Not What You Want



This is old news by now, but my favorite band ever broke up.

I was going to write up an obit, but Alfred Soto beat me to the punch.

So, in the spirit of lemons/lemonade, who's gonna be our Joey Ramone now? Karen O? The Friedberger sibs? Girls Aloud?

A solid case could be made for each, but right now, I already miss the hell out of Sleater-Kinney.

The second JLT/TLJ podcast is up. Click the image for the direct mp3, or subscribe in iTunes. Happy listening!

JLT/TLJ Podcast #1

The Ongoing Adventures of Josh and Teresa...

Pictures from our trip to St. Louis, added here.

My review of A Prairie Home Companion is up at Stylus.

So...we're back. Still in love. Still engaged. Not in Vancouver anymore. Sober. Not in an arcade.

Here are some pictures from our trip.

We're in love. We're engaged. We're in Vancouver. We're a little bit drunk. We're in an arcade.

P.S. Wish us luck!

-Teresa and Josh

Half of What I Say Is Meaning Less


Weird fact: It's easy to forget how to listen to the Beatles. This is worth noting simply because I can think of few, if any, similar cases.

Which is to say, I can't imagine forgetting how to listen to Van Morrison or Madonna or Missy. Or, for that matter, Plastic Ono Band or "Maybe I'm Amazed," though, I should note, I only recently figured out how to listen to "My Sweet Lord" in the first place.

Granted, I can almost always put on, say, "Don't Let Me Down" or "Happy Just to Dance with You," but how often do I feel like hearing both? Far less often, at any rate, than I'd care to play "Brown-Eyed Girl," "Crazy Love," and "T.B. Sheets" back to back to back. The point isn't that the Beatles' recorded catalogue is merely more diverse than that of any other popular artist--it may or may not be, but that's hardly a new or worthwhile discussion anyway--nor is it singles versus long-players either.

"Happy Just to Dance with You" is popcraft as unbridled ebullience, as harmlessly vicarious a rush of blood to the head as any Astaire-Rogers classic. "Don't Let Me Down" is an impossibly urgent chorus in search of a song to wrap itself up in like a warm, familiar blanket. And, of course, they're both absolutely perfect.

More thoughts later, possibly...

Okay, so we're a little late to the party, but Josh and I are freaking over the fact that our darling Lily Allen has a second mixtape. It's less spontaneous than the first, and there's a decidedly smaller dose of actual Lily-made music; but it's still good enough that we can forgive her for also using "Put You On the Game." Plus, she included one of my most favoritest songs ever--"White Rabbit." Her album's been leaked already, drops (apparently) July 17th, and as if she needs any more buzz (who knows if she even wants it?). But, hey, she really is that awesome, so I'm happy to give it.

Proof that great minds don't always think alike: Teresa and me on Blue Velvet.

So, Josh and I made a podcast of some songs we dig. Subscribe in iTunes with this link, or click the above image for the mp3. If all goes well, we'll do one each month. Enjoy, and stuff!

(Thanks to the lovely Astor for hosting the file.)

This is funny.

This is funnier.

The Answer Was Underground


First of all, I promise this is not another review of a Japanese softcore, despite what the poster might suggest.

Marebito is Grudge/Ju-On director Takashi Shimizu’s foray into horror that is more psychological than material. Or, it at least seems like that was his intention. The film--about a Tokyo cameraman named Masuoka (played by director/actor Shinya Tsukamoto) so obsessed with primal human fear, he embarks on a mini-journey to feel it himself--doesn’t succeed on many levels at all.

The film is peppered with Lovecraftian atmosphere, heavy philosophical angles, and a nod to a Richard Shaver story (his fictional underground creatures, called Deros, are featured). It even manages some bristling kinetic energy via the gimmicky use of Masuoka’s camera as a portal to things the human eye may not always see. But instead of holding onto the elements that would make the movie memorable, Shimizu ditches them in favor of nonsensical oddness leading up to a half-baked “revelation.”

And Shimizu isn’t the only one to blame. With all due respect to Tsukamoto (who, I must say, really belongs behind the camera), Masuoka proves to be a protagonist so cold and distant, it’s near-impossible to remotely care about anything he does. Which is unfortunate, since what he does do--travels underground, finds a strange young woman/creature, cares for her no matter what gruesome rituals that entails, etc--could have made for ultra-compelling viewing.

Then there’s the appearance of the Deros themselves. Slightly eerie, but a little too reminiscent of the little blue boy or the crawling, white-skinned mommy for anyone who’s even seen a Grudge trailer.

So, is there anything redeeming in Marebito? It’s never a particularly good idea to lose focus with the story, or mislead the audience so much that they’re disappointed by what is revealed. Shimizu, with his previous work as evidence, is accustomed to doing just that. His sometimes unsteady hand manages to derail Marebito’s fascinating first act, with his Ju-On “sensibilities” snatching the wheel alarmingly fast. The first ten minutes, admittedly, are the kind of stuff that would suck any viewer in, and then some. Shimizu deserves props for that. But, y’know, it’s kinda nice when the rest of the movie doesn’t completely underwhelm itself.

Though speaking of good endings, Marebito’s isn’t too shabby.

I Know It's Over


Seven great closing scenes.

City Lights This is where we start, of course. Chaplin's reaction to the approving first glance from his waifish, formerly blind flower girl is the single greatest shot in movie history. Indelible. Poignant. Joyous. Perfect.

Eyes Wide Shut "I do love you, and you know...there is something very important we need to do as soon as possible." "What's that?" (Beat.) "Fuck." Flawlessly executed, and set in an FAO Schwartz, of all places. It's as ambiguous a statement on Kubrick's part as the iconic "star child" that closes 2001, stripped of mysticism but not mystery. For one of cinema's most troublingly thoughtful meditations on fidelity, it's also a remarkably common sensical touch.

Au hasard Balthazar I've written a lot about Bresson's masterpiece here recently--it's my favorite movie--but that devastating final moment (of the film, and of the titular animal's life) demands mention here. The Passion of the Christ didn't move me much. This one floors me every time I watch it.

Fallen Angels I wrote at some length about this one, while reviewing another Wong Kar-wai movie. Really beautiful stuff.

demonlover Olivier Assayas's best film to date bothered me for weeks after seeing it, and it was largely due to its audience-implicating final scene. Like Jia's The World and the final third of Hou's Three Times, it's above all a meditation on communication in the 21st Century. Assayas focuses on the World Wide Web, opening on some double-dealing white collar types and closing in your little brother's bedroom. It's a vicious cycle.

Days of Heaven Because Malick's movie is finally about young Linda. Richard Gere gets his ass shot, and the farm goes up in flames. Linda's just looking out for a pal--"she was a good friend of mine."

Before Sunset The first film was a uniquely perceptive romantic comedy, but very much of its prototype, to be sure. Jesse and Celine meet cute, flirt, kiss, bicker a little, and then kiss some more. And it's sublime. In the nine-years-removed follow-up, the "you're still here" hug and Jesse playfully pulling Celine onto his lap on that park bench are the extent of physical contact between the two. Both films are talkfests, in the best sense, with exquisitely natural-sounding banter on politics, sex, and spirituality. But Sunset's tone is decidedly more wistful, more urgent, at times, cynical, reflecting the experiences and disappointments of Linklater's older protagonists. The final scene, in Celine's apartment, is a deep, if only temporary, sigh of relief, as genuinely romantic as anything in movies. Right, he's "gonna miss that plane," but where do we go from there?

Speaking of birthdays, today is Josh's. He probably wanted to let it pass by quietly, but what am I here for if not to embarrass him?

And no, this new design was not a B-day "gift" I forced on him. He requested it, I swear!

So, no more complaining that this blog looks "boring." Nearing its third birthday, JLT/JLT needed a new look. Huge thanks to Teresa for the gorgeous redesign (hit "refresh").

Hit her up, kids. Money talks.

Can't Stop, Etc.


Gnarls Barkley St. Elsewhere I'm with Sasha that the "slow" version of the hit manages to improve upon what's already a pretty damned good song. But I also prefer the title track and "Just a Thought," where Cee-Lo turns in his best Solomon Burke impression in the service of the most unsettling suicide track since Biggie's closer on Ready to Die, to either take on England's favorite song. Wait, Dangermouse? He did The Grey Album and that stupid cartoon thing? But, but this is really good?

Bubba Sparxxx The Charm "Bubba's international, but still he kept it regional." That one was key, people, as was the fact that its source song sounded almost as dynamic as Timbo's God's-hand Deliverance highlights. Teresa can have "booty booty booty booty booty booty booty." "As the Rim Spins," the one with Petey Pablo, and "girl, looky here, I feel sensational!" are my keepers. Oh, and the Timbo. Naturally.

Juvenile Reality Check Yes, it's better than Fishscale or the T.I., but let's not get too carried away with the His Post-Katrina N.O. Record line. I believe Juve cares a lot about the fate of the Crescent City, but the good news here is that he's still the best ass-rapper this side of Sir Mix-a-Lot, Bubba's booty paean notwithstanding. That said: Video of the Year, no question.

ESPN's gurus drop wisdom on 714.