The Hangover (2009)

***1/2

Directed by Todd Phillips
Written by Jon Lucas & Scott Moore

Bradley Cooper ... Phil Wenneck
Ed Helms ... Stu Price
Zach Galifianakis ... Alan Garner
Justin Bartha ... Doug Billings
Heather Graham ... Jade

Rated R
Runtime: 1 hr. 40 mins.

The Hangover is outrageous. And I don't mean gross-out (though there's some of that). But flat-out, jaw-droppin', "I can't believe this is happening" outrageous. Why can't more comedies be like this? Why can't more comedies have this sense of glee and utter abandon? Why do so many comedies feel so damn...written? Well, because they've been shoved through studio execs who think that if they can't reach every single demographic they won't have a job. That creates fear and timidity and it's ruining Hollywood. I'd thank God for the success of The Hangover but we've got a year, tops, until the lukewarm rehash. Until then....

The set-up: 1 man is getting married. 3 men accompany him to Vegas for his bachelor party. The celebration begins on the roof, shots of Jager going down like college. The next morning (afternoon?), they awaken to find their suite trashed, a chicken roaming free, a tiger locked in the bathroom, and a baby in a closet. Other maladies are revealed slowly like a missing tooth (found fairly quickly, the explanation lagging). And, oh yeah, their friend, you know, the one getting married? Yeah. They can't find him.

There's a noirish element to the film. Certainly not in the sunlight, but to the mystery. There's a certain elegance to a movie that not only raises the stakes so high but also provides answers.

And we're led through these adventures by three incredibly capable comedic actors as the friends: Bradley Cooper, he of whom is oft asked, why is he not more famous? Yea, verily. Ed Helms, as the whipped, and cuckolded dentist and Zach Galifanakis, the dim bulb who I'm pretty sure does not curse. Though he is wont to do any number of other things.

So what else is there to say? Not much. Kudos to you, director Todd Phillips and writers Jon Lucas and Scott Moore. Seems like you got to make the movie you wanted to make. To critics other than Ebert, what is wrong with you? Don't you like to have fun? To the rest of you, have fun. Go see it.

The Foxiness of the Foxy Megan Fox

I've discovered a profound respect for Megan Fox.

OK. The obvious: she's hot. And that's the perfect word: hot. Hot connotes a beauty that is not subtle. It is evident in every aspect. Facial features are striking in a slightly severe way. Bodies are skinny except for the chest. Sexuality is blatant. This is Megan Fox. She's hot. Not the look I go for, but that's not what we're talking about here.

I respect her, and here's why. When Transformers came out, the internet was ablaze with her hotness. Who is this Megan Fox? People couldn't get enough. Transformers came out nearly two years ago. An eternity on the blogosphere. But she still remains the hottest. No one has replaced her.

This came out in a discussion with my roommate when he asked who the girl in Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen preview is. As I began explaining, I realized really what she has accomplished.

Now, I'm not looking through People Magazine every day, but my perception is that she carefully regulates the amount of exposure she has. No tales of wild partying or drunken, public incidents. Not even something as innocent and seemingly prerequisite as bikini photos on vacation. Photos are from magazine spreads and current sets only.

And suddenly it dawned on me what she's done. She's been able to maintain an aura of mystery. She is letting her films be where admirers can define her personality. And see her.

So kudos to you, Megan Fox. May your reign be long and successful.

Away We Go (2009)

**1/2

John Krasinski ... Burt Farlander
Maya Rudolph ... Verona De Tessant
Carmen Ejogo ... Grace De Tessant
Catherine O'Hara ... Gloria Farlander
Jeff Daniels ... Jerry Farlander
Allison Janney ... Lily
Jim Gaffigan ... Lowell
Maggie Gyllenhaal ... LN
Josh Hamilton ... Roderick
Chris Messina ... Tom Garnett
Melanie Lynskey ... Munch Garnett
Paul Schneider ... Courtney Farlander

Directed by Sam Mendes

Written by Dave Eggers & Vendela Vida

Rated R
Runtime: 1 hr. 38 mins.


You might love this movie, and I don't begrudge you if you do. I'm happy for you. I wish I could love it, and if I had seen it on another night, I might have, but not tonight. I couldn't reconcile the wildly shifting tones, nor the fact that these characters whom I love, Burt Farlander and Verona De Tessant (John Krasinski and Maya Rudolph respectively), were so often supporting characters in a movie about them.

So, the good. Again, Burt and Verona. Here is a real couple. They've been together for long enough to understand that they love each other. Expression isn't always necessary. No official tally here, but I only recall one kiss and one time they hold hands. One of my favorite details was watching them aggravate and embarrass each other, but it never blows up into an argument. Here are two people who have been together long enough to understand what it means to be with this other person, and accept what comes along with that.

The movie opens in a surprising and hilarious scene that I don't want to go into detail about. Suffice to say, the end result is Verona pregnant. Several months later, they have dinner plans with Burt's parents.

This has been the good. The bad begins with Catherine O'Hara as Burt's mom. That's a difficult sentence to write. The instant I saw her, I smiled. She's that level of actor able to make me smile in anticipation. So what's wrong? Well, she doesn't do a bad job. But her character is so outlandish, it's jarring after having spent time with Burt and Verona who are so real. She says inappropriate things about how big Verona is and then drags her inside and plops down beside her on the couch, laying her head on Verona's stomach to hear the baby's heartbeat. And then Jeff Daniels comes in as Burt's dad. As the family sits down to eat, he prays to the great food-gatherer or something and constantly says "outstanding" or "super" and stumbles, hilariously, over the word "indigenous" as he describes a pricey statue sitting behind them. Oh, and they're moving out of the country a month before they grandchild is born.

OK. All this is funny and well-performed, but is it necessary? Burt and Verona react as we do: we can't believe what's going on. But just because they react in a natural manner doesn't make what's happening on screen any more real to us as an audience. It just makes it even more incongruous. It also relegates Burt and Verona to mute witnesses.

This sets up the Homerian structure of the movie. Burt and Verona moved to the house they currently live in to be close to Burt's parents. Verona's parents passed away when she was 22. But now, they wonder if there's any reason to stay. And so they travel about the country, reconnecting with people: Verona's former boss in Arizona, her sister, Burt's old childhood friend in Madison, college friends in Montreal, and an unplanned visit to his brother in Miami.

As Tom and Munch Garnett, Burt and Verona's friends in Montreal who have a beautiful, mixed family but a deep hurt, Chris Messina and Melanize Lynskey create the only truly real people that they encounter. The rest are either only somewhat successful or as outlandish as Burt's parents. Or even moreso as when we meet Maggie Gynllenhaal's character breastfeeding her toddler. Yup.

What also happens is that places, people, and situations that are supposed to foster character development, actually, by their uniform link to the past, become exposition. Yes, we learn more about Burt and Verona, but they don't grow. The growth happens as they travel from place to place.

But even this is handled poorly as another movie succumbs to the sirens of the pop music soundtrack. Delicate scenes of wonderful, heartbreaking dialogue collapse as some unknown singer-songwriter emotes in the background. I know, it's not his fault his songs are playing too loudly and at the wrong time, but I want to take it out on him. A scene that calls for stillness and attention has a chugging soundtrack that's telling me the next scene is comin' right up.

I hold director Sam Mendes partly responsible as he seems to have let his actors go too far. But I also hold the writers, Dave Eggers and his wife, Vendela Vida, responsible. Dave's a great writer, but a first-time screenwriter. Needs to aim for a bit more consistency in tone next time. Not taking him to task, just something to be aware of.

All this to say people in the theater didn't notice, as there were tears galore around me. I'm also using strong language for something that didn't offend me, just disappointed me. If I've pointed out things you don't pick up on in movies, please, go see it. I don't want to dissuade you from what might be a truly moving experience.

In Bruges (2008)

Written & Directed by Martin McDonagh

Colin Farrell ... Ray
Brendan Gleeson ... Ken
Ralph Fiennes ... Harry Waters
Clémence Poésy ... Chloë
Jérémie Renier ... Eirik
Thekla Reuten ... Marie

Rated R
Runtime: 1 hr. 47 mins.


Thank you In Bruges for startling me out of my 2008 movie funk. Now I have an inkling of the joy audiences must have felt when Pulp Fiction assaulted their numbed senses that year at Cannes that changed movies.

I mean, really, it's been a pretty boring year. I haven't compiled a Top 10 list yet. People may think I'm procrastinating, as I have in past years, but the God's honest truth is, I just don't feel compelled. I write a Top 10 to give weight to some great films, some you may have been reluctant to see. But, well, you are probably familiar with most of the movies that are considered good this year, and I haven't really seen any others that I'm dying to get people to see, so...meh.

Then along comes In Bruges. Suddenly I'm excited about movies again. Suddenly there's a film that I want you to see. I told everyone about it yesterday. One person responded, "Isn't that the movie that looks like every other movie?" Yeah, probably. But the amazing thing is it's not like any other movie.

I can tell you the story and you can roll your eyes: Two hitmen are sent to hide out in Bruges, Belgium after a job. The one loves the quaintness of the place and the other just feels stifled. You know, the odd couple with castles. They mess things up and the boss has to come in and fix things with guns.

That's the bare bones plot, but it's not the movie this is. This is the advantage of having a playwright, Martin McDonagh, writing scripts. Humanity comes through. People actually reveal themselves in what they're saying. Their words mean something. The relationships are vibrant and alive and complex. But please don't think of this as a play. Martin McDonagh has adopted the language of film. This isn't some piece that feels like it's been opened up. Well, perhaps. If you think of the entirety of Bruges as a stage.

Will it scare you away if I say that the movie's success is predominantly based on Colin Farrell's performance? I haven't seen a comedic performance this funny in a while. I've never thought of Farrell as a comedic actor. He's hilarious here. His character, Ray, is always one step behind what's actually going on, but not for lack of trying. The performance plays on what our perception of Colin Farrell has been all along: a lost little boy. And I haven't seen all of the Oscar-nominated performances, but considering I'd be rooting for him and Mickey Rourke equally if Farrell had been nominated, I'm willing to bet there's another performance I'd like swapped out.

Contrasted is the presence of Brendan Gleeson as Ken, best known as Mad-Eye Moody from the Potter films. Ken's been at this game a lot longer than Ray and feels a strange fatherly bond to him. There's a great scene where Ray's getting ready for a date, checking himself in the mirror: to button or unbutton the top button? Ken watches with amusement and finally just tells him he looks good. At that point, we're not sure how that's going to be taken, but Ray accepts it. And there's their relationship.

And then there's Ralph Fiennes, ever the reliable crumbling, uppercrust gentleman, here he's Harry, a vile, violent man who runs hitmen. Something about him gave the indication of decay from the inside out. I love a good entrance by a character and he's got a great one.

I haven't told you much, and I apologize. There are plenty of others reviews if you need more. But I want you to discover the movie as I did. To experience the wildly careening shifts from hilarity to pathos to violence. I want you to laugh as the movie surprises you with what the characters do and say and the situations they get themselves into. Here's a sit-com in the highest sense of the word. And I want you to be surprised by just how deep the movie goes.

Let the Right One In

Directed by Tomas Alfredson

Written by John Ajvide Lindqvist based on his novel

Kåre Hedebrant ... Oskar
Lina Leandersson ... Eli

Rated R
Runtime: 1 hr. 54 min.

An apartment building courtyard covered in snow. A boy stabs at a tree with a knife, imagining it's the bullies at school who torment him. The camera tracks around him to reveal a girl standing atop a jungle gym.

It's a simple shot, a horror film convention. The monster revealed, standing in an unusual place, watching a character, oblivious to their presence. At the same time that we react to this shot as we've been programmed to, it stays just long enough for us to consider it and realize that the threat we often feel is, if not absent, subdued. She looks at the boy not with hunger, but with curiosity.

It's these paradoxes that rule the movie. Horror scenes happen between schoolmates and love scenes are played in the midst of blood. Horror film conventions are employed, but never as short cuts. They are used as they were originally employed: to underline the story being told.

That story involves Oskar, the boy stabbing the tree, and Eli, the girl standing atop the jungle gym, a vampire. Oskar lives in the apartment complex and is looking out his window, again imagining a stabbing, when Eli and her father arrive in a taxi.

The heart of the movie is Oskar and Eli's courtship. It is tentative and sweet. Innocent on his end. Guarded on hers. He asks how old she is. "Twelve more or less." How could it be more or less, he wonders and then when asked his age answers with years months and days.

In the realm of the movie, her vampirism is metaphor within their relationship and reality outside of it. One of my favorite scenes is their conversation after he's discovered she's a vampire (itself a remarkable scene; terrifying, but not as you may suspect). She knocks on his apartment door. We've learned before that he must invite her in, but are not told why. Feeling betrayed in learning her secret, he refuses to invite her in. She enters anyway to horrifying results. It's a startling portrayal of that moment in relationships when the warm feelings are in danger of evaporating and we're forced to consider this person before us.

The success of the movie is dependent on its two young actors. Kåre Hedebrant as Oskar is very good but Lina Leandersson as Eli is amazing. Makeup has helped a great deal (has a 12-year-old ever looked so tired?), but she does convey an aged quality. Even her voice sounds as if it has been used for perhaps centuries.

Earlier in my review, I've taken to task films that use shots as cheats. That's not to say shots can't be used to create atmosphere and mood. But that can't be in place of an actual movie. Director Tomas Alfredson and his technical team have created an amazing atmosphere that creates another level to an already fascinating story. So often, snow in films conveys isolation, and while it does so here as well, it also is very comforting. Like a pillow has covered the ground. It even makes the courtyard, a location I wouldn't normally think to spend time, somehow comforting.

While I want to encourage people who may not usually see a vampire movie to see Let the Right One In, I don't want to lead you into the theater thinking there won't be gruesome moments. There are horror elements outside of conventional horror camera shots. Eli must feed. It's this need and its encroachment on their relationship that eventually forces the characters and the movie to reconcile the metaphor and reality. Again, much as in real relationships when they must be defined in terms of real life.

Paul Blart: Mall Cop

Directed by Steve Carr
Written by Kevin James & Nick Bakay

Kevin James ... Paul Blart
Keir O'Donnell ... Veck Sims
Jayma Mays ... Amy
Raini Rodriguez ... Maya Blart
Shirley Knight ... Mom

Rated PG
Runtime 1 hr. 31 mins.


"Are the funniest parts of the movie in the preview?"

"No."

And there you have it, my shortest review ever.

OK. I suppose that that hinges on whether you've seen the preview for Paul Blart: Mall Cop. If you have and you've found it entertaining, go see the movie. If the preview looks painful to you, don't go.

The rest of this review is for those who haven't seen the preview. Or who just want more information.

Do I have to? Oh all right, you greedy people.

So who is this Paul Blart fellow? Well, he's a mall cop. Oh, that's right, you want more. Well, he doesn't want to be a mall cop. Problem is, he's hypoglycemic, causing him to fall asleep at inopportune time. Say the just before the finish line to the obstacle course to qualify for the New Jersey State Troopers.

So he's a mall cop, taking his job far too seriously for both his supervisors and the new guy who's shadowing him. He flirts with Amy who works at a kiosk selling those hair clips that fool people into thinking you have enough hair to make a bun. And when the mall is taken over by bad men with guns and sketeboards and bicycles and the ability to leap really well, he-

Whoa. Getting ahead of myself. The mall is taken over. They take hostages including (gasp) Amy. So our hero, Blart, decides to stay and protect the mall because of the oath he swore. He also wrote it.

Paul Blart is a testment to creativity over money. Outside of Kevin James, there's hardly a recognizable actor here (though I was happy when Peter Gerety, an alum of The Wire, got a laugh from the entire audience). Star power's not needed in a movie like this. Only talent. So I was gald to see some lesser-known actors given a chance. And instead of hiring a bunch of actors to play what are essentially single-line roles as the crooks, they hire extreme sports athletes creating some really neat stunt work.

So why is this movie funny? Well, Kevin James for one. He's just got a loveable, funny presence. The movie also understands the importance of context in comedy. So often, we're simply shown something that we are to think of as "funny." Very few things are funny simply on sight. Context often makes things funny. For instance, when you see Paul Blart sneaking through one of those line corrals you see at the DMV, the ones comprised of those interlocking elastic bands, that's amusing. To know what the stakes are makes it funny.

The movie also consists of the best extended set-up joke since the biker dude attending the pageant at the end of Little Miss Sunshine. Through a contrived set of circumstance, Blart acquires the phone of a young lady whose Indian boyfriend is intent on winning her back with incessant calls. All this, and more, for a 2-second shot that's not only funny in and of itself but also makes a statement about minorities in big budget movies.

Oh course, if this is a little too much analysis, Kevin James bounces off a glass door.

Larry Fitzgerald is a Beast

You've probably seen him play by now. But I keep on flashing back to what one of my favorite sports writers, Jason Whitlock, wrote about Larry Fitzgerald earlier in the year. About mid-season, Fitzgerald had something like a 5 reception, 75-yard game. That following Monday, Whitlock wrote that few people had seen the game, but that it was an amazing performance and that Fitzgerald was going to revolutionize the position.

I believe that now. Yes, he goes up and outleaps multiple defenders. But that's not what is so impressiveto me. All that the Kurt Warner needs to do is get the ball within his reach. If you can get it there, if you can get it within his reach, his hands seem to generate a gravitational force. It's amazing to watch. He's become one of my favorite players to watch.

Also, I'm going to pick the Cardinals to win. I just think that they have more to prove and that the Steelers are taking too much for granted. You can't talk about the Steeler's defense. The Cardinal's defense has stepped up in the post season. If they had played this way all year, how would they have been ranked?

That's my prediction.

The Wrestler

Director by Darren Aronofsky

Writte by Robert D. Siegel


Mickey Rourke ... Randy 'The Ram' Robinson
Marisa Tomei ... Cassidy
Evan Rachel Wood ... Stephanie Robinson

Rated R
Runtime: 1 hr. 55 mins.


Thinking on this movie makes me profoundly sad. But that's on me. The characters in the movie make choices that I'm not sure are right, that may in fact cause themselves more hurt, but I'm not sure that they're unhappy with these choices. I suppose that's what life is. A bunch of people trying to find their way. And who can tell someone else which is the best path to take?

Just ask Mickey Rourke. He turned his back on a, well, it was more than promising, it was a flourishing career. For what? To box. Regrets? Now, yes. Perhaps at the time it needed to be done. It brought him to this moment, and if I can be selfish, I am so glad. It's rumored that the studio wanted Nicolas Cage in the role. I'm not going to judge whether he would have done better or worse. That performance isn't the one on screen, so how could I? What I can say is I can't imagine any other actor in this role.

It's pointless to try and say how much and when Rourke draws on his personal story. Only currently do we have that luxury. When I first saw The Verdict, I immediately knew Paul Newman gave an incredibly brave, incredibly vulnerable performance. Only later did I learn that he had struggled with alcoholism, certainly informing his role. I believe Rourke's performance will stand in a similar way.

This role is Randy "The Ram" Robinson, a professional wrestler. Professional in the strictest sense: he's getting paid. For his wrestling? Ostensibly, yes, but in reality, it's for his past glories. Which is OK because he hasn't been able to leave them behind. He's never left the profession. In a sense, he's ageless. In one of the film's most heartbreaking scenes, we watch as he looks around and it dawns on him just how long ago those days might be.

During the week, he does autograph "conventions" which are little more than wrestlers sitting at folding tables in V.F.W. halls. He also works in a storeroom at a grocery store. He's having trouble making rent and asks the store manager if there are more hours. Only on the weekends, he's told. But that's when he's wrestling. In his free time, he plays Mike Tyson's Punch-out with the neighbor kids in his trailer park. Occasionally, when funds allow, he visits the strip club and his favorite dancer, Cassidy (Marisa Tomei).

This tenuous, strung-together life crashes when he has a heartattack. He's told by his doctor he'll have to quit wrestling. Where does he turn? To the only person whom he sees fairly regularly: Cassidy. He tries to bring the intimacy shared in the strip club to the outside world. She sees a hurting man, but she's seen them before and she needs to keep her job.

I'd like to pause and recognize Marisa Tomei. Rumors still abound that she didn't actually win the Academy Award for My Cousin Vinny. That her work after "proved" she didn't deserve it. I hope that this third nomination and her excellent work in last year's Before the Devil Knows You're Dead can finally put this to rest.

Cassidy too has been in her profession for too long, another profession that hinges upon perceived wear-and-tear, and is beginning to see that perhaps it is passing her by. However, where The Ram is trying desperately maintain, Cassidy's stuggle is questioning, "What's next?" It's this inner struggle that Tomei is so effective at conveying. And the little moments, like when she makes a wrestling doll speak for her. It's an adorable, girlish moment from someone whom we hadn't thought of in this light. Perhaps those are her glory days.

Ruminations, ruminations, ruminations. The movie invites them, asks them to stay and talk over coffee.

Evan Rachel Wood, also often written-off (that Aronofsky, I think he knew what he was doing) as a wildchild and Marilyn Manson's ex, once more displays the chops so evident in Thirteen. She plays Randy's daughter whom he tries to reconnect with, a part of his life he abandoned. She only has three scenes, but they are incredibly raw and powerful.

With this movie, Aronofsky establishes himself as a master filmmaker. Pi and Requiem for a Dream are incredible, but their success was more dependent on nailing the technical aspects. While the brutal fights are well-done and an incident when The Ram works in the deli reminds us of Requiem's climax, it's Aronofsky's handling of the subtler aspects (casting, acting, story) that demonstrate how skilled he is. Perhaps his greatest accomplishment is keeping the film from being overwrought, a trap for a story that can be described as a melodrama. It can't hurt that your movie has three of the best performances of the year.

Che

Che: Part One

Directed by Steven Soderbergh

Written by Peter Buchman
Based on the memoir "Reminiscences of the Cuban Revolutionary War"
by Ernesto 'Che' Guevara

Che: Part Two

Directed by
Steven Soderbergh

Written by Peter Buchman and Benjamin A. van der Veen
Based on Bolivian Diary by Ernesto 'Che' Guevara

Benicio Del Toro ... Ernesto Che Guevara
Rodrigo Santoro ... Raúl Castro
Demián Bichir ... Fidel Castro
Catalina Sandino Moreno ... Aleida March

Rated R
Runtime 4 hrs. 23 min.


The revolution began at a dinner party. Ernesto “Che” Guevara sits as a guest at a dinner table in an apartment in Mexico, waiting for Fidel Castro. We hear he is always late. He arrives and dinner is served, conversation and alcohol flow and cigar smoke fills the room. The conversation turns to the problems in Cuba. As I sat and watched these opening moments, my initial surprise at how mundane this all was gave way to the thought, “How else is a revolution supposed to begin?”

This opening scene sets the tone of the next 4 hours. Jokes have been made about this being a t-shirt biopic. In others’ hands, it very well could have. I mean, really, he’s a revolutionary, how much do you need to tell us? Just show us some guns and the rising up of those oppressed, some pretty speeches. Boom! Movie magic. Oscar gold. What Soderbergh understands is that these are short cuts. He’s not interested in telling us a good story as much as he is in presenting us with a fascinating individual.

Before I go further, I should let know that I was able to see the Special Roadshow edition which presents the entire 4 hr 23 min movie with a 15 minute intermission. Soon, the movie will be released as two parts. I don’t know that it will affect my review, but just know that you probably won’t have the opportunity to see it in this fashion.

The first part is concerned with both the Cuban revolution and Che’s visit to the UN in New York City. As much as I responded to the opening dinner scene, I still expected Che to find his footing in the jungles. To become the revolutionary we all expect to see. Soderbergh knows we expect this. One of the first images we see of Che in the jungle is him leaning on his rifle, wheezing from asthma. It’s these details that not only undercut the myth that has come to surround Che, but also to humanize him. One of my favorite details was Che’s seeming fascination with pockets. I don’t know how else to describe it. About halfway through the first part, I noticed that his shirt pockets were significantly fuller than they had been at the beginning. At the end of the second part, I noticed he had sewn pockets onto his pants that were stuffed as well.

The early scenes in the jungle show us a Che growing into a revolutionary. We see him bumble, lacking in confidence, being chastised by Fidel. Is it because he’s Argentine? Does he wonder what he’s doing there? It’s after the first significant battle, taking on a Cuban military base, when Che comes into his own. Fidel wants to move on. Che, a physician, wants to take care of the wounded. Get them to somewhere safe. He does so. It is at this point, as he states in the movie, that he becomes a revolutionary. When he realizes that the romance attached to the word is not always the reality. Or even necessary.

In an interview, Soderbergh has said his focus was originally Che’s time in Bolivia. It feels this way. Though the first part is longer, because of its divided and somewhat episodic nature (excepting the climactic battle in Havana), we get the sense this is prologue. We learn, through Cuba, what he did, and through the UN, we learn what he believes.

It leads us to Bolivia. For Fidel, the success of the revolution was enough. For Che, it had gotten into his blood. He tells Fidel he wants to bring revolution to the rest Latin America.

The second part is much more headlong in its execution. We know Che, we know how this works. We are immediately immersed in Bolivia, aware of the similarities. And more importantly, aware of the differences.

It’s difficult for me to sum up how I feel about the movie. Both parts begin with what is essentially an overture while maps of Cuba and Boliva, respectively, are highlighted, showing us regions and cities, giving the impression that these are places that will be important to the story. If this is the case, I’m not sure it was successful. I wasn’t always aware of where the rebels were in relation to anything. As I write this review, however, I feel that matters very little. So many biopics show us scenes hoping that they add up to a life. The problem is that the subjects are barely characters in their own stories. Where so many others have failed, Soderbergh succeeds. The logistics may have been lost on me, but I came away with an incredible picture of a man, Ernesto “Che” Guevara.

The House Bunny (2008)

Directed by Fred Wolf

Written by Karen McCullah Lutz & Kirsten Smith

Anna Faris ... Shelley Darlingson
Colin Hanks ... Oliver
Emma Stone ... Natalie
Kat Dennings ... Mona
Hugh M. Hefner ... Himself
Christopher McDonald ... Dean Simmons
Beverly D'Angelo ... Mrs. Hagstrom

Rated PG-13
Runtime: 1 hr. 37 mins.


I like to be thought of as one who has good taste. I don't know if I'm thought of that way, but we're talking about what I'd like which has little to do with reality. I try to seek out things that are considered by others to be "the best." I still watch movies I "should" watch, hence my attempt at trying to figure out Bergman for myself. I've always been this way. It's why I started reading movie reviews. It's since broadened into books, food, beer. Basically anything that can be qualified. But I've got to be honest with you. Every once in a while, I love a good PBR from the can. It kind of clears the senses, gets you thinking simply about "beer," don't need to worry about "savoring." You just drink it. Happens with movies, too. Usually comedies that make me laugh in spite of myself. Most recently (oh the shame!) it's Paul Blart: Mall Cop. Before this, The House Bunny. I can't speak on Paul Blart yet, but I have seen The House Bunny. I'm sorry, I apologize, but I liked it.

Much of the credit rests with the two leads, Anna Faris and Emma Stone. Ms. Faris plays Shelley, the titular house bunny. (After several seconds of consideration, I will let that sentence stand.) It's a bimbo role which is how Anna Faris plays it, but she imbues Shelley with an innocence that makes her incredibly charming. Every situation is new and fascinating. It also doesn't hurt that Ms. Faris was gifted with incredible comedic timing. What?

Shelley's a resident of the Playboy Mansion until she's kicked out before her dream of posing for Playboy can be fulfilled. If Shelley had posed nude, there may have been more options for her. As it is, she's at a loss as to how to function in the real world. That's when she happens upon sorority house row. Thinking they look like a bunch of mini Playboy Mansions, she feels right at home. Until she tries to join, by, you know, asking the most stereotypically snobby sorority. Told she's too old to be a member, she learns of being a house mother and that the sorority down the road has a vacancy.

You know where we're headed now, right? Shame on you if you don't. It's at this point that the movie begins to click. The leader of the sorority is Natalie (Emma Stone). Stone's performance is the other key to the movie's success. Her Natalie is awkward and shy but doesn't quite know it. The sorority needs 30 pledges before-Dum, dum dum!-and she buys into Shelley's shtick before she really knows what it is. I guess that's what makes both actresses so successful. They fully commit to these characters being out of their respective elements that when they stumble, it's much funnier than perhaps it has any right being.

For instance. Shelley decides a carwash may be a good idea to get some pledges. It certainly brings the boys over which seems to be a part of getting pledges. I think. Anyway, Shelley tries to encourage Natalie to be sexy. Natalie obliges by uorposely pouring water down the front of her pants. Not let's break this down. First off, again, the actress fully commits with a husky voice saying "sexy" things. Secondly, the pouring of the water is done purposely, which is a lot funnier than ye olde accidentally wetting pants and meeting someone creating an embarrassing situation. Three, it's something that if someone didn't know what "sexy" was, they might think pouring water on the front of your pants might be.

OK. I've probably driven everyone away. I don't know what to tell you. This is not a good movie. The male characters...you can't even use the word characters to describe them. They are physical manifestations of plot points. The plot itself is telegraphed before you even start the movie, but I can't say we ever arrived at any of the required points because there isn't really a journey. I'd say we're apparated there. Poof! Here we are! The end is typically cloying. The beginning, awkward. All that said. I'd watch it again in a heartbeat. It's funny. I laughed out loud. That's what I can say.

Marley & Me (2008)

Directed by David Frankel

Written by Scott Frank and Don Roos
Based on the book by John Grogan

Owen Wilson...John Grogan
Jennifer Aniston...Jennifer Grogan
Eric Dane...Sebastian
Kathleen Turner...Ms. Kornblut
Alan Arkin...Arnie Klein

Rated PG
Runtime: 2 hrs.

The preview for Marley & Me made me cringe. I can't handle things that are designed to get a reaction out of me. Particularly when that reaction has something to do with how cute something is. It seemed the movie would be nothing more than a series of scenes in which Marley does horrible things and we all, collectively, think "Ooh, look how cute the dog is!" Well, I for one ain't down wit' dat.

I have this thing called a girlfriend, however. (She likes to be called Tracy.) She's fantastic in many ways but still has that stereotypically female weakness for all things...cute. Guess where I was Christmas Day? That's right, butt firmly planted in a seat watching Marley & Me.

Fortunately for all involved, the movie's really good. It's based on the book by John Grogan (here played by Owen Wilson), unread by me. He's a reporter, or wants to be. He and his wife, Jennifer (Jennifer Aniston), move to Florida and get jobs at different papers. In an early scene, they sip coffee as they compare their first stories. His about speed bumps. Hers a bit more important and a bit longer. And a scene in another movie that could have been played broadly for laughs or drama is simply handled as it would be in most households across America: he's proud of her and jealous and she knows it. And that's it.

Locked in careers, John can tell children a coming down the pike, and a bit faster than he'd like. So what better way to distract his wife than with a puppy? Hey, it works. Around this time, at John's paper, a columnist leaves and his editor (Alan Arkin) has him fill in, just for a little bit. John's not to sure, feeling he's giving up ground on his dream to be a reporter. But hey, it's temporary. So he writes a column about Marley. Well, people love reading about dogs almost as much as they love looking at them. So the column becomes a success. Again, never overtly stated. There are no slo-mo scenes of John walking down the beach and people recognizing him. A person references his column and he and his editor discuss its success once.

Eventually kids come, life choices are made, friendships change. Where is Marley in all of this? Right there. As our pets are, bearing witness to our lives. Sometimes ignored. Sometimes chewing on the furniture. But always there. As the movie progressed, I wondered how much I actually cared about Marley. A great deal it turns out.

The movie gets so much right. Male camaraderie, relationships, pets, growing up. There is truth in this movie. It's in the guise of a gaudily wrapped gift, but when you open it up, you won't find anything nearly as cheesy as this metaphor.

Losing Confidence, Gaining Insight

I saw young hands the other day. They weren't mine. I was on the most crowded bus I've ever been on and I saw these hands holding one of the straps. They were the hands of a man not much younger than me. At least I would say. I looked down at my own hands. Are they so much older? Has it been one to many Chicago winters spent waiting on the CTA? Can I blame them?

Christmas Eve, I sat on the el, coming home from work, tired though it was an abbreviated day. I didn't have anything to read, at least not anything that interested me, so I sat and let my mind wander, something I used to spend hours doing. I find it happens all to seldomly. And as my mind went about it's way, it found something lacking. A train of thought I can't quite map brought me to the realization that I've lost touch with the confidence that brought me to Chicago. I've gained new confidence. Perhaps deeper and stronger. But that initial confidence, I don't understand it now. At that point, I had accomplished if not nothing then very little. I had determined two years into my college schooling to focus on acting at which those last two years were catch-up. What? What on earth made me believe I might potentially make it?

I've known this to happen to others, to hear older actors talk about their younger careers and wonder how they did it. To look at their younger selves as other. I guess I didn't think I ever did enough to have that much distance. Apparently for me, I have.

As all do, I have questions about what I'm doing, what kind of success I ever hope to have/will be granted me. Days with these thoughts come around, and I beat myself up. And then I kind of look up and ask myself, "What else would you do?" When that question is no longer rhetorical....

Knute Rockne on Acting

"Why do actors in older movies sound different?"

I and everyone else who watches "older" movies get asked this question a lot. We've all seen older movies and feel that the actors' delivery is a bit stilted. Sometimes you wonder if they even know what the words mean, they come falling out of their mouths. This prevents some people from watching older movies. They can't get around the delivery of the lines.

A reader recently asked Roger Ebert this:

Q. Movies of the '40s and '50s feature actors speaking in a certain clipped delivery that seems very unnatural today. They'd jam all sorts of expository dialogue and plot points in a stilted conversation that had a machine-gun staccato. How and when did the trend to a more natural style of acting start?
Tony Sosa, Providence, R.I.

A. A more naturalistic acting style is generally said to have started appearing in films of the late 1940s, led by actors like Brando (whose acting was stylized in its own way). You didn't ask, but I'll add: Jay Robert Nash, the author of countless books about crime, says American gangsters of the 1930s actually copied their speaking styles from the movies, and that the screenwriter Ben Hecht is in a sense the creator of a speaking style heard even now in movies, on TV and during congressional hearings.

I buy this. If there's one thing that I'm sure has been a desire since the dawn of creation, it is the desire to be cool. Ben Hecht wanted to write cool. And crooks wanted to sound cool. And so one begat the other.

Or did it? As soon as I read this, I remembered a famous old speech I had seen of a coach rousing his team. Took a while, but I found it. It's a speech by Knute Rockne.



It certainly reminds me of the delivery mentioned. The interesting thing about Knute Rockne? Well there's a lot that's interesting, but for the purposes of what we're discussing here? Knute died in 1931. This speech took place in 1928. Ben Hecht's first credit on IMDb? 1926.

So which begat which?

And who cares?

People bemoan the acting of this time, but I've found that it's usually called for. Film noir, screwball comedies. These aren't about natural people sounding natural. And if the script asked for more, the best actors (Stewart, Hepburn, Grant) were able to bring what was needed. Brando came along (or brought about) a time when greater emphasis was placed on psychological truth. So the writing reflected this, or the actors reflected this and the writing followed, or both followed society.

And don't think this "unnatural" style has completely disappeared. Aaron Sorkin is a direct descendant of this style. Everyone likes to think real people talk like they do on The West Wing or SportsNight. They don't. I promise you, when my roommate and I went on a SportsNight marathon, our speech (badly) mimicked Sorkin's patter.

What we're talking about is aesthetics. They changed when Brando came along. And they've changed since. After Brando, every actor adhered to the Method. Wouldn't think of doing otherwise. Now, we make fun of Method actors. You've probably notices it too: Method acting is usually a bit overwrought. The actor is more concerned about his own emotions rather than the people he's acting with. So, instinctual acting has become the norm. To simplify, you go in, let the scene happen, and let it carry you whither it may.

So what's next? Well, I'm not so concerned about that. I'm more concerned about the past. I'm concerned about the people who turn off any movie in black and white because they don't like the acting. There was bad acting back then just like there's bad acting now. Follow the greats: Katherine Hepburn and Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant. If you need a recommendation, start with The Philadelphia Story . There are other actors and you'll find them, but these three won't often lead you wrong. If you too turn off any Jessica Alba movie, you should probably go back and give it another go.

Like a Flan in a Cupboard

Like the Cubs in October...

Like Texas Stadium...

Like Star Wars Episodes 1-3...

Like a snowman in March...

...my fantasy football team collapsed. Oh goodness did it collapse. The Cardinals decided to suck. Brian Westbrook decided to cross his arms and not play in retalitation for not playing him when he went off. And the Oakland Raiders didn't want to feel left out so they decided to show up and shut down a running back the first time all season. Yay.

The Karma Police arrested me and didn't read me my rights.

Slumdog Millionaire (2008)

Directed by Danny Boyle & Loveleen Tandan (co-director: India)

Written by Simon Beaufoy(screenplay)
Based on the novel Q & A by Vikas Swarup

Dev Patel ... Jamal Malik
Saurabh Shukla ... Sergeant Srinivas
Freida Pinto ... Latika
Irfan Khan ... Police Inspector
Azharuddin Mohammed Ismail ... Youngest Salim
Ayush Mahesh Khedekar ... Youngest Jamal

Rated R
Runtime: 2 hrs.

Lacking words to describe this movie. It comes at you. Assaults is not the right word. It is driving but sweeping. It rarely lets up, but never allows the pace to outstrip the story. It uses many cuts and herky-jerky camerawork to tell its story, but it's necessary. It's vital to the telling. At every moment, this movie knows who its main character is. Every camera angle, every color, every effect, tells us who we are following and how they are feeling. The cinematography absolutely shimmers.

I've thrown about words describing Slumdog's technical achievements. They are many. More than listed above, but for those concerned, they do not the movie make. At least not completely. They are all in service, as all technical aspects should be, of the story, in this case the story of Jamal, the slumdog who becomes an overnight celebrity as he keeps giving the right answers on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

Jamal is played by Dev Patel. Thus far, it's the performance of the year. My friend Jake has said the movie takes you through the spectrum of human emotion. True. Therefore implying that Jamal must go through the same. Also true. Take a look at Dev Patel. He's young, tall in the way that makes you believe his body's still growing into itself. His ears, let's be honest, they stick out a little. He's endearing. We expect him to feel out of his element, and when he is, it's pitch perfect. However, when he's interrogated because they believe he's cheating, after all, how could a slumdog know all these answers, the gravitas he brings is reminiscent of the best noir actors.

And when he is defending his love....

The movie leaps, from the interrogation room, to the stories that gave him these answers. Here we learn that Jamal and his brother Salim grew up in the slums. In a tragic turn, they are forced to fend for themselves. A young girl, Latika, comes along with them. This is the trio that forms the body of the movie and Jamal's love for Latika the spine.

I'm retracing in my mind where they all end up, go, arrive. A friend saw the movie and thought it was "AWESOME" (his text) but later said it was long. It is only two hours and feels longer, not because it drags, but because of the breadth of the story and the range of emotions you experience. And all the time we come back to Millionaire and watch as these stories now inform the scene, enriching what for us and for the viewers in the movie had only been a gameshow.

I've praised the cinematography. The movie is also a triumph in casting. I've also mentioned Dev Patel. But we see these characters grow and each is played by three different actors, all exceptional. And the actor playing the youngest Jamal is about the cutest kid you've ever seen.

The movie is vibrant. That's the best word. I think you need to go see it.

I Worry I'm Too Late

This is a brilliant commercial (not an oxymoron)entitled "Fate" directed by David Fincher. I've had the idea for a similar story for quite some time. Not specifically about two football players, but showing the circumstance that lead people to a meeting and then departure. It would be a movie basically about that moment in which two lives meet. Or don't. This is not to say that I can't make this movie that I've got in my head. In under 2 1/2 minutes The Beatles' "Eleanor Rigby" does what it takes Magnolia 3 1/4 hours to do. There are no original stories.

But through my life I've had ideas and these ideas have been confirmed as good because I've seen them other places. Here in this commercial. A sweeping camera shot in Finding Neverland. And perhaps my greatest confirmation by Hitchcock himself as a woman screaming becomes a trainwhistle. Others.

It's always a thrilling and disheartening experience. Thrilling to be told these thoughts/ideas have worth. Disheartening because...they're only ideas. They live in my head and nowhere else. I used to think it would be horrible to be a composer and leave behind an unfinished symphony. I want everything from artists that ever were. Even their 8-year-old sketches. Who cares? I want to see how this artist worked through their talent. And how awful, I thought, to die with something still gestating.

I don't think this anymore. How wonderful to be able to simply create something, anything, that will affect, affirm people. I've said that my goal in life is to make one person sit forward in their seat because of something I've done. It's my highest compliment; I'd like to receive it.

I may have done that, who knows, but these ideas I reference above, they are larger. They aren't meant for the stage. So they won't be realized until I can make a leap.

I'm a patient person. It is a quality that allows me great freedom from stress and guilt, things that I see eat away at others. At the same time, I can sit still for far too long. This brand of patience I have does not inherently include drive. I look at Orson Welles' career and all that he had accomplished by the age of 24, or even Paul Thomas Anderson dropping out of school and using his tuition money to make his first film. I am not jealous of their success; I am jealous of their drive. Their ability to pursue something to the extent they may have nothing left at the end but what they create.

I've never been able to live there, the fringes. I don't think I'll start now. But I still wonder, am I too late? Have my best ideas passed? Is the well running dry? Are any further ideas at risk of being tame? At my church, Tracy is directing Proof this year. I finished reading it again this morning and one of its themes is how aging can affect creativity. The worry that the best ideas are past. This seems to be particularly true in mathematics. Einstein's best work was done in his 20's.

Film can be a different beast. Though I would say Scorsese and Spike Lee are becoming more tepid as their careers role on, Clint Eastwood in his late 70's is at perhaps the greatest artistic height of his life. At the same time, I watch his movies and I don't respond to them as much because they are made with an older aesthetic. Not as in elderly, but the language of the film hearkens back to the 70's and before. I appreciate that they allow for moments to develop and trust the audience, but, well, his films don't make me sit forward in my seat. Ah, well. He doesn't care. Jean-Luc Godard, though I haven't seen his current films, seems to be even edgier than in his heyday, if not quite as loved by critics. He's striving.

Striving. I'd like to strive. To my own credit, when opportunity presents itself, and it does, I seize it. But can I count on that?

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. The germ was to simply show this awesome commercial and relate my own feelings. Those feelings quickly developed into a rather revealing blog. Which I will let stand on its own. I don't believe in apologizing for how one feels, only how one acts. Perhaps that's what all this is about. The desire to spur myself on so I don't have to apologize to myself anymore.

I'll have to sit and think about it.

Did You Hear...?

...who's hosting the Oscars?

OK, I was going to make you guess, but you've probably already heard.

Hugh Jackman.

How do you feel about it?

I kind of went, "Oh." And then I thought about it. I like it. It's different, yes. But I think in a good way. I don't know, I guess I feel he might bring a more regal quality to the Oscars? Not necessarily because he's Hugh Jackman but more that he's an actor. That the ceremony won't be based on how many jokes are landed/missed but rather by the awards themselves.

In the end, I'll probably be way off. It'll just be like any other Oscars with bad jokes and probably a song and dance number at the beginning. But I appreciate that they're trying something different.

That Thing That's Going On Here

So you may have heard that Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich is in an eensy-beensy bit of trouble. He asked people for money for things that aren't actually his to sell. Like Obama's Senate seat. Oops.

One of my personal favorites involved the Tribune company. See, they're in need of some money (who isn't?), so Blagojevich thought he could offer them some...if they would be so kind as to fire some people who were writing mean things about your hero and mine, Blagojevich.

This story broke on Tuesday, the Tribune Company filed for Chapter 11 (I don't know what that means, but maybe someone does) bankruptcy on Monday. Wednesday morning, as I'm watching TV to keep up-to-date on the goings-on (basically what Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert had to say), a commercial comes on consisting of clips from Tuesday's press conference. The clips are of U.S. Attorney General Patrick J. Fitzgerald and others praising the Tribune Co. for their conduct. The end of the commercial? "Chicago Tribune: We're There for You." and the number you can call to subscribe.

Blagojevich just may be able to bail them out after all.

Winter Light (1963)

Directed by Ingmar Bergman
Written by Ingmar Bergman

Ingrid Thulin..............Märta Lundberg, Schoolteacher
Gunnar Björnstrand.........Tomas Ericsson, Pastor
Gunnel Lindblom............Karin Persson
Max von Sydow..............Jonas Persson

Runtime: 1 hr. 21 min.
Rating: UR

I haven't yet "gotten" Ingmar Bergman. You probably think me a contrarian. After all, I haven't written all that many movie posts recently and both begin by dissing esteemed directors. But, heck, it's true. The only comment I've really responded to in regards to Bergman was on a commentary for Fanny and Alexander when the speaker said that Bergman was known in his native Sweden more for his stage direction than his films which were considered overwrought. My own private "a-ha!" moment occurred. I wasn't alone.

However, I'm not giving up. Even if I don't go ga-ga over someone as much as the majority does (Scorsese), I at least want to be able to appreciate what it is that they do. In other words, I would never say of Bergman that I don't like him. I will say, as above, I don't get him.

I felt the door open a crack, however, after watching Winter Light. I'm already being honest so why stop now: Bergman films often seem to me to be about people crying about things I don't understand. There's always so much emoting going on, and I can often tell you what they're worked up about, but I can't always tell you why. It's this disconnect that I'm trying to bridge, though I guess I sometimes have this reaction in life, so maybe I shouldn't be so surprised. This is perhaps the reason I understood this film a bit better as it follows a man who is working through this same disconnect.

The man in question is Pastor Tomas Ericsson. We meet him as he leads a service in a small church that is still a bit large for the congregation. We watch the entire communion and begin to sense the relationship between all those in attendance. One of these is Marta (Ingrid Thulin), a schoolteacher whom we discover later is Tomas's lover.

Their relationship is fascinating. Bergman's films are about relationships. Between people. Between God and man. But they seem to exist on a plain that I've never experienced. But here was a true relationship. A woman so in love with a man and a man who cannot accept this love. Who denies it time and time again. We learn of her love in a letter that is addressed directly to the camera. There are no cuts, just a single, unflinching direct presentation. There is nothing but her face and her words to occupy us, much as Tomas must feel.

In a later scene, she once more confesses her love once more, this time in person. It's not a letter this time; she must be considered. We watch as he grows colder and more distant. He feels cornered and he decides to answer honestly. The words that he utters are devastating. Yet she simply sits there and we watch her heart break and his grow harder.

Jumbled in the midst of this is Tomas's crisis of faith. Early in the film, a man comes to him searching for meaning in a world that he feels is going to destroy itself and Tomas is able to offer no comfort. He begins talking about himself, stops himself, apologizes and begins again. Perhaps another reason I probably responded to the film, the implication seeming to be that crises of faith have very little to do with our relationship to God. They more often stem from a concern about our relationship with others.

I feel like I haven't done this film any justice. I mean, the performances are all very good. Gunnar Björnstrand as Tomas is never better than when he shuts down. Ingrid Thulin as Marta conveys so much in being so still. Max von Sydow has a brief role as the man seeking comfort from the pastor and it's interesting to see an actor who has come to be known for his regal air and power inhabit a character who is so full of fear. The camera work by frequent collaborator Sven Nykvist is simple and stark. A shot of Ingrid in silhouette, light from behind just gracing her nose is stunning.

Have I conveyed whether you should see it or not? You should. Perhaps the problem is again one of disconnect. Sitting here, I went through all the major plot points in the film feeling as if I was missing something. Nope, it's pretty simple. Yet I feel as if I've covered nothing. Perhaps that's what I'm trying to get at. It always feels like there's always more than I feel I'm getting, as if Bergman decided to film a novel and did. Every last word of it.

Perfection Not Always Perfect

I've been listening to MPR (Minnesota Public Radio) fairly often, trying to regain my passion for classical music I didn't so much lose in college as have taken away from me. Strong words, I know. I'll tell that story sometime.

Anyway, they've played Camille Saint-Saens's Danse Macabre fairly often recently. Mostly because Halloween was not too long ago. I guess it would be classified as a tone poem which essentially tells a story through music. At their best, tone poems evoke a story. At their worst, they can sound like a movie score, not evoking so much as trying to pound visuals into your brain with the hammer of music. Listen to some Richard Strauss tone poems. You'll wonder why anyone listens to this schizophrenic music and then you'll read the story he's trying to tell, nod, and never listen to it again. Or maybe not. I seem to be alone in this.

I digress. Let me tell you the story of Danse Macabre as I remember it from those single slide projectors they used when I was in school. You know, the kind that you actually dreaded was coming out because it was actually more boring than the teacher teaching. Basically, as I recall, it begins with a ghost tuning his fiddle. When he starts to play a furious melody, other ghosts come out and dance around the graveyard. It's a really neat piece and I had forgotten about it. It's one of those that you can enjoy even if you're not into classical music.

So I used the word fiddle above. The difference between a fiddle and violin? Structurally, nothing. Honestly, I'm sure a Stradivarius can be a fiddle in the right hands. Stradivariuses very rarely find their way into those hands. But that's where the difference is, the spirit in which a violin is played makes a violin a fiddle. Now the recordings I've heard of Danse Macabre are played by professional orchestras, i.e. violinists. And it's all just a little too precise. All the notes are hit, and accurately. No sliding between pitches. No flourish. A simple playing of the notes on the page.

This is one of the excuses I gave as to why I left classical music (I majored in French horn Performance in college). A wrong note in a concert is nothing more than a mistake. On the stage? Wrong, but salvagable. Sometimes amazingly. And sometimes missed by the audience. Theatergoers don't generally have a play memorized or are seeing a new play. If you go to an orchestra concert, I'd bet half the audience knows the program inside and out and has favorite recordings. They know when a mistake is made. And have opinions about the interpretation of the pieces they're hearing.

Now, I think it's cool that people can develop tastes to such an extent, but that it has so invaded the entire classical music culture is a little disappointing. I would love, LOVE, to hear a recording of Danse Macabre with fiddle players. You know, all the Nashville session musicians and Alison Krauss as the soloist. That would be awesome. I feel like when this piece is played, strings should break. It should sound dangerous. Not like you're impersonating the ghosts but you are conjuring them.

Would Camille Saint-Saens approve? I don't know of any apochryphal stories about Saint-Saens like I've heard about Beethoven. A violinist complained that the notes in Beethoven's 9th Symphony were too difficult to play and he responded, "Do you think the muse in my head worries about what you can and can't play?" But hey, they're both dead, so, who cares? Maybe the playing would raise him from the dead.

Maurice Ravel's Bolero is another piece that often suffers from this same sense of perfection. It's another great piece. You've probably heard bits and pieces, but I strongly recommend you sit down and listen to it in one sitting. I think it's about 9 minutes long. I believe Ravel himself has described it as one long crescendo. It just drives from the beginning right to the very end, but you need the whole piece to really get caught up in it. I have a recording by a lesser orchestra that I love because they come the closest to letting themselves go. Essentially, the piece is a driving rhythm over which a melody is played continuously, given to different instruments. Toward the end, the trombones get the melody and in this recording, they really just let themselves slide into every note. Not hit it precisely. And it sounds, well, slutty. And it's great! I hate hearing it played cleanly.

And don't get me started on the vocal recitals I heard in college that included Stephen Foster songs. You haven't heard anything so utterly wrong as hearing some warble through "Camptown Races." Hey, I'm all for operatic singing...in operas! But simple songs? Come on. Don't kid yourself. I'd love to hear a recording of Stephen Foster songs sung by popular musicians. You know, the aforementioned Allison Krauss, Bruce Springsteen, Bruce Cockburn, Steve Earle, Bill Mallonee, Tom Waits, John Mellencamp. That would be a good album.