Flutter Bands

I loathe ethereal, dreamily feminine and generally unpunctuated pop music. Gliding along, un-rocked, non-Lou Reed-ish in a Rock n’ Roll Animal sense of the term. Music that seems dead set against making any kind of thump-crunchin’ sound. Music that seems to summon the candy-assed spirit and attitude of Michael Cera, and which the almost seems to exists in order to counteract and nullify the spirit of rock ‘n’ roll music.

According to Jett and Dylan Wells (as well as HE reader George Prager), the leading bands of 2010 that churn out this kind of sound are as follows:

(1) Passion Pit, (2) Phoenix, (3) matt + kim, (4) Downlink, (5) Datsik, (6) Excision, (7) Burial, (8) James Blake, (9) Diplo, (10) Akira kiteshi, (11) bar 9, (12) Dirty Projectors, (13) Grizzly Bear, (14) Panda Bear, (15) Animal Collective, (16) Beach House, (17) Girls, (18) Arcade Fire, and (19) Fleet Foxes.

Start Your Engines

It appears likely that The Expendables will win the weekend, although I would be stunned if it didn’t experience some kind of significant Saturday fall-off, given the likely word-of-mouth. “I was talking to a friend last night, and he told me the Stallone flick is like a Michael Dudikoff movie from 1986!”

As I wrote yesterday morning, Eat Pray Love, which will most likely come in second, is a far less disappointing film. The big surprise would be Scott Pilgrim vs. the World taking the second-place slot, although I don’t see this happening — this is strictly an Ed Douglas smarty-pants geek film. Yes, it made me contemplate suicide but I got over that. It signifies the end of transcendent cinema culture as I’ve known it all my life, but now, at least, I’ll be more willing to accept death when it comes.

Make no mistake that the best film opening this weekend is not Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, Eat Pray Love or The Expendables. The best film opening this weekend is David Michod‘s Animal Kingdom, which currently has a 93% Rotten Tomatoes rating, which is nearly 15 points higher than Scott Pilgrim‘s.

This Is It

Here’s the main reason why it’s rather foolish to believe in an afterlife, and I say this as someone who would be ecstatic & glowing if I had reason to believe there was one. Who wouldn’t be? The main thing you have to do is get past the comical notion that human beings are special cases in the grand scheme because of their small brains, their ability to contemplate their mortality and their ability to generate religious beliefs and feel reverence for certain divine wise men like Yeshua of Nazareth.

There is, of course, a perfect order and an undeniable flow-through harmony — some kind of exquisite mathematical order and inter-connectedness — to the universe. But imagine, just for comedy relief’s sake, that there is an actual great and grand and reasoning entity with a white beard (or clean shaven…whatever) and freshly-pressed white robes called God.

This grand fellow, trust me, would not be nearly as enamored of homo sapiens on the little speck of terra firma called earth as we are. He would be respectful of what we’ve achieved and felt and created and the songs we’ve sung, but because we are so far down the evolutionary scale (and that is indisputable) he would not be saying, “Whoa…hold on…these guys are special. I mean, if any life form in the entirety of the universe deserves to be given eternal life through a spiritual afterlife consciousness that would include an awareness of an eternal cosmic playground and a sense of continuance, these homo sapien guys qualify! Because they have the ability think and reason and place faith in me. I mean, Me! Me Me Me Me Me! So…you know, that makes them pretty damn special from my perspective!”

Utterly delusional bullshit.

No, God would perhaps regard us with a certain fondness or love, but primarily as just one of many millions of expressions of life. Perhaps one or two levels of development up from animals (which we obviously are) and nothing more, and several…make that dozens of levels below Him/Her. In short, Mr. Cosmic Kingshit wouldn’t afford us any kind of special dispensation as far as afterlives are concerned. No more than he would grant an afterlife gift to dogs, worms, grasshoppers, ants, electric eels, birds, whales, cats, otters, fleas and other life forms that live and die on this third stone from the sun. Because in the cosmic eyes of a mythical God, we’re really not significantly different than these creatures whom we regard as lessers. Somewhat, obviously, but not in a way that would greatly impress, say, the beings behind the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Would that we possessed the ability (or willingness) to regard the grand scheme from a truly cosmic perspective. Hah! But we don’t. I mean, I do along with several thousand other perceptive souls, but most people don’t. Especially doctrinaire Christians from the heartland, whom I personally regard as the most arrogant and malicious humans on the planet, and not just right now but for the last several hundred years (considering the blood that has been shed over the centuries in the name of God’s will or God being on “our” side). Along with Islamic fundamentalists, of course. It’s a toss-up as to which group is more self-aggrandizing. Should we call it even? I don’t want to get bogged down in tribal loathings. I’m trying to say something bigger here.

We are capable of writing books and building temples and writing songs and making magnificent films and making life seem pretty damn glorious when we want to, but in the cosmic perspective we are little more but leaves on a grand tree, enjoying the sun and life’s glorious bounty and blah-dee-blah. Which is pretty damn wonderful on its own. One day we will fall from our particular tree branch, and we will float to the ground and turn brown and gradually become mulch, and there isn’t a lot more to it than this. Sorry.

Nobody would love to really believe more than myself that we HAVE been granted some kind of special dispensation by God, that we indeed HAVE some kind of divine pass that affords us a shot at cosmic immortality in some kind of blissfully serene after-realm. I love reading about reports from people who have temporarily died that they felt enormous serenity and bliss upon being released from their bodies. I love that stuff. Really. But alas, I think those visions are a result of some kind of send-off enzyme that the body releases upon the moment of death that we all experience in order to de-traumatize our dying moments. Sorry — I wish it were otherwise.

Be Here Now. Be grateful for the gift of life. It’s pretty damn wonderful. But show respect for yourself by throwing out all those childish beliefs and superstitions that the masters of past cultures felt obliged to push in order to keep the riff-raff in line.

Little Squirrel

L.A. Times columnist Patrick Goldstein caught a screening of Clint Eastwood‘s Hereafter (Warner Bros., 10.22) last Tuesday. “And though it’s too early for a mini-review,” he wrote on 8.12, “let’s just say that Eastwood, who turned 80 this year, is still The Man when it comes to making movies, showing off a range and depth that puts him right up there with John Huston, Robert Altman and the other old masters.”

The Big Fisherman

After being in a career cul-de-sac for several years, Ben Affleck is suddenly back in a big-time way. There’s The Town, which he directed and stars in, and which will play the Venice and Toronto film festivals, and which, I’m told, is “better than Gone Baby Gone,” according to a guy who recently saw it. And now, totally out of the friggin’ blue, there’s a just-announced lead in a new Terrence Malick feature in which he’ll costar with Rachel Weisz. Filming will reportedly begin in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, in October.

TheWrap‘s Jeff Sneider has confirmed the Weisz’s casting while Affleck’s reps didn’t return.

The project, says Sneider, “was announced at the Berlin Film Festival, where it was described as a “romantic drama” and a “powerful and moving love story.” (As opposed to what? A weak and not terribly moving one?) Christian Bale, Javier Bardem, Rachel McAdams and Olga Kurylenko were announced as the initial cast members, but it seems that Affleck will be replacing Bale in the picture.

Glen Basner‘s Film Nation is financing the film, and Bill Pohlad will produce.

A day or two ago TulsaWorld.com published a report that Affleck and wife Jennifer Garner “were spotted at a local store buying fishing supplies,” and that Affleck reportedly “told a store employee that he was filming a movie in Bartlesville, and would be playing a fisherman.”

A fisherman in Oklahoma? What, in ponds and lakes around Bartlesville? Sounds kinda boring. “What are you up to, man?” “Oh, I’m just going fishing.” Affleck won’t be playing a Hemingway-like fisherman, that’s for sure. No Marlins or Swordfish. Maybe he’ll play a fisherman who digs up some dinosaur fossils…forget it.

Malick has exhibited a faint tendency to take screenplays he wrote a long time ago and rework them, as he did when he took Q and made it into The Tree of Life. So let’s imagine for a second that the Affleck-Weisz-Bardem-McAdams flick is (a) a reworking of Malick’s The English Speaker or (b) perhaps a new version of Hungry Heart, which itself was a reworking of Robert Dillon‘s Countryman, which Malick wrote for Ned Tanen at Universal in the ’80s as a kind of modern-day Grapes of Wrath.

Boobala

I couldn’t bring myself to attend any showings of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes at the Film Forum over the past week. The 7-day engagement ends tonight. You can’t watch a 1953 Technicolor film in one of those dinky little theatres with the 85-inch screen. You have to catch a film like this inside an old swanky movie palace with a really large screen, or at least at the Academy theatre on Wilshire and La Peer or…you know, some place like that.

No Repeats

In a just-posted interview with GQ’s Dan Fierman, Get Low star Bill Murray explains the groove of good acting: “I’ve developed a kind of different style over the years. I hate trying to re-create a tone or a pitch. Saying ‘make it sound like I made it sound the last time’? That’s insane, because the last time doesn’t exist. It’s only this time. And everything is going to be different this time. There’s only now.

“And I don’t think a director, as often as not, knows what is going to play funny anyway. As often as not, the right one is the one that they’re surprised by, so I don’t think that they have the right tone in their head. And I think that good actors always — or if you’re being good, anyway — -you’re making it better than the script. That’s your fucking job. It’s like, Okay, the script says this? Well, watch this. Let’s just roar a little bit. Let’s see how high we can go.”

Recalculate

This is some foreign-territory bootleg cover that I found a few days ago, but you have to admit that the title plus Drew Barrymore‘s expression is kinda funny.

Pilgrim Reckoning

Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz) is obviously a nervy, fairly bright and moderately gifted director — seriously, no jive — and Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, even though it seems to be putting out a kind of aesthetic nerve gas, is some kind of cool-ass, smarty-pants, richly stylized…uhm, waste of time?

It’s kind of nifty if you want to feel connected to a movie that under-30 moviegoers are responding to. It’s empty and strained and regimented, but…you know, cool and funny and clever, heh-heh. It has wit and vigor and smart music, and it gradually makes you want to run outside and take an elevator to the top of a tall building and jump off.

Did I just say that? I mean that it’s a masterpiece of its kind. That sounds facile, doesn’t it? I think I might actually mean that Scott Pilgrim is a seminal and semi-vital thing to experience right now. My kids set me straight on this. Call me unstable or impressionable but I’ve also come to think that Michael Cera might be a fresh permutation of a new kind of messianic Movie God — a candy-assed Gary Cooper for the 21st Century.

No, seriously, it’s not too bad. I mean, you know…just kill me.

I was sustained, at times, by the meaning of the seven ex-boyfriends. They’re metaphors for the bad or unresolved stuff in Mary Elizabeth Winstead‘s life. If you’re going to really love and care for someone, you have to accept and try to deal with everything in their heads and their pasts, and not just the intoxicating easy stuff. Scott has to defeat these guys in the same way that any boyfriend or husband has to defeat or at least quell the disturbances in his girlfriend’s or wife’s head. That’s how I took it, at least.

I’m not doubting that Cera has been a Scott Pilgrim graphic novel fan for years, but the movie, I think, came out of his wanting to transform into a tougher, studlier guy in movies by becoming a kind of ninja warrior fighting the ex-boyfriends in a Matrix-y videogame way. I really don’t think it was anything more than that. Seriously.

“No offense, Michael, but the world thinks you’re a wuss,” Cera’s agent said one day on the phone. “They see you as a slender reed, a worthless piece of shit girlyman with a deer-in-the-headlights expression and a little peep-peep voice. Somehow we need to toughen you up, and having you fight a bunch of guys, even if it’s in a fantasy realm, is certainly one way to do that.”

I didn’t want to kill myself while watching Scott Pilgrim vs The World. That notion or impulse came later. I know that if movies are in fact going to be moving more and more in the direction of Scott Pilgrim in the coming years — video-game inspirations, glib dialogue, wimpy girlymen in lead roles, bullshit video-game fight scenes, laid-back gay guys engaged in threesomes in shitty basement apartments — then I really would rather die. Because movies as I’ve known them all my life would in fact be dead, and there’d be nothing to live for.

Then again I really liked the music that Scott’s band plays. It throbs and churns with a wowser bass line — not at all like the gay music my two sons seem to prefer these days. And I liked Kieran Culkin, who plays Scott’s gay roommate, and at the same time I wanted to see him cut in half (or into several pieces) with a chainsaw. And I liked the little lovesick Asian girl (Ellen Wong) who has a crush on Scott, and I despised Scott for not being able to summon the puny amount of courage it would have taken to simply lay it on the line and tell her he’s fallen in love with someone else. But…you know, as Scott says early on, “That’s haaaaard.” What a guy.

Gun Crazy

The first 90 seconds of this video piece by Matt Zoller Seitz, Aaron Aradillas and Steven Santos doesn’t work. It feels too jingo-militaristic, too Starship Troopers. The first good bit is the rabbit getting blown up in Raising Arizona. It should start with the selling of the handguns sequence in Taxi Driver. Or nutty Mel Gibson talking about six-shooters and old-timers. Sorry — my opinion.

Lock & Load from Steven Santos on Vimeo.

Larry Nails It

Certain parties who regularly contribute to the HE comment boards know the truth of what David says here. We all do, I think. Having a job you like, living in a half-decent place and having good sex on a fairly regular basis is what makes most people happy. Nothing too complex about that. I’m definitely covered on two out of three.

That said, religious types who believe they’ve got an afterlife ready and waiting are fools.

Cold Porcupines

If I hadn’t seen Eat Pray Love last night, I wouldn’t have watched this seven-month-old clip of Elizabeth Gilbert speaking on PBS’s This Emotional Life. Her “porcupines on a winter’s night” metaphor explains the dynamic of relationships (particularly among Type A personalities) pretty well, I think. There isn’t a line in the Eat Pray Love film that’s anywhere near as penetrating.

Gilbert, incidentally, is today 41 years old. Her Brazilian-born husband Jose Nunes (i.e., the real-life model for Javier Bardem‘s “Felipe,” in the film) is 17 years her senior. I don’t think that casting an older, mid 50ish actor to play Felipe would have satisfied the core audience (or most people, I suspect) as much as a 40ish Bardem.