Progressive Wednesday

The TGIF Movie Review: Zodiac

It’s not that I kowtow to David Fincher, but I do tend to dig his flicks: Fight Club, Panic Room and The Game, which includes my favorite not-safe-for-work piece of dialog ever (just click here… it’s the third section of quotations down). Zodiac is Fincher’s latest piece of cinematic brilliance, and this one stars Jake Gyllenhaal, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chloë Sevigny. The film loosely tells the story of the Zodiac killer, a serial murderer who terrified San Francisco residents during the late ’60s and early ’70s, and who mystified the authorities, intensionally and successfully.

But the movie isn’t really about the brutality of the murders (and they are brutal) or the murders themselves. And the film’s not really about who actually committed the murders (though we’re led to believe who it likely is/was). This film is really about Robert Graysmith (played with an unaffected texture by Jake Gyllenhaal), a cartoonist at the San Francisco Chronicle when the Zodiac killer began sending cryptic letters to the area’s newspapers. These hand-written letters include admissions to certain killings, matter-of-fact explanations of why he enjoyed killing people, demands that newspapers print some of his letters (which they do), and coded messages, most of which were never cracked.

But here’s a sampling of one of the few ciphers figured out: “I like killing people because it is so much fun. It is more fun than killing wild game in the forest, because man is the most dangerous animal of all … I will not give you my name because you will try to slow down or stop my collecting of slaves.” You get the rated-R idea.

After several years of letters received, unsolved murders, and unsuccessful leads, the police and reporters essentially give up trying to crack the case. But Graysmith can’t let go. He obsesses, quits his job, and starts tracking down leads let go years and years ago, crossing over several different police jurisdictions, interviewing cops, neighbors, surviving victims, and reporters. In the end, he writes two true-crime books, Zodiac and Zodiac Unmasked: the Identity of America’s Most Elusive Serial Killer. But this all comes with heavy prices.

And so this is a film about secrets kept and secrets we reveal, about safe and unsafe obsessions, about deaths and the ways we lead our little lives. Zodiac is a piece of gripping film-making that leaves your mouth agape and your mind wanting more.

Enjoy….

P.S. I can’t vouch for the validity of this website, but it might be worth checking out after seeing the film.

The TGIF Movie Review: Into the Wild

As I mentioned this past Monday, I adore the film Into the Wild, the inspired-by-a-true-story flick Sean Penn directed and scribed based on the book by the same name. It’s a must-read, a book written with a deft hand and kind heart by Jon Krakauer. More importantly, as far as this Friday is concerned, Into the Wild is must-see. For the first time in Progressive Wednesday history (yes, we’re history makers here), I’m reviewing a piece of cinema still in the cinemas. Why? Because this is a beautiful work of art, a combination of powerful acting, an original soundtrack written and performed by Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam fame, and visuals that will leave your mouth agape.

So, Matt, what’s the story? Oh, the story. The story is about Christopher McCandless. In 1992, after graduating with honors from Emory University, Chris dropped off the face of the earth to those who knew him. He donated his savings to Oxfam, burned his cash on-hand, cut up his driver’s license, and abandoned his car. He hoofed, hiked, kayaked, and hopped trains all over the country for two solid years. He worked when he needed some money for equipment or meager amounts of food and drink, but he led a tramping life, one of solitude and revelation ending in Alaska. I’m going to give something away: Chris dies. The end isn’t what matters: the why and how of the way he viewed life matter.

This is a story about new friendships, enthusiasm for solitude, male identity, and a consumer culture gone haywire. This is about a world that drives some to drink, others to hit the open road. This is a film about the only two things meaningful: how we live and how we die. This movie makes you want to get off your ass and do something, anything, before the final period is typed and our stories come to close.

So do something for me: watch this film. And then? And then do something you’ve always wanted to do: if only for a few moments, be free.

The big three, part vi.

Today, well, today’s our first Monday back in the saddle, so it’s kind of a special Lunes, Lundi, Montag, and Seg around these here parts, partner.

It took some somewhat serious searching, but I hunted around and found a theater nearby (assuming you consider 45 minutes away “nearby”) playing Into the Wild, the based-on-a-true-story flick Sean Penn directed and scribed based on the book by the same name. It’s a must-read (it’s my favorite book for now–I’m assuming my first book will ultimately take over the top slot) and a must-see. But it’s also a must-listen. The original soundtrack was written and performed by Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam fame, and his grizzled vocals mixed with killer lyrics lift the film to another level like an aesthetic elevator.

So first up, here’s the video for the song “Hard Sun.” Dig it.

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Here's a poem. (Those of you rolling your eyes, be prepared to have your lids pulled back by the beauty of this gem.) So, like I was saying, here's a poem by my friend Aimee Nezhukumatathil from her latest book, At the Drive-In Volcano.

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WHEN WEAVER ANTS CUT (A VALENTINE)
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I love the dance of every one helping.
Each ant chews and chews a bit of juicyleaf
and stands on his back four legs to raise
the leaf shape up high above his head.
The congo line– ”a honey shimmer of bodies
rushing to bring the cut leaf home. For twelve
years, the ruler of Garwara was a jackal.
All the laughing in that town cannot
compare to what you have brought
into my home: a filament of light inside
a dark jellyfish bell. It's this dance of ants
down a tree, around a stubborn frog– ”I want
to dance with you– ”how brave the line,
how tiny the step, a hundred green valentines.

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(Do yourself a favor, buckaroo, and order her book by clicking here.)

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Finally, I’ll toss you a delightful bubblegum-pop softball in the form of “Beverly Hills– by the band Weezer. I'm a fan of this video because it was shot at the Playboy Mansion. And that's not really why I dig it. I dig it because the irony of the song was lost of Hugh Hefner and his delicate brand of misogyny.

The big three one, part v.

Okay, it ain’t Monday, but, you know, most of the white-collar United States world had the day off, so here we are with a pick-me-up on Tuesday (particularly useful if you’re a Bills fan and watched a colossal disappointment on last night on MNF).

Instead of three, I’m only giving you one today, because I can’t pull myself away from this tune enough to come up with two others I’d rather hear, and therefore, rather share, dear readers. The song? “1234.” The musician? Feist. This number blends all the right things together, resulting in a bittersweetness morphed into an infectious hopefulness. It calls to mind the group singing of Polyphonic Spree, the avant-rock orchestral arrangement of Anathallo on “A Great Wind More Ash” and Arcade Fire on “Wake Up,”and the pure pop of Fiona Apple’s “Paper Bag” and Wilco’s “I’m Always in Love.”

And the lyrics? Check these out: “Sweetheart, bitterheart, now I can’t tell you apart. / Cozy and cold, put the horse before the cart. / Those teenage hopes, who have tears in their eyes, / too scared to own up to one little lie.”

In my book, “1234″ is the best of many worlds, and a welcome reminder of the power of music done “just so.” Plus, I’m a sucker for hand clapping, baby. So here’s the “official” video for the song, as well as live versions performed on Letterman (a must-see!) and O’Brien. Enjoy….

The big three, part iii.

Well, here we are: another Monday, dear readers. So, as we did the last two weeks, we’re going to offer up a triptych of art for your eyes and ears, brains and, hopefully, hearts.

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I really don’t want to write much about this video of…what I guess I’d call “performance art” at its most witty and whimsical. And I’ll say this: I’m glad there are people out there doing this kind of thing.

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Here’s a lovely and energized poem by Frank O’Hara simply called “Song.”

O’Hara, a curator at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City from 1960-1966, wrote with an urgency on par with folks like Gertrude Stein and Walt Whitman. Unlike the former, his poems tend to make a bit more logical sense. Unlike the latter, his poems tend toward something more intimate. In his poetics manifesto, O’Hara wrote:

I went back to work and wrote a poem for [a] person. While I was writing it I was realizing that if I wanted to I could use the telephone instead of writing the poem, and so [my poetic philosophy] was born. It's a very exciting movement which will undoubtedly have lots of adherents. It puts the poem squarely between the poet and the person, and the poem is correspondingly gratified. The poem is at last between two persons instead of two pages.

As a writer, I applaud and adopt this sensibility whenever possible. And there’s some odd correlation for me between his philosophy and his early death (he was 40) after a sand buggy accident on Fire Island.

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SONG

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Did you see me walking by the Buick Repairs?

I was thinking of you

having a Coke in the heat it was your face

I saw on the movie magazine, no it was Fabian's

I was thinking of you

and down at the railroad tracks where the station

has mysteriously disappeared

I was thinking of you

as the bus pulled away in the twilight

I was thinking of you

and right now

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So, since it is Monday, why not close things off with a rock-till-you-freaking-drop tune called “Monday.” In case you’re new to the site or suffer from some sort of one-track-mind-ism (and you’re train is still boarding at the station), I dig on Wilco. That alt-country/avant-rock outfit is my Disney World. And here’s video of them kicking the aforementioned rocker from their sophomore effort, Being There. The footage, I should mention, comes to us from I Am Trying to Break Your Heart, a documentary by Sam Jones of the band recording then touring on their post-modern masterpiece, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

The TGIF Movie Review: The Matador

Before I really begin this review, a big, big, oh-so-big slab of thanks to the woman working at Blockbuster who, while helping me find this flick, told me to look under “M” for “Matador” and not “T” for “The.” What ever would I have done without her?

So, now, the review. The Matador is easily one of the funniest flicks to come out of 2005; there were moments where it was hard to catch my breath I was laughing so hard. This film stars Pierce Brosnan as Julian Noble, an assassin-for-hire, who runs into Danny Wright, played by Greg Kinnear, a down-on-his-luck salesman. By random chance, they bumped into one another in a Mexican hotel bar, and they subsequently begin an odd, but useful, friendship. Julian takes Danny to a bullfight, shows him how to kill a man, helps him through a bind, and then, six months later, shows up at Danny’s doorstep in need of a big favor. Danny, reluctant but indebted, obliges.

While The Matador is definitely a dark comedy, there’s an underlying tension: righteousness versus ruthlessness. The two, the film seems to argue, are closer than we care to imagine, blurring together when we think they’re separate. Danny’s a businessman and Julian sees himself as the same, creating another theme: Machiavellianism as a way to make gains.

But while the story is fresh and fun with its serious undertones, it’s Kinnear’s pitch-perfect squirming, and Brosnan’s killer delivery of hilarious dialog that make this an absolute must-see. So, here’s just a sampling of some of Brosnan’s lines (these ain’t safe for the kiddies):

• “I’m as serious as an erection problem.”
• “I look like a Bangkok hooker on a Sunday morning, after the navy’s left town.”
• “I need a break. There’s no retirement home for assassins is there? Archery at four. Riflery at five.”
• “An assassin without confidence is a horrible thing to behold. It’s like a relief pitcher who fumbles the ball.”
• “My handler, Mr. Randy, contacted me the way he always does, through an ad in the International Tribune looking for cat sitters in Bali.”
• “I didn’t mean to weird you out. I was wrong, please. I just get paranoid sometimes. I’m drunk. I’m tired, and I’ve just been fornicating for the past two hours.”

Check it out… it’s under two hours:

The big three, part ii.

As the Mamas and the Papas put it: “Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day.” So, in our continuous quest to help you trust Mondays more, here’s today’s trio o’ art.

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First up: Art 21. This is a PBS serious now in its fourth incarnation highlighting contemporary visual artists. I’ve enjoyed this “documentary” a great deal: I’m a bit of a modern/contemporary art fanatic (the MoMA and the Albright-Knox Art Gallery are my museums of choice). Art 21 Season 4 airs on October 28, November 4, 11, and 18 at 10 PM (EST).

Check out the trailer to get a taste….

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I’ve been thinking back on my years in Columbus, Ohio (nearly a decade), and I can’t think about my time there without waxing nostalgic about beating a confession out of my drums for six different bands. Two of my former outfits — Jack Diesel and Lower Lights Burning — kicked the crap out of “Can’t Hardly Wait,” a tune recorded by the band Paul Westerberg fronted, The Replacements.

The Replacements were notorious for getting intensely drunk before gigs, drunk to the point of falling down on stage, unable to remember lyrics. I wish, wish, wish I’d seen this, but at the same time, thankfully, I lived it: at one of my gigs, our lead singer Jimmy, lover of whiskey and all things beer, literally plummeted into my kit mid-song, sending a crash cymbal flying, slicing open the hand of our bassist. It was, in all seriousness, fantastic. So here’s to Jimmy, and here’s to The Replacements.

Besides all of that, I love the lick that drives the song, and I dig the lyrics ’cause there’s something urgent in the closing chorus that just rings true. So here’s a sober Mr. Westerberg and his backing band playing “Can’t Hardly Wait” on Saturday Night Live. (My apologies for their suits and the bizarre antics of the drummer… just listen, yo.)

(I can’t embed the video here so just click this sentence to give it a spin.)

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Because a little nepotism goes a long way, I thought I’d highlight three photos I adore, all of which were clicked by James Robinson, our very own photography editor.

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To see more of his work, just click this here sentence, baby.