Tag: Review

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Film Features Film/TV

Daniel Johnston captures sad life, sadder songs.

Daniel Johnston isn’t exactly a household name, but in the early 1990s the bipolar visual artist and musician achieved some measure of fame, becoming a hero to Kurt Cobain, David Bowie, and the Flaming Lips. His story is by turns sweet, tragic, funny, terrifying, and absurd — filled with primal conflict, stardust dreams, and unrequited love. Director Jeff Feuerzeig’s The Devil and Daniel Johnston captures every unsettling quirk.

Johnston’s personal nightmare of near-fame and debilitating illness is a documentary filmmaker’s dream come true. As a teenager in New Cumberland, West Virginia, the mentally disturbed artist took to filming himself and his family with a Super 8 camera and making crude audio recordings of everything, from his songs to bitter family squabbles, with a 1979 Sanyo boom box. Johnston was obsessive: When a high school friend recalls Johnston’s fundamentalist parents denigrating their son’s artistic achievements and calling him an “unprofitable servant,” there’s plenty of audio and visual footage to support the claim.

Johnston’s caption-laden visual art — reoccurring images of Casper the Friendly Ghost, Captain America, floating eyeballs, and a man whose brain has been removed — functions as a diary, revealing Johnston’s interior life in a way that’s both highly visual and emotionally direct.

Johnston wasn’t a successful student, but during his brief attempt at college he met a sweet young girl named Laurie Allen and tumbled head over heels. Unfortunately, she was already engaged to a mortician, a circumstance that broke Johnston’s heart. If the undertaker’s wife couldn’t be his girlfriend, she could be his muse.

The deeply disturbed musician eventually landed in Austin, Texas, where he started handing out homemade tapes showcasing his primitive guitar playing and nakedly emotional songs. Johnston was embraced by Austin’s booming underground music scene, and when MTV came to town, he suddenly found himself performing on national television. That’s when everything began to unravel.

In the film’s most absurd moment, Feuerzeig documents a period in the mid-1990s when Cobain was frequently photographed wearing a Daniel Johnston T-shirt, prompting major record labels to track Johnston down and to engage in a bidding war for an artist who was struggling with his sanity in a mental hospital. Johnston signed with Atlantic and produced a single record that was ignored by the public.

The Devil and Daniel Johnston romanticizes Johnston’s music and the purity of his love for Laurie Allen but takes an unflinching look at the ravages of mental illness. It’s a remarkable film that should find an audience beyond the hardcore hipsterati who are already aware of Johnston’s sad story and sadder songs.

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Film Features Film/TV

Good Girl Gone Bad

Aside from a vivid, pulpy prologue in a surprisingly well-lit smut shop, The Notorious Bettie Page is fairly unsuccessful as a biopic but more successful as a meditation on female role-playing and male fantasy. In many ways, it’s an extension of the ideas developed by director Mary Harron, whose adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’ novel American Psycho was fascinating as both entertainment and argument. Harron’s wit and grasp of period details reinforced Ellis’ conviction that males remain quivering, depraved invertebrates in search of protective shells even when they are awarded power, money, and sexual satisfaction. Characters slid and squirmed in a slick onscreen mucus composed of hair gel, four-star restaurant grease, and cocaine sweat.

In Bettie Page, these furtive, pale, and perspiring types reappear as the wealthy clientele for tasteful bondage photos, but they are not the focus of the film. And although the period detail is decent, its black-and-white photography is less effective at capturing an era, which is unfortunate because cinematographer W. Mott Hupfel’s color sequences capture the Easter-egg colors of 1950s films. But Harron’s argument this time — that women who assume roles that satisfy and comfort such men can lead pretty decent, healthy lives — is still noteworthy and perhaps more radical than before, even if the end of her film is far too conservative.

Harron’s argument is convincing because of Gretchen Mol as Bettie and the film’s recreation of photo shoots. Aside from looking like Page, Mol doesn’t do much; she offers a pleasing counterweight to the narrow standards of American screen beauty but little else. Yet this isn’t a serious flaw. The film offers few psychological clues about why Page entered the pinup business, and aside from one shocking, oleaginous turn by Dallas Roberts, the people and events of Page’s early life and hardships pass by quickly. Even Lili Taylor’s snappy, Thelma Ritter-esque role as a smut-film den mother and David Strathairn’s stiff performance as a political crusader during the inevitable government investigation matter less than the process of image-making and the politics of representation.

Page’s many photo sessions are meticulous and businesslike instead of erotically charged. She talks openly and freely to her cameraman and her fellow bondage gals — more, in fact, than she talks to any of her boyfriends or relatives. The film is near its best during these sequences, where Page’s desire to “make people happy” competes with the problems that come with wearing huge stiletto boots. Harron also captures an offhand revelation when one of Page’s early photographers asks her to look “horny” and Mol crinkles up her nose in playful disgust as if she were a first-grader asked about which boy in her class is the cutest. Somehow the expression works, and the closest thing to a secret about Page’s best pinups is revealed.

Eventually, Page gives up her life to preach the word of God, and Harron’s serious, respectful treatment of Page’s reconversion to Christianity is the best part of the film. Page achieves the transcendence she mimicked but never claimed for herself in front of the camera. Unfortunately, the film ends on a phony note unrelated to issues of faith.

While Page is quoting Scripture, a passerby recognizes her and tells her about the filthy porn that is making the rounds these days. But wait a minute. Isn’t blaming the problems of contemporary society on the corruption of the past as suspicious and reactionary as venerating the past as a time worth reviving? Nobody needs a preachy movie about how and why it’s okay to show your keister.

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Book Features Books

Running Dry?

Many people assume I have a ‘funny and charming self.’ Many people are wrong. I am not especially funny. I am serious and exhausted. … I try to be funny but come off instead as sloppy and a little pathetic.”

This is Augusten Burroughs, well into middle age, speaking — the same Augusten Burroughs you saw through adolescence in Running with Scissors, through rehab in Dry, and through post-rehab in Magical Thinking. The quote is from Possible Side Effects, Burroughs’ latest collection of first-person-singular essays, and it’s true: The guy is sounding serious and pretty exhausted — what with this, his fourth book to land on The New York Times‘ bestseller list and this, his fourth book to delve into some well-mined autobiographical territory. As in:

Burroughs’ memories of his dear, demented mother, an artistically challenged manic-depressive — she’s here, again. As is Burroughs’ father, still shadowy and uncommunicative, and his brother, still supersmart but a weirdo in his own right.

Now add in further familiar memories to go with the good/bad old days before Burroughs hit the big-time: Burroughs the adman, Burroughs the blind-dater, Burroughs the chain-smoker, Burroughs the drinker, and Burroughs the slob.

But there are new memories too in Possible Side Effects, in case you need reminding of the good/bad old days. As in:

Burroughs, age 9, cooking up a storm (and a major mess) unlike his idol, Julia Child; Burroughs, age 11, in platform shoes just like his idol, Tony Orlando; Burroughs, age 17, befriending a pot-head named Druggy Debby; Burroughs, age 18, making mincemeat of sailcloth; and Burroughs, age 9 again, washing his hands raw and spraying them with Windex just so he can revisit yet another other idol, a dermatologist (and burn victim) named Dr. Ledford.

The book is not without its updates though: Burroughs cracking a tooth on a tater tot; Burroughs chewing an average 1,300 pieces of Nicorette gum per month; Burroughs helping his friend, a GWF, seek “same”; and Burroughs (heartsick?) on a treadmill.

Treading tested ground in Possible Side Effects? Yes, but Burroughs is still a likable guy — on the page, in doses: caustic, self-critical, but a real softie at heart and again on the trail of the preposterous. But unlike James Frey, his partner in pieces, Burroughs covers his bases in an author’s note before Possible Side Effects gets under way and beyond belief:

“Some of the events described happened as related; others were expanded and changed. Some of the individuals portrayed are composites of more than one person, and many names and identifying characteristics have changed as well.” As in:

Dennis Pilsits? He’s Burroughs’ partner, and he “makes it all possible and meaningful.” And maybe he does.

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Art Art Feature

Out of the Shadows

With “Origin,” Kurt Meer fills the L Ross Gallery with sparsely composed, eerily calm, and hauntingly beautiful landscapes. Like many American landscape painters of the second half of the 19th century, especially the Luminists, Meer accentuates light. Glints of bright color shine through shadowy worlds and spread across skies that dominate his picture planes. Imperceptible brush strokes infuse dawn (Begin III) and dusk (Gloaming II) with the palest possible melons, teals, and violets. These softly glowing colors enrich the dark bends of rivers, highlight the tops of tree lines, and reflect in still waters.

What makes “Origin” a particularly compelling body of work is Meer’s pairing of these landscapes with a series of small figurative works. Each of these portraits consists of a lone figure: a woman whose body blurs into the background. Sometimes, as in Lapse, this sphinx-like figure closes her eyes, faces straight ahead, and, along with the stone facades surrounding her, appears to crumble into eons of time.

Another figure stirs things up in Voyage III. She turns away from ancient vistas, away from the viewer. She cocks her head to the side and appears lost in thought and feeling. The exhibition’s loosest brushwork and most luminous colors explode around and inside her. Meer’s portraits of mind in matter suggest that awareness is pervasive and that consciousness, fully engaged in the present moment, wields a power that can move mountains and open up the sky.

Meer’s carefully observed landscapes also transform matter. In Late II, grass on a riverbank softens as mist rises through its blades. The mist shimmers as light passes through its vapors. The mist bends the light, and the light colors the mist a green-gray. The mist rises further and brightens as it passes through pale violet atmosphere. All of Meer’s paintings capture hundreds of these variations in texture, color, and brightness.

This artist’s accomplished techniques combine with his elegant understanding of light and form to convincingly depict the gray-violets of twilight (Late II), muted yellow light filtering though fog along a riverbank (Awake V), and the complex colors of a sunrise where yellows, peaches, and greens radiate out and overlap (Awake IV). The half-light of dawn mutes the greens of trees and scumbles their edges (Begin III). Dusk turns the trees of Voyage into phantom shadows and the riverbanks of Awake IV into pale gray abstractions. In all of Meer’s works, land morphs into water into mist into atmosphere suggesting the permeable, interdependent qualities of the natural world.

No sharp shadows create the illusion of dimensionality. No clear lines of perspective thrust our point of view to a distant horizon. The effect on viewer perceptions is subtler and more complete. In Edge, one of Meer’s smallest, most seamless landscapes, a golden-orange ray of light spreads across the sky, becomes fainter and fainter, and, at the apex of the painting, becomes a barely perceptible glow. Edge takes us to the edge of transcendence; and, perhaps more importantly, this profoundly relaxing work — as well as all of Meer’s paintings — still the mind, calm the body, and gently immerse us in the subtleties of the given world.

Categories
Music Record Reviews

Record Reviews

Pearl Jam

Pearl Jam

(J)

Don’t call it a comeback: Eddie Vedder’s Whitmanesque humanism trumps political complaint as his band churns out dud-free filler.

With their newest album, grunge-rock survivors Pearl Jam have garnered some of their best notices in years. Critics have hailed the album as “their best in 10 [years]” (Rolling Stone) and “the return to form that Pearl Jam fans have been waiting for” (Pitchforkmedia.com). And it’s true, the band has had a “return to glory” album: 2002’s Riot Act. It was that album that showed the band at the peak of their musical and lyrical prowess. The problem with Pearl Jam is that it’s a summation of their previous work rather than a culmination.

If there is blame to be placed for this, it must fall at the feet of lead singer/songwriter Eddie Vedder. Vedder has written the lyrics for all but one of the album’s tracks (and co-writes another with Damien Echols, one of the West Memphis Three) and likes to do nothing more than pontificate about the lies politicians tell and our attempt at escaping the ones we tell ourselves. On the political, Vedder’s act wears thin, as he’s rephrasing ideas he’s spouted many times before. He’s on firmer ground with the personal: His brand of Whitmanesque humanism just seems to improve with age.

The album’s highlights are retreads but ones at least worthy of their predecessors: “Gone” describes the desire to get out previously explored on “MFC.” “Comatose” is a return to the punk sensibilities the band once flirted with more frequently. At least there’s a few firsts: “Come Back,” a kind of modern country-blues tune for which Vedder’s smoky-wounded voice is well suited, and “Inside Job,” a hyper-produced rock extravaganza a la Use Your Illusion-era Guns N’ Roses.

If you’re looking to rediscover Pearl Jam, check out Riot Act. The new album — though with notable bright spots and nary an outright dud — is mostly filler. — Greg Akers

Grade: B-

Less and Less

The American Princes

(Yep Roc)

Is there a harder trick to pull off in pop music at this moment than launching an all-male indie-rock band? Little Rock’s the American Princes made two tuneful, guitar-centric albums for the hometown label, Max Recordings, before this leap to big-deal indie Yep Roc. Less and Less is a tight record that delivers the forgotten thrills of gritty rock-and-roll with driving guitars propped up by well-thought-out melodies. “Annie,” a melancholy, end-of-relationship song that reminds one of Paul Westerberg at the top of his game, is where you know this band might have a chance to beat the long odds. Certainly there is as much pleasure in Less and Less as there is in any of the albums released by the Strokes. (“Never Grow Old,” “This Is the Year”)

— Werner Trieschmann

Grade: A–

Broken Boy Soldiers

The Raconteurs

(V2)

Mixed (but not recorded) in Memphis, this is Jack White (Stripes)’s boy band — a safe haven to talk about girls without having an actual one in the studio to either keep him honest or (more importantly) inspire him to transcend guy-rock generality. With poppier indie vet Brendan Benson (theoretically, the McCartney to White’s Lennon) collaborating and the rock-solid rhythm section from Ohio garage-rockers the Greenhornes backing them up, the Raconteurs are a more conventional, less resonant gloss on the Stripes’ mission: Instead of transforming classic-rock tropes, they just play them — and well. The sugary power chords that drive the commitment-phobic lead track/first single “Steady As She Goes” signify Pixies/Nirvana, but the rest is pure mid-’60s-to-early-’70s Revolver and The Who Sell Out and lots of lesser objects of adoration. The music is strong; the songs disappear on contact. Bet they’re real good live, though. (“Steady As She Goes,” “Together,” “Store Bought Bones”)

— Chris Herrington

Grade: B+