MIRTH IN DEATH AND DIRGE
IN MARRIAGE
Movie Review - Corpse Bride
6 out of 10
by Michael Dedek
Being of the same stop motion/claymation genre as The Nightmare Before Christmas, Corpse Bride has a dauntingly high bar to rise above in order to satisfy public expectation. In Corpse Bride, director Tim Burton creates a world similar to Nightmare—a creepy world, one festering with carrion and clay and crawling with vermin and wire—as the setting for a triumphant lovers’ tale, a tale of love that achieves victory over all obstacles, even the clutches of a bony hand from the grave.
Corpse Bride begins with an arranged marriage that should have induced the betrothed to rebel against their matchmakers, but instead Victor Van Dort (Johnny Depp) falls in lusty-love-at-first-squishy-sight with Victoria Everglot (Emily Watson), his arranged wife. Victor, who is aching to have the marriage consummated, temporarily forgets his vows at the wedding rehearsal and runs off, for solitude and solace, to the woods, where he remembers his vows and recites them, accidentally marrying the Corpse Bride (Helena Bonham Carter).
If Corpse Bride did not contain a cast of ghastly characters and an imaginative land of the dead as a main setting, this film would be just another lugubrious tale of separated lovers—something we have seen a million times over. Even though it possesses spectacular, supernatural elements, it is a little more than a mundane love story, and the film mitigates this boring plot with visual diversions and embellished song.
Some of the finer visual and musical moments occur when Victor Van Dort enters the underworld. Upon Victor’s arrival, scads of skeletons join together to play a big band showtune, “Remains of the Day,” breaking off pieces of their bodies, which they use as instruments and as part of an elaborate dance. One skeleton, with strings running to his toes, strums at his crotch like a guitar, another pounds on a backbone-turned-xylophone, and another blows on a trom-“bone.” One corpse is cut in half, separated from the middle of his head through his navel, and spreads apart to show his elaborate organs.
Unfortunately, Corpse Bride does not present much of this underworld. It only provides mere glimpses and leaves the exotic land of the dead unexplored. Though much of the film occurs in the underworld, it takes place in only a few locations. The limited setting coupled with the short length of the film (76 minutes) makes Corpse Bride seem like Burton ran out of production time, patience, money, or all three.
Despite its eminent cast, acting is hardly a prominent feature of Corpse Bride; most obviously because the actors are not visible, but also because the vocal performances of Depp and Carter fail to evoke convincing or multi-dimensional characters. Depp produces an accurate representation of a meek and modest character, but stops at that. Depp’s lines are delivered with the same intonations throughout the film, making Victor a thoroughly uninteresting character and failing to evoke sympathy from the audience.
In all the ostensible ways, Corpse Bride resembles The Nightmare Before Christmas, but it fails to create a captivating story or an extensive representation of the interesting world that it establishes in the land of the dead. In producing Corpse Bride, Burton seems to have focused on the graphic qualities of the film at the expense of everything else, resulting, over all, in disappointment.
VIOLENCE ASSUMES MANY FACES
Movie Review - A History of Violence
8 out of 10
by Michael Dedek
American movie and television culture is fascinated with the mafia and with gang violence—just consider the popularity of titles like Reservoir Dogs, The Sopranos, and Pulp Fiction. A History of Violence secretly assumes the identity of this gang movie genre—which should make it a hit among masculine audiences with gun fantasies—while wearing the mask of drama, a drama unfolding as the story of the success of a man and his family over adversity.
History takes a former gang member, gives him a respectable—but naïve—family in small-town USA, and lets his messy mob past crash into the perfect life he has inhabited for roughly 20 years.
Viggo Mortensen (Lord of the Rings) plays Tom Stall, a middle-aged proprietor of a modest diner in a rural town. When two villains stage an armed robbery in his restaurant and prepare to murder an employee to show they mean business, Stall fatally subdues the crooks and turns into a national hero over night.
Televised news reports splash Stall’s face on national TV, and his violent history bubbles into the present.
It seems that the director, David Cronenberg, has gone through great efforts to establish Tom Stall as a benevolent character with a diseased psychology. Cronenberg’s last film, Spider, deals similarly with a protagonist who battles with a past that manifests as a disturbed psyche in the present. History, however, suggests that a pseudo-personality that has grown out of traumatic events can ultimately overcome past identities and benefit the individual.
Cronenberg successfully creates Stall as character not easily defined and encased for scientific scrutiny. He never betrays Stall by explicitly revealing his motives and secrets. Instead, Cronenberg presents a wealth of clues, giving audiences the ultimate authority in interpretation.
Not as mysterious as Stall, his wife, Edie, fails to evoke the same type of scrutiny. That is not to say the part isn’t played well. Maria Bello—who played the separated wife, Amy Rainey, in Secret Window—performs Edie with adequate emotional intensity without spilling into maudlin display. Bello entices viewers to sympathize without repelling them in sentimental shame.
A History of Violence entertains with sheer thrill, mystery, and suspense, but also captures some finer elements of film making—elements that undoubtedly will lead to many different perceptions of the film. Moviegoers can look to this as an exceptional and interesting moment in cinema.
H.I.M. - HACKS IN MAKEUP
Album Review - H.I.M. Dark Light
2 out of 10
by Justin Touretz
There are good bands and then there is H.I.M. (His Infernal Majesty). With their latest release, Dark Light, the goth-posers from Finland drop a pretentious 45 minutes that would be better spent poking yourself in the eye.
Everyone probably knows of H.I.M. by accident. You know that horrid emo symbol outside of Bam Margera’s house in Viva La Bam and on literally everything in his clothing line? Yeah, I’m talking about the heart-a-gram that way too many hipsters are getting tattooed on their wrists lately. You can give thanks for that iconic gem to H.I.M. singer, Ville Valo. Bam just loves the band so much that he puts it everywhere. To give you an idea of how deep this band is, the heart-a-gram was designed to represent both good (heart) and evil (pentagram). So when you put the two together you get...indifferent? Sounds about right.
H.I.M. abandons what Hot Topic dregs would claim to be street cred in their first domestic release from Sire. In a pathetic plea to grow from unfortunate cult phenomenon into mainstream starlight they go for a more “accessible” sound with the help of producer Tim Palmer (U2 and Black Sabbath).
What is so unnerving about H.I.M. is that they are actually decent musicians who chose to create some of the most predictable pseudo-alternative sounds imaginable. After the first 20 seconds of any song the point is made utterly clear: H.I.M. is so dark and mysterious that they take the wildly different approach of throwing in an abundance of minor chords, overly dramatic and suspenseful drum and bass lines, and shattering any existing record for over-usage of organ parts. They sound like every other band that wears black nail polish and eyeliner, but far more contrived.
Valo’s desperate plea for stardom radiates from the second track, “Wings of a Butterfly,” which features emotive lyrics sad enough to make any 13-year-old cry (“We’re crawling side by side with hell freezing over in our eyes”). In the end, it only sounds like a bad song by the Cult.
Other album lowlights come in “Killing Loneliness” with lyrical gems like the line “Loneliness that turned my heart into a tomb, nailed to a cross.” The band reaches an even lower circle of hell with Valo’s mind-numbingly cliché vocals in the title track “Dark Light,” where he delivers a swing and a miss by abandoning his usual monotonous baritone crooning for a horrifying falsetto. Your ears will never be the same.
H.I.M.’s latest effort is yet another example of mainstream radio trying to capitalize off of an alternative sound that was poor in the first place while still sounding unoriginal. If you want a good goth record go pick up some Sisters Of Mercy. Stop pretending that H.I.M. is anything close to legitimate.
FAKE BOOBS AND REAL FICTION
Book Review Stripped
8 out of 10
by Alex Nye
After working for 20 years as an employee in a world of illusion and fantasy, Brent Jordan offers us an unadulterated peek through the curtains of reality at the stage of exotic dancing in his newest title, Stripped. Yet, Mr. Jordan’s book is more than a vivid description of svelte dancers doing the hokey pokey or what-have-you. Rather, it is an intriguing exposé on all aspects of this misunderstood industry.
Jordan uses humor, graphic detail, and curt language in his approach to stripping down the seedy business. Unlike outside reporters who have attempted to do the same, Jordan writes his account with ease that departs from the usual “tell-all” narrative. Instead, his frank prose provides insightful commentary about the wheeling and dealing inside one of Vegas’ most infamous gentleman’s club, Cheetahs.
These astute observations from the author may come as a surprise to those who hold the notion that he is “only a strip club bouncer.” This assertion is labeled as “an ignorant measure that confuses education with intelligence.” Jordan encourages you to question your beliefs and stereotypes that enshroud the clubs and the ladies who work them.
It is in this vein of elaborating on the truth that the story was constructed. Jordan’s unapologetic, no-holds-barred attitude obscures nothing from the reader, not even matters of self-incrimination which make him complicit to murder. His attack on the corrosive facets of the adult industry (e.g. money, violence, drugs, and corruption), make for an alluring read.
The pages practically turn themselves, much like an R.L. Stine book, but there are sections of Stripped that need to be read over and over and over. For instance: “[T]wo women making love can be the most erotic experience in your life. There is something awe-inspiring about watching two beautiful women share a tender kiss or an erotic embrace.”
Such paragraphs are almost as fun to read as they would be to watch live. But even those who do not care to observe certain acts in-person are encouraged to read this book. In fact, this book is especially intended for them. There are chapters dedicated to social constructs and sensitive issues like racism and gender. Jordan even makes a case that labels strippers as the ultimate feminists.
Jordan states that from his experience “it is painfully obvious who is stronger of the sexes. As a man, if a woman rejected us by telling us we had a lousy body and our penis was too small, we would never recover.”
If you are not convinced, read the book. It will make you more aware of a profession Jordan claims you don’t have a clue about. Maybe you will change your ill-conceived conceptions. Even if you need no convincing, but are interested in a good read or plan on going to a club for its cultural values, Stripped will satisfy your needs.
SAM GOT IT RIGHT
Album Review - Sam Ashworth
Gonna Get It Wrong Before I Get It Right
9 out of 10
by Joe Speranza
Unless you pay close attention to emerging indie-rock musicians in and around the East Nashville area, Sam Ashworth is relatively unknown. His band, The Astronaut Pushers, doesn’t attract too much notice outside of the area, and it would certainly be a stretch to call them chart-toppers. However, with the release of his debut solo album, Ashworth not only proves that both his voice and instrumental abilities deserve some attention, but he almost guarantees that it will get some.
In this album’s title, Gonna Get It Wrong Before I Get It Right, Ashworth doesn’t give himself enough credit. Throughout the album, his melodic voice fuses brilliantly with acoustic and electric guitars, drums, horns, pianos, and just about every other instrument under the sun. The lyrics throughout the album aren’t exactly breathtaking, but since he is always in tune with the music, it sounds really good.
“I say your name/ Just to hear the sound/ Day by day/ I’ll be around/ Every night, on the ceiling/ I’m tryin hard to knock the feeling/ Eleanor,” sings Ashworth in “Eleanor”, the best song on the CD. If you can, imagine a passionate singer who sings in a laid-back manner. Ashworth has the ability to put a lot of soul into his words, but it comes off as effortless.
While Gonna Get It Wrong is considered a solo album, he is joined by many other artists, including Matt Slocum. For those who aren’t familiar with Slocum, he is a multi-instrumentalist from the band Sixpence None the Richer. While it would be immensely unfair for Ashworth to compare his songs to “Kiss Me” and the cover of “There She Goes,” two brilliant Sixpence songs from the late 1990s, a couple of songs on Ashworth’s CD have the potential to be placed in the “Kiss Me” category. I wouldn’t be surprised if “Eleanor,” a love song that is a little slower than the others, started playing during senior proms across the country. By the same token, if Zach Braff were to write a Garden State 2, it would be a crime to leave “Look Back,” an upbeat, folksy-type song, out of the soundtrack.
To Ashworth’s credit, he didn’t try to do anything amazing with this album. At just over 40 minutes, the 11 tracks on the CD are pretty simple as far as musical creativity goes. That’s a good thing. Ashworth established himself as a gifted instrumentalist with a soulful voice, much like Jack Johnson did with his debut album Brushfire Fairytales. If Johnson’s success is any indication, we can expect more great music from Ashworth in the future. Also, by establishing himself in a simple manner, he opened the door to try new things in upcoming albums.
This is a great album to listen to during the cold, dreary days of winter. Ashworth’s album and a case or two of Molson are great ingredients for a nice little Tuesday night.
And if you still aren’t sold, buy this album simply because Ashworth drew a sea turtle for the cover art. Anyone who draws a sea turtle with a big smile on its face is cool with me.
ANNOYING FUN
Album Review - The Fleshtones
Beachhead
6 out of 10
by Joe Speranza
Over the years, the Fleshtones have been hugely popular for recording tracks with catchy choruses and fast-paced guitars and drums. Some, including themselves, call this type of music “super rock.” I just call it rock.
Celebrating their thirtieth anniversary as a band, the Fleshtones recently released their thirteenth full-length album, Beachhead. It is certainly an enjoyable listen, but as far as musical creativity and imagination go, Beachhead is a pretty ordinary album. It’s not bad music; it’s just been done before.
True to their style, Beachhead consists of 11 really short songs. At three minutes and five seconds long, the tenth song on the album, “Push Up Man,” is not only an anthem by their standards, but is the only song on the album to crack the elusive three-minute barrier. The choruses are short, sweet, and get to the point. “Cuz I want the answers/ Just give me the answers/ I want the answers/ And I want ‘em right now,” sing the Fleshtones during the chorus on the sixth song of the album, appropriately titled “I Want The Answers.”
Clearly, they aren’t trying to impress anyone with clever song titles or lyrical ingenuity. This album is all about having a good time, which is evident when you listen to it repeatedly and realize that almost all of their songs start out with lead singer Peter Zaremba yelling “wooohoooo,” just as Bill Milhizer’s drum tempo picks up.
To the casual listener, Beachhead is an album that could have been recorded by several other bands. The first, most obvious comparison this album draws is to The Ramones’ album Road to Ruin, which contains the classic song, “I Wanna Be Sedated.” While Zaremba’s voice and Joey Ramone’s are completely different, the instrumental similarities between the two albums are very scary. The second, and less obvious, is how Zaremba’s voice sounds similar to a young, raw Mick Jagger. Finally, it would be impossible to listen to this album without noticing several guitar riffs that sound like they were imported directly from the Beach Boys’ song, “Surfin USA.”
Not to take too much away from the Fleshtones, but as I mentioned before, the album severely lacks in musical creativity. Recording an album that sounds like it could belong to three different hall of fame musicians doesn’t sound like a bad thing, but in this case it is. The similarities between the bands and repetitiveness of the choruses get pretty annoying after the first few songs.
What saves this album and makes it worth listening to is the fact that the Fleshtones have been around for 30 years and they still sound young. If I didn’t know any better, I would have guessed this was an album recorded by 20-year-olds. The music is upbeat, and if the word “fun” is a good enough description of the band to buy the album, that’s good, because that’s about as much as I can offer.
