Welcome, fans of the Vampire Diaries!  In episode 3, the closing moments of the show featured a cover of the classic New Order song  “Temptation,” as envisioned by Moby and vocalized by Laura Dawn.  If you’re here, you probably enjoyed the cover version of the song quite a bit and might be surprised to find that it’s older than you think – it was originally released on Moby’s 2005 album Hotel.  Anyhow, please stop by the main site (www.popdose.com) to see if we’ve written about any other subjects you might be interested in.

Moby – “Temptation”

“Breaking the fourth wall” is an expression that refers to the imaginary “fourth wall” of a theater – the portal through which the audience watches the events of the story.  Breaking the wall occurs when one of the characters acknowledges the fact that an audience exists, and speaks to them directly (or refers to them indirectly).  This happens copiously in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986) – in fact, it’s probably the most familiar example of this technique.  Ferris talks about all kinds of things; he provides a tutorial on how to fake an illness, gripes about his lack of a car, and explains his disdain for authority – and of any ideology in general.  Having Ferris speak directly to us is an important part of the movie’s charm, as Matthew Broderick’s smarmy charisma floats off of the screen and makes it clear why everyone in his high school – even the teachers in the English department – simply adore him.

The Film: Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

The Song: “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want”

The Artist: Dream Academy

During their adventures in Chicago, the trio catch a game at Wrigley Field (which we missed, unfortunately – the Cubs won both games while we were in town) visit the Sears Tower, and spend a healthy interlude at the Art Institute of Chicago.  Their visit to the Art Institute begins with the teens joining a line of elementary school students on a field trip, and reminds us that in spite of all the laws these teens manage to break over the course of the day, they’re still just kids, and fairly innocent ones at that.

It’s a touching scene from the movie, set to a lovely instrumental cover of the Smiths song “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want,” (which originally appeared in the Hughes film Pretty in Pink) performed by Dream Academy.  A number of famous paintings are housed at the Art Institute, including Grant Wood’s “American Gothic,” Ed Hopper’s “Nighthawks,” Mary Cassatt’s “The Child’s Bath,” and Georges Seurat’s “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte,” and the scene takes us on a pleasant tour of them, showing that Ferris and his friends aren’t empty narcissistic jerks – they’re capable of being quiet and thoughtful and reverent and affectionate and appreciative.

Cameron’s moments alone with Seurat’s most famous painting are the centerpoint of the sequence.  While Ferris and Sloane are off in a different part of the museum kissing tenderly in front of a blue stained glass window, Cameron peers at the painting and his loneliness and angst is etched in his unblinking stare. Most of the subjects in the painting are facing out over the water, looking towards the opposite bank of the Seine.   The single exception is a little girl who is staring directly out of the picture frame, towards the viewer.  As the conflicted Cameron locks eyes with her, it creates a very curious moment; the camera’s focus moves increasingly closer to the surface of painting, eventually revealing the individual nubs of the canvas and the brushstrokes of paint.  The little girl in Seurat’s painting appears transfixed with what she sees – us – and it’s a brilliant moment as the fourth wall is broken yet again in the movie, this time by a character in a famous painting.

“The only place I get hurt is out there. The world don’t give a shit about me.”

I. Well, I’m Frustrated and Outdated

The first voice you hear is a dead man’s scream. It’s one of those full-throated primal belts, like Roger Daltrey’s in “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” Here it’s Kevin DuBrow, his scalded screech busting the floodgates for “Bang Your Head (Metal Health),” the second single from Quiet Riot’s landmark Metal Health (1983), the first slab of fuzz ’n’ meedley to ever reach #1 on the Billboard Albums chart.

The band was at its mainstream zenith then. Randy “The Ram” Robinson (Mickey Rourke) was probably just getting started, years of toil finally paying off as professional wrestling graduated from the sweathouse din of high school gyms to respectable arenas in metropolitan cities. It came with a price, of course. Regional territories were swallowed by ambitious, growing monoliths. But that wouldn’t matter for a while, not even to the Ram. Luckily, he was in his prime, synchronous with the era. He was the ’80s.

Someday that would come back to haunt him, but someday was just a harmless, nebulous future. For now we’re in his past. Wisely, director Darren Aronofsky (on a Robert D. Siegel script) never shows us this past except as a collage of scattered magazines and handbills against the ghostly chatter of ringside patter and a raucous anthem that rocked a long-gone summer, growled by a man who in 2007 was silenced forever.

But Ram still struts to this hoary buzzsaw, having plucked it during its popularity and transformed it into his ring-entrance music. When the riffs kick in to summon his fist-pumping form, the crowds respond as they would at a concert. They know what’s coming: a classic blast from their childhoods, riding into town with a near-suicidal need to entertain. And the outcome is always predetermined. Once their faded hero climbs the ropes and drops that old-school Ram Jam finisher — his greatest hit — it’s over, brother.

All over.

II. I Can’t Tell Ya, Baby, What Went Wrong

As a character, the Ram’s an interesting composite of wrestlers like Hulk Hogan (Hogan suggested as much in a recent Rolling Stone feature), whose crossover appeal changed the sport forever, and also-rans like Jake “The Snake” Roberts, one of my childhood idols. Jake lacked Hogan’s oiled physique and cartoon bombast, but he’s just as legendary. Hulk was showbiz; Jake was devious, calculating, and brilliant with a microphone. Sadly, his career’s been plagued by debilitating vices and demons, and he continues to sacrifice his fiftysomething body in armories and other such cavernous shit holes. There’s a scene in The Wrestler that mirrors a confrontation in 1999’s Beyond the Mat documentary between Jake and his long-estranged daughter, Brandy, as the former attempts to make amends for a lifetime of disappointments. For all his considerable verbal skills, he somehow can’t engage his own flesh and blood. His confession seems scripted, insincere. He’s been Jake “The Snake” so long he’s emotionally unfit for any other role.

Randy “The Ram” Robinson was born Robin Ramzinski, a name that still makes him cringe. “Call me Randy,” he insists. Its continued existence is perhaps a reminder of a life purposely abandoned, and confirmation of his growing obsolescence. Not everyone remembers him. Not everyone knows him on sight. But back in the ’80s, brother, coliseums practically hummed with his name.

So Randy surrounds himself with relics of his greatness. A Ram action figure poses on his van’s dashboard. The latest technology in his decrepit trailer is a Nintendo Entertainment System console with a Ram Jam cartridge. (“This game is so old,” a young neighbor marvels while educating Randy on more recent developments, like Call of Duty 4.) He peddles videocassettes at sparsely attended signings — the manufacturer likely no longer exists or sees no need to upgrade those titles. The most recent photo he has of his grown daughter, Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood), is from elementary school; the only acknowledgment of her life since then is a series of crossed-out phone numbers on the back. The snapshot itself is tucked in an old tin. “I used to try to forget about you,” he later admits to her, in the heartbreaking sequence reminiscent of Beyond the Mat (though the Ram seems more willing than the Snake to bare his anguish). “I used to try to pretend that you didn’t exist.”

He finds solace in the hit parade of his past. Our first glimpse of this is on a quiet drive home from a match, Randy at the helm of his rustbucket van — a tomb, really, and a second home whenever his landlord bolts his doors. He watches the road through a film of windshield grime; the endless hand wipes have done more harm than good. Cinderella’s “Don’t Know What You Got (Till It’s Gone),” a weepy mammoth from the band’s greatest album, Long Cold Winter (1988), reverberates through the shell. One can imagine the junior-prom perennial, its grab-ass sashay abetted by Tom Keifer’s dewy ivory, serving as a post-show comedown since Ram’s gravy days of planes and million-dollar title shots, back when everyone was in top form, even Cinderella. Twenty years later, like the Ram, they’re floating nostalgia on an endless tour. They haven’t issued a single new note in 15 years.

The Wrestler brilliantly cuts the chorus off at “gone.” It’s a word Randy can’t acknowledge. Time may have aged his body, but it does not pierce his armor.

III. You Make Me Groove

Like Ram, Pam (Marisa Tomei), too, is a soul in limbo. As her alter ego, “Cassidy,” she’s an exotic dancer at that most dangerous juncture in any career: too many birthdays. But what separates her from Randy, her favorite (and often only) customer, is that she draws a clear distinction between the necessary fiction she lives at work and her existence outside the club, although she observes the same set of rules for both, mostly to avoid getting hurt.

Pain comes anyway. The patrons of Cheeque’s decline her private-room come-ons and belittle her age. Her fellow dancers, seldom seen in action onscreen, move to the latest speaker throbs while she leans on a more reliable soundtrack that’s kept her thong stocked with singles since she was a young stunner herself, long before the disappointments and dreariness of reality, and the responsibilities of single motherhood. We know she’s sympathetic to underdogs like Randy just from her song choices: deep metal-album cuts as opposed to chart-strutters (most of the strippers I caught during my brief gentleman’s club heyday used Kiss’ Smashes, Thrashes & Hits on permanent shuffle), the dustier chestnuts that didn’t get the play they deserved.

FireHouse — not to be confused with Mike Watt and George Hurley’s post-Minutemen outfit fIREHOSE — had the misfortune to rise during the twilight of ’80s metal, when corn-dog riffs were slowly conceding to mumbling plod. Their self-titled 1990 debut is rife with formula buffoonery, led by the shameless calculation of “Don’t Treat Me Bad” and the by-now-ubiquitous Metal Ballad, “Love of a Lifetime” — the band’s biggest hit, naturally. “Don’t Walk Away” was dumped near disc’s end in a chasm between singles, a wasteland not likely explored by the average fan. Nineteen years and seven albums later, FireHouse’s legacy has been cruelly reduced to budget-priced compilations and occasional appearances on nostalgia packages. How many people know they still even exist?

The Scorpions, of course, have had much better luck. By the time FireHouse launched, these dudes had already released 13 albums. “Cassidy” dips way back for her final dance, to the title track of 1980’s Animal Magnetism, a record better remembered today for its controversial man/woman/Doberman sleeve than for any of its songs, save “The Zoo.” The band wouldn’t reach its commercial peak Stateside until the one/two punch of Blackout (1982) and Love at First Sting (1984), home to “No One Like You” and “Rock You Like a Hurricane,” respectively. The Scorpions forge on, having weathered seismic jolts in music, seemingly none the worse for wear. But more importantly, they’re survivors like Ram and Pam, whose dance is just beginning.

IV. I Knew Right from the Start You’d Put an Arrow through My Heart

Ram and Pam have more in common than the latter will admit. She struggles to maintain a professional distance, but there’s something about this damaged lug. When he suffers a heart attack following a particularly brutal “extreme” match with the Necro Butcher (a respectful gentleman backstage, a sadistic terror in the ring), he goes to her. She’s touched yet stricken by this violation of the unspoken dancer/customer contract. He has family, doesn’t he? A daughter? Why unburden your troubles to a virtual stranger whose entire shtick is the pretense of intimacy?

But succumb she does, to become his only real friend, someone apparently uninterested in his career, if she was ever aware of it at all. She helps him re-establish contact with his child after a semi-disastrous reunion by helping him shop for clothes, i.e., a suitable peace offering. He asks if he can call her Pam. She tells him not to get used to it. But there’s a spark, however faint.

They bond one afternoon over a couple beers and one of those jukebox songs that always manage to pop up at just the right time. This one links both to their glory days, when they were young and indestructible. They discover a shared affection for the ’80s’ (somewhat) rougher edges as hewn by Ratt’s “Round and Round,” the band’s breakout hit from ’84. “Tightened our belts,” sang Stephen Pearcy in his bluesy, bratty rap, “abused ourselves.” The Ram certainly identified with that.

Neither pays attention to much recorded after about 1990, the beginning of a considerably rough decade for both. Randy’s stock began to ebb as middle age took hold and younger, flashier figures arrived to capitalize on a multi-million dollar industry built by warhorses like him. Pam likely found those years just as difficult in a vocation obsessed with a youth impossible to maintain. “Round and Round,” therefore, is a shared memory that evokes not hollow nostalgia but genuine experience.

RAM: Goddamn, they don’t make ’em like they used to.

PAM: Fuckin’ ’80s, man. Best shit ever.

RAM: Bet your ass, man. Guns ‘N’ Roses fuckin’ rules.

PAM: Crüe…

RAM: Yeah.

PAM: Def Lep…

RAM: Then that Cobain pussy had to come in and ruin it all.

PAM: Like there’s something wrong with wanting to have a good time!

That was — and still is — a common generalization about music’s murkier turn. It was one likely expressed by Ratt themselves. They didn’t survive the rise of Nirvana, led by that mewling Kurt Cobain in his lumberjack jammies. Neither did Cinderella. Nor did anyone who espoused the “Nothin’ But a Good Time” mantra. Metal’s supremacy was at an end. Although the so-called “grunge” movement (as a longtime resident of the Pacific Northwest, I naturally tag that word in quotes after shuddering) openly loathed its predecessor’s processed cheese and would’ve been delighted to have pulled the trigger, the truth is that by 1991 metal was shopworn and tired and in need of a long, long nap. Popularity is prelude to obscurity. Relevance is doomed to irrelevance. It’s a weary cliché, but a painful lesson: Nothing lasts forever.

V. Where Everything Was As Fresh As the Bright Blue Sky

The musical upheaval was an ugly one, as gnarly as the overthrowing tones. Released in 1990, Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” exemplified all that was great and loathsome about what pundits had quickly declared “butt rock,” as parlayed by “hair bands”: toothless entendres and brainless silicone. For many, it was the last straw.

The two warring factions were embodied by relative newcomers Nirvana, whose “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was greeted as potpourri in a pigsty in 1991, and Guns N’ Roses, whose prickly snarl had reshaped metal’s dangerous curves on Appetite for Destruction (1987). A hiccup of historic coincidence would link them on the front lines. Both were signed to the David Geffen Company, and both released albums within a week of each other in the fall of 1991. Use Your Illusion arrived first; Nirvana followed with Nevermind.

They were complete opposites in every sense. Illusion was bloat-loaded with pomp, testosterone, and misogyny, two discs of excessive offense, the accumulated hubris of a pampered Svengali. Nevermind was sinewy with cathartic release, a retaliatory roar from the silenced and oppressed. The two obviously couldn’t co-exist. Bandleaders Axl Rose and Kurt Cobain sniped at each other in the press. Although only five years separated them, they seemed a generation apart. Cobain was seen as a hungry upstart, Rose a broken-down dinosaur who’d been famous too long. Lines were drawn posthaste: drunken fuckheads here, brittle poets here. There were occasional attempts at détente. “Can’t we like both?” someone asked. The answer — publicly, at least — was no. Something had to give.

Randy finds himself at a similar crossroads. His weakened heart’s forced him into retirement, but, y’know, it’s not so bad. He enjoys the anonymity of a deli-counter supermarket gig; to its patrons he’s just a leathery slab in a hairnet. There’s no pressure to be the Ram, or even a Randy — his nametag reads “Robin,” the moniker from his W4. He’s carefully rebuilding a relationship with the daughter he alienated, and Pam seems to like him too. But the Ram is never far from the surface, and once he returns, like any good wrestler, he destroys.

It begins when Pam, confused by a torrent of conflicting emotions, rebuffs his overtures at a deeper relationship. Hurt, he retreats to the only arms that have always embraced him: the squared circle, the up-and-comers weaned on his legend, the crowd that drowns him in love. A reckless rendezvous with a particularly freaky fan results in a forgotten dinner date with Stephanie, driving her away for good. Not even his job offers escape after a customer recognizes him as that “wrestler from the ’80s.” Watching Robin Ramzinski flail desperately through the aisles and out the door is like witnessing a final transformation. Robin and the Ram cannot co-exist. Something has to give.

Randy makes some phone calls and resumes preparing for a match (shaving his pits and dying his locks to Accept’s 1984 revenge stomper “Balls to the Wall,” perhaps subconsciously nodding at Udo Dirkschneider’s lava-lung admonishment, “Watch the damned/God bless ya/They’re gonna break their chains”) to end all matches: the 20th anniversary of his storied Madison Square Gardens title showdown with ’80s heel and nemesis, the Ayatollah (Ernest Miller), who in reality is a genial Phoenix car salesman named Bob. Long retired from active grappling, Bob’s exhumed his turban for a final go-round just for kicks. The Ram, however, has come home. He says as much to Pam, who, in typical movie fashion, arrives at the venue moments before his ring entrance, pleading with him to think of his heart. “The only place I get hurt is out there,” he tells her. “The world don’t give a shit about me.” “I’m here,” she counters. But it’s not enough.

Tonight his ring music is special. “Bang Your Head” is gone, replaced with “Sweet Child o’ Mine,” an anthem from Guns N’ Roses’ hungrier years, when Axl was a lean, mean, rotten-teeth dervish with something to prove. This third single from Appetite for Destruction, their 1987 debut, was their first #1 hit, a milestone reached more than a year after the album’s release. The song details Rose’s relationship with then-paramour Erin Everly (poetry abetted by a devilish riff from guitarist Slash, who some 20 years later would quietly punctuate The Wrestler’s drama with a pensive acoustic undercurrent), but could just as easily provide the Ram’s own epitaph better than the track written specifically for him by Bruce Springsteen (“Have you ever seen a one-trick pony in the fields so happy and free?/If you’ve ever seen a one-trick pony, then you’ve seen me” — Randy would never be so open):

She’s got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky

The paradox, of course, is that as he parades down the ramp into his house of worship, he’s leaving “she” far behind. It’s his farewell to her, to his daughter, to everyone. When Axl finally asks, “Where do we go now?” only Randy knows the answer. It starts with an ascent to the top rope, to linger beneath the lights, to savor their soothing warmth. The wily vet gives his people, those boisterous hundreds who never lost faith, those anonymous faces comprising the only family he’s known, the signal they know so well. Then he drops that old-school Ram Jam finisher — his greatest hit — and it’s over, brother.

All over.

The soundtrack to Danny Boyle’s film Trainspotting (1996) is widely considered to be one of the best soundtracks ever.  The songs Boyle selected for the soundtrack fulfill two primary goals – showcasing artists that the characters themselves adore, and setting the mood of the situations the songs accompany.  Music plays a huge part in the lives of the characters of Trainspotting, and very little of the music on the soundtrack was created specifically for the film – in fact relying heavily on musicians mentioned in the Irvin Welsh novel on which the film was based.  By contrast, the soundtrack of Boyle’s most recent production, Slumdog Millionaire (2008) was written entirely by A.R. Rahman to fit the visual material that had already been produced, with the exception of a single song.

The Film: Slumdog Millionaire

The Artist: M.I.A.

The Song: “Paper Planes”

Who’s Who: British-born but Irish-blooded Danny Boyle began his career at a point of origin that is becoming less and less common in modern filmmaking – the theater.  Later, he began producing material for television (BBC Northern Ireland) and directed his first feature film Shallow Grave in 1994 with funding from Channel Four (a television broadcaster).  Reuniting with the same production team from Shallow Grave (including writer John Hodge, producer Andrew MacDonald, and actor Ewan McGregor), Boyle’s next project was the massively successful Trainspotting (1996).  After the indifferently received films A Life Less Ordinary (1997) and The Beach (2000), Boyle helped reinvent the zombie horror genre with 28 Days Later (2002).

Mathangi “Maya” Arulpragasam, who uses the stage moniker M.I.A. (which stands for both Missing in Action and Missing in Acton) was born in London but returned to Sri Lanka with her family when she was only six months old so her father could help provide support for the Tamil militancy on the island.  After returning to London as a refugee several years later, M.I.A. learned English and eventually graduated from college with a degree in fine art, film, and video.  She first gained attention as a visual artist in 2001 with an exhibition of graffiti art and spray-painted canvasses that blended Tamil political images with British settings and products.  As a musician, M.I.A. first gained widespread popularity with her 2003 single “Galang.”  A very visibly pregnant M.I.A. recently dominated the headlines from the Grammy awards when she performed “Paper Planes” literally on her due date (though she actually delivered her first child two days later).

Why it Works: The audio editing as the scene begins, when the sound of the train overlaps the opening section of the song, is perfect, perfect, perfect.  It’s hard not to admire the fearlessness of the young actors as they clamber around the moving train.  During the overhead shot of the boys seated on the couping equipment between cars their peril is breathtakingly obvious – a single slip would lead to either boy’s death beneath the wheels of the train – yet is simply addressed as a matter of course.

The broad shots of rural India are beautiful and an important reminder that India consists of more than just urban slums.  The sense of the community aboard the train as a microeconomy is also fascinating.  And the way the scene closes, with a chubby boy busily stuffing his face alerting his elders to an ongoing theft – of food he clearly doesn’t need – is a brisk but poignant statement on the nature of greed.

What Goes Wrong: Having the young Jamal counting coins doesn’t quite fit with the overall flavor of the scene.  While the images match M.I.A.’s lyrics about “hustling,” the image implies that the boys are accumulating wealth – and they’re not.  They’re basically staying one step ahead of starvation.

Other Stuff: Apparently Boyle had been intending to use “Paper Planes” from early on in the production of Slumdog Millionaire.  He certainly chose the right scene for it.

It would never work, of course. To begin with, the locations are too far apart – The Dude’s home is in Venice, The Big Lebowski’s house is in Beverly Hills, Donny’s final resting place is down in San Pedro, Johnie’s is in the Miracle Mile, and the bridge is somewhere up north beyond the far side of the San Fernando Valley. To make matters worse, the bowling alley Hollywood Star Lanes no longer exists – it was closed and torn down in 2002. Apparently some of its decorations have been preserved at the Lucky Strike Lanes nearby, but it just doesn’t seem like it would be the same.  It’s a shame.  It would have been a brilliant tourist trap.

The Film: The Big Lebowski

The Artist: Kenny Rogers

The Song: “Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)”

Who’s Who: The Big Lebowski was the seventh film produced by Hollywood’s “two-headed director,” Joel and Ethan Coen. While the pair made their biggest critical and commercial splash prior to Lebowski with their offbeat kidnapping and murder saga Fargo (1996) and more recently with No Country For Old Men (2008), The Big Lebowski undeniably generated the most faithful cult following. The structure of the film was influenced by the writings of Raymond Chandler, who wrote The Big Sleep and numerous other detective novels and short stories that were set in and around Los Angeles.

From the first draft of the screenplay, The Coen Brothers had planned to use Kenny Rogers’ song. Kenny Rogers had yet to launch his solo career at the time “Just Dropped In” was recorded in 1967 – he was still playing with a group of musicians known as The First Edition. His image at the time, which included long hair, an earring, and sunglasses, was known as the “hippie Kenny” and somewhat approximated the appearance of the modern-day “Dude,” Jeff Lebowski.

Jeff Daniels Bridges was also an initial target of the Coen Brothers when they wrote the screenplay. Since both Jeff Daniels (Jeff “The Dude” Lebowski) and John Goodman (his friend Walter Sobchak) were busy at the time The Big Lebowski was written, the Coen Brothers produced Fargo first before they filmed The Big Lebowski. Julianne Moore’s involvement in the film was also complicated by other commitments; she was only able to film scenes for The Big Lebowski around her work for The Lost World: Jurassic Park (1997).

Why it Works: Having been slipped a mickey at the Malibu residence of pornography mogul Jackie Treehorn, The Dude passes into a luridly produced hallucination. It seems like every single thing in this dream sequence is a reference back to earlier or future events in the film. The bowling pin as a phallic symbol and the bowling balls as breast connect Lebowski’s interest with his current surroundings. The use of Saddam Hussein as an attendant connects to Walter’s ruminations on the Gulf War. The tool belt represents Lebowski’s future with Maude – as a “gun” for hire, much like the stars of Treehorn’s films.

What Goes Wrong: Nada. I can’t find a single thing to complain about. It’s great fun from start to finish.

Other Stuff: Something about this movie, and about this sequence in particular, always made me think of the eighties classic (yes, in my world it’s a classic) Three O’Clock High (1987), which featured Barry Sonnenfeld as its cinematographer. I was thrilled to discover that while Sonnenfeld was uninvolved with The Big Lebowski, he had worked as cinematographer for the Coen Brothers on their first three projects. I’m pretty certain that some of his influence prevailed du the production of The Big Lebowski, and the film was certainly improved as a result.

The Film: The Matrix

The Song: “Spybreak”

The Artist: Propellerheads

Who’s Who: Few people outside (or inside) of Hollywood had heard of Larry and Andy Wachowski prior to the release of The Matrix. They had written the script for Richard Donner’s Assassins (1995), a film so poorly made that it managed to garner criticism from conservatives and gun-rights activists despite consisting of little more than pure gunplay. They also made the most of their opportunity to direct Bound (1996), turning out a nifty little B-movie noir on a tight budget and working with actor Joe Pantoliano for the first time. After they passed their “audition,” producer Joel Silver (who also produced Assassins) entrusted the Wachowskis with a $63 million budget; they responded by directing the first movie to successfully exploit the “virtual reality” conceit, redefining the action genre in the process and generating gross receipts of almost half a billion dollars.

Propellerheads are a British group consisting of electronic artists Will White and Alex Gifford. The details of their biography aren’t particularly interesting, unless you’re a fan of the “big beat” style of electronic music.

Why It Works: Too often, when filmmakers are trying to convey the sense that a fight scene is taking place quickly, they resort to hyperkinetic editing and fast cuts that end up being more confusing than anything else. One of the most effective aspects of the Wachowski brothers’ filmmaking style is their technique of using slow motion to make fast motion look even faster. It’s a neat trick, and the exquisitely timed explosions of stone as Neo and Trinity race among the stone pillars, along with the rain of falling shell casings, emphasize the ridiculous number of bullets that are fired in the lobby shootout scene. When heard independently from the film, there’s nothing particularly memorable about “Spybreak,” but when it’s combined with the excitement of this scene it blends seamlessly into the film, and it becomes impossible to imagine the action set to any other song.

What Goes Wrong: I’m not the first viewer to notice the moral implications of murdering dozens of presumably innocent security guards who have committed no greater transgression than being tricked by the architects of the Matrix into believing that their job is to prevent a pair of potential terrorists from entering the building. But let’s not overthink this — Neo certainly isn’t going to.

In Brain Candy, the troupe of comedians known as the Kids in the Hall provided their own satiric take on the subject, postulating a new compound called GLeeMONEX, which encapsulates its users in the frame of mind they experienced during their happiest memory. Ultimately, the theme of this film echoes that of Brave New World, that eternal bliss can come at a steep price, and that it is a fundamental perversion of human nature for a person to be blissfully happy all the time.

The Film: Brain Candy

The Song: “Pablo and Andrea”

The Artist: Yo La Tengo

Who’s Who: The Kids in the Hall are a Canadian sketch comedy group that consisted of Dave Foley, Mark McKinney, Kevin McDonald, Bruce McCullough, and Scott Thompson. The troupe formed in 1984, and under the guidance of Lorne Michaels (whose speech patterns and mannerisms are mimicked brilliantly by Mark McKinney) produced a popular show that lasted from 1988 until 1994. Brain Candy was released in 1996, to limited success.

Yo La Tengo are one of the more venerable acts in the indie rock universe. Originally formed by the husband and wife team of Ira Kaplan and Georgia Hubley in 1984, the band has produced 15 albums – including I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One (1997), I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass (2006), and a large number of recorded covers. The band appeared briefly in the role of the Velvet Underground in the Valerie Solanas biopic I Shot Andy Warhol (1996), and more recently has provided the soundtracks for the films Junebug (2005), Game 6 (2006), and Shortbus (2006).

Why it Works: The blissful guitar part, with wispy descents and bent notes, and murmured vocals of this song would be the perfect soundtrack to a lazy makeout session on a couch on a warm afternoon late in the summer (and no, this doesn’t come from personal experience – in my own case the song that accompanied such a blissful memory was Ben Harper’s “Give a Man a Home”). It really does seem like the kind of song that could accompany a person’s happiest memory.

What Goes Wrong: This song would be absolutely perfect for this scene – if you could actually HEAR IT. Honestly, would you have been able to identify this song without both knowing the song very well, and paying very close attention? When I write about Zach Braff’s Garden State (2004), I’ll engage in a full rant about how much I hate it when filmmakers include a token, barely audible burst of a song in a film solely in order to include it on the soundtrack. That’s a huge problem with the Brain Candy soundtrack, which is actually a pretty great collection of music.

Other Stuff: I wonder what Huxley would have though of Prozac, or of Elizabeth Wurtzel, or of Prozac Nation. I suspect that given his fears of deindividualization, he might have been pleased to meet someone so fantastically self-obsessed.

A lot of times, our ability to feel joy for others is constrained by our own status – if you’re having a horrible month, it’s hard to be happy when you find out that one of your friends just scored a huge raise. That’s why it’s a bad idea to gamble as a group – for every person that hits it big, there’s going to be at least one other who takes a bath. But what’s always been interesting about my friendship with Rodger is that I’m always rooting for him – regardless of what’s going on with me. I can spend two hours bobbing about in freezing water without catching a single wave, but if I see Rodger pick up a long right and stroll out onto the nose, I’ll be hooting for him as loud as I can.

I’ve always tried to resist being jealous about having friends chase after my ex-girlfriends, but Rodger’s the one guy I was actually disappointed in when he passed up his chance when my ex Suzon turned up at his New Year’s party in a pair of tight leather pants.* Doug Liman’s independent film Swingers (1996) features a similar sort of friendship between its central character Mikey (Jon Favreau) and his libertine friend Trent (Vince Vaughn).

The Film: Swingers

The Song: “Go Daddy-O”

The Artist: Big Bad Voodoo Daddy

Who’s Who: This film, which was shot on a tidy budget of $250,000 in and around the Los Feliz neighborhood of Los Angeles, was a rousing success for most of those who were involved in its production. It was written by and starred Jon Favreau, whose acting career flourished after its release. Favreau has had even greater success behind the camera, after directing the lackluster Made (2001) – no more Mafia comedies, PLEASE – he helmed this year’s second-highest grossing blockbuster Iron Man.

Vince Vaughn has become one of Hollywood’s most popular and successful leading men, helping pull in at least $100 million in The Lost World: Jurassic Park (1997), DodgeBall (2004), Wedding Crashers (2005), and The Breakup (2006). Doug Liman has built a solid career in the realm of action films, directing The Bourne Identity (2002) and serving as producer for the subsequent sequels, as well as directing the financial juggernauts Mr. and Mrs. Smith (2005) and Jumper (2008).

Ron Livingston has been consistently active since his turn in Swingers as Mikey’s hometown friend Rob. And even Heather Graham, whose career had entered something of a valley after her triumph in Drugstore Cowboy (1989), benefited from her appearance as Mikey’s salvation, the Wisconsin transplant Lorraine. And the film provided great exposure for Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, a swing revival band from California who signed a contract with Capitol Records shortly after the film was released and played the halftime show at Superbowl XXXIII in 1999.

Why it Works: I took one session of dance classes – the jitterbug – and one of the first things I learned about partner dancing is that when leading, it is more important than anything else to be decisive. This scene provides us an opportunity to watch Mike’s rapid transition from supplicant to star. The chance to show off for just a few minutes out on the dance floor with a talented partner brings his mojo roaring back. The dance is fun to watch, and of course the song is appropriately peppy and the title fits the scenario perfectly. But what’s more interesting to me than all of that is Trent’s behavior as a spectator.

Throughout the film, Trent has been doing the best he’s capable of to get Mikey out of the consistent funk he’s been in since leaving his girlfriend in New York to pursue an acting career in Hollywood. Even though Trent shows himself to be alternately immature, belligerent, self-absorbed, and condescending, he ultimately cares about his friend Mikey and more than anything just wants him to be happy. After Mikey disastrously interrupts Trent’s tryst with a Vegas cocktail waitress, Trent lies and claims that he “didn’t really like her all that much, to be honest.” When Mike interrupts a complex courting ritual between Trent and a cigar-smoking actress at a party, Trent tells him, “Don’t sweat it.” And in the scene shown above, when Mikey has finally felt a surge of self-confidence and is cutting a rug out on the dance floor, Trent is transfixed. Even though Trent throws a drunken tantrum in a diner afterwards when Mikey insists that he’s got it under control, it’s clear that in the moment of Mikey’s triumph, Trent is genuinely thrilled to see his friend succeed.

What Goes Wrong: After a splendid exchange in which Mikey quips that “my reputation appears to have preceded me,” the scene is a bit slow to develop before Lorraine asks him to dance with her. Once they’re on the floor, though, everything comes together.

Other Stuff: I’m not saying that I’m anything like Trent, or that Rodger is anything like Mikey, but when I watched him and his bride Karen share their first dance, I couldn’t have possibly been happier. Congratulations to you both.

* I was out of town. It probably would have been a lot weirder if I had been around.

A number of months ago, Darren Robbins posted a column discussing how brazen arrogance seemed to be the most valuable asset in a playboy’s pickup arsenal. If this is true, then how come neither Beavis nor Butt-Head has ever scored?

I don’t want to sound pretentious here, but the seduction approaches of this dramaturgical diad are actually diametrically opposed. Butt-Head takes the proactive approach of the alpha male, making demands under the expectation that his (imagined) status and audacity will ensure their fulfillment. Beavis, on the other hand, creates a totally outrageous paradigm by adopting the more relaxed stance of the beta, trusting that his good nature and casual self-deprecation will win sympathy, and thus boobs. Neither has ever worked, and in a magnificent outpouring of angst at the end of the film, after they had traveled “a hundred miles” across the country in a desperate attempt to score, Beavis insists that both of them are “just gonna get old,” but that “it’s just not gonna happen.”

Butt-Head epitomizes the arrogance envisioned by Darren, that severe narcissism bordering on the delusional. Of course, as is summarized brilliantly in Beavis’ final speech, neither of them is ever going to score, or else one of the major driving forces of the show would be destroyed. But how would things work out for Butt-Head if he existed within the real world? Would his supreme arrogance trump his braces, and lisp, and slouching posture? My own experience has taught me that absolutely nothing matters more than self-confidence. But self-confidence can’t be feigned – when it is, it becomes that which Butt-Head dispays – bravado. The difference between the two can sometimes boil down to a simple question: do you truly believe your own bullshit?

The Film: Beavis and Butt-Head Do America

The Song: “Two Cool Guys”

The Artist: Isaac Hayes

Who’s Who: Isaac Hayes’ ultra-cool image and breezy self-confidence certainly seemed to be genuine. A large amount of his depth as a musician was self-taught. Hayes was a singer, a songwriter, a producer, an arranger, a composer, and at times, an actor. His work for Shaft (1971) earned him an Academy Award for Best Song and two Grammys, and by 1974 he was acting as well, making appearances in the blaxploitation films Three Tough Guys and Truck Turner, as well as writing the soundtracks for both.

Isaac Hayes – “Three Tough Guys”

After a disastrous bankruptcy in 1976, Hayes lingered in relative obscurity for twenty years, only occasionally producing new material and making appearances in film and television that played to an image of coolness that was crafted during the Shaft era. His true return to the public consciousness occurred with his critically and commercially successful comeback album Branded (1995) and his voice work on the South Park series, which ended in 2005 after a controversial episode about Scientology.

Mike Judge, the creator and voice talent behind Beavis and Butthead, modeled the fictional Highland, Texas after his own hometown of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Judge is an interesting phenomenon in Hollywood, quietly churning out moderately popular material, most of which consists of withering social commentary dressed up as satire. Although most famously known for his animation and voice work on Beavis and Butt-Head and King of the Hill, Judge also directed the live-action films Office Space (1999) and Idiocracy (2006). Both of these films were box office flops (particularly the latter, whose theatrical release was viciously sabotaged by Fox studios) but have enjoyed substantial success as cult hits on video and DVD.

Why it Works: Last week, I wrote about Brick (2006) and how the film takes characters from 40’s detective novels and translates them into their high-school equivalents. The opening sequence from Beavis and Butt-Head Do America does a similar thing, but even better, as the titular characters are inserted directly into the seventies. The guitar lick that opens the sequence is the exact same sound that made the theme of Shaft so unforgettable – but the notes have been changed to match the theme from the Beavis and Butt-Head television show. And the images of Beavis and Butt-Head racing around San Francisco in a 1974 Ford Torino are taken directly from the television show Starsky and Hutch. Every time I see Beavis tucked behind the wheel of a plainclothesman’s car, red light flashing, a grim pebble-toothed smile on his face, I go to pieces. Every time I see Butt-Head catch the backside of a hand from a girl in a turquoise tube top, I can’t help but smile. This is my favorite opening sequence for a film. Ever.

What Goes Wrong: Nothing. It’s flawless.

Other Stuff: A movie that consists of such rudimentary animation is forced to rely on both the strength of its script and the considerable (if inexplicable) charisma of its stars. When a filmmaker manages to entice the likes of Cloris Leachman to tell an eager Beavis that “there’s so many sluts in Las Vegas you won’t know where to begin,” you’ve achieved a piece of cinematic glory. How can an exchange like “something’s wrong with my butt,” and “your butt sucks” be so absurdly hilarious? Beavis and Butt-Head seem to fit nicely into the theory of comedy posited in Eric Idle’s book The Road to Mars, as a red nose and white face, respectively, and the commentary provided by the pair during music videos showed that Mike Judge is a lot more cerebral than his creations would have led us to believe.

An interesting piece of trivia that reconnects back to Isaac Hayes – Mike Judge provided the voice of Kenny in South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut.

And finally, just for fun: Three Tough Guys Radio Spot

The first I’d heard of this adaptation of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s classic was when I discovered its soundtrack in a discount bin in a record store in Johannesburg. In the liner notes, the filmmakers confess that they were essentially trying to recreate the Modest Mouse album Lonesome Crowded West (1997). I don’t think they have anything to apologize for – this is actually one of the strongest film soundtracks I’ve ever heard. For me, music is such a large part of the film-watching experience that I can be seduced by a good soundtrack, and expecting this film to be based on classic Russian novel just sweetened the bait. And even for someone like me, who had a hard time digesting the complex themes of Crime and Punishment, this film turned out to be a huge disappointment.

The Film: Crime and Punishment in Suburbia

The Song: “Useless”

The Artist: Kruder & Dorfmeister / Depeche Mode

Who’s Who: Monica Keena, an undeniable piece of eye candy who has been seen on Dawson’s Creek and Undeclared, inhabits the role of Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, the central character of Dostoyevsky’s novel. In what ways is her character similar to Raskolinikov? Well, let’s see…she commits a murder. That’s about it. How is her story different? To begin with, Raskolinkov is poverty-stricken and lonely. Roseanne is wealthy and popular. Raskolnikov’s crime was essentially motiveless. It was conceived in a fit of philosophic pique, ostensibly performed in order to relieve his poverty and rid the world of a parasitic pawnbroker, but mainly it is done to indulge a Leopold-and-Loeb sort of ubermensch mentality. Roseanne’s crime is an action of revenge against her stepfather (Michael Ironside), who has raped her. Raskolnikov’s crime includes the murder of an innocent bystander. Roseanne’s includes only a single deserving victim. Raskolnikov’s psychological breakdown occurs from the feelings of guilt and remorse he suffers, as well his sense of isolation from rational society. Roseanne’s breakdown is driven by the fact that her mother is arrested and prosecuted for the murder, and the frustrations of her accomplice. As an adaptation, this film is an disaster.

Rob Schmidt, the director, was also responsible for the forgettable horror film Wrong Turn (2003). Crime and Punishment in Suburbia was nominated for the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance film festival in 2000, a suggestion which is almost as laughable as the nomination of Pretty Persuasion in 2005. His films (as well as his casting choices) suggest and affinity for the stories and styles created by Larry Clark and Joss Whedon.

Vincent Kartheiser plays the counterpoint to the novel’s Sonya, who serves as Raskolnikov’s conscience. Vincent (whose shares the same first name as his character) narrates the film with frequent bits of “insight” into Roseanne’s psychological disintegration and views the events of the film through the lens of his camera as he stalks Roseanne from afar, and eventually from up close.

Curiously, the Depeche Mode song “Useless” featured in this scene, which takes place immediately after Roseanne has been raped by her self-pitying stepfather (Michael Ironside) is not included in the official soundtrack. Kruder and Dorfmeister, a pair of German disc jockeys, are responsible for the remix version of the song that is used. It came from their double album The K&D Sessions. I firmly believe that the first four songs on the second disc are the perfect soundtrack to any competent seduction, and are presented here for you and your partner’s enjoyment.

Kruder and Dorfmeister – Seduction Mix

Why it Works: The emotional lassitude of Keena’s Roseanne is convincing. Her choice of an outfit that covers any bare skin (standing in contrast to a landscape and climate that suggests the movie is set in Arizona) is appropriate and stands in stark contrast to her earlier wardrobe choices, where cleavage is consistently on display.

What Goes Wrong: As someone who has shoved more than one ill-conceived sonnet into the grate of a sophomore’s locker, I consider myself an authority on the inappropriate gestures of affection that high school students are capable of. I can’t for a second believe that someone would rush into a chemistry laboratory bearing a necklace made of garlic buds and thrust it into the unwilling hands of his stalker-crush. It’s just way, way, way too weird.

Other Stuff: I don’t think I’ve ever seen the quality of a movie was so completely opposite to the quality of its soundtrack. The film is awful. Don’t waste your time with it. On the other hand, the soundtrack…

Modest Mouse – “Trailer Trash”

Meat Puppets – “Two Rivers”

Sleater-Kinney – “Burn, Don’t Freeze”

Guided By Voices – “Learning to Hunt”