"Heat" is one of the worst movies I've ever seen. Brimful not of Asha but of pointless shots, horrific acting, and flaccid stabs at emotional depth, this three-hour unintentional parody of the crime thriller drama is almost as criminal as "Magnolia."
It never achieves the "so bad it's brilliant" effect of "Point Break," but instead just wallows along in its own smelly muck of "serious adult themes" all the long way until its groanworthy ending.
How did this forced, clunking script attract actors like Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, Val Kilmer, and Jon Voight? Simple : those actors need money to feed their coke / stripper habits. Each turns in a wrenchingly bad performance, choking out some of the most leaden, unnatural dialogue ever heard in a major flick. Pacino especially -- he was good in "Godfather" and great in "Scarface," but his pseudo-hard-boiled persona is so stupid and fake that he makes gangsta rap look like a "NOVA" documentary. Kilmer looks like a complete idiot reject elf nazi or something. He should have called it quits at "Tombstone."
Here's something : De Niro's mopey love interest is played by some woman with a bobo look and immense shag of curly hair, and as soon as I saw here, I was like "Hey look, it's Edie Brickell!" Well wouldn't you know it? De Niro's next line was "What's your name?" to which flopmop replies "Eady." !!!!! I'm not kidding, and there is no way this was a coincidence. She's not aware of too many things, including the fact that the movie in which she's supporting actress is a rank stack of fetid herring bowels.
There are some scenes in here that are particularly worthy of mention for their very risibility. Chief among these is the big shootout scene -- you know, the one that directly inspired the real-life 1997 "North Hollywood Shootout" wherein a couple of guys with assault rifles went ape after a bank robbery and injured ten cops. Those guys got shot a whole heck of a lot. In the world of "Heat," however, a few guys with AR-15s can take on about two dozen cars full of well-armed cops, and not only live to tell the tale, but win! As we saw in 1997, there is no @#$%ing way that a few guys could hold off, much less defeat, dozens of cops, but I guess it helps that De Niro and Co. only have to reload their rifles every 500 rounds or so. There's this ludicrous shot toward the scene's end of all these bullet-riddled cop cars (some with what look like shell holes in them) and incapacitated cops lying about as De Niro saunters out the side of the frame through a parking lot with Kilmer in tow. Unbelievable. Equally noisome during that scene is where Pacino takes a shot that no cop would ever take : from an unsupported shoulder position and with his assault rifle, he shoots junkie swine Tom Sizemore in the cabeza while Sizemore is holding up a toddler in his arms. I don't @#$%ing think so. You'd think that it would be impossible to make a huge machine gun battle boring, but these clowns somehow manage it -- I kept getting distracted and had to rewind a bunch of times to see how they "escaped." Heinous.
Another scene that's dumber than a bag of dead snakes is where the cops lay a trap for Kilmer at his wife's place. Kilmer pulls up in his car, wifey goes out on the balcony to lure him into the trap at the behest of coppers. She warns Kilmer away with a facial expression and he gets back in his product-placement Camaro and starts to leave. Wifey says to copper "It wasn't him." Copper radios his buddy downstairs to stop Kilmer and check him out; Kilmer produces a fake ID. Cop buddy radios back saying "Oh, this isn't Kilmer, it's G. Phil Wizzleteats! Says here on his license. And the car's plates are clear and registered to a totally different person! Everything looks kosher." Copeer radios back "OK, let him go." WHAT THE @#$% I'm so sure that cops on a manhunt haven't, say, looked at a photo of th' guy for whom they're lying in wait! Complete and utter unmitigated BAD WRITING.
In summation, "Heat" is hot garbage. I suffered through it so that you don't have to.
New rule of wrist : if any movie shows up as being longer than 2 hours when you pull it up in Netflix instant, TURN IT OFF RIGHT AWAY. You can save yourself a lot of heartbreak. (10,607)
This is a public service announcement to let all Latewire readers know that English producer Burial is the best music artist of the milennium.
On Burial's two records, "Burial" and "Untrue," switchblade trebles and gut-shifting bass duke it out in a spare reverberating mix, while plaintive samples moan and wail. The musical style is often called "dubstep," a direct descendent of another non-crummy UK music genre, drum + bass. But where drum + bass is rapid and and cerebral, Burial and the best dubstep are wobbly, 140-bpm lacerations that are at least as suited to solo-dolo sulking about as they are dancefloors. The tunes are simultaneously soothing and jarring, and their gloomy crispness makes any day feel like a March rain. Like, imagine if drum + bass had a kid with early Massive Attack, and you're getting there.
SPACEAPE
Burial's music has more feeling and creativity in one phrase than all th' garbage emo-metal and faceless Starbucks drug-casualty music put together. Chill them #$%^&* out and listen to this music now. It will help.
Here's another tune that saves lives in a very different way -- 2006's "Yeah Yeah" by Bodyrox. Beware prudes! Sex and nudity within, also amplifier desecration.
STOP DYING IT'S NOT TOO LATE TO GET YOUR SHAPE BACK (7,420)
The pop-critic establishment is already busy disparaging th' new release from Massive Attack, the English group responsible for welding R+B, dub, and pure burning hopeless doom into a mesmeric sound that rips lives out of living humans. The previous release under the Massive Attack name, "100th Window" was a grody platter of hot sleep garbage, so my hopes weren't all that high for this record, th' geographically-named "Heligoland." However, after listening to this joint on repeat for the past week, I can say with confidence that the critics hating on it either haven't listened to it (I'm looking at you, Pitchfork) or have no idea what Massive Attack are supposed to be about (hey bloggers!). The raw fact is that this record is exactly what a Massive Attack record is supposed to be : adventurous, unpredictable, and capable of sending the listener into a melancholic reverie.
Pitchfork's review goon intones that Massive Attack fail to 'engage current music' with this release, rattling off a list of recent genres like 'dubstep' and 'UK funky' in an attempt to sound hip and asking why th' band doesn't do something in relation to those styles. This is silly. Massive Attack has never been interested in following or 'engaging' current music trends, they are in the business of creating fresh music styles. Suggesting that the band should have incorporated obvious dubstep references into this album is like saying that "Blue Lines" should have had acid house splashed all over it.
While it wouldn't be fair to say that this is a retro album, the 90s do creep up pretty big here. The vocal spots by Blur's Damon Albarn and Tricky's Martina Topley-Bird, th' recklessly unpolished beats, th' wild assemblage of genres. In fact, th' record that sounds most like "Heligoland" is Tricky's own "Nearly God," wherein th' mush-mouthed master of paranoia explored all kinds of new craggy musical forms in underproduced, rough, and totally enveloping tunes. That same kind of punchy excitement is here on "Heligoland" as well.
It kicks off with "Pray for Rain," a number sung by that guy from TV On The Radio. This tune is strongly reminiscent of "Remain in Light" era Talking Heads or classic Peter Gabriel. A vaguely witch-doctor midtempo loop prods Tunde Adebimpe along in his lyrics which evoke some kind of weird tribal ritual. The climax of this tune has a cache of lyrical gems like "Drops on rocks fall fast and fleeting… hidden laws unleash their meaning." The vibe is tense and anticipatory, rather than tense and paranoid. Some complain that this tune is overlong, but in fact, it's just right for sending you zoning into a harsh rude daydream.
Th' next cut, "Babel" is a little jarring with its fast straight drum-and-bass loop and more Talking Heads guitars, but then Topley-Bird's sly, streetworn voice floats in and recalls in tempo and knowing authority her performance of "Black Steel in The Hour of Chaos" from 1995. The skittering drums might be distracting for some (they're certainly quicker than anything else Massive Attack has done), but it's no cookie-cutter Metalheadz beat, and the twitchy speed creates an ill mood.
The sole vocal appearance by much-needed Daddy G follows, on posse mope "Splitting the Atom." This is a crypto-rocksteady tune that is just glum enough while also grooving steadily. Horace Andy thankfully reappears for the first time on this track.
No lead-in could prepare the listener for "Girl I Love You," a generically-titled song that is by any measure, the equal of any other Massive Attack tune. With Horace Andy's plaintive voice floating over an urgent-sounding rock bass and terrifying horn chart, this tune immediately ensnarls you like a barbed wire tumbleweed. Th' uncertianty and fear in Andy's voice is almost unbearable, and this tune has the kind of dynamics that are bound to blow an addled mind.
Next up is th' unfairly-maligned "Psyche," a tune so minimalist that it borders on Minimalism. Again, Topley-Bird mics it here, with good lyrics and her characteristic after-hours tone. Some folks find this jam overly simplistic or boring, but if you ask me, it's kind of fresh and has a deep structure that really sneaks up on you.
The "Flat of the Blade" is next, wherein some guy from a band called Elbow proceeds to maximally creep out over a very Bjorky percussion and drone track. I'm not a fan of this individual's singing, but the track gets gold (or is it grey?) stars for spooky atmosphere.
Two of th' remaining tracks, "Rush Minute" and "Atlas Air" are showcases for Robert "3D" Del Naja, who as on "100th Window" abandons rapping for a strange kind of flat-toned singing. The difference between these tracks and the mess that is "100th Window" is that the actual music here has a lot more ideas to offer and is not pandering. Both of these cuts are heavy on synth elements and have a kind of weary New Wave feel. The fact is that 3D sounds better rapping after all and is kind of stiff and unswinging in his production, but the tunes are still worth listening to.
The other two tracks, "Paradise Circus" and "Saturday Come Slow" are stone brilliant. The former is a ghostly exercise in chills featuring Goth poster girl Hope Sandoval. This jam has the kind of shifting, spare, slow beat that really gets those mope juices flowing. "Saturday Come Slow" is a love dirge right at the cusp of bleak sentiment like "Dissolved Girl." Damon Albarn lets loose some of the most sorrowful wails he's done since "Tender" dropped; this limey is hurting! People tend to associate Albarn with puckish Britpop pogoing and general punkitude, but anyone who's seen him do "This is a Low" or "No Distance Left to Run" will know that he can really tear up that sad mic thing. His ragged voice telegraphs profound heartbreak better than nearly anyone else.
I think that the bitter mistake all these reviewers make is in trying to compare this joint to "Mezzanine." "Mezzanine" isn't an album, it's a giant shard of volcanic glass that plunges straight into the soul of anyone who dares to listen to it. It's monolithic, oppressive, and non-reproducible. Comparing anything to "Mezzanine" is like saying "Oh well this roadside ditch isn't as cool as th' Marianas Trench." Stupid. "Mezzanine" is an artifact of its time that could not be any other way or from another time; any attempt to recreate or follow it now would result in abject self-parody. People tend to forget now, but Massive Attack's other two classic albums -- "Blue Lines" from 1991 and "Protection" from 1994 -- were totally different from each other and from "Mezzanine," and took a lot of getting used to. i remember how people would talk smack about "Protection" when they bought it after having loved and crumbled to th' narcobludgeon of "Mezzanine," only to come back two months later and crow about how brilliant it was when they finally 'got' it. So, like those other two classic albums, give this one some time and repeat listens late at night, and I think then that all th' irrelevant comparisons will drop away and you'll be able to soak in this record properly. It's funny, just today I was rapping with my pal and CERN inhabitant monster -- he said "I've listened to 'Mezzanine' hundreds of times, but can't really name a favorite song." It's just not possible to cleave up that LP -- it's a complete and matchless monument of psychedelia.
"Heligoland" is something different but equally needed : a collection of diverse fresh tunes, fearlessly chosen and correctly sung. Massive Attack have refused to try to replicate the hazy druglike syrup of of 1998 and instead are exploring a quicker-stepping, more raw style that demonstrates how unsettling sounds don't always come at plodding molasses tempos. I strongly recommend that all freaks, goths, and sad pandas obtain a copy of this; it's adventuresome, worth your brainspace, and an antidote to the stale. Wait until 2 or 3am, sit back with spooky lights on, and devolve to th' destructive sounds of this joint. Now, if only it came with a reason to get out of bed th' next day.. (17,665)
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