I like this book a lot. I think it's kind of rare to read an autobiography by someone who did so many stupid things and is completely willing to be up front about them. It's also kind of nice, for a change, to read a book by a junkie who doesn't try to foist the blame for that off on someone else - and a junkie musician who doesn't try to blame the collapse of his career on anyone other than himself. That kind of honesty is wonderfully refreshing. I also appreciate getting some understanding of where the music I listen to comes from, and, in between the fascinatingly (and horrifyingly) detailed descriptions of life in San Quentin, there are some equally fascinating descriptions of what the scene that produced a lot of my favourite records was like. Probably not a book for the faint of heart, but then again I've read worse. The quality of the text is excellent - his wife, Laurie, did a terrific job transcribing the taped interviews and keeping the tone authentic; I also really like the way she interspersed the bits by Art and his friends and family with old articles from Down Beat. It's a very well crafted book.
It wouldn't make much sense to read a book about a musician without hearing some of his music. I recommend checking these records out: Playboys (1956) [with Chet Baker] Art Pepper Meets The Rhythm Section (1957) Art Pepper +Eleven (1959) Straight Life (1979) [title track on youtube]
I love getting to read books I would never have found on my own. As a happy antitheist, I would definitely not have discovered this one had it not been lent to me - which would have been a shame, because it's quite a fascinating work. I find it completely absorbing to try and understand why believing sorts of people believe in what things they believe in. It's an interesting experience to discuss faith with someone who can articulate their beliefs in a way that makes sense, rather than just garbling out recycled propaganda. Such folk seem to be few and far between, but I think this anonymous Medieval author must have been exactly that type. The sheer beauty of their phrasing, and the analogies they draw, bring a certain appealing logic to a subject which I usually find completely appalling. It's particularly lovely how their lessons make it clearer than ever to me that, deep down, nearly all religions are founded on the same basic ideas (I read this side by side with a text on Shinto, and marvelled, despite the differences in their surface trappings, at the uncanny similarities between Eastern mysticism and Christian mysticism).
I did feel a slight sense of loss in the translation from Middle English to modern English. Though Dr. Butcher did a bang-up job recreating the comfortable and familiar attitude of the original text, which (at least in the little I've read here) reads like a letter to a close and beloved friend, I can't help feeling a bit thrown off by her use of modern colloquialisms. For we particularly nerdy readers, there might be more joy in reading an untranslated edition with the aid of a Middle English dictionary.
This is a really lovely film. Directed and narrated by the brilliant Bruce Brown, king of the surf movie, it captures a few glorious, golden (and sometimes mud-stained) moments in the exhilarating world of motorcycle racing. From the surreal beauty of the Bonneville salt flats to the frigid wastes of Quebec in winter; from Florida to Spain; from thigh-deep mudholes to the 30-degree banks of the Daytona speedway, on any Sunday, someone, somewhere, is racing - some to win, some for the hell of it, some because they can, and some because they can't imagine doing anything else. As a fan of both two-wheeled vehicles and those very sweet-natured early-'70s sports documentaries, I delighted in the joyful tone of Brown's celebration of all levels of racing, from the mesmerisingly hair-raising high speed AMA championship events to the ridiculously silly (though still hair-raising) Widowmaker hill climb event. Whether or not you care much for motorbikes or racing, I think it's nearly always a pleasure to watch people who are very, very good at something perform, and this is a prime example of why:
I made this list for a friend, and thought it might be of interest to anyone else who doesn't know what to read next. If that's you (or if you, like me, are always looking to increase your reading list), here are 10 books (in no particular order) you might like to check out this summer:
1. I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive by Steve Earle. [If you only read one novel this summer, make it this one. It's extraordinarily lovely.]
2. archy and mehitabel by Don Marquis. [Marvelous light reading if you've a fondness for century-old pop-culture witticisms and wickedness disquised as whimsicality.]
3. The End of the Line by Charles Clover. [If you only read one work of nonfiction this summer, make it this one. Fascinating, motivating, and tragically relevant. Please read it (and make everyone else read it, too).]
4. The Lady in the Lake by Raymond Chandler. [A prime example of why Mr. Chandler remains, for many of us, the king of the detective novel. I recommend reading this in a hammock while sipping a highball.]
5. Shutting Out the Sun:How Japan Created Its Own Lost Generation by Michael Zielenziger. [This is really interesting - especially if you've any interest in psychology, East Asia, global economics, and/or the really f*cked-up bits of modern societies and how they make sane people act crazy.]
6. Thousand Cranes by Kawabata Yasunari. [Probably my personal favourite Japanese novel (so far, anyhow). Slender, elegant, and bittersweet - a perfect read for a cool summer evening spent outdoors and alone.]
7. Kill Your Boyfriend by Grant Morrison, Philip Bond, & D'Israeli. [This is my all-time favourite comic book. Stylish, snappy, horrifying, hilarious, and, weirdly, kinda heartwarming. Strong storytelling and beautiful artwork.]
8. Moonfleet by John Meade Falkner. [A classic adventure novel. Smugglers, treasure, backgammon, England, scoundrels, thieves, rats, and the sea... If you love Treasure Island, don't miss this! An especial favorite of my Dad and myself.]
9. Thomas the Rhymer by Ellen Kushner. [If you happen to like fantasy novels, this one is particularly good. Kushner is an elegant stylist and a masterful storyteller.]
10. Lost Horizon by James Hilton. [This appeared rather mysteriously on my bookshelf, and, not one to turn my nose up at magically appearing books, I have been thoroughly enjoying it. Another classic, best known for originating 'Shangri-La,' this is surprisingly thoughtful for a paperback adventure romance. Delightfully '30s, and charmingly British in a slightly antiquated sort of a way.]
Despite this film's near-total lack of acting, dialogue, and a plot, it remains one of the most compulsively watchable I've seen. Is it the zombies? The thugs? The zombie thugs? All I can say is that I've seen this movie more times than I'm willing to admit, and will be seeing it at least that many times again. I watch it whenever I'm feeling down; how could anyone fail to feel better when faced with swords, guns, and leather-clad prettyboys kicking zombie heads off? This is comfort cinema at its very best.
Despite the fact that, lacking a plot, the movie goes from one fight scene to the next with almost nothing in between, the beautiful and rather dreamy choreography makes it feel like an arty Yakuza-themed ballet rather than non-stop murderous violence. Endearingly sweet-faced tough guy Sakaguchi Taku stars as an amnesiac escaped convict with an unerring eye for fashion (even if he has to rob a corpse or three to complete his 'look'), who never loses a fight and has no compunctions whatsoever about hitting girls. Toss in a reincarnated megalomaniac, a bizarre duo of extraordinarily dumb detectives, and a creeptastic 'Forest of Resurrection' where even the dead keep on fighting, and somehow that all adds up to the most enjoyable action movie since - um - actually, I can't think of any other action films as enjoyable as this one (not even Terminator 2, or the countless Van Damme and Lundgren flicks that were my bad-day blanket movies before I discovered Versus). I think this is as good as the genre gets.
It's no secret that, as a rule, I harbor grave suspicions regarding 'funk' and the so-called and much-maligned 'mainstream' popular music. Rules being made to be broken, I wasn't particularly surprised when singer & bassist Rhonda Smith smashed that one to pieces with her mighty Mesa-powered tone and almost miraculous ability to look gorgeous even while clad in bright yellow. [Seriously. How does she even do that?! No one looks good in yellow.] Despite the unavoidably funky pop style of this record, I find myself unable to turn it off (or stop hitting 'replay'). The unusually tasteful arrangements and even more unusually tasteful lyrics keep me coming back for another listen, as do the skillfully complex basslines lurking in the background of the deliciously atmospheric mix. Though a few loudmouthed (and tasteless, and possibly hearing-impaired) critics have disparaged her naturalistic, unpolished singing style and relative lack of vocal pyrotechniques, I would argue that the understated vocal lines and slightly unusual timbre of her voice are all the more captivating for their (minor) imperfections.
For some reason known only to herself (in her defense, I think it had to do with our curiosity regarding the local film industry), my kid sister bought this on DVD as a Crimbomas gift for the whole family. And what a family film it is...
...
...What am I talking about?! It's totally not a family film. Unless you're raising your family on a steady diet of the Sams (Peckinpah & Raimi, obviously), in which case your kids will have a healthy appreciation for the respectable volume of red paint splashed all over the streets of F*ck Town. And if you're not filling your offspring's little heads with such sensational stuff, what the hell is wrong with you? I can tell you that my own childhood would have been vastly improved by the Evil Dead films, and I hope that you'll learn from my parents' mistakes and make sure your kids don't grow up deprived and turn out like me [insert wry and slightly disturbing wink here].
But I digress. Conclusion: this film is amusing, if not for the faint of heart (or people who dislike the colour red). If you enjoy razor-blade-encrusted baseball bats, hockey skates, Rutger Hauer, hobos, and electric toasters, this prime example of good clean Canadian fun is not to be missed.
Recommendation for getting absolutely the most out of this gleefully grisly gorefest: watch it with your mom.
[Yeah, I know this update is long-overdue. I was ill, and then I was ill, and then I was ill, and then I got my arm out of a cast and had hideously painful physiotherapy and hurt too much to type. Bite me.]
Have you seen this movie? No? Man, what are you still doing on this blog?! Go beg, borrow, or st - er, 'rent' - a copy, right now! I just saw this for the first time, and it's definitely a new all-time favourite. Why, you ask? Well - there's the soundtrack, for one. And the soundtrack. Oh, and - the soundtrack... (The rest of the film is fantastic too, but, as you can probably tell, I can't get over how good the music was.)
Based on one of Roddy Doyle's novels (which I, shamefully, have yet to read), the film chronicles the making and breaking of a North Dublin soul band. It's a good story, produced and acted unusually well - and the cast really did perform their own songs, which makes it even better. A skillful blend of high-flying hilarity and grim reality keeps any potential dull moments from rearing their monotonous heads, and the irresistible energy of great music drives the film from beginning to end with never a note out of place. If you like music, you will love this movie.
This film should probably be renamed "Mifune Toshiro Kills Everyone." The very process of sitting still and watching it will make you feel completely epic, awesome, and every other commonly (and delightfully) misused adjective you can think of. Seriously, why are you still looking at this when you could be looking at this? :
This is really odd. It's supposed to be a horror movie, but it never quite feels like one. There's this gentle dreamlike quality to it that mutes the horror aspects in the most curious ways; afterwards I felt like I'd just watched something happy despite all the technically rather horrible deaths. I'm not sure why, really, but I enjoyed it immensely - particularly the beautiful saturated colours, which unlike many late-70s films don't feel overdone; the intense palette is really well suited to the fairy-tale nature of the piece.
Perhaps the oddest part is that, despite a few very '70s costumes, the film really doesn't feel dated at all. The special effects are very fake in a way that looks completely intentional, which makes them seem strangely modern rather than clumsy, cheap, or old-fashioned. I really liked the soundtrack, which is understated and pretty. It's kind of a baffling film, and I definitely recommend it.
This is really beautiful. I can't stand Bob Dylan (I know, I'm a heretic, burn me at the stake or whatever); I think most of his songs are horribly phony and pretentious, and calculatedly arty in a horribly smug sort of way. Every once in a while though, someone does a Dylan cover that makes me recognize the merit in a particular song (like MCR's cover of Desolation Row - yeah, I know, now you really want to burn me at the stake - well, bite me!), and this particular cover elevates that merit into the realm of genuine loveliness. Robyn's interpretation has a classy sort of softness to it, so different from the harsh original; his spare acoustic guitar winds beautifully together with John Paul Jones' (yes, that John Paul Jones) tasteful mandolin accompaniment in an unusually elegant take on an oft-recorded song.
Covers have such an odd and uncomfortable place in the music world. It's terribly irritating when a loathly, rotten band covers a great song, which is far too often what happens. Every once in a while a great artist manages to drastically improve on the original, as in John Cale's exquisite cover of Hallelujah and the Soft Cell version of Tainted Love. Here's an exceptional example of one of the most consistently underrated musicians I've heard covering one of the most consistently overrated:
Did you know that, according to the sorts of scientists who crank out obscure trivia, every tear you cry eventually ends up in the ocean? This is relevant here because Mitchell's book might cause you to shed tears of pure rage. Tackling the difficult subject of ocean change (a massive contributing factor to global climate change), she lists example after example of horrifying things that the human race has done to the seas and everything in them, including plastic islands, oxygenless 'dead zones' of water where nothing can live, and entire species fished to the brink of extinction. Thankfully she also lists things that can, could, and should be done to try and halt (or at least assuage) the potentially catastrophic effects of ocean and climate change. The question, as always, is whether enough people will give enough of a damn to change anything at all.
Sore subject aside, it's fascinating just to follow her research expedition as she travels the world visiting coral reefs, universities, Australians, starving Tanzanian villagers, floating laboratories, a marine conference in China, a paleoecological dig in Spain, and the bottom of the sea. I learned a ton of incredibly cool facts about phytoplankton (which produce about half of the world's atmospheric oxygen) and corals, and some rather less cool facts about modern fishing practises and why there are certain types of seafood we simply oughtn't to eat.
In case you might think that Mitchell is simply a paranoid alarmist or a bleeding-heart crackpot commie Canadian liberal, I'd like to point out that she was named by Reuters as the best environmental reporter in the world. That's hardly the title of a crackpot, rather the label of a great writer and a fanatically accurate researcher. Please do read her book.
This may be the most appetizing of all books about comics. Part evolutionary history of the superhero, part memoir of a life defined by this quirky and oft-maligned medium; served up in bite-sized chapters (I defy you to read just one!) by the quirky and oft-maligned writer of Arkham Asylum, The Invisibles, Kill Your Boyfriend (plug: this may be my favourite comic in the whole world), and All-Star Superman. Fascinating read - there are so many superheroes I've never even heard of! - best enjoyed with a notebook near at hand for keeping track of all the comics (also books, films, and records) you'll want to look up. A nice mix of straight-up history and personal commentary; Morrison manages to insert his opinions regarding most of the content without being obnoxious about it (a neat trick, that). The main thing is that his book is just plain entertaining, as books about comics ought be be and so often aren't. It's quite good fun to know why he thinks Watchmen was important even though he doesn't really like it, and an entirely different kind of fun reading about his transformatively psychedelic out-of-body adventure in Kathmandu. I really like the way he's woven strands of his life story in and out of the narrative, so that the book is never really about him but also never really not about him; it's an unusual and a lovely method of autobiography. Highly recommended!
There are a host of reasons why this might be the coolest thing I've seen all year. It's certainly one of the most relevant, given the neverending debates, arguments, and all-out warfare surrounding the issue of copyright infringement. Because I've only got 300 words here I can't just gush about how much I love this movie, so here are two of the aforementioned host of reasons:
1. The concept! This is an open source film. All of the footage is freely available on the Open Source Cinema site under a Creative Commons license; you are allowed - nay, encouraged - to download it, copy it, slap it together with new stuff and/or in new ways (in short, remix it) and make your own damn movie.
2. Cory Doctorow's in it. And if that's not enough cool in one place for you, there's also Lawrence Lessig, about whom I am in total agreement with filmmaker Brett Gaylor: this man is the coolest lawyer in the world. Still not enough? Okay, how about pirate cartoonist Dan O' Neill, legendary musician Gilberto Gil, and Bittersweet Symphony capoeira in the slums of Rio? Oh, and did I mention that a good deal of the film centres on kickass mashup artist Gregg Gillis, better known as the infamous Girl Talk?
Go watch this intelligent, informative, levelheaded, and terrifyingly to-the-point film. It's affordable and readily available (hell, the whole thing's on youtube - though if you like it and you've got some spare change, you can make a donation). Form your own opinion (or borrow a few from other people and make a philosophical mashup). I see this project's message as an invitation to help create the world we want to live in, and that is gloriously cool.
This one's been on my watch list for years, and, laid up with a nasty cold and lured by the promise of vampire David Bowie, lesbian Catherine Deneuve, and Bauhaus, I watched it. Poor, misguided me.
It starts off alright, with a vaguely creepy club scene involving a very brief appearance by the promised Bauhaus (inevitably performing Bela Lugosi's Dead, of course). From there it's all downhill...
First Bowie, who's not really a vampire (more of a bloodsucking groupie, really) shrivels up into an ancient zombie-thing, kills an annoying teenybopper, and then - flakes - away. Then Susan Sarandon (ecch) gets naked for no good reason at all (double ecch). Catherine Deneuve doesn't really get naked at all, which is quite disappointing. Everyone acts like a jerk and then dies, except for Catherine Deneuve, who shrivels up into a witchy old thing and gets locked in a box forever and ever, and Susan Sarandon, who takes over as head slutty vampire (ecch x eternity).
Q: Is it good?
A: No.
Q: Is it predictable, derivative, poorly scripted, and full of obviously fake special effects?
A: Yes.
Q: Do I love it?
A: ...Yes.
Okay, so the acting is wooden, the dialogue is bland, the story is...thin, to say the least, and the critics hated it. But it's fun! The unconvincing but spooky theocratic post-apocalypse setting is a thoroughly enjoyable piece of chilling escapist fantasy. The monochromatic desertified wastelands are quite beautiful despite being so obviously computer-generated, and the solar-powered bikes the characters race across the sands on at ridiculously high speeds are really quite cool. Oh, yeah, and it always makes me happy when movie vampires are grotesquely portrayed as slimy, insectoid, eyeless, cave-dwelling monsters rather than sparkly undead noblemen. These vamps are definitely not sexy, unless you have a massive thing for drippy grey slime. I suppose they'll never make a sequel to this film, but I really hope I'm wrong!
This record is such an odd experience. Being a massive fan of their later works, the Japan sound I know is smoothly elegant; classy, cool, and substantially coloured by exotic tints of civilizations far from England in the golden age of synthpop. It's completely disorienting to put on a Japan record and hear loud, fast, raw, raunchy glam rock. None of the esoteric beauty of Gentlemen Take Polaroids is to be found here, and Sylvian, not yet having developed his trademark velvety baritone croon, is almost unrecognizable in these gritty, yowling vocals. Only in Karn's slippery, tonally unstable bass playing and Jansen's frenetically odd drumming can I hear strong hints of the sounds I know they'll be making by the next record, 1979's stupendous Quiet Life. Most of the record is more reminiscent of some strange cross between The New York Dolls and tidbits of jazz and funk. It's also strange to hear so much prominent guitar; after this record most guitar sounds would become completely lost in the tonal sea of Richard Barbieri's wall-o'-synth - which is nearly inaudible this time around. The only track which resembles what I think of as 'the Japan sound' is The Tenant, a piano-based instrumental which ends the record on a note that carries over into every record they released afterwards.
It's a damned good record once I manage to shut myself off from the visceral "that CAN'T be Japan" reaction. Their musical proficiency makes for a nice change from the simplistic three-chord structure of most glam rock, and it's quite entertaining hunting for precursors to their rather sudden switch to a sleek, shimmering art-pop sound.
I've had a lifelong fixation with Antarctica. As a child I feasted on Endurance and The Last Place On Earth, dreaming of epic, parka-clad adventures on otherworldly terrain. After suffering through too many cutesy, uninformative movies about penguins, at last I've found a film that focuses on the white continent of my childhood dreams. Written, directed, and charmingly narrated by the wonderful Werner Herzog, here is an entrancing picture of the brave, hardy, and eccentric people who live and work at the bottom of the world. Herzog encounters a broad spectrum of human life-forms, including a banker-turned-bus driver, a plumber descended from Aztec royalty, and a cell biologist who plays electric guitar on the roof of a Quonset hut. Traveling from the continent's largest community, McMurdo Station, to the top of volcano Mount Erebus, the film explores several small research and diving encampments and even, briefly, an open-mic night at a bar. This is not an animal movie, though there are some delightfully fat seals and even a few deranged penguins. It's a fascinating look at the sort of person who winds up at the fabled last place on earth; the travelers, philosophers, researchers, and dreamers of strange dreams who find something in this environment that they can't get anywhere else.
I loved the whole film immensely, but the bits I liked best were the extraordinarily beautiful underwater sequences. Henry Kaiser's lovely footage sucks you into a world it's likely you'd never be able to see for yourself; strange, spooky creatures abound beneath the ice, flowing along in frigid waters beneath a sealed sky. This is definitely a new favourite film, and one I look forward to seeing again every time I can make a friend sit still and watch it with me.
This is what I call a three-hour book; an adventure story both ripping and gripping, and a thoroughly enjoyable one at that. I gobbled it down in an afternoon, with lavish amounts of enjoyment despite only having been able to find an irritating large-print edition. This is absolutely my favourite motorcycle book to date (and I've read quite a few), owing largely to the delightful nature and circumstances of the author. Lois is lovely! Her wicked sense of humour and lust for the road, combined with her endearing love for the very sort of small motorcycles that I myself adore and her rather excellent style of writing, make her the best sort of person to write a book about a madcap motorbike trip from Alaska to Argentina. It's lovely the way she doesn't take herself too seriously and isn't afraid to tell a few stupid stories on herself; that sort of disarming openness makes me think very well indeed of her. It's also rather nice to read a motorcycle travel book by someone who wasn't running away from anything more than a slightly boring life.
I can't help comparing all the moto books I've read with one another, and though I enjoyed The Perfect Vehicle, am very glad I read Ghost Rider, and have a proper appreciation for Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, there's a lot to be said for sometimes just reading a good story by a good-natured person who isn't particularly sad, doesn't feel sorry for herself (except when she's got food poisoning, and really, I think feeling sorry for oneself is de rigeur at such times), and doesn't let philosophy get in the way of letting herself have a rip-roaring good time. Highly recommended for anyone who likes reading adventures, whether or not you care about motorbikes!
Here's a bit of buried treasure for you. I'm a pretty massive fan of Mr. Sylvian's music, most of the time, but I have yet to discover much affection for his record Gone to Earth. It swarms with unappealing qualities, particularly that pretentious sort of spiritualism which always makes me want to smack those afflicted by it upside the head in the hope that they'll come to their senses. It's not one of the triumphs of his career (unlike the absolutely perfect Secrets of the Beehive, of which I will write more at some point). Silver Moon, however, is a completely different sort of fish. This swooning little gem of a song seems completely at odds with the rest of the album; psuedo-Eastern mysticism gives way to lush romanticism, accompanied by a lithe, swaying beat unlike anything else on the record. The rich, silky warmth of many-layered instrumentation contrasts marvellously with the simple (and simply perfect) vocal, making for a deliriously lovely confection:
...Of course, having written all about why I can't stand Gone to Earth, I shall most likely listen to the
whole record sixteen times in a row and end up falling in love with it
after all, which is what always happens for me with Sylvian records. I
didn't like Brilliant Trees at first either, and now I think it's, well, brilliant. Gone to Earth
has got a lot going for it (like Steve Nye, for example - and Bill
Nelson, Robert Fripp, & Richard Barbieri - and my favourite drummer
of all time, Steve Jansen), so perhaps I ought to give it rather more of a
chance.
Imagine a world with no fish. This should bother you. If it does, watch this film. If it doesn't (you hate fish, you never eat them; or, you love fish, but you know there are plenty of them in the sea), watch it anyway. I'm f*cking serious this time, kids. Most of what I review here is for my own amusement, and I don't really mind whether or not you seek it out beyond the reviews. This one is different; I really, really want you to go and watch it.
Yeah, I know - I hate nature docs, and I never recommend them. This is not a nature doc. This is a documentary about the horrifying impact human appetite and avarice has on the no-longer-natural world. Ever gone out for sushi? Surf 'n' turf? Made good old-fashioned chowder, or baked a nice filet of haddock? Do you know where the filling in your tuna sandwich was caught, and how? These are easy questions to answer, though the simple-enough answers may lead you towards rather more frightening truths.
Please watch the film. It's easy to get, via netflix or a library. Make your friends watch it. Make your mom watch it (maybe she'll stop making that really horrible salmon casserole every time you visit). I know it's tough. I know you don't want to know what your fellow humans have done to the world you live in, and how you've inadvertently helped them out with that. I sure as hell wish I didn't have to know any of it. But I do know, and I want and wish and hope and pray for you to know too, because I would like to have some world left for us to keep on living in.
I was a bit surprised by this one. We watched it despite all the unfavourable reviews, because we love John Cusack (because, seriously, who doesn't love John Cusack?), and you know what? Screw that ol' sourpuss Roger Ebert; we loved it. It was funny and cute, and also a pretty decent satire of all the things it was trying to be a satire of. Joan Cusack was, as always, adorably awful (and far too scarce); John Cusack, as always, bore an adorable resemblance to a kicked puppy (you know the face I'm talking about...can I get an 'awww?"). I'd expected Hilary Duff to be completely loathly, but she was absolutely perfect and, surprisingly, rather likeable. It ain't great cinema, but if you like explosions, shootouts, slutty Central Asian pop divas, hot sauce shots, and Cusacks, you'll probably enjoy it anyway.
Dude. There are so many zombies in this book. George Romero would plotz if he saw all the zombies in this book, that's how many there are. Verdict? Awesome!
I'm actually pretty goddamned zombied out; their constant influx in recent years has raised the durned varmints to nearly the same pinnacle of ubiquity as vampires (well, okay, maybe not quiiite that high a level of cultural saturation). What makes this anthology cool and different is that most of the stories are old, and when I say old, I mean even older than your mom (well, okay, maybe not your mom; I hear she was the one who wrapped The Mummy...). The majority of these zombies date from the 1920s through 40s, when they originally graced the pages of delightfully lurid pulp productions like Weird Tales, and the prose surrounding them is satisfyingly over-the-top. H. P. Lovecraft puts in a few token appearances, as do a great many views of Haiti. The shambling brain-eater is almost (though not entirely) a non-presence here; in hisorher place we find the Svengali-drugged sleepwalker; the unearthed corpse controlled by one sick bastard of a shaman; the accident victim returned to something resembling life by the Powah of Troo Luv (sickening but sorta sweet, like rotten candy)... If you're in the mood for delightfully diverting trash, give this landfill of undead 'literature' a go.
This movie had sooo much potential. Henry Rollins, Takeshi Kitano, Udo Kier, Ice-T, Dolph Lundgren, and Dina Meyer, all on the same screen, complete with scripting by the legendary William Gibson? Yes, please! Sadly, much of that potential was swallowed up by dumb*ss editing. Oh, and the total lack of Molly Millions, originally the main character...in point of fact, the story is almost completely unrecognizable to any self-respecting Gibson fan. Also sadly, Keanu Reeves.
Good points: Henry Rollins <3 <3 <3 ! He's always supercrazyawesome in bad movies, even though his characters always die, and he should totally wear big glasses more often. Ice-T was awesome, too - he's a surprisingly good actor, in addition to being the most bad*ss of all rappers. And Dina Meyer's always pleasing to look upon, though I liked her way better as Oracle. Also, the retrofuturistic technology is hilarious (they still use minidiscs! In 2021!).
Bad points: The terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad mid-90s special effects. The awful, abrasive soundtrack. Also, poor Dolph's repulsive Street Jesus getup; it is a crime and a sin to paste a grubby fake beard on that gloriously stereotypical action-man face - and the hair is just plain disgusting:
I grabbed this off the sci-fi paperback shelf at the library without really looking at it, because I was desperate and because the tagline on the cover is sort of cool ( 'a novel of greed, betrayal, and social networking'). This technique of reading-material-acquisition usually leads to me reading half of a boring book, getting bored, and giving it to someone else so they can become bored too. I actually made my dad, Mr. Scientific Guinea Pig, read this one first, because I was worried it would be too boring for me. He loved it! After I watched him rapidly turn pages while gleefully chortling for a couple of days, it became imperative that I read the book myself. I'm awfully glad I did, because it's awesome! The combination of ARGs, rampant gold-farming bots running amok, product-of-Caltech geeks who accidentally crash bits of the global economy, and also a handful of murders, makes for a most excellently thrilling read.
Special bonus: a lot of writers in the cyberpunk genre seem to find it impossible to write convincing female characters*. I think this is mostly because they sit down and try to write about a 'girl' as opposed to writing about a 'person,' and everyone knows that girls don't think or act anything like normal people do. Mr. Williams understands that gender is irrelevant to geekery; protagonist Dagmar, who is most definitely a geek, is a very believable girl character just because she thinks and acts like a geek rather than like a geek's idea of a girl. This is delightful.
* excepting the illustrious William Gibson, whose Bigend Trilogy is full of wonderfully lifelike ladies who bear a suspicious resemblance to human beings.
This is - an extraordinary film. I don't think I've felt so moved by any other; there may simply not be any other which so tangibly portrays the utter madness of men in times of war. The four main characters, placed in impossible circumstances by the enmity of their countries and cultures and by their own conflicting feelings, alternately support and destroy one another in a heart-wrenchingly believable fashion.
Perhaps it is so believable because the story was based on Sir Laurens van der Post's remarkable memoirs of his years spent as prisoner of war at a Japanese camp in Java during the second world war - at any rate that might account for the truthful ring of the script. I think, though, that the real power lies in the unusual solidity with which the main cast became their characters; I don't expect I shall see another film starring David Bowie during which I forget that it's really David Bowie I'm seeing. Truthfully, I watched this film purely for the sake of the soundtrack and the star-studded cast, and came away from it with something in me changed. I cannot begin to express how much I hope that you will see it too.
Reading this was an interesting experience. I found myself in the unusual position of liking the book immensely while disliking the author intensely. I could feel no sympathy towards her desperate need for a man to look after her, particularly as she described over and over again how she would entrust her beloved motorcycle to an inept mechanic, knowing that she'd end up redoing his work afterwards, just because she felt like she had to have someone masculine do those things for her. Sh*t like that irritates me insanely, particularly coming from a talented, reasonably successful woman who has ridden thousands and thousands of miles alone and is physically, though apparently not emotionally, capable of taking care of herself and her machines.
I can't dislike her book though, because this lady knows exactly how to describe what makes riding so wonderful. She's a damned fine writer, and manages the neat trick of writing nonfiction that's as much of a pleasure to read as a great novel. All of the tips and tricks and facts and bits of history are so neatly laced together with beautifully polished words that I almost wanted to memorize half the book, just because I knew I'd never be able to say these things so well in my own words. Any motorcycle aficionado ought to enjoy this book, which encapsulates much of the sheer joy of riding, and every non-rider ought to read it so they can better understand the rider mindset (and hopefully keep a better eye out for us when they drive their cars).
This one's a bit of a tearjearker, the story of a man who lost absolutely everything and survived only by running away. It would be sad even if it weren't true - his daughter died, his wife died, his dog died, and his best friend went to prison - but it is true; all of that really happened to the author, who is also the drummer for Canadian band Rush. The book chronicles a series of impressively long motorcycle trips he took, through North and Central America, hoping that time, distance, and miles-put-behind would let him escape the shambles of his life. Apart from the tragic elements, it's a wonderful travel story; the collected letters and journal entries that he tied together with concise, illustrative reminiscences portray an astonishing number of km traveled, sights seen, and well-described fun roads ridden. He's a very good writer, in a concise, almost-journalistic sort of way. There is a little bit of a financial disconnect; as a reader accustomed to shoestring-budget travel, I did keep getting a bit hung up on all the expensive meals he ate and the way he could always afford to stay in good hotels, and his ever-growing collection of beautiful motorcycles. But hey - the man worked hard for his fortune, and I'm glad it was able to help him live through his troubles.
Highlight: one of the real pleasures of this book is reading about all the other books Peart, a voracious reader, consumed during his travels (I look forward to reading many of them myself).
Unrealized potential makes me want to cry, and this album is a perfect example why. It's not a great record; the songs are all over the place, the lyrics oscillate between witty, trashy, and trite, and the obsessive-sounding overproduction is just plain off. But the talent! It oozes out from between the grooves, displaying so, so much potential greatness, and it's a real tragedy for music that they never made another album. I remember hearing this when it first came out and thinking I'd discovered the next best thing since candy. The flaws here do shine as brightly as the facets - but there's still that undeniable appeal of something lurking in the music, set off rather wonderfully by the unusual harmonic progressions, the unobtrusively clever basslines, and Paul Holmes' outrageously sexy vocals floating atop a wash of sadly-digital-sounding synths. The right combination of time, experience, stern management, and better production might have resulted in one of the best bands of the decade - Steve Nye could have made these guys into stars! - and it's a damned shame we don't get to hear what that sounds like.
Favourite tracks: We're On Drugs (most solid song on the record), Anyway (a little overblown, but it's an awfully good tune), and ctwyl (fantastic use of that lovely voice).
I think it's time for Mr. Silva to make good on his often-broken promise to let poor Gabriel Allon retire. Allon had a great run in his blood-and-paint-spattered career as mild-mannered art restorer by day, Israeli James Bond by night, but he has at last fallen prey to one of the hazards of being a long-running fictional character: he's become a formula. Portrait is book 11 in what has been a pretty good series of politically-based espionage thrillers. The first few were entertaining; the middle books were outstandingly good. Sadly, the later books seem mostly comprised of reworked bits from those excellent middle books.
The recipe: Gabriel and his beautiful young wife retire to Cornwall so he can paint in peace. An international terrorism crisis occurs. Gabriel says 'oh, yes, of course I will un-retire and save the world from the Arabs, but just this once. Again.' He and his team of super-spies come up with a dangerous plan to catch the terrorist leaders, which inevitably hinges on recruiting a beautiful woman who is rich, famous, or otherwise special. She bravely does her part, then gets captured and tortured. Gabriel kills a lot of bad guys, then sacrifices himself to save her. Then he goes back to Cornwall to recover, and swears he'll never spy/kill/save the world again. Until the next book.This one's a little different because the beautiful rich woman gets killed, but it turns out to be okay because she was dying anyhow.
Book 12 comes out later this year. I'll probably read it, out of morbid curiosity, habit, and the hope that something different will happen this time...
If you can explain to me why I feel guilty about loving this record, I'll take you out for ice cream*. Seriously, I will! I couldn't begin to tell you why, but I have to admit that Kings of Leon fall squarely into the category of bands I wouldn't want my friends to know I like. Which is totally stupid, because this catchy, raucous little record is a hell of a good time, and one has cheered me up rather a lot during the past week or so. I do find it a little off-putting that singer Caleb F. sounds so astonishingly, incoherently hammered - like he's maybe swigging some really terrible Southern beer every time he stops singing to 'take a breath' - but his style does fit the music, and the music is really pretty decent.
Favourite tracks: 'Happy Alone' (the sheer quantity of madcap drunken glee is irresistible), 'Joe's Head' (I LOVE Jared F.'s slidy, melodic bassline on this weirdly cheery murder ditty), and the menacingly groovy 'Holy Roller Novocaine'.
*next time we hang out. Sorry if that takes a while to happen, but I'm rarely in your part of the world...
Joking aside, this film is, sadly, pretty awful. It's supposed to be a horror film, but it's not even a little bit scary. It's also neither funny nor original, which puts it pretty far down the list of things you might want to see. I watched it solely because it contains the only candidate I support for the upcoming United States presidential election (read his blog, it's kind of wonderful). Unfortunately his part is far too brief, and there's really nothing else to look forward to. Except the aforementioned boobs. Leading lady Clare Grant, though her role is rather flat, is possessed of a truly impressive rack. Thankfully, she spends most of the film running. While wearing a really low-cut shirt.
[I broke my wrist. This makes typing a serious nuisance, particularly capital letters, but it also makes me so bored - I can't do very much of anything useful - that one-handed typing seems like a worthwhile diversion. Excessive reviews may be forthcoming... For now, on to the record of the hour.]
Warning: this record may eat your soul.
Well, okay, maybe not yours - I don't know how susceptible you may be. It did eat mine though; I couldn't listen to anything else for a month after first hearing. It's such a perfectly complete self-contained sonic universe that no other music sounded right until I'd burned this into my consciousness solidly enough that I didn't need to hear it all of the time. The music is incredible, exquisitely beautiful melodies woven through bitter harmony and harshly distorted, brutally melancholic riffs. The band has never played better; Colin Edwin's tastefully (and sometimes deceptively) simple basslines really shine through the achingly beautiful haze of the stupendous Richard Barbieri's wall-of-synth. The mix is unusually clean, achieving that rare beast, perfect balance. This just might be the best headphones album ever made. I'm not sure I could name the other 4, but this is definitely one of my top 5 records.
The show ends. The credits roll. My Dad turns to me and says "...You know how [our friends] P. and R. have to watch 'Hair' every year? ...I gotta see this every year."
I couldn't possibly have said it better myself, but here's my 3 cents:
Watch this film. It's a wonderful portrait of a great band putting on a spectacular, rivetingly peculiar show. The cinematographic construction absolutely does justice to the frenetically bizarre performers (thanks, Jonathan Demme!), and the ever-changing backdrops are enviably clever. Plus - David Byrne, live! Possibly the weirdest guy in rock & roll, he's certainly one of the most entertaining. Do see it, you'll be missing out on such a treat if you don't.
Highlight: there are two -
1. The special guest appearance by Tom Tom Club, performing 'Genius of Love', and the iconic
2. "Anyone got a match?"
I hate nature documentaries. Nature is supercool, generally speaking, but the makers of these wretched pieces of work have an incredible penchant for stripping all semblance of meaning from the natural world. This one is no exception. Though filmed in impressive and often beautiful (and sometimes incredibly disgusting) close-up detail, the almost total lack of narration means that one spends the whole film going "but why are those bugs fighting?" "but WHY are the caterpillars marching in lines, is someone about to snort them or something?" "what is that thing?" The soundtrack is nothing short of execrable. It sounds as if they remixed a really awful early-20th-century opera with Tom Waits' worst drunken moments and also a gentrified circus side show. Highlight: a pheasant eating ants.
This film would probably be perfect if you projected it on the ceiling during a party and spiked the punch with LSD.
Okay, I promise not to mention Steve Earle again for at least 10 posts. After this one, that is - Mr. Earle's debut novel has my vote for the best book of 2011, so I have to write about it. First of all, the man can write - anyone who pays attention to that sort of thing will be deeply satisfied by the style and grace with which he strings words together. Secondly, it's awfully rare that someone takes grim subject matter (in this case junk addicts, slums, whores, the Kennedy assassination, an accidentally-pregnant Mexican girl, and a discredited doctor turned back-alley abortionist who is haunted by the ghost of Hank Williams) and manages to create something which isn't depressing, disheartening, or just plain ugly. This book is so far from being ugly I think I'd have to label it something pretentious like transcendentally lovely, which, on second thought, doesn't seem excessive as a description for a story that travels from a Texas brothel to a Mexican valley full of Monarch butterflies. The book is named for Hank's last song, which you might like to listen to for context; there's also rather a good record of the same name which Earle released last year. I love, love, love this book - it's beautiful and heartbreaking and lyrical and sometimes funny, and also just a plain ol' good story - please, please read it.
What I originally wrote after reading this: 'I'm going to write a review once I can find the words, but in the meantime, please read this astonishingly beautiful little book. It will touch a corner of your heart that you might not even have known about.'
I've never much cared for country music. There's always an exception though; in this case that's a handful of artists who belonged to the Outlaw Country movement of the 1960s and 70s, particularly Guy Clark, Larry Jon Wilson, and the immortal Townes Van Zandt. Their anachronistic style, harking back to the days before Chet Atkins' slickly modern 'Nashville Sound', was firmly rooted in the honky-tonk and folk music tradition of authenticity - these musicians usually managed to sound like they were thinking of something other than money while they sang. It's good stuff. This lovely little documentary shows a motley assortment of performances, interviews, and recording studio sessions by quite a few country greats (including Guy, Larry Jon, Townes, Charlie Daniels, and a very young Steve Earle). I'd say it's a must-watch even if you think you don't like country music; you just might change your mind. I know I did. Definitely watch the extras.
Highlight: Guy Clark repairing Billy Callery's guitar (seriously - it's mesmerizing). Oh, yeah, and the soundtrack is rather good.
Film poster featuring Townes & Uncle Seymour Washington
