Shutter Island is the kind of movie whose principals (Leonardo DiCaprio and Mark Ruffalo), nervously contemplating the eponymous prison from the boat, get their dialogue squelched before the narrative’s started by a portentous, immersive score (music editor Robbie Robertson requires shock treatment), but not before the boat captain informs them/us that (a) the dock they’re approaching is the only way on or off the island (b) a storm’s comin’. A few minutes later, the sinister warden watches smugly as Ruffalo, ordered to surrender his firearm, fumbles with the holster (director Martin Scorsese helpfully includes close-ups of the fumble and the warden’s expression). Ruffalo, see, is the rookie, and suspense thrillers aren’t kind to rookies. But one hundred twenty-four minutes remain, at least a third of which consist of flashbacks with colored snowflakes, pools of perfectly art-directed blood coagulating by dead Nazis, and Michelle Williams acting as if she’s never seen a smile before.
Lauryn Hill, emerging from exile, returns with a lovely sounding ballad. She gets stuck in the details though.
An excerpt from my favorite bit of pornography of the last twenty-five years:
I remember a Thanksgiving evening in our house eight or ten years ago; he was carving the late-night turkey after a drive from the country, and four of us were seated around the kitchen table with wine, and cheese, whatever… He was on a roll. One story after another, some of them of an intricacy absolutely baroque—the kind of story which, if you wished to repeat it for the communicable joy of it, would require you to take time off to study it, as you would need to take time to memorize a Bach fugue or a canto of Pound. He was quite literally performing, the pleasuring of his audience being a professional pursuit in which he had over the years proved especially successful because in doing so he pleasures himself. Inevitably, carried on, he would recall the one about, oh, Lyndon Johnson and Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in the Oval Office, and she would say, “Oh, Ron, no, no …,” but he would smile and give way to the theatrical imperative, and she would laugh along with the rest of us, because the jokes were funny, and she always retains perspective.
William F. Buckley, Jr. penned this love letter for Vanity Fair shortly after Ronald Reagan’s second inauguration. I have a pretty strong stomach for Pound cantos, especially the ones in which he praises Martin Van Buren as our most underrated president — or did Buckley memorize the ones in Provencal?
A few months ago I wrote this about John Mayer’s “Half of My Heart”:
The half of the heart that’s worrisome here is Mayer’s, who sings like he suffers from angina. When he lets his guitar do the mewling, the song very faintly evokes the early eighties brand of boomer bathos epitomized by “Leather and Lace,” but there’s still the problem of billing, since Swift gets a credit despite wandering in like she came back from slipping into something more comfortable for John’s sake.
My retraction proves the continued vitality of Clear Channel radio, which, unlike most of my peers, I still listen to, and the constant playing of this number unfolded how Mayer’s vocal matches the casual mastery of his guitar licks. In short, I really like this now, and officially regret what I wrote in June. Don’t credit Taylor Swift, who’s a nullity here even when I hate Mayer for relegating her to a cameo in the song’s last third. I guess every critic is allowed a beloved John Mayer song, or at least one whose charms sneak up on him; let this be mine.
What converted me? The middle eight. The part that goes, “Your faith is strong but I can only fall so short for so long.” Mayer’s voice tests the line, then rushes towards the end, unwilling to accept the consequences of what he’s singing about. It’s his most disarming vocal moment, and I’ll be damned if comparable scenester asshole Don Henley came up with something similar.
The kicker in “Dear John” comes after almost two minutes of singing that verges on the clenched: “Didn’t you think I was too young to be messed with?” She places too much emphasis on the key adjective in the line “your sick need to give love and take it away” — a sign that her writing infatuates her more than her larynx, but this will change as she realizes the singer in “singer-songwriter” matters most.
Besides its formal triumphs, which are considerable, Speak Now dispenses with my cavils about Swift’s voice, or rather, her vocal melodies. Taylor Swift’s generosity as a singer encompasses the suspicion that her intensity is exactly why John abandoned her. How can a swollen-lipped smoothie like Mayer date a girl who specializes in elegant reversals like “I used to know my place was a spot next to you/Now I’m searching the room for an empty seat”? On “Better Than Revenge,” she chugs like a second set of power chords; in “Back to December,” she’s chastened but realistic, like Lili Taylor after she lets River Phoenix deflower her in Dogfight.
Speak Now also dispenses with my cavils about Swift as record maker. Writing every song herself but one and co-producing, she’s figured out the large stuff as well as the small. The album sounds like the right kind of luxurious: someone with money spending it and her good will on an aesthetic refinement. Befitting her superstar status, she can’t resist the outsize gesture: the otherwise fetching “Enchanted” builds on detail after detail (credit her voice again), cresting on the admission,”All I can say is I’m enchanted to meet you,” after which a DOA chorus lifted from Natasha Bedingfield effaces the modesty with which Swift had invested that line — like a college freshman testing a Jane Austen sentence on a prospective lover. The album’s back end is not as strong as the sequence that peaks with the eternal “Mean” but asks the listener to regard the bubble-pop groove “The Story of Us,” stolen from The Corrs’ “Breathless,” as a worthy sequel, maybe worthier.
Since Swift is so young, complacency is the sin her imagination must guard against. If the rock press’ fascination with Swfit’s boyfriends has any merit, it’s showing how even an intelligence as discerning as hers succumbs to infatuations whose literary half-life barely exceeds their emotional ones (the less talented but charming Justin Timberlake may present an example of a child star whose wry self-presentation sees the joke in every paparazzi shot; in his mind, cheating on Jessica Alba is part of the joke, and the press lets him get away with it because he’s a guy). It’s true: every indication suggests she’s going to be one of those talents about whom The Industry is self-congratulatory, a Grammy stand-by like Stevie Wonder.
So I’m perfectly fine with Speak Now as her testament. She’s hungry enough to know relationships, like coal, exist as fuel for healthy engines but whose fumes are toxic if inhaled.
Now that Orbison can boast several extant compilations, you can appreciate this forgotten mid eighties non-hit. .