David Russo | The Weinstein Company

When I think of a love story, I immediately think of some romantic “Shakespeare in Love” or “Titanic” type of thing. I think of conflict breaking two people up before they eventually get back together. By the end, they might end up together or they might be torn apart by some horrible circumstance, their love forever living on through memory and passion.  

Though Derek Cianfrance has done commercial and documentary work along with a few films that attained some success at festivals, his first big Oscar contender is “Blue Valentine.” It is another love story, but from its conception, it was obvious that this movie would not be typical in any way.

“Blue Valentine” chronicles both the end and the beginning of a relationship, the start of a romance between Dean (Ryan Gosling) and Cindy (Michelle Williams) and the fights that seem to doom it a few years later.

The film has been on the awards circuit for almost a year, appearing at Cannes, becoming a hit at Sundance, garnering nominations at the Golden Globes and being backed by one of the most reputable Hollywood firms—The Weinstein Company. Already, it was scoring some pretty major cinematic points—but it was not an easy road to get the film to where it is today.

I had the chance to talk to Derek Cianfrance when he answered questions for a few publications by phone. He spoke about how he considered stars Gosling and Williams co-writers of the film and how he had them withhold parts of their characters from the other so the camera would capture real emotion as they uncovered things about each other.  

He also talked about his struggle to get “Valentine” to the screen. The journey started over a decade ago as he stood over a Xerox machine printing his screenplay, eager to mail it out to companies and get started on filming. Every company rejected him, thus beginning the third of his life spent searching for a way to get his film produced. After 11 years of financial woes and location confusion, the film was finally in production by the end of last decade.

Upon its release, “Valentine” was rated NC-17 by the Motion Picture Association of America. Cianfrance said the NC-17 rating normally goes to films that show too much adult content, but in his film’s case, he thinks “Valentine” made MPAA members feel too many adult feelings. In a way, he said, the rating is a sort of compliment to the film. “Valentine” handled its hard-hitting subject matter so well that its audience was left with such an indelible impression, the first instinct they had was that of censorship.

The film’s rating has since been lowered to R, standard for heavy relationship dramas. “Valentine” does not feature violence and has very few situations of nudity or sex, but it is still one of the most explicit movies of the new millennium. An honest depiction of the trials and triumphs of a modern relationship, “Valentine” stars Oscar nominees Gosling and Williams in roles that they both stood by for more than five years. And it’s lucky that they did; these roles were meant for them. The pair gives powerhouse performances, bringing every raw emotion of adoration and resentment to the surface. Indeed, Gosling and Williams—two of their generation’s best actors, if not the best—are reminiscent of a young Marlon Brando and Jane Fonda.

And though Cianfrance could be likened to Cassavetes, don’t let these comparisons fool you. This film is something new. The cinematography switches between close and cramped to spacious and wanting depending on whether the scene is in the past (when the couple met) or the present (when they are falling apart). The editing seamlessly makes this movie a duet, as Cianfrance wanted—the two separate parts, past and present, are both given equal footing in the viewer’s emotions.

The soundtrack is moody and breathes within the film, making wonderful use of Grizzly Bear’s song, “Foreground.” This is fitting, because this is a movie that has an excellent grasp of what should be in the foreground—the real moments. Whether they’re joyous or bleak, Cianfrance never shies away from displaying these moments with a candor more captivating than many more accomplished directors. His dedication to capturing the truth and his determination to recreate something real is what makes “Blue Valentine” one of the most striking, unnerving, touching, must-watch movies in recent memory.

A local news station in Atlanta was covering Chateau Elan, Georgia’s largest winery. There’s a stage like the ones upon which there would be a guillotine and two women with their feet in wooden containers. One of those women is reporter Melissa Sander, and her goal for the day is to compete with the lady next to her to see who can stomp the most grapes in the shortest period of time. This should be a wonderful, fun way to commemorate le Chateau’s success on television, right? This should be one big celebration of grapery, right?

Wrong. Legend has it that Sander wasn’t content with just standing and working those grapes under her feet. No, she wanted more. So, as the two ladies start to stomp, vying for the title of Master Grape Stomper, Sander abruptly yells, “Stop!” And then everything happens so fast that it’s a blur. Competitor Stomper has stopped and Sander begins stomping really fast and hard to take advantage of the other’s inactivity. Sneaky, eh? But then to top it all off, Grape Lady Sander trips on the barrel’s side and plummets Beyoncé-style to the ground. When she makes contact with the hard earth, she makes the most otherworldly sounds ever known to man, and she starts to cry out in pain. The other woman watches frantically, seemingly wondering what she can do. But not even her bewildered face can stave off the laughter that comes from the viewer who is wondering why Grape Lady has turned into a wallaby mixed with a narwhal.

Amid the Grape Lady’s cries of “Arnht, urnnnnd, oouwwwwh,” the channel smoothly cuts to inside the studio back in Atlanta, where the two anchors are staring at the camera in awe. They regain their composure, but as they do, they utter earnestly “Ouch, that looks like it hurt” and “Well, hope she’s okay.” You won’t know what to laugh at first, the Grape Lady’s banshee whoop or the anchors’ faked concern. Whatever you laugh at, though, it’s clear that this video must go into the Pantheon of Epic Win. Watch it. Not only will you laugh until you cry, you’ll also derive new meaning from that one Aesopian fable about sour grapes.

Lewis shot to superstardom by winning “X-Factor,” the British predecessor to “American Idol.” Then her debut, “Spirit,” dropped shortly after and broke all kinds of fast- and best-selling album records. Albums are indeed independent of one another, but when someone starts off with as fantastical a success as Lewis, it’s hard not to compare the new work to the old. So, that’s what happens. And that’s where the problem comes in.

When Lewis became such a hit, her execs, managers and everybody else involved in her career walked on pins and needles to craft a flawless debut for her. The result was “Spirit’s” stylish, refined sense of being a classic. “Echo,” however, is far less expressive. Almost every song seems to try to be a listener-friends single, instead of actually communicating with its audience. The songs, excepting a few, all seem like hollow attempts at anthems of love—either of its recovery or its acquisition. Lewis takes the gladiatorial, epic formula she simply played around with on her debut and uses it on almost every song on “Echo.” What happens is not fit for stadiums, though; it’s painfully obvious that she’s trying too hard for hits.

But something that Lewis will always do well is sing. The voice that won her all of her fame is still strong. It’s more mature, if more somber, than it was in the reality competition/debut album days. That’s not a bad thing, though, as she pushes her highs to new levels of shrill ecstasy. Ignoring the moments when she ends her chest notes in a whine, this album finds Lewis in her best vocal form yet. When those few emotionally honest songs come along, they find her vocally conveying her feelings instead of just searching for the acrobatics that will awe.

If “Spirit” was appropriately titled, for it was full of soul and emotion, then this one is just as aptly named. An echo is defined as “any repetition or close imitation, as of the ideas or opinions of another.” Leona Lewis’ new album, “Echo,” could not be better described. It seems to be a wave reflected off the walls of a cave, like the original sound has died but you can still hear this simulacrum if you want. With so much spirit the first time around, I expected that sound to resonate more strongly. But all that was there was this listless, hollow echo.

(MCT)

It seems as if this quickly ending decade has heard the words “America’s next top model is…” 92 times. In actuality, it is only the show’s 13th cycle that is about to have its finale Wednesday. That is why we have decided to take a look back at Tyra Banks’s brainchild, the phenomenon that brings another perspective to the lives of models and gives the people of this glamorous decade another fantasy to revel in. So, here goes: a list of the “ANTM” essentials.

Tyra moments

The fierce host of the show has lost and regained her sanity in front of our very eyes more times than she’s eliminated fuglies. Remember when Banks went an entire cycle with orange hair? She told her beautician to go for fiery ferocity, and what she got was carrot cake from last year’s Thanksgiving. There was also that time during Cycle 4 when redeemed bad girl Tiffany Richardson was eliminated, and Banks tried to console her, but lost her temper and “went hood” all on Richardson’s head. Richardson left, saying she “don’t have to take this from [Tyra].” Don’t get us started on the fact that Banks will not stop talking about “smizing” (smiling with your eyes) this season.

Winners vs. runners-up

As fickle an industry as modeling is, it does not always provide the best shelf life for its “employees.” Thus, if “ANTM’s” judges want to promote a positive image for models, they should graduate some who will actually do something with their lives. But they let bone-baring Jaslene beat exotic Natalia Vodianova-lookalike Natasha in Cycle 8. In Cycle 2, bubbly, surefire success Mercedes lost somehow to that manchild Yoanna. And when Whitney won, it was a wonderful moment because she was a bigger girl. But it hurt that she beat striking Anya. Most scathing, however, was when mousy, “cute” Nicole beat both ferocious catwalker Bre and ethereal beauty Nik in Cycle 5. Unforgivable.

Most beautiful uglies

“ANTM” is notorious for picking girls who are horrendous in person but take stunning pictures, or vice-versa. Cases in point: Cycle 2’s Shandi (the biggest makeover in history), Heather Kuzmich from Cycle 9, and especially the winner of Cycle 12, Teyona. These girls benefited greatly from getting their weave put in and having themselves slathered in Maybelline. And special shout-out to Lluvy, who didn’t take such great pictures and wasn’t our fave in person.

Weirdest names

Speaking of Lluvy, a lot of the girls on the show have had some awe-inducing names. Katarzyna Dolinska, Furonda Brasfield, Coryn Woitel, Xiomara Frans, Kahlen Rondot, Melrose Bickerstaff and Fo Porter are among some of the most excellent foils to the Brittanys and Ashleys of the show.

So now that this cycle is drawing to a close and we’ve recapped the craziness that has been “ANTM,” we’ll see you Wednesday when Nicole Fox (hopefully) takes the top prize. And then probably two weeks later, prepare yourself for a 14th season of Tyra Banks correcting the girls’ fierceness by demonstrating herself the exact look they’ve already done.

(MCT)

“Glitter” has a pretty respectable position on the IMDb Bottom 100. At No. 85, it’s sitting pretty, 16 spots from being off the list, among the likes of “Troll 2” (1990) and “I Can Do Bad All By Myself” (2009). If you don’t know the story of “Glitter,” I’m surprised. Legend has it my girl, Mariah Carey, was going through some things at the time. She pushed an ice cream cart onto “Total Request Live,” stripped down to a bikini, and said she just wanted “to go where the butterflies are.” So, she’s crazy. Why was she on “TRL” in the first place? To promote her new vehicle that would be her crossover into acting fame. Fox promoted the movie as Mariah Carey playing—you guessed it—Mariah Carey.

The story of Mariah Carey’s life is actually quite interesting. I’m not kidding, look it up. But when you have Mariah Carey playing her life story, it just doesn’t work. The story goes that Billie (Mariah’s character) was born into poverty with an absent dad and a cracked-out mom and then waited tables as an adult to not fall into complete oblivion and found consolation only in her friends/roommates, Roxanne (Tia Texada) and Louise (Da Brat, Mariah’s real-life bffl). Then, as with Mariah, Billie goes to the right club at the right time and is spotted by an exec who instantly wants her on his roster. In Mariah’s case, that exec was Tommy Mottola, and he was the super-millionaire whom she would go on to marry. With Billie, however, he was Julian Dice (Max Beesley). Not such a big shot, but he too loved the girl. Thus began the clichéd story of love against the odds. Nutshell version: Billie shoots to superstardom, Julian gets in trouble with some shady characters, Julian and Billie have a fight and break up, Julian is killed, and Billie is devastated that she yelled at him the last time she saw him. I just spoiled the movie for you but, trust me, you don’t need to see it.

What makes “Glitter” such an epic fail is not that it is a story we’ve heard before. Most productions are just reworkings of the same few general themes. “Glitter” is an abomination because it’s stale and saccharine, and the acting is a signal that Armageddon is nigh. There is nothing special about the story, so a viewer would expect there to be something extraordinary about how the story is told. Not so with “Glitter.” It’s a run-of-the-mill retelling.  So, now the viewer at least expects good acting. No. You can’t even blame it on the fact that it’s Mariah’s first feature. The whole ensemble is bad. SO bad. I can’t even explain, except to say that the printed criticism of Mariah states that “every emotion she tries for looks like she’s searching for her car keys” is true.

Not even I, Mariah Carey’s biggest champion, could say this movie was passable. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I lied that tremendously. I hate to be another rung in the ladder of haters of this movie, but it’s legitimately one of the worst things this decade has made. And this decade made “B2K.” Don’t even watch this for the giggles. It’s that bad. IMDb’s current 2/10 is probably too much.

Rating: 3.5/5
For fans of: The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Kills, The White Stripes
Tracks to download: ‘I bet you there are some burley dudes on that ship…’. ‘Pressure Check’, and ‘Clean it up’

OK, so maybe not all of us. But for those of us who do, there’s YouTube. The first in the Friday series of YouTube hilarity is “ATL Hoodrat aka SOULJA GIRL goes crazy on the Marta!” This sensation, with almost 4 million views among all of its variations, tells the woeful story of a woman who was down on her luck. All she wanted was for “Young Jeezy to come and ‘ssassinate George Bush, shawty!” She only wanted people to watch her as she cranked that Soulja Girl.

Victim though she’s not, it’s almost impossible not to feel bad for Nafiza Zayid as she goes completely bananas on an elderly lady on the Atlanta public transit system, known as the MARTA. A mixture of emotions overwhelms the viewer: fear at the craziness of Zayid, sadness at how mentally messed up she seems to be, anger at the violence—not just her own—shown on the train. But let’s focus on the laughter it gets from us. Zayid provides enough catchphrases for at least half a decade as she jaunts around the aisles of the bus, yelling that the old lady “thought I wouldn’t freestyle on…you…boo?” She asks for a phone and, when no one offers one, proclaims, “I no need no phone.”

After a couple of minutes of “shawtys,” Zayid approaches a passenger in a way that makes him a little peeved. As in he attacks her. She repeats that she’s “pressing charges” about 7 trillion times, and then makes her unceremonious exit from the train.

Nafiza Zayid was arrested for assault and disorderly conduct, but not before providing the lawls to a supposedly unmannered generation. The lady didn’t press charges herself, but the video is like a jarring look at relations between many different groups—old and young, male and female, “sane” and “crazy.” But it’s not to be analyzed too much; you should probably just watch, roll on the floor laughing, and chant to yourself, “Get out mah face, get out mah face, yah!”

“Cosmic Egg” is the best album by Australian band Wolfmother. While it’s true that this is only the group’s second album, this is still saying something. Wolfmothers’ self-titled debut was a hit critically and commercially, going on to win a Grammy and a smorgasbord of other awards. Instead of falling into the far too common “sophomore slump” (Ciara, anyone?), Wolfmother has exceeded expectations and crafted an album that is the epitome of epic music.

The album starts with “California Queen,” a proper headbanger that is more metal-influenced than anything the band has done before. But by the third track, “White Feather,” the hard-rock roots of the band start to come out. The title track is what its name suggests—a musical meteor equipped with a banging hook and a drumline straight from the ’80s—and it is the last song of the first half of the album. The set segues to music that one would call more epic, as opposed to the thumping focus of the previous seven tracks. The synth-laden “Far Away” (sure to be a crossover hit) and “Pilgrim”—which finds the band at its lyrical best—are two of the standout tracks on the album, both evoking aspects of ambient music as lead singer Andrew Stockdale’s voice soars over their gladiatorial choruses. Indeed, this is the sort of epic music that is fit for stadiums and coliseums, and by the last two songs, “Phoenix” and “Violence of the Sun,” the listener has been taken to a new plane of existence—one of lyrical and melodic reverie.

When it was unclear if Wolfmother would even continue as a band (the three-piece lost two members after the first album and became a four-piece, retaining only Stockdale and his dream from the original lineup), it is especially impressive that they could not only stay afloat and keep their sound, but also craft an effort that’s better than their exceptional first. And notice how many song titles refer to great heights: “New Moon Rising,” “10,000 Feet,” “Cosmonaut,” “Phoenix,” “Violence of the Sun.” It’s as Wolfmother thought they was going to fly above the conventions of the current musical scene and defy all space and time. They did.

Passion Pit performs on "Late Night with Jimmy Fallon" in July. The group will be opening at W.I.L.D. Friday afternoon. (Dana Edelson | NBC Photo)

“Higher and higher and higher!” Michael Angelakos cheers on “Little Secrets,” the second song from Passion Pit’s debut album, “Manners.”  This call to new heights is exactly in step with the band’s music as a whole.  Angelakos’ voice pushes the stratosphere as the other four members keep the frenzy up, up, up with fast-fingered strums and dazzling synths.  The whole thing makes for quite the heady experience that suits every moment, from running to (surprisingly) chilling to dancing and, this weekend, W.I.L.D.-ing.

This pit of passion traces its roots to Cambridge, Mass., where lead vocalist Angelakos went to school at Emerson College and gained himself quite a little following with his small list of recordings that were initially meant as a gift for his girlfriend of the time.  When he partnered with the rest of the band in Boston, they pooled their talents together to make their first disc, “Chunk of Change.” The EP quickly gained exposure around the city and on the underground circuit, thrusting Passion Pit into the ranks of such prodigal indie company as The Strokes, Arcade Fire and The National.

Once signed, the band picked up speed by starting recording for their first full-length.  Choosing only one track from “Chunk of Change,” “Sleepyhead,” to be remastered and used on the debut proved to be a smart strategy. By picking the most acclaimed song from the earliest days of the band, Passion Pit was able to draw on past fans as well as gain new ones   The quintet approved ten songs—excluding “Sleepyhead”—that they had recorded and put them in perfect order, as if taught by the best arrangers in the world how to tell a story through chronology.

The rollercoaster begins with “Make Light,” a long song that starts with slamming keyboards and simple scales and continues the trend throughout its five-minute runtime.  Through Angelakos’ ever-rising vocals and the band’s dizzying chaos, the tracks go, until somewhere around the midpoint the pace slows for a second for “Swimming in the Flood.”  By the end, “Seaweed Song” will have any listener captivated by the emotional crescendo it seamlessly evokes.  This is epic music with a beat, and every track is ridiculously catchy.  This is a tremendous achievement because of the subject matter of the songs—the album deals with some of the most devastating topics in human existence with a melancholy and hopelessness that the danceable music belies.  The end result is even more breathtaking due to this dichotomy.

Luckily for Washington University, Passion Pit is coming to this year’s W.I.L.D. festival.  If this doesn’t result in every student rushing out to “buy” their album, there is something wrong in the world.  Every track is golden; this is the sort of album that rushes straight to a person’s top-ten-favorites-ever list.  It’s called “Manners,” but it doesn’t shy away from delivering a shocking blow to any audience that thinks it won’t be pleased by Passion Pit and their music.

Read more about the other performers at this fall’s W.I.L.D.: Method Man and Redman, K’Naan and Deskhop.

Catering to a society that has been criticized as having a collective attention span matching that of a boll weevil, the entertainment industry—particularly its branch of music—has produced a number of artists who are constantly seeking to reinvent themselves. This has been a hugely successful tactic commercially, allowing mainstays like Madonna to go from “Ray of Light” to “American Living to Confessions on a Dance Floor.”

Then there’s Mariah Carey, the best-selling female in the world. Her album sales in the ’90s trumped those of any other artist from that decade, as her five-octave range and her Mary Poppins demeanor catapulted her to the record books and into the hearts of countless fans and critics worldwide. Then came her oft-publicized divorce from her domineering husband/boss, Tommy Mottola, whereupon she took more control over her image—both musically and physically. As her sound grew more hip-hop and her skirts got shorter, her fanbase shifted a tad, but the Hot 100 number ones (of which she now has more than any other artist except The Beatles) kept pouring in. She was on top, never to be stopped, it seemed, by anything less than a meteoric event. Which is what “Glitter” was. The movie tanked, the companion album failed and she lost her mind.  Hospitalized for “exhaustion,” she slowly faded from the spotlight and into obscurity.  Although she returned with the biggest sales of 2005 with “The Emancipation of Mimi,” her use of guest rappers, pop and hip-hop producers and increased sexuality since 1997’s “Butterfly” has left critics, Lambs (diehard MC fans like myself) and the general public a little nostalgic for the glory days.

“Memoirs of an Imperfect Angel,” in stores Tuesday, is that return to form. The album’s 17 tracks delve into the New York diva’s psyche more like her 20th-century efforts. No more touching her body; introspection adorns this new album. Carey rehashes the themes she’s been using constantly since her 1990 debut, but they still aren’t old because of her deeply felt songwriting and expressive vocals. The song has club bangers such as the hit “Obsessed” and the marching band anthem “Up Out My Face,” but unlike some of her previous discs’ bass heaviness, these two are as fast as Carey gets. The rest of the album’s makeup is reminiscent of the “Vision of Love” and “Always Be My Baby” days. Especially poignant:  “H.A.T.E. U” (Having A Typical Emotional Upset), with its choruses capped off by signature high notes; “Standing O,” with The-Dream’s ubiquitous repetitive hook; and the regretful ballad “Angels Cry.” By the closing track (and second single), a triumphantly executed cover of Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is,” it’s apparent that a certain someone has been heeding the advice to go back to her old style while maintaining relevance, something every artist wishes they had the ability to do as easily and successfully as Mariah Carey.