Like much of the music it chronicled in its 1970s heyday, Creem Magazine was rough n’ rowdy and self-destructive. “Creem: America’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll Magazine,” a new documentary, now streaming courtesy of Virtual Cinema, has a close look at the magazine that embodied an irreverent but fervent rock n’ roll attitude. “Nearly fifty years after Creem’s first issue published, it still stands for something,” says JJ Kramer, son of the founding publisher Barry Kramer. “Either you’re in on the joke, or you are the joke.”
Creem began as something different than the scrappy, politically incorrect screed that once so savagely reviewed a Runaways album that Joan Jett stormed the offices looking for revenge and created the term “punk rock.” Under guidance of co-founder Tony Reay the Detroit magazine was conceived as a blues-rock forum but within a few issues Reay was on the curb and publisher Barry Kramer had hired Dave Marsh, a rock n’ roll misfit who brought a blue-collar street cred to the magazine’s content.
A fiercely opinionated champion of the take no prisoners approach to music journalism Marsh became the cornerstone of a gritty group of writers, like Lester Bangs, Jaan Uhelszki and Robert Christgau, who redefined how the music was discussed in the press. “It was like it was written by a bunch on convicts in Joliet State Prison,” says artist and musician Lamar Sorrento.
As a poke in the eye to the staider Rolling Stone, the renegades even subtitled their mag “America’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll Magazine.”
Their distance from taste makers on the coasts and proximity to Motor City music scene gave them a unique take. Working above a rundown record shop in inner city Detroit, and later on a rural commune, Kramer and Company created music journalism fuelled by passion, drugs and physical disagreements. Fights over content were not uncommon. Envelopes were pushed, breasts were exposed, leading former fan Jeff Daniels to say buying the magazine was like “buying Playboy, you didn’t want your parents to see either one of them.”
The unconventional group advocated for Alice Cooper (despite labelling their debut LP “a waste of plastic.”), MC5 and The Stooges, bands with a similar swagger and anti-commercial instincts as the writers themselves. Members of R.E.M., Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam and many others appear in the movie and were fans, and later went on to create idiosyncratic music like the punk, new wave and hard rock they read about in Creem.
The deaths of Kramer and Bangs and the defections of Marsh and Christgau to rival Rolling Stone spelled the end of the mag’s influential run and by 1989 it had been bought and sold, and ultimately shut down, leaving behind yellowing pages of some of the best rock n’ roll writing of the 1970s.
To capture the counter-cultural impact of Creem director Scott Crawford has assembled many of the original players, including the iconoclastic Jaan Uhelszki, one of the first female rock writers and now, one of the co-producers on the film. It’s slickly produced, makes good use of archival footage and zips along at a rapid pace. Perhaps too rapid. Crawford covers two decades of history in under eighty minutes, briskly walking us through the tumultuous timeframe. It is entertaining, particularly for those old enough to have bought the magazine on the stands, but although complete, it feels rushed. This cast of characters feels like each could warrant their own movie, and hell, I’d pay to see a movie about the contentious relationship between Lou Reed and the gonzo Bangs alone.
“Creem: America’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll Magazine” isn’t as rough around the edges as the magazine it documents, but it does display why a scrappy upstart from Detroit was able to make and leave its mark. In the film legendary rock photographer Bob Gruen says that rock ‘n roll is about the freedom to express yourself very loudly. “And I think that’s what Creem did.”
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Linda Ronstadt was one of the voices of the latter part of the twentieth century. The pure, gorgeous vocals that were once a staple at the top of the Billboard charts has been silenced by Parkinson’s disease but a new documentary, “Linda Ronstadt: The Sound of My Voice,” serves as a reminder of a pioneer who danced to the beat of a different drum.
The Arizona-born singer made headlines as much for her off-stage life as much as for her on-stage work, but the film wisely focusses on her legacy, the music that made her a superstar. The story begins at home with a family who played and sang all types of music from rock and roll, rhythm and blues, gospel, opera, country and mariachi. Later, those influences mixed and mingled in the folk-rock trio the Stone Poneys. Their biggest success, a cover of Mike Nesmith’s “Different Drum,” became Ronstadt’s first and only hit with the band and she soon left to forge a solo career that would see her become the first female rock star and the first woman to have five platinum albums in a row. “Linda was the queen,” says Bonnie Raitt. “She was like what Beyoncé is now.”
At the peak of her fame she grew tired of selling out arenas and the constant grind of being on the road. Looking for new challenges she took to the Broadway, appearing in “Pirates of Penzance” on stage opposite Kevin Kline. “Gilbert and Sullivan? Can you imagine another rock star who has the guts to go out there and do that kind of musical comedy?” says Jackson Browne. “To her it was a mountain to climb.”
From operetta she went on to explore the American songbook, interpreting the songs of Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald among others. “I didn’t think it was a good idea, not because she couldn’t do it,” says Warner bros executive Joe Smith, “but because we had this run going with rock and roll and country rock records.”
The portrait painted of Ronstadt is one of an artist more concerned with music than her career. She was once the highest paid women in music but left that behind in favour of following her passions, whether it’s making a record of traditional Mexican songs (which became the largest selling Spanish-language record in history to that date), roots rock or singing with her pals Dolly Parton and Emmylou Harris.
The film closes on an emotional note with the revelation that Parkinson’s disease has robbed her of her instrument. “I still sing in mind my but I can’t do it physically,” she says.
Oscar-winning filmmakers Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman use archival footage, mixed with new interviews with many of the singer’s friends and colleagues, to complete the picture. It’s wonderful to hear the music, to be reminded of the width and breadth of Ronstadt’s daring and talent, but the commentary tends toward the “She was the best singer I’ve ever heard,” style rather than providing much insight into what makes the singer tick. At the end, however, it doesn’t matter much, as the music, in all its variation and strength, tells the story in a way that suits Ronstadt best.
David Crosby has eight stents in his heart, the most you can have, and a laundry list of famous former colleagues with whom he no longer speaks. “All really dislike me, strongly,” he says.
He’s a jailbird, a two-time Rock and Roll Hall of Famer, and is still gunning for a third induction, just to make Eric Clapton jealous. He’s a guy who says he wants to be loving, but admits to alienating people in his life with a temper he cannot control. He’s a prickly pear with the voice of an angel and the subject of “David Crosby: Remember My Name,” a new documentary that transcends the usual rock doc career retrospective to create an unflinching portrait of the man one bandmate called “insufferable.”
Directed by A.J. Eaton and featuring interviews by Cameron Crowe, who first interviewed Crosby in 1974, the movie hits all the points you expect. From a Hollywood childhood with a cinematographer father who never told his son he loved him, to the heady days of the Laurel Canyon scene that gave birth to The Byrds and Crosby, Stills and Nash (and later Young) to hanging out with The Beatles and being dumped by Joni Mitchell in a song, his early days are amply covered. Fast forward to the darker stuff, heroin addiction (“Addiction takes you over like fire takes over a burning building,” he says.), the death of his longtime girlfriend Christine Hinton and a stretch in a Texas prison for drug and weapon charges. All are covered with extraordinary candor by filmmaker and subject alike.
“David Crosby: Remember My Name” never feels like a shill for Crosby or an advertisement for a new record. Although it contains biographical elements and plenty of nicely chosen archival footage, it’s not a Ken Burns style historical piece. Instead it’s a deeply felt tribute to a man who has left his mark but wants more. Crosby’s face brims with emotion as he discusses the past and concern as he talks about the future. “I’m afraid of dying, and I’m close,” he says. “I’d like to have more time.” It’s those moments that separate “Remember My Name” from the average bio. In an era of curated celebrity content the honesty on display here, coupled with some truly great music, is refreshing and fascinating.
For years Cameron Crowe could do no wrong. As the screenwriter of Fast Times at Ridgemont High (based on his book of the same name) and director of Say Anything and Singles, he became what The New York Times called, “a cinematic spokesman for the post-baby boom generation.”
His biggest hit, Jerry Maguire was a romantic comedy that gave Renée Zellweger a career, Cuba Gooding Jr an Oscar and us the catchphrase, “Show me the money!”
Then came his acknowledged masterpiece Almost Famous. The semi-autobiographical story of a young music journalist on the road with a band at an age when most kids still had a curfew.
He was a critical darling with box office clout but then came a string of films that failed to connect with audiences.
This weekend he’s back with Aloha, an “action romance” starring Bradley Cooper as a military contractor stationed with the US Space program in Honolulu who reconnects with a past love (Rachel McAdams) while developing feelings for a stern Air Force watchdog (Emma Stone).
Pre-release the film may be best known as the subject of a brutal Amy Pascal e-mail. In the Sony hack leaked correspondence from the former SPE co-chairman suggested she was not happy with the movie. “I don’t care how much I love the director and the actors,” she said, “it never, not even once, ever works.”
Variety recently reported that the film has been recut since Pascal’s scathing review and quotes a current Sony executive as saying, “Is it Say Anything or Jerry Maguire? Probably not, but is it a really entertaining movie for an audience? Yes, it is.”
Moviegoers will decide the fate of Aloha, but its release begs for a reassessment of Crowe’s recent, less successful films.
A remake of the Spanish film Open Your Eyes, 2001’s Vanilla Sky starred three of Hollywood’s hottest stars of the moment, Tom Cruise, Cameron Diaz and Penelope Cruz in a dark thriller about a self-obsessed playboy whose life is turned upside down after reconstructive surgery on his face. The surreal blend of romance and sci fi threw critics off but a another viewing a decade after its release reveals a daring movie that examines regret, desire and mortality.
An enjoyable darkly comic romance, Elizabethtown got trounced by critics (it currently sits at 28% on Rotten Tomatoes) but is a great showcase for star Kirsten Dunst. She is frequently good in films, but here she really steals this movie as the cute and kooky stewardess who has several unforgettable moments—when she tells Bloom (Orlando Bloom) to stop trying to break up with her and her giggly reaction when Bloom asks her a personal question on the telephone. Without her performance the trip to Elizabethtown wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.
Finally, We Bought a Zoo, the story of a widower who swallows his grief by buying a zoo and finding love, shouldn’t work. It’s too sentimental and manipulative by half but luckily Matt Damon is there to ground the flighty story. Even a postscript (and no, I’m not going to tell you what it is), that even Steven Spielberg would find schmaltzy, works because star Damon hits all the right notes and Crowe’s dialogue sings. A father and son argument is a showstopper and you’ll likely never use the word “whatever” again without thinking of this movie.
I am a fan of Cameron Crowe. Not only did he live out my childhood dream of being a teenage rock journalist and touring with Led Zeppelin but he also wrote “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” and gave us the sublime “Almost Famous.” So when it comes to his new film, “Aloha,” it gives me no pleasure to report, in a paraphrase of one of the master’s greatest lines, it didn’t have me at hello. Or goodbye for that matter.
Bradley Cooper plays Brian Gilcrest, a disgraced defense military contractor hired by his old boss, billionaire Carson Welch (Bill Murray), to supervise the launch of a satellite in Hawaii. He’s a brilliant but troubled guy—he’s described as a “sad city coyote”—with a history who is immediately confronted with his romantic past in the form of his former flame Tracy (Rachel McAdams). At his side is the stern Air Force watchdog (Emma Stone) assigned to keep him out of trouble. Romance blooms as international intrigue brews with Gilcrest at the center of each scenario.
“Aloha” is part rom com, part industrial thriller and part redemption tale. Crowe covers a lot of ground here but the story elements are as flavourless as a Virgin Mai Tai and just about as potent. The director attempts to mix the various components together under the soft sheen of Hawaiian mythology and spiritualism but the film still feels disjointed as though it’s two different stories mashed into one.
Crowe’s dialogue occasionally sparkles—“You’ve sold your soul so many times nobody’s buying anymore,” is a great line—but it’s not enough to connect us to the situation or the characters. As a result it’s a film with good actors who feel disconnected from one another.
“Aloha” is a sweet natured misfire, a movie that, to once again paraphrase Crowe, does not show us the money.
Cameron Crowe, writer and director of Jerry Maguire was surprised when people started quoting the “Show me the money” line from his movie.
“The line I thought might resonate was not ‘Show me the money,’” Crowe told Premier. “It was Rod Tidwell (Cuba Gooding Jr.) talking about ‘the Kwan’—his own personal coinage for the combination of love, respect, and money. I like to think that Tidwell had been jealous of Dennis Rodman’s blend of pseudo-French trash-talk ‘inspirato.’ He wanted his own language, too, so ‘the Kwan’ was born. But once we began to show the movie, audiences were pleasant, at best, during Rod’s ‘Kwan’ speeches. It was the phrase that Cuba Gooding Jr., as Tidwell, forces the beaten-down Tom Cruise to scream that whipped them into a frenzy, ‘Show! Me! The! Money!’
“The line showed up in everything from a Bill Clinton speech to the Westminster Kennel Club dog show. Who knows exactly why? I suspect the high-octane chemistry between Gooding and Cruise ignited the words.
“The actual phrase was a mini-tribute to two people. One was Tim McDonald, the 49er defensive back, whom I’d interviewed during a negotiation period. ‘I work hard, I’ve served five years of my contract,’ he said to me. ‘Where’s the money? Where is the money?’ I’ve always remembered the confusion and desperation and need to support his family—all screwed up on his face as he waited for offers.
“Later, when writing, I turned McDonald’s yearning for financial self-worth into a war cry, with a little bit of my friend, producer, and coinage-king Art Linson thrown in for good luck. The ‘Show me the money’ sequence was a pure joy to direct. But I’ve always held a soft spot for the unnoticed concept of ‘Kwan.’ Some time later, during an Olympic performance by ice-skater Michelle Kwan, a friend called and told me to turn on the television. In the middle of a huge crowd, a lonely fan held up a sign reading ‘Show me the Kwan.’ Thank you for that.”
There was more to Cuba Gooding, Jr.’s performance than the catchphrase, of course—he won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor in 1997—but that line seemed to turn up everywhere in the late nineties, and in 2005 was voted number 25 on the American Film Institute’s 100 Movie Quotes: America’s Greatest Quips, Comebacks and Catchphrases list.
I don’t think that I have ever done a flip-flip on a movie as cataclysmic as the shift in my opinion on Elizabethtown. As much as I respect and admire Cameron Crowe I just didn’t get Elizabethtown when I saw it at the Toronto International Film Festival this year. That cut of the movie was too long, too self-indulgent and frankly, boring. I changed my mind, however, when I saw the Slim Fast version of the movie that has been cut by about half-an-hour.
Crowe has trimmed the fat off the story about a young man—played by Orlando Bloom—who has just designed a shoe that was supposed to revolutionize the industry, but instead is a disaster, losing close to a billion dollars. At the same time he must deal with the death of his father, his extended family in Elizabethtown Kentucky and a perky flight attendant he meets on the way to his father’s memorial service. This time less really is more. The ruthless editing saved the movie, turning it into an enjoyable darkly comic romance.
Crowe has always had a deft hand at directing women—think Rene Zellweger in Jerry Maguire, Cameron Diaz in Vanilla Sky or Kate Hudson in Almost Famous and in Elizabethtown he shines the light on Kirsten Dunst. She is frequently good in films, but she really steals this movie as the cute and kooky stewardess who helps keep Bloom’s head screwed on during his bereavement. She has several unforgettable moments—when she tells Bloom to stop trying to break up with her; her giggly reaction when Bloom asks her a personal question on the telephone. Without her performance the trip to Elizabethtown wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.
When Benjamin Mee was shopping around for a new family home he ended up buying the ultimate fixer upper, a ramshackle house with an even more ramshackle zoo attached. Director Cameron Crowe has taken some liberties with the true story of a single father turned zookeeper—he relocates the story from Britain to Southern California for a start—but he maintains the most important part of Mee’s journey –the emotional core.
At the start of “We Bought a Zoo” Mee’s (Matt Damon) wife Katherine (Stephanie Szostak) has already passed away. The thrill seeking journalist is cut adrift, left with two young kids, teenage Dylan (Colin Ford) and 7-year-old Rosie (Maggie Elizabeth Jones), and a hankering to change his life. Leaving Los Angeles he buys a rural house nine miles from the nearest Target store, attached to an eighteen-acre property called the Rosemoor Animal Park.
The zoo has seen better days, as have its staff, de facto zookeeper Kelly Foster (Scarlett Johansson) and out-of-control maintenance man Peter MacCready (Angus Macfadyen). Mee’s commitment to the zoo and his family almost bankrupts him financially and emotionally but his commitment to doing the right thing for everyone—the two and four legged characters—puts both the zoo and his life back on track.
“We Bought a Zoo” shouldn’t work. It is too sentimental and manipulative by half but luckily Matt Damon is there to ground the flighty story. Even a postscript (and no, I’m not going to tell you what it is), that even Steven Spielberg would find schmaltzy, works because Damon hits all the right notes.
Johansson is sweet yet strong as the ambitious zookeeper, but like many of the supporting characters her role feels underdeveloped. That’s particularly true in the case of Lily, the farm girl played by Elle Fanning. It’s a likeable performance in search of some meaning within the movie.
As usual, however, Crowe’s dialogue sings. A father and son argument is a showstopper and you’ll likely never use the word “whatever” again without thinking of this movie.
Floating above all this is another pitch-perfect Crowe soundtrack, featuring the usual suspects—Neil Yonge and Randy Newman—to the unexpected—Sigur Rós frontman Jónsi.
“We Bought a Zoo” is a crowd pleaser with emotional truth provided by a Matt Damon’s portrayal of the courage not to let grief rule his life. It’s a performance ripe with decency and integrity and it elevates the entire movie.
Like much of the music it chronicled in its 1970s heyday, Creem Magazine was rough n’ rowdy and self-destructive. “Creem: America’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll Magazine,” a new documentary, now streaming courtesy of Virtual Cinema, has a close look at the magazine that embodied an irreverent but fervent rock n’ roll attitude. “Nearly fifty years after Creem’s first issue published, it still stands for something,” says JJ Kramer, son of the founding publisher Barry Kramer. “Either you’re in on the joke, or you are the joke.”
