Marley and Me: NOT a family film!

I realize I'm more than a year late commenting on David Frankel's 2008 adaptation of best-selling memoir, Marley and Me, but to confirm: this is not a review. This is a warning.

On a rainy day not too long ago, I resulted to movie watching on the couch. As the premium channel and On Demand selection was meager, I decided on Marley and Me as a low investment, blissfully uncomplicated, feel good pet movie. After all, one of my greatest loves in life is the canine species. Well, friends, this movie isn't at all for dog lovers. Quite the contrary, in fact. If you hate dogs so much to the point that you bask in the joy of witnessing their painful demise - then by all means - treat yourself to this film. For the remaining majority of soul possessing humans, I discourage you.

After the first scene showing the marriage of Marley's soon-to-be parents - John (Owen Wilson) and Jenny (Jennifer Aniston) - R.E.M.'s "Shiny Happy People" plays over the opening credits. Frankel sure has one sick sense of humor. The idealist, nearly painfully cheery song is used in this film as nothing more than a tool of cruel, low-down irony.

The rest of the film is a parade of disgust and horror. Critics' proclamation that it's a nice holiday or family film is a sore misinterpretation. *SPOILER ALERT* For three fourths of the movie, the viewer gets acquainted with hell raiser Marley, grows to love him just as John and Jenny do, then in the last 30 minutes are assaulted with a hopeless, drawn out deterioration of the clueless and sweet Labrador leading up to his graphic death. As if the mere concept of putting an animal down when it comes his time isn't traumatic enough, they display the lethal injection on screen. PARENTS: DO NOT LET YOUR CHILD SEE THIS FILM. I REPEAT: THIS FILM IS NOT FOR CHILDREN.

As someone who is usually more distraught seeing an animal die in a film or reading about it in a book more than a human, I'd just assume do away with such stories all together. Marley and Me will join Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows on my personal list of banned movies/books. Okay, not really, but anyone else who seeks any of them out will be adequately warned.

I implore the MPAA to reconsider the PG rating of this film. I dare say Marley and Me is the saddest film since Sophie's Choice.

From The Big Easy to the Big Apple: The Scatterbrained Diaries, Volume 2

After a brief scare that I wouldn't be able to make the Strength Through Unity benefit for Haiti after discovering that online tickets were sold out, I laced up and walked the cool two blocks from my apartment to the Gowanus venue The Bell House ten minutes before doors opened. I was not the only one. There was already a line of about 30 people which more than tripled after five minutes of standing there. I thought surely they'll let me in. They have to, I only live two blocks away! But then again they might feel more sympathy for someone who came all the way from Jersey. But no matter, my fretting was relieved when they had plenty of tickets at the door. *phew*

AND PHEW INDEED because the show kicked ass. And what a great thing that it was sold out because all the proceeds go to Haiti earthquake victims. They reportedly raised $35,000. Not too shabby. So here's the rundown:

Eugene Mirman was the host with the most (you know, you know). Some might know him as the landlord on Flight of the Conchords. He appeared effortlessly funny and made a hilarious spoof of the Microsoft "diversity" commercial, throwing himself in the mix as the token outspoken white guy from Brooklyn, pointing out the asinine absurdity of Microsoft's attempt at heartfelt marketing.

Jimmy "I can't contain my laughter for shit" Fallon made an appearance as Neil Young and sang the Fresh Prince of Bell Air song to the tune of "Heart of Gold." Totally amazing. His impersonation was uncanny. He sure has the whole Weird Al vibe down, but a little less weird and a little more hip.

I'll just cut to the chase here - my favorite act by far was Lauren Ambrose and the Leisure Class, maybe because their New Orleans style gypsy jazz reminded me of home. They were fantastic and Lauren sang the crap out of those songs. I particularly enjoyed the hyper jazzed Bob Dylan cover. I would say which song it was except I can't currently recall. They said ALL proceeds go to Haiti which I assumed meant drink sales as well, so I obviously had to contribute as much as I could. You understand. If it's even possible, my girl crush on Lauren Ambrose has just grown stronger.

Other notable performances came from The Wrens who played a really satisfying rock set, slowly building up and then driving home each song. Then there was The Walkmen who closed it out with a filling brass quintet accompaniment of four trumpets and one trombone. And the appearance by Pat Kiernan, the man who gives New Yorkers their morning news each day on the local channel New York One was a real treat. He hosted trivia and reminded us to keep Haiti in our minds and do whatever we can to help them out.

As a Katrina evacuee and die hard New Orleanian, I can certainly empathize with the devastating Port au Prince tragedy. I was lucky enough to not have my house flooded and evacuate safely during Katrina but I've heard enough stories about the poor souls in the Superdome waiting without basic human essentials like food and water to know that the people in Haiti need fast and concentrated attention.

From The Big Easy to the Big Apple: The Scatterbrained Diaries, Volume 1

So I live in New York now. Have been for a few months. It’s taken me this much time to take it all in before I make any documentation (oh, how I can justify procrastination…). Some might say I made an odd and curious decision migrating here when I did. The economy is a mess and New York, though as an economic epicenter — what with Wall Street (for better or worse) and the country’s highest commercial activity — isn’t a budget friendly place for the less than top ten percent income earners (me and a bunch of other folks).

But I see every day those less fortunate than me (i.e. people without family and friends willing to “invest” in their future while they remain unemployed) walking the streets and riding the subway somehow making it. Their tired faces suggest they work the harder end of the daily grind, or maybe it’s just that down-to-business, no nonsense New York manner. Anyway, the point is, if there’s that many dream chasers other than myself out there putting in the time, then New York has got to deliver. I mean, obviously. This is the city of opportunity and inevitably of course, competition. Like Jay-Z and probably a lot of other people before him said, “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.” So, there you have a babbled response to those who think I’m wack for moving here during one of the greatest economic recessions ever.

I came from New Orleans which by all intrinsic measures is pretty much the opposite of New York. New Orleanians lack a certain focus that New Yorkers have. Unless that focus is all put into getting to Happy Hour, which in New Orleans isn’t at all a designated or limited period of time. People there are so lovesick with life and everyone they meet that they are by nature easily distracted. When New Yorkers start a job they finish it and in a swift fashion so they can promptly experience its benefits. New Orleanians would rather have fun while doing the job than be restricted to just having fun after the job is done. New Yorkers are more long term oriented and New Orleanians are more right now oriented. And right now in New Orleans it’s all about the Saints. The unthinkable has been accomplished. THE SAINTS ARE GOING TO THE SUPERBOWL. I know not one Saints fan present in the Dome or watching intently on their couch that didn’t cry when Garret Hartley kicked that winning field goal in overtime play. I’ve never been much of a football fan or even observer, but if something like that can lift up a troubled city to new heights, then I am a full fledged football endorser. But isn’t it just like the Universe to allow my adopted home to blow up just after I leave it for new, personally unchartered territory? What is that — Murphy’s Law or something? What am I saying? I’m just homesick, because New York is obviously blowing up at all times.

And this is not to say I haven’t been enjoying some of New York’s own cultural delights here and there. Oh, no. Just the other day I was at The Met and saw some of the most mind blowing man made artifacts. I walked inside a huge structure — a tomb perhaps — crafted by Egyptians a whole lot of years ago. I also saw straight up super old school samurai swords and ancient Japanese warfare grade body armor. Those treasures in the company of Degas and Monet originals make The Met’s collection among the utmost impressive.

I also visited The New York Public Library recently which debunked my idea of what a public library should be based on my previous public library going experience at more casual locations like New Orleans and my hometown, Athens, Georgia. This seemed more like a museum than a library, like an extension of The Met for books. I was afraid to touch some of their inventory, scared I would be escorted out of the building. There were security personnel everywhere in sight at this place. There was someone to check my bag (for explosives?) upon entering in the front, at each new wing of the library and upon exiting, as well as patrolmen just standing around waiting to spot any unruly patrons. All of the books I needed were available for library use only and not to check out so I left the huge, ornate beacon on Fifth Avenue and proceeded to the Barnes & Noble across the street.

Well, friends, I’m signing off for now, but will regale you with further New York adventures. Cheers.

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.”

Share After Viewing

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-