Like the NYFF's other Korean title, Hong's latest is interested in how life is transmogrified into art, and draws conclusions that seem credible because of how open-ended the relationship ultimately is. In Hong's 11th feature since 1996, and his second of the year (Hahaha, like last year's Like You Know It All, was passed over by the NYFF), Hong's threads his by-now familiar themes—youthful romantic gaffes and the lingering pain they fuel in midlife; the petty spats and deepening disappointments of the professional artistic life; how groups interact over alcohol and how pairs interact on long walks—through four shorts, the first and last seemingly the respective student films by a couple who appear in the middle two, and all explicitly or obliquely shaded by the female student's affair with their professor, who appears as an actor in both the student films, advises them in the second segment, and is the subject of the third.
If I were a steak, which I often imagine myself in times of great confidence, I would be cooked medium rare with some sort of peach glaze, topped with bleu cheese and served on one of those plates that is lit on fire before it is placed before its victim. If I were a beer, I would be Abita Purple Haze, because I think very highly of myself. And if I were a restaurant, I think I would be the Hill Country Farmhouse in Flatiron, because it is awesome.
A Red Hook sludge boat: The Department of Environmental Protection has three boats in New York harbor whose sole purpose is to transport sludge, and this is your chance to tour the largest of the fleet. Just don't fall into the sludge, because whatever superhero you turn into thereafter will have really gross superpowers.
Q.Stuart, I really love you guys and I've been so excited to finally see B&S in concert that I'm willing to do almost anything, including standing outside all night in a torrential rainstorm (I've got all my rain gear on!), but I'm really having doubts about going now because of the hazardous driving conditions (my street is already flooded and it's only been raining a few hours). This weather is an absolute disaster and I've been stressing over it for days! Whether you're able to play tonight or you end up canceling because of flooding or thunder, would you consider coming back to New York again? Even if it's not until next year? Just so I (and the other fans who aren't able to make it to Brooklyn today) have something to hold onto to?
A. if it can't go ahead, then we'll do everything possible to rearrange for the end of october, and if that's not happening, then of course we'll be back! come on, it's NY!
but i must stress, that as i write we're still all go for tonight..
will advise furthur later
I took some time out from my daily manic rampages to ask Electric Lit co-founder Andy Hunter what the hell he thought he was doing...
I was having a really hard time deciding whether this is more embarrassing or enjoyable, but when Fallon and Timberlake go into the studio audience to end with "Empire State of Mind," the balance tips towards the former. Still, watching two grown white men doing "Crank That (Soulja Boy)" has a certain undeniable appeal. (TheDailyWhat)
Xavier Beauvois's Of Gods and Men played this Saturday and Monday at the 48th New York Film Festival. Sony Classics will release the film next year.
Films about religious faith that come from a secular perspective free themselves from the burden of advocating dogma or tenets: the ritualized, physical aspects of devotion are hypnotic in and of themselves, even for non-believers. And Xavier Beauvois knows physical: his last feature, 2005’s Le Petit Lieutenant, is as nuts-and-bolts depiction of routine police drudgery as there is. So why is Of Gods and Men—his chronicle of the last days of French Trappist monks killed in Algeria in 1996 as sharia-advocating insurgents ran riot—so strangely enervated? Religious devotion should be filmed ascetically, as Bresson showed by example and films like Alain Cavalier’s Therese wisely copied; Beauvois treats monkish ritual like an editorial timekeeping device in an otherwise conventional film.
On paper, last night’s bill made complete sense: three of-the-moment bands bound by a common interest in noise and melody. In reality though, they take noise and melody and cut them in three very different, distinct ways. This becomes clear in a live setting. On the verge of their debut full-length release, Small Black consistently knocked the chillwave label they commonly get tagged with. Singer Josh Kolenik's high-strung vocals fell high in the mix for the majority of the time, for one. Two: that kid just wants to dance. Sure, he was more inclined to sway dreamily during the sad, romantic, Jesus & Mary Chain-indebted hit “Despicable Dogs” (at which point the stage lights were turned exceedingly low to help set "the mood"), but opener "Weird Machines" welcomed playful bouncing along. Even the more echoey, bleary-eyed songs were infused with quirky elements — usually spiraling, spacey effects — enough to make the guitarist’s seriously awesome “Crazy for Swayze” t-shirt not completely out of place.
Dave Kehr's Times obit, linked above, is as ever definitive, and perhaps the best thing I can think to say about Tony Curtis is that, as his final gift to an adoring public, he left behind an obituary that's a hell of a lot of fun to read, from his coded object-of-desire performance in "Spa-rat-a-cus" to his private life as "vigorous heterosexual" to a rundown of a fascinating, sometimes troubled career in the late days of the Hollywood studio system and beyond. Keep up with the Notebook for more news and tributes.
Our national stage-managed pageant of personality disorder and megalomania continues. We suck.
Walking around North Brooklyn yesterday afternoon, Miss Heather spotted none other than Neo in quaint Greenpoint town, explaining the finer points of his acting craft to a young co-star between takes on Manhattan Avenue. We're glad he seems to have overcome the melancholy that had plagued him lately.
A "festival film" (both descriptively and pejoratively) carries with it certain expectations. The most crucial: no matter how vile things get, carefully composed long shots, anti-suspenseful editing and a general contempt for what-happens-next narrative momentum will keep the audience decently removed, safely assured the director is on the same liberal-humanist page. So how to respond to a film like My Joy, which is incoherent if you ignore its agenda and objectionable if you do? Myopia. There's no way around it: My Joy has no values to throw yourself behind. Like Alexei Balabanov's Cargo 200, it has technical merits to spare and moral ones to gain.
A German company that really manufactures, installs and maintains gold bar-distributing ATMs, which is really called Gold To Go, is bringing its first U.S. machines to locations in Florida and Las Vegas. When the global economy collapses for good, get gold to go! (TheDailyWhat)
Ryan McGinley, beloved photographer of pretty young people in various states of undress (or playing sports!), recently shared his photo diary with his fashion label equivalent, Opening Ceremony. The cameo-, kiss- and Hamony Korine-filled set is your required gossipy watching for the evening. Or, here are the best parts, beginning with Ryan and designer agnès b. locking tongues.
Weather does most of the heavy lifting in Silent Souls: remote Russia in a permanent November, endless hills and woods blanketed in cold and wet, with the occasional footbridge undulating over a river, or old temple barely visible through the mist, and often framed through rain-streaked car windows, for an extra sense of benumbed remoteness. It's easy to mistake the film for an exquisitely morose journey through the chilled and ancient soul of Russia—except that most of what fills the screen is so painfully, self-seriously inane.
When I was 19, I went to a bar. I'm not proud of it, but I did. What I'm even more ashamed of was that while there, before I could order my Harpoon Oktoberfest, a woman in a short red dress came up to me and asked if I wanted some free Molson Canadian beer. It was one of those dresses that come in the packaged Halloween costumes from brands like "Leg Avenue" and "Babydoll Temptress." I think her particular outfit had been a nurse costume, because there was still a cross above the Molson Canadian patch she had sewn on the breast.
Menke started her career cutting together the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie before Q.T. gave her the splicers for Reservoir Dogs; she went on to cut every Tarantino film thereafter, as well as the occasional movie (like Mulholland Falls and All the Pretty Horses) for others. It looks like her last credit, after Inglourious Basterds, will be the well-cast but straight-to-DVD Peacock.
John Legend and The Roots covered Arcade Fire's "Wake Up" last week at Terminal 5, really driving home the fact that they have a new collaborative album out called Wake Up!, plus Legend has always been into the whole positive life-affirming thing, so the song choice makes sense we suppose. They played it pretty close to the orginal, just adding more synchronized fist pumping from the trio of backup singers. For your viewing pleasure, let's take a look at who else have taken on the Canadian mega power, to varying degrees of success. Judging hat: on.
"Pumpgun Ronnie" was the name the Austrian press gave to the man who, armed with a shotgun and disguised in a Reagan mask, went on a bankrobbing spree there in the late 1980s; aside from inspiring Point Break, this man, Johann Kastenberger, was in fact an accomplished marathoner. With his adaptation of Martin Prinz's historically close-hewing novel Der Räuber, Benjamin Heisenberger makes another movie about a bank robber who does it for the rush: Johan Rettenberger, as he's called here (Andreas Lust), goes out on cross-country runs, and robberies, with a heart-rate monitor strapped to his chest.
Merry Muthafuckin' Christmas - Eazy-E is def my favorite These two dudes hanging Christmas lights…
In my defense, it works either way, & I love your stuff...
Ha - never mind, just re-read it properly for the 1st time (LOL)