Coraline

 

Stop motion animation is a technique best reserved for perfectionists that can obsess over detail and don’t mind spending days on mere moments of action.  Henry Selick (The Nightmare Before Christmas) must have assembled an army of people who fit that profile to have created a world as rich and nuanced as Coraline’s.  The film is a visual triumph and that is only the beginning.

Author, Neil Gaiman is clearly someone who has studied the Fantasy form.  The story of Coraline fits perfectly into the architecture of coming-of-age fantasies.  Coraline manages to be an original and believable character, while finding a sisterly resemblance with Dorothy, Alice and Ofelia.  Like those young ladies (from Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland and Pan’s Labyrinth) Coraline is a girl on the verge of womanhood; angsty, intelligent, surrounded by the monotony of distracted parents and a generally mundane landscape that contains mysteries around certain corners.  Just like those classics, Coraline’s curiosity and frustration drive her to a secret, inner-world that is full of magic and danger.

One of the things that make Coraline feel like a new work is the center of her home in her adventures.  Coraline doesn’t fall down a rabbit hole, or get tossed into Oz by a tornado.  She merely falls asleep and is awoken by the disturbing notion of a secret door in her home that leads to another part of the house.  The concept stirs an archetypal sense of awe felt by anyone who has dreamed of discovering new wings in their house.  It is unsettling because as symbols (like Danielewski has shown) our homes are our psyches.  To enter a dream where you dust off a hidden door in your house, is to creep into a repressed memory, or a hidden desire.

Like Alice, Coraline finds another world that is an antidote for the strains of daily life.  It is full of signposts and artifacts that point to her regular life.  The world on the other side of the house is even full of two parents much like Coraline’s, only they take interest in what she says, cook her extraordinary meals and seem to have little in mind other than her pleasure.  Her real-life neighbors that were once great entertainers, but are now elderly has-beens, take on magical skill in this other world.

The colorful and fantastic reality she finds is just as seductive to the viewer as it is for Coraline.  As she switches back and forth, her normal reality seems all too dreary.  The world on the other side of the house just looks perfect, except it is somehow a bit unsettling.  One problem is the improved dopplegangers in the magic world have buttons where their eyes should be and their features look eerily similar to hand-sewn dolls.  They also have an overwhelming interest in her staying with them forever.

The conflict Coraline faces between her normal reality and her newfound magical one comes to a head in a series of dazzling spectacles.  The powerful psychological imagery betrays the film’s “kid movie” status and offers up something deeper, something that maybe too disturbing for young children.  Selick uses every scene in the fantasy as a launch pad for visual fireworks as the magical world transitions from sublime to sinister.  

The film turns itself inside out as Coraline is forced to confront the true nature of the place she has discovered and avoid being taken prisoner forever-until the very fabric of the film seems to rip.  It closes with a satisfying sense of exhaustion as Selick leaves no symbol un-mined and no image unperfected.  Coraline is a truly remarkable addition to a rich cannon of classic children’s films.  The story’s archetypal resonance is perfectly matched to the films painterly beauty.  Did I mention that it’s in 3-D?

 

*****

Stereolab-Chemical Chords

Stereolab Chemical Chords

What is there left for Stereolab to do?  They’ve released nine albums and a collection of virtually countless EP’s and singles.  They’ve bounced back from the tragic death of guitarist Mary Hansen with 2004′s underrated Margerine Eclipse.  Stereolab has actually mixed away at their unusual tapestry of influences, from Krautrock to lounge jazz, to the degree that they already sound familiar- perhaps even classic.

Chemical Chords shows that an original band, doesn’t need to reinvent their wheels to stay fresh.  Drawing on their Anglo/Franco hip arsenal of bubbling synthesizers, driving repetition, bi-lingual vocals and graceful melodies the album is not a game changer, but it is so damn joyous.  Laetia Sadier has grown a powerful command of the English language through her poetic lyrics.  The years have been good to her distinctive voice as it slides effortlessly from falsetto to a rich contra-alto.  “Ecstatic Static” details an other-worldly pimp; “He went around switching the people’s hearts off, promising to deal with reality.  We bought it….”  The lyrics are rattled off over a sweeping string section that feels both stylized and cinematic.

The bands top-drawer rhythm section continues to inject a clockwork edge to songs that could easily become lethargic due to their dreamlike qualities.  Andy Ramsay continues to pin the songs up with drum beats you can set a clock to.  Bassist Simon Johns shines with a precise minimalism that is both ego-less and effective.  The two reach an especially kinetic synergy under the rapid textural changes of “Three Women” providing continuity to the tunes otherwise schizophrenic instrumental exchanges.

The use of horns and strings is consistent with prior albums, but never has the bands arrangements sounded so thoughtful and effective.  The title track is augmented by a kitschy and dramatic bombast as it straddles the line between orchestral pop and r&b.  The mixture seems perfect for a 007 movie soundtrack.  It’s the perfect metaphor (Chemical Chords) for the bands euphoria inducing music.   This time around the euphoria is enhanced not by the band stretching out, but tightening up.  And why not?  They’ve already connected continents, both culturally and aurally. 

****1/2

On teaching…..

Today I had to half-heartedly reprimand a student for defacing a Time Magazine with Sarah Palin on the cover.  He had given her a moustache and warts.  I simply said that the magazine was classroom property which is not to be destroyed.  The reaction from onlookers was “Yeah, but that’s Sarah Palin.”

Apparently the GOP can be glad that inner-city school children aren’t allowed to vote.

Deerhoof- Offend Maggie

 

“The Tears of Music and Love” kicks off Deerhoof’s latest full-length Offend Maggie like the Rolling Stones being force-fed into a blender.  When the sedate vocals of Satomi Matsuzaki pipe up you know your in Deerhoof territory.  Equally characteristic is Greg Saunier’s frantic powerhouse drumming.  Relying on a drumset that contains only a kick drum, a snare and a handful of cymbals Saunier coaxes infinite nuance and patterns out of minimal ingredients.  This coupled with the outstanding production of Ian and Joe Pellicci at Tiny Telephone Studios in San Francisco makes for a listen that is at once jarring and beautiful.

None of this would come as a surprise to a seasoned Deerhoof fan.  The band has been combining Who-like guitar assaults with mathematical drumming and Dadaist lyrics for over ten years, typically knocking out a record a year.  What makes Offend Maggie special is just how beautiful they made their post-modern blend this time around.  The title track is easily the most gorgeous tune the group has written to date.  The acoustic guitar overlaps arpeggios with the electric, sounding like rock music from the far East.

Heart-on-the-sleeve lyrics would be an easy fit to such emotive sounds.  But, that just wouldn’t be Deerhoof.  Matsuzaki colors Offend…with her playful surrealism; “Do you know me, calling your number?  Do I know you?  Don’t call this number.”  There is an obvious interest in human connection there, but songs like “Basketball Get Your Groove Back” don’t offer a whole lot of signposts.  Instead Matsuzaki just irritatingly repeats “Basketball, basketball, bounce.  Bunny jump, bunny jump.”  You might think it comes from an outsider’s grasp on the English language (Matsuzaki moved over from Japan in the mid 90′s).  But then again, Deerhoof has never appeared to be weird on accident.  These guys are smart.

 

****

“No soldier ever dies in vain”

 

I was glued to my TV, like so many Americans, for the first of several presidential debates.  Adding even more nervousness to a week of financial bailouts and growing conflict with Pakistan, the debate in “Ol Miss”  had a lot of tension riding on it.  The media was unable to agree on a victor and both candidates were obviously too uncertain about financial developments to give whole-hearted support to the Wall St. Bailout.  

As an Obama fan my perspective may color things in his favor: on the economy and domestic issues I believe he trounced McCain.  Obama continuously laid out specific plans regarding taxation, social services, health care and energy reform.  McCain seemed to return fire with abstractions on character, repeatedly alluding to pork and barrel spending from Washington politicians.  Senator McCain refused to give a detail oriented response to Obama’s attacks on the McCain health care plan, like so often in the debate he just kept smiling in resentment and changing the subject.

While I felt the first segment of the debate was a success worthy of celebration on the part of Senator Obama, the foreign policy segment seemed to present no clear victor.  If anything the distortions of the argument all came from McCain’s repeated sidetracking into his extensive knowledge of U.S. military history.  If Obama is pushing the issue of unfinished business in Afghanistan, McCain would like to tell a little story from back in the Nixon administration days, or invoke Reagan, or Roosevelt.  While it is true that we use the lessons of history to avoid repeating mistakes, McCain seems to use it to avoid answering questions on his own mistakes involving the genesis of the disaster in Iraq.

Obama retained his image as a true patriot when he responded to McCain’s assertion that a withdrawal would be a waste of our soldier’s efforts and losses.  Obama contended that no U.S. soldier ever dies in vain.  This, and perhaps Pakistan, is where I split with Barack Obama, whom I otherwise regard as a hero.

I come from a generation that gets a pretty good backwards glance at all the things war can be.  Both the misguided Korean and Vietnam campaigns were fought in my parents time.  I have been fortunate enough to share thanksgiving dinner at the VFW with my grandfather while he reflected on both Pearl Harbor and Hiroshima.  Likewise, we live in a time with some of the most unedited and frank depictions of war in film and writing.  Books like Johnny Got His Gun, the Red Badge of Courage and films like The Deerhunter and Apocalypse Now depict the chaos and trauma that is war, while abandoning the mythologizing heroics.

I have enough faith in these fictional representations to never put myself in a foxhole, or have to comb a desert or jungle looking for the enemy.  As a generation, I believe we know too much of human psychology and existential dilemmas to believe any patriotic mandates automatically.  As an individual, I know I am full of dreams, fears, talents, shortcomings and many contradictions.  I realize that both my fellow citizens and fellow humans share that one inalienable fact: we are all individuals.  Any association we have with a greater group is a willful product of choice in the most brutally Sartresque sense.

Recently the flag has taken on new meaning to me.  Obama’s acceptance speech rekindled the idea that the flag represents ‘our America’.  Not theirs.  Once again I can regard it as a symbol of reason and freedom, untainted by the rhetorical pimping the right-wing has used it for in the past eight years.  In this way the flag, and our country can mean a lot of things.  Those meanings change.

I also have the benefit of history to show me that countries, like people, at some point expire.

So, as a complex individual I can associate with a country I recognize as changing and impermanent.  I can be heartened by the flag’s symbolic elasticity more than it’s essentiality.  The moment a citizen accepts a mandate to engage in combat with a foreign enemy, they accept the fallacy that the terms on which they are enlisted are elemental, pure and informed by the essence of a single unified country with a unanimous interest in one cause.  That citizen will be forced to see another human being not as a wealth of idiosyncrasies and personality, but merely as a monomaniacal enemy.  Any of these war-time illusions are simply that.  Countries and people are not simple enough to be so fixed.

It is true, many military efforts have served a greater pragmatic purpose.  Perhaps on great occasion the violence of the just is a lesser sin than the crimes of the unjust, but war as it is mythologized is a different matter.  Men are not easily motivated to do great violence by simple pragmatism.  They require mythology.  To find oneself killing and dying in a chaos of fire and blood, surround by three dimensional personalities that have assigned both themselves and their enemies a divisive and fallacious two dimensionality, is to engage in the theater of the absurd in the most exaggerated and grotesque way possible.

This does not automatically make their efforts or their deaths worthless.  But, based on how fabricated the mythological complex that motivated it is; it is meaningless.  For this reason every soldier dies in vain.

On Teaching…..

Today at work I had to confiscate a small bottle of Usher brand cologne.  I noticed it when one boy was spraying it in another’s open mouth.  If that didn’t perfectly symbolize the interface between pop culture and today’s youth, I don’t know what does.

Burn After Reading

 

After the Coen brothers scored four Academy Awards for their engrossing and loyal depiction of Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men, it’s no surprise they were ready to return to the laughs.  After all, the workaholic filmmakers have been known as creators of the Dude (Lebowski), and students of devilish absurdity and old time yarn spinning (Barton Fink and O Brother… respectively) before they made oxygen tanks look dubious.  Hence, Burn After Reading a palette cleanser, if not a complete return to form.

The world of Burn After Reading seems familiar at first glance.  The soundtrack is populated with all the pounding percussion and discordant string sweeps one would expect in an espionage thriller.  It even has a C.I.A. agent (John Malkovich), adultery (George Clooney, Tilda Swinton, Malkovich again), and Russians (some guy named Krupa).  From the movie poster up these are all merely dressings for comic genius and taking the piss out of the genre.

Along with this talented ensemble of actors also comes Frances McDormand as Linda, an employee of a fitness center who sets the pseudo-suspense in motion.  But the surprise trump comes from Brad Pitt as Chad.  Here is Pitt playing a character we haven’t seen him play; devoid of romantic interest, perpetually clad in bike shorts and fitness uniform, bumbling and dorky.  It’s enough to make you stop between laughs and ask if Pitt’s comic timing is really so great, or if it’s just funny to see Brad Pitt play such a half-wit.

The Coen brothers wield this small army of acting talent to tell a long tale filled with would-be plot twists, building faux tension that leads up to nothing.  That is the launch pad for all the laughs.  Osborne (Malkovich) is fired from the CIA for his apparent mediocrity and constant drinking.  Linda tries to blackmail him to pay for a breast augmentation.  When Chad is pinned in a closet hiding from Harry (Clooney) the silent suspense is disarmed by Pitt’s gum chewing and whistling nose.

As these character’s paths twist in to an absurd knot and the plot pointlessly thickens, the pace increases with the hilarity until the shoulder-shrugging conclusion leaves you smiling.  J.K. Simmons sums thing up as both CIA agent-in-charge and Greek chorus: “What do we learn?….I dunno.  I guess not to do it again….. but, what did we even do?”

 

****

Sigur Ros- Med sud i eyrum vid spilum endalaust

 

The picture on the cover of Sigur Ros’ latest effort must be a sign post.  The Icelandic group reached notoriety with an untitled album typically called () which featured prominently in the Tom Cruise film Vanilla Sky.  Ever since the band has become associated with dramatic, ambient songs that are far too often compared with Iceland’s glacial landscape.  The photograph of those pale-skinned young men streaking across a sunny highway could wipe away the threat of most things ‘glacial’.

From the opening track “Gobbledigook” it is clear that the band has used the sidesteps on their last album Takk as a springboard for a much more joyous sound.  ”Gobbledigook” eludes genre description with its double-time drum bombast, coupled with staccato acoustic guitar playing.  It flows seamlessly into “Inni…” which takes the playfulness of the opening track and expands it to orchestral heights.

The shorter tracks (3:00-4:00) are another departure from the group’s past.  Replacing their typical approach of: start at a moody hush and slowly crescendo into melodramatic explosion- with a welcome sense of economy.  Still, it wouldn’t be a Sigur Ros record without a nine minute epic and “Festival” fills in that role.  By no means a mediocre track, it only feels weak as a retread into methods they may have exhausted.

The majority of the record is sung in Icelandic, which forces most listeners to absorb the emotional weight of the vocals with delivery and instrumentation being the only tools available to decipher the song’s meaning.  While this tends to file the songs into two columns: an introspective sense of need, or an irrepressible feeling of glee, one can easily supply their own topics.  For example, as a non-Icelandic speaking listener I can only assume that “Ara Batur” details singer Jon Birgisson’s flight from Reykjavik to Frankfurt, the impressive cloud formations out the window and the flight attendant’s timely delivery of an excellent wine.  Heartbreak might be a more popular interpretation, but that’s up to you..  

Med sud… is a stunning listen.  In spite of a couple navel-gazing duds the album is full of artfully wrought melodies and textures.  With a little more sunshine inspired streaking Sigur Ros can only keep giving us impressive sounds to make up stories for.

****

Mongol

 

How exactly did a kid named Temujin, from the sticks in Mongolia grow up to become Ghengis Khan and control the largest empire in the history of the world?  Russian director Sergei Bodrov plans to tackle that question in a trilogy of historical epics and Mongol is the first.  It was no easy task for Bodrov to create such a grand-scaled film on a less-than-modest budget of 20 million dollars (donated by the country of Kazakhstan among others) and a crew of people speaking roughly 30 different languages.  Somehow it all works.

One of the greatest delights of Mongol is the striking landscape captured so well by Bodrov and cinematographers Rogier Stoffers and Sergey Trofimov.  The film manages to find a striking palette even when focusing on the dull browns of Mongolia’s arid steppe, contrasted beautifully against the gold of a panoramic twilight.  The Mongolian landscape seems to shift tones in harmony with the fortune of Temujin; from the frozen white of his childhood exile, to the lush green fields of his reunion with his bride.

Temujin’s biography can only be understood as myth crossed with history.  Born in a mostly illiterate culture in the late 12th century, records of his wheelings and dealings can be shaky at best.  Bodrov settles on the idea that little Genghis Khan suffered, became wise for it, grew older and continued to suffer some more.  Kicking the film off Temujin is born into political turmoil as his father the Khan (roughly- clan leader) is assassinated and Temujin’s birth rite as head of his clan is usurped.

As Bodrov depicts it, historic Mongolian’s were a stoic bunch and the movie is stocked with men of few words.  Blood-brother and rival Khan, Jamukha is a much needed source of comedy as he merrily sits and drinks at the campfire despite suffering great losses in his battles.  The deepest psychological tract in the film is Temujin’s rift with Jamukha, and his eventual recognition of the shortcomings of his people.  In doing so he unites them, offers new laws and begins his conquering.

The movie’s action tendencies inevitably take over during its few battle scenes.  For the most part they are achieved well, in spite of the film’s meager budget.  A couple moments of hand-to-hand combat seem awkwardly stylized in an unexpectedly Ang Lee fashion.  While that, and a couple more heavy-handed CGI strokes tend to conflict with the film’s earnest grit, overall the battles are visceral despite their predictable outcomes.

Compared to much clumsier historical epics like Oliver Stone’s Alexander and Ridley Scott’s Kingdom of Heaven, Mongol is a somber triumph.  Taken on its own it is a film that is artful and amusing despite its self-importance.

***1/2

 

My Morning Jacket-Evil Urges

 

My Morning Jacket has enjoyed that rare arc of musical success; the gradual kind.  Over five years the band released three records, each building on their distinctive blend of classic rock guitar work outs, fireside ballads, reverb psychedelia, and Jim James inimitable voice.  Likewise, their following grew steadily and they really broke through to greater fandom with It Still Moves their opus recorded on a Kentucky farm.

When almost half the band (guitarist Johnny Quaid, and keyboardist Danny Cash) resigned in 2004, it seemed the bands steady rise may have finally stuttered.  My Morning Jacket responded with Z, an album that managed to retain their hard earned identity while stepping in to new electronic, reggae and R&B territory.  Jim James stepped out from his curtain of reverb and revealed a still delightful voice.

Fans can only assume Evil Urges will only be another step in a meteoric career.  Unfortunately, it is the bands first misstep and a clumsy one.

Opening with the title track the record holds a newfound sense of glossy sheen.  A funky drum beat locks in with restrained guitar chiming and Jim James starts his melody in the rafters.  It’s not a complete shocker, Z had a sexual falsetto on its opening track, but this is a full on display of un-ironic booty shaking.  James consoles us not to be ashamed of our more sinful compulsions like a bearded Prince (or artist formerly known as).  One can tell the band is biting off a lot, and god damn if they don’t almost completely own it.  But, its all down hill from here.

“Highly Suspicious” is the biggest glutton for punishment on the entire album.  No doubt a shot at a summertime fun anthem, it hits like a day-glow piece of eighties funk-rock.  James squeaks away “so high” (so terribly high) and the band retorts in a demonic bark “highly suspicious of you.”  This breed of goofiness might look okay on Ween or Mr. Bungle, but the laughs seem a little embarrassing for MMJ.

Tracks like “I’m Amazed” are an assurance that rocking is still on the agenda, but feel more like REO Speedwagon recycles than guitar-riff fireworks.  The band’s accomplished hush on ballads is of little use here either.  ”Librarian” is an outright fantasy of cliched bookworm sexuality crooned over serious acoustic moodiness.  Jim James gentle dose of Nashville Skyline era Dylan/Kermit the Frog, gets pumped up to the level of self parody on the high-fructose yacht rocker “Sec Walkin.”  The stylistic explorations are welcome, but they often feel empty.

The standout tracks “Aluminum Park” and “Remnants” should keep the bands live standard of barn burners going.  But, it is disappointing that their most typical tracks are the finest, in an album that seems like a well-produced pastiche of meager, stylized impressions.  

Credit must be given to the band as their arrangements are for the most part, as nuanced and graceful as any of their better work.  Patrick Hallahan confidently drums out whatever funk button James wants to push and guitarist Carl Broemel can add dimension to some pretty thin concepts.  It seems the source material- if not James himself- is where Evil Urges feels awkward and contrived.

The band ties it up with a reprise of one of the albums better tracks “Touch Me I’m Going to Scream”.  The track opens with synths in a moment that sounds like Kraftwerk worship and keeps building with a promising tension.  It then launches into a faux Depeche Mode disco drum beat that falls flat.  Maybe all of these awkward strokes are the band’s real evil urges (disco beats, Prince worship, yacht rock).  Still, the boys are an ostensibly talented bunch that have already proven their longevity.  Better things may be on the horizon.

 

**