Wilfred

Despite the gaping hole the absence of Mad Men has left in my television viewing schedule, this summer has not been completely deprived of gripping televised entertainment.  True Blood started off its season by leaping a year into the future; Weeds one-upped their HBO competition and fast forwarded three years and moved the whole cast to New York.  But in the face of so many shark jumping game changers, sometimes the best medicine is just to keep things simple.  And FX's new Thursday night comedy, Wilfred, can be refreshingly infantile in its simplicity.

Wilfred stars everyone's favorite hobbit Elijah Wood as Ryan, a depressed former lawyer whose in the  midst of a failed suicide attempt when the pretty and perky Jenna moves in next door.  Jenna introduces herself to Ryan by asking him to watch her dog Wilfred, and Ryan obliges.  The problem?  While to everyone else Wilfred is just another lovable pet, Ryan sees his new canine friend as a gruff, chain-smoking Australian man in a shoddy dog costume.  Jason Gann - co-creator of the original Australian series - reprises his role as Wilfred, wreaking havoc on Ryan's life in his pursuit of beer, weed, and amusement.

Needless to say, this is a definitively dark comedy, but the show repeatedly avoids becoming too bleak by falling back on Wilfred's more canine tendencies: he may want Ryan to think he's a world-wise pup, but the moment someone whips out a laser pointer, he's running in circles trying to catch it.  Yes, the show often plays up its primary conceit for easy laughs (see Wilfred humping a waitress' leg in the pilot episode), but just as frequently Wilfred uses similar opportunities to illustrate how we relate to our pets, as well as each other.  Ryan's sister Kristen may dismiss his new friend Wilfred as "filthy," but when Ryan tells Kristen's boss he'd rather "eat possum ass than be his desk monkey," the audience knows where Ryan's real loyalty lies.

Wilfred airs Thursday nights at 10pm on FX.  This network isn't too diligent about rebroadcasting episodes throughout the week - or getting them up On Demand in a timely manner - so consider yourselves warned.  The season thus far is up and running on Hulu if you'd like to catch up before this week's episode. And if you tune in Thursday, be sure to stick around for Louie at 10:30.  Louis CK's series alternates between stand-up and fictionalized vignettes in which CK plays...himself.  But he does it well; he keeps it simple.  And by Thursday night, an hour-long block of simple is really all a job hungry hipster could want.

Low Cut Connie

It's been a while since I brightened your world with a new musical selection, mostly because it's been a while since I brightened my own world with a new musical selection.  But after making grave efforts to catch up with the latest indie releases, I've found myself enamored with a particularly off beat band that pulls on the 'Jersey Pride' tether to my heart.

Low Cut Connie was founded by New Jersey native Adam Weiner and British songwriter Dan Finnermore, but the band's debut Get Out The Lotion (high class lyricism this is not) sounds more like a '50s rockabilly record straight out of Nashville.  The songs are upbeat, catchy, and made for dancing, with plenty of Southern twang and swagger, but the lo-fi aesthetic and hilariously vulgar lyrics (see Shit Shower and Shave or Big Thighs, NJ) bring a decidedly contemporary element to the band's sound that will appeal to the indie rock crowd.  And despite the raunchy veneer, Get Out The Lotion has some unexpected heart (Lovers Call and Full of Joy actually border on sweetness) and loads of enthusiasm.

For all of us hit hard by the tough economic times, Low Cut Connie has Get Out The Lotion available for download on their website for whatever you can afford to pay.  And those in the New York metropolitan area should check the band out live this August at Bar 4 in Brooklyn or The Living Room in Manhattan.

Midnight in Paris

As an NYU student of a certain ilk, I will always have a soft spot for Woody Allen.  Even at his worst (see The Curse of the Jade Scorpion, or an even lower point, Scoop), he remains the epitome of the maligned, neurotic liberalism that lures people like me to New York in the first place.  We worry ourselves into therapy, beat ourselves up over our inferior looks, and reminisce about the 'good old days' of an era preceding our memory, all before taking a seat at the bar and deconstructing the intellectual inferiority of those around us.

Allen's films are often steeped in this pretentious, yet melancholy nostalgia, and Allen has always seemed to have a particular soft spot for the 1920s, the Lost Generation in particular. Some may remember his 1994 comedy Bullets Over Broadway, which was set in the period and found most of its laughs in the pretension of that eras' theater; others may recall his hilarious essay from Without Feathers, entitled "A Twenties Memory" (if you haven't read the book, or the essay, I highly recommend both).

Midnight in Paris feels like "A Twenties Memory" on celluloid; scene after scene is a revolving door of  historical figures brought to life.  The film stars Owen Wilson as Gil, the prerequisite Allen-stand-in, a Hollywood screenwriter visiting Paris with his uptight fiancée Inez (Rachel McAdams) and her disapproving parents.  Gil is in the midst of writing his first serious novel and dreams of abandoning life in L.A. and staying in Paris; Inez finds this completely unappealing.

After an unpleasant evening with Inez, Gil wanders the streets of Paris alone and drunk, when at the stroke of midnight, he is picked up by an antique Peugeot and deposited at a flapper themed party, complete with a pianist covering Cole Porter's "Let's Do It" and a glamorous couple claiming to be the Fitzgeralds.  It isn't long, of course, until Gil realizes that the pianist isn't covering Cole Porter, he is Cole Porter, and his new friends are, in fact, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald.  Gil begins making regular nightly trips into this mysterious world of 1920s Paris, befriending all his idols and falling for the lovely Adriana (Marion Cotillard), who just happens to be having an affair with Pablo Picasso. 

The film is Allen at his best: nostalgia and genuine, but satirical, witty, and sophisticated.  Gil's idols are obviously Allen's idols, and while Allen's fantasy about traveling back in time and meeting the giants of the Lost Generation could easily get mired down in cliches, he isn't afraid to poke fun at his own heroes.  (Corey Stoll's performance as Ernest Hemingway is appropriately curt and butch, and Allen provides him with enough dialogue about The Real and The True that will have the former English majors in the audience doubled over in laughter.)

The casting is, across the board, inspired.  (Keep your eyes peeled for Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein, Adrian Brody as Salvador Dalí, and the First Lady of France as a museum tour guide.)  Michael Sheen is typically adept as pretentious college professor Paul.  And Wilson manages to imbue Gil with the essential Woody Allen-ness required without reducing the role to an impression.

Midnight in Paris is only the latest in a renaissance for Allen, achieved mostly by getting back to basics.  The film may draw heavily on Allen's past work, but then again, that's what makes it so great.  And all the more appealing to us maligned, neurotic New York Liberals.

Kurt Cobain: About a Son

A lot has happened since I last posted here.  Spring arrived, Prince William tied the knot (early risers  may have had the privilege of watching the whole thing on TLC, brought to you by Fancy Feast in the most inspired example of TV sponsorship in my lifetime), and Osama bin Laden was killed and promptly dumped into the ocean.  Unfortunately, nothing I'm about to tell you is nearly as exciting as all that, but I do have a great new (old) film to recommend to you, and that HAS to count for something.

So in keeping with my typically active social life in the big city, I spent a good chunk of this weekend catching up on must-see documentaries for both work and pleasure.  I finally got around to watching Exit Through the Gift Shop (which was fabulous, though I'm sure the rest of you already knew that since you saw the film upon its release last year) and an upcoming doc on the Earth Liberation Front we're promoting this summer (a hint: its title rhymes with If a Bee Calls...).

But the surprise winner of this weekend's docu-binge was About a Son, a five-year old documentary on morbidly glamorized rock icon Kurt Cobain.  Like many suburban American teens, I went through a substantial alt-rock phase in my middle and high school years, complete with Hot Topic t-shirts, ripped jeans, and over-sized flannels.  It was my way of asserting my independence and individualism from the teeny-bopper masses, and there was no better accessory in my rebellion than Nirvana.  They were the most widely known band of the 90s grunge movement, having proliferated even the Nickelodeon programming I had consumed as a child, and were still, years after Cobain's death, all over Philadelphia modern rock radio.  I read every biography on Cobain I could find, braved every inaudible unreleased recording, and even forced myself to sit through the inane, factually-warped hilarity that is Nick Broomfield's Kurt & Courtney.

Of course, I went on to college and even more obscure indie idols, and  I abandoned Nirvana as an "obvious," "mainstream" cultural phenomenon at about the same time this documentary was released.  However, unfortunately for me (and a lot of other slightly pretentious people of my generation), Nirvana is a prime example of the music industry at its finest: a band that becomes hugely popular because they are legitimately innovative and talented above and beyond their peers.  Years later, I'm finally able to go back to Nevermind and In Utero and appreciate them for the classic albums they are.  So when I saw this title pop up in my Netflix Instant Recommendations, I figured it was worth going back to as well.

AJ Schnack's About a Son is a unique film, especially in the context of other documentaries about Cobain and the band.  The film was crafted around over 25 hours of audiotape interviews with Cobain conducted by journalist Michael Azerrad in preparation for his 1993 book, Come As You Are: The Story of Nirvana.  Cobain discusses his childhood in Aberdeen, family life, and musical influences,  as well as the band's rise to stardom, his relationship with Courtney Love, and his drug use.

The most striking thing about the film is the surprising lack of video footage of Cobain himself.  While photos of the band's live performances and personal photos of Cobain, Love, and daughter Frances Bean are provided when appropriate, Schnack avoids these typical crutches of the rock biopic for most of the film, and instead opts to go into the field and film the locations and scenes Cobain discusses in his interviews.  Every frame of the film provides ambiance to flush out the real star of the show: Cobain's voice.  No other interviews are conducted, very little performance footage is included.  About a Son is, fundamentally, an audiotrack accompanied by B-roll footage.

And yet, it's highly effective.  By forcing the viewer to pay exclusive attention to Cobain's voice rather than all the hype surrounding his band, his experiences and opinions sound more and more ordinary.  While many filmmakers aspire to strip away the "Rock Star" persona of their subjects and get to the human being within, Schnack's film is the one of the few rock documentaries I've seen that succeeds in this mission.  About a Boy doesn't dwell on Nirvana's fame or Cobain's suicide.  It's just an hour and a half of Cobain talking, as if the viewers had traveled back in time and were conversing with him themselves.

About a Son is free to watch instantly online with any Netflix account.  If you don't have Netflix, you can see the film on YouTube in its entirety, although I make no promises as to the quality of the video.  Meanwhile, feel free to check out the trailer below.

Like a phoenix from the ashes, I think.

My few and precious readers, I have failed you. Four posts in and I completely neglected my newly adopted position, and for that I am sorry.  However, I did not come here without excuses, the most important of which being that I am no longer an unemployed hipster. 

"But, Justine," I can hear some of you saying, "you own the Local Natives debut on vinyl.  I just saw you buy a new pair of inexcusably large glasses."

And to you, particularly perceptive readers, I gladly confirm that, yes, I am still a hipster.  But now, I am an employed hipster.

At the start of the new year, I began working with Film First Co, a boutique PR agency specializing in independent film and television, and as a result, most of the culture I'm now consuming is directly related to my job.  I would, as a passionate film buff, LOVE to tell you guys all the juicy details of our recent projects.  But there is a definite conflict of interest on my part, and the small, malnourished voice of journalistic integrity in my head won't allow me to post positive buzz for films I'm getting paid to promote.

So instead, I've come back with a promise: I have not abandoned you.  I will return, hopefully later this week, with my latest picks for you. And they will be glorious, or at the very least, adequate.

In the meantime, please accept this video as a token of good intentions.  It's Lisa Hannigan's slightly old, but no less excellent, live performance of Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues.  She does this one regularly at her live shows, and it is one of the greatest Dylan covers I've ever had the privilidge of hearing.  Enjoy.

Talking to Girls About Duran Duran

And I'm back!  After an absence devoted to job hunting, seasonal retail training (one field in which there will always be jobs, even if only for two months), and generally milling around, I completed the rather lighthearted task of reading Rob Sheffield's new book Talking to Girls About Duran Duran.  Some of you may know Sheffield from his current role as a contributing editor at Rolling Stone; others may have read his previous memoir Love is a Mix Tape; and the rest of you would probably recognize him from his frequent commentary on VH1's I Love [insert decade of choice here] series.

If you happen to be a fan of that I Love the 80s style nostalgia, Talking to Girls About Duran Duran will be right up your alley.  Sheffield takes us through the decade one song at a time, recalling how 80s pop influenced his relationships with the women in his life during his formative years and beyond.  Obviously, Duran Duran plays a key role in Sheffield's development, but he doesn't stop there, devoting chapters to Chaka Khan, Prince, David Bowie, and Hall & Oates, among others.

The book is filled with humorous 80s staples -- bad hair, John Hughes movies, cassingles -- and witty musings on timeless issues such as which artists were able to pull off an authentic 'New Wave' transformation and why one-hit-wonders have risen up to define the decade.  But as anyone who is familiar with his work already knows, Sheffield has a way of brushing aside the stereotypical aspects of pop culture and getting at its real importance -- the way it is intertwined with our lives.  He covers all the bases of essential 1980s artists and describes not just how but why they affected him, and if you're a human being with a pulse, you'll know exactly what he means almost every time.  Really, you don't need to have lived through the 80s to relate to this book -- you just need to have heard a Smiths song at some point in your life.

Sheffield is that greatest of all music journalists, in that he's primarily a fan -- a huge fan -- before anything else.  He openly discusses the imaginary relationships he has (and that we all have) with his favorite musical artists.  He projects his own messed-up issues onto them and admits that the context surrounding a song is often significantly more important to how we perceive it than the song itself.  He's enthusiastic, willing to give just about anything a chance, and perfectly okay with admitting that he really enjoyed seeing Flock of Seagulls live.  We should all aspire to such non-pretentious musical honesty.

For a short sample, check out Salon's excerpt from the book here.  And to see Sheffield's journalistic prowess in action, read his apt review of Kanye West's new album in the latest edition of Rolling Stone.

Kumail Nanjiani

You guys may have heard this clip from Kumail Nanjiani on This American Life a few months back (because I fully expect that anyone who would be so inclined to read this blog is probably a frequent listener of public radio).  If not, he's certainly worth two minutes of your time.  Anyone who can make a crowd laugh this much by essentially repeating the word "heroin"over and over again has a gift.  To hear Kumail's thoughts on The Elephant Man and racist children, check out this week's absolutely free The Sound of Young America podcast from PRI.