The musical progression of Unto Ashes is like a study in sonic reincarnation except instead of each incarnation coming closer to a state of blissed-out nirvana, every new iteration is darker and more grim than the last.  Which is really saying something for a project whose previous offerings yieldings songs with such dour titles as “Teach Me How To Drown,” “I Cover You in Blood,” and “Song for a Widow.”  In a sense, the Unto Ashes oeuvre is like Dante’s Inferno–only there is no end to the descent, just a bottomless well of misery.  And so it is with the latest release from Unto Ashes, The Blood of My Lady.  This incarnation of the project find most of more baroque influences stripped away.  In its place is a bare, spare apocalyptic sound with rich acoustic guitars and occasional cello and horn to round out the palette.  Again in contrast to past albums, on The Blood of My Lady Michael Laird has assumed the main vocal duties; the effect is much more solitary and much more personal.  And amazingly, the result is the most melancholic Unto Ashes album yet.  Perfect for thinking about days gone by, and days that will never arrive.

Defending the films that everyone else seems to hate. We each take a beating for our shameful faves: The Postman, Signs, A.I., Annie and Tank Girl. Some theories on why certain movies can’t help but fail. In the end we’re still friends and hugs are shared all around. 45 minutes.

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With three years of buzz built around this film between its Sundance premier and long-awaited DVD release I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it falls short of my expectations. The low budget production adds a gritty tone but is often distracting. Indies like Primer proved that a small budget can be made up for with great ideas. Special certainly has the kernel of one but I’m unsure if it’s fully popped.

The great character actor Michael Rapaport stars as Les, a lonely guy undergoing a study for an experimental anti-depressant. He believes the drug bestows him with superpowers which he is all too eager to show off. People are stunned by demonstrations of his new abilities such as levitating and passing through solid matter. It’s unclear what actual effects the chemicals in his system are having but they at least make him oblivious to the injuries suffered by leaping off of desks and smacking into concrete walls at full tilt.

Obviously Les is somewhat of a nut case but things are set up to make us wonder if his perception is delusional or real. There also may or may not be a conspiracy afoot trying to keep a lid on whatever’s happening to him. The story swings in both directions, mixing elements of Unbreakable and Vampire’s Kiss. And as in those films anticipation builds towards a revelatory climax to blow our minds.

Only it never does. It plods in comparison to all the other recent “superhero reality” releases, favoring painful dreariness over fantastical fun and action. Even grim psychological dramas like The Dark Knight are rosy next to Special’s weighty bleakness. I kept hoping for a well-balanced mystery but the answer is never really hidden to begin with.

So why was I disappointed if things are spelled out so clearly early on? Is it because the current glut of serious comic book movies can’t escape their cartoony origins? Could the tried-and-true formula of supernatural vs. explainable phenomena be so stale that a full departure is actually a more radical twist than I can handle? No matter how much I was let down by this film I’m still struggling with the impression it made on me. If nothing else it forces me to question my stock expectations for genre films to come.

25-word mini-reviews of our Top 25 Movies…

Aliens
Against only one, in space no one could hear you scream… This time, space marines have no clue what they are up against. Let’s Rock!!!!!

Babe: Pig in the City
One pig can make a difference. The children’s film for children of all ages: touching, heartwrenching, uplifting, and visually incredible. From the Mad Max director.

Bladerunner
Last time I checked, most noir films have a voiceover; this one offers many insights. Forget the voiceover-less version, and ignore replicant Deckard revisionism. « spoiler block

Boogie Nights
Never before has a movie hit such a bottom, never once trying for Terms of Endearment type sentimentality. Wahlberg should have at least been nominated.
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25-word mini-reviews of our Top 25 Movies…

12 Monkeys
Brazil is too cynical and exhausting. Time Bandits is fun and fantastical but lacks cohesion. This time Terry Gilliam crafts a perfectly balanced whimsical dystopia.

The American Astronaut
This sci-fi western ditches space battles for a dance contest. The in-jokes, cheap FX and deliberate weirdness may turn off many but won me over.

Back to the Future
So many reasons to love this film. The time travel. The Delorean. The nostalgia. Crispin Glover. It’s sweet, fun and welcome like an old friend.

Being John Malkovich
My favorite WTF film plows way beyond any sensibility to make the unimaginable seem blasé. I look for the 7th and 1/2 floor everywhere.

The City of Lost Children
A gloomy and dangerous nightmare world doubles as a wonder-filled kid’s playland. What a great combination! Even the most despicable villain is sympathetic and child-like.
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We put the scheduled topic on hold (coming soon, really!) to tease Aaron for sleeping through the 1980s. To make up for lost time we subject him to Ghostbusters and Back to the Future. Find out his reactions as we discuss these and other classic 80s films that everyone (but Aaron) knows and loves. 37 minutes.

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This review is part of Lucid Screening’s 3rd Annual White Elephant Blogathon.

In 1984 Sylvester Stallone decided to break from his typecast macho persona. Ironically the comedy he co-wrote and starred in that year may have only made audiences more appreciative of his action star skills. I imagine there were many sighs of relief upon his return to the patented stoic tough-guy in Rambo: First Blood Part II and Rocky IV. But I must confess to finding his wacky shenanigans in Rhinestone to be a brave and fun departure, however misguided.

Stallone and Dolly Parton share the screen in a lowbrow version of My Fair Lady. She plays it straight as Jake, a country singer bound to a bad contract with a lascivious night club owner. They concoct a high stakes contest where Jake can either win back her freedom or suffer a night in her slimy manager’s bed. Her challenge is to transform the next guy she meets into a talent capable of taming the rowdy hecklers at her nightly gig. Stallone crashes into frame on cue as Nick Martinelli, a cantankerous cabbie with a thick Brooklyn accent who happens to loathe all things country and western.

Most of Rhinestone is as exaggerated as both star’s chests. Everything is drawn in stereotypes: the banjo-picking, stick-whittling cornpones; the worried Italian mama serving heaping portions of lasagna and unsolicited advice; the camera-toting asian tourists; the glitzy, neon-lit New York City cowboy bar. (That last one may be pure invention on the writers’ part, but I wasn’t a New York club-hopper in the 80s so what do I know?) Overshadowing it all — including the leading lady’s sun-eclipsing bosom — is Stallone as a blue collar big city buffoon. He’s hyperactive and clearly having a ball practically bouncing through his scenes.

As you’d expect Sylvester Stallone is not a good singer. He plays up this deficit way beyond comedic effect into a whole new stratosphere. He hops, shakes, blurts and babbles at top volume while banging on whatever unfortunate instrument is on-hand. At first I hid my eyes, reminded of someone’s dorky father crashing his embarrassed kids’ party to show their friends what real rock-n-roll is. Surprisingly, Stallone’s unabashed outbursts quickly became the highlights of the film. They’re so seemingly off the cuff and out of place that the other actors’ astonishment feels completely genuine. The only thing I can compare it to is Nic Cage’s bizarre unbridled performance in Vampire’s Kiss, which I consider to be the pinnacle of his career. Should Stallone ever wish to redefine himself again he could be first choice to play the lead in a Wild Man Fischer bio-pic.

At the other end of the spectrum is Dolly’s straight-laced Jake. For all of her flashy figure-enhancing outfits and suggestive lyrics, she’s actually pretty tame and wooden. Her student gets annoyed with her nagging no-fun disposition for good reason. Even her polite and supportive father thinks she’s a drag. Maybe Parton realized she couldn’t live up to her co-star’s charisma and decided to downplay things for maximum contrast. Granted it’s a family movie but I would have liked for her live up to the attention given by the lusty creeps constantly following her around.

As the title suggests, Rhinestone is an artificial affair of cheap sight gags and unnatural dialog. The plot is thin and never goes anywhere unexpected. The stars play against their reputations in ways that probably make their fans cringe. Yet somehow I found the sum of its parts to be a lot of fun, mostly from Stallone’s goofy and frenzied acting.

Though at first I was a little unenthused by Morrissey’s Years of Refusal, it turns out that the album is a grower, not a shower.  (Normally, I would feel bad about making such an obvious joke, but since Moz compared his bollocks to powderkegs on the last record, I think I get a free pass.)  More muscular and aggressive than his past few efforts (think big guitars instead of torch ballads), Years of Refusal’s rock bombast initially covers up the album’s intricate, intelligent structure, but repeated listens reveals that Morrissey hasn’t missed a trick.   From the exploration of how love of a place can supplant love of a person in “I’m Throwing My Arms Around Paris,” the seemingly newfound realization that, despite his career of whinging about it, there are worse things than being unlovable on  “That’s How People Grow Up,” and the wry observations on the ambivalent nature of emotional attachment in “All You Need is Me,” Morrissey is still the poet laureate of effete, sensitive souls.

Somewhere along the line the lads in Franz Ferdinand decided not to live up to the promise of their debut album.  Their self-titled record had it all: artful edginess, clever lyrics, and an almost effortless rhythmic precision.  Tonight: Franz Ferdinand, the band’s third effort, possesses no tracks with the dark fire of “Jacqueline,” “Take Me Out,” “Dark of the Matinee,” “Darts of Pleasure,” or “Come On Home,” and feels hollow and illiterate when compared against its predecessors.  Though one could argue that they were already hitting the downhill slope with You Could Have It So Much Better, Tonight has little going for it aside from its lead-off singles “Ulysses” and “No You Girls,” and even those are lacking the usual wit.  Sure, the band has imported some electronica and afro-pop (whatever that means) influences, but a few new quirks doesn’t even begin to make up for the lack of interesting tunes.

Addendum: Okay, this has grown on me a bit.  Enough to warrant another half-diamond, mostly on the lyrical strength of “Twilight Omens.”

Surrounded by failure, people with manufactured names and identities entertain others.

Downbeat and uplifting, excellent performances, and Mickey Rourke’s sad, battered face, though almost paralyzed by real life (Botox, plastic surgery, boxing?) is the real reason to see this film. The final speech, touted by many as key to the whole film and by extension, Mr. Rourke’s career and resurrection, was actually way too much exposition and totally unnecessary. I recall Michael Stipe saying something once akin to that he wouldn’t mind bagging groceries, because it is a job that someone has to do. That has always stuck with me, every person we encounter in our lives is doing the job that they have, and that someone “has” to do. I have “good job” but it is just a job. I try and do it the best that I can, and always assume that everyone else is also doing the same. Even a waitress who offers up poor service, maybe it is a bad moment in a bad day for her, and what good does it do for me to hurt her livelihood by not tipping well. When I go out to eat, I accept that it will cost me whatever it costs me. We all have good and bad days. In The Wrestler, Robin the deli clerk vs Randy the deli clerk vs Randy the wrestler all perfectly illustrate this reality. But never are we asked to feel sorry for any of the people putting on personas in this movie, instead, we are asked to cheer for them, to encourage them, to applaud them for their dedication to their jobs. If we could all do this more in our day-to-day lives, wouldn’t the world be a better place?