Finally caught up to this:

Which understands just how awesome this is:

Now I’m just waiting for Jill Scott to remake this as a music video:

Short Flick Man | No Comments »

While the phrase “I’m getting to old for this” is never invoked verbatim, a few cracks are made by Harrison Ford’s Indy at the expense of his archaeologically-ready bones. Ford, Karen Allen, Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, action films with a plot … they’re all showing the signs of age. But the homily at the center of Kingdom of the Crystal Skull doesn’t quite convert anyone because, well, if they’re not outraged by the previously analog series going full-on digital, they are apt to take note of how the tricks of the trade keep its participants and audience young at heart. If the majority are likely to fall more in line with the former attitude, it may be because the blockbuster demographic are still young enough to take their nostalgia (which is to say, the previous generation’s nostalgia) very seriously. Inconveniently for them, everyone else involved in the making of Skull seems wizened enough to admit that their nostalgia for the genre may have been temporarily blinding them to the serial format’s inherent disposability, reckless exposition and camp potential when they were kneeling before the phalanx of archangels back in 1981. They understand how formative exposure can make mountains of molehills. (Exception to the rule: Shia LaBeouf, whose overweening vitality is made to be the setup for the film’s final punchline — you’ll never hear an audience’s horror turn so swiftly to exhausted relief as you will the moment Indy’s trademark fedora changes hands.) Anyone with a rudimentary understanding of Los Alamos, the Cold War and Sputnik will recognize that Spielberg-Lucas have updated their format to reflect the popular tastes of the 1950s. The courtesy might not be quite as warmly extended by those who file Spielberg’s Close Encounters and E.T. under “prehistory.” But, as someone still young and impudent enough to whether this particular hard sell mightn’t be dovetailing off whatever cultural dearth sent Wild Hogs into the zeitgeist last year, I have to admit this is probably the smartest entry in the series. It might be a bit much to suggest that, after three films entirely dependent on the tactility of faith, Indiana Jones enters the Age of Paranoia in reflection of Spielberg’s apparent newfound spiritual relativism, but there’s definite meaning in the parallel set of bookending money shots — the first a low angle shot of Indy walking toward a blooming mushroom cloud, the second a high angle shot of Indy on the edge of a geographical and psychological precipice that holds long enough for Amazonian waters and mental clarity to come flooding back into the void. The matinee idol has been reduced to a gopher, but even gophers can dream paramount.

Movie Reviews | 3 Comments »

During the turbulent, half-year gestation of Slant’s now way old list of the greatest dance songs, which is what I’m now setting out to, if not refute, then at least annotate, I think I fought for no song’s inclusion more than the one I’m now consigning to the bottom of my alternate/additional list of 100. With similarly mixed signals, when the original list of 100 was set in stone and each participant was asked to come up with a list of three “honorable mentions” that we wished could’ve made the real list, I opted not to mention Donna Summer’s cover of Barry Manilow’s “Could It Be Magic,” itself a rework of a Chopin piano prelude. My line of reasoning was that, by that point, Summer was already well enough represented on the main list. (With three songs, she tied Madonna for the most overall mentions.) Plus, I had bigger fish to fry, like pointing out the lack of deep house on the feature presentation. Now that the list is almost as old as dance music itself (or at least reminds me of that time in your life when your parents realize you’re over half their current age and will always be henceforth), I freely admit that I unabashedly dig this tossed off album filler as much as I dig “I Feel Love,” “This Time I Know It’s For Real” and “I Remember Yesterday,” though in saying that I admit to having off-kilter Donna tastes — rarely looking for some “Hot Stuff” baby this evening. Maybe it’s the galloping tempo, maybe its the fact that the Moroder-Bellotte sound hadn’t quite hardened into the impenetrability they reached a couple albums down the road; the percussive kick is more organically propulsive than metronomic. Or maybe it’s the melodramatic heft of Chopin’s original chord progressions and the fact that what once was funereal is now treated as an erotic rush. Maybe it’s the fact that Summer unashamedly rehashes the bridge orgasm interlude that made her famous with “Love To Love You Baby,” only this time she can’t claim it to be a recording session lark that somehow ended up on the finished product. Or maybe it’s the fact that the bridge (Manilow’s own) that accompanies Summer’s moany plea to “come into my life” is tormentedly gorgeous (used to great effect during one of Looking For Mr. Goodbar’s depressing sex scenes). Or maybe I’m just tickled by the mental image of Barry Manilow taking Summer high up where the stallion meets the sun. “Could It Be Magic” is the best sort of camp, one that’s apparently presented with grave sincerity.

Yowsah, Yowsah, Yowsah | No Comments »

Clowns, Flesh, Trash, Heat | No Comments »

Think of this as my tribute to Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, in place of a review for the new one until such time as I can imagine writing anything of value about it.

Clowns | 2 Comments »