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Curtis Harrington at Dirty Looks
On Wednesday, January 26th at 8pm, at Participant Inc. (253 East Houston St.), the writer and curator Bradford Nordeen has programmed an evening of Curtis Harrington films for the new monthly screening series Dirty Looks, starting with two of the director's experimental shorts, Fragment of Seeking (1946) and On the Edge (1949), and ending with "Tracy" (1983), a Harrington-directed episode of the TV soap Dynasty. Harrington, who assisted Kenneth Anger on some of his early films, made his first independent feature in 1961, Night Tide, which starred a young Dennis Hopper. He fell in with the Roger Corman crowd and directed some films for Corman, then found his niche as the director of horror-inflected melodramas which usually starred blowsy ladies of a certain age like Shelley Winters and Ann Sothern. In the 1980s, Harrington started directing for episodic television; he died in 2007. I recently spoke with Nordeen about his Harrington program and why this director remains such an intriguing cult figure.
What made you choose Curtis Harrington for this inaugural screening of Dirty Looks?
Dirty Looks traces queer visual trends and tactics from one decade to the next, one film form to another. I want the series to expose queer legacies present in contemporary art and film that are closed off because of the obscure nature of experimental cinema. Harrington is a truly exceptional figure because he represents this alternative path. Kenneth Anger has been so canonized in his determination of vision, his auteurist approach towards the avant-garde, but Harrington made similar short films in the 1940s and then brought those visions to a wider audience with his relatively straightforward narrative work. He brings his experimental sensibility into Hollywood (What's the Matter with Helen? {1971}), to Roger Corman science fiction (Queen of Blood {1966}, Voyage to the Prehistoric Planet {1965}) and to television with his episodes of Charlie's Angels, The Colbys and, of course, Dynasty. I find that kind of translation thrilling. Which is not to say he makes Charlie's Angels avant-garde, but there's certainly a distinct imprint on his projects. It's most strongly felt in his tone.
How are Harrington's first experimental films similar to Kenneth Anger's work at that time, and how are they different?
Well, they're both very much inspired by dreams and also young gay sexuality in a time where that was just not discussed. I would say Harrington's work is somewhat more mannered than Anger's. Fireworks (1947) is far more sexually explicit, whereas Harrington's film Fragment of Seeking (released a year before Fireworks) is more Freudian in its use of a female character as a sex partner and doubled self. It's undeniably queer, but Harrington goes about it in a more roundabout way. He also references a lot more from surrealism and early queer films like Jean Cocteau's The Blood of a Poet (1930) and Watson and Webber's The Fall of the House of Usher (1928), a Poe story that Harrington would adapt twice. There are images of skeletons in wigs that now read as markedly "surreal" where I think Anger, even at 17, was using visual metaphors for their pop or occult significance.
Can you offer a few words on the phenomenon of Dynasty, what you feel about that show, and how Harrington fits into it?
I adore Dynasty, myself. I love how the hysteria and opulence build off of one another. There's an essay by Mark Finch called "Sex and Address in Dynasty" that explains "the Dynasty phenomenon," as you put it, as this surprisingly gay text since it overtly sexualizes men instead of women. Women don these hyperbolic outfits and assume power roles. Harrington was very pragmatic about the show. It was a gig, "a craftsman-like job." He's quoted as saying "you can't make anything artistic out of a television show" but there are these strange, uncanny moments in his episodes. In "Tracy," there's this foreboding tracking shot through an empty hall of the Carrington mansion. It's at odds with the show because it doesn't relate to narrative action in any way. It's just spooky. There's also this seedy bordello scene that's shot in a very vibrant, yet peculiar way, with all of this junk cluttering the frame. It might sound like it's reaching to showcase this as a queer film, but when compared with other episodes from the series, there's something remarkably off-putting in Harrington's episode.
Who are some other film figures you'd like to explore in future Dirty Looks screenings?
There's some really exciting programs in the works. We'll be showing some rarely screened Jack Smith pieces, an Ulrike Ottinger film and perhaps some work-in-progress by Jennie Livingston. I'm personally really psyched to show Michael Robinson's work, in particular his new film These Hammers Don't Hurt Us, which re-edits Cleopatra-era Elizabeth Taylor as Michael Jackson's mother and spiritual guardian, shepherding him into the afterlife (by way of his Egyptian-themed "Remember the Time" video). And further down the road, we may work in tandem with Participant Inc. to showcase work that corresponds to their queer-centric programming. It's all very thrilling and in development, so join the Dirty Looks Facebook page for the most up-to-date information.
Dan Callahan's writing has appeared in Bright Lights Film Journal, Senses of Cinema and the L Magazine, among other publications.
Review: Ghosts of War Is a Morally Ghastly Haunted-House Attraction
The film's unreflective earnestness is haunting in all the wrong ways.1
As a horror film that deals in hauntings and temporal displacements, writer-director Eric Bress's Ghosts of War almost feels aptly dislodged in time. It could easily have come out two decades ago, around the time of Bress's own The Butterfly Effect—that post-Sixth Sense era when suspense films seemed almost obligated to reveal their structuring conceit in a last-minute twist. Ghosts of War harkens back to this era of "gotcha" thrillers, building toward a climax in which significant moments we've seen are played back to us in rapid montage so we can piece together the supposedly clever ways we've been misdirected.
The device of the explanatory twist appears here as an apparent means of papering over some rather glaring inconsistencies in the World War II-set horror story, anachronisms and abrupt tone shifts whose gradual accumulation results in more incoherence than mystery—like when we catch sight of gaunt refugees in striped concentration-camp garb in Eastern France in 1944, or when a scene ends with a character's fingers being horribly mangled, and the next opens with the same character coolly discussing scrambled radio messages. The big reveal assembles some of these disjointed pieces into a conspiratorial whole that, conveniently, could account for almost any preceding logical lapse. But some oddities can only be explained as continuity errors, like when the characters suddenly have wounds they will receive in a later scene.
The story that's doomed to be consumed by its own ending concerns five Army grunts assigned to set up camp in a chateau in the French countryside just outside of Strasbourg, relieving another fireteam whose members, when our heroes arrive, wear the sleep-deprived and nerve-wracked faces of men who've spent several nights in a haunted house. Left with a radio that's quite plainly relaying scrambled eldritch whispers from the beyond, a room decorated with creepy porcelain dolls, and a journal kept by the Nazi commanders who used the chateau as a headquarters, the five soldiers might be able to read these signs and guess they're in for a modern movie haunting, if only they'd been born a few decades later.
One of the soldiers, Eugene (Skylar Astin), whose spectacles and aversion to combat peg him as the group's intellectual, speaks German, so he begins reading the Nazis's detailed account of their torture and murder of the family who lived in the house. The spirits of the Hellwigs still haunt the mansion, which we learn through the soldiers' spooky encounters, which often resemble gags at Disney's Haunted Mansion attraction: the silhouette behind a curtain that disappears when the cloth flutters; footprints that form in the sand before our eyes; and the family photo from which the human subjects disappear, leaving behind empty furniture.
Starting on the basis of these hokey effects, Bress's screenplay takes up and then immediately drops several distinct threads of development. The old hobbyhorse of Hitler's interest in the occult is dusted off, ridden around for 10 minutes, then forgotten. Suspicion between the soldiers wanes as soon as it waxes: For about three minutes, Chris (Brenton Thwaits) suspects Eugene of knowing more than he lets on, and everyone briefly suspects Tappert (Kyle Gallner) of harboring some violent intentions or other. There's little sense that all this is going anywhere, and, of course, the twist ending will render much of it meaningless. At one point, the team tries to leave the mansion, and finds that they're caught in some kind of spatio-temporal loop. They never feel more relatable than they do in this moment.
Noteworthy in Ghosts of War is that the Nazis aren't the vicious paranormal force threatening the lives of our boys in uniform, but rather their victims. It's a distinctive choice that initially suggests the film may intend to use the conventions of the ghost story to talk about something like the lasting spiritual impact of mass conflict and murder. But in a move that ends up being as morally ghastly as it is intellectually flabbergasting, the conclusion entails drawing a direct parallel between persecuted Jews hiding from Nazi slaughter and armed American soldiers hiding from enemy discovery. Perhaps the sloppy jingoism of a Nazi horror movie shouldn't rankle so much, but Ghosts of War delivers its simultaneous celebration and exploitation of America's "good wars" with an unreflective earnestness that's haunting in all the wrong ways.
Cast: Brenton Thwaites, Theo Rossi, Kyle Gallner, Skylar Astin, Alan Ritchson, Billy Zane, Shaun Toub Director: Eric Bress Screenwriter: Eric Bress Distributor: Vertical Entertainment Running Time: 94 min Rating: R Year: 2020
Interview: Bill and Turner Ross on the Constructions of Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets
The Rosses discuss how performance, accessibility, empathy, and nostalgia figure into their work.
The work of filmmaker brothers Bill Ross IV and Turner Ross has always lived on the more experimental margins of the documentary form, and their latest effort radically pushes definitional notions of nonfiction to a near-breaking point. Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets raised eyebrows when Sundance programmers slotted it into the festival's Documentary Competition section, given that the film, about a Las Vegas dive bar's last night of operation, was actually shot using a cast of hired actors-cum-barflys in New Orleans. What the filmmakers capture over the course of a whirlwind 18 hours—a day after Donald Trump won the presidency—might lack actuality, but they compensate with unvarnished authenticity.
The Ross brothers, who are based in New Orleans, have long been experts at capturing how people perform their identity within a given space and what that reflects about their humanity. Sometimes the performance is literal, as in their "dance film" Contemporary Color, a celebration of color guard staged by David Byrne at an event at Brooklyn's Barclays Center. But more often, their canvas is bigger, such as New Orleans's French Quarter in Tchoupitoulas, their Sidney, Ohio hometown in 45365, or the Texas-Mexico border in Western; these documentaries are also populated with people going about their lives in less staged circumstances. With Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets, the filmmakers narrow their focus to an admittedly synthetic setting to achieve an identical effect. Once the cameras start rolling and the booze starts flowing, the emotional honesty of the moments they capture outmuscles any concerns over genre labels or definitions.
On a Zoom call prior to the film's Virtual Cinema release this Friday, I spoke with the Ross brothers about the intellectual and emotional journey leading up to ideating and executing an unconventional project like Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets. The conversation also covered how the brothers think about performance, choreography, accessibility, empathy, and nostalgia when making their films.
Your body of work is largely about what we can learn about people from the spaces they occupy and explore. Did your ability to explore these thematics get easier or harder with such a confined location in Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets?
Turner Ross: We're interested in people in the space they inhabit, people in the spaces they create, how the spaces that they occupy both relate to them and are manifested by them. So, I think every film has a bit to do with that. With this one, I wouldn't say [it was] easier or harder. I would say we always set up a challenge for ourselves. And this was as challenging a dynamic as we could conceive given the films that have preceded it. You know, we're always trying to learn from what comes before. And the last film that we did was a "four walls" movie, but it was the Barclays Center in New York, tens of thousands of people, several hundred participants and a crew of dozens. We wanted to take that idea of constraints and a limited palette and say, "Can we reduce that down to actually four walls, just the two of us, to a group of people assembled? Can we give a sense of being there to a place that we've manifested? Can we elicit an authentic experience from an intention to a scenario?" But those are imposed limitations and obstacles, and that's what makes it interesting for us.
Bill Ross IV: In some ways, it was nicer to be confined to that space because that limitation was what it was. In other ways, it was incredibly difficult.
You mentioned Contemporary Color as another "four walls" movie. Did that experience of learning how to capture motion within a confined space help in making this one?
TR: Very much so. Contemporary Color is actually a dance film, so it involves choreography. Humans and their choreography through space is always interesting, and so we tried to create a space in which all of the corners of the room had potential. We filled it with people who would have an interesting dance with each other. The difference was we didn't know the choreography ahead of time. We just kind of had to create the scenario, create opportunities and then follow where they led. And so that made it much more of an interesting dance partner than just observing the thing itself.
You started conceptualizing this film with your Vegas visits in 2009 but didn't shoot the film until 2016. How did your understanding of the people, the bars, the city, the country change over time? How would the film be different if you'd shot it right away?
BR: I mean, each film is an extension of where we are as humans when we shoot it, so it would certainly have been more immature.
TR: It's an extension of us as people, as individuals, as humans in the world. It's an extension of ourselves as artists, the times that we're in, what we're thinking about, what we're responding to. So, certainly, 10 years ago, the world we were responding to is very different than the one that we find ourselves in now. In that sense, the world being available to us as the resource that we mine, certainly that would have been different. But, at the same time, what we were looking for at that time was much more of a gritty, verité, follow-where-it-goes street film in which we were just really wanting to see what was happening in that world. Not so much as a paradigm in which the movie takes place, a metaphor for experience, a framing device—which is what it ends up being in this film—but the actuality of what it was in 2009 during the Great Recession when people were living on the outskirts of Vegas, not seeking pleasure but a place to get by in the world. That spoke to us really as an image, as an experience and as a rich resource for painting a portrait of the contemporary American experience, which, again, extrapolated into these times would be very different. And, for us, it became the backdrop for this film so that we could create a microcosmic story that hopefully spoke to something bigger in that context.
BR: We know if we had made it 10 years ago, it wouldn't have been a bar film. I think it would have been much more like Martin Bell's Streetwise or Krzysztof Kieślowski's Dekalog.
TR: I'd love to see that film!
BR: Oh, that movie would be sweet. But we'll get to that one. It just wasn't the right time then. It's good that we got to think about it for this long. A lot of things were reported in that bucket over the last decade, or I guess it would have been seven years.
You've described bars as almost liminal spaces where people go to be someone other than themselves. Is that realization part of what led you to view the people in this film as actors performing characters?
TR: We're always performing as people, and that comes into the genre-framing conversation. Our awareness of a camera has become a real factor in the world, but that's not what we're after. What we were curious about is what are these spaces that we choose to inhabit, that we seek in which to commiserate, that we seek in which to make stories, to tell stories, to put on airs, to be ourselves, to let go of things. Through all of time, people have found these types of spaces. And at the time that we made the film, we felt it was the most conducive space in which to observe and be curious about the conversations people are having with each other when they aren't talking about something in particular. And, so, if we can all share a drink and have a conversation, what does it sound like? That's in parallel to our interest in these spaces in general, and as a visual and cultural space, but also as a useful space. Who are we? Why don't we talk to each other like this? What stories do we tell what stories we tell ourselves? And what are we saying to each other in this moment in time?
Do you see your other films as having performances in their own way?
BR: Always, yeah. In a lot of ways, I don't see this film being much different than the others. They're all constructions. There's a camera in the room and we're all performing. We're all presenting what we wish to be seen as. I think that's been cranked up here, but by how much I don't really know.
TR: Our films are an amalgam of an experience. How can we distill it down to its essence, to make it sensical when it's shared? I think that's part of being a person in the world, what are you going to share with others in order to give them an idea of who you wish them to see? And that's performance. So, in that sense, our films are also performative. In this sense, we're just more acutely looking at that.
How were you all navigating the need to be specific to get the precise sense of place but also generalizable enough that anyone could see their own truth or experience reflected in the film?
BR: A lot of it is casting. We're casting a wide variety of folks for a lot of different reasons, but one of them being that folks will see themselves in someone there. Or pieces of themselves throughout. And that seems to have been the case so far, which has been great. But the beginning of the question was Vegas…
TR: We wanted to tell a specific story that was also universal. That's what Bill was talking about with casting. We wanted to make sure that there was representation in there so that there were different voices heard, which were authentic [and] would not [convey] an inauthentic experience, some sort of staged experiment, but something that spoke to an authenticity that we had perceived and experienced on our own. So, yes, we did a lot when it come to the framing of that world. We spent a lot of time in Vegas, certainly scouting and considering that and wanting to be authentic to that locale. But we also wanted to create a boundary in between so that when people watch the film, it isn't so acute that they feel removed. We want people to have this experiential opportunity. We spoke today with a woman in Moscow, different people all over the world, different age groups, different backgrounds, and [even though it] may not be [their] space, they know something like it. Those may not be your people, but you might know folks like 'em. And we wanted that to be the overriding idea, and not so much that this is a singular, specific story. We hoped that we would get to something that was more universal, even though it is a singular milieu.
We sometimes see the camera in the bar mirrors. Was it just too logistically complex trying to hide its presence? Did you just embrace your visibility?
BR: This is our fifth feature, and at this point, I think I'm just done trying to cut around us. We are there. If we weren't there, there wouldn't be a film. More and more, we have embraced the fact that we're just in the room. It's very intentional, but we're not focusing on ourselves. Because it's a mirrored room, we are popping up. We are leaving ourselves in there to say that this was a collective experience. This is all something that we experienced together. And we're shooting not at these folks, but with [them]. We are together.
A moment that really struck me in the film is the really heartfelt conversation at the end of the bar between Bruce and Pam, both older and of different racial backgrounds. We see them at first in close-up, then you zoom out to see from other people's vantage point from the other end of the bar in long shot. Throughout much of the film, we're in a moment so thoroughly, and then it evaporates. Why linger here a bit and change perspectives?
BR: There's two parts to that. One is, editorially, we needed to condense the scene timewise. But, also, because of that perspective, the scene becomes richer because the folks that you bounce around to are having trivial conversations when they are having a big life moment down here. And that's the way a bar works. Now, you're totally oblivious that somebody is having a life-changing, cathartic moment down here, and you and your buddies are talking about Olive Garden three seats down. I thought it was very telling what those spaces can be.
TR: And we wanted that inclusivity of the myriad experience and how the same situation, even within a small tight-knit framework, is experienced differently. And, as a viewer, that was Bill speaking to the cinematic intention. We realized that it was much more accessible as a film if we used the language of cinema to move around the space and to allow the viewers to say, "I have my own stream of consciousness in this space and can move around to the different conversations at will. I'm privy to all of the things in a way that even the people within the bar [aren't]." The omniscience is in favor of the viewer.
BR: There was one cut of this where we would just stick with Pam and Bruce for, like, eight minutes uninterrupted and not bounce around the room. We love that cut, but nobody else did! So we had austere intentions, and then realized we need to revert to the language of the movies.
Beyond just the difficulties of getting someone to watch or program something that's four-and-a-half-hours long, which is the length of your original favored cut, why whittle the film down to an hour-and-a-half? What's lost and what's gained?
BR: An audience is gained! [laughs]
TR: We always say that we make movies for ourselves first. We make movies for each other, and we try to solve that thing. Well, that four-and-a-half-hour movie was the movie that we made for ourselves and for each other. It turns out that what we loved about it was not translated to people outside of our own peculiar bubble. What we needed to do was distill that down to something that allowed people in and wasn't so cold and obstructive as to pull people out. It's not about observation, it's about inclusion for the people within it and the viewers, and we had to eventually really lean towards the viewer. Because if we're not successful in the end, if we can't share this, there's not an act of empathy. We can't create an artifact and then share it with an audience to have them have their experience. And so that is why it's 90 minutes.
Was it an intentional decision to shoot the day after the 2016 election or just a happy accident?
BR: I don't know if it was "happy," but it just sort of turned out that way.
TR: Generally, we're reflecting the state of the world at the time, what we were feeling and thinking. We were feeling sort of divided as a country and in terms of perspectives, and we were feeling pretty lost and like we should be able to do better than our vote on Election Day allowed. As artists, it was time for us to go to work. We set out to get the film in motion before we knew the results of the election. It wasn't about us making a film about our politics, but it was about the body politic. What is the state of people and what are they saying to each other? Let's not make an election film, but let's make a film about who we are during this time.
Trump is this kind of looming, mostly unspoken presence undergirding a lot of what's happening on screen, just as he has been in pretty much any bar for the last five years. How did you go about navigating the elephant in the room?
BR: It was just like a bar, with folks just getting into it, and that didn't feel quite right. So we'd move elsewhere. But that balance was struck in the edit. We didn't shy away from shooting all of it. It was present.
TR: But it also was a motivating factor in terms of why we chose to execute the film the way that we did: to create a container, a safe space to bring in a broad swath of people to choreograph the inclusion of those types. In scouting actual bars, there were some bars that, because of the way that Bill and I look, we would walk in, we'd turn the cameras on and they'd start chanting: "Trump, Trump, Trump!" Just assuming a certain point of view, and that's not the film that we wanted to make.
BR: To be clear, he is not talking about the Roaring 20s! [laughs]
TR: We scouted 100 bars, and we interviewed hundreds of people to be involved in this film. And there were certain spaces that certainly did have a limited viewpoint, and people found their own corner to back into. That's just not what we wanted to explore. We didn't want to have a space that spoke to a singular experience. We wanted myriad viewpoints and the opportunity to feel like you belonged in a space. That's both why we chose to shoot at that time and why we created our space the way that we did.
I'm sure you're getting this a lot, but obviously the film has evolved to take on additional meaning when being released in a pandemic where almost no one can congregate in a bar, or at least enjoy one like the Roaring 20s patrons are. Do you think it might change the meaning or reception of the film given that the audience is likely in a state of heightened nostalgia for the environment of a bar?
BR: That's funny because nobody's asked us that yet! I thought people would. You have to think it's going to. I mean, it's got to!
TR: We're as curious as you are. On the one hand, the themes in the film are still relevant and resonant. And, on the other hand, they change their articulation because of where we've ended up at this moment.
BR: Not just about your feelings on bars, but so much of what's brought up in the film has been heightened because everything is heightened right now.
TR: And not only what they're talking about, what the people are actually saying to each other. The context of the film, this idea of the end of things and uncertain futures, wrestling with identity and where we're all headed, these sort of existential themes that are intertwined in the conceit of the film and in the way that people are having discourse with each other. I'm super curious. What a bizarre fucking time to put out a film at all! Especially this one, where we're on edge about everything, we can't share space in this way. Who are we? I think that'll be reflected in the kind of feedback we get.
It strikes me that you didn't make this as an explicitly "nostalgic" film. Would you be okay if people received it that way?
BR: My biggest fear would be if they were just like, "Okay." Any sort of reaction, if they want to argue with it, great! People are free to do what they want to do, I just hope it's not just like, "Okay, honey. Well, we watched that." As if it's just one more piece of content.
TR: In the moment that we made it, our concern was not to date the film, to say, "Let's let it be of the world that it is, but let's also not fix it in that for all of time, hopefully." At the same time, it's already in the rearview, so you can't help but have some sort of nostalgia for it. Or, I don't know, maybe there's a hope for moving on. I think, inevitably, we make these things together to go through a catharsis together and with the people that we make them with. Then, it's left up to the audience, and I'm fascinated by what an audience does with it once it's theirs. I'll be super curious to have those conversations.
Review: Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets Is an Elegiac Mosaic of Disillusionment
It's in certain characters' trajectories that the Ross brothers locate the tragic soul of the bar.3.5
In a 1946 essay for London's Evening Standard, George Orwell wrote: "And if anyone knows of a pub that has draught stout, open fires, cheap meals, a garden, motherly barmaids and no radio, I should be glad to hear of it." In other words, the British author was on the lookout for the ideal watering hole, which he argues requires a combination of these specific offerings as well as more ineffable qualities. But the article's thrust isn't so simple, as Orwell spends the first three-quarters of it describing in detail a bar that doesn't exist, referred to by the fictitious moniker of "The Moon Under Water." You might think that you're reading a rare lifestyle report from your favorite anti-totalitarian author, only to suddenly be made aware of your victimhood in a little literary sleight of hand.
Orwell's playful essay provides the inspiration for Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets, a quasi-real-time portrait of what might be seen as an ideal dive bar by today's standards, though filmmaker brothers Bill and Turner Ross eschew Orwell's rug-pulling. Here, we're never let in on the fact that the Roaring 20s, the Las Vegas haunt that serves as the film's setting, is actually located in the Rosses' hometown of New Orleans, or that its denizens are actually a motley crew of Louisiana drinkers (one looks like Elliott Gould, another like Seymour Cassel) that the filmmakers recruited and primed for their roles. This edifice of fakery is critical to the film's meaning. As Orwell opined for a more perfect world where such a social space could exist, Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets fabricates its own rosy vision of social unity, drunkenly commiseration, and aesthetic perfection, if only to deliberately undercut this idealism through the staging of its narrative around the bar's final night and the election of Donald Trump.
The Roaring 20s may not be everyone's idea of perfection. After an Altmanesque credit sequence establishing the bar's exterior in zooming telephoto shots, the audience's first glimpse at the interior finds custodian-cum-freeloader Michael Martin being broken from his early-afternoon slumber by the arriving bartenders and helped promptly to a swig of whiskey, and events from this point forward tap into a similar reservoir of pity and humor. Where the beauty emerges is in the intimacy and familiarity with which the patrons are able to relate to one another as more and more alcohol is consumed. For much of the film, egos, tempers, and prejudices fall away as more and more regulars pile into the bar, increasingly constituting a diverse cross section of what appear to be outer Vegas wanderers and failures.
Limiting views of the surrounding city to brief, bleary interludes shot on an un-color-calibrated Panasonic DVX100b, the Ross brothers center the action squarely around the bar, lending everything a brownish pink patina that suggests the view through a bottle of Fireball and draping every hangable surface with off-season Christmas lights. Taken as part of a dialogue with such gems from the canon of booze-soaked cinema as Lionel Rogosin's On the Bowery and Eagle Pennell's Last Night at the Alamo, this auburn glow distinguishes Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets as more texturally expressive than photographically verisimilar—a film that approximates a night of inebriation rather than merely memorializing it.
Having used two cameras over the course of their 18-hour shoot, the Rosses are able to rely on montage editing to foster a sense of omniscience without losing the feeling of temporal continuity. The result is a film whose attention jumps sporadically to different bits of conversation and activity just as the beer-saturated brain of your average pub-dweller might. Part of this seamless integration of perspectives has to do with the film's dynamic and precise use of music, which blends non-diegetic Rhodes-piano noodlings from composer Casey Wayne McAllister with popular songs heard within the bar both on the jukebox and in impromptu sing-alongs. Unconcerned with airs of documentary objectivity, the Ross brothers allow themselves to essentially play disc jockeys, and within this framework many of their choices for background needle drops land with a certain poetic gravitas, complementing, contradicting, or in some cases even guiding the emotional temperature of the room.
Kenny Rogers's "The Gambler" is heard twice, first played by a bartender on an acoustic guitar to get the early evening energy going and later on the jukebox when much of that energy has dissipated, while Jhené Aiko's desolate breakup ballad "Comfort Inn Ending" provides contrapuntal accompaniment to the evening's one flare-up of macho tempers. Most affecting is when A$AP Rocky's "Fuckin' Problems" underscores a shot of an embittered but tender war vet, Bruce Hadnot, glowering at the end of the bar—a lengthily held beat that will be relatable to anyone who's ever found introspection in the midst of pummeling noise. Each example hints at the melancholy direction that the film ultimately takes, and like any DJ worth their salt, the Rosses manage the transition from euphoria to pathos gradually and imperceptibly.
While all who enter the Roaring 20s achieve some kind of emotional arc before departing thanks to the filmmakers' democratic distribution of their attentions, there are a few who emerge as main characters, and it's in their trajectories that Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets locates the tragic soul of the bar. Michael is one of them. Beginning the day as a freewheeling conversationalist, ripping drinks and catching up with whoever rolls through, he spends the dwindling hours of the night in a dazed stupor on a corner sofa, pathetically asserting to a fellow bar patron that "there is nothing more boring than someone who used to do stuff and just sits in a bar." In a few instances, the Ross brothers cede the floor to the bar's security cameras, whose detachment and "objectivity" eschew the warmth of the filmmakers' ground-level cameras, rendering the bar as little more than a physical space. Seen from this cold, inhuman eye, Michael registers as lonely, beaten-down, and insignificant.
Similarly positioned on the margins of the sociable space created by the Roaring 20s, and often identified by its more imposing and strange attractions (such as the Stratosphere and Pyramid casinos), Las Vegas plays a role analogous to the bar's security cameras. As seen through a motion-blurred, sepia-toned camera, the city represents a reality of false hopes that's failed the film's humble pleasure seekers—whether in the form of dead-end jobs that have led them away from their passions or in a military industrial complex that treats its servants as interchangeable. At one point, Bruce brings up Trump on the occasion of his recent election, confidently proffering grave predictions for his presidency. The subject doesn't get touched again, but it's a subtext for the whole film—not the Trump presidency per se, but the mere fact of pessimism in the face of leadership. Like Orwell's "The Moon Under Water," the Roaring 20s seen in Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets doesn't really exist. Even if it did, no one would save it, which makes the desperation with which its denizens hang on to it all the more touching.
Director: Bill Ross IV, Turner Ross Distributor: Utopia Running Time: 98 min Rating: NR Year: 2020
Review: Relic Is a Lushly Metaphoric Vision of a Splintered Family
The film heralds the arrival a bold and formidable voice in horror cinema.2.5
Kay (Emily Mortimer) and her daughter, Sam (Bella Heathcote), don't say much on the drive to Grandma Edna's (Robyn Nevin) house. The old woman is missing, and when Sam crawls through the doggy door into the home, she looks around with concern, absorbed until Kay knocks impatiently at the door to be let in. Still no words. The women of Relic aren't exactly close, as evidenced by the palpable coldness between Kay and Sam as they look through this cluttered abode. Edna's forgetfulness having grown exhausting, Kay tells a cop that she hasn't spoken to her eightysomething mother in weeks. And the guilt is written on Kay's face, even in the distant shot that frames her within the walls of the police station.
Though Relic is her debut feature, Natalie Erika James demonstrates a confident grasp of tone and imagery throughout the film. She and cinematographer Charlie Sarroff strikingly conjure an ominous stillness, particularly in the scenes set inside Edna's increasingly unfamiliar home, where the characters appear as if they're being suffocated by the walls, railing, low ceilings, and doorways. Relic fixates on rotting wood, the monolithic scope of the Australian woods, and the colors on Edna's front door's stained-glass window that meld, eventually, into a single dark spill, as though the house is infected by the old cabin that haunts Kay's dreams.
Edna soon reappears, unable to explain where she's been and complicating an already distant family dynamic. The interactions between the three women are marked by an exhaustion that's clearly informed by past experience—a feeling that Edna's disappearance was almost expected. But not even James's command behind the camera can quite elevate just how hard Relic falls into the shorthand of too many horror movies with old people at their center: the unthinking self-harm, the wandering about in the night, the pissing of oneself.
The film remains restrained almost to a fault, revealing little about its characters and their shared histories. Though some of this vagueness could be attributed to Relic's central metaphor about dementia, the general lack of specificity only grows more apparent in the face of the film's oldsploitation standbys, leaving us with precious little character to latch onto.
But such familiar elements belie Relic's truly inventive climax, an abrupt shift into a visceral nightmare that tears apart notions of body and space and then sews them back together in a new, ghastly form. James resists bringing the film's subtext to the forefront, in the process imbuing her enigmatic images with a lasting power, turning them into ciphers of broader ideas like abandonment, responsibility, and resentment as they relate to the withering human figure. Never relenting with its atmosphere of suffocating decay, the final stretch of Relic, if nothing else, heralds the arrival a bold and formidable voice in horror cinema.
Cast: Emily Mortimer, Robyn Nevin, Bella Heathcote Director: Natalie Erika James Screenwriter: Natalie Erika James, Christian White Distributor: IFC Midnight Running Time: 89 min Rating: R Year: 2020
Love Before the Virus: Arthur J. Bressan Jr.'s Newly Restored Passing Strangers
The film's characters are simultaneously horny and melancholic. They seem to want plenty of sex but also love.
One of the many pleasures to be had in watching Arthur J. Bressan Jr.'s newly restored Passing Strangers derives from its status as a historical document, or a piece of queer ethnography. The 1974 film allows us to see but also feel what life was like for gay men during what some have called the golden age of unbridled sex before the AIDS epidemic. Bressan Jr.'s portrait of this history is simultaneously attuned to its sartorial, mediatic, erotic, and affective dimensions, which may come as a surprise to those unaccustomed to explicit sexual imagery being paired with social commentary. Pornography and poetry aren't counterparts here. Rather, they're bedfellows, one the logical continuation of the other. Money shots, for instance, aren't accompanied by moaning or groaning, but by the sounds of a violin.
The film's characters are simultaneously horny and melancholic. They seem to want plenty of sex but also love. They devote so much of their lives to picking up strangers for sex, briefly and by the dozens, but not without secretly wishing that one of them might eventually stay. In this they may not differ much from their contemporary cruising heirs, though they do in their approach. It turns out that asking for a pen pal's photo before a meetup in 1974 was considered creepy, and using Walt Whitman's poetry as part of a sex ad was quite fruitful.
That's exactly what 28-year-old Tom (Robert Carnagey), a bath-house habitué and telephone company worker living in San Francisco, does in the hopes of attracting something long term. The literal poetics of cruising speaks to 18-year-old Robert (Robert Adams), who responds to Tom's newspaper ad right way. They meet in person and begin a love affair that could only be described as bucolic, including making love in fields of grass, on top of a picnic blanket, to the sound of waves and piano notes, and riding their bikes around town, much like the sero-discordant love birds of Paris 05:59: Théo & Hugo do after partaking in a gangbang. In retrospect, promiscuity gains the tinge of an obsessive auditioning of "the one," who, in Bressan Jr.'s sensual fairy tale, is bound to come along and save us from ourselves.
Passing Strangers, which originally screened at adult cinemas and gay film festivals, recalls Francis Savel's 1980 porno Equation to an Unknown in how smut and romance are so intimately bound in the forms of queer intimacy that the film depicts. This may also be due to the dearth of gay cinematic representation at the time—of gay men perhaps needing to dream of prince charming and of bareback anal sex in the same movie session, satisfying the itch for love and for filth in one fell swoop. But while Equation to an Unknown is completely wrapped up in a fantasy glow, there's something more realistic, or pragmatic, about Passing Strangers.
Tom's voiceover narration, which takes the shape of disaffected epistolary exchanges with his newfound beloved, orients us through the action. Motivations are explained. At times, however, Bressan Jr. indulges in experimental detours. These are precisely the most beautiful, and atemporal, sequences in the film—scenes where sex is juxtaposed with the sound of a construction site or the buzzing of a pesky mosquito, or one where an audience of orgy participants give a round of applause after somebody ejaculates. And the film's surrendering to moments of inexplicable poesis reaches its apex in a shot of a boy in clown makeup holding his mouth agape. It's an exquisitely brief shot, indelible in its strangeness.
Newly restored from the original negative in a 2K scan, Passing Strangers is now available to stream on PinkLabel as part of The Bressan Project.
Review: Tom Hanks Stubbornly Steers Greyhound into Sentimental Waters
With no vividly drawn humans on display, the action feels like rootless war play.1.5
With his almost supernatural likeability, impeccable reputation, and penchant for appearing in films rooted in American history, Tom Hanks has become a national father figure. The actor's ongoing project, particularly urgent as we seek to redefine our relationship with our history and iconography, is to remind us of when the United States actually rose to the occasion. Unsurprisingly, this project often centers on World War II, one of the least controversial pinnacles of American collaboration on the world stage.
Continuing this tradition, Aaron Schneider's Greyhound concerns the efforts to provide Britain with troops and supplies via Allied naval convoys on the Atlantic, which German U-boat "wolf packs" stalk and sink, attempting to break a Western blockade. Adapted by Hanks from C.S. Forester's novel The Good Shephard, the film is a celebration of duty and competency that's so quaint it's almost abstract, as it arrives at a time of chaos, selfish and blinkered American governing, and a growing bad faith in our notion of our own legacy.
Set over a few days in 1942, the film dramatizes a fictionalized skirmish in the real-life, years-long Battle of the Atlantic. The American destroyer Greyhound, leader of a convoy that includes Canadian and British vessels, is commanded by Ernest Krause (Hanks), an aging naval officer with no experience in battle. Text at the start of the film explains that there's a portion of the Atlantic that's out of the range of air protection, called the Black Pit, in which convoys are especially vulnerable to the wolf packs. For 50 hours, Krause and his crew will be tested and severely endangered as they seek to cross this treacherous stretch of the sea.
This skeletal scenario has potential as a visceral thriller and as a celebration of Allied ingenuity and daring. Unfortunately, Hanks's script never adds any meat to the skeleton. One can see Hanks's passion for history in the loving details—in the references to depth charge supply, to windshield wipers freezing up, to the specific spatial relationships that are established (more through text than choreography) via the various vessels in this convoy. What Hanks loses is any sense of human dimension. In The Good Shephard, Krause is frazzled and insecure about leading men who're all more experienced in battle than himself. By contrast, Krause's inexperience is only mentioned in Greyhound as a testament to his remarkable, readymade leadership. The film's version of Krause is stolid, undeterred, unshakably decent ol' Tom Hanks, national sweetheart. As such, Greyhound suffers from the retrospective sense of inevitability that often mars simplified WWII films.
Greyhound's version of Krause lacks the tormented grace of Hanks's remarkable performance in Clint Eastwood's Sully. This Krause also lacks the palpable bitterness of Hanks's character in Steven Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan, as well as the slyness that the actor brought to both Spielberg's Catch Me if You Can and Bridge of Spies. In Greyhound, Hanks falls prey to the sentimentality for which his detractors have often unfairly maligned him, fetishizing Krause's selflessness in a manner that scans as ironically vain. As a screenwriter, Hanks throws in several writerly "bits" to show how wonderful Krause is, such as his ongoing refusal to eat during the Greyhound's war with U-boats. (A three-day battle on an empty stomach seems like a bad idea.) Meanwhile, the crew is reduced to anonymous faces who are tasked with spouting jargon, and they are, of course, unquestionably worshipful of their commander, as are the voices that are heard from the other vessels in the convoy.
Schneider lends this pabulum a few eerie visual touches, as in the slinky speed of the German torpedoes as they barely miss the Greyhound, but the film is largely devoid of poetry. The stand-offs between the vessels are competently staged, but after a while you may suspect that if you've seen one torpedo or depth charge detonation you've seen them all. With no vividly drawn humans on display, the action feels like rootless war play. In short, Greyhound takes a fascinating bit of WWII history and turns it into a blockbuster version of bathtub war.
Cast: Tom Hanks, Karl Glusman, Stephen Graham, Elisabeth Shue, Tom Brittney, Devin Druid, Rob Morgan, Lee Norris, Manuel Garcia-Rulfo, Maximilian Osinski, Matthew Zuk, Michael Benz Director: Aaron Schneider Screenwriter: Tom Hanks Distributor: Apple TV+ Running Time: 91 min Rating: 2020 Year: PG-13
Review: The Beach House's Moodiness Is Dissipated by Shaky Characterization
The character drama becomes afterthought as it's superseded by action.2
Michael Crichton's 1969 novel The Andromeda Strain, in which a satellite crashes to Earth with an alien virus on board, is an expression of Space Age anxieties, about how the zeal to reach the stars could have unintended and dangerous consequences. In Jeffrey A. Brown's The Beach House, something lethal instead rises from the depths of the ocean, a kind of "alien" invasion coming up from below rather than down from the cosmos, better reflecting the environmental anxieties of our present day. It still feels like comeuppance for human hubris, but this time in the form of intraterrestrial, not extraterrestrial, revenge.
The potentially extinction-level event is played on a chamber scale as domestic drama. Emily (Liana Liberato) and Randall (Noah Le Gros) are college sweethearts who go to his family's beach house during the off-season, in a seemingly abandoned town, to work on their personal problems. They're unexpectedly joined there by Mitch (Jake Weber) and Jane (Maryann Nagel), old friends of Randall's father, and the four agree to have dinner together. It's then that Emily, an aspiring astrobiologist, conveniently provides some context for what's about to happen, as she makes reverential conversation at the table about the mysterious depths of the sea and the sometimes extreme conditions in which new life can be created and thrive.
That night, while tripping balls on edibles, the couples look out and marvel at the sparkling, purple-tinged landscape outside their beach house. (The smell is less gloriously described as being like that of sewage and rotten eggs.) It's not a hallucination, though, because whatever ocean-formed particulate is turning the night sky into a psychedelic dreamscape and the air cloudy is also making the characters sick. There's some interesting and serendipitous overlap between the film's central horror and our present Covid-19 crisis, as the malady seems to be airborne, affecting the lungs and making the characters cough. It also affects older people more quickly than the young, with the milder symptoms including exhaustion.
Brown emphasizes the oddness of nature with an eye for detail focused in close-up on, say, the eerie gooeyness of oysters, and by vivifying the film's settings with bold colors: On the second night, the air glows mustard and red, recalling recent California wildfires. The ubiquitous haze also evokes John Carpenter's The Fog and Frank Darabont's The Mist, but other genre influences are also on display, from Cronenbergian body horror, as in the gory removal of a skin-burrowing worm, to zombie flicks, given the slowness of the hideously infected victims.
There's not a lot of exposition about the illness, as Brown's screenplay is primarily focused on Randall and Emily's fight to survive the mysterious onslaught. But you probably won't care if they do. The character drama becomes afterthought as it's superseded by action. The Beach House had convincingly argued that these two people shouldn't be together, that their relationship has long passed its prime. He mocks her plans for advanced study and calls her life goals bullshit, even though he has none himself; he suggests that they move into the beach house, to live in a state of permanent vacation, while he tries to figure out what life means. When she's high and getting sick and asking him for help, he dismisses her, lest it harsh his mellow. But instead of engineering his downfall, Midsommar-style, Emily does everything she can in the last third to help save him. It feels sudden, unearned, and unconvincing—enough to make you root for the monsters from the ocean floor.
Cast: Liana Liberato, Noah Le Gros, Maryann Nagel, Jake Weber Director: Jeffrey A. Brown Screenwriter: Jeffrey A. Brown Distributor: Shudder Running Time: 88 min Rating: R Year: 2019
Review: The Old Guard Is a Would-Be Franchise Starter with No New Moves
Smartly prioritizing the bond of relationships over action, the film is in the end only somewhat convincing on both counts.2
Gina Prince-Bythewood's The Old Guard is a modestly successful attempt to build a new fountain of franchise content out of a comic series with nearly limitless potential for spin-offs. The story kicks into motion with a team of four mercenaries with unique powers and an ancient bond setting off to rescue some kidnapped girls in South Sudan. Charlize Theron brings her customarily steely intensity to the role of the group's cynical, burnt-out leader, Andy, who isn't crazy about the idea since she doesn't trust Copley (Chiwetel Ejiofor), the ex-C.I.A. agent who hired them. Given how long it turns out that Andy has been doing this sort of thing, you would imagine that her comrades would listen.
The mission turns out to be a set-up, and the would-be rescuers are wiped out in a barrage of bullets. Except not, because Andy and her team are pretty much unkillable. So as their enemies are slapping each other on the back and conveniently looking the other way, the mercenaries haul themselves to their feet, bodies healing almost instantaneously, bullets popping out of closing wounds. Payback is swift but interesting, because for reasons likely having to do with their being many centuries old—the youngest, Booker (Matthias Schoenaerts), fought for Napoleon—the four quasi-immortals like to use swords in addition to automatic weaponry.
Written with glints of pulpy panache by Greg Rucka, the comic's originator, The Old Guard sets up a high-potential premise and proceeds to do not very much with it. Rucka's conceit is that this tiny group are among the very few people on Earth to have been born essentially immortal. This can be a good thing, but it can also prove problematic, as it means that they watch everybody they know age and die—a trope that was already somewhat worn by the time Anne Rice used it throughout her novels about ever-suffering vampires.
The plot of the film does relatively little after the showdown in South Sudan besides introduce a new member of the mercenary team, Nile (KiKi Layne), establish that Andy is tiring of the wandering warrior life, and show the group plotting revenge on Copley only to have that turn into a rescue mission that conveniently brings them all back together again. As part of the run-up to that mission, new recruit Nile, a Marine who goes AWOL from Afghanistan with Andy after her fellow soldiers see her seemingly fatal knife wound magically heal and treat her as some kind of witch, is introduced to life as a nearly invincible eternal warrior.
That rescue plot is simple to the point of being rote. Billionaire Big Pharma bro Merrick (Harry Melling), seemingly made up of equal parts Lex Luthor and Martin Shkreli, kidnaps two of Andy's team in the hope of harvesting their DNA for blockbuster anti-aging drugs. Unfortunately for the film, that takes two of its most personable characters temporarily out of action. Nicky (Luca Marinelli) and Joe (Marwan Kenzari) had their meet-cute while fighting on opposite sides of the Crusades and have been wildly in love ever since. After the two are captured and mocked by Merrick's homophobic gunsels, Joe delivers a pocket soliloquy on his poetic yearning: "His kiss still thrills me after a millennium." The moment's romantic burn is more poignant by being clipped to its bare-minimal length and presented with the casual confidence one would expect from a man old enough to remember Pope Urban II.
In other ways, however, The Old Guard fails to explore the effects of living such lengthy lives. Asked by Nile whether they are "good guys or bad guys," Booker answers that "it depends on the century." While Rucka's hard-boiled lines like that can help energize the narrative, it can also suggest a certain flippancy. When the film does deal with crushing weight of historical memory, it focuses primarily on Andy, who's been around so long that her name is shortened from Andromache the Scythian (suggesting she was once the Amazon warrior queen who fought in the battle of Troy). Except for a brief flashback illustrating the centuries-long escapades of Andy and Quynh (Veronica Ngo) fighting for vaguely defined positive principles (one involved rescuing women accused of witchcraft), we don't see much of their past. Similarly, except for Andy's increasing cynicism about the positive impact of their roaming the Earth like do-gooder ronin, they seem to exist largely in the present.
That present is largely taken up with combat, particularly as Booker, Andy, and Nile gear up to rescue Nicky and Joe. Prince-Bythewood handles these scenes with a degree of John Wick-esque flair: Why just shoot a Big Pharma hired gun once when you can shoot him, flip him over, and then stab and shoot him again for good measure? However tight, though, the action scenes' staging is unremarkable, with the exception of one climactic moment that's so well-choreographed from an emotional standpoint that the impossibility of a multiplex crowd hooting and clapping in response makes the film feel stifled by being limited to streaming.
Smartly prioritizing the bond of relationships over action in the way of the modern franchise series—doing so more organically than the Fast and the Furious series but missing the self-aware comedic patter of the Avengers films—The Old Guard is in the end only somewhat convincing on both counts. That will likely not stop further iterations from finding ways to plug these characters and their like into any historical moment that has room in it for high-minded mercenaries with marketable skills and a few centuries to kill.
Cast: Charlize Theron, Matthias Schoenaerts, KiKi Layne, Marwan Kenzari, Luca Marinelli, Chiwetel Ejiofor, Harry Melling, Veronica Ngo Director: Gina Prince-Bythewood Screenwriter: Greg Rucka Distributor: Netflix Running Time: 118 min Rating: R Year: 2020
Review: We Are Little Zombies Is a Fun, Wildly Stylized Portrait of Grief
The film is a kaleidoscopic portrait of a world where emotions are accessed and revealed primarily through digital intermediaries.3
Makoto Nagahisa's We Are Little Zombies follows the exploits of a group of tweens who meet at the funeral home where their deceased parents are being cremated. But, surprisingly, Hitari (Keita Ninomiya), Takemura (Mondo Okumura), Ishi (Satoshi Mizuno), and Ikiko (Satoshi Mizuno) are united less by sorrow and more by cool indifference, as they see their parents' deaths as yet another tragedy in what they collectively agree is pretty much a "shit life." As the socially awkward Hitari claims matter-of-factly in voiceover, "Babies cry to signal they need help. Since no one can help me, there's no point in crying."
Through a series of extended flashbacks, Nagahisa relates the kids' troubled lives, never stooping to pitying or sentimentalizing them or their utter dismay with the adult world. The new friends' deeply internalized grief and hopelessness are filtered wildly through a hyperreal aesthetic lens that's indebted to all things pop, from psychedelia to role-playing games. It's Nagashisa's vibrant means of expressing the disconnect between the kids' troubled lives and their emotionless reactions to the various tragedies that have befallen them.
With its chiptunes-laden soundtrack and chapter-like form, which mimics the levels of a video game, We Are Little Zombies will draw understandable comparisons to Edgar Wright's Scott Pilgrim vs. the World. But it's Nagisa Oshima's Three Resurrected Drunkards that offers a more precise analogue to this film's provocative rhyming of stylistic zaniness and extreme youthful alienation. Oshima's anarchically playful farce stars the real-life members of the Folk Crusaders as a disaffected group of rebellious musicians, and when the kids of We Are Little Zombies decide to form a band to express themselves, they even perform a bossa nova version of the Folk Crusaders's theme song for the 1968 film. This and the many other cultural touchstones in We Are Little Zombies are seamlessly weaved by Nagahisa into a kaleidoscopic portrait of a world where emotions are accessed and revealed primarily through digital intermediaries, be they social media or a dizzying glut of pop-cultural creations.
Nagahisa's aesthetic mirrors his main characters' disconnect from reality, incorporating everything from stop-motion animation to pixelated scenes and overhead shots that replicate the stylings of 8-bit RPGs. At one point in We Are Little Zombies, an unsettling talk show appearance brings to mind what it would be like to have a bad acid trip on the set of an old MTV news program. Nagahisa accepts that the kids' over-engagement with screen-based technology is inextricably embedded in their experience of reality and ultimately celebrates the sense of camaraderie and belonging that the foursome finds in pop artifacts and detritus. This is particularly evident once their band, the Little Zombies of the film's title, starts to explore their antipathy toward and frustrations with a seemingly indifferent world.
The Little Zombies wield the same charming punk spirit as the film, and once instant fame reveals its viciously sharp teeth, Nagahisa doesn't hold back from peering into the nihilistic abyss that stands before the kids. As in Three Resurrected Drunkards, We Are Little Zombies's most despairing notes are couched in the distinctive language of pop culture. Hitari's attempts to grab essential items before running away from the home of a relative (Eriko Hatsune) are staged as a video game mission. The band's hit song—titled, of course, "We Are Little Zombies"—is an infectious, delightfully melodic banger all about their dispassionate existence. There's even a fake death scene of the kids that, as in Three Resurrected Drunkards, effectively restarts the film's narrative, allowing the characters to once again test their fate.
For all of this film's reliance on the stylistic ticks of video games, its narrative arc isn't limited to the typically linear journey embarked upon by many a gaming protagonist, and the foursome's path leads neither to enlightenment nor even happiness per se. What they've discovered in the months since their parents' deaths is a solidarity with one another, and rather than have them conquer their fears and anxieties, Nagahisa wisely acknowledges that their social disconnection will remain an ongoing struggle. He understands that by tapping into the unifying, rather than alienating, powers of pop culture, they're better equipped to deal with whatever additional hard knocks that the modern world will inevitably throw their way.
Cast: Keita Ninomiya, Satoshi Mizuno, Mondo Okumura, Sena Nakajima, Kuranosukie Sasaki, Youki Kudoh, Sosuke Ikematsu, Eriko Hatsune, Jun Murakami, Naomi Nishida Director: Makoto Nagahisa Screenwriter: Makoto Nagahisa Distributor: Oscilloscope Running Time: 120 min Rating: NR Year: 2019
Review: Palm Springs Puts a Fresh Spin on the Time-Loop Rom-Com
The film smuggles some surprisingly bleak existential questioning inside a brightly comedic vehicle.3
The pitch for Palm Springs likely went: "Edge of Tomorrow meets Groundhog Day but with a cool Coachella rom-com vibe." All of those components are present and accounted for in Max Barbakow's film, about two people forced to endure the same day of a Palm Springs wedding over and over again after getting stuck in a time loop. But even though the concept might feel secondhand, the execution is confident, funny, and thoughtful.
Palm Springs starts without much of a hook, sidling into its story with the same lassitude as its protagonist, Nyles (Andy Samberg). First seen having desultory sex with his shallow and always peeved girlfriend, Misty (Meredith Hagner), Nyles spends the rest of the film's opening stretch wandering around the resort where guests are gathered for the wedding of Misty's friend, Tala (Camila Mendes), lazing around the pool and drinking a seemingly endless number of beers. "Oh yeah, Misty's boyfriend" is how most refer to him with casual annoyance, and then he gives a winning wedding speech that one doesn't expect from a plus-one.
The reason for why everything at the wedding seems so familiar to Nyles, and why that speech is so perfectly delivered, becomes clear after he entices the bride's sister and maid of honor, Sarah (Cristin Milioti), to follow him out to the desert for a make-out session. In quick succession, Nyles is shot with an arrow by a mysterious figure (J.K. Simmons), Sarah is accidentally sucked into the same glowing vortex that trapped Nyles in his time loop, and she wakes up on the morning of the not-so-great day that she just lived through.
Although Palm Springs eventually digs into the knottier philosophical quandaries of this highly elaborate meet-cute, it takes an appealingly blasé approach to providing answers to the scenario's curiosities. What initially led Nyles to the mysterious glowing cave in the desert? How has he maintained any semblance of sanity over what appears to be many years of this nightmare existence? How come certain people say "thank you" in Arabic?
This attitude of floating along the sea of life's mysteries without worry parallels Nyles's shrugging attitude about the abyss facing them. In response to Sarah's panicked queries about why they are living the same day on repeat, Nyles throws out a random collection of theories: "one of those infinite time loop situations….purgatory….a glitch in the simulation we're all in." His ideas seem half-baked at first. But as time passes, it becomes clear that Nyles has been trapped at the wedding so long that not only has he lost all concept of time or even who he was before it began, his lackadaisical approach to eternity seems more like wisdom.
Darkly cantankerous, Sarah takes a while to come around to that way of thinking. Her version of the Kübler-Ross model starts in anger and shifts to denial (testing the limits of their time-loop trap, she drives home to Texas, only to snap back to morning in Palm Springs when she finally dozes off) before pivoting to acceptance. This segment, where Nyles introduces Sarah to all the people and things he's found in the nooks and crannies of the world he's been able to explore in one waking day, plays like a quantum physics rom-com with a video-game-y sense of immortality. After learning the ropes from Nyles (death is no escape, so try to avoid the slow, agonizing deaths), Sarah happily takes part in his Sisyphean games of the drunk and unkillable, ranging from breaking into houses to stealing and crashing a plane.
As places to be trapped for all eternity, this idyll doesn't seem half bad at first. Barbakow's fast-paced take on the pleasingly daffy material helps, as does the balancing of Milioti's angry agita with Samberg's who-cares recklessness. Eventually the story moves out of endlessly looping stasis into the problem-solution phase, with Sarah deciding she can't waste away in Palm Springs for eternity. But while the question of whether or not they can escape via Sarah's device for bridging the multiverse takes over the narrative to some degree, Palm Springs is far more interesting when it ruminates lightly on which puzzle they're better off solving: pinning their hopes on escape or cracking another beer and figuring out how to be happy in purgatory. Palm Springs isn't daring by any stretch, but it smuggles some surprisingly bleak existential questioning inside a brightly comedic vehicle that's similar to Groundhog Day but without that film's reassuring belief that a day can be lived perfectly rather than simply endured.
Cast: Andy Samberg, Cristin Millioti, J.K. Simmons, Peter Gallagher, Meredith Hagner, Camila Mendez, Tyler Hoechlin, Chris Pang Director: Max Barbakow Screenwriter: Andy Siara Distributor: Neon, Hulu Running Time: 90 min Rating: NR Year: 2020
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After his success adapting Mark Millar's graphic novel Kick-Ass, director Matthew Vaughn is going back to the well with an adaptation of Secret Service, which Millar created in 2012 along with Watchmen illustrator Dave Gibbons.
The film version has cast Michael Caine as the head of a spy organization that tries to limit its activities to merely blowing the bloody doors off. Colin Firth will play a spy charged with training the film's lead, the relatively unknown Taron Egerton, a young British actor who thus far has only appeared in a short, and two episodes of ITV's Inspector Morse spinoff Lewis.
Vaughn is also reportedly pursuing Emma Watson or Bella Heathcote for the female lead, while still looking for a big name to play the villain. So far, Tom Cruise and Leonardo DiCaprio have passed, but Vaughn is said to be holding out for someone with that level of name recognition, which narrows it down to either President Obama or Santa Claus.

subset: commoncrawl


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when the Yankees traded for Vernon Wells, it was expected he would only be filling in for Curtis Granderson while he was injured. once Granderson returns, then what?
it was expected that once Granderson returns, the OF would be Granderson/Gardner/Ichiro.
Wells has been producing, can they really bench him once Granderson comes back?
I had been wondering if Wells could be the DH, but Travis Hafner is there, and he is producing too. (.318/.438/.667/1.104).
could the Yankees instead bench Ichrio? Ichiro is getting hits, but almost all singles. in his 22 hits, he has 2 doubles and 1 HR.
could one of these players also cover 1st? I would have to doubt that.
I drafted Wells (deep league), and he has been producing. it would suck if he gets sent back to the bench, or even becomes a part time player. if I thought that would happen, I could trade him now. but if I trade him based on thinking/assuming he's going to get reduced playing time, and he ends up continuing to start, then it's going to suck having settled for less just to trade him.


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Colonial Players' 1776
In 1969, Peter Stone and Sherman Edwards created 1776, a compelling historical musical. (Have those three descriptive words ever before been used together?) Their play depicts the debates, passions and courage it took to craft the Declaration of Independence and start along the path to creating this new country, the United States of America.
1776 won the 1969 Best Musical Tony Award. It is an almost perfect amalgam of strong music, humorous one-liners and passionate arguments. These are delivered by a large cast of distinctly defined quirky characters who evoke patriotic pride and awe while detailing the foibles and annoying humanity of the men celebrated.
Get Into Revolutionary History with Colonial Players
On Sunday, April 6, the Players invite you to join a walking tour of Annapolis with the cast, and colonially attired guide from Annapolis Tours by Watermark. The 90-minute tour begins at 1pm: $13w/age discounts: 410-268-7601 x100; www.annapolistours.com.
Colonial Players Counts Its Prizes
Colonial Players claimed three major awards in this year's Washington Area Theatre Community Honors (WATCH) judging. Going to St. Ives was a judges' favorite, earning the Oustanding Play Award plus Outstanding Director award for its director, Edd Miller, and Oustanding Lead Actress Award for Lolita-Marie.
Colonial Players' production of 1776 is a gutsy and courageous choice given the small stage and its in-the-round staging requirement. Director Beth Terranova deserves credit for using the small space inventively, for some very strong casting decisions and for creating a seamless production.
While this 1776 is thoroughly engaging, it is also unexpectedly cerebral, leveling out the high points. The actors convey their political points of view with passion but their personalities and interpersonal relationships are overshadowed. This is ironic as 1776 was revolutionary because it depicted these historical demi-gods as real men.
Jeff Sprague carries John Adams' political passion and lonely introspection extremely well. If anything he just isn't disagreeable enough. Ray Flynt's Benjamin Franklin is perfect, pompous yet sweet, pontificating yet polite. Timothy Sayles' John Dickinson is a revelation, creating a man whose opinions you despise but whose strength of character you must admire.
Three characters with show-stopping songs are meant to carry the humor, pathos and rage of the era. In this production Ron Giddings' Edward Rutledge is not enough a bully to make "Molasses to Rum to Slaves" the searing song it is. Nathan Bowen does not carry the effervescent, simple charm the character of Richard Henry Lee needs. Joshua H. Riffle's Courier is effective but not as heartbreaking as the song "Mama Look Sharp" asks. Each of these actors has a great voice, well suited to the challenges of their song, but choices in interpretation, costume and staging undermine their effectiveness.
Eric Hufford's Thomas Jefferson also has a strong voice for his singing scenes, but he needs a stronger stage presence for this role. Sandra Rardon's Abigail Adams and Kaelynn Miller's Martha Jefferson are strongly sung and acted, reminding us of the world outside Philadelphia.
Rick Estberg as the Secretary, Charles Thompson, and Joe Thompson as Custodian McNair are excellent commentators on the activities of the Congress.
The set is as minimal as possible to allow the two dozen actors to move about. Custom-made costumes are very beautiful (perhaps too much so for a hot Philadelphia summer?) and the wigs effective. Taped music is so good it raises compliments and no complaints.
Colonial Players has gone above and beyond for historical accuracy with Amish-made stools, horsehair flyswatters and commissioned period coffee bowls.
Personal preferences notwithstanding, this production of 1776 is quality theater, timely and professional in presentation. The theater was packed on opening night both on the stage and in the seats. Given its timeliness and timelessness, it should enjoy many more sold out houses.
Lyricist Sherman Edwards once said that the men who became reluctant leaders and are now known as our founding fathers "were the cream of their colonies. … They disagreed and fought with each other. But they understood commitment, and though they fought, they fought affirmatively."
Would that this 1776 spirit could resonate from the theatrical halls to the halls of the 2013 Congress.


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National Institute of Allergy andInfectious Diseases (NIAID)http://www.niaid.nih.gov
HIV-infected patients at high risk for tuberculosis (TB) but without confirmed TB infection do not benefit from preventive treatment with a front-line TB drug, a study supported by the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (NIAID) has found. The study is reported in the July 31, 1997 issue of The New England Journal of Medicine.
"Clinicians who care for people with HIV/AIDS should take note of this important finding," says NIAID Director Anthony S. Fauci, M.D. "This study suggests that we can make more efficient use of TB prevention resources by focusing on HIV-infected persons with known TB infection or who have close contact with another individual with active TB."
Although only 10 percent of healthy people infected with TB bacteria ever develop active TB disease, co-infection with TB and HIV dramatically increases this risk. A number of studies have shown that daily treatment with the antibiotic isoniazid (INH) significantly reduces TB disease risk in persons known to be co-infected with HIV and TB.
The tuberculin skin test, which involves injecting TB-derived proteins below the skin, is the only method available for diagnosing inactive, or latent, TB infection. Palpable swelling at the site of injection occurs in most TB-infected people with healthy immune systems. However, HIV-infected people with suppressed immune systems often exhibit anergy, a reduced or absent reaction to skin tests for TB as well as other infections. In such persons, TB infection can be masked by a false negative skin test. As a precaution against activation of a possible latent TB infection, in 1991 the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) suggested that INH preventive therapy be given to anergic HIV-infected individuals at high risk for TB. High-risk individuals include those who belong to groups, such as homeless persons and those who inject drugs, in which the prevalence of TB infection is at least 10 percent.
To determine the effectiveness of INH prophylaxis in this population, investigators in NIAID's Terry Beirn Community Programs for Clinical Research on AIDS (CPCRA) divided more than 500 high-risk HIV-infected people with anergy into groups that received either daily INH or placebo. They found that the number of cases of active TB disease that developed in each group during the six-month study period did not differ significantly.
"Our findings suggest that giving INH to people in this group is probably not warranted," says lead author Fred M. Gordin, M.D., of the Veteran Affairs Medical Center in Washington, D.C. "It would be more appropriate to reserve INH preventive therapy for HIV-infected persons who have a prior history of a positive TB skin test or who have been in recent contact with someone with active TB disease."
In fact, revised guidelines for preventing TB and other opportunistic infections in HIV-infected individuals, developed by the U.S. Public Health Service (PHS) and the Infectious Diseases Society of America (IDSA), recommend just that: daily INH for persons with positive TB skin tests and for those in close contact with someone known to have active TB. The PHS/IDSA Working Group considered the findings of Dr. Gordin and his colleagues in developing the guidelines, which were published in the June 27, 1997 issue of Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report.
"The low rates of TB in both the treatment and placebo groups (three cases out of 260 patients, and six cases out of 257 patients, respectively)," says Dr. Gordin, "indicate that TB may be under much better control than in 1991 when the CDC suggested that INH preventive therapy might be useful in anergic patients."
Dr. Gordin adds that in addition to saving the considerable programmatic costs associated with administering prophylactic INH to anergic HIV-infected individuals, a more selective use of INH would allow many people to avoid the known toxic side effects of INH. For example, about 2 percent of persons who take INH develop hepatitis.
The CPCRA is a network of primary care physicians and nurses who work with NIAID staff to design and conduct community-based clinical trials in patients with HIV disease and AIDS. NIAID currently funds 16 CPCRA units in 15 cities throughout the United States.
NIAID is a component of the National Institutes of Health (NIH). NIAID conducts and supports research to prevent, diagnose and treat illnesses such as HIV disease and other sexually transmitted diseases, tuberculosis, asthma and allergies. NIH is an agency of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.
NIAID press releases, fact sheets and other materials are available on the Internet via the NIAID home page at http://www.niaid.nih.gov.
The National Institute of Allergy and Infectious
Diseases is a component of the National Institutes of Health, U.S. Department
of Health and Human Services


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About this paper
With more than 38,000 students, The University of Alabama has a wealth of data – the challenge is using it effectively. It used to take weeks for Alabama's data analysts to manually pull data and transcribe it into spreadsheets. Using analytics, they can now pull information and produce reports in minutes. Using analytics and data visualization has transformed the university's operations, recruitment and retention efforts.
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Do KEVA planks work on Carpet?
KEVA planks work great on carpet as long as the carpet is not 1960' shag. Just place the first plank flat to create a base from which you can build. Small projects can be built on a book.
How do KEVA planks compare to other construction blocks?
KEVA planks are the same size and shape as another major brand from France. The sets are compatible. If building very intricate structures you would want all the same type of planks in the critical areas.
How do the blocks stay together?
Gravity. There are no connectors or glue. The planks are cut with great precision so they fit together very nicely. Structures are more stable than one would expect. If there was any variation between the planks the towers would wobble and buildings would crumble. With KEVA planks, they stand firm.
How many do I need?
That depends on what you want to do. Most people start with 200 planks. That is enough to make some impressive towers that can reach the ceiling and nicely detailed table projects. If you find that you or your children really enjoy the activity, you will probably want more. The more you have the more spectacular the structures become. Also more blocks mean several people can build at one time and the session will be longer. People tend to build until they run out of planks.
The least expensive toy you will ever buy? These prices look expensive to me.
Well....If you price it per- hour-used over the course of a year, it will probably be the least expensive toy in your home. Many families say it is their most frequently used toy. Kids play; cousins play; Dad stays up late to build something after the kids go to bed: any age guest will be entertained. Children do not tire of it. They become more engrossed as their building skills progress.
What is the tallest tower ever built with KEVA planks?
The Tallest KEVA tower was 51 feet, 8 inches- built at the National Building Museum in Washington DC in 2006.
Why Are KEVA planks better than other construction sets?
We would humbly say that KEVA planks are not necessarily better than other construction sets. However, we are certainly unique. By having every piece exactly the same, builders do not spend any time searching for a particular connector, carefully maintaining an inventory of parts or finding that you do not have enough of the correct pieces. With KEVA, the building starts immediately and the project concept tends to flow as you go. It is very easy to try new ideas as you build.
Will an older child play with blocks?
Thanks... we like to call them planks -- then it's not embarrassing. KEVA planks appeal to adults as well as children. Architect firms have held building contests. Preschools use them, elementary schools, gifted children's programs, children with special needs, corporate team building and more. Kids do not outgrow KEVA planks.


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'Glee'-inspired reality show set in La Crosse
La Crosse's "ambassadors of music," the Grand River Singers are stars of a reality show "Off Pitch," premiering on VH1 April 17.
Watch a trailer for the show - which looks like a cross between "Glee" and the ensemble comedy mockumentary stylings of Christopher Guest - below.
The trailer describes the singing group as the only "all adult 'Glee'-inspired community singing group." You can watch the full first episode on the VH1 website.
Read VH1's full description of the show below the trailer, which calls Wisconsin a place where "show choir is religion."
"In Wisconsin, where show choir is religion, the Grand River Singers is truly one of a kind.
They are a Glee-inspired, competitively auditioned community performance group comprised of former show choir geeks, drama club dorks, and those with their own unique and special brand of flash and pizzazz. In their world, sequins, fringe and hot pink crushed velvet (preferably all on one costume) are considered the mark of a true and stylish diva.
Whether they love to sing, dance or wear feather boas, each member wholeheartedly believes that in order to get ahead in life, all you need are a pair of shiny character shoes, a big voice and a well-rehearsed jazz hand technique.
But with big talent comes even bigger egos. They'll stop at nothing to win the power ballad solo or be the featured breakout dancer in hopes of one day being discovered by a major talent agent. While they look like one big happy family onstage, off-stage is a whole different story. If sabotaging someone's performance is the only way to get into the spotlight, then sayonara sequins and hello Hollywood. Costume pieces, make-up bags and props have all been known to "take five" mere moments before a high-profile performance.
Cliques, relationships, jealousy and love blend together in this largely talented yet completely dysfunctional family. And while it may seem like the fighting never ends, at the end of the day everyone generally kisses and makes up because tomorrow is another performance and another chance to shine.
Plus several members of the group live together, so in the interest of home-life bliss, sometimes apologies have to be made in order to keep the peace.
Each year, they host the Grand River National Show Choir Invitational and get the prime spot as the featured non-competing performance group.
This year, however, they plan to take their show beyond small-town La Crosse and onto a much larger stage...like the Wisconsin Cow Chip Festival, Valleyfair Theme Park and the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota.
Will they be able to set aside their differences, raise enough money to travel and perform before the largest audiences they've ever known? Or will their egos get in the way of their dreams? Harmony, talent and friendship have never been more OFF PITCH."
- Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown.
- Rearranging on-air assignments at WTMJ-TV
- Marianne Lyles leaving WISN-TV morning show
- Video: Public schools 'suck,' says WITI reporter
- Last night's Packers score matched the game's TV ratings
- Ratings drama at Saga, Weigel stations
- Counterprogramming, WTMJ win preliminary election-night TV ratings
- Milwaukee radio ratings for October
- WZTI starts to air Christmas music the day after Halloween
- Political ads, retransmission revenue drive up Journal Communications earnings
Movie Listings: What's playing where this week
Opening Friday, July 28
- "Bad Moms"
- "Cafe Society"
- "Captain Fantastic"
- "Dishoom"
- "Jason Bourne"
- "Phantom Boy"
Opening Friday, Aug. 5
- "Nine Lives"
- "Suicide Squad"


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Schedule flexibility and being your own boss are two major advantages to playing poker for a living. However, once you've entered a tournament, your control over working hours has ceased, and you're locked into being there during established hours of play. Sick days are normally a luxury I have in near-infinite supply, even if that sick day is really just a couch day. But if I'm actually sick and have a tournament to play, I'm out of luck.
On Day 2 of the 2012 Borgata Poker Open, I was as sick as I'd been for a day of tournament poker in years. I was up from the table every 10 minutes to unload my face into tissues, and I was frequently leaning behind the table to cough without infecting my tablemates. Even though I found myself at a fairly soft table, my focus was impaired, and I resolved that I'd just play tight and stay out of trouble. But only an hour into the day, I found myself in a big pot.
Earlier, my opponent had been in the big blind, I was on the cutoff, and he had three-bet my raise and followed through with a bet on the flop, which I folded to. In our big hand, he was again in the big blind. I began with just under 100,000 in chips; he had just over 110,000. The blinds were 500-1,000, and with 6s 6d, I raised to 2,100 from the cutoff.
The button and the small blind folded, and my opponent re-raised to 6,400. I called, and the flop was a nearly ideal Qh Jc 6c.
The big blind bet 7,200, and I decided to raise because (1) we had deep stacks that I wanted to get in the middle, (2) the draw-heavy board meant there were hands I could be bluffing with, and (3) our history together might cause him to think I was just playing back at him. I raised to 18,500, and he called.
The turn was the Jh, giving me a full house. When my opponent checked, I thought about how I wanted to play my hand. I could check behind, since he was unlikely to suck out a winning hand on a later street, but that might make getting stacks in the middle difficult. I also thought that since he called my flop raise, it was probably with a hand that had enough showdown value — like A-Q, K-K, A-A or K-Q — to keep calling. Then I considered the best way to make my hand look like a draw.
There was about 50,000 in the pot, and I had about 75,000 remaining in my stack. I thought that since many players use all-in overbets with draws, perhaps I could create the impression of doing the same if I moved all in. I also liked that option because it seemed improbable that I'd try to get value with a big hand that way, and the jack was actually a safe card for my opponent because it completed no draws and made it less likely I was holding Q-J.
I decided to go for it and moved all in.
My opponent's eyes briefly flashed with surprise, then he settled into a contemplative state, occasionally looking up to stare at me. I sat wordless and motionless. I figured my opponent almost certainly had one of the strong pairs I had put him on and would likely call. Finally, he placed the necessary chips in the pot and tabled Ac Kh for an ace-high. Not only was he drawing dead, but the fact that he had the Ac meant I couldn't have been bluffing with an ace-high flush draw.
It just goes to show, sometimes betting more represents less.
Tony Dunst is a poker professional who hosts the "Raw Deal" segment on World Poker Tour telecasts.


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Mac and cheese is one of our favorite comfort foods. Nothing beats sitting down to enjoy a nice warm bowl of it on a rainy day. We have two go to recipes that we use when we make our mac and cheese. One recipe is more of a baked mac with a longer prep time. We make the cheese sauce from scratch using ingredients such as carrots, potatoes, and onions. The second recipe (featured here) we make is a quick and easy recipe for when we want to get dinner on the table quickly. We often pair this with a green such as steamed kale, chickpeas, or smoked tempeh, and sometimes steamed mashed sweet potatoes making it the ultimate comfort meal! 🙂
One of the main ingredients in this recipe is Daiya. Daiya has made being vegan so easy these days. No more cheeseless pizza when we go to our favorite pizzeria! When we went vegan in the late 90's: there were no options for vegan cheese that you could purchase, that we knew of, and the ones that did appear on the market later we stayed away from. We would make a tofu ricotta in stuffed shells here and there but that was as much as we ventured into vegan cheese. It wasn't until Follow Your Heart came out with a vegan cheese that we started to notice, and then when Daiya came on the market. It was on! Hello Vegan Cheese!
- 1 bag of Tinkyada organic brown rice pasta elbows
- ¼ tsp salt
- 2 tbsp of Earth Balance (organic whipped buttery spread)
- 1 ½ cups non-dairy milk (we use Eden organic unsweetened soymilk)
- ¼ cup nutritional yeast
- 1 bag of Daiya chedder style shreds
- black pepper to taste
- sprinkles of garlic powder
To begin, cook your pasta according to the directions on the package. Our favorite pasta for this recipe is the organic brown rice gluten free elbows by Tinkyada.
Once the pasta is cooked, drain the pasta and place back in the pot that you cooked your pasta in and place on the stove top. Then add the Earth Balance, salt, non-dairy milk, nutritional yeast, and Daiya to the cooked pasta.
Turn the stove top to a medium heat and stir the ingredients you placed in the pot with the pasta until the Daiya has begun melting and combining with the other ingredients. Then wait (1 to 2 minutes) until the mac and cheese starts bubbling and begin stirring for about 30 seconds. Turn off the heat and cover the pot and let the mac and cheese sit for about 5 minutes. Now it is ready to serve! Enjoy!
Tip: This mac and cheese recipe is great for leftovers. To enjoy the next day, simply put the leftover mac and cheese in a sauce pan and add a pour of non-dairy milk to the pan. Turn the heat to a medium to low heat and stir. Once the mac and cheese is heated, turn off the stove top and cover the pot and let the mac and cheese sit for a minute covered. Now it is ready to eat! We usually put a bed of fresh spianch on a plate and then serve the mac and cheese on top. Delicious!


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A couple of months ago we reported on an arXiv paper that reported superluminal pulse propagation. The paper was such a steaming pile of science that our report amounted to something along the lines of "pfffft hahahahahaha." The reason was that the researchers did not give a detailed explanation of their experimental setup, did not present any data other than a rather vague "about 2ps," and didn't try to make a distinction between the group velocity and the phase velocity.
To examine these sorts of experiments, let me give you a short introduction to the propagation of light. Light has two speeds associated with it: phase velocity, and group velocity. When Einstein formulated special relativity, he did it using the empirically observed evidence that the phase velocity of light was constant for all observers. The conclusion was that the phase velocity of light in vacuum was the fastest speed possible. However, when light is passing through a material, it slows down because the photons and the material interact. The stronger the interaction, the slower light travels. In this situation, it is possible for other objects to go faster than the phase velocity of light in the medium. The group velocity of light is the speed with which a pulse travels. These two speeds are not always, or even normally, the same. The underlying light wave moves at the phase velocity, while the pulse envelope moves slower, sort of riding the underlying wave. In some circumstances it is possible to make the envelope move along the underlying wave faster than the phase velocity of the carrier wave. This is what is generally referred to as a superluminal experiment.
Today, I am pleased to be able to give an example of superluminal experiments done right. In work published in Physical Review A, a group of researchers from NIST and the Wuhan Institute of Physics and Mathematics, describes the superluminal propagation of a pulse of light through a rubidium vapor. The first thing to note is the explicit claim that the group velocity of the light is faster than the phase velocity of light in the medium, which is probably why the arXiv trawlers didn't pick it up.
The second is that they give a good explanation of their experiment. A single laser beam is split into two. One beam acts as the timing reference and all measurements are made relative to this. The other laser beam is split using an acousto-optic modulator, which gives one of the light beams a slightly different color. Both colors sit close to two different resonances of rubidium and will interact strongly, depending on the exact conditions. Essentially, the entire rubidium atom population starts off in a state where only one of the laser beams (the control pulse) can interact with it. Depending on the pulse length of the control pulse, the population gets transfered to a different state, where the second laser beam can interact. This actually behaves a bit like a laser because the rubidium atoms can emit photons with the same frequency and phase as the second laser beam, which shifts the position of the front of the pulse forward. By the same process, as the atoms emit and change state again, the tail end of the pulse can be re-excite the atoms. This absorbs photons, cutting off the tail of the pulse.
The degree of interaction can be controlled so precisely that the absolute duration of the probe pulse can be kept exactly the same, while causing the center position of the pulse to travel superluminally. Changing the pulse duration of the control laser pulse can cause the pulse to be shortened and still travel faster than the phase velocity, while other control pulse durations slow the probe pulse down. The researchers mapped out the group velocity as a function of the control pulse duration and showed that it agrees nicely with experiment.
Although not as excitingly presented as the earlier paper, this is a much stronger result with some nice physics backing it up.
Physical Review A, 2007, DOI: 10.1103/PhysRevA.76.033819


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When a driver wins an F1 race, the national anthem of the team's country and the driver's country is played during the podium ceremony. So what anthem's played if Lotus Racing wins a race? God Save The Queen? Nope.
Despite Lotus being based in the UK, it's actually owned by Malaysian auto maker Proton. Secondly, the Formula 1 team is backed by Malaysian companies. Thus, the national anthem of Malaysia, Negaraku, will be played. Good to know. [via World Car Fans]