Songs For The Dead: Not A Real Movie Review of Catch and Release
Well, wow.
Every now and then something comes along and genuinely surprises you. I didn’t have any particular expectations for Catch and Release – Kevin Smith in a supporting role drew me to it, but only enough that it’s languished on my (virtual) shelves since its release in 2006. I only glad I finally gave it a chance; for her first time in the director’s chair, Susannah Grant makes a striking impression. She’s written some excellent screenplays in her time, I’ll give her that – namely Ever After and Erin Brockovich – but from her new vantage point it seems as if she’s been better able to bring out the nuances of her script: the cast positively bounce out of the screen, witty, verbose and true.
Everyone loves Jennifer Garner, and I may finally have to give up on Sheriff Seth Bullock – Timothy Olyphant comes into his own again, despite a fairly underwritten role as the other half of Garner’s inappropriate rebound relationship. On the other hand, the script has too much time for Sam Yaeger’s Dennis, who does not convince as another of Garner’s unrequited admirers. Otherwise, an excellent film. I’d respectfully disagree with critics who’ve zoned out at the prospect of another romantic comedy and pulled out the stock “one for the ladies” nonsense to justify themselves. Actually, no, that’s not terribly respectful at all.
To hell with it: they’re wrong about Catch and Release. It’s a warm character piece with an honest-to-goodness heart of gold. Kevin Smith is everything that’s right about this movie. As a rather less profane version of himself, he’s cuddly, considerate and clever. In fact, Catch and Release feels very much like the sort of flick he’d be making now if his dip into the mainstream with the ill-fated Jersey Girl hadn’t gone so awry.
At the end of the day, my possible man-crush on Kevin Smith is not the only – nor even the best – reason to see this film. If you have a heart, Catch and Release will sing to it.
Of course it’s made me melancholy in all the usual ways.
I’ve brooded thoughtfully about the landing considering if this is the perfect time of night; I can hear cats squawling from the gardens and I feel an inappropriate urge to break the eerie silence with very loud Guns N’ Roses. But the other half sleeps…
Bah.
***
Stay tune for an impromptu Haruki Murakami week. There’s an embargo to obey but this morning’s post brought a copy of What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, a memoir-come-rumination on age and countless other subjects, and the latest of his work to see English translation. I’ve still got the read the thing, but expect a review here in the next ten days. In the meantime, I’ve a review of his last novel, After Dark, to repurpose from Amazon, and a circuituously connected piece on another Japanese weird-fiction sensation in the making: Yoko Ogawa.
So. Cats, earlobes and other Murakamian artefacts. Fun!
The Machines of Melon Collie
We’ve got to hold on to what we’ve got
’cause it doesn’t make a difference
If we make it or not
We’ve got each other and that’s a lot
For love – we’ll give it a shot.
Chinese Democracy of One
I don’t know that I can justify my unfettering love for Guns n’ Roses.
I certainly don’t feel it – ah, the aches of early-onset age – but that said, I’m ever-so-slightly too young to have grown up with Axl yowling in my ears. Thanks to my Dad’s occasional benders and his unfailing ability to work a record player even when utterly out of it, there was plenty of Led Zeppelin, lots of Dire Straits and ZZ Top and the Beatles; I think I’m most grateful to him for the Pink Floyd, but that’s neither here nor there – suffice it to say I’m not altogether surprised my favourite ladies get on with him so well. But whatever he wanted to soundtrack his too infrequent booze-ups with, it was never GnR.
There was no Guns n’ Roses on the radio, either – wow, remember the radio?
There was Whigfield, 2 Unlimited, Shaggy, East 17, Eternal, PJ and hot-damn Duncan. And what a tragic fucking youth that could have been. By the time I was old enough to take an interest in music, it… well, it sucked, as far as I knew. I heard plenty of it, but I made time for none of it. It was when Dad got drunk – or rather, after he’d gotten drunk and the anger had passed – that I started to care. It was at New Year’s and whenever our childminder, Walter, turned up with a bottle of malt to drink him under the table.
Mistakes and Regrets at Electronic Three
My apologies, dear uncertainites, for the downtime these past few days. Excuses include: I’m nowhere near E3, but I’ve been covering the convention from afar on the Ace Gamez blog. And I totally called it. Animal Crossing on the Wii; lots of Little Big Planet; downloadable Ratchet and Clank episodes; and more besides. But the point isn’t to boast – I have no particular insight, yet the only real surprise of the electronic three was Final Fantasy XIII on the Xbox 360. And that, in itself, makes perfect sense. Squeenix have a history of platform loyalties that aren’t loyalties at all, but canny decisions. This is just the next decision.
For all that could have been, then, a toast.
If there’s a conference next year – and sadly, it really is a case of if and not when – I think I might make the trip. I’d get press credentials, but I’d need a laptop, airfare, commitment. In the twilight years of E3, I’m certainly not alone in wondering: is it still worth it?
All Things Anansie
Let it be said I have not forgotten how awesome Skunk Anansie were. Charlie Big Potato is perhaps the single greatest song title in existence and, wouldn’t you know, it rocks some, too. That is all.
The Solace of Certainty
Last week, I booted up my big black shiny lean mean grilling machine to download the 2.4 update. It brought in-game access to the cross-media bar, apparently, and trophies – as if we need another metric by which to measure our e-penises. But we all know how this story ends. The 2.4 firmware borked a few PS3s; Sony shortly withdrew it and returned to their programmer mancaves with hearts weighty with sorrow. My console survived the update without injury – I suspect most did; crafty fanboy buggers on the internet, you see, they have ways of making you think there are more of them than there are. I turned it off.
This morning, I turned my PS3 on to download 2.41. I turned it off again.
When exactly is Metal Gear Solid 5 coming out?
All Things Babylon
This is brilliant. I don’t know if it’s new news or age-old, but according to the BBC, ‘Babylon’ by David Gray is among the greatest hits of US torturers in Iraq.
Amongst all the musician’s unsurprising whines, of course, he has a point: play anything to death and it becomes an annoyance, whether it’s trash or Tchaikovsky. And yes, whatever the comedy value of their choice of song, they’re still torturers, and torturers are bad people with rotten capitalist hearts and teeth yellow as pissed-in snow.
Still – what could be funner?
If only someone had the wit to strip the detainees naked and ride them like pack animals… hillarity would ensue, surely, to a predictable Benny Hill soundtrack. Enough, even, that these jolly sadists might memorialise a few Kodak moments for the family album? Now there’s a thought.
:O
That is all.
All Things Uncertain 