It Changed My Brain! #2: In Living Color

As if my brother's adolescent proclivity for Jim Carrey mannerisms wasn't enough of a clue, let me state right now how much my family was into In Living Color. Never did an episode end without at least a few holler-size laughs echoing in our family room. Whether it was Homey the Clown not playing that, Fire Marshall Bill, Men on Film, Damon Wayan's Homeless Guy, or the physical comedy of Background Guy, my dad helped lead the troops in laughter. Far before I tuned into SNL, I was watching In Living Color and, by extension, as often happens with good sketch comedy, I was learning about the world. Pretty much everything I knew about the LA Riots I learned from In Living Color as well as most of what I knew about the early Clinton years.

Though we usually muted it during the musical performance--I don't think my any of us in the family were ready to sit through a 2 Live Crew concert or, even worse, Snow--I've come to realize just how large a role In Living Color played in shaping my idea of the America that didn't exist in my own backyard. It was, more or less, my first interaction with black culture and the cast and writers never pandered to their audience. It never tried to be SNL and, thankfully, it never tried to be "the black SNL" either. It was its own show, its finger also on the pulse of America's cultural heartbeat. If anything, it was getting a better read on the pulse...and probably picking up more than one heartbeat. Every public figure was unapologetically mocked but in a socially aware way that seemed to preface the rise of Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Stereotypes were broken down, reinforced, broken down, and played for laughs. It was brilliant and hilarious and, in a way, it makes crap like Little Man all the more disappointing. (Although even I will admit that White Chicks makes a lot of interesting and intentional statements about race, gender, and class. Yes, I said it.)

And so, I toast you In Living Color and embed a clip of our favorite character: Wanda. "I'm gonna rock your world" became an instant catchphrase; I remember my brother and I buying my dad a poster of Wanda with these words written across it. (I wonder if he actually hung it up anywhere.) It seems ridiculous to watch this clip now and know that 10 years later, Jamie Foxx would be an Oscar winner. But then again, his commitment to his characters really shines through.

I Could Never Be Original: One Poster Copies Another

OK, this mostly has nothing to do with anything, but I thought I would point out marketing plagiarism when I see it:

I Could Never Be Your Woman (straight to DVD, sadly) (2008)

Something's Gotta Give (2003)

Oh wait! Nevermind! The top one has a flower where an "O" should be. They're completely different. Sorry!

Kinda Obsessed: Fourth Week of March

"GRANDMA'S HANDS/NO DIGGITY" BY PADDY CASEY AND THE DUBLIN GOSPEL CHOIR

I was doing some iTunes browsing--where you essentially keep clicking recommended links until your 38 steps from the song you originally looked up--and happened upon on my favorite 99-cent purchase of late. (Okay, second favorite; the IKEA magnetic strip for bill sorting is pretty awesome.) Paddy Casey, a singer-songwriter I previously knew nothing about, covers a great song by one of my all-time favorite songwriters. That would be Bill Withers and the song is "Grandma's Hands." Casey is, somewhat inexplicably, backed up by the Dublin Gospel Choir who add a nice bit of passion to a song that already plays out like Southern beat poetry. But then, halfway in, when he's run out of lyrics, Casey--and the choir--jump into Blackstreet's "No Diggity." (They are, admittedly, kind of the same song.) With the choir howling out the "Bang it up now!"s and the live production wisely stripped-down, it gives the recent Klaxons cover of the song a run for its money. It can be found on the album Even Better than the Real Thing Vol. 2, a collection of covers by Irish artists done in affiliation with an FM station. Check it out, especially if you want to hear Glen Hansard, from Once, singing Britney and Justin songs.

GETTING THE TIME PERIOD RIGHT IN THE BANK JOB

I saw The Bank Job recently and truly enjoyed its seemingly simple caper tale and the "based on a true story" fascination it quickly evokes. While I found a few things distracting--mostly the cinematography; it looked a bit movie-of-the-weekish--I was really struck by how much fun the crew had with the 1970 setting. Granted, I wasn't alive in 1970 and I certainly wasn't in London, but everything from the hair to the cars to the clothes to the random slang crafted a world that felt historically accurate without ever seguing into extremes or easily recognizable touchpoints and iconic images. (You know, like Austin Powers-level grooviness.) The movie is a fun trip even though it does enter dark corners at the end, but it's also a much better time machine than I was anticipating. Bravo to all the below-the-liners.

MINNIE DRIVER ON "THE RICHES"

The season premiere on March 18 left a little to be desired, I'll admit. I understand that plans have to be shattered and things must go awry for drama to exist, but must every conceivable problem be hoisted on this family in a single episode? However, the reason I will keep returning to this series is Minnie Driver, who continues to give one of the best performances on television. Her Dahlia is a former inmate and drug addict as well as a prominent member of a sect of Irish Travellers (aka gypsies.) But rather than filling this character with tics and showiness, she gives this exasperated mother a deep-seated fear and sadness as they move from con to con while crafting a new identity in Edenfalls, Ga. As Dahlia attempts each con with forced confidence, her eyes not only betray her fear but her desire to remain on the outside of the buffers' world. Plus, she's finally mastered that Southern accent and, with witty and vulnerable lines to say, it sounds great.

Review: "Drillbit Taylor"

Even if you're unaware of John Hughes' involvement in Drillbit Taylor, you'll be able to formulate such a conjecture after the first few scenes. Ryan and Wade, the best-friend-heroes who can't help but serve as the high school's beacon of lameness, come from sweet families in nice houses where clueless mothers nurture and even clueless-er stepfathers teach you to "walk it off." And silver platters are household items of the highest value. Drillbit Taylor would have felt right at home in 1986 as part of a lopsided double feature with Weird Science, but in 2008, it feels dated and offputting even though it's been put through the Judd Apatow conveyor belt of topical hilarity.

The high school otherworld in which the movie takes place is an overly-simplified take on the teen hierarchy. Luckily, it pretty much focuses only on bullies and nerds, except it doesn't even quite get those right. Even considering this is a movie, the amount of torture that the bullies get away with is absurd. And the fact that they pass it off as "hazing" to the principal--who laughs it off like a dope--is a tough pill to swallow, at least since 2003. And yet, I was still kind of rooting for the bullies.

The dorks in the movie are painfully dorky, but not in a lovable way. Ryan--the fat one--goes by T-Dog and never lets go of the belief that he's suited for gangsta culture. (I could go into a full blown essay about how grossly out-of-touch the race relations are in this film, but I'll whittle it down to this thesis: it's funny when white people act black, but it's distracting when black characters are in the foreground of a shot.) Wade--the skinny one--is almost as pathetic as his mean ol' stepdaddy makes him out to be, although much of the problem lies in Nate Hartley's awkward, smirky performance. I hate to rag on a child actor, but the kid needs to tag along with Saorise and Abigail for a while to see how it's done. And then there's David Dorfman--the creepy son from The Ring--hamming it up as a lispy, musical-loving social leech to complete the trio. When the bully issue becomes too much, the kids reach out for a bodyguard.

And that's where homeless army deserter Owen Wil...I mean, Drillbit Taylor comes in. Scamming the kids out of their possessions while teaching them self-defense (and scoring with a hot English teacher. Dude!), Taylor's a good guy with bad intentions and it takes about, oh, forty-six seconds before the social outcasts melt his heart and make him rethink his plans. You can guess the rest.

Drillbit Taylor isn't painful, not most of the time. The datedness actually settles into nostalgia at parts. I won't lie; it was kind of refreshing to see a high school movie climax in actual fisticuffs. And Owen Wilson, playing the homeless guy you've never seen on the Promenade, keeps the movie moving. His sun-drenched charm--although underused and occasionally faulty--is the only sign that yes, it is in fact actually 2008 now.

It Changed My Brain! #1: Jeff Buckley's "Lover, You Should've Come Over"

And so I return to the land of blogging. Sorry for the weeklong absence. The parents were in town, the social calendar was especially busy, and, to be honest, there wasn’t a whole lot going on in the world of entertainment that inspired any kind of witty analysis or impassioned tubthumping.

Well, today, I went to a screening of what was—and this is no exaggeration—the worst full-length feature film I’ve ever seen. It made Semi-Pro look like The Lives of Others. Although harmless trash, it brought forth in me a deep-seated frustration: how does stuff like this get made? How did it get so many normally discerning actors in it? Or, at the very least, how the hell did it ever get past those oh-so-valued test audiences?

The ire triggered something else, though. It forced me to think about the modern works of art and storytelling—the books, songs, films, and TV shows—that opened up my eyes to a new perspective, that, as Hector in The History Boys put it: “The best moments in…are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - that you'd thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it's as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.” Those pieces of art that grab our hands, so to speak, are why the rest of us continue to search out great stories and, when lucky, fashion some of our own.

I’ve been laying it pretty heavy on the screenwriting side of things lately, but these blog posts are good for me; my self-understanding deepens when I’m forced to articulate what I believe and what I prefer. So, this will be a new weekly feature on Right Next to Mars. It’s called “It Changed My Brain!” because, well, these films, shows, books, and songs opened up my mind to a side of the world that had never been exposed…and I became better for it.

First Up: “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” by Jeff Buckley

I could never ignore the haunting fractured pride in Buckley’s voice or the way the hymn-like melody allows the music to crescendo softly at the chorus, but it’s the from-the-soul observations and realizations in Buckley’s lyrics that occasionally run through my mind like the CNN News Ticker. The words come not from a tortured soul, but from a sadly aware one: “maybe I’m too young to keep good love from going wrong” could be a generational tagline in the early 90s (and every other era, too). It’s also refreshing—if a tad depressing—to hear a “youth” admit that he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing when so many in popular music are eager to prove they and their genertaion can do anything their elders can do and with more panache.

It’s also rare in another instance: the song is a young man’s confession of failure to be the capital-M Man he thought he already was. And it’s with that, especially, that I feel like Buckley has grabbed my hand. I doubt I’m all that alone—the song seems to be a staple on playlists labeled “Melancholy” and “Reflective.” But, as a 23-year-old American male, I completely connect with Buckley’s sentiment that “sometimes a man gets carried away when he thinks that he should be having his fun.” The frustration in balancing the glimmering last strands of youth and newfound responsibilities can cause—and has caused me—moments of withdrawal that shirk those that rely most heavily on us.

And with “lover, you should’ve come over, because it’s not too late,” Buckley shows how once we screw up, in the midst of figuring out what it means to be a Man, our guilt—and our love—turns our victims into saviors. As long as our love is returned, we can continue the journey.

OK, now. I’m going to post one of these a week, but I want you guys to send me your own write-ups, too, and I will post those as well. I want to know what’s grabbed you guys, what’s given you a deeper understanding of the world or of yourselves. Shoot me an email.

Kinda Obsessed: First Week of March

Things are calming down in the workload/social-commitment arena and, since the entertainment industry is starting to produce worthy art once again--with some notable exceptions--it's time, once again, for a "Kinda Obsessed." Apologies in advance to those of you who don't like Winona Ryder having relations with a ventriloquist's dummy.

THE TEN
OK, I’ll admit: I’m not someone who “gets” Wet Hot American Summer. I’ve still seen it four times because nearly all of my friends find it to be the pinnacle of hilarity—and I’m ok with that—but its jokes just fly at you from nowhere and while some of them are really very funny, I ended up wishing they had more of a framework in which to exist. Well, my wishes have come true; The Ten is has all the same players, all the same humor (or, in my opinion, it’s even funnier), and it stitches it together in a way that feels completely satisfying. (The biblical laws are surprisingly great comic material.) The Ten is really ten short films, each chronicling the breaking of a commandment, but the storylines interweave and the result is a series of hilarious and creative cautionary tales. “Thou Shalt Not Envy Thy Neighbor” becomes a contest between suburban homeowners on who can buy the most CAT-SCAN machines. Gretchen Mol yells out the name of a former (Christlike) lover while with her husband in “Thou Shalt Not Take the Lord’s Name In Vain.” And Winona Ryder laughs at herself by starring in the “Thou Shalt Not Steal” segment. Is it too oddly appropriate that all David Wain’s crew needed for me to find them funny was a healthy dose of the Bible?


VIRGINIA HORSEN'S HOT AIR BALLOON RIDES
I really wanted to embed this video but, alas, it’s not yet available on the (slow-loading and glitchy) nbc.com site. Last week saw SNL return to fine form with esteemed alum Tina Fey host. The best sketch of the episode had to be local ad “Virginia Horsen’s Hot Air Balloon Rides.” From the music, to the pantsuit, to Kristen Wiig’s Emmy-worthy delivery, it was roll-on-the-floor funny. Click the link to check it out on Defamer, a page I’ve visited about 20 times in the last week just to watch this video. By the way, Defamer—like my friend Austin—recommends “Garfield Without Garfield,” and so do I. When you take the titular cat out of his strip, it becomes a sad look at a man suffering schizophrenic delusions and self-esteem issues.

"AMERYKAHN PROMISE" BY ERYKAH BADU
While Erykah Badu was growing out her afro, I’m guessing she listened to a lot of Curtis Mayfield. Her new album has a great mixture of political tubthumping and inventive production—it’s the kind of album that used to occur when a 60’s singer-songwriter was introduced to 70’s synthesizers. The opening track, though, is the aural highlight, which is incredible considering that it’s barely a song. Don’t get me wrong, it has a solid beat and blasting horns, but it’s more of a stream-of-consciousness love letter supplemented with spoken, frustrated statements from a random cast of cartoon-voiced characters. Most artists would let it slip into something quite self-serving and annoying, but Badu manages to keep it exciting.

Trailers: "The Love Guru," "Get Smart," "Son of Rambow"

The Love Guru: Oh, I guess they did make another Austin Powers.

Get Smart: Apparently, I'm the only person in the world who thinks this movie looks hilarious. I love the Maxwell's answer to "Did you see anything?"

Son of Rambow: This looks like quite a heartfelt and funny movie. So, no big surprise that it's British. It does look oddly similar to the story, though, of the American kids who made a shot-for-shot remake of Indiana Jones. I've been secretly hoping for the last six years that Daniel Clowes' option on that story will expire so that I can snatch it up (with all the money I don't have.)

Review: "Semi-Pro"

Unless you’re cozying up for a viewing of Grumpy Old Men, one of the last things you want the audience to think during a comedy is: “God, these guys look too old for this.” The scattered close-ups in Semi-Pro reveal subtle wrinkles on Will Ferrell’s face and Woody Harrelson’s inability to focus. If only this were a joke the film were in on. Rather, Semi-Pro is the rare R-rated comedy that doesn’t take advantage of its R rating and tries to inject the comedy with moments of serious drama. Needless to say, the film is far from a slam dunk.

Where Blades of Glory and Talladega Nights aimed for adequacy and succeeded with gags that worked more than not, Semi-Pro aims for…well, I’m not sure what the hell it’s aiming for, other than moments of 1970s satire. Ferrell plays Jackie Moon, owner/coach/player for the ABA team Flint Tropics. (Yes, he is a lovably overconfident hero who constantly who vocalizes every random thought. How did you know?) In order for the team to be absorbed into the NBA, Moon has to get his team to fourth place and get more butts in his seats.

Now, this all seems like fairly innocuous fun, right? The set-up isn’t the problem, here; it’s the unprofessional direction of Kent Alterman, a first time director who never reigns in his stars—Ferrell and his buddies talk way too much for way too long about nothing. When Will Arnett begins to get on your nerves, there’s a serious problem. A number of scenes, most notably a poker night scene with an “unloaded” gun, go on for about three minutes longer than they need to; they try to squeeze every bit of humor out of each set-up, but when your stars look like their struggling to come up with some C-level improv, that’s when you yell “Cut!” (The poker scene, by the way, has nothing whatsoever to do with the plot.)

Beyond being unfunny and poorly constructed, there’s an inexplicable subplot in which Woody Harrelson’s Ed Monix returns to Flint to get back together with an old girlfriend. It’s, for some reason, done (mostly) seriously. It not only doesn’t fit in the movie, it’s underwritten and off-putting. I hope Maura Tierney, who should really be above this by now, bought something really pretty with her paycheck.

The film is also vaguely misogynistic (but in a winking, making fun of the 70s way) and subtly racist (in an unfunny modern way), but it’s the comic laziness that feels like its greatest sin. Why should Ferrell’s website be broadcasting amateur videos that offer infinitely more laughs per minute than this $12-a-ticket dreck?