p.u.n. 2008 interactive

8/8/2019 P.U.N. 2008 Interactive

1/20

Selections fromThe Princeton University Nightly

P.U.N.We suffer for our art. Now its your turn.

Anny M. Veni Cniin Ei

I. SatireGive Us Your Poor

A Message From the New Jersey Census Bureau .................................................... 2

II. Pop MusicIs A Dream A Lie If It Dont Come True?Bruce Springsteen Returns to the Studio ..................................................................... 5

Singles Going SteadyThe Top 25 Records of 2008 ......................................................................................... 8

III. CinemaHot Fun in the Summertime

The Cinema Weve Forsaken This Season .................................................................13

Cut to the ChaseA Year in Pursuit of the Motion Picture .........................................................................18


2/20

PrincetonUniversityNightly

Give Us Your PoorA Message From the New Jersey Census Bureau

I ye a Ne Ye whos recently been

dispossessed by the rising tide of foreclosure and

insolvency, you might want to ride the current to a place

where nancial depression is not an unwelcome guest

but a full-time resident. This place goes by many names,

but the clinically preferred term, at least among F.B.I.

informants and senior toxicologists, is New Jersey.

Not familiar with New Jersey? No problem. Simply look to your Harbor.There youll nd a hulking green gure known as the Statue of Liberty,

an international symbol of freedom, peace, and respectful inclusion.

New Jersey is the sulking land mass positioned to the Statues immediate

posterior, the terra rma engulfed by industrial haze and meadow-borne

pathogens.

To repeat, the Statue of Liberty has its back to New Jersey. And the message

implicit in this point of choreography transcends the domain of gurative

language. Your quaint notions of personal security, professional integrity,and mass transit dont apply here. But your rent money will go an awful long

way, with a marked emphasis on awful. Take Jersey City, for example.

(Please!) Fifteen years ago, you couldnt buy vegan mufns or artisanal

cheeses in the citys venerable downtown section. Purchase potential was

largely limited to impure Mexican heroin, underage Guatemalan whores,

and crumbling pre-war tenements. The Goldman Sachs/K. Hovnanian

corporate-residential protectorate, now seductively positioned along the

Hudson, was but a grafters wet dream, a phantom gentrication. But

then New York ran out

of space. So Giuliani

& Bloomberg, LLC,

annexed New Jerseys

freshly minted Gold

Coast, a shiny nugget of urban alchemy catalyzed by white-collar jobs

expressly designed for business majors who were turned off by the drudgeries

of an interstate commute or frightened by the prospect of immolation by

a hijacked airliner.

Those jobs are all gone now, of course. But our vacant townhouses and

crumbling pre-war tenements remain. For the nest in low-budget living,

or for a violent clarication of the distinction between urban and urbane,

look to Newark. There youll nd the tattered

remains of Philip Roths childhood, along with

freebase cocaine and grand theft auto. You

might even meet Mayor Cory Booker, the

ambitious young politician whos professed

a desire to luxuriate in your deliciousness

Translated from the post-racial dialect o

political jive, this sentiment has something to

do with either tax incentives or cannibalism.

Which brings us to cuisine, a topic more

immaterial than appetizing. If you relocate to

New Jersey, you simply wont have enough

money to eat out. Sure, youll enjoy the

occasional Houlihans entree or Applebee

dessert, but only to commemorate a landmar

birthday or anniversary. On a night-to-nigh

basis, youll be limited to the wilted produce

and rotting meat offered at your local C-Town

grocer. These foodstuffs will inexplicably cos

more than the diamond-dusted halibut youre

accustomed to reeling in at the Columbu

Circle Whole Foods. Thankfully, youre a card

carrying New York liberal, so youre already

semi-acquainted with the poverty tax

discussed in most Al Sharpton speeches and

Steve Earle songs.

What you might no

be acquainted with

however, is actuapoverty. Please

prepare for its long

sobering embrace. Because if you leave the

New York job market, youll be desperately

poor. New Jersey has only two viable

industries: pharmaceuticals and landscaping

These disciplines are not necessarily mutually

exclusive. Smart Pzer sales reps often

moonlight with a trowel or weed whacker

And even your most accomplished lawn

thE StAtuE of LIbErtY hAS ItS bACk to NEw JErSEY . ANdthE MESSAgE IMpLICIt IN thIS poINt of ChorEogrAphY trANSCENdS

thE doMAIN of fIgurAtIVE LANguAgE.


3/20

vocational academy, or at the hands of a

merciless but colorful Maa don. For a time

New Jersey even housed a founding membe

of the Ivy League, Princeton University. As you

may know, however, Princeton divested itseof its academic trappings in August of 2003

and now dedicates its resources exclusively

to equestrian training and live-in lacrosse

camps.

But given your status as nouveau pauvre

even a passing allusion to Princeton i

probably too rich for your blood. In fact, i

you emigrate to the Garden State, you

need to put down your Fitzgerald and bone

up on your Springsteen. Focus on the portion

of his discography devoted to closed textile

mills, shuttered lumber yards, and disgruntled

Vietnam vets, if only to learn that squalo

and disenfranchisement are old hat for mos

New Jerseyans. This side

of paradise is rife with

the spirits of shut-down

strangers and hot-rod

angels, not ennui-ridden

Amory Blaines. Youd be

wise to observe this striking shift in dramati

personae, and to smile as politely and nonthreateningly as possible when a convoy o

Harleys blows past your Prius.

Another central point: New York may be

the city that never sleeps, but New Jersey

is the state that never shuts the fuck up. Be

prepared to countenance particularly loud

remonstrations of the hypersyncopated

protest music known as el sonido latino

Concerti of uncivil disobedience are reliably

scheduled for 2:30 in the morning every

Tuesday through Sunday. Whether theyrepresent fanfare for the common man or a

requiem for the unemployed will be up to you

to determine, even if its fairly obvious that, in

New Jersey, these demographics are one and

the same. Also obvious is the sheer disdain fo

the sanctity of your hearing. If youre going

to live in New Jersey, youre going to have

to learn to sleep with Tito Puentes entire

rhythm section taking up residence in you

ear canal. Our Puerto Ricans can do thing


guardians are irregularly compelled to trafc in pills, powders, and other

controlled substances.

Living here is cheap, but it aint that cheap. When youre tasked with putting

food on your family and rent money on your slumlord, the silly semanticsof bought versus stolen, legal versus illegal, and yours versus

mine lose their amber-lit intimations. In a state where the invocation of

401(k) is generally regarded as a reference to a nutrient-laden General

Mills cereal, you have to ght for every inch of currency and yard of terrain.

Should you prove an apt pugilist, you might be rewarded with a house out

in Hackensack, Pequannock, or Manalapan. Dont let the names of these

towns scare you. Leave that honor to the towns inhabitants. Because New

Jerseyans are, pound for pound, the most terrifying people in our imperfect

Union. If youre skeptical of this assertion, attend a Bon Jovi concert at

Giants Stadium. There youll see haircuts and clothing ensembles long ago

accorded the indignity of extinction in municipalities that support functional

beauty salons and Marc Jacobs retail outlets.

Bear in mind that these are the New Jerseyans who are sufciently

acculturated to show their faces in public. Beyond the pale of this proud

corps lay the denizens of the West

Jersey Skylands and the South

Jersey Pine Barrens, the former

all beer chug and deer hunt, the

latter all moonshine and dueling

banjos. Both peoples can be

properly described as peckerwoods. But here we speak of fringe cases.

The typical New Jerseyan is actually quite attractive. Every third Jersey boyhas the sun-kissed complexion of a young Rudolf Valentino and the striated

physique of an amateur bodybuilder. His betrothed Jersey girl has the squat-

hewn behind of a tness model and the esthetic dexterity of a licensed

cosmetician. True, the remainder of the population has some congenital

defect linked to power lines or tainted water, but these people keep to

themselves. Or the recreational fairground at Rahway State Prison.

Now, quite logically, youre thinking of sex. And if you move to New Jersey,

youre encouraged to date sedulously. We have but one caveat: If its

from Bayonne, leave it alone. Otherwise youll want to pursue a reckless

course of promiscuity. Our bars dont offer such amenities as coat check

or metal detection, but, once inside, youll be cordially invited to catcha strain of venereal disease not yet identied in the medical literature.

Antibiotic-resistant herpes is a personal favorite.

Perhaps sex isnt your bag. Maybe youre married with children, or Protestant.

Well, adherents of both traditions will be happy to know that New Jersey is

family friendly. Were the state that brought you Megans Law, and many

of our public schools have neither asbestos nor conspicuous displays

of vandalism. (Note: This statement doesnt apply in Hudson, Passaic, or

Essex counties.) A plurality of our high school graduates goes on to higher

education, be it at one of the Rutgers franchises, a non-accredited

NEw JErSEY hAS oNLY two VIAbLE INduStrIES:phArMACEutICALS ANd LANdSCApINg. ANdthEY ArENt NECESSArILY MutuALLY ExCLuSIVE.


4/20

So take another fucking look at the Statue o

Liberty. Gaze past its torch to the towering

infernos of Jersey City, a town aame no

with freedom but with

its residents passion foarson and petty burglary

Look past Lady Liberty

pointy crown, provided

your vision is sharp enough to penetrate the

Hoboken smog, and behold the splendors o

Newark, a place where blunt objects protrude

not out of celebrated pieces of oxidized

headgear but into the decomposing bodies

of forthright homicide witnesses.

If youre poor, tired, or huddled in any way

shape, or form, this is where you belong

Consider the Statues raised hand not a

an afrmation of your citizenship, but as the

spastic thrust of a large woman whos jus

been shot in the back. The bullet, of course

came from New Jersey, the state thats alway

on sale. We understand that your nance

are about as secure as our chemical waste

sites, and were willing to work with you. Ou

rst offer? A hell of a deal on a used rearm

Still hot from activity, ngerprint-free, and

completely untraceable. With 4 hollow-poinbullets left in the chamber.

Dont underestimate the importance of thi

nal sales feature. Because if you accept ou

offer and then prove delinquent on payment

youll want to use the rst bullet on yourself

You might call this suicide. But we prefer to

think of it as a housewarming present.

Welcome to the neighborhood!

(dae: Janay 2, 2009)


with volume that would cause a Guantanamo interrogator to blush with

embarrassment. They make a Concorde takeoff sound like an acoustic set

from Nick Drake.

I know New JerseyHispanics, you say,

because Ive read

the Pulitzer Prize-

winning ction of Junot Diaz. Not really, Sancho. If you want the authentic

Dominican experience, take the 744 NJ Transit bus through Passaic. All

Caucasian males, regardless of size or disposition, will be challenged to

three knife ghts between the Main Avenue Terminal and Presidential

Boulevard. All females, regardless of creed or persuasion, will be alternately

invited to enjoy unprotected intercourse or to prepare a balanced meal of

pernil with rice and beans.

And our Dominicans, mind you, are probably our most gracious people.

One rough encounter with our Irish policemen will convince you that Bill

OReilly is actually quite thoughtful and restrained. And a single unfortunate

transaction with our Italian contractors will make you appreciate the tact

and kindness of Tony Soprano. Itll also underscore an essential truth: The

Sopranos was a great show, but it was founded on a faulty premise. New

Jersey Maa bosses do not see psychiatrists. In fact, no self-respecting New

Jersey male will enter psychotherapy unless the consultation is mandated

by court order. On this side of the Hudson, we have just two APA-certied

physicians: Drs. Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker. Walk-ins are not only

welcome, but expected.

Such neighborly sentiment is the earmark of our immigration and extradition

policies, the coming and the going being virtually indistinguishable. New

Jersey loves New Yorkers, even if weve always resented the pomp and

pretension of Manhattan. During these hard times, the Garden State can

be a potent palliative for your material concerns. Think of us as your own

personal bailout. For the cost of a SoHo loft, you could buy the entire city of

Camden. Hell, well give it you! (Take Trenton, too.) Our generosity knows no

bounds. And neither does our use of foul language.

oN thIS SIdE of thE hudSoN, wE hAVE JuSt two ApA-CErtIfIEdphYSICIANS: drS. JACk dANIELS ANd JohNNY wALkEr.wALk-INS ArE Not oNLY wELCoME, but ExpECtEd.

Back to Contents


5/20

is still releasing new material at a breaknec

pace, all while the lead Bolsheviks of the pun

revolution either y below the radar or rest in

peace. Bruce has not only survived, he ha

prevailed -- so completely and totally, in fact

that the latest chapter in his ongoing sonic

serial is likely to debut at the top of the pops

Which brings us to Working On A DreamSpringsteens 16th studio album. And a

studio album it certainly is. The production

values hew much closer to Pet Sounds ornate

than Nebraska raw, evincing a Brian Wilson

polish as lustrous as the Phil Spector sheen

employed on Born to Run. In many ways

Working On A Dream is a protracted coda

to the best song on E Streets last album, the

nely layered, cautiously hopeful Girls In Thei

Summer Clothes. Unfortunately, nothing on

Dream is quite as timeless or beautiful a

Girls. There are, however, several audaciou

standouts. Outlaw Pete, a whirling, 8-minute

murder ballad, squares Springsteens debts to

Ennio Morricone, supplying a form of Country

Western thats equally earnest and tongue in

cheek. (The songs opening lyrics are, He wa

born a little baby on the Appalachian Trail

At six-months old hed done three months in

jail.) The track has the forward propulsio

of the White Stripes

Black Jack Davey

and the vignette

fueled poignancy

of Lou Reeds Street Hassle, even if thi

particular hassle is set where the streets have

no names. The myriad comings and going

of Outlaw Pete are prompted by a stubborn

harmonica motif, the same foreboding rif

that Springsteen used to usher in each verse

on Nebraska. This is history repeating itself

rst as tragedy, then as farce.


bce Sinseen as e Aleane keensy

e mi-1970s msical evlin. He played the

reformer who preceded the radicals, an envoy of sounds

past sent to redeem, rather than destroy, rock and rolls

integrity. Born to Run and Darkness On the Edge of Town

were chrome-wheeled, fuel-injected musical correctives,

the rst a masterful synthesis of Elvis cool and Dylan smart,

the second an extended lament on broken promises thatrefused to pander or ingratiate. Together, they represent

a tightening of the fretboard, a movement away from

the twin indulgences of Me Generation music -- narcotic

prog, decadent disco -- and toward the atomic power

of Chuck Berrys three-chordacopia.

Bruce Springsteen, in other words, was punk rock before the phrase wasexclusively bequeathed to the prickly and the petulant.

Lest the cries of protest drown out this thesis scattered applause, consider

the following: Thunder Road has no refrain; Its a death trap/Its a suicide

rap predates No future for you! by 3 years; Adam Raised a Cain

features a one-chord guitar solo; and Were born with nothing/And better

off that way sums up the Clashs early discography in under 10 words. The

enduring message of American pop music from the daunting Ford-Carter

period is best articulated thusly: Nevermind the bollocks, heres the Boss.

But when compared

to the riotous ethos

of English punk

and New York No

Wave, Springsteens glory-days work can come across as shockingly

nonconfrontational. This is part cultural amnesia, part historical inevitability.

Darkness packs more righteous anger than anything ever written by Johnny

Rotten or Joe Strummer, but it lacks the sound and the fury that came to

characterize punk -- or, perhaps more pertinently, the furywithin the sound

that came to characterize punk.

Springsteen was not a reckless amateur out to assassinate Pink Floyd or

Elton John. He was a lifer -- a professional musician in it for the long haul

rather than the short stint. Thirty ve years after his major-label debut, Bruce

Is A Dream A Lie If It Dont Come True?Bruce Springsteen Returns to the Studio

bruCE SprINgStEEN wAS puNk roCk bEforE thE phrASE wASExCLuSIVELY bEquEAthEd to thE prICkLY ANd thE pEtuLANt.


6/20

to the same standards as, say, Lady GaGa, largely because

hes not a one-hit wonder or a one-trick pony. He is a life

-- and, for better or for worse, every song he writes will have

to coexist alongside Thunder Road, Rosalita, Badlands

and Dancing In the Dark. More importantly, every album hemakes will have to hold its own againstBorn to Run, Darkness

and The River.

Whats disconcerting about Working On a Dream is that i

doesnt have the same narrative focus as most of Springsteen

earlier efforts. It feels more like a short story collection edited

ad hoc by the E Street Band rather than a novel expressly

written by Bruce. If The Rising was the denitive post-9/11

record and Magic an enlightened commentary on the

failed Bush presidency, what is Dream? A tribute to Obama

mantra of Yes We Can!? An odds-and-sods lead-in to a

Superbowl halftime show? Or a loosely assembled tapestry

of quixotic musical notions, none of which lead or act a

emblem of the age?

Perhaps its a little bit of all three -- an album without an

immediately apparent identity. Luckily, what Dream lack

in continuity, it makes up for in hope. The Boss sounds fairly

contented on this particular collection, like a man who

weathered a storm and is ready for whatever comes next

And while we cant begrudge a man for nding happiness

we can certainly envy his predicament. Its not often tha

Springsteens feelings run in direct contrast to the nationazeitgeist. During hard times, hes usually the one singing

about the closed textile mills, the shuttered lumber yards

and the forgotten veterans. And if Dreams bonus track is any

indication of where Springsteens next song cycle is headed

we should expect a return to topicality.

The Wrestler, composed for Darren Aronofskys lm of the

same name and added to Dream as a last-minute arrival

proves that Bruce hasnt lost his talent for eliciting tears. The

track is as stark as its story, solo acoustic aside from a pinc

of vocal doubling and moody keyboards. Sufce to say tha

it makes Streets of Philadelphia sound like Walking OnSunshine. Touching points of lyric -- including Have you eve

seen a one-armed man punching at nothing but the breeze?

and I come and stand at every door/...I always leave with

less than I had before -- haunt not just this track but shimme

over the whole of the album, making one wonder how thei

author could possibly be guilty of the textual offenses found

on Queen Of the Supermarket. But thats the essence o

Working On a Dream: Inconsistency rather than equanimity

several high peaks climbing out of a few low valleys.


Pete segues into My Lucky Day, one of the most resilient

love songs Bruce has ever written. It takes the sadness and

betrayal that compose the DNA of Tunnel of Love and turns

them on their head. To poach a phrase from a much-beloved

Tracks number, this is the Boss saying that your love has not,and will not, let him down. He sings of exiles and lost bets,

but, in sharing lead vocals with Steven Van Zandt, he evokes

the tumbling dice of the Rolling Stones All Down the Line.

Lucky Day is easily Dreams most exhilarating track.

Its mostly downhill from there, but the grade is far from

vertiginous. The title song is pleasant but shallow, just another

entry in the cliched as anthemic sweepstakes. (See Paul

McCartneys Freedom for clarication.) Queen Of the

Supermarket is patently ridiculous from a lyrical standpoint

(As the evening sky turns blue/A dream awaits in aisle

number 2), but its propped up by an energetic, power-pop

bridge. This Life should send its meager residuals directly

to Brian Wilson, Tomorrow Never Knows to John Fogerty,

and Life Itself to the Byrds. But despite each songs clawing

derivativeness, all three contain evident merit -- a little bit

country, a little bit rock and roll, a lot of homage.

Surprise, Surprise is an unexpected Hallmark card: somewhat

conventional but utterly welcome and good-humored. Its

more reective than Waiting On a Sunny Day but poppier

than Janey Dont You Lose Heart, as evidenced by frequent

and endearing organ ourishes. The Bay City Rollers guitarrave/drum break at the 2:15 mark is the catchiest construct

Bruce has put together since the Reagan era.

This happy enthusiasm abruptly gives way to the sad sunset

of The Last Carnival, an affecting elegy for E Streets fallen

phantom, Danny Federici. The track begins with bright

boardwalk keyboards, transitions into a Simon & Garfunkel

acoustic pluck, and concludes with a gospel chorus that

invites Danny on up for the rising. Its a worthy sequel to

1973s Wild Bills Circus Story. This is a tale of fading fortune

-- Sundown, sundown/Empty are the fairgrounds -- but the

music serves as a force of levitation. The Phantom is lost butnot forgotten, from the light heart of a Dream.

And such an invocation, paraphrasing as it does the nal

couplet from Adam Raised A Cain, reminds us that the past

is more than prologue. Sometimes, as William Faulkner wrote,

the past is not even past.

So it is with Springsteen. His new material cannot be assessed

in a vacuum; it must be graded on a curve, with his complete

discography present and accounted for. The Boss is not held


7/20

not be as urgent or necessary as Darkness, but it subscribe

to the same basic principles. Its dedication might read a

follows: For the ones who had a notion/A notion deep

inside/That it aint no sin to be glad youre alive.

Springsteen wrote these lines in 1978. On Dream, he reafrm

them.

(dae: Janay 27, 2009)


The nal verdict is as telling as it is unfair: Bruce Springsteen is

guilty of not delivering the impossible -- he has not matched

Born to Run orDarkness On the Edge of Town. But how could

he? And why should he? In the past 35 years, Bruce has

grown not just as an artist, but as a man. The head spacehe occupies as a 59-year-old singer-songwriter and thriving

multimillionaire must clash inexorably with the psycho-social

contexts that helped foment the punk revolution.Dream may

Back to Contents


8/20

or schizophrenic. The either/or has been

replaced by the and as in, This year

releases broke every existing quantitative

record of quality, consistency, and artistry.

AND In 2008, our per annum musical outpu

was so malodorous that it must have been

delivered per anum.

Which brings us to method of disseminationa central performer in 2008s cavalcade

of stars. This was the year when the album

ofcially died. True, multi-track recording

had been on life support for the better part o

this millennium; but our current predicamen

represents a pulled-plug reality. Formerly

albums were owned. In 2008, albums go

pwned! Blame iTunes, internet piracy

corporate consolidation, or the peripatetic

consumer. But dont deny it: Beyond any

reasonable doubt, and for the rst time

since Rubber Soul, the single has assumed

unquestionable primacy in the record

business.

This is both a cause for exhilaration and a

harbinger of despair. The singles pedigree i

impure, at once exalted and low-rent. Elvis

Little Richard, the Beatles, and the Rolling

Stones were all products of the age of 45

and 78s single, viny

records featuring an

A side and a B side

The King and the

Architect had neithe

their discographies nor their reputation

sabotaged by this arrangement. And the

Fab Four and the Stones were introduced by

such singles collections as Meet the Beatles

and Englands Newest Hitmakers before

graduating to the raried terrain of concep

albums and coherent, purpose-laden track

transitions. But the fact remains that they


2008 ill e ememee as e yea msic

en dicensian: It was the best of times; it was the

worst of times. Never before has the listening public been

blessed with such a copious inventory of good music,

but never again -- we hope, pray, and plead! -- should

its ears be burdened with a parade of pop stinkers quite

as pungent as the dead-beats in this years repertoire.

The explanation for this hostile coexistence of ups and downs is simple:sheer volume. Credible pop music is easier to make, record, and share than

at any other time in our species sordid history. Pro Tools can indulge the

rank amateur as well as the seasoned virtuoso. Auto-Tune can cosmetize

the croon of vocal paupers and rock royalty alike. In short, the existing

technology is such that one neednt be able to carry an instrument or hold

a high note to become a chart topper.

There used to be an entire genre reserved for artists who could neither play

nor sing. It was called punk. Now, apparently, its called pop.

Thankfully, the meaning of pop takes on some much-need elasticity when

its dened from a perspective of inclusion and healthy curiosity. True pop

music is under no obligation to be popular, largely because a songs identity

isnt determined by its peak Billboard position or its relative commercial

ubiquity. Pop reveals itself through rhythm and harmony, infectiousness

and accessibility the medium and the message doing a twist so intimate

it would bring a rise to Chubby Checkers nether regions. Some pop songs

are primarily physical,

others markedly

intellectual. When

theyre good, mind

and body are usurped

by the sublimation of the spirit. When theyre bad, the resulting milieu is

closer to the ridiculous than the sublime.

The cheers-and-jeers phenomenon emblematic of 2008 is not a spontaneous

product of the past 12 months. The distance between the poles of good and

bad pop music has been lengthening for some time. Only now, however,

do we have the perfect simultaneity of prosperity and poverty. One can

make seemingly paradoxical critical arguments without sounding careless

Singles Going SteadyThe Top 25 Records of 2008

thErE uSEd to bE AN ENtIrE gENrE rESErVEd forArtIStS who CouLd NEIthEr pLAY Nor SINg. It wASCALLEd puNk. Now, AppArENtLY, ItS CALLEd pop.


9/20

Land unintelligible or Igor Stravinskys Rite

of Spring meaningless. But Ive got to be

honest: I dont think Tha Carter III is a Waste

Land or a Rite of Spring. And I dont think

Lil Wayne, despite his reckless rhymes andunconventional cadences, is a Bob Dylan

Curtis Mayeld, Chuck D, or Kurt Cobain

What I do think is that hes unlistenable.

Which only solidies his status as the avata

of 08. Lil Wayne, like this years pop music

and the medium of the single itself, is both

celebrated and playa-hated. But whethe

he receives praise or opprobrium, Wayne i

constant on one central point: He matters

And only the coming years can determine

whether this relevance will matriculate into

timelessness or fade into obscurity.

The same can be said for the following

collection of singles. To my awed but hones

ear, they comprise the elite tier of what 2008

had to offer in the broadly dened

eld of pop music. They represent the

best of times in Dickens most famou

juxtaposition.

Le emcanll.1. You ArE thE bESt thINg

rAY LAMoNtAgNE

Insofar as it describes the songs relative merit

take the title literally. This years top single

starts with a 6-part horn blast as headshakingly

tight and affecting as a Sugar Ray Leonard

combination. Its the brass equivalent of a

killer guitar riff, giving the track verve and

texture before LaMontagnes singular voice

gives it denitive direction. Perhaps we can

nally stop labeling Ray as a latter-day JoeCocker and start appreciating him as a

formidable hybrid: urgent like Otis Redding

raspy like Van Morrison, and confessional like

Bobby Womack.

2.CALIforNIA gIrLS thE MAgNEtIC fIELdS

From merit to Merritt. Stephin Merritt is the

most clever lyricist in contemporary pop

and his basso profundo of a voice is the

perfect vehicle for expressing good humored


did graduate. They progressed from a culture of ad hoc recording to a

golden era of album-oriented pop, one in which Did you get the latest

Stones record? meant Did you get Beggars Banquet?, not Did you

get Sympathy For the Devil?

The album, in other words, replaced the single as the foremost embodiment

of what the term record signied.

That era is gone. The single is back with a vengeance, and its rolling a

guillotine in tow. In 2008, ostensibly massive releases from Guns n Roses,

Usher, Kanye West, and Beyonce either opped outright or performed

well below their great expectations. This is the logical outcome of a slow-

churning degenerative cycle: Earlier this decade, the consumer was

unprecedentedly empowered by the twin forces of le sharing and digital

downloads. Record labels, losing sales and lawsuits, bequeathed their

content houses to multi-threat entertainers rather than dedicated musicians.

The consumer consequently bought the entertainers ring tones and lead

singles, but left their albums sitting pockmarked and bloated on the shelves

of big box retailers that didnt need to sell music to stay in business. Actual

record stores became insolvent as the petty consumer grew more and more

bold. The DIY ethic championed by underground punk nally ransacked the

commercial mainstream. Everyone was on the make: Customers made (that

is, burned) their own albums

while artists made singles and

record companies made

fundamental adjustments to

their operational model.

The long player was dead. Long live the long player!

The consumer notwithstanding, who can purport to smile while pop musics

sacred fortress succumbs to thievery, vandalism, and implosion? Who can

offer a requiem for the album? In 2008, the only conceivable answer is

Lil Wayne. First, he delivered a stunningly long series of variations on his

specialty lucrative guest spots on other artists records. Consider this the

Charles Grodin portion of his year. Next, he delivered the impossible a

blockbuster album (2.7 million units moved) that simultaneously garnered

cash-money critical reviews and a new legion of devoted, paying fans.

Call this the Jesus Christ portion of his year.

As 2008 sweeps to a close, Lil Wayne is faced with the prospect of a

new beginning: a top-billing pop career remarkably far removed from his

humble, New Orleans roots. The American way is to celebrate the unlikely

winner, to regard his potential as being innite in all directions. Only I think

we need to be careful about whom we anoint as our musical messiah. Pop

music, like the ne arts before it, has entered a period of stylistic uncertainty.

In decades past, a masterwork has emerged out of the aesthetic black

hole something too avant garde to be appreciated by traditionalists yet

too complex to be matched by sympathetic contemporaries. As a critic,

I dont want to be the idiot who, in real time, calls T.S. Eliots The Waste

forMErLY, ALbuMS wErE owNEd.

IN 2008, ALbuMS got pwNEd!


10/20

hes conjuring levitation. And the momentum

is somewhat counterintuitive: The song

lyrics depict a globe on re, prey to melting

ice caps, hurricanes, and the ecologica

equivalent of the hard rain that Bob Dylanpredicted in 1963. But when the heat wave

calls his name, Beck responds with a coo

dose of surf rock. Times being as hard a

they are, who can fault man for deciding to

boogie through the apocalypse?

8. hot N CoLd kAtY pErrY

Given the late-Aughts tendency toward in

studio airbrushing, we really dont know wha

to make of Katy Perry. The jurys still out on

whether she can actually sing (and, sadly

whether shes compelling enough to be a

rst-rate pop star). But the foreman report

unanimity on one facet of the docket: Katy

songs have more hooks than your rednec

uncles tackle box. And Hot N Cold is the

very denition of good pop music. Its peppy

tuneful, and uniquely engaging to 13-year

old girls. Laugh if you want, but 45 year

ago these words could have been used to

describe the Beatles.

9. hoNEY ErYkAh bAduWhether it was named in deference to the

classic Ohio Players record or teas second

favorite condiment, Honey is 2008s funkies

track. It harkens back to the organic sound

of early 70s soul without forsaking modern

hip-hops hypersyncopated, mechanica

production. Badus voice is dripping with

seductive overtures but never invokes the

grabbin-on-yo-booty lechery of R. Kelly and

his R&B school of satyrs. The song is hypnotic

not erotic. And it also has this years bes

video, hands down!

10. furr bLItzEN trAppEr

A folk-pop bildungsroman, in which a he

wolf protagonist turns on, tunes in, drop

out, and prodigally returns to his humanity

Sounds scary, but its among 2008s mos

overtly beautiful songs. Imagine Arcade

Fires Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels) with les

dissonance and a more wizened voice

Perhaps Blood On the Tracks-era Bob Dylan


cynicism. Two versions of this song were released in 2008. One was sung

by Merritt, the other by his sweeter throated bandmate, Claudia Gonson.

Both contain ambient feedback and the line They come on like squares/

Then get off like squirrels/I hate California girls. Quite a long way from the

protracted, harmonic coda of I dig girls! that the Beach Boys employedin 1966. If Brian Wilson were dead, hed be rolling in his grave. Or singing

along.

3. 100 YArd dASh rAphAEL SAAdIq

Stax and Motown collide with Hi and Arista on this propulsive, rather than

explosive, track. Saadiq controls the cadence so expertly youre tempted

to check his suit jacket for a metronome. Hes smoother than Skippy peanut

butter and funkier than a pair of left-over drawers. Singing above several

layers of rmly plucked strings, Saadiq clocks a personal best in eet-footed,

beat-tempered musicianship. He offers a command performance. About

the only thing thats not believable is the songs narrative: Raphael Saadiq

races after no woman. The girls come to him.

4. VIVA LA VIdA CoLdpLAY

The years nest Bourbon blues song. Amid spare, blunt, and occasionally

shrill orchestration, Chris Martin tells the tale of a king dethroned. The tracks

selling point and it was, unlike numbers 1 - 3, a major seller is its build from

the peep of weary lament to the bombast of residual pride. By the time we

get to I hear Jerusalem bells a ringing!, we know that the song is arena-

ready. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. But it wont be denied its

share of gladiatorial glory.

5. CAMpuS VAMpIrE wEEkENd

As cosmopolitan as cheerful indie pop could ever hope to be, Campus

works the student body from Cambridge to Palo Alto, from Kingston to

Lagos. Its the most infectious single from The Vamps remarkably invigorating

debut album. And the track is best characterized by a trio of adjectives

beginning with the letter P: pulsating, polyrhythmic, and peculiar. Its quirky

in a reassuring way, like a John Irving novel or a Mark Mothersbaugh score.

Plus you can dance to it, if youre so inclined.

6. MY LuCkY dAY bruCE SprINgStEEN

Given our countrys escalating rate of unemployment, 2009 may be the

year that a long-cherished E Street boast The only Boss I listen to is Bruce

Springsteen. goes mainstream. Fortunately, this track will put a smile onyour face as you stand in line at the local ofce of social services. Bruce

synthesizes up-front production with distant, echoing vocals, as if Paul

Westerberg or Julian Casablancas were singing on Pet Sounds. The song

could be a River outtake notice the sonic similarities to My Love Will Not

Let You Down or a Born In the USA rave-up. Think of it as the redemptive

sequel to Downbound Train, 25 years down the road.

7. gAMMA rAY bECk

The stutter and shake of this tracks opening guitar chords give it the sound

of a helicopter in the midst of takeoff. Beck isnt just supplying airy pop,


11/20

holster his lollipop. Madonna can leave he

candy shop unattended. Well take Sharin

Foo mouthing Sune Rose Wagners love-junkie

plea: Come on give me a dirty treat!

17. froM MY hEArt to YourS LAurA IzIbor

Whats not to like about a Dublin-based

chanteuse with bigger pipes than Bono?

Izibor gives new meaning to the black Irish

sobriquet, proving that the Emerald Isle can

brandish a deeper shade of soul just as we

as a shillelagh. This song could have worked

in mid-60s Detroit or early-70s Philadelphia

not to mention on last years Amy Winehouse

album. Izibors voice is classic and current

part Patti LaBelle, part Joss Stone, all good.

18. LoVE thAt gIrL rAphAEL SAAdIq

The best Smokey Robinson song not written o

performed by Smokey Robinson. This is Saadiq

as the composer of sonic homage, working

another falsetto-laced miracle. His The

Way I See It album plays like a collection o

standards, with Love That Girl acting as a

standard bearer for the neo-Motown sound

The tempo is allegro, the rhythm is intoxicating

and the singer is absolute dynamite. Mickey

Monkey just got spanked.

19. MANhAttAN kINgS of LEoN

New York may be the city that never sleeps

but the Kings Manhattan catches the majo

borough in the act of waking up. The guitar

are a reticent knock on an apartment door

the singing a real-time evolution from groggy

to winsome. The Followills charm is bruised

and battered, splattered all over Manhattan

But well take it nonetheless.

20. prIVAtE AffAIr thE VIrgINSMore New York noise. Only this time from

cagey upstarts. A little bit disco, a little bi

rock n roll, Private Affair evinces avor

of everything from Robert Palmer to Duran

Duran to the Strokes. Its lo- indie dressed in

hi- club clothes, but the songs central theme

is no-. As in, no delity. Monogamy, we hardl

knew ye.


is the best reference point: Blitzens boy wears his furr begrudgingly through

re and rain alike, but his trusty hyde never fails to provide shelter from the

storm.

11. gErALdINE gLASVEgAS

The Jesus and Mary Chain as produced by Phil Spector, with lyrics by a post-

rehab Lou Reed. Glasvegas use feedback, pounding drums, and soaring

background vocals to tell the story of an angelic social worker, a brilliant

North Star in an addicts occluded sky. Geraldine argues that peace,

love, and understanding are not funny but salvational. Millions of U.K.

listeners have already been convinced. America stubborn assent should

come next.

12. IM Not goNNA tEACh Your boYfrIENd how to dANCE wIth You

bLACk kIdS

Band name aside, this is dyed-in-the-wool White People music. It sounds like

something the Cure might have dreamed up if Robert Smith was charged

with providing a lively dance track for the Pretty In Pink soundtrack.

Jingle-jangle guitars, a catchy call and response, and shimmering synths

put a smile on a cry of disappointment. Its Duckie singing to Andie, secure

in the knowledge that hes already lost her to Blane.

13. tIME to prEtENd MgMt

Built on a deadly, distorted keyboard riff (denitely the most memorable

of the year), Time twitches with the energy of youth and sound effects

reminiscent of Nintendos Pole Position. Theres also a wry narrative: Two

kids pursue rock stardom, fast women, and mind-blowing drugs, but nd

no comfort in such directionless pastimes. To quote Jackson Browne, they

started out so young and strong only to surrender. Say a prayer for The

Pretenders.

14. tAkE Your tIME AL grEEN, wIth CorINNE bAILEY rAE

Al Green is still in love with you. Really! And this track marries his Simply

Beautiful come-on with the requited love of Im Glad Youre Mine.

Corinne Bailey Raes collab is perfect. Its a partnership, not a pissing contest

or an extended act of supplication. The result? Bedroom music thatll sound

great in your soul kitchen.

15. CApE Cod kwASSA kwASSA ESAu MwAMwAYA

The best adulterated Afro pop this side of Vampire Weekend. Yes, thisis a Vamps track, but it gets completely repossessed by Mwamwaya, a

frenetic Malawian party starter. This transition is less a ceremonial act of

decolonialization than a win-win for lovers of rhythm without the blues.

CCKK is far happier than any indie-inspired dance single has the right to

be. But we expect no chiding U.N. resolutions.

16. You wANt thE CANdY thE rAVEoNEttES

Sounds like Buddy Holly getting his ass kicked by the Reid brothers and

My Bloody Valentine. Candy is bittersweet in the best sense of the term:

dulcet guitar raves meet biting lyrics wrapped in innuendo. Lil Wayne can


12/20


pedophilic priests in her parish ofcially have

hard ons. And every last lapsed Catholic now

has his paean.

25A. NEEd u bAd JAzMINE SuLLIVAN

Reggae-tinged soul from the City of Brotha-ly

Love. Sullivan had a hit with the big paybac

plot points of Bust Your Windows, but tha

single seems destined to serve as the urban

counterpart to Carrie Underwoods Before

He Cheats. Need U Bad is sung more

longingly. Its got the rhythm and the blues

which is no small achievement in a year where

pop tipped headlong toward the former.

25b. hArd tIMES thE pArLor Mob

The Led Zeppelin reunion is a go. And it

happening in Red Bank, New Jersey. The Mob

brings the hammer of the gods to Springsteen

territory, mixing naked derivativeness with new

inroads into a genre best described as pagan

soul. Hard Times sounds like Schools Ou

For Summer interwoven with Rick Derringer

Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo. Only Rober

Plant is on vocals and the rhythm section

inexplicably anticipates punk. Its a grea

song by the next great Jersey band. Lets jus

pray that its title doesnt come to characterize2009, musically or otherwise.

21. g up ALbErt hAMMoNd, Jr.

The Strokes guitarist puts down his beer and picks up his Starbucks. This track

features the years most highly caffeinated guitar riff, a jittery blast that

weaves between accelerated garage rock and blindingly fast calypso.

Heres to hoping that the songs muse was coffee, not cocaine. If Hammondgoes into rehab, the Strokes may never release another album.

22. drEAMIN wEEzEr

Weezy like Sunday morning. Rivers Cuomo assumes his default position: at

on his back and alone with his thoughts, doing his damndest to stave off the

incursion of reality. Sure, its a stubborn leitmotif in Weezers discography,

but itd be stupid to underestimate the resonance of Cuomos woe-is-me

soliloquies. From this fertile womb, Emo was born. And Dreamin makes it

obvious that were best served by sticking with the genres godfather.

23. CArpEtbAggErS

JENNY LEwIS, wIth ELVIS CoStELLo

Its unclear if Jenny Lewis is moonlighting from Rilo Kiley or if Rilo Kiley is

merely a side project to her solo career. That conundrum will eventually

play itself out. In the meantime, lets acknowledge that she writes indie-

fabulous pop songs tunes that would top charts if people actually heard

them. Here she teams with Elvis Costello, another pop songwriter whos

regarded as alternative, to expose the Johnny-come-latelies who trafc

in love and theft. Look out, Bob Dylan!

24. thE NuNS LItANY thE MAgNEtIC fIELdS

Sacrilege shrouded in comedy. The titular nun enters the confession box,

and her subsequent testimony is tantamount to devils music: I want tobe a topless waitress/I want my mother to shed one tear/Id throw away

this old sedate dress/Slip into something a tad more sheer. All the non-

hoNorAbLE MENtIoN:No oNE, ALICIA kEYS, AMErICAN gANgStEr tIME, ELVIS CoStELLo, 4 MINutES, MAdoNNA, fEAturINg thE rESt

of thE frEE worLd, IM AMAzEd, MY MorNINg JACkEt, SLY fox, NAS, LuCId drEAMS, frANz fErdINANd, So

whAt?, pINk, NEVEr MISS A bEAt, kAISEr ChIEfS, how to hANg A wArhoL, LIttLE JoY, LoVE IS frEE, ShErYL

Crow, CYANIdE, MEtALLICA, MAgICk, rYAN AdAMS, SupErNAturAL SupErSErIouS, r.E.M, ANd EVErYthINg oN

thE rAphAEL SAAdIq ANd VAMpIrE wEEkENd ALbuMS

(dae: deceme 16, 2008)

Back to Contents


13/20

mock outrage at malfunction or prickly

correspondence. The entire enterprise i

soundtracked by a shrill symphony of call and

response, with popcorn vendors providing

the wind and video gamers supplying the

brass. Man and machine trade insults and

allowances, neither one sure who or what i

in control. All thats certain is this: Somewhere

amid the chaos, a series of lms are being

screened. Most of them are identical, save

the names and the numbers, and all of them

are B-features to the A-roll footage being

compiled just outside the theater door.

In both productions one on the silver screen

the other in the venal vestibule the plot

repeat themselves, rst as farce, then a

melodrama. Always as fantasy. The order o

the day is Choose your own illusion!

But what season can we dedicate to the

unmoored imagination if not summer?

Dehydration, sunstroke, and oppressive

humidity conspire to induce hallucinations

misty inner visions of Iron Men, dirty daydream

of Dark Knights. The illusions may be tart o

tasty, but theyre always temporary. That

the quintessence of the May-September lm

forum: transience.

Summer cinema is like summer romance

its very appeal and agent of sustenance ithat it comes with stamped-on start and end

dates. We know when it will be over before

it begins, so the drama, the feeling, and

the responsibility are excised like malignan

tumors. Our loyalties, shaped by the Siamese

twins of advertising and peer pressure, are

constructed of straw, a material quickly

dispatched by wind or re. Our main squeeze

on Memorial Day is but a sketchy specter by


Hot Fun in the SummertimeThe Cinema Weve Forsaken This Season

I n a y i is smme. You saw Iron

Man, Indiana Jones, The Dark Knight, and Tropic

Thunder lms that ask so little of their audiences that

the prospective viewer is inclined to check his cerebral

cortex at the box ofce and leave behind nothing

but a warm chair and a torn ticket stub. Its a ritual

as unapologetic as it is reliable: From the ides of May

through Septembers sunrise, we permit the visceral andthe shambolic to browbeat the intellectual and the

nuanced, partly to satisfy summers epicurean lusts, partly

to iname the cultural ethnocentrism of the French.

But lest the Tricolore y with no measure of compassion or contrition, letit be said that contemporary summer cinema despite being conceived

for emotionally retarded 14-year-old boys bears the thumbprint of the

children of Marx and Coca-Cola whom Godard depicted in Masculin

Feminin more than four decades ago. As it turned out, these kids didntpossess equal affection for both parents. They eventually made a choice

the choice to refuse their bearded fathers name and revel awash in the

sweet comforts of their mothers carbonated, caffeinated embrace. They

razed the movie palace and put up the multiplex a bubbly, bombastic

base of comings and goings, commercials and concessions, where serious

lms go to die.

The multiplex is a medieval city without gates, one that welcomes parties

of raiding Assyrians hell bent on the consumption of carbohydrates and

the dissemination of cell phone messages. The spaced invaders preen,

peacock, prance, and provoke, turning the erstwhile projection house into

a satyricon of id. Behaviors once reserved independently for the market, theboulevard, the concert hall, and the brothel are now clustered under one

roof, a triumph of efciency that helps perpetuate an illusion of progress.

And thats what we trafc in at the multiplex: illusion. The cinema-goer is

cast into a fraught carnival of the senses, where each act and each set

of players fade in and out, like dueling chimera. A primetime ticket lends

entrance to a garish, preadolescent fashion show, a corridor-long rogues

gallery of would-be Romeos and Juliets, and a rotating exhibition of portable

electronic devices, some prompting ngers autter, others engendering


14/20

Such pictures engage the audience, treating it as sentien

rather than inert. They discourage the principal validator

of summer cinema the tendency to fool around, then ee

instead aiming for a lasting relationship between beaut

and beholder. This ethic, of course, has an icicles chance inhell of surviving in the Independence Day heat. It dare no

set foot in the multiplex, lest it succumb to sensory overload

or the pungent vapors of a dropped toaster pastry. It

obliged to rest in refrigeration on the periphery of the prime

movers, haunting the art houses of the Eastern Establishment

enabling its supporters to ratchet up their condescension and

misanthropy. These are the Fredo lms the cinema that

been passed over.

Here we lend quarter to three

of the forsaken. The movie

described below were no

applauded by the multitudes

nor were they American success stories in terms of monetary

take or mass cultural impact. And while their appreciation

index cant be charted on any conventional measuring

device, their per capita pleasure readings are as strong and

exalted as any ripple induced by a comic book characte

or teen idol. Remember, these are Hot lms, pictures that pu

you close rather than blow you away. Theirs is an intimacy

foreign to those who are in thrall to the low-rent species o

cinematic summer lovin, but their connections, when they

hit, run deep. Each lm is mature and self-contained. Theyrequire no sequels because they tell complete stories. They

aspire not solely to art or to entertainment, but to an adul

compromise between the two poles: artistic entertainment.

See them while you still can.

Vicy Cisina bacelna: Woody Allen is perhaps the only

American director who poses serious questions of righ

and wrong, then renders the answers immaterial. His world

is decidedly post-moralistic: Bad behavior is not so much

excused as it is expected. Everyone lies. Everyone cheatsEveryone is either hamstrung by the fetters of self-obsession

or doomed by the Icarus wings of runaway hubris. We should

hate his characters to a man (or, just as regularly, to a woman)

but instead we forgive them their trespasses as a condition

of our entrance fee, our Christian criticisms going down with

the house lights. Allens genius for dialogue and soliloquy

is so formidable that we fancy ourselves interlopers in the

onscreen conversation, eager for the exchange of ideas bu

reticent to stand in judgment of the speakers sins. Content o

character is entirely secondary to character of content, with


Labor Day. And our summer is branded not by fond memories

but by the seductive qualities of forgetfulness.

In ve years, we will not be able to distinguish The Dark

Knight from Batman Begins, just as positive identicationof a particular Spiderman or Pirates of the Caribbean picture

is impossible now that each iteration of the franchise has bled

together into a whirlwind of web-swinging and swashbuckling.

Sequels are ultimately usurped by their successors or

metabolized by their predecessors; either way, they become

part of a nebulous network of streaming celluloid, indistinct

constituents of an amorphous body. The notable exception

is The Godfather Trilogy, a triptych of family portraits more

memorable and more enduring than any Lucas-Spielberg

enterprise.

Lets put that

statement to

the test. Quick, give me a line any line! from Indiana

Jones and the Temple of Doom. Give me the name of a

character any character! not tagged within the lms

title. Now tell me which Corleone brother betrayed Michael

in The Godfather: Part II. Tell me what he looked like, what

he said, when Michael called him in for a fraternal consult

at the Corleones Lake Tahoe compound. Was he sitting or

standing? Did he play dumb or did he purport to be smart?

Did he describe the night clubs he was charged with running

as shabby, second rate, or Mickey Mouse?

If youve failed to reconstruct a single brick in the Temple

of Dooms outer facade but succeeded in conjuring up

a lifelike portrait of the fallen Fredo his undersized frame

supining in an oversized armchair, his mustache full but his

hairline receding along with his condence you can thank

your love of cinema. This love is a product of passion, a

permanent marriage of scene and memory that plays foil

to the juvenile infatuations stoked by Summer Movies. You

have a ing with George Lucas, a tryst with Steven Spielberg,

but you settle down with Francis Ford Coppola, grow old

with Martin Scorcese. Fair-weather lms lose their luster asthe autumn leaves gain theirs; the blockbuster, alas, is but a

seasonal phenomenon.

But beneath the balmy bluster, and above the primacy of

the bottom line, the warmer months do serve up a small

portion of Hot lms. Hot in the sense that Marshall McLuhan

intended, meaning personal, provocative, and, most of all,

participatory. Hot like The Godfather. Hot enough to

hold your interest long after the proverbial boys of summer

have gone.

thESE ArE thE frEdo CorLEoNE fILMS thE CINEMA thAtSbEEN pASt oVEr.


15/20


16/20

Goyas Nude Maja and David as the graying painter himself

His need to wield the brush, however, ultimately distorts and

disrupts the thing of beauty. Instead of a Goya or a Velasquez

we witness the creation of a Turner or a Bosch a shapeles

opium dream occasionally cohering into an amusemenpark of punitive carnality.

Kepesh, once the constant academic but now solid only is hi

uidity, appears destined to embody a Fitzgerald aphorism

Show me a hero and Ill write you a tragedy. But tragedy i

a many-colored matter, a life force with a palette extending

far beyond black and white. This is Roths argument. And i

we can handle the lies, frustrations, and tears, well discove

that some American lives, even those bequeathed to elegy

have second acts.

tell N one (N Le dis a pesnne): The rst rule of Tell No

One is not to talk about Tell No One. A candid revelatio

of plot would poison the pleasure of watching the lm, turning

an elegant jigsaw puzzle of predicament into a paint-by

numbers murder mystery. Lets instead talk of appellation and

pedigree: Tell No One is a French lm bearing American

paternity. The movie is derived from the Harlan Coben nove

of the same name, another coup for the tireless scribes o

North Jersey (Roth coming from Newark, Coben residing in

Ridgewood). More importantly, its a French lm bearing an

American sensibility an Old Wave picture branded with boththe placid classicism and frantic urgency of a Jean-Pierre

Melville crime procedural or an Alfred Hitchcock underworld

spectacular. As in The Man Who Knew Too Much, the

lms protagonist, Alexandre (Francois Cluzet), is accused o

a crime he didnt commit. And as in Vertigo, the centra

characters path to redemption is beset by a series of twist

and turns mirroring those of Lombard Street.

Heres what we can disclose, largely because its a staple

of the lms advertising campaign: Alexandres wife wa

murdered 8 years ago. Today, she emailed him. Something

obviously doesnt add up, and its doubtful that even aLeibniz or a Newton would possess the mathematical agility

necessary to complete the proof. Tell No One is composed

of autonomous layers of villainy, each unsavory characte

primed for the chopping block as the narrative onion i

peeled back, section by section. The lms title is not only

an admonition but a secret, begrudged pact: Since no

one can be trusted, well not speak of the drama until the

curtain drops.

There are good reasons for the characters, be they righteou


auteur to author is easily undertaken without a recalibration

of expectation. Both Allen and Roth are impartial umpires of

mans miseries, content to call their characters out at home

plate, be it on strikes or by means of a dexterous tag. Their

major difference is one of reaction: Allens protagonists,leaning in the direction of the coward or schlemiel, live to

laugh at their misfortunes, or at least to greet them with a

certain Sisyphean durability; Roths leading men, not being

inveterate losers, typically take the hammer strikes of tragedy

directly on the noggin, retiring to tears rather than redoubling

their resistance.

David Kepesh (Ben Kingsley), an aging Columbia professor

and a minor literary celebrity, provides the close-cropped

hard head on which the human drama of Elegy is pounded.

He is fastidiously cultured and incurably intelligent, but hes

yet to master the checks and balances of his libido. Hes

caught in an unavoidable, and ultimately unfair, dilemma of

senior citizenship: The body gets older, but the desire does

not wane. It doesnt take a room full of PhDs to predict what

will happen when young Consuela (Penelope Cruz, again)

registers for one of the proud professors graduate seminars:

Kepesh will win her admiration, hoisting pointed allusions to

Tolstoy and Velasquez like glistening Heisman Trophies, then

endeavor to win her hand. The autumn-spring romance will be

pursued despite the frowns of custom and nature; Kepeshs

audacity is couched in the intrigue of a heroic gamble.

Kingsley is perfectly cast as the predatory professor. He has

a buzzards beak of a nose and a sinewy, vulpine body, a

countenance and frame that are simultaneously threatening

and vulnerable. He can employ the stone-cold stare that

garnered him an Oscar nod for Sexy Beast, replacing the

sheer menace with naked licentiousness, or he can adopt a

visage of desperation, the shame of his alcoholic character

in last years You Kill Me transposed onto a gentleman with

an even more affecting vice: an addiction to the inability

to commit.

The plot of the lm is such that Kingsley needs to display hiscomplete inventory of expression. Cruz, while transitioning

from petty inspiration to coveted object to eternal beloved,

is given a similarly large stock of rope. She can submit to

Davids charms, challenge his jealousies, and expose his

adolescent immaturity, all without lapsing from character.

The onscreen relationship is one characterized by the process

of growing up, with Consuela becoming more worldly and

David laboring to down-shift his ightiness. The lm works best

when the characters work together. They fancy their pairing

a living, breathing work of art, Consuela as the model for


17/20

makes the movie a Hot lm: The audience is pressed for a

plausible explanation, forced to choose a side or pursue a

promising lead. The picture becomes participatory rathe

than mechanical, an organic projection rather than a dead

reel. The result is a thoughtful, surprising action movie. Whenall is said and done, more is done than said. This may be

counterintuitive for an independent feature, but its consisten

with the directive laid out in the lms title.

I js es s: Summer is so fertile a period tha

more matter, less art can work as beautifully at the arts

cinema as it does at the multiplex. The viewers only

task is to determine whether the explosions that occu

within are more dramatic that those that resound from

without. Such is the Bergman-Bay, Scorcese-Stallone

debate writ large. Pick a style and declare a loyalty

This is no season for cold cowardice.

(dae: Seeme 23, 2008)


or wicked, to remain evasive and tight-lipped. The division of

the dramatis personae into camps of competing ethics is not

a mere matter of collation. The police are far from entirely

upright, and they have a dilettantes knack for mistaking

planted evidence for the real thing. The criminals whohunt Alexandre have few redeeming virtues, but the petty

gangsters who protect him at least observe some proletarian

version of noblesse oblige. As for Alexandre himself, he nearly

waits too long to muster the moxie required to master his

affairs. His state of mind is so befuddled and confused that

speaking the truth seems a functional impossibility. What

could he say with condence? And whom could he tell it

to?

In deference to the dictates of the thriller genre rules written

almost exclusively by Hitchcock Tell No One presents

waves of opaque questions for the better part of two hours,

then resolves to answer them all in a 15-minute crescendo

of improvised gunplay and gumshoe daring. This is what

Back to Contents


18/20

Me mae.Less a.Thats this year in cinema as seen

through the eyes of a venerable critic. Its also every year

in cinema as seen through the eyes of any venerable

critic. Frequent are the complaints that the movies have

gone muscular and maudlin, that risk-taking independent

lms are being tted for their cofns, that the cinema at

large is etching its own epitaph. This boy-who-cried-wolf

narrative repeats itself each December, rst as tragedy,then as a farcical rehash of principled offense, in which

the protest becomes a smokescreen for entitled, byline-

driven tastemaking.

We know that Hollywood is decadent and depraved. We knowthat multiplex movies are terrible, and that art house offerings stand no

chance of penetrating the Peorian culture divide. We know that one must

look to France, Asia, and Eastern Europe for honest and urgent lms. And

we acknowledge, unbegrudgingly, that the American body cinematic at least as rendered by the years award-oriented schedule of releases

is reminiscent of a female nude from Picassos Cubist period: purposely

mathematized, mongrelized, and misshapen, so as to be at once pregnant

and possessed of an immense posterior. We labor through 9 months of lms

worthy of morning sickness and unfortunate bowel movements, then rejoice

in the splendor of the falls Oh, Baby! pictures a sudden afrmation of

life after a protracted deadening of the senses. Come December, we step

back, assume some measure of perspective, and marvel at the heft of

our year-end rear end. The picture is more crowded than pretty: Dozens

of interesting (perhaps even important!) lms are shoved into 3 weeks of

calendar. Or, to be anatomically appropriate and sartorially suave, 5 yards

of ass is shoved into 3 feet of stocking, with the proverbial junk in the trunkstill being insufciently bootylicious to redeem the years larger sins.

The 10-minutes-to-midnight retrospective plays like an unimaginative

preview to the screen adaptation of a Charles Dickens novel: Coming

soon to a theater near you...abject poverty and imminent catastrophe!

But if the sky fell half as often as predicted by the more-learned scribes

of modern journalism, humanity would be buried under several layers of

atmosphere. Cinema would be accorded an ofcial death certicate

rather than a diagnosis of irregular heartbeat. And the sentient cinephile

would simply stop buying movie tickets.

The story of this years cinema was not dearth

but excess. To paraphrase the well-informed

opinion of Sarah Palin, the hinterland

Cassandra of our times, there certainly were

a lot of stinkers in the local multiplex. Bu

these losers didnt eclipse the ranks of the

respectable. They just provided the white

noise, the crashes and explosions that mufe

the melismatic din of inspired art.The New York

Times has reviewed nearly 600 lms in the pas

12 months. Thats more than 11 per week. And

thats the problem: Anyone not in the employ

of a deep-pocketed periodical must recuse

himself from offering an authoritative Best of

list. Because however steadfast his passion fo

moving pictures, he couldnt possibly have

seen enough of the years cinema to pencil a

nonnegotiable score into his grade book.

I count myself among this proud troop of the

underexposed. And, by virtue of conscience

and necessity, Im forced to give the cinema

an Incomplete for the year. This grade

is disappointing but eloquent. It speak

volumes about volume and its concomitan

contradictions: There was too much to see

but nowhere to see it. The disparity between

limited and wide release being wha

it is, and the relationship between penny

earned and penny saved being eve

more strained, this years moviegoer had totreat his options as Michelangelo treated the

marble at Carrara. First, examine meticulously

Second, identify the prime candidates. Third

grab your legal tender and hope for the

best.

In short, 2008 was primarily about the pursuit

rather than the mere enjoyment, of the good

lm. In cinematic terms, it was a never-ending

chase scene, with additional quarry alway


Cut To the ChaseA Year in Pursuit of the Motion Picture


19/20

appearing on the horizon, prompting the thousand ships of pursuit and the million pens of analysis. This is a story with more

acts and plot points than Hamlet. So in deference to Gertrude, and with a thumb in Polonius eye, well cut to the chase.

Heres my year in cinema: What I saw and how I saw it.

The rankings indicate genus rather than merit. May the forsaken forgive me. 08 was simply too much, too soon, too often.


and Rebecca Hall give the Catalonian

capital a run for its money. VCB is ultimately

a lm about tourists and natives those who

are free to come and go versus those who

are fated to stay, the transient versus the

constant. Woody thoughtfully places love in

the former category and desire in the latter

Its obvious that he laments the cynicisminherent in the distinction, but if Allen cowered

from our darker truths he wouldnt be among

Americas greatest auteurs.

4. te da kni: Christopher Nolan makes

a big-budget lm in the manner ofMemento

that is, he tells a story in reverse, asking How

did we get here? in an earnest, befuddled

voice. Here is the state of indictment in

which Batman and, by implication, America

inexplicably nd themselves. With two hours o

acrobatic st ghts, ear-shattering explosions

and constructive crises of conscience, Nolan

seeks to restore the reputation of his comic

book hero while exposing the contradiction

of his adopted home-countrys war on terror

The moral of this violent fable is obvious: When

the enemy is free to be ruthless and the knigh

is obliged to be tender, the battle is best lef

unfought.

5. Mil: Maybe its the years best civil rights

picture. Maybe its Good Will Hunting with

queers. Either way, Milk is Sean Penns lm

He creates a character as indelible as Jef

Spicoli or Jimmy Markum, this time in a contex

betting the raried ring of immortality. Harvey

Milks last name is just one letter removed from

Martin Luther King, Jr.s iconic initials. And with

the next hurdle to human dignity likely being

a protracted argument over the legality o

teelieie...

1. racel gein Maie: This is the wedding-focused feature Noah

Baumbach should have made as his follow up to The Squid and the

Whale. Its the Berkman clan 15 years down the road, with divorce and

substance abuse having transferred their debilitating traumas and neuroses

from parent to child. Anne Hathaway justies her names connubial

connection to William Shakespeare, nding both the comedy and the

tragedy in her demanding, though non-titular, role. RGM, interestingly, is

not about Rosemarie DeWitts Rachel but Hathaways Kym. It documents

the incursion of an egomaniacal addict, one whose drug of choice is self-

pity and unsolicited attention, at least when alcohol and narcotics prove

hard to come by. Jonathan Demme deserves our applause for capturing

the struggles of sobriety and sorority with such poignancy. He invites us to

the nuptials of a spectacularly welcoming and good-hearted interracial

couple a man and soon-to-be wife encased in a polyethnic tapestry of

impossibly musical friends and relatives yet he never subjects us to schmaltz

or retreaded party favors. His lm is nothing short of a bohemian rhapsody.

2. te Ee heaven: Fatih Akin is the worlds latest indispensable

director. His Head On is arguably this decades greatest picture, featuring

an unforgettable call and response of sin and redemption thats both

timely and timeless. The Edge of Heaven is more awed than Head On,

but also more audacious. Mitteleuropa meets the Middle East, and the

two are conjoined in an unholy union. Abusive patriarchs, golden-souled

concubines, Teutonic homosexuals, and Turkish activists partake in a clash

of civilizations that will someday be revealed as a civil war. The Rook and

the King wear different hats, but they occupy the same chess board and

suffer the same indignities in defeat. Such are geopolitics in the era of the

at globe and the one-way ticket.

Imeecmemale...

3. Vicy Cisina bacelna: To call this lm minor Woody would be as wrong

as it is sophomoric. This is Allens best movie sinceHusbands and Wives, and

yet another of his witty treatises on the pleasures and regrets of accomplished

indelity. The picture gets its particular spice from the Spanish scenery, both

man-made and woman-born. Barcelona is the lms transcendent star, but

strong performances by Javier Bardem, Penelope Cruz, Scarlett Johansson,


20/20


gay marriage, Milk may soon join MLK in the American pantheon of civil

rights leaders. Credit goes to Penn for rendering this comparison merely

suspect rather than patently irresponsible.

6. tell N one: This is a French lm in the American tradition. Jean-Pierre

Melvilles bloody crime procedurals collide head-on with Alfred Hitchcocks

classic suspense thrillers, resulting in a pile of dead bodies and a live-wire

rush toward the hidden kernel of truth that sustains all legit mysteries. The

labyrinthine plot, featuring more twists and turns than Lombard Street, is

supplied by the Harlan Coben novel from which this picture was adapted.

But the lms propulsive force is the work of Francois Cluzet, the French actor

charged with making sense of an absurd situation: His wife was murdered

8 years ago, yet he suddenly begins to receive cryptic emails bearing

her name. The denouement is as creepy as it is stimulating. Call it Lazarus

on celluloid, a murder mystery revived time and again by the power ofrevelation.

7. Eley: Penelope Cruz is hot for teacher. And the teacher is not only

hot but bothered. Ben Kingsley plays a professor who cant commit, an

emeritus in the discipline of desire but an undergrad in the consummation

of lasting relationships. The interplay between art and life is a prominent

thread in the Philip Roth novel that forms the basis ofElegys mise en scene.

The Cruz character is presented as a woman who embodies the unrealistic

expectations of the term masterpiece. Kingsleys David Kopesh yearns to

possess her without accounting for the differences between the hanging

canvas and the breathing bodies pictured therein. The lesson he learns

is time-tested: You can admire a painting from afar, but if you treat your

idealized beloved with the same sense of detachment, your partnership

wont be long for this world.

pnesave...

8. Synecce, Ne Y: Charlie Kaufman joints induce a double high: The

hot sweats of sci- psychedelics coexist with the chilling depths of narcotic

reality. Synecdoche is certainly a trip, but perhaps an overambitious one.

Caden Cotard, a small-change theater director (reliably well played byPhilip Seymour Hoffman), attempts to construct a body double for life at

large, a 24/7, three-dimensional YouTube where we broadcast ourselves

or someone like us. Cotard never wants to turn off the camera or stunt his

narrative arc, fearing that he might miss something most notably his own

death. But as Vladimir Nabokov wrote, desire and decision are the two

things that make a live world. Cotard displays plenty of the rst but not

quite enough of the second. The result is an affecting, deliberate, almost-

never-ending story.

9. te Las Misess: French director Catherine

Breillat makes maddening lms. They skir

the border between the intellectual and the

pedantic, the erotic and the pornographic

never declaring a loyalty or following a cleapath towards resolution. The Last Mistress

continues this cinematic caprice. There are

ashes of genuine beauty amid a carnival o

generic lusts, but the picture is best conceived

as a sadomasochistic device: something tha

inicts pain in the name of pleasure. Asia

Argento gives a spirited, savage performance

in an otherwise glacially-paced lm. Shes the

movies saving grace.

10. 4 Mns, 3 wees, an 2 days: Winne

of the 2007 Palme dOr at Cannes,4 Months

didnt reach American theaters until the rs

month of 2008. Its arrival was met by critica

adoration and a silent, elongated popula

yawn. Both reactions are appropriate

Cristian Mungius meditation on off-the

books abortion, set in his native Romania

during its last dance with communism, is a

sparsely worded Charles Bukowski poem on

the infanticidal underworld of an infantile

political system. Young lives are ended ointerrupted as dirty favors are exchanged

the black market putting a price tag on the

universal hope for a better future. One only

wishes that the message worked symbiotically

with the medium, that personal sacrice and

state-induced despair were given dialogue

as well images.4 Months plays like a silent lm

yearning to scream. Let it out, I say! Movie

can be serious without being dolorous o

taciturn.

Heres to hoping that 2009 proves this

statement true many times over. May

next years great lms be put in thei

proper place: a place where they can

be seen rather than chased. The cultura

climate is getting cold. And the cinephile

is tired of running.

(dae: deceme 21, 2008)

Back to Contents

p.u.n. 2008 interactive

Documents