The Movie Labor Day Will Make You Want to Go to Work

LABOR DAY (2013)

Directed by Jason Reitman

Paramount, 111 minutes, PG-13

*

I'm such a public servant that I waited until after Labor Day to inflict this bologna sandwich of a film upon you. Nobody should ruin a holiday weekend by watching this piece of detritus. In fact, you should avoid it even a slow Tuesday. This is a very bad movie–one that's too pretentious to be camp and too inept to be considered much of anything else.

Its hook–more like a windup right cross you see coming from a mile away–is an unlikely (impossible?) triad between escaped convict Frank (Josh Brolin); a psychologically damaged divorcee, Adele (Kate Winslet); and her obedient 13-year-old son Henry (Gattlin Griffith) who, like all thirteen-year-olds, just wants his mom to be happy. (Do 13-year-olds even admit that they have parents?) The film is set in 1987, a date apparently pulled from a hat. A chance encounter inside a discount store between Frank and Henry leads to a family napping. (What? Nobody thought of screaming for help in a crowded store?) The wounded Frank begs Adele and Henry to let him hole up for a few days until he's strong enough to flee. He's very polite, charming, a great cook, and hunky so, of course, they trust him. I mean, who wouldn't feel secure around a convicted murderer with Josh Brolin's eyes? Within 24 hours, Henry is smitten, Adele is aroused, and everyone is free to come and go without restraint. Because it's a holiday weekend and no trains that Frank can hop are running on the local tracks, the three are stuck with each other for five days. (Odd. I thought there were usually extra trains over holidays. Nor did I realize that everything shut down for five days because of Labor Day. I also thought long weekends were three days long.) A new family unit emerges before our eyes, the only inconvenience being that police cars keep patrolling the neighborhood in search of Frank. That could happen, right?

Is your credulity stretched yet? Wait for it. Adele's neuroses are so severe that her house is falling apart, so Frank spends his days fixing up the old homestead. In addition to being a great cook he's also a mason, a carpenter, a floor washer, a plumber, and pretty handy at fixing shingles. The guy who is too weak to go on the lam lifts rocks, swings a mean hammer, and spends a lot of time outside on a ladder, the roof, and the porch–despite all those police cars and a street full of neighbors. There's a lame explanation for all of this. If you buy it, you'll probably also believe that women fall in love when a man makes a peach pie. Yes, peach pie is also a plot device–device being the key word. This film has it all–nosy neighbors, a too-helpful local cop, a Goth girl interested in Henry, a weak-kneed biological father, flash-backs that explain how Frank ended up in jail, a flash forward to an adult Henry (Tobey Maguire in a cameo), and even an implausible attempt to run away as a family to Prince Edward Island. Why Prince Edward Island? Why not? It makes about as much sense as anything else in a film riddled with gaffes, clichés, and more holes than a tweed jacket at a moth picnic.

This film even managed to tick me off on a personal level. Much of it was filmed in nearby Shelburne Falls. For reasons that have to do with offering tax avoidance candy to filmmakers, Western Massachusetts is occasionally a location site. Aside from part of The Ciderhouse Rules (1999) though, nobody has made a watchable film emanating from this region since Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966). Labor Day made me want to march on Boston and demand a rebate on my taxes. –Rob Weir

Jodorowsky's Dune: Art or Insanity?

-->

JODOROWSKY'S DUNE (2014)

Directed by Frank Pavich

Sony Classics, 90 minutes, PG-13

* * * *

The poet Arthur Rimbaud is credited with the line "There is a thin line between insanity and genius. I have erased this line." Frank Herbert's 1975 novel Dune is one of the most beloved science-fiction works of the 20^th-century. Long before "Star Wars," Herbert created intergalactic cultures and conflicts that involved fictive leaps of imagination that veered beyond normal ways of seeing and thinking. The planet Dune was a waterless terrain inhabited by giant sand worms. Humanoid life depended upon still suits to recycle bodily fluids and sustain life. Herbert's sprawling book was not the easiest read, but it was certainly a fascinating one. It hit the market just as just as the psychedelic 60s had crested. In many ways, reading Herbert was like an LSD trip in words. Filmmaker, artist, playwright, and musician Alejandro Jodorowsky certainly thought so.

Jodorowsky was born in Chile in 1929 and was never what anyone would call a normal child.  From an early age, Jodorowsy demonstrated a penchant for mysticism, spiritualism, and surrealism. In fact, he was among the last generation of Surrealists. It was hardly surprising that Jodorowsky, by then in his 40s, was attracted to the offbeat, swirling, tie-dyed weirdness of the 60s. He made several films that made Andy Warhol seem pedestrian. The closest thing to him today would be Terry Gilliam, but Gilliam seems a Boy Scout by comparison. Also not surprising, not many movie viewers had the slightest idea what was going on in Jodorowsky's films. Who better to tackle Frank Herbert's Dune?

Your first response might be: just about anyone else! As Frank Pavich's fascinating documentary suggests, however, maybe Jodorowsky was exactly the man for the task. Or maybe not. His Dune never got made, though it had everything except rolling cameras. We are taken inside Jodorowsky's exceedingly weird and wildly creative mind. His ideas were so adventurous that they often bore little resemblance to reality. Who would listen to such an offbeat character? For starters, some of the finest film set and storyboard designers of the day: Dan O'Bannon, Moebius, H. R. Giger, Chris Foss…  And it got better. Pink Floyd was interested in doing the soundtrack, Orson Welles had agreed to be in the film, and none other than Salvador Dali had agreed to appear as the Master of the Universe. The collaboration between unorthodox minds yielded a gorgeous artifact: a massive perfect-bound tome of all of the storyboards, dialogue, and narrative arc necessary to bring Dune to life. It was sent out to myriad producers and potential backers. Just one problem: convincing Hollywood players that Jodorowsky was the man to make this film. They thought he was nuts. You know the rest–in 1984, David Lynch directed Dune. It was one of the worst bombs in Hollywood history.

Pavich raises the question of what would have happened if Jodorowsky had made Dune. Would it have been a Terry Gilliamesque train wreck, or art for the ages? Of course, it would not have been hard to make a better film than Lynch's, but the documentary is appropriately ambiguous as to whether Jodorowsky's vision was simply ahead of its time, or one unlikely to exist in any time. The documentary is infinitely more interesting than Lynch's movie––including interviews with those were still around to comment upon Jodorowsky's filmic vision, including Jodorowsky himself who is just as odd now as he was 30 years ago. It probably would not surprise you that others render a split decision between insanity and genius.

The question of whether not such vision can find any niche is actually answered. At age 85, Jodorowsky has found an outlet for intergalactic musings and other out-of-this-world thinking–he produces graphic novels. You should watch this documentary even if you have never read Frank Herbert's novel. From time to time I see bumper stickers with the probing question "Why be normal?" Alejandro Jodorowsky has spent his life erasing the line between sanity and genius. Watching this film may give you permission to do the same.—Rob Weir

The Interestings: Good, but not Great

-->

THE INTERESTINGS  (2013)

Meg Wolitzer

Riverhead Books, 480 pages, 978-159488399

* * *

Entertainment Weekly Magazine proclaimed The Interestings one of the best novels of 2013. That's quite an exaggeration in a year in which its list did not include The Goldfinch, which just happened to win the Pulitzer Prize! But one can certainly understand why the editors of a pop culture magazine would like it. The novel's major characters were born in 1960, which technically makes them Baby Boomers, but these are kids for whom the mythical 60s were passé before they got out of grade school. They talk about the 60s, but as parrots mouthing lines from their parents and TV. In actuality, their blossoming values owe more to the Stoicism-meets-pragmatism-and-materialism of the emerging generation. In fact, you might want to think of the last half of The Interestings as Doug Coupland's Generation X grown up–a bit like some of those on recent EW boards.

The Interestings opens in 1974, when Jules Jacobson finds herself at the Spirit of the Woods summer camp. She's a gawky, frizzy-haired, Jewish middle-class kid amidst the spawn of the rich and would be the proverbial fish out of water if she had the faintest clue of who she was in the first place. Her forays among the rich and beautiful convince her that she wants to escape the bourgeois 'burbs but as projectiles go, she's more sponge than skyrocket. At the camp, she hangs out with five others above her socially: Jonah Bay, the son of a famous folksinger; Ash and Goodwin Wolf, well-heeled New Yorkers; Cathy Kiplinger, who yearns to be a dancer; and Ethan Figman, an imaginative but dorky-looking guy who lives in a dream world of his own invention and illustration. Jules gets by with snark and obeisance, the six dub themselves The Interestings, and they revel in pretensions of their own superiority whilst sipping vodka and Tang cocktails. Amidst the solipsism, Jules and Ash become best friends.

The book follows the six across the decades and against a (stereotypical) backdrop of the cultural markers: cults, women's liberation, Nixon's resignation, New York City's descent into near-bankruptcy, the Yuppie greed of the Reagan years, MTV, AIDS, TED-like conferences…. Personal journeys evoke the age-old question of whether it is better to flameout in youth, or to suffer the disappointments of adult life. Jules dreamed of becoming a comic actress, but instead became a psychologist married to the steady but average Dennis and wonders if she ever had any aptitude for much of anything. Cathy never became a dancer, the gifted Jonah gave up music, and the hunky Goodman's only talent was for being a jerk. There's also the frustrating question of proven soulmates who know they cannot be together, as in the case of Jules and Ethan. Ethan has become fabulously successful and rich–his boyhood fantasies converted into Matt Groening-like cartoon, TV, and film franchises. He and Ash are married and she is a successful feminist playwright. They are also best friends with Jules and Dennis, but there is an enormous wealth gap between them, which leads Jules to realize that it has always been such. An attempt of Jules and Dennis to turn back the clock is particularly poignant because we know what they do not–you can never go home again.

This is a book that probes whether or not the identities we show others are reinvention, subterfuge, or charlatanism. It is also about dreams and frustrations, social class and assumed privileges. Many reviewers, like those of Entertainment Weekly, have given it more gravitas than it deserves. Wolitzer's characters are well developed and their back stories keep our interest, but there simply aren't many layers to either. Similarly, Wolitzer's peeks into American society feel more like contrivance than relevance. The book is also relentlessly New York in its outlook–a bit like a Woody Allen script with more believable dialogue. Like an Allen movie, The Interestings is filled with delicious moments and vignettes, but its characters are hard to admire or love. They are the sorts with which we sometimes identify, but just as often want to smack with a plank. I suppose this gives the book an air of verisimilitude, so I give this book a qualified recommendation. It is a diverting read that has occasional insight, but don't buy into the hype. –Rob Weir

Ginger Baker: Jazz in Semi-Retirement

GINGER BAKER

Why? A Sampler

Show of hands—who remembers Cream? If you do, you'll probably also recall that Ginger Baker was the drummer backing Eric Clapton and Jack Bruce. Baker was so identified with Cream and Blind Faith that few know that his first love was American jazz, not rock and roll. Baker is now 75 and lives in South Africa, but he's still playing music. He even hits the road occasionally, though it's almost always with the quartet Jazz Confusion. If the three-song sampler I recently received is any indication, there's plenty of verve and energy left in Baker's sticks.

The other members of Jazz Confusion are Pee Wee Ellis on saxophone, Alec Dankworth on bass, and Abass Dodo on African hand percussion. I am simply not qualified to judge the merits of Jazz Confusion or Baker's role in it. I have never played or listened to much jazz and, aside from a brief fascination with Buddy Rich, know next to nothing about jazz drummers. I can tell you that there's a lot of percussion on the sampler, including several Baker solos. The three tunes I sampled are in the bebop tradition. The tunes are thus conversations between the musicians with improv breakouts that Baker anchors with steady beats. Ellis–who has backed both James Brown and Van Morrison–is a marvel who draws so much inspiration from John Coltrane that you can be a jazz ignoramus and know that much. But make no mistake, this is exploratory jazz, even when the quartet interprets material such as "AikoBiaye," a Nigerian folk song.

Jazz fans should check out what Baker is up to these days. Those of you looking for "Sunshine of Your Love" should steer clear. "Why?" is the closest thing to rock on the sampler–it has gritty bass lines and pop hooks–but even it veers into the stratosphere. If you don't like this sort of music, Baker couldn't care less. On the other hand, I'd like to hear from those of you who like and understand jazz. This isn't my cup of tea, but I could be convinced to sip some more.  –Rob Weir

There's Always Room for Erin and Her Cello

ERIN AND HER CELLO

Petits Bisous

Erinandhercollo.com

* * * *

Attitude can be a curse or a blessing, but in the hands and voice of New York City-based Erin Hall it's a very good thing indeed. Like early Christine Lavin, Ms. Hall offers a collection of urbane, quirky, and insouciant observations of life, the city, and the crazy patchwork quilt called popular culture. But whereas Lavin was/is a folkie, Hall draws water from other wells: early 60s girl groups, vintage French pop songs, jazz, calypso, blues, and rock and roll. You never quite know what is coming next. Erin and Her Cello is the name of Hall's band and she does indeed play a bit of cello, but you'll also hear everything from boogie-woogie piano to glockenspiel.  

"2 Good 2 B True" has a Twittery name, but its musical core is that of girl groups, complete with oooh-aaahh backup singers. Hall wields her saucy little-girl vocal tones like a club she's been hiding behind her back. The clever and wry "The Doctor" also has a girl group feel, but the instrumentation is 50s style rockabilly, complete with a wailing sax. That's one of several songs that drapes satire with charm; another "Break Dancin' Man," has the tongue-in-cheek sardonic approach of trend send-ups such as Rick Dees' "Disco Duck." And we know that Hall isn't afraid to wield a lampoon harpoon; check her "Google Stock."

The above songs only scratch the surface (of vinyl, if you prefer) of this album's offbeat nature. Hall's musical inspirations include Peggy Lee, Cole Porter, and Serge Gainsborough and each gets an airing. Want some smoky, soulful, cool jazz? Try "Chaz." Prefer it with some black-note keys, a whiff of danger, and some tongue-twisting vocals? Check out "Damn." If that doesn't float you boat, how some Gainsborough-like French pop–in French no less ("Bonbons Chocolat" and the call-and-whistle title track)? How about some bouncy pop? Inappropriate attraction has never been so giddy as "Rebound Magnet." Too sweet for your taste? Try the rock shit-kicker "Walk of Fame." 

It's been a while since I reviewed a new release that's this much fun. Nor has dusting off the past sparkled with so much wit. Score one for attitude.—Rob Weir

PS: The YouTube videos aren't the best quality, but I think they show you what I mean.

Storied Life of J T Fikry is Sentimental, but Charming

-->

THE STORIED LIFE OF J. T. FIKRY (2104)

By Gabrielle Zevin

Algonquin 978-1616203214, 288 pp.

* * *

How do you like your curmudgeons–redeemed or pure? Do books centered on how a child changes someone's life cause you to go "ahhhh!" or "ewwee?" I'm usually in the second camp on both questions, but The Storied Life of J. T. Fikry won me over in the end.

The Storied Life of J. T. Fikry is ironic in that it's the latest in a spate of novels set in bookstores to hit the market at about the time that bookstores are folding like an origami workshop. (The genre includes works such as Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore, The Bookshop, and The Shadow of the Wind.) Zevin uses the bookstore's declining appeal as part of her plot. J. T. Fikry is a Southeast Asian man who owns a bookstore on Alice Island–a dead ringer for Martha's Vineyard. He's a recent widower, his shop is struggling, and a prized and quite valuable first edition of Edgar Allen Poe's Tamerlane has just disappeared from his shop. Police Chief Lambiase, who investigates the theft, is like most islanders in that he tolerates Fikry because he's been on Alice Island for a long time and because everyone loved Fikry's late wife, a local gal. But he's also lukewarm about Fikry, who is a crank, misanthrope, and literary snob. The latter is among the reasons his shop is in decline. Heaven help the publishing agent who tries to interest Fikry in anything to do with vampires, zombies, celebrities, magical realism, postmodernism, or middlebrow pap. Mention names such as Stephen King, Danielle Steel, or John Grisham at your own peril!

Luckily the new agent for Knightly Press, Amelia, has been warned of Fikry's temper and tastes. She makes her way to Alice Island with a list of books sure to appeal to Fikry, but she's so charmed by the shop and the local scenery that she can't resist making a few small suggestions. They don't go over well, but to evoke a famed line from the movie Casablanca, it's the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Lord knows J. T. could use a few friends other than the two he has: Daniel Parish, a womanizing, egotistical one-hit island novelist, and his wife Ismay (who is also J. T.'s sister-in-law). Fikry's life is turned upside down when a note and a two-year-old biracial infant named Maya are left in his shop and the Alice Island ferry discovers Maya's suicidal mother floating in the bay. Fikry improbably decides to adopt Maya.

Zevin's novel spans the next sixteen years of Maya's life, J. T.'s odd relationship with Amelie, his even less probable friendship with Lambiase, and J.T.'s transformation from embittered malcontent to reluctant participant in island life. The story is at times touching and charming, but it will also test your credulity and your tolerance for coincidences.

I was won over by the book's good hear and Zevin's ability to develop memorable characters that make readers feel as if they have come to know them. She so lovingly describes the bookstore that one can almost smell the dampness escaping from used tomes. Full disclosure: I read this novel immediately after plowing through Elizabeth Catton's magisterial but challenging The Luminaries, so my enjoyment of J. T. Fikry was enhanced by the fact that it was a zippy, mentally non-taxing read. It's the kind of book that is extremely likely to be made into a saccharine feel-good film starring flavor-of-the-month celebrities. At the risk of sounding like pre-Maya J.T., I recommend you read the book before the inevitable movie comes out. I happen to share his dislike of least-common-denominator fiction.-- Rob Weir  

Sarah Miles Debut Has Identity Crisis

-

SARAH MILES

One

SarahMilesMusic

* *

My biggest advice to young musicians is be yourself, not pieces of everyone else. One, the debut full release from Sarah Miles, has a serious identity crisis. The first of these is what to call it. Promo materials toss around labels such as folk, country, and pop. It's not a mélange–pop is the correct label. Second, there's the matter of her self-chosen comparisons: Mariah Carey, Sara Bareilles, Ingrid Michaelson, and Carrie Underwood, of which the first is closest. She has a high, girl-like whispery voice like all four, but she has the drama of Bareilles, but not her hipness; the (occasional) quiet demeanor of Michaelson, but not her attention to arrangement; and the sweetness of Underwood, but not the contrasting bottom tones to her voice. One is a "young" album that lacks confidence and tries too hard to impress us with how Miles can hit the high notes. Like Mariah Carey, she offers diva music with the forced drama of dance hall pop. (My personal comparison would be to English club ingénue Robyn.) On one track she actually sings "It's all about me" and, yes, there's too much of that going on.

I've been very harsh thus far, so allow me to temporize a bit. Miles has a promising voice that can take her places once she gets control over it and acquires better material. She has a nice catch in her throat and there are hints of husk when she puts the whispery tones on hold. (Please Lord–deliver us from little girl voices and lead us into the land of full-grown women!) One is an optimistic album, the bulk of songs being about being young and in love. Its best moments are generally the buildups to what are supposed to be hooky refrains, though the latter are overly processed, excessive, and generic.  When Miles dials it back several notches and sings to the song, not through it, the results are much stronger. We hear this to best effect on the title track, and again on "Take the Lead," the second of which feels like genuine joy rather than bludgeoned optimism. Duty requires that I dub this a very rocky debut, but I sure would like to hear Ms. Miles do something spare that connects more to an audience than to the Austin music biz.

By the way, her YouTube version of "One" is better than what's on the album.

Rob Weir