Eugene Chadbourne returns to Fake Jazz (via Music Waste)

All photos by Femke Van Delft, not to be reused without permission!


I've seen Eugene Chadbourne twice at Fake Jazz, once with Han Bennink on drums and once with Doc Chad doing a stunning solo set that ranged from originals like "City Of Corruption" and "I Hate the Man Who Runs this Bar" - dedicated to the Cobalt's owners, since wendythirteen was being evicted at that point - to Captain Beefheart's "Orange Claw Hammer," which some drunken heckler thought sounded like Gordon Lightfoot's "Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." (I did an advance-press interview with Doc Chad for The Skinny for that show that I also ended up blogging, here; I also have a brief plug for next week's Fake Jazz/ Music Waste show at Lick, June 2nd, in this week's Straight, talking with saxophonist Darren Williams about collaborating with the Doctor). I can think of no more appropriate an out-of-towner to play Fake Jazz - just as there's a John Cassavetes award for independent filmmaking, at some point there should be a Eugene Chadbourne award for independent musicians, since Doc Chad has been self-distributing his own music (in addition to appearing on a variety of labels) for some 35 years, putting out Volume One: Solo Acoustic Guitar in 1975 on his own Parachute imprint (which also released early LPs by John Zorn, Bob Ostertag and others).

Eugene and Darren Williams at the Cobalt, 2007, by Femke Van Delft (the gig that marked the beginnings of my collaborations with Femke). Not to be reused without permission

...but just because I interviewed Darren Williams about the gig for the Straight (to cover the local angle), that doesn't mean I didn't also interact with Doc Chad... Since Eugene has been prefacing next week's show with various smalltown BC gigs, I asked him various questions about the differences playing in a bar in Nelson, say, versus underground music venues like Lick and/or the larger, more prestigious festivals and concerts where he gets invited, here and in Europe. Doc Chad responds:

....What is difficult about playing outside the big cities and college towns in North America is that there tend not to be any music venues at all, at least not for performing music such as mine and in many cases any music at all.

Last year, I was on the train between Chicago and Bloomington ILL, which makes a lot of local stops and in each one I looked at the local bars and thought about how in the old days before television was invented there were probably bars with live music in each of these towns.

So the big difference with European tours is there are venues and festivals and possibilities to perform outside of big cities and/or college towns so one really gets to go around and play in all kinds of different locations.

There is no connection at all in this discussion between the locale and the type of club, that is a completely different discussion that would come down to the club itself, no club is one way or the other just because of the type of club it is, at least not in terms of what makes the gig enjoyable for me.

I cannot comment on Lick because I have never been there but of course you were familiar with the place I played last year, that was I guess a typical punk club but also had some particular drawbacks to it--location!--as well as some advantages in terms of ambience and the kind of people that would arrive.

I play the same program pretty much wherever I go however when one gets off into the hinterlands I watch the arriving audience quite carefully to see if I can figure out any way to pull the whole thing off. Performing for example at the little North seaside town of Husen in Germany, I noticed some older couples coming in expecting to hear their idea of country music so then I start out on banjo rather than electric guitar, which in the end did not make any difference because they thought my banjo playing was so freaky.

Playing in Butte, Montana, which is something that would probably never happen again, it seemed like the few people there were all male prospectors, they looked like they had been dragged in out of the dust and rocks. I had no idea what to play and in the end had no success whatsover getting them to stop paying attention to their "red beer" (beer mixed with tomato sauce.)

Recently a well known jazz saxophonist (talent deserving wider recognition in last year's Downbeat poll) wrote me a letter complaining that his agent was booking him in too many far away, small places in Europe rather than the major towns. I explained to him that the same people move around from place to place and in the end the audience can only be reached one person at a time, everyone has different ears and the guy in the front row in a village could actually be from a big town, or vice versa. But the thrill of travel and getting to isolated places and reaching an audience there in what can be a beautiful and charming setting is one of my favorite things about touring.

Eugene Chadbourne plays Fake Jazz/ Music Waste next Wednesday, starting at 10pm; there will be a solo banjo set and then a trio with Williams and Kenton Loewen. See you there!

Eugene signs some of my EC vinyl! Thanks to Eugene Chadbourne for participating in this. Photo by Femke Van Delft, goddamnit!

Machine Gun McCain to come out on R1 DVD

Gli Intoccabili, AKA Machine Gun McCain, is coming out on region 1. I thought I'd do DVD buyers a favour and post a review where it might actually make a difference!

By the way, most of my reviews on that site are old news, written while I was in Japan (1999-2002), before I was blogging or freelancing. That might make them curiosities, but I'm not sure I want to be judged by them! Please bear this in mind if you peek.

Nothing bloody works

So within a week of a plastic clasp snapping on my nearly-new backpack, I've had the stitching unravel from two pairs of pants in different spots and had my microchipped, high-security debit card suddenly drastically limited to a maximum withdrawal of $1 (with no warning, even though I was at a bank shortly before I discovered it) because it's been "compromised" - for the second bloody time in three months. Nothing bloody works anymore! Ideas of craft and quality have been replaced by finding the cheapest sweatshop labour to make things, making the greatest possible profit on the sale, and either outsourcing or automating complaints and customer service. Even the bank computer that supposedly phoned me to alert me that I needed a new bankcard didn't have the courtesy to leave a voicemail. The bank dings me anytime when I fuck up - if I forget a payment, go over my credit limit, or so forth there's inevitably a penalty; how about compensating me for the fact that I suddenly have no access to my bank account for the night?

And hey, has anyone noticed, now that the Olympics are over, there are suddenly a whole lot more people sleeping on the sidewalks again? I mean, maybe it's just because it's warmer outside, but it wasn't that cold this winter, and it's not that warm now; did someone decide to shut down a few temporary shelters, now that the eyes of the world aren't on us?

Leslie, My Name Is Evil: A Review

Just a brief note on Reg Harkema's Leslie, My Name Is Evil, now playing: if you're interested in keeping abreast of Canadian film, if you're interested in the Manson family or the 1960's counterculture, or if you're just an avid cinephile who likes thought-provoking, richly imagined cinema, it needs to be seen, but, at least as I remember it from its VIFF screening, it comes across as a very strangely "personal" film that might be a little confusing to viewers who don't know a bit of the background - the filmmaker's background, that is.

Maybe it's just that I know a bit about Reg - Monkey Warfare, too, which I spoke to him about here, contains huge swaths of his personality: he's an-anti car bike rider, a record collector, a thrift store detective (which is how he stumbled across his first edition of Helter Skelter, at a Vancouver Value Village), and has an interest in punk, leftist, and radical politics, all of which enter the film. He lives in Parkdale, where Monkey Warfare is set, but has a connection to Vancouver (as do his characters). And his love of the cinema of Jean Luc Godard infuses the film (and Leslie, My Name Is Evil) stylistically, with characters addressing the camera, words flashing on the screen, and other Brechtian/ meta-cinematic effects that highlight the artifice of the film and ask you to think about it as something crafted, rather than just passively accepting it as a story. The injunction to "write about what you know" seems to really apply to Harkema's cinema - bits of his personality seem to find their way into all his films, maybe a bit more transparently than with some filmmakers: finding the author in these texts doesn't take much digging, because he's right there on the surface.

With Leslie - which views the Manson family trial through the eyes of a conflicted male juror fixated on Leslie Van Houten - I can't be sure, but I suspect that it really helps to know that Reg had a Christian upbringing, which he wrestled with a bit. (My Motorhead-related interview with Reg shows how troubling that was - he destroyed signed Motorhead albums over the song "Don't Need No Religion," which has gotta be the best head-slapping "why I don't still have it" story any collector has told me. I mean, I don't have Nomeansno's uber-rare Mama LP anymore, but that's because Ty Scammell offered me $85 for it and I needed the money, not because I found the gender politics of "No Sex" objectionable or threatening). The chat I had with Reg for a Straight Music Note drew a direct parallel between Leslie (a "hot Dutch Christian chick") and his Mom, who was also the same: so how does someone like his Mom end up in the Manson family? This inspires an exploration into what we call evil in society, with the Manson family apparently filling in for those elements in the counterculture that both attracted and repelled the young Christian Reg as he went through experiences no doubt mirrored by his young juror protagonist, arguing with his conservative Christian father and trying to make sense of his attraction to the beautiful young murderess...

...all of which is somewhat problematic, actually, because:

a) It's not exactly fair to the 1960's counterculture to represent them with the friggin' Manson family, an extreme case and an aberrant spawn if there ever was one; but to some extent that's what Reg seems to be doing. His ambivalence about revolutionary change seems to cause him to fixate on extreme examples (much like I have fixated on Direct Action/ "the Squamish Five" - again, look at that big Monkey Warfare interview for more on that). It's not that this is exactly invalid, mind you - it's just bloody eccentric.

b) ...but if the film is an argument about mainstream culture versus counterculture, the film's conclusion (that there's nothing that bad about the Manson family compared to the socially sanctioned manufacture and use of quantities like napalm) thus becomes a bit strange: because while it IS an interesting and provocative way of pointing up hypocrisy in society and saying that we tend to punish others for our own sins, it might ALSO be read as a defense or endorsement of the Manson clan. Which I don't think is intended - last I saw Reg, he didn't have a swastika carved in his forehead - but Manson followers would probably actually kind of like this movie, which has been described as anti-American hate-speech by some less contemplative critics. Manson himself, who made lots of gnomic statements about how he was being punished for the sins of society, would probably like this movie, too. I'm not sure that counts as a glowing endorsement of it!

c) Finally, to some extent, there is probably an Oedipal reading of all this possible - something you wouldn't guess unless you realized that Reg saw Leslie as a parallel for his Mom, which was a bit of a missing puzzle piece until I talked with the filmmaker the other week. I won't do Reg the disservice of attempting to psychoanalyze the film or filmmaker in depth, but to some extent the movie ends up being more interesting as a portait of the filmmaker's identity-formation than it is as a statement about society... an identity formation that to some extent (as with everyone, I might add) isn't complete; Reg takes us to the limits of what he understands about his personality and drops in our lap questions, not answers, using the Manson family iconically, for what light they cast on his dark places - or what dark they cast on his light...

...all of which is a really fucking weird thing to do in a feature film, you gotta admit, but it's still a pretty interesting (and really fucking unusual) bit of Canadian cinema: an Oedipally-inflected working through of Harkema's attraction/repulsion to the Manson clan - tell me that's not more interesting than, well, any other movie playing in Vancouver right now?

I have other quibbles with the film, mind you - I strongly suspect based on the acid trip scenes that Reg either hasn't done acid, or hasn't done enough acid - and I didn't actually care for his Manson-actor so much; but it's definitely an interesting piece of film and a must-see. So: 'nuff said: trailer for it is here.

Reg Harkema is currently working on a film adaptation of John Armstrong's book Guilty Of Everything.

The Sorrow And The Pity album release Wednesday!

The Sorrow and the Pity by Femke Van Delft, not to be reused without permission

Right, so: I was instructed to keep the real name of a certain member of The Sorrow And The Pity a secret in my Georgia Straight review of their new album on Soldier Pumps. So, uh... does that mean that I shouldn't show you the link to my old interview with that guy, who is named therein? Hmmm...

Well, fuggit, my blog's a backwater anyway, let's not kid ourselves. Anyhow, I'm told that the album release party for the new disc is happening this Wednesday at Lick, for those of you who, like, live in Vancouver...! (And if Dave goes on his rant about "doing it to someone else," could someone please shout out "Do it to Julia" on my behalf? That Julia's a real bitch, man).

Art Bergmann in Trouser Press

Hey, the same blogger linked below - the Vancouver Redux girl - has alerted me to a pretty good career overview of Art Bergmann on the Trouser Press website. The guy has perceptive things to say about most of Art's albums...

Another take on Bloodied But Unbowed

Another Vancouver blogger has posted thoughts on Bloodied But Unbowed... well worth reading!

What a fucked up week...

Yikes. I skipped the Art Bergmann event on Wednesday, electing for an early trainride home... and then the West Coast Express was stopped due to trees and powerlines across the train tracks, forcing me to take the bus anyhow; leave Vancouver at 4:30, get home after 7...

...then today, one of the cheap plastic clasps on my nearly-new backpack just flat-out snapped in two while I was shopping. I just happened to be carrying a glass blender I'd bought for makin' smoothies in it; luckily the blender survived, but I had to gingerly carry the pack around all day by the li'l handle at the top and now my fingers are killin' me...

Meanwhile Marc Emery, a Canadian citizen who has committed no major crime here - and a victimless crime by any standards, involving only voluntary transactions and a relatively harmless and generally socially acceptable substance which will inevitably be entirely legalized - is being sent to the United States - a country recently governed by one of the worst war criminals in the last two centuries, note, a man responsible for countless deaths and enormous sorrow, who has gone completely unpunished - to serve fucking prison time by our gormless fucking government (protest Saturday, May 22 at Victory Square, eh?)...




I mean, what a fucked up week!

Of Nomeansno and beer, plus Femke show

It's a longshot that there are any Nomeansno fans reading this blog who are so diehard that they would order a German magazine, but just in case: Ox Fanzine has just published a recent interview I did with Nomeansno drummer/co-vocalist John Wright, talking (in German translation, of course) about parenthood, punk, the squat scene in Europe, and, especially, beer. (Wright is a brewer, and it seemed especially fitting to delve into that topic with him for a German magazine). We discussed his preference for fresh beer and his excitement at visiting brewery-rich Bamberg on the current tour. For the benefit of any German readers coming to BC, I asked him if he had favourite places to drink in Vancouver. Wright responded:

"Ooh. Hm," he replied. "I quite like Steamworks beers. The Yaletown Brew Pub has very good beer - Ian, the brewer down there does an awful good job. On a good day, Storm IPA. It’s not always a good day for Storm IPA, but on a good day, it’s a great beer. The thing about when I’m home in Vancouver - I just drink my own beer. But what is it - Big Kettle, out in the valley somewhere? I had it on tap at the Railway Club. I might send them to the Railway, because the Railway has a pretty good selection of beers and they keep their taps clean. And that’s not a bad atmosphere to enjoy a brew..."

Thought Steamworks, the Yaletown Brew Pub, the Railway and such would appreciate the plug! (By the way, I'm also highly partial to Steamworks and the Yaletown Brew Pub and often recommend them to my students; ditto Six Acres in Gastown, for a very interesting selection of bottled beers - John, if you ain't been, check it out!).

The Ox article comes with a photo by Femke Van Delft, as yet unseen in any local publications; she took the li'l pic of John to the left, above. Nomeansno play the Biltmore July 1st - other tour dates here; and speaking of the Railway, Femke will have a show of her rock photography there from June 1-30th, "The F-Stops Here," with the opening on June 3rd, from 7pm til midnight, featuring Fraulein Fanta, Marko Polio, and, I'm told, Yellowthief. More on that later, prolly!

Isis calling it quits after this tour

Fans of Isis who haven't gotten a ticket for their May 31st show yet - assuming it isn't totally sold out - may want to note that the band will be calling it quits after this tour.

Art Bergmann/ K-Tels tonight

With apologies to all involved, I don't think I'll be at the event tonight - which, by the way, is Little Mountain Gallery's screening of Doreen Grey's K-Tels/ Dead Kennedys video (with the DK's OPENING for the K-Tels!) shot in 1979 at the Cultch (see a couple of posts back for links). Art Bergmann will likely be in attendance. There might be other guests, and maybe other stuff - there was talk of a punk rock wedding, with Femke taking photos, as well as a possible appearance by Jim Cummins, and maybe a phone-in from Jello Biafra... dunno which of these things will actually materialize. It all sounds great - even if it's just Art in attendance, it's a very rare opportunity to hear him speak; but I have responsibilities I can't shirk, and it's a long bus commute back to Maple Ridge, which means a late night, a bad night's sleep, and a very tired day at work tomorrow. Add it all up, and it just seems better if I skip this one.*

Those of you who actually LIVE in Vancouver have no excuses!

*Actually, I'm also a bit worried that there will be fallout from my Bloodied review, below - but mostly I just have more important things to deal with. I mean, it's just punk rock, for fucksake...

RIP Ronnie James Dio

One of the first big rock concerts that I went to was Ronnie James Dio, who just died of cancer, fronting Black Sabbath on the Mob Rules tour back in the early 1980's. I'm not exactly sure how young I was, but I went with my father, which says something. We had a bit of a mixup outside - he thought I was going to meet him in front of the Hastings Park racetrack entrance - he'd been betting on the horses - but I was distressed and crying and wandering around in front of the Coliseum, having forgotten where he'd told me to go. Eventually he found me. My memories of that stressful moment are more vivid than the show itself. I also remember him complaining about how loud the opening band, The Outlaws, were, and perhaps remarking on Dio's relative lack of height once Sabbath took the stage, but that's about it. He didn't get the show much, but he enjoyed my enjoyment of it and indulged me and bought me a Mob Rules t-shirt, which was the first ever t-shirt I completely wore out, wearing it on occasions for days on end, until it finally stank so bad I had no choice but to put in the laundry.

I remember very little else from the show - vague memories of the band in black, dry ice fogging the stage, a long-haired, biker-looking audience that I found vaguely scary, and this strange sweet smell in the air after the lights went out that I'm sure my father had to explain to me (it was quite possibly my first actual encounter with marijuana smoke and perhaps even with the idea of marijuana). I listened to that album quite a bit, too, and Heaven And Hell (which I actually liked less) and some of the Rainbow stuff, poring over the lyrics to "The Man On The Silver Mountain" and trying to figure out what they meant (I still don't know). Before my recent re-discovery of metal, I'd tried spinning the Dio-fronted Sabbath albums again and found them unlistenably cliched, though suddenly, now that I can "speak metal" again, Mob Rules fills me with warmth and nostalgia. And of course, I greatly enjoyed Dio's appearances in the Sam Dunn movies, especially Metal: A Headbanger's Journey, where he seems charming, funny and intelligent and completely without pretention. Suddenly I feel sad that I missed out on seeing Heaven And Hell when last they played here.

I don't believe much in heaven or hell, mind you - but I strongly suspect Dio was one of the good guys. RIP, Ronnie.

Thoughts on Joe Dante: Matinee and more

Truth be known, I've never been a huge Joe Dante fan. Though I have only seen a few of his films, and many of those not for some time, I made a point - when I read Jonathan Rosenbaum's praises of it - to check out Small Soldiers, which Rosenbaum describes as a savage, sly and subversive satire of the military. It may be that, but it seemed more like a histrionic "junior Spielberg" slapstick action comedy loaded with genre in-jokes, to me; I found it kind of grating, and it didn't move me to check out the rest of his cinema. When I briefly interviewed Dante about his shot-in-Vancouver "zombies-vs-Republicans" Masters Of Horror provocation The Homecoming - back before I knew what I was doing as a writer, so that the review actually saw print after the Vancouver screening of the movie - I kinda ended up giving him bemused shit for not having zombies disembowel and eat then-president George W. Bush, a payoff I had taken as a given. (I'll post that article below, since it's never been online in its full version).

While I'm most curious about Dante's upcoming 3-D film The Hole, also shot here, and hope it gets decent representation theatrically, the real news this week is that Dante's 1993 film Matinee, starring John Goodman, has just gotten release on DVD. This, too, is mixed news - but not because the film is anything less than a masterpiece. What Small Soldiers didn't do to make me want to check out all the rest of Joe Dante's films may well have been done last night, by Matinee. It's a brilliantly conceived and presented piece of Cold War metacinema starring John Goodman as a William Castle figure, rigging a theatre to give extra shocks and surprises to a young audience of horror fans come to see a sold-out screening of his film mANT! - about an ordinary guy turned radioactive giant "man-ant" mutant. The action of the film takes place during the Cuban Missile Crisis, which Dante uses to give exploration to the relationship between real-world fears and the role of horror cinema in helping us process them. The film is also one of the most honest and likable representations of young people that I've encountered - usually American genre movies dealing with high schoolers end up getting things very, very wrong, emphasizing sex and drugs and cynicism; Dante is much, much better at depicting his characters as real people with real emotions and a certain innocence as to how they express them - something I rather remember being an aspect of Gremlins, too.

The bad news, alas, is that, as good as it is, Matinee has been given a completely indifferent presentation by Universal, who ignored Dante's wealth of possible extras - including a complete version of the film-within-a-film, mANT!, which previously appeared on the Laserdisc. This is gone into at some length by DVD Savant's Glenn Erickson, in an interview with Dante online. (Erickson also reviews Matinee here, for those who want to know more about the film).

This absence of extras is sad news indeed, and probably bodes ill for all upcoming DVD releases - as distributors get more and more excited by Blu-Ray, any movies NOT yet on DVD are likely to be given short-shrift and pumped out without commentaries or extras of any sort. In the case of the Matinee, which certain cinephiles have been waiting a long time for, this really does seem a shame. Before I'd seen the film, I was rather skeptical to read in the interview Dante's hope that the film might be released by Criterion - it seemed an unlikely match - but in fact, it would be a very, very good thing for Criterion to do: this is a film every cinephile should look at, and worthy of a far more respectful treatment.

Meantime, for the first time ever appearance of my Joe Dante article, which ran in a mangled version in The Nerve Magazine, missing the last sentence (my Shakespeare-meets-zombies joke, years before Pride and Prejucide and Zombies started that particular highbrow/lowbrow literary mashup trend) and with a caption that many found in horrible taste.

...and now I think I'll go rent Gremlins...

Guts, but No Intestines:
Joe Dante’s Homecoming

I was drooling to see Joe Dante’s Homecoming. Soldiers killed in Iraq and shipped home in coffins break free and rise up against neoconservatives and the religious right? From the minute I heard about it, I was hot to see George Bush, Ann Coulter, and Jerry Falwell, all of whom are lampooned in the movie, disembowelled and eaten by war dead. I figured that both the inner logic of the genre and a powerful need for cathartic, bloody justice among liberal viewers made such scenes necessary; and what better fate for Bush than to have his intestines ripped out and chewed on by undead veterans, perhaps while he gurgles “stay the course?” Imagine my surprise, then, when viewing the film at the Vancity Theater, to discover that there isn’t a single intestine on view, and that Bush and Falwell escape uneaten! (Ann Coulter does get shot in the back of the head, but even there – you don’t get to see her brains). It seemed a shortcoming, and I had to ask Joe Dante about it. He chuckled.

“I don’t think that having the president dismembered is really what we’re looking for, here. It’s not about hanging people from trees, as much as it often is on the other side; it’s a sort of wake up call… It’s such an obvious polemical movie that a lot more time is spent on politics than on horror, and of course that’s been a bone of contention with a lot of horror fans, because they go, you know, ‘if you got a message, send Western Union’… but that’s part of the appeal of Masters of Horror, to me – you’ve got 13 episodes, 13 different directors, and people have different things on their minds.”

All the same, the reader might wonder, what do the zombies in Homecoming do, if not kill and eat people? True to the pre-9/11 short story on which the film is based, “Death and Suffrage,” by horror writer Dale Bailey – which takes gun control as its issue, since the second Iraq war was only a neoconservative/PNAC fantasy at that point – the zombies come back to vote. The year is 2008 and the decomposing vets pose a problem for politicians; at first, when it’s assumed they’ll vote Republican, they’re hailed as heroes, but when it’s discovered that they intend to vote against the incumbent, they’re herded into pens as a public health threat. (It’s one of the nice touches of the film that the zombies are forced to wear Gitmo-style orange jumpsuits). The problem is that the only way to kill them is to let them cast their ballots, and more keep arriving from Iraq every day. Finally, the government has to let the dead have their say – since, being Republicans, they don’t intend to count the ballots anyhow.

The lack of gore might confuse some viewers, but for Dante, the only truly puzzling thing about Homecoming is that it stands alone as the only movie thus far – documentaries aside – to directly deal with the Iraq war and its effects. ”I mean, don’t you think it’s a little odd that the only dramatic examination we’ve had of this thing is a zombie movie? That a fucking b-movie is the only thing anybody’s done about an issue that’s killed 2000 Americans and untold numbers of Iraqis? …The media has been so complicit in getting us to where we are that, when I took the film to Europe, they were shocked that America would make a film like this. There was, like, a five minute standing ovation – not because they thought the movie was so great. I think they’re just relieved that there are some people in the industry in America who haven’t drunk the Kool Aid... That’s one of the reasons it’s not subtle. There’s no reason to be subtle if the only movie anybody’s going to make about the subject is this one – then you might as well just go for it.”

”Death and Suffrage” author Bailey was happy to see his material adapted thus, by screenwriter Sam Hamm and Dante. “I'm no supporter of G. W. Bush or his disastrous foreign policy. I didn't have any input, though, on how the story was altered. I wouldn't have objected, though. It's nice to know somebody is willing to take a stand on this stuff! …I really liked the scene with the zombie in the diner – I think it's the best scene in the film, because it really highlights the sacrifices families who have loved ones in the service are making. I totally disagree with the war in Iraq, but I respect the soldiers on the ground enormously, and I didn't want the episode to make light of their sacrifice, so that scene really worked in that way, I thought.” The scene, in which a couple who have a son in Iraq welcome an undead soldier into their shop, at some cost to their business, has no parallel in the story and may bring a tear to the eye of sentimental zombie fans.

Dante acknowledges that the success of Syriana and Good Night and Good Luck – and, indeed, of Homecoming – are signs of “some receptiveness” to left-of centre views, “but it’s hardly a groundswell, like in the 1970’s, when there were a lot of pictures made that criticized the war.” Given the “bungling incompetence” of the current administration, the lack of an outcry in the mainstream media is deeply disturbing. “Forget about the ideology and forget about their plan to remake the world in their own image; the sheer stupidity with which they’ve conducted themselves is enough reason for them to be impeached.” They would be, too, Dante believes, without “the prop of corporate media.”

Here in Canada, where it’s more or less publicly acceptable to speak of Bush as a war criminal, to express bewilderment that nobody has assassinated him yet, and to step on his effigy on TV, it may be difficult to comprehend this, but to make a film like Homecoming in the United States right now takes guts. “There’s people who hate me. I’m a traitor, I should be hung up from a tree. You know, it’s a free country, up to now, and if that’s their opinion, they’re entitled to it, but I’ve already lost one job because of Homecoming. I can’t tell you the specifics, but I can tell you that I was up for something and I foolishly gave them a copy as an example of something I’ve been doing, and the guy who was running the place turned out to be quite a Republican. It was not the right move on my part…” Negative reviews online speak of Homecoming as a “disgusting piece of partisan propaganda,” which only makes things seem stranger, since to my eyes, however on-target it is as satire, it’s pretty mild compared to what I’d imagined.

Like other episodes in the Masters of Horror series, currently showing on Showtime in the USA, Homecoming was shot on a shoestring budget in Vancouver during last year’s teacher’s strike. There are a few local cues – Terry David Mulligan plays a Larry-King style talk show host who fawns over his right-wing guests and reads their own press announcements back to them, and Queer as Folk star and Victoria resident, Thea Gill, plays the Ann Coulter character (Dante notes that “ours is better looking;” amusingly, Coulter is depicted as having a taste for kinky sex, which somehow fits). Those of you who missed the series at the Vancity Theatre will be able to catch it as part of a box set DVD release sometime in the upcoming year, from Anchor Bay.

Even though he hasn’t made a horror film proper since 1981’s The Howling (scripted by liberal favourite John Sayles, who also penned Dante’s 1978 Piranha), Dante remains fond of the horror genre. “In times of paranoia and times of turbulence, horror movies have always been very popular, for example, during the 1930s and 40s, or during the cold war. I mean, if you want to look at societies and see what they’re thinking, look back at their horror movies. It shows you what’s going on politically.”

Here’s my vote, then, Joe: make a sequel to Homecoming and do justice to the genre. It’s not too late: have the White House itself surrounded by walking corpses, as the President, family, and staff nail tables and planks to the windows. I even have a title for it: Homecoming II: Dogtags of the Dead.

We need to see Bush eaten, Joe. It’s a consummation devoutly to be wished.

Attention Subhumans fans: rare demo in CD with Mongrel Zine 8

So: generally speaking, as a music journalist, my favourite stories to write are comeback stories, especially when the comeback is local, and even better if it's somewhat unlikely (the New Creation, Tunnel Canary, the Pointed Sticks reuniting to tour Japan... all of these were wonderful to research and write).

My second favourite kind of story to write is a story about a very smart or creative band that doesn't get a lot of attention - to help spread the word. This can take various forms - writing about Nomeansno for a Japanese fanzine, for example, since the Japanese don't know Nomeansno that well, or getting the Minimalist Jug Band or The Sorrow And The Pity into the Straight and thus introducing them to a whole new potential audience. People tend to appreciate press the more it stands a chance of helping them out, and God knows, I like to feel appreciated.

If the band has a colourful backstory or a point of view I sympathize with, all the better.

Add this all up, and it makes perfect sense that the Subhumans end up being the band I have written most about in my life. They're local; their reunion in present form took quite some time to get off the ground, with Brian leading a couple of faux-Subs until both Mike and Gerry's participation could be secured. They have left-leaning politics that echo and, truth be known, were a formative influence on my own, and really solid, classic punk songcraft - Brian, Mike, and Gerry are three of the best songwriters in Vancouver, up there with Art Bergmann and on par with the very best songwriting of Joe Keithley. Still, they somehow just don't have as big an audience as they deserve - more kids seem to get out to see the Furies than the Subhumans, which is kind of strange to me, since, cool as the Furies are, they're nowhere as unique or sophisticated as the Subhumans. I wonder if the sheer intelligence of the Subhumans lyrics ends up working against them? To see the band joking about whether they "seem to be relevant" in the Tabata doc (see below) is kinda sad, all things considered. Hell yes, they're relevant! I must demonstrate this to the world...

The Subhumans at the Lamplighter a few years ago; photo by Allan MacInnis. Note Jon's head in the corner!

In the service of this mission, I have done articles on the Subhumans for The Straight, Punk Planet, The Nerve Magazine, Ox Fanzine, The Skinny, and now, Big Takeover (see issue #66, out soon!) and Canada's own Mongrel Zine. And while that Mongrel article is probably one of the lesser ones, writing-wise - it's a rather brief thing I pieced together a day before the 'zine went to print from talks with Mike and Brian on a visit to the Hive, where they were recording Same Thoughts, Different Day - it's the one that diehard Subhumans fans need most to seek out, because the band has given Mongrel a demo from the No Wishes, No Prayers session to put on their CDr - a slightly rough but indubitably powerful version of "Slap In The Face." I also got Brian talking a little bit about what happened with the uber-rare No Wishes, No Prayers, which will be appreciated by Subhumans fans slathering to hear these tunes again. The rest of the CDr is very fun - lots of really cool bands getting noticed by Mongrel! - but the Subhumans track is sheer punk geek gold.

Note to the Subhumans: whenever Card gets back from his shtick with SNFU and you get a gig together, please practice up "Slap In The Face!" ("For The Common Good" would be another one off that album that I would love to hear live... or "Canada's Favourite Sport"... or "Mobile Electric Chair..." or...). I promise you: there will be at LEAST eight people in the pit who go fucking wild to hear these songs live. I will be one of them!

There Will Be Art?

(Photo of Art with Subhumans/Trespassers/SNFU drummer Jon Card at the Summer of Love a couple summers ago, taken by Femke Van Delft. Not to be reused without permission!).

Okay, y'all: see the comments from the "Punk Addendum" post below: Bill Scherk informs me that Art Bergmann himself will be in attendance at the May 19th event at Little Mountain Gallery. Like I say, I've gotten a couple of different stories about what that night will include, and I've also recently been told of another Art-related event that fell through at the last minute, so I'm not going to bank on him showing up. But I sure as hell am going to be there in case he does!

Bloodied But Unbowed: a review

Well, that was quite a night. Never have I been in a room with so many first generation Vancouver punks, and I'm not sure I've ever seen the "big" theatre at the Granville cinemas genuinely and truly sold out; more people, young and old, made it out to this film than the last three Subhumans shows put together (which in a way kinda doesn't make sense, but...). And it's a very rich, but somewhat complex, experience; by the time my reactions to Bloodied But Unbowed are done percolating, the weekend will be long over.

1. Holy crap, is there an amazing wealth of archival footage in this film. LOTS of stuff I've seen before, but wayyy more stuff I haven't (a photo of Joe, Brian and Gerry in elementary school?! Stone Crazy photos, I guess, of the DOA and Subhumans guys as hippies?). I will forever be grateful to Susanne Tabata for rescuing this stuff from semi-oblivion and showing it to the world thus. I mean, I've seen the "Slave To My Dick" video before, dig, but it was likely something that had been taped on someone's VCR in 1982 off Nite Dreems or Soundproof and then left in a damp box to degrade for 30 years, until someone took the trouble to convert it for posting on Youtube; here, it's as big as the screen, with sound and image quality vastly improved over anything I've encountered before (a friend who made some rather unpunkrock comments about the uneven sound quality of some of the footage has clearly not watched enough of this stuff via badly degraded VHS; it's not perfectly presented, but by damn is it a whole lot better than anything I've seen before). A lot of the footage is a nostalgia trip for those who were there - the guy to my right cheered when the Plaza got mentioned, in such a way as to suggest he'd been there on more than one occasion. All this footage is sharply edited together with current interviews into a very dynamic and engaging whole, a vibrant, energetic collage of Vancouver punk. It may be, perhaps, a little confusing to people who don't know the history - it's so jam packed that a viewer who didn't grow up here might feel him-or-herself being pelted with pieces of a jigsaw puzzle which he or she is then expected to assemble for him-or-her-own-damn-self - but this was not a problem for me, or probably for most of the saltier folks in attendance tonight; it's a measure not of a lack of craft but of the sheer volume of material that Tabata is cramming into her lean 75 minute movie.

Most of the tone, for the first 3/4s of the way through, in any event, is quite celebratory and positive. It's very easy to get a bit of a contact high from all the exuberance of the musicians on stage, and the ease and humour with which the people interviewed (especially a bickering, joking chorus of Rampage, Zippy Pinhead, and Brad Kent) relate their tales. Henry Rollins, Keith Morris, and Duff from Guns'n'Roses are on hand, too, to provide an American perspective on the Vancouver scene, which may not be that enlightening to those of us who were here in some form or another, but is plenty flattering...

3. All of which is great - even Biscuits' big black box is interesting, if kinda weird - UNTIL YOU GET TO THE LAST QUARTER OF THE FILM. The huge head of positive steam that it has built up completely dissipates at the end of Gerry Hannah's interview about Direct Action - which is brave, revealing, insightful, and honest, but also highly sobering and, in the end, quite depressing. The Subhumans may or may not have let the air out of Warren Kinsella's tires some 30 years ago, but Gerry sure deflated the audience last night - you could almost hear the whole raucous bunch, having been pelted with prizes by Billy Hopeless and given a chance to act out a bit when the initial projection of the film fucked up - sort of sink into a rather pensive silence, contemplating the futility of trying to change anything through radical action, which rather circumscribes the whole domain of political punk: what's any of it worth?

Or maybe they just weren't sure where the film was taking them, but sensed a downward trajectory - which indeed is what we get. From Gerry's imprisonment, the film goes on to deal with even less cheery topics, like violence, heroin, death, and Art Bergmann - who is given more-or-less the last word, talking about how history favours winners, that failures really have no voice and are forgotten, referring to himself and to everyone in the scene previously documented. The film ends rather grimly and sadly - TOO grimly and sadly, given both what has gone before in the film and the actual history of the bands in question; we're being offered Bloodied And Bruised, not Bloodied But Unbowed. I overheard two audience members - guys, punks, men who must have been about my age when the scene was at its peak - talking about how one of them actually cried at the end of the film. I didn't go that far, but I was really rather bummed out.

And again, for those of us who know the history, it might not be a big deal, but for those who don't, they're going to miss out on a few important details: like the fact, say, that punk rock survived in Vancouver even to this day, in some form or another, the first generation being replaced by a second generation, and a third - many of whom, including cameraman Danny Nowak, are people who greatly respected and admired the originators of punk in Vancouver. Even more significantly, what about the fact that of the bands documented, the Pointed Sticks, Subhumans, Dishrags, Furies, and briefly even a semi-Modernettes have reunited and returned to performing and, in many cases, recording? That the Pointed Sticks have toured Japan and the USA and have recorded a new album? What of the Subhumans' return to the studio for the vastly under-appreciated New Dark Age Parade - to say nothing of the "new" new album? That the Dishrags are joining the Sticks to go to Japan? That the Furies first record came out not in 1978 or whenever they started, but last-bloody-year (or was it 2008?). Fucksake, even the amply damaged and depressed Art Bergmann got back onstage to a packed Richards On Richards in 2009; it still may not be the happiest time for Art, but the film has him stumbling off down the road like a man broken, lost, and hopeless... it's a hell of a note to conclude on. There's been such a huge resurgence of interest in the vintage Vancouver punk scene in the last few years - which this film itself is a part of - that one would think that there'd be some attempt made to dig back up out of the pit that the film ends up in, some attempt to say that it wasn't all for nothing. ...Because if it was, why the fuck were we watching the film?

For those in attendance on Sunday, one tip: a vastly better "last word" on the first wave of Vancouver punk can be found AFTER the credits roll, in a lengthy sequence of unused interviews that Susanne, I guess, wanted to stick somewhere. There, Gerry Hannah talks briefly about how the "reward" for making music in a community doesn't need to be wealth or riches or fame, but simply HAVING a place in the community as a musician, being a respected part of it, and contributing something of value to it. (I'm very crudely paraphrasing - I don't recall exactly how he phrases it but I think that's the jist). This seems a very healthy and positive attitude towards being a musician - and neverminding the relatively recent and unnatural phenomenon of rockstar-as-God, one that is in keeping with how musicians are regarded in most cultures and at most other times in world history. Don't leave your seats when the credits roll - it's a conclusion that the film rather needs.

I really, really enjoyed Bloodied But Unbowed, but the ending left me rather sad, which is not how I feel about the scene it documents, nor how most of its members or admirers seem to feel about it now. Good film, important film, necessary stuff, and congrats to Susanne for gettin' 'er done (and to Knowledge for having the enthusiasm and taste to program it); but... jeez, those last fifteen minutes...

Punk addendum

By the way: there'll be a K-Tels concert screened at Little Mountain Galleries on May 19th, which may or may not also involve special guests, a punk wedding, a webcast, and so forth (I was given two different versions of what the night will hold and omitted everything not common to both; fuggit!). Also, I've got an amusing Music Note in the Straight about the upcoming Reg Harkema Manson movie, Leslie My Name Is Evil, and a review of the Sorrow And The Pity's new album. (I actually had a bit of back-and-forth with Dave about drawing a connection to the Toronto band Braino, by which people might have figured out his SUPER SECRET REAL IDENTITY; he cleared it, and the Straight axed it, but - hey, didja know Dave was in Braino?).

Bloodied But Unbowed, No Fun City: repeat screenings added!

(Susanna Tabata interviewing Art Bergmann. No photo credit provided on the DOXA site, but I'm guessing it's by Randy Rampage, who took a similar shot; otherwise, it's probably by Danny Nowak, the former Spores frontman and Hard Core Logo cinematographer who, along with Susanne, shot the film...).

Good news: there has been an added screening, on May 16th, of Bloodied But Unbowed at the Cinematheque! Anyone not on board for tonight's event can check that out. Y'know, folks, I really did plan to do something MORE to support that film, but even if I were still writing for The Skinny (whom astute readers will realize dumped my big, Olympics-related Chris Walter interview onto their website without actually printing it in the paper - the cads!), they haven't published in three months, as they get more involved in promoting shows in East Van. (I'm told that they will eventually re-emerge, but not in time to plug this film). The only other people I'm writing for locally at the moment are the Straight, but Mike Usinger himself did the Straight piece ...and did a fine and prudent job of NOT plunging into any of the fascinating, DEFINITELY bloody politics behind the film, which has more than earned its title, surviving funding issues, internecine disputes between some of the major players, and... well, more than we'll ever know, God willing. It would be all too easy to get distracted from what the film is actually about, in delving into such things (which John Mackie gets a little closer to... but not much).

That's another reason I didn't do more to plug the film. Y'see, I'm a scab picker at heart, who associates journalism with peeling back hardened crusty things and poking my finger into the sore spot. This tendency of mine has led to some fairly ugly action on this blog in the past, particularly in regard Direct Action, AKA the Squamish Five. Things got ugly enough the last time I opened that door that I ended up deleting almost all the relevant posts - 'cept one: I kept my Terry Chikowski interview up, out of respect for him, and because it actually has stuff in it that hasn't seen the light of day elsewise - it's an important read for anyone who cares. (Most comments have been removed from the post, note; I would remind people commenting on this blog that I will not publish arguments ad hominem or attempts to slander people, no matter what you feel your grievances are). I'd actually futzed around with doing something along these lines, about the Direct Action section of the film - but after I discovered the Straight had matters covered, ultimately decided to let it die.

Last excuse for not doing more than I did - no one appraised me of the press screening, and I was too caught up in my own bloody life to get on DOXA about wanting to be there or getting a screener. I snoozed, I lost, and it's just as well; I haven't had time or space to do much of anything journalism-wise lately, save for a handful of music notes and reviews for the Straight and a few articles on the Subhumans' new album, including feature interviews for upcoming issues of Big Takeover and Mongrel Zine. I'm still very excited about the movie tonight and urge anyone who cares about the Vancouver music scene - even if you aren't a punk - to get a ticket for the Sunday screening, if you aren't going to be there tonight.

Oh, and there's an additional showing of No Fun City, too. I actually didn't make it to that one the other night - I was too exhausted, and ended up giving away my ticket to come home and get a good night's sleep. Life's like that, these days.

...And now it's time to shower and get to work...

Geography vs. cinema, plus DOXA note

It's tough for me to know if my lack of excitement at much of the cinema programming visible for the next couple of months is just due to my changed location. From Maple Ridge, even the Pacific Cinematheque's screening of Kiarostami's Close Up - a highly praised film by one of Iran's most respected directors - doesn't get me excited, since it means staying late after work to see it, and then catching a late bus home. Pardon my griping, but living in Maple Ridge makes this really inconvenient - if I were still a few blocks away, I'd be all over it.

I don't think that geographical distance is the only problem I'm facing, though. Much of the upcoming Cinematheque programme is devoted to a Kurosawa retrospective that I wouldn't be excited about if I lived next door to the theatre; given how widely-seen and easily-available most of these films are, it seems a bit wasteful to devote space to them yet again. True, there are some masterful films here - I really enjoyed Throne Of Blood last time I saw it, Kurosawa's adaptation of Macbeth - but that was at the Cinematheque just a couple years ago. Good as it was, are we really in need of another screening of it so soon?

For Shakespeare on screen, it's a bit more interesting that the Vancity - who have a nice new web design, by the way - are playing Branagh's Henry V and Orson Welles' Chimes At Midnight. (They'll also screen a 1974 version of Antony And Cleopatra that I don't know in the slightest, featuring what must be a very early performance by Ben Kingsley). Again, if I lived downtown, I'd possibly come see a couple of these films, especially the Welles, and would probably make it out for Encirclement, about the damaging effects and driving ideology of neoliberalism. But as things stand, about the only thing on the program that sounds fresh and fun enough to make me even consider enduring a bumpy long busride back to the burbs is The Socalled Movie ...

Sigh. This is depressing - having lived a few blocks away from both of these theatres for years makes it difficult to deal with my newfound distance from them. Maybe it's just as well that they're not playing a lot of films that I feel a strong need to see - because I probably couldn't make it out to a lot of 'em, anyways...

There are only two films I *know* I'm going to see theatrically this spring, and both are at DOXA, the ongoing documentary film festival: Bloodied But Unbowed (see also here), local filmmaker Susanne Tabata's much-anticipated Vancouver-centric history of punk, which Mike Usinger writes about here; I'm told that the initial screening, this coming Thursday, has already sold out, but that a few rush tickets may be available at the door, and that a second screening may be added (let's hope!). The gala premiere will feature various interesting guests, however, so that's the night to be at, no doubt... The other must-see is tomorrow's screening of No Fun City, about the difficulties faced by musicians trying to find places to play in Vancouver, which I think will centre largely around the Cobalt "closure" (ie. the decision to screw over and displace wendythirteen, since the venue remains open under another name).


There's lots else to see at DOXA - including a free seminar from filmmaker Thomas Riedelsheimer, whose film about Andy Goldsworthy, Rivers And Tides, is one of the most moving and compelling documentaries I've seen. (By the way, when Fred Frith led several Vancouver improvisers in performing a composition of his here a few years ago, I believe that the piece he chose was from the Rivers And Tides score). But again, my perspective on the whole thing is changed by geography. A Belgian doc on soccer referees might sound really interesting if it didn't mean two hours battling motion sickness and trying not to inhale the body odour of your stinky bus co-riders. You are where you live, I guess.

Anyhow, thank God for DVD players. Maybe I should start guzzling stamina drinks?

The Limits Of Control

...So I duck out of two possible concerts to come home, “unwind,” and turn on Jim Jarmusch’s The Limits Of Control, which I think came out about a year ago now. I’d intended to catch it theatrically, except the period it played was shorter than the time I needed to psychically prepare myself for the experience of seeing it. After that point - after it left the theatres and came out on DVD - there was simply no need to rush; in fact, there was good reason to wait. Having worked at a corporate video store in the past, I knew, based on experience, that this would be the kind of film that such chains - whose buyers at head office neither understand much about cinema nor mainstream audience reactions to arthouse fare - will buy in sets of six, based on the raving blurbs the distributors have compiled and the presence of big names like Bill Murray and John Hurt. (At the same time, they won’t carry one copy of Down By Law for their catalogue, though that one would actually rent, which many of their staff realize far better than their head office. Such is the sad nature of corporately-run video stores, which, save perhaps in real backwaters where there are no hip video stores, will surely be the next major facet of the entertainment industry to fall after CD’s...).

....Anyhow, the corporate head offices will do all this without realizing that many of us at all in the know about cinema are at a low ebb in our admiration for Jarmusch, and that reviews of this film have been largely mixed; Rotten Tomatoes, where it stands Rotten at 41%, is kind enough to sum up reviews, for those of us who really don't like to do our own thinking about cinema, by calling the film "a minimalist exercise in not much of anything" and "a tedious viewing experience with little reward." Head office, for all their charts and projections, is oblivious of all this, and doesn't much realize that those of us who actually care enough to want to see it have either already bought it, or have plans to do so when the price is right (more on which below), and thus have no need to waste money on a rental. Since middlebrow “fambly” folk won’t touch it on the rental shelf - perhaps trusting the no-neck pool of journalistic jobbos that Rotten Tomatoes draws on - or if they do, will largely find it objectionable or offensive and warn off their friends, the six copies the head office does buy (at a substantial discount and probably in a package with some other relative theatrical failure the distributor is pushing) will only generate enough rentals in two months to pay for three of the six, after which the video store will pragmatically dump five of ‘em into their PV bins at $14.99, to recoup their losses. They’ll sit in their bins - currently there are multiple copies at the Maple Ridge Rogers and Blockbuster locations, which are the only full-on video stores in this town - until it’s time for them to be marked down - a day which us few suburban cinephiles who understand this whole process have been impatiently awaiting; this was the next optimum time, economically, to buy and thus see the movie.

(I apologize to anyone living in the developing world or born into poverty for my refined shopping skills. Anyone who has to carry clean water for a few miles to be able to cook, drink, wash their dishes and bathe has full rights to resent that anyone should have thought enough about buying used DVDs to be able to discourse at such lengths on it. I am very sorry about everything. Please do not join Al Qaida.)

As for that “low ebb in [cinephile’s] admiration for Jarmusch” of which I spoke, I assert that based on conversations I’ve had with a few people: it ain’t everyone, but it sure ain’t just me, either. Though a few people I know find Ghost Dog delightful, there are also quite a few who find that it screws itself up with inappropriate bursts of coyly self-conscious Jarmuschian daffiness, like the whole gangsters-as-Indians-making-animal-sounds shtick: the fuck? These same people think that Iggy Pop in a dress reciting “Goldilocks” in no way improves what Dead Man appears to set out to do, and have similar observations about others of Jarmusch’s films; his fondness for silly non-sequiturs is often at odds with his more mature and disciplined impulses and ends up substantially lessening the impact of his films, even for those of us who admired his early work. Fussy, cruel pricks that we are, folks like us kind of enjoyed Crazy Horse guitarist Frank Sampedro poking fun at Jim’s appearance and cinematic ambitions in Year Of The Horse - tho’ we also enjoyed and admired Jarmusch’s decision to include these barbs in the finished film (which is either in third or fourth place on my list of favourite Jarmusch films, depending on when you ask me; and by the way, if you’re thinking I mustn’t have much of a sense of humour, Mystery Train is number two). Even as far back as the Neil Young film, see, we were getting a bit tired of Jarmusch’s self-reflexive and mannered weirdness, which only interfered with our appreciation for Ghost Dog, Cigarettes And Coffee, and Broken Flowers. Isaach de Bankolé receiving mysterious matchbooks and cryptic messages as he travels about Europe, in a film described as being somewhat cold, flat, and alienating? Um. “Well, if it’s any good, it could be great,” we thought. “It kinda sounds like he’s riffing on Antonioni,” we thought, but swapping Jack Nicholson out for a black guy, which seems quite appropriate and cinephilically crafty, deliberately riffing, maybe, on the camera flip from The Passenger; “I mean, it could be terrific.”

On the other hand, any description I read online made it sound like there was a lot of room for ol’Jim to make a full-on awful film, which certainly seemed within the realm of possibility, since the reviews weren’t often highly positive. The next question then is: are the critics who are panning the film doing so because it’s really not that good, or are they just brainless jobbers with no love or understanding of cinema at all? If you don't care what the people who write for The Province or Sun or most other local papers' film sections have to say about movies, you have to realize that the vast majority of reviewers polled by R/T are exactly the same sort of creature, three parts desk jockey to every one part cinephile. There sure are a lot of them sunsabitches in the newspapers of the world - which is why, oh, I dunno, Gregg Araki’s absolutely terrific pot comedy Smiley Face gets 62% on Rotten Tomatoes while Broken Flowers gets 87% and PT Anderson's embarrassingly bad (and apparently mercifully forgotten) There Will Be Blood gets 91...

Still, with so few people sticking up for it, there was cause to be wary about this film: hence the previous decision to just wait until I could buy it for the cost of renting it, which happened last week some time.

So why not review it now?

Problem: as I type this, I’m only about fifteen minutes into it. Understand that I put quotation marks around “unwind” in the first paragraph: thus unwound, I had to stop to write down my reactions “thus far” before I was prepared to proceed.

Reactions thus far:

1. Oh, my. I’m still thinking Antonioni, and the film has started. And better yet, I’m thinking about Zabriskie Point as well as The Passenger, and wonder if I’ll have cause to think of L’Eclisse or Red Desert or L’Avventura. You know how I knew before they appeared that the first words onscreen at the end of Signal 7 would be “dedicated to John Cassavetes?” I am wondering if this film will end with “Dedicated to Michelangelo Antonioni.” Might I be right, Jim?

2. Ohmigod I’ve waited all this time and now it’s going to turn out to be a fucking masterpiece. I should have just seen it in the cinema. Sorry, man! My faith was shaky, what can I say. If the film delivers on the promise of the first few minutes, this is going to be GREAT!

3. Hm. I suppose eating the math equation IS a bit daffy, but it has a poetic resonance that gangsters-imitating-Indians-making-animal-sounds just doesn’t have. It hasn’t broken the mood, I’m still with it.

4. Ooh, maybe not: my first moment of real worry is when the relative quiet that the film begins with is ruptured by music (by Boris, I think), as our protagonist commences his travels. Up to that point, I had been entirely engaged in the film, interpreting it, questioning it, and being grateful for its restraint, cinematic force, and intelligence. Then suddenly I’m being told how certain images are supposed to make me a feel by an extended abstract psych-y/ Krautrocky piece that is forcefully superimposed on them, and I’m shuddering, rebelling. Unlike the music that Kelly Reichardt uses for Old Joy, say, which actually really suited the mood her images conveyed - or, more relevantly, the discordant electronica that Antonioni used to compliment his images of LA in Zabriskie Point - the music here calls a great deal of attention to itself by not quite fitting with the images, or at least how I’ve been feeling about them thus far. It seems to want me to feel some other way. It’s trippy enough music, mind you, that within a minute or two, it has my attention, but I am also slightly in mourning, the powerful grip of the first five minutes or so having been replaced by a rather loose one. ‘Member Stephen King’s old observation, somewhere in Danse Macabre, I think, that certain films - he cites Deliverance - win our trust immediately with their opening scenes, letting us know that we can relax, because we're in "the hands of a master," or such? At this juncture in my viewing of The Limits Of Control, my trust has not yet been won; I have already been reminded that I am in the hands of someone who sometimes makes cinematic choices that are not altogether sound.

My interest is certainly piqued, however. I get back to it, and spend the next fifteen minutes in a tug-of-war. Sometimes the film works brilliantly. After half an hour, I still can’t judge what it will amount to, but as a collection of perceptual set pieces, it’s astounding, and features my second-favourite-ever deliberate visual confusion between paintings and cityscapes (after the brilliant start of Emile de Antonio’s Painters Painting). De Bankolé doing an unfamiliar version of Tai Chi in his hotel rooms, the way he looks at pigeons in flight from his café seat, the way the camera frames the Spanish town where the action is taking place - these images profoundly understand cineastic scopophilia and resonate long, just like musical notes played on a wooden instrument, which itself is an image used within the film to perhaps suggest an appropriate mindframe for viewing it. Contra the claim that this is an exercise in not much of anything, it's clearly an exercise in meta-cinema. That much you can tell from the gitgo.

There are things that don’t quite work, however. The repetition of the phrase “You don’t speak Spanish” - some sort of secret code - starts to seem a little too mannered and self-conscious, a distraction - like the soundtrack - from fully experiencing the film as a viewer (rather than a processor of words or music). And while occasionally the music works, a montage of images 33 minutes in of a glamourous woman (Tilda Swinton) walking down the street, set to more obtrustive alt-rock stuff, suddenly makes me shift my paradigm away from Antonioni to that of rock videos, which is not really a place I'd wanted to find myself. She will discourse about cinema, point out a references to a Hitchcock film and to The Lady From Shanghai that I confess I had not caught, and later appear in a movie poster within the film, so the self-consciousness with which Jarmusch frames her is clearly deliberate - but what it means I can’t really say; Jarmusch could use a class in meta-cinema from David Lynch, say, whose Inland Empire does a better job of waxing metacinematic without feeling didactic. The hat-tips to Godard are thankfully less obtrusive... It's starting to seem like the film will not deliver on the promise of the first few minutes, but it's certainly still holding my attention.

So it goes with the rest of the film. For all its compelling visual poetry, there’s an overall sense of strained self-consciousness to the film, as if it really, really wants you to be aware of it’s artifice - as if Jarmusch had so little faith in his audience's ability to read an art film that he felt the need to scream "this is an art film!" at them every fifteen minutes or so, which more refined viewers will not need and less refined ones will likely not benefit from. The odd little conversations that de Bankolé has on his journey (which climaxes in a murder) all fit together, obviously, with much talk of molecules and art and “bohemians,” though on one viewing, I can't quite tell you what they mean, other than, perhaps, "we are the good guys" - the film is all too eager to congratulate us for going along with it, like it's striving to create a little in-group of viewers who "get it" and who are thus superior to those that don't. Youki Kudoh, from Mystery Train, makes an appearance on a train. Bill Murray plays some sort of bad guy who appears to represent - oh I don’t know, mebbe mainstream Hollywood, the corporate influence of the arts, or maybe the "control" of the title, a word Jarmusch has him use explicitly without pinning down exactly what he means by it. At least he doesn’t make weird animal sounds, even when he's being strangled. The film seems to attempt to contain within it a theory of how to watch it - or how to watch cinema - which could be instructional for younger viewers, should they try to engage with it, and the tone of the film throughout remains within arm's reach of Antonioni - especially The Passenger - but the “poetry” of Jarmusch is so much clunkier than that of Antonioni that this must be noted. If The Passenger confronts viewers with the sound of one hand clapping, The Limits Of Control confronts us with the sound of one hand clapping really loudly.

By the end of the film, I’m exhausted, and straining to stay awake - no fault of the film’s, it’s just been a long week - but for my reservations, I’ve enjoyed the experience and want to revisit it; I can’t say exactly what I make of it, but I know I like it better than the last three of Jarmusch’s films, has been underrated as much as they were overrated, and I can say that it’s my fave of his since 1997’s Year Of The Horse. Certainly worth the $6 or so I paid for it, in any event! It's a bit late for me to advise my readers to rush out to cinemas to catch the film, but if you head to your nearest video chain’s PV bin, you’ll be able to scoop it up there without much difficulty, at a very reasonable price.

If you haven't already.

A final note: thank you, Wikipedia, for teaching me of The Sons of Lee Marvin, a “semi-secret society” of whom Jim Jarmusch is a member. So is John Lurie, saith Wikipedia. I don’t think I’ll trouble him to ask.

RIP Babz Chula

Damn, I didn't even realize she had cancer. Babz Chula - who created the marvelously memorable character of the pot-dealing dominatrix with mother issues in Bruce Sweeney's Dirty - just died. I really only know the one role of hers but she was great in it...

Tonight...

Didn't have time to find a Golers poster (they play Pub 340 tonight), but I ran into this online:


...I suppose I'm one of the few people who plan to see the Golers after this finishes, anyhow. (Are Theocide any good...? - they also play tonight. How do Deicide feel about their name, I wonder?).

New John Lurie paintings

John Lurie - one of my past interviews with whom is online here - has posted scans of some of his more recent paintings on his website. His work grows progressively painterly and rich, and his titles have his unmistakable candor and humour, though some are troubling ("I Need to Know if There is Life After Death and I Need to Know Kind of Soon"). Check them out, though!

Eugene Chadbourne in Vancouver?

...attentive music freaks will want to know that Dr. Chad is doing a jaunt of small-venue BC gigs, which may or may not lead to a show in late May in Vancouver. Watch his website for more...

Petunia Friday and Sunday

Photograph by Femke, of Petunia at Slickity Jim's (RIP). Not to be reused without permission


Not many yodeling cowboys in this here town, and the chances to see them perform with a singing saw player, a Theremin player, a washtub bass and a violin are few and far between. There's only about one guy that I know of who offers that. Before Petunia "takes to the tracks" on his train tour with the Minimalist Jug Band, thereby ending his tenure at Cafe Montmartre - at least for the summer, which he plans to spend on the road and on the rails - you have only a couple of chances to see him perform. Friday, May 7th, he'll be performing at Little Mountain Studios (195 E. 26th/Main) with his regular band The Vipers (no Theremin there - it's a different band from the one over which I am drooling). The special lineup plays on May 9th at Cafe Montmartre (Main/28th), dubbed Petunia's Valentine Glisse Orchestra - making "slippy, slidy, glissy" music with Fiona Salon on Theremin, Bronwen Jones on singing saw, and Marc L'Esperance on fiddle. Oh, and you-know-who on washtub bass.

Since at least a few of Al Mader's songs will feature during these gigs, I asked Petunia what his favourite song by Al ("so far") is. He says it's "Go, Boy" off the last album, Naive Ville (which I reviewed here). "I thought it was about me. And I talked to other musicians, and I talked to Al, and he said he's had the same - like, people come up to him and say, 'is that about me?' He starts off the song, 'Kicking Horse or Crow's Nest Pass - it's neither here nor there, you wanna be gone fast. Comin' back was a big mistake, this town don't give, it only takes." He's talking about what it's like to be a musician in Vancouver, or anywhere, as an artist. It always seems like you gotta get out of town and go. But you can't - where you gonna go, in Canada? It costs so much money, and it's difficult to get around..."

So the song wasn't actually about Petunia then? "It falls into a lot of people's pockets," Petunia tells me. I think I know what he means...

Patricia and Charlie, sitting in a tree...

Wow. In the last few years of her life, it develops that Patricia Highsmith - everyone's favourite misanthropic, alcoholic lesbian expat (from Texas to Switzerland) crime writer and recreational snail breeder, or at least mine - gave a very positive blurb for Charles Higson's King Of The Ants, calling it "Funny, very tough and full of action." Higson doesn't merit mention in her bio, so I assume the two didn't know each other, and I can't find mention of a full review (so I guess she just blurbed him), but she certainly seems to have enjoyed his writing. I can see why; having only recently learned of his work (see below), I'm proceeding happily through Happy Now, which focuses on various unhappy people whose lives intersect, and finding, in the disciplined transparency of the prose (which strives to accomplish nothing with the language aside from the telling of the story, something I much admire and doubt I could manage) and his interest in perverse psychology, unhappy marriages, and (I gather) murder, a great compatibility with and similarity to the work and themes of... yes, Patricia Highsmith herself. Guess it figures: Graham Greene gave an enthusiastic blurb to Highsmith's Tremor Of Forgery, which, it transpires, is NOT her finest novel, tho' he describes it as such - it's just the one that most closely resembles a Graham Greene book. (You are what you blurb?). Anyhow, I'm enjoying my Higson. Still don't think I'll make it to the Young James Bond books, but who knows...

King Of The Ants

Wow... caught up with a very enjoyable overlooked 2003 direct-to-DVD exploitation film last night, King Of The Ants, in which a young, ambitious, and somewhat amoral guy in LA gets rather over his head with some bad guys, but adapts in surprising ways. The story is based on a novel I have not read by one Charlie Higson, a British writer whose work I will be looking into - though I'll probably skip the Young James Bond novels he's been doing. The characters are so unpleasant, at times, and the choices they make so morally uncomfortable for the viewer that it seems like something Jim Thompson might have penned when feeling singularly masochistic. The director of the film is Stuart Gordon, whom you may or may not remember fondly from the Re-Animator films. While I've been at least passably amused by several of his movies (also including Dolls and From Beyond), I must admit - sorry, Stuart - that tho' his name was the main reason I picked it up, I expected nothing as compelling or interesting as this film (which also has a terrific performance from George Wendt, as a heavy, if you'll pardon the pun; ol' Norm is entirely credible as a ruthless thug, believe it or not). In fact, the most typically "Stuart Gordon" moment - the hallucinated feces-eating creature - is among the weakest of the film (as, alas, is the final image, which, as Ken Eisner notes in his Variety review of the film, is quite cliched - the guy-walking-away-from-burning-building trope). Whatever the shortcomings, however, the characters and dialogue are believable and delightfully crafted, and the narrative/thematic arc of the film will keep you very much engaged. A high tolerance for brutality is recommended, but as long as you can take a bit of torture, you really ought to seek out this movie; it even nets 100% on Rotten Tomatoes, though it has only a handful of reviews...

...think I'll go see what other films of Stuart Gordon's I've missed. He's done a Mamet adaptation, even... fancy that...