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You could be forgiven for falling asleep during the last few years of Elvis Costello’s career. Don’t get us wrong, his collaborations with the classical Brodsky Quartet and pop-standards king Burt Bacharach were tasteful and sophisticated proof of his facility in more musical modes than mere rock. But for many of us who discovered him through the snarly vituperation of his early New Wave records, they had all the eat-it-it’s-good-for-you appeal of broccoli and dry toast. So it was with a guilty sense of pleasure that we heard him taking a big step back to the spirit of his younger days on his latest disc, When I Was Cruel , combining that familiar one-two punch of melodic guitar pop and acidly sharp lyrics. Not surprisingly, it’s also his biggest seller in years, putting him on top of the college charts for the first time since Punch the Clock in 1983. His touring band, the Imposters, features two-thirds of the Attractions, drummer Pete Thomas and keyboardist Steve Nieve. Orpheum Theatre, (612) 339-7007

Bob Mould is no stranger to shocking his audience with a radical new direction—after his years in Hüsker Dü, the loudest punk band in all creation, the quiet and folkie Workbook seemed dumbfounding, though now seen as a career high point. But that’s nothing compared to his recent jump into dancefloor techno and electronica, on first blush as bizarre and wrong as if Olivia Newton-John tried gangsta rap. But it’s no joke. Indeed, he’s approaching this with the same intense seriousness he brings to everything, even his stint as a pro-wrestling scriptwriter. “Modulate” and the more recent “Long Playing Grooves” move farther from Mould’s traditional melodic-guitar assault into computer-generated soundscapes, in a conscious effort to revitalize a songwriting approach he’s been pursuing for two decades. The response from critics and fans has been mixed, though certainly not hostile. There might be something worthwhile, even luminous, down this new path, but Mould clearly hasn’t yet found it. (Mould’s third 2002 release, Body of Song , will be more in the Workbook vein, but he’s also got a live disc recorded in 1998.) Live, he’s now casting his guitar over preprogrammed beats and loops, though antediluvian stuff like “Chartered Trips” and “I Apologize” still appear with comforting regularity on the set list. Woman’s Club, 870-8001, www.bobmould.com

Okay, so they sound just like Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers. But at some point, we all grow old enough to realize that pop music is one big lazy susan that keeps spinning in place. (In any case, all roads lead back to the Rolling Stones, right?) And why should we begrudge the kids their own updated version of art-school rock ’n’ roll? In our ongoing effort to help you avoid becoming just like your parents, take a moment to look in a mirror and say: “Yes, I’m 40 years old. I will never be a rock star. That doesn’t mean I can’t stay hip to the scene.” Anyone who’s spent five minutes on Cities 97 or Drive 105 in the past six months can tell you that it doesn’t get any hipper than the Strokes, and we’re eager to find out whether this youthful quintet can live up to the hype. We predict the average age for ticketholders at this show will be about twice the age of the band—you’ll feel right at home with all the emeritus hipsters. Orpheum Theatre, (612) 339-7007.

Given Chris Mars’ greater fame as the former drummer for the Replacements, you might well think that his career as a fine artist is mere rock-star dilettantism. It’s not. He’s the real thing, a skillful visual artist whose work echoes the semi-apocalyptic grotesque tradition of Hieronymous Bosch and World War I artist George Grosz. To make a more modern-day comparison, Mars comes across as a far less whimsical Tim Burton, especially in his repeated use of Halloween imagery. Disturbing, distorted Frankensteinian monsters populate his landscapes, bloated beings of bizarre and demonic ugliness. It is perhaps not surprising, then, to learn that Mars’ art is a conscious attempt to deal with a traumatic family history of schizophrenia. Often these figures are not demons, but lonely, suffering outcasts. Mars’ aim is to draw out their inner beauty and dignity without whitewashing their external horror. If anything, he’s too successful at the latter; empathy for these ghastly souls does not come easily. But maybe that’s the point. (Mars is still active in music as well, planning to release a new record soon.) Showing through Oct. 19 at Theiss is the very different but equally worthy painter James Disney, a Lutheran minister, whose often pensive watercolors draw on Biblical stories and late-medieval religious iconography to echo his own spiritual struggles. Kellie Rae Theiss Gallery, (612) 339-1094, theissgallery.com, chrismarspublishing.com

The weakness of most commercial photographers who try to do artistic work is that they simply don’t have the time to pull it off. Accustomed to working fast and clean, on assignment for big bucks, successful commercial photogs like Shawn Michienzi run the real risk of falling into auto-focus formulas. They have a hard time spending the emotional and mental capital it takes to make fully considered, intimately personal art for its own sake. This may seem like a weak or overly cute pretext for a show—beautiful, oversized color prints drawn together by the presence of a TV in each one, and it does suffer from a few vices of the commercial crossover (overwritten captions, rather like Zima ad copy, break the cardinal rule of visual art—never include text if you can help it; it’s too damn irresistable and doesn’t let your audience discover the nuances of the image itself). But if you can simply enjoy the eye candy that happens when a large format color camera and a skilled photographer meet, then all the rest is commentary. With a changing context, the traditional weaknesses become strengths: There is real visual relief in clean, clear, well-composed photos in a time that is otherwise marked by distressed, degraded, and accidental images. Icebox, (612) 788-1790

Akira Kurosawa and Toshiro Mifune’s artistic partnership was one of cinema’s most rewarding. The dozen-plus movies they made together from 1948 to 1965 were some of the most influential of the period, and this quartet— The Seven Samurai , The Hidden Fortress , Yojimbo and its sequel Sanjuro —comprise the bulk of the two men’s samurai action films. They’re a highly entertaining showcase for Mifune’s rich physical expressiveness and Kurosawa’s masterful editing and deft cultural translation of American pulp-fiction forms into Eastern styles. Seven Samurai in particular has a resonant emotional depth, but even the breezy trifle Sanjuro shouldn’t be missed. Kurosawa was often criticized in Japan’s film community for being too Western in method, but we prefer to think he was able to distill a universal experience that cut across national boundaries. Maybe that’s also a reason why the English-language remakes of the first three—to wit, The Magnificent Seven , Star Wars , and A Fistful of Dollars —also stand out in their genres. The DVD extras here are rather thin: Seven Samurai has an erudite commentary track by film scholar Michael Jeck, Hidden Fortress a video interview with George Lucas. But a great film is a great film, and if these aren’t already in your collection, this box set is a good excuse to correct that error.

This is undoubtedly the film that put Jim Jarmusch into your consciousness in the late 80s, and it may have been your first introduction to the “art film” as a legitimate big-house screening. At the very least, it would have introduced you to Roberto Begnini, a formerly hilarious Italian comedian who imploded under the pressure of his own hubris after winning an Oscar for the highly problematic Life is Beautiful . (What, you didn’t notice you were in a concentration camp?!) Jarmusch here displayed an early view of his genius—writing the meanest of stories, and hanging it on the sparse performances (although not as mean or sparse as his earlier work, Stranger than Paradise ) of non-traditional actors—aside from Begnini, this film also stars uber-hipsters Tom Waits and John Lurie. Jarmusch is due for a major retrospective, and why not? Night on Earth, Mystery Train —his filmography includes some of our all-time favorites. Get a jump on the inevitable reissues.

Ah, the good old days (the 80s), when a throwaway, no-brainer sketch on SCTV or SNL could be stretched into a credible and hilarious full-length feature film. Of course, they’re still doing it—Adam Sandler, believe it or not, is one of the highest paid “actors” on the planet. But we have a special place in our hearts, not only for Canadians, but for this memorable portrayal of our northern neighbors by way of Bob and Doug MacKenzie, the Great White North’s most famous hosers. The truth of the matter is that Strange Brew was ahead of its time, and a whole raft of close-to-home comedies poking fun at people an awful lot like us followed thereafter—from Keillor’s Wobegon books to Fargo and the Red Green Show . Is it still funny 20 years later? Are you still drinking beer and wearing plaid? Extra Credit: Strange Brew is actually a radical reworking of Hamlet !

To answer the question “Is there anything more bizarre than a breezy sitcom set in a Nazi prison camp?” you need only look at the life and death of Bob Crane. When he wasn’t duping Klink and Schultz as Col. Hogan, he indulged in pornography—not just consuming it, but directing and starring in his own stag films. Whispers of his secret obsession began turning into career poison (remember: this was decades before the Vivid Girls and the Internet conspired to make porn safe for Middle America). What happened next is still one of Hollywood’s great unsolved mysteries: Around the time he apparently tried to clean up his act, somebody murdered him in an Arizona hotel room. The pedigree of the behind-the-scenes talent bodes well for the quality of Auto Focus . Producer Scott Alexander has made a niche for himself in off-kilter celeb biopics, scriptwriting The People Vs. Larry Flynt and Ed Wood . And Crane’s sordid story is perfectly suited for director Paul Schrader (the guy who wrote Taxi Driver and Hardcore ), a brand name you can trust for edgy films about fragmented neurotics hurtling toward their own destruction. As for the stars, Greg Kinnear matches Crane’s lightweight public persona, but rumors of his acting chops in darker material remain unconfirmed. On the other hand, Willem Dafoe can probably play Crane’s porn-partner (and likely killer) in his sleep.

We’re not sure why Hollywood continues to be obsessed with Bret Easton Ellis, whose star rose and fell in the 80s, and we’re not convinced that his novels are the “scabrously hilarious” social commentaries we’re told they are. Seems to us that most of his books have an essentially voyeuristic appeal. American Psycho was less an allegory of the go-go 80s on Wall Street, and more an excuse to explore the deepest homicidal recesses of misogyny; Less than Zero was less a satire of the Cali culture that spawned the dark side of Beverly Hills 90210 than a front-row seat for a drug-induced teenage meltdown. And now we can expect The Rules of Attraction to be the big-screen literary equivalent of “College Girls Gone Wild.” Our point? Forget about the literary pretensions and excuses, don’t read the book, and just enjoy the show—directed by Roger Avary and starring Faye Dunaway, James Van Der Beek, Shannyn Sossamon, Jessica Biel, and—yes!—Fred Savage.