Be Kind, Skip

It pains me to say this, but you probably shouldn't go see Be Kind Rewind. At least, not now. Not because it's terrible (it's not) and not because there aren't far worse ways things you could see at the movies right now. (Take your pick from any of the cinematic chinchulines clogging theaters right now -- Welcome Home Roscoe Jenkins, Fool's Gold, or Jumper, to name a few of the absolute stinkers...) But for anyone familiar with Michel Gondry's other offerings -- his music videos for the White Stripes, Daft Punk, or Beck; the wrenching, but beautiful Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind -- this will come off as a pale reminder of former brilliance.

It's not a complete departure. In Rewind (written and directed by Gondry), he maintains his childlike sense of mischief and wonder, as well as his extraordinary creativity -- there were moments in the various recreations that had me dumbstruck with how unique his solutions were, the Xeroxed faces used to "shoot at night" in the Ghostbusters clip, to name just one. But what he forgets to include in this eau de cinema, and what ultimately makes it fail to resonate, is the hook that grabs your heart and moves you; something that makes this more than just the mildly entertaining semester project of a talented art student. (That, or even the slightest dose of reality -- more on that later.)

For those that don't know, this one tells the tale of a rundown New Jersey store in an even more rundown building that needs to upgrade or face demolition for an anonymous condominium development. The shopowner (played by Danny Glover) needs to come up with $60,000 to save his store and leaves town to go on a research expedition to hatch a winning business plan, leaving the store under the watchful eyes of its sole employee (Mos Def) and one of its sole regular customers (Jack Black). Throw in a catastrophe with the store's wares -- one that has to get fixed before the owner returns -- and you're ready to go. Cue the hijinks and hilarity.

Only not really.

What follows is undeniably creative and at times quite fun (as Michael Phillips says in my hometown paper, "Gondry's misses are more interesting than most filmmakers' successes"), but it's so ridiculously implausible -- unnecessarily so -- that it subverts any real emotional connection or import to what passes on screen. (Did I mention the store just happens to rent nothing but videotapes? And that all the tapes get erased when Black mistakenly becomes magnetized? Or that the guys decide to re-film all the videos rather than, I don't know, ordering new copies online or just explaining what happened to Glover's $50 inventory when he returns? Apparently the internet is yet another thing these guys have missed out on.)

And as is so often the case with movies that fall flat emotionally, the results are uncannily formulaic. You know exactly where the movie's going far before Gondry takes you there -- the town will fall in love with these refilmed videos, they'll almost save the store before the evil villain (in this case, Hollywood lawyers) comes and ruins everything, but that won't matter because the town will have come together and they'll show their kinship in a touching final farewell. It's a threadbare plotline, one that unfortunately illustrates the worst and most cornball impulses of moviemaking (from one of its most unlikely sources) while trying to illuminate its virtues.

What should (or could) have been a feel-good manifesto for the do-it-yourself indie self-publishers of the YouTube generation, instead is something that even an eight-year old would roll their eyes at in disbelief. (Not even in Nowheresville, Indiana would you find a place -- one that is arguably set in the present day -- that hasn't heard of DVDs and still specializes in VHS rentals. Hell, not even in Nowhereseville, Nigeria is this still plausible.)

Gondry could have made things easier on himself -- by adjusting the timespan to the 80s, when VHS was still de rigeur, or having the guys just decide to remake the old, nostalgic hits they chose here as fundraisers for the store would have gone a long way towards making things more believable and getting you invested in the protagonists. Perhaps it's because he doesn't have a romantic subtext to explore that these deficiencies are so apparent. Both Sunshine and, to a lesser degree, The Science of Sleep, worked so well because Gondry's whimsical flourishes were sprinkled amidst the more believable ruins of two failed relationships. It's much easier to believe silly flights of fancy when you're dealing with affairs of the heart -- everyone knows nothing makes a lick of sense when you're in love -- but modern day Passaic, New Jersey, despite I'm sure being a magical place, should be at least somewhat grounded in reality.

Instead we're left with disappointment. And before I get lambasted for being a cynical, overly logical fuddy-duddy who needs his movies to be realistic, remember my first sentence disclaimer -- I love Gondry's stuff. (I'm a boring white guy -- of course I do!) But Gondry divorces things so far from reality that not even its finer points can save it. Phillips is right, Gondry's misses are more interesting than almost everything out there. (They're sure unlike everyone else's.) The scenes of Mos, Black, and Glover sitting around a junkyard wearing colanders and sieves are great, as are the former pair's perfectly executed camouflage for their failed act of sabotage. And the Boyz in the Hood remake, with Black sporting a fuzzy mini-'fro and Technicolor polo, as well as the aforementioned Ghostbusters redo, are absolutely hilarious.

But in the end it isn't enough. The movie never transcends the somewhat needy, "look at what I can do" feeling of that art student's project; by not engaging the heart, things just feel goofy and gratuitous. Is this movie worth seeing at the theaters? No. Better to wait for it on VHS...

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As for our little song of the week installment, we'll double dip that chip again so as to paint both ends of my frayed personality of late. We'll start with the white side of my black and white cookie, from the beloved Mag Fields' new album, Distortion. Much has been made of the Jesus and Mary Chain influence/inspiration for the album, and the common theme Stephen Merritt and company have arranged it around is definitely the titular guitar noise, but on this entry -- "Too Drunk to Dream" -- nothing can wash over Merritt's characteristically sharp, funny lyrics.

Starting out extolling the virtues of an alcoholic outlook ("Sober, life is depressing. Shitfaced, it is a blessing. Sober, nobody wants you, shitfaced, they're all undressing...") this one is razor sharp throughout, tossing off blistering one-liners as nonchalantly as a radiator does heat. Things build to the gleeful chorus where the lovelorn Merritt admits, "I've gotta get too drunk to dream, cause dreaming only makes me blue. I gotta get too drunk to dream because I only dream of you." More wit from the man who taught us a pretty girl is like a violent crime (if you do it wrong, you could do time), this one's another classic from the guy who'll be playing the first dance at my wedding. (You'll have to come to find out what...) Download/stream it here.

The B-side to this week's recommendation is an entry from the fit of melancholy that's been strangling me lately, the pretty little heartbreaker "Lua" by Bright Eyes. Lead singer/songwriter Conor Oberst, and the inordinate amount of nearly Messianic praise that accompanies him, is one of those things that I haven't really gotten the hype on, or haven't until recent years. Songs like this, though, with its delicate guitar and Oberst's fragile singing, help make the case a whole lot clearer. The nakedness of this take, and the sadness lying under the lyrics like purple under a bruise, are mesmerizing. You feel like you're eavesdropping on some wistful teenager pouring their heart out in their bedroom. Heartbreaking stuff -- stream it here.

That's all for this week -- until next time, my friends...
Roberto del Sol

Song(s) of the Week: Radiohead Warns, Mates Dance

The second half of this week's soundtrack parallels the uptick things took at the very end of the week, much to my delight (and the stability of my sanity). This one comes from the husband and wife duo from Lawrence, Kansas, Mates of State, and is a peppy little ditty from their 2006 album "Bring it Back," called "Fraud in the 80's." Showcasing a killer synth hook and infectious pop vocals, this one is pure pop happiness that'll have you bopping around whatever room you happen to be listening in at the time. (For me, it was anonymous cube #1324 at work, where despite the severe case of ABH I had come down with -- anywhere but here, baby, anywhere but here -- the Mates helped restore a bit of Bobby's last name and puncture the blah before the weekend.)

Similar to the exuberance of early New Pornos, by the time the "Oh! Oh! Oh!" shouts come near the chorus, you'll be smiling and singing along with them. Simple, yet undeniably winning, you can't argue with the truth of the lyrics -- "You will surely find this...pleasing to your ears..." Indeed. Check it out (and its charming little video) here:

There Will Be Disappointment, Milkshakes

The reviews are stellar -- "extraordinary;" "a work of symphonic aspirations and masterful execution;" "as astounding in its emotional force and as haunting and mysterious as anything seen in American movies in recent years..." Daniel Day Lewis' performance is "among the best I've seen." Paul Thomas Anderson is a genius; "California's certified cinematic poet laureate." And while DDL is undeniably good in this movie -- the twinkle in his eyes and his lupine grin dance effortlessly between menace and charm -- the ejaculatory praise being heaped upon this film and its director miss the mark. (Only Roger Ebert's review gets it right, in my opinion, as far as the mainstream media outlets go.)

Is the film beautifully shot? Undoubtedly. Cinematographer Robert Elswit's locations and Anderson's framing of shots are beautiful. The elemental mix of dirt, oil, fire, and blood make for a wonderful visual display -- you can almost taste the grit on your tongue as you inhale in the theater and feel the warmth of the sere Texas breeze.

And DDL is a marvel to watch -- Anderson captures every fleck of spit and bulging vein thrown forth as DDL swings from glowering stare to furious explosion. (The prolonged close-up on his face in the church scene towards the end, with its violent shifts and wild range, are almost worth enduring the previous two and a half hours.)

But Anderson is not the second coming of the Messiah. "Blood" is merely the latest entry in his catalog of films that prove just because a movie is technically well made does not mean it is a good movie. Anderson continues to fill his movies with characters that are utterly devoid of sympathy or pathos and an ability to generate those feelings in the viewer. They are powerfully and emotionally acted -- besides DDL, Paul Dano (from "Little Miss Sunshine") does a great job as the preacher Eli Sunday -- but they don't induce powerful emotional reactions.

A perfect example comes here in "Blood" -- early in the movie there is a scene with DDL and his son on a train where the infant is staring intently up at him, tickling his chin and cooing. DDL smiles and looks back, oblivious of his surroundings on the loud, clattering train. For a second, it is just the two of them, alone in their private moment. It is a touching scene, one that feels surprisingly candid and natural. Sadly, it is also the only time I connected emotionally to a character for the remaining 2:45 hours. (Which at times plods interminably forward -- the film never matches the implied doom and bloodshed of the title or its commercials.) DDL's son has an accident shortly thereafter that leaves him deaf, an event that seems to serve as a breaking point for DDL's Plainview and he slowly spirals towards the emotionally black madness of the film's conclusion.

But you never feel sympathy for his plight, a point that becomes abundantly clear in a confrontation between the two at the end. This sequence, which should be utterly wrenching, instead falls flat, only showcasing the worst of DDL's devolution. We should feel gutshot, sharing the devastating blow his son feels. But because Anderson never seems to care about his characters -- there is no loving portrayal of them akin to the Coen brothers, say, and their care with equally complex and flawed protagonists Josh Brolin, Tommy Lee Jones, and the freight train that is Javier Bardem in "No Country for Old Men," for example -- you never get emotionally invested in the people in front of you, and thus only enjoy the film on a basic, superficial level.

True art connects with you emotionally and forces you to engage it on a personal level; it makes you invest yourself personally and empathize with the main character(s). To use "No Country" as an example again (which was shot in the exact same locations as "Blood," with far different results), the care with which the Coens spin out their tale and force you to put a piece of yourself in each of the leads' shoes is revelatory. They make you grapple with what your emotional responses mean -- how you can simultaneously want Brolin to get away with the money, Bardem to catch or kill him, and Jones to stop both of them before they can? It is a powerful, draining experience and why "No Country," and not "Blood," as many have suggested, is hands down the movie of the year.

Because DDL doesn't have a foil to counter his insanity and aggression, you are left to watch his performace as mere spectacle. (And it is spectacular -- besides Bardem, I haven't seen such a mesmerizing performance this year.) But you never connect with him -- "Blood" is filled with people you just don't care about. Besides the situation with his son, Dano's confession of hardship and ruin at the end leaves you similarly unaffected and detached.

And this does a severe disservice to the film's component parts -- in addition to the great performances by DDL and Dano, there's the aforementioned cinematography and the jangly score by Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood, which bounces nicely between Psycho-style strings and tribal drum arrangements, to enjoy along the way. The problem is that each of these pieces float through the film like bubbles -- they may exist in the same scene or area, but they never occupy the same physical space and overlap. They blaze in isolation like lightning bugs in the forest, individual points of brilliance that fail to illuminate the night sky.

This isn't the first time we've seen this. Anderson does this in all his movies -- the 70s pop and Mark Wahlberg/ Julianne Moore in "Boogie Nights;" Aimee Mann and Tom Cruise/ Philip Seymour Hoffman/ John C. Reilly, et al, in "Magnolia;" Jon Brion and Adam Sandler in "Punchdrunk Love" -- all are rendered toothless and squandered by Anderson's neglect. If he doesn't care, why should we?

Anderson continuously proves to be the cinematic exception to the rule of Gestalt, where the product is decidedly not more than the sum of its parts. And nowhere is this reality more criminal than in "Blood," which comes to the fore with an arsenal of weapons, but never inflicts the wounds its title portends.

--Roberto del Sol