I N T E R N A T I O N A L T E L E T I M E S **** * * ****** * * **** ***** **** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * **** ****** * * * ****** * * ***** * * * **** * * * **** * * **** ¥ Vol. 3 No. 4 May 1994 ¥ ------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS ISSN 1198-3604 ------------------------------------------------------------ -- Features -- SEX, ART, AND AMERICAN CULTURE "While some of her messages may infuriate, her ideas cannot be overlooked. She possesses a unique voice that demands the attention of anyone interested in culture and politics in the world today." - by Tom Davis CANADIAN AUTHORS "It seems to me that I have learned as much about Canada from fictional and non-academic sources as I have from the statistics and facts I have read." Euan writes about five well known Canadian authors. - by Dr. Euan Taylor BOOK REVIEWS BY ALEXANDER VARTY Alexander Varty reviews three books: Incredibly Strange Music, Volume 1; A Whole Brass Band; and A Hard Core Logo. - by Alexander Varty -- Departments -- MUSIC NOTES: FEATURE "We talked for two hours, and Mr. Mandela said how wonderful it was when the prisoners heard our [records] from their cells, that it sounded like freedom. Then he said, 'now you must come home!' " - by Ken Eisner MUSIC NOTES: POP/ROCK/R&B Ken reviews ten albums by musicians such as Bonnie Raitt, Tori Amos, Sam Phillips, The Golden Palaminos and Vinx. - by Ken Eisner MUSIC NOTES: JAZZ/WORLDBEAT Ken reviews ten albums by musicians such as Jan Garbarek, The Shuffle Demons, The Gipsy Kings, Material and BABKAS. - by Ken Eisner MOVIES: WIDE RELEASE Ken reviews six wide release film such as Bad Girls, Threesome, The Hudsucker Proxy and Serial Mom. - by Ken Eisner MOVIES: ARTHOUSE/INDEPENDANT Ken reviews five arthouse and independant films such as A House of Spirits, Belle Epoque and Sirens. - by Ken Eisner THE LATIN QUARTER "Fuente's genius is undeniable. He has brought to us the myths and ideas of Mexico's past and present, with a beauty, passion and brilliance, that can be understood by even those who have not so much as glimpsed at a postcard from Mexico." - by Andreas Seppelt THE WINE ENTHUSIAST "Today, B.C. wineries are starting to be known more for their quality table wines rather than the cheap jug wines that were the industry standard." - by Tom Davis CUISINE A recipe for Peaches Chambord. - by Markus Jakobsson ------------------------------------------------------------ EDITOR'S NOTE ------------------------------------------------------------ -- Chez Teletimes... -- Hello, and welcome to yet another fine issue of International Teletimes. My name is Ian, and I'll be your editor this evening. May I recommend something to start you off? Why not begin with our special this month, Favourite Authors. We have a lengthy review of a new book by Camille Paglia, entitled Sex, Art, and American Culture, served with a side order of "Canadian Authors" and assorted "Book Reviews by Alexander Varty". If you enjoy that, I recommend that you then try some of our fine Arts & Entertainment writing by Ken Eisner. You may choose between various movie and music reviews of all kinds, or try his specialty: "Mama Africa Comes Home." If you're feeling particularly hungry for knowledge, you may even choose consume it all! Do we have any good wine you ask? But of course! You can sample some of our fine "BC Wines" with the expert guidance of Tom Davis, our own wine specialist. Finally, for dessert, we have some succulent Peaches Chambord. If you really like the dessert, the recipe is available in this month's Cuisine column. Bon appetit. Ian Wojtowicz Editor/Publisher A-hem! Don't forget the tip... ------------------------------------------------------------ MAILBOX ------------------------------------------------------------ -- News Room Debate Column Response -- With regard to the debate column: The individual supporting the idea that all speech must be allowed on campus is correct, the other is wrong. There is no debate here. If any speech is allowed to be restricted, who is designated as the restrictor? One of the debators mentioned that everyone knows the Holocaust happened. This is not so. There are those people who believe it never occured. What if one of them was a restrictor? To safeguard democracy, three absolutes are required: freedom of speech, seperation of church and state; and the right to keep and bear arms. Anything less guarentees the eventual slide down the slippery slope to totalitarianism. - Gerry Roston, Pittsburgh, USA -- Tsukuba: Science City (Apr-94) -- I read [Prasad Akella's] article in the April Teletimes issue and I liked it. I knew nothing about Tsukuba but now, thanks to you, I do. I'm always interested in learning some interesting facts and your article presented a few (I'm gonna have to check out the Science article for more). - Otto Grajeda, San Francisco, USA ------------------------------------------------------------ FEATURES ------------------------------------------------------------ -- Sex, Art, and American Culture -- By Camille Paglia (Vintage, 337pp., US$13) Camille Paglia is a something of a renaissance woman, a Professor of Humanities at the University of Arts in Philadelphia, a verbose master of criticism, and a truly imaginative post-modern intellectual. Her style is witty, engaging, full of humour and passion, and cuts to the point with awe-inspiring ferocity. At times her prose reads more like Ginsberg's poem "Howl" than an academic essay, but this is precisely one of her strengths. Her first book, Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson, was published in 1990, and received little notice until after the publication of an essay in the journal Arion. The essay was entitled "Junk Bonds and Corporate Raiders: Academe in the Hour of the Wolf." This brilliant essay is the core of her latest book: a compilation of articles, essays, a lecture and an interview, entitled Sex, Art, and American Culture. After the publication of "Junk Bonds" in 1991, and the paperback release of Sexual Personae, Paglia became a full- fledged phenomenon, appearing in various video and print media, as a self-styled defender of reason against a tyranny of post-structuralist art theorists, feminist zealots, and commissars of Political Correctness. "Junk Bonds" is itself a book review of two books from the field of Gay Studies: One Hundred Years of Homosexuality, by David Halperin, and The Constraints of Desire, by John Winkler. Both books are representative of the views and methods of Humanities scholars at leading universities. Both authors are post-structuralists, a class of scholars which emerged in the seventies and eighties inspired by the writings of several French scholars: Foucault, Derrida, Lacan, and Louis Althusser. The post-structuralist approach, which like Marxism, claims to be "scientific," while displaying nothing but contempt for the scientific method, is based upon the interpretation of art or culture in terms of textual analysis and the process by which the "text" is deciphered. Feminist and Marxist scholars often apply the typically dense and problematic concepts of these hermeneutists in the fields of art criticism. Paglia is merciless and unrestrained in her attack on Halperin and Winkler. Her wrath could even be termed Medea- like. She speaks with outrage at such academics, who in her analysis are self-serving get-rich-quick yuppies, the moral equivalent of junk bond dealers: "The French invasion of the seventies had nothing to do with leftism or genuine politics but everything to do with good old- fashioned American capitalism, which liberal academics pretend to scorn. The collapse of the job market, due to recession and university retrenchment after the baby-boom era, caused economic hysteria. As faculties were cut, commercial self-packaging became a priority. Academics, never renowned for courage, fled beneath the safe umbrella of male authority and one-man rule: the French bigwigs offered to their disciples a soothing esoteric code and a sense of belonging to an elite, an intellectually superior unit, at a time when the market told academics they were useless and dispensable. It is comical that these vain, foolish and irrelevant people, so contemptuous of American society, imagine themselves to be leftists." The academe's addiction to French post-structuralism has been at the expense of an entire generation's education in humanities, Palgia contends. This is something that I, as an art student during the early '80s would testify to as well: "Lacan, Derrida, and Foucault are the perfect prophets for the weak, anxious academic personality, trapped in verbal formulas and perennially defeated by circumstance. They offer a self-exculpating cosmic explanation for the normal professorial state of resentment, alienation, dithery passivity, and inaction. Their popularity illustrates the psychological gap between professors and students that has damaged so much undergraduate education." After a relentless assault upon Halperin and Winkler, Foucault and Lacan, academic feminism and Marxism, in an attack that roams over a breathtaking battleground of ideas, she speaks prescriptively to graduate students about to enter the academe: "This is a time of enormous opportunity for you. There is an ossified political establishment of invested self- interest. Conformism and empty pieties dominate the academe. Rebel. Do not read Lacan, Derrida, Foucault, and treat as insignificant nothings those that still prate of them. You need no contemporaries to interpret the present for you. Born here, alive now, you are modernity. You are the living link between past and future. Charge yourself with the high ideal of scholarship, connecting you to Alexandria and to the devoted, distinguished scholars who came before you. When you build on learning you build on rock. You become greater by a humility towards great things. Let your work follow its own organic rhythm. Seek no material return from it, and it will reward you with spiritual gold. Hate dogma. Shun careerists...Among the many important messages coming from African-American culture is this, from a hit song by Midnight Star: "No parking, baby, no parking on the dance floor." All of civilized life is a dance, a fiction. You must learn the steps without becoming enslaved by them. Sitting out the dance is not an option." This quote vividly illustrates Paglia's one-of-a-kind style, enthusiasm, and her commitment to truth. She continues in this vein in her lecture given at M.I.T., entitled "Crisis in the American Universities." This lecture should be required reading for any university student. The rest of the book is made up of tantalizing and thought provoking essays on pop culture and such dangerous (thanks to Political Correctness) topics as date rape. While some of her messages may infuriate, her ideas cannot be overlooked. She possesses a unique voice that demands the attention of anyone interested in culture and politics in the world today. - Tom Davis, Vancouver, Canada c/o tt-art@teletimes.com -- Canadian Authors -- I have lived in Canada for over three years now, but I'm ashamed to say I still haven't read that much Canadian literature. I haven't, for example, read Carol Shields despite her recent fame (though I have a copy The Stone Diaries sitting on my shelf, waiting to be picked up). However, I have read some Canadian writing, and my rather limited exposure to it forms the basis for the book reviews and the thoughts I am going to set down here. There is no particular order or league of merit to the books and authors I am going to talk about, but that is how I choose what to read, without any particular system. Maybe these names will give you some new ideas when you next visit a bookstore. If not, they will at least tell you something about my prejudices (I could say "my opinions" but that would imply rationality, which seems rather inappropriate when I'm talking about what I like rather than what I think). One of the better-known Canadian writers is W. O. Mitchell, author of the classic Canadian novel Who Has Seen the Wind. The story is set in a small town out on the prairies. I read it a couple of years ago and some impressions still remain with me. I don't pretend to remember the details of the plot, or perhaps even all of the substance. I thought the writing was wonderful and the characters deeply and sensitively drawn. I could see and sense the affection the author conveyed for the prairie landscape of her childhood. YetÑstrangelyÑthe feeling I still carry with me is an inability to "connect," a lack of empathy for the place and its characters. I couldn't relate to the book, couldn't submerge myself in it, and even while I admired it I felt no nerve touched by the words. I can only attribute my sentiments to the distance it lies from own background. I never felt comfortable on the prairies. I grew up amongst hills, took holidays in the mountains, went to university in two very lively and exciting cities, and in my own internal world the prairies suck. I can't possibly divorce my prejudices about this part of the country from my reactions to a book set amidst it. But reading this novel made me accept something I think is quite fundamental: the greatest writing needs to find a resonant chord in the reader. It needs common ground with the audience. People I can usually relate to, politics I can usually relate to, but the prairies...well, apparently not. I'd love to hear the impressions of some other non-prairie natives to this book. Is it just my own clouded vision or can only those who have grown up on endless flat ground under the vast and ever- changing subtleties of the open sky really feel this story? My second writer is Ruby Slipperjack, and having found her work both intriguing and compelling I want to tell you a little about it. She has been described as "one of the strongest Native voices in Canadian literature." There is a large body of heavy and dry academic writing about the psychology and lives of Native Canadians as opposed to us relative newcomers to North America. A great deal has been written about how their attitudes and society may differ from what many of us assume about human society and human nature. I have read a fair bit of that sort of stuff without really understanding what it means. Real appreciation of a thing frequently depends more on feelings than on facts. Silent Words is a touching vision of what it could be like to be a growing aboriginal child within the last thirty years. The book relates the story of a growing native boy who runs away from his problematic home and finds his own way through a variety of communities and experiences. As I followed Danny through his journey of discovery, I found myself much more deeply appreciative of what it can mean, in psychological terms, to be a Native American. I'm not saying there are any profound statements or explanations of the meaning of lifeÑthere are no sermons. I also haven't joined the Wannabe tribe. I just felt a sensitivity and an absence of judgment which allows the reader to simply be with the boy as he finds his way in the world, a world where the expected and the valued take form in ways different from my own experience or the experience of anyone I know. It is much more personal, more informative, and leaves a far deeper impression than several thousand pages of research and analysis. Another modern writer is Armand Wiebe. I bought his book Murder in Gutenthal after I heard him do a reading in Winnipeg. He comes from a Mennonite community, and the book (one of quite a few he has written) is an intriguing mystery set in a Mennonite village. Although I got used to the tongue-contorting names after a while, I doubt I appreciated all of the humour because I just don't have much common ground with the place and its people. Yet I found myself interested, and soon addicted, wondering what was going on, laughing at ordinary human failings and eccentricities. Even though it takes place in a totally alien setting, the story is "lightweight" and amusing--but still absorbing. Maybe I even learned something about the Mennonites (I knew virtually nothing about them before). Finally, I want to talk about a much older volume whose title, The History of the Northern Interior of British Columbia, is a little uninspiring, but that is deceptive. It was written by the Rev. A. G. Morice who spent time travelling and exploring in the west of this country around the turn of the century, and who took it upon himself to write a comprehensive history of the area spanning the period from 1660 to the late 1800's. It describes the adventures of the explorer, the intertribal politics of the Indian nations, the conflicts and the relationship between the Hudson Bay Company and the Indians, and much more. It is pervaded by a strong sense of justice, and there are occasional digs at earlier, inaccurate travelogues and histories. Especially considering when it was written, it provides a quite remarkably unprejudiced account of some of the problems faced by the Indians as they adjusted to the new force in their lives. It is both a fascinating and (to me at least) very readable account of real life during a complex and traumatic period (for the locals), and an entertaining travelogue as well. His account of the deliberate and malicious introduction of liquor to Indian communities is an interesting reminder of the roots of many social problems with which the First Nations are still struggling today. It seems to me that I have learned as much about Canada from fictional and non-academic sources as I have from the statistics and facts I have read. I hope you will take a look at some of the authors I have discussed, and form your own opinions and impressions. I had heard next to nothing about Canadian writers before I came here, but there are some real talents to discover (and I have only mentioned a few of them). So, the next time you go to a bookstore perhaps you'll consider picking up a Canadian novel. - Dr. Euan Taylor, Vancouver, Canada c/o editor@teletimes.com -- Books Reviewed by Alexander Varty -- All reviews based on a five star rating system [A picture of the cover of Incredibly Strange Music appears here in the Graphical version] Ê Incredibly Strange Music, Volume 1 **** Edited by V. Vale and Andrea Juno (RE/Search Publications, 206 pp., CAN$23.50, softcover) With some collectible records fetching hundreds and even thousands of dollars, it's no wonder that there's currently a boom in discographies and price guides. With a little research, it's possible to tell the difference between black- and yellow-label Savoy LPs, find out how many surf records were released in Saskatchewan in 1963, and even untangle the thorny mess of Elvis Presley's RCA releases. But only now is there a book available which attempts to plumb the lowest depths of record mania. Incredibly Strange Music, Volume 1 examines the world of 50-cent thrift-store specials, as seen through interviews with icons of kitsch like Martin Denny, Eartha Kitt, and "Popcorn" composer Gershon Kingsley, plus collecting tips from such notable vinyl hounds as the Cramps' Poison Ivy and Lux Interior. This book attempts to portray "bad" music as a cultural treasureÑand some of its arguments are convincing. Pop- culture archivists Mary Ricci and Mickey McGowan, for instance, theorize that a society's real story is told in its throw-aways; given the attention archaeologists give kitchen middens and Pompeian graffiti, they may well be right. What makes Ricci, McGowan, and their peers seem like kooks is only that they're stockpiling this junk before it's buried. Anyone who has ever thrilled to the discovery of a Screamin' Jay Hawkins or an Yma Sumac record in a pile of yard-sale wax will share their enthusiasm Ñ and this book's. Ê A Whole Brass Band *** By Anne Cameron (Harbour Publishing, 302 pp.) B.C. storyteller Anne Cameron has won a measure of fame for her reworkings of aboriginal legends and for her 1979 film Dreamspeaker. Despite the integrity of her work, however, and despite her life-long advocacy of Native rights, she has recently come under attack by cultural appropriation activists for writing of others' experiences instead of her own realities. Perhaps impelled by this, she has moved closer to home with her new novel, A Whole Brass Band, and for once we might have reason to cheer the thought police of the politically correct Ñ it's her best writing in a long time. A Whole Brass Band is the saga of a typically unconventional contemporary family, led by a caustic, funny, foul-mouthed, and intuitively anarchistic single mother and supermarket cashier-turned-commercial fisherman, Jean Pritchard. The Pritchard clan's ups and downs are charted exhaustively, and occasionally in ludicrous detail: so many calamities befall Jean, Eve, Patsy, Sally, and Mark that towards the end of the book one is half expecting a plague of frogs to swamp the family fishboat. Instead, a Fisheries vessel rams it, and... but we're not in the business of giving away plots. The pleasures here are in Cameron's enjoyment of her own characters Ñ by the end of the book you feel like the Pritchards are your neighbours, so real does she make them seem Ñ and her way with dialogue. Cameron has a genuine flair for capturing colloquial speech: whole sections of this book could be lifted verbatim for use in a film- script. A Whole Brass Band could make a brilliant made-for- TV movie, or perhaps even be serialized as a North Coast successor to The Beachcombers. And that's not in any way intended as a put-down. A Whole Brass Band has the pacing and the humour (and, occasionally, the sentimental overkill) of film, but it also has some very powerful things to say about the difficulties of building and maintaining family bonds in a culture dominated by selfish individualists. Hard Core Logo *** by Michael Turner (Arsenal Pulp Press, 200 pp., CAN$13.95, paper) Vancouver's rock 'n' roll underground will be buzzing about this volume for some time to come, if only because the fictional punk-rock band that gives the book its title seems a lot more like DOA than author Michael Turner's own outfit, the Hard Rock Miners. Endless break-ups and reunions? Acoustic benefit gigs for hippy Greens? Scuz-bag ex- managers? A singer named Joe Dick? Seems familiar to me. But whether Turner's intentions were satirical or simply fictional, Hard Core Logo is a great road novel, its innovative mix of song lyrics, flashback sequences, straight narrative, interior monologues, diary jottings, and grainy black and white photographs an exceptionally apt way of capturing touring's series of random incidents Ñ without the accompanying stretches of boredom. It's true that Hard Core Logo's four musicians are difficult to like, and somewhat unconvincingly fleshed-out. They're rock 'n' roll ciphers, each bedeviled with one or more of the travelling band's several deadly sins: greed, drugs, insecurity, arrogance, ambition, cheap hotels, bad food. But this book's not really about its human characters. Its central focus is the road itself, and Turner's clear observations and dark wit illuminate real-life rock 'n' roll more forcefully than any number of celebrity bios ever could. - Alexander Varty, Vancouver, Canada c/o tt-entertainment@teletimes.com ------------------------------------------------------------ DEPARTMENTS ------------------------------------------------------------ -- Music Notes: Feature -- - Mama Africa Goes Home - When I last talked to Miriam Makeba, in 1989, she closed our conversation wistfully, saying she still dreamed of seeing South Africa, the homeland from which she'd been exiled for almost 30 years Ñ exactly as long as Nelson Mandela had been in prison. A lot has happened since then, including an emotionalÊreturn for her, and a new state of emergency for her nation, declared only a day before we spoke again, via her hotel phone in San Francisco, a few weeks before the tumultuous April elections. [A photo of Miriam Makeba appears here in the Graphical version] Makeba's currently touring with 4 singers and 7 musicians, including her longtime musical cohort (and onetime husband) Hugh Masekela, who's having his own career resurgence with a hot new live album. "I'm okay," says Makeba with a shy laugh and a sniffle from a slight cold. "It's difficult with age." Much has been difficult in her life, which saw exultant high points in the U.S. and Europe Ñ with accolades for her soaring music and prizes for her articulate activism Ñ and thudding lows when governments turned against her, and friends and family-members died in a dizzying variety of ways. Now living on two continents, the prodigal Mama Africa tends to describe herself with a protective "we", perhaps to compensate for all the years she's been held at arm's length from her own people. "We finally went back in 1990, when Mr. Mandela came out of jail. His wife told me they were going to be in Sweden, in Stockholm, to visit Mr. [Oliver] Tambo, who was ill. I was in Spain, and I flew just in time to meet them. We talked for two hours, and Mr. Mandela said how wonderful it was when the prisoners heard our [records] from their cells, that it sounded like freedom. Then he said, 'now you must come home!' And I said, 'how can I go home? I am a banned person." The newly freed leader told Makeba to go to a South African embassy and try again, so she ventured to one near her home in Brussels, Belgium. "My name was still in the computer," she recalls with a sigh, "but the government had said everyone could come back. Eventually, I received a temporary visa, and went home for six days. It was just so... I didn't know how to feel. I was crying, I was happy, but also very sad. There were hundreds of people to meet me at the airport, and my family, or what was left of it." The singer returned to Johannesburg for two tumultuous performances the next April. "It was my first time singing for my people in 31 years. I didn't have to explain myself! Everybody understood. It was like a beautiful revival, and just I had to cry all night." The response was so effusive, she decided to find a new home there, alternating with her Belgian apartment. In fact, she rehearsed the current tour in South Africa, with homegrown musicians finally free to travel. "Many things have changed. Most of our leaders are out of jail, and we can move about, more or less. We're about to vote, if they let us. But in all honesty, for our people, nothing much is truly different. Life is still as hard as ever, if not more so. People have no housing, there are so many squatter camps; our children have no proper schools, no books; not enough hospitals Ñ the basic things. So it will be an uphill battle, even if we win the elections: we'll have the flag, but not the money." Most of all, Makeba rankles at any suggestion of further trials brought on by tribal factionalism. Herself the offspring of Xhosa and Swazi parents, the singer shuns divisive labels. "Me? I'm a South African Ñ don't know what else I can be. I must tell you, there are no tribes fighting each other," she declares resolutely. "That is what is so hurtful: When you read the international papers, they tell you this is a tribal fight. The people who live in Natal Province are all Zulus, but there's so much greed, so much killing. But we always have hope. When you give up hope, you may as well lay down and die. I always said, 'maybe one day I'll go home', and I did. I never expected anything, but still some of my dreams came true. We have to thank the people at home who stood up to everything, and also the international community for raising their voices. And now we must say: 'don't abandon us. This is only the beginning!' " It's also a potential rebirth for Makeba's music, now that the 62-year-old musical matriarch is drawing on home turf for inspiration. She recently finished recording a new album, Sing Me a Song, in South Africa, although it has yet to circulate widely. "We have had very strange careers," she says of her fellow performers-in-exile. "When you function in other nations, and you don't have the backing of your own country, it can get difficult. Now, if things go well, you should see a lot coming out of South Africa, because there's a lot of talent: in theatre, in music, in dance, in painting and sculpture. These people, who have been so suppressed have so much to say." Meanwhile, Makeba's been travelling and working, as usual. Riding in her tour bus across North America, she has plenty of time to think about the turbulent past and the still- cloudy future, especially now that her late daughter's children, performers in their mid-twenties, are part of her troupe. "They are the only close family I've got, and it's wonderful to have them with me," she says with evident pride. But the decades of putting art and struggle in front of her personal life show up in the essential loneliness which hangs around the weary edges of her voice, whether talking or singing. "I'm never in one place for very long," she admits. "It's just that I love to sing. I think one of the very few times I'm happy is when I'm singing. When people say I sang well, that's when I'm satisfied. I don't feel good when I have a bad night." This distinction, apparently, is far more important than the recent discovery that her name was touted as a possible ANC candidate for parliament. "When they asked me, I said 'uh- uh'. I was very honoured, of course, but I told them that if I did anything, it was to be this way, with my music. Mr. Mandela told me, 'you have been our ambassador, and you must continue to raise our voice in the world.' That means more to me than any vote. Politicians come and go, you know, but music is forever." - Ken Eisner, Vancouver, Canada tt-entertainment@teletimes.com -- Music Notes: Pop/Rock/R&B -- All reviews based on a five star rating system Terrance Simien - There's Room For Us All *** (Black Top/WEA) The title reflects an admirable attitude, and Simian's elclectic taste in Louisiana boogie, reggae, and blues is getting ever more refined. Ranging from a remake of Daniel Lanois's "The Maker" and several Zydeco stompers, to the '60s-style soul of "Groove Me", and doo-wop of "Will I Ever Learn". The friendly music is dressed up with guests like the Meters, string-man Bill Dillon, and co-producer (and Neville Brothers veteran) Daryl Johnson on bass. But Simian doesn't have a distinctive voice Ñ literally or stylistically Ñ and the songs are more memorable for their eclectic reach than for anything personal or definitive. Ê Sam Phillips - Martinis & Bikinis ***** (Virgin/EMI) Wow! She just keeps getting better. On her third outing with a man's name (well, I guess the original Leslie was fairly indeterminate), the songs are tighter, brighter, and punchier than ever. Not that she and producer/ partner T Bone Burnett eschew artsy touches or melancholic interludes. In fact, the whole set recalls Revolver's blend of deadly hooks and out-there experimentation. This Beatle-mindedness, which you can gather from titles like "Same Rain" and "Strawberry Road", is obviously shared by guests like XTC's Colin Moulding, Van Dyke Parks, and ex-Dan Hicks fiddler Sid Page, who leads a nifty string section on the Phillips- defining "Baby I Can't Please You" ("you say love when you mean control," she growls). The moptop connection is made complete by closing the set with John Lennon's howling "Gimme Some Truth." But even then, she's her own womanÑno yellow-bellied son of Tricky Dicky's gonna Mother Hubbard soft-soap her. Tori Amos - Under the Pink *** (EastWest/WEA) [A photo of Tori Amos appears here in the Graphical version] It's not like ToriÊAmos (at right) really cares what we think, or she would not have put her most inaccessible song at the start of her new album. Sure, "Pretty Good Year" sums up her whispy rhapsodizing and cacophonous rage, but do we want that in the same song? The rest of the record also follows a slow/fast/slow rhythm that makes for a pretty unfocussed hour of listening. Taken individually, though, there are rewarding songs here. "God", with its clanking percussion and bad attitude ("Do you need a woman to take care of you?", she smirks at the Bearded One) is an obvious standout, and "Cornflake Girl" is catchy single material. She's still under the sway of Joni Mitchell and Kate Bush, though, and even adds Peter Gabriel to the influence pile on the creepy "Past the Mission". I'm putting my money on the third album. Ê Mint Condition - From the Mint Factory **** (Perspective/PolyGram) Now that the harmony thing is back, groups of young men (and women, a la SWV and En Vogue) are competing for the Boyz II Men sweepstakes. This lively sextet, straight outta St. Paul (and exec-produced by Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis) is one of the most creative New Jack outfits yet, combining streetcorner soul, gospel fervour, and fusion jazz (really) with contagious ease. The hour-plus disc never flags, and the lads have equally strong voices Ñ although the one-named Stokley standing out on the gently bragging "Nobody Does It Betta", the churchy "Harmony", and "U Send Me Swingin'" (that's pronounced swangin', of course). Bonnie Raitt - Longing in Their Hearts ***** (Capitol/EMI) Bonnie's found her groove now, with her third, and best, collection of slinky blues and sultry, Celtic-soul ballads co-produced with Don Was. A groove ain't the same as a rut: she brings back Anglo-Irish pals Richard Thompson and Paul Brady, but has the latter sing backup on a glorious reading of the former's "Dimming of the Day", and turns Brady's meditative "Steal Your Heart Away" into an intense mid-tempo shuffle. There are harmonies from David Crosby and Band-man Levon Helm on "Circle Dance" and the title tune, and harp- meister Charlie Musselwhite helps close the set with the spare "Shadow of Doubt". But the guest writers and performers never outshine the host Ñ just check out Raitt's exuberant singing and Hammond organ-playing on her sexy "Feeling of Falling" to find out who's in charge, and why that's such a good idea. Ê Vinx - The Storyteller ** (Pangaea/EMI) In which the Sting-discovered singer-percussionist expands his sound with a variety of instrumentalists, including saxist George Howard, flamenco guitarist Django Porter, and a jazzy piano-plunker called Stevie Wonder. He goes slightly grungy on the enraged "Letter to the Killer", about his father's violent death, and streetwise on "Living in the Metro". Despite the variety, the whole record is marked by his lounge-ish croon, as typified by a remarkably tuneless reading of "Moondance" (it defeated Bobby McFerrin, too). Vinx has some pretty interesting stories to tell, but he's still having trouble keeping the listener's ear. Kennedy Rose - Walk the Line ** (Pangaea/EMI) Mary Ann Kennedy and Pamela Rose have found a nice harmonic, Indigo Girls blend. Aiming for inventive country pop, they've had help from friends like label head Sting, Emmylou Harris, and new-age keyboardist David Lanz. Too bad they didn't even try on the lyrics. Even with titles like "Without Your Love", "Real World", and "Love Makes No Promises" (haven't those been taken already?), some words fall far below cornball level. Check out "White Horse": "The freedom that she feels is more than free/There's a young girl in her eyes/It's funny how she looks a lot like me". This may make acceptable college-dorm fare (in rooms with horse posters, anyway), but other listeners will have to wait for Kennedy Rose to graduate to songs where language is as crafted as sound. Ê Julee Cruise - The Voice of Love * (Warner Bros./WEA) As befits the David Lynch camp, the music of Julee Cruise is long on ironic atmosphere and short on everything else. Posing like a hopelessly jejeune member of the Vienna Boys' Choir, the gamine singer never rises above a whisper, and she's written neither words nor melody here. The former chore fell to Lynch, who seems to think "I fell for you like a bomb/Now my love's gone up in flames" is a clever play on pop cliches; the music belongs to Twin Peaks veteran Angelo Badalamenti, who serves up a diet of soothing ersatz jazz and cool pseudo-doowop. But the songs have no development, contrast, or meaning, and anyway, who needs this bland nonsense while Peggy Lee records are still in print. Ê The Golden Palominos - This Is How It Feels ** (Cargo/MCA) Past GP vocalists have included Michael Stipe, Syd Straw, and Richard Thompson in ad-hoc stylistic free-for-alls. This time, band founder/drummer Anton Fier worked up some smokin' late-night tracks with bassist Bill Laswell, guitarists Nicky Skopelitis and Bootsy Collins, and keyboardist Bernie Worrell (all connected with New York's avant-funk Material). The boys then made a tres big mistake: they handed the tapes over to singer Lori Carson. With her breathy, glottal-stopped soprano, Carson makes Edie Brickell sound like Aretha Franklin. And the tunes constitute an instantly forgettable mishmash of "ethereal" repetition and sophomore philosophy ("If the answers answer anything at all/They do by making the questions small"). If you own one of those karaoke machines, however, you could probably still have some fun with the backing tracks. Ê Freddie Jackson - Here It Is *** (RCA/BMG) Yes, it's here. A collection of 10 new smooth ones from Mr. Candlelight 'n' Wine himself. The songs, of course, are variations on love ("Make Love Easy", love ("Come Home II U", and still more love ("My Family"). Even so, the singing is the thing, and Jackson's slick tenor has deepened and grown more adventurous Ñ sexy, but still in a mom-approved kind of way. He even turns up the tempo on (slightly) funkier ditties like "Addictive 2 Touch", whatever that means, and the propulsive title cut. He's never startling like Luther Vandross, but Jackson's still nice to have around. - Ken Eisner, Vancouver, Canada tt-entertainment@teletimes.com Ê -- Jazz/Worldbeat -- All reviews based on a five star rating system Ê Jan Garbarek - Twelve Moons ***** (ECM/BMG) If you haven't heard the Norwegian saxophonist for a few lunar orbits, Twelve Moons is the place to get back in touch. Sure, all of Jan Garbarek's records pit his keening soprano or ruminative tenor against icy Nordic backdrops, but this one's exciting because it covers all the territory he's staked out in the past two decades. With German pals Eberhard Weber and Rainer Bruninghaus on liquid bass and piano, and percussion chores bouncing from Manu Katche to Marilyn Mazur, the tunes range from hypnotic minor-key vamps ("Brother Wind March") recalling Garbarek's days with Keith Jarrett to affectionate revivals of old Norse folk tunes, as in Edvard Grieg's "Arietta" and songs featuring traditional vocalists Agnes Buen GarnŒs or Mari Boine. The long title composition suggests the cinematic sweep of his work for Greek film composer Eleni Karaindrou, and the set even closes with a reprise of the late Jim Pepper's "Witchi-Tai-To", first recorded for one of Garbarek's earliest albums. By integrating these styles into a seamless and intoxicating whole, the moody, self-taught saxist has created more than a gorgeously recorded retrospective: it's a launch-pad for twenty more years of polar exploration. Ê Gipsy Kings - Love & Liberte ** (Columbia/Sony) These savvy French wanderers are down a few members and searching for a new sound. That means an unfortunate move towards bland posturing a la Ottmar Liebert, but instrumentals like "Guitarra Negra" and "Ritmo de la Noche" still pack a flamenco kick. Maybe if they make enough money from this filler-fest, they'll go back to their pre-"growth" best. Ê Material - Hallucination Engine ***** (Axiom/PolyGram) You never know who Bill Laswell will round up for his next Material excursion; the oh-so-New York bassist even combined out-there sax-man Archie Shepp with Whitney Houston for an early-'80s cut! This time he has regulars like Zakir Hussein, Aiyb Deing, Trilok Gurtu, and Sly Dunbar in the percussion section, along with Bernie Worrell on keyboards, and Simon Shaheen, Shankar, Bootsy Collins, and Nicky Skopelitis on various stringed instruments. It's much the same lineup as on the latter guitarist's last Axiom album, Ekstasis, and it continues that record's fixation on things Egyptian. Sometimes the connection is direct, with Fahim Dandan's swirling Arabic vocals, but even when Wayne Shorter swoops in with a sax solo, on the opening "Black Light", or William S. Burrughs drops by to give "Words of Advice", instruments like oud, ney, and ganoun keep percolating in the background. That may sound pretty dense, but the disc is actually characterized by a spacious, Weather Report-like soundÑthis is made explicit on a re-do of Joe Zawinul's "Cucumber Slumber" and an airy update of John Coltrane's "Naima". Reggae, African, and Eno-esque electronics also float through the crystalline mix, making this both the edgiest and the most accessible Material set yet. Ê BABKAS - BABKAS **** (Songlines) The name's an acronym, based on the first and last initials of altoist Briggan Krauss, drummer Aaron Alexander, and guitarist Brad Schoeppach. It also implies something about the controlled babble of sounds welling up from this recently formed Seattle threesome (although the latter two, known for their work with singer Jay Clayton, are New York- bound). Managing to combine jazz and New Music sensibilities with refreshing vigour and visceral spontanaeity, the fifteen cuts (with evocative names like "Clang", "Czugy Stodel", and "Big Bird Razor") on their 67-minute debut disc run a surprising gamut of angular improvisations, quirky, John Zorn-type formalism, and smooth bebop-fusion (like the long opener, "Your Sign Here"). There's even a stately reading of "Hungarian Dance #20", by that old swinger Johannes Brahms. Some of the freer pieces could be pruned of group noodling, but Krauss's probing, vibratoless sax is engaging throughout, and Alexander fuels the affair with effortless, and restrained, versatility. And Schoeppach's tense, swirling electronics could draw fans of the guitar atmospherics of Bill Frisell, David Torn, and Allan Holdsworth. Heck, commercial jazz stations might even play this. Ê Kat Hendrix - Before the Rain * (Lion's Gate) For about a decade, Kat Hendrix has provided the spacious- sounding drums for Vancouver's Skywalk. His first solo venture finds him still thumping artfully in the fusion field, with able accompaniment from hornmen Tom Colclough and Vince Mai, as well as Skywalk synth-man Miles Black. All the players contribute tunes to the clear-sounding, self-produced disc, but there isn't one you're likely to remember. Mainly, it comes across as a pleasant soundtrack in search of a TV series that's already been cancelled. Ê Eastern Rebellion - Simple Pleasure *** (MusicMasters/BMG) Pianist Cedar Walton and drummer Billy Higgins are the constants in this irregular neo-bop group, which now boasts bassist David Williams and English reed-player Ralph Moore. They play extra-pretty on ballads on "My Ideal" and "Theme for Ernie", and step up the tempo on some bluesy-funky originals. The pacing, however, is a bit on the slack side, and the record is ennervated by a staid polish that invites admiration, not replays. Ê Bill Frisell - This Land **** (Elektra/WEA) [A photo of Bill Frisell's guitarist appears here in the Graphical version.] In which the Seattle guitar auteur (guiteur?) continues his musical cruise across America, with much the same passengers. But where the previous Have a Little Faith in Me was all spacious sunsets and midnight prairie howls, this one is about changing tires and grabbing afternoon beers. Titles like "Amarillo Barbados", "Unscientific Americans" and "Jimmy Carter (Parts 1 and 2)" tell you that the ride will be a bumpy, noisy, jocular one. Reed-men Don Byron and Billy Drewes and trombonist Curtis Fowlkes have no trouble shifting gears from the polka frenzy of "Rag" to the David Lynch mysterioso of "Strange Meeting" or the angular, buzzing modernism jazzers would expect from a cut called "Julius Hemphill". The guitarist has plenty of gas and maps be damned. Just one more question, Bill: Are we there yet? Ê Stanley Turrentine - If I Could Tell You *** (MusicMaster Jazz/BMG) One of the most overlooked tenormen of the fertile '60s and crossover '70s, Stanley Turrentine has lately roared back to form, if not innovation. In fact, his spate of releases for the MusicMasters Jazz label, complete with old pals like flutist Hubert Laws, bassist Ron Carter, and pianist Roland Hanna, intentionally recalls Creed Taylor's CTI label, albeit with exceedingly ugly covers. The funky "June Bug", Evans-dedicated "I Remember Bill", and 15-minute, Latinate "Caravan" are ensemble standouts. Still, there's little satisfaction here you couldn't get from a reissue of Sugar or any other, earlier Turrentine opus. Ê Peter Delano - Peter Delano *** (Verve/PolyGram) This absurdly young New York pianistÑhe'll be 18 this yearÑ is bristling with enough talent to attract major sax-men like Michael Brecker and Gary Bartz to his big-label debut. He's equally at home in an ensemble romp like "Miles' Mode" or lush solo rhapsodies like the closing "Reminiscence". In between, though, some of his slower melodies are muddy, and Delano can get pretty vague in the rhythmic department. That chestnut- of-chestnuts, "Autumn Leaves", usually lopes at a nostalgic gait, but the young pianist fumbles it distractedly; perhaps a lack of accumulated memories is the problem. Ê Shuffle Demons - Extra Crispy * (Stubby) The Shuffle Demons's latest offering is strictly for people who think jazz is some kind of goofy novelty act, and that titles like "Deli Tray", "The Funkin' Pumpkin" and "Reggae Man" (featuring a vaguely Polish-Rasta accent from drummer Stich Wynston) are inherently funny. Maybe if the band, currently a quintet, would just shut up and play music, they might be be okay, but by the time the thinly recorded, over- 70-minute disc gets to its long closing intrumentals, the welcome mat is worn through by inane, baggy-pants posturing and tiresome (as in just-plain-bad) vocalising. And what does it say about these alleged composers that their best new songs were written by Gordon Lightfoot ("The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald", done Celtic-style) and a TV-show hack ("Hawaii 5-0")? Extra Crispy? I think they're done. - Ken Eisner, Vancouver, Canada tt-entertainment@teletimes.com Ê -- Movies: Wide Release -- All reviews based on a five star rating system [A photo of Andie MacDowell and Drew Barrymore appears hee in the Graphical version.] Ê Bad Girls * Like everything else about Bad Girls, the title is so crushingly obvious, it's hard to see it as even a single entendre. Perhaps the Michael Jackson meaning was intended in this tale of four tough hookers hee-hawing their way through the Old West That Never Was, but it's safe to assume that Strong Women never even hit the conference table. Something else hit the fan, however, when director Tamra Davis was fired and replaced by "feminist" Jonathan Kaplan (The Accused). The real controversy comes from contemplating what Davis could possibly have done to make her Girls badder. Chances are, it would have been lame, loose, and anachronistic in its own special way, but we could forget about that if this version didn't give us so much time to think about more interesting things. The film has the kind of awesome absurdity you'd expect from a high school play that suddenly landed $20 million to beef up its production. Above all, the feel of egregious amateurism is driven home by Madeleine Stowe, whose performance here as snake-skinning Cody Zamora throws any previously perceived talent into gloomy doubt. With her sway-backed swagger and frozen mouth, Stowe is so somberly self-important, she comes across like a robotic Clint Eastwood without wrinkles, humour, or vulnerability. Is that a feminist prototype? It may seem contentious when Mary Stuart Masterson's forgettable character discovers her land deed is worthless without her dead husband to claim it, but that impression is wiped away by the very next scene, in which another woman is rescued, John Wayne-style, by a stern-jawed cowboy (soulful Dermot Mulroney) backed by full Marlboro-music strings. Andie MacDowell's southern belle is similarly nondescript, ending up in a bland marriage to a decent, stoical rancher (James LeGros). Neither embarrass themselves by approaching Stowe's deep commitment to the wafer-thin script. Interestingly, the only woman to emerge from this mess with a shred of dignity is Drew Barrymore, who shrewdly plays her ornery, blond-vixen part as if it were the lead in a multimedia Guess? jeans ad campaign (you know, when Vanity Fair comes out on CD-ROM). When she's captured by villains, led by nasty Kid Jarrett (spectacularly awful James Russo), she blithely calls them "pigs", rolling her eyes more in disdain than apprehension. Barrymore's sense of trashy fun only serves to point up how deadly dull everybody else is feeling. Well, at least veteran character-man Robert Loggia, as Jarrett's even meaner father, wallows loudly in some kind of Oedipus-Tex perversity that isn't even on the page. Kaplan, however, thinks it's all as pretty as an apricot sunset; his widescreen, hoof-pounding vision empowers everyone in sight... to behave like grade-A, no-logic morons. And of course, he never threatens what we already know: misterhood is powerful. Ê The Hudsucker Proxy **** It's obvious to both fans and detractors of Ethan and Joel Coen that those not-quite-lovable Minnesota brothers (responsible for Blood Simple, Raising Arizona, Millers Crossing and Barton Fink) are creatures of utter artifice. But what art! Each film has been more stylized than the last, and their marvelous new one, The Hudsucker Proxy is more homage than creation, owing its life to the depression-era populism of Frank Capra and Preston Sturges, and the screwball comedy of Howard Hawks. With its ornate, bulbous art direction, the $40-million Hudsucker, there are also modern nods to the self-enclosed fantasy world of Tim Burton, the anthropological detachment of Robert Altman, and the what- the-hell surrealism of David Lynch, with hints of Brazil and Bladerunner. Some movie nuts will be tickled ecstatic by direct lifts from Meet John Doe and His Girl Friday, and others will say the originals can't be improved on, so why try? Both have a point, but that will be lost on mainstream crowds just looking for a quick, easy fix. Not that there isn't plenty of story here, as young Norville Barnes (Tim Robbins) arrives in New York City, fresh from the Muncie College of Business Administration. He's a cornfed optimist, with no experience but one odd ace up his sleeve... or shoe, actually: it's a rumpled piece of paper with a plain circle drawn on it. "You know," he explains, "for kids." This cryptic "invention" comes in handy when he shows up at Hudsucker Industries just as its founder (Charles Durning) plunges 45 stories (with mezzanine) to his death. Swallowed by the company's voluminous mailroom, Norville emerges just as a venal vice-president with the (Groucho) Marxist name of Sidney J. Mussburger (Paul Newman) schemes to acquire power by driving the company's stock down. He needs a proxy, a patsy, a chump, a fall-guy... You get the idea. So does Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter Amy Archer (Jennifer Jason Leigh, doing a vastly irritating riff on Katherine Hepburn), who cozies up to Norville long enough to figure out how lost he is. "Only a numbskull," she barks at him, "thinks he knows thing about things he knows nothing about." So there. But he does know one thing, and his "extruded plastic dingus" turns into a runaway sensation when rechristened the Hula Hoop. Hudsucker shares fly through the ceiling, but Norville's knowledge of geometry ends there, and he's soon pulling a Gary Cooper on the office ledge. Too bad the audience doesn't care. As hilarious as Robbins is, especially when klutzing his way through the early scenes, there's nothing really endearing about Barnes, or anyone else in this spectacular undertaking. The characters are mere stand-ins for charismatic leads and indelible second bananas from bygone, and implicitly better, years. Oh well. The film is so beautifully crafted, from the burnished shadows cast by the huge gears, clocks, and circles which dominate the design (which picks up colour as it goes along), to the sound of a pencil rolling in an otherwise empty desk drawer, there's more than enough to lap up with pleasure. Sure, emotion is scarce, and Newman and Leigh are problematic casting choices. But there's a surplus of sight gags, breathtaking edits, brilliant digressions, brassy music and riveting cameos (Jim True stands out as the fast-talking elevator boy, and Peter Gallagher has a coolly bizarre walk-on as a jaded '50s crooner). And by setting their retro-epic in the Eisenhower-addled 1950s, the Coens have also created the ghostly gasp of a departed breed; you won't see another movie this decade (or ever) where business boardmembers are all pig-pink males, and the only non-white face belongs to a Nurturing Negro named Moses, who keeps the clock going and tells the tale in soothing voice-over. It ain't progress, but it's swell. Ê Serial Mom *** What does the failure to floss, recycle, or rewind your tapes have in common with impolite parking or wearing white after Labor Day? Well, any one of these social infractions (or less) can get you killed if Beverly Sutphin (Kathleen Turner) is around. On the surface, she's every inch "Beaver Cleaver's mother", as one policeman initially jokes, but there's nothing funny about her private fixation on Charles Manson, Richard Speck, and other American anti-heroes. By the time her mild- mannered dentist-husband Eugene (Sam Waterston), boy- troubled daughter Misty (Ricki Lake), and horror-flick- addicted son Chip (Matthew Lillard) start to cotton on, Serial Mom has already begun to terrorize the suburbs. She quickly escalates from makes filthy calls to a nervous widow (Mink Stole) to planning the murder of a nosy neighbour (Mary Jo Catlett) with bad trash habits, and soon, the PTA is sorry she's such an active member. This might be a good time to remind everyone that Serial Mom is a film from John Waters, the Baltimore cult figure responsible for such non-PBS fare as Lust in the Dust and Multiple Maniacs, as well as such semi-mainstream fare as Hairspray and Cry-Baby. He's certainly never had a budget this big before, and it's a good thing he spent the best part of it (in both senses) on the star, who tackles her two-faced role with relishÑand scissors, and knives, and fire-pokers, and an unforgettable leg of lamb. Without Turner's Breck-Girl-on-acid performance, the movie's combination of low humour, bad writing, tepid set design, and realistic gore would be unpalatable indeed. As it is, Waterston has little to do but his best Dagwood imitation, and no-one else is particularly riveting, either. Ultimately, I have no idea what Waters is trying to say about present-day America and its fixation on violent crime (That our subjugated rage needs some gladiatorial outlet? That we shouldn't separate our garbage?). But it's definitely funny. Especially when the film switches to Court-TV mode, and Beverly happily defends herself against multiple-murder charges. When Suzanne Somers shows up, as herself, ready to star in a Serial Mom movie package, or Patricia Hearst, as a sympathetic juror, argues (unsuccessfully) for fashion tolerance, the story seems to float on a sea of junky pop flotsam. And that's just where Captain WatersÑbig budget or noÑfeels most at home. [A photo of Josh Charles, Lara Flyn Boyle and Stephen Baldwin appears here in the Graphical version.] Ê Threesome ** Part cheeseball exploitation and part coming-of-age confessional, only the sincerity of Threesome offendsÑit's Spring Break, dressed up as Dostoyevsky. Set in an unspecified California college, the tale concerns a mixed-sex troika accidentally dorming together when stuffy paper-shufflers think curvy Alex (Twin Peaks' Lara Flynn Boyle) is suitable roomate-material for bookish Eddy (Josh Charles) and obnoxious Stuart (Stephen Baldwin). Quick as you can say insufficient character development, Alex whips up a major pash for the "sexually ambivalent" Eddy, who's slightly more responsive to Stuart's relentlessly lewd antics. They do discuss J.D. Salinger, and drama-major Alex acts in "a lesbian version of Oedipus Rex," but the pleasantly tormented trio never seem to go to class. Well, Eddy does have that French Cinema course, but's that's just to let shlock-monger Andrew Fleming (Bad Dreams) refer blasphemously to Truffaut's triangular classic, Jules and Jim. Anyway, that leaves them plenty of time for softcore hanky-panky, in various subsets, although they save the big three-way until almost the end, like some kind of salacious reward for sitting through long stretches of rudderless storytelling. Jacked up with artsy camera angles and de rigeur jangly guitars, the film tries hard to be taken seriously, or at least to be thought of as daring. Despite some frank talk, though, Eddy's homo-erotic odyssey is handled like a tepid sequel to The Wonder Years (Kevin's Little Secret?). What energy there is is provided by Baldwin. His campus- clinging character is unshakably idea-free, an ever-ready party animal who brings new meaning to term panty raid. More importantly, he states blunt thoughts with such brutal joyÑ "ever taken it up the ass?" is a passing conversational gambit for himÑeven the most reactionary audience recoils towards the sensitive Eddy (in the confrontational scheme of things, Stuart'll do until an Australian comes along). Boyle's no Jeanne Moreau, but she's not bad either, at least when she gets to drop the model 'tude and show some comic flair. Charles is okay in a somewhat monotonous role. An Indecent Proposal for the Cliff's Notes set, Threesome may be sleazy and slow-witted, but it won't do any harm. As sexual preferences go, being turned into amiable trash is always a sure sign of mainstream acceptance. Ê The Paper ** As we've come to expect from director Ron Howard (Far and Away, Backdraft), The Paper offers a lot of giddy enthusiasm for the mechanics of filmmaking and very little interest in the niceties of form, nuance, or depth of character. Michael Keaton stars as Henry Hackett, the Michael Keaton- ish editor of a semi-sleazy tabloid called The New York Sun. Everything about this rag is implausible, from its name, to its extra-flexible deadlines, to the unaccountably posh street entrance which doesn't quite jibe with the offices inside. That's also the architecture of the movie. It hinges on a supposed dilemma when Henry runs into a big story on the same day he's set to interview for a cushy job at a New York Times-like "rival" (with an officious editor played wonderfully by Spaulding Gray). His massively pregnant wife (a one-note Marisa Tomei) is pushing hard for the security of the higher-paying gig. But as a reporter on leave, she also has ink in her veins, and can't resist helping him find the scoop which sends him off and running in the opposite direction. Get the picture? Almost everyone here is a bi-polar cartoon, set up with some nervous tic or rigid attitude, and then "humanized" by nice-guy Howard (and co-writing brothers Stephen and David Koepp Ñ the latter was at least partially responsible for the flat language of Jurassic Park, Carlito's Way, and Death Becomes Her). In what I pray is a parody of the basic corporate bitch, Glenn Close plays a tough-nosed, beige-suited managing editor (Fatal Redaction?) who warms up obligingly when good ol' Henry finally tells her off. Then there's Robert Duvall, puffing out his gut as the crusty, penny-pinching boss who's really pining for the love of his daughter (awww). At least slimmed-down Randy Quaid is allowed to get along with only one trait: he's a hard-drinking reporter given to sleeping in the office and firing sidearms to calm down editorial meetings (in the U.S.A., that's considered funny). Of the dramaturgical crop offered, only the bearded guy who complains about backpains and second-hand smoke is more believable. Oh yeah, there's some strained social relevance, since the drama involves a couple of black kids falsely charged for a racially motivated murder. But from the rote way it's handled, this hot potato has even less steam than a subplot about a short-fused parking commissioner (Seinfeld's Jason Alexander). The result is a storyline virtually without tension or momentum. Consequently, the director compensates by keeping the camera in constant, frequently pointless, motion; he has everyone scream their overlapping dialogue competitively, and pounds Randy Newman's surprisingly inane score into already overloaded eardrums. The best 8-dollar headache around, The Paper is more evidence that Splash will likely stand as Ron Howard's career pinnacle. Ê Major League II ** It took five big years for director David S. Ward to rally the troops for this dutiful rehash of Major League. Well, most of the troops anyway. Wesley Snipes is now in the $5- million bullpen, and can't be bothered with Roman numerals. In his place, as the showboating Willy Mays Hayes, is Omar Epps, last seen in Ward's football opus, The Program. [A photo of David Keith appears here in the Graphical version.] Cleveland Indians in a deeper rut are: Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn (Charlie Sheen), with banker's pinstripes and a bland haircut; Roger Dorn (Corbin Bernsen), who owns the club but can't get up to bat; the absurdly accented Pedro Cerrano (Dennis Haysbert, unrecognizable from his tete-a-tete with Michelle Pfeiffer in Love Field), who has traded his voodoo for Buddhism; paunchy manager Lou Brown (James Gammon), sagging in the saddle; and catcher Jake Taylor (always- watchable Tom Berenger), with bad knees and soulful mien. Newcomers include a hayseed called Rube (Eric Bruskotter), an unpredictable outfielder (Takaaki Ishibashi, a sort of Japanese Gilbert Gottfried), and a badass powerhitter (David Keith) who plays Bluto to everyone else's Popeye. That's it for dynamics. Since Cleveland (played by Baltimore, actually) came out on top last time, there's nowhere to go but down; Ward sends them into a psychological tailspin that they, and the movie, can't really recover from. Soon, Wild Thing's throw is so mild, even his therapist is ragging on him. The team's torpour is contagious, and MJII leans heavily on Bob Uecker, as an irascible announcer, to paper over the many dull spots with cynical chatter. Befitting a tale of the team with baseball's most odious logo, the film is filled with phobias Ñ racial and otherwise Ñ and its humour is mostly of the lowest-common-denominator variety, exemplified by Randy Quaid's uncredited, and increasingly tedious, cameo as a traitorous fan. Let's not forget the "ladies": Renee Russo, as Jake's boring love interest, is only around for one scene, so Vaughn has a middling fling with a nicey-nice schoolteacher (Coneheads' Michelle Burke) who seemingly lives at the stadium with cute inner-city kids. But Ward's more interested in powerful women we can hate, so he brings back bitch-goddess Rachel Phelps (Margaret Whitton) and adds a blond PR huckster (Alison Doody) to double male fears. It's simply amazing how much bad feeling some people can pack into an empty formula. There is some nice ball in the last ten minutes. - Ken Eisner, Vancouver, Canada tt-entertainment@teletimes.com -- Movies: Arthouse/Independent -- All reviews based on a five star rating system Ê The House of Spirits * (US/Denmark/Germany/Portugal) Maybe there could be a worse adaptation of Isabel Allende's bestselling saga of a strife-torn Latin American family, but it's gruesome to contemplate how it would differ from this spectacularly wrong-headed movie. If it didn't have such big names attached, the epic wannabe could have been comfortably shelved, or more likely cut into miniseries- sized chunks and spread over several nights of so-so TV. The project was sunk from the start with the selection of Bille August, the Danish director who did beautifully understated work on the period pieces The Best Intentions, Pelle the Conqueror, and Twist and Shout. One glance at his austere, Bergman-inflected style should have sent warning signals to anyone fond of the magic realism underpinning much Spanish-language literature (picture Pedro Almodovar directing Wild Strawberries to get the effect in reverse). Then there's that all-star cast. For a tale intended to convey the trials of four generations of women in a South American country quite like Chile (the film was mostly shot in Portugal), it spends an awful Ñ and I do mean awful Ñ lot of time with Jeremy Irons as Esteban Trueba, a reactionary landowner who does his very best to ruin the lives of everyone around him. With "swarthy" makeup and a prosthetic device to enhance his public-school mumble, Irons effects an unplaceable accent, but can't handle even the most familiar Spanish words Ñ he comes across like an Iowa Republican on his first trip to Mexico. Meryl Streep fares better as his bride, Clara. She's a gentle clairvoyant who can always see who's going to die next, but can't quite predict the misery of life with bully- boy Esteban, even after he bans his spinsterly sister from their sprawling hacienda. When the gates close on black-clad Ferula (a terrific Glenn Close, stepping out of a gloomy Dutch painting), the movie loses the fraction of a heart it started with, and lurches from one tacky tragedy to the next. One of the saddest things about the generally dispiriting Spirits is the way it reduces profound political events (meant to parallel, but not duplicate Allende's own experience) to a "sweeping" technicolor backdrop for sudsy soap opera love. With Winona Ryder as the Truebas's well- named daughter, Blanca, opposite Philadelphia's Antonio Banderas, as a dashing peasant revolutionary, the story plays like a wealthy Valley Girl dallying with the hunky pool boy. (It says something odd that Banderas and Maria Conchita Alonzo, two of the few actors with genuine Hispanic accents, seem ludicrously out-of-place here.) But most depressing is the way the disjointed movie, edited even more brutally than the longer European version, robs The House of what made it so popular in the first place. Readers everywhere Ñ especially female ones Ñ were immensely taken by the book's evocation of a private women's culture, rich with non-linear storytelling, otherworldy omens, and bursts of unexpected violence and feeling. Despite a few luminous moments with Streep and Close, this version should be called Sidney Sheldon's House of Spirits... if that's not being too unkind to Sidney. [A photo of Diaz-Aroca, Verdu, Ramirez, Cruz, and Gil from Belle Epoque appears here in the Graphical version.] Belle Epoque ***** (Spain) If anyone remakes The House of the Spirits, they should hire Fernando Trueba (dig the last name), the director of Belle Epoque, the lovely Spanish sex farce which won a slew of Spanish academy awards, and an American one, for best foreign film. The setting is rural Spain, circa 1931, during the tentative tug-of-war between monarchists, fascists, and socialistas. A confused young army recruit and former seminary student, Fernando (handsome Jorge Sanz, who looks like a befuddled Robert Downey Jr.) has deserted his post, and is wandering towards Madrid when he stumbles onto the smalltown villa of the friendly Manolo (Fernando Fernan Gomez), a self- satisfied painter and padron. Impotent with anyone but his opera-singing wife, and secretly religious, Don Manolo's only real problem is that he's a would-be "infidel, rebel and libertine, living like an old bourgeois." The era's chaotic politics suits his well-developed sense of cynical humour, and he likewise enjoys Fernando's passionate innocence and exceptional kitchen skills. Still, Manolo turns chilly the day his four grown daughters are due for a visit; he abruptly hustles the young man to the train station, bag in hand. One glance at these ninas, however, and Fernando makes tracks back to the villa. Soon, his life is reduced to cooking gourmet meals and deciding which sister is prettiest and most desirable Ñ a task which isn't as easy as it sounds. This may sound like a male fantasy supreme, but the way it's handled by Trueba and screenwriter Rafael Azcona, young Fernando is never in control for a minute. Instead, he flits impulsively Ñ and not usually on his impulses, either Ñ between the demure Clara (Miriam Diaz-Aroca), still adapting to recent widowhood; the voluptuous, dark Rocio (Maribel Verdu), also involved with a goofy rich kid; the mannish Violeta (Ariadna Gil), who prefers Fernando in a dress and make-up (maing him to look like Tony Curtis in Some Like It Hot); and feisty Luz (Jamon Jamon's Penelope Cruz), the impatient baby of the family. When not being burdened by Fernando's latest confession of love, Manolo dreams of a free Spain, and of his absent spouse, who finally shows up with her French agent and lover (Michel Galabru, who did his own drag numbers in the Cage aux Folles films). Once this extended family is in place, the gorgeously shot movie takes on the sun-dappled, giddily melancholic tone of rustic period classics like Bertrand Tavernier's Sunday in the Country and Jean Renoir's A Day in the Country. But Trueba, who admitted his fealty to Billy Wilder on Oscar night, also calls on Howard Hawks and other screwball directors for his flawless timing and tart, female-centred comedy. His sense of eros, which pokes fun at gender and tradition, but never at desire, is plenty original though. And remarkably hard to shake off, at least without a cold shower. Ê Sirens ** (UK/Australia) Not really bad, Sirens is not really good. Still, it's easy to explain why it's getting attention: there's plenty of sex in it. Or at least plenty of nudity, which amounts to the same thing for North Americans fed on a steady diet of look-don't-touch arousal Ñ a kind of slavering puritanism, if you will (or, more likely, won't). Whence came this special brand of glazed voyeurism? From the Brits, of course, although they at least have the ability Ñ the craving, actually Ñ to make fun of "private functions" we don't find all that amusing. Essentially an Australian spin on Enchanted April's liberation-through-nature comedy, the early-1930s-set tale follows a young church couple's journey from England to the Blue Mountain home of Aussie artist Norman Lindsey (Sam Neill), whose subversive nude pictures are causing an uproar in Edwardian London. It's a foregone conclusion that the free-thinking painter and his sun-dappled, supermodel-strewn surroundings will, as they anachronistically say, "shock the socks" off the young marrieds (named Campion, much to the delight of Piano fans). The only steady fun in the film is seeing how they get undone, or done, in the case of Estella Campion (Tara Fitzgerald), who turns out to be considerably more adventurous than her husband, the only slightly irreverent Reverend Anthony (Hugh Grant). Although both actors come across a little wiser than their naive characters are written, they're so good at bumbling their way towards ecstasy, you have to laugh. But what's really going on here? Not a lot, unless you still happen to find D.H. Lawrence and Havelock Ellis controversial. More exactly, the film is mired in a late- '60s sensibility which says: if the establishment doesn't like it, it must be good for you. Writer-director John Duigan, so perfectly understated in his autobiographical works (Flirting and The Year My Voice Broke) and perfectly ghastly in his potboiling Wide Sargasso Sea, plays it down the middle here. He's too smart to fall into blatant sexism, so he dabbles in ultra-vague feminism and presents a blind, Pan-like figure, thoughtfully named Devlin (Mark Gerber), for the gals to ogle. The rest of the time, though, the ogling is aimed where Sports Illustrated subscribers would expect, at Lindsey's frequently clothes-free model-muses, led by a beefed-up Elle Macpherson, who, no matter how many pots of stilton she sticks her fingers into, is a numbingly dull screen presence. Duigan directs her as if bedroom eyes and sloppy eating habits constitute a whole personality. He's right, if you belong to the Hugh Hefner School of Pavlovian Responses. In that case, you'll also accept Sam Neill's sketchy performance as the real-life painter and children's book illustrator whose story this isn't; as written, Lindsey's simply a wise Rabelaisian patriarch, and that's the end of it. Fortunately, Estella Campion has a bit more going for her, and when the story focuses on her, things pick up dramatically. That's mainly because Fitzgerald, with her sculpted flower of a face, is bonafide star material. In fact, the somewhat muddled photography and editing both become sharper when she's around (there are some arresting images in the final quarter; Rachel Portman's score is tops throughout). Overall, though, Sirens is markedly missing what its hype boasts most: atmosphere. Worse, its (few) conclusions about sexuality, Anglo or otherwise, are conventional to the point of boredome. On the other hand, the film's up-the-buggers, let's-have-at-it philosophy may still be revolutionary to some. An unshushable woman sitting behind me on opening night provided a running commentary along the useful lines of "oh, he's cute", "look at those breasts", "nice dress", "Ohh, yuck", and "I would never do that". If that's anywhere near the intelligence level of arthouse types attracted to this tame sex-o-rama, I can't rightly accuse it of talking down to its audience. [A photo of Hugh Grant appears here in the Graphical version.] Four Weddings and a Funeral **** (UK) A romantic comedy with an irresistible glow, Four Weddings and a Funeral takes place over a couple of years, but only during the events described by the title. These highlights are enough to gain intimate knowledge of a small cadre of Londoners in their 30sÑthat age when lust and mortality demand just about equal attention. The main focus is on Charles (hugh-biguitous Hugh Grant), a professional bachelor whose firmament is shaken when he meets Carrie (Andie MacDowell) at wedding number one. After a night together, the mysterious woman vanishes back to America, but not from Charles's consciousness. Good thing she's a sucker for English parties, giving the inveterate procrastinator ("his lateness has a kind of greatness," somebody sighs) several more chances for connubial redemption. Lovable eccentrics all, Charles's crowd includes his deaf, yet blunt-spoken brother (hearing-impaired actor David Bower), a ditzy flatmate (Charlotte Coleman), a bumbling aristocrat (James Fleet) and his elegant sister (Kirsten Scott Thomas, currently starring opposite Grant in Bitter Moon), and a gay couple (John Hannah and movie-stealing Simon Callow) who seem the most normal people in the movie. And it's not surprising that weasel-faced Rowan Atkinson shows up, as an ineffectual priest-in-training, since the movie was written by Richard Curtis, the author behind The Tall Guy, and the Blackadder and Mr. Bean series. But what makes this more than a jolly, longform Brit-com is the darkly sardonic direction of Mike Newell, who has previously ranged from the Merchant-Ivory Lite of Enchanted April to the bleak drama of Dance with a Stranger and the mystical verve of Into the West. Within the wonderfully fluid crowd scenes and deftly timed comic cock-ups, he gives Charles's plight a desperately melancholy edge. Obviously, Grant helps. From the shy Chopin of Impromptu to the effete clergyman in Sirens, the ubiquitous actor has become a master of anguished embarrassment. Here, though, when his character is trapped in a couple's wedding chamber, or suddenly blurts out a David Cassidy-inspired confession of love, his chagrin is far more painful than anything you'd associate with that other stammering Grant, Cary. The choice of MacDowell to play his opposite number isn't nearly as felicitous. Her natural allure, impressive enough to justify the leading man's ardour, must have snowed Newell into thinking she didn't actually have to do anything. Unless she's challenged soon, this latter-day Merle Oberon is in danger of being dismissed as a model who milked her Sex, Lies and Videotape role through ten more movies before the offers dried up. Furthermore, Carrie's behaviour is more enigmatic than the story really requires: we have little idea who she is when not seducing strangers, reciting past conquests ("less than Madonna, and more than Lady Di"), or heading off with a wealthy Scotsman, played all the more disturbingly by Corin Redgrave, In the Name of the Father's evil inspector. Even so, the film's central conflictÑwhether or not to c-c- c-ommitÑis the hero's to grapple with. And as frothy and familiar as this setup is, Four Weddings is fresh and full of feeling throughout. It manages to make "I do" the punchline of the year. Ê Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould ***** (Canada) It's a truism (and therefore open to attack) that the musical life is impossible to capture on film. How much easier to reduce complex art to peripherals like fame, glamour, and early death, and wrap them around made-to- order melodrama Ñ whether strained biography (Sweet Dreams) or cheapjack "rock'n'roll" thriller (Streets of Fire). Hollywood's attempts to tackle the classical world have usually been, at best, along the line of Intermezzo, wherein the romantic thrust of the 19th-century music was to instantly render all those people in tuxedoes and evening gowns passionately fascinating (that they could carry on conversations while pounding out Chopin always intrigued me). But Canada ain't Hollywood, and sometimes that's a real blessing. What biography has taken more liberty with its subject and still conveyed something both elusive and concrete about his or her spirit? In fact, people who don't give a fugue about classical music will be charmed, dazzled, and provoked by this stylistically daring work. Rather than build a tedious docudrama on the familiar chronological skeleton, writer-director Francois Girard and co-scripter Don McKellar have taken as their guide Bach's famous Goldberg Variations, with its quirkily symmetrical, 32-part form. There's plenty of contrast in tone and form between the "Aria" bookends, during which the pianist Ñ actually his stand-in, Colm Feore (the real Gould is seen above) Ñ wanders out of, and then back into, the frozen North he loved. Ingeniously, the treatment mixes archival images with staged scenes, brief interviews of varying interest and, of course, Gould's own audio recordings. Highlights include some Norman McLaren animation, a perfectly recreated '60s recording session, and a stark ode to Gould's veritable library of colourful pills. Thanks to Feore's uncanny embodiment (not that he actually looks like the dissipated muso) some scenes manage to fuse the pianist's poignant and infuriating traits, as when he receives his latest album while touring Europe, and forces a German-speaking chambermaid to listen to it. Listening, it seems, was his forte, even away from the piano, as evidenced in an Ontario truckstop where Gould effortlessly keeps track of a dozen conversations, and then transposes the idea of overlapping monologues to his Idea of North radio special Ñ just one example of his ability to play a CBC studio like a Steinway. Of course, the artist's well-tempered ears did not extend to those humans we would normally call friends; Gould's inability to maintain even the simplest of human contacts is on ample display here. His well-cultivated neuroses, however, are sometimes clouded, or maybe just over-celebrated, by the self- conscious cleverness of the script Ñ don't forget McKellar's association with style-meisters Bruce McDonald and Atom Egoyan. Still, over-reach is the smallest problem in a project as daunting as this. Girard has packed in as much about the trials and rewards of creation as he unearths about this mysterious Canadian icon. By the time Glenn Gould returns to that icy wasteland the 50-year-old pianist entered forever in 1982, the film has offered an elegant and electrifying glimpse at one mortal's unorthodox dance to the music of the spheres. Ê Red Rock West ** (US) The ghost of Twin Peaks (hit TV series and dud movie) hangs heavily over this Film Noir parody/tribute/knock-off, from the reverb-heavy guitar score to the casting of Lara Flynn Boyle in the Barbara Stanwyck role. As in Lynch's Wild at Heart, Nicolas Cage plays the sap, but he's a hell of a lot calmer here, as a drifter named Michael. This good-natured soul with a bum leg (like Kevin Bacon's character in The Air Up There) has come to MontanaÑplayed with impressive versatility by ArizonaÑlooking for roughneck work at an oil camp. When that falls through, he limps into the dusty town of Red Rock and, in a case of potentially lethal mistaken identity, is offered an absurdly lucrative job by the gruff bartender (perennial bad-guy J.T. Walsh), who wants his wife (Boyle) bumped off. Michael's an improvisor, not a thinker, and he barely knows how to handle his good/bad fortune. Then, of course, the real employee (Dennis Hopper) shows up, and things get even more complicated. This unfolding of events provides giddy fun for the film's first half-hour, while the audience's bafflement is reflected by Cage's constantly shifting eyebrows. Naturally, Hopper provides the over-the-top amusement you expect from him. But if you expect over-the-top, where is the top, exactly? As the pieces fall into place, it becomes numbingly obvious that brothers Jon and Rick Dahl, who wrote, directed and produced Red Rock West, are satisfied with meeting minimum requirements. In some areas, they're happy with less. Specifically, this wayward wife collapses the formula's fragile geometry. Boyle brings nothing but a pouting mouth and distracted aloofness to the already undernourished part. Michael wants to bed her because it's in the script, not for anything we see on screen, and as her character "develops", she becomes even less dimensional. Such standard femme fatale roles may not have been enlightened in the 1940s, but Stanwyck, Crawford et al brought a compelling vibrancy to them that made male fearÑ the core of film noirÑseem inescapably palpable. Furthermore, these black-and-white B-movies reflected America's uneasy postwar (that's WWII, kids) recognition that the world was made of vaguely shifting alliances, and the best one could do was stay alert to them. What do today's stylish attempts to recreate that genre say about our (or Hollywood's) perception of the world? That things were a lot cooler in the '40s? Is the Lynchian nudge-nudge, wink-wink of ironic recognition enough? Sometimes, there's a thin line between paying homage and burying your head in the sand. - Ken Eisner, Vancouver, Canada tt-entertainment@teletimes.com Ê -- Keepers of Light -- - The Anything Goes Art Auction - Station Street Arts Centre: Vancouver Greetings Cyberspacians, and welcome to another Keepers Of Light. Have you entered Photon '94 (International Teletimes' annual photography contest) yet? Well? Why not? Nifty prizes could be yours! Why not fill in your application now? (See end of this issue.) We're in for a treat this month. We lucked out. The Station Street Arts Centre is holding their Anything Goes art auction this week, and several of Vancouver's best photographers have donated work for the show. The fund- raising event for the Fend Players theatre troupe has drawn the support of over fifty local artists who have donated works to be auctioned off at a gala party and dance this Friday evening (at time of writing). ["Ballerina" by Carmen Schmid appears here in the graphical version.] There are many beautiful works in the collection, and here are a few of them: "Ballerina" by Carmen Schmid is a delicious print, and the scanned image here can not do it justice. The original is a transfer print on rag paper, and the surface shimmers with the oily blue-black toner that this process provides. It is an excellent choice for this image. The image itself, of a dancer's leg, foot, and a wisp of costume is shadowy and mysterious. Strange runes criss- cross the ballerina's leg insinuating rituals ages old. It is a bold composition. From the dancer's gnarled toes at the bottom left, the leg rises diagonally across the frame cutting the inky black background in two. The pale costume licks out like a flame from the right. Very tasty. ["Untitled" by Paul Perchal appears here in the Graphical version.] Also fit to eat is an "Untitled" work by Paul Perchal. This is an arresting image, and beautifully printed. A man faces the camera, his eyes closed, and his hands clasped before his face, as if in prayer. This well balanced, symmetrical composition is enhanced by the printing process, a blending of the image of the man, and one of what appears to be baked clay. The overall impression is of statuary, perhaps a stone Buddha. The warm-toned print itself is very good overall, but a slight lightening of density towards the bottom and bottom right mars the composition. This may have been due to enlarger falloff. A gentle burn of these areas would improve the overall balance. ["Untitled" by Tobi Asmoucha appears here in the Graphical version.] Another "Untitled," this one by Tobi Asmoucha, is another fine piece. Here Tobi puts a moderately wide angle lens to good use in capturing the strong diagonals of the long, late afternoon shadows, the angled banisters, the masonry, and the structure of this village alleyway. I have no information about this print or it's setting whatsoever. Now that I think about it, that low sun could just as easily be rising as setting, but for some reason it feels more like evening to me. I like this simple scene. We watch a cat who watches an old man carefully make his way down the street. It's an excellent candid shot of everyday life. ["Untitled" by Holger Herman appears here in the Graphical version.] And now for something completely lovely. This "Untitled" print by Holger Herman is as a fine a classic studio nude as you're likely to find. The model reclines, her arms draped back as if luxuriously stretching. The whites of her skin tones and drapery contrast with the delicate dark patterns in the bed clothing and wrinkled folds of the gray backdrop. The printing is simply perfect, executed on a fine, high- silver, double weight fiber stock. That's it for this month. Hope you enjoyed them. As always, the images presented in the Keepers Of Light are protected by copyright and are the property of their respective creators. The images presented here are provided for your personal enjoyment. Please do not alter or re-distribute them in any way. If you are interested in collecting original photographic prints, many of these (and those in the back issues of International Teletimes) are available for sale. If you have any comments on any of the work presented in Keepers Of Light we'd enjoy hearing from you. You may send your observations, advice, or one-time love gifts to: tt-photo@teletimes.com - Kent Barrett, Vancouver, Canada tt-photo@teletimes.com Ê -- The Latin Quarter -- - "Poor Mexico!" - In recent articles, I have frequently quoted or referred to opinions of Carlos Fuentes, Mexico's leading novelist, author of The Old Gringo, Aura, Christopher Unborn, among other novels, and recently the author and narrator of the brilliant BBC Television series, "The Buried Mirror". Probably Mexico's most vocal critic, with his searing political commentaries appearing internationally (monthly columns in the New York and Los Angeles Times), and yet undeniably an ardent supporter of his own country's culture and people. However, the domestic perception of Carlos Fuentes is as enigmatic as the country itself. Mexicans, often fiercely nationalistic, have never really excelled at critical self evaluation, and public sentiment towards the writer and his works is often mixed. Such remarks as "He's an elitist", "He doesn't really understand our problems", "Its easy to criticize Mexico when you don't live here", are often voiced amongst Mexican academia; and amongst the general public, with illiteracy rates among the highest in the world, and a good portion of the population reading little more than comic books, it's not surprising to draw a blank when asking people about their literary star. Fuentes admits that he spends little time in Mexico, and in an interview with Bill Moyers a few years ago, he joked that his home was the Clipper Business Class of the now defunct Pan Am Airlines. However, he has pleaded with his detractors, "don't classify me, just read me!" Fuente's genius is undeniable. He has brought to us the myths and ideas of Mexico's past and present, with a beauty, passion and brilliance, that can be understood by even those who have not so much as glimpsed at a postcard from Mexico. He has written political satire and historical interpretation, created worlds of abstract narrative, and discussed present economic and political developments in a clear and honest manner. I was first introduced to Carlos Fuentes' work ten years ago by German radio correspondent Joerg Hafkemeyer, who was stationed in Mexico City at the time. Over many late nights of discussion and tequilas in the tiny fishing/tourist community of Puerto Angel, Joerg explained how Fuentes' work had given him unique insights into the Mexican mentality, and its peculiarities and contradictions. In particular, he recommended reading "The Hydra Head", which, on the surface, is probably the first Third World spy thriller, an action packed, quick-paced novel of intrigue, but with a subtle backdrop of current cultural and political reality. Fuentes makes his observations subtly, giving us a glimpse into the Mexican psyche, while taking us on a dazzling labyrinthine ride. In this present Mexican political climate of assassination, conspiracy theories, and publicly accepted deception, this work is even more electric. In particular, its description of an government orchestrated attempt on the President's life, rings with an eerie suggestion of reality. Much of Fuentes' writing discusses the differences in philosophy and history between Mexico (and the rest of Latin America, for that matter) and its northern neighbours. Fuentes has described the border which runs between the U.S. and Mexico as a "scar", one which divides two memories: one of victory and one of loss, best expressed by Mexican dictator Porfirio Diaz's famous remark: "Poor Mexico! So far from God and so near to the United States!" This border is not just geographical, but also psychological and emotional, and Fuentes has advocated trying to bridge these differences without denying them. In his 1984 Massey Hall Lecture series, Fuentes poetically described: "We [Mexicans] are worried about redeeming the past; they [the United States] are accustomed to acclaiming the future. Their past is assimilated, and, too often, it is simply forgotten; ours is still battling for our souls. We represent the abundance of poverty; they, the poverty of abundance. They want to live better; we want to die better. They are accustomed to success; we, to failure." Fuentes summarizes these comparisons by stating that every Mexican has a personal frontier with the United States, and before this century is over, every North American will have a personal frontier with Mexico; particularly prophetic remarks in light of recent Free Trade Developments and immigration/border controversies. Carlos Fuentes' plea to read his works is well-founded, and a wise choice if one's aim is to better understand a rich and often perplexing culture. In another segment of what is soon becoming my "American Ambassador - Moron Watch", it was hilarious to listen to U.S. Ambassador to Mexico, James Jones' succinct analysis of Mexico's political and economic climate at his April 16th address to the Trilateral Industrial Environmental Conference in Mexico City. Ambassador Jones observed that the recent rebel uprisings in the state of Chiapas in no way reflected political or economic instability nationwide and that: "I think that everybody has recognized that Chiapas is a social and economic development problem that is unique to that region." Possibly Ambassador Jones has been out of town for the almost-daily protests and the daily news stories of worker unrest and growing economic dichotomy throughout the country! - Andreas Seppelt, Mexico City, Mexico c/o tt-art@teletimes.com Ê -- The Wine Enthusiast -- - British Columbian Wines - British Columbia, for those not familiar with the place, is Canada's western most province and home to Canada's second winegrowing region. The Niagara peninsula at Niagara Falls, Ontario, is the oldest and currently most successful winegrowing region in Canada. But the Niagara peninsula is a very tiny viticultural area, however, limited geographically to a small production, so in the 1950's adventurous grape growers in the comparatively large Okanagan Valley in south- central B.C planted the first large-scale commercial vineyards to satisfy the potential Canadian market demand for indigenous wine. At that time a different philosophy about viticulture held sway. Experts in the field of viticulture, many trained at California's U.C. Davis school, gave recommendations that the cold winters and shorter growing seasons of moderate climate regions like the Okanagan Valley, or eastern Washington, or western Oregon, would not be suitable for growing the european species of winegrapes vitis vinifera, but only for native North American species vitis labrusca or hybrid varieties. This advice turned out to be dead wrong, reflecting a hot-climate, big-yield mentality that was native to California at the time. So on this bad advice growers in the Pacific Northwest, including B.C., planted poor-quality grape varieties that would produce wines that would have a distinct disadvantage in the marketplace. The provincial government in B.C. further exacerbated the problem by enacting extremely liberal product labelling requirements that allowed such things as the inclusion of up to 15% water to any wine "product". The table was set for B.C. wine producers to produce oceans of poor-quality wines, with no emphasis on premium wine. Furthermore, protectionist pricing policies at Provincial Government monopoly liquor stores kept prices of imported wine unnaturally high, giving no incentive to local producers to improve quality. The wines of B.C. wineries in the late seventies and early eighties, despite having over twenty years of experience, were still simply horrible, trashy and flavorless concoctions barely recognizable as wine. The average B.C. wine was a sweet, dull, flavorless chemical soup made from overburdened hybrid grapes and water, dressed in cheesy packaging that inevitable bore some Gallic or Germanic brandname written in garish gothic script. The state of the B.C. wine industry was much like the U.S./Canadian auto industry of the same time, which enjoyed similar protectionist measures against Japanese imported cars. The cars made in the North America at the time were simply terrible: outdated technologically, poor quality, and not what the consumer demanded. When, under the Reagan administration, the U.S. removed its import quotas in Japanese cars, the North American auto industry was forced to respond to market demands and produce vehicles that are today, right up to world quality standards. Likewise when the 1991 G.A.T.T. agreement was signed by Canada and then the subsequent N.A.F.T.A. treaty, things began to take a turn for the better. To appease growers that felt betrayed by this move toward free trade, the B.C. government began a program to pay for growers to tear up hybrid grapevines. They also instituted a new system called the Vintners Quality Alliance (VQA) that held member producers accountable to comparatively rigorous standards. Today, B.C. wineries are starting to be known more for their quality table wines rather than the cheap jug wines that were the industry standard. Even the inexpensive wines have improved, as they are made largely from Californian musts or blends of imported bulk-wines. B.C. still has a long way to go, as a true identity for the Okanagan Valley as a wine producing region has yet to emerge. Pressure from two fledgling winegrowing regions in B.C., the Fraser Valley near Vancouver, and the Esquimalt peninsula near Victoria, may help to further accelerate an identity for B.C. wines. The lesson to be learned from this forty year span that produced millions of hectoliters of overpriced swill, and rotted the livers and palates of several generations of British Columbians, is that the marketplace must be driven by the free choice of consumers, rather than consumers being at the mercy of an alliance of bureaucrats and cutthroats. - Tom Davis, Vancouver, Canada Ê c/o tt-art@teletimes.com -- Cuisine -- - Peaches Chambord - This is a delightful, very easily and quickly prepared dessert that cannot fail. Count per person: 1 half canned peach 3 tablespoons chocolate chips 1 tablespoon Chambord Melt the chocolate, pour over the peach, pour over Chambord. Served while the chocolate is still warm. - Markus Jakobsson markus@cs.ucsd.edu Ê ------------------------------------------------------------ NEXT MONTH ------------------------------------------------------------ The June issue of Teletimes will feature articles related to Sports & Leisure. Articles could be about anything from Sumo Wrestling to Paintball to the therapeutic aspects of outdoors hiking. The submissions deadline is the 15th of May. Contact editor@teletimes.com for details. And in July, we will be bringing you an entire issue devoted to Photon '94, our first annual photography contest. The issue will announce the winners, display their work, the work of some runners up, and will hopefully contain some interviews with the winning photographers. One last announcement: Between June 15th and 18th, the University of British Columbia will be hosting a large conference on writing and publishing in the information age. The conference is called WRITE '94 and costs around US$375 (cheaper if you are a full-time student). Teletimes will be appearing at the conference in the CD-ROM showcase. E-mail write@cce.ubc.ca for further information. ------------------------------------------------------------ STAFF & INFO ------------------------------------------------------------ Editor/Publisher: Ian Wojtowicz, Vancouver, Canada editor@teletimes.com Art Director: Anand Mani, Vancouver, Canada tt-art@teletimes.com Arts & Entertainment Editor: Ken Eisner, Vancouver, Canada tt-entertainment@teletimes.com Contributing Editor: Daniel Sosnoski, Tokyo, Japan joseki@tanuki.twics.com Cover Artist: Anand Mani, Vancouver, Canada tt-art@teletimes.com Past contributors: Biko Agozino, Edinburgh, Scotland Prasad & Surekha Akella, Japan Ryan Crocker, Vancouver, Canada Prasad Dharmasena, Silver Spring, USA Ken Eisner, Vancouver, Canada Ken Ewing, Beaverton, Oregon, USA Jon Gould, Chicago, USA Paul Gribble, Montreal, Canada Jay Hipps, Petaluma, California, USA Mike Matsunaga, Skokie, USA Satya Prabhakar, Minneapolis, USA Brian Quinby, Aurora, USA Motamarri Saradhi, Singapore Dr. Michael Schreiber, Vienna, Austria Johnn Tann, Ogden, USA Dr. Euan Taylor, Winnipeg, Canada Seth Theriault, Lexington, USA Alexander Varty, Vancouver, Canada Marc A. Volovic, Jerusalem, Israel Columnists: Kent Barrett, The Keepers of Light Tom Davis, The Wine Enthusiast Ken Eisner, Music Notes & Movies Andreas Seppelt, The Latin Quarter Funding policy: If you enjoy reading Teletimes on a constant basis and would like us to continue bringing you good quality articles, we ask that you send us a donation in the $10 to $20 range. Checks should be made out to "International Teletimes". Donations will be used to pay contributors and to further improve International Teletimes. If you are interested in placing an ad in Teletimes, please contact the editor for details. Submission policy: Teletimes examines broad topics of interest and concern on a global scale. The magazine strives to showcase the unique differences and similarities in opinions and ideas which are apparent in separate regions of the world. Readers are encouraged to submit informative and interesting articles, using the monthly topic as a guideline if they wish. All articles should be submitted along with a 50 word biography. Everyone submitting must include their real name and the city and country where you live. A Teletimes Writer's Guide and a Teletimes Photographer's & Illustrator's Guide are available upon request. Upcoming themes: June - Sports & Leisure July - Photon '94 August/September - Education October - Religion Deadline for articles: June issue - May 15th, 1994 July issue - May 31st, 1994 August/September issue - June 30th, 1994 October issue - September 10th, 1994 E-mail: editor@teletimes.com Snail mail: International Teletimes 3938 West 30th Ave. Vancouver, B.C. V6S 1X3 CANADA Software and hardware credits: Section headers and other internal graphics were done in Fractal Painter 1.2 and Photoshop 2.5 on a Macintosh Quadra 950. The layout and editing was done on a Macintosh IIci using MS Word 5.0 and DocMaker 4.02. Copyright notice: International Teletimes is copyrighted (c)1994. All articles are copyrighted by their respective authors however International Teletimes retains the right to reprint all material unless otherwise expressed by the author. This magazine is free to be copied and distributed UNCHANGED so long as it is not sold for profit. Editors reserve the right to alter the content of submitted articles. Submitting material is a sign that the submitter agrees to all the above terms. ------------------------------------------------------------ BIOGRAPHIES ------------------------------------------------------------ Kent Barrett Kent Barrett is a Vancouver artist with over twenty years experience in photography. His work has been exhibited in galleries across Canada from Vancouver, B.C. to St. John's, Newfoundland. He is currently working on his first nonfiction book and interactive CD-ROM, "Bitumen to Bitmap: a history of photographic processes." Tom Davis Tom is a wine maker who lives and works in Vancouver, Canada. A former brewmaster, a painter and amateur (in the truest sense) film maker. Currently a Philosophy undergraduate at Simon Fraser University, Tom seeks to start his own vineyard. Ken Eisner Originally from the San Francisco area, Ken Eisner is a Contributing Editor to Vancouver's entertainment weekly, the Georgia Straight, and Canadian correspondent/film critic for Variety, in Los Angeles. He has also been a frequent arts commentator on CBC TV and radio, and currently reviews new movies for CKNW, throughout Western Canada. Anand Mani Anand is a Vancouver, Canada-based corporate communications consultant serving an international clientele. Originally an airbrush artist, his painting equipment has been languishing in a closet, replaced by the Mac. It waits for the day when "that idea" grips him by the throat, breathily says, "Paint Me" and drags him into the studioÑ not to be seen for months. Gerry Roston Gerry is a PhD candidate (scheduled graduation Dec 1994) in the field of robotics. He is also a licensed professional engineer in the state of Pennsylvania. Although robots are his vocation, his avocation is civil liberties. Gerry believes very strongly in Benjamin Franklin's words: "They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." Andreas Seppelt Andreas is a former Economist with Transport Canada, now consulting in Business Communications and Marketing. He has spent a number of years undergoing formal graduate study and research in Economic Development and International Trade. He currently lives and works in Mexico. Daniel Sosnoski Tokyo resident since 1985. Didn't plan on being a permanent expat but these things happen. Editor and freelance writer for several magazines and business-oriented publications, he can be found playing Go online and offline (IGS: Golgo13). A Macintosh and internet addict, his life currently revolves around a modem. Dr. Euan R. Taylor Euan grew up in England where he did a degree in Biochemistry and a Ph.D. Before moving to Canada, Euan spent 6 months traveling in Asia. Now living in Winnipeg, he is doing research in plant molecular biology, and waiting to start Law School. Interests include writing, travel, studying Spanish and Chinese, career changing and good coffee. Pet peeves: weak coffee, wet socks and ironing. Alexander Varty Originally from New Brunswick, Alexander Varty is the Arts Editor for the Georgia Straight, Vancouver's entertainment weekly, and he's been known to twang an evil guitar with Chris Houston and other po-mo rockers. Ian Wojtowicz Ian is currently enrolled in the International Baccalaurate program at a Vancouver high school. He is an avid fencer (no, he doesn't sell stolen VCRs) and makes a habit of sleeping in on the weekends. Born in Halifax, Canada in 1977, Ian has since lived in Nigeria, Hong Kong and Ottawa. He now resides in Vancouver, the city known to millions as "The Home of Teletimes". ------------------------------------------------------------ P H O T O N 1 9 9 4 THE FIRST ANNUAL INTERNET PHOTOGRAPHY CONTEST ------------------------------------------------------------ Sponsored by Wimsey Information Services CATEGORIES People - Send in your best "people" work. Portraits, action shots, kids, whatever. Works will be adjudicated on composition, effective use of lighting, emotional impact and general photographic quality as determined by our judges. Places - We want to see your grandest mountain vistas, your moodiest urban landscapes. Works will be adjudicated on composition, effective use of lighting, emotional impact and general photographic quality as determined by our judges. Small Wonders - Flowers, butterflies, thumbtacks or your thumb. Take a little time to send us a little gem. Photomicrographs of vitamin C or pinholes of pebbles. If it's bigger than a breadbox, it's too big for this category. Works will be adjudicated on composition, effective use of lighting, emotional impact and general photographic quality as determined by our judges. Digitally Altered Photos - Go crazy with this one, or use some subtle pixel filters. Either way, amaze us with your light fantastic. Images will be adjudicated on their "wow" factor by our judges. If appropriate, submit a copy of the image before the digital touch-ups are made. Humour - Humour says it all. Photos will be judged on their ability to crack up the judges. DEADLINE May 31st, 1994. Winning entries and honourable mentions will be displayed in the July issue of International Teletimes. Teletimes can be read at etext.archive.umich.edu in the /pub/Zines/Intl_Teletimes directory. PRIZES 1st place contestants in each catagory are guaranteed a fantastic colour Teletimes tee-shirt with their winning photo printed on the front as well as US$20 cold hard cash! More cash prizes will be awarded pending sufficient entries. ENTRY FEE Please write out a check or money order to "International Teletimes" for $10 in US funds for every 3 photographs entered. There is no limit (except your bank balance) to the number of photos you can enter. Our mail addess is given below, in the ENTRY METHODS section. ENTRY METHODS FTP - Scanned entries may be submitted to ftp.wimsey.com in the /pub/photon_94 directory. Be sure to e-mail us with the name of the files you have put on the FTP site. Acceptable file formats are TIFF, GIF, PICT and JPEG. E-mail - If you are concerned about leaving your entry in a public directory, you may e-mail your entries to editor@teletimes.com. Files must be uuencoded. Acceptable file formats are TIFF, GIF, PICT and JPEG. Mail - If you do not have access to a scanner, you may send prints to: Teletimes Photo Contest, 3938 W. 30th Ave., Vancouver, BC, Canada, V6S 1X3. If you enclose a return mailer with appropriate Canadian postage affixed, we will make every effort to get it back to you, but we can make no promises. Therefore, DO NOT SEND IN ORIGINALS OR VALUABLE GALLERY QUALITY PRINTS. Send "reproduction" quality RC prints, or any prints that you won't go crazy over if they are lost or destroyed. Hard copy images must measure 11"x14" or smaller, and have the entrant's name, address and phone number affixed to the back of the image. DISCLAIMER All works remain the property of the original artist. By submitting work to Photon '94, you are agreeing to have it published in International Teletimes and on the World Wide Web. ENTRY FORM This must be filled out and e-mailed (or mailed) to us in order to participate in the contest. Date:______________________________________________________ Name:______________________________________________________ Address:___________________________________________________ Phone number:______________________________________________ E-mail:____________________________________________________ Titles and file names (if applicable) of photos entered in the PEOPLE category:_______________________________________ ___________________________________________________________ Titles and file names (if applicable) of photos entered in the PLACES category:_______________________________________ ___________________________________________________________ Titles and file names (if applicable) of photos entered in the SMALL WONDERS category:________________________________ Titles and file names (if applicable) of photos entered in the HUMOUR category:________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________ Titles and file names (if applicable) of photos entered in the DIGITALLY ALTERED category:____________________________ ___________________________________________________________ Method of submission (FTP, e-mail or mail):________________ Method of payment (check, money order, electronic transfer):_________________________________________________ Amount due (US$10 per 3 entries):__________________________ ------------------------------------------------------------ Reader Response Card ------------------------------------------------------------ If you enjoy reading Teletimes and would like to see us continue bringing you great electronic literature, please fill out as much of this card as you like, print it, and mail it to: Teletimes Response Card 3938 West 30th Ave. Vancouver, BC, V6S 1X3 Canada You may also e-mail it to: editor@teletimes.com or post it in the Onenet conference "International Teletimes." 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