‘MATCH’ REIGNITES WOODY’S FLAME
Movie Review - Match Point
8/10
by Christopher Ahearn
For close to four decades, Woody Allen has been one of the most prolific and respected filmmakers in not only American cinema, but the world over. Lately though, his films have fallen flat with fans and critics alike.
Maybe it was boredom with the same neurotic, Manhattan-dwelling, pseudo-intellectual characters, or perhaps a sign that even such a brilliant cinematic mind couldn’t keep up with the demand of his grueling production pace—but whatever the problem was, he seems to have found the solution.
With Match Point, Allen attempts a first in his career: traveling away from his privileged Jewish world of metropolitan New York and into the privileged WASP world of sprawling London. For a man whose phobia of leaving his native city rivals George Bush’s fear of the English language, he does surprisingly well in the unfamiliar territory.
The film follows the rise of Chris Wilton (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers), an Irish tennis player retired from the pro circuit who snags a job as a private instructor at a posh London country club. Chris is a social climber whose love of opera and Russian existentialism lead to a friendship with one of his wealthier clients, Tom Hewett (Matthew Goode). From there, he dives into a loveless relationship with Tom’s adoring sister, Chloe (Emily Mortimer), while pursuing a steamy affair with Tom’s fiancé, the failed American actress Nola (Scarlett Johansson), on the side.
While much press has been given to the absence of a “Woody” character in this film—that is to say a sex-obsessed character completely engulfed in his neuroses and debilitating self-analysis—a common Allen theme lurks closely beneath the surface of Chris, albeit hidden under the guise of the English gentry. Chris is what Allen has always been in his films: an outsider accepted into the elite inner-circle who carries a grudging resentment for the peers with whom he doesn’t quite fit in. His attraction to Nola stems from this—she too is an uncouth outsider clinging to the rich family’s status and luxury—and their passionate romance is his base, human reaction to the socially-fueled partnership with Chloe.
Trade the British countryside for the Hamptons, the Tate Modern for MoMA, and the Ralph Lauren sweaters for tweed jackets and black-rimmed glasses, and you have the basic set-up of any Allen film. Where Match Point diverges—and where it succeeds—is its use of a rather dark tone for its protagonist’s nihilism. The crux of the movie lies within a moral conundrum that I cannot reveal here without giving away important plot points, but it presents the audience with a Dostoyevskian impasse—one that Allen meets head-on rather than with humor or wit like in his past work. Allen’s triumph is that though the audience may not agree with Chris’ choice, they are forced to consider its pros and cons themselves, empathizing with the ultimate extreme of humanity, if not sympathizing with it.
Match Point, which recently garnered an Oscar nomination for Best Original Screenplay, is being touted as a return to form for Allen. He has finally created the “serious” movie he has striven to make for so long. Its combination of a complex philosophical tone and fully realized characters works when stripped of their usual comic underpinnings, and he avoids the Bergman pretensions that cluttered his previous attempts at earnest film. While Match Point may not be his best work ever—it fails to approach the greatness of his ‘70s classics Annie Hall and Manhattan—it is, at the very least, a massive step in the direction of progress for him.
I’M A MANN-IAC
Concert Review - Aimee Mann
8/10
by Peter Scheck
Over the course of the past two decades, Aimee Mann has kept steady. She’s grown up, perhaps enough to make an album out of a broad, rehashed story of a heart-struck boxer. She doesn’t start her albums with the F-word anymore and has all but hung up her Whatever attitude. But she’s still Aimee.
When she and her two-member band played her songs at the University at Buffalo’s Center for the Arts this past Thursday night, the effect was striking. As I sat in my orchestra seat, she stood on the stage at my eye level. We looked at each other; I had the best seat in the house.
Her music was haunting—not only the result of having her sing and coo each song looking right into my eyes, but in the production of her performance. While most of her songs are literary, Mann used a slide show to beam the album-art drawings of last year’s Forgotten Arm. Those songs, matched with portraits of their miserable, exhausted protagonist, are like the cover photos of a Richard Russo book. They offer a glimpse of the story, but insist that the audience follow the story for themselves and become lost in it.
A fog machine poured out light smoke above the stage and a spotlight illuminated Mann as she started out her set solo. It dragged. It was a sleepy collection of songs, many from Arm, which have taken to the hard ground as opposed to her earlier work in Whatever and I’m With Stupid, which were poignant and precise while easy to scream the lyrics to.
Then she switched it all up. Her musicians alternated between bass, guitar, piano, and synthesizer, and she started in on her old stuff. The audience ate it up. Songs like “Save Me” and “Wise Up” from the Magnolia soundtrack reverberated off the walls with the sadness and desperation of love. Her love songs are so straight-laced and honest, her words are frighteningly familiar. Fans say they’ve either thought, said, or tried to say the words that Mann uses in song. Parts of her set felt as if they were Déjà vu.
By the time she started playing songs from Whatever and I’m With Stupid the lights over the band’s head had turned several different colors. The production at the CFA (though certainly not worth the inflated ticket price) is instrumental in the venue’s shows. From the lower sections, the shows are intimate and warm—surprising for a theater that holds thousands.
So, as Aimee Mann finished her set, still standing halfway back on the stage, halfway between the audience and the curtains, with her audience singing with her, she was surrounded by lovers. Even the Buffalo News’ photographer patted his knee a few times in between rapid-fire camera clicks. On a rainy winter night, Aimee Mann sang the words we could only hope to think.
AN ADDICT’S HARDTALE: MY STRUGGLE WITH SPANDEX
Clothing Review - Spandex
9/10
by Amanda Lerman
In high school, I was a jeans girl. I wore jeans almost every day. They were really comfortable and just dressy enough for school that you could either play it down with a sweatshirt or play it up with a nice shirt. But recently, college and my best friend have introduced me to the wide world of spandex. I had never really considered spandex pants as an acceptable form of leg wear—except maybe in the fourth grade when I wore leggings religiously. Now, spandex has made a comeback, and whether it’s Hardtails, the ever popular Solows, or just plain spandex from Modell’s, these tight pants are bigger—or rather, tighter—than ever on girls across campus.
The more I think about it, the more spandex makes sense to me, and that’s why I’ve converted. It’s probably the most comfortable pair of pants one can own, without the sloppiness of baggy sweatpants. Although they may be known as Long Island legwear, and girls from Long Island have a reputation of being prissy and snobby, that should not stop you from being cozy and fashionable wherever you’re from. If you wear them in dark colors, they also work like magic to make your thighs look slimmer. In other words, not only anorexic twigs can sport spandex.
“Literally, they’re both comfortable and functional, and they match nearly anything. I own dozens of pairs and have even been known to toss on a pair of heels with black Solow capris during the summer as a nightlife outfit,” explained Solow/Hardtail queen Jill Huelser, a sophomore communications major at the University at Buffalo.
Sarah Rychcik, a sophomore art major, also believes that spandex is the way to go. “I wear Solows because they are very comfortable, fairly inexpensive, and come in a variety of colors and styles. They are very versatile; I can not only wear them to the gym, but also to work. Solows are available in shorts, capris, and pants, and they’re great for all seasons.”
Howard Wasserman, a junior business major at the University at Delaware has mixed feelings about spandex on girls. “Spandex by itself or with anything is not usually a good way to go, but can look very good as long as the person wearing it has the figure to pull it off. If you have a little bulge in your belly, those pants will only make the bulge look bigger, and the pants will not be flattering.”
So girls, I highly recommend you find yourself a great pair of spandex pants. You can wear them alone or add accessories to personalize your own look. Jeans are great and play an excellent role for going out on the weekends, but for an easy, comfortable, and chic look for class that takes little to no effort, reach for the spandex.
SOMEBODY FLUXED UP
Movie Review - Aeon Flux
4/10
by Jason Perkins
The recently released film, Aeon Flux, and the animated series that aired on MTV in the early 1990’s have little in common. Peter Chung, the creator of the original cartoon was not involved in this production, and I don’t believe the style of action presented there particularly lends itself to cinema. An attempt to do so would have emerged superficial, over-the-top, and campy. As such, it would be more accurate to say that the 2005 incarnation was vaguely inspired by Chung’s work and if you go into the movie as a fan of the old Aeon expecting an updated version or even more of the same, you will be sorely disappointed.
The characters in the original were delightfully ambiguous: Aeon, in particular, could be sexy, militant, ruthless, playful, and caustic all at once. Her motives were never completely explainable, where in the movie, her predictability is readily apparent. Even in the MTV shorts, which were typically two to three minutes long, there was a stark contrast between Aeon and her nemesis, Trevor Goodchild. One, a combative revolutionary, and the other, a radical idealist, respectively, could not possibly reach an agreement as they do in the movie. This struggle is negated altogether in the film and it feels like the two were merely placed on opposite teams by accident. Instead, each character is infused with a good-natured utilitarian sentimentality and only seeks to do what’s right, like every other good-versus-evil movie before it.
Also lost in translation are the subtle, philosophical themes of existentialism and morality. I have to assume this is to appeal to a broader audience, but these issues, making you scratch your head and ask yourself what the hell just happened, were integral to the earlier series. The main characters are clearly and directly opposed to each other, but what’s missing in this new presentation is that neither character is more sympathetic than the other. The remarkable thing about the earlier MTV run were vagueness and openness to interpretation: we, as viewers, were left with the responsibility of determining whose actions were justifiable and whose were not. The characters are mostly just there doing as they wish, complex personalities in a never-ending stalemate. Is it another case of Hollywood dumbing down a story to make more money or just clumsy, ham-handed direction? If you want to use a familiar license to generate buzz for your movie, fine, but butchering the stuff before you fully grasp it is inexcusable.
Considering the source material, this could have easily been a legitimate, stimulating, and thought-provoking foray into the last city of Bregna and science fiction. Instead, we’re left with a dehydrated husk of what should have been. A shell with loads of style and no substance. Perhaps this is why MTV Films didn’t release the film early to reviewers: because they didn’t want anyone to know how completely devoid of merit it really is.
NIGHTMARES IS A DREAM
Album Review - Nightmares on Wax: “In a Space Outta Sound”
9/10
by Erin McCarthy
The enduring sounds of old soul and hip-hop are an indispensable component to any music aficionado’s collection. These genres are the quintessential remedy for uplifting anyone’s spirit through infectious rhythms, eclectic instrumental ensembles, hip bass lines, and powerful vocals. What happens when you add African hand drums and deep electronic samples? You get the new album from Nightmares on Wax, In a Space Outta Sound. The U.K.-based brainchild of DJ George Evelyn has had the philosophy of finding new angles on traditional soul and hip-hop since the early nineties.
Today, many pop musicians immediately throw their rhythms, melodies, and instruments out like bombs upon opening a song. Then, a minute in, they’ve run out of ammunition and the song moves along in a predictable and pedestrian format until it stops after about three and a half minutes. Nightmares on Wax’s greatest talents lie in building their songs’ climaxes. Beware: this album is hypnotic from beginning to end.
The track, “The Sweetest,” is a sweet hip-hop tribute. Imagine Diana Ross, the beat of Notorious B.I.G.’s “Hypnotize,” and a little bit of electronica. Both Ross and Biggie have had an impact on today’s pop musicians, but NOW managed to combine all their sounds with a laid back dance beat. This is an excellent example of NOW’s rhythm taking precedence over melody and vocals.
“You Wish,” is my favorite. Old soul can really be heard in the excellent, improvisational keyboard playing and you even get the effect of hearing the song on a crackling old record player. If Quentin Tarantino ever gets a hold of this track, you can be sure to hear it in his next movie. At a close second is the song “I Am You,” a combination of funky keyboards and dynamic, sultry vocals. The bass line really drives this song as it slowly builds until its climax. It is easy to imagine turning up the volume slowly until you reach max with its exquisite finish.
The album finishes with “African Pirates” and there could not be a more fitting name for a song. It starts out blending African hand drums, an eccentric drum machine, and vocal samples. In the middle, the song shifts to low bass beats and vocal chanting, only to undulate between the two contrasting sounds until the track fades out.
This album utilizes soul, funk, hip-hop, and electronica, among other sounds, the way they should be. A lot of groups will claim to have been inspired by the likes of Curtis Mayfield and Herbie Hancock, but it is rare that you actually hear their influence in the piece. In a Space Outta Sound is a musical treasure and when you are older you will want to pull it out and play it to your kids just to prove how terribly cool you once were.
I FEEL VINO-LATED
Bar Review - Vino Lounge
2/10
by Jacob Drum
For those of you who are looking for an upscale bar within walking distance of South Campus, please, look further. Vino Lounge, adjacent to the Vado Pazzo restaurant on Main Street, is an alcoholic abortion, a tragedy in three acts that begins when you set foot in the door.
Act One—Exposition and Foreshadowing. We set our scene in a 50’ x 30’ room with soap opera lighting and, for no discernible reason, three separate floor schemes. We start with peach-colored faux-granite tiles around the bar, lightly stained wood near the restrooms in the back-left corner, and black tile in the back-right corner. The place looks like the ground floor of a McMansion for schizophrenics.
We meet our characters: male-female bartender duet in all-black garb and thick-rimmed glasses, the same North Face all-stars you left The Steer to avoid, and three identical Moby clones in Eddie Bauer uniforms who are all named, whether literally or spiritually, “Nigel.”
We order our first drinks and hear our first dialogue, the seeds of darkness to come: a 7 & 7, crushed toes, and an “excuse me” from some girl with an ear-splitting voice and the balance of a newborn Weeble.
The lady behind the bar says there’s a $20 minimum for credit card tabs.
Act Two—Peak Optimism; Hubris. At least it’s not The Steer. The beer selection is decent, ranging from about Flying Bison to Magic Hat in eclectic terms. The 7 & 7 is stronger here than at Mojo’s. The décor is, well…still ridiculous, an attempt to force the combination of multiple styles into one small space.
We see a paint scheme with vaguely southwestern motif morph into bright red and black contemporary chic in the space of ten feet, and wonder who taught the designer to color. Weeble-girl’s voice continues to blat like a sick trumpet.
The male half of Mr. & Mrs. Bartender sidles over to our hero’s table.
“Would you like another Aviator?”
“Um, actually it’s Flying Bison, but—”
Eyes narrow; voice snake-like: “Yes, that’s what I said. Aviator is Flying Bison.”
“Oh, sorry, I’ve never…” But Mr. Bartender has already turned his back, ignoring my request for another drink.
Wow.
Act Three—The Death of Hope. Last call and the freaks pile in. Every idiot I met on my first trip to PJ’s is here now. There is no saving this place: a hopeless attempt to spruce up the Main Street strip with a trendy-ish “lounge” that fails even more spectacularly than Mojo’s. A $20 minimum credit card charge that forces you to stay much longer than the fifteen bearable minutes the place has to offer. The worst bartender-patient relationship I’ve ever encountered.
There is no joy in Vino.
Fin.
HARDCORE FOR BOOTLEGGERS
Album Review - Between the Buried and Me: Alaska
1/10
by Daniele Hauptman
Imagine Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind piecing together bits from random newspaper articles and arranging them in seemingly spastic order on the walls of a shed. Now replace Crowe with a poseur metalcore band, and replace the newspaper clippings with parts of other bands’ material, and there you have it: the new album, Alaska, by the North Carolina-based group Between the Buried and Me. BTBAM poses as a progressive experimental band that pushes the envelope, exploring uncharted territory in the world of music. In reality their sound is generic and boring, barely nudging the aforementioned envelope. They scream about the “death of human-music,” while they contribute to its very demise through their blatant plagiarism. Alaska sounds like a mix between every other hardcore metal band you’ve ever killed people in mosh pits to with some chunks of Opeth and Mars Volta thrown into the pot.
Even the lyrics of their songs are ripe with cliché. They conform to nonconformity in their rants against rich suburban kids in the laughable “Croakies and Boat Shoes,” as they vomit, “I’ve really gotten something to prove/ Dude, brah, let’s go party tonight/ maybe start another goddamn fight/ but it’s all right/ my coach knows the sheriff.” The breakdown to “Backwards Marathon” goes, “It’s raining, it’s raining/ when the sun comes up, it’s still raining.” Wow. That makes me want to take off my pants right now.
“Laser Speed,” the album’s finale, does not seem to fit with the rest of the album. It’s entirely instrumental, pleasant, and jazzy. While I’m pretty sure lasers, being light and all, move faster than this track’s laid-back tempo, its chill yet generic elevator-inspired style invokes images of laying on a white sand beach while some scantily clad cabana worker grates coconut into a frozen piña colada (with a paper umbrella, of course).
Not only does BTBAM lack originality but, worst of all, they clearly rip off sections of other bands’ work. The most obvious of their song-lifting endeavors can be found in “Backwards Marathon,” which sounds suspiciously like a poorly executed cover of Decapitated’s “Trampled Under Foot.” In fact, it sounds as if they listened to the Decapitated song and moments later said to each other “Brah, it would be awesome if we totally stole this. It’s cool, my coach knows the sheriff.”
THE BROOKLYN FOLLIES
Book Review - Paul Auster
6.5/10
by Michael Torsell
Paul Auster’s latest book, The Brooklyn Follies, is a significant departure in style and tone. With this novel, Auster has abandoned sparse and haunting metafiction in favor of a comedy about redemption. One part tribute to his hometown of Brooklyn and one part reminiscence to life before September 11, Auster’s latest is entertaining and somewhat heartwarming. Yet, this sharp change in style does not suit certain motifs Auster often uses in his work, and the ending seems tacked on. Regardless of these shortcomings, Auster’s new work is still a worthwhile and well-written read.
The Brooklyn Follies is the story of Nathan Glass, a sixty-something divorcee who has moved to Brooklyn “in search of a quiet place to die.” Nathan is not really dying; he is just a little melodramatic. Once there, he reunites with his nephew, Tom, a once promising PhD candidate turned slovenly cab driver. Both the lives of Nathan and Tom are drastically changed when Tom’s nine-year-old niece, Lucy, turns up mysteriously on their doorsteps. Lucy refuses to tell them why she is there and where her mother is, a mystery which occupies most of the book. This arrival and Tom and Nathan’s friendship with an aging con-artist named Henry Dunkel leads to chain of events ending in love and happiness for everyone involved. However, the ending is not entirely happy—the story closes on September 11, 2001, right before the Twin Towers collapse.
The Brooklyn Follies is certainly not a bad novel; however, it is not a great novel either. Auster’s plot, like most of his plots, is propelled by a series of chance encounters and almost serendipitous coincidences. While this works in earlier novels, it does not flow as well in a comedic book void of the haunting qualities that would normally bolster these coincidences—like something in his earlier masterpieces, The New York Trilogy. Also, the book’s ending seems rushed and takes away from any jarring effect 9/11 might have on this semi-utopian setting the characters inhabit by the conclusion of the plot. Auster saves the book from its shortcomings with a cast a memorable characters and good deal of entertaining wit. While the characterization might be excellent, The Brooklyn Follies still lacks the punch that we’ve come to expect from Auster.
With this book, Paul Auster seems to be reaching for a broader audience, and he succeeds in creating a book that is both accessible and entertaining. The Brooklyn Follies reads well and is filled with excellent characters—its only downfall being that the plot seems overtly contrived and the ending is weak. Whether this represents a new direction for Auster is unknown, but despite its numerous missteps, it is a good first step in new territory.
