BITE CLUB: A Rare Case of Seeing the Movie AFTER Reading the Book, or DVD Review: Choke (2009)

My most recent trip to the library brought back three video selections that will get exposure on Public Record: Choke, Angel-A, and the entire 12 episode run of the Ben Stiller Show. I had just dropped off some CDs that I'd held hostage for quite a while (not Iran-Contra long, but long enough to warrant several letters and some very polite phone messages from the lib), so I felt guilty grabbing more precious music and keeping it from the other 10 people that borrow as religiously as I do. I mean, I found the receipt for those CDs in a pair of shorts. As in short pants. Meaning the sun would have been out past 4:15.

So DVDs seemed a better way to assuage any bad blood between me and the keepers of the card catalog (hey, see what I did there?). I had just returned from burning witness testimony onto digital video cassettes, so I had yet to change out of my work attire (read: damn good lookin' suit). I strolled through the DVD section like Roger Sterling, examining my selections with executive discretion and a businessman's patience.

Not really. I had to "drop off a package" like you read about.

I won't give you upchuck-rendering details, but I will tell you that it is hard to answer Nature's call in nice clothes. Mostly because you don't want any...y'know...mementos of the incident on your "dry-clean only" togs. Without venturing further into the scatological, I will also say that there was no good place to put my three selections. So I had to make do. I put them on the corner of the sink, but with Ben Stiller on top. Because it was cardboard casing instead of plastic. There you go.

Suffice to say that I will either plan my trips to both the library and the bank (of porcelain nature) more carefully, or I just won't write about them. Moving along...

When I read Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club, I had already seen the 1999 David Fincher film twice. I had heard about many of his books, and had (unknowingly) already read one of his short stories (the for-strong-stomachs-only "Guts"). Fight Club, though, was the first book of his expanding collection that I had actually read. It led to a very rapid consumption of his other works, including Lullaby, Rant, Haunted (which contains "Guts"), and most recently, Choke. Now, to be fair, I hadn't read the book when the film came out, but I sped up the process so that I could have the privilege of analyzing the film more deeply on my first viewing. While MANY print enthusiasts whine and moan on cue whenever a book adaptation is released (or even announced), I have started to appreciate the print-to-film adaptation process. The advantage comes in already knowing the plot of the story, so that instead of concentrating on that element, you can focus on the execution and interpretation of the source work. Think of it as looking at the "How" instead of the "What".
With Choke, I already knew the basics. Victor Mancini (played nicely but not amazingly by Sam Rockwell) is a med-school drop-out who works at a Colonial Re-enactment park to save his dying mother (Anjelica Houston, who appeared on set by telephone). He goes to sex addict meetings, goes to strip clubs, pretends to choke to death to make money, blibady blabady bloo. What I was looking for with this movie was how writer-director Clark Gregg (his first film as director) handled the material.
In Fight Club, David Fincher nailed the tone and spirit of the book, and even elevated the quality of the story. Some of his tweaks streamlined the film, and his change of ending was a wise choice (admitted by Palahniuk himself). With Choke, Gregg's changes make for an uneven affair.
Right off the bat, the ending bugged me big time. For those who have read it, all I'll say is that it isn't nothing like the book, but it definitely isn't just like it either. Unsatisfying comes to mind; the original ending gave some release to the built-up tension. The movie's ending just sorta pretends it wasn't there. I guess.
Another thing that bothered me is how they attempted to make it more of a comedy with a capital C instead of the truly dark and sardonic work that it is. I mean, the book has some funny parts, but they were trying to market this film for a broader audience than they should have. That's probably why the pulled out the recurring bits of Victor dropping his often grotesque med-school knowledge. Which, come to think of it, really hurt the film. The whole "he's a med-school drop-out" element of his character just seems like an afterthought, since it's really only brought up between he and his mom, and one of the strip club scenes. His medical (or "healing") expertise was essential to fleshing out his character, and led to some of the more stomach-bothering moments that Palahniuk is known for.
On the other side of the coin, Brad William Henke (who played Denny), should have got some sort of recognition for his work in this movie. For a lesser-known actor, he was spot-on with the harder of the two male leads to play (Victor, especially for Rockwell with his style, was not exactly hard to bring to life). Kelly MacDonald was good, but I thought her barely-disguised Scottish accent was distracting.
Anyway, since I don't do a five out of five stars kinda thing, I think I would give this movie must-see status ONLY if you have read the book or want to read it. Otherwise, this might be a good movie to gather some like-minded friends around as a sort of "hanging out while watching a movie" movie.

In the words of LeVar Burton, "I'll see you next time!"

Holy Crap

This post has been a long time coming. My inactivity with regards to my quest to critically disseminate the media content of my local library (and other free media) is rooted in my dual occupations. One of my jobs consists of my gangly self pointing out interesting pieces and vistas of the nearby city, historic and otherwise. The other involves making video recordings of sworn testimony (and I am forced to withhold any further details, under penalties of confidentiality). So now that you know of my double life as tourist wrangler/top-secret videographer, you might understand the sparse nature of this wee little blog. Well, to my one faithful reader (whose own blog maintains a steady pulse despite the writer's 18 million other commitments), the ebb of the tourist season will mark a return of PUBLIC RECORDS (insert the cheering of thousands).

What might help with the frequency of posts will be an attempt to make mini-reviews of albums and movies, rather than more voluminous essays (like my first and only review). I will also include my media crusades that I pick back up from time to time (trying to see/listen to works that I should be familiar with already) and brand new ones that I hope to set out on (Seamus' analytical eye Vs. Tyler Perry's Confounding World Domination).

I hope to bring this back to life mostly for the enjoyment of opening up the floodgates of thought and opinion, so feel free to comment on posts if you happen to have discovered this blog by mistake. Here's to breathing new life into...I don't know where I was going with that sentence. I'm exhausted from all the vocab I was cramming into this post, which could have been a little shorter if I wanted. ANYWAY...

It begins.

DROP BOX: Slumdoggy-style, MetHallica

Author's Note: I'm gonna try to start doing what I call a "Drop Box" (trying to keep the Library theme) where I post small musings and notes, etc. in between larger reviews. I'll try to keep them as regular as possible.

On a rendezvous with a faithful companion, I was finally able to see Slumdog Millionaire, aka That Indian Quiz Show Movie That Everyone Is Clobbering With Awards. To be honest, I think it lives up to the hype. Danny Boyle was able to tastefully stylize the involving story without calling too much attention to the quick cuts and dropframe sequences. This being said, there is one gigantic, curry-flavored cheeseball line at the end that sours an otherwise excellent movie. If you end up seeing it (which you should), you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

In music news, metal gods/my personal music heroes in middle school Metallica are going to be inducted to the Rock and Roll Hall of fame this spring. As much as James, Kirk and (ugh) Lars are no longer a prominent part of my musical taste, I am glad to see them get their due. Despite Bob Rock trying to lose them their fanbase, the whole "hate Napster/love money" debacle, and recruiting a crabwalking Neanderthal to pound on the bass, Metallica really kicked some serious ass. After listening to "Master of Puppets" for the first time in a while, I remembered exactly how much serious ass they could kick.

Congrats to the other nominees:Run-DMC, Jeff Beck, Bobby Womack, and Little Anthony & The Imperials.

First Review! PJ Harvey, WHITE CHALK

In order to make these reviews fresh, I decided to head to my Local Library and grab some new material. After dropping my surely overdue materials into the treacherous slot (which I'm convinced is the reason for most of the jewel case damage in the Lib's CD section), I trot down to the basement.

I made it harder on myself by sliding in roughly a half hour before closing, meaning that I can't stand around ruminating for my first review subjects.

So I get it in my head that I need to quickly select various artists, in terms of style, background, decade, blah to the third power. However, I've learned from a certain math/FBI show that trying to make things random usually blows up in your face (in a numb3r of ways). So I tried to be natural and do what I had done the previous summer/fall and just pick up what caught my eye.

One cubic handful later, I see that my first batch is dominated by albums released in this decade, and mostly female artists. In the interest of diversity, I jet over to the paltry Non-Pop Rock section and fumble through the Internationals for some male world music. Feeling I'd put enough on my plate for the time being, I proceeded towards my other errands and left the library, to return (hopefully) with seven reviews under my belt.

With my loot sitting in front of me at home, I make a quick decision for the guinea pig album, the first of the first. I decide to pick PJ Harvey's White Chalk, released in 2007 off of Island Records.

I grabbed Stories From The City, Stories From The Sea (2000) about a month ago, and was captured by Polly Jean Harvey's ferocity and full-bodied hard rock sound, especially on tracks like “Big Exit” and “The Whores Hustle and the Hustlers Whore”. My expectations were that of a contemplative singer-songwriter with shades of the Tori Amos era. Instead, I got what Chrissy Hynde of the Pretenders wishes she still sounded like.

The memorable impression she made on me must be the explanation for taking out two PJ albums at once, since I had an idea that this Brit was more versatile than she initially seemed. White Chalk has definitely not disappointed me in that respect. As soon as the opening track, “The Devil”, started creeping into my ears, I knew that I had a different type of album on my hands. She maintains her ability to harness emotion by fluctuating dynamics. Her quiet valleys set up the more powerful peaks with the ease of a gifted artist.

PJ exhibits her ability to sing with that soft, haunting voice that is more common nowadays (think Feist or even Norah Jones). However, these songs lack the playful idiosyncrasy of Feist or the one-dimensional nature of Ms. Jones. Another distinguishing hallmark that proves she isn't trying to capitalize on the style of the day is her quasi-falsetto when she reaches the higher registers. Now I know from an old music teacher that women don't have falsettos, but if you've heard it, you know what I'm talking about. She also puts some persona into her voice for certain songs in order to add character to the particular track. “When Under Ether” is sung with an almost child-like ring to it. Since the lyrics strongly imply an abortion-like experience, you then get the idea that the words are coming from a younger woman or teenager. After I figured this out, the song became extremely hard to shake.

PJ's vocals, paired with effective, minimal instrumentation, create a consistent melancholy tone throughout the album. Thankfully, PJ has explored multiple flavors of this tone, and in doing so prevents herself from making White Chalk boring or repetitive.

I feel like I can't quite put this album in its proper context, since I'm not fully versed in PJ Harvey's catalog. Even so, I get the sense that these uniquely spare and ghostly tunes are even better once enjoyed in context. I can't wait to get to that point because I'm already loving this album; I can't imagine what it'll sound like to me after I get into Uh Huh Her. Here's hoping for good things.

It's Resolution, Baby!

On January 1st, 2009, I was standing on a subway platform in the freezing cold. Since pacing around like a fiend wasn't maintaining my body heat, I opted for the Mind Over Matter approach. I was keeping my mind busy with rehashing the celebration from the night before, when I accidentally wandered into contemplating both my existence and my future. It became clear that 2009 was to be the first official year of "real life" since leaving the collegiate world.
So where was I? I had done some work in my intended field that was rewarding and eye-opening, but also sporadic and unreliable. I had secured a job that makes money (the best kind) and will be a fun way to do so, regardless of its deviation from my desired field. There were countless paths that I wanted to take in the field, but none had been fully pursued. All in all, things could be worse.
Wait a minute. Things could be worse? What kind of talk is that? At the time, I am practically lacking obligations: no wife, no kids, no rent. So what was I worried about? Why did I feel like all the things I wanted to do were already off-limits?
Deciding that I was being both mopey and stupid, I evaluated my desires and picked one that not only was possible, but was possible AND free (essentially). So here I am, a first-time blogger who wants to use the forces of blog to try his hand at being a movie/music critic. I'll channel my loves of writing, music and film into my posts, which will be structured as critical examinations peppered with my own personal connections to the material.
Enough rambling. Welcome to Public Record.