Canada is a funny place. Has been for some time. It's said that, in 1911, more people had heard of Stephen Leacock than of Canada itself. Over ninety years later, small-town Canadian comedy made a comeback when CTV premiered a little show called Corner Gas. Set in the fictional town of Dog River, Saskatchewan, Corner Gas revolves around Gas station owner Brent Leroy (Brent Butt) and his friends. It's a traditional ensemble comedy; each episode has several plots, no pathos, and a strict adherence to the status quo, all wrapped up in 22 minutes of deadpan hilarity. From 2004 to 2009, Corner Gas monopolized Canadian television like the Parker Brothers monopolizing board games.
Of course, whenever any TV show becomes so successful, people start thinking about the potential for "The Movie." For Corner Gas fans, the potential was realized this summer when the cast and crew organised a successful Kickstarter campaign. I was a Kickstarter backer myself, so maybe I'm too biased to write a fair review, but I loved the show and I wanted to be a part of the movie, even if I was only a single name in the credits, surrounded by hundreds of other names. I've had my name in the credits of a low-budget cable show once, but Corner Gas: The Movie (directed by David Storey) is the first movie that I've had my name in.
But, sentimentality aside, does the movie do the show justice? Yes.
For the most part, Dog River is still Dog River. We haven't seen the town or its inhabitants for five years, so a few off-screen changes were necessary to fill the time between birthdays. In the show, Wanda (Nancy Robertson) had a never-seen, rarely-mentioned a young son; now she has a never-seen, sometimes-mentioned teenager, preparing to leave the nest for college. Karen (Tara Spencer-Nairn), single in the show, is now married to a never-seen husband and (like Mrs. Spencer-Nairn was at the time of filming) a little pregnant. But even these life-altering changes actually change surprisingly little, at least as far as the audience can see. To quote Craig Northey's and Jesse Valenzuela's observations in the show's iconic theme song: "You think there's not a lot goin' on."
To which they would add: "But look closer, baby, you're so wrong." Dog River is filthy and unkempt, the water pump is on its last leg, and there are constant power outages. Turns out the town is bankrupt; Mayor Fitzy Fitzgerald (Cavan Cunningham) has lost most of their money in a bad investment, rendering the town unable to afford electricity or fix the water pump.
The residents of Dog River do have a habit of Seinfelding small problems into big issues. "I was hoping that this was just another one of those things," Brent admits, "but it's not." This isn't a story about men walking into the ladies' room because they don't know what a distaff is, or a retired couple getting bumped into a higher wine bracket by a "thoughtless" gift. Dog River is dying, and everyone in the town must adjust to the problem or fix it. But they can't ignore it.
Lacey (Gabrielle Miller) wants to enter Dog River in a Quaintest Town in Canada contest, and use the prize money to save the day. A lot of the promotional material focused on this Quaint-off, but it's really just one of several threads in this story. I'd say that the movie is actually about how everyone deals with the problem in their own way.
The movie, like the show, juggles several plots. Each of the eight main characters has at least one of their very own, and usually a second they share with someone else. Most of these tie directly into the "Dog River is dying," plot, even if only indirectly. Davis (Lorne Cardinal) is forced out of the police force because the town can't afford to keep him on, so he becomes a private investigator. Hank (Fred Ewanuick) tries to bring a doughnut franchise to Dog River to help the economy, but, being Hank, can't afford the franchise fee, and feels betrayed when Brent refuses to lend him the money. Oscar (Eric Peterson) refuses to leave Dog River, insists that he will live off the land instead, trades his car in for a horse so that he won't have to rely on fuel or money, then ends up fighting over said horse with officer Karen, who confiscates it from Oscar because apparently keeping a malnourished horse in your garage is illegal and she always wanted a horse anyway.
So, you know, all perfectly normal, true-to-life depictions of an economic crisis.
If you're worried that the writers or actors might have lost their touch in their five years away from Dog River, don't worry, they didn't. The movie uses the same dry sense of humour as the show, the same fondness for cutaway gags and bait-and-switch jokes, and it maintains the same approach to the PG rating, where dirty jokes are allowed but not required.
There is a bit more emotion, though. The tenderest moments are those between Brent and Lacey. The show toyed with the idea of them becoming a couple now and then, but mostly kept romance in the background. The movie is a different story. Early on, Lacey admits to Brent that, with Dog River's bankruptcy, she might have to move away to open a restaurant elsewhere. It's easily the most dramatic exchange these two characters have ever shared; his reactions makes it plain that he doesn't want her to go, and hers makes it plain that she knows. Their relationship even becomes a minor obsession for Emma (Janet Wright), who wants grandchildren and sees the resolution of that particular bit of UST as her best shot to get some. Interestingly, there's none of the bashful, romantic hide-and-seek that you usually see in these "will-they-or-won't-they" couples. The Brent and Lacey scenes are so open and natural and comfortable, it's just like they'd actually been dating for years.
Fortunately, although Corner Gas: The Movie is more serious, it still isn't serious. The emotional moments give the story weight and momentum, and help it feel like more than an episode of the show, but they never get out of line or try to steal the spotlight. And when the drama isn't needed anymore, back into the small dust box it goes, until Thalia decides to let it out again.
Whether or not you think this is a good thing is a matter of personal opinion. This is a movie for Corner Gas fan, and only Corner Gas fans. If you disliked the series, then you're gonna dislike the movie. But if you're a fan, then you're in for a treat, because Corner Gas: The Movie is a fitting send-off to some of Canada's most beloved characters, and a hilarious romp in its own right. It might feel like a 90-minute episode of the show, but when the show is that darn good, who's going to complain?
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Could You Explain That Joke Again?
When people are discussing comedy, one of the most oft-repeated pieces of advice is: "Don't explain the joke." Most see it as one of the most pivotal rules. Mark Twain and E.B. White have both compared the explanation of a joke to the dissection of a frog, in terms of both educational value and the impact on the subject's mortality.
I am not a comedian or a writer, but I am a comedy watcher and a comedy reader, and I prefer a deadpan approach to comedy. I like having jokes explained to me less than anyone on this planet. In fact, I don't even like characters acknowledging jokes. There is a part of me that would like to see incredulous looks abolished from every straight man's repertoire.
But when I thought about it more, I realized that what constitutes explaining a joke is open to a surprising lot of interpretation. People will frequently find explanations in the jokes they dislike while ignoring those in the jokes that they enjoyed.
I'm going to give you two examples to demonstrate what I'm talking about. For the first, I'll draw on the works of those notorious auteurs, Aaron Seltzer and Jason Friedberg. Few filmmakers in the history of Hollywood have earned more scorn. Since a part of their signature style is introducing characters from another movie, and then saying who those characters are, they've developed a reputation for dissecting a lot of frogs.
But honestly, I'd call this one a grey area. I'm not going to say that having Iron Man appear and announce that he's Iron Man is funny, even by the vaguest definitions of the word, but I wouldn't say that its unfunniness stems from excessive explanations, either. (As a side note, Iron Man appearing but avoiding verbal introductions wouldn't be much of a funny-bone-tickler, either.) If I may dissect a predeceased frog for educational purposes: the "joke" isn't that he's Iron Man, it's that he's a familiar character from a different movie. If he said, "I am Iron Man, I am from the movie Iron Man, and this is a different movie altogether," then yes, that would be explaining the joke. But just name-dropping the title or character isn't.
At least in my opinion, but you are welcome to disagree.
Now I'm going to pick on a more popular movie: Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy. Remember the scene in Anchorman where an argument between the rival news teams escalates into a violent gang war? And remember how Ron later points out that things "escalated quickly?" And remember how this second scene has gone on to become one of the most popular in the entire movie, and no one seems to care that it's basically just an extended explanation of the previous scene?
Seriously. The fight scene was funny because it escalated quickly. But, because so many fans loved the following scene, and were too busy laughing to analyse it, they never had time (or reason) to complain that the joke was being explained to them.
And I'm not complaining about this. That's how it should go. Comedians and humorists want their audiences to enjoy their jokes. And if a scene that "shouldn't" work still does, why complain?
So, what conclusion can we come to? Well, I think that this just proves that comedy is an art, and not a science. "Don't explain the joke" does still seem like a good, solid piece of advice to me. If a joke isn't funny on its own, it's not going to grow funnier when you explain it. And, as any writer will tell you, something that's tight and lean is generally better than something with a lot of unnecessary words and scenes. Explanations tend to add padding to a joke, but nothing else.
But padding isn't poison, and a good comic scene can survive and prosper, smuggling joke-explanations by in trench-coats and sunglasses as they introduce themselves as humble lampshade-hangers. For most people, "don't explain the joke" seems to be more a matter of comic theory than practice, useful only for dismissing unwanted comedians. It's like a firearm that you keep in a box under your bed and don't think about until you need it to scare off your daughter's boyfriend.
I am not a comedian or a writer, but I am a comedy watcher and a comedy reader, and I prefer a deadpan approach to comedy. I like having jokes explained to me less than anyone on this planet. In fact, I don't even like characters acknowledging jokes. There is a part of me that would like to see incredulous looks abolished from every straight man's repertoire.
But when I thought about it more, I realized that what constitutes explaining a joke is open to a surprising lot of interpretation. People will frequently find explanations in the jokes they dislike while ignoring those in the jokes that they enjoyed.
I'm going to give you two examples to demonstrate what I'm talking about. For the first, I'll draw on the works of those notorious auteurs, Aaron Seltzer and Jason Friedberg. Few filmmakers in the history of Hollywood have earned more scorn. Since a part of their signature style is introducing characters from another movie, and then saying who those characters are, they've developed a reputation for dissecting a lot of frogs.
But honestly, I'd call this one a grey area. I'm not going to say that having Iron Man appear and announce that he's Iron Man is funny, even by the vaguest definitions of the word, but I wouldn't say that its unfunniness stems from excessive explanations, either. (As a side note, Iron Man appearing but avoiding verbal introductions wouldn't be much of a funny-bone-tickler, either.) If I may dissect a predeceased frog for educational purposes: the "joke" isn't that he's Iron Man, it's that he's a familiar character from a different movie. If he said, "I am Iron Man, I am from the movie Iron Man, and this is a different movie altogether," then yes, that would be explaining the joke. But just name-dropping the title or character isn't.
At least in my opinion, but you are welcome to disagree.
Now I'm going to pick on a more popular movie: Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy. Remember the scene in Anchorman where an argument between the rival news teams escalates into a violent gang war? And remember how Ron later points out that things "escalated quickly?" And remember how this second scene has gone on to become one of the most popular in the entire movie, and no one seems to care that it's basically just an extended explanation of the previous scene?
Seriously. The fight scene was funny because it escalated quickly. But, because so many fans loved the following scene, and were too busy laughing to analyse it, they never had time (or reason) to complain that the joke was being explained to them.
And I'm not complaining about this. That's how it should go. Comedians and humorists want their audiences to enjoy their jokes. And if a scene that "shouldn't" work still does, why complain?
So, what conclusion can we come to? Well, I think that this just proves that comedy is an art, and not a science. "Don't explain the joke" does still seem like a good, solid piece of advice to me. If a joke isn't funny on its own, it's not going to grow funnier when you explain it. And, as any writer will tell you, something that's tight and lean is generally better than something with a lot of unnecessary words and scenes. Explanations tend to add padding to a joke, but nothing else.
But padding isn't poison, and a good comic scene can survive and prosper, smuggling joke-explanations by in trench-coats and sunglasses as they introduce themselves as humble lampshade-hangers. For most people, "don't explain the joke" seems to be more a matter of comic theory than practice, useful only for dismissing unwanted comedians. It's like a firearm that you keep in a box under your bed and don't think about until you need it to scare off your daughter's boyfriend.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Back to the 90s: A Short Remembrance of ToeJam and Earl
I was born in the mid-80s, but as I remember very little from before I turned five or so, I’m really a child of the 90s. It was the decade of Friends, Nirvana, Goosebumps, and Pulp Fiction. For me, though, the 90s will always first and foremost be the golden age of 16-bit video games. True, the 32-bit (and, arguably, modern) era of gaming also began in 90s. But there was always something about the Super Nintendo and Sega Genesis that entertained me more than any other video game console.
One of my favourite video games from that (or any other) era came out right at the beginning of the decade. ToeJam & Earl, designed by Greg Johnson, was released on the Sega Genesis in 1991. Today, it's best known for its oddball sense of humour and funk-inspired soundtrack, but it’s also notoriously hard to nail down, genre-wise. It was inspired by the classic computer game Rogue (a classic dungeon-crawler known for its randomly-designed levels), and games inspire by Rogue are usually called Rogue-likes, but unlike most of its siblings, ToeJam & Earl isn't turn-based, isn't tile-based, and isn't even combat-based. ToeJam and Earl is a Rogue-like in the same way that Portal is a Doom Clone.
The game’s plot, like many from the era, is simple: two aliens from the planet Funkotron crash on Earth, and must track down the ten pieces of their spaceship before they can escape. ToeJam is the smaller, faster of the two aliens, sporting three legs, red skin, and a distinctive set of eyestalks in place of a head. Earl, obese and orange and much more humanoid, is larger and can take more damage. Even more bizarre, however, is the game’s depiction of good old Earth. Here, our planet consists of a series of randomly-generated floating islands, connected by magic elevators and infested with groups of mortar-wielding chickens, giant hamsters in plastic balls, and women pushing children in shopping carts around the middle of nowhere.
And as an interesting side-note, this game doesn't have any bosses. Not even a last one. I have nothing against bosses, but they would be out of place here; ToeJam & Earl is not about combat.
That's not to say that Earth is safe, mind you. The majority of Earthlings (excluding the clergy, opera singers, and wise men in carrot suits) are dangerous, but ToeJam and Earl themselves aren't. Most of the time, they can’t even attack! Instead, you have to rely on the present boxes found scattered about the planet. Each present has a different effect, such as recovering your health, letting you fly for a short time, or even giving you some tomatoes to throw at the Earthlings. Tomatoes actually come in three forms: regular old throwing-tomatoes, slingshot tomatoes, and, of course, raining tomatoes, which can’t be aimed and can damage you as well as the Earthlings. Sadly, tomatoes can’t be eaten; they’re just for lobbing at people. But don't think of them as ammo; for probably more than 90% of the game, you won't have any tomatoes, and will need to rely on other presents to survive.
But here’s the rub: you don’t know what each present actually does when you start the game. There are ways to identify the contents of a present, such as paying the wise man in a carrot suit to tell you, or using it (opening a present without using it and peeking inside is, of course, rude and not an option here), and once you've done that, all other presents of that same type will be identified for you. Unfortunately, not all presents are helpful, or even healthy. Some will damage you, kill you, summon enemies, or even randomize the contents of every present in the game and unidentify them on you!
Since ToeJam and Earl are incapable of so much as a brisk jog without opening the right present, I've always felt that your physical progress through the many Floating Islands of Earth is really only half the journey. ToeJam and Earl’s other goal is to amass a strong collection of identified presents. Getting a Randomizer early in the game isn’t a big deal--you’ve got lots of time to re-identify everything--but by the time you start to get to the 5th or 6th level, and the planet starts to get more dangerous, you’ll want to know what tools are at your disposal. Getting the carrot man to find a Randomizer in your inventory is the most satisfying moment in the game, because it means that you can calmly identify presents without his help for the remainder of your stay on Earth.
Sure, you might still get struck by lightning, lose consciousness, or even lose a life, but at least you won’t do it twice!
ToeJam & Earl is still one of my favourite video games, but I’ll be the first to admit that the controls could have been better. I've always felt that it is exactly the sort of game that needed a sequel or two to stand on its broad shoulders. Look at The Legend of Zelda on the NES. It’s a masterpiece and everyone knows it, but A Link to the Past is clearly the superior game. That’s the sort of progress that I would have liked to see from Toe Jam and Earl 2.
There are two sequels to this game, but not “proper” ones. The first is called ToeJam & Earl in Panic on Funkotron, came out in 1993 on the Sega Genesis, and, in some ways, is more polished than its predecessor. The controls are better, and the world just feels like there's more to do and see in it. Unfortunately, it abandoned the original’s rogue-like elements, becoming a platformer instead. It’s a well-made, solid platformer, but there's no shortage of great platformers out there, so Panic on Funkotron simply can't compete.
The third game, released on the Xbox in 2002, tried to go back to the series’ roots, kind of, sort of; ToeJam and Earl III: Mission to Earth combines randomly generated levels and an assortment of presents with Banjo-Kazooie-esque platformer elements. Some people liked the third game, and some didn't. I didn't. It was a noble effort, but, in my opinion, it was not a fun one.
Nostalgia is a persistent little bugger, so what we enjoy as children will impact what we enjoy as adults. I often wonder how many of my favourite video games I would actually hate if I had played them for the first time as an adult. Sometimes, when there aren't any real problems readily available, I worry that I might not have liked ToeJam & Earl at all if I played it for the first time today. But we'll let my alternate universe counterpart worry about that; in this world, I did play it for the first time as a child, and I fell in love with it then, and still love it now. I replayed it when I was in my early 20s, to celebrate landing my first job, and I replayed it again not long ago, and it was beautiful both times. Whatever imperfections the game may have, it’s still a unique, fun, and innovative title. ToeJam & Earl is the king of what it does, and with both of the princes running around pretending to be platformers, it doesn't look like it'll be dethroned any time soon.
One of my favourite video games from that (or any other) era came out right at the beginning of the decade. ToeJam & Earl, designed by Greg Johnson, was released on the Sega Genesis in 1991. Today, it's best known for its oddball sense of humour and funk-inspired soundtrack, but it’s also notoriously hard to nail down, genre-wise. It was inspired by the classic computer game Rogue (a classic dungeon-crawler known for its randomly-designed levels), and games inspire by Rogue are usually called Rogue-likes, but unlike most of its siblings, ToeJam & Earl isn't turn-based, isn't tile-based, and isn't even combat-based. ToeJam and Earl is a Rogue-like in the same way that Portal is a Doom Clone.
The game’s plot, like many from the era, is simple: two aliens from the planet Funkotron crash on Earth, and must track down the ten pieces of their spaceship before they can escape. ToeJam is the smaller, faster of the two aliens, sporting three legs, red skin, and a distinctive set of eyestalks in place of a head. Earl, obese and orange and much more humanoid, is larger and can take more damage. Even more bizarre, however, is the game’s depiction of good old Earth. Here, our planet consists of a series of randomly-generated floating islands, connected by magic elevators and infested with groups of mortar-wielding chickens, giant hamsters in plastic balls, and women pushing children in shopping carts around the middle of nowhere.
And as an interesting side-note, this game doesn't have any bosses. Not even a last one. I have nothing against bosses, but they would be out of place here; ToeJam & Earl is not about combat.
That's not to say that Earth is safe, mind you. The majority of Earthlings (excluding the clergy, opera singers, and wise men in carrot suits) are dangerous, but ToeJam and Earl themselves aren't. Most of the time, they can’t even attack! Instead, you have to rely on the present boxes found scattered about the planet. Each present has a different effect, such as recovering your health, letting you fly for a short time, or even giving you some tomatoes to throw at the Earthlings. Tomatoes actually come in three forms: regular old throwing-tomatoes, slingshot tomatoes, and, of course, raining tomatoes, which can’t be aimed and can damage you as well as the Earthlings. Sadly, tomatoes can’t be eaten; they’re just for lobbing at people. But don't think of them as ammo; for probably more than 90% of the game, you won't have any tomatoes, and will need to rely on other presents to survive.
But here’s the rub: you don’t know what each present actually does when you start the game. There are ways to identify the contents of a present, such as paying the wise man in a carrot suit to tell you, or using it (opening a present without using it and peeking inside is, of course, rude and not an option here), and once you've done that, all other presents of that same type will be identified for you. Unfortunately, not all presents are helpful, or even healthy. Some will damage you, kill you, summon enemies, or even randomize the contents of every present in the game and unidentify them on you!
Since ToeJam and Earl are incapable of so much as a brisk jog without opening the right present, I've always felt that your physical progress through the many Floating Islands of Earth is really only half the journey. ToeJam and Earl’s other goal is to amass a strong collection of identified presents. Getting a Randomizer early in the game isn’t a big deal--you’ve got lots of time to re-identify everything--but by the time you start to get to the 5th or 6th level, and the planet starts to get more dangerous, you’ll want to know what tools are at your disposal. Getting the carrot man to find a Randomizer in your inventory is the most satisfying moment in the game, because it means that you can calmly identify presents without his help for the remainder of your stay on Earth.
Sure, you might still get struck by lightning, lose consciousness, or even lose a life, but at least you won’t do it twice!
ToeJam & Earl is still one of my favourite video games, but I’ll be the first to admit that the controls could have been better. I've always felt that it is exactly the sort of game that needed a sequel or two to stand on its broad shoulders. Look at The Legend of Zelda on the NES. It’s a masterpiece and everyone knows it, but A Link to the Past is clearly the superior game. That’s the sort of progress that I would have liked to see from Toe Jam and Earl 2.
There are two sequels to this game, but not “proper” ones. The first is called ToeJam & Earl in Panic on Funkotron, came out in 1993 on the Sega Genesis, and, in some ways, is more polished than its predecessor. The controls are better, and the world just feels like there's more to do and see in it. Unfortunately, it abandoned the original’s rogue-like elements, becoming a platformer instead. It’s a well-made, solid platformer, but there's no shortage of great platformers out there, so Panic on Funkotron simply can't compete.
The third game, released on the Xbox in 2002, tried to go back to the series’ roots, kind of, sort of; ToeJam and Earl III: Mission to Earth combines randomly generated levels and an assortment of presents with Banjo-Kazooie-esque platformer elements. Some people liked the third game, and some didn't. I didn't. It was a noble effort, but, in my opinion, it was not a fun one.
Nostalgia is a persistent little bugger, so what we enjoy as children will impact what we enjoy as adults. I often wonder how many of my favourite video games I would actually hate if I had played them for the first time as an adult. Sometimes, when there aren't any real problems readily available, I worry that I might not have liked ToeJam & Earl at all if I played it for the first time today. But we'll let my alternate universe counterpart worry about that; in this world, I did play it for the first time as a child, and I fell in love with it then, and still love it now. I replayed it when I was in my early 20s, to celebrate landing my first job, and I replayed it again not long ago, and it was beautiful both times. Whatever imperfections the game may have, it’s still a unique, fun, and innovative title. ToeJam & Earl is the king of what it does, and with both of the princes running around pretending to be platformers, it doesn't look like it'll be dethroned any time soon.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
New TV Season Starting... I Think... Maybe
I don’t watch as much TV as I used to. It’s not that I think I’m “too good to waste my time on such a brain-numbing blot on the history of popular culture” or anything like that. But I am lazy, and watching a TV show--not just one episode, but an entire show--takes time and dedication. For the time being, the only TV series I plan to follow this year is Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., and that’s more out of loyalty to Joss Whedon than anything else. Any other TV shows that I decide to watch can wait for a DVD release.
But the pool of season premiers that slowly trickles out this time of year still holds a place in my heart. I used to watch TV, and a lot of it. I could have been described as a couch potato, except even potatoes need to go outside and get sunlight now and then. When I was a kid, a new episode of The Simpsons was always a landmark event. Besides, I really hated going to school, and having a new season to look forward to in September helped soften the summer-ending blow of academia that always coincided with the dead leaves and dropping temperatures.
Of course, that's all in the past now that I'm an adult. Summer vacation can't end if it doesn't start, so the autumn brings with it no new wounds for the lineup of premiers to heal.
Perhaps someday I will gather the energy to watch TV like a champ, and will once again reap the rewards that only September and sometimes October can bring. But for this year, I will have to admire the 2014 season premiers from a distance, my heart aching with the nostalgic echoes of a pleasure that only comes to those watching a hotly-anticipated episode on its original air date.
But the pool of season premiers that slowly trickles out this time of year still holds a place in my heart. I used to watch TV, and a lot of it. I could have been described as a couch potato, except even potatoes need to go outside and get sunlight now and then. When I was a kid, a new episode of The Simpsons was always a landmark event. Besides, I really hated going to school, and having a new season to look forward to in September helped soften the summer-ending blow of academia that always coincided with the dead leaves and dropping temperatures.
Of course, that's all in the past now that I'm an adult. Summer vacation can't end if it doesn't start, so the autumn brings with it no new wounds for the lineup of premiers to heal.
Perhaps someday I will gather the energy to watch TV like a champ, and will once again reap the rewards that only September and sometimes October can bring. But for this year, I will have to admire the 2014 season premiers from a distance, my heart aching with the nostalgic echoes of a pleasure that only comes to those watching a hotly-anticipated episode on its original air date.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Forrest Gump: The Novel
Tomorrow, one of my favourite movies will be getting a theatrical re-release to celebrate its 20-year anniversary. I'm speaking, of course, about that beloved Tom Hanks vehicle, Forrest Gump, which beat out such classics as The Shawshank Redemption and Pulp Fiction to win the 67th Academy Award for Best Picture. Love it or hate it, there's no denying the movie's near-universal appeal among audiences and critics alike.
But this blog post isn't just about the movie.
Instead, I want to talk briefly about the film's source material. This isn't a review, just a quick paragraph or two to make sure that everyone knows a little about the book behind one of the most enduring characters of 90's cinema. The novel Forrest Gump was written by Winston Groom, published in 1986. I've read it twice, and the sequel (Gump & Co., also written by Groom, and published in 1995) once, and it's interesting for me to realize that the most famous image of Forrest Gump, the one that you are probably picturing right now, is so different from the one that I'm picturing. In the books, Forrest is a very large man (according to a 1994 article in the New York Times, Groom pictured John Goodman in the role) with a surprisingly cynical outlook and a very foul mouth, and although he is on about the same intellectual level as his cinematic counterpart, he does have an impressive aptitude for advanced mathematics. I don't know why Forrest's savant syndrome was cut from the movie--in my opinion, it was of the most interesting aspects of his character.
I am definitely going to see the movie again during its big-screen revival, and I'm sure I won't be alone. But I'm going to ask everyone reading this to at least consider picking up a copy of the book as well. Forrest Gump is a good comic novel, and deserves to be remembered for more than inspiring an award-winning dramatic movie.
But this blog post isn't just about the movie.
Instead, I want to talk briefly about the film's source material. This isn't a review, just a quick paragraph or two to make sure that everyone knows a little about the book behind one of the most enduring characters of 90's cinema. The novel Forrest Gump was written by Winston Groom, published in 1986. I've read it twice, and the sequel (Gump & Co., also written by Groom, and published in 1995) once, and it's interesting for me to realize that the most famous image of Forrest Gump, the one that you are probably picturing right now, is so different from the one that I'm picturing. In the books, Forrest is a very large man (according to a 1994 article in the New York Times, Groom pictured John Goodman in the role) with a surprisingly cynical outlook and a very foul mouth, and although he is on about the same intellectual level as his cinematic counterpart, he does have an impressive aptitude for advanced mathematics. I don't know why Forrest's savant syndrome was cut from the movie--in my opinion, it was of the most interesting aspects of his character.
I am definitely going to see the movie again during its big-screen revival, and I'm sure I won't be alone. But I'm going to ask everyone reading this to at least consider picking up a copy of the book as well. Forrest Gump is a good comic novel, and deserves to be remembered for more than inspiring an award-winning dramatic movie.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Review: The Silkworm by Robert Galbraith
By now, it's common knowledge that Robert Galbraith, author of last year's critically acclaimed mystery novel, The Cuckoo's Calling, is actually Harry Potter creator J.K. Rowling. I was a big Harry Potter fan in high school, and when I read Rowling's first adult novel, A Casual Vacancy, I'm a bit embarrassed to admit that I could never stop contrasting it to her early work. I did the same with The Cuckoo's Calling, though not as much. Well, I'm happy to say that I've finally kicked that habit. While reading "Galbraith's" second novel, The Silkworm, I never forgot that J.K. Rowling was behind every word, but I barely thought about Harry at all.
I'm not going to give away the ending to this book, or it's predecessor, but if you know the first one's story (Cormoran Strike, a decorated Afghanistan war veteran turned private detective, is hired to investigate the alleged suicide of a famous model), then you won't be surprised to hear that he successfully proved that the suicide was a murder, or that the resulting publicity granted him an influx of clients. The majority of Strike's new jobs are standard private investigator stuff involving sexual infidelity, but there is one that catches his interest: a woman named Leonora Quine hires him to track down her missing husband, an egotistical novelist named Owen Quine. Leonora thinks that he's run off to a writer's retreat. He hasn't; when Strike does find Quine... well, I won't describe the body in detail, but I will say that it's not pretty.
Two of Rowling's three greatest strengths are her characterization and her plotting. (Her third strength is worldbuilding, which doesn't factor into a book like this, set in real-world London.) Like all good mysteries, this one has a strong lineup of suspects; among the most memorable are: Elizabeth Tassel, Quine's long-suffering yet thoroughly unpleasant agent; Kathryn Kent, a writer whose blog posts make Zero Wing look like Strunk and White's The Elements of Style; and Michael Fancourt, an established novelist and rival of Quine's. All of these people (and more!) have their own individual reasons to loathe Mr. Quine, but they've also got a stronger, shared motive: his last, unpublished novel, Bombyx Mori (latin for "silkworm of the mulberry tree," according to Wikipedia) includes insulting and in some cases outright libelous depictions of many of Quine's associates. Fortunately, all of the characters are genuinely interesting, fleshed-out people. In typical Rowling fashion, some of these characters can come across as more humorous than serious, but they never become full-fledged comic relief.
I can't discuss the plot in detail without giving too much away, but I will say that I found the solution a bit out there. The Silkworm reminds me of A.A. Milne's The Red House Murder, insofar as both books involve a particularly complicated deception that completely turns the case on its head. Okay, so plot twists are an important part of a good mystery, but some have more of a "conspiracy theory" vibe to them. Compared to The Silkworm, The Cuckoo's Calling was much more believable. But then that's exactly why I preferred Strike's sophomore adventure to the original. I like mysteries with clever, unlikely-but-still-possible solutions, as long as they don't involve hiding evidence from the reader, and The Silkworm never cheats like that. It has a tough answer, but a fair one.
It's worth noting that, for a mystery novel, this book puts a lot of emphasis on the characters' love lives. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, mind you, but it isn't always necessary. The references to Strike's ex-girlfriend and her impending marriage, in particular, don't feel like an organic part of this novel so much as a set-up for a bigger plot point in a later book. Robin's subplot--that her fiance is jealous of her relationship with Strike--is a lot more fleshed-out and interesting, but it runs parallel to the Owen Quine plot more than it runs through it. It does make Strike and Robin feel more like real people, but if you don't like books with unnecessary romantic subplots thrown in, you'll probably get annoyed by this one.
A lot of people used to wonder if J.K. Rowling would ever escape Harry Potter's shadow. Well, that's hard to say. She's written three non-fantasy novels, all of which have sold well (though A Casual Vacancy has a lot of detractors, even among Harry Potter and Cormoran Strike fans), but none of them have entered the public consciousness in the same way as the Harry Potter books. Try asking your friends if they know who Dobby the House Elf or Vernon Dursley are, then ask them about Cormoran Strike, and you'll still find Harry's supporting cast getting a lot more recognition than Rowling's newest hero. I imagine that the Boy Who Lived will always be Rowling's most famous creation. Even so, The Silkworm proves once again that he's going to have some very well-written, entertaining, and memorable siblings.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
We Only Have One Weakness: Rat Pfink a Boo Boo a Me
Do you have a guilty pleasure? Something that you love, even though you can't for the life of you figure out why? Maybe it's a book with terrible writing, or a singer who can't sing. Well, I have one. It's a low-budget, black-and-white movie from 1966 called Rat Pfink a Boo Boo. It was directed by Ray Dennis Steckler, best known for the movie The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies (which was featured on Mystery Science Theatre 3000). Rat Pfink a Boo Boo is one of the worst movies I've ever seen. Every year or two, I get the urge to rewatch it, and I never tire of doing so.
The film stars real-life singer Ron Haydock as fictional singer Lonnie Lord; Steckler's real-life wife Carolyn Brandt as Lonnie's fictional girlfriend, Cee Bee Beaumont; and real-life Titus Moede as a fictional gardener named Titus, last name Twimbly. Standing between this trio and a happy ending are the Chain Gang: Linc (named after a chain he always carries around with him), Hammer (named after a hammer that he always carries around with him), and Benji (who is unarmed but laughs a lot and doesn't seemed to be named after anything)--played by George Caldwell, Mike Kannon, and James Bowie, respectively.
The story kicks off with the Chain Gang, bored and looking for someone to harass, deciding to pick a random name out of the phone book; they end up picking Cee Bee. It's a terrifying premise, but to be honest, Rat Pfink a Boo Boo isn't as frightening as it could be. Of course, that's all subjective, and I have seen people who disagree with me on that one. There's one noteworthy sequence, about 17 minutes in, where Linc follows Cee Bee to the store, successfully remaining unseen the entire time. He ultimately walks off without doing anything; clearly Steckler values terror over horror. Admittedly, the sequence works on paper, and I can understand why some people would like it. The main problem for me is that, as I've already mentioned, this movie's acting and writing are very poor. Consequently, I can never find myself worrying too much about Cee Bee because I never really forget that she's actually Carolyn Brandt playing Cee Bee in a movie.
I do sort of like the musical numbers, though. I suppose that might say more about my own personal taste in music than anything, but most of the musical sequences are fun and upbeat and... wait, what's that? You don't think a movie about three violent criminals stalking a young woman should have upbeat musical numbers? Well, it probably shouldn't. I also want to point out that although Lonnie and Cee Bee don't seem to be having any relationship problems, three of his four songs are about cheating girlfriends. But if you can get past how thematically inappropriate the songs are, these scenes really aren't that bad. Certainly not Busby Berkeley, but they're still fun and filled with energy, and the music is actually kind of catchy.
But that's not why I love this movie.
After Steckler had shot about half of this picture, he started to lose interest in his idea. However, he wasn't willing to throw out all that footage, so instead he decided to take the film in a different direction. The Chain Gang, switching their motivation to something a bit more financially rewarding, decide to kidnap Cee Bee. Lonnie, after hearing the terrible news, decides to pass the time singing one of his less-upbeat cheating songs. Eventually, he gets a phone call from Benji, who demands a $50,000 ransom, to be paid that night, in exchange for Cee Bee's safe return. Lonnie says that it'll take him until at least the following morning to raise that kind of money, but Benji isn't interested in letting logic spoil his payday; he just repeats his demand: $50,000 by tonight, or Cee Bee's "had it."
His back against the wall, Lonnie decides that there's only one option left.
"This looks like a job for You Know and Who," he tells Titus, and the two of them step into the closet. They emerge about a minute later, dressed like this:
"Remember, Boo Boo, we only have one weakness," says Lonnie.
"What's that, Rat Pfink?" asks Titus.
"Bullets!"
So now, at the half-way point, and with absolutely no foreshadowing whatsoever, Lonnie and Titus finally reveal their superhero alter egos. The movie has abandoned all pretenses of being a serious crime story, instead choosing to live out its remaining screen time as a campy Batman spoof--and this is before Adam West started playing the Caped Crusader, I might add. The movie even switches from a sepia tint to a pink one at very moment it becomes a comedy, though that might have been added to my copy of the DVD.
The second half of the movie is what cinches it for me. The plot from this point on is simple: Rat Pfink and Boo Boo hop on their motorcycle and chase the Chain Gang around, getting into fist fights when necessary, until a gorilla shows up out of nowhere and kidnaps Cee Bee. (Hey, simple isn't the same thing as predictable.) The jokes aren't particularly clever, but there's a certain charm to them. Here's one of my favorites: during a fight scene, Boo Boo falls and breaks his watch. Benji stops fighting and offers to fix the watch, tosses it to the ground and stomps on it several time, then returns it. When Boo Boo puts it back on, he is delighted to find that it's working again, and leaves himself open to a sucker-punch. Okay, so it isn't exactly Peter Sellers. But I can't think of many filmmakers who would put a joke that ridiculous in a movie, and fewer still who would put it in what had lived its first 40 minutes of life as a drama.
So now I'll circle back to my original question: why do I like this movie so much? The answer is that I honestly don't know. I guess that a good guilty pleasure also has but a single weakness: you can't always explain it. Why have I seen Rat Pfink A Boo Boo more times than Citizen Kane, or Casablanca, or The Godfather, or any of the other cinematic masterpieces that clearly deserve such attention more than this movie does? It hardly seems fair. But then personal taste is a funny thing, and the fact remains that Rat Pfink a Boo Boo is a personal, desert-island-list favorite of mine. I'm not going to claim it's a great movie. Heck, I'm not even going to claim it's a competent movie. Sure, Steckler was a smart guy: he had some good ideas, could get a lot of mileage out of a shoestring budget, and his cinematography was actually pretty good. But that doesn't change the fact that Rat Pfink a Boo Boo inhabits the same corner of the cinematic landscape that Plan 9 From Outer Space, Trolls 2, and Manos: Hand of Fate dominate. This movie's greatest draw is the jarring difference in tone between it's first and second half. I mean, if I had to watch the two halves separately, would I like the movie? What if it came out as originally envisioned, with no superhero elements? Or if it was a campy superhero spoof all the way through? I just don't know.
And yet I do love the movie. And here's the embarrassing part: I don't even love it ironically. I don't put myself above the movie, or laugh at how bad it is.
Then why?
I suppose that I love the movie because of everything it is and everything it does, whether right or wrong. I love the camp, I love the dialogue, I love the music, I love the jokes, I love the novelty, and I love those things when they're at their best and I love them when they're at their worst. But most of all, I love this movie because it's just plain fun. A lot of bad movies get that way because no one on the crew really cared about it--it was a job and a paycheck, but nothing more. Rat Pfink a Boo Boo doesn't have that problem--it was clearly a labor of love, and the result is a movie that (for lack of a more secular term) has a soul, or maybe two or three different souls. Some things are simply better than the sum of their parts, even when some of those parts are rusty and others look like they got put in the wrong box by mistake. Rat Pfink a Boo Boo might be a ridiculous mess of a movie, but it'll always have a place in my collection.
The story kicks off with the Chain Gang, bored and looking for someone to harass, deciding to pick a random name out of the phone book; they end up picking Cee Bee. It's a terrifying premise, but to be honest, Rat Pfink a Boo Boo isn't as frightening as it could be. Of course, that's all subjective, and I have seen people who disagree with me on that one. There's one noteworthy sequence, about 17 minutes in, where Linc follows Cee Bee to the store, successfully remaining unseen the entire time. He ultimately walks off without doing anything; clearly Steckler values terror over horror. Admittedly, the sequence works on paper, and I can understand why some people would like it. The main problem for me is that, as I've already mentioned, this movie's acting and writing are very poor. Consequently, I can never find myself worrying too much about Cee Bee because I never really forget that she's actually Carolyn Brandt playing Cee Bee in a movie.
I do sort of like the musical numbers, though. I suppose that might say more about my own personal taste in music than anything, but most of the musical sequences are fun and upbeat and... wait, what's that? You don't think a movie about three violent criminals stalking a young woman should have upbeat musical numbers? Well, it probably shouldn't. I also want to point out that although Lonnie and Cee Bee don't seem to be having any relationship problems, three of his four songs are about cheating girlfriends. But if you can get past how thematically inappropriate the songs are, these scenes really aren't that bad. Certainly not Busby Berkeley, but they're still fun and filled with energy, and the music is actually kind of catchy.
But that's not why I love this movie.
After Steckler had shot about half of this picture, he started to lose interest in his idea. However, he wasn't willing to throw out all that footage, so instead he decided to take the film in a different direction. The Chain Gang, switching their motivation to something a bit more financially rewarding, decide to kidnap Cee Bee. Lonnie, after hearing the terrible news, decides to pass the time singing one of his less-upbeat cheating songs. Eventually, he gets a phone call from Benji, who demands a $50,000 ransom, to be paid that night, in exchange for Cee Bee's safe return. Lonnie says that it'll take him until at least the following morning to raise that kind of money, but Benji isn't interested in letting logic spoil his payday; he just repeats his demand: $50,000 by tonight, or Cee Bee's "had it."
His back against the wall, Lonnie decides that there's only one option left.
"This looks like a job for You Know and Who," he tells Titus, and the two of them step into the closet. They emerge about a minute later, dressed like this:
"Remember, Boo Boo, we only have one weakness," says Lonnie.
"What's that, Rat Pfink?" asks Titus.
"Bullets!"
So now, at the half-way point, and with absolutely no foreshadowing whatsoever, Lonnie and Titus finally reveal their superhero alter egos. The movie has abandoned all pretenses of being a serious crime story, instead choosing to live out its remaining screen time as a campy Batman spoof--and this is before Adam West started playing the Caped Crusader, I might add. The movie even switches from a sepia tint to a pink one at very moment it becomes a comedy, though that might have been added to my copy of the DVD.
The second half of the movie is what cinches it for me. The plot from this point on is simple: Rat Pfink and Boo Boo hop on their motorcycle and chase the Chain Gang around, getting into fist fights when necessary, until a gorilla shows up out of nowhere and kidnaps Cee Bee. (Hey, simple isn't the same thing as predictable.) The jokes aren't particularly clever, but there's a certain charm to them. Here's one of my favorites: during a fight scene, Boo Boo falls and breaks his watch. Benji stops fighting and offers to fix the watch, tosses it to the ground and stomps on it several time, then returns it. When Boo Boo puts it back on, he is delighted to find that it's working again, and leaves himself open to a sucker-punch. Okay, so it isn't exactly Peter Sellers. But I can't think of many filmmakers who would put a joke that ridiculous in a movie, and fewer still who would put it in what had lived its first 40 minutes of life as a drama.
So now I'll circle back to my original question: why do I like this movie so much? The answer is that I honestly don't know. I guess that a good guilty pleasure also has but a single weakness: you can't always explain it. Why have I seen Rat Pfink A Boo Boo more times than Citizen Kane, or Casablanca, or The Godfather, or any of the other cinematic masterpieces that clearly deserve such attention more than this movie does? It hardly seems fair. But then personal taste is a funny thing, and the fact remains that Rat Pfink a Boo Boo is a personal, desert-island-list favorite of mine. I'm not going to claim it's a great movie. Heck, I'm not even going to claim it's a competent movie. Sure, Steckler was a smart guy: he had some good ideas, could get a lot of mileage out of a shoestring budget, and his cinematography was actually pretty good. But that doesn't change the fact that Rat Pfink a Boo Boo inhabits the same corner of the cinematic landscape that Plan 9 From Outer Space, Trolls 2, and Manos: Hand of Fate dominate. This movie's greatest draw is the jarring difference in tone between it's first and second half. I mean, if I had to watch the two halves separately, would I like the movie? What if it came out as originally envisioned, with no superhero elements? Or if it was a campy superhero spoof all the way through? I just don't know.
And yet I do love the movie. And here's the embarrassing part: I don't even love it ironically. I don't put myself above the movie, or laugh at how bad it is.
Then why?
I suppose that I love the movie because of everything it is and everything it does, whether right or wrong. I love the camp, I love the dialogue, I love the music, I love the jokes, I love the novelty, and I love those things when they're at their best and I love them when they're at their worst. But most of all, I love this movie because it's just plain fun. A lot of bad movies get that way because no one on the crew really cared about it--it was a job and a paycheck, but nothing more. Rat Pfink a Boo Boo doesn't have that problem--it was clearly a labor of love, and the result is a movie that (for lack of a more secular term) has a soul, or maybe two or three different souls. Some things are simply better than the sum of their parts, even when some of those parts are rusty and others look like they got put in the wrong box by mistake. Rat Pfink a Boo Boo might be a ridiculous mess of a movie, but it'll always have a place in my collection.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Review: Mandatory Fun by "Weird Al" Yankovic
I can't imagine how hard it must have been for "Weird Al" Yankovic to get where he is today. Making it as a musician is hard enough, and maintaining a musical career for several decades is even harder. Now try doing that with a career composed entirely of novelty songs, with a focus on parodies of other artist's work. No wonder so many people in the 1980s dismissed Weird Al as a passing fad! And yet it is now 2014, and Weird Al has just released one of his best albums to date: Mandatory Fun.
Okay, so the album isn't perfect. Some songs weren't as good as I was hoping, such as "Inactive," an unoriginal parody of Imagine Dragon's "Radioactive." Others turned out much better, though: "Foil," an aluminum foil-themed parody of Lorde's "Royals", and "Mission Statement," a corporate jargon-filled original in the style of Crosby Stills & Nash, both surpassed my expectations. I can say that there weren't any songs on the album that I outright disliked. My least favourite was probably "Sports Song," an overly formal fight song, but even it's worth listening to now and then.
The best song on the album is probably the Robin Thicke parody, "Word Crimes," which is about how people misuse the English language. Interestingly, "Word Crimes" seems to be one of Weird Al's more controversial songs; some people have actually complained that it's too condescending towards those with poor grammar. Yes, "Word Crimes" is mean. Extremely mean. But it's so blatant, tactless, and over-the-top in its rudeness that I am honestly surprised that so many people are taking it so seriously. Anyone who knows anything about Weird Al could tell you that he's not a mean-spirited man, and there is simply no way that he was being sincere when he wrote or sang those insults. Is he trying to satirize the smugness of prescriptive grammar as well? Maybe, though I think the most likely theory is that he didn't think anyone would take this song any more seriously than, say, "All About the Pentiums," which is just as mean-spirited, only towards people who aren't computer-savy. The simple fact of the matter is that if the "Word Crimes" narrator didn't come across as an antisocial, self-righteous jerk who gets riled up over nothing, then the song would lose half its comic value. However, as the song stands now, it is easily one of Al's funniest parodies.
Of the originals, my personal favourite is probably "First World Problems," a Pixies-style song about the the trials and tribulations of an unfortunate soul who must suffer through life with a pixel out in his laptop and a house so big he can't get Wifi in the kitchen. These style parodies are one of Al's specialties; most of his original songs mimic the musical style of a particular band without directly copying any one song. I have neither the training nor experience to comment on exactly how authentic the reproductions are, but I can certainly say that I like the results. Turns out that the King of Parody is a darn fine composer, too! And the lyrics are classic Al. Sure, the entire song is based around an internet meme, but Al comes up with some clever variants on the joke.
Like most of Weird Al's previous albums, this one has another polka medley of contemporary hits. This one is called "NOW That's What I Call Polka!", and the medley includes (among other songs) Miley Cyrus' "Wrecking Ball," Psy's "Gangnam Style," and Macklemore and Ryan Lewis' "Thrift Shop." Al's polka medleys are particularly interesting because they are the exact opposite of what he is usually known for; instead of changing the lyrics to other people's songs, he keeps the lyrics but changes the music. If you've never heard a "Weird Al" Yankovic polka medley, your should track one down. These medleys are always fan-favorites, and for good reason.
Aside from the aforementioned songs, this album also contains: an impressive home repair-themed parody of Iggy Azalea's "Fancy" called "Handy"; a Southern Culture on the Skids-inspired song about one man's vague connections to the rich and famous called "Lame Claim to Fame"; a Foo Fighter style parody called "My Own Eyes"; an epic nine-minute track, "Jackson Park Express," about a complex and bizarre conversation carried out entirely in body language; and, of course, the song that featured on Al's first Mandatory Fun video: "Tacky," a hilarious parody of Pharrell Williams's "Happy."
I was a bit reluctant to review this album. Most of my studies have been in literature and film, so I really have no more qualifications to review music than anyone else with an iPod does. But Weird Al has a special place in my heart. I'll admit that I intentionally sought out and bought all of the songs that Al parodies on this album and listened to them all several times to prepare myself for this release, and I know that I'm not the only Al fan who can say that. Sound silly? Maybe, but I didn't regret it, and I know that I'm not the only Al fan who can say that, either.
Okay, so the album isn't perfect. Some songs weren't as good as I was hoping, such as "Inactive," an unoriginal parody of Imagine Dragon's "Radioactive." Others turned out much better, though: "Foil," an aluminum foil-themed parody of Lorde's "Royals", and "Mission Statement," a corporate jargon-filled original in the style of Crosby Stills & Nash, both surpassed my expectations. I can say that there weren't any songs on the album that I outright disliked. My least favourite was probably "Sports Song," an overly formal fight song, but even it's worth listening to now and then.
The best song on the album is probably the Robin Thicke parody, "Word Crimes," which is about how people misuse the English language. Interestingly, "Word Crimes" seems to be one of Weird Al's more controversial songs; some people have actually complained that it's too condescending towards those with poor grammar. Yes, "Word Crimes" is mean. Extremely mean. But it's so blatant, tactless, and over-the-top in its rudeness that I am honestly surprised that so many people are taking it so seriously. Anyone who knows anything about Weird Al could tell you that he's not a mean-spirited man, and there is simply no way that he was being sincere when he wrote or sang those insults. Is he trying to satirize the smugness of prescriptive grammar as well? Maybe, though I think the most likely theory is that he didn't think anyone would take this song any more seriously than, say, "All About the Pentiums," which is just as mean-spirited, only towards people who aren't computer-savy. The simple fact of the matter is that if the "Word Crimes" narrator didn't come across as an antisocial, self-righteous jerk who gets riled up over nothing, then the song would lose half its comic value. However, as the song stands now, it is easily one of Al's funniest parodies.
Of the originals, my personal favourite is probably "First World Problems," a Pixies-style song about the the trials and tribulations of an unfortunate soul who must suffer through life with a pixel out in his laptop and a house so big he can't get Wifi in the kitchen. These style parodies are one of Al's specialties; most of his original songs mimic the musical style of a particular band without directly copying any one song. I have neither the training nor experience to comment on exactly how authentic the reproductions are, but I can certainly say that I like the results. Turns out that the King of Parody is a darn fine composer, too! And the lyrics are classic Al. Sure, the entire song is based around an internet meme, but Al comes up with some clever variants on the joke.
Like most of Weird Al's previous albums, this one has another polka medley of contemporary hits. This one is called "NOW That's What I Call Polka!", and the medley includes (among other songs) Miley Cyrus' "Wrecking Ball," Psy's "Gangnam Style," and Macklemore and Ryan Lewis' "Thrift Shop." Al's polka medleys are particularly interesting because they are the exact opposite of what he is usually known for; instead of changing the lyrics to other people's songs, he keeps the lyrics but changes the music. If you've never heard a "Weird Al" Yankovic polka medley, your should track one down. These medleys are always fan-favorites, and for good reason.
Aside from the aforementioned songs, this album also contains: an impressive home repair-themed parody of Iggy Azalea's "Fancy" called "Handy"; a Southern Culture on the Skids-inspired song about one man's vague connections to the rich and famous called "Lame Claim to Fame"; a Foo Fighter style parody called "My Own Eyes"; an epic nine-minute track, "Jackson Park Express," about a complex and bizarre conversation carried out entirely in body language; and, of course, the song that featured on Al's first Mandatory Fun video: "Tacky," a hilarious parody of Pharrell Williams's "Happy."
I was a bit reluctant to review this album. Most of my studies have been in literature and film, so I really have no more qualifications to review music than anyone else with an iPod does. But Weird Al has a special place in my heart. I'll admit that I intentionally sought out and bought all of the songs that Al parodies on this album and listened to them all several times to prepare myself for this release, and I know that I'm not the only Al fan who can say that. Sound silly? Maybe, but I didn't regret it, and I know that I'm not the only Al fan who can say that, either.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Shakespeare in the Park
Yesterday, my father and I saw a Company of Fools' excellent production of William Shakespeare's As You Like It. It was a lot of fun, and very funny. The environment was very relaxed--people sitting around on towels or in lawn chairs, many of them with their children, and some with their pets. This is how I prefer to see Shakespeare handled--for audiences, rather than for students and scholars.
Don't misinterpret me--I'm not saying that schools should stop teaching Shakespeare. He's the greatest writer in the history of the English language, and young people should study him. But few fiction writers, if any, have ever written anything for the sole purpose of being studied in schools. That's why I think that live productions of Shakespeare are so important today--they help remind people that, although he's difficult, he's also wonderfully entertaining. His plays can be funny or tragic. His characters are impossibly eloquent, but they're also some of the most believable and human ever written. However good and however convenient Shakespeare's word may be on the page, we should remember that his plays were meant to be spoken and performed, and that's still the best way to really appreciate the Bard's genius.
It's a shame that so many people think of his work (or any great author's work, for that matter) as little more than particularly difficult homework assignments.
Don't misinterpret me--I'm not saying that schools should stop teaching Shakespeare. He's the greatest writer in the history of the English language, and young people should study him. But few fiction writers, if any, have ever written anything for the sole purpose of being studied in schools. That's why I think that live productions of Shakespeare are so important today--they help remind people that, although he's difficult, he's also wonderfully entertaining. His plays can be funny or tragic. His characters are impossibly eloquent, but they're also some of the most believable and human ever written. However good and however convenient Shakespeare's word may be on the page, we should remember that his plays were meant to be spoken and performed, and that's still the best way to really appreciate the Bard's genius.
It's a shame that so many people think of his work (or any great author's work, for that matter) as little more than particularly difficult homework assignments.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Thoughts on Abbott and Costello
Sometimes, I look back on myself, and don't know whether to marvel how much I've changed or at how little. For example, let's look at my greatest passion: comedy. When I was a child, I loved Saturday-morning cartoons. When I became a teenager, I preferred more "mature" humor, like Family Guy. But when my chronological age become more adult, my sense of humor became less so; in the last few years, I've been drawn more to classic black-and-white Hollywood comedies--movies made when the Hays Office held gangster movies to a standard that would seem constrictive to a children's book. Don't get me wrong: I do not support censorship, never did, and never will. But every generation has its own style and its own sense of humor, and it just so happens that I laugh more at things that were funny in the 1920s to the 1940 than things that are funny now.
For my first blog entry, I'm going to focus on one of the most iconic comedy teams in the history of the American cinema: that of mean-spirited straight man Bud Abbott, and his lovable oaf of a sidekick, Lou Costello. I'll admit that, until about a year ago, I thought of Abbott and Costello as second-tier film comedians--good, but below the likes of Charlie Chaplin or the Marx Brothers. But I've been watching their movies with my family a lot in the last year or so, and old Bud and Lou have definitely grown on me.
To understand Abbott and Costello's movies, I think that it's important to know that they've been performing a lot of their routines on stage and radio before they started working in film. Most comedies draw their jokes from the plot, characters, or situation; even in a completely insane movie like Airplane! (1980), the jokes come from the plot. For Abbott and Costello to really play to their strengths, though, they had to take standalone routines and force them into a story, even if they needed a sledgehammer to do it. The next time you watch Buck Privates (1941), watch how subtly Abbott introduces the "You're 40, She's 10" routine into the conversation.
Ironically, that's a big part of why I've come to admire the pair so much. Yes, Abbott and Costello often relied on recycled routines that were shoehorned into some (let's be honest here) otherwise unremarkable movies. On the other hand, Abbott was quite possibly the best straight man in the history of Hollywood cinema, and Costello is one of the best verbal comedians. You may have heard the joke, and you may see the punchline coming, but that isn't going to save you. I suppose I still believe that Bud Abbott's and Lou Costello's movies are still only second-tier comedies. But I've also come to realize that the movies wouldn't even achieve that if they didn't star first-class comedians.
For my first blog entry, I'm going to focus on one of the most iconic comedy teams in the history of the American cinema: that of mean-spirited straight man Bud Abbott, and his lovable oaf of a sidekick, Lou Costello. I'll admit that, until about a year ago, I thought of Abbott and Costello as second-tier film comedians--good, but below the likes of Charlie Chaplin or the Marx Brothers. But I've been watching their movies with my family a lot in the last year or so, and old Bud and Lou have definitely grown on me.
To understand Abbott and Costello's movies, I think that it's important to know that they've been performing a lot of their routines on stage and radio before they started working in film. Most comedies draw their jokes from the plot, characters, or situation; even in a completely insane movie like Airplane! (1980), the jokes come from the plot. For Abbott and Costello to really play to their strengths, though, they had to take standalone routines and force them into a story, even if they needed a sledgehammer to do it. The next time you watch Buck Privates (1941), watch how subtly Abbott introduces the "You're 40, She's 10" routine into the conversation.
Ironically, that's a big part of why I've come to admire the pair so much. Yes, Abbott and Costello often relied on recycled routines that were shoehorned into some (let's be honest here) otherwise unremarkable movies. On the other hand, Abbott was quite possibly the best straight man in the history of Hollywood cinema, and Costello is one of the best verbal comedians. You may have heard the joke, and you may see the punchline coming, but that isn't going to save you. I suppose I still believe that Bud Abbott's and Lou Costello's movies are still only second-tier comedies. But I've also come to realize that the movies wouldn't even achieve that if they didn't star first-class comedians.
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