So, hype's a funny thing. On Friday I went and saw Swedish sensation Jens Lekman (pictured), a crooner with a melifluous voice, ecstatic musical arrangements, and a rabid following. I've been digging his last album Night Falls Over Kortedala, a worthy follow-up to the collected here-and-there's of Oh You're So Silent Jens. But a strange thing happened at the show. Well, two strange things really. First, there was this old dude in a rumpled white button-down, sandals, and jeans, hand-clapping like Hillary Clinton at a Baptist church, while beatifically grinning and looking around the room for validation or partners--not sure which. That was kind of strange. Secondly, I realized that, wait, Jens kind of sucks. Well, not totally. The points above still stand, but his live show exposed something incredibly off-putting about his craft and about his personality: the man has the thoughts of an awkward, daft fifteen-year-old (on haircuts: "It's like a religious experience."), and feels the need to channel them into the most saccharine of lyrics. I'm not sure why this hadn't really bothered me before. Maybe I chalked it up to ESL issues, but standing there, taking in his set--the mics turned up a bit too high, static disrupting the joys of his cute, flower-uniformed violinists--I started to feel embarrassed for him:
Tram number one is full of fun/
Tram number two is couchie coo/
Tram number three has misery/
Tram number four knocks at your door/
Tram number five, I'm still alive/
Tram number six, I think I'm fixed/
Tram number seven/
Tram number seven to heaven
I'd been swept up in the hype.
Then on Sunday I went to see extremely hyped film, Michael Clayton, prepared to be disappointed despite (in fact because of) the critical drool it's inspired, but then another strange thing happened. It was an astonishing. I've little new to say about it, other than the fact that I am thankful there are movie stars like George Clooney around, ones who risk their movie star goodwill for films that our fat, dumb country won't go see. How long can that possibly last? As the writer's strike drags on, and an increasing emphasis is put on the bottom line (especially with b.s. fears that piracy is cutting into studio profits) how many movies for adults can we really expect in the coming years?
I'd been swept up in the hype.
Then on Sunday I went to see extremely hyped film, Michael Clayton, prepared to be disappointed despite (in fact because of) the critical drool it's inspired, but then another strange thing happened. It was an astonishing. I've little new to say about it, other than the fact that I am thankful there are movie stars like George Clooney around, ones who risk their movie star goodwill for films that our fat, dumb country won't go see. How long can that possibly last? As the writer's strike drags on, and an increasing emphasis is put on the bottom line (especially with b.s. fears that piracy is cutting into studio profits) how many movies for adults can we really expect in the coming years?
In the near term, at least, we have an adaptation of Ian McEwan's heart-strangling masterpiece; P.T. Anderson's latest opus, a reimagining of Upton Sinclair's Oil!; The Coen Brothers' adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's grim No Country for Old Men, for them a return to Blood Simple days; and a new work by Sidney Lumet. With the exception of the first, which likely will get the Titanic schmaltz treatment, none of these films will justify the cost of making them. For Hollywood then, what's the incentive not to make Saw V?
