Looking Gift Horses Straight in the Mouth: Not a Review of Shutter Island, Rather, a Discourse on Moviegoing

Last night I was lucky enough to see Shutter Island, the latest Martin Scorcese/Leonardo DiCaprio collaboration, a day early(!) thanks to the kindness and generosity of Friend-of-Culturephiles Patrick. (Thanks for the tix, Patrick. All Culturephiles should, and must, support the Mustache-A-Thon!!!)

But, in my effort to look the proverbial gift horse squarely in the mouth, here's the trouble with these "sneak preview" or "special screening" shows: they attract a rabid type of fan I am totally unfamiliar with in my general life, as someone who reacts to new releases of movies in the following sequence:
1) deciding to wait for the crowds to die down first,
2) trying to find that rare and beautiful scheduling nexus when either my wife or at least one friend is also free and can be motivated to go with me,
3) realizing that I have waited too long and the new release is now only playing in a frighteningly remote movie palace somewhere in the wild unknown wilderness of the Chicago suburbs, a group of regions I have only rarely visited and could not identify by name or direction,
4) resigning to wait for the DVD,
5) forgetting completely about the new release altogether.

I don't end up seeing a lot of movies.

So seeing a movie BEFORE the scheduled release date is obviously far from my typical modus operandi. In fact, had it not been for another sneak preview that I recently attended, run by the Ain't It Cool News website, I wouldn't even be writing this post at all. But a few months back, I got tickets for a special screening of the sci-fi apartheid parable (and newly minted Academy Award Best Picture nominee) District 9, and the experience ended up being surprisingly similar to the Shutter Island event last night, which is the only reason I'm even discussing this whole sordid affair.

As I started to say above, crowded movie theaters are, in many ways, my kryptonite. I suppose there is something thrilling about the excitement of being among the first to see a new and exciting release in a packed theater, humming with anticipation, shaking with glee. Yet that thrill is all but lost on hermits and misanthropes like myself, who would just as soon see movies on their couches, or not at all. Rare is the movie that I am compelled to go out to a movie theater and see. Avatar is the perfect example, actually; I would never have rented that movie in a million years but loved it on the big screen, larger than life, technically amazing. On the other hand, I have no reason whatsoever to see Meryl Streep whoop it up as Julia Child on a screen the size of a strip mall; that will work just fine on a tv screen -- sorry, Cahiers du Cinema subscribers. On my couch I avoid the inevitable person sitting behind me saying the most incredibly stupid things out loud so everyone can hear (oh yes, friends, she was there last night, she was there in spades!), I get to start & stop the movie for my own personal conveniences (bathroom break, drink refill, more hankys to cry into), and I get to choose where I sit.

Now we arrive at the crux of the matter. At that first special screening I went to (District 9), just like this one last night, we were herded down past the huge, prime swath of "reserved" seats to the front three or four rows: you know, the rows where nobody ever sits, ever. (Why do they even build those first three or four rows in a movie theater? I understand they need to squeeze every last dollar out of the space, but seriously...if I can touch the screen from my seat with an outstretched arm, I am too close.) This is my critical moviegoing turnoff, that scenario I avoid at all costs: I can't choose where I want to sit, and/or the place is jam-packed full of idiotic commentators. In the case of last night, both. Again, as a recipient of a FREE ticket for a SNEAK PREVIEW screening, I realize I have NO RIGHT to complain about ANYTHING; my fellow Culturephile/cinephile James and I had a perfectly good time, thankyouverymuch. But I will avoid sneaking any previews of any films in this way in the future: free or otherwise, it's just not worth it. District 9 actually made me nauseous and I had to leave early (which might creep into my top 10 Most Embarrassing Experiences, the other nine of which I will leave to your imagination, and/or your comments).

Shutter Island didn't make me sick, thankfully, though I had some trepidation. But from the third row it was impossible to actually SEE the film, at least in its entirety. At best I could see perhaps 2/3rds of the screen, effectively negating the point of seeing a film in a nice theater with a big screen. I literally experienced Shutter Island in a makeshift "pan-and-scan" format, by physically panning and scanning with my head: "Oh, who's coming in the door onscreen? Let me turn my head to look." Or: "I would like to know what Mark Ruffalo is doing right now in this shot, but since Leonardo DiCaprio is talking I guess I have to keep looking at him over there." The great irony of this is that if Scorcese himself only knew, he would be the first to freak out! Scorcese HATES the critically-reviled pan-and-scan format more than anyone!!! It was like watching a widescreen TV with your nose placed onto the glass (plasma?).

Further, waiting in huge lines, being tartly bossed around by yahoos with walkie-talkies, and excluded from the good seats by velvet ropes segregating them off for people who never show up at the theater really hits a special, virulent, anti-authoritarian nerve I usually keep hidden. My ruggedly individualistic, macho American self doesn't take to being cow-prodded in a particular direction and caged in a certain area. (This makes me feel perhaps I would fit in with "regular Americans" at a Tea Party?!) I especially don't like the tart things I say (or, more likely, have to swallow) to those people bossing me around and shoving me towards the front row. It's not the ticket-taker's fault that the event is set up in the way it is; but man, it's hard not to tell her exactly how I feel about it, pointlessly. It's an unfortunate personality quirk of mine that I'm sure I share with many red-blooded Americans; I'm aware of it; but I prefer to avoid situations where it may be raggedly exposed.

All in all, I hate to suggest that moviegoing is changing for me the same way the bookstore is changing, or the newspaper is changing, but it's probably true. With DVDs, movies on demand, downloads from Amazon or iTunes, and streaming from Netflix -- unless your movie is Avatar or something like it, I really have no need to go to a theater. The things that I like about theaters: big screen, immersive environment, shared experience, are often outweighed by the things I dislike: most people. So it's probably better for everyone that I keep my judgemental, critical, sensitive soul in my own house, where it belongs.


PS: It would be impossible for me to review Shutter Island without totally and completely spoiling it and ruining the film for anyone ever interested in seeing it. So naturally, I will put a mini-review in the comments if anyone is so inclined. But don't say I didn't warn you.

Pork Belly Futures, or, What To Serve at Your New Restaurant and Be Successful

Color me curious. I live in the midst of Wicker Park/Bucktown/Logan Square, which for those non-Chicagoans is means that there are more artists, hipsters, and young married tattoo artists per capita than in other neighborhoods. It also means that on a bi-weekly basis, some new nightspot or restaurant is opening that inevitably becomes the coolest place to eat in the city, and because I am that impressionable, I will go eat there, often waiting for hours in line.

Last night we went to Longman & Eagle, the newest of the aforementioned, and even after an hour wait on a Wednesday, I wasn't disappointed. I tried two rye whiskeys that I had never even heard of, and supped upon pork belly and pumpkin risotto. Our server assured me I had never had pork like this, and I almost allowed him to go down the road of explaining how the animal was massaged with beer by Japanese monks or some such nonsense. In any case, it was very good. Very.

Here's the rub, sans nimble monk hands: this menu was suspiciously akin to the menus of the last three places I have been to. Pork belly? Oxtail? Sweetbreads? Hearty, glutenless grains? No longer is the rustic and gamey menu off-limits, and now everyone is doing it. And go figure, in the age of the Omnivore's Dilemma, the places are packed, though my vegan friends (all 2) would have a soy baby.

The Publican*, Big Star, Big Jones, Avec, Chalkboard... all seem to all be circling the same sun here with menus that embrace the somewhat bloody (homey?) comfort foods.

Have so many chefs seen Food Inc., that they want to Polyface Farm their menus? Is it that cold here that we need these items to feel warm? Are salads for pusswads? And all the grain alcohol? I'm not complaining, but last time I checked, the whole hard alcohol industry was still trying to figure out how to get guys like me to not drink Red Bull with vodka and order an Old Fashioned. Apparently, for the new Chicago set, young people are full circle with their habits, and Depression-era drinking is back in. Stop in the Violet Hour or the Whistler and watch some twenty-two year-old bike messenger order a Sidecar to prove my point.

But mind you, I am not complaining. With a growing concern for where food comes from, I like that these places are making menus that take rustic (seemingly transparent) looks at, well, food. I like reading where it came from, and yes, I even wouldn't mind seeing a hock or two when I'm in a restaurant. I should hope that my restaurant experiences don't desensitize but excite me about where the food comes from, or what it looks like. And the drinking? Well, nothing pairs with chittlins like a smooth glass of bourbon. If only my great great grandfather could see me now.

*At the Publican the other night, and while sipping some craft beer paired to her oysters, my wife stared aghast at two mammal hocks, hooves and all, protruding witch-like from a cauldron in the kitchen. We have really come back to the kitchen table when it comes to fine dining in Chicago. And that table is located in the Little House on the Prairie.

The McGarrigles, the Wainwrights & the Folk Scene in the 70s: Better Than Anything in US Weekly, and With Much Better Lyrics

After the sad passing of Kate McGarrigle, I started unearthing a bunch of my old records by 70s-era singer/songwriter-folkies. And by “unearthing” I mean buying from Amazon. Well, some I owned, some I merely remembered, and some I did just buy off Amazon. (Sorry, independent record shops!)

At any rate, I got on a real freaky, folky, 70’s-y kick. First order of business was to flesh out my McGarrigles collection: their excellent debut album is their most accessible, while their second album, Dancer with Bruised Knees, veers off into lots of singing-rounds-in-French-accompanied-by-flutes and is a little harder to get into, melodically and otherwise. The songs are reeeeal idiosyncratic. (Maybe a little too idiosyncratic? Probably, yeah.) Dancer (somewhat awkwardly) mixes some great, catchy songs that could easily have fit in on their debut with some other somewhat bizarro tracks, like the aforementioned traditional French folk songs – that are a little tough to get through. Surprisingly, their mid-to-late career effort, Heartbeats Accelerating, released in 1990, is strong from beginning to end, while also sounding much different from anything I’d heard of theirs – it features a much more highly produced sound that is surprising but not bad by any means. It feels more, for lack of a better word, modern. My mom advocates that the McGarrigles are writing contemporary parlor songs, having been raised on Stephen Foster and traditional family-singalong-around-the-piano-type tunes. Which makes sense to me, but if that’s the case, then Heartbeats Accelerating is a conscious effort to modernize those parlor song, rather than just write parlor songs in the modern day. Underneath the sound, though, the songs are as good as always, and I even prefer the songs on Heartbeats to those on Dancer, truth be told. It’s also great to hear their own, original, versions of songs I knew better by other artists (“Love Is” recorded by Emmylou Harris on her underrated album Bluebird, and the title track co-opted by Linda Ronstadt for her album Winter Light). Ultimately, if you wanted to get started on the McGarrigles I would suggest their major label debut.
Kate & Anna McGarrigle by dag2007 From there, I purchased Maria Muldaur’s self-titled, solo debut album. This album knocked my socks off, all you Culturephiles. I remember some of the songs from my youth – and everybody has heard the now-oft-and-excellently-parodied “Midnight at the Oasis” – but this album is great, start to finish. A lot of what someone like Ray LaMontagne is doing right now would fit right in with this Muldaur album. She’s generally more upbeat than sadsack LaMontagne, but I bet most of Maria Muldaur would nestle comfortably into Gossip in the Grain without anyone noticing much difference. And yes, I hear you crying foul, sharp-eyed culturephans: while Maria doesn’t technically fit the singer/songwriter label since she doesn’t write her own songs, she does pluck straight from the best of the singer-songwriter tradition – including “The Work Song” by Kate McGarrigle. "The Work Song" manages to pull off being both sharp (plus funny) social satire, and wistful -- all filtered through the lens of traditional (again) music. It’s the rollicking highlight of the album – or at least was for me as I admittedly listened to it as part of my Kate McGarrigle grieving cycle. For my money, it’s worth the price of admission.

Lastly, I begrudgingly got around to Kate McGarrigle’s bête noir...yes, the one and only Loudon Wainwright III. Ex-husband extraordinaire, father of Rufus and Martha, source of heartbreak and inspiration for some truly great songs. And in fairness (since I don’t know them personally and can’t really speak to their relationship), Kate also inspired more than her fair share of excellent, heartbroken, guilty songs by Loudon. Anyway, Loudon's first two records are still on their way to me in the mail (in actual CD form, can you believe it?). But his record, Unrequited, recorded in the wake of a fluke radio hit (the novelty tune "Dead Skunk"...beats me...) arrived, as did a burned copy of his 1992 acclaimed album-of-middle-age, History. Both albums are good -- but I find Unrequited unduly fascinating. (I can't wait to hear those first two albums.) In the days of vinyl, Unrequited's A-side was all studio recordings, while the B-side tracks were recorded live in concert, solo, just LW and his guitar. Nowadays, of course, after the first seven tracks, the album just suddenly shifts to a live recording. No matter. "Side A" is a somewhat uncomfortable collage of mostly snarky pop/rock featuring (both ironically and un-) elements of disco, reggae, country and crazy electric folk randomly intermingled. The songs aren't bad -- he can write like absolute hell -- but they aren't great either, necessarily, and LW seems out of his element with a big sound, a big band, and big production -- a fish singing out of water.
Sweet Nothings (Album Version)
But when you flip the record over (in your imagination), side B is a whole different ballgame; LW is relaxed, sly, sharp, totally confident and has his audience in the palm of his solo hand. The songs may or may not be a ton sharper, but they sure SEEM a ton sharper: stripped of encumbering production, the focus is back on the songs themselves, full of great lyrics, funny insights, and cutting observations. It also features just about the raciest, eyebrow-raisingest (homophobiest?) track I could imagine hearing at a club in 1975. You can tell the audience isn't quite sure about it, either. It's certainly fascinating and hilarious, though, and while I actually think it's a whole lot more than the sum of it's seemingly gay-panicked elements, that's a discussion for another day (blog). The Hardy Boys at the Y: The Untitled (Album Version)
One can see why that song got listed as "The Untitled" on the album jacket instead of what LW calls it in the recording. Yikes. (It's interesting to wonder voyeristically in light of this song just how Rufus Wainwright's homosexuality affected his (strained) relationship with LW.) But, anyway, this kind of dark, provocative, humor runs through many (most?) of LW's oeuvre. The best songs mix that same dark wit with searing personal confessions, guilt, and heart. LW can be nasty and cutting, for certain, but there's also a self-awareness (albeit a morbid one) and a sadness in him that makes his songs compelling and not just snark.

His well-regarded 1992 album, History, is very much in the reflective, confessional vein, exploring age, guilt, mistakes, family, and various combinations of the same. This is a sad, sad record, even when the tempo is up, and the tempo isn't up that often. Listen to:
Hitting You: Hitting You

So Many Songs: So Many Songs
Yes, those are the McGarrigle sisters -- they never really left! -- singing backup on "So Many Songs." Emotional stuff, personal stuff, still with that tinge of humor and self-awareness. Or should I say "self-lacerating self-awareness"? This is an album I remember not liking as a kid, but perhaps almost a couple decades later I understand it a bit better. It's excellent from beginning to end. I'm also fascinated that someone so able to articulate complex emotions and sing with his heart on his sleeve about such incredibly personal issues could make such an obvious, public wreck of his personal life. How can someone sensitive enough to identify such deep feelings and craft them into clever lyrics be at the same time so utterly incapable of managing a relationship? In fairness, of course, I truly know nothing about the McGarrigle's/Wainwright's personal lives other than what I read, but it seems fairly safe to say the guy has made some messes in his personal life. Good lord, there sure is a lot going on between and among these crazy '70s folkies. Too much for a simple blog, that's for sure. And maybe even too much for a dissertation. I do have to say, though, I love it all.

The Survival of Bookstores: Compassion Fatigue, Technology, and the Immortal Undeniability of Value

Yesterday, my wife sent me this post from the excellent blog Three Percent. You probably need to go read the post in question now for my thoughts to make any sense. I suppose you could just read my reactions without necessarily knowing what I am reacting to, but that would be pretty narcissistic for me to assume, and generally useless for anyone to do. So. Go read; it’s short and interesting, I promise.

I’ll wait.

Ok, you’re back? All done? First of all, what did YOU think? Here’s what I thought – and I have to preface it by saying that my reaction really took me by surprise.

I feel bad about the plight of booksellers of all sorts, including independent shops – I love bookstores. But it struck me as I read: isn't this also, on some level, just meaningless whining about the inevitable progress of life? This particular blog post is not objectionable in and of itself. It's more like the straw that broke my (camel-like) back on the subject – between all the angst over the declining fortune of the bookstore, the crisis of the publishing industry, the failing business model of the newspaper, not to mention the loss of the BOOK itself, thanks to e-readers like the Kindle – I have reached, as they say in the non-profit world, compassion fatigue. I’m out of sympathy for everyone – even those people keeping alive the institutions I really treasure, books first and foremost!

Here’s the deal. I'm sure lots of people thought cars were stupid and dangerous and were destroying their way of life and their relationship to their horses. And more people were furious and upset when the telephone cut into critically important letter-writing time. But what is the world supposed to do about these things? Outlaw progress? (And, come to think of it, some people still do ride horses everywhere and some people still write letters.) Assuming that the loss of your particular cultural segment is the END OF THE WORLD (book, newspaper, livery stable, pick your segment) seems like overinflated self-importance and a perspectiveless view of history.
That self-importance and seeming cluelessness about naturally ocurring obscelence has finally started annoying me -- perhaps it's the self-pitying attitude inherent in much of it that rubs me the wrong way. Perhaps it's because posts like the one above take on the tone of shame and blame -- "I'm shaming you for not supporting my vocation as a bookstore owner...I'm blaming you for the loss of my livelihood." Well, I love bookstores, and I don't want them to go away, but I don't necessarily love them enough to stop ordering books online. So I guess I don't love them enough. Certainly not enough for the famous Seminary Co-Op right here in my own hometown!

To me, it’s worse than useless to cry about the inevitability of technological progress. Instead of crying, I wish a bookstore would offer me a service that Amazon can’t offer. Or give me a better value proposition than Amazon. Framing the issue in moral terms, the terms of shame and blame, leave me worse than cold. Look, everybody would rather buy a book online for $9 rather than $15 in a store, that’s just a fact of economics. When I order my book online, I save six of my dollars that I can then use to download a CD (“uh oh” says the music industry in the background) or something else I might want. (And I want lots of stuff.) Plus, the book I order comes right to my door? Don't mind if I do.

Instead of mistakenly making the problem about morality and politics, talk to me about value, bookstores! George Soros can afford to see the world purely in moral terms because he is a multi-billionaire. When he sees inequality and social injustice he can throw hundreds of millions of dollars at that problem and create the Open Society Institute or something. I can’t see the world that way because I can’t afford it. I work at a non-profit. So the question remains: what is the advantage to me to haul my tired carcass out of my cozy home after a long day of work to shop in your brick-and-mortar bookstore?

Like everything else in the real world, this issue comes down to value and service. I’m not saving the world or the rainforest or the children by spending my money at your independent shop instead of online, so tell me about why it benefits me to do it your way. How it benefits you is clear. How it benefits me is the trickier question. If you want to compete with Amazon and other online discounters, and you can't be cheaper, then you simply have got to be smarter, quicker, more innovative, hungrier – something! How about an entirely different business model? I'm assuming all the obvious things like also selling coffee and organizing wines & cheeses and book clubs and author visits have all been done. How about really going wild – a branded "Book Truck" that delivers my books to me (here in Chicago) for free or picks me up and gives me a ride to the store? How about charging admission and then allowing people to look through your books like a library while ordering online inside your shop? How about "leasing" books like a hybrid library/bookstore/used bookstore? I don’t know; I’m not a bookseller and I don't have my MBA. And I'm also not a genius, though I daily wish that I was. I’m just saying that if your system isn’t working, you can either accept defeat or you can change your system. Doing the same thing over and over and complaining about how it "ain't like it used to be" doesn't get you very far. What's more, laying a guilt trip at my feet gets you absolutely nowhere.

As I look back at this I realize how strident all this sounds, how harsh, and how...*gulp*...Republican. Don’t think I’m not bothered by my own reaction, but it’s my reaction nonetheless. I love bookstores and would be sad if they no longer existed. Just like I love books and would be miserable if the Kindle and the Nook and the iPad replaced them entirely. But life and technology move on - there’s no stopping it, only a) embracing it, or b) getting the hell out of its way. These are just the sad facts; I’m not saying any of this is good or bad. I sincerely and fervently hope that bookstores can figure out a way to combat the discounts online retailers afford their customers. But...if they can’t, they can’t. Whether or not it’s selfish or shortsighted of me, I just don’t think I’m to blame on this one. Shame on me, I guess.