The Future

Following her out-of-left-field breakthrough Me and You and Everyone We Know, Miranda July was transmogrified from garden variety performance artists to indie ‘it’ auteur, branding her a both a daring spokesperson for the world’s eccentrics and synonymous with oddball self-indulgence. Six years later, July has returned with her newest feature, The Future, which eschews Me and You’s ensemble style for a much more specific story about the devolution of a relationship.

July is Sophie and Hamish Linklater is Jason, an indie couple in their mid-30s working comfortable, if unfulfilling jobs and wiling away the hours together in their Los Angeles apartment. After deciding to adopt a cat that they name “Paw Paw,” the pair takes it upon themselves to renovate and reinvigorate their staid lives during the one month waiting period while Paw Paw recuperates in the animal hospital. Sophie leaves her gig as a dance instructor to realize a performance piece of thirty different dances in thirty days, and Jason puts aside his tech support headset to volunteer for a tree-planting initiative. Unfortunately, as the duo become more free and less reserved Sophie explores her way into the arms of another, older man.

It is here that The Future changes from a unique character piece into a more fractured and abstract cautionary tale, as Jason manages to stop time in order to deflect the reality of his crumbling relationship. The time-stoppage and how July explores it, will sharply divide audiences who will either appreciate the expressionistic alternate reality she creates, or lament the change of tone and the unused potential of the rich metaphor for managing the intractable pain of a relationship gone suddenly sour. While July’s visual sense is sharp, and the film is anything but predictable, she may very well consider casting another actress as a lead in her future projects, as her wide-eyed twee persona doesn’t quite have the gravitas a dramatically ambitious story such as this requires.

[Mongrel]

On Bill Callahan's Apocalypse

I wrote the blurb for Bill Callahan's third solo record Apocalypse in the year-end issue of Exclaim. Here 'tis:

“The real people went away" is Bill Callahan’s opening salvo on his third studio album under his birth name, Apocalypse, an album of disconcerting beauty that searches for truth and meaning in a world of simulacrum. Apocalypse is his strongest work in over a decade, but that isn’t to say that the former Mr. Smog has been slumming it. On the contrary, Callahan’s work has been remarkably consistent, with each album building on the mythology of its predecessor, creating a unique and evocative body of work wrapped in his gauzily mellow, yet acutely foreboding baritone. Evoking the circuitous poetry of William Faulkner in his expressionistic tales of Americana, Callahan has weaved together seven multi-layered mini-stories into a wholly captivating narrative that asserts its place as an expression of the wild, wild country that gave it life. A quiet yet assertive record, Apocalypse’s centerpiece is the extraordinary “America!”, perhaps the most overtly political track Callahan has attempted to date. Alluding to Kris Kristofferson, Mickey Newbury, George Jones, and Johnny Cash, Callahan envisions a revisionist history where these three rough-hewn poets lead an armada which allows the world to forget the sins of “the past they don’t care to mention.” Unlike many of his contemporaries who came of age in the great ‘sad bastard’ wave of the late '90s, nearly all of whom have dried up, sold out, or disappeared, Callahan has stayed relevant without trend-hopping. Apocalypse is one of the finest achievements of this singular songwriter.