Pull the Trigger

I love movies because, unlike most TV, they are an experience shared at the same time in the same room with a bunch of strangers. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love TV, too. And thanks to the globe-shrinking powers of the internet, watching TV has become one of our greatest communal experiences. But there’s just something about stories told in the dark that always makes my pulse quicken. I am also a person who enjoys watching the trailers. In fact, if you come late and make me miss the trailers I will hog the popcorn in revenge.

Now, once again, the series of tubes has made trailer watching a different experience than it once was. It’s rare that I see a trailer for the first time in the theater anymore, rarer still that I haven’t heard of the movie altogether. But that’s just what happened when I got an email recommending “Trigger” last week. [Big, swooping hat tip to Babs!]

“Trigger” is the kind of movie trailer that makes me want to run out and see the movie immediately. It makes me excited about movies. It makes me want to share it with strangers. So, I will.

I know, right? A movie about two women rockers and their friendship and possibly more? Ticket – I want one. Now.

So, as I do with anything that excites me, I try to find out more. A little digging and the story of “Trigger” unfolded, and, once again, only made me want to watch it more.

Indie film regulars will recognize its stars: Canadian actresses Molly Parker and Tracy Wright. You might know Molly from “Deadwood,” “Six Feet Under” or the intense and disturbing “The Center of the World” (where she shares quite a kiss with Carla Gugino). You might remember Tracy from “When Night is Falling” (as the circus director’s wife, and the circus director was also her long-time, real-life husband Don McKellar) or “Me You and Everyone You Know.”

And now, well, there’s no way to sugar-coat this, so I’ll just say it straight. This next part is sad part. Tracy died in June of this year from pancreatic cancer. “Trigger” was her final film, made in only nine days as everyone rushed to work with her before she became too ill. I know, tinges the excitement with melancholy and weight.

>So now, not only do I want a ticket but I want the movie to be special. And, from the glowing review in Cinematical, it really is. Reviewer Monika Bartyzel calls it perhaps the best example of female friendship put on the screen: “Quite simply, Trigger is to female friendship what Before Sunrise/Before Sunset was for romance.”

Some wonder what it takes to make a realistic woman for the big screen. Can a man write a well-formed female character? If they do, is it just a result of collaborations with a woman in their life? To me, the success of a female character depends not on the person writing it – Daniel MacIvor wrote the film – but on the humanity put into it, and how a female actress can then infuse that with their own gendered experience. In Trigger, these women are about as real as they come.

It also probably must be noted that the male reviewer for The Hollywood Reporter was considerably, condescendingly less impressed with the film saying that nothing said between the women in the film’s conversation-heavy dialogue makes it “the least bit compelling.” I guess two chicks just chatting to each other doesn’t do it for him. He also bums us out even more by revealing that “There’s also a hint-- more a perfumey whiff really -- of homoeroticism in their relationship, but it vanishes quickly.” Sheesh, dude, even lesbians don’t get that bitter when the lesbianism fizzles out in movies.

Look, we all know movies about women and their relationships outside of those with men are a rare breed. Think back to the movies you saw this summer and count how many passed the Bechdel Rule. That is a movie with at least two women in it who talk to each other about something other than a man. How many did you get?

So, naturally, any movie that both satisfies that rule and brings together such tremendous talent and is about women in rock-and-roll is a no brainer in my book. Take my ticket. Dim the lights. I’m going to the movies.

~Kitten Wine~#18: 'Slowly Goes The Night'

It was over!

This time it was beyond doubt...we were finished.

As I stood there in her room all I could feel was an aching hollow sense of dread, knowing I'd have to face the rest of my life without her. I should have seen it coming. Just like Kurt Cobain's death in 1994, there had been a very obvious warning sign just a few weeks before. A shot across the boughs that I'd somehow ignored, somehow failed to even acknowledge.

And now, here in the inky blackness of her room as she lay crying on her bed, I had a decision to make quickly. She'd asked me to stay this last night, but I knew I'd only be stretching the agony out beyond human endurance....so I decided to go, to walk away for the last time. A few weeks before, I had loaned her Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds 'Tender Prey' album which she still had in her room. I knew that this was something I was going to need to help me through the next few hours. Somehow, in the darkness, thanks to some sixth sense I managed to find the black sleeve of the album. I tucked it under my arm and left her house, out into the night to try and find a late taxi(it was already passed 2:00a.m).

The taxi ride was unbearable! The driver was far too jolly and chatty and all I wanted was to dissolve into the seat. As I got home my huge masculine cat(tragically named Fluffy) came bounding up to meet me as he always did.

I sat on my bed and switched on the Dansette, taking the album from it's sleeve and putting on my headphones, I knew there was only one track in the history of music that could in any way reach me right now, that could cut through the fear and longing and put my despair into any kind of context. Sometimes, when gazing into the abyss of heartbreak, of life without HER, there's no point in reaching for the drink, the drugs or the razorblades. Sometimes you just need the balm that only music, the right song at the right time, can bring......

'Tender Prey' Side 2 Track 2......'Slowly Goes The Night'. The stylus clicked into the groove.......

Brushes...chikka chikka....a single piano chord falls like the first tear....and then Nick's deep sonorous voice cuts through the darkness with a spoken intro:

"Darlin', that mornin' you chose to go// I awoke in my boots and clothes// You'd taken my car, stolen my cash// Even my 500 dollar suit was slashed// And I just lay there watching the sun fall down from the sky// Not wanting to open the letter, but opening it anyway and seeing those two words//...Lover, Goodbye!"

Oof!! It was like a gut-punch....just those two words. They were the catalyst....at last the tears and the grief could begin properly.

'Tender Prey' was an important album for Nick Cave, it was the first where he buried his post-punk reputation and emerged as a truly important contemporary songwriter. I'd followed his career through The Birthday Party into The Bad Seeds and every album seemed to improve upon the previous. But 'Tender Prey' was different, and 'Slowly Goes The Night' was his first foray into some kind of Sinatra-like balladeering. I knew from the very first time I heard it that here was a song that one day I would NEED....and now that moment had arrived.

"Next to me lies your body plan// Like a map of some forbidden land// I trace the ghosts of your bones with my trembling hand"...to hear someone who had been often criticised for a misogynistic bent to his lyrics suddenly sound so vulnerable and wounded at the hands of a girl was breathtaking, but now here put into some real-life context it was more important than mere breathing.

The 'ba-ba-ba' backing vocals that run through the song play like little reminders of happier times, compounding the heartbreak more unwaveringly.

"Dark is my night//And darker is my day....yeah// I must have been blind// Out of my mind// I never never saw the warning signs"....I doubt that I have ever been at one with a song in my whole life before or since.

At about three quarters through the song comes the killer line, waiting like an assassin in the corner of the room...."Oh baby I feel the heal of time...(pause)...and it hurts!" Each syllable of that line hit like a bullet.... a line that elevates Cave way beyond the lesser songwriters of this or any day. The healing process hurts! The healing process.....hurts!!

"I reach out and embrace// An empty space// A song that slowly slowly fades// Where goes it? It goes someplace// It goes someplace where it's lonely//.....and black as the night" Every line of this song was now feeding me like a mellifluous intravenous drip, slowly piecing fragments of sanity back in place, keeping me together, "Call it sleep, call it death// Call it what you like// But only sleep, only sleep brings you back to life"....and there we have the reality...only in sleep would I ever be with her again. Ever! Almost cruelly Nick offers a slight chink of light, of some kind of hope as he bids us farewell, "Well I'm goin'// Yeah but slowly slowly goin'// And we both know that it's gonna be alright".....Really? Are you sure it's going to be alright Nick? "But it ain't you that has to cry cry cry// Ten lonely days, ten lonely nights// Since you left my side, side......side" The last utterance of the word 'side' so low and guttural that you know it's not going to be alright after all. I'd like to think that Nick only took one take to record his vocals here, so full of despair and hurt that you get the feeling he's not acting, that this vocal performance is real.

And with that, the song ends.....

I took off the headphones, switched of the Dansette and fell into a sludgy and dreamless sleep.

When I awoke I felt like Faust, so drained of anything resembling a soul, a hollowness gnawing deep in my stomach. I took the 12" sliver of black vinyl from the turntable, slipped it into the inner bag and placed it inside the sleeve. I then put the album away and never returned to it for a long time. Indeed it was well over five years before I could ever bring myself to play 'Slowly Goes The Night' again. Nowadays I can listen to it for pleasure but somewhere a little piece of me dies with every play.

And YOU think YOUR records mean something to YOU??

As I've said in previous Journals, there are songs I like, songs I love, songs I couldn't face life without, and then there are about 20 or so songs that transcend all these platitudes and simply become ME, of which this is one. When they cut me open on the autopsy slab, these songs will fill the mortuary!

If music be the food of love......play on!

If music be the cardiopulmonary resuscitation exercises that keep me together when the darkest night of the soul comes calling....give me excess of it!!

~Gordon~

Tank Top Tuesday: Premiere Week Edition

Oh, premiere week, how I love you. It’s like Christmas and your birthday all wrapped up in a big bow and placed with love on the couch for you. What is hiding underneath the pretty wrappers? Something you’ll love? Something you’ll return? Something you’ll regift at the office holiday party next year. So far, Monday night belongs to Yvonne Strahovski (with a kick-ass assist from Linda Hamilton). “Chuck was the best thing I saw yesterday. As for the big “Hawaii Five-O” vs. “Chase” showdown, I’m somewhat underwhelmed with both. The big Five-O seems more like a potential gay boy Rizzoli & Isles with Alex O’Laughlin McGarrett and Scott Caan Danno bickering like an old married couple. Just wait until they both show off their abs and start making googley eyes at each other. Grace Park was quite nice, but I’m generally adverse to any show that only has one regular female character amid a sea of male ones. Call it my Bechdel Test for TV. As for “Chase,” it was pretty straight forward: Bad guys run, good guys chase them. Truth in advertising, I guess. I hope Rose Rollins gets to have more than two lines of dialogue per show.

Handicapping of the rest of the week, Tank Top Tuesday style.

TODAY

Lea Michele, Glee I am displeased to report that Rachel is still the same old Rachel in the second season premiere. Her voice sure sounds great, though.

Heather MorrisI am pleased to report that Brittany is the same old Brittany in the second season premiere. With more discussion of boobs.

Naya RiveraSantana’s boobs are also a hot discussion topic, though perhaps not how you’d expect.

Jane LynchThough, if it were up to me, we’d talk about Sue’s boobs. I knew something spectacular lurked beneath that track suit.

Keri Russell, Running Wilde“Running Wilde” is getting shitty reviews, but Felicity looks great.

WEDNESDAY

Sofia Vergara, Modern FamilyLet the ridiculous rolling of Rs commence.

THURSDAY

Amy Poehler, Parks & RecreationI really wish they’d bring this back now instead of midseason. I need my Tina/Amy punch like back in the Weekend Update days.

Alison Brie, CommunityI don’t watch this. This may be an error on my part.

Nina Dobrev, The Vampire DiariesI know, I know, you don’t watch. But, come on, she plays two characters. Double your pleasure, kittens.

Maggie Q, NikitaStill not entirely sure I’m sold yet. But there is running with a gun in a tank top. So it can’t be all bad.

Anna Torv, FringeI don’t know how I’m going to fit this in to my watch/DVR/stream schedule this season. But, dammit, if this doesn’t make me want to try harder.

Brought to you by the letter R

So last night in a fit of late-night iTunesing, I had to muster up all my willpower to resist buying “Imagine Me & You” to carry around with me in my pocket forever, always. (I already own the DVD. I don’t want to wear out its welcome. I need to be sensible and eat my vegetables, young lady.) So I turned to Twitter for support (y’all are a bunch of enablers, by the way). But, instead, what you really did was draw my attention to something very, very odd and very, very frustrating.

“Imagine Me & You” is rated R. Which means here in the United States no child under the age of 17 could see it in a theater without an accompanying parent or guardian. In essence, that means that the Motion Picture Association of America thought there was something so objectionable about this movie that children must be shielded from its potentially harmful effects. Its official MPPA rating says it earned that R for “for some language and sexual material.” Now, normally R is reserved for movies with explicit sex scenes, sexualized nudity, extreme foul language and/or graphic violence. All the “Saw” movies (including the upcoming third “Saw” in 3-D no less), which feature murder, torture and dismemberment of every imaginable variety, are rated R. “Boogie Nights,” a movie about the porn industry and a man who uses his enormous penis to become a star in it, is rated R. The first two “Scary Movie” films, which were all about supposedly satirizing sexy flasher films by showing excessive sex and slashing, were rated R (the last two only were rated PG-13).

Does “Imagine Me & You” have nudity? No, because I sure as hell know I would have remembered seeing Lena Headey naked, or Piper Perabo or even Giles Anthony Stewart Head. Does “Imagine Me & You” have murder, torture, dismemberment, blood, guts or any of those in any combination in 3-D? No, though the awful stock broker boss does make me feel momentarily stabby for being such an ass. Does “Imagine Me & You” have extreme foul language? Well, No. 9 might argue this but I really don’t think there’s too much past a “fuck” here or there.

But what it does have is two women kissing and falling in love. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HIDE THE CHILDREN!

Now, if you’ve seen “This Film Is Not Yet Rated,” this is not news to you. Gay-themed movies are often rated much more harshly than straight movies. “But I’m a Cheerleader” was given an NC-17 (No children under 17, period, even with an adult) at first, then downgraded to an R after cuts. “Boys Don’t Cry” was initially given an NC-17, then trimmed to get an R. “American Psycho” was initially given an NC-17 rating, but then when they cut not the axe murder or the chainsaw dismemberment or the serial killing in general but the one three-way sex scene it was graced with an R. Message: As long as there’s no sex in your violence, you’re A-OK. Also, if there happens to be gay sex in your violence you’re totally screwed – and not in even a remotely kind of fun way.

While the ratings are “voluntary,” they mean everything to both the film’s exposure and eventual bottom line. Many theaters won’t play a NC-17 movie. Many distributors won’t stock a NC-17 DVD. A R rating, in turn, will limit a movie’s potential box office because a whole segment of the population is excluded. But money and audience aside, what this is really still saying is that gay relationships are so different, so frightening, so unacceptable, so deviant that we have to protect the young impressionable minds from seeing them.

The only scary thing about these two women together is that someone would look at them and think, “Shit, they’re scary.” And the only way this movie could ever really be rated R is if the “R” actually stood for “Repeat Viewing.” Which I think I’ll do now. On my iPhone. Just to prove a point. And that point is: “You’re a wanker, MPAA!”

Griff says; "Dear Joan, Why are we so lonely?"

So, you're probably not already wondering, who are Griff's all-time favourite Scottish band? From the perspective of someone whose life has taken him across central Scotland from Stirlingshire, to Renfrewshire, to Ayrshire and then back to Renfrewshire, what speaks most to him about his life?
Is it the sublime, ethereal sparkle of Cocteau Twins?
Is it the visceral, energising wall-of-noise of The Jesus and Mary Chain?
Perhaps the literate, sophisticated new-wave pop of Aztec Camera or the romantic, sweeping, pop landscapes of Camera Obscura?
Nope, all good, but guess again.
Ok, what about the post-punk, twee-pop precursor that was Altered Images, the quirky, glam-punk of The Rezillos, the urgent, rumbling folk-rock of Sons and Daughters?
All of these have a place in my heart but you're still not right.
Sigh, OK, Ballboy then?
Close, but that's still not it. Come on, which band have more plays than any other on my last.fm profile page?
Aaaaaaah, is it The Just Joans?
Bingo!

Let me try to explain why. As all Scots know, there are two Scotlands. The first is a vision of a romantic, heather-clad glen, a landscape rich with mystery, but bereft of life but for the haunting strains of a lone piper wafting down from somewhere high on the hillside. This is the vision dear to the heart of our American tourists. The other Scotland is the sort of place that never makes it into VisitScotland's glossy brochures. This is the Scotland of the self-destructive, macho posturing of the self-loathing hard men. It's about the small-town, judgemental post-Calvinist, obsession with, and criticism of, your neighbours. It's about trying to get to your reluctant, soon to be ex-, girlfriend's house past the chip-shop and the rampaging, drunken 'young team' ready to "plunge ye, ya walloper" on the basis of your religion, or what football team you support, and of course, both are inextricably linked anyway. It's about a November of endless night and incessant freezing rain and you're sitting on the bus to your house as it takes it's circular, halting route through all the schemes. And you're on your way back from Uni with no money and a growing sense of lost potential, and all the people you were at school with are getting on and off the bus too, coming back from their hopeless, soul-destroying day jobs in tertiary industry and you drift off into a dream of comforting, pointless nostalgia. And that, my friends, is the Scotland which is soundtracked so beautifully and almost uniquely by The Just Joans.
I'm going to insert two videos now (below) which should illustrate precisely what I'm getting at above. Both videos nicely showcase The Just Joans special blend of folk-pop, kitchen-sink realism and should adequately demonstrate why they are to central Scotland what The Smiths and The Kinks are to Northern and Southern England respectively (why The Joans remain virtually unknown alongside these more illustrious bands is a subject for another day). Please note, the following videos so accurately, penetratingly and cruelly display scenes from the actual lives of Gordon and I that they are almost painful to watch.






Rather fittingly, perhaps inevitably, The Just Joans hail from the hideous, post-industrial wasteland of North Lanarkshire. Named after the infamous and egregious agony aunt of Scotland's unfathomably popular, red-top rag The Daily Record, the original lie-up was composed of frontman David Pope and guitarist Chris Elkin. Later the duo recruited keyboardist Dougie Cameron, vocalist Rowan Smith, bassist Fraser Ford, and David's sister Katie in an effort to expand their sound.

In 2005, they released their debut album 'Last Tango in Motherwell' through Ivan Lendil Music. In 2007, they released two EPs, 'Virgin Lips' and 'Hey Boy - You're Oh So Sensitive!' through Streetlamp favourites WeePOP! Records.

In 2009 they released the excellent 'Love and Other Hideous Accidents' EP, again through WeePOP! Unfortunately, these have now sold out although a quick trawl through the WeePOP! sites back catalogue will still happily provide you with an essential taster to the greatness of The Just Joans via a few free, digital-download, sample tracks.

So, why am I mentioning them now? Why, because , their fourth EP on WeePOP!'Your pain is a joke next to mines' is officially released on September 27th. It is limited to 300 copies, in the usual hand-assembled WeePOP! way but, early-birds take note, it's already available to pre-order right now. As usual, to whet your appetite, the nice people at WeePOP! are giving away a free digital-download of one track; this is the evocatively titled, and typically Just Joan-like, 'Stuart Had A Dirty Book'. I've inserted a live performance of this song (below) along with another track from the new EP 'Why Are We So Lonely, Steven?'.
I think both tracks are a wonderful addition to the Just Joans oeuvre and demonstrate the wonderful, sly humour that leavens their ostensibly grim subject matter, which is why, along with 'Gregory's Girl' this is the art that defines my life.
Enjoy!





Griff
xx

My Weekend Crush

Few things stay beautiful forever. Photos fade. Paintings crack. Books yellow with time. Most music feels out-of-date a few weeks after it falls off of heavy rotation. But some songs stay beautiful. Some songs never age, always enchant. Yesterday my friend Lesley tweeted that “Fade Into You” was quite possibly the perfect song. And it is, it really is. For 4 minutes and 28 seconds Mazzy Star and the also forever beautiful Hope Sandoval take you someplace not of this Earth. Dreamy, moody, melancholy, achingly gorgeous. You don’t hear the song as much as it melts slowly into your body. Plus we could talk for hours about that tiny, downcast slip of a thing hiding behind her hair. And darn it, if that isn't the prettiest, saddest tambourine in all the world. While the song is 16 years old, its emotions are ageless. Whenever I hear “Fade Into You,” I just can't help it. I fall in love all over again. Happy weekend, all.

Face Time

I’ve come to the startling realization that I have a disease. I’m not sure if it’s curable, I’m not sure if it’s contagious. I’m pretty sure it isn’t recognized by the American Medical Association (though, man, it should be). My affliction, my sickness, my curse? I’ve got Chronic Screencappers Disease. I can’t watch a movie or TV show on my laptop without screencapping it. If you need to see further evidence of its symptoms, just check out my “Rizzoli & Isles” screencap folders.

This, of course, makes a relaxing night of watching a movie more difficult. I’ve found I’m not overcome with the affliction while watching TV or DVDs on my regular TV. But the urge to open up Photoshop is too strong when I’m watching something on my computer. Like last night, when I finally saw “Chloe.” Now, I can’t really recommend the movie for its plot. Its last half hour devolves into a ridiculous mish-mash of “Single White Instinct” proportions.

Though I can recommend the movie for its shear eye candy. Because, let’s be honest, “Chloe” is just 96 minutes of unapologetic wallowing in the face porn of Julianne Moore and Amanda Seyfried. Granted, you can’t really blame director Atom Egoyan for luxuriating his lens on these lovely ladies. They’ve got the kind of bone structure that were born to be projected two-stories high on the big screen. As such, a good half of the movie is tight shots of their faces. There are also a few choice close-up of other areas. But, you know, it’s a workday.

The plot, such that it is, involves Julianne hiring high-class call girl Amanda to seduce her husband (Liam Neeson) whom she suspects is cheating. And then it kind of turns that hooker with a heart of gold trope from “Pretty Woman” inside out. (Spoiler Alert: Also, dude, they totally do it.)

So this is when my illness works to your benefit. Because of the aforementioned Chronic Screencapper Disease and because of the aforementioned face porn, I will now share the bounty of my sickness with you. Please enjoy.

OK, fine, I’ll post one NSFW one. But remember, NSFW, so scroll down at your own peril. And by peril I mean yum.

The funniest, truest review I read of this film came from The Daily Beast which contains this perfect line: “Julianne Moore can act with her bosom.” She really can, kittens. She really can.

EDIT: Since you asked so nicely, here goes. If you don’t have a DVD program that takes screenshots automatically, you can follow these four simple steps to Basic Screencapping 101 on a PC. 1) Pause DVD/video on the scene you want to cap. 2) Press the “Print Screen” (PRTSC) button. 3) Open Photoshop (or MS Paint in a pinch). 4) Click “New,” then “Image from clipboard” (just click “Paste” in MS Paint). And, voila. You can crop and run it through various filters, but that right there is a screencap, friends. So now I’ve infected you all with the disease. Bwahahaha!