One of my best memories about summer is the time my mother tried to make cookies ‘n’ cream ice cream. Since she had never branched out from chocolate or vanilla before, this was pretty exciting. (Give me a break, I was 10.) Anyway, she had no idea how to go…
thursday june 25 The Liquid Lounge is poised to take over where the Dark Room left off, hosting rock shows in an intimate venue, shows that are a little quieter but much more special. Already the club has hosted two shows by Peter Schmidt’s Legendary Crystal Chandelier project. (If you…
Technicolor was a movie lover’s aphrodisiac during Hollywood’s Golden Age. It produced colors of astonishing depth, boldness, and subtlety via a complex beam-splitting camera that generated three separate negatives. Lab technicians built them into a photographic sandwich that was developed with a unique dye-transfer system called imbibition. Gone With the…
Harried parents don’t have time to wade through a review that yammers on about the sociopolitical ramifications of a children’s theater production. Yet being childless myself and, as a critic, inordinately fond of my own opinions, I can’t help but rhapsodize about the wonderful Wildean darts to the establishment heart…
The artist has something to tell us about how we process information, and Trenton Hancock uses the digestive tract to do it: teeth, throats, intestines, rectums–his as well as others’. Oddly enough, art hounds are eating it up. To kick off his one-man, five-week exhibition at the Gerald Peters Gallery…
It’s Christmas vacation, 1958. The movie my dad has chosen for a first-grade pal and me to see is the new Disney live-action adventure, Tonka, starring Sal Mineo as a young Sioux named White Bull who traps and domesticates a clear-eyed, spirited wild horse named Tonka. Having seen The King…
High Art is a low-budget, American independent movie about a junkie, lesbian photographer, Lucy Berliner (Ally Sheedy), who spends most of her time looking romantically mournful. She’s famished and abrasive and oh-so world-weary. When she smokes cigarettes, she exhales in a way that can best be described as existential–the smoke…
The X-Files is a movie that answers questions…No, wait a minute. The X-Files is a movie that asks questions…Hmmm. OK. The X-Files is a movie that makes me wanna ask some questions, like: What the hell does “Fight the future” mean? I mean, I can understand “The truth is out…
Although four years have passed since I last played in the Hoop-It-Up tournament, my experience there has scarred me forever–literally. That doesn’t mean that the annual three-on-three street basketball tournament is dangerous, just that it’s rougher than the typical driveway game. At the tournament in 1994, my two teammates and…
Hollywood’s been threatening to remake The Women, a 1939 razor of a film, for years now, with the likes of Julia Roberts and Demi Moore taking keen interest in the potential project. No surprise here; to resurrect Joan Crawford’s conniving vamp, Rosalind Russell’s catty blue blood, and Norma Shearer’s martyred…
thursday june 18 Tuna, Texas, may be a fictional city, but the characters who inhabit it are awful real. You can find them crowded around the back of a beat-up pickup truck in one of the countless one-stoplight towns that dot the back roads of Texas, or distributing “Free Richard…
thursday june 11 Stephen King once said, “I have seen the future of the horror genre, and his name is Clive Barker.” Barker hasn’t really lived up to King’s hyperbole, but the British author and director has built a rabid cult following based on his perverse, six-volume set of stories,…
What happened to car design? Seems as though the architects of the machines we practically live in have grown complacent lately. They’ve rolled out legions of cookie-cutter sport utility vehicles (what’s the difference, really, between a Range Rover and a Land Cruiser, besides ethnicity?) and look-alike econo-mobiles (the new Civics…
The life of the rodeo wife is filled with the constant anxiety that some day, a wild steer or a bucking bronco will stomp her husband to death. It is riddled with the gnawing realization that even the best of heroes can die in the arena, caught between the hard…
The essays and book-length ruminations of Susan Sontag, the American zeitgeist’s preeminent fag hag, are accessible, friendly, almost conversational in their explorations of camp aesthetic and AIDS mythology. But her mammoth first novel, The Volcano Lover, from which I had the fortitude only to snatch scattered sections, felt like–horrors!–a veteran…
Henry Jaglom’s movies offer everything that Americans hate about French films, but with little of the philosophical depth or visual daring that mark the best French cinema. He captures the annoying qualities of Woody Allen movies–the self-absorption, the feigned feminism, the pretentiousness–without achieving anything like Allen’s humor and charm. Talky,…
Early on in Six Days, Seven Nights, Harrison Ford’s drunken beach pilot Quinn Harris offers some advice to Anne Heche’s vacationing Robin Monroe. He warns that people often go to isolated island paradises looking for romance. But if you don’t bring it with you, you ain’t gonna find it. If…
Star Wars notwithstanding, film revivals rarely work on a large scale anymore. Blame it on cable or videotape, or just the ever increasing number of new films released every year, but today’s audiences–born and bred on the blockbuster and a steady diet of coming attractions, waiting eagerly for tomorrow’s movie,…
Prop and costume sales are usually just overpriced garage sales, a way for a theater company to clear out the basement and make some quick money. Most of the items would be practically worthless by themselves; anybody who has ever seen the green-foam-and-staples monstrosity that Eddie Murphy wore as Gumby…
There have been numerous American plays that have grappled with what might be called “the morning after” dilemma–as in, “OK, what do I do the morning after I’ve spent the night with someone I just met?” Think David Mamet’s Sexual Perversity in Chicago or Terrence McNally’s Frankie and Johnny at…
We were walking along Cedar Springs–my mother and I–when it happened. A few weekends back, while hitting the so-called “gallery district,” we passed a crowd filtering into the Florence Art Gallery. Curious, we peered into the window before a helpful bystander filled us in: “It’s that child prodigy, you know…
It’s a truism that unless your film picks up momentum as it goes along, you’d do well not to put a ticking clock in it. Thrillers like The Big Clock and DOA work because they’re superior mousetraps that have found a way to put time itself in pursuit of the…
