MUSIC EDITOR

“Sometimes the things that you hate influence your music more than the things you love.”

These words have resonated with Alexisonfire’s grittily dynamic frontman, George Pettit, who’s sweated just about every aspect of Canadian music since the band’s inception nine years ago. “I read that quote in an interview with [guitarist Dallas Green], and I never really thought about our musical direction like that until now.”

Having just settled into his Hamilton abode following a lengthy European festival tour in support of the band’s fourth LP release, Old Crows/Young Cardinals, Pettit remains optimistic towards the band’s longevity despite the current overwhelming media shift favoring auto-tune-plagued artists.

“It’s important to be self-aware. We’re all huge music junkies and are constantly trying to change and make our sound different as opposed to thinking ‘Hey! How can we make the next radio pop hit?’” He continued, “A lot of times you don’t want to rip something off that you love. But when you see something you dislike then it’s easier to make a conscious decision not to sound like that.”

The St. Catharines quintet’s edge-driven style has developed over the years into a hefty grab bag of various classifications ranging from screamcore to post-hardcore, which may explain their unforeseen rise to national stardom out of an unlikely yet burgeoning music climate.

Today, they shelve two platinum records, along with years of seasoned on-the-road experience, while still proudly showing off the calluses of their Canadian roots.

“When I was a kid there was a music culture that was small, yet so exciting and fresh with likeminded youth all gathering to play their shit instruments in some hall somewhere,” said Pettit. “There’s something fun and beautiful about that, and it felt good to be a part of that type of music culture. That’s why we always like coming back and playing around Ontario. You know, to check in on things.”

Having recently been slotted to play McMaster University’s upcoming Frosh Week this September, Pettit couldn’t be more excited to return after the band’s 2008 performance. “The last [Frosh show] I really enjoyed, and I’m a Hamilton guy so I’ll take up any excuse to play a show in the city that I’m from.”

Pettit’s prominence in Southern Ontario’s music community has also allowed him to take on his own press role of showcasing up-and-comers through AUX TV’s Strange Notes. “I was sick of watching good bands get on TV for two minutes and get asked a lot of irrelevant questions. At a time when I thought Canadian music was particularly interesting and a lot of good things were happening I thought it was a good idea to put these artists in a room where they could actually talk.”

For Pettit, giving exposure to Canadian artists like Toronto’s Fucked Up and London’s Shad (both with Polaris experience) allows viewers to understand the working class, slugging-it-on-the-road mentality. He elaborated, “That’s where Alexisonfire and a lot of the bands I love came from, so I wanted to shine the light on that aspect as opposed to the ‘I want to get famous and be a billionaire!’ vibe. That to me is superficial.”

There is no doubt, then, that you can probably catch Pettit out and around Hamilton between tours.

“There’s a lot of promoters in the city that have recently been great about bringing touring acts through to smaller venues like The Casbah and This Ain’t Hollywood. So I often have to call up the baby sitter and go check them out.” He continued, “I think if those promoters didn’t exist then I probably wouldn’t have moved here.”

He added, “I don’t want to take the risk of sounding like the ‘crotchety old guy’ who looks at popular music today and goes ‘I don’t get it,’ because I do. Kids love the auto-tune pop/metal stuff, and it’s weird. None of that resembles music that I appreciate though.”

Collectively the band gets it too. As guitarist Wade MacNeil robustly confesses in the Old Crows/Young Cardinals opener, “We are not the kids we used to be.” It’s true. After so many years in and around the Canadian music circuit Pettit has assumed a more patriarchal role, one which involves discovering local gems through live shows as a way of staying culturally involved.

“It’s important for me to know there’s a chance that if a band’s playing in Toronto then it’s likely that I’ll catch them in Hamilton. I’ve seen a lot of great shows around here recently.”

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HATHWAY-BAXTER

SENIOR ANDY EDITOR

I spent an entire summer unemployed. It wasn’t for a lack of trying to find a job, I swear. Sure, it was fun for the first little while, but then the delight of no responsibilities turned into the horrible reality of a dwindling bank account. Slowly but surely, the Internet became my job. Sad? I thought so too.

Here’s a compilation of some of the best websites I’ve come across in my lazy summer that I’m sure my fellow jobless friends would appreciate. Those of you who have jobs, I hate you, but I can’t stay mad at you. I’m sure you will enjoy these sites too.

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ENTERTAINMENT EDITOR

Okay, so August is here. Only a few weeks left till the inevitable: school. For some, it’s a welcomed return to academic life, for others, like me, it’s a sad farewell to a warm summer of work and play. I had the opportunity to spend some time these past few months at The Varsity and Bloor Cinema, two respected theatres that cater to film geeks such as myself.

What I have to report is that films are alive and well in 2010 – it’s just too bad no one knows about most of them. Yes, Toronto may be the only viable market to show these under-the-radar indies, but have no fear: what I have here are a few recent titles that you might’ve seen, and some that might provoke interest; films to seek in theatre, on video, or to download.

The Kids are Alright

Simple premise: teenage children of a lesbian couple track down the sperm donor their mothers used for conception almost 20 years prior. What ensues is a complex dramedy of heartbreak, frustration and pathos. All three leads (Julianne Moore, Annette Bening, and Mark Ruffalo) are superb, specifically Bening who brings a nearly flawless aura of motherly compassion to her role. Don’t be surprised to see her in contention for Best Actress come Oscar time.

Solitary Man

In what should’ve been Michael Douglas’ career comeback, directors Brian Koppelman and David Levin have constructed a portrait of an aging womanizer and former automotive magnate, slowly losing his family and fortune to his uncontrollable libido. A fantastic ensemble cast including Danny DeVito, Susan Sarandon and Jesse Eisenberg are lent to Douglas’ character as he tries to relive a lost youth, spouting misogynist rhetoric to anyone that will listen. Likeably sleazy, Douglas makes his Oscar-winning role of Gordon Gekko in Wall Street seem like a saint in comparison.

Inception

A summer blockbuster with ideas? A rarity to say the least, especially for mainstream appeal. Christopher Nolan’s take on dreams has certainly captivated audiences with its splendid set pieces, labyrinthine design and frenetic execution. While some action sequences may steer toward the Michael Bay end of the spectrum, it’s the way Nolan layers his story with unease and tension that remains the film’s most winning attribute. Brilliant or utter bullshit, one thing is certain, this film will have you talking about it for days afterwards.

Toy Story 3

In what is arguably the best entry of the series, Toy Story 3 had the courage to deal with issues not typical of animated features: aging and the fear of being unwanted. Pixar’s knack for infusing human elements into their stories works particularly well here as we follow Woody and the gang in their quest to stay relevant when Andy moves away to college. The film’s gripping climax, set against a fiery inferno, is brilliant in its ability to extract pure emotion – not from what’s said, but from what’s shown – pulling at our heartstrings all the while. Not only is this a wonderful film, but also a remarkable achievement in making one cry over a bunch of toys.

Restrepo

An intense and vivid documentary, Restrepo follows a platoon of America soldiers to what is dubbed “the most dangerous place on earth,” Afghanistan’s Korangal Valley. Their mission takes them deep into the rugged terrain, as they are assigned to track and kill members of Al Qaeda. Things are not that simple, though, as miss-calculated attacks not only harm innocent villagers but also feed the infantrymen’s psychological trauma. Documented by two American journalists, the film’s jittery camera work captures a year of duty as we live with these soldiers through footage and are devastated when we see them die right in front of our eyes.

Exit Through The Gift Shop

In what I still believe to be the best film of the year, this all-access look into street art is one of the most original experiences I’ve had at the movies. Shot on video, the film’s cameraman, Thierry Guetta, becomes an aide to the mysterious, real-life graffiti artist named Banksy after years of documenting other artists and their work. When a dismayed Banksy scoffs at Thierry’s documentary completed from years of recorded footage, he suggests Guetta try his hand at art instead. What transpires is a remarkable turn of events, as Thierry and his art become a media sensation, eclipsing even that of Banksy’s. Then again, it all could be a big hoax; Banksy is, after all, credited as the film’s director.

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SILHOUETTE STAFF

Inception

Director: Christopher Nolan

Starring: Leonardo DiCaprio, Ellen Page, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Cillian Murphy

4/5 stars

The first rule you learn in Creative Writing 101 is to never end a story with “It was all a dream!” The development of Inception’s narrative leading up to its conclusion is too complicated for it to fall victim to this writing cliché. But then you start to wonder, with previous films such as Memento and Insomnia, how long will it take before writer/director Christopher Nolan finally exhausts all other alternatives? Maybe there will be a lot of upset people in a couple of years with Nolan’s upcoming follow-up to The Dark Knight, when they find out that Batman never really existed.

With Inception, Nolan is doing what he does best: taking a somewhat trite plot device or tired story concept and adding his own nuanced twist. He extrapolates the dream cliché, creating a story that in itself blurs and fiercely questions the distinction between reality and dreams. Heck, the fact that he situated this concept into an action-heist narrative is a bonus at this point.

Just as he did with Memento (although with a vastly different approach), Inception is a textbook example of the difference between plot and story. Nolan achieves this distinction in Memento through chronology. With Inception he does it through degrees of complexity. The story is incredibly complex, but the general plot is entertainingly simple.

Leonardo DiCaprio is Dominic Cobb, an “extractor” who infiltrates the minds of others to steal ideas from their subconscious. Cobb and his partner Arthur, played by an increasingly likeable Joseph Gordon-Levitt, are hired by a businessman (Ken Watanabe) to do the unthinkable: enter the mind of rival businessman Robert Fischer (Cillian Murphy), not to steal an idea, but to implant a new one. It’s not extraction; it’s inception.

With the benefits outweighing the risks, Cobb accepts the assignment, and he and Arthur begin to recruit a ragtag team for the job, including someone to construct the dream world within Fischer’s mind. Cobb discovers a bright graduate student named Ariadne (Ellen Page) to be his architect, a job he is unable to do himself because of the traumatic memories which haunt his own dreams.

The film’s ingenuity arises from its seemingly clear transitions between realities and unrealities – transitions which garner increasing doubts as the film progresses, and which function under the guise of the heist genre style of the plot.

Indeed, the film’s apparent lack of surrealism is what I originally found slightly frustrating about the narrative, considering so much of it takes place in dreamscape. The first half of the picture is devoted to the methodological planning of the inception, contextualized within a world where dream extraction not only goes unexplained, but also unquestioned. The visually stunning dream-within-a-dream-within-a-dream-within-a-dream inception operates within a relatively straightforward, action-movie formula. It features everything from a car chase in a rainy downtown metropolis, to a very intricate fight sequence in a hotel building, to a semi-militarized break-in at a snowy mountain fortress.

As much as I was impressed with the story’s concept and entertained by the plot’s structure and the film’s visual aspects, I couldn’t help but have a lot of questions. Why is Ariadne not the least bit suspicious when Cobb first explains the concept of being able to create and enter dream worlds inside others’ minds? Even Neo from The Matrix needed a lot of convincing upon his “I don’t believe it” response after learning the world he knew wasn’t really reality. It felt as though Page’s character was written as a mere superfluous device to move the plot along.

Aside from his recent collaborative history with Nolan, why is Michael Caine thrown into this movie for a mere five minutes of screen time to play a clearly expendable character?

Why is Nolan’s conceptualization of dreams as (un)reality so literal? What is significant about dream extraction and inception? How did it come about and why is it important? I can summarize all of these questions by asking, simply put, “How did we get here?”

But then, I realized in retrospect, Cobb rhetorically asks that same question on separate occasions to both to Ariadne and Fischer in order to expose the dream worlds they’re in as unreality. Suddenly Cobb’s own back-story can be understood in a new light: all of the realities that are taken for granted throughout the film should come under question.

It is difficult to be critical of any transitory, fleeting, exuberant or inexplicable aspect of this film, therefore, if only because that’s what dreams are.

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I don’t know what he looks like, but I gave him a pretty good description of myself: “I’ll be the guy sitting on the bench with a notebook and a coffee.” I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve added more.

Suddenly, an unshaven man in a dirty white t-shirt comes into view, frantically jogging toward me from the nearby parking lot. I didn’t need to ask.

“I’ve never been this stressed before in my life. Writing exams at school is a walk in the park compared to what I’m going through this week,” he jokes in a voice that is anxious, excited and, well, dead, all at once.

The McMaster English student, along with Max Rose Begg Goodis, a theatre and film alumna, have written and will be directing the play Purple, which is set to be performed at this year’s Hamilton Fringe Festival from July 16 to 25.

The two first started writing the play over two years ago and finally got their opportunity to produce it at this year’s Fringe, Hamilton’s largest annual theatre festival. It’s a dark comedy that deals with issues of life, death, morality and romance, all set in a fictional world that faces crises of mutant pigs, contaminated milk and a destructive snow storm.

“It’s a dark, dark, dark comedy,” Winestock elaborates. “It’s funny at times, but it changes on a dime.” He continued, “The play mostly deals with love and death, because really, those are the only two things that matter. I definitely didn’t want to fall victim to the student pitfall of writing a play about the life of a Hamilton student. I live that shit. I don’t want to see it on stage.”

Purple features a cast and crew comprised mainly of current and former McMaster students, so campus has become a hub of sorts for the group during this extremely stressful and busy week. “We’ve been doing desperate last-minute rehearsals in lecture halls. We’ve got less than two days left and we’re still doing rewrites, building sets, everything. And because everyone has their own schedules, if we didn’t have campus as a central spot, we’d be done for.”

Indeed, Winestock looks up and says, “Oh, here’s Jimmy, our sound guy,” as that dude who looks like every older guy with a beard from any quintessential 1990’s movie randomly walks by. “I’ve only been working on this project for a little while now,” says Jimmy Skembaris. “I think they had issues with their last sound guy, so there’s still lots of stuff I’m trying to figure out. But to be honest, I think despite the problems, sound is the least of Grant and Max’s concerns,” he jokes.

Grant didn’t have a response, as he was busy giving instructions to his girlfriend and brother, both of them cast members, who had also just walked by. “Quickly, go down to the copy shop before it closes and get these promos done.” He then started apologizing to me for Goodis’s absence, saying she really wanted to be there for the interview but that she got caught up at home making a prop: a paper-maché three-headed purple pig.

I started to feel as if I was intruding, taking precious time away from Winestock, as he had only a day and a half to finish doing about a month’s work of preparation.

But he was confident that, in the end, it would all work out. “I’ve been in this situation before, as an actor and not a director, mind you, in which there is absolute chaos literally right up until the eleventh hour. But as soon as the curtain goes up, everything somehow always magically works out.

“Having been involved so much with the McMaster theatre program over the years, especially with its Honours Series performances, doing theatre is, at the end of the day, just a lot of fun. And with so many people from Mac in this play, we’re really hoping for that McMaster draw. It’d be such an honour to see people from the McMaster community come out for the performances.”

I didn’t even bother asking him if the play’s mutant pig was also going to have wings. I was afraid of the answer.

For further information, including show times, visit www.hamiltonfringe.ca.

• Kevin Elliott

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THE SILHOUETTE

There is an inner hippie in all of us that wishes they could be that guy; the guy who always has that big grin on his face as he says “I was there, man”.

You know, that guy who seems just a little too happy looking at trees after he has smoked some, and always reminisces about his “crazy trip” at Woodstock.

Now, what if I told you there is a place that could let you be that guy, or let you be the girl who got touched by the half naked rock star she had been idolizing for years, or let you say something like, “I was there when Stevie Wonder came out rocking a keytar in all his glory”?

Well my friends, I was that guy, and I met that girl at a magical place they call Bonnaroo Music Festival way down in the state of Tennessee. The festival is in its tenth year of providing life-changing experiences to over 70,000 people annually.

After hearing about Bonnaroo from the friend who was always saying, “You gotta try this,” I proceeded to look at the increasingly impressive lineup only to realize that I couldn’t possibly miss this festival. I quickly signed up as a volunteer.

I went traveling across America for 16 long hours, finally ending up in a hot and muggy 700 acre field in Manchester, Tennessee.

There I saw countless bands I knew of and loved, and even more that I had never even heard of. Stevie Wonder, Damien Marley and Nas, John Butler Trio, The Dead Weather, Rebelution, The Temper Trap, The xx, The Black Keys, Local Natives, and a handful more were on my radar but I soon found that in the craziness of Bonnaroo you just need to go with the flow and enjoy any music that comes your way.

Getting dropped off all by my lonesome at the volunteer tent with my rolling cooler full of beer and a Canada hat upon my head, I felt ready to face the organized chaos that would ensue.

I sat down at the shuttle bus stop to make a friend and, indeed, a friend I made.

My tent-mate was the classic California surfer dude, claimed to have been from everywhere, and made the observation that, “I don’t know if it is possible to O.D. on chillin’, man, but if it is, I could be close.” 

Yet despite the opportunity for disaster and over-indulgence, Bonnaroo is a fairly safe and loving place. Seriously, have you ever seen a hippie brawl? As Conan O’Brien recognized, despite all the inebriated people, there were no signs of fights. That is because the “everybody loves everybody” vibe is everywhere at Bonnaroo.

It’s clear that everyone who goes to Bonnaroo is just excited to be engaged in this fun-loving throwback of a festival. All you have to do is yell “BONNAROO!” at any point and you will hear an echo of enthusiastic replies.

The only refreshing rain that we got the entire weekend was a torrential downpour on the first night, and a slight drizzle during the Dead Weather’s set. Jack White assured us he had ordered the weather weeks in advance.

The sun we faced the rest of the weekend was bittersweet, as once the music started, and the main concert area, appropriately named Centeroo, was open, everyone was out in almost direct sunlight for four days straight.

As people wandered around Centeroo to the humorously named What Stage, Which Stage, That Tent, This Tent, and The Other Tent, the water huts and shady spots were constantly packed full of sweaty, smiling people saying “Oh, That Tent? No This Tent! Wait…The Other Tent!”

With such misleading titles and countless overlapping acts, making it to every concert was pretty much impossible. You just needed to learn to enjoy the music you could get to and not get caught up in any schedule.

The most impressive acts were the ones that reached a level of such musical perfection that you lost a sense of time and place and enjoyed the fact that there was nowhere else in the world you would rather be.

Seeing the ensemble of Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros, and John Butler’s amazing instrumental “Ocean,” were pristine moments I got to share with complete strangers muttering to me, “I think I might cry, man”.

With enough diversity to satisfy even the most eclectic musical tastes, Bonnaroo is something everyone should experience at least once. Seeing Stevie Wonder live, I felt like I was witnessing a part of history, and meeting a girl that had just touched the lead singer of Edward Sharpe, and who proceeded to pour my water bottle on herself  while Damien Marley sang his father’s “Could You be Loved” was just plain fun.

So I suggest next year, for one weekend in June, you go embrace you inner hippie, make friends with dirty strangers, and search for those moments when time and space are irrelevant, in a place where dreams can be made and forgotten all at once. Bonnaroo.

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It’s these words that Born Ruffians’ frontman Luke LaLonde boldly confesses on the band’s sophomore release, as the Toronto trio has resolutely placed all differences aside to embrace the album’s title and motto, Say It.

“The title is kind of a main incentive for communicating within our band – a mission statement if you will,” LaLonde explained. “The band relationship as compared to any other one needs to be healthy when you’re working and spending so much time together, so a common thread through the lyrics [on the album] is communication, voicing what’s on your mind.”

Following a very successful 2008 debut LP, Red Yellow & Blue, the band found itself quickly slated with the breezy rock buzz of newcomers Vampire Weekend, and immediately garnered enough attention to keep them in a constant state of touring. It was the burden of spending so much time on the road that inevitably led to drummer Steve Hamelin’s brief departure.

“For the better part of a year he stopped touring with us, but [bassist Mitch DeRosier] and I kept writing and recording with him. He just wasn’t interested in the whole traveling lifestyle anymore,” explained LaLonde.

After a brief period with Yeasayer/Caribou drummer Ahmeh Gallab filling in on the road, and with Hamelin continuing to write and record at home, the band decided to lay everything on the table.

“We had a meeting to feel things out, and we just talked about everything,” LaLonde continued. “That was when we decided that we needed to talk more about issues that build up, so that they wouldn’t snowball into anything bigger.”

Hamelin rejoined full-time, and the band agreed to be more receptive to each other, collectively. Although their signature lolloping rhythms and spastic shouts still dominate the band’s minimalist framework of writing, what’s more noticeable on Say It is a newfound relaxation when delivering these features.

“Everything was 100 per cent more collaborative and relaxed this time around, especially in the studio.” He noted, “We had more time just to record and play around with different ideas, and we recorded all of the drums, guitar, and bass live off the floor. Nothing was done to a click track, and there was no auto-tune, so we didn’t really strive for perfection, but a loose feeling that sounds like a band just playing songs.”

Tracks like “Higher and Higher” cleverly show off a polyrhythm of each instrument unsuspectingly bouncing off one another, leading to a soulful burst of energy. This subtle channeling of the Memphis sound invitingly returns on “Come Back” through an infectious saxophone melody. And “Sole Brother” slows things down to a wobbling shuffle that’s just enough off its tempo for one to sway along as if performed live.

Along with mellowing out from a musical standpoint, a shift towards conveying more topical themes vocally is also evident.

“[Our writing] has been a gradual progression and maturing process that comes from being in our early 20’s – it’s an age period where a lot of stuff happens, especially in the couple of years where we were writing and working on new music. So all of it was reflected in the music that we made,” explained LaLonde.

Tracks such as “The Ballad of Moose Bruce” prove most indicative of this maturation, as Derosier and Hamelin vibrantly chug along and crescendo into LaLonde proclaiming: “Smell the rose, you’ll see it grow/Tomorrow’s never there until you are.”

When regarding the song’s message, LaLonde reflected, “It was a word-of-advice type of song. It’s weird because I’m not very old [laughs], but I think looking at your surroundings and appreciating what you have is something that I try and do. I enjoy what I do right now, and I think that maybe I forget to enjoy it sometimes.” 

Of course, it is necessary to bring up one particularly scathing review of Say It courtesy of heavyweight critics, Pitchfork Media. Despite having a reputation for condemning those artists outside of a snobbishly obscure musical circle, they unleashed what seemed more like a personal vendetta against LaLonde’s “amateurishness”. He quickly laughed off the discomfort of the subject. “It’s really funny because it was so bad that it was almost better than getting a middle of the road review. It made us not a ‘Pitchfork band.’”

He continued, “They’ve become such a popular trend-setting blog, so to not be part of it is almost a ‘thing’ as well. The only thing you can do is laugh about it. That’s what we did.”

It’s with this mindset that Born Ruffians have assuredly launched forward, with no reservations, but much more conversation. The band lets it be known on the album’s introductory track, “Oh Man,” as LaLonde offers another word of advice: “Don’t look behind or ahead/You’re blind until you’re dead.”

Dan Hawie

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The truth behind Exit Through the Gift Shop is that there may be none. Like no other documentary I’ve seen, its content considers celebrity and art in such a way that, elaborate prank or not, we as the viewer are left enthralled by its sheer originality, as it morphs from a seemingly credible look at street art into a first-hand account of over-hyped notoriety.

The film’s opening moments set up the narrative of the film’s first half, bearing witness to a subterranean culture of artists vandalizing city streets in an expression of paint and pure inventiveness. Recorded in digital resolution, the pixilated, voyeuristic account takes shape as we observe not only the transformation of illegal artistry but also the man behind the handheld camera.

Enter Thierry Guetta. A charismatic, mustached, cherubic-like Frenchman now living in Los Angeles, we first meet him, through footage and interviews, as he balances the roles of loving father and proprietor of a vintage clothing store. This is where we also get a glimpse of his ability as a con man too, taking cheap, worn attire and hawking it for sky-high prices to trend-seeking Californians. Yet there’s one facet  of Thierry’s life that remains a bit peculiar:  he’s infatuated with recording every waking moment on tape.

Shame has no relevance here. Shown recording the monotony of  daily behavior, Thierry finds an intense fascination in documenting random conversations, friends going to the washroom, his children’s eating habits, and, most candidly, street-side celebrity encounters; Jay Leno coming off as particularly phony, forcefully mugging for the camera.

One day while on a trip in France, Thierry’s subject matter finds new direction almost accidently when it’s discovered that his cousin is the infamous street artist “Space Invader.” While constructing eight-bit mosaic tile-works of video game characters, Invader allows Guetta to tape his excursions through the Parisian streets, gluing his pieces to infrastructures as we watch gleefully through Thierry’s eye.

Soon the amateur documentarian is out every night, meeting new artists, adapting to their shadowlike existence, evading authorities, and then, sometimes not. Eventually, Thierry meets Shepard Fairey, notable for his street art including “Obey” and the enormously influential “Hope” poster depicting Barack Obama.

During this period, Thierry learns about Banksy, an extremely reclusive Brit whose stenciled, spray-painted works helped define art for the burgeoning twenty-first century. Exercising his underground contacts, Guetta miraculously meets the mysterious legend.

It’s at this point that the film turns into something completely unexpected, and like so many great documentaries, more absorbing than fiction. After being commissioned by Banksy and plundering his thousands of unmarked tapes, Thierry emerges with a video condensed from immeasurable hours of street art footage. Overwhelmingly loud and incoherent, Thierry’s labour of love baffles Banksy, who exclaims that maybe he should try his hand at art instead, a suggestion the energized Frenchman interprets as a mission from God.

What transpires next has to be seen to believe. What can be said is that Thierry, now calling himself Mr. Brainwash, mortgages his house and the livelihood of his family to put on a massive art show with pieces of his own, more or less ripped off from years spent submerged in the street art world, complimented with a certain Warhol tinge. When he becomes a huge sensation and media darling, surpassing the renown of his mentors, a dismayed Banksy and Sheppard Fairey reflect on the monster they’ve created.

The theme of celebrity is constant throughout, questioning authenticity, while also obsessed by it. How is it that Mr. Brainwash could become so popular literally overnight while others remain relegated to anonymity? Are his admirers being duped like the patrons he was previously selling clothing to? Above all else, this film loves the medium, and, if I may confess, made me want go out with a brush or spray-can and create art myself.

While the surface of Exit Through the Gift Shop paints a marvelously engaging tale of unforeseen fame and fortune, deserving or not, it is important to note that directing credit is attributed to Banksy himself, an extremely gifted artist who, known to manipulate the streets as his canvas, has manipulated the way we see art today through film. With the help of Thierry’s tapes of course.

Then again, Banksy may have crafted Thierry Guetta/Mr. Brainwash himself; meaning to embody the shallowness of the establishment and, in doing so, expose the art world for what some think it is: pretentious and indulgent.

A grand hoax? Whatever your take, this is Banksy’s finest work.

•Myles Herod

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Champ

There’s no denying that Tokyo Police Club have surpassed the massive amount of blogosphere buzz that first accompanied their debut 2006 release, the EP A Lesson in Crime. The even more celebrated release of LP Elephant Shell in 2008 solidified the Newmarket quartet as one of the nation’s key purveyors of infectious indie rock.

It’s no surprise, then, that the band’s sophomore LP, Champ, remains on layover in this particular niche, as their shuffling recipe of tempo-hugging synth, “woo-woo” hooks, and frontman David Monks’ angst-driven croon has become almost too predictable.

Honestly, the band does what they’re best at on Champ; which is producing energetic, car -friendly songs. “Wait Up (Boots of Danger)” implores the listener to hum along, and “Not Sick” channels The Strokes through a very relatable chorus.

There are obvious signs of progression on the album of course, and with the band having peaked at their comfort level, all they need is a little push forward.

3 Stars

• Dan Hawie

The Gaslight Anthem

American Slang

The third studio album by the Gaslight Anthem is riddled with their traditional all-American rock and roll sound. American Slang follows the usual guitar-driven Springsteen influence that has been seen in the two previous albums by this New Jersey band.

The energy and power throughout the 10 tracks is absolutely contagious and Brian Fallon’s vocals are heartfelt and beautiful, in the most badass way possible. Following the success of their last album, The ‘59 Sound, is no easy feat, but the band completes the task extremely well.

Songs “The Diamond Street Church Choir” and “Stay Lucky” stand out, and the rest do not rank much lower. American Slang is a quality album with a solid rock and roll feel, and is definitely a perfect summer jam designed to be listened to with good friends and good whiskey.

4 stars

• Roxanne Hathway-Baxter

Josh Ritter

So Runs The World Away

So Runs The World Away sees Josh Ritter triumphing again with his soothing vocals and tranquil sound. His ingenious lyrics are perfectly matched by an eclectic collection of instrumentals. Ritter’s whimsical descriptions of escapades with women are chronicled beautifully. Many of the tracks are love songs, but are not tacky or corny in the slightest. Ritter is extremely creative and the songs on the album feature many interesting characters and archetypes. To wit, “A Curse” is a love song between a mummy and the archaeologist who discovers him, and “Southern Pacific” tells the tale of an aimless wanderer. The beauty of the album is undeniable. It is an emotional journey. Ritter takes the listener to a different world and he makes you feel like he is singing to you, and you alone. I’d run away with you, Josh.

4 stars

• Roxanne Hathway-Baxter

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It’s happened again; just when I thought it was safe to ease myself back into the summer roll call of blockbusters, I’m left cold with the first of the season. In the wake of having plundered the catalogues of Marvel and DC comics, Hollywood has found profit in churning out superhero pictures with a success rate slightly less than average. In the pantheon of exceptional examples, there only lay a handful: Superman (1978), Unbreakable, Watchmen, The Dark Knight, and Spider-Man 2. Behind those remain a second tier of successors, not quite as transcendent as the previous, but nevertheless rewarding in both brawn and brain. These would include: Burton’s two Batman entries, Blade I & II, the Hellboy series, The Hulk (2003), Sin City, and yes, Iron Man.

Regrettably, Iron Man II does not live up to its predecessor or the merit of a successful film in general, with its ammunition deafening any sense of coherence. Meandering in its excessive use of technological and computer wonderment, I felt I was dealt the proverbial slight of hand in its tactic to employ CGI and ramblings of pseudo-science, bypassing the one characteristic that made the first film so charming and credible: character development.

Iron Man II picks up six months after the first film’s storyline. Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) has revealed his identity to the world as the metallic armored superhero, basking in the attention and power that has come with it. Fulfilling his late father’s idea of opening the “Stark Expo”, Tony has also used the suit to bring about peace talks with leading nations. Despite his popularity though, Stark is not particularly liked by the United States government, who demand that he hand over the technology in order to mass-produce it for military purposes. Brash and charismatic Stark refuses, furthering his rock star persona and ego by calling out rival Justin Hammer (Sam Rockwell) in court on his and the military’s failed attempt to replicate the Iron Man technology.

Behind the playboy veneer though, Stark is a sick man. The glowing contraption on his chest, which is a generator for his weak heart, is slowly becoming immune to his regime of “palladium” intake, thus poisoning him in the process. Fearing a potential demise, Tony, in a spontaneous gesture, hands over the CEO reigns of Stark Industries to his assistant, and former lover, Pepper Potts (Gwenyth Paltrow).

The first half of this film (as described above) was its most interesting, providing courtroom drama and the impending uncertainty of Stark’s health. Things begin to change, strangely enough, as Downey Jr.’s performance becomes more complacent and aggravating – a catalyst to the film obviously switching to autopilot as Paramount Pictures and Marvel Entertainment spent their time trying to out-guess each other on the record-breaking, opening weekend gross.
The action gets hot and heavy with the introduction of Ivan Vanko (Mickey Rourke), a Russian thug, whose father worked alongside Stark’s to create the initial design of the Iron Man prototype decades prior. Seeking revenge for his father’s unsung contributions, Vanko, who constructs what he can from scrap metal in his moodily lit dwelling, confronts Stark in a formidable exchange on a Monaco racetrack. In the film’s most dazzling set piece, Rourke’s Vanko, equipped with electrically charged hand whips, silently wreaks havoc upon moving cars while a bruised Tony Stark combats the efforts as media and a crowd of thousands watch.

Without revealing too much, Vanko and Justin Hammer team up together to create a line of robots to unveil at the Stark Expo, which in turn, are used to take over the world. They’re bad guys, of course. If anything, Sam Rockwell is the standout of the film, possessing the pathetic frustration of a man who has always stood in the shadows of greatnesses, now having his revenge. His weasely characterization steals each scene. Rourke, on the other hand, is a wasted opportunity. Still sporting his unkempt locks from The Wrestler, it’s almost as if the producers wanted him to play it Joker-lite, riding on the coat tails of Heath Ledger’s chilling portrayal of a comic villain while relegated to PG-13 constraints. Too bad. Rourke, a method actor, went to the extent of refining his accent with a Slovakian tinge, while also branding himself with authentically replicated Russian tattoos. You wouldn’t know it though. All we get is a silent figure, persistently chomping on a toothpick.

When it’s all said and done, Iron Man II is a producer’s picture. With the success of the first so unexpected, the obvious thing to do was expand the sequel with more money. What we have here is an indulgent popcorn film with minor inspired moments. Sure that’s acceptable when it comes to summer fare, but not when it means ruining the potential for a better-than-average franchise. Notice I didn’t make mention of Scarlett Johansson’s turn as the Black Widow? That’s because it’s quite possibly the most unnecessary role in film history. There you go again, Hollywood.

•Myles Herod

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