At the movies: The Wackness.

New York. 1994. The summer of Rudolph Giuliani’s crackdowns, the summer of Wu-Tang and Biggie and Nas, the summer of heatwaves and Forrest Gump. This is where Jonathan Levine’s film The Wackness unfolds, giving us recent High School graduate Luke Shapiro (Josh Peck), a small-time pot dealer trying to figure his life out before college changes everything. His only real confidant is his therapist, Dr. Squires (Ben Kingsley), and his only outlet for all he has going on in his mind is the music- and the sounds are spot-on. This film understands the way hip-hop speaks to countless different emotions and circumstances, and it does so effortlessly, without shoehorning any grand statements into its breezily blunted dialogue.

Peck is a near-revelation here, maintaining macho defensiveness and an aching sensitivity in his scenes, finding the depth in what could easily be one of the most clichéd and excruciating character types in film- the business-minded manchild. He holds things together while his family life falls apart. And Kingsley, for the first time in what seems like decades, isn’t completely embarrassing. In the supporting cast, we have treasures Jane Adams and Famke Janssen, as well as a likably daffy Mary Kate Olsen as a hippie rich girl.

There are countless little moments of magic. One involves a blitzed Luke coming home, struck goofy with a case of teenage love, and his mother’s response, delivered with the sincerest mesh of empathy and envy, is to ask if he’d like her to make him a sandwich, to which he beams his assent with the most genuine and disarming grin. Another find Luke sitting on the beach, watching his crush Stephanie (Olivia Thirlby, from Juno) swim, trying to work up what he’s going to say to her, working through several options before plaintively saying “I wanna, like, listen to Boyz II Men when I’m with you,” and as the viewer your heart just sort of falls out of your chest at how (stylized but still) honest the moment feels.

Levine understands the effective subtleties of filmmaking – Luke’s solipsism is reflected in the way that the city is photographed, as we only see him truly amongst the teeming masses of New York City when he is shown to be isolated (via headphones or behind objects). By allowing most of his screen time to unfold in more intimate circumstances (while still obviously being on the actual streets of New York), Levine expresses the selective focus of invincible youth, and it isn’t until long after the film ends that you realize how expertly you were brought into Luke’s physical space. A beachfront love scene uses sunlight almost like a participant in the lovemaking; stylistically, you could call The Wackness the Brundlefly child of James Toback’s Black & White and Frank Perry’s Last Summer. Between this and his first film (The to-be-released in August All the Boys Love Mandy Lane), I am more than willing to watch anything Jonathan Levine comes up with from here on out.

Forgotten Dance Classics (sort of): "Chime," specifically, but Acid House in general.

Once again, I have to take my hat off to Popjustice for hepping me to this remarkable video. It's The Shapeshifters, who've made some club noise over the past few years, doing a cover of Orbital's "Chime," one of the classic songs of the transition period between Acid House and Early Rave. I also love it because Orbital would mix it in with the Doctor Who theme when they played live in the late 80s and early 90s.

Their cover is nothing exceptional (it's hard to make a cover of such a classic sound distinctive or innovative without it just seeming like a remix of the original), but the video is a small history of Acid House, told in documentary format.


The Shapeshifters - "Chime"

So check it out, if only for the educational value.

"All the birds are singing that you're gonna die..."

The worlds of villainy, superherory, and musical theatre collide in a most beautiful and silly fashion.

Joss Whedon, senior geek of the universe, has created something weird-assed and remarkable, and I can't recommend it enough. Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog could be seen by some as indulgent and pitched at a very specific demographic. Those people can fuck off, because there's such a weird and off-kilter energy to this three-part web series that I can't help but hope that Whedon and his remarkable cast (Neil Patrick Harris and Nathan Fillion, both of whom are talented enough to make me horribly jealous) go for the gusto and achieve it masterfully.

Dog show.

I've loved Rex the Dog's sound since his sorta-released remix of Depeche Mode's "Photographic." Since then, he's done staggeringly awesome mixes of The Knife's "Marble House," Goldfrapp's "Happiness," and even an inventive mashup that uses his "Photographic" 'Dubb' and welds it to Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone" in a masterful and gloriously dance-y way.

So, next month in the UK, Rex is releasing his first artist album, The Rex the Dog Show. Thanks to the folks at Popjustice, here's the video for the first single. It's got a visually distinctive style and a degree of playfulness we don't normally get from dance videos. Check it out.

I Can See You, Can You See Me?

Rex the Dog - "I Can See You, Can You See Me?"

You can also check out his superb minimix from BBC Radio 1. Fun stuff for a sweltering summer afternoon.

Apparently, karma is gathering some strength in Ohio.

This looks promising.

I'm all for chickens coming home to roost in this sort of fashion, especially if it destabilizes some rich old warmongering white men who think themselves above the law.

O6. Alice needs a drink.

At the movies... Mamma Mia!

The plot is simultaneously simple ("who is the father of the bride?") and complex (three different trios of people, mistaken identities, subterfuge, possible divine intervention), pulling equal amounts of inspiration from dinner theatre revue and Greek tragedy. Sophie (Amanda Seyfried, best known as the sweetly dim Karen in Mean Girls) is getting married at the hotel her mother Donna (Meryl Streep, who seems to be having an insane amount of fun) runs on a picturesque Greek island. Having been raised without knowing the identity of her father, our plucky heroine (thanks to a purloined diary) has narrowed the object of her paternity down to one of three men: architect Sam (Pierce Brosnan), adventurer Bill (Stellan Skarsgard), and banker Harry (Colin Firth), each of whom she has invited to the wedding. It's both flimsy and overwrought, but it's as close to an immovable force of effervescence and poppy regret as one could hope for.

Mamma Mia! is certainly the most democratic of big screen musicals. One of the aspects of last year's similar jukebox musical Across The Universe that torpedoed its possible success was how it kept the Beatles' songs at a distance from the audience, tying them to sweeping social movements and operatic character arcs that at no point allowed the audience to identify with what Lennon and McCartney were saying (notable exception: "I Wanna Hold Your Hand"). In direct opposition to Julie Taymor's high-minded, high-concept approach to the Beatles, director Phyllida Lloyd approaches the Abba catalog with the gusto of a drunken karaoke night with friends and lovers past and present, and it works like gangbusters. There's very little art to be had here, other than Benny Andersson and Bjorn Ulvaeus' immortal and majestic pop songs (and let's not forget Stig Anderson, who helped out on "Honey Honey," "SOS," "Mamma Mia," and "Dancing Queen"), and the end result is a film that is lovable in its bright and frothy madness. When Christine Baranksi and Julie Walters show up as Streep's lifelong friends/band members/Greek chorus, the film has committed to a sensibility that feels like a combination family reunion/drag show fuelled by heartfelt Swedish pop and vats of stout Greek liquor.

The only serious misstep carried over from the stage show involves taking "When All Is Said and Done" (which may very well be the best pop song ever written about divorce) and giving it to Pierce Brosnan (who gives it his all but really has no business singing in public) as a happy wedding song, which runs counter to the heart of the song. But even that can be forgiven, such is the film's manic zeal and festive atmosphere.

But jettisoning "Under Attack" from the film entirely is a catastrophic mistake, and it manages to undo one of the sly achievements of the stage show, which is exposing audiences to some of Abba's lesser-known material- just witness Streep and Seyfried wringing every somber moment out of the masterful "Slipping Through My Fingers," and you'll get a feel for how powerful Andersson and Ulvaeus' work can be. Even as it is, there's a lot of pleasure and daffy fun to be had here, and I find myself gleefully recommending the film with a big, slackjawed grin on my face. It's not for everyone, but a timeless melody and Oscar winners shaking it to the hits is entertainment money well-spent.