Bloodsucking Cinema : A Vampire Primer of Sorts

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The vampire is perhaps the most enduring creature of the horror genre. Immortal, soulless, sexually ambiguous, unfettered by any social or moral codes, the vampire represents the dark edges of the collective consciousness. Bloodsucking Cinema, premiering on cable network Starz tonight, traces the origins and evolution of the vampire as a cinematic icon.

From the genre’s origins with the silent classic Nosferatu to contemporary-videogames-as-film like Bloodrayne, this special races through the sub-genres of the vampire movie. It doesn’t go into a great deal of depth, but it does have its entertaining moments. Cheech Marin provides a lot of those in his recounting of the physical horrors of the contact lenses he had to wear during From Dusk til Dawn (“like sticking staples in my eyeballs”).

Bloodsucking Cinema is full of those kind of anecdotes, with appearances by actors and directors of contemporary vampire movies offering little tidbits about the making of their particular films.Whether its Joel Schumacher droning on about how The Lost Boys reinvented the vampire movie, or Jon Landis gleefully explaining why his Innocent Blood was a uniquely sexual twist on the myth, the special has no shortage of auteurs promoting their past glories, real or imagined.

Where the special is at its best is in following the circuitous routes the vampire movie has taken through the decades. The German Expressionism of Nosferatu was the cornerstone of the genre, but it was Todd Browning’s 1931 Dracula that lay the foundation for all vampire movies to come. Oddly, that film also gave birth to the Mexican vampire offshoot of the genre, the influence of which is more pronounced in more recent films. Robert Rodriguez’s From Dusk til Dawn and John Carpenter’s Vampires would most likely have never existed without the influence of the vampiro movies.

Bloodsucking Cinema touches on all the variations of the vampire movie—western, noir, comedy, superhero and so on, but never serves up any meat to its thesis. Still, as a primer to the vampire’s dark charms and enduring influence on the horror genre. It’s more promo-mentary than documentary, which is really what it was designed to be.

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It’s the lead-in to Starz’ “Fear Fest,” a Halloween weekend marathon of horror titles.

Next. Please.

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Speculative fiction writer Philip K. Dick was the mad genius of the genre, pioneering the concept of “inner space” as a storytelling device. The mind was his alien planet, and it was often more unsettling than the environs usually associated with science fiction. It’s no wonder that he’s become a cause celebre since his death in 1982, due in no small part to the success of Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner. Based on Dick’s novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, it managed to more or less translate his challenges to rigid concepts of reality, and remains one of the greatest films of all time.

The good news is that Blade Runner introduced Dick’s works to a potentially wider audience. The bad news is that subsequent films based on his work usually have little to do with the source material. Next is a case in point. Purportedly based on Dick’s short story “The Golden Man,” Next is actually a poorly conceived action thriller that has absolutely nothing to do with Dick’s original story. That’s not entirely true—in both versions, the protagonist is named Cris, and in both versions, Cris has precognitive powers, but that’s it. Well, there is that mater of golden skin. In the story Cris has golden skin that gives him the ability to seduce others of the opposite sex, and in the movie, Cris (Nicholas Cage) wears a cheap yellow leather jacket, which may explain why Liz (Jessica Biel) is inexplicably drawn to him.

In Next, Nicholas Cage portrays Cris Johnson who, under the stage name of Frank Cadillac, uses his ability to see two minutes into the future (but only where it directly affects him) to do a low rent magic act and supplement his income with low stakes gambling. But he’s haunted by visions of a woman (Jessica Biel) who, for some unexplained reason enables him to see further into the future, but only where it concerns the two of them. So far, so good. Romantic tales have been structured around lesser premises. Still, it raises questions of plausibility.

Plausibility isn’t a major concern of this movie, however. A Russian nuclear device has gone missing, and the FBI has no other way to track it down except to abduct Cris and force him to use his abilities to recover the device before it falls into the wrong hands. The wrong hands in this case are a group of Eurotrash terrorists with no discernible motive or affiliation. It’s not the sort of plot that makes for analysis. In fact, it’s not the sort of plot that holds itself up for anything resembling logic. That would only get in the way of the action.

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As an action flick, Next isn’t too bad, in a videogame sort of way. Actually, it’s structured much like a videogame, with every plot development serving to get the protagonist to the next level of play. As a result, romance falls by the wayside, along with international intrigue, lame attempts at social commentary and essentially everything else that has to do with life as we know it. As a trade-off, we’re treated to Rube Goldberg-style landslides, replete with water tanks, SUVs, boulders and sundry debris cascading upon the heroes. We also get an iron-jawed Julianne Moore in an embarrassing action figure performance as the single-minded FBI agent. We get exlosions, bad guys shot from sniper precipices—hell, we even get a nuclear explosion.

What we don’t get is logic, or even an apology for all the whys the movie never addresses. Instead, we find at the end that the entire “plot” of the movie was just another possible outcome. It’s a cheat to be sure, but not surprising. Considering Next went through at least three complete rewrites and various script doctors, it’s a wonder it made it to the screen at all.

As a standard DVD, Next is an alright purchase. The video quality is excellent and the Dolby 5.1 sound is separated seamlessly. The special features are pretty standard fare, consisting of behind the scenes promo films, a feature on the CGI SFX and a pointless interview with Jessica Biel.

There’s nothing really memorable about Next. Like Cris, we see it all coming long before it happens.

Viva Laughlin is Worth a Gamble

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Let’s get this facetious comparison out of the way up front. Viva Laughlin is nothing like the ill-fated and poorly titled Cop Rock from a few years ago. Viva Laughlin brings a smile to my face. Cop Rock, even at its best two moments, only made me cringe.

That said, forget about all the “mystery drama with music” hype surrounding Viva Laughlin. To appreciate this series, you’re going to have to suspend disbelief just a wee bit and accept it as the lark it is.
Loosely adapted from the BBC series Viva Blackpool, Viva Laughlin chronicles the adventures of Ripley Holden (Lloyd Owen) and his quest to open a casino in Laughlin, Nevada. Things are going swimmingly until his business partner suddenly withdraws funding, forcing Holden to turn to his arch-rival Nicky Fontana (Hugh Jackman) for help. Matters are further complicated when Holden’s business partner turns up murdered, leaving him as a prime suspect. That Holden has some sort of past with the dead man’s widow, Bunny (Melanie Griffith) doesn’t help Holden.

Meanwhile, Holden’s home life is a bit thorny. His wife Natalie (Madchen Amick) craves a more stable life and a bit more attention. His daughter Cheyenne, all of eighteen, is dating her 42-year old college professor. Son Jack wants to help his father fulfill his dream, even at personal cost. Throw in the obligatory handsome detective (Eric Winter) investigating the murder, and who finds himself attracted to Natalie, add Fontana’s slithery point man Marcus (DB Woodside) and you have all the necessary ingredients for an old-fashioned potboiler.

Admittedly, all of this has been done before, and it’s not the stuff of compelling drama. But that’s not the goal of Viva Laughlin. What the producers (one of whom is Jackman) are doing here is utilizing the time-worn plot devices of basic noir, turning them inside out and sending them to us with a nod and a wink to musical comedy. That’s not to say the series is a musical by any means, but the characters do, at key plot points, tend to sing along, karaoke style, with the background soundtrack. Ripley has a fondness for “Viva Las Vegas” as he makes his financing rounds. The Fontana character is introduced to the strains of “Sympathy for the Devil.”

As strange as it sounds, it’s these little musical moments that make the pilot work. Sure, they border on the hokey, unless, that is, you view them as the absent-minded wanderings of the characters’ thoughts as they go about their business. The musical numbers represent the fantasial workings of the mind when viewed in that context, and actually serve to drive the otherwise thin storyline.

Whether American audiences are willing to accept a series that veers from conventional storytelling to take stylistic risks remains to be seen. Already, some circles are dismissing Viva Laughlin as the worst of the new seasons’ crop. (Those people have not attempted to sit through an episode of Cave Men.) Whether Viva Laughlin can integrate music into the storyline without it becoming forced or stale also remains to be seen.

Either way, Viva Laughlin (airing tonight on CBS, 10 PM, ET/PT, before beginning its regular run Sunday) is worth a look. It’s a fun pilot, painted in comic book colors that call up the winner takes it spirit of Nevada.

The Language Bernie Worrell Made

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“Genius” is one of the most overused terms on the planet. It’s one of those superlatives writers fall back on to pad faulty arguments about everything and everyone from the latest household cleanser to the newest album by rock stars past their prime. Swifters might be a clever tool for apartment dwellers, but they’re hardly ingenious. A tasty riff on a pop song might move you momentarily, but it’s unlikely to alter the course of civilization, “You Really Got Me” notwithstanding.

Real genius is a little more elusive. It’s made up of moments so inspired, so indefinable, that it’s almost imperceptible at its birth. That’s why it takes us years, decades, even centuries to recognize true genius. Genius is something stentorian, lurking everywhere, a parasite from beyond infecting only a few along the way. So subtle is its presence that those inflicted with it are blissfully unaware of it coursing through their being.

Bernie Worrell is one of those beings. At first glance, he’s an unassuming man in his early sixties, the sort of guy you’d hardly give more than a cordial nod were you to pass him on the street. But you’d notice a certain aura about him, as if you’d known him from somewhere.

And you’d be right. His name may have escaped you, but if you’ve turned on a radio in the last thirty years, you’re familiar with him. A founding member of George Clinton’s Parliament-Funkadelic, the man who was instrumental in transforming Talking Heads from an uptight white quartet to a world-class funk ensemble, Bernie Worrell is the invisible genius behind modern music.

Stranger: Bernie Worrell on Earth documents Worrell’s significance in shaping modern pop music. A classically trained child prodigy, Worrell wrote his first concerto at age eight. He had been studying Mozart, Ravel and Bach since the age of four, joined the Washington Symphony Orchestra by the time he was ten and studied at Boston’s New England Conservatory of Music. He was primed for a career as a classical pianist.

Genius, as it is wont to do with those it inflicts, sent Worrell on a different path, urging him to take the piano to a different sphere, to invent a new language for the keyboard. He found his voice in the clavinet and minimoog, and began laying down the rudiments of the new language in the early days of Parliament-Funkadelic with songs like “Flashlight,” and introduced it full-blown to mainstream audiences with Talking Heads’ “Burning Down the House.” He’s since become one of the most sampled musicians in hip-hop, and is credited in some circles as being responsible for Dr. Dre’s sound. He’s worked with some of the most prominent musicians in pop music, and has shaped almost every electronic sound heard in pop music over the past four decades.

For all his contributions, though, Worrell lives in relative obscurity, a situation with which he doesn’t seem completely uncomfortable. For Worrell, it’s all about the sounds he makes, ever-shifting, always evolving. It’s as if he’s beyond words, articulating instead through the voice of his music. It’s left to those who know and love him to speak on his behalf in Stranger

At 39 minutes, Stranger is more a tribute to Bernie Worrell than anything else. While it does include some vintage P-Funk and Talking Heads footage, it could hardly be categorized as a concert film. And since it takes a soundbite approach to telling its story, it can’t really be classified as a documentary, either. Yet, it emerges as a story, sometimes upbeat, sometimes bittersweet that needs to be told.

Featuring shotgun-style interviews with Talking Heads David Byrne, Chris Frantz and Tina Weymouth, P-Funk maestros George Clinton and Bootsy Collins, Gov’t Mule’s Warren Haynes and producer Bill Laswell, among others, a portrait of Bernie Worrell takes shape, nebulous though it is. We begin to see him as a man less concerned with notoriety and fortune than with the mere joy inherent in creation. He is yet another artist who, despite his undeniable influence, has reaped few of the monetary rewards his contemporaries have seen.

If there’s a downside to Stranger, it’s that many of the interviewees worry overmuch that he will die in obscurity, like a nineteenth century impressionist, unrecognized until years after his demise. There’s not much danger of that, though. Bonus material on the DVD, particularly clips from Worrell’s Improviczario sessions illustrate he is as vibrant and innovative as he ever was.

For director Philip Di Fiore, Stranger was obviously a labor of love. Wisely choosing to let musicians who have worked with Worrell through the years propel the story, he’s managed to create a portrait of a man who is too reticent to talk about himself. For those of us who have admired Worrell through his music over the years, it’s an emotional experience. For Worrell and the demon genius—well, they’re busy working on new lexicons. Genius will do that to a guy.

We Are All Dexter

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Now that I’ve had a chance to sample quite a bit of the Fall Season, I have to admit it’s a better than average crop. Crime dramas particularly are breaking away from procedural formula, if only in baby steps. NBC’s Life, ABC’s Pushing Daisies and even CBS’s Moonlight put new wrinkles in the tried and true face of the detective show. Of course, cable paved the way for the new wave of cops, with programs like Monk and The Shield.

As good as these series are, none of them compare with Showtime’s Dexter in terms of chutzpah and originality. The notion of a serial killer who only targets murderers beyond the reach of the law was something unheard of in broadcast television. The fact that he works as a blood splatter expert in the Miami Dade Police Department’s Forensics Division made it all the more enticing. That it was injected with dark humor and compelling characterizations made it irresistible in its first season.

Season Two had a lot of weight to carry if it was to have any chance of not falling into a sophomore rut. In my review of the new season’s first episode, I wasn’t totally convinced the second season was going to be able to maintain the audacity of the first season. Dexter (Michael C. Hall), still in a fugue over having to put his brother down in order to save his adopted sister, looked as if he had lost his mojo. He spared one target and let another one escape. On top of that, his underwater burial ground was discovered. Things didn’t look good for Dexter.

My fears were groundless.

Advance screeners of the first four episodes prove that, if anything, Dexter is even better this go round. Motivations that were only hinted at in the first season are exploited to more fully realized plot devices that carry us more into the universe of Dexter himself, but the worlds of those who surround him. His girlfriend Rita (Julie Benz) has evolved from her battered past to emerge as a confident woman who’s resolved to control her life. His sister Deb (Jennifer Carpenter) is struggling with her own demons, wrestling with her ordeal with the Ice Truck Killer while maintaining her day to day duties on the police force. Doakes (Erik King) has his own agendas as he tails Dexter relentlessly, even as he conceals his own dark past. Lt. Guerta (Lauren Velez) continues to work both sides of the political fence to her own ambitions. Angel Batista (David Zayas) butchers Zen philosophy and Masuka (C. S. Lee) takes misogyny to new levels. Batista and Masuka, played for laughs, may prove to be Dexter’s greatest threat as he weaves through the machinations of bureaucracy and relationships to quell the thirst of his “dark passenger.” His Dark Passenger, of course, is the need that forces him to kill. All Rita knows is he has an addiction (thinking it’s drugs) and forces him to enroll in a treatment program.

Two new characters, Agent Lundy (Keith Carradine) and Lila (Jaime Murray), are poised to complicate Dexter’s life even more. Agent Lundy is the FBI’s top manhunter, sent to Miami after Dexter’s underwater dumping ground was discovered, to ferret out the identity of the killer, dubbed by the press as the “Bay Harbor Butcher.” Lila is Dexter’s NA sponsor, and appears to be in some ways as dark, if not darker, than Dexter himself.

As complicated as all this is, none of it deters Dexter from issuing his own personal brand of justice, as per Harry’s Code. Dexter has matured, but he hasn’t mellowed. He trades in his Taurus for a minivan for purely practical reasons—his relationship with Rita and the kids has grown deeper and he’s thinking in terms of family. Of course, the abundant cargo space and tinted rear side windows also serve his other purposes well.

Unlike last season, Season Two delves into the repercussions of the past. We see Dexter’s prey had families, too, and can’t help but see them as victims in their own right, if only for a moment. His targets were murderers to be sure, and were hardly sympathetic. Still, their disappearances, more than their deaths, caused pain to those they left behind. Since we see all this from Dexter’s point of view, we feel a momentary twinge of guilt.

It doesn’t last long at all.

A huge part of the genius of Dexter is that it forces us to look at ourselves. Intellectually we know that one does not dismember people and dump them in the ocean, regardless of their crimes. Emotionally, however, we see murderers go unpunished, sometimes even thrive after the fact. While very few of us would go to the extremes that Dexter employs, even fewer of us can deny the catharsis we feel when Dexter does his dastardly deeds. It’s escapism at its very best.

Bottom line, we’re all Dexter.

Dexter's Back. He's not Having a Good Day.

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The first season of Dexter introduced us to a series unlike anything ever done before. It was dark in a smug sort of way, almost always witty and, let’s face it—funny. Dexter was like a fratboy prankster, inviting us along as he pulled his latest prank. Of course, his pranks inevitably ended up with some deserving soul being dismembered, but that was okay. After all, every one of his victims were vicious killers in their own right, and we felt a certain glee when Dexter sent them to their just rewards. In that first season, grisly details were implied about Dexter’s inclinations, but never explored for what they really were.

The subplots helped make Dexter work in the first season. The failed machinations of Lt. Guerta, the almost paranoiac obsessions of Sgt. Doakes, the familial bonds and the precarious relationships all meshed to make Dexter fascinating and engaging. Above all else, it tapped into our primordial retribution instinct and kept it all light and airy. It wasn’t until its final episodes that the first season of Dexter looked at the consequences of such escapades.

“It’s Alive” opens Season Two, and takes place five and a half weeks after Dexter had to “put down” his long-lost brother Rudy aka the Ice Truck Killer. It’s a trying time for Dexter. Doakes, convinced that Dexter is not the carefree blood splatter expert he appears to be, is shadowing him constantly. To throw Doakes off, Dexter has resorted to filling his nights bowling with some of the guys from the force, whose shirts ironically enough, are emblazoned with the motto “Bowl ‘til You Bleed.”

When he finally does get a chance to pursue his more morbid hobby (this time with a blind voodoo priest whose poisoned at least three people), he freezes, and eventually lets the priest live. Clearly, Dexter is having performance issues. And it’s not just a sudden aversion to killing. He’s blocked, and he has no idea why. When a naked Rita attempts to seduce him with quickie sex, he can’t perform in that arena either.

It could be in part due to sis Deb, recovering from the horror of dating Rudy, rooming with him now. Or perhaps he’s been unable to find a worthy challenge after dispensing with Rudy. If that’s the case, he finds a worthy opponent in Little Chino, a mountain of a man who’s a gang enforcer that appears to be untouchable—witnesses to his murders have a habit of disappearing. When Dexter gets his chance to rid the world of Little Chino, things go terribly awry.

Part of it may have to do with his blossoming relationship with Rita. Besides his intimacy issues, there’s the matter of his setting her ex-, Paul up for life in prison. That issue is resolved in this episode, but it only serves to set the stage for troubles down the line for Dexter and Rita.

To compound Dexter’s problems, sea-diving treasure hunters working off the coast of Florida inadvertently discover Dexter’s “burial ground” in the undersea ravine. Thirty bags (and counting) of dismembered bodies in heavy duty plastic bags tend to make the news, after all. Deb sees the discovery as a way for her to find some closure, and reinvent herself as a detective. Dexter, on the other hand, feels a weight dragging him deeper into an abyss from which there may be no escape.

If “It’s Alive” is any indication, Dexter’s second season looks to delve deeper into the psyches of its characters. It certainly sets up a number of plot complexities, some spilling over from the first season, and new devices that offer a myriad of new developments. This being Dexter, expect the unexpected. To get caught up to the ceremonies, view this episode here. New episodes air on Showtime Sundays @ 10PM EST/PT.

Expect a rollercoaster ride.

The Latest L.A. Vampire

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It would be easy to dismiss Moonlight as yet another vampire trying to get along in the modern world TV series. It’s already being compared, sight unseen, to Angel. Actually, Moonlight’s themes are more closely aligned to the Beauty and the Beast mythos, with a touch of pre-noir private eye thrown in for luck.

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True, Mick St. John (Alex O’Loughlin) is a vampire by circumstance and a private investigator by lifestyle choice. And, yeah, he’s a do-gooder by nature, defying the conventions of vampirism to help the living. He even eschews fresh blood, opting instead for “retail” blood, which he procures from a mortal dealer named Guillermo (Jacob Vargas) who works in the LA County morgue. (How Guillermo knows St. John’s secret isn’t revealed in the pilot episode.)

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What we do know is that Mick St. John is eternally 30 years old, thanks to being bitten 60 years ago by his bride, Coraline, who apparently didn’t think the fact she was a vampire was something they should have discussed before getting married. Maybe thinking it might save their troubled marriage, Coraline, in 1982, found a mortal child who could become their “daughter.” That didn’t set well with Mick, so he saved the child and torched the wife.

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The child, Beth Turner (Sophia Miles) is grown now, and is an Internet investigative reporter (they have those?). Of course, she’s blonde, ambitious and quick on her feet, even though she works for a tabloid website. When a series of vampire-style murders plague L.A., Mick finds himself suddenly reconnected with Beth. Mick has been assigned by vampire czar Josef Konstantin (Jason Dohring) to get to the bottom of this, and Beth, self-proclaimed media whore that she is, wants that perfect headline.

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It sounds very campy, and it is — there are the obligatory shots of the brooding hero, perched on a nighttime rooftop, long black coat lapping about him. There’s also a fair amount of satire. Josef, the 600-year-old vampire, comes off more like a playboy CEO than an evil lord of the undead. In the vampire underworld of Los Angeles, it’s all about business and living the good life. Moonlight manages to make the vampire clichés work — in fact, it turns them on their ear.

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It’s all very silly, but it’s just clever enough for a Friday night at home. With the popular chick flick inanities of Ghost Whisperer as a lead-in, Moonlight may have a chance to develop its storyline.

Are there really Rules for Renegades?

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If you say nothing else about Christine Comaford-Lynch, you have to admit she’s got moxie. She must have. How else do you explain how she’s gone from model to monk to multimillionaire? Her book, Rules for Renegades: How to Make More Money, Rock Your Career, and Revel in Your Individuality, recounts her unlikely rise and offers simple advice as to how to thrive on your own terms.

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According to Rules for Renegades, the secrets to an abundant life of riches can be broken down into ten simple rules:

Rule 1: Everything’s an Illusion, So Pick One That’s Empowering

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Rule 2: An MBA is Optional, A GSD is Essential

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Rule 3: Problems + Pain = Profit

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Rule 4: Build Power Instead of Borrowing It

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Rule 5: Rock Rejection and Finesse Failure

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Rule 6: Learn to Love Networking

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Rule 7: Only You Can Lead Your Life

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Rule 8: Work Your Money Mojo

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Rule 9: Resign as General Manager of the Universe

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Rule 10: Don’t Just Do Something, Stand There

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It all sounds very empowering on the surface, if a little too cut and dried. Indeed, much of the book reads like a motivational speaker’s notes. Still, Comaford-Lynch’s enthusiasm is infectious, and she backs up her “rules” with solid advice for realizing one’s dreams. Self-empowerment is at the core of her message. There’s nothing particularly new about that, but this book has a different take on it. The author begins with the tenet that if reality is made up of illusions, the best course of action is to build a reality around empowerment. She doesn’t dismiss the value of education, but insists that in the real world, the ability to Get Stuff Done pulls more weight.

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She knows whereof she speaks, and unabashedly shares her own triumphs and failures .throughout Rules for Renegades. The anecdotes are really what make the book entertaining, in fact. Particularly amusing is the recounting of her failed attempt to start a company called American Geisha - until she realized what such a venture would actually entail. Comaford-Lynch probably shares more information than she needs to when she reminisces about dalliances with Bill Gates and Larry Ellison, though in context, they’re more life lessons than gossip.

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More irreverent than incisive, Rules for Renegades is a light read that’s both entertaining and informative. While some of the advice (like post-it notes affirmations on the bathroom mirror) are a little hokey, the underlying theme still rings true. All in all, this is a valuable resource for anybody tempted to start a business. It’s not a panacea, but it does serve as a compass for the would-be entrepreneur.

Stars with Guitars (finally!)

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It’s not often that three good albums are released on the same day. As much as such an event fills me with hope about the future of pop music, it’s also a bit frustrating. I want to give all three their due, and the only way I can do that is to combine them all in one omnibus of a review. It’s not ideal, I’ll admit, but at least it gets the word out that there really is good music out there.

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You’re not going to find a lot of shake-your-booty pop here—in fact, you’re not going to find any. What you are going to find is evidence that music is far from its last throes.

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And guess what? It still revolves around the guitar.

KT Tunstall: Drastic Fantastic

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Considering the runaway success of her debut album, Eye to the Telescope, it’s not surprising that KT Tunstall views stardom as sort of a comic book existence—minus the super powers, of course. It’s not a lifestyle for the faint of heart. If a comic book lifestyle needs a comic book title, you could have a worse title than Drastic Fantastic. And certainly from the album’s packaging, with KT posed like a rock Valkyrie, brandishing a major axe of a guitar, you’d imagine she plans to kick some major ass here.

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Well, not exactly.

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On this sophomore outing, Tunstall tries on a number of alter egos, from radio-friendly popster to bluesy torcher, but by and large she attacks the material cautiously. Songs like “Little Favours” and “If Only” were designed with radio in mind, channeling equal parts of Chrissie Hynde and Sheryl Crowe at their poppiest. It isn’t until the single cut “Hold On” that Tunstall finds a skin in which she’s comfortable. It’s a somewhat raucous stomp reminiscent of “Black Dog and the Cherry Tree,” and its refrain of “the world will turn if you’re ready or not” tinges it with appropriate angst.

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It’s on the more introspective acoustic tracks that Drastic Fantastic is at it most compelling. “Beauty of Uncertainty” and “Someday Soon” are haunting tracks that allow Tunstall to unveil her vocal range, which can stretch from a bluesy rasp to an angelic whisper, often in the same song.

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While the album stumbles in places, Drastic Fantastic stands shoulders above the pabulum that passes for pop music today. KT Tunstall has tried on several comic book identities here, but ultimately emerges triumphant.

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Eddie Vedder: Into the Wild

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Eddie Vedder’s been fronting Pearl Jam for 17 years—hell, for all intents, he’s been Pearl Jam all that time, at least as far as publicity was concerned. It took the coaxing of his buddy Sean Penn to convince Vedder to finally release a solo album, though. Penn’s latest film, Into the Wild, chronicles the ill-fated odyssey of Christopher McCandless, who chunked his worldly possessions to live in the wilds of Alaska.

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Vedder's soundtrack album is imbued throughout with an appropriate sense of romantic solitude and desolation. Even though the 11 songs are designed to propel the film’s narrative, they sound as if they were wrenched from Vedder’s own longings. His morose baritone drenches the tracks with a profound sense of world weariness, even as the lyrics struggle with the quest for inner peace.

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Vedder’s Into the Wild soundtrack nicely complements the themes of the film. More, it establishes Vedder as a solo artist capable of stretching beyond the confines of rock. These tunes are short and to the point, most lasting only a couple of minutes or less. Even at that, they stand on their own, without histrionics or other such trappings. It’s folksy and acoustic, and speaks to man’s relationship with the American wilderness. As such, it quietly reaches into our collective wanderlust, and pulls out something universal.

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Mark Knopfler: Kill to Get Crimson

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That Mark Knopfler has a new release should come as no surprise. Since officially disbanding Dire Straits in 1995, his output has been phenomenal, what with scoring films, producing other artists, live events and various collaborations, not to mention four albums released under his name. Killing for Crimson, his fifth solo effort, finds Knopfler in a jovial mood, for the most part.

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On a casual listen, Killing to Get Crimson is deceptively understated—a pleasant stroll through a sunny Sunday afternoon. Indeed, the inclusion of accordionist Ian Lowthian and fiddler Ian McCusker on several tracks enhance the largely pastoral feel of the album. But it’s Knopfler’s knack for wry storytelling, punctuated by his finger style guitar that draw the listener into his world.

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This is a work that demands repeated listening, if for no other reason than to fully appreciate the delicate nuances of Knopfler’s guitar work. It’s a study in contrast, as he veers from the country flavors of “True Love Will Never Fade” to the more ominous Dire Straits sound of “Punish the Monkey.” Even at its most subtle, the album is full of delights, from Knopfler’s relishes “Hawaiian noises” to Appalachian-inspired riffs to bass-heavy melodic runs.Kill to Get Crimson is the latest evidence of Knopfler’s remarkable talents as a guitarist and songwriter. Like a deep wine, it's music to be sipped and savored.

Finding Comedy in Iraq

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Taking a political stand on the war in Iraq, whichever viewpoint it is, has nothing to do with patriotism. Nor does it have anything to do with emotionally supporting the troops on the ground in Iraq. Those young men and women are strangers in a strange land, doing on a daily basis what is largely a thankless job. Sure, pundits at every point of the political spectrum in the States talk a lot of talk about the troops, but precious few are willing to actually walk with them. It’s much easier to deal in platitudes and rhetoric than to actually support the troops.

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Comics on Duty, founded by Richard Davis, has been supporting US troops stationed overseas since 1992. The revolving tour has performed nearly 250 shows at 80 sites inside Iraq and over 300 throughout southwest Asia. They’re compact shows, featuring a few comics for each tour, but they serve to boost the morale of troops working in hostile conditions.

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We Love You, Mrs. Bevins follows stand-up comics Danny Bevins, Sarah Tiana, Dave Mishevitz and John Bizarre as they perform for troops throughout Iraq as part of the ongoing Comics on Duty World Tour. These aren’t A-list comedians by any means—they’re up-and-comers with a few TV appearances under their belt. Truth to tell, they’re often not even that funny. It doesn’t matter. They’re not playing to suburban audiences here. They’re working the room in remote parts of Iraq and Afghanistan, and the jokes are geared to that audience. A viewer in Iowa isn’t apt to get a joke about the daunting obstacles of using a porta-potty in Iraq.

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The comedy bits are only a backdrop for the film’s message, however. The central meaning of We Love You, Mrs. Bevins lies in its title. At every stop on the tour, Danny Bevins explained to the troops that he was sending a video postcard to his mom, and asked the soldiers to merely say, “We love you, Mrs. Bevins.” It’s a recurring theme that threads through the entire film—at shows and during interviews with individual soldiers. Far from being hokey, it’s something that rings with a universal resonance.The simple phrase, “We love you, Mrs. Bevins” humanizes the sacrifices of the troops serving in the Iraq War. There’s a sincerity that shines through every time a soldier says it before the camera. Some say it almost with a chuckle, others with the hint of a tear in their voice, but they all see “Mrs. Bevins” as the personification of all they hold dear. She’s why they’re there, she’s why they make the best of deplorable conditions and she’s their reason for coming home.

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We Love You, Mrs. Beavins isn’t a great comedy work. I don’t think it was intended as such. Don’t misunderstand—there are some good gags along the way. But it’s more of a video log tracing the journey of four comics discovering the everyday truths of war from the viewpoints of those who live it. Along the way, we find the soldiers fighting the fight can still find humor in the ludicrousness of their situation. Now if only the politicians at home could get the joke, we might find a way out of the quagmire. In the meantime, it’s good that Comics on Duty are supporting the troops with words that actually mean something on a visceral level.