This weekend is all about festivals. The Cinco de Mayo Fiesta is all about Mariachi, salsa, and the lowrider car show and hydraulic showdown. The May Day Parade and Festival is all about puppets and maypoles. Am I missing anything? I’m all about being comprehensive.
Blog
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Conversations Real and Imagined: The Proselytizer
Mission: Impossible III, 2006. Directed by J. J. Abrams, written by Alex Kurtzman, Roberto Orci, and Abrams. Starring (and that’s all you can call it) Tom Cruise, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Ving Rhames, Laurence Fishburne, Billy Crudup, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Maggie Q, Michelle Monaghan, Simon Pegg, future Dracula Michael Berry Jr., and Saginaw, Michigan’s own Ty Williams! (you can see that I’m already bored by this review).
Now playing at far too many theaters around town.
PLOT SPOLIERS BELOW (DO YOU CARE?)
“Excuse me, excuse me–what are you going to see? Really? Do you mind if I ask why? You don’t really want to waste your time with Mission: Impossible III do you? Look at what else is playing! Uh, Hoot? No, no, I agree. Ice Age? Saw it? (Jeez, too bad). RV? Good Christ, why isn’t Robin Williams in jail? Well, Inside Man is Spike Lee… no good, huh? United 93? No interest? I can’t blame you, really it is a downer. Lucky Number Slevin… you want something new. Well how about this for new… why don’t you go out to dinner or see a play? Something challenging, something far from stupid…
Listen, the film is without plot. OK, there’s a plot, but you’re not supposed to care about it or follow it one way or the other. Besides, it’s insane–something about the supreme biological weapon, bombs inside people’s heads, some traitor inside this fake spy organization. Hell, there’s a scene where the bad guys shoot missiles and fire machine guns into a bridge outside of Washington, D. C. in broad daylight! I know it’s Mission: Impossible, but for God’s sake, this is post 9/11–you can’t just fly a plane or helicopter around D.C. and start firing away. I mean, there’s even a point in which someone will die if Tom Cruise’s cell phone coverage cuts out, and another where these espionage experts toss baseballs at a skyscraper to distract the enemy, and…
“You want to see this movie? You like Tom Cruise? Well, be my guest, I can’t stop you… Tom Cruise is hell itself!”
…
“Hi guys, how are you? What are you going to see? Oh, Mission: Impossible! Why that movie? Sure, I’m a reporter, far as you know. Is it Tom Cruise? No? Ving Rhames, huh? I like Ving, too, he was great in Pulp Fiction. And you, you love Jonathan Rhys Meyers? Well, he was so good in that new Woody Allen movie. Um, Match Point–no, I’m aware that Allen is a creep, but Match Point was still pretty good. None of you are seeing this for the effects and violence? Interesting. And who do you like? Philip Seymour Hoffman? Really. Because of Capote you’re seeing this?
“No, I’m not laughing, I have allergies, scratchy throat you know. Ah, say, you guys, listen, Philip Seymour Hoffman is awful in this movie. I mean, just terrible–he mumbles his way through it, it’s just a paycheck. Same goes for Rhames and Laurence Fishburn and Meyers and Billy Crudup and the woman who looks like Katie Holmes but isn’t. How do I know? Obviously I saw it, that’s how I know, and as you put it, I’m a member of the press, it’s my job to watch things like this. Don’t you get it, I spent two hours of my precious life to see a movie that’s not bad enough to make fun of and not good enough to remember. Don’t make the same mistake I did–you wouldn’t haul garbage, right? Leave that to people like me.
“Where are you going?! Didn’t you just hear what I said? Hey, when the movie opens, Cruise’s wife is shot in the head. But get this–the girl lives at the end! His wife doesn’t die! Some other woman was wearing a mask, you know, like Scooby-Doo. Now you know the end–don’t make the same mistake I did!”
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“YOU THERE! Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Say, you look like a smart couple, tell me you’re not seeing… you are. Why? Look at your glasses–they’re too cool, you must’ve bought those in Uptown? Well, a girl like you should be checking out Drawing Restraint 9 or hanging out at Chino Latino and you, what are you doing taking your girlfriend for a date out here in the ‘burbs? What kind of a guy takes a girl to a mall for Mission: Impossible? What’d you go to the Cheesecake Factory, too? There isn’t anything better to do in Uptown? Jesus, clean your house, have group sex, join a cult, do anything but see this movie! Ah, for God’s sake, go see your damn movie. Capra had it right, youth is wasted on the wrong people…”
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“Me? Well, I’m glad you asked–got a minute? Less than a minute, then, I’ll walk with you. Look, I’m trying to get people to stay away from Mission: Impossible. Are you kidding? Look at it, I mean, look at it! Unbelievably, they try to brain-up this idiot-fest with references to Ralph Ellison and H. G. Wells’ Invisible Man. There’s a reference to the intelligence failings of the Bush Administration. The bad guy refers to affirmative action. Yes, it is amazing, as is Tom Cruise’s flexing his physics muscles later in the movie. I don’t know, he’s going to swing from one skyscraper to another, has to figure out angles and fulcrums, beats me, I failed that class. Anyway, best of all there’s this scene, right in the middle of the film, where Simon Pegg, who starred in and wrote Shaun of the Dead (a decent movie, pal) has this line–and Pegg’s the only good thing in this monumental waste–where he tells us about this Anti-God, which doesn’t make any sense even if you see the movie, because the weapon everyone’s after is called the Rabbit’s Foot. Anyway, the Anti-God, according to the character Pegg plays, is this theoretical device that incorporates so much technology that it lays waste to everything, cities, people, mountains, anything of beauty.
“Don’t you see–Mission: Impossible is the Anti-God! This movie eats little movies like cotton candy. Look at all the people going in–it’s wasting everything! Think of how much business a little playhouse would make if these people went to watch real actors in some decent drama! Or play with their kids, have conversations, anything! In Hollywood, Paramount Pictures is choosing this over something with a real plot and real acting! Maybe even decent special effects. That’s why I’m trying to keep people away. Wait, what? I thought you were going to see… You’re going to see Mission: Impossible? After what I just told you? My God, they got to you, too…”
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“Ma’am, better think twice about taking junior, there–Mission: Impossible’s got soft porn in it. That’s right, the Katie Holmes look-alike starts shaking her bezungas and thrusting her hips over Cruise in slo-mo right at the end. It’s the money shot. Well, it’s supposed to be, like, she’s doing CPR on him, well I think it is supposed to be kind of hot, she’s wearing a skimpy tank top, sweating, mouth open… I’m telling you this ’cause you’re taking that kid in there. PG-13 or no, you’re going to expose your kid to some intense wet dream material. C’mon, go see Akeelah and the Bee, it’s a good movie, it’s fairly real. Or stay home, read your Bible, watch the stars come out. OK, whatever, you want to raise a sex offender, that’s your kid, not mine.”
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“Hold on, hold on, I got a right to be out here–public property. Wait a minute–do I really look like a threat? I couldn’t intimidate a sack of baby mice. Listen, officer, I get to talk if I want to, it’s a free country. It’s Mission: Impossible, officer, it’s evil! It’s the worst movie of the year so far… What? You agree? Jesus, you’re my hero…”
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So Not Not Funny
A couple of notes to add to yesterday’s gathering fumes. I see my old friend Chris Lehmann has written at length about the Colbert routine, and as usual it’s a smart and biting essay worthy of his best work back in the day at Suck. Still, I think he’s wrong. So is this guy. It may be true that Colbert was not belly-laugh funny–I certainly trust Lehmann more than anyone else on this judgement from ground zero–but that is entirely not the point. I don’t know of anyone who is complaining this week about side-ache from laughing uncontrollably; the point is that Colbert scored an almost perfect game in political whack-a-mole. And those who idiotically claim that Colbert “bullied” the president or the press had better look up “irony” in that unused Webster’s over there. It continues to amaze me how few people see what Colbert is really up to–a straight-up parody of Fox TV’s Bill O’Reilly. It’s sort of the televisual equivalent of what The Onion has done to/with USA Today all these many years–just follow the recipe, and double the hyperbole.
Anyway, this whole episode points up to me the disparity between media professional’s perception of an event and the general public’s. It’s a relatively rare atmospheric phenomena, but like the Green Flash, interesting when it happens. Other than Woolcott, I don’t think I have yet read another “media professional” who saw what I saw at the WHC dinner.
Last night, when I cranked up the old AOL dial-up from home, I was confronted with one of AOL’s clever little serial surveys. This one presented five of Colbert’s jokes, and asked subscribers to give them the thumbs up or the thumbs down. Now, I don’t want to make broad generalizations about how lame and mainstream AOL home subscribers like me are–but the voting looked like a massacre. Ten to one, AOLers approved of Colbert’s jokes, every one of them. What was that you were saying about the “media elites” in this country? I’m listening now.
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America Wins
You lost this one, OsamaFor probably the first time since we invaded Iraq, the U.S. can claim a victory in the war against terror. Zacharias Moussaoui said “America, you lost. I won,” but that shows just how crazy he is. The citizens of the United States, as represented by 12 people in an Alexandria, Virginia jury, actually won a big one today when Moussaoui got life instead of death.
Because, let’s face it, the government was trying the latest version of their color coded “We’re actually doing something effective” bullshit by trying to kill someone who hadn’t actually succeeded in doing anything except being a schizophrenic wannabe. The government’s case boiled down to: “This guy should die because he refused to admit he was guilty under interrogation.”
In case you need a reminder, this is the relevant cause from the Bill of Rights’ Fifth Amendment: “No person shall be … compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself.” Gonzales must have missed the day they taught that in law school. Sort of like he missed the “no torture” day.
As long as we’re on the topic of terrorists’ trials, have you ever asked yourself why we haven’t brought the guys we have in custody in secret prisons in Europe and Guantanamo to trial? Do you suppose it’s because we have tortured them? Do you think that the government doesn’t want to take the chance that 12 regular moral Americans might not like that?
I’m going to continue to have faith in the American people as long as we can continue to get Moussaoui-like results. And I’m going to continue to have no faith in those in our government who would, if unchecked, turn us into the same sort of murdering thugs that attacked us on 9/11.
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They're All Thay Way! They're All That Way!
Last time I ventured to give my opinion on the modern state of opera, there was a little bit of a backlash. It’s sort of understandable, I guess. I have been accused of being a dilettante in this area, which could be something of the truth. I don’t have a master’s in voice or anything like that. I didn’t go to Indiana University, nor did I go to St. Olaf. After sitting through a four-hour Wagner, I won’t stay after for the post-show discussion. Nor will I show up early to the pre-show talk on the mezzanine.
But here’s the thing: I really like opera. And therefore, I’d like to remind members of the non-profit establishment that I am your friend.
Here’s a trend I neglected to mention in that old opera piece: The semi-staged opera, generally put on by orchestras in want of cashing-in on the opera trend. Gone are the elaborate set pieces. Stayed are the orchestrations and world-class singers, even some of the enormous costumes. The Minnesota Orchestra’s been doing this all the time–with Bernstein, Puccini, and Humperdinck. Next August, they’ll do it with Carmen, which is just about everybody’s favorite opera these days. But tonight and through the weekend, the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra is doing it with my favorite opera: Cosi fan Tutti. And I don’t care what the Mozart and Italian scholars of the world have to say about this one–thematically, this is an incredibly ridiculous and misogynistic piece, of marginal merit! But the music is gorgeous, and so I continue to listen. The opera house is not a good place to resolve one’s feminist beliefs anyway.
So my best friend periodically changes the signature on her emails, generally tossing in a quote or two she finds relevant. Before I go on, there are two things about her I must tell you upfront: She’s a foodie, and she is a trained opera singer. Here’s her best quote of all time: “Never eat more than you can lift.”-Miss Piggy. And this is her current quote, and here’s where we get back to the original subject: “People are wrong when they say opera is not what it used to be. It is what it used to be. That is what’s wrong with it.”-Noel Coward
Never thought I’d say this but I concur with Coward. Now that there’s renewed interest in opera, I think it’s great that there are these few, no-fuss micro-trends trying to reclaim the spirit and relevance of the operatic voice. And let’s be clear here, this is all about the voice.
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That chicks too old to fry
I have no idea what to expect of tonight’s Shiek’s Singers Reunion. Somewhere along the way this event entered my consciousness, probably because of some press release that slid across my desk, with great velocity, and into the waste-paper basket, ultimately ending up right there with the rest of ’em.
In any case, just this morning, I painted a vivid mental picture of all the elderly Judy Garland-types who constitute Shiek’s Singers, all writhing on the piano in their feathered bathrobes. But I guess I’ll never know what the real Shiek’s Singers look like, or what they’ll wear, because I have running cult tonight. I’ll have to miss it. Drat.
Postscript. A Parenthetic thought related to running and clothing: a press release came across my desk yesterday that I remember quite well. It seems that Paiva, a store that sells designer workout wear for women, is coming to the Mall of America. I just checked out the Paiva website, and it isn’t that impressive. The stock of Brooks sports bras looks no better than that at my local running store, and that hasn’t been good. But Paiva’s press release promised that the store would stock Stella McCartney for Adidas, and that stuff’s all eyeleted and gathered, with “artistic cutouts,” metal doodads, good-looking dragstrings, and shit. I’m totally there, man (at the grand opening later this month)! I’ll report back!!
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Colber Repor
You want truthiness? You can’t stand the truthiness.
Well, I’m a little late to be commenting on the Stephen Colbert performance at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner except to say I wish I’d been there to see him ram the rubber chicken up the press’s ass in person.I was reminded of Mencken’s comment: Democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want and deserve to get it good and hard.
The stunned silence both at the dinner and since in the MSM (that’s internet talk for Main Stream Media; the connotation is definitely derogatory) proves that when the media gets it good and hard, they can neither dish it out, nor take it. He won’t be back at the dinner next year because he had the guts to point out the press’s complicity in the mess we’re in now.
God bless the satirists.
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Everyone's A Critic. Thank God.
Stephen Colbert’s relentless standup at the White House Correspondent’s Dinner would have gone unremarked, if not for the power of the internets. This is understandable. When you shit on everyone in the room, they tend not to run outside and brag about it. And given that the shit-sandwich was cut in half and shared in equal measure between the president and the press, it’s no wonder that press coverage has been, well, muted. On the other hand, I can’t exactly figure out why Wonkette has taken a contrarian, clucking pass, while their slightly older, slightly snarkier New York counterparts at Gawker have found a way to squeeze more humor from the sitch while acknowledging the reality-based community and its silly preoccupation with, y’ know, televised tragedy and comedy. I liked Priesmeyer’s rundown–and congrats to her for being one of the first to post at the outset of a long silence. Though I think it slightly overstates the case, it obviously hit the mark for dozens of appreciative commentors. Woolcott’s is a more measured take, but also recognizes the brilliance and the courage of Colbert’s monologue. It was not exactly a hard rain to clean the streets of all that, um, taint. But it was definitely a soaking sprinkle. Then too, you can always judge the success of these things by the persisting swagger in the tone of the ignorant and the mendacious, who are protesting much too loudly that Colbert was a “flop.” They would better flatter themselves by merely keeping their mouths clamped down in that patriotic rictus we’ve come to love so much.
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The Good, The Bad, The Yummy
a square meal?Who can keep all the pyramidal permutations straight these days. There are good carbs and bad carbs, good fats and doughnuts. Being a foodiphile I’ve never been one to cut anything out of my life, but I have become a bit of a processed-food nazi. Even that doesn’t mean that I don’t snarf a hot dog/bag of chips here and there.
One of the biggest things I’ve learned on my edible journey is: food makes me happy. When I’m sad, ice cream does wonders. When I’m angry, I might need to take a drive toward a red carton of salty fries. General malaise can be cured with anything slathered in pesto. Some people would chastise me for using food as an emotional fix, giving it a dangerous importance to my mental well-being. As if a bad week would see me permanently fixed to a table at Izzy’s.
I’m not belittling eating disorders, Lord knows I’ve battled with enough women friends over their food issues. Maybe if the actual food was as important to them as its affect on their too-tight jeans, then they’d understand how to heal themselves.
Moderation, of course, gives you roots and wings.
All of the Time
Avocados: a necessary good fat and integral part of any quality turkey sandwich.Nuts: peanut-butter is a building block of life.
Olive oil: so versatile, sometimes I think I could drink it straight from the bottle.
Bread: Fresh, springy or dense, seedy or not, locally baked a must.
Meat: My last meal on earth will be beef.
Veg: The more colorful the better. Tomatoes every day, asparagus all spring, pot-roast carrots when it’s cold.
Fish/Chicken: Train the children early to eat fish that doesn’t come in sticks. Tell them it’s chicken if you have to.
Dairy: Cheese is a gift from the animals to us, an entire meal can be saved with cheese.
Chocolate: Hooked on 62% or higher.
Some of the Time
Pasta: Nothing holds a gorgonzola cream sauce like a dense, toothsome gnocchi.
Butter: Margarine is the devil.
Ice Cream: Should be classified by the FDA as a pharmaceutical.
Potatoes: Who among us can completely deny fries? Or a hot, crispy hashbrown?
Pizza: My pie = pesto, goat cheese, prosciutto, roasted red peppers, capers, Neapolitan crust.
Burgers: My last meal on earth will be a cheeseburger.
Indulgences
Hot Dogs: Preferably from a hot cart.
Coke: Ice cold, from the fountain, with a straw.
Milk Duds: I can not watch a movie in a theater without them.
Fried Chicken: Recovery food. Pure hangover bliss.
Cream Cheese Wontons: It’s my Minnesota right.
Doughnuts: Sometimes we all need a little kick-start.
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The Best Of Fest: The Oohs and the Uh-Ohs
My wish came true! Shutka Book of Records has been added to the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Film Festival’s “Best of Fest.” The replay happens tonight–and tonight only–at Oak Street Cinema at 9:30 p.m. Otherwise, I’ll be offering DVD rental to close friends and relatives starting next week.
Also on the “Best of Fest” roster, disappointingly: Crossing The Bridge: The Sound of Istanbul, a documentary I thought mediocre, at best. (I gave it a 2.5 in my Strib review.) There was something funny about it, though. The narrator was this German avant-headbanger dude by the name of Alexander Hacke. He had a shaggy goatee and all. A caricature! The art-rock works! However interesting Istanbul is as a city, Crossing The Bridge relied upon interviews with some annoyingly obtuse, arty musician-types, most of which couldn’t form a decipherable, concrete-sequential sentence if their lives depended upon it. The music was all right, though. And let’s be clear here: a good way to sell movies, visual art, theatrical works, books, and whatever else it is they’re being hawked to the masses these days, is to make it about popular music, without dwelling too much on the classical stuff. Of course, I could be wrong about the whole show. Crossing The Bridge was apparently so popular, it’s getting replayed twice. That’s just salt in the wounds, man!