Jamie Kent Rocks the Folk on New EP

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JAMIE KENT

Embers and Ashes

www.jamiekent.com

* * * *

The term ‘folk rock’ has been around for so long that we often forget that there are performers such as Richard Thompson, Ellis Paul, Stephen Stills, and Ray Lamontagne whose cadences, sensibilities, and musical souls are such that they rock even when they’ve got an acoustic guitar in their hands. Add Jamie Kent to that list. We’ve seen him rock out with The Options, but check out his new solo EP, Embers & Ashes and you’ll hear a ‘rock folk’ artist at work. The project features clever turns of phrase such as “I may be broke, but I am not broken,” and “Don’t like the losing, but I don’t mind getting lost.” Chronicles of adversity? Not exactly, but Kent does remain true to the EP’s title–all five songs deal with things unsettled that don’t always comfortably resolve.  “Still a Dream” isn’t about busted visions, rather the inability to match dreams with waking reality, and is sung with appropriately plaintive vocals. “Bonfire” is about passions that burn so hot they burst into flame, and comes with crashing cadences and kick-out-the-jams frantic energy. The content of “Prince of Pain” is self-explanatory and its arrangement is typical for Kent: start slow, punch it up a notch, and let it rip.

Rob Weir

Second Amendment Tyrants

Still think there’s a dialogue to be held on guns in America? What happened to Dick Metcalf ought to disabuse you of that fantasy. Metcalf lost his job as a journalist for saying that it might be necessary to pass “some” gun regulations. He went on to say, “all constitutional rights are regulated, always have been, and need to be.” Here’s the kicker: Metcalf is a veteran writer for Guns & Ammo and one of the nation’s most ardent supporters of the Second Amendment. He wasn’t talking about a ban; he was speaking about “regulations” such as keeping guns out of the hands of mentally ill people. Several gun manufacturers–one of which was Ruger–demanded that Metcalf be silenced.

This isn’t the first time. The New York Times–a publication I hasten to add that is more attentive to the First Amendment than gun manufacturers–­reports that in 2012 Jerry Tsai of Recoil was forced to resign for saying that a high-powered weapon used by law enforcement wasn’t available to the public “and with good reason.” Also fired was Jim Zumbo of Outdoor Life who had the effrontery to say the military-style assault weapons were for terrorists and that hunters should avoid them.

I suppose gun control supporters can take heart that gun whackos are eating their own, but they should also note the fanaticism in their actions. None of these men said anything suggestive of serious curtailment of the Second Amendment and were still persecuted with vigor. I’ve called the NRA the “Nazi Rifle Association” and have taken flak for being a foolish extremist. Who’s the fool now? The suppression of free speech is a classic Brown Shirts maneuver, quickly followed by the establishment of a narrow orthodoxy and the vigorous suppression of even the mildest dissent. What next, gulags for gun doubters? Isn’t it crystal clear the NRA and gun manufacturers have absolutely no respect for the democratic process?

Meanwhile, guns killed some 33,000 Americans last year. Even worse, there were two dozen mass murders after Sandy Hook. Now guess how many gun laws Congress passed last year? The time for dialogue over this issue is done, over, kaput. Second Amendment fanatics have banned all consideration and compromise; now they have banned conversation itself. It is incumbent upon citizens’ groups to pressure state and local governments to enact regulation. Go wild! Some regulations may be struck down an unlawful, but go ahead and pass them. It’s a time-honored American custom to bankrupt one’s foes, so let the NRA spend its resources in the courtroom instead of buying Congressmen. Don’t waste your breath explaining your motives–the fanatics aren’t listening. You cannot compromise with such enemies; you simply must defeat them.

The Desolation of Smaug Infuses Life into Overstretched Hobbit Franschise

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug (2013)

Directed by Peter Jackson

New Line Cinema/MGM, 161 minutes, PG-13 (gratuitous orc eliminations)

* * * *

Peter Jackson partially redeemed himself with the second of his three-part Hobbit adaptations: The Desolation of Smaug. (I say ‘partially’ because I think the franchise is exhausted.) Part I was quite dull–mostly a rehash of the ending of The Return of the King grafted onto the finding of a magic ring, and the gathering of an odd band of 13 dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit–all intent on recovering a treasure.

The plot of Part II simply picks up where Part I left off. Our band is pursued by orcs and is trying to make its way to the Lonely Mountain to find a symbol known as the Arkenstone, which will jumpstart the rebirth of the dwarf kingdom. If you know anything about Tolkien’s Middle-earth, you know that Gandalf the Grey (Ian McKellen) will encounter “more sinister” forces than orcs, and that every step of the journey of the band’s journey across a lupin-infested river valley, into the Mirkwood Forest, and to the Lonely Mountain will be fraught with peril. And you know that our ring-bearing hobbit, Bilbo Baggins (Martin Freeman) is the key to the entire venture. You also know the film will look gorgeous; some of it is CGI, but often Jackson just pointed his camera at the New Zealand countryside. (The lupin valley is real; I’ve been there!)

Part II is much better, in part because some of the characters that merely populated Part I have started to develop personalities. Thorin Oakenshield (Richard Armitage) emerges with the proper mix of arrogance and leadership that befits the heir presumptive to the dwarf kingdom. The aged Balin (Ken Scott) has become the collective memory of that kingdom in the time of Thorin’s grandfather, who lost it to the fire-breathing dragon Smaug; and Kili (Aidan Turner) is flirtatious, with an ability to charm one moment and con the next. Kili, in fact, is vaguely elfin, which makes him a perfect foil (and perhaps attraction) for an exciting new character, Tauriel (Evangeline Lilly), a superb huntress and fighter who may or may not be too impulsive for her own wellbeing.

Tolkien purists have bemoaned the creation of Tauriel, who was not in the book. I find it hard to argue for the ‘purity’ of a fantasy that began life as a children’s story, hence I applaud the energy she brings to Part II. Tauriel also points to some problems with the entire decision to make The Hobbit into a trilogy. It was a children’s book after all, and a relatively short one (310 pages). Part I of the film adaptation was 169 minutes long and Part II checks in at 161, which means that Jackson and his screenplay writers must do a lot of padding. They also have to divert our attention from the fact that characters from The Lord of the Rings ‘sequel’ that ended ten years earlier look noticeably older in the prequel, including Gandalf and elves (who are allegedly immortal) such as Lord Elrond (Hugo Weaving) and Legolas (Orlando Bloom).

The story is also padded by adding endless action sequences. These are well done but, in all honesty, Jackson has already done just about everything that he could do with Middle-earth battles. He now resorts to sequences best described as a blend of Kung-fu and slapstick movies. You begin to wonder why any prince of evil would resort to an army as inept as orcs and goblins. They have become the equivalent of the red shirts that are the phaser fodder of the Star Trek franchise–in this case sword, arrow, knife, and axe fodder. Two elves seem to be capable of polishing off hundreds of orcs and can show off while doing so.

Still, The Desolation of Smaug works because elves still enchant and the new setting of Lakeland unveils a new world to us. It’s a kleptocracy run by a greedy but goofy Master (Stephen Fry) in which smuggling and other underground enterprises flourish. The set is  fabulous and looks like something Terry Gilliam might have imagined–a kind of a floating late medieval village infused with Dickensian gloom. Our key Lakeland character, Bard the Bowman (Luke Evans) is tight-lipped and enigmatic, which means we know he’s important, but the part’s so well written that his role isn’t telegraphed. If we’re honest, Part II also works because the monsters remain creepy extensions of our Jungian collective unconscious. The Mirkwood spiders prey upon primal fears of arachnids and Smaug is all the more terrifying because Jackson literally gave him a voice, ominously rendered by Benedict Cumberbatch.

This is a good film if you wish to divert yourself. The final installment comes out at the end of 2014, and not a moment too soon–it’s time to wrap up this franchise. Peter Jackson has done more than anyone could have expected and more than he should have. His six films will become the definitive interpretation of JRR Tolkien, but t’is time to stop before the magic vanishes with the final credits.--Rob Weir

Ocean at the End of the Lane Weaves Magic

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The Ocean at the End of The Lane

By Neil Gaiman

HarperCollins 0062255657

* * * *

Few authors mine mythology with the aplomb and imagination of Neil Gaiman. For his latest, Gaiman offers a melange of Norse and Wiccan beliefs. Our narrator is an unnamed 7-year-old boy or, more accurately, his grown persona recalling events of 40 years earlier. When he was a lad in remote Sussex, his parents took in a boarder, a rather crude opal miner who ran over the family kitten while moving in. Needless to say, our protagonist isn’t exactly wracked by grief when he shows up dead in his car just down the lane. He is, however, shaken up until comforted by 11-year-old Lettie Hempstock.

Lettie is odd and wise beyond her years. She lives with her mother and grandmother on a farm without men and Grandma Hempstock explains there never were any! Moreover, Lettie takes the boy to an ordinary pond and insists it’s an ocean. Thus begins the lad’s association with Lettie, who also seems to know a lot about the terrible nightmares he’s been having; in fact, Lettie suspects something quite sinister is at play. And so will you when you read about an encounter Lettie and the boy have in a field on the edge of the Hempstock property.

Things get even worse for the boy when gray-eyed Ursula Monkton shows up as their new boarder and governess. The boy’s sister is enchanted by Ursula and his father literally seduced, but she gives him the willies and Ursula, in turn, seeks to torment and imprison the boy. Needless to say, she’s not just a Scandinavian housekeeper. Nor is the pond just a pond or the Hempstocks just an unorthodox family. All will culminate in a paranormal struggle. Forty years later, the boy—now a man—returns to the farm to see what became of Lettie. It surprises him to find Grandma Hempstock still alive.

I shall say no more other than your appreciation of the novel will be greatly enhanced if you research the Norse goddess Marōn (also known as Mare or Mara) and neo-pagan views on wormholes. I’d also check out ancient Celtic worship of the Triple Goddess (called Brigit among the Irish, but generally expressed as Maiden, Mother, and Crone). I’ll add parenthetically that not a single review of this book has mentioned the Triple Goddess, an omission I take to mean that a lot of young reviewers have never taken a mythology course!

Gaiman’s storytelling is magical in its own right. In fact, this may be his most coherent novel to date, one marked by clarity of purpose and unity of narrative that’s devoid of past tendencies to takes flights of fancy that were clearer in his mind than on the page. I ripped through The Ocean at the End of the Lane in a single snowy afternoon. Though not troubled, I had very unusual dreams that night!

Rob Weir

Mission to Paris Flunks the Plausibility Test

Mission to Paris (2013)

Alan Furst

Random House 9780812981827

* *

The spy genre and I haven’t been on particularly good terms since a youthful foray into the novels of Ian Fleming. Although they made for good movies and TV, I don’t think much of John le Carré or Len Deighton as writers and, for my money, Tom Clancy was a hack. Glowing reviews of Alan Furst sent me to Mission to Paris, but I’m afraid I fail to see the appeal.

Mission to Paris is set in late 1938, just after the Munich Agreement and roughly 18 months before France fell to the Nazis and Adolf Hitler danced a jig in front of the Eifel Tower. Paris was already awash with German agents that were officially members of the friendship-building Comité France-Allemagne, but were in truth a third column spy ring and hit squad that disposed of troublesome enemies and double agents. For reasons never entirely explained or made plausible, an amiable second-tier Hollywood actor, Fredric Stahl, is dispatched to Paris to make a joint U.S.-French movie. For even less uncertain reasons, the German high command decides that the Austrian-born Stahl would aid their propaganda efforts. Stahl finds the Germans repulsive and just wants to make his movie and go back to Hollywood, but it soon becomes clear that one only refuses at one’s own peril. What ensues is a dangerous game in which the reluctant Stahl finds himself a pawn moved by sanguinary Nazis, German resistance fighters, and an officially neutral American diplomatic corps that unofficially think Stahl would make a good courier.

Really? Stahl is a charming man, but he’s an intellectual lightweight, a social gadfly, and a man who plays dashing figures that are quite unlike his private self. It’s hard to see why anyone would think him useful, but we soon have him on a train to Berlin to hand out awards at a Berlin Nazi propaganda film festival that just happens to coincide with Kristallnacht. Furst’s novel is filled with such unlikely contrivances and several others that border on silliness worthy of a Hollywood caper film. One of these involves a Polish count, Janos Polanyi, and a shoot-out with Nazis that plays like a European version of The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight. I’m not sure I buy Stahl’s romance with dowdy German émigré Renate Steiner either.

Furst does have a good eye for detail; his descriptions of Europe on the brink of cataclysm are quite chilling. In like fashion, Paris comes off as if its residents are crowded into a tense speakeasy in which everyone lives in the moment knowing that a raid is imminent. Furst’s skill at depicting private turmoil and collective anxiety often evokes comparisons to Graham Greene, but these are–like most reviews of this novel–grandiose and overblown. Furst paints lush backgrounds but populates them with cardboard figures unworthy of inhabiting such spaces. Color me underwhelmed.

Rob Weir

Inside Llewyn Davis a Tepid Look at Folk Revival

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Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)

Directed by Joel and Ethan Coen

CBS Films/Studio Canal, 105 minutes, R (for language and a naked backside)

* * ½

We expect Joel and Ethan Coen brothers to deliver quirky films whose logic often drifts toward the surreal. Had that been the case with Inside Llewyn Davis, it would have been a much more interesting film. Alas, this film invokes adjectives we don’t expect to attach to Coen brother films: tepid, restrained, and ordinary.

The film is set in 1961 and follows a single week in the life of a struggling folksinger, Llewyn Davis–played with hangdog torpor by Oscar Isaac. In 1961 folk music was hot and about to get hotter still. A movement known as the Folk Revival (roughly 1946 to 1965) was a rushing stream, though some thought it running out of steam. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, The Weavers ruled the pop charts and, in 1958, The Kingston Trio had a #1 hit with “Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley,” a catchy and sanitized remake of a 19^th century southern murder ballad. Purists, like the character Llewyn Davis, felt that the commercialization of folk music would be its ruination, and faithfully churned out ‘authentic’ folk songs–spare ballads, songs of indefinite origin, and public domain material. They were right that antiseptic folk was doomed, but the future instead belonged to Joan Baez and a guy she took on tour with her: Bob Dylan. The Coens wisely located their tale in 1961, because that was the year Dylan hit New York City and the rest, as they say, is history.

1961 was a seminal time in American culture as it was also the time in which Beats lost their hipness and Hippies were as yet inchoate, but in their depiction of the period the Coens deaked right when they should have veered left. How does one show these shifts? Does one highlight the context, or focus on a single character? Either could work, but if the focus is personal, that character has to interesting, if not lovable. Llewyn Davis is based loosely on the life of Dave Van Ronk. The Coens understood that Davis/Van Ronk was too mercurial, stubborn, and rarefied to have broad public appeal. I met Van Ronk a few times and found him among the few unpleasant people I’ve ever encountered on the folk circuit. He wasn’t, however, boring. Alas, Llewyn Davis is worse than boring. Imagine a petulant, irresponsible, self-absorbed 14-year-old with no impulse control in the body of a 30s-something and you’ve got Davis.  

This is a problem. We’re supposed to sympathize with Davis and see him as a sort of Everyman for the poor schlemiels that didn’t become Baez or Dylan. We follow Davis from one crash pad sofa to the next, follow him on a desperate road trip to Chicago (where he hopes to ingratiate himself to impresario Bud Grossman), witness his unraveling dreams, and see him alienate family and friends. And we simply don’t care, because Davis is a world-class jerk who crafts his own misery. We suspect he doesn’t even see the music he so fiercely protects as anything more than a meal ticket.

There are a few good things about the film. The Coens made a picture that looks really good. Thought it’s shot in color, the use of cool filters, smoky ambience, and noir-like shadows make us feel like we’ve been transported back in time. In fact, the club interiors are often more interesting than the characters inhabiting them. John Goodman chews scenery and delivers a few juicy lines as Roland Turner, a heroin-addled jazz pianist whose ego is even bigger than Davis’. If you’re a student of folk music history, it’s also amusing to try to decode the film. Who was Turner, and whose the baby-faced, sweet-voiced folk singer on leave from the U.S Army supposed to be?

Most of whatyou see on the screen references real people, places, and events. I’ve provided a ‘key’ to the film below, but it’s filled with spoilers, so you might want to read these after you’ve seen the movie. Should you? It’s your call. Llewyn Davis is a bit like the Kingston Trio–neither good nor horrible. Of course, we expect more–much more–from the Coens than run-of-the-mill filmmaking. I could work myself into a snit over making such a fascinating period dull, but that would expend more passion than the Coens mustered. --Rob Weir

Key for Music History Junkies:

            --Jim and Jean (Carey Mulligan and Justin Timberlake) were based on real duo, Jim and Jean Glover, who made a small splash. They were sometime patrons of Phil Ochs, not Dave Van Ronk.

            --The Gaslight Café was a real Greenwich Village folk club, though the movie mashes it with Gerde’s Folk Club, the only one in the Village that had a liquor license.

            --Inside Llewyn Davis is also the name of the character’s album. The idea came from Inside Dave Van Ronk. Though it was released in 1963, not 1961, it was perhaps Van Ronk’s ‘folkiest’ album. Van Ronk was actually more of a blues, ragtime, and swing aficionado. It also had a cat peering out of a doorway. A cat figures prominently in the film.

            --Van Ronk looked and sounded nothing like Oscar Isaac. Van Ronk was 6’5” and heavyset; he also sang in a gruff, gravely voice, not Isaac’s dulcet tones.

            --Llewyn’s agent, Mel Novikoff (Jerry Grayson) and his record company (Legacy), are based on Moe Asch and Folkways Records, Van Ronk’s label. Asch was indeed famed for seldom paying royalties, but also for giving artists money from his own pocket. Asch was probably more disorganized than dishonest; Folkways churned out an average of an album a week between 1948 and 1986.

            --Davis lives on the streets and cadges crash space from friends; Van Ronk had his own place in the Village where others crashed.

            --In the film, Davis is a solo act because his partner, Mike, committed suicide. Van Ronk never had a partner, though his good friend, Paul Clayton, killed himself. That, however, occurred in 1967, and he electrocuted himself–perhaps despondent over his gay identity at a time in which gays were closeted.

            --Davis journeys to the Gate of Horn in Chicago to see Albert “Bud” Grossman (F. Murray Abraham). Both were real. Van Ronk played the Horn on several occasions, though it’s true Grossman would not hire him on a regular basis. Grossman employed black singers such as Sonny Terry and Odetta and he found Van Ronk’s white blues inauthentic.

            --In the film, Grossman tells Davis he isn’t a front man and offers him a place in a trio he’s forming. This happened to Van Ronk, who turned down the offer. Noel Stookey took his slot when Peter, Paul and Mary were formed!

            --Grossman was also Bob Dylan’s manger.

            --On screen, Davis gets a quick payday for studio work on a novelty song, “Please Mr. Kennedy.” That was the name of a real song, though it was about being drafted, not being sent into outer space. The Coens also drew upon a popular comedy song by Larry Verne titled “Please Mr. Custer.”

            --Van Ronk, like Davis, twice served in the Merchant Marines and would have gone a third time, except his papers were stolen (not tossed away).

            --Van Ronk, like Davis, hated commercial folk. He especially disliked the Kingston Trio and (ahem!) Peter, Paul and Mary.

            --Roland Turner is loosely based on Dr. John, with a splash of Doc Pomus.

            --The character of Al Cody resembles Ramblin’ Jack Elliott.

            --Troy Nelson (Stark Sands) was inspired U.S. Army clerk typist Tom Paxton, who indeed played New York City folk clubs whilst stationed at Fort Dix! Paxton was raised Oklahoma.

            --In the movie, Davis harasses an Appalachian Autoharp player and balladeer. She’s Nancy Blake, the wife of famed bluegrass picker Norman Blake. Nancy, however, did not begin playing professionally until the 1970s.

            --Davis also disdains a quartet of Arran-sweatered Irish singers that are an obvious reference to The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, who were already well known in Ireland. In 1961, The Clancys performed on The Ed Sullivan Show and were soon world famous.

            --At the very end of the film, a character that is clearly Bob Dylan sings “Farewell.” This is a remake of “The Leaving of Liverpool.” Dylan, however, did not learn this song until 1962.

            --Van Ronk and Dylan were friends, not rivals. Neither man shared Davis’ concern for keeping folk music “pure.” The two occasionally shared stages.

            --Nobody seems to know who or what the silent Beat poetry loving Johnny Five (Garrett Hedlund) character is supposed to represent. He’s probably just a composite Beat.

            --T-Bone Burnett has gotten a lot of acclaim for his musical production on Inside Llewyn Davis. Let’s give him minor kudos for directing the actors to do their own singing instead of lip-synching, but in truth the soundtrack is listless. There are many better recordings of all the songs on this soundtrack.

           

Best and Worst of 2013

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Best and Worst of 2013

On a personal level I couldn't wait for 2013 to end. I never suffered from triskaidekaphobia before (your first vocabulary word for 2014!), but the past year sucked–3 family deaths, friends who lost loved ones, messy divorces (not for me, thank goddess), and a bout with shingles. In all, 2013 flat out sucked! But there was joy and fortune as well. In that mixed spirit, I shift to the cultural level to select the best and worst of 2013.

Music

Album of the Year:  Josienne Clarke and Ben Walker, Fire & Fortune. It’s not often someone gets billed as the “next Sandy Denny” and lives up to it, but Ms. Clarke is a rare talent whose voice is as strong and clear as it is beautiful. Even if she flames out entirely, though, this record will stand on its own merits.

Heather Maloney’s self-titled album is a worthy runner-up.

Worst Album of the Year: Antonio Loureiros, Só. It’s not inept, just meandering and shapeless, as if the musician was unaware of anyone other than himself.

Best Concert(s) of the Year: 2013 was a terrific year for live shows. Shows by Ellis Paul, Alisdair Fraser, and Genticorum were stunning, but I’m going to cop out and declare a tie between Richard Thompson and Richard Shindell. Thompson’s solo acoustic show at the Calvin Theater in September was hard to beat. He’s classified as a folk-rocker, but the man rocks even when he sings a lullaby (which the dark RT never does, unless the tale ends badly). As a guitarist he’s nonpareil.

I saw Richard Shindell twice last year, once at the Iron Horse in February, and again at the Signature Sounds Parlor Room. I don’t know what occurred at the Horse, but when he showed up at the Parlor Room in September, he went on and on about how he preferred playing there.  At the Parlor Room he played with freeness and freshness I hadn’t heard in a while; he even cracked a few jokes, which is rare as a supermodel gobbling a grinder. What a show!

Worst Concert of the Year:  The Calvin Theater, November: Great Big Sea. Okay, GBS is enjoying a breakout in its 20^th year. It has legions of adoring fans who’d listen to them fart. My standard is that if you can’t bother to enunciate, don’t do a sound check, adopt a rock persona but only strike the pose and not the notes, you get no love from me. A huge boo hiss! to the Calvin. Would someone please send venue owner Eric Suher the memo that there is no excuse for bad sound in the 21^st century.

Books

Best Novel of the Year: T’was a good year for novels, but the one I enjoyed most was from Jess Walter, Beautiful Ruins. Set amidst the contrasting splendor and squalor of the Amalfi Coast in the early 60s, Walter explores the beauty and the sadness of all manner of ruins–buildings, careers, love affairs, and lives.

A not-so-distant runner-up is The Death of Bees by Lisa O’Donnell, a tale of two teenaged Glasgow girls trying to hide their parents’ death so they can be together. It is, at once, heartbreaking and inspiring.

Worst Novel of the Year:  There’s lots of utter rubbish published each year, so my low bar is books that should have been contenders; that is, wasted material. I declare a tie between The Celestials by Karen Shepard and Life After Life by Kate Atkinson. How do make a story of 19^th century Chinese immigrants into a snowy New England mill town ordinary? Focus on an imagined Victorian romance with an exceedingly dull woman at the center.

Other writers adored Atkinson’s story of a girl who is born, dies, and is reborn onto a new life path. It has its moments, but it’s the most over-hyped novel of the year. The central hook is a contrivance and the won’t-stay-dead character at its center is passive and uninteresting in most of her reincarnations.

Best Academic Book of the Year: Kudos to Andrew Erdman for Queen of Vaudeville, the fascinating story of Eva Tanguay–perhaps the most famous star you’ve never heard of. It’s an engagingly written book that makes us feel the burning spotlights, smell the floorboard dust, and long to throttle the ones who abuse or waste talent.

Worst Academic Book of the Year: There’s no way to choose just one, so I won’t name names. The truth is that most academics could put readers to sleep whilst scrawling “This End Up” on a cardboard box. 

Movies

This is always a tough one. Those of us who don’t live in LA or New York don’t even get to see most of the films that will get Oscar nominations until the calendar flips. My list contains films actually viewed in the cinema, regardless of how Hollywood regards their release date.

Best American Film of the Year: Give Weir’s Oscar (Woscar?) to Nebraska, a film that does for this generation what The Last Picture Show did in the 1970s. Still believe in the American Dream? Take a trip to Hawthorne, NB and get back to me. Bruce Dern wrings more emotion from being quiet than a cascade of Hollywood contrived speeches.

Best Foreign Film of the Year:  The best thing I saw all year, by a wide margin, was the French film Amour. What would you do for love? It’s what you’d do in the final days that really count. Jean Louis Trintignat will break your heart with a performance in which small actions speak louder than words.

Worst American Film of the Year:  Again, there’s so much drivel that my vote goes to a film that seeks to do something important and does it badly. Lots of people loved Silver Linings Playbook, but the ridiculous football subthemes trivialized what should have been centered on how society makes it hard for people whose social disorders to fit in. Star Trek: Into Darkness was also a big disappointment. What? All that money and they couldn’t hire someone to write a script that wasn’t a remake of The Wrath of Khan?

Best Independent Film of the Year:    No God, No Master looks at the Red Scare of the 1920s from the point of view of an agent seeking to stymie the anarchist bombings, even though he hates some of their targets. David Strathairn stars in the movie that is what J Edgar should have been.

Worst Independent Film of the Year:  It pains me to say it as it was shot locally and has people I know in it, but Names on the Bridge by Elizabeth Foley is such a mess that it’s the worst film I saw in 2013–bar none.

Best Video Rental:  I missed Cloud Atlas in the theater, mostly because the novel underwhelmed me. The film is miles better­–an intelligent look at the interconnectedness of lives past, present, and future. It’s a head scratcher in places, but you’ll think about it long after it’s over.

The most surprising video was Robert Redford’s smart The Company You Keep, an unapologetic look at the lives of ‘60s revolutionaries 40 years out. This one is a neo-con’s nightmare, but it was a sweet dream for me.

Worst Video Rental: The 1969 James Mason film The Age of Consent weathers as well as a pair of papier-mâché tennis shoes.