Month: January 2003

When Johnny Marr unplugged his guitar and walked out of the Smiths in 1987, his time as the king of jangly guitar was effectively over, as much by his own choice as anything else. Beyond a lackluster teaming with New Order’s Bernard Sumner in Electronic, Marr was inconspicuous through the 1990s, interspersing sideman stints with Oasis, The The and Kirsty MacColl with long sabbaticals in the desert. In 2000, he finally took his place as bandleader again, forming the Healers with drummer Zak “Son of Ringo” Starkey and ex-Kula Shaker bassist Alonza Bevan. His new group throws down a heavy rock sound flavored with a bit of dance and world rhythm, reminiscent more of My Bloody Valentine and post-Achtung Baby U2 than the Smiths. Still, comparisons with the old band are inevitable, and in that respect Marr’s choice to write and sing his own lyrics is regrettable. He’s flat, generic and humorless—everything that Morrissey wasn’t. But his propensity for layered, propulsive rock is undiminished, and the reported difficulty in finding a label willing to release Boomslang is hard to understand. Marr’s spirit is best expressed by his six-string, and it’s back at the forefront of the music where it belongs.

It’s unfortunate that sonic groundbreakers like the Cocteau Twins sometimes sound so unremarkable in retrospect—in part because they spawned dozens of soundalikes, some of whom went on to greater glory and radioplay, such as Fascination Street-era Cure. We have fond memories of the Twins’ earliest records from the 80s, like Garlands. These were brooding, proto-gothic dirges with operatic vocals that sounded as if they ‘d been recorded in an empty squash court. But we’ve changed: Today, we actually find ourselves listening to the later, poppier stuff like Victorialand, and discovering the tunefulness with which they invested their brighter maturity. This is the more hummable, less pretentious stuff, and you can play it in the car without scaring the kids.

These days, girls kick ass all the time. Buffy, Michelle Yeoh, the Power Puffs—it’s not even remarkable anymore. Which makes it hard to believe that’s it’s been a mere 12 years since Thelma & Louise, Ridley Scott’s feminist buddy movie. But in those ancient days of 1991, the damsel in distress wasn’t expected to stand up and fight back. Geena Davis and Susan Sarandon give terrific performances as the two friends who unintentionally kill a would-be rapist and flee the law across the Southwest. But it’s really screenwriter Callie Khouri that makes the engine go here. Her classy, feminist revamp of the outlaw road movie is too deft and nuanced for the inevitable charges of man-bashing to stick. It helps a great deal that it’s also funny, and infused with a sense of liberation, in all senses of that word.

We’re not sure why PBS has let Mystery! go to hell, and if their idea of customer service is another Hetty Wainthrop sequel, we’d rather have another hole in our head. Time was, they ran the good stuff, like Morse—a virtual institution on the other side of the Atlantic. Granted, the series has been uneven over the years—as is readily evident on cable’s BBC America. In fact, most of these particular episodes are in saturation rotation on the American Beeb. But they’re the good ones, and a worthy keepsake by which to remember John Thaw—whose death last year brought Morse to an irredeemable and permanent end. (Hetty: The bell tolls for thee, too!)

The marketing behind DVDs has been clever. Videotapes are disposable, and after about 25 viewings, utterly worthless. DVDs have acquired the “preciousness” of keepsakes—heirlooms to pass down from generation to generation. (“That was your grandfather’s Godfather trilogy—and now it’s yours!”) Combine that with our post-9/11 anxiety and need for the comforts of our youth, most notably, sitcoms of the 1970s. Did we ever think we would want the entire Land of the Lost series in wide-screen with digitally-enhanced surround-sound? 70s fare like All in the Family, Good Times, and Sanford and Son, had their share of laughs, but also dealt with rape, gang violence, racism (and chronic fake heart attacks). They had the gravity and substance that reflected that tumultuous time in America, while these days we prefer to retreat to Temptation Island and Survivor: The Amazon.

Here comes the second of a projected trilogy about a sweeping, epic battle for the future of a civilization; instead of orcs, this one has Kentuckians. Gods and Generals takes us back two years from the action of the first film, Gettysburg, to chronicle the most destructive war ever fought on American soil from its beginning to the titanic Battle of Chancellorsville in 1863. That’s a lot of ground to cover, so be prepared for an epic three-and-a-half-hour battle between your butt and the theater seat. The DVD supposedly will clock in at twice that length. The combat scenes promise to be stunning, given the participation of thousands of re-enactment hobbyists who’ve had years to get this right—that’s what we call Method acting. Bob Dylan fans take note: he’s got a new song, “Cross the Green Mountain,” on the soundtrack.

Gus Van Sant’s Drugstore Cowboy helped jumpstart the late-80s wave of new indie film voices, and Van Sant’s work remains compelling thanks to his willingness to experiment rather than stay safe. That also breeds maddening inconsistency, and so his career is peppered with misfires and outright failures which are still some of his most interesting work—yes, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues has its moments. Good Will Hunting balanced indie cred with the needs of mainstream Hollywood drama, although launching the stardom of Ben Affleck and Matt Damon may yet be an ancillary effect to regret. The Walker’s month-long retrospective screens Van Sant’s entire filmography, winding up with an appearance by the man himself for the local debut of his latest film, Gerry. It’s an audacious jump back to his experimental roots, a relief after the cliché-ridden Finding Forrester, which threatened a future of earnest male-bonding tearjerkers. Gerry is a minimalist, nearly plot-free road movie (co-written with stars Damon and Casey Affleck, Ben’s brother) that’s more avant-garde in its formlessness than any of Van Sant’s previous features. It’s opening to mixed reviews elsewhere, and based on his track record, it’s too soon to tell whether that means misunderstood classic, noble experiment gone wrong, or both. Walker Art Center, (612) 375-7622, www.walkerart.org

For four years now, this installment of one-person shows has orbited August’s Fringe Festival at six months’ distance around the calendar, like a minor planet of local theater. Like the Fringe, the guiding philosophy here is “anything goes,” something not likely to change much as longtime curator Dean Seal hands over the controls to Joshua Scrimshaw, himself a local performance artist of anarchic bent. That’s the beautiful thing about not having to share the stage—nobody crushes a promising idea just because it sounds stupid at first. (Of course, that’s also the curse, but let’s not worry about that right now.) When they go well, one-person shows create an intimacy between performer and audience that’s uniquely electric. There’s no safety net, and nobody to get in the way. The eight productions here range from the punk-and-puppetry take on Greek tragedy “Medea, Medea” to Maria Cheng’s “Sworded Tales & Spirit Treks,” a serious-minded exploration of spirituality through a mix of storytelling, swordplay, tai chi and modern dance. Intermedia Arts, 2822 Lyndale Ave. S., (612) 871-4444, www.intermediaarts.org

Wintertime begins with deceptive familiarity, as if it’s going to be a frothy dinner-theater bedroom farce with all the wacky, naughty shenanigans familiar to regular viewers of Frasier. Spending a romantic weekend at the family cabin, young Jonathan is just about to propose to his girlfriend when—whoops!—in walks his mother wearing a negligee and swilling champagne. She’s there to have an affair with a caddish Frenchman named Francois. Total mood-killer. Soon enough, Jonathan’s dad and his boyfriend show up for the same reason, and the next-door lesbian couple pops in to complicate things further. What makes Wintertime stand out is that playwright Charles Mee doesn’t milk it only for laughs, but goes for a mood more multifaceted and disturbing, with a surprise shock in the second act that deliberately knocks the action off the tracks. Mee cheerily constructs Wintertime with elements from musicals, Greek tragedy, Shakespeare and the avant-garde, making his work somewhat unclassifiable, yet certainly boisterous and witty. At its heart, though, are cutting questions on the permanence and value of love, and it’s safe to say he doesn’t leave the audience any easy answers. After all, that’s for Mee to know, and you to find out. Guthrie Lab, 700 N. 1st St., (612) 377-2224, www.guthrietheater.org

Penumbra’s milestone 25th season is in a big way due to a guy in the audience during their very first production—August Wilson, arguably the foremost living dramatist in America. In 1981, Penumbra staged Wilson’s first professionally produced play, forging a relationship that’s stayed close ever since. Wilson went on to wow Broadway with his 1984 drama Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, part of a ten-play project chronicling the African-American experience decade by decade through the 20th century, and a string of triumphs from there included Pulitzers for Fences and The Piano Lesson. As his fortunes rose, so did Penumbra’s, which became as inextricably linked to his biography as the Globe is with Shakespeare. The theater gained a lasting national reputation and enduring audience, which they’re celebrating this season with an all-Wilson docket, winding up with the Midwest premiere in May of his latest, the Tony-winning King Hedley II. In Two Trains, Wilson focuses on the denizens of a rundown diner in 1969 Pittsburgh as they fight to get through those tumultuous times, including Vietnam, the breakdown of the inner city and the rise of black power. Penumbra Theatre, (651) 224-3180, www.penumbratheatre.com