Like practically all Americans with (meager) holdings on the New York Stock Exchange, I watched in dismay as my stocks plummeted on Friday. Oil prices spiked, which caused the Dow Jones Industrial Average to plunge by almost 400 points, just more than 3% of its total value. The Nasdaq echoed the Dow’s performance, losing 3% of its value as well. The amount of trading was the heaviest the market has seen since March, and the bedlam on both the trading floor and in the offices of the brokerage houses must have been truly remarkable.

In his film Boiler Room (2000), director Ben Younger attempted to capture not only the excitement of the investment brokerage world, but also provide some insight into the characters who inhabit it. I grew up in suburban Connecticut, about as far away from New York City as the fictional firm J.T. Marlin was located. There’s a certain class of suburban white male that romanticizes hip-hop culture but approaches it only in a peripheral sense, and my hometown possessed more than a few such teenagers. I’m not talking about wiggers, who slavishly imitate every outfit, accessory, and mannerism that they perceive as representing black culture and desperately yearn for acceptance from their idols, I’m talking about middle-class white youths who somehow gleaned the notion that inner-city life is infinitely more exiting and rewarding than their own mundane existence, but only experience it through music and movies, and never on a firsthand basis.

The Film: Boiler Room

The Song: “What a Thug About”

The Artist: Beanie Sigel

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It’s the end of the road for Hillary Clinton’s campaign. A few signs lately have pointed towards Hillary finally packing it in, and after Barack Obama sweeps up enough of the black vote in the urban strongholds of Montana and South Dakota today to claim victory in these final two primary states, it’s likely that Clinton’s campaign will offer a formal concession. Hillary’s last-ditch effort to convince the DNC’s Rules and Bylaws Committee to seat Michigan and Florida’s entire slates of delegates with full voting status (and award all of said delegates to her) failed, and her pitch to undecided superdelegates over the last month has mostly been falling on deaf ears. By the end, her surrogates’ statements about the which states “mattered” and specific, irrelevant ways the popular vote could be tallied to produce a slim lead for Hillary were beginning to insult everyone’s intelligence.

The nomination is decided by delegates. In the primary process, the total popular vote is no more critical to the outcome of the contest than passing yardage is to the outcome of a football game. Having Hillary attract superdelegates based on an absurdly subjective interpretation of which votes to count would be like seeing Green Bay Packers coach Mike McCarthy persuade the NFL that his team should represent their conference in the Superbowl because, even though his team had a lower number of points than the Giants in the NFC championship game, they forced more fumbles and had a higher field goal kicking percentage and would be a stronger matchup against the Patriots.

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In Hollywood movies, surfing is basically dealt with in one of two ways. It can serve as the foundation for the film, as in movies like Blue Crush (2002) and In God’s Hands (1998), where trite and forgettable plots are simply window dressing to advance the bright blue visuals. Alternately, it can be used as a background vehicle, as in Big Wednesday (1978) and Point Break (1991), where the movie isn’t about surfing – it’s about surfers. The sport is used to explain an underlying connection between several of the characters, but it’s not really used to advance the plot in any particular way. I much prefer the latter method (Big Wednesday is a great film, and Point Break is harmless fun), but the best surfing you’ll ever see on film is when there’s no other point to the film than to show the surfing itself.

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In the final few moments of Tony Scott’s True Romance (1993) Alabama, accompanied by an injured Clarence, drives past a sign that reads “Last U.S. Exit, Mexican Border 5 miles.” It’s at this very moment that the music shifts from the ominous strains that accompanied the chaotic final shootout in the Beverly Ambassador, to the light and playful leitmotif that has been present throughout the rest of the film. The film’s score was written by Hans Zimmer and the familiar theme was drawn from an original composition by Carl Orff, who was most famous for composing another film score favorite, the Carmina Burana.

Once Clarence and Alabama have reached their final destination a sandy beach in Baja, the end credits roll, accompanied by Chris Isaak’s “Two Hearts” from his 1993 album San Francisco Days. It’s a song that’s reminiscent of the works of Elvis Presley, who serves as an imaginary mentor for Clarence during his criminal escapades. For the longest time I thought that it was Elvis Presley himself singing “Two Hearts,” and once I learned otherwise, I still continued to assume that it had originally been recorded by the King until just moments ago.

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I’m still reeling from this show.

I had heard of Cloud Cult via KEXP, but they hadn’t made enough of an impression on me that I’d been awaiting this show with the enthusiasm I had reserved for Explosions in the Sky or The National. It’s situations like this – where you’ve got no particular expectations – that you’re susceptible to truly overwhelming experiences, which is what I was treated to on Wednesday night.

It was my first trip to the Knitting Factory, which is close to the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue. It’s essentially the heart of what most people consider Hollywood, featuring a laundry list of familiar landmarks: the Walk of Fame, Mann’s Chinese Theater, the Kodak Theater (permanent home of the Academy Awards), the El Capitan Theater. The Hollywood Bowl is just a short walk up Highland. As a venue, the Knitting Factory is nothing particularly special. The area surrounding the main stage is about the same size as the Troubadour, featuring an inaccessible balcony lined with enameled chicken wire and half-shaded incandescent bulbs. The crowd was very homogenous – relaxed twentysomethings with few ostentatious hipster or misplaced club-set costumes on display. (more…)

There was an episode of television’s Friday Night Lights when a new character plays in his first game and forces a game-changing fumble. The lead-up sequence is unabashedly manipulative, as an unseen announcer criticizes Coach Taylor’s inflexible play calling and repeatedly exhorts the Panthers’ need for a big play. I remember remarking, out loud, “this is so predictable!” And yet, despite my awareness of how shamelessly Peter Berg was jerking the puppet strings of my heart, I couldn’t help but feel a swelling of excitement when Santiago burst through a blocker and leveled the quarterback with a blindside hit, sending the ball tumbling into the hands of a teammate and changing the momentum in the Panthers’ favor.

No movie has ever made me feel both so wonderfully uplifted and so deeply cynical at the same time as Forrest Gump (1994). The film itself is the feel-good story of the twentieth century, taking us on a tour of many of most significant events of the sixties and seventies, each punctuated by a digitally recreated appearance by Forrest and one of his homespun sayings. It’s pretty difficult to resist his good nature and simple charm, and there are plenty of scenes where I find my emotional response is more predictable than the salivating of Pavlov’s dogs. And it doesn’t really bother me. On the other hand, while the soundtrack to the film serves its purpose by providing appropriate period music to accompany the fantastical events of Forrest’s life and the world he inhabits, it is absolutely infuriating. I’ll explain why in a moment.

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Playing a disabled or mentally ill character seems like it would be one of the most demanding roles for an actor to portray. It’s probably just as tough for an actress, although few films seem to be centered around handicapped women. It also seems to be something of an initiation rite – although it’s not universal , a large number of the finest actors, particularly in more recent years, have distinguished themselves by portraying characters that are either on the lower end of the intelligence scale, or suffering from a psychiatric disorder that makes coping with the surrounding world into a daily ordeal. In the final few moments of Billy Bob Thornton’s breakthrough performance as both an actor and a director in Sling Blade (1996), a fellow inmate in the mental institution he’s returned to asks him, “What it was like out there, in the world?” Thornton’s character Karl responds with the memorably simple pronouncement, “It was too big.”

The Film: Sling Blade

The Song: “The Maker”

The Artist: Daniel Lanois

Although the immense praise Billy Bob Thornton received for his performance as Karl Childers was well-deserved, it’s actually hard to pin down what handicap or illness Karl suffers from. When he is interviewed by a student reporter at the beginning of the film, the elaborate preparations and preconditions suggest that he suffers from autism and won’t react well to a deviation from routine. His tendency to rub his hands together suggests stereotypy, another common autistic trait. And Karl’s savant-like talent for fixing small engines coupled with his rudimentary social skills add even further to this impression.

However, Karl complacent acceptance of his imminent departure from the mental institution and his ability to adapt to new situations seem to refute this. Furthermore, the instantaneous empathy that Karl begins to show for his newfound friend Frank Wheatley is very uncharacteristic of autistics. Karl’s grasp of the implications of Doyle’s return to the household suggest that he can conceptualize complicated situations, and although Karl’s solution to the problem is very straightforward and simple, it’s a course of action that he contemplates thoroughly before following it through. In both writing and portraying Karl, Billy Bob Thornton managed to create a character that either suffers from a very unique disability or illness, or otherwise suffers from no disability at all other than a need to process information very slowly and a certain lack of initiative. (more…)

My ten-year college reunion is this weekend, and while fraternities didn’t exist at Harvey Mudd College, I did spend two years living in our campus’ closest approximation. North Dorm was a mostly male dormitory (to be fair, HMC was a mostly male college) that featured initiation rituals, fairly intense camaraderie, and relied on freshmen to perform most of the manual labor. We even had our own set of Greek symbols (πoe), which represented an activity that I was later banned from campus for engaging in. The dean has graciously given me permission to return to campus (the fool! Muahahaha!) although I can genuinely pledge that I have no evil intentions. And I say this not because I expect my feelings to change once I set foot on campus, but because it’s important for me to make a written record of this now, while I’m sober.

Animal House (1978) is by far the most influential college movie of all time. The concept of filling a dilapidated house with a motley collection of misfits and rejects has been enthusiastically imitated in such films as Revenge of the Nerds (1984), PCU (1994), and Old School (2003). The idea of a “toga party” has become part of our national lexicon. I’m quite certain that at some point Martin Amis, aghast at some of the incomprehensible garbage spewing from the pen of Christopher Hitchens, took aside his fellow writer and told him “my advice to you is to start drinking heavily.” And one can only wonder how many times Richard Hernstein and Charles Murray have trudged home after an unsuccessful night at the clubs and called up Pat Buchannan to complain, “the Negroes took our dates.”

The Film: Animal House

The Song: “Louie Louie”

The Artist: The Kingsmen (more…)

When The Breakfast Club begins, we’re presented with the five characters as easily defined stereotypes – “a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal.” In the film’s closing moments, against the backdrop of the Simple Minds classic “Don’t You (Forget About Me),” Anthony Michael Hall iterates the fundamental message of the film – that although it is much simpler to perceive the characters as members of discrete categories, it’s just plain wrong, and it’s an insult to each of them to do so. The members of the Breakfast Club don’t believe that Principal Vernon’s assessment of any of them is going to change in the slightest beyond the stereotypes he has already assigned them to, and therefore feel there is no point in attempting to explain themselves to him. It would all go in one ear and out the other.

The Film: The Breakfast Club

The Song: “Don’t You (Forget About Me)”

The Artist: Simple Minds

Ever since this endless presidential race began – and let’s be honest, the Democratic primary has effectively been underway since Barack Obama’s speech at the 2004 convention and the Republican primary hasn’t been much shorter – the traditional media has been struggling to characterize the candidates in terms of their high school equivalents. Anyone who has actually been to their high school reunion has a pretty good idea that people change a great deal in college and thereafter. Relying on a perception of a candidate’s stereotypical high school persona to make judgments about their current character and competence is an activity you might expect from someone who needs a bib to eat, has mittens pinned to their jackets, and isn’t allowed to play with matches, but certainly not from a professional journalist. (more…)

Teen angst is one of the most tempting lodes for an ore-seeking filmmaker to mine. It’s something of a shared experience; the instinct to rebel against authority in any form is a universal characteristic of adolescence. It’s something that most members of any audience can identify with, and sympathize with. But what makes working with teen angst so tricky is that the source of a teenager’s anxiety and frustration tends to change drastically with each generation, and relying on traditional subjects needs to be done perfectly or it becomes just another cliché in an oversaturated genre. Teen angst in literature has given us Holden Caufield and Gene Forrester. Teen angst in film has given us Jim Stark, John Bender, and Jimmy Cooper.

In Rebel Without a Cause (1955), Jim Stark’s issues are caused by his frustration with the dynamic between his ineffectual father and his domineering mother; a reflection of the paternalistic Father-Knows-Best culture of the fifties and sixties. In The Breakfast Club (1985), John Bender has an equally fitful reaction to the behavior of his own father, an abusive alcoholic. Quadrophenia (1979) is a timeless story because more than anything, its protagonist’s problems are driven by a search for identity.

Of Quadrophenia, Pete Townshend himself said, “The music is the best music that I’ve ever written, I think and it’s the best album that I will ever write.” I think Townshend is absolutely right. It’s got a more coherent story and more relevant subject material than Tommy (1969), and the complexity of the music in the album, while often a handicap when dealing with large audiences, is what takes it into masterpiece territory. Quadrophenia is one of the best albums ever produced, and the film version is one of the most memorable portrayals of teen angst that’s ever been captured.

The Film: Quadrophenia

The Song: “I’ve Had Enough”

The Artist: The Who (more…)