Sunshine

Many contemporary directors cite Stanley Kubrick as a central inspiration for their work. Danny Boyle is among them. Whereas many directors fall into the trap of simply aping (anyone get the pun?...no?...sigh) Kubrick, Boyle proves that he truly gets the vision by simulating not Kubrick's technique, but his ambition. Boyle takes creative risks with every one of his films, tearing down stereotypes and genre expectations to defy audience expectations creating something brilliant and progressive. Also, like Kubrick, he doesn't settle on any one genre. His films can be found in every section of the video shop and I have yet to be disappointed by any of them.
With how far technology has come over the last thirty years, it's startling that the central plot elements of space films have remained essentially constant. The crew, the ship, the mission, the threat. Sunshine contains all of these and, while the homages to its genre predecessors (especially 2001) are visible, they are not blindingly obvious.
The movie starts in space. Unlike the messy end-of-the-world space films that crapped across screens in the late '90's and tried to develop characters on earth before sending them on their missions, we begin aboard a vividly imagined Icarus II. Its mission: to deliver a device to the sun, which is dying. The nuclear device will reignite the failing star, thus saving the human race. My first impression of the plot was that it is a bit farfetched, but once the movie pulls you in, you begin to be floored by the originality of the plot and the careful details that make it tick.
Tension is built quickly and after twenty minutes, Sunshine hits its stride and doesn't back off. The action continuously gains momentum and it becomes nearly impossible to look away. Cillian Murphy plays Kappa, the ship's physicist and he serves as the film's biggest name. He plays his role well, yet Sunshine is very much of an ensemble film. Whereas you know Bruce Willis is going to make it to the end of his space flick, a cast of relative unknowns means that they can die in any order at any time.
And what deaths...heroic, jaw-dropping, majestic deaths that beat having an alien pop out of the belly. The imagery is consistently gorgeous from start to finish. Boyle has a sharp eye for color and the extreme contrast between the muted blues and greens inside the ship with the reds, oranges, and yellows of the beautiful yet deadly sunlight are sublte and rich.
Like many of Boyle's films, this one takes a sharp turn for the surreal a bit past the halfway point.
SPOILER: After docking with the first ship, Icarus I, whose mission mysteriously failed, the film becomes a psychological battering ram. Capt. Pinbacker of the first mission surreptitiously boards the Icarus II while the crew explores the dusty remains of its forerunner (foreflyer?) and sets about sabatoging the mission as he did with his own. Driven mad by the mental torments of deep space, Pinbacker develops a god-complex and is determined to prevent the mission from succeeding, seeing himself as an agent of fate. Dawning on the audience is the thought of what he must have endured sharing a powered down spaceship with only the incinerated, crumbling remains of his crewmates as company.
After the inevitable self-sacrifice and success, we are shown for the first time life back on earth. It is a breathtaking view of a snow covered tundra with the Sydney opera house on the horizon and as the gray sky begins to brighten with the returning sunshine, the film ends with an effective return to normality.
It shows us that it is only through the efforts and sacrifice of those we take for granted that our planet endures at all.
Also worth mentioning is the beautiful score by Underworld which perfectly accentuates the film's mood as it transitions between light and dark.

the Verve - Forth

Linguistic philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein famously intoned that anything worth saying can be said clearly. The Verve did just that with 1997’s Urban Hymns, a bombastic yet heartfelt album that anyone with a pulse can identify with. ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ endeared itself to millions and secured a spot in a generation’s soundtrack, lifting the band to the notoriety they had worked so hard to achieve.
More than simply writing songs and playing music, The Verve preached it. “Music is Power,” frontman Richard Ashcroft would later declare on one of his piddling solo albums. For a couple of years, the band backed up the sentiment and became a justified musical juggernaut.
Eleven years later, comes the band’s fourth LP, Forth. If you can’t tell by the pitiful attempt at irony that passes for the album’s title, subtlety is absent here. Whereas the band’s catalogue material still gives the listener elements to discover anew a decade later, Forth feels frustratingly stale and irrelevant.
‘Sit and Wonder’ opens the album with reverb and a distorted drone that hearkens their Storm in Heaven days and would have fit nicely into the band’s formative years, but seems pedantic as the start to a comeback. ‘Love is Noise’ follows it and serves as the album’s driving single and brightest spot. It is a euphoric, catchy number and Ashcroft’s lyrics revolve around themes that Verve fans will latch onto with familiar joy; happiness despite anomie and strident individualism. It’s hook relies on an uncharacteristically computer generated loop though, instead of Nick McCabe’s distinctive guitar work. Ultimately, it feels contrived in its aim for airplay, although it is nice to see a burst of energy on an album that is otherwise lacking. ‘Rather Be’, the third track, is the last stop worth noting before the album runs away into insignificance. It is a rhythm-driven ballad that finds Ashcroft coming off as a sincere musical prophet.
Had this been a first album, a collection of unreleased material, or even recorded under another name, it would earn itself a stronger place. However, The Verve have shown what they are capable of and fall far short of it with Forth. Optimistic fans can only hope that it is but a warm-up for a true return to form that The Verve hint at, but never quite clarify.

The Tripper

An axe murderer in a Ronald Reagan costume running around the California woods killing hippies. Obviously, not a serious flick. Although you'll find it filed under horror, this one's a comedy thru and thru.
Let me start with the fact that while the tabloids and celeb gossip rags harp on the couples that fight like rabid wolverines, David Arquette, who makes his directorial debut with The Tripper, and the lovely Courtney Cox have been happily married for a decade. The Tripper is evidence of why anyone would find a goofball like Arquette appealing when they could marry or bed any number of successive supermodels.
The film is clever, laugh-out-loud funny, and while it's not one I feel the need to add to my collection, the time spent watching it isn't wasted.
Arquette pulls strings to assemble the type of cast that ensure this film's cult status: Thomas Jane (The Punisher), Jason Mewes (Jay, a la Jay & Silent Bob), Lucas Haas (The Wittness), and Paul Ruebens (Pee Wee himself) come together and give their best, all to Arquette's credit.
The central plot is menial; a vanfull of hippies go to a free love festival in the CA redwood forest and are picked off by the axe of an ex-prez impersonator. Arquette and co-writer Joe Harris throw in enough red herrings to make the plot passable, but it's the tongue in cheek politicizing that gives the film substance. At one point, an angry conservative finds himself at Ronnie's mercy and just before getting the axe, utters, "...But I'm a Republican." It was delivered so effectively that I had to rewind to catch the actual killing because I was laughing so hard. Set in Bush-administration America, the movie takes its shots at GW aplenty and uses its over the top aproach to mirror the GOP's ridiculous vision.
Blood and gore abound but not to the extnent I was expecting. Instead, Arquette puts faith in his script, his cast, and his vision and it pays off for him.
When Ronald Reagan bursts into a firelit hippie drum circle and wreaks havoc with wild swings of his axe, I felt an authentic moment of conservative Republican glory. "Go Ronnie, kill them damn, dirty hippies!" I yelled. It almost inspired me to go eat a slab of raw meat and crack a can of PBR, but the subsequent bloodletting brought me back to my senses.

Peter Adams - I Woke With Planets in My Face

Sundays are such odd days. It's like we project what we expect to find on Monday onto this day. If we view the start of a new week with fresh enthusiasm, our Sundays take on a bright optimism. If we see our Monday morning as a dark vortex set to suck the remainder of our week into, Sundays are a dark, purgatorial vacuum.
If it's our own consciousnesses that project our reality, then Sundays could be the most vital time of the week. I mean, if we go into the week with bold idealism, waving our flags of belief, we can charge into it with a splintering energy and come out the other side with a smile still on our faces.
Peter Adams' newest LP, I Woke With Planets in My Face, is the type of album for this situation. It's an uplifting, yet unassunming album. Adams seems to know that the venom of cynicism has worked itself deep into our cultural veins and extracts it gently with his bright music. Inspired, yet not derivative of Sufjan Stevens, Adams' music has the meticulous insturmentation that would fit right in with the ghosts of mid-90's Elephant Six and SpinArt labels.
Take for example, 'I Was Looking at the Ceiling, and then I Saw the Sky'. Granted, the title sounds like something off of the next uber-pretentious Radiohead LP, but if you close your eyes and listen, it's as if the building rhythm and developing string-led structure inflate slowly underneath you. It leads directly into 'Antarctica,' which spins the dynamics into a melodica-led bliss of pastoral imagery and melody. As the music continues to forumlate, it keeps returning your attention to Adams' voice, lyrics, and acoustic guitar. I Woke With Planets... is essentially a singer/songwriter album. Adams's songs are his gems and depsite the heavy string arrangements and production, he stays determined to have them noticed. The ultimate brilliance of the album is within that. I'm still digging at this album to uncover it's layers and meanings. It's an intriguing and complex work. Each listen proves to be familiar, yet new.
'Annabelle Lee' is indeed an adaptation of E.A. Poe's famous poem and uses (seriously) kazoos to enliven America's most widely read poet's macabre work with a sense of ironic cheer. It's not wholly effective, but Adams isn't looking to teach an English lesson, he's looking to entertain with his songs and 'Annabelle Lee''s awkwardness is what makes it work at all. It's presence is indicitive of the album. It's not perfect, but it's imperfections are what gives it its charm.
This is the type of album recorded under the same mindset as Pet Sounds or Odyssey and Oracle; a psychedelia-steeped, slow-burner that doles out its rewards carefully but with undiminishing enjoyment.

Bon Iver - For Emma... & Blood Bank

The fact that Bon Iver can be as successful as he's been with his delicate debut makes me feel warmer than the songs. Becasue the songs make me feel cold. Not a teeth-chattering, finger-numbing cold, but more the type of blue-gray early morning cold that you can smell.
'Flume' opens For Emma, Forever Ago..., and opens the window to let in that cold. At first it's a bit uncomfortable, then mildly refreshing and motivating as the floating vocal layers fade into 'Lump Sum.' By the time that 'Skinny Love' and 'The Wolves' come around, you're into it, muscles warmed up and there's a distinct scent of nostaligia in the air.
Maybe it's that same feeling that makes this album feel distinctly American. Justin Vernon, singer and songwriter, puts a spirit of true naturalism into the work, the sort of naturalism that this country used to exemplify before we pumped the air full of so much shit. I imagine Vernon sitting in the secluded Wisconsin cabin where he birthed these songs using the environment as a protective womb against all of that. As a result, the songs gain their crystalline glory. Listening to them carefully is to cradle them with tenderness.
Vernon's falsetto vocals are impressionistic and often eclipsed by the interesting insturmentations that undulate through the songs. The persistent strum of rhythm guitar is responsible for keeping most of the songs in line. Languid horn flares and rattling percussion seem antithetical to the overall gentlesness of the record, but in context mesh flawlessly.
That this album generated so much interest and worked its way into so many heads, hearts, and best of lists is little short of inspiring. The follow up EP, Blood Bank, caps the album nicely. While For Emma's closer, 'Re:Stacks' is a pleasant enough song, the fourth and final track on Blood Bank, 'The Woods,' is Bon Iver's most amibitous and impressive track on either disc. The layered, echoing vocals are cacophonous but again, completely unassuming. It's the best 'dark room with headphones' track that I've experienced in quite a while. For the song's duration we are eveloped in that protective womb as well. And while Bon Iver's music never denys all that shit pressing against the outside walls, that fragile, fresh coolness that it continuously exudes, allows you to bend like a reed in wind against its pressure. It's beauty isn't distracting, and although it's a delicate record it's focused and bold.

The Wicker Man (1973)

Most of the best films that I've seen are the ones that consciously defy genre categorization. Perhaps none do this more than The Wicker Man. By the conflagrating monolith on the cover, you can bet that it's striving for enigmatic creepiness and you'd be right.
Horror? Kind of, but the movie delivers much more than simple thrills. Called to a remote Scottish island to investigate the disappearance of a young girl, straightlaced Sergeant Howie (Ed Woodward) stumbles across a present day pagan society unabashedly practicing their religion free from the constraining properties of 'civilized' society.

Fantastic applications of foreshadowing lead the viewer to the theme of human sacrifice and the good detective races to find and save the young girl who he believes is to be slain as an offering.

Christopher Lee, whose presence elevates the unnerving factor of any film, plays Lord Summerville, the patriarchal head of the secluded society. He plays a calm, almost mocking counterpoint to the frantic Sergeant. Extra points for the sweet plaid blazer.

So, what exactly makes this film so special? First, the plot is carefully and acurately researched. The traditions of pagan sacrifice are woven with care into The Wicker Man and as the reality of the situation dawns on Sergeant Howie, those of us in the audience with no previous knowledge of the true methods of pagan sacrifice are given a jarring awakening.

Also raising the film past the easy label of horror are its erotic and musical elements. Remember, this is a pagan society and pagan rituals are not simply about blood sacrifices. Its roots extend to fertility rites and physical expression. The first major musical number, Willow's Song, is a captivating, seductive piece and its placement is key. By the time it rolls around in the film, we have settled into expecting a creative, but standard '70's horror flick. Suddenly we find ourselves drawn into an intensely erotic dance of seduction by Willow (Britt Ekland), who tests the Sergeant's willpower. The song itself is a sweetly rendered folk song with thinly veiled euphimistic lyrics. The sheen of cold sweat that breaks out over Howie's body is a testament to her allure but he manages to resist her siren's call.

SPOILER: The film's coup de gras, it's twist ending, is delivered with the horrific subtlety of a person falling to their doom from an immeasurable height. Willow's 'test' of Howie was purposeful. Had he given in and gone to her, he would not be the one confined in the burning belly of the wicker man at the film's end. However, his purity and good intentions are his ironic undoing as they make him an ideal sacrifice. After 'rescuing' the girl, he suffers the slow realization that it was he all along who is to be the actual offering. Surrounded by the townsfolk, he is tenderly stripped, robed, and marked for sacrifice. He appeals to them with Christian scripture and receives the bitter consolation from Lord Summerville that he will thus die a martyr. For me, the most harrowing moment of the film is when he is led to the hilltop where he is to keep his "appointment with the wicker man." As the towering structure emerges over the horizon Woodward shouts "Oh, God! Oh, Jesus Christ!" with authentic horror inflected in his voice and suddeny we are there. The terror is real...it is not a cheap thrill or simulacra. It's that moment when our car spins out of control toward the bridge abutment or our foot slips from a crumbling ledge.

Throughout the film, we have a hard time developing empathy toward the stuffy Sergeant but at this moment it doesn't matter. His chilling bleats of terror pull us to him.

The final shot of the film, the sun setting as the wicker man's head collapses in flames provides discomforting closure and leaves us to pick our jaw from the floor ourselves.

The Wicker Man is a film that may prove ageless. Thus, the disgraceful 2006 remake starring Nicholas Cage. The only hole in the plot that I could come up with is the fact that in ancient pagan societies, the sacrifice had to come from the society itself, not an outsider. Thus it would be considered a true sacrifice, in that something truly precious was given up. However, as Lord Summerville reveals the town's origins, we see that this is not an 'authentic' pagan society anyway.

The Wicker Man is a hands down classic, defying expectations, leaving viewers scorched by its imagery.

Shearwater - Rook

The avian influence runs deep with Austin, TX’s Shearwater. Past referencing birds through their name, album title, artwork, and lyrics, there is something in the music itself that elicits the imagery: that of riding air currents in an orbiting descent, of the breezes created from a rustling wing, and of a shed feather left to marvel at.
Rook, Shearwater’s first album of new material to be released on Matador Records, opens with singer/songwriter Jonathan Meiburg’s improbable falsetto skimming gently over the first bars of ‘On the Death of the Waters’. The track sets the record up well as the placid piano is broken by a storm of heavy rhythm and horns. There is no discordant clash though; the dynamics occur naturally like a tide you’ve been expecting to come in.
Following a parallel path to 2006’s excellent Palo Santo, Rook doesn’t stray so close to the yawning precipice. It is a comfortable album and while the title track may be the closest thing to a radio-friendly single the band has recorded, the cascading ‘Home Life’ is perhaps a more fitting title to match the album’s mainly pastoral appeal.
‘Century Eyes’ and ‘The Snow Leopard’ show the band flexing muscle with driving intensity. The latter track in particular demonstrates Shearwater’s impressive ability to progress a song without relying on repetition or standard patterns. Credit also must be given to percussionist Thor Harris for enlivening the songs by drawing some of the most curious sounds out of his cymbals and vibes.
Often compared to later-era Talk Talk, Shearwater strike the same ethereal, esoteric chord. With shimmering ease, they tap into a naturalism that musicians have explored since time immemorial. Like an unexpected crisp breeze or an alighting bird that pulls you into an appreciative moment of the surrounding world, Shearwater’s Rook is refreshingly expansive and worth patient exploration.