Almost Famous (2000)

In the 2000 comedy “Almost Famous,” writer-director Cameron Crowe set out to tell the story of his introduction into the world of rock music. Through its surprisingly human characters, “Almost Famous” captures the young protagonist's loss of innocence and gives viewers a backstage pass into the flaky charm of rockstars.

The storyteller of "Almost Famous" is 15-year-old William Miller, who, on assignment from Rolling Stone, follows burgeoning band Stillwater on tour in 1975. Along the way, he befriends groupie Penny Lane (though she prefers the term "Band-Aid") and Stillwater guitarist Russell Hammond, all while struggling to understand the unwritten code of life on the road. This film would be nothing without the dynamics between William, Penny and Russell. William falls in love with Penny, who has already fallen in love with Russell, who is, in every way, the consistently inconsistent musician they both idolize. As the wisest and most sincere spirit on the tour bus, William helps to ground Russell and show Penny that she is worth more than the vague muse she tries to be.

Thanks to Patrick Fugit, Kate Hudson and Billy Crudup, these characters read as real, genuine people instead of caricatures. Hudson and Crudup preach the free-wheeling lifestyle, but in more serious moments, their characters show subtle signs of regret, signaling to Fugit's William that they might not believe everything they're saying, but love the illusion too much to leave. Penny attempts to preserve herself by subscribing to the mystique she has built up around this world she inhabits. She separates the rockstar universe from the "real world," and tells William, "Never take it seriously. If you never take it seriously, you never get hurt, and if you never get hurt, you're always having fun." Russell tells him, "Nobody's feelings are getting hurt here... Everybody understands. This is the circus." William, functioning as the mirror that Penny and Russell must each face eventually, forces truth into both of their lives. After Russell agrees to sell Penny and the rest of the Band-Aids to another band for $50 dollars and a case of beer, William has had enough of their fantasy. "When and where does this 'real world' occur?!" he demands of Penny, and enraged at Russell's callousness, screams, "You guys are always talking about the fans, the fans, the fans... She was your biggest fan! And you threw her away!"

Hudson, as Penny, doesn't falter in her conviction until the moment when William reveals the Band-Aid trade. She tells him he's too sweet for rock-n-roll, and William reacts to her attitude by telling her that she needs to wake up. After the reveal, she stares at him, stunned, but mostly keeps her composure, attempting to play off her broken heart with a joke. With tears on her cheeks, she shrugs and asks William, "What kind of beer?" This scene encapsulates the entire film, because as William says, "I could be very dangerous to all of you! I am not sweet, and you should know that about me. I am the enemy!" It's true: William isn't sweet, he's just honest. Penny's and Russell's existences balance on the freedom of living without consequences, and William's purity threatens their denial.

One of the greatest things about this film is that, for a person who was born long after the storyline's events, the portrayal of the time period feels like a documentary. Even if you never experienced the seventies, the costume design looks authentic and the locations aren't affected by the fact that they were shot in 1999. Each song selection is perfect for the moment in which it appears, from the band's sing-along to Elton John's "Tiny Dancer," to the almost-comical use of Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour" over the shot of Penny getting her stomach pumped after a quaalude overdose. The latter moment is a perfect example of how Cameron Crowe's affectionate nostalgia creates a snapshot that doesn't delve too far into the darkest aspects of the story. Crowe's screenplay is filtered through his own experiences and memories from his time in William's shoes. This doesn't produce the most hard-hitting rock movie, but it certainly relays the events in a personal way, the way he remembers it. Crowe is as unreliable a narrator as Penny is, but that doesn't make his story any less engaging. It becomes timeless. Even in the modern age, the legend of the rockstar lifestyle remains debauched and unsatisfactory, but that doesn't stop plenty of us from wanting to live it.

Bond Essay rough draft - feminism section

Besides the antiquated special effects and grandiose villains, "Goldfinger" still suffers from the now politically incorrect views towards women that were just beginning to evolve in the early 1960s. Admittedly, for its time, the film was progressive in its portrayal of Pussy Galore; Not only was she a pilot with her own fleet of five additional female pilots, but she also held Bond at gunpoint during half their interactions. She was not seduced by Bond until the very end, and even then, Bond had to tackle her and hold her down to get her to kiss him (in a scene that could almost be classified as a rape). Pussy Galore was the exception to the rule, as every other female character threw herself at him. M's secretary, Miss Moneypenny, batted her eyelashes at Bond as she sat on the edge of her desk. Bond sleeps with Jill Masterson, the secondary Bond Girl, in order to get to Goldfinger. She dies in the very next scene, smothered in gold paint by Goldfinger's associates, and discarded after she's been used. The women of "Goldfinger" were just blind toys and blonde distractions for Bond as he strutted through the film.

The most outright example of the film's misogynistic attitudes appears near the very beginning, when Felix Leiter, Bond's friend in the CIA, meets up with him at a sunny resort. When Leiter finds him, a girl in a blue bikini is giving Bond a back massage. Bond sits up, grabs his robe, and says, "Felix, this is Vink," then to the girl, "Vink, say goodbye to Felix." She looks at Bond quizzically. He smiles down at her, says, "Man talk," and then spanks her as she turns to leave. Keeping in mind that these were the early 1960s, it is understandable that women would be portrayed this way, but viewing the movie with that mindset also ages it. This scene could never happen in a modern Bond film. At least, it might end differently, with Vink punching Bond in the face in retaliation.

As opposed to the powerless women of "Goldfinger," the women of "Casino Royale" were never out of control. In parallel to the sex toy demise of Jill Masterson, Bond seduces Solange Dimitrios, the wife of one of the minor villains, in order to gather information about her husband's organization. As they lay on the floor of Bond's suite, and she notes that her husband is a bad man, he asks, "What makes him bad, the nature of his work?" Solange, moving her mouth up Bond's naked chest, replies, "That's a mystery, I'm afraid. I'm also afraid that you will sleep with me in order to get to him." Bond smiles as she calls his bluff, and says, "How afraid?" Solange answers, "Not enough to stop," and they kiss. Granted, Solange doesn't know that she'll be dead and hanging from a palm tree by morning for betraying her husband, but it's worth noting that this time, the secondary Bond Girl openly acknowledged her role in Bond's adventure. This reflects a modern attitude towards women's rights, which is that women deserve the freedom to make their own decisions. In a forward-moving culture, reverting from women's suffrage is much more difficult, and socially unacceptable, than regressing to old gender role stereotypes, which is another reason why "Casino Royale" will age more gracefully.

Meeting in the middle, the villainess Xenia Onatopp of “GoldenEye” – yes, note her last name – uses her gender as her most potent weapon. She seduces whoever needs to be seduced, and once they are in bed together, she wraps her legs around the man and crushes him. In the middle of having sex with one of her victims, he screams, “Xenia, I can’t breathe!” and she just laughs and clamps on tighter. He asphyxiates and dies.

Rough Outline: 007 review essay

TOPIC: "Goldfinger" vs. "Casino Royale"

--"Goldfinger" is the prototype Bond film, often considered the best of the series, but "Casino Royale" is better and will age more gracefully than the former has.

--What does each film say about the society in which they were released?

--The Villains: Auric Goldfinger's grandiose fantasy vs. Le Chiffre's economic realism
--terrorism as a constant threat

--The Girls: Pussy Galore falls for Bond, but Bond falls for Vesper Lynd
--feminism and the Bond series

--The Agent: Sean Connery vs. Daniel Craig
--how Bond is played speaks to the hero that each generation is looking for

"Doctor Who" (Season 5, episode 1: "The Eleventh Hour," BBC America)

The Doctor is the last of the Time Lords, an immortal alien race from the planet Gallifrey. He and a human companion travel around the universe in a time machine shaped like a police box, called the TARDIS (Time And Relative Dimensions In Space). He's about 905 years old, and currently, he's on the eleventh incarnation of himself, because every time he dies, he regenerates. All this might be difficult to take in, but 2010's fifth season premiere of this legendary British sci-fi adventure gamely introduces the audience to the 48-year-old series with the successful presentation of a brand new Doctor for fans to admire.

When the episode opens, the eleventh Doctor (Matt Smith) pops out of the crashed TARDIS in tattered clothes last seen on the tenth Doctor when he died: a button-down, relaxed trousers, a tie, and high-top Converse sneakers. (This outfit is important, as each Doctor has one signature look, and Smith will soon claim the role as his own.) From the moment Smith appears, he bears the matter-of-fact attitude and eccentricities that make the Doctor's character charming, confusing and hilarious. In the home of the little Scottish girl who finds him, Amy Pond (Caitlin Blackwood), he asks repeatedly for food, but spits out everything she gives him because it "tastes wrong," only explaining his actions in a single phrase: "New mouth, new rules." The Doctor speaks to Amelia the same way he speaks to all humans, with the knowledge that she will never fully understand anything he does, and confidence in her ability to trust him and follow along. It would be all too easy to play the Doctor as a condescending genius, since he's seen most of the universe in the past, present and future, but Smith hits the Doctor's tone perfectly. He plays all the character's angles, from silly to serious. The darkest aspects of the Doctor are to come in later episodes, but Smith's portrayal instills faith that he can handle what is to come with no problem.

The official "passing of the torch" occurs when the Doctor faces down this episode's alien invaders, a police force called the Atraxi, who have threatened to blow up Earth in order to destroy an escaped alien prisoner. Smith delivers a rousing speech as he changes clothes, shedding the tenth Doctor's outfit and creating his own. The transition from fan-favorite David Tennant to Smith is executed beautifully, with a tribute that efficiently recaps the Doctor's most infamous enemies and settles the hearts of those of us who are still clutching onto Tennant for dear life.



To take on a role that has existed on television since 1963, with a built-in fanbase that adores the last man who played him is no easy task, but Smith easily rises to the occasion. The Doctor has a new body, a new human companion (the grown-up Amy Pond), and a new bowtie, but he is still our Doctor. Now, we can start fresh... again.

Monet's "Haystacks" at Art Institute of Chicago, 111 S. Michigan Ave.

The term "Impressionism" was born in satire after Claude Monet's Impression, Sunrise premiered at Felix Nadal's salon in 1874. Critic Louis Leroy stated, "A preliminary drawing for a wallpaper pattern is more finished than this seascape," but artists of the time gleefully adopted the term, as it succinctly described the haste and attitude in which they attempted to "capture the moment." As the de-facto father of the movement, Monet was fascinated with the various ways in which light influenced color and the view of a subject, and mastered this combination to create accurate portrayals of changing time and seasons. However, the most impactful art is an intersection between technique and substance, and Monet's Haystacks series (1890-1891) fails in the latter.

Monet set up his canvases at various times of the day in his backyard in Giverny, France, in order to capture two ordinary haystacks at dawn, dusk and midday during summer, winter, and the following spring. The summer pieces (second and fourth, above) are filled with oranges and greens as the sun casts yellow light over the haystacks. In the winter pieces (first, third and fifth, above), Monet paints the subdued light and gray skies of the season, as well as the way snow reflects soft purple and blue shades of color. The spindly trees in the once-lush background, painted in a dark purple-brown that matches the part of the haystacks that haven't been covered in snow, complete the look of dead earth. In the spring piece (sixth, above), the landscape is only half-dead, still dark but beginning to turn green again. Monet's eye for and ability to capture the combined effects of light and color are impressive, since lighting is often the bane of many visual artists' existences, but something is missing.

The six paintings on display at the Art Institute of Chicago are part of a 25-piece series, which begs the question: were 25 paintings necessary? Six certainly weren't, as the least repetitive pieces are the first three, and the rest are just plain boring. Monet's mastery of his technique is evident, but are these paintings memorable? If you thought of a piece of art that affected you emotionally or intellectually, would you think of Monet's Haystacks? This series brings to mind another technically astounding painting, Georges Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, which is mindblowing in its intricate use of pointillism, but otherwise forgettable. Haystacks has little to no emotional depth, and after staring up-close at the paintings and walking away, they will leave your mind until the next time you see them. Monet's pretty landscape study is a perfect example of artistic craft, but at the end of the day, these less-than-fascinating haystacks fall flat.

Vampire Weekend, "Contra" (2010)

These days, music fans are hard-pressed to find sounds for which they can't pinpoint the source. At his most spirited, Usher can make one nostalgic for Michael Jackson, and Madonna devotees raise torches and pitchforks upon the release of synth-heavy Lady Gaga singles. However, on Vampire Weekend's self-titled, 2008 debut, the New York band pitted African pop beats against lyrics about yachts, prep schools and WASPs, carving themselves a niche in the world of alternative pop. Their second album, last year's "Contra," is more diverse, surprising and emotional than the first, proving the band's worth as an artistic force to be reckoned with.

Vampire Weekend's music usually has a laid-back vibe, invoking images of summer and Ray-Ban sunglasses, but "Cousins," the album's opener, barrels forward with an almost frenzied sense of urgency felt in none of their other songs. It starts with a jarring guitar riff and and a drum cadence like an airplane propeller, before lead singer Ezra Koenig joins in with yelps resembling the noise a puppy makes when you accidentally step on his tail. Then the beat becomes quieter, but no less present, while Ezra unleashes incomprehensible lyrics about shoemakers and finding sweaters at the bottom of the ocean. To say that Vampire Weekend wouldn't be Vampire Weekend without drummer Chris Tomson's spark is no stretch; After all, he's the one supplying the band's signature African beats, and on uptempo songs like this one, his itch to have fun is irrepressible. Even when the rhythm slows, he's revving up for his next spurt of energy.

Freedom and silliness dominate "Contra," especially on songs like "White Sky." Here, Ezra's light and buoyant vocals are in full swing, and his falsetto yelps bring forth images of a wild bird crooning. The sound is so unexpected, and the the music is so joyous, that you may start laughing and bouncing along with him. His willingness to musically experiment recalls the cheeky lyrical attitude of the band's debut, which was present in lines like "Lil Jon always tells the truth" and "Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?" (which is especially funny if you know that Ezra used to be an English teacher). For the brief, but beautiful, "California English," Ezra even delves into auto-tuning, and the effect, which has been so over-used in recent music production, finally lends itself to an interesting melody. Ezra is a rare singer whose talents support the technology even more than the technology supports him.

The most emotional experience comes from "Giving Up the Gun," which sounds as if it was written by someone much more weary than 26-year-old Ezra. "When I was 17/ I had wrists like steel/ and I felt complete/ And now my body fades/ behind a brass charade/ and I'm obsolete," he sings, and his words portray his fear of aging, becoming irrelevant and fading away, which is a sentiment that everyone has felt or will feel at some point in their lives. "Your sword's grown old and rusty/ burnt beneath the rising sun/ It's locked up like a trophy/ forgetting all the things it's done." Combined with the rest of the music, "Giving Up the Gun" has a haunting, ominous quality that can't be quickly forgotten.

For all the leaps and bounds the band makes, there are still a couple songs that fall flat. The dullest is "Taxi Cab:" Sandwiched between two of the most inspired songs on the album, this one drags like no other. Ezra sounds sleepy, as if the song was recorded right before he passed out at the end of the night, and even Chris's drums plod along with a strange lack of interest. The band sounds so bored that you may wonder why the song made it onto the album in the first place. At its best, though, "Contra" is creative and uninhibited, carrying Vampire Weekend's signature sound into a unique category unlike the rest of the radio fodder surrounding it, and opening listeners' ears to international influences. "New England Afro-pop" would certainly be an interesting addition to your next playlist.

Cherrybomb (2009)

If there's any demographic whose daily lives have been outlandishly glamorized on film, it might be teenagers. From the Shakespearean hierarchies of "She's All That" to the sparkly designer gloss of "Gossip Girl," these teens have always partied harder and done more drugs than the average adolescent. However, in the Irish indie, "Cherrybomb," the filmmakers strike a solid balance between the realities of restless kids and how far they go when flirting with danger, even if the film doesn't bring new insights into their behavior.

Rupert Grint's fate as "Harry Potter's sidekick" is a near certainty in the minds of many moviegoers, but in his starring role as Malachy McKinney, he succeeds in edging away from Ron Weasley's comedic instincts and heroics. Malachy earns good grades, is quiet and respectful with his family, and does what he's supposed to do, including grunt work for his cocky boss at the Titanic Leisureplex fitness center. His best friend, Luke, played by Robert Sheehan with a young Mick Jagger swagger, lies at the opposite end of the spectrum. Luke's family is in pieces, and since he must watch out for his alcoholic, drug-addled father, no one watches out for Luke. While Malachy watches cautiously, Luke runs wild.

The boys balance each other out until the arrival of Michelle, the daughter of Malachy's boss, played by Kimberley Nixon. She's dangerous, and in making Luke and Malachy fight over her, she pushes the boys to increasingly extreme heights. As Luke does the crazy things he always does, Michelle challenges Malachy to go further. Nixon does a great job of portraying this unattainable girl without boundaries. She plays the boys off each other with supreme confidence, staring into Luke's eyes an inch away from his face as if she knows she's the one thing he can't reach, and taunting Malachy with the understanding that he's been desperately waiting for an excuse to be the bad boy.

Malachy's sheltered upbringing is understandable. Luke's broken home is not shocking. Michelle's apathetic parents are expected. All three of the talented young leads are convincing and relatable in their performances, but the plot itself is more of a revelation than the character development. The movie is still worth seeing, and waiting to find out which boy Michelle chooses is the most interesting aspect of the story. The film's tagline sums this up perfectly: "Two guys. One girl. Game on."