Serious Men?

So they often seem. In spite of their signature quirkiness, which permeates all of their films, Joel and Ethan Coen jump so headlong into every genre, every time period, every world as if they are making some philosophical statement about them. This might just be the byproduct of exceptional filmmaking. They might just like these worlds, and want to create within them. Like David Lynch, they often leave us with feelings and ideas which are best left open for interpretation instead of explanation. In might be helpful to keep this in mind when viewing their latest offering, 'A Serious Man'. It might be just a comedy of a man's world falling apart, but it's set amongst a community of people so deeply rooted in the Jewish faith that we can't help feeling there's something to be said here about religion and the idea of answers to the big questions we all ask from time to time. Maybe that's just over-reaching though. Maybe not.

The setting is an baby-boomer, treeless suburb, 1967. Our protagonist, Larry, seems to be the hapless embodiment of the old world which is quickly disappearing. His kids barely register him anymore, his job is hanging by a thread, and his wife is leaving him for the family rabbi. He's forced from his home and into a motel, which has to share with his inept brother (a phenomenal and always welcome Richard Kind). Throughout it all, he goes from rabbi to rabbi in search of answers for why his life could fall apart so suddenly and completely. Why him? Why now? What does it all mean in relation to the Jewish faith he's been so loyal to?

There's enough here to pick apart and decipher, including the Coen's most sudden in a career of sudden endings. But again, this is all something for us to consider, not for them to explain. In spite of any philosophical implications, this is very much un film de Coen. Kids swear, people say the darndest things and wear funny clothes, and there's the occasional, extreme and sudden violence. The sets and costumes never look anything less than that hilarious time when everyone dressed like squares and furniture was designed for torture. Its all 'Mad Men' for the less than beautiful. Look out for a wonderful montage set to Hendrix's 'Machine Gun'. Look out for a (hopefully) career-turning performance from Michael Stuhlbarg as Larry. Look out constantly. There isn't too much here that won't impress you.

It...MIGHT Get Loud

But it doesn't, really. For his latest, Davis Guggenheim ('An Inconvenient Truth') fulfills the rock guitar geek's wet dream of bringing together and showcasing the careers of three of the greats: Jimmy Page, The Edge, and Jack White. The film is a scattershot documentary in which the three reminisce through their very beginnings: setting up their very own bedroom studios, building their first guitar from scratch, and cutting their teeth playing jumpy blues standards on local television shows. There isn't any real chronological succession of events here, but you hardly care as it's immensely satisfying watching them go back to their high school, fumble through original 4 track demos of what would become classics, and play for us the first records that ever really inspired them. The most satisfying of which is watching Jimmy Page, as giddy as a school boy, take us through Link Wray's 'Rumble' (maybe THE greatest riff of all time, folks). As simple as it is, he can't get the smile of his face; and neither can we.

Interspersed throughout all this is a sort of guitar forum, in which the three come together to discuss origins, methods, and influences. This is what most will come to the film for, and that's probably why most are going to walk away from it disappointed. The only amusing part of all this is watching the three of them jam on each other's songs.

Guggenheim seems to treat all three the same, but you can't help feeling that he's a bigger U2 fan than anything. One sentimental bit about each of them reminiscing about their first guitars is set to U2's 'One Tree Hill'. It's an easy target and it does work, but it's not much of a guitar song. Guggenheim also attempts a bit of drama in the threes' lives, but it just comes off feeling like he's trying too hard. Guggenheim's biggest misstep is Jack White. The film succeeds in covering three generations of guitar players, but fails to come up with three uniquely different styles as White is basically the Stevie Ray Vaughan of his generation ( a shameless showman who's doing to Page what Vaughan did to Hendrix). I fail to think of a more suitable replacement, but the White Stripes have always felt like a hungover Led Zeppelin, with Page and Bonham still in bed and Plant left to play drums with Jones on guitar. It doesn't help that White comes off as standoffish and self-righteous. He dresses like a dustbowl-era magician, he smokes cigarettes like a tool, and he plays little more than hundred year old standards (he even includes what might be his son - dressed exactly like a miniature version of himself).

Overall, the real joy here is seeing the archival footage of each of the threes' bands - the highlights being an early and aggressive clip of U2's 'The Electric Co.' and Zeppelin tearing into 'How Many More Times'. Other than that, it doesn't really get too loud, but you will want to go home, tune up, and plug in. I know I did.

One last thought: For all the emphasis on the electric guitar here, why is the final jam all accoustic?