50/50 (Release Date: 9-30-2011)

        If there's One thing that Hollywood loves, it's to severely aggrandize a true story. It happens about Twenty times a year, at least a couple of these yarns making it all the way to the Kodak Theater on Oscar night. By this standard, the new cancer comedy 50/50 is clearly going against the grain. The semi-autobiographical takes the real-life story of 27-year-old Adam (Joseph Gordon-Levitt, standing in for writer/cancer survivor Will Reiser) and turns it into a laugher, a bold play if ever there was One, and quite the send up to the notion that bigger, more serious drama always creates a better film. Scaled against other man vrs. illness tales that have come out over the years, 50/50 is a knowingly small effort, and that sense of reduced scale renders it unlike any picture I've seen for quite some time.

        Working in Seattle as a writer for NPR, Adam's healthy, cleanly, nice-guy existence is suddenly flipped on its side by the discovery of a tumor in his lower spine. Adam has Three major players to help him in his time of crisis: His shaky artist girlfriend (Bryce Dallas Howard), his overbearing mother (Anjelica Huston), and Seth Rogen as Seth Rogen (Rogen and Reiser were actually close friends at the time, not that Rogen was likely to stretch too far out of his comfort zone anyways). The women in his life, a group that comes to include a painfully inexperienced therapist (Anna Kendrick), try to help him in a variety of ways, but it's Rogen's Kyle, as well as a pair of fellow Chemo patients (Philip Baker Hall and Matt Frewer), who prove most apt at helping him. Their miracle cure? Treating him normally, and trying to inject as much humor into daily life as possible.

        Somewhat miraculously, 50/50 actually works really well as a comedy. Admittedly, I am a total sucker for Rogen's schtick, but even if you're among the many who have grown tired of his bawdy presence, clever writing and inspired set-ups are littered through out the film. They weave in and out, balancing with the movie's decidedly more morose moments, the tonal juxtaposition prompting many a side-splitting surprise. Given his success with humor, it's disappointing that Reiser has trouble crafting characters in three-dimentions, especially where his females are concerned. Howard, Huston, and Kendrick all shine in their own ways, director Jonathan Levine coaxing good to great performances out of everyone on board, but the nagging feeling that you've seen these exact characters in a million movies before this One is unavoidable.

        There are a few other issues I could raise with the movie, it bumping into cliches on the way to its climactic trip to the operating room, but Gordon-Levitt's pitch-perfect performance outweighs them all Ten times over. Behind his ever-winning smile is a pain that increases and evolves as the film moves along, his outbursts of mortal frustration somehow never alienating him from the audience. Gordon-Levitt's big draw has always been the fact that he's simply a charming presence, and 50/50 knows just how to use that invaluable asset, drawing you in and increasing your sympathies through humor as a means of turning the viewer into a kleenex killer in the film's final third. The movie is a smorgasbord of emotion, taking you through genuine and pure bouts of love, hate, dread, comedy, drama, and every other buzz word you can think of, and its all thanks to Gordon-Levitt's career-topping performance. As previously stated, I still have a few hang-ups about 50/50, but none of them prevented me from being completely engaged the entire time, the film's emotional roller-coaster never once losing me. Gordon-Levitt deserves an Oscar nomination, and this movie deserves your attention.

Garde: A-

Feist: Metals (Release Date: 10-4-2011)

        It's easy to lose Feist amidst the shuffle of indie standouts blowing up into the mainstream. She hasn't had an album top the charts yet like Vampire Weekend or Arcade Fire, and she doesn't belong to the much-ballyhooed folksy-revivalism of Fleet Foxes or Bon Iver. As a matter of fact, you could be forgiven for sleeping on Leslie Feist's solo career for the simple fact that she beat all of her gentle-hearted contemporaries to the point. Way, way back in 2007, her Third solo album, The Reminder, was blowing up all over the place, its main hit, 1234, reaching all the way up to number Eight on the charts, an accomplishment that none of the Four aforementioned artists have even come close to. Not only that, but The Reminder was showered with awards, including Four Grammy nominations, and it bares the singular distinction of being itunes' most downloaded album of the year 2007. When you line up all of the outstanding credentials that The Reminder can lay claim to, it's easy to see why the woman in charge may have opted to wait a few years before getting back up on the horse.

        What's obvious about Metals, from first track to last, is that Feist is a ridged adherent to the old idiom, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Lead single Why Don't You Ever Go There alluded to this truth in early August, Feist's breathy, layered chants leading the way into the woman's ever-emotive voice, hovering above a subtle piano, and contented percussion. It's a catchy little number and an earworm to boot, but there's a real lack of ambition in the thing. Coming from a woman who's career started in the no-holds-barred, invite-all-your-friends world of Broken Social Scene, only to evolve into a less complicated but no less orchestrated solo career, it's pretty disheartening to hear. Worse yet, from where I sit, it's the best thing that Metals has to offer.

        People have always accused Feist's music of being a bit too, 'Dinner-Party-Friendly,' for its own good, but those detractors fail to remember the insane levels of shimmering, beautiful catchiness that individual Reminder tracks had in spades. Behind 1234 came the surprisingly dark-tinted My Man, My Moon, the heart-string-tugging of I Feel It All, and the gooey, sing-a-long goodness of Brandy Alexander. Metals is a pleasant listen from start to finish, but the individual tracks simply don't pop. Opener The Bad In Each Other is clearly trying to, but its efforts come off as stained. Same goes for The Circle Married the Line, a track that builds towards a string-laden climax, but it just doesn't possess the cathartic intonations that many The Reminder tunes did. The songs that don't fall victim to this type of over-zealousness come off a bit on the boring side, Bittersweet Melodies and Caught a Long Wind nearly lulling their listeners to sleep. Feist's art is a subtle One, and because of that, Metals might be something of a grower, so I feel wrong writing it off right away. As is, however, I find a sacred few of the individual songs manage to make a unique, whistle-ready impressions on me, a complaint that I wouldn't dream of putting on The Reminder in a million years. That album was a stunning example of what, 'Dinner Party Music,' could really be: Metals is just, 'Dinner Party Music.'

Grade: C

Leftovers: September 2011

Leftover Movies:
Attack the Block:
        The following statement is made without any hesitation or reservations whatsoever, a comment made in complete confidence: Attack the Block is the most fun that I've had at the movies this year, and it's not even close. The British Action/Comedy/Sci-Fi mash-up represents the Directorial debut of Scribe/Helmsman Joe Cornish, and based on this evidence, the man is here to stay. Set in the slums of south Britain, ATB stars a group of Five teenaged hood-rats, led by the stoic, powerful Moses (John Boyega). On One crazy night, their town is invaded by a slew of extra-terrestirails, part-wolf/part-bear/wholly-terrifying and vicious, and the pack takes to defending their block (essentially a massive apartment complex), from the beastly intruders with whatever weapons they can find. Part Independence Day, part Die Hard, and part Boyz n the Hood, part Grindhouse/Blaxploitation flick, Attack the Block benefits from producer Edgar Wright's signature wink and nudge, but Cornish's style is a lot more straight-forward. Relying on hilarious interplay between his leads more than any of Wright's wacky and hilarious editing gimmicks, ATB manages to work fully as both an action movie and a comedy, an accomplishment that Wright has yet to add to his mantle. Throw in just a dash of social, racial commentary, and you've got a dizzying, gut-busting mash-up that crams about 20 different genres into heavenly minutes, then gets out while it's still ahead. It's a masterpiece of silliness, and you owe it to yourself to check it out.

Leftover Music:
The Field: Looping State of Mind
        Producer Axel Willner wasn't joking when he named his newest LP Looping State of Mind: The disc is a mere Seven tracks long, each unfolding over no less than Seven and a half minutes, continuously visiting familiar sound regions and repeating melodies into oblivion all sans lyrics. If that doesn't sound like you're cup of tea, then I'd advise you to steer clear altogether. LSOM likely won't bring in any new fans to its long-form, trance-enducing style of instrumental music, but that doesn't mean that its not a wonder to behold for those with the taste for this sort of thing. Each song on the album seems to float around in the air, slowly unfolding, expanding in ways both subtle and profound. One song blurs effortlessly into the next, and for once, you get the feeling that the artist behind the music meant to do just that. Sure, the title track has a bit more bounce than the rest, and Burned Out is perhaps a bit sunnier, but Looping State of Mind was clearly intended to be played in its entirety each time, and that's not a rule I plan on breaking soon.

Various Artists: Newermind and Stroked
        This year represents a Ten-year anniversary for Two of the most canonical rock and roll albums of the last many, many years, and to celebrate, both SPIN magazine and Stereogum have given us free tribute albums in honor of the occasion. SPIN's contribution comes in the form of Newermind, wherein a collection of artists ranging from The Meat Puppets to Titus Andronicus to Surfer Blood run down each and every track from Nirvana's now-20-years-old classic Nevermind. It's a dingy trip into the past with some newer favorites. On a much glossier subject, Stereogum rounded up the likes of Peter Bjorn and John, The Morning Benders, and even Heems of Das Racist to remake the Strokes' decade-old debut LP Is This It? Highlights include Frankie Rose's straightforward take on Soma, and Owen Pallet's blissfully orchestral touch-up of Hard to Explain. Oh, yeah, and did I mention that they were BOTH FREE?!?! Check 'em out right here, and right here. You can thank me later.

Moneyball (Release Date: 9-23-2011)

        I walked into Moneyball expecting The Social Network-lite. My advice to you: Don't do that. Moneyball does represent only the second feature film outing of TSN scribe Aaron Sorkin, yet again clearing out scenes of excessive action in favor of lengthy stretches of spell-binding dialogue. Again, there is terrific character development, a product of stellar writing and impressive acting. Yes, the Two films share much of the same DNA, but The Social Network just so happens to be One of the best movies to grace the silver screen in many moons, and simply expecting Moneyball to replicate such success was a foolish wanting on my part. Comparing the Two does Moneyball no favors, so if you promise not to do it, then I too will knock it off in Five... Four... Three... Two... One...

        Moneyball is based on the real-life story of rogue Baseball General Manager Billy Beane (Brad Pitt), and the revelatory means that he employed to steer the team into the playoffs in the early 2000's. After losing in the American League Championship Series to the New York Yankees, the Oakland Athletics, unable to compete with bigger markets payroll-wise, lose Three of their very best players (Jason Giambi, Johnny Damon, and Jason Isringhausen) to free agency. Realizing that, without the deep pockets of other organizations, losing players in this fashion is likely to continue, Beane sets out to develop a new method for evaluating talent. He meets Peter Brand (Jonah Hill), a 20-something Harvard grad who claims that an entirely new system for assessing value, One based almost entirely on lesser-known statistics, would allow his team to build a contender even on a smaller budget. The Two set out to mold a winner, ruffling the feathers of everyone from club manager Art Howe (Philip Seymour Hoffman) to an endless parade of columnists and commentators.

        As its ad campaign has made perfectly clear, Moneyball is all about Brad Pitt, spending nearly every-waking moment with his Billy Beane, and shaping him as the true hero in a story that clearly has several. It's not hard to see why: Pitt is magnetic in the role despite being relatively un-showy, his candid speech and ever-ginning swagger masking nearly tangible feelings of disappointment and media fear. Pitt has given us great many wonderfully over-the-top performances, but Moneyball represents the high water mark in his career as a player of the everyman. Hill also shines, trading in his normative rage for an equally tickling quiet, surprisingly believable as a timid brainiac.

        The elements of Moneyball's craft are all in order as well: Director Bennett Miller (Capote) handles the proceedings with a subtle grace, and Wally Pfister, fresh off his Oscar win for Inception, films the whole thing in handsome, rustic tones. No, there's not much that's exactly wrong with Moneyball, but the movie cannot help but feel like an extra-valient attempt to translate a story that doesn't really work on screen. Unlike the best dialogue-heavy flicks, the endless conversations that make up the vast, vast majority of Moneyball's runtime blur into One another, each taking place in relatively similar locations and consisting of nearly identical topics.

        Where That Other Movie paced Sorkin's writings at a dizzying, elating speed, Miller sets the mind-bogling verbiage to a glacial clip, the movie's Two-plus hour runtime evident even during enjoyable stretches. Simply put, it's a movie about One of the world's most slow-moving sports, stuffed to the brim with conversation, mostly about statistics, wherein even Pitt's character jokes that not all that much is at stake. There are a lot of things to like about Moneyball, a handful in fact, but none of them can mask the fact that this is not a very titillating story to see represented visually. Kudos to all involved; This is likely right around the best film that you could wring out of this story, but those championing it as a potential Best Picture candidate are, to my mind, getting a bit ahead of themselves.

Grade: B

Drive (Release Date: 9-16-2011)

        Alright, everybody: Open up those ears and eyes, and behold the name Nicolas Winding Refn, because it's a name that you might just be hearing a lot of in the coming years. The Danish director, who's films (The Pusher Trilogy, Bronson, and Valhalla Rising among them) have received little to no attention or distribution in the U.S., is an auteur if ever there was One, his fingerprints littered all over every movie he ever touches. There's some of Scorsese's youthful rage in there, some of Lynch's bad-trip impulses, and even a dash of Malick's signature star-gazing. It's an odd mix, but not One that you're likely to mix up with any other director working today, a description which also proves perfectly apt at describing his big American introduction, Drive.

        Ryan Gosling, who hand-picked Refn to helm the film, stars as a nameless stunt driver who walks through life with a steely, stoic gaze, and a toothpick ever-hanging from his mouth. His days include working as a mechanic in the garage of his mentor/employer Shannon (Bryan Cranston), his nights sometimes being occupied by moonlighting as a getaway driver. Into this high-octaine existence enters Irene (Carey Mulligan), a neighbor of Gosling's in his apartment complex who strikes up a gooey and wide-eyed romance with the driver before her husband (Oscar Issac) returns from jail. His reentrance into Irene's life is not without problems, some of them involving a few particularly shady-seeming individuals (Ron Perlman and Albert Brooks), and it is soon up to Gosling and Gosling alone to save Irene and her adorable child (Kaden Leos) from a grisly fate.

        Everything that helped Refn get to where his is today is contained within Drive: An old-school aesthetic, startling injections of hyper-violence, a leading man just as likely to seduce as destroy, and about a million nods to other moments in film history. It's a rush, and those uninitiated to Refn's style are likely to be thrown for a loop, but I suppose there's no point in hiding that fact that I could have hoped for more out of Refn's big American coming-out party. Unlike both Bronson (set in a sordid prison system) and Valhalla Rising (which lays its scene with some absurdly barbaric vikings), Drive's horrifically brutal killings seem hugely out of place in modern Los Angeles. I understand that they serve as a commentary of some sort of Gosling's inner animal, but when everyone destroys their opponents in the same gory fashion, it's hard not to feel like Refn simply couldn't help himself. There's no question that the man is exacting, so it's hard not to wonder why he would knowingly allow his out-bursts of violence to go from shocking and raw to over-done and comical.

        As previously stated, the guy has no qualms with wearing his influences on his sleeve, but in the case of Drive, the pile-up becomes a bit exhausting. Besides each name listed in the introductory paragraph, the film also bares obvious allegiances to Michael Mann, Werner Herzog, John Hughes, and Quentin Tarantino (who's something of an endless allusion himself), not to mention movies like Bullitt, The French Connection, and maybe even a scene cribbed straight out of Fellini's La Strada (That One might be unintentional, but I can dream, can't I?). I also cannot be made to understand why the movie isn't just set in the 80's, seeing as its soundtrack, opening credits, character wardrobes, and general vibes are all directly lifted from that era. Oh, and something else about Drive: For the most part, it's totally awesome.

        Refn's camera, as operated by Newton Thomas Sigel, is compelling and picturesque at every turn, providing visual insights and eye-candy from first frame to last. The cast is uniformly strong, each actor hamming it up just as much as the story calls for. Gosling, though on screen for almost the entirety of the film, is often only a passive participant in conversation, but his exterior hints at a plethora of thoughts brewing, and his and Mulligan's chemistry is top-notch. As the name suggests, Drive contains a few scenes of motor mayhem that drip with intensity, making it impossible not to wish for more. There are a variety of complaints that I could make against Drive, but the only reason I'm making them in the first place is because the movie captivated me enough to stay on my mind. Let there be no doubt; Refn has better movies in him, but for now, we'd might as well just enjoy Drive's intensely off-beat ride.

Grade: B

Blink-182: Neighborhoods (Release Date: 9-27-2011)

        Oh, how Blink-182 takes me back. As corny as it sounds on the surface, the band served an important role in the development of my musical fandom, and I certainly don't think I'm alone in that regard. Neither radio music (All the Small Things withstanding) nor family friendly, Blink's discs were often acquired out of the CD burners of whichever of your friends had the most lax parents, hidden safely from your own guardians thereafter. Sure, their juvenile curses seem harmless now, but there was a time, a youngish-teenage years time, when their relentlessly childish world view really hit a nerve, and when seeking out their music was a rebellious and (vaguely) individualistic act. Yes, that's a lot of importance to place on a band that will undoubtedly be stuck in high-school-mode from here unto infinity, but the point is that, no matter how silly their music has always been, Blink-182 seems to strike a gigglingly nostalgic chord for myself and many of my peers.

        The band's last album, a 2003 Self-Titled effort, was a surprisingly mature and varied effort, but even then, there was a sense that Mark, Tom and Travis were getting a bit old to be crafting this kind of music. The Three have been bouncing around various similar-sounding projects ever since, so it makes sense that they might as well just come back home, but at ages ranging from 35-39, their angst-ier days are a bit behind them. Lead single Up All Night can't help but point this out, compensating for youthful mania with walls of power chords. Tom DeLonge, certainly the more iconic of the band's Two vocalists but never my favorite, is the worse for ware, even if his voice sounds mostly the same. Something about hearing a 35-year-old sing in his particular pitch is a bit off-putting. And yet, after all of that, the song still manages to be something of an earworm. Welcome to Neighborhoods.

        Neighborhoods is 14 tracks long, clocking in at just under 50 minutes, and not a single sound on the disc is unfamiliar to the band's catalogue. As a matter of fact, most of the songs just blur together anyways, a mega-sugary pop/punk mixture with occasional highlights popping up in the form of After Midnight's chorus, This is Home's obvious Cure vibes, and thoughts of that girl you had a crush on in 8th grade. It's all listenable, and plenty of it is unnervingly catchy. To say that the new Blink-182 LP is a retread would be a lie: The album is a carbon-copy, perfectly designed to slot into the rest of their discography and play anonymously on shuffle. Do I enjoy listening to Neighborhoods? Yeah, I think so, in an ironic, blast-from-the-past kind of way. Is it a good album? Oh, god, no. It's dumb fun; Let's just leave it at that.

Grade: C

Wilco: The Whole Love (Release Date: 9-27-2011)

        Over the 18-year duration of their musical career, Wilco has, to my mind, seen Three distinct incarnations. Wilco 1.0 starts at the band's genesis, and lasts up until the start of the late 90's. They played fun little folk/pop/rock songs that with lyrics like, "When we're walking/The sun will shine/On that hill/Where we used to climb/I'll look in your eyes/And you'll be mine." They occasionally hinted at something bigger, but mostly, they were just for kicks. Wilco 2.0 seemingly came out of nowhere, but thank god for them. From 1999-2004, the band delivered Three masterclass LPs (Summerteeth, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, and A Ghost is Born), exemplified by a hugely expanded sonic world, and some mind-numbingly terrific song writing by frontman Jeff Tweedy. Their tunes were both expansive and subtle, inviting but often mysterious, with lyrics like, "All I could be/Is a busy sea/Of spinning wheels/And hands that feel/For stones to throw/And feet that run/But come back home." Presently, the world lays claim to Wilco 3.0.

        Wilco 3.0 isn't a bad band, per say. Neither Sky Blue Sky nor Wilco (The Album) were bad albums either, and had they been made by someone else, I honestly have no idea what my opinion of them would be. Coming from Wilco, a band who has seen such elating and delirious heights, they seemed a little... dad-rocky. Granted, the band is getting a bit older (Tweedy turned 44 in August), and it's awfully unrealistic to expect a hot streak like their's to keep going. How many amazing songs can One band really write, anyways?

        As if directly answering the questions of such naysayers like myself, Wilco's newest, The Whole Love, opens with Art of Almost, a song that uproots just about every single notion of what Wilco 3.0 can do. The number unfolds with sparse loops of drums and piano, Tweedy's voice joining the echoing soundscape soon after. The tune grooves along like this, adding and subtracting every sound from accompanying piano to an audio-clip that sounds stolen straight out of Panda Bear's Tomboy (in a good way). After strings and bass lines swell to the point of bursting, just about every sound clears out for guitarist Nels Cline, who solos like a man possessed from there on out. Clocking in at over Seven minutes, Art of Almost could readily be accused of over-indulgence, but I find it's go-for-broke approach inspiring and, well, pretty damn amazing. I haven't been as blown away by a tune of their's since Ghost came out Seven years ago.

        First single I Might doesn't aim to set the world on fire the way that Art of Almost does, but it doesn't need to. Its humming acoustic guitar and hyper-catchy organ part more than do the trick, the tune's bouncy ambience perfectly off-set by Tweedy's repeated declaration, "It's alright/You won't set the kids on fire/Oh, but I might." Two tracks into The Whole Love, I pretty much couldn't believe my ears. On track Three, Sunloathe, I suddenly could. Yet again, not a bad song, calling to mind some of the Beatles' chamber-poppier moments, but it doesn't excite or dazzle the way that the first Two tracks do. As it turns out, neither of these forms is emblematic of the rest of the disc. The fluctuation between the Two is.

        While Art of Almost strikes me as the undeniable champion of the disc, there are a variety of others songs here that impress far beyond what a cynical jerk like me had come to expect from the band. Dawned on Me is a genuine foot-stomper, fleshed out with instruments and harmonies aplenty that take it to extremes both sunny and grand. Born Alone, despite its depressing name and lyrics, is another warm ditty, One that takes plenty of time to rock out with Cline's stellar axe-work. Slower tracks, like Open Mind and Capital City fare less well, the group's folksy drawl simply less compelling than their excitable, more heavily-orchestrated numbers. The true exception to this rule only arrives at the end, as 12-minute closer One Sunday Morning (Song For Jane Smiley's Boyfriend) rumbles along contentedly, soothing and gorgeous in its sway. Despite some flashes of real brilliance, The Whole Love suffers from too many dry-spells to be confused with hay-day Wilco, but there's little doubt in my mind that this is their most satisfying release since Ghost. Call it Wilco 2.5, or maybe just listen.

Grade: B