Next Steps


Watching TV Shows on DVD is the new Watching Movies in the Theatre (when you have a one year-old and no babysitter):

Mad Men, Season 2 As coolly flawless as the first season, yet more balanced in its attention to its sprawling cast. Namely, Season 2 sensitively fleshes out its key female characters into human beings as complex and fascinating and frustrating as their male counterparts. Last season, Betty, Peggy, and Joan had their choice moments, to be sure, but here, they're given welcome room to breathe and really take shape. At the same time, Don Draper emerges even more this time out as a real Tony Soprano-scaled protag, a post-Shakespearean figure in the throes of myriad personal, professional, and existential crises that, try as they might, his friends, co-workers, lovers, and family members could never hope to fully understand. He's as compelling a central character as TV--or maybe American pop culture in general--has produced since Gandolfini's iconic turn.
Standout Performer: January Jones treads very interesting, and delicate, territory here, alternating--sometimes within the space of a scene--between icy Mommy Dearest and vulnerable woman scorned. Jones' dramatic versatility, far more apparent this season than last, lends Betty a depth of feeling that makes her a perfect on-screen match for Jon Hamm's Don.
Best Moment(s): Don's California detour steers his character and the show itself in an unexpected direction. Echoes of Tony Soprano's final-season trip to Vegas following Christopher's death are perhaps unavoidable, but they in no way detract from the dreamlike power of our main man's stoic facade evaporating amongst a commune of proto-hippie types.

Dexter, Season 3 To claim that Dexter jumped the shark this season would be a considerable overstatement. Yes, it stoops to dubious levels of soap opera melodrama and character motivations are often vague or questionable. But it's no less compulsively watchable than the two seasons that preceded it, and some of the stuff on the margins here--Angel's budding romance, Rita's pregnancy--is thoughtful enough to more or less redeem the season's weaker elements--Deb's third consecutive (and least interesting) dead-end relationship, Masuka's short-lived serious side, Quinn's less-sinister-than-we're-led-to-suspect secret, etc. Perhaps the biggest problem is that as Dexter Morgan becomes more of a multi-dimensional character, he's less flexibly functional as a metaphor (as he was in the superior and more ambiguous first season). This is no knock at all, of course, on Michael C. Hall, who is, if anything, better than ever as Dexter grapples with such foreign concepts as Fatherhood and Friendship. Ditto Jimmy Smits, who is a total hoot as Miguel, even when the scripters run his character way too far off the rails.
Standout Performer: David Zayas doesn't necessarily expand on Angel's broken-hearted teddy bear persona so much as expertly capitalize on every scene advancing the subplot of his workplace romance. Kristin Dattilo is very good, too, as the officer on the other end of that relationship.
Best Moment(s): The Dexter/Miguel dynamic yields a number of vintage scenes before things get too over-baked. Their shopping trip, where Dexter throws a couple life jackets in the cart so as not to provoke suspicion, is up there. And the scene where Dexter pretends to care about sports was pretty good, too.

Friday Night Lights, Season 3 This is one of the most wholly satisfying and consistently poignant seasons of any show I've ever seen. Which is to say, it more than makes up for the previous season's missteps (read: the Landry-Tyra murder tangent, Jason's desperate trip south of the border). There isn't a single character or situation here that doesn't ring utterly true, nor a cast member that doesn't make the most of his or her every scene. And yet, no one's trying to chew scenery here; this is the best ensemble on television, period. There's uncommon warmth and moments of startling beauty in every episode this cycle, as well as an eye for for the tiny, perfectly formed details of day-to-day life that are rarely captured so truthfully in art of any stripe.
Standout Performer: If Jason Street's move from Dillon to New York equals his swansong as a regularly appearing character, then Scott Porter more than goes out on a high note. In the first two seasons, Porter seemed to sometimes focus a bit too much on Jason's anger toward his disability. Here, Jason realizes that such frustrations are essentially obstacles in the way of him being the best father and provider he can be. The scene where he sings to his son over the phone deserves every tear it earns. His later proposal scene makes even Tim Riggins cry.
Best Moment(s): Aside from the pair I just mentioned, Smash thanking Coach Taylor for all his help, Matt and Julie making googly eyes at each other after reuniting as a couple, and Tyra reading the final draft of her college application letter are about as sweet and genuinely touching as TV gets.

Serious Business


The most subversive thing about Inglorious Basterds isn't its scenes of Nazis getting scalped or clubbed to death with a baseball bat by Jewish-American vigilantes--or even the fact that Hitler himself gets his in Tarantino's jaw-dropping finale. Instead, it's how flawlessly measured the film's rhythms are and how little of the long-but-doesn't-feel-it runtime is actually occupied by the sort of rah-rah blood-and-guts action that the film's ad campaign aggressively suggests.

The opening scene is an extended conversation between Christoph Waltz's brilliantly played Nazi officer and a dairy farmer hiding Jewish neighbors under his floorboards that switches purposefully, yet effortlessly, between French and English. When this casual, ostensibly polite interrogation yields abruptly to torrential gunfire, it's a precisely inserted punctuation mark, standing in for the brand of dramatic, Oscar-y histrionics that Tarantino has consistently avoided like the plague and that, no doubt, Waltz's Col. Hans Landa would find entirely embarrassing. It's as stunning, in its way, as the more literally explosive climax that Tarantino is methodically working toward from the opening credits on; and, rivaling Uma Thurman and David Carradine's heart-to-heart near the end of the second Kill Bill installment, it's the most effective use to date of Tarantino's famous flair for dialogue.

At the same time, the most surprising thing about Inglorious Basterds as a WWII/Holocaust movie isn't its "irreverent" attitude toward the facts and specificities of history--that was assumed from the project's genesis--but rather Tarantino's active engagement with histories both political and cinematic, personal and global. In fact, the final point may be that, as an American born long after the end of World War II, it's difficult and perhaps fruitless to attempt to neatly extrapolate fact from fiction, celluloid battles from their real-life equivalents. Maybe, Tarantino supposes, there's as much to learn from The Dirty Dozen and The Great Escape as from dutifully faithful historical accounts--and more than from recent reenactment drills like Saving Private Ryan and Band of Brothers. No, the power of cinema didn't bring down the Third Reich or end the second World War. But it just might prevent the third one.

Brief Encounter


I've never seen the movie Twilight (or, for that matter, read any of the books), but I can't resist passing this short anecdote along: Earlier tonight, around 11:30 PM, I saw the main vampire guy and lead actress chick from Twilight hanging out, visibly stoned, smoking cigarettes outside a 7-Eleven in downtown Vancouver. I did a double-take and asked, "You're the guy from Twlight, right?" (I only made the connection a few moments later that the short, mousey, entirely ordinary-looking girl standing beside him was his less instantly recognizable costar.) In between weed giggles, he said, "No, man--I get that all the time, though." A heavyset 35-ish year-old man accompanying them laughed and mouthed to me, "it is them." Meanwhile, some girl went up to the two celebs and without saying a word to either actor, had her friend snap a picture. Then a street guy asked Twilight Guy if he could have the last drag on his cigarette. Without actually responding, Twilight Guy handed Street Guy the remainder of his smoke.

Alas, I didn't have a camera handy or else I'd be trying to turn a quick buck right now rather than merely jotting this down on the blog...

Not Fierce Enough


Is it reasonable to call Obsessed "disappointing"?

Yes, I think it is, actually. It's not like I was expecting Terrence Malick or even, say, Adrian Lyne; I try to be an optimist at the start of every movie, but I'm also a realist. What I was hoping for was a prime slice of camp-tastic psychodrama--the sort of thing that one can design a drinking game around and rewatch endlessly on VH1. This is precisely what the trailer seemed to promise: Beyonce saying things like "I'll show you crazy" and "she was naked in your hotel room?", Ali Larter flashing the guy from The Wire in his parked car, some obvious notes of Fatal Attraction for Dummies, etc.

Of course, these moments are in Obsessed, and there are a couple new choice snippets: an odd remark from Beyonce about carpet tattoos on her and her husband's asses and one from Larter where she refers to a gay co-worker she's known for, like, two days as "Patrick, you silly old queen." What isn't in Obsessed are the campier-yet moments that the trailer seemed to promise were in store. Unfortunately, almost all of the juicy, over-the-top stuff we've already seen (numerous times) going in. Most of the rest feels curiously...restrained? That's certainly not a word I thought (or hoped) I'd be using in this post, but even the climactic Beyonce-Larter death match feels sort of perfunctory. Obsessed? More like Overly Infatuated.

Alas, a dud for all the wrong reasons.

Living in a Hurricane


New Miranda track!

Between her Revolution and Blueprint 3, September really can't come soon enough!

10 Songs, 10 Sentences


Black Eyed Peas - "Boom Boom Pow" Putrid; unlistenable.

Ciara f/ Justin Timberlake - "Love Sex Magic" A grower, largely on the strength of that Much Music ad where it's intercut with "Circus."

Eminem - "Beautiful" If he hadn't yet lost it when he made "Just Lose It," he sure has now.

Keri Hilson f/ Kanye West & Ne-Yo - "Knock You Down" Not bad, but not this year's "American Boy" by any stretch.

Jay-Z - D.O.A. Gives real reason to hope The Blueprint 3 might be as good as The Carter 3, if not The Blueprint 1.

Lady Gaga - "Paparazzi" You know you were way off-base with the one-hit wonder tag when the fourth single is better than the three that preceded it.

Brad Paisley - "Then" On paper, it's considerably blander than the lofty lyrical standard to which he deserves to be held, yet the tenderness in his delivery goes--as usual--a pretty long way.

Asher Roth - "I Love College" Reminds me less of my own college experience than of that Gilmore Girls episode where Rory and Paris reluctantly head down to Florida for Spring Break.

Taylor Swift - "You Belong With Me" She has to know the the shy-nerdy girl thing has a fairly finite lifespan, especially if she wants to play Juliet--or at least Shania (unless, come to think of it, she'd rather be the distaff Brad Paisley).

Kate Voegele - "99 Times" The chorus is surprisingly catchy, though I'd be more surprised if I ever heard the name Kate Voegele again (though see above: Gaga, Lady).

Never Can Say Goodbye


Michael Jackson--arguably music's most broadly significant figure since the Beatles and, for better or worse, one of American culture's most singular personalities--is gone, and what are we left with? Well, first and foremost, the music. That's not all, of course--how could it possibly be with a man as complex and unrelentingly scrutinized as MJ?--but, more than autopsy results or family feuds or Michael's countless eccentricities, it's really what we should be collectively focusing on right now in order to best appreciate the hugeness of Michael's talent and impact. It's a body of work as accomplished and inexhaustible as nearly any in popular music--and, to my mind, it's also finally the best way to "know" this supremely enigmatic entertainer.

From "Ben" to "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" to "The Way You Make Me Feel" to "You Are Not Alone," his music seemed to be the one place (along with perhaps the notorious Neverland Ranch) where Michael felt at ease, where he was able to find real, if ephemeral, refuge from the pressures of fame and the critical, unblinking eyes of the media and public. Even his most vicious critics can hardly deny that Michael was nothing if not an uncommonly gentle spirit (and, almost certainly, an uncommonly naive adult). That's why relatively dark expressions of stored frustration like "Smooth Criminal" and "Scream" register more profoundly than they might've from, say, Prince or Madonna--mega stars more clearly in tune with extremes in mood and emotion.

That's the irony of Michael Jackson: His music was by and large as unambiguous and effortlessly pleasurable as his deeply private yet, inadvertently, messily public life was controversial, pained, and often puzzling. That doesn't matter, though. Not now anyway--the music does. Turn on "Rock With You" right now and listen to the warmth and affection with which every note sparkles. Then bid Michael goodbye with an equal measure of both. It's a tremendous loss.

Dog Days


Last fall, I very nearly got to see Kelly Reichardt's Wendy and Lucy at VIFF '08. Alas, we couldn't quite squeeze it into our schedule; we still lived on the Island then and we had a ferry to catch. If I had been able to see the film--which I've only now caught up with--it would've placed at or near the top of my subsequent year-end list. My esteemed viewing-partner-for-life thinks the film has suffered from over-hype. I say the consensus was right on the money.

If Clint Eastwood's Changeling (my pre-W&L #1 for '08) was the closest thing last year to The Passion of Joan of Arc, then Reichardt's film is its Au hasard Balthazar--formally spare, austerely beautiful, thoroughly naturalistic yet shot through with reserves of grace and stillness, and, finally, devastating. The most remarkable (and admirable) thing about Michelle Williams' tremendous lead turn is that, while a seasoned veteran of soapy tv and Oscar-oriented cinema, she "acts" here only a little bit more than Anne Wiazemsky did in Bresson's masterpiece. It's a performance as perfectly suited to the film's aesthetic as Angelina Jolie's more dramatic (and actorly) work in Changeling (expressive and cathartic, not unlike Falconetti for Dreyer).

As in Balthazar, the end results are happy for neither woman nor beast: Williams' Wendy finds her missing canine companion, but with her '88 Accord bound for the junkyard, she's left to train hop it solo the rest of the way (to Alaska, in theory). What we're left with instead is real tragedy--earned, timeless, and nothing if not timely. There's a scene early on where we see Wendy counting her remaining cash, presumably savings from a good long while: a modest stack of twenties plus some smaller bills. As her luck turns from bad to worse, we can do the math ourselves, and if the helpless feeling of a finite amount of money rapidly dwindling away doesn't feel queasily familiar, the film's impact may register as less immediate. But in this moment of widespread economic uncertainty, Reichardt seems to have netted the zeitgeist with a deceptively simple movie about a woman looking for her lost dog.

Another major-keeper that I only recently got around to is Sam Fuller's 1982 White Dog, a problematic look at a woman and her dog. That most basic description is enough to tie it to Wendy and Lucy for the purposes of a blog post, but it's also just about where the similarities between these two films end. Where Reichardt's film is understated, with a plot that could essentially be playing out in any number of dead-end American towns as I type this, Fuller's is a visceral, purposefully specific--a Los Angeles woman adopts a dog that she only later learns has been trained to attack black people, then desperately attempts to have it re-programmed by an African American animal instructor--parable that seems only mildly dated. Unless you believe the election of a black U.S. president equals the end of racism, Fuller's polemic remains vital; his singularly confrontational approach is as heroic in its way as Bresson's transcendental poetry.

I Send Vibrations in Your Direction


The new Metric is really good. Not just their most accomplished long-player to date (which it is) or the best thing I've encountered so far in '09 (ditto), but, like, the most inspired and thoroughly enjoyable rock record I've heard in years.

"Gimme Sympathy" ("who would you rather be/the Beatles or the Rolling Stones?") is their bid for shimmering pop-rock immortality--and, if they play SNL, say, five years from now, it'll be the track they'll be politely but insistently asked to play along with their then-current single. "Help, I'm Alive" ("I tremble/they're gonna eat me alive/if I stumble") and "Satellite Mind" ("I'm not suicidal/I just can't get out of bed") traffic in moody rock star paranoia unnerving enough that you might momentarily forget they're not really as big of rock stars as they should be--an annoying technicality that Fantasies should serve to correct. "Stadium Love" ("wanna make a trade/cougar for a snake/wanna fall in love?") is the most perfectly loose, crunch-tastic last-song-of-the-show (played-after-the-biggest-hit-natch)--oh man, I can't wait to see 'em live again!

And the other six songs are very nearly as terrific, which means as much or more than the four cited above being totally golden. Where their previous efforts paired killer cuts like "Dead Disco" and "Succexy" with half-realized experiments and straight-up filler, Fantasies never lets up, angling for the pop-rock canon and coming within spitting distance.

Top 40: '09


Same as it ever was, and, admittedly, not that strikingly different from last year's list, partly because consistency is criteria numero uno and partly because my new music in-take has, of late, been pretty meager. And, jeez, I really hope Joanna and Miranda put something new out soon so two of my faves can (by my more or less arbitrary list rules) re-enter my (more or less arbitrary) Top Forty.

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