Young Link out, Toon Link in.
Motherfuckin' R.O.B.
T-minus four days...
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Paranoid Snow.
Snow Angels
Director(s): David Gordon Green.
Screenplay: David Gordon Green.
Cast: Kate Beckinsale, Sam Rockwell, Michael Angarano, Jeannetta Arnette, Griffin Dunne, Nicky Katt, Tom Noonan, Connor Paolo, Amy Sedaris and Olivia Thirlby.
Distributor: Warner Independent Pictures.
Runtime: 106 min.
Rating: R.
Year: 2007
"Realism and poetry were sustained in exquisite balance." That is how Armond White, deploring the slavishness of Undertow, accurately encapsulated the genius of David Gordon Green's George Washington. Like Undertow and All the Real Girls before it, Snow Angels is an obnoxious pageant of effusive style, the cinematic equivalent of a Precious Moments catalog. This one is a twee Nashville panorama, set—according to the film's press notes—in a small town north of the Mason Dixon line, though it may as well be squeezing us into the snow globe Orson Welles drops in the opening of Citizen Kane.
Before the story returns to the past, weeks before double shotgun blasts interrupt a school's band practice, coach has a mean hissy fit. "We are all part of a formation," he wails, his spastic unease never justified like the cultural panic that grips Henry Gibson at the end of Nashville, foisting shallow theme on audiences as compulsorily as Green pushes his fulsome artistry. After school, Arthur (Michael Angarano) works at a Chinese restaurant, with Annie (Kate Beckinsale), the young woman who used to baby-sit him when he was a boy, and Barb (Amy Sedaris), a hot wire whose husband Annie is sleeping with. Green choreographs more than he directs, revealing the links in the story's formation of characters as if he were drawing a snowflake, or connecting dots, la-la-la-la-la. They say no two are exactly alike, but Green's are all the same: meticulous and inert, unlike Altman's more delicate and spontaneously combustible tapestries of human feeling.
Green's style is as arbitrary as the Cloverfield monster: Death, accidental and otherwise, is preciously photographed, set to diddering music from the same gene pool as Sigur Rós, the camera coyly pushing into scenes, then out, at times drifting away like a gust of wind from characters in mid-conversation to linger on the corner of a room. It's oh so quiet and still and peaceful, but even when characters blow fuses, there's never a zing-boom, just more hushed aesthetic din. "No one cares about choices," someone says, ostensibly about life, though this nugget of wisdom is a concise summation of Green's poetic effects, which never feel keyed to the reality of his characters, who speak in ways more curious than the ear-chomping solipsists from Juno. Green doesn't seem to be charting a recognizable world, only the contours of his own mind.
Why does every television in this town play such intolerably fetch television programming? "Tomorrow is going to be hard," says Arthur's mother (Jeannetta Arnette), which means crafting a wobbly house on the living room table out of photographs, Sabado Gigante playing in the background. "Oy, gevalt," says the dude Annie is fucking, but is he even Jewish? Then there's the nerdy Lila (Olivia Thirlby), who is, like, oh my god, so cute, running down derivations of "fellatio" in the school library with Arthur, later writing "Hey you!" in purple marker on the back of his hand. Poor Sam Rockwell, who clearly caught something from Vera Farmiga on the set of Joshua, bears the brunt of Green's preciousness: As Glenn, the ticky, bibbity-bobbity, doggy-dooing Jesus freak, who ludicrously does a drunken slow dance with Morgan Freeman and Freddy Kruger look-alikes at one point, the actor plops licentiously down on Green's seesaw of reality and poetry, tilting the scales in favor of the latter and sending the former into the stratosphere.
--
Paranoid Park
Director: Gus Van Sant.
Screenplay: Gus Van Sant.
Cast: Gabe Nevins, Dan Liu, Jake Miller, Taylor Momsen, Lauren McKinney and Olivier Garnier.
Distributor: IFC First Take.
Runtime: 84 min.
Rating: NR.
Year: 2007
Normally, you wouldn't want to pay attention to a story told by a guy who admits, right off the bat, that he's "not that good at creative writing." But Gus Van Sant's haunting and immediate Paranoid Park understands adolescence as a kind of first draft, a series of raw experiences unmediated by wisdom, and as a result it allows its verbally-challenged protagonist to narrate in his own imperfect voice, rather than imposing a Wonder Years-style voice-over conscience. The films in Van Sant's recent long-take trilogy (Gerry, Elephant, Last Days) took sensationalistic news stories from real life and then stripped them of all causality, as a way of portraying human activity as essentially random and undetermined. But Paranoid Park is a deeper and even more bracing step into the unknown for the veteran filmmaker, a fully subjective probe into the consciousness of a young man and a generous display of artistic empathy.
Based on a young adult novel by Blake Nelson, Paranoid Park follows a shy high-school-aged Portland skateboarder named Alex (Gabe Nevins) after an impulsive decision leads to the accidental murder of a security guard on a train track not far from the titular skate-punk mecca. Alex is not suspected in the crime, so he keeps his involvement a secret. Consequently, his world begins to revolve in terrifying slow orbit: His cheerleader girlfriend (Taylor Momsen) openly displays her previously unapparent vapidity, his parents' impending divorce rapidly materializes, and Alex quietly reconsiders his emotional priorities. "I think…there's different levels of stuff," he tentatively concludes, and it seems impossible not to intuit exactly what he means.
Van Sant cast the film using MySpace in order to foster a sense of realism, but Paranoid Park is just as stylized as Elephant. Only the ends are different. Instead of depending on his long-take standby Harris Savides, Van Sant turned to Christopher Doyle, the other Greatest Cinematographer in the World, to capture the Super-8 swirl of skate-kid hero worship and the haze of adolescent panic. (Leslie Shatz's sound design sporadically offers musique concréte as a way of conveying Alex's fractured mental state.) Where Elephant's camera treated its beautifully doomed youths like lab rats, the style of Paranoid Park is perfectly in sync with its lead character; it reflects Alex's internal coping mechanisms. When Alex's girlfriend responds to his fumbling we-need-to-break-up plea, we see her vitriol, but we hear Nino Rota's theme from Juliet of the Spirits as a way of rendering the moment intriguingly grotesque instead of just painful. Where Elliott Smith's acoustic dirges served as pretty window dressing in Good Will Hunting, here the troubadour's mope music soothes like a necessary balm for wounds accumulated in high school hallways.
The Iraq war comes up in conversation more than once in Paranoid Park, as an abstract illustration of the type of pain and guilt disconnected masses should be feeling. Obviously, it's a difficult emotional jump from a Portland coffee shop to a battle-scarred Baghdad, and the world is indeed too big a place for an ignorant kid to have to incorporate that kind of horror. Being a kid is about keeping responsibility at bay and dismissing causality. (In its amoral disengagement, Elephant seemed childlike to a fault.) Van Sant's film microscopically reduces the scale of its moral universe to that of a single person—and the one stupid decision that will haunt his entire life—and by engaging fully in the experiment Paranoid Park earns its humanist stripes. By illuminating a little world where we can empathize with an "unrepentant murderer," Van Sant momentarily awakens our potential to spread our understanding across the street, across the park, across the globe. You start small, because, well…there's different levels of stuff.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Skeleton Upon a Rainbow.
[Music: The Ruby Suns]
Wow. The SKFL is back in business. It was a bitch to resurrect this thing. I had to create a gmail account because for some abstruse and esoteric reason, blogger decided to only accept people with Google accounts now. After that I had to track down the user/login information for whatever deviating ID I made for this site. Remember skysaw? Yep. That was it. I then linked that old data with the gmail account; which is the title of this entry @gmail.com. So there you go. Also, I am unsure if this blog will continue to be populated with wonderful romance, harsh scrutiny, or simply anecdotes from my everyday escapades in Anorexicland. Probably a concoction of all three.
In the meantime, I'm shipwrecked in UCSF for the THIRD time. At least this hospital has decent resources. I've hankered down a laptop and an assorment of third-rate ps2 games. I've got a ps2 in my room so I can bring titles from home as well. And watch DVDs. At least the time is passing some what rapidly and with any luck I will abscond from here 'bout Friday's middle hours. Pray.
Post medical/mental nonsense, I'm admiring the lovely musings of the absolutely brilliant Scott Campbell; whose playful adolescent commentery (scottc.blogspot.com) only slightly undercuts the tarnished genius of his artwork. Damn I wish I could draw like him. Just look at his alternate DVD cover for King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters:
In the meantime, I'm shipwrecked in UCSF for the THIRD time. At least this hospital has decent resources. I've hankered down a laptop and an assorment of third-rate ps2 games. I've got a ps2 in my room so I can bring titles from home as well. And watch DVDs. At least the time is passing some what rapidly and with any luck I will abscond from here 'bout Friday's middle hours. Pray.
Post medical/mental nonsense, I'm admiring the lovely musings of the absolutely brilliant Scott Campbell; whose playful adolescent commentery (scottc.blogspot.com) only slightly undercuts the tarnished genius of his artwork. Damn I wish I could draw like him. Just look at his alternate DVD cover for King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters:
Head on over to his blog (linked above) to check out more of his arsenal. He also did this insane egyptianmummy clock for my friend's artauction/show that sold for, like, a treasure trove:
I've been looking at some upcoming spring films. Other than Gus Van Sant's shining Paranoid Park, and David Gordon Green's double-punch of Snow Angels and Pineapple Express, I didn't find much to go apeshit over. Though I did discover that Michael Haneke's winking 1997 film Funny Games is getting a shot-by-shot remake starring, yes, the great Michael Pitt (Bully, The Dreamers, Last Days) as the wobbling trickster Paul. Tim Roth and Naomi Watts play the daft parents. I don't know who plays the dog.
Paranoid Park
Snow Angels
Pineapple Express
Funny Games (2008)
I'll be posting reviews for Snow Angels and Paranoid Park pretty soon. Possibly even later today.
As far as stuff as videogames and anime are concerned, I'm still keeping busy with those things.
PS3: Devil May Cry 4, Burnout Paradise, Uncharted: Drake's Fortune.
PSP: Patapon, God of War: Chains of Olympus, FF Tactics: War of the Lions (still).
DS: Contra 4, Advance Wars: Days of Ruin.
Anime: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Devil May Cry 4
Patapon
Advance Wars: Days of Ruin
Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Brawl comes out in five days so that's something to look forward to.
Music...the new Malkmus and Ruby Suns are keeping me in tune.
I also got a new phone. LG Shine. It's metallic silver, and kicks magnanimous amounts of ass.
I've also been purusing various consumption blogs as of late. It's kind of soothing for my minuscule stomach that wants to be left alone forever. I'll link them on the sidebar if I can remember how to fuck with that thing. Check them out. If you please.
Alright, I think I'm done. I have to battle food here in the hospital. Amongst doctors and psyche people and annoying sitters.
Laterz.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Lost March.
[Music: Blood Brothers]
With my recent addiction to Whitney's brilliant side-project Neon Blonde, I had forgotten how brilliant his Blood Brothers work is. Namely their last album, 2004's Crimes.
--
Save (Excerpt from my Tails in Red Ink).
Testosterone harvesters reap the innards of earth, plowing endless fields of elevated soil populated with a seed only paralleled in worth by a chest of ancient artifacts from the tomb of some rank ghost king. Enduring southward, through forests of sullen pines lined alongside the remnants of spirited battles, feathered medleys altercate upon epic flowerbeds; here rests the thrusts of pelvises through the insane heat of an apocalyptic dawn. The body feeds on letdowns and events reimbursing the mind for its own minute instances of pre-occupational exoneration, a basic interdependence of misplaced veneration. Utopian realms obviously shun this concept of a well-fertilized (to the point that individuals maintain an equal share) conceptionsphere being that their very mission statements call for the release of mental fluids to repopulate, disregarding intercourse as an act of imbecilic irreverence. I, being born into a legion bearing an adjacent mindset, should have been readily prepared for the onslaught of non-political treatise that the procreative clergy would pile upon me. I was not, and paid my dues in the form of verbal embarrassment and infantile inquiries. I soon vowed, when the time permitted, to return to my studies amongst the lama consortium and clear my skyward debts.
“Come through these tilted walls, your altar lies beyond,” whispered Kaline as we rapidly walked the length of the hallway towards the ceremonial stages.
“Do your people have a limit to the length of the proceedings? Does morning suffice for multiple sacrifices?” I said.
“Time leaves our ranks when the curtains close.”
“I see.” I guessed my tone was far too somber for her to go unnoticed; she shot me an awkward glance and slowed down her pace.
“Is your collar hurting you, Ekim? Do you thirst?”
“I drank of the stream before you arrived, and, yes, this collar is chafing not to mention cold as a glacier.”
“It will warm to a comet before you realize.” I did not know then what she meant, but I took it that my head would not be removed by way of blade, but rather by extreme heat.
With my recent addiction to Whitney's brilliant side-project Neon Blonde, I had forgotten how brilliant his Blood Brothers work is. Namely their last album, 2004's Crimes.
--
Save (Excerpt from my Tails in Red Ink).
Testosterone harvesters reap the innards of earth, plowing endless fields of elevated soil populated with a seed only paralleled in worth by a chest of ancient artifacts from the tomb of some rank ghost king. Enduring southward, through forests of sullen pines lined alongside the remnants of spirited battles, feathered medleys altercate upon epic flowerbeds; here rests the thrusts of pelvises through the insane heat of an apocalyptic dawn. The body feeds on letdowns and events reimbursing the mind for its own minute instances of pre-occupational exoneration, a basic interdependence of misplaced veneration. Utopian realms obviously shun this concept of a well-fertilized (to the point that individuals maintain an equal share) conceptionsphere being that their very mission statements call for the release of mental fluids to repopulate, disregarding intercourse as an act of imbecilic irreverence. I, being born into a legion bearing an adjacent mindset, should have been readily prepared for the onslaught of non-political treatise that the procreative clergy would pile upon me. I was not, and paid my dues in the form of verbal embarrassment and infantile inquiries. I soon vowed, when the time permitted, to return to my studies amongst the lama consortium and clear my skyward debts.
“Come through these tilted walls, your altar lies beyond,” whispered Kaline as we rapidly walked the length of the hallway towards the ceremonial stages.
“Do your people have a limit to the length of the proceedings? Does morning suffice for multiple sacrifices?” I said.
“Time leaves our ranks when the curtains close.”
“I see.” I guessed my tone was far too somber for her to go unnoticed; she shot me an awkward glance and slowed down her pace.
“Is your collar hurting you, Ekim? Do you thirst?”
“I drank of the stream before you arrived, and, yes, this collar is chafing not to mention cold as a glacier.”
“It will warm to a comet before you realize.” I did not know then what she meant, but I took it that my head would not be removed by way of blade, but rather by extreme heat.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Surf the Black.
[Music: The Advantage]
Is He Dead?
Argumentation, far from a lost art-- but it has really become more than just a prelude to violence, they way it was in the good old days. And there's a big difference in how this one or that might reckon the relative worth of time: time-to-quality or time-to-result or time-to-the-motherfucking-k etc.
The amount of logical twine it would take to bind certain wisdoms to reality would bust my budget. I'm not required to have an opinion about it, I can just understand it and leave. Thinking about thinking like what other people are thinking about is paralytic philosophy beyond my budget. The fact that it is statistically effective is another question entirely and not one of interest to me. I mean: I eat however the numbers go-- I don't mean that statistics aren't interesting.
Numbers are proper things to read today. Seeing some words printed in public used to feel like an idea or temperament had finally been pressurized and heated to a superlative hardness. Suitable for contemplation, climbing. But I guess people were dumber then, too--they couldn't help but express their opinions, expressions were presumed to be part of an ongoing conversation.
One of the reasons the work still isn't staged often is because it makes enormous demands on the lead character, requiring her to sing almost non-stop for two hours, and throughout a very broad range. Maybe the time is right for a re-examination of this work. In a changing world, we want more singers to have control over your own life. It was a crude beginning psalm meant to be adapted, I hope-- not adopted. Or maybe they really missed the boat. They had a window and they had to say something.
--
Closets.
From time to time, it is required of me to interact in a little game set out by persons with the capability to withhold from me the very elements that allow me to survive. I am allocated, it seems, just enough survival to be encouraged that I cannot know, cannot precisely name the sources from which I derive what appear to be randomly earned stipends and then as part of the deal, from time to time, I have to run down a certain sequence of events that I assume I'm to believe are authentic and not in the least causally related to my precarious survival but which I sometimes admit to myself might be more crucially linked to it than the supposed work I supposedly do.
Once I got a phone message telling me to be at a radio station on a Sunday afternoon in the summer. I drove out there and was met by this guy, guy #1. The parking lot was empty, the offices were empty, and the studios were empty. As guy #1 escorted me into the place and down its halls I looked around and saw that it was outfitted with excellent equipment, that it had a tower out back and a dish. We go into a studio and I sit in front of the mic and we do a long interview. Guy #1 never switches on a tape or gives any kind of signal to any kind of engineer; no signal is ever given to us. He does not even put on headphones. We do the interview and I leave.
Two years later, when I'm playing at this bar I see guy #1 with girl #1. I have accidentally met his gaze so I wave but guy #1 doesn't acknowledge me.
One year later, I'm sent up to a residence on Central Park in New York to film some scenes on the edge of a stone parapet. I'm going to dress in a black body suit and crawl around at the top of a tall building. The photographer answers the door, it is girl #1. We go up and do the bits. We shoot for about 4 hours and not once does she stop to change film.
That same year I'm in St.Louis and after the show guy #1 talks to me while I'm packing up my equipment. He says he flew in from Sault Saint Marie (?!) just for the show. I thank him for taking the time and I say: "I hope you enjoyed the show." I should add that he didn't come up to me like he knew me and I didn't act friendly with him-- so I wasn't sure if this was guy #1 in the moment but I knew it had been guy #1 when I thought about it after he left.
What does this say about the world and the intentions of its most arrogant, persistent strivers? One of the reasons the work still isn't staged often is because it makes enormous demands on the lead character: Us, Me, Them. Overall, blue volcanos became that way from ash plumes creating vaccums to suck in tropical birds. All the colors mixed to form a light azure. Believe it.
Is He Dead?
Argumentation, far from a lost art-- but it has really become more than just a prelude to violence, they way it was in the good old days. And there's a big difference in how this one or that might reckon the relative worth of time: time-to-quality or time-to-result or time-to-the-motherfucking-k etc.
The amount of logical twine it would take to bind certain wisdoms to reality would bust my budget. I'm not required to have an opinion about it, I can just understand it and leave. Thinking about thinking like what other people are thinking about is paralytic philosophy beyond my budget. The fact that it is statistically effective is another question entirely and not one of interest to me. I mean: I eat however the numbers go-- I don't mean that statistics aren't interesting.
Numbers are proper things to read today. Seeing some words printed in public used to feel like an idea or temperament had finally been pressurized and heated to a superlative hardness. Suitable for contemplation, climbing. But I guess people were dumber then, too--they couldn't help but express their opinions, expressions were presumed to be part of an ongoing conversation.
One of the reasons the work still isn't staged often is because it makes enormous demands on the lead character, requiring her to sing almost non-stop for two hours, and throughout a very broad range. Maybe the time is right for a re-examination of this work. In a changing world, we want more singers to have control over your own life. It was a crude beginning psalm meant to be adapted, I hope-- not adopted. Or maybe they really missed the boat. They had a window and they had to say something.
--
Closets.
From time to time, it is required of me to interact in a little game set out by persons with the capability to withhold from me the very elements that allow me to survive. I am allocated, it seems, just enough survival to be encouraged that I cannot know, cannot precisely name the sources from which I derive what appear to be randomly earned stipends and then as part of the deal, from time to time, I have to run down a certain sequence of events that I assume I'm to believe are authentic and not in the least causally related to my precarious survival but which I sometimes admit to myself might be more crucially linked to it than the supposed work I supposedly do.
Once I got a phone message telling me to be at a radio station on a Sunday afternoon in the summer. I drove out there and was met by this guy, guy #1. The parking lot was empty, the offices were empty, and the studios were empty. As guy #1 escorted me into the place and down its halls I looked around and saw that it was outfitted with excellent equipment, that it had a tower out back and a dish. We go into a studio and I sit in front of the mic and we do a long interview. Guy #1 never switches on a tape or gives any kind of signal to any kind of engineer; no signal is ever given to us. He does not even put on headphones. We do the interview and I leave.
Two years later, when I'm playing at this bar I see guy #1 with girl #1. I have accidentally met his gaze so I wave but guy #1 doesn't acknowledge me.
One year later, I'm sent up to a residence on Central Park in New York to film some scenes on the edge of a stone parapet. I'm going to dress in a black body suit and crawl around at the top of a tall building. The photographer answers the door, it is girl #1. We go up and do the bits. We shoot for about 4 hours and not once does she stop to change film.
That same year I'm in St.Louis and after the show guy #1 talks to me while I'm packing up my equipment. He says he flew in from Sault Saint Marie (?!) just for the show. I thank him for taking the time and I say: "I hope you enjoyed the show." I should add that he didn't come up to me like he knew me and I didn't act friendly with him-- so I wasn't sure if this was guy #1 in the moment but I knew it had been guy #1 when I thought about it after he left.
What does this say about the world and the intentions of its most arrogant, persistent strivers? One of the reasons the work still isn't staged often is because it makes enormous demands on the lead character: Us, Me, Them. Overall, blue volcanos became that way from ash plumes creating vaccums to suck in tropical birds. All the colors mixed to form a light azure. Believe it.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
That's What She Said.
Tahoe was great, despite the bus ride up where some guy vomitted in a fast food bag and caused the whole vehicle to reek horribly. Trevor and I listened to Dane Cook the whole way to Sacramento to rid ourselves of the stench and boredom. Alex killed people. Many stories to tell, not enough time.
Click here for some pictures:
http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=1054434&blogID=74630743&MyToken=9b682b34-8078-44f8-b54f-c64ccfb7cd64
Click here for some pictures:
http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=1054434&blogID=74630743&MyToken=9b682b34-8078-44f8-b54f-c64ccfb7cd64
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