Tell me if this set of characters sounds familiar:
Male professional, early middle age, brilliant at what he does, but so blunt and abrasive that it's not advisable to let him deal directly with the public. He has a team of three assistants who help him prepare, and who serve as the more palatable public face for the presentation of his work; they are a classic Mod Squad team: cute young white guy; sexy/brooding, slightly older black guy; and hot chick. That's right, it's House, but it's also Justice, which has pulled off the most blatant theft of a character set that I can remember.
This time, it's criminal defense attorneys instead of doctors, and our brilliant-but-abrasive genius is Ron Trott (Victor Garber), who prepares for a trial and spins the media better than anyone; unfortunately, juries hate him. So at trial time, Trott steps into the background and lets one of his partners take the lead. Most often, that job falls to the "all-American face of not guilty," Tom Nicholson (Kerr Smith). Also on the team are Luther Graves (Eamonn Walker), who tends to play devil's advocate, spotting the weaknesses in his side's case; and Alden Tucker (Rebecca Mader), who deals with the forensic and medical experts.
Like the show's cast of characters, the first episode's plot is borrowed from elsewhere -- from the fine documentary The Staircase. As in that film, we're given a husband accused of murdering his wife; he claims that she died in a fall, but the prosecution argues that the head wounds are too severe and numerous to have been the result of an accident. The police claim that she was clubbed to death with a blunt object, but have been unable to locate that weapon.
As in all the other crime shows from producer Jerry Bruckheimer, the visual style is flashy, with lots of swooping camera shots that dive through walls, and lengthy shots in which the passage of time is indicated by a character's clothes changing mid-stride. The show's signature device will be its epilogue, in which we get to see what actually happened, and I suspect that we'll see clients turn out to be guilty as often as not.
As Hugh Laurie dominates House, Victor Garber dominates Justice; he's crisp and witty, constantly barking orders at his colleagues and his clients, and turning on the charm for the TV talk shows. (How Trott can be so successful on these show but so unpopular with actual juries is the greatest flaw in the setup, and I hope that will be explored; perhaps he freezes under courtroom pressure.) It's a brash, extroverted performance, the polar opposite from his work on Alias as the tightly wound stoic Jack Bristow. The other actors didn't make particularly strong impressions in the first episode; they were overshadowed by Garber's oversized presence, but I expect that each will get a chance to shine in later episodes.
The show's got a tough time slot, opposite Lost, Criminal Minds, and One Tree Hill. It's a reasonably entertaining hour, though, and I'll give it at least a few more episodes.
August 31, 2006
August 27, 2006
MOVIES: Little Miss Sunshine (Jonathan Dayton & Valerie Faris, 2006)
You've probably heard by now that this is one of the year's best movies, and it is. It's the story of the Hoover family, who find themselves making a road trip to California in a VW van so that 7-year-old Olive (Abigail Breslin) can compete in the Little Miss Sunshine pageant.
The timing couldn't be much worse. Mom Cheryl (Toni Collette) has just taken in her brother, Frank (Steve Carell), to live with them after his recent suicide attempt; husband Richard (Greg Kinnear) is a would-be self-help guru waiting for news on a book deal that he thinks will propel him to stardom. Teenaged son Dwayne (Paul Dano) wallows in gloom and has refused to speak for months, and Grandpa (Alan Arkin) is a heroin-snorting grump with nothing kind to say about anyone except Olive, who he is helping with her pageant talent routine. None of the Hoovers (except Olive) is very excited about the trip, but everyone has to go. Richard's the only one who can drive a stick shift; neither Frank, Dwayne, nor Grandpa can be left alone at home. And that's all I'm going to say about the story, because it's filled with unexpected twists and jokes that should come as surprises.
The cast is uniformly excellent; it's one of the best ensemble performances of the year, with every pair of characters having a completely believable relationship. The writing (screenplay by Michael Arndt) is sharp, and everytime you think you see a cliche approaching, it's deftly avoided. (There is, for instance, a poolside argument between two characters that does not end with one of them falling into the pool.) Seemingly unimportant details pay off in beautiful and unexpected ways, and the ending is neither too Hollywood-sweet nor too indie-cynical.
Just go. You'll be glad you did.
The timing couldn't be much worse. Mom Cheryl (Toni Collette) has just taken in her brother, Frank (Steve Carell), to live with them after his recent suicide attempt; husband Richard (Greg Kinnear) is a would-be self-help guru waiting for news on a book deal that he thinks will propel him to stardom. Teenaged son Dwayne (Paul Dano) wallows in gloom and has refused to speak for months, and Grandpa (Alan Arkin) is a heroin-snorting grump with nothing kind to say about anyone except Olive, who he is helping with her pageant talent routine. None of the Hoovers (except Olive) is very excited about the trip, but everyone has to go. Richard's the only one who can drive a stick shift; neither Frank, Dwayne, nor Grandpa can be left alone at home. And that's all I'm going to say about the story, because it's filled with unexpected twists and jokes that should come as surprises.
The cast is uniformly excellent; it's one of the best ensemble performances of the year, with every pair of characters having a completely believable relationship. The writing (screenplay by Michael Arndt) is sharp, and everytime you think you see a cliche approaching, it's deftly avoided. (There is, for instance, a poolside argument between two characters that does not end with one of them falling into the pool.) Seemingly unimportant details pay off in beautiful and unexpected ways, and the ending is neither too Hollywood-sweet nor too indie-cynical.
Just go. You'll be glad you did.
August 22, 2006
TV: Vanished
Sara Collins (Joanne Kelly) sits at her desk, nervously talking on the phone. We hear only her end of the conversation, which ends with her saying, "My husband is home. And don't ever call me here again." She greets her husband, Jeffrey (John Allen Nelson, the best thing about the first episode) in the foyer with "I need to tell you something," but before she can tell him anything, he's pulled away on important business by one of his aides. Jeffrey and Sara never do get to have that important conversation, because they have to get to a banquet honoring Sara for her charity work; just before she's due to give the opening remarks, Sara disappears, apparently the victim of a kidnapping.
Enter the FBI, in the form of Graham Kelton (Gale Harold) and Lin Mei (Ming-Na). He is, as TV cops must be, haunted by his disastrous last case, in which a preteen kidnap victim was killed by his captors during a rescue attempt. Sadly, Harold doesn't quite have the gravitas to make him a convincing FBI agent, much less an emotionally wounded one; it's like watching a poodle try to play a Doberman. (If we could find a happy medium between Harold's lightweight performance in this show and Jeremy Sisto's overly brooding performance in Kidnapped, we'd have a terrific FBI agent). As Lin Mei, Ming-Na gives the same flat, affectless performance she's been giving for the last ten years or so; her face is so cold and immobile that you might think her the victim of a tragic Botox accident.
It appears that Vanished will be one of those shows that's going to hand us a lot of goofy plot twists and over-the-top revelations. There's a home pregnancy test (with a positive result) in Sara's bathroom? Then of course, we must learn from her parents tell Sara is infertile. Jeffrey's daughter Marcy has a hunky young boyfriend with shifty eyes? Then of course, we must find a bloody shirt and a hidden backpack of money in his laundry room.
And we haven't even gotten to Jeffrey's ex-wife and the ambitious TV reporter and the body that's had some sort of ritual tattoo applied posthumously and the suggestion that some sort of mysterious Da Vinci Code-esque secret society is involved. It's all wildly farfetched, and that sort of thing works best when a show is willing to go indulge its goofiness to the max and just have fun. Lost, for instance, or the recently departed Alias, simply dove into the deep end of preposterousness and asked the audience to suspend almost every shred of disbelief. Based on the first episode, though, I'm afraid that Vanished is going to take itself too seriously; instead of being carried along by the plot twists in an exhilirating rush, we plod from one revelation to another, every one of them treated with far too much solemnity.
I'll give the show another week or two, in the hopes that it'll find the right tone for its story elements, but I can't say I'm optimistic.
Enter the FBI, in the form of Graham Kelton (Gale Harold) and Lin Mei (Ming-Na). He is, as TV cops must be, haunted by his disastrous last case, in which a preteen kidnap victim was killed by his captors during a rescue attempt. Sadly, Harold doesn't quite have the gravitas to make him a convincing FBI agent, much less an emotionally wounded one; it's like watching a poodle try to play a Doberman. (If we could find a happy medium between Harold's lightweight performance in this show and Jeremy Sisto's overly brooding performance in Kidnapped, we'd have a terrific FBI agent). As Lin Mei, Ming-Na gives the same flat, affectless performance she's been giving for the last ten years or so; her face is so cold and immobile that you might think her the victim of a tragic Botox accident.
It appears that Vanished will be one of those shows that's going to hand us a lot of goofy plot twists and over-the-top revelations. There's a home pregnancy test (with a positive result) in Sara's bathroom? Then of course, we must learn from her parents tell Sara is infertile. Jeffrey's daughter Marcy has a hunky young boyfriend with shifty eyes? Then of course, we must find a bloody shirt and a hidden backpack of money in his laundry room.
And we haven't even gotten to Jeffrey's ex-wife and the ambitious TV reporter and the body that's had some sort of ritual tattoo applied posthumously and the suggestion that some sort of mysterious Da Vinci Code-esque secret society is involved. It's all wildly farfetched, and that sort of thing works best when a show is willing to go indulge its goofiness to the max and just have fun. Lost, for instance, or the recently departed Alias, simply dove into the deep end of preposterousness and asked the audience to suspend almost every shred of disbelief. Based on the first episode, though, I'm afraid that Vanished is going to take itself too seriously; instead of being carried along by the plot twists in an exhilirating rush, we plod from one revelation to another, every one of them treated with far too much solemnity.
I'll give the show another week or two, in the hopes that it'll find the right tone for its story elements, but I can't say I'm optimistic.
August 21, 2006
TV: Kidnapped
Conrad Cain (Timothy Hutton) is a wealthy businessman, ruthless enough that death threats are an occasional part of his life. When 15-year-old son Leopold (Will Denton) is kidnapped, Conrad calls in Knapp (Jeremy Sisto), a former FBI agent who now works privately, specializing in recovering kidnap victims.
(A 15-year-old boy named Leopold? Really?)
It doesn't take long for the FBI to find out about the kidnapping, though; through a twist that's too coincidental even for a TV thriller, Leopold's bodyguard (Mykelti Williamson) is connected somehow (family? friendship? it's not clear yet) to FBI agent Latimer King (Delroy Lindo), who postpones his retirement in order to work on the case. King and Knapp have very different approaches; Knapp relishes the freedom that he has as an independent agent, and the presence of by-the-book FBI agents is cramping his style.
Kidnapped is part of this year's flood of serialized storytelling; the kidnapping story will play out over the course of the entire season. (I will be surprised if Leopold isn't recovered fairly quickly, moving the focus to finding and arresting the kidnappers; Americans don't have a lot of patience for stories about children in jeopardy.)
This is a cast of fine actors (Dana Delany is also on hand as Ellie Cain, Conrad's wife, and she'll surely be given more to do in later episodes than stand in the corner on the verge of tears), and the action scenes are suspenseful and clearly edited. The principal danger, I think, is that Sisto and Lindo share a dark intensity that's often more effective in supporting roles (Sisto was used perfectly in Six Feet Under, for instance); having them both in leading roles, especially where they're likely to be butting heads every week, seems like too much brooding to take on an ongoing basis.
The show may also suffer from the fact that Fox's similarly-themed Vanished (about the disappearance of a Senator's wife), which debuts tonight, and will have been on the air for several weeks when Kidnapped finally arrives; it seems unlikely that both kidnap serials can survive.
(A 15-year-old boy named Leopold? Really?)
It doesn't take long for the FBI to find out about the kidnapping, though; through a twist that's too coincidental even for a TV thriller, Leopold's bodyguard (Mykelti Williamson) is connected somehow (family? friendship? it's not clear yet) to FBI agent Latimer King (Delroy Lindo), who postpones his retirement in order to work on the case. King and Knapp have very different approaches; Knapp relishes the freedom that he has as an independent agent, and the presence of by-the-book FBI agents is cramping his style.
Kidnapped is part of this year's flood of serialized storytelling; the kidnapping story will play out over the course of the entire season. (I will be surprised if Leopold isn't recovered fairly quickly, moving the focus to finding and arresting the kidnappers; Americans don't have a lot of patience for stories about children in jeopardy.)
This is a cast of fine actors (Dana Delany is also on hand as Ellie Cain, Conrad's wife, and she'll surely be given more to do in later episodes than stand in the corner on the verge of tears), and the action scenes are suspenseful and clearly edited. The principal danger, I think, is that Sisto and Lindo share a dark intensity that's often more effective in supporting roles (Sisto was used perfectly in Six Feet Under, for instance); having them both in leading roles, especially where they're likely to be butting heads every week, seems like too much brooding to take on an ongoing basis.
The show may also suffer from the fact that Fox's similarly-themed Vanished (about the disappearance of a Senator's wife), which debuts tonight, and will have been on the air for several weeks when Kidnapped finally arrives; it seems unlikely that both kidnap serials can survive.
TV: Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
As the show begins, we're in Studio 60, where another episode of the live sketch-comedy show Friday Night in Hollywood is about to begin. The show's head writer (a guest appearance by Judd Hirsch) is arguing with the network standards-and-practices guy, who demands that a potentially offensive sketch be pulled; Hirsch melts down completely, interrupting the opening sketch with a Network-style lecture to the audience that gets him fired. (One of the few unsubtle details in the show is that the characters repeatedly tell us how "just like Network" that was.)
The newly hired head of the NBS entertainment division, Jordan McDeere (Amanda Peet), is ordered by network boss Jack Rudolph (Steven Weber), to find a solution to the Friday Night problem in time for a Monday press conference. Her solution is to re-hire the writing team who oversaw the show during its glory years, Matt Albie and Danny Tripp (Matthew Perry and Bradley Whitford), a team who left the show after a very visible and somewhat spectacular argument with Rudolph (details are left vague).
These four actors are very comfortable with Sorkin's style of rapid-fire dialogue, much of it delivered while walking through corridors and sets and stairways in trademark Sorkin style. Like Sports Night and The West Wing before it, Studio 60 throws you right into the action. The details of what's going on aren't always immediately explained; unlike most TV writers, who have so little faith in our ability to keep up that they force their characters (for our benefit) to explain to one another things they already know, Sorkin trusts the audience to keep up with what's happening and to figure things out as we go along.
The other principal characters spend most of the first episode in the background, but will presumably get more to do in later episodes. Timothy Busfield is Friday Night's longtime director, worried that he'll lose his own over that on-air meltdown. The three principal members of the Friday Night cast are played by Sarah Paulson, D.L. Hughley, and Nate Corddry; Paulson's character, Harriet Hayes, is a conservative Christian who's only just ended a relationship with Danny.
The first episode of Studio 60 is lots of fun, and gets the series off to a promising start; if you liked Sorkin's other shows, you're going to enjoy this one, too. His writing is just as sharp as ever, and the show is well-cast, with several of the actors playing against their usual type; Weber's never been so hissably smarmy, and while I've enjoyed Amanda Peet's movie work, Jordan is a much smarter character than she usually gets to play, and she's delightful in the role. Perry and Whitfield are a crisp comic team, with the kind of timing and interaction that makes you believe they've known one another for years.
NBC will be airing this on Monday nights at 10:00, opposite CSI: Miami and What About Brian?; even after one episode, it's clear that it's going to be the best show in its timeslot.
The newly hired head of the NBS entertainment division, Jordan McDeere (Amanda Peet), is ordered by network boss Jack Rudolph (Steven Weber), to find a solution to the Friday Night problem in time for a Monday press conference. Her solution is to re-hire the writing team who oversaw the show during its glory years, Matt Albie and Danny Tripp (Matthew Perry and Bradley Whitford), a team who left the show after a very visible and somewhat spectacular argument with Rudolph (details are left vague).
These four actors are very comfortable with Sorkin's style of rapid-fire dialogue, much of it delivered while walking through corridors and sets and stairways in trademark Sorkin style. Like Sports Night and The West Wing before it, Studio 60 throws you right into the action. The details of what's going on aren't always immediately explained; unlike most TV writers, who have so little faith in our ability to keep up that they force their characters (for our benefit) to explain to one another things they already know, Sorkin trusts the audience to keep up with what's happening and to figure things out as we go along.
The other principal characters spend most of the first episode in the background, but will presumably get more to do in later episodes. Timothy Busfield is Friday Night's longtime director, worried that he'll lose his own over that on-air meltdown. The three principal members of the Friday Night cast are played by Sarah Paulson, D.L. Hughley, and Nate Corddry; Paulson's character, Harriet Hayes, is a conservative Christian who's only just ended a relationship with Danny.
The first episode of Studio 60 is lots of fun, and gets the series off to a promising start; if you liked Sorkin's other shows, you're going to enjoy this one, too. His writing is just as sharp as ever, and the show is well-cast, with several of the actors playing against their usual type; Weber's never been so hissably smarmy, and while I've enjoyed Amanda Peet's movie work, Jordan is a much smarter character than she usually gets to play, and she's delightful in the role. Perry and Whitfield are a crisp comic team, with the kind of timing and interaction that makes you believe they've known one another for years.
NBC will be airing this on Monday nights at 10:00, opposite CSI: Miami and What About Brian?; even after one episode, it's clear that it's going to be the best show in its timeslot.
TV: Another Exciting New Season!
Theoretically, the new TV season doesn't begin for another month (September 18 is the official kickoff date), but as is their custom, Fox is getting things off to an early start with the premiere of Vanished tonight. First episodes of some new shows will probably be popping up online, as was the case last year, and magazines like Entertainment Weekly may include a DVD or two. The newest tactic for getting pre-debut publicity comes from NBC, which has put the first episodes of two new series on a DVD available exclusively as a Netflix rental.
Last year, I watched at least one episode of every new series on the major networks. I'm not sure I'm going to be quite that brave and/or masochistic this year, but I'll watch a lot of them, and post my reactions here, beginning with the NBC/Netflix pair that I watched over the weekend.
Last year, I watched at least one episode of every new series on the major networks. I'm not sure I'm going to be quite that brave and/or masochistic this year, but I'll watch a lot of them, and post my reactions here, beginning with the NBC/Netflix pair that I watched over the weekend.
August 14, 2006
MUSIC: Sydney Conservatorium of Music Percussion Unit, August 9
The Conservatorium of Music, which is the music department of the University of Sydney, presents a "lunchbreak concert" each Wednesday during the school year. Admission is a "gold coin donation" -- the $1 and $2 Australian coins are gold -- and each week's concert is presented by a different department of the school. The singers perform one week, followed by the strings, and the brass, and so on; last Wednesday was the percussion students' turn. This was a happy coincidence for me, as I very much enjoy percussion music.
The concert was presented in the Verbruggen Concert Hall, a lovely auditorium which seats about 300 (there doesn't appear to be a photo of the hall at the Conservatorium's website); it was about half-full for this concert, which I thought was a good turnout for a Wednesday afternoon percussion concert.
The program opened with Eric Ewazen's The Palace of Nine Perfections, which the program notes tell us was inspired by a series of scrolls by 17th century Chinese painter Yuan Chiang. The three movements depict the procession of soldiers and dignitaries; the palace itself, shrouded in mist; and "the excitement of the painter's vision;" the piece lasts about 20 minutes.
The first movement alternates somber marches and brisk waltzes, all quite stately and haughty. The second movement is more of a fantasy landscape, with clouds of soft, prolonged chords that occasionally allow melodies to shine through; the third movement is about rhythmic propulsion and high energy. If Ewazen's melodies throughout tend to slip into the pentatonic cliches of Chinoiserie, he shows great skill in varying their color, given the limited instrumental choices available to him (xylophone, marimba, and vibraphone carry the melodic weight, occasionally accented by glockenspiel and tubular bells), and makes particularly effective use of the marimba's lowest notes. It's entertaining music, if not profound, and I'd like to hear more of Ewazen's music.
Next came Emmanuel Sejourne's Nancy, for solo marimba. It was a short piece, no more than four minutes long, and was a study in contrasts; soft rolled chords were periodically interrupted by louder, staccato melodic outbursts. Sandy Sin gave a nice performance, though I think she could have boosted the dynamic level on the quieter passages a bit without losing the effectiveness of the contrast; those quiet moments were sometimes hard to hear. Sin is a petite woman, and her arms were often stretched as far as they could reach to play some of the chords which called for notes at both extremes of the marimba's register; had she been three inches shorter, I don't think she'd have been physically capable of playing the piece.
The program closed with the Percussion Octet of New Zealand composer Gareth Farr, the premiere of a new work commissioned by a generous donor to the Conservatorium. In a single movement of about 15 minutes, this piece was all about rhythmic energy and volume. The roto-toms drove the work throughout; its steady pulse and abrupt shifts from one musical idea to another were reminiscent of early Glass or Reich. While it wasn't an obvious influence in the sound of the music, the performers seemed to be treating the piece as something akin to dance music; they bobbed their heads and shifted their weight from one foot to the other as if they were standing at the bar of their favorite club. (That may have also been a visual cue for the ensemble, which performed this piece without conductor, to keep one another in tempo.) When it came time for the timpani player to take the melodic lead -- which, in this piece, means that everyone backs down to mezzo-forte and he ramps up to fortissimo -- he leapt around inside his arc of drums like a finalist on So You Think You Can Dance.
Given that the piece is loud from beginning to end, Farr did a surprisingly effective job of keeping it from becoming dull or overbearing; it's an exciting piece to hear. There is still some revision to be done, I think. The ending is very abrupt, and the ensemble hadn't quite worked out the optimal placement of performers and instruments -- one of the marimba players had to make a frantic, awkward dash to strike the gong at the very end -- but for a first performance by a student ensemble, it was very fine, and the audience greatly enjoyed it.
The concert was presented in the Verbruggen Concert Hall, a lovely auditorium which seats about 300 (there doesn't appear to be a photo of the hall at the Conservatorium's website); it was about half-full for this concert, which I thought was a good turnout for a Wednesday afternoon percussion concert.
The program opened with Eric Ewazen's The Palace of Nine Perfections, which the program notes tell us was inspired by a series of scrolls by 17th century Chinese painter Yuan Chiang. The three movements depict the procession of soldiers and dignitaries; the palace itself, shrouded in mist; and "the excitement of the painter's vision;" the piece lasts about 20 minutes.
The first movement alternates somber marches and brisk waltzes, all quite stately and haughty. The second movement is more of a fantasy landscape, with clouds of soft, prolonged chords that occasionally allow melodies to shine through; the third movement is about rhythmic propulsion and high energy. If Ewazen's melodies throughout tend to slip into the pentatonic cliches of Chinoiserie, he shows great skill in varying their color, given the limited instrumental choices available to him (xylophone, marimba, and vibraphone carry the melodic weight, occasionally accented by glockenspiel and tubular bells), and makes particularly effective use of the marimba's lowest notes. It's entertaining music, if not profound, and I'd like to hear more of Ewazen's music.
Next came Emmanuel Sejourne's Nancy, for solo marimba. It was a short piece, no more than four minutes long, and was a study in contrasts; soft rolled chords were periodically interrupted by louder, staccato melodic outbursts. Sandy Sin gave a nice performance, though I think she could have boosted the dynamic level on the quieter passages a bit without losing the effectiveness of the contrast; those quiet moments were sometimes hard to hear. Sin is a petite woman, and her arms were often stretched as far as they could reach to play some of the chords which called for notes at both extremes of the marimba's register; had she been three inches shorter, I don't think she'd have been physically capable of playing the piece.
The program closed with the Percussion Octet of New Zealand composer Gareth Farr, the premiere of a new work commissioned by a generous donor to the Conservatorium. In a single movement of about 15 minutes, this piece was all about rhythmic energy and volume. The roto-toms drove the work throughout; its steady pulse and abrupt shifts from one musical idea to another were reminiscent of early Glass or Reich. While it wasn't an obvious influence in the sound of the music, the performers seemed to be treating the piece as something akin to dance music; they bobbed their heads and shifted their weight from one foot to the other as if they were standing at the bar of their favorite club. (That may have also been a visual cue for the ensemble, which performed this piece without conductor, to keep one another in tempo.) When it came time for the timpani player to take the melodic lead -- which, in this piece, means that everyone backs down to mezzo-forte and he ramps up to fortissimo -- he leapt around inside his arc of drums like a finalist on So You Think You Can Dance.
Given that the piece is loud from beginning to end, Farr did a surprisingly effective job of keeping it from becoming dull or overbearing; it's an exciting piece to hear. There is still some revision to be done, I think. The ending is very abrupt, and the ensemble hadn't quite worked out the optimal placement of performers and instruments -- one of the marimba players had to make a frantic, awkward dash to strike the gong at the very end -- but for a first performance by a student ensemble, it was very fine, and the audience greatly enjoyed it.
MUSIC: Sydney Symphony, August 9
I went to this concert knowing that the music on the program wasn't music I was wildly enthusiastic about, but I wanted to hear the Sydney Symphony, and I very much wanted to hear a program at the Opera House.
So rather than a review as such, let me talk first a little bit about programming. The new piece on this program was the Viola Concerto by Australian composer Brett Dean; this was the Australian premiere. As it happens, the US premiere will be given here in Los Angeles in October. (The Sydney Symphony and the Los Angeles Philharmonic are among the co-commissioners of the concerto.)
The Los Angeles program is precisely what you would expect from most American orchestras when programming a major piece of new music. It's practically a formula: Start the concert with sort of pleasant little bonbon -- a Copland ballet suite, maybe, or a Rossini overture; perhaps one of the shorter Haydn or Mozart symphonies. Then comes the premiere, and after intermission, one of the major audience-pleasing warhorses. The Planets or Enigma Variations, or a symphony by Brahms or Tchaikovsky -- something popular enough to make the audience willing to sit through the scary new music.
Apply the formula, and you get this program for the American premiere of Dean's concerto:
So rather than a review as such, let me talk first a little bit about programming. The new piece on this program was the Viola Concerto by Australian composer Brett Dean; this was the Australian premiere. As it happens, the US premiere will be given here in Los Angeles in October. (The Sydney Symphony and the Los Angeles Philharmonic are among the co-commissioners of the concerto.)
The Los Angeles program is precisely what you would expect from most American orchestras when programming a major piece of new music. It's practically a formula: Start the concert with sort of pleasant little bonbon -- a Copland ballet suite, maybe, or a Rossini overture; perhaps one of the shorter Haydn or Mozart symphonies. Then comes the premiere, and after intermission, one of the major audience-pleasing warhorses. The Planets or Enigma Variations, or a symphony by Brahms or Tchaikovsky -- something popular enough to make the audience willing to sit through the scary new music.
Apply the formula, and you get this program for the American premiere of Dean's concerto:
- Haydn, Symphony No. 82, "The Bear"
- Dean, Viola Concerto
- INTERMISSION
- Mussorgsky, Pictures at an Exhibition
(And the LA Phil will follow the formula again with its other major concerto premiere later in the season, surrounding John Harbison's Bass Viol Concerto with Janacek's Cunning Little Vixen Suite and Dvorak's 7th Symphony.)
Now here's the program presented in Sydney for the Australian premiere of the same concerto:
- Schoenberg, Notturno for strings and harp
- Schoenberg, Verklärte Nacht (Transfigured Night), Op. 4
- INTERMISSION
- Dean, Viola Concerto
- Strauss, Tod und Verklärung (Death and Transfiguration), Op. 24
No sweet little bonbon to open the concert (well, the Notturno actually is a sweet little bonbon, but it's not a well enough known piece to overcome the fear that the name "Schoenberg" puts into the hearts of many casual concertgoers), and while Verklärte Nacht and Tod und Verklärung both have their devotees, neither is quite the audience magnet that Holst or Elgar might be. And the concerto is presented after intermission, giving the audience the chance to run away. It is, all things considered, an ambitious and gutsy program.
It is not, I confess, a program that filled my heart with glee. The Notturno, which I hadn't heard before, is a charming miniature, 3 or 4 minutes long; that's about the length of my patience for strings-only music. Be it a quartet or a string orchestra, I find myself rapidly yearning for a flute or a tuba or a triangle or anything to break the timbral monotony. So when we continued on to the string orchestra version of Verklärte Nacht, I grew bored fairly quickly.
As for Strauss, well, I prefer Johann to Richard, and if it must be Richard, let it be Till Eulenspiegel, or something else on the relatively playful side; Tod und Verklärung is Strauss in one of his gloomy philosophical moods, which is all a bit much for me.
And then there's Dean's Viola Concerto, in which he played the solo part himself. The work is in three movements: Fragment (Unhurried, yet flowing); Pursuit (Presto); Veiled and Mysterious (Distant, dark). The first movement is very brief, only 2 or 3 minutes; the other movements are each about 12 or 13 minutes (the program notes give the total length of the concerto as 27 minutes).
The solo viola was, to my ears, too often buried and lost in the orchestral texture. During his pre-concert talk, Dean addressed this issue, and said that he had struggled with the question of balance throughout the writing of the piece, as the viola doesn't have the piercing qualities of the violin or the cello; ultimately, he decided that he wasn't bothered by it. We've been spoiled by recordings, he said, in which the soloist is always placed well in front of the orchestral sound, and that's not always an accurate representation of how music sounds in the concert hall; further, he thought it somehow in keeping with the "less heroic" nature of the viola that it should not always be the dominant presence.
All of which is well and good from a philosophical standpoint, I suppose, but from a listener's point of view, it was rather annoying to so often see Dean sawing away and have no idea what he was playing. Given that Dean has been the soloist in all performances of the piece thus far (as he will be in Los Angeles in October), and that conductor Simone Young has led several of the previous performances with other orchestras, it seems fair to assume that the balance they were getting was the balance they wanted.
The concerto is not principally about melody; it's largely about tone color, which can be an interesting and effective way to organize a piece. To make it interesting, though, requires more variety and creativity in orchestration than Dean showed. There were only two moments that stood out for me as interesting or memorable. The first came late in the second movement, where we would traditionally find the cadenza; this wasn't exactly a cadenza, but it was as close as the piece came to having one. The solo viola has a dialogue of sorts with a muted trombone, which plays jittery little passages, sounding like a grumpy old man muttering under his breath. The other noteworthy effect comes at the very end of the piece, when the oboe and English horn play fragmented melodies, while above them, the viola plays very slow downward glissandos -- say, 4 or 5 seconds to drop a quarter-tone -- in the highest part of its register.
I can't say I found the piece a success, but it is certainly possible that my lack of enthusiasm for the rest of the program colored my response. I do look forward to hearing it again with a different orchestra and conductor, surrounded by music for which I have more affection.
My reservations about the repertoire should not be taken to apply to the Sydney Symphony itself, which is a very fine group, or to the performances, which were top-notch. Simone Young is an energetic presence, and her more emphatic upbeats are so vigorous as to lift her feet off the floor. The sound in the Concert Hall at the Sydney Opera House is superb, and the hall itself is an attractive and comfortable place to hear a concert. After suffering in the cramped quarters of LA's Disney Hall for two years, it was especially refreshing to have sufficient legroom.
Also noteworthy was that the concert was being broadcast live throughout Australia by the national radio network, and there was less audience noise than I've ever heard at a symphony concert before.
MOVIES: Ten Canoes (Rolf de Heer & Peter Djigirr, 2006)
This is the first feature film ever made in one of Australia's Aboriginal languages, and it's likely to be Australia's candidate for next year's Foreign Language Oscar; it was the winner of a Special Jury Prize at this year's Cannes Film Festival.
We hear (in English) the voice of a storyteller (David Gulpilil, familiar to American audiences from movies like Walkabout and Rabbit-Proof Fence) who begins, "Once upon a time, in a place far, far away..." He laughs, and tells us that this isn't that kind of story. "It's not your story," he says, "it's our story. But it's a good story."
The storyteller takes us back a thousand years, and tells us of Minygululu (Peter Minygululu), who is leading a group of ten men on the annual hunt for goose eggs. Among those men is Minygululu's younger brother, Dayindi (Jamie Gulpilil, who is David's son); Minygululu is aware that Dayindi has become interested in the youngest of Minygululu's three wives, and begins to tell Dayindi a story of his own, set in the ancient times. Minygululu's story is about another chief, Ridjimiraril (Crusoe Kurrdal), who also has a younger brother, Yeeralparil (Jamie Gulpilil again); again, the younger brother has an eye for the youngest wife of the older.
We occasionally jump out of the Ridjimiraril story to follow Minygululu and his men on their goose-egg hunt; these scenes are filmed in black and white, and are almost anthropological in nature, explaining to us the process by which the men gather bark, make their canoes, and hunt for eggs. The Ridjimiraril story (which is in color) is rambling and digressive -- the storyteller compares it to a tree, and tells us that all of the branches are important -- and never goes quite where we expect it to. There is a real sense, both from the storyteller and from Minygululu, that these stories are important and worthy of respect, and must be honored by being told properly; if the story wants to wander, then it must be allowed to wander.
With the exception of David Gulpilil (who is present only in voice-over), the cast is made up of non-professional actors, and they give fine performances. The acting is perhaps less naturalistic then we're used to, but after a few minutes to get acclimated to the movie's style, that's not distracting.
What's most surprising about the movie, given its storylines about adulterous lust and accidental murder, is how funny it is. There's a nice running joke about tribal elder Birrinbirrin (Richard Birrinbirrin) and his fondness for honey; husbands and wives are constantly bickering; the young men of the tribe tease Yeeralparil about his affection for his brother's wife. The English subtitles of the Ganalbingu dialogue have a very earthy, contemporary feel, as does David Gulpilil's English narration, to which he brings a wry sense of humor that is precisely right.
More than anything, Ten Canoes reminded me of the Canadian movie The Fast Runner, which provided a similar look into ancient Inuit culture. I haven't yet heard of any plans to release Ten Canoes in the United States; it would almost surely be unrated, or rated NC-17, because the characters are largely naked throughout. (It is a plot point, in fact, when a stranger arrives wearing a loincloth; "never trust a man who covers his prick," warns Birrinbirrin.) If it does make its way to the US (or to wherever you might live), whether in theaters or on DVD, you should definitely make the effort to see it.
We hear (in English) the voice of a storyteller (David Gulpilil, familiar to American audiences from movies like Walkabout and Rabbit-Proof Fence) who begins, "Once upon a time, in a place far, far away..." He laughs, and tells us that this isn't that kind of story. "It's not your story," he says, "it's our story. But it's a good story."
The storyteller takes us back a thousand years, and tells us of Minygululu (Peter Minygululu), who is leading a group of ten men on the annual hunt for goose eggs. Among those men is Minygululu's younger brother, Dayindi (Jamie Gulpilil, who is David's son); Minygululu is aware that Dayindi has become interested in the youngest of Minygululu's three wives, and begins to tell Dayindi a story of his own, set in the ancient times. Minygululu's story is about another chief, Ridjimiraril (Crusoe Kurrdal), who also has a younger brother, Yeeralparil (Jamie Gulpilil again); again, the younger brother has an eye for the youngest wife of the older.
We occasionally jump out of the Ridjimiraril story to follow Minygululu and his men on their goose-egg hunt; these scenes are filmed in black and white, and are almost anthropological in nature, explaining to us the process by which the men gather bark, make their canoes, and hunt for eggs. The Ridjimiraril story (which is in color) is rambling and digressive -- the storyteller compares it to a tree, and tells us that all of the branches are important -- and never goes quite where we expect it to. There is a real sense, both from the storyteller and from Minygululu, that these stories are important and worthy of respect, and must be honored by being told properly; if the story wants to wander, then it must be allowed to wander.
With the exception of David Gulpilil (who is present only in voice-over), the cast is made up of non-professional actors, and they give fine performances. The acting is perhaps less naturalistic then we're used to, but after a few minutes to get acclimated to the movie's style, that's not distracting.
What's most surprising about the movie, given its storylines about adulterous lust and accidental murder, is how funny it is. There's a nice running joke about tribal elder Birrinbirrin (Richard Birrinbirrin) and his fondness for honey; husbands and wives are constantly bickering; the young men of the tribe tease Yeeralparil about his affection for his brother's wife. The English subtitles of the Ganalbingu dialogue have a very earthy, contemporary feel, as does David Gulpilil's English narration, to which he brings a wry sense of humor that is precisely right.
More than anything, Ten Canoes reminded me of the Canadian movie The Fast Runner, which provided a similar look into ancient Inuit culture. I haven't yet heard of any plans to release Ten Canoes in the United States; it would almost surely be unrated, or rated NC-17, because the characters are largely naked throughout. (It is a plot point, in fact, when a stranger arrives wearing a loincloth; "never trust a man who covers his prick," warns Birrinbirrin.) If it does make its way to the US (or to wherever you might live), whether in theaters or on DVD, you should definitely make the effort to see it.
Back from Sydney, and a delightful week it was. A touch on the chilly side, with daytime highs in the low 60s, but having just endured the southern California heatwave -- 2 weeks of 100+ temperatures -- a bit of chill wasn't entirely unwelcome.
On the culinary side of things, I'm still trying to understand the Australian fascination with pumpkin soup and banana bread, both of which appeared on almost every restaurant menu I saw. My one big splurge-y expensive meal was at Nick's Bar and Grill, near the aquarium, where I had grilled kangaroo, which was very tasty and not nearly as gamy as I'd expected, and a superb dessert of sticky date pudding served in a pool of hot butterscotch sauce (the best butterscotch I've ever tasted) with vanilla ice cream.
The happiest accident of the trip was going to the Powerhouse Museum (the museum of science and technology) on my last day, and finding a special exhibit on the first 50 years of Australian television.
Saw a good movie, and went to a pair of concerts, which I'll detail in their own posts.
On the culinary side of things, I'm still trying to understand the Australian fascination with pumpkin soup and banana bread, both of which appeared on almost every restaurant menu I saw. My one big splurge-y expensive meal was at Nick's Bar and Grill, near the aquarium, where I had grilled kangaroo, which was very tasty and not nearly as gamy as I'd expected, and a superb dessert of sticky date pudding served in a pool of hot butterscotch sauce (the best butterscotch I've ever tasted) with vanilla ice cream.
The happiest accident of the trip was going to the Powerhouse Museum (the museum of science and technology) on my last day, and finding a special exhibit on the first 50 years of Australian television.
Saw a good movie, and went to a pair of concerts, which I'll detail in their own posts.
August 04, 2006
This isn't the sort of blog where y'all are expecting a post each and every day, but there won't be much activity here for the next week. I'm off for the airport in half an hour for a weeklong vacation in Sydney.
I have lots of things I want to do, many more than I'll ever have time to get to. Tuesday will be a day-long bus tour to the Blue Mountains, west of the city. Wednesday is likely to be the Botanic Gardens in the morning, followed by the lunchtime concert by the University music students; it's the percussion students this week, and I loves me some percussion music.
There's the ferry across the harbor to Manly, which I'd like to do because (a) it supposedly provides the best views of the city as you return, and (b) how can I possibly pass up a ride on something called the Manly Ferry?
There's the Opera House (maybe the Sydney Symphony Orchestra on Wednesday night?), and the Taronga Zoo, and some museums; there's souvenirs to shop for, and restaurants to try. Should be fun, and I'll report back next week.
I have lots of things I want to do, many more than I'll ever have time to get to. Tuesday will be a day-long bus tour to the Blue Mountains, west of the city. Wednesday is likely to be the Botanic Gardens in the morning, followed by the lunchtime concert by the University music students; it's the percussion students this week, and I loves me some percussion music.
There's the ferry across the harbor to Manly, which I'd like to do because (a) it supposedly provides the best views of the city as you return, and (b) how can I possibly pass up a ride on something called the Manly Ferry?
There's the Opera House (maybe the Sydney Symphony Orchestra on Wednesday night?), and the Taronga Zoo, and some museums; there's souvenirs to shop for, and restaurants to try. Should be fun, and I'll report back next week.
July 30, 2006
BOOKS: The Wreck of The River of Stars, Michael Flynn (2003)
We don't often think of nostalgia when we think of science fiction. SF is often set in the future, and it's hard to fake nostalgia for something that hasn't happened yet (and may never actually happen). But Michael Flynn pulls it off in his opening paragraphs:
Flynn is aided, to be sure, by the fact that we have such powerful images and associations with the images of ships and sailing; even though he's talking about spaceships sailing on the solar wind instead of ocean ships sailing on earthly breezes, the power of that imagery still holds. But even without the strength of those images, Flynn's prose is lovely to read.
The novel begins in the late 21st century. The River's sails have long since been folded into stowage, and the ship is now a tramp freighter, hauling cargo in the outer solar system, powered by new engines and manned by a skeleton crew.
Given the book's title, there's not much risk of spoiling the plot: The River is struck by a rock and loses power to two engines, and her crew makes valiant efforts to repair the ship in time to make their scheduled arrival at Jupiter. Time is of the essence in a way that it wouldn't be for an Earthly ship; London, after all, will still be there no matter how late the ship is, but Jupiter is going to keep on moving, and missing a scheduled rendezvous is literally a matter of life and death.
Flynn tells that story in great detail; his explanations of what's happening make the science perfectly clear without ever feeling condescending or pedantic. But what's even more remarkable is the attention he pays to his characters, who are beautifully full creations, each a distinctive and utterly convincing individual. It's a large cast of characters: There are thirteen crew members and a passenger; a captain who dies in the first chapter, but whose memory lingers so strongly that he is almost a character in his own right; and a ship whose malfunctions may be causing her to develop unwanted personality traits of her own.
Flynn gives his characters such complete personalities that every action they take feels right; even as we understand why what they do is wrong, and how it will lead to disaster, we understand exactly why it's the only thing that character can do at that moment. Even more impressive, the interactions among his characters feel accurate; each pair or set of characters play off one another in precisely the right way.
It's a long book -- the paperback is 534 pages -- and it's not one that can be rushed through; Flynn's prose, while never difficult, is dense and richly packed with precise observations of event and character. It's a sad and elegiac book; we know from the beginning that the River will not survive this disaster, and that the efforts of her crew will be wasted. We can only watch as the crew members slowly come to this realization themselves, and still refuse to stop searching for some sort of miracle.
The Wreck of The River of Stars is a gorgeous piece of work. The characters and their tragic fate will stay with me for a long time, and the prose is impeccably crafted. Strongly recommended.
They called her The River of Stars and she spread her superconducting sails to the solar wind in 2051. She must have made a glorious sight then: her fuselage new and gleaming, her sails shimmering in a rainbow aurora, her white-gloved crew sharply creased in black-and-silver uniforms, her passengers rich and deliciously decadent. There were morphy stars and jeweled matriarchs, sports heroes and prostitutes,
gangsters and geeks and soi-disant royalty. Those were the glamour years, when magsails ruled the skies, and The River of Stars was the grandest and most glorious of that beautiful fleet.
But the glory years faded fast. Coltraine was still her captain when the luxury trade dried up and the throngs of the rich and famous slowed from a torrent to a trickle, and even those who still craved the experience could see that it was no longer the fashionable
thing to do. But as he told Toledo when he handed her the command, the luxury trade had been doomed from the start. Sex and vice and decadence were more safely found earthside. There were yet more honorable -- if more quotidian -- pursuits for a ship with such wings to her.
Flynn is aided, to be sure, by the fact that we have such powerful images and associations with the images of ships and sailing; even though he's talking about spaceships sailing on the solar wind instead of ocean ships sailing on earthly breezes, the power of that imagery still holds. But even without the strength of those images, Flynn's prose is lovely to read.
The novel begins in the late 21st century. The River's sails have long since been folded into stowage, and the ship is now a tramp freighter, hauling cargo in the outer solar system, powered by new engines and manned by a skeleton crew.
Given the book's title, there's not much risk of spoiling the plot: The River is struck by a rock and loses power to two engines, and her crew makes valiant efforts to repair the ship in time to make their scheduled arrival at Jupiter. Time is of the essence in a way that it wouldn't be for an Earthly ship; London, after all, will still be there no matter how late the ship is, but Jupiter is going to keep on moving, and missing a scheduled rendezvous is literally a matter of life and death.
Flynn tells that story in great detail; his explanations of what's happening make the science perfectly clear without ever feeling condescending or pedantic. But what's even more remarkable is the attention he pays to his characters, who are beautifully full creations, each a distinctive and utterly convincing individual. It's a large cast of characters: There are thirteen crew members and a passenger; a captain who dies in the first chapter, but whose memory lingers so strongly that he is almost a character in his own right; and a ship whose malfunctions may be causing her to develop unwanted personality traits of her own.
Flynn gives his characters such complete personalities that every action they take feels right; even as we understand why what they do is wrong, and how it will lead to disaster, we understand exactly why it's the only thing that character can do at that moment. Even more impressive, the interactions among his characters feel accurate; each pair or set of characters play off one another in precisely the right way.
It's a long book -- the paperback is 534 pages -- and it's not one that can be rushed through; Flynn's prose, while never difficult, is dense and richly packed with precise observations of event and character. It's a sad and elegiac book; we know from the beginning that the River will not survive this disaster, and that the efforts of her crew will be wasted. We can only watch as the crew members slowly come to this realization themselves, and still refuse to stop searching for some sort of miracle.
The Wreck of The River of Stars is a gorgeous piece of work. The characters and their tragic fate will stay with me for a long time, and the prose is impeccably crafted. Strongly recommended.
July 23, 2006
BOOKS: The Understudy, David Nicholls (2005)
When you reach your early thirties and the highlight of your acting career has been the starring role in a children's DVD about Sammy the Squirrel, you might begin to wonder if it's time for a career change. That's where Stephen C. McQueen -- no relation -- finds himself as The Understudy opens.
Stephen is actually working at the moment, which is an improvement; unfortunately, it's as an understudy to an actor who seems unlikely ever to miss a performance. That would be Josh Harper, Hollywood movie star (and according to one magazine, the Twelfth Sexiest Man in the World) who's doing London theater in order to be taken more seriously. Josh seems to have it all, especially in comparison to Stephen; not only is Stephen's acting career stalling out, but his marriage has failed, his daughter seems to be slipping away as she grows up, and he's living in a depressing tiny apartment.
There is a bright moment for Stephen when he's invited to Josh's birthday party. Well, not "invited" so much as "asked to work as a waiter," but Stephen does meet a beautiful woman with whom he falls almost immediately in love. Nora is charming, witty, everything Stephen could hope for. She's also Josh's wife.
This is a style of comic novel that has never really caught on with American authors; the Brits call it "lad lit," and it's essentially chick lit with male protagonists. When it's done well, as it is here or in the early Nick Hornby novels, it's light and breezy and lots of fun to read. The challenge is that we tend to frown on men who are too aware of their own emotional flaws and desires (which is probably why lad lit is almost always in the third person, where chick lit is often in the first; if we must focus on male emotion, at least let it by done by a somewhat distant omniscient narrator), but if the men are too unaware, they come off as cold, unfeeling bastards.
Nicholls gets the balance right here; Stephen is insecure without being a complete wimp, and I found myself rooting for him, even at his worst and most foolish moments. The characters are, to be sure, perpetually witty in the way that only romantic comedy characters can be, and like much lad/chick lit, the plot relies a bit heavily on contrived situations and far-fetched coincidence. But the whole thing is funny and very sweet, and Nicholls manages to keep the story from collapsing completely into sitcom.
Stephen is actually working at the moment, which is an improvement; unfortunately, it's as an understudy to an actor who seems unlikely ever to miss a performance. That would be Josh Harper, Hollywood movie star (and according to one magazine, the Twelfth Sexiest Man in the World) who's doing London theater in order to be taken more seriously. Josh seems to have it all, especially in comparison to Stephen; not only is Stephen's acting career stalling out, but his marriage has failed, his daughter seems to be slipping away as she grows up, and he's living in a depressing tiny apartment.
There is a bright moment for Stephen when he's invited to Josh's birthday party. Well, not "invited" so much as "asked to work as a waiter," but Stephen does meet a beautiful woman with whom he falls almost immediately in love. Nora is charming, witty, everything Stephen could hope for. She's also Josh's wife.
This is a style of comic novel that has never really caught on with American authors; the Brits call it "lad lit," and it's essentially chick lit with male protagonists. When it's done well, as it is here or in the early Nick Hornby novels, it's light and breezy and lots of fun to read. The challenge is that we tend to frown on men who are too aware of their own emotional flaws and desires (which is probably why lad lit is almost always in the third person, where chick lit is often in the first; if we must focus on male emotion, at least let it by done by a somewhat distant omniscient narrator), but if the men are too unaware, they come off as cold, unfeeling bastards.
Nicholls gets the balance right here; Stephen is insecure without being a complete wimp, and I found myself rooting for him, even at his worst and most foolish moments. The characters are, to be sure, perpetually witty in the way that only romantic comedy characters can be, and like much lad/chick lit, the plot relies a bit heavily on contrived situations and far-fetched coincidence. But the whole thing is funny and very sweet, and Nicholls manages to keep the story from collapsing completely into sitcom.
MOVIES: Lady in the Water (M. Night Shyamalan, 2006)
Not the disaster that most of the reviews would have you believe, but not a very good movie, either.
The movie opens with an animated introduction about the days of yore, when mankind regularly talked to, and took advice from, the creatures of the sea. But alas, as time has passed, mankind has "forgotten how to listen," and only occasionally do the sea people try to reach out to we violent humans.
Story (Bryce Dallas Howard) is a Narf who is the latest emissary from the Blue World, and she appears in the swimming pool of "The Cove," a rundown Philadelphia apartment complex. Story is discovered by Cleveland Heep (Paul Giamatti), and she tells him that she has come to visit a writer who lives in his building.
The mythology of the Blue World is a story that humanity remembers only as an old, almost-forgotten Korean legend (or so Shyamalan tells us; it's actually a "mythology" of his own creation). The movie spells the mythology out for us in dribs and drabs, as Cleveland turns to his Korean-American tenants for explanations; the college-student daughter translates as her mother shares the story her grandmother used to tell.
But, alas, Mrs. Choi is a cranky old woman who doesn't like to be interrupted, so the telling of the legend is very disjointed. Cleveland gets a piece of it, uses that information to get through the next fifteen minutes of the movie, then runs back to Mrs. Choi to find out what crucial bit of information she's left out this time. By the time Cleveland finally gets the whole story from Mrs. Choi, we've been given a complicated mess about Narfs and Scrunts and The Tartutic, and the human Guardian and Guild and Healer who are supposed to help the Madame Narf, and none of it makes a lick of sense.
Shyamalan has assembled a fine cast of actors, though -- Jeffrey Wright, Bob Balaban, Mary Beth Hurt, Bill Irwin, Freddy Rodriguez, Sarita Choudhury, Tovah Feldshuh -- and when they all come together for the movie's final sequence, they play this goofy material with such conviction that it works better than it has any right too. (Sadly, Shyamalan has also cast himself, as is his wont, and in a larger role than usual as the writer whom Story has come to see; he's a stiff and clunky presence.)
As is usually the case with Shyamalan's movies, it looks marvelous -- the talented Christopher Doyle is the cinematographer -- and no one generates suspense through skillful use of sound as well as Shyamalan. James Newton Howard has scored all of Shyamalan's movies since The Sixth Sense, and his music here is effectively creepy.
So yes, the movie's beautifully made and well acted, but the story is such a mess that it's hard to care. And -- mild spoilers here -- the none-too-subtle ways in which Shyamalan makes the movie about himself are rather heavy-handed; Shyamalan's writer character is told that he will be martyred for the brilliant ideas which will eventually change the world for the better, and the most unlikable character in the movie (the only one killed by the monster) is a movie critic.
There's something sad, really, in watching a talented director get so wound up in his own personal mythology that he can't see the flaws in his own writing anymore. Shyamalan desperately needs to focus on his strengths as a director the next time around, and leave the writing to someone else, but I don't think he's capable of hearing that message.
The movie opens with an animated introduction about the days of yore, when mankind regularly talked to, and took advice from, the creatures of the sea. But alas, as time has passed, mankind has "forgotten how to listen," and only occasionally do the sea people try to reach out to we violent humans.
Story (Bryce Dallas Howard) is a Narf who is the latest emissary from the Blue World, and she appears in the swimming pool of "The Cove," a rundown Philadelphia apartment complex. Story is discovered by Cleveland Heep (Paul Giamatti), and she tells him that she has come to visit a writer who lives in his building.
The mythology of the Blue World is a story that humanity remembers only as an old, almost-forgotten Korean legend (or so Shyamalan tells us; it's actually a "mythology" of his own creation). The movie spells the mythology out for us in dribs and drabs, as Cleveland turns to his Korean-American tenants for explanations; the college-student daughter translates as her mother shares the story her grandmother used to tell.
But, alas, Mrs. Choi is a cranky old woman who doesn't like to be interrupted, so the telling of the legend is very disjointed. Cleveland gets a piece of it, uses that information to get through the next fifteen minutes of the movie, then runs back to Mrs. Choi to find out what crucial bit of information she's left out this time. By the time Cleveland finally gets the whole story from Mrs. Choi, we've been given a complicated mess about Narfs and Scrunts and The Tartutic, and the human Guardian and Guild and Healer who are supposed to help the Madame Narf, and none of it makes a lick of sense.
Shyamalan has assembled a fine cast of actors, though -- Jeffrey Wright, Bob Balaban, Mary Beth Hurt, Bill Irwin, Freddy Rodriguez, Sarita Choudhury, Tovah Feldshuh -- and when they all come together for the movie's final sequence, they play this goofy material with such conviction that it works better than it has any right too. (Sadly, Shyamalan has also cast himself, as is his wont, and in a larger role than usual as the writer whom Story has come to see; he's a stiff and clunky presence.)
As is usually the case with Shyamalan's movies, it looks marvelous -- the talented Christopher Doyle is the cinematographer -- and no one generates suspense through skillful use of sound as well as Shyamalan. James Newton Howard has scored all of Shyamalan's movies since The Sixth Sense, and his music here is effectively creepy.
So yes, the movie's beautifully made and well acted, but the story is such a mess that it's hard to care. And -- mild spoilers here -- the none-too-subtle ways in which Shyamalan makes the movie about himself are rather heavy-handed; Shyamalan's writer character is told that he will be martyred for the brilliant ideas which will eventually change the world for the better, and the most unlikable character in the movie (the only one killed by the monster) is a movie critic.
There's something sad, really, in watching a talented director get so wound up in his own personal mythology that he can't see the flaws in his own writing anymore. Shyamalan desperately needs to focus on his strengths as a director the next time around, and leave the writing to someone else, but I don't think he's capable of hearing that message.
MOVIES: Monster House (Gil Kenan, 2006)
Best animated film of the year, with gorgeous visuals, impeccable voice casting, and an entertaining story.
Every neighborhood has a creepy old house, inhabited by a grumpy old man who yells "get off my lawn" and refuses to give back the balls and toys that land in his yard. DJ (voiced by Mitchel Musso) lives across the street from that house, and old man Nebbercracker (Steve Buscemi) is as nasty and ill-tempered as they come. But when Nebbercracker is rushed off to the hospital, DJ and his friends -- best pal Chowder (Sam Lerner) and neighborhood newcomer Jenny (Spencer Locke) -- discover that it isn't just Nebbercracker they need to worry about it; the house has a mind of its own, and it wants to eat them. The kids set out to destroy the house, and we're off for a marvelous thrill ride that will make a great first horror film for older kids, though it is definitely too scary for smaller kids; I'd say nine or ten would be the cutoff.
The movie's made using the same motion-capture technology that we saw in The Polar Express; wisely, Kenan has chosen not to go for the same level of photo-realism in his characters that Robert Zemeckis attempted in Express (Zemeckis is one of the executive producers of Monster House); he's stepped the characters back a notch or two towards cartoon, and as a result, they don't have the waxy creepiness that made Express so unpleasant to watch.
With the exception of the three kids, the cast is made up of fairly recognizable names, but the star casting never gets in the way as it can in some animated films (think of Robin Williams in Robots, for instance, whose every appearance is just more Robin Williams shtick). In addition to Buscemi, the cast includes Maggie Gyllenhaal, Jason Lee, Kevin James, Nick Cannon, Jon Heder (who, for the first time in his inexplicable career, is actually funny), and, in a small role, a perfectly cast Kathleen Turner. And those three kids are just as good as their better known adult co-stars, aided by a top-notch screenplay (by Dan Harmon, Rob Schrab, and Pamela Pettler) that precisely captures the voice and attitudes of kids who are right on the edge of puberty.
Monster House isn't at the level of the best Pixar films, but it's better than the lesser Pixar films -- certainly better than Cars or A Bug's Life -- and it's the best non-Pixar animation we've seen in years.
Every neighborhood has a creepy old house, inhabited by a grumpy old man who yells "get off my lawn" and refuses to give back the balls and toys that land in his yard. DJ (voiced by Mitchel Musso) lives across the street from that house, and old man Nebbercracker (Steve Buscemi) is as nasty and ill-tempered as they come. But when Nebbercracker is rushed off to the hospital, DJ and his friends -- best pal Chowder (Sam Lerner) and neighborhood newcomer Jenny (Spencer Locke) -- discover that it isn't just Nebbercracker they need to worry about it; the house has a mind of its own, and it wants to eat them. The kids set out to destroy the house, and we're off for a marvelous thrill ride that will make a great first horror film for older kids, though it is definitely too scary for smaller kids; I'd say nine or ten would be the cutoff.
The movie's made using the same motion-capture technology that we saw in The Polar Express; wisely, Kenan has chosen not to go for the same level of photo-realism in his characters that Robert Zemeckis attempted in Express (Zemeckis is one of the executive producers of Monster House); he's stepped the characters back a notch or two towards cartoon, and as a result, they don't have the waxy creepiness that made Express so unpleasant to watch.
With the exception of the three kids, the cast is made up of fairly recognizable names, but the star casting never gets in the way as it can in some animated films (think of Robin Williams in Robots, for instance, whose every appearance is just more Robin Williams shtick). In addition to Buscemi, the cast includes Maggie Gyllenhaal, Jason Lee, Kevin James, Nick Cannon, Jon Heder (who, for the first time in his inexplicable career, is actually funny), and, in a small role, a perfectly cast Kathleen Turner. And those three kids are just as good as their better known adult co-stars, aided by a top-notch screenplay (by Dan Harmon, Rob Schrab, and Pamela Pettler) that precisely captures the voice and attitudes of kids who are right on the edge of puberty.
Monster House isn't at the level of the best Pixar films, but it's better than the lesser Pixar films -- certainly better than Cars or A Bug's Life -- and it's the best non-Pixar animation we've seen in years.
July 19, 2006
BOOKS: Manhattan Transfer, John E. Stith (1993)
Manhattan is ripped off the face of the earth and sealed in a giant bubble by aliens; that bubble is hauled into the alien ship and placed on a large plain, surrounded by other bubbles. What's going on here? Are the aliens assembling an intergalactic zoo? Collecting souvenirs? Gathering their next meal?
Stith focuses on half-a-dozen or so human heroes (and one or two villains); all of his characters are appropriately heroic/stalwart/courageous or shifty/unscrupulous/scheming, as the plot requires. The heroes set out on a mission to escape their bubble and contact their captors while the villains, fearful that this mission can only make things worse, attempt to sabotage things.
There's not a lot of subtlety here; characters are paper thin, and the romantic relationship between the two principal hero characters is painful to read. But as cheesy sci-fi goes, Manhattan Transfer does have the virtue of moving swiftly along; Stith is at least trying to make the science plausible; and there are some unexpected twists involving the alien captors and their real motivations. It's not great literature, but if you're in the mood for mindless entertainment, you could do worse.
Stith focuses on half-a-dozen or so human heroes (and one or two villains); all of his characters are appropriately heroic/stalwart/courageous or shifty/unscrupulous/scheming, as the plot requires. The heroes set out on a mission to escape their bubble and contact their captors while the villains, fearful that this mission can only make things worse, attempt to sabotage things.
There's not a lot of subtlety here; characters are paper thin, and the romantic relationship between the two principal hero characters is painful to read. But as cheesy sci-fi goes, Manhattan Transfer does have the virtue of moving swiftly along; Stith is at least trying to make the science plausible; and there are some unexpected twists involving the alien captors and their real motivations. It's not great literature, but if you're in the mood for mindless entertainment, you could do worse.
July 18, 2006
MOVIES: You, Me, and Dupree (2006, Anthony & Joe Russo)
When bad movies happen to good people...
The three lead actors here may not be threats to win Oscars anytime soon, but they're all reasonably capable actors, and all are cast solidly in their comfort zone. Owen Wilson as the blissed-out free spirit who disrupts the lives of his more stable pal; Matt Dillon as the put-upon decent guy coping with aforementioned free spirit, and with disapproving father-in-law; Kate Hudson as the blandly pleasant wife whose main job in the movie is to scowl disapprovingly, either at Wilson (for the first half of the movie) or at Dillon (for the second half of the movie).
But the three of them are stuck in so deadly dull and predictable a movie that no matter how they try (and lord knows they're trying), they can't salvage much. Even if you haven't seen the movie -- even if you haven't seen the ads -- you know the story already. Wilson needs a place to stay, moves in with just-married best pal Dillon over the objections of bride Hudson. Wilson's zaniness grows increasingly annoying, lives are disrupted, etc. until the Great Epiphany, after which Wilson rushes about in his zany way to undo all of the damage he's done. Happy endings for all.
What's the point of making this movie if you're not going to do a single distinctive, interesting, or original thing with it? There's not a scene or a line of dialogue that we haven't seen before, and the actors all seem vaguely depressed to be stuck in this mess. Chin up, I say to them. At least they don't have to watch it.
The three lead actors here may not be threats to win Oscars anytime soon, but they're all reasonably capable actors, and all are cast solidly in their comfort zone. Owen Wilson as the blissed-out free spirit who disrupts the lives of his more stable pal; Matt Dillon as the put-upon decent guy coping with aforementioned free spirit, and with disapproving father-in-law; Kate Hudson as the blandly pleasant wife whose main job in the movie is to scowl disapprovingly, either at Wilson (for the first half of the movie) or at Dillon (for the second half of the movie).
But the three of them are stuck in so deadly dull and predictable a movie that no matter how they try (and lord knows they're trying), they can't salvage much. Even if you haven't seen the movie -- even if you haven't seen the ads -- you know the story already. Wilson needs a place to stay, moves in with just-married best pal Dillon over the objections of bride Hudson. Wilson's zaniness grows increasingly annoying, lives are disrupted, etc. until the Great Epiphany, after which Wilson rushes about in his zany way to undo all of the damage he's done. Happy endings for all.
What's the point of making this movie if you're not going to do a single distinctive, interesting, or original thing with it? There's not a scene or a line of dialogue that we haven't seen before, and the actors all seem vaguely depressed to be stuck in this mess. Chin up, I say to them. At least they don't have to watch it.
July 09, 2006
BOOKS: The Virgin of Small Plains, Nancy Pickard (2006)
This is a marvelous book, with vivid characters and a compelling mystery at the center of the story.
Pickard jumps back and forth between the present and 1987, when the naked body of a young woman is found in a blizzard. That discovery changes the lives of three high-school students. Rex Shellenberger, who finds the body; Mitch Newquist, who mysteriously leaves town the next day; and Abby Reynolds, Mitch's girlfriend, who can't understand why he would leave without even saying goodbye. The town authorities -- the sheriff, the judge, and the doctor (who happen to be the fathers of Rex, Mitch, and Abby) -- arrange for the unidentified girl to be given a decent burial in the Small Plains cemetery. Over the years, her grave becomes something of a shrine, and a legend grows that "the Virgin of Small Plains" performs miracles and heals people.
Jump to 2004, when Mitch returns to town for the first time since his disappearance. In different ways, Rex's and Abby's lives have always revolved around the unsolved mystery of the Virgin's death and Mitch's departure; his return triggers a series of investigations, and much panic on the part of those who have been keeping secrets for seventeen years.
The relationships among these characters, especially the three principals, are sharply drawn and interesting enough to be a fine story in their own right, and I was so caught up in their present-day story that I almost forget about the central mystery of the Virgin's death. When Pickard does begin to resolve that story in the final chapters, though, the revelations are all the more devastating because we've come to care about the characters so deeply.
This is a very fine novel; highly recommended, even to those who think they don't like mystery novels.
Pickard jumps back and forth between the present and 1987, when the naked body of a young woman is found in a blizzard. That discovery changes the lives of three high-school students. Rex Shellenberger, who finds the body; Mitch Newquist, who mysteriously leaves town the next day; and Abby Reynolds, Mitch's girlfriend, who can't understand why he would leave without even saying goodbye. The town authorities -- the sheriff, the judge, and the doctor (who happen to be the fathers of Rex, Mitch, and Abby) -- arrange for the unidentified girl to be given a decent burial in the Small Plains cemetery. Over the years, her grave becomes something of a shrine, and a legend grows that "the Virgin of Small Plains" performs miracles and heals people.
Jump to 2004, when Mitch returns to town for the first time since his disappearance. In different ways, Rex's and Abby's lives have always revolved around the unsolved mystery of the Virgin's death and Mitch's departure; his return triggers a series of investigations, and much panic on the part of those who have been keeping secrets for seventeen years.
The relationships among these characters, especially the three principals, are sharply drawn and interesting enough to be a fine story in their own right, and I was so caught up in their present-day story that I almost forget about the central mystery of the Virgin's death. When Pickard does begin to resolve that story in the final chapters, though, the revelations are all the more devastating because we've come to care about the characters so deeply.
This is a very fine novel; highly recommended, even to those who think they don't like mystery novels.
MOVIES: A Scanner Darkly (Richard Linklater)
Our setting is Orange County, California, sometime in the new future, where "Fred" -- that's his code name -- is an undercover narcotics agent investigating some small-time users of Substance D, a drug so addictive that "you're either on it or you've never tried it." While undercover, he wears a scramble suit, a full-body (including head and face) jumpsuit that constantly changes his appearance so that those he deals with (even his supervisor) can never get a solid grip on what he looks like; the most they'll see or remember is a vague blur.
Among those being investigated is Robert Arctor, who spends most of his time lounging around his house, having long rambled drug-fueled conversations with his pals, who are also hooked on D. Bob is beginning to suffer the side effects of long-term D use, which include a growing inability to recognize familiar faces and objects, and a dissociation of the hemispheres of his brain, which are beginning to do battle with one another.
Those symptoms are making Bob's day job more difficult, because as it happens, Bob and Fred are the same person, so addled that Fred doesn't recognize himself when watching surveillance tapes of Bob, and Bob has no idea that he's the one who planted the cameras in his own home.
Keanu Reeves plays Bob/Fred, and while it's not one of his best performances, his befuddled blandness fits well with his character's increasing confusion and disorientation. The supporting cast includes Robert Downey, Jr., Winona Ryder, and Woody Harrelson (a twistedly appropriate group for a movie about addiction), and they make up for Reeves' weakness; Downey is especially good, and deserves to be in contention for a supporting Oscar nomination.
Odds are that won't happen, though, if only because the movie is animated, using similar rotoscoping technology to that in Linklater's Waking Life; the movie was filmed live, and the individual frames traced to create an animated film. In Waking Life, I thought the jiggliness of the technique was annoying, and it left me with a bad headache; here, the look is a bit more stable (though the shifting highlights in Ryder's hair are oddly snakelike) and much easier to watch.
And unlike in Waking Life, where the rotoscoping felt like an unnecessary gimmick, the technology serves useful purposes in this movie; it allows for a beautiful realization of the scramble suit technology, which would be very difficult and expensive to achieve in live action. In addition, rotoscoping gives the movie a crisp and vivid look, but you never lose the awareness that what you're seeing isn't quite real, which (though I can't speak from personal experience) feels appropriate for a movie about drug use.
Among those being investigated is Robert Arctor, who spends most of his time lounging around his house, having long rambled drug-fueled conversations with his pals, who are also hooked on D. Bob is beginning to suffer the side effects of long-term D use, which include a growing inability to recognize familiar faces and objects, and a dissociation of the hemispheres of his brain, which are beginning to do battle with one another.
Those symptoms are making Bob's day job more difficult, because as it happens, Bob and Fred are the same person, so addled that Fred doesn't recognize himself when watching surveillance tapes of Bob, and Bob has no idea that he's the one who planted the cameras in his own home.
Keanu Reeves plays Bob/Fred, and while it's not one of his best performances, his befuddled blandness fits well with his character's increasing confusion and disorientation. The supporting cast includes Robert Downey, Jr., Winona Ryder, and Woody Harrelson (a twistedly appropriate group for a movie about addiction), and they make up for Reeves' weakness; Downey is especially good, and deserves to be in contention for a supporting Oscar nomination.
Odds are that won't happen, though, if only because the movie is animated, using similar rotoscoping technology to that in Linklater's Waking Life; the movie was filmed live, and the individual frames traced to create an animated film. In Waking Life, I thought the jiggliness of the technique was annoying, and it left me with a bad headache; here, the look is a bit more stable (though the shifting highlights in Ryder's hair are oddly snakelike) and much easier to watch.
And unlike in Waking Life, where the rotoscoping felt like an unnecessary gimmick, the technology serves useful purposes in this movie; it allows for a beautiful realization of the scramble suit technology, which would be very difficult and expensive to achieve in live action. In addition, rotoscoping gives the movie a crisp and vivid look, but you never lose the awareness that what you're seeing isn't quite real, which (though I can't speak from personal experience) feels appropriate for a movie about drug use.
July 06, 2006
TV: Emmy nominations
Lots of surprises when the nominations were announced this morning. A few quick thoughts:
Most inexplicable nominations: Alfre Woodard (the least interesting character in the least interesting plotline in her show's disappointing season), Kevin James (ahead of Zach Braff or Jason Lee? Really?), Stockard Channing (did people think she was still on The West Wing?)
Most inexplicable omissions: James Gandolfini and Edie Falco, obviously, but also Jason Lee and Ethan Suplee. And as always, the perpetually bizarre lack of love for Lauren Graham, Kelly Bishop, and John C. McGinley.
Not-all-that-surprising omission: Hugh Laurie. Best Actor/Drama was a very crowded field this year, and while I'd have preferred Laurie to some who did get nominated (Sheen or Meloni, for instance), there are others who didn't get in who deserved it even more (Michael C. Hall, Edward James Olmos).
Not a good year to be the defending champ: Three of four Best Actor/Actress winners and one of the two Best Series winners from last year were eligible to be nominated this year; none of them were.
Planned obsolescence: Seventeen of the forty acting nominees (in the series categories) this year are from shows that have been cancelled, and at least one other (Alfre Woodard) has already been written out of her series (and who knows whether Gregory Itzin and Jean Smart will be back for the next season of 24?), which means that there are likely to be lots of new faces come this time next year.
Most inexplicable nominations: Alfre Woodard (the least interesting character in the least interesting plotline in her show's disappointing season), Kevin James (ahead of Zach Braff or Jason Lee? Really?), Stockard Channing (did people think she was still on The West Wing?)
Most inexplicable omissions: James Gandolfini and Edie Falco, obviously, but also Jason Lee and Ethan Suplee. And as always, the perpetually bizarre lack of love for Lauren Graham, Kelly Bishop, and John C. McGinley.
Not-all-that-surprising omission: Hugh Laurie. Best Actor/Drama was a very crowded field this year, and while I'd have preferred Laurie to some who did get nominated (Sheen or Meloni, for instance), there are others who didn't get in who deserved it even more (Michael C. Hall, Edward James Olmos).
Not a good year to be the defending champ: Three of four Best Actor/Actress winners and one of the two Best Series winners from last year were eligible to be nominated this year; none of them were.
Planned obsolescence: Seventeen of the forty acting nominees (in the series categories) this year are from shows that have been cancelled, and at least one other (Alfre Woodard) has already been written out of her series (and who knows whether Gregory Itzin and Jean Smart will be back for the next season of 24?), which means that there are likely to be lots of new faces come this time next year.
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