White Noise: We're Doomed.

A Broadway-bound production premiering in New Orleans dares its audience to deny the regime of hatred ever present in today’s society. Using American pop culture as an outlet to present its case, “White Noise” is an unconventional musical of the utmost disturbing kind. Its challenge lies in the extent to which its vision can be seen beyond the stage and consequently how resounding it really is.

The story unfolds around a pop band of the play’s same title starring two sisters, Eva and Kady Sillers (MacKenzie Mauzy and Patti Murin). In the beginning, when White Noise’s new manager, Rick (Brandon Williams), who wants to make them Billboard stars describes them as “cute little Nazis,” he isn’t exaggerating. Their addictive choruses yet fascist lyrics are straight out of white supremacist propaganda. The tunes “Tragic,” “Do The Laundry” (in which a strangely upbeat demonstration of separating the whites from the colors is given), and the frighteningly catchy rap song “White Invention” all manage to stick in the head of anyone who hears them, immediately causing unease thereafter.

No doubt Eva Sillers’ namesake is that of Eva Braun – Hitler’s mistress and consultant who stuck by his side till their fateful demise. As tiny as Mauzy is in frame and body mass, she’s tremendous in vocal volume and passionate bigotry. Her subscribed ideology is convincing as a shockingly blunt and blatant racist of all those excluded from the Caucasian persuasion. One of the creepiest aspects of Eva is that she’s exceptionally well spoken and driven in her cause, just as most sociopathic dictators tend to be (see Hitler, Stalin, Hussein).

Though Mauzy turns out an intimidating and disconcerting performance, what’s considerably more horrifying is that her and Murin’s characters are based on real life tween Aryans. The seemingly innocent twin sisters are in a band called Prussian Blue. These golden-lock-adorned-milky-white-skinned twins are nothing more than ignorant hatred fueled neo-Nazis (or “White Separatists” as they’d like to be referred to), assumedly lead blind by their mother, as the Sillers sisters were by their mother, Laurel, in White Noise (Nancy Anderson who also offered a praise worthy, almost sympathetic and somber performance). In a “Good Morning America” edition featuring the twins, they said that for fun, they play a game called “dance around the swastika.” Ever tried hopscotch, Nazi freaks?

Every facet of the production was of supreme craftsmanship, from the lighting to the stage-protected orchestra to the impressive performances of a relatively fresh, young batch of actors. White Noise is Patrick Murney’s first full scale production outside the confines of Syracuse University, where he received his BFA in acting. Murney plays Duke, Eva’s boyfriend and bassist of White Noise who might as well have been wearing an SS officer uniform. He was one of those characters you weren’t sure whether to clap or boo for his heinous portrayal during curtain call.

White Noise should also be applauded in its bravery. Directors Mitchell Maxwell and Donald Byrd put a shameful, tea time taboo reality on display, restraining nothing from extremely derogatory terminology to bringing out in the open — to a desensitized degree — concepts such as lynchings. The themes demanded the audience to look inside themselves and their fellow humans to consider how much racism and hate prevail within both.

With that being said, it was also an extremely pessimistic and discouraging outlook on society and society’s potential of tolerance. Everyone in the play was a villain and part of the perpetuating problem. It offered absolutely no hope for individual or general growth. This was White Noise’s aim yet downfall. It was a difficult piece of theater to swallow — uncomfortable and unpleasant. Hopefully the fact that it seemed a lost cause and that such monumental racism is inevitable was an example to its audience that such grim outcomes must be prevented.

Athens Rockers Keep it Weird with "Dark Developments"

Vic Chesnutt is the dark comedian of southern folk rock.

The Athens, Ga. music veteran teamed up with the quirky Elephant 6 dream rockers, Elf Power and backing instrumentalists The Amorphous Strums who smooth Chesnutt’s typically rough edges, brightening the new album, “Dark Developments,” with twinkling xylophone and cheery back up vocals. Chesnutt proves to be a sneering lyricist with a mildly sick sense of humor, but a sense of humor nonetheless.

The opening track, “Mystery,” sets the tone. Eerie yet beautiful, straightforward but nonsensical, from the wordless crooning to the sad proclamation of a void, the song is full of stimulating and stark contrasts, like a profound food and wine pairing.

When “Little Fucker” opens up, you know it’s going to be a good rock song. The title is an apt representation of the attitude of the track: pissed off, dismissive and vindicated. The instrumentation follows suit with bellowing, descending bass introducing an aggressive electric guitar, and when Chesnutt drops the f-bomb, you can hear the satisfaction upon its landing.

The album isn’t all so brooding, with tracks like “And How” that are surprisingly bouncy but still remaining incredulous with a nice country guitar twang as the cherry on top. The choir of Elf Power in the background helps to uplift spirits as well. Their influence is partly manifested in some of the electronic experimentation, namely the spaced out synth on “Teddy Bear,” in refreshing juxtaposition to Chesnutt’s husky Tom Petty meets Leonard Cohen roar.

Chesnutt offers an excuse for their dreary disposition in “We Are Mean,” blaming the city for their bitterness: “In the country we are healthy/ In the city we are lean/ In the country we are smiling/ In the city we are mean” leading into the chorus with a reinforcing “We are mean!” shouted in the background.

“Bilocating Dog” is the catchiest of tracks and misleadingly upbeat. Its tone is undercut with narrative lyrics fitting for a gothic fable about a not so fortunate dog. Chesnutt seems all too enthusiastic when singing about the poor dog’s fate. Perhaps his grim tendencies are the influence of spending too much — or just enough — time in the Georgia woods.

Chesnutt and friends can be counted on to please in a weird and uncomfortable kind of way, like a first kiss or learning to ride a bike. Channel your inner kook with “Dark Developments.”

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It’s a dog screw dog world in the Coen Brothers’ latest beast, “Burn After Reading.” The screwing is limitless and sloppy, whether in the form of sex or violence. The film’s style takes a cue from the Bros’ 1996 Midwestern winter murderland antics of “Fargo,” merging comedy and thriller — because after all, there’s a fine line between hilarity and disaster, and the lead dunces stomp that line into the ground.

John Malkovich who plays Osbourne Cox, a C.I.A. analyst who at the beginning is assumed to have a fairly high clearance level, is the first unfortunate character we see of this eclectic cast. The cast, admittedly, is a huge draw for this film. Who could resist the two aging heartthrobs, but more importantly consistently impressive George Clooney and Brad Pitt, and the commanding Francis McDormand and Tilda Swinton?

But oh, John Malkovich, how I love thee. A Princeton alumnus, dressed quite sharply in an “I make way more money than you” suit, finished with a bowtie which just fucking makes the whole thing, he is self-righteous, entitled, and is generally a smug asshole. For Christsakes, he over-exaggerates the French pronunciation of American-adopted words like “memoir” and points out the necessity for their usage in the first place. For example, during his first encounter with Harry Pfarrer (Clooney), he corrects him — eyes rolling — that yes, that deplorably referred “goat cheese” is in fact chevre. He pays no attention to his own rude attitude because he really just doesn’t give a fuck and detests most people in general. This trait is especially unfortunate for the C.I.A. officials who fire him in the first scene of the movie.

It should be noted that each character - Cox included - is a complete clueless idiot. Everyone, whether they realize it or not, gets way up in each other’s business by way of poorly plotted affairs and blackmail that inevitably straddles the verge of utter demise.

In contrast to the high profile elitist lives of Osbourne and his hardass, disapproving wife, Katie (Swinton), and Harry Pfarrer who she’s sleeping with on the side, Linda Litzke (McDormand) and Chad Feldheimer (Pitt) are Hardbodies Fitness Center employees who instigate the deadly clusterfuck. They get a hold of a copy of Osbourne’s memoirs that were found on the gym's locker room floor that he began writing in lieu of a job, and mistake it for top-secret government documents. Linda is in search of money for multiple cosmetic surgery procedures and will go to any and all lengths to obtain it, considering these “documents” her golden ticket. Chad is the overzealous, dim-witted, spandex-wearing workout enthusiast (and executes it beautifully) that is hopelessly loyal to his good friend and colleague, Linda. He is the willing and quite unfortunate pawn of their blackmail scheme. This sets off a series of threats, misguided spying and bloodshed when Osbourne tries to reclaim the supposed confidential information and the Russian Embassy, of all places, gets involved.

The culmination of this film is hysterically absurd and funny. Clooney mutilates a sex chair he built, complete with a mechanized thrusting dildo, most everyone has slept with and/or killed each other, and the final conversation between the head of the C.I.A. played by JK Simmons and the C.I.A. man who is handling the ordeal sums up the whole movie. The C.I.A. has kept a covert eye on the attention-begging actions of all the lead characters and when reflecting on the puzzling case, the superior asks the officer,

“Now what have we learned from all this?”

“Not to do it again, sir?”

“That’s right. I’ll be damned if I know what we did.”

Vicky Cristina Barcelona: Sexy Smart Redemption

Woody Allen proves his breadth and perseverance with his new film “Vicky Cristina Barcelona.” After cranking out nearly 50 films in over 40 years, a few judgment lapses have overturned some questionable projects but do not overshadow his accomplishments and certainly not his iconic reputation as a comedic, self indulgent (and deprecating), nerve-consumed filmmaker. His latest animal is a coherent, vibrant creature that revives any faltering messes before it, reassuring that given more chances to produce — which he obviously has no problem getting — he will retrieve his spot as one of the most influential film makers of our time.

As the title alludes, Barcelona is the gorgeous painting of a city that fosters and instigates the feverish romances that infiltrate the story’s characters, from minor to major. The two title characters, Vicky and Cristina (Rebecca Hall and Scarlett Johansson, respectively), two best friends who seemingly couldn’t be more different in their romantic desires and expectations, seek post-grad refuge in Barcelona. A mysterious and sexy but not handsome bohemian artist, Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem) swaggers into their lives to sex things up a bit, to say the least.

Bardem’s Juan Antonio has a soothing quality, with his eyes and voice as the root sources followed by his coaxing way of controlling a situation, or attempting to. He approaches Vicky and Cristina in a restaurant after an art exhibit they all attended and without introduction, presumptuously invites them both on an excursion to Oviedo with scandalous intentions. Each woman’s response to his proposition are telling of their character. Cristina is intrigued, blushing and eager and Vicky is cold, insulting and repelled. Cristina finally persuades Vicky, an engaged woman, to join her and Juan Antonio to Oviedo, a small, quaint Spanish town.

Vicky is refreshingly blunt, outspoken and affirmative. She psychoanalyzes Juan Antonio about his infamous relationship with his ex-wife, Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz), without regard to his feelings. She mercilessly expresses her distaste for Juan Antonio. Cristina, on the other hand, is attentive and charmed by his company and accepts his invitation to sleep with him, but demands that he seduce her first, in a little game of pretend naiveté. Although Vicky’s outer shell seems to be hard and impenetrable at first, her weaknesses shown early — like losing herself completely at the first pluck of Spanish guitar — are indicative of her eventual succumbing to Juan Antonio.

A new chapter surely begins with the introduction of the feisty Maria Elena who comes back into Juan Antonio’s life after a suicide attempt. He takes his perhaps mentally ill ex-wife in after Cristina has moved in as his next leading lady, to further complicate matters. Penelope Cruz steals the show almost upon her first frame. Though Scarlett Johansson’s bombshell qualities are celebrated, and rightly so, she is no match for the older Spanish knockout whose eyes could pierce diamonds. Maria Elena is a torrential whirlwind disguised by a petite and exquisitely sultry frame. This could be —dare I say — Penelope Cruz’s best role yet, bringing hysterical energy as a highly creative and unstable artist whose actions and unchecked opinions also bring a substantial contribution to the film’s comedy. She of course is partial to the Spanish language, which angers Juan Antonio when she rudely continues to speak Spanish in front of the exclusively English speaking Cristina. Her first line in English spoken in that painfully cute accent is a request for Vodka upon her return from the hospital where she was fed meds.

A recipe for a love triangle is ready with two unbelievably looking women, one the past lover of Juan Antonio and one the current, all residing under one roof. Other affairs and romantic scenarios take place outside of this one, concerning Vicky’s status with her WASPy fiancé and also Patricia Clarkson, who plays the woman hosting the two girls in Barcelona, with her marriage.

Besides the quality of the acting, classic Woody Allen techniques are exercised to make the film the achievement that it is. Long, lingering camera close ups display the actors, showing favoritism to Johansson — Allen’s proclaimed muse. Violence is present in a surprising and wildly funny way and narration carries the plot with a collegiate-English lit-workshop-tone, appropriate for the graduate intellectualism of Vicky and Cristina.

The fate of the characters is unclear and left to the viewer’s foresight, but are assumed to be reflective of their actions hitherto the ending. But as we all know, life is what you make of it and thus, unpredictable. This film is elaborately delightful.

A-

DEFEND CONEY ISLAND

Why do the corporate moguls always have to crash the party of the proletariat? Coney Island is a cultural paradise where the young, the old, the fat and thin alike, the Russian and any other nationality can all intermingle and sing kumbayas of summertime, or any time for that matter. By 2011, it is expected to be completely transformed, and thus completely devoid of its intrinsic charm.

Big wig Joseph Sitt is the new starry-eyed owner with plans of destructing authenticity and erecting twenty first century enhancements in its stead. He plans to put in over two million dollars worth of high rise modern hotels, an indoor amusement park and retail stores not of the independent ilk, possibly sacrificing old trademark structures and establishments along the way.

The beloved metropolitan oasis is perfect for a local's one day gettaway or a more premeditated commuter's vacation. Its entire appeal is the dingy and feel-good vibe. A place where the working man can feel at home and uninhibited. The best part about the attraction is its frequenters. Several languages can be heard just walking down the boardwalk, and on the beach the tan and the beautiful frolic alongside the tacky and gluttonous. Kicks can be had whether they may be shooting the freak or targets in a wooden saloon setting. Tummies can be tousled on the Cyclone, a roller coaster still going after 80 years. The Wonder Wheel is the biggest Ferris wheel in the country.

Locals are hopeful — or perhaps in denial — of the park's preservation. A Brooklynite cafe clerk claims "they said it was going to change last year and nothing happened. They said last year was the end of the original Coney Island. I don't think anything will really happen." The clerk went on to say her boss upon hearing of the potential tearing down of certain parts of the park and the plans of new sleek developments went to the annual mermaid parade last year dressed as a "mermaid in mourning," complete with a black mermaid suit and veil. This year, she returned with the same suit, but glamorized.

Here's hoping the new and flashy won't monopolize the humble and rickety for once. Leave Coney Island alone in all its glory, meaning without the frills. This is one piece of tarnished silver that should not be polished.

Rose Petal Cocktail

Rose petals, torn
Bicardi Raspberry
Simple Syrup
Rose Water
Top with Champagne or Soda Water
Lime

Served at The Modern in Manhattan, satellite restaurant of MoMa - The Museum of Modern Art

delicious!

A Treasure is Beached on the No Wave

Who would listen to that cacophonous, ugly and obnoxiously inaccessible noise of No Wave? The kids who were responding to the looming apocalypse of its conception, fellow misfits who identified with the whole messy slew of its pioneers, and then kids like yours truly, thirty years later who just think it’s badass. That’s who.

The June 2008 release, No Wave: Post Punk. Underground. New York 1976-1980. is the most solid documentation to date about the bands and artists of the short-lived era. The book is a mouthpiece for the musicians directly related to the scene, offering interviews with all the major players. Musicians and rock journalists, Thurston Moore and Byron Coley, present the veteran accounts and all the content in a detailed, thorough and professional manner that brings legitimacy to such a raw and reckless acid trip of artistic expression.

No Wave focuses on the New York locale, and admits that New York wasn’t even the most conducive of cities for punk. It mentions only CBGB, The Ramones and one publication: Punk Magazine as the punk pearls in a city full of dirty clams. The musicians and artists involved who wouldn’t have come to being without their punk predecessors (hence post-punk) were all scrounging to live a less than comfortable lifestyle during a poverty-stricken generation that made performing that much more precious. Moore and Coley fill in the gaps and smooth the transitions as needed, but the book more than anything gives a voice to the kids — now middle-aged adults — in the New York trenches of post-punk warfare, including members of Mars, The Gynecologists, Beirut Slump and about 40 more. It’s like reading a collective diary. The narratives are all honest, matter-of-fact and unashamed.

The book begins and is laden with the testimonials of a couch-surfing, lip-giving teenage runaway who didn’t think about much more than inserting herself in this club that didn’t have a name or niche besides cultivated craziness, later deemed as No Wave. Lydia Lunch who would form Teenage Jesus and the Jerks and consequential projects had her entire body on the pulse of the New York underground pack that prowled at likely venues such as CBGB and Max’s. Both establishments have already met their fate.

The movement (or as it proved stagnation) is refreshingly liberating. It’s where proper training doesn’t take primacy over self-instruction (in fact, the book explains how the Cramps started when two members were seeking out band mates who had never even played instruments), where social order is maintained through disorder and where skepticism fizzles with unabashed displays of rawk. The No Wave breed manages to glorify living in filth, mutiny, destruction and having no sense of direction, validated by fans and contributors like Jean-Michel Basquiat, William S. Borrows and Brian Eno. Ironically, the artists didn’t have much of a choice but to live the way they did in a time of such stark deprivation from a suffering economy.

The culture comes off as simultaneously reprehensible and somehow coveted and desirable. The product of the culture, though, is head-scratchingly innovative and artistic. The music evoked a kind of motiveless release. It was not meant to uplift or persuade, but just simply to exist.

The book doubly serves as a black and white picture book of the usual suspects: rockers dressed up in the garb of mismatched lawn-sale ensembles, with heavy makeup and gargantuan, thick rimmed specs adorning their faces. There’s a fine line between the hopelessly geeky and the enlightened hip in respect to the group’s fashion. In any event, image was a factor of inclusion in the scene where a cool haircut could warrant a bass or drums audition.

The truth is, this book may not reach a whole lot of people, generally speaking, because the movement didn’t reach a whole lot of people in the grand scheme of things. The most resonating band that more resulted from the scene than started it is Sonic Youth. So chances are, if you don’t care for the music you won’t care for the book. But if you do, it’s a little bit like candy. If anything, No Wave gives its audience something tangible to connect to those four years of gritty creativity — a time capsule immortalizing it.