Sparklehorse and Mark Linkous and Thom Yorke and Radiohead

I can't say that I am too familiar with Sparklehorse, the band that's in the news today because its lead singer, Mark Linkous, apparently committed suicide yesterday. (See here for the coverage at Rolling Stone.). Linkous started out as a guitar tech and roadie for the band Cracker before beginning his own musical project in the mid-1990s. Investigating my iTunes library this morning, I can find only one tune by the band, that being its contribution to the 1997/1998 compilation, Come Again, which was a collection of old rock songs covered by modern acts. (Apparently, that compilation, now out of print, was released in the U.S. under the name, Essential Interpretations.). I have that album, of course, because of its inclusion of a cover of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here," for which the band collaborated with Radiohead frontman Thom Yorke. According to Radiohead fan site Green Plastic, "Thom sang his part on the telephone from his hotel room where you can hear his TV in the background." The cover would later appear on the soundtrack to the 2005 film, Lords of Dogtown. The band had apparently toured with Radiohead in Europe following the release of its 1995 debut album, Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot. Resquiat in Pacem.

Joss Whedon and Firefly

I was late to 2002's "Firefly," catching the television series well after its initial release on DVD. It was a fun, sometimes clever, space opera, depicting the exploits of the crew of the spacecraft, "Serenity." It was occasionally too cutesy, but when it was entertaining, it was entertaining. But it never found its footing, and it was canceled in December of 2002, after only 11 episodes.

I generally enjoy the work of its creator, Joss Whedon, but I do not worship him. (This makes me somewhat unique among the viewers of his television programs.). I have seen most, if not all, of the episodes of his "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel" television series. I saw Serenity, the 2005 film based on "Firefly," at the theatres. But there exists around Whedon a puzzling and worshipful cult that forgives even the fact that he perpetrated the recent and awful "Dollhouse."

Fans, particularly science fiction fans in the Internet age, have become apologists and sycophants for their favorite shows. They so desperately want to become a part of a mythos - any mythos - that they don costumes, write fan fiction, and do anything and everything they can to insert themselves into the fictive universe that they adore. They maintain a personal stake in their fandom; if you look at their beloved program with anything approaching a critical eye, they take personal offense. They cannot respond well to such criticism, because their very identify is questioned by anything other than an obsequious review. They so identify with the shows they love that it becomes for them, in effect, a would-be ethnicity. I love "Lost," but hey . . .


This is not new. Certainly, there were and still are rapid fans of Star Wars and Star Trek and Lord of the Rings. (There are even some who pardon George Lucas for all of his post-1983 offenses, of which there are many.). But those were massive movie franchises, the first two of which have been around for decades. How is it, then, that a short-lived, albeit entertaining, television show like "Firefly", which lasted but eleven episodes, could gain such a cultish following? How is it that there are partisans of this show who still refer to actor Nathan Fillion as "the Captain," when he played that role for less than half of a full television season on a program that was canceled nearly eight years ago? The ensuing film was entertaining and fun, which is a rarity these days, but should a fun flick and a handful of TV episodes a subculture make?

I think not.

Guest Post: The League of Melbotis Experiences Birdemic: Shock and Terror

Editor's Note: Chronological Snobbery is not just about pleasantly reflecting upon history; we're also about changing history. Until our post last week, Ryan S., author of the now defunct pop culture blog, The League of Melbotis, had never heard of Birdemic: Shock and Terror, the schlocky horror film perpetrated by would be auteur James Nguyen. When he learned from us that the film would be having a premiere at the Alamo Drafthouse in Austin this past Tuesday night, he could not resist the irresistable impulse to attend. Thus, history has been changed. So, in a brief return to the blogosphere, he offers this guest post and review of the film and accompanying Q&A with Mr. Nguyen, who apparently remains baffled at the attention his film has received and the laughter prompted by it. Without further ado, his guest post is as follows:

The League Sees Birdemic: Shock and Terror
by Ryan S. (once the author of The League of Melbotis)

If I had known what the scoop was, I doubt if I would have bought the tickets. Or maybe I would have included a lot more people. About a week ago, the author here at Chronological Snobbery sent me the trailer to a new movie entitled Birdemic: Shock and Terror, which seemed to be an extremely low-budget comedy spoofing horror films, perhaps in the vein of "The Lost Skeleton of Cadavara". Like many people, I'm a bad-film enthusiast, enjoying both the intentional and less-intentional disasters of cinema. "Well, that looks awful. When does it come out?" is a phrase my wife had to learn to understand shortly after we began dating.

Ninety eight percent of what hits your local multiplex is corporate product as surely as a Lunchable is a meal. It's no secret that the movies we see are more or less designed by corporate yahoos who's idea of a fresh idea is copying the last movie to turn a profit. Like many people, I can be a little unforgiving when I go see something where one can practically see the studio's check boxes on the screen for what the producers believe is the formula for success. We're all familiar with the cynicism, contempt for the audience, et cetera, and that with the right mix of explosions, attractive lady actors, and impressive CGI (and standard issue Hollywood grade sound, lighting, music in place), a movie can be simply horrendous and folks will verify the producer's worst inclinations with a $300 million take. With a $200 million budget, you can cover up a lot.

So its not that crazy to be more forgiving when it comes to a movie written, funded and directed by a single person for which there is no 7-figure FX budget or Jennifer Connelly (but not "Clerks", which is empirically a bad movie). Part of what's easy to appreciate is that the people behind the films are not cynically trying to make a buck by running numbers. In many cases, these filmmakers are storytellers in the best sense, and unlike writing a book, a blog, whatever, they throw starry-eyed pals in the Pequod of their dream and set sail on the movie-making seas.

Such must have been the case of James Nguyen's Birdemic: Shock and Terror. Nguyen is a Bay Area software salesman by day, and a self-proclaimed Alfred Hitchcock nut and film enthusiast. He clearly did his reading about Hitch, and makes no bones about The Birds as the inspiration for Birdemic: Shock and Terror. Fortunately for you, and unfortunately for him, he may have done less reading and studying about actual movie production.

And because it is true, I now have to say the following: Birdemic: Shock and Terror is the funniest movie I've seen in a year. In the grand tradition of what makes such a movie all the funnier, in no way is this film intended to be a comedy.

While from a certain perspective, its plainly obvious that Nguyen does love and appreciate Hitchcock, the writer/director seemed to grapple with the basics of scripting, dialog, directing actors, blocking scenes, camera movement, sound recording, basic editing, basic sound design, lighting, pacing, practical FX, music selection, costuming, for what turns out to be a roughly 2-hour movie. Despite my better nature, I had tears in my eyes and was laughing through clenched teeth through much of the film. Because Nguyen was in the audience.

Here's the weird part: As incomprehensibly incompetent as the film is, it's a completely gripping 2 hours. What should have been a derivative and boring homage to a far better film becomes not at all about the romance, shock, terror or environmental overtones of the film, but about the pitfalls of film-making itself. It's the wild ride of literally not knowing what will happen next (in the production of the film, not the actual storyline, which is kind of pedestrian) that kept me from looking at my watch except to see the run time of the movie.

To not mention the CGI birds of the film would be a crime, and at the Alamo Drafthouse screening, Nguyen explained that he hired a student from CalArts who basically sounds like he did a half-assed job, sort of holding Nguyen hostage for more money, which Nguyen didn't have. Let us just say for the record that they aren't the best animated birds, but there is no question that they are the right birds for this movie. And as much as the newscasts in the film foreshadow events to come, so, too, do the parrots of San Francisco forecast the FX spectacular that arrives like a flock of piercingly screaming eagles and vultures.

Nguyen bills the movie as a "Romantic Thriller," creating a mash-up of a completely conflict-free young romance (which is much, much more involved than a Hollywood "meet cute" scenario) and the horror of having your hotel room attacked by furious mutant eagles. (Exploding mutant eagles, no less.) The developing romance seems hinged mostly upon our protagonist's sudden wealth as his company is bought by Oracle, and the anxiety of the love interest as to how to make a living in her possibly shaky/ possibly sky-rocketing career as a "fashion model", i.e. a wealthy software guy seems like a good catch. They spend a lot of time talking about being a successful software salesman and how great that is (again, you might recall Nguyen's day job as a software rep). Before the birds go nuts, that is.

Once the pairing of infuriated eagles and vultures appear on the scene attacking Half Moon Bay, all logic and reason is chucked out the window in what becomes a seemingly desperate chase across the countryside from the birds (who's invasion the occasionally appearing rest-of-the-world seems to not have noticed), in which no reasonable decisions are made, guns appear from nowhere, and you'd probably be a lot safer heading into town and not the beach.

It is quite literally impossible to tell how good or bad the actors are, as editing, pacing, sound, and especially dialog do them no favors. Kudos to first time actress Whitney Moore (pictured above) for gamely appearing in her underwear. I'm just saying.

But to explain what is wrong with Birdemic: Shock and Terror is to miss what makes the movie an experience. You're just going to have to see it.

As mentioned above, we had the rare pleasure of viewing Birdemic: Shock and Terror with Nguyen at the Alamo Drafthouse, which made for a semi-horrifying evening. When I bought the tickets, I didn't quite grok the situation. But in the day or so before the show, I learned we were to see a movie that was considered so awful, it had become championed by the Adult Swim alt-comedy sketch team of Tim and Eric. Somewhere along the way, I realized that while director Nguyen would be in attendance, and had a Q&A scheduled, he was not in on the joke. Apparently, until the Los Angeles premiere, Nguyen was under the impression he had a cult horror movie on his hands.

Nguyen must have been living out what the aspiring filmmakers in the audience (and in Austin, throw a rock and you hit one) saw as a nightmare scenario. A film he'd spent years and his own wealth upon was at last being screened, and rather than gasps of awe, was being met with literal howls of laughter. For two hours. During the Q&A, Nguyen was obviously struggling with what was happening. Yes, his film was seen, and people were absolutely loving it. But in no way for the reason he'd intended. The fall from the vision one might have of themselves as a self-made Hitchcock to the realization you're the 21st Century's answer to Ed Wood has to be the strangest of all possible turns one could take in life, and an emotionally taxing one.

As a one-time film student, I cringed my way through the first ten minutes, but . . . my God. I give the Alamo audience all the credit in the world for actually asking questions as if they hadn't just guffawed their way through the movie, and as if they'd just seen an engaging thriller. I think we were all pulling for the guy, or at least hoping he wouldn't crack. But, to describe the Q&A as uncomfortable doesn't do discomfort justice. And I sort of hope the Alamo does a little soul searching before planning such a screening again.

A colleague asked me if I felt worse for Nguyen or for filmmakers who make a movie that is never seen. I still don't know the answer to that for anybody else. What I can say for myself is that I couldn't have done what Nguyen did and stand up in front of a crowd with no idea what they had found so hilarious about my very earnest, very heartfelt romantic thriller.

And then I did some reading. I don't know much about it, but it sounds like Nguyen's puzzling film-making doesn't just extend to his craft. It sounds as if he may not have always been up front with his actors and pulled a few scams. You can Google "James Nguyen allegations" on your own. There's a fine line between earnest wannabe-filmmaker and a man so blinded by his own misguided ambition and entitlement that he winds up explaining what went wrong to 200 strangers. And as I don't (and can't) know what happened with Nguyen, or if the allegations are unfounded, or whatever, I am unsure what to think. But there's a story in there somewhere, for someone. I dunno. Nothing ever ends neatly. But I don't feel quite as badly about laughing at the movie.

Ten Questions After Watching Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds

I was late to Quentin Tarantino's latest contribution to popular culture, last year's Inglourious Basterds, not catching it until it arrived on Blu-Ray not too long ago. (And yes, I have to saying "arrived on Blu-Ray" instead of "arrived on DVD" just so you know I have a Blu-Ray player.). The film had its moments, but it suffered from a schizophrenia of sorts, not knowing what type of film it truly wanted to be. That's part of Tarantino's charm, of course, but here it seemed more like a hindrance than an attempt to assimilate various genre film conventions. So, without further ado, and just in time for the Oscars, I present these 10 questions prompted by the film:

1. How did Tarantino, known for his pop culture laden, self referential dialogue, prepare to write for characters of the 1940s, when conversations were not exactly postmodern?

2. Why did Tarantino utilize two entirely distinct tones for the film? (The film begins with a chilling sequence between SS officer Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz) and a French dairy farmer; it also includes a very tense extended scene in a tavern basement. However, the scenes featuring featuring Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt) and his Bastereds are over the top and violently cartoonish.).

3. What was it like for Rod Taylor to come out of retirement to play Winston Churchill?

4. How on earth was Mike Myers cast as a British general and military strategist? (Follow Up: Was I supposed to be amused by that casting choice?)

5. If German actor Emil Jannings (played by actor Hilmar Eichhorn) finds himself at the film premiere event near the end of the film, why not Leni Riefenstahl, too? Although Riefenstahl and her work are discussed by the characters in the film, the infamous German filmmaker was not present during the film's climax. As a German film celebrity at that time, wouldn't she have most certainly been at the screening at issue?

6. Really, wouldn't there be greater security at a film premiere with so many government officials? Sure, it turns out that Landa, in charge of the event's security, ultimately betrays those assembled for the film's premiere, but wouldn't there be more than a handful of guards, even just for show?

7. Why do Bastereds Omar Ulmer (Omar Doom) and Donny Donowitz (Eli Roth) remain in the burning theatre to empty their machine guns into the crowd and deploy their explosives? Once they gun down Hitler and Goebbels, they could make a hasty retreat from the opera booth, knowing that the remainder of the German officials are trapped inside the first level of the theatre?

8. Does Marcel (Jacky Ido), the projectionist and lover of theatre owner Shoshanna Dreyfus (Melanie Laurent), live or die?

9. Why did Raine allow Landa to live at the end of the film? It seems out of character that the professed hater of Nazis would allow this villain to survive and live out the rest of his life on American soil (even if his superiors ordered him to allow Landa to live)?

10. Considering Tarantino's fondness for revenge stories, will we ever see a sequel of sorts, starring a young adult Maximillian, bent on avenging the death of the father who died at the below street level bar on the very day he was born?

Ace of Base - The Ultimate Collection?

Ace of Base has released an Ultimate Collection? Sure, back in the early 1990s, they saw "The Sign." The sang "All That She Wants" and "Don't Turn Around." Later, they even covered Bananarama's "Cruel Summer." But does that merit an Ultimate Collection? Now, Ace of Base hails from Sweden, and perhaps it's possible that in their native country they are far, far more popular than they ever were in the United States and worthy of an Ultimate Collection in that nation. But a 3-CD collection? I think not, especially not here in the States. Oh, well.

Texas Independence Day

It is Texas Independence Day. Celebrate accordingly.

March

It is now March 2010, meaning we've now been in 2010 or two full months. Yikes. What better way to celebrate our inevitable slouching toward the future than by revisiting March, the 1989 album by Michael Penn, which features his biggest hit, "No Myth"?

Jermaine Jackson - The Ultimate Collection?

Really? Jermaine Jackson has his own Ultimate Collection? How did that happen? Can anyone even name a song by Jermaine Jackson done as a solo artist? I thought not.

Iron Maiden's "The Number of the Beast" (1982)

Ah, the power of progressive heavy metal, if that's what you want to call it. Although they weren't as popular on MTV, there were once hard rock bands who aspired to compose songs about more than sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Imagine! Some of them even wrote about literature, religion, and 1960s British television shows. In the 1980s, Iron Maiden was such a band. Most children of the 1980s remember them more from their album covers, or rather, their over protective parents shooing them away from record store displays featuring their album covers. Like so many bands from the 1980s that remain together in 2009, Iron Maiden is now a parody of itself, releasing hits collections and live albums to capitalize upon once, but not future, fame.

1982's The Number of the Beast had all the makings of a record that Tipper Gore and the PMRC would despise: an evil and ominous sounding album title, an album cover featuring both a devil and a demon of some sort, and hard guitar oriented power metal. Catchy, and a little self important, the album was the first to feature Bruce Dickinson as the lead singer (a fact I did not know until I began to prepare this article). Apparently, Dickinson would also take an extended leave of absence from the band in the 1990s, although that was well after the band lost any claim to relevance in the realm of popular music or heavy metal. Whatever the case, the album is upbeat and enjoyable, even if it is bent on creating some type of literary or artistic metal. Further, it's nice to see something from this genre not focused on sordid sexual excess.

Most fun, of course, is "The Prisoner," a song quite clearly based on the 1960s psychological suspense television program from Britain. (Iron Maiden would revisit this TV show in another song, "Back in the Village," on their 1984 album, Powerslave.). The album's title track is apparently still a staple at the band's live shows, all these years later.

Looking back, it's difficult not to compare and contrast the power and ambition of Iron Maiden's rock with the anemic modern rock that would follow it a decade later. Although the purveyors of cool cast their glances of disdain upon bands such as these, one thing is for certain: Dickinson could sing, and his guitarists could truly play. How can one say that the guitarists from say, Pavement, were superior to those of Iron Maiden? How can one say that the vocalists from, say, the Flaming Lips, was superior to Dickinson? Looking back, the hipsters can only say that they weren't as "cool," but that's all the hipster ever say, isn't it?

Birdemic: Shock and Terror (Austin Premiere, 2010)

Rumor has it that Ryan, author of the now defunct pop culture blog The League of Melbotis, has scored four tickets to see the Austin premiere of Birdemic: Shock and Terror, the brainchild of the auteur James Nguyen. This is a cause for great envy. Alas, though, as he is no longer a blogger, we will have no way of knowing how truly wonderful this event was. Perhaps he'll dash off a quick summary of the film for publication at this site. We'll see. (See here for a bit more info on the Austin premiere of this bad movie gem, which will include an appearance by Nguyen himself.).

High Strung (1994)

High Strung (1994), directed by Roger Nygard, is by no means a great film. But it has its moments. I first saw this comedy, the bizarre tale of Thane Furrows (Steve Oedekerk), as a freshman in college, late at night, at party full of slightly intoxicated film students. Featuring Steve Oedekerk as Furrows, this film has some genuinely amusing moments (even more so if the viewer is aided by alcohol), even if the film's pacing is a bit uneven at times. Oedekerk's Furrows is an angry and bitter fellow with little patience for the compromises we are all forced to make with the world. That type of attitude makes him not the best at his profession as a greeting card writer. Throughout the film, he offers us his views on life and the universe, including this gem:

Relationships? They shouldn't even call them relationships. They should have a more descriptive name: Painland.

Wisdom, indeed. Joining Oedekerk in the cast are Jim Carrey (who plays Death, in a role before he was Jim Carrey, Hollywood megastar), a young Kirsten Dunst, Thomas F. Wilson (Biff from Back to the Future), Denise Crosby (Tasha Yar from Star Trek: TNG), and last, but certainly not least, Jani Lane, the lead singer of Warrant. That's right; the guy who sang "Cherry Pie" in 1990 is in this movie. Despite the fact that it features actors who later became much more famous, the film has never been released on DVD. The original home video release is long out of print. Diehards can find copies on, gasp, videocassette by searching eBay and the like. As far as early 1990s comedies go, it's fun and sometimes clever, certainly something that should be readily available for rental or purchase considering the actors in it who later became famous. But it is apparently not to be. (See here for more on this film from Oedekerk's official site. It appears that he, or his web site administrator, originally had grander, but unfulfilled plans, for the page on his site dedicated to the film.).

Off Duty XVII

All things being equal, I'd rather be in Otisburg. I'm taking the day off from blogging today, as I suspect that I am soon to be under the weather. Allergies, or illness, thwarts a blogger's diligence. So, dear reader, thank you for your patience and concern. I shall return anon.

Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees" (1995)

Listening to Radiohead's "The Bends" record, and to the "Fake Plastic Trees" song in particular, takes me back to 1995, when I was attending a large public university. Music certainly has the ability to take us back to the past in a powerful Proustian rush. Of course, like most, I had come to know Radiohead several years before with the release of Pablo Honey, which featured the single "Creep," the song with crashing and crunching guitar. But at that time, most people assumed that Radiohead was simply destined to be an alternative one hit wonder. With the release of 1997's OK Computer, I officially rediscovered the band and was hooked. With that album, Radiohead became RADIOHEAD (bold, underlined, starred, et cetera).

But before all of that, there was "Fake Plastic Trees." Its slow and perfect wistfulness really does bring me back to the mid-1990s, although unlike some songs, I don't associate it with a particular person or event. I do know, however, that I have listened to the compact disc so many times that I had to purchase it again because my original was scratched to hell from repeated use. How many records besides The White Album can you say that about?

In sum, this is the perfect rock ballad. (Should I say power ballad, or is that song forever associated with the despicable likes of Poison and Warrant, who appropriated the term for their own nefarious and talentless purposes? And I have condemned myself to rock critic hell for mentioning Poison and Warrant in the same paragraph as Radiohead, by far the best band of the 1990s?) Regardless, the song begins with light, acoustic guitar accompaniment, and with each succeeding verse, more instrumentation is added, until finally, we hear a symphonic arrangement of electric guitar as the song reaches its ultimate crescendo. All of this, led by lead singer Thom Yorke's hauntingly melancholy voice, and you have a recipe for one of the better singles released at that time. Really, were there any worthy competitors in 1995?

Oh, and if you haven't heard the acoustic version of this song (which appeared on the soundtrack for the film, Clueless, of all places), then you're missing out. That soundtrack also includes a swell cover of Mott the Hoople's "All The Young Dudes" done by World Party.

Helter Skelter (2004)

The book, Helter Skelter, written by Charles Manson prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry, delivers on its opening promise to scare the hell out of the reader. In so doing, the 1974 book details the criminal prosecution on Manson and his followers from the initial investigation by the police all the way through the appellate process, all the while recounting one of the most chilling, gruesome, and bizarre criminal episodes in the twentieth century. The story of how Manson hypnotized and transfixed a number of all-American twenty-somethings and programmed them to kill for him is both frightening and riveting. It's a good read for the true crime buff and readers seeking to learn a bit more about criminal procedure. It's a shame that neither television adaptation of the book has been worth its salt.

The film was first adapted into a television movie in 1976 (more about which anon). The more recent adaptation, which aired on CBS in May of 2004, featured Jeremy Davies as Manson. You might recall Davies as the shell shocked translator from 1998's Saving Private Ryan. (In fact there is occasionally a slight trace of his Manson performance in his far more recent role as mad scientist Daniel Faraday on TV's "Lost."). As Manson, Davies' performance seemed a bit over-the-top, and that might be because Manson himself is over-the-top, but Davies came off far more silly than cold, calculating, and manipulative. With the exception of Bruno Kirby as Bugliosi and Clea DuVall as the reluctant Manson-girl-turned-state's-witness Linda Kasabian, the remaining cast was mostly comprised of unknowns. (The late Kirby, of course, you know from City Slickers and When Harry Met Sally, while you might have encountered DuVall in HBO's Carnivale or the terrible 2003 John Cusack "suspense" thriller, Identity.). As a film, the 2004 adaptation is mostly boilerplate, influenced more by those modern, awful cop procedural programs than anything truly innovative. (I remember hearing something a few years back about Oliver Stone possibly directing a remake of Helter Skelter, but alas, it was not to be.).

The problem with bringing Helter Skelter to the large or small screen is that there are many, many facts to convey in order to give the narrative its proper scope and context. You have to introduce a myriad characters (cops, murderers, victims, witnesses), but also provide a meaningful glance into how it was that Manson was able to control his followers. In two or three hours, this is a very difficult task. (That is one reason why Stone would have been a stellar choice to helm such a project. Regardless of what one feels about the conspiratorial nonsense in his JFK and the historical inaccuracies in Nixon, those two films indicate that Stone, as a director, can showcase a lot of information and minor historical episodes without any accompanying tedium. Using different cameras, quick cuts, and stylized shots, Stone can establish historical context and keep the pace). The 2004 version of "Helter Skelter," however, was not up to the job, and its pacing was, frankly, a bit boring, the last thing a film about the crime of the century should be.

It would have been a bit more interesting if the director had cast actors recognizable as sweet and clean-cut American teenagers as the Manson Family instead of unknown talent. If the viewer saw someone like Katie Holmes (recognizable for both her marital mistakes and "Dawson's Creek") as Leslie Van Houten, the point might be driven home better that these were normal American teenagers until Manson took hold of them and programmed them to follow him. Natalie Portman as the now late Susan Atkins would have been far more intriguing, but of course, she doesn't do television. (Unwatchable films are apparently still more prestigious.).

This is not to say that original 1976 version of "Helter Skelter" (with Steve Railsback as Manson) was much better. If memory serves, the original version did not even have a version of the song "Helter Skelter" on its soundtrack, while the 2004 version did at least open its credits with a an alt-rock version of the old Beatles song. Perhaps the producers didn't want to use the Motley Crue or U2 versions? Railsback's Manson was equally cartoonish, and as a 1976 television movie, it was aimed at television viewers far less sophisticated than those of today. Paging Oliver Stone?

The Final Episode of "Sex and the City" (2004)

Six years ago today, HBO aired the series finale of "Sex and the City," and boy, was it lame. For a final episode, it really was a disappointment. Series protagonist Carrie Bradshaw (Sarah Jessica Parker) ends up with Mr. Big, who parrots his "Abso-f*cking-lutely" catch phrase from the first episode? Big's real first name revealed via Caller ID on Carrie's cell phone? Charlotte is rewarded with exactly what she has always wanted: a baby? Miranda and Samantha learn important life lessons? Miranda finally gains the approval of the perennially disapproving Magda? I'm surprised they didn't promote this as a "very special episode" of SATC due to everyone's important realizations. To boot, almost every lingering narrative issue was tidily disposed of and everyone ended up happy once and for all. That's not life; that's television. Kinda sappy, especially for HBO, don't you think? Bah. Humbug. Who thought they'd end the show with such tidy and shameless sentiment? I mean, a little bit is to be expected, but this much? Alas.

Some good points: Carrie left the relationship with the Russian of her own violation after realizing that it was quite wrong for her. This was important. She realized that Miranda's warnings were wholly accurate: she could not give up her career, her friends, her city, her nation in order to live the life of an artist's girlfriend in Paris. Had the producers allowed her to end up with the Russian, then it would have been a betrayal of the show's central message of independence. Thus, it was good that she didn't suddenly choose between Big and Aleksandr Petrovsky; she left the Russian before she even knew Big was in the hemisphere.

However, the show ends with Carrie simply taking Big's word for it that he has finally matured after six years? Were this not the final episode, we'd learn in a few weeks that he was back to his old tricks (something that is confirmed in the film several years later). Has Carrie learned nothing from his past antics? The last few seasons of the show has been dedicated to the notion that people can change: Miranda goes from cynical career woman to working mother and wife, Samantha goes from nymphomaniac to smitten with Smith. But is Carrie to simply rely on Big's assurances(accompanied, of course, by his journey to Paris) that he has changed? Are we to believe that because Big's name has been revealed, that so too will he reveal his feelings and emotions to Carrie in a way he never did during the six years of the show?

I certainly agree with the folks at Gothamist who, at the time, noted that the good thing about the show ending is that "we can welcome the end of thousands of articles spectulating [sic] what kind of impact the show had on our lives . . . ." In the week-long build-up to the final episode, we all grew a bit impatient with the self-importance of the show's spokespeople. To boot, the hour-long "farewell" to the series which aired immediately prior to the finale was autohagiography. Back then, we were literally inundated with features and interviews pontificating on the importance of SATC. It was, according to the hype, a program which forever altered the way we as a culture thing about the single life. It was, according to the hype, a program which brought a new frankness to the discussion of sex, yet it was also a show with heart. It was, according to the hype, a valentine not just to single life in New York but also New York itself. But, in the end, I don't think the show was the significant culture-altering television program that its producers and cast always shouted from the rooftops that it was. Sometimes, a clever TV show is just that: a clever TV show. It's not as if Michael Patrick King was writing, say, Atlas Shrugged or something, right?

Happy Birthday, Slicing Up Eyeballs.

The far, far better nostalgia blog, Slicing Up Eyeballs, is, as of yesterday, one year old. (See here for the site's very first introductory post, aptly titled "Welcome to the Occupation," published February 20, 2009, and here for its own anniversary coverage, which ran yesterday.). The site had its first string of initial substantive posts one year ago today, on February 21, 2009, including pieces on Sonic Youth's then upcoming album and the possibility of a Replacements reunion (which alas, does not seem to be in cards). Happy Birthday, Eyeballs. Keep up the stellar work.

Edie Brickell - The Ultimate Collection?

Can an artist who is widely considered to be a one hit wonder release a compilation album called Ultimate Collection? Texan Edie Brickell, really, is known for two things: Her 1988 song, "What I Am," and her marriage to Paul Simon. This does not an Ultimate Collection make. (Although it should be noted that the disc does include her cover of Bob Dylan's "A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall," which originally appeared on the soundtrack to the 1989 Tom Cruise film, Born on the Fourth of July, in which Brickell had a brief role as a folk singer.). But is she ultimate? No.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004)

It's 2009. If you still not yet seen 2004's Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, drop everything and journey to your local video store to rent this film. (In fact, if you've not yet seen this film, there is probably something wrong with you, dear readers.). Melancholy, wistful, and slightly experimental, the film traces the destruction of the relationship of Joel Barish (Jim Carrey) and Clementine Kruczynski (the ever lovely Kate Winslet, who could never be erased). After their love slowly slides into complacency and boredom, Clementine has her memories of the relationship erased. (If only such technology were commercially available in the real world.). Upon learning this, Barish does the same, and the film chronicles his subconscious and regretful struggle with this process. It's really quite an unusual spin on a familiar theme, and of course, that's thanks to Charlie Kaufman (the film's scribe and writer of Being John Malkovich and the wonderful Adaptation.). The film has a stellar sense of melancholy and self-doubt, two traits which are essential to any relationship film. The imagery is vibrant and clever. It's sequenced out of time, so we begin in the immediate present, immediately go back to the day before, and then trace the ups-and-downs of Joel and Clem's relationship backwards from its sour end to its hopeful beginning. Post hoc reconstruction is necessary, dear viewers. Runaway Bride this is not. Thank goodness. (Plus, you can't go wrong with Winslet with blue hair, can you?).

To boot, the film is filled with very competent actors, a rare thing for films of the 2000s. Carrey, of all people, is subtle as the lonely and insecure Barish, while Winslet captures the balance of impulsiveness and insecurity as Clementine. Mark Ruffalo, Elijah Wood, and Kirsten Dunst round out the cast as the employees of Dr. Howard Mierzwiak (Tom Wilkinson), pioneer of the memory erasure process. These could easily have been stock characters played by Hollywood no-names, but the results are quite interesting to watch under the circumstances.

FYI: The title of the film comes from Alexander Pope's poem, Eloisa to Abelard, the appropriate stanza of which is:

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;

The poem is quoted in the film by Mary (Kirsten Dunst), a character who does come dangerously close to being mere eye candy until the final act of the film.

When I first saw it, I could say that it was the first film in a while during which (a) I have not been bored (b) I was actually interested in the subject matter and the characters (c) I was not ready for it to end. I am a bit disappointed that the film did not explore the moral and philosophical issues implicated by the erasure of one's memories of life and love, but that's just minor quibbling really. Really, what this film is about is the pain of loss and the wreckage that we become when we lose one to whom we have become attached. Go see it. (Oh, and for the record, I would never erase a relationship with Ms. Winslet from my mind. Not ever.).

Sweet Smell of Success (1957)

So tired and wearisome are today's formulaic films that often a retreat five or six decades into cinema's past is necessary and proper. Among the true gems of the past is Sweet Smell of Success, the 1957 film noir about the misadventures of a New York publicity agent and his parlous quest to befriend a powerful gossip columnist. This film must have been daring in its time, so much so that it remains so even by today's standards, fifty years hence.

The plot: Sidney Falco (Tony Curtis) is a down on his luck hustler of a publicity agent. He's been shut out of the influential column of J.J. Hunsecker (Burt Lancaster) because he could not break up the relationship of jazz musician Steve Dallas (Martin Milner) and J.J.'s sister, Susan Hunsecker (the lovely Susan Harrison who, apparently, did little else of consequence save for giving birth to Darva Conger, who would later achieve her own infamy as a reality starlet). The film takes place over the course of a single night and the following day. Falco scurries about hatching schemes and stratagems to advance the interests of his clients and return to the good graces of the menacing and corrupt J.J. Hunsecker.

What is astonishing is how dark, cynical, and overtly sexual the film seems even today in light of its release in the late 1950s. Of course, there is no profanity or nudity in the film, and any sexual exploits occur safely offscreen. But the sexual bargains that are sealed are certainly not subtly referenced. The film depicts the types of people who will do anything - anything - to advance or aggrandize themselves and whose only purpose in life is to, well, advance or aggrandize themselves. If you've not seen it, do yourself a favor, and submerge yourself into this world. Truly, you'll be startled at how edgy this film is, even by today's standards. Noirish indeed.

Joe Millionaire (2003)

Seven years ago today, on February 17, 2003, the finale of the television reality show "Joe Millionaire" aired. A quick refresher: This was one of the first reality in shows in which the contestants were tricked into believing a critical fact was simply not true. In fact, the contestants, all female, were led to believe that Evan Marriott was a millionaire when in reality he was just short of being a pauper. Even to this day, reality television remains the trendy schadenfreude , and even those of us at Chronological Snobbery are not immune from the strange transfixing power it holds over the nation. After weeks of a cynical ploy implemented for the entertainment of millions, the finale is a sugar-coated and sappy fairy tale cliche? Since when did the Fox Network, perpetrator of "Married . . . with Children" and "When Animals Attack!", become the plaything of rank sentimentalists? Evan receives no comeuppance for his dastardly scheme to dupe women into believing that he was as rich as Mr. Burns? Yes, of course, I was just as amused by the program as everyone else seems to have been, but I was hoping that perhaps Evan would-be the victim of some additional ploy known only to the network suits. It was not to be. The concept was a bit of a one trick pony; one the ruse was perpetrated, it could not be employed again, as the secret was out. The producers were undeterred; they tried again, this time using European women (under the assumption that they were unfamiliar with American reality television). But the magic, if it can be called that, was gone.