If anyone on the planet Earth makes a better beef stew than Mark Rabinowitz... no, that's not right, let me put it this way...

Nobody on the planet Earth makes a better beef stew than Mark Rabinowitz.

I experienced the Rabbi's culinary magic for the first time several years ago, and while SixFive and I reminisce about that meal to this very day, that memory pales in comparison to the plate of greatness I ate earlier tonight. Words can't describe how incredible the Rabbi Stew really is. I actually made moaning noises as I was eating it. A friendly heads up to all you available ladies out there, Mark Rabinowitz is the man you should be trying to marry.

Tomorrow at 1:45 a group of us are going to experience BEOWOLF in 3D IMAX at Lincoln Square. I just spent a few hours making "JOLIE IN 3D!!!" t-shirts. I plan to take a last-day-of-summer-camp type of photo with all of us in the shirts and 3D glasses to commemorate this special event.

Bummer that the THERE WILL BE BLOOD screening sold out, but thankfully a good amount of folks purchased in the nick of time (Zobel, Bronstein, Gebert, Rizzo, Craycroft, Wingo, etc.). December 11th can't come fast enough...

All praises due, once again, to the honorable David Lowery for informing me about an upcoming Museum of Moving Image sponsored screening of THERE WILL BE BLOOD at the Chelsea West on December 11th. Both PTA and DDL will be in attendance. While I'm sure I could find my way into a free screening sometime within the next few weeks, these are the reasons why I live in New York City and so I have sucked it up and bought a ticket for what promises to be a very special night. Go here to buy tickets for yourself.

Speaking of special nights, Max Richter more than delivered last night. The set list played like the COCAINE ANGEL soundtrack, something that I tried very hard to ignore, but it was just about impossible not to. Max said that he's trying to arrange a more legitimate tour in the spring, and I hope that comes to fruition, because I could certainly use a night like that in my life at least once or twice a year. Soooooo pretty.

But back to the honorable David Lowery, whose latest contribution to the "Ola Podrida Music Video Project" is another fine achievement. While the Ola Podrida record has no lesser tracks on it, album closer "Eastbound" is a particularly beautiful number. Teaming up with Barlow Jacobs (LOW AND BEHOLD), David delivers an inspired interpretation of the other David's sad and pretty song. Watch it in funky fresh HD right here, or if you're too lazy to click on the link watch a lower res version right here:

Ola Podrida - Eastbound from David Lowery on Vimeo.

First off, I'd just like to say, with regards to tonight's Gotham Awards victories by Craig Zobel and Ronnie Bronstein... let's see now, how should we say this... how about this:

MOTHERFUCK YES!!!

More to come at the Spirit Awards, no fuckin' doubt about that. Tonight was a blast. I'll point everyone in the direction of my pictorial recap once I get that joint uploaded to Flickr. But for now, at this very moment, there are far more pressing matters to address. Or actually, there is only one matter to address, and that matter goes by the name of:

MAX RICHTER

Yes, folks, in just over twelve hours, I will be sitting in a church, waiting to experience a live musical experience that is certain to fill me with epic tingles. That live musical experience is none other than Max Richter's first ever North American appearance. I can't believe, after this many years and sooooo many listens, that I'll be watching Max Richter's music unfurl in front of me, before my very own eyes. Life isn't as bad as I'd like to think it is. It's actually quite beautiful. Tomorrow night is going to prove that.

Since I crawled out of my timid, insecure ass and became a feature filmmaker, many incredible things have happened. But nothing has rivaled the day when I made nine out of ten free throws in my parents' driveway, walked inside, called Scotland, and spoke to Max Richter on the telephone. To have an idol, a hero--basically someone way up there--treating you as an equal, complimenting your work, giving you their blessing to incorporate their sparkling magic into your tiny vision... it really justified all of the debt and exhaustion and, okay, I'll fucking say it here because you come here for the truth and the truth is what you're going to get, goddamn it, the hemorrhoids... to have someone so far away all of a sudden be standing right there beside you... it's a feeling that doesn't happen very often yet it is one that I hope everyone will experience at least once in their tiny lifetime. So I am forever indebted to Max Richter for his generosity. I cannot wait to see and hear him playing the piano in person in just under twelve hours, releasing melodies that will fill me with nostalgia, that will inspire me, that will bring tears to my eyes, that will flood me with emotion, that will remind me of life's complicated goodness.

Here's a minor piece I put together a while back, set to Max's "Vladimir's Blues." It's pretty to me. I hope it's at least kinda-sorta-somewhat pretty to you...

Tonight brings the first big awards event of the year, The Gothams, which makes today exciting enough (I will be back in NYC in time to attend the Kodak party--save some room for me at the bar, please), but the just-announced Spirit Award nominations has me almost as excited as if I had been nominated myself (I have to confess a major swell of disappointment that I didn't get nominated for Best Supporting Male in QUIET CITY, but I guess I'll let that one slide). I would like to applaud the nominating committee members for spotlighting so much great work. Some highlights:

IFC/Acura Someone to Watch Award

To prove that true artistry and extraordinary talent don't get swept under the rug, Ronnie Bronstein has received another big nomination in the Someone to Watch category. As I wrote recently, if FROWNLAND doesn't win the Gotham tonight I will eat my iPod. I'm not going to make the same declaration with regards to the Spirit nomination, but I still think that this award was made for someone like Ronzo Bronzo and I will be pulling for him, as much as I support the other nominees (Full Disclosure: I've yet to see either of Ramin Bahrani's lauded features, which makes me feel like a disconnected loser, since my hunch is that they are both very much up my alley; the same goes for what I've read about Lee Isaac Chung's MUNYURANGABO).

Truer Than Fiction Award

It's great to see Laura Dunn get recognized for THE UNFORESEEN, which is one of the most powerful works I've seen this year. Her Q&A at the SXSW screening I attended left me wanting to either give her an enormous hug or vote for her for president. I've seen it twice and it wowed me both times (unlike some double-viewings I've had this year, a strange concept I will address in my nerdily comprehensive year-end wrap-up). I also support the decision to nominate Gary Hustwit for the unexpectedly electrifying HELVETICA. But it is the last nominee that made me elicit a verbal, Yes!, into my empty bedroom. I saw John Maringouin's RUNNING STUMBLED in Rotterdam back in 2006 and it left me disoriented and spun for days. I was convinced the film would cause quite a stir back in the States, but for some reason John got more rejections than acceptances. Granted, his film isn't the easiest pill to swallow--it's actually like ingesting twenty-seven toxic pills at once, then being dropped in an angry, unfamiliar town and told to find your own way home--but I consider it to be an undeniably powerful work. John's decision to stay out of the way and not stick his own filmmaker/victim perspective into the narrative is no doubt what turned so many people off, but that is exactly what made it so unforgettable to me. Hopefully this attention will enable RUNNING STUMBLED to find an audience at home here in the States. It deserves it.

Best First Feature

I was hoping that Craig Zobel's truly excellent debut, GREAT WORLD OF SOUND, would get many nominations, but this is the most important one, I think. GREAT WORLD OF SOUND is this year's little indie that could, and it remains one of the smartest and most sincere movies I've seen this decade. Congratulations to everyone on the GWOS team. Whether or not Craig wins any awards at the Gothams tonight, I can't wait to meet up with the You And What Army crew to raise several glasses to all of this supercool news.

John Cassavetes Award

This category is the other one that caused me to get vocal when I saw the nominees. I'm dying to see THE POOL, but I haven't been able to yet. I also haven't seen OWL AND THE SPARROW or AUGUST EVENING, but if the filmmakers of AUGUST EVENING saw fit to license Ola Podrida's "Cindy," then they're definitely doing something right. The last two nominees are what gave me the biggest thrill. I've received countless emails from people saying something to the effect of, "I'm not really into the whole 'mumblecore' thing, but I really liked QUIET CITY!" Aaron Katz's sophomore film is a lesson in how to not let a lack of budget stand in your way. I'm so happy for Aaron and Brendan and Ben and Andy and Cris and Erin. You guys totally deserve all the positive attention that you've gotten! Which leads into the last film in the category. While I haven't seen many other nominees, for my money, it would be difficult to top the achievement that is Jeff Nichols' SHOTGUN STORIES. As I wrote after seeing it in Newport, this film does not have one false note. I feel like this category was created for films like SHOTGUN STORIES, those works which transcend their limitations to be as gorgeous, striking, and affecting as "big budget" movies. Basically, SHOTGUN STORIES feels like a big budget movie, and that's what makes it so remarkable. Again, congratulations to Jeff and Adam and Mike Shannon and Lisa and everyone who joined forces to create such a beautiful film.

Best Supporting Male

Once again, the cream rises to the top, and Kene Holliday's incredible performance in GREAT WORLD OF SOUND wasn't about to be forgotten. But it's still great to see him nominated. Whether or not he wins tonight or at the Spirits, it can't take away that breathtaking monologue, which remains for me one of the most powerful displays of acting virtuosity of 2007.

Lastly, we must congratulate David Gordon Green, who has proven himself with this year's nominations to be not only a gifted writer and director, but an exceptional producer as well. David is recovering from jaw surgery at the moment (a New Orleans bar brawl gone wrong--while he's always getting into fracases like that, this one spun wayyy out of control), so hopefully this bit of good news will take some of the pain away.

Of course, there are many outstanding films that didn't make the cut, but I'm choosing to harp on the good rather than the bad this time around. So, hooray to everyone!

How To Avoid A Stressful Thanksgiving Weekend

I realize that it's too late now, but for future reference, I have a hearty piece of advice for all of you filmmakers out there who spent this past weekend biting your fingernails and not sleeping or sleeping but having crazy nightmares and worrying-worrying-worrying while praying-praying-praying for the telephone to ring. My advice to you is this:

NEXT YEAR, DON'T MAKE A FILM.

It's really that simple. Just don't do it. That way you won't have anything to submit to festivals--big or small--next year. This conscious lack of effort, this proactive unproductivity, will automatically remove the stress of having to wait around for those excruciating calls/emails/letters from dazed and exhausted programmers. Boo-ya. Lickity-splickity. You can put your clothes back on. Dr. Tully has cured your disease. Goddamn, that was easy.

I'm speaking from personal experience, of course. I didn't direct a film in 2007, thereby giving me nothing to submit to the first flurry of film festivals for 2008. And I must say, this has been one of the most pleasant, relaxing Thanksgiving weekends that I can remember. I watched a ton of college basketball and college football, saw a bunch of movies, ate pounds upon pounds of good food, hung out with my family, and got to play with these three cuties:

It's funny. This summer I was a little concerned when I knew that I wasn't going to have a film finished in time to hit the festival circuit in 2008. After two very-very fun years presenting my first two films to audiences at many different festivals, I thought I might be swallowed by a crushing wave of failure when winter arrived this year and I knew I had nothing to look forward to in that regard. But here I am, sitting on a couch at my parents' house, watching OJ Mayo and USC play Southern Illinois, fully aware that filmmakers all over the country are feeling blasts of extreme joy or disappointment, fully aware that I couldn't be further from making another movie if I were the neighbor's dog, and at this very moment, I feel great about it. Of course, this will probably change in the coming weeks, when announcements are made and my natural cycle dips back into the mud, but for now, I'm enjoying this surprisingly peaceful state of being.

I fully concur with AJ Schnack's feelings with regards to Sundance. Nothing against that festival, but I would love nothing more than to establish a credible filmmaking career without ever having screened my work there. And so far I've done surprisingly well. So take it from me, folks. Don't hang yourself if you don't get into Sundance. Wait until you get rejected from South by Southwest, then hang yourself!

In all seriousness, if I may get a tiny bit negative before I depart for the day, I would like to point out something that I find deeply troubling when it comes to Sundance (and I will try to be as vague as possible so as not to implicate anyone directly). Let's just say that I have a friend working on a film that was submitted to this year's festival. To get right down to business, I was deeply disturbed when this friend told me that Sundance called them and gave them a very dramatic editorial ultimatum (for the record, perhaps it was only a strong suggestion, but when you're dealing with a festival that has such a profound influence, these aren't mere suggestions). Is nobody bothered by this type of behavior? Shouldn't a director or producer be the person to decide how long a film is going to be, or which characters the film is going to focus on? I'm sure the selection committee is extremely insightful and intelligent, but there's a difference between providing feedback and making intimidating editorial suggestions. Perhaps this story was relayed to me incorrectly, but to be honest, it's not the first time that I've heard it (I just never heard it so blatantly). If this type of behavior continues, maybe Sundance should change their motto to:

Not Only Do We Make Your Career, We Make Your Film Too!

My congratulations/condolences/etc. to all of you who made films this year. Praise and acclaim and glory are certainly nice rewards for all of your hard work, but even if none of those things come, you made a film, and that, my friends, is all that really matters.

I just finished rereading THE COLLECTED STORIES OF RICHARD YATES, which never fails to deliver. With the knowledge that Sam Mendes is brutalizing REVOLUTIONARY ROAD and also the realization that there is an adaptation of THE EASTER PARADE in the works (perhaps an even worse idea, cinematically speaking), I wanted to devise my own way to pay tribute to Yates on the big screen. After stirring on that one for a while, I had a strong hunch that the answer might lie somewhere within the sad and tragic world of his short stories. After reading story after story and thinking the same thing--"brilliant, but better left on the page"--I had a minor epiphany along the way. I actually have an idea of combining a few of the similarly situated short stories, ala SHORT CUTS, that could result in something striking and profound. Rather than humiliate myself even further by expounding on that epiphany--I might as well retitle this site "More Useless Daydreaming About Ideas That I Will Never Actually Realize"--I figured I'd at least post the quotes I pulled from the collection, to get you feeling extra happy and hopeful for the holiday season:

"A man could drive himself crazy trying to psychoanalyze himself in the middle of Lexington Avenue, in the middle of the afternoon." (A Glutton for Punishment)

"He almost never lied, and it always surprised him to discover how easy it could be." (A Glutton for Punishment)

"And great God, what a sickly, intricate thing a writer’s heart is!" (Builders)

"Girls. Would they always drive you crazy? Would their smiles of rejection always drop you into despair and their smiles of welcome lead only into new, worse, more terrible ways of breaking your heart?" (A Natural Girl)

“Harry had cried because he wanted his mother to leave him alone; Russell had cried because he didn’t—and therein lay the very definition of a mother’s boy.” (Trying Out For the Race)

“’Oh, I don’t think anybody in the whole world ever wants to be alone at night. Do you?’” (Liars in Love)

“’When you’re old, you want so much for the people you love to be happy.’” (Liars in Love)

“How miserably premature could a premature ejaculation be?” (A Compassionate Leave)

"Had anybody yet confessed to being dismayed and bewildered and bored by this whole fucking place, and lonely as a bastard too?" (A Compassionate Leave)

“We had been married at ages we both now considered too young, and for reasons we both now considered inadequate.” (Regards at Home)

“’How can you be a father,’ he asked, ‘when you still look like a son?’” (Regards at Home)

“’If your life’s ready to fall apart, it’ll fall apart anywhere.’” (Regards at Home)

“He assumed he’d be able to find a better place and perhaps even a better life when his book came out, but he was mistaken: though it won general praise, the novel sold so poorly that only a scant brief trickle of money came in during the whole of its first year in print.” (Saying Goodbye to Sally)

“All the way home—and the ride seemed to take no time at all in the new-fallen darkness of this still and fragrant night—he wanted to laugh aloud because this was the way things should always have been in his life; this was pretty nice: good money coming in, a weekend coming up, and a girl coming out to love him at the shore of the Pacific Ocean.” (Saying Goodbye to Sally)

“All his life, it now seemed, he had spoiled things for himself by worrying too soon.” (Saying Goodbye to Sally)

“You could drive yourself crazy taking little things so hard; he would have to pull himself together.” (A Convalescent Ego)

Yesterday's bus ride to Maryland wasn't nearly as memorable as this one, but it began with some genuine weight. I wisely arrived almost forty minutes early to make sure I had a decent seat (when we pulled away every seat was taken). As I was getting settled, a woman a few rows in front of me started a conversation with a girl across from her. It was the woman's first time in New York City, and she was still buzzing from having taken the plunge. She came from my hometown, Frederick, and made the nerve-wracking journey to meet a man she'd met online. I can't convey this in one paragraph, but suffice to say, this exchange was one of the most fragile, heartbreaking, and human things I've experienced in a long time. There was no irony or condescension in my appreciation of this woman's plight. She had been dating online for over three years, and finally thought she'd found a "good one." But listening to the situation from a few rows back, it gave me an objectivity that she couldn't see. Her deep, sincere wish to find someone was clouding the frank realities of the situation (the long distance problem, they still didn't really know each other, etc.). It stirred me unexpectedly, yet it also inspired me. For it reminded me that this is the world that I want to represent on film, a world that is profoundly human, an indescribable blend of ugly and pretty, sad and funny, hopeful and hopeless. Life is all of those things at the exact same time, and that has become my primary mission as a filmmaker, whether it be fiction, non-fiction, short, or whatever.

It's perhaps fitting, then, that the Netflix rental I chose to watch last night was Ermanno Olmi's classic IL POSTO, which does the aforementioned things and a whole lot more. I have to confess, I felt a hearty letdown when I realized that the romance had reached an earlier conclusion than I had expected, but of course that was the point of the film. Adulthood arrives, and those magic feelings become nothing more than fading memories. Thanks to Brendan McFadden for making me bump IL POSTO to the top of my queue. It really is one of the greats.

Aside from seeing my nieces, and my parents' food, I had one other very important reason to return to Maryland:

I'm worried that tonight might get really, really ugly, as the Terps play number two UCLA. While UCLA will be without Darren Collison, they are completely loaded and have one of the best freshman in the country, Kevin Love. If that last name rings a bell, yes, it's true. Kevin Love is the nephew of former Beach Boys frontman and absolute douche bag, Mike Love. I'm surprised that the offspring of such a douche bag wouldn't go to Duke, but it actually sounds like Kevin Love didn't inherit his uncle's douche bag-like tendencies. I guess all of that is to say that I'm terrified for what might happen tonight.

Go.... Terps..... Please..... Don't.... Be..... Too.... Ugly.....

This might come as a shock to some of you, as I've never really brought it up on this site (well, maybe once or twice), but I am in deep, romantic, personal, epic, carnal, intellectual, visceral, homo/hetero/bi-sexual love with Ronald Bronstein's FROWNLAND. FROWNLAND is a work of 100% direct personal expression that throbs with breathtaking, staggering purity. It also hugs my soul for it manages to combine my own favorite cinematic influences (namely Frederick Wiseman, Mike Leigh, and John Cassavetes) and rebirth them into something distinct and original. That is what makes FROWNLAND such a miracle. Not to be solipsistic, but an artist like Ronnie Bronstein makes me question my own ability to express myself. Compared to FROWNLAND... well, let's just leave it at that. But don't worry, I'll keep trying.

In fairness to the other nominees in the Gotham Awards "Best Film Not Playing At A Theater" category, I haven't seen any of your films. They are, as follows: OFF THE GRID: LIFE ON THE MESA, AUGUST THE FIRST, MISSISSIPPI CHICKEN, and LOREN CASS. Go to the MOMA website for details on this weekend's screenings. I have spoken to many folks in the industry who have seen and like all of those films. But pardon my unabashed Bronsteinian patriotism, for a moment, please. If FROWNLAND doesn't win this award, I'll eat my iPod. And I'll film it for your viewing pleasure.

Speaking of striking personal expressions, I caught Richard Kelly's SOUTHLAND TALES last night. I don't know, man. When you walk out of a theater championing everything about the movie except the movie itself, that isn't necessarily a good thing, right? I applaud Kelly's ambition, and I also hope he continues to make movies on a grand scale. But for me, at least 60% of this thing played like an unfunny IDIOCRACY. The first ninety minutes were pretty excruciating. But after Justin Timberlake's amazing Killers lip-synch moment, it numbed me into some weird state of submission. So while I kept saying to myself, "This really isn't working," I also couldn't deny the fact that my brain felt like it was in some alternate universe. I actually think SOUTHLAND TALES might be one of those freakish movies that you don't enjoy or take seriously when you watch it, yet as it settles in the back of your brain it does work. Like something along the lines of DON'T BE A MENACE TO SOUTH CENTRAL WHILE DRINKING YOUR JUICE IN THE HOOD. Sitting through it is pretty boring, but when you talk about it days later it somehow becomes laugh-out-loud funny. Am I making any sense here? I definitely wouldn't tell anyone not to see SOUTHLAND TALES--on the contrary, perhaps--I just worry that Kelly was swayed by the DONNIE DARKO hype and tried to do to wayyyy too much with the bat this time around. As usual, I appreciate Manohla Dargis's take on the situation--yes, it is nice to see someone swinging for the fence--but to these disbelieving eyes, the ball only made it to shallow left (if that). Oh yeah, I should also say that aside from the Timberlake lip-synch, the only other moment that I thought was an official keeper was the improv fight between Amy Poehler and Avon Barskdale (I mean, Wood Harris). Avon is funny!

I'll end with a completely random thought. If and when Gus Vant Sant makes the official Elliott Smith biopic, he should definitely cast Paul Dano in the lead role. Ever since I saw Paul Dano my lookalike call for him was right on the edge of my brain, but after seeing the THERE WILL BE BLOOD trailer the other night it hit me. If anyone ever does make that movie--and I pray with all of my veins that nobody does--Paul Dano is the guy for the job.

Speaking of lookalikes, get ready to meet my very own doppelganger on this site next week. People always tell me I look like this person or that person, but as President and Founder of The Lookalike Game, I can firmly say that they're always wrong. The person I actually look like is such an insane carbon copy that I have to question if I actually am him. And, no, it's not a compliment. Or maybe it is? You'll see what I mean.

Speaking of see, I'll see y'all at FROWNLAND tomorrow at 4:30.

It's that time of year when indie rockers all over the globe get to make like the Academy and vote for their favorite releases of the year. Yes, folks, the PLUG Awards are back. However, this year, things have gotten mighty exciting around the Boredom at its Boredest camp.

It comes as no surprise, but after so many years of blood, sweat, and toil, it's still a thrill to see Kevin Barnes getting so much deserved attention for Of Montreal's incredible HISSING FAUNA, ARE YOU THE DESTROYER? received seven nominations in a wide variety of categories.

However, the bigger thrill for me came when I scanned the category of "Americana Album of the Year," only to discover one special nominee alongside more established names as Charlie Louvin, Iron & Wine, and Jesse Sykes. That nominee is none other than Ola Podrida!

I know I've been doing a lot of demanding lately, but this time I really mean it. I demand you to take a few minutes out of your life, pop on over to the PLUG Awards website, and vote for Ola Podrida's timeless debut, OLA PODRIDA. I imagine this is a category where many voters will flock to the most recognizable name, but if you wanna get objective about things, the new Iron & Wine doesn't hold a melted candle to OLA PODRIDA. Same goes for Charlie Louvin (okay, I haven't heard that record and he's a bona fide legend, but still, this competition is about fresh new blood).

Do it now yourself, and then forward this link or send an email to everyone you know. Chain emails are pretty Bruch Vilanch, I realize, so do it in a way that isn't pushy or abrasive (i.e., don't do it like I've just done it), but do it, do it, do it!

In my current state of shameful unemployment, I had an admittedly desperate, but potentially interesting, thought. Though this might seem like a humiliating step to take, I've thought it over and decided that it's worth a shot. If anything, it's an interesting experiment. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.

While walking around for the past several days wondering why I can't seem to figure out a way to get paid for my creative outlets--seriously, it's like there's a block on anything that I write that renders payment a ridiculous impossibility--I came back to this site time and again. And then it hit me. Why not try to get paid for all the writing I do here?

Of course, I’m not going to turn Boredom at its Boredest into a pay-only site, for that would be ludicrous and idiotic. The fact remains, however, that I have devoted many, many, many hours of 2007 trying to spotlight some of the things that inspire and excite me. So I came up with an idea, which was inspired by Radiohead’s novel concept (and now Saul Williams). If you can say yes to any of the following questions, keep reading the below paragraph. If not, don’t bother. The questions are, as follows:

-- Did you read this site on a somewhat regular basis in 2007?

-- Did my words entertain/engage/enlighten you in any way?

-- Has reading this site turned you on to something that you otherwise hadn’t heard about (a movie, a musician, a book, etc.)?

Okay, that’s all I’ve got. But I think that’s enough. If you can answer yes to any/all of those questions, then why not let me know by compensating me for all of my hard work. I’m not talking major compensation. I’m talking between five and ten dollars, or whatever you think it warrants (I wouldn’t suggest more than that, but who knows what kind of swollen bank accounts some of you have out there). It’s just about the end of 2007. Why not take a few moments to think back on all the funny, witty, clever, impossibly brilliant posts you read on this site since January 1st of this year, and let me know that you don’t think my writing is a complete waste of my time. Because while I’ll certainly keep posting on a consistent basis, in these major bouts of confusion it always seems to me like I’m devoting too much useless energy to this kind of writing.

There, I did it. In one sense, a pathetic plea. In another sense, a very reasonable one. And just in case you think I wouldn’t return the favor by contributing to many of my favorite sites out there, think again. I would gladly do that--provided those individuals stoop to my level and put out a general plea as I’ve just done here.

You can contribute by going to Paypal and donating to mynameismichaeltully-AT-hotmail, or if you don’t do the credit card/bank account thing, write me for my mailing address and send something to me that way.

In all seriousness, it would be a real thrill if I could make a major dent on my December bills with money that I earned by expressing myself on this website. That said, don’t feel guilty about not contributing (not that you would). I’m just intrigued to see how this plays out. And you can mark my words, I won’t do this type of plea for at least another year!

If I hadn't just seen I KNOW WHO KILLED ME, I would have no problem calling NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN this year's one and only studio-produced masterpiece. But now that I've seen both, I genuinely think IKWKM is the winner of that coveted title (I still haven't seen THERE WILL BE BLOOD or many other still-to-come releases, so I'll reserve official judgment for my geeked out year-end wrap-up). That said, at least three times while I watched NO COUNTRY at the NYFF press screening, I thought to myself, "This might be the best movie I've ever seen in my life." Having not read the Cormac McCarthy novel, I have to say, the third act anti-climax left me feeling a visceral, immediate sense of disappointment and confusion. It took me a few minutes after the film had ended to intellectualize and come to terms with the unexpected playing out of events. When I did manage to do that, my overall enthusiasm returned. Still, I cannot deny that I felt a strange lack, so I'm here to warn first-time viewers--WITHOUT PROVIDING ANY SPOILERS--that the third act takes a perhaps unexpected turn with the narrative. My advice to you is to simply go with it and worry about all of that after the film has ended.

As for the movie itself, wow-wow-wow-wow-wow-wow-WOW. When FARGO was released and critics were labeling it a "modern classic," I wasn't too sure about that. Yes, I thought it was very good, but it wasn't extraordinarily great in my estimation. But when it comes to NO COUNTRY, I want to use all the superlative flags that were being waved in front of FARGO. I realize that we all have our Coen Brothers movies that we'd call masterpieces (for me it's BARTON FINK, for almost everyone else it's THE BIG LEBOWSKI), but NO COUNTRY has the air of being an objective masterpiece. Roger Deakins' cinematography, the sound design (who knew the lack of a score could create even more tension? The Coen Brothers did!), every single performance, this is filmmaking that is firing perfectly on every single cylinder. I don't just recommend that you see this movie in a theater, I DEMAND IT. (Also, I'm going to be Javier Bardem's terrifying cipher of a killer, Anton Chigurh, for Halloween next year; you heard it here first.)

On a different note, I finally saw Jim Brown's PETE SEEGER: THE POWER OF SONG at the IFC Center last night, and I found it to be incredibly inspiring (during the last fifteen minutes, as applause erupted around me, I found myself fighting away a stream of tears that wanted to make an appearance on my face). In a world that is losing its sense of community at a shameful, alarming rate, Pete Seeger's mission is more vital then ever. Granted, times have changed and it would be silly (not to mention impossible) to take the exact same approach in our quest to retain a semblance of humanity in this corporate, soulless, and impersonal world, but the fact remains that music, positivity, hope, peace, and a sense of connection between human beings is what makes life worth living.

In my current state of low seratonin, it's hard for me to turn the film into a positive right away--all I can see is how far off track we are--but there is no denying the power of this movie and the overall power of Pete Seeger's mission. At one point, he quit his wildly successful band, The Weavers, because he didn't want to appear in a cigarette ad. The thought of this reminded me how pathetic I am and how difficult it is to exist right now, especially living in the big city. If someone called me today and said they'd pay me five hundred bucks to make a commercial promoting cigarette smoking, I would take the money and start shooting right away. And I, like Pete Seeger, hate-hate-hate cigarettes. Okay, if that really happened I would say no, but the fact remains that this man never once budged in his morals and ethics, and it is a sight to see, especially when you're a shell of an adult like myself, who wants to be a better person but has somehow become a shriveled leaf in a tornado, letting the world push him around like a picked-on kid in a bully-filled playground.

It's too late to point you in the direction of Sergei Parajanov's awesome (and I mean that in the epic sense of the word) SHADOWS OF FORGOTTEN ANCESTORS, which screened at BAM this past week in a striking new print (can someone give programmer Jake Perlin a Medal of Honor, please?), but I had to mention it. It's rare that a film delivers on the promise of so much mushy gushing by seemingly every critic who's ever seen it, but SHADOWS straight up shocked and awed me. Honestly, watching it I was thinking just how much it put to shame something like Herzog's AGUIRRE (I've always had issues with that based on the hammy presence of Klaus Kinski), and I couldn't help but make a positive comparison to the great COME AND SEE. This is one of those classic works that you realize influenced just about every one of your favorite movies, but, somehow, it might be even better than all of them combined. How in the hell did they pull of some of those shots?! The best part is that I'm convinced it will only get more majestic and beautiful on subsequent viewings. I can't wait to see it again.

I've written about them before, but now that their new record has officially been released, it's time to write about them again. HAM1 is the brainchild of Athens, Georgia's Jim Willingham, a true gift to humanity. While I loved their first record, THE CAPTAIN'S TABLE finds the band reaching new heights, delivering a collection of songs that is wildly diverse yet somehow still cohesive. It's kind of freakish, actually, but that's what makes it so refreshing. Shades of surf rock, Pavement, The Pixies, Neutral Milk Hotel, country, all congeal into one distinctive musical vision. But what takes things to another level is Jim's lyrical content, which shares a strong kinship with DC Berman (in my humble estimation). This recent article in the Flagpole captures the HAM1 spirit better than I possibly could. I highly recommend that you read it before hopping over to the Orange Twin website to buy THE CAPTAIN'S TABLE.

Which brings us to the song/video clip of the day. HAM1 is usually joined on stage by another gifted Athens performer, Liz Durrett. They also happen to be her backing band most of the time. When I woke up this morning, I felt the arrival of my latest inexplicable funk. Is it seasonal? Astrological? Psychological? Stress-over-lack-of-fiscal? Who knows. Who cares. It'll pass. It always does. But not for a few days. So what do I do to bide my time when the voice in my head keeps listing the ways that I am a miserable failure? I listen to--and in this case, watch--sad, pretty songs. It's better than chicken noodle soup. It's better than alcohol. It's better than television. It's better than exercise. (Although all of those things are pretty good too.) But this song is better than a warm, cozy blanket to me right now.

I disagree with those people who have been whining that this has been a bad year for cinema. When contemplating going to a movie, we as New Yorkers have the luxury of choosing from more than just this year's slate of new releases (which I personally think has been fine, but that's a story for a different day). 2007 has presented me with some of the most exciting repertory experiences one could possibly imagine, such as: the Robert Altman retrospective at the IFC Center, Bela Tarr's SATANTANGO at BAM, the Norman Mailer retrospective at the Walter Reade and Anthology Film Archives, the Museum of Moving Image's "Uneasy Riders: American Film in the Nixon Years, 1970-1974" series, the Film Forum's comprehensive "NYC Noir" lineup, and of course the midnight screening of TROLL 2 at the Sunshine. But this past Saturday night, I had an experience to shatter all of those combined and confirm 2007 as one of the all-time greats. (Note to readers: I know I can get embarrassingly hyperbolic on this site, but please excuse me while I break out my can of Harry Knowles’ First Female-Induced Ejaculate for this post. It warrants it.)

The event was called Take Over BAM, and it was a major success. The basic concept was to open up shop after hours and turn the entire Brooklyn Academy of Music into a more youth-oriented multimedia extravaganza. In the opera house, bands played; elsewhere, DJs spun; burlesque performers burlesqued, artists exhibited, etc. But, of course, the main attraction for me was the cinematic portion of the event. Each screen had its own specific agenda. In one was Nicolas Winding Refn’s grimy THE PUSHER TRILOGY. In another was a set of classic music docs (GIMME SHELTER, ZIGGY STARDUST AND THE SPIDERS FROM MARS, STOP MAKING SENSE, THE FILTH AND THE FURY). In a third was something titled “When Animals Hug,” featuring a bunch of films in which animals stepped into (or, more aptly, were dragged into) the spotlight. But it was in the last theater where my mind was blown into a trillion pieces, during the “Lindsay Lohan Mid-Career Retrospective.” No, I’m not talking about FREAKY FRIDAY, MEAN GIRLS, or THE PARENT TRAP. I’m talking about this:

I can’t wrap my head around the fact that this movie came out three months ago, for that technically makes it a 2007 release (and that shows just how cruel this world is, how this thing somehow managed to slip through the cracks). That also makes it a shoo-in for my top ten of the year (maybe even top five). But it cannot be denied that the circumstances surrounding the screening made it feel different than a typical new release, so there are a few different factors at work here. Let’s not worry about those for now. Or maybe we should. I’m too dizzy to know how to approach this one. Let me just dive in headfirst and see what happens…

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..................,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,::::::::::::::::::::::::::WJHWHUJWHUHHBEHHYGYGYYTYUUUUUWOWOWWOWOWOWOWWOWOWOW.

I should probably try to explain myself a little better.

There are times in a movie lover’s life when the many random, scattered forces surrounding a screening coalesce to create a truly perfect experience. Saturday night’s screening of I KNOW WHO KILLED ME was one of those. I’m almost afraid to watch it again, for I know what happened was a magical once-in-a-lifetime event, but as Chris Wells said, the movie is too amazing to not deliver in any situation. Still, I'm convinced that it will never be as good as it was on Saturday night. Even if they start showing it every weekend at midnight, it won’t have the same spirit. Which isn’t to say that they shouldn’t, because they should. Somebody, anybody, please show this movie at midnight! This weekend! Next weekend! Forever! Please!

Last week, I saw Anthony Hopkins’ terrifying (and by ‘terrifying’ I mean ‘inexcusably, horrifically shameful’) SLIPSTREAM. The only compliment I can pay that nuclear bomb of a misfire is that it teaches a very valuable lesson, and that lesson is as follows: There is only one David Lynch, and his brand of dream logic filmmaking is a gift unto him and only him. But something happened last year to discombobulate that statement. That something was INLAND EMPIRE. For my confirmed reaction after having suffered through INLAND EMPIRE twice in one week was strangely similar to my reaction to SLIPSTREAM. Somehow--and this doesn’t seem logical or possible--but somehow even David Lynch isn’t always capable of being David Lynch. It’s that hard. Dream logic cinema, or as I’ve coined it from this point forth, “avant-retarde,” is the riskiest venture out there. And it almost always fails (another semi-recent example is THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT, which is laughably entertaining, but ultimately unsuccessful). Yet just when I thought it might be impossible to capture that inexplicable, bizarre spirit, along come two relative nobodies, director Chris Sivertson and screenwriter Jeff Hammond, to show the world how it’s done. I KNOW WHO KILLED ME is the definitive avant-retarde motion picture, one that will be talked about for decades to come.

Was this on purpose? Could someone really have their cake and eat it too, delivering one of the most impossibly perfect so-bad-it’s-incredible movies that I have ever seen? Is that really possible? It doesn’t even matter, to be honest. That said, if it was intentional I would be in greater awe than I was while watching the opening shot of SILENT LIGHT, or the entirety of NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN, or the long one-takes in CHILDREN OF MEN. I firmly believe that I KNOW WHO KILLED ME is a rare gift to the world on par with those recent achievements. This thing is a train-wreck so miraculous that I woke up thinking I’d dreamed it up in my own brilliant subconscious and that it hadn’t really happened. To confirm that it wasn’t just a dream, I visited the film’s official website to watch the trailer and some clips. After having done so, I am happy to report back that, no, it wasn’t a dream.

Of course, the fact that this movie plays like a batshit insane movie-of-the-week about Lindsay Lohan’s unending spiral into oblivion further cements its genius. But that isn’t even what makes I KNOW WHO KILLED ME such an eye-popping achievement. Take away that impossible to ignore parallel and the thing still shines like a rare, precious gem in an endless field of possum turds. Here are only a few of the highlights:

A random owl close-up dissolving into a close-up of Lindsay Lohan’s slutty face, battery operated feet, a mysterious Latin stranger on a bus saying what should have been the film’s official tagline: Sometimes people get cut, electric blue flowers, surprisingly thoughtful and artistic (albeit obvious) Antonioni/Hitchcock references, hilariously generic cops, Julia Ormond like a Stepford Wife on a medicine cabinet of pills (what happened to her career???), Lindsay Lohan sitting in a wheelchair with a nub for hand (I want to make a t-shirt of that image with the accompanying text: “Lindsay Nohand”), grotesque special effects, preposterous dialogue (“Your only twin sister is you!” or “You go right ahead and you kick yourself to the other side of this problem!”), inappropriate stripping footage (not because it was graphic, but because they picked some of the most unflattering angles imaginable; seriously, Lindsay would have been better off letting them get a straight up beaver shot instead of that unsettling crawl up the back of her thighs), a killer straight out of Blue Man Group, Joel McNeely’s satirically brilliant score (again, all good/bad intentions aside), and that’s only a fraction of the madness. It really was unrelenting.

Experiencing the insanity with good buddies Paul Lovelace and Jessica Wolfson would have been sufficient, but to find myself sitting beside Aaron Katz and Chris Wells made it even more amazing. To paraphrase Wells, you could tell that everyone was waiting for it to slow down and derail (or perhaps I should say ‘re-rail’), but it never did. It just kept steamrolling, barreling, stampeding forward, one outlandish situation after another, one ridiculous moment after the next.

As I said, it wasn’t just the movie itself that made the night so legendary. It was the atmosphere and environment. At one point in the third act, right before the you-have-got-to-be-fucking-KIDDING-ME climax, the projector shut down, yet this only added to the tension and enhanced the audience’s glee and enthusiasm. When the film finally ended and the credits began to roll, I did what any good American would do: I stood up and gave the most enthusiastic standing ovation I could possibly muster. Lest you think I was drunk (which I was), I would like it to be known that many others joined me in my vertical fervor.

It’s somehow fitting that this was the exact same theater where a few months ago I experienced another of my all-time great movie-going experiences, surviving Bela Tarr’s staggering seven-and-a-half hour SATANTANGO in one sitting. However, if I had to pick which event of the two was the more perfect, amazing, and momentous, my objective verdict would have to be…

Miss Lohan: 1, Mister Tarr: 0.

(I KNOW WHO KILLED ME is coming out on DVD on November 27th. Buy it, Netflix it, do whatever you have to do, though I recommend watching it with a small group of likeminded friends to make the experience even more special.)