The Review Review

FULL REVIEW REVIEWS

Roger Ebert, National Treasure (film)
[Chicago Sun-Times; 2004]
Rating: 7.7

“You probably got balls!” This is one of the epithets yelled by a dude in Blind Date Uncensored, a movie that has brought more joy to my life that any film in the history of man. The genius of this line lies in its gratuity. The dude that yells it has already razed every attribute of his date. Yet as he walks away he lets fly an extra burn just for good measure. You can pretty much see the catharsis being achieved right before your eyes. It’s actually quite beautiful. Similarly, in his review of National Treasure, Roger Ebert lets his criticism overtake him. It’s quite indulgent of him. And quite right fucking on. Let me explain: he’s reviewing a Jerry Bruckheimer movie. Explanation over.

The reality is that trash like a Bruckheimer film presents a reviewer with a large, pristine canvas of whiteness upon which to render his art. The reviewer is suspended over the canvas like a young, drunk Jackson Pollack. The inherent worthlessness of the Bruckheimer vehicle provides a reviewer with a boundless expanse of possible splatter configurations, some straightforward, some experimental, some chiascuromatic. It’s actually a lot of pressure. The question is always, how can I trash the Bruckheimer film without seeming like a pedantic rookie. You see, the novice reviewer will often overzealously attack Bruckheimer. The more experienced viewer, however, realizes that the movie, of course, will be terrible, but focuses his review on degrading other aspects, indirectly associated with the movie. For instance, in my review of Pearl Harbor, I blamed sheepish consumer cultured for giving Bruckheimer the ability to defile history.

Roger Ebert opportunistically uses part of his canvas to knee Dan Brown in the groin. And while Dan Brown’s balls probably hurt all the way to the bank, for those like me who saw The DaVinci Code as an asinine, ponderous plot wrapped around an interesting idea that I could have learned about in a two page blog entry, feel slightly exhilarated. Basically, National Treasure is Bruckheimer’s attempt to show us that he can read. When you or I discover indie rock like “The Microphones” or a cinematic gem like “American Movie,” Bruckheimer discovers things like The DaVinci Code and Gwen Stefani’s new solo album.

Thus, while Gone in Sixty Seconds can only be lambasted for its horrendously mindless plot, National Treasure, whose story is a dead-ringer for Dan Brown’s popcorn, public transit page-turner, can be attacked root and branch. Appropriately, then, Ebert trashes not only the film, but also its literary source. In what is clearly the article’s best take, Ebert notes:

"Pete", Ghost Ship (film)

[The Walkmen Website; 2004]

Rating: 7.1

I am Italian and I don't find this review offensive. I do, however, find it quite funny -- a strange gem discovered while haphazardly searching for a free download. Which free download? A certain song from The Walkmen's special Christmas release that Pitchfork promised me that The Walkmen's website had made available for free consumption. But while that might be there, it is not here. "Here" is the review of the "Pete's" (not to be confused with PETE) review of the movie Ghost Ship, which I have not seen and whose images will most likely never filter their way through my rods or my cones before my death (hopefully at a ripe old age). Pete's main asset is his brevity, which he wields like a well trained puma. But on the wing (right next to the brevity) is Pete's gremlin-like ability to suck the pith out of a visual medium and spit it back in the face of his reader, who then may (or not) lavish Pete with praise and gifts in libation to his talents (Pete is dead) and his elan. Someone call Henri Bergson, Pete is creative evolution. Those who allow the overman to pass are the ones who are chosen. Okay?

This is The Way: http://www.marcata.net/walkmen/film.htm

Kevin Adickles, Pretty Girls Make Graves -- Good Health

[Pitchfork Media; 2002]

Rating: 9.6

At one point during Brent Canada's batchelor party I started freak out about population growth. Why? Because that shit is hell of troubling. Have you ever been to Los Angeles? It's crowded as hell! Have you ever seen the graph of y=x^2(u(x))? Pretty narly! In the midst of these millenarian preocupations, it's nice to know that I can take solace in superb reivews like those of Kevin Adickles.

As far as I can tell, Adickles' reviews were so good that he is no longer assigned music to review by Pitchfork editor-in-cheif Ryan Schreiber (whose reputation preceedes him). If my assumption is indeed true, then consider the follow block quote as my requiem:

I was surprised as hell when I read that existential crises were back in vogue. I mean, you give a fancy overseas war with high production values to a country of TV-addled youth whose social outreach extends to the local pharmacy waiting line, and what do they do? They don't even wait for their nation to be occupied by a warring fascist state before chronicling their tribulations with emotional isolation in a post-millennial millennia. And here I was thinking retro was the new retro!

Throughout the review, Adickles makes his case for being considered one of the premier auteur reviewers around. Far from devolving into a spineless song-by-song recap, Adickles's review takes on a life of its own. It defines its own rules, and then brazenly redefines those rules. Not even the shroud-like secracy surrounding the inner-workings of Pitchfork Media's editorial cabal is immune to the refreshing subversion:

After authoring an admittedly incoherent expose on my grappling with sexuality in a Lester Bang's Eno-esgue second album, Editor Ryan courteously emailed me with some well chosen words of advice:

- At some point, talk about music
- Keep whippet-induced confessionalism to a minimum
- Don't step on my cape

That reminds me: something else is bothering me. Take the adjective "Eno-esque." With all due respect to Brian Eno, does such a name get tossed around with greater frequency because it hyphenates so sonorously with the suffix "esque"? Has Trey Anestasio of Phish been getting screwed all these years simply because Anestasio-esque is difficult to say? Still further, how popular would Kafka really be if "Kakfa-esque" did not take such a delightful trip off the palate? This worries me. Perhaps it is because my own last name so assiduously rejects all attempts of suffixation. All I know is that I've got to show some goddamn sangfroid and just relax before I end up crazy and brilliant like the deconstructionist Jaques Derrida.

It is from these convoluted preoccupations that arises my appreciation for Adickles. After jocularly erecting a perfectly prefatory paper tiger of esoterica, Adickles self-depricatingly retreats to a competantly lucid take on Good Health. Elucidates Adickles: "Though never letting the 'Guitarist's Grimoire' set the parameters for their sound, PGMG manage to juxtapose riff-concentrate with enough perspective and focus to escape even the faintest grasps of what could have devolved into 'virtuoso punk' under less inspired hands." Adickles uses a fundamental understanding of musical predecesors to speak directly to the human ear-- nay, the human sensibility. Rarely have insights sounded-- nay, gyrated-- so good.

It's all going to be allright: http://pitchforkmedia.com/record-reviews/p/pretty-girls-make-graves/good-health.shtml

 

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Brandon Stousoy, A.C. Newman – The Slow Wonder

[Pitchfork Media; 2004]

Rating: 3.7

 

 

 

PFM staffwriter Brandon Stousoy must have fallen asleep at the cliché wheel when making the observation that, with the album The Slow Wonder,

Although not much longer than an episode of Small Wonder, Newman has created a timeless document,

because this is the only somewhat interesting line in the entire review. The rest is an unthinkable, stunningly vapid empty praise fest.

 

 

Coppola once lamented on the set of his presumed failure Apocalypse Now, that the worst thing for an artist to do is to try to make something great and profound (as opposed to breezy and carefree) and then have turn it out to be, in so many words, utter shite. Along these lines, Mr Stousoy is not joking around about how solid Newman’s solo album is. He writes as if his tentative stay at Pitchfork (which should immediately be severed) is on the line with this high-publicity review. Mr Stousoy’s hands, quivering at his dorm-room keyboard, (unfortunately) managed to press the follow series of letters:

 

These are soulful sing-alongs with grit, pop nuggets that hold up to hours of repeat play.

 

For most of the review, Stousoy resorts to a song-by-song recapping of the album, a tedious drone that is resurrected from utter unreadability by the savior-like arrival of his citations of Newman’s own lyrics. All in all, it’s not hard to explain why this review is so bad, it’s just boring. Besides Stousay himself takes the tedious task out of my hands when pens a clunker like:

 

 

Time and time again, Newman showcases a quaint nostalgia and a layered sense of production that often feels similar to the inventive beauty that made The Shins' Chutes Too Narrow such a whopper of a sophomore release.

Indeed.

 

 

 

Witness the carngage: http://pitchforkmedia.com/record-reviews/n/newman_ac/slow-wonder.shtml

 

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Comments:

From Hip E. [144.5.224.142] - 1/26/07 6:53 PM

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