I still have quite a few movies to catch up on in the theaters before I can post my best-of list (There Will Be Blood, Juno, Sweeney Todd are can't-miss) and a few rattling around in my Netflix (Away From Her and La Vie En Rose have kept being pushed back for the likes of bad-great gay independent films). However, in my favorite film time of the year, this can't stop me from contemplating the Oscar race (based equally on my judgement so far and buzz). So here it goes:

Picture:
*No Country for Old Men
Atonement
There Will Be Blood
Sweeney Todd
Juno

Spoiler: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

Winner: This year, the Oscars are going to spread their wealth. Ultimately, I think they'll reward the Coen Brothers' No Country For Old Men with the gold guy, and finally give them a best picture win. Other possible winner: Atonement has Oscar prestige written all over it; it's the kind of sweeping, thoughtful epic they love.

Director:

*Joe Wright, Atonement
Paul Thomas Anderson, There Will Be Blood
Tim Burton, Sweeney Todd
Joel and Ethan Coen, No Country for Old Men
Julian Schnabel, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

Spoiler: David Fincher, Zodiac

Winner: Joe Wright. The sweeping five-minute camera pan of Dunkirk Beach alone clinches this highly competitive category; they'll reward Atonement somehow, and I think this is it. Other possible winner(s): Burton and Anderson (non-winning auteurs as well) look pretty solid as well.

Actor:
*Daniel Day-Lewis, There Will Be Blood
Johnny Depp, Sweeney Todd
George Clooney, Michael Clayton
James McAvoy, Atonement
Viggo Mortensen, Eastern Promises

Spoiler: Tom Hanks, Charlie Wilson's War

Winner: This seems like Daniel Day-Lewis's year, and rewarding him for his loss for Gangs of New York back in 2002. Other possible winner: Johnny Depp, for holding his own against Sondheim.

Actress:
*Julie Christie, Away From Her
Marion Cotillard, La Vie En Rose
Helena Bohnam Carter, Sweeney Todd
Ellen Page, Juno
Keira Knightley, Atonement

Spoilers: Amy Adams, Enchanted; Jodie Foster, The Brave One

Winner: Julie Christie has held everyone's attention for the whole year for her performance. She's a classy dame who proves she's still got game. Other possible winner: Dark Horse Marion Cotillard. Oscar loves classy (over-acting) mimicry, especially someone as juicy (and musical) as Edith Piaf.

Supporting Actor:
*Javier Bardem, No Country for Old Men
Casey Affleck, The Assassination of Jesse James…
Philip Seymour Hoffman, Charlie Wilson's War
Hal Holbrook, Into The Wild
Tommy Lee Jones, No Country for Old Men

Spoiler: Tom Wilkensen, Michael Clayton

Winner: Javier Bardem, far and away. Oscar loves well-crafted psychos, and it's Bardem's turn. Other possible winner: Hal Holbrook, if Oscar is feeling sentimental.

Supporting Actress:
*Cate Blanchett, I'm Not There
Amy Ryan, Gone Baby Gone
Saiorse Ronan, Atonement
Tilda Swinton, Michael Clayton
Jennifer Jason Leigh, Margot at the Wedding

Spoiler: Jennifer Garner, Juno

Winner: I'm split between Cate Blanchett and Amy Ryan; Cate just won a few years back for the Aviator, but she's A-list royalty and experiments to great cross-dressing success in I'm Not There, which gives her the edge. Other possible winner: besides Amy Ryan, Saiorse Ronan is creepy good in Atonement.

Let's see how I do come January.

 I went to Aimee Mann's 2nd Annual Christmas Concert at the Vic last night with my old friend Sara; joy radiated from my pores. Aimee Mann is one of my favorite people on the planet, so there was no way I was going to pass up the opportunity to see her weird, Christmas-themed variety show. Part a tour of her Christmas album (the only album where I find holiday music bearable), part stand-up comedy act from her friend (and frequent VH1 commentator) Paul F. Thompkins, part spotlight for emerging artists like Nellie McKey., the whole show was delightful. For someone as notoriously "depressing" as Aimee Mann, I was really struck by how funny and loose the whole show was. To top it all off, she premiered a short comedy film (inspired by Charlie Brown) she made with celebrity friends (ranging from Will Ferrell and Ben Stiller to Bob Odenkirk and John Kransinki). She also threw in "Save Me" and "Deathly" for us die-hard fans in the audience, and tested out a new song from her upcoming album (I believe it's called "Freeway," and it's great and catchy).

Of the few artists I can call myself a fan of, Aimee is by far my favorite. Most people can recognize her work on the Magnolia soundtrack or "Voices Carry" with Til' Tuesday, but her work is much deeper, darker than those samples can illustrate. Sometimes it's strange for me to think that I'm so completely and hopelessly devoted to an artist most people find kind of a downer; I'm not a depressive by nature, but her voice, her lyrics, the way her songs ache and move, the subtle clever irony and a not-so-hidden sense of humor is what really speaks to me. I tend to choose lyrics over melody; the way words craft and twist, the stories that propel the music are more interesting to me than an inherently catchy or complicated beat. But I prefer both of these traits working together, so I tend to gravitate towards the lovely and the literate, the likes of the super-sensitive, ultra-precocious sing-songwriter types like Aimee, The Decemberists, Sufjan Stevens, and Andrew Bird. This certainly isn't everyone's cup of tea; certain people cast us fans off as the pretentious NPR-set, hipster-intelligentsia-bohemians we often are.

Pop music is fine, dance music is fine; when done right, catchy beats and hooks hit my ears like honey. But I don't buy it, I don't listen to it, it doesn't fit into my life. Plus, I'm very white and often uptight, so the urge to dance doesn't strike me often (so much so, I rooted against those evil kids in Footloose).

That said, I am a very big fan of musicals and gay camp artists, so perhaps I'm not entirely pretentious. Maybe this is just because I am gay.

My comfort zone with music is very, very small. I tend to buy two or three CD's a year, often from the same artists I have so carefully made myself comfy and cozy with. I feel safe listening to old vinyl records, the likes of The Beatles, The Who, Elvis Costello; people I know are brilliant. When it comes to exploring new artists, I'm downright skitterish; usually it will take the careful urging of several friends, music critics, and a full listening at the local Borders for me to actually commit to listening to someone new. Sometimes this wields great rewards for me (thank you to the young cute Brit who turned me on to The Decemberists, a band now my parents love). Sometimes not so much, admiration that just peters out (sure, that Shiny Toy Guns album was interesting the first time I listened to it, but now it seems so unnecessary). If I listen to a new artist, I want to be sure I would able to commit to them, to listen to their entire canon and follow their progress, to understand their worldview. Maybe this is obsessive, but I just don't have that much space in my heart.

Oh, I believe I am a critic at heart, but I am generally lost when it comes to music. I could try to blame this on the fact that a veritable encyclopedia of useless film, art, and literature knowledge are already blocking up my synapses, but that wouldn't be completely true. My feelings about it are phantom, unable for me to put to words.

I admire the people who have a head and heart for music to the point of jealousy; I have always deeply wished that I had the spirit of a musician, that of a songwriter in me, but I am so far removed from that possibility. Sure, I played the saxophone throughout school and I can carry a tune, but that's just mimicry. My fingers ache to play a piano, to be able to put music to words, but I just have never had it in me.

Maybe someday I can meet someone who will help me make beautiful music.

That was cheesy.

 

I dragged my friends Tony and Cory to a midnight showing of Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie at the Music Box. I (and the audience) was absolutely delighted; I think Tony and Cory were a little confused. Long a devoted cult fan of the TV show, I admit it’s a hard concept to sell: basically, a guy and two robot puppets sit in the corner of the screen and make fun of bad movies. Um, come again? That type of post-modern riffing is probably pretty distracting and weird to people not really familiar with the format. Oh well, I hope the boys had a good time. I laughed until Diet Coke and popcorn butter came out my nose and eye sockets. I remember seeing the film when it first came out in ’96, at the tender age of eleven. It was one of my first trips into the big city from the suburbs, having my father drive my geeky ass to the 3 Penny Cinema in Lakeview because no other theater in the state was playing it. That could be one of my happiest memories; I miss that rickety old theater. I sat in seats that smelled of urine, but it was always oddly comfortable. It broke my heart when the Feds closed it down for massive tax evasion. I guess selling bootleg posters out of the lobby didn’t pay all the bills. Having the boys over in my apartment, noticing my put-together flat, makes me realize I have some overt obsessive-compulsive traits; or maybe I’m just anal-retentive (I feel like there’s a good deal of overlap). I live very specifically for myself, but everything is arranged for maximum visual pleasure. My books are color-coordinated and descending in size; my CD’s, DVD’s, vinyl records are all alphabetized. Each frame on the wall is lined up with the others. A chess set sits poised for play in the corner. Four coasters surround my coffee table, lining perfectly perpendicular with each other. I wish I could say this was for style or ease of access; rather, I organize because I feel compelled to. I’m not necessarily a neat freak, I just seem to be very particular about certain things. Other traits that make me curious about obsessions: I check my watch (and keep track of time) devotedly. I hate hate hate the look and feeling of newspaper ink on my hands, so I keep hand sanitizer at the ready in the mornings as I thumb through the RedEye. Also, I haven’t cut my fingernails in over 10 years because I think my teeth do a much better job. Gross, right? Right. Random thoughts: Chuck Palahniuk is quite possibly the most overrated writer alive today. I’m in no way squeamish, but I certainly try to think I have good taste. Palahniuk is just not in good taste. James McEvoy is incredibly handsome and talented. All in all, this has actually ending up being a banner year for good cinema. I’ll do a best-of list as the year finally wraps up.

 

http://www.avclub.com/content/feature/primer_the_coen_brothers/1

 

Great article by the A.V. Club.  I really wish I could work for those guys.

 

The Coen Brothers have long been two of my favorite filmmakers.  Aside from Stanley Kubrick, they are perhaps the most distinctly intelligent, talented, technically proficient, and stylistic coherent American filmmakers.

 

I saw their new film, “No Country for Old Men,” a few weeks back and have been struggling with how I feel about it.  I jumped on the bandwagon and sung its praises, feeling like I didn’t want to be left out while the swarms of critics and crowds were beginning to call it the best movie of year.  I liked it, then I thought I loved it; now, I’m not so sure.

 

Don't get me wrong, I think it's brilliant in its own way, and maybe the unadulterated praise it's getting is effecting me, but I'm starting to think more and more it's one of their lesser efforts, especially stacked up against their other efforts.  I've always admired the Coen's curdled misanthropy, but there was always a character that allowed for some hope in humanity, so I was left feeling ultimately nihilistic.  Sure, Sheriff Bell in "Old Men" attempts to fall into this category, but he's far too world-weary, and in that heartbreaking final monologue, there's ultimately no hope left for any human decency.  Ultimately, no matter how technically perfect "No Country" is, and it's damn near "technically" perfect, and the performances can’t be touched (Javier Bardem is especially magnificent in a really tricky role), I'm still left feeling cold, a great cat-and-mouse thriller with nihilisitic notions of human nature. There's nothing left that's human.

 

So I worked in my mind down the line of all the Coen Brothers films I’ve seen over the years.  So, because it’s an exceedingly slow day on a Friday after a busy week, here are my random thoughts on the Coen Brother oeuvre (with the exception of “Blood Simple,” because I’m a bad film geek and haven’t yet seen it):

 

 

Raising Arizona:  First off, my parents love this film, love it.  I was treated to it at twelve years old, where I didn’t especially “get” it the first time around, but now, I think it’s consistently hilarious and outrageously oddball.  It’s a grand show-off exercise in film proficiency (with a constantly mobile camera and wild crane shots) that not much deeper than a dog’s water bowl, but it’s fast and often nasty fun.  My favorite moment:  John Goodman and William Forsythe leaving the baby on the roof of the car.  They realize their mistake.  Turn back.  The inkpack in the stolen money explodes.  Comic Gold.

 

Miller’s Crossing:  I finally got around to watching this just a few weeks back, and my feelings about it parallel much how I feel about “No Country for Old Men.”  ‘Crossing’ is indeed stylish, clever, and absorbing; almost too much so, which is its defining flaw, if you can call it that.  As much as I appreciate the Coens’ self-conscious artifice (one of their defining characteristics), everything here is just a little too clever and stylized:  the hard-boiled Ganster-speak, the moody Irish music, the dense twisty plot, the inexpressive lead performances and film noir archetypes.  These things are great to behold, but they don’t grab you at any human level.  What does, funny enough, is the strange sense of humor that permeates, and John Turturro’s feral/cool performance as the pathetic but smart Bernie.  My favorite moment:  Albert Finney proves his awesomeness in a tommy-gun shoot-out set to “Danny Boy.” 

 

Barton Fink:  Now here’s where the Coen Brothers get wild and surreal; I’ll be honest, I think this remains to be their best film, in spite (or maybe because of) a completely abstract ending.  This film breathes artistic confusion and despair, and conveys a unsettling menace the Brothers Coen have not yet matched.  The film seems like if David Lynch has stuck in film school and come out with a quicker wit.  The film is a very strange, very vivid personal window into Hell.  My favorite moment:  John Goodman finally shows us his “life of the mind.”

 

The Hudsucker Proxy:  Films like this one are why I love the Coens; no other filmmakers have such a deep personal affection and knowledge of all things film.  Here, the Brothers cobble together every film genre of the 20’s, 30’s, 40’s (screwball comedy, big business, newspaper scoops, silent comedies) and still come off with a totally unique project.  The actors are totally disarming (Tim Robbins is a hoot, Paul Newman is fantastic), the set design is impressive (it rivals Brazil in illustrating an expansive cluttered world ruled by bureaucracy), and the timing is tight.  My only complaint is it tends to meander just a little too much near the end.  But nevermind, it’s fine fine fun.  My favorite moment:  Tim Robbins.  Just Tim Robbins.  I would marry that man.  But let’s pick irrigating Paul Newman’s office with the drinking water.

 

Fargo:  Now, finally, everyone could agree this was a modern masterpiece.  The Coens’ misanthropic view of humanity, their love of sad little people doing bad things for “just a little money,” their wicked black sense of humor, all that’s there.  And it’s great.  But what makes this film a masterpiece?  Two words:  Marge Gunderson.  I’ll admit a bias towards this film:  Marge is one of my favorite movie characters.  Sure, she’s an ironic twist on the noir archetype (the smart gumshoe), but the fact that she’s a woman, pregnant, and the most decent human being in the Twin-Cities tri-county area make her absolutely special.  Otherwise, the film would just lapse over to parody (though, being born in Minnesota, those accents and demeanors really are close, as much as Minnesotans hate to admit it).  Here, she balances all that’s wrong in the world, which doesn’t make her a bad cop, it makes her better.  In the end, she just honestly can’t understand why people would hurt each other for money, but it doesn’t dim her view of humans.  She’s far too happy taking pleasure in her warm hideaway with her hubby, talking stamps and eating at Embers.  My favorite moment:  way too many, but that ending, as Marge cozies up to her hubby, and murmurs “We’re doing pretty good, Norm” gets me every time.

 

The Big Lebowski:  Hands down, my favorite Coens film, and endlessly rewatchable.  Here, they take one of their noveau clever ideas (Raymond Chandler, set in LA, with an ex-hippie stoner hero who likes to bowl) and fill the sidelines with brilliantly funny diversions.  It’s one of the rare movies (maybe the only) I think is funnier to me every time I watch it.  Praise deservedly goes to Jeff Bridges,   It’s their greatest sleeper hit (and much like the Dude), it took a few years for everyone to figure out what it was all about.  My favorite moment:  the Dude’s second dream, “Gutterballs”:  Saddam Hussein handing out bowling shoes, Julianne Moore in gladiator gear, Kenny Rogers soundtrack, Busby Berkley showgirls, the dreamy flight down the alley:  one of the most delightful scenes in film history.

 

O Brother, Where Art Thou?:  Now the masses jump on the Coens bandwagon, not in small part to the transcendent soundtrack.  Many critics unfairly malign this one as a goofy grotesque lark (Entertainment Weekly gave it a F, calling it “misanthropic flim-flam), but everything that’s wild about the Coen sensibility (those weird characters, that strange sense of humor, the show-off technical brilliance) meshes into something fairly irresistible.  Plus, for nerds like me, the literary, film, and historical references are rich to behold (and the inspired “reworking” of The Odyssey).  To top it all off, the picture has their richest cinematography, a brilliantly nostalgic golden hue.  My favorite moment:  again, too many, but I’ll pick the seductive call of the sirens in “Go to Sleep Little Baby.”

 

The Man Who Wasn’t There:  Not many people knew how to take this one (my father scoffed at it), but I think it’s the Brothers’ most underrated.  A sleek black-and-white look enhances their favorite plot:  little people doing bad things for money, and fills the sidelines with fascinating and bizarre characters.  But this one is muted, taciturn, slow, and thoughtful, like its anti-hero.  It’s got a powerful allure I can’t quite explain.  See it for yourself and let me know.  My favorite moment:  our first dinner meeting with lawyer Freddie Reindenschneider, an Oscar-worthy performance by Tony Shaloub as the slickest philosophical shark you’ll ever meet.

 

Intolerable Cruelty:  Perhaps the most trifling and uneven Coen Brothers entry, this one has some good qualities that make up for the disappointing.  An awful opening gives way to a blinding white smile and great comic timing by George Clooney, fun screwball dialogue, and zany side characters with funny names.  Oh, and Catherine Zeta-Jones looks great.  Overall, it’s easy to watch, but hard to love; it just feels so, well, minor.  My favorite moment:  six words - Heinz, the Baron Krauss von Espy.

 

The Ladykillers:  I defend this other trifling entry maybe a little more than I should.  Critics and audiences were largely indifferent, and the result of remaking this British classic should have been much much better than this final project, but there’s a lot to enjoy around the edges.  Namely, Tom Hanks (who I always like more when he’s being silly than “Tom Hanks”) as a dandified freakshow ringleader and Irma P. Hall as the unkillable titular Lady.  Detractions:  the profanity seems completely out of place.  So does Marlon Wayans.  My favorite moment: “I hope you don’t play that hippity-hop music, with the titles spelt all funny.”

 

Paris, Je T’Aime:  The Coens’ contribution to this esnemble short film collection is absolutely essential; I love the overall film, but it wouldn’t have been the same without the Brothers’ wild five minute short set in a Metro Underground station.  A slient Steve Buscemi, a guide book, and two crazy Parisians.  Wild perfection.  My favorite moment:  Mona Lisa will always just stare smirking back at you.

 

Fin.

 

Visit this website, a documentary currently being filmed about the readers of Bill Watterson and Calvin and Hobbes. I think it's an extraordinarily sweet gesture. Like these guys, I was weened on the highly philosophical, literate, funny, and beautiful panels of Calvin and Hobbes. I feel no hyperbole in saying I truly believe the comic strip was one of the greatest works of American 20th century art.

http://www.dearmrwatterson.com/

It's funny often often I come back to this comic strip; besides perhaps my parents, Calvin and Hobbes was one of the defining influences in my early life. It shaped my sense of humor (a bit of dry irony, some flavor of quick wit, an appreciation of the absurd), expanded my vocabularly of my love of the wonderful quality of words (Calvin was one hyper-literate and alliterative six-year-old) and the value of independence and self-reliance (possible schizophrenic or not, Calvin knew how to pass time by himself). It served as an artistic gateway into a greater appreciation of the written word and the painted canvas.

It also helped make clear some colder realities for a younger Max: in the annual Christmas strips, I learned Santa Claus wasn't real, but instead the commitment to doing good in spite of the myth. In a reflective and stark strip about a dead bird, I discovered death was permenent, swift, and came to everyone (and everything), but that shouldn't stop us from enjoying life (and pondering its mysteries).

For ten years, almost every night, I drift off to sleep reading the anthologies. I still do from time to time, flipping through the pages in the dim light. They are worn with my age: grubby fingerprints, panels purloined from my sister with scissors, small blood stains where I lost a tooth right onto the page. By now, I know these strips verbatim by heart, but they still store surprises; to how much I've aged, but the panels haven't. They seem designed to travel with you through time, offering new layers that can only be understood by gaining knowledge or wisdom or just plain age. 

I'm officially making the move from Xanga to LiveJournal.  I'm about five years behind the times, but that's the way I like to roll.  Still, I have some fond memories of Xanga, years of philosophizing on film and frustrated self-analysis.  For the sake of self-preservation (and my own hubris), I'll link my old site here:

 http://www.xanga.com/FirebrandLiberal