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Current Music Review: Tortoise / Beacons of Ancestorship / 2009
Review by Jordan Cronk: If any band was in dire need of a swift kick in the pants, it would have to be Tortoise. I mean, following 2004's numbingly innocuous It’s All Around You, you’d have been forgiven for assuming that the band were now just quietly riding off into the sunset, their legacy as post-rock progenitors secure and obligation to prove anything long since past. In the interim they had even released the requisite rarities box set (A Lazarus Taxon, which is essential I might add), all but signaling the end of what was one of the most groundbreaking musical acts of the 90s. Their slow recession from the spotlight coincided with the agonizing death of post-rock itself, which is rather fitting considering Tortoise arguably embodied the outlying signifiers of the genre better than anyone else. This is all to say that for all intents and purposes it felt like Tortoise had run their course, which is what makes their new record, Beacons of Ancestorship, such an unexpectedly bracing return for the group. I hesitate to call it a comeback, since they never technically broke-up, but it is most certainly a return-to-form, and even more surprising, it’s a form that the band has never fully assimilated in the past.
In other words, Beacons of Ancestorship rocks, and it actually rocks pretty hard at times. From that perspective, it also kind of rules, in as much as a late-period Tortoise record can rule (or rock) that is. This shift in approach is instantly noticeable: Eight minute opener “High Class Slim Came Floatin’ In” rides a circular keyboard line around stabbing bits of distorted synth and muscular percussion, and the resulting melody is inviting and memorable enough to throw the listener back in their seat, particularly if one was expecting more cocktail lounge jazz from a veteran instrumental band. The following track, “Prepare Your Coffin,” manages to consolidate the more sprawling and methodical power of ‘Slim’ into one self-contained 3-minute blast, and it already has people referring to it as Tortoise’s metal moment. That’s probably pushing it, but that riff is undeniable and those fills dizzying enough to add “math-" to the band’s laundry list of “-rock” qualifiers. If this is an apology for their recent retreat into easy-listening territory, then Tortoise, consider yourselves forgiven.
This being Tortoise though, Beacons of Ancestorship doesn’t always stay in aggressive mode, and even the chiller moments here feel more invigorated and purposeful than a great deal of their recent work, as if every note has been carefully worked out and utilized for maximum impact instead as ends unto themselves. Album highlight “Gigantes” proves that Tortoise are still adept at blurring the line between guitar and synth, while “Penumbra” sounds like a glitched-out 80s sitcom theme which purposefully bridges the gap between the former and its follow-up “Yinxianghechengqi,” whose clipped bass frequencies are startlingly bold, even for a record more consciously militant in approach. The ominous “Fall of Seven Diamonds Plus One” ushers in the album’s more sedate second half, and although Tortoise can’t keep up the momentum established by the opening blitzkrieg, this isn’t really a deal breaker. “Monument Six One Thousand” and particularly closer “Charteroak Foundation” are beautiful enough on their own to support this slight lag.
Most importantly, Beacons of Ancestorship is focused and potent enough to reassure us of Tortoise’s collective powers. As always, John McEntire’s production is immaculate, and his skill behind the boards adds a level of precision to even the album’s most combative moments. Plus, the record barely eclipses the 40-minute mark, hardly enough time to grow bored after the album’s first half gives way to more peaceful waters. The days of Tortoise making huge statements like they did with the 21-minute “Djed” or the consistently thrilling TNT have probably past, but if the band continues to surprise the way they have here, the results will never be less than interesting. Beacons of Ancestorship is a confident step in that direction, and proof that this group of scene veterans still have the ability to impress through their restlessly creative, if sadly infrequent, output. (★★½)
LAST WORD: The first album in five years from Chicago post-rock institution Tortoise finds the band reinvigorated, turning in their most potent collection of songs in years.
Current Music Review: Dinosaur Jr. / Farm / 2009
Review by Jordan Cronk: Excepting perhaps The Fall, I’m not sure if there’s ever been another band that’s gotten as much mileage out of basically re-writing the same tunes over and over again as Boston alt-rock legends Dinosaur Jr. (and in both instances, I say that in the most respectful way possible). Dinosaur didn’t exactly arrive fully formed of course, but by the time of their landmark sophomore record, You’re Living All Over Me, the band’s classic sound was in place, never to be tampered with again. Even when the band imploded and the Dinosaur Jr. brand became more of solo vehicle for front man J. Mascis, that core sound persevered, unfettered by the ever-mounting trends of the ensuing decade. In fact, a great deal of grunge and shoegaze acts lifted directly from this basic Dinosaur aesthetic only to repackage it and call it their own. Still, there's something intangibly inspired about Dinosaur Jr. when the three original members appear on record together, and when the classic line-up of Mascis, Lou Barlow and Murph (can’t forget Murph) reformed for 2006's wonderful Beyond, it unsurprisingly felt like a seamless continuation of where the band left off in 1988 with Bug, and in the process exposed the band’s epic classic rock leanings to a whole new generation of music fans.
As is the case with nearly any act still going strong after two decades of indie prominence, it’s become almost way too easy to take this kind of stuff for granted, especially as up-start blog-powered bands seep into the indie consciousness on an almost daily basis. So there is a certain comfort then in knowing exactly what you’re going to get with each successive Dinosaur Jr. record, regardless of context. Almost on cue, and just as my mind can’t handle one more Afro-pop pillaging indie-pop act, Dinosaur Jr. return yet again with Farm, the band’s second post-reunion album, and one that once again doesn’t break any sort of new ground for them (or anybody else), but in its own way is still a rather mighty document of a band confident in their chosen path as veterans of a dying breed on pure indie-rock. Sure, Farm may just be another document in the growing Dinosaur discography (their name becomes more and more prescient with every passing day, which I’m sure they embrace wholeheartedly), but at the same time it's sure to please long-time fans and newcomers alike.
As has been the case with just about every Dinosaur Jr. record that came before it, Farm leads with its best foot forward: “Pieces” tears in unabated with Mascis’ signature guitar pyrotechnics and endearingly nasal vox, ably setting the table for 11 more tracks of basically the same thing. Though, on the whole, Farm finds the band stretching out a bit more than they have in the past, with a handful of tracks crossing the 7-minute barrier. As a result, Farm is paradoxically long on breadth and short on ambition, and while this can grow tiring as the album trudges toward the one-hour mark, a whole lot of it is still invigorating in small, self-contained doses. A steady intake of Dinosaur Jr. should be in every serious music fan's diet, and Farm certainly provides plenty of nourishment for those who have exhausted their copies of Beyond.
Farm leaves me in odd position as a critic then, as it doesn’t really cover a whole lot of stylistic ground, while individual songs can feel interchangeable with most anything off their last album (you’ll notice I haven’t really gone into any specifics on individual tracks). It’s all still rather good though, and even when tracks seem to exist only to show off Mascis’ unparalleled ability to wank-out while keeping a straight face, Farm scratches a particular itch so well that it's hard to complain about the results. They certainly don’t have the dynamic range they once did—Farm is all rawk all the time, and even the ballads can fry your synapses—but no one does it quite like them, and for that I'm grateful (although I'm even more grateful for that brilliant cover art). The two requisite Barlow penned tracks are solid too, and if nothing else they genuinely pique my interest for the inevitable Sebadoh reunion album. As I’ve stated before, there's a certain rush that only Dinosaur Jr. can provide, and this lazily anthemic niche that’s been so conducive for Mascis for over two decades now will simply never go out of style. Dinosaur Jr., whoever you are, we love thee. (★★½)
LAST WORD: The second post-reunion album from the original Dinosaur Jr. line-up is a sprawling extension of their last record, and guess what, it sounds exactly how you’d imagine. What did you expect, keyboards?
Current Film Review: Whatever Works / Directed by Woody Allen / 2009
Review by Sam C. Mac: With his late career peak, 1992's "Husbands and Wives," Woody Allen explored the rocky slope of marriage in all its complex infidelities and regrets. Since around that time, the filmmaker's insight into the nature of relationships has been on decline, favoring loopy larks like last year's "Vicky Cristina Barcelona," and now his latest trifle, "Whatever Works." Here Allen once again takes a frustratingly naive look at the interactions between men and women, and presents an overly familiar assessment of life's many happy and unhappy coincidences. And though a return to his home turf of NYC held the potential of invigorating the aging director's slipping craft, this screenplay (written, originally, for Zero Mostel back during the "Annie Hall" salad days, and feeling just as musty and dated as its vintage would suggest), simply isn't as sharp as Allen's classics, further let down by improvisational actor Larry David whose performance never rises above a bargain-bin version of Allen's own narcissistic and whiny persona.
David plays crotchety misanthrope and self-proclaimed "genius" Boris Yellnikoff, warning at the outset (during a clunky talk-to-the-audience device) that he's not a "likable guy." When he jokes, "if you want to feel good, go get yourself a foot massage," it's pretty clear that "Whatever Works" isn't going to be as funny as Allen's best material. A long monologue, in which David rehashes familiar Allen ideology (the world's cruel, marriage is cruel, people are cruel, occasionally you're happy, death is inevitable, yada yada) doesn't help to stave off accusations that much of Allen's latest is recycled from earlier, better films. However, finding familiar subject matter in a new Allen film should be surprising to no one.
Boris proceeds to describe his marriage as being "far from a bed of roses" and, "botanically speaking," his wife as a "Venus Flytrap," then confesses to a failed suicide attempt, and his seemingly irrational separation from his beautiful, talented and younger wife. Boris blames their marital failure on the "rational" nature of their union, and spontaneously decides to divorce and move across town. He takes up teaching chess to kids -- and by "teaching," he swears at his students ad nauseam, calls them "cretins" and tells their parents what idiots they are. There's a mean spirited nature to Boris that, though announced at the beginning, is no less unpleasant and grating.
This makes the next development all the more difficult to take, though totally expected: Late one night, Boris discovers a ragamuffin southern bell in his trash, begging for food and shelter, and he can't bring himself to shoe her away (try as he does). Her name is Melodie St. Ann Celestine (Evan Rachel Wood), and she says she's 21 but looks about 18 ("you're 21 like I play for the New York Yankees"). She's as dumb as an ox and Boris takes pity on her, as she guilts him into letting her stay the night. Naturally, as this is an Allen movie, the waif-y, frail and young beauty falls head-over-heels for the shrill, endlessly griping Boris, who teaches her the meaninglessness of existence and has to continually remind her he never played for the New York Yankees.
As was the case in 2006's murder mystery romp "Scoop," Allen doesn't give us characters that approach even the vaguest semblance of reality. This is screwball comedy, which perhaps makes it all a bit easier to stomach than last year's similarly vacant (but far too convinced of its own importance) "Vicky Cristina Barcelona." In "Whatever Works," Allen goes all in for crazy: Patricia Clarkson shows up as Melodie's god-fearing mother, then pulls a complete cultural 180, becoming a pornographic photographer/modern artist and moving in with two men. Even less easy to stomach is the hurried transformation of Melodie's father (Ed Begley Jr.), which not only feels like a tacked on afterthought but presents a borderline offensive rendering of homosexual repression, culminating in the line "every time the tight-end bent over..."
Still, it's not the dialogue (a characteristically uneven mix of jokes that land and jokes that land with a thud) that's the problem here; it's David, unable to communicate the depth of character found in Allen's best roles, and coming off as a wholly one-dimensional blow-hard. Boris is the kind of Allen character who's allowed to be deemed a "genius" without really hinting toward anything particularly relevant he's accomplished or any scholarly inclinations. Even in his later roles, Allen exhibits an incredible gift for deadpan comedic timing, and there's a rhythmic nature to his diatribes; David possesses none of this skill, delivering his every line bluntly, and seemingly without the slightest idea of how to distinguish between the comedy and the levity of his character's behaviors.
So if David is the film's greatest failing, Evan Rachel Wood is its greatest asset; the actress proves to be a much more suitable muse for Allen than the flat Scarlet Johannson, as well as a surprising screwball talent who brings more depth to her completely ridiculous part than seasoned co-star Clarkson (here riffing on a cartoon similar to that she played in 'Vicky Cristina'). Following a parade of uniformly similar roles as disaffected, rebellious youths in "The Wrestler," "Down in the Valley" and with her breakout role in "Thirteen," "Whatever Works" is a refreshing change of pace for Wood, steering her away from a career trajectory as reliably predictable as that of Giovanni Ribisi.
Allen also rings some amount of pathos from Boris' simple, titular moto, a suggestion that we take whatever happiness we can find in this world and make it work for us in any way we can, for as long as we can (it's a bit how we felt about the film: enjoy whatever little bits you can get). It's a modest mantra but a sincere one nonetheless, perhaps deserving of a more refined film than this highly implausible, only mildly entertaining romp. (★★)
LAST WORD: Mildly entertaining, but this is the same material, thematically, that Allen has been peddling for decades, and Larry is no Woody.
Current Music Review: Dirty Projectors / Bitte Orca / 2009
Review by Sam C. Mac: No release this year better represents a realization of potential than the new album from off-kilter indie collective Dirty Projectors. That Animal Collective record we all know and love could be seen as a similar document in this regard, but whereas the triumph of Merriweather Post Pavilion is that of a band in peak form, exercising their long-established skill, the level of success Dirty Projectors attain on Bitte Orca is of a kind they've never reached before. As chronicled in a series of eccentric albums, the odd EP and one truly confounding reproduction of Black Flag's punk landmark Damaged from memory (2007's Rise Above), lead Projector David Longstreth has proven himself a restless prodigy, delivering inconsistently brilliant collections with just as inconsistent a line-up of musicians under the Dirty Projectors moniker.
It's always been apparent that his band, no matter what the incarnation, are a formidable indie-rock act, but the material they've churned out in that past – wildly eclectic and often maddening compositions coupled with Longstreth's otherworldly falsetto – have made for a musical output much easier to admire than love. Shards of Longstreth's more crystalline art-pop tend to find themselves sandwiched between lesser experiments. Take, for example, the meandering crashings of "Room 13" and the half-hearted sketch of "Untitled" surrounding perhaps the band's best track, "Rise Above," on the album of the same name. Or the David Byrne-aided "Knotty Pine" nearly drowned out by the mediocrity pervading the Dark Was the Night compilation it's a part of. Not so with Bitte Orca though, a collection of nine songs, each just about as good as anything the band's ever done.
This isn't just a great album, it's some kind of lightning-in-a-bottle miracle; Longstreth has managed to channel his tendency toward going-nowhere diversions into one song: "The Bride," the only weakness in this whole set which, in reality, is about as compelling as all the other doodles Longstreth has given us (which is to say it's no disaster). Complaints about this album end there, as no other major missteps occur in the 41 minute length between the electric guitar chime of opener "Cannibal Resource" and the fading synths which close percussive stunner "Fluorescent Half-Dome." That's not to say Longstreth and company have abandoned their more artistic impulses for catchy, streamlined pop; it's just that the more jarring moments on Bitte Orca always feel cohesive and never threaten the progression of the songs.
Consider the R&B-influenced "Stillness is the Move," which wouldn't be half as compelling and daring without the clipped guitar chords that give it an Afro-pop flavor (surely one of Longstreth's favorite musical stylings). It's one of two songs which make up the middle section of Bitte Orca, both sung by Dirty Projectors' dual female members. Sighing siren #1, Angel Deradoorian, takes the mic for 'Stillness,' tapping into the same poppy vocal runs that make the best of Mariah Carey and Beyonce's output so winning. The track chimes nervously and clangs loudly until the appropriately angelic bridge hits: Angel's layered vocal is given front-and-center treatment backed only by a subtle bass pulse; each of the other elements of the track reenter the mix one by one, plus a swelling string section well-complementing Angel's high-pitched tenure, and the whole thing ascends into the heavens – and to the top of the list of 2009's best singles. Amber Coffman, her voice of an earthier and huskier quality than Angel's, croons over the other feminine track of the set, "Two Doves," her voice gliding atop quivering orchestrations and Longstreth's intricately composed acoustic picking. "Kiss me with your mouth open," Amber insists, and at first the song seems like a love ballad, until Amber starts dropping words like "killer," and the real shocker: "Our bed is like a failure." The song ends with Amber pleading "call on me," her voice cracked and broken and her plea unanswered. It's the album's most devastating emotional blow, and not without competition.
Longstreth-led pieces are just as impressive, if not more so. Like his talents as a composer, his skills as a guitar virtuoso need not be proven further, but Longstreth doesn't seem to be listening; he cooks up more than a few devilishly catchy and technically mind-boggling rhythms here, on "Temecula Sunrise" and on the album's most dazzling stand-alone piece, "Useful Chamber." Six and a half minutes of tempo shifts, surprise bridges, a fashionably late chorus and Yes levels of prog-rock cacophony make up "Useful Chamber," which has to be seen as the most successful meshing of Longstreth's restless desire to experiment and, um, listenability. The revelatory moments come fast and furious, but how about the sudden assault of layered electric guitars or the yelping of the album's title – didn't see either coming.
It's almost unfair to point out this stuff, since a great deal of this album's allure is in discovering the unexpected directions it takes. This quality firmly aligns Bitte Orca with another of this decade's defining art-rock statements, 2004's mammoth Fiery Furnaces album Blueberry Boat. Both pride themselves on unpredictability, and making the listener an active participant with the music rather than a passive one. In this sense, the comparatively predictable progression of the album's last three tracks ("No Intention," "Remade Horizon" and "Fluorescent Half-Dome") could be seen as a flaw. But "No Intention," a decidedly more relaxed Longstreth tune, also ranks as one of the artist's more soulful vocal performances, his "Two Doves" moment of emotional rawness. And check that whacky bridge; dueling guitars fight for supremacy, complemented by Amber and Angel's alternating "woos" and "oos." It's followed by "Remade Horizon," probably the album's most cryptic moment lyrically, but no less inventive and engaging musically, further elevated by the playful vocal interplay between all three principles. And finally, "Fluorescent Half-Dome," the most spare track here and an appropriately subdued closer which relies heavily on propulsive, meticulous percussion, a recurring theme of this album exemplified more here than at any other time on Bitte Orca.
In performance, the giraffe-necked Longstreth is a twitchy mess of tics, refusing to sit still; in interviews, he's even worse. In the studio, we can only imagine. It remains to be seen if Longstreth has actually gotten his shit together or if this is indeed a fleeting moment of brilliance to be followed by the same uneven work we've come to expect from the artist. But really, it doesn't matter; we'll always have Bitte Orca, Dave, and for that I'm sure we can tolerate whatever bonkers thing you choose to do next – The Beatles' White Album played backwards, perhaps? (★★★½)
LAST WORD: Dirty Projectors' David Longstreth here blends, with jaw-dropping precision, his widely regarded skills as a challenging virtuoso and his oft less prevalent tendency toward accessible, aggressively catchy pop melodies – it's earth shaking stuff, and one of '09's best.
Current Music Review: Sonic Youth / The Eternal / 2009
Review by Jordan Cronk: The cover of 1987's Sister billed the band as The Sonic Youth, perhaps a self-consciously cheeky nod to the brave few steadfastly trudging through the American underground rock scene of the era or maybe of no overriding significance at all (probably the latter, but stay with me). In my mind that “The” has been implied ever since, as there never has and never will be another Sonic Youth. If you’ve hung around me for a considerable period of time, you’ve probably heard me refer to Sonic Youth as the greatest American rock band ever, and I’ve honestly never heard a compelling enough argument to convince me otherwise. My (admittedly warped) view of music history basically pivots on the arrival of their self-titled 1982 EP, a time when the downtown NYC art scene collided head-on with the burgeoning DIY art-rock movement, effectively spawning what has arguably become America’s only consistently engaging, artistically intelligent and musically omnivorous rock band still going strong over 25 years later (or, post-Vampire Weekend). Hell, they’ve been massaging the history since day one, and with each new release comes (at the very least) the comfort of yet another accomplished and artistically airtight document of a band in the continual process of maturation. So it’s now 2009 and here we have the knowingly titled The Eternal, Sonic Youth’s 16th studio album and first on an independent label in over 20 years, and while it’s exactly what you’ve come to expect, it still manages to kick all kinds of ass in the process.
Signing to Matador hasn’t exactly trigger a change in the band’s overall approach – these guys had been doing whatever the hell they wanted on a major label’s dime for almost two decades – but it does sound like the band is a little looser and more comfortable this time out in the environs of something more closely resembling a community. By comparison, 2006's streamlined Rather Ripped, while quite effective and very popular for a late period SY album, still felt to me like their least significant statement since Experimental Jet Set (1994). I’m thankful then for the more prescient and weighty subject matter explored on The Eternal, despite the fact only a few tracks here really add much to the overall Sonic Youth conversation. Opener “Sacred Trickster” at first sounds like a logical extension of the punked-up energy of Rather Ripped, but its conviction more accurately aligns it with Kim Gordon’s passion-fueled rants circa Dirty (1992). “Sacred Trickster” is put in stark contrast almost immediately by the following track, “Anti-Orgasm,” a lengthier and more wandering piece than what they’ve gone in for lately, though still probably the band’s most blatant political statement since “Peace Attack.” Its sequencing in the two-hole may be questionable in regards to momentum, but the dentist-drill guitar stabs that punctuate Gordon’s sexual vocal thrusts feel more alive and potent than a great deal of Rather Ripped.
While still a fairly straightforward rock record by Sonic Youth standards, The Eternal does see the band re-embracing a bit of the sprawl that was reigned in on Rather Ripped. Sonic Youth junkies have been clamoring for more of this since 2001's return-to-prominence Murray Street, but here, ironically, the drawn-out numbers are probably the least effective moments on the album. Instead, it’s the immediacy of tracks such as “Calming the Snake,” “Thunderclap for Bobby Pryn” and most especially Lee Ranaldo’s “What We Know” that leave the strongest impression, while drifting pieces like “Antenna” and “Malibu Gas Station” tend to grow tedious well before conclusion. These prolonged tracks tend to work better within the flow of the album though, and these meandering moments actually belie the fact that 10 minute closer “Massage the History” is one of the band’s most effective long-form pieces in a while. As always, there is an unspoken earnestness in every de-tuned note, and while a few of these tracks are par for the SY course, nothing here comes close falling below the band’s staunch standards.
In addition to all this, the actual sound and recording of The Eternal feels more substantial than a lot of their work, due in no small part to the full-time membership of Pavement’s Mark Ibold on bass, who has been touring with the band ever since their last record. Now as an official member, Ibold frees up Gordon to complete the triple guitar attack of the Sonic Youth of yore, and the fuller and more robust sonics of The Eternal therefore make it feel a whole lot more durable than some of the more fleeting pleasures of Rather Ripped. The record’s other distinguishing feature is the democratic use of vocal duties, wherein up to all three songwriters may make an appearance on a single track. Of course, the lead vocal of each song still out each piece as a specific entry in each songwriters' oeuvre, but the back-up and counterpoint vocal accompaniment add a dimension to the group that had surprisingly never been fully explored up until now. As a result, a handful of songs (“Leaky Lifeboat” and “Poison Arrow” most emphatically) actually sound birthed from more of a full-band group-think than their more typical, solo-originated pieces.
These subtle differences certainly work in The Eternal’s favor, and while I can’t imagine this being anyone’s favorite Sonic Youth record, it is nevertheless a worthy addition to one of the world’s most resolute discographies. Anyone expecting a game-changer at this point will have misplaced their expectations, but those wise enough to keep their anxieties in check should have no problem enjoying most of this record. Though there are certainly better places to start, I’d say this even goes for new fans looking to dive into some outwardly perilous waters. Despite the label change and the less than immediate additions here, it seems unlikely Sonic Youth will ever be another position to really radicalize rock music. 2002's Murray Street then should go down as their last landmark accomplishment, though with rewards still being spread fruitfully throughout each successive record, there is no reason to stop following their every move. The band itself would never stoop to pandering or blatant pleasure-stroking, and for that reason alone The Sonic Youth will never die. (★★½)
LAST WORD: Sonic Youth’s 16th album, and first for an independent label in over two decades, is one of the band’s most thematically and sonically substantial releases of the last ten years.
Current Music Review: The Field / Yesterday and Today / 2009
Review by Jordan Cronk: By independent standards and as far as ambient techno goes, Alex Willner’s 2007 debut album as The Field, From Here We Go Sublime, was something of a crossover smash. Here was a record that appealed not only to high-minded techno fetishists, but also to a great deal of casual indie-rock fans who wouldn’t normally go in for something quite so synthetic, trance-like or static in construction. In a sense, Willner simply took the aesthetic that Wolfgang Voigt pioneered with his Gas project in the late 90s – insistent bass pulse, countless layers of ambient guitar texture, and a minimalist’s approach to structure – and repurposed it for a new generation of electronic fans looking for something more subtle and soothing than the then-burgeoning blog-house scene. Yet despite (or maybe because of) it’s debt to its forbearer, it worked like a charm, becoming one of 2007's most acclaimed records and one of the biggest sellers in Voigt’s indelible Kompakt catalogue.
Following up a record of Sublime’s magnitude is not something any artist would envy, yet here we are just two years later with a new Field album, and one that is surprisingly bolder and more adventurous than his debut, if not slightly less focused in execution. In other words, it’s a classic transitional album, but as far as these things go, Yesterday and Today is pretty fascinating. And just as Willner’s debut hinted at its ambition through its title, so too does Yesterday and Today chart its direction in helpfully unpretentious fashion. To wit, the six tracks that make up this album are consciously and equally split down the middle between growth experiments and more comfortable refinements of past triumphs. Overall then, Yesterday and Today sounds more like a reconciliation of where Willner’s been and where he’s (hopefully) going than it does an overt change in direction.
Ironically, this ambition turns out to be Yesterday and Today’s defining characteristic as well as its most tiring attribute. As you may have guessed by now, these are some loooong songs, with the album’s six tracks stretching out over an hour in length. People seem to forget that Sublime featured its fair share of lengthy ordeals as well, particularly in its last half, but as is the case with album’s such as these, the highs can easily offset the lows when the artist in question exercises some modicum of concision. This is something Willner hasn’t quite come to grips with yet in my view, and unfortunately it’s accentuated over the course of Yesterday and Today. It's true, minimal techno as a genre has never been characterized by its restraint – in fact, many times its whole demeanor can be defined by how well an artist can force the listener into a trance-like state of submission – but, even still, tracks such as “Leave It” and “Sequenced” reveal their relative charms early on, and more often than not spend the remainder of their 10+ minutes spinning their proverbial wheels, in essence stunting the growth that Willner so playfully applies elsewhere on the album.
Better then these then is opener “I Have the Moon, You Have the Internet” (Song Title of the Year candidate right there folks), which slowly builds with hypnotic synth and carefully placed piano chords to arrive at a sort-of anti-climax, which “Everybody’s Got to Learn Sometime” ably attempts to provide. I can’t say that it completely succeeds, but this cover of the 1980 Korgis original does feature the first appearance of a full vocal line on a Field album, certainly helping it to standout amongst some of the more lengthy tracks here. I’m not sure then if it’s a good or bad sign that the single best track here is the one most closely linked to its predecessor. The swelling, hypnotic penultimate track “The More That I Do” is certainly the late-album highlight here, and it would have feasibly been one of the better tracks on Sublime had it been featured there. This is certainly Willner’s wheelhouse, as clipped, minimal vocal samples repeat in a rapturous haze of ambient textures and propulsive bass pulsations. An entire album of similar retreads would have been damaging to Willner’s development however, but here, “The More That I Do” manages to feel like the perfect end-result of his distinctly narcotized techno.
On the opposite end of the spectrum is the title track, which begins as a rather traditional tech-house piece, only to vamp-out in its final third with live drums courtesy of John Stanier, deity-like percussionist of math-rock megaliths Battles. Unsurprisingly, “Yesterday and Today" comes across as more Lindstrøm than Gas, and as a result it’s easily the most successful of the album’s lengthier, more progressive numbers. More of this build-and-reveal would have helped Yesterday and Today as whole, and while there are no outright bad tracks here, there is also nothing quite as transcendent as the best moments on Sublime. There is more than enough here to wet the appetite of anxious Field fans however, and whether we like to admit it or not, sometimes the most fruitful advances in music are arrived at through patience and dedication, two things that Yesterday and Today rewards in spades. (★★½)
LAST WORD: Yesterday and Today, the sophomore album from Swedish ambient techno artist The Field, experiments with some bold new techniques as often as it plays it close to the vest.
Current Film Review: The Hangover / Directed by Todd Phillips / 2009
Review by Luke Gorham: Todd Phillips, welcome back. After “Road Trip” and “Old School,” Phillips looked poised to be the king of frat boy comedies. While neither of those films were destined to be lasting works, the latter especially showcases a director willing to give the reigns to his leads, recognizing the bravura comedic talents of the likes of Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell before either hit it truly big. Plus we were able to catch a glimpse (emphasis on glimpse) of a director willing to imbue even the basest comedies with a twinge of artistic merit. He was never going to be a P.T. Anderson. So what. Efforts like his are admirable and even refreshing in a market where good comedies are a dime a baker’s dozen.
And then he became one of the bakers. With “Starsky and Hutch” and “School for Scoundrels,” Phillips fell to the bottom of the barrel of comedy directors. While the scripts of both films were largely to blame, Phillips wasted the efforts of such talented comedic actors as Owen Wilson, Ben Stiller and Billy Bob Thornton (yes, I purposely omitted talentless Jon Heder) in what were formulaic, drab comedies masterminded by studio heads rather than artists, visionaries, or, hell, even retired frat guys.
It is with that in mind that I must sing the praises of Phillips once more for his newest effort “The Hangover” (the title alone hinting at a return to his wheelhouse). The story concerns Groom-to-be Doug (Justin Bartha), his dim-witted future brother-in-law Alan (Zack Galifianakis), his embittered and cynical best friend Phil (Bradley Cooper), and the token straight-man and doctor friend Stu (Ed Helms) as they head to Vegas for an unforgettable bachelor party. However, what begins as a night of joviality turns into a morning of regret when the three party pals find that they have “lost Doug.” From here, the film becomes a mash-up of one-liners (most of which hit), random gags and a fun bit of who-dunnit-where-is-he sleuthing.
“The Hangover” is built almost solely on random and awkward moments, from Alan’s buzz-killing, drink-delaying speech on his newly-filled “wolf pack” of friends to Mike Tyson’s hotel suite appearance and rendition of Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight.” It's particularly impressive that, this being the case, the film doesn’t come off as a series of interrelated sketches, but rather as a coherent and somehow believable consequence of a night of hard-drinking (and roofies). And while some will complain about this absurdity, such as the clue-solving angle the film takes, they will be missing the point. Yes, these guys seem ridiculous; their decisions and actions ludicrous; their mishaps and entanglements bizarre. And yet, this is exactly who these guys are. We aren’t asked to believe that the film is trying to be a hybrid of summer-comedy and solve-the-puzzle mystery, but simply that what transpires is exactly what would happen if these three characters were thrown into that situation. All of the characters are so believable as ridiculous, ludicrous and bizarre people that any other outcome seems even more unlikely.
This is due almost solely to the film’s leads. Phillips once again, as he did with Vaughn and Ferrell, trusted his actors and allowed them to take characters that may seem to be caricatures and imbue them with a depth that has no business in a film about a night of partying. Even more impressive is what the three relatively obscure leads were able to accomplish. Bradley Cooper has been a bit player in major comedies for a few years, but had yet to be given a role that allowed him to display his full range of talent. Here he is able to navigate the emotional spectrum of a world-weary man, only minimally but impressively without any histrionics or gimmickry. Ed Helms is best known for his hilarious portrayal of a company brown-noser on “The Office,” and here is well-cast as the straight guy who learns to live a little and grows a pair along the way. But the sure-to-be audience favorite, and the biggest strength of “The Hangover,” is Zach Galifianakis, who had been almost exclusively a stand-up comedian for the last ten years, aside from cameos in films like “Into the Wild.” In “The Hangover” he gets to (successfully) chew the scenery as the bumbling idiot of the group, allotted more freedom of character and unpredictability than the others, but while infusing his Alan with an innocence and loneliness that makes him as lovable as he is hilariously offbeat. The characters are all relatable, gut-bustingly funny and decent, while remaining true to Phillips’ frat boy archetypes and audience.
Phillips also evidences some growth as a filmmaker; the opening credits sequence of the Las Vegas skyline is itself a very simple, but tone-setting bit of flair. Likewise, his decision to forego showing any bit of the party night in question, but rather experience it as the characters do is an exceptional decision that surely generates more humor than actually seeing the events would have. “The Hangover isn’t top-shelf cinema, but it succeeds in delivering constant laughs without the comedy genre’s too-common eye-rolling. So, is Phillips growing and maturing as a filmmaker? I don’t know. Maybe. But what is certain is that he needs to stick to the slightly elevated frat boy humor is excelled with, and stray away from the big movie stars and studios, trusting his instincts and actors to create bold, crass and riotous characters. Returning to this formula worked for “The Hangover.” The audience has nearly as much fun as the boys in the movie – and without the unfortunate morning after. (★★★)
LAST WORD: Random, absurd and hilarious, “The Hangover” is carried on the shoulders of Cooper, Helms and Galifianakis, three fantastic comedic talents who should be stars already, and will be now.
Current Film Review: The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 / Directed by Tony Scott / 2009
Review by Sam C. Mac: Despite my general indifference toward Tony Scott's taut, but largely uninspired remake of the 1974 thriller "The Taking of Pelham One Two Three," I'll be one of the first to stand up and defend the director, championing some of his most critically reviled offerings and calling out those who tend to display a prejudice toward genre films in general. In fact, I'll anger the naysayers one better: Tony Scott is an artist who brings much more verve, originality and overall quality to his medium than does his overrated older brother, Ridley. The younger Scott has been continually criticized for his hectic visual aesthetic; speed manipulations, whip-quick editing and breathless camera hurtling are his bread-and butter. But Scott's films are among the few pumped out by the Hollywood machine that earn and are even strengthened by their hyperactive pacing and stylistic choices. This is because Scott is a consummate auteur, nearly always in control of his own special-FX maelstroms. See 2005's "Domino," a flawed and convoluted, densely plotted actioner-on-steroids that succeeds by the sheer force of stylistic fervor it musters; it's fueled by a myriad of aesthetic modulations and a striking use of color that directly correlates to the emotions of its characters. And take "Deja Vu" (a film I myself underestimated when reviewing it on its release), which relies on ghostly sci-fi visualizations to fuel its emotional conflict in ways that far best brother Ridley's own psychological sci-fi favorite "Blade Runner."
"Deja Vu" is a particularly relevant point of reference when discussing Scott's latest, which alters the original's title slightly; now "The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3." Both are bettered by the considerable talents of Denzel Washinton in their respective leading roles, an actor who possesses a humility, a stoic and quiet strength and honesty, that well-compliments the modest means of Scott's storytelling and classically drawn characters. And, like "Deja Vu," 'Pelham' revels in technological advancements with a focus on surveillance – a theme that pervaded both the former, essentially an exercise in voyeurism, and "Domino" in its Reality TV show commentaries – that informs the aesthetic choices Scott makes. Take, for example, the claustrophobic and humiliating nature of its central character's desk job, emphasized via a massive glowing billboard symbolic of looming responsibility. It's an intentional aesthetic choice that many will write off as mere flashy distraction.
Washington plays the soft-spoken Walter Garber, an NYC subway dispatcher who becomes inescapably entangled with a bombastic high-jacker calling himself Ryder (John Travolta, tattooed on the neck with eyes and veins abulge), tasked with negotiating a hostage situation. The set-up again speaks to "Deja Vu," where Washington's detective developed a relationship with the object of his investigation through a futuristic screen, allowing him to peer into her past life. The communication between Ryder and Garber is also limited; this time by the auditory connection between the subway's radio and the dispatcher's microphone. It's a noteworthy emphasis on the distorting or even damning effects of communication through technology. The near entirety of 'Pelham' keeps this focus: the film is largely comprised of the ongoing dialogues between its two principals, their faces shot in intense close-ups (an admittedly annoying visual motif Scott would do well to ditch). Through their conversations, we learn that Garber was once an MTA big shot, and that after he was accused of taking a bribe was demoted to his work-a-day position. Washington, even working within his limited environment (for at least two thirds of the film he doesn't leave his cubicle), ably conveys Garber's internal struggle as he wrestles with moral convictions. And each time his character plaintively insists, "I'm just a guy," his every-man statement could be read as thesis for the film's dramatic pulse.
In addition to criticisms over his stylistic choices, Scott is also often accused of "cliched" depictions of modest characters undertaking heroic acts for the sake of their own atonement. However, it's evident in Scott's filmography that there is a very spiritual undercurrent to his work. In this sense, "The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3" can be seen as the conclusion of a spiritual trilogy that began with 2004's "Man on Fire" and continued with "Deja Vu." In each film, Washington takes on the role of Scott's morally conflicted characters, all three haunted by prior sins or transgressions. There's a very Christian ideology present: the need to redeem the spirit through selfless, righteous action. 'Pelham' takes its religious convictions one step further than the prior two films; whereas Washington struggled against largely faceless evils before, here Scott introduces a struggle of faith between both his two principles. (This is evident in Ryder's observation that his cramped, commandeered subway car "reminds me of a confessional.") Unfortunately, this provocative thematic implication never really ignites or goes anywhere; instead, we're left with Travolta's frustratingly one-dimensional and shrill 'villain.' Ryder is a cartoon, he practices a dubious code of conduct and lectures about stock trades and corporate corruption – relevant economic commentaries only name-checked here.
Further perplexing is Scott's comparatively staid visual style in this film, at least in regard to all that takes place between its amped opening credits (a characteristically bonkers assault of aesthetic tweakery) and chaotic last act, which is so frenetically assembled that it's difficult to determine what exactly is going on (not unlike many other Scott productions). The majority of 'Pelham' though is not driven by special-FX at all; instead, Scott favors a succession of talking heads deliberating over the various conflicts of this procedural's plot. Tension is maintained throughout (a byproduct of those claustrophobic close-ups I mentioned earlier), but it's tough not to compare 'Pelham' to Spike Lee's hostage-negotiater "Inside Man," which bests Scott's film both stylistically and in the inventiveness of its plotting. But the most egregious of missteps here manifest in noticeably forced action scenes – on the way to deliver the requested sum of 10 million dollars to Ryder, there are not one, not two, but three police car crashes. And in a dubious approach to violence, as Scott undercuts his own morally-conscious ideals. (One scene of ludicrous brutality witnesses two of Ryder's cronies being shot to pieces in super slow-motion.) Again though, this is the norm in a Tony Scott movie: over-the-top displays of action making for sometimes uncomfortable bedfellows with earnest sociopolitical commentaries (a formula paramount to this filmmaker since at least 1998's "Enemy of the State").
On a less critical plane, "The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3" succeeds as a tense thriller, ratcheting up suspense and keeping the stakes high as it barrels toward its appropriate finale. The film is further admirable for placing emphasis on the struggle of its every-man protagonist over the clipped rhythms of its plot (a headache-inducing complexity which, if one really considers Ryder's motivations, is pretty silly). It's a well-made film mostly of a consistent and agreeable style, and it rarely suffers from pacing problems. But it's derivative (it is a remake after all) and lacks the jolt of energy and enthusiasm that invigorates Scott's best films (1993's "True Romance" as well as the aforementioned Washington-Scott collabs "Deja Vu" and "Man on Fire"). But those who dislike Tony Scott's prior films may find his latest more digestible; it is, after all, the least characteristic film from this divisive auteur in quite some time. (★★)
LAST WORD: Too derivative and stylistically tame to be as engaging or impressive as Tony Scott's more divisive works – which may be why it's being (slightly) better received than anything he's helmed in nearly a decade.
Current Film Review: Up / Directed by Pete Docter / 2009
Review by Sam C. Mac: Pixar welcomes us back into the realm of lighter fare with "Up," the esteemed animation studio's tenth film, and, at an agreeable 90 minutes, arguably their most refined and well-paced feature to date. Last time out, Pixar explored futuristic and dystopian landscapes with "WALL•E," a cautionary tale about the dangers of polluting our planet. That film has a darker look than anything Pixar's yet done, replete with desolation and an opening passage of 20-plus minutes which contains no real dialogue. "WALL•E" is also the story of budding romance between two machines, and it earned much critical acclaim, even speculation about a Best Picture nomination (not animated mind you, overall picture). It's a good film, if an uneven one, with a questionable mid-picture shift that seems to abandon its more weighty themes for good ol' fashion fun.
In contrast, Pete Docter's "Up," the first film by the director since 2001's "Monsters, Inc.," is about a human man in the twilight of his life. It's probably the most heartfelt and emotional Pixar film yet (audiences, aged and grizzled, were seen crying behind their 3D goggle-things at this year's Cannes Film Festival, where it was selected as the first animated opening film since "Dumbo" way back when). And it’s above all else an optimistic film, buoyant and hopeful, and grounded in the here-and-now: an ode to adventure, with luminescent, multi-colored balloons by the thousand, pulling a quaint little house equipped with sails made from bed sheets through a clear blue sky. It's obvious from the get-go that we're light-years away from the futuristic machinations, spaceships and symbolic, pyramid-shaped trash heaps of "WALL•E."
Elderly Carl Frederickson is our adventurer, and he's voiced with a perfect blend of grump and good-heartedness by veteran Ed Asner, who deserves some kind of award for the emotional nuance he brings to the role. We first meet Carl during one of Pixar's finer moments: An opening passage that's at least as memorable as the one in "WALL•E," wherein a young Carl sits in awe before a glowing movie theater screen, newsreel footage of his hero, explorer Charles Muntz (voiced by Christopher Plummer), filling his head with dreams of adventure. As if by fate, his newfound passion leads him to the love of his life, Ellie, another young adventurer who inducts him into her special club. The rest of the intro is a montage depicting Ellie and Carl's life together, through marriage and heartache – much ado has been made about this film being the first in Pixar's canon to show blood onscreen, but I'm pretty certain it's also the first to allude to a miscarriage.
All this is set to the wonderfully bouncy, sometimes melancholy, but always spirited score by Michael Giacchino, which ranks pretty darn close to his superlative work on 2007's "Ratatouille" (still my favorite Pixar). The composer has said about his work on this film that he tried to channel opera, giving each major character a specific theme which then changes pitch and tempo depending on their emotional state.
"Up" really kicks into gear somewhere around the two-thirds point, giving us plenty of time to get to know our now elderly protagonist. Carl's wife has passed on; his house is being threatened by anxious bulldozers on all sides and by an appropriately devious, black-suited type who resembles Mr. Smith of the "The Matrix." All that remains for Carl is his long-unfulfilled dream: He and Ellie always promised each other they would one day visit Paradise Falls, the Peruvian locale which their shared hero, Muntz, made a name for himself exploring. Docter and crew effortlessly communicate in that great opening section how our plans have a way of getting brushed aside. A trip to the hospital, a tree fallen during a storm – things happen, and the money Carl and Ellie intended to save for their own little adventure never stayed in the glass jar they were saving it in for very long.
But now Carl is alone, and when he smacks one of the encroaching construction workers on the noggin for messing with his mailbox, the city demands he move to a retirement home. The time has come to fulfill his dream: Being a balloon salesman all his life, Carl unleashes his inventory – a myriad of luscious balloons float into the sky, lifting the tiny home into the early morning air and announcing the modest beginnings of a grand journey. It's one flight of fancy in a film of many, as "Up" is primarily about following your dreams by any means necessary, and though its characters are more realistic and grounded than just about any Pixar has given us, "Up" is still a soaring fantasy, one that explores the elevating powers of imagination.
"Up" is movie magic from first frame to last. Docter's storytelling talents are every bit as enviable here as in his last film, if not more so. Aided by Giacchino's full-blooded score, Docter tugs on the heartstrings with every well placed piano plunk and acoustic pluck, but the sentiment almost always seems sincere and earned. "Up" engages us through the uncommon bond of friendship that develops between Carl and his much younger travel companion, Jr. Wilderness Explorer Russell (voiced by Jordan Nagai). It taps into Walt Disney's known love of nature, and possesses an almost Herzogian curiosity towards the beguiling pleasure of exploring the great outdoors (there's even a nod to the great German filmmaker's "Fitzcarraldo," as Carl has to pull his house across a mountain).
Still, like most of Pixar's work, "Up" isn't perfect – there's a need to entertain the younger members of the audience which requires more action to manifest in the last act, somewhat forcefully, with everyone running around and fighting to create higher stakes and taking emphasis off these well-drawn characters and their development. Our heroes dangle limp from cliffs – or, in this case, the outside of a giant dirigible – their lives hanging in the balance, as audiences swoon. Of course this is nothing new, and at the end of it all, despite the flaws (there are talking dogs in this movie – just throwing that out there), there's an overwhelming sense that we've been to these exotic places with these memorable characters ourselves. We've braved stormy weather, trekked through jungles and encountered endangered species. We haven't, of course; we've just sat in a movie theater, gazing in awe up at the screen just as Carl did as a little boy. (★★★)
LAST WORD: "Up" is a buoyant film of hope and color following the drab, almost cynical worldview of "WALL•E." That was a good film, but "Up" is even better – myriad, luminescent balloons pull a quaint house equipped with bed sheet-sails through clear blue skies. It's obvious that we're light-years away from the spaceships and futuristic landscapes of “WALL•E” and into something much more optimistic.
Current Film Review: Revanche / Directed by Gotz Spielmann / 2009
Review by Sam C. Mac: There's likely to be no better opening sequence in a film this year than that in Austrian director Gotz Spielmann's fifth feature, "Revanche." The quiet calm of a lake reflecting majestic trees on its surface is broken by a sudden splash, as something is thrown into the water from outside the frame. The philosophy of Spielmann's narrative reflects something similar: the slightest action can upset the flow of things. The sequence also expresses the important role nature plays in "Revanche," as the woods and the tranquility of the lake serve as a necessary retreat for Spielmann's morally conflicted characters.
Alex (Johannes Krisch), a brutish ex-con, works at a sleazy Vienna brothel, "The Cinderella," for slick and equally-sleazy owner Konecny (Hanno Poschl). Alex meets in secret with a Ukrainian prostitute from the brothel, Tamara (Irina Potapenko), promising the young immigrant a better life, far away from her scuzzy job and cramped, drab apartment. Meanwhile, Robert (Andreas Lust), a cop in a rural town outside Vienna, lives with his wife, Susanne (Ursula Strauss), in a luxurious house just through the woods from Alex's lonely grandfather, Hausner (Hannes Thanheiser). Predictably, disparate lives intersect when, in the interest of a better future with Tamara, Alex decides to rob a bank. And yet, what would normally be the catalyst for plot progression in a typical genre picture instead becomes the unconventional beginning to a slow-burning character study.
Similar to Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck's "The Lives of Others," Spielmann uses voyeurism to explore his characters' tortured psyches: Alex watches Robert and Susanne from a safe vantage point in the woods and, in the throes of his own moral crisis, he observes Robert's visible guilt. But, where von Donnarsmark's Best Foreign Language Oscar-winner progresses with an almost mechanical remove (and often contrivance), "Revanche" (which received a Foreign Language Oscar nomination last year, but did not win), unspools patiently, arriving at a more satisfying emotional climax.
Spielmann has been criticized for the role woman play in this film; however, "Revanche" is less about relationships (Robert's to Susanne; Alex's to Tamara) then it is about the shattering of a man's macho resolve. It's clear to everybody but Alex that his plan to rob a bank contradicts his character (his boss at the brothel tells him he's "too soft" for their line of work). Likewise, when Robert's buddies in the police force boast about a violent run-in, he bemoans missing out, yet when a similar conflict presents itself, he only regrets it ever happened.
In addition to his thought-provoking thematic concerns, the director also displays an impressive control of his medium. Spielmann frames his characters with wide shots, allowing us to inhabit the same grubby spaces, and using close-ups and obvious camera movement only when necessary, but his masterstroke reveals itself to be his use of location. The cinema of Andrei Tarkovsky is an obvious point of comparison: Spielmann has a knack for capturing nature with the same meditative grace of the Russian director's best work. Tarkovsky found aesthetic sublimity in his "Solaris" through that film's contrasting landscapes-- the warm embrace of nature giving way to the chilly isolation of space-- just as Spielmann accounts for Alex's spiritual rejuvenation through his escape from the confining urban sprawl of Vienna to the calming countryside. It's cause for excitement that there is a filmmaker working today who is this attuned to his environment, and the way in which Spielmann's revenge saga unexpectedly evolves into something more cathartic and meaningful would likely make Tarkovsky proud. (★★★)
LAST WORD: Spielmann may be the first director since Tarkovsky so attuned to the role environments play in a narrative. His "Revanche" is a powerful, genre-defying character study that pushes its protagonist to the limits of moral dilemma for the sake of spiritual rejuvenation.
Current Film Review: Sin Nombre / Directed by Cary Joji Fukunaga / 2009
Review by Sam C. Mac: Cary Joji Fukunaga's "Sin Nombre" bests its Disney-worthy cousin "Slumdog Millionaire" in nearly every way. Whereas Danny Boyle's film is frenetically shot, frantically paced and emotionally ineffective, 'Nombre' is often patient, taking its time to develop its character and give its audience a chance to have more of an investment in them. Both are essentially adventure stories; one set in the bustling metropolitan city of Mumbai ('Slumdog'), and the other a high-stakes on-the-run thriller navigating the treacherous landscape of rural Mexico ('Nombre'). Both directors are enslaved to the predictable narrative formulas of their native countries, and both rely on aesthetic crutches (the relentless musical score never lets up in either film). But where Boyle gives in to the tantalizing prospect of being a crowd-pleaser, Fukunaga's feature is willing to take risks, and the director shocks his audience in ways that usually feel organic and unforced.
The narrative is split between two central characters: Mexican gang member El Caspar, played by compelling newcomer Edgar Flores, and Sayra (Paulina Gaitan), a young Honduran girl immigrating through Mexico with her father and uncle. There's also "El Smiley" (Kristian Ferrer), a new inductee into Caspar's gang who's later charged with killing his friend. As Caspar's life is falling apart, Sayra and her family pass through his hometown on their rough journey north. Following a series of unfortunate events, both end up riding on the roof of the same train, and later on the run from Caspar's bloodthirsty gang leader, El Sol (Luis Fernando Pena). Sayra and Caspar make a mad dash for the freedom of the border, and Fukunaga ably keeps the tension mounting until the final, devastating moments.
Cinematographer Adriano Goldman ("City of Men") deserves the lion's share of credit: his lensing is evocative and artful without calling too much attention to itself. The half-naked, tattooed bodies of the El Mara gang are given a sun-baked hue, and gliding shots during the various chase sequences recall the urgent set pieces of "Slumdog Millionaire," without ever feeling as gimmicky or gaudy as that film did. As the director and writer of "Sin Nombre," Fukunaga deserves about as much praise as he does criticism. He doesn't explore the culture of the El Mara very deeply; unlike David Croenberg's "Easterm Promises," no meaning is given for the gang members' tattoos. And, although we come to care for Caspar and Sayra as individuals, their emotional connection to each other isn't as developed as it could have been, thanks to a slightly rushed third act.
After completing a similar film, 2003's Rio De Janeiro gangster flick "City of God," Brazilian filmmaker Fernando Meirelles went on to make some of the most grossly overrated Hollywood fare of the decade ("The Constant Gardener"). Although "Sin Nombre" hasn't yet received quite the critical plaudits as Meirelles' film did, he’s in a similar situation as a filmmaker. Fukunaga's debut displays enough artistic merit and understanding of the culture he's portraying to outweigh its plot contrivances and ill-advised aesthetic choices. But it's where Fukunaga goes from here that will determine his strength as a filmmaker. (★★½)
LAST WORD: An involving, evocatively shot debut feature from Cary Fukunaga. A terse thriller perhaps too constrained by Fukunaga's apparent dedication to formula, but alive and organic enough to not suffocate its Mexican cultural ties.
Review by Jordan Cronk: If any band was in dire need of a swift kick in the pants, it would have to be Tortoise. I mean, following 2004's numbingly innocuous It’s All Around You, you’d have been forgiven for assuming that the band were now just quietly riding off into the sunset, their legacy as post-rock progenitors secure and obligation to prove anything long since past. In the interim they had even released the requisite rarities box set (A Lazarus Taxon, which is essential I might add), all but signaling the end of what was one of the most groundbreaking musical acts of the 90s. Their slow recession from the spotlight coincided with the agonizing death of post-rock itself, which is rather fitting considering Tortoise arguably embodied the outlying signifiers of the genre better than anyone else. This is all to say that for all intents and purposes it felt like Tortoise had run their course, which is what makes their new record, Beacons of Ancestorship, such an unexpectedly bracing return for the group. I hesitate to call it a comeback, since they never technically broke-up, but it is most certainly a return-to-form, and even more surprising, it’s a form that the band has never fully assimilated in the past.
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