Reminder

It's almost that time. If you're thinking about a birthday gift for your faithful blogger and don't know what to get, may I humbly suggest this little item?It's a little pricey and won't be released until after my b-day, but I won't mind if you don't mind. Also, Douglas Sirk. Thanks.

* Nerve's recently launched movie news blog Screengrab is edited by cinebud Bilge Ebiri. In format, this blog is like the indispensable Greencine Daily, but more irreverent and funny (though far less comprehensive). The only annoying thing is that you have to be a Nerve subscriber to comment. But you don't have to subscribe in order to bookmark the page.

* Okay, "objectively" Brett Ratner's comic book extravaganza isn't really comparable to Claire Denis' poetic reverie on mortality and regret, L'intrus. So why the same grade? For one thing, I fell asleep watching L'intrus (though the parts I managed to stay awake for were indeed magnificent if puzzling). For another, Hugh Jackman, besides being a foot taller than the "real" Wolverine, is exactly how I had always pictured the Canadian mutant. Dude's perfect. And the script managed to compress a bunch of X-Men story threads (including the canonical Dark Phoenix saga) into one taut and accessible narrative that didn't betray the spirit of the original stories. All worth some props. But mainly I liked this movie because Madrox the Multiple Man made a surprise appearance (as a bad guy). This was especially awesome since I had ruminated on this obscure, useless but nonetheless awesome character the night before in a discussion on dating.

* You can now find the answer for every question you've ever had on Wikipedia. For example, I now finally understand what the fuck "he is teh crap" means in reference to crappy Sox pitcher Matt Clement (why teh fuck did you not offer Pedro five years, Theo? Why?).

* Following some links from the entry on pwn3d in Wikipedia, I eventually discovered the amusing if unconvincing entry on "Nice Guy Syndrome". Is it me or has pop psychologizing of romantic rituals become the new American pasttime? Witness, for example, the Washington Post's 4 page examination of that all-important role, the wingman.

* During my blogging hiatus, I spent a lot of time commenting on other blogs, mainly about politics and especially about the role of the blogosphere. (Look! LA Times columnist Jonathan Chait gave me props (actually it's buried deep in the comments section, so don't bother).) I had been trying to work my thoughts into a post, but Josh Marshall kinda did it for me (and pretty much voiced my own thoughts on both Jeffrey Goldberg's New Yorker piece on the Democrats and the New Yorker in general).

Short version: the blogosphere cannot win elections, but it's serving a valuable function in creating alternative narratives and puncturing stupid conventional wisdom. Also, most people who follow the blogosphere understand that the liberal side is not especially ideological -- it's combative and partisan, but doesn't demand litmus tests, contrary to the bullshit "responsible centrists v. nutty activist bloggers" memes perpetuated by clueless pundits. (Centrists like Brian Schweitzer and Mark Warner are blog darlings; Lieberman is hated not because he's a centrist, but because he can't help but "parrot right-wing talking points" about Democrats while kissing Bush's ass.) The problem with the blogs is (1) insularity; (2) overinflates the crime of "transcribing right-wing talking point" or "MSM meme", which I guess can't be helped when the main goal is to provide an alternative narrative;(3) self-importance; and (4) irritating and shrill. Some blogosphere developments, such as the inexplicable worship of nutcase dKos diarist Mary Scott O'Connor, are indeed pretty lame. But the liberal blogosphere is the response to right-wing talk radio; by itself, it can't change politics. In attacking the Democrats' timid, consultant-driven approach, though, it's changing Dem tactics, mostly for the better.

* But the blogs can't do anything about California. What if, in the biggest blue state of them all, you held a Dem primary election for governor and nobody cared? $50 million spent on ads, and still nobody gives a hoot about the colorless monkeys Westly and Angelides.

* One of the best political ideas in the history of the republic.

RIP Shohei Imamura

Three days ago, Shohei Imamura was one the world's ten greatest living directors. That list will need revising, as Imamura has died at the age of 79. Imamura, whose credits include the masterpiece The Ballad of Narayama and an obscurity called Pigs and Battleships, was a true maverick. As far as I know, he's the first major post-humanist to emerge in Japan, getting his feet wet just before the other great rebel of Japanese cinema, Nagisa Oshima, went into feature filmmaking. While his peers busied themselves telling classical humanist tales with such lofty titles as The Human Condition and The Burmese Harp, Imamura picked at our festering scabs. His movies, adorned with such shlocky titles as The Insect Woman, explore not so much the human condition but the ways in which we resemble insects and pigs.

If you've never seen an Imamura movie, my description might be a little off-putting. In fact, his film sound a little like the formally accomplished but "moronic" films of a similarly zoologically-oriented auteur, the Cannes-feted Bruno Dumont, who makes some of the most repulsive films on the planet. The difference may be that Dumont's method consists of him imposing a set of reductionistic principles (humans consumed by animalistic instincts) pulled out of his ass onto a borrowed "Bressonian" framework. This is passed off as a kind of profound world-view or "vision". However astringent his view of humanity, Imamura doesn't succumb to such reductionism. His wacky peasants and sundry lowlives may plow through life guided only their mouths and loins -- they're largely driven by instinct, thirst, hunger, avarice and sex -- but they still find room for a little fun. In totally commiting himself to a kind of anthropological realism, Imamura disavows the often mushy and sentimental humanism that dominated post-war Japanese cinema. But in retaining his sense of humor and giving his characters at least a chance to dream and hope, he avoids the ant-farm sophistry of would-be anthropologists like Dumont. I guess the difference is that in Shohei's films, sex can be enjoyable -- for the viewer and for the onscreen participants.

It must be said that the old sensei's hands were not entirely steady -- he's not a smooth filmmaker or a graceful storyteller. Much like the world he depicts, Imamura's are messy, unruly, a little unfinished. One moment you'll gawk at a series of stunningly artful compositions (in Pigs, a lengthy sequence of Japanse girls getting raped by American soldiers is composed in abstracted squares within diamonds like a kaleidoscope) that rival Ichikawa or Seijun Suzuki, but the next moment the film will abruptly veer into deliberately artless realism. Sometimes, as in The Pornographers, Imamura's herky-jerky rhythms and taste for unmotivated tonal shifts undermine the material. At his best, though, the oscillating tones and seemingly incongruous visual motifs come together to achieve a kind of grace. In Black Rain, Imamura's deeply moving portrait of post-atomic Hiroshima, the young protagonist's failure to find a suitable mate becomes something of a morbid joke, even as the tragic signs of her radioactive exposure are shown to be ever more pronounced. And one of the most memorable shots in cinema comes at the end of Dr. Akagi, when the doctor's assistant and obsessive whale-hunter finally chases down the giant mammal just as a giant "liver-shaped" mushroom cloud forms behind them. Only a true wacko is capable of creating such unique images. And Imamura, when all is said and done, was probably the greatest wacko director who ever lived.

I've only seen about half of his output (most regretfully missed thus far are Intentions of Murder, Profound Desire of the Gods, and A Man Vanishes -- the major works of his early period), but that won't stop me from offering a personal top 5 of Imamura's films:

1. The Ballad of Narayama (1983)
2. Black Rain (1989)
3. The Eel (1997)
4. Vengeance is Mine (1979)
5. Dr. Akagi (1998)

For more, see Matt Prigge's write-up.

Not Your Grandfather's Coachella

"What. The. Fuck. Did. I. Get. Myself. Into." Those were my precise thoughts on 2:35 p.m. on Saturday, April 29, as I stood at the entrance of the Coachella Valley Music Festival. I had just walked 40 minutes in the scorching desert heat, caked in grime and sweat, only to now find myself swallowed into the amorphous mass of Gummo-refugees clamoring to get in. When I arrived, security were ushering ticketholders in at the rate of sixteen per hour. With appoximately eight hundred people waiting, I'd figure I'd get into the Coachella polo grounds just in time for the next Oscar ceremony. The wait was sheer agony, moreso because nobody was sure when it is we'd actually get in. Thirty minutes passed before some brainiac figured out that they can't frisk every single person with the staff they have.

So finally the floodgates opened, and thousands of white suburban teens were made very happy.

Entry aside, Coachella is as well-run a festival as you'll see. The amenities are plentiful, the food is better than what they serve at Staples or Dodger Stadium, and the spatial layout convenient. And the mish-mash of indie boutiques, corporate sponsorship, and Burning Man-styled community art is either pleasantly distracting or an avoidable sideshow according to taste. Goldenvoice makes it work, or at least doesn't get in the way. If only they'd institute a ban on ironic t-shirts (spotted: "You looked better on MySpace", "Go to Hell. I mean it.", "Worst. Coachella. Ever."), I would count myself as a very satisfied customer.

Then there's the music. The Coachella organizers have, in their infinite wisdom, decide to schedule a bunch of hot bands opposite one another. The scheduling conflicts leave the intrepid Coachella-goer with only three choices:

(1) the DJ Q-Bert approach. Hop from stage to stage (or tent to tent) in 20 minute intervals, sampling half a set or even just two or three songs from every act that one can humanly cram in.
(2) the sensible approach. Pick four acts you really want to see and take in the whole set.
(3) Saddleback Ranch approach: line-up for two hours to get your drink bracelet just so you can enter the beer garden and be magically transported to a cheesy Sunset Blvd. club on Saturday night, complete with bleach blonde hos in stilettos and squared jaw frat boys in baseball caps (striped shirts, thankfully, were nowhere to be found).

Going against my slacker instincts, I decided to take the caffeinated #1 option and hop from tent to tent. But day 1 left me so exhausted that I stayed in to watch that amazing Lakers OT win over the Suns before sauntering into the festival at a quarter past 5 on Day 2, when I was forced to go with a more sensible approach. This explains why I covered so many more acts on Day 1.

Day 1

Highlights:

My Morning Jacket. Let the record reflect that the commenters were right and I was wrong: MMJ just rocked out. Refreshing to hear such superior craftsmanship after the misfires I endured earlier in the day (see below). Probably my favorite overall set at Coachella.

Daft Punk. The consensus best act of Coachella, and why not? The French duo emerged in full robot gear and just pwn3d the tent, taking apart their classic party album Discovery layer by layer and bringing the revelers into a frenzy with cerebral yet intense builds like the best house DJs. Blew pretty much everyone away, including the skeptics among us expecting bubble gum dance tracks.

Solid:

Devendra Banhart. Looks like Jesus, acts like Mary, sings like Satan.* Call it "freak folk" or whatever, Banhart's music is well-nigh uncategorizable, and his set, which feels like a bunch of drunk, exceptionally talented low lifes noodling in a dive bar, turned out to be sporadically brilliant. If you can endure Banhart's prissy diva gesticulations, you'll find yourself mesmerized by Banhart's Daniel Johnston-like vocals in blues numbers like "Long Haired Child."

[*] Homage to a t-shirt spotted at Fenway Park describing Johnny Damon: "Looks like Jesus, acts like Judas, throws like Mary."

Kanye West. College Dropout and Late Registration are two of my most-played discs of the last couple of years, and so Kanye's set is satisfying in its familiarity even if it lacked the souped-up production values that he's known for. Kanye tried to get by by unfurling some shtick for the white folk (doing a Molly Ringwald dance to "Take On Me") in between a run through of his big hits "All Falls Down", "Gold Digger," "Jesus Walks", etc., backed by a string section. Wish he'd performed my favorite track, "Drive Slow", but let's face it: the songs sound better on the album. Jon Brion = genius.

Common. The stylin' rapper had energy to spare, but the crowd, clearly unfamiliar with his material, wouldn't even summon up the energy to chant "Go, go, go." Common brought his game; the crowd didn't buy it.

Franz Ferdinand. One of the few acts who managed to fill the vast expanse of space with their thunderous sound. I imagine they'll jolt you to your bones in smaller venues, even if their set was a little conservative.

Okay:

Cat Power. The air was thick with dread as Chan's legion of fans looked on helplessly. Their idol, her eyes darting nervously from side to side as she rushed through songs mostly from her new album The Greatest, looked for all the world like she's one missed note away from a full-on nervous breakdown. But after a shaky start in that tension-packed tent, a jittery Ms. Marshall, squeezed into a satin cocktail dress, exorcised her demons by belting out torch songs with an unmatched intensity. Loosening up as the set drew to a close, Cat Power finished with a rousing cover of "House of the Rising Sun" to her fans' undying gratitude. Me, I really wanted to see a neurotic episode. But a nice set will do.

Lyrics Born. Pretty awesome to see an Asian dude with flow own the tent, even though the sight was so dissonant I kept doing double takes.

Deerhoof. After seeing Deerhoof, Fiery Furnaces and Architecture in Helsinki, I'm starting to get wary of this kind wacko electicism in a live setting. With their emphasis on radical melodic shifts, skittish rhythms with seemingly unmotivated breaks, fractured song structures, and quirky arrangements incorporating such wacky instruments as triangles, vibes, and even toy trumpets, these cheerfully unpredictable acts feed off of their iPod shuffle approach, playing sets that'll jump from spare, sugary ballads that borrow from childhood ditties to epic jams that evoke "Sister Ray." Maybe it's my fault, but Deerhoof's abrupt gearshifts, so joyous on record, gave me a bit of a whiplash live even if Satomi's shriek is something to behold.

Disappointing:

Wolfmother. Most of the crowd thought these guys played a rockin' set, but if I really wanted to listen to 70s arena rock revival, why not just slip in my Led Zepplin II and listen to the real thing?

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Against my better judgment perhaps, I loved (most of) this mega-hyped band's debut album. How disappointing to discover that they are slack and uninspired live, unable to summon up the drunken enthusiasm that fueled their infectious carnival tracks. With the rhythm section falling behind as Alec Ounsworth's screechy wails thinned out at the top registers, Clap Your Hands' set began to take on the experience of drinking flat soda -- it's sugar water with none of the fizz.

Depeche Mode. Old farts, at least thirtysomething old farts like me, remember that indelible day after school when we played the "deepest song, like, ever" on our ghettoblaster for the first time for our 7th grade sweetheart. We introduce the song in hushed tones, explaining how it's "a cappella" (a strange foreign phrase we secretly hope would finally elicit more than a peck on the cheek). Then it comes on: "I want somebody to share/share the rest of my life./Share my innermost thoughts/know my most intimate details", a brittle male voice sings plaintively. Oh, to be enthralled in the memories of that divine moment, when your soul touched the soul of another via Martin Gore's profound koans to cosmic connection ("she will listen to me/when I want to speak/about the world we live in/and life in general")...is to recall why you've managed to repress every single memory from that traumatic year (except maybe the NBA finals that year, when the Lakers finally defeated the Celtics for the first time).

What's truly frightening is that I can still remember every line of that wretched ballad.

As an old fart whose fandom ended with Some Great Reward, DM's rote, laborious greatest hits melange was a particular disappointment. Judging from their song choices, it appears Gahan, Gore and co. misassessed their catalog and overvalued Violator. It's their early gothic industrial tracks like "Blasphemous Rumours" and "Master and Servant", with their risque s&m flavor, that are the most distinctive, but the only sop to old-timers was "Shake the Disease". Poor showing, but not unexpectedly so, I suppose.

The Bela Tarr award for audience flagellation goes to....Animal Collective. Last time I saw a crowd flood out of a show this quickly was at a Werckmeister Harmonies screening at Toronto Int'l Film Festival. When I arrived, they were in the middle of building some kind of sound collage, basically a cacophony featuring two droning chords and startling snippets of animalistic vocals. Fifteen minutes later, when I left the performance, they were still in the middle of building their sound collage, with vocalists simulating what sounded like pigeon mating calls.

Only Sampled Two or Three Songs:

Ladytron, She Wants Revenge, The Walkmen. I was too far back to properly appreciate Ladytron's performance; as a fan of their albums, all I can say is they didn't give me a compelling reason to stay for the full set. She Wants Revenge played three songs that sounded exactly the same. The Walkmen appeared uninspired from my (very far) vantage point.

Wish I had seen:

TV on the Radio, The Zutons, The Like. Zutons and TVOTR were two of the most favorably reviewed acts on the Coachella message board. Especially TV, which I had penciled in but at the last minute abandoned for pizza and bratwurst (and the soothing sounds of Sigur Ros in the background) instead.

Day 2

Highlight:

Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I've heard the Karen O's spunky stage show is in fact not as spontaneous as it looks. No matter. Sure, Karen O does what you expect: strut, scream at the top of her lungs with her legs splayed on the floor, fellate a mic. What I didn't prepare for is the inhuman screech that O's vocal chords unleash, a eardrum rattling primal scream that can't be described by the English language. O's manic energy on stage -- her obvious star-wattage -- is one thing, but YYY's stage show wouldn't pack half the punch without the aggressive proto-punk guitars and the psuedo-jazz beats. Despite what you may have heard, this is very much of a band. A band that fucking rocks. Trust me, Karen O and the Watson Twins wouldn't generate a fraction of YYY's electricity.

Solid:

Sleater-Kinney. I've never seen the revered indie goddesses live, and appropriately on the Coachella stage they've played a healthy selection from their arena rock-inspired The Woods, ending with the rocker "Let's Call It Love", with that 10 minute plus guitar solo. No complaints.

Wolf Parade. The restless crowd began shuffling out as the band seemed incapable of fixing a sound equipment snafu. Twenty minutes had elapsed since Wolf Parade's scheduled start, and still the only sight on view were of a bunch of baffled sound engineers and band members tinkering with amps. Knowing those Benitos at Coachella will skip bands in order to keep to the schedule, we finally decided to bail as the situation appeared hopeless. But thankfully, right before we were able to step out, they got their shit together and played an electrifying if somewhat compromised set. To my untrained ears, the keyboard was off, but that didn't stop these kids from Montreal from just killing it. I had no idea they had a Lennon/McCartney thing going with alternating vocalists, but overall I prefer the more punkish-looking dude's cuts.

Okay:

Gnarls Barkley. A kickass compilation album can be put together containing only songs with the title "Crazy." I caught Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse's monster hit along with a few other tracks from way outside the tent, as their 30 minute set was tipped by the buzzmeisters as the act to see in that time slot. Too far back to participate in the desert bacchanal, all I can see from my (disad)vantage point were Danger Mouse bobbing around in some kind of Halloween outfit and Cee-Lo working the tent into a frenzy. Must catch in a small venue some time.

Madonna. The most famous woman in the world, playing in a tent with maximum capacity of maybe 3,000? It doesn't take a logistics expert to know this spells trouble, but it was surprisingly easy to slither your way inside the tent right before the show began, if you're so inclined. Amid the throng of teenage girls in exposed thongs inconsiderately straddling their boyfriends' shoulders, I waited for the Queen of Pop to grace us with her regal presence. But after twenty minutes, the hisses and catcalls started. Did the Big M not understand this was Coachella, not some Orange County hockey arena? Did she think we enlightened Coachella attendees will deign to wait around for twenty minutes? Who the hell does she think she is? Bright Eyes? Ben Gibbard?

My view completely obstructed by a Great Wall of teen girls (their thongs conspicuously exposed -- have I mentioned this already?), I couldn't really judge Madonna's performance when she finally appeared. A glimpse of Madonna attempting to play the guitar to a rocked-up "Ray of Light". Some backup dancers doing a choreographed routine more suited to a Grammy show than the Sahara Tent. Nada from Madonna's 80s heyday, which made her much-hyped appearance much less satisfying than her arena show, where at least you get the trumphant "Like a Prayer". After about three and half tracks, I tired of the sweaty bodies trying to squeeze their way onto the stage. So I bailed to catch the last fifteen minutes of...

Mogwai. The "loudest band in the world" lived up to their moniker, as they built a wall of sound so dense that Lou Dobbsian nativists should consider hiring them to guard the U.S-Mexico border.

Massive Attack. The electro-lounge godfather is my favorite band in the lineup, but can't say the live show really enhanced my appreciation. Nothing wrong with their performance per se (I would've liked a few more cuts from Protection and Blue Lines, but no biggie), so I'd chalk up the lukewarm vibe to the downtempo rhythms of trip hop itself, otherwise as versatile a genre as you'll find. Scurrying for make-out music as you plan your Myspace date? Try Morcheeba's Big Calm. Need something to set the mood for cocktail hour at your dinner party? Throw on Maxinquaye. Need a soundtrack to sulk to after a heartbreak, after you wear out your favorite Billie Holiday album? May I suggest Portishead's Dummy?

How many of us have gyrated to "Unfinished Sympathy" in the wee of hours of a club night, or play "Karma Koma" in our head as we stride down a dark city street? Okay, maybe just me. And it's cool that Massive Attack played both those cuts. But like Thievery Corporation at Coachella three years ago, the relaxed grooves just don't grab you in that outdoor desert setting. Massive Attack's playing at the Hollywood Bowl this summer, but you know, I'll wait for a show at the Avalon instead.

Not impressed by:

Matisyahu. As I understand it, this dude is an orthodox Jew who sings reggae. Let's see how far his shtick takes him. For me, about three songs.

Wish I had seen:

Magic Numbers (so they've got an easy-listening sound and supposedly bombed on the Coachella stage, but sue me, I loved their album); Go Team! (infectious bubble-gum pop wowed those who saw it -- I would've definitely caught them had I been on my own); Digable Planets (couldn't quite ditch YYY in time); Amadou & Mariam (played too early; word is they were awesome); Art Brut (They kinda have the Franz Ferdinand in early 2004 vibe; played after we took off).

more lazy blogging

* "Pedro Martinez credits success to lucky midgets, sun god, magic beads". So says the Onion. It wouldn't be so funny if it weren't so close to the truth.

* Clemens in a Sox uniform by June? The Rocket is reportedly leaning towards finishing his career with the team that drafted him. Which. Will. Be. So. Awesome. (If it happens.)

* Go Clips!

* Kobe for MVP, Sports Guy argues. He makes a pretty good case; I'd just add that this will be the last chance before LeBron runs off about eight MVPs in a row. That said, I can't get behind the Sports Guy's badly misjudged marriage of Pearl Jam fanboyism and NBA playoff punditry. Sorry, Bill. This piece doesn't work, though I got your back on this quote:

Maybe the gloomiest Pearl Jam song ("Black") goes to the gloomiest playoffs subplot ... the looming possibility of another Pistons-Spurs Finals. I like watching both teams separately, just not at the same time, if that makes sense. Kinda like Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn.

* Speaking of which, the trailer to the Vaughn-Aniston rom-com The Break-Up (directed by Peyton Reed -- can this actually not suck ass?!?) has caused a stir in some corners of the blogosphere. Why? I suppose it has something to do with a scene that showcases a certain grooming trend that takes its name from a certain soccer-lovin', Carnival-celebratin', Portugese-speakin', hot-bootied country in South America.

* My ideal POTUS would: be right on the big issues -- the biggest being global warming, the Iraq invasion, the war against al Qaeda, and the increasing income/wealth gap. Be a good manager of people. Smart. Experienced. Creative. Leads. Has integrity. It would help if s/he has experience governing during a period of peace & prosperity. In short, I want a Prez who is everything that the current President isn't.

This person is a pure fantasy you say? Not so. He exists. We'll just have to re-elect him.

* Is the Poker boom flattening? Yes, says the NY Times. But how then to explain the phenomenal growth of Party Poker this year? (Easy, Party is mining Euros to make up for the dwindling supply of potential American poker players. Good job. I can't wait until they make it in Asia, a market of about a hundred million would-be gambling addict -- at least until those Asians become good. Then bye-bye online poker.)

* To tease out the meaning of the last comment: having absolutely no information, these are the types I least want to see at my poker table: (1) a wily 40-something Vietnamese guy; (2) a Jewish cap-donning collegiate- type who knows chip tricks; (3) anybody who looks like Philip Baker Hall; (4) any obese dude. I do not welcome the creation of many more good deceptive Asian poker players. I want to play players who are either predictable fish or predictable ABC players.

a whole lotta bloggy asides

* Sorry I've been away. You may sling rocks and arrows or hurl decomposed tomatoes at me for being a derilect blogger. You may not, however, call me a hipster. Thanks.

* To commemorate the grand opening of my cousin's boutique Grey One in Old Town Pasadena, I'm thinking of dropping a few bucks I recently picked up playing poker on some new kicks. This special ed. Adidas, designed by famed hapa artist Barry McGee, had looked pretty dope, though I now hesitate to pick a shoe that landed on the cover of WaPo as yet the subject of another "Asian stereotype" controversy. Evidently these well-meaning but misguided Asian American activists have never picked a Giant Robot.

(By the way, the content of the above item does not, in any way or form, hint at any hipster-ish tendencies I may or may not possess. So it would not be correct to call me a hipster. Thank you.)

* Wingnut Jonah Goldberg thinks Hollywood finally got it right with Thank You for Smoking. Seems that by portraying Aaron Eckhart's unctious lobbyist as amoral in the public sphere but a Family Guy in private, Hollywood's sending the right message about the wingers and the winger ethos. Dude might be peddling cancer sticks, but hey, don't hate him cuz he a Great Dad! It's not hard to think of Nick Naylor, a WASPy alpha male teeming with confidence, as a kind of idealized Republican, but Goldberg kids himself if he thinks that there are Republicans as attractively self-aware as Naylor. As for the family values stuff, wasn't this supposed to be a cynical satire? Who the hell decided to turn it into a fucking Steven Spielberg film? Memo to Reitman and Buckley: please pick up The Billy Wilder DVD set, and also Ace in the Hole (not included in the set). Watch them and take notes. Thanks.

* I'm not sure about this new Flight 93 movie, but if it's 1/20th as powerful as, say, this news story describing the contents of the flight recorder, it'll be worth catching. Beyond the pleas for mercy, what's most striking for me is how often the terrorists prayed to Allah. Religious nutcases can justify anything in the name of their god, including mass murder.

As for the Moussaoui trial, I thought the prosecutors' theory in applying the death penalty to be a stretch legally, but if anyone deserves execution just for being an evil scumbag, it's this guy. The dude clearly wants to be a martyr, doesn't he? I guess if I had to choose between 70 virgins servicing me in the sweet hereafter vs. a life being confined in utter misery, hated by everyone within a 1000 mile radius, I'd choose the guillotine as well.

* Another story about religious nutcases, this one involving Christianist wackos suing to overturn anti-discrimination laws against gays and lesbians and campus "tolerance" policies. It seems to me quite simple: Christianist wackos' right to *say* whatever the hell they want in the public square should not be abridged by the state. But employers have fairly broad rights over speech content in the workplace. Feeling oppressed cuz your boss won't let you wear your prized "God Hates Fags" t-shirt? Go start your own business, dickhead. Housing and job discrimination policies shouldn't protect gays because it's a "lifestyle choice"? Who says? And your superstitious wankery -- which grants you "special rights," I should add -- is somehow not a "lifestyle choice"?

(Just to be clear, Christianists are not the same thing as Christians. See (the Catholic) Andrew Sullivan for more.)

* The Religious right thinks Christianity is under assault. Muslims think Americans disrespect Islam. Many Jews are worried about widespread anti-Semitism. Yet what is far and away the most unpopular group? Atheists. It's not even close. Try running for public office as an atheist some time. Unless your district is the West Village, you're not getting anywhere. And some courts feel the need to favor the superstitious over the non-superstitious. Read this post by Eugene Volokh, which is like Camus' The Stranger come life. Isn't it rich how some white Christians, who comprise of 70% of the population and occupy 90% of the most powerful positions in this country, constantly whine about being under attack? By 2% of the country who are widely loathed?

* By the way, I once shook Tila Tequila's hand, back when she was merely a Friendster celeb. That Tila Tequila, all 4 foot 10 inches and 72 pounds of her, the one whom Slate has now endorsed for President. (More thoughts on networkng sites later.)

* The faux French band Nous Non Plus, a reincarnation of cult band Les Sans Culottes (the excruciating breakup of which is detailed in Slate), put a fun live show a couple of weeks ago at Spaceland. My Monsieur Gainsbourg Revisited (a Gainsbourg tribute album featuring Portishead, Jane Birkin, Franz Ferdinand, etc. -- though where's Luna's definitive "Bonnie and Clyde"?) is in the mail. The incomparable Francoise Hardy is seeing a new surge in popularity, at least according to Filter. A good time to be 60s Franco-pop enthusiast.

* Rejoice! Criterion will issue Edward Yang's masterpiece Yi Yi in July, in a characteristically awesome cover design. That bodes well for an eventual release of Yang's A Brighter Summer Day, my pick as the greatest film not yet on DVD. (Thanks to Vlad for the tip.)

* Shrouded by a fog of cigarette smoke, Tony Leung sits alone in his French Quarters hotel room, playing John Coltrane and Duke Ellington's "In a Sentimental Mood", unable to shake the memory of lost love as the window shutters swing violently to-and-fro. That was the image my mind conjured up as I happened upon rumors that Wong Kar-wai was planning a Hurricane Katrina movie (it was to star Adrien Brody actually). Let's thank the movie gods that Wanker apparently changed his mind. His new film has nothing to do with Katrina. Vaguely described as a "road movie", My Blueberry Nights will star Norah Jones, Rachel Weisz and Jude Law and will be shooting in various American locations shortly. The description of this project brings to mind Wim Wenders' Paris, Texas and Antonioni's Zabriskie Point, films that heralded an "American period" of these two major foreign masters of mood and atmosphere. Ominously, it ushered in a period that ultimately led to creative paralysis for both. Wanker should do well to keep Tony on call.

His other English-speaking project, the Nicole Kidman period drama The Lady of Shanghai, is being pushed back to next year.

* Patrice Chereau's Gabrielle. Wow. Just wow.

[Thoughts may be forthcoming concerning one of the following topics: (1) Chereau's dazzling formalism and how his gamesmanship -- on screen text, six or seven different lighting schemes -- puts just the right accent on the material; (2) how marriage sucks; (3) a battle of wills between a man who lusts after control and a woman yearning to reliquish control; (4) Huppert's obvious casting - Greggory less so; (5) why so many masterpieces emerge from strong-willed auteurs grappling with canonical 19th century/early 20th century literature; (6) chamber dramas as the most cinematic pictures ever shot -- paradox or not?; (7) comparisons to Love Streams, The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant, or another cineaste-lauded work that bears a superficial similiarity to the movie under discusson.

Truthfully, I would not count on such thoughts being forthcoming. But if they do come forth, watch for more in this space.]

Who is this man?

(a) The bassist for the post-emoelectropunk band The Monterey Park Penis Debacle (not yet formed but already a Pitchfork buzz band!).

(b) A salesman of portable butane stoves who is accused of abducting a missing white woman at a Caribbean resort.

(c) Some ass who used to shoot spitwads at you in geometry class and now works at Leo's Auto Parts.

(d) One of the two best college basketball players in the country.

It's March Madness time, which means the American economy stands to lose up to $3.8 billion in lost productivity as workers obsess over their brackets and click refresh on the live box score a milliion times instead of doing good ol' data entry. The man with the trailer-park moustache on the top-right corner is Adam Morrison, one of leading lights in the resurgence of the Great White Hopes in basketball. He plays for Gonzaga, an overrated team with suspect defense that'll wear down in three tourney games.

Since I've only watched about 2 hours of non-Pac-10, non-Gonzaga NCAA b-ball this year, my bracketology IQ is roughly 53. With the other regions, I'll probably go with a bunch of Big East teams like everyone else. Nobody respects the Pac-10 this year, but UCLA, under Howland, is really clicking and is my pick to emerge from the West. Had the chance to watch the Bruins demolish my beloved Bears at the Staples Center in the Pac-10 tournament championship game last Saturday. Stifling defense coupled with terrific guard play are a tough combination, especially when you've got perimeter shot workin'.

The Cal Bears have a typical Cal team under Ben Braun -- plodding, defense-oriented, probably a 2nd round knockout at best. This year we've got the most dominant player in the Pac-10, sophomore power forward Leon Powe, who figures to at least overpower the smaller NC State. It'll be good to see Powe, a classy, hardworking guy from a very disadvantaged background, get some national publicity and hopefully boost his draft position, especially if he can do well against projected top-3 pick LaMarcus Aldridge of Texas in the 2nd round. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.

[I owe some people responses to dangling threads down below. I'll try to get to them by the end of the day, maybe; a big chunk of my time today will again be spent at Staples as I'll be seeing Kevin Garnett in the flesh for the first time.]

Note to world

the term for a sure thing is not shoe-in. It is shoo-in. As in, "gee, I thought Barry Bonds would be a shoo-in for the Hall of Fame." (Not.) Please note for future use. Thanks.

And because it deserves a link: Slate takes on one of the great underdiscussed nuisances of 21st century living, the auto-flush toilet.