...Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.
(I'm normally not one to post or invoke biblical quotations, but this is a really useful adage, no theologizing necessary. Really good movie too, if you've got the stomach for it and can stand Vincent Gallo...)
Always on the Run
Blink Twice, Twice
Fly Me to the Moon Delightfully uncynical and good-natured, and more than superficially "retro": a breezy escape hatch from a coarsened culture painfully contorted in on itself. In its peppy hopefulness and timely skewering of conspiracy-thinking FMTTM isn't just a glossy, fast-relief antidote to These Days. It's also an invitation to a still-viable alternative to extremist acrimony and cultural Ouroboroism that's not that far back in America's rearview mirror. (Heck, they should've screened it at the DNC!)
Blink Twice Pitched somewhere between a season-highlight Black Mirror episode and a solid conceptual/philosophical sequel to Get Out, it's over-stuffed both with stylistic flourishes and plot devices––some of which really work, some of which kinda-sorta work, some of which appear (while watching or else reflected back on) basically pointless. Having a career-year, Channing Tatum's performance is a radically counter-type possible career-best. Decidedly not so for Haley Joel Osment... Between this and Hit Man, Adria Arjorna is the revelation of the year, full stop.
Longlegs Evidently Donald Trump isn't the only one who has been thinking of late about Hannibal Lecter.
Strange Darling Some very nifty and clever parts, if finally less than the sum of them.
Said you were gonna grow up, then you were gonna come find me
As of now, my favourite TTPD track, "Anthology" or otherwise (list now updated and necessarily expanded). It's arrestingly beautiful and sad, and showcases one of her low-key most distinctive skills: wringing new life and unexpected feeling from tired and/or obvious metaphors, here transmuting the wistful idyll of Neverland into lost futures, broken promises, and horizons that contract a little more each time she sings the chorus, cellphone flashlights the fairies she wishes she could still believe were real. But whatever residual semblance of magic's all bound up in the music, in the moment; more ephemeral even than youth. Or love. Over in under five minutes. (Lucky Swedes!)
In a Lonely Place
Myriad lights
We Believe That We Can't Be Wrong (Ten Things)
01. Paul & Linda McCartney, "The Back Seat of My Car" Not in any sense new-news, but I've been listening a lot lately to Ram and this is its exquisite pinnacle. And it would be top five, maybe even top three, among the songs of any post-Revolver Beatles album.
02. Zach Bryan, The Great American Bar SceneJust 28 and his catalogue is already as strong and varied and altogether impressive as stalwart singer-songwriters who've been at it for twice as long. I can't say just yet whether this one is his best yet, but just the fact that it may well be speaks highly of its top-shelf quality.
03. Hit Man Linklater's best Bernie-mode movie since Bernie; just as good-natured, as casually perceptive about human nature(s), and, though also concerned with, less necessarily troubled by the matter of murder. In what is low-key one of the film's best scenes (and very much the sort of scene that would simply be cut from and perhaps turn up as a mostly unseen Blu-ray bonus for a lesser film), the protagonist's ex-wife and still close friend suggests, "Everyone is at least a little fucked-up. You just need to find someone who is fucked-up in a way that you like, or that complements your own fucked-up-ness." One might expect such well-said, off-the-cuff sage advice from a longtime real-life friend, but will rarely find it in movies, and particularly not from supporting characters in rom-coms (which this unashamedly is, more or less), whether good ones or bad ones –– save for Linklater's, which weave in a kind of lived-in wisdom of experience that leaves viewers feeling as if they know a little more about than their own lives and circumstances.
04. In a Violent NatureMost so-called "art-horror" films dial down the more extreme tendencies of both the art-house and the horror so as to make a more congruous merger. Yet Chris Nash does precisely the opposite, instead emphasizing the jarring contrast of beautifully composed, ambiently soundtracked long-held tracking shots through vast, verdant landscapes with abruptly commenced ultra-gory old-school-slasher kills, now being roundly applauded for their "creativity" by horror-connoisseur fansites that probably won't be reviewing, say, the next Albert Serra or Nuri Bilge Ceylan features. That the half-baked premise is deliberately flimsy and silly is implicitly but clearly affirmed when the character doing the expositional explaining gets quickly offed mid-explanation, then passed patiently, repeatedly through a log chopper. The film's final stretch (the last 15 or so minutes, after the Final Girl flees and gets picked up by a truck driven by the actress who once played Vickie in Friday the 13th Part II) is really extraordinary stuff, and the cut to credits and song selected are perfect.
05. Tehran, seasons one and two The espionage series done just about as impeccably as possible: breathless suspense somehow sustained across sixteen episodes (so far), a wealth of fascinating characters and shifting relationships among them, even, at times, provocative insights into the intercultural and geopolitical dynamics of the contemporary Middle East. The first season is nearly flawless. The second is slightly more uneven and strained in places; the addition of Glenn Close is never not at least a little distracting, although her performance itself is predictably superb.
06. The first eight episodes of Beef The first seven episodes are superlative black comedy/social satire (with some highly inspired needle drops!), the eighth swerves precariously yet doesn't quite lose its footing; but then in the penultimate episode Beef goes off the rails as the ante is upped in a way that, in its turbo-charged TV-show extremity, feels more by-the-numbers FUBAR, culminating (because of course it does) in someone bisected by their panic room door. And then the finale is something else again...opaquely philosophical or a glib imitation thereof, very much like The Curse that way. Yet, at their respective bests, both shows capture with laser-like specificity a current ('80s-born-generational? national? socio-cultural? almost-but-not-quite-'post-human'?) mood of futility and despair underlying the curation of "lifestyle" as a glib imitation of –– or substitute for –– the cultivation of a philosophically coherent modus vivendi.
07. The third part of Kinds of KindnessNot just for Emma Stone's (premature) celebration dance...though not-not for said dance, which will undoubtedly outlive the minor mixed-bag triptych that makes its audience wait some two and a half hours for that smartly advertised dash of ebullience. But also for the outfits, for Omi and Aka, and for the truly Lynchian dream-weirdness of the sub-plot involving Margaret Qualley's twin characters.
08. Charli XCX, Brat and it's the same but there's three more songs so it's not Like the Tortured Poets "Anthology" edition, not to mention the essentially sui generis case of the "Vault"-enhanced rerecordings-not-reissues, these eighteen tracks that hang together well sans skips beg the question(s) –– or at least they do for those of us old enough to wonder how exactly this sort of thing would've been promoted and packaged as physical discs before the immateriality of streaming was assumed as the default mode of consumption –– of what exactly an album/record/LP is and isn't in 2024, or whether that matters. Probably it doesn't, except to aging, persnickety music nerds who Venn diagram-overlap only negligibly with Charli 100–10+10's target audience, to whom "Club Classics" conjures what...late-period Daft Punk? Early BTS? Swift, though, skews just enough 'Old-Millennial' that she's presumably given the matter of The Album some degree of thought, and not only for banal business reasons. (No need to worry / her accountants handle that.) "Clara Bow," named for a silent-film-era actress, is a full-stop Album Closer par excellence, while the Anthology material concludes with a song called "The Manuscript" that encapsulates the less-finished, sketch-like quality of the addenda released simultaneous to and no less accessibly than the album-proper. Brat etc. etc. ends with "Spring Breakers," referring to Harmony Korine's ironic-salacious Floridian gangster fantasia, which by now might be as pop-canonical as Scarface for the young people ('brats' or not) who were too young to see it in situ way back in 2012.
09. Clipped An octogenarian Al Bundy as Donald Sterling was a masterstroke; Laurence Fishburne makes for an excellent Doc Rivers (even though the voice is not quite Cookie Monster enough); and his recurring sauna chats with LeVar Burton are oddly distinctive highlights that feel borrowed from a deeper, more patient and interesting show than the kind that Clipped is actually, consistently interested in being. As such "content" goes, it's not as good as the terrific first season of Winning Time, but much better than its rushed and ruined second season. Sufficiently engrossing if one follows closely the on- and off-court dramas of the NBA, probably solidly entertaining as the reenactment of an early cancel-era trainwreck if one doesn't, Clipped is decidedly less than the sum of its parts. Ed O'Neill and Fishburne deserve awards recognition; maybe also Jacki Weaver, whose accent work is more on-the-mark than Fishburne's; and *definitely* LeVar Burton, from Roots to Star Trek to Reading Rainbow (forever my first point of association) to ruminating on the nature of rage, the intractable problem of race, and the special utility of micro blades for the artful sculpting of facial hair.
10. The first part of Kinds of KindnessAlas, it is getting harder all the time to see Landry Clarke (and Crucifictorious!) the same way ever again.
Current Listening
01. The Beach Boys, "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times"
02. Zach Bryan f/ Kacey Musgraves, "I Remember Everything"
03. Kacey Musgraves, "Heaven Is"
04. Taylor Swift, "Peter"
05. Steely Dan, "Any Major Dude Will Tell You"
06. The Kinks, "Do You Remember Walter?"
07. The Kinks, "People Take Pictures of Each Other"
08. The Rolling Stones, "Sweet Virginia"
09. The Rolling Stones, "Thru and Thru"
10. Lynyrd Skynyrd, "That Smell"
11. Simon & Garfunkel, "Hazy Shade of Winter"
12. The Bangles, "Hazy Shade of Winter"
13. Jan & Dean, "Surf City"
14. Fire Saga, "Double Trouble"
15. The Everly Brothers, "All I Have to Do Is Dream"
16. Grateful Dead, "Box of Rain"
17. Elliott Smith, "Speed Trials"
18. Drive-by Truckers, "Two Daughters and a Beautiful Wife"
Watching her do serious, insightful yet visibly perplexed analysis of the Stop Making Sense "Life during Wartime" performance is Must-See TV.
At 18:03: "Like, that's awful, you shouldn't have to live on peanut butter for a couple days."
At 21:30: "It feels like he's, like...laying down for death on stage right now."
You Can Call Me Al or Betty or Deacon Blues
'Mid-life crises' are intrinsically optimistic insofar as they presume based on statistical averages that there's roughly another half still to come and intrinsically pessimistic insofar as they realistically recognize that it's probably, comparatively gonna mostly suck, as quantitative equality ('mid'/'half') is not at all the same thing as qualitative equality.
We've seen the last of good King Richard. Raise up your glass to good King John.
How Strange It Is to Be Anything at All
When you go kinda deep but then your buddy goes way deep, and you're just like...'Yeah, nah. Not just now.' (Or vice versa.)
Keep It Copacetic
Listening nostalgically today (inspired in part by the spot-on song choices in the superb new 1997-set miniseries Under the Bridge) to a '90s playlist on Tidal, I came across this junior high-aged favourite of mine, which still sounds kinda great. It's a more-or-less-forgotten gem from the tail end, or last guttural gasp, of the grunge era, when solid if unspectacular bands far afield from the Pacific Northwest –– from, e.g., suburban Chicago and Australia and London –– tried, post-Kurt, to step up to the plate as the Next Nirvana, though ultimately the best any of them would do, really, was to have their lead singer go on to be Gwen Stefani's far less successful (first) husband.
(Quirky quasi-boast [?]: I saw No Doubt open for Bush on the tour that set in motion said relationship. The Goo Goo Dolls were supposed to play as well, billed second after Bush, but were absent due to the filming of a guest spot for Beverly Hills 90210.)
Yet the rabbit-hole I followed Local H down was not one of '90s alt-rock, but rather the origins of the word "copacetic," which I can always remember people using, and which I still use occasionally myself, with no sense of or educated guess as to its provenance.
The entry in Merriam-Webster is both oddly fascinating and unexpectedly amusing:
The Awful Truth
I made something today.
Different Trailers, Different Parks (+ new songs!)
I'm very excited to see Kacey Musgraves' show in Vancouver this September, but nonetheless a bit envious of the British fans who are still able to catch one of America's the world's finest singer-songwriters at the peak of her powers in relatively small venues like this one in London--capacity 1500! Here, of course, she'll be in a hockey arena that seats 20,000 (though luckily I was able to get a general admission ticket and will be standing –– as one should, if at all possible, at a concert –– as close to the stage as possible).
The new material sounds fantastic, kicking off with a more rocking than expected "Cardinal" and especially (at 58:00 above) "Heaven Is," which is as purely beautiful as any song (period) with which I'm familiar.
Fun bonus: at 11:25 she substitutes "I don't know why" with "so fucking high" in "Deeper Well"!
Stoics
You know what's really an underrated virtue--generally and universally, but "these days" especially? Sanity. And Jerry Seinfeld, besides (though maybe not wholly separate, or separable, from) being one of the most instinctively funny and perceptive people we have among us, is also eminently and admirably sane.
He says that Marcus Aurelius is his hero. Marcus Aurelius was not very funny per se, but he was also acutely perceptive and mostly sane (for a second-century Roman emperor, anyway). When Bari Weiss, at the end of an interesting and poignant interview, asks why Marcus Aurelius, Seinfeld answers: "Perspective, the most important single word in life."
Note –– tellingly, I think –– the absence of the indefinite article there, plus the syntactically slightly odd insertion of "single." The OED gives 13 definitions for "perspective." III.9.a and, better still, III.9.b (without the indefinite article) get us quite close to what (I think) he means:
III.9.a.
The relation or proportion in which the parts of a subject are viewed by the mind; the aspect of a subject or matter, as perceived from a particular mental point of view. Now only: a particular attitude towards or way of regarding something; an individual point of view.
III.9.b.
The true understanding of the relative importance of things; a realistic sense of proportion.
Per the OED, the former sense dates from 1605, the latter from 1865. Even the Latin scientia perspectiva, for the science (or knowledge) of optics, is late, first appearing in the high medieval scholastic context during the twelfth century. So, more than a millennium after Marcus Aurelius was dead and gone.
Yet readers of the Meditations (presumably the main source of Seinfeld's admiration) can find something like the III.9.a and more so the younger III.9.b sense evinced across its pages. And one suspects its author might have concurred with Seinfeld's encomiastic estimation of its/his foremost virtue of "perspective"--in this particular case sharing some (modern) semantic and/or philosophical range with "sanity."
Walk into splintered sunlight / Inch your way through dead dreams to another land
RIP Bill Walton, by all accounts and appearances a genuinely good and sweet dude, and a singular figure among NBA-adjacent personalities past and present.
Watch (or revisit) Steve James' recent, excellent 30 for 30 doc, The Luckiest Guy in the World, to appreciate the extent of Walton's wonderful weirdness, which went far beyond his unfortunately injury-abbreviated (hence the seeming irony of the film's ultimately sincere title) period of basketball greatness.
What strange forces of nature conspired
Speaking of peculiar poetic affinities, Alan Jackson's "I'll Go on Loving You" is something like the ruminative voice-over from a Terrence Malick film crossed with, say, erotic verse by Hafez or one of the other great Shiraz poets; its nature-derived not-quite-non-sequiturs intoned over seductive-candlelight-dinner-for-two strings adding up to (at very least) the most deeply unusual and expressive of late '90s country love songs. A review at the time called it "the frankest treatment of lust on country radio...a colossal embarrassment and a memorable romantic declaration." And perhaps it is embarrassing for its frankness, as poems (good as much as bad ones) often are. It's enough to make a cowboy blush, though to Jackson's enduring credit he never does.
