Shooting a psychological thriller in a location where one might actually happen in real life is a detail passed over by most filmmakers, but not by Sebastián Cordero. As the Ecuadorian director points out when discussing his new film, Crónicas, Babahoyo is a town where houses don’t have running water, but they do have television, a situation that creates an interesting, unpredictable dynamic. I'll buy that, even when a movie that tries to operate on remove the vertebrae of journalistic ethics (are there any left?) couldn’t be more acridly out of tune with my cinematic tastes.
In the film, which debuted earlier this year in the Cannes Film Festival's Un Certain Regard section, John Leguizamo plays Manolo Bonilla, an ambitious journalist who works for a tabloid TV series. He and his crew – a cameraman and the beautiful Marisa – are willing to sell their souls to the devil, if they must, in the eternal quest for career advancement. The crew's anything-goes mentality is the best part of the movie, really: their readiness to disregard any sense of ethics or deontology they might harbor. Marisa is the only one who truly regrets having overlooked some basic principles.
In a reversal of human and God roles (and we all know how feverously religious Mexican people can be), everyone plays God here. From the mutinous people seeking to lynch a Bible salesman for accidentally running over a boy, to the “monster of Babahoyo” himself, a killer famed for targeting children, and Leguizamo's character, salivating for his biggest story, there is no power more righteous than one's own. And so an odd alliance is made, somehow reminiscent of Faust, if you look carefully: Vinicio Cepeda, the traveling preacher who finds himself behind bars after indivertibly killing a boy with his truck and, in a desperate attempt to free himself from jail, is reduced to selling his story of the monster rather than selling the Bible.
Crónicas underlines the dense variety of human fauna populating Mexican villages, but the story fails to divert our view from the traditional, commonsensical approach of people eager to be seen on TV. Cordero seems so anxious to set and scan the voltage levels of human behaviour that he completely forgets to deliver an interesting story, serving the usual, kitsch-like menu instead. His camera even sprinkles extra lemon juice over certain sordid moments of the film, making it a tabloid-esque, arid and dreary modern tale, hollow of any real meaning or value.
It is obvious that the director weighed every camera move cautiously, his lenses traveling through the village to detail the setting, but it ultimately fails to compromise our view of fractured cinema. In the end, it leaves itself ambiguous, unable to put a time-signatured footprint in our minds. Shot with a glossy production and wrought with careless close-ups, Crónicas falls short in texture, leaving many unsolved problems hanging in the air.
The best films are the ones which we recall in detail, not only the content but also our relationship to it, where and when and with whom we saw them. Crónicas is ultimately ambiguous, lacking that intimacy of human experience. Even though Cordero deserves applause for delivering a human touch to every character, including the monster of Babahoyo, the human experience presented languishes as entertainment, failing to develop a connection with the viewer, always remaining distant, a video collage that is cold, detatched and vaccum sealed under the glaze of the lens.
SEE ALSO: www.cronicasthemovie.net
http://www.lostatsea.net/feature.phtml?fid=1756569747431db04f6ce0a
09/09/2005
06/09/2005
The Capitol Years - Let Them Drink
Burn & Shiver
Rating: 5.5/10
It should be no surprise that any band claiming to belong, or righteously belonging, to the garage revival chunk of these last years will, as time goes by, embody no less than a penny in a slot machine. To kick things off, I should clarify that the Capitol Years are no different than the Mooney Suzuki or the Warlocks - or even the Strokes, to raise more than a couple of eyebrows - in that every two tracks, they mimic.
There’s no use in elaborating on my resistance to most garage revivalist bands (the Walkmen should always be mentioned as a clear exception), so let me put it this way: most of them seem to have picked an era and chosen to live there forever.
Therefore, most songs from the Capitol Years’ first true full-length sound no stronger to me than if they were hit by a reversing truck (and no, Morrissey’s words about dying by her/his side, after being hit by a double-decker, and that being “such a heavenly way to die” do not apply here). Let Them Drink’s first two songs speak to the attention deficit disorder in each one of us; they send us into a head spin, but just when we were all crossing our fingers - thinking it’s about time they added insult to injury - their music proves to be plain and harmless.
Throughout the rest of the 40-minute album, these Philly folks maintain a cool poise while playing risibly at moderate volume. At times choosing to travel faster than the speed of comprehension, they cast a shadow on their musical skills, which seem to disappear as suddenly as they arrived. Jeff Van Newkirk’s guitar, for example, gets tossed into a river of foaming harmonies, the sort that cleanse any dirty material that could have erupted and heightened their performance.
And therein lies their biggest problem: the Capitol Years create a trap for themselves - like a two-way spectrum between whirled harmonies and heavier clusters - and can’t find their way out of that maze. On the other hand, on tracks like “Ramona” or even “Everyone Is a Skunk,” with their ascending or descending power chords, feel like a sombre wizard showed up and left a stain - like a blessed splash of ink - in the otherwise void sound-mantra. Needless to say, these are the best cuts taken from Let Them Drink. Every other hot-fingered guitar interlude lacks a grain of salt or two. To put matters briefly, although they do show some potential, the Capitol Years do not rightfully deserve the hype they are getting.
http://www.lostatsea.net/review.phtml?id=31807272431c337236816
Rating: 5.5/10
It should be no surprise that any band claiming to belong, or righteously belonging, to the garage revival chunk of these last years will, as time goes by, embody no less than a penny in a slot machine. To kick things off, I should clarify that the Capitol Years are no different than the Mooney Suzuki or the Warlocks - or even the Strokes, to raise more than a couple of eyebrows - in that every two tracks, they mimic.
There’s no use in elaborating on my resistance to most garage revivalist bands (the Walkmen should always be mentioned as a clear exception), so let me put it this way: most of them seem to have picked an era and chosen to live there forever.
Therefore, most songs from the Capitol Years’ first true full-length sound no stronger to me than if they were hit by a reversing truck (and no, Morrissey’s words about dying by her/his side, after being hit by a double-decker, and that being “such a heavenly way to die” do not apply here). Let Them Drink’s first two songs speak to the attention deficit disorder in each one of us; they send us into a head spin, but just when we were all crossing our fingers - thinking it’s about time they added insult to injury - their music proves to be plain and harmless.
Throughout the rest of the 40-minute album, these Philly folks maintain a cool poise while playing risibly at moderate volume. At times choosing to travel faster than the speed of comprehension, they cast a shadow on their musical skills, which seem to disappear as suddenly as they arrived. Jeff Van Newkirk’s guitar, for example, gets tossed into a river of foaming harmonies, the sort that cleanse any dirty material that could have erupted and heightened their performance.
And therein lies their biggest problem: the Capitol Years create a trap for themselves - like a two-way spectrum between whirled harmonies and heavier clusters - and can’t find their way out of that maze. On the other hand, on tracks like “Ramona” or even “Everyone Is a Skunk,” with their ascending or descending power chords, feel like a sombre wizard showed up and left a stain - like a blessed splash of ink - in the otherwise void sound-mantra. Needless to say, these are the best cuts taken from Let Them Drink. Every other hot-fingered guitar interlude lacks a grain of salt or two. To put matters briefly, although they do show some potential, the Capitol Years do not rightfully deserve the hype they are getting.
http://www.lostatsea.net/review.phtml?id=31807272431c337236816
31/08/2005
Brendon Anderegg - Falling Air
Psych-O-Path Records
Rating: 7/10
Some circles have already labelled him “this year’s Sufjan Stevens.” Maybe Falling Air sells him a bit short, but Brendon Anderegg is still an apprentice whereas Stevens has the matured tricks of a wizard. But, as trends become trends, maybe some day we will be looking forward to the new Anderegg instead.
The legacy of Miles Davis, one of jazz’s most groundbreaking musicians, lives on in the perpetuation of two myths: the one that states Miles plays it simple, and the one that points out he plays it simple and with few notes. For those who still believe in that shit, I suggest they carefully listen to “One For Daddy-O” - where Miles is accompanied by ‘Cannonball’ Adderley, Art Blakey and Hank and Sam Jones - and try to reproduce the trumpet parts as elegantly as he plays them.
So, it’s time to drop another myth that may have popped in your head: however soothing and outstanding Falling Air may sound, it is entirely replicable at home - unlike Mile Davis. Headphone listening will greatly heighten awareness of its glow, but then again most lo-fi folkies were born to live in the intimacy of the sound field created when your ears are covered with that device.
Brendon Anderegg is a singer/songwriter definitely devoted to the acid-folk and low-key electronics, and thus the unplugging of his record playing feels like a disturbingly scorched nightmare. It’s truly amazing how songs like “They’re Still Here” build a new world into which the listener can’t help but be drawn. Therefore, switching all these glowing elements off makes the experience of these record’s latter symptoms all the more painful.
Anderegg’s is music bound to be listened in the closure of a dark, silent bedroom. When the first blips emerge, although they are very welcome, one bluntly feels that form and function somehow lose touch with one another. The musician lacks some sense of literacy and consistency when putting out this handful of songs, although this record contains some of his boldest moves yet recorded.
The funniest and most challenging part arises when trying to distinguish the sound of the acoustic guitar from that of the banjo - both included here - and then when attempting to tell the difference between a piano and an organ, or an accordion, a violin, a computer and all sorts of minimalist instruments. “My Baby Bird” packs a lot into its 4 minutes of whispered annoyance...
This was the year when the press sublimated Patrick Wolf as being an outstanding kid with heaps and heaps of talent, shortly after releasing a record that is merely above average; I will not do the same thing with Brendon Anderegg. He has a lot of potential, and Falling Air possesses a haunting drone that surprisingly amuses, but there is a long way to go before ascending Olympus.
http://www.lostatsea.net/review.phtml?id=1724308254313885bb2a61
Rating: 7/10
Some circles have already labelled him “this year’s Sufjan Stevens.” Maybe Falling Air sells him a bit short, but Brendon Anderegg is still an apprentice whereas Stevens has the matured tricks of a wizard. But, as trends become trends, maybe some day we will be looking forward to the new Anderegg instead.
The legacy of Miles Davis, one of jazz’s most groundbreaking musicians, lives on in the perpetuation of two myths: the one that states Miles plays it simple, and the one that points out he plays it simple and with few notes. For those who still believe in that shit, I suggest they carefully listen to “One For Daddy-O” - where Miles is accompanied by ‘Cannonball’ Adderley, Art Blakey and Hank and Sam Jones - and try to reproduce the trumpet parts as elegantly as he plays them.
So, it’s time to drop another myth that may have popped in your head: however soothing and outstanding Falling Air may sound, it is entirely replicable at home - unlike Mile Davis. Headphone listening will greatly heighten awareness of its glow, but then again most lo-fi folkies were born to live in the intimacy of the sound field created when your ears are covered with that device.
Brendon Anderegg is a singer/songwriter definitely devoted to the acid-folk and low-key electronics, and thus the unplugging of his record playing feels like a disturbingly scorched nightmare. It’s truly amazing how songs like “They’re Still Here” build a new world into which the listener can’t help but be drawn. Therefore, switching all these glowing elements off makes the experience of these record’s latter symptoms all the more painful.
Anderegg’s is music bound to be listened in the closure of a dark, silent bedroom. When the first blips emerge, although they are very welcome, one bluntly feels that form and function somehow lose touch with one another. The musician lacks some sense of literacy and consistency when putting out this handful of songs, although this record contains some of his boldest moves yet recorded.
The funniest and most challenging part arises when trying to distinguish the sound of the acoustic guitar from that of the banjo - both included here - and then when attempting to tell the difference between a piano and an organ, or an accordion, a violin, a computer and all sorts of minimalist instruments. “My Baby Bird” packs a lot into its 4 minutes of whispered annoyance...
This was the year when the press sublimated Patrick Wolf as being an outstanding kid with heaps and heaps of talent, shortly after releasing a record that is merely above average; I will not do the same thing with Brendon Anderegg. He has a lot of potential, and Falling Air possesses a haunting drone that surprisingly amuses, but there is a long way to go before ascending Olympus.
http://www.lostatsea.net/review.phtml?id=1724308254313885bb2a61
03/08/2005
Various Artists - Verve Remixed, Vol. 3
Verve Music Group
Rating: 5/10
After a decade of fighting, a medieval knight returns home more battered and sceptical than ever. There’s misery all over, and there’s also the plague, so he blamelessly concludes that there is no God. But our hero is then visited by Death, who wants to take him from the world of the living. He doesn’t concede, however, and challenges Death to a game of chess. This is how Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal begins, casting a revelatory light on cinema. Coupling great minds with flourishing ideas is the best recipe for the advancement of art.
The idea of reworking jazz classics with a beat-infused cover is a tricky decision. In the tradition of the two previous Verve Remixed releases, this third volume feels like we are trapped in a noisy room and a jazz record is heard through the wall of an adjoining apartment. Some of these remixes inevitably sink like a stone and fail to pay an honourable tribute to the classics, instead sounding like distant thunder in your head: you try to separate the new from the old parts of the songs and you often end up starving for the original versions.
Take the Brazilian Girls’ remixing of Blossom Dearie’s “Just One of Those Things”, for instance. You enter a drawn-out wind tunnel that sucks you in and sets a dirty, beat-soaked trail, like crumbs on the floor for you to go after; there is no clue where the mould was left. The only true exceptions are Bent’s reinterpretation of “Speak Low” and “Sing, Sing, Sing,” as addressed by RSL. The former is a beautiful, chilled-out version of Billie Holiday’s track where the British duo refuses to shift an inch off the course they pursued in Programmed to Love, most notably on tracks like the neat “Swollen”. They thus take the original even further in emotional depth. RSL’s take on Anita O’Day benefits from the loads of swing that the original already possesses.
Add to this “The Gentle Rain”, which RJD2 redefines with his lowercase hip hop-scented blips and his reductionist formulae, while Astrud Gilberto’s voice stays crystal clear. And, unlike Postal Service’s reviewing of “Little Girl Blue” which is a real flop, when Nina Simone resurfaces by means of The Album Leaf’s remix of “Lilac Wine”, real magic occurs. That may be due solely to Simone’s ethereal voice – as it goes well with any sound collage - but the resulting track nears perfection. Well, Jeff Buckley did it better, but this one is a fair shot. Overall, only a third of Verve Remixed, Vol. 3 is worth hearing. Just go back to your vinyls for the classics and you won’t regret it.
http://www.lostatsea.net/review.phtml?id=122074030342ecf0ed08b79
Rating: 5/10
After a decade of fighting, a medieval knight returns home more battered and sceptical than ever. There’s misery all over, and there’s also the plague, so he blamelessly concludes that there is no God. But our hero is then visited by Death, who wants to take him from the world of the living. He doesn’t concede, however, and challenges Death to a game of chess. This is how Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh Seal begins, casting a revelatory light on cinema. Coupling great minds with flourishing ideas is the best recipe for the advancement of art.
The idea of reworking jazz classics with a beat-infused cover is a tricky decision. In the tradition of the two previous Verve Remixed releases, this third volume feels like we are trapped in a noisy room and a jazz record is heard through the wall of an adjoining apartment. Some of these remixes inevitably sink like a stone and fail to pay an honourable tribute to the classics, instead sounding like distant thunder in your head: you try to separate the new from the old parts of the songs and you often end up starving for the original versions.
Take the Brazilian Girls’ remixing of Blossom Dearie’s “Just One of Those Things”, for instance. You enter a drawn-out wind tunnel that sucks you in and sets a dirty, beat-soaked trail, like crumbs on the floor for you to go after; there is no clue where the mould was left. The only true exceptions are Bent’s reinterpretation of “Speak Low” and “Sing, Sing, Sing,” as addressed by RSL. The former is a beautiful, chilled-out version of Billie Holiday’s track where the British duo refuses to shift an inch off the course they pursued in Programmed to Love, most notably on tracks like the neat “Swollen”. They thus take the original even further in emotional depth. RSL’s take on Anita O’Day benefits from the loads of swing that the original already possesses.
Add to this “The Gentle Rain”, which RJD2 redefines with his lowercase hip hop-scented blips and his reductionist formulae, while Astrud Gilberto’s voice stays crystal clear. And, unlike Postal Service’s reviewing of “Little Girl Blue” which is a real flop, when Nina Simone resurfaces by means of The Album Leaf’s remix of “Lilac Wine”, real magic occurs. That may be due solely to Simone’s ethereal voice – as it goes well with any sound collage - but the resulting track nears perfection. Well, Jeff Buckley did it better, but this one is a fair shot. Overall, only a third of Verve Remixed, Vol. 3 is worth hearing. Just go back to your vinyls for the classics and you won’t regret it.
http://www.lostatsea.net/review.phtml?id=122074030342ecf0ed08b79
23/07/2005
Deerhoof - Green Cosmos EP
Menlo Park Recordings
Rating: 6/10
Some records just seem like a folded Sunday newspaper. You get to learn what the cover story is about but you cannot engage in a thorough reading unless you unfold the whole thing and go through the printed pages. The difference with Deerhoof’s latest EP is that you are not allowed to unfold the work or double its duration without repeating what you’ve already heard. In this sense, Green Cosmos is a flatulent, speculating blister that succeeds in anticipating the proper follow-up to the highly-acclaimed Milk Man, but fails to provide the casual listener with many reasons to stay and wait.
The inaugural track, “Come See the Duck”, builds from an emancipated guitar riff to encounter a menacing, female voice somehow reminiscent of Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ Karen O., but this is where the rock comparisons end. From the title track on, the record evolves into experimentation that both mesmerizes and makes us prisoners of the rhythm discharge.
“Spiral Golden Town” begins with a charmed drone that most producers would consider using as the soundtrack to an animated series, with churning trumpets and beautifully arranged bass lines. Before “Koneko Kitten”, one might think that the San Francisco pop experimentalists had lowered their humour quotient, or at least the smirk shown on tracks from previous records like Reveille’s “No One Fed Me So I Stayed” or last year’s “That Big Orange Sun Run Over Speed Light”. On the aforementioned "Koneko", even the listener goes searching for the lost kitten.
Sometimes this release is like taking part of a sci-fi adventure; then again, it is often like going to the nearest cafeteria and being bothered by an old TV set re-broadcasting a Japanese singing contest… or even being dragged through an unbearable conversation with a guy who claims to buy Penthouse for the articles. Either way, what seems most correct is that here, Deerhoof have somehow orphaned their music from its original context and placed it squarely in a brave new world where new things may burst. For those who thought Deerhoof could do no wrong, they have proven they can - and that it may have been the right thing to do, really.
It’s not that they have to sit on telephone directories to reach the piano keys; it’s more like they tumbled into them and loved it. Green Cosmos will probably be regarded by some as a statement by factory workers desperate for overtime pay, but it has many sonic pearls that will amuse enthusiasts. The only possible drawback to this is its recording time, which doesn’t exceed fifteen minutes; the duration is a little too short of a testimony to warrant new recruits or money from the boss. Besides, Green Cosmos will always be footnoted in favour of Milk Man, so why bother?
http://www.lostatsea.net/review.phtml?id=181498063542da542194366
Rating: 6/10
Some records just seem like a folded Sunday newspaper. You get to learn what the cover story is about but you cannot engage in a thorough reading unless you unfold the whole thing and go through the printed pages. The difference with Deerhoof’s latest EP is that you are not allowed to unfold the work or double its duration without repeating what you’ve already heard. In this sense, Green Cosmos is a flatulent, speculating blister that succeeds in anticipating the proper follow-up to the highly-acclaimed Milk Man, but fails to provide the casual listener with many reasons to stay and wait.
The inaugural track, “Come See the Duck”, builds from an emancipated guitar riff to encounter a menacing, female voice somehow reminiscent of Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ Karen O., but this is where the rock comparisons end. From the title track on, the record evolves into experimentation that both mesmerizes and makes us prisoners of the rhythm discharge.
“Spiral Golden Town” begins with a charmed drone that most producers would consider using as the soundtrack to an animated series, with churning trumpets and beautifully arranged bass lines. Before “Koneko Kitten”, one might think that the San Francisco pop experimentalists had lowered their humour quotient, or at least the smirk shown on tracks from previous records like Reveille’s “No One Fed Me So I Stayed” or last year’s “That Big Orange Sun Run Over Speed Light”. On the aforementioned "Koneko", even the listener goes searching for the lost kitten.
Sometimes this release is like taking part of a sci-fi adventure; then again, it is often like going to the nearest cafeteria and being bothered by an old TV set re-broadcasting a Japanese singing contest… or even being dragged through an unbearable conversation with a guy who claims to buy Penthouse for the articles. Either way, what seems most correct is that here, Deerhoof have somehow orphaned their music from its original context and placed it squarely in a brave new world where new things may burst. For those who thought Deerhoof could do no wrong, they have proven they can - and that it may have been the right thing to do, really.
It’s not that they have to sit on telephone directories to reach the piano keys; it’s more like they tumbled into them and loved it. Green Cosmos will probably be regarded by some as a statement by factory workers desperate for overtime pay, but it has many sonic pearls that will amuse enthusiasts. The only possible drawback to this is its recording time, which doesn’t exceed fifteen minutes; the duration is a little too short of a testimony to warrant new recruits or money from the boss. Besides, Green Cosmos will always be footnoted in favour of Milk Man, so why bother?
http://www.lostatsea.net/review.phtml?id=181498063542da542194366
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