Review: Valley Girl (1983)

Nicholas Cage rocks an inexplicable V-shaped chest hair and still pulls off sexy.

Frederick Elmes rocks the suburbs with some beautiful lensing.

The film would've rocked more if the "punk" club band was less The Plimsouls and more Black Flag. 6 V-shaped chests out of 10.

urbantunes: "Questionnaire"

This song was written while I was playing guitar and singing in Clue Junior earlier this year and only performed once at some weird bar / freak show in Studio City. Here's a recorded version that I did in my room. Enjoi?

Review: The Social Network (2010)

While watching The Social Network this past friday night, I was in awe (much like I was watching the beautiful trailer). In awe of how pitch-perfect everything was. In awe of the breakneck pace that was still clear and powerful. In awe of Jesse Eisenberg and how much I sympathized with his conceited, brilliant billionaire. There's a unique swagger to his Mark Zuckerberg. The kind of swagger that comes with being unimaginably wealthy and blindingly intelligent. And yet those traits don't bury him in unlikeability. Eisenberg, Fincher and Sorkin humanize Zuckerberg by making him a really smart kid with a crush. And a helluva revenge streak.

Fincher lends the Facebook story his signature low-light visuals in beautiful widescreen. Whereas Oliver Stone's auteur visuals sometimes felt slapped on with scotch tape to Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps, Fincher's tone is fully realized and executed with an astounding precision. Though there are more delightful visual surprises in WS2:MNS, I preferred The Social Network's commitment and cohesion. (Also, that rowing sequence? Beautiful use of tilt-shift photography turning this sport of affluence into a spectacle of tiny, plastic toys)

But, Eisenberg. This is his show. He rarely smiles and instead emotes through his eyes, eybrows and jaw. You can see his wheels turning, burning at high speeds. You're impressed with his wit and geeky charm. You realize that although his mind is running on a high-end processor, his emotions and social skills run on a floppy disk. The only thing he ever claims to have interest in is being cool. Which makes the casting of his mentor, Justin Timberlake as Napster founder Sean Parker, all the more perfect. Parker is cool in large part because the bravado that Timberlake brings to the role. He knows fine food and the names of the waitresses who bring it. He flirts with ease. He has no respect for the authoritative "Man". He is smooth. He wears hoodies. Zuckerberg's relationship with Parker is reminiscent of a high school crush on an upperclassmen. Zuckerberg wants to BE Parker. This is echoed by the casting of Timberlake who looks like the Hollywood version of Eisenberg - his Jewish curls cut stylishly short.

The emotional core of the film lies in the relationship between Zuckerberg and co-founder, wealthy Brazilian kid, Eduardo Saverin (played by soon-to-be Spiderman2.0, Andrew Garfield). Filled with half-truths and jealousy, love and dependency, it's their story that makes the drama in The Social Network so captivating. Due in large part to the fact that these are surely to be two of the defining actors of a generation.

The Social Network is an incredible ride about the personally disconnected kid who connected the world impersonally. Made with the same type of confidence and smarts that Zuckerberg owns onscreen, it's an underdog tale where the underdog just happens to be the youngest billionaire in the world. And by the end, you're rooting for him.

"Critical" Bits:

Class struggle. Harvard sucks. Fraternities suck. Bros suck. Armie Hammer rules.

The things boys do trying to win a girl. i.e. Invent Facebook.

Trent Reznor's score is haunting and helps propel the film forward, forward, forward.

Review: Slasher (2004)

John Landis has made a handful of capital-G Great films. Animal House, Blues Brothers, An American Werewolf In London (one of my personal favorites)... But he also has the unfortunate (though deserved?) reputation for being reckless and cavalier. He's responsible (though not solely) for one of the most horrific accidents on a film shoot in the last century. During a night shoot for a scene in the 1985 Twight Zone: The Movie there was some miscommunication between a helicopter pilot, a special effects supervisor and Landis. Three actors (including two children) died when either the explosives went off prematurely and nicked the helicopter's blade or Landis' hassling of the pilot to go "Lower! Lower!" caused the helicopter to fall out of control. It's a pretty haunting story and it's trial received quite a bit of attention. The families of the deceased eventually settled out of court and Landis went on to direct some more classic films (Three Amigos!, Coming To America, and Michael Jackson's "Thriller" music video).

Personally, I can't help but look for insensitive traits when I watched Slasher last night, a documentary Landis made in 2004. It's about one of the oldest and most beloved American professions, selling cars. The film follows Michael Bennett, the "Slasher", a special salesman who is brought in to struggling car dealerships across the country to help them move their inventory with a special "Slasher" sale. Bennett is a wiry and wired figure who has a reputation for being the best salesman in the country, once selling "400 cars in four days!" exclaims an employee at the used car dealership where the film takes place. But Memphis in 2004 is a tough sell and the film shows what appears to be one of the toughest weekends for the "Slasher."

Landis humanizes Bennett by showing his departure from his wife and two kids at the beginning of the film and spending time in Bennett's hotel room at night as he tries to cope with being away from them so often. But Landis also fuels the "Slasher" fire by filming him on many a drunken rave, one in particular the night before the sale in a parking structure where he yells up and down like a madman as his drunk friends and associates just sit back and watch. In fact, Bennett is drunk pretty much the moment that he steps off the lot. And there's a couple of scenes at night that seem like Landis is pushing him a little too much with the drinking and the confessing. But maybe Bennett is just happy to have someone actually listening.

This glimpse into the life of a car salesman - in particular, Bennett - is interesting, funny and at times very affecting. Landis follows a couple of the buyers off the lot and one girl who won a raffle for an $88 car gets the thing home only to have it fall apart in her driveway. We linger with her as she watches her brother and father try and figure out what's wrong with it, her face a thousand miles away from the huge shocked smile she had when her raffle number was called. And Bennett's closing monologue about how a line from Tombstone has really hit home is especially moving. But along the way, we get lied to. By Landis and his editors and by Bennett. So maybe Landis was clever to start the film off with television clips of Presidents Nixon, Reagan, Bush I, Clinton, Bush II lying directly into the camera. It's part of the American experience to lie to the public. Some people just make a living doing it.

Review: The Heartbreak Kid (1972)

It's lame to have this announced as "Neil Simon's The Heartbreak Kid" as the film starts because it really belongs to Elaine May. Her improvisational style gives the film it's life and makes even the more routine gags feel real and organic. But it also belongs to Charles Grodin, who's anxious energy and unabashed selfishness is remarkable to watch (especially since I really only knew him as Beethoven's dad prior to this).

Grodin stars as Lenny Cantrow, a young, sports novelties salesman in NYC who falls in love with a girl, Lila (played by May's daughter Jeannie Berlin) in a bar. All they say to each other is "hello" before a short montage moves them straight to the altar. The words of the priest fade in and out as if Lenny is only half listening. But then their honeymoon! And the long drive down to Miami Beach. Needless to say, on their trip he finds his wife to be much more than the late night impression he got one evening in New York City. She can't sing. She eats a lot of junk food. She's childishly naive and stubborn and ends up with a debilitating sunburn their first day on the beach. All of this may sound broad and rather contrived but it's Grodin's suppressed annoyance and disbelief in all these tiny revelations that make it genuinely hilarious as opposed to Farrelly Bros. "HILARIOUS!!!!"

At the Miami resort Lenny finds (or rather she finds him) manic pixie dream girl of the 70's Cybill Shephard. Their flirtation becomes an obsession for Lenny and his complete neglect of his wife becomes a sad/funny interlude to their budding relationship.

Funny, painfully pathetic and often beautifully real, The Heartbreak Kid is something special. Something to remember. But then why would I choose to share it with you lot?

Numb3rs! (demo1)

a beat that i've been meaning to put to use for a while. inspired by an amazing Prince song (the beat is, i mean).

Inescapable Eavesdropping: Subway After Midnight

Subway at one in the morning. Wanted Chanos but there were too many people. Begin ordering my sandwich as the loud voices of what i assume to be two fraternity brothers disrupt the gentle quiet that usually settles in these 24-hour fast food joints at this time. But alas, it was thursday night. Run over from the club across the street. Here we go:

BROSEF: If they left already and we don't get home then ... then we're just gonna beat the fuck out of them and then break their - break their shit!

BROBRO: Yeah! Its in everyone's best interest that we don't break their shit ... and that we get home.

Brosef raises his phone to his ear.

BROSEF: Fuckin' mother fucker better pick up ... Oh Shit

BROBRO: What?

BROSEF: Its going to voicemail! AHH SHIT! OK, Listen up. You didn't pick up your phone. Do you understand what that means? I hope you realize how FUCKED you are right now. You are so FUCKED. I hope its setting in further and further that you are so fucked right now. Because we're gonna fuck you. You don't NOT pick up your phone when i call. And you are so fucked. With each passing second I hope you get just how fucked you are. Because you are so fucked. You need to back here.

BROBRO: (laughing) Its in your best interest!

BROSEF: Its in your BEST interest that you come back here. You don't just leave and then not answer when i call. ... You're fucked, man. So FUCKED. and i just hope you realize how fucked you are...

He hangs up. They laugh. "They are so fucked! They don't even know how fucked they are!" Later when they get up to order their sandwiches they are told that the ATM connected to the cash register doesn't seem to be working so they'll have to pay in cash.

BROSEF: WHAT? You have both. I want like a discount.

SUBWAY EMPLOYEE: The machines broken. I'm sorry.

BROSEF: It says that you have both. I should get a discount because it says that you have both. I can pay with cash but it says you have both and if one isn't working then ... I should get a discount. This is bullshit.

BROBRO: Its not their fault, really.

BROSEF: No ... i guess. No! It is their fault. Fuck it. Could you just toast the bread a little bit. I don't want it super toasted, just do it a little bit. Its kind of a weird request but its better that way.

The line was backed up because the handful of people in front of me had to go out to the ATM in order to pay. Thus i was subjected to the loud complaints of two metro-bros in the first of many installments of Inescapable Eavesdropping!

Eyes: '08 Edition

Personal favorites from the cinema of 2008. Kind of in a descending order though only slightly...

Paranoid Park (dir. by Gus Van Sant) "Best Film of the Year"

A cinematic poem to innocence and the loss of. A hyper-culmination of the style developed and explored in Van Sant's self-proclaimed "death trilogy" (Gerry, Elephant, Last Days), Paranoid is much more kinetic than his previous three films and benefits heavily from an emotive soundtrack and beautifully steady visuals. These images float onscreen and possess a lyricism sorely lacking in today's cinema of "realism."

Best in Realism

Rachel Getting Married (dir. by Jonathon Demme)
This film depicted life as both euphoric and tragic (as opposed to the one-sided Synecdoche, New York which seemed unfairly obsessed with the latter). Although Anne Hathaway recieved most of the attention for this film (deservingly), its Bill Irwin's performance as the eager yet helpless head of the family that I found the most heartbreaking. The scene in the kitchen, packing the dishwasher is simultaenously the emotional peak and nadir of the film. Witness the American family trying to be whole once more in the aftermath of divorce, family tragedy, drug addiction and general disfunction. With Tunde Adebimpe from TV on the Radio!

Happy-Go-Lucky (dir. and written by Mike Leigh)
Another great realist film that follows the blissfully positive Poppy, an elementary school teacher in London, as she attempts to hold on to her self-prescribed naivete in the face of psychotic driving instructors, child-abuse and the homeless. Beautiful in its highs as well as lows.

Best in Vampires

Let the Right One In (dir. by Tomas Alfredson)
What a strange little film. A beautiful story of adolescence and young love accented with scenes of intense horror and violence. The ending is one of the most perversely satisfying endings of any film I've seen in a long while.

Best of Hollywood

Milk (dir. by Gus Van Sant)
Gus Van Sant returns to the populist cinema of Hollywood to make a movie about the political life and death of a gay politician in San Francisco. What a guy. Like Elephant and Last Days, most of the audience knows how Milk ends but Sean Penn and Josh Brolin's performances doubled with Van Sant's visual poetry elevates the script above its trappings as a standard biopic. A bar raid shot from outside with a gradual zooming single take not only captures the hysteria better than a handheld, choppily-edited sequence would but also shows the thought put in to even the smallest of details.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (dir. by David Fincher)
Forrest Gump makes me cry. I don't think its a coincidence that Button also wrecked me. I mean REALLY wrecked me. Good thing I saw this alone because it was embarrassing. I can't even remember the last I was this emotionally devastated by a picture. A subdued love story (no grand emotional peaks or valleys) was boring to many but I found it quietly beautiful.

Iron Man (dir. by Jon Favreau)
I saw this film on opening night in packed Paris theater and it was one of my proudest moment as an American abroad. No one does spectacle like Hollywood. And no one does snark and charm like Robert Downey Jr. U S A!!! U S A!!! U S A!!!

Forgetting Sarah Marshall (dir. by Nicolas Stoller)
The funniest movie I saw all year. Its taken me a while to warm up to Jason Segel (I found him annoyingly whiny and pathetic on Freaks and Geeks [perhaps it just hit a little too close to home?]) but he was great in this (though still pretty pathetic). I'm working my way through How I Met Your Mother currently and find him hilarious there, as well. Wheelz seems disgusted by the idea that Segel is a "star" but I'm happy see his average mug on billboards across town. Nice counterpoint to all the Clive Owen posters.

Best de l'Amour

Wall-E (dir. by Andrew Stanton)
A beautifully felt picture that glued a stunned smile to my face for the majority of its runtime. The Hello, Dolly touches were particularly affecting. And that ballet in space was quite magical. Though it deserved a better third act, the perfection of the take-off made forgivable the stilted landing.

Slumdog Millionaire (dir. by Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan)
The "Its His Destiny" answer at the end made me scoff but it was a fun ride. Danny Boyle's cool.

Best in Joints

Pineapple Express (dir. by David Gordon Green)
Has gotten better with each repeat viewing. More Undertow than George Washington as far as Green goes but that's not a slight. Tim Orr's gorgeous cinematography floats through scenes of awkardly realistic violence until the end where Seth Rogen is fucking flying around the warehouse. Little touches like the young overweight Hispanic girl in a swimsuit staring at James Franco crying into a sandwich and the weightlifting neighbor of Rogen's girlfriend show that Green still has an eye for the beautiful oddities of life. The walking through the forest interlude stands as the most poetic sequence in the film.

Smiley Face (dir. by Greg Araki)
A strange and hilarious picture that would surely benefit from a good joint. While its still good sober the unspeakably bad cinematography tires the eyes and the mind. Anna Farris continues to impress, throwing herself into these silly roles with such reckless abandon.

Best in Comebacks

JCVD (dir. by Mabrouk El Mechri)
Jean-Claude is incredible in this movie and its a shame it didn't get as much attention as the other comeback role this year. But this isn't so much a comeback as a realization of the skills that Van Damme has. He's funny, sad and beaten by the end of the film and vulnerable in a way no other star was this year, except maybe ...

The Wrestler (dir. by Darren Aranofsky)
A nice piece of realist filmmaking that shows Aranofsky roping in his style in order to let Mickey Rourke dominate the screen. He goes out on top with the only family that stands by him - his fans. The last shot of this movie was one of the most beautiful and heartbreaking endings of any film this year (though JCVD's was pretty devastating also). We leave Rourke soaring through the air, knowing full well he's falling just as much as flying.

I need to work on being more concise. Next time.

808s & Heartbreak: Breakin' the Blues!

With Kanye's most recent re-imagining of the VH1 Storytellers format, here's a review of what i believe to be his masterpiece, 808s & Heartbreak...

Beeps and blips bounce back and forth over a sparse drum beat created by the generally reviled Roland TR-808 drum machine. Sampled vocals create a mournful choir and the occasional chord on piano drops. The light among this desolate arrangement? The melodies of auto-tuned Kanye West. A question arises - the same one that came to mind when I heard Charlie Kaufman would be directing a feature film of his own - why?

It all sounds too terrible to be true. A loudmouthed, arrogant popstar lamenting the life he's built for himself full of money, women and sports cars? 808s & Heartbreak would be worthy of contempt were it not so beautifully contradictory and simply strange. You get the sense that Mr. West is really trying something here. Trying to write a proper pop song. Trying to excise the pain of losing a fiancé (she left him) and a mother (to a botched surgery) in the same year.

Above all, Mr. West is coping with this loss using his music, hoping for some sort of catharsis. Each song has all the immediacy we've come to know from Kanye (the man's first single was sung while his jaw was wired shut after a car accident) with little reflection. This is both a strength and a weakness. On one hand it makes the album incredibly contradictory. Sometimes on the same song - "Heartless" laments the loss of a girl, while also bragging "you'll never find nobody better than me." But, in a way, its an honest snapshot of the conflicted, unfiltered emotions one experiences after a break-up. Kanye's not thinking straight and neither are his songs as they bounce through his doubts ("Love Lockdown"), the career he chose ("Amazing"), his regrets ("Street Lights"), and - most underrepresented on this album - his cool (the transcendent "Paranoid").



Then there's the formal elements, most specifically the auto-tune. The man can't sing. But in this day and age why should that stop him? His use of auto-tune I find most effective in his live performances, where the rawness of his voice often overpowers the electronic vibrato of the correction tool. Its not always the most aesthetically pleasing but its real in a way that is absent from most pop. The 808 drum machine is known as a punchline in the music industry for sounding unapologetically fake. It was introduced to Kanye by composer / producer / songwriter Jon Brion (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Fiona Apple's When The Pawn..., Meaningless) who co-produced most of Kanye's sophomore effort Late Registration. Brion's love of orchestral strings appears to have also influenced Kanye (see "Robocop" on Storytellers below). The true beauty of 808s comes from the fact that Mr. West uses these tried and despised tools to create something wholly new and interesting. And the album ends up sounding like a robot discovering its humanity.

By "Coldest Winter" Kanye proves himself to be just as big as he boasts he is (or at least on his way), with a heart bigger than any of the written-by-committee trash found on most Top 20 radio. Its an album of awkwardness, ambition and honesty that is extremely refreshing coming from an artist who could just as easily keep shilling out more of the same with great returns. I didn't hear anything else in 2008 that featured an artist challenging himself and pushing himself to the edge of his limitations as much as 808s & Heartbreak did for Kanye. One hopes that once he overcomes this bout of self-pity and grief, this ambition will manifest itself in an even greater way. 808s deserves applause for its intentions and a nod for its achievements. Here's to the self-proclaimed Elvis of our day.

VH1 TV Shows | Music Videos | Celebrity Photos | News & Gossip

(note: please delete all versions of the bonus track found at the end of the album as it is pretty lame. you'll be doing yourself and Yeezy a favor.)

The Last Semester: Cut-Up

A frequent posting meant to document my final semester of undergraduate studies. Lazy, wandering journal entries for posterity's sake.

friday night parties. Zencu in Little Tokyo for Poda's b-day. she was one of the first people i met here at university. sake bombs, stuffed calamari, grand roll. a beautiful beginning. Denny and i enjoy the views of a SI swimsuit program on TNT during dinner. then back to the apartment, with pabst in hand. then to the big red house where Brown, Peabody and Monsieur Rager have nicked some champagne from the inside 'sophomoric' party (in all the senses they assure me). eventually some roomies show up and we're off to an old parisian amie, Sia.

its a small get-together but nice. Pfff tries to get Sia to take a body shot off of him. she respectfully declines. the house runs out of cigarettes. Joe and Julie say they'll stick around if i go run get some from the 76 down the street. with Feels in my ear i'm off.

hood on, head down to deter any interested parties. cigarettes acquired. pause on the scaffolding taco shop across the way. sit, smoke, and bob my head along to the music. then continue heading back. pass my old building. haven't broken a window in the main entrance in a while. figure its time for it. and afterward i'll just hop out the back - a shortcut to the party. tall metal fence with sharp arrowheads of steel on top. around the side i use an adjacent fence to hopefully propel me over the steel arrows. the second fence begins to sway and i go for it, slicing the side of palm under my pinky open.

fuck.

it doesn't hurt too bad. good thing i had a buzz going. i light a cigarette and walk back to the party. "anybody sober enough to drive?" i'm convinced to call DPS. they take my info and then escort me to Good Sam, Kevin, whom i met earlier, comes as well. the woman DPS officer gets a picture after dropping me at the hospital. i get in to the emergency room easily enough and then wait. next to me is an obese shirtless hispanic man named William. he is having trouble staying conscious. the male nurse takes a picture of my cut. i hear slaps next door and calm shouts of "William. William. We need you to wake up." I look over and see him knocked out with tubes going into his nose. slap, slap, slap. "William, honey." i stare over. his eyes are closed. the nurse catches me and pulls the curtain. After some more slaps William starts to gurgle and mumbles, "Awwwgh! It GHurrts!" more of the same for the rest of the night. i got out at about 4 30 to find Kevin, Will, and Chelsey waiting outside to give me a lift home.

can't hold a guitar neck is possible bad news for a Clue Jr. reunion on march 2nd. but it also means more computer music for me. hopefully i won't fall prey to self-pity and laziness. fingers crossed!

The Last Semester: Week-End

A frequent posting meant to document my final semester of undergraduate studies. Lazy, wandering journal entries for posterity's sake.



its raining in the Grapevine. takes us almost two hours to get there because the friday traffic. although i didn't know at the time the back tires on Bear's car are completely bald. car starts to catch puddles. we seem to float across four lanes then we settle into the far right lane at humble 55 mph. Bear handles it but its damn scary. My 'Road To Max(imum Overdrive)' CD doesn't work in the car. We stop at a Best Buy in Gilroy to Coo's chagrin. New blank cd works and the mix gets us into San Jose in 45 minutes. But no. We go to Sonoma Chicken Coop in Campbell where Overdrive's birthday dinner is finishing up. Hello's then temporary goodbye's as we head to Overdrive's apartment for the bash.

Mickey's, Sierra Nevada, Apricot Ale. Blurry names. Shepherd from Firefly? Leo the Brit? Ms. Hip corners me on several occasions and calls me 'irritating' and two other non-flattering adjectives i don't (care to) recall. i add worthless to her list. Overdrive shows me some incredible Ratatat remixes. as the evening wanes, Ms. Hip and i argue music. The Brit (sans accent) tells us to shut the fuck up. then me specifically. "(Overdrive), i love you, i love most of your friends." mood soured, sleep enjoyed.

Slow morning. Fantastic scene in front of the bathroom mirror with four or five people in their applying makeup, teeth brushing, hair combing, talking as Interpol plays on the small stereo. Then to Cafe San Jose for some delicious hangover cures. Then to Goodwill and the acquisition of a nice croquet set and a Cosby LP for Peabody. Followed by croquet in the park. Your humble author taking the prize both games. Video games and lethargy back at Overdrive's apartment. Then to Berkeley.

Bear's car takes us past Oakland with the tunes of Ms. Hip. a Diplo mix. fine, i guess. We hang out at Qua's house and watch Rain Man. "what's hummus?" the Bear asks. "its greek for dip," i reply. Car 2 carrying Overdrive, Captain America, and Joe French arrives and we head out for burritos, pitchers of beer and I, Robot in spanish. A walk through Berkeley campus gets us to the row of bars. "Brrr, It's Cold!" Sports Bar filled with Berkeley gear. BroTV bores, so Bear takes to the jukebox. "Drain You", "Soul to Squeeze" and some CCR to begin the reminiscing. Then Overdrive steps up (after two whiskey shots from Bear) with "New Year's Day", "Hey Joe" and another that escapes me. The place fills up. A smoke break takes us outside to meet the Joke Writer. Jokes had his "old lady's" guitar and told us how he loved life and once sold jokes to George Carlin on the streets of New York for 50 bucks ("you think those cops over there speak pig latin?").

Then a long walk to a billiards bar. Drinks all around (Racer 5 IPA was it?). A guy in Kanye glasses sparks me to proclaim "808s & Heartbreak til i die!" Observation by Overdrive about your humble author, "your level of intoxication is inversely related to your respect for authority." Captain America is does not adjust his trajectory for bushes or trees. Bear is checking all doors. Wine bottles crash to the ground from a recycling can. The point of going out to bars is to enjoy the walk home. A phone book (my achilles heel) knocks me out of a tree. i climb the scaffolding of the building next to Qua's apartment. i jump from roof B to roof A where we spend the rest of the night enjoying the view, drinking vodka, tossing pots ("when we're drunk we do things that just are not cool"), bullshitting and listening to Autolux.



Waking up on hardwood floor at noon. A Firestone is spotted on the way out of Berkeley. We decide to fix the bald tires in order to survive the Gilroy road and Grapevine once again. Lunch at a burger joint owned by two brothers raised by their grandfather. They've got "sweet plus (chuckles)" but no splenda. Wandering. Another Goodwill visit. less successful. Catch the end of the Lakers v. Cavs game (LeBron is sloppy). Leaving Berkeley by 3:30 with Merriweather Post Pavillion dominating the soundscape of Bear's car. the sea and "My Girls" and we're fucking floating. land in San Jose after the album ends. Moan's depiction of "Wham City" (inset) is incredible and a summation of that week-end as it was coming to its undesired end. Overdrive to work. World's Strongest Ghost promises made. To Santa Cruz to acquire the Coo. Successfully brave the Gilroy and the Grapevine (thanks to the new treads) to get back to "home" by 1 in the AM.

Merriweather Post Pavilion now belongs to that one perfect week-end.

Jerry Fellwell (version 2)

based upon a loop by james meiser. i don't do it justice. a second version that is arguably better than the first.

Altman And Anderson

i'm not fond of multiple character storyarcs that intertwine only fleetingly. i guess i like the idea of it. expanding on supporting characters giving them the fullness they deserve as human beings. but its just been abused as of late with the likes of Babel and Crash. though some of the best examples of this device come from Altman and Anderson. three standouts for me feature their characters being connected by increasingly more surreal events. the assassination of a country star in Nashville, earthquake in Short Cuts, frog rain in Magnolia (this really is the absurdist end of the 'genre'). after those three is there really much else to be mined from this overly realist conceit?

Incredibad.

Like A Boss by The Lonely Island. Incredibad indeed.

The Curious Case of Me Bawling in Benjamin Button

From multiple sources of mine (i refuse to name names), i was under the impression that Benjamin Button was an overlong, mediocre turd of a movie. But i wanted to like it for a handful of reasons (my affinity for sweeping romances, David Fincher, Brad Pitt, Cate Blanchett and Forrest Gump - which, admittedly, this film resembles in a number of cases). Ok, i'll name names: Roger Ebert is completely dismissive (he doesn't even mention Cate Blanchett, let alone anything beyond the concept). He misses the point, however. The moment where everything fell in to place for me i will retell right here, for Mr. Ebert's sake.

Benjamin, at age 7, living in a retirement home because he resembles a geriatric, explains his reverse-aging to a fellow resident. In reflecting back on the conversation he doesn't remember the woman's name but he does recall she taught him how to play piano. After he tells her of his condition she says she pities him, "to have to see everyone you love, die before you. That would be an awful responsibility." I sit in the theater and think to myself, 'that is terrible.' Benjamin had never thought about it this way. She sees his thoughtful stare, "Benjamin ... we're meant to lose the people we love. How else would we know how important they are to us?" I was sad for Benjamin having to go through life the way he does. But in a split second i realized how unfairly appropriate this is. I thought about losing my grandmother last year, and my 20-year-old cousin the year before that. That pain all rushed back as the next scene announced the passing of that dear old woman who taught Benjamin to play piano. They didn't show her in the coffin in the cemetery. Because she wasn't in there. Aaron was. Gramma Smoot was. And i realized that i felt more connected to the plight of that hideous CGI-ed geriatric Brad Pitt than any other character i had seen on screen in many a long while. I wept several times during the movie. Bawled like a helpless infant. I haven't been moved to tears like that by a film in a long while either. Good thing i saw it by myself. It was pretty goddamn embarrassing.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button wanders through life, rarely peaking with the dramatic intensity we've become accustomed to in epic romances (no yelling matches between lovers ending in ecstatic sex - no yelling of any kind really). Its understated tone made the simplistic love story all the more devastating for me. Instead of leaving my wife and child for fear that i will end up burdening them as i regress in age, i'll probably just get divorced like most. And i'll be left sending postcards to my daughter from the faraway lands that i selfishly pursue. I only hope, after all that, i can have someone there for me at the end. Whether its an old love or my daughter. Going out the same way i came in: surrounded by love. Oh, did i mention this movie is kind of corny sometimes too? That may be affecting my writing about it ... maybe.

In And Out (Ed Wood Soundtrack)

from 09's Ed Wood film festival. all blips and beeps by your humble author.



and the video:

The Last Semester: Mella' Yella' through the Woods of Ed

A frequent posting meant to document my final semester of undergraduate studies. Lazy, wandering journal entries for posterity's sake.


Tuesday i wake up an hour late and miss the live coverage of President Obama's inaugural address. shit. i watch it on msnbc.com later. In global cinema I we watch some beautiful Lumières Brothers shorts and Méliès' A Trip To the Moon (a stunning little feature). i watch them with childlike wonder. In an actualité shot in Indochina, the Lumiéres' camera is chased by gleeful children in loincloths. i am one of those children.

At night, i celebrate the new age of American Hope with Chanos and beer pong. Andrew and I dominate the recently returned Ross and his partner (not in that way) Jeff. Then word of a party takes us to Ellendale. I see some people i know. I tell a junior, "a year from now, when you're in my position... then, you'll understand." A dumb thing to say. I meet Bob, a fresh grad student. I take over the iPod and play Bowie, Jay-Z, and Dre. We retreat back to our homes. Mitch, the actor, relieves himself on the side of church.

Wednesday we watch Dziga Vertov's Man with a Movie Camera in Documentary class. What a wallop. Even more impressive to me was Jean Vigo's A Propos De Nice. I watch Vigo with the same awe that i watch Méliès and Lumiére. A stupid, blissful smile glued to my face. I need to talk to my professor but i don't. The timing wasn't right ... or something stupid.

Thursday we watch What Doesn't Kill You in symposium. Mark Ruffalo was good. Film was trying to be macho and 'real.' Trying. The director talked afterwards and was the most humble director, ex-gangster probably in the history of that combination. I wish his personality would've been more tangible in the film.

Friday, a Paris reunion. Nice to see those buggers. We talk about What Doesn't Kill You and the unforgivable Twolovers. I have a Salvador Dali-esque mustache drawn on to my face. I play Biggie, Jay-Z and Bowie to the indifference of the party-goers. I go to the Pace House to see other friends. Lot of negativity around some of those folks. A 3 30am Canter's trip brings this out. I sit quietly and listen. Its not always negative. A nice little cap to the evening.

Ed Wood blends Saturday into Sunday. Cam and I create a montage of In and Out moments from films. Set to an original song by your humble author. A dinner break takes Flem, Wheelz and i to an art gallery at Santa Monica and Fairfax for a free No Age show. The art crowd no match for the raw intensity of songs like 'Eraser.' Hipsters, Hipsters everwhere, look how well they manage to look as though they don't care. Ed Wood is turned in at 11 50. Prospects of making it to screening night are slim. But it was my last, and it was a proper end. One of many on the horizon.

The Last Semester: Mike The Uncle

A frequent posting meant to document my final semester of undergraduate studies. Lazy, wandering journal entries for posterity's sake.



After a night of hipsters & coke followed by brown & tecate, i was picked up from my house at 8 in the morn by my cousin's best friend, Jess. Returned home on a saturday for my uncle Mike's 50th birthday. It was supposed to be a surprise (and i think it was). Mike is an amazing person. His oldest son is a year older than me and his youngest a year older than my brother. Our families have been close because of the bond between Mike's parents and my mom's parents. Mike now lives alone in Blythe and runs his dad's Autoparts store. He also drives offroad racecars. And as my dad said at some point in the night, "Its about time this family had something to celebrate. This same group has only been seeing each other at funerals recently. This is good." And it was. Cousin and her boyfriend smoke a J in the car on the way home. I drift in and out of coherence staring at the empty desert.

The Floor Scrape (previously Stage Names)

a more flushed version of Stage Names.

The Last Semester: Twolovers

A frequent posting meant to document my final semester of undergraduate studies. Lazy, wandering journal entries for posterity's sake.

First discussion for my philosophy class. Not to be mean but there's some lame people in there. Some kid says the worst movie he's heard about (though not seen) is Slumdog Millionaire because they pronounce "millionaire" like "mill-a-naire." Some pretentious mathematics kid in a wheelchair (he doesn't get an asshole pass because he has a disability) talked at length about how great Benjamin Button was without ever actually saying anything. I think I'll see that friday.

Signed up for film symposium. Leonard is kind of cool. Grampy cartoon that precluded the screening reminded me of a Santa Grampy, inset. I hope to find the VHS tape that I know this from when i go home this weekend. Two Lovers was screened. Painfully realistic, and not in a good way. I've never understood the complaint that things are too real ... until now. I saw myself on screen in some of the worst ways. I could see this being somewhat cathartic for the creator but what did he want an audience to get out of this? Message was clear about 20 minutes in and then he just subjected us to an hour and a half more of tense discomfort. That unease was not worth the message. Not to mention how self-aggrandizing it was. The two lovers in the picture often lobbed compliments at the protagonist (a retarded Marlon Brando-esque Joaquin Phoenix) about how great he was in the sack and what a great "artist" he was (he took black and white photos and loved movies ... here's to transparency). Better movie about a sociopath in New York with love problems? Taxi Driver.