video game. Best of all is Guest, who didn't do much else after this, and that's a shame. He convincingly portrays a lovelorn teenager who manages to be realistically witty and genuinely heroic. His performance is all the more impressive as he also plays an android (the "Beta Unit") put in his place while he's off being a Starfighter to deflect suspicion. It's almost like he's an aughties hipster trapped in the 80s, sloughing off the macho swagger of funny scifi heroes like Han Solo. The Last Starfighter doesn't qualify as one of the great sci-fi classics, but it perfectly fits into the "sleeper" category, probably the 80s' best.

White Dog (1982): Samuel Fuller spent thirty years outside the studio system making some of the most striking and uncompromising movies in America at the time. Early classics like Pickup On South Street (1953) were followed by his masterworks like Shock Corridor (1963) and The Naked Kiss (1964, with one of the greatest opening scenes ever). He became a popular face of American cinema in European circles, and a great favorite of French and German directors, making memorable cameos in Godard's Pierrot le Fou (1965) and Wenders' The American Friend (1977). White Dog was his last major film in the States, and suffered from threatened cuts by the producers due to a potentially inflammatory nature (an excellent summation of the controversy, though with unavoidable spoilers, can be found here). An aspiring actress (Kristy MacNicol) adopts a stray dog after it foils an attempted rape (between Fuller's full-blooded style and the fact that I'd seen this just the other day, the scene got a little hard to take seriously at times) and comes to discover that it's been trained to attack black people. She takes it to an animal trainer (Burl Ives--it was hard not to think of Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer), who palms it off on his offbeat assistant (Paul Winfield). The latter makes it his mission to cure the dog of its training or kill it himself. There are scenes in which I can understand the producers' fears of controversy, but taking them in isolation from Fuller's rather unique record on racial matters in American film was frankly ridiculous. Fuller's films from the start were genuinely and consistently anti-racist--not just concerning anti-black racism (Shock Corridor is especially scathing) but also anti-Asian racism (1959's The Crimson Kimono is apparently a terrific example)--in a way that made more famous "pioneers" like Stanley Kramer look weak and vacillating by comparison (not all that hard, to be sure). By the early 1980s, when most directors of his age would have retired, Fuller was still as incisive as ever, and White Dog is in many ways his final take on American society.

*It's worth sitting through the commercial, even if the "minisode" loses some of the best bits, particularly Dave's impassioned correction of Lisa's ignorance of video games and maybe the greatest Phil Hartman line ever: "All this talk of luncheon meat and ghosts has made me rather peckish; I'll be at the sandwich machine if I'm needed."

Edited to add:

Yesterday was "Blog For Choice Day," and, as my feelings on the matter have probably grown stronger over the past few years, especially in the midst of the debate over healthcare, I link to my essential position.

Also, some inspiring footage of the late Dr. George Tiller.

Happy Belated New Year! 

2009 was a great year for me, pretty much one of the best on record, and I feel a little weird as a vast number of people I know had quite a shitty one. I suppose nationally it was a year for belt-tightening and soul-searching, and a grim one for those who lost loved ones or jobs. For my part, I grew more into my own job, getting better at my tasks and getting more involved in the gardening and morale committees. I wrote five stories--one less than I managed last year, but I was also working on a number of movie reviews for Darrell Buxton's upcoming The Shrieking Sixties (due in May!), as well as a couple of other projects and book reviews (my review of Gary Paul Nabhan's Where Our Food Comes From, his travelogue-cum-biography of Soviet biologist Nikolai Vavilov, appeared in the Fall 2009 issue of Repast, published by the Culinary Historians of Ann Arbor). I fear I put off my long-cherished goal of sending off my stories to venues, but felt it was more important to get all my ducks in a row first, and should be well on the way by the end of the month. The internet finally reached our house and my new laptop was able to make the best of it, though since I returned from Christmas holidays my pothead housemate seems to have left off paying the bill and I've now been driven to places with free wifi (I'm actually typing this from the library, but not from "Homeless Shelter East"). Most entertainingly of all, I put myself forward as far as the ladies were concerned in a way rather unprecedented for me, certainly since grad school and arguably ever. Going out a few times and receiving unsolicited expressions of interest may not seem like a big deal to some, but for me, at my time of life, it's quite enjoyable. Nothing worked out, but I'd much rather keep trying than give up, even if there's no chance of success (the trick, of course, is to avoid hurting people; I'm not worried about myself so much, and that may be part of the problem). After skipping out on New Year's for the last few occasions, I decided to celebrate this year with some good friends and was very glad I did--it hopefully augurs for a wonderful 2010.

A number of "best of the decade" lists have been going the rounds, and in some areas (British horror media, for example), there've been highs not seen in quarter-centuries. Having started to partially forsake contemporary literature and cinema for various reasons (to some extent financial), I can plausibly offer a list of personal aughties favorites in music (for various reasons, I'm exempting local, southeast Michigan albums, although standouts included anything by the Dirtbombs or Matt Jones, Saturday Looks Good To Me's 2002 All Your Summer Songs, and Starling Electric's 2006 Clouded Staircase).

Favorite Albums of the 2000s

 Mirah, Advisory Committee (2000): Having a name like Mirah Yomtov Zeitlyn is practically as cool as being called Narciso Ibanez Serrador or Charles Nelson Reilly, so it's a shame that she just goes by "Mirah." Her greatest effort perfectly melds the intimate, lo-fi cool of her earlier work with excellent production, culminating in the magnificent "Apples on the Trees," barely two minutes long yet incorporating all the great things about the album--a minimalistically urgent beginning, a gorgeous, expansive middle, and then a rousing singalong at the end.

Ike Reilly, Salesmen and Racists (2001): Ike Reilly's barroom masterpiece was sadly his last for a while. I fell in love with it during grad school and, despite some of the more ridiculous lyrics (especiallly in "Commie Drives a Nova" and "Hiphop Thighs #17"), its musical depiction of a world of Chicago deadbeats and drunks still retains its honesty and relevance "The Assassination of Sweet Lou Diablo" and "Crave" are probably personal top picks, as is the opening rave-up "Last Night," with its bitterly ironic condemnation of boozy businessmen's racist jokes. Best for playing in crappy bars half an hour before closing.

Sing-Sing, The Joy of Sing-Sing (2002): Lush was one of my favorite bands of the 1990s, and their dispersion following the suicide of drummer Chris Acland in 1996 was greatly lamented, especially as their final album, the same year's Lovelife, was something of a masterpiece. Vocalist Emma Anderson teamed up with Lisa O'Neill to produce this gorgeous example of Euro-pop, the shoegazing dream-pop so beloved of Lush mixed in with a few rockier moments--the magnificent clubland anthem "Tegan," the retro-80s "Panda Eyes," and, as another reviewer described it, the near-James Bond theme song "Feels Like Summer." Yet another reviewer (I wish I had links to these) described O'Neill as "sounding like she wants to tear your pants off with her teeth." How can you turn that down?

Wilco, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (2002): Wilco's inspiring success story (entertainingly chronicled in the documentary I Am Trying To Break Your Heart) wouldn't have been so compelling had not the finished product been so spellbinding. I wasn't a big fan of their earlier, folky stuff, but the buzz surrounding YHF inspired me to give it a chance. It was the first album in a very long time that completely bowled me away. From the opening seconds of "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart" through the glorious pop of "Heavy Metal Drummer," Jeff Tweedy and company spun one of the decade's seminal albums, a world in itself and probably my own personal indelible musical memory of 2002--instantly calling to mind walks in Akron's Highland Square area during the spring and summer.

Super Furry Animals, Phantom Power (2003): The best freaking band in the world suffered a slight critical comedown in the early aughties, with albums from 2001's Rings Around The World to 2005's Love Kraft often perceived as wilful throwbacks to an almost strenuous 70s-style mellowness (the consensus seems to be that they've recovered their mojo with 2007's Hey Venus! and 2009's Dark Days/Light Years). There's some justice to this reading (I thought it was more a case of the "shock of the new" wearing off for many critics), but I've really warmed to the first two aughties albums over the years (Love Kraft's still probably my least favorite, but that's hardly saying much as I love them all). Phantom Power in particular packs quite a punch, with the radio-friendly "Hello Sunshine," "Golden Retriever," and "The Undefeated" vying with the more contemplative "Sex, War and Robots," "The Piccolo Snare," and "Cityscape Skybaby". It all builds up to a glorious climax with "Slow Life"--hearkening back to seven-minutes-plus epics like "No Sympathy" or "Run, Christian, Run!" on Rings Around the World--starting out with a weird techno beat, then slowly morphing into lovely orchestral swirls backed by Gruff Rhys' unmistakable vocals. Of the SFA's (relative) fallow period, Phantom Power is the one to hit first.

The New Pornographers, Twin Cinema (2005):  The University of Michigan's radio station, WCBN, is very much a mixed bag, consisting mainly of freeform music shows and the liberal equivalent of those hideous right-wing talkfests found on freeways across the country (I remember "Grey Matters" being particularly embarrassing). Much of the music I found on WCBN in the early days of life in Ann Arbor was fairly twee and forgettable (the Books was to WCBN as the Dave Matthews Band was to WQKL, although I'll never forget hearing the Meat Purveyors' bluegrass cover of Ratt's "Round and Round"), but the New Pornographers, the Vancouver pop powerhouse frequently featuring aughties musical "It" girl Neko Case, really stood out. Their first album, 2000's Mass Romantic, was wonderful, and it was a shock to find their follow-up, 2003's The Electric Version, as limp and uninvolving an affair one could possibly imagine. I was therefore wary of Twin Cinema, which came out in the middle of the decade to ecstatic reviews, many from friends of mine. It understandably took me a while to check it out, and I was delighted to find that the New Pornographers had returned to form. An unimpeachable example of aughties power-pop, it's most distinguished, perhaps, for how unassuming it is; there are few songs I can really single out, apart from the driving, exhilarating coda, "Stacked Crooked."

The Go! Team, Thunder Lightning Strike (2005): CBC 2, on the other hand, was and is constantly surprising, enjoyable and educational, an audio perk of living in southeast Michigan, where we pick up the Windsor station of Canada's national radio (and television, for that matter). Until a few years ago, CBC 2, which generally broadcasts orchestral and jazz music (standout hosts being Tom Allen and Julie Nasrallah) regularly carried the rock- and indie-pop- centric CBC 3 on Saturday nights, with shows hosted by Grant Lawrence and Sloan frontman Jay Ferguson (the latter's 1996 One Chord To Another is another marvelous example of Canadian power-pop). Back in the days when I always had weekends off, free Saturdays were something to look forward to, with opera, frequently from the New York Met, in the afternoons and fresh and unknown indie pop from north of the border in the evenings. It wasn't all Canadian (though I'll always be grateful for Tacoma Hellfarm Tragedy's "True Love Killed My True Love's Love For Me")--I first heard Peter, Bjorn and John's "Young Folks" properly for the first time in unforgettable circumstances via CBC 3--and they gave me the Go! Team, my favorite new band of the decade. Straight out of Brighton, England (also home of the Pipettes), the Go! Team delivered the perfect summer album, brash, bouncy, and loads of fun. "Bottle Rocket" entered my system and stayed there like a benevolent virus until "Ladyflash" came in and still hasn't quite left. The other songs are all great, but those two for me are the linchpins of this glorious party masterpiece. A great expression of optimism in the middle of this troubling and foreboding decade.

Sleater-Kinney, The Woods (2005): My favorite American band of the 1990s broke up right after they released their final album, and it's a shame both for my own sentimental reasons and for the fact that they seemed to be striking out in an interesting new direction, which I think was unfairly lambasted by many critics as a damn-the-torpedoes effort to be "different." As far as I was concerned, S-K only really slipped up on 2002's One Beat, in which their feminist urgency met left-wing anti-Bush sentiment in a musically clumsy way. The Woods carried much of the same baggage, but much more expertly, and S-K left behind the incongruously perky hooks of their former music for something grander and more forbidding, with fuzzed-out guitars and hard-rock-worthy guitar solos (it's almost as if Carrie Brownstein traded her inner Pete Townshend for John Entwistle--I think I just made that up, but it sounds like it might have come from somewhere; if it strikes anyone as familiar, please let me know). "Modern Girl" is a grand anthem to female experience in the aughties, and "Rollercoaster" and "Entertain" revisit some of the themes of One Beat with outstanding success, especially the latter. Though it's a huge shame that Sleater-Kinney had to break up, at least they did it on such an uncontestably high note.

LCD Soundsystem, Sound of Silver (2006): Something of a personal straggler for me--I first heard "North American Scum" on CBC 3 and thought it was the Evaporators (led by "Nardwar, the Human Serviette"). Later, I found out it was the personal project of New York musician James Murphy, and one of the only two albums to date that everyone in the deli basement kitchen where I work has enjoyed listening to at the same time (the other being Thin Lizzy's Greatest Hits, which doesn't really qualify for this list). Though "North American Scum" is probably the most striking song (and the most political, along with "New York I Love You"--"your billionaire mayor now thinks he's a king"), I prefer the gorgeous, hypnotic "Something Great" and the hooky, dance-pop "Us Vs. Them," with bonus Bowie-style vocals thrown in.

Lily Allen, Alright, Still... (2007): I'm probably a poster-child for the "long tail," burrowing into increasingly obscure books, movies and music at the expense of an increasingly fractured wider general culture. Nevertheless, I couldn't ignore Britain's chipmunk-cheeked Princess of Pop (especially with her father's checkered screen career) after "Smile" would not leave my brain for weeks (although strangely enough I now prefer the alternate version available on the album). To be honest, I'd rather give this spot to something like Tales From Turnpike House (2006), long-time fave Saint Etienne's ode to London life, but something about Alright, Still... just won't leave it alone--"LDN" captures a finely particular kind of urban ennui, and (as far as I can make out), "Everything's Just Wonderful" is a wonderful testament to the fact that "it's anything but."

Neon Neon, Stainless Style (2008): In 2005, Super Furry Animals vocalist Gruff Rhys began releasing solo albums--the first, Yr Atal Genhedlaeth, entirely in his native Welsh--and in 2008 collaborated with Cincinnati-based DJ Boom Bip in a dance- and techno-oriented concept album devoted to the life and legacy of disgraced auto executive John DeLorean. There were times when I found the aughties a tiresome retread of the eighties--awful fashions, right-wing politics, Transformers movies--and it was maybe fitting that such a dead-on musical dissection of the period came out at the time it did. Stainless Style, moreover, proved a colossal hit in the deli basement kitchen, which I found an indispensable clearing-house of musical information and criticism, believe it or not. Just about every song is indispensable (especially the beginning of "Sweat Shop"), but favorites tended to oscillate around "I Told Her On Alderaan," "Raquel" (about DeLorean's apparent relationship with Raquel Welch), and "Steel Your Girl" (the last my own personal favorite). Hopefully they'll collaborate again, but for now Stainless Style is the ghost of nightmares past that I think this decade needed.

As for a possible "song of the decade," I feel somewhat lame about this as my choice was probably specifically tailored to be such. Montreal-based The Arcade Fire was a huge favorite of many music critics and friends of mine, and though I was never as firmly in the box as they were, Funeral (2004) and The Neon Bible (2007) both had frequent moments of transcendent brilliance (the former's final song, "In the Backseat," is appallingly beautiful, thanks to some outstanding orchestral arrangements and Regine Chassane's exquisite vocals). "(Antichrist Television Blues)," with its lyrics about falling towers and "working downtown for the minimum wage", encompasses so much of the world experience and my own personal experience in so few lines, and with such assured, cocky music, that it manages to overcome its own probable pretentiousness (gut reaction, sorry) and claim the title. I much prefer it to Sufjan Stevens' "Vito's Ordination Song," which came close to defining a gloomy 2004 with dangerous thoughts of self-immolation (listening to it was like being lovingly smothered under a thick bedspread). So I'm totally fine with it being "(Antichrist Television Blues)." Hopefully the 2010s will produce something a little more upbeat.

Here's to a great 2010!

Two days ago, I turned thirty-five. The Bible held somewhere (Proverbs, maybe?) that we were "allotted three score and ten," that is, seventy years, but the Bible also talks a great deal about smiting people hip and thigh with the jawbones of asses and such, so it's important not to read too much into things. Nevertheless, it strikes me that thirty-five, the "halfway point," is a good place to stop and take stock of my life so far.

I was born and bred in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and very early on developed a passion for history, which has stayed with me and arguably broadened even though I cut short the academic career on which I had determined as earily as high school. The reasons for this decision were several: unlikelihood of funding, disillusionment with the academic world, and a slight jerking around by superior forces (with an apology, I hasten to add), and growing disenchantment with my environment (in this case, Akron, Ohio). Moving to Ann Arbor, I had planned to go to library school, in order to make my master's degree more marketable (I still had ambitions to get my doctorate eventually, but it now seems so long ago), but soon realized that I just didn't understand library school and couldn't really get a handle on how one was supposed to study and develop theories on different ways of arranging information (this is said with all due respect to librarians, who I greatly admire; I have a similar sort of cognitive dissonance when it comes to acting).

I fell into cooking through a mix of fascination, intent and convenience. I'd worked at a fair number of restaurants over the years, and became intrigued by the work cooks did. About a year after I started working at Cafe du Jour (whose recent demise turned out to be more ignoble than I imagined), I managed to shift back into the kicthen, and then found myself, in a way. I often think that if the place had been better run and I were slightly better paid, it would have been a near-ideal situation. As it happened, despite my love for what I did, I had to make a change. Though I'm much better compensated at my present job, and have vastly increased opportunities to learn, I do miss the responsibility I had at my old job, but try to concentrate on the positive.

It's useless to deny that I'm at a much different place at thirty-five than I long thought I would be. Indeed, by certain contemporary standards, I could be considered a failure: I don't own a house (and have no desire to, except that it might be easier to do a vegetable garden), I don't have a car (mine became too expensive to maintain in grad school, and given the looming specters of peak oil and climate change, I figured I'd probably be better off without one), and I work an hourly service-sector job (which, given conditions across the country and especially in Michigan, I'm lucky to have). Thankfully, I don't consider myself one. Judged by present-day global and world-historical (and probably future) standards, I'm actually in an extremely enviable place right now. Though it's not an excuse for complacency, it's a useful thing to keep in perspective. Things aren't too bad, and I have to admit I'm thankful.

The Thief of Bagdad (1924): I saw the 1940 version of The Thief of Bagdad, with Conrad Veidt and Sabu (partially directed by a young Michael Powell) years ago, and I have to say that it was one of the few times I've ever seen a remake come close to the quality of the original, let alone equal it.l Douglas Fairbanks wrote, produced, and starred in the original 1924 fantasy epic, and it's infused throughout with his energy and enthusiasm. Thief Ahmed (Fairbanks) falls in love with the princess on a burglary of the Caliph's palace, and after his unmasking as a fake prince in pursuit of her hand, has to win her over by triumphing over a number of supernatural and all-too-human obstacles. It's a spectacular classic, chock-full of the finest special effects available for the time, representing invisibility cloaks, flying horses, talking trees, and more. Fairbanks is a force of energy as Ahmed, and his at times over-the-top charisma combines with art director William Cameron Menzies to create a near-unique monument of the silent era. The best part is that character doesn't give way to effects--the story is always involving, with Ahmed's acquisitory zeal nicely linked to the main villain's, and the female characters bracingly defined (literally, in Anna May Wong's case) and refreshingly active for early fantasy heroines. It's a wonderful film to watch on one's birthday.

The Pied Piper (1972): I first read about Jacques Demy's sleeper in high school, with Leonard Maltin's necessarily brief review hinting at a grim, Angela Carter-like deglamorization of the already chilling German folktale. For years, it seemed unavailable until I found out about its Region 1 release last week. It was a fascinating experience, a sometimes depressingly realistic account of the Black Death in the small German city of Hamelin. At times it seems like a combination of Poe's "The Masque of the Red Death" and Ibsen's An Enemy of the People, with folk-pop singer Donovan's enigmatic performance as the title character adding more than a frisson of weirdness to the proceedings. The Piper drops in on a tangled web of social and political shenanigans involving the Church (Peter Vaughan's Bishop), the nobles (Donald Pleasance's Baron) and the townsfolk (Roy Kinnear's Burgomeister). A cathedral needs to be built, wars are fought by the Pope in Avignon against the Holy Roman Emperor, and life's a mess for everyone else, including the party of traveling players with whom the Piper falls in. The Black Death has been kept out of Hamelin, but a Jewish alchemist (Michael Hordern) and his crippled assistant (Jack Wild) warn that the danger still looms. An onslaught of rats drives the authorities to drastic actions and macabre consequences. The Pied Piper has had a generally negative critical appraisal over the years that I can't quite understand. Producer David Puttnam apparently disowned it, which seems rather odd given his stable of worthy but slightly dull prestige pictures of the early 1980s like Chariots of Fire. Demy was more famously known for gorgeous, bittersweet romances like The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964), and though The Pied Piper somewhat qualifies, in other ways it's as different from Demy's earlier work as night from day. It was supposed to be some sort of family film, hence its "G" rating, but the adult treatment of the Middle Ages' dark side and the generally pessimistic tone (manifested in Peter Eyre's slightly fey pilgrim who eventually loses his faith in everything, if he ever really had any) clash with the film's supposed audience. The two impulses do sit rather uneasily alongside each other, but for me this adds to rather than detracts from the movie's power. Nothing is certain and nothing is really safe, and every time something happens that one doesn't really expect, the message is driven home even further. It helps, too, that the acting is pretty fantastic all around. Donovan's offbeat casting proves extremely effective; his songs may become annoying and creepy, but then so is the story of the Pied Piper--it's a perfect fit. Wild, so irritating in H.R. Pufnstuf, is outstanding as young Gavin (Gavin? In 14th century Germany?), the alchemist's assistant. John Hurt, as the Baron's son, is a terrifically nasty villain, and Michael Hordern gives one of his best performances as old Melias the alchemist, as genuinely moving and expert in The Pied Piper as he is obnoxious and miscast in Demons of the Mind. The realistically grimy set design is brought to life by Peter Suchitzky's photography, much of it filmed in the picturesque medieval city of Rothenburg-an-der-Tauber. Even the rats are real, with rat trainer John Holmes marshalling some quite unnerving scenes of rats marching in formation behind the Piper en route to their fate in the Weser River. Not a family film to be trundled out on the holidays, The Pied Piper is a perfect example of a cinematic curio--you can't quite fit it anywhere among its cheerier fellows, and I think that's its genius.

Happy Veterans, Remembrance, and Armistice Day! I hope it's pleasant and peaceful for all those serving before or since.

The blog hasn't had a good makeover in a long time, and it was overdue. I've been tired of the title for a while, and like this one a lot better. I may tinker with the layout a little over the next couple of days, but this'll probably stay for a good stretch. 

It's almost impossible to date the origin of my fondness for "bad" movies. I grew up in the eighties and early nineties, and the period offered a probably unprecedented smorgasbord of cinematic offal, so it's very hard to judge. In an early expression of my fondness for sci-fi as opposed to fantasy, I insisted that my dad and brother watch the 1988 sci-fi turkey Nightfall (based on an Isaac Asimov story and starring David Birney) with me instead of Willow. Afterwards, I thought it was a mistake, but then I saw Willow years later and... not so much. One of my favorite memories of high school was the series of "bad movie nights" my friends and I threw, which definitely set me on the path to becoming a fitfully obsessive cineaste. It should be stressed that these weren't bad movies so much as obscure ones or cult classics (okay, Caligula was bad--and even worse, boring--but Shaft wasn't, and Flash Gordon's one of my favorite movies of all time). I prided myself on a rather smug enjoyment of bad or weird movies until I started to wonder why exactly they were "bad" or "weird." An early fan of Mystery Science Theater 3000, I delighted in the snark delivered to the less accomplished cinematic works of yesteryear and thought little of it. My attitude probably started to change when I learned of the genuinely high critical reputation of 1955's sci-fi epic This Island Earth--our inaugural movie-fest flick in 1989 or 1990 and subject of the 1996 Mystery Science Theater movie. Things moved apace until I joined the British Horror Films forum in 2003. Under the probably unintended spiritual guidance of film scholar Darrell Buxton (editor of the upcoming review anthology The Shrieking Sixties: British Horror Films of the Sixties, probably due in early-to-mid-2010), I came to see films in a whole new continuum, with A-list monstrosities accorded the exact same critical chance as the most obscure sleeper. Along the way, I came to question my own strictures regarding a film's worth, and was reminded of my internal struggle by Canadian blogger Jaime Weinman in his recent post on the relative worth of different kinds of cinema. Weinman included a link to film scholar Chris Fujiwara's takedown of Mystery Science Theater, some of which touched on reservations of my own concerning my once-beloved TV show. It all combined to make my viewing of two fairly low-budget offerings a little different than it might have been otherwise.

 Blood Gnome (2004): I've long been fascinated by gnomes and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's due to their creepy ubiquity come holiday season, but they've long haunted my imagination, especially since I suspect they're less friendly bearded nature sprites than they are merciless, flesh-eating killers, intent on the destruction of humanity and the domination of the universe. My friend Karen in grad school was notably resistant to this idea, and probably still hasn't forgiven me for proposing it. I hope there's still some room left in the concept, as someone's gone and done a movie about the little sprats. Many of the cheapies that show up in my Netflix emerge that way because I have a wide-ranging interest in horror and sci-fi cinema, but I think Blood Gnome came to my attention simply because I had been researching movies that featured gnomes.* Fully inhabiting the "evil gnomes" groove, Joe Lechago's film is sort of a cross between The Adventures of David the Gnome and Hellraiser, with generous helpings of the second half of the Detroit Metro Times thrown in. A series of brutal, mysterious killings rock Los Angeles' bondage fetish community, and if you just stopped reading right there, you'll be sorry. Crime scene photographer Dan (Vinnie Bilancio) notices some visual anomalies in his pictures, and decides to investigate on his own, closely questioning bondage specialist Devinity (the lovely Melissa Pursley, who resembles a glammed-up Lili Taylor as voiced by Night Court's Selma Diamond) and discussing the ins and outs of the bondage fetish scene. Can he juggle a possible new girlfriend and a potential lifestyle reorientation with a horde of bloodthirsty, slavering invisible imps determined to keep him quiet at all costs? Though the subject matter makes things a little ridiculous (the bondage, not the gnomes, which should tell you a few sad somethings about the reviewer), Blood Gnome is actually quite an entertaining experience with bits of cleverness here and there keeping the story interesting (as does, of course, the generous nudity on display)--I was particularly fond of the near-abusive relationship Dan has with his boss Laura (Laurie Jamieson), who seems to be under the impression that she's his mother or older sister. At times it seems like half a horror thriller and half a BDSM instructional video, but the leads' sympathetic if occasionally erratic performances actually raise it above what I was expecting. Pursley in particular made me wonder, even given the uncertain climate in which movies like Blood Gnome are probably made, why she wasn't in anything else (maybe I just haven't looked hard enough). The (clean-shaven and capless) gnomes themselves are puppets, not CGI, an automatic plus (reminiscent in some ways of the tykes from Rock 'N' Roll Nightmare), and enough of their backstory is revealed to make things fairly comprehensible, even if things still remain vague at an admittedly ridiculous climax. All in all, Blood Gnome is an appealing example of how entertaining horror cheapies still have a place in this grotesque modern cinema of perpetual remakes and unimaginative big-budget knockoffs.

Planetfall (2005): It was a revelation; of all the cheap, unknown speculative films I've found through Netflix, Planetfall was by far the most imaginative, ambitious, and entertaining so far. The reviews were mixed, which intrigued me; often, if something doesn't look like it has the budget of Transformers or G.I.Joe (Jesus, what is it, 1984?), it'll get panned on IMDB and Netflix, but enough people were willing to see unexpected pleasures in this one that it sharpened my curiosity. Written by Michael Heagle and Matt Saari and directed by Heagle, it's a spaghetti western in space, to put it simply. Beautiful, mysterious gunfighter Lux Antigone (Heidi Fellner) warily faces down her equally winsome opponent Wendy (Leitha Matz) across an interplanetary landscape of fanatic religions, decaying imperialisms, and thoroughly corroded loyalties. Everyone's searching for a mysterious superweapon hidden on a barren planet, from the gunfighters to hardbitten mercenaries to renegade telepaths to the bottom-of-the-barrel conscripts in service to President Arch Stanton (sleaze icon Ted V. Mikels, on whom I have little personal opinion but whose casting was apparently considered a coup by the producers).** It's hard to quite describe the plot, as it's largely one huge run-around spiced up by treachery, gunplay, humor and sex. Out of many fun moments, my favorite probably came from an argument between mercenary Stark Sterling (played by Snype Myers, who's apparently some kind of award-winning physical trainer) and an angry superior. It's really an aesthetic crime that "consider yourself crossed, bitch!" isn't a nationally recognized catchphrase by now--and the best part wasn't even the phrase but the superior's deliciously over-the-top reaction. There are some cheesy computer and CGI effects, but just as many clever ones, and they all go towards making the thing feel larger and more expansive than it otherwise might. Another great thing about Planetfall is how seriously everyone concentrates on the little background touches, from the money and religion used to grease society's wheels to the frequency of popular interplanetary TV show "Bastard and Commando" (the snippets of dialogue heard--especially from "Channer"--are hilarious). In the end, everyone comes together for one grand confrontation which aimed at the mythic grandeur of its original inspirations--and they all get points for trying. Again, much of Planetfall's charm comes from the obvious care and pleasure everyone took in making it--the scruffy low-budget appeal is something that can't be duplicated.*** Best of all is Leitha Matz, for whom I instantly swooned and who's not only the star of the movie but also of the commentary track. So much of Planetfall is a pleasant surprise, but her low-key cool and unassuming beauty really put the thing over the edge (and she apparently fights the good fight, too). An exhaustive behind-the-scenes documentary gives the rundown on how it all came together, concluding with some endearing scenes from the Minnesota premiere--ironically enough, the same stomping grounds of Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Not too long ago, I would have dismissed both of these as "bad" movies, probably citing their budget and straight-to-video status (despite Planetfall's theatrical premiere). Now, I'm happy to say, my changed attitude towards artistic endeavor in general--writing, music, cinema--has opened my eyes to the good in films like these, and the possibilities they embody (yes, even Blood Gnome). With small presses sprouting up as fast as they die off, local musicians and performers making word-of-mouth and the internet work for them, and small filmmakers carrying on their work despite the sneers of those with bigger budgets or studio backing, I'm optimistic for my own work and that of others probably like never before.

 *Available on Netflix? The Gnome-Mobile, a 1967 Disney curio starring Walter Brennan (!!!) as a Snuffy Smith-voiced coot who, along with the tots from Mary Poppins, tries to save a patch of wilderness from greedy developers with some "special help," if you know what I'm saying. Unavailable on Netflix? 1990's A Gnome Named Gnorm, starring Anthony Michael Hall as a streetwise cop trying to track down his partner's killers with some "special help," if you know what I'm saying (also starring Jerry Orbach and frequent Mystery Science Theater actor Robert Z'Dar).

**One's own blog offers a great opportunity to bloviate about one's pet peeves. If you're making a spaghetti western, not only set in space, but also with characters that roughly correspond to the three main characters in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly... you no longer have to try and convince me that you've seen said film. "Arch Stanton," fans will remember, was the name on the tombstone hiding Bill Carson's money. Invent your own names. Simply because high-profile directors like Martin Scorsese and Joe Dante pull this crap doesn't mean you have to as well. I remember reading a zombie piece in The Second BHF Book of Horror Stories that was nearly ruined for me by one of the characters' being named "George Romero." Of course you like zombie films, because you're writing about them (or zombies, anyway)!!!

***A few Netflix reviewers compared Planetfall to "Dr. Who-type TV shows," perhaps aware of the film's Who connection (which came as a complete surprise to me). John Levene, who played Sergeant Benton on the show during the late 60s and early 70s, and who's now a showbiz entity of some sort in California (his films as "Reverend Bernie Shanks" sound absolutely hilarious but sadly there's no sign of CanniBallistic! or Satan Hates You on Netflix... yet) voices "Angry Videophone Alien." Beautiful.

Chateau Fluffy closed down! Chateau Fluffy, of course, was Cafe du Jour at 117 West Washington Street in Ann Arbor, where I worked as a baker, sous chef, and occasional kitchen manager for four and a half years. The sign posted on the window blamed the closure on "severe economic conditions," which, though there had been more than a few problems in the past, sounds pretty plausible to me. I've been hearing weird rumors through the grapevine regarding what'll happen to the place next, but will keep them to myself for now as there's enough of that kind of thing on the Internet. It's a little sad, really; it was well past time for me to leave by the time I switched jobs in May '08, but much of what I know about cooking and the restaurant business I learned there and I wished it well (strangely enough, a slightly flaky girl who used to work there as well just walked past my front porch). I may learn more after a few chats here and there; I doubt the space will remain empty for long, and have to wonder what'll come next. There's an unexpectedly revealing look here at Ann Arbor food culture in which there's a brief shot of the storefront. One of my favorite things I learned to do there was make quiches (whence I migrated to tarts), and so here's...

Tarte Corfiote (taken from an existing recipe, but it didn't have a "tart" name, so I gave it one based on the ingredients' Greco-Italian nature, although tarte heptanese sounds even better--I'm guessing the recipe probably isn't actually native to Corfu):

1 tart pastry

2 tbsp olive oil

3 cloves garlic, minced

1/2 lb. leafy greens (any will do, but I used chard from our "kitchen garden" at work), coarsely chopped

1/4 cup chopped and pitted Kalamata olives

15 oz. ricotta

salt

2 large eggs

2 oz. ricotta salata or feta

Preheat oven to 400. Saute garlic in olive oil until soft. Add greens and cook until soft. Beat together ricotta, olives, greens, and salt, then beat in eggs. Pour mixture into tart pastry and sprinkle feta on top. Cook tart for 30-40 minutes until done. 

I found it a disappointment, to be honest. The Natural Area Preservation Volunteer Potluck for which it was intended quickly devoured it, and I hope people enjoyed it, but maybe this is just natural irritation on the part of the cook. The ingredients themselves prepared beautifully--the chard with garlic was spectacular, and the resulting aroma was brilliant. It was a little underseasoned (maybe a little more salt?), but I'm more of the opinion that I'm just not a ricotta kind of guy, at least in combination with these other ingredients. The texture was similar to vanilla ice cream, and there were even a few taste similarities, but overall it seemed rather blah in comparison to the all-too-brief tastes of the kalamatas and chard. I'm not quite prepared to give up on the recipe, though, and may try a more flavorful cheese in the very near future (especially as I still have a crapload of chard to play with).

Bo Schembechler's grave looks surprisingly picturesque from this distance (blogged much of this from my porch--it was a spectacular day).

Well, I screwed up the beet roesti, so that recipe's out. Some of the resulting hash was washed away in the sink, so the post title's at least vaguely fitting this time. I might try it later with vanilla ice cream. It's unclear where I stand on beets right now--they weren't disgusting, as I feared, but the rather nondescript taste really made me wonder why I'd gone to all the trouble of peeling and grating them. Lesson learned, I suppose.

The Visitor (2007): Thomas McCarthy is a writer, actor and director who has been seen in films from Meet The Parents to Good Night and Good Luck to Flags of Our Fathers, and more recently as the sleazy, ethically-challenged journalist on The Wire's final season. Richard Jenkins is an actor who almost anyone would recognize from somewhere--the acid-tripping FBI agent in Flirting With Disaster and Ben Stiller's psychiatrist in There's Something About Mary in particular. One directs the other in The Visitor, a jewel of a film about one man's curious education in multiculturalism. Walter Vail (Jenkins) is a professor at a Connecticut college who's essentially shut down since the death of his wife and conducts his career on auto-pilot. A chance errand to New York to give a paper at a globalization conference reveals that his city apartment has been rented-- unbeknownst to him--to two illegal immigrants, Syrian Tarek (Haaz Sleiman) and Senegalese Zainab (Danai Gurira). Less through kindness than through a simple inability to deal with the situation, Walter lets them stay and gradually befriends them, finding a bond with Tarek in particular through their mutual love of music (Walter's wife played the piano, Tarek plays the drums). When a simple technicality gets Tarek arrested and thrown into a detention center in Queens, Walter finds a purpose that had eluded him for years, especially when Tarek's mother Mouna (Hiam Abbass) shows up looking for her son. The Visitor is a marvelous film experience, making its points simply and effectively, and taking full advantage of its cast's abilities (sometimes remarkably so--this was apparently Gurira's film debut). Jenkins was nominated for an Oscar, and little wonder, as the experience of a quiet, reserved man awaking to what the world has to offer is matched with a stalwart character actor offered the chance to lead a finely observed film. The symbolism and ironies occasionally veer dangerously towards the too obvious--an economics professor working a market stall and a nearly displaced native-born American officiating at a globalization conference--but McCarthy's directorial touch and the cast's surefootedness (Jenkins and Abbass have fantastic chemistry) make The Visitor one of the best and most pertinent American films of the past decade.

Circle of Deceit (1981): Volker Schlondorff is probably my favorite German director by now, mainly on the strength of the magnificent The Lost Honor of Katharina Blum (1975), a brilliant slice of political theater (based on the Heinrich Boll novel and co-directed by Margarethe von Trotta) in which an innocent woman is victimized by an uncaring system. I haven't seen 1979's The Tin Drum, but probably should, although I'm not the biggest fan of the book. Based on the memoir by Nicholas Born, Circle looks at the travails of German journalist Laschen (the always excellent Bruno Ganz*) sent to cover the war in Lebanon, by then into its fifth year and showing no sign of victory on the part of either Muslim or Christian militias (the Israelis would invade a year later). While there, he finds himself unable to connect with his job, wondering how he can accurately convey the suffering around him, especially with the distractions of an attractive widow (an incandescent Hanna Schygulla) and his earthier photographer colleague (Jerzy Skolimowski), whose taste for the jugular cuts across his own doubts. Much of the filming was done in and around actual combat zones, and the surreal nature of the fighting in Beirut is brilliantly captured on camera--in the DVD extras, Schlondorff reveals that he eschewed the obvious decision for handheld cameras in favor of a more traditional setup, as the situation was already "real" enough. A simple story at heart, Circle uses the political and cultural divide between Europe and the Middle East as a vehicle for larger personal questions, such as one's relation to violence and the conflict between reality and media illusion, if there even is one anymore.

 *The Downfall parodies on www.funnyordie.co.uk, so dependent on his remarkable performance as Hitler, were apparently made with his explicit blessing--along with his work in Wenders' The American Friend (1977), that makes him one of the coolest people working in films today, if you ask me.

It's been well over a week since I got Internet, and I must admit the connection has made a subtle impact on my life.  My mental map doesn't seem to revolve so much around the library anymore, and I'm not as cheesed off at staying late at work as I was (not that it was a huge deal in the first place) as I can always catch up on the news and such at home now. As I think I mentioned last time, it'll take some time for the implications of it all to sink in, but for right now, it's actually encouraged me to get out more, as I'm maybe all too aware of the dangers of staying in all day. Every time I try, guilt kicks in and I take the bike out for a couple of hours, as happened today.

So what have I been doing? Having BBC World News constantly available has been a delight, as have the various programs available on the iPlayer radio sites, especially those on BBC 7. Not only are they running a set of original Paul McGann Doctor Who audio plays (Sheridan Smith's funny as hell), but I also got to listen to the genius of Tony Hancock for the first time (an episode of Hancock's Half Hour from 1958) and a very interesting BBC 2 documentary on Frankie Howerd. The sheer international sweep and range of the stuff on offer is nearly intoxicating. It's not all foreign shores--I followed much of the Michigan game today on the hilarious live blog for mgoblog.com.

YouTube, of course, has been spectacular, especially for one who was hooked in his childhood on various historical miniseries. The soundtracks to Shogun and Jesus of Nazareth are both lovingly preserved by dedicated enthusiasts (especially the former's stunning "Mariko's Theme"). Both are by Maurice Jarre, the "third wheel" in my personal trinity of film and TV composers. Ennio Morricone was the head, John Barry was the heart... so I wonder where that leaves Jarre. He was probably the de facto favorite composer of my youth, as the music to the aforementioned miniseries certainly had a lot to do with my eventual fascination on both subjects. There are even clips from 1981's Peter and Paul and 1985's Christopher Columbus (the former has a great moment from the shipwrecked Paul--Anthony Hopkins--in Sicily, with Jon Finch as Luke and Gareth Thomas, of all people, as the centurion Julius, with some engrossing dialogue that doesn't insult the viewer's intelligence). The only disappointment is that there's only a NBC preview for 1985's Peter the Great (although the search led me to this hilarious amateur video on the Czar's life).

I'm sure I'll start using it for good eventually, but it's comforting to know that there's somewhere I can always go to listen to the theme music to Danger Man or Jason King.

My housemates decided to sign up for the Internet, and, considering the cost and that winter was coming up, I opted to join in. On getting a USB wireless adapter for my now rather stately Dell Dimension 2350, I found to my not-total surprise and shock that it was too old and out-of-date to accept what was apparently the most basic wireless technology available for our house. The next day, I went out, got a laptop, and joined the twenty-first century. It was time.

 For the first time ever, I'm typing this on a Compaq Celeron 900 which I got at Best Buy after finding that the Toshiba Satellite I was eyeing wasn't in stock at Office Max in Arborland. That was actually a bit of a relief, as Office Max was one of the Arborland businesses that hadn't come out against the bus stop closure (thanks again, Borders and Hiller's) and I was correspondingly loath to throw any business their way.

I wound up with a much greater bus journey than I had anticipated, which was fine by me. The day turned out to be a spectacular one, one of those endangered autumn brilliances (before autumn actually starts, no less), which was a shock to me, as I'd thought it was supposed to be somewhere around 80 and clear. The Best Buy guy was friendly and helpful, and the only dark moment came when I left my beloved wool hat (I'm not given to falling for wool hats, but this one had sentimental value beyond its purpose or function) on the #16 bus. It had gone missing often enough before, but this time it's for good. In a year with so much shakeup and change, maybe that's fitting. I'll probably keep the Dell around for word processing (that's all I used it for before anyway), as the new unit only has Microsoft Works. It's served me well over the years (though I've wanted to kill that mouse more times than I care to remember), but it's undeniable that an era has passed.

I'm now in my room, ready to go out and maybe ride around for an hour before I return and start seriously playing. Hopefully the new lifestyle won't take away from the variety I enjoy, and I doubt it will--I've already written around a thousand words today and nipped by the market for turnip greens and tatsoi (which I'll probably eat tonight with pizza and beer, but nobody's perfect).

Happy Wednesday!