7/18/2004
THE PHANTOM CONCERT SERIES, (HOPEFULLY) PART 1 OF 1
If we believe we were there, we were there...
It is with a heavy heart I inform my loyal readership that of a planned eight music concerts, I have attended only one thus far this summer: the Village Voice Siren Festival, which is about as close to hitting the broad side of a barn as one can get as far as concert attendance is concerned. Here, then, are my thoughts on a few of the shows that I hypothetically saw, in that parallel universe where I'm 6'4" and could be reasonably described as "svelte." Enjoy!
Franz Ferdinand – Webster Hall, 6/17/04
One of the great breakthrough successes of the year continued to surprise and amaze with a wildly unpredictable live show that played into the controversy surrounding their homoerotic love letter to the club scene, “Michael.” Each member entered the stage dressed in leather S&M gear, which immediately divided the crowd and elicited as much cheering as heckling. Drummer Paul Thompson was the unofficial mascot of the night, donning a black thong, nipple clamps, and a red ball gag. The stage was relatively unadorned, except for a giant projection screen that played a loop of experimental pornographic short films. The display was all but ignored, however, as the group created enough chemistry onstage to make the surrounding bells and whistles irrelevant. “Take Me Out,” a popular fan favorite, was a definite highlight: the band extended the bridge between the opening rock verse and dance-friendly chorus so that bassist Bob Hardy and guitarist Nick McCarthy could have a few moments to furiously make out, igniting loud gasps and cheers from the audience, both for the sexy demonstration itself, as well as the musicians’ unbelievable dexterity—despite the intensity of their passionate display, Hardy and McCarthy never lost the beat. Between other raucous live renditions of songs from their self-titled debut, lead singer Alex Kapranos whipped audience members in the front row (myself included) with a riding crop and even invited one lucky young man onstage for a prolonged spanking, which was carried out during the acoustic intro to “Jacqueline.” Stage chatter was minimal, and Kapranos’ thick Scottish accent and frightening gimp mask made most of his banter all but indecipherable. It was all walk and cock, but no talk, from the hottest rock group of the year.
!!! – Bowery Ballroom, 6/18/04
Dancepunk trailblazers !!!—pronounced “chk chk chk”—largely disappointed audiences at the Bowery Ballroom, one of their final American stops before embarking on the European leg of their tour. The mood was pretty well set for the night when outspoken lead singer Nic Offer made a plea for bipartisan unity during a time of war and devastation in the world community. An uncharacteristically somber Offer, sitting at the edge of the stage in a pre-show “rap session,” first rechristened the band “Love Love Love,” and then offered these words: “We’ve had our qualms in the past [with the current administration], but this is no time for divisiveness. The world is hurting right now, and it’s up to all of us to put our trust in places of power, so that a plan for peace can gradually emerge.” After his speech, the rest of the band’s seven members took the stage, all wearing plain gray robes and holding long white candles that shone brilliantly on the darkened stage, as Offer led the room in a secular group prayer for the families of U.S. soldiers in Iraq. The other six members remained standing for the rest of the night as Offer sat center stage with an acoustic guitar and played some of his personal favorites, including songs by Cat Stevens, James Taylor, and, as a second encore, an especially spare and affecting rendition of the Polyphonic Spree’s “Days Like This Help Me Warm.” The song climaxed at twelve minutes, with the remaining members of the audience (myself, my girlfriend, two homeless individuals seeking shelter from a sudden downpour, and a small group of diehard fans intent on dancing to whatever music was played) singing the chorus, “Love like this is warm” repeatedly along with Offer, who afterward openly wept, said “thank you,” and quietly exited the stage as the final candle poetically burned out.
John Vanderslice and Pedro the Lion – The Knitting Factory, 6/21/04
John Vanderslice exhibited his trademark penchant for subtle practical jokes at New York’s famed Knitting Factory by failing to show up for the entire duration of his set. The forty-five minutes of frustrated silence that replaced his set were sporadically interrupted with cries of “this sucks” and “I want my money back.” Only a few enlightened Vanderslice fans smiled knowingly at one another and shook our heads, as if to say, “Oh, John, you incorrigible prankster, you’ve done it again!” Despite numerous requests, no tickets were refunded. At 11, Pedro the Lion finally took the stage. Sole permanent member and lead singer David Bazan entered half-naked carrying a large makeshift cross, which he set at the front of the stage and stood behind throughout the show. Every so often an arm or leg would peek out from behind the massive wooden post, but for the most part, the singer remained entirely concealed. Unfortunately, the microphone was stationed in front of the cross, which meant that Bazan’s vocals were decidedly muted. Between songs (which, without lyrics, couldn’t be readily identified), Bazan seemed to scourge himself with a miniature, homemade cat o' nine tails, though this is difficult to prove—a few audience members at the side of the stage were positive that they saw the singer whipping himself after what might have been “The Fleecing” from Achilles Heel. The set was cut short when Bazan fell unconscious, presumably from the pain of scourging, and couldn’t be revived for another number. Murmuring amongst Pedro the Lion fans subsided when, as a final unexpected treat, the large wooden cross splintered in half, revealing none other than John Vanderslice, who had been hiding there the whole time. Vanderslice smiled, winked at the audience, and promptly left the club before it was completely destroyed by the restless crowd.
Sufjan Stevens – Pier 17, 7/01/04
Sufjan Stevens, known for memorable costuming and decoration in live performance, went all out for his free show at Pier 17 during the Fourth of July holiday weekend. With the wide area the venue provided, Stevens tried out a new pyrotechnic display, showering the stage (and, on occasion, the audience) with a constant barrage of sparks, dry ice, and smoke. Stevens refused to play songs from his recent albums Greetings From Michigan and Seven Swans, claiming that both of the albums have “dated” at this point. We were instead treated to several selections from his highly anticipated second album in the “states” series, the upcoming Illinois, as well as a few preview tracks from the as of yet unrecorded Virgin Island Territories, due for release in August of 2009. Tragedy briefly reared its ugly head during a performance of the first planned single from his next album, “Illa Noize,” the folk singer’s ill-advised foray into hard-edged rap metal. A member of Brooklyn Boy Scouts Troop 237, all of whom joined the stage to sing the chorus of the song (“We got illa noize/ We got killa noize/ We got thrills and bills/ No filla, boyz), burst into flames after wandering too close to the ubiquitous sparks. Stevens, elaborately costumed as the Sears tower, tackled the child to the ground and smothered the flames. After a few more songs, Sufjan spent the better part of a half hour answering questions about his name—which, contrary to popular belief, is actually pronounced “Felix”—and wished everyone a happy Fourth.
Lollapalooza 2004, Day 2, 08/17/04, Randall's Island
After two long days of intensive rocking out to the likes of Modest Mouse, the Flaming Lips, Broken Social Scene, and a surprise duet performance from Paul McCartney and Will Oldham, the reformed Pixies take the stage, and, for the first time in the history of mankind, actually play "Freebird" when someone sarcastically requests it. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse descend unto the Earth, signaling the start of Armageddon and the end of humanity as we know it. None are spared, save your humble concert reviewer, a prophet sent by God to a post-apocalyptic Earth to spread the word of Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips—who, as it turns out, really was Jesus after all.
That's all for the Summer 2004 Phantom Concert Series! Hope to catch you all at the next big show...for real this time!
0 comments
If we believe we were there, we were there...
It is with a heavy heart I inform my loyal readership that of a planned eight music concerts, I have attended only one thus far this summer: the Village Voice Siren Festival, which is about as close to hitting the broad side of a barn as one can get as far as concert attendance is concerned. Here, then, are my thoughts on a few of the shows that I hypothetically saw, in that parallel universe where I'm 6'4" and could be reasonably described as "svelte." Enjoy!
Franz Ferdinand – Webster Hall, 6/17/04
One of the great breakthrough successes of the year continued to surprise and amaze with a wildly unpredictable live show that played into the controversy surrounding their homoerotic love letter to the club scene, “Michael.” Each member entered the stage dressed in leather S&M gear, which immediately divided the crowd and elicited as much cheering as heckling. Drummer Paul Thompson was the unofficial mascot of the night, donning a black thong, nipple clamps, and a red ball gag. The stage was relatively unadorned, except for a giant projection screen that played a loop of experimental pornographic short films. The display was all but ignored, however, as the group created enough chemistry onstage to make the surrounding bells and whistles irrelevant. “Take Me Out,” a popular fan favorite, was a definite highlight: the band extended the bridge between the opening rock verse and dance-friendly chorus so that bassist Bob Hardy and guitarist Nick McCarthy could have a few moments to furiously make out, igniting loud gasps and cheers from the audience, both for the sexy demonstration itself, as well as the musicians’ unbelievable dexterity—despite the intensity of their passionate display, Hardy and McCarthy never lost the beat. Between other raucous live renditions of songs from their self-titled debut, lead singer Alex Kapranos whipped audience members in the front row (myself included) with a riding crop and even invited one lucky young man onstage for a prolonged spanking, which was carried out during the acoustic intro to “Jacqueline.” Stage chatter was minimal, and Kapranos’ thick Scottish accent and frightening gimp mask made most of his banter all but indecipherable. It was all walk and cock, but no talk, from the hottest rock group of the year.
!!! – Bowery Ballroom, 6/18/04
Dancepunk trailblazers !!!—pronounced “chk chk chk”—largely disappointed audiences at the Bowery Ballroom, one of their final American stops before embarking on the European leg of their tour. The mood was pretty well set for the night when outspoken lead singer Nic Offer made a plea for bipartisan unity during a time of war and devastation in the world community. An uncharacteristically somber Offer, sitting at the edge of the stage in a pre-show “rap session,” first rechristened the band “Love Love Love,” and then offered these words: “We’ve had our qualms in the past [with the current administration], but this is no time for divisiveness. The world is hurting right now, and it’s up to all of us to put our trust in places of power, so that a plan for peace can gradually emerge.” After his speech, the rest of the band’s seven members took the stage, all wearing plain gray robes and holding long white candles that shone brilliantly on the darkened stage, as Offer led the room in a secular group prayer for the families of U.S. soldiers in Iraq. The other six members remained standing for the rest of the night as Offer sat center stage with an acoustic guitar and played some of his personal favorites, including songs by Cat Stevens, James Taylor, and, as a second encore, an especially spare and affecting rendition of the Polyphonic Spree’s “Days Like This Help Me Warm.” The song climaxed at twelve minutes, with the remaining members of the audience (myself, my girlfriend, two homeless individuals seeking shelter from a sudden downpour, and a small group of diehard fans intent on dancing to whatever music was played) singing the chorus, “Love like this is warm” repeatedly along with Offer, who afterward openly wept, said “thank you,” and quietly exited the stage as the final candle poetically burned out.
John Vanderslice and Pedro the Lion – The Knitting Factory, 6/21/04
John Vanderslice exhibited his trademark penchant for subtle practical jokes at New York’s famed Knitting Factory by failing to show up for the entire duration of his set. The forty-five minutes of frustrated silence that replaced his set were sporadically interrupted with cries of “this sucks” and “I want my money back.” Only a few enlightened Vanderslice fans smiled knowingly at one another and shook our heads, as if to say, “Oh, John, you incorrigible prankster, you’ve done it again!” Despite numerous requests, no tickets were refunded. At 11, Pedro the Lion finally took the stage. Sole permanent member and lead singer David Bazan entered half-naked carrying a large makeshift cross, which he set at the front of the stage and stood behind throughout the show. Every so often an arm or leg would peek out from behind the massive wooden post, but for the most part, the singer remained entirely concealed. Unfortunately, the microphone was stationed in front of the cross, which meant that Bazan’s vocals were decidedly muted. Between songs (which, without lyrics, couldn’t be readily identified), Bazan seemed to scourge himself with a miniature, homemade cat o' nine tails, though this is difficult to prove—a few audience members at the side of the stage were positive that they saw the singer whipping himself after what might have been “The Fleecing” from Achilles Heel. The set was cut short when Bazan fell unconscious, presumably from the pain of scourging, and couldn’t be revived for another number. Murmuring amongst Pedro the Lion fans subsided when, as a final unexpected treat, the large wooden cross splintered in half, revealing none other than John Vanderslice, who had been hiding there the whole time. Vanderslice smiled, winked at the audience, and promptly left the club before it was completely destroyed by the restless crowd.
Sufjan Stevens – Pier 17, 7/01/04
Sufjan Stevens, known for memorable costuming and decoration in live performance, went all out for his free show at Pier 17 during the Fourth of July holiday weekend. With the wide area the venue provided, Stevens tried out a new pyrotechnic display, showering the stage (and, on occasion, the audience) with a constant barrage of sparks, dry ice, and smoke. Stevens refused to play songs from his recent albums Greetings From Michigan and Seven Swans, claiming that both of the albums have “dated” at this point. We were instead treated to several selections from his highly anticipated second album in the “states” series, the upcoming Illinois, as well as a few preview tracks from the as of yet unrecorded Virgin Island Territories, due for release in August of 2009. Tragedy briefly reared its ugly head during a performance of the first planned single from his next album, “Illa Noize,” the folk singer’s ill-advised foray into hard-edged rap metal. A member of Brooklyn Boy Scouts Troop 237, all of whom joined the stage to sing the chorus of the song (“We got illa noize/ We got killa noize/ We got thrills and bills/ No filla, boyz), burst into flames after wandering too close to the ubiquitous sparks. Stevens, elaborately costumed as the Sears tower, tackled the child to the ground and smothered the flames. After a few more songs, Sufjan spent the better part of a half hour answering questions about his name—which, contrary to popular belief, is actually pronounced “Felix”—and wished everyone a happy Fourth.
Lollapalooza 2004, Day 2, 08/17/04, Randall's Island
After two long days of intensive rocking out to the likes of Modest Mouse, the Flaming Lips, Broken Social Scene, and a surprise duet performance from Paul McCartney and Will Oldham, the reformed Pixies take the stage, and, for the first time in the history of mankind, actually play "Freebird" when someone sarcastically requests it. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse descend unto the Earth, signaling the start of Armageddon and the end of humanity as we know it. None are spared, save your humble concert reviewer, a prophet sent by God to a post-apocalyptic Earth to spread the word of Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips—who, as it turns out, really was Jesus after all.
That's all for the Summer 2004 Phantom Concert Series! Hope to catch you all at the next big show...for real this time!
0 comments
7/09/2004
[Note: Basshead stuff for July. This month's issue came out much stronger than I anticipated, which is nice. Thanks to everyone for helping to get it together in time!]
Beastie Boys- To the Five Boroughs (Capitol, 2004)
How far the mighty have fallen. In what can only be described as a complete and total embarrassment, the Beastie Boys have actually regressed both lyrically and musically to some hypothetical point in history between Licensed to Ill and Paul’s Boutique, where they were sent a letter from 2004 about the state of New York City. They quickly cobbled together their response: an album of gut-wrenchingly awful, half-baked political sentiment (the immortal lines “We’ve got a president we didn’t elect/The Kyoto treaty he decided to neglect” and “Maybe it’s time we impeach Tex/And the military muscle that he wants to flex” come from only one song); generally lukewarm, often oppressive and obnoxious beats; and, to top it all off, a milquetoast's “love letter” to New York (“An Open Letter to NYC”) that conveniently divides the city by five: not into boroughs, but racial groups. Yes, Asian, Middle Eastern, Latin, black and white people—you “make it happen,” whatever that is. Conspicuously absent is the sort of playfulness that has served as the group’s life support for over a decade. To the Five Boroughs documents a group far beyond its prime and its time. The Beastie Boys are so misguided in their attempts at political relevance (which an existing public image makes nearly impossible, even if they tried harder than this, which they easily could have), so painfully aware of their own obsolescence in the most rapidly evolving genre in popular music (you’ll notice there aren’t any guest MCs, despite uniformly weak but numerous battle rap “challenges”), so calculatedly oblivious to the past six years of pop evolution (not to mention the past fifteen), that listening to To the Five Boroughs is downright depressing. This is by far the worst album of the Beastie Boys’ career, and a chief contender for the biggest disappointment of 2004.
The Chinese Stars - A Rare Sensation (Three One G, 2004)
The legacy of the late 90s post-punk revivalists has yet to truly crystallize, but the seeds of mythology have been planted. Brainiac, unwitting founders of the dancepunk genre, and Dismemberment Plan—far more witting founders, and a group whose lead singer has cited the former band as a key influence—deserve a lion’s share of credit for popularizing the recent wave of indie dance fever. But it is the thankless efforts of placeholder bands like the Chinese Stars that will ultimately secure the “new” new wave dance party a full page in indie history books, rather than a footnote. A Rare Sensation is the Chinese Stars’ homage to/perpetuation of the late 90s post-punk boom, and it is a fleeting, occasionally brilliant half-hour of jagged dance beats, cracked melodies, and the most self-consciously insipid lyrics this side of, well, Brainiac. Lead singer Eric Paul just barely skirts the line between sneering punk posturing and grating whine, sputtering out lines like “Baby, baby/My car’s on empty/And I’ve got bad weather in my bed” with enough sarcasm to avoid being taken seriously. Craig Kureck’s rigid, almost militaristic drumming (think Devo circa 1979) contrasts Richard Pelletier’s uniformly stellar, fluid funk basslines, providing an unshakeable rhythmic backbone and more than making up for Paul's occassionally irritating delivery. The Chinese Stars don’t have any great aspirations to be pioneers, or even leaders, of their brand of post-punk, which is actually one of the major charms of the album. They are the nameless soldiers in an army of musicians who, like Dismemberment Plan before them, are determined to get—and keep, which is really the important part—the indie masses off of their asses.
Film Review: Fahrenheit 9/11 (2004)
It’s frustrating that so many theatergoers insist that Fahrenheit 9/11, Michael Moore’s diatribe against the Bush administration and the Iraq war, is not a documentary. This is not because the assertion is false (although it is: the term “documentary” encompasses an array of films so diverse that to disqualify just about anything as definitively “not documentary” is, technically, not correct), but because for some reason, once a film manages to exclude itself from arbitrary genre classification, it is no longer worthy of analysis. In other words, Fahrenheit 9/11 is not a documentary, therefore it does not exist.
The stubbornness of this viewpoint is as perplexing as it is frustrating, because Moore’s film is as worthy of analysis as any film or media (falsely) purporting factual objectivity, which is ostensibly a requirement in this bizarre and uninformed definition of “documentary.” In fact, one of the highlights of Fahrenheit 9/11, much like Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show,” is that it actively questions the assumed objectivity of television and print news, which no one who faults this film’s credibility seems to deny as factual documents.
When Bush showed off his golf swing immediately after issuing a somber statement regarding international terrorism, it was only Moore (and “The Daily Show” before him) who chose to let the footage play out, rather than edit it the way Bush undoubtedly intended. And it was only Moore who had the bright idea of acquiring amateur footage of Bush nervously delaying his initial response to the 9/11 attacks by a full seven minutes due to his own inability to act decisively. It is Moore who dares to show graphic footage of the current war in Iraq, not censoring images of civilian and military casualties. This footage is essential to any “fair and balanced” critique of the Bush administration or the Iraq war (which Moore’s film professedly is not), and the fact that none of it has ever been shown to mass audiences only illuminates the extent of censorship and political bias within the United States press.
Moore’s use of archival television news footage as ammo against the media outlets themselves (and, more importantly, against the Bush administration) is a solid achievement, albeit a somewhat unimpressive one—half of his footage has already been showcased on “The Daily Show.” Also powerful is his interview footage with Lila Lipscomb, a Flint Michigan mother whose son was killed while on duty in Iraq. Where Moore fails is overselling points that don’t need the extra help, which in turn hurts his credibility. Why is it necessary, for example, to show a montage of Iraqi children prior to the American invasion happily running through playgrounds? His argument that the war was not justified is clarified with documented proof—namely false claims regarding WMD’s and no clear link between Saddam Hussein and Al Queda. Why undermine this solid argument with a portrait of pre-invasion Iraq as a suburban paradise?
Regardless, Moore’s arguments are incisive, compelling, and undeniably pertinent, and may have more of an effect on swing voters than pundits have suggested in mainstream news media outlets. Moore’s points are valid and his message is urgent. Like it or not, Fahrenheit 9/11 is one of the year’s most significant documentaries.
[Note: Judging from its title, the upcoming film Michael Moore Hates America, coming to theaters this summer, will probably go to great lengths to reverse this film’s already wide-ranging effects on American voters. I have a hunch that it won’t be nearly as successful, but in case you were wondering—and oh, how it pains me to say this—it will, in fact, qualify as “documentary.”]
DVD Review: Pennies From Heaven (1981)
With the recent mini-revival of the movie musical, it’s refreshing to see an early contemporary rethinking of the genre get its overdue re-release on DVD. Pennies From Heaven was generally considered to be a flop upon release—the film was too disturbing for musical lovers, too somber for fans of Steve Martin’s previous film, The Jerk, and it pretty much flew in the face of what anyone might have expected from what was perceived as a song-and-dance Steve Martin vehicle. The film takes place during the Depression, and centers on the life of Arthur Parker (Martin), a down-on-his-luck sheet music salesman and all-around schmuck who reaches a career and personal low point during an extra-marital affair with naïve schoolteacher Eileen (Bernadette Peters). The characters create elaborate musical fantasy worlds for themselves to escape from their frequently depressing realities. As the “real” story spirals into darkness and violence, the musical numbers become increasingly jarring and oddly affecting—especially a lively barroom number that signifies Eileen’s fall from grace, and showcases one of Christopher Walken’s greatest cameo performances. The slow underground success of Pennies From Heaven eventually helped the film carve a niche for strange, brooding, implacable Hollywood musicals to follow, culminating in the early 00’s successes of Dancer in the Dark, the film’s most direct descendent, and flashier popular favorites Moulin Rouge and Chicago.
0 comments
Beastie Boys- To the Five Boroughs (Capitol, 2004)
How far the mighty have fallen. In what can only be described as a complete and total embarrassment, the Beastie Boys have actually regressed both lyrically and musically to some hypothetical point in history between Licensed to Ill and Paul’s Boutique, where they were sent a letter from 2004 about the state of New York City. They quickly cobbled together their response: an album of gut-wrenchingly awful, half-baked political sentiment (the immortal lines “We’ve got a president we didn’t elect/The Kyoto treaty he decided to neglect” and “Maybe it’s time we impeach Tex/And the military muscle that he wants to flex” come from only one song); generally lukewarm, often oppressive and obnoxious beats; and, to top it all off, a milquetoast's “love letter” to New York (“An Open Letter to NYC”) that conveniently divides the city by five: not into boroughs, but racial groups. Yes, Asian, Middle Eastern, Latin, black and white people—you “make it happen,” whatever that is. Conspicuously absent is the sort of playfulness that has served as the group’s life support for over a decade. To the Five Boroughs documents a group far beyond its prime and its time. The Beastie Boys are so misguided in their attempts at political relevance (which an existing public image makes nearly impossible, even if they tried harder than this, which they easily could have), so painfully aware of their own obsolescence in the most rapidly evolving genre in popular music (you’ll notice there aren’t any guest MCs, despite uniformly weak but numerous battle rap “challenges”), so calculatedly oblivious to the past six years of pop evolution (not to mention the past fifteen), that listening to To the Five Boroughs is downright depressing. This is by far the worst album of the Beastie Boys’ career, and a chief contender for the biggest disappointment of 2004.
The Chinese Stars - A Rare Sensation (Three One G, 2004)
The legacy of the late 90s post-punk revivalists has yet to truly crystallize, but the seeds of mythology have been planted. Brainiac, unwitting founders of the dancepunk genre, and Dismemberment Plan—far more witting founders, and a group whose lead singer has cited the former band as a key influence—deserve a lion’s share of credit for popularizing the recent wave of indie dance fever. But it is the thankless efforts of placeholder bands like the Chinese Stars that will ultimately secure the “new” new wave dance party a full page in indie history books, rather than a footnote. A Rare Sensation is the Chinese Stars’ homage to/perpetuation of the late 90s post-punk boom, and it is a fleeting, occasionally brilliant half-hour of jagged dance beats, cracked melodies, and the most self-consciously insipid lyrics this side of, well, Brainiac. Lead singer Eric Paul just barely skirts the line between sneering punk posturing and grating whine, sputtering out lines like “Baby, baby/My car’s on empty/And I’ve got bad weather in my bed” with enough sarcasm to avoid being taken seriously. Craig Kureck’s rigid, almost militaristic drumming (think Devo circa 1979) contrasts Richard Pelletier’s uniformly stellar, fluid funk basslines, providing an unshakeable rhythmic backbone and more than making up for Paul's occassionally irritating delivery. The Chinese Stars don’t have any great aspirations to be pioneers, or even leaders, of their brand of post-punk, which is actually one of the major charms of the album. They are the nameless soldiers in an army of musicians who, like Dismemberment Plan before them, are determined to get—and keep, which is really the important part—the indie masses off of their asses.
Film Review: Fahrenheit 9/11 (2004)
It’s frustrating that so many theatergoers insist that Fahrenheit 9/11, Michael Moore’s diatribe against the Bush administration and the Iraq war, is not a documentary. This is not because the assertion is false (although it is: the term “documentary” encompasses an array of films so diverse that to disqualify just about anything as definitively “not documentary” is, technically, not correct), but because for some reason, once a film manages to exclude itself from arbitrary genre classification, it is no longer worthy of analysis. In other words, Fahrenheit 9/11 is not a documentary, therefore it does not exist.
The stubbornness of this viewpoint is as perplexing as it is frustrating, because Moore’s film is as worthy of analysis as any film or media (falsely) purporting factual objectivity, which is ostensibly a requirement in this bizarre and uninformed definition of “documentary.” In fact, one of the highlights of Fahrenheit 9/11, much like Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show,” is that it actively questions the assumed objectivity of television and print news, which no one who faults this film’s credibility seems to deny as factual documents.
When Bush showed off his golf swing immediately after issuing a somber statement regarding international terrorism, it was only Moore (and “The Daily Show” before him) who chose to let the footage play out, rather than edit it the way Bush undoubtedly intended. And it was only Moore who had the bright idea of acquiring amateur footage of Bush nervously delaying his initial response to the 9/11 attacks by a full seven minutes due to his own inability to act decisively. It is Moore who dares to show graphic footage of the current war in Iraq, not censoring images of civilian and military casualties. This footage is essential to any “fair and balanced” critique of the Bush administration or the Iraq war (which Moore’s film professedly is not), and the fact that none of it has ever been shown to mass audiences only illuminates the extent of censorship and political bias within the United States press.
Moore’s use of archival television news footage as ammo against the media outlets themselves (and, more importantly, against the Bush administration) is a solid achievement, albeit a somewhat unimpressive one—half of his footage has already been showcased on “The Daily Show.” Also powerful is his interview footage with Lila Lipscomb, a Flint Michigan mother whose son was killed while on duty in Iraq. Where Moore fails is overselling points that don’t need the extra help, which in turn hurts his credibility. Why is it necessary, for example, to show a montage of Iraqi children prior to the American invasion happily running through playgrounds? His argument that the war was not justified is clarified with documented proof—namely false claims regarding WMD’s and no clear link between Saddam Hussein and Al Queda. Why undermine this solid argument with a portrait of pre-invasion Iraq as a suburban paradise?
Regardless, Moore’s arguments are incisive, compelling, and undeniably pertinent, and may have more of an effect on swing voters than pundits have suggested in mainstream news media outlets. Moore’s points are valid and his message is urgent. Like it or not, Fahrenheit 9/11 is one of the year’s most significant documentaries.
[Note: Judging from its title, the upcoming film Michael Moore Hates America, coming to theaters this summer, will probably go to great lengths to reverse this film’s already wide-ranging effects on American voters. I have a hunch that it won’t be nearly as successful, but in case you were wondering—and oh, how it pains me to say this—it will, in fact, qualify as “documentary.”]
DVD Review: Pennies From Heaven (1981)
With the recent mini-revival of the movie musical, it’s refreshing to see an early contemporary rethinking of the genre get its overdue re-release on DVD. Pennies From Heaven was generally considered to be a flop upon release—the film was too disturbing for musical lovers, too somber for fans of Steve Martin’s previous film, The Jerk, and it pretty much flew in the face of what anyone might have expected from what was perceived as a song-and-dance Steve Martin vehicle. The film takes place during the Depression, and centers on the life of Arthur Parker (Martin), a down-on-his-luck sheet music salesman and all-around schmuck who reaches a career and personal low point during an extra-marital affair with naïve schoolteacher Eileen (Bernadette Peters). The characters create elaborate musical fantasy worlds for themselves to escape from their frequently depressing realities. As the “real” story spirals into darkness and violence, the musical numbers become increasingly jarring and oddly affecting—especially a lively barroom number that signifies Eileen’s fall from grace, and showcases one of Christopher Walken’s greatest cameo performances. The slow underground success of Pennies From Heaven eventually helped the film carve a niche for strange, brooding, implacable Hollywood musicals to follow, culminating in the early 00’s successes of Dancer in the Dark, the film’s most direct descendent, and flashier popular favorites Moulin Rouge and Chicago.
0 comments
