Wired Mesh

Darkness Falls, Bad Things Happen

I was on hold with the County Clerk's office a few minutes ago, listening to muzak through the phone receiver, when I realized that what my life is missing is a Lionel Richie album. I have no idea which one to buy, but it definitely needs to include that fine ballad Hello. I distinctly remember listening to that song around age five, when my parents would let me fall asleep to an easy listening radio station.

But enough with the childhood melancholy. I've been doing a poor job of posting my latest film reviews a week after they run in the Pulse, so today I'm going to post a couple. Here's my review of 21 Grams, which is probably playing in all of eight theaters these days. Punctuality is not my best virtue. (I'll take perfect attendence, Mr. Blume.)

Eventually I'll take the advice of Isaac Wardell's dad and just create a separate category for these articles. But not today. Today I'm trying to transfer the title on the Big Purple Van O'Love, and get some insurance. And I'm on hold a lot. Which brings us back to the Lionel Richie songs.

Anyway, here's that review:

21 Grams matches fine performances to a silly story

By Aaron Mesh
Published in the March 3-9 issue of the Pulse

The entire country is abuzz with debate over Mel Gibson’s violent Jesus movie, The Passion of the Christ. But if you find that a Bijou showing of The Passion is sold out, as most of them are, let me suggest that 21 Grams will make a tolerable substitute. Both movies focus unflinchingly on suffering, ponder the providence of God, and end with death and a resurrection of sorts. But perhaps Gibson could take a few directing tips from 21 Grams director Alejandro Gonzalez Ińarritu. I suspect that many viewers will find themselves more moved by 21 Grams than The Passion, mainly because Inarritu gently maneuvers the audience’s emotions, instead of assaulting them.

This is particularly evident in the film’s central sequence, a horrific car wreck that transforms the lives of the main characters. Ińarritu shows us the crash’s victims, a few moments before the accident, chatting with a neighbor blowing leaves from his yard. The victims wander away, happily unaware of their fate, but the camera stays trained on the boy with his leaf blower. We see a truck drive by, hear a distant thud, and the boy drops his tool and runs toward the unseen wreck. All that we see is the leaf blower and the porches of houses, nestled peacefully in the twilight. There’s not a drop of blood onscreen, but the sadness is agonizing.

Ińarritu is clearly gifted at evoking emotions from small, subtle moments. And he has a masterful cast to work with here: Sean Penn is a mathematics professor hoping for a heart transplant, Naomi Watts is mother struggling with cocaine addiction, and Benecio Del Toro is an ex-convict who has found solace in a particularly fundamentalist sect of Christianity. All three of these characters have systems of belief that they use to explain and order their lives, but the car wreck brings them together even as it tears their worldviews apart. The three actors – especially Penn – are fantastic at creating characters who are falling to pieces, and Ińarritu gets the small details of their lives right, down the desperate joyfulness of a Pentecostal church service.

Unfortunately, both the directors and the actors are stuck creating authentic moments in the midst of a story that is really, really stupid. I shouldn’t write too much about this: the movie isn’t structured chronologically, so most of the plot is meant to be discovered slowly. But I will note that the movie’s central conceit is ripped off from the Minnie Driver comedy Return to Me, and maybe it worked better in that movie. In 21 Grams, the script by Guillermo Arriaga feels like an undergraduate’s philosophy thesis: clever, but completely implausible.

What lingers after watching 21 Grams is the sense that movies are straining harder and harder for serious, solemn topics, and in the process squeezing a lot of the fun out of moviegoing. This winter has given us a long line of movies fascinated by the far limits of misery: in the last month alone, I’ve seen Monster, House of Sand and Fog, The Passion of the Christ and now 21 Grams. Some of these movies are masterpieces, some are pretty terrible, and 21 Grams is somewhere in the middle. But each one feels like an attempt to top the others in how brutally it portrays human existence. It’s enough to make a guy nostalgic for some mindless comic book adaptations.

The Subtle Beauty of Springtime Arson

Salon, which in recent weeks seems to have developed a vendetta against the good-if-a-wee-bit-snobby people at National Public Radio, offers a hilarious parody list of commentaries rejected by "All Things Considered."

"In a scrubbing, sudsy kind of way, spring-cleaning is how I welcome back the world and get my head cleared for, with any luck, the final race wars."

God Has the Good Things, Man

I was shuffling through my computer's music files this morning, and wandered across this file, a track from a John Rydgren album called Silhouette Segments. The more I listen to it, the more I like it. It's the original mash-up: a spattering of noises, street interviews and sampled guitar riffs, with Rydgren's voice riding above it all, gutteral and smooth, like Isaac Hayes on a particularly mellow (and illogical) day. "Watch out for the train... watch out for the elephants... watch out for the drip."

So, who was this cat? Well, dig: John Rydgren was a 1960s Lutheran pastor who wanted to reach out to the flower children starting to drop out across the country. So in 1967, he started a radio show on WABC in New York City called Silhouettes, featuring Rydgren reciting a sort of beat poetry over psychedelic tunes. He always got around to talking about Jesus at some point, although usually in roundabout, bemused ways, such as noting that the fox in the fine miniskirt was created by God, too.

There's an obvious kitsch value to this music (the way Rydgren growls, "Looks like she's ready for... a happening" is brutally funny), but the longer I listen to it, the further I'm convinced that this stuff is really good. Insane, but good. I've always been fascinated by the Christian evangelists who saw the hippie movement not as a threat, but a great opportunity to transform a materialist culture. And the Silhouette tracks are evidence of a fascinating sort of humility, an honest language of searching, that such evangelists developed in reciting old truths in new forms.

And it doesn't hurt Rydgren's cause that he uses some fine, fine grooves. (Here are four more tracks, if you've got the time.) Makes me want to start cruising around downtown with my arm hanging out a window of the Big Purple Van o' Love. Can you dig it?

A Variety of Items, Some Involving Gender Confusion at the Highest Levels of Government

President Bush spent Friday lauding women reformers across the globe. And then Reuters discovered that one of those celebrated women, Fathi Jahmi, is actually a man. (This was an awkward moment for Reuters. "Oh. Oh my," said Reuters. "Oh my goodness. Holy crap. I'm sorry.")

Meanwhile, a good friend of mine from Lakeland, Florida, my old stomping grounds, has successfully entered an 18-minute movie into the TamBay Film and Video Festival. Josiah and I had the chance to watch a rough cut of "Intangibles" last summer, and it is pretty darn good. It's funny, and violent, and the soundtrack has tracks from Bowie, Radiohead and Crooked Fingers, so you know what it kicks.

And since we're talking music, I've decided that if I had to save one record label from a coming nuclear holocaust, it would be Sub Pop. Check out these MP3s -- especially the Iron & Wine and Shins tracks -- and see if you don't agree.

Triumph of the Will

Will Leitch is down to his last two "Life as a Loser" columns, and today's is particularly moving:

"When you strip it all way, we are lonely and confused and, all told, rather pointless. Our constant bluster must be amusing to whomever created this universe; nothing we do is important. In 90 years we’re all going to be dead, and whatever we have created during our short time here will be forgotten. Everything I’ve ever written, anything I’ve ever done, will, eventually, be the dead sea scrolls, relics, strange curiosities easily dismissed.

"At the end, all we really have is family. We have the people who know how we used to cry whenever we struck out in a big game, how we would get scared and crawl into bed with them after we watched Creepshow, how we never could pronounce the word “denominator” without stuttering over the third syllable. They’re the people, the only people, who are with you at the beginning, the middle and the end. They’re the only people who, honestly, really matter. Everything else just occupies the time, gives us something to do."

Kerry On, My Wayward Son

A remarkable Steven Waldman article suggests that John Kerry could face a conflict larger than his battle with George W. Bush: He could be denied access to the Eucharist by his hometown archbishop in the Roman Catholic Church, in an admonishment for his pro-abortion, pro-gay marriage stances. Archbishop Sean O'Malley has administered communion to Kerry in the past, but is now saying, "These politicians should know that if they're not voting correctly on these life issues that they shouldn't dare come to communion." Wow.

All His Friends Are Dead

A couple hours ago, Ron linked to what may be the finest album cover ever created:

As anyone would be, I was instantly obsessed with discovering who this Freddie Gage was. Clearly, he had created an album whose mere cover could reduce the most hardened stoic to preadolescent giggles. Fortunately, I had some time on my hands, and it didn't take me long to discover the following Fun Facts About Freddie:

1. Freddie Gage is a Baptist evangelist.

2. "All My Friends Are Dead" is not a musical work. It is a sermon, the general gist of which does not appear to be that all of Freddie Gage's friends are actually dead, but instead that all the people who he evangelized to, who did not accept Jesus, indeed became quite dead in only a matter of hours, having committed The Unpardonable Sin.

3. Freddie Gage has released other albums besides "All My Friends Are Dead," including a rather psychadelic 1971 anti-LSD record, "Drugs and Youth," the back of which contains the following praise:

HEAR THE TURNED-ON PREACHER
HE IS OUT OF SIGHT
HE IS ON THE "IN" TO WHAT IS HAPPENING

To all appearences, Freddie Gage's evangelistic technique in the 70s involved talking to high school students about drugs, hippies and hell, the third item being where you would go if you got involved with the other two. He did seem to a have a particular compassion for drugged-out kids, which is kinda cool.

4. Freddie Gage is not a big fan of Calvinists. He is quoted in the BaptistFire newsletter's special report, "Calvinists want to take over your Southern Baptist church," where he says, "In the 21st century, Southern Baptists will have to deal with dead orthodoxy and five-point Calvinism. There is not a nickel's worth of difference between liberalism, five-point Calvinism and dead orthodoxy. They are all enemies of soul-winning." All my friends, it seems, are dead orthodoxy.

5. The best picture of the "All My Friends Are Dead" cover comes from Show and Tell Music, a collection of thrift-store album cover art that, trust me, can distract you for days. It is also where you can find "Crying Demons Crying Demons Crying Demons: Amazing Recordings of Demons Speaking Through People Who Are Posessed by Them." The cover art for this one is fantastic.

Pride Goeth Before a Call

When you've gotten a whiff of your own self-importance, there's nothing like showing up for work on Monday to remind you of your proper place in the cosmos. I was getting myself nicely worked up this morning, about an upcoming cover story for the Pulse and the need to defend myself from a few nasty attacks I've received on my Passion reviews and my authorly persona suis general. Then I get a page from the front desk of my office -- "Phone call for Eric" -- reminding me that nearly ten months after I began working here, the receptionists still don't know my name.

The Battle for Sandler’s Soul

In this week's issue of the Pulse, you can read my reviews of The Passion of the Christ, 21 Grams and Club Dread. (I didn't really like any of them.) And here, it's finally time to reveal Josiah and my 50 First Dates debate, in which Josiah gets so annoyed at my desire to deconstruct Adam Sandler that he calls me a "hipster-cynic." Whatever that is.

Speaking of Josiah and me... in the last half-hour we've managed to utterly hijack the debate about supposed racism on the Drone blog. ("You know what I miss most about Covenant? The love, man. The love.")

50 First Dates is divided between the charming and the crass

By Josiah Roe and Aaron Mesh
Published in the February 18-24 issue of the Pulse

Josiah: It was hard for me not to like 50 First Dates, the latest Adam Sandler flick directed by Peter Segal, co-starring Drew Barrymore, who partnered with Sandler in The Wedding Singer. Its central premise of a man (Sandler) falling in love with a woman (Barrymore) who each night forgets everything that had occurred that day, seems as an odd place to find real emotion and sentiment, especially given other films (especially Memento) that have used such plot maneuvers. But the film, despite being nearly hamstrung by unnecessary bathroom humor, somehow pulls off earnest emotions with honest sentiments of love and sacrifice.

Aaron: The crude humor of 50 First Dates isn't surprising: Sandler's most recent effort, Anger Management, was a painfully off-putting exercise in penis-size jokes. So no one should be shocked that Dates contains a walrus projectile vomiting onto a veterinarian whose indeterminate gender is a running gag. The surprise is that there's another, better movie battling the vulgarity for the soul of Sandler.

Memory loss isn't just an easy joke in Dates; instead, Segal gently examines his high concept that Barrymore, injured in a car crash nearly a year ago, wakes up every morning thinking it's still the day before her injury. Her father (Blake Clark, ably channeling John Mahoney) and her brother (Sean Astin, taking it easy as a lisping bodybuilder after carrying Elijah Woods up all those Middle Earth mountains) spend every day nurturing Barrymore’s illusions. The two men spend every day watching the same movie (The Sixth Sense, the ending of which never ceases to surprise Barrymore) and every night washing clothes and re-wrapping birthday gifts to maintain the ruse of continuity. It’s a wonder they find time for jobs. When Sandler arrives on the scene, falling for Barrymore at first sight of her building a log cabin out of her diner waffles, he first tries to win her, day after day. But he soon sets to a greater, and more moving task: trying to maintain a relationship with someone who can’t remember who you are.

Josiah: I may be stretching a great deal at this point, but here's where I think the film moves a bit deeper than simply Sandler goofily making Barrymore fall in love with him, over and over and over again. I think the movie touches on the idea of "the good guy," who each day fights and sacrifices for the woman he loves. While the situation in 50 First Dates is comically extreme, is occasionally the case (hard as it is to believe) that there are good guys out there who have to earn their respective others love each and every day. This is of course a good thing.

But now I've moved way beyond discussing the film and into moralizing about relationships. I apologize. It really is a shame, though, that a film with subtle comedic elements between Sandler, Barrymore and their supporting cast (especially Sean Astin as Barrymore's brother), should be overshadowed by pointless, irrelevant, and often painfully unfunny crass jokes. Remove those moments and flesh out the scenes btween Barrymore and Sandler, and you have all the working of a near pitch-perfect romantic comedy. Call it Roman Holiday Lite.

Aaron: Don’t apologize for bringing up the relational undercurrents of the movie. They’re the best part of the film. Still, there’s something a little odd about the entire enterprise here: the film drifts dangerously close to a sort of solipsism a little past its midway point, as Sandler continues to have one successful “first kiss” after another. Isn’t there something self-gratifying, even borderline misogynistic, about having an affair with a woman who can’t completely experience it? Doesn’t that make her a bit of a prop in your personal-growth drama? (Barrymore deserves enormous credit for keeping these thoughts at bay for much of the film, bringing lovely life to character that can never emotionally develop.)

The film’s charming third act manages to sweep most of these concerns away with a clever denouement, but I think the dilemma serves as a nice metaphor for Sandler’s own cinematic career. Too often his films have used his co-stars and romantic companions as window dressing for Sandler’s boorish riffs. In 50 First Dates, he seems to be taking small steps to acknowledge the humanity of the other characters, except perhaps Rob Schneider. But I’m not quite ready to concede Schneider’s humanity myself.

Josiah: Boy Mesh, that was probably the most hipster-cynical two paragraphs of film review that I've seen you put together in a long time. Me, I'll choose to believe in the sincerity of Sandler's love for Barrymore. Sure, his character certainly grew because of his sacrificial love, but faulting somebody for not being purely altruistic is a bit extreme.

I like seeing Sandler, and Barrymore for that matter, in these types of roles. Few would disagree with the claim that Punch-Drunk Love was a perfect fit for Sandler. I'd like to see Sandler stay doing movies like it and 50 First Dates. I just don't know of anyone who can pull of over-the-top comedic emotional pain like he does. If he sticks with it, I'll stick with him.

Josiah Roe and Aaron Mesh are two St. Elmoites who often stand outside the Bijou arguing about movies. They’re sort of like Ebert and Roeper, only without viable career prospects or functioning thumbs. Look for their film discussions each Wednesday in the Pulse.

Mother Don't Worry, I've Got a Coat and Some Friends on the Corner

The same woman takes my ticket each day as I drive out of the Erlanger hospital garage. I think she's about 55; she wears her hair in cornrows and has a little mole just above her smile. We've developed a wary little relationship over the last few months: I ask her how she's doing, she says something barely audible, and I say, "Oh, good." Once she asked me if I was a hunter. No, I explained, I just wear a lot of earth tones.

So on Monday, I was handing her my ticket and waiting for her to push the mysterious buttons that lift the gate, when she gave me a look of concern. "You okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," I said. "Why?"

"You don't look as happy as you used to."

"Well," I said, a little startled, "I'm pretty tired today."

"No," she said, unsatisfied with my diagnosis. "You don't look as happy as you did when I met you. You seem sadder."

I wasn't really sure how to reply to this. So I thanked her, drove out of the garage, and lit a cigarette. I wondered if I was really, deep down, sadder than I used to be, and decided that I didn't know. There was a spring breeze blowing into the van window, and it started to rain.

Why Does the White Dove Sail?

In the dangerous game of irony, the hunter can soon become the hunted. Yes, my friends, you could be sitting around watching the Oscars, and Annie Lennox is belting out that goofy Return of the King song, and you start mocking her by singing the song in a sardonically high-pitched tone, and then everyone notices that you actually know the lyrics to this song, and you have to explain that NPR is always playing while you're driving to work and how, yes, you may remember some of the words. Not that this happened to me.

More than 40 people packed into my one-bedroom apartment last night to watch the Oscars. If you don't know how unqualified my apartment is to handle that kind of crowd, just picture that 1960s fad of packing people into phone booths and you'll get the idea. By 9 p.m. every space in and around my two living room couches was filled; by 9:30 the room was rapidly developing a peculiar aroma. Andy heroically carted a second television down the mountain, Ryan scrounged up my old antenna, and the kitchen became a second viewing room (and the optimal one to be in if you wanted quick access to the seven-layer dip). Crazy as the event was, it made me feel really great to see so many of my friends gathered at my place.

But trying to manage the party meant that I only caught about two-thirds of the actual show, and a lot of what I saw involved snaggle-toothed men thanking Kiwis. It struck me as a particularly dull ceremony -- I never miss these things -- with the exception of a nice Michael Moore self-parody and the musical stylings of Jack Black and Will Ferrell. Most folks were annoyed at the Return of the King dominance, but it's hard to argue that any other movie better captured the national mood for the year, with its strange combination of triumphalism and melancholia. My only disappointment was Bill Murray's loss to Sean Penn. Penn's a powerful actor who deserved the award, but in the last couple of years I've developed a personal fondness for Murray, especially when he plays the sorrowful self-loather he crafted with Wes Anderson and perfected with young Sophia Coppola. Here's hoping -- and I promise this is the only time you'll catch me making predictions about awards -- that he can pull of another nomination for The Life Aquatic.