February 6th, 2008 by Andrew Unterberger
That’s right–Stylus’s server ain’t gonna be around forever, so for the time being at least I’ll be hosting this blog at intensities.wordpress.com. It’s nice and pretty, and I wrote something new about The Wire (of all shows!), so check that shit out. The future–and the present–of Intensities in Ten Suburbs.
February 4th, 2008 by Andrew Unterberger
Last one, probably
This morning was one of the most blissfully serene I’ve experienced since coming to New York, certainly. Despite getting less than two hours of sleep, and having my first day at a new internship, I was about as unstressed as I’ve ever been (and at fleeting moments of doubt, I reminded myself “If Eli Manning can win a Super Bowl, you can certainly get through a day at Sirius”). I even picked up a copy of the Post–something I swore earlier this year I’d never do again–just because reading their sloppy gushing allowed me to replay the game over and over in my head (the Post was predictably classy and professional about it, btx, referring to Manning as “MVPli” and headlining the lead article “Giants Kick Pats in *”). Finally, it made sense–so this is why people root for the home team.
There was one thing, though, that nagged at me. Now, I wanted the Pats to lose this game as much as anyone–I even half-rooted for them against Jacksonville and San Diego just so a a game like this could’ve been theoretically possible, a game in which the magnitude of the Pats’ season up until this point was reflected by the magnitude of the loss, and by a team that legitimately deserved the upset (suck it, Philip Rivers). But despite my railing against them–against their attitude, their media presence, and their dubious morality–one grievance I never levied against them was that they were overrated. And nothing I saw last night changed that for me.
Now, were the Giants the better team last night? Very probably. They won the game, and they did so in stunning fashion, truly the play of a championship-caliber team. Their victory was incredible, a history-maker, and I certainly don’t mean to take anything away from what the Giants accomplished. But now you’ve got jerks like ESPN’s Gene Wojciechowski saying things like “The New England Patriots don’t deserve perfection. They deserve exactly what they got Sunday evening: a Super Bowl loss that will haunt them for the rest of their lives” and that “they couldn’t block, couldn’t run, couldn’t throw, couldn’t catch, couldn’t tackle and couldn’t even try a 49-yard field goal when it counted.” And Gene’s hardly alone–the prevailing sentiment on SportsCenter last night was that the rest of the Patriots’ perfect season was now largely worthless, and some ESPN anchors since have even given the Pats that most damning of labels–that of the choke artists.
Woah there. All right, so the Pats lost, and maybe it is because they didn’t play up to snuff–certainly a season-low 14 points on the scoreboard (and a season high five sacks in the backfield) wasn’t helping their chances, and failing to stop Eli on that final drive when given countless opportunities to do so has to be considered a huge failure. But come on now–to say that the Pats choked, that they have no one to blame for the loss but themselves–I just don’t see it. And to say that they couldn’t block, run, throw, block or tackle–that’s almost too ridiculous to dignify with a response, though without that I wouldn’t have an article, so…
First of all, let’s have a stat breakdown, shall we? Eli was 19 of 34 for 255, two TDs, a pick and three sacks, while Brady was 29 of 48 for 266 yards, one TD, no picks and five sacks. Eli was key when it counted, sure, but so was Brady, up until that last drive anyway (and maybe you hoped Brady could’ve done something with that drive, but if you actually expected him to do it, you’re a bigger (m)asshole than I thought). Eli is hailed as the conquering hero and Brady is claimed to have blown his chances at the atll-time best title, but you see those two stat lines without knowing the result of the game, and you’d be hard-pressed to guess which one was the winning performance. Meanwhile, Plaxico’s two for 27 and a TD comes up short against Moss’s five for 62 and a score, Maroney’s 14 for 36 is hardly vastly inferior to Jacobs’ 14 for 42, Rodney Harrison was the game-leader in tackles and Adalius Thomas had as many sacks as anyone on the Giants. And I haven’t even mentioned Wes Welker. Statistically speaking, this game is almost an exact split right down the middle.
All right, fine, you say, that’s all well and good–but the only stat that matters is whether the 1 is in the win or the loss column. True, and that’s why the game last night was so amazing, because despite having all the trappings of a classic Patriots win, the Patriots simply failed to win. But having no one to blame for that failure but themselves? Not only is that a huge discredit to the Giants’ accomplishments, but it ignores one of the biggest factors in any Super Bowl, or any football game, or just about any sporting event period–blind, dumb fucking luck.
One of the things I dislike about many sportswriters is how they fail to acknowledge the importance of luck in deciding the outcome of a game. It’s understandable, because it takes the power out of the people playing the game, and as sports fans, we always want to believe that our best athletes should be in complete control of the outcomes of our biggest sporting events, that one team should deserve to win, and that one team should deserve to lose. But it’s just not realistic. Not everything can be attributed to skill, to athleticism to pressure, to confidence, to momentum–sometimes, to squeak by in a close game, you just need breaks to go your way, and sometimes those breaks aren’t attributable to anything but pure and simple luck.
The Patriots should know about this better than anyone. If Brian Billick hadn’t called a pointless timeout on a Patriots fourth and one right before the Ravens produced a stop that should’ve meant the end of the game for the Pats, we’d have stopped talking about the Pursuit of Perfection months ago. Things have bended in the Pats’ favor when they’ve needed to all season, and if it wasn’t the biggest reason why they’d remained undefeated up until last night–after all, it was up to Brady, Moss, Welker and co. to make sure they were always even in position for things to break their way–it’s probably in the top ten.
And now it’s the time when we have to discuss the implications of that inconceivable fourth-quarter play where Manning broke a million tackles (heretofore referred to as “The Scramble”) and Tyree pulled down a pass from the heavens (heretofore referred to as “The Oh My Fucking God How Did He Do That”) for the key play of the entire Super Bowl. The way I see it, that play could be explained in one of two ways. Either Eli Manning is the most graceful, intelligent and physically resilient QB in all the NFL and David Tyree is the most agile, quick thinking and well-experienced wideout since Jerry Rice, or a couple of athletes with varying degrees of above-average athletic ability got lucky as motherfucking sin. The pair would have about as much of a chance of repeating that play in a thousand years as Nas does of making another album as good as Illmatic. And without it, the Giants are back at 4th-and-5 on their own 36 with a rapidly winding down clock, and in all likelihood, the Pats are looking at ring #4. You’re going to try and tell me that the Patriots are entirely at fault here? Not bloody likely.
What I think people have forgotten, over the course of this amazing season, is how hard it is to win a football game. And by hard I don’t mean how technically difficult it is, though lord knows it’s certainly that as well, but rather, just how unbelievably trying it is to play four quarters of superior football–harder, in my opinion, than in any other major sport. Physically hard, mentally hard, but more than anything, emotionally hard. What other (non-gambling) sport has swings half as drastic Professional Football?
Take the Giants’ second quarter stop of the Patriots on 3rd down, an unbelievably key shut down that prevented the Patriots from scoring a second time for what would very likley have been the start of a pullaway victory. But then Chase Blackburn’s minor infraction, a totally irrelevant violation that couldn’t possibly have less of an effect on the actual play on the field, and the Patriots get five yards and a fresh set of downs. You just stopped the biggest offensive juggernaut in the history of the NFL from scoring, in their own territory. And you have to go back and do it all over again. Picture taking a science test where you needed an A to pass the class, and you just squeak by with a 92. And then the professor realizes “whoops, wrong quiz” and hands out a new one. I mean, can you imagine?
And this is just one example–the number of things that can go against you in a football game are too numerous to count or even contemplate. The Miami Dolphins get mad props from me for even pulling one win this season. And the Patriots won 18 straight. The ‘72 Dolphins can rejoice in the knowledge that their absolute perfection remains unmatched, but who knows what would’ve happened if they had played a 16 game season? The answer: anything. Try as Belichick might, you can’t control football. The fact that he and his Patriots made it seem like doing so was possible for as long as they did is a positively titanic accomplishment. And the fact that Manning and Tyree connected on a play that made the Juno soundtrack topping the charts seem perfectly logical doesn’t negate that for me.
Another Postscript, since I realize I’ve failed to mention it elsewhere in any of these columns and since I might not be writing about football again for some time, I wanted to set the record straight: despite the joy this team has given me in the last month, when September rolls around again, I’ll be rooting for the Eagles first and foremost. I’ll hope for the best for the Giants, and certainly root for both teams to make the playoffs, but if it’s one or the other, I’m going Green. I’m aware that this dual-citizenship makes me a bandwagon jumper, a traitor, and to some, probably some sort of mass murderer. I counter with the following:
February 4th, 2008 by Andrew Unterberger
NEW YORK FUCKING GIANTS
99.9% of the time, sports don’t work the way they do in movies and ESPN clip shows. This was the lesson I’ve had to re-learn the hard way the last four or five months, as the Rockies got swept in the World Series, Hawaii got blown to smithereens in the Sugar Bowl, and team after unlikely team came within inches, seconds or plays away from defeating the New England Patriots, only to be ultimately vanquished. The Redskins thought it was a sign when they clinched a playoff berth by beating the Cowboys by 21, the jersey number of murdered safety Sean Taylor, in Week 17, but I bet you they found it less symbolic when they were eliminated by the same margin against the Seahawks a week later. Just because a story sounds good, because the mythology feels right, because it would be so amazing if it happened–none of it means shit. Underdogs are underdogs for a reason–namely, because most of the time, they don’t fuckin’ win.
Tonight, I saw history, and I couldn’t have plotted it better myself. Well, that’s a lie, of course. History is going to forget numerous things about this game–among them Eli’s over-thrown floater to a wide open Plaxico, resulting in a three-and-out on what could’ve been a crucial missed opportunity, Belichick’s shrewd challenge getting the Pats a new set of downs after LB Chase Blackburn couldn’t get off the field in time, and pretty much the entire first half, which ranks with the first 30 minutes of the Pats-Chargers game two weeks ago for the most head-scratching, sloppy pair of quarters in the entire postseason. But those clearly go down as minor stumbles given the historic perfection of the rest of the game.
Case in point: That second-to-final Patriots drive. Prototypical Brady, Moss and Welker–first down after first down, briskly moving the chains with that feeling of gruesome inevitability that the Patriots had on their side pretty much all year, then dunking it in on 3rd and goal. It was predictable almost to the point of implausability. When Randy Moss came up with that TD grab, over a sprawled-out Corey Webster (who, by the way, should be thanking his lucky stars that things turned out the way they did, lest he suddenly become a bigger pariah in New York than Isiah Thomas), it was well, that was fun while it lasted. How many games had the Patriots won this way over the course of the year? 2:30 left on the clock, you say? OK, great, so that means we can get our hopes up one more time before Samuel comes up with a last-second pick. Just put us out of our misery, please.
And then the Giants scored a touchdown. WHAT? Over the season, we saw last-minute, touchdown-needed drives mounted by A.J. Feely and Kyle Boller, hell, we even saw one by Big Bro, and they all ended the same way–in heartache. Eli pulled one off in Week 17, sure, but it was too little, too late. For a team to finally pull off an 82-yard last-second touchdown drive in the Super Bowl, with the Patriots one possession away from immortality–well, that only happens in the movies and clip shows, right? No wonder Brady and company completely melted down on their ensuing comeback drive–they’d never had to do it before. It’d be like a cast getting called in at the last second to film an alternate ending to their flick, but without being given the scene’s script.
So, the Patriots are defeated. But, as it’s sometimes hard to remember, that’s because the Giants won, and I’ve never been so happy to be wrong with a prediction in my whole life. Rather than spend too much time rubbing the loss in (out of respect for a certain Boston-bred sports writer, if nothing else), I’d like to give credit where credit is due–to the heroes. So here’s my list of the ten biggest reasons why the Giants have just given me my first-ever home city sports championship:
10. Jeff Feagles and Lawrence Tynes. No one else is going to talk much about Feagles’ performance–no one ever really talks about a punter unless they notably screw up–but the man did what he always does: his job. No too-short kicks, no particularly long returns, and a couple good pins. And Tynes, well, he’s got a two-FG streak now. Plus, he got a key shove-out on a Patriots kick return that could’ve been potentially dangerous otherwise, without doing something stupid like snapping his leg in the process. Neither exactly got robbed for the MVP, but both got the job done, and that’s all you can really ask for with your kickers, huh?
9. Kavika Mitchell. One key sack (hey, remember the days when it seemed like Brady was unsackable? Three weeks ago?), but the key moment with me for Mitchell here is on the second-quarter drive that the Pats were starting back in their own territory, when a Mitchell rush forced Tom Terrific to throw it away. It wasn’t so much the dump (in fact, the Pats converted a key first on the next play) as it was the sight of Mitchell barrelling towards Brady, hair flailing and all–I don’t care if you’re Tom Brady or Kyle Orton, you see that man running towards you, and you’re pissing your pants for goddamn certain.
8. Brandon Jacobs and Ahmad Bradshaw. Jacobs had a game typical of his post-season output, 14 rushes for 42 yards with a long of seven, nothing particularly stunning. But he came through where it counted–a fourth and one run in the fourth quarter, where a stop would’ve meant the game, and he converted without breaking a sweat, which is exactly what you keep a guy like Jacobs around for. And Bradshaw, nine rushes for 45 yards, with a long of 13–not bad, of course, but Bradshaw’s place on this list is due to what probably ranks as the third most impressive play of the game–when it seemed for certain that the Patriots were gonna recover a Giants fumble within their own 30, and Bradshaw somehow got control of the ball, saving what for sure would’ve been another Patriots score. The fact that it was Bradshaw that fumbled in the first place is the only reason he isn’t higher on the list for that beaut.
7. Jay Alford. Yeah, I’d never heard of the guy either. But oh man, that sack on second down during the Pats’ last-ditch drive. Hitting Brady square in the chest, pushing him back for what seemed like a 20-yard loss–it was like a video game sack in its perfection. There’s a reason why the sack now makes up half the dude’s admittedly sparse Wikipedia entry.
6. Amani Toomer. The Giants’ leading receiver (six catches, 84 yards), and engineer of the game’s second-most impressive play, a 38-yard pull-in that he seemed to be waiting for days to rein in, which he somehow did while keeping both feet in bounds. If the Giants had scored on that drive, Toomer would’ve been an MVP contender for certain–although he’d still have to explain that nine yard reception on third-and-ten where he could’ve cost the G-Men the game by not simply rolling over for an extra yard and the first.
5. Kevin Boss. A drop or two early on, and it looked like he could’ve ended up one of the game’s dogs. But that breakaway 45-yard gain in the 4th quarter, setting the Giants up for their first touchdown score–his only catch in the entire game–and all is certainly forgiven. Sorry, Jeremy, there’s always next year. Smith was also guilty of early flubs, like the bobbled catch that gave Eli his first interception in four games, that could’ve made him an outcast. But he more than made up for it over the rest of the game, getting five catches for 50 yards, and more importantly, both catching an 11-yarder on a crucial third-and-ten on their final drive AND having the foresight to scramble out of bounds, stopping the clock and giving the Giants a chance to catch their breath.
4. Plaxico Burress. Far from the most impressive game for Plax statistically–two receptions for 27 yards with six misses isn’t exactly a stat sheet you wanna show off, especially after coming off an 11 catch, 154 yard game against the Packers two weeks ago. But one of those catches happened to be among the most important catches in NFL history, blowing by a hapless Ellis Hobbs for a TD that you know was a score way before he actually pulled it down. Plus, Manning cuts a couple yards off that fourth-quarter pass, and who knows what else he’d be adding to those credentials?
3. Justin Tuck and Michael Strahan. When it looked like the Giants might be able to squeak away with a 10-7 victory (LOL, I know), the debate in the room where I was watching the game inevitably turned to who the MVP would be should the Giants pull off the win. At that point, it looked like it was gonna be one of these two guys–two sacks for Tuck and a forced fumble along with, and only one officially for Strahan, but he had a part in at least one or two more, and was the defense’s anchor like always. The real consensus in the room, though, was that the MVP should’ve gone to the Giants’ collective defense, with which I couldn’t agree more. So I’d also like to give a shoutout here to Osi Umenyiora, Antonio Pierce, and safety James Butler, whose name I never heard once over the course of the game, but who apparently led the team with ten tackles. This was a defense that held the highest scoring team in NFL history to 14 points. That’s only two scores. Two. One more than one. Unbelievable.
2. Eli Manning. Eli, you fucking prince. I wanted him to keep to under two INTs, and not only did he do that, the one he did get wasn’t even his fault. And besides that, you’ve got 19 for 34, 255 yards and two touchdowns–the majority of the yardage and both of the TDs coming in the final quarter. And despite getting sacked three times–in itself still not a terrible number for Brother Eli–it was the one sack that didn’t happen, on that key fourth quarter drive where a swarm of defenders seemed to convene on QB1, and he somehow managed to break what must’ve been a half-dozen potential tackles to somehow get off a pass. The fact that that pass happened to be complete had me going all “D’Yer Maker”–oh, oh oh oh ohhh ohhhhhhhh…. Super Bowl MVP? Yeah, that’ll work. Congrats, Eli, looks like Thanksgiving is gonna be clear sailing for you from hear on out.
1. David Tyree. If this game proved one thing to me, it’s that there is indeed a God. And his name is David Tyree. When he caught that first touchdown pass early in the fourth quarter, it was more confusing than anything–I thought I knew the number of all the Giants’ potential receivers, and #85 was no one I knew. “Tyree? Huh. How about that?” That’d be enough to get him a place on this list, sure. But the reason he’s #1, higher even than the Super Bowl MVP (and personal IITS favorite) himself, is that 32-yard snag that will surely go down as the most famous catch not caught for a touchdown in NFL history.
Let’s break it down–against heavy coverage, the man somehow picks the impossibly high ball out of air, cradles it against the top of his helmet, pulls it into his grasp, and holds onto it on a hard landing. Without it, the Giants are looking at a fourth-and-five still healthily in their own territory, with it, they’ve got a mere 25 yards to go and all the momentum they could possibly need. When I saw it, I literally jumped out of my seat, the rejoicing in the room was probably greater than it was when they actually won the game. I’m still giggling and clapping wildly whenever I see it played on SportsCenter, and I’m pretty sure I could rub one out to it if I tried. If they had given Tyree MVP based on it alone, I wouldn’t have complained, if he had been named MVP of Life at that point, I would’ve shrugged and said fair enough. Sorry, Dwight Clark–from now on, this is The Catch.
And as something of a postscript, I’d like to take this moment to extend my hand to a man who surely needs it right now. I’ve spent a lot of time on this blog railing against Bill Belichick–who he is, how he acts, what he respresents–and I still stand by most, if not all of it. But watching him admit defeat in his post-game interview, shot tellingly in a small, blankly white-walled room with only Belichick and the one reporter in attendance, gave me no joy whatsoever. I’ve never seen a man so chillingly deflated–his answers were as curt and austere as they’ve been all season, but for the first time, this seemed to be less because Belichick didn’t want to reveal the mysterious secrets of his brilliant master plan, and more because he just didn’t have anything to say. He looked like he was seconds away from breaking down in tears, or at least he would have if this seemed a man capable of such a base human function. This definitely didn’t seem like a man who had three Super Bowl rings, an 18-1 season and a stamped ticket to Canton–rather, it was the picture of a man who truly believed his maxim that you’re only as good as your last game.
Sorry, Bill. You’ve still got your dynasty. But now New York has the NFL upset of the new millenium, and the ring for Super Bowl XLII. And I have, by far, the happiest and most exciting memory in my young sportswatching life.
February 3rd, 2008 by Andrew Unterberger
Eli’s comin’, and the cards say: A broken heart
Approximately two hours before kickoff, and I’d be lying if I said I was feeling terribly optimistic about the outcome of Super Bowl XLII. It’s been a sobering two weeks since Lawrence Tynes’ baffling game winner in the AFC Championship, not because anything in particular has changed about the Patriots or the Giants that would significantly impact the odds, but because it’s just given me time to contemplate all the ways in which the Patriots are better equipped for this game than the Giants. And oh, are they many.
I actually felt more optimistic about the chances of the Giants beating the Pats in week 17, back before they started playing like conference champs–the team seemed like it thrived at playing under the radar, at eclipsing practically non-existent expectations. But now there’s nowhere left for the Giants to hide, and they’ve started to act less like the loveable underdogs and more like the overzealous second best team in football, with Plaxico Burress even making the questionable decision to put himself in line with misguided fortune tellers like Anthony Smith of the Steelers and Igor Olshamsky of the Chargers, both of whom were spared from the humiliating process of having to eat their words only because no one really cared what they had to say to begin with. Not exactly a good sign.
But far more worrisome than the threat of bad karma is the fact that the Patriots…well, they’re just a far more Super Bowl-ready team than the Giants. Much has been made of Eli Manning’s continuing maturity these last few weeks, and obviously I appreciate that as much as anyone–going three games without a single pick would’ve seemed a laughable prediction for Eli just a few months ago–none of his performances these last weeks are going to have anyone confusing him for Tom Brady. He grinded his way through games against the Bucs, Cowboys and Packers, doing what needed to be done, and that’s obviously both extremely important and extremely impressive, but the fact that he only did what was just necessary to win, and could never quite close games with authority the way Brady (who never would’ve given Tynes a second or third opportunity to fuck things up) has all season, has me a little scared for his chances in the big show, especially with the way the Pats are sure to shut down the Giants’ run game tonight.
The real thing that strikes fear into my heart, though, is Bill Belichick. I’ve tried desperately to talk myself out of it, to convince myself that Tom Coughlin is just as qualified a Super Bowl coach, that good coaching isn’t nearly as important as good playing. But I just can’t see how he’s not going to have completely dissected the Giants over the last two weeks–how he won’t have figured out EXACTLY what to do to eliminate any threat or advantage that they could have in this game. Is it even possible that Coughlin, Gilbride and Spagnuolo have anything up their sleeve that Belichick hasn’t already contemplated, mapped out and solved? On a team with so many weapons on both sides of the ball, no one scares me more then the Man in the Hooded Sweatshirt, plotting from the sidelines like a combination of Bobby Fischer and C. Montgomery Burns.
So all this is basically just my way of saying that although I’ll be praying and rooting for them within an inch of my life, I don’t honestly think that the Giants will be getting the W here. So rather than expecting to experience the joy of being in the city of a Big Three championship for the first time in my life, I’m setting my sights on more modest goals. The things I’d most like to see happen in this game, precluding the upset of the century, include:
Let’s go Giants.
February 2nd, 2008 by Andrew Unterberger
Ah ya ya ya
It’s not rare that I experience genuine nostalgia much these days. I’ve recycled so many of the icons of my youth so many times that they feel almost as much a part of my college-age life as they do of my childhood, and so while everyone else rhapsodize about how they “haven’t heard that Third Eye Blind song in forever,” I keep silent and mouth the lyrics to myself, having listened to “Losing a Whole Year” and “The Graduate” just the month before. I don’t mind so much–to me, it’s generally more important to be able to draw on the pop culture of my early days, as of any other time, when I want to, than to keep memories pristine and unadulterated from my childhood days. But sometimes, I wish I could remember what it feels like to genuinely re-experience something that I haven’t encountered for a decade or so.
Tonight, I watched my first episodes of The Adventures of Pete & Pete since Middle School, if not longer. Really, I realize, classic Nickelodeon is one of the few corners of my pop culture adolescence that I haven’t been able to re-adopt, since much of it isn’t readily available on DVD and little of it is re-run on repertory TV. Consequently, shows like Pete & Pete form a vague impression in my mind–I remember certain characters, certain plot functions, even certain episode arcs, but the specifics of the show often elude me. As such, re-watching the show feels legitimately new again, despite the fact that I’ve probably seen all of the episodes multiple times before.
The biggest rush, though, came with hearing “Hey Sandy” again. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this song in years or anything–I actually re-discovered it recently, trying to remind myself as tow hat it sounded like. I didn’t remember it at all–in fact, if you’d played me the song a few years ago and asked me what show it was the theme song to, I probably would’ve just stared dumbly and guessed Party of Five or something (and yes, I know the theme to Po5 is actually The BoDeans’ classic “Closer to Free”). But listening to it, it feels so right and natural to me– as if reconnecting with a really old friend, me and “Hey Sandy” clicked instantly, like I’d known it all my life. I guess I have.
‘
It’s just a gorgeous song, honestly. The Creeds and Nickelbacks of the world, being the genre’s lasting impression, have caused people to forget about this wing of the post-grunge alt-verse, a faction of bands and songs that valued things like melody, harmony and wistfulness over overwroughtness, power and stupidity. And while I couldn’t tell you a single thing about Polaris apart from this song, “Hey Sandy” would earn them a place in jangle-pop immortality regardless, a song that in one round of “ay yay yay yays” can convey as much youthful excitement as the entire catalogue of the Raspberries and as much good-natured sweentess as the entire catalogue of Teenage Fanclub. And it’s still as quintessentially 90s as you can get, pretty much–the video that accompanies the Pete & Pete title sequence even looks exactly like a Lemonheads video.
I was talking with someone over the summer that was wearing a t-shirt of little-remembered MTV series The Head, and he expressed to me how he felt lucky to have been a part of mid-90s culture. I was so glad to hear someone else express that sentiment for once, since it was one I have tried to articulate for some time now. I feel honored to have a show like Pete & Pete be part of my formative years, and I feel positively blessed that a song like “Hey Sandy” should provide one of my bedrock musical experiences. Now, to see how well The Angry Beavers has held up.
February 1st, 2008 by Andrew Unterberger
Week #6 for Flo Rida at the top of the charts. I will admit that the chorus hook has proven to be one of the most insiduous of our young calendar year, but really, that’s no excuse. On the other hand, what we have waiting in the wings is little more appealing, with Chris Brown’s lukewarm “With You” up one to #3 and Alicia Keys’ ex-poler “No One” desperately clinging on to the #2 spot. 2008–off to a dynamite start.
There are rays of sunshine to be had in the top ten, however, one even in the top half, as Rihanna’s “Don’t Stop the Music” inches to #5 this week. The song is the closest thing to a straight house-pop number the top ten has seen in some time–which is to say, not very. But still, couldn’t you see a Justice or Daft Punk twisting those “MAMASEMAMASAMAMAKUSA” chants into a hypnotic Balaeric hook like this does? Mad props to Stargate for finally switching it up with this one. And then Snoop’s ultra-surreal “Sensual Seduction” up three to #8…hey, maybe ‘08 won’t be so bad after all, huh? (Interesting Note: In addition to being prominently sampled in “Don’t Stop the Music,” MJ’s “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” is also a new entry on the chart this week, in a remixed version for the Thriller 25th Anniversary edition featuring new verses by Akon–go figure).
Still, we’re working with a pretty staid top 50 this week, with snoozers from Keyeshia Cole (”I Remember,” 48-33) and Buckcherry (of all fucking bands, “Sorry,” 27-22) being among the only real movers. The one exciting new entry to be found comes courtesy of Lupe Fiasco, the Kanye disciple landing his first Top 40 hit with the Matthew Santos-featuring “Superstar,” rocketing up 24 to #36 this week. Not sure if this is really the best that Lupe can do, but considering he’s claiming to be retiring after his next album, he might not have time for a better crossover smash, and given that T-Pain is nowhere to be found on the song, I gotta give this my wholehearted approval.
The real story of the Billboard week is to be found in the album charts, as the Juno soundtrack has overtaken Alicia Keys’s As I Am to become perhaps the most unexpected #1 album since Kid A, if not even longer. I can’t say I support the majority of the music on the soundtrack–in fact, for the most part, the music was my least favorite part of the whole movie–but you know I’m a sucker for a good grassroots success, and this is as grassy and rootsy as it comes. Plus, there are a couple of songs on the soundtrack worth a d/l–Cat Power’s stunning cover of “Sea of Love,” for one, and Michael Cera and Ellen Page’s OK-Fine-I-Guess-It-Is-Actually-Kinda-Cute-And-Touching duet on the Moldy Peaches’ “Anyone Else But You” (and tracks by Mott the Hoople, Sonic Youth, The Velvet Underground and The Kinks, but you knew about those already so whatever). I’ll take it.
I wanted to do a featured section on the Mainstream Rock charts this week, but after listening to an assortment of the current riches held within–Hurt’s “Ten Ton Brick,” Godsmack & Ugly Kid Joe memebr-featuring supergroup Another Animal’s “Broken Again” and (Nikki) Sixx A.M.’s “Life is Beautiful”–the results were found to be too monotonously depressing to continue. Hey, at least we still got “Shadow of the Day” (and all told, I don’t really mind Seether’s 13-week #1 “Fake It” that much either). And The Eagles have a song called “Busy Being Fabulous” on the country charts, but it’s not even close to as hilarious as it should be.
January 31st, 2008 by Andrew Unterberger
Back in the saddle again–spoiler alerts abound
Plot Summary: Dan Evans (Christian Bale) is a down-on-his-luck rancher with a peg leg from his old war days, and a shadowy past that has left him shamed and in debt. To help allay his financial woes, he agrees to help transport legendary outlaw Ben Wade (Russell Crowe) to the titular train, where Wade will be imprisoned and presumably hanged. Waiting in the wings, however, are Wade’s crew, led by Wade’s trigger-happy second in command, Charlie Prince (Ben Foster).
Oscar Nominations: Best Score, Best Editing
Mini-Review: All right, it’s a remake, and as such I’m probably slightly unqualified to really talk about it, having never seen the Glenn Ford and Van Heflin-starring original. Still, whatever the roots, 3:10 to Yuma is the kind of Western I’d been hoping Hollywood would make for some time now, a throwback to the second Golden Age of the genre, and proof that the genre in one of its most classic forms–largley devoid of the revisionism, modernization or cartoonism that the genre has undergone in most latter day revivals–is still commercially and artistically viable. The acting is superb, the script is excellent, and the production rock solid. Might not break any new ground for the genre, but when you’re operating on this high a level, you don’t really have to.
Oscar Nod Worthiness: Marco Beltrami’s score deserves the nod for doing exactly what it should, heightening the movie’s sense of anxiety and excitement without proving obtrusive to the action. It sounds like a Western score–the occasional use of horns and rumbling flamenco guitar even suggest a classic Morricone work–but as with everything else in the movie, it feels appropriate without being excessively retro. The sound (by Paul Massey, David Giammarco and Jim Stuebe, as if you care) is similarly excellent, especially in the early chase sequences, where the sounds of thundering carriages, exploding guns and whizzing bullets create help make the sequences so memorably chaotic.
What About Me?: Given how time-urgent the story is, I’m sort of surprised the movie didn’t get an editing nod for moving at such a pulse-racing clip. Also, with his roles in Alpha Dog, My Name is Earl and now here as Charlie Prince, Ben Foster is quickly becoming the premier psychopathic badass in the biz, and this might be his most terrifyingly wide-eyed work yet, so I would’ve liked to have seen him in there for Best Supporting Actor.
If the Category Existed: Why isn’t there a Best Remake or Sequel Oscar yet, anyway? Someone’s gotta recognize. Oh, and Best First Half Performance for Peter Fonda’s excellent lawman Byron MacElroy, who sadly doesn’t hang around for the movie’s final two quarters.
Plot Summary: Jude (Jim Sturgess) is a British ex-pat in America at the dawn of the psychedelic 60s, trying to meet his estranged father and ending up at Princeton University. There he meets the rich, rebellious Max (Joe Anderson), who he becomes best friends with, as well as his sister Lucy (Evan Rachel Wood) with whom he falls in love. They move to San Fransisco, where they share an idyllic hippie existence with a bunch of fellow artists and musicians, until Vietnam forces Max into the military and drives a wedge in between Jude and Lucy. And oh yeah, there are a couple Beatles songs in there too.
Oscar Nominations: Best Costume Design
Mini-Review: Well, I didn’t hate it as much as I expected to–the previews made it look like a nightmare, a sort of spiritual successor to Ken Russell’s ghastly destruction of The Who’s Tommy a generation before. This definitely isn’t on that level, since some of the musical re-interpretations are actually kind of interesting (I particularly like the lonesome ballad of “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” and the blues instrumental of “A Day in the Life”), and a lot of the visuals are arresting, to say the least. It’s certainly not an unqualified success, though–the characters lack any sort of depth or personal connection, the script is fairly trite, and a couple of the musical numbers feel forced, to say the least (sorry, you just can’t hope to include songs like “Happiness is a Warm Gun” in a jukebox musical). At the very least, I don’t think I saw another 2007 movie that tried even half this hard.
Oscar Nod Worthiness: I wouldn’t say that the clothes in Across the Universe are particularly noteworthy, but Albert Wolsky’s costumes almost certainly still deserve the nod, if not the award, for sheer volume’s sake. With the Oscars, it’s usually supposed to quality over quantity, but considering the sheer amount of costuming that needed to be done for this movie–you might have 100 different characters within one minute of screentime, all in vastly differing wardrobes–the fact that it all looks even competent sort of blows my mind.
What About Me?: Nah, I think one Oscar nod’ll suffice for this one.
If the Category Existed: If there was a Best Adapted Screenplay that went to the original source material, maybe. Can song lyrics count as an original story?
Plot Summary Harlem gangster second-in-command Frank Lucas (Denzel Washington) emerges as the premier drug lord in New York after the death of his superior, selling a purer version of heroin with a controlled business ethic, and enlisting his family to help in his new enterprise. His rise to power is beset by rival drug dealers, unhappy underlings, and most of all, obsessive drug cop Richie Roberts (Russell Crowe), who is determined to bring the man to justice.
Oscar Nominations: Best Supporting Actress (Ruby Dee), Best Art Direction
Mini-Review: The previews for this one made it look like a black, street-level Godfather, and if the movie didn’t quite live up to that (of course, how could it), it was definitely a solid, well-acted and well-executed entertainer. Being based on a true story almost always hurts stories like this in the end, and the “fall” segment of American Gangster ends up particularly underwhelming, but hey, Jay-Z liked it enough to make a whole album based on it, so who am I to question?
Oscar Nod Worthienss: Must’ve been a pretty slow year for Supporting Actresses and Art Direction, considering the movie doesn’t take place nearly long enough ago or far enough away to qualify as a best AD nom in most years, and I barely remembered at first that Ruby Dee was even in the movie at all. Still, Dee somehow took home the Best Supporting Actress award at the SAGs, and stranger non-performances have taken home statues in years past, so I wouldn’t count her out of the race entirely. Can’t say I’m pulling for the ol’ girl, though.
What About Me? Denzel Washington and Russell Crowe, in potentially career-landmark performances, and Ruby freakin’ Dee is the one that gets the nod? Not that any of them really deserve Oscar consideration–all three essentially play variations on characters they’ve played practically dozens of times before–but Crowe and Washington are simply powerhouses, the former especially proving that, along with his dynamite work in 3:10 to Yuma, his Oscar career might’ve peaked too early.
If the Category Existed: Best Appropriation of Hip-Hop Culture Despite Taking Place Before 1973, certainly.
Plot Summary: Jesse James (Brad Pitt) is the fastest gunslinger in the West, but he’s seen better days, estranged from brother Frank (Sam Shepard) and starting to succumb to depression and paranoia. Enter Robert Ford (Casey Affleck), a James fanatic that joines up with his crew, and whose superfandom turns to jealousy and eventually hatred after having his insecurities twinged one time too many. Eventually, Ford is recruited by the cops to bring James to justice, with dire consequences for all involved.
Oscar Nominations: Best Supporting Actor (Casey Affleck), Best Cinematography
Mini-Review: Certainly more of a revisionist western than 3:10, Assassination portrays Jesse James as an extremely sad, almost tragic figure. One heist scene at the beginning is all you really get of Jesse as a romantic outlaw, and even then he seems a little unhinged. After that, it’s lots of James becoming consumed by his own fears and doubts, brilliantly exploited by the introduction of the overzealous Ford. Considering the movie’s length (160 minutes), pedigree and title, it’s a much smaller-feeling movie than you might predict, and thus far more moving and even a little more disturbing than you’d expect. A pleasant surprise, though a disappointment in that it shows Robert Ford’s murder in the film’s epilogue, preventing the possibility of sequel The Assassination of the Coward Robert Ford By the Even Bigger Coward Edward O’Keeley.
Oscar Nod Worthiness: Casey Affleck. Who knew? I haven’t gotten to Gone Baby Gone yet, but considering there are two movies in Oscar contention due to his involvement is certainly more than you’d think him capable of, at least after a cursory viewing of 200 Cigarettes. His Robert Ford is a brilliant creation, inspiring the perfect mix of pity, sympathy and disgust for the would-be assassin, and his drunken reaction to a balladeer’s condemnation of his character gets my vote for most arresting scene of the year. The cinematography, courtesy of Roger Deakins (a double-nom for this and No Country) is also key to the movie’s success, providing wide, dim landscape shots of open plains, wheat fields, and endless amounts of snow, perfectly reflecting the loneliness and chilliness of the characters’ devestated mindsets.
What About Me?: I could certainly have lived with Pitt getting some recognition, if for no other reason than because it’s such an un-Pitt character–you hear that Brad Pitt is playing a legendary gunslinger, and you certainly don’t picture the suspicious, tempermental, almost totally unsympathetic portrayal he gives of the Old West hero here.
If the Category Existed: Not like I even need to say it, but a slam dunk for Best Title.
Plot Summary: 13-year-old Briony Schwartz (Saoirse Ronan) is a precocious, young, rich English girl with a crush on the older Robbie Turner (James McAvoy), who is far more interested in Briony’s sister Cecilia (Keira Knightley), an affection that is reciprocated but unstated and unconsumated. After Briony witnesses and misinterprets a series of sexually-charged encounters between the two, her jealousy and her overactive imagination lead her to conclude Robbie a sexual predator, and when her friend Lola (Juno Temple) is raped, she mistakenly fingers Robbie as the culprit, a move which, once again, has dire consequences for all involved…
Oscar Nominations: Best Picture, Best Supporting Actress (Ronan), Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Cinematography, Best Art Direction, Best Costume Design, Best Score
Mini-Review: As with Across the Universe, not nearly as bad as I feared–I was afraid this was gonna be like one of those stupid Howard’s End-type prestige pictures where everyone gets up in arms over a whole lot of nothing, and while that was the general plot of this movie, it’s handled with far less preciousness than those movies, and executed far more interestingly. There’s even a plot twist of sorts at the end. Who knew period dramas could have plot twists?
Oscar Worthiness: The visual ones are pretty much all obligatory “this movie takes place among rich people more than 50 years ago, so we assume it looks pretty good” nods, but I guess you need at least one or two of those every year, so no harm really done. The score is kind of nifty–the way it incorporates the typewriter sound effects into the actual score is cool and creative (enough so, anyways). Hard to talk about the adapted screenplay having not read the book (which apparently a surprisingly large number of my friends and family actually have read, for some reason), but any movie with a script centered around the line “sweet, wet cunt” can’t be all bad I suppose. Saoirse Ronan is as good a precocious young 13-year-old as the movie could’ve asked for–her almost unhumanly wide eyes say her lines better than she ever could, but she still does well enough with ‘em to make her a worthy Obligatory Under-16 Nod (seems like there’s one every year, doesn’t it?) Best Picture, though? I can live with it, I guess. As long as it doesn’t win.
What About Me?: I remembered hearing pre-release buzz that Knightley was almost a shoo-in for Best Actress for this, but I guess that didn’t end up happening. Not sure if she really deserves it or not, but her absence is definitely striking (as is the snub of director Joe Wright, the one thing giving me hope that this isn’t going to take top honors).
If the Category Existed: Best Foreign Language Scene, for when the adult Briony has an entire conversation in French with a dying soldier, sans subtitles. Glad to get to test my vocab a little, even if the results were somewhat humbling.
January 30th, 2008 by Andrew Unterberger
If you watch The Wire but haven’t seen last week’s ep yet DON’T READ DON’T READ DON’T READ DON’T READ
Deaths come in threes, huh? First Brad Renfro, then Heath Ledger, and now one of the the pillars of The Wire’s cast–the too-soon-for-this-world Proposition Joe. In last week’s episode, Prop met his end at the hands of–who else–the increasingly satanic Marlo Stanfield, who not only peaced the big man after he essentially took the boy under his wing (arguably more out of misguided self-interest than legitimate paternal affection), but enlisted his own kin, Joe’s starting-to-look-somewhat-unreliable nephew Cheese (the until-recently criminally underused Method Man), to help make the deed possible.
I can’t say I was surprised when I saw this–that is, because I saw multiple spoilers on message boards from people who’d already On Demanded the ep a week early (whose idea was it to have different amounts of episodes aired on TV, available on demand, AND leaked to the internet, anyway?) Had I not been expecting it so explicitly, though, I imagine Joe’s death would’ve come as quite a shock, since I’d have marked Joe as one of the Wire characters sure to be chilling with the roaches after all the dust settles on the nuclear cloud that was sure to be Season Five of the show.
After all, Joe seemed a man that, above all else, knew how to survive. He wasn’t volatile, he wasn’t terribly ambitious, he never made waves where waves didn’t need to be made. Sure, he’s done his fair bit of double-dealing, semi-unwittingly beginning the rift between Avon and Stringer back in S2, and pitting Omar and Marlo against each other last season (a conflict whose still-unresolved status is sure to be one fo the main plot focuses of the remainder of the season). He caught flak occasionally, but mostly, he was always cunning and ahead-of-the-game enough to wheedle his way out of such sticky situations, and while peers fell by the wayside–murdered or imprisoned–Joe could always be found hanging around his repair shop, unassumingly running shit from his working man’s throne.
However, Joe was not without his tragic flaw. Pretty much all of the big street dealers in The Wire have one, which leads (often directly) to their downfall–Stringer’s ambition, Avon’s vanity, Marlo’s arrogance (assuming he ever has a downfall, anyway). Joe’s flaw, as illustrated by his curtain scene, was sentimentality. The man could be ruthless for certain when dealing with strangers and enemies (”You ever steal from me, I’ll kill your whole family,” he warns Omar after setting up a parlez between him and String), but he could not be so discompassionate when dealing with his nephew, whom he acknowledged as always being “a disappointment,” but could not find himself able to move against the boy until it was too late. Meanwhile, he probably should have nipped the Marlo problem in the bud as soon as he started racking up more and more (and higher profile) bodies. But being too enamored with the ideal of the co-op–which, apart from Marlo’s dissidence, appears to have been a surprisingly practical proposition–he hoped to integrate the psycopath instead of just disposing of him while he had the power to do so.
On the plus side, Joe’s death means open season for the rest of The Wire’s cast. Prop Joe’s death isn’t only surprisng, it’s pretty sad–you definitely grew to love the big man, despite his more duplicitous indescritions. Now, it seems like just about anyone could be next on the chopping block. One thing’s for certain, though–there’s gonna serious rioting from Wire fans at this point if Marlo isn’t added to the show’s body count by series’ end.
Joseph “Proposition Joe” Stewart, 195?-2008
January 23rd, 2008 by Andrew Unterberger
There will be duds
You’ve done it too. We all have. You’re watching The Oscars with friends and family, and some relatively unimportant category comes up, like, say, Best Costume Design. You don’t really care who wins, but it’s been an hour since they presented the Best Supporting Oscars, and another hour until they present the awards of actual consequence. So you boldly announce to whoever’ll listen not only your prediction as to what movie will win, but what movie should win–despite the fact that you’ve only seen one or two of the five movies nominated, and don’t remember anything about the costumes except that the movie took place a long time ago and you don’t recall anyone wearing actively anachronistic clothing. It’s a no-lose situation–if your choice wins, you look semi-brilliant, and if it doesn’t, well, whatever, who cares about stupid Best Costume Design anyways. But deep down, you know you’re even phonier than an actor trying to look excited about being selected to introduce the show’s Interpretive Dance segment.
Every year, as I continue to slack in my Oscar-geek duties in favor of catching Let’s Go to Prison or John Tucker Must Die on HBO2, I end up doing this more and more often. Well, no more, I say. In an effort to be absolutely fully informed for the first time in my Oscar watching lifetime, I have decided to watch every movie nominated for an Oscar this year in time for the 80th Academy Awards on Feb. 24th. Well, not every movie–in an effort to maintain something resembling sanity during this project, I’ll be forgoing movies nominated in Documentary, Foreign, or Short Film related categories. But besides those, I count 34 films nominated for at least one Oscar this year, only five of which I have seen and remember/understand enough to properly judge their Oscar credentials. That leaves 29 movies–or, roughly, one a day between now and the Big Show.
This journey will take me interesting places, no doubt. It’ll take me to movies that I’ve wanted to see but didn’t have time or opportunity to catch in the theaters (Gone Baby Gone, Michael Clayton, I’m Not There), movies I’ve seen but need a second viewing to eclipse their mind-blowingness (No Country for Old Men, There Will Be Blood), movies I know I should have seen but kind of dread watching anyway (Away From Her, Sweeney Todd), movies I was planning on waiting to catch on TBS or TNT in three years (Charlie Wilson’s War, The Golden Compass) and movies I was kind of hoping I’d be able to avoid for the rest of my life (Elizabeth: The Golden Age, Pirates of the Carribean: At World’s End). And oh yeah, there’s also Norbit.
Far be it from me to start playing favorites, though, and by this time next month I’ll have seen all of them (glorious invention, that internet). I’ll be writing about them intermittently, hopefully in alphabetical order, running down their merits as movies and as Oscar contenders. Which is a more deserving Academy Award receipient, Surf’s Up or Persepolis? Can Janusz Kaminski out Cinematograph Roger Deakins? For which of the three nominees from Enchanted shout Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz be stocking up on their gold polish? For once, we shall know all these answers, and more.
Join me, won’t you? It’s not like there’s anything else TV-related that should be grabbing your attention at the moment.
January 23rd, 2008 by Andrew Unterberger
No quitting puns please
One of my favorite things about 00s film was the way it gave me reason to full-out root for Heath Ledger. Even in his schlockiest days, I’d always suspected there was something a little more to him, and to watch him prove me righter and righter as the years went on was really a sight to behold. And that’s why when I heard of his death earlier today, I wasn’t just sad, I was downright pissed off. This wasn’t someone like Brad Renfro whose best days were clearly already behind him–this was someone who was only going to get better as the years went on, and for him to shuffle off before getting a chance to really prove that isn’t just tragic, it’s fucking annoying as hell.
Not to say that Ledger’s career was blemishless. He’s had his fair share of flops and under-performers in recent years, ranging from Ned Kelly to The Order and The Brothers Grimm (if you don’t remember what some of those were about, or that they were even released at all, you’re certainly not alone). But ignoring his missteps–and everyone besides Daniel Day-Lewis has aat least a couple of those on their resume–and Ledger accomplished with ease what seems to be virtually impossible for most. He matured from an above-average teen actor, to just an actor. And a damn good one.
Ten Things I Hate About You will always be the way I best remember Ledger (as well as Gabrielle Union, Julia Stiles, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and that asshole prettyboy guy who’s in everything), and that’s not such a bad thing. It’s Ledger’s chemistry with Stiles elevated Ten Things far above She’s the Man and nearly into West Side Story or The Lion King territory for mod-day Shakespeare adaptations. A Knight’s Tale and The Patriot followed, further proving Ledger’s skill at transcending mediocre product with his charm and acting (and the fact that the latter didn’t wreck his career entirely is perhaps the kindest eulogy of all).
Were such movies the sole claims to fame for Ledger, he would certainly have been lost to time. But Ledger lucked out on two iconic roles that should provide him with legend status on their own–Ennis in Brokeback Mountain and The Joker in The Dark Knight, the latter of which some say might’ve nonetheless driven him to desperation. Most actors are unbeievably lucky to get one such role, but to get two–straddling the critical and the commercial, the cult and the mainstream–cements your status as a legend. The fact that Dark Knight isn’t even out yet barely seems relevant, the screen caps look amazing, post-prod is over, and if the teaser doesn’t at least pique your interest, you need to trurn on your respirator or ESPN in the morning type stuff.
I wouldn’t say that Heath went down in his prime, exactly–he just died on the young side. I find this find most tragic of all–Heath still had so far to go, he could’ve been a Brando or a Norton at least if he had just stuck around a little longer. Cut down in his prime? Not even afforded that luxury.