Culling through the NYT, I saw a header that touched my inner cinephile.
“Why Everyone Is Still Talking About ‘Paddington 2′”
A kid’s move that appeals to adults.
Funny. Clever. Well crafted. Deftly acted. Overwhelmingly well reviewed.
A perfect 100% rating at Rotten Tomatoes. Until, that is, one naysaying critic retroactively posted his negative review from when the film was released in 2017. For which he may have had to hire security, so excoriated was he by an ever expanding throng of devotees.
Clicked on the synopses of reviews, one of which said something to the effect, “Paddington 2 is to Paddington as Godfather 2 was to Godfather.”
As those enamored with “The Big Lebowski” know, Walter Sobchak “don’t roll on Shabbos.”
Others might not know Shabbos, that it is another arguably more immersive reverential for the Sabbath Day.
No, the cult classic is not a part of this year’s Jewish Film Festival.
But a truly cockamamie gem titled “Bad Shabbos” is.
Sobchak is shomer Shabbos.
He observes the rituals of sabbath.
So too, the upper West Side family in this film, headed by Ellen (Kyra Sedgwick) and Richard (David Paymer). Along with their three adult children.
So, what we have here — at the start anyway — is a traditional Friday night family dinner. A stop at Barney Greengrass on the way. Lighting of the candles. Brisket. Challah. Wine. Familial discomfort. Etc, etc.
Son David is engaged. To Meg. A shiksa, whose Catholic parents have flown in from Milwaukee to meet the future in-laws at dinner.
Youngest son Adam, is trying to find himself, training to join the IDF, he says. And doesn’t get along with sister Abby’s BF Benjamin.
The latter of which scenarios leads to an “accident.” One more serious than the brisket landing on the kitchen floor as it does.
Yet again, I am struck by how one’s personal situation, health, station in life, sense of well being, all that personal stuff affects one’s perception.
It’s a significant thing to keep in mind.
Whether it’s how we hear a new song.
Or meet someone new.
Or watch a film.
Chasing down some rabbit hole or another recently I came upon a review of a movie written by the same guy who penned the screenplay to “Moonstruck.”
John Patrick Shanley.
The review shredded the film in question — forgot the title already — and wondered how Shanley, who was masterful in crafting “Moonstruck” could have been so off his feed.
Which reminded me of my reaction to the Cher/ Nicholas Cage comedy romance when I saw it upon release in ’87.
Which was luke warm.
Certainly didn’t hate it. Didn’t consider it a bad film by any stretch. Recall just feeling, OK this is nice, but don’t get all the hosannas being tossed its way.
So I went to Roger Ebert’s review of the acclaimed flick. It was so adoring. 4 of 4 stars. Figured it was time for a revisit. Read the rest of this entry »
A new film has just dropped, another attempt to pin down the unpindownable.
It’s about Bob Dylan. The early years.
It’s called “A Complete Unknown” and stars Timothée Chalamet, who it is said spent a half decade learning how to mime the Unwashed Phenomenon’s affectations, speak and sing with the Original Vagabond’s inflections.
Whatever.
This is not a review of that film.
Haven’t seen it.
A goodly number of my pals, long term Dylan acolytes like myself, saw it first day.
I understand the obsession.
For several reasons, I chose not to. I’m sure I’ll get around to viewing it. Though I may wait until it’s streaming.
Back when, you know, in the day, there would be more than occasional Saturdays that arrived without evening plans.
So, they began at the record store.
Karma.
ear x-Tacy.
Looking for somebody to flirt with.
Knowing some similar music obsessives would be there to chat up, maybe with knowledge of where that night’s action was.
Thumbing through the racks you’d thumbed through oh so many times before. Pulling out albums you hadn’t chosen in the past, giving them one more consideration.
How many times did I pull out the Velvet Underground Nico album, the one with the Warhol banana on the cover? A lot. Never bought it. A hole in my resumé I suppose.
Before leaving I’d always have two, three, four under my arm. If one’s good, ya know, more is better.
Soon enough, maybe even that night if no intriguing destination was to be learned of, I’d sit down to listen, hopefully savor.
Paying attention with total focus. Unless of course there’d be knock at the door. A pal dropping by, maybe with a new Moody Blues release, “I had to hear.” Probably toting some exotic herbal repast.
Anyway, often an album would get glossed over. I’d just give a quick glancing listen and if it didn’t immediately grab me, put it on the shelf. Read the rest of this entry »
How it is an integral part of the most immersive of art forms.
And there are two specific instances where movies allowed me to rediscover what are easily two of my favorite Doo Wop songs ever.
Both original artists and both are one hit wonders. Though in one case, the elegiac tune has been covered any number of times through to the now.
My favorite doo wop tune of ever is “I Love You” by the Volumes.
Oh the harmonic swoops and swirls of teen longing.
The group is from my birthtown Detroit. Though I didn’t learn of that connection until years later.
The song was released in ’62.
My remembrance is that I only heard it once, maybe twice during my high school years.
It faded into some nook and cranny of my mind.
At a point in the 70s surely, I recall a record store somewhere along the Frankfort Ave corridor. The owner prided himself on how many hundreds of oldies he had taped. Packed on reel to reel, if I remember correctly.
During a visit, somehow the Volumes tune came to mind. I hadn’t heard in who knows when, around the time of release for sure. When he found and played it, chills froze me.
I want to say literally, but not really. Figuratively, oh yeah.
Yes, this shall be a review of Chris Wilcha’s outstanding documentary “Flipside.”
Which is — I shan’t bury the lede — the best film I’ve seen this year. In several years.
But, as is my wont, I shall wend my way there, starting with Anne Lamott.
Whom I’ve adored from the get go when hearing the author being interviewed decades ago by Terry Gross. She was/ is wise, literate, funny, and the author of the best book on writing I know of, “Bird by Bird.” Which I have recommended and given away copies of many times since.
Lamott writes what are termed, somewhat derogatorily by some, “fix me books.”
And, other than the many of her endeavors I own and have savored, I eschew generic fix me books. (With a lone non-Lamott exception of Richard Carlson’s “DON’T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF . . . and it’s all small stuff.”)
Anyhow, Ms. Lamott, long in 12 step recovery, has the great facility to extrapolate life lessons from every day events and moments. Especially how to turn what we might consider failures of ourselves into changes for the good. They are shared with insight, humor and truly engaging writing.
Filmmaker Wilcha’s film is centered, sorta, kinda (but it’s really much more) on the small town NJ record shop with the title’s name, owned by a guy named Dan. And a rival shop across town. Owned by a different guy named Dan.
But what it’s really about is how, like Lamott, director/craftsmith Wilcha is eventually able to gain insight and serenity within from what he considered previously a career of unfinished projects, a life of failures. Read the rest of this entry »
One who has for all the bounty I’ve enjoyed in life been somewhat desperate of soul. An outlaw of sorts once upon a time.
Just as a descriptor, it is a sonorous word, with which I’ve been fascinated.
It’s use in two totally different tunes is something I’ve been meaning to write about for a long while. Years actually.
But, I’ve been somewhat of a missing person, if you will a desaparecido — another play on that term — when it has come to actually sitting down at the keyboard and doing what I am at this moment.
Because the reasons for putting it off are how closely I relate to some of the lyrics.
Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses?/ Come down from your fences, open the gate/ It may be rainin’, but there’s a rainbow above you/ You better let somebody love you/ (Let somebody love you)/ You better let somebody love you before it’s too late
So, yeah, the otherwise insufferable* Don Henley and partner Glenn Frey’s lyrics cut through like a machete.
(* Why do I use that adjective to describe the obviously talented and successful Henley. Two reasons. One, the Eagles have been famous for not liking each other for decades, taking separate limos from hotel to venue. Rubs me the wrong way. But, his arrogance caught me from the get go. The first time I heard the band, they opened for Yes at Louisville Gardens. As was often the case, much of the crowd was milling about before the headliner, not really listening. At some juncture, Henley, annoyed at the inattention, brayed into his mic, “What’s wrong with you people? Don’t you know who we are? We’re the Eagles!”)
Still it’s a great damn song, a bracing use of imagery. Best rendered by the incomparable Linda Ronstadt, who stole the tune.
Damn, Linda, shred me apart why don’t ya?
* * * * *
Then, there’s Guy Clark with a totally different tale, also a brilliant use of the imagery.
About his relationship with an old man.
About how life evolves with its inevitable conclusion.
I know nothing about playing Moon and Forty-two.
But I look in the mirror and I’m pushing 80, an old man.
Conscious that not too far off that sumbitch is comin’.
I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories, lots of stories. Here’s another.
Out of respect, I have been reluctant to engage artists of note on the few occasions through the decades when I’ve been in their presence.
(The exception to the rule. I could not not engage Allen Toussaint when our paths crossed in a hotel lobby. With him, there was a connection. His album producer Joe Henry is an acquaintance.)
So I kept a distance as usual in the mid 90s with Paul Simon. He was standing about ten feet away at JazzFest’s Congo Square stage with Edie Brickell one early Thursday afternoon.
It was in the period not long after the release of “Rhythm of the Saints,” which album had been a significant comfort a couple of years earlier during my lengthy recovery after being hit by a car while jogging.
The album infused by Simon’s fascination and emergence with African and Brazilian music was recorded with a majority of the musicians from those countries. It is filled with lilting melody lines and harmonies, gentle but insistent rhythms, and as always Simon’s ever-present lyrical elusiveness and undercurrent of melancholy.
One example of his poetic brilliance from “Further to Fly”:
There may come a time/ When I will lose you/ Lose you as I lose my light/ Days falling backward into velvet night/ The open palm of desire/ Wants everything/ It wants everything/ It wants soil as soft as summer/ And the strength to push like spring
I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories, lots of stories. Here’s another.
It is the sense of the place.
More so than the righteous music I’ve heard there on several trips down.
The Delta. Birthplace of the Blues. Which of course begat the rock & roll I love so much.
Two images from my first visit more than a quarter century gone still resonate.
A desolate crossroad of two gravel/ dirt roads with fields of scrubby early season cotton plants to the horizon in every direction. The lone highway marker, a rusted tilting pole, the sign reading Joe Noe Road.
Not far away, off Highway 61, in the middle of proverbial nowhere, a siding of 50-60 rusting rail cars, abandoned.
The Delta, ever bleak, haunts, it’s mysteries lurk. Land of cotton. Seemingly forgotten, yet daily interactions say old times there not.
The goal of that first trip with pals was a blues festival in Greenville, where BB King was to play, his first visit back to perform in a long while.
Along with way, we found Charlie Patton’s grave site, saw the cabin said to be where Muddy Waters grew up on Stovall Plantation, stood alone in the middle of road in front of the Hollywood in Robinsonville, one of the places where Robert Johnson “is from.” Read the rest of this entry »
Yes, kids, it’s been awhile since I’ve weighed in on a movie or TV series.
And, frankly, I’m still not sure why this smile-inducing, easily forgettable Netflix confection from Jerry Seinfeld has me at it again.
Perhaps the way I watched it. On my laptop at the car dealer while my car was getting worked on. In a serendipitous moment, my Crosstrek was ready just as the credits rolled.
Nah, that’s not it. But it sure did make that hour and a half wait significantly more tolerable.
No, I think the real reason is I found it’s just this too silly, often overreaching but ever humorous mindless take on 50s and 60s culture a perfect anecdote for these troubled times.
Anyhow, it’s an almost totally fictitious tale of the cereal war in Battle Creek between Kellogg and Post which ended in the kid’s breakfast stable Pop Tarts hitting the grocery shelves.
It also skews just about every cultural phenomenon of the time, except for the Hula Hoop and Slinky.
Culling through the NYT, I saw a header that touched my inner cinephile.
As those enamored with “The Big Lebowski” know, Walter Sobchak “don’t roll on Shabbos.”
Yet again, I am struck by how one’s personal situation, health, station in life, sense of well being, all that personal stuff affects one’s perception.
One song.
A new film has just dropped, another attempt to pin down the unpindownable.
Back when, you know, in the day, there would be more than occasional Saturdays that arrived without evening plans.
Yes, this shall be a review of Chris Wilcha’s outstanding documentary “Flipside.”
I am a desperado.
I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories, lots of stories. Here’s another.
I’m a rock & roll lifer. I got stories, lots of stories. Here’s another.
Yes, kids, it’s been awhile since I’ve weighed in on a movie or TV series.