Memories are curious phenomena. In fact, since they only exist in any real sense to the individual, are they actually a phenomenon? Not to get bogged down in a screed about solipsism or the like, but perhaps do we rely too heavily on memories? Years ago there was a woman that I was madly, head-over-fucking heals, gun-in-lap, phone-on-redial in love with. She just drove me absolutely and totally insane. For a year perhaps, I did nothing but think about this particular girl. She took my heart and ran away. And over the ensuing near-decade, my memory of this woman was strong and intact. The one that got away; my love, my life. The most beautiful, the most alluring, the sexiest, the most interesting, and on and on the list went. Through happenstance and serendipity I ran into her one night a few months back. What the fuck had I been thinking? Jesus, I nearly shot myself over this useless cunt? What? And so it goes.

Take Brian De Palma’s 1989 Vietnam morality tale, Casualties of War. I had it in my head that it was a very good film. Memories, much like women, are not to be trusted. What a horrid, awkward clunky little film. As shallow as a dry creek bed, too. What was I thinking? Where did those memories come from?

First of all, 1989 means that Casualties came out after Platoon. Say what you want about Stone’s Oscar winner — at least it looked the part. The ants on Sheen’s neck still gross me out a little. Whereas De Palma’s film appears to be shot just below the Hollywood sign. And in Hawaii — the nice island. Vietnam appears to be nothing more than hiking about, raping 16-year-olds, and getting drunk. Where is Kurtz’s head-collection? Where’s 8-Ball getting turned to Swiss-cheese in slow-motion? Where’s Barnes, and the only thing that can kill Barnes, Barnes?

Instead we are asked by De Palma to believe that Michael J Fox is capable of being a leading man in a film that tries hard to be gritty. The problem is that Michael J Fox is Marty McFly. In a scene towards the end of the film, J Fox hits a dude in the face with a shovel. Trouble is, when we see the beaten man on the ground all I could think of was Biff and how Marty finally knocked his block off. Or was that his dad? Doesn’t matter. Plus, J Fox is three-feet tall and Canadian. And I don’t mean Canadian as in Brett the Hitman Hart is from Canada. I mean Michael is genetically Canadian. Like if he went five weeks without getting a haircut his heart would explode. Yes, we can swallow the fact that Fox as PFC Eriksson will not participate in the gang-rape of the kidnapped girl, but him having the necessary stones to convincingly pull off the rest of the film? Nah. This role required thick gravitas to make it work, and Fox only delivered Alex P. Keaton in fatigues instead of a tie.

Opposite Fox is Sean Penn as the antagonist and heavy. Obviously, Penn can deliver when called upon, but here… really all of the characters on display here are massively underwritten. Penn is Sgt. Meserve, a twenty-year-old hot shot tough guy and squad leader who thinks up kidnapping a girl from the village so they can rape her in the jungle. Penn tries his best to ape Berenger’s Barnes in terms of tough guy mannerisms (shaving with a straight razor, crazy eyes, etc), but succeeds only chewing the marrow out of the scenery rather than coming across as frightening or threatening. In fact, the whole film has a melodrama quality to it; they might as well have made Penn wear a black cape and top hat while he twiddled his moustache.

Worse than the two leads, however, were supporting players; Don Harvey and John C. Reilly. Starting with Reilly, no one has played as many big, dumb retards as this guy. Here they might as well have called him Lennie and given him a rabbit to pet. His character’s sole purpose is to repeatedly question why the squad doesn’t have cold beer. Actually, at one point he points out to Fox that they are just like Genghis Kahn, a line so out of character that it becomes memorable. But for the most part, Reilly is just background noise — Don Harvey is the issue. First of all, the dude looks as if someone stuck Ron Perlman in a rock polisher for a day. Sort of piggish, sort of apeish, 100% Neanderthal. Furthermore, there were water polo players in my high school drama class who could deliver lines more competently. Harvey’s character is apparently psychotic, but again, he is so obviously just an actor playing nuts that I never bought into a second of his performance. And his stilted, unnatural line delivery didn’t help. In fact, it was painful, it hurt.

The film is based on a true story and meant to illustrate both how dehumanizing war is and also how much a single motivated and righteous man can accomplish in the face of overwhelming odds and danger. Sadly, the whole thing collapses on its face. The battle scenes might as well have been lifted directly from Rushmore as there was no sense of danger whatsoever. The rape scene, the pivotal crux of the film was shot badly. The actual rape was taking place in the background while the horror of the moment was meant to be conveyed to us through Fox’s face. Sadly, Fox has two moves in his bag of tricks, and one of them is the look as he did when Doc Brown told Marty that his mom wants to fuck him. No sale.

Was there something about Casualties of War that had tricked my mind? Was there something good, memorable even, about the movie? Sean Penn and Ving Rhames both deliver solid performances spice with just about — but not quite — enough cumin and cayenne to satisfy. The real standout is Thuy Thu Le, the kidnapped girl, but she isn’t really allowed to do anything but suffer and moan and die, so as good as her performance is, she is totally one dimensional. It is all on the surface. Come to think of it, so is the entire film. “Sarge, this is wrong,” “Cherry, this is war,” is about as deep as the film digs into the motivations and psychologies of the players. So what the hell was I remembering? Probably Platoon.

Sydney Pollack with the cue ball… Without doubt — in my mind anyhow– Eyes Wide Shut is not only Kubrick’s most gripping and refined film, but basically his very best. The persnickety problem of Dr. Strangelove always rears its head; the problem being that Strangelove is so good, how can anything be better? Besides, how can you even compare the two? You can’t, but I will say that Dr. Strangelove was perhaps more Terry Southern’s film than Kubrick’s, and the soda machine gag was just plain dumb. And remember, originally the film was to end with a pie fight; not Armageddon. Eyes Wide Shut on the other hand, has no dumb scenes. So, boo-ya-tay — Eyes Wide Shut wins. Of course many of you are scoffing already, falling victim to the “I hate Tom Cruise!!” mode of thinking which essentially blinds you to the monumental greatness of his performance. Batshit religious and psychological views aside, Cruise was the right and possibly the only choice to play Dr. Bill (though rumor holds that Steve “Cheaper By a Dozen Times” Martin was the original choice). Tom’s then wife/beard Nicole Kidman was equally fantastic as Alice Harford. And Sydney Pollack delivered up the performance of a lifetime. But let’s stop beating about the bush. Eyes Wide Shut is about one thing and one thing only; sex. Matt Cale named Last Tango in Paris as the greatest film ever made about sex. Mr. Cale also came up with a Worst of 2005 list without Duck on it, so even the great ones are prone to errors. Hell, I’ll go so far as to say that Eyes Wide Shut is also the greatest film ever made about marriage (Cale says Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?). Or, maybe I should just admit that if I ever were to find myself married, Kubrick’s vision would be my reality. At least I hope so.

Back when I was seriously studying Talmud (don’t ask) we would once in a while hear from a Cabbalist Rabbi. Not some dumb fucking New Agey Madonna/Kutcher-style Kabbalist dude, but, the real deal; Ecstatic maniacs that would run naked through the woods with tefillin wrapped around their erect-cocks in order to better understand God’s plan. Naturally, being young and impressionable, I always wanted to know more about these mystics and all the nutty stuff they were up to. But I wasn’t allowed. The Cabbala has a little known clause in it; unless you are male, forty-five years old and married, you can’t read it. Not that you physically can’t read it, but you won’t be able to understand what is written. It would seem to you that a paragraph was missing; the actual meaning will be lost on you (note: the Cabbala tells the size of God’s cock, so make of it what you will). That said, I posit that Eyes Wide Shut is lost on people who have not suffered for sex. You’re a virgin? You’ll hate it. Married fresh out of high school to the head cheerleader forty years ago and you’re happy? Rent Monster In-Law; you’ll appreciate it more. You and your buddies got arrested for breaking into an apartment to secure blowjobs from a woman you all knew prior (no comment)? This is your movie. For, when “Don’t you think one of the charms of marriage is that it makes deception a necessity for both parties?” is bandied about in not-quite-so idle conversation, you know you are a dealing with a mature film about the one subject that is never talked about adequately.

As Freud said, “Every sexual encounter is actually between four people; we shall have much to discuss.” And we shall, but first I must get the technical mumbo jumbo out of the way. Eyes Wide Shut is stunning to look at. Kubrick, of course, was a perfectionist who once described teamwork as “a bunch of people running around doing exactly what I say.” And the result of that forceful hand was masterfully crafted films — truly some of the most remarkable in history. That sentiment, and every book ever written about the man will attest to that fact, is apparent in every single one of his films. From Spartacus on down. However, here, for much of the film, Kubrick, and only Kubrick, did everything. The bedroom scenes in actuality consisted of Cruise, Kidman and Kubrick; he was holding the camera, they were acting. Just the three of them. Remember, Eyes Wide Shut took an almost unheard of eighteen months to shoot. Sydney Pollack recalled/complained that the scene where he walked to from the billiard table to open the door took an agonizing two weeks. A five-second scene, tops. In fact, Harvey Keitel was organically cast as Pollack’s Ziegler (and Woody Allen was considered as a Keitel replacement) but had to drop out because of other commitments. Anyhow, it is often said that in movies, nothing is accidental and everything is intentional. This is doubly true here. Take the Harford’s bedroom. It being the perfect blend of store-bought sophistication that a Manhattan doctor’s salary will bring and the dull, slow and unavoidable creep of domesticity. Pretending the film is reality for a second, it is obvious that a professional was hired to design their room as it looks as if were straight out of a catalog. Yet, stacked everywhere are piles of CDs, video cassettes and other tokens of contemporary home life. The film was much richer for it. I can almost imagine Kubrick himself arranging the interior.

And then you have the lighting. When you say “Kubrick” and “lighting” in the same sentence, most film-liking folk immediately jump to Barry Lyndon, another under-appreciated Kubrick tour de force. True, Lyndon was lit only with available lights (think candles), but Eyes was also only lit with available lights (known in the biz as “practical lights). And I dare anyone of you to watch the scene at Zielger’s penthouse with the waterfall of Christmas lights and then still be able to tell me honestly that Lyndon was lit better; it wasn’t. Also worth noting was the persistent use of Christmas trees, both for light and as a motif. Theories abound about the allegorical use of Christmas trees in this film. Are they symbolic of renewal, fertility or the ubiquitousness of dull? You tell me; I just thought they looked great. As did the entire film. In fact, one (of many) counterpoints I will make to those who find the pacing of Eyes to be slow (I don’t at all), is just kickback and enjoy what your eyes are seeing. For it is simply gorgeous.

Now, the sex. Innocently enough, Dr. Bill and Alice attend a party at Ziegler’s pad. Alice is nearly seduced by the most charming piece of upper-crust Eurotrash to ever swim across the pond. I mean Concord across. Meanwhile, Dr. Bill nearly finds himself discovering “where the rainbow ends” (in the pants of two models). Before he can get his gold pot(s), he’s called upstairs to assist Ziegler. There we meet Mandy. She just shot up a speedball and OD’d. While he’s concerned about her, Zielger needs to get his pants back on and get back to his guests. Dr. Bill fixes her up, the Harfords leave, go home and get stoned. In this scene, which is one of the very best in the entire film, we learn what the story is really all about. Not just sex, but the infernal and unending jealousy that is caused by sex. Myth by cliché Alice tears Dr. Bill apart until she explains that not only are women just as horny and sex obsessed as men, but she actually creamed herself the summer previous just looking at a young Naval officer in a hotel lobby. And she does so in devestating fashion, proclaiming, “Millions of years of evolution, right? Right? Men have to stick it in every place they can, but for women… women it is just about security and commitment and whatever the fuck else! If you men only knew…” Here’s where it gets interesting; Alice explains that not only was she fully prepared to throw her marriage, her child and her future away for this good looking stranger, but she never loved Dr. Bill as much as she did that day. Most people will lie to you and themselves and cry, “Nonsense — how could she want to fuck the other guy and love her husband?” But, if we would allow ourselves to remove our self imposed masks and search our hearts, our true hearts, we know emphatically that, man, is that ever the case! Over and over again. This my friends, is the human condition. Buddhists are totally correct (and boring), we are driven by nothing save for desire. Thank God for that. Keeps things interesting, etc. Anyhow, besides being true, the performances of both Kidman and Cruise are world class, especially Cruise’s look of betrayed disappointment.

Dr. Bill is more than a little put out by Alice’s revelation and, as a result he sets forth on a whirlwind night (two really) of budding but ultimately frustrating amore. He tries to make it with a hooker (I need to point out that an ex of mine was up for the role of hooker. She’s a school teacher now) but a call from Alice nixes that. Determined, he convinces his old friend Nick Nightingale to tell him the location of a very secret gathering; one which causes Nightingale to comment, “I have seen one or two things in my life but never, never anything like this.” After procuring the necessary rigmarole for the party (a tux, a cloak with a hood and a mask), Dr. Bill sets out for deepest, darkest Long Island to find the orgy of all orgies. It will forever be a shame that the release of this film featured digitally altered group-sex shots. The common belief is that studio pressure stemming from the dreaded NC17 rating forced Kubrick to do the dirty deed. Probably, but the sad fact is that Kubrick caved. Anyhow, for those who have not seen Eyes, we are treated to (possibly?) an ancient pagan fertility rite, complete with backwards Christian hymns and dozens upon dozens of people fucking. Ten nearly butt-naked super hot women are masked and form a circle around a red-cloaked “priest.” With each tap of his gold scepter (though, a true Satanist would have used silver — thanks Jimmy), the women get more and more submissive. It ends with each passing a kiss to the women next to her and then they get up, grab a man or two and start the fucking. Yes, the whole thing is impossibly decadent and even if a party like this never existed, or worse, it absolutely exists but I’ll never be given the password, I don’t care. The fact that a bacchanal display like this is even in the consciousness of my fellow man fills me with great pride in my species. But poor Dr. Bill — he is an intruder and is found out. Mandy, the hooker from earlier, “sacrifices” herself to save the fish out of water Doctor and then turns up dead the very next day.

Stanley Kubrick, long rumored to have one of the largest pre-internet porn collections on earth, lets his passion be known Eyes Wide Shut. Every woman is breathtaking, every man seductive. Sex is everywhere, but because of his conditioning and lot in life, Dr. Bill gets none. And, the less he gets the more he wants — and it nearly destroys him. More importantly, it all rings so true! One of the many great projects I’ve come up with and then abandoned was writing an autobiography when I turned 30 that would be entitled, “How to Alienate Everyone You Love and Care About; With Your Penis” (another idea was to dig a trench across the top of Florida thereby separating it from the continental United States — please feel free to steal that one). As I was explaining to a friend of mine, I’m starting to enjoy the idea of orgies more than the orgies themselves. I hate maxims, but you can’t have your cake and eat it, too. Why? Because we are so fucking flawed. I have little else to say (I’m lying — I could talk Eyes for days) except like most of Kubrick’s films, one or even two viewings of Eyes Wide Shut will not suffice. Think a dozen times. At minimum. As Spielgerg mentions on this DVD’s extras (don’t ask), he didn’t like The Shining the first time he saw it. Now he’s seen it twenty-five times and it is one of his favorite films. I don’t remember if I loved Eyes Wide Shut the first time I saw it, as I have now watched it at least a dozen times. But I can say with great certainty and clarity that the film now stands as one of my favorite films and the pinnacle of a truly special cinematic career. And yes, I am coming back as Ziegler in the next life.

Opeth might as well have just called their latest release, Deliverance, “We’re So Fucking Good That All Other Bands Should Stop Trying To Make Music.” They could have then subtitled it, “We Really Mean It. You Can’t Compete. In Fact, We Got Another Record Coming Out in March so Fuck You. Cut Your Hands Off.” Seriously, I don’t even know what to say about this record, because it is so fucking amazing. Because of my recommendation, a guy on a music mailing list I subscribe to bought Deliverance and listened to it eight times in a row. Brilliant. Brilliant. Brilliant.

OK, let me pull back for a second. Catch my breath. Is there anything that distinguishes Deliverance from other Opeth releases, such as Still Life or Blackwater Park? Yes. Unlike the overwhelming majority of metal fools out there, Opeth are just not content to rehash what they have done in the past. Remember how otherworldly and demonic Åckerfeldt’s vocals used to sound? They are even more intense now. He is using some sort of effect processor to scare you even more. Truly evil, and it sounds great. In addition, the chorus parts where he sings all pretty are better, too. In fact, there is even a guy doing backing vocals (Steven Wilson). Surprisingly, a first for Opeth. Actually, if these guys came out with a fucking reggae record I wouldn’t be surprised. The rest of the world would be though, because it would be better than all the other reggae records ever made. Times ten.

But it is not just that. For a long time Opeth has been the black metal band that comes out of insanely heavy parts and then breaks into pretty, acoustic sections. Well, it’s not just the guitars anymore. There are some measures where über-drummer extraordinaire Martin Lopez climbs off his kit and does some hand percussion. Yeah, that’s right percussion. The scourge of almost all world music and “soulful” bands (Dude, we’ve got a percussionist!) is put to excellent use right in the middle of Wreath, the first track on the album.

So, to summarize, the hard parts are harder and much more Satan-infused. The soft parts are dreamier and even more relaxing. Combined, Opeth flexes its ridiculously limber muscles and serves up what is easily one of the best records you will hear all year. All hail the dark kings. That’s about the jist of it.

I’m kidding.

The real story of Deliverance is the emergence of drummer Martin Lopez as the biggest ass kicking motherfucker to sit behind a trap set since the mighty Hellhammer himself. Seriously, Lopez’s performance on Deliverance is numbing. There are lots of parts where he is laying down the requisite double kick lines, but instead of just doing straight beats with his hands, he is playing chops totally counter to his what his feet are doing. He is so good it is stupid. During track #5, “Master’s Apprentices,” Lopez is actually doing the equivalent of a snare roll – with his feet!

But nothing, and I mean nothing can prepare you for what happens at the ten-minute mark of “Deliverance,” the album’s title track. Everyone I’ve played this part for, even people who say idiotic things like, “I hate bands that sing like that,” shut their fucking mouths and listen in disbelief to what these guys are doing. Well, they stop talking at least. Usually their jaws hang slack and their eyes bug out or go cross or something. I’m going to do my best to describe what happens. Opeth goes into a part where this ludicrously tight, heavy and syncopated riff that involves double bass blasts, odd timing and repetitions of five is going on. And, they play a counter melody to it! If any other band had come up with this particular rhythm (No one else could, I know, but bare with me) they would have been content to just play it. But as you listen, you will notice that not only is Lopez playing the main, off-time stuff, but that in the background he’s got a third arm or something banging away keeping it all in 4/4. It just doesn’t even make sense. No one can be that good. No one that is, but Lopez and his band, Opeth.

Ruthless Ratings

• Buy It or Burn It: Buy It. And then burn down a church. Oh wait, that’s Norway…
• Qualify It: 10
• True or False: Opeth has another record coming out in March of ’03 called, Damnation – True
• Should you listen for the backwards, really Satanic stuff after the last song is finished: Yes
• Go see these inverted and blasphemous fools play live Opeth.com
• Do you think Opeth is really going to do a reggae record: No
• Were you wearing pants when you wrote this review: No
• Do you know why there is a little midget lying on the pillow on the front cover: Maybe

The book and subsequent movie High Fidelity did a pretty good send up of record store clerks and music geeks who do things like categorize their music in terms of relevance. People of this ilk are also way too into the history of rock; they are constantly spouting off about how rock evolved from the blues. So what? Einstein evolved from a hamster if you go back far enough (I know – they shared a common ancestor).

Opeth has nothing to do with the blues. Opeth has nothing to do with rock. In fact, they have nothing to do with Scandinavian Death/Doom Metal . Much like the great and northern NoMeansNo is always lumped in with “punk” even though they redefine the genre at every sound check, Opeth completely transcends not only Death Metal, but music as well. These guys pull off more shit during the first song on their first album than the majority of bands will in a career.

On their fifth album, Blackwater Park, Opeth not only pick up where they left off with Still Life, but they keep on running so as that no other band even has a chance to ever catch them. “Bleak” is the name of track 2, and it is the highlight of the record. Think Middle Eastern death metal. Not only is Ackerfeldt the only Cookie-Monster voiced guy I can listen to with a straight face, but his clean vocals are more gorgeous than usual.

Like all Opeth records, Blackwater Park is a true masterpiece. Anyone who tells you different thinks that REM’s old stuff is good.

Ruthless Ratings

Buy It Or Burn It: Buy It. Plus, that way you get all the track listings. They have songs called, “The Drapery Falls” and “Dirge For November.”

Quantify It: 10 out of a possible 10. No weak spots or nothing.

I seriously hope you were taking the piss.

This is just production line doom, death, black, shite, kak metal.

I won’t say that this is the worst band I’ve ever heard cos they aren’t, but as good as Nomeansno? You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

They desperately want to do for death/doom/black metal (though they’re not like any of those bands, HONEST) what Metallica did for thrash in the 80′s and to a certain degree they do succeed but that’s not exactly a hard achievement with the musical genre they’re trying to advance being the bottom of the musical food chain.

I could make a better record if I taped myself having a wank. (sorry “The Gerogeriegege” have already done that)

Lets review the songs in no particular order:

1. Leper Affinity – ooh, Voivod sound good lets copy them and rehash Leper Messiah for a title
2. The Funeral Portrait – Lets cover ground conquered in the 80′s
3. Harvest – A classic guitar intro, how original, let’s follow it up with some boring wank and more original acoustic shit
4. Patterns In The Ivy – Acoustic guitar again what a fucking shock.
5. Harvest – Acoustic shit yet again. Are these guys desperate for and MTV unplugged slot or what.
6. Dirge For November – Surprise Surfuckingprise another acoustic intro. God these guys are so deep!!!!!!!!!!!
7. Bleak – Doesn’t really sound like anything apart from shit metal.
8. Blackwater Park see no. 7

Here are (only) 10 bands/artists you should check out before OPETH (Not counting NoMeansNo)

• Can
• Spacemen 3
• Black Sabbath
• Buddy Rich
• Ruins
• The Prestidigitators
• Killdozer
• Funkadelic/Parliament
• Captain Beefheart
• Any Jah Wobble except “Take Me To God”

Mr. I know what the fuck I’m talking about B.

Mr. B., what have you done?

Listen gubnuh, you’re wrong to say that black/doom metal is the bottom of the musical food chain. We all know that that position is occupied Creed, Kid Rock and the other plankton sold at malls. Scandinavian metal is much closer to the top of the chain – like an octopus or something. If we’re talking about popular music only, it’s a tiger shark. Listen to Covenant for God’s sake! But that’s not the main issue; Opeth is.

Opeth are masters of all that they survey and there are two main reasons. One is emotional intensity. I suppose it’s no surprise that this would be lost on a Brit. We say “Unwound,” you say “Travis.” We say “Fugazi,” you say “Radiohead.” Let’s call the whole thing off. Or maybe just the Spice Girls. Anyway, Opeth’s music has this quality that only great music has, by which even simple melodies somehow feel like the climax of a Bergman film. I can’t explain it, but it’s there.

Second, melodic complexity. Culture is no excuse here. Opeth’s music is sometimes like a great symphony insofar as a casual listen reveals pleasing, but simple sounding and intuitive choices. Like pop. But unlike pop, if you listen more closely, as the normally astute Mr. B has obviously failed to do, and you hear complex and unusual melodic choices. How many other rock bands have melodies of this quality? As far as I know, only POD and Blink-182. [Ed Note: That is Erich's strange attempt at sarcasm]

Opeth are amazing in all of the more mundane ways, like musicianship. But the above is what sets them above. Metallica are a good comparison, but I’ve found that Metallica aren’t as good as they sounded when I was 15. Opeth really are as good as I thought Metallica were ten years ago.

But hey, if you can’t hang, you can’t hang. Stick to kidney pie and Oasis. I am gonna check out that Japanese techno girl you were raving about though.

Sure Kid Rock etc., is lower in the musical food chain than Opeth but that goes without saying. If Opeth are an Octopus then NoMeansNo are Jaws who eats people who eat octopi.

As I said it’s not the worst album I’ve heard, but for me they are covering conquered ground. They haven’t contributed anything fresh musically, and while I understand that freshness isn’t a pre-requisite for liking something, it is for a band to be considered the best in the world! All the way through this CD I just kept thinking that I’d heard it before, from the suspicious “Creeping Death” sounding lick toward the end of the title track to the “Shudder To Think” vocals of “Bleak”, I could go on. For me it isn’t emotionally intense at all. It doesn’t take me to that special music place your trying to describe, it just makes me think of other bands who took me there.

I will let the “Bare Naked Ladies” sum up my defence.

IT’S ALL BEEN DONE

I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on this one

With regards to Metallica, are you sure you haven’t filed it in the wrong sleeve and put on “Agent Steel’s Unstoppable Force” or something by mistake?

“Master Of Puppets” sounds as good as the day I bought it (Jesus that’s 17 years ago).

DISCLAIMER 1 Mr B in no way endorses Bare Naked Ladies products and that no attempt should be made to play their CD’s in the home environment. Radio DJ’s are trained professionals or are supervised by trained professionals and Mr B will not review any Bare Naked Ladies CD’s sent to him.

DISCLAIMER 2 Mr B in no way endorses Steak & Kidney pie or any other meat based product (although if your desperate there is a chip shop in my home town of Penrith that serves a nice home made one with thick gravy)

DISCLAIMER 3 Mr B does not endorse OASIS who are so lacking in ideas that now they’ve run out of Beatles songs to rip off they’ve started to rip off their own songs. Do yourself a favour America, ignore them as you have wisely done most other UK pop music.

DISCLAIMER; no one has EVER IN ALL HUMAN HISTORY won an argument on who is a good band and who is crap. So I’ll start out with some facts.

These 4 things don’t mean you have to like Opeth, but they are true.

• Opeth has chord progressions where 4 OR MORE melodies are playing at the same time. Most metal does not.
• Opeth has many moods in one song—from the epic to the dissonant to the acoustic/melancholy to the wacky prog/technical stuff. Most metal does not.
• Opeth has songs that don’t follow the usual verse/chorus/bridge/verse/chorus of METALLICA or THE BEATLES, or the do-this-8-times-then-do-that-8-times blueprint of later metal bands. There actually seems to be some thought put into the arrangement of the songs..
• Their kick drum doesn’t sound all clicky. Christ I hate that.

Abandoning objectivity, let me say why I think Opeth is among the best:

Most bands are lucky if they were even recorded correctly. Some really lucky bands have catchy riffs, or good loud/soft dynamics, or emotional realness, or creativity. Opeth has EVERYTHING on EVERY SONG. That can’t be just luck. Knowwumsayin? I’ve been to literally a dozen metal record stores in 4 countries and asked for ‘more music that sounds like opeth’ EVERY TIME the response has been, ‘no one sounds like Opeth.’

Maybe I’ll ask them if anyone sounds like CAN or FUNKADELIC.

Still Life is one of the most beautiful albums ever made. Beautiful in terms of every attribute; Scope, Intent, Execution, Musicianship, — literally everything about Still Life is gorgeous. Even and especially Akerfeldt’s ultra-growl vocals. Opeth is sadness. Better put, Opeth is understanding the beauty that can be found in sadness. I’m grabbing at straws here, because writing any sort of objective review of this or any other of Opeth’s four albums is a Herculean task. With the exception of our very own Mr. B, I have never read a negative review of Opeth. Speaking of the Greeks…

I was trying to think of an appropriate metaphor that could help me illustrate the scope and sweep of this record. Here is what I came up with:

The Odyssey by Homer

Yeah, that is what I just wrote. Here’s why. It is not so much the lyrics, though for the Death Metal genre the lyrics are Durrell to all other band’s Bukowski. In The Odyssey you have Ulysses running around and doing stuff. Epic stuff. Musically, Opeth is an odyssey. These guys just do not let up. They kill all matter of mythical beast and pry open the eye of your typical “Cycloptic” metal fan. I’m talking to you, Mr. Korn Fan. So, roughly, that is why Still Life, and really to be fair all other Opeth Albums, are like The Odyssey. Here’s more.

In The Odyssey, Ulysses comes back from his “odyssey” and finds his wife taken with a new man (or men, depending on how you read it) and his home basically overrun by strangers. He goes through the full gamut of human emotions. Jealously, pain, betrayal, confusion, bitterness, anger, revenge, bloodlust and finally murder. Then in one of the more brutal passages in literature (especially interesting if you believe that Homer is the foundation of Western Civilization) Ulysses slaughters every single one of the interlopers. Note the similarity to Still Life The protagonist of Still Life does basically the same thing when he returns home after a fifteen year adventure to find his love and bride-to-be, Melinda, bequeathed to another man. Check these lyrics;

Darkness reared its head

Tearing within the reeling haze

Took control, claiming my flesh

Piercing rage, perfect tantrum

Each and every one would die at my hand

Choking in warm ponds of blood

At last, weak and torn I went down

Drained from strength, flickering breath

Call it archetypal if you will, though Viking culture was pretty fond of uber-warriors returning home and kicking ass. See Holgar The Dane. I can’t tell if just before all that bloody bluster Melinda had been taken away from him, or if she was killed. No matter, either way he lost the girl. Not only does Akerfeldt paint us this horrific picture lyrically, but he does it with his throat as well. Moving from the softest of joys to the most harsh and extreme, his growl is legendary for a reason. Even when compared to what he did one album previous on the famously brutal My Arms, Your Hearse, Mikael’s vocal skills reflect new levels of sorrow and melancholy. Opeth as a band, solidified for the first time since Orchid, also goes from weepy to homicidal at the drop of a hat. Check out the 5:50 minute mark of “White Cluster.” My point is, Still Life is not only epic, it’s mythological.

Opeth really cranked it up a notch with this, their fourth release. I mean, can you think of another death metal band where the melodies get stuck in your head? No, you can’t. With the exception of their latest record, Blackwater Park, no other record can even sit on the same shelf with Still Life.

Ruthless Ratings

• Buy It or Burn It: Um, in a word, buy. Not only is it one of the best records you will ever buy, but the packaging is real nice, too.
• Quantify It: 10 points out of 10. Still Life is that good.
• Amount of times a day you think about the fact that Opeth will be releasing two albums simultaneously within the next few months: 4

Here is a review I wrote for Amazon.com before Ruthless existed as a site

With Still Life, their fourth album, the masters of Swedish Melancholy are back with a vengeance. Simply put on this album, the hard parts are heavier, the soft parts are creamier and the mood is sad, sad, sad.

Opeth are utterly frightening musicians. They excel in areas where other bands are afraid to even tread. Like pulling off thrash breakdowns in the middle of grinding death metal riffs, only to throw in a lone acoustic guitar in for one measure. The singing ranges from classic cookie monster growl, to genuinely sweet, melodic bridges. Again, this is ground that Opeth has covered in the past, but their mastery of it is becoming more and more complete. And the drums are booming.

If you are reading this you are probably already a fan of Opeth. Maybe you have just heard that they are pretty good. Even within the doom metal circles, these guys have a great rep. But Akerfeldt, Lindgren, Lopez and Mendez take it way up a notch here. Because they are not just singing about dueling trolls and God’s withering touch. They are talking about women and how sad this makes them. In other words, they realize they are human. Which is a good thing.

I played this album for my best friend in my car and when I asked him how he liked it, he replied, “It’s perfect.” Indeed.

Written and Directed by Neil Burger

Jonny hearts Netflix…

“OK Walter, you told me you were involved in a crime many years ago, and you want to talk about it — is that right?” So starts one of the most enjoyable “mockumentaries” these eyes have ever seen. Raymond Barry, the creepy Stupid Chief from Falling Down stars as Walter Ohlinger, an old, broken down ex-marine living in the sad exurb of San Bernadino, California. He’s got cancer and the croakers only give him five months to live, maybe six. His neighbor, Ron Kobeleski (Dylan Haggerty), is an out of work cameraman from the local news station. Walter figures now would be a good time to tell his secret — he was the second gunman in Dallas on November 23, 1963. The one behind the fence on the grassy knoll. The one who delivered the kill shot.

Ron of course thinks Walter is full of shit. Why now? Who set it up? Why did you do it? Where’s the evidence? Most importantly, why would he kill the President. Walter is prepared for all this however, answering the big question with, “The President of the United States is the most powerful man in the world. What does that make the man who kills him?” Walter doesn’t know exactly why Kennedy was killed — his old Marine squad leader contacted him and told him there was a job to do. Simple as that. Ron, since he is out of work and has nothing better to do, decides to play along. Why not?

Walter leads Ron to a safety deposit box containing a spent shell cartridge. Walter explains that he only took one shot, splattered JFK’s brains, picked up the casing and left. He’s been keeping the shell as an insurance policy against anyone trying to harm him — his will instructs the shell to be sent to the FBI in the event of his death, along with other evidence and most of all, names. Using his press contacts Ron takes the shell to a forensic ballistics expert who determines that the shell was fired between 1962 and 1965 and yes, it is the same type of bullet that killed Kennedy. Ron is intrigued. He flies Walter out to Dallas to retrace his steps. Once there, Walter shows Ron where he parked, how he got the gun to the grassy knoll, where he stood, aimed and fired and how he escaped. He even explains how and why Oswald was set up (Lee Harvey was indeed a “patsy”). The two head out to a local ex-marine buddy of Walter’s and set up some cans and bottles to shoot at with a similar style rifle. Even in his old age, Walter is a dead-shot. Could this be the long lost gunman?

Interview with the Assassin works so well for a couple of reasons. First, of course, the subject matter is and always will be intriguing. The JFK murder is one of the few conspiracy theories that still holds water with rational people, mostly because the Warren Report’s “magic bullet theory” is so fanciful and easy to kick holes in. Second, the film is herky-jerkily shot in the hand-held, Blair Witch Project style, where shakey cameras and lots of uncertainty equate to impending doom around every corner. Still works well, as evidenced here. But, most of all the film works because Walter Peter Ohlinger is one of the very greatest onscreen whack-jobs in cinematic history.

Sure, anyone who would actually kill Kennedy is a loon, but this guy takes it to the next level. We meet Ron’s five year old daughter and Walter says and does the following, “What’s your name? Karen? That’s a nice name. You ever ridden a pony? [Places Karen on his knee backwards and begins bouncing her up and down, hard] How about a buckin’ bronco?” I don’t have much experience in the matter, but I am absolutely positive the look on Walter’s face while he’s “playing” with the little girl is the last thing victims of homicidal pedophiles see. What he said to Karen is also my new pick up line.

And he goes nuttier. At one point Ron and Walter are flying to Virginia to see a man who could confirm Walter’s story. On the plane, Walter turns to Ron and asks, “Is that thing on?” meaning the camera. Ron asks him if he has something to say. Walter says, “No, I want to show you something.” He reaches down and picks up his bag, opens it and inside we see a loaded Glock .45. Walter smiles and nods manically at the camera. Ron starts freaking out about the gun to which Walter dismissively says, “Oh shut up. I shouldn’t have showed you the damn thing anyway.” Once in Virginia, they find out a cop is spying on them. So, Walter goes to the guy’s house. After a scuffle that leaves Walter sitting on top of the guy with a gun pointed at the cop’s head, the guy yells, “I’m a cop!” Walter says, “I know you’re a cop!” and begins beating the guy with the Glock in the head Bullock from Deadwood style.

Shit gets crazier and crazier. Was Walter acting alone (cause JFK fucked his wife as it turns out)? Is he totally full of shit, as his ex-wife leads us to believe? If so, why is a Virginia cop spying on them? Who’s the guy following Ron and trying to break into his house? I don’t want to give away much more, as the film is pretty short and insanely worth watching. But trust me that Walter Ohlinger is a character for the ages. Cruel, nasty, charming, unhinged and most importantly, pure joy to watch as he goes about his business. As far as the answer to the question of did he do it, I’d like to leave you with a quote from English Bob, “I can assure you, the sight of royalty would cause you to dismiss all thoughts of bloodshed and stand… in awe. But, the President… I mean, why not shoot the President?”

Jonny is beyond belief…

2005 has seen the worst of our fears realized. tWit got reelected, we’re in Iraq for the long haul, between them all Democrats have exactly one testicle, Will Farrell still draws breath and Green Bay has a losing season under Brett Favre. Never has clearer evidence been presented to me that I should pack it in and move to Paris. Seriously, our country is fucking embarrassing. We just cut healthcare for the elderly. But, no, from my tiniest of internet bully pulpits, I choose to stand and smoke and fight. I know I have been, uh, lax, on updating Cocksucker of the Month with anything resembling frequency, so I give you six piles of filth to make up for my, uh, “laxness.” And of course, my resolution in the New Year is to “get r’done” every month. Right after I learn to fly, of course. Below, I have compiled an insanely incomplete list of Yearend Cocksuckers. Most notably absent are Dick Cheney and Mike Brown, and like, well… I have no good excuse. But, I think you will find my choices not only disturbing but fucking alarming. And, if history is any indication, 2006 will explode your brain. Enjoy/cower in fear.

Judith Miller

So Judith, you Cocksucker, you wanted to feel the power between your legs, huh? Seriously, you sucked so much cock that you finally decided on getting one of your own? Your penis envy was so out of control that you had to send 2,150 American boys and girls (so far, more will be slaughtered) to their meaningless deaths so you and your strap-on could feel alive? And, do we even count Iraqis as people anymore? Cause Judi, baby, you fueled the deaths of about 30,000 of them. That number will go up, too. And again, unlike most corrupt, detestable wastes of semen and ovum, you didn’t sell your fucking country out for cash — you did it because you were born without balls. I bet you felt like a big man, sitting there with Dick, Scooter and Donny the Rum, nodding and agreeing with everything they said; not necessarily comprehending it all, but you got the gist; sell this war. At all costs, sell this war and we’ll totally be your friend. Which is the exact opposite of what you are supposed to do, you pathetic excuse for a reporter. For instance, you wrote the following in September 2002;

More than a decade after Saddam Hussein agreed to give up weapons of mass destruction, Iraq has stepped up its quest for nuclear weapons and has embarked on a worldwide hunt for materials to make an atomic bomb, Bush administration officials said today. [Full article]

As you apparently do not fully realize, you dickless twat, the part in the Bill of Rights about congress making no laws abridging the freedom of the press means more than just protecting high ranking officials you know to be guilty (because, in Plamegate, you are part of the crime syndicate). It means that if the government makes a claim, and in this case we’re talking a claim disputed by everyone in the world save Tony “The Poodle” Blair and that fucking retard Howard in Australia, you as a journalist are supposed to at least check into it. Pay lip service to the other side. Hell, you worked for the New York Fucking Times — why not try to get an Iraqi leader to comment? Hell, how about anybody with an opposing view? You didn’t do anything of the sort. You just parroted the lies that your Capital Hill buddies told you. Like this one from the same article;
“The jewel in the crown is nuclear,” a senior administration official said. “The closer he gets to a nuclear capability, the more credible is his threat to use chemical or biological weapons. Nuclear weapons are his hole card.”

Remember Blix and ElBaradei, the UN weapons inspectors who didn’t find a single shred of fucking evidence? And you didn’t even bother to mention those two guys, nor any international opposition, nor any domestic opposition (Joe Wilson? Richard Clarke? My roommate’s dog?). Because that would have kicked your little house of cards down. Instead you wrote;

Still, Mr. Hussein’s dogged insistence on pursuing his nuclear ambitions, along with what defectors described in interviews as Iraq’s push to improve and expand Baghdad’s chemical and biological arsenals, have brought Iraq and the United States to the brink of war.

Um, bitch, wasn’t it really the Bush Administration’s “dogged insistence” on making shit up that led Iraq and the United States to the brink of war and beyond? You fucking damn well know it was. And a big part of that machinery of deception was you, ya cunt. Since you managed to emerge from prison even more cocksure and lousy, the only punishment befitting you properly is to be locked in an auditorium with the families and friends of the 2,150 American troops you willingly helped to slaughter. Cause those people won’t give a flying fuck about your gutless, dickless lies.

Tom Delay

Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. I still remember back in 1997 when Mother Jones named you the dirtiest and most corrupt politician in existence. Hell, I remember back in 1999 when the greater Houston area (5.2 million folks) passed Los Angeles (17.5 million souls) as the city with the worst air in the nation, mostly if not entirely due to your crazed machinations that repealed certain provisions of the Clean Air Act. Remember, the Hammer is the motherfucker who called the Environmental Protection Agency the “Gestapo.” Oh, and you, a supposed champion of the people, also advocated “intimidating” Judges who don’t rule like he wants them to — a popular tactic used by the mob in Italy, Columbia and Mexico. And you said this;

“Only Christianity offers a comprehensive worldview that covers all areas of life and thought, every aspect of creation. Only Christianity offers a way to live in response to the realities that we find in this world — only Christianity.”

So you should just drop dead from that alone. But you’ve been a very busy Cocksucker these last six years, haven’t you Tommy?

Public documents reviewed by The Associated Press tell the story: at least 48 visits to golf clubs and resorts; 100 flights aboard company planes; 200 stays at hotels, many world-class; and 500 meals at restaurants, some averaging nearly $200 for a dinner for two.

AP’s review found DeLay’s various organizations spent at least $1 million over the last six years on hotels, restaurants, golf resorts and corporate jet flights for their boss and his associates.

How Christ-like of you. What would Jesus tip his private butler at a Caribbean villa? So, you are without doubt the most corrupt fucker in Washington since Agnew accepted payoffs in cash. Which really is one hell of an accomplishment. And then there is the matter of your bullshit redistricting, thereby sentencing the good people of the great state of Texas to non-representation for years if not decades to come — especially brown Texans. And then you went and spent MY tax dollars (federal money) to chase down the Democrats who fled to Oklahoma… Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you? Oh yeah, you are Tom Delay, a rotten, lying, cheating, thieving, cocksucking scumdog of the Occident. I can’t wait until you’re in jail, for no prison sentence will ever be as well deserved.

James Dobson

Who’s really running the country, or at least thinks he is? Dr. Dobson, the most self-righteous Cocksucker the state of Colorado has ever produced — which is saying a lot. Hot Karl Rove spent four years courting Dobson, who warned the Bush administration that is they didn’t get more aggressive in pushing his pro-life, anti-gay rights agenda, they would “pay a price in four years.” Dobson is quick to discount the massive Diebold Machine fraud and other treachery that took place around the country and specifically in Ohio and claim near sole responsibility for winning tWit a second term. But never mind all that, this monolithic asshole thinks that not only is homosexuality “curable,” thereby making it a disease, but that a stage exists known as “pre-homosexuality,” the result of having a weak father-figure. Naturally, the “ex-gay” he put in charge of his gay-curing program Love Won Out, John Palk, turned up at a gay bar in 2000. Dobson called it a “temporary setback.” Confusing ignorance and hatred of gays with “faith” is one thing — but using said power to essentially block Senate appointments and Supreme Court Justices… man, we’re fucked. This is the same clown who advocates beating children, no matter how he spins it. Cause he’s a cruel prick. James, you fucking reprehensible Cocksucker, let me leave you with this;

“We establish no religion in this country, we command no worship, we mandate no belief, nor will we ever. Church and state are, and must remain, separate. All are free to believe or not believe, all are free to practice a faith or not, and those who believe are free, and should be free, to speak of and act on their belief. At the same time that our Constitution prohibits state establishment of religion, it protects the free exercise of all religions. And walking this fine line requires government to be strictly neutral.” –Ronald Reagan

Oh, and your son is a closeted-queer.

Bob Woodward/Bob Novak

Standing tall on the American journalistic landscape like two giant, pitted-cocks well past their prime are Woodward and Novak. Two supposed reporters who know exactly who the “Senior Administration Official” is that leaked Plame’s cover. To toss out an old chestnut, “A newspaper’s job is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” Instead they choose to protect the most powerful men the world has ever known; Woodward so he can have unfettered access to the upper echelons of the state and Novack because he’s a complete and total partisan asshole. So, instead of reporting, they take $50,000 speakers’ fees and you and I pay out millions upon millions of bucks for grand juries and what will no doubt be decade-long legal wrangling. But really, Woodward is the worst of the two, because he is such a fraud. What happened to the idealistic reporter who along with Carl Bernstein, toppled Nixon? Oh yeah, he wasn’t doing it out of conviction — he was doing it for the fame, the prestige and the cash. And then you have Novak… I can’t wait for him to go down for colluding with the White House and getting their lies lined up. Patrick Fitzgerald don’t take kindly to obstruction of justice, you bloviated fucktube. Seriously, each of these dickheads should take a note from Bernstein, “The media is more powerful than our government institutions, but we are squandering that power.” Fucking Cocksuckers.

tWit

And how could I leave off little George Jr., Orwell’s deepest nightmare manifested in flesh? The litany of bullshit is essentially without end; Iraq, “You’re doing a heck of a job, Brownie,” Harriet Myers, black CIA locations, begging the Congress for the ability to torture people, biggest deficit ever, etc. Everyone knows the score. Give tWit a lemon and he’ll make you a nice, cold glass of bubonic plague. But his latest offense is simply inexcusable. Dear Cocksucker in Chief; shredding our most basic civil liberties is not protecting our civil liberties no matter how you spin it. Dude, you have a fucking secret court at your disposal that does nothing but rubber-stamp all warrants (OK, fine, all but four) presented to it. And you choose to circumvent it? Well played, dipshit. Will this finally be a nail in Bush’s political coffin? I’d love to hope so, but I’m far too fucking jaded for that. Instead, I think I’ll get back on heroin. For political purposes. Numb………….

January 2005

Jonny is dreadfully depressed…

Man… this has been a tough one. What a year 2004 was. Besides the obvious ills of Tsunami and war, we saw the defeat of the Enlightenment, horrid amounts of fascistic rhetoric pouring out from the USA, hypocrisy running unchecked (not just FOX News’ bullshit “Fair and Balanced” smokescreen, but “Tough on Drugs Limbaugh’s” outing as a junkie), the popular return of beheadings as a political device, genocide, the Green Bay Packers losing at home in the playoffs to the hated Vikings–you just think of something bad and odds are it happened in 2004. And I have to pick just one Cocksucker!?! Basically, that’s an impossible task. Or at least an impossible task for a brain such as mine.

I’ll tell you who the leading candidate was up until January rolled around: Bob Shrum. “Who?” I hear you asking. Maybe if I refer to him as 0-8 Bob Shrum it might give you a better idea. Yes my friends, Shrum is the guy who has managed to lose every presidential campaign he has ever worked on. Every single one, going all the way back to Eugene McCarthy in 1972. So, that’s McCartney, Carter, Mondale, Dukakis, Gore and now Kerry. Hmmm… that’s only six. Whatever, he lost a bunch and obviously he’s just a perennial fucking idiot, yet Our Man Kerry still hired him to fuck things again up in 2004. Always remember that Kerry and Shrum were running against the most hubris filled moron since Hitler and they still managed to lose like total assholes…

But is it totally Shrum’s fault? I mean, don’t Kerry and that weasel sidekick of his, John “Nice Hair, Asshole” Edwards, have a hand in all this? And what about Karl “I’m Batman” Rove and his Machiavellian behind the scenes machinations which helped to convince the very stupidest among us (which, in this country, is apparently everybody living east of the highway I-5 and west of the Jersey Turnpike) that two men getting married is more important than the biggest inflation-adjusted deficit in the history of our country. More important than the most unjust war since Napoleon decided to take Moscow, let a lone Vietnam. More important than the severe restrictions of our basic liberties–liberties which are sure to get ever more fuckered now that tWit most likely gets to appoint at least one Supreme Court Justice. More important than the privatization of every fucking thing Roosevelt, Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson and even Nixon worked so hard for so long to build. Ass-sex is very, very bad, apparently.

And then there is tWit himself. Fill in the blank on this motherfucker. Every word out of his mouth–if it isn’t stammered or confused–is a damn lie. I mean, besides executing more people in four years than any other modern US governor… look you’ve heard it all before. Worst President Ever. Actually, as George Soros said, and I’ll just paraphrase here; immediately after 9/11 we had the sympathy of the entire world. Within three years, due to massive deception, saber rattling, unprovoked war and just general assholishness we are now more feared and hated than any country on earth. Way to go, dickhead! Speaking of dicks, Cheney is of course implicated in all this. Up to his tits!

Please don’t think I’m wussing out. There is just so much good competition that it is hard to pick just one. I mean, I really wanted to go with Shrum, as much as I wanted to go with Richard Lind, a Cocksucker of the highest order who will be the subject of a future month’s installment. Oh, he’s the head of the Southern Baptist Convention’s Ethics & Religious Liberty Commission and is really, maybe the scariest motherfucker walking the earth today. Seriously, I heard this asshole on Fresh Air two weeks ago explaining how Iraq is a “just war” because of the weapons of mass destruction and links to Al Queda. Listen for yourselves.

In the end though, there is no way to narrow it down to just one Cocksucker. So, in the best tradition of our country I present to you the 2004 Cocksucker of the Year: The Unknown Cocksucker. Much like the Unknown Soldier, the Unknown Cocksucker is meant to represent all who have suffered and lost. Er, I guess in this case it is meant to represent all who have caused suffering and loss. In the 2004 that suffering and those losses have been great; for our country, our land, our air, trust between individuals, families torn apart by longer hours and stagnant wages, unaffordable healthcare, the rescinding of basic freedoms, hatred of other cultures, an embracing of ignorance and superstition, the lives lost worldwide due to oil lust and religious fanaticism, the consolidation of information, the near-complete dismantling of the Great Society, the introduction of religion everywhere in public life, the near complete dismantling of Roe vs. Wade, renewed interest and adherence to censorship, turning our backs on honest to goodness genocide (again), Brett Favre throwing four interceptions at Lambeau–an endless list I’m afraid, and I have only begun scratching at the surface. That is why for 2004, I can only present to you the Unknown Cocksucker. Jebus help us…

What is this guy’s batting average? For more than forty years Bavarian “Madman” Werner Herzog has made excellent film after exceptional film after monumental film after epochal film. And his latest, Grizzly Man, the depraved, ecstatic story of another certified madman–Timothy Treadwell–is possibly his best to date. Simply incredible. We’ll return to Herzog in a bit; let’s acquaint you with Mr. Treadwell. Every summer for thirteen years he went unarmed into the Alaskan backcountry and lived among grizzly bears, filming them for the last five. However, he didn’t live among them like you might think. You know how Jane Goodall got down and dirty with her chimps? This crazy fucker did the same thing with GRIZZLY BEARS! For reals, he would walk up to the beasts and stick his finger in their faces, proclaiming over and over again, “I love you, Mr. Brown. I love you! I love you!” Even more unsettling was the fact that in October of 2003, Tim and his girlfriend Amie Huguenard were discovered dead, maimed and mostly-eaten by a grizzly (click here). Herzog “found” the footage that Treadwell had shot for the last five summers of his life (declaring to producer Erik Nelson in his thick German accent, “I will direct this movie” and then extending his arms out to the man, who grasped them, sealing the deal) and like Werner is wont to do, injected himself and his beliefs into an already mind-blowing story. Luckily for us, Herzog is not only the greatest living director (and I say he rivals the dead), but the man is a philosopher in the best sense of the word. Plus, it is a compelling treat to listen to Herzog speak and he narrates the entire film. Herzog is of course after the why of a given event. Not the how. The resulting film is a masterpiece unlike anything else you will see released this year. Or next.

Early on in the film, Treadwell’s behavior is characterized as being disrespectful. Highlighting this, Herzog travels to an Inuit Museum where “tourists” — one of Herzog’s pet peeves — have cut the paw off a ten-foot tall stuffed grizzly. The curator of the museum, who is a native Inuit, explains that for seven-thousand years, his people have lived in peace with the maneaters by respecting the grizzly’s space. And vise versa. Treadwell, in his essentially reckless behavior has crossed a line; gone over a border that no human should expect to travel beyond and then live to return from. However, he is clearly not living with the bears out of an exploitative sense; he is not a poacher or anything remotely resembling that and this must be noted. Treadwell is genuine and quite movingly heartfelt about his love of the grizzly bears and his obsession to protect them from harm and educate the world at large about their plight. So enthused is he that at one point he films a bear taking a dump and with childlike softness and joy, walks over to the still steaming feces, puts his hand in it and starts proclaiming, “this was inside of her! And it came out of her butt! I can feel it, I can feel it! This poop was inside of her!” Gross, of course, but only a blind person could not see that behind his sickness lay a true love for the creatures. But his obsession is not normal. On the one hand it is comical, for Treadwell has a bowl cut, a voice higher than Mike Tyson’s and is constantly reminding vicious half-ton animals that have evolved to only kill and eat as much as possible that he loves them. On the other, it is tragic. Monumentally tragic, for the world is only moved and made worthwhile by driven, obsessed men; sadly Treadwell’s obsession was fatal. Those of you familiar with Herzog know that he himself has a love/hate relationship with nature. As a Bavarian, he is instinctively drawn to it and uses and exploits the natural world as much as possible for his work. Of course, in a scene used in both Burden of Dreams and My Best Fiend, he states, “Nature is the harmony of mass-murder.” Treadwell did not understand the later part.

As compelling as the main thrust of the plot, was the dueling film-within-a-film that occurred during the course of Grizzly Man. All of the grizzly footage in the movie was shot by Treadwell himself (with the exception of a single scene shot by Huguenard). Herzog’s job was to edit it and narrate, as well as to interview those who knew Treadwell and some others with opinions about Timothy’s controversial activities. Yes friends, a film class by Werner Herzog is yours for just the price of admission! Herzog states assertively that he considers Treadwell a top notch filmmaker, saying that Treadwell was capable of staging shots that, “studio directors and their union production crews could never even conceive of.” Of course, he’s right. One shot in the film that leaps to mind and really is a work of art goes down like this; Treadwell has two cameras and he has decided to put one on a tripod and capture himself running down a hill holding the other camera as if he is in pursuit of a bear. He sets the camera and climbs up the hill until he is off screen. As soon as Tim has cleared out, the plants seem to come alive and begin passionately stirring in the wind. It was gorgeous. This happens for a good fifteen seconds. And then, like an even crazier Crocodile Hunter comes Treadwell tearing down the path. I think we, as audience members, are lucky in the extreme that an editor with Herzog’s gifts and patience got a hold of the footage, for 99 out of 100 times, the vegetation would have been sentenced to the cutting room floor. In another shot that is perhaps even more beautiful, Treadwell is talking about (and to) a bear that is foraging behind him. Suddenly, just when a normal director might yell cut or get up to turn off the camera, a family of foxes (Treadwell hangs out with and names all the foxes, too, of course) runs across the screen. He calls them over and they come and there is Timothy; petting a wild fox while a grizzly bear lopes around behind him. It is a scene of such shocking tenderness that I was left reeling. For even though Treadwell is obviously quite out of his fucking mind, his heart is absolutely and without question in the exact right place. And Herzog perfectly understands this.

So? What kind of a person would devote his life — for no pay — to living with grizzly bears? Not who you would think. Growing up in Long Island, Treadwell was a failed collegiate diver turned failed Hollywood actor turned successful drunk. As he explains to the camera, he made a deal with the grizzlies that if he will protect them from humans, they must save him from the drink. He knew nothing of the reality in which he traveled in so often. Nothing of the bears biology, of the harshness of the environment, the customs and beliefs of the locals — nothing. He simply loved the giant things. Too much. And yes, after watching nearly two hours of “his” bears going about their business and almost hanging out with Treadwell, a seductive anthropomorphism manifested itself to me. Golly gee willikers, those big fluffy bears are awfully cute! And when they stand up, they even look like us! There is a particularly fascinating scene where we watch these two males wrestle each other over the right to mate with a female. Extremely human looking. In the aftermath, Treadwell plops himself down next to the defeated bear and begins conversing with it about women and how difficult they are. Unbelievable! Could this actually be real? Was I in fact watching The Bear Witch Project? Treadwell, we soon learn, was just divorced from reality. He refused to accept nature on nature’s terms. He performed a eulogy for a dead fox cub that was killed and eaten by wolves. During a bad drought, the bears began eating their cubs — something which they have to do to ensure survival — and Treadwell was beside himself when he discovered a cub’s skull. So much so that he tried to build a channel in the river to let salmon through. When that failed, he began praying for rain, demanding, “Come on Jesus-dude! Come on Christ-man. Come on Allah… come on floatie Hindu-guy, LET’S SEE SOME RAIN!” And I’ll be damned if it didn’t start raining.

The film, ultimately, belongs to both Treadwell and Herzog. For while Treadwell clearly had his agenda (for the last two summers he was in Alaska, Amie was with him. Yet he went on and on about how isolated and alone he was), and Herzog, well, he always has his. In one of the most powerful scenes that Treadwell shot — and one that was clearly never meant to be seen by other humans — he descends into a Kinski-esq rave about the park service, spitting NWA-worthy bits like, “Fuck you, motherfucking park service!” all the while flipping off and jerking off at the camera. Herzog mentions that he is used to actors who behave in this way. I must point out that the theater was in hysterics at that line. Another of the best bits of the film happens when Herzog is with Jewel Palovak, Treadwell’s ex-girlfriend and partner in their conservation project Grizzly People. Like Treadwell, reality is not her strong suit. However, she happens to have the audiotape of the attack that killed Timothy and Amie. Apparently, the camera was running with the lens cap in place. Through headphones, Herzog listens to a minute of it. Visible are his fingers convulsing against his face in shocked, dismayed horror. He tells her to turn off the tape, and in his best Bavarian/Fascist voice demands, “Jewel, you must never listen to this!” She (and really the entire audience) breaks down in tears as Herzog further commands that she destroy the tape, for it will always be “the white elephant” in her bedroom. In the production notes for the film, Herzog claims that even though both he and Jewel had quit smoking years earlier, that moment was so powerful that they had to go outside and have a cigarette. I really cannot explain properly how brutal and wrenching this scene is. My words are inadequate. And finally we have a few of Timothy’s friends (including Jewel) go and scatter his ashes over the place he loved so dearly. Big Lebowski references aside, what became immediately apparent was that their grieving and attempt at closure over the departed Treadwell, was as futile, insignificant and ultimately ridiculous as his mourning over a dead fox. Mother nature is a real bitch.

Review Posted: 7.20.05

Released: 1991

1991? Huh? See FAQ.

Tagline:

Tagline? The movie is fricking called, “McBain!” Who needs a tagline?

Entire Story In Fewer Words Than Are In This Sentence:

McBain very casually invades and liberates Columbia.

Homoeroticism:

I’ve seen gayer. The big black guy (Steve James) and the short white guy (Russell Dennis Baker) are clearly in love with each other. Other than that little sub-plot, this movie is much too cheesy to appeal to homosexuals. McBain and his buddies walk around in Hawaiian shirts, fedoras and aviator glasses. Seeing as how gay is the new bling-bling, queer guys are supposed to have taste and class. Quite the opposite of this nightmarish movie.

Corpse Count:

240 people are shot to death, stabbed or burned alive in this movie. I could hardly keep the pen moving fast enough. 240! Thirty people are gunned down and knifed within the first five minutes of the film.

How Bad Is It Really?

Marking what has to be the low point in the careers of, not just Christopher Walken’s, but everyone involved with it, McBain is simply horrible. Its only saving grace is that it is so damn funny. Completely unintentionally of course, though Walken knew this and had a good time with the roll, but I have rarely laughed this hard at an 80s Action film. Let me give you just a few of the countless examples.

So, McBain and these guys he met in Vietnam (different units, but they still all follow McBain around like puppies) are invading Columbia and a little girl has her, “ribs crushed into her lungs.” She’s in shock. The Dr. of McBain’s team doesn’t want to operate because they are in the middle of a field. McBain tells the doc that if he doesn’t operate, the girl will die anyway. He then hands the doc a pocketknife. The little girl gets cut open, ten seconds go by, AND SHE REGAINS CONSCIOUSNESS!!!! AND SMILES!!!

At one point, after McBain lands in Columbia, for the first time in his life, he is told, “The Rebel army awaits your command, sir.” In English no less. Oh yeah, all the Columbians speak English. Every one. From El Presidente who delivers state of the union addresses in the Queen’s tongue, to crooked soldiers to peasants in the cocoa-fields, everyone in McBain’s Columbia communicates in English. California should be so lucky. Hell, Ireland should be so lucky.

The whole “plot” starts out cause this one guy in Columbia tells his sister (Maria Alonso), just before he goes on a raid to attack El Presidente’s palace, “If you ever really need help, I want you to look up an iron worker in New York named Bobby McBain.” At one point McBain and his team are trying to get money together to finance their little revenge operation. So they raid a crack house, killing about fifteen people, before ultimately NOT taking the money because the head drug dealer (Luis Guzmán, who they don’t shoot for some reason) convinces them that drug dealing is the only way out for minorities and they should go after John Gotti. Which they do. By pretending to be Israeli Mossad agents, they scam $10 million dollars out of the toughest crime boss in New York. Four guys. McBain!!

The crapiness goes on and on. From a flashback sequence fifteen minutes into the movie (I guess writer/director James Glickenhaus was worried people had already dozed off) to one rebel explaining that El Presidente had the entire country of Columbia hooked on Cocaine to McBain drawing a parallel between the entire population of Columbia being hooked on coke and his three days high at Woodstock to a Vietcong guy wearing a necklace of human ears to toy planes exploding on screen to McBain being rescued from a POW camp modeled after the Terrordome to McBain and four other guys taking over a whole country wearing Dockers, every single aspect of this movie was rotten and terrible. One character claims to have drank 35 beers. An airplane has a selector switch for napalm or rockets–in 1991! I mean, right after the President of the U.S. announces that from now on all U.S. currency will be printed on red, white and blue paper, the one head bad guy turns to the other and says, “I’m glad I converted my assets into Swiss francs last week.” Also, the head bad guy, who is really running Columbia, is named “Hans. ”

Best One-Liner:

Tie

• McBain threatens John Gotti, in an Israeli accent, with, “You’re going to be going to a lot of funerals, including your own.”
• The U.S. President says, “You guys are fucking with the wrong president.”

Best Post-Mortem One-Liner:

None. People just get murdered by the bushel with little fanfare. Though, McBain does make a palace guard hold a flowerpot. I have no idea…

Stupid Political Content:

Vast, but confused. McBain runs the gamut of right-wing cause-celebs. In the opening scene of the movie it is announced that the U.S. just won the Vietnam War. Walken at one point quips, “If you took the weight of all the people in Washington D.C and turned it into gold, it would be less than the annual worldwide drug trade.” Pretty savvy for an ironworker. While fishing in front of the Statue of Liberty, a Columbian tells McBain how great America is. Of course he counters with something about how New York (urban areas-filled with blacks and browns and Jews who want to take away your guns) is really messed up. This is after him and his friends murdered fifteen people in cold blood. Again, for no reason. There is a peasant uprising in Columbia with all the trappings of communism, but they all follow an unknown white man and his gang of middle-aged dorks who have no agenda other than killing drug dealers. And McBain recanting his days at Woodstock… Like I said, a mess of a message.

Novelty Death:

This is where McBain excels over all over movies ever made, even Commando. Like I mentioned, lots of people get burned alive and shot with bazookas. Maybe I didn’t mention the bazookas, but I would say they take care of about forty people. One teenage rebel goes to drop a grenade into the barrel of a tank and gets his hand stuck. Ka-boom! Another time, El Presidente has a guy strung up by a ceiling fan and “Hans” rips said fan out of the ceiling and throws it off of a balcony, which of course sends the guy falling to his death. If you go to Home Depot you will find their ceiling fan section. You can pick them up. Hell, you could probably pick up three at a time. Like I said, McBain excels.

Please sit down for this next one.

McBain and friends are up in a little prop airplane getting ready to invade Columbia. A Columbian military F5 pulls up along side them and orders them to land. They’re probably up at around 10,00 feet. McBain pulls out his 9mm handgun, shoots across his pilot’s face, through their plane’s window–which does not break–through the canopy of the F5 and right into the Columbian pilot’s head. You honestly have to see it to believe it. Worth the price of the rental alone.

Was There A “Stupid Chief?”

Surprisingly, no.

Was Michael Ironside In The Film?

Yes

What You Learned:

As long as you pick on drug dealers, the mafia or South American drug runners, you can kill whoever the fuck you want with impunity. You can also take a rubber raft from Long Island to Jamaica in a few hours. Private citizens are allowed to have their own air force. Actors are held to no standard, have no accountability, etc. This 80s Action Guide is rotting my brain, for surely this is one of the worst movies ever made, action or otherwise.