Spain Dominates Euro 2012

There are many ways to dominate an athletic competition. Michael Jordan, at his peak, wanted to humiliate his opponents through superior skill.



Spain at the 2012 Euro championships imposed its style on their opponents without leaving them an opportunity to counter. That's what is most remarkable about their level of play since 2008. Some of their schemes - four defenders, six midfielders, no attacking forwards - left their opponents flummoxed. Their hallmark are their crisp short passes and control of possession. In a recent interview, Andrea Pirlo, star midfielder of the brave but ultimately insufficient Italian squad, said that there is no point in teams trying to play like Spain because not only do they lack the personnel, but they also lack the ability to play their style.

Here are the highlights of Spain's 4-0 victory in the final:

D'Angelo Is Back

Twelve years later, he's back. Here is the complete GQ interview.

RIP MCA

It took me a while to write this. The Beastie Boys are an integral part of my life and one of the most listened-to artists in my collection. The three MCs from New York, Adam Horovitz (Ad-Rock), Mike Diamond (Mike D), and Adam Yauch (MCA), played a vital role in the development of hip-hop and alternative rock. Unlike many Golden Age-era hip-hop groups, Beastie Boys continued to release excellent albums well after their peak.

Adam Yauch died of cancer at age 47 on May 4th. Just a few weeks prior his group had been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. He was a gifted MC and great humanitarian. His sense of humor shone through everything he did. Not much else to say. Profoundly sad.

We Need To Talk About Tilda Swinton

Instead of writing a traditional review for the masterful film written and directed by Lynne Ramsay We Need To Talk About Kevin (based on the novel of the same title by Lionel Shriver), I thought an associative list of impressions would be better. The film itself is made up of associative thoughts and memories, so I feel this is fitting. Tilda Swinton, probably the best actor now working, is outstanding. The film is shot from the inside of her head, if that makes sense, and her every thought and impulse is made palpable due to her prodigious skill. I can't recommend this movie enough. It submerges you entirely in Swinton's character, Eva Khatchadourian. (In that sense, the film is completely subjective.) The biggest question the film raises - and it slyly alludes to an older film that raised the same question - is whether a mother can love and care for her monstrous child. (See pictures at bottom.)

See the son. He is aware. Frosty contempt in his eyes, zestful cruelty in his behavior. He is like you. Pale in complexion, ink black hair. Thin. He bites his nails and positions them in a row on table. You remove egg shells from your omelette and put them in a row around the edge of your plate. He eats bread and jelly sandwiches for breakfast. So do you. You never wanted to be a bourgeoise suburban housewife. You told him so. He never wanted you as a mom. He didn't tell you. But boy did he show you. The only goal of his life is to destroy yours. But that's not enough. He wants you to know that it's him. Remember the story you read to him when he was a child? Robin Hood? What was his sole takeaway from the story?

Why did you prepare the room in your house that way? The color of the walls, the bed and bedclothes, the desk with the same book on the shelf. Why? Nothing was fine before, why allow your guilt to lead an attempt to negate what happened after? Or was it an attempt to repair your damaged psyche? Scrubbing everything away (i.e. facing reality) to build your life back together. Was it both?

Your husband is delusional. He says everything's okay. That Kevin's just a sweet boy. You try to talk about your son, but nobody will listen.

How much of his hatred towards you is a projection of your own self-hatred?

You weren't there, but if you would have been you would know why he bowed. It was on his face as he was being arrested. Can't you see? It was all for you. For you to feel his scorn and suffer the shards of his disdain. That fateful night was his masterpiece. Take a bow, maestro.




Tilda Swinton in We Need To Talk About Kevin




Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby

Never Said A Word

Midway through 2011's Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Gary Oldman's George Smiley brings Peter Guillam to their work room to have a drink. A bottle of scotch later, George opens up about his Russian nemesis, Karla. Most of the scene is shot from Peter's point of view. The framing of this establishing shot shows an empty chair to the left, a table in the middle, and George sitting on another chair opposite. As George recounts the story of meeting Karla, he begins to speak directly to the chair, as if Karla were sitting on it. The camera then assumes that point of view, and shows us what Karla would be seeing. George's face is tight up against the screen, his large glasses serving as both a distancing shield and a instrument of examination. (Director Tomas Alfredson says that he used a specific lens in the shot that would be used again only once more in the entirety of the film.) It's a claustrophobic shot. The room behind is dark, saturated with dusty earth tones. Suddenly we become aware that we - the audience - are experiencing the same acute internal flashback George is recounting. This peerless scene is all about Oldman, a brilliant performance in one of the best films of the year.

The feature video above excludes the end of the scene. After his story, Peter asks George what Karla looked like. He replies, "I can't remember." This is perfect. On his part, George is the embodiment of droll inconspicuousness. Ugly glasses, bland suit, long coat. No memorable physical characteristics either. He could look like anybody on the street. Regarding Karla, George says he cannot remember what he - the primary villainous force in his life - looks like. Flip sides to the same coin. What better quality for a spy - any spy - to have than to appear anonymous?

Here is the making of the scene:

Foolish Heart: George Méliès and The Grateful Dead

To all those who love The Grateful Dead and Martin Scorsese's Hugo:

Bootsy Collins Has The Answer To "What Is 'Funk'?"

The Return of D'Angelo

(New D'Angelo song "The Charade")

It took longer than we hoped, but now it's unavoidably true. D'Angelo is back.

?uestlove said in an interview with Pitchfork that D'Angelo had asked him to join on tour in Europe, but couldn't make it. I never believe that it would happen. Glad I was wrong. Here's hoping for a great album. (Loved the ?uest hyperbole, saying the album "at its best...will go down in the Smile/There's A Riot Goin' On/On The Corner category.") Here are some clips:

Chicken Grease
Sugar Daddy, Playa Playa, Shit Damn Motherfucker
The Charade, Another Life, Space Oddity

Live D'Angelo mixtape from Okayplayer, one of the best music sites on the web.

Don Giovanni - Coolidge Corner Theater

Last Saturday I saw this season's La Scala performance of Mozart's Don Giovanni at the Coolidge Corner Theater. Excluding the two chatty babushkas behind me, it was a great movie-going experience. I only have one short thing to say about the production. It is about the end of the opera, so if you've never seen it or heard it, stop reading now.

Don Giovanni, the suave philanderer, has been engulfed in flames and is going to hell for all he's done. The remaining characters appear onstage and his servant Leporello (a superb Bryn Terfel) describes how he was dragged to hell by the Commendatore. The last words they sing are, "This is the end of the evil-doer. And the death of wicked men is always just like their life." At this point in the La Scala production, Don Giovanni appears in the background, smoking a cigarette and walking towards the front of the stage. He points down and all the other characters begin descending in the same way Don Giovanni had earlier. He smirks as they descend singing the same line, "The death of wicked men is always just like their life." Now only the tops of their heads are visible. Don Giovanni nonchalantly tosses his cigarette into the fiery pit, grinning.

I loved this ending. It suggests that the real sufferer isn't Don Giovanni. He's dead, after all; he can't suffer anymore. The true sufferers are the ones who are left dealing with the consequences of his actions.

Best Films of 2011

1. Melancholia
Lars Von Trier didn't do this sublime masterwork any favors by running his mouth at Cannes. During the press conference for his film, he said he sympathized with and understood Hitler and finished it off with "I'm a Nazi." Whether he was joking or dug himself a hole and couldn't stop is irrelevant. From this moment forward, his film was stigmatized. The public mostly brushed it aside. Some critics praised it, others couldn't tolerate it. I think it's the best film of the year.

Beginning with the cataclysmic introduction set to Wagner's prelude from Act I from Tristan und Isolde, the film, much like Hitchcock's Vertigo, welds music to visuals to themes at a relentless pace. In fact, I'd argue that knowing Tristan is the key to the film. In one scene, Justine, an excellent Kirsten Dunst, lays on the banks of a creek and bathes in the blue light emanating from the approaching planet. She is nude. She touches her skin. It's made clear that she's deriving sexual pleasure from seeing impending death. Similarly, in Tristan, erotic desire is equated with the desire to die. In Act II, day and light (desire/pain) is what separates the lovers and only in darkness and night (love/sex/dissolution/death) can they be united. It's not only the desire for night (where they can be together), it's a desire for night (death). In death they can be together forever and the pain of life could never part them. This Schopenhauerian denial of the world (Welt) is the bleakest and most vital element in Tristan. (If Tristan's music and singing wouldn't be as gorgeous as they are, it would be merely nihilistic.) In Melancholia, Justine is so consumed by her depression that her impulse to die becomes pleasurable and desirable.

The film, divided in two parts and named for the sisters Justine and Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg, terrific), divulges its method for achieving self-annihilation in each section. The first part deals with Justine's disastrous wedding reception and her crippling depression. The second deals with the approaching planet named Melancholia. Justine's own melancholia is shown to be all-consuming and thoroughly destructive. The planet Melancholia will achieve the same effect. Von Trier shows us what happens to a person suffering from acute depression and then gives us a metaphor for how it feels.

It is rare for a movie to achieve this type of balance. The flawless technical and on-camera achievements create a radical synthesis that delivers an intellectual and emotional wallop. If only Von Trier had kept quiet.

2. The Artist
3. Drive
4. The Descendants
5. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
6. Midnight in Paris
7. Bridesmaids
8. Rango
9. Hugo
10. La Piel Que Habito

Back from the bunker

Best films of 2011 to follow soon.

RIP Gil Scott-Heron

Gil Scott-Heron died yesterday after returning from a trip to Europe. I don't have more details right now. The music he created in the '70s was a mixture of blues, jazz, and spoken word poetry. Today he is known as one of the godfathers of rap and hip-hop culture, laying the foundations of intricate rhyming and subject matter. He sang/rapped about the perils of drugs, institutional racism, and a myriad other subjects often related to African-American urban life. Here is his best known composition, "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised." RIP, Gil.

Beastie Boys - Hot Sauce Committee Part Two

Let's start with superfluities: Hot Sauce Committee Part Two is the Beastie Boys' most top to bottom consistent album since Check Your Head (1992). It is also their best since 1998's Hello Nasty. True, they've only released one proper hip-hop album since then - 2004's To The Five Boroughs - but it's still been about 13 years since they dropped a certified Beasties classic. We're treated to hilarious group banter, "together now" rhymes at the end of phrases, two Bob Dylan quotations, bumping keyboards, and fuzzed out mics. If this album isn't getting enough respect it's because it's too classic. The beats and music sound like they could have been made any time after 1994. And that's a good thing.




The vast majority of the tunes are produced by the Beastie Boys. The main element they thread across most tracks are how keyboards are simultaneously used as rhythmic and lead elements. "Make Some Noise," track one and the first single off the album [see video above], is a great example of this. The clavinet is tweaked and sent off galloping. When the drums kick in, they take a secondary role to the keys, and the expected musical layering in hip-hop becomes inverted. The chorus also sends an direct shout-out to Public Enemy. (The last track off their 1988 masterpiece It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back is called "Party For Your Right To Fight" and samples the Beastie Boys' own "(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party!)". Put that together with the video send-up of their first hit, and you've got yourself an awesome post-modern mess.) Also note that this song, and throughout the album, live drums, bass, and guitar are intertwined with electronic elements.

"Nonstop Disco Powerpack" drops the keys and conjures a groove in the style as their laid-back funk from 2007's instrumental The Mix-Up. (There is a very clear reference to the beat from Spoonie Gee's 1979 single "Spoonin' Rap." The point is driven home when MCA quotes the song in his verse.) The song is an old school boast track, passing the mic from member to member while rapping about how awesome they are. MCA goes way back quoting Spoonie Gee and sending a shout-out to Afrika Bambaataa.

The Beasties take hip-hop to the future just as easily as they go old school. "Tadlock's Glasses" even sounds like post-rap. The distorted voice in the chorus and the pipe-clanging, underground sound of the keys and guitar give the tune a grungy sound. "Long Burn The Fire" is cut from the same cloth. (The reference to the song and second album by obscure Detroit rock band Black Merda [pronounced "murder"] is quintessential Beasties.) More old school references from MCA, rapping, "You're stealing my book/Like I was Grandmaster Caz." That's what Big Bank Hank from the Sugarhill Gang did in "Rapper's Delight." He wasn't smart enough to change some lyrics though, since Casanova Fly was Caz's nickname. Not surprisingly, Caz isn't listed as a co-writer and get $0 for his work in the first hip-hop smash hit. History lesson ends here.

The sweet reggae-kised jam "Don't Play No Game That I Can't Win" with Santigold and "Funky Donkey" include quotations of Bob Dylan's proto-hip-hop "Subterranean Homesick Blues." They serve as great non-sequitors, yes, but they're also perfect nuggets as to what the Beasties are all about: disparate elements from across the pop culture spectrum brought together to create art. Sometimes the Beastie Boys don't succeed in that endeavor, but on Hot Sauce Committee Part Two, they knock it out of the park.

Something here doesn't compute...

We are well underway in the inglorious and pathetic perjury trial of Barry Bonds. Quick background: in 2003 Bonds gave statements to a Grand Jury investigating steroid use in baseball saying he did not knowingly use steroids. He said his trainer, Greg Anderson, told him they were "flaxseed oil" and "arthritic cream." It is important to note that Greg Anderson is in contempt of court for refusing to testify in the current case and is currently imprisoned. Much evidence has been found declaring that Bonds knew exactly what he was taking. This what the trial is about.

An interesting side here that is being overlooked, I think, is what the trial is actually about. It is about lying under oath; it is not about whether Bonds did steroids. In fact, in their opening statement, the defense literally said that Bonds did in fact use steroids.

This to me is incredible because in 2007, Bonds emphatically said, after breaking Hank Aaron's home run record, "This record is not tainted at all. At all. Period."

Let me get this straight: he says the record is not tainted, yet he has admitted and it is part of the official record that he did take steroids? Someone is going to have to explain that one to me.

For the sake of argument, let's accept Bonds' delusions for a minute: OK, he broke the record thinking what he took was flaxseed oil and arthritic cream. So to him, the breaking of the record was not tainted. What about now, though? What about his defense saying that he did in fact use steroids? Is he going to finally admit that the record is tainted?

Regardless of his "knowledge" about what he was putting in his body was - and I firmly believe he knew precisely what he was doing - the record is absolutely and irretrievably tainted.

Will Bonds come out now and say that the home run record is tainted? Knowing his personality, we know he won't. But the thing is, we already knew that. A paragon of futility.

As if this shameful travesty of a trial isn't enough for you, let's remind ourselves that we still have to look forward to Roger Clemens' upcoming trial. Hooray.

The Truth

http://xkcd.com/859/

Nate Dogg 1969 - 2011

One of the best hip-hop collaborators of all time died on March 15. The cause was complications due to a stroke. "Regulate," top video above, from 1994 was the first huge hit he was featured on. It has aged little since. "The Next Episode," released in 2000, features Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, and Kurupt. Both were massive hits and were nominated for Grammy awards. His mix of menace and melancholy made his hooks unique. His voice had the smooth gloss of Michael McDonald and a hardened edge from the streets. RIP Nate.

Lil Wayne - "6 Foot 7 Foot"

Lil Wayne Ft Corey Gunz - 6 Foot 7 Foot by DJ Decko

Word on the street is that Weezy's upcoming Tha Carter IV will have the same intensity as "6 Foot 7 Foot," his first single off the album. Judge for yourself, but I think it's on fire. One of the best hip-hop singles I've heard in a long while. Feel free to compare/contrast with its cousin, "A Milli."

An Appeal For Continuous Hibernation

I received a refrigerator magnet from the HR department at my work with suggestions for a healthier lifestyle. Ten items were listed, among them "Ask your doctor the questions that are most important to you" and "Wear SPF 15 sunblock every day."

My favorite one: "Sleep one extra hour each night."

Ragnarök, or Impressions of 127 Hours

I attended a student film festival while at college. The only movie I remember was called Ragnarök, and I'm not sure who the filmmakers were. The opening credits said it was inspired by the eponymous short story by Jorge Luis Borges. That story has never left me. It is a dream recalled by a narrator in which the Gods (Janus, Thoth, et al) re-emerge after a "centuries-long exile" in a university hall or auditorium. The audience - and narrator - are at first exalted that they have returned. Little by little they realize that the Gods lost their "human element" after centuries of "fugitive life" and were now little more than beasts. The audience members then took their heavy guns and "joyfully killed the Gods." The movie was not a telling of the story. To me, it was a meditation on the opening lines: "In our dreams (writes Coleridge) images represent the sensations we think they cause; we do not feel horror because we are threatened by a sphinx; we dream a sphinx in order to explain the horror we feel"; and the closing lines: "...if we let ourselves be overcome by fear or pity, they would finally destroy us. We...killed the Gods."

The movie opened with credits saying that an off-campus house the filmmakers lived in was experiencing an infestation of rats. They set up traps and filmed what happened. An unmoving camera was set with night-vision at a short height. A small creature with gleaming eyes appeared to the "oohs" and "ahs" of the crowd. We knew where the trap was set. The little rat scurried all over the floor. Looking for corners. Audience members were rooting for it. Talking to the screen, telling it where to go. Others were gasping, and saying "Oh no." Textbook lesson in suspense: We know something, potentially dangerous or incriminating, that the character does not. In this case, we know where the trap is located and the rat of course has no clue. This goes on for what feels like a long time but was not more than three minutes or so. We think the little guy has made it, but the rat begins to wander where it shouldn't, and then a loud clap resounds, making some people jump and exclaim their sorrow. You can see part of the tail on camera.

The film fades to black and another image appears, it shows an exquisite Maine scene: a long pier, water beneath and to the distance, some aquatic shrubs, and in the horizon a setting sun. Again, an unmoving camera likely set up on a pier post. This time the film feels like it was set to slow-motion, though I'm almost sure it was not. What seems like an eternity passes. As the audience saw the sun's steady descent, they began to fidget, looking at their cell phones, watches, whispering among themselves. Finally the sun set behind the horizon line, bathing the pier and ocean in soft butterlight, you could not ask for a more breathtaking image. The film slowly fades to black, and credits roll.

So what is this about? A rat and a sunset? What's the point? Let me answer these questions by asking another: What are we willing to sit through? This is how I see it. We are thrilled, scared, anxious, and altogether willing to see a rat possibly meet its end than we are to see an idyllic scene with the setting sun. When the possibility of death is removed and it becomes definite, we feel betrayed; we are shocked, hurt, and staggered. We identified with the defenseless, innocent rat, we were rooting for it, yes we wanted it to go through danger but we also wanted it to live. In a word, we were the rat. The dread, the fear, the pity, is about us too.

In Danny Boyle's 127 Hours, we are presented with the alternative: A) We know exactly what's going to happen, and B) The protagonist survives. However, we still feel the suspense. A lot of it has to do with Boyle's skill as a filmmaker and with James Franco's vivid performance. As with the rat, we identified with Franco's character, Aron Ralston. The same dread, fear, and pity we felt for the rat, we feel for Ralston, and we feel it for us too. For the rat and Ralston not to survive is a type of psychic death for the audience. We don't lament the death of the rat, we lament our own mortality. When Ralston perseveres by cutting off part of his arm to remove himself from under the boulder's grip, we rejoice but also cower, because we know, deep down or even lucidly, that we are very unlikely to do what he did. The rat dies, we tremble. Ralston survives, we tremble. You see, we create (or, in Borges's words, we dream) a rat, a film, a performance, a short story to explain the horror we feel. With fear in our being, that horror (echoes of Joseph Conrad) may be placated, but never overcome. The rat dies, we tremble. Overcome the fear of despair, the fear of death, then we vanquish the horror. Ralston overcame the fear. Does that we mean we can to? Ralston survives, we tremble.

Checkmate.

Long time

Many times I've asked myself, "What is the point of blogging?" Truth is, I still don't know. The last time I posted here was in December 2009 about my top albums of the decade. It's November 2010 now.

Sometimes it feels like a senseless act. Writing and writing to put up on the web. How much copy gets put up across blogs on a daily basis? Hourly basis? What makes a site worthwhile, and another disposable? I've written for newspapers and magazines, and I still write for a magazine now. (I'll put up the links soon.) Yes, the articles that appear in those also appear online, but there is also the artifact. The physical product we hold in our hands saying, "Yes, an actual piece of critical writing has been published, and no, it's not mindless bloggerbabble."

Reading and writing is an intimate act. Without speaking, we each decided that I will be writing and you will be reading and hopefully commenting. That's the contract between us. I write for you and for me, you read for you and for me. We agree that we need each other to achieve what we want of this endeavor. For me, blogging has seldom lent itself to fulfilling that contract. That's really why I haven't written in this blog at all lately. I'm not trying to get anybody to agree with my reasoning or to care. I just wanted to put it out there.

I've gone through phases of intense devotion to the blog, to full-fledged "who gives a fuck?" I don't know if anything will ever "come of this," whatever that is supposed to mean. But I do know that I need to write all the time, whether it is good writing or not is not really up to me to decide. I just know that I need writing to work out incongruous ideas, of settling disputes with and within myself, to think about the arts and music mostly in critical ways. Worthwhile or not, it doesn't feel write not to do it.