WTF?!?! Classics: Videodrome

One of the things that make David Cronenberg a great writer/director is that no matter how whacked-out his premises are, they come from a place of uncomfortable truth.

The director known for pioneering the “body-horror” subgenre frequently constructs his visceral nightmares as allegories for all-to-human anxieties, from disease and decay to familial conflict and divorce.

When he made Videodrome, Cronenberg was in between his creative breakthrough and his commercial one. He had recently made The Brood, which, in addition to being his most mature and sophisticated horror effort to date, drew on personal pain of the director’s own divorce. It balanced expert technical direction, genuine emotion, and pure terror. A few years after Videodrome, Cronenberg would again bring together his blend of human drama and inhuman mutation with The Fly, one of his few big budget studio films. The blend of creatively grotesque imagery (rendered with state of the art, Oscar-winning makeup effects) and personal tragedy made it a hit.

In the arc of Cronenberg’s career, Videodrome represents a point where the director was moving out of his 70’s horror phase (Shivers, Rabid, culminating with The Brood) and into a decidedly more sci-fi arena. Scanners, the first film of this streak is long on ideas and effects but unfortunately short, for the most part on good performances, with the exception Michael Ironside’s enjoyably campy Darryl Revok. Videodrome is in some ways similarly scattered, as it deals, like Scanners, with a far-reaching government conspiracy. But its occasionally convoluted plot is carried well by some brilliantly realized effects, smart sci-fi concepts and great performances. Videodrome represents the point where Cronenberg hit his stride with humanistic, character driven sci-fi. For a series of films, Cronenberg had arguably the best streak of his career, with each outing (Videodrome, The Dead Zone, The Fly, Dead Ringers – despite the latter being more of a skewed psychodrama) sporting a stellar leading man, an ever-deepening grasp on emotion, and an inventive, well-realized fantastical concept.

When writing Videodrome, Cronenberg began with images rather than a plot (breathing TVs and cassettes, stomach vulvas, weaponry fused with flesh, decidedly proto-cyberpunk stuff), and they frame an often tangled storyline. But James Woods does a fantastic job pulling it all together as Max Renn, a likeable sleaze who runs a pirate TV station. He becomes intrigued by what appears to be another pirate broadcast called Videodrome, which shows nothing but extreme violence and torture. But the more he finds out, the more sinister Videodrome appears to be, before it is revealed to be a tool used to destroy the elements in society that would be drawn to such programming in the first place, elements that are weakening and “rotting” society from the inside out.

Cronenberg had long been taken to task for the extreme violence in his films, and Videodrome seems to be his way of exploring what the different reactions and attitudes towards televised violence mean. The powers that be see that society is drawn to the thrill of experiencing such violence through television. The film reflects the real world’s attitudes toward the issue, as Max appears early in the film on a panel show to defend the filth he sells for a living. But Cronenberg envisions a world where those in control use that fascination with violence to control and “purify” the population, with the end result being international supremacy.

It’s a disturbing concept, and more so because of its grounding in reality, where media is constantly used as a means of influencing, even controlling the population. Marketing research draws on sociology and psychology to design advertising with a subconscious as well as literal appeal. It depends on how paranoid you are, but it’s not difficult to find examples of the public being “programmed” in everyday life. The genius of Videodrome is the marriage of that concept with the film’s brilliantly rendered alternate universe. As one character says, “the TV screen is the retina of the mind’s eye . . . therefore TV is reality, and reality is less than TV.” As Max suffers from increasingly tangible hallucinations, he begins to realize just how true this is. The film is actually one of Cronenberg’s less personal in its focus, but it does not fail to endear us enough to Max that his is a believable and sympathetic guide for such a surreal adventure. Or, as he gingerly probes his breathing, freshly opened stomach vulva with the barrel of his gun, you think “yep, that’s pretty much how I would react”

Videodrome is one of the best-known and best-loved films of David Cronenberg’s career, and for good reason. It requires a couple viewings to assimilate all of the themes and mythology, but its sensibility and appeal practically defines the term “cult film.” It may not be his greatest work (I vote Dead Ringers – sadly absent from most video stores, try Netflix) or his most accessible (definitely The Fly) but it’s one of his most crazily inspired. Just remember, don’t sit too close. It gives you cancer.

In Spite of Itself: The Cinematic Genius of Purple Rain

Some of my favorite movies teeter on a line between genius and absurdity. Purple Rain practically embodies this concept. A anemically-plotted vanity project in honor of the alien superentity formerly known as Prince Rogers Nelson, Purple Rain is loaded with hokey dialogue, wild improbabilities, and a bafflingly erratic tone. Leaping from melodramatic to goofy to preachy at a moment's notice, it's a rollercoaster ride of what-the-fuck moments. One of the best of these finds Prince (portraying his cinematic alter-ego "The Kid") storming into his house to locate and confront his wife-beating father, shouting "Where are you? Where are you motherfucker?" and executing a flawlessly smooth spin, complete with delayed headsnap.

And yet . . . and yet. In spite of itself, Purple Rain is one of the most outlandishly enjoyable movies ever conceived. That is thanks most obviously to the utter musical genius of Prince, who, at the absolute peak of his powers, conceived a streamlined, polished collection of songs that were all the best things about pop music in one package. And that music is employed perfectly; Purple Rain's script may have been slapdash, but Albert Magnoli's music video direction skills ensure that each song is employed to maximum effect, either accompanying and illuminating the (admittedly meager) story, or most wonderfully, in performance.

One of the film's most absurd conceits is that somehow, at the Minneapolis club where the Kid and the Revolution sweat it out night after night, The Revolution is the least popular act, and in danger of losing their gig. Apparently the Kid "plays a lot of shit that no one wants to hear." The real draws are the dude who sings the "I want to be a mountaineer!" song, and of course, Morris Day and the Time. In actuality, and in the viewer's eyes, Prince (sorry, "The Kid") smokes them nightly.

But that wouldn't fit with the angsty storyline: the Kid has a rotten homelife. His father's a drunk, a failed songwriter, and on top of all that, he's too bold, whereas his mother is never satisfied. Morris Day plays the malevolent and preening rival for club supremacy, and for the affections of the lovely Apollonia, who wants to be a star, and seems willing not only to get naked and jump in a lake, but also to perform in lingerie singing about how she's a "Sex Shooter." Clearly those qualities go hand in hand.

But all of these bizarre elements somehow fall into place when Prince takes the stage, or at least cease to matter. His performances ("The Beautiful Ones," "Darling Nikki," and the ecstatic encore in particular), are a mesmerizing barrage of twirls, splits, yelps, croons, squeals, guitar solos, choreographed dance routines, emotional breakdowns, and stage humping. Prince is a total presence, a force of nature, completely engaged and committed, seeming to invest every ounce of himself and his outsized person into the playing, singing, and movement. It's ironic that Prince is such a laughable actor off the stage, because he sells these songs with a depth of emotion that makes it seem like you really are in a nightclub, hearing each one for the first time. The shot of him lying on his back on the stage, shrieking the last few pleas of "The Beautiful Ones" as hands reach out to touch him is the most quintessential of the film.

For all its goofball twists and turns, Purple Rain actually succeeds on an emotional level, if only when the music's playing. We may not believe the Kid's familial agony, but when he launches into the title song, the most soulful and towering power ballad ever penned, dedicating it to his troubled father, somehow all that drama is a lot easier to buy. Through the power of the music, all the bizarro comedy and idiosyncrasies becoming endearing, rather than distracting from the film's genuinely successful elements. Purple Rain could have just been an extended music video but the slick production's wacky energy and enthusiasm kicks it up a notch. Dated? Yes. But it's a hell of a fun movie, and what's more timeless than fun?

(Ed. - It has come to my attention following my writing of this article that the above "mountaineer" song is in fact "Modernaire" sung by Prince's former guitarist Dez Dickerson. I, however, chose to keep it as "mountaineer" in the article, both because it's funnier, and because I was misinformed for so long that it will always be "mountaineer" to me.)

Black Mountain - In the Future

The bottom line for any explicit throwback act is this; is there more in the end than the sum of the band’s influences? For some (think, gee, I dunno, Jet, Wolfmother, any cut-and-paste retro rock outfit) the answer is, regrettably, no. But then there are bands like the Black Lips, obviously indebted to a specific time period and style (trashy, sub-Nuggets 60’s garage rock) but rising above through their personal flair and idiosyncrasies.

Black Mountain may tread more of a grey area. “Don’t Run Our Hearts Around,” from their eponymous 2005 debut, was a pummeling Sabbath-style riff fest, and the whole album rocked to a 70’s vibe. That vibe permeates In the Future as well, and the music itself has gone closer to the source. The opening rumble of “Stormy High” may give some a tentative feeling, but when the guitars kick up into the vocal sections, Stephen McBean and Amber Webber’s harmonies dispel any doubts. Their mystical, creaking voices wrap strong, direct melodies around the riffage, elevating it above slavish imitation.

In fact, many of the most striking moments on In the Future don’t come from the guitars. The rhythm section shows its versatility on “Wucan,” reminiscent of the debut’s narcotic funk-a-thon “Druganaut.” A major standout, “Wucan” also features great vocal interplay from Weber and McBean, a guitar line that’s evocative without being derivative, and epic contributions by what sounds like an army of vintage synthesizers. The keyboard factor is a plus throughout the album, injecting a trippy, proggy element that spices up the formula. The big climax of slow-burner “Angels” comes from a massive-sounding Mellotron, certainly not the only point at which early King Crimson is a clear touchstone. Amber Webber’s showcase “Night Walks” closes the album with another reminder of how well the group creates beautiful sounds, as her voice mingles with static vibrating synths and a bed of echo.

The necessary folky comedown numbers work well, sold by some lovely, well-sung melodies. The ballads are well-placed to contrast with the epic rockers, of which “Tyrants” is the first. The slow, melodic sections actually work better than the rockouts, which are satisfying but predictable.

The ultimate test of the album is its longest track, “Bright Lights,” which clocks in at sixteen plus. But what could have been bloated and unconvincing actually works, because it’s stuffed with such a wealth of musical ideas. It is here that all the handpicked elements of their psychedelic influences come together. The guitars move and dive like rollercoasters, the organ stabs, Amber Webber’s Grace Slick vocals weave in and out, riding the riffs. The druggy mumbo-jumbo of the “bright light/light bright” repetitions may test your patience, but give it time; after an intense, steamrolling rock section, the song is pared down to a ghost of itself, complete with funereal organ and wraithlike synths, before slowly building to a roar again.

In the Future succeeds because it isn’t overshadowed by its influences, even if it can’t entirely escape them. But they’re well beyond imitators, and at no point will you think “gee, I could just be listening to . . .” because Black Mountain pumps fresh blood into vintage sounds. The monolithic guitars and cosmic synthesizers sounds just as good filling a room as on big Dazed and Confused headphones, with the voices of Stephen McBean and Amber Webber keeping it organic, human, and most of all rocking, all the way to the end.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan - The Best Movie Ever, Maybe

I had a friend in college who came to the conclusion that Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan was the best movie ever made. This happened over time. He didn't reach the conclusion lightly. In fact, he hadn't seen the thing until we watched it one very drunk night, just on the verge of total disillusionment with freshman parties. Over the next summer, he claimed, he spent a period of months with a routine of heavy beer consumption and nightly viewings of The Wrath of Khan.
I should maybe add that my friend is an engineer, which seems to have some bearing. I don't want to reduce him to a creepy, Shatner-obsessed alcoholic. Not that he isn't.
Anyway, as we watched again, some years after our initial viewing, I had to admit he had a pretty strong argument. This movie has everything, I realized. Action, comedy, drama, romance, a quasi-Shakespearean villain, bagpipes, mind-control earwigs, epic space battles, and most of all a whole lotta Shatner.
Granted, it helps if you like some camp with your sci-fi. But lord, if you do, you're sure to treasure moments like the Shat-man's famous "KHAAAAAN!" holler, 0r Khan's last retort of "From hell's heart, I stab at thee!"
But it's not all yucks, and I'm not proposing my buddy's theory as some wink-wink hipster joke. There's a real heart to STII:TWOK, and as we watched it that night, I damn near came to tears over the famous last scene between William Shatner and Leonard Nimoy. It's been referenced to death, but I won't spoil it. Suffice to say it is profoundly moving in a way that not very many movies like it can achieve, and it certainly beats anything else in the Star Trek film canon.
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan is just an old-fashioned escape film. It's all about adventure and heroism, and and the large-than-life personas of Shatner and Ricardo Montalban as the wrathful Khan suit the larger-than-life-themes. And it's a hell of a lot more movie than you get with a lot of more serious fare. Maybe it is the best ever made; it just depends on your mood.

Jack vs. Blogs Pt. 1 - The Bittersweet Taste of Irony

What is happening to me?

How did I get here? I am facing the abyss, and the abyss has a terrible, terrible name, a word I never thought I would be the type of person to say.

Blogosphere.

It sounds, phonetically, like vomit. But to explain my state of mind, I have to explain myself. I am trying to be a music writer. Once they were a rare breed, at least in terms of popular music. And sure, that sounds elitist. I appreciate the fact that the internet gives everyone an opinion, because everyone is entitled to one, but the sad fact is that there is a miniscule number of people out there who will ever have an opinion about music and articulate it as creatively, intelligently, and readably as Lester Bangs or Greil Marcus. These and others were the voices it took to elevate music writing from blurbs and PR to a section in Barnes and fucking Nobles.

I came too late to this party, it seems. Long form music criticism is looking terminally out of vogue. British mags like Mojo still feature extended, somewhat literary-minded pieces on various artists, but these are increasingly unnecessary gushings over seminal artists who’ve already inspired enough ink to fill an encyclopedia. Velvets, Joy Division, the Rolling Stones, the Beatles. Old masters for old readers.

The youth writes online, but all too often the deluge of options, information, and the sheer volume of music being put out results in flash-in-the-pan hype and hypocritical backlashes, infighting and elitism. Ironically, the freedom granted by the internet has flip-flopped the elitism of print music journalism. What was once a semi-exclusive club with pay and perks is now a free-for-all, with so many voices clamoring for attention, it’s almost necessary get attention through snarkiness that too often crosses over into cattiness.

Because I want to stay current, I find reading music blogs to be necessary. And before I come off like a curmudgeonly Luddite (if I haven’t already), let me say that there is a lot of quality writing on the internet right now that wouldn’t have been possible otherwise. I just feel that it has impacted some fields negatively, such as arts criticism and criticism in general. I’m not a Luddite, I’m just a broke writer wondering if I’m ever going to be able to make a living doing what I love to do.

But lately I find myself disagreeing with so much of what is being pushed out there. Examples? You betcha.

The National: Will someone please tell me what about this band is actually good? And before anyone counters with “give them a chance,” I'll have you know I have listened to both Alligator and Boxer, and have seen the band live. After all of this effort to like them, because the mighty blogosphere commanded it thus, I still think the National sounds like Coldplay covering Joy Divison. As a friend of mine put it, “It’s like a really boring version of good music.”

Cloverfield hype/Cloverfield backlash: First the internet was buzzing with rumors about producer J.J. Abrams’ real time, handheld mysterious Manhattan monster mash, with one rumor even generating the ludicrous theory that the monster was, in fact, a lion, due to some dumbass mishearing the line: “I saw it! It’s A-LIVE! It’s huge!” But once the movie actually came out a great deal of people seemed to be devoting a great deal of unnecessary energy into hating on a totally decent - if not mind-blowingly magnificent - sci-fi horror movie. Perhaps the genre element caused a lot of angry nerds to come out of the woodwork, but I find a lot of the e-bitching to be totally ridiculous. I saw the movie, and enjoyed it, and yes, suspension of disbelief was required, as is always required when dealing with Godzilla, Rodin, Mothra, Megalon, Mecha-Godzilla, Ghidra, Gamera, or the Blair Witch. I’ll also go on the record as saying that I felt no urge to vomit due to the shaky-cam, and that it sounds like a lot of people out there have their own personal gastric problems to attend to.

Vampire Weekend: ATTENTION ALL YOUNG AMERICAN BANDS: STOP PRETENDING TO BE BRITISH. IT IS NOT WORKING. THAT IS ALL.

This is but a helping of my recent blog-resentment. I intend this feature to be a running commentary on my search for writing work, as well as on the online music climate. Or, for lack of a better word, scene. Oy.

End of the Line at Duke University, August 2007

The horde has descended. Hundreds of freshmen now crowd the halls of Duke’s East Campus dorms and by some stroke of cosmic weirdness I found myself among them, awash in Natty Light and listening to Dre’s “Let Me Ride,” semi-audible above the din.

I write this facing the reality of leaving school indefinitely. We never gelled, me and Dear old Duke, so I’m high-tailing it to the city to try clawing my way into this terrifying writing business for real.

At the party. This is where the flashbacks come mile a minute, let me tell you. I remember this walk I’m pulling off now, the freshman sideways shuffle. It’s an off-campus party, in the relatively spacious, actually extremely spacious high-ceilinged Erwin Square apartment building, and yet inside the apartment, where seniors and freshmen mixed in a pulsating surge that ran both ways, mutating and shifting, the claustrophobia is reminiscent of some of the worst nights fall semester back in the day waaaaaaay back in ought four, remember? Crammed into Few Quad hallways, my belly squeezing embarrassingly past the foxy ladies as I struggled to wind up in a room where I’d be given beer, shitty beer.

The same bleak realizations may hit a few of these revelers weeks down the line, but not too many, I’d reckon. A surprising amount stick with it long enough to smooch up the ass ladder of fraternal brotherhood and eventually reap the rewards when they sit as kings, watching freshmen fill their rooms and halls, demanding shitty beer.

Having existed at Duke as something of a fringe element, I throw people off at parties like this. They’ve never seen me, or rarely, and a blonde senior girl pops up in front of me with a “hi my name’s Suzy what’s your name,” seemingly having mistaken me for a freshman or a kindergartener.

I explain the situation. She says, yeah, you looked old for 18.

True.

Inevitable that these sights and sounds provoke intense reflection on three years of collegiate mishaps, but all is not dour.

Parked by the keg is a short solid bro with a hat that reads REMINGTON, holding court with a couple of new arrivals. It is one of those totally rare moments where one registers genuine surprise at the fact that the words being said aren’t out of some third tier collegiate virginity-loss caper currently being pounded out of the iBook of some sweaty, desperate Los Angelean:

“DUDE, YOU’RE IN COLLEGE NOW!! YOU’RE GONNA GET LAID! IT’S GONNA HAPPEN!”

“I know, man! My RA said to come to him if we need condoms!”

“Yeah! Yeah man. Totally. It’s like, you can get condoms everywhere, the vending machines, the health center, everywhere.”

The sound of the room is thick and fluttering and I’m unable to keep up with all of it.

“You’re not in high school, bro, you don’t have to go home and do your homework with your mom, man. You wanna go get fucked up you go get fucked up, but you gotta work hard too man, this is Duke. . .”

Indeed, this is Duke. My own fucked-upedness is getting the better of me and I can’t hear much of the rest, apparently Remington’s laying some career advice upon his newfound bro . . .

money isn’t everything you gotta live life man I’m gonna retire ten million, that’s my limit, you know bro, dude breh bra brobrobrehbreuxbro

In the hall I encounter a truly wet freshie named Joe who reminds me he’s the cousin of this dude from my freshman dorm. He’s telling me about when he visited, back in oh fo’ (fo’ sho) and got shithammered in Alspaugh. Sounds about right, I say. He tells me he remembers me playing the guitar, and that he plays too now. He says he remembers me more than almost anything from that visit. He is very drunk. I give him a Parliament and he lights the wrong end.

Outside, smoking and talking to M---- M---- a truly indestructible party monster with an uncanny knack for school, memorization, and all around academics. It never seemed fair, and neither did his “Wolverine-like powers of recuperation,” to quote a popular description, but you couldn’t hold it against the guy, not even with the country club name to end them all, cause he had a big melon grin and loved beer and football and weed, and loved to have fun and ensure that others were entertained as well.

I knock on the door trying to get back in the bay of apartments. It doesn’t open on the outside. Somebody notices when a girl comes up and knocks and he toys with her for a second, a drunken jackal, fucking with her until he finally shoves the door open, smacking her in the forehead with a dull thump. The gaggle of folks nearby dissolves into giggles and amazingly, the only “holy shit, are you all right?” comes from me. Then they see her tears and the way she’s holding her hands over her face and there’s much commotion. I slip inside and wait for an opportunity to leave. It’s all a bit much right now.

Right place, wrong time. Outside I hear it: “Man I love college.”A wet freshman still buying the essential myths. But on my end, faith broken down, smoking a lonely cigarette in front of the bays next to the cars and spent cans of Natty Light dotting the bushes like fantasy gumdrops. Reeling, rocking, gut protesting rumbling but ok, muted by sweet smoke and light beer (have another, along for the ride now, it’s late and this scene has been building for hours)

They’re mostly leaving now and I’m talking to some remaining friends, good ones that I haven’t seen in awhile, and that I’ll be bailing on before too long. Inside awhile for smoking and scribbling and then slowly creeping towards the act of going home.

Waiting for my ride to finish his phone call in a spacious Erwin bay, seemingly deserted now. Losing it a bit swaying a tad but I’ve found an ally, somebody to lean on. Me and the wall, we’re ok.

Positive Jamming in Chicago

The Hold Steady - Metro, 10/30/07
Chicago, IL

Some nights you really need a dose of rock romanticism. There’s no way around it; shit has gotten rough, inside or out, and you need power chords and the rants of a crackpot cockeyed optimist to help you through.
It happened that Tuesday was one of those nights, and it happened that the show I was seeing would be my first since moving to Chicago. And after working and commuting to the Metro, it happened that a few Pabst tall cans were needed to get into Hold Steady mode. “Bar Band” being after all the most beat-to-death descriptor of the band in question, I felt I’d do their live show an injustice if I wasn’t a little soused. No doubt they would be.
My buddy arrived at the Full Shilling Pub with our scalped (craigslist!) tickets with time to spare. Once Hold Steady mode was… holding steady, we made our way inside, and jockeyed a very respectable pit standing. The band ambled on stage maybe two minutes later, beers in hand, and opened with “Party Pit.”
The ratio of Hold Steady songs with shoutalong parts to Hold Steady songs without shoutalong parts it pretty one-sided. This makes for a wonderful, cynicism-destroying concert experience.
The music was tight and loud. The keyboards lost a bit of their authority to the overdriven guitars, but the sound was exciting and anthemic, more Cheap Trick than E Street Band. If the Hold Steady have a major flaw, it’s the relative predictability of their classic rock-indebted song structures. But as a flaw it’s debatable, or even delectable, given the satisfaction delivered by such a familiar, greasy taste. Who doesn’t love meat and cheese?
The unique aspect of the Hold Steady is Craig Finn, and his motor-mouthed, Boss-flavored storytelling. His verbosity can be polarizing (a woman at the Full Shilling was claiming she preferred the “Whoa-oh-oh-oh”s in “Chips Ahoy” to any of Craig Finn’s actual lyrics), but live it’s less of an issue, simply because it’s impossible to catch every breathless phrase. But good bits came through, even if it was only glib couplets like “it started in the vestibule and ended in the hospital.”
You couldn’t ask for a more generous and gregarious frontman. His rapport with the crowd was easy and sincere, and he never shook his slight air of ‘aw shucks’ disbelief at his popularity. It was that disarming spirit that informed the entire event, and it makes the Hold Steady more than the sum of their parts. You knew that he cared about what he sang about, and that when he sang “certain songs are scratched into our souls,” he couldn’t believe his luck that, for many watching, some of those will be his.
I got what I came for and left happy. But craving a cheeseburger.