A Return & An Epiphany

First of all, I went to see Pray the Devil Back To Hell with Katy Jones of Doc and a Drink, a movie whose subject matter outshone its filmmaking.

I do have hope I can come back to writing here more often.  Currently, my thoughts are about a change in the way I read.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall

OK, so here’s the thing: Apatow’s cabal is an unstoppable force that will rule the world.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall hits much of the same notes that have been hit in other Apatow-produced films. Jason Segal is the just-dumped Peter who jets off to Hawaii to forget Sarah Marshall, his actress, ex-girlfriend. He meets Rachel (Mila Kunis) and so on and so on as these romantic comedies go. Throughout the film, of course, Peter needs to learn how to grow up into himself — but, Sarah Marshall differs from Knocked Up or 40-Year Old Virgin in that the female lead has some of her own growing up to do, even if less so.

It’s the details, as always, that actually make these films. Segal embodies a raw, open wound, as he did when he played Nick in Freaks and Geeks. Go back and watch the scene from the very last episode of that show where he dances the most pained disco ever and you’ll understand. The beginning of this movie is filled with moments of emotional breakage that he does well.

I was, truthfully, waiting for the movie to fall on its face after its excellent pre-Hawaii sequences. Sarah’s job on a CSI-like show aside Billy Baldwin channeling David Caruso provides enough laughs on its own, not even considering Peter’s weeping misery. And considering that Peter is the musician for the show (“Oh, you want dark and ominous?”), even his job contributes to his inability to extricate himself from the relationship.

But, on the island itself, the cast gets a little familiar — Jonah Hill and Paul Rudd show up — and the movie mostly maintains its stride, though does meander a little. But, mostly into good places. Jack McBrayer shows up playing, essentially, his Kenneth character from 30 Rock on a honeymoon and very confused about his new wife’s sexuality. “Off to find the mythical clitoris!” is an excellent exit line for him.

I think the best addition to the Apatow stable is Russel Brand as Aldous Snow, the pretentious British rocker who stole Sarah away. He is the only truly reprehensible character in the whole bunch, but every bit of faux-humility, uncaring infidelity, his very uncomfortable reactions to super-fan Jonah Hill, and his awesome, awesome music video works so well. And teaching McBrayer how to make love to his wife using oversized chess pieces provides a hilarious montage in a movie that enjoys a number of them.

Peter and Rachel’s relationship on the island was fun to watch unfold, with all the usual tropes of new love in romantic comedies (four days? really?), but once again, the individual moments work. On top of that, the movie does a good job — for the most part, except for a few missteps — of not vilifying Sarah more than she deserves, or making Rachel too angelic. Everyone is flawed and no one is just… evil. Jason Segal wrote this film, and I think he did well learning his lessons from Apatow and Seth Rogan.

I’ve left entirely out of this review any discussion of the best gags in the whole film, one that centers on Peter’s real dreams for himself. Slate’s review gives it away, as I’m sure others will, but its worth having it come out of left field on introduction and then just… build from there.

The question that remains is whether Pineapple Express, the Seth Rogan-penned film about a two stoners who have to run from hitmen will be as funny as its trailer makes it seems like it will be. All I know is that “Paper Planes” is an incredible song.

Not for people without sarcasm detectors

My review of Nim’s Island.

The New Pornos/Okkervil River @ The 9:30 Club

I saw The New Pornographers the last time they were in town.  They ended with “The Testament to Youth in Verse” and there was nothing I could do to stop myself from singing, “The bells ring/no no no no no…” and so forth.  I mean, it was Neko… there’s very little I could do.

This time around, no Neko.  But, despite that, I was engrossed, still singing, if not as enthusiastically.  “The Bleeding Heart Show” was still… unassailable despite its use in commercials for questionable educational institutions from Arizona.

The lack of Neko Case was noticable, but not, by any means, fatal.  Katherine was good, great, something.  Enough to make me dance like a dork, which is really all I care about as I’m not an actual music critic.

It was an utterly bizarre experience to be out of the 9:30 before 11 because, really… why would Okkervil River, of all opening acts, go on before 8pm?  Fucking seriously?  I hadn’t heard their stuff before The Stage Names.  So, we showed up at 8-ish and were extremely confused about why the crowd was so thick so early.  Until I heard the familiar strains of “Our Life Is Not a Movie or Maybe.”  Well, shit, now it all made sense, except for the fact that a big bill like The New Pornos/Okkervil River didn’t get an opening act.  Which makes no sense at all.

Regardless, I was still in the crowd, still wanting to hear every strain of music, despite the minor issues that didn’t make it the complete expeience that their last show was.

So, I’m sleepy and actually have the opportunity to collapse at a reasonable hour after a show, so I’m going to take it.

See you, hopefully, before the Tokyo Police Club show.

Kimya Dawson @ The Black Cat

Black X’s make me feel old.

I can’t be surprised that I saw a lot of them at the Kimya Dawson show. I mean, the soundtrack for Juno, on which she has a significant number of songs, has to be popular amongst a certain set of the youngun’s.

Also, my knees suck, which also makes me feel old, but that’s neither here nor there.

It’d been forever since I’d been to the Cat to see anyone, so I got to reinvigorate my annoyance with the crowd that talks too much.  However, despite the talking through Spoonboy — the overly earnest anarchist folk singer — and Angelo, the higher-fidelity French folk singer, the crowd did settle nicely for Kimya herself. Despite the fact that during the merely two songs from Juno that she sang, it was clear that most of the crowd was here because of the movie.

If you have heard any of her music, the obvious but accurate descriptor that comes to mind is “whimsical.” Which normally doesn’t track with me, but occasionally whimsy can be a wonderful thing. I was originally tempted to describe Kimya’s music using some sort of Seussian comparison — the fact that she sang three children’s songs certainly helped that urge along. But, really, it’s not so much Seussian as… straightforward. It’s rare that one finds a singer who tells a crowd, “This is a song about when I was pregnant and worried about being on tour,” and follows that with a song whose lyrics are exactly about that. No emo symbolism, no oblique poetry, just… that.

So, really, Kimya succeeded in creating a show where the lyrics, “Fuck Bush and fuck this war,” were actually somewhat effective for me. That is, my cynic that would normally respond with, “Well… yes, of course, but… is that actually an argument?” decided to shut the hell up for an hour and listen to the crazy-haired woman with the guitar.

We’ll see how long into tomorrow’s Les Savy Fav show that warm fuzzy feeling lasts.

My horrific track record

So I disappeared.  Fair enough.  The place needs some dusting and a bit of an airing out, but I think I can fix it up.  Gotta recycle a lot of empties.

First order of business:  I wrote a few reviews while I was gone.

 CJ7 – The Stephen Chow movie which was oddly ridiculous and was just interesting enough for me to recommend.

 Be Kind Rewind – Oh, being disappointed in this film was just tragic. The trailer never failed to make me smile, the movie often did.

Persepolis -  Marjane Satrapi’s graphic novel come to life.  I liked it, but not as much as the books.

So, beyond the whole “getting married” thing, which took up a little bit of my time, there was also a suprising lack of good shows coming through DC.  April, though… I will be seeing Kimya Dawson, Les Savy Fav, Okkervil River & The New Pornographers, and Tokyo Police Club.  So… good month.  Lots of forthcoming entries written at 1am after a show.

Go Heels, and all of that.

The Bluths, Together Again

In a review that I definitely disagreed with, Sam Van Hallgren, one of the Filmspotters, complained that Little Miss Sunshine was a fairly bad movie largely because the family dynamic was so miserable. And, truthfully, the Hoovers were pretty dysfunctional, but this was, of course, a movie that started with Steve Carrell moving in because he had failed at committing suicide. I couldn’t get it. I love Little Miss Sunshine, still do. Sure, the Hoovers weren’t always likable or easy to get alone with, but, eh, that’s how people are.

After seeing Juno, though, I think I understand Sam’s point of view a bit more. When Juno MacGuff (Ellen Page) gets pregnant, our initial impressions of her family lead us to think that we’re going to see a Hoover-esque moment of self-centered spite. Instead we get a tough but non-judgmental reaction from her father Mac (J. K. Simmons, always good) and stepmother Bren (Allison Janney, again, always good). It’s the first surprise of many in the film.

That’s the thing that Juno never lets you forget: people are surprising. They can be assholes and saints rolled into a single person; one does not preclude the other. The whole film, under Jason Reitman’s (Thank You For Smoking) direction continually shows us full, complete people on screen. Except for a single misstep with Rainn Wilson, channeling Dwight from The Office, there are no types.

Mac can be gruff and vulgar with his daughter, obviously upset with her mistake, and never once lose our sense of their mutual affection and love. It’s both shocking and completely normal that Bren would attack the ultrasound tech who obviously is judging the teenaged Juno for her state.

It’s a pretty remarkable experience to be legitimately sad and happy watching the lives of fictional characters. The fact is that Reitman and screenwriter Diablo Cody create people who aren’t made of quirks or tropes. Juno herself, played gorgeously by Page, sports a tough facade that, thankfully, doesn’t hide a cliched soft-side; she is a resolute but scared teenager and it shows and still manages to avoid the overwrought movie-of-the-week scenes that one would think that this subject matter could easily fall prey to.

Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner play Mark and Vanessa Loring, a couple that Ellen finds through an ad in the Penny Saver — they want to adopt and she wants to give up “this thing,” as she calls it. The story line with the Lorings was both on the screen in the first five minutes we met them and completely blind-siding. Audible-gasps shocking.

Of course, there’s the father, Bleeker. Michael Cera, once again demonstrating his brilliance at playing the awkward teen. Not to say that Cera is rehashing George Michael Bluth again and again. Sure, he’s a little strange, but he has backbone and doesn’t stammer when he sings. I haven’t seen a sweeter relationship on screen in years.

I have almost nothing bad to say about Juno. Cool soundtrack: check. Pop culture references: check. Excellent ideas for alternate uses of a T-shirt gun: check. Urge to describe things as “wizard” and get a bed car: check.

Speaking of that, the set design through this movie was amazing. Seriously, coming back to LMS for a second, both of these movies have that in common: the full (or not-so-full, in some cases) houses that characterize their residents as much as their words.

Find this movie. It is, as one character says of another, boss.

In Which I Threaten Harm to a Teenager

My review of the horrible, execrable movie The Seeker: The Dark Is Rising has gone up on RevolutionSF.com.

Enjoy.  I went through it for you.

Rilo Kiley @ The 9:30 Club

You know what I don’t expect?  Ever?  A lo-fi cover of Les Savy Fav’s “The Sweat Descends”.   But, apparently, it can be done and I was lucky enough to see it played live by the first opener, Art in Manila, at last night’s Rilo Kiley show.  Who was definitely a band that outstrips most first openers I’ve seen.  Their music seemed layered and complex.  Plus, again… “The Sweat Descends”, which is on their MySpace site.

The Grand Ole Party was a solid second opener, but far too reminiscent of a lesser Noisettes to really keep my attention.  I do think it’s awesome that the lead singer is also their drummer, but that necessitates a simplicity to their songs that is just a little bland and made their whole set run together.  Good pipes on her, though.

But the meat of the show, the reason why was there:  Rilo Kiley.  Jenny Lewis’s gorgeous voice.  And so forth.  I was pumped, f-ing thrilled to get these tickets when I bought them.

Then I listened to Under the Blacklight.  Which is, I’m sorry to say,  is simply a boring album.  The songs are repetitive, simplistic and derivative of music that should be long dead.  I don’t need to imagine Jenny Lewis as Stevie Nicks.  Or Annette Funicello (hello, “Smoke Detector”, a song that would have been interesting if we were actually playing Beach Blanket Bingo — modulo a couple naughty lyrics).  Or the fucking Bee-Gees.

So, I wasn’t as excited, though my enthusiasm was merely dampened, not drenched.   And, unfortunately, hearing the Blacklight songs live only marginally improved them.  Which, I guess, is a huge sign of the quality of the band as, I dunno, polishers of crap?  I was hoping that, somehow, the concert experience would change my mind on the CD.  Considering my verbatim (and not quiet, because I am occasionally an dick) reaction to the “Breakin’ Up” was “That is a totally shit song,” that wish didn’t come true.  Who else thinks that track is the result of a disco ball fucking a 13-year-old girl’s diary?

But enough negatives.  Because the concert, despite missteps in music selection, was fun.  Sure, the set list, which seems to be close to this one, was half Blacklight (and, unfortunately, missing the titular song, which is one I like), but in the end getting to hear “Portions for Foxes” and “Wires and Waves” and the half-audience-participation version of “With Arms Outstretched”– I was contributing! — was worth it.  The band was definitely into it and Lewis herself got to be the skilled, sexy rocker that she is.  Her voice is amazing and it’s fun to watch her and her cohorts perform.  Actually, weirdly, the concert did improve my estimation of More Adventurous, which is by no means a bad album, but is outdone by their earlier work.

Here’s hoping that their next album will be a return to form, so I can go to their next concert without being annoyed at half their songs.  And maybe, next time, I can actually get a chance to hit one of the giant balloons.

White Noise and A Reader’s Manifesto

The use of the word “manifesto” really should have been my first clue. It brings to mind berets and Molotov cocktails. Sure, it was A Reader’s Manifesto and I’m a reader, but the last thing I set fire to were Romeo et Julieta cigars. Which aren’t Cuban.

I was lent the full, novella-sized version of B. R. Myers’s essay expecting to at least contemplate throwing it across the room. I mean, it paints current literature as a whole as too pretentious for its own good. And I should probably have taken umbrage, being the owner of many books written after 1900, a number of which I would consider favorites of one sort or another. Favorite genre-creator: Neuromancer. Favorite book whose cover makes me ashamed to read it on the Metro: Lolita. Favorite, or rather “favorite” whipping boy/example of exactly what Myers is talking about: Infinite Jest… wait, no, Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Whatever… or the first ten pages of Everything is Illuminated which illuminated only how little interest I had in the story Foer was telling.