Mesrine

Two films appeared last year in France and this year in the United States about the life of Jacques Mesrine. The films are two parts of a single story, the rise and fall of France's most well known gangster, a man who began his adult life by choosing to be a criminal but grew to regard himself rather as someone chosen. Beyond this we might begin to describe him with a list of, let's say, achievements: French veteran of the Algerian war; bank robber; thief; author; libertine; part time revolutionary; orator; murderer; prison escapist. Still today all of these achievements are hotly contested, save one. Throughout his career Mesrine displayed an unrivaled ability to break out of jail. He broke out of high and low security prisons. He broke out of Paris' "La Sante" prison, stayed in Paris for a little while, and immediately went back to heists, which is basically the equivalent of breaking out of Alcatraz, swimming to shore and then opening up a bar in North Beach. He broke out of a previously impenetrable prison in Quebec, only to drive right back armed to the teeth and attempt to break back in to break out the guys who had helped him break out. He even broke out of a full courtroom, while on trial, but not until the (overflowing) court could hear a litany of his, let's say, accolades.

Achievements, accolades and acclaim are the essence of a man openly obsessed with his resume. Mesrine writes an autobiography (in which he admits to committing murder, while in prison awaiting trial), sets up a profile interview with a popular French paper and, in perhaps his most revealing scene in the film, lambastes a police interrogator for mispronouncing his name- the "s" is silent. Vincent Cassel, who is best known in the States for his role as Danny Ocean's blithely European anti-hero in the film's latest two installments and as a sneering, hapless, impotent Russian gangster opposite Viggo Mortensen in Eastern Promises. In short, he has not been flattered by the English speaking world, which is a pity. On paper Mesrine is his most American leading role, and by the violent tenor of his voice and the overproduction of his expressions he acts as though he is aware of it. This is a bit sad, since he has shown riveting subtlety in the heated, enigmatic Sur Mes Levres where he plays an ex convict reentering society, alongside a woman whose deafness renders her quite lost in it. They both discover virtues in their deficiencies, although not in any way they could celebrate publicly, which covers them in a weighty blanket of silence; real crime is quiet, mysterious and antisocial.

Mesrine, on the other hand, fills the world with noise. He shouts, screams, shoots and shakes. When words don't suffice he speaks with his hands, and with his gun, often all at the same time. French gangsters, it appears, talk a lot. And I mean a lot; Mesrine speaks Spanish (to pick up women, successfully) and English (to American police, less successfully) and even picks up some Quebecois slang in Montreal (mid bank robbery, at that). While arguing with his wife (consequence of an adventure into Spain) he spurts out sentences in French, then in Spanish, then in French (as she responds in Spanish, French and then Spanish) ending in a violent eruption (in French) as he forces his pistol into her mouth and holds it there, long after he's finished speaking. He talks so much that by the middle of the second part you haven't really any idea what he cares about, or even what he stands for. It's no surprise then that he looks most confident when breaking out of jail; nothing can be lost in translation.

Unsurprisingly, these scenes (the break-out scenes) are done with the greatest diligence; they provide the body of the plot (his deepest friendships are made, begun or solidified in the planning and execution of his break outs) and grant the audience some momentary catharsis. And of course, they shift the focus away from whatever he had done to get put in there in the first place. Such shifting is sadly underused in the film. The whole project attempts to do justice to the man's complexity, mystery and charm by overwhelming the screen with his presence. What is left is an actor and director who, like their subject, don't know exactly what to do with their bounty of talent.

The American

The American is a misleading title; very little of the film's main character, an elusive assassin played by George Clooney, recalls America. Jack, as he is first called, is seen first at a cabin in quiet, rural Sweden cupping a glass of wine and he later moves on to a silent medieval Italian town so old and austere it seems itself an antique. He speaks little and dresses in rusty, dark tones, sporting Italian accessories. Nationality itself, as far as the plot is concerned, seems more a matter of landscape than politics. The director, Anton Corbijn, whose repeated geometric patterned village-scapes and broad, flat monochromatic squares of grass, snow and sky recall early Mondriaan, actually is Dutch. Even the opening credits swelled with Italian names. Knowing none of these things going into the film, and seeing the title and Clooney's art deco, suited silhouette on the poster, chasing down the end of the summer season with a Walther PPK, you might be surprised by what follows.

Corbijn is a photographer by profession and it shows in this cinematography; often characters seem the background of a larger portrait of a moody room, an empty bar or forested stream. The assassin, who goes by Edward-sometimes-once in Italy, pretends to be a photographer. So begins a long meditation on the complicated juxtaposition of photographers with their subjects. The assassin, like the photographer, fits nicely into this structure: he must get close to his subject but not so close as to obscure his perspective and thereby ruin the job. Both exist just barely outside of the world which they handle, fondling a flame that will either burn them or fade away. The American deals more than anything else with that peculiar aloofness, which turns out to be somewhat un-American.

This aloofness reveals itself in the slow ritual of work. His job is to make a specialized rifle, which leads into a thorough display of the kind of things otherwise hidden in action films: waiting, watching, scrounging for parts, and then patiently assembling the rifle itself. The particular style of his work, and the way it is filmed, assumes a decidedly European flavor. He never looks out of place; never makes a false step and speaks passable Italian. When he meets his contact at the bank of a stream to test the rifle he brings picnic fare as a cover. As he empties the bottle of Muscatto his contact points out that the wine they are not drinking has been chilled. The American shrugs and says, "Italian Police."

Like photography, whose work only minimally requires the actual taking of photographs, assassination seems to seldom involve the actual taking of lives. Preparation, and recuperation, occupy most of the assassin's time. When he is not meeting or calling contacts, he files, hammers, melds, fits, and polishes. Only a few steps away from his work desk, he does similar work on his own body, which looks as lean as the film does. These reflections, like those of the mirrored work of photography and assassination, pervade the action. What seems formally like minimalism-sparse dialogue, stylized silence, taciturn streets- becomes much grander taken all together: loneliness assumes a more austere character; aloofness seems essential for art, not only art-making. Austerity and reticence are not exactly inviting characteristics, and the collective sigh (or groan) released by the theatergoers as the film faded to black recalled the sounds of having been rejected. One man behind me began a subdued sort of angry shouting. The couple beside me, who arrived happily enough, looked as though they had just broken up. My grandmother went out of her way to contact me the next day to tell me not to go see it. I certainly felt odd as the final credits appeared, as though I'd been caught in a building moments before it collapsed.

The First Chapter of Giuseppe di Lampedusa's "The Leopard"

Aristocracy is not fertile ground. Thus, it is with a good deal of irony that a man as thoroughly aristocratic as Don Fabrizio de Salina would be such an energetic and optimistic lover. What is more, he is not sexual because he is sensual, like you might expect from one with such refined taste; he is sensual because he is sexual. He enjoys witty symbolism more than most, but sex is firstly and most importantly sex. There is no Freudian subconscious. The soil, even less fertile the class that owns it, would not allow for it. After all, this is Sicily.

“All politics are local” is inaccurate. All people who are interested in their locality are political. Partisanship begins between two people; this is where it’s strength lies. Once it extends beyond two, stretches out further to two others or three, then it receives a vocabulary, an identity. Soon enough, this vocabulary grows large enough, becomes introspective, and then it is that people forget the initial power of partisanship. The abstract identity assumes a power that it does not have, and word and expression that tied the group together unravels; it was the thread itself that was the strength, not the weaving.

The problem with aristocracy is not that it is limited and limiting. The difficulty is rather that aristocracy is ubiquitous, that we all, to some extent or another, harbor aristocratic tendencies. This is why “if we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change.” If the Liberals were thoroughly liberal, then there would be no need to overthrow the Aristocracy: it would crumble under the weight of it’s own false premises. But, the Liberals too are aristocratic. They believe, like everyone, in the existence of a community of the best. They see and admire virtue, adore excellence and so it is that the most alarming moment of the first chapter of “The Leopard” is the stunning beauty of the daughter of the head of the Liberal revolution. Virtue is like a woman. When Don Fabrizio seeks out a woman it is for her, not the appearance of her, not the idea of her. When we admire excellence and virtue it is not for the appearance of it, not for the idea of it, it is because we are drawn to it, we wish to be in the company of it; we believe that we too take part in it. This is the problem with aristocracy.

The sun burns the Sicilian soil. The vibrant tapestry of Sicilian Aristocracy flutters in the hot wind, sparkles in the sunlight. Shuffling feet and ruffled skirts announce the last serenade of a party that does not know that it is not dying. Death is much too democratic to be invited to this dinner. And far off but at the same time the soldiers anxiously waiting on the border are like chess pieces, not the other way around. Revolutions are won with battles, with ships and arms, planning and tactics, and they never create anything. They are like drunken oaths: bad if they are forgotten, worse if they are remembered.

We are caught on the wrong side of history. But then again, so are flowers after they are picked. We somehow manage to keep bringing them inside to decorate our houses.

Minus Tide - The Quit

Starting an indie album with a song called “Manchester” is a little bit like putting the word “Metaphor” in the title of a poem. It’s obvious; a red flag. Given Manchester’s place in the history of indie albums, it's about as subtle as the dude in the chicken suit outside the tire shop. HEARTBROKEN POP!! reads the sandwich board, heavy by mid-morning This would be true if we were talking about Englishmen, but we’re not. The Quit are from Seattle, and this is their first album. One last kick at this dead horse: I can’t help thinking of the embarrassing blues of sixties Brits. Down in the Delta (of the Thames)! Grits and Whiskey (Bushmills, of course)! But then, the Stones built an early career on Chuck Berry, so I guess there’s no reason The Quit can’t attempt the same with Morrissey or whoever. It’s just that as an opener, “Manchester” raises the bar for those who like this kind of referential bar-raising, and lowers it for those who don’t.

So: yes, it’s a good song. It’s catchy; poppy; the guitars sound like they’re being played by elves who will evaporate if anyone turns the bass EQ above 1. Basically, it sounds British. And in lead singer Scott Shoemaker's list of planned activities, the line “Start a football riot/Try to kiss the queen” feels just right. It’s as knowing as the song’s title and tone. As far as the rest of the songs lyrics: I have no idea what he’s talking about. Is he seducing some Northerner? Maybe not. Something about Manchester seems to make him very nervous. Also there’s some kind of conflict occurring. Is it a break-up or a fist fight? Is the whole thing an escape fantasy? In any case, I’m willing to give them the benefit of the doubt for the likeability of the tune. If the album continued to pick up steam from here, they would have earned their song-titling bravado. And the next two tracks do maintain much of the first’s momentum. “Faster” cruises right along, excusing some beat-deadening chorused hand-claps. The bridges, all high voice and simple instrumentation, stick in a head something serious. I don’t know if it’s intentional or not, but the subject matter is as American as can be. He (and, one presumes, she) are hitting the road, leaving that damn town behind. The English, of course, leave nothing behind. If it’s intentional, it’s a clever touch.

The song “Dark Days” wobbles on the edge of the album’s collapse into mediocrity, but it's The Quit’s wheelhouse: pure pop guitar, impassioned dork vocals, and pitch-perfect dynamic shifts. They sound like what I want them to be: an American band with just a hint of that shameful English Romanticism. Built around one stereo acoustic guitar riff, it’s also the album’s most direct song. He just loves her, you know? She isn’t sure, but he fucking well is. It’s a really charming Death-Cab-if-they-didn’t-suck moment. How could I resist? And that cracking voice of Shoemaker's is a genuine instrument when applied correctly. Sometimes he overreaches (as my cellist girlfriend put it, dude needs to stay in his range), but a simply-put love song seems to be just the venue for his emoting.

I won’t vouch for the remainder of the album. It’s not interesting. Which is a testament to whoever ordered this thing; he knew where to put the money shot. But that’s small consolation for the drift into the blandness of “Kicking and Screaming” and the fake Rock and Roll of “This Time”. Despite a strong beginning, Minus Tide betrays the kind of self-doubt that can lead to a band name like “The Quit”. They must have thought themselves incapable of making more songs as good as the first three. Or, worse, they didn’t know that the rest of this album should have been scrapped. Keep the attention on Shoemaker's better instincts and a memorable pop album may someday materialize.

2

Champagne-related deaths are more common than lightning-related deaths. I grew up with a knowledge of lightning safety disproportionate to my actual experience with lightning. I cannot think of a single lesson in champagne (or even sparkling cider) safety.

What disturbs me about the ratio between lightning and champagne deaths—when people are struck by lightning, it’s uncommon, and unfortunate, but it’s not without reason. They were out in a lightning storm, for whatever reason, after all. They lost some kind of confrontation with nature, just as people lose to bears, and avalanches, and cholera. Their actions and the consequences of those actions are commensurate.

The sickening irony of a champagne-related death is that, barring the occupational hazards of bartending a party on New Year’s Eve, and barring the Jazz Age extravagance that demands a steady supply of champagne cocktails, eliminating these outliers, it’s safe to assume that the death, or serious injury, the incident necessarily accompanies a “special occasion.” For every (or almost every) champagne-related death, there is some reason to celebrate, some felicitous event, some mitzvah ruined by a bizarre accident that no one could possibly have foreseen.

I can imagine the scene, the silence pierced only by cries, the shuffling of feet, stilted attempts to help as minds struggle to comprehend the previous few seconds—the cork flew, foam spewed from the plump glass bottle and the cheers were cut short, or turned to cries of alarm, as a window shatters, or a wall fixture falls, or a man, in what seemed like the very same instant. The lost time, cognitive delay, reminds one partygoer later of a time he walked into a screen door, another of when she was T-boned crossing an intersection. The mind continues an event, fills in the gap, as it has grown accustomed, without incident, for a split second before it can make sense of what’s just happened. He had felt himself clear the doorjamb before he found his face pressed against the screen door. She had turned onto that sidestreet fully before she heard the sound and felt the concussion. Now, in this kitchen, or living room, she struggles at first to order the events sequentially in her head, to determine a causal relationship between the things she’s sensed—the cork, the cheers, the crash, the cries. One man thinks it’s a joke, that the person on the ground is pretending, and he laughs out loud. Another woman, already on edge from the popping of the cork, which she didn’t expect, is utterly lost in the commotion. The wife of the struck man is on the ground next to him immediately, prying his hands away from his face and calling out for someone to find help.

The cause of death is left out of the obituary, not mentioned at the service. “He died the way he lived, with good friends.” The absurdity of his death might cause laughter among those far enough removed by tangent or generation, but for those who were close, it is simply baffling. There is no champagne-safety course that can replace his life. Had the bottle been opened differently, pointed in another direction or under a towel, this would never have happened. But it did happen. It will happen again. All the towels couldn’t keep it from happening again.

Champagne-related deaths are more common than lightning-related deaths. Cheers.

Ecstatic SUnshine - Way

What if an album isn't an album? What if it falls into absurdity while no one is listening? Does it make a series of obnoxious sounds? I'm probably coming off like some Bacharach-rocking philistine, but I really really like songs. Failing that, riffs. Failing that, music. The album Way by Ecstatic Sunshine fills somewhere between zero and three of those categories. It consists of half an hour of largely interchangeable guitar loops. You know: the kind of stuff where what they did doesn't matter so much as the fact that they did it (and did it first). Unfortunately for Ecstatic Sunshine, no one cares about Who, Why, and When. What happened to What? Right, right. Minimalism. Deconstruction. Post. Meta. Liberal arts. The centerless, horizonless sphere where significance used to reside. Delay pedals and marijuana. I’m over over it. FUCKING MOVE ME. And who knows, right? Maybe these guys are some sort of sophisticated sex-robots. Maybe the title of this album demonstrates a calm, Lao Tzu-like vision of the universe that I cannot grasp. Or maybe it’s more like this: Q: Isn’t this album infuriating? A: Way. Or whatever. My infuriation is completely my own, because this band has absolved themselves of all responsibility. They’re just out there floating like so many beer cans in a stream. In fact, the idea of a twisted version of organic beauty seems pretty appropriate here. To justify this kind of music, you would have to argue for a beauty that comes before what we can write. Something that falls quite naturally out of calmly repeated sound. Like what you find in a waterfall, say. Or in the polyrhythms of walking feet. Occasionally, Ecstatic Sunshine actually produce this effect, which is a fucking feat. At least as often, we’re confronted with what may as well be a battalion of distant car alarms. The idea of a man-made natural beauty also crops up on Way’s cover art. The more I glare at this picture, the more I like it and believe it’s a key to the album. It’s a natural scene, complete with trees and waterfall, turned upside-down and decorated with plastic eyeballs. Accidental beauty, but ironic, self-denigrating. Clearly composed, caricaturing human creativity (see the guitar lines that burble through the three long songs) but sounding, intentionally-unintentionally, like bird-song. The second track is called “Herrons” Fine: this album is pretty like birds are fucking annoying, and it’s annoying like birds are sort of cute at five in the frigid morning. Maybe even musical like falling down is humorous. With sufficiently odd albums, I like to play a game. I imagine what the ideal fan does while blasting the record. There are always a few funny answers to this question, but on Way, the answer is this: anything at all. Christ, something. I can’t imagine listening to this without doing something else. It would be a disservice to myself and to the music. This album is referential without a referent, wide without depth, and cheap while sounding expensive, like every debased imitation of nature. And yet. Fuck! I was really getting some good self-righteousness going. At the end of the third and final track, as if in spite of their intentions, Ecstatic Sunshine lay down a very good series of guitar tracks. Coming after a bunch of loopy synth and guitar, it almost feels kind of like an imitation of what could once have been “Baba O'Reilly.” It is simple and direct and it is rock and roll. Should I view the whole album as prelude to this thirty-second success? No. That wouldn’t be fair to the band. So let's remember that these guys are capable of something else, and that they choose to bob in the murky po-mo tide. Why?