Month: December 2009

Heat, Bill Buford

Heat, Bill Buford

ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

Doubleday Canada, 2006, 318 pages, C$32.95 hc, ISBN 0-385-66256-4

Given the way food expertise is being adopted as a hobby by an increasing number of people, Bill Buford’s odyssey in Heat doesn’t seem even remotely strange: Is it possible for enthusiastic home cook in his mid-forties to make the leap into the fast-paced world of professional cooking?  Can an amateur learn the ropes and end up preparing food at a world-class three-star restaurant?

Of course, Buford has advantages that most enthusiastic mid-career home cooks can’t hope for: a home base in New York, a friendship with celebrity chef Mario Batali and enough money saved away to afford apprenticing at Batali’s Babbo restaurant.  But even considering those advantages, his odyssey in going to the other side of the food world remains remarkable: What began as a profile of Batali for the New Yorker ended up a two-year odyssey in the world of cooking, pasta and butchery as Buford went from line cook to apprentice pasta-maker and butcher in Italy

So, how do you go from writing about a chef to butchering animals in Italy?  It’s a gradual process.  Buford starts out as an enthusiastic civilian chef –one prone to giving invitation to dinner parties, then keeping guests waiting as he races to get everything done.  At some point, outsized personality chef Mario Batali ends up as a guest and Buford eventually musters up the courage to ask for a spot in Babbo’s kitchen, as an apprentice.  Just to see if he could.

Cooking is a tough young man’s game, and for forty-something Buford, his apprenticeship is brutal.  Not that he picked an easy assignment: Like most New York restaurants, Babbo is small, overheated and boiling from the pressure of the place’s reputation.  Buford ends up working with a colourful cast of sharp-tongued tough kitchen professionals, and they don’t take it kindly to see an intruder in their domain.  Buford starts at the lowest of the low, and though hard work eventually manages to get what he wants: some experience as a cook in a demanding professional environment –and some real scars to show the experience.) Heat never works better than during this first third, as we get to discover the inner working of a restaurant from the perspective of a well-informed civilian.  Buford never becomes a distinguished member of the crew, but he runs with them long enough to make it a memorable narrative.

But the ever-curious Buford soon becomes obsessed with other culinary goals.  To really learn about pasta, he decides to go get another apprenticeship, this time in Italy.  Later, he gets fascinated with meat and gets another Italian apprenticeship, this time as a butcher’s assistant.  (One of the book’s highlight described how Buford, trying to show what he has learned, drags an entire dead pig in his New York brownstone for butchering and cooking.)  By the closing pages of the volume, he muses about French food and possibly sets up a sequel.

This European journey is where Heat cools off a bit: While it’s wonderfully picturesque and rustic, it also appeals to different impulses than the description of working in a high-pressure professional environment: It’s about food history, European traditions and a return to basics –not exactly what the first section of the book delivers.   It’s still a pretty good read, mind you: Buford’s style is fun and accessible, while his discoveries pile up.  But it feels like a let-down after the exceptional New York-based section.

Still, there’s a lot to like in the book even with a lacklustre second half.  The portraits of celebrity chefs Mario Batali and Marco Pierre White are striking, the depiction of being “hammered” while working in a kitchen are vivid, there’s a hilarious passage about catering to chefs’ whims and there’s enough culinary tidbits (about short ribs, about tortellini, about polenta) to make the entire thing worthwhile for food-trivia hounds.  The quasi-instinctive knowledge of food (say, when meat is done) that Buford eventually gets is the kind of practical expertise that can’t be faked.

As a food book, it may not have the insider’s authenticity of, say, Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential.  But in some ways, it’s likely to be closer to the reader’s experiences and idle musings, especially when they seriously get home cooking and start wondering if they, too, could turn it into something better.  Marry that impulse to find out with a near-infinite appetite for knowledge, and you end up with Buford’s self-developing narrative.  By the time Heat ends, Buford knows enough about food to stump experts; and readers know enough to be grateful for the journey.

Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (1965)

Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (1965)

ByChristian Sauvé Movie Review

(On DVD, December 2009) There are a few movies out there that I really should have seen earlier, and Russ Meyer’s Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill was one of the most obvious ones.  A deliberate and unapologetic blend of speed, sex and violence, this exploitation film remains gripping even almost 45 years after its release, even as its most respectable contemporaries have fallen into obscurity.  This probably says a lot about how our base impulses are universal ones while the rest is just masquerade, but never mind philosophical considerations when pure movie-making fun can explain so much:  From the very first lines (“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to violence, the word and the act.”), there’s a mesmerizing quality to the film, one that transcends busty beauties and schlocky acts of violence.  Even in revolving around a trio of truly independent women, Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! Still feels somewhat edgier than more modern fare.  The plot itself isn’t particularly important when compared to seeing actresses such as Tura Satana and Haji (who, strangely enough, was born in Québec) on-screen, biting into bigger-than-life dialogue –some of which recognizable from the strangest places.  There’s a reason why this film endures as a cult classic: it’s almost compulsively interesting even today.  At the very least, it lives up to its amazing title.

Ninja Assassin (2009)

Ninja Assassin (2009)

ByChristian Sauvé Movie Review

(In theatres, December 2009) I can imagine the arguments that got this movie green-lit: “Every kid loves pirates, cowboys and ninjas!  Disney owns pirates and westerns never make any money, so let’s go for ninjas!”  That, along with an unshakeable desire to recycle decades of ninja-movie clichés may be what brought Ninja Assassin to the big screens, and the result feels as familiar and redundant as the film’s title.  Devoted to reviving the mystique of the ninja (even imbuing them with slightly-supernatural abilities), this film has plenty of dull dialogue and very few surprises in showcasing all the permutations that fans could ask for: Ninja-vs-criminals, ninja-vs-SWAT-team and the ever-popular ninja-vs-ninja.  And yet, two things make the film stand out: First, the unnecessary amount of gore sprayed everywhere: People aren’t just cut or sliced in this film as much as they’re decapitated, dismembered and cleaved in halves.  Second, though, is the general competence in which the film achieves its own objectives:  As far as a B-grade action films about ninjas are concerned, Ninja Assassin is pretty much what it wants to be.  Add to that Naomie Harris (whom I’d watch in just about everything), overblown CGI effects, the obligatory climax set on a burning set, a fine performance by Korean pop-singer Rain (in a Hollywood environment not known for lead roles for Asian actors) and director James McTeigue’s film is quite a bit better than the low expectations set by the boring trailer.  I didn’t like Ninja Assassin all that much, but it works in some clunky fashion, and I wasn’t bored for long.  For a film that indulges into two of my least-favourite action scene clichés (namely; dimly-lit sets and frantic over-cutting), that’s about as much praise as I can give.

Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009)

Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009)

ByChristian Sauvé Movie Review

(In theatres, December 2009) I have trouble dealing with We Anderson’s oddball sensibilities, and wasn’t feeling all that confident that I would like Fantastic Mr. Fox, especially given the unappealing design aesthetics of the stop-motion mode used in the film.  And, for a few moments at the beginning of the film, it doesn’t look good: The humour seems based more on incongruity and discomfort than anything else, and the film looks just as ugly as in the trailer.  But not much more than fifteen minutes in the film, something happens and the film gradually grows more and more interesting.  The stop-motion aspect recedes (when it comes back, it’s to wonder at the way it’s being used to show us something), the characters fill up, the humour broadens and the real story begins.  What follows contains a lot of innovation, comedic riffs that feel both fresh and familiar, a small-scale epic battle of wits and a fantastic voice performance by George Clooney.  It ends up, fairly easily, being my favourite Anderson films yet, with a dash of hope that he will learn something from the experience.  But even if he decides to go back to more annoying projects, Fantastic Mr. Fox will remain a small wonder: Witty, hip, deadpan and a bit subversive (there’s a sustained gag about the word “cuss” replacing another word that took me far too long to notice.)  If there’s an issue with the film, it’s an impression that it’s being a bit too self-indulgent for its own good, that it could have been just a touch more accessible.  But that may just be my residual wariness about Anderson’s films.  One thing’s for sure: This is one animated film that will be most appreciated by adults than their kids.

No Logo, Naomi Klein

No Logo, Naomi Klein

ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

Vintage, 2009 reedition of 2000 original, 490 pages, C$24.95 tp, ISBN 978-0-307-39909-0

This is No Logo’s tenth anniversary, and I’m about ten years too late in reading it.  Not that it has missed me; Since 2000, Klein’s first book has become a reference in leftish literature.  It’s a coherent map to issues that came to the forefront during the nineties: The selling of public space (“no space”), the consolidation of corporate power (“no choice”), the drive to ever-cheaper overseas operations (“no jobs”) and the interactions between them.  For the turn-of-the-century activist generation, No Logo clearly states the issues and testifies on their behalf.

I took my time getting to this book even though a copy of the first edition has been sitting on my shelves for years in part because I thought I knew what it was about.  Feh: I was reading Adbusters in high school and spent a lot of time worrying about those same issues, especially when applied to digital media.  But it took a read of Klein’s follow-up book The Shock Doctrine to make me realize that I had to read No Logo, and that I still had quite a bit to learn from it.

Klein herself is, like most western-world activists, a curious mixture of willing outrage and involuntary complicity.  Most chapters in No Logo begin with memories of her years as a teenage mall rat, segueing into what she now knows about those issues.  It is a place-setting device, a way to remind her readers that she’s not holier than everyone else, and a way to quickly go from common personal experiences to the abstraction of her topics.  Criticizing consumerism is almost always like expressing doubts about the dangers of oxygen and water: although you can raise fair points about their dangers and how they can be limited (Fire brigades! Flotation devices!) the sad reality is that they’re not going away.

Nonetheless, there’s still a difference between having to live and having one’s mind conquered by orchestrated campaigns.  No Logo gives a few hints on how to move from the later to the former.  By showing how and why mega-corporations encroach on public property, Klein also teaches how to recognize emerging threats, and why they’re so problematic.  The tour of the sweatshop havens (oops, “export processing zones”) in which a good chunk of products are manufactured in miserable conditions may not be new… but it does detail how, exactly, the products we choose to buy are manufactured, and why things have ended this way.

Knowing anecdotes and disconnected facts is one thing (congratulations if you realize you’re literally surrounded, probably even clad, in products manufactured under conditions you would consider evil) but it’s another to be able to connect them in a semi-coherent fashion.  No Logo ties the anecdotes together and suggests a framework in which to see the issues.  It suggests ways to recognize our complicity with the brands, an essential step if we are to disengage with their more abhorrent practices.  In short, it lives up to its billing as “a bible of the anti-corporate movement.”

But ten years after publication, it’s worth pondering whether things are better or worse.  Branding certainly hasn’t fallen by the wayside.  It’s even more devious than ever, what with anti-brands and stealth branding vying for the activist dollar (a process better studied in The Rebel Sell, which I’ll be commenting shortly).  Sweatshops are still around, and they’re making beloved iPods.  Corporate power still runs rampant in a media narrative consumed with anti-terror rhetoric tuned to turn us into frightened automatons assuaging our paranoia by soothing shopping sprees.  Even Klein notes in a new foreword that Barack Obama has been the best-branded presidential candidate ever, and that many of his voters were seduced by the branding more than the substance. (Which isn’t knocking down Obama, because even the best candidate deserves the best branding he can get, but may explain why so many people are disappointed that a moderate running on a populist platform ended up behaving, once elected, as… a moderate)  At best, one can say that the citizen-versus-corporation battle outlined in No Logo remains ongoing: the memetic arms’ race between informed citizen and profit-hungry organization has grown more sophisticated but neither side is ceding ground.  Much.

I won’t claim that No Logo turned me in a better activist overnight: Despite silly personal boycotts and a strong personal aversion to marketing, I’m too far embedded in consumer culture to see a way out.  Still, reading No Logo is a useful reminder.  It was an experience to walk in Toronto’s ad-plastered Union Station halfway through the book.  And it brought me some comfort when I ended up paying an eye-watering amount of money for a winter coat designed and manufactured in Montréal rather than in some exploitative third-world sweatshop.  Neither of those realizations amount to much, but in questioning consumerism, success can only be measured in small victories.

The Twilight Saga: New Moon (2009)

The Twilight Saga: New Moon (2009)

ByChristian Sauvé Movie Review

(In theatres, December 2009) Given the runaway success of the Twilight series, it’s useless to review this second entry in the “saga”: Fans of Stephenie Meyer’s books don’t care, anti-fans don’t care in a different fashion, and practically no one will pick up this film at the video store going “I wonder what this is about?”  The dumb indulgences have been turned into holy writ, the film is slave to the book and the result is aimed squarely at a particular demographic segment, those who actually know what “Team Edward” and “Team Jacob” means and actually have an opinion about it.  (Me, I’m “Team Victoria” all the way.)  Still, there are still a few things to say about this film.  Plot-wise, I was pleased to see that the universality of the first film’s essence (you know, “as a teen girl, you will be seduced by a dangerous creature that has the power to change you forever”) doesn’t completely goes away in New Moon: Poor featureless Bella gets stuck moping around and teasing a much-better boy who nonetheless turns out to be a manipulating control-freak by the last reel of the film.  Surely that rings a few bells among the target audience.  But what’s significantly improved this time around is the budget and the direction: Chris Weitz lets a bit more color flow into the film, and seems marginally more comfortable with the demands imposed by the special effects.  The film feels fresher and better by the change of approach –although I miss some of the first film’s musical choices.  While the film is still aimed at a specific fannish audience, still annoying in many ways (who just wants to hit Edward over the head with a shovel?), still in love with its own quirks and angst, it’s a passable movie-watching experience, far less painful than you’d expect, even though much of the humour may work at the film’s detriment (“So, Bella, your friend would rather hang out shirtless in the forest with four of his ripped buddies?  There’s nothing gay with that at all.”)  But, as I’ve said before, Twilight is not made for you, fellow cynical hipster cinephile: let the kids have their fun and don’t begrudge them a bit of honest passion.

The Road (2009)

The Road (2009)

ByChristian Sauvé Movie Review

(In theatres, December 2009) There’s been a lot of post-apocalyptic films lately, and hopefully The Road will signal that we can go back to something else, because it’s hard to imagine a realistic take on the end of the world that could be greyer, sadder and more relentlessly desperate than this one.  There’s no glamour, fun or adventure in this film set about a decade after an unseen, unspecified but all-encompassing catastrophe: The rare survivors are grimy and constantly forced to fight cannibals on their way.  As an adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s Pulitzer-winning novel of the same name, it’s pretty faithful: Charlize Theron has a far bigger role in the film’s trailer than in the entire book, but the rest is pretty dead-on.  This means that rather than reading 241 bleak pages trying to find new ways to describe “gray doom”, you get to see 112 very long minutes of the same.  While The Road is a success in that it does manage to hit most of its objectives, it will take a special kind of viewer to appreciate it.  The rest are likely to spend their time looking at their watches and wondering when it will finally end (and if the characters can’t die a bit sooner for it to happen.)  I suppose that film scholars will have a lot to say about the film’s nuanced take on fatherhood, man’s inhumanity to man, the nature of hope and the way decaying character is seldom self-perceived, but first you have to endure the post-apocalyptic gloom.  Viggo Mortensen fans will be pleased; so will those looking for buildings unexplainably still burning ten years after everything goes gray.  As for the rest, well, 2012 is also available.  Now that is a catastrophic choice.

The Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day (2009)

The Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day (2009)

ByChristian Sauvé Movie Review

(In theatres, December 2009) This sequel would normally have come as a surprise given the first film’s nonexistent theatrical release, but the intervening years have seen The Boondock Saints become a bit of a cult classic, and this sequel is all about bringing back the fans to the video store: Once again, two McManus brothers are in Boston laying waste to the city’s criminal elements, and we’re supposed to cheer for them as the film provides a steady succession of shootouts.  It’s supposed to be cool and funny, and writer/director Troy Duffy actually delivers on this promise: All Saints Day is often dedicated to pure fan-service, and those who haven’t seen the first film may feel left out of the fun.  Beyond the winks, though, there’s a decently entertaining crime comedy, noticeably funnier  than the  and perhaps even more striking now that Tarantinoesque crime comedies don’t show up as often at the local Cineplex.  This time, Julie Benz steps into Willem Dafoe’s shoes as the standout character: a drawling FBI agent so smart she “makes smart people feel like retards” but whose feistiness (and high heels) brings much to the film.  Her character’s dramatic arc is nearly identical to Defoe’s in the prequel, reaching an apex during a crime scene re-creation, and then dwindling down in the film’s closing moments until a little bit of a twist.  The other strong scene of All Saints Day belongs to David Della Rocco, who returns to the series just in time for an inspiring speech.  Otherwise, the writing can be a bit hit-and-miss, but the overall result is faithful to the original in providing a mixture of righteous vigilante violence.  (Too bad we also have to ignore the racist stereotypes, mild homophobia, low-budget corner-cutting or occasionally dull back-story.)  Fans will be satisfied and non-fans are advised to look to the first film as an indication of whether this one will make them happy.

Planet 51 (2009)

Planet 51 (2009)

ByChristian Sauvé Movie Review

(In theatres, December 2009) Most of its characters may be green and sport head tentacles, but there’s not much more to Planet 51 than a vintage “teen learns self-confidence” comedy for young adults.  Much of this old-fashioned approach is deliberate: The title winks less at Area 51 than at 1951 itself, and so our alien civilization takes place in this charmingly retro environment than hasn’t evolved much beyond nasal TV newsmen, poodle skirts and drive-in monster movies.  (One notes that the film originates from an overseas studio.)  It’s good for a few laughs -the best ones tackling alien-invasion clichés-, but the lack of Planet 51’s ambitions eventually feels hollow, and whatever good sentiment we have for the film aren’t rewarded by anything more substantial.  It’s for the kids, mind you, although the fifties nostalgia may end up flying over their heads.  But even on kids terms, the films’ art design may end up annoying rather than charming: familiar objects have been “alienified” by ludicrous design touches that stick out, and credibility matters aren’t helped by rock showers and pets urinating acid –although this leads to a couple of terrific gags, including a pretty cute one at the very end of the film.  Otherwise, well, most characters behave like they’re idiots, and the script’s jokes about hippies feel just as forced as they were in our own early sixties.  Of course, watching Planet 51 for cultural enlightenment is a waste of time: this is the kind of film designed so that parents can park their kids in front of the TV while they go do other things.

The Boondock Saints (1999)

The Boondock Saints (1999)

ByChristian Sauvé Movie Review

(On DVD, December 2009) After years of hearing about The Boondock Saints’s cult popularity on DVD (it never received a proper theatrical run, which explains why I missed it in the first place), I took the release of a sequel as a good reason to finally watch the film and see what the fuss was about.  It turns out that the cult appeal of the film’s success is partly based on the material itself: the story of two catholic Boston brothers taking on the city’s organized crime, The Boondock Saints often feels like an extended apologia for vigilante justice and gunfight sequences.  But writer/director Troy Duffy is a bit more self-aware than most: The ending (in which the villain is murdered) is reprehensible in the way most American action films are, but it assumes this blood-thirstiness.  What’s a bit more disturbing is the way the film actually feels fun and cool: The pacing is right, the action beats are interesting, and the dialogue has good moments.  Despite some puzzling moments (which you can either blame on a first script or a very low budget), the non-linear structure of the script works well and showcases its lead actors in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.  The standout performance here belongs to Willem Dafoe, who plays an ultra-competent FBI agent with gusto.  (The sequences in which his mind meshes with the crime he’s investigating are as good as this film gets.)  There’s also quite a bit of intriguing directing, with judicious use of hand-held and slow-motion cinematography.  Otherwise, well, The Boondock Saints is a mixture of crime, comedy and violence and action that finds resonance in the works of John Woo and Quentin Tarantino, certainly not as fully mastered as them, but definitely aiming at the same targets.  I’m a bit sorry I only saw it ten years after it came out.  The DVD contains a sympathetic commentary by writer/director Duffy and another one by Billy Connolly.

Mammoth, John Varley

Mammoth, John Varley

ByChristian Sauvé Book Review

Ace, 2005, 364 pages, C$35.00 hc, ISBN 0-441-01281-7

It’s no exaggeration to say that Mammoth is John Varley’s least remarkable book yet.  It’s not part of a series, has made few waves upon release, seems partly destined to kids and features little science-fictional content.  In tone, it’s a lark that eventually takes itself seriously.  In theme, it pushes no envelopes and even treads upon Varley’s previous work.  In short, it’s forgettable and optional: the very definition of a minor work.

But that’s not a catastrophic assessment when dealing with a writer like Varley.  Mammoth does have a few qualities of its own.  Anyone looking to compare Varley at his least impressive to any other writer could learn much by studying Mammoth: Even in minor works, Varley manages to out-write a number of his contemporaries, feature one big spectacular sequence, throw in a few neat ideas and find a haunting finale.  The pieces don’t necessarily all fit together in a satisfying fashion, but that’s a comment on a different level: Line per line, Varley remains one of Science Fiction’s most preposterously readable author.

The best demonstration of that talent is to see how difficult it is to stop reading the novel even when it’s either following obvious paths, refusing to give satisfaction, headed in the wrong direction or tackling soppy sentiments. Varley’s narration somehow makes it all look promising, even when we’re sure of the contrary.  There’s always a neat little hook of storytelling to keep up going forward, a slight twist of perspective or a mini-mystery to keep readers going forward.

So it is that Mammoth begins as a straight-ahead time-travel story.  Somewhere in the Great Canadian North, a really-rich businessman’s archaeological team has discovered not only a superbly preserved mammoth, but also the remnants of what looks like a piece of advanced technology in the hands of a human wearing a wristwatch.  Looking for answers, the really-rich businessman hires a really-smart scientist to figure out that is probably, after all, a time machine coming from a lost time-traveler.  We get, in-between chapters, snippets of a kiddy documentary about mammoths.

There are complications.  The time machine looks like a bunch of marbles in a suitcase and no one can understand how (or if) it works.  Animal activists mount an attack against the really-rich guy’s compound and disrupt the marbles.  The really-smart guy figures out the way to travel back in time when the author nudges him so.  The really-smart guy’s return to contemporary Los Angeles, after a few days in the prehistoric wilderness, comes with a bonus mammoth herd.  A spectacular mammoth rampage ensues, followed by extreme police brutality, mammoth mop-up, and a plot that goes increasingly off the rails when it resumes years later.  By the time our protagonists are kidnapping a showbiz-star mammoth and running away to Canada, well, Mammoth fully earns that “least remarkable Varley book” title.

The time-travel plot ends up in a loop, the strange time machine becomes a formless plot device that Varley isn’t interested in explaining, the super-rich guy becomes a villain (then a more tragic figure) and Canada becomes a haven for mammoth-rights activists.  For those who are tired of conveniently rich characters in science-fiction, deliberately unsatisfying plot devices or dumb animal activism may not find the book entirely to their liking.  (There’s a particularly vexing suspension-of-disbelief problem when we’re asked to believe that mammoth would become the next big thing in showbiz.)  The writing is good, but it all amounts to a plot that alternates between weak and silly.  There are several fine moments in the novel (the return of the mammoth herd in downtown Los Angeles is a spectacular sequence, and it’s announced by a cute re-arrangement of chapter numbers), but they add up to a disappointing shaggy-mammoth story, with a sad extended epilogue that seems curiously out-of-place in the middle of an otherwise light-hearted (even ridiculous) story.  To see a fine premise scatter off in all directions like this is a disappointment, especially considering that it’s coming from a writer who has done far better in the past.

But even Varley fans have accepted that he can have off decades, and that the fizzy wonderful Varley of the seventies (or, to a lesser extent, the nineties) is not the one writing nowadays.  Mammoth is fine in the ways Varley can be fine even when he’s writing trifles, but it’s also maddening in reminding us that he can do far, far better.  Call it, as I first said, a minor addition to his bibliography: worth tracking down only once you’ve exhausted his top-line work.