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.

Commuter Column: A Reader Darkly

A couple of weeks ago I was getting on a train late at night. I walked back to a car that pleased me (far enough away from the bathroom in the car that preceded it, light on drunk yuppies, nobody eating a smelly sandwich or those weird, cylindrical bags of popcorn everyone seems to love so goddamn much). But there was one huge problem: the car was dark.

Like, James Ellroy dark.

There was a conductor, with a slug-like moustache draped lazily on his lip, making his way from the back of this car. I stopped him.

"Excuse me, is there any way you can turn on the lights?" I asked.

He looked at me like I had sprouted a second head. "The lights ARE on," he said. The 'What, are you a fucking idiot?' part was implied.

I looked back through the car, and it's true, there were lights on. Every other light was in fact electrified, casting a dim greasy yellow glow on the worn-down seats and scattered litter (including more than a few of those weird, cylindrical popcorn bags). This was an option. After all, the car had the aforementioned "pluses."

If I wanted to fall asleep, this would be an ideal car. I could drift off to dreamland with ease and comfort with lighting this low. Add a couple of candles and clear out the air of human suffering and it could have approximated the mood of an intimate French bistro.

But there was that colossal "minus:" if I stayed in that car I couldn't read anything.

So I dashed out of that gloomy car, never to return. I don't know how full the car got, although the train itself was fairly packed. I imagine that a lot of people ended up choosing that car precisely for the gloom. It's amazing to me how many people are content to just nod off and how few people actually do anything productive on the train.

This is more noticeable in the morning, when people are (slightly) more alert and focused. I usually sit in a two-seater in the morning, and my commuting buddy is always an intense focus for me. What are they doing? What are they wearing? Do I think they have an interesting job waiting for them in New York City? But I end up dwelling on the same thing: why aren't they reading anything?

As far as unscientific literacy surveys go, the people on the subway, from all walks of life and social strata, read a whole lot more than the upper crust, mostly white, socioeconomically enabled Metro North commuter. Most everybody just plays Brickbreaker on their Blackberry (or are furiously sending emails to and fro or checking stocks or whatever it is bigwigs do on their Blackberry). Or they watch a movie on their iPhone. Because, really, why wouldn't a movie originally projected 30 feet tall, look wonderful on a postage-stamp-sized screen?

But reading doesn't seem like much of a concern for most of them. I'm amazed at how few people, when given this uninterrupted, hour-plus to read, don't exploit the time for reading purposes. I'm always reading something. But for most, well, I think they'd just be happy sitting in the dark.

Blog Post: 5 Things in Pop Culture Worth Getting Excited About in March

The month has just started and is looking quite rich, at least from a pop culture standpoint. Here are five things worth getting all gooey about in the coming month.


1.) Infinite Space for Nintendo DS (Platinum Games, $30, March 16th)

Platinum Studios has been responsible for two of the most indelible, original, and plain fun games of the past few months – Mad World, a witty, original, hyper-violent, black-and-white kill-athon for Nintendo Wii and Bayonetta, which has set the bar incredibly high for action games this year (it came out in parallel versions for the PS3 and Xbox 360); and it's got two more games to go this year. The first is Infinite Space, a sci-fi-ish RPG for the cuddly Nintendo DS that was released in Japan last year to outrageous acclaim and Cabbage Patch Kids-circa-1985 sales. I don't know much about the game, besides its emphasis on customizable space ships, but it's got the Platinum Games logo on the box, and that's all I really care about.

2.) Sparta, USA by David Lapham and Johnny Timmons (Wildstorm Comics, $2.99, monthly starting March 3rd)

Those of us that loved David Lapham's Young Liars, a book he wrote and drew for Vertigo (and was unceremoniously shit-canned last year), should be especially stoked for this. I've deliberately avoided reading about it and since the first issue is out this week, I should pick it up on my weekly binge in the next couple of days, but the generally gist is that it's set in a world where football is EVERYTHING. And not just Friday Night Lights everything, like, life-and-death everything. Lapham, who also did an admirable stint on a 30 Days of Night spin-off last year and is currently halfway through illustrating a two-part "Fables" arc, is a true comic book original and I hope that Sparta, USA survives a little longer than his crazed, sex-and-violence epic which, even if you couldn't make heads or tails of it, remained arresting until the bitter end.

3.) Days of Heaven on Blu-ray (Criterion, $39.99, March 23rd)

There are a lot of really awesome titles hitting high definition this month (Toy Story and Toy Story 2, Red Cliff, Chan Wook-park's Vengeance trilogy, Where the Wild Things Are), but this takes the cake in terms of the one disc I'd sell my gold fillings for. (Editor's note: I don't have gold fillings. But it'd certainly give me an undeniably "dangerous" edge.) Terrence Malick's sprawling, lyrical love story is one of my favorite movies ever (resting alongside Jaws and Don't Look Now), one of immense power and pleasure, both of which will be amplified and clarified with this (courtesy of the good folks at Criterion). Just thinking of this movie makes me all swoon-y.

4.) Goldfrapp, Head First (Mute, $14,99, March 23rd)

Goldfrapp is one of the best pop bands on planet earth. Period. Exclamation point. End of paragraph. End scene. Game over. With each album they reinvent themselves while staying true to their breathless, sensual roots. With this album they seem to be going in a decidedly frothy pop direction (peep this video for first single "Rocket") and I'm practically peeing in anticipatory glee. It may not be the best album released this month because, well, that Gorillaz album is a tough motherfucker to top (it really is a masterpiece, front to back), but it'll still make for a great, roll-down-the-windows-and-breathe-in-the-spring-air party starter.

5.) Solar by Ian McEwan (Nan A. Talese, $26.95, March 30th)

I'm not a huge Ian McEwan but he's an undeniable talent that can weave poetry about out the most nothing of nothingness (Saturday was pretty enveloping even if nothing happened at all), so I'm more than a little curious about this, which the New Yorker recently excerpted, which seems to be about the climate change debate but also has a twinge of sci-fi-ish-ness to it, too. Putting one of McEwan's dreary, fucked-up sad sacks into a global catastrophe is kind of brilliant and whatever it is, it should at least be a better popular novel than a little something called State of Fear by the late, occasionally great Michael Crichton. RIP.

Blog Post: The Obligatory Oscar Post or What Does Game Changing Have to Do With It?

Ten is the magical number with this year's Oscars. This year, for the first time in many moons (yes, I'm too lazy to Google it, please shut up), there are ten Best Picture Academy Award nominees. This was basically a big stupid ploy to get viewers, since most big stupid Americans (particularly those states that throb red during general elections) don't see shimmery art house movies or foreign films where people have feelings. Instead, they see "The Blind Side," the white guilt football movie that the whole family can love.

Oh, and by the way, "The Blind Side" is now a BEST PICTURE NOMINEE.

Anyway…

The entire web is all abuzz with their Oscar Predictions, with two big New York-area publications (Time Out New York and The New Yorker) delivering their "Movie Issues." Of course, these conversations inevitably just break down into a prolonged debate about the merits or deficits of "Avatar," a big-ass movie that made big-ass money that will probably change filmmaking as we know it for at least a few decades to come. (It's also quite good – sharp, emotionally engaging, and an absurd amount of whiz-bang 3-D flying-dragon-thingee fun.)

A great example of this is the MSN Movies tête-à-tête located here. It's sharp, incisive, and well worth the read (in fact, Glen Kenny, since getting shit-canned from Premiere, has proven himself an ace movie blogger and freelancer), with both sides of the debate illuminated brilliantly.

Still, if you don't love it I think there's something wrong with your brain. Specifically the part that taps into your love of unbridled imagination and flying-dragon-thingees.

And while I generally think that the 10-picture field is a good idea (not only does it make people watch but it also makes the Best Picture a huge wildcard – see this year), there were some glaring omissions. Where, for example, was "Bright Star," Jane Campion's stunning, touching, funny romance about poet John Keats? And as much as I thought "Blind Side" was a nice little movie, "Star Trek" was a nice big movie, and while not the technological game changer it was a rousing, well-told story whose rigid formalism made it a bold, crowd-pleasing spectacle.

There are other letdowns scattered throughout the nominations – Robin Wright ignored for her exemplary performance in "The Private Lives of Pippa Lee;" the Foreign Language Award skipping Bong Joon-ho's wonderful crime deconstruction "Mother;" and Arcade Fire members Win Butler, Regine Chassagne and Owen Pallett's moody score for "The Box" being passed over in the Original Score department. (I haven't gotten laid since October. If you're looking for a reason, that last sentence is a pretty good place to start.)

Other than that, I'm really rooting for "Inglourious Basterds" to take home the Best Picture Oscar, if only because Tarantino is such a bad boy and the critical community loves scolding him for his personal taste while admiring his technical proficiency, but I wouldn't be disappointed if "Avatar" or "The Hurt Locker" took it home, either. What the fuck is "An Education" doing in that category? Anyone? Anyone? No, didn't think so.

Aside: I hated "Precious."

I also love that Jeff Bridges is finally going to take home an Oscar, especially since his current grizzled, "I don't-give-a-fuck" phase is so enchanting (I loved "Crazy Heart" too). Just think about him shouting about Tony Stark being able to build his Iron Man suit in a cave. Ah, good times.

Besides that, all my "predictions" are going to come back "wrong."

But at least "Up" (the first animated film to be nominated for Best Picture since the luminescent "Beauty and the Beast" back in '91, don't-cha-know?) will take home the Best Animated Feature award in a fiercely competitive year. You know why? The four minutes of peerless cinema posted here. See you on Sunday. I'll bring the queso.

Second News Article, Edited Version

In an email dated February 12th, 2010, The New School announced a partnership with New Jersey Transit that would offer full-time students (undergraduate and graduate) a 25% discount on monthly NJ Transit passes for rail, bus, or light rail service when they enroll online through the Quik-Tik Program. While this is undoubtedly a huge relief to those commuting from New Jersey, it still leaves students from Connecticut or elsewhere in New York wondering where, exactly, their discount lies.

The issue of commuting to the New School is a nebulous one that very few people acknowledge or talk about openly. The school is located in Manhattan, which means that students can not only commute from surrounding boroughs but also from adjacent states – Connecticut, New Jersey and elsewhere in New York state, specifically.

Carl Frisk, a product design major at Parsons, commutes from Fairfield, Connecticut every day for school. The monthly pass sets him back $308. This is considerably more than the $89 monthly subway cost. When asked if the school should provide a discount he says, "Yes I do. If they would even acknowledge that there are commuters coming in from out of state, that would be great, but to offer a discount would be even better."

Frisk points to unrealistic expectations placed on commuting students, when professors regularly ask for their students to visit local museums or take part in Manhattan-based activities, unaware (or uncaring) if said activities require an expensive and time-consuming event. If you don't have a monthly and are commuting back and forth from Fairfield during "peak" hours it costs $28.50 and takes about an hour and fifteen minutes each way.

Michael Pettinger, an English professor at Eugene Lang, said he had more problems with students making their way to class from within the city, rather than commuting students. "I know of one student who takes the PATH train in the morning (and says he thinks it's more reliable than the subway), so I haven't had to cut him any slack. On the other hand, I've had students tell me some real horror stories about getting to school on NYC transit. The L Train, I'm told, is particularly notorious..."

It's true that often times commuting students are more on time and miss fewer classes than those who live in the same neighborhood, because the commitment (both time and energy-wise) is greater.

Still, the question remains why the school would offer up discounts to New Jersey Transit commuters and not Metro North commuters.

"This is an offer by New Jersey Transit. I have not heard of any discount program offered by Metro North," said Susan Heske, The New School's Senior Director of Communications and Special Projects for Student Services. When asked why the school itself doesn't offer the discount, instead of waiting for the cash-strapped Metro North to step up to the plate, she replied, "In some respect, unless a student lives within walking or biking distance to campus, then one could come to the conclusion that the majority of students are commuting by NJ Transit, Path, Metro North, subway, or driving."

Heske also said they didn't have specific numbers on out-of-state commuters or numbers regarding those who have utilized the New Jersey Transit offer. Users of Metro North are still waiting for a similar deal for their commute although they may be waiting for this particular train for a while.

Commuter Column: The Conversation (EDIT)

Sometimes, when I'm running late, as I make my way towards an open car of the train, docked in Grand Central Terminal, I'll scan the windows to see if I know anybody I'm friendly with. A face is what I'm looking for, really; a face I recognize.

The reason for this is two-fold, really: on a crowded train (as they almost certainly are), you'd rather be rubbed up next to someone you know personally, as opposed to someone who is sweaty and weird and might try to grab your inner thigh (this hasn't happened to me yet, but I'm fairly certain it's only a matter of time). It also eases the pain of making someone move their bag/purse/box of shrunken human heads easier from that empty middle seat because, hey, I know the person sitting beside your bag/purse/box of shrunken human heads.

And when you're desperate for a train buddy, just about anyone will do.

It doesn't have to be someone you've gone out to dinner with and shared one of those divided "Best Friends" necklaces where you have "Best" and he or she has "Friends" with. In fact, it can just be someone you know informally. But the question that should loom largest is: do you think that you can carry on a conversation with this person for more than an hour? I think, trapped in an enclosed metal tube with a bunch of drunk yuppies, I don't think I'd be able to talk to my own father for an hour, but in these situations you lower your standards and get on with it.

Some other things to take into consideration: you won't be able to listen to your music (yes, even if you just downloaded that three-disc Joanna Newsom thing) and you won't be able to read. Sitting down next to someone locks you in to a conversation, whether you like it or not. You two are inseparable for the entire trip and have to fill that up with catching up, idle chitchat, asking about how so-and-so is doing and talk about who you think will win the Best Picture Oscar in the expanded, ten-movie field. Results may vary.

But I've found that this offers more positives than negatives, even if there are lulls where you either don't talk or have to sit in shocked silence as you hear about their recent trip to India and the strangely erotic multi-person rubdown/massage they got while they were there. The biggest positive I can think of is that it keeps you awake. There are few things worse than nodding off on the way home and waking up in a town not your own. Talking to someone on the ride home, even if you barely know them, cuts that possibility out of the equation and with it gets you out of the frantic disorientation and scramble to get someone to pick you up from whatever dusty, late night station at which you end up.

On an even deeper level it does remind you that the people you ride the train with are actual people and not just huffing, grunting animals that take personal offense when you tell them you'd like them to move their briefcase so you can sit down. And more than that, these people suffer through the very same indignities you do and are juts as exhausted, worn out, and embittered by their commute. It's then that you realize a little company goes a long way.

Actual Journalism: Lather, Rinse, Repeat

I reviewed three "Psycho"-related new books for the Fairfield County Weekly this week. Read it here.

Pop Culture Blog Post: The Triumphant Return of Hall & Oates

Four words: it's about fucking time.

As a lifetime Hall & Oates fan (almost literally - I can still remember picking up a Hall & Oates Greatest Hits disc at a San Antonio-area Best Buy when I was about ten), it seems that Daryl Hall and John Oates are about to retake the cultural zeitgeist.

Exhibit A: Bonnaroo, the hipster nirvana/huge-ass music festival, has recently announced that "Daryl Hall and Chromeo" will be a part of the lineup. If not hearing that the New York-based electro duo with a dude that pioneered electro pop isn't enough to get your blood charged-up, then head on over to Daryl Hall's wonderful website Live at Daryl's House to see the two bands jam together (just click here). Results are glorious.

Exhibit B: The Bird and the Bee, one of the country's greatest pop bands, is set to unleash "Guiltless Pleasures, Vol. 1: A Tribute to Daryl Hall and John Oates" in March. As someone who saw the duo perform "I Can't Go for That" at the Fairfield Theatre Company last year, I can tell you that this album is going to be off the hook. And the indie kids are going to love it.

Exhibit C: Hall and Oates are still awesome.

When did this resurgence begin?

I'll point to the mediocre romantic comedy "(500) Days of Summer," released last summer. The highlight of that movie was a prolonged musical number in which Joseph Gordon-Levitt sings and dances along to Hall & Oates classic "You Make My Dreams." (Watch it here.) And the movie was pre-packaged for the Urban Outfitters generation and a lot of young adults really loved that movie and bought the DVD.

Oh and speaking of the DVD (or Blu-ray), when you opened the DVD what fluttered out?

A flyer for the new Hall & Oates box set.

And I say: bring it on.

ACTUAL JOURNALISM BONUS: Read my write-up of a recent Hall & Oates show (done for the Fairfield County Weekly) here.

Pop Culture Blog Post: What's the Matter Marty?

Seeing a movie early (and posting your review early) is a kind of nerve-racking process. After all, going out their before everyone else makes you particularly vulnerable, especially in this day in age where critical dissention is not encouraged or even evaluated much; instead it's all about the aggregated critical consensus as posted on Rotten Tomatoes/Metacritic. Critical individualism (at atmosphere that bred greats like Andrew Sarris and Pauline Kael) has been replaced by the hive mind.

So it was kind of a shock to see the collective shoulder shrug given to Martin Scorsese's wild, emotionally resonant new movie "Shutter Island." I went gaga over it (you can read my review for The Playlist here - at the time I posted my review there were only three reviews up at Metacritic) but most, including A.O. Scott at The New York Times (review here) and Dana Stevens at Slate (review here), two of my favorite critics, have given it the seesawing hand of indifference and disappointment.

Ever the voice of reason, Glenn Kenny, formerly of Premiere Magazine, wrote an impassioned and deeply personal review of the movie on his blog (here). Read it, and let the discussion rage on. At the very least, a lot of people are going to be talking about this movie, which is never a bad thing.

Also, critical revisionism seems to come back around fairly quickly. When Terrence Malick's "The New World" opened in 2004, nobody really gave a shit. But when everyone was releasing their Top Films of the Decade lists, it was invariably on there (Time Out New York's extensive critics poll had it in the top 10). I have this great book called "The Critics Were Wrong" that collects reviews that, at the time, panned films that everyone now considers truly great, important works.

So "Shutter Island's" time will come. It's just not now.

Commuter Column: Is This Bag Taken?

One of the many things that Metro North conductors are generally terrible at (besides far-reaching concepts like "customer service") is telling people to remove their bags, purses, suitcases, or unfolded copies of The New York Times off the seat so that someone (like myself) can sit down. Instead, people just take up as much room as they can. It's like a tiny, moving version of urban sprawl, and every white guy is a mini-mall. Sure, you'll hear the occasionally announcement over the intercom: "Please make sure all seats next to you are available for other customers, the train is very crowded today" or something to that effect, which doesn't take into account the fact that every day the train is very crowded and the even more important fact that nobody listens to those stupid announcements.

Once I made a move that can only be described as Mario Bros.-like, since the two people at the opposite ends of a three-seat row weren't budging and had their shit in the middle. I hopped, like the mustachioed plumber, vertically and landed smack-dab in the middle of the two men. It was kind of impressive but my butt really hurt afterwards. But I was proving a point. Or something.

But recently I've noticed that it's gone beyond just the seat next to you. Now commuters are occupying the racks above the seats too - and not just the racks about their seats.

Just the other day I was getting on the train and I went to sit down in an open two-seater. I went to put my bag and jacket in the overhead rack only to find that it was completely taken up by a large duffle bag and jacket. The woman, sitting in the two-seater behind me, had nothing in her allotted overhead space. Instead, she was monopolizing mine.

"Excuse me miss," I said, calmly. "I know this is your train and I'm just riding in it, but I would really appreciate the use of the overhead rack."

She then launched into a tirade. She had a sharp Middle Eastern accent that did a lot to accentuate her fury. Much of what she said couldn't be printed here. I'm not sure if her indignation sprang from the fact that my wise-assery rubbed her the wrong way or if it was just shock from someone actually calling her on her selfishness.

After her screaming fit (hopefully therapeutic for her) was over, I looked at her and said, "You know what, I'm not sure I really want to sit next to all of this" (at which point I waved my hand in the general vicinity of her face) "anymore." Then I walked down to an adjacent car and had a perfectly pleasant ride home. When you're riding the rails every day, you've got to take to heart the immortal words of Jay-Z: brush that dirt off your shoulders (just hopefully not into the unused seat next to you).