Range Life

Scott Kannberg’s resume has a bolded header that slaps you right across the face: Founding member and guitarist of Pavement. There isn’t much need to explain, because that single sentence says a lot of things. But Kannberg is more than one arm of a multi-limbed rock ‘n’ roll giant. Over the years, he’s led solid outfits like Preston School of Industry and Spiral Stairs. The latter (also his longtime alias) is where Kannberg lands in 2016, polishing his first release (Doris and the Daggers) since 2009’s The Real Feel. Produced in Los Angeles by Dan Long, the forthcoming LP will at some point be touched by the hands of San Francisco mainstay Kelley Stoltz, and features well-worn players like drummer Justin Peroff (Broken Social Scene).

Spiral Stairs taps into the brilliantly loose mood that defined Pavement. It’s not sloppy, or undercooked—it’s something more akin to your most intelligent, good-job-having friend that shops exclusively at thrift stores simply because they prefer it. “Cold Change” is a prime example; a song that belongs to Spiral Stairs, yet just as easily could have been on Terror Twilight. And reminding people of Pavement is not a bad thing. It’s actually quite good. For all the ‘90s alt we look back upon with sheepish smiles (Pearl Jam? Soundgarden? Bush??), the lazy rock ‘n’ roll swagger of Pavement still stands tall. And Spiral Stairs, with a looming show at Sacramento’s Torch Club alongside Ian Moore, will showcase just that. Submerge recently caught up with Kannberg, who happens to be good-humored and an all-around nice guy, with a fuzzy recollection of Sacramento lore to boot.

So it’s been six years since the last Spiral Stairs record. Why now?
After the last Pavement tour I moved to Australia for a few years and had a kid and lived on an acre of land and kinda mowed the lawn everyday. I lost track of things and didn’t make a lot of music, so when I moved back to the States I just started doing it.

Has the lyrical focus shifted at all now that you have a family?
It was kinda weird. I had a bunch of ideas for songs. Not really anything about the kid; I’m not singing about my kid like Paul McCartney did, or whatever [laughs]. I guess it’s in there a little bit. But we were all set to record in Seattle last May, and the drummer I’ve had for years, Darius, passed away. Big shock. He just had a heart attack and died. He was 39, four days away from his 40th birthday. And like a week away from seeing the very last Rush show—of course a drummer’s favorite band is Rush [laughs]. So it was quite a shock, and I kinda refocused a lot of the songs [to be about] this guy, and loss and friends; life and death, really.

What’s behind the title Doris and the Daggers?
I’ve always had this fake band name, Doris and the Daggers. It’s like a punk rock, fake band from the ‘80s that you’d see at the Cattle Club. It’s gonna be weird playing Sacramento again. I went to school there and lived there in the early Pavement days. I guess the show got moved to the Torch Club, which is even weirder, ‘cause I used to go to that place when I was like 20 years old.

Is it ever a give and a take being inextricably linked to a name like Pavement? Are there times when you’re grateful and others you’d prefer the anonymity?
No, no, I’ve always been very proud of Pavement. I mean, it was my band, ya know? Over the years it’s become such a bigger thing and you’ve gotta respect that. I love it. It made me who I am today, besides my parents I guess [laughs].

I grew up in the ‘90s, and i think it’s interesting to look back at what was popular at what time, and what holds up and what doesn’t, and Pavement’s a good example of a band that has held up. Do you ever contemplate what it is about Pavement that lasts where say, Smashing Pumpkins doesn’t?
You know, I kinda look at it like R.E.M. and their career. When you really care about every record you do, and every single you do and you kinda have a sense of humor about it; you take it seriously but you don’t take it seriously. It’s only rock ‘n’ roll. And what we always tried to do was respect our influences. We didn’t try to say we were creating the Holy Grail. And I think people respect that and it resonates.

Have you ever come across somebody who turned out to be a big fan that you didn’t expect, and have it kinda blow you away?
We played a festival once in the mid-’90s or something, and I remember Oingo Boingo played. And I remember the guitar player came up to me and was just like, “Man, you’re my favorite band.” And I was like, “That is fucking weird.” [Laughs.] That’s just a random one. Probably the coolest one ever was Nick Cave taking me aside and saying, “I like you guys.”

Do you have any old, dusty Sac stories? Maybe spin a yarn or two?
Geez. So long ago … my memory’s terrible. It’s basically where Pavement kinda started. I mean we did start in Stockton, jamming and recording, but I was living in Sacramento after the first single. We were around that town when there was nothing going on. But there were great shows; Cattle Club was a great club. And then before that, Club Minimal is basically where we grew up. It was where all the punk rock bands came. I did my first stage dive at Social Distortion when I was like 14 years old.

It was a big part of my life, that town. I went to Sac State. I didn’t finish. I was actually about a semester short of finishing, and Sonic Youth called us up and said they wanted us to tour and open up for them in Europe. So Steve [Malkmus] called me up and said, “Can you put off school for a little bit?” And I never went back [laughs].

I think you made the right decision.
I think so too! My urban planning teacher was like, “What are you doing?” I was working at this door and bathroom hardware warehouse, and I remember telling the boss, “I’m goin’ off, I’m gonna be a rock star.” And he was like, “Alright, good luck with that, we’ll see you in a month!”

Spiral Stairs’ tour with Ian Moore comes through Sacramento Jan. 30, 2016 at The Torch Club, located at 904 15th Street. Admission is $15 for this 21-and-up show, with things getting started at 9 p.m. Find more info at Torchclub.net.

Sicario

Rated R

You’ve probably read a lot of rave reviews about this movie. You’re hearing words like “Oscar,” and phrases like “Best Picture.” Sicario is about the Mexican drug cartel. It’s directed by Denis Villeneuve (Prisoners) and stars Benicio Del Toro, who rose to permanent fame 15 years ago with his first foray into the subject (Traffic). This is the tale of an ambitious, fresh-faced FBI agent named Kate Marcer (Emily Blunt), who unwittingly joins up with CIA rogue Matt Graver (Josh Brolin) and his band of cutthroat operatives. Kate soon finds herself far from the (relative) safety of the Arizona-Mexico border, and instead deep in the violent slums of Juarez, where the lines between agenda, outcome and legality are entirely blurred. The character of Alejandro (Del Toro) is one Blunt finds particularly troubling, as Alejandro is an unabashed mercenary with a not-so-secret motive of revenge. While Kate might learn a harsh and necessary reality from Alejandro’s blood-stained ways, she cannot, however, come to grips with the morality behind it, or lack thereof.

The prevailing message from Sicario is that the war on drugs is one of futility; that conventional law enforcement and border-crossing coke and heroin busts are a waste of time. The real battle—the fight of the future—is one that takes place and will continue to take place behind enemy lines without the constraints of bureaucracy and procedure. And while all that may well be true, Sicario can’t sell it.

Emily Blunt stinks. I don’t care what anyone says. While I absolutely appreciate and applaud her casting in a role typically dominated by men, her character’s persistent self-righteous indignation is patently weak and bankrupt, regardless of gender. Same goes for her partner, Reggie (Daniel Kaluuya), whose every second of screen time is a meaningless waste. As for Josh Brolin, he tries to pull the loosey-goosey battle-tested thing: You know, sleeping on the plane ride to hell; wearing flip-flops in the war-room, etc. Those are called cliches. And while there may be hard-ass CIA operatives and combat vets that wear Rainbows on the job and talk casually about death over a 1,000-yard stare, it’s been done over and over and over and over and over and over and over to a point that an actor really has to be worth their salt in a role to pull it off. Brolin, a fine actor, cannot, nor can his crew.

With the exception of Benicio Del Toro. That’s because he’s special. He’s not just good, or fine; he’s special. His portrayal of single-minded Alejandro is the lone glimmer of interest in a film that, aside from its cinematography and a couple long chase scenes reminiscent of Ronin or The French Connection, has little to offer in the way of a lasting impression. He has the ability to literally carry a film. But even the great Del Toro can’t save Sicario. Because there’s nothing new here. It’s recycled. More talk about decapitated wives, children dipped in acid and Colombian neckties, or whatever. There came a point when they kind of had to stop making Vietnam movies where Hollywood grunts walked around talking about “the shit,” ya know? It’s cinematic redundancy. That’s not to make light of the issue itself, or say that there isn’t value in making movies about such things. There is. Sicario, though, is just blah. It even lacks the necessary humanism to give roles like Silvio, the hapless Federale with a lonely son, any sort of depth.

And in a way, it’s unfortunate to write that about a movie at least attempting to communicate a viewpoint on an unbelievably serious and desperate situation. But Sicario is more a been-there-done-that action flick with predictable characters and plot twists than a meaningful political statement. It certainly doesn’t deserve an 8.1 on IMDB, or a 94 percent on Rotten Tomatoes simply because its subject matter is based on real-life drama. In fact by film’s end it’s basically a vigilante fairy tail. No, Sicario isn’t horrible. But it’s not great in any way. It’s just another revenge flick that happens to be about the Mexican drug cartel.

Soul Sister

Sharon Jones is not just a soul sister. She is the soul sister of this generation. That’s it. Period. End of story. In fact I dare you to filter through the last 20 years of genuine soul music and find any woman who even comes close to matching the quantity and quality of Jones’ musical output. Then again, that’d just be a waste of your time.

And now the one and only Miss Sharon Jones—“the star of the show with the magnetic je ne sai quoi”—is once again using that very soul to push through a second trying battle with cancer. Indeed, the pancreatic cancer Jones fought and defeated through 2013 and ‘14 has returned, as she just recently announced at the 40th Annual Toronto Film Festival. But if you think for one second that’s going to stop Jones and her long time band the Dap-Kings from doing the boogaloo on their looming West Coast swing, better think again.

“It feels great to get up [onstage] knowing the chemo is in me and still having that energy. I can sing and I feel good and my fans are supporting me,” tells a confident Jones. Afterall, this is the same woman who spent years working as a corrections officer at New York City’s notorious Rikers Island jail complex, as well as an armored car guard. She doesn’t take shit from anyone, let alone cancer.

Even with an uphill battle staring her in the face, Jones has a lot to be thankful for, and she knows it. The Dap-Kings, are still the tip-tops of backing groups in contemporary soul. If you’ve ever seen them live, then you know what I’m talking about, and Jones is proud to tell it.

“This weekend past, Binky played [guitar] by himself. We always have two guitars. But Joe [Crispiano] twisted his ankle and couldn’t walk, so Binky just played the show by himself. That’s how tight we are.”

It’s not just live performances, though, that Jones can appreciate. The entire Daptone Records crew, along with The Dap-Kings themselves, is a big family, and that doesn’t go unnoticed in trying times.

“I’m grateful that I have the band to lean on,” says Jones. “I don’t have time to dwell on how I feel. The only thing I can say right now [in regards to how] the chemo is changing me is my hands; it’s really darkening my skin. But other than that I’m OK, and they’re behind me.”

Jones also happens to be a woman of great faith. Born in South Carolina, she was raised a Baptist, then began attending Pentecostal services upon moving to Brooklyn as a teen. And despite her struggles with health in recent years, that lifetime of faith has not wavered—on the contrary, really. When Jones speaks of her faith, it’s easy to derive where she summons the might of soul which overflows nightly onstage.

“I keep my faith because I always believe God is watching,” she says. “He has the doctors; he’s watching over them, he’s watching over everything. I believe he brought me this far—all this work, everything that’s happened to me—I claim that as my blessing. And so my faith hasn’t changed. My faith is gonna take care of me and see me through this, too. And you gotta believe in yourself. You gotta believe that what you pray for is gonna be accepted. I’m gonna continue to go on. No matter what’s up or down, I’m gonna deal with it.”

That same fortitude is what made Jones the subject of two-time Academy Award-winning documentarian Barbara Kopple’s most recent film, Miss Sharon Jones!, which debuted at that same Toronto Film Festival where Jones announced the return of her cancer. The film itself showcases Jones’ first battle with the disease and her continued touring throughout, and will see its U.S. premiere on Nov. 12, 2015, in New York City. Jones herself was very pleased with the final product.

“Working with them wasn’t a matter of working with them, it was just a matter of them following me around,” explains Jones. “They followed me on and off from June of ‘13 to January of ‘15.

“It’s amazing to take all that footage and bring it down to an hour and a half and tell a story. It turned out great: I cried, I laughed.”

While you’d never guess it watching her shake and shimmy through a 20-song set, Jones will turn 60 next year. But age, as with so many other things, can be a matter of perspective.

“I don’t think about age too much,” she laughs. “I start looking in the mirror, though, and I can see it creepin’ up on me. I think going through the sickness with the chemo the last couple years, that ages you a lot. I can see it put a lot of stress on me; lot of mileage on the body. But hey, 60 is just another [number]. I pray I get to see 65. I wanna reach for that.”

Any fan will second that notion, and add another 20 years atop the wish list. With an 11-song Christmas album set to drop in late-October (It’s a Holiday Soul Party), and another prospective full-length come 2016, a healthy Sharon Jones is righteously poised to add additional layers to her already bountiful discography of LPs and 45s. And one can only imagine that at this point Jones is something of a marvel to her doctors, who can’t have too many other patients that fill the role of soul queen on a nightly basis during pancreatic cancer treatment.

“They just tell me to be careful and go [with] how I feel,” she says. “It’s up to you how you feel mentally. The chemo is going to take over but that’s still a couple months ahead. The gigs gotta be paced out so I don’t overexert, but I’m quite sure everything’s gonna work.”

And with that we begin to wait for the next show, hoping for another and another and another as time goes by. But when you see Sharon at the Mondavi Center, or up at the Cascade in Redding, or anywhere else, remind yourself that this is not the path every person chooses to take when faced with a challenge. This is the path of a true entertainer. A true soul sister. Take note and appreciate. Because it doesn’t happen everyday.

“I have faith,” says Jones. “That’s all I can tell anyone. Those dates are there, and I’m gonna be there.”

You’ll have two chances to see this remarkable lady (and her remarkable backing band) in action in the Sacramento area. Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings will rock the Mondavi Center in Davis on Oct. 30, 2015. Tickets start at $27 ($20 for students, $13.50 for under 18) and can be purchased through Mondaviarts.org. If you’re up for a bit of a drive, you could also head up to Redding on Nov. 1, 2015 to catch Sharon Jones at the Cascade Theatre. Go to Cascadetheatre.org for more details.

Trainwreck

Rated R | {4.5 out of 5 stars}

I really don’t watch Comedy Central anymore. I’m also not real big on stand-up comedy aside from a handful of favorites. So until Friday night, Amy Schumer was more or less just a name to me. But now I feel like I’ve known her for years. We’re old pals, in fact. She’s 34. I’m 32. Know each other from the bars. Used to write for the same shitty paper. Spent a night together that neither of us remember. It’s Trainwreck, folks, and maybe you too can relate.

Directed by Judd Apatow (40-Year-Old Virgin) and written by Schumer, Trainwreck tells the story of, well, Amy, a heavy-drinking, sailor-talking, perpetually single 30-something living in New York City. Her life revolves around writing tabloid think pieces for a highfalutin rag, getting drunk any given night of the week and henceforth fucking whatever man she feels, only to leave said man high and dry. Her sister, Kim (Brie Larson), is a happily married mother-to-be that loves her lil’ sis, yet grows more and more tired of her debaucherous and destructive lifestyle by the day; a lifestyle which she inherited from her philandering, alcoholic father (Colin Quinn). While thus far I’ve seemingly described a drama, I assure you it’s not: This is a raunchy comedy that takes a cue from Bridesmaids, with conventional Hollywood stereotypes of women thrown out with the bath water. But Amy’s relentless commitment to the single life is turned upside down after meeting Aaron (Bill Hader), a doctor of sports medicine she’s unwillingly assigned to feature for the magazine. Amy and Aaron, polar opposites in their approach to life, go on to find a common need in one another, forging a tumultuous yet endearing romantic relationship.

I’ll admit that nothing about that storyline is groundbreaking or new, and I’ll also say that initially, Trainwreck feels like a woman-driven version of The Hangover; by that I mean an endless and boring parade of cock and pussy jokes. But that changes as Schumer’s writing begins to not-so-subtly mock the absurdities of a hardcore stag life, from the ridiculous trouble of staying the night, to the audacity of a new sexual partner making verbal contact the day after. And while Amy’s bachelorette habits are exaggerated to a point that goes well beyond the routine of your average single person, there’s plenty of truth-by-experience seeping through, and it’s infinitely more intriguing from a woman’s perspective. (Say the main character was Vince Vaughn, or something; I’d have hit the exit within 20 minutes.) Being mapped out as a flawed and hurtful maneater bargaining for her own moral comfort feels by design, and the consistent stabs at introspection once Hader’s character is introduced do not go unnoticed by any person with a sense of self that’s ever lived the single life to a fault.

Hader, for his part, is excellent in a heretofore unknown capacity, that of a love interest. He’s a genuinely good actor, and sells relatable romance in a way your average rom-com hunk does not. Which brings me to another point: Both Schumer and Hader are unmistakably attractive people, yet neither is some sort of pinup. There’s something refreshingly attainable to their looks for those of us not quite on physical par with Ryan Gosling or Margot Robbie.

Jesus, I’m really selling this thing as some sort of social statement. I swear it’s not that serious. Hell, LeBron James has a starring role. For that matter there’s appearances by Amar’e Stoudamire, John Cena, Marv Albert, Tim Meadows, Chris Evert, Matthew Broderick, Method Man and the New York Knicks cheerleading team; how serious can it really be?

Trainwreck is anything but a perfect movie. The humor is at times very base; it’s too long; there’s too many cameos; yada, yada, yada. But it’s also quite funny in both crude and cunning ways. The acting is good. It features prominently my favorite Billy Joel song. It’s an enjoyable and relatively unique spin on the throes of deep singledom, pinching your hopeless romantic but not breaking the skin. “You mean to tell me there’s someone out there I might actually want to date that also wants to date me and not just when we’re drunk and looking to screw? Whoo-boy I’m gettin’ drunk tonight! Yeeeeeeehaaaaawwww!”

Who the fuck said that? Certainly wasn’t me.

Mad Max: Fury Road

Rated R | 3.5 stars out of 5

I wonder if Mel Gibson was upset that he didn’t get asked to cameo in the Mad Max relaunch. He may be a homophobe, a racist, an anti-semite, a misogynist, a Scientologist, an arsonist, an arborist, a member of ISIS, the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux KIan and a Lakers’ fan, but really, when you get right down to it, not a bad guy.

Fuck Mel Gibson. But god bless Mad Max.

It would be so easy for George Miller’s reboot to suck. Everything that made the originals so wonderful (specifically the first two installments) is largely antithetical to box office success. Lo-fi production, sparse dialogue, unfamiliar faces and overt weirdness are the stuff of cult classics; so what formula would allow Fury Road a chance at being a 2015 blockbuster?

With a simplistic, post-apocalyptic storyline faithful to the gasoline-starved past, drifter Max (Tom Hardy) finds himself aiding Imperator Furiosa (Charlize Theron), a disillusioned pupil of grotesque wasteland warlord Immortan Joe. When Furiosa steals away Immortan’s captive breeding beauties in the hull of a tanker in hopes of escaping to her native “green place,” a frenetic road rage ensues, and basically never relents. In fact, it would be fair to say that three-quarters of this two-hour film are balls-to-the-wall chase scenes—ones that would make The French Connection proud at that. Whereas most effects-driven flicks of modern day rely upon green screen razzle dazzle, Fury Road kicks it refreshingly old school with actual wrecks, explosions and stunts; it’s closer to Commando than it is Furious 7.

The casting is admirable as well, with Hardy and Theron legitimate stars, and quality ones at that. Which is to say they can act. And while neither role calls for Shakespearean eloquence, selecting the likes of Vin Diesel and Megan Fox as co-leads could have doomed Fury Road from the start. Even with heavy action and decidedly minimal discourse, there’s plenty of room for non-verbal acting, which Hardy especially showcases. He discreetly manages not to ruin scenes that could otherwise have been ripe for needless macho posturing and bravado. And perhaps most surprising is that Fury Road, watered-down as it could have been, still manages to be genuinely odd. The generic bad guys are slathered in ghoul makeup and black leather; Immortan Joe is a disgustingly clownish barbarian; and the army of demonic motorbikes, big rigs and worn-out muscle cars still manages to ring freaky and true after all these years.

To my chagrin, however, is a hefty dose of Beyond Thunderdome. There’s a reason Warner Brothers backed that film in 1985, and it’s because Miller was willing to tune down the weirdo knob in order to allow for a broader, Spielberg-ian appeal, hence Tina Turner. Fury Road, in many instances, makes the same concession. The character threads, for example, simple as they may be, are fed frequent and unnecessary bits of sentimentality in the film’s second half and are only embellished by an overly dramatic score that could at times have been lost altogether. To this same point is the undeveloped and meaningless inclusion of the downtrodden community under the thumb of Immortan Joe, who desperately beg for the dam-like release of water from The Citadel. None of the above serve Fury Road any benefit whatsoever other than the prospect of mass appeal (which I suppose is inescapable), and in the end rob the film of its chance to be great, as opposed to merely good.

But that’s neither here nor there when you consider, as mentioned prior, how bad this movie could have been. The overwhelming majority of reboots and re-creations are abjectly horrible, as the newest Poltergeist will serve as reminder in a week’s time, in case you’d forgotten (which I’m sure you hadn’t). For Mad Max: Fury Road to come out right side up 30 years after the nearest release, and with a septuagenarian director no less, is a miracle greater than that time the Pope won a round of three-card monte. Whether or not the subsequent sequels will be worth a damn is anyone’s guess. But for now, at the absolute minimum, we have an entertaining freakshow worthy of your $9.50.

Get Hard

Rated R {1 out of 5 stars}

They don’t come any bigger than Will Ferrell and Kevin Hart. Not in the world of comedy, at least. Consider their differences and similarities for a moment: Ferrell is a veteran, a seemingly timeless giant with now 20 years of runaway success from television to the box office. Hart is a relative newcomer to stardom, but his career is literally on fire, rising like a phoenix from Arizona. Ferrell is white. Hart is black. Both are loud, both are physical. Both have cross-cultural appeal. So, despite it being overkill, you can see, at least from the point of gross potential, why previews for the pair’s first buddy comedy, Get Hard, have been crammed down your throat like a bottle of Ipecac for the past two months.

The premise is stupid: Ferrell plays James Baldwin, a filthy rich stock broker who’s just made partner. Out of nowhere he’s arrested on charges of embezzlement. The judge then decides to throw the book at him with a sentence of 10 years in San Quentin, aka a maximum security prison. With 30 days to get his personal affairs in order (?), James ultimately seeks the help of Darnell (Hart), who runs a carwash business from the parking garage of the firm James works for. Despite being a family man with no criminal record, Darnell dupes James into thinking he’s an ex-con, who will therefore be able to properly prepare him for the trials and tribulations of prison. This, of course, provided James pays him $30,000 to cover the down payment for a new house, which will ensure his young daughter gets into a better school district.

What follows is 90 or so minutes of I’m white, you’re black; I’m rich, you’re poor; and isn’t it funny how different we are? To be sure, there are laughs. Ferrell and Hart are simply too naturally gifted and charismatic not to make you chuckle and guffaw. In some misguided way, the film is a testament to their individual comedic ability. Because if you inserted, say, Kevin James and Chris Tucker into this same stale formula? Dear God.

Get Hard is simply stuck in a bygone era. For example, there’s a point where Ferrell has been accepted as a member of a gang in Crenshaw, and is in turn teaching the young toughs the ins and outs of white-collar moneymaking. Isn’t it funny to hear two 40-drinking, jive-talking black men argue vehemently over taxable income as opposed to drugs and hoes? Get it? Because black people never speak intelligently about things like taxes!

Umm, no, actually, it’s not. Aside from the obvious fact that it’s racially absurd, it’s also just plain not funny. That bit was lame 15 years ago in Me, Myself and Irene. The same goes for pathetic jabs at white culture, which leave Ferrell confused about things like hip-hop and wondering if he should go back into the house to grab the “gin and juice.”

And as if running tired white-men-can’t-dance bits into the ground wasn’t enough, Get Hard is also homophobic. When I mentioned before that Hart’s role in the film was to prepare Ferrell for the hardships of prison life, I should have been more specific. His role, emphatically emphasized, is to keep Ferrell’s character from being raped in prison. Honest to God that’s the central theme of the plot; to keep Ferrell from being a “bitch.” There is a scene—I shit you not—where Hart becomes so exasperated by Ferrell’s apparent lack of toughness, that it’s decided he should just learn to “suck dick.” So they go to a trendy gay brunch restaurant and Hart picks a man out of the crowd for Ferrell to take into the bathroom stall and blow, which he does, unsuccessfully. I wish for the sake of the reader that I could adequately describe the uncomfortableness of that scene’s entirety, but it’s really not possible. The humor is so embarrassingly immature and dated that you simply have to see it for yourself.

I’m pleasantly surprised, however, to find Get Hard taking heat for these infractions on a national level. Moments of levity aside, it deserves to be mocked and criticized for the ‘90s relic that it is, a sad and tired homage to the likes of Rush Hour. Hopefully both Ferrell and Hart get the point, because they’re both far better than this worn-out reel of garbage would otherwise suggest.

Run All Night

Rated R

The honeymoon is over, and it lasted seven years longer than you probably ever imagined. I’m not referring to Liam Neeson’s tenure as a respectable actor—no, not in the slightest. I’m referring to his tenure as a respectable action hero. It all started back in 2008 with the surprising success of the first film in the Taken franchise. Neeson, 56 at the time, suddenly and seamlessly transitioned from esteemed Hollywood heavy to esteemed heavy-hitter. He had always been gruff, sullen and steeled, even brutally violent (Gangs of New York), but it wasn’t until Taken that he became a full-blown hard-ass. And that’s a damn rare thing for an actor pushing 60, perhaps even unheralded. It seems that in feature films, you’re either doing that stuff by your 30s or 40s, or you’re not really doing it at all (at least not successfully). Harrison Ford toyed with it in the ‘90s, but he never really broached the straight tough-guy shit like Neeson has. With Ford, there was always a hint of duty, or civic importance (i.e. Air Force One, The Fugitive, or the Jack Ryan character). Neeson is just Joe Blow with a past, buzzing around beating the piss out of people.

And, for the record, he’s good at it. He’s big and brooding and kinda scary, and possesses an on-screen physicality that lends itself as naturally as natural can be for a man now in his early 60s. But in the last three years alone we’ve seen Neeson take the lead in two more Takens, Non-Stop and A Walk Among the Tombstones, all of which are lock-and-load action flicks, the latter being one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

His latest starring role comes in the form of Run All Night, a lackluster mob thriller featuring Ed Harris in the two slot. The basic gist is that longtime hitman Jimmy Conlon (Neeson) runs afoul of his boss, Shawn Maguire (Harris), after killing his son out of the necessity to protect his own estranged kin. I could fill you in on all the details, describing the tenuous balance between Maguire and his hamfisted, I-got-ideas-of-my-own-Dad! offspring (Boyd Holbrook), or the terribly tragic you’re-a-hitman-Dad-so-I-hate you! relationship between the Conlons, but that would imply the story was worth caring about, which it isn’t. Run All Night is basically 112 minutes of mindless action cliches: hard-drinking Irish mobsters; crooked cops; honest detectives; professional killers that won’t stop until the job is done; and so on and so forth.

Oh yes, Run All Night has it all, up to and including action sequences that suspend disbelief even in the scope of bad action movies, and that oddly typical character arc where the serial-killer-for-hire reflects with remorse on a life misspent and therefore becomes honorable.

But you probably could have guessed all that on your own. The real question is where does Liam Neeson go from here? The shtick is clearing wearing thin, and after Run All Night flops, the next stop for his action hero career is straight-to-video, a place that the likes of Bruce Willis and Nicolas Cage currently reside. But if we’re lucky—and I have a feeling we are—Neeson will get back to that place that his inner Oskar Schindler calls home, or his Michael Collins, or his Priest Vallon, or Valjean, or Alfred Kinsey, or any one of the many, many excellent dramatic roles imparted over the last 25 years. And while this movie certainly reeks, it’s not as if his time spent as an action star has been devoid of merit: Liam Neeson is a certifiable Hollywood tough guy, in my book, and somehow more relevant than most brawny stars half his age.

But the jig is up. It’s time to move on. I see that he’s got a comedy (Ted 2), a dramatic fantasy (A Monster Calls) and a historical drama (Silence; Scorsese) all in the can through 2016, and that’s fabulous. So I’d like to recant my earlier testimony, and say that Liam Neeson will only “officially stink” if he continues uninhibited down this same path. Take a few years off from ripping throats, and then get all Clint about it around 70 and start crowing about the sanctitude of your lawn. That’s my plan, at least.

With a new album and national tour, it’s a year of firsts for L.A. Witch

If there had been a Wicked Witch of the South, she’d have been less a villain and more the cat’s meow, flying around on her broom over the 405 while all the suckers went Falling Down-Michael Douglas on their ways to work. She’d have been hip and popular with style and grace, listened to righteous music, and maybe even had a band of her own in which each member donned a pointy hat and green face paint. But for all the striped socks and wicker flair, she’d have had a fight on her hands these days for queen necromancer with L.A. Witch, a Los Angeles-based three-piece with seemingly all the potions necessary to cast a bewildering spell across California and wherever else four wheels might take them. An all-female power trio, L.A. Witch is a rock ‘n’ roll brew of stoned swagger—midtempo punk soaked in reverb and bleach, with just a touch of trashy alt-’90s thrown in for good measure (their forthcoming single, “Drive Your Car,” is evidence of just that). With shared musical roots dating back to high school band Pow Wow, members Sade (guitar, vocals), Irita (bass, organ) and Ellie (drums) are now in their mid-20s, and poised to take the next step: their first national tour forthcoming, as well as their first LP. Ahead of their stop at Sacramento’s finest rock dive, the Press Club, on March 24, 2015, Submerge caught up with L.A. Witch to discuss the state of the band, gender roles and the baddest band van on the West Coast.

So “Drive Your Car” and “Ain’t Comin’ Home” sound great. What do you have going for the debut full-length? Who are you working with?
Sade: Actually we’re going into the studio… We had planned to release a 7-inch but that sorta fell through, so we’re kinda trying to figure out that situation as we work on our full-length. [We’re working with] Joel Jerome, he plays with Babies on Acid and does a lot of the recording for a lot of the Lolipop Records bands. Joel’s awesome, and he’s the one who recorded our first EP, so I think we’re gonna go that same route again.

Does that mean you might wind up working with Lolipop in terms of label support?
Sade: There’s been talk about it, but it’s still up in the air.

I’m looking at your upcoming national tour, and you’re definitely playing at hip clubs. Considering you’re gonna be recording soon, and you might have some label support, it seems like you’re ready to break out a bit. How does the prospect of that make you feel?
Irita: It’s pretty exciting. We’ve never done this before and we never went into this with any sort of expectations. Having these opportunities has just sorta been a dream come true, I guess, not to sound cheesy.

Any dates in particular you’re looking forward to?
Irita: Austin Psych Fest is gonna be amazing. The lineup this year is incredible: Jesus and Mary Chain, Spiritualized, 13th Floor Elevators—they just added them.

Will you be seeing any parts of the country for the first time?
Irita: Definitely. We’ve pretty much never left the West Coast. Even going to Vancouver was crazy for us. It’ll be an experience.

Obviously L.A. Witch is all female, and because of the ways gender roles have unfolded in rock ‘n’ roll over time, people kinda take notice when a band is comprised exclusively of women. Is there good attention and bad attention that comes with that, dealing with your average douchebag dudes and so forth? Is there a spectrum that affects you depending on what type of shows you’re playing?
Irita: It’s funny ‘cause we’ve had the experience where we’ve met sound guys that aren’t so nice, but then after we play they come up and are like, “Oh man, I really get what you guys are doing.” But otherwise, not really. We do get lumped in with a bunch of other girl bands that we don’t sound anything like.

Do you see a trend with more female-driven bands as opposed to it being a boys club?
Irita: I think music historically has been a boys club, as far as rock ‘n’ roll goes. Chicks go to those shows. And I think it’s a really interesting shift; I feel like there’s a lot of girls that are seeing it’s possible that you can do it and you can be a part of it instead of just being a spectator, and I think that’s really cool.

When dudes go to start bands, I’ve never heard anybody say, “Well I’m gonna make sure it’s just guys in this group.” Have you ever been in the position where you’re like, “Yeah, we could have this dude play with us, but we kinda like the dynamic of just having women in the band.”
Sade: [Laughs] We thought about it, and it’s not necessarily so much about keeping it all girls, it’s more about who clicks with us, and we’re really content as of right now. Obviously a fourth member would be awesome to add to the wall of sound, but I guess this is what works right now. We’re not opposed to having a guy in the band, or anything. But we have taken notice from traveling together [that] it is easier [to] relate to each other just being female.
Irita: And it’s more fun, I feel like. You’re hanging out with your girlfriends, going to different places and playing shows. It’s like Thelma and Louise [laughs].

What kind of rig do you guys take out on tour?
Sade: Oh my God. So I borrowed my dad’s ‘94 Astro Van, and he’d bought it used and it used to be a city van, so it has stickers on it and it’s bright yellow and used to have a router on top. So when we travel, people always think that we’re a taxi. People pull up next to us and ask us for directions, or I pull up to the venue to load gear and [they] run up and are like, “Oh the taxi’s here!” That’s kinda what we’re working with right now. We love Astro Van.

Your chance to catch L.A. Witch and their Astro Van is at Press Club (2030 P Street, Sacramento) on Tuesday, March 24, 2015, with Monster Treasure, Death Party at the Beach and Vasas. Show starts at 8 p.m. and is $8 in advance. For more info, visit Lawitches.bandcamp.com.

Exodus: Gods and Kings

PG-13 {1.5 out of 5 stars}

Bible stories. You know you’ve been waiting for them. And guess what? They’re here, and some of them star Russell Crowe! Let me just reassure you that there’s nothing wrong with fantasizing about Dwayne Johnson as Goliath in the next James Cameron film. David vs. Goliath is a Bible story, right?

I don’t really remember. Like many, I went to Sunday school as a kid but was ultimately unaffected. I harbor no ill will toward Christianity, though no particular reverence either. I feel perfectly capable of looking at a movie like Exodus: Gods and Kings, and reviewing it without bias. Because when you get right down to it, the Bible is full of amazing stories (whether or not there’s any truth to them is a conversation for another time between people who actually care about such things). But at the very least, the Bible is a treasure trove of allegory and adventure, and it makes perfect sense that Hollywood would begin turning more and more of its tales into major motion pictures.

Exodus: Gods and Kings is the story of Moses. Driven out of Egypt by Pharaoh Ramses after the revelation of his Hebrew roots, Moses defies exile by leading 600,000 Hebrew slaves from their collective shackles under the guise of Almighty God. Christian Bale portrays the man of the hour, leading a relatively star-studded cast that includes Ben Kingsley, Joel Edgerton, John Turturro, Aaron Paul and of course (being that this is a Ridley Scott film) Sigourney Weaver. Seemingly all the necessary ingredients are at hand for a massive epic, and clocking in at 150 minutes, you’d have to believe that Scott felt the same.

But, simply put, Exodus is boring. No. It’s a horse tranquilizer. Other words that might describe its aspect would be stale, milquetoast and overreaching. Let us now evaluate each word above and its applicable nature.

Boring: Good Lord does this film plod. Long stretches of uninteresting dialogue wrapped in a cloak of Biblical history has a way of wearing one down after a while. And by “a while” I mean about three minutes.

Stale: The acting is lifeless. Joel Edgerton’s portrayal of Pharaoh Ramses couldn’t possibly be less intriguing, and the same can pretty much be said for the lot of ‘em. (When John Turturro is flat-out invisible in a character role, you know there’s something wrong.) And you’d also think that recreating Egypt BCE would equal somewhat of a visual thrill, but again, you’d be wrong. It’s like Moses went to Modesto.

Milquetoast: Difficulty catching five winks in your busy schedule? Try the Exodus action sequences on for size. They’re so spineless, at one point I actually thought the poor soul next to me was taking a nap with his eyes open.

Overreaching: As someone who doesn’t know how many pages in the Bible are actually dedicated to the story of Moses, I can only reflect on what the film has to offer. And what it does offer is a setup far too grand for a payoff far too small. No Charlton Heston moment here.

In other news, I’ve heard some criticism regarding the film’s casting and its general lack of Eastern faces. Moses certainly didn’t look anything like Christian Bale, that’s for sure. But this is par for the course, and follows a long-standing tradition of cinematic opuses that reads like the 11th Commandment: “When in doubt, cast white people and give them British accents.” You’re also sure to hear critiques on the film’s historical accuracy, which to me is laughable, as it is in all likelihood a made-up story in the first place. Though I suppose if you really do believe the Bible word for word, you’ll find something legitimate to take umbrage with, just as I do with, say, The Rum Diary.

I feel comfortable saying that there are worse movies than Exodus: Gods and Kings. It’s not repellent, it’s just not any damn good. I kept thinking how much it reminded me of Kingdom of Heaven, which I later realized is also directed by Ridley Scott. It’s possible that if you’re a practicing Christian, you’ll find a smattering of interest here. But religion should not mask the fact that this is just a dull, forgettable film.

American Sniper

Rated R {3 out of 5 stars}

Movies about war are polarizing. Movies about war are especially polarizing during Oscar season. American Sniper is no exception.

Directed by Clint Eastwood, who in five years will be a nonagenarian, American Sniper is based on the life of Navy Seal Chris Kyle, “the most lethal sniper in U.S. military history.” Released in 2013 as an autobiographical account, Sniper the film strives to recreate his wartime trials and tribulations, both at home and abroad. Hollywood heartthrob Bradley Cooper was tapped on the shoulder to portray Kyle, and over the course of 134 minutes, Eastwood takes us from Kyle’s Texas roots as the son of a patriarch, through his four tours of duty in Iraq, whereupon he tallied 160 confirmed kills and the endless respect and admiration of his combat brethren. But for all the “Legend” (his nickname), Kyle’s life back in the States between tours is far from ideal, as the continued killing and horror leaves him a distant father and husband.

If all that seems familiar, well, that’s because it’s basically The Hurt Locker. Trade one field of life-and-death military expertise for another, and you’ve got the exact same story. Which isn’t to make light of Chris Kyle, soldiers with PTSD or the sacrifices anyone makes in the name of whatever aspect of life they deem most important…it just is what it is as far as original film goes. American Sniper simply adds very little to the war genre as far as newness. In fact, the family angle feels not only tired, but pretty much flops throughout. Sienna Miller does her best to summon up the angst, fear and confusion of a wife/mother left in the lurch, but with little commitment to the thread in general, there just isn’t much of anything to work with.

The tick-tock of American Sniper is its gritty war violence, which is precise, abundant and unflinching. You could certainly make the case that this as well is nothing new, but attention to detail and realism can go an awful long way in a war drama. There are scenes in this movie that take your breath away; and Cooper is absolutely believable as a soldier, which is easier said than done. I recently re-watched Blackhawk Down, for example, and was mortified by how truly awful Ewan McGregor is. With a rifle in-hand he resembled something akin to a naked Roseanne Barr on roller skates. And when was the last time you watched Platoon? Charlie Sheen gives a performance worthy of 10,000 laughs, and that thing won Best Picture. And don’t even get me started on Lone Survivor.

You may hear the critique that Cooper’s dialogue is simplistic and clichéd, hickish even, as it frequently references God, country, brotherhood and the like, but let’s be real here. Most great war films present soldiers to be eloquent wordsmiths, poets in the face of death with just the right speech for just the right moment. But for every Hemingway, there are countless G.I. Joes. That’s not meant to be insulting, it’s just that films like The Thin Red Line, fabulous as they may be, are not especially accurate representations of the average soldier’s vernacular. And while it may be insensitive for Kyle to refer to the eastern part of the world as “evil,” or its people as “savages,” it’s worth remembering that 44 percent of the American military is from the South, with Kyle a Bush-loving Texan. This is how lots of people think, so why not portray as such if that’s the truth behind the character? Whether you feel Eastwood is presenting this story for the sake of pushing his own agenda, or just wants to paint a semi-accurate picture is up to you.

But even the battle-centric aspect of the film isn’t without its flaws. There’s a clunky thread that attempts to follow and link the exploits of a fellow Iraqi sniper, as well as a rather preposterous finale. And at times it feels as if Chris Kyle’s story isn’t being told so much as it is being showcased, the body count racking up more like a video game than a film. All told I was surprised to see American Sniper receive as many nominations as it did, especially that of Best Picture. But then again the Academy seems to have a never-ending soft spot for films of this ilk, be they exceptional or just worth seeing.