Craft and technique are one thing. Emotion and human connection are something else. Many of the consumables below are drunk with the former but somewhat
Craft and technique are one thing. Emotion and human connection are something else. Many of the consumables below are drunk with the former but somewhat lacking in the latter. To illustrate the point, let's start with the most anticipated piece of entertainment on this list.
Kill Bill — Vol. 1 (Miramax Pictures)
That style is sure stylish when it styles all over the style, huh? But when the style styles up, and the characterization and the emotional content get stuck in the style, well, style, what can I style? Every frame technically dazzling and stylish. Every shot a joy and stylish. But wasn't the Greatest Filmmaker Of The New Era supposed to do more than just style?
The School of Rock (Paramount Pictures)
Dead Poets Society with amps. I'm not convinced Jack Black should be front and center in a movie — like Mike Myers, the more room you give him, the more overbearing he becomes. But the kids make him likable — they help him get over himself and realize, hey, there's a film being made here. Meanwhile, high above in the firmament, there is Joan Cusack, again reprising her best role as The Most Perfect Woman Ever. She's funny, beautiful, charming, wonderful — her sense of effortless grace enlivens yet another conventional Hollywood three-act she finds herself stuck in. She oughta get her own movie.
Joe Henry, Tiny Voices (Anti)
After seeing him live last year, I realized his albums are his shortcoming. Suffused with Waitsian tumult and film noir nonsense, the likes of Trampoline and Scar were great albums waiting for their creator to get out of the way. Now signed to the same label as Waits, Joe Henry again deepens his melancholy and arch storytelling. And again he has made precisely the record he wants to make. If this leaves me disappointed, wishing he'd trim his smarts and let his songs breathe through the murky atmosphere, perhaps we'll just agree to disagree. Geez, I hope he can settle for my respect in place of my rabid devotion.
FannyPack, So Stylistic (Tommy Boy)
The young tarts on the cover provide the album with personality, attitude, skank appeal, and vocals. But the two homely dudes hidden inside the liner notes pull the strings. Ideally, FannyPack merges late-'80s hip-hop party music with up-to-date Gamma girl broadcasts. And that volatility almost makes for an extraordinary record. Cat, Belinda, and Jessibel convey a convincing sense of underage sexuality, hormones out of control, awkwardness following closely behind. (These ladies could be as dynamic as Le Tigre if they wanted.) But neither the girls behind the mics nor the guys behind the boards make their postcards from Brooklyn the center of the universe. They flirt with provocative and end up with a playful tease.
The Raveonettes, Chain Gang of Love (Columbia Records)
The hardest thing about these "revivalist" rock bands is determining if you're getting off on the band or on the rock they're reminiscing. (If Tarantino made music, this it what it would be like.) Adding to the confusion, a lot of these groups have one guy, one girl, and a whole lot of "presence" to them. With that in mind, the Raveonettes are better than the Black Keys, slightly less striking than the Kills, and somewhat in spirit with the White Stripes, who loom over the rest of these cats simply by getting on the map first. Perhaps we can't expect a new band to have a new sound and a new worldview anymore? I hope not. That sort of discovery is why some of us pour over so many new albums every year. A record like Chain Gang of Love will tide you over until the next revelation. Just don't expect wonders.
We Came From Beyond Volume 2 (Razor & Tie)
If there's any consistency in this thing called underground hip-hop it's that the music is funnier, smarter, and slightly jazzier than pop rap. Unfortunately, it can also be more bitter and self-satisfied, too. I can't speak for Mike Nardone's radio show (where for 15 years he's been influencing L.A. cutting-edge hip-hop) but this compilation succeeds because nobody on it seems too angry that he's not wealthy or famous. I'll admit that most of the names are unknown to me — exceptions made to Aesop Rock, Vast Aire, and Atmosphere's amazing Slug. But give 'em each one track, and they'll keep you entertained for their allotted four minutes. Their home is your home, and if you would like to visit you are more than welcome.
Amy Rigby, Til the Wheels Fall Off (Signature Sounds)
Her storytelling and subdued tunes are so common she risks disappearing at times. But for people who get tired of the heavy emoting of Lucinda Williams, Rigby's country-rock real world actually resembles the real world, not a Pretentious Artist's rendition of the real world. Do these songs grow on you? You bet — but you'll have to slow down to her casual rhythms for it to have any impact. Only then will you notice how bleakly funny post-40 love can be. (But, then again, maybe you don't want to know.) How much you'll be impressed, though, will depend on your patience for her natural observations and simple shrugs of music.
Woody Allen: A Life in Film (Ivan R. Dee)
"I think you have made at least a half-dozen of the great movies of the postwar years," Richard Schickel tells his subject near the end of their lengthy interview. Woody doesn't accept such glowing praise, and most of his one-time fans may also cringe at the notion. So the film critic and historian does his best to back up his claim in the book's first half, a well-argued treatise on Woody's almost 40 years in film. Schickel is around the same age as the filmmaker, and he has written extensively and passionately about him many times before. Without being defensive or blindly devoted, Schickel reevaluates the canon, giving the films a comprehensive overview that their auteur doesn't seem interested in pursuing himself. Hence the disappointing second half of this book, a very long conversation with Woody that reveals very little. Even people like me who agree with Schickel's assessment will wish Woody always treated his movies with the respect and intelligence his interviewer does.
Concert for George (ArenaPlex LLC)
When you die, I can only hope that you are as loved and missed as George Harrison was by his friends and family. Concert films, tribute shows, and the Harrison song catalog are all rife with limitations. Yet somehow this film survives all three. Mostly, it's thanks to love — not even The Last Waltz radiates such a familial glow — which can smooth over any deficiency. Without boring us with the whos and the whys, this concert-tribute movie gives us a portrait of the Beatles world in the 21st century. Ringo Starr is forever adored as the jester he's happy being. Paul McCartney is invited because they can't not but, well, who wants him around? Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne, and Tom Hanks do their part without pulling focus. The star of the film, however, is Eric Clapton, still grieving for his departed friend. I never thought much of "Isn't It a Pity" before this. But Clapton thinks it's one of George's best songs, and after his stirring version I now think so, too.
Tim Grierson has his own opinions on the Academy's new no-screener policy.
Consumables is a biweekly overview of popular culture.
