Blogcritics Author: Simon Glickman

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

Movie Review: They Saved Hitler's Brain - Why We're Fixated On It

Simon Glickman — Mon, 30 Apr 2007 21:56:21 EDT

They Saved Hitler’s Brain is a film you and your family need to see. It’s far from mere entertainment – in fact, it’s not entertaining at all. It’s just a cold, hard look at what happened after the war. Y’see, when the jig was finally up, these Nazi dudes in the bunker sawed off the Fuhrer’s head and kept it in a jar, where – thanks to surprisingly advanced medical techniques – it continued issuing orders and consulting them on the creation of a Fourth Reich. Fortunately, the good guys found out and chased the Nazi dudes around and, like, somebody threw a Molotov cocktail at the car with the head in it and it melted like a scented candle in a bong shop. There are some facts in between, but the cough medicine I’d ingested to help me “understand” this cinematic milestone was unexpectedly potent. Originally filmed in the early '60s under the title Madmen of Mandoras (that’s the mythical South American country where the bad guys are holed up with their jarful of “Mister H,” as he is for some reason designated), the film proved too short for TV broadcast and fell into the hands of some other people who shot new footage in 1968.Now, the original film is truly dreadful – a Z-grade horror flick fraught with painful overacting and a script so retarded that the cast members seem ready to slap their own foreheads in mortification. But the '68 footage makes the original stuff look like David Lean standing on Eisenstein’s shoulders. We’re talking orders of magnitude worse. In fact, I wouldn’t call it so much a film as, oh, what’s the word for a troop of orangutans randomly pointing a camera? I’ll think of it in a minute.Suffice to say that some catatonic-looking college freaks with too-long hair, some of whom (as has been remarked elsewhere) resemble the Blues Brothers, skulk around and commit acts of lackadaisically rendered mayhem; meanwhile, a spy chick in a miniskirt drives her VW bug to the apartment of a spy guy with a porn-star mustache and they mumble some groaningly awful one-liners about “women’s lib” before discussing secret formulas or something. Imagine a porno flick with all the sex scenes removed and only the “plot” remaining, then imagine the person who was supposed to bring the script smoked it instead. Nope, that doesn’t sufficiently convey how bad it is.In any case, it seems fair to note that watching this hippie-fried home movie from 1968 spliced into a feature from five years earlier is a bit like seeing one of the cavemen in Quest for Fire using a ray gun.Fortunately, most of this stuff dissipates after a while and we’re returned to the comparatively swank environs of early-'60s horror schlock once more. Sadly, like cross-country motorists making their way through Kansas, we must brave many more miles of flat, plodding exposition before we get to the good stuff. Can we agree that a film that makes Jews like us fast-forward to get to Hitler is a unique atrocity in its own right?But the Hitler scenes – they’re so good. In the titular role, Bill Freed (whose only other credit, according to IMDb, was an ensemble part in Francis Ford Coppola’s 1962 cowboy nudie flick Tonight For Sure) really sinks his choppers into the scenery – understanding that the essence of history’s most notorious fascist maniac is the yelling. Seriously, the dude is apoplectic 100% of the time, and that, my friends, is movie gold.And since the Nazis knew that without his yelling they would lack direction (really, what have they accomplished since 1945?), you understand why they preserve his keppe in a relatively portable container. That way he can yell at them anywhere – in the car, in the basket of a Schwinn bike, even on roller skates! How they rely on his yelling to give them purpose and meaning. Although Freed’s guttural faux-German tirades prevent the audience from dozing off during the production’s many tension-free chase sequences, the same cannot be said, alas, for Freed's stunt double, the dummy head carried around by Hitler's truculent (and, I must say, easily defeated) underlings.Why, then, are we so fascinated by They Saved Hitler’s Brain? There are many layers to the answer. As most Jews now realize, Hitler is probably still at large – and the primary role of human creative endeavors like film, literature, and interpretive dance is to help us figure out where he is and what he’s doing. But there’s also the place of this unique enterprise in movie history.And the more cough medicine I drink, the more I wonder about it. Sometimes, after the little swirly angels fly out of the 30-milliliter cup, I envision exchanges like this one, between the creator of the film and a would-be exhibitor:EXHIBITOR: Okay, first off, I love the title.CREATOR: Yes, we think it has a lot of zip.EXHIBITOR: There's just one thing ...CREATOR: Mmmm?EXHIBITOR: Well, in the script it's just a brain. I mean, they call it "Mein Fuhrer," and so forth, but, well, it could be anyone's brain.CREATOR: You can tell right off it's evil, though.EXHIBITOR: That's true. That's very true. CREATOR: It swells and throbs and whatnot.EXHIBITOR: Mmm. Yes. And that's all great. But here's the thing: How do we know it's Hitler's brain?CREATOR: Well, the heiling and "Mein Fuhrers" and what have you ...EXHIBITOR: Sure, sure. All good for context. But I think we want to make sure the audience, you know ... that we remove all doubt.CREATOR: I'm not sure where you're going with this.EXHIBITOR: Well, what if they save the whole head? I think when you put Hitler on that poster, people want to see the mustache. They want to know for sure.CREATOR: "They Saved Hitler's Head?" I'd be a laughingstock!EXHIBITOR: No, no. Keep the title. It has, as you say ... it has zip. CREATOR: A lot of zip.EXHIBITOR: A whole hell of a lot. CREATOR: Only an idiot would see "They Saved Hitler's Brain" on the lobby card and expect to see a mustache. Brains, I hasten to remind you, are unadorned by facial hair.EXHIBITOR: Listen, Shakespeare. I don't know much about all that, but I know what sells tickets. I'm telling you they can save Hitler's brain inside his head, for Pete's sake, and the title still applies.CREATOR: Well, technically.EXHIBITOR: Sure! Think about that scary Hitler head in, oh, I dunno, a jar. You got the evil jerries angle and the sci-fi angle.CREATOR: Let me think about it.EXHIBITOR: What's to think about? Brain on the poster, head on the screen. Mark my words: People are going to want to see that mustache.

Born and raised in the L.A. suburbs. Schools: Grant. Reed. Oxford. Only real job: HITS Magazine. Co-founded Editorial Emergency (with Julia Rubiner) in '05, now turning out stylish copy for a panoply of corporate, nonprofit and entrepreneurial clients. Launched Very Hot Jews blog with Sera Gamble in '07. Regular host of The Classic Rock Singalong.

Music Review: The Fratellis, Michelle Penn, Extra

Simon Glickman — Mon, 30 Apr 2007 10:31:38 EDT

It's been hard to get excited about rock and roll lately, what with the regular coronation of self-important, emo-flavored clans whose sound and fury (and eyeliner and top hats) signify so little. The fact is, if you showed up at some fête and saw one of these hipster outfits performing, you’d probably call a friend — "Hey, I'm at this party and you’ll never guess who's playing … The Smirks!" — but after a couple of songs you'd also probably drift off to make more phone calls. If The Fratellis were playing, though, you’d turn your phone off. You might even dash it to the ground and stomp on it for good measure. This would be unfortunate only because The Fratellis now offer several of their infectious tunes as ringtones.NME recently named this Glasgow trio the Best New Band in Britain, which is rather a shame since that U.K. publication's reputation for lavishing hyperbolic accolades on cool-but-underwhelming bands has created something of an Emperor's New Clothes syndrome. A 2007 Brit Award probably won't help the situation. Rest assured, however, that this is not your typical Next Big Thing guitar-thrashing import. You might have heard one of their songs on an iTunes commercial, but neither are they a symbol for the fragmented world of downloading. In fact, they've made a mighty fine album, Costello Music(Cherrytree/Island/Interscope), that embraces the best of the past while paving new ground. No surprise, then, that classic-rock guru Pete Townshend has embraced them and even sat in for a TV performance of one of their songs.According to their press bio, the three met while working various vertiginous rides at a traveling carnival, and their songs duly suggest the whirling, kaleidoscopic, hormonal rush of the midway, with all its sugary delights and seedy dangers.Expertly produced by Tony Hoffer (Beck), Costello is a rarity in these overpacked, underdeveloped days — a solid, utterly satisfying disc. Among the standouts: the churning opener, "Henrietta" (their first U.K. single, about an amorous fan with a jealous husband); the irresistibly bouncy domestic single "Chelsea Dagger"; the zigzagging, tribally exuberant "Flathead"; the stunningly sweet "Whistle for the Choir," with its big, heartsick refrain recalling the sincerest of the sweater-clad Merseybeat mongers of yore; the propulsive, ridiculously catchy "For the Girl"; the dark, desperate and seductive "Doginabag"; the breakneck "Creepin' Up the Backstairs"; and plenty more besides. The sound is lively and spacious, garnishing the band's smart dynamics with classic reverb and other sparkly touches. Recalling the Celtic-punk energy of The Pogues, the semi-acoustic strut of The Violent Femmes, the brainy, punchy pop of The Buzzcocks and Supergrass, and the jaded melodic smarts of pub-rockers like The Faces and Ian Hunter, The Fratellis kick up a merry racket while managing to paint funny, poignant pictures of love, intoxication, and other misadventures of youth. The high-spirited tunes on Costello Music inspire the downing of beer and possibly an ill-advised plunge into a sweaty crowd of revelers. And there's no need to study up on the lyrics — the joyous “la la la la” refrains and handclaps invite all and sundry to join in. Which they'll undoubtedly be doing as the band hits the road for a U.S. tour with Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.Singer-songwriter Jon, bassist Barry and drummer Mince have all adopted the phony fraternal surname Fratelli in the spirit of another scruffy band of hookmeisters, The Ramones. It suits their unpretentious, workmanlike approach: no grand, glittery statements of purpose, just good times. Most songs clock in at under three and a half minutes, though by the time they end, you've been rocked to your core.Over the course of several albums, Detroit-born, L.A.-based singer-songwriter Michelle Penn has established her pop-rock bona fides with sturdy melodies and lush arrangements, but her new, self-produced disc, Red Five (Pissy Missy Music), is a quantum leap befitting the Star Wars association of its title. Not only are her songs sharper and more relentlessly catchy than ever, but Penn (who has lately been touring with the Go-Go's and Jason Mraz) has stepped up as one of the best singers in the genre. Her sweet, smoky voice inescapably suggests the great Chrissie Hynde, and Penn doesn't run from her influences; indeed, Pretenders guitarist Adam Seymour appears on Red Five and even offers a filigree from The Pretenders' "Cuban Slide." It isn't just Penn's timbre that recalls Hynde; she slides from steely defiance to melting tenderness with a similar ease. Too many of today's pop singers, especially the female ones, favor breathy vocal affectations, histrionic phrasing, and the dreaded pronunciation of "me" as "may" (the long "e" tends to disrupt their pitch). But these shortcomings are merely symptoms of a larger problem: Radio's too-eager embrace of the super-young means that a high percentage of the voices we hear singing about deep emotions lack the life experience to say anything meaningful, let alone wring any nuance out of the sonic kibble their handlers feed them. Which makes Penn's knowing, womanly vocals such a breath of fresh air. With little fanfare, she packs real feeling and sensuality into every phrase — without ever distracting from the choruses of superb tunes like "I Know," "Think Twice," "Go Wrong," "Wake Up" and a handful of others that I defy you to get out of your head once they get in. In fact, Red Five more or less redeems a subgenre (Hot AC, as it's known in the radio biz) I believed to be utterly exhausted. It's the sound of an artist who knows who she is and is now prepared to show the posers how it's done.Jim Mills has been a fixture on L.A.'s rock scene for years, though his sound has been anything but fixed. A founding member of squall-thrall hipsters Drill Team and sometime amanuensis of harmonizing superheroes Wondermints, Mills has explored everything from power pop to experimental noise; he's one of those musicians who can play virtually any song you can name, whether it's an obscure psychedelic nugget or an arena-rock perennial. Adeptly employing a staggering range of instruments, he has emerged once again with a true solo album, F R Double E (Commune Records), recorded under the name Extra.Writing, producing, playing and singing every note, Mills salutes such major influences as late Pink Floyd founder Syd Barrett; the tumbling, baroque exertions of The Who's middle period; David Bowie's glam-alien peak; Beach Boys founder Brian Wilson's teenage symphonies to God; all manner of '70s troubadours (Nilsson in particular springs to mind); prog-rockers like Yes and Genesis; and too many others to enumerate, yet he manages to transcend pastiche completely.F R Double E is a weirdly gorgeous world all its own, a dreamlike terrain of twisty hooks, stacked harmonies, spiraling guitar solos and otherworldly piano that is at once expansive and intimate. "I am music and that's all I know," Mills sings at the end of opening track "Forward to Mono," and this is as good a manifesto as any for the republic of Extra. These creations invariably take wild and unbidden turns, such as the swinging, Zappa-esque keyboard interlude in "The Medley I Warned You About," which segues to a lyrical recitation of the value of Pi before giving way to a blunt "whatever." A personal favorite is the sprawling piano-bar narrative "Do You Know What You're Saying, Eddie?" Over the course of its nearly seven minutes, the composition travels from hushed falsetto-and-baby-grand phrases to soaring, chiming, string-laden pop à la Todd Rundgren. The dreamy "Minutes" pairs acoustic strums, a listless groove and sleigh bells, then eases into a country-fried piano solo of meandering simplicity before launching into a sweet and soulful section that would be called a chorus (or a great chorus) if it were repeated.But Mills is F R double E of the gravitational pull of convention. In fact, his preferred song structure is the suite — instead of cycling comfortably from verse to chorus to verse, Extra's pieces flame out a section at a time, like a spaceship uncoupling. It may not be your cup of tea. But if it is, you'll want frequent refills.