The Money Store Death Grips  10 out of 10   Ferocious Sacto trio bash in the cranium of hip hop
	by Jericho Cerrona May 15, 2012

Death Grips are the real deal. Pure and simple. Any doubts about the Sacramento, Ca trio’s legitimacy after 2011’s polarizing mix tape Ex-Military will be eradicated by their latest release, The Money Store. Everything that was great about that last album; fractured electro beats, demonized ranting, hostile lyrics, and a vibe of bursting-at-the-seams insanity, is ratcheted it up to near ecstatic levels here. Not in terms of volume or carnage-spewing vitriol, per se. In fact, some may even claim that they’ve hemmed in some of their more belligerent tendencies. This isn’t simply a record turned up to level 11. It’s a record in which level 11 doesn’t even exist because it’s taking everything one thinks they know about hip hop and gleefully snapping its neck and then disemboweling it. Sonically, it combines a barrage of muffled beats with vocalist Stefan Burnett’s (aka MC Ride) barked tirades so that every song threatens to submerge itself inside its own wall of hellish noise. The fact that Death Grips never lose sight of melody and head-nodding groove is therefore something of a miracle.

It’s easy to understand both the love and hate that Death Grips are inspiring. Concocting such a dizzying array of aggression and off-kilter musicianship will cause many to be taken in by the overall sound, caring little for the music’s themes or whether it’s advancing a particular genre or not. Others simply won’t be able to get on board with songs that are repetitive and lacking in subtlety, finding the whole thing exhausting. Ironically, MC Ride, producer/keyboardist Adam Morin, and drummer Zach Hill, probably wouldn’t be too bothered by the latter reaction. Perhaps the recent exposure and growing popularity of the group within mainstream circles (they signed to Epic Records, for Christ’s sakes) is more worrying than anything. Honestly, there’s nothing overtly accessible about Death Grip’s stew of paranoid industrial/electro hip hop, and there had to be some kind of mind-altering pill taken by the execs over at Epic for them to have allowed the group such free reign.

Ultimately, it’s both baffling and inspiring that Death Grips are on a major label, but those with fears that somehow L.A. suits are calling the shots, both in terms of marketing and the overall sound of the album, won’t find much to cradle them into a state of peaceful slumber here. Much like Ex-Military, this is some evil shit, a nefarious collage of glitch-ridden effects, synthesizers from hell, and nearly incomprehensible ranting. But unlike that former record, the experience of listening to The Money Store isn’t akin to being tied down to a chair and shouted at by a man possessed for it’s entire running time. Yes, there’s plenty of that going on, and in some of the more experimental tracks, like “Blackjack” and “Fuck That”, the results are deliciously torturous. But there’s ebb and flow here, some slower compositions, instances where Ride actually “sings” and a greater sense of cohesion that marks this as a more mature offering, if a term like that can even apply. Ex-Military had novelty and the sheer brutality of its in-your-face shock value as its guiding principle, whereas this follow-up provides more crevices for listeners to crawl inside in order to hide from all the sonic mayhem. There’s also a refusal to be pigeonholed as the “buzz worthy agro-rap group” that comes from being a darling of the underground via the Internet. This is apparent right out of the gate with opener “Get Got”, which sounds nothing like anything the outfit have recorded so far. Featuring a fast-paced, deep-toned flow and some blistering electronic effects, the song is breathtaking in both its simplicity as well as the lunacy of its multi-layered atmosphere. Then there’s “Hustle Bones”, a jittery acid bath of digitally manipulated vocals and bass-heavy stomp that’s as thrilling as it is discordant. Other highlights include the 90’s-era romper “I’ve Seen Footage” (which samples Salt ‘N Pepa’s “Push It”) and the tempo-shifting “Punk Weight”, a song that starts off like some kind of Latin/Middle Eastern chipmunk rave before descending into a rally of blown-out speaker dissonance. Perhaps the most telling example of Death Grips move away from simply being an antagonistic force of nature, however, is closer “Hacker”, the most purely accessible song on the entire album and one that wouldn’t be out of place on a strobe-lit dance floor. Of course, even that song is just left field enough to make people uncomfortable, as is the album as a whole. The production by Morin and Hill’s digitally tweaked drumming is a thing of brilliance, too, often soothing and discombobulating within the very same song, and the amount of weirdly frazzled sounds coming from every corner of the musical landscape is simply overwhelming. Additionally, though Ride may be criticized for being a one-note rapper (if what he does here can even be called labeled rapping), the way he navigates the sensory overload should not be undervalued. His deranged lyrics and affinity for the darker side of human nature (at least within the embodied character represented here), is relentless. Take a lyrical sample of from “The Fever (Aye Aye)”: “By any means necesserated/blade cut me/sewer drain grated/bubonic plague/spreaded faceless/lurking in the deadest spaces”. This is some misanthropic stuff, and would be utterly depressing if not for the sheer energy and force of will Death Grips wield in order to bludgeon the listener into submission.

The impact an album like The Money Store will have remains to be seen, and despite the amount of attention they seemed to be getting at the moment, the cult of jumping on a bandwagon is not lost on this reviewer. Despite this, and maybe even regardless of it, there’s no doubt that The Money Store is a stunning album. It’s a work that, at least for the moment, redefines what’s possible in the art of combining different genres together to create something dazzling, dangerous, volatile, and utterly indefinable.

“The Fever (Aye Aye)” by Death Grips

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Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs

Looking at the poster and trailer for Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs, one could conclude that this is yet another Pixar knockoff, full of pop culture references and wise-talking animal sidekicks. Instead, this underappreciated 2009 gem from Sony Pictures Animation is really an absurdist comedy, with eye-popping visuals and a wittily inventive script that refuses to cater to the post Pixar school of lazy animated children’s fare, ala Madagascar and Ice Age. The plot centers on young inventor Flint Lockwood (Bill Hader), who lives in Swallow Falls, an island town where the inhabitants eat nothing but sardines. Misunderstood by his fisherman Dad (James Caan) and still feeling sadness from the death of his mother as a child, Flint creates a machine that mutates water into food through radiation. What follows is a madcap comedy with a remarkably consistent stream of visual gags, clever puns, dazzling action set pieces, and a deliciously subversive message about the fast food culture. Along with Hader, there’s expert voice work by Mr. T. as an overzealous cop, Ana Faris as the perky weather girl and the object of Flint’s affections, and Andy Samberg as “Baby” Brent, a diaper-wearing local celebrity still profiting from his childhood success. Loosely based on the 1978 children’s book of the same name by Judi and Ron Barrett, writer/directors Phil Lord and Chris Miller (MTV’s Clone High) prove capable of making a smart and entertaining movie for both kids and adults. The young ones will enjoy the zany sequences involving various food groups falling from the sky, while the older crowd will have fun trying to keep up with the nearly exhausting barrages of visual information filling every corner of the screen. It’s a much weirder and unpredictable film that one would expect, and all the better for it.

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At The Drive-In
Acrobatic Tenement

There’s no doubting the musical legacy left behind by post-hardcore heroes At The Drive-In. The El Paso, Texas five-piece, who formed in 1993 and then broke up abruptly in 2001, were highly influenced by outfits like Bad Brains and Heroin, bands who utilized the spirit of punk— fast rhythms and pummeling grooves—with the harsher elements of the hardcore scene, such as screamed/barked vocals and jack jammer guitar riffs. Though 2000’s swan song Relationship of Command is considered by many to be the band’s finest hour, securing its spot on many critics’ best albums of all time lists, there’s something wholly vital about their early work. Though not as polished or instantly memorable as Relationship of Command, releases like In/Casino/Out (1998) and the Vaya EP (1999) harnessed the band’s raw energy and aptitude for angular songwriting. This was music that was both hard-edged as well as melodic, with guitarist Omar Rodríguez-López and singer Cedric Bixler-Zavala fast becoming a pairing forged in musical heaven. The interplay between Omar’s convulsive guitar work and Cedric’s passionate howling is perhaps best exemplified on 1996’s debut Acrobatic Tenement, an LP that may not be as cohesive as later releases, but is nonetheless an impressive statement from a group of talented musicians firing on all cylinders. From the herky-jerky rhythms of opener “Starlight”, to the fever-pitched intensity of “Scaffino”, At The Drive-In sound here like just the kind of brash youngsters playing in basements and growing through word of mouth long before the days of the Internet. Truthfully, much of Acrobatic Tenement comes across like a hybrid of quirky indie rock and post-punk, like spastic noisemakers Cap’N Jazz merging with Fugazi. Cedric’s lyrics are nonsensical (a motif he would later carry over into post-ATDI prog group The Mars Volta), Omar’s guitars are all over the place (in a good way), Ryan Sawyer’s drum fills kinetic, and the lo-fi recording quality gives the proceedings a reckless unpredictability. A seminal album from a band that nonetheless remains an undervalued relic from the mid-90’s post-hardcore scene.

“Schaffino” by At The Drive-In

Symbiotic music and movie reviews

Tim & Eric’s Billion Dollar Movie Cast: Tim Heidecker, Eric Wareheim, Will Ferrell, John C. Reilly, Robert Loggia, Will Forte Director: Tim Heidecker, Eric Wareheim Running Time: 1 hour 33 minutes
by Jericho Cerrona May 9, 2012

Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim deserve some major props for even attempting to bring their wacked out style of meta-comedy to the big screen. Fans of Adult Swim’s TV series Tim & Eric Awesome Show, Great Job! will either see the prospect of a feature length film as a celebratory event or a red flag that they’ve sold out to the Hollywood machine. Within minutes of Tim & Eric’s Billion Dollar Movie, however, the latter fear is obliterated as Jeff Goldblum (or “Chef” Goldblum) starts things off in true Tim & Eric fashion with a 1980’s-style PSA video introducing a bizarre movie theater chair device from the Schlaang Corporation. This effectively sets up the level of in-joke surrealism the two deliriously mime for the film’s entire running time. There are extreme gross-out gags, subversion of Hollywood conventions, breaking the fourth wall, public access style cheese, and cameos from famous comedians, but here’s the thing about Tim & Eric. On TV, they craft 11-minute episodes of surreal insanity, with a penchant for awkward line readings, hilariously inept non-actors, and musical skits. Here, they have 90-minutes and ostensibly a linear narrative to riff on, and riff they surely do, in pure train wreck fashion. Comedy being such a subjective thing, there’s little doubt that many will flee from this movie like the plague, but for the deranged and courageous viewer, there’s something brilliant about the way Tim & Eric subversively tweak not only Hollywood movie conventions, but also their own comedic shtick. It’s literally one of the weirdest movies to come along in a long time. Many will also see it as one of the worst.

Instead of simply making a 90-minute version of their TV show, Tim & Eric wisely condense the spastic nature of their sketches and attempt to tell a straight ahead narrative. After Goldblum’s humorous cameo, it’s learned that Tim & Eric were given $1 billion to make a movie from the aforementioned Schlaang Corp (run by a scenery chewing Robert Loggia), but were only able to cut together 3-minutes of usable footage, which stars a Johnny Depp impersonator wearing a glowing jacket full of diamonds. Of course, the moronic duo spent all of the money on fake tans and a spiritual advisor played by Zach Galifanakis, and thus need to find a fast way of raising some cash. Their genius idea is to take over a crumbling shopping mall that’s infested with squatters, gutter trash, and a man-eating wolf, turning the operation into a roaring financial success. This being a Tim & Eric movie, the mall is owned by Will Ferrell in complete gonzo mode and inhabited by a slovenly hobo named Taquito, played with manic relish by John C. Reilly.

So, if the aim of a filmmaker is to make a purposefully bad movie, can a movie be deemed successful if it achieves this aim? Well, it really isn’t hard to make a bad film. Adam Sandler does this all the time. The difference is that Sandler’s pandering gross-out comedies often try to sneak in maudlin sentiment or an overall message. His films inevitably make a ton of money because they’re safe. They don’t take risks. They don’t intend to alienate the audience, and even if the humor is somewhat offensive, there’s always that predictable wrap up where the characters learn life lessons. Tim & Eric’s Billion Dollar Movie is simultaneously dumb, gross, hilarious, subversive, boring, surreal, and doesn’t give a fuck about life lessons, or anything, really. It exists simply to exist, and takes the idea of anti-comedy; where purposefully unfunny jokes or puns are repeated over and over until they become funny just because they’re stretched out so far, to new heights. So, yes, this is categorically a “bad” movie, but it’s also a mercifully strange and fearless one. The intended badness is part of what drives its comedic mojo. Many critics will simply deride the film at face value for being an incoherent mess, but this isn’t a film made for critics. It’s not a film made for general audiences. It may not even been a movie made for those who enjoy random spurts of Awesome Show, Great Job! It’s essentially a movie made for Tim & Eric, and as such operates inside its own vacuum of awkward meta-weirdness. Some bits are hilarious; such as an interrogation featuring Loggia’s snarling head exec and some elderly women, and a third act scene involving a gun-carrying Ferrell, Reilly, and a wolf. Others are simply disgusting, like the cross-cutting montage involving a tub of poop and some graphic, though completely absurd, sexual acts. There’s also plenty of “dead air” comedy moments, where long pauses and mugging facial expressions serve no other purpose other than to hide an absence of jokes. But the fact that there aren’t traditional jokes and punch lines is really the point, and central to understanding Tim & Eric’s love of the nonsensical. Take the 80’s-style infomercial involving the Shrim Healing Center, which allows them to indulge in what they do so successfully on their show, which is to take unattractive middle-aged people and put them in awkward situations. This also holds true for the so bad it’s genius cable-access intermission bits titled “Understanding Your Movie”, in which more unattractive middle-aged people do unattractive middle-aged things.

More than anything, though, the movie seems to take aim at skewering Hollywood. Tim & Eric begin the proceedings as badly tanned industry assholes, but eventually learn to grow and formulate character arcs. In Eric’s case, he falls in love with one of the mall’s shop owners, while Tim literally kidnaps a child and adopts him as his own son. The love affair is funny mainly because instead of some gorgeous 20-something, the woman Eric falls for is a middle-aged woman who looks like she’s reading her dialogue off cue cards. Tim’s relationship with his adopted son is just plain creepy, but hilariously so, and is even funnier due to the fact that the kid’s father is a baffled janitor working in the very mall that Tim & Eric refuse to leave. There are some things that don’t work at all, like Will Forte’s constantly irate sword shop owner, and scenes featuring a severed arm, penis piercing, and the aforementioned fecal matter/sex orgy are more annoying than shocking. Still, the freedom of an R rating does give Tim & Eric the opportunity to stage an entertainingly violent and ridiculous climax, shot in the Michael Bay school of filmmaking; full of exploding limbs, severed throats, and slow motion sword flinging.

How Tim & Eric’s Billion Dollar Movie even got made, when it’s really a big fuck you to the Hollywood system, and to some degree, good taste and coherence itself, is something of a miracle. Whether this style of comedy works is completely subjective, so cultish and specific is the M.O. here that it risks alienating a large percentage of the moviegoing population. In this way, it brings to mind something like 2001’s Freddy Got Fingered, a movie that was pronounced as the absolute nadir for comedy upon its release and cemented writer/director/star Tom Green as the proverbial whipping post for critics bemoaning the death of cinema. But unlike Green, whose anarchic comedic schtick nearly always came off condescending, Tim & Eric seem to embrace their oddness with a madcap kind of pleasure.

Ultimately, the idea of applying a rating to a Tim & Eric’s Billion Dollar Movie is probably a waste of time. The two wackos probably don’t even care if anyone likes their movie. They may even be tickled by the prospect of one star reviews and hate mail; so willing are they to throw themselves into the remarkable strange and unnerving universe they’ve created. One has to give them at least this; they have a completely original voice in a world of  comedic copycats.

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The Avengers Cast: Robert Downey, Jr. Chris Evans, Mark Ruffalo, Chris Hemsworth, Scarlett Johansson, Jeremy Renner, Samuel L. Jackson, Tom Hiddleston Director: Joss Whedon Running Time: 2 hours 22 minutes
by Jericho Cerrona May 3, 2012

Let’s say a few things about expectations, shall we? Everyone has them, whether they choose to admit it or not. Sometimes they are fever-pitched, drooling at the mouth, giddy with anticipation expectations. Sometimes they are cavalier, shoulder shrugging, lowered expectations. They may even be expectations cloaked in ignorance that doesn’t feel like expectations at all, something that seems to have happened to many unsuspecting patrons that went to see the recent horror flick Cabin in The Woods. This parallel feels especially apt in the case of one of the most highly anticipated movies in recent years, The Avengers. Both films come from Joss Whedon, who seems to be the hailing savor for the geek culture at the moment; a culture, by the way, that’s become increasingly mainstream. Even though Drew Goddard directed Cabin In The Woods, Whedon produced and co-wrote the script, and his self-aware snarky dialogue and aptitude for toying with genre conventions was all over that nifty deconstructionist horror thriller. But whereas that movie seemed to sneak up on people, it’s doubtful anyone will be as unaware when it comes to the blockbuster juggernaut that is The Avengers. For here’s a movie that’s essentially been in the works since it was first announced way back in 2005, and whose trajectory can be traced through multiple films featuring Marvel characters, including The Incredible Hulk (2008), Iron Man (2008), Iron Man 2 (2010), Thor (2011), and Captain America: The First Avenger (2011). Thus, the mouth drooling, quivering with fanboy pleasure kind of anticipation will most likely be the primary mode here, though the interest from non-fans and the general audience at large seems rather high as well.

One of the most pertinent things to discuss when it comes to expectations, realistic or otherwise, is that they can often cloud one’s judgment. Is it possible, for example, for the delirious fanboy to remove themselves from the sheer excitement of seeing all of their favorite superheroes up on the big screen and be objective about the actual movie? Also, since many seem to worship Whedon as the messiah of geekdom and have already concluded before even seeing a single frame of the film that it would be amazing, can there be even a hint of critical objectivity? Well, honestly, probably not. There’s a certain demographic that have been waiting for this movie for so long that even if it turned out to be a rotten turd, there would inevitably be that loyal faction trying to defend it, lest their massive expectations be exposed as naïve wish fulfillment (Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, anyone?). Luckily for comic book nerds and Marvel fans everywhere, The Avengers doesn’t suck. In fact, it’s pretty damn good, and that’s saying something given all of the nearly insurmountable expectations.

What should be stated right away is that Marvel Studios and Walt Disney Pictures absolutely did the right thing by bringing in Whedon to direct and write the script, from an original story conceived by writer Zak Penn. Since he’s a true fan of this material, understanding the universe and character dynamics so well, he’s able to bring something personal to the material that a hired-hand filmmaker, no matter how talented, could never achieve. Anyone remember director Ang Lee’s version of  The Hulk? No one will deny that Lee is a supremely gifted director, but that film lacked a fundamental acceptance of the comic book milieu, resulting in something with a few elegant images pressed up against laughably bad effects and a downbeat tone. On the other hand, hiring a fanboy can also backfire, resulting in rigid page-to-screen translations like Zach Snyder’s 2009 opus The Watchmen. Certainly, Snyder was obsessive and reverential to the source material, but in trying to literally put a celebrated graphic novel up on the screen beat for beat, he ended up betraying the primal element of entertaining the audience. Whedon gets it. He understands that he can’t cram every detail of his character’s back-stories into one movie and also deliver a thrilling popcorn ride, so he instead makes great use of character pairings, both in terms of dialogue-driven scenes as well as action-packed vignettes. Another intriguing aspect of this film is that it’s able to distill the essence of all of these superheroes for those who may have missed the movie versions of Iron Man, Thor, and Captain America. It does help to have seen these prior films, especially Thor, as the villain in that one is carried over as the arch nemesis here, but it’s not a necessity. What Whedon and his talented crew have accomplished is actually pretty miraculous. It’s a self-contained movie with wit, laughs, action, and scenes where people actually talk to one another. Sure, plenty of shit blows up in spectacular fashion, especially in the last third, but it’s anchored by the writer/director’s keen focus on the group dynamics of a bunch of dysfunctional misfits.

Stepping back from all the hoopla and record setting box office numbers for a moment, however, one can see some problems with the movie, problems that will probably be overlooked or simply brushed aside by fans overwhelmed by spectacle. For one thing, the actual device that propels the plot—a powerful energy cube known as the Tesseract— is not all that intriguing, and exists simply to open a portal that brings the banished Asgardian Loki (Tom Hiddleston) to earth. Also, though Hiddleston is excellent as the sneering villain (last seen as the scorned brother in Thor), his surrounding army of space creatures remains pretty unremarkable, and the lack any identifiable traits to make them a threat creates baddies that simply need to be eradicated like invaders in a video game. The movie does counteract this problem somewhat by understanding that the real obstacle that the Avengers face isn’t Loki or his wave of aliens (known as Chitauri), but rather it’s themselves. Consequently, the film’s best moments are the entertaining scuffles, both verbal and physical, between the rag tag group of superheroes brought together to fight evil. Still, there’s something vaguely disposable about the overall plot, which involves Loki enslaving humans in a bid for world domination, including physicist Dr. Erik Selvig (Stellan Skarsgård, last scene in Thor) and S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Clint Barton (Jeremy Renner), known in the comics as Hawk Eye. Likewise, the movie’s opening moments feel rushed, introducing all of the principal characters and basic threat rather sloppily, culminating in a car chase that comes across confusing. The ass kicking S.H.I.E.L.D. spy Black Widow, meanwhile, is played by Scarlett Johansson, which means she looks great in black leather while still managing to come across completely dull whenever she opens her mouth to speak. Johansson does share one great scene opposite Hiddleston in which a standard interrogation turns into a surprisingly nimble game of wits, but this probably speaks more to Whedon’s writing ability than Johansson’s acting. The movie does manage to make her look convincing in the bone-crunching action scenes, though, especially one in which she uses a chair as a weapon, and that’s no small feat.

The Avengers ultimately succeeds where so many other comic books movies have failed because it shares affection for its characters rather than simply treating them as a means to an end. Whedon writes some zingy dialogue and gives it to good actors (the scenes between Robert Downey Jr.’s Tony Stark and Mark Ruffalo’s Bruce Banner are priceless), and he pulls off the rare feat of giving each character a pivotal role in the plot. This really comes into play during the climatic battle sequence, which may remind some of that last Transformers debacle; think flying robotic contraptions, tumbling skyscrapers, massive explosions, and terrified citizens fleeing for their lives. But where director Michael Bay filmed everything like a crack fiend, with no real sense of geography or character objectives, Whedon makes all the mayhem tangible because each superhero has clear-cut goals in trying to stop the threat. Though the Hulk ultimately gets some of the most crowd-pleasing moments, Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, Black Widow, and Hawkeye all have their own “money shots”, moments that exist simply so that Whedon can show off their respective abilities. This is crucial. The biggest thrill in The Avengers isn’t whether or not they will stop Loki and his evil minions, but rather how the hell they will be able to set aside all of their egos and actually work together as a team. Whedon nails this aspect of things, and for the most part, his actors are on board. Besides Downey’s humorous quips and Ruffalo’s expert interpretation of Banner’s twitchy scientist, Chris Evans provides nostalgic grit as Captain America and Hemsworth gives the rabble rousing Thor a soul. Samuel L. Jackson is disappointing, however, as S.H.I.E.L.D. director Nick Fury. Once a charismatic and unpredictable presence in films, Jackson has become something of a parody of his former self, delivering a steady stream of annoying over the top performances that centers more on his persona than any actual character nuance. Perhaps sensing his own tendency for melodramatic mugging, Whedon has directed Jackson into a rather muted and uninspired performance that never takes shape. There’s very little spark or genuine emotion here, which would have been fine if Jackson had found something interesting in the character, but his role feels perfunctory.

Quibbles aside, this is an impressive achievement and a personal triumph for Whedon, whose career has been steadily building towards this moment, working on geek-savvy fare like TV’s Buffy The Vampire Slayer, Firefly, and foray into comic book writing with 24 issues of Marvel’s Astonishing X-Men. This is a true Hollywood blockbuster with brains and a heart, attuned to the themes of family, brotherhood, and responsibility central to The Avengers mythos, while also delivering dazzling action set pieces with state of the art special effects. It’s just the kind of thing tailor-made for expectations.

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Cabin in the Woods Cast: Kristen Connolly, Chris Hemsworth, Ana Hutchison, Fran Kranz, Jesse Williams, Richard Jenkins, Bradley Whitford Director: Drew Goddard Running Time: 1 hour 35 minutes
by Jericho Cerrona May 3, 2012

There will always be a solid argument between those who crave all the latest information regarding a film and diehard cinephiles going into a theater completely cold. It’s not that one method is better than the other, or more preferable, per se. Honestly, it’s next to impossible to know virtually nothing about a movie these days, what with online marketing and the incessant buzz of the blogosphere, but this doesn’t always hold true when it comes to indie films. Certain movies, though, are tailor-made specifically to this second group of people; ones that shun spoilerish advance reviews and the endless stream of Internet chatter. Certain movies demand to be seen through virgin eyes at a time where nearly every single plot point is telegraphed in studio-approved trailers, which all leads to this new movie called Cabin in The Woods. For here’s something that demands to be seen, but which cannot be described fully in detail because doing so will ruin many of its thrilling surprises. No doubt many who haven’t yet seen creators Drew Goddard and Joss Whedon’s deconstructionist horror thriller have already heard too much. Suffice to say, there won’t be many who will be able to predict exactly where this one is going and how it intends to get there.

This review will operate as an attempt, perhaps ill advised, to describe the film’s atmosphere and general thematic construction. Plot details will remain skeletal, as giving away anything after the first act will spoil the experience. If all of this sounds incredibly evasive, Cabin in the Woods earns all of the hush-hush treatment with a self-reflexive tone that both subverts as well as comfortably fits into the horror genre. It essentially utilizes all of the inevitable horror movie clichés while simultaneously commenting on how absurd such clichés can be. The introduction of five college students—the blonde bombshell, beefcake jock, virginal good girl, shy nice guy, and geeky stoner—is straight out of the slasher movie pantheon, but what really makes an impression is what happens immediately before the set-up. Set inside an industrial facility and featuring zingy dialogue from two middle-aged men (Richard Jenkins and Steve Hadley), this scene is a preparation for what essentially amounts to a clever satire of not only the horror genre, but also the reason why certain things happen in horror movies to begin with. It takes the archetypal horror movie characters, introduced with a blaring Top 40 pop soundtrack, and places them inside the most boringly predictable situations imaginable. But rather than being a smug take on meta-horror like some of the later Scream sequels, Cabin in the Woods happily embraces being a dumb slasher flick where characters make bone-headed decisions while buckets of blood splatter across the screen. But what sets the film apart isn’t the self-aware tone, (one only has to look back at Sam Raimi’s 1981 The Evil Dead for inspiration), but rather in just how far first-time director Goddard and writer Whedon take the premise. The result is a film that might be more stimulating as a thesis statement on the current state of horror movies than an actual successful horror movie in its own right. This is of course intentional, as the scenes that play out featuring the college students inside the cabin are pretty by the numbers, but even this makes more sense in retrospect.

Geek-savvy fans of Joss Whedon’s work on TV shows like Buffy The Vampire Slayer, Angel, and Firefly will at least have some idea of what to expect, but even diehard Whedonites might be surprised by the audaciousness of the film’s climax. But more on that later. The main issue with the movie is that for all the over the top gore, it isn’t the least bit scary. Since the conceptual framework for what happens once the characters are under attack from roving zombies at the cabin is so satirical, it’s hard to care much about their fates. But alas, the arbitrariness of dumb youngsters being killed off one by one is also partially Goddard and Whedon’s point, so there’s that. Is the movie critic proof? No, not really. A solid case could be made that through the first two acts, the film is not nearly as clever as it thinks it is. For example, the fact that the jock (a pre-Thor Chris Hemsworth) is not only a dumb frat boy, but also enjoys literature and philosophy feels very “Whedon”, but ultimately it never becomes more than a passing in-joke. There’s also some fun to be had in the lazy stoner played by Fran Kranz, who may be grating or hilarious depending on one’s tolerance for pot humor, and the way the screenplay tweaks expectations of this type of caricature by the film’s end. Then there’s the bit about why the college students make the groan-inducing decisions found in so many horror flicks, and while what the filmmakers have come up with is quite humorous, it seems they could have gone even further with the idea.

In a way, Cabin in the Woods has less in common with winking horror-comedies like Scream and last year’s Tucker Dale and Dale Vs. Evil than with something like Michael Haneke’s Funny Games. Yes, Cabin in the Woods is funnier and more deeply embedded in playing to the clichés of the genre than Funny Games, but they are both essentially making a case against the concept of enjoying the sight of horrific violence. While Hanacke’s exercise is more didactic and condescending toward the audience, it’s clear that Goddard and Whedon adore the genre and are merely disappointed by how disposable it’s become in recent years. Torture porn flicks like the Saw and Hostel series seem to be the main point of attack, culminating in a jaw-dropping third act that’s literally a horror movie free-for-all geekfest, with so many insane images happening on screen all at once that it absolutely demands multiple viewings. In fact, this last section is so unhinged and startling that it more than makes up for some of the movie’s earlier weaknesses. It accomplishes a few things brilliantly; first of all, it’s completely unexpected (a rarity in the genre), it explains why the clichés exist in the first place, and it’s just a badass rubik cube of horror tropes unfurling at a breathless clip.

This review will probably be confusing to anyone that hasn’t seen the film, and maybe a glorious write-up full of spoilers is in order. The movie most likely won’t do well commercially beyond the opening weekend gross, and seems more destined for cult film status among a smaller legion of passionate admirers than a widely mainstream audience. But rarely has something come along (much less a horror film) that actually rewards moviegoers with the element of surprise. It’s that subversive, and unlike most of the movies it both caters to and derides, not the least bit disposable.

	Noctourniquet The Mars Volta  5 out of 10   Modern day prog rockers hit a creative wall
	by Jericho Cerrona May 2, 2012

When The Mars Volta first surfaced from the remains of post-punk/hardcore outfit At The Drive-In in the early 2000’s, their dizzying fusion of prog, math rock, Latin jazz, and post-punk seemed to herald something excitingly new. 2003’s debut De-Loused in the Comatorium, featuring former ADTI members Cedric Bixler-Zavala and Omar Rodríguez-López, was a ferocious juggernaut, nearly flawless in both execution and vision. But with each passing release, from 2005’s stab at Pink Floyd psychedelia Frances The Mute, to 2008’s Ouija board-themed Bedlam in Goliath, it seems that the El Paso, Texas five-piece have been intent on distancing themselves from whatever latin/prog/funk label they may have unintentionally conjured. 2009’s ballad-heavy Octahedron may have been the last straw for many fans still hoping for a “return to form”, with its mellow tempos and accessible compositions undermining the bombastic stylistics that many saw as the band’s greatest strengths. This slant toward accessibility continues, albeit with more explosiveness on Noctourniquet, the bands sixth full-length.

Certainly, there will be Volta fans who will valiantly defend their early work as beyond reproach, but isn’t this the kind of thing that happens all the time? When a band has been around for a certain length of time, there’s an inevitable decrease in interest, and very few artists can lay claim to a decade plus career that continues to surprise and enthrall. As technically skilled and prolific as The Mars Volta has been throughout the years, there still seems to be a lack of fanfare regarding their latest release. This could be due to arguments between Omar and Cedric, constant lineup changes (including the absence of longtime collaborator John Frusciante), or just the fact that the band’s particular brand of progressive rock isn’t quite the blazing novelty it once was. Therefore, it would be easy to reduce Noctourniquet to a product of two creative forces at odds with one another—Omar the prolific control freak vs. Cedric the free spirited lyricist—but truthfully, The Mars Volta have never been keen on giving everyone what they want. The fact that Omar recorded most of the material that makes up the album some three years ago and waited for Cedric to finish his parts is reflected in the album’s rather disjointed quality. The desire to mellow out and try their hand at poppier song structures must have been tempting after years of churning modern reinventions of Rush and King Crimson-style prog, not to mention relentless touring and innumerable side projects, but that freewheeling quality that once categorized the band feels strangely muted throughout Noctourniquet.

Truthfully, what always made The Mars Volta intriguing beyond their insane musicianship was their ability to repel as many listeners as they impressed. Omar’s spastic guitar noodling, Cedric’s polarizing high-pitched wail, songs stretching past the 10-minute mark; it was all meant to be over the top and fiercely unconcerned with pleasing the casual music fan. That the band become so popular (winning a Grammy, no less) may have more to do with 30-ish white males living in their parent’s basement pouring over old Yes records than anything else, and yet even the critical community seems to have embraced their music for the most part. Noctourniquet won’t convert anyone who was annoyed by the band’s self-indulgent prog wankery in the past, but it does do something that was also present on Octahedron; it actually makes The Mars Volta sound bored. The sheer joy of flailing in every direction imaginable; with excessive guitar overdubs, processed vocal effects, bombastic drumming, and challenging song structures, has been streamlined here in a way that will either be great news for those growing weary of the band’s pretentiousness or a reconfirmation to old school fans that The Mars Volta are a shadow of their former glory. Gone is keyboardist Isaiah “Ikey” Owens and guitarist Frusciante, leaving drummer Deantoni Parks to fill in the gaps, of which he does quite skillfully, but the passion and dangerous ferocity that once made the band exciting is absent.

There’s nothing wrong in theory with what The Mars Volta are doing here. Musicians grow, mature, get older, change direction, and there are moments on the album that reflect a bold kind of restraint that they never would have attempted years ago. The problem lies with the execution, with bland synthesizers and repetitive melodies taking center stage over some of the LP’s more interesting musical ideas. Opener “The Whip Hand” is an especially weak introduction, with buzzing synth lines pushed up into the mix and Cedric repeating the phrase “I am a land mine, so don’t step on me” in an ominous tone that’s sounds almost like a parody of his younger ADTI self. “Aegis” fares a little better, with atmospheric guitar work, rolling drum fills, and a soaring chorus that’s proof Cedric can still belt out those high registers with aplomb. But for every song that impresses, such as the propulsive “Dyslexicon”, there’s something like lead single “The Malkin Jewel”, a truly annoying funk-blues hybrid which sees Cedric indulging in a grating falsetto that comes across like Jack White on meth. Omar’s herky-jerky guitar work is impressive as always, but the song is dull and repetitive. Ditto for the dreadful “Lapochka”, probably one of the worst songs The Mars Volta has ever written, and the meandering title-track, which tries to intersperse random keyboard flourishes and Parks’ dexterous drumming to overcompensate for its shapelessness.

It might seem from this review that The Mars Volta are no longer relevant, that their once promising hodgepodge of musical styles has grown dated and inconsequential, but obviously this stems from one’s relationship to their past body of work. Noctourniquet isn’t a terrible album, but it’s not a very good one either, especially coming from a band that once seemed invincible. Perhaps Omar himself summed it up best when he stated in a recent interview that the most important thing was the actual process of making the album and how it signaled a shift in his working relationship with Cedric. In this sense, the record seems like a stepping off point for a new wave of music that would originate from this form of collaboration, but where exactly The Mars Volta go from here remains to be seen. One thing is certain; they seem uninspired by their newfound aesthetic, churning out a collection of technically proficient but hollow-sounding tunes that might appear on the surface to have more cohesion, but in actuality are a product of a band burning out on their own sound.

“Aegis” by The Mars Volta

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The Hunger Games Cast: Jennifer Lawrence, Josh Hutcherson, Elizabeth Banks, Woody Harrelson Director: Gary Ross Running Time: 2 hours 22 minutes
by Jericho Cerrona April 11, 2012

When dealing with something like The Hunger Games, it’s important to note that in translating a wildly popular young adult series to the screen, certain things must be omitted or even added in order to make a compelling film. Director Gary Ross (who wrote the script with help from the book’s author Suzanne Collins and screenwriter Billy Ray) has a tough task in that he must not only appease the clamoring throng of fans hanging on every word of the novel, but also create a film that succeeds on its own terms. Whether or not this is a successful adaptation of the book is not really the focus of this review. The main point here is too highlight how different the act of reading a work of fiction is to watching a film where things must be represented visually. Mentioning this might seem obvious, if a tad condescending. Surely, everyone understands that books and movies are different beasts, but what’s often overlooked is how opposite the disciplines are when it comes to interpretation. Certain sequences that work in a book might appear awkward or downright silly when translated literally to the screen, and herein lies much of the problems with the film The Hunger Games. With a premise this intensely disturbing, what’s most disappointing is how Ross has essentially crafted a PG-13 rated Hollywood blockbuster out of material that should be shocking. Of course, soft-pedaling the violence and inherent bleakness of the story isn’t all that surprising given the fact that the demographic for this movie is primarily teenagers. Still, the story of children killing each other while the world looks on inside a reality-TV daze should be absolutely devastating. Instead, The Hunger Games is periodically cheesy and never fully convinces as a dystopian nightmare.

The movie takes place in the post-apocalyptic nation of Panem, which is made up of an affluent capitol surrounded by 12 impoverished districts. A televised event called “The Hunger Games” occurs annually as a punishment for past rebellion against the government, in which one boy and one girl are chosen from each district to compete to the death until there is one lone survivor. As the film opens, strong-willed heroine Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) volunteers to take the place of her younger sister, while the chosen male Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson) seems to have had some past connection with Katniss. Though the setup is potentially fascinating, there isn’t much dramatic tension or sense of satire as the two competitors are whisked away to the Capitol via train, eventually meeting the past winner of the games Haymitch Abernathy (Woody Harrelson, stumbling around in a drunken stupor with a ridiculous blond wig). Characters are established quickly and then given emotional scenes that are supposed to be powerful, but lack context. There’s hunky game hunter Gale (Liam Hemsworth), who may have a romantic connection with Katniss, but the nature of their relationship is never really explored. The two are seen making longing glances at each other in the film’s opening moments, while later Ross resorts to cut aways of Gale sitting placidly in fields of grass as Katniss fights for her life inside the arena. No doubt he will come into play more in future movie adaptations, but for those unfamiliar with the source material, the character is a complete blank. Ditto for Lenny Kravitz as Cinna, Katniss’s stylist who appears in a few fleeting scenes before delivering a passionate goodbye speech right before she enters the fray. This scene is meant to be affecting, but comes across hollow because their relationship hasn’t been developed at all. Hutcherson, meanwhile, lacks chemistry with Lawrence, which makes a possible romance between the two hard to swallow. The fact that this subplot even exists is ludicrous in the first place given the fact that these youngsters have more important things to worry about than raging teenage hormones; like avoiding death by flying knifes and soaring arrows. Of the supporting cast, only Stanley Tucci (flanked by a nearly unrecognizable Toby Jones) seems to be in on the satirical nature of the material, mugging wildly as the gaudy TV host for the games. Disappointingly, there are only passing nods to the role of reality TV and how sponsorships impact the chances of the contestants, and one never truly gets the sense that any of this is an actual televised show or that people are even watching it. Ross adds a few shots where hidden cameras are placed inside tree trunks, but the created world of the arena is never convincing as an actual TV broadcast.

Worst of all, though, is how Ross chooses to film this particular story, not to mention some spotty special effects. The movie is like a cheap spawn of the Bourne series, with nauseating shaky-cam and muddled action scenes. It makes sense, at least in theory, that adopting a hand-held style for the sequences of survival in the arena (which is basically a massive forest surrounded by booby-trapped check-points) would provide a visceral experience. But instead of being immersive, the technique is annoying. There are moments where the camera is so wobbly (no doubt to hide the truly horrific nature of the violence) that it’s impossible to get a sense of what’s really going on. The CG is another problem altogether. It might seem like nitpicking to criticize a movie too harshly based on its special effects, but two words come immediately to mind here; CG fire. Just wait for the moment in which Katniss spins around in her brand new dress, an unintentional holler of a scene that reinforces the idea that some things are better left on the page. Truthfully, this isn’t a movie that relies heavily on CG, but in the few instances where believable effects are required, the results are so bad that it destroys any chance at believability.

In rushing to champion The Hunger Games as the next big franchise, ala Twilight or Harry Potter, gullible audience members and critics alike seem to have given this movie a pass. It’s certainly watchable, and Lawrence cuts a muscular female protagonist, but the character of Katniss feels like an archetype rather than a fully dimensional human being, and Lawrence has already played a variation of this type of character much more adeptly in 2010’s Winter’s Bone. Ross also takes a premise that should be unbearably unsettling and makes it into an entertaining action thriller, complete with CG zombie dogs, strained romantic subplots, and in one particular sequence, an overwrought death scene that fails to register emotionally despite Lawrence’s best efforts. There’s not one individual sequence in this movie that stands out, nor even a series of moments that one can clearly state makes it worth repeat viewings. It’s simply a moneymaking juggernaut, made slyly and cheaply in order to fool everyone that it has more “substance” than the majority of Hollywood dross that’s churned out at regular intervals.

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Cannonball Adderley
Somethin’ Else

Renowned alto saxophonist Julian “Cannonball” Adderley’s work on this milestone 1958 effort is often overshadowed by the fact that Miles Davis not only played many of the trumpet solos, but was also instrumental in picking much of the included material. Backed by the likes of drummer Art Blakey, pianist Hank Jones, and bassist Sam Jones, the album nonetheless bristles with Adderley’s fusion of rhythm & blues and gospel with his rollicking sax playing, which is often played at dance-like rhythms. Truthfully, those who argue that the spirit of Davis dominates the proceedings have fair points; much of the hard bop atmosphere of tunes like “Autumn Leaves” and “One Day for Daddy-O” does feel like precursors to the seminal Kind of Blue (1959), on which Adderely himself contributed. But the best thing about this album is the sheer pleasure of listening to some of the greatest jazz musicians playing in perfect harmony together, with laid-back arrangements and some truly complex soloing. If one were apt to introduce someone to early jazz music, this album would be a fantastic place to start (along with 1955’s Horace Silver and the Jazz Messengers) as it contains some of the most accessible material from these great players before they branched out into more experimental territory. Rhapsodic, transporting, and featuring a chemistry missing in so much of today’s musical landscape, Somethin’ Else truly exemplifies the term “timeless.”

“Somethin’ Else” by Cannonball Adderley

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