Film Reviews, Interviews and Articles
Structured like a New Yorker zine and just as wryly smug and pandering to the self-proclaimed intelligentsia, The French Dispatch is an ego-driven misfire for visionary director Wes Anderson who has done little more than projectile vomit his signature quirk on the screen in thick gobs, forgetting to actually make a movie along the way. Read More
There is little in the world more violent to your hearing than a drum set. I can attest to that fact from personal experience. Starting from a wee middle schooler on a janky kit and building out my skill and hardware into high school and throughout college, I played drums in too many bands to count. Stuffed into basements, tight rehearsal spaces, and cobbled practice rooms, playing bars, sweaty venues and ill-acoustic’ed house parties, the young musician that I was was nevertheless opposed to earplugs. It muffled the sound. Made it harder to sync with the rest of the rhythm section. Killed the raw unbridled thrash of it all. Of the sprawling army of musicians I have played with over the years, too many have adopted this same misguided mantra: earplugs just aren’t rock and roll. Read More
Fiennes, Brody, Dafoe, Goldblum, Murray, Law, Swinton, Ronan, Norton, Keitel, Schwartzman, Seydoux, Wilson, Balaban, Amalric, Wilkinson. Wes Anderson‘s latest may have more big names working for it than ever before but their characters are more paper thin than they’ve been, more fizzle than tonic, more Frankenstein’s creations than humans. His company of regulars – joined by a vast scattering of newbies – are relegated to playing furniure-chomping bit roles, filling the shoes of cartoonish sketches, slinking in long shadows of characters. From Willem Dafoe‘s brutish, brass-knuckled Jopling to a caked-up and aged Tilda Swinton, gone are the brooding and calculated, flawed and angsty but always relatable characters of Wes yore. In their place, a series of dusty cardboard cutouts; fun but irrevocably inhuman. Read More