Happy New Year to All

Here's to hoping that the new year brings more peace to the world. Peace to all and take care.

New Reviews

I have a few new CD reviews up on Audiophile Audition that you might want to check out. Those reviews are Mighty Squirrel (which I posted below), a compilation CD of Ella Fitzgerald songs called Love Letters from Ella, and a classical piano CD from Christopher O'Riley called Home to Oblivion: An Elliott Smith Tribute. If you're interested in audio equipment, DVD, and music reviews, Audiophile Audition is a good site to bookmark.

Short Fiction: Fire Ants

The hot Mississippi air felt like boiling honey—a clinging hot mass that smothered as it boiled you alive. It was 10 o’clock in the morning and the air smelled of decay and was heavy with moisture. By noon, the crushed gravel and tar street in this new subdivision would start to bubble, adding its sharp chemical tang to the usual earthy tones—the grass lawns, the cow pasture behind the houses, and the nearby mud brown creek inhabited by slithering catfish waggling their way along the surface.

The twelve-year-old boy was on his belly, his feet straight behind him, his elbows planted in the grass, his chin cupped in his hands. His right foot flipped up and down, tapping a fast, erratic beat. He stared at a small mound rising out of the grass a couple of feet in front of him like a miniature mountain. The dirt of the mound had the texture of chocolate sprinkles, but was colored a coppery red. An anthill. Watching for signs of movement, his forehead was creased in concentration and dotted with sweat. His blue eyes flicked to the side as he heard movement behind him and he felt a shiver of recognition between his shoulder blades. He tried not to turn his head.

“You trying to get bit, boy? Them fire ants’ll make you wish you were dead.”

A tall man walked up carrying a gasoline can in one hand and a small shovel in the other. He gave the can a slow back and forth roll, listening to its hollow sloshing sound, and set it down on the ground. He was in his forties with a precise flattop and a dark tan, thin and lean, wearing a tight white t-shirt and faded army fatigue pants. A cigarette was stuck into the corner of his mouth. He took a long drag, not touching the cigarette, and let out a plume of smoke aimed towards the boy lying on the ground. The boy breathed in and held it as the tobacco smoke reached him. His eyes halfway closed, loving the smell of Lucky Strikes.

The man knelt down with one knee on the ground beside the boy, rubbing the boy’s buzz cut hair and then letting his hand rest on the boy’s neck. Just for a second. His head tilted to the left as he looked at the anthill. Using the shovel for leverage, he pushed himself back to his feet.

“Now careful, Bobby, don’t get too close,” the man said. “Get back while I take care of this. This is how my daddy taught me.”

The boy said, “I won’t, Daddy.” He scooted backwards without getting up, his eyes locked on the anthill.

Last week the next-door neighbor had tried to get rid of his own fire ant nest. Mr. Prescott was a small, doughy man, with the bottom-heavy shape of a bowling pin and nearly as white. Bobby had seen him next to a small honeysuckle bush in his backyard. The anthill had grown up around the base of it. Mr. Prescott was shaking the small bush, not as tall as Bobby, whipping it back and forth with his right hand while his left hand perched on his hip. Bobby asked what he was doing. Mr. Prescott looked up and said with some annoyance in a high soft voice, “I figure if I shake this here tree every day, these ants will just get tired of it and go somewhere else. I know I would.” Bobby thought he was crazy, which made sense since his daughter Carrie was touched or something, though kind of cute looking. She tended to stare a lot. But she was fun to tease because she never caught on. Slow. Bobby said to him, “I don’t think that’s going to work, Mr. Prescott.” Mr. Prescott hissed back at him, “Oh, mind your own business, Bobby Jackson. I take care of things my own way, not the way your daddy does. I don’t like killin’ things.” Mr. Prescott looked at him with narrowed eyes and went back to shaking the bush, not noticing that the fire ants were starting to crawl over his shoes. Soon, he would be dancing a jig. Bobby had smiled and stepped back to watch. It was funny.

Bobby’s dad set the tip of the shovel lightly against the mound. He pushed the shovel into the anthill and picked up a clump of the red granulated dirt and flipped it upside down back in place. Without pausing he set the shovel down beside him and snatched up the gas can. As he bent over with the anthill, the red ants boiled to the surface like the foam from a warm bottle of Coke—the ants ran in all directions, circling around the mound, piling up on top of each other forming a new hill on top of the old one. Daddy upended the can and poured gasoline over the wriggling mass. The smell of the gas was oily and vaguely metallic.

The boy raised up on his elbows and looked closer, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline in anticipation. Between the heat of the day and the fumes of the gas, he felt a brief wave of dizziness wash over him. The boy looked up at his dad and saw him pull a box of matches out of his front pants pocket, take out a match, strike it against the side of the box—a bright yellow pop—and drop it into the middle of the anthill. Orange flames unfolded into the air. Bobby felt the heat against his face like a puff of air.

The man looked at the anthill, tilted his head to the right and squinted his eyes in concentration, and nodded approval. Bobby scooted closer to see what was happening.

The man said, “Mind yourself, boy.”

The boy whispered, “I’ll be careful.” He got close enough to the anthill to feel the flames on his face—little, random finger touches of heat—and saw the ants. The once red ants were now dark and black, curled up and laying in heaps on the surface of the ground, their legs warped and fused. Some ants crawled out of the ground from the depths of the anthill only to crisp and twist into new shapes. Hundreds of ants were locked together forming a lacey sculpture of ash and skeletal bodies. New ants continued to come out of the ground looking to battle the devastating enemy. Pursing his lips and sucking in on his cigarette, Mr. Jackson poured more gas on the anthill. The flames leaped up in a mushroom cloud and the heat softly slapped Bobby in the face. The heat began breaking down the bodies of the ants; the mounds of them started to settle to the ground slumping to the shape of the mound. No more ants emerged.

Bobby got up and stood next to his dad. He looked up at his dad and grinned. The man took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke that mixed with the smoke rising from the mound of charred ants. He looked at his son and chuffed a soft laugh. One corner of his mouth twisted upwards in a half smile. He said, “That’s the best way to deal with ‘em.”

CD Review: Mighty Squirrel

It’s only natural for musicians and artists of any variety to be drawn to and draw from a number of sources. After all, there are a lot of different kinds of music out in the world, all equally wonderful. Why limit yourself to just one or two varieties, when you can sample from a worldwide feast? As an eclectic sort of listener myself (there’s not much that I won’t listen to), I can appreciate this in other people. And that’s what I love about this self-titled CD from the acoustic group, Mighty Squirrel. There’s more than enough variety to hold my interest, and every song is connected to each other by performance, instrumentation, and passion. And really, it’s the passion that shines through in each song.

The songs and musical influences come from all over the globe—Old time, classic country, folk, swing, gypsy jazz, Yiddish, Celtic, and French Canadian. And through it all can be heard a subtle seasoning of Bluegrass, which mostly comes from the traditional Bluegrass instrumentation of guitar, banjo, fiddle and mandolin. A fair description of the CD might be acoustic world music, though Mighty Squirrel describes itself as “old time music from around the world,” or “World Time” music. Anyway, you get the drift.

This diverse music is held together by the enjoyable and first-class performances of the accomplished musicians that make up Mighty Squirrel. Greg Spatz, who’s also the fiddler for the topnotch bluegrass group John Reischman and the Jaybirds, takes a turn on the octave mandolin (it’s pitched an octave below the standard mandolin) and also contributes some fiddle on a few tunes. His playing is facile, sensitive, and spot on, as always. David Keenan, formerly of Ranch Romance (one of my favorite Northwest bands), is the Jack-of-all-trades here, playing a variety of instruments including resophonic guitar, mandolin, banjo, and fiddle, as well as contributing harmony and lead vocals. His lead vocal work on the mournful and regret-filled “We Will Have Our Day” is devastating in its simplicity and honesty, providing a textbook example of “less is more.” Ivan Rosenberg, a veteran bluegrass musician, is most noted here for his perfectly rendered banjo work, restrained and beautifully lyrical. At the center of the group is Caridwen Irvine Spatz, doing the lion’s share of the lead vocals and fiddling. Her voice seems made for Celtic music, lyrical and ethereal, but she can also sing with an unexpected strength and a sly sense of humor. Her voice is expressive, flexible, and utterly charming.

All in all, this is an outstanding debut recording from a new group and a completely fun listen. I look forward to further efforts from them. You can find out more about Mighty Squirrel at their website here.

- Hermon Joyner

Mighty Squirrel – SQRL CD101 – 33:37 – ****1/2 (out of 5 stars)

A New Book is Out

The Arts and Crafts Movement in the Pacific Northwest, a book by Lawrence Kreisman and Glenn Mason (a friend of mine for many years), has been published by Timber Press and is available in time for the holidays. If you know someone interested in the Arts and Crafts movement, you won't find a better book. Congratulations to all involved. And of course, you can find this book at Amazon.com or order it through your local bookstore.

The photo to the right shows a display of the book at Powell's bookstore in Portland, Oregon. It also shows a couple of paintings I photographed for this book. I made around 75 images for the project, ranging from pottery to paintings. It's a great book, so be sure to check it out.

Movie Review: Spider-Man 3

There are a few themes working in Spider-Man 3. One, the dangers of receiving delayed information. Two, everybody needs help once in a while. Three, disco dance moves are downright evil. Well, I’m not personally sure about that last one, but it is in this movie. Anyway, overall I did like this movie, I really did, but it does fall victim to the dreaded Sequel Bloat Syndrome (SBS). There are too many villains, three if you count the blackened Spidey, not enough action set pieces (which is kind of weird in a Hollywood action/adventure movie), too much talking, and too long a running time (way too close to 3 hours). And then there is the infamous dance scene.

The story goes something like this. Peter Parker lets his fame as Spider-Man go to his head. Mary Jane Watson’s Broadway career goes downhill fast. Harry Osborn still thinks Peter killed his father (the original Green Goblin), starts sniffing green Goblin smoke and goes on a rampage as the New Goblin. A meteor from outer space with a hitchhiking glob of black goo lands in New York City, attaches itself to Peter, turns him evil and his Spidey suit black, and then teaches Peter leftover Saturday Night Fever dance moves (this is the infamous dance scene). Peter discovers that the bad guy he thought killed Uncle Ben didn’t do it, but another guy name Flint Marko did kill his uncle. Flint Marko escapes from prison, visits his crippled/sick daughter, and then gets turned into the Sandman, who visually reminds me of that bad guy from the Mummy movies. Eddie Brock tries to steal Peter’s job at the Daily Bugle, but only succeeds in taking the black goo, which turns him into Venom, a black, nasty, fanged version of Spidey. Oh, and there’s not nearly enough of J. Jonah Jameson, the Daily Bugle publisher. And Bruce Campbell has an excellent turn as a maitre d’. But it all ends with a lot of fighting, lots of falling walls, debris, and vehicles, lessons are learned, people die, and we get to hear a lot of screaming from Mary Jane. And believe it or not, that’s about it for the movie.

Any of the two main villains could have made a complete movie on their own. In fact, Venom is a very cool character and is shortchanged by an all too brief appearance. Topher Grace as Eddie Brock/Venom practically steals the movie with only a handful of scenes. Adding in the origin of the Flint Marko/Sandman muddies the water and not enough is done with that character either. Director Sam Raimi has always been careful to include as much character development as possible, but this movie could have cut back on that a tiny bit. The after a while, the trials and tribulations of Peter and Mary Jane begin to get tiresome after a while. Before I saw Spider-Man 3, I really though that director Sam Raimi would pull off a hat trick, but unfortunately he didn’t. He and his movie instead fell victim to SBS. Spider-Man 3 feels like most of the people involved are tired of the franchise and the characters. Though it is actually better than a god-awful, out of control monstrosity like Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest (an extreme and nearly unwatchable example of SBS), and I did enjoy watching Spider-Man 3, at the end of it all, I was a bit disappointed.

Hermon Joyner

Movie Review: Hot Fuzz

First off I have to say that I don’t know how many more films the team of Edgar Wright (writer & director), Simon Pegg (writer & actor), and Nick Frost (actor) have in them, but I hope they keep working together. Their first movie project was Shaun of the Dead, a send-up of zombie movies, ala George Romero. Their latest is Hot Fuzz, a send-up of the cop/buddy/action movies like the Lethal Weapon and Bad Boys movies. What makes their movies unique is their ability to make fun of the movies they’re referencing while at the same time creating a film that can stand on its own within the genre that they’re making fun of. Now that takes talent. And actually in this regard, I think Shaun of the Dead was more successful in this way than Hot Fuzz. Not to take away from Hot Fuzz. It’s a thoroughly enjoyable film.

Hot Fuzz is the story of the driven, hard-boiled Sergeant Nicholas Angel (Simon Pegg), who is so successful as a cop that he is sent to the hinterlands of rural/small town bliss (where he’ll have nothing to do), so he won’t continue to make the rest of the cops in London look bad. There in the bucolic village of Sandford, Angel discovers to care for someone other than his job, finds friends, learns what is important in life, and, coincidentally, discovers a nefarious murder scheme. As it turns out, things aren’t always what they appear to. . . whatever. That cliché is part of the genre’s conventions. Anyway, Nick Frost plays his new partner Danny Butterman in Sandford, a guy who appreciates a few pints of beer and has a wall of action movies in his home. Angel teaches Butterman how to be a cop. Butterman teaches Angel how to have fun. Together they solve the mystery and put things right in the village of Sandford.

The supporting actors in the film are excellent additions. Timothy Dalton, Jim Broadbent, and Edward Woodward are all first-rate as residents of Sandford, especially Dalton’s delightfully sinister performance as a grocery store magnate. There are also a number of excellent cameos in the movie: Martin Freeman, Bill Nighy (this guy is in everything), and even an uncredited appearance by Cate Blanchett as Angel’s hazard-suited, masked girlfriend.

For fans of action movies, Hot Fuzz pokes fun at most of the conventions of this genre while maintaining a level of suspense and action that is quite high and frequently better than the films it is emulating. Some of the killings are quite graphic and some are hilarious at the same time, and some of the action stunts are startlingly effective and surprising. Angel delivering a kick to an old woman’s head, for instance. Unbelievable. Hot Fuzz is frequently laugh-out-loud funny. The writing and direction is spot-on. The performances are just right. The chemistry between Pegg and Frost is perfect—they fit together like old chums on a lark. All in all, Hot Fuzz is a homerun, and that makes two for two for this team. Here’s hoping for a long and successful string of hits for these guys.

Movie Review: Grindhouse—Planet Terror, Death Proof, and more!

Grindhouse is more of a concept film than anything else. Kind of a parody, kind of an homage, kind of a post-modern examination of a bygone species of film—the exploitation films of the past (Actually, they’re still being made, but they go straight to DVD or end up on the Sci Fi Channel). The originals were done on the cheap, usually sensational, frequently gratuitous, and always lacking the polish and shine of mainstream Hollywood feature films. In other words, they were crappy movies, but not always intentionally crappy. So the idea was to remake these kinds of movies as a double feature and include a few fake previews of coming attractions, and show everything as one bladder-bustingly long movie. All together, Grindhouse comes in at more than 3 hours long. Although it must be said that, much like the original movies, if you have to leave for a bathroom break, you won’t miss much if you time it right.

Planet Terror is the zombie gore-fest extravaganza directed by Robert Rodriguez. In it, a military bio-weapon is released on a small Texas town with the usual results. Brains are eaten, limbs are ripped off, and chaos ensues. The special effects make-up is especially gooey, squirty, messy, and nasty. It’s on the level of John Carpenter’s The Thing, or George Romero’s original Dawn of the Dead, or even last year’s excellent Slither by James Gunn. The dialog is atrocious and unbelievable, but that fits with the Grindhouse aesthetic. And the performances are sometimes equally bad, but some are pretty impressive. Falling into the bad category is the physically stunning Rose McGowan. She has many of her glorious attributes on display here, but acting isn’t one of them. In the impressive category, we have more to choose from, like Freddy Rodriguez, Michael Biehn, and Jeff Fahey. After seeing Michael Biehn in this, it really made me wonder why he never made it big. He’s got screen presence and charisma in spades. But it is really Freddy Rodriguez that makes the biggest impression. He displays what it takes to make an action hero successful, and he makes it look easy. But despite spectacular explosions, over-the-top make-up, and Rose McGowan wearing a machine gun for a leg, Planet Terror is curiously boring. It seems too self-conscious and tries too hard. Like the worst of the movies that it is referencing, the characters and situations are never believable enough to care about what is happening to anyone on the screen. Rodriguez takes all of the surface tropes of the exploitation horror film and elevates them to the point of satire, but no affection for the genre comes through with it. Rodriguez thinks these films are stupid, and that feeling comes through in the finished product. That’s what makes Planet Terror more of a patronizing parody, and not an affectionate homage. As a counter-point, last year’s Slither takes the opposite approach. James Gunn’s love for genre movies was evident in every scene in that movie, and that’s why it comes across as an homage.

Death Proof is considerably more successful as a movie and not just as a parody. Quentin Tarantino knows how to write realistic dialog and believable characters, and that’s what works in this movie, not to mention the edge-of-the-seat car chases. It’s also a much smaller story and you get to know the characters before bad things happen to them. And when it does happen, it’s all the more tragic because you care about them. That’s what elevates Death Proof above the psycho-killer movies it is patterned after. In most of those movies, the victims are nearly anonymous. The plot of Death Proof is this: a killer named Stuntman Mike chooses his victims, stalks and toys with them, and then kills them with his specially reinforced stunt car. In the ensuing wrecks, he is the only that can walk away. That is, until he picks the wrong victims, who decide to take revenge into their own hands. This is when Death Proof changes from a psycho-killer movie into a woman’s revenge movie, so we get two films in one. Overall, the acting, dialog, and direction are great in this movie. Or more precisely for a Tarantino film, not as good as Pulp Fiction, but better than Kill Bill. Kurt Russell is perfect as Stuntman Mike. Sydney Poitier and Vanessa Ferlitto are beautiful and convincing as victims. Rosario Dawson, Tracie Thoms, and Zoe Bell are at first endearing and then deadly as the revenge seeking vigilantes. It was especially nice to see Zoe Bell in a speaking role. She’s the stunt person who doubled for Uma Thurman in Kill Bill and achieved cult-level fame for stunt doubling for Lucy Lawless in “Xena, Warrior Princess.” It is her performance and stunt work in Death Proof that makes Death Proof one of the most genuinely suspenseful action movies in recent memory. This car chase is without a doubt one of the best ever committed to film. Death Proof only stumbles near the end, when Stuntman Mike goes from being a terrifying boogeyman to a pathetic loser. The revenge that is enacted on him is so extreme that it almost turns the audience’s feelings towards him into pity, which seems like a miscalculation on Tarantino’s part.

The previews deserve their own mention. Robert Rodriguez’s Machete is probably the best of the bunch. It could work as a short film on its own. Edgar Wright’s Don’t is the funniest and the most clever. Eli Roth’s Thanksgiving is a gross-out free-for-all slasher-fest. Ick. Rob Zombie’s Werewolf Women of the S.S. is mostly dumb, except for a scenery-chewing cameo by Nicholas Cage as Fu Manchu.

As far as the total movie-watching experience goes, I have to say that seeing Grindhouse in a modern multi-plex is really unfaithful to the original movies that this is based on. To really see Grindhouse as it should be seen, wait for it to get to your local second-run theaters, if you are lucky enough to have them—the more run-down the better. That will be more true to the spirit of the films. And go late at night with lots of friends. Walking out of the theater when it is still daylight is just plain wrong.

CD Review: Last Train Home, "Last Good Kiss"

Last Train Home – Last Good Kiss – Red Beet Records RBRCD003 – 48:47 – *****

Relationships are at the heart of most songs—relationships gone right and those that go wrong. There are the relationships that give us a reason to live and those that leave us questioning everything. “Last Good Kiss,” the latest album from the Nashville band Last Train Home, is filled with songs that explore the boundaries of those relationships and examine how they intersect with each other, and they are played with heartbreaking earnestness.

Usually considered to be a leading alt-country or Americana band, Last Train Home is exploring new ground in this album. While some songs contain colorings of alt-country, most of the songs on this album fall into the category of indie-rock. The prevalence of electric guitar, played by Steve Wedemeyer either in understated and minimalist guitar solos or in shimmeringly resonant curtains of chords are all perfectly rendered in the most economical fashion, ends up giving the album a closer connection to rock music. It’s really the subject matter of relationships that ties it to country music, providing a link to the Hank Williams tradition of songwriting. Also helping to break the sound of the group away from alt-country is Jen Gunderman on keyboards, like the pulsing Rhodes piano accompaniment on “You” and even on accordion, surely one of the most underutilized instruments in popular music. Rounding out the group are Jim Gray on electric bass and Martin Lynds on drums and percussion, laying down the solid “tracks” that this Train runs on. Kevin Cordt plays trumpet on a couple of numbers, further taking the music away from the country realm and treading on the boundaries of jazz and Latin music. His boozy beautiful solo on “The Color Blue” is playfully sexy. If you can say anything about Last Train Home, it’s that they know how to play as a group—intuiting both how to step back and support each other, and how to step out front and shine. There’s a level of comfort and confidence that infuses all their performances on this album.

Frontman Eric Brace wrote most of the songs on “Last Good Kiss.” In fact, Brace wrote all of them except for guitarist Steve Wedemeyer’s tune “Can’t Come Undone.” The songs range from seductively timed ballads (Go Now) to energetically driving tunes (Last Good Kiss). If there’s a consistency to the songs on this album, it’s that they’re all consistently excellent. Brace delivers the vocals with sincerity and authenticity that is nearly devastating—every note and phrase rings of heart-felt and life-lived truth. And if there is a better vocalist working the scene at this time, I really don’t know who it could be. His voice is colored in turns by passion, weariness, elation, and angst. Eric Brace is the real deal. “Last Good Kiss” is a significant step forward in the evolution of a great band, and could very well be the best album of their career. This gets my highest recommendation.

Tracks: Last Good Kiss, Flood, Anywhere But Here, Can’t Come Undone, Go Now, May, You, I’m Coming Home, Kissing Booth, Marking Time, The Color Blue

DVD Review: Children of Men

Children of Men (2006)

A bleak and grim apocalyptic look at the demise of humanity in the near future.

Starring: Clive Owen, Julianne Moore, Michael Caine, Chiwetel Ejiofor
Directed by Alfonso Cuarón
Written by Alfonso Cuarón & Timothy J. Sexton and David Arata and Mark Fergus & Hawk Ostby
Extras: The Possibility of Hope; Under Attack; Comments by Slavoj Zizek; Deleted Scenes; Theo & Julian; Futuristic Design
Length: 110 minutes
Rating: *****

It seems like the major marketing ploy for “Children of Men” has been to call it the next coming of “Bladerunner,” or something close to that. In most ways that is a disservice to both movies. As much as “Bladerunner” is a classic sci-fi movie (in truth, it’s one of my favorites), when you think about it, you don’t say, “Wow! Those characters are so real and the acting is so poignant!” Let’s face it; Ridley Scott’s fortes are spectacle, setting, and attention to detail. Scott created a well-used world rich in detail. Characterization, acting, and even plot seem for the most part like necessary evils to get you from the beginning of the movie to the end of the movie. Alfonso Cuarón is a different kind of filmmaker—character, acting, and a tightly drawn plot are very important to him. Before “Children of Men,” Cuarón was known for 2001’s “Y tu mamá también,” a coming of age story set in Mexico, which revolved around those very same qualities. Despite the sci-fi setting, “Children of Men” is filled with richly-drawn characters, no-holds-barred acting, and razor-sharp plotting. To that mix, add direction that is as precise as anything to come out in years and intricately choreographed action sequences that are breathtakingly accomplished. Cuarón favors long unedited continuous shots that don’t seem possible, considering the action and the practical effects (stunt work, explosions and mechanical effects) that are happening throughout the scene. What “Children of Men” does share with “Bladerunner” is that both films feature a believable and fully realized world. But that’s where the similarities end.

“Children of Men” is set in the near future (2027) and is based on a novel by P.D. James. Society is breaking down because women have become infertile and can’t have any babies. As a point of interest, P.D. James’ novel had it the opposite way, that men were no longer fertile. Interesting because James is a woman and Cuarón is a man. You can draw your own conclusions from that. Anyway, the last child was born in the year 2009 and humanity is faced with the very real and finite end of its own existence. This inspires numerous sorts of crises among nations, faiths, ideologies, and peoples. The England of this future is one without infrastructure—garbage is strewn everywhere and the buildings are worn out. People have given up hope, so taking care of the present to protect the future no longer makes sense. The cities are dilapidated and the people reflect and embody this state of ill repair. In making this movie, Cuarón intended for viewers, “not to see the future, but to recognize the present.” Viewers will find this a chilling recognition, indeed.

Clive Owen is Theo, an alcoholic cubicle worker of the future who has lost his ideals and his ambitions. “Children of Men” becomes his own quest for redemption, as he is enlisted, against his will at first to escort a miraculously pregnant young woman out of England. Theo’s ex-wife Julian, played by Julianne Moore, chooses him because she knows that once he is onboard with the task, he will never give up. What follows is a journey through the heart of despairing darkness in what is left of England and civilization. Theo is the clumsy, ill-prepared hero in flip-flops throughout the film, rising to meet the needs of the moment as they present themselves. In this future, the needs are challenging and Theo is faced with the horrors of what the world has become.

Also included in the DVD are well-done featurettes that offer intelligent views of the future envisioned by P.D. James and Alfonso Cuarón by well-known sociologists, futurists, and cultural critics like Slavoj Zizek, and a few concise and illuminating making-of documentaries of the film. “Children of Men” is an extraordinary piece of filmmaking—certainly one of the best films of 2006. Highly recommended.

Photography Book Review: Ghosts in the Landscape

Ghosts in the Landscape: Vietnam Revisited
Photographs by Craig J. Barber, Umbrage Editions, 2006

Craig J. Barber was a combat marine during the Vietnam War in the 1960s. In creating the series of photographs for this book, Ghosts in the Landscape, he went back to Vietnam three times during the years 1995, 1997, and 1998. For Barber, it was the chance to lay these revenants of war to rest, to deal with the memories of what happened in that place and bring closure to what happened to the people he knew and to those he left behind. Vietnam continues to be touchstone for an entire generation of Americans. Writers, poets, filmmakers, and artists have all tried to process the experience of that war in order to make sense of it all. This is Barber’s attempt to do the same. The photographs function as memorials to his memories of war, but they also function as tributes to the land and people of that country that survived after the war.

Before getting to the book, the first aspect to know about Barber’s photography is that his cameras don’t use lenses exactly; they use pinholes. A pinhole is a very tiny hole that is drilled in a metal sheet which functions as a lens, in that it’s able to focus the light into an image and project it onto film or paper. Because the tiny hole also acts like a very small f-stop, the image it creates has tremendous depth of field. In fact, most pinhole photographs have universal depth of field—everything is in focus. The consequence of this is that exposure times tend to be very long because pinholes don’t let in very much light, sometimes lasting several minutes or longer even in bright daylight. This produces interesting motion effects in the images; objects that don’t hold still are recorded as blurs and streaks of movement. The second thing to know about Barber’s images is that his prints are platinum prints, which accounts for the softer look and brown tones. Platinum prints are especially good at rendering subtle light values, while maintaining rich darker values. To the viewer, platinum prints have a nostalgic look about them, which can complement some subjects. In the case of Ghosts in the Landscape, they work very well.

The images in Ghosts in the Landscape are presented as diptychs and triptychs, that is, each image on a page consists of two or three separate images that function as one long panoramic image. This results in a slightly disjointed feel to the images, almost disorienting, where you see elements that should continue, but don’t—like memories that are missing details out of the middle of the experience. Some elements are duplicated in both images; others are left out. The people found in these haunting photographs take on the aspect of faded memories, as if they are people whose very shapes are beginning to shred and disperse due to the passing of time. Of course, this effect is because of long exposures and the inability of the subjects to hold still, but they also serve as a comment on the nature of memory. The landscapes are melancholy and contemplative, darkened at the corners as if your view has been restricted, allowing you to examine only what Barber wants us to see, which is only what he wants us to remember from his journey. And indeed, memory seems to be overriding theme in this book. Barber is dealing with his memories of the war and reconciling those memories against the reality he encountered when he went back to Vietnam. His images are luminous and beautiful with a keen bittersweet edge to them. They are meant to be slowly and patiently taken in a bit at a time, as much as any painful memory should be handled.

Ghosts in the Landscape can be purchased at: www.photoeye.com.

Welcome

In the future, this will be my forum for getting my writing out into the world, whether it's a review or random observation or even the odd poem or short story. You can always read my reviews (DVDs and CDs) on Audiophile Audition. Otherwise, stay tuned; there's more to follow.