Wings Of Desire [Dir. Wim Wenders]

Those of you who read the above title and assume, as I once did, that you are unfamiliar with the film in question are, most unfortunately for everyone, quite mistaken. You see, Wings Of Desire is a film that most people (and by people, I mean, of course, North Americans) are at least somewhat familiar with. Why is that? Because, as is too often the case with foreign-language masterpieces such as this, Hollywood decided it needed to do an English-language remake. Because, obviously, subtitles are like, totally lame and hard to read. The steaming pile of --- poorly acted, schmaltzy, Goo Goo Dolls-soundtracked, completely-misses-the-point-in-every-conceivable-way --- shit in question?

Why, City Of Angels, of course.

But let’s not get stuck on that. Sure, after watching Wings Of Desire my hatred for the Hollywood whore-factory that allows such bastardizations to be made (and, even worse, to be made with great financial success) is freshly re-ignited. However, none of this is the fault of the film being discussed here, and I fear focusing too much on what-they-got-wrong-in-the-remake will overshadow and obscure all-they-got-right-in-the-original, which, to be quite honest, is just about everything.

Wings Of Desire, released in 1987 and set in Berlin, tells the story of an angel who grows tired of his ageless immorality, spent endlessly observing, but never experiencing, human life, and decides to forsake his painless but (literally) black-and-white world in order to join the ranks of the living, with all its myriad colours, even if that means suffering; even if it means eventually having to die.

Deeply philosophical, meditative, beautifully acted and gorgeously shot, with a terrific soundtrack, Wings Of Desire is the kind of movie that one watches not realizing that their mouth has fallen open in complete and utter awe. A love story, certainly, but one built with such graceful artistry, such appreciation for the minute and all-important details of life and what exactly it is to be human, that it reaches a level of transcedance and evocation that great art so often attempts but so rarely achieves.

A special mention must also go the work of Peter Falk, better known to older generations as Lt. Columbo, who plays himself (and perhaps a bit more) in what is easily the most inspired bit of stunt-casting I have ever had the pleasure of viewing.

I, for one, am now very psyched to see some of Wenders’ other films (Wings being my first foray into both his work and German-cinema in general). Criterion, ever the handy resource, is releasing Paris, Texas early next year, till then I suppose it’s the video store for me.

Enjoy.

Smog - Knock Knock

I tried once, maybe five years ago, to get into the band Smog. Spurred on by my enjoyment of the single "I Feel Like The Mother Of The World" I decided to download some random albums of theirs (or, more accurately, his, because Smog is undoubtedly a one-man show), in this case Red Apple Falls and The Doctor Came At Dawn, to see if perhaps this was an artist worth obsessing over. Turns out that Bill Callahan (who is Smog, though not anymore) was worth my adoration, I just didn't know it back then, listening to each album only once before relegating them to the eternal abyss of the modern hard-drive.

After Joanna Newsom, Callahan's then-girlfriend, released her album Ys., which featured a Smog-guest vocal on centerpiece song "Only Skin", I briefly considered giving his work another chance. But it wasn't until this year's Bill Callahan solo-album (for he has, as of late, retired the Smog moniker), Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle, that I decided to return to the Smog catalogue and reap the many rewards that, it turns out, were always there waiting for me.

Which brings us to 1999's Knock Knock, my favourite-so-far Smog album (though I thing both Red Apple Falls and Dongs Of Sevotion are absolutely amazing, too). Rumoured to be (and certainly sounding like) a breakup album about Chan Marshall (a.k.a. Cat Power), Knock Knock is a harrowing collection of mostly dark, minor-chord laments on love and loss, often very slow and always very minimal. That isn't to say that the album doesn't have its moments of brevity, but even lighter and/or warmer-sounding songs like "Teenage Spaceship" and "Hit The Ground Running" deal with lyrical themes and ideas that are either mournful or troubling (or both), though with more hidden optimism than some of the more relentlessly negative numbers.

Lyrically, Callahan is ever-full of evocative imagery. Probing the coldness and isolation of mankind with a poet's keen and steel-eyed gaze. Not to mention that "Cold Blooded Old Times" is a title so good that it wouldn't seem out of placed next to the name Cormac McCarthy. Sample lyric:

Cold-blooded old times
The type of memories
That turn your bones to glass
Turn your bones to glass.

Awesome, eh? It's just too bad the song got placed on the not bad soundtrack-wise but awful film-wise High Fidelity OST. Bah. Oh well.

So kids, the lesson here is this: listen to more Smog. Or else, maybe, just don't write things off after hearing/seeing/reading/dating them once. Because sometimes the second (or third) time is the charm (and sometimes shit just sucks, but I digress . . .)

Oh, and there's a song from the album available for download below so no excuses . . .

Enjoy.

MP3: Smog - "Hit The Ground Running"

The Complete Monterey Pop Festival [Dir. D.A. Pennebaker]

To say I have a soft spot for rock and roll is something of an understatement. I find the form so stupidly transcendant I often wonder at the scale of my adoration. That being said, I'm not terribly well versed in concert films/documentaries, I mostly get lost in "the album" and ignore the visual documentation though the reasons for this are a bit more complex than one might think.

Obviously I've seen The Last Waltz and Stop Making Sense, and I've seen Don't Look Back and Dig! and The Devil & Daniel Johnston (the latter three being certainly more documentary than concert) but when it comes to concert films, that is, films in which live performances of songs or sets are recorded, well . . . these days the whole affair is just so tepid and anti-septic and, dare I say it, boring that I've sort of checked out for the most part. I think the problem mostly has to do with the lack of actual film-makers (and by this I mean artists) making films about music and the abundance of bands who allow artless but techinally sound cameramen to make their concert films --- scratch that, because these aren't films, they are just video-recordings of shows --- which are generally straight-to-DVD and feature mostly unabridged sets shot in a perfectly accessible manner with quality sound (and now in HD!) but lack totally any and all sense of soul.

That's why when I see something like Monterey Pop, directed by D.A. Pennebaker (who also did the Dylan-doc Don't Look Back), my mind is so thoroughly blown; my eyes entranced for the entire proceedings. And I was high, too, but that's beside the point. Because Monterey Pop is a film. It's not just a recording of a band (or, in this case, a bunch of bands) playing. It captures more than just music, it captures everything about what makes music great in an inventive and emotionally evocative way: the colours are vibrant and swirling; the cameras cascade from inventive shot to inventive shot; the bands explode off the stage, brought to life before our very eyes. No one performing here is simply going through the motions, each band gives a spirited performace, some even going to far as to be maniacal (both Pete Townshend and Jimi Hendrix brutally destroy their guitars, the only difference being that Hendrix sets his on fire first). In truth, none of the bands on here are favorites of mine (well, except Hendrix, and I do enjoy The Who and Otis Redding quite a bit) but the way the film is paced, the way it so clearly demonstrates the love for its subjects (and the powers which they possess) pulls me past all that, invites me in, holds me. Not to mention that the very long and absolutely stunning closing performance by sitar master (and Norah Jones seeder) Ravi Shankar made me hop over to eBay the very next morning to purchase some of his used LPs. Talk about learning something new.

It's also worth noting that this deluxe boxset features an extra disc with complete sets by Hendrix and Redding, the former set being nearly three times as long as the latter. Oh, and it also includes over two hours (!) of outtake performances. All that combined I can't see why any fan of rock and roll (or, specifically, I guess, classic rock, though that title is troublesome) would not want to see this. As for me, I feel an intense desire to go back and explore this mostly dead style of music film-making, which is convenient since Criterion (who do a great job with this package) is releasing Gimme Shelter, a Rolling Stones performance-documentary about the tragic Altamont killings, this upcoming Tuesday.

Now if only I could get P.T. Anderson to make an epic Radiohead concert film then all would be right in the world.

Enjoy.