Live Review

Is the most important part of a comedy show the laughs? If what's happening onstage is funny enough to have people doubled over in their seats, then it would seem they could consider themselves entertained. While student-run improv troupe Monkapult's end of the quarter performance in Balch theater certainly offered up consistent laughs, this particular performance was uneven to the point of distraction, and displayed a worrying rift between the newcomers and those who've been doing this for years.

Monkapult leaders and K seniors Alex Clothier, Ben Harpe, Terry Cangelosi, and Andrew Dombos have consistently used their grace, wit, and panache to create hysterical scenes that can succeed without any satellite performers, as evidenced by the Just Panda shows they perform with a scaled-back, more concentrated cast. Michelle Myers and Cooper Wilson, a junior and sophomore respectively, are also strong presences capable of creating and sustaining individual and group energy in scenes. They know when to give and when to take.

But the freshmen, for the most part, brought things down a notch on Friday. The night started with a game called "Hey Dude", a twist on the traveling message game "Telephone". Watching the original gestures be reinterpreted both physically and verbally was mildly amusing, but anyone who's played Telephone knows that the game loses meaning when people purposefully make easy, ridiculous embellishments on the original words and -- big surprise! The end result is something nutty. In this game, it's equally as lame to watch the truth in the scene derailed by someone going for cheap, easy laughs. Sam Bertken did this when he exaggerated things like "going to Frelon rehearsal" into "trying to dirty dance with girls to get them to come back to my room with me." It felt insincere and sacrificed the rest of the scene.

The majority of the show after that was comprised of a long-form game that started with one-word suggestions and developed into an expectedly loopy plot with crazy characters. Groups of three or four improviser interacted in short vignettes that established a story about a man who sold his soul to his brother. Cooper's rough and gravelly grandpa was hilarious and showed off his excellent pantomime skills; at one point he mimed setting out tobacco leaves and rolling papers, then told his adolescent grandchildren whoever could roll the fastest cigar would get to be an honorary adult for the day. The two grandchildren didn't do much besides repeat the same joke about cards 10 or so times.

Alex was equally funny as a rugged agriculture sage trying to teach more children how to handle themselves around a giant ox, played brilliantly by Dombos. "See Duke's a little bit of the MVP of the tillin' world. Lot of people tryin' to steal him. So whenever you're out there with Duke... you gotta pack heat." For all the laughs he got, it was obvious that without him the scene would be going nowhere. Ben's scene involving a stubborn woman not wanting to sit in a chair felt limp and static because no matter what energy he was giving, it just wasn't matched by those around him. The two freshman girls don't have the strong female presence Grace McGookey and Emily Harpe had, and the lack of physical comedy from study-abroad juniors Michael Chodos and Vince Kusiak kept things tame.

Perhaps the most telling part of the night was the introduction. As the lights dimmed and audience expectations were running high, a band of conspicuously unfamiliar impersonators took the stage and proudly declared, "We are Monkapult!" Everyone immediately understood the gag, which was both charming in its surprise and relieving in that we knew our beloved theater majors were somewhere hidden backstage. But after watching tonight's lopsided performance, it seems inevitable that Alex, Ben, Terry, and Dombos' graduation this spring will leave the team looking like a group of impersonators.

You taste like a burger. I don't like you anymore.

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I've had a legitimate man-crush on Paul Rudd ever since I saw "Wet Hot American Summer", so I eagerly read this profile of him by Dennis Lim on the Times' website. Going backwards from his new movie, "I Love You, Man", Lim traces Mr. Rudd's eclectic career with authority, insight, and charm. He touches on the "critical edge" part of our class's celebrity profiles when he brings up the fact that this new movie "fits squarely within the current vogue in American comedy for what sociologists would call homosocial intimacy and what MTV and trend-article writers have termed the bromance." Someone should have done their final on bros of the 21st century.

Miss March - Worst movie.

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I became intrigued by the movie "Miss March" when I saw that it had an overall score of 0% on Rotten Tomatoes, something only a true disaster could attain. The first clip of a review I read was scathing. "Cregger and Moore not only star in "Miss March," they wrote and directed it too, which seems like a selfless act akin to throwing yourself on a live grenade, protecting any innocent careers around you from getting hit by flying shrapnel," which made me even more interested. A teen sex comedy about a guy waking up from a 4 year coma to go on a cross country mission to win back his high school sweetheart that became a Playboy model in the meantime sounds pretty embarrassingly awful, and I wanted to hear A.O. Scott or Manohla tear it apart. But instead I got this disappointing piece by Rachel Saltz, the Times' resident Bollywood expert who apparently doesn't have the bloodthirst of her fellow critics. She lets this one off easy.

Her lede is pretty meh as a reductive plot summary, but the overhyphenated laundry list has a note of exasperation and it seems like she's ready to rant about how bad this movie is in the next paragraph. Psych. Unlike any of the other caustic reviews I've read, she actually tries to defend the comic sensibilities of its creators. But her praise is so vague and unsupported that I'm left feeling like she didn't really know what to say. Just read this:

"Mr. Cregger and Mr. Moore understand the ABC’s of comic opposites and comedy plotting. After Eugene wakes from his coma, Tucker springs him from the hospital for a road trip. Destination: the Playboy Mansion. And the ending neatly ties up all the plotlines."

Don't get me wrong, I don't consider myself a great critic and don't think I would've done any better under whatever the insane deadlines are at the NYT, but I feel like this is comparatively pretty mediocre, if not bad, compared to a lot of the other movie reviews we've read this quarter. "The ending neatly ties up all the plotlines?" That sounds like something I would have tried to write in my review of Gran Torino when I didn't know what the hell else to put but needed words. And how is the plot description line supposed to be evidence for the two guys understanding "the ABC's of comic opposites and comedy plotting"? What are the ABC's of comedy plotting anyway? Care to give an example? I feel like this says nothing.

The "but" comes at the beginning of the 4th paragraph, and it's as understated as the rest of the review: The problem with “Miss March” is that it isn’t very funny." Straight to the point, yes, but now you've got me ready for some panning. But she proceeds to riddle off a list of random disparate elements, then accuse the movie of being "tame". And when you're going to do the whole, "the guy behind me in the theater said something so hilariously insightful it sums up the movie and my opinion so perfectly that I'll use his quote as a conclusion" thing, the quote better be actually good.

The whole time I was just waiting for her to slay this thing and she did nothing but caress it gently then poke the air around it. I clearly need to step away from this.

The struggle of reviewing something extremely polarizing

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I know I keep linking to music reviews from the same site, but I think a lot of the writing on CokeMachineGlow is entertaining and intriguing, if needlessly wordy and pretentious. You usually just have to pretend the reviews have nothing to do with the album in question. This particular review brought up a question about criticism: If something's so extreme that the vast majority of people will not like it, do you have to qualify your review with warnings? And what;s the difference between liking the idea of something ("sounds good on paper") and actually enjoying the thing itself?

Using "Cities of Glass" by noise rock band AIDS Wolf as a starting point, Calum Marsh discusses the dilemma of recommending such an inaccessible album:

"Few bands, even those who specialize in abrasive music, come off as such an outright affront to standard conventions of taste and sensibility. Make no mistake: Cities Of Glass is a fucking assault. This is the kind of album that critics love to review because they get to come up with all sorts of creative ways of saying that this is loud, noisy music that is difficult to talk about in any context other than just how loud and noisy it is. Which is a shame, really, because for me what’s most exciting about Cities Of Glass is that it raises a lot of questions about the nature of not just music (“Is noise really music?”; “Are certain kinds of sounds inherently more appealing than others?”) but, more interestingly, about music criticism and the problem of taste. For instance: I generally like this record, and would recommend it to others, but I know perfectly well that most people—and not just Joe Top-40 or your grandparents, but discerning listeners who think of themselves as people with “good taste” in music—will not enjoy it."

Marsh avoids describing the loudness and noisiness and instead focuses on how polarizing the loudness and noisiness is. Based on the above average score and lack of complaints besides "other people wouldn't like this", it's interesting to see in the final paragraph that there's a reason he doesn't describe the sound in depth: he doesn't actually like it. "I think the album does a lot of really interesting things and has a lot going for it, but it isn’t very much fun to actually listen to." This review gave me a similar feeling: it asks some interesting questions, but isn't very effective in describing anything in particular about the music. I wanted him to take a risk and tell me why, regardless of what most people would think, this music is potentially worth listening to.

This review has almost no opinion, and yet I still found it worth reading. Hmm...

Holy Snark

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When Calum Marsh sat down to review electro-house duo MSTRKRFT's (mastercraft) new album, Fist of God, he must have been overwhelmed with disdain. I'll admit that I was offended by the godawful album cover, but this guy is seriously pissed that this music even exists. So instead of articulating why the music itself is so bad, he projects his anger onto the subculture of hipsterdom that supposedly surrounds it by writing a sardonic screenplay type thing.

I appreciated the inventiveness of reviewing an album with a script, but after reading it, I have no idea what the album sounds like. However, I CAN tell you that "The only people who like MSTRKRFT are these samey hipsters. They do lots of coke and read VICE and wear nothing but American Apparel and listen to shitty music like this." With all the snobbish judgment about stereotypes of people that might listen to this album, there's no room for descriptions of the actual sounds on the album. The only ones you get are "hollow and dull" and "They want to be like Daft Punk," which doesn't even count. His bottom line is that the fans of MSTRKRFT suck, and therefore the music sucks.

In terms of consumer advocacy, this review fails pretty badly. But he does bring up an interesting idea about suspending one's standards for things intended to be mindless fun. The idea being that "anything which is aware of its own vacuity and overall dumbness is suddenly and completely exempt from any criticism of it being just that." And it's even more interesting based on the amount of self-awareness this review has, with Calum's imaginary friend asking him at one point, "I’m just wondering why you didn’t just write a few paragraphs about Fist Of God, commenting on its homogeneity and blandness, attacking it for sounding dull and boring and vacuous and so on, rather than writing this script thing, whatever it is, and barely talking about the music on the album at all."

Is his review exempt from the usual functions of criticism because it avoids those goals? It's not informative nor does it give me a good idea of whether or not I should spend my money/time. The (purposeful?) irony is that the only real reason to read this review is for the simple entertainment it provides in the roasting of hipsters.

But seriously, look at how ugly that cover is.

The beginnings of an untitled final

In an impressive display of awareness, the Recording Industry Association of America, the music industry's legislative arm that sues the pants off dead grandmothers for alleged "copyright infringement", finally ceased taking music fans to court in December 2008 after realizing that legal battles were an ineffective deterrent and didn't resolve the problem whatsoever. If the recession is making mortgage payments a struggle, it's hard to imagine being able to hand over $4 million in copyright infringement fees. As the RIAA pursues other avenues to bust music pirates, the labels are still left struggling to find ways to get people to pay for music in a culture that has already embraced the idea of music being something you collect in large volumes, and trade freely with your friends.

File-sharing between computers has been around since the IBM heyday of the 80's, but broadband internet and the seminal peer-to-peer program Napster familiarized the mainstream with the MP3 like never before. Music became an all-you-can-eat digital buffet, and independent web sites like Oink's Pink Palace offered a library more comprehensive than any record store on earth, in any format, and at no cost. The unprecedented digital model was more efficient than record stores, it was powered by music fans, and, well, it was free. How do you beat free?

Obviously the labels were feeling a bit threatened, so the RIAA launched a legal assault on 35,000 music pirates over the next 5 years, employing illegal investigative methods, harassment, and impersonation to bully everyone from 4 year old girls to stroke victims. PR disasters such as these helped paint the music industry as a corporation of greedy, malicious, and ignorant dinosaur-thugs who couldn't understand fan's attempts to rebel against the outdated structure of the entertainment industry.

The unprecedented amount of control the internet offers over music is tantalizing because it shifts power back to the fans and makes it possible for people to listen to, learn about, and share music they might otherwise never hear. A survey by Yankelovich Partners for the Digital Media Association found that about half of the music fans in the United States turn to the Internet to search for artists they don't hear on local radio stations. If the range of one's music choices is limited to homogenized Top 40 radio and the meager selection of overpriced CDs at Wal-Mart, is it really any wonder that people want to expand their options and give themselves access to what's really out there?

Apparently, the answer is yes. Instead of capitalizing on the thrilling new possibilities technology afforded them, the "Big Four" (Universal, Sony, Warner, EMI) have refused to alter their business models to work with changes in the marketplace, instead pointing fingers and blaming music piracy for lost sales. Now the industry's ship is in the middle of the Atlantic and it's sinking. For the past eight years, CD sales have continually plummeted while digital downloads, both legal and illegal, have flourished.

The economic stormclouds of 2009 only magnify the main argument of the immoral music thieves against the evil oligarchy of major record labels: music is too expensive. Complaints about overpriced CDs (and the absurd amounts of money harmless music fans can be fined for copyright violations) have never felt more real and urgent. Despite CDs being approximately 25% cheaper than they were in 2000, fans and labels cannot see eye-to-eye anymore.

After the industry walloped on their heads with lawsuits, conquered and crippled their favorite online resources, imposed clumsy and ineffective protection technology on their still overpriced music, fans lost all trust in the industry as an entity that cared about their interests. There is no longer the two-way trust relationship that existed in the 90's between fan and retailer.

Paying $20 for a CD was acceptable because the customer could believe in the fact that they were getting a high quality product, complete with liner notes and album artwork. Distributors were willing to put the time and effort into such quality releases based on the assurance that their customers weren't online stealing their product. Then the aggressive push of technology combined with the arrogant response from the industry left music fans to choose between bending over to the whims of major labels or becoming a criminal. And instead of popular music getting a bit more adventurous and experimental due to the influx of new music suddenly available online, the decrease in sales caused label executives to only properly promote safe, easy acts they know have a better chance of selling, such as The Jonas Brothers.

So now that sales are in the toilet, artists and businessmen will have to engage in a musical survival of the fittest. How do you get anyone to pay for your music if it's available online? Aside from releasing great music, the answer seems to be incentives. English rock band Radiohead embraced this new, digital platform and decided to self-release their last record, In Rainbows online with a "pay-what-you-want-to" pricing scheme that allowed people to acquire the music while paying what they ultimately thought it to be worth. Trent Reznor and Nine Inch Nails have been giving fans incentives that can't be replicated online, such as CDs that change color after being heated up in a CD player. Even a band as huge as U2 took extra steps...

Realizing that the determination of fans to share music is stronger than the determination of corporations to stop it.

Musical Evolution

Save for vocal harmonies reminiscent of the Beach Boys, Animal Collective have created nine albums in nine years that sound like nothing else ever recorded. Through unrelenting experimentation they have become the progenitors of lo-fi fairy-tale pop, formless noise soundscapes, and tribal psychedelic-folk. With their latest album, Merriweather Post Pavilion, AC have embraced the low-end punch of hip-hop, the hypnotic repetition of house, and the euphoric infectiousness of pop to create something wholly unique once again.

 

The song structures are based on expanding and contracting loops and samples played under the animated and versatile vocal interactions of members nicknamed Avey Tare and Panda Bear. Aural wonders such as the waterlogged rumblings that start "Bluish" or the 8-bit Galaga cascades that stutter across "Daily Routine" create an atmosphere for a pulsing rhythm to swell up in as the dual vocalists leap over each other in soaring melody. The electronic snippets of sound evoke utopian dream-worlds, such as the mystical chirping forest in "In the Flowers".

 

Gone are the slow drones and jittery chords, replaced with layers of upbeat, propulsive percussion and sunshine drenched harmonies. The balance between experimental tendencies and pop conventions has been found, creating a refreshingly eclectic sound with instant appeal. This is the apotheosis of the Collective's ever-increasing pop sensibilities; the two vocalists bounce and breeze in saccharine swirls and soaring anthems while jaunty loops expand and mutate around them. Heavy reverb lends to the sensation that some of the sounds are being transmitted from underwater, which complements the dense production and thick, chugging bass.

 

There's a reason this album is named after an outdoor concert venue in Maryland -- it needs to be blasted, preferably with colossal, organ-rumbling bass. Like any good concert, these songs are meant to be felt, providing blissful physical catharsis through explosions of euphoria. The deep bass and handclaps of "My Girls" climaxes several times with a cymbal rush and ecstatic "Waoo!" that feels like jumping off a pier as a child. Repetition creates tension that can only be relieved by vocal chants and howls.

 

The strong beats weaved throughout give the album a coherence and playability that make it easy to put on repeat. But listening closely to the lyrics reveals a refreshing humanity in their desire for the simple pleasures in life -- a home for one's family, stable friends, shared happiness. In the resplendent album closer "Brothersport", Panda Bear encourages his brother in the wake of their father's death by urging him to "Open up your throat/You've got so much inside/Let it all come out". The beat becomes increasingly joyous, and the infectiousness and positivity of the entire album culminates as the whole thing comes to a close. 

 

What's perhaps most impressive is AC's love for music that has allowed them to continually innovate new sounds over this past decade. They have honed their aesthetic on this album with a clarity of vision, sense of humanity, and staggering creativity that feels rare in the music industry today. Music this fresh and uplifting feels like a blessing.

Review Outline

- Band context - what do their other records sound like, what led to this new one

- Attempt at an explanation of what the new songs sound like, how they are put together

- Why the volume needs to be turned up

- Support for what, specifically, I enjoy about it

- Conclusion that represents the bigger picture of the band

Writing the "Taxi" review

I'm Still Tortured by What I Saw in Iraq

Although I didn't take any concrete details from this for my review, it was relevant to the subject of torture and helped soothe the indignation caused by the movie. This ex-interrogations team leader who saw the torture and abuse with his own eyes talks about his team's alternative techniques and the incredible results they yielded . It's relieving to hear a practical argument against torture to reinforce the moral ones that seem to fall on deaf ears, and to know that not everyone was conducting business like the men interviewed in the movie. I highly recommend reading this.

Elements of Style

One of my favorite things about this book is that the writing therein embraces the rules it sets forth by being pithy and vibrant. There are certain suggestions that made me particularly aware of mistakes that I frequently make:

-"Use the active voice." Consequently, active sentences are always shorter than passive ones, which proves the maxim that "brevity is a by-product of vigor."

-"Put statements in positive form." It's much harder to evoke concrete images when you deny the negative instead of asserting the positive. "He was obese" > "He was not skinny"

-"Whether" > "As to whether" I say the latter too often.

-I unnecessarily use "case" frequently.

-I use "claim" as a synonym for "declare, maintain, or charge."

-Didn't know the difference between "disinterested" vs "uninterested"

-Should replace "due to" with "though, because of, or owing to".

-"Farther" = distance, "further" = time or quantity

-I find it nearly unavoidable to use "hopefully", but am now aware of its incorrectness at least.

-I have been trying to eliminate the word "interesting" and "nice" from my writing/speech due to their overall lack of meaning, this reinforced that

-I needed to be reminded of the Lay vs Lie problem

-I hear people use unique on a scale of "slightly unique" to "extremely unique" frequently and am reminded of this book.

-The general philosophy that concise, clear, and powerful writing is the most effective.

"The Critic As Artist"

In "The Critic as Artist" Oscar Wilde argues the bold hypothesis that criticism is the paragon of artistic expression. He writes from the perspective of Gilbert and Ernest, the former with unbridled passion for Criticism and the latter with curious skepticism. This dialogue allows Wilde to use Gilbert as his mouthpiece, which results in a proud, elitist tone that comes off a bit didactic. 

The first thing Gilbert teaches Ernest is that the creative faculty is predicated on the critical faculty. He describes the critical element as "the spirit of choice, that subtle tact of omission" and self-consciousness. A critic must have a keen awareness of what he is including and not including in his work, and it must not be an unconscious accident. "All fine imaginative work is self-conscious and deliberate." Without self-consciousness, "there is no fine art". He makes it clear that no one lacking such a "delicate instinct of selection" will ever be able to "create anything at all in art."

Once he establishes creation's complete dependence upon criticism, Wilde moves to elevate criticism above creation. Gilbert says that "It is very much more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it" because it demands "infinitely more cultivation." And because great criticism "treats the work of art simply as a starting-point for a new creation", criticism can be "creative in the highest sense of the word."

Gilbert seems extremely biased. At one point, he compares the "majestic prose" of a critic to the "sunsets that bleach or rot on their corrupted canvases" of an artist.  I can understand what he's saying about "artistic creation implying the working of the creative faculty", but I don't agree that "It is only by language that we rise above [the lower animals]." Aren't there modes of action such as music that escape language and draw upon forms of emotion that are uniquely human? His idea that language is the parent of thought explains this opinion that writing is the supreme form of expression, but I think that's questionable as well. Could language not be the refinement of the raw, unprocessed thoughts in our minds? Words are like thought crystals.

"Taxi to the Dark Side" Must be Seen

Though challenging to watch because of its incessant displays of heinous human behavior, Alex Gibney's documentary "Taxi to the Dark Side" is invaluable for the information it exposes and forces engagement with. What caused the abuses of prisoners in Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay, and who is responsible? Gibney offers such a comprehensive, cogent, and incisive outline of the Bush administation's deplorable decisions during the War on Terror that the death of Afghan prisoner Dilawar actually make sense.  

Interviews with military police and intelligence officers explain how an innocent taxi-driver was taken to Bagram prison and eventually murdered. Blithe descriptions of brutality portrays the men as embarrassingly ignorant of sympathy, compassion, and mercy for their prisoners. Despite nothing but constant cries for his family, Dilawar and the other Persons Under Control are perceived as "evil people that definitely had violent intentions."

The staggeringly dense editing combines interviews footage with zooming in and out on countless photographs, diagrams and news articles. Archival footage of courtroom cases, torture handycams, and suggestive reenactments round out the slick presentation. Statistics are presented, quoted, and analyzed. Weaved throughout the steady flow of facts, condemnations, and horrific accounts is a helpful narration track that focuses the shocking revelations around the questions of "who did this?", "who is actually responsible?", and "how was this allowed?"

Gibney traces the confusion about responsible detention and interrogation techniques from Bagram with Dilawar to Guantanamo to Abu Ghraib, and then goes back to 9/11 to give context for how the rules of war got so murky in the first place. Incriminating footage of Dick Cheney saying he wants to take the gloves off and get rough with detainees gets the sinister snowball rolling in regard to redefining torture in order to get any and all information possible.

No qualms are taken in condemning the primary architects of torture; Gibney relays the scandalous information that Cheney, Bush, Alberto Gonzales, and John Yoo wrote  a series of memos arguing that the Geneva Conventions did not apply to suspected terrorists. Everything is presented logically enough to understand, even though no one wants to: a fog of ambiguity about how to behave in these difficult circumstances coupled with great pressure to produce results led to the "outrages upon human dignity" that Bush says "is so vague."

There are so many jaw-dropping displays of stupidity, inhumanity, and irresponsibility that it's impossible not to get mad, disturbed, and frustrated by this movie. Calling Cheney's comments about water-boarding being a "no-brainer" offensive would be a severe understatement. But it's those exact moments that force engagement with the material. Grappling with what has been done in our name only inspires people to act, or at least talk about it. It is made very clear to supporters of torture that it is inefficient, inhumane, and breeds contempt for the United States.

Two years ago when it was released, "Taxi" was a crushing blow to the American psyche. Things were going downhill and this movie seemingly exacerbated the bleakness. But under Obama's new anti-torture administration, Gibney's film is an educational achievement that will hopefully stand as an important document of how things used to be, instead of how things are today. 

Shooting down an album with logic

In his review of A Cross the Universe, a live album by French electro-duo Justice, David Abravanel utilizes an unusual structure that ends up being very effective. Instead of discussing individual tracks or giving a lead-in to the story behind the album, he simply posits two questions about the purpose of a live album. The entirety of the review is split between frankly answering these two questions, and it's to his credit that those answers also serve to answer the question of "Is this worth buying?"

First, he asks, "what is the purpose of a live album in the age of instant bootlegging?". He lists off qualities that stood out in pre-internet live recordings: sequencing, song selection, sound quality. This perfectly sets up his critique of those qualities in Justice's album, which are all lacking due to evidence he supplies. 

This pragmatic style is simple, yet effective because it's so logical. Due to fact that he is reviewing a live album, which has basic characteristics that need to set it apart from any other bootleg, it is possible for Abravanel to set up a hypothesis for what constitutes an enjoyable listening experience. 

When he tries to fit Justice's square peg of an album into these circle shaped criterion, his position that the album is only barely better than average is made clear. It's also thought-provoking to try and answer the questions he asks on your own, and his insightful answers will also make you ponder your own opinions about the matter. I really enjoyed this review.

"For Intimate Music, the Boldest of Designs" NYT Defense

Herbert Muschamp, the New York Times architecture critic from 1992-2004, was a champion of avant-garde, exuberantly experimental architects like Frank Gehry and Hans Scharoun. His protege Nicolai Ouroussoff was hand-picked by Muschamp's to be his successor in 2004, and since then he has taken up the mantle of applauding bold creativity in architecture quite well. 

His review of the Copenhagen Concert Hall, designed by Jean Nouvel, gives an immediate nod to the past with an evocative lead that alludes to Scharoun's Berlin Philharmonic. "It's usually considered an insult to say that an architect designs pretty packages, let alone that he borrows ideas from a dead genius." 

This is not only engaging because of the images of a sagely ghost and a gift-wrapped building, but because it hints that Ouroussoff really knows the scene. 

The "but" of the article comes literally right after that first sentence. "But Jean Nouvel should be forgiven for resurrecting old ghosts." It's implied that his work is an homage rather than a rip-off, and then the appropriate context for these historical references is given.

He reveals that the cascading balconies of the Copenhagen Concert Hall pay tribute to the similar interior of the Berlin Philharmonic. In a way it seems like Ouroussoff is also honoring the past by comparing one of his favorite ("Looking Skyward in Lower Manhattan" praises Nouvel) contemporary architect's work to one of his mentors'. He even name-drops Gehry in the next paragraph, further establishing his taste for the daringly imaginative.

Aided by his history with Muschamp and serious passion for everything post-modern, he is very knowledgeable about architecture's past, present, and future. He describes trends such as architects striving for decades to create more fluid spaces, declares that "we are in the midst of a glorious period in concert hall design", and gives an example of under-construction buildings that further prove his point. His authority comes from his education and obvious experience in the field. The density of information signals that this is coming from the perspective of an expert. 

The review is logically structured, progressing from the building's roots in history, to exterior descriptions, to cultural criticism, to interior descriptions, to praise of Mr. Nouvel himself. 

Despite his efforts to prove why this building is a step forward or relevant or culturally important, his physical descriptions are what really convinces me that this place is a masterpiece.  And the feelings he invokes from phrases like "the main performance hall wraps you in a world of luxury" complement his rave review quite well.

My attempt to review Gran Torino failed.

Looking over my Gran Torino review, it's actually rather difficult to find the thesis. It hardly works as one, but I'd have to say it's this - "The idea of a 78 year old man brutalizing a young gang member sounds comical, but seeing razor-sharp Walt unleash his elderly wrath commands nothing but awe-tinged respect." This is the first line of actual praise, and conveys my general idea that Walt is entertaining to watch.

But what it doesn't convey, nor does the rest of my review, is that I actually thought everything except Clint Eastwood was either mediocre or laughably bad. Something about my mixed feelings made me feel like I needed to lean more towards everything being good, and because I didn't completely agree with my writing, it came out sounding vague and uninspired. If I revised it, I would go much lighter on the plot summary and focus more on trashing the script/supporting performances. With plenty of evidence, of course. I was lacking on that. Lots more context would need to be given as well.

I think my review deserves a low-mid B, because the thesis is unclear, I use the cliche "Make no mistake about it", and there isn't enough criticism that's actually supported with detailed evidence. 

"Live From Baghdad" Won't Stop Broadcasting

The first casualty of war doesn't have to be the truth. Journalists behind enemy lines have risked their lives to photograph, videotape, and document the important events of war that no one would have otherwise recorded. 

Before the facts can fade into a re-writable history, these beacons of truth can broadcast vivid and permanent accounts of human experience to the world. But they have to risk everything to do it.

On the eve of January 15th, 1991, Robert Weiner and two other CNN reporters became the eyes and ears of the world when they broadcasted live throughout the night on the beginnings of war in Baghdad. The U.N's threat of military intervention in Iraq if the country did not withdraw its troops by the 15th led to a mass exodus of the press and news organizations, and thus created a rare opportunity for Weiner and his crew to be the only source of news for everyone worldwide.  

This is the climax and defining moment of HBO's 2002 movie, "Live From Baghdad". Based on Weiner's book of memoirs from his experience in Iraq, the movie itself is a document of the CNN's news-team's trials, tribulations, and triumphs in Baghdad during the six-month antebellum period before the Gulf War.  

Possibly due to HBO's decision to make the movie for television instead of the big screen, their report of CNN's reporting maintains the spirit of uncompromising news and doesn't distract itself with sensationalism. There are bodies dangling from cranes, flaming car wrecks, and Saddam's ubiquitous face, sure, but the cinematography and soundtrack combine to recreate that disconcerting, portentous atmosphere of early-90's Baghdad with gritty accuracy.

The six months unfold chaotically for the CNN crew, and the whirlwind pacing of the movie reinforces the sense that opportunities are rapidly appearing and disappearing. In order to find the news, the actors are rushing everywhere they go. At points the formula of fast-paced music plus hurried movement can be tedious.

Michael Keaton's performance as Weiner is engaging and varied. He is gung-ho and courageous enough to follow the story wherever it takes him, but witty and sharp enough to offer comedic relief on the way there. Despite his toughness and enthusiasm, the emotionally taxing environment affects him and Keaton knows how to show this.  

When forced to confront the ethics of possibly endangering an American prisoner by putting his face in the news, Weiner declares with uncertainty and anxiety that yes, he does sleep at night. His increasingly haggard face accurately resembles the wearying frenzy of thoughts that must be running through his busy mind. 

The ever-alluring Helena Bonham Carter, who plays his colleague and producer Ingrid, is a versatile support character who can balance Weiner's ego. Their rapport feels like it goes back ages, which creates sexual tension between her and Keaton. In a dimly lit bar at a "We're All Going to Die!" party, the two reminisce about drinking and it comes out that despite never having sex, they've come close on several occasions.

The CNN crew is resilient and resourceful, and eventually they procure a special communications device that will enable them to report 24 hours a day without phone lines. This proves invaluable when they are caught in the middle of anti-aircraft fire and raining bombs, with only the four-wire to communicate with headquarters in Atlanta. 

In a bit of obvious foreshadowing, Weiner declares that, "broadcasting from behind enemy lines is the journalistic equivalent of walking on the moon." At the end of the movie, his achievements are "the envy of every journalist in the world". A gratuitous montage of news anchors lauding CNN and its coverage tries to pound home the idea that Weiner is a hero.

As enjoyable and informative as this movie is to watch, it's also valuable for the questions it raises about war-time journalism. What are the consequences of media censorship?  What kind of information isn't being relayed? What would people know about the night of January 15th, 1991 in Baghdad if Robert Weiner and his team hadn't been there?

In light of the recent explosion of conflict in Gaza, and the Israeli blockade of any and all foreign press entering the area, how will the world know what is going on there? The movie's greatest strength is its relevancy and applicability to current events. It's impossible not to wonder about the implications of a war in which no information can escape after watching this movie.

By promoting Weiner's coverage of the story of a lifetime, "Live From Baghdad" serves as a reminder that intrepid journalism is crucial to the survival of truth. 

Thank you Minnesota

I read an online article from the Minnesota Star Tribune to find that all of the Hmong actors were authentic and had no previous acting experience, with the exception of Doua Moua (Spider).  I also found it interesting to know that Clint Eastwood refrained from talking to the Hmong actors off-screen so they would react to his Walt character more honestly.

Hell Hath No Fury like an Old Man Scorned

"Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while you shouldn't have fucked with? ...That's me." Gang bangers beware: Walt Kowalski is pissed off, has a violent past in the Korean War, and prejudiced enough to make an ACLU member's skin crawl. In his latest directorial offering, Gran Torino, Clint Eastwood plays a surly old curmudgeon boiling with bitter resentment for foreigners, religion, and certainly anything that could be considered "new-school". If he wants you off of his goddamn lawn, he's going to tell you from the other end of his M-1 rifle.

            After the death of his wife, Walt is left to live a lonely life with his dog Daisy and a never-ending supply of Pabst Blue Ribbon. His hardened, stubborn persona leads him to suffer an emotional disconnect from his two sons, and his predominantly Hmong neighborhood only seem to inspire unrelenting racial epithets. Apart from sharing racist jokes at the bar with his old cronies, Walt can always be found mulling around his front porch, muttering angrily to himself about the miserable state of things. 

            It is to Clint Eastwood's credit that this exaggeratedly cranky old man does not come off as a parody of himself. Harkening back to his days as the tough as nails no-bullshit cop "Dirty" Harry Callahan, Clint is the pinnacle of a grizzled badass. The idea of a 78 year old man brutalizing a young gang member sounds comical, but seeing razor-sharp Walt unleash his elderly wrath commands nothing but awe-tinged respect. Hearing him threaten that "things are going to get real fucking ugly" if he ever sees the punk again in that gruff growl is so satisfying that it's reminiscent of watching Anton Chigurh or the Joker. You never want to run into these people, but you can't get enough of watching them on-screen.

            Unfortunately, the rest of the cast can’t match the high standard set by Clint. His Hmong neighbors whom he eventually warms up to all seem wooden, and interactions between Walt and Sue especially end up feeling forced and awkward. But this doesn't end up detracting very much once you know that they are all played by authentic Hmong people, and only one of them has had any previous acting experience.

            The real focus of the movie is on Walt's self-liberation from his haunted past, which occurs through various watershed moments with these people. Their closeness feels sincere and touching from the perspective of Walt, which leads to an inspiring climax in which Walt's actions manage not only to surprise your expectations but also perfectly punctuate the character. The script is smart, serves up some engaging twists, and gives Walt the room to explore his past and figure out the nature of himself.

            Make no mistake about it -- Clint Eastwood is the crux of this movie, and his performance is triumphant and powerful. Whether you're laughing at his ignorance and absurdity, touched by his changes of heart, or just floored by how dominant his on-screen presence is, it's hard not to be impressed by Mr. Eastwood and his accomplishment with this film.