Subscribe
Home Blog Page 1058

Beautiful Dreamer

Uncut
-
0
Beautiful Dreamer

For a man who has apparently spent 37 years traumatised by 'Smile', Brian Wilson certainly capitalised on its notoriety in 2004. The past year has seen this elusive ghost-record, beloved of rock mythographers, transformed into a cultural blockbuster. First, the extraordinary shows. Then, the album: rock's great unfinished work resurrected as rock's greatest, unlikeliest salvage job. And now, perhaps inevitably, the movie: 'Beautiful Dreamer', which tells the story of 'Smile' from its beginning - in the tents, sandpits and expanded minds of mid-'60s LA - through to its unveiling, in February 2004, at London's Royal Festival Hall. It's a tremendous yarn, and one which writer/director David Leaf - a long-time Wilson associate and Beach Boys scholar - is eminently qualified to tell. Valuably, the testimony of insiders like David Anderle show how events that have long been used to illustrate Wilson's madness, were actually silly pranks encouraged by the community of freaks around him. The tent in the front room was either for "eating sandwiches" (Wilson) or smoking dope (everyone else). Wilson, incidentally, is a lot funnier and more alert than those who have him pegged as a zombie would have you believe. 'Beautiful Dreamer' is good at this sort of detail, and good at contextualising 'Smile' as a celebration of an idealised America, a means of escaping reality as the country tore itself to pieces over Vietnam. Unfortunately, the army of illustrious talking heads - Burt Bacharach, Jim Webb, Roger Daltrey and more - mouth platitudes rather than provide insights. They are, there, too, for the purpose of padding out 'Beautiful Dreamer'. A product of Wilson's own empire (his wife Melinda is credited as Executive Producer), the singer's ongoing feud with his former bandmates ensures that there is no actual film of The Beach Boys in the entire 110 minutes of the movie. When Leaf deploys a magnificent clip of Wilson singing "Surf's Up" on a 1967 Leonard Bernstein TV special, the absence of contemporaneous footage becomes glaring. If it's a hagiography of Wilson, it's also a - justifiable - demonisation of The Beach Boys, who are portrayed as conservative oafs in comparison to the sophisticated circle of Van Dyke Parks, Anderle and co. Drugs didn't contribute to Brian's breakdown and the dumping of 'Smile', his old friends assert, it was the scepticism and meddling of The Beach Boys. When Wilson lists the reasons he abandoned the record, his first is, "Mike [Love] didn't like it." The second half of the movie is substantially less interesting, with Leaf following Wilson and his band as they prepare the live version of 'Smile'. There are occasional insights into Wilson's volatile nature: he spends one vocal rehearsal anxious and silent, and it's commendable that Leaf and Melinda Wilson haven't sought to portray their subject's depression as entirely cured. But too many of the set-ups feel contrived, and the endless eulogies from his current bandmates are better suited to a concert programme than a documentary. Yes, Brian Wilson is a genius. But after nearly two hours of 'Beautiful Dreamer', you long for one dissenter - Mike Love, say - to call him a pretentious fraud, just for the hell of it. John Mulvey

For a man who has apparently spent 37 years traumatised by ‘Smile’, Brian Wilson certainly capitalised on its notoriety in 2004. The past year has seen this elusive ghost-record, beloved of rock mythographers, transformed into a cultural blockbuster. First, the extraordinary shows. Then, the album: rock’s great unfinished work resurrected as rock’s greatest, unlikeliest salvage job. And now, perhaps inevitably, the movie: ‘Beautiful Dreamer’, which tells the story of ‘Smile’ from its beginning – in the tents, sandpits and expanded minds of mid-’60s LA – through to its unveiling, in February 2004, at London’s Royal Festival Hall.

It’s a tremendous yarn, and one which writer/director David Leaf – a long-time Wilson associate and Beach Boys scholar – is eminently qualified to tell. Valuably, the testimony of insiders like David Anderle show how events that have long been used to illustrate Wilson’s madness, were actually silly pranks encouraged by the community of freaks around him. The tent in the front room was either for “eating sandwiches” (Wilson) or smoking dope (everyone else). Wilson, incidentally, is a lot funnier and more alert than those who have him pegged as a zombie would have you believe.

‘Beautiful Dreamer’ is good at this sort of detail, and good at contextualising ‘Smile’ as a celebration of an idealised America, a means of escaping reality as the country tore itself to pieces over Vietnam. Unfortunately, the army of illustrious talking heads – Burt Bacharach, Jim Webb, Roger Daltrey and more – mouth platitudes rather than provide insights. They are, there, too, for the purpose of padding out ‘Beautiful Dreamer’. A product of Wilson’s own empire (his wife Melinda is credited as Executive Producer), the singer’s ongoing feud with his former bandmates ensures that there is no actual film of The Beach Boys in the entire 110 minutes of the movie. When Leaf deploys a magnificent clip of Wilson singing “Surf’s Up” on a 1967 Leonard Bernstein TV special, the absence of contemporaneous footage becomes glaring.

If it’s a hagiography of Wilson, it’s also a – justifiable – demonisation of The Beach Boys, who are portrayed as conservative oafs in comparison to the sophisticated circle of Van Dyke Parks, Anderle and co. Drugs didn’t contribute to Brian’s breakdown and the dumping of ‘Smile’, his old friends assert, it was the scepticism and meddling of The Beach Boys. When Wilson lists the reasons he abandoned the record, his first is, “Mike [Love] didn’t like it.”

The second half of the movie is substantially less interesting, with Leaf following Wilson and his band as they prepare the live version of ‘Smile’. There are occasional insights into Wilson’s volatile nature: he spends one vocal rehearsal anxious and silent, and it’s commendable that Leaf and Melinda Wilson haven’t sought to portray their subject’s depression as entirely cured. But too many of the set-ups feel contrived, and the endless eulogies from his current bandmates are better suited to a concert programme than a documentary. Yes, Brian Wilson is a genius. But after nearly two hours of ‘Beautiful Dreamer’, you long for one dissenter – Mike Love, say – to call him a pretentious fraud, just for the hell of it.

John Mulvey

Garden State

Uncut
-
0
Garden State

It's been some time since a supposed romantic comedy invited you to open your heart to "the joy and pain of the infinite abyss that is life". Garden State is an introspective, melancholy piece of slacker existentialism, which rips apart occasionally to reveal belly laughs and tiny miracles. Its forebears are The Graduate and the late Ted Demme's Beautiful Girls. Braff, as writer, director and star, takes almost absurd risks both with his persona (you couldn't conceive of a lead character further away from his JD in the acidic, breakneck hospital sitcom Scrubs) and with his concept: the people in his film start off jaded, and pick it up hesitantly. And the big kiss, the big moment, comes as the lovers stand in a rainstorm by a big wooden ark. It pays off because there are many prior scenes of quietly humorous reserve, where he could bring on the marching band, but doesn't. It's clear throughout that he's learned understatement from the masters. He has it so down that when Simon and Garfunkel's "The Only Living Boy In New York City" strides in, it sounds like the greatest song you ever heard. Braff - dazed, spaced out, too numb to be miserable - plays Andrew Largeman, a lithium-guzzler since his domineering father (Holm) prescribed it. His mother's tragic death sparks a break from the medication, to see what happens. Gradually, slowly, something does. Returning from LA where he's a F-list actor and part-time waiter (autobiographical much, Zach?), Largeman visits his New Jersey home town for the first time in years. He hangs out, swimming and playing spin-the-bottle with old, stoned friends. "Wanna party? After we bury your mom?" they suggest tactfully. "I get benefits," says one who's now a cop, "If I get shot, I'm rich." Mark (Sarsgaard) is a gravedigger, who hates the fact that his mom is dating a friend of his who's fluent in Klingon. This friend dresses up as a mediaeval knight as part of his job at a fast food chain. "I'm only 26," Mark sighs, "I'm not in any rush. What's your rush for?" For this town, that constitutes a rallying cry. Then Andrew, or "Large", meets Sam (Portman), a girl of spontaneity, colour, hope. She has a tendency to tell white lies, some less white than others. She's epileptic, a former ice-skater. She likes him. She even recognises him from TV. "Are you really retarded? No? Great job - I thought you were." She urges him to do unique, memorable things, however small. There's no denying that Portman's playing practically the same role and serving the same narrative function here as she did in Beautiful Girls, only a few years on. A little tighter around the eyes. Large, though, is more anaesthetised than Timothy Hutton's character was there: a more suitable case for her treatment. While young love blooms, old family skeletons finally drop from closets as Large and his father confront each other over the past. But not with a blazing King Lear row: that's not this film's style. Rather, they communicate, just. Garden State is wonderfully insightful and believable. It has its themes and motifs. Everyone's self-medicating in some way, it suggests. Water is everywhere, from dripping taps to floods. Animals play a part: Sam has her own pet cemetery. "Goodbye Jelly," she says, burying a hamster. "I hope you liked me." Everyone, beneath surface apathy, is asking questions, whether they're trivial ones regarding pop culture (Mark's collecting Desert Storm trading cards, which he figures will provide his pension fund; Sam asserts that a song can change your life) or big ones about death and wasted years. It's a film which could easily topple into pretentiousness, but Braff and the performers carry it along with just the right lightness of touch. It floats. Its indie credentials further promoted by accompaniment from The Shins, Thievery Corporation, Nick Drake and others, Garden State is about a lost young man finding, if not exactly paradise, at least a wake-up call he needed but didn't know he wanted. If not home, at least a heart. It's a warm, sad smile; it's subtly, softly, full of earthly delights. Chris Roberts

It’s been some time since a supposed romantic comedy invited you to open your heart to “the joy and pain of the infinite abyss that is life”. Garden State is an introspective, melancholy piece of slacker existentialism, which rips apart occasionally to reveal belly laughs and tiny miracles. Its forebears are The Graduate and the late Ted Demme’s Beautiful Girls. Braff, as writer, director and star, takes almost absurd risks both with his persona (you couldn’t conceive of a lead character further away from his JD in the acidic, breakneck hospital sitcom Scrubs) and with his concept: the people in his film start off jaded, and pick it up hesitantly. And the big kiss, the big moment, comes as the lovers stand in a rainstorm by a big wooden ark. It pays off because there are many prior scenes of quietly humorous reserve, where he could bring on the marching band, but doesn’t. It’s clear throughout that he’s learned understatement from the masters. He has it so down that when Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Only Living Boy In New York City” strides in, it sounds like the greatest song you ever heard.

Braff – dazed, spaced out, too numb to be miserable – plays Andrew Largeman, a lithium-guzzler since his domineering father (Holm) prescribed it. His mother’s tragic death sparks a break from the medication, to see what happens. Gradually, slowly, something does. Returning from LA where he’s a F-list actor and part-time waiter (autobiographical much, Zach?), Largeman visits his New Jersey home town for the first time in years. He hangs out, swimming and playing spin-the-bottle with old, stoned friends. “Wanna party? After we bury your mom?” they suggest tactfully. “I get benefits,” says one who’s now a cop, “If I get shot, I’m rich.” Mark (Sarsgaard) is a gravedigger, who hates the fact that his mom is dating a friend of his who’s fluent in Klingon. This friend dresses up as a mediaeval knight as part of his job at a fast food chain. “I’m only 26,” Mark sighs, “I’m not in any rush. What’s your rush for?” For this town, that constitutes a rallying cry.

Then Andrew, or “Large”, meets Sam (Portman), a girl of spontaneity, colour, hope. She has a tendency to tell white lies, some less white than others. She’s epileptic, a former ice-skater. She likes him. She even recognises him from TV. “Are you really retarded? No? Great job – I thought you were.” She urges him to do unique, memorable things, however small. There’s no denying that Portman’s playing practically the same role and serving the same narrative function here as she did in Beautiful Girls, only a few years on. A little tighter around the eyes. Large, though, is more anaesthetised than Timothy Hutton’s character was there: a more suitable case for her treatment. While young love blooms, old family skeletons finally drop from closets as Large and his father confront each other over the past. But not with a blazing King Lear row: that’s not this film’s style. Rather, they communicate, just. Garden State is wonderfully insightful and believable.

It has its themes and motifs. Everyone’s self-medicating in some way, it suggests. Water is everywhere, from dripping taps to floods. Animals play a part: Sam has her own pet cemetery. “Goodbye Jelly,” she says, burying a hamster. “I hope you liked me.” Everyone, beneath surface apathy, is asking questions, whether they’re trivial ones regarding pop culture (Mark’s collecting Desert Storm trading cards, which he figures will provide his pension fund; Sam asserts that a song can change your life) or big ones about death and wasted years. It’s a film which could easily topple into pretentiousness, but Braff and the performers carry it along with just the right lightness of touch. It floats.

Its indie credentials further promoted by accompaniment from The Shins, Thievery Corporation, Nick Drake and others, Garden State is about a lost young man finding, if not exactly paradise, at least a wake-up call he needed but didn’t know he wanted. If not home, at least a heart. It’s a warm, sad smile; it’s subtly, softly, full of earthly delights.

Chris Roberts

John Lennon – Acoustic

Uncut
-
0
John Lennon – Acoustic

John Lennon died almost a decade before the advent of the MTV Unplugged format. Acoustic, though, simulates the idea by collecting 16 tracks featuring just him on acoustic guitar and vocals, except for “The Luck Of The Irish” where he is joined by Yoko. This is one of three stirring live recordings, the others being “John Sinclair” and the ubiquitous “Imagine”, all from benefits in 1971. Prepared under the watchful eye of Yoko Ono, the rest are demos and home recording. But, somewhat contentiously, nine of the sixteen selections are already available on the 1998 4CD Anthology Box. It rather smacks of exploitation, since this is a collection of unpolished, unfinished material - mere snippets at times - designed not for casual record buyer but, essentially, for serious fans who, chances are, own over half of it already. Acoustic was originally intended for release ‘only in Japan’ but has since been made available worldwide due, supposedly, to the amount of ‘global interest’. It rather begs the question as to why a Lennon album with seven unreleased tracks was not considered to be of interest to the wider world in the first instance? What is even more inexplicable is the complete absence of liner notes and recording details. The booklet, instead, offers drawings by Lennon, lyrics, a chord chart and tuning instructions in the guise of fake guitar manual . Yoko also dedicates the album to ‘future guitarists’, a little misleading unless there‘s some intended irony. As these raw recordings show, Lennon was no virtuoso guitarist. His gift was his passion, his voice and his songs and it’s those very songs that make Acoustic indispensable to hardcore fans for the seven unreleased cuts. Assembled more or less chronologically, Acoustic opens with six songs taped during August and September 1970 and destined for John Lennon: Plastic Ono Band, his most powerful, radical musical statement. Included are three new glimpses into Lennon’s stripped-bare psyche, all equally revealing. “Well Well Well” is stark and menacing, Lennon sounding like an old delta bluesman albeit with slightly phased vocals. “My Mommy’s Dead” is completely desolate, Lennon‘s unearthly voice intoning over thrashed guitar chords to the nursery rhyme “Three Blind Mice“. By contrast, “God“ is folky, like one of Lennon’s sporadic Dylan spoofs, even the familiar litany of rejected beliefs in God, Elvis, Beatles et al is delivered deadpan. Intriguingly throwaway and with none of the passion and spirituality of the finished version. Next up is a real jewel, the “Cold Turkey” demo from September 1969. Over a repeated two chord pattern, Lennon’s depiction of the pain and loneliness of chemical withdrawal is as intense and harrowing as the fully pumped-up single version. Little wonder The Beatles baulked at recording it. Lennon’s vocal is almost bleating in anguish, causing Marc Bolan to later claim that he was trying to copy him. “What You Got” jumps to the June 1974 work-outs for Walls And Bridges. This version is a rockabilly romp with its “You Don’t Know What You Got Till You Lose It” message fleshed out by impromptu lyrics and even a slight steal from Little Richard’s “Rip It Up”. The final batch of home recordings date from the 1979/80 house-husband years. There is a delightful, very affectionate “Dear Yoko” with a melody line part Byrds/part Buddy Holly that‘s Lennon at his most engaging. There‘s a similar warmth to “Real Love”, a song Lennon regularly returned to. The version here is genuinely touching and far more subtle than the pounding piano based track which was eventually completed by the remaining Beatles as the follow-up to “Free As A Bird”. Infuriatingly, there’s much to commend Acoustic. But you can‘t help but feel cheated by the crossovers from Anthology. The recycling and consequent dilution of the Lennon myth will undoubtedly continue with further raking through the seemingly endless hours of home tapes. Hopefully, Yoko Ono will be less haphazard next time around. By the same token, whatever claims to the contrary, The Beatles archive is anything but depleted. Spare us the Let It Be rehearsals, but a collection of Lennon, McCartney and Harrison acoustic demos for the White Album and Abbey Road alone would make for a very desirable Beatles Unplugged. Mick Houghton

John Lennon died almost a decade before the advent of the MTV Unplugged format. Acoustic, though, simulates the idea by collecting 16 tracks featuring just him on acoustic guitar and vocals, except for “The Luck Of The Irish” where he is joined by Yoko. This is one of three stirring live recordings, the others being “John Sinclair” and the ubiquitous “Imagine”, all from benefits in 1971.

Prepared under the watchful eye of Yoko Ono, the rest are demos and home recording. But, somewhat contentiously, nine of the sixteen selections are already available on the 1998 4CD Anthology Box. It rather smacks of exploitation, since this is a collection of unpolished, unfinished material – mere snippets at times – designed not for casual record buyer but, essentially, for serious fans who, chances are, own over half of it already.

Acoustic was originally intended for release ‘only in Japan’ but has since been made available worldwide due, supposedly, to the amount of ‘global interest’. It rather begs the question as to why a Lennon album with seven unreleased tracks was not considered to be of interest to the wider world in the first instance?

What is even more inexplicable is the complete absence of liner notes and recording details. The booklet, instead, offers drawings by Lennon, lyrics, a chord chart and tuning instructions in the guise of fake guitar manual . Yoko also dedicates the album to ‘future guitarists’, a little misleading unless there‘s some intended irony. As these raw recordings show, Lennon was no virtuoso guitarist. His gift was his passion, his voice and his songs and it’s those very songs that make Acoustic indispensable to hardcore fans for the seven unreleased cuts.

Assembled more or less chronologically, Acoustic opens with six songs taped during August and September 1970 and destined for John Lennon: Plastic Ono Band, his most powerful, radical musical statement. Included are three new glimpses into Lennon’s stripped-bare psyche, all equally revealing. “Well Well Well” is stark and menacing, Lennon sounding like an old delta bluesman albeit with slightly phased vocals. “My Mommy’s Dead” is completely desolate, Lennon‘s unearthly voice intoning over thrashed guitar chords to the nursery rhyme “Three Blind Mice“. By contrast, “God“ is folky, like one of Lennon’s sporadic Dylan spoofs, even the familiar litany of rejected beliefs in God, Elvis, Beatles et al is delivered deadpan. Intriguingly throwaway and with none of the passion and spirituality of the finished version.

Next up is a real jewel, the “Cold Turkey” demo from September 1969. Over a repeated two chord pattern, Lennon’s depiction of the pain and loneliness of chemical withdrawal is as intense and harrowing as the fully pumped-up single version. Little wonder The Beatles baulked at recording it. Lennon’s vocal is almost bleating in anguish, causing Marc Bolan to later claim that he was trying to copy him.

“What You Got” jumps to the June 1974 work-outs for Walls And Bridges. This version is a rockabilly romp with its “You Don’t Know What You Got Till You Lose It” message fleshed out by impromptu lyrics and even a slight steal from Little Richard’s “Rip It Up”.

The final batch of home recordings date from the 1979/80 house-husband years. There is a delightful, very affectionate “Dear Yoko” with a melody line part Byrds/part Buddy Holly that‘s Lennon at his most engaging. There‘s a similar warmth to “Real Love”, a song Lennon regularly returned to. The version here is genuinely touching and far more subtle than the pounding piano based track which was eventually completed by the remaining Beatles as the follow-up to “Free As A Bird”.

Infuriatingly, there’s much to commend Acoustic. But you can‘t help but feel cheated by the crossovers from Anthology. The recycling and consequent dilution of the Lennon myth will undoubtedly continue with further raking through the seemingly endless hours of home tapes. Hopefully, Yoko Ono will be less haphazard next time around. By the same token, whatever claims to the contrary, The Beatles archive is anything but depleted. Spare us the Let It Be rehearsals, but a collection of Lennon, McCartney and Harrison acoustic demos for the White Album and Abbey Road alone would make for a very desirable Beatles Unplugged.

Mick Houghton

The Rolling Stones – Live Licks

Uncut
-
0

Not their best. It’s now more than seven years since The Stones last studio album and, since 1997’s underwhelming 'Bridges To Babylon', they’ve fashioned themselves into something resembling a mobile theme park. A spectacularly successful one, at that. Rather in the way that no childhood these days is complete without a visit to Legoland, seeing The Stones live in the flesh has become one of those must-do-once experiences for grown-up children. The obligatory live album that duly follows is the rock equivalent of the souvenir snapshot of your sulky, snot-nosed little smasher being photographed next to the Spinning Spider. Album and photo are guaranteed to end up stuffed in a bottom drawer, unseen and unlistened to, but at least they offer tangible proof that you were there. Documenting their World Tour of 2002/2003 across two CDs, "Live Licks" is the band’s seventh live album. Their previous live recordings fall into two easily demarcated camps. There’s the ones worth owning 'Got Live If You Want It'. "Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out" and "Stripped". Then there’s the rest, of which 1977’s "Love You Live" and 1991’s "Flashpoint" scraped closest to the bottom of the barrel. Until now, that is. This time around, they at least offer a unique selling point: - an entire side of songs never before recorded live. At best, these offerings lend some modest support to the argument that the last Stones tour was their most riveting for years. A taut version of "Can’t You Hear Me Knocking", with Keef and Ronnie interlocking like teeth in a zipper. A cover of "That’s How Strong My Love Is" that aspires to and damn near reaches the Stax soulfulness of the original. And "Everybody Needs Somebody To Love" that the band carry off through sheer over-exuberance by way of finale. Apart from that, it’s hard to escape the thought that you’re listening to the world’s most expensive tribute band. Perfunctory versions of songs from "Tattoo You" and "Bridges To Babylon" that sounded fairly perfunctory in their original forms. Near complete desecrations of "Rocks Off" and "Beast Of Burden". And the spectacle of Keith warbling his way through Hoagy Carmichael’s "The Nearness Of You", which at least provides some measure of comic relief. Aside from a beautifully restrained "Angie" and Keef in his piratical swaggering element throughout “Happy”, the other CD of Stones classics has precisely naught to recommend it. Unless, that is, your idea of money well spent is listening to a band pummel their finest songs (“Paint It Black”, “Brown Sugar”, “Gimme Shelter”) into the dust. Main offender is Sir Mick himself, who appears to be singing entirely from memory: mostly off-key and reduced to a messy stockpile of vocal tics and campy affectations. The album finally hits rock bottom with a “Honky Tonk Women” that’s so pedestrian it’s practically still-born. Halfway through the song, just when you think it can’t possibly get any worse, on strolls Sheryl Crow. Jon Wilde

Not their best. It’s now more than seven years since The Stones last studio album and, since 1997’s underwhelming ‘Bridges To Babylon’, they’ve fashioned themselves into something resembling a mobile theme park. A spectacularly successful one, at that. Rather in the way that no childhood these days is complete without a visit to Legoland, seeing The Stones live in the flesh has become one of those must-do-once experiences for grown-up children. The obligatory live album that duly follows is the rock equivalent of the souvenir snapshot of your sulky, snot-nosed little smasher being photographed next to the Spinning Spider. Album and photo are guaranteed to end up stuffed in a bottom drawer, unseen and unlistened to, but at least they offer tangible proof that you were there.

Documenting their World Tour of 2002/2003 across two CDs, “Live Licks” is the band’s seventh live album. Their previous live recordings fall into two easily demarcated camps. There’s the ones worth owning ‘Got Live If You Want It’. “Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out” and “Stripped”. Then there’s the rest, of which 1977’s “Love You Live” and 1991’s “Flashpoint” scraped closest to the bottom of the barrel. Until now, that is.

This time around, they at least offer a unique selling point: – an entire side of songs never before recorded live. At best, these offerings lend some modest support to the argument that the last Stones tour was their most riveting for years. A taut version of “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking”, with Keef and Ronnie interlocking like teeth in a zipper. A cover of “That’s How Strong My Love Is” that aspires to and damn near reaches the Stax soulfulness of the original. And “Everybody Needs Somebody To Love” that the band carry off through sheer over-exuberance by way of finale.

Apart from that, it’s hard to escape the thought that you’re listening to the world’s most expensive tribute band. Perfunctory versions of songs from “Tattoo You” and “Bridges To Babylon” that sounded fairly perfunctory in their original forms. Near complete desecrations of “Rocks Off” and “Beast Of Burden”. And the spectacle of Keith warbling his way through Hoagy Carmichael’s “The Nearness Of You”, which at least provides some measure of comic relief.

Aside from a beautifully restrained “Angie” and Keef in his piratical swaggering element throughout “Happy”, the other CD of Stones classics has precisely naught to recommend it. Unless, that is, your idea of money well spent is listening to a band pummel their finest songs (“Paint It Black”, “Brown Sugar”, “Gimme Shelter”) into the dust. Main offender is Sir Mick himself, who appears to be singing entirely from memory: mostly off-key and reduced to a messy stockpile of vocal tics and campy affectations. The album finally hits rock bottom with a “Honky Tonk Women” that’s so pedestrian it’s practically still-born. Halfway through the song, just when you think it can’t possibly get any worse, on strolls Sheryl Crow.

Jon Wilde

Interview: Zach Braff

Uncut
-
0
Interview: Zach Braff
As actor/writer/director, how long did initiating this project take? BRAFF: I'd been waiting tables when I got cast in Scrubs, and I quit as a waiter only to be told we wouldn't actually be filming for four months. So I sat down for that time and hammered out the first draft. Then once Scrubs start...

As actor/writer/director, how long did initiating this project take?

BRAFF: I’d been waiting tables when I got cast in Scrubs, and I quit as a waiter only to be told we wouldn’t actually be filming for four months. So I sat down for that time and hammered out the first draft. Then once Scrubs started, I spent the next two years trying to get someone interested in making it.

For fans of the madcap Scrubs, the downbeat, pensive tone here may come as a surprise…?

Yes – it was important to show people early on that I wasn’t just “the guy from that show”. That I was interested in doing other things. That said, I love Scrubs and have a great time doing it. We’re in the fourth season now, going for two more at least. But I didn’t want to be pigeon-holed. I had to take responsibility for that on my own shoulders, not just rely on something coming from outside, and so I created this character for myself.

Lithium and grief have sapped his life. He starts from a bleak place.?

Yeah… then stumbles into optimism. Having led a life of mostly pessimism. Natalie Portman’s character is just what he needs: she… rattles him. She imparts on him that life’s running by, that his is probably a quarter over. And he’d better start enjoying it pretty quickly, cos he’s missing the whole thing.

You’ve called it “a smart love story for young people”. Are there enough of those??

“There are hundreds of movies marketed at twenty-somethings, but not many that speak intelligently to them about what it feels like to be one. All those silly scatological comedies are fine, but they don’t address anything, or take the temperature of what it’s like to be that age in 2004.

Were you closely involved with the choice of music??

Oh yeah. I’m not one of those guys who knows every line by every band; I just know what I like. Some of it, like Coldplay, is obviously popular, but the lesser-known stuff is just music which really affected me. I scored the movie like I score my life. The soundtrack’s gone gold in the States, selling like crazy, so I guess people are responding well.

As they are to the film…?

Yeah, I’ll have to figure out how to balance things now – I’m in a good place for opportunities. I was inspired by Woody Allen, Hal Ashby, Kubrick, but I could never be as prolific as Woody. Not when my symbolism is as subtle, ahem, as an ark in the rain! It’s exhausting: I put more of myself into Garden State than anything I’ve ever done.

Chris Roberts

Hear the alternative Blood On The Tracks

Uncut
-
0
Hear the alternative Blood On The Tracks

'one of the most truthful dissections of love gone wrong in rock history, by turns recriminatory, bitter and heartbroken. It is one of Dylan's peaks, the record where his genius and frail humanity meet.' Nick Hasted for Uncut, January 2005. 30 years ago this month, in December 1974, Bob Dylan was putting the finishing touches to one of his defining records, for the second time. Dylan was showing more than just a few frayed edges. He and his wife, Sara, had just experienced their first seperation. A marriage which, a few years later, would eventually fall apart completely. For the first years of the '70s he had released nothing at all, trying to evade the fame and respect he had so carefully built up during the previous decade. After starting and finishing 'Blood On the Tracks' in New York, it was all set for release on Christmas Day, 1974. However, on his return to Minnesota for the Christmas Holidays, Dylan and his brother, David, decided that his album was missing something. Dylan: 'I just didn't... I thought the songs could have sounded differently, better. So I went in and rerecorded them'. He rang Columbia to stop production, hired a bunch of local musicians, and booked the studio. On December 27, Minneapolis' Sound 80 Studio began work on the second recording of 'Blood On The Tracks', five tracks in all, plus two extra tracks which never made the final cut. For more information go to bobdylan.com

‘one of the most truthful dissections of love gone wrong in rock history, by turns recriminatory, bitter and heartbroken. It is one of Dylan’s peaks, the record where his genius and frail humanity meet.’

Nick Hasted for Uncut, January 2005.

30 years ago this month, in December 1974, Bob Dylan was putting the finishing touches to one of his defining records, for the second time.

Dylan was showing more than just a few frayed edges. He and his wife, Sara, had just experienced their first seperation. A marriage which, a few years later, would eventually fall apart completely. For the first years of the ’70s he had released nothing at all, trying to evade the fame and respect he had so carefully built up during the previous decade.

After starting and finishing ‘Blood On the Tracks’ in New York, it was all set for release on Christmas Day, 1974. However, on his return to Minnesota for the Christmas Holidays, Dylan and his brother, David, decided that his album was missing something. Dylan:

‘I just didn’t… I thought the songs could have sounded differently, better. So I went in and rerecorded them‘.

He rang Columbia to stop production, hired a bunch of local musicians, and booked the studio. On December 27, Minneapolis’ Sound 80 Studio began work on the second recording of ‘Blood On The Tracks’, five tracks in all, plus two extra tracks which never made the final cut.

For more information go to bobdylan.com

Interview: Dennis McNally

Uncut
-
0
Interview: Dennis McNally
UNCUT: Why did the Dead announce their retirement from the road? McNALLY: They'd run out of creative gas on the summer '74 tour. When they got back home, they called a company meeting. Bob Weir said there were two problems - cocaine and a crew that seemed to him to be drowning in mountains of blow....

UNCUT: Why did the Dead announce their retirement from the road?

McNALLY: They’d run out of creative gas on the summer ’74 tour. When they got back home, they called a company meeting. Bob Weir said there were two problems – cocaine and a crew that seemed to him to be drowning in mountains of blow. So they called a halt. To Weir, the hiatus was never meant to be permanent, But everybody wanted time off. Garcia gave an interview to Melody Maker around the same time saying that the most rewarding experience for him was to play in bars and not have the pressure of being Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead.

So were the October ’74 gigs featured in the film planned as a genuine farewell?

Nobody knew. They might easily have been the band’s final performances. The future was uncertain.

Where did the idea to document the occasion come from?

There had been talk of a movie since Spring. Garcia’s secret dream was to be an auteur film-maker, but it was by no means a unanimously popular idea. Phil Lesh called it ‘Jerry’s jerk-off’ and the film ate money. A total of 46 people in four different crews were hired to film four nights. The budget was originally 125,000 dollars and it ended up costing 600,000 dollars.

Did the nature of the film change much during the editing process?

Originally, Garcia had thought of the film as a canned concert, but as he watched the footage he began to see a real movie. His years of movie-watching had given him the gift of seeing rhythm and flow in the film.

Why did the film take three years to come out?

There was no director. After the shows, Garcia sat down with 125 hours of raw footage, which he matched to the soundtrack and catalogued. By late ’76 he was purchasing books of airline commuter tickets and flying daily to Burbank Studios to mix the soundtrack, inventing new technologies like ‘phase panning’ so that the sound of the film would subtly follow the camera. Ironically, the film that followed them into Burbank Studios was Star Wars.

It’s been said making the film took a real toll on Garcia…

The grinding stress of editing was a shock to him. He had the type of photography he wanted but what he didn’t anticipate was the sheer tedium of the film-making process. Even more stressful was the tap dance he had to go through to finance it. He was using band money for his own project, and it ate him up. By the time he’d finished, he’d discovered heroin, with predictably horrific effects. But in the short term, his pain went away his doubts were stilled and he was able to finish the movie.

Nigel Williamson

The Grateful Dead Movie

Uncut
-
0

The Grateful Dead Movie plays pretty weird right now. Originally shot three decades ago in 1974, it captures an America that looks, sounds and feels like it's on a totally different planet from the nation that recently returned George Bush to the White House. Peopled by the alien young and the conservative old, it shows a world which turned on the axis of a very simple equation - "us" and "them". The cops were brutal, slitty-eyed, suspicious cartoon pigs and the kids were a whirling dervish army of freewheeling freaks being led by Chemical Jerry and his merry band to the golden kingdom of Aquarius. Thirty years on and life's a lot more complicated; many of Uncut's activist anti-Bush heroes - Stipe, Springsteen, Vedder etc - were blatantly booed or embarrassed by their fans at the ballot. To paraphrase the Dead's signature song: what a long, strange and not altogether pleasant trip it's been. Not that life was all skull and roses way back when. The sides may have been more forcefully drawn - pony-tails versus short back and sides - but what The Grateful Dead Movie captures more than anything else is the political, social and musical inertia that may well have sewn the seeds of the Dubya disaster. The Dead portrayed in the Movie are - shame to admit it - hardly the counter cultural force they had promised in the '60s and their fans - the younger brothers and sisters of the SF originals - seem a goonish lot, somewhat lost in a fog somewhere between stoner hedonism and handed down philosophy. In fact, the project was fortuitously spawned from the Dead's rather poor business acumen rather than any desire to spread the revolutionary word. Having been ripped off over the years, by 1974, the band faced bankruptcy, hauling a massive extended family on tour around the world and lumbering themselves with a monstrously expensive sound system. The only way out was to quit the road, concentrate on recording and, as guitarist Bob Weir admits in the accompanying documentary, wait for most of the crew to get employment elsewhere before they could resume their gypsy lifestyle with clear consciences. So it was that these "farewell" shows were organised at Bill Graham's Winterland in October. As an afterthought, Jerry Garcia hired a film crew to capture the event for posterity, the Movie eventually touring theatres as an alternative to the real thing until the Dead got back on track gaining, along the way, serious cult status. What we encounter is some stunning Yellow Submarine-style cartoon graphics courtesy of Gary Gutierrez, much footage of saucer-eyed longhairs dancing and smoking dope, a lot of real up close on stage playing. The band trundle through Deadhead faves like "US Blues", "Casey Jones", "Eyes Of The World" and, on the bonus Disc, "China Cat Sunflower"/"I Know You Rider" and "Dark Star". The performances may lack the interstellar improvisation of the band's classic '60s psychedelia nor the easy grace of the country-flecked line-up they toured around '72, but it's still a compelling snapshot of the Dead at that point in their career. They used to say that there's nothing like a Grateful Dead concert and, with a head full of acid, four hours in, they were right on the money. Steve Sutherland

The Grateful Dead Movie plays pretty weird right now. Originally shot three decades ago in 1974, it captures an America that looks, sounds and feels like it’s on a totally different planet from the nation that recently returned George Bush to the White House. Peopled by the alien young and the conservative old, it shows a world which turned on the axis of a very simple equation – “us” and “them”. The cops were brutal, slitty-eyed, suspicious cartoon pigs and the kids were a whirling dervish army of freewheeling freaks being led by Chemical Jerry and his merry band to the golden kingdom of Aquarius. Thirty years on and life’s a lot more complicated; many of Uncut’s activist anti-Bush heroes – Stipe, Springsteen, Vedder etc – were blatantly booed or embarrassed by their fans at the ballot. To paraphrase the Dead’s signature song: what a long, strange and not altogether pleasant trip it’s been.

Not that life was all skull and roses way back when. The sides may have been more forcefully drawn – pony-tails versus short back and sides – but what The Grateful Dead Movie captures more than anything else is the political, social and musical inertia that may well have sewn the seeds of the Dubya disaster. The Dead portrayed in the Movie are – shame to admit it – hardly the counter cultural force they had promised in the ’60s and their fans – the younger brothers and sisters of the SF originals – seem a goonish lot, somewhat lost in a fog somewhere between stoner hedonism and handed down philosophy.

In fact, the project was fortuitously spawned from the Dead’s rather poor business acumen rather than any desire to spread the revolutionary word. Having been ripped off over the years, by 1974, the band faced bankruptcy, hauling a massive extended family on tour around the world and lumbering themselves with a monstrously expensive sound system. The only way out was to quit the road, concentrate on recording and, as guitarist Bob Weir admits in the accompanying documentary, wait for most of the crew to get employment elsewhere before they could resume their gypsy lifestyle with clear consciences.

So it was that these “farewell” shows were organised at Bill Graham’s Winterland in October. As an afterthought, Jerry Garcia hired a film crew to capture the event for posterity, the Movie eventually touring theatres as an alternative to the real thing until the Dead got back on track gaining, along the way, serious cult status. What we encounter is some stunning Yellow Submarine-style cartoon graphics courtesy of Gary Gutierrez, much footage of saucer-eyed longhairs dancing and smoking dope, a lot of real up close on stage playing.

The band trundle through Deadhead faves like “US Blues”, “Casey Jones”, “Eyes Of The World” and, on the bonus Disc, “China Cat Sunflower”/”I Know You Rider” and “Dark Star”. The performances may lack the interstellar improvisation of the band’s classic ’60s psychedelia nor the easy grace of the country-flecked line-up they toured around ’72, but it’s still a compelling snapshot of the Dead at that point in their career.

They used to say that there’s nothing like a Grateful Dead concert and, with a head full of acid, four hours in, they were right on the money.

Steve Sutherland

The Ultimate Oliver Stone Collection

Uncut
-
0

No film maker has scrutinised America with the unflinching determination of Oliver Stone. Collected here are 10 movies which have assessed the impact of key facets of its culture - from the nation at war (Salvador, the Vietnam trilogy), to the media (Natural Born Killers), politics (JFK), sport (Any Given Sunday), music (The Doors) and capitalism (Wall Street) - on American society. And then there's U-Turn, which alone concerns murder, betrayal, jealousy, sex - the American Dream turned sour; the American Scream, if you like. Watching these films, you're struck by the ferocity of Stone's vision and the exhaustive energy he brings to bear realising it, whether it be the freewheeling chaos of Salvador, the dizzying dynamics of JFK or the sport-as-war "combat" scenes of Any Given Sunday. A master of spectacle, the riotous, sensory-overload of his movies (realised with long-term cinematographer Bob Richardson) captures the accelerated, fragmented nature of America itself. And perhaps no other director has had such an incredible array of talent to help bring that vision to the screen - Al Pacino, Sean Penn, Jimmy Woods, Tom Cruise, Willem Dafoe, Kevin Costner, Tommy Lee Jones. Each movie here is worth rigorous analysis, but two personal favourites stand out. There's the frequently overlooked U-Turn - fierce desert noir with one of the finest ensemble casts ever (Penn, Nolte, Voight, Billy Bob Thornton, Powers Boothe, Joaquim Phoenix, J-Lo) - and Any Given Sunday, as much a metaphor for Stone's (then) beleagured film making career as a movie about American football, with Pacino-as-Stone facing down Cameron Diaz' ruthless exec. Up there with Mailer, Roth, Updike: a great American artist. Michael Bonner

No film maker has scrutinised America with the unflinching determination of Oliver Stone. Collected here are 10 movies which have assessed the impact of key facets of its culture – from the nation at war (Salvador, the Vietnam trilogy), to the media (Natural Born Killers), politics (JFK), sport (Any Given Sunday), music (The Doors) and capitalism (Wall Street) – on American society. And then there’s U-Turn, which alone concerns murder, betrayal, jealousy, sex – the American Dream turned sour; the American Scream, if you like.

Watching these films, you’re struck by the ferocity of Stone’s vision and the exhaustive energy he brings to bear realising it, whether it be the freewheeling chaos of Salvador, the dizzying dynamics of JFK or the sport-as-war “combat” scenes of Any Given Sunday. A master of spectacle, the riotous, sensory-overload of his movies (realised with long-term cinematographer Bob Richardson) captures the accelerated, fragmented nature of America itself. And perhaps no other director has had such an incredible array of talent to help bring that vision to the screen – Al Pacino, Sean Penn, Jimmy Woods, Tom Cruise, Willem Dafoe, Kevin Costner, Tommy Lee Jones.

Each movie here is worth rigorous analysis, but two personal favourites stand out. There’s the frequently overlooked U-Turn – fierce desert noir with one of the finest ensemble casts ever (Penn, Nolte, Voight, Billy Bob Thornton, Powers Boothe, Joaquim Phoenix, J-Lo) – and Any Given Sunday, as much a metaphor for Stone’s (then) beleagured film making career as a movie about American football, with Pacino-as-Stone facing down Cameron Diaz’ ruthless exec.

Up there with Mailer, Roth, Updike: a great American artist.

Michael Bonner

Interview: Christopher Nolan and Guy Pearce

Uncut
-
0
Interview: Christopher Nolan and Guy Pearce
UNCUT: You once described it as an "exhausting" film. Quite an unorthodox pitch? NOLAN: Yes, but if you're putting the audience though such an experience then the trick is to let them know, on some levels, what they're getting into. So that they don't get frustrated with it and with you. Leonard se...

UNCUT: You once described it as an “exhausting” film. Quite an unorthodox pitch?

NOLAN: Yes, but if you’re putting the audience though such an experience then the trick is to let them know, on some levels, what they’re getting into. So that they don’t get frustrated with it and with you. Leonard sees himself as a perfectly reliable narrator. You’re sitting inside his head and seeing things from there. Then you realise things might be quietly different…At home, on DVD, you can watch it at your own level of concentration.

Are you a fan of DVD packages?

Very much so. This is a classic case. I believe there should be a definitive version of a film, but the wonderful thing about the DVD format is that it allows you to see it in different ways. You get access to fresh areas here. The film itself should always stand the way it was made, but it’s good to explore dense narratives and fresh devices. Remember how long ago Orson Welles made Citizen Kane, and how daring and experimental it was – and how shameful it is that film-makers haven’t really built on that in the medium as much as we should have.

How tough was it to play Leonard?

PEARCE: What I responded to was his emotional plight. Convoluted as the story might seem, it’s very clear emotionally. Obviously while filming I was wondering if everything was going to make sense, but I figured I could forget about that because Leonard’s lost his memory anyway…! Chris draws you into the film beautifully. He’s got a great brain and a great knowledge of film history. This finished film was closer to the original script than any other I’ve worked on – even L.A. Confidential needed some editing and cutting. So I hardly did a thing, to be honest! I heard the tune Chris was trying to sing and I just had no question. People always ask me if it was my most difficult job… it was my easiest.

You did have plenty of crib sheets!

Yeah, the only troublesome part was remembering which bloody notes were in which bloody pockets, and which pocket the camera was on, and which tattoo was where, and all that stuff. But I got a routine going pretty rapidly. I’m usually a control freak, which makes my work harder, but here I realised the best thing was to let go.

Chris Roberts

Memento: Special Edition

Uncut
-
0
Memento: Special Edition

"Great story. Gets better every time you tell it. So you lie to yourself to be happy. Nothing wrong with that - we all do. Who cares if there's a few little things you'd rather not remember?" So reasons Joe Pantoliano's Teddy, enlightening - to an extent - Guy Pearce's haunted Leonard Shelby, and us. Not that the revelations do Teddy any good. When Christopher Nolan's Memento first surfaced in 2000 (the first great film of the century?) Uncut was moved to an involuntary spasm of purple poster quotes. "One of the most compelling, challenging films of the year", we babbled. "Unforgettable. You'll be gripped, enthralled and exhausted. Momentous." But it was hard to say why: we couldn't give away the ending. Hell, we couldn't give away the middle. So cunningly and originally structured was this dark, delicious work of nouveau noir that adjectives of a just-go-see-it strain had to suffice. Now, figuring that most of you have seen it at some point during the last four years, we can get into the question of why Memento bears repeat viewings like few other films. Once the killer ending has kicked in, and the scales have fallen from your eyes, you immediately want to watch it through again to see if the director's nerve and audacity is justified. If it hangs together. It sure does. But wow, what sublime sleight of hand. On this triple-disc set, there's an easter egg of the movie in reverse scene order, just to prove it. This version obviously lacks the startle factor of the original (which had particular impact during Carrie-Anne Moss' femme fatale machinations), but it's a brilliant exercise, a riveting remix. Nolan took the plot from a short story by his brother Jonathan (who reads that tale, Memento Mori, aloud here). Leonard has a "condition", a rare form of short-term memory loss, since the brutal rape and murder of his wife. Every day he wakes up and wonders how he got wherever he is. To trigger some recall, he keeps notes, Polaroids, even clues tattooed on his body. He's bent on vengeance. But is he a guided missile or a deluded loose cannon? Where'd he get the flash car, the clothes? Should he trust the enigmatic smile of bartender Natalie (Moss) or the lippy urgings of strange cop Teddy? Who is Leonard talking to on the phone? And why is he also obsessed with the poignant tale of the damaged Sammy Jankis and his long-suffering wife? This is one mystery where the phrase "all will be revealed" carries a savage sucker punch. It's shot with studied shadowy atmosphere. The monochrome sections echo Nolan's debut Following, and Pearce's voiceover is of rare confessional intimacy. Pearce's contribution is often underrated. Yes, he's a servant to the story's cleverness, but he does a magical job in maintaining Leonard's ambivalence. So likeable and vulnerable, yet so ruthless and potentially evil. As a blonde lead in noir land, he's a sculpted, heroic nod to Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner, Nolan's favourite film. Moss, too, shows intense acting skills (wasted in The Matrix) as another character making us question who to trust. "She will help you out of pity". Oh yeah? She and Pantoliano are angels/devils on our man's shoulders. If deceit and betrayal are what make a plot progress, Memento marks a quantum leap in the thriller genre. "A romantic quest", muses Teddy. "A puzzle you can never solve". For a movie about brain damage, and about the way we all build our self-image from scratch every dawn, Memento has crisp flashes of humour, more noticeable now. Leonard putting on Natalie's shirt, because, of course, he would. The motel hooker's look of this-is-weird-but-I've seen-weirder. Leonard's comment of "The pleasure of a book is in wanting to know what happens next." The craziness in his interior monologue: "OK, so what am I doing? Oh, I'm chasing this guy." A beat. "No, he's chasing me." The script has to be watertight, and is. Nolan's now gone to the US full-time, with barely a whimper from the obtuse British film industry. Insomnia was wide awake, and we can't wait to see what he does with Batman. Meanwhile, here's the ingenious movie which made his name. Remember its rigour. Believe its lies. Chris Roberts

“Great story. Gets better every time you tell it. So you lie to yourself to be happy. Nothing wrong with that – we all do. Who cares if there’s a few little things you’d rather not remember?” So reasons Joe Pantoliano’s Teddy, enlightening – to an extent – Guy Pearce’s haunted Leonard Shelby, and us. Not that the revelations do Teddy any good.

When Christopher Nolan’s Memento first surfaced in 2000 (the first great film of the century?) Uncut was moved to an involuntary spasm of purple poster quotes. “One of the most compelling, challenging films of the year”, we babbled. “Unforgettable. You’ll be gripped, enthralled and exhausted. Momentous.” But it was hard to say why: we couldn’t give away the ending. Hell, we couldn’t give away the middle. So cunningly and originally structured was this dark, delicious work of nouveau noir that adjectives of a just-go-see-it strain had to suffice.

Now, figuring that most of you have seen it at some point during the last four years, we can get into the question of why Memento bears repeat viewings like few other films. Once the killer ending has kicked in, and the scales have fallen from your eyes, you immediately want to watch it through again to see if the director’s nerve and audacity is justified. If it hangs together. It sure does. But wow, what sublime sleight of hand. On this triple-disc set, there’s an easter egg of the movie in reverse scene order, just to prove it. This version obviously lacks the startle factor of the original (which had particular impact during Carrie-Anne Moss’ femme fatale machinations), but it’s a brilliant exercise, a riveting remix.

Nolan took the plot from a short story by his brother Jonathan (who reads that tale, Memento Mori, aloud here). Leonard has a “condition”, a rare form of short-term memory loss, since the brutal rape and murder of his wife. Every day he wakes up and wonders how he got wherever he is. To trigger some recall, he keeps notes, Polaroids, even clues tattooed on his body. He’s bent on vengeance. But is he a guided missile or a deluded loose cannon? Where’d he get the flash car, the clothes? Should he trust the enigmatic smile of bartender Natalie (Moss) or the lippy urgings of strange cop Teddy? Who is Leonard talking to on the phone? And why is he also obsessed with the poignant tale of the damaged Sammy Jankis and his long-suffering wife? This is one mystery where the phrase “all will be revealed” carries a savage sucker punch.

It’s shot with studied shadowy atmosphere. The monochrome sections echo Nolan’s debut Following, and Pearce’s voiceover is of rare confessional intimacy. Pearce’s contribution is often underrated. Yes, he’s a servant to the story’s cleverness, but he does a magical job in maintaining Leonard’s ambivalence. So likeable and vulnerable, yet so ruthless and potentially evil. As a blonde lead in noir land, he’s a sculpted, heroic nod to Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner, Nolan’s favourite film. Moss, too, shows intense acting skills (wasted in The Matrix) as another character making us question who to trust. “She will help you out of pity”. Oh yeah? She and Pantoliano are angels/devils on our man’s shoulders. If deceit and betrayal are what make a plot progress, Memento marks a quantum leap in the thriller genre.

“A romantic quest”, muses Teddy. “A puzzle you can never solve”. For a movie about brain damage, and about the way we all build our self-image from scratch every dawn, Memento has crisp flashes of humour, more noticeable now. Leonard putting on Natalie’s shirt, because, of course, he would. The motel hooker’s look of this-is-weird-but-I’ve seen-weirder. Leonard’s comment of “The pleasure of a book is in wanting to know what happens next.” The craziness in his interior monologue: “OK, so what am I doing? Oh, I’m chasing this guy.” A beat. “No, he’s chasing me.” The script has to be watertight, and is.

Nolan’s now gone to the US full-time, with barely a whimper from the obtuse British film industry. Insomnia was wide awake, and we can’t wait to see what he does with Batman. Meanwhile, here’s the ingenious movie which made his name. Remember its rigour. Believe its lies.

Chris Roberts

Pink Floyd – The Wall: The Movie

Uncut
-
0

Limited Edition re-release of Alan Parker's 1982 movie, based on Roger Water's tale of a rock star's descent into madness. Without dialogue, it feels more like an extended 95-minute music video; the Floyd's music set to some powerful visuals, including startling Gerald Scarfe animations. What lifts The Wall above MTV fodder is a surprisingly magnetic performance by Bob Geldof as "Pink" which helps Parker's treatment to stand the test of time rather better than the music. Nigel Williamson

Limited Edition re-release of Alan Parker’s 1982 movie, based on Roger Water’s tale of a rock star’s descent into madness. Without dialogue, it feels more like an extended 95-minute music video; the Floyd’s music set to some powerful visuals, including startling Gerald Scarfe animations. What lifts The Wall above MTV fodder is a surprisingly magnetic performance by Bob Geldof as “Pink” which helps Parker’s treatment to stand the test of time rather better than the music.

Nigel Williamson

Paul Weller – Studio 150

Uncut
-
0
Paul Weller – Studio 150

From second generation mod god to Gordon Lightfoot covers in a third of a century is some journey. Eschewing the mighty Kinks-Who-Small Faces triumvirate of his fandom, Weller tackles "All Along The Watchtower", "Close To You", "Wishing On A Star" in that familiar, and increasingly limited, growl of his while chewing imaginary gum just like John Lennon. The band are accomplished, the audience more reverential than these workmanlike interpretations deserve. Inside every modfather there's a trad rocker dying to get out. (RC)

From second generation mod god to Gordon Lightfoot covers in a third of a century is some journey. Eschewing the mighty Kinks-Who-Small Faces triumvirate of his fandom, Weller tackles “All Along The Watchtower”, “Close To You”, “Wishing On A Star” in that familiar, and increasingly limited, growl of his while chewing imaginary gum just like John Lennon. The band are accomplished, the audience more reverential than these workmanlike interpretations deserve. Inside every modfather there’s a trad rocker dying to get out.

(RC)

Interview: Jonathan Donahue

Uncut
-
0
Interview: Jonathan Donahue
UNCUT: What difference did it make working in your own studio for the first time? JONATHAN DONAHUE: “It worked out really charming in the beginning, like, ‘Hey, this is kind of a 9-to-5 job, like going to work’. And then you realise, ‘Shit, I gotta go back to work!’ It’s a place where w...

UNCUT: What difference did it make working in your own studio for the first time?

JONATHAN DONAHUE: “It worked out really charming in the beginning, like, ‘Hey, this is kind of a 9-to-5 job, like going to work’. And then you realise, ‘Shit, I gotta go back to work!’ It’s a place where we can sort of bounce ideas literally off the walls without spending $12,000. It has this pegboard stuff on the walls that they had at the original Sun studio, and we kept getting these really good drum sounds there because the pegboard creates a natural compression.”

How has the Mercury Rev sound evolved on The Secret Migration?

“There’s a lot less strings, or at least they’re a lot less overt, like “Here comes the orchestra”. And that was something on our part that was sort of upon us from the beginning. It was like, “Let’s do what we can with some other kinds of texture and not just fly in the oboes from Austria…” Everyone has their crutches, so that was something we worked on a bit.”

Nature is all over the album. It must be hard to live in the Catskills and not be influenced by the changing seasons.

“I was noticing the changes outside, but I just didn’t have the wherewithal or the composure to look inside right then and say, I guess it’s coming from within. Something within me was moving and changing, or trying to – doing the best that any artist can do, reflect against themselves and see what sort of falls away as something of an illusion.”

The album is less disturbing than All Is Dream – more like a magical Peter Pan ride through forests and wildernesses.

“What I thought was going into All Is Dream was nothing like what came out of it. I understand now in hindsight that it really tweaked some people in a way that I wasn’t conscious of. I had thought it was going to be something quite pastoral and serene.”

Will you ever make a truly pastoral and serene record?

“This one was that one! This one was supposed to be an insular, piano-based, 2 am record, and somewhere along the line people started playing drums on it and my idea sorta flew out the window like a horsefly.”

Is it significant that “Moving On” – with its mantra-like hope that “it will be better in the sun” – follows the remorseful “My Love”?

“A lot of us at that time were going through some pretty heavy stuff. It was basically the last optimistic life-preserver on the ship at that moment. It’s been one of those periods for us. “My Love” was born of a particular sorrow, and “Moving On” probably has a lot to do with not getting too worked up about the guilt and about the regret that “My Love” brought to the surface.”

Is this funny little plan working out after all?

“Yes, we’re living all in one moment, and the moment is now.”

This interview, along with a review of Mercury Rev’s new album, ‘The Secret Migration’, features in Uncut Take 92, January 2005. Out now.

Lost Highway

Uncut
-
0

Robert Mitchum never directed a movie, but he came damn close with 1958’s Thunder Road. Mitchum wrote the story, produced, cast the actors (including his son, Jim, playing his sleepy-eyed kid brother) and composed the soundtrack. He’d later record the title song, "The Ballad Of Thunder Road", himself for a single, sounding like Gene Vincent relaxing with a jug of whiskey. To direct, he brought in another maverick—63-year-old Arthur Ripley, a former gag-man for Mack Sennett and WC Fields who’d been in movies since 1908; but, in his own phrase, Mitchum "designed the shots". It’s the nearest he got to self-portrait. Far from being some glossy Hollywood vanity project, however, Mitchum’s film is an exemplar of fast, dirt-cheap, disreputable B-movie-making. Thunder Road is raw and strange, from the gutter. It looks like it cost about a buck-fifty to make. In an article for The Hollywood Reporter, Mitchum described the film’s genesis in inimitably languid manner: "Home crouched on the couch one night, it occurred to me that we might get a motion picture out of moonshiners and Government tax men trying to outwit each other in the southeastern area of these United States..." That’s the surface. Filmed around the Blue Ridge Mountain town of Asheville—where locals still recall the shoot’s epic carousing in whispered tones—Mitchum plays Luke Doolin, quiffed-up moonshine transporter from a tiny community in the hills. A local legend, he drives by night, fast and furious, running his daddy’s booze from the backwoods to the bright lights of Memphis. He’s so successful that Treasury agents are staking out the area, looking to end his illicit trade. Simultaneously, a powerful crime syndicate from the city seeking to muscle in on the local bootlegging is killing off Luke’s fellow moonrunners on the road. He finds himself in the middle, trying to evade both the law and the mob, as nets close around him. With its deep understanding of impoverished hillbilly communities and the sweet, gut-burning moonshine trade (handmade stills hidden in the trees had never been filmed with such documentary authenticity) and, most of all, with its outlaw hero outwitting the law in his roaring, hopped-up Ford Coupé, trashing cars left, right and centre while alleycat rockabilly and fast-picked banjo twang on the soundtrack, Thunder Road became an instant legend on the South’s flea-pit cinema circuit. Twenty years later, it was still playing to whooping drive-in audiences. Its success led single-handedly to that rash of good ol’ boy car-crash antics which peaked with the Smokey And The Bandit movies and the Dukes Of Hazzard TV show. Scratch the film’s surface, however, and you find philosophy: deep, dark, delinquent existentialism. Mitchum had made his name playing calm, doomed, outcast anti-heroes over and over in noirs like Out Of The Past and Angel Face, and shadowy westerns like Pursued, a cycle of movies that explored the concept of The Outsider. This, his most personal movie, confirms that all that was no coincidence. Luke Doolin’s barely-mentioned back story is that he was ripped from the bosom of his closed backhills community, sent away to fight in the Korean war. Since he’s returned, one of the local old-timers comments, "He’s got a machine-gunner’s outlook. Death doesn’t phase him..." Back from the other side of the world with a head full of slaughter, he’s unable to fit in anywhere, in the city or in his home town. He’s just looking to get killed, biding time by driving an endless, lawless circular run along unlit highways, with increasing recklessness. Mitchum’s movie is about fatal loneliness, boredom, about roads at night, about running forever, to nowhere, about always crashing in the same car, and it ends in a flaming, twisted auto-apocalypse. As such, Thunder Road stands as spiritual granddaddy to all those ‘60s and ‘70s road movies that take the endless American highway as existential parable, the tough, nihilistic root from which the anti-establishment likes of Two Lane Blacktop and Vanishing Point sprang. But none of them ever made death-tripping this much fun.

Robert Mitchum never directed a movie, but he came damn close with 1958’s Thunder Road. Mitchum wrote the story, produced, cast the actors (including his son, Jim, playing his sleepy-eyed kid brother) and composed the soundtrack. He’d later record the title song, “The Ballad Of Thunder Road”, himself for a single, sounding like Gene Vincent relaxing with a jug of whiskey. To direct, he brought in another maverick—63-year-old Arthur Ripley, a former gag-man for Mack Sennett and WC Fields who’d been in movies since 1908; but, in his own phrase, Mitchum “designed the shots”. It’s the nearest he got to self-portrait.

Far from being some glossy Hollywood vanity project, however, Mitchum’s film is an exemplar of fast, dirt-cheap, disreputable B-movie-making. Thunder Road is raw and strange, from the gutter. It looks like it cost about a buck-fifty to make. In an article for The Hollywood Reporter, Mitchum described the film’s genesis in inimitably languid manner: “Home crouched on the couch one night, it occurred to me that we might get a motion picture out of moonshiners and Government tax men trying to outwit each other in the southeastern area of these United States…” That’s the surface. Filmed around the Blue Ridge Mountain town of Asheville—where locals still recall the shoot’s epic carousing in whispered tones—Mitchum plays Luke Doolin, quiffed-up moonshine transporter from a tiny community in the hills. A local legend, he drives by night, fast and furious, running his daddy’s booze from the backwoods to the bright lights of Memphis. He’s so successful that Treasury agents are staking out the area, looking to end his illicit trade. Simultaneously, a powerful crime syndicate from the city seeking to muscle in on the local bootlegging is killing off Luke’s fellow moonrunners on the road. He finds himself in the middle, trying to evade both the law and the mob, as nets close around him.

With its deep understanding of impoverished hillbilly communities and the sweet, gut-burning moonshine trade (handmade stills hidden in the trees had never been filmed with such documentary authenticity) and, most of all, with its outlaw hero outwitting the law in his roaring, hopped-up Ford Coupé, trashing cars left, right and centre while alleycat rockabilly and fast-picked banjo twang on the soundtrack, Thunder Road became an instant legend on the South’s flea-pit cinema circuit. Twenty years later, it was still playing to whooping drive-in audiences. Its success led single-handedly to that rash of good ol’ boy car-crash antics which peaked with the Smokey And The Bandit movies and the Dukes Of Hazzard TV show.

Scratch the film’s surface, however, and you find philosophy: deep, dark, delinquent existentialism. Mitchum had made his name playing calm, doomed, outcast anti-heroes over and over in noirs like Out Of The Past and Angel Face, and shadowy westerns like Pursued, a cycle of movies that explored the concept of The Outsider. This, his most personal movie, confirms that all that was no coincidence. Luke Doolin’s barely-mentioned back story is that he was ripped from the bosom of his closed backhills community, sent away to fight in the Korean war. Since he’s returned, one of the local old-timers comments, “He’s got a machine-gunner’s outlook. Death doesn’t phase him…” Back from the other side of the world with a head full of slaughter, he’s unable to fit in anywhere, in the city or in his home town. He’s just looking to get killed, biding time by driving an endless, lawless circular run along unlit highways, with increasing recklessness.

Mitchum’s movie is about fatal loneliness, boredom, about roads at night, about running forever, to nowhere, about always crashing in the same car, and it ends in a flaming, twisted auto-apocalypse. As such, Thunder Road stands as spiritual granddaddy to all those ‘60s and ‘70s road movies that take the endless American highway as existential parable, the tough, nihilistic root from which the anti-establishment likes of Two Lane Blacktop and Vanishing Point sprang. But none of them ever made death-tripping this much fun.

Un Chien Andalou/L’Age D’Or

Uncut
-
0

Punk rock began in 1929/30, when Luis Buñuel caused riots with these erotic howls of protest, urging the human race to place love and lust above civic duty. Visually he broke the mould, with a little help from Salvador Dalí. The 17-minute Un Chien is a hymn to desire; the 63-minute L'Age D'Or is shocking and beautifully immortal.

Punk rock began in 1929/30, when Luis Buñuel caused riots with these erotic howls of protest, urging the human race to place love and lust above civic duty. Visually he broke the mould, with a little help from Salvador Dalí. The 17-minute Un Chien is a hymn to desire; the 63-minute L’Age D’Or is shocking and beautifully immortal.

The Two Johns

Uncut
-
0

Before proceeding with this six-movie set, you have to acknowledge that anything which calls itself John Wayne: The John Ford Collection yet fails to feature The Searchers or The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is riding into trouble. Still, it’s a fine place to start exploring Hollywood’s most legendary actor-director partnership. Vitally, it sees the first UK DVD release for Stagecoach (1939) [5], his first with Wayne, who sauntered into stardom after a decade in movies as the Ringo Kid, a charming outlaw bent on revenge. Ford presents society as bickering strangers on a coach trundling through a hostile wilderness, loosely slamming dimebook thrills against the anti-bourgeois bite of his source story, Guy de Maupassant’s caustic Boule De Suif, Orson Welles watched it 40 times. Drawn from Eugene O’Neill, The Long Voyage Home (1940) [5], also making its DVD debut, was actually shot by Citizen Kane cinematographer Gregg Toland, whose stunning high-contrast etches bawdy and maudlin (Ford’s favourite poles) vignettes of sailors far from home during WWII. It’s more Ford than Wayne, with the actor cast as an innocent Swedish farm-boy. The heart of the set, though, lies in their monumental "Cavalry Trilogy". The bitter complexities of The Searchers aside, these films display Wayne’s finest performances for Ford. For anyone who buys into the old canard that he couldn’t act, they’re the movies to be enlightened by: as the captain at desolate Fort Apache (1948) [5], trying subtly to prevent commander Henry Fonda from bringing down massacre; as the ageing, aching widower reluctantly eying retirement in the peerless She Wore A Yellow Ribbon (1949) [5]; as the sensitive Colonel Yorke bitterly estranged from wife Maureen O’Hara during the divisive Civil War, now signing off on an illegal sortie into Mexico, to rescue children in the reflective and leisurely Rio Grande (1950) [5]. O’Hara returns as the flame-haired colleen who captures Wayne’s heart in The Quiet Man (1952) [3]. He’s the boxer who, having killed an opponent in the ring, has fled to his homeland and vowed never to fight again. Chipped straight from the Blarney Stone, it’s Ford’s dream of Oirland, pure fantasy, and a film to cherish if you have any Irish in you, without having a stick up your ass about it. Universal is also releasing boxes entitled Wayne Out West, Wayne At War and Wayne In Action, and a 33-film John Wayne Collection. Hell, pilgrim-imagine what they’re going to do in 2007, when Wayne’s centenary rolls around!

Before proceeding with this six-movie set, you have to acknowledge that anything which calls itself John Wayne: The John Ford Collection yet fails to feature The Searchers or The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance is riding into trouble. Still, it’s a fine place to start exploring Hollywood’s most legendary actor-director partnership. Vitally, it sees the first UK DVD release for Stagecoach (1939) [5], his first with Wayne, who sauntered into stardom after a decade in movies as the Ringo Kid, a charming outlaw bent on revenge. Ford presents society as bickering strangers on a coach trundling through a hostile wilderness, loosely slamming dimebook thrills against the anti-bourgeois bite of his source story, Guy de Maupassant’s caustic Boule De Suif, Orson Welles watched it 40 times.

Drawn from Eugene O’Neill, The Long Voyage Home (1940) [5], also making its DVD debut, was actually shot by Citizen Kane cinematographer Gregg Toland, whose stunning high-contrast etches bawdy and maudlin (Ford’s favourite poles) vignettes of sailors far from home during WWII. It’s more Ford than Wayne, with the actor cast as an innocent Swedish farm-boy.

The heart of the set, though, lies in their monumental “Cavalry Trilogy”. The bitter complexities of The Searchers aside, these films display Wayne’s finest performances for Ford. For anyone who buys into the old canard that he couldn’t act, they’re the movies to be enlightened by: as the captain at desolate Fort Apache (1948) [5], trying subtly to prevent commander Henry Fonda from bringing down massacre; as the ageing, aching widower reluctantly eying retirement in the peerless She Wore A Yellow Ribbon (1949) [5]; as the sensitive Colonel Yorke bitterly estranged from wife Maureen O’Hara during the divisive Civil War, now signing off on an illegal sortie into Mexico, to rescue children in the reflective and leisurely Rio Grande (1950) [5]. O’Hara returns as the flame-haired colleen who captures Wayne’s heart in The Quiet Man (1952) [3]. He’s the boxer who, having killed an opponent in the ring, has fled to his homeland and vowed never to fight again. Chipped straight from the Blarney Stone, it’s Ford’s dream of Oirland, pure fantasy, and a film to cherish if you have any Irish in you, without having a stick up your ass about it. Universal is also releasing boxes entitled Wayne Out West, Wayne At War and Wayne In Action, and a 33-film John Wayne Collection. Hell, pilgrim-imagine what they’re going to do in 2007, when Wayne’s centenary rolls around!

Main Contender

Uncut
-
0

Who now remembers that The Wild One [5] was directed by one László Benedek? Though he gave it a fetishist biker-cool sheen (later photocopied in Kathryn Bigelow’s The Loveless), its iconic status is down to Brando’s camply brooding presence. What’s he rebelling against? "What’ve you got?" Even Lee Marvin has to play side-saddle to the grandiloquently reticent grump. The film-rock’n’roll posturing incarnate—was much banned because insufficient retribution was doled out to the hoodlums. It’s the leader of this four-DVD pack, which includes, from the same year (1954), Elia Kazan’s On The Waterfront [5]. "See, you don’t understand! I coulda been a contender. I coulda had class and been somebody." Instead of a champ, Brando’s Terry—subversive docklands stevedore—has been given "a one-way ticket to Palookaville", sold out by brother Rod Steiger. He determines to go down fighting. Eight Oscars (Brando and Eva Marie Saint among them), it retains its righteous power and resonance. Marlon’s magnificent. Less impressive than that pair are The Ugly American (1962) [3], a talky Cold War commentary with Brando as US ambassador to a South-East Asian state. He slowly learns there are more shades than black and white to both communism and imperialism. He’s restrained: the film’s half-asleep. The Appaloosa (1966) [3] is a would-be-arty Sidney J Furie western set on the Mexican border, with Brando a hassled cowboy. It mimics Leone in overblown, pretentious fashion, and Pauline Kael called it "a dog of a movie about a horse".

Who now remembers that The Wild One [5] was directed by one László Benedek? Though he gave it a fetishist biker-cool sheen (later photocopied in Kathryn Bigelow’s The Loveless), its iconic status is down to Brando’s camply brooding presence. What’s he rebelling against? “What’ve you got?” Even Lee Marvin has to play side-saddle to the grandiloquently reticent grump. The film-rock’n’roll posturing incarnate—was much banned because insufficient retribution was doled out to the hoodlums. It’s the leader of this four-DVD pack, which includes, from the same year (1954), Elia Kazan’s On The Waterfront [5]. “See, you don’t understand! I coulda been a contender. I coulda had class and been somebody.” Instead of a champ, Brando’s Terry—subversive docklands stevedore—has been given “a one-way ticket to Palookaville”, sold out by brother Rod Steiger. He determines to go down fighting. Eight Oscars (Brando and Eva Marie Saint among them), it retains its righteous power and resonance. Marlon’s magnificent.

Less impressive than that pair are The Ugly American (1962) [3], a talky Cold War commentary with Brando as US ambassador to a South-East Asian state. He slowly learns there are more shades than black and white to both communism and imperialism. He’s restrained: the film’s half-asleep. The Appaloosa (1966) [3] is a would-be-arty Sidney J Furie western set on the Mexican border, with Brando a hassled cowboy. It mimics Leone in overblown, pretentious fashion, and Pauline Kael called it “a dog of a movie about a horse”.

The Charlie Chan Chanthology

Uncut
-
0

Sadly not the classic'30s capers starring Warner Oland as the philosophical Chinese detective but those of his replacement Sidney Toler after the Chan franchise had been sold off to the poverty-stricken studios of Monogram. Of the six films here, 1944's mildly diverting chess murder mystery The Chinese Cat is the best of an admittedly ropey bunch, which also includes Meeting At Midnight and The Jade Mask.

Sadly not the classic’30s capers starring Warner Oland as the philosophical Chinese detective but those of his replacement Sidney Toler after the Chan franchise had been sold off to the poverty-stricken studios of Monogram. Of the six films here, 1944’s mildly diverting chess murder mystery The Chinese Cat is the best of an admittedly ropey bunch, which also includes Meeting At Midnight and The Jade Mask.

Ju-on: The Grudge

Uncut
-
0

Rising Japanese horror star Takashi Shimizu's original...Grudge, pre-Sarah Michelle Gellar redux is a wealth of eerie detail, carefully composed shocks, cadaverous children, vengeful spirits and classic"she's behind you!"moments all crammed into a fairly hoary'haunted house'narrative. Still, the shower scene, complete with wandering ghostly hand, is hard to top.

Rising Japanese horror star Takashi Shimizu’s original…Grudge, pre-Sarah Michelle Gellar redux is a wealth of eerie detail, carefully composed shocks, cadaverous children, vengeful spirits and classic”she’s behind you!”moments all crammed into a fairly hoary’haunted house’narrative. Still, the shower scene, complete with wandering ghostly hand, is hard to top.

1...1,0571,0581,059...1,269Page 1,058 of 1,269

SHOP UNCUT