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The rest is silence.

This post has been a long time coming. I keep putting it off, and the more I do, the more obvious its necessity.

I have been a media critic, in some form or other, for just over thirty years; I started writing music reviews for my high school paper in autumn 1984. Starting sometime in the mid-nineties, I began to make an effort to review everything I read, watched, and heard. And for a time–a pretty darned long time, considering how much media I consume–I managed it. I dropped reviewing all of the music that entered my collection sometime in the early 2000s and focused on books and film, and things kept going well for a while.

The first major drop in frequency here, back in early April, was my second inpatient trip to the hospital, for two unrelated issues, in three years. They were soemthing of a wake-up call. (Perhaps not enough of one to really make me kill myself, but enough to get me started trying to take better care of my body.) In the ensuing seven months, I have rearranged a number of my priorities, and things that were previously central in my life have been forced to fall by the wayside because of time constraints. My list of unreviewed books and movies, already over a hundred pages long, blossomed. I now have over eight hundred blank headers in the movie section of that document, some of them going back two and a half years.

In short: I’m hanging it up. (Semi-) retiring. After thirty years, I think there’s a gold watch or something.

I have two more (I believe) solicited reviews to finish and publish. I will, of course, publish all the finished reviews that are waiting for publication, and I am planning on finishing up a few I’m in the middle of. And I will throw out a review here and there as time goes on, and the best-of-the-year lists will keep on coming. And I will always be working on think pieces that won’t have anywhere to live other than here, because no one else cares, really. But the idea of getting through all eight hundred plus of those blank movie reviews, plus the uncounted book headers? Simply clearing those out, I think, is going to be a profoundly liberating experience. I’m going to go back to being a fan.

Not that I ever wasn’t. And being a media critic taught me more than actually being in the book business about the ways books are published and what to look for. It put me into contact with hundreds of amazing people I would have never met otherwise. It taught me how to hone the art of seeking out the obscure and overlooked, and that one must sometimes wade through acres of swine, but that those few pearls you uncover are oh so worth it. And that turned me into even more of a fan than I already was, because looking at things with a critical eye, despite the popular conception, makes you appreciate the good stuff even more.

But with the shedding of this role comes the shedding of the pressure to try and find something to say about every single movie I watch. I can think of a dozen movies I’ve watched in the past two weeks for which I could probably write the same review and change the names. They’re not bad movies, but there’s nothing to distinguish them from the rest of the pack. And, finally, I’m saying: why bother?

But I’ll still be out here reading everything I can get my hands on, watching awful movies (along with a few really good ones), and listening to acres of music. Some of it may even be worth commenting on. And this I guarantee: I will never turn down popcorn for breakfast.

Antiviral (2012): Silence Is Golden

Antiviral (Brandon Cronenberg, 2012)

Hannah Geist's bloodied lips adorn the movie poster.

Because your kiss is on my list of the best things in life.
photo credit: film-book.com

The whole time I was watching Antiviral, the debut film from Brandon Cronenberg—if the last name sounds familiar, it’s because Brandon is the son of revered Canadian filmmaker David Cronenberg—I was thoroughly enchanted with it. I kept having to remind myself that, yes, the movie does have some shortcomings, and they kept it from rating higher than it did. But the movie’s immense style made me want to gloss those shortcomings over. This is definitely a case of form over function, and in that, early Brandon is on the same track as early David was—and by “early” with David Cronenberg I’m talking about his earliest features, 1969’s Stereo and 1970’s Crimes of the Future, rather than the “early” stuff everyone’s seen (Shivers, Rabid, and The Brood, by the last of which Cronenberg had already, as far as I’m concerned, reached the heights of body-horror greatness he would plumb until 1999’s eXistenZ). When it comes right down to it, you’re going to want to say you knew him when.

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La Cité des Enfants Perdus (City of Lost Children) (1995): Second Star to the Right and Straight on Till Morning

[I just realized it’s 9PM and I haven’t started the capsule reviews for this month. Well, that’s not happening today. Later this week…]

La Cité des Enfants Perdus (City of Lost Children) (Jean-Pierre Jeunet and Marc Caro, 1995)

[originally posted 17Jan2003]

The Doctor, with one of his insane contraptions on his head, adorns the movie poster.

“Well I kept losing my ear trumpet.”
photo credit: myqueue.wordpress.com

Jean-Pierre Jeunet is an astounding talent, one of France’s true living treasures. Along with his longtime collaborator Marc Caro, he’s created two of the finest films of the nineties, Delicatessen and City of Lost Children. The former is a comedic nightmare, the latter a nightmarish comedy. It’s a subtle difference, but an important one. You’re more likely to be laughing out loud at Delicatessen most of the time.

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Comforting Skin (2011): Useful Ruins

Comforting Skin (Derek Franson, 2011)

An artist's rendition, mostly blue, of Koffie topless graces the movie poster.

Kind of blue.
photo credit: cinemagia.ro

The first half-hour or thereabouts of Comforting Skin is annoying in the extreme. It feels like it’s going to be just another mumblecore movie (not even a mumblegore movie because, you know, no violence). You know the drill. Annoying characters you can’t stand doing things they couldn’t afford in the real world without anything much really going on around them. And then Koffie (Good Luck Chuck‘s Victoria Bidewell), our main character, gets her tattoo. And everything changes.

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My Sucky Teen Romance (2011): Still a Better Love Story than Twilight

My Sucky Teen Romance (Emily Hagins, 2011)

8-bit-style representations of the main characters, with Paul munching on a heart, grace the movie poster.

“The only thing they told me not to eat on a first date was spaghetti!”
photo credit: yuforum.com

Despite only giving Emily Hagins’ first feature, Pathogen, three stars (but let’s remember, three is still “above average” on a five-star scale), I unhesitatingly recommended it in my review because, well, it’s a zombie movie that was made by a twelve-year-old and, aside from having basically no budget and some problems with acting ability, was a clever, fun take on the genre. Hagins returned five years later with her third feature, My Sucky Teen Romance, a teen vampire comedy whose purpose is to make fun of teen vampire comedies. And my favorite thing about it is that in every way, it’s obvious Emily Hagins took Pathogen as a learning experience. My Sucky Teen Romance is a much better movie technically, with much more solid acting and a clever script (written by Hagins). In short: if you like your teen comedies with more romance than raunch, My Sucky Teen Romance is for you.

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Capsule Reviews, November 2014

Only late enough that December’s capsule reviews are coming next Monday…
[update 25Nov2014: and this should have been posted yesterday, but WordPress seems to be having problems with graphics uploads for some reason. I will get there, honest…]

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White Dog (1982): Sundown Town

White Dog (Samuel Fuller, 1982)

An artist's rendition of the snarling title creature adorns the DVD cover.

Never bite the hand that bleeds you.
photo credit: subscene.com

There a number of directors who have become canonical over the years whose films I have simply never gotten. Woody Allen. Mario Bava. Sam Fuller. Every time I dig into a Fuller movie I try and see what it is that sets him apart, and every time I fail. My most recent attempt was with the 1982 racism melodrama White Dog, and I think that perhaps I’ve figured out what the canon sees in him. I still didn’t get to the “all that and a bag of racists” point with this one, but it’s starting to make sense. The thing about Sam Fuller’s strain of melodrama, if I’m right in my hypothesizing, is that in movies like Shock Corridor and Pickup on South Street, both of which left me kind of cold, Fuller was doing that gig first; Douglas Sirk and Grace Metalious and Russ Meyer and all that lot would come after and hone the genre, so that when Fuller returned to the fold in the eighties, he not only had his own base to work from, he had everyone else’s, too. And I think that, more than anything, may be what impressed me about White Dog: Fuller wasn’t afraid to build on the work of others, rather than focusing obsessively upon his own corpus.

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