"Lately I've Been Glowed Up."
Guy Franklin; the meticulous mind behind some of Kimbra's most acclaimed music videos, and Adam Sager; the visual effects afficionado behind the Kimbra's Dream video collaboration joined her in a panel and screen at Los Angeles Music Video Festival 2015.
Aussie funk took me lower than down under.
The history of Brian Wilson's mental state is no secret. And if you're looking to unearth any via Bill Pohlad's biopic, Love & Mercy, you're not likely to. Hailed as an innovative approach to the genre due to its bifurcated style, the film, co-written by Michael Alan Lerner and Oren Moverman (who also wrote the Bob Dylan biopic I'm Not There), relies heavily on the switching back and forth between two eras in Wilson's in life.
Opening with a black screen and a barrage of Beach Boys' sounds, we're given an immediate glimpse into the importance of the auditory that will remain a constant throughout the film. Indeed, it was in large part because of Wilson's aural hallucinations that he stopped touring with the band at the height of their own version of Beatlemania.
Instead promising his brothers and bandmates a barrage of sounds to record to when they returned, Wilson took to the studio to come up with masterpieces like "God Only Knows" and "Wouldn't It Be Nice?" that would appear on 1966's Pet Sounds. Working with the best studio musicians of the time, Wilson awed his fellow musicphiles, yet alienated his fellow band members--not to mention the constant invocation of disapproval from his father, Murry Wilson, who was very much a precursor to the Michael Jackson-type father, hating his son for his succes and talent, yet needing him desperately for money and to prove his own self-worth.
As Pohlad devotes equal amounts of screen time to both epochs in Brian's life, the audience is left hoping that perhaps there will be a moment when the early and later periods meet in the middle--at the height of Wilson's despair and drug addiction. But alas, Pohlad never gives in to teetering too far on the dark side, only deviating truly from the conventional biopic structure when all of Wilson's selves encounter one another in the same bed they've each shared misery in their whole lives.
As for Elizabeth Banks' angelic rescuing role of Melinda Ledbetter, the car saleswoman who hesitantly falls for Wilson in spite of the constant team of bodyguards he has put in place by Eugene Landy (Paul Giamatti)--his caretaker and Svengali-like therapist--well, it proves Banks is very capable of taking on a serious film and holding her own. Melinda also plays into the unique ending of Love & Mercy, which is faintly reminiscent of Garden State in that the couple at risk of being apart decides to say "Fuck it" regardless of knowing only one thing: they don't know what's going to happen. It is also perhaps the first ending in which we don't get to hear what they're saying to each other--again appealing to the power of sound and silence that has been so all-consuming and significant in Wilson's life.
Beyond Andrea Bocelli and Pavarotti, it seems as though Americans are largely unaware of any other Italian music. Thank god or whoever Giorgio Moroder is back after 30 years with the aptly titled album Déjà Vu. Using a common tactic of "older artists" of late, Moroder uses the vocal talents of such established powerhouses as Kylie Minogue, Britney Spears (the American Kylie Minogue), Charli XCX and Kelis.
Opening with a track that welcomes the audience with the appropriately named "4 U With Love," Moroder establishes the tone of what promises to be an exuberant record. Lending an updated feel to a 70s sound, it's almost as though "the godfather" of electronic music, disco and anything dance-oriented never left us to begin with. The second track, "Déjà Vu," featuring Sia offers Moroder's take on how the perhaps overrated singer ought to sound--which is to say like a new-fangled Diana Ross (but, of course, the sound of "Titanium" can't help but be hinted at throughout this track).
"Diamonds" featuring Charli XCX picks up the tempo and provides one of the most dance-friendly beats of the record. XCX's distinctive voice announces, "Cut out with scissors made of starlight/Hold tight, we're sleeping with the city tonight/Lost in your spectrum and your colors/You're all bright/No, you're nothing like the others." Mixing diamond metaphors with ones that pertain to partying all night, it somehow works thanks to Moroder's glistening beats. Slowing down the pace is "Don't Let Go" featuring Mikky Ekko (best known for collaborating with Rihanna on "Stay"). A lush ballad set to Moroder's typically fast pace, the song makes for one of the most unique on Déjà Vu, particularly since it's one of the only songs with male vocals.
In a combination that feels as natural as chocolate and peanut butter, the pairing of Kylie Minogue and Moroder on "Right Here, Right Now" (not to be confused with the Fat Boy Slim track of the same name) is so smooth and so seamless that you wonder how it never existed before. Considering much of Moroder's musical compositions already sound like a Minogue song, the pairing is only natural. As expressed by Minogue, "Nothing ever felt as good as this/There's nowhere else but right here, right now."
"Tempted" featuring Matthew Kona possesses the closest sound resembling funk on the album. Again possessing the 70s aural brand as only Moroder could make work in the twenty-first century, "Tempted" is freshness in music form. The repetition of "Burn for me, burn for me" indeed sounds a lot like "Burn, baby, burn it," continuing to prove that Moroder is a master of rebranding his signature sound for a modern audience. Next is the tongue-in-cheekly named "74 is the New 24," which sounds like a revamped version of the "Chase" from Midnight Express for which Moroder was most known. The only thing uttered on the track is "Hey Mr. DJ" (faintly reminiscent of the opening to Madonna's "Music"), which is really all one needs to coo in order to get what they want on the dance floor.
Although this listener is not completely convinced of the goodness of a remake of Suzanne Vega's infallible "Tom's Diner," Britney Spears' dance-tinged rendering of the track can't help but be paid attention to with its lulling beats and Britney stylization. An almost completely faithful lyrical re-creation, Giorgio Moroder adds one additional line of his own: "love is the drug that makes you wanna drink." "Wildstar" featuring Foxes has the most emotion when compared to the other vocals on the album. Her detectable English accent lends a certain amount of authenticity to Déjà Vu, which is otherwise saturated with a manufactured vibe (not to say this is a bad thing).
Perhaps the most curveball collaboration off the record, "Back and Forth" featuring Kelis finds the usually moody singer sounding completely unlike her usual self. The message of the song is a lot like Florence + The Machine's latest single, "What Kind of Man," lamenting the back and forth, push and pull of being in a relationship with a man who is inordinately unpredictable in love. The second to last track, "I Do This For You" featuring Marlene, a Swedish singer who has been around longer than Tove Lo, but doesn't quite have the same amount of American fame, has a controlled fast pace that Moroder doesn't reveal as prominently on other songs. Showing off his ability to cultivate the perfect sound, Moroder wields Marlene's voice as a secondary tool to his own talent. "I do this for you/I only do this for you," seems to be what Moroder is saying through Marlene.
To conclude this epic comeback of a record, Moroder chooses not to employ the frills of using another au courant artist to back him. Instead "La Disco" is a mostly instrumental denouement, occasionally including Moroder's own manipulated voice. Matching "4 U With Love" in its jubilant sound, the Italian maestro of dance music couldn't have chosen a better way to put a cap on his triumphant return.
Everyone has fantasized about what they would do if they managed to win the lottery and become untouchably rich. Buy a yacht, live in a villa, go wild on a shopping spree are some of the cliches that spring to mind. But for Alice Klieg (Kristen Wiig), a woman who has just played Russian roulette with her borderline personality disorder by going off her meds, the best way to use her wealth is to host a talk show called Welcome to Me (hence the eponymous title of the film).
As Shira Piven's (yes, Jeremy Piven's sister) debut directorial effort, Welcome To Me explores an all too resonant theme among the Hollywood community: blinders when it comes to other people's emotions and complete and utter selfishness. At the relative mercy of her shrink, Dr. Moffat (Tim Robbins), Alice continues to go to his sessions for fear that he might institutionalize her otherwise, especially considering she's quit Abilify cold turkey. This decision only seems to compound her hyper self-awareness and intense need for self-exploration via the vengeance-taking provided by her talk show.
In addition to being essentially themeless, save for discussing whatever topic of Alice's life is of interest to her that day, the main pursuit of the show is to reenact moments in her life during which she felt she was wronged, going as far back as her childhood and highlighting such traumatic incidents as "Someone's been tampering with my makeup bag!" As Alice goes progressively off the deep end, her show gains more and more interest, with one fan/grad student named Rainer (Thomas Mann) going so far as to write a paper about Alice for one of his classes. Because of her histrionic nature, she seduces him in spite of being in a relationship with one of the network's owners, Gabe (Wes Bentley).
Her alienation of others close to her persists after she does a reenactment involving her best and only friend, Gina (Linda Cardellini). In it, she gets a fat woman to portray Gina trying on a one-piece bathing suit and spins the incident to make it look as though Gina is self-conscious about her body, but in actuality, it is simply because Gina doesn't like the aesthetic of two-pieces. The ire she receives from Gabe's brother and co-network owner, Rich (James Marsden), also takes its toll on Alice's emotions, prompting her to end one of her two-hour long shows forty minutes early.
Appropriately, the introduction to the film begins with the Michel de Montaigne quote: "I study myself more than any other subject. That is my physics. That is my metaphysics." Alice's application of this philosophy to her own life is what ultimately becomes her undoing, causing her to have a breakdown in the hotel casino she's been living in. But from the ashes of her detrimental self-exploration rises a newer, more "self-actualized" Alice.
One has to admire Jennifer Aniston for not being afraid to break out of her "sweetheart" Rachel Green mode rather often for someone of her level of fame. With 2002's The Good Girl, we caught a first glimpse of Aniston's gritty, disaffected acting capabilities. As Justine Last, she was a miserable married woman working discount retail. In Cake, she is a miserable separated woman with pill-popping and alcoholic tendencies.
Taking Justine Last one step further in her role as Claire Bennett by opting for no makeup to cover up her glaring scars, we're introduced to her vitriol right away as she makes everyone in her chronic pain support group feel extremely uncomfortable by commenting on the suicide of one of their fellow members, Nina Collins (Anna Kendrick). After being kicked out for he behavior, Claire develops something of a weird obsession with Nina's suicide, even visiting the site she decided to end it, at a high jumping point where the 105 and the 110 intersect. Daniel Barnz' (who has received many a criticism in the past for directing Beastly and Won't Back Down) tightly crafted narrative effortlessly details Claire's mental spiral.
As she gets closer with Nina's widower, Roy (Sam Worthington), she begins to feel semi-hopeful again, knowing that there is someone else who can fathom the pain she feels (we learn as the story unfolds that her son died in a car accident while she was driving). Part of the reason for her prescription drug addiction stems not only from the physical pain of her accident, which occurred about six months prior, but also the emotional damage she can't bear. The more she takes, the more she seems to hallucinate visions of and conversations with Nina.
Her seething nature manages to off put everyone around her, except those men she has casual sex with and her housekeeper, Silvana (Adriana Barraza). Rather than accept help, least of all from her husband, Jason (Chris Messina), Claire prefers to wallow in her misery--yet it's somehow darkly comical and engaging to watch via Aniston's interpretation of the character.
Although, once again, a Barnz film has received a lackluster response, Cake is arguably his best work to date, and Aniston's no frills performance is a large part of that.
Ryan Gosling has, at this point in his acting career, learned plenty about directing and producing. Perhaps this is what prompted him to finally take his fingers to the keyboard and write the surreal, dystopic Lost River.
With its eerie, Suspiria-like score (courtesy of the Italians Do It Better label), Lost River unfolds like a small town mystery with a Twin Peaks edge. After a bayou-looking town near Detroit is deliberately flooded to become known only as Lost River, Billy (Christina Hendricks) must find a way to make ends meet after her bank manager--as well as the father of her sons--is removed by the nefarious Dave (Ben Mendelsohn). Preying on Billy's desperation to pay off her house as a single mother of Bones (Iain De Caestecker) and Franky (Landyn Stewart), Dave suggests a job to her at a burlesque-like venue with a gory show starring Kitty Cat (Eva Mendes), who delights audiences with displays of fake murder and spewing blood.
On the way to taking Billy to her act, her cab driver (Reda Kateb) muses, "When I told my friends I was going to America, they said 'There's so much money there. You're going to have a big car and a big house and you're gonna catch the money on the floor.'" The irony is not lost on Billy, who is about to sell herself in a very weird way. In addition to honing her own act pretending to peel her face off, she is also introduced to the world of "the shells," where the most money can be made. All she has to do is stand inside a locked human-shaped shell and let the person paying do whatever they want outside of it.
Meanwhile, Bones has his own issues with moneymaking to contend with, invoking the ire of local bully, Bully (Matt Smith)--yes, quite a literal moniker. Stripping abandoned houses of their copper in order to make a bit of extra cash, Bones easily offends Bully, who has laid claim to the entire town. And how has he done so? By cutting off people's lips with scissors when they defy him (this is perhaps the most Only God Forgives element of all). Luckily, Bones has a cohort and comrade in Rat (Saoirse Ronan), his neighbor who is called such because she owns a pet rat named Nick. All alone except for her mute grandmother, Rat stays up most nights singing a lonesome sort of song called "Tell Me." She shows Bones a hokey "educational video" about the reasons why the town needed to have a reservoir, and tells him that the only way to break what she calls the curse is to take a piece of the town's land from the bottom of the water.
The creepiness in Billy's life begins to intensify as well, with her character's fate seeming to mirror Christina Hendricks' other alter ego, Joan Harris, in that she can't seem to go about her job without being sexually harassed, mainly by Dave. One night, after bringing Franky with her to work, Dave tells her its "not very sexy" and asks that she never does it again. Afterward, he gets on stage to sing, making his own salient comment that refers to the American dream: "There are some basic human needs. We try to cater to some of them, we can't get all of them." Though, in this case, he is making reference to his lascivious desires for Billy, it is still part of Gosling's underlying theme that there is something inherently flawed about American perception and expectation.
Fighting to stay in a town that clearly doesn't seem to want them, Billy, Bones and Rat ultimately seem to come to the conclusion that, to quote Rat's educational film about the reservoir, "A family is what makes a home." Therefore, it's okay to let go of the one you've worked to make for yourself.
Best Coast has obviously never been shy about which coast their loyalties lie with, and their third album, California Nights, serves to make it all the more evident. Even the release date for the record, May 5th a.k.a. Cinco de Mayo, smacks of some vague reference to the Mexicanness of California (note their record label used to be Mexican Summer). To be sure, the vehemence of both the title and the album cover defy any of its listeners not to fall in love with the Golden State (which is what mongos often refer to as the Sunshine State. No, that's Florida).
The sympathetic, understanding vocals of the opening track, "Feeling Ok," show us why we keep coming back to lead singer Bethany Cosentino for more: because she gets us and knows our lovelornness inside and out. Admitting, "I know someday you'll find it where I least expect it/When I get down, I get so down/But I'll keep trying to stay this way/But I know it's love that's got me feeling okay," Cosentino expresses the fear of losing a love that makes her feel halfway decent.
"Fine Without You" offers the flip side of Cosentino's personality: the independent, jilted lover who finds herself preferring life without her former object of her affection. She goads, "I know it's hard, I know it's hard to understand/The situation's out of your hands." Free of the emotional tyranny of another, Cosentino sounds at her most self-assured on this song.
"Heaven Sent," the third track, picks up the pace while still sustaining the melancholic, angst-ridden aura of Cosentino. The accompanying video features her wearing a Lana Del Rey-esque flower garland on her head and lamenting, "When you were gone, I wasn't good/I wasn't fine/I woke up in the morning losing my mind."
"In My Eyes" is an ardent appeal to the one Cosentino wronged as she wails, "What hurts the most is that you're gone and it hasn't even been that long/But you're in my eyes, you're in my eyes"--presumably "eyes" means, you know, like "mind's eye."
"So Unaware" is the closest Best Coast is capable of getting to philosophical examination, though, of course, that examination still stems from obsession with another. Cosentino mourns, "I can't get you out of my head/I stay awake, I stay alone/And I don't even answer my phone," continuing on an existential rant by demanding, "What is life? What is love? What's the meaning of it all/Do I even care or is just that I am so unaware?" We never quite get any answers.
The self-exploratory "When Will I Change" finds Cosentino grieving over the notion that the more time passes, the less adult she feels, singing, "The weight of the world crashes down on my shoulders/I'm a big girl now, but I don't feel much older." And again, "visions of love," to use the phrase Cosentino semi-borrows from Mariah Carey, are ultimately what seem to be driving her batty.
Unlike the Queen song of the same name, "Jealousy" is not so much about a lover being jealous of her significant other, but of the inability of the two of them to get along. Case in point: "We've been trying to get along, respect one another/And after all this time, we still fight over the small things/Why don't you like me?/What's with the jealousy?"
The dreamy, surreal title track, "California Nights," echoes the sentiments of most Californians and beyond in terms of the inherent need to remain numb at all times (typically via weed). Though, of course, one assumes Cosentino is also speaking from a metaphorical standpoint when she says, "I stay high all the time just to get by/I climb to the sky/And my eyes, they cry/California nights make me feel so happy I could die."
The beat picks up again with "Fading Fast," yet again employing the ironic musical tactic of pairing a fast tempo with morose lyrics. This time, the woe stems from the fact that: "This love will be the death of me and you'll always be a part of me/I see you when I close my eyes and I wish that I could realize/I know this love is fading past/I know that I can't change the past."
"Run Through My Head" expresses a common theme in love: one person moving on while the other hasn't been able to--and yet the former party is still willing to call up the latter when he's desperate enough or in need of some quick sexual relief. Cosentino breaks it down with: "You only call me when you're all alone/And I don't know why I pick up the phone/Guess I'm lonely and you are too." Her sadness reaches a zenith when she waxes, "It's a mystery why you left/I don't know why I'm second best."
"Sleep Won't Ever Come" is something of an homage to Green Day's "Brain Stew," though from a much softer, more feminine perspective. Like Billy Joe Armstrong, Cosentino's "eyes feel like they're gonna bleed" as she bemoans, "I've tried it all, I've tried it all/My brain just wants to fall asleep/Sleep won't ever come, sleep won't ever come to me." Searching for someone else to blame for her insomnia, she waxes, "I blame it on the moon, I blame it on my mood/I blame it on the world 'cause he can be so cruel."
The heady conclusion to California Nights, "Wasted Time," serves a dual purpose: 1) to tell the listener in a roundabout way, "I waited for you at the end" and 2) refer to a lover that wasted her time by noting, "I don't really mind all of this wasted time/Just wish that I had something to show for it." Indeed, what Best Coast has to show for it, once again, is an amazingly listenable album culled from heartache and California sunshine. Though one wonders where guitarist Bobb Bruno's emotions are in all of this.
With an opening scene that looks as though it could have been plucked right out of The Kroll Show, Jake (Nick Kroll) does a commercial for an upcoming product that looks like a knockoff of Google glass that he's poured all of his (and many other people's) money into. Ross Katz' first feature film not made for TV, Adult Beginners, then segues into a lavish New York launch party that also looks like a scene from The Kroll Show, specifically "Rich Dicks."
After an appropriately glossed over hiccup involving the failure of a Chinese factory to manufacture a key part for the product, Jake's empire crumbles before it can begin once news of this reaches all the tech websites. Reeking of shame and defeat, Jake retreats to New Rochelle in Westchester, where his sister, Justine (Rose Byrne, best known for her type A role in Bridesmaids), has taken over their parents' house with her own husband, Danny (Bobby Cannavale, best known for getting a blow job from Samantha Jones on Sex and the City), and their three-year-old son, Teddy (Caleb and Matthew Paddock, pulling an Olsen twins in one role).
Surprised to see Jake, so accustomed has she been to his absence and lack of interest in her life, Justine is more reluctant to let him stay with them than Danny, who suggests taking advantage of getting some child care out of the situation. Jake, though a child himself, agrees to the terms of staying with them, especially since Justine has another baby on the way and can't afford to miss any more work (she's a guidance counselor at the local high school).
Although we're supposed to infer that the premise of Jake taking responsibility for a child is naturally going to force his character to arc and imbue him with a level of maturity previously unknown, there is something decidedly hollow about his so-called transformation. The title of the film itself stems from the fact that Justine and Jake never learned how to swim as children (surely, you can see the symbolic nature of this), yet must accompany Teddy to a swim class where the teacher, Miss Jenn (Jane Krakowski, in a wasted role), suggests that the two of them take her Adult Beginners class.
After three months spent in seeming atrophy, Jake is offered a job by one of the dads of the kids he helps babysit for (he's gotten a reputation for superb nannying skills throughout New Rochelle). While Justine has assumed he's made an emotional connection to her family too lasting to leave, she chides herself for thinking that he has changed in any way--he's just as selfish as when he couldn't even be bothered to show up to the hospital when their mother was dying of cancer. But, of course, it wouldn't be a feel-good movie if this were really the case. All in all, Duplass Brothers Productions would have been better off producing a The Kroll Show Movie instead.
There's no question that Blake Lively was born to play the role of Serena Van Der Woodsen. And so, once Gossip Girl ended, her place in the pop culture world seemed somewhat perilous. True, she had appeared in films like The Town and Savages while Gossip Girl was still on the air, but these were never starring roles that required her to carry an entire film by herself. Thus, The Age of Adaline marks a noticeable sea change in Lively's career.
Directed by Lee Toland Krieger, of The Vicious Kind and Celeste and Jesse Forever fame, the hokey plot of The Age of Adaline manages to stay afloat because of Blake Lively's keen ability to bring Serena Van Der Woodsen to every character she portrays. She's that girl with a certain je ne sais quoi and unattainability that men go crazy for. As Adaline Bowman, a less trashy, more grown up version of Van Der Woodsen, Lively appropriates her etherealness for the benefit of the fantastical storyline.
To explain away some of the heavier issues/difficulties with suspending disbelief, the narrator (voiced by Hugh Ross) overly intervenes at times to convince us that Adaline's plight is completely possible. After getting into a car accident while snow fell in Sonoma County for the first time maybe ever, Adaline lands in freezing cold water, whereupon her temperature drops to 87 degrees, she technically dies and then gets struck by a bolt of lightning that resuscitates her and prevents her from enduring the aging process.
A little slow on the uptake, Adaline starts to catch on that something is off when people grow suspicious of the fact that her own daughter, Flemming (Ellen Burstyn), looks older than her. Considering she's supposed to be 45 years old right around the time of the Communist witch hunts in the 50s (specifically 1953, the year of the Rosenberg execution), the mistrust and skepticism she encounters from authorities is eerily substantial.
After being cornered by the Feds, Adaline escapes and begins her process of reinvention, changing identities every decade to avoid questions or controversy. Before changing her name, however, she meets a young American G.I. named William Jones in London, falls in love and goes back to San Francisco with him. On the way to meet him one day, however, she sees an engagement ring box in his hand and immediately has the epiphany that, no, of course she can't be with him--or anyone else. Until 2014, that is, when she swoons over, creepily enough, the son of the aforementioned G.I. (Harrison Ford).
Granted, Ellis Jones (Michiel Huisman, who bears a resemblance to Eric Bana) is the one who pursues her, even going so far as to find out her address (a move that vexes Adaline to no end). Wanting to resist his persistence, but unable to--especially after Flemming encourages the relationship--Adaline gives in against her better judgement. Subsequently, she has the awkward realization that William is Ellis' father after accompanying him to their home to celebrate his parents' fortieth wedding anniversary.
The disturbing implications of Adaline having boned both father and son alike do not seem to bother William as much as the fact that Adaline is going to disappear from Ellis' life the same way she did from his all those years ago. In the end, the overt message seems to be, if you wait long enough you're bound to find the love that was destined for you. That, or if you wait long enough you're bound to get struck by lightning twice.
Usually, it is those who are blind that seem to be able to see the most. However, in high school student Leonardo's (Ghilherme Lobo) case, this simply isn't true. Persecuted by bullies for his blindness, Leo's only real friend is Giovanna (Tess Amorim), who has known him since they were infants.
It isn't until a new student at school, Gabriel (Fabio Audi), comes along that Leo starts to feel like he's truly being seen for himself and not just as "the blind kid." As one of the only people willing to hang out with him apart from Giovanna, Leo immediately starts to show signs of preferring him to his decades-old friend. This treatment enrages Giovanna to no end, who seems to have feelings for both Gabriel and Leo.
To make matters worse for Giovanna, Leo and Gabriel are assigned to a group project together that leads them to further neglect her. Soon, Gabriel is, for lack of a better term, "making the moves" on Leo by playing him Belle and Sebastian, which we can all agree is the ultimate in intimacy and romanticism.
Unaware of his own feelings for Gabriel, Leo does his best to suppress them by channeling all of his frustration into the desire to go on an exchange program abroad. When his parents refuse to let him, Leo is extremely disappointed--a sentiment compounded by attending a birthday party for a popular student where his most ardent bully tricks him into thinking he's going to kiss another girl after a round of spin the bottle, but really it's just a dog being held up in front of him.
This isn't the only drama to take place at the party. Between Giovanna trying to kiss Gabriel and Gabriel drunkenly kissing Leo, emotions are running high after the event. Ultimately, of course, the strength of Leo and Gabriel's attraction wins out over any judgments wielded against them.
As Daniel Ribeiro's first feature-length film (based off a short called I Don't Want to Go Back Alone that utilizes the same characters), we're given a remarkable amount of subtlety throughout The Way He Looks. From the attenuated glances to the uncertain approaches and displays of misplaced anger as a result of jealousy, Ribeiro has the teenager's plight visually and emotionally mastered. And it's wonderful to watch unfold.
Usually, if a band hasn't released an album in over ten years, its likelihood for continuation is fairly slim. Especially when the two lead members of said band share a contentious rapport. Nonetheless, Britpop darlings Blur have set a new precedent with their eighth studio album, The Magic Whip.
Recorded in May of 2013 after the band was marooned in Hong Kong for five days after a festival they were supposed to play got cancelled, the songs recorded on The Magic Whip were intended as a creative distraction, though it's clear the band was looking for a reason to collaborate again.
The upbeat melancholy of "Lonesome Street" has tinges of a "For Tomorrow" backbeat as Albarn assures, "If you have nobody left to rely on/I'll hold you in my arms." Its video features a Napoleon Dynamite-esque tableau as an Asian man dances alone in front of a stereo and is later joined by a woman, and, later still, more women--all living on a metaphorical Lonesome Street.
"New World Towers" is decidedly focused on the aural style of solo Damon Albarn, with very little Coxon influence other than his subtle backing vocals. Ambient and strummy, it's even more laidback than "Lonesome Street." The distinct 90s alt-rock feel of "Go Out," with its confection-loving video, is the closest to "having fun" Blur gets on the album.
The video game/anime vibes of "Ice Cream Man" create one of the most interesting sounds on the record, accented by Albarn's repetition of "something new," as though to drive home the point that that's what this song is. Continuing the Asian-inspired flair is "Thought I Was A Spaceman," with its ethereal, dance-laden beats and Albarn's otherworldly voice mumbling, and the pace picking up with some xylophone action in the middle.
Video game-friendly sounds continue on "I Broadcast," an uptempo track with jubilant lyrical poetry like "the apparitions of another night." The echoing tone of Albarn's voice lends a futuristic feel to a song with presumable reference to the current human need to showcase everything he does.
Things slow down again on the romantic "My Terracotta Heart." The romantic element, however, seems to be in regard to the nostalgia of Blur itself with allusions like "when we were more like brothers, that was years ago." Perhaps The Magic Whip is the first step toward the closeness they once shared in their preliminary heyday. Following is "There Are Too Many of Us," which offers a none too subtle message about overpopulation and continues the trifecta of Asian-motifed videos, with Blur actually being featured in it, as an homage to their time spent recording.
The chill, relaxed "Ghost Ship," again, seems to address Blur's past inadvertently with the lyric, "I got away for a little awhile, but then it came back much harder." Albarn, who has had numerous successful projects in the wake of Blur's demise, including Gorillaz, The Good, The Bad and The Queen and his own solo work, has never seemed to fully get over the magic of Blur. Thus, trying to put the band's music aside for so long appears to have only made it more challenging for Albarn to ignore that it's his true passion.
Sounding like something out of a Quentin Tarantino soundtrack, "Pyongyang" is calm, cool and eerily collected in its execution. Persisting in self-reference, Albarn sings, "I look out the window to the island where I'm held," making an undeniable subliminal insinuation about being trapped in Hong Kong with his bandmates.
In spite of having yet another Asian-sounding title, "Ong Ong" possesses one of the most classicist Blur sounds. A little piano thrown in mixes up the guitar-heavy instrumentals as Albarn drones, "I wanna be with you" (still not over Frischmann, eh?). Its earnestness is beautifully contrasted against the erotic, sweltering musical backing of "Mirrorball." Coming across as far less interested vocally, Albarn lulls us into submission for the final blow to our auditory senses--unless, of course, you got the Japanese bonus track version and you still have "Y'all Doomed" to listen to.
Noah Baumbach, who has never been afraid of exploring topics that are liable to make one extremely squeamish with regard to exploring the spectrum of human psychological trauma, has done the unthinkable with his latest film: toe the delicate line between representing both sides of the "old"/"young" panorama.
In While We're Young, his eleventh film in the role of "just" screenwriter, Baumbach explores the extremes of twenties adulthood versus forties adulthood. The former involves a free-spirited, rose-colored glasses outlook on life, whereas the latter is all about reconciling with the fact that you're not young anymore and that you haven't been for quite some time. To portray this contrast, Baumbach wields the couple foils of Josh (Ben Stiller) and Cornelia (Naomi Watts) and Jamie (the always vexatious Adam Driver) and Darby (Amanda Seyfried, a long way from Karen in Mean Girls). Josh, a 44-year-old documentarian who has been working on the same documentary for nearly ten years, finds renewed interest in work and his life upon meeting Jamie and Darby in a continuing education class he teaches. Soon, he finds himself at dinner with them and Cornelia, riveted by everything they have to say--the wide-eyedness with which they still seem to view the world.
As an aspiring documentarian, Jamie seeks to absorb all the knowledge (and, ultimately, contacts) he can from Josh, who is just happy to have someone who looks up to and appreciates him. Cornelia, too, takes a liking to Darby in the wake of her best friend, Marina (Maria Dizzia), having a baby girl named Willow (telling of the Brooklyn location they all inhabit) and becoming consumed with what Cornelia calls the "baby cult." With Darby, she can simply go to hip hop classes and be (something of) herself.
So intense does the connection between the four of them become that they even attend an Ayahuasca ceremony together. Upon telling Marina this, she asks Cornelia what exactly that is, to which Cornelia explains it involves taking drugs and cleansing your demons by throwing them up--all while dressed in white. At the ceremony, Darby takes the annoying hipster factor up an even higher notch by saying, "I was falling asleep on the L train and forgot what the shape of a pineapple looked like." Indeed, it seems that both Darby and Jamie are intended as a hyper-parody of hipster youth culture. They live in Bushwick, after all, and watch VHS tapes and make artisanal ice cream and go to the junkyard to find wood to build tables. This contrast is paired quite well against a montage of Cornelia and Josh trying desperately to remain current with their use of phones, computers and Apple TV. The irony is rather obvious: the young seek a return to the past, clinging to some nostalgia they never actually experienced, while the old wish desperately to fit in with the present.
The expectations of how the plot will play out gets somewhat turned on its ear by the end of Act Two, with Jamie revealing himself to be a wolf in sheep's clothing, of which Darby notes, "You know how when you see a couple on the side of the road hitchhiking, you're more likely to pick them up than if it was just one guy? Well, that's what I am for Jamie." The paradox of Jamie being this hungry-for-success, ruthless sort of fame-seeker is that it vaguely echoes another character Ben Stiller himself once played in Reality Bites: that of Michael Grates, a young TV executive in charge of reality programming for an MTV-like network. Granted, he was far more well-intentioned, perhaps a sign of the times (or is that just nostalgia talking?).
Although Baumbach wavers a bit on the message he's ultimately trying to convey (which seems to be that both youngs and olds are flawed and must grapple with equally shitty circumstances at particular crossroads in their life), While We're Young fosters a belief in accepting oneself--age bracket be damned. It also promotes the notion that it is possible for millennials and Gen Xers to be friends--so long as Gen Xers watch their back at all times. It's like Josh says at the end of the film: "He's not evil. Just young."
Brandy Burre is not exactly an actress with an IMDB page that screams "powerhouse." Her best known role was as Theresa D'Agostino on The Wire, during which time she appeared on fifteen episodes. This was from 2004 to 2006, after which she seemed to disappear into the abyss--better known as embracing domesticity, motherhood and moving to suburbia (Beacon, New York).
So what can you do when you've given up your dream for the nightmare? Document it. "I'm not working, so this is my outlet," says Burre at one point in the film. The "this" in question is the documentary by Robert Greene (known for the pro-wrestling exposé, of sorts, Fake It So Real), entitled simply Actress.
In spite of proclaiming the usual guilty mother statement about loving her children (she has two) but no longer having any time for herself, Burre takes relief when they depart with her husband for a long weekend. It is during this time that she seizes her opportunity for freedom by cheating on her everyman sort of husband, Tim. Naturally (and conveniently for the drama of the story), Tim finds out about her indiscretion after discovering something incriminating on her computer.
Burre takes the unraveling of her marriage as a sign to continue to pursue her true passion: acting.The fortuitousness of being neighbors with Robert Greene perhaps further proved that the screen was not ready to lose her--the film of Burre's life ultimately being what needed to come out of her time spent in housewifery .
"I'm clumsy...not very graceful." So concludes Robert Greene's documentary, with Burre appearing before the camera with a black eye after having auditioned in New York. The damage to her face is, obviously, not going to help her land any roles anytime soon. Though she did have one recently in 2014's Listen Up Philip starring Jason Schwartzman. So will she keep going after this, subjecting herself to the cruel scrutiny directed at actresses of a certain age (a subject she addresses with vitriol)? Presumably. Because the call to do something you want never really dies until your soul does.
No matter how many times Cinderella is reinvented, it will always be repackaged and repurposed time and time again. In its latest incarnation, the interpretation comes from beloved Brit Kenneth Branagh and possesses a decidedly rose-colored glasses viewpoint--counterbalanced by the extreme bitchery of Cate Blanchett, who plays the wicked stepmother, Lady Tremaine.
Written by Chris Weitz, who has worked on diverse projects ranging from Antz to American Pie to About A Boy, the story is told from a classicist's perspective. Ella (Lily James, in her first major role) is born to two loving parents who treat her like a princess--and, in her own way, she is, reigning over their country home that her father provides for through his profession as a merchant. Of course, Ella's picturesque state of existence comes to a grinding halt when her mother takes ill and dies. Before her demise, however, she instructs Ella, "Have courage and be kind." (a phrase that is indoctrinated fully into its audience by the film's end).
Taking her mother's advice to heart, Ella always does her best to see everything in a positive light--finding magic in even the simplest of pleasures (e.g. hanging out with a crew of mice, which comes off as a lot more disgusting when they're not animated). This task becomes a bit of an undertaking when her father announces his plans to remarry Lady Tremaine (Blanchett) and bring her daughters, Drisella (Sophie McShera) and Anastasia (Holliday Grainger), to live with them in their house. At first pleased for her father, Ella is given a rude awakening at the overt cruelty of her step-family, which quickly intensifies after her father leaves for another months-long business trip.
Lady Tremaine "politely" suggests that Ella stay in the attic in order to give her stepsisters the bigger room to share. Hurt, but willing, Ella agrees, her father's return the one thing keeping her going. But alas, he never does make it back from the trip. His death gives Lady Tremaine all the license she needs to treat Ella (soon dubbed Cinderella after she gets ash all over herself from sleeping by the fire) like total shit.
Nonetheless, she stays to endure the pain for the sake of her parents, who made her promise to always love and cherish their home. But her wherewithal can only last so long in the face of her step-family's extreme sadism. From verbal abuse to imposed servitude, Cinderella can only find comfort in her animals, taking refuge in the forest on one of her horses where she encounters Kit a.k.a. Prince Charming (Richard Madden). Invigorated by this fortuitous meeting, Cinderella finds new hope in life after Kit announces to the entire kingdom that he will be holding a ball, which all ladies--common or not--are invited.
It is at this point that Cate Blanchett puts her acting skills as an icy cunt to the test, ripping Cinderella's mother's dress to pieces when she attempts to attend the ball. But it's all for the best, as this allows Cinderella's fairy godmother (Helena Bonham Carter, who also narrates the story) to make a cameo and save the day. By now, you shouldn't need any guidance on how the rest of story plays out, suffice it to say that the realest piece of wisdom comes at the end, with the fairy godmother noting of Cinderella revealing her true identity to the prince, "The greatest risk one can take is to show who they truly are to another person." Indeed, this is why so many people prefer to remain single in the current non-fairy tale era.