Phawker

PROMISING YOUNG WOMAN (Directed by Emerald Lilly Fennell, 113 minutes, USA, 2020)

BY DAN TABOR FILM CRITIC Director Emerald Lilly Fennell (Killing Eve) merges the arthouse with the grindhouse with this shotgun-wedding of the rape/revenge sub-genre to the #MeToo movement. Promising Young Woman begins by introducing us to Cassandra Thomas (Carey Mulligan), a beautiful young curmudgeonly barista by day, and by night an avenging angel who lies in wait in bars and clubs pretending to be over-served and incapicated. This trap is meant to ensnare the “nice guys” who attempt to take advantage of her only to have the tables turned when they are confronted about the lack of consent by a completely sober woman. The film uses this ‘prologue’ to lay the groundwork as Emerald then takes us through Cassi’s vengeance in five chapters, a la Kill Bill, while slowly illuminating the inciting incident that put  Cassi on this path in the first place.

Cassi’s origin story lurches into motion when one such “nice guy” from her past, Ryan (Bo Burnham), happens into Cassi’s work one day and asks her out. Emerald makes a bold choice with the exposition here in that nothing is said out loud that doesn’t feel natural or absolutely necessary, and because of that it’s really up to the audience to pay close attention. We get that Cassi dropped out of med school seven years ago, because her best friend Nina was raped by one of Ryan’s friends at a party. While the rapist was able to have all charges dismissed, he did flee the country afterwards, leaving Cassi to clean up the pieces.  When Cassi discovers the perpetrator is back in the US, and about to be married she goes into full on vengeance-will-be-mine mode.

Fueled by a bubble gum pop soundtrack featuring the likes of Britney Spears and Paris Hilton, Promising Young Woman uses whip smart humor to dull the edge of its weighty subject matter. Carey Mulligan disappears in the role of Cassi and is a force to be reckoned with by any and all who cross her path. She is surrounded by comedic heavyweights like Alison Brie, Molly Shanon, and Jennifer Coolidge who coupled with the likes of Clancy Brown and Alfred Molina inhabit this candy colored world where evil lurks, even the brightest corners. The performances are all stellar, and that really helps to elevate a script that’s stuck trafficking in the well-worn trappings of rape/revenge.The film further complicates things by once removing the inciting incident from our protagonist, after all Cassi wasn’t the victim, but that doesn’t make what happened any less tragic.

Still, PYW ultimately left me with more questions than answers. The film wants to be an edgy femistic dive into consent and accountability, but I was left wondering how Cassi is able to go as far as she does without ever going too far. Sure, she can drop out of medical school, dedicate her life to avenging her best friend night after night, but if you are going to be that crazy, you really have to own it. It’s like if Batman just gave every criminal he apprehended a stern talking to, and sent them on their way, invariably to commit more crimes. Street justice is supposed to be morally ambiguous and break a few eggs. That is just what happens when someone is pushed to their limits by extenuating circumstances, they get that moral pass from the audience to do the terrible things that need to be done.

Emerald Lilly Fennell ultimately hesitates when pulling the trigger, and because of that PYW misses the mark. The concept of these kinds of films is to be a sort of wish fulfillment if you will, to see the brutal justice dealt out that’s so very much missing from the real world when it comes to these sorts of crimes. While the performances here still make the film watchable, its flawed logic is what broke the film for me and had me pulling at narrative strings until the fabric of the entire film fell to pieces. I just found it all very puzzling the more thought I gave it – Cassi’s drive, her sacrifices and her eventual fate. When the film finally unleashes Cassi’s lackluster endgame, its bleak resolution is a disservice not only to the character, but the survivors watching, expecting to see something other than the grim reality they face every day.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Regular visitors to this web site might have noticed a distinct scarcity of updates lo these last few months. That’s because I’ve been hard at work on a six-hour docu-series I’ve sold to television that’s slated to air in the spring. Not at liberty to get into the details at the moment, but there will be a big reveal in a few months. In the mean time we will be publishing at a greatly reduced pace, but look for the occasional movie review by film critic Dan Tabor or yet another Dad-Rock rant by folk music editor Jonathan Houlon. Until then, hope you are living your best pandemic life. Stay calm and hold on, the end is near.

BY JONATHAN HOULON FOLK MUSIC EDITOR Now that THAT is resolved — and remember, folks, that over here in the C&W ghetto of Phawker, we have absolutely no intention of reaching across the aisle to racist fascists — I would be remiss not to acknowledge the recent passing of Billy Joe Shaver, one of finest songwriters to ever emerge from the Lone Star state.  And that’s saying something as that list includes late great Texans Townes Van Zandt and Guy Clark as well as the still very much alive Butch Hancock and Willie Nelson, the latter of whom declared that Billy Joe was, indeed, the very best of them all when it came to writing.  Shaver sure led a colorful life:  Raised by his grandmother, as a child, he walked 10 miles barefoot to see Hank Williams Sr. who awarded the boy by looking directly into his eyes as he sang.  Billy Joe lost several fingers in a saw mill accident as a young man but that didn’t stop him from moving to Nashville to take his chances as a songwriter and performer.  He famously threatened to kick Waylon Jenning’s ass if his fellow Texan didn’t have a listen to his songs.  Jennings was, in the event, suitably impressed and ended up populating his now legendary Honky Tonk Heroes record almost exclusively with Shaver tunes.  Billy Joe endured some rough sledding in the 70s and into the 80s, mostly involving his massive drug and booze intake, but pulled out of it when he accepted Christ, who, according to Shaver, appeared on the edge of his bed, offering mercy and redemption after one particularly savage bender.  Shaver later hooked up with his preternaturally gifted guitar-slinging son, Eddy, and would release some of his finest music in the 90s, including arguably his best LP, Tramp on Your Street.  Tragically, Eddy died of a heroin overdose on NYE 2000.  Earlier that year Eddy’s mother, who Billy Joe had married no less than three times (outdoing even the king of multiple marriages, Steve Earle, in that regard), had passed.  But Shaver, in the face of great personal tragedy, pressed on, sometimes violently.  He shot a man in the face outside a bar in Waco after thoughtfully inquiring:  Where do you want it?  Billy Joe had friends in high places:  Willie’s lawyers somehow helped him dodge a bullet in that matter and Shaver was acquitted based on self-defense.  Where do you want it, indeed!  Later, Shaver would actually suffer a heart attack on stage but recovered from that too and continued to perform.  When I heard that he had passed — at the age of 81 — at first I couldn’t believe it:  BJS had an air of immortality about him.

In any case, it’s not these facts, figures, or fictions that Shaver should be remembered for but, rather, it is his amazing catalogue of songs that will ensure his true immortality.  Hank Williams has been called the “Hillbilly Shakespeare” but you could just as easily apply this moniker to Billy Joe.  There is a startling originality to many of his phrases but also an incredible economy.  Here’s just a few examples:  “I declare I feel like Texas when I’m up here Tennessee”; “the highway she’s hotter than nine kinds of hell”; “low down leavin’ sun done did everything that needs done”; “piano rolled blues danced holes in my shoes”; “he’s rosined his riggin’, laid back his wages” etc.  If there’s such a thing as honky tonk poetry, this has gotta be it.  Even the Dean of Nashville songwriters, Tom T. Hall, a normally sober witness, becomes apoplectic in praise when it comes to Shaver.  On the back of Shaver’s first LP, 1973’s Old Fiver and Dimers Like Me, Tom T. gushed:  “Billy Joe Shaver is to love or to hate.  To know the deep and dark secrets of his mind, and then hate him, would be wrong.  So, you’ll have to love him.  And if you can’t love him, put the damned album back in the rack and keep your (censored) money and PISS ON YOU!”  Testify, Tommy!

I myself first came across Shaver via the aforementioned Waylon Jenning’s 1973 release, Honky Tonk Heroes.  This album is oft-cited as the beginning of the Outlaw Country movement in so far as Waylon insisted on using his road band vs. Nashville studio musicians and drew, but for one song, on the repertoire of an almost then entirely unknown songwriter in Billy Joe Shaver.  If you’ve never heard a Shaver song, start here!  I didn’t catch up with Billy Joe himself until the early 90s with the release of Tramp on Your Street.  This album which was credited to simply “Shaver” (thus, in effect, giving son Eddy co-billing) stood out as the real item in the sea of faux honky tonk associated with the alt-country scare of the so-called No Depression era.  I was lucky enough to see Shaver out promoting Tramp in a small club in L.A. and was so transfixed by the chemistry Billy Joe had with Eddy that it wasn’t until show’s end that I realized that Dave Alvin, quite a tunesmith himself, had been standing next to me the whole time, equally amazed.  Songwriters knew.  Later I would see Billy Joe at the Tin Angel with Jesse “Guitar” Taylor from the Joe Ely Band in tow.  But it wasn’t the same without Eddy.  Why’d it have to be Eddy?  The last time I caught the legend was in Sellersville and after the show I bought a bumpsticker with the following words attributed to Shaver:  “If you don’t love Jesus, go to Hell!”  Sure, Bill, whatever you say.

So here’s a half dozen Shaver tunes to get you started.  A couple by the man himself and the rest by his Texas peers cuz, let’s face it, the Lone Star state takes the prize when it comes to producing great songwriters.  To be sure, when it comes to politics, Texas has  — with the exception of Beto O’Rourke and Ann Richards — produced some of the worst shit stains around (I’m looking at you, Ted Cruz).  We mustn’t get too exercised about bolo ties and armadillos!

“I Been To Georgia On A Fast Train”:  Sort of a origin story for Billy Joe with a wink at Woody.  “I’ve been to Georgia on a fast train, mama // I wasn’t born no yesterday // I got a good Christian raising and an eighth grade education // ain’t no need in y’all a-treatin’ me this way.”  I’d say.  This looks like a promotional video for the version of this song (my favorite) that appeared on Tramp on Your Street.  I hope this gives you some sense of just how badass the combination of father and son Shaver was.  And if you need anymore proof, check out Unshaven, a live album recorded around the same time in Smith’s Olde Bar fittingly in Atlanta. Throw down, Eddy!

I AM GRETA (directed by Nathan Grossman, 97 minutes, USA, 2020)

BY DAN TABOR FILM CRITIC I Am Greta isn’t looking to change any minds about the teenage climate activist, or further educate anyone on the issue of climate change. Instead this Hulu Original documentary looks to do one thing, and it does that extremely well – humanize its subject through intimate portraiture. Granted unrestricted access to his subject, director Nathan Grossman takes his camera behind the scenes of the fire-breathing take-no-shit public personae and her #FridaysForFuture movement to reveal the humble origins of Greta’s crusade, her family life and her struggles with Asperger’s.

The film sets the tone early reiterating Greta’s famous and typically precocious statement that one of the positives of her condition is the “ability to see through all the static.” For reasons the film never really explains, Thunberg fixated on the issue of climate change from an early age, consuming any and all information she could find on the subject. This eventually led to her protest alone outside of the Swedish Parliament, with a simple cardboard sign stating  “SKOLSTREJK FÖR KLIMATET”  or school strike for climate. The documentary is there from the beginning, as her parents reluctantly allow their daughter to begin her strike, which only grew as more and more of the global youth were inspired by her passionate call for awareness.

We see plenty of the marches and the speeches that followed, but the film is most powerful in its quieter moments as it delves into Greta’s upbringing and her relationship with her parents. When I first saw Thunberg speak, I assumed she had been indoctrinated in her parents’ politics. As we discover from extended glimpses of Thunberg’s home life, that’s simply not the case. In fact, the exact opposite is true. Like any loving parents of a willful child obsessed with anything, they’ve come to embrace Greta’s lifestyle and beliefs, which have in turn become their own, thru the sheer, force-of-nature will of their headstrong daughter. When she went vegan, it was only a matter of time before her parents did too. Greta also refuses to fly because of the toll flight takes on the environment, a vow her parents eventually adopted. This bit plays heavily into the harrowing final act of the film, when Greta crosses the Atlantic in a sailboat with her father to speak at the United Nations Climate Summit in New York.

Her father Svante is the primary force we see in the film as he struggles to both enable the young activist while still protecting his little girl. We see him not only deal with the expected teenage meltdowns, but also taking classes in emergency medical techniques after the young girl is besieged by death threats. Her family candidly discusses her mental illness and how she was severely bullied as a young girl, barely speaking to anyone other than her immediate family for months at end. Her journey into the public eye has not been an easy one for the tender-aged Thunberg, who we see in private dancing and playing with her pets as you’d expect any 17-year-old to do.

While most kids take up an extracurricular activity like tap dancing or lacrosse, Thunberg set her sites higher: saving the world. It’s so rare that one teenager’s passion would influence the world stage, but we see her parents do their best to help shoulder the weight of her cause, even though it takes its toll on everyone in her household.  Through the film it slowly becomes clear just why, however. Fighting back tears her mother explains that thanks to her crusade to heal the world, she has also healed herself, overcoming over and over again what were once insurmountable barriers to spread awareness and save us from ourselves.

BY WILLIAM C. HENRY Our latest SCOTUS associate justice–along with 99% of Republican justices appointed or elected to state and federal benches since January, 2016–refers to her judicial philosophy as “originalism” or “textualism.” Actually, Dinosaurism would be a far more honest and accurate description.

So, precisely what is this “originalism” and “textualism” these supposedly “unbiased, unprejudiced, nonpartisan and objective” justices and judges claim as the foundation upon which they construct their decisions? Well, in their Alice in Wonderland of fact vs. fiction, it’s a postulation by “conservative” judicial swamis that they possess the otherworldly gift of being able to divine what the Founding Fathers, the framers of the Constitution, INTENDED–unvarying, unalterable, and applicable into infinity–when they “worded” said Constitution.

Hard to believe? How ’bout astonishingly OUTRAGEOUS … or, better yet, unimaginably LAUGHABLE?!

Allow me, if you will, to humiliate these “originalists” and “textualists” with a few FACTS surrounding the lives, times and tenets of these seeming limitlessly clairvoyant mid- to late-18th century “framous” Founding Fathers of ours and the preposterous absurdity of any such present day legally defensible linkage:

1) They communicated with one another or others–WHEREVER they might be–solely via word of mouth or handwritten message carried on foot, via horseback or the grace of a prevailing wind.

2) They believed that the only folks who should be allowed to vote were the landed gentry; that a woman’s place was solely in the home, and that they shouldn’t be allowed anywhere NEAR a voting place … EVER; that black people were less than human and could legally–and unashamedly–be bought and sold; and if you weren’t of white western European extraction, you were no more than a “savage.”

3) The number of  “public” libraries at the time could be counted on two hands, contained few books, and were dedicated almost exclusively to the “propagation of the gospel.”

BY WILLIAM C. HENRY What does the American taxpayer have to look forward to regarding the untold mega million$ in back taxe$, interest charge$, penaltie$, and a $400,000,000+ personally guaranteed debt owed to corrupt banks and dictatorial foreign governments by the current president of the United States? Answer: he/she/me/you will be paying ALL of it off if the notorious deadbeat, tax cheat, known thief and traitorous Putin ass-kisser, Donald J. Trump, is re-elected.

Why? Because Donnie is, for all intents and purposes, DEAD BROKE and has literally NO MEANS left to obtain the funds necessary to pay off these debts other than to surreptitiously steal them from the United States treasury or to provide the creditors certain American government concessions or allowances and/or turn a blind eye towards their illicit activities against our democracy.

Allow me to repeat that: there are NO OTHER options for Trump, period! No individual, financial institution or government anywhere in the world will lend Trump any more money! EVERYTHING he or the Trump organization owns (which is considerably less than meets the eye since much of what he or his organization claims to OWN is simply under a “lease” or “management” contract) is already mortgaged to the hilt. He can’t beg or borrow so much as a thin dime anywhere from anyone. His only resort is to steal the necessary cash or provide something in trade for debt forgiveness. He is a U.S treasury embezzler in waiting! He is a DEADBEAT walking!

P.S. Another frightful little tidbit you might want to keep in mind is that this Charlatan in Chief could not obtain even the nation’s LOWEST security clearance were he not the president of the United States!

BY DAnon Just after the 2016 presidential election I wrote an open letter to family members expressing my disappointment in their selections. With that letter I asked each of you to express your perspective in a response to my letter. I waited for a while and received no response from any of you. So, I reached out. Here’s what I heard—from my sister, “Well, the other side,” from my father—“Yes, he’s going to make American great again,” and from my mother—“Well, I didn’t know about any of this stuff. I don’t pay attention to the news.” Now four years later, the 2020 presidential election is essentially a contest of hate versus hope. If you review my letter from 2016 you can see that my fears have become a reality. It already was then. It’s just gotten much worse and will only continue to worsen. A country run on hate, racism, divisiveness, greed, xenophobia, fascism, sexual predation, and misogyny is what we’ve become. Is this okay with you? Does this jive with Christian beliefs?

TRUMP’S PARTY OF HATE & CHAOS VERSUS HOPE

Another reminder—I’m not affiliated with any party. I’m an independent. I’ve heard “Well, the other side” or “Well, he’s from the other side.” We are all Americans. Typically, Democrats and Republican platforms are somewhat identical because we all pretty much want the same things for this country. But as it was four years ago, this is not a contest of Republican vs. Democrat. It’s hate versus hope. Just look at the 2020 party platforms. The Democratic platform is very hopeful and includes ways to move the country forward. There is no Republican party platform in 2020. None.

And let’s touch on the Republican party a bit. The Republican party we’ve known no longer exists. It’s now the Trump party. The list of real Republicans breaking from him (i.e. current US Senators Mitt Romney and Lisa Murkowski, Cindy McCain, George Bush, Jeb Bush, Jeff Flake, Colin Powell, John Bolton, Justin Amash, William McRaven, Carly Fiorina, John Kasich, Rick Snyder, Miles Taylor, Tom Ridge, John Kelly and Mad Dog Mattis) and voting Democrat is staggering. And he (Trump) is not a Republican at all. You’ve got to see that the party has been hijacked by a conman and his propaganda arm Fox News.

Now please try to release white privilege from your mindset. Let me remind my family once again that I am married to a recent immigrant. She was sworn in as an American citizen. She has every right and privilege that you and every other citizen in this country is blessed with. Also, our boys are not “white.” You may say, “Well, I don’t think of your family that way.” Well, that’s good. But others do and they’re being dog-whistled and prompted by a dangerous demagogue. My family is a target of this xenophobic, racist conman—yes, your grandchildren are now targets.

Who are these “others”? They are the base lunatics—proud racists, the KKK, neo-Nazis, and other white power groups like The Proud Boys. They show up at rallies waving their Confederate and white power flags. They instigate riots and create chaos at peaceful protests and marches. This is right out of Nazi Germany’s playbook. This can’t be okay with you. This doesn’t align with your Christian beliefs.

So, can my Trump/Nazi comparison be dismissed? I don’t think so. His campaign started off by demonizing the entire population of Mexicans, Muslims, and all immigrants. Then came a plan for mass deportations. Then came separating children from their families at the border. Hitler did the same. This is how he rose to power.

Hitler disposed of 11 million people during his reign. He murdered not only 6 million Jews, but also 5 million other people. Who were those other people? They were gypsies, homosexuals, visual artists, writers, musicians, clergy, professors, the elderly, the press, the handicapped, Jehovahs, blacks, political opponents, Slavics, and their very own soldiers when they returned home after being caught as prisoners of war (John McCain, anyone?). He and his base supporters seem to be targeting the same folks. I’m sure you don’t hate any of these people.

When I look back a few years ago and think of this rally moment, this should have been the end of Donald Trump’s run—mocking a handicapped reporter and literally “kicking” out a 10-year old boy in a wheelchair and his mother from a rally.

RELIGIOUS RECONCILIATION

    Like four years ago, I’m not saying you are racist. But you did then decide that racism isn’t a deal-breaker when casting your vote. This was very confusing for me then, since you never taught your family to be racist or hateful. I’m grateful for that, as you should be proud of that.

Clearly you are a devout Christian. You were raised to be one. You raised your own children to be one. This is important to you—attending services every week, choir member and director, organist, council member, etc. That is a very admirable dedication to the faith.

So how then does support of Trump reconcile with your core guidelines of your faith. Perhaps I am missing something, but I don’t see any alignment at all between the Christian life and Trump.

Donald Trump is a conman. He is morally bankrupt. He is hateful. He has disdain for your beliefs. He is playing you as a mark. He has made himself a false idol. He’s done the same in business where he has bankrupted six different companies, including a casino. How can anyone bankrupt a casino? That’s nearly impossible to do. Still waiting for those tax returns, too. UPDATE: $750 paid per year. Ugh.

Donald Trump is the poster boy for misogyny and sexual predation. How many wives? How many girlfriends on the side? 26 cases and counting of sexual misconduct. How many paid-off porn stars? How many pussies did he grab?

And does he really have a sexual interest in his own daughter? Well, he’s stated it multiple times on live television and on live radio.

And what of our illegal immigrant first lady? Yes, she came to this country illegally. But I guess that’s okay when it pertains to his own interests (i.e. hiring illegals to work at his golf clubs and hotels). And then there’s Fox News’ poor Megyn Kelly. It’s all just too gross (including the nepotism of hiring family members to lucrative government positions).

Trump has destroyed our country’s standing in the world and with its allies. We are now ridiculed around the globe. He treats our greatest allies as enemies—Germany, France, England, Canada, Mexico, Ukraine, “shit hole countries,” NATO, etc. His fawning over and bromance with the world’s most notorious authoritarian rulers should alarm you. Remember when Russia, the Taliban and North Korea were all our most ruthless enemies in the world? What happened? He has respect and admiration for murdering thugs but refers to our own veterans and military as “suckers” and “losers.”

WITCH HUNTS, QUID-PRO-QUOS & HOAXES

US intelligence agencies (both the CIA and the FBI) concluded that Russia had indeed interfered in the 2016 presidential election (and both are reporting they are again doing this). Their investigations revealed that Russia was attempting to help get Trump elected. Trump’s and Fox News’ response? “This is a witch hunt led by Democrat-loving Robert Mueller.” Robert Mueller is a registered Republican that was appointed as Special Counsel by Jeff Sessions, Trump’s own Attorney General. His investigations led to the discovery of people in Trump’s campaign working with Russia for election help. The result of those investigations and those involved:

• Paul Manafort, Campaign Manager—indicted, guilty, imprisoned (hoping to be pardoned)
• Rick Gates, Campaign Advisor – indicted, guilty, imprisoned, time served
• Michael Flynn, National Security Advisor—indicted, guilty, currently attempting to be pardoned (of course)
• Jeff Sessions, Attorney General – fired by Trump because he rightfully recused himself from the investigations
• George Papadopolous, Campaign Advisor—indicted, imprisoned, time served
• Roger Stone (Trump’s old Nixon-loving weirdo buddy)—indicted, guilty, pardoned by Trump (of course)
• Michael Cohen – Trump’s long-time personal lawyer—indicted, guilty, imprisoned, time served
• James Comey—FBI Director—fired by Trump for telling the truth

So, witch hunt? Thirty-four Trump campaign personnel and Russian nationals charged and 113 total charges of crimes. This was not a witch hunt. Period. To this very day, Trump still denies Russian interference as both the FBI and the CIA say otherwise in both the 2016 and 2020 elections. But he knows better than them and the generals, right?

You’d be right to assume at this point that Trump should’ve settled down and behaved. But you’d be wrong. Not long after all these charges were announced, it was discovered by a whistleblower in the administration that Trump was again seeking election help from a foreign power—Ukraine. In his infamous quid-pro-quo call to the leader of Ukraine, Trump is heard asking for dirt on Joe Biden to help himself win re-election.  This is a CRIME! We all know the rest—the US House of Representatives, on two counts (obstruction of Congress and abuse of power), voted to impeach the man-baby. Yes, he was found guilty of both charges and IMPEACHED! So, why is he still in office? Complicit Republican Senators voted against removal. But not all Republican Senators voted in his favor (i.e. Murkowski and Romney). Two Russian pals (hmmm) of new personal Trump lawyer Rudy Giuliani were both arrested, indicted and are serving time. Gordon Sondlund was fired by Trump as ambassador to Ukraine because he told truth under oath. John Bolton and Rick Perry both resigned purely out of disgust.

Trump’s biggest proclaimed hoax is about the current pandemic of COVID-19. He was first made aware of this threat to the country as early as January of this year. What did he do about it? Blame China (China Virus?). Blame health officials and the CDC. Blame Dr. Fauci. I say Fauci for President!

I believe the President is supposed to set examples for all of us. What example is he setting here? “Don’t wear a mask!” “No masks at my rallies!” This man is insane. There are now over 210,000 dead American citizens due primarily to his inaction, mismanagement, denials, and hoax claims. The US is now in the worst shape from this “hoax” than any other country in the world. We rank first in infections and deaths. What more is there to say? Make America Great Again? We’re Number One?!? Drink bleach and inject Lysol, America!
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Billie Holiday had one of the greatest voices of all time. She was a woman of breath-taking talent and global popularity while also stirring controversy. She started a notable rebellion singing “Strange Fruit” which exposed the realities of Black life in America and earned her powerful enemies. Raw, emotional and brutally honest, Billie is filled with incredible, unheard testimonies from musical greats like Charles Mingus, Tony Bennett, Sylvia Syms and Count Basie.”

Then in the late 1960’s journalist Linda Lipnack Kuehl set out to write the definitive biography of Billie. Over the next decade, she tracked down and tape-recorded interviews with the extraordinary characters that populated the iconic singer’s short, tumultuous life.

These incredibly intimate testimonies are not only told by some of the musical greats, but Billie Holiday herself is revealed through the eyes of her cousin, her school friends, lovers, lawyers, pimps and even the FBI agents who arrested her. Linda’s book was never finished and the tapes unplayed – until now.

With unprecedented and exclusive access to Linda’s astonishing 200 hours of never-before-heard interviews, BILLIE showcases an American legend, capturing her depths and complexity through the voices of those who knew her best. Painstakingly restored with footage and stills colorized by one of the leading color artists, it is an arresting and powerful tale of one of the greatest singers who ever lived, and of Linda Lipnack Kuehl, the woman who would sacrifice her life in trying to tell it. Premiers in select theaters and on-demand streaming on Friday December 4th.

BY JONATHAN HOULON FOLK MUSIC EDITOR Susan Werner is a helluva songwriter.  Just ask octogenarian British heartthrob Tom Jones or Canadian folk giant Garner Rogers, both of whom have recorded Werner’s stunning composition “Did Trouble Me.”  [Note:  there will be a forthcoming Wire on Garnet and his late brother Stan cuz let’s face it, you’ve never heard tell of ‘em and you shoulda done, mmmmmmmmmmkkkkkkay?] But this Wire does not concern Werner’s storied songwriting past — rather, we welcome her newest long-player, Flyover Country and it’s incredible lead-off track, “Long Live.”

Hometown songs often represent a sand-trap for songwriters:  they lend themselves to the sorta sticky sentiment whose eradication thereof Sid Vicious, among other noble combatants, died in vain glory… or something.  There are a few great odes to home, tho, including criminally underrated Texan songsmith David Halley’s “Hometown” which leads off with this couplet:  “These brokedown buildings are home sweet home to me // where they sweep the trash they don’t want to see.”  Or how about the Cole Porter of the British New Wave’s Joe Jackson who began his “Hometown” with this line:  “Of all the stupid things I could have thought this was the worst // I started to believe my life began at seventeen.”  Halley and Jackson avoid the sentiment trap by teeing off emphatically — witheringly in David’s case and self-critically in Joe’s.

As far as hometown songs go, Werner’s “Long Live” is a hole-in-one (for the record, I have never and will never play golf) but first let us pause for a brief lesson in Songwriting for all you millenials out there.  Well, actually, let me initially mention that Werner’s Flyover Country is something called an “album” which is a collection of songs that may even have some thematic thread.  Get it?  Of course you don’t!  But, anyway, a “song” is different than a “soundscape” that is used as background noise in the War on Drugs.  Dig?  See, it’s got several components including three that Werner especially excels at:  (1) a “melody” i.e. a series of notes of varying lengths, some long, some short.  Check out how Susan sings the words “interstate” and “Super Eight” in the first verse of “Long Live.”  Instead of a staccato series of one beat mumbles, she actually elongates these notes to a full measure (that’s four beats for you musos out there).  Werner writes wonderful melodies and actually has the vocal chops to sing them.  (2) a “bridge” (sometimes called a “middle eight”) i.e. a variation on the the verse or the chorus that has its own melodic idea but somehows harkens and leads back to, usually, the verse.  With an ace songwriter like Susan, you hardly even notice the seams between the bridge and the rest of the song — it all just flows, man!  For further consideration of the middle eight, I recommend the Beatles (can you name all four?)  (3) “lyrics”:  yes, kids, actual words with meaning (and, no, that doesn’t require obviousness … but it requires something to which you’ll want to return).  Werner veers toward the corn field on “Long Live” with images such as “the water tower and the swimming pool // the county fairgrounds and the middle school.”  But, then, she hits you with this at the very end of her tale:  “So pardon me if I still give a damn.”  In other words, you can shove your hipster irony up your ass, Houlon.  My hometown made me who I am and I’ll sing it about as much as I fucking want to.  Of course, being the master she is, Werner achieves all of that with a sly wink in perfect pentameter.  Don’t mess with Susie!

Werner — who, indeed, hails from small-town Iowa, cut her teeth on the Philly folk scene of the early 90s when she was first starting out; she remains resident of the city where bad things happen.  For Flyover Country, she wisely enlisted local dobro legend Mike “Slo-Mo” Brenner to produce and he, in turn, pulled in several of his colleagues from John Train [FULL DISCLOSURE: That’s my band.] including fiddler extraordinaire Jay Ansill who contributed significantly to that band’s early sound.  There are times when Flyover Country is sort of sonically reminiscent of John Train were those local no-hit wonders fronted by a far more capable singer and songwriter.  Hah!  The balance of Flyover Country is filled out by a small bluegrass combo led by Sarah Larsen (who was a mainstay of this century’s Philly folk scene before moving to Maryland) on fiddle and former Huffamooser Kevin Hansen (still of Philly and still one its very best) on guitar.  I can’t say that I am intimately familiar with Werner’s entire catalogue — she has been produced by some serious heavyweights including Rodney Crowell — but it is hard to imagine getting a warmer sound than the one achieved on Flyover Country.  Kudos to Brenner and engineer Pete Rydberg of South Philly’s 1935 Studio for keeping the focus where it belongs:  on Werner’s songs and her beautiful voice.  How refreshing it is to listen to a record where I don’t sense a computer between me and what I’m hearing:  Flyover Country has the feel of an unfussy living room unburdened by digital ornament.  Did I actually just write that?

But where is this so-called Flyover Country anyway? If you ask me (a hardcore and unapologetic East Coast liberal elite), it starts just west of here, say, Montgomery County, and ends somewhere just shy of the Santa Monica pier. I dunno, man, this “reaching across the aisle” jazz seems pretty far fetched to me. I mean, what would that conversation sound like? “Hey, Elmer, have you read Shapiro’s latest, Shakespeare In A Divided America? How about that part where he reveals that none of other than Ulysses S. Grant once dressed the part of Desdemona? Far out, right?” “Well I don’t know about all that, Jon, but I tell you what: Gawd willin’ and the crick don’t rise, if those pizza eating pedophiles come this way, I’ll stand my ground and, then, I’ll stand back and standby too!” “Uhhhhhhh ….”

But Werner’s strength is empathy.  In writing about Flyover Country, she addresses among other things child abuse.  How’s this for a chilling line from “Only Later” another highlight of the record:  “Only later did we learn that the neighbors right near by had a daddy with an eye [that] didn’t wander far enough.” Ouch!  She concludes by reminding us (and I sure need some reminding as evidenced above):  “How all alike we were only later did we learn.”  Whether effortlessly moving from folk rock to bluegrass to rockabilly as she does in the album’s first three songs alone or singing about hometown subjects such as the barn radio or her daddy’s Eldorado, Werner’s Flyover Country is a place worth visiting, now more than ever.  I just hope it’s only later, as she sings, and not too late.

BY BILL HANGLEY JR. Eddie Van Halen dies, and the word that comes to mind is “joy.” That’s m’lady’s word for his music, and she’s right. She’s a huge fan, and many are the nights we’ve spent with a bottle of wine and the pounding rubbery cartoon violence of 1984. What Eddie embodied, she always said, was “pure, male joy.” Not the meathead glower of your modern vomit-vocal metal. Not the prosthetic-penis fakery of your day-glo hair bands. But instead, from Eddie Van Halen, godfather to them all, true joy; the jolly roar of a chainsaw crossed with an ice cream truck. Open, generous, dressed for frights but promising delights. For all the cartoonishly-crass fist-shaking, pelvis-pumping sizzle of Van Halen’s best work, it was always as welcoming as an amusement park at the end of the pier.

Singer David Lee Roth was the carnival barker. Drummer Alex Van Halen powered the roller coaster. Bassist Michael Anthony propped up the facades and spun the cotton-candy background vocals.

And Eddie?

Eddie was the thousand-foot candy-colored plastic slide that dropped you from ninety feet up, spun you around sixteen times, tossed you into the air, and finally dumped you into the Pacific with a massive, joyous splash.

This was a great pop craftsman who launched flares of true genius. Not just any Dutch kid could take one of Michael Jackson’s best songs and – in Jackson’s own words – “not just blaze a solo … but make it better.” Eddie Van Halen didn’t just play on “Beat It,” he rearranged the tune in ten minutes in order to ensure that when it came cranking out of somebody’s car stereo, they’d have no choice but to stomp the gas. Resistance was futile.

The resulting rush was as American as the 20th century. Wanna feel good? Hit play on Van Halen and hit the road. Make speed. Move, baby. At its best, Van Halen was your car, no problems, and an open highway. Was there anywhere to go? Who cares? Let’s go anyway! Van Halen was the Beach Boys of the shopping mall age, and Eddie was the band’s Brian Wilson.

And now Van Halen is truly over, and with it, a chapter of late 20th Century American history.

Because in Eddie and Van Halen we can see the beginning and end of a very particular American time and place: the sprawling postwar California suburbs that are smoldering as you read this. All great bands need a great scene, and for Van Halen the scene was the massive, folks-away cul-de-sac keg parties of the 1970s. The text to consult for a full, beer-soaked account is Van Halen Rising, by Greg Renoff, a tremendously entertaining band bio of the best variety: written by a fan, with a fan’s commitment to accuracy and detail, and focused entirely on the early years when the band was coming together and fighting for success.

Renoff’s book reveals the perfect party Petri dish of Pasadena: an endless sprawl of yards, pools and rumpus rooms, stuffed with Boomers’ kids, with money and cars and nowhere to go but to each others’ houses whenever somebody’s parents went away. California’s drinking age was already 21, but people acted as if it was still 18. High school meant weed, rock, beer and birth control. The five-buck-a-head backyard kegger was a summer standard.

And what those parties needed was bands. To play. For hours. And hours. And hours and hours and hours.

Eddie was a perfect match. Van Halen Rising describes an absolutely typical guitar nerd: weirdo loner teen, shacked up for hours at a time, piecing together solos from the stadium rock of the day. Clapton. Page. Alvin Lee’s “Going Home.” California’s first sight of Eddie Van Halen was of a kid staring at his sneakers playing note-for-note versions of what they already knew from the radio.

It took David Lee Roth – himself an extraordinary California story, a singer who couldn’t sing but who kept Eddie from devolving into just another self-indulgent 70s guitardroid – to shape the band into what became Van Halen. Roth’s unbridled ambition got Eddie out of the suburbs and into the LA clubs that made them both stars. Without Roth, Eddie might have spent his life basements, unraveling Steve Vai solos under the black light headphones and wondering if he could have been somebody.

But he got out. Van Halen left the keg parties behind just in time. Van Halen Rising describes a scene that grew well out of hand: cul-de-sacs lined with hundreds of cars, impromptu parties turning into massive drunken mini-festivals. Suddenly American teenagers had too much time and money and horsepower and real estate for their own good, and America had to clamp down.

So by the time Van Halen started hitting the pop charts, Carter had been replaced by Reagan, the national drinking age was officially 21, the sexual revolution had met the Moral Majority, and surfing safaris had been replaced by shopping safaris. The beach was out; the mall was in. The Beach Boys were out; Banana Republic was in.

Van Halen helped carry America across that great divide with its rock and roll intact. The band packaged the sprawling, raucous spirit of seventies rock into the kind of plastic container appropriate for sale at the Galleria. They shrink-wrapped all of “In A Gadda Da Vida” seventeen-minute madness into blistering three-minute singles like “You Really Got Me” and “Panama.”

And they did it with pleasure. The invited everyone in. The responses to Eddie’s death from people of all walks of musical life tell you how well they succeeded. Stroll down the boardwalk and there’s a lot of crap for sale, but when you pass the Van Halen booth, who could resist going in?

Hardly anybody, that’s who. Irresistible: that was Van Halen at its best.

And that might sound simple. But look at how few can do what he did – especially guitarists. One of the easiest things to do on guitar is act scary, and by the end of the ’70s there were a lot of wannabe-scary guitarists around. It’s not hard. Lots of people can make guitars scream or groan or roar like a chainsaw falling down a flight of stairs. Sometimes all you need to do is push a button or stomp a pedal.

But precious few players can make a guitar laugh. No pedal does that. Off the top of my head, the very short list includes Joe Walsh, Doc Watson, and John Scofield. Bill Frisell can squeeze out a wry chuckle. Jerry Garcia could make it giggle like it was baked.

But Eddie Van Halen could make a guitar open its mouth wide and laugh out loud, and when he did, the world laughed along.

These days there’s not much to laugh about. The suburbs are burning. The malls are closed. Kids party on Zoom. That warm California sun will kill you. Five bucks barely buys a cup of coffee, let alone all you can drink at an all-day California pool party.

But somewhere there’s a kid in a bedroom, headphones on, a guitar in hand, a sound in mind, who will change music again. It’s not working yet. It still sounds just like somebody else’s guitar. But when you do a little like this, and then a little like that, and then you press that like that – wow. That’s cool! That feels like…something.

RIP, Eddie Van Halen.

ON THE ROCKS (directed by Sophia Coppola, 96 minutes, USA, 2020)

BY DAN TABOR FILM CRITIC Sofia Coppola’s followup to 2017’s The Beguiled has the director once again returning to the themes of isolation and alienation that echo throughout her filmography, but this time exploring they hit a bit closer to home. Like 2010’s Somewhere, On The Rocks, which is both written and directed by Coppola feels very autobiographical as it explores the disorienting and dispiriting sense of psychic dislocation that can often creep into both marriage and motherhood. The film focuses on Laura (Rashida Jones), a successful author suffering from writer’s block, who suspects her husband/father of her children (Marlon Wayans of infidelity. When her globe-trotting playboy art-dealer father Felix (Bill Murray) comes to town to celebrate his daughter’s birthday, hijinks ensue when the duo decide to investigate Laura’s suspicions.

The ensemble cast of On The Rocks vibes like Coppola addressing the critics that have called her out for the primarily Caucasian casts of her filmography. That being said, her artistic choices here are inspired and apt. Rashida Jones turns in an engaging yet understated performance that really helps when acting opposite the more bombastic Murray. Marlon Wayans however is almost unrecognizable, having disappeared into a role that has the underrated actor showing a range we haven’t seen since his turn in Requiem For A Dream. He really digs deep into the drama of the situation, delivering a very weighted performance that still takes a rather comedic turn when he is confronted by Felix. While Murray has mastered this sort of tragic yet comedic personae in his indie outings, it’s great to see both leads show they have the chops when going toe-to-toe with the legend.

Digging into the character a bit, Rashida Jones feels like a pretty transparent surrogate for Coppola — a creative living in Soho with her two children and her husband, just like the daughter of a certain famous director. Given her working relationship with Murray, and his appearance in several of her projects, I’ve always been curious about their working dynamic — Coppola seems very pragmatic in interviews when compared with the more whimsical mercurial Murray. This film seems to speak to that by making Laura’s father an amalgam of both Murray and her real life father Francis Ford Coppola. It’s an odd mix of comedic sidekick and living legend that Murray hilariously pinballs back and forth between in his scenes.

On the Rocks is Coppola’s take the invariably male dominated sub-genre of The New York Film. That being the case, the film suffers a little from her reverence to the rules of said sub-genre a the cinematography errs a bit on the more traditional side compared to the dreamy and almost instagram-esque  look of Virgin Suicides or The Beguiled. There is an obvious focus on highlighting the cityscapes and locations, this is paired with the requisite High Jazz soundtrack.  As cliche as it sounds, New York is used as a character here in the film, and helps define this world of wealth and privilege to a certain extent. Thankfully Coppola has chosen to try to infuse this rather stereotypical white setting with a bit more humanity and diversity than its usually afforded.

While the film has this lighthearted comedic sub-narrative with Felix and Laura playing detective, the film also explores a kind of loneliness that we rarely see from a female perspective in cinema. This theme is intertwined with how complacency takes root in a relationship only to slowly unravel it by sowing the seeds of doubt. This doubt is accentuated by Laura’s own relationship with her father and his history of infidelity that’s left a lasting mark on our protagonist and how she sees men. While the film still has the echoes of pensiveness Coppola is known for, there is hope and a bit of growth when all is said and done, which is definitely something new for the young auteur whose default setting seems to be wallowing in melancholy.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt9606374/

BY WILLIAM C. HENRY Taking into account, 1) the death toll is now nearing 200,000 and, 2) we have Trump on tape admitting he KNEW early on about the severity of the Coronavirus and, 3) he admits he KNEW it was an AIRBORNE virus and, 4) he didn’t so much as “request” or even “suggest” that Americans wear face masks or, god forbid, set an example by wearing one HIMSELF and, 5) he decided it would be more beneficial to his re-election prospects if he made wearing them a partisan, divisive, POLITICAL choice rather than a humane one, it’s predicted that some 35 million or so of you “basers” will still vote for the Upchuck in Chief.

Can you see where this is going? Shucks, I’ll bet you’ve already guessed it. Yup, I’m among the millions upon millions of Americans who’d like to know–a hundred thousand or more of whom are literally DYING to know–precisely when and why it was that you baser instincts born-agains decided that this oh so fetid fake facts formulator of yours would once again be your main man.

For starters, was it when you heard the bottom-feeding “buckpasser” complain about the “cupboards and shelves” of the national medical stockpile being empty–even though he’d had over THREE YEARS to fill them–when the virus came to our shores?

Could it have been when your official snake oil storyteller suggested that ingesting disinfectant or large amounts of hydroxychloroquine, or going out into the sunlight could cure people of the infection?

Or, was it maybe when the Deceiver in Chief said that ANYONE who wanted to get tested for the virus could do so?

Whoa. I wonder if it was when he gave that trillion dollar tax break to the richest Americans and a teeny tiny tidbit to you so he could brand it a “middle class” tax cut?

Was it perhaps when you heard that the Putin ass kisser decided not to even verbally condemn the Moscow murderer for offering bounties to the Taliban for the killing of American soldiers in Afghanistan. The Dunce Cap in Chief says he didn’t even know about it. If you believe that, I got ANOTHER phony Trump business venture I’d like you to invest in.

Oh, I’ll bet it was when you learned that Trump said that electing Joe Biden would “invite terrorists into the suburbs” while at the same time the Prevaricator in Chief was forcing the Afghan government to release Talaban prisoners who are believed to have received Russian bounties for killing American soldiers. Can you smell the shit coming from the Crapper in Chief’s facial orifice?

Maybe it was when the Oval Office diarrhea disgorger stated there were some “very fine people” on both sides in Charlottesville, or perhaps it was after any one of the myriad of times he’s refused to denounce the bullshit and the fake, totally fabricated, vile, vitriolic, divisive, conspiracy crap spewed out by the likes of QANON, the NRA, the White Nationalists/Supremacists, the KKK, and EVERY OTHER racist Republican-approved rag, organization or website on planet earth.

Wait. Was it when the BONE-SPURRED FIVE TIME DRAFT DODGING DINGO denigrated our military leaders as nothing more than profiteers, and our military dead as simply losers and suckers?

Or maybe, just maybe, it was when Trump told his Department of Homeland Security to stop providing intelligence analysis on Russian interference in our electoral process. That would really be dear to your wannabe dictator’s heart now wouldn’t it?!

If not that, then maybe it was when he said he will defund and/or otherwise aid and abet the demise of the United States Postal Service in order to accomplish his re-election.

Wait a minute. Hold everything. Come on, admit it. I’ve finally nailed it, haven’t I? It was when he recommenced his disgusting “birther” bullshit with Kamala Harris as his racist 2020 campaign’s target du jour. I’m right, aren’t I?!

Okay. I understand. It’s hard to pick a single deciding malevolence when it comes to the Trump presidency. So many choices, so little difference between his mind-numbing malignancies and malices. And four years later you “basers” haven’t changed a bit. One is only left to wonder if imbecility, bias and masochism are embedded in the genes.

P.S. Nice job at all of the Divider in Chief’s rallies! I particularly liked the “no face masks” touch! You couldn’t possibly have shown more peabrained partisan unity when it comes to not giving a rat’s ass about the health and welfare of your families, relatives, friends or fellow Americans in general! Keep America Gagging!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Fed up later stage septuagenarian who has actually been most of there and done most of that. Born and raised in the picturesque Pocono Mountains. Quite well educated. Very lucky to have been born into a well-schooled and somewhat prosperous family. Long divorced. One beautiful, brilliant daughter. Two far above average grandsons. Semi-retired (how does anyone manage to do it completely these days?) and fully-tired of bullshit. Uncle of the Editor-In-Chief.

TENET (Directed by Christopher Nolan, 150 minutes, USA, 2020)

BY DAN TABOR FILM CRITIC After months of delays,Tenet, the latest epic from blockbuster auteur Christopher Nolan finally hits theaters this week.The film that many hoped would kickstart theaters after the pandemic has been up until this point shrouded in secrecy. I was given the chance to review it for Phawker, but only if I viewed it in a theater, of course. Nolan is all about the theatrical experience and like the rest of his catalog, this film benefits from being projected as loud and big as humanly possible. While I was at first understandably hesitant to watch a film in a room full of people, this was to be a critic screening limited only to press, which for the KOP IMAX theater gave everyone plenty of space. Masks were also enforced, and to be worn throughout the duration of the film, so I felt comfortable finally making my return to the theater.

Tenet is the story of “The Protagonist,” no really, that’s his name. Played by John David Washington (son of Denzel) who we last saw in Spike Lee’s BlacKkKlansman. The film opens with a CIA mission that goes horribly wrong when “The Protagonist” is captured and chooses death over selling out his comrades and swallows a cyanide capsule. He miraculously wakes from “death” sometime later, only to find he was actually recruited by a mysterious organization called Tenet, and the whole cyanide capsule episode was simply a loyalty test. John’s character is tasked with tracking down the source of metal that has been “inverted,” so it flows through time backwards. For instance, if a bullet was made of this material, it would shoot back into the gun tearing backwards through its target rather than forward. After meticulously setting the logic for the film’s take on temporal navigation, Nolan spends the next two hours slowly unraveling these rules as the narrative chooses spectacle above all else.

The mysteries of time is the thematic throughline that spans Nolan’s filmography. This time he tackles time travel. Now keep in mind, the films that convincingly employ time travel as a plot device, and keep audiences engaged, are the ones that simplify it and stick to their established rules. After getting our feet wet with the whole inverted object McGuffin hunt we start on, the film then keeps adding elements and theories until it goes full on Back to the Future in the second act. At this point the film becomes a muddled and dense mess that will no doubt confuse and confound most, as we are tasked with contending with past and present versions of our lead characters. By the third and final act, Tenet feels like a masturbatory exercise as the director throws any and all logic out the window in the name of some of the most breathtaking action set pieces ever committed to film, which I can almost get behind.

Thanks to Spike Lee I know John David Washington isn’t a bad actor, but he just doesn’t hook into the Nolan cadence here, he feels stilted and uncomfortable in his performance. Nolan also tries and fails miserably to employ comedic one-liners at various points in the script, through Washington’s character, in an attempt to offset some pretty disturbing scenes of domestic violence. Speaking of which, Elizabeth Debicki sadly spends the majority of the film, as nothing more than the damsel in distress, or an object to be fought over as “The Protagonist” and her abusive, inverted arms dealer husband battle over her fate. The only winner here is Robert Pattinson, who excels in Nolan’s world. He quickly eclipses “The Protagonist” as his partner Neil, who seems to know much more than he lets on.

Dense and pretentious, Tenet will irritate even the most dedicated Nolan fans with its curiously flawed similarities to Inception. This film desperately wants to be clever but instead comes off as frustrating and confusing as it sacrifices the director’s trademark grounded logic that usually make his films fantastical yet plausible. Still the film is visually stunning and its approach to its inverted action sequences are worthy of the hype. But I honestly think the script should have probably baked for a few more years to hone the film’s chronology a bit more and iron out some of the rough dialog that Nolan himself has seen fit to obscure with overly aggressive sound design. Tenet is arguably the weakest link in Nolan’s otherwise stellar filmography, and serves as further proof of the old adage that all directors try to make the same film over and over again with steadily diminishing returns.