Last year, in trying to get a bit too far inside Bob Dylan's head, Todd Haynes' I'm Not There wound up over-intellectualizing the fun right out of the man, the whole exercise devolving into method-acting gimmickry (look, there are seven of him!). Filmmaker-photographer Steven Sebring, who's spent the last 10 years obsessing over Patti Smith in order to make his new documentary about the rock-and-roll queen bee, on the other hand, wisely lets his subject speak for herself. The result, Patti Smith: Dream of Life, is more or less a series of clunky music videos pulling together swatches of Smith's rich memory. But if it feels as though it's missing any kind of real structure, it's only because the film strives to be wholly faithful to Smith's vision. It's an austere approach, and her legions of devoted fans will eat it up.
The mildly complex movie-within-a-movie theme at the heart of Tropic Thunder might almost be called meta, if it weren't so ... trite. As it stands, the movie is little more than an exaggerated minstrel act that relies on its own self consciousness to make you laugh. And who appreciates this sort of thing? Don't answer that.
The movie follows five actors, Tugg Speedman (Ben Stiller), Jeff Portney (Jack Black), Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey, Jr.), Alpa Chino (Brandon T. Jackson), and Kevin Sandusky (Jay Baruchel) as they set out to make a blockbuster war film. Pampered actors and high expenses eventually threaten to shut down the production; until the frustrated director decides to shoot the film "guerrilla style," uprooting the actors and dropping them in the middle of a Southeast Asian jungle. This is where things get crazy: although the actors think they are still embracing fictional heroics, there are actually real Asian bad guys they need to kill!
For those of us most likely to read the Onion for our hard news, we can rejoice at the new book by Chris Fair in which Bush-ite foreign policy is served up in a most palatable manner ... Iraqi kibbe with a side of insurgency.
Cuisines of the Axis of Evil and Other Irritating States: A Dinner Party Approach to International Relations (The Lyons Press, August 3) is a thorough who's who of nuclear proliferating bad guys and the dishes that compliment them. In passing, Fair, who works for a major defense contractor (is there any other kind these days?), extends a middle finger to the very military-industrial complex that signs her probably rather large paychecks, and in the process plays haphazardly with the adage don't shit where you eat.
By the time The X-Files: I Want to Believe makes the second reference to its own title (in the first half-hour!), it's hard to not feel like the whole thing is a little perfunctory and unnecessary. Maybe it's that David Duchovny's scratchy facial hair has gotten skeezier, or that Gillian Anderson's ice-queen act no longer serves her age. Either way, it's difficult to muster the same excitement when the six notes from the theme song come on and you know that, yes, there is something out there—and you've still got another two hours left of people scrambling in the dark to discover it.
READ MORE >> Fashion
We swear that it's during the warmer months—when fashion houses don't have to worry about water-proofing, warmth, or wear-and-tear—that shoe trends tread a little on the freaky side. It's how we ended with the much bemoaned Croc, its sinister antithesis the Ugg (popularized by Aussie surfers and TOTALLY a summer shoe!), and scores of other footwear that range from the outrageously unwearable Balenciaga lego stiletto to the disquietingly sparse "topless" sandal.
Some are strictly high fashion: Rodarte recently sent models down the runway in macabre spiked Louboutins that both magazine editors and Gothstitutes snatched up to pound the pavement in. Others prize comfort over style as brands try to make the most comfortable shoe ever and are thisclose to peddling recreations of the insides of Sasquatch's vagina that you can wear! On your feet!
As the temperatures rise, shoe brands start swinging their "creative" sticks around a little more haphazardly. Radar reviews this summer's most offensive in pedal fads:
In the past year, pop stars have been made, broken, and pieced back together again—all on record. There's of course Britney Spears's Blackout, a title that made everyone cringe because it was oh-so-true, and even Hills star Heidi Montag and her much-mocked No More. Now there's that controversial, not-naked Miley Cyrus with Breakout (Hollywood Records, July 22). As with Spears, it's tempting to read more into the title than you should: Her third album, the first to bear her name and not the Disney-trademarked Hannah Montana, is a chance to turn the tween idol into bona fide pop artist. Sadly, though, this is still the same old crap: Over-produced, one-hook "party" songs ready to be pumped out of every Wal-Mart speaker in the country.
Can a perfect movie have grievous errors? I SAY YES, and I get to answer questions like that, in such a fashion, because I am now pretending to be a film critic, something I haven't done since Rex Reed went on vacation like two years ago and I reviewed Snakes On A Plane, which is a shame really, because wouldn't you really have preferred Rex review it? "THESE SNAKES! BRING A BARF BAG! WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE MOVIES TODAY!" Can you see the posters? "REX REED: "GOD SNAKES, NATURE'S WORST ANIMAL!" I fucking love that guy, even though I was really mad at him for a while over his review of Funny Games. Except the 30-minute rant I got from him after that Wachowski Brothers (SIBLINGS?) latest movie was amazing. He kept talking about "Southern salads" and color palates. By which he meant like, the Jello-based salads. Anyway he didn't review Batman (OH wait, he totally did! "Preposterous, unnecessary"!), even though he was at the screening with me, as were Dan Kois and Dana Stevens, both rather adorable. Dana has mastered the art of summer dressing, which you wouldn't know if you read her film reviews on whichever thing she writes for. Is it the Slate or the Salon? Who knows! I can't tell them apart anymore. Salon has all that stuff about Hillary Clinton, that's how you tell. Hey so Batman, or as he is awesomely called in the movie, The Batman. I think they do that because the populace of Gotham realizes they don't know Batman. They are just describing the guy who dresses up like a bat. So he is The Batman.
READ MORE >> Theater
[title of show], a Broadway musical about the making of a Broadway musical is everything a Broadway musical should be. Catchy songs, charismatic leads, snappy dialogue—it's all there. Except the show's aim is to make fun of the tried-and-true formula for a good Broadway musical by sticking to said formula—only in a funnier way.
YOU COULD BE WATCHING THIS RIGHT NOW IF YOU WEREN'T READING ABOUT IT Del Toro's latest
It's too soon to say whether The Dark Knight will live up to the hype (signs and whispers point to YES!), but it's safe to say it will look nothing like Hellboy II: The Golden Army. That's because director Guillermo del Toro still likes to stylize his comic-book movies like comic books: bright-colored make-up, water that's too clear to be real, and creatures that go creepy-crawly into the night. Perhaps because of this, it's popular to call del Toro "visionary"—just ask MTV, Entertainment Weekly, the Washington Post, or Premiere. And they're all correct, if by visionary they mean he creates cool-looking things that get under the skin.
Following the crossover success of his fairy-tale-cum-Spanish-war-tome Pan's Labyrinth, it seems like del Toro has been given free reign to properly blow his CG load with Hellboy II—and he does (especially with a forest god that grows to giant proportions—just add water!). But 110 minutes and about 12 set pieces later, it can also be too much of a good thing. Big on details and short on heart, del Toro has made the kind of sequel for fans who already know he's brilliant—and don't need to be told again.
Period movies are great because not only do you get the story and the funny-looking outfits of yesteryear to giggle at, but you learn a little something about a distant, unfamiliar time as well. Take Austin Chick's (XX/XY) August, for example, which offers a time portal into August 2001, when start-up upstart stud Tom Sterling (Josh Harnett) is scrambling to find funding for his once mega-successful Internet company in the weeks before 9/11.
Ultra-cool Tom womanizes and boozes his way through the Manhattan hot-spots you've only read about in history books—he sleeps with a bartender at Pravda and has a rendezvous with a model at Bungalow 8. Imagine! And in case we at any point forget that this film is in fact, set in the past, just take a look around (What, what? Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman's divorce is the top story?—right, it's 2001!). But aside from the minor nostalgic kick to be had from various "remember-when" moments, this film is about as entertaining to watch as the dial-up AOL running man (ohmigod—remember that?).
For famous Hollywood moms, there's more to life than figuring out how to get back into those skinny jeans after childbirth. There's also the all-important issue of returning to normalcy; namely, a life of zoom lenses, gossip reporters, and chilled glasses of Sancerre. This explains why two breastfeeding products—Hooters Hiders and Milkscreen—are all the rage among this glitzy sect. Hollywood moms like Gwen Stefani and Jessica Alba are going ga-ga over these specialty products—and in the process are reclaiming their breasts.
After Maggie Gyllenhaal was photographed by paparazzi in a park along the Hudson river baring her breast while nursing, starlets began snapping up Hooters Hiders—a cover that resembles a hair-cutting cape and referred to by Hollywood insiders as a "paparazzi shield." It shields the progeny of the rich and famous so they might breastfeed in the style and (relative) glamour they're accustomed to. Fair enough. But it's the Milkscreen that is the true star of these newfangled mommy must-haves.
"America: You sexy bitch! We made it ... eventually." Well, that seals it. If there is anybody who is in an unreformed band—and there must be still be someone—you will be given a six-month window for your reunion. (An exception will be made for those with extinct members, i.e., there will be no Experience without Jimi, etc.) Then the gate will be shut. Because if the last band that anyone thought would get back together—Scotland's heroically-indie Vaselines, known mainly on these shores as having been Kurt Cobain's favorite band—can pull it off in such a glorious fashion, then it's time to either step up now, or quit tarnishing your legacy. Consider this a challenge.
READ MORE >> Music Review
It's strange to suddenly realize that Beck, the self-proclaimed loser who break-danced his way into the hearts of Generation X in 1994, is now pushing 40 years old. Over this time, of course, he's proven one of his era's most daring pop artists, shape-shifting his way through four stellar albums, beginning with 1996's Odelay through 2002's mournful and lush Sea Change. The most recent Beck releases, however, have found the California-based musician spinning his creative wheels, re-heating old ideas to lukewarm results, like on 2006's utterly flat The Information. Now, it's Modern Guilt, a record that finds Beck teamed with producer Danger Mouse, but oddly without focus.
READ MORE >> Movie Review
Remember that stoner in your freshman dorm who quoted Bob Dylan when he got wasted and tried to explain to wide-eyed coeds that the whole anti-drug thing was somehow a massive government conspiracy? Welcome to that guy's wet dream. Oscar-winning director Alex Gibney (Enron: The Smartest Guys the Room) teams up with Vanity Fair editor-turned-producer Graydon Carter and narrator Johnny Depp to document the outrageous life and legend of iconic rogue journalist Hunter S. Thompson, whose drug-infused Rolling Stone pieces birthed the participatory stream-of-consciousness journalistic style known as "Gonzo," not to mention an army of Fear and Loathing-quoting collegiate pseudo-hippies.
Sometimes, when I go to a concert, I can't wait for it to be over. I buy the tickets, pay the TicketMaster surcharge, have a vodka dinner, put on comfortable shoes, and skip off to the concert hall, secretly hoping it won't go on too long. I want one great encore, not three desperate ones. I don't want to be a lab rat for new songs; I want to hear my favorite songs—and maybe an obscure B-side or cover of a Talking Heads or Beyoncé tune. What, then, could be more ideal than a night of Liz Phair running straight through Exile in Guyville at the somewhat intimate Hiro Ballroom in honor of the album's 15th anniversary?
After kicking things off with "6'1" and "Help Me Mary," the notoriously shy performer settled into her groove. "This is awesome," she said, looking out at the audience, a sea of late 20- and 30-somethings prone to embarrassing exclamations of love throughout her set. "Liz, you have the the voice of a fairy," someone cried. And the love wasn't just girl on girl—it was now-chubby-ish dudes in loafers and pleated pant-fronts on girl, too.
