A Tale of Two Andersons

Wes Anderson reminds me more and more of Paul McCartney, an undeniable talent who finds it difficult to resist a brand of insular whimsy. And with The French Dispatch, he drowns in his own little sandbox. Easily his worst film, The French Dispatch is a curious love letter to The New Yorker, a bastion of insularity all its own that Anderson professes to adore. But he approaches his homage as a child would a playground crush, through endless teasing because you're too underdeveloped to articulate your feelings.

I'm averse to synopses on this blog because the reader can get them elsewhere. But to recount the insufferable story of The French Dispatch here would be truly criminal. It's taxing enough to observe that the titular journal is the French bureau of the Kansas Evening Sun in the postcard ville of, wait for it, Ennui-sur-Blasé. Ya know, cuz French. The film then proceeds in this groan-worthy manner to recount the creation of three storied articles. The first, about a murderer who paints nifty abstracts in prison, echoes the philistine position that a monkey or a child or, hey, even I can produce modern art and the community of dealers and academics conferring value upon it are the lowest of shysters. The second is somehow even worse, an absolute disaster proving Anderson admires the look more than the radical politics of Godard films like La Chinoise as he transforms the student revolts of May 1968 into a game of chess over the rights to access the girls' dormitory. By the third and most successful tale (ugh must I synopsize?), the torrent of proper nouns and exhausting inventiveness comes off like Family Guy's Stewie badgering Lois in the classic "mom mum mommy" scene.

Anderson might have pulled off all this tweeness he had not avoided the emotional implications of each story. But, in what one must assume is a fit of growth stuntedness, he constantly retreats into whimsy when things gets too messy as in the third story when he details a complicated meal in the midst of a potentially harrowing child kidnapping. The "No Crying" sign that hangs in the French Dispatch offices thus applies to the film itself. Too much of an open heart gets in the way of the perpetual irony or satire or whatever the hell Anderson is up to here.

I salute any film that respects the written word. Arthur Howitzer, Jr., the pater familias of the French Dispatch (Bill Murray), nurtures his writers and is even willing to cut ads in order to give them the space they need. Brought to life by Anderson's familiar stock players, it should have displayed all the markings of an ars longa, vita brevis collectivity. Instead, it reeks of privilege and an unwillingness to engage with the world. Anderson needs to pull his thumb out of his mouth (or nose) and film someone else's screenplay for once. 

Where The French Dispatch is implosive and self-absorbed, Licorice Pizza is porous and inexhaustible. Easily Paul Thomas Anderson's best film, Licorice Pizza combines the fever-dream experimentalism of Inherent Vice with the crowd pleasing antics of Boogie Nights. Anderson never once gives you the assurance that his take on San Fernando Valley in 1973 is any kind of final word. Quite to the contrary, the clipped conflicts, episodic structure, and intoxicating sound/image dislocations, the latter especially energizing in a scene at a teen expo with Herman Munster in attendance, suggest a honeycomb for further exploration. And explore we might given how much of the film concerns the rotten glamour of the Hollywood TV and movie industry. Subsequent, obsessive viewings will bring forth exegeses that I, for one, shall welcome on the personalities Anderson parades before us: Lucille Ball, William Holden, Mark Robson, Jon Peters (a hilarious cameo from Bradley Cooper that just might be his best performance to date), as well as names new to me such as child talent agent Mary Grady and Jerry Frick, owner of the Mikado hotel and restaurant. 

And within this maelstrom stands Alana Kane (Alana Haim, from the superb sister act Haim), a directionless twentysomething trying to self-actualize in a field of toxic masculinity. Alana's affection for 15-year-old Gary Valentine (Cooper Hoffman), whose confidence and independence are both alarming and attractive, makes sense given the creepshows she has to deal with including mayoral candidate Joel Wachs (Safdie bro Benny), a closeted gay man who uses Alana as a beard during a dinner date with his frustrated boyfriend Matthew (Joseph Cross). Based on child actor/producer Gary Goetzman, Valentine is a horny teen whose sexual politics are hardly pristine. But the pragmatism he displays in his crazy business ventures into water beds and arcades renders him a perfect partner to Alana in self-actualization. That it never comes for either character gives Licorice Pizza that illusion of unfolding into eternity that is the hallmark of so many great art films. Consistently surprising, endlessly watchable, with a riotous moving truck sequence lifted from the Mike Judge animated series King of the Hill (or is that the 1954 Lucille Ball vehicle The Long, Long Trailer), Licorice Pizza awaits your obsession. 

The French Dispatch: C (and slipping)

Licorice Pizza: A (and rising!)

Paul McCartney's discography, heard!

It’s ever so mildly disturbing when it happens but most sane people eventually realize that some Beatles songs flat-out suck. Or, okay, they find it difficult to access the magic heard upon first learning the canon. My epiphany occurred in the midst of the 2009 reissue frenzy. Forget mono vs. stereo – the lads were losing the distinction between serious and complacent at least as early as Rubber Soul. Where once I heard their increasing song lengths as a sign of maturity, now I could feel “You Won’t See Me,” their longest to date, slooooow down to a crawl during the final verse. The only euphoria I experienced chewing on such Revolver bon bons as "Here, There and Everywhere," "Good Day Sunshine," and "Got to Get You into My Life" again came courtesy of nitrous oxide at the dentist two weeks later. The whole of The White Album does indeed exceed the sum of its parts but for once, that’s no compliment; I no longer wanted to hear the parts. "Blackbird," "Rocky Raccoon," and "Mother Nature's Son" suffer folkie fools gladly while "Honey Pie" found its proper home crashed on the shores of Sextette (1978), Mae West’s swan song catasterpiece, in a rendition by Dom Deluise. As for “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” thank gawd there’s no mono version to compare. If there’s a worse Beatles song, please keep it on your bootlegs.

All of which amounted to a long overdue hint to be done with Paul McCartney, a project I’ve avoided until now. The prospect of traipsing through his discography filled me with dread given how I couldn’t stand what little I knew of it. Even something like “Maybe I’m Amazed,” which Macca maniacs judge his first post-Beatles masterpiece, epitomized the man’s lazy fecundity. Maybe you’re amazed, dude? Maybe? Who wants a lover that can’t quite make up his mind, especially one that strains his voice when non-committing?

But therein lies his charm, such as it is. Lazy but productive. Forced but non-committal. Such paradoxes fuel McCartney’s oeuvre, a bank of songs that frustrates more than it amazes. As Taylor Parkes so beautifully puts it:

“They just seem to ignore most of pop's basic obligations. Few of these songs mean anything at all; they're rarely exciting in a purely visceral sense; they never tell a story, or attempt to blow your mind; they're seldom uplifting, or plaintive, or gross. They are utterly useless objects, which seem content simply to exist. This is their (very) peculiar charm.”

Before reading Parkes’ defense, that's precisely how I would've described some of the most shameless pop music from ABBA to diva house. But those artists are out to connect. McCartney's arrows seek no targets. That they sometimes strike a popular nerve is of no consequence because this is the music of a billionaire who need not worry if anyone ever hears his chaos and creation. And however much the facts of his life contradict such a conclusion, that’s how his songs come across. McCartney's influence is thus felt less on pure popsters Alphabeat or even putative Beatles Xeroxes Oasis than on indie anti-socialites like Guided By Voices, Low, Palace, My Morning Jacket, Fleet Foxes, Bon Iver, etc.

Nevertheless, a rich and uncaring discography has plenty of perverse pleasures to offer. Precious few in the beginning, though, and since I was tackling each album chronologically, this did not bode well for the dozen-plus I had left. Ram works as an album but much to my surprise and the rage of McCartney fanatics, I couldn’t salvage a single song/fragment from McCartney. And the first two Wings joints, Wild Life and Red Rose Speedway, were as hideous as I’d read. The former gets the nod for general weirdness but the only hope I received from Red Rose Speedway was that Mavis Staples covers “My Love.”

For the rest of the 1970s, I’d say that McCartney’s albums would’ve been better remembered were they EPs. With some minor shuffling, Band on the Run, Venus and Mars, Wings at the Speed of Sound, Back to the Egg could have done without their side twos (leaving London Town a soft rock question mark). Proof that I was listening hard anyway lies in my enthusiasm for Speed’s “The Note You Never Wrote,” inadvertently moving in the manner of a godforsaken DJ Shadow thrift store find which, as a McCartney composition sung by Wings co-founder Denny Laine, it kind of is.

In retrospect, it’s fairly remarkable that Back to the Egg and McCartney II received such bad reviews at the time. Clearly, critics were just fed up with him by 1980, especially with punk and disco to distract them. But I dug Macca’s attempts to wrestle with The Damned (or is that ZZ Top?) (“Spin It On”), Squeeze (“Again And Again And Again”), and Steely Dan c. Aja (“Arrow Through Me”) on Egg. McCartney II is, of course, the album you play for people who hate Paul McCartney because it sounds like Kraftwerk and Brian Eno. Perhaps in an attempt to one up Bowie, The Talking Heads, and Devo, Macca even handled the Enoisms all by his lonesome. The result is far more tuneless than its ever-expanding list of supporters would admit. But it remains captivating throughout. You can almost grasp the adorable image of a 1960s survivor nervously shuffling his feet outside punk-disco clubs in the hopes that “Coming Up” or “Temporary Secretary” will take.

Instead of keeping up with Kid Creole and the Coconuts or Sonic Youth, however, McCartney’s subsequent 1980s output caters a bit too much to the recently christened Adult Contemporary charts. Tug of War, Pipes of Peace, and Flowers in the Dirt trade quirk for classiness. For once, there’s nary an infuriating moment to be found on any of them. Alas, there’s not much excitement either.

But then there’s Press to Play. Much like Bob Dylan’s chronically fascinating 1980s albums, this one is frequently disparaged for tacky production better suited for the end credits to a teen sex comedy. No doubt that’s part of the perverse pleasure I derive from it; never underestimate the power of watching Beatles fans squirm. But it just so happens to include the man’s greatest post-Beatles song.

“Press” is no less disconnected than any other of McCartney composition. He starts by complaining to Linda about “all these people listening in.” Um, hello, Paul, you’re the most successful musician on our planet (no clue as to how popular you are on your own). Of course, we’re listening in! So he takes this as an opportunity to invent a new word for fucking: “When you want me to love you just tell me to press/Right there! That’s it! Yes!” Letting us in on his most private conversation, it’s the most generous song of his career with all the tumult and clutter of Hugh Padgham’s production perfectly evoking Paul’s giddy love for Linda. We even get to hear their orgasm. “Oklahoma was never like this,” gushes Paul in one of pop music’s classic money shots. And here I thought I had the 1980s down. Wonder if there’s something this masterful hiding on a Steve Winwood album.

After the 1980s, a severe downturn. The streamlining that began with Tug of War became more severe with Off the Ground, Flaming Pie, Driving Rain, and Chaos and Creation in the Backyard such that the only song I can recall amongst them is “Driving Rain.” And even there, I’ll take the speedier live version from the otherwise embarrassing Back in the U.S.

That leaves Run Devil Run and Memory Almost Full. It certainly wasn’t preordained that Run Devil Run, an album consisting mostly of covers, would prove his best album, especially given the dreary oldies recastings on Снова в СССР (and his 2012 Great American Songbook bonanza, Kisses on the Bottom, exists mainly to scare Rod Stewart). But he never rocked fiercer nor sang better. "No Other Baby” and “Lonesome Town” were gut-wrenching goodbyes to Linda. And Memory Almost Full registers an uptick in care probably because he wanted to make sure we still loved him when he’s 65.

Normally at this point, I’d sum everything up with a one-disc distillation. But annoyingly, most of the tracks I considered essential turned out to be the singles anyway. And a two-disc started to look arbitrary. So instead, I decided to honor McCartney’s loopiness and damn history in the process with an alternative Macca timeline/discography. Enjoy!

1970 – Paul McCartney’s first solo album, Ram, is released!  
Ram 
1. "Too Many People"
2. "Ram On"
3. "Dear Boy"
4. "Smile Away"
5. "Monkberry Moon Delight"
6. "Eat at Home"
7. "The Back Seat of My Car"
8. “Another Day”
9. “Oh Woman, Oh Why”

1971 – Wings debuts with bizarre, lopsided 12” single
A: “Mumbo” 22:50 version with members of Can at their funkiest
B: “Dear Friend” (special 3:00 version)

1972 – Again, only one single is released. McCartney chalks up inactivity to having to take out the trash on his farm on the Mull of Kintyre.
A: “My Love” (special guest vocalist Mavis Staples)
B: “C Moon”

1973 -   
Band on the Run 
1. "Band on the Run"           
2. "Jet"           
3. "Bluebird"           
4. "Mrs Vandebilt"           
5. "Let Me Roll It"  
6. "Helen Wheels"
7: "Nineteen Hundred and Eighty-Five"

A: “Live and Let Die”
B: “Hi, Hi, Hi”

1975 –  
Venus and Mars EP
1. "Venus and Mars"                      
2. "Rock Show"                      
3. "Love in Song"                      
4. "Magneto and Titanium Man"
5. "Letting Go"                   
6. "Spirits of Ancient Egypt"                            
7. "Listen to What the Man Said"                   
8. “My Carnival”            

1976 –  
Wings at the Speed of Sound 
1. "Let 'Em In"           
2. "The Note You Never Wrote"
3. "She's My Baby"           
4. "Beware My Love"           
5. "Wino Junko"        
6. "Silly Love Songs"           
7. "Sally G"

McCartney performs on one-off Denny Laine single
A: “Get Off Your Ass and Let ‘em In Your Damn Self!”
B: “Six Day War” (Colonel Bagshot cover)

1978 –  
London Town EP
1. “London Town”
2. “Cafe On The Left Bank”
3. “I’m Carrying”
4. “Backwards Traveller”
5. “With A Little Luck”
6. “Famous Groupies”
7. “Deliver Your Children”
8. “Morse Moose And The Grey Goose”

1979 –  
Back to the Egg EP
1. "Reception"           
2. "Getting Closer"           
3. "We're Open Tonight"           
4. "Spin It On"           
5. "Again and Again and Again"  
6. "Old Siam, Sir"           
7. "Arrow Through Me"           
8. "To You"
9. "Daytime Nighttime Suffering"
10. "Wonderful Christmastime"

1980 –  
McCartney II EP
1. "Coming Up"           
2. "Temporary Secretary"           
3. "Waterfalls"           
4. "Summer's Day Song"          
5. "Darkroom"           
6. "Secret Friend"
7. "Goodnight Tonight"

1982 –  
Tug of War (specially priced EP)
1. “Take It Away”
2. “Ballroom Dancing”
3. “Wanderlust”
4. “Dress Me Up as a Robber”
5. “Ebony and Ivory”

1983 –
A: “Say Say Say”
B: “The Man”

1984 –
A: “No More Lonely Nights” (extended version)
B: “No More Lonely Nights” (special dance mix)

1986 –  
Press to Play EP
1. “Stranglehold”
2. “Good Times Coming/Feel The Sun”
3. “Talk More Talk”
4. “Press”
5. “Pretty Little Head”

1989 –  
Flowers in the Dirt EP
1. "My Brave Face"
2. "You Want Her Too"
3. “We Got Married”
4. “This One”
5. “Ou Est Le Soleil”

1989 – 1999 – McCartney becomes mayor of The Mull of Kintyre

1999 – Run Devil Run!

2001 –
Special one-sided single
A: “Driving Rain (live)”
B: silence

2007 – Memory Almost Full EP
1. "Dance Tonight"
2. "Ever Present Past"
3. "See Your Sunshine"
4. "Gratitude"
5. "The End of the End"
6. "Nod Your Head"

Happy birthday, John.