The Cult delivers despite placid crowd

From the moment frontman Ian Astbury said “Let’s show these Americans how to rock and roll,” you could feel the crowd starting to pull away. Whatever frenzied goodwill he and the rest of The Cult generated seemed to evaporate with each anti-American slip of the tongue and, believe me, there were plenty of ill-advised pot shots to go around. One could say that his remarks were in bad taste, but judging from the attendees’ overall lack of enthusiasm; I can’t really blame him for trying to ignite their nationalistic fire.

Opening with a fiery rendition of “Lil’ Devil,” The Cult immediately let people know that they’re still a force to be reckoned with in the rock universe. Astbury’s soulfully operatic vocal styling hasn’t lost one iota of its passion and lead guitarist Billy Duffy tears through the fretboard as if the guitar said that his mother wears army boots. Every power chord more torrential than the last, every solo navigated with the utmost attention to detail. The only thing absent was a little Mac and Jack’s Wonder Potion to get the crowd’s energy levels peaking (That’s my only Michael Jackson reference, I promise), because then the band would’ve had something palpable to feed off of.

About halfway through the set, Astbury began to imitate the comatose audience members by standing still with his arms folded to the side to signal the apex of his consternation. How they managed to put together 70 minutes of exuberant hard rock is a mystery to me, because it just didn’t have the anarchic vibe usually present at shows of this nature. Had it been 1988, things may have turned out differently, but I guess we’ll never know.

Highlights of the evening include an exquisite “Edie (Ciao Baby),” a boisterous “Fire Woman” and an immaculate one-two punch of “Love Removal Machine” and “She Sells Sanctuary” to cap off a perfect summer evening.

Usually, you need to be Christian Bale in “The Machinist” just to maneuver your way through the mess, but not on this night. On this night, the gaps were just begging to be filled by fans who know a killer rock show when they see one. Those who were there should cherish it, because if Friday’s tepid overtone meant anything, The Cult might never set foot in Lockport again.

Summer Movie Catch-Up

"Drag Me to Hell" - *** 1/2 out of 4 (I was too tired to review it)

As someone who’s never seen a minute of the original “Star Trek” television series, I found J.J. Abrams’s frenetically paced update to be extraordinary in every facet of the game. The action is incendiary, the script is refreshing and the cast gels together as well any Best Picture winner in recent memory. I, for one, don’t think it’s a stretch to call it the most rewarding Sci-Fi experience since 1999’s “The Matrix,” but I’ll save that argument for a later date. If you haven’t seen it yet, I suggest going soon, because it just wouldn’t be the same without the chaotic magnitude of your local multiplex.

- **** out of 4

“The Hangover” takes what classics such as “Animal House” and “Bachelor Party” did to a level that is almost guaranteed to make the audience keel over in a way that most comedies can’t even imagine. Bradley Cooper, Ed Helms and Zach Galifianakis are the perfect trio of impetuous misfits, because they actually buy into the “what happens in Vegas” philosophy to the point that not even the most morally repugnant behavior is off limits. Their escapades lead them to an emergency room, a police station and even Mike Tyson’s living room, where Galifianakis experiences first-hand what it feels like to get decked by the “Baddest Man on the Planet.” Every scene is pitch perfect in its mirth and even the most prudish individual should find something to crack a smile at because, in the end, it’s pretty effing hilarious.

- *** ½ out of 4

Tony Scott’s remake of “The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3” is the kind of breezy, snarling hostage flick you’ve seen a thousand times. Denzel Washington is the calm, cool and collected city employee whose ethical veracity is tested as he tries to put his kids through college. John Travolta is the intelligent, overconfident ex-convict who thinks that everything will play out according to his wily little plan.

When their lives intersect, the plot thickens and allows both of them to indulge in performances that are essentially predictable by their standards. Washington has played the devoted family man before and Travolta has been living off the slimy, silver-tongued criminal persona since “Face/Off,” so while their sardonic banter is fun to watch, the overall product would be best served on DVD.

- ** ½ out 4

*For the record, in no way, shape or form was this review based on Hasbro Action Figures

Comedian George Carlin used to spend countless hours ranting and raving about the manufacturing of American bullshit and I can’t help but think that his contempt was inspired by Michael Bay’s brazenly haphazard approach to movie making. I say this not because of some misplaced sense of animosity I have toward Bay, but because I didn’t buy one second of his latest commercial mind eraser “Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.”

Seriously, am I the only one who thinks a five-year-old in his bedroom could’ve come up with a more compelling narrative?

Then again, why should I even bother exhausting so much vitriol on a film that rakes in money faster than a prostitute at the Bunny Ranch? It seems that whenever audiences lock on to something, they throw all rationality to the wind and convince themselves that a bloated, wasteful excuse for a summer popcorn movie is worthy of their devotion.

Personally, I approach a Michael Bay picture like something from M. Night Shayamalan in that I never let hope get it in the way of something I know will be more bologna than filet.

Anyway, back to the task at hand. I know I might be violating some fanboy law by saying this, but I don’t find the “Transformers” mythology to be the least bit interesting.

To me, the robots are predictable, the plot takes itself too seriously and the actors have nothing to do except run around screaming bloody murder. There’s no inherent drama in the story, because Bay has yet to figure out how to stage a scene of genuine emotion. He can, however, explore the heavenly anatomy of Megan Fox with expert precision, so I guess he’s not too far gone in that respect.

Shia LaBeouf tries like crazy to hold the film together, but the objective is really just to blow up as many things as possible and leave the audience in awe over American military technology. I was constantly reminded of those navy commercials with Godsmack blaring in the background, which is okay to a certain extent, but I could’ve easily stayed home and watched the commercial on YouTube without spending $7.50 on a ticket. Had Spielberg directed, I think he could’ve made this work, but Bay’s vision feels like someone vomited their imagination all over the screen and called it a day.

I’d like to think that with a little focus and professionalism, Bay can return to being a must-see director, because “Bad Boys,” “The Rock” and “The Island” were all quite good in their own hyperactive way. I would also put forth the notion that the audience is as much to blame as anybody, but that’s something I’ve touched on many times before, so I won’t delve into that here. That’s enough for now. I need to go find a tighter shirt.

- * ½ out of 4

The Girlfriend Experience and Terminator Salvation

If you’ve ever wondered how call girls have weathered the economic collapse, Steven Soderbergh’s “The Girlfriend Experience” is the film for you. It follows the mundane day-to-day operations of a high-priced escort (Sasha Grey) who continues to rake in the dough while her clients complain about the stock market’s cataclysmic demise. She’s your typical materialistic pod person, motivated by a desire to have enough money to escape the world she finds such an utter disappointment. The relationship with her live-in boyfriend feels more like a fiscal arrangement than a genuine partnership and most of the picture consists of boring anecdotes surrounding their longing for social independence.

For an adult film star, Grey doesn’t bring much to the table in terms of acting and I couldn’t care less about another story diarizing the “woe is me” lifestyle of an upper echelon prostitute. I admire Soderbergh’s willingness to experiment with alternative techniques, but it doesn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know about the profession. It assumes we’re actually interested in a joyless hooker with a heart of stone and I wasn’t about to let it draw me in with its flashy camera angles. If you ask me, it’s a snoozer just waiting to be discovered on DVD.

- ** out of 4

My biggest issue with McG’s “Terminator Salvation” is that it feels more like a “Transformers” scrap heap than the “Terminator” we’ve come to know and love. All the horror and menacing obscurity is ditched in favor of gawky, earsplitting battle scenes designed to make you forget about the nonexistence of drama and sense of direction. Not even the halfhearted presence of Christian Bale could make things more engaging and, when that happens, you know you’re in for a long evening.

I remember feeling chilled to the bone following my first viewing of “Terminator 2: Judgment Day” (I was seven), but walking out of this I just felt distraught that such a riveting concept could be reduced to another overproduced summer let-down. I’ll admit that a few of the action sequences were outstanding and I did think Sam Worthington did his best with the limited development he was allowed. In the end though, everything seemed too hollow and diluted for my taste, so I guess all I can say to McG is better luck next time.

- ** out of 4

Days 2 and 3 - Jazz and Indian Cuisine

I've really had nothing to complain about for the last two days, so something unusual must be in the air.

Thursday - I went to see former Yankees outfielder Bernie Williams perform a four-song set at Borders, which was quite a departure from my hard rock affinity, but very entertaining nonetheless. His approach to the guitar is cordial rather than in-your-face, so each song's Puerto Rican mystique translated beautifully to the unplugged format and left the audience wanting more. Despite the electric disdain I have for waiting in lines, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to meet one of my childhood heroes, so I decided to stay after and weather the storm.

Friday - Not much to report other than my first experience with Indian food, which was surprisingly pain free. I don't know how eager I am to give it another go but, for one night, the Tandoori chicken with white rice and spiced broccoli definitely hit the spot.

Also, I went to see Todd Phillips's new comedy "The Hangover," which I'll delve into at a later date, so stay tuned.

The Tragically Hip dazzles Artpark again

Sure, I could throw out a million little adroit adjectives to describe what the atmosphere was like inside the Artpark Mainstage Theatre on Tuesday night, but I don’t think all that fancy schmancy regress would begin to do justice to the experience. What occurred was transcendent. What occurred was sublime. What occurred goes beyond the thinking man’s tendency to rationalize all the world’s idiosyncrasies. What occurred was a concert from Kingston, Ont.’s own The Tragically Hip.

Sporting a jet-black suit reminiscent of Ringo Starr’s “Abbey Road” attire, bombastic front man Gordon Downie graced the stage determined to make everyone in attendance feel just a little bit better than when they came in and it certainly didn’t take long to make that happen.

Whether it was the melancholic yearning of “The Depression Suite” or the raucous vivacity of “Family Band,” the group as a collective unit seemed to be having a blast on stage and sounded tighter than their last few tours combined. At this point in their career, they’re just five guys whose abundant respect for each other fuels a creative fire to the point that nothing is too far out of reach.

Led by Downie’s refreshing, borderline-epileptic persona, the band proceeded to tear into gem after endlessly emotive gem and had the appreciative crowd in the palm of their hand for the remainder of the evening.

Bobby Baker and Paul Langlois are consummate professionals when in command of their axes, but even they managed to shed a smile here and there to acknowledge the awesomeness of the event. To say that their playing on this night was nothing short of flawless would imply that we expected any different, so I’ll just say that the more they played, the less I started to worry about what abominable condition the parking lot would be in after the show. I simply didn’t care.

Other first set highlights included a stirring rendition of “Gift Shop” and a rare appearance of “Throwing Off Glass,” but it wasn’t until the second set began that the immensity of the show was solidified.

To keep things new, the band decided to kick off every second set of this tour with a three-song acoustic breakdown to further add to the intimacy level. For this particular show, they chose “Thompson Girl,” “Fiddler’s Green,” and “Ahead by a Century as the tunes receiving the unplugged treatment and, judging from the crowd’s elation, you would’ve thought that they had just won the lottery.

Actually, they did in a sense, because “Fiddler’s Green” still strikes an emotional chord with Downie and seldom finds its way into a set. The fact that they broke it out speaks volumes about the integrity and unpredictability they’ve come to espouse through the years and the audience let them know it every step of the way.

If you’re wondering why I haven’t mentioned the thunderous rhythm section of Gord Sinclair and Johnny Fay, don’t worry. Since it’s so easy to get lost in Downie’s priceless theatrical stylings, I wanted to give them their due in a way that often goes underappreciated. The ability of Fay to pulverize the skins into submission gets taken for granted as something that will always be there and the fact that he’s a virtuous drummer often gets lost in the mix.

As for Sinclair, he’s always struck me as a reserved guy who lets the fluidity of his playing speak for itself and I’d say he’s found the perfect niche to conquer.

If you had told me on Monday that “Gift Shop,” “Bobcaygeon,” “Fiddler’s Green,” Nautical Disaster” and “Grace, Too” would all make appearances, I probably would’ve laughed in your face. Walking out of the theatre Tuesday night, I felt like I had just seen something that I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

That’s how it is with a Hip show. It feels less like a concert and more like an exclusive gathering for 2,400 of their closest friends that everyone else missed the boat for.

With three shows to go, one can only imagine the room for expansion, because if the opener was any indication, this four-night stand will indeed become the stuff legends are made of.

Day 1 - Why Flying Sucks

The flight itself is usually at the forefront of everyone's contempt, but my journey actually began at the security checkpoint. Never in a million years did I think I would raise a white flag, but apparently Aveeno Sensitive Skin Shave Lotion is evidence of Jihadist tendencies, because the cheerful bunch at the scanner decided that the public's right to feel safe on an airplane supersedes my desire to have a healthy, natural-looking complexion. The nerve!

So I'm sitting in coach and I can already feel the bumps starting to emerge from my jugular, but musing over it doesn't help and won't make the skin any smoother.

Luckily, I had two crossword puzzles at my disposal, so I was pretty content for the thirty minutes it took to solve them both. You never know how skilled you are until you have nothing to do except contemplate the various synonyms for colloquial.

I became so desperate for excitement that I started to envy John Lithgow (or William Shatner for all you Serling purists) in "Twilight Zone: The Movie," because at least he had that grotesque creature out on the wing to occupy his mind. All I had was a notebook, a magazine and a half-empty can of Welch's Cran-Apple to satisfy my creative yearnings.

I picked up a copy of this week's New York magazine and found solace in an article chronicling the history of self-loathing Jewish comedy, so maybe the constant griping of Larry David has rubbed off on me.

I think that's enough for now, because I have a feeling that the ultimate fighter to my right will kill me if I don't turn the light off soon.

I'll leave you with the following observations and tidbits:

When Minneapolis refers to itself as "the land of a thousand lakes," they're not joking.

If you happen to be flying Delta in a few weeks and find a decomposed lung lying around, it probably belongs to the guy sitting behind me who couldn't seem to shake an obnoxious coughing spit that lasted forever.

And finally, do terrorists have sensitive skin?

Gomorra and The Soloist

The nihilistic temperament of Matteo Garrone’s Italian gangster piece “Gomorra” is established early and often through a series of hellish collisions that make the depraved dealings of Michael Corleone seem like a Walt Disney production. Now, this is by no means a better film than “The Godfather,” but the lack of music as well the absence of alluring characters make the execution feel colder and less operatic than anything Coppola could’ve arranged.

These wise guys don’t drive Cadillacs, they don’t wear finely tailored zoot suits and they certainly wouldn’t spend 30 minutes a week spilling their guts to a psychiatrist a la Tony Soprano. They’re motivated by greed and the desire to control a dilapidated region of Naples that is there for the taking, so anyone standing in their way is just begging to be taken out with the morning trash.

Based on Roberto Saviano’s non-fiction account of his time with the Camorra crime syndicate, Garrone’s film presents the day-to-day business of various thugs in a cinéma vérité style that makes you feel as if what you’re seeing is nothing less than the real thing. The people are ordinary, the outlook is bleak and the hits are committed with frightening indifference. My only issue is that we’re given no reason to care about these characters and therefore must sit through the entire two plus hours with the same indifference as the miscreants we’re watching.

- *** ½ out of 4


Despite its aphoristic similarities to 2007’s “Resurrecting the Champ,” Joe Wright’s maudlin, look-at-me Oscar bait “The Soloist” operates somewhat effectively on two levels. The first is an inspiring tale of two men whose unlikely friendship awakens both of them to an assiduous spirit not experienced since their early days. The second provides the audience with a harrowing glimpse into the issue of homelessness in America, which of course is what urged Wright to tell this story in the first place.

I’d like to say that Universal’s decision to abandon last year’s November release date was a mistake, that the brilliant, soulful performance of Robert Downey Jr. would’ve propelled it to award season glory. However, I just can’t do it. What should’ve been a fully realized character study is nothing more than a sometimes great, but mostly dull and by-the-book account of a societal outcast being thrust back into a spotlight he’s not quite ready to respond to.

Like I said before, Downey’s expressive work as Los Angeles Times reporter Steve Lopez is essentially the only thing this film has going for it. He’s hilarious when he wants to be, vulnerable when he needs to be and, unlike co-star Jamie Foxx, presents a well-rounded character with a purpose that the audience can latch on to. When he comes across a schizophrenic cellist living on the streets of Los Angeles, his journalistic ambition takes over and he’s immediately pondering ways to bring this man’s story to the masses.

It turns out that Nathaniel Ayers Jr. (Foxx) was a former child prodigy who dropped out of Julliard for reasons known only to him and the voices in his head. He went from being a classical musician on the rise to a mumbling nomad trying to survive the hard-boiled streets of LA’s Skid Row district and Lopez wants the public to know why.

On paper, the story is as compelling as can be, but Foxx is entirely too one-note to offer any true moments of transcendence. Much of his dialogue consists of disjointed prattle, so it’s not until half way through that we begin to see the potential for prominence he possesses and, by then, I wasn’t in the mood to see it through. I know I’ve said this before, but it does seem like a lifetime ago that Foxx delivered dazzling work in “Collateral” and “Ray,” so here’s hoping the Academy Award-winning talent has a lot more left in the tank.

The conclusion is predictable as expected and the lovely Catherine Keener is relegated to a throwaway role that doesn’t offer much other than a female presence. We’ve come to expect more from Joe Wright (“Pride and Prejudice” and “Atonement”) and, frankly, he let us down.

- ** ½ out of 4