"Sky Above Clouds IV"

“Sky Above Clouds IV,” oil on canvas by Georgia O’Keeffe, 1965

This painting is massive. Twenty-four feet long by eight feet tall, “Sky Above Clouds IV” was painted by American modernist Georgia O’Keeffe with the aid of assistants in 1965 when she was seventy-seven years old. Row after row of white ovals shrink into the distance towards a blue and pink horizon. A pair of massive, identical plaques state the painting was inspired by commercial air travel and the experience of looking down on clouds from above. It’s surprising to learn how representational the painting actually is. As someone who has been flying since before he could crawl, I’ve seen what this image is describing—many times—and I didn’t get it, but it got me.

            Most of the elements imply an ostentatious cartoonish quality. The clouds are cobblestones, or marshmallows, or rigid rectangular plant cells, or anything other than clouds. Their white is absolute and so it appears an exaggeration of some near-white symbol. Convention would surely have the pure white of clouds apologetically covered by shades of gray or streaks of blue. The ordered rows are too obviously created, and upon inspection columns emerge as well. A handful of wayward globs are the exceptions that prove the rule. Above all else the painting seems to be attempting to convey a long perspective, but of numerous techniques painters employ for this, only the crudest is used, size. The clouds, in imperfect intervals, gradually shrink from torso-sized to fingeresque ascending. There is no shading, no reference in space, no true illusion of perspective. As with the seemingly abstract subject matter, the true dimensions can be learned but they are not instinctually understood. One must view the change in size and imagine the intended effect in space.

            In O’Keeffe’s earlier paintings of flowers, the gradient from realism to abstract advanced along with the magnification of the image and inversely to the literal space conveyed in the frame. In the “Sky Above Clouds” series it moves from puffy to geometric, with respect to the clouds. But IV is the one that is meant to be seen. This is the huge one, beckoning stares. This is the one as grand as the commercial airline industry appeared in the ‘60s. For the same reason this painting does a poor job of conveying the literal experience of looking down from above the clouds, it succeeds in conveying what’s really key to that experience—a sense of wonder.

 There’s more than just a grammatical relationship between wondering what this image is showing and wonderment at its impressiveness of scale and color. Part of the true experience of passing through the clouds is the dissociated acknowledgment that while fantastic, it is perpetually foreign. We might on one level understand where we are, but that knowledge will always be conscious, not inherent like our knowledge of the smell of rain.

Love Your Idols

“Almost Famous” (Directed by Cameron Crowe, 2000)

 

             Cameron Crowe shows us his young rock critic side in the semi-autobiographical film “Almost Famous,” but obscures the rest of himself. This isn’t a biopic, and doesn’t have any inherent responsibility to cover him in totality. The narrative is centered in a specific time, a few locations and a group of people—none of which have to do with the Hollywood side of his life. However, because this story is itself a film, one of many that Crowe has written, produced and directed, and because there is a Hollywood movie scene just as there is a rock music scene, it seems a blatant, almost ironic omission to ignore it entirely.

Biographically, he performs different functions while creating movies or critiquing music. In performing the latter, Crowe establishes a handful of direct messages about art and appreciation that can’t seem to hold up with respect to his own work—this film. Without changing the content of the narrative, Crowe could have used different filmmaking techniques to incorporate a self-conscious look at Hollywood and thus paint a more complete and nuanced portrait of art and celebrity.

When Kate Hudson plays famous groupie or “Band-Aid” Penny Lane, her character is critiquing the lifestyle, but in performing that role Hudson offers no critique of being an actress. Her first appearance recalls the glamorous introduction of Grace Kelly as Lisa Carol Freemont in “Rear Window” (Directed by Alfred Hitchcock, 1954). Whether or not this is an intentional allusion or questionable borrowing, it certainly isn’t a critique of idolizing stars. We do come to see Penny Lane as more tragic and human later on, but those scenes are so far removed that this moment of rapture in the alley comes off and completely sincere. And Hollywood starlets weren’t without their troubles either; eating disorders, drugs and male chauvinism among them. How is Crowe being “honest and unmerciful,” Lester Bangs’ catchphrase from the film? He isn’t.

The first 15 minutes establish a lot and revel in very little. The film is rushing, frenetically marching forward and leaving the audience to try and catch-up. While not logically confusing, the plot remains unintuitive. Just like William’s (Patrick Fugit) and Crowe’s childhood, everything is condensed. Time is ellipsed after virtually every scene, making for some kind of quasi-montage preamble with no clear parameters. The composition, art direction style and acting are operating with a glossy finish that must be nice to enjoy, someone would ever get the chance. Other times, a scene has a clear purpose for shaping the meaning of the film, such as the early scene where the radio plays “The Christmas Song” by Alvin and the Chipmunks over a montage of palm trees, surfboards and Santa wearing shorts. Christmas in California scene is maybe the most straight-forward scene (and the most cliched), but many others are certainly obvious enough to the point where Crowe’s intention becomes like a watermark on the frame. Clarity is often a virtue, but when scenes extend beyond the time it takes to make their point, they can become annoying—like “The Christmas Song.”

Things gel more when William joins fictional band Stillwater on tour for an article in Rolling Stone. William is exploring these amazing opportunities, and letting the audience come along for the ride. Frances McDormand plays William’s mom and has a humorous heart-to-heart with Stillwater star guitarist Russel (Jason Lee). A series of attempts for William to get an interview with Russel have him waiting by a closed door while being yelled at to leave. Crowe’s subconscious absent father issues seem to have broken through here in some of the most engrossing scenes of the film. But then, each viewer is going to identify with something more than the rest. The film is like a collage in some ways and the basically ineffectual protagonist character allows the audience to choose their own path.

There are definite highs and calculated lows, but everything shines equally with a high-gloss, Hollywood finish undermining the impact of the drama. While most of the film may be true, it doesn’t feel very real.

Beach House's "Teen Dream" is beautiful, comforting

Beach House, “Teen Dream” (Sub Pop, 2010)

           

“Teen Dream,” Baltimore dream-pop duo Beach House’s third LP, their first with indie-major label Sub Pop, is more refined and structured than their previous work while being both more and less intimate. The music is essentially beautiful and each individual element is aesthetically appealing. These are whimsically infectious songs to sing along to like a fool. Beach House no longer hides behind so much fuzzy electronic noise but proudly present their well-rehearsed parts. The expression is clear, but they are performers now with their inner selves projected unfettered by effects even as they are obscured by their own omission. The composition is still dreamlike, but as figments of that dream, the band seems more awake, more energetic than before.

            The delicately rhythmic guitar of Alex Scally advances through the first two tracks as a pernicious idea of creation amidst adark void. One by one the other elements, backing vocal loops sans consonants, Victoria Legrand’s lead vocals and organ, keyboard, drums, electronic effects and tambourine, attach themselves to the growing sound like layers in a dream. And operating as if in a dream where the smallest inconsistency can destroy the illusion, Beach House only rarely, carefully strips away an element and never changes the thrust or feel or an individual song. Rather than change direction, tracks typically build in intensity until just before the end.

Lyrics to opening song and single “Zebra” are sung to the fictionalized animal, “You know you’re gold/You don’t gotta worry none/Oasis child/Born and so wild.” The album art is a slew of decontextualized zebra stripes, perhaps beckoning listeners to ponder some greater meaning and metaphor about the potentially deceptive “black and white horse” as the choice of subject seems equally important to what’s said about it.

            There’s more experimenting of styles throughout the middle of the album in tracks such as “Walk in the Park” which features a Stereolab lounge vibe punctuated by rapid guitar melodies and vocal eruptions of joy. Simple electronic beats coarse through “Used to be” and “Lover of Mine,” the latter with bright treble keyboard riffs glistening above—reminiscent of female trio Au Revoir Simone. Just as their songs are juxtaposed deep rhythmic beats and ornate flourishes, Legrand’s typical low alto vocals are enhanced by soft, lilting diffusion. Each syllable she sings starts and ends delicately, partially obscuring her core strength.

            The beginning of the end of the 10 track, near 50 minute album, “10 Miles Stereo” is an existential, vacuous ballad of anxious excitement that creates space so real you can see the silent stars. It begins with a drum kick followed by a looping guitar melody played at different pitches. Enter Legrand explaining, “They said we would go far, but they don't know how far we'd go/'Cause this heart is a stone, and this is a stone that we throw,” and finally, soft electric waves. Then it slowly builds in stages, with full drums, backing male vocals, cymbals crashing stealing the show and then even bigger drums. The penultimate track “Real Love” features minimalist piano and a varied vocal performance from Legrand culminating in her cooing “I met you” in beautiful, soft, fuzzy falsetto. Her voice is like the warm glow of static from an analog TV set with the volume turned low. This comforting sentiment is brought to the forefront in the last track, “Take Care” featuring the lyrics “I’ll take care of you/Take care of you/That’s true” repeated over and over. It’s a tempting offer that may have some playing this beautiful album on repeat.

"It's Kind of a Funny Story" Is Kind of Awful

“It’s Kind of a Funny Story” is the latest feature from the writer/director team of Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck, adapted from Ned Vizzini's 2006 novel. It’s hard to believe this is the same team that brought us the indie darling “Half Nelson” for under a million in 2006. “Funny Story” has a reported budget over 10 times greater and manages to do less than half as much.

And what it does do is nothing to celebrate. It seems that for a crack at a bigger market, the filmmakers have given up on taking risks. The result is trite if not offensive. Keir Gilchrist stars as a New York City prep-school kid who cracks under pressure and checks himself into a hospital psychiatric ward. Comedian Zach Galifianakis plays his friend and fellow patient. Don’t let the trailer fool you, this isn’t a comedy. It’s yet another vomit-inducing story about how being white is hard.

There’s no tension and barely any plot. Everything taking place in the present is meandering and meaningless—doubly so as Craig first lives an experience and then talks about it to his therapist. With as much time as they devote to voice-over and backstory, they might as well have just set the film a year earlier. The entire film is built on the ridiculous premise that the suicidal teens are getting therapy with old schizophrenics because the youth ward is under renovation. That sounds more like the set-up for a comedy sketch than a feature film. 

It seems like the actors dictated the plot, and not the other way around. You can imagine a meeting at MTV Films where the producers demand a role for golden boy Zach Galifianakis. They probably didn’t call co-star and love interest Emma Roberts by name, instead referring to her character as the eye-candy or pretty face. This is nothing against Roberts—who is absolutely gorgeous as Noelle—but if she wants to be taken seriously, she had better look for more meaningful parts.

Zach Galifianakis is supposed to be the comic relief, and somehow also the emotional core. But all we get is the same old routine he’s worked out in his stand-up and on the internet. It’s a lot of yelling, and shades of sarcasm until you can’t tell what’s real. Originally this was Galifianakis’ way of parodying himself and the act of performance, but now he’s using the same techniques for conventional acting, and it doesn’t work. The only things new to his performance are the camera angles.

Far more to blame than the actors for the characters’ shortcomings is the horrendous writing. It’s not Jeremy Davies’ fault that his character Smitty has no proper introduction, instilling an awkward feeling in the audience whenever he enters the frame. But as the film progresses and some things start to click into place, there’s something to be said for the incomprehensible first act. The characters keep re-hashing the same conversations over and over. Inexcusably, they don’t even waste our time with original material. They go on and on with hackneyed celebrity quotes and unselfconscious new age drivel. In the famous words of Samuel Clemens, “It is better to keep your mouth shut and appear stupid, than to open it and remove all doubt.” That probably doesn’t work when you charge admission.

Independent movies need to find new and interesting angles for telling stories to survive. When they are homogenized like this film, they become a mere shadow of Hollywood and hardly worth the time of those involved, much less the audience’s. I give it 1/5 stars.

Check out my Q n A with Zach Galifianakis, Anna Boden, Ryan Fleck and Keir Gilchrist.

"The Social Network" succeeds with tight script

Directed by David Fincher from Aaron Sorkin’s adapted screenplay of Ben Mezrich’s nonfiction book.

 

Is Jesse Eisenberg a nerd, or an a**hole? That’s the question posed by Roony Mara as Erica Albright about his character, inventor of facebook, Mark Zuckerberg in “The Social Network.” He was an a**hole pretending to be a nerd in “The Squid and the Whale” (Noah Baumback, 2005), a nerd pretending to be an a**hole in “Zombieland” (Ruben Fleischer, 2009) and a mix of both in “Adventureland” (Greg Mottola, 2009). As someone who can’t be disturbed when “wired in” on computer code-writing marathons, he is definitely a nerd here. But how much of an a**hole he is and how either attribute effects his relationship with women is significantly more complicated.

This question comes at the end of the first scene, which—spoiler alert—is their breakup and Erica’s opportunity to share her opinion on the subject (she thinks he’s an a**hole). Their witty repartee flies back and forth like the ball in a championship ping-pong match. The dialogue is layered with coded meanings, and then the characters address and analyze those meanings. This is a masterfully crafted script by Aaron Sorkin of television’s “The West Wing.” Following this exchange, Zuckerberg enters the night air outside the Boston bar and jogs his way through campus to Kirkland House. The words, “Harvard, 2003” materialize and in less than a second are gone. This is a fast film, tightly knit at an even 2 hours. If the first scene was the warm-up, demanding audiences’ full attention after fifteen minutes of previews, then the second is a controlled come-down. Classical violin wafts from a sidewalk performer complete with stand and music, but is underscored by the dark, sobering tones of composer Trent Reznor. And it is night time, as it is 90% of the time in this film, because night time is the right time, or something.

The film continues in this stylized and highly structured way with only a couple hiccups in form of a forced point or some extended expository dialogue. The narrative structure is technically non-linear as we jump around between two separate lawsuits against Zuckerberg and scenes about the drama behind and creation of facebook. But rather than confound, this device eases the viewing process and provides perfect segues between scenes otherwise separated by space and time. “The Social Network” is much more standard fare than Fincher’s 1999 release “Fight Club”, and is more in line with his 2007 film “Zodiac.” It differs from the latter in its speed and versatility, as well as the plethora of simple pleasures it offers. Both were very well made films—“The Social Network” is outstanding.

But the most impressive aspect of this film is its ability to operate on different layers. It’s all but hackneyed to portray facebook co-founder Eduardo Saverin (Andrew Garfield) and Justin Timberlake as Napster co-founder Sean Parker (a hilarious and ironic role for a musical icon to play, though Timberlake is out acted at every turn) as the angel and devil respectively atop Zuckerberg’s shoulders. This is especially true as Saverin served as consultant on the book this film is based on. But at least Fincher doesn’t belabor the point. In fact, he actually attacks it from within. After a day of depositions, a female junior lawyer tells Zuckerberg that in these situations the truth isn’t as important as what can be heavily implied. She is talking about going to trial and how everything would look, but isn’t this film a sort of trial? And she, the jury expert, is at once telling the audience what to think, and how easy it is to get us to oblige. Until this point she had been a passive listener, along for the ride just like the audience and maybe now serves as our stand-in. Add that she is a woman fitting with the central struggle for Zuckerberg, and that’s at least 4 layers. It’s that self-awareness that could make this one film that’s significantly smarter than the book. 5/5 stars.

On 'Critical Condition' and Angry White Guy Don Hall

Timeout Chicago's "Blog Critics: Critical Condition" (http://chicago.timeout.com/articles/features/25801/critical-condition)
Don Hall: An Angry White Guy" (http://donhall.blogspot.com/) Blog post about mid-life crisis

Don Hall is: some nonprint, nonprofessional, nonedited, nonpaid, nontrained writer.

He thinks reviewing is a compulsive disease with both mental and physical symptoms. When Kris Vire asks who would still review if they stopped getting paid for it, everyone said of course they would. Don Hall said this, “Which indicates that for all the bitching about money, money has little to do with this thing we do.”

They even give that to him as the last word, granting his sentiments the professional seal of approval. The professionals like the image Hall paints of an impassioned writer working diligently for a noble cause, untainted by economics. But though they all agree, their answers are still different based on the context in which they are given. Hall is responding to Anne Holub who said, “Definitely. Of course, I don’t get paid now sooo…” Three “o”’s and the dreaded ellipses—no wonder she isn’t getting paid.

The point still stands, Hall and Holub are not getting paid yet they are doing it. And maybe what’s most important is that they are doing it at a level above not only the user submissions and forum posts, but also above their blogging peers. Out of the World Wide Sea, Timeout selected these two fish, fresh and fat. The professionals are probably telling the truth. They would probably still do it even if they weren’t paid. But how would they still do it? Could they possibly maintain the rigorous standards they impose on themselves now? Where would the research, the quality of writing, the editing and authority all go? Some would likely end up like Hall and Holub, but others could just as easily end up like the basement-dwelling mouth breathers who populate the net. My point is that these professionals haven’t been tested whereas Hall has—and he passed.

Still, reviewing is nothing courageous to Hall. It is just a “stubborn need to express our opinion.” He thinks it can be courageous to speak truth to power, and he shares a populist distrust of “megacorporations” with his internet comrades.

But the key difference between Hall and the rest of the panel is that he is the only one who believes his opinion are true and that a good critic renders a correct verdict. He says you only need to be “as sharp and precise as what you are slamming”—a funny way of disagreeing that negative reviews should be restrained. Instead he believes readers form a report with critics whom share their personal opinion. He calls critics he disagrees with hacks. He is like George W. Bush, unable to separate politics and religion. To him, it wouldn’t be his opinion unless he was 100% sure it was true. Yet he does say that “in order to appropriately criticize, a dollop of self-awareness is necessary-knowing your own prejudices, etc.” So while his Id may be wrong, his Ego won’t be if he has his Superego trained.

The professionals stress the need for education and editing, but don’t make the connection to correctness. It begs the question of why all that education is necessary. Hall focuses on passion, and says education will naturally follow. And in general, he seems to be a very passionate person. He is the only quoter on the panel, meaning he will restate a line another person said that he enjoyed. He’s also an a negative asshole mostly. And his website is a blog with some reviews—not the other way around. He has no shame, and no restraint. He will rant and write unfocused, meandering, enjoyable, and probably accurate reviews—when he isn’t busy telling us about his cats or failed marriages.

Reviewing Reviews – Critiquing two reviews of Pixar’s “Up” (Directed by Pete Docter and co-directed by Bob Peterson, 2009)

Armond White of the New York Press had an awful review of the film (http://www.nypress.com/article-19876-the-way-of-pixarism.html), while Mike LaSalle of the San Francisco Chronicle had a good review (http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2009/05/29/MV6617S4LC.DTL)

 

While both White and LaSalle share disdain and disbelief for the film’s middle stretch of action and adventure, it is LaSalle—who wrote the overall positive review—whose criticism is better formed. Lasalle speaks plainly to the shortcomings of the film in clear specifics while White is so muddled in the larger issues he invents that he mostly ignores the movie. White’s few comments on the film are little more than assertions without evidence or support.

White begins his review with an analogy linking Pixar to General Motors at its zenith. That he spends the rest of his introductory paragraph explaining his meaning demonstrates it was not easily recognizable, and not the kind of easy opening that draws a reader in. At the time his review was published, it was the first negative review for “Up” on RottenTomatoes, taking the film from a perfect 100 down to 98. This arcane fact should have nothing to do with his review as it has nothing to do with the film. But apply this knowledge to a lens for reading and lo, some shape begins to form within the void of seemingly random discontent.

Armond White is a contrarian—that is why he spends more time complaining about the praise the film received than articulating his own criticisms. He sees himself as responding to a world gone mad, so it is understandable if his reaction is a bit scattershot. White throws around references to Robin Williams, “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” (Directed by Stanley Kramer 1967) and Mr. Magoo, all in a description of the lead character. He mentions every single other Pixar film as well as 5 “good” animated films. He speaks at some length about Charlie Chaplin, Chuck Jones, and not just “The Red Balloon” (Directed by Albert Lamorisse, 1956) but also “The Flight of the Red Balloon” (Directed by Hsiao-hsien Hou, 2007). A choice selection of a few meaningful references can certainly enhance a piece of criticism, but too much leaves too little substance.

LaSalle’s lede contains elements of the “poetic wisdom” he finds in “Up”. It is poetic because of its lilting praise contrasted by practical criticism and wise because it provides a clear roadmap for the review to follow.

Both critics tried to make the same point about predictability in “Up” and Pixar’s other films, but did so in their own ways. White writes, “When Up trivializes Carl and Russell’s loneliness” without first establishing the point, and goes on to list a number of other Pixar films. LaSalle takes a different approach, writing, “Yet 'Up' also contains boring stretches of mindless freneticism and bland character interaction that test the ability of any adult to stay conscious.” LaSalle has a practical list of grievances and touches on the issue of whether animation is for kids or adults—a debate more intuitive and relevant than how animation relates to General Motors. He goes on to talk about not just the plot, but the elements that connected with him.

LaSalle’s review recounts his personal relationship to the film while White takes the film personally and breaks a cardinal rule of journalism—he becomes the story.