Dusty Wright's Culture Catch - Smart Pop Culture, Video & Audio podcasts, Written Reviews in the Arts & Entertainment

The Story Inside of the Story

Chet Kozlowski — Mon, 05 Jun 2023 18:56:19 +0000

The Story Inside of the Story Chet Kozlowski June 5, 2023 - 14:56

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I first encountered David Lynch's work in 1977. It was at a midnight show of Eraserhead, his first film. No one had heard of him. The theater was pretty empty. I had gone there alone. I sat there in the dark, not sure what the hell I was watching. It seemed so crazy yet so familiar. At about 2:30 a.m., the movie ended to stunned silence. The credits rolled, and one guy, in the middle of the auditorium, actually stood up and implored the screen, "What kind of mind comes up with something like this??"

What kind of mind indeed?

That night was one of my most memorable times in the cinema—the film and the guy—and I say that not to impress you that I saw him that early, but to say how satisfying it's been to watch David Lynch's career trajectory since. Lynch has been called a lot of things; in the new film Lynch/Oz, a "populist surrealist." I'm a fan. He is, in my opinion, a poet of my generation: the generation that was raised on black and white TV, rabbit ears, three networks, and signoff at midnight to the tune of the Star-Spangled Banner. That experience shapes a person. It shaped David Lynch.

In Lynch/Oz, director Alexandre O. Philippe attempts to define that shape by way of The Wizard of Oz. That film is eighty years old, and was released in the same year, and made by the same director (Victor Fleming) as Gone with the Wind. It found popularity not in 1939 but later, on TV, on those snowy black and white screens. For many of us, it was our introduction to Dorothy, Toto, and crew. TV was the only way to see it, pre-VHS, and it was formative. Lynch's generation was raised on wonder, and realizing that Wizard wasn't originally snowy, or solely in black and white but was in fact in glorious sepia and Technicolor was a head spinner. It opened new layers to our shared aesthetic.

You might say "yeah, yeah," linking Lynch and Oz is a little facile and even redundant, given all the explicit allusions to it in films like Wild at Heart and Mulholland Drive. Of course, we see it in Blue Velvet, Lost Highway, The Elephant Man, and even in the Disney-fied The Straight Story. One could make the case that Twin Peaks, the series and Fire Walk with Me, is a virtual remake of The Wizard of Oz, and it may not be completed yet. Lynch/Oz even challenges Joseph Campbell's seminal Hero's Journey, demonstrating how The Wizard of Oz represents nothing less than a sturdy template for the tales in the "grand scope of American storytelling," in all their triumphs and disappointments.

Mr. Philippe is intent on showing us the story inside of the story. Lynch/Oz rolls out slowly and lovingly and ends up a real feast for the cinephile. It's divided into six chapters—Wind, Membranes, Kindred, Multitudes, Judy, and Dig—and leaves it to reliable narrators such as Amy Nicholson, John Waters, Karyn Kusama, and David Lowrey to make intriguing connections and discuss recurring themes and techniques: parallel worlds, multiple identities, opacity transitioning, frame performances, even Judy Garland's life—all are viewed as instrumental in portraying the American character's "attitude toward adventure, which will be unplanned, a surprise."

So many connections, so much to ponder (including why in the hell Naomi Watts didn't win an Oscar for her performance in Mulholland Drive). Phillippe's artful split screen compares Lynchian scenes to those in non-Lynch movies like The Matrix, Back to the Future, The Big Lebowski, Apocalypse Now(!), even I Wake Up Screaming, inspiring epiphanies and Eureka moments. Especially affecting is the sweet montage of auteurs and their favorite flourishes: Hitchcock's birds, Malick's fields, Campion's curtains, Wong Kar-Wei's mirrors. Clips evidence how these motifs appear often enough, integrally enough, in each filmmaker's work, that it becomes style. All to help us understand the strange power Lynch exercises.

I could go on, but I don't want to spoil the joys of discovery. Here's a perfect double feature: Lynch/Oz on the same bill as Thom Andersen's 2003 video essay Los Angeles Plays Itself. Both will remind you of some of the reasons you love movies in the first place. Both contemplate the art and the artifice that holds films together.

Mr. Philippe directs movies about movie directors, like 78/52: Hitchcock's Shower Scene (2017), Leap of Faith: William Friedkin on the Exorcist (2019). Mr. Lynch himself did not participate in the making of Lynch/Oz. He hovers over it, though, in excerpts from interviews, speeches, and his YouTube weather reports. Lynch is as always affable yet driven. He is an enigma, given to grotesque visions yet a practitioner of transcendental meditation. Such singular appetites. To John Waters he's said, "I love making the movie. Then it's released and the heartbreak begins." His homespun brand of passion is delivered in that midwestern twang. He laments early compromises: "When you don't have final cut, total creative freedom, you stand to die the death. And die I did."

The point is not to figure out David Lynch, to solve him. Better to bask in the mystery, savor the complexity. One exasperated interviewer says to him onstage, after having advanced a particularly cogent theory: "I know you hate saying what things mean in your films. But am I right in thinking that that's at least (audience titters) in the right area?"

David Lynch smiles and waits a beat.

"No," he answers.

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Lynch/Oz. Directed by Alexandre O. Philippe. Produced by Janus Films and Exhibit A Pictures. 108 minutes. 2022. In theaters.

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The Arc Bends Toward Blondes

Chet Kozlowski — Fri, 26 May 2023 21:17:48 +0000

The Arc Bends Toward Blondes Chet Kozlowski May 26, 2023 - 17:17

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Film Review

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documentary

It started with Marilyn, the postwar prototype of the perfect woman. Film Noir primed us for her, but Noir's world was black and white—Lana Turner the platinum virtue signaler; Veronica Lake the femme fatale; Rita Hayworth the firecracker. Suddenly there was Marilyn. She was blonde. She was perfect. She was alive. Marilyn Monroe was the American Public's reward for the Great Depression and the sacrifices of WWII.

Imitations were inevitable—Mamie Van Doren, Jayne Mansfield, Joey Heatherton—but none had what Marilyn had. Marilyn defined the Blonde, birthing the clichés: Gentlemen prefer blondes. Blondes have more fun. Blondes aren't very bright, but they go all night. And, of course, the jokes: Why does the blonde wear her hair up? To catch everything that goes over her head. How do you keep a blonde at home? Build a circular driveway.

Blondes were arm candy, accoutrements. Blondes were trophies to be displayed and discarded. Blondes were not to be taken seriously.

Netflix takes them seriously. Between premiering the film Blonde at Cannes in 2022 and now the new Anna Nicole Smith biopic. Critics got Blonde wrong: it's not about Marilyn (despite the eerily spot-on impersonation by Ana de Armas); but about us and our delusion about Marilyn. It's a fever dream about our obsession with Blondes, truer to Joyce Carol Oates than Page Six, Oates' prose perfectly interpreted for the screen by director Andrew Dominik. Netflix's new documentary Anna Nicole Smith: You Don't Know Me is a surprisingly tender look at a notorious figure, distance sharpening context. Anna Nicole was not merely the trainwreck the tabloids portrayed at the time. She was a woman, like Marilyn, turned into gold.

Similarities to Marilyn abound. MM was Norma Jean Baker, ANS was Vicki Lynn Hogan. Paparazzi plagued them both. Both knew who's their daddy. For Marilyn it was Joltin' Joe and Arthur Miller, at least age appropriate. For Anna Nicole, it was octogenarian billionaire J. Howard Marshall, her 89-year-old savior and sponsor. Where does a billionaire whose wife just died go to find love? A strip club, of course. Marshall found Anna Nicole there and nearly rose from his wheelchair. Their tit-for-tit courtship gave a new wrinkle to romance.

Draw a straight line from Marilyn to Anna Nicole and, as it turns out, it's the end of the line. Anna Nicole was game and zaftig, Macy's Parade Marilyn, made for the tabloids. She didn't have Marilyn's authenticity, her subtext, or her…well, talent. In her later years, devastated by tragedy, she assumed the leanness of a junkie.

Director Ursula Macfarlane sees the person behind the facade. She finds poignancy in Anna Nicole's story: wind whistling through bare trees flanking bare houses in hometown Mexia TX; Anna Nicole narrating the transport by limo of her wide-eyed brother and previously absent biological father, giddily showing them what success and Hef's mansion looked like (only to have her dad "try," off camera, to bed her); moody pans across tangled bedsheets; Marshall's plaintive voice messages, "her man" trying to track down the "love of his life."

Blondes should not be defined by their victimhood. Marilyn and Anna Nicole epitomized their eras, and now their eras are over. Another similarity: neither made it to forty. And another: they both died by overdose. Why did the blonde tiptoe past the medicine cabinet? So she didn't wake the sleeping pills.

They made myth by burning out. Better than that than it is to rust.

_______________________________________________________

Blonde. Directed by Andrew Dominik. 2022. 167 minutes. Available on Netflix.

_______________________________________________________

Anna Nicole Smith: You Don't Know Me. Directed by Ursula Macfarlane. 2023. 116 minutes. Available on Netflix.

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Is This Trip Necessary?

Chet Kozlowski — Sat, 20 May 2023 18:53:12 +0000

Is This Trip Necessary? Chet Kozlowski May 20, 2023 - 14:53

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Film Review

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horror

The Curse of Wolf Mountain

We open on AJ recounting a recurrent nightmare. As a child he witnessed his parents being killed by a terrible creature on a lonely mountain. But he can't completely visualize it. How much is he making up? Is the creature a man or a Bigfoot-style myth? His psychiatrist recommends he revisit the scene to come to grips with the memory. And so, AJ assembles a crew of standard character types (doting wife, wise older brother and steadfast partner, doltish brother-in-law and hot Latina girlfriend) and treks into the woods, unaware that a trio of murderous outlaws are out there as well. And soon their paths will cross…

The Curse of Wolf Mountain starts off promisingly. But as we get to the mountain, we realize that, despite the stock footage of sweeping vistas, we're going to stay in one pretty small patch of woods. And then the crew pitches camp, pulls out a cheap grill instead of starting a campfire, and sets up to make 'smores. S'mores? In the middle of the afternoon? The sun still glints off the treetops. Then it's clear these sequences will be shot "day for night," simulating nighttime using dark lens filters. This filter, however, is so smudgy that action is hard to decipher.

Not that there's much to keep track of. During the film, characters wander around, test their cellphones ("I can't get a signal out here!"), rest to catch their breath and, in the tradition of the genre, get picked off one by one by some shadowy assailant, in ways that are not nearly clever or gruesome enough. Wonder who the killer could be? Well, who's left standing?

Any movie deserves a chance, providing the filmmakers are sincere and try their best. Sadly, not so here. The Curse of Wolf Mountain is flippantly planned and poorly executed and exploits the sturdy "don't go in the woods" genre with only a passing nod to audience expectations.

The actors seem game. Keli Price (who also wrote the screenplay) is AJ and Karissa Lee Staples is his loyal wife Samantha. David Lipper (who produced and directed) plays older brother Max, and Fernanda Romero is Lexi, his partner. They are all young and talented, and I'm sure all want to include Curse in their reel. But the production values are so slow they cheapen the performances.

And then there are the stereotypes. The outlaws are Mexican, shorthand for cartel members. Comic relief is supplied by two constantly bickering park rangers, both Black, who squeal at danger and pop their eyes in "feets, don't fail me now!" tradition. Sorry: in 2023, these are racist clichés.

Worst of all, the great top-billed character actors are wasted, in what feels like a bait and switch. Danny Trejo (remember the human head on the tortoise on Breaking Bad? Him.) barely utters his trademark growl before he's dispatched. Tobin Bell (of the Saw movies) literally phones his part in, playing a shrink on Zoom. Neither get nearly enough screentime.

So one has to wonder: why even bother making this kind of movie, in a location you don't even attempt to control, drumming up only half-hearted surprises and scares?

There's more potential in an early scene in which Samantha announces to AJ that she's pregnant, brandishing her drugstore test like a weapon. A compelling human drama could be made out of that, in which characters laugh and cry and share feelings and dreams. Granted, it's not as commercially viable as The Curse of Wolf Mountain, but that film could be a tidy little chamber piece.

And best of all, you'd never have to leave the house.

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The Curse of Wolf Mountain (a.k.a. Wolf Mountain). Directed by David Lipper, 2022. Released by Uncork'd Entertainment. 94 minutes. On digital platforms and DVD.

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Song of the Week: "To Lay Me Down"

Dusty Wright — Fri, 19 May 2023 13:58:10 +0000

Song of the Week: "To Lay Me Down" Dusty Wright May 19, 2023 - 09:58

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Grateful Dead

Dave McMurray: "To Lay Me Down" (feat. Jamey Johnson)

I'm not one that will listen to rote cover versions of songs we love by the original artists. Thankfully, jazz saxophonist Dave McMurray knows all about dynamic reinterpretations. On his latest Grateful Dead cover from his latest long player Grateful Deadication 2 (Blue Note), he's taken one of the Dead's most beloved ballads -- from the mighty pen of Robert Hunter/ Jerry Garcia -- and infused it with mournful sax and vocals from Jamey Johnson, and in the process showed us another color in the spectrum of the blues. The song also features contributions from pedal steel guitarist Greg Leisz, guitarist Larry Campbell, and bassist Don Was. Moreover, his new 9-song set offers up Dead favorites and deep cuts including "Truckin'," "China Cat Sunflower," and the lead single "Scarlet Begonias" which features vocals by Oteil Burbridge. Returning to the fold are McMurray's Detroit associates guitarist Wayne Gerard, keyboardist Maurice O'Neal, pianist Luis Resto, bassist Ibrahim Jones drummer Jeff Canady, and percussionist Larry Fratangelo.

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Rhythms In Nature

Mary Hrbacek — Thu, 18 May 2023 00:13:05 +0000

Rhythms In Nature Mary Hrbacek May 17, 2023 - 20:13

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Art Review

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mixed media

LUNGS 1.5x1, 3D Model, photo-based print, 2022

Costas Picadas: Biomes and Homologies
Tenri Cultural Institute

Tenri Cultural Institute Presents Biomes and Homologies: Costas Picadas, an exhibition of large-scale multi-media works on canvas and smaller 3D model, photo-based prints on paper, curated by Dr. Thalia Vrachopoulos. Picadas has created a stunning experimental group of hybrid visual artworks on canvas that blurs the boundaries between painting and drawing-based mixed media process art, making these works indefinable. His compelling daring innovations are unique. He blends the concept of painting, which is invoked by his use of canvas on wooden stretcher bar supports, with the reality of drawing by employing graphic materials such as oil pastels, charcoal and also acrylic.

Picadas is inspired by cells he carefully observes through a microscope, and by large plant forms that grow in outlying areas such as forests. He stresses the likenesses of the natural form he discovers, in order to comprehend their formations more clearly. In the fields of Chemistry and Biology, the dictionary definition of "homology" is "the state of having the same or similar relations, relative position, or structure." "Biome" defines a group or community of animal and plant life that coexist in the same habitat.

These abstract works are populated with multiple groups of ovals that have morphed into a rhythmic language with a quick pulse and throbbing tempo. The pictures are visual counterparts to musical compositions, with harmonies of various repeated beats and movements that draw viewer attention into the realms of muted gold, black and gray organisms. The cells seem to float upward, presumably toward the light. In several pieces the surface is laid over with wide masking tape which establishes richness through layers of "real" material that suggests an elusive unfathomable sense of time. Some of the white circular shapes that dominate several compositions may appear to be in progress. Sometimes the lines in the "Biomes" are loosely overlapped, with stress on the physicality of the materials; in other incidences the lines are drawn in relatively sensitive outlines around the circular forms of burgeoning cells. In a group of gleaming, 3-D Model photo-based print works there are hyper-real gold toned organs interspersed with delicate twigs that sprout small green leaves. The prints, entitled "Knee," "Heart," "Brain" and "Lungs," display an extreme realism that features golden disembodied organs set on a pure white paper ground that sparkle as if alive.

Biome 2, Mixed media on canvas, acrylic and gauze, 72 x 60," 2022

The artist comes from a family of doctors and practitioners who brought their medical knowledge into the home while he was growing up. Picadas applies transparent gauze over some areas of his large formats, symbolically representing the healing process of nature, as a doctor would do to protect a serious recovering wound. Transforming the infinitesimal cellular forms into the macroscopic visual formats allows Picadas to explore deeper relationships, to discover their underlying links that spark meaning and significance. He seems to have a compelling need to explore the intricacies of the cell forms and their variants, in mostly monochromatic compositions that stress color harmonies and neutral tones, especially gray and white. His work accentuates drawing, especially flowing stem-like shoots that stretch and flow among and between the circular shapes they surround. In Biome 3, the subtleties of charcoal establish visual interest where the fine details intermingle in the atmospheric interstices that connect the larger forms and shapes.

Picadas draws beautifully; he has brought this skill to a format that is traditionally used for paintings on canvas. There is an experimental component to Picadas's use of unusual medias in an unconventional format; oil pastels are delicate, but also accessible, which makes them a practicable choice for a direct approach to picture making. The artist has a tremendous affinity for shapes; he creates his homologies and biomes with honesty and emotion, with a commitment to transmitting the configurations of forms he finds under the microscope. He makes discernable changes and corrections that bring the images in the works closer to their true realities instilled with an almost perceptible feeling of movement and flux. Some of his shapes are inspired by the mitosis of cells in which a cell splits into two daughter cells with the same number of chromosomes.

Biome 6, mixed media, acrylic and gauze on canvas, 60" x 73" 2022

Picadas considers art to be a powerful source of regeneration and sustenance that sparks our curiosity and appreciation for its beauty and complexity. Through links to our source in nature it serves as a reinvigorating element that nurtures the crucial human need for emotional expression. In contemporary global society dominated by technology we are increasingly cut off from a vital link with our organic roots. The artist has used various means to regain this interconnection; he has explored videos with monitors in gallery settings and projections on large buildings to achieve immersive environments. Picadas is convinced that as an artist he not only analyzes the underpinnings of nature, but in so doing he becomes one with the its rhythms in his works.

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We Told You Don't Go In The Basement

Chet Kozlowski — Sun, 14 May 2023 19:01:58 +0000

We Told You Don't Go In The Basement Chet Kozlowski May 14, 2023 - 15:01

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horror

More head scratching than scares in Exorcism in Utero

Take a stroll down the smalltown streets of Blue Velvet. Add a dash of Rear Window, and a heaping portion of It Follows. Let's say in the basement, Hellraiser. Sturm und drang from The Exorcist. And then a dollop of It's Alive and maybe even The Muppets. Stuff it all in a blender, mash it up real good, and you have something like Exorcism in Utero. I say "something like" because despite all the influences it wears on its sleeve, EIU manages to be its own wacky self.

Written and directed with uncharacteristic (for a budding "auteur") modesty by Erik Skybak, who has worked on other titles like Pillow Party Massacre (on camera) and Cross Hollow (as editor), Exorcism in Utero is the exact quality of a film you'd expect to go straight to VOD: amateur acting, homes used as sets, camerawork designed to hide zero set decoration. Characters talk to themselves by way of exposition. Yet, the funky dedication of EIU's actors and the narrative that keeps us wondering what happens next makes it an enjoyable experience.

In a nondescript town, a nondescript pregnant woman named Herma (Sam Bangs) moves into a nondescript house to sit while the nondescript owners, whitebread religious zealots, go on vacation. Herma is told not to go in the basement, so of course, the first thing she does is go in the basement. There she finds BDSM gear and a mysterious ring that once she puts it on won’t come off.

Herma is being spied on from a neighboring window nine-year-old boy Peter O'Neill (Leonard Hoge) who has an affinity for VHS tapes. Peter's family invites Herma over for a barbecue, during which she divulges what she's found, and creates a weird bond with Peter. The ring, meanwhile, is turning her skin gray and scaly, about which she seems unconcerned until she is completely covered. She's rotting on the outside because of what she’s carrying on the inside.

And we haven't even gotten to Father Bresson (Calvin Morie McCarthy), the exorcist with Mommy issues.

Yikes. This is a lot, and it doesn’t make much sense. It looks to have been shot over a weekend. The room walls are curiously blank; when Herma goes over to the O'Neil's, long stretches of the scenes are soundless, no talking, no music, no foley, not even ambient traffic noise. That changes later with stock ominous music, but the effect is less intentionally unsettling than the product of a miniscule budget.

Yet, as I said, Exorcism in Utero has its own offbeat charm. The actors are all in, for better or worse, with special nod to the aforementioned principals and Stephanie Leet (Peter's mom), Allegra Sweeney (his sister), and Steve Larkin, a tattooed (?) Brit (?) who plays Peter's father. They’re all having a good time and are not self-consciously stiff like many newbie performers.

Besides, Exorcism in Utero (a title is as literal to its story as Cocaine Bear) has its directorial flourishes, including Herma's scaly transformation in a montage of mirrors revealed by wiping off bathroom mist. This is a real seat-of-your-pants production team, but at least they care.

For all this incipient horror, however, and its beserk WTF? factor, one question goes unanswered: why is it subtitled "Do Shrimps Make Good Mothers"?

Oh, I get it…

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Exorcism In Utero. Directed by Erik Skybak, 2023. Released by Breaking Glass Pictures/Raptor FX Studio. 90 minutes. On digital platforms and VOD.

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Connective Dislocations

Robert Cochrane — Thu, 11 May 2023 20:30:56 +0000

Connective Dislocations Robert Cochrane May 11, 2023 - 16:30

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Music Review

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prog rock

TIM ARNOLD: Super Connected (TA Music)

Where a projects arrives at can often be somewhat beyond the initial spark of inspiration. An audio transcript of the journey. Such is the case with Tim Arnold's slab of sexy prog funk Super Connected, a superbly realised concept album that gives that much maligned term a new good name. Initially his swipe at humanity and its oversubscription to digital convenience and reliance, Arnold has delivered an eloquent statement without ever descending into a diatribe. Subtle and accomplished this is a a work of timely warning. A message and plea for consideration and restraint, it is also a soundtrack to his film of the same name.

Things begin with the appropriately named "Start With The Sound," a startlingly, slightly giddy polka that develops into a mesmeric mantra of considered joy. Think Peter Gabriel in cahoots with Vaughan Williams.

"Committed and speechless

Viewing time has recommenced

What's the difference?

Useless feelings we don't fight against"

A song of muscular elegance, dynamic and soaring yet incessantly catchy.

"Super Connected" reeks of mid period Prefab Sprout with elements of Bowie in Nile Rogers guise. Iggy Pop has compared Arnold to his old mentor, a consideration that is shrewdly on point as this song so perfectly proves.

"You Like My Pictures" is a laconic swipe at the vacuous need implicit in much social media neediness. Again there's a casual Peter Gabriel conceit. Think "Sledgehammer" with a twist in its tail. Commercial but with qualified quality.

An electro pop vibe in collusion with Talking Heads and the largely forgotten 'M'. A jittery sermon or a plea for cool funky fun.

"You like my pictures. I know you do

And so do all your funny friends

They like my pictures too"

"The Touch Of A Screen" is a mesmeric ballad suggestive of Porcupine Tree and Japan. A moody madrigal crossed with a hymn in psych folk melancholy which shows Arnold at his plaintive best. A plea from the soul to the heart of the matter in blessed sublimation and grief. A song with the epic sweep of early Radiohead.

"Still you don't feel anything

Now that you're touching everything"

"Start A Conversation" wears a haunting guitar motif and a husky intimate vocal. A prayer and a plea it possesses an innate grace and power. The musical equivalent of arms outstretched to the sky.

"Do you remember how we locked eyes

From spring to summer to fall

And all of the winter?"

The dulcet tones of Stephen Fry is suggestive of a rather spooky magician referencing Homer in "A Commercial Break" which resembles a hypnotist's preamble.

"Everything Entertains" has a surreal chamber baroque sixties confection as its heart. Stridently eloquent like The Left Banke on speed. Amphetamine sunshine bottled and preserved. Pure and perfect pop effortlessly crafted and realised

"Send More Light" deploys a plaintive piano sourced ballad drenched in pathos and reminiscent of early Elton John. Perfectly captured it builds to a soaring crescendo that Adele would kill for.

Mr Fry again appears at the start of "The Complete Solution" as a shrewdly commercial MC before disappearing under an insistent pattern of drums that would render it and all its jagged guitars brokenly at home on the soundtrack of Trainspotting it closes with a strangely militaristic rap.

"Where Am I In All Of This?" combines a driven piano and drum battle and a alienated Sargent Pepper vibe. An extraordinarily masterful slice of songcraft that almost leaves the rails as it chainsaws aspects of "Mind Games" -- Lennon at his angst angry best.

"Sell a kidney to get into Disney World

Where am I in all of this?"

The dystopian edge gets sharper in "Finally Everybody's Talking" in which spooky sophistication pervades this blip embellished tone poem that references those Kraut Rock emissaries Faust and Can.

"Finally everybody's talking

But they're talking all at once"

A perfect little couplet that grows in wisdom via its insistent repetition. A paranoid but eloquent surmising.

Uptempo and chatty with a sensuous flexibility of jaunty moments "Make Me All Right" is underscored by an infectious beat that flies out of the speakers and ends with a nonchalant choir.

"What if all the systems disappeared forever?

What if all our messages were swept away?

Would you remember me

Without a selfie?"

Tim Arnold has created the perfect zealot's tract for the modern world. Crafted largely via Zoom during lockdown, this testament of despair flies in the face of the delusion of being connected via screens and images. It is also proof that artistry can be maintained with limited means. A work of eloquence, elegance and grace that should conquer the world it rails against by allowing it into the eyes and ears of others whilst using the means it derides to do so.

Out now - (https://ditto.fm/super-connected-tim-arnold_)

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A Larger Awareness of Real Loss

Jay Reisberg — Tue, 09 May 2023 18:02:22 +0000

A Larger Awareness of Real Loss Jay Reisberg May 9, 2023 - 14:02

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Theater Review

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drama

The Magazine
Written by Christie Perfetti Williams
Directed by Matilda Szydagis
The Sargent Theater, 314 West 54^th Street, NYC
(through May 13, 2023, tickets available at carnivalgirlsproductions.com/)

This is the era in which mass shootings, particularly at educational venues, are an almost weekly occurrence. The parents of children murdered in these horrific events are, one-way-or-another compelled to move towards coming-to-terms with the unthinkable. I use the phrase "move towards" because, truly, the goal of attaining a semblance of peace on the abrupt loss of a child is often a quest that can accomplish a great deal but may never totally end.

This is a topic I can address -- and judge from my family's own experience. Prior to my birth, my parents had a son, normal and healthy, meticulously cared for by my mother. It was early 1944, when out of the blue, at age six months, my mom noticed him breathing oddly, and called the family doctor. He asked her to hold the phone receiver to the baby's mouth so he could hear his breath, and then directed her to get to a hospital as quickly as possible. The boy had contracted encephalitis. The doctors at the hospital tried to requisition the new medication Penicillin, at that time only available for the military, which they determined would save him. This request, during wartime, was denied. The baby was intubated and died two days later -- and my mother was grief-stricken to the bone, and my two-year old sister stopped eating in response to her mom's intense grief. Doctors instructed that my sister be taken out of her mother's care until the intense grief reached some degree of stabilization. My mother never, ever fully recovered, and a small suit case of the baby's clothing was stored in the family garage, along with a stack of a hundred condolence letters -- items only to be tossed after my mom's death in the late 1990s. Over many years my Mother attained some peace, but the sting of her loss showed up pointedly from time to time. I mention this because it has sensitized me to what was authentic (or not) in such scenarios. The Magazine tells of the experience of a mother and father, portrayed by Lori Funk and Ric Sechrest, when their seventeen-year-old son is killed in a school shooting in an upstate New York community -- and the play begins as they are just starting out on what is sure to be a tortuous extended excursion toward some sense of closure (the kind of closure my mother's loss of a child took many years to reach).

When I first read its plot synopsis, I wondered if The Magazine which dramatizes the couple's ordeal, would be a polemic about gun control (which is being endlessly tossed about in the media right now). Instead I was pleased to be treated to an authentic rendering of what parents endure when confronted with the unthinkable. Playwright Christie Perfetti Williams vividly renders in an at once intimate and direct manner, the untidy permutations of grief and anger, including the kind of comic relief that naturally occurs even in tragedy -- and the unexpected complications that show up in such scenarios. She crafted this into reality with wonderfully naturalistic dialogue delivered by a superb troupe of seasoned actors.

The "magazine," in the title of the play stands for the secrets that are revealed when someone is suddenly removed from the family. In this play this secret is revealed to be multiple subscriptions to tawdry porn magazines which were ordered by the underaged decedent -- the cancellation of which presents humorous (and later poignant) interaction between James Hadlow and an ornery customer service worker at the porn publisher, played with panache by Arlene A. McGruder. The porn magazines comes to the attention of the religious mailman, portrayed by C.K. Allen who gets wind of the unholy contents of the Hadlow's mail and wants to save the recipients from perdition. Both Ms. McGruder and Mr. Allen, may play minor roles, but they have as much of an actor's presence as do Ms. Funk and Mr. Sechrest. This is equally so with the character of a psychic advisor played, by Kristen Vaughan, from whom our mother seeks grief counseling. Their conversations together proceed in such a relaxed and ambling manner giving them a special ring of reality.

The mother's experience of grief and loss initiates introspection regarding alternative paths she could have taken, which might have offered her a life that included the kind of adventure and freedom she experienced in her youth. This comes up during her conversations with Max Hall, with whom she attended high school and had a school girl flirtation. Max, now a widower, has had some success as a musician and comes back to his hometown for a performance. In conversations with him, our mother talks of her travels and admits she'd like to have those kinds of adventures again -- but perhaps she’s resigned to continue in her life where she's ended up.

The structure of The Magazine is played out in a series of short and medium-sized scenes, which jump cut (to use a phrase borrowed from the movies) from one to the next. This structure lacks the direct linear flow of more conventional plays. This manner of exposition, is an enhancement in that it compresses the showing of the process which the parents are undergoing as they begin to venture into the un-chartable territory of loss and grief. Of course this is just their beginning, but at least they aren't drinking nor medicating themselves into a stupor to ease the pain. They are engaged, and that is what matters, that is what is admirable, and even heroic.

Matilda Szydagis' direction rendered the action of the play as utterly natural, with nothing forced, and nothing out-of-kilter as the actors delivered Perfetti Williams' equally naturalistic words. All the players displayed the relaxed precision customary among dedicated professionals. Special kudos go to Lori Funk and Ric Sechrest for performances which anchored the atmosphere of the play, allowing the rest of the cast's acting to flow seamlessly from scene to scene. Funk gave what I consider a tour-de-force performance with a kind of focused presence which compelled me to award her my most acute attention.

Regarding theater -- or entertainment arts at large: I never want to be entertained again, and desire solely to be inspired, to have my sense of humanity and compassion enhanced and empowered. The Magazine is an inspirational play -- both in its writing, direction, and performances. When I/we read of mass shootings at schools, and elsewhere, such a work as The Magazine opens theater goers to possess a larger awareness of the authentic stories that reside beyond the mechanistic renderings of journalistic "human interest".

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In Praise of Rapace

Chet Kozlowski — Mon, 08 May 2023 16:13:24 +0000

In Praise of Rapace Chet Kozlowski May 8, 2023 - 12:13

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Film Review

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drama

No one is quite like Noomi, as an actor or executive producer.

In this era of actors as independent contractors, it's not unusual for them to chart their own destinies. They form production companies, hire experts, and carefully plan their careers, not just as artists but as commercial commodities. For example, Nicole Kidman has transitioned from feature films to TV and kept her star power intact. Reese Witherspoon's Hello Sunshine Productions has made her a household name not just for acting but for her book club. Margot Robbie is feverishly filling up her cafeteria tray, starring in as many movies as she can, as if in a race with time (reminiscent of Alicia Vikander's comet-like path a few years back when she appeared in practically in every studio release).

One of the most intriguing trajectories is that of Noomi Rapace. Originally from Sweden, where she racked up a heap of TV credits, Rapace (pronounced rah-pahs) first came to prominence in the Swedish TV adaptation of Stieg Larson's Millennium series in 2010. While David Fincher's U.S. film of the first book, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, is a casebook excursion into Neo Noir, it's a one shot. The Swedish version takes its time: it covers all three books and its six-plus-hours of finely tuned psychological drama that stars Michael Nyqvist. But we most remember Noomi Rapace as Lisbeth Salander. The series launched her international career.

Since then, she's appeared in films large and small, from Brian DePalma's Passion to Ridley Scott's Prometheus. She continues to do TV as well, recent examples being Amazon's Jack Ryan and the Sky Atlantic series Django.

When she's onscreen, it's tough to take one's eyes off her. She of those impossible cheekbones and a face the shape of an inverted teardrop. She reads as wild yet fiercely intelligent, a force to reckon with. She plays to her strengths, making the most of her compact frame. She is often cast as a warrior, a cop or soldier (she looks great in a uniform).

Which makes her choices as a project developer even more intriguing. Rapace is credited as executive producer on nine films so far, including Bruce Lee and the Outlaw (2018), Oxygen (2021), and the upcoming Hearts of Stone. Lately, her name appears on films heavily based in folklore. The first of these is a contemporary Bigfoot drama set on the Swedish countryside. Lamb (2021), directed by Valdimar Jóhannsson, is confounding, nearly wordless, and visually stunning, set apart by its astute use of CGI. Rapace plays a modern-day shepherd, a childless mother who welcomes a bizarre newborn. Its conceit could seem foolish if it wasn't so rooted in what appears to be myth.

You Won't Be Alone (dir. Goran Stolevski, 2022) is set in a medieval village, and is an invocation of witch-hood rather than witchcraft. In a class with Robert Egger's 2015 The Witch, it's a tone poem: the camera stays right on top of the characters as a nature spirit -- the witch -- jumps from person to person, possessing the denizens on by one. In the film, the spirit is a fact rooted in cultural myth rather than simply a fright device. Think Terrence Malick, all whispers and whimsey. That would be You Won't Be Alone. Rapace plays a feral creature imitating the humans around her to go undetected. Here, she is part of an ensemble, and her brief appearance is mesmerizing. Her acting style is naturalistic, and coupled with her unique looks and rhythms perfectly convincing. She presents as an authentic artifact of an ancient era.

Rapace was executive producer on both these films. She performs in them as well (she does not always appear in the films she produces). It's her bent toward this style of storytelling that intrigues. Mythmaking is storytelling at its most basic. It tells us how to live with each other and suggests our origins. Even if seen only as metaphoric, it has lessons to teach. These films are serious, not just straight-to-VOD actioners. They appear heavily researched, and if not, then richly imagined.

Is a pattern emerging? Considering only two films is, of course, too soon to tell. But Noomi Rapace's trajectory is well worth watching.

(The accompanying photo is from You Won't Be Alone, 2022.)

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Reasons Not To Be Afraid...

C. Jefferson Thom — Mon, 08 May 2023 00:38:40 +0000

Reasons Not To Be Afraid... C. Jefferson Thom May 7, 2023 - 20:38

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Theater Review

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Musical

The cast of Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street at The 5th Avenue Theatre. Photo: Tracy Martin

If you're watching a slasher movie and the guy in the hockey mask doesn't terrify you, or at least present an intimidating figure, then you're facing a different kind of danger. And so is the case with the title character in Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. If Sweeney doesn’t kill it with terror, then disinterest has a real chance to survive…

5^th Avenue's present production of Sweeney Todd has a murder on its hands and evidence would indicate the blame lies with casting for vocal merits at the sacrifice of acting chops. Vocally, there is little room for complaint. This cast is stacked with strong singers, filling an essential necessity for such a powerful and challenging score. The same cannot be said for the production's acting capabilities, a problem which starts right at the top with Yusef Seevers's Sweeney. Seevers seems to struggle with capturing Sweeney as a character. He has little to no presence, which is disastrous when you have lyrics stating "…Sweeney would blink and rats would scuttle." Those rats ain't scuttling this time around, instead Seevers drifts aimlessly from scene to scene, lacking any command of the moment, and often being upstaged by his counterparts.

Two of those upstaging counterparts are Anne Allgood (Mrs. Lovett) and Jesus Garcia (Pirelli). Allgood is a revelation, giving an interpretation of the murderous entrepreneur Lovett that would stand out on Broadway. Her character is crystal clear from her first appearance on stage and continues on, supported by a confidence that allows her to completely relax into her role. She is funny without pushing and conveys her inner thoughts naturally with a subtle ease. Allgood lives up to her last name, making it look easy, and her performance alone is worth the price of admission. Garcia offers a brief but memorable performance as Pirelli, providing comic relief while knowing exactly what to do with his short time on the stage.

With these and a few other exceptions, the acting struggle is systemic, which makes all evidence point to the core issue of direction. Jay Woods fails her actors from the lack of a coherent directorial vision down to basic staging. Actors wander about as if anxious to figure out where they belong and seem to have been left rudderless on a sea of character study. The lack of a steady, guiding hand is palpable and the bold choices that are made are somewhat baffling. A striking example of this is the choice to direct an entirely ham-handed sex scene during one of the musical’s most famous and beautiful moments as four separate songs overlap into one surmounting cacophony of overwhelming sound. The intercourse comes in prematurely, causing us to rubberneck our focus on the car crash to our left instead of the stunning sunset straight ahead. This choice does nothing to further the moment and is truly puzzling. The climax is meant for the audience in hearing this euphoric moment (something which, again, the cast does well to deliver) and is better left implied for Anthony and Johanna. This confusion of choice carries over into Danielle Nieve's costume design which is oddly all over the place. Elements of Steampunk clash with Sci-Fi mixed with more realistic period attire, lacking in cohesion and resulting in looks that could be described as a Judge Turpin out of Plan 9 from Outer Space while the Beadle's costume suggests that he may have flown in on a hot air balloon from Kansas. This is all very much at odds with Lex Marcos's very competent and considered scenic design. Intimidating, pointed pikes jut up from below as elegantly sharp arches hover from the proscenium above, both threatening to come together at any moment in a world-ending chomp, successfully creating a source of constant tension for the play to fearfully exist in. That such a poignant set design should be made to co-exist with such a confused look in costumes again speaks to Woods's overall difficulty with vision and direction.

Sweeney Todd is arguably one of the greatest achievements of one of musical theatre's greatest composers, so there is much to be said for taking the opportunity to hear Sondheim's songs sung so soundly. However, many of the profound and galvanizing themes embedded in its words are left largely unexplored in this production. 5^th Avenue shows great potential but falls short of being the genuinely worldclass playhouse I sincerely hope they one day become.