The Cabin in the Woods

Rated R
Words by James Barone

Before vampires sparkled, they were crawling out of a Hell Mouth and getting their asses slain by a buxom high school cheerleader with mystical powers. Those were simpler times. While Buffy the Vampire Slayer may not have been highbrow, it hinted at the promise of a young writer still cutting his teeth (pun intended) in the realms of horror, sci-fi and fantasy. Today, Joss Whedon is one of the most interesting creators those genres have to offer, and with his latest film (directed and co-written by Buffy/Lost alum Drew Goddard) Whedon’s place in the horror pantheon seems pretty well assured.

In the months leading up to The Cabin in the Woods, I was advised to go into the movie knowing as little about it as possible. Interesting, considering another film Goddard co-wrote—the mind-altering monster-eat-city flick Cloverfield—was as much about the wide-reaching alternate reality game strewn across the Internet as it was about the actual film. As it turned out, going into The Cabin in the Woods without any clear expectations—other that there would be some blood and gore and college-aged kids getting stalked in the woods—certainly enhanced my enjoyment.

The film starts not with the stereotypical group of kids, but with a group of apparent scientists scuttling around what appears to be a mysterious research facility. Our group of cookie cutter slasher flick protagonists do show up shortly thereafter, bearing all the established guises: There’s the squeaky clean heroine (Kristen Connolly), her promiscuous blonde best friend (Anna Hutchison), the brawny man’s man (Thor’s Chris Hemsworth), the somewhat nerdy nice guy (Jesse Williams) and the Shaggy-like stoner dude (Fran Kranz). They all pile in an MV and head to a cabin in the woods for what would seem to be a weekend of lakeside fun in the sun, but turns out to be a frightful bloodbath.

It’s basically every story of its ilk that you’ve seen since the first Friday the 13th movie, yet completely fresh and original. I’d tell you more, but it would kind of ruin the fun.

It’s actually difficult to write this review without giving too much away. Luckily, what makes The Cabin in the Woods so much fun is that it’s so keenly self-aware. The multitude of twists and turns in the plot certainly enhance the experience, but knowing them wouldn’t necessarily destroy your enjoyment of the film (a la anything M. Knight Shyamalan has ever done). The writing is clever, serving up just about every horror cliché you can think of and turning them into a good-humored slurry of blood and guts.

Unfortunately, its own cleverness is also its undoing. As the story of the five youths becomes a sort of play within the play, some of the horror of their situation is dampened as the plot’s slier elements begin to take precedent. The stakes of our heroes’ plight seem diminished. Also, The Cabin in the Woods seems to be making a valiant effort to make a point. Is it shining a light on the blood lust of moviegoers who have made the woeful schlock like the torture porn series Saw into a six-film franchise? Does it indict the audience for delighting in seeing young people shredded into lumps of goo by supernatural killers? I suppose it could, and perhaps it should, but if that’s what the film was striving for, it seems to back off and instead opts for a heavy-handed (literally) conclusion.

There’s plenty here to like, though. It’s smart, silly, sometimes scary (though not as much as I’d hoped), sexy and bloody. Film nerds will clamor to out-geek one another in picking out The Cabin in the Woods’ many well-placed horror pop culture references. Veteran actors Richard Jenkins and Bradley Whitford turn in memorable performances as key figures in the mysterious conspiracy that is at the heart of the film, combining sinister disregard with wonderfully dry humor. It may not be Whedon at his best, but it proves that he’s one of the most progressive voices in what is usually a very conservative genre.

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Childish Gambino, Danny Brown
Ace of Spades, Sacramento • Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Words by Blake Gillespie • Photos by Melissa Welliver

Childish Gambino’s Camp Gambino Tour sold out Ace of Spades months in advance. The line to get in stretched the length of the R Street block and wrapped down 14th, halfway to S Street. Inside it was a patient wait through one opener to see a young Hollywood actor from NBC’s Community, Donald Glover, take the stage as a rapper.

There’s no use hiding it. The opener was Detroit’s Danny Brown. A recent signee to Fool’s Gold Records and the artist I anointed as Rapper of the Year 2011 in another publication. As for Childish Gambino’s debut record Camp… I gave it a few listens in November and deemed it overrated. Glover’s Camp record is not as painful as Brian Austin Green’s One Stop Carnival album in the ‘90s, but if he’s serious about rapping over acting he’ll live in the shadow of Drake. But what the hell do I know? Danny Brown had a few pockets of fans in the first row shouting his gratuitous lines from his XXX album back at him. Childish Gambino had wall-to-wall admirers reciting every word to a song that shares its title with a TV show, canceled after 12 episodes.

It was his show for the taking and it’s easy to revel in the limelight with such positivity electrifying Ace of Spades. No songs faltered or lulled the set. It was hit, hit, hit for Gambino and even the time lapse for an encore seemed insignificant. He was impressive, but I did not leave converted.

My struggle with Glover/Gambino does not stem from questioning his talent as a performer or even as a songwriter. He’s a clever rhyme writer, interspersing wit culled from his stand-up like, “I sound weird, like nigga with a hard R” and references to Invader Zim. His balance between nerding out and sneaking in sentiment testifies to his mass appeal. He tours with a talented backing band, half of which look as though they toured with Travis McCoy, while the others possibly play violin behind Justin Vernon of Bon Iver. His stage presence is not the issue, and the giant screen displaying lyrics, forest landscapes and scenes from the streets of New York City were not the issue. It lies in not knowing how to perceive his craft.

The name Childish Gambino was conceived through the use of a Wu-Tang name generator, making it difficult to assess it as genuine or satire. The campy name paired with Glover’s notoriety as a stand-up comedian, his far superior talent in my opinion, and presence on a sit-com, lean towards the notion he’s a parody. So why weren’t we all laughing? Why was everyone singing along in earnest?

There were opportunities to laugh—plenty of them. Danny Brown exposed himself as an avid participant in cunnilingus by performing “I Will” and wagging his oblong tongue between his missing front teeth. He earned a few laughs beyond the front row by letting his followers deliver punch lines from “Monopoly” like, “Stank pussy smelling like Cool Ranch Doritos.” Childish Gambino is not short on humor either. He and Brown are contemporaries in rap humor as both love bragging about their sexual virility and their haters’ lack thereof. Guess which line is Danny Brown’s and which Childish Gambino’s is:

“I fuck bad bitches to Stacy Lattisaw, while y’all niggas got blue balls like an Avatar.”

“My dick is like an accent mark, it’s all about the over Es.”

The first quote is Brown on “Adderall Admiral.” The second is Gambino on “Bonfire.” Did you get it correct? I could split fine hairs like this for paragraphs and end up with an even part resembling the top of Crispin Glover’s head, but what’s the use? Danny Brown doesn’t have a television presence, which is still more powerful and influential than being critically lauded on the Internet.

Glover’s an act worth the price of admission. Place him in the recent crest of celebrities like Zooey Deschanel and Scarlett Johansson, who’ve earned successful recording careers. The trend could be gruesome and transparent, were the named figures less talented. It’s undeniable that their recording triumphs are assisted by their TV and film notoriety. Glover is privileged, but his closing statement on “Bonfire” (“Man why does every black actor gotta rap some?/ I don’t know, all I know is I’m the best one.”) hints that he’s aware. It could be worse. The actor/artists could cover Celine Dion instead of Tom Waits, perform alongside Sugar Ray instead of M. Ward, and bring Mac Miller on tour instead of Danny Brown. They should always be commended for their fine taste.

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Death Grips
The Money Store
Epic

Words by Blake Gillespie • Photo by Nicholas Wray

The capital of California, which few could pick out on a map will be the talk of the industry with the release of experimental hip-hop group Death Grips’ Epic debut, The Money Store. Sacramento will faintly appear in every major online and print music publication. It will travel to Ireland and the United Kingdom and stand out awkwardly amongst write-ups in French and German. The strangest of times lie ahead.

Last year’s Ex-Military mixtape unveiled a top-secret project of a highly classified nature, kept in the confines of Oak Park. Death Grips was not a local favorite that got its big break after years of cold shoulders. It was a phenomenon that rattled our cages and left us scratching our heads as to where the fuck it came from. Every announcement surrounding the band is bigger than the last; Coachella dates, All Tomorrow’s Parties appearance, signing to Epic, two albums in 2012 and a European tour. The warp speed of its success is as terrifying and mind-blowing as the music.

Ratchet man Andy Morin, aka Flatlander, and Zach Hill are the Reanimators of the group, who possibly stumbled upon the breakthroughs that led to Death Grips on Hill’s last solo album, Face Tat. The track “Jackers,” with its stem-warps, revving blips and manic drumming, sounds like the birthplace of Death Grips. The two mad scientists were just missing a vessel, which they discovered in Stefan Burnett, aka MC Ride.

The Death Grips sound is a break beat science that experiments with hip-hop echoism, EDM machinations and the wonky warble of (groan) dub-step. The double helix is constructed with a precisionist’s care, only to have a deadly virus unleashed as though Hyde sought to sabotage Jekyll’s work.

As much as we want to seek derivatives for Death Grips, none of them will satisfy; because as you listen to the first five tracks on The Money Store, it’s undeniable that they are without contemporaries or purebred lineage. Sample-based music was a stagnant art form until now; evolving into the digital catalog of stems. Death Grips collect, record and warp them like diggers obsess over vinyl. But Death Grips’ source material is infinite since it ranges from borrowed drum breaks sent through heavy filter or a looped guttural roar from Ride. The Black Google zip file, which included every stem, a capella and instrumental from Ex-Military, wasn’t just for us to tinker and remix, but a glimpse into the creative process. The same goes for the 109 GIFs currently obliterating computer speakers on the Third Worlds website. Ride is a threat without the assistance of effects, but Death Grips is all the more menacing when the track screeches and caterwauls much like horror films allow black cats to jump across cameras and serial killers to stand directly behind terrified damsels—the quick shock hits keep us on our toes.

Small traces of influence, or intention, trickle through The Money Store; Salt N’ Pepa’s “Push It” as performed by 2 Live Crew on “I’ve Seen Footage” is the most blatant, while “Hacker” bears striking resemblance to the outside-the-club sounds in the opening minutes of Daft Punk’s “Revolution 909,” except standing on the fringes of the hopeful patron line is Ride, plotting on whose car is getting jacked once they go inside.

The Money Store pushes Death Grips’ unique sound into a darker realm than the explorations found on Ex-Military, despite the mixtape crippling our senses and causing a cesspool of miscalculated pedigree. It’s inspired and moving faster than we can compute, which is frustrating since it’s only starting to sink in without the nuisance of definition beyond simply calling it Death Grips. In a year’s time, zero copycat bands or established groups attempted to mimic Death Grips as recognition of a new wave. Death Grips stand unchallenged. As MC Ride puts it on “Hacker,” “The table’s flipped, now we got all the coconuts, bitch!”

Much of the intoxicating danger and aggro-rap histrionics in Ex-Military have undergone mutation and the progression suggests that by No Love, the band’s second 2012 record, we’ll have little trace of bread crumbs leading back to introductory tracks like “Guillotine” and “Known For It.” In 23 songs between two records, Death Grips’ movement rivals the intensity of a warpath or rampage with no looking back. It has led them to the kung-fu chamber to face their greatest adversary, themselves, in order to become masters. All that’s left in gauging the impact of The Money Store is the passage of time, but that’s for the canonical talkers, which Death Grips have no time for.

See Death Grips live at Harlow’s on May 5, 2012 as part of Sacramento Electronic Music Festival.

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The Hunger Games
PG-13

Words by Mandy Johnston

The Hunger Games, the adaptation of the first book in the wildly successful trilogy by Suzanne Collins, centers on Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence), a tough, bow-hunting coal miner’s daughter in a not-so-distant futuristic dystopian society wherein the country is now known as Panem and has been divvied up into 12 districts, ruled by a president at the Capitol. Each year, to remind residents of the implications of an attempted uprising against the government years ago, each district must submit one young male and female as “tributes” to the Hunger Games, where they will fight to the death until only one remains.

I can’t recall a movie that had me so emotionally invested within the first 10 minutes. Lawrence skillfully conveys the strength, courage and heart of a 16-year-old chosen to kill or be killed for the elites’ entertainment and a false promise of honor. Elements of Ree, the character she embodied in 2010’s Winter’s Bone, show themselves here and there, but lend such depth and emotion as a steadfast character with a commitment to her fellow tributes—at least, the ones who aren’t out to kill her first.

Early into the games, President Snow (Donald Sutherland) explains to Head Gamemaker Seneca Crane (Wes Bentley), in only the way a benevolent tyrant can, why the games must have a “winner.” Otherwise, he poses, why wouldn’t they just round up 24 kids and execute them every year to remind the poor fuckers not to attempt an uprising again? “Hope,” he says. Everybody needs hope. Fear is dangerous, he offers; but too much hope is much more so.

There is realism to this futuristic movie that makes the balancing between fear and hope almost palpable. Settings are downright recognizable—unnervingly so in the live studio audience fawning over Caesar Flickerman’s (Stanley Tucci) Seacrestian hosting of the games from his comfortable seat. Everdeen and her male counterpart Peeta Mellark’s (Josh Hutcherson) support team at the Capitol, including former District 12 winner and their drunk mentor Haymitch Abernathy (Woody Harrelson), wildly fashionable PR pro Effie Trinket (Elizabeth Banks) and Cinna (Lenny Kravitz), their stylist who quickly becomes Everdeen’s number-one supporter, all too reveal moments of hope for Everdeen’s triumph while fearing the implications that might bring.

Would this be a YA novel adaptation without a little romance? It is what the audience wants, right? But there is no superfluous or cheesy romance here. A romance cultivated and created for survival has none of those groan-inducing elements. There is but a smidgen of drama between Everdeen, Mellark and Everdeen’s guy pal back home Gale Hawthorne (Liam Hemsworth) to add depth to an already heavy story, but this is not the doomed young-love triangle the Lionsgate media juggernaut is parading all over town.

Come to think of it, there is nothing cheesy about this movie. From the costumes to the scenery, the music to the dialogue, the movie itself is good, save for a few blips in the storyline. But at the end, as I sat wondering just how many in our packed theater read the books prior to seeing the movie, I had to ask myself: how many of us knew what we were in for and flocked to the theaters anyway? In the highly charged scene where all 24 “tributes” are standing on their pedestals, waiting through the unbelievably tenuous countdown from 50 until the “Games” are on, the realization comes: holy fucking shit I’m about to watch kids fight to the death. And you do. In all its blurry, gritty, heinous glory, masses across the country are treated to brief, visceral scenes of preteens murdered at the hands of bigger, stronger, trained teenage killers from the wealthier districts whose wards never lose. Whether you read the books or not, you knew it was coming, from the second Everdeen volunteered 10 minutes into the movie. Did anyone else have a growing sickening pit in their stomach like me, or have we just become desensitized to the thoughts and images of 10-year-olds shot through the heart with sharpened spears?

My hope is that more than a few moviegoers will question just how close to home this spectator sport parable is playing out while we jockey for seats and oversized popcorn at our local Cineplex. My fear is for this culture that will pack into theaters and shatter box office records previously set by pirates and vampires to watch a movie that is, in essence, kids killing each other.

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Milagres; 1,2,3; Unicycle Loves You
Sophia’s Thai Kitchen, Davis • Friday, March 23, 2012

Words by Amy Serna • Photo by Rik Keller

Being 5 feet tall can have its advantages. First off it’s easy to become a champion of hide and seek, no cabinet or closet is too small to curl up in. And the chances of running into a bookshelf or tree branch are at an all-time low, because it’s easy to walk right underneath them without noticing. But the worst time to be vertically challenged is trying to see at a concert, especially if the stage is the same level as the floor.

The stage at Sophia’s Thai Kitchen in Davis isn’t actually a stage at all; it consists of a small wooden porch where all of the band members are cooped up in the corner, which provides a low level of good viewing but a high level of intimacy. As my friend Lucy said, the band members have “no room to bust a move.” But the three bands that opened up the “2012 Music Season Premiere” for the tiny venue didn’t need space to show off new moves but showed off their musical talents instead.

The opening band (starting oddly on time for a rock show) was Chicago’s garage-pop trio, Unicycle Loves You, who were all about making a bold statement. The drummer of the group rocked out while wearing bright red shorts that seemed at least two sizes too small for him. But he might have been the only person who could pull off wearing short shorts during a chilly March night. Their live music could make anyone want to jump up and dance around in circles. Before playing their last song, the lead singer boldly said, “Davis is better than Los Angeles and San Francisco put together.”

During setup for the next band, 1, 2, 3, the crowd seemed to multiply in minutes, making everyone squeeze in a little tighter. The lead singer got ready for the show by wearing a straw hat with a loose rope chinstrap. He later admitted that it was bought in San Francisco because he “thought it was appropriate” for the night. Their two guitars, drums and bass brought a fun but peaceful vibe into the air that even made some viewers on the sidewalk start to dance. For the last song of their set the drummer decided to play standing up, which led to a long instrumental jam session between all four band members. Originally from Pittsburgh, Penn., the band made their trip to Davis seem unique and not just another stop on their tour.

Somehow by the time the headliners, Milagres, took the stage the number of people in front of me multiplied again, making it an even tighter squeeze and keeping the prime viewing spaces at a minimum. Although it was difficult to see any of the band members, the sounds could make any music lover nod their heads and tap their feet in appreciation to their songs. Hailing from Brooklyn, N.Y., Milagres’ melodic but powerful music shook the wood panels of the porch. Shows at Sophia’s Thai Kitchen are usually a mixture of people who are trying to drink while holding loud conversations and people who are really into the music. But while the headliners were playing, most people were tuned in to the music. Milagres’ set ended with an encore that was demanded by the audience, making it all of the possible songs they could play in one night.

Although the view of the band was minimal, watching the reaction from the audience was almost better. I caught a girl with her eyes closed swaying side to side, a guy fist pumping, people yelling song requests and lots of head nods. It didn’t matter if someone was sitting front row with a perfect view or in the back sitting on a bar stool, everyone could hear and feel the music that night.

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Lagwagon, Cobra Skulls, Nothington
Harlow’s, Sacramento • Wednesday, Feb. 29, 2012

Words by Zach Ahern • Photo of Lagwagon by Melissa Welliver

Catering to the working people of the city, Harlow’s hosted an early evening show, promptly starting at 6:30 p.m. with San Francisco’s Nothington. With only a couple dozen early birds in attendance to start, Nothington held little back, providing a solid performance. Bandleader Jay Northington forcefully belted out the mid-tempo “Stop Screaming,” which drew obvious comparison to the gruff vocal styling of Chuck Ragan’s early work in Hot Water Music.

The slightly quicker paced “This Conversation Ends” harked back to familiar pop-punk sounds of the mid-‘90s with straightforward rhythms, but catchy anthemic vocal hooks a la Face to Face or Social Distortion. “A Mistake” was perhaps their best song of the night, which included moments of all three guitarists singing at the same time; a formula that the band thrived on and shined the brightest when doing. At one point in between songs, Northington saluted the crowd with a can of beer, appropriate for the midway point of the third annual Beer Week in Sacramento.

Second on the bill was Cobra Skulls, originally from Reno, Nev., but now calling the Bay Area home. Right out of the gates, Cobra Skulls were ready to roll and brought the rock with them. Drummer Luke Swarm led the way on “The Streets of Cairo” with grooving, danceable beats that grabbed the attention of the ever-increasing crowd. “Cobra Skullifornia” incited several in attendance to dance and mosh in the middle of the room. Adam Beck’s clever single-note guitar leads transitioned well into the chorus of the song, and bassist Devin Peralta legibly shouted disapproving lyrics into the microphone, “You planted seeds in the desert/you stole your water from afar/Southern California stay where you are.”

Other notable songs from the set were the upbeat and driving “Solastalgia” and hip-shaking infectious “Honorary Discharge Under the Influence,” which sparked similarities to AFI and Rancid’s first few albums respectively. Cobra Skulls put forth a ton of energy and charisma with each individual member showcasing their talents as the supporting act.

The legendary Lagwagon graced the stage with much anticipation and adoration from bunches of eager fans in attendance. Though some might argue Lagwagon’s heyday has come and gone, the group still performs with the energy, pizzazz and goofiness of teenagers. Lagwagon quickly riled up diehard fans, old and young, into a moshing frenzy with classics like the stop-and-go “Black Eyes.” Showing their playful side, towering guitarist Chris Flippin took time in the middle of the set to inform the crowd that they were missing American Idol on television. Vocalist Joey Cape also told an entertaining story about a warehouse show the band attended after a Cattle Club performance early in their career, in which Cape recalled seeing an awesome metal band, Crank Lab, whose name he mistook for years as the name of the venue. Prior to playing the catchy “Razorburn,” Cape and Flippin gave praise to an audience member with an impressive mustache. Songs like “Sleep” and “Weak” showed the talent of the band to be simultaneously melodic and aggressive, serving as a reminder as to why Lagwagon reeled us in to begin with and why they remain a relevant punk rock band today.

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John Carter
Walt Disney

Words by James Barone

It was a little hard to judge John Carter from its trailer—or its title. John Carter could be a tale about an idealistic lawyer, or a gritty New York City cop, or a surfer who shreds waves at Mavericks…or whatever, really. In the trailer, there were many instances of our shirtless hero (the title character played by Taylor Kitsch) in an alien land, hurling himself with supernatural prowess into hordes of CGI creatures. Conan in space? As it turned out, not quite.

The film actually starts in New York, 1881. Carter roguishly avoids a mysterious pursuer in a bowler hat and delivers a simple telegram to his nephew, author Edgar Rice Burroughs. He pleads with his nephew to visit right away, but when Burroughs arrives, he finds that Carter has passed away and has left him his considerable estate. More importantly, Carter left behind his journal, which is addressed to young Burroughs, that tells a fantastic tale.

The story jumps back 13 years. We’re in the Wild West, post-Civil War Arizona territory, a rough place for rough men. Carter, a highly decorated soldier for the Confederacy, has fallen on hard times (as his beard probably suggests). He’s a lost man without a home or a country and cares only for finding a fabled cave of gold somewhere in the mountains. After escaping capture by Union soldiers, who mean to enlist Carter’s skills and courage to battle Apaches, our cynical protagonist finds what he is looking for and a whole lot more.

A chance encounter with a Thern, a mysterious race of intergalactic space travelers, lands Carter in Barsoom, or Mars in our Earth parlance. There, he finds that the change in gravity has given him the ability to jump great distances and has granted him superhuman strength. He is captured by a race of four-armed beings known as Tharks, but after showing his skill in battle he is reluctantly welcomed as a full-fledged member of the fold. The aforementioned incident also introduces him to Dejah Thoris (Lynn Collins), a Frank Frazetta-style goddess and red princess of Mars. Saving her from certain death, Carter is thrust into the center of yet another civil war between Thoris’ Helium and the predator city Zodanga.

What seemed like computer-addled fluff from the trailer (and there is plenty of that) belies what is actually a rich and exciting action/fantasy/science fiction film. Based on Burroughs’ A Princess of Mars (perhaps a more descriptive title), John Carter is a sprawling adventure story rife with dazzling feats of heroism and old-fashioned romance.

It starts with good villains. Mark Strong stars as the de facto Thern leader Matai Shang, a shape-shifting lurker who always seems to be in the right place at the right time. His motives are unclear, but he is cruel and precise in the execution of his master plan, which seems to be to install Sab Than (The Wire’s Dominic West), a blue Martian and brutish warmonger, as the planet’s overlord. Armed with a powerful, mystical Thern weapon, Than is set to lay waste to the planet, but that will only go so far as winning the loyalty of the people. He forces Thoris’ father to promise him her hand in marriage, uniting Helium and Zodanga by blood.

Thoris, a scientist and headstrong young woman, isn’t having it. That’s where our heroes come in. They’re impossibly perfect. Carter, reluctant to take on the mantle because he lost his wife and daughter in his own Civil War, eventually comes around thanks in no small part to his bourgeoning romance with Thoris. Though she often plays damsel in distress, Thoris too has her moments saving Carter on multiple occasions and generally kicking ass in swordfights.

This is the sort of grand story you’d expect from Disney and the man who brought us Tarzan. It’s got big battles, interesting characters and a love story that spans space and time. Really, it’s the sort of thing you go to the movies for, so don’t let the sub-par trailer dissuade you.

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Safe House

Universal
Words by James Barone

Being a hero is all well and good, but what exactly does that entail? Altruism will only get you so far in a world where things are rarely black and white.

Safe House isn’t as deep as all that. It’s an action movie. But it does touch on some of the shadier aspects of life in a post-Cold War/Global War on Terror world. And there are explosions. Lots of them.

The film opens in Capetown, South Africa, where we find fledgling CIA agent Matt Weston (Ryan Reynolds) charged with guarding a safe house. He’s young, idealistic and ambitious. He wants to play a bigger role with the agency, presumably to keep his country safe. He yearns for a day when he can leave his cushy detail behind and really get out into the field, doing serious work.

He gets what he wishes for when he crosses paths with Tobin Frost (Denzel Washington), a legendary but disgraced CIA operative. Frost, a rogue agent accused of treason, inexplicably turns himself in to a U.S. consulate in South Africa after gaining some coveted intel from a British MI6 officer and narrowly escaping a pack of faceless, bloodthirsty heels out for his head. Frost is brought to Weston’s safe house to undergo questionable interrogation practices to find out just why he brought himself to Capetown in the first place. That’s when the shit hits the fan.

Weston’s safe house has been compromised. The same men after Frost in the beginning of the film have stormed the supposedly secure location, and Frost and Weston sneak out by the skins of their teeth. The latter then does his best to bring the rogue agent to justice and get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding his surrender, and what follows is a proverbial journey into the heart of darkness.

Safe House is stingy in divulging the details of exactly what’s going on. The film moves from one elaborate action-filled set piece to the next with nary a moment for the audience to catch its breath. Swedish-born director Daniel Espinosa, making his Hollywood debut, certainly makes an impression. Safe House has a very distinct look. The colors are saturated, the film looks grainy and the rapid pace of the shaky camera work is extremely disorienting. One close-quarter fight in a tenement between Frost and Weston and two armed pursuers may very well induce seizures. At points, it feels like style over substance. The technique is so flashy that it overshadows the action itself. However, with all the extreme close-ups and first-person feel of the camera work, there’s an intimacy to the violence, of which there’s plenty. Even the deaths of nameless henchmen feel personal.

Even at its most nauseating, Safe House’s action is extremely vivid. Unfortunately its plot isn’t so forthcoming. Playing the intricate details of the story so close to the vest, it’s a good two-thirds into the film before we’re even given a hint of why all these people want Frost dead—and it’s a vague hint at that. There’s a file, sure, and it points to some very powerful people. That much was apparent from all the hullabaloo surrounding the events of the film, but it never feels specific enough.

Luckily, Safe House has a good enough cast to keep things interesting, even through its most head-scratching moments. Vera Farmiga, usually solid, exudes confidence as the only notable female presence in the film. Most of Safe House rides on the shoulders of Washington and Reynolds, who have little problem carrying its weight. Washington may be showing his age, but he’s still a force to be reckoned with in a role that demands such physicality, and Reynolds doesn’t wilt in the shadow of such an accomplished co-star. There’s not even an inkling of the wisecracking caricature Reynolds is known for. Instead, we see a more or less honest portrayal of a good man pushed to the edge.

Sarcasm has no place in Espinosa’s Safe House. This is an entirely humorless film, but it’s not a tedious one. It’s more sweet than savory, but if you want to experience two hours of chaos from the safety of a cinema, you could certainly do worse.

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Mutemath, Canon Blue
Ace of Spades, Sacramento • Wednesday, Feb. 8, 2012

Words by Ashley Hassinger • Photos Mike Ibe

Mutemath returned to Sacramento for a stunning performance with musical guest Canon Blue. With distinctive musical styles, these two bands complemented each other flawlessly. A strong emphasis on an array of instruments and powerful lead vocals illustrated genuine musicianship.

Canon Blue, solo project of Daniel James, opened up the night, playing as a trio on this occasion. With the recent release of Canon Blue’s sophomore album Rumspringa, James spoke to the audience about Amish culture being a heavy influence on the album.

His six-song set lasted 30 minutes. James’s set list was a mixture of old and new tracks, allowing the audience to get a full taste of the rich and funky Canon Blue.

An essential feature you can hear with Canon Blue’s recent music is a string quartet. This element gives Canon Blue a unique quality and James is able to recreate this sound with samplers during his live show. Layering a combination of string instruments and James’ vocals generates a refreshed sound. Canon Blue gives listener’s unpredictable sounds and lyrics and has a euphonic substance.

In addition to the layering, the tracks have a variety of tones varying from light and jazz style to an alternative and fast tempo. Canon Blue’s unorthodox sound is what draws in new listeners.

Canon Blue wrapped up their set with a funky and upbeat jam titled “Chicago.” This track is a perfect example of the sound you’ll hear on Rumspringa: a string quartet introduction ultimately bringing in James’ voice.

Standing in the crowd, I overheard a few audience members mumbling, “Who is this band?” Canon Blue made a substantial impression on both fans and new listeners. Their opening made a great introduction to the headlining Mutemath that was to follow.

Writing and performing for almost a decade, Mutemath have polished and perfected their art of music. With three full-length studio albums including their most recent release in October, Odd Soul, Mutemath had a great deal of material to work with for the show.

For those unfamiliar with the sound of Mutemath, imagine a fusion of funk, jazz and rock. Lead vocalist Paul Meany adds an undertone of soul to complete their colorful and distinguished sound.

Known for their exceptional live performances, Mutemath didn’t delay to impress the crowd with a non-traditional entrance. Drummer Darren King led the band in a drum-line formation from the audience onto the stage, with a string of lights hanging above them.

As they took to the stage, there was no hesitation in energy and excitement from the band members as the first song “Odd Soul,” off their third studio album, started up. Bassist Roy Mitchell-Cardenas and newest member Todd Gummerman on the guitar joined in with King and Meany with an immense amount of liveliness on the stage.

The excitement wasn’t limited to one area with Meany interacting with the crowd, and singing in the middle of the audience for the performance of “Equals.”

A favorable characteristic of Mutemath’s performances is their ability to have quick transitions. There is little downtime between songs, allowing for the audience to get the most out of the show.

Along with their swift changeovers, there was a great light show throughout the performance, which took the concert to the next level.

With high energy and dedication, Mutemath gave an exceptional arrangement of their songs over the years, and their animation was contagious to the crowd. Mutemath is one of the few bands left that performs solely for the joy of their audience.

The songs they performed included “Blood Pressure,” “Spotlight” and “Walking Paranoia,” to name a few. The band played a total of 26 songs, giving the audience a passion-filled show.

Post from: Submerge Magazine

Man on a Ledge
Summit

Words by James Barone

Man on a Ledge begins much as its title suggests it would, with Sam Worthington playing ex-cop turned escaped felon Nick Cassidy stepping onto the ledge outside his 21st floor New York City hotel room window. As a lady on the street below screamed, “There’s a man on the ledge,” I was instantly reminded of a drinking game a friend of mine once told me about. The rules, as they were explained to me, was that every time a character in a movie says the name of the movie, or some derivative thereof, you take a shot. As it turned out, if I had gone to the cinema prepared, I would have caught a decent buzz about 10 minutes into the film. It’s a shame, because I sure could have used it.

As previously stated, Worthington stars in the role of Nick Cassidy. He’s serving 25 years in Sing Sing for a crime he says he didn’t commit. He has a death wish—or so it seems—and he regularly gets into fights with other inmates. He gets a day outside prison walls to attend his father’s funeral, but he ends up putting his mourning on hold long enough to kick his little brother’s ass (in front of his girlfriend no less) and escapes the authorities. Instead of high tailing it to Canada or something, he travels to New York City to clear his name. It would seem that some crooked cops and a wealthy dude named David Englander (Ed Harris, slumming it) framed him for the theft of a giant diamond, which I believe was roughly the same plot as The Great Muppet Caper.

Unfortunately for us, Jim Henson’s charming creations are nowhere to be found. What we’re left with is the most implausible piece of horseshit “action” movie to crawl out of Hollywood in a good long time.

The film’s biggest problem (though it has plenty) is that it becomes the victim of its own premise. It’s an action movie that places its most viable action star, Worthington, on a ledge where he can’t do anything but toss money on the crowd of onlookers below him, feign jumping and chit-chat with officer Lydia Mercer (played by Elizabeth Banks), but really I can’t fault him there. By the time the story takes our man on the ledge off the ledge (spoiler alert), he’d have to kick the asses of an entire army’s worth of Predators to make up for the shit sandwich we were forced to endure for the hour or so prior.

A good action movie also needs a vile villain, and in that regard, Man on a Ledge also fails miserably. Harris spends most of the movie pensively sucking on his expensive cigar while looking out the window of his high rise. Other than walking around as if he had a stick up his ass, the only bit of orneriness he displays is when he hurls a watch a sniveling underling gave him as a suck up gift against a wall. I guess that’s kind of evil, being so unappreciative. Englander’s main crime seems to be that he’s richer than anyone else. So yeah, you know what? Fuck that guy.

Banks serves as the film’s only bright spot. Not because she’s particularly good in the role—not even Meryl Streep could have pulled that off—but because she’s the only one who seems to give a damn. As Mercer, an officer who failed in talking another jumper, a fellow cop, out of taking a dive off the Brooklyn Bridge, Banks gives it the old college try. (She also proves that movies are the only place where it’s possible to wake up with a raging hangover and still look amazing.) That effort would probably be better served elsewhere.

In short, if you go see this, you’ll probably need someone to talk you down. I hear life is so worth living. I’m just not so sure any more.

Post from: Submerge Magazine