The end of the choad + RECIPE #3: Spinach-Mushroom Stuffed Pork Chops

When I got home last night, there was a dead bird in front of my entrance and a tax refund check in my mailbox. That's March for ya. See you tonight, I hope. On with the goods.

"Galaxy Hunter"
(2004)

Thankfully, I don't have much to say about this boring T&A space action flick. So cheap you can barely hear the main actors during major conversations, yet so simple you won't have trouble following along, my final subject for March probably wishes it were "Barbarella," or at least "Galaxina." The uncreatively-named Shelley Michelle (that's her and her huge rock-hard boobs on the cover up there) stars as an intergalactic secret agent who responds to a distress call on a planet one inhabitant charitably describes as "a lot like Earth." The call was from her father, an agent who disappeared 20 years ago. He's played by famed star of stage and screen Stacy Keach (that's him superimposed in the stars on the cover up there, looking like he's about to vomit). She meets up with four bounty hunter babes and inveigles them in her scheme to hunt down her dad - they agree for money, but naturally they all become blood sisters in minutes. Shelley gets a job dancing at the bad guy's gentlemen's club, looking much better in a black wig. Then the two hotter bounty hunters, the British robot girl with the funky hairdo and the alien/lion black girl, get killed. I should have shut it off right there. But, no, I soldiered through as Shelley saves her dad (the obnoxious, cackling drug-runner villain shoots him during their escape) and has her final showdown with evil before heading off to the sack with a hunkasaurus bartender. You wouldn't think a movie with spaceships, strippers, saloon battles, rampant drug use, laser battles and lots of girls kissing would be boring, but "Galaxy Hunter" makes Andy Sedaris look like Russ Meyer.

I wanted to do something with meat, and since I've never cooked pork (bacon doesn't count), pork chops sounded like a good start. I wanted some recipe for stuffing them with mushrooms, so I Googled "pork chop," "stuffed" and "mushroom" and stumbled around until I came across one I liked from cooks.com. It looked pretty involved, but I didn't have to buy any extra equipment this month.
You start by defrosting a 10 oz. package of frozen spinach. I suppose it's just easier to measure frozen than fresh - spinach really shrinks when you cook it. You mix the spinach with 1/2 cup of chopped onion and 3/4 cup of chopped mushrooms, both of which require less raw material than I anticipated. (Leftover mushrooms aren't a problem to me.) Also, you want 1/2 teaspoon of salt, 1/8 teaspoon of pepper and 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg. This last ingredient makes the whole experience... I never would have thought to try nutmeg with pork on my own. This mix of veggies and spices is your stuffing, and it's pretty simple. Now you attend to the meat.

The recipe specifies 8 center-cut pork chops, but I got the bone-in kind out of personal preference. It really didn't affect the process, although my grandma tells me meat with bones usually needs to cook longer. So, you slice a pocket into the side of each chop and stuff it with your mixture, closing off the hole with a toothpick. Dammit! When I went over the recipe list for shopping, I forgot the toothpicks because their appearance was buried in the recipe. So, I washed my hands and drove to the Jewel. The biggest lesson of this recipe was to make sure you have everything you need, and check the recipe twice. I ended up using three toothpicks for each chop, just to make sure the stuff stayed put.

Once your chops are stuffed, you put some salt and pepper on them, roll them in flour and brown them with some butter in a skillet. With the toothpicks in place, this is easier said than done, but I just slid the meat flat and it browned with no problem. The chops supposedly go into a 9"x13" baking dish, but I needed two because of their size. Next comes the first part of making the sauce, my favorite step. Once your skillet has cooled off a little, pour in 1 and 1/2 cups of white wine (I went with a $10 chardonnay of some sort) and swirl it around to mix in the gunk from the pork. Then you dump this over the chops, cover them and stick the whole mess in the over at 350 degrees for an hour.

Your last step comes after you remove the chops from the oven. You drain the liquid out of the pan back into the skillet, then bake the chops for 20 more minutes while you thicken the juices with flour. This goes over the chops when you take them out - this time for good - and you eat them bastards. I had to improvise with this last step - I made these to take over to my parents' for a family dinner, so I made and applied the gravy before I left, then baked them for the final 20 minutes when I got there. The chops came out very tender and the wine's/nutmeg's effect on the flavor was delicious. I just wish I didn't have pork juice all over the floor of my car, but, hey.

Laser rays in the galaxy age

"Dünyayi Kurtaran Adam"
(aka "The Man Who Saves the World," aka "Turkish Star Wars," 1982)

Ho. Lee. Shit. This is one of those legendary films someone tells you about at a party, or if you're like me, you've at least read about it. The fictitious bootleg title "Turkish Star Wars" really puts an image in your head. This is of course a sci-fi adventure from Turkey, one infamous for stealing footage and music from famous Western blockbusters and inserting them into an insane tale of intergalactic good and evil. Let me tell you, a lot of times something with such a crazy reputation is inevitably a disappointment, because nothing can be as wacky as what you imagine. "Dünyayi Kurtaran Adam" is a rare exception. It's just as cheap, ridiculous, incomprehensible and hilarious as I hoped, and I am one jaded sonofabitch. The men we have to thank for it are director Çetin Inanç, who's amassed a minor cult following with a body of work that reads like an Italian's (westerns, murder mysteries, sex pictures, etc.) and writer Cüneyt Arkin, who also stars as the heroic Murat (and, according to the IMDB, is also a medical doctor). They begin with a prologue, a guy booming in echoing Turkish about how the Earth is strong, how it was broken into pieces but remained intact, how some kind of nuclear warriors are attacking the planet, intermittent rhetoric about the power of human willpower like something out of "Battlefield Earth" if it was written by Ayn Rand... combined with the dodgy subtitles and a montage of random battle footage from the first "Star Wars," the opening narration is more confusing than than the beginning of Lynch's "Dune."

Soon we meet Murat and his buddy Ali, two brave Turks who, along with "some others," are fighting this vague intergalactic menace. With the help of bizarre editing and rear-screen projection, I think we're supposed to believe Murat and Ali are either flying in X-wing fighters or TIE fighters, or perhaps the Millennium Falcon. Whatever they're flying, they crash on a desert planet where the swarthy starfighters joke about how it would be great if it was only populated with women. No such luck - instead, they're attacked by dudes in Halloween skeleton suits. This is where we're treated to the first of several astounding fight sequences, our heroes knocking costumed dudes off of horses with little regard for equine welfare. The editing makes everything seem super fast like a cartoon, and these two hollering and delivering karate chops make it even funnier. It seems that the planet is ruled by a bearded jerk in a mask called the Wizard, who has a cruddy robot henchman and is conveniently the same guy attacking the Earth. The Wizard thrives on human blood, which we see him drinking through an oversized crazy straw. As soon as Murat spies a cute, speechless blonde lass, he decides to fight for justice on her behalf. This leads Murat and Ali to battle a succession of the Wizard's skeleton soldiers, mummies and furry things that resemble '70s McDonaldland rejects.

An old dude on the planet, the mute girl's dad, says all of this was foretold in the Qur'an. Now, the subtitles were pretty faulty, but this is apparently the only sub available for the flick. Not only were things worded very strangely, as might be expected, but what seemed like every other subtitle would only flash for a fraction of a second before a new line appeared, making many of the conversations appear one-sided. Since the sound slips in and out of sync with the action, the already inpenetrable dialogue takes on a hallucinatory randomness that actually fits the viewing experience better than proper subtitles would. From what I could make out, I think the old guy says the universe was created according to Islam, and that there is a magical holy sword hidden away in some mountain keep, along with a brain that contains all the intellect and imagination of humanity. Murat retrieves the fakey, ornate sword and the rubbery, moldy-looking brain, but after Ali's untimely demise he somehow melts them together and dips his hands in the muck. They emerge covered with wicked metal gloves that make Murat's stiff karate chops so powerful he can cut a monster in half or knock off its head with a single blow. I won't blow the big finish, but it involves one of the flick's most dumbfounding "special effects" and more "Star Wars" footage. And the music! These guys steal famous bits from the scores to "Raiders of the Lost Ark," "Flash Gordon" and "The Black Hole" throughout the flick.

I can't stress enough how bizarre and entertaining "Dünyayi Kurtaran Adam" is - even if you could understand Turkish and without all the rampant thievery, it would still be a hoot. If you don't have access to a good bootleg dealer, do like I did: watch it for free here. It's not like a higher quality copy could enhance the experience... but some cheap liquor certainly might.

No nüs is good news

Every time I hear people say "there's no good new music," it boggles my mind. Maybe on the radio there isn't, but I'm not having any trouble finding enjoyable current stuff. As evidence, I present a new set of tunes in the mp3 player to your right. They all come from 2007 releases, and I think they all jam. If I had use for an iPod, the current playlist would look a lot like this. Here's the rundown, with my dumb comments to pass for today's review.

1. Beirut: "Elephant Gun" (Lon Gisland, Ba Da Bing!) - Hot on the heels of last year's amazing debut Gulag Orkestar comes a short EP of more folk-pop with a Balkan soul. If Stephin Merritt had been born a Gypsy, The Magnetic Fields might sound more like this. Given the winsome, world-weary European elegance of the music, it's still hard to believe Beirut is the product of an American kid who's not old enough to drink. That Zach Condon and crew already have new material out speaks of their productivity and sets the stage for a hopefully long career. Just tell me this song is not awesome.

2. Manowar: "Gods of War" (Gods of War, Magic Circle) - "Elephantine" would be a kind way to describe the latest slab from the self-described Kings of Metal. "Way too long" is more accurate. When I was about 14, Manowar's soaring tales of violence and steel made them one of my favorite bands, but many years of inactivity, puffery and repetition have lowered their status for me. Plus, I ain't 14, so what was once cool seems mighty ridiculous now. Nonetheless, they still deliver the goods once in a while, and this lil' war march is a real fist-pumper. Dig the battle horns. Someone should use it in an action figure commercial. Warriors of True Metal, Hold Thy Lite Beers High!

3. Naglfar: "Plutonium Reveries" (Harvest, Century Media) - Remarkably better than their last outing, with Harvest, Naglfar reclaims Sweden's leading place in the malevolently melodic black/death sweepstakes. It seemed like the band lost inspiration when frontman Jens Rydén left (he joined Thyrfing a few weeks ago!), but Kristoffer Olivius has steered the ship of nails back to more inspired waters. Although this song is at times reminiscent of Dissection's old hit "Where Dead Angels Lie" (especially the riff in the chorus, which gives me the chills anyway), it's way better than anything on last year's disappointing Dissection comeback/farewell disc.

4. Bloc Party: "Where Is Home?" (A Weekend in the City, Vice) - I have been shouting about this album for a while. It's still the only "complete wow" record I've heard so far this year. Weekend is more atmospheric and commitedly melodic than Bloc Party's great debut, Silent Alarm, feeling like a more serious, personal and mature version of the Brits' intoxicating blend of post-punk rhythm and college rock malaise. It was hard to pick a single track to represent it here, but I went with this driving, electro-touched number addressing xenophobic violence against immigrants (frontman Kele Okereke's parents came from Nigeria). I love Russell Lissack's guitar during the sweepingly sad chorus. Weekend is instantly catchy, yet there is much to explore upon subsequent listens. 100% recommended, especially for Cure fans.

5. Lumsk: "Svend Herlufsens Ord, Del IV Se, Natten Er Livet" (Det Vilde Kor, Tabu) - A folk metal band who have lost most of the metal (see also: Cruachan), Norwegians Lumsk won their country's first by:Larm Grant for their take on native culture. Thus, it's not surprising that their new CD has a wider appeal, at times approaching heavy prog rock but never galloping straight into metal territory. This track is one of the loudest, relatively speaking, and most engaging for those of us who know little about the album's subject - an adaptation of works by famed Norwegian poet Knut Hamsun.

6. Disbelief: "Passenger" (Navigator, Massacre) - Navigator is a return to form for these Germans, who seemed to be drifting toward ill-advised nü-metal tropes in recent years. While still containing its share of boxy beats and vocal tics, it's also more committed to the grueling groove that made their earlier work so affecting. While Disbelief has once again seamlessly integrated the ambient and the active, I still prefer their doomier numbers such as this one, a wonderfully miserable trudge through the land of iconoclasm.

7. 65daysofstatic: "Morning in the Knife Quarter" (Don't Go Down to Sorrow, Monotreme) - I just learned about this British instrumental quartet, so I can't offer you any background or comparison to previous work. However, having heard this three-track single from their soon-to-be-released third disc, The Destruction of Small Ideas, I have a feeling I'll know more soon. This non-album track is a bright mix of post-rock textures, mathy instrumentation and dancy IDM beats, which seems to be the way they do it in general. Think Hot Chip, but with no singing and nowhere near as simplistic.

8. Aesop Rock: "None Shall Pass (clean version)" (DefinitiveSwim, AdultSwim.com) - Coming from a new sampler of Definitive Jux artists released online via Adult Swim, the long-awaited return of Aesop Rock has been noticeably edited. Aes just released a 45 minute-long track via iTunes called All Day: Nike + Original Run, commissioned by the sneaker giant as part of some series of releases intended for joggers. This song is not part of that project, although it does have an insistent pace and keyboard hook that would work if you're the sort who runs when your life isn't threatened. It's the announced title track from his upcoming fourth LP. He spits rhymes like a champ, and you can dance to it. Click that link a few lines up to get the sampler. There's a new El-P song and great Mr. Lif remix with Cannibal Ox on it. It's cool and free and legal.

9. Mors Principium Est: "The Animal Within" (Liberation = Termination, Listenable) - Yes! Another dance tune! Heh, behold the false "club mix" start, an old metal trick that works perfectly here, sliding effortlessly from throbbing Eurodance to a choppy thrash riff. Greatly hyped by lovers of melodic death metal, Finland's Mors Principium Est does this shit right. Their riffing is straightforward but memorable, reminding me of early Soilwork (the vocals, too), but there's also a technicality at work that's as pure and driven as the Amott brothers were when Arch Enemy wasn't trying to be so crowd-pleasing. The keyboards give it the sheen of modern Dark Tranquillity, but the overall aggression is greater here. Mors Principium Est isn't rewriting the book, but they learned well from the greats.

10. Therion: "Trul" (Gothic Kabbalah, Nuclear Blast) - Therion changed their sound quite a bit on this new double album, and not just because mainman Christofer Johnsson finally stopped singing completely. Long ago Therion was a pretty good atmospheric Swedish death metal band, then slowly started adding bombastic symphonic and operatic elements until they were pretty much a freaking orchestra and choir with a metal band chugging away over it. It's a cool sound, but they did a lot of samey records up to this one. With Johnsson's hollering gone for good, several solitary vocalists step up to the front, where choirs once smothered everything. The music's a lot more engaging - it's heavier, there are a lot of proggy workouts and some songs have a sort of pop angle, like this folky one sung by Katarina Lilja. It's a little Tull, and waaaay better than Evanescence.

11. Chase Pagan: "Spanish Tongue" (Chase Pagan, Insound.com) - I typically sneer at people named Chase, but this singer/songwriter from Arkansas gets a pass. His album doesn't come out until summer, but there is a free and legal EP available that you will find if you click that link up there. Chase's songs are pretty interesting, theatrical and complex, frequently employing falsetto and piano. He's definitely not trying to convince you he's a normal and safe and sincere pop-rock pin-up. Yes, he does a Queen cover, and it's pretty convincing. I would like to hear his album, because if he can sustain this varied and rich approach over an entire LP, this guy might be going places.

12. The Cinematics: "Break" (A Strange Education, TVT) - A "college rock" act if ever there was one, The Cinematics sound like a few different bands on their debut. There's a lot of dull filler, especially the mellow songs, which are like watching paint dry in Coldplay's rehearsal loft. The faster new wave ones are more enjoyable, although they all seem mimeographed from the Interpol/Editors page of Joy Division worship. Hey, better nicking from that than from Franz Ferdinand - The Cinematics are Scottish, after all. This song was their first single and to me the catchiest song offered. Not too much to say about this one, other than don't expect an entire album as engaging as this slice of art school fashion-plate disco.

13. Trail of Tears: "The Closing Walls" (Existentia, Napalm) - Shortly after recording the new Trail of Tears record, most of the band left. That really doesn't mean much, because vocalist Ronny Thorsen has been the driving force behind Trail of Tears for a long time. That's Ronny doing the raspy gremlin vocals here, as he has since the beginning. What's going to be the biggest blow is the loss of the other male vocalist, Kjetil Nordhus, who is also the voice of Green Carnation. When Nordhus came into the band a few years ago, their focus changed from decent but unspectacular gothic doom/death in the vein of early Theatre of Tragedy or Tristania to a more individual sort of proggy/goth/Eurometal thing. Cathrine Paulsen, the hottest girl who was ever in the band, has returned to Ronny's side, but she's not on Existentia - that's French session singer Emmanuelle Zoldan lending her lovely accent to the interlude.

14. The Arcade Fire: "Intervention" (Neon Bible, Merge) - Neon Bible is one of this spring's most anticipated indie superstar platters, a sophomore follow-up to the surprise hit Funeral. Overall, it's less impressive upon first listen, but what at first seems like timid malaise reveals itself to be a more stately form of grandeur. Although relatively sedate compared with the delirious detours on Funeral, the Montreal mini-orchestra does have their uptempo moments, such as this typically joyful-sounding but lyrically dark ditty, the first track The Arcade Fire released to the public. Neon Bible actually debuted at number two on the Billboard Top 200, so I don't know why I'm telling you about it, other than to say not everything in the charts is pure shit.

15. Rotting Christ: "Nemecic" (Theogonia, Season of Mist) - Let me summarize the post I wrote when this was the song on my MySpace profile: The early melodic black metal stuff by Greece's Rotting Christ was pretty cool, but then they got all keyboardy and repetitive and I lost interest. Theogonia came out on a different label, with the band touting its enhanced "Hellenic cultural elements," amounting to Greek instruments and vocals strewn throughout the album. That alone would have sold me, but they also offer a surprisingly strong and forceful collection of guitar melodies. The whole thing is amazingly free of tedium, but this track is probably my favorite as far as the Greek-y stuff goes.

16. Dew-Scented: "Final Warning" (Incinerate, Nuclear Blast) - If not better than, then at least as good as Slayer's recent Christ Illusion, Incinerate will not sell nearly as many units. That's a shame. These guys are Germany's greatest contribution to aggressive thrash since the glory days of the Kreator/Destruction/Sodom triumvirate. Record number seven finds them holding the same pattern of indignant mastery they've possessed since 1999's Ill-Natured, guitars like well-oiled buzzsaws and drums like a pacemaker for a superhuman cannibal who drinks too much coffee. This track is my favorite from the new one, probably because of the nimble breakdowns. Due to its similarity to past work, Incinerate does beg the question of how many records like this someone my age needs, but if I keep buying them, I will continue to buy Dew-Scented. Quality is assured.

17. A Northern Chorus: "The Canadian Shield" (The Millions Too Many, Sonic Unyon) - More indie pop from Canada, this time from an Ontario band I recently heard for the first time. I don't know much about A Northern Chorus, but this is from their fourth LP, a pleasant Sunday afternoon album if I've ever heard one. This one is an immersive ballad with a beautiful shoegazer guitar refrain, soft vocals adding texture but never intruding upon the peaceful lope of the band. A number of the other tunes on the disc have a sort of folk/Americana flavor mixed in with the atmospherics. Although this song grabbed me the most, I would encourage anyone to whom that description sounds appealing to check A Northern Chorus out.

18. Dødheimsgard: "The Snuff Dreams Are Made Of" (Supervillain Outcast, Moonfog) - Eight years after the amazing 666 International melted faces, the electronic black metal freakazoids of Dødheimsgard (or is it just DHG now?) return with a surprisingly similar disc, albeit one far less hallucinatory and petulant. There's an assured malevolence beneath the new clattering tirades, and even a rare respite of tunefulness, similar to what a few of these Norse nutjobs did on the overlooked Code album Nouveau Gloaming a couple of years back. At a time when electro metal is in a dire state, thers is definitely a welcome return.

19. The Tossers: "Siobhan" (Agony, Victory) - One of the best fucking live bands in Chicago return with a remarkably mature and somewhat dark album, still kicking out boisterous Celtic folk/punk jams that demand to be played again and again but with a heart that remains sober no matter how many suds it soaks up. It wasn't until a couple of years ago, when I found myself unduly enchanted by a young lady who was a big fan of The Tossers, that I contemplated how truly excellent they are on the instrumental and verbal front. Not many bands can pull off the personal and the political with such sincerity, all the while serving infectious Irish melodies like they were Jameson's the day after Easter. Then again, maybe I like this hearty sing-along so much because it's about having the hots for a beautiful lass who drinks like a maniac...

20. Novembers Doom: "Dominate the Human Strain" (The Novella Reservoir, The End) - In conclusion, here's another veteran Chicago act kicking ass. Much has been made in the metal press about the variation in tempo found on The Novella Reservoir. As can be heard on this rollicking selection, they're not always slow and mournful all the time anymore, although Novembers Doom hasn't strictly been a doom/death band in a while. Still, this new disc mixes it up more than ever, making it more appealing to a wider range of headbanger. My other favorite track on the album is a very moving mellow tune that vocalist Paul Kuhr wrote about his baby daughter, so I'm not just echoing the rest of the reviewers - these guys are getting more diverse and more engaging with every release. I'm interviewing Paul on Friday, in advance of ND's appearance at next month's Chicago Powerfest (Solitude Aeturnus! Martyr! Saturnus! ATHEIST! You should go!), and you will probably not read the whole chat when I post it, but I'll do it anyway.

Selling secrets to a canned tomato

Tomorrow: new songs in the player. It's not winter anymore.

Of Montreal
The Gay Parade
(Bar/None, 1999)

After some reflection, I realized that some comments in yesterday's hastily-typed post may have made me seem real down on indie pop. That's not true at all. After all, I spent last night enjoying the elaborately shabby glamour of Parenthetical Girls, while you did not (the Abbey was sadly too empty for you to refute me). I will admit that I have a slight problem with the word "indie," though, as it seems to have become a synonym either for "eccentric," which doesn't really fit when applied to a bog-standard singer/songwriter, or for "amateur," which could not be further from the truth when applied to bands like Modest Mouse or Interpol - both currently signed to major labels, mind you, making the term's original "independent" implication even murkier. A listener is ostensibly supposed to give an indie band leeway if they're less than polished - a poor recording, instrumental mistakes or off-key vocals are clues that you are not listening to radio product designed by cynical executives who do not even like popular music. (Tangentially, this conceit is also a component of modern black metal, as bands with properly mixed albums and precise playing are often deemed less "true" than some dude recording fifteen meandering guitar solos per week in his bedroom.) The truth is that in many cases, the trappings of "indie" are exploited by insular hacks hoping their codefied quirks will mask a dire lack of creativity, melody or relevance. At the same time, those gifted with songwriting acumen, genuinely unique outsider ideas and technical creativity are the ones defining those quirks in the first place, and they use "shortcomings" as an aesthetic advantage.

Take Of Montreal. Eight LPs and countless EPs, split singles and compilations into their career, they still remain signed to an independent label (downstate mainstay Polyvinyl), and none of the admittedly small portion of that which I've heard sounds like shit. I first heard them a long time ago, back when I first flipped out over Neutral Milk Hotel and Olivia Tremor Control and was trying to check out all of the tangential Elephant Six bands. Before I moved, I had a coupla mp3s from Of Montreal's third album, The Gay Parade, and they sounded okay. The next time I head Of Montreal was at Lollapalooza last summer. I walked by and watched about two minutes before I had to be off to somewhere. They sounded completely different, still very bright and poppy, but now with a bouncy new wave synth-pop slant. Those two minutes were okay, too, but they compelled me to get The Gay Parade and verify whether my memory was faulty. I really should have gotten it sooner, because it's a beautiful piece of work. In true E6 fashion, Kevin Barnes and crew fill up just about every nook and cranny with just about every instrument you can think of, all in the service of dreamy, ultra-twee stereophonic pop that often sounds a lot like The Beatles' old-timey tunes - think of Paul compositions such as "When I'm Sixty-Four" or "Rocky Raccoon." The recording has analog warmth, but doesn't sound like it's been soaking in flood water for six months.

Now, you can listen to Of Montreal's entire new album, Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?, streaming here. It's got some really catchy songs and some neat tricks, but it doesn't hold a candle to the starry-eyed retro charm of The Gay Parade. Barnes has reportedly written and recorded the bulk of the recent Of Montreal albums on his own, as opposed to the earlier records which were more "band" records. This is an inversion of how the process is supposed to work: your early, solo recordings are lo-fi and self-indulgent, while your later material shows the influence of a collective, expanding the original notion into something grander and more mature. Parade character sketches like "Jacques Lamure," the story of a frustrated guy who does nothing about his situation, or the self-explanatory "A Man's Life Flashing Before His Eyes While He and His Wife Drive Off a Cliff Into the Ocean" are much more engaging than the occasionally shrill, synthetic and navel-gazing stuff that clutters the new album. The weird lyrics on Parade (see the title of this post, from "Tulip Baroo") help paint a colorful mental picture, while those on Fauna are just confounding. Bottom line, if you want a candy-flavored, wild and addictive good time with more possibilities than the first day of summer, get yourself a copy of The Gay Parade. There isn't a bad song on it.

Idle thumbs

"Thumbsucker"
(2005)

We temporarily leave the realm of shaggy beasts, post-apocalyptic ninjas and hot lesbian physicists for an "indie" drama about how tough it is to be a white middle-class American teenager. I'd heard a lot of good things about "Thumbsucker" when it came out, but upon finally seeing it I had mixed feelings, which I'm sure will be evident in my description. The center of the story is a lanky kid named Justin (Lou Pucci) who is near the end of high school but, as the title suggests, never stopped sucking his thumb. It doesn't seem to cause stress for anyone but his dad, but his quirky new age orthodontist hypnotizes him with the suggestion he stop. It appears that Justin exists in a sort of vacuum - his parents aren't much for guidance, his brother's a sassy little jerk and he has no friends to speak of except for a teen queen dream who he's hot for but who naturally just wants to be friends. Once he stops sucking his thumb, he is also put on Ritalin, which turns him from a socially uncomfortable dweeb to a domineering debate team champion. Justin learns about being focused, the joys of drugs, the randomness of life, the cruelty of unrequited romance, the ravages of age and the problem with taking advice from quirky new age orthodontists. Finally, he goes off to college, inadvertantly sucking his thumb while on the plane and in the process amusing a girl sitting next to him, and everyone he met during the movie watches him doing a college newscast. It's okay to be a misfit! Hooray for Justin!

I realize that the point of movies like this one isn't to wow you with plot twists or amazing mise en scène. It's a "slice of life," complete with a sense of drifting tedium to evoke normal daily routines. Such pictures handily have a defense against criticism built into them - when it becomes slow and aimless or conversely succumbs to quick and confusing events, it is doing so to mirror the strange rhythms of life. I can see that to a point, and while I was initially annoyed by the wide-eyed and precocious lead teen, I was kind of rooting for Justin by the end. But I never felt truly involved, as the entire movie seemed as detached and "Afterschool Special"-ish as the first half of "Garden State." The indie pop soundtrack (songs by The Polyphonic Spree and Elliott Smith) is pleasant, yet exactly the kind of thing you expect to accompany slow-motion shots of a white kid trying to make sense of it all on a sun-dappled suburban afternoon. I don't care if it was originally optioned for peanuts... with the participation of well-known recording artists, distribution by a major studio and cast members including Vincent D'Onofrio (the dad), Vince Vaughn (the debate coach) and Keanu Reeves (the orthodontist), I don't know how movies like this still have the balls to call themselves "indie." Nobody's bad - even Reeves, who's supposed to be spacy here - and the ever-rad Tilda Swinton even stands out a bit as Justin's mom, but the whole thing is so typically non-flashy, unassuming and average that it manages to make its most "natural" sequences seem contrived. "Thumbsucker" has its moments, but in the end offers little insight into much. The trailer:

Forest danger

"The Woods"
(2006)

I am now fully convinced that last year was great for horror movies released in America. You wouldn't know it from the remakes and franchise flicks that made all the money - "Hostel" was the only really good original to pull in much scratch - but after such unheralded corkers as "Slither," "Feast" and now "The Woods," I'm ready to proclaim it a banner year. I have no idea why this went straight to DVD, or why the promotional art is so generic. "The Woods" is director Lucky McKee's follow-up to the exceptional "May," which was very well received. McKee also did the "Sick Girl" episode for Showtime's "Masters of Horrors" series, definitely one of the best episodes from the first season. I guess the studios were too busy last year wasting their time with pre-teen hokum like "Stay Alive" and that remake of "When a Stranger Calls," when here was a perfectly good non-extreme horror flick which could have been a hit if marketed correctly. McKee has a knack for interesting female characters, and "The Woods" being set at an all-girls' school allows him to flesh out a number of them. Sure, the plot sounds a lot like "Suspiria" on paper, but while that classic was an obvious inspiration here, this is not a thinly-veiled remake (see "House of 1,000 Corpses" and "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre"), and what it eschews in psychedelic overkill it makes up for in pacing and performances. The biggest names in the cast are Patricia Clarkson and Bruce Campbell, but the lead is a girl named Agnes Bruckner who totally amazed me, much like Angela Bettis did in "May."

Bruckner plays sullen teen firebug Heather, packed away to the private academy by her embarassed mom and concerned dad (Campbell, almost entirely playing it straight for a change). Heather keeps hearing voices calling to her from the forest surrounding the building, but she doesn't say anything because everyone's mean to her except a mousy girl named Marcy (Lauren Birkell). The meanest girl is a prissy blonde who seems to have something against people with red pubic hair. There's some sort of weird secret that the entire school doesn't want to talk about, and it's as if the faculty, led by Clarkson in excellent ice queen mode, is all in on it. It has something to do with the strange admission test all the girls take, the milk they're served at every meal and the woods. Students go missing, including Marcy after she and Heather have an altercation, and just as the blonde jerk turns cool and starts dishing clues, she turns up hung from the dorm ceiling. As Heather gets closer to the truth, she sprains her ankle, giving her a simple but effective handicap for the rest of the movie. Without giving too much away to anyone who hasn't seen "Suspiria" (fools!), I can say that there is a period where Heather seems to determine that it's too tough to fight the dark powers which are afoot, so she complies with it for a bit - this is an interesting variation for this sort of flick, where the heroine usually struggles for all she's worth.

It's not like you won't predict much of what happens, but it unfolds with a sort of inexorable dread that you do not get in your average flashy teen horror flick. There's no nudity or lascivious material to speak of, as this is not one of "those" kinds of girls' school movies. Also, for those who aren't into tons of blood and guts, Lesley Gore is the only real gore here, frequently appearing on the soundtrack including in a lovely arrangement of "You Don't Own Me" with a wordless vocal by Marcy mixed in. The independent feminine spirit of that song is found in all of McKee's work, but Bruckner provides his strongest heroine yet. (I couldn't help but think of Kate Winslet in "Heavenly Creatures"; perhaps it's just her eyebrows and vintage schoolgirl outfit.) Although it may be too methodical for people who prefer the remake of "Dawn of the Dead" over the original, I highly recommend "The Woods" to any fan of well-crafted, elemental horror. And you can watch it for free here! Zee trailer:

Revenge of the Ferds

Hey, gang! Just over a week to go before I complete my goal of posting 31 daily reviews. March has been typically weird and busy but mercifully quick, especially due to this endeavor. I haven't had time to sign on to MySpace (apologies to those who have sent unanswered messages), the condo is in shambles, the fridge is empty, I need a new phone, my hair is in bad need of a trim and I haven't even been to a concert in weeks. The latter changes Monday: Parenthetical Girls and The Dead Science at the Abbey Pub. Don't think I've forgotten about cooking, either... there's something potentially porktastic in the works. As for the writin', it's certainly fun, but it will be nice to get back to normal. Since I finally finished reading the slight tome yesterday morning, here is my first-ever attempt at a book review.

"The Toxic Avenger: The Novel"
Lloyd Kaufman and Adam Jahnke
(Thunder's Mouth Press, 2006)

If you have never seen "The Toxic Avenger," you either live under a rock, hate America or have better things to do. Lloyd Kaufman has made more ambitious and more disgusting films since Toxie first appeared in 1984, including two cheesy sequels somewhat redeemed by the magnificent third, but this one remains a classic for many reasons. I mean, Google "head crushing scene" and see what comes up first. The flick is lousy with violence, nudity, cheap sight gags and taboo-ignoring glee. Everything and everyone in it looks tawdry and seedy, the special effects charmingly homemade and the cartoonish acting pitched to the rafters. It is both the epitome of '80s excess and the ultimate criticism of '80s excess. It's deviant junk food fun with smarts, and thus laid the template for the majority of Lloyd's subsequent films, as well as what my young mind expected from popular art after seeing it during my formative pre-teen years. If Entartete Kunst had a mascot, it would be Troma's hideously deformed creature of superhuman size and stength. The Toxic Avenger is basically Spider-Man, a dork turned into a confident and powerful crusader for the weak by a freak accident, but Tromaville is a much trashier place than New York City and Toxie actually fucks his girlfriend. He's a nice guy surrounded by filth. It is this mix of outrageous sleaze and genuinely sweet righteousness that I believe keeps the film a favorite for many kids of the era. Before we go on, here's the original trailer, blessed with the kind of blustery, vintage 42nd Street voice-over that should have been used for the "Grindhouse" ads:


Never one to not milk a good idea, Lloyd made his third book (and first foray into fiction) an adaptation of Troma's early triumph. Like in "Everything I Need to Know About Filmmaking I Learned from The Toxic Avenger" and "Make Your Own Damn Movie!: Secrets of a Renegade Director," it's unclear how much he actually wrote himself and how much came from his co-author. The frequent asides and self-referential footnotes do not shed any light on this. Components of Lloyd's public persona include shameless self-promotion, ruthless manipulation of his minions, juvenile scatological obsession and indignant independence, all of which shine through here. At several points, "guest authors" appear, the best being a chapter written by "J.D. Salinger" describing the thoughts of loser Melvin Ferd as he transforms into The Toxic Avenger as if he were Holden Caulfield. The section by "Oliver Stone" is less successful - he remains one of Lloyd's favorite satirical targets since they were early business partners, but he's poking fun of the crazy conspiracy theorist Stone of the "JFK" era, not the studio hack of today who helmed "Alexander" and "World Trade Center." Lloyd's usually hipper than that. On the plus side, the graphic descriptions of the transformation and various gory demises truly do allow for greater detail than what film can convey.

Why novelize a 22 year-old movie? In the book's preface, the authors say to consider it a big-budget remake that no major studio would ever allow and that Troma itself could never afford. As Kaufman and Jahnke recount the plot of "The Toxic Avenger," they insert colorful back stories for incidental characters such as random bad guys dispatched by the hero and the owner of the dry cleaning business where he kills an old lady. We get a lifetime history of the grossly fat mayor, extra scenes where the police chief gets carnal with Melvin's withered alcoholic mom and a ridiculous subplot about one of the eyeballs that pops out of the cross-dressing thug during Toxie's first battle. There are copious in-jokes that are handled very well, including references to Marisa Tomei's cameo and the fact that Toxie's blind girlfriend's name changes from Sarah to Claire in the sequels. The footage of the green sedan flipping over which finds its way into just about every Kaufman movie is cheekily described as "exactly the kind of incredible, once-in-a-lifetime explosion that you want to see over and over again in all sorts of different contexts." Needless to say, the bigger a fan you are of the movie, the more you will enjoy the book. My only major gripe is that after a lot of enjoyable dawdling, the ending comes up really fast, as if they were rushed to finish. I really could have gone for a few more chapters of this silly shit. It's okay, I still love you, Lloyd. For those who haven't seen it, here's the picture my buddy Jorge took depicting last month's historic meeting of Mr. Kaufman, yours truly and some hot Troma girl. Note the freshly signed copy of "Everything I Need..." in my left hand, Toxie and Sgt. Kabukiman frolicking in the background and the Tromette's amazing taste in figure-accentuating outfits:

The most dangerous dame

"Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity"
(1987)

Another day, another movie handed along by a pal. This "Up All Night" special comes from adverb1000, who snagged me a pile of cool videos from her dad some time ago. We may visit another of those titles as March shudders to its awful close, but for now, we focus on one of the most memorable movie titles of the '80s. I don't know where you lived then, but I'm pretty sure "Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity" did not play theaters around Chicago. Ken Dixon, the guy who made it, was previously responsible for a bunch of compilations, one of which, "The Best of Sex and Violence," I believe actually did run in theaters. Dixon never made another movie after "Slave Girls," and that's probably for the best - for a guy who seemed to know exploitation movies, this one is really tame. It stars two of the era's busiest gals, Brinke Stevens and Elizabeth Kaitan, the latter credited here as "Elizabeth Cayton." On purely physical merits, main star Kaitan's got a bigger rack, but I'm a face guy. Brinke has always been my favorite scream queen, so I naturally wished she had the lead instead of the dinky supporting role. As an actress, of course I think Stevens is much better, but they're both more convincing than the movie's other girl, Cindy Beal, who always looks and sounds like she just woke up. Some dudes are into sedated women, but I'm not one of them. At least Beal gets the sexiest negligee in which to wander around a creepy mansion at night.

Kaitan and Beal escape from some sort of galactic white slavers at the beginning, but their getaway ship crashes on a jungle planet. The sole inhabitant is Zed, a big game hunter living in a huge mansion adorned with animal heads and other trophies. Zed has a pair of robot henchmen/butlers to do all of his work for him, yet these two are sentient enough to argue with each other, He invites the ladies to stay and dine with him and his guests, who turn out to be Brinke and her brother, some dorky ass '80s guy. The dude has the hots for Kaitan, and he asks her to get "some air" with him. This literally amounts to them walking over to the window, about fifteen feet from the rest of the folks, yet somehow their discussion about their host's foreboding nature is not overheard. It turns out Zed also hunts... wait for it... humans. Yes, this is ultimately the six-thousandth version of "The Most Dangerous Game," only this time there are robots and skimpy outfits. Thankfully, there's not a fake set of boobs in the lot, which is increasingly rare in a "girlie" movie. There's a cool cyber-beast creature, a guy in a ratty but tactile suit. I like the conceit that the slave girls are actually really smart - they know how to pilot ships, they read hieroglyphics, they do all the planning and fighting, etc. I think it's supposed to be played for laughs, but Kaitan and especially Beal never sell it well enough to actually be funny, which is a letdown. Linnea Quigley and Michelle Bauer would have nailed that shit! The other thing keeping this flick from inciting much enthusiasm in me is when Brinke gets shot by Zed's kickass pistol crossbow - never trust a horror movie where the best-looking woman dies first, folks, and that rule goes for other genre entertainment as well. Nonetheless, there are far more laborious ways to spend an hour and a half than watching "Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity." The not-safe-for-work trailer:

Like sleeve of wizard

"Nan yang shi da xie shu"
(aka "The Eternal Evil of Asia," 1995)

Today we return to the wacky Far East for another round of supernatural shenanigans. Thanks must go out to my buddy over at diaryofatemp, who kindly toted this gem to me all the way from Seattle. Neither of us had heard of it before, but as soon as I saw the Category III mark on the cover and looked at the date, I knew what was up. Back in the 1990s, filmmakers in Hong Kong knew they weren't going to have much freedom after China took over sovereignty from the Brits. Thus, they cranked out the most insane movies they could before 1997 came around, most ending up boring, stupid or misogynistic. There are dozens of artifacts from this era, each pushing boundaries of sex and violence, often combining both - as is the case with "The Eternal Evil of Asia." This is actually one of the more pleasant examples of the trend, as it contains a lot of intentional humor, and its more lurid sequences are tempered by its "Evil Dead"-inspired cartoonish pacing. For instance, the entire intro (a narrator explains that if you encounter a pale-faced child at the movies in Asia, you should not take him to the restroom, lest he reveal himself as a killer ghost) has nothing to do with the rest of the movie except for a vague warning that the occult sciences are still thriving outside of modern Hong Kong. I imagine a flick that includes a guy getting his head turned into the tip of a penis isn't going to go down smoothly with everyone, but it's a mighty entertaining alternative to your typical American brand of silicon-submerged sexploitation.

At the top, we see a guy named Nam flip out and hack up his family and neighbors, believing them to be the ghosts of his recently deceased parents, and Nam falls to his death. Then we meet Nam's friends Bon, Kong and Kent, as well as Kong's sister, May, who is going out with Bon. A lengthy flashback informs us that while the guys were in Thailand last year, they took up with a wizard whose sister was hot for Bon, but a "love hex" mishap caused the other three guys to have a gross four-way with the wizard's sis and then accidentally kill her. The wizard is now bent on revenge, which includes killing all the guys with elaborate voodoo doll tortures. Kent is hexed with ravenous hunger, which causes him to eat his own arm, and Kong's head is impaled Pinhead-style by long needles. This leaves the incapacitated Bon and May, who for some reason the wizard decides he should rape as part of his grand scheme. May gets some advice from a witch whose hair she cuts: she should let the bad guy into her business because he'll be weakened after he blows his load. (His phantom fornication is surely unpleasant, but is it really rape if she agrees to it?) The witch's plan works, the wizard is vanquished and all is well until May gets the inevitable news that she's pregnant. I didn't even mention the amazing scene where the wizard battles a husband-and-wife team who draw magic power from their mid-air sex positions, or the fact that whenever Nam's ghost appears, he's got a bunch of glowing fluorescent bulbs sticking out of him. "The Eternal Evil of Asia" is fast, silly and far less mean-spirited than a lot of Category III titles. It's nice to see a sleazy Asian picture that doesn't make you feel like taking a shower afterward.

The strength of sin

Deathspell Omega
Si Monumentum Requires, Circumspice
(Norma Evangelium Diaboli, 2004)

Black metal isn't dead, it just moved. For instance, the French have a storied history with the style, although aside from the work of Stefen Kozak (Eikenskaden, Mystic Forest, etc.), I admit to being fairly ignorant about it. The famed kvltsters of Les Légions Noires assaulted the underground in the early '90s, but I am fairly certain that the only people who knew about that movement when it was active were a part of it. Some of those dudes were "racialist" types, some of them weren't, and I don't care enough to find out which is which so I can spend a gazillion dollars buying old cassettes on eBay. Which brings me to France's Deathspell Omega, who have done split releases with various shady ultra-underground legends and whose vocalist, Mikko Aspa, has put out some shady groups on his label. There is nothing in Deathspell Omega's lyrics or image that has anything to do with ethnicity, so in the libertine spirit of True Unholy Black Metal, I will consider all of that to be moot. Besides, this record, which I recently acquired, is one of the best pieces of progressive black metal I've heard since Leviathan's Tentacles of Whorror. Lyrically, these guys are all about the Horned One, and they're pretty serious about it, although their more philosophical take on anti-Christianity is undermined by catchy couplets such as "Organic procreation, mind-intromission, there comes the salvation/Pubescent vaginas obstructed with the redeemer's holy essence." Eewww-uh!

SMRC thrives on mesmerizing repetition, as all good black and doom metal does, yet it's a diverse and immersive listen. After the requisite sacrilegious intro, the second track, "Sola Fide I," is where things take off, beginning as an angular waltz and building to a crescendo of eerily clattering production tricks, including a countermelody buried in the mix around the three-and-a-half minute mark that sounds like underwater church bells programmed by a madman. You don't notice it immediately, but it's very unsettling when you do. By "Second Prayer," the pace has slowed to a trudge, its interlude of feedback and tribal drumming interrupted by a return to the main theme, Hasjari's guitar mirrored by either a viola or keyboard. Here we see Deathspell Omega's real coup, their skill at building tension through ambience which is more musical and active than most, as also heard in the Cult of Luna-ish sludge of "Third Prayer." The more "black metal" songs such as "Hétoïmasia" or "Jubilate Deo (O Be Joyful in the Lord)" bleed baleful, tremolo-picked minor key guitar melodies, yet are cataclysmic and droning and warped like old Enslaved. It all comes together in the twelve-minute bonanza "Carnal Malefactor," which takes an extended Gregorian chant break at its midpoint that makes the inevitable blast of blackened bile all the more devastating. Fast, slow, it doesn't matter - the entire record is drenched in the same shoegazer fuzz, leaving the listener sealed in a dank cave with Aspa's reverbed rasp cackling at your feeble hope of escape. I can think of no more appropriate a musical approximation of the month of March as the closing instrumental, "Malign Paradigm," and its inexorable lumber toward a swirling psychedelic miasma, a sharp hiss of white noise and then, finally, silence.

Filet of Seoul

"Gwoemul"
(aka "The Host," 2006)

Further evidence of Hollywood's refusal to come up with a good horror movie: an American remake of South Korean import "The Host" has been greenlit, even as the original currently rampages through an arthouse near you. I am telling you right now that they will fuck it up as badly as they will "Cannibal Holocaust" and "Faces of Death." It's not a question of gore this time, as "The Host" is not that gruesome, yet there are too many things in it that scare American distributors. It's the sort of action-horror-comedy where you're not sure if you're supposed to be laughing, so its quirky comic/serious tone will surely be jettisoned. Children die, a big no-no in the majority of U.S. horror films, which already have a hard enough time getting past the MPAA without baiting the faceless cretins. Then there's the film's implication that Americans may occasionally do some shady shit overseas. The North Koreans love "The Host," and that's some praise coming from a country whose leader once kidnapped people and forced them to make a monster movie for him. I have a feeling Hollywood's gonna pull another "Godzilla" on us and make the French responsible for creating this beast.

And what a beast it is! The totally wicked amphibian is born when an unscrupulous American military doctor makes a poor Korean lab worker dump a bunch of formaldehyde in the Han River because the bottles are dusty(!). Years later, the chemicals have fused with organic river matter, resulting in a fish/frog abomination that likes to scoop up humans and carry them off to a sewer, its own secret snack stash. Unlike a lot of monster movies that waste too much time on boring humans, the family we follow in "The Host" is entertaining in their own right. Protagonist Gang-Du suffers from narcolepsy due to childhood malnutrition, his regretful dad runs a food stand, his sister is a champion archer and his brother is a rampaging drunk. Gang-Du's little daughter is taken by the creature and presumed dead, but then he receives a phone call from her confirming that she's not. Of course, no one thinks to check the incoming call log on Gang-Du's phone and the government goons don't believe him. Besides, they're too busy quarantining everyone who's come into contact with the monster, since many develop a skin rash that scientists believe is a new strain of virus. America chips in with an experimental chemical weapon unsubtly called "Agent Yellow," which brings massive protests once a plan is announced to dump it in the river. Meanwhile, Gang-Du and family escape to hunt for the little girl, who's trying to escape the sewer with an even littler boy. Although movie logic dictates that the family will be more successful than the government, the satisfying conclusion isn't quite what you expect. Now I'd like to see director Bong Joon-ho's previous film, an acclaimed account of South Korea's first serial killer entitled "Memories of Murder." More exciting than the original Korean trailer, here's the red band trailer for the current American theatrical release of "The Host":

Allen thick

"Scoop"
(2006)

"Scoop" was my 36th Woody Allen movie. That means I've seen all but one, the elusive 1978 drama "Interiors." I feel the same way about Woody that I do about fellow New York film icon Spike Lee: I don't agree with everything the guy's about, but he's usually pretty insightful, and I've enjoyed something about all of his movies except for one. "Scoop" ranks somewhere in the middle of Allen's output, since I'd say it's a standard picture for the guy, especially coming off of the very good "Match Point." Many have pointed out its thematic similarities to that previous film, also a tale of love and murder involving someone seduced by high British society. In fact, "Scoop" has all the hallmarks we've come to expect from Woody in recent years: a predictably basic plot spiced by the occasional one-liner, unbelievable contrivances softened by the film's amiable breeziness, big name actors trying to act like Woody Allen characters, Woody filming himself in the company of a photogenic young actress as often as possible. The young actress here is Scarlett Johansson, playing an American college reporter who gets mixed up in a serial killer case while on holiday in London. Naturally, the focus is on the caper and not the murders, all the better to give us shots of Scarlett looking fetching and bewildered. Never mind how someone presented as an average college kid can afford to stay overseas all summer; as usual, Allen ignores such questions of privilege, which is part of why his films seem so hermetic and anachronistic.

Scarlett goes to a show by self-described prestidigitator Woody, billed as The Great Splendini. When she gets onstage and inside the box for his vanishing act, she's visited by a recently deceased journalist (Al Swearengen without the facial hair and cursing) who we have seen escape from the boat of Charon. He tells her the identity of the Tarot Card Killer, who's been slashing short-hired brunette hookers across London - apparently, Scarlett was the closest thing to a journalist that his spirit could find. Thus, she sets out to investigate Hugh Jackman, the dashing son of a rich dude, convincing Woody to come along after ghost Swearengen appears in front of him. As the pair infiltrates high society, Allen gets off the funniest lines of the movie while pretending to be a wacky oil tycoon, yet his stammering puffery is also one of the least believable elements. Why doesn't anyone question this guy? Meanwhile, Hugh understandably can't get the image of Scarlett stuffed into her swimsuit off of his mind, and Scarlett can't help but be swept up by Hugh's rugged good looks and posh lifestyle. There's still that Tarot Card Killer business, though. Allegiances are tested, secrets are revealed, the Killer is caught, Scarlett gets her scoop, everyone says things normal people wouldn't say. I can recommend "Scoop" as a harmless diversion for those of you in for the long haul with Woody Allen, but with the caveat that it will seem very familiar and that it's nowhere near his best work. The trailer, with Cantonese subtitles:

Dirty thongs

"300"
(2007)

Finally, something current. I would have had a review up last weekend if we had not gotten shut out of all the IMAX screenings. This was actually my first experience seeing a regular movie released on IMAX screens (that time Kyle ran his print of "Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey" doesn't count). I figured that even if the story sucked, "300" would be good eye candy, and that's the kind of movie that might benefit from the IMAX format. Although it was a cool experience at times, I can't really say that the giant screen made it better. From where I was sitting, the first battle made no sense for about a minute. Anyway, as I'm sure you are aware, this is director Zack Snyder's follow-up to the surprisingly good remake of "Dawn of the Dead," and is the attempt of another team to adapt a Frank Miller title after Robert Rodriguez's "Sin City," my favorite movie of '05. Even without the marketing positioning "300" as a Major Film Event, I would have been psyched to see it.

Throughout the film, I kept wondering who this Gerard Butler is and whether I'd ever seen him in anything before. I had not. It appears he was the title character in both "Dracula 2000" and the movie musical "The Phantom of the Opera," as well as appeared in a bunch of other things I don't care about. The dude is very hammy and one-dimensional as King Leonidas, the protagonist of "300," who leads a coalition of willing Spartan fighters to stem an invasion by the vast Persian army. Leonidas is every redneck's self-image after a twelve pack and a pro wrestling match. Gruff, proud, stubborn, nationalist and oh-so-butch, he'll blindly incite battle upon insult but can't verbally express his love for his wife until he's staring down a hailstorm of arrows. Although Butler's Laconic bluster works here because he (like the film) is nothing if not a declamatory spectacle, I cringe at the thought of his Count Drac. Lena Headey, who I happened to like in "The Brothers Grimm," is more sympathetic here as Queen Gorgo, a stand-by-your-man type of gal who'll endure a rough rutting from her husband's loathesome political rival if it means a chance to save Leonidas and the future of Sparta. Gorgo doesn't gut a tenth of the people her husband does, but her actions are much more personal and impactful. The homefront subplot was apparently Snyder's addition (I have not read Miller's "300"), and as a device works much better than the intrusive narrator which was also inserted by the filmmakers - his chattering often feels as if it's there to compensate for a lapse in dialogue, as if the consistently arresting images weren't enough.

Now, I try to keep myself devoid of pop culture "news" these days, so walking in I was blissfully unaware that so much controversy had arisen over "300." As documented on the thorough Wikipedia page, folks are viewing it as everything from an incitement for an American invasion of Iran to a grossly ignorant demonization of non-Western culture. I didn't go in looking for it, but I can't say I didn't notice how Leonidas' haughty disregard for the wishes of the hand-wringing peacenik council leaders seemed to wink at W's presidential attitude, nor how the eventual vindication of his actions seemed like a projected "happy" ending to the nasty business currently incinerating the Middle East. Furthermore, it might just be due to the modes of media interpretation I learned in college, but all of the heroes' references to fighting "in the shade" as well as the Persians' depiction as a pan-racial conglomeration of non-Caucasoid barbarians and "abnormals" doesn't point to an enlightened view of intercultural diversity. These Persians are basically the faceless, brown-skinned "terrorist" villains from any '80s Schwarzenegger flick. Add to this the obvious androgynization of Persian leader Xerxes (Rodrigo Santoro, channeling Jaye Davidson in "Stargate") and the Spartans' constant demasculinization of the Acadians who join them but ultimately flee, and it seems bizarre that the young Spartan fighters Astinos and Stelios are allowed to appear so latently hot for each other's rippling pecs.

It's tempting to view all of those apparent prejudices through a modern lens and conclude that "300" is nothing but a decapi-tastically gorgeous commercial for membership in the Patriotic Alliance. This is a major modern film financed by Hollywood dollars, positioned for off-season box office dominance, with commercial tie-ins and action figures and everything. It's understandable that those who believe the movie is out to poison the world's minds with Neanderthal ultramegaconservatism would be banging their pots and pans as loudly as possible. However, those well-meaning wailers are missing two crucial points. First, the film is based on a comic book - itself a dramatization of an actual event - written and published years before The Day the Eagle Cried, so if the story has contemporary resonance, it's simply evidence of history repeating itself. Second, both the book and the film are meant to depict the Spartans' point of view at the time of the Battle of Thermopylae. To them, why wouldn't the Persians look like exotically evil monsters, or the uncommitted Acadians like snot-nosed wussies, or the philosophers in Athens like do-nothing buggerers? If you claim that people living in the modern world cannot make or understand a popcorn film from the point of view of a bygone civilization, you also have to believe men cannot make or understand films about women or young people cannot make or understand films about old people. Fans of Douglas Sirk or Sofia Coppola might have an argument with you. I think I'm a fan of Zack Snyder, and I will argue that while there is plenty of myopic, macho, jingoist, xenophobic, homophobic stuff in "300," none of it reflects on the intentions of its creators. Its simple themes shouldn't register any more deeply than its muted color palette - it's artifice, after all.

Fine cheeses of Wisconsin and Italy

Hey, whoops. Too busy to post yesterday. I think I'm fighting a cold, or at least a sinus infection. Anyway, you know what a day without a review means... today's a two-fer. Go out and have some green beer for me, ye merry pretend-Irishmen!

"The Beast of Bray Road"
(2005)

Have you ever met somebody who's totally hot and acts like they totally want you, yet you suspected that they were a werewolf? Sure, we all have. In most cases, we're proven wrong. In Southeastern Wisconsin, however, it's perfectly feasible that a comely lass who catches your eye at nightfall may be tearing it out come midnight. After all, that's where the Bray Road Beast lives. According to local lore, a werewolf or a Bigfoot - maybe even a Frankenstein - is running amuck somewhere just north of the Illinois border, around Delavan or Elkhorn. I've driven past that area a bunch within the last couple of years. Perhaps one of those cute, corn-fed waitresses who flirted with me along the way was actually the gut-snacking monster of today's feature. Yes, it's another low-budget howler from The Asylum ("Jolly Roger: Massacre at Cutter's Cove," "Leeches!"), this time based on "a true story." Anyone from the area will appreciate the geographical references - a couple of the grimy townies even pick up some teenage hoochies from Schaumburg. Writer/director Leigh Slawner, who for some reason uses the pseudonym "Leigh Scott" here, grew up in Wisconsin, so we can expect that his portrayal of its denizens is accurate. Naturally, most of the men in "The Beast of Bray Road" are ignorant, misogynist alcoholics, while most of its women are attractive, man-crazy alcoholics. They don't call Wisconsin "the South of the North" for nothing.

At the center of the story is a guy from Chicago who was recently elected sheriff. Every dame in town is making eyes at this guy, but he's only interested in the Gina Gershon-ish lady who owns the town's hick bar. Not that he has time to hook up with her, what with someone or something running around slaughtering cattle and alcoholics. When a family comes in to the police station and reports seeing a monster, one of the deputies follows the rules of Z-movie exposition and blurts, "That sounds like the Beast of Bray Road!" The sheriff, being a big-city guy, doesn't buy the local legend, although a bewhiskered cryptozoologist (played by the police chief from "Jolly Roger") is certain he can make his name by identifying the creature. Eventually the sheriff comes around, the cops and alcoholics fill their guns with silver bullets and the hunt is on. Such a standard monster movie plot would be a chore to absorb if the monster sucked. Thankfully, the Beast is not a digital effect but a guy in a suit. It looks pretty cool and when it attacks someone, you actually get to see it. Slawton knows that very few people can pull off the tension of "The Haunting" or "Jaws," so there's none of that "it will be scarier if we don't show it" bullshit. Furthermore, the gore is plentiful - lots of intestine-spilling and meat-chewing by the Beast. I may have blown the "surprise" ending in my lead to this review, but if you don't see it coming, you probably haven't seen "Dog Soldiers." The Asylum is a spotty little studio, as even when their flicks are as enjoyable as this one, they include plenty of amateur tics such as flubbed dialogue and a wildly uneven sound mix. Yet, those are the kinds of flaws that make old exploitation flicks so warmly personal. The Asylum folks obviously care about their modest creature features. This is a different trailer than is on the DVD, but it does feature the amazing scene where the Beast tears a hoochie's head open like a grapefruit:


"Gli Sterminatori dell'anno 3000"
(aka "Exterminators of the Year 3000," 1983)

More Italian post-apocalyptic action! Boy, "Road Warrior" rip-offs thrived like cockroaches during the '80s. It seems that for every one of these things I watch, I learn about two more. The crazy thing is that while they never live up to their poster art, most of them are pretty awesome if you enjoy this brand of cheese. The only names I recognized in the credits were screenwriters Dardano Sacchetti and Elisa Briganti, who previously collaborated on such classics as "1990: I Guerrieri del Bronx" and "Zombi 2." I'd never heard of director Giuliano Carnimeo before, nor any of its cast, although searching through the IMDB I see a few familiar titles in which they appeared. Carnimeo (his pseudonym here is "Jules Harrison") made a lot of spaghetti westerns and sex comedies, but this was his only entry into the holocaust warrior genre. He does a pretty good job, and by good, I mean "entertaining." The title is misleading, because there is only one Exterminator, a badass future car which is very clearly an '80s model sedan (of the Year 3000) with sheet metal armor bolted onto its exterior. The ostensible hero, a bearded lowlife in a headband named Alien, is driving the Eliminator when we meet him, but it's soon stolen by a bandit. On this dystopian future Earth, scorched barren by the sun after humans stupidly destroyed "the ozone belt," water is the greatest commodity, so when he meets the little kid from "City of the Living Dead," whose settlement is trying to transport water from a secret facility, you'd better believe Alien wants in on the action.

A true '80s man (of the Year 3000), Alien intends to steal the water and sell it, leaving the kid, his people and humanity's last hope for sustained agriculture in the lurch. Complicating things is your standard band of motorcycle-and-dune-buggy-riding marauders, this one led by a bald guy with funny eye makeup called Crazy Bull. He treats his minions in the manner of Skeletor, sending them to beat up people and then cursing at them when they fail. He even has an Evil-Lyn in the shape of a sexy leather-bound black chick named - with typical Italian racial sensitivity - Shadow. Crazy Bull's favorite curse seems to be "mothergrabber," as he frequently hollers things like, "Come on, you mothergrabbers! Go get them!" It's not like he doesn't swear at all, he just says that a lot. Crazy Bull wants the water too, and he's extra pissed at Alien because the Exterminator was originally his. Then, a girl from Alien's past shows up and understandably tries to kill him. Her name is Trash, which you'll remember was also the name Sacchetti and Briganti gave the hero of "1990." They must believe that in post-apocalyptic times, "Trash" will become a popular unisex moniker, sort of like "Pat." Alien tries to get Trash to turn on the kid, but she's a softie. For the kid's part, he gets drunk and kills people, and he gets his arm ripped off by a motorcycle - thus revealing that he's biomechanical. In the end, everybody gets screwed after Shadow dumps out the water tanker in a spiteful dying move and the water factory gets blown up by one of the Hazmat-suited mutants that run it. Then it starts raining, which hasn't happened in forever and makes everyone happy, Trash living up to her name by smearing mud all over her face in joy. Despite this corny happy finale, "3000" is another winner, although I'll bet there's a version out there with even more violence and mayhem in it.

The Ides of Frankensteins

We've made it to the 15th... only 16 more reviews to go until March is over. This endeavor has been fun, and it's kept me busy as intended, but it's also getting a bit tough. Come on, folks, please give me some suggestions. Something to spark an idea. Otherwise, it's gonna be nothing but old monster movies for you.

"Furankenshutain no kaijû: Sanda tai Gaira"
(aka "War of the Gargantuas," 1966)

The name "Frankenstein" is often bandied about in a cavalier manner. Smart people know that Frankenstein was the name of the scientist. His creation was only named "the creature," or more commonly, "Frankenstein's monster." Still, when a tall, stitched-together, groaning perversion of God's will shows up to advertise beer every Halloween, you're bound to hear him called "a Frankenstein," as if there are several of them. Leave it to the Japanese to run wild with this loose appellation. Toho Studios gave the world a film best known as "Frankenstein Conquers the World" in 1965, wherein the Nazis steal the immortal heart of the monster and deliver it to Japanese scientists in Hiroshima. Then the A-bomb drops, which naturally causes the heart to grow into a radioactive feral boy and, subsequently, a big woolly humanoid who battles lesser Toho kaiju Baragon (not Barugon, who Gamera fought for rival studio Daiei) and is swallowed by the earth for his trouble. The film on the review block today is the legendary semi-sequel to that film, the Japanese title of which translates to "Frankenstein's Monsters: Sanda vs. Gaira." The director was Ishiro Honda, most famous of all Godzilla directors. Back when Svengoolie was still Son of Svengoolie, I saw this picture and loved it, but didn't watch it again for what must be more than twenty years. I recently got a hold of the Japanese language version, which does not try as hard to obscure its connections to the "Frankenstein" title as does the standard American dub. My DVD includes scene-by-scene comparisons with the American version, which has several longer scenes... I hadn't counted on that. With several international trailers and a Japanese language making-of featurette, mine is as complete a copy of the movie as you can get. Awesome!

This being a Japanese/American co-production, Russ Tamblyn ("West Side Story," "Satan's Sadists") stars as a dashing American scientist working in Japan. He's called in when a large, furry green creature stops a giant squid monster from destroying a boat, only to destroy it himself. It's said that Tamblyn dealt with a similar creature in the past, and he clearly calls it a Frankenstein in the Japanese version in one of several thin attempts at the sequel angle. Although his assistant is played by Japanese monster picture favorite Kumi Mizuno, who played the assistant to the white doctor in "Frankenstein Conquers the World," these characters have different names. It's deduced that bright light bothers the beast, so the military zaps him with those handy giant maser trucks that Japan has sitting around in case of giant monster attack. Suddenly, a nearly identical monster - this one brown - shows up and rescues the badly damaged green giant, who is covered with bloody sores for the rest of the movie. Folks dub the green, sea-dwelling one Gaira and the brown, mountain-dwelling one Sanda. Sanda is apparently the sweet, docile creature Tamblyn and Mizuno knew in the flashbacks, all grown up and having spawned an evil version of himself in Gaira. When Mizuno almost falls to her death, Sanda saves her and gives evidence that he remembers her kindness.

Then, for no apparent reason (maybe he noticed that Gaira was killing people), Sanda attacks Gaira while he's resting, and thus begins the war of the American title. Because the costumes are basically mangy monkey suits, our Frankensteins aren't as encumbered as your typical Toho kaiju, so they get pretty physical. These dudes beat the tar out of each other. Say what you want about the acting requirements needed to play a rampaging furball, but as is usual with Honda's movies, these actors are very good at physically expressing themselves while inside the suits. Gaira's a prick, and he constantly makes a hilarious taunting move by thrusting his arms into a Y, like he's starting a particularly angry rendition of "YMCA." Sanda usually looks hurt, sad or put-upon. At one point, he advances on Gaira down a corridor of demolished Tokyo buildings, shaking his head in disgust while Gaira cowers. Monsters in American flicks don't get personalities like that unless they're cracking jokes. They fight over land, they fight in the sea, they're eventually covered up by lava from an underwater volcano. The End. Eh, the flick doesn't hold up as well as "Gojira tai Hedorâ" does, but Gaira and Sanda are still pretty badass for a coupla Frankensteins. The original trailer:

Gifted with endless war

Hammers of Misfortune
The Locust Years
(Cruz del Sur, 2006)

Being seriously at a loss for what to review today, I decided to throw some praise at one of last year's finest recordings. If you know me, I've probably raved about this band to you at some point. Hammers of Misfortune is the offspring of songwriter and guitarist John Cobbett, a Bay Area metal gadabout who has composed music for "The Sims" and other video games. A very early (pre-recording) member of GWAR, Cobbett also plays in Ludicra, Alternative Tentacles' token black metal act, and until a couple of years ago he was Mike Scalzi's co-guitarist in Slough Feg. In turn, Scalzi was a member of Hammers until after The Locust Years was recorded. Now each guy works on his own band, with Hammers also having lost bassist/vocalist Jamie Myers and longtime drummer Chewy Marzolo since the album. This leaves Cobbett and keyboardist/vocalist Sigrid Sheie, who have assembled a new lineup for local shows and Friday's SXSW showcase. (If anyone reading is in Austin this weekend, please get your ass to Emo's and let me know how they are.)

So, the album. It clocks in at a modest 45 minutes, yet like the previous two Hammers discs, The Locust Years is a concept album. It's not a "rock opera" with the singers playing different characters as on The Bastard, but the concept's not as mysterious and open to interpretation as that on The August Engine. This one is obviously about the current Bush administration, its philosophies and actions, the homefront response and the global repercussions. There are no characters, although many of Cobbett's beautiful lyrics here use the pronouns "we" and "our" and two of the eight song titles feature the word "widow." Musically, you have a very idiosyncratic mix of classic heavy metal, progressive rock, doom metal and folk, in that order. I call it idiosyncratic because Cobbett's got a way of making his music sound very grandiose from basic elements. When I interviewed Cobbett back in 2004, I told him that the songwriting was what truly stood out when I first heard his band. It's complex but accessible, with plenty to explore and enough addictive hooks to keep you going back for years. He told me that the people he considers great songwriters are of the Cole Porter/Stephen Sondheim variety, and on The Locust Years even more than in the past, you can hear the influence of simple refrains, theatrical flourishes and complex language. This is the first Hammers disc with a keyboardist, although Sheie toured with the band to promote Engine and they rearranged the earlier material to include her contributions. Sheie's acoustic and electric piano and Hammond B3 organ fill up the space between Cobbett and Scalzi's sharp but melodious guitars - that space which is already dominated by Myers, Scalzi and Sheie's voices, sometimes harmonized, sometimes intertwining with complimentary melodies.

The two most directly anti-Bush tracks are the instant classics. "The Locust Years" leads the charge with a succession of baronial guitar harmonies before launching into a rollicking endtime statement by a malicious aggregate of madmen. Scalzi and Myers harmonize the tongue-twisting verses, while Scalzi's inimitable voice bellows the chorus ("Now that we're unchained/We'll reign, insane/And drown the world in flames/And blood, and pain...") in a sarcastically sing-song melody. "Trot Out the Dead" is shorter and even catchier, a venomous condemnation of the way certain folks justify certain actions by bringing up certain national tragedies. Most heartbreakingly righteous is Myers' verse, delivered only with piano: "If the people wonder why so many had to die/Or they test the wisdom of your prevailing lie/And how you let it happen when you knew it all the time/And you just let them fly/It's in your evil eyes/The way they were betrayed the day they died/Trot out the dead." Closing things, "Widow's Wall" finds the ladies intoning tenderly and tragically over a piano, then a slowly building band, the ensemble finally launching into an energetic gallop dappled with curiously bright riffs. The rest of the songs are more linear, at times repetitive like a mantra. This was at first a disappointment considering the wildly varying material on their previous discs, but over time I came to enjoy the compact mood of each song. From the doom surge that intrudes upon "Famine's Lamp" to Sheie's dizzying acid rock organ doodling on the upbeat instrumental "Election Day," each has its own highlights. I urge everyone on the planet to hunt down The August Engine, for it is a genuine masterpiece and unlike anything you've ever heard. About a week later, once you've come up for air and remembered that other albums do exist, you'll want The Locust Years.

TODAY'S BONUS REVIEW: The new live CD/DVD package by Newfoundland folk rockers Great Big Sea. I am shocked that I'd never heard of these guys until recently. If they'd can their generic pop songs, I might absolutely love them.

Swashbuckler symposium

"The Girl in the Iron Mask"
Babes With Blades Theatre Company @ Raven Theater
6157 N. Clark St., Chicago
Through April 15

I've been curious to check out Babes With Blades since I heard about them years ago. Their shows are primarily concerned with presenting women who fight, figuratively and literally. Thus, not only do they have a strong feminist perspective built in, they only do productions where they can have sword battles. The Babes aren't shy about the sex appeal of this (note the use of "Girl" rather than substituting "Woman" in the title), but they also don't exploit it. It's a great concept, and although my first exposure to their work wasn't amazing, I'd like to see their ideals applied to a different production. This show is the first of a development initiative to create new plays for and about warrior women, written by R.L. Nesvet as a "variation" on the Dumas chestnut. Not being really into classic lit, my familiarity with the source material is limited to the movie the Simpsons saw in the episode where they make tomacco. All I know is that it has a bunch of castle intrigue, the king's twin brother gets locked up, he has to wear an iron mask and they're in France. Here, it's the king's twin sister. The same actress plays the sister and the king, but because all of the roles in the show are performed by women (some playing several characters), you're not wondering why no one can tell the difference between them.

I was impressed with the cast, especially Alison Dornheggin in the lead dual role. (I am also now nursing a huge crush on Morgan Manasa, who does not have enough stage time as the Duchess of Montpensier.) The fight scenes aren't slam-bang spectacular, but they're pretty fun. It's not a huge space, but they work with what they have. And here we come to the problem, the show itself. While the fights are built into the story, they disappear after a couple of early clashes until the second act. "The Girl in the Iron Mask" takes the George Lucas approach to rousing adventure: a skirmish here, a chuckle there, and then a huge honkin' helping of discussions about history and politics and legends and what have you. By the time the action sequences return, they are so much more exciting than all the royal shell game business you've been sitting through that they seem better than they really are. I understand that in this case, all that chatting is there to thoroughly paint a story about women who fought for justice and the men who held them back. That's all well and good, and I certainly support the message and intentions, but in practice it feels like one of those Godzilla movies where he comes out at the beginning and gets hurt, and then you have to wait through an hour of family drama before you get any more daikaiju action. There's also possibly a lesbian subtext which seems both timid and forced, and the ending left me a little confused. I didn't hate the show - I'm used to poor pacing and muddled storytelling due to all the bad movies I watch - but I would recommend waiting until the Babes mount their Halloween production in autumn: an anthology called "Horror Academy." Since I kept thinking about how much better "Iron Mask" would have been with spurting blood, I think I'll be checking that one out.