Be it every few days, or every other month, when I come to update this blog, I feel as though I have outgrown my surroundings. Due to this, I have decided that the best idea would be to leave my shell of Blogger and stake ground at a new, hip, smooth WordPress blog. All of the old posts have been posted there, so for those of you who have me bookmarked, favorited, linked, et cetera, you can now find me at the following URL: http://temporarylifeblog.wordpress.com/ You can also click on the title of this blog post to jump to the new page, which, by the time you read this, should contain a new post.
For those reading this, if you're new to the page, or have been reading, thank you all for listening.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Film Review: Where the Wild Things Are
Standing in line for popcorn, I look up and see Alvin, Simon, and Theodore, the rodents who permeated my childhood, staring at me from 20 feet up, larger than life. Seeing this, I speak some of the truest words I've spoken in my life:
"I realize, my cynicism and displeasure in the entertainment community at large has become something of a burden, and is becoming a problem."
It's true. I have always found that, even since I was young, the MST3K Mantra did not apply to my overall outlook on music, movies, and television. Rather than being content with the latest blockbuster, from an early age, I thirsted for something more than what I was given. A fondness for overwrought foreign films about Abortion and people like Dave Longstreth and Jeff Mangum clouded my judgment, and made it so that I nearly wept upon seeing The Golden Compass, and have yet to even read reviews of The Spiderwick Chronicles, despite how long it has been out.
Upon realizing exactly where I stood on the crags of criticism, I approached the greatest challenge I possibly could: the sparkling, muddy Spike Jonze adaptation of Where The Wild Things Are. Possibly the most important book of my childhood, it was hard to ignore my instincts to judge the film as anything more than what it was: a love letter.
For those unfamiliar with the premise, somehow, a summary: Max, a young boy with a big imagination, finds himself in approximately my position of displeasure with the world around him, and thus, he decides to leave his world of rules and oppression and start anew across the sea. He comes across an island full of great furry beasties, and, as they say, the wild rumpus begins. He is crowned king, but time wears on and he realizes that being like an animal isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Spike Jonze, of course, is the director of Being John Malkovich and Adaptation. Being Spike Jonze means a certain degree of responsibility when it comes to bringing certain things to the table, including surreal humor and overdone character study. And this is exactly what the adaptation is: a character study. The wild things, serving merely as a metaphor for animal instinct in the original Maurice Sendak story, each of them bears their own distinct personality. The main wild thing, Carol, takes Max under his wing after his crowning, and helms his project to build a fort for all of the group to be safe in. Everything is injected with love, love, love, and as an end result, we are shown not the advancement of any given plot line, but the personal growth of every major player. Being that the original text is 10 sentences long, it gives a lot of room for expansion on everything therein, using the images as the jumping point.
Ultimately the thing most people are put off by is the lack of plot development and the fact that nothing really happens over the course of the film. To those people I ask, why does there need to be a stream of events? Why can't the characters merely live their day, and let us view it from the outside? Have we become so jaded that we shut out the validity of films that show the kinds of things that we have done 50 times during this particular work week? The wild things are people you know, and you know that full well, even if they have horns and manes and one guy gets his arm ripped off and replaces it with a stick. Jonze goes as far as to prove that you know these people by having two unintelligible owls tell a character the Loud Interrupting Cow knock-knock joke by hooting. What could be more slice of life than that?
By the end of the film, I felt nothing more than warm and fuzzy. If I were pressed to give a critical opinion, I would say that the film needed more structure and served as nothing more than a way for Jonze to exercise his childish genes. But for Where The Wild Things Are, I am able to forget what we as critics are taught to say and believe, and just believe in something great.
"I realize, my cynicism and displeasure in the entertainment community at large has become something of a burden, and is becoming a problem."
It's true. I have always found that, even since I was young, the MST3K Mantra did not apply to my overall outlook on music, movies, and television. Rather than being content with the latest blockbuster, from an early age, I thirsted for something more than what I was given. A fondness for overwrought foreign films about Abortion and people like Dave Longstreth and Jeff Mangum clouded my judgment, and made it so that I nearly wept upon seeing The Golden Compass, and have yet to even read reviews of The Spiderwick Chronicles, despite how long it has been out.
Upon realizing exactly where I stood on the crags of criticism, I approached the greatest challenge I possibly could: the sparkling, muddy Spike Jonze adaptation of Where The Wild Things Are. Possibly the most important book of my childhood, it was hard to ignore my instincts to judge the film as anything more than what it was: a love letter.
For those unfamiliar with the premise, somehow, a summary: Max, a young boy with a big imagination, finds himself in approximately my position of displeasure with the world around him, and thus, he decides to leave his world of rules and oppression and start anew across the sea. He comes across an island full of great furry beasties, and, as they say, the wild rumpus begins. He is crowned king, but time wears on and he realizes that being like an animal isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Spike Jonze, of course, is the director of Being John Malkovich and Adaptation. Being Spike Jonze means a certain degree of responsibility when it comes to bringing certain things to the table, including surreal humor and overdone character study. And this is exactly what the adaptation is: a character study. The wild things, serving merely as a metaphor for animal instinct in the original Maurice Sendak story, each of them bears their own distinct personality. The main wild thing, Carol, takes Max under his wing after his crowning, and helms his project to build a fort for all of the group to be safe in. Everything is injected with love, love, love, and as an end result, we are shown not the advancement of any given plot line, but the personal growth of every major player. Being that the original text is 10 sentences long, it gives a lot of room for expansion on everything therein, using the images as the jumping point.
Ultimately the thing most people are put off by is the lack of plot development and the fact that nothing really happens over the course of the film. To those people I ask, why does there need to be a stream of events? Why can't the characters merely live their day, and let us view it from the outside? Have we become so jaded that we shut out the validity of films that show the kinds of things that we have done 50 times during this particular work week? The wild things are people you know, and you know that full well, even if they have horns and manes and one guy gets his arm ripped off and replaces it with a stick. Jonze goes as far as to prove that you know these people by having two unintelligible owls tell a character the Loud Interrupting Cow knock-knock joke by hooting. What could be more slice of life than that?
By the end of the film, I felt nothing more than warm and fuzzy. If I were pressed to give a critical opinion, I would say that the film needed more structure and served as nothing more than a way for Jonze to exercise his childish genes. But for Where The Wild Things Are, I am able to forget what we as critics are taught to say and believe, and just believe in something great.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Live Review: The Dirty Projectors (Aladdin Theater, 11/03/09)
For me, writing a live review has always been as much about the band performing as the people seeing them. Crowds vary a lot, from oddly still and reverent (Menomena, Explosions in the Sky) to "I'm overcompensating for something by moving around so goddamn much!" (I'm looking straight at you, Girl Talk crowd). Sometimes the crowd looks like they have never heard the band that's performing, and simply ended up in the crowd of the show by freak accident (Los Campesinos!). Every crowd is truly unique.
To talk about the crowd at Dirty Projectors would be unfair: there was a bit of a divide. In the Aladdin Theater's infinite wisdom, they made the set all ages, but cattled everyone who was not over 21 to the balcony of the venue, which is usually reserved, at least in normal concert halls, for the hipsters drinking their beer. So, we have a sea of people grooving to the music below, and a whole bunch of surly 19 year olds up top, wishing they could be downstairs truly enjoying the performance. Thus, in an attempt to not seem like I am ranting so much, I will try and stray away from talking about the people watching the show, and focus on the performance.
Dirty Projectors, for what its worth, are the best avant-pop stylists this side of Animal Collective, and have never failed to make music that the common man can agree is definitely challenging (see: weird). In releasing Bitte Orca, the band's astounding Pop explosion, they may have released the most coherent work in their catalogue, and easily the best. However, to say that the band would be the most prolific band of the noughties if they could capture their live intensity for record would be an understatement. Having listened to Bitte Orca more times than I can count, I can comfortably say that, as much as I enjoyed the album at home, it pales in comparison to the live article, a statement I can rarely make.
The two Orca tracks that truly demonstrate the live fury of Dave Longstreth's crew are Mariah Carey-jocking lead single "Stillness Is The Move" and makeshift title track "Useful Chamber." On the latter, Amber Coffman's vocal work that shone so brightly on the physical article are magnified by 100x due to her charisma and body energy, as she bobs around the stage like the sexy older sister of Shara Worden a la Hazards of Love. Hearing "Stillness" live may have ruined the (for lack of a better word) purity of the album version, due to the fire that Coffman brings into the live performance. Meanwhile the overall tightness of the track shows through as drummer Brian Mcomber proves himself as the world's most proficient hip-hop drummer, and Longstreth tears our the main groove, bobbing around the stage happily.
However, on "Useful Chamber" the band as a whole truly explodes. Stripping away the seasick synth sounds of the album, "Chamber" turns into a writhing beast of a song, stretching it out nearly two minutes longer than God intended, with Longstreth proving that he's truly one of the best guitarists of the decade, while the power trio of Amber Coffman, Angel Deradoorian, and forgotten Dirty Projector Hayle Dekle howl like banchees over the cacophony. "I'm caught up in a storm/That I don't need no shelter from!" sings Longstreth over the tumult that he's created, a line most fitting amidst the storm wailing around him.
The rest of the songs played live may not stand out quite as much as these two, but they are nonetheless mind-blowing. The simplicity of Deradoorian's solo shot "Two Doves," accompanied with a small string section in record, is stripped down to Longstreth accompanying on acoustic guitar, and though both Amber and Angel have been in the main spotlight since "Stillness is the Move" debuted, Angel still seems nothing less than nervous to get her shot in the spotlight, despite the extensive touring the band has done behind the record.
Elsewhere, the joyful noise of "Temecula Sunrise" explodes into brightness, and the resplendent tone of opener "Cannibal Resource" opens up yet further, completely obliterating the possibility of listening to the album itself the same way again. Once the encore starts, and the organ sounds of closer "Fluorescent Half Dome" (cunningly saved for last) flare into life, I realize that, maybe that's the point of the live article. Perhaps not to utterly destroy it, as the set may have done for me, but to complement it, and bring both sides of each story to life. In reality, something tells me that even if I had been in the crowd for the performance, rather than sitting on the sidelines, I doubt my review would be much different, because here, nobody but Dave Longstreth and his immaculate players matter.
To talk about the crowd at Dirty Projectors would be unfair: there was a bit of a divide. In the Aladdin Theater's infinite wisdom, they made the set all ages, but cattled everyone who was not over 21 to the balcony of the venue, which is usually reserved, at least in normal concert halls, for the hipsters drinking their beer. So, we have a sea of people grooving to the music below, and a whole bunch of surly 19 year olds up top, wishing they could be downstairs truly enjoying the performance. Thus, in an attempt to not seem like I am ranting so much, I will try and stray away from talking about the people watching the show, and focus on the performance.
Dirty Projectors, for what its worth, are the best avant-pop stylists this side of Animal Collective, and have never failed to make music that the common man can agree is definitely challenging (see: weird). In releasing Bitte Orca, the band's astounding Pop explosion, they may have released the most coherent work in their catalogue, and easily the best. However, to say that the band would be the most prolific band of the noughties if they could capture their live intensity for record would be an understatement. Having listened to Bitte Orca more times than I can count, I can comfortably say that, as much as I enjoyed the album at home, it pales in comparison to the live article, a statement I can rarely make.
The two Orca tracks that truly demonstrate the live fury of Dave Longstreth's crew are Mariah Carey-jocking lead single "Stillness Is The Move" and makeshift title track "Useful Chamber." On the latter, Amber Coffman's vocal work that shone so brightly on the physical article are magnified by 100x due to her charisma and body energy, as she bobs around the stage like the sexy older sister of Shara Worden a la Hazards of Love. Hearing "Stillness" live may have ruined the (for lack of a better word) purity of the album version, due to the fire that Coffman brings into the live performance. Meanwhile the overall tightness of the track shows through as drummer Brian Mcomber proves himself as the world's most proficient hip-hop drummer, and Longstreth tears our the main groove, bobbing around the stage happily.
However, on "Useful Chamber" the band as a whole truly explodes. Stripping away the seasick synth sounds of the album, "Chamber" turns into a writhing beast of a song, stretching it out nearly two minutes longer than God intended, with Longstreth proving that he's truly one of the best guitarists of the decade, while the power trio of Amber Coffman, Angel Deradoorian, and forgotten Dirty Projector Hayle Dekle howl like banchees over the cacophony. "I'm caught up in a storm/That I don't need no shelter from!" sings Longstreth over the tumult that he's created, a line most fitting amidst the storm wailing around him.
The rest of the songs played live may not stand out quite as much as these two, but they are nonetheless mind-blowing. The simplicity of Deradoorian's solo shot "Two Doves," accompanied with a small string section in record, is stripped down to Longstreth accompanying on acoustic guitar, and though both Amber and Angel have been in the main spotlight since "Stillness is the Move" debuted, Angel still seems nothing less than nervous to get her shot in the spotlight, despite the extensive touring the band has done behind the record.
Elsewhere, the joyful noise of "Temecula Sunrise" explodes into brightness, and the resplendent tone of opener "Cannibal Resource" opens up yet further, completely obliterating the possibility of listening to the album itself the same way again. Once the encore starts, and the organ sounds of closer "Fluorescent Half Dome" (cunningly saved for last) flare into life, I realize that, maybe that's the point of the live article. Perhaps not to utterly destroy it, as the set may have done for me, but to complement it, and bring both sides of each story to life. In reality, something tells me that even if I had been in the crowd for the performance, rather than sitting on the sidelines, I doubt my review would be much different, because here, nobody but Dave Longstreth and his immaculate players matter.
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