Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)

Yeah, this movie's crap. I didn't really expect to like it, but I was hoping it might surprise me. It didn't. A series of over-the-top (in a not-really-good way) adventures which plod along driven primarily by stupid decisions on the part of the protagonist or one of his many nemeses, it mostly failed to elicit any reaction from me at all. The action sequences were comical, like the rest of the movie. I wasn't thrilled by them, I felt nothing for any of the characters, and any time I started to actually care about the purported goal (the ark itself), I got so distracted by the terrible dialog and hammy acting that my concern entirely evaporated. This movie was, as they say, a mile wide and an inch deep. When one of the main characters supposedly dies in the middle of the movie, I couldn't have cared less (and not just because I knew it wasn't real, and the filmmakers would use some flimsy excuse to bring her right back as soon as they felt like it). When the ark is taken away from our heroes only moments after they've recovered it, I couldn't have cared less. And again, not just because I knew that the filmmakers wouldn't even bother straining themselves in coming up with a way for Indy to steal it back. True crises require a bit of trust, and I had none for this film. True suspense requires patience, and Spielberg shows no capacity for that here.

Certainly there are people who like camp more than I do, but I completely fail to see the allure. Making compelling, interesting movies is hard, and purposefully not even trying is a cop-out. Even if you disagree on that, though, what do you get from this kind of movie? Contrary to what seems to be universal opinion, it's not very well made—either technically or narratively. And it's not witty enough to be at all ironic, so what is there to engage with? What's to like? For my part, I didn't find much.

Vieux Farka Touré — The Secret (2011)

Vieux Farka Touré's music is like a river—flowing, steady, and rhythmic. Moments of peaceful stillness ease into cascades of sound, the flow never really stopping. His most recent album is, fortunately, no exception. It begins steadily enough, and builds to a wonderful climax, one of those rare albums that finishes much stronger than it began. Touré explores some new ground, letting his music get a bet frenetic in parts ("Borei") and delving deeper into a sustained (though not overwhelming) darkness in that final stretch. In all cases, though, this fits the signature that he has been laying down in the four years since his debut album.

Seeing the list of collaborators on the album—including Derek Trucks, Dave Matthews, and John Scofield—one might reasonably fear that Touré would lose his way a bit. Not so, at all. The contribution of Derek Trucks (on "Aigna") blends reasonably well into Touré's sound. And he lays down the strongest groove of his career on "Lakkal", with the help of Ivan Neville & Eric Krasno. As accessible as his music may be to Western ears, it has never really had an American flavor. So while the influence of these musicians is easily noted, they fold in well. The same can't be said for Matthews. He is not at his best here, and his sloppy, faltering vocal style does not hold up well against the tight, exquisite mastery of Touré's music. The song ("All the Same") holds its own, but you can't help wishing for the song it might have been.

Clearly, though, the most fruitful collaboration is with John Scofield on "Gido". It's the album's strongest cut, and one of the best in Touré's catalog. It comes as the album is taking a slightly more serious turn, and it's a sound quite different from the rest of the album, but which fits perfectly where it is. Scofield and Touré develop a mutual energy that is really palpable, lingering for the rest of the set and beyond. It's an compelling, powerful finish, and one that leaves you wishing it could go on much, much longer.

Bicycle Thieves (1948)

Another film filled with iconic imagery, though certainly not in as stylish a way as M. Really, as I think about it, it's more full of iconic scenes, as opposed to just images. I think that's telling, because the primary quality of this film is the way it pulls you down into the story. It's shot and edited very plainly, so that the content itself does the heavy lifting. Not to say that it's a documentary style—it very much feels like a narrative, with scenes leading one into the other, tension crescendoing and falling. But it stays close to the ground, deeply connected to the immediate reality of what's happening.

The integrity of such a portrayal really draws you in. It's probably most evident when we see the picture of Rita Hayworth. It was a bit heavy-handed, of course, but still not wrong—there's a drastic contrast between the life of a Hollywood star (on- or off-screen) and the lives of these people. In a word, Hayworth seems unreal. By contrast, Antonio seems all the more real.

The most spectacular thing about the film, though, might well be Bruno. Really the entire film turns on this one character, and Enzo Staiola does a fabulous job with the role. He provides a moral and emotional anchor for the film, from the moment he appears. And of course, that gradual development is crucial to the film's final passages.

Annie Hall (1977)

I should probably start by saying that I can see what's great about this movie. Especially for its time, and for its genre, it took a lot of risks, and most of them worked out great. Allen breaks all kinds of ground, with both technical and narrative aspects—breaking the 4th wall, non-linear chronology, the novel use of split screens, etc. And truly, almost every one of those things makes this a better movie. I'm not a person who gives credit for experimentation propter se. I want it to actually work, and I want it to serve the story. Most of those techniques do both, and I appreciated Allen's diligence in that regard.

In the end, though, the movie didn't come very close to winning me over. Firstly, I was not at all attached to the two leads. (Or to any of the characters, come to think of it.) Obviously Allen's character is autobiographical to some degree, which didn't actually help. Alvy strikes me as an incredibly shallow character. Ebert describes him as someone who "lives in order to talk about living," and I think that's a great point. He's compulsively disengaged from the world, and seems to have no real drive as a character. Compulsion is a poor substitute. Annie is also not terribly interesting. Obviously Allen sets her up as a foil from the beginning, as he typically does with female characters. She exists to make Alvy seem sophisticated and wise, which she accomplishes by being a wide-eyed rube. I guess I can see what Alvy is supposed to fall in love with, but I myself certainly didn't take the fall.

Perhaps the worse problem, though, is that I didn't find the movie funny. Most of the humor comes off as simple glibness, which again, I think is a poor substitute. It was fitting with the characters, but it wasn't enough to fill out the film. There were a few moments that were genuinely funny, but I would have enjoyed them more if I'd been at all warmed up for them.

I didn't hate Annie Hall; it certainly earned all three of those stars. But it solidified my position: I won't be seeing Hannah and Her Sisters, Manhattan, or any other Woody Allen movies. Crimes and Misdemeanors is still one of my all-time favorites, and I've seen other of his films that I've enjoyed to varying degrees. But I don't think he has anything more to offer me, really. I'm not breaking any new ground, I know, in pointing out that he's cynical and mysogynistic. But he is, and his more positive qualities no longer outweigh it for me.

Fleet Foxes — Helplessness Blues (2011)

There is a rich tradition of musicians, in response to sudden success, reacting with violent opposition to the prospect. Think Nirvana or, more recently, M.I.A.—making music which goes drastically against their newfound fans' expectations, challenging them to prove their devotion. There is an equally rich tradition of artists losing themselves to their own whims, convinced that every inspiration they have is critically important, and trying dutifully to transmit them all to the world at large. Think Guns 'N' Roses, Smashing Pumpkins, or U2. Upon first listening to Helplessness Blues, I assumed it was the former. What other explanation for the decision to begin such an eagerly awaited album with such a thoroughly mediocre song? It might also explain that saxophone breaking in and destroying "The Shrine/An Argument", an otherwise beautiful tune. On the other hand, song titles with slashes in them are an easy indicator that a band has gone the other way, and there are two such songs here. Then too, Pecknold's lyrics are clumsily pretentious more often than they have been on previous releases. In the title track, for instance:

I was raised up believing
I was somehow unique
Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes
Unique in each way you can see

And now after some thinking
I'd say I'd rather be
A functioning cog in some great machinery
Serving something beyond me

Aside from the triteness of the sentiment itself, we see here a songwriter who can't be bothered with artifices like poetry or challenges like the creation of new metaphors. These are the opening verses of the title track, and the production is such that nothing obscures these lyrics. So it turns out that Fleet Foxes are in that second group of musicians. They may alienate all their fans along the way, but what they're really trying to do is let the world see how important they are.

In spite of all that, it's not a bad album. A few of these indulgences do pay off—"The Plains/Bitter Dancer", in particular. The songs blend together at first, but with repeated listens the cream begins to rise. Certainly they are all an improvement over that middling opener, "Montezuma". Still, the dynamism of their previous work is missing. The scene changes in those slash-titled songs just aren't as compelling as they were in "Mykonos" and "Ragged Wood", and nowhere is there the intrigue of "White Winter Hymnal". If I might grant a back-handed compliment, I would say these songs are better than adequate. The harmonies are familiar and the melodies comfortable, and if Fleet Foxes don't find a lot of new ground this time around, it is still a pleasant space to spend a bit more time in.

Thao & Mirah (2011)

There are any number of adjectives one could apply to Thao & Mirah, but "constrained" would never be one of them. It may not be the throw-everything-against-the-wall aesthetic employed by producer Merrill Garbus on her latest tUnE-yArDs release, but Thao & Mirah certainly are not restricted by any arbitrary boundaries. This album is a great example of just how to make such an approach work—and really work.

The album starts off, with "Eleven", as fairly straightforward blare-pop, like a slightly more tuneful Sleigh Bells. But the song provides a foundation of kinetic energy that is maintained throughout the album as a whole. It's a bit ironic that this album is credited only to Thao & Mirah, because the hand of the producer shows through at almost every turn. Instruments, vocals, sounds, and effects are layered and juxtaposed, continuously moving toward and against each other. But in Garbus' adept hands, these elements coalesce into a structure, rather than just wildly crashing into each other like shoes in a clothes dryer.

This is not to say that the whole album has that lo-fi, distortion-laden sound. The very next song is built on a brief, almost cutesy little guitar riff. But even here, the song really opens up through the second verse, as multiple instruments begin to appear. In the end, again, we find that we've been lured into a structure of sounds piled atop each other, gradually built on that simple beginning. A song like "Little Cup", meanwhile, goes the other way. A collection of slight spare sounds—a few whispered syllabled, some light taps, a very muted drum beat—are put down as a foundation, soft as a featherbed on which Mirah lays her baby-tender vocals. The album isn't overdetermined by Garbus (other than the heavy-handed "Spaced Out Orbit", perhaps), but she is almost always quite present. "How Dare You" is perhaps the most emblematic song on the album—playful, with the duo's beautiful vocals laid over a feedback-rich beat and a flock of sound effects which could certainly sound like noise, but which take form as they flow through a musical architecture.

Thao and Mirah themselves are as creative and brilliant here as they've ever been. Catchy songs like "Rubies and Rocks" or "How Dare You" blend nicely with more down-tone moments like "Sugar and Plastic" or "Teeth". The songs seem to invent themselves one at a time, never tied to one approach or aesthetic, but coming together into an organic whole. However much they grab you on your first listen, this is an album that bears up well under repeated exposure.

M (1931)

This movie took me a bit by surprise. I haven't seen a lot of films from this period, but I didn't expect to be so gripped by it. An interesting story, Lang's adept direction, and virtually all of the performances come together to create a really powerful film. Lorre, of course, is fantastic. I was so prepared for his final speech, knowing all of the buttons it was going to try and push, but it didn't matter—it is a really overwhelming performance; very effective. The other actors as well are more than pulling their weight here.

But of course what I loved most about the film was the wealth of iconic imagery, and for that matter iconic sound. For being an early talkie, Lang really made powerful use of sound. And the images are really stunning—the balloon caught in a wire, the empty dinner plate, that wonderful shot of Lorre looking back over his shoulder and finding himself marked. It got me thinking, really, about what it is that makes an image iconic. I think these images (and that whistled bit of Peer Gynt) occupy a space that often lies empty. Rather than lean on a word like interstitial, let's just say that they form a bridge—between the rational and the irrational, or between objective truth and what Herzog calls "ecstatic truth." One the one hand, of course, they succinctly convey information. The ball rolling in the woods tells us that its owner has fallen victim. We learn to hear the whistled tune as an indicator that our antagonist is in the grip of his murderous obsession. But the power of these icons is that, even as they tell us something, they just as crisply direct our emotional reaction. That image of the ball isn't just narrative; it's tragic. The strains of that song aren't just a plot device; they're chilling. I was enraptured by this film, so much so that at first I didn't trust my own judgement. But at some point you have to realize that it isn't accidental. You're in the hands of someone who knows just what he is doing.

In short, if this is what expressionist films are like—even if few are this successfully made—I obviously need to see a lot more of them.

Kele Goodwin — Hymns (2010)

Upon hearing Kele Goodwin, it's hard not to think of Nick Drake. And if you don't pay close attention, it's easy to keep that impression. The music is consistently placid, Goodwin's voice a series of graceful, hushed ripples. But those, of course, are just surface features. These waters run deep, and abound with complexity and life. Where Drake's lyrics are confessional, Goodwin's are self-reflexive. While Drake contemplates his own psyche, Goodwin gazes into a profound, enigmatic world. "There are sails meant never to raise / Never to know the winds," he sings in the title track, "Leaving our ship alone and adrift / Thinking only of where it has been." Not that his music is never personal, of course. But even in a tune about lost love, like "Red String", we find ourselves not in the closed space of a confession booth but somewhere rather more expansive: "The water was dark, but the sunbeam shone bright / And as I dove, day turned to night / The key it sparkled and caught my eye / I grabbed hold and swam towards the sky."

As for Goodwin's singing style, while it does immediately recall Drake, his approach reminds me more of João Gilberto. The vocals are steady and economical, with a cultivated, careful attempt to rein in excess vibrato. He indulges in a bit, just enough to make the songs compelling, but certainly he's at pains to keep from breaking free. The simplicity of the music is also a bit deceptive. The drone underlying many of the songs actually seems to simplify the already sparse guitar. That single, hovering note acts as a base, from which the melody doesn't far depart. The effect is ironically purifying.

The songs themselves are each little myths, filled with talismans & icons, populated by a protagonist with his eyes cast deep into both the past and the future. For mythologists from Lévi-Strauss to Barthes, a defining quality of myth is elements in opposition to each other. We find such elements strewn throughout these songs. Unwanted "paper tears" are saved for ages and fashioned into "warships with fire in their sails." "There's evil in every eye / but love in every face." A key recovered from deep in the sea is immediately thrown back in. Even the simple regrowth of a fallen leaf is imbued with life-sized significance.

If Kele Goodwin's music is not overly dynamic, it is also not the narrow, self-absorbed sort that too often accompanies such an aesthetic. It is music which rewards patient attention.