Crank: High Voltage

It's rare that I actually have the time, to say nothing of the inclination, to write a full review here. But by the same token, it's rare that I'm moved enough by a film to do so. I often lament the state of popular culture today. I feel that its importance as a lasting sign of the times has given way to being immediately, intensely gratifying and instantly disposable: another sign that the internet is both increasing our need and decreasing our desire for an analog written record. How the future will view our culture depends as much upon the record we leave behind as our political and geographical history; art is a means by which we connect to history and find some sort of context therein. This is why I occasionally wake up in the middle of night terrified that future generations or alien races will one day, instead of discovering Citizen Kane or Arrested Development, find Meet the Spartans or Keeping Up with the Kardashians and will judge our society by them.

I believe, as do many folks, that the responsibility of the artist is not only to produce something to put up for interpretation or scrutiny, but to be reflective of the times in some sense. The artist must provoke with his or her ideas and not simply for the sake of provoking. The artist must not ask what the future will think of the society that produces this art but state boldly that this is a product of that society, and at no other time in history could this have been created.

This is why Crank: High Voltage is one of the most important American films of recent memory. In just about 90 minutes, it manages to hold a fun house mirror up to our society and the freakish image reflecting back is grotesque and distorted but nevertheless, we can clearly make ourselves out in it. It is a satire of the highest order; it's all of the hopes, fears and desires we thought we tucked safely away covered in thick layer of sexism and racism, topped off with a nihilist cherry. Chayefsky would be proud if he could manage to keep his gorge from rising at the sight of it.

At first glance, Crank: High Voltage looks like the product of a love child between Baz Luhrmann and late-period Tony Scott, raised on a strict diet of Looney Tunes, first-person shooters and hardcore pornography. Hard as it is to imagine, writers/directors Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor take giant leaps and bounds past the first Crank, in which Chev Chelios (Jason Statham) is given a poison with no antidote and must keep his adrenaline at astronomical levels in order to stay alive. High Voltage picks up mere seconds after the end of the first film, in which Chelios falls from a helicopter to a presumed fate that I think even the most skeptical of viewers never believed was quite final. A Triad gang arrives within seconds and literally scoops him up off the pavement with a shovel. He comes to on an operating table to find that his heart has been replaced with an electrically powered artificial one and that his manhood is next on the chopping block.

"Fuck that," he grumbles as he begins his spree of death and destruction (both physical and psychological) in an effort to find his "strawberry tart" (heart, for those not versed in Cockney rhyming slang). Along the way, he finds cause to shove the business end of a shotgun up... well, the business end of a man, wantonly hack limbs off the patrons of a brothel, have sex with his girlfriend (Amy Smart) on a horseracing track, and a lot more that I can't even get into without putting in chapter breaks; all the while, he has to recharge his heart by any means necessary, whether that means sticking his finger into a car cigarette lighter, clamping jumper cables to his nipples, or grabbing a transformer with both hands.

And that, really, is all you need to know about the plot.

This film would be nothing if not for the prevalence of schadenfreude in our contemporary culture. From The Gong Show and America's Funniest Home Videos to Jackass and Simon Cowell's biting comments on American Idol, we are triggered to laugh at and even thrill to the pain of others. It's further heightened for us when that pain causes someone to achieve above their normal level: the protestant work ethic in action. By the time we see Chelios fight off the advances of a seemingly schizophrenic (and septic) prostitute, played by Bai Ling, the audience hopes he does take his chances with her... just to see what would happen to him. Many of us won't admit it, even to ourselves, but most of us would opt to be as indestructible as Chelios is, even at the cost of frequent and intense self-flagellation. We laugh but, secretly, we wish that we could be him.

In fact, those little moments are put in there to remind us that Chelios is us. To paraphrase The Dark Knight, he is the anti-hero we deserve, equal parts Batman and Joker. Though British, Chelios represents the white American alpha male as he sees himself: a tough, can-do guy who is nevertheless resented by the world around him. Every time he gets one step closer to achieving his goals, or at least snaps a few necks, someone is left barely alive to utter, "Fuck you, Chelios!" It's also no accident that his main adversaries here are Chinese and Mexican (paging Lou Dobbs) or that he's looking for something which has been stolen from him. Furthermore, the treatment of women by virtually every man in the film is so aggressively sexist - women are depicted as either sex dolls, target dummies or both* - that Neveldine and Taylor could only be pushing the point to show that, in Chelios' Gotham of L.A., there are no innocents. Dare I ask if it's possible that Chelios might be a modern-day Travis Bickle?!

Both Crank films take their cues from the video game industry - High Voltage comes as close to a live-action entry in the Grand Theft Auto game franchise as any film possibly could - and the pacing of this film, mistaken for catering to the attention-deficient, actually challenges its audience's patience. By offering us quick cuts, zooms and pans, as well as a few asides that defy both conventional storytelling and logic, Neveldine and Taylor dare you to keep up. Or to want to keep up for that matter. Inside this borderline contempt for the audience lies the unmistakeable virtue of Crank: High Voltage. If in the coming centuries we don't regress to the point of being dumb apes looking quizzically at a tapir's jawbone, future historians might find in it the first successful attempt to fully capture not what it is to live in this crazy world at this crazy time in human history but how it feels.




*Though for the record, it depicts all men as homicidal maniacs, sexual deviants, target dummies, or all three.

I Believe in Werner Herzog

"[W]hy is it that a sophisticated animal like a chimp does not utilize inferior creatures? He could straddle a goat and ride off into the sunset."
- Werner Herzog, Encounters at the End of the World

I'm really starting to think that, if Werner Herzog isn't God Himself, then he's like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey: the catalyst that points the way for the human race to evolve.

Feedback on the Radio

So, what did everyone think?

Please, pick as many nits as you like. It's all in aid of giving you a better show next time.

Radio Head

Alright, so this may not be a big deal in the grand scheme of things but it's a pretty damn big deal to me so bear with me.

Unless I'm the butt of a very elaborate April Fool's joke started days ago only to be revealed to me later today, I will be co-hosting a radio show on the recently revived Hunter College radio station, WHCS, starting tomorrow!

I will be doing a show called (until further notice) All Things to All People with my buddy Adam Robbins (oh that's right, ladies... THAT Adam Robbins). The show is going to air from 12pm-1pm EDT Thursdays, streaming live through Live365.com.

As the name of the show might suggest, we'll be playing a lot of different stuff, from Miles Davis to Crystal Castles to MC Paul Barman to Pimpcore and everything in between (with the exception of 99% of top selling singles on the iTunes charts... just what in the blue hell is a Flo Rida anyway?). The idea is that there will be something for everyone in there. Oh and we'll be doing some talking in between as well. I'd like to think that Adam and I are amicable guys and, if the pressure to fill air time doesn't make us go into the fetal position naked on the floor, we ought to be able to keep you entertained. If nothing else, check out the show to listen to us fail miserably.

Once again, that's All Things to All People, Thursdays from 12-1pm EDT on WHCS Hunter College Radio. Just click this link or better yet, come back here and listen on the widget found at the right. In fact, click on it right now and keep it on until tomorrow afternoon just so you don't forget.

Also, tweet me and Adam on that fancy Twitter nonsense to let us know how we're doing: what you think works, what doesn't, if you think we suck, or if you love us just the way we are. We appreciate your support in any event.

Where the Wild Things Are

I'm not sure about this one. Now, I have no reason to doubt the potential for this film, as everything works well here, in my opinion. It's based on a children's book that you would have to work hard not to like. Spike Jonze's first two films, Being John Malkovich and Adaptation, are two of my favorites from the last ten years. Dave Eggers, who co-wrote the script with Jonze, is the author of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius which, if I'm not mistaken, is almost okay to declare in public that you like again without being branded some sort of poseur. And the cinematography by Jonze's longtime DP, Lance Acord, looks incredible.

So why am I somewhat skeptical about the film version of Where the Wild Things Are?

I think it might be a case of too clever by half. From the expansion of the book's story to be gleaned from this trailer (and bear in mind, it's been easily 25 years since I've read it) down to the Arcade Fire song playing in the trailer, all of it screams "HIPSTER!" to me. In big bold letters. In Helvetica font. Or maybe some cute animated, hand-drawn font that keeps squiggling.

Watching the trailer, it doesn't look like a film for kids, and this is what worries me. This looks like a film for adults who desperately want to relive their childhood and who want their own kids to be kid versions of them as adults. Knowing that Warner Bros. has had some trouble getting this film out, what with reshoots and the fact that it was pushed back from 2007 to last October to finally this October, I think the suits there might be thinking the same thing. Honestly, I can't imagine a single soul being interested in this trailer without owning any or all of the above-mentioned albums, books and films.

I have to stress, I think this looks great (if that makes me a hipster, then so be it) and I'm thankful that someone - namely someone of Jonze's caliber - is making a children's film that doesn't pander. But will it be successful with the source material's intended demographic? Will it draw the kids in? The rest of us can all go to hell; as long as the kids are interested, then everything is cool. Or even the average parents? This trailer might play well in Brooklyn, Morningside Heights, Austin and certain sections of California, but there's a lot of space in between and I can't see most parents or kids being sold. Kids don't give a shit about indie rock or Charlie Kaufman films, and most parents don't either. I mean, as far as sophistication goes, WALL-E was already riding the line. I keep hearing stories that the kids weren't digging it as much as their parents. With the stakes being so high, if it's as solid as the trailer suggests, it can't risk leaving anyone out in the cold and needs to get as many people interested as possible in the next six months.

But maybe I'm being too cynical. Maybe good kids' films should be saying, "Parents, take your kids to see this!" instead of "Kids, get your parents to take you to see this!" Maybe this is how it's supposed to be. Maybe this is the exact film I wish for whenever I'm subjected to a trailer for whatever CGI talking-animal film that Hollywood craps out on a semi-annual basis.

I don't know. You be the judge. I'll be there but will you? And why or why not?

Itchy Boston Terrier

OK, so anyone who's been on the site for any amount of time knows that I'm borderline obsessed with the Boston Terrier. I think it goes back to watching Lilo & Stitch with Benjamin Birdie and we rewound (though is it really rewinding if it's On Demand? Nothing's winding! And why don't they make the WHOLE PLANE outta the BLACK BOX? IDUNNOOOOOOOO!) and paused one shot of a group of dogs in a shelter that included this one cockeyed BT. Much like Rick Moranis as Louis Tully as Vinz Clortho, Keymaster of Gozer in the basement of the Ghostbusters' firehouse, that Boston Terrier stole the entire scene away from whatever the hell was happening in the foreground.

But I digress.

I was in a major cell phone store today (I'm not proud of myself, as I know I should be patronizing mom-and-pop service providers as opposed to ones run by major corporations but what can you do?) and, while waiting for assistance to get one simple battery, a blind woman walks in with an old looking Boston Terrier. To my knowledge, Bostons don't make ideal seeing-eye dogs, and the way this one was carrying on, it had to be just a plain old, run-of-the-mill pet. If inappropriate behavior from an animal can be qualified in terms of genius, this dog was Albert Einstein, Vladimir Nabokov and Beethoven wrapped up like a douche into one giant itchy ball of brilliance.

What follows is 26 seconds of the best 3 minutes of my day today.

Magic, Pure and Simple

I'm going to be short and to the point.

This is not only pure comedic genius but this is also, on a big damn platter, everything that is missing from most comedy today: ingenuity. As I twatted earlier today, the gag with the dress in the window, that starts at about 31:45 on the video embedded below and pays off at about 34 and change, is one of the greatest escapes put on film. Jim Carrey on his best day could never have pulled off what Buster Keaton does so effortlessly here. And no amount of shitty pop culture references intended to be their own punchlines (I'm looking at you and the hell you have wrought upon us, Wayans Brothers!) can hold up against something so simple (and cliched by then) as Keaton slipping on his own banana peel.

85 years after it was made, it still holds up; my media studies classmates were laughing pretty hard today, which did my soul some good. But funny is funny and will always be funny.

I can't sing the praises of this film enough. Do yourselves a favor, take 45 minutes out and watch this.

From 1924, here is Sherlock Jr.