I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #112 - The Thin Man (1934, dir. W.S. Van Dyke)

Wait, you mean you haven’t seen The Thin Man? Seriously?  But it was one of the top grossing films of 1934! And it has huge stars in it! - William Powell and Myrna Loy as Nick and Nora Charles, a boozy, retired detective and his wealthy wife (also boozy). And though Nick would rather drink martinis – he’s given up detective work since marrying the wealthy Nora – everyone pushes him to investigate a murder/missing person case. But once he’s certain that the wrong man is begin framed, he takes an interest when everyone else thinks the case is shut. And let’s not forget Asta, the wire fox terrier who started his career here but went on to appear in such massive Hollywood hits as Bringing Up Baby and The Awful Truth (and one of the five sequels to The Thin Man). And how could you have missed their comic interchanges, which like so many films of the early sound era worked a quick wit and sparkling dialogue like very few films have since.

As an example, there’s a part in the film as they start to get embroiled in a murder case and a nosy reporter questions Nora:

Reporter: Say listen, is he working on a case?

Nora Charles: Yes, he is.

Reporter: What case?

Nora Charles: A case of scotch. Pitch in and help him.

Or when another reporter is grilling Nick about the case (murder case, that is, not the scotch) and it goes like this:

Reporter: Well, can't you tell us anything about the case?

Nick Charles: Yes, it's putting me way behind in my drinking.

You might have correctly guessed that this mystery-comedy leans pretty heavily to the comic side. Though there’s danger to the characters and suspense, it’s usually studded with bon mots like the above.

And it’s based on a hit novel by Dashiell Hammett, who also wrote the novel The Maltese Falcon, and surely you know that film, right? And like the earlier, 1931 version of The Maltese Falcon that people don’t know as well as the famed 1941 version, The Thin Man was knocked out quickly (shot in 12 days) and got into theaters a mere matter of months after the novel itself hit the stands. I mean, Hammett’s a great writer and even though other people adapted the screenplays, his work lends itself beautifully to cinema, doesn’t it? Especially when that film is photographed by one of the great cinematographers of old Hollywood, James Wong Howe, who makes both the shadowy suspense and brilliantly lit comic scenes work equally well.

I mean, it was nominated for four Oscars, too – surely you knew that, right? Didn’t win any, but it got the nods.

Well, maybe not. Maybe you’re more familiar with the great Oscar winner of 1934, It Happened One Night, instead. (You’re not? Man, we need to talk about some Capra then!) Maybe you weren’t born in 1934, and neither were your parents, and maybe not even your grandparents. I suppose that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why you haven’t seen it. Maybe you knew about the sequels (quality films, too, not diminishing returns) that kept coming regularly up through 1947 and maybe not. Maybe, for some insane reason, you have an aversion to older, B&W cinema, no matter how entertaining and amazingly well written, acted, and shot it may be. Well, if that’s the case, maybe you can start learning with this film about why people considered the 30’s a big part of Hollywood’s golden age – you just don’t find dialogue like this, with completely non-P.C. alcoholics as our heroes played with brilliant comic flair by Powell and Loy, in today’s films. Or yesterday’s, or pretty much anything after the 1950’s. If somehow this little delight has eluded you until now, it’s high time you check it out. But be forewarned – it will not only lead you directly to the sequels, but will probably put you in the mindset to check out at least two of the other films above (though I’d recommend all four of them heartily)! Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that. But start here – it’s a gas.

- Patrick Brown

I'd Love to Turn You On #125 - Gilberto Gil – Gilberto Gil (1969)

Gilberto Gil’s 1969 album, which like his 1968 and 1971 albums is simply entitled Gilberto Gil, is a wild mélange of psychedelic pop, Brazilian sambas and bossa novas, guitar overload, and much more; hugely inspired by the rock movements taking place up north in the United States and across the pond in Britain, but delivered with a distinctly Brazilian spin. One key difference is that the music Gil and his cohorts (Caetano Veloso, the band Os Mutantes, Gal Costa, composer Rogério Duprat, and others) were making was being made under a military dictatorship, and while the young musicians keyed in on the transgressive and expansive possibilities of rock music, their government reacted harshly to the youth movement. One might draw a parallel to what musicians faced in the English-speaking countries, but no musicians I know of from the era were ever forcibly sent into exile out of their home country because of their involvement with the music scene, which happened to both Gil and Veloso in 1969.

            But back to this record. Gilberto Gil had been an active professional musician since the mid-60’s but began releasing solo albums with his debut in 1967. His debut is in a much more traditional vein than what followed because in the interim between that album and his 1968 self-titled release the Beatles released Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, which several accounts say Gil listened to obsessively. The 1968 album features Gil in full faux-military regalia on the cover and couldn’t be a more explicit tribute to the Beatles, full of wild arrangements that jump from sound to sound (usually within one song) and keep the musical surprises coming, backed by the young band Os Mutantes and arranged by Rogério Duprat. But on this 1969 release, he pushed the experimentalism even further, this time with Stanley Kubrick’s landmark film 2001: A Space Odyssey as an artistic touchstone. In what I can make out of the lyrics without seeking online translations, I note references in two songs a row to astronauts, a song entitled “2001” and the lead cut called “Cérebro Eletrônico,” which translates as “electronic brain.” Note that these were all released the same year as David Bowie’s celebrated “Space Oddity” single and its attendant album, and were all recorded and done before Bowie’s tune had been released. And then there’s the closing track, “Objeto Semi-Identificado,” (English: “Purpose Semi-Identified”), Gil and his collaborators’ take on the Beatles’ “Revolution #9,” which is wild and out there, but still settles into musical phrases more regularly than the Brits’ track does. In fact, it’s not unlike the 1968 album’s experimentalism taken to further extremes – still listenable but jumping wildly all over the place.

And none of the space stuff and reckless experimentation touches on some of the album’s most notable virtues – Gil’s strong and sometimes slightly unhinged singing grounded in the rhythms that are the heart of the best Brazilian music, guitarist Lanny’s fuzzed out psych guitar work across the whole album (notable in the very first cut, but really, it’s everywhere), and Rogério Duprat’s better-integrated arrangements that don’t sound as much like separate ideas tacked together, but rather a way to augment the possibilities of Gil’s finely balanced pop sensibilities that lurk underneath that reckless experimentalism. And it also doesn’t note the album’s hit song and finest track, “Aquele Abraço” – an irresistible samba groove that is a love letter to Rio and an ode to joy, calling out samba schools, football clubs, street parades, etc. It’s so buoyant, joyous, and propulsive that you’d never know that Gil wrote the song while on house arrest awaiting exile. Or that on this song, like most of the album, Gil wrote and laid down basic vocal and acoustic guitar tracks at his home in Salvador, Bahia while Duprat made the musical arrangements for the album and recorded the other instruments in Rio and São Paulo. Back in February Gil and Veloso had been arrested by the military government, spent three months in prison and four under house arrest, and then were told to leave the country, living in Europe in exile until they were allowed to return in 1971. They were given no reason or charge for their arrest. If you think youth music can’t be a powerful force, think about that for a bit. And next time the cops bust up your party that’s too loud, think for a bit about how much worse off you could be.

The fact that Gil could make a record this delightful under these conditions is remarkable, thanks in no small part to Rogério Duprat’s sterling work in bringing its disparate ideas together. At least six tracks are delights, with two of the others fine enough and letting up the tension a little, and then the wild closing number of “Objeto Semi-Identificado.” But there’s a happy ending - on return to Brazil, Gil continued making music (obviously music that would be less offensive to the government) and contributing greatly to the artistic culture of his home country in spite of how he’d been treated. And from 2003 - 2008, under a new government, Gil served as Brazil's Minister of Culture, resigning only for health reasons after having his resignation rejected twice by the president. He left to have a vocal cord polyp treated and to return to music, which he continues to this day, having released four new albums since leaving his political career behind. But his landmark work from the late-60’s into the mid-70’s remains the cornerstone of his catalog, a catalog well worth perusing in its entirety.

- Patrick Brown

I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #111 - Cape Fear (1962, dir. J. Lee Thompson/1991, dir. Martin Scorsese)

Two movies, made twenty-nine years apart: same title, same basic plot, yet morally a universe apart. The original, starring Gregory Peck (one of the most likable actors in the history of Hollywood) as lawyer Sam Bowden and Robert Mitchum (one of the most menacing) as maniacal ex-con Max Cady, whose lives become intertwined when Bowden witnesses Cady assaulting a woman, testifies against him in court, and lands Cady with eight years of apparently very hard time. Cady has come from prison with one thing on his mind: revenge against Bowden and all that he holds dear. The original film, from 1962, is a classic noir, with beautiful use of shadow and light to illustrate the moods and advance the themes. The themes are also fairly black and white. Mitchum’s Cady is a tightly wound spring of a man. On the outside he is all smiling and laughing good old boy, but just below the surface seethes a dangerous, misogynist, predator. He has a history of violence and abuse to women, and shows no remorse or understanding of his actions. Mitchum was absolutely made to play this role, and all his greatest assets: the heavily lidded eyes, the deep, cultivated southern accent, and his entirely imposing physical presence work beautifully to assure us he is entirely below reproach. Peck’s Bowden is drawn just as broadly as Cady’s moral opposite: he is a good husband and father, an honest lawyer and a decent man. Cady’s animus towards Bowden seems random and inexplicable. Why not seek revenge on the judge or prosecutor? So the lines are clearly drawn for a clear-cut struggle between good and evil. And a gripping and tightly directed struggle it is, as director J. Lee Thompson skillfully builds Cady’s menace in the Bowden family’s life with escalating appearances in the personal affairs of Sam’s wife and pre-pubescent daughter. Events go from the murder of the family dog to an eventual appearance at Sam’s daughter’s school. At this point Sam Bowden has been pushed far enough. Fear and his protective instincts slowly challenge his core beliefs as he starts to try anything to stop Cady’s murderous revenge. Along with a friendly cop and a private detective he devises a plan to lure Cady to an isolated vacation spot called Cape Fear where he can be gotten rid of away from the eyes of society. While Bowden is clearly the morally superior man, we are forced to confront uncomfortable issues revolving around just what is justifiable in the name of self-protection.

Enter Martin Scorsese in 1991 with the same story drawn with a very different set of inks. In Scorsese’s film our protagonist, this time played with sleazy complexity by Nick Nolte, is not a clearly good guy. In fact he is a pretty lousy guy. He is a serial philanderer, his marriage on the rocks, and his fifteen-year-old daughter experimenting with sexuality and rebellion. In this version, Bowden actually was Cady’s public defender and intentionally hid evidence that could have exonerated Cady. It’s not that Cady didn’t deserve the jail time though; Robert DeNiro plays a Max Cady so beyond the pale of normal decency that he almost seems like a different species. In one of his most startling roles (and THAT is saying something) DeNiro channels every frightening, Pentacostal, woman-hating, backwoods, boogeyman stereotype you can imagine, and hones them into an almost unearthly, tattooed, bible-verse spewing, madman whose anger and desire for vengeance is demonic. The differences between this and the original film could not be any more starkly drawn. In Scorsese’s universe of the 1990’s, moral certainty no longer exists. Cady is a terrifying murderer, but his anger and contempt for Bowden seem far more understandable considering the lawyer’s own moral failings.

It is this very ambiguity that becomes the key to the latter-day Cape Fear’s greatness. The movie turns on the audience’s discomfort with Bowden’s own character flaws as they relate to Cady’s hostility. There is no question that Cady is evil, but there is a question about Bowden. Nolte’s performance is delicately nuanced as he goes from being annoyed by Cady’s appearance to furious and outraged, and finally landing at a near animal state as he locks into mortal combat with a human monstrosity.

Both movies ultimately belong to the antagonists. Mitchum beguiles us with his creepy southern charm, while DeNiro goes as far as he ever has in a role, offering up two of his most memorable scenes. In the most uncomfortable 10 minutes ever committed to film, he slowly and expertly takes the 15-year-old Juliette Lewis’ character into his confidence, exploiting her adolescent feelings of inadequacy and confusion to sexually advance on her. If you can watch this scene without discomfort, please see your therapist. In the final half hour of the movie, DeNiro’s performance defies expectation or category. The movie almost moves to the level of magic realism as Max Cady’s capacity for violence and pseudo-biblical narration take on nearly supernatural levels. I’ve seen this movie a number of times and I still scratch my head at that last scene. It is almost incomprehensible, except that it all feels somehow possible. Unfortunately, the real world has prepared me for this level of madness.

It is impossible to say which of these two thought-provoking thrillers is the more satisfying. The original offers the clarity of a black and white world. It has a beginning, middle and end leaving us with little uncertainty. Scorsese’s version is much more reflective of the modern world; it is a bleak look into moral uncertainty and unhappy endings. One film was much easier to watch, and provided a welcome sense of emotional closure as the credits rolled, while the other left me with deep, unshakable questions about the human heart. Now that is a good afternoon of film!

- Paul Epstein

I'd Love to Turn You On #124 - Paul Kantner - Blows Against The Empire

One of the more important figures in 1960’s rock and roll, Paul Kantner, the founder and idealistic heart of The Jefferson Airplane, has had his importance obscured in the shadow of ex-wife Grace Slick’s flamboyant personality. Yet, in many ways he was the architect of the Airplane’s sound and if you doubt that, listen to Blows Against The Empire, his first, magnificent solo album from 1970. The musical and spiritual twin to David Crosby’s If I Could Only Remember My Name, Blows Against The Empire gathers many of the same members of The Airplane, Crosby, Stills and Nash and The Grateful Dead axis to form a super group of like-minded, stoned, science-fiction loving, anarchists in search of the lost chord. In many ways they succeed. Blows Against The Empire is a heady, ecstatic musical promise to the entire 60’s generation. Kantner, the guy who said “up against the wall motherfucker” in The Airplane, continues his adversarial stance against the older generation, this time suggesting that all those who have turned on, board a starship and leave earth. Crazy, idealistic shit right? Yup, it is totally of another era. It is from a time when a large portion of a generation felt they could transcend the mundane realities of a Nixon/Reagan war cult by taking drugs and dropping out of society. In this case, boarding a spacecraft and “Carry 7000 people past the sun/ and our babes’ll wander naked through the cities of the universe.” Wow, really? Yes, really, and he sings this stuff with a totally straight face (one imagines). And what’s more, the musicians assembled make a sublime, skronky joy out of it. The core group is Kantner, Slick, David Crosby and Jerry Garcia, all flying high on their late 60’s success as well as LSD concocted by uber-chemist and cultural lynchpin Owsley Stanley (who is thanked in the liner notes along with a bunch of authors such as Vonnegut, Heinlein and Jean Genet.)

Understanding the political and cultural subtexts of the era is important, because once immersed into this album, there is no coming up for air. One has to give himself over to Kantner’s utopian vision. In 1970, for me, this was not a stretch. I was more than excited by these ideas. I was just entering my teenage years, and already a major fan of both science-fiction and rock and roll, so the idea of all the young people boarding a spaceship to leave earth and set out for some as-yet-to-be-determined Garden Of Eden sounded to me like a great way to get out of the pain and embarrassment of adolescence . Going to mars might actually be easier than asking a girl out. The album itself flows like a suite of songs. In spite of their being many styles represented, from the pure folk of  "The Baby Tree," to the anthemic sunshine of  "A Child Is Coming," to all of side two, which flows like a psychedelic space opera, sounding somewhere between The Airplane and Hawkwind, the music soars with Garcia’s guitar sliding between Kantner, Crosby and Slick’s perfectly blending voices, Kantner’s fantastic acoustic playing and all of it anchored by the lyrical and thematic ambition of the entire project. Side one closes with the tour-de-force, "Let’s Go Together," which perfectly sums up the magic of this album. Kantner sings his desire: “Wave Goodbye To Amerika/Say Hello To The Garden” while Garcia tastefully plays hide and seek with Airplane bassist Jack Casady’s fluid runs. It is the hippie dream personified and given flesh. On the inside gatefold cover of the album there is a foil-sheened painting of a planet surface with craters, pyramids, mutiple moons, and rising over the horizon is a depiction of Paul Kantner, his hair made of marijuana leaves, and a look of steely determination in his eyes. It is the Lewis and Clark adventure for the stoned generation.

Paul Epstein

I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #111 - Logan’s Run (1976, dir. Michael Anderson)

“Computer: Do you identify the word Sanctuary?

Logan 5: Negative.

Computer: Sanctuary is a pre-catastrophe code word. Used for a place of immunity.”

Released in 1976, the year before Star Wars, Logan’s Run provides a very interesting and somewhat disturbingly dystopian vision of the future. At the age of 30 everyone in this fantasy world submits to Carrousel in order to be renewed - or do they?!? The first time that I watched this poignant yet entertainingly campy film was in a literature class in my freshman year (of my first bachelor’s in 2005). The class was early and I was often prone to nodding off. However when I got to class and found out that we were watching a science fiction film my interest was piqued and I had no trouble staying awake for the rest of that class. Somewhere in my mind (and in my heart) between my love for fun science fiction, like The Fifth Element and Star Wars (to name a few), and my adoration for campy genius, such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer (movie and TV show) and the original Star Trek TV series, lies my obsession with this cult classic film.

In order to prime you for this film there are a few tidbits that I should probably fill you in on. First and foremost, there is no voice over or omniscient recap text scrolling across the screen. This film assumes that its audience will get quickly caught up in its future world. But for good measure I will touch on a few things about the future you are about to enter. First and foremost, in this world pleasure reigns supreme, meaning that everyone is selfish and the pursuit of happiness (in all aspects of life) is the only thing that matters. Secondly, all (or at least most) of the citizens have and know their place and are complacent in their positioning, as determined by an all-knowing, computer-centered governing force. Thirdly, (as mentioned above) at the age of 30 everyone willingly submits to their own public ‘death’ at Carrousel. This needs a tad bit more explaining: because of their belief in the system and everything that system has told them, they trust that at the age of 30 they have come to the end of their life cycle and if they have lived their life correctly they will be renewed. However not everyone has been drinking the Kool-Aid, hence some people run from this fate. These people are called Runners and there are certain people, Sandmen, whose job it is to eradicate these runners for the good of society.

This is where our story begins. Our hero, Logan 5 (Michael York), is a Sandman. When he meets an intriguingly odd woman, Jessica 6 (Jenny Agutter), who questions the status quo it sparks a series of events that will change his world. Just prior to meeting Jessica, Logan had successfully taken down a runner and pulled an ankh off the body. When he checks in with his computer overlord boss, the computer recognizes this symbol as signifying sanctuary, possibly a safe haven for runners. Without a moment’s notice, and without Logan’s agreement, the computer changes Logan’s status from having 4 years of life left to ready for renewal. The only assignment he was given was to become a runner and find and infiltrate the sanctuary. Remembering that he had seen this same ankh symbol of Jessica’s necklace he seeks her out in order to attempt to figure out what is happening to him and find sanctuary. Is he trying to execute his orders or at this point is he merely attempting to escape his fate. What follows is a psychological journey to a ‘renewed’ vision of life.

So other than the obviously amazing storyline that I have set up for you, why would I want to turn you on to this film? Well, the brilliantly campy portrayal of the future and characters, the costume design, special effects, and set designs are as the kids say, ‘next level.’ In our film culture today all of these aspects that we take for granted were meticulously put together either in detailed models or in intricate set design and this movie doesn’t merely utilize these elements but beautifully harnesses the power of this strategy. There is a certain authenticity to the obvious artifice and an undeniable charm to the imagination behind the story and the concept of the future. If you are anything like me, while you enjoy the special effects in films of the present, you can’t help but love stepping back in time and watching a simpler attempt at practical special effects (which are rooted much more heavily in reality).

In the end if you are inclined to enjoy cerebral science fiction, but also drawn to the appeal of campiness, this film is for you! Let yourself fall back in time in order to spring forward into a strange new future world. Since that first time watching this film in class, I have owned several copies and watched this movie more times than I’d like to admit. So joint the cult, and discover this somewhat unknown old school science fiction film.

            - Edward Hill

I'd Love to Turn You On #123 - Meat Puppets – Up On The Sun

Meat Puppets first burst out of the Arizona desert in the early 80s as one of the key bands on legendary punk label SST.  But while they started out loud and fast, they were never really punk.  Growing up outside of any scene that would constrain them, they were free to indulge in whatever influence sparked their fancy.  Brothers Curt and Cris Kirkwood, along with drummer Derrick Bostrom, brewed up a psychedelic stew of punk, country, and classic rock that found an audience among the freaks and weirdos of the emerging alternative nation.  Many of them formed bands of their own.  Some of them became huge, most prominently Kurt Cobain who turned over a whole segment of Nirvana's Unplugged appearance to a sit-in with Curt and Cris.  All the songs they played on Unplugged came from the Pups' legendary second album Meat Puppets II.  As great as that album is, its follow-up, 1985's Up On the Sun, is even better.  This is where the Meat Puppets truly come into their own, creating intricate compositions with the talent to back them up, yet still retaining a garage band feel.

The title song is a beautiful laid-back jam, meandering in the best way possible.  It might seem strange to kick off an album with its most mellow tune, especially for a band still considered punk at the time, but "Up On the Sun" perfectly sets the tone for everything to come.  They follow with the instrumental "Maiden's Milk" and the song's intro showcases the band's talent for tricky compositions with Cris' hyperactive basswork leading the way.  The song relaxes into a pleasant groove, complete with whistling, and some nice guitar leads from Curt.  The band's complex side also comes through later in the album on "Enchanted Pork Fist," which jumps from light-speed prog-fusion to an infectious arena rock chorus and back again, all within two and half minutes.  The band also knows how to get funky with Cris and Derrick forming a super tight rhythm section on "Away" and "Bucket Head."  If there's any song that deserves all-time classic status, it's the country-flavored "Swimming Ground."  A relaxed reminiscence of summer days of yore, one can easily picture this tune covered by a clever bluegrass ensemble or jam band, though it's hard to picture anyone besting the original.  The album closes with a pair of reflective songs, the pastoral "Two Rivers" and the metaphysical "Creator."

Meat Puppets continued to make great music for SST throughout the 80s, and moved up to a major label at the dawn of the 90s.  Their music may have gotten more mainstream but always retained a uniquely skewed point of view.  The Unplugged appearance, as well as the alternative music explosion, exposed them to a wide audience for the first time and they even scored a couple of hits.  But substance abuse and personal issues caused the band to fall apart by decade's end.  And then, in the late 2000s, came a miraculous return.  They've made several great records recently and tour constantly.  The material from Up On the Sun is still part of their repertoire, in fact they played a fantastic 10 minute version of the title track at the Bluebird a few years back.  Whether you're an old fan or new, a Meat Puppets show is always a good time.  And Up On the Sun is a great album to either check out for the first time or revisit after a long absence.  It's one of those that just never gets old.

            - Adam Reshotko

I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #110 - Jules and Jim (1962, dir. François Truffaut)

François Truffaut pulls out all the cinematic stops in his 1962 masterpiece, Jules and Jim: voice over, dolly shots, aerials, pans, wipes, masking, freeze frames, photographic stills, newsreel footage. It’s like an overflowing portfolio of the possibilities of film. And it’s a great story: two good friends, Jules and Jim, a German and Frenchman, live the bohemian life in Paris before World War I, drinking wine in cafes, talking about art, looking for love. A friend gives them a slide show of ancient statues and they’re both taken by a marble portrait of a woman with a mysterious smile. A few days later, they meet a woman named Catherine who looks just like the sculpture, and so begins a 25-year saga in which both men are in love and obsessed with her, and their triangular relationship shifts dramatically over the years. It’s storytelling at its most sophisticated, with an almost musical quality, more like a symphony than a movie. At times, years go by in a breathless whir, as the narrator spins the yarn of the increasing complexity of the trio’s love. Other times the pace suddenly slows, often to a complete stop, with a freeze frame of the lovely Catherine, her blond hair backlit by the sun. Or it’ll linger on a seemingly mundane scene, maybe Catherine and Jim packing a suitcase, or the three of them drinking wine in a meadow, or riding their bikes on a tree-lined lane. It’s all so beautiful, and all of it together—the fast parts, the slow parts, the panacea of motion picture technique—gives the film a fullness that’s rare in movies.

The film won the Grand Prix (predecessor to the Palme d’Or) at Cannes, and is often included on lists of the best movies of all times. It’s inspired generations of filmmakers, including Martin Scorsese, who specifically hailed it as a precursor of the riveting pace of Goodfellas. In a gushing review, Roger Ebert wrote, “Jules and Jim was perhaps the most influential and arguably the best of (the French New Wave’s) first astonishing films that broke with the past. There is joy in the filmmaking that feels fresh today and felt audacious at the time.” Indeed, it still feels like cutting-edge art, despite being more than 50 years old and in black and white. And not just stylistically. Even though the story is set in the early 20^th Century, and the film came out a few years before the sexual revolution of the late 1960s, the tragic romance feels contemporary, and infidelity abounds. Catherine is as liberated and self-assured as any character who might grace the screen today, in many ways even more so. And that’s what makes this film a true classic, its timelessness. In another fifty years, Jules and Jim will no doubt be as poignant as it was when it came out, and as it is now.

- Joe Miller

I'd Love to Turn You On #122 - Lennie Tristano – Lennie Tristano

Lennie Tristano is a jazz pianist whose small body of recorded work does not do justice to his influence on the music, which is audible in the works of such piano legends as Bill Evans and Keith Jarrett (each of whom have gone on to become major influences on other musicians in their own right) and those who worked directly with him, like saxophonists Lee Konitz and Warne Marsh. Tristano, blind by age 10, began studying music at a young age and somewhere in the late 1940’s became influenced in his playing by the bebop revolution, especially the music of Charlie Parker and Bud Powell. But his own approach was different – while he liked the rapidity and complexity of bebop, he was attracted to the structural and rhythmic elements more than the emotive, “bluesy” elements. This has, unfortunately, lead many to dismiss his music and cold or cerebral, when nothing could be further from the truth. In Tristano’s own words: “I can never think and play at the same time. It’s emotionally impossible.”

            So even though in his conception of the music he instructed his horn players (especially Konitz and Marsh) to use an uninflected and neutral tone to better concentrate on the structure and form of their solos, the guiding principle is still expression via improvisation, one of the core ideas of jazz. So when people accuse him of “cheating” or violating some principle of jazz for using techniques that eventually became commonplace in jazz (such as overdubbing and tape manipulation), in addition to the crime of using intellectual means to focus his music, I would reply that one need listen to only one minute of this record’s “Requiem,” a piano solo tribute to the recently deceased Charlie Parker, to understand that this music is intensely emotional, and of course improvisational – in short, that it’s most assuredly jazz.

Though there are earlier studio recordings dating to the mid-40’s, this 1956 album marks what will probably stand as Tristano’s major recorded statement, a record that divides neatly into two halves – one set of studio cuts that outline his approach (and his then-controversial studio techniques) clearly and one group of ballad standards recorded live that show his ideas in practice in a more conventional jazz setting. Fans of the studio cuts often dismiss the live material as lighter weight, and indeed it’s definitely more traditionally beautiful and less challenging, with Lee Konitz and Tristano trading solos over the relatively anonymous rhythm support of Gene Ramey and Art Taylor. But the studio works that define the album (and lead it off) help show how to understand the second part more deeply.

The first track is “Line Up” in which bassist Peter Ind and drummer Jeff Morton tick off a steady (and studio-manipulated) rhythm over which Tristano solos continuously, offering up no set theme and just letting one idea flow from the previous one until the song eventually fades out. Next is “Requiem,” which after its classical-styled intro drops into a bluesy tribute, but is full of constantly changing rhythmic attacks from Tristano’s improvisations, marrying his logical approach to an undeniably emotional content. It’s gorgeous, warm, touching, perfect, and it too, fades out. Next up is another piano piece (plus somebody shaking a maraca to tick off time), “Turkish Mambo,” (neither Turkish in origin, nor a mambo, but a great title regardless!), in which he lays one piano rhythm down, lays another track of piano over it in counterpoint, and then adds a third overdub in which he solos on the complex, shifting rhythms that he’s set up with the other tracks. And again, a fade.

Why the fades, you may wonder? Well, my theory is this – he’s set up a structural approach (most clearly in “Turkish Mambo”) in which he could keep improvising forward forever on the rhythmic lines he’s made. In my mind it’s analogous to a comment King Sunny Ade once made about his approach to his own music: “the rhythm is basically simple and, once you hook it up, it flows endlessly.” Tristano’s rhythms are sometimes trickier and his varied approach to them keeps it feeling like a moving beast, but the idea is the same – set up a solid rhythmic base and then go as long as you need over it. The last studio cut, “East Thirty Second” brings Ind and Morton back in for a number very similar in sound to “Line Up” with Tristano soloing over their foundation. And of course, it fades out. Then come the ballads, which all sport the traditional theme-and-solos approach, have endings rather than intimations of infinity, and all hit a slower tempo than most of what’s preceded them. But after hearing the studio work a few times, it’s obvious that in these Konitz and Tristano could’ve kept rolling out their ideas for as long as the audience would be there to listen if they’d chosen to. The approach remains the same even if the feel of the second half is very different.

And of course there are those who find the first half, with its “cheating” approach to jazz hard to take, but who generally find the lovely second half quite endearing and simply gorgeous – not at all the cerebral coldness that Tristano is accused of. Me, I love both parts, especially given the paucity of recordings of Tristano on the market. It’s a great album and the diversity of it only makes it stronger in my ears.

            - Patrick Brown

I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #109 - Bad Day at Black Rock (1955, dir. John Sturges)

Director John Sturges is noted for a 30-year career of slam-bang action films, usually starring tough (or at least manly) guys in the lead role – he worked with John Wayne, Steve McQueen, Charles Bronson, and Clint Eastwood among others – acting out macho fantasies – Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, The Great Escape, and The Magnificent Seven are three of his best-known films. It’s not all he did – he’s got a couple straight dramas, an anomalous comedy, and a couple later sci-fi films to his credit – but it’s the reputation he holds today, and deservedly so since it’s his specialty.

Bad Day at Black Rock falls about ten years into his career, which at the time consisted largely of action-oriented westerns and crime films knocked out fast and cheap, and it’s the film that made enough money for MGM that it put him on the map and gave him the ability to establish an independent production company in 1959. But even so, Bad Day at Black Rock started no different from any number of B-movie cheapies he’d made before it – he shot it in three weeks from material that could have made for a dubious film (the producer almost canned the film, believing it to be “subversive”). And if the action isn’t exactly “slam-bang” the tension is methodically ratcheted up like very few of his films managed. And I doubt that anybody thinks of Black Rock’s star Spencer Tracy when the word “macho” comes up in relation to actors. But for my money, this is the finest film by Sturges that I’ve seen (he’s got over 40 to his credit), and certainly his subtlest. Allegedly the film’s writers, not sure they would be able to land Tracy in the role, rewrote is as a one-armed man with the idea that no actor can resist playing a character with a physical impairment. Tracy would go on to get an Oscar nomination for his performance here, his first since his heyday.

Bad Day at Black Rock is the story of war veteran John Macreedy (Tracy) going to the small town of Black Rock (which consists of no more than a dozen buildings) to visit an army buddy’s father, the Japanese-American Komoko, to give him important news but nobody in the small town seems especially ready to help him find Komoko. In fact, they range from coolly silent to downright hostile to see him there snooping around town, an outsider who should just mind his own business and move along. As the train rolls into town the townspeople all look up at the unusual occurrence of a stranger coming to town, with one of them even commenting aloud “first time the Streamliner’s stopped here in four years.”

What happens from there is a master class in slowly simmering tension, as Macreedy keeps asking around about Komoko’s whereabouts without giving up his intentions while the townspeople get increasingly frustrated with his unflappable calm and nervous about him and his unexpected and unwanted visit. He shortly meets Reno Smith (played by the great Robert Ryan), who seems smarter and more level headed than most of the others in town – that is until Macreedy starts asking too many questions. Forty minutes in to the film, Smith and Macreedy have a confrontation that’s all understated feinting around each other until Smith starts to show his hand about his xenophobic anti-Japanese attitude. Macreedy then mentions that maybe the fallow land at Komoko’s place could be used for a graveyard, shoots Ryan a significant look, and shows his hand that he knows that the place may have someone buried there – perhaps not human, but perhaps human. And from there on it’s open – yet still understated and tense – warfare between Macreedy and his few allies against the rest of the town, hiding their shame, guilt, and complicity in whatever may have happened by lashing out at Macreedy, who proves perfectly able to handle himself, as in the scene where Coley Trimble (a bullishly belligerent Ernest Borgnine) tries to cold cock him in a diner and Macreedy neatly disposes of him.

Bad Day at Black Rock is a perfect example of how classic Hollywood used to work when things were right – take a major star (Tracy was a few years past his main box office draw, but still well known) surrounded by an able cast (that also includes the great Walter Brennan, Lee Marvin, and Dean Jagger), take a solid script and add a few twists, and put a knowledgeable director at the helm to streamline things. The result – a wickedly efficient dramatic thriller. 

            - Patrick Brown

I'd Love to Turn You On #121 - The Dream Syndicate – The Medicine Show

Looking for a rock and roll hero who has had a career for decades, never “sold out,” never made a shitty record, never been, er… spoiled by great success (read: never got really famous)? Look no further than Steve Wynn. He is still out there (sometimes with a reunited Dream Syndicate) playing his brand of heroic music, equally in thrall to the late 60’s and late 70’s underground (think Velvet Underground meets Standells meets Television with lots of guitar based jamming in the live show and you start to get the picture.) Lyrically, Dream Syndicate were in the beatnik/Patti Smith tradition of literary, thoughtful anthems. The Medicine Show was their second album and first for a major label, so expectation in the 1984 underground was very high for this album. With big-time producer Sandy Pearlman (The Clash, Blue Oyster Cult) on board, it seemed like these brainy L.A. Paisley Underground heroes might break through to the mainstream and change the face of modern pop (pretty bad at that time) for the better. As it turned out, history frowned on the whole Paisley Underground movement (it would have gone gangbusters now) and almost all of the great bands from that era (Opal, Rain Parade, The Long Ryders etc.) are no more than a footnote. However, at that particular moment in time I remember being blown away by this thoughtful, intense album.

The heart of all Dream Syndicate music lies in the juxtaposition of their lyrical ambition, with their fearless guitar workouts. Somewhere between Neil Young’s ferocity and Tom Verlaine’s stinging precision, lead guitarist Karl Precoda laid it down for the ages on this album. Snaking in and out of Wynn’s snarling vocals on songs like “Bullet With My Name On It” or the title track, his guitar coils in waiting for the opportunity to strike with lethal force, biting with venomous lethality. One of the unsung guitar heroes of the modern era, Precoda is as distinctive as he is reminiscent of the greats. On the song “Medicine Show,” and the incomparable “John Coltrane Stereo Blues” Wynn’s brains and Precoda’s brawn provide the exact raw elements needed to combine and produce a musical explosion. The first time I heard “Coltrane” I could not believe a rock band had the ballsy effrontery to name a song after one of the great musical geniuses of the era and then just OWN it as powerfully as The Dream Syndicate did. After Wynn sets the stage with his hipster verses about 20^th century musical ennui, he and Precoda tear into an absolutely, joyously dangerous cat and mouse game with verses and guitar breaks, building in intensity to a psychedelic punk frenzy that’ll grow some hair on your chest. Live, the band would take this song to sometimes-ridiculous lengths, but the album version is just right.

The album comes to a close with a reminder of Wynn’s superb songwriting on the Springsteen-like “Merritville.”  Pearlman’s intelligent production lends the band the gleam and restraint they needed to smooth their raw edges, yet he keeps their spiky, punk vitality completely intact. Precoda rips into a meaty, noisy solo between Wynn’s honest verses on American life. Springsteen, Michael Jackson and Prince all topped the charts in 1984, and when one listens to The Medicine Show in that context, it is both a wonder that it wasn’t a hit, and a reminder that in any given year, much of the cultural and intellectual vitality of our society is well hidden from the public eye.

- Paul Epstein

I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #108 - Wait Until Dark (1967, dir. Terence Young)

What makes a movie scary is a very subjective thing. For instance, when I first saw The Exorcist, the scene that scared me the most (and the whole thing scared me profoundly) involved a character walking into a kitchen and the lights in the room were blinking inexplicably. For some reason I found the unnaturally blinking lights more terrifying than the adolescent Linda Blair spewing pea soup on the priest. In most cases I find more explicit, violence-based frights - blood-soaked exercises in graphic shock - to be less effective than being slowly seduced into fear through a series of incongruities or subtle shifts in mood. The factor that made the original Alien so scary, and all the sequels so NOT scary, was the simple technique of building suspense by not showing the audience the monster until the last possible moment. Each encounter uncovered another small glimpse into the horror to come because the imagination is so much scarier than any reality could ever be. In many ways Wait Until Dark uses this exact technique to brilliant effect, by slowly uncovering the depths of evil the antagonist of the film (Alan Arkin) is capable of while simultaneously building our appreciation of the protagonist (an almost irresistible Audrey Hepburn) as a woman of almost genius ingenuity.

The plot of Wait Until Dark is labyrinthine and almost irrelevant. It also unfolds in such a way that giving any but the most rudimentary details could spoil the movie. Suffice to say that Audrey Hepburn plays a blind woman who finds herself in the possession of a doll that is stuffed with heroin and Alan Arkin is a criminal who wants - and is going to get - that doll. He employs the help of two hapless low level crooks (Richard Crenna and Jack Weston: both great) to enact an elaborate subterfuge to get into the blind woman’s confidence and thus retrieve the heroin. Arkin offers up what has to be one of the most menacing performances in film history, morphing from a slimy hipster to mad-dog killer in the blink of an eye. His transformation is so sudden and violent that he becomes the stuff of nightmares. Hepburn, on the other hand, is gorgeous and innocent, yet totally believable as a woman driven to the edges of her own sanity; forced to test the limits of her own strength and courage in the face of unthinkable terror. The movie develops in a way that slowly builds tension as we gradually understand how much danger Hepburn is in, how utterly despicable Arkin is, and how he will stop at nothing to achieve his goal. Not only is Hepburn’s life in danger, but her virtue as well.

Everything boils down to the last fifteen gripping minutes, as Hepburn fights for her life in a white-knuckle ride that takes us inside the mind and emotions of a blind person struggling to level the playing field in a world of darkness. This ultimately is the hook, if you will, that makes Wait Until Dark an unforgettable classic. The shift in perspective is remarkably effective as the darkness starts (as the veil it is to all sighted people) and actually becomes illumination as the situation changes. Filmed in a composed, Hitchcock-esque style, with a masterful, hair-raising score by Henry Mancini, this is a classy, old school thriller that terrifies the audience as much by what it sees as by what is left hidden.

- Paul Epstein

I'd Love to Turn You On #120 - Mott the Hoople – Mott

So the legend goes, Mott the Hoople were about to break up after four albums and not much to show for them. Then, famous fan David Bowie gave them one of his very best songs, "All the Young Dudes," and they suddenly achieved the success that had previously eluded them. They followed up All the Young Dudes (the album) with one simply titled Mott. Unlike the previous album, this new one contained all original material and established Ian Hunter as one of rock's greatest songwriters. It's also one of the all-time great albums about Rock & Roll. Hunter contrasts the joy and excitement of listening to and playing music with the weariness of life on the road. Rock & Roll may be a losing game, but if you get your kicks from guitar licks it's all worth it.

"All the Way From Memphis" is as great an opener as an album could have - great lyrics, awesome piano and guitar interplay, and guest sax from Roxy Music's Andy Mackay.  "Whizz Kid" is another super catchy rocker. "Honaloochie Boogie" may be the album's shortest track but it's also the most joyous, one of the hidden gems of the Mott catalog. The band flexes their old school rock muscle on "Violence" and "Driving Sister." Though their association with Bowie brought them over to the growing glam rock scene, they remained rough and tumble street rockers at heart. "I'm a Cadillac/El Camino Dolo Roso" is the obligatory showcase for guitarist Mick Ralphs, who would soon leave the band, and the glam scene, for the straight up rock of Bad Company.

As great as the rockin' tunes are, the album's true heart and soul lies in the slower numbers. "Hymn for the Dudes" is a tribute to the fans, reminding them "You are not alone." The centerpiece is, of course, "The Ballad of Mott the Hoople." Here is where everything comes together, Hunter with his heart on his sleeve, confessing he feels he let his fans down yet still soldiering on to the next gig because that's all he knows how to do and wouldn't want it any other way. He also memorably name checks the rest of the band; "Buffin lost his childlike dreams and Mick lost his guitar/And Verden grew a line or two and Overend's just a rock & roll star." The album closes with the heartbreaking "I Wish I Was Your Mother," another of Hunter's classic tunes. The current CD edition adds a handful of bonus tracks including the B-side "Rose" which is as good as anything on the album itself.

Mott only had one more album in them after Mott, appropriately called The Hoople.  Ian Hunter went on to a moderately successful solo career and served as an inspiration to all sorts of rockers, punks, power poppers, metalheads and more.  The pinnacle of his career and that of his band continues to be Mott.  If you love rock & roll, you'll love this album.

            - Adam Reshotko

I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #107 - Melancholia (2011, dir. Lars von Trier)

Claire: “What's going on Justine?”

Justine: “I'm trudging through this gray woolly yarn, it’s clinging to my legs, it's really heavy to drag along.”

            Melancholia, the second film in director Lars Von Trier’s ‘Trilogy of Depression’ (which also includes 2009’s Antichrist and 2013’s Nymphomaniac Vol. 1 & Vol. 2), delves deeply into the human psyche and the resulting film is gorgeous, beguiling, and enigmatic. While it certainly isn’t quite as abrasive as its predecessor Antichrist, which also stars Charlotte Gainsbourg, it certainly pulls no punches when it comes to its presentation of the human condition. What this film lacks in the blunt shock and awe that Von Trier has been infamous for it makes up for in pure, raw, unadulterated, and often awkward, emotion. Personally I hadn’t watched this film since seeing it in theaters three years ago but as I sat back to re-view it for this edition of I’d Love To Turn You On I found myself remembering the slow, epic roller coaster I was about to re-live.

            In true Von Trier fashion we are thrown immediately into the action in a magnificent yet puzzling slow motion sequence that alludes to the events to come. After a large cryptic planet crashes into the earth the events truly begin. The film is broken up into two parts: part one if focused upon Justine, played by Kirsten Dunst, and part two is centers around Justine’s sister Claire, Charlotte Gainsbourg. The two parts are very different at first glance and yet upon further examination they seem to be connected by the thread of dealing with depression (as should seem obvious as it is part of Von Trier’s ‘Trilogy of Depression’). In the first part of the film Justine is getting married to Michael (Alexander Skarsgård) and the two attend a grand party thrown by Claire and her husband John (Kiefer Sutherland). While all seems fine at first, Justine’s smile slowly fades as she tires of the whole charade. She then begins a destructive downward spiral into a depressed state as she sheds layer after layer of false airs. I won’t go too far into the details for fear of spoiling the entire first part. However the second part of the film focuses upon Claire’s descent into depression brought on by both her sister’s emotional state and an immense fear of the approaching planet Melancholia, which is slated to pass right by the earth. Both sisters fell into a melancholic depression but in very different ways providing the film with two distinctive yet connected parts that culminate in a magnificent climax.

“The Red Star’s missing from Scorpio and Taurus is no longer there.”

            Thus ends the quick synopsis of an incredibly subtle film and for me the key to this film, as with many great films, lies in the subtleties. First and foremost, even more so than many other films that strive to achieve the same goal, Melancholia creates an alternate universe that still feels eerily familiar. At its core this film is science fiction, since it centers on a strange scientific event (the passing of a mysterious planet), yet it convincingly feels like the present. What is more important in this film is that the approaching planet is an impetus for the events to follow. The key to success for this aspect of Melancholia is that time, both in the sense of date and duration, has little or no importance as the events are merely strung together. Melancholia is in essence a science fiction film masked as a serious drama, or a serious drama with the backdrop of a strange alternate science fiction world.

            Along this vein of subtlety, the most important aspect of a film so focused upon the inner workings of human depression is of course the actors’ portrayal of their characters. While Charlotte Gainsbourg (who is always stunning) and the supporting cast were truly amazing, the real stand out of the film is Kirsten Dunst. Von Trier is known to do anything and everything to get the performance that he needs from his leads; he drug Justine through the depths and Dunst flawlessly rose to the occasion. Justine flew through the gamut of emotions and Dunst brought life to the character and made it seem effortless. Moving through so many emotional states in such a short period of a time in a film could very easily end up forced and ineffective but through the direction of Von Trier, Dunst succeeded brilliantly in her portrayal. With Gainsbourg and Dunst impeccably depicting their respective characters’ distinctive mental fragilities this simple film comes alive.

            If you have read any of my other attempts to ‘turn you on’ to film, you might have noticed that I have a particular affinity for aesthetics and I love a good cinematographer and Manuel Alberto Claro most certainly stepped up on this film. The visual aesthetic of the film is simply stunning! In addition to this, the use of special effects is also subtle, understated and perfectly integrated in a way that added to the world created rather than distracting from the story. Overall this is a beautiful yet somewhat understated film. In addition to this the soundtracks relies heavily upon excerpts from Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde to heighten the drama and grandiose nature of the story at hand.

            So to quickly sum up why you should take a 12-dollar chance on this DVD for your movie night, that is if you aren’t already drawn to the works of Lars Von Trier, this is a really beautiful and subtle journey into melancholic depression. But if you aren’t really into the whole serious drama thing, don’t forget that there is the odd sci-fi aspect to the film… there IS a planet headed for earth… WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN!?!? So, this film has it all: tension, drama, intrigue, and a touch of action. Take a chance and enjoy this experience artfully crafted for you by Lars Von Trier.

            - Edward Hill

I'd Love to Turn You On #119 - Marc Ribot – Marc Ribot y Los Cubanos Postizos

In 1997, Ry Cooder released Buena Vista Social Club, featuring forgotten Cuban musicians being given a platform to get heard in the States and creating an album that masqueraded as a reunion of a multi-generational group that never really existed except as a fantasy music lineup. And it did gangbusters here – both in the U.S. and right here at Twist – which probably helped open the doors for this 1998 album, in which avant-leaning NYC guitarist Marc Ribot formed a (real) group he dubbed Los Cubanos Postizos (The Prosthetic Cubans) to pay homage to Arsenio Rodríguez, a hugely influential Cuban musician in his own right.

Rodríguez was born in Cuba, lost his sight at any early age, and learned to play the tres cubano (a 6-stringed relative of the guitar), working in several bands before forming his own group in the 1940’s and laying the foundations for modern salsa (and, he claimed, the mambo as well) with his rhythmic acuity and songwriting skills. After emigrating to the U.S., he worked in New York until moving to L.A. and passing away in 1970, a largely forgotten figure. But Ribot was familiar with his work and here assembled a group of tunes either written or popularized by Rodríguez (plus one original and another classic Cuban tune) and scaled them down to fit his Prosthetics – a quartet of his guitar, bass, drums and percussion, augmented often by organ, less often by vocals, and once by a goofy baritone sax that suits the album’s playful vibe.

And that’s a key difference between the similar projects enacted by Ry Cooder and Marc Ribot – while both honor the traditions of Cuban music, Cooder’s approach is more folksy, more hands-off, allowing the musicians to play their own tunes their own way and then adding his own guitar (and less impressively, his son’s percussion) into the mix. Ribot, on the other hand, decided to have some fun with the music, to filter Arsenio Rodríguez’s tunes through his own post-modern, NYC filters to create something at once respectful and modern – postizo also translates from Spanish as “fake.” And it’s a gas to listen to in a way that the more stately BVSC record isn’t. Maybe you’ve heard Ribot’s own records, maybe you haven’t Maybe you know him from his stints with Tom Waits or Elvis Costello, or maybe the name is completely new to you. Doesn’t matter, ‘cause if you dig guitar, you’ll be a fan after about 30 seconds of this album.

The record kicks off with the lovely “Aurora en Pekín” (one of the non- Rodríguez songs, written by the early 20^th century Cuban musician Alfredo Boloña). Given that aurora means “dawn” it’s a perfect opener, rising quietly and beautifully, but hardly giving any warning of what’s to come as the day heats up. By the third song, “Como Se Goza en el Barrio,” things are in high gear and it’s clear what kind of Cuban music Ribot’s got in mind – traditional yet modern, danceable and funky yet slightly bent; in a word – postizo, but not in a bad way, even if in a way that Cooder would never condone. This is followed by the only Ribot original of the set, “Postizo,” which further drives the point home. And though most of the album is instrumental, there are a few vocals – “La Vida Es un Sueño” (“Life Is A Dream,” a song Rodríguez wrote after he learned he’d never see again) is delivered in a disaffectedly humorous monotone and deliberately unaccented Spanish while he occasionally translates the Spanish of “No Me Llores Más” to an equally droll English language song. Elsewhere titles are sung or joyfully shouted from the background (“Postizo!”), but most of the record remains the core group – bass, drums, and percussion – with Ribot’s guitar doing most of the talking, sending out melodic lines or ripping leads as dictated by the songs.

The Cubanos Postizos released a second album that’s also well worth your time (2000’s Muy Divertido!), but it’s been in and out of print for a while. It has less surefire tunes – though Arsenio Rodríguez’s “El Divorcio” is a killer, as is Marc Ribot’s “Baile Baile Baile” – but more rocking lead guitar to compensate. Maybe it’s fake and the ethnomusicologists out there would find it too ersatz to take seriously. But as something of a fake ethnomusicologist myself, and one who revels in syntheses of music from all over the globe, I find it completely entertaining. Give it a listen and you probably will too.

- Patrick Brown

I'd Love to Turn You On At the Movies #106 - The Wiz (or - Lighten up and let yourself be charmed) (1978 dir. Sidney Lumet)

The year is 1978. American cinema is immersed in Blaxploitation, hard-boiled crime dramas and an un-satiated, seemingly endless lust for sex on screen. A wildly popular, all African-American cast Broadway extravaganza called The Wiz has begun to finish its long standing (since 1975) run. Enter Sidney Lumet; hot off the successes Serpico, Dog Day Afternoon, Murder on the Orient Express and Equus. The goal? A no-no of a remake of the indelible 1939 film The Wizard of Oz. What’s that, you say? Why touch an allegedly perfect film? Well, I say why not?

Is The Wiz even half as charming, polished, accessible and heart-warming as the original? Absolutely not, and it's proud of it. Lumet (although he was hired simply because the original director quit after being forced to cast Diana Ross in a role undoubtedly too young for her) was determined to ignore the 1939 opus and head in his own direction. The result is an absolute mess. But, it's a hot mess – a mess that this writer cannot look away from. A mess that, whether intentional or not, stumbles into near-transcendent moments of pitch black humor, far too much self awareness, undeniable beauty and atypical, but succinct songs that will stick with you should you head back for another viewing.

The cast is unbelievable. Michael Jackson steals every bit of the show with his youthfully exuberant portrayal of the Scarecrow. Ted Ross brings a dark undercurrent to his initially surface-level portrayal of the Lion. Nipsy Russell phones things in a bit, but ends up endowing the Tin Man with the bit of humanity we need to feel the tug of the heart strings in the overly preachy final moments. Richard Pryor isn't given enough time as Oz, but makes damn sure you won't forget the time he has. And last, and certainly least, Diana Ross nearly derails the whole affair, pretending to be a youngster full of hopes and dreams; which only comes out as a constant attempt to be on the verge of tears. Quincy Jones adapts many songs from the Broadway original to fit with Lumet's dark, borderline surreal portrayal of Harlem and eventually the Land of Oz.

Even if you only watch this film as a curiosity, I can near promise that you will be surprised and delighted by at least one aspect. Again, we are dealing with a hot mess. But, this hot mess has a lot of heart, a lot of passion, and who can resist Michael Jackson giving his all in any circumstance (accusations of whatever not withstanding)?

                                                                               - Will Morris