Author: rakemag

Language purists might think that the most alien thing about this nine-disc DVD set is the newly coined word in the title; we’re guessing Fox Home Video didn’t trust its audience to know that four related dramatic works are properly called a tetralogy. But whatever you call it, Sigourney Weaver’s sci-fi quartet (see, there’s another perfectly good word they could have used) gets an almost ludicrously lavish repackaging. Each movie comes bursting with de rigueur extras—mostly behind-the-scenes and visual-effects featurettes. Anchoring the nine discs are two versions of each film—the original theatrical release and a directors’ cut. These are a bit of a mixed bag. The first Alien is a near-perfect chiller, and the 2003 recut by director Ridley Scott may even be leaner and meaner than his 1979 original; it’s actually a minute shorter. On the other hand, James Cameron’s Aliens, the second in the series, throws in a half-dozen flabby scenes that were cut out of the 1986 version for a good reason. As far as the progressively worse Alien3 and Alien Resurrection, we’ll just say that while each had plenty of good moments, watching a new cut that’s even longer is only going to suck away eight to thirty minutes of our lives that we could have spent doing something else. Like spellchecking DVD box sets.

Who’d have thought that a documentary about spelling would be one of the most tension-filled, broadly American films of the year? True, some of us here at The Rake find it fascinating to see a bunch of bright young folks on the fast track to careers in the glamorous field of magazine copyediting, but we wouldn’t expect the rest of you to get excited about it. You ought to, though. This Oscar-nominated look at the 1999 national spelling bee is about spelling bees the way Hoop Dreams was about basketball—namely, only on the surface. Deep down it’s about much bigger themes, like the melting pot and the American Dream. Spellbound introduces us to eight finalists and their families, a quorum of nerds from wildly divergent ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds. One’s well-to-do father pays for a team of private tutors; another is the daughter of a Mexican immigrant who doesn’t speak English. Director Jeffrey Blitz avoids what could have been D-U-L-L by making sure we get to know the kids—which is why we feel the same nailbiting anxiety as the boy at the microphone struggling through “Darjeeling.” (It certainly doesn’t hurt that Blitz has an eye for irony; that boy’s parents are from India.)

We’ve never cared for the term “blaxploitation,” but we do love the movies it describes—those early-seventies action flicks that explored the experiences of African-Americans in ass-kickingly cinematic terms. They’re very much of their time—funk and seventies fashion at its most outlandishly ghetto-fabulous—but also full of attitudes toward gays and women that wouldn’t fly today. And most were made cheaply, quickly, and with an eye toward a buck rather than an Artistic Statement. But they’re important pieces of film history, and they’re still pretty fun. Superfly, propelled by Curtis Mayfield’s fantastic score, is one of the genre’s high points—a gritty noir directed by Gordon Parks Jr., whose father, the great St. Paul photographer, kick-started the genre by directing Shaft. Meanwhile, other than changing the ethnicity of its hero and villain, 1972’s Blacula stays firmly within the strict genre conventions of the vampire film; it seems almost old-fashioned next to, say, Roman Polanski’s 1967 Fearless Vampire Killers. It’s redeemed by Shakespearean-trained actor William Marshall. We specially like his throaty performance as Mamuwalde, the African prince who asks Dracula to sign an anti-slavery petition and gets “fangs, but no thanks” in response. The sequel’s not as good but gets extra points for costar Pam Grier, who livens up any film she’s in.

Just six months after releasing The Man on the Burning Tightrope, acerbic New York combo Firewater returns with this collection of covers, a good showcase for their sense of the smartly sinister. We’ve got no argument with their song selection, a nice blend of the obvious (“Folsom Prison Blues”) and unexpected (“This Little Light of Mine”) that alternates numbers by 1980s underground guys like Robyn Hitchcock with old standards made famous by Peggy Lee and Frank Sinatra. And there’s fire in their playing; clearly, these really are songs the Firewater boys wish they’d written. Sometimes that means a little too much faithfulness, as with “Diamonds and Gold,” too much of Tom Waits’ original with the edges sanded off—which begs the question, what’s the point? On the other hand, their slow-burning psychedelic take on “Paint It Black” is pretty great.

Every small town used to have its hip record store, run by college dropouts who were looking for a volume discount on punk rock and one-hitters. The Lost Chord down in Mankato is where we first came across the Church, twenty years ago. They were Australia’s answer to the Psychedelic Furs and Bauhaus, hidden away in the import bins in heavy plastic sleeves. Theirs were lush, melodic productions full of stark and stylish images—and the records sounded pretty good too. After all these years, we suddenly realized that they’ve been chugging along without our involvement. We’d caught wind of this disturbing fact with last year’s After Everything Now This, and now they’re releasing album number seventeen. (Seventeen!) Not a lot of bands hang around that long, and they usually manage to do so only by going through a few drastic overhauls and makeovers. The Church, though, have stayed true to their original charter of jangly, moody, melodic alt-rock. In the absence of Echo & the Bunnymen, the Feelies, and a dozen other seminal art bands of the eighties, we’ll keep throwing into the Church’s offering plate.

Reports are sunny regarding David Bowie’s newest album, Reality. It’s a good thing. The Thin White Duke’s career (gawd, we always hated that sobriquet; gawd, we hate that word, “sobriquet”) has been marked by long lazy periods where his butt was comfortably installed on its nest of laurels. But once a decade or so, he gets up and proves he’s still got the goods. Yet, in the parallel universe of performance, his roadshow has always been a spectacle to behold. Put this one down in the category of concerts you’ve got to stop telling yourself you’ll see next time he comes to town. Bowie’s old enough now that there may not be a next time. Besides, you don’t want to be one of those dorks who waited until the guy was knighted before you saw him onstage. Target Center, 600 First Ave. N., (612) 673-0900, www.targetcenter.com

Perpetually touring Ani DiFranco hits the stage with a few of her favorite f-words—“folk,” “feminism,” and undoubtedly one more—as she continues her winter tour after a much-deserved monthlong hiatus. Intimate venues have always been DiFranco’s preference, and the Northrop will be a fitting platform from which to unveil tracks from her latest album, Endangered Species, due January 20. Ani’s always had a stubborn independent streak, but she’s gone a step further on Species, playing all the instruments and providing all the vocals. Ani also singlehandedly recorded and mixed the songs on an analog eight-track reel-to-reel in a shotgun shack in New Orleans, complete with passing trains and rain falling in the background. And you thought she couldn’t get any more raw! She’ll have a backup band in concert, of course, except during the album’s patriotic spoken-word pieces, but audiences will have to warm up to new drummer Daren Hahn, who replaces longtime favorite Andy Stochansky, gone to chase his own star after last year’s successful solo release Five Star Motel. Hammel on Trial, a fellow Righteous Babe artist who describes himself as the Beastie Boys rolled into one, opens. Northrop, 84 Church St. S.E., (612) 624-2345, www.northrop.umn.edu

We’re very excited to have Schuur back in Minneapolis. Through her decorated singing career, we’ve come to expect her to trot out the jazz and pop standards—from big-band arrangements to intimate nightclub combos. But her third record came out last summer, and it was a wonderful departure, pairing her with the one and only Barry Manilow. No, he just writes the songs and produces them—she sings them. (You gotta hand it to him: He’s a mensch and an ace, and if there were still a Brill Building, he’d be its landlord.) Rossi’s, 90 S. Ninth St., (612) 312-2828, www.bluestarjazz.com

If the Midwestern inferiority complex has a lot to do with our location in flyover country, imagine what it must be like to live in Poland, traditional butt of the “dumb” jokes of nations thousands of miles away. But there are other similiarities, too—the wide expanses of plains, for instance, or the starkly utilitarian architecture of our cities. The View From Here, a touring exhibit put together by the Columbus Museum of Art, aims to find the spirit connecting those of us living in the heartlands of the Old and New Worlds. That’s probably most apparent in the pairing of eight photos, four each, by Krzystof Zielinski of Poland and Ohio’s Andrew Borowiec; they are clearly kindred spirits in documenting their respective working-class hometowns. Three Minnesotan photographers are part of the American contingent, including a couple shots from Paul Shambroom’s terrific series of portraits depicting small-town city councils. MCP, 711 W. Lake St., (612) 824-5500, www.partsphoto.org

One can hardly recall the name James McNeill Whistler without thinking that he was a bit of a mama’s boy. In a fate similar to that of Norman Bates, Whistler the Artist has almost been overshadowed by Whistler the Painting, popularly known as “Whistler’s Mother” but officially titled “Arrangement in Grey and Black.” Whistler rarely named his works other than by color; he was hoping to force the art community to consider printmaking and etching as art forms in their own right rather than mere reproductions. A hundred years after his death, this exhibit celebrates his success as the most influential printmaker in art history and credits him for his lasting influence on later generations, including American painter John Singer Sargeant. Whistler’s colorful personality and turbulent life can be traced through these hundred works. They are taken from the institute’s permanent collection, and include a series of gritty etchings known as the Thames Set along with his Venetian prints, the swan song of a career in which a high regard for printmaking is fully realized. Move over, mama! MIA, 2400 Third Ave. S., (612) 870-3131, www.artsmia.org