Pretensiousness and Fart Jokes

Link: http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2005/11/28/051128crte_television

The New Yorker, world renowned for setting a high bar for pretentiousness, reviewed The Colbert Report when it debuted in the fall of 2005. Television reviewer Nancy Franklin takes time to highlight everything about Colbert’s show that people like and deem it ‘not serious.’ In her article she tells us how she much prefers Jon Stewart for his intelligence and politeness to his guests (which doesn’t always hold true, he has been uncomfortably merciless in the past). But I feel the thing that was getting old about Jon Stewart is that he makes sure to emphasize the big words he’s using while still slipping in fart jokes. Colbert is completely satirical, and instead of outright yelling at the politicians he’s trying to take down a notch from an ivory tower made of thesauruses, he holds a mirror up to them and shows them how ridiculous they are acting. I love Jon Stewart, but the high-handedness gets old, and instead of giving the people that are hurting the country someone or something to fight against and possibly gain momentum, the only thing Colbert offers them is themselves. The title of her column is stupid too.

A Colbert Nation

“Hey, Mom, check it out, I’m on T.V.” Stephen exclaims giddily into a raised camera before he returns to his stoic anchor/pundit face and points, declaring, “This is the Colbert Report!” Stephen Colbert has exploited the 11:30 spot on Comedy Central four nights a week, almost every week since late 2006, immediately following his previous satirical occupation of Jon Stewart’s Daily Show. He has interviewed the most influential people in the world, and is running a four hundred thirty four part series profiling each district in the United States, and their respective congress people (the four hundred thirty fifth district, is one of southern California’s which he will not profile because it is ‘dead to him’). In his first year of broadcasting he became one of Time magazines 100 most influential people, and has garnered the viewership of millions worldwide. His nation of viewers is hooked because it is enjoyable to see a self-indulgent and overly serious system of government brought to a more relaxed level.
Having honing his craft, especially as an interviewer, on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, he didn’t get into comedy until his late twenties, joining improv comedy troupe Second City, after being classically trained as an actor at , attending college at , and even doing a one story stint for Good Morning America. He then moved onto Amy Sedaris’ comedy show Strangers with Candy, before being picked up as a correspondent for the Daily Show, alongside Steve Carrell, current star of the popular American version of The Office. There he gained recognition, being involved in many popular attempts to keep the political world in check, especially during the 2004 elections, which was covered by The Daily Show’s segment entitled INDecision 2004. Finally in October of 2006 he aired his new show, produced by none other than Jon Stewart, with the sole purpose of doing for punditry and Fox News’ lineup of screaming heads, what The Daily Show does for the nightly news. He ended up donning a persona, that is not lifted throughout the show, he often goes to interviews in character (despite apprehension of staying in character for a career that he voiced when the show started). In 2007 he was invited to speak at the White House Press Association Dinner, and he arrived in character, claiming that the President had accepted an invitation to appear on The Colbert Report, before asking him if Tuesday worked for him stating, “We’ve got Frank Rich but we can just bump him… And I mean bump him. I know a guy, say the word.”
Despite this appearance going down in White House history as uncomfortable and provocative, many saw it as a man of the people, that openly mocks everybody in the press and government for taking themselves too seriously, going into the lion’s den and proclaiming, “I believe that it’s yogurt, but I refuse to believe that it’s not butter.” For many, this event has become that of YouTube legend, with over hits, due to his sheer bravado, or how he’d put it in a gravitas filled baritone and twin cupping motions of his hands, “Balls.” Through his repertoire of complete insincerity, irony, and satire, he has gained the praise of those on all sides of the spectrum, from Ben & Jerry to Mike Huckabee. Everybody is willing to indulge in the peddling of his persona because it’s all for fun. His viewers, myself included, are more inclined to make a mockery of the uber-masculine, uninformed, blowhard egos that are so pervasive in media and politics, than actually indulge those who aren’t kidding. And those politically involved people that go on the show are considered in tune with the populous as a whole, and thus gains credibility, a phenomena best illustrated through the success of Mike Huckabee, disregarding his ultimate failure. A relatively underdog type of candidate, catering to the far right on social and foreign policy issues, suddenly appears level headed and almost as grounded as John McCain by simply asking Mr. Colbert to be his running mate, before offering to actually be Mr. Colbert’s running mate. To be sure, it was chemistry of certain events that had to transpire to create a person that is overtly satirizing all that has made the majority of this country apathetic and cynical.
The youngest of eleven children he lost his two oldest brothers and his father when he was ten in 1974. He says his comedic talent was sparked by a desire to cheer his mother up. He also says in an interview with 60 Minutes that the world of a child was trivialized, and he started to have a much larger perspective. His experiences as a child have given Colbert a critical and comedic edge, as well as a joie de vivre that he passes on to his audience. Even his name reflected a willingness to change personalities and appearances. He says in an interview with Rolling Stone that he sat next to an astronaut on a plane to Chicago where he was to join Second City, and the astronaut said, “You could really reinvent yourself out there.” And according to Stephen, “I was Col-bert when that plane took off, and when it landed I was Col-bear.”
Stephen Colbert has become one of those people who hasn’t given us hope of a better future, but somebody that can make the present a bit more bearable. Monday through Thursday he asks Congressmen if he can comb their moustaches, kisses the flirtatious Jane Fonda, and defends the president in all his poor choices because he feels it in his gut. He promises to feel the news at us, while others report the news to us, which is what so many have hated about the media for the past decade or so. Except Colbert does so with smiles in his eyes and an overall feeling of, “I’m just messing with you guys.” For years the loudest voices got the most airtime and were the most uninformed and the angriest. Now there is somebody to check Rush Limbaugh when he mocks Michael J. Fox’s affliction. When asked how he’d describe his character on 60 Minutes he said, “Well-intentioned, uninformed, loud, idiot.” And its those people that he is bringing down a peg or two.

final project

So, I’m thinking of doing a profile of Stephen Colbert. I think he’s one of the most interesting people in the media circuit today, because of his multiple personalities, the fact that he’s probably the best and most pure satirist since Mark Twain, and just how much fun he seems to have doing what he does. With him he carries a lot of commentary on both sides of the political spectrum. There are those that think he’s serious about being a Bill O’Reilly follower and their general density, and those that love him for his satire, and their general cynicism. By virtue of his popularity, and mockery of almost everything (including his popularity), he says something about us as a nation, he almost asks everybody why we find him entertaining.
I’m planning to use excerpts from his show, there’s an interview with him and Jon Stewart in an issue of Rolling Stone. Also I’ll have to include a brief bio on him, something I can probably find online. I know Stephen T. Colbert is making statements about qualities of our culture, obviously I am not completely aware of it yet, but I plan to find out, after all, I’m part of his Facebook group.

Oscar's 80th

Last night’s annual ceremony of self-indulgence and falsity was much smaller and not surprisingly, much less indulgent than usual. From host Jon Stewart’s relatively low-key presentation, to the tame acceptors, twice highlighted by Ethan Coen’s monotone, “Thank you,” it was a calm night.
Academy Award ceremonies of the past have showered viewers with glitter and glamour, letting millions revel in the glow of the tearful winners thanking all of the other famous people as well as all of us out here. In contrast, this year had most of the stars staring back at us blankly, wary of the uneasiness of an industry returned from chaos to congratulate itself.
Jon Stewart’s eight days of preparation delivered us some good one-liners that have been missing from his show as of late, but again his presentation didn’t meet the standards set by his predecessors or even himself of last year, in terms of production values anyway. The presenters were tranquil yet we were not left without a malicious chuckle from the bespectacled Jack Nicholson during his scripted presenters speech. Also, particular joy came from presenters Dame Judi Dench and Ms. Halle Berry played by Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill respectively, though a quarrel ensued over who would don Ms. Berry’s caricature and all its implications.
The awards also gave few surprises, as most of the awards were up in the air, with the exceptions of Javier Bardem, Daniel Day-Lewis, and Ratatouille, who were expected walkers of the red carpet. These three were as stoic and emotionless as the rest of the nominees, the only tangible elation exuding from winners Diablo Cody, Glen Hansard, Marketa Irglova, and Marion Cotillard. Ms. Irglova was also briefly denied an acceptance speech by those notoriously evil people in the music booth, until Jon Stewart invited her back onstage.
The multiple uncertainties in many categories, including Best Picture added for some excitement, and the Coen’s first Oscar of direction is good to see. But, their anticlimactic acceptance speeches showed a side of the ceremony that’s not necessarily bad, just not what we’re used to.
Let’s face it, we turn to the Academy Awards for four or five hours on a random Sunday once a year for the shock and awe that makes Hollywood so interesting from a distance. Cher wearing a sea urchin for example, or Jack Nicholson on drugs (although who’s to say he was any different this year?) But, some toning down in the self-congratulatory aspect might not be such a bad change.
When you take away the curtains and the stage and the dresses and the jewelry, you’re left with a bunch of people patting each other on the back for various, unpredictable, often infuriating reasons. A good first effort Oscar for Kevin Costner for Dances with Wolves, a sorry its been so long Oscar for Scorsese and for the Coens, and a many of us refuse to see Brokeback Mountain Oscar for Crash. Essentially, these awards mean very little, and cannot be trusted to correctly divine which product or person stands out from their peers. But they’re fun for their extravagance, and this year incorporated some much needed humility.

Orwellian Language

George Orwell has given us much insight into political structures. Like a tour guide, he has illustrated for us the origins and failings of old edifices like totalitarianism and fascism. And now we come to the language section, which is either a creepily accurate forecast, or a prescription for an already ailing structure.
Basically, George Orwell felt that the English language was becoming spineless, vague, pretentious, and lazy. He states that linguistic tendencies popularized by traditional political language, often intended to be vague and circumlocutory, has started to seep into academic, critical, and even everyday language and writing. He thought, half a century ago, that writers weren’t bothering to think and state their claim blatantly. He criticizes modern language and culture for being shallow and increasingly meaningless, but he also gives good advice for critics.
Orwell addresses issues of poor prose, uninteresting imagery, and generally mindless writing. He even provides a list of basic rules to follow on page one hundred seventy. If a writer adheres to the rules, his writing will become more illustrative, it will include less mindless, cliché phrases, and it will be more stimulating and thought provoking for the reader. In general, if the piece doesn’t sound like this one, then you are golden.

A Local Show

“I swear, if you existed, I’d divorce you,” is one of the many lines Ms. Martie Groat Philpot sneers at Richard Philpot in the Whole Art production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? This play, of course, is full of marital sneers, and could act as the field guide to people in need of counseling, and it is executed rather well.
The stage is set in the middle of the room, with the audience surrounding the actors completely. The liquor cabinet is prominently displayed as it’s contents are the vehicle for many a vociferous accusation and tearful revelation. The actors constantly revisit the numerous bottles to revitalize their palette with venom, and refill their hearts with regret.
This is were the leads shine, granted this is a community showing, but the leads are seasoned actors, and even the secondary characters are Whole Art veterans. And the Philpots bring the characters of Martha and George to life nicely. Martha stands hunched, pacing like a cat, with her neck outstretched, so as to more forcefully expose George’s failings to her guests through a gravelly, nicotine-lined windpipe. George quivers behind his spectacles in the beginning, but standing upright and dangerous, like an active volcano later, reinforced by his impressive blood-alcohol content.
Their performances, adequate at the very worst, makes the awkward performances of the secondary characters much more noticeable. Carol Zombro often overplays her drunkenness, and attempts to make each line essential to the story. Even when she wasn’t interacting with the characters, the audience could hear her intoxicated sighing from the couch on which she was plopped like a rag doll.
Her husband, portrayed by Trevor M. Maher, also suffers from over-emphasis and over-acting in general. His lines are shouted through a perpetual grimace, to the point that the audience feels even more uncomfortable than they should. This effect is augmented during the few moments in which Mr. Maher attempts to smoke cigarettes, making one fantasize about a cigarette training camp for actors playing characters that smoke.
Blackened lungs aside, the production was not without other hiccups. There were dropped lines, awkward pauses, and the characters occasionally made the audience unsure when to laugh. However it was undeniably directed with passion. We are to focus on the torment and instability of married life, on the regrets and on the uncertainties that can drive people insane. Yet the unwavering focus on marriage detracts from the wider scope of the original, which noted factors of frustration outside of marital life.
In many ways, this adaptation of a classic is the epitome of independent showings. It had much of the brilliance of the original, while still managing to miss some of the point. That coupled with strong performances, and weak ones, an intimate set placement, and some elementary school acting mistakes make this production embody what we love and hate about local theatre. Leisurely, and not overly serious, while still letting the audience feel like they got their money’s worth.

In Treatment, half an hour daily

In Treatment is a new HBO series following the network’s proud tradition of low-energy drama in the psychotherapist’s office. The show delves into the psyche of various characters including that of the main character, Paul, played by Gabriel Byrne. All players are experiencing especially traumatic events in their lifetime including, but not limited to, the accidental bombing of an Iraqi school, relationship troubles, and dream shattering debilitation. All of Paul’s patients are looking for answers in him he can’t find himself, and it all should make for some very interesting drama, however it doesn’t fully succeed.
The show’s appeal rests with its characters, the ways in which they act out and vocalize their frustrations and issues in Paul’s office are is the wheels of the series. The actors do a good job; Gabriel Byrne has worked his non-judgmental, analyst’s stare to a science, and others like Melissa George and Josh Charles stand out as particularly troubled shrinkees. The tone is constant, and its directed paying particular attention to an overall theme of inner turmoil. One scene involves him seeing his old work associate, Dianne Weist, for a professional opinion, and there is such palpable tension based on some unknown past event, that I felt like it was Clint and Eli Wallach staring each other down. The show is well-written and appropriately deep and revealing, sort of ignoring the inarticulateness and awkwardness inherent in relating your innermost difficulties to a complete stranger. And, perhaps it is over-indulging in long-winded explanations of inner feelings, but that’s the focus. And that’s the problem.
The thing that has made movies, shows, and books about psychoanalysis so engaging is that they were like modern day detective stories. The viewer would be in there with the analyst, searching for the one event in which Tony Soprano witnessed his father beat somebody mercilessly to explain why he is how he is today. Freudian sleuthing has even been merged with real detective stories in popular culture. Books like The Alienist and Silence of the Lambs will psychologically profile the killer in order to reveal his identity. Psychology has added a whole new layer to the who-done-it genre, not just the who and how, but why? Besides that indulgence by certain media, the profession has gotten very little love from our culture, it is constantly mocked and blamed for instigating the blame-the-mother-first movement. And the players in the show seem to follow our disdain for psychotherapy in that they aren’t seeking betterment, but someone to make up their mind for them. They want to know whether or not they should get an abortion, or whether or not they’re still worth something, and that’s ultimately what he seeks in treatment. Its treacherous ground right now, but it could culminate in a larger critique, and a more engaging one. But for now, the show’s gimmicky formula serves to garner non-viewer intrigue; the show itself is serving to remind us of why we don’t like the idea of therapy in the first place.

Stephen Holden reviews The Witnesses

Stephen Holden, twenty-year veteran of The New York Times and Yale graduate, reviewed The Witnesses a French film examining human sexuality and relationships under pressure. Stephen Holden was in the music industry for years before he joined the Times, as a staff writer and talent scout for RCA records. He and others one a Grammy in 1986 for best album notes. He became a culture staff member of the Times in 1988 after finishing a stint at Rolling Stone as a music critic. He wrote strictly about music until the mid-1990s when he decided to take on theater in film and is now a first-string movie critic at the Times. A by the books critic, he sometimes sacrifices voice for clarity and authority. The reader knows when he likes something, and if he does its probably worth checking out. This particular film he enjoys, he states plainly, because of its lightheartedness without ignoring the heavier issues implicit in the films sexual themes. However he does explain to the reader that the viewer might require certain “psychological armor.” Its undeniable that Holden is a good fluid writer, though his film reviews might be a little voiceless, he makes his opinion known early on, proves it, and moves on.

Interpreting Wilde

In the form of a discussion one might overhear at a haughty London café Mr. Wilde endeavors to depict the critic as an informed middleman between artist and public, and attempts to define art itself. As a member of the aesthetic movement and thus a firm believer in the phrase ‘art for art’s sake’ he lifts art of any real obligations, except to be deemed artistic. And all the moral and physical requirements that he believes art need not follow, he places on critics. Gilbert, a man in this dialogue probably meant to embody Wilde himself, explains to his less enlightened friend Ernest that it is the critics’ responsibility to filter what he is taking in through his screen of experiences and knowledge, and judges the resulting emotions or realizations. If what he gains from the exhibition is profound or unoriginal or pleasing in anyway, it is his or her duty to have other people experience it as well. That means that art just has to be reality with a sprinkling of magic, as Wilde says. “The best thing one can say about modern creative art is that it is just a little less vulgar than reality.” And to be honest, I don’t have the authority to agree or disagree.

Pauline Kael

There have been critics in all media that have dominated their field. They’ve gained trust and admiration and they’ve led legions of readers to experience the art that they loved. But few were as influential as Pauline Kael, who was as deeply loved and vehemently reviled as anybody in the cinematic community. Loved for her championing of good movies that she felt needed more attention, hated for viciously panning movies that many loved like Sound of Music and American Beauty. Yet her fame wasn’t a result of her opinions alone, rather her entertaining and exuberant style of writing. In many ways, Kael was at the forefront of sensationalist reviewing.
No matter what the review, Kael wrote in extremes. If she didn’t like a movie she let people know, often taking it particularly hard on actors, even as far as to mock their physical features (making particular note of Tom Cruise’s height, and deeming Lily Tomlin a ‘wistful pony’). Yet when she loved a movie, she put her heart into it, she wanted other people to feel what she felt, the lightheartedness of Last Tango in Paris, the heartache and triumph of My Left Foot. Though when she didn’t really pan or rave about a movie, there was still a spark in her writing because she would criticize other things related to the movie. She didn’t mind Hiroshima, Mon Amour, the little she said about it in her article was not bad, instead she constructed the main thesis of her article on a critique of the “liberal intellectuals” that were raving about this movie only because, “[They] find wish fulfillment in the form of cheap and easy congratulation on their sensitivities and their liberalism.” She would outright thumb her nose at the very type of person she was working for at the New Yorker. And whether or not it was a result of the taught relationship with the editor that everybody has, it’s still a joy to read.
Not to say that her career didn’t have a downward slope. She said that the movies had lost touch with the mass audience that she had so long revered, and who’s culture she had reveled in for the extent of her career. She felt that films were no longer uplifting movies like Goodfellas and American Beauty made the mass audience feel bad about us as a culture and she felt that wasn’t what the people wanted. So, she got tired of writing pans, (and if you right pans like hers about movies that were generally liked including Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, you’d be exhauseted too) and on a whim decided to quit The New Yorker. Still called all sorts of names after her death, from brilliant to unaware of the art form she was supposed to be an authority on, it is maintained by some that her grammar and choice of words were to excite us and connect us to the movie, and when it comes down to it, that’s what criticism should be about.

Pauline Kael talks Parkinson's, Her Career, and Everything Film

Pauline Kael seemed amazing. Having first heard of her with the knowledge of her death is as bad as finding out John Lennon was already dead first hearing the Beatles. Her deep love for movies, her unwavering, and often unpopular taste, just to talk with her about Brian De Palma, or the entertainment versus art debate would be enlightening. And there is much her and Mr. Davis talked about that is pertinent to the ongoing debate about how much entertainment and art overlap, where they do, and when one stops and the other begins. They talk about the heavy-handedness of movies today, and how lighthearted comedies and musicals are ignored. Which leads to the question, would she repeal her closing comment about the industry in decline if she saw Juno’s best picture nomination? And for that matter, why does she think the industry is not only declining, but decaying, and at the fault of Star Wars no less. Other crazy opinions include adoration for people like Mel Gibson and Brian De Palma, her dismissal of films by greats like Hitchcock, Godard, Woody Allen, and Stanley Kubrick in their later years. All her opinions are delightfully incongruent with the masses. Either way she was a champion of art, and reading her and a friend just talk is a pleasure.

Once: The European, Indie, Musical

The wails of a broken hearted street performer mixing with the clacking of vacuum cleaner wheels on cobblestone set up for an indie movie that mixes and breaks genres. Jack Carney has been trying to make this film for his whole career, having made three or four other movies about two strangers connecting and revitalizing each other in Ireland. This is his best attempt, a documentary-like musical romantic comedy that disregards tradition and embraces real life. The remarkable thing about Once is that it seems that Carney could have picked these characters off the Dublin streets, and followed them around for a few weeks with a Handicam, and this is the source of its greatest strengths and largest downfalls.
Commonality is the name of the game here as the curtain is raised on a dime-a-dozen aspiring musician, and daytime Hoover repairman who lives with his father and his grief. He meets a Czech woman who harbors similar woes and they connect almost immediately on a musical and emotional level. The story and characters are very basic, so it’s all down to music and character chemistry. Here we find success with catchy, if generic, heart-broken music mostly made memorable by the characters’ passion and connection with the tunes they croon with furrowed brows and glossy eyes. And it’s during these mournful ballads that the characters bond the deepest, and it makes these sections very touching, whether its him recounting his life story on a bus via spoofs of metal and country music, or her finally showing her wounds through a private piano composition. While these scenes serve as the linchpin of the film, scenes of pure absurdity (including an apologetic hug from a winded, thieving heroin addict) keep the tone lighthearted, and keep the film from taking itself too seriously. Interspersed between these extremes are depictions of unadulterated, European joy with family and friends, each portrait shot like a child’s first birthday party and scored by the music the two main characters performed together. These retain and highlight the healing power of friendship, even if your friend is someone you just met.
The everyday quality of the characters and their relationship is reinforced through cinematography, an unorthodox choice to have their dialogue fade into that of the crowd as they walk away down a Dublin street, and their own histories and actions are endearingly realistic and awkward. It’s a refreshing detour from the grand Hollywood, James L. Brooks love stories, but some may find themselves missing the sappy lines and grand gestures of amour, with boom boxes raised triumphantly overhead. This film takes the complete opposite route, in concept close to Breathless: The Musical, and it works well. Connections with characters and their pasts are easily forged and you find yourself caring deeply about them and their decisions even though you never even learn their names. The ending is tender, the music is catchy, it’s funny, sappy in a realistic way, and does very well in making a musical not about the music but about expression, and a romance not about love, but rather healing.

Oscar Nominees

On the Arts front page of the New York Times on January 23, there lies an article written by Brooks Barnes and David Carr concerning the approaching 80th Academy Awards, and their recently released nominees. The article mainly points out how the nominees follow a common theme of underground, dark movies. Greed, hatred, manipulation are all central themes among the frontrunners for this years Oscars. Many argue that this is a positive, reflecting on our societies general discomfort at present, but many just see it as an aspect of good American cinema, troubled people dealing with troubling issues, it’s the way it’s been for a long time. These writers were also interested in this year’s awards apathy towards big budget box office breakers that they have bolstered in the past, aside from a few nods to American Gangster, they also muse on this year’s unpredictability, which is arguable, but a serious focus and concern is the impact of the writers strike.
Having decimated the Golden Globes mere weeks before the Academy announced their nominees, the fuming train of destruction that is the Writers Guild of America looms again over our annual display of art, gossip, and really great shoes. They must be stopped! All us viewers can do is hope they come to an agreement.

Writer's Strike Comments

The writers strike is an ongoing bane of many peoples existence, a relaxing week night of Jon Stewart, or a bad sitcom, or chugging beer and screaming at Jack Bauer to ‘Kill ‘EM!’ has been reduced to beer chugging and screaming at passers by to ‘Kill ‘em!’ This lack of entertainment chipping away at our sanity can be attributed to a group of underpaid, angry writers that have been refusing to glue us to our screens since November. The writers guild and all its members feel that they are not getting adequate recognition for their work that is posted online, from which the studios reap all the benefits. It sounds very simple.
Hollywood has a long history of monopolizing and making lots of money from the sweat of creative people. So its not a surprise that a few are again fighting back. And to someone that watches Entourage and feels like they have some sort of idea of the shallowness of the industry, it seems that it is a simple case of the man keeping down the little guys. However, its been going on for awhile now, the studios are losing vast quantities of money, and the people at the bottom are unsure of job security, so it must be more than that. If not, someone make the studios sign something because my neighbors are getting angry.

Steinem Takes the MAN out of GovernMANt

Gloria Steinem is doubtless one of the most talented writers out there, and that can probably be attributed to sheer persuasiveness. Readers of this article will likely find themselves swayed from distrustful or intimidated by Sen. Clinton, to at least seeing her in a new light. She talks about the psychology of the male dislike of powerful women, she highlights Sen. Clinton’s credentials as a reason for popular support instead of just sex, and all while paralleling her with Sen. Obama.
Steinem says that “[if he] was named Achola Obama instead of Barack Obama, her goose would have been cooked long ago.” Here she highlights, with attitude, the double standard inherent in our peeing contest of our political culture. She notes that the voters attitude should be changed from the cowboy loving, ‘which guy would ya wanna have a beer with,’ state that its in, into a more reasonable race focused on credentials. Which is not an uncommon argument, but which does prompt certain questions, including what is her stance on Bill Richardson and his impressive resume, and reasons for which he is not included in this article. Also, the easy argument remains unanswered in her article, namely what if men and women are inherently different?

Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

A big screen adaptation of Steven Sondheim’s popular musical, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, couldn’t be put in more capable hands than those of Tim Burton, the Hollywood master of dark, gory, and funny. Burton and his regular Johnny Depp brought together a well-written piece with enticing characters, catchy songs, innocence retained, innocence lost, love, lust, and a whole lot of blood.
Sweeny Todd, once Benjamin Barker, abused by fate and the covetous nature of Judge Turpin, the power hungry aristocrat who deems it necessary to throw Barker behind bars on a false charge so that he may win over Barker’s wife. Fifteen years later, Barker’s dead, and Sweeny’s in town, and he’s coming for the Judge, and his sidekick… and the majority of London. Todd returns to a gray, dreary eighteenth century London, in which his wife has killed herself after Turpin forced himself upon her, his daughter is now in the Judge’s custody, and his only valued possessions are in his old barber shop which is now above Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop, maker of the “Worst pies in London.” These two are bonded by one’s need for revenge, the other’s need for business boost, and their shared general dislike of humanity. The two then proceed to hack through the throats of Londonites to their bittersweet ends. The story is set well with the colorless London backdrop, not dissimilar to that of any other story set in 18th century London, and unfolds at a good pace, incorporates a pleasing, if obvious, twist, and it ends how it should. Fans of the stage production should be pleased, however the superiority of either is a subject of contention.
Characters are brought to life competently at worst, and magnificently at best. The cast is mostly made up of familiar names, and a few newcomers including Ed Sanders who proves exceptional in his role as Toby, the mistreated, but innocent London boy who works for Sweeney Todd. Alan Rickman is staunchly dislikeable as the child-hanging antagonist, and Timothy Spall is delightfully slimy as Rickman’s cohort. Helena Bonham Carter is excellent as usual, and Sacha Baron Cohen’s song in a fake Italian accent might be worth the eight bucks alone. Speaking of which, all of the actors are vocally adept, even though one might not expect it (Rickman’s voice is interesting, but not unpleasant), and a couple of professionals were wheeled in, who are indeed… professional. It is worth noting that there is no choreography to speak of besides Carter and Depp dancing in malicious glee, listing the types of human that will be on the menu in Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop, and wielding a rolling pin and a cleaver respectively, emphasizing their entrepreneurial intentions. Everything is generally over the top and satisfying.
Sweeney Todd is a film to behold.