Lupe Fiasco - LASERS (review - mX newspaper)

If Jay-Z and Kanye are rap royalty, then Lupe Fiasco is rap Wikileaks: proclaiming hi-decibel truths and coming off righteously awesome for doing it. Lu’s lyricism and delivery on his previous two releases are at once deliciously cerebral, fiercely advocative and genuinely humble, carving out his reputation as the new flag-bearer for conscious hip-hop.

Small wonder fans were distressed at Atlantic Record's mysterious delay in announcing a release date, fearing the execs were negotiating a more radio-friendly, watered down Lupe. They were right to worry.

Lasers is a disappointingly incongruent beast. Tracks like ‘Words I Never Said’ immediately assert that Mr. Fiasco remains at the top of his ghetto-philosopher game—the man doesn’t miss a trick. Unfortunately, his verbal ninjitsu is often cluttered with a woeful barrage of autotune, redundant distortion and jarring synth—shamefully transparent attempts to manufacture artificial hits from the source material.

The Lupe of old wrestles above the fray to deliver on ‘All Black Everything’, a clever inversion of history, and chill rollick ‘Til I Get There’. Lasers finds the perfect compromise on ‘The Show Goes On’, a rally cry to triumph over one’s environment rapped over a fun appropriation of Modest Mouse’s ‘Float On’ riff.

A ‘Lasers manifesto’ accompanying the liner notes declares ‘We want substance in the place of popularity.’ Sadly, Atlantic missed the memo, and Wasaulu Jaco’s rap moniker is finally without irony.

Iron and Wine - Kiss Each Other Clean (review - mX newspaper)

2011 marks Iron and Wine's first studio offering since 2007's lauded The Shepherd's Dog, and folk-royalty Sam Beam has apparently spent the last four years slow-cooking his sound: Kiss Each Other Clean is the poppiest he's ever been. It's also the best.
Doing away with lo-fi, twangy bluegrass ballads about knotted wood and whatnot, KOEC is ursurped by a buffet of charming, sentimental pop (circa 1977) with more layers than puff pastry.

Steeped in the unexpected, it's brimming with surprise cameos of strutworthy bass, glockenspiel, sweeping horns, doo-wop, and what sounds suspiciously like those lollipop flutes you used to get at the milkbar. The result is incongruous as a whole (gorgeous opener 'Walking from home' pays delirious due deference to Brian Wilson, while the following 'Me and Lazarus' sounds like 'Waterfalls' if TLC had beards) but Beam's underwater croon melds everything together into a sublime 48-minute technicolour escape. It's crazy, but it's too lovely to care.

Holly Throsby - Team (review - mX newspaper )

Holly Throsby is precognitive; Team is a cosy winter longplayer, and releasing amid the most wintery summer in recent memory is supernaturally savvy. Vocally, she is yet another student of the breathy indie-pop style, but by her fourth album, she seems to be wielding her own special control over it—subtler than the sickly sweet Lisa Mitchell, yet with more personality and vibrancy than Julia Stone, and nimbler than Sarah Blasko. It is hers.

Holly pays no particular respect to choruses—Team’s arrangements are free-spirited and unpredictable, reigned in by dainty plucking and, only to prance out again. ‘To See You Out’ and ‘It’s Funny’ are the most wanted culprits here.

Team is a curious title for a solo-record, but it’s aptness is quickly apparent: Holly is singing to her shadow, the pair of them forming and decoding whispered secrets as she goes; oftimes bleating responses to her own husky questions from the background (‘It’s Only Need’). It can feel a little alienating at first, but listening to team Throsby is a splendid spectator sport.

T.I - No Mercy (review - mX newspaper)

In the opening bars of 2008's Paper Trail, the self-proclaimed 'King of the South' came out swinging, eager to justify his standing among hip-hop's lyrical la familia.

That one rapid-fire barrage seems to have substituted T.I.'s confidence issues with a licence to chase hits, and chase them hard: the remainder of Trail established an eager-to-please trend of big-gun producers and sure-thing hooks, which continues uninterrupted onNo Mercy (and why not, when that trail led right to the bank?)

Fresh out of jail, Tip wastes no time catching up with his pals. Opener 'Welcome to the World' sees Kanye sharing a little of his twisted dark fantasy—never has his status as the reigning producer-supreme been more apparent than in the contrast between this rich offering (complete with a raging, shamanic 16-bars from the man himself) and former champs The Neptune's track 'Get Back Up' (feat Christ Brown). Compared with Ye's frantic, wonderful mess, their auteur scarcity just sounds hollow.

'That's All She Wrote' is just another volley of fire in Eminem's mission to destroy the entire world one rhyme at a time, but the decision to give him the hook is a stray bullet. T.I's own mic savvy has noticeably improved: nimbler throughout, he seems more willing to stray from the beat, pivoting to switch the tempo at his leisure.

Thematically, No Mercy finds Clifford Harris repenting of his street sins. However, his constant hopping between chest-beating and sentimental frailty disrupts any would-be human connection—a particular shame on album highlight 'Castle Walls', where Christina Aguilera's pipes are a sublime accompaniment to T.I's brave insecurity as he opens up about the trappings of stardom.

500 days of Summer

This is a story of boy meets girl; hope meets cynicism and the ensuing struggle usually dubbed ‘love’.

Tom (Joseph-Gordon Levitt), the boy, is an anomaly among his bar-hopping gen Y peers. A would-be architect turned reluctant greeting card-writer, he believes in love, fireworks exploding, fairytale ending, synapses firing-on-all-cylinders love. Summer, the girl, does not.

To his credit, Tom is unwavering in the face of her aloofness and pursues her affections––a case of the lovelorn trying to rouse the lukewarm.

What ensues is an exploration of relationship as far removed from the rom-com formula (i.e. Hugh Grant and a brunette of your choosing nervously flirting until someone interrupts a wedding) as you could imagine. The title promises 500 days of Summer––but says nothing about offering them to us in order.

The film discards conventional narrative structure (you know, beginning, middle and end) in favor of jumping back and forth like a chronologically challenged flea. Tom’s headfirst plummet into infatuation on day one bleeds into his first relationship insecurities on day 48. One minute he’s devising ways to catch Summer’s attention, the next he’s trying to win her back. One scene he’s cursing Summer’s every laugh and smile, in the next her effect on his sweat glands are as powerful as her namesake. His post-breakup misery somewhere in the 300s precedes his euphoric high following a successful date in the 60s. Doc Brown and Marty would be proud.
The result is a rare kaleidoscopic view of a relationship. Here, each cringing moment of dejection can inform one of delight and vice versa. The technique speaks powerfully to those of us who have…ahem, selective memories when it comes to partners––preferring to remember only the good or bad fruit of a relationship.
Hopscotching all over the timeline also gives us a few sneak clues as to when/where the seeds of disaster or hope might have been sown.

The soundtrack does its bit to smooth out the jerky time-skipping, with fitting contributions from The Smiths, Simon and Garfunkel, Regina Spektor, Feist and Wolfmother.

While Zooey Deschanel’s summer is serviceable as the breezy Summer, Levitt is a choice casting; his comedic timing is spot-on as the couple play ‘house’ in IKEA, and his weariness while trying to get through the working day with a broken heart is palpaple.

500 is director Marc Webb's first feature film, and he certainly had fun with it––pausing scenes to allow the baritone narrator to dissect characters and their motivations, impromptu dance sequences, split-screen scenarios and nods to other flicks littered throughout. But not as much fun as you’re going to have.

With joy, contempt, hope, fear, misery, hilarity, betrayal and redemption flashing past at random, you’ll feel as disoriented as, well, one young and in love. Which is about as disorientated as it gets.Webb put it best in summarising the film’s ultimate message: ‘There’s a fundamental truth at play here. Yes, love can be cruel, harsh and difficult, but it’s also, by far, the best thing life has to offer.’

The Fighter

Christian Bale has always been something of a chameleon. Dropping his weight to a skeletal 55kg for 2004’s The Machinist only to add 45kg to become a crim’s worst nightmare in Batman Begins, his commitment to embodying his roles is renowned.

However, foreknowledge of his changeling talent doesn’t make his supporting performance in The Fighter any less striking. And while, Mark Wahlberg is technically the ‘star’ of this flick (based on a true story), all eyes are rightfully glued to Bale until the credits roll.

Wahlberg plays ‘Irish’ Micky Ward, a street-paving semi-professional boxer living in the shadow of older brother Dickie (Bale), who enjoys his status as the ‘Pride of Lowell’ after famously holding his own in the ring against champion Sugar Ray Leonard. Now it’s Mickey’s shot at boxing stardom, and having Dickie in his corner is a great asset—theoretically, at least.

In reality, and unfortunately, Dickie commits equal time to sparring as he does to his drug addiction, at the expense of Mickey’s last realistic attempt at a boxing career.

Torn between a fiercely loyal family and his aspirations, welterweight Wahlberg is beaten and bruised in and out of the ring—used as a ‘stepping stone’ by fight promoters to improve the statistics of more promising fighters, and watching his athleticism fade while his family bickers over who he should be pummelled by next.

Enter Charlene (Amy Adams). Hell hath no fury like a woman vicariously scorned—witnessing Mickey’s downward spiral, the assertive barmaid challenges Micky to look—for once—towards his own best interests. Her words coincide with Dickie’s most recent incarceration, giving Micky his first opportunity to box without the unreliable coaching of his big brother to hamper him.

Micky’s newfound self-confidence and rapidly rising status plays havoc with his tight-knit kin, who struggle to come to terms with his success (and focus their frustration on Adams). Can Micky really take out a title without the Pride of Lowe in his corner?

There’s something about the sport of boxing that lends itself so favourably to cinema, it’s difficult to make it look bad. Wincingly painful, sure (see Micky’s second bout), but ballet-beautiful all the same. The Fighter bears all the hallmarks of a fisticuff film: a run-down old gym, training montages, the long ‘walking into the arena’ shot, slow-mo punches that launch sweat droplets into the front row. Magical stuff. Credit to director David O. Russell (Three Kings, I Heart Huckabees) for not being tempted into going over-the-top.

The film reserves a final, stunning revelation for the end-credits: a brief clip of the real Mickey and Dickie chatting amicably in a bar. It’s then that you realise the true gravity of Bale’s performance over the preceding 115 minutes—for every animated mannerism, every birdlike movement, every aspect of Bale’s Dickie, right down to his hollow-cheeked visage, is absolutely in step with the real McCoy. Don’t be surprised when he turns up as a frontrunner on the Best Supporting Actor nominees list at the Oscars.

If the story even only barely intrigues you, trust me, Bale’s worth the admission. Unfortunately, his performance will overshadow both Wahlberg and Adams’ solid efforts as conflicted family-man and sassy, wilful barmaid, respectively.

Fair Game

A caution: don’t come to the cinema slack-jawed or dragging your feet for this one—director Paul Greengrass (The Bourne Trilogy, Green Zone) has his running shoes on. Which is just as well, because fitting the US invasion of Iraq and a political/spy drama into 108 minutes requires nothing less than a cinematic Usain Bolt.

Loosely based on a true story, Fair Game chronicles the life of undercover CIA operative Valerie Plame (Naomi Watts) in the lead-up to (and the aftermath of) the US invasion of Iraq in 2003.

However, it’s her husband Joseph Wallace (Sean Penn), a former ambassador to Africa, who drives the plot—at the request of the CIA, Joseph visits Niger to assess the validity of a rumour: did Iraq recently purchase a scary quantity of ‘yellowcake’ uranium from the impoverished nation’s mines? It’s a decided ‘no’ from Joe.

Imagine his surprise when news anchors report the US will be invading Iraq based on the substantial threat indicated by a professional consultant (i.e. himself).

Taking his professional and moral outrage to the New York Times, Joe cries foul—and the CIA cries ‘fired’ at Valerie in an unprecedented ‘outing’ of a secret agent.

Joe shoots back in the editorial pages and a media war escalates. Can Joe and Val shout loudly enough to drown out the propaganda discrediting them and shock the world into taking notice of injustices at home and abroad? Or will the strain claim whatever family life the whole fiasco has left them with?

Among the film’s most intriguing scenes are meetings at the bureau (where agent-speak is spouted at a furious clip). It’s fascinating to grasp the possibility of a major military operation boiling down to a series of boardroom discussions by flawed, well-meaning people working with questionable information.

While the political plotline is thoroughly engaging—particularly the rare perspective from the ‘other side’, as bewildered Iraqi politicians, scientists and regular families struggle under fire—Joe and Val’s domestic drama steals the second act.

Sean Penn is superb in his portrayal of a patient but frustrated man: initially gracious in his cuckolding by the CIA, his reserve breaks like a levee after Valerie’s dismissal, spilling over into a blind, dogged pursuit of justice.

Watts’ performance does well to juxtapose the steely, indomitable agent Plame with the warm, maternal Valerie at home.

As always, Greengrass employs his trademark unsteady, you-are-there cam for most scenes. The effect is perfect in accentuating the tension of power-broking office discussions, or the frantic fear of an impending air-strike, but feels grossly unnecessary during breakfast at the Plame household.

Because most of the action comes in words, ideas, information exchange and decisions, the plot pivots on a dime and viewers will need to stay alert to keep up—but you’ll be rewarded for your efforts with a superb (if profoundly biased) account of the beginnings of a (probably) misdirected war.

It’s tough to fault Fair Game: great players, slick direction and, as they say, ‘truth’ is stranger than fiction—and often more entertaining.

The Way Back

The Gulag. Arguably the most brutal prison system ever conceived, implemented during the bloodiest conflict in history, and snugly ensconced in the harshest terrain in the world. This is the place to stage a prison escape movie.

Polish prisoner Janusz (Jim Sturgess) is our Steve McQueen. Extrajudicially convicted for ‘spying’ on meagre evidence, he’s thrown in the Russian Gulag with accountants, thespians, engineers, professors—all political prisoners—as well as a handful of actual career criminals. Guests of the Gulag receive meagre rations, overcrowded accommodation, inadequate clothing, and spirit-crushing labour.

The injustice of it all is too much for Januz, who would sooner die a free man running than be worked to death as a cog in the communist machine. Thus, he assembles a ragtag band of seven for a jailbreak: a gruff exiled American (Ed Harris), a Stalinist murderer (Colin Farrell) and a handful of other interchangeable characters.

But this film (based on a ‘true’* story) isn’t just about escaping the Gulag; it’s more about getting beyond the steely reach of Stalin to India—4,000 miles. Over the course of 133 minutes, the group grapples with nature across Siberia, Mongolia, the Gobi desert, China and the Himalayas.

While the harsh elements wear down their bodies, the jailbird flock’s spirit is tested in a way only prolonged desperation can—forcing them to think and rethink trust, compassion, ideals compromise, forgiveness, motivations and their own mortality. Turns out inhuman transcontinental treks are great for melodrama.

While many directors would give up their only copy of Citizen Kane for a crack at a ‘true’ story as remarkable as this, the assignment calls for a rather tricky balancing act: how do you depict the phenomenally gruelling act of walking across six countries (on an empty stomach) without making the audience feel as tired and bored as if they’d done it themselves? No matter which way you slice it, a 4,000 mile journey is made up of steps. A lot of steps.

I tip my hat to aussie director Pete Weir—by tempering the hiking with action (fending off wolf-packs, spear fishing, crouching in burrows to avoid detection) and (flimsy) character development, he upholds the journey’s misery without making it a miserable watch.

However, while showing the journey in all of its exhaustive, monotonous glory would be incredibly cruel to theatregoers, having the group traverse the Himalayas in mere moments was equally unsatisfying.

I tip my hat further to Colin Farrell—the Irishman delightfully indulges in a broken-English Russian timbre as the cagey, pragmatic Valka, a crim on his best behaviour insofar as it will help him survive.

I tip my hat further still to the National Geographic film crew (thereby obscuring my vision and rendering me, ironically, unable to see the cinematography I’m attempting to praise with said hat-tipping): rarely are we treated to such impressive depictions of the Siberian tundra, scorching Gobi desert or Mongolian wilderness outside of a documentary. As most of the characters are somewhat undercooked, it’s a welcome conciliation that the lands themselves are given intimate exposure.

*Substantial doubt has been raised about the veracity of The Long Walk, Slavomir Rawicz’ 1956 memoir upon which the film is based.

Precious

Based on the novel Push by Sapphire, Precious is not so much a film to be enjoyed as it is to be endured.

That’s not to say it’s a poor film in any sense—on the contrary, director Lee Daniels (Monsters’ Ball) has delivered a superbly cast, culturally-charged, character-driven drama. It’s like brussels sprouts for the soul—you won’t have a good time chewing and wallowing them, but you can tell they’re probably good for you.

Gabourey Sidibe makes an impressive screen debut as Clareece Precious Jones—a black, obese, illiterate 16-year-old high school student living in Harlem’s housing projects with her unemployed, unpredictably violent mother. With her father absent, the two are dependent on the welfare system.

Holding no hope of overcoming her mounting social barriers, Precious defers to her imagination for relief; often ‘escaping’ to strut the red carpet at a glamourous movie premiere or photo shoot.

Following the discovery of Precious’ second pregnancy (her first resulted in an autistic child, cared for by her grandmother) she is suspended from school—but not before her principal organises a place for her in an ‘alternative school’ in a last-ditch effort to catapult her from her destructive environent.

It’s clear to all involved—the school will either be the life-changing catalyst Precious is desperate for or the final declaration that she is doomed to be swallowed up by the ghetto. Either way, the shift prompts the introduction of two women indirectly charged with the task of her delivery.

Paula Patton plays Ms Rain, putting in a quality (if unoriginal) rendition of the ‘heart-of-gold-teacher-more-concerned-about-students-than-their-actual parents’ role. Quashing fights among unruly pupils with one hand while praising and encouraging with the other, she is the strong female role-model Precious never had; the complete antithesis to her mother.

Nigh-unrecognisable away from the glitz and glamour of the stage, Mariah Carey is Mrs. Weiss, a social case-worker in dogged pursuit of Precious’ wellbeing. Weiss is Precious’ stand-in self-esteem and assertiveness—confronting her abusive mother when Precious lacks the maturity to do so herelf.

Between the two of them, Precious begins to see her fantasy world––where people love and adore her––begin to seep back into reality through her first taste of genuine human care.

A perplexing addition to the marquee is rocker Lenny Kravitz. He’s believable as a male nurse befriending Precious during her second childbirth but his role is so cursory, it’s baffling he didn’t leave it to an aspiring actor.

The film plays out as Precious struggles to bridge the enormous gap between her old life and potential future—including learning to read and write and reversing the psychological, emotional and physical destruction wrought by her mother.
In a crass yet accurate comment, one reviewer referred to the genre as ‘pornography for social workers.’ A little curt, but the statement rings true—while Precious is not based on any particular true story, the most distubing element of the film is that it’s almost certainly an almagation of hundreds of real-life cases.

Special mention must go to Mo’Nique, a very deserving winner of a Golden Globe for best supporting actress—her horrific portrayal of Precious’ broken, selfish, reprehensible cyclone of a mother is so sharp, I’m still finding it difficult not to despise the actress on sight.

Be forewarned; Precious is not the enjoyable Saturday night flick you may want. It is a jolting reminder, a stark awareness of the plight of others, that you may well need. Put the popcorn down and eat your greens––you probably won’t enjoy it, but Precious will do you good, all the same.