The Auteurs' Bookshelf

Glenn Kenny, formerly chief film critic for Premiere magazine and now freelancer for people like MSN, caused a whole bunch of people to comment on a recent comment that, from the outset, seemed to be a throwaway personal note about how he organizes his DVD shelf at home.

The post is located here, and got me thinking about my my "auteur" shelf at home. The little bookshelf in my room that is at least somewhat organized by auteur, contains the following filmmakers: Paul Verhoeven, John Waters, David Cronenberg, Martin Scorsese, Richard Linklater, Terry Gilliam, Sam Raimi, Michael Bay (yeah - you heard me), David Fincher, Steven Soderbergh, Brian De Palma, John Carpenter, Alfred Hitchcock, and Quentin Tarantino.

My home video collection is currently in disarray as DVDs and Blu-rays are battling for control of precious real estate (I write for a Blu-ray website and when I buy shit like this, it doesn't help matters). And recently I've felt compelled to try to put my Criterion Blu-rays in order of spine number (see above - our professional photographer had the day off), which means I have to cannibalize from my various auteur sections (The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, spine #476, would be taken from my David Fincher Q; ditto Che, spine #496, gone from Soderberghville; etc.)

It made me think about all the miscellaneous stuff I have out in our little movie room (where all my Kubrick movies are) and what happens in more elaborate box set situations (think about the Alien box set, which has movies by Ridley Scott, David Fincher, Jeunet, and James Cameron - each one of them could easily warrant their own spot on the auteur shelf but, thanks to their inclusion in the box set remain together, alone)

One of the commentators on the original Kenny post suggested that if they have three or more movies by a director, then they automatically get privileged shelf space. While this is great in theory (and not only because that rule could allow me to have a Richard Kelly slot), it gets messy in practice, leaving you with a whole bunch of micro-sub-categories that will probably make it impossible for you to figure out where anything is.

The internal turmoil continues. I'm sure I'll make up my mind and come up with a really efficient categorization system one that stimulates conversation while still being easy to figure out.

Or not.

10 Summer Albums Worthy Getting Excited About

I have a feeling that this summer's music slate is going to be beyond amazing. I'm already discounting the stuff that has already leaked, like LCD Soundsystem's "This Is Happening" and Robyn's "Body Talk Pt 1," and focusing on the stuff I am still really, really excited to listen to. All of these things should prove to be perfect for trips to the beach with the windows rolled down. I hope.

01 Scissor Sisters, "Night Work" [release date: June 29th]
Exhibit A: We haven't had a new album by the New York City glam pop band (led by Jake Shears and Ana Matronic) in FOUR FUCKING YEARS. This is far too long. I need my hyper-gay glitter pop. They were somewhat stung, it's imagined, by the lackluster critical and commercial response to their sophomore album "Ta-Dah." What people are forgetting is that "Ta-Dah" was absolutely amazing. But oh well. We're moving on. Exhibit B: The fact that the album is produced by "Disco" Stuart Price, the sonic wizard behind such albums as The Killers' criminally underrated "Day & Age" and Madonna's "Confessions on a Dance Floor." Exhibit C: THIS SONG, which serves as the album closer. And, yes, that's the equally gay Sir Ian McKellan dropping a Vincent Price-in-"Thriller"-style verse ("Babylon, where bricks and mortar die…"). "Night Work" promises to be a sleazy sex dungeon of an album that will temper the bright-and-sunny of the summer while still making you dance your fucking ass off.

02 Kelis, "Flesh Tone" [release date: July 6th]
I think Kelis is something of an overlooked genius. Her 2001 album "Wanderland," which was never released in North America, is the closest thing my generation has come to our very own "Pet Sounds" and most people have never heard it. (She received some degree of commercial success with her 2003 album "Tasty," mostly because it included her unstoppable single "Milkshake.") Her last album was 2006's "Kelis Was Here," which was a beautifully bizarre little pop record that very few people purchased. She's been bouncing around various record labels since her debut album and this summer sees her relocated to Interscope, under Black Eyed Pea Will.i.am's umbrella. This promises to be a rich dance record if the single, "Acapella" is any indication (check out the amazing video by photographer Rankin HERE). Every time she releases an album I kind of hold my breath because I wonder if there'll ever be another one. Thankfully, there is. Appropos of nothing, I have a huge crush on Rankin's girlfriend/wife/whatever Tuuli Shipster.

03 M.I.A., untitled third album [release date: June 29th]
She's like Kelis, except people give a shit about her (especially the indie kids).

04 Keane, "Night Train" [release date: May 10th]
With their last album, 2008's "Perfect Symmatry," they proved that they really were one of the greatest pop bands on the planet (and all those Coldplay comparisons could go jump in a lake). This is technically an "EP," although it's 8 songs long, which is just as long as "The Fame Monster," so I say it's an album! Just stop for a minute and listen to their new single "Stop for A Minute" HERE.

05 Christina Aguilera, "Bionic" [release date: June 8th]
This is like the most all-star pop album of the season. Look at the lall star ist of Xtina's collaborators (although, really, we have no fucking clue whose songs will end up on the album proper): Sia, Ladytron, Linda Perry, Tricky Stewart, Goldfrapp, Santigold, Le Tigre, and The Neptunes. If just a fraction of those production heavyweights end up on the album, well, we'll be very lucky indeed. For now, just listen to the lead single here (she says "Fuck you!" awesome!) and bask in the greatness of possibility. Also, get a load of that album art.

06 Sia, "We Are Born" [release date: June 8th]
Sia's last album was met with the seesawing hand of indifference. (As it should have been. It was pretty dull.) But this time she's recruited genius super producer Greg Kurstin, who has given her a slick pop sheen. Just watch the great video for first single "Clap Your Hands" HERE. If it isn't stuck in your head for the rest of the day, then you probably weren't listening.

08 Kele, "The Boxer" [release date: June 22nd]
Kele, from Brit pop rock band Bloc Party, has been veering towards electronic music on the last couple of Bloc Party records, so it will be interesting to hear what his self described "electro pop" album will sound like. I'm guessing "very good."

09 Big Boi, "Sir Luscious Left Foot: The Son of Chico Dusty" [release date: July 6th]
I guess it's finally coming out. The first song from the album only premiered two years ago and it's been almost ten years since the last proper OutKast record(s) ("Idlewild" does not count, because it was awful). I'm an OutKast diehard (I even have the "Class of 3000" soundtrack album for crying out loud), and I have purposefully stayed away from many of the leaked tracks, so the power of this one will be even greater.

10 Chromeo, "Business Casual" [release date: August 17th]
Not a lot is known about the NYC duo's new record (they're peforming with Daryl Hall at Bonnaroo – maybe he'll sneak on there?), but I'm guessing it should cap off the season well.

Also sure to be fucking incredible: Jamie Lidell, "The Compass" [5/18], Janelle Monae, "The ArchAndroid" [5/18], Tracey Thorn, "Love and Its Opposite" [5/18], Tobacco, "Maniac Meat" [5/25], The Roots, "How I Got Over" [6/8], The Chemical Brothers, "Further" [6/8], Ratatat, "LP4" [6/22], The-Dream, "Love King" [6/22]

Commuter Column: Red Alert

Earlier this week I was met with an unfamiliar situation at the train station that bordered on the apocalyptic.

Upon pulling up, I heard an announcement on the overhead: "Please evacuate the building. Get no less than five hundred feet away from the station." I looked and saw the little old man who sells newspapers dashing away from the building. The young girls from the dry cleaners did the same thing. Commuters walked more slowly away.

"All trains have been suspended," the recording continued.

Fuck, I thought.

So I flagged down my mom and had her take me to an adjacent train station a town over. I walked into the station and asked the woman selling tickets if they had heard anything about some kind of nuclear attack or chemical bomb or whatever at my train station. I wondered if trains were still running, whether or not I'd get to the city on time.

"We haven't heard anything," she said.

Fuck, I thought.

The train came to this station, unceremoniously. It wasn't on fire, there wasn't some toxic goo dipping off of it, and as far as I can tell it wasn't attacked by a giant squid and/or Cloverfield monster.

But what, exactly, had happened? A fellow commuter hypothesized that the woman at our train station had "knocked some lever with her big butt." I thought this was a fairly plausible explanation but still needed more.

A few days later I turned on the local cable news. A story ran about the incident at my train station, what with the hurrying and the end-of-the-world loudspeaker announcements. Whatever the answer to this question, I wasn't prepared for how weird and hilarious it actually was: someone at the train station had flipped the wrong "announcement" switch. It wasn't supposed to be an announcement proclaiming the end of days. It instead was intended to be a prerecorded message reminding the Metro North commuters that the Yankee Stadium stop would be in operation today.

Of course.

Because, really, what other explanation could there have been?

I found the situation somewhat troubling. After the recent Russian subway attacks, and the heightened security within Grand Central Terminal (is that a fully automatic assault rifle or are you just happy to see me?), commuters are edgy about rail travel. But thankfully the Metro North is there to calm their worried nerves and assured them they're in the hands of professionals: by scaring the living shit out of them.

Embracing the Machine

Last night Florence Welch aka Florence and the Machine aka Ladysmith Black Mambazo (okay, that last part isn't real), with her haunting combination of noisy (yet danceable) chamber pop and appealing combination of pop star theatricality and real-world likeability, brought the house down at Le Poisson Rouge.

Florence's debut album, last summer's enchanting "Lungs," was the rare debut album in which every bell and whistle in the production flourishes handbook was employed, but never at the expense of the actual songwriting. These were big, distinctive pop tunes and the glittery production work (by veteran Paul Epworth) only added to the ethereal quality of the record.

It was interesting to see the sound transmitted to the stage, which could have been a dicey proposition. But Florence, draped in a kind of see-through robe, with the light behind her, billowed like a jellyfish underwater. Her voice, as strong and radiant as on the record, blasted forth. Everyone in the house was having a great time (the drunker ones probably having a more fun time than others).

In between songs she would chat with the audience. "What is this, 'Get Florence Drunk Night?'" she asked. At one point she stopped and took off her shoes. Squatting on the stage in an awkward pantomime. It was one of the least 'pop star' moment (I said to my friend "Well, Gaga wouldn't have done that") of the night but it was such an endearing, human moment that you really didn't care. (Later, she did shots with an incredibly intoxicated girl about two feet away from me, who was then removed by the venue's overeager security guards.)

She played much of her peerless debut and one bonus track that was on the deluxe version of the album. I was holding out hope that she'd play the title track to "Here Lies Love," the bizarre and brilliant David Byrne/Fatboy Slim project based on the life of former Imelda Marcos, for which Ms. Welch provides vocals. Sadly that didn't happen.

Last night you got the sensation that you were watching something that you'll never experience again, because she's about to become a huge-ass pop star. (And, indeed, tonight she will be playing the epic Terminal 5 venue.) Rarely do you get to see blossoming, profound talent this up close and personal. If this means being part of the Machine, then baby I'm down with that.

Commuter Column: Into the Groove

Every commuter has his or her own list of things that truly annoy them about their fellow passengers, things that really get underneath their skin and make their ride to work or school about as much fun as a trip down the river Styx. For some it's loud cell phone conversations (people are supposed to excuse themselves and have their chats in the vestibule area; few do), for others its noisy fidgeting.

I myself cannot stand coughing or sneezing. I think that if you're sick, you should stay home. With its lack of fresh air, the cars on the train are like giant metal Petrie dishes. And I can't afford to get sick.

Just the other day, I was sitting next to a guy who coughed into his hand and then, pulling his hand away from his face, and outstretched the fingers to expose a web of milky mucus. And he didn't have a tissue. That's when I turned away, because I felt like there could be another icky medical issue on the train if I kept looking: projectile vomit.

The longer you ride the train, the longer your list of personal grievances becomes. But it works both ways - what if there's something you do, some tic or minor compulsion that drives your fellow travelers bonkers?

I fear I've joined the ranks of the annoying. But in a very specific way: I've started to dance on the train.

Well, I'm not sure if dance is the right word. I'd say I bop, bounce, shimmy, groove, in time to the music on my iPod. Sometimes I just can't help myself.

But at the same time, I feel like this is one of the more innocuous things I could do, and certainly the most joyful thing I've seen on the train (so many grumpy faces!) And it can't be all that annoying. Right? Right?

For most of the train ride, I try to keep it low key. There's only so much energy you can drum up at 8:16 in the morning. But as I near the terminal, I feel like I need to kick it up a notch. If I'm going to make it through the day, I need some zingy non-drug-assisted energy to boost me through.

And once some irresistible beat hits my ears, well, it's all over. I have to just give in. Maybe it's the intoxicating freedom of New York City getting into my bloodstream prematurely, the knowledge that I'd have to be doing backflips down the street, naked, while on fire, to have any Manhattanite even look at me twice, but whatever it is, I just want to dance, dance, dance.

Or maybe I'm just weird.

The train can act as a vehicle for transformation, like Superman's phone booth, with people changing their shoes and clothes, putting on or taking off make-up, and, as Samuel L Jackson says in "Pulp Fiction," "getting into character." This is the character they'll live as for the rest of the day. So who's to say I can't use the train to transform from everyday schlub to disco dancing star?

Exactly.

Maybe one day I'll bring some speakers with me on the train. Then, at the moment when every self serious businessman (or woman) is the most deeply engrossed in their Wall Street Journal, I'll bust it out, and together we will dance, sharing, as one in the magic and mystery of Britney Spear's "Blackout" album. Maybe the conductor will get in on the act, too, twirling their whistle to the beat. Then, when we get to Grand Central, nobody will want to get off the train. It's easy to get into the groove, but hard to get out of it.

Pop Culture Blog: "The Vault" Script Review

To tell you how fast things move in the Interweb, two days ago Production Weekly twittered (or tweeted or whatever) about a new Brian K Vaughn spec script being shopped around called "The Vault."

The next day, we ran a story on The Playlist about the script.

Being a Brian K Vaughn superfan, I sent an email out to all my L.A. contacts begging, pleading, and offering oral sex to anyone who could get me a copy of the script. Somebody did. Hopefully they won't make me follow through on the oral sex thing.

Anyway, I read it yesterday and wrote up the first script review of it, anywhere, in the world, for The Playlist, which you can now read here.

It took me a long time and now I am very tired.

Pop Culture Blog Post: Why "Sherlock Holmes" is the Ultimate Guy Ritchie Movie

The old joke among snobby film geeks is that flashy, bratty British film director Guy Ritchie has been making the same movie, over and over again.

Well, one, this isn't really true, especially when you factor in the oddball, borderline incomprehensible Kabala-influenced meta-thriller "Revolver" (which I still maintain has some of the best stand-alone Guy Ritchie sequences in his entire career) and his god awful remake of "Swept Away" (the less said about THAT folly the better, although I'll admit that musical number is a bit of a guilty pleasure – shhhhh).

But if we're taking this joke as having more truth than irrelevance, which it probably does, then "Sherlock Holmes," his steam punk-y riff on the Arthur Conan Doyle super sleuth (out on DVD and glorious Blu-ray this Tuesday), is his ultimate movie. It's the distillation of many of the themes that made his other movies so popular and compelling, in a new, more maturely laid out way. It stands to say that it's also his best, most accomplished work too.

And a wicked amount of fun, too.

In previous Guy Ritchie romps, most notably the three that make up his key body of work ("Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels," "Snatch," and "RockNRolla"), the central characters, a swirling nest of colorful underworld goons with names like Turkish and One Two, are scrambling after some object – always a very old, very English object. In "Lock, Stock…" it was a pair of antique firearms, in "Snatch" a fist-sized diamond, and in "RockNRolla" a hypnotically powerful painting.

A lot of Ritchie's subtext (yes, there is some) deals with nationalism. The characters' (and indeed the movies') very British-ness is always of chief concern to the director. This is reflected in the objects that turn the screws too. While the diamond and painting are never exclusively described as British, they are at the very least rich with British symbolism, and inherently connected to the British Royal Crown (jewels, naturally, and old paintings that hang in aristocratic halls).
In "Sherlock Holmes," a darkly witty contraption that was glossed over by most critics because of its Hollywood movie sheen, he's able to set an entire movie inside one of these heirlooms that his modern day thugs are always squabbling over. There's a reason that he lingers so longingly at the construction of Tower Bridge (and why the climactic battle is set there) – it's an epic symbol of England. And freed of hundreds of years of distance, Ritchie has a field day.

Ritchie loves thieves, clearly, which is probably one of the reasons that Adler, played here by a cracking Rachel McAdams, was elevated from a minor character in Doyle's novels to a central figure here. Her purity at heart goes a long way with another key thematic strand of Ritchie's work, which is: we're all thieves, mate. We steal. We steal money, jobs, hearts; we lie, cheat, deceive. The only difference between someone like Adler, with her peacock tuft of period dress, and the criminals Holmes chases down on a regular basis is that the street thieves are more true to themselves in ways that many of us are not or cannot.

Also, Ritchie is one of the great urban directors. And his Victorian London is one of the best ever visualized (for an extremely recent comparison, just give this one a side-by-side to the recent "Wolf Man" remake). Ritchie loves the city. And the sweaty, ugly London in "Sherlock Holmes" directly informs the sweaty, ugly London of, say, "Snatch." The same issues plague London today as then, among them xenophobia, corrupt bureaucracy, class divisions, and secret societies.

It's just that all of this stuff happens underneath and in between a crackerjack mystery involving the occult, Roberty Downey Jr. and Jude Law flirting with each other and villainous character actor Mark Strong wearing the greatest fucking leather jacket in the history of cinema.

As far as Guy Ritchie movies go? "Sherlock Holmes" is the ultimate.