6/14/16

Your Guns Violate My Freedom


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My wife was once pulled over for driving 38 in a 30 mph zone, despite the tailback of disgruntled drivers lusting to pass her. She contested the ticket and got off with a warning. Its gist was: we will waive the ticket this time, but you were in violation.

This isn't a piece about driving; it's about the (Ho hum!) latest bit of senseless American bloodshed: the massacre in Orlando. I'm sick of listening to excuses from gun advocates and the fascist NRA about why we can't limit gun access. Their arguments are as tiresome as the postmortem homilies, sprays of flowers, and on-site Teddy Bear dumps that occur every time a mass murder occurs. That's quite often, actually. In 2015, nearly 13,000 Americans were murdered and another 84,000 were shot but survived. Enough already! All the post-tragedy hoopla has become as boring—yes, I said boring–as the pathetic whining of Second Amendment Warriors (whom, I might add, are often the same crowd that disrespect everything else about the U.S. Constitution except the 10th Amendment.)

I've had it with your tiresome insistence upon your right to own an Uzi. It violates my right to have a safe community that's reasonably free of psychos with mail-order guns and large clips of ammo. And let's get it straight: you don't have the right to demand no gun control any more than I have to demand total gun control. The United States is founded upon three concepts and you don't get to choose just one. Liberty refers to certain political rights guaranteed to individuals akin to those in the First and Second Amendments. Freedom, however, is liberty's handmaiden, not its synonym. It does not refer to your rights, rather those to which all citizens collectively and communally are entitled. Freedom places restrictions upon liberty, which should more properly be viewed as the freedom to move within a framework of—breathe deeply—limits. Your First Amendment right to free speech is no defense for violating public safety laws, hate speech ordinances, or public order; neither will your freedom of religion right allow you to practice violent jihad, engage in "honor" killings, bomb an abortion clinic, or declare holy war against infidels.

Now it's time for liberals to breathe deeply: you cannot ban all guns unless the Second Amendment is repealed. A better tactic is to insist upon limits to the Second Amendment analogous to those placed upon the First.  It begins with calling out the tiresome rants of the NRA and their kneejerk groupies as violations of American freedom injurious to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Third concept: democracy, the direct action of the electorate in electing officials and influencing public policy. According to the New York Daily News—hardly a bastion of liberalism—80% of Americans favor tougher gun control. My reference to a fascist NRA is not overblown. It's a self-serving militaristic cadre holding the nation hostage to a rigid extremist ideology–defining characteristics of fascism.

Just stop with the trite stuff. No—you don't need automatic weapons to protect your family: a handgun will do the job. The most verifiable stats claim around 280 yearly home attacks thwarted by guns. Few of these potential attacks were random and most occurred in high-crime neighborhoods, but no matter—a fool using an automatic multi-round weapon in his own home is as likely to kill his family as the intruder. A handgun will suffice.

There is zero reason for an individual to have multi-clip, multi-round weapons. Let's cut the BS: the sole purpose of automatic and semi-automatic high-capacity weapons is to commit mass destruction. No one outside of the US military–not even cops–should have such weapons. If you've got a gun fetish, admit it, and let's do what is done in civilized nations: you can own the gun, but you can't buy ammo for it. When you want to fire it, you go to a licensed range where you are issued ammo and must account for each round. Put away that "What about hunters?" malarkey; using such a gun isn't sport, it's senseless slaughter.

There is also no reason to allow guns or ammo to be purchased by mail, over the Internet, at fly-by-night gun shows, or without thorough background checks. These blood-soaked businesses must be shut down. If you can't haul your sorry ass down to Walmart to buy ammo and undergo security checks, you can go without. And you only get one box at a time. No excuses. In a rational society, Omar Mateen isn't sold a gun under any circumstance.

But STFU about terrorists. The NRA is already playing the ISIS card to explain Orlando. Of course, it said nothing when a few months ago some guy blew away a few Muslims in California. But here's why you don't want to go that route. When 9/11 occurred, the response was to set up a national security state. Well we commit four plus 9/11s every year in gun homicides (and three per month if we include all victims), so how do you feel about a national gun control state? I doubt many are comfortable with the idea of America as one big airport in which there are security lines, metal detectors, body scanners, and pat downs everywhere.

Finally, how about a realistic national dialogue about the sort of country in which we want to live? The NRA insists there is "no evidence" that gun control works. Rubbish! It always dodges the simple fact that other democracies don't have comparable levels of violence. Or worse, it drags out examples of nations with higher murder rates. The USA is a mere 91st in the world in per capita murders, but just six nations match our sanguinary output (South Africa, Nigeria, Mexico, Venezuela, India, Russia). Percentage-wise, our homicide rate is 3.8 per 100,000. Which groups of peers would your prefer–places such as Congo, Nigeria, Guatemala, and Honduras; or low-homicide nations such as Canada (1.4), New Zealand (0.9), Germany (0.9), or Indonesia (0.5)? How do you feel about the fact that Syria, Libya, and Turkey are way safer than the USA? 

It's time to sacrifice liberty for the freedom to be safe. Of all the arguments against gun control, the ultimate lamest is: "I'm a responsible gun owner so why do I have to suffer because of criminals, thugs, and terrorists?" Here's why: for the same reason you can be pulled over for going 38 in a 30 mph zone. The purpose of law in a civil society is protecting the public from the irresponsible. It's why we have speed limits. Maybe you would drive responsibly without laws limiting your speed, but would you welcome the anarchy of roads without limits or traffic cops? How about eliminating stop-for-school bus laws? Stop on red? Civil society places limits on freedom to curtail our demons so that our better angels can be at liberty. It's high time to exorcise the fascist NRA demons holding angelic liberty hostage.

6/13/16

The Lady in the Van is Well-Written and Diverting

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THE LADY IN THE VAN  (2015)
Directed by Nicholas Hynter
TriStar, 104 minutes, PG-13
* * *

If you're tired of seeing Maggie Smith as a dowager aristocrat, The Lady in the Van ought to do the trick. In this one Smith is a begrimed transient who reeks of excrement and is crazier than a Southern white boy in a Mexican restaurant. The film is a reprisal of a 1999 London theatre production of a play written by Alan Bennett and directed by Nicholas Hynter for which Ms. Smith won an Olivier Award for Best Actress. It doesn't work as well on the screen, but it's a diverting way to wile away an evening.

The set up is quintessentially English on many levels. It takes place during the years 1974-1989, when playwright Alan Bennett (Alex Jennings) lived in Camden, a London neighborhood caught between Thatcher-era gentrification and callousness and older laws that, among other things, did not allow toffs to exile transients legally parked in their leafy neighborhoods. Through a series of events, one of them­–Mary Shepherd/Fairchild (Smith)–ends up camped in Bennett's driveway for 15 years. The film is partly about Bennett's developing relationship with Mary, but it's also about a few things very British indeed: social class relations, surface niceness and inner hypocrisy, muddling through, duty versus desire, and never quite mustering the courage to say or do what one truly wishes. Bennett cleverly expresses the last of these by bifurcating himself; that is, we see two Bennetts–call them Id and Superego–debating each other over questions of the Alan Bennett public mask versus the inner repressed Bennett. The tip of the iceberg is that he's a closeted gay milquetoast writing mannered plays, but would like to be assertive, out of the closet, and tackling issues that he cares about.

Mary is a pungent, sharp-tongued, and earthy challenge to all things repressive–except her own guilt. It gives away nothing to say that she was once a piano prodigy, but some things went very wrong and diverted her path. (You'll learn this almost right away.) Mix an overdose of Catholic sin to British reserve and you've pretty much poisoned chances for a happy adulthood. But I shan't spoil the details.

As a film, this probably works better as the play it once was. The screen adds little except to heighten a sense of Mary's grossness.  That's not altogether a good thing as it occasionally makes it harder to see her humanity. Sometimes the most fun is picking out things in the background, like the fact that most of the original cast of Bennett's The History Boys appear in cameos, including Dominic Cooper, James Corden, and Frances de la Tour.  Roger Allam, Jim Broadbent and Deborah Findlay also appear in minor roles; hence, like nearly all English films, the acting is uniformly top drawer. But expect the pacing, dialogue, and mannered expressions of the stage. Not a lot actually happens, though much is revealed. Is this a great film? No; but it's Alan Bennett, so you know the script will be good.  And who can resist a stinky Maggie Smith?      Rob Weir

6/10/16

The Big Short: Watch How You Vote!

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THE BIG SHORT (2015)
Directed by Adam McKay
Regency Entertainment, 130 minutes, R (language and brief nudity)
* * * * *

The Big Short was nominated for five Oscars, but only took home a statue for Best Adapted Screenplay. This has more to do with bad timing and willful forgetfulness than with the film's quality. By the time it hit the market, Inside Job (2010), Too Big to Fail (2011), and Margin Call (2011) had already probed the topic of the 2005 collapse of the housing market.  Of those three, however, only the documentary Inside Job is The Big Short's equal. Watching The Big Short now on DVD is a potent reminder of why the real issue for 2016 election is whether the nation has the will to rein in Wall Street. If we don't, a future economic disaster is a matter of when, not if.

Writer/director Adam McKay's screenplay is a thinly veiled look at the fall of Lehman Brothers and of conventional thinking that "nobody loses money investing in housing." Yes they do–especially when amoral sleaze-meisters get to invent their own rules on how to defraud at will. The view of Wall Street from The Big Short is one that scarcely rises above definitions of treason­, which makes it all the more galling that only one poor sap in Switzerland went to jail over any of it. And the fact that Wall Street is currently doing almost everything it did in 2005 makes one wonder why there's no hunting season on bankers and investors.

The only name The Big Short doesn't change is that of Dr. Michael Burry (Christian Bale), the California-based autistic hedge fund manager who foresaw impending disaster and sounded an alarm to which few listened. Those who heeded his warning–Jared Vennett (Ryan Gosling), a Deutschebank trader (Greg Lippmann in real life); Ben Rickertt (Brad Pitt playing real-life Ben Hockett); Mark Baum/Steve Eisman (Steve Carrell); Charlie Geller/Ledley (John Magara); and Jamie Shipley/Mai (Finn Whittrock) "shorted" their housing investments; that is, they dumped them at what long-term investors thought was a bargain price. Those who shorted made some coin when the lid blew off of a shell game built upon unsustainable subprime mortgages and CDOs (Collateralized Debt Obligations), a credit swap deception in which bad loans are packaged with seemingly sound investments to make the entire bundle seem stable.

The Big Short is a surprisingly taut drama–a tribute to McKay's directorial skills given that we already know that Burry was right and we lived through the consequences. He tells a complex story that many viewers may find difficult to comprehend. After all, how many of us are familiar with Wall Street jargon such as CDO, quant, hedge fund, credit swap, or tranche? McKay suggests a lot of this is arcane for a reason: it's like Masonic mumbo-jumbo whose real purpose is to shield insiders from a regulatory gaze. In other words, if you really understood what they were doing, you'd buy the hunting license mentioned above. McKay does something very unconventional to demystify Wall Street—he infuses splashes of needed comic relief. Actress Margot Robbie soaks in a bubble bath and explains subprime loans and mortgage securities; chef Anthony Bourdain chops veggies and compares CDOs to stinky fish; Selena Gomez and behavioral psychologist Richard Thaler unravel Synthetic CDOs at a blackjack table. Some critics took McKay to task for cheap theatrics, but I see these as akin to the way Shakespeare inserted Falstaff into his Henry V tragedies: they give viewers a chance to collect their wits whilst indirectly being given a few puzzle pieces.

If you've not already seen The Big Short, do so before you cast your vote this fall. Don't worry if some of the intricacies go over your head; you'll learn enough to know that American taxpayers were taken to the cleaners by the breed of fraudsters the Chinese execute when they catch them. Pay attention to the film's coda–it's business as usual on Wall Street and that is not good news for those who live among the 99%. If it doesn't make you wonder why the two leading candidates are among the 1%, watch it again. 

Rob Weir


6/8/16

Ralston Hartness, Brad Armstrong/Brandi Carlile and Old Crow: June Roundup # 1



A few weeks ago I had my annual you-should-have-never-let-down-your-guard colds I often get after filing my final grades with the registrar. With stuffed head and medicated body, I took a brisk walk to try to clear the cobwebs. (Full disclosure: Okay, it was actually a languorous wobble.) On my MP3 player was a download of a new singer/songwriter, Ralston Hartness, and his debut EP, Atlas (Underground Records). It made me feel better than any meds sold at my local CVS. Hartness—still a student at Washington & Lee University in Virginia–has made the perfect debut–one where you go with what you know, are true to yourself, and lay your soul bare. The result is six gorgeous tracks about yearning, searching to belong, thinking about home, and feeling a bit lost. (By God, if a college student isn't allowed to feel these things, who can?) Hartness has a fine, clear, and emotive tenor, one that reminded me a lot of Greg Greenway when he was young, or Noah Gunderson in his more tender moments. My favorite track was "81-S," and not just because that's the road I take from New England to my own Pennsylvania hometown. I admired both the beautiful simplicity of the melody and Hartness' confessional: 81 South's a long straight shot/So think about the man that I know I'm not/Trying to see through the lies I know have names/Now I wrestle with my soul just to stay awake. I remember those days, Ralston, so thanks for that. And thanks also for five other outstanding tracks and for bringing balm to a befuddled brain. Now, dear readers, log on to Noisetrade and throw some bread this young man's way.

Empire (Cornelius Chapel records) is a damn fine solo debut from rock veteran Brad Armstrong. It's gritty and pulls no punches, but it's honest. Some of it is rated R. Like "School Bus" and its line "Every morning was like a wet dream." Okay, so you won't be hearing Brad Armstrong on a radio station near you, but that's no reason not to go online and take a hard listen. Besides, this dude can be smooth when he wants to be. "Them Old Crows" is a nice acoustic country song rendered in mostly sweet tones, though that hint of a spit alerts you he can get down in the gravel whenever the mood strikes. That's rather often, as it turns out. On "No Vain Apology" he practically spews lyrics like "I don't care about my wife/She left me here in Babylon/I watched her walk out the door/With a rifle in her hand." Or the sex and violence allusions in "Cherokee Nose Job."  That one is dark and dirty and explodes into heavy rock that skirts the edge of cacophony before pulling back. Its feel, though not the tune, reminded me The Doors' "The End." Yep—we're talking that level of danger. Again, though, there's a lot of diversity on the album. There are nice ringing harmonies on "Brothers," and some sonic resonance in the background of a robust sound wall. Armstrong goes futuristic on "2045" with atmospheric electric guitar, reverberant vocals, and a trippy sci-fi/acid folk-rock groove. Cool stuff.

I mentioned Brandi Carlile in a recent column. If you really want to hear Carlile in all her glory, check out a sampler from a 2016 tour she's doing with Old Crow Medicine Show Okay, so maybe both performers are a bit Nashville slick, but if they ever decide they want to go the Natalie Merchant route and just make music they want, they'll find legions who will stay loyal. Carlile takes the lead on two tracks, and the shouter/kick-butt "Mainstream Kid" proves she can front any band, while the vulnerable, sweet "The Eye" demonstrates her ability to blend in. She can also step away from the spotlight, as shown in two Old Crow songs where she simply adds her voice to the spirited chorus: "O Cumberland River" and "Bootlegger's Boy." If you've yet to discover Old Crow Medicine Show, you're in for a treat. Fiddler/lead vocalist Keith Secor sizzles with a heat even Old Nick can't touch without sustaining burns. These guys do breakdown bluegrass at speeds that coast faster than an Indy driver.

Rob Weir


6/6/16

The Last One: When TV Meets Reality

THE LAST ONE (2016)
Alexandra Oliva
Ballantine Books
* * *

We all know that “reality” TV shows bear as much resemblance to truth as does the Tooth Fairy to scientific dentistry. They are the ultimate junk TV--Dumb and Dumber brought to the small screen. But what would happen if actual reality collided with reality TV? That’s the setup for Alexandra Oliva’s debut novel The Last One, which releases this summer in time for deck chair reading.

Oliva is the latest to enter the post-apocalypse genre, hence her book invites comparisons to recent offerings such as The Road, Station Eleven, The Dog Stars, and The Hunger Games. The hook is that twelve people have been recruited for “In the Dark,” the Mother of All Reality Shows, one with a big budget and a million dollar prize for the titular last one standing. Call it “Survivor” on steroids. Contestants are warned that they will be put through grueling challenges that will be physically and emotionally demanding and, at times, dangerous. They can quit at any time by uttering the phrase ad tenebras dedi, Latin for “I surrender to the dark,” but will not know until the end who wins. They are also told there will be clues and opportunities along the way, which they’ll recognize by assigned colors. (Shades of The Hunger Games.)

Oliva only gives us hints about the contestants, which are based upon short descriptors of their defining personality traits: Air Force, Banker, Biology, Black Doctor, Carpenter, Cheerleader Boy, Engineer, Exorcist, Rancher, Tracker, Waitress, and Zoo. The story is narrated by the last of these, a young married woman seeking a final big thrill before settling into respectable motherhood. Zoo is also the source of all that we know about the others, including their actual names. After a series of gross group and solo “challenges” which thin the herd, the survivors set out alone.

It gives away nothing to say that they no sooner strike out on their own than a mysterious pneumonic plague-like disease wipes out most the population. Given all that Zoo has already been through, she assumes putrefying bodies are brilliant f/x props and that each horror or obstacle she encounters is an elaborate illusion to test her resolve—right down to a mewling “doll” lying beside a lifelike corpse. Hence, when Zoo meets up with Brennan, a traumatized 13-year-old who becomes her traveling partner, she assumes he’s also a producer’s plant, refuses to believe his tales, and continues to play by the rules. She does, however, accept that she could be seriously harmed on her journey and becomes a warrior/thief/survivor.

Zoo’s journey is a bit of a mash between Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven. It’s a harrowing tale, though I could have certainly done without all Zoo’s schmaltzy mommy urges. These annoyed me, as did periodic suggestions that Zoo’s toughness and resourcefulness are mere reflections of her resolve to be safe in her husband’s arms. What, are we afraid to just let Zoo be a feminist instead of begrimed poster gal for family values?

Though Oliva pushed some of my ‘ick’ buttons, this book engaged me. That surprised me, as I loathe “Survivor” and all other reality shows. As apocalyptic novels go, this one is (if I may!) middle of the road and simply doesn’t measure up to any of the books to which it has been compared. It doesn’t have to. It will fit the bill nicely for what it is: breezy escapist fare for summertime reading.
Rob Weir

6/1/16

A Bigger Splash is Simply a Bad Movie

A BIGGER SPLASH (2015/16)
Directed by Luca Guadagnino
Fox Searchlight, 124 minutes, R (extensive nudity, drug use, language)
*


Here's an early candidate for the worst film of 2016. A Bigger Splash is one of those pan-Euro productions—Italian/French/English in this case. These projects sometimes produce rich cross-cultural fertilization. This one, though, is more like dumping ideas into a compost pile until they rot. 

The first bad idea was to try to update a masterpiece: Jacques Desay's 1969 La Piscine—right down to borrowing the names of a few characters. Clang! La Piscine was art; A Bigger Splash is schlock. Bad idea number two: Romy Schneider was perfectly cast as the lead, Marianne, in Desay's film; Tilda Swinton is miscast in Guadagnino's. Number three: Desay handed the role of Lolita-like Penelope Lanier to Jane Birkin; Guadagnino cast Dakota Johnson; any resemblance between the magnificent Ms. Birkin and the pouty, slutty Johnson is purely coincidental. (Note to Guadagnino: Even a testosterone-driven horn dog would run the other way from a tease as vacuous as Johnson's Penelope.)

Bt wait! It gets worse. If embarrassment were rated, this film would get an NC-17 for Fiennes' horrifying dance chops. And if overacting were added, IDs would be checked at the door. The hook of the update is that Marianne Lane is a famous rock and roll idol, who jets off to a Sicilian island with her boyfriend, Paul De Smedt (Matthias Schoenaerts), where both of have gone to recover from previous addictions and she to recuperate from severe laryngitis. (Swinton is silent through most of the film, which I'd like to think she insisted upon when she read the script.) There the two enjoy wild sex, solitude, and tranquility in what is supposed to be their secret location. Somehow—and it's never explained how­–her manager and former lover, Harry Hawkes (Ralph Fiennes), locates them and decides to descend upon them. In tow is his resentful daughter, Penelope, and two of the many hangers-on party animal/egotist supreme Harry keeps at his side to remind him of what a big deal he used to be: the limping, older Mirielle (Aurore Clément) and Sylvie (Lily McMenamy), the latter cast mainly because she looks spectacular in and out of a skimpy bikini. But is it Marianne for whom Harry really carries the torch? In case you haven't gotten the point, at one point Paul removes a large snake from the premises—a serpent in the Garden metaphor for those who fell asleep and didn't see all of the warning signs that this won't end well.

As Harry brags his way through tales of hanging out with The Rolling Stones and other clues drop, we realize that, though Swinton looks more like David Bowie and flashbacks suggest some Patti Smith attitude, the film is a thinly gauzed reworking of Marianne Faithfull's biography. No spoiler alert from me–I walked out after an hour, having sifted more than my share of the compost. A friend who stayed said it devolved into a murder mystery, so I suppose that's the Desay bottom of the pile. Here's what's good about the film: the gorgeous cinematography of Yorrick Le Saux and even then there's a catch. I mean, if you can't make southern Italy look sensual, you might be dead.

English: Putrid. French: putride. Italian: putrido. You're welcome. Now you can give a reason in three different languages why you should avoid this film.

Rob Weir

5/30/16

John Prine Live in Asheville: May Album of the Month


JOHN PRINE
LIVE IN ASHEVILLE (1986/2016)
Oh Boy Records/Noisetrade
* * * * *

The moment I got the email from Noisetrade I knew what my album of the month would be. It ain't new, but neither is the Mona Lisa and they're both masterpieces. Thirty years ago John Prine released a live concert album of a show in Asheville, North Carolina, but it's still fresher than a truck stop waitress.

In my decades of listening to and reviewing music there are lots of people who have impressed me more, who are more poetic, are superior musicians, and have induced out-of-body experiences, but there isn't anyone who has made me smile as much as John Prine. He is the master of phrases that sound pithy, until you think deeply about them. Can you describe utter boredom better than this? Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down…and won ("Illegal Smile").  What (non-John Prine) wry comment sums up the gap between real and ideal better than, Fatherforgive us for what we must do/You forgive us and we'll forgive you? Few have ever equaled Prine when it comes to grabbing onto small hooks that tell a bigger story. Here's his take on damaged warriors: There's a hole in daddy's arm where the money goes ("Sam Stone"). On a lighter note, you instantly begin to sketch a portrait of the central character of a song that opens with this line: Grandpa wore his suit to dinner/Nearly every day/No particular reason/He just dressed that way (Grandpa Was a Carpenter").

Live in Asheville is filled with lots of other time-tested Prine tunes: "Blue Umbrella," "Dear Abby," "Donald and Lydia," "GreatCompromise," "My Own Best Friend…." Though it's hard not to miss Steve Goodman, it's heart-warming to hear Prine sing "Souvenirs," a song they co-wrote. And if you're not in stitches listening to "Let's Talk Dirty in Hawaiian," just go away. Prine is known for his humorous and ironic songs, but among the many things that make him special is that he captures the plebeian and mundane with such arch precision that his funny songs are not one-trick/one-time novelties. We laugh each time because, deep down, we're vicariously projecting our own foibles onto his fictional scenarios. Who hasn't felt this way? Every side I get up on is the wrong side of bed/If it weren't so expensive I wish I were dead ("Dear Abby").  Yet the same guy can turn it on a dime and write good old-fashioned acoustic country that will tear out your heart and fling it across the room. If you've never listened to it closely, check out the fantasy romance between "Donald and Lydia," he the reluctant (and probably mentally damaged) soldier, and she the obese clerk in a penny arcade—two yearnings passing like running-lights-off ships in the night.

This is a contribute-what-you-want download from Noisetrade and I doubt you'll find a better bargain this calendar year. Download it and we'll overlook your smile, illegal or otherwise.  Rob Weir