There's every chance in the world that I'm writing this review from a significant disadvantage, and I'll be the first to admit that I have somewhat odd tastes in, well, everything - from clothes to shoes through women and ending in my choice of drinks. I was also a fan of Machina, which many felt was an anemic chapter for the Smashing Pumpkins to close out on. That said, I'm still of the opinion that the newest addition to the Pumpkins' extensive catalog is a worthy one. Is it another Siamese Dream? No. Do I believe to it to be on par with Mellon Collie... or rival Gish? Fuck no. What Zeitgeist is, though, shouldn't just be dismissed because it cannot compete with the fantastic peaks that the Smashing Pumpkins have found themselves upon during their bizarre journey through the musical landscapes of the 90s or because of the projects Corgan involved himself with between the death and resurgence of his band. From the first seconds of the album, Zeitgeist revels in torrents of overdriven guitars, Chamberlin's distinct and masterly control of the drums, and that wonderful nasal delivery that Corgan etched into my heart at a young and impressionable age. Also in those first few moments it is obvious that this is a Smashing Pumpkins record, not a poorly photocopied, mangled replica made to 'fuel Corgan's greed' (along with ticket sales for the reunion tour, the bastard!). I find it hard to believe that Corgan or Chamberlin would pour so much energy and talent into this record purely for the monetary reward (and the fact that many critics are seemingly balking at the idea that major label bands actually make money from their music is a strangely naive tact to employ when joining the bandwagon calls that Corgan is some fiscally-fixated monster orchestrating some underhand scheme so he can frolic in hotel suites full of 'black money'). The musicianship is astounding -- the guitar work is phenomenal, especially during the solos, and not enough can be said about Chamberlin's craft -- the songs are well structured, and having listened to Siamese Dream twice through this morning before returning to Zeitgeist, I remain confident with the rating I've given and words I'm putting down here. While only a handful of songs would survive in any capacity through intense scrutiny next to the likes of "Today" or "1979", they work together on Zeitgeist. I personally don't feel there is an awful piece anywhere on this record (though "For God and Country" comes perilously close and is easily the most forgettable track on the record). "Tarantula" is a monstrous composition, a beast composed of besmirched walls of distortion, huge drum fills and fuzz-box squeals cutting through the avalanche of sound alongside Corgan's snarling voice. The opening three tracks are as good an introduction to a rock album as you are going to find, easily excelling anything heard on rock radio stations around the country. "Neverlost" and closer "Pomp and Circumstances" are both accomplished slower numbers, kind breathers in this marathon of chugging guitars and thunderous drums. Even the meandering "United States" eventually finds its way and closes out with all the spite and angst I've lacked in my life since the Pumpkins called it quits. Would I have preferred Corgan and Chamberlin producing something on the scale of Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness? Of course. But, I'm alright with the work they've done, and one must remember that they've only recently reunited. I'm hoping the flaws and stumbles will work themselves out soon enhancing the band's future compositions. Until then, I'm confident Zeitgeist, and especially "Tarantula", will survive me at least through summer and the coming autumn.

With every composition given a sense of its own individuality through lengthy, film title-like track names such as "That Summer, At Home I Had Become the Invisible Boy", Fourteen Autumns and Fifteen Winters feels like an orchestral arrangement of many shifting movements or the aural equivalent of a novella, each chapter allowed significance and precedence through its unique approach. While this depiction of the album appears to suggest that the record is a series of loosely linked, cinematic soundscapes, and in some respects this is true, the overall experience of the recording is one of a complete work, a series of resounding tapestries amalgamated by their emotional explorations despite their diacritical nature. This unity is made possible through James Graham's distinctly Glaswegian accent coloring the tone of his vocal delivery, the grandiose layering of the guitars and bass, and drum lines that slip easily from a near marching band steadiness into more fluid and thundering deliveries; each element, while facilitated differently in the individual songs, is a telling brush stroke of a singular group of artists. Evoking a strange collection of peers, the Twilight Sad are a difficult group to classify, even in today's world of curious genre labeling. Maybe our contemporaries at Pitchfork would risk labeling them an 'epic indie', a 'cinematic shoegaze', or, hell, a 'post-shoegaze' band (you can never really prepare yourself for what's buried in the peculiar literary ejaculations of a Pitchfork review). At times the band seems to tread similar tangents to that of the Arcade Fire only to launch themselves to the dynamic heights of fellow countrymen Mogwai, and a number of other accomplished groups could be used as ineffective measurements of their musical range. The Twilight Sad are one of the most unique bands to step out of Britain in the past few years, their sound thick with distorted and delayed guitars, full, deep bass, and substantial drums, all propelling Graham's dark, accented vocals as they explore a number of poetically articulated, though often rather vague, themes. While adolescence seems to be the focus of the album's title and is referenced again in "That Summer, At Home I Had Become the Invisible Boy" - "I'm 14, and don't you know I'm looking the wrong way; and is the past outside or in this lovely home?" - it is difficult to always be confident in one's translation of Graham's cryptic, often bitter lyrics. This has yet to stop me singing along with even the most perplexing lines, my favorite being - "Head up, dear, you're shallow and blind. And head up, dear, the rabbit may die...". I will not be surprised to find Fourteen Autumns and Fifteen Winters slipping into the upper ranks of my 'Best of 2007' list even with another half-year's worth of releases to come. While darkly eloquent and monumental in its scope, the album isn't taxing or burdensome. As with adolescence itself, a sense of hope and eventual escape pervades even the darkest track. With this being our first full taste of the capabilities of the Twilight Sad, I can't even imagine the record they'll create in the next few years. I debated briefly whether Fourteen Autumns and Fifteen Winters should get the full five marks, but, with the expectation of future recordings surpassing this album, it seems I shall have to wait a little while to give these Scottish boys five gears. I just hope they don't keep us waiting too long.

To start, since Exit Decades has become a quick favorite of mine over the past month or so, if we had 'half-gears' here on Automaton Industries, I'd probably give this record a 3.5 out of 5, but, all said and done, it is not quite deserving of a 4. Kicking the record off in a curiously similar light to Bloc Party's Silent Alarm, Cut City seem unsure over the course of this album whether they'd prefer being lumped in with the contemporary British artists of esteem or their 80s punk influences, most notably Joy Division. While they excel at the styles they explore on Exit Decades, and, for the most part, the record flows quite seamlessly, I can't help but get the impression that once they settle on a delivery that these young upstarts from Göteborg will produce a damned fine album, one I wouldn't hesitate for a second to give a 4 or better. The fact that Exit Decades is not that record shouldn't deter anyone at all from investing in it, the album, despite it's hazy focus, is still a quality addition to one's collection. Opener "Like Ashes Like Millions" shows that Exit Decades, even when treading 'au courant' paths, seems to lean more towards the nostalgic approach of bands like Wire (especially 154-era) and Joy Division, not only in the compositions' arrangement, but in their production. "Anticipation" and "Damaged" take this tact a few steps further, the latter sounding like an unaccountably overlooked track from the Closer sessions. After this reminiscent halfway point comes "Such Verve" and "Rival Trial", two exceptional tracks, but ones that feel strangely distanced from their predecessors. While the production remains the same, the manner of delivery is far more in line with the 80s throwback bands making waves today. And, once again, the record shifts gears in its closing moments. The 'ever pushing forward' pace slows and dissipates into the contemplative "Just Pornography (For M.E.)", which, in turn, colors the more direct closer "The Dull Miles (Exit Decades)" in darker, more introspective shades, especially noticeable in final section. While the album has its disassociative qualities, instead of being a difficultly this facet hints at the extensive potential that Cut City possess. There's not a bad song on this record. Once the band decides whether they'd prefer being Ian Curtis' disciples or fall closer to Interpol's approach, they will create something that will excel this fine album. Hell, even if they never 'settle down' I'll still be buying their records.

Life is far less complicated, at least in Hemingway’s novels, when women are not around. The middle section of The Sun Also Rises – the manuscript’s idyll – consists of two close male companions fishing and drinking in Spain. Soon though, Lady Brett Ashley reappears, descending into the narrative, and all of the delicate simplicity of life is complicated and perverted. And so we find Alan Johnson (Don Cheadle): successful dentist, father of two daughters, caring husband – and trapped. Women do little but confuse Johnson’s life; his female patients, the lady at the front desk, his wife, Angela Oakhurst (Liv Tyler) – a psychiatrist who works in the same building – and so the trend continues. His entire relationship with Dr. Oakhurst is built around waiting for her to leave his building so he can rapidly ask her questions as they walk to their cars about ‘a friend’ who feels ensnared, the meaning of his dreams, and if guys should have guy friends and do guy things. It is therefore no surprise that Johnson leaps at the opportunity to enter again into the life of his former college roommate, Charlie Fineman (Adam Sandler). Charlie is shown alone at the onset of the film – a phantom on a motor scooter materializing into the shot like a younger Dylan or Springsteen, lost into New York streets as Graham Nash’s ‘Simple Man’ strikes the first chord of the film. Critics have already started to ‘dig deep’ into the philosophical quandaries of Charlie’s last name, the darkness inherent in some of Dylan’s songs and their possible implications with relation to Sandler’s hair. Even without this analysis we see that there is something very broken about Mr. Fineman. We learn in the early moments of the film that Charlie’s wife and three daughters died on 9/11. Alan and Charlie develop a relationship, the first friendship that Charlie has had in years, and the first real male companion that Alan’s had for possibly longer. We see a smile on Alan’s face for the first time in the film, a glint in his eyes that has been dulled by pleasant domestication. This early period of development displays one of the film’s great strengths – it’s levity. In a film set against bleak New York days and nights, exploring two separate examples of isolation and detachment, the humor is surprisingly powerful and intimate. Reign Over Me expertly captures the complicated, growing emotions that start to develop between the pair. Both characters are shown to be damaged, Charlie obviously cut more deeply with fault lines, and while they often clash, the story progresses in such a way so we understand why they continue to be drawn towards the other despite the numerous missteps on both sides – Alan’s early slips when handling Charlie, recovered by his understanding, compassion, and patience; Charlie’s volatile nature, especially when the artificial safety he has intricately crafted is disturbed or threatened, though forgiven through a humanness that has not been completely fractured by the tragedy of his life. To continue an already strained comparison, there’s as much said in the emptiness of Reign Over Me as there is in the silences between Hemingway’s sharp sentences – and for similar reasons. Hemingway’s injuries in war, the death and destruction he saw in WWI and other conflicts, all contributed to the biting quality of his writing, and the artistry of his craft. The unwavering exploration of Charlie’s psychological response – his post-traumatic stress disorder, the interwoven layers of defense mechanisms, and his violent outbursts – leaves much to be said in Sandler’s pained, silent expressions, in his absences, and not always in his eccentricities, his mumbling, or his active detachment. The refusal to articulate pain, and the lengths we sometimes go to avoid any situation where this could occur, is very much the focus of much of the film. This silence extends into Alan’s character as well – the incommunicative husband, the ‘ghost’ of his office. Even the tragedy that robbed Charlie of his wife and three daughters, of his family, and of his happiness is not talked about. Alan tells Dr. Oakhurst that he has a friend whose family died ‘in a plane crash’. September 11th becomes punctuation: the end of Charlie’s life, the end of the illusion of safety in New York City, Washington, DC, and throughout America. In this way, silence is explored as a coping mechanism, necessary in so far as to continue progressing forward, and not becoming entangled in the pain of a past event we no longer have the power to change. There are scenes where those who do want to talk about 9/11 are almost shown to be vulgar, as if they are discussing graphic sexual experiences while in the presence of nuns, and thus breaking social convention. While silence may allow us to push on and survive, it also limits the interactions we can have, and, as social animals, we need relationships if only so that we can reach our hand out and know that it will be taken. Charlie has been lost into his world of emptiness and sadness, his silence ensures that he will never be forced to remember his loved ones now lost, though limiting the chances of his ever being ‘okay’ again; Alan dissipates into a state of irrational anger and detachment at the situations he’s allowed himself to be positioned into, submissive to his wife and dental partners, allowing his anger to exist, and be contained, within his own personal sphere. This exploration of voice and voicelessness is deftly handled, and has led many to refer to Reign Over Me as a “buddy film” – a ridiculous moniker that limits and belittles the overall message of the film. The power of the film is in its accessibility; Alan is the everyman, the foil to Charlie’s deeper sadness and loss, and the discoveries they find in themselves through each other are out of the league of any “buddy flick”. These critics’ assertion is comparable to calling The Sun Also Rises a “buddy book” – and the bile you feel rising in your throat is a natural response, don’t worry. This is a film about breaking, either in an instant or over years of endured pressure, finding the pieces, and finding our voices; which can be difficult for men in a world (sadly) still built on the idea of the endurance and impenetrability of the masculine nature, where men should not ‘act like women’ (though, ironically, women are salvation of the characters of this film). It’s a stumbling affair, there are missteps and mistakes, there are screams where a whisper would have sufficed, and there are moments purely human and humorous. It’s not an easy process, and it’s often never truly completed over the extent of a lifetime, but the instant we give up trying to survive there is little reason left to live.

Director Zack Snyder first introduced himself to the world with 2004's Dawn of the Dead, his version of a George Romero staple that fiercely divided horror fans despite its notable commercial success. While many chose to breathlessly peck at their keyboards contending the very idea of remaking such a classic, or endlessly debated with each other over a zombie's ability to run (because such things are quite obviously shackled by the laws of science), I instead greatly enjoyed the movie for what it was: a beautifully shot, blood soaked re-imagining of a story that I already loved. Strangely, the film's detractors spent a lot of time wondering what the point was, when it was quite obviously to give us two hours of good fun. And now Snyder has done it again, taking Frank Miller's decade old graphic novel, 300, and fashioning it into a visual force that rivals the best in its genre; the kind of film that demands being seen in a theater. And once more, too many people are missing the point. Lean on plot and dialogue, Miller's fast paced comic based on the Battle of Thermopylae was every bit as focused on war and brutality as the men documented on its pages. And while Snyder does a fair bit more than I expected to further flesh out these characters, his film very much shares the novel's infatuation with bloodshed (in case you're wondering, this is a very good thing). There is no shortage of fighting to be seen here, and cinematographer Larry Fong frames the violence as an artform unto itself, every cut and slice drawn out so that it can be viewed in agonizing detail. While the significant use of slow motion during these moments may be off-putting to some, I found it brought Miller's art to life in remarkable fashion. This technique is not limited to just the warfare either, as Snyder is prone to let the camera linger over all of his imagery, perfectly capturing panels of the book at every turn. It's consistently awe inspiring, and scenes like the awakening of the oracle will leave you wishing you didn't have to blink. But beauty is not the only thing that elevates this beyond being a run-of-the-mill action movie. While the tale of 300 Spartan soldiers (accompanied by 700 or so fellow Greeks) fending off multiple advances by a Persian army that vastly outnumbered them is very much true, here it is funneled through legend, passed on without the strict bounds of reality. The version we are witness to is colored by age, and the bias of its Spartan narrator, transforming the Persian enemy into a supernatural menace driven by pure evil, a counterpoint to everything these men are bred to believe in. While the Spartans fight for the glory of a soldier's death (an ideal not chosen so much as beaten into them since birth), supplied with only their wits and the most spare of armaments, their enemies bring all manner of excesses, adorned in intricate costumes, and often riding into battle on the backs of oversized beasts, or with lumbering, deformed monsters by their side. This is the confrontation as told by one man, the heroism of his allies and the horrors of their enemies both being stretched to fantastically mythical proportions. Despite what you might think though, 300 is not quite just two hours of swords clashing and heads flying. Unlike the book, which kept character development to a minimum, Snyder does his best to invoke a stronger sense of humanity in his protagonists, giving the viewer brief breaks from the combat that will be welcomed by many. His King Leonidas (Gerard Butler) is every bit as unflinching in his sense of duty as Miller's, but softened around the edges just enough to increase his appeal to audiences. Butler does a commendable job of striking this careful balance between man and leader, entering every fray with a savage ferocity, while injecting surprising moments of levity (aided by much of Miller's original dialogue) at just the right moments in-between. Additionally, Snyder chose to add an entirely new subplot that focuses on Queen Gorgo (Lena Headey), who remains at home awaiting the return of her husband (as she says: "Either with your shield, or on it"), while fighting her own battle with the city counsel for reinforcements. I wouldn't say that this is a completely necessary component to the plot, but it does add the slightest hint of intrigue, while helping the audience better understand the politics behind the battle (which are only briefly touched upon in the original version). The unfortunate by-product of this addition is that it further fuels the already raging fire of debate regarding the movie's political undercurrents, and its a debate that recently entered the realm of the ridiculous when an Iranian official publicly accused it as being "part of a comprehensive U.S. psychological war aimed at Iranian culture". The fact a film so awash in cartoonish eccentricity could stir up such heated moral outrage is equally hilarious and frightening. Like Dawn of the Dead before it, this movie's goal is to be a fun ride, and that's as far as it goes. Using 300 as a launching pad to a healthy discourse on current affairs is one thing, but this is slanted, revisionist history on display solely for the sake of our amusement, and all but the most nearsighted will admit that the film goes out of its way to let the audience in on that fact. There's no denying that the Fascist-friendly theme of "might makes right" that laces much of Miller's work (and was the backbone of the Spartan culture) is very much at the heart of its narrative, but we are not at all expected to agree with it in order to be entertained. And all personal beliefs aside, entertaining us is all that Snyder intended to do.