Movies watched last week, from favorite to least.


Sort of the anti-Smithereens, with the clumsy NYC love triangles played for anything but laughs, and a soundtrack that makes the 90s sound like more of a drag than it was. Sort of not, as the characters are just as memorable and the film makes a great time capsule.


To be a success, a comedy only has to make you laugh. Likewise, a thriller only has to put you on edge. Everything else, good or bad, is icing. So despite the clumsy ending, misfired sociological metaphors and stilted speeches from B actors who seem to think this is Oscar material (Marcia Gay Harden must have trained with Ellen Burstyn), The Mist works. The film might have had more edge (and a stronger subtext) if we never saw the beasties lurking beneath that mist, but these are some great beasties. Ones that stay enigmatic and unsettling after their existence is ostensibly explained.


The best thing I can say about Jason Lee is that he isn't Jim Belushi, and the film could use a more inspired Dave Seville. But, like Underdog (which oddly features Jason Lee as well), the conceptual insanity and hammy villains (when David Cross gasps "Madre de Dios!" before letting out a giant "NOOO!!!!" I know that dude is very, very aware of himself) make it a lot more entertaining than most kids flicks. When people say CGI can do things we previously couldn't even imagine, they're talking about movies like this.


The celebrity walk-ons are entertaining, and, Jack Black's miscast-Macca aside (John was the fat one, remember?), I'd even say the Beatles sequence was inspired. But of the actual cast, only Tim Meadows' anti-drug druggie achieved a classic shtick. The one-dimensionality of the characters wouldn't matter if the material and pace weren't tepid compared to The Ten, Blazing Saddles or even Scary Movie 3. This is the second pair of Bad Idea Jeans Jake Kasdan has made for Judd Apatow, and I hope it's the last.


You know you're fucked when not even Steely Dan can get you to realize that you've become a tired caricature of yourself.

Dude is turning anonymity into an art.

Songs new to Billboard's top 50 chart, and the top debut.

#9 (from #85): Lil' Wayne feat. Static Major, "Lollipop"
I haven't heard a drop of Da Drought 3. I find DJ breaks so obnoxious that I don't bother with mixtapes until an album leaves me hungry for more (I never heard a We Got It 4 Cheap until hooked by Hell Hath No Fury). Plus, recent pick clicks stunk. "Georgia Bush," Pitchfork's pick for Wayne's '06 highlight, combined Eminem's "Mosh" with the worst of Weird Al. From The Carter II, fans praised "Shooter," which carelessly slapped get-money-fuck-bitches atop an unheralded Robin Thicke classic that was better without it. The girth of his underground output would be daunting anyway, so I figured I should check out his early shizz first. It's a wise move with late-in-game crit hypes, and I only have Cash Money's Platinum Hits. But even after hearing him sing on Playaz Circle's "Duffle Bag Boy," the musicality on this alleged sell-out is striking. I may get The Carter III before The Block Is Hot after all.

#49 (from #57): Colbie Caillat, "Realize"
Not only do I find her Starbuck balladry more memorable and to-the-point than the Starbuck balladry of Cat Power and Feist, I also think she's more attractive. Her face and figure are less bony, and she doesn't abuse eyeliner. Go ahead and hate me; my girlfriend already does.

#61 (debut): Flo Rida feat. Sean Kingston, "Roll"
I'm starting to think Flo Rida is a great rapper, ironically because I have no idea what he thinks about anything. Every gold-plated hook is handed to an expensive guest star. Every sound seems auto-tuned. Many rappers in this context would drag or yell to the point where I had to think about their lyrics, but Flo just rides the cliche. I have no problem with this.

Despite worshipping Big Star's Third since high school, my admittedly diminshed antipathy for their first two albums (described in a review that actually inspired someone to post my address and phone number on Hipinion, promising to kick my ass) kept me from bothering to check out the Box Tops, the genuinely successful band Alex Chilton led in his youth. Despite reading plenty about his change in vocal style, I still wasn't prepared for just how gritty his baritone was at 18. Even you know "Cry Like A Baby" by heart, you need to check out his dancing.

Hi there! I'm guesting blogging for Idolator. Come see! Come see!

In the hustle and bustle of the last month, it appears I missed the release of a new Electric Six video. It's probably their finest since "Dance Commander," and definitely the finest of those with no apparent budget. Four albums in, I cannot fathom a finer band this decade than Electric Six. No one comes closer to capturing the giggly sense of apocalypse, the sound of hearts learning to live in an ironic hell of their own devising. Someday I hope to debate this lack of fathoming with someone who has actually heard all four albums. Thing is, I'm afraid of other hardcore Electric Six fans. They must be some sick puppies. Everyone I see at an E6 show is dressed pretty square (no Warhol superstars) even though they're inherently disco-metal nihilists taking part in a secret revolution, bathing in an invisible bonfire of crafted uncool. Sadly, it's likely they don't realize they're taking part in this secret revolution, which doesn't say much for their cognitive abilities. I don't know if I ever want to spot an Electric Six shirt on the street - it just couldn't bode well for the world.

Movies watched last week, from favorite to least.


Penniless NYC new-wavers stumble through what barely passes for a love triangle. A funnier, less maudlin Nights Of Cabiria with instrumental tracks from Crazy Rhythms providing the perfect soundtrack.


Sometimes I think the proof of a great film actor is how they fare in more modest entertainments, not just their legendary roles. Laurence Olivier is basically a British Lenny Briscoe here, navigating the banal surface of a lurid drama, and you never get the sense that he's angling for your attention. Not that he'd get it once people start setting dolls on fire and shrieking through midnight games of hide and seek.


Pierce Brosnan's tired assassin is so twisted that the Bond meta is simply a giggle rather than the selling point, though I was pleasantly surprised by the Remington Steele crack. As much as I enjoyed the contrast between his flailing depravity and Greg Kinnear and Hope Davis' hip wholesomeness, some ironic, Bond-worthy action sequences might have given the film some welcome variety.


The story, two small-towners' attempt to restage a climactic high-school football game they blame for their adult failures, has so little edge that it requires some goodwill on the part of the viewer to see past its familiarity. Kurt Russell makes that easy, Robin Williams does not.

You may not know it now, but you're gonna miss this.

Songs new to Billboard's top 50 singles chart, and the top debut.

#19 (from #92): Lil Mama feat. Chris Brown & T-Pain, "Shawty Get Loose (Remix)"
Brown and Pain didn't need another hit this month (or in T-Pain's case, week) and I miss the original's hair advice ("You wash, set, blow and you wash, set, blow"), but fine, whatever, could be worse, just put her damn album out!

#41 (from #60): Rick Ross feat. T-Pain, "The Boss"
A lot of rappers claim no one is as successful as they are, but most would realize that, if the hook is "I'm the biggest boss that you've seen thus far," your video shouldn't climax with the arrival of Fat Joe.

#47 (from #51): 2 Pistols feat. T-Pain & Tay Dizm, "She Got It"
Seeing as how songs like this will wind up on The Best Of Featuring T-Pain anyway, rappers in his presence should choose the most inoffensive cliches, slur rather than yell, and keep it brief. Like this guy.

#48 (from #54): Trace Adkins, "You're Gonna Miss This"
A young woman is told that every period of her life will seem worse than the one before it. Needs T-Pain.

#63 (debut): Danity Kane, "Damaged"
Shut up, Diddy. You just ruined a fine song about needing vaginoplasty.

A 60's singer, an '80s song, a '90s video. Guaranteed ironic fascination for 2008.

A few weeks ago, before moving, I used a decade old copy of Billboard's Top 40 Hits as a guide and downloaded dozens of songs by pop stars underrepresented in my music collection. Now I have more CD-Rs with names like "'80s Cars/Wang Chung/Paula Abdul mix" and "Animals 1964-1969" and life is better for it. While debating whether to keep Cyndi Lauper's "I Drove All Night" (bite me, I'm unemployed), I remembered Roy Orbison's version and checked youtube to see if the video really did feature Jason Priestly and Jennifer Connelly (back when their respective hair and chest inspired awe and disbelief) canoodling in the desert on various modes of transportation. My memory was correct, but what surprised me was the bumpada-bumpada bass sequencer underneath Roy's past-prime warble and "uh-huh, yeaaaah"'s. Thanks to American Recordings, MTV Unplugged and the niche market they spawned, its unlikely we'll ever see a pop fogey brought back in such a garishly "modern" context again; Santana's the only such success of late that wasn't merely crassy class, and that was almost a decade ago.

An example of why this sucks? Aerosmith's Big Ones, which I also recently downloaded. Rocks is the godhead, but I've got a lot of love for the second commercial heyday of these decrepit transvestites. Along with the power ballads and dramatic descriptions of molestations consensual and otherwise, they had a tremendous, nasty, FIERCELY rocking track about fucking in an elevator...and it went top 20! The song even ends with a trumpet and a capella harmonies! Now, if they want to get some attention without calling Diane Warren, they have to make an album of "classic blues" tracks. Zzzzz. I already have classic blues tracks, I want Aerosmith to take me to the other side! Take me to the other side, where Desmond Child, John Kalodner and a synth-horn section wait patiently. Even a band named Velvet Revolver, a band with SLASH in it, can't reach these heights today, thanks to their choice of Weiland as a singer. He got the clothes right (love that Night Porter vibe) but he's so 90s-glummy a vocalist that I keep hoping Ian Astbury will bash him over the head and the lead them into "Fire Woman." But that schmuck's too busy with the 21st Century Doors. Christ.

Ignoring extremely awesome yet too-self-aware-for-prime-time bands like Eagles Of Death Metal and Electric Six, two acts on this planet give me hope for the future of gaudy 80s feel-good rock. One is AC/DC, who've claimed that their next album will be a DOUBLE CD. They can't fill all that with just Brian Johnston's incomprehensible gargling, so why not some RAP CAMEOS?! I'm down! Did somebody play the band that remix of Nelly's "Work It"? Don't get Rick Rubin on this, though, he had his chance.

My other hope against hope is Taylor Hicks. While this detested American Idol winner can't really rawk, his success should have made Clive Davis realize that AMERICA WANTS BAR-ROCK BACK! Down with soul patch, up with soul patrol! Give this man's man some "Simply Irresistible" jam and watch it skyrocket to the toppermost of the poppermost, where hopefully it will inspire other aging men of song to loosen up and give us the kind of Spuds McKenzie trash that can dignify a decade like this. Seth Rogen knows what time it is! Why doesn't anyone else?

Fred Durst needs to start directing videos again.

Just cuz you didn't know Puddle Of Mudd had several rock #1s doesn't make them anonymous, Al. Their sound is shrill Nirvana/Local H rather than groany Pearl Jam/Creed, and, Vines aside, that's been an anomaly in rawk since the days of Durst. Thanks in part to that Kurt-like wail, their romantic paranoia has slightly less of a cock-rock undertow than most of their peers. Still, the hits on Come Clean were early examples of the misognyist psychosis that is "active rock," with "Blurry" more disturbingly vulnerable and "She Hates Me" more disturbingly giddy than most of the truly anonymous bile that's followed. Wes Scantlin was (is?) freqently seen in photos and videos wearing a black cap over his blond mane, and for that alone they were more identifiable than Fuel then or Three Days Grace now. Those videos were pretty damn memorable, too (respect the Durst).

Recent singles have been merely more of the same, but the success of "Psycho" and "Famous" imply that Scantlin may be a radio lifer, an emotionally unstable Tom Petty, rather than the eventual prison lifer he comes off as. I'm not saying everyone should like them, but they wouldn't be as "repulsive" as Al finds them if they were as "anonymous" as he claims.

I believe this is the first rebuttal to a negative Puddle Of Mudd review that wasn't at least 50% profanity.

Movies watched over the last week or so, from favorite to least.


If the songs were more than earnest competence, the film wouldn't be an effective valentine to the value of music as an emotional outlet for those who play it, just great music. If the songs were less than earnest competence, the film, however sweet and modest, would be excruciating. But it's not.


It's unfair to suggest a film based on a classic novel has any responsibility to be faithful to an earlier cinematic adapation, but the second half really would have benefited from some hippie vampires.


Danny Huston (resembling a bloodthirsty Neil Tennant) and some visual effects almost as unnerving as Ben Foster's accent make it possible to get through the nonsensical plot, if not scene after scene of Josh Hartnett thinking. This test-tube Treat Williams actually played Iago?


Jean Seberg and Peter Fonda's unnerving asylum patients make it almost possible to get through the nonsensical plot, if not scene after scene of Warren Beatty thinking.


The second best musical released in 2007 to star Timothy Spall as a repulsive henchman. The audience for this one-dimensional chore must be people who admire (or - somehow - enjoy) Stephen Sondheim's wandering, interminable music but don't mind it being sung by unaccomplished voices in a less operatic context. I'm not surprised this crowd includes Golden Globe voters, but it's sad to realize Tim Burton also qualifies.

We have internet! Finally! Did you know its been two weeks since I've watched a youtube?



Feels so good! Regular programming returns Monday. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, more than ever.

We don't have net in the new pad yet, so I won't be updating the blog much until that's taken care of. However, I made a crapload of Garfield strips with the Random Garfield Generator last month, and have decided to put them up on another site. I realize what a spent nethumor subject Garfield is, but they're fun to make.

Knock on wood, Oh, Garfield will be updated every weekday. Do not read if you're tired of jokes about a dateless lunatic living with a sleepy cat. Or if you can't willingly suspend disbelief re: Jon's amazing technicolor shirt.

It's better to "burn yourself out" than to fade way.

Enlightening shit from TopSynergy's astrological relationship profiles of the stars:

Neil Young is intensely amorous and attractive to the opposite sex, and is not inclined to friendly platonic relationships. There is a great deal of tension in his love relationships - often because Young puts his desires ahead of his partner's, and is impatient to have his love needs satisfied. The whole arena of love relationships, romance and sex is endlessly fascinating to Neil Young and he is not happy without a love partner. Young can "burn himself out" by pouring so much of his energy into romance.

Nelly does not appear to be an intensely emotional or sentimental person, and he is often unaware of his own or other people's deeper feelings and emotional needs. Tears and tantrums bewilder him and make him very uncomfortable. Nelly would rather settle differences by talking things out reasonably and rationally, but he tends to ignore or poke fun at any attempt to probe his own or others' inner depths.

Chad Smith genuinely appreciates and understands women, and is likely to have many female friends, a network of women who love and support him. It is relatively easy for Chad Smith to attract companionship and affection, and there will never be a lack of such relationships in his life. Children are very important to Smith also.

Fred Durst becomes very cross if he lacks vigorous physical activity. Durst feels his best if he frequently "does battle" on the tennis or racquetball court (or engages in another form of competitive sport).

Steven Seagal craves very intense, deep, emotional relationships, and would even prefer stormy, tumultuous relationships to ones that are smooth but lacking vitality and passion. Steven loves wholeheartedly and expects all-consuming, total devotion and attention from his partner. Casual, light relationships hold no appeal for Seagal.

Olympia is attracted to foreigners, exotic places, traveling, and to people who can expand her horizons, teach her something, or show Dukakis places and worlds she has never experienced before. Sharing a philosophy or ideal with her love partner is important to her.

Henry Rollins has a knack for making others feel good and is likely to enjoy a harmonious sex-life. Henry also has a strong need to create and may have a flair for designing fashionable clothes.

Dick Cheney has a magnetic personality, are unconventional, and a bit unpredictable. Dick loves to flirt and is likely to have sudden romantic relationships that do not always last. Dick Cheney likes variety and always is seeking new experiences with people.

When he cares about someone, Richard Dreyfuss likes to show his affection with small favors or tangible gestures.

Walt Disney may be attracted to older persons who are emotionally mature and reliable and can provide the security Walt desires.

Folks prepping for another season of yelling "wtf, Nader?" owe it to themselves to read the transcript of his recent Meet The Press interview. I won't be voting for him, in part because Obama's inspired me to give the Democratic party one last chance, and in part because I'm disappointed Nader can't find a younger, unscarred mouthpiece to voice his refreshing, entirely merited complaints about our current nominees. Surely some charismatic celebrity like, I dunno, Eddie Vedder, or maybe a cute policy wonk, would be willing to hold a similar stance for the Green party. Better that than have Nader once again suffer the smears of self-loathing Dems, who would rather criticize those who actually voted their liberal ideals for abandoning the party rather than acknowledge its unsatisfactory record. Why sneer about the crippling futility of staunch liberalism when the centrists can't seem to achieve anything themselves? Why claim change must happen from inside the party when those in power silence worthwhile debate? Accusations of him ruining the 2000 election are not just ill-informed, they're pathetic.

Nader rightly notes in the interview that if the Dems fail to win this election, "they ought to just wrap up, close down, emerge in a different form." America is hungry for reform, something that should be incredibly easy for either nominee to exploit. But I'm also sympathetic to the idea that neither party is truly motivated to achieve it. If the next four years fail to prove otherwise, I won't be screaming for a third party so much as a new second.

In Invasion, Nicole Kidman plays a troubled mother whose face randomly changes shape thanks to the months between reshoots. In Margot At The Wedding, it's her state of mind that's unpredictable. Both efforts are remarkable. A side effect of the botox boom in Hollywood is that we have a new way to verify commendability: if we can think of a character outside of the star that plays them - DESPITE obvious, horrifying and unacknowledged plastic surgery - they and the screenwriter must have done a pretty good job.

If Jennifer Jason Leigh's had any work done, then that doctor did an even better job. Her graceful response to aging gets in the way of distinctions Margot director Noah Baumbach, again offering a teenager's memoir of adult dysfunction, wants to make between her and Kidman (unless an artifically tightened face is supposed to signify the hollowness of the latter's upscale, writerly existence compared to Leigh's dowdy, rural one). It's Leigh's smirk and open nightshirt that rescues a bedroom sequence that would have been otherwise unforgivable thanks to an thorough presenation of Jack Black's bare ass.

Black is entertaining as a schleppy dud of a boyfriend ("I haven't had that thing yet, where you realize that you're not the most important person in the world"), but its easily the shtickiest performance in the film, and part of the Margot's threat to descend to Solondz-like levels of quease-for-quease's sake. Maybe I'm just more familiar with the male adolescent reaction to divorce than life with a family of crazies, so I'm less likely to accept the presented scenario compared to Baumbach's The Squid and the Whale. But the pathologies and motivations develop as the film goes on, gaining sympathy if not total understanding. This is only fair, as nobody on screen really gets things either.

Daniel Day-Lewis does deserve Oscar acknowledgement for being such an attention-grabbing force of arch, but he's pretty young, and I'd be surprised if he doesn't don a moustache again sometime over the next twenty years. Tommy Lee Jones can't play autumnal cowboys dealing with conflicted emotions brought on by a recent death forever, so I feel its only fair to give him the Oscar he should have received for The Three Burials of Meliquiades Estrada.

In The Valley Of Elah isn't nearly as good as that underrated film (probably my favorite modern western), even if it takes Paul Haggis a lot longer to smother it in gratuitous contrivance and "who's the real villian?" confusion than Crash. Jones' convincing performance helps tether the rural crime procedural, giving us something more rewarding to pay attention to than what's offered by Haggis, "one of those national dishes that is both beloved and reviled by natives, and sometimes horrifies people who hear it described for the first time" (gumbopages.com). A more straightforward plot that put Jason Patric and James Franco to larger use would have been great, but Jones is so engaging you might even forget that the film ends with a shot of a tattered, upside-down American flag. He's like Eastwood with a third dimension.

In The Valley Of Elah is one of at least three films critiquing the war on terror released on DVD this week, and one of two DVDs out this week to feature Josh Brolin as a dislikable cop. It is also one of two recent films starring Josh Brolin in which Tommy Lee Jones pays a visit to Barry Corbin, a genial old friend.

I'm pleasantly surprised when a film shows a novel visual sensibility, especially when its the debut directorial effort from the screenwriter of such films as Armageddon, Devil's Advocate and The Cutting Edge. Michael Clayton is feverish and claustrophobic, its lighting either paltry or blurred. Tom Wilkinson's sweaty mania, which almost scared me away in the trailer, seems like the most sympathetic response to the palpable air of anxiety.

Cost-benefit analysis is a real enough source of horror that the film's dark blue dread doesn't come off cheap like in Adrian Lyne films or Flightplan. Which isn't to say that showing the climax at the beginning was a good idea, or that the payoff isn't pat, or that the final shot doesn't scream "for your consideration." But Clooney takes a long time to choose between hero and anti-hero, and Tilda Swinton's androgyne Hillary is a question mark herself. Having failed to catch Atonement or the second-best-at-best pregnancy comedy of the year, I'll take this rumination on The Evil That Men Do over the hollow, more cartoonish pair it's competing with.

Aside from an embarassing bit of Training Day on TV (which made me believe his Oscar has the scent of a Pacino on it), I haven't seen a Denzel Washington movie since 1998's Fallen and The Siege, so it was comforting to have his gifts reaffirmed - one could watch him watch the world all day. One reason I haven't seen anything he's done over the last decade is that he keeps working with Tony Scott and folks who wish they were Ridley, Tony's classier and equally vacuous brother. It's hard to believe Denzel's never worked with the real deal until now.

The climax of American Gangster threatens to crosscut between a violent shoot-out and the anti-hero at church, and its disappointing they didn't go for such a blatant Godfather lift. If a film's going to lack any coherent message or intent (other than a desire to siphon some of Scarface's merch money by making an epic about a black druglord grander than New Jack City), it might as well have the energy of camp. The film may excite class-seekers like Jay-Z, but I wonder if the film's Oscary patina - as well as its "then he became a snitch" ending and lack of mouthfoam - will keep it from gaining the street cred it needs to achieve mob-movie immortality.

While Russell Crowe doesn't rise above his material like Denzel, he is an expert at charming his way through it (this is his third Ridley Scott film). Almost all the actors are welcome sights (though I'm worried that today young black men can't get into movies without a multi-album rap career), but no one gets a garish, memorable scene to chew into. Compare Ruby Dee's nomination-reel speech to Beatrice Straight's and you'll see they don't make 'em like they used to.

One of two movies coming out on DVD this week to star Josh Brolin as a dislikable cop.

If I saw this trailer before a movie, I would no longer want to see that movie. I would want to see Pineapple Express and be grumpy about my inability to do so.

Have you heard about joke jocks? Evidently Seth Rogen and the like are being called joke jocks. Guys who are treated like studs for telling so many good jokes that it makes your head spin (oh nooooooo!). See, the crime is that these Apatow folks are making comedies about guys who need to grow up that are actually funny. I don't remember any critical thinkpieces about '90s comedy blockbusters like Liar Liar or the fucking Waterboy, even though they don't have women as funny as Leslie Mann, Charlene Yi or Kristen Wiig in them. Daring to make small-scale, big-laugh comedies that strike a nerve rather than simpering cartoons, the "joke jocks" are treated like a new low when they're a huge improvement (also, I have never heard anyone say they find Jonah Hill attractive, so there must be a ceiling to this "he's funny so he's cute" thing).

I can't call myself a fan of Diablo Cody, but I like that her announced reaction to Superbad was "hey, women deserve a movie like this. I'll write it," rather than "hey, women deserve a movie like this. I'll write an article on how it sucks that they made a really funny movie where the guys told more jokes than the women." As a whiny armchair chap myself, I'm not saying its wrong to merely criticize. I just wish people put a little more thought into what they're really complaining about.

Sorry if this rant seems outta nowhere and a bit of a rehash. It's inspired by a months-old issue of Bitch my housemate left in the bathroom. And this joke jock trailer that I can't stop watching.

"With You" is nobody's pick for the best clap-track campfire ballad produced by Stargate of late, and Chris Brown's best quality is that he isn't Frankie J. "With every kiss and every hug/you make me fall in love" is some Paul Anka shit, and "You're the best part of my day!" should climax a Maxwell House ad. But lately I'm in the mood for some inane, sentimental pap sung by an earnest cipher.

Happy Valentine's Day, Leila. It's your fault I love this song.