The reviews of these three new films — “Unknown,” “Barney’s Version” & “The Company Men” — are just part of this week’s fun. Hear James Bickers give me grief about my sartorial choices, then yet again score Stump The Culture Maven in such an unfair fashion that the Marquis of Queensbury himself would be appalled.
And, hey, here’s even a spoiler.
The trio of movies should all be seen. And this review should be heard. Click Play Button below.
My web guru — who shall remain nameless for reasons far too complicated and perverse to reveal — advises that I need to add my audio film reviews to my web site. So, each week, after I appear on WFPK 91.9 on Tuesday morning, said technogeek says he’ll send me enough info to link you to a recording of that podcast. At which point, I’ll add it here.
How totally cybergalactic is that?
Plenty.
This week I talked about “Somewhere,” the new Sofia Coppola film, and “Just Go With It,” the latest Adam Sandler adventure. Of course, there was one of James Bickers’ uninspiring quizes to test my endurance and yours. It’s a small price to pay for the incisive cinema commentary.
If not as well known as “Call me Ishmael,” the opening line of this album resonates as iconically as any coming out of the halcyon rock days of the ’70s.
“Sitting on a park bench/ eyeing little girls with bad intent”
Kinda sets the scene, huh?
Coming from the demonic lips of Ian Anderson, with his bulging eyes, standing on one leg, they are all that more anthemic.
I have no intention of dissecting this album. Frankly, I don’t know it as well as many others, those played until the grooves were worn and pockmarked with craters caused by smoldering seeds dropped from a doobie.
And I hadn’t listened to it in decades until a couple of years ago, when some friends and I at a dinner party were wandering down memory lane, pulling out vintage vinyl and savoring the sounds of our profligate youth. What struck me was how well this 1971 release stood the test of time. To the extent that I actually bought the CD, when I came across it in a deep discount bin. (Though I do play my old LP now and again on the turntable.)
It is surely of its era, bringing a smile with its familiar guitar riffs and pompous importance. But the lyrics and observations are more than reasonably intelligent in a faux Dickensian manner. Plus Anderson was nothing if not a showman, with an effective, arresting singing voice.
It meets two other standards of staying power.
One, another song with the boffo title, “Locomotive Breath.”
And two, a memorable album cover. (You remember when those used to be big enough to matter, right?)
And, the music, if not stringently complex, is a cut above.
Plus one of my favorite old hippie stories concerns Jethro Tull. Two pals of mine, both, like me, of the Jewish persuasion, love the band. Whenever one sees that Anderson and his current crop of bandmates is coming through town, he buys tickets, knowing they’ll go together. Which he did several years back when he saw the announcement of an autumn concert.
So he called his pal to tell him the good news. At which point, Fan #2 says, “We can’t go that night, it’s Yom Kippur (the holiest day on the Jewish calendar, the Day of Atonement). Besides I’m the president of the synagogue. I’ve got to sit on the bema with the rabbi.”
“Aqualung my friend, don’t you start away uneasy.”
The reviews of these three new films — “Unknown,” “Barney’s Version” & “The Company Men” — are just part of this week’s fun. Hear James Bickers give me grief about my sartorial choices, then yet again score Stump The Culture Maven in such an unfair fashion that the Marquis of Queensbury himself would be appalled.
