Various Artists - War Child Presents Heroes & Dark Was the Night

Whatever goodwill most benefit albums acquire through their altruism, they tend to blow on inappropriate covers, hookless B-sides and other inessential tunes. Music fans looking to get charitable would be better off donating directly to their pet cause and getting on with their day.

At least War Child Presents Heroes has a decent concept. Rather than having today’s biggest bands pick which song they’d like to butcher, Heroes has yesterday’s legends choosing which outfit they’d like to see take on their masterpieces. The perennially hip David Bowie lends the title track to TV on the Radio, who lend it all the drama, drive and atmosphere you’d expect. The Hold Steady — long plagued by Springsteen comparisons — naturally hold their own on The Boss’s “Atlantic City,” and the orchestration-obsessed Rufus Wainwright is undoubtedly qualified to tackle Brian Wilson’s Smile suite. The only trouble is that there aren’t many surprises — none of these versions are going to radically change how you hear the original, or how you see the artists involved.

4AD’s Dark Was the Night compilation, a fundraiser for AIDS awareness, doesn’t have such a grand concept. There are some inspired covers — Antony taking on Bob Dylan, say — and some solid pairings — Dirty Projectors and David Byrne, The National with avant-garde composer Nico Muhly — but the goal seems to be crafting a great album, not one that can be summed up in a tiny blurb. Even when the choices are obvious (who would’ve guessed Jose Gonzalez is a Nick Drake fan?), the results are so well assembled that it’s impossible to complain. Sufjan Stevens’s title track is worth the price of admission alone, moving as it does from glitchy electronics to elaborate orchestration and every odd blend in between, and with a roster that includes Spoon, Feist, Grizzly Bear, Yo La Tengo and largely every other indie heavyweight you care to mention, it’s certainly a solid investment.

A few neat ideas aside, neither Heroes nor Dark Was the Night radically redefine the benefit album. At least this time around, the music’s almost as good as the cause.

Welcome to the Sticks (review)

From an outsider’s perspective, Welcome to the Sticks is a straightforward fish-out-of-water comedy — French post office worker Phillipe (Kad Merad) is forced to transfer to a small town in the north of France, a punishment worse than being fired. Will he discover that the northern region is not as backwards as he once thought? Will he warm up to his new employees and neighbours? Will they learn lessons from each other and become better people in the process? Let’s put it this way — France may not be Hollywood, but it’s not that far removed.

Still, something in this warm French comedy captured the national imagination. A third of the country went to see it in theatres, unseating Titanic as the top-grossing film ever released in France. It has been discussed by French politicians and has led to skyrocketing sales for a regional cheese featured in the film — Will Smith is even slated to produce an American remake. Clearly, the home crowd loved it, but it remains to be seen whether that affection will carry over internationally.

With the exception of an early scene in which Phillipe pretends to be handicapped in the hopes of getting a transfer to warmer climes (which is funny and nowhere near as offensive as it sounds), the bulk of the film’s humour is based around regional French stereotypes. Southerner Phillipe naturally assumes the northerners will be backwards rubes — accented hicks guaranteed to make his life a living hell. The northerners, meanwhile, immediately see Phillipe as a typical southerner, too stuck up to ever give them a fair shot. The specifics of the stereotypes may be unique, but the gist is universal — knowledge of France’s geography is by no means a prerequisite.

In fact, the film’s setting is its biggest boon. The familiar plot doesn’t seem quite so well-worn when Phillipe is picking up the regional slang, wincing at the cuisine and learning the ropes of northern life. In a particularly nice twist, when Phillipe comes around to the pleasures of his new home, his wife (who stays in the south out of fear for herself and their son) refuses to believe him, assuming he’s sugar-coating details to avoid worrying her.

Aside from Phillipe and his flighty employee Antoine (Dany Boon, who also directed and co-wrote), the characters aren’t particularly fleshed out. Line Renaud provides some fine moments as Antoine’s overbearing mother, and Anne Marivin is adorable as Antoine’s warm-hearted love interest (thankfully, Phillipe never even entertains the idea of a clichéd inter-city affair), but the characters are more cinematic conventions than flesh and blood humans.

Welcome to the Sticks seems far too unassuming to be the biggest French film of all time, but that’s part of its charm. What it does, it does well — it’s obviously a crowd-pleaser — and as long as you go in with simple expectations, it will meet them just fine.

Listening to Who (Murray Lerner intervew)

Some musicians go a long way for spectacle — lasers, makeup and inflatable pigs have all been par for the course. The Who didn’t need any of that. By 1970, they had already perfected and moved beyond mod rock, well on their way to becoming hard rock’s greatest act. When they played at the Isle of Wight festival that year, Keith Moon could barely be contained by his drum set. Lion-maned singer Roger Daltry prowled the stage like a befringed god, while bassist John Entwistle’s ghoulish skeleton costume practically glowed in the dark. Mastermind Pete Townshend, meanwhile, windmilled his way through “My Generation” and the entirety of Tommy. Forget inflatable pigs — The Who were spectacle.

Director Murray Lerner was there for all of it. Wight’s organizers had been impressed by his Oscar-nominated Festival, a look at the movement-spawning Newport Folk Festival, and were hoping to screen it at their event. It didn’t work out, but Lerner had another suggestion — he’d make a new film, a warts-and-all look at the music and business of the Isle of Wight.

“My thinking in advance was that there was going to be a tension between the commercialism of the music industry and the idealism of the music,” Lerner recalls. “[That was] the overarching concept of my filming the Isle of Wight and going behind the scenes — seeing what the promoters were doing. We pre-lit their offices and filmed all the different conflicts and tensions, and everything that was happening. As a matter of fact, they were really into it. So much that they would call me and say ‘come on over.’”

He was right, as it turns out. Despite a ticket price of only £3, thousands of music fans crashed the gates. While the same thing had happened at Woodstock a year earlier, Wight’s organizers weren’t as laid-back, chastising their anti-capitalist (or possibly just cheap) crowd. To many, the tension that marred the 1970 Isle of Wight festival sits as a perfect midpoint between the flower power high-water mark of Woodstock and the movement’s nadir at Altamont. Lerner remembers Kris Kristofferson telling one of his sidemen, “I think they’re going to shoot us” (“Metaphorically, I think,” Lerner adds, “but maybe not. He was scared”).

Lerner’s document of Wight’s backstage happenings lingered in limbo for a quarter century, finally emerging in 1997 as Message to Love: The Isle of Wight Festival. The hours of concert footage he gathered suffered largely the same fate, with The Who — Live at the Isle of Wight Festival 1970 hitting home video in 1996 to claim its place alongside Led Zeppelin’s The Song Remains the Same as one of the era’s defining concert films — an era that, in the eyes of many, has yet to be matched.

“The filmmaking wasn’t as sophisticated, [or as] mechanical,” says Lerner when asked what sets those early rock films apart. “You weren’t always on the instrument at the right moment. You were feeling pulled by the emotion of the cameraman and the director. You definitely felt that. It wasn’t lifeless.”

Fans will be able to experience that life for themselves when a remastered version of The Who’s performance is released in theatres this week and to Blu Ray and DVD on February 24. It’s not quite the same as being there, but Lerner says it’s close.

“On one level, it’s better than being there,” he says, “because there are very few people who are going to get that impact of the performance. And, at the Isle of Wight, the sound system wasn’t that great, so the surround sound wasn’t that great. In a way, the only thing missing is the physical presence of thousands of people around you. So I think it’s a mixture. You get more than if you were there, and in a way, a little less.”

Bibio -- Vignetting the Compost

Bibio’s sound is at once unique and instantly welcoming. Delicate acoustic guitar lines are looped, phased and bent, layered forwards and in reverse, sculpted into fragile symphonies in miniature. It’s a formula that’s served the British artist well over his past two albums, and earned him accolades from influential friends like electronic outfit Boards of Canada.

Vignetting the Compost finds Bibio pushing at the boundaries of that sound, but only slightly. Where Hand Cranked featured Bibio’s voice on one track, “Flesh Rots, Pip Sown,” “Mr and Mrs Compost” and “Great are the Piths” all feature vocals. The lyrics mix morbid and fanciful imagery, placing the mood squarely in freak-folk territory. “Weekend Wildfire” is buoyant enough to recall Sigur Ros’ “Gobbledigook” — it conjures the spirit of a campfire singalong without the singing. These new touches and refinements won’t be enough to quiet those who accuse Bibio of milking one production trick, but the result is beautiful nonetheless.

Listening to Who (Murray Lerner intervew)

Some musicians go a long way for spectacle — lasers, makeup and inflatable pigs have all been par for the course. The Who didn’t need any of that. By 1970, they had already perfected and moved beyond mod rock, well on their way to becoming hard rock’s greatest act. When they played at the Isle of Wight festival that year, Keith Moon could barely be contained by his drum set. Lion-maned singer Roger Daltry prowled the stage like a befringed god, while bassist John Entwistle’s ghoulish skeleton costume practically glowed in the dark. Mastermind Pete Townshend, meanwhile, windmilled his way through “My Generation” and the entirety of Tommy. Forget inflatable pigs — The Who were spectacle.
Director Murray Lerner was there for all of it. Wight’s organizers had been impressed by his Oscar-nominated Festival, a look at the movement-spawning Newport Folk Festival, and were hoping to screen it at their event. It didn’t work out, but Lerner had another suggestion — he’d make a new film, a warts-and-all look at the music and business of the Isle of Wight.
“My thinking in advance was that there was going to be a tension between the commercialism of the music industry and the idealism of the music,” Lerner recalls. “[That was] the overarching concept of my filming the Isle of Wight and going behind the scenes — seeing what the promoters were doing. We pre-lit their offices and filmed all the different conflicts and tensions, and everything that was happening. As a matter of fact, they were really into it. So much that they would call me and say ‘come on over.’”
He was right, as it turns out. Despite a ticket price of only £3, thousands of music fans crashed the gates. While the same thing had happened at Woodstock a year earlier, Wight’s organizers weren’t as laid-back, chastising their anti-capitalist (or possibly just cheap) crowd. To many, the tension that marred the 1970 Isle of Wight festival sits as a perfect midpoint between the flower power high-water mark of Woodstock and the movement’s nadir at Altamont. Lerner remembers Kris Kristofferson telling one of his sidemen, “I think they’re going to shoot us” (“Metaphorically, I think,” Lerner adds, “but maybe not. He was scared”).
Lerner’s document of Wight’s backstage happenings lingered in limbo for a quarter century, finally emerging in 1997 as Message to Love: The Isle of Wight Festival. The hours of concert footage he gathered suffered largely the same fate, with The Who — Live at the Isle of Wight Festival 1970 hitting home video in 1996 to claim its place alongside Led Zeppelin’s The Song Remains the Same as one of the era’s defining concert films — an era that, in the eyes of many, has yet to be matched.
“The filmmaking wasn’t as sophisticated, [or as] mechanical,” says Lerner when asked what sets those early rock films apart. “You weren’t always on the instrument at the right moment. You were feeling pulled by the emotion of the cameraman and the director. You definitely felt that. It wasn’t lifeless.”
Fans will be able to experience that life for themselves when a remastered version of The Who’s performance is released in theatres this week and to Blu Ray and DVD on February 24. It’s not quite the same as being there, but Lerner says it’s close.
“On one level, it’s better than being there,” he says, “because there are very few people who are going to get that impact of the performance. And, at the Isle of Wight, the sound system wasn’t that great, so the surround sound wasn’t that great. In a way, the only thing missing is the physical presence of thousands of people around you. So I think it’s a mixture. You get more than if you were there, and in a way, a little less.”

Unbuttoning Coraline -- Neil Gaiman interview

Neil Gaiman has been responsible for some of the most remarkable works of fantasy in the last 20 years. Along with Alan Moore’s Watchmen and Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns, Gaiman’s Sandman series essentially defined what modern comic books are capable of — it remains the only comic to win The World Fantasy Award. His print novels American Gods and Neverwhere remain remarkably popular, and The American Library Association is set to give the 2009 Newbery Medal for children’s literature to The Graveyard Book, his ghastly take on Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book.

The formerly British author (he moved to America after finding a perfect Addams Family-style mansion) is even responsible for Coraline, a wonderfully dark children’s novel about a girl who discovers a parallel world on the other side of a door in her house. Like Gaiman’s best work, Coraline benefits from the author’s eye for the uncanny, finding a rich fantasy world at the edges of the mundane. It’s the kind of story that gives goosebumps to kids and parents alike, and has both returning for more.

On February 7, the novel will reach theatres as a 3-D stop-motion marvel. Written and directed for the screen by animator Henry Selick, the film takes Gaiman’s book and blows it up into a fully realized world stuffed with painted-popcorn cherry blossoms, bat-winged Scottie terriers and button-eyed villains who hope to replace Coraline’s eyes with fabric fasteners. It manages to be bigger and flashier, yet still true to the author’s original story — and for this, Gaiman pushes responsibility aside.

“While I’m very happy to get out on the road and plug it, I’m also making sure everybody knows that this is Henry’s film, and that I’m honoured to get to work with Henry,” he says. “I think it would be a bad thing if people went ‘Did you see Neil Gaiman’s Coraline movie?’ and assumed that it was my movie. I want Henry to get the glory, and I want the 400 people who handmade Coraline to get the glory.”

It wouldn’t be the first time that Selick was denied his due. Thanks to a last-minute marketing decision that added “Tim Burton’s” to the title of The Nightmare Before Christmas, Selick’s name is seldom associated with the Gothic holiday classic he helmed in 1993. Gaiman was astute enough to notice the director’s credit, though, and even before his novel was published, he knew Selick was the man to bring Coraline to the screen.

The transition has taken almost half a decade — the stop-motion process is so painstaking that an animator can expect to produce five seconds of footage in a good week – but Gaiman is pleased as Punch with the results.

“We’re talking about a handmade film in which every single object that you see is made by Henry or by one of his team,” he says. “You’re talking about a film that he art directed. A film that, if something moves on the screen, it’s because one of 40 animators moved it just a tiny bit and took a picture. You’re talking about the single most ambitious — in terms of number of animators, number of sets, number of things going on — stop-motion film that’s ever been made, possibly that ever will be made.”

It may be Selick’s film, but Gaiman’s stories seem to demand adaptation. Coraline is set to become not just a movie, but a musical by The Magnetic Fields’ Stephin Merritt, as well as an Eastern European puppet show. The Graveyard Book has already been snapped up by Hollywood, with The Company of Wolves director Neil Jordan slated to direct. Gaiman’s young adult novel Stardust hit screens in 2007 to mixed reviews, but despite the differences in tone between the film and book of the same name, he still holds a soft spot for the film. Neverwhere was originally written as a BBC series, and a film version of Sandman has been the subject of rumours since the comics first hit the stands in the late ’80s.

While some authors are reluctant to place their stories in others’ hands, Gaiman finds that it’s simply a matter of choosing the right artists and leaving them to their own devices.

“It’s more like babysitting, honestly,” he says. “There are people with whom I’m happy to leave my children. I do not want to stay there while they look after my children, going ‘No, don’t do that. Don’t dress him like that. No, he doesn’t eat that, he doesn’t like that.’ What I would much rather do is find people I trust, and people I like, and people who I feel like I can trust my baby with, and then I can come back at the end and I’m not going to wind up saying, ‘Really, I didn’t expect him to have a tattoo on his cheek.’”

Just as Gaiman didn’t worry about leaving his child in Selick’s care, he hopes other parents will trust the filmmaker, too. There has been some concern that Coraline’s dark subject matter could be too much for some children — the film contains ghosts, monsters and a surprisingly frightening button-eyed villain, after all. The writer is quick to recall his own childhood, though, hiding behind the sofa while watching Doctor Who or crouching behind his chair at a screening of The Wizard of Oz, experiencing what he calls “the terrific, wonderful, magical, delightful thrill of being scared.”

The novel is creepy enough that adults have been known to turn on all the lights after finishing it, but in his experience, children tend to view it as an adventure, and the film will likely be the same. He may be responsible for some nightmares in grown-ups, but that comes from a difference in perception.

“Kids are reading a story about somebody like them going up against something bad that they will defeat,” Gaiman explains. “Adults are reading a story about a child in danger. Just the simple genre of a child in danger is something that immediately disturbs adults in weird, vulnerable places that we didn’t even know we had. We worry. And furthermore, kids don’t get repressed childhood memories coming bubbling up from nowhere to worry them, because they’re living them. Whereas adults sometimes read Coraline and really do — weird, creepy stuff comes out of their past.”

There’s one other difference, too. Somehow, the most haunting image for adults doesn’t seem to phase most kids. “Kids tend to find button-eyed people kind of cool,” he says. “It’s just buttons. It’s a goofy, silly thing. Adults tend to find button-eyed people really, really disturbing.”