Francophonic Spree

Last Wednesday (that's Valentine's Day, for the record) when Erin and I came home to our apartment, we were greeted by a somewhat hostile letter from our building's management informing us that our superintendent will be visiting our apartment sometime in the near future to inspect it and make sure that we have sufficient carpeting, because the obnoxious frenchman that lives below us and seems to take joy in aggressively pounding on our floor (his ceiling) whenever we walk around our apartment at some time that isn't between the hours of 10am and 8pm, has apparently gotten fed up with our (though mostly our cat's) "excessively loud walking" and ratted us out to the super. Though I feel that this gives me every right to get on the French-hating bandwagon, I was persuaded to love the French again after going to Mercury Lounge to see French-Canadian indie pop sensation Malajube.

Let me first say that I thought their much underrated album Trompe L'Oeil was one of my favorites of last year, though I always thought their lack of English lyrics was just a novelty (like Christina Aguilera's Spanish album or Adam Sandler trying to make serious films), so I was pleasantly surprised to find that not only do they speak fluent French, but they speak pretty much no English (and by that I mean none). They opened the set with an extended instrumental jam, which might have alienated the audience had anybody actually been able to sing along to their songs with lyrics, then the singer greeted the audience in his thick French accent, "Hallo anglophones," followed by an incoherent string of words that were apparently supposed to be English. Then they kicked into "La Monogamie" with enough intensity to keep the hairs on the back of my neck raised for the better part of the night, and managed to keep that energy level going for most of the show. If nothing else, it was refreshing to see a band that actually looked like they were having a good time, especially after watching the uber-serious opening band, Snowden, whose over-earnest posturing would surely make Michael Stipe blush and, inexplicably, had a larger crowd than Malajube.

On a side note, I saw a bunch of movies this weekend as well. Children of Men was amazing - by far the most painstakingly constructed dystopian future I've ever seen in a film (the guy living in the cover art of Pink Floyd's Animals was a particularly nice touch). While I usually find the shaky, handheld camera technique hackneyed and nauseating (OC I'm looking in your direction), this movie pulled it off brilliantly, and the 5-minute-long single-shot sequences blew my fucking mind. This might not top The Departed as my favorite movie of the year, but it comes pretty damn close.

Dreamgirls was pretty much what I expected it to be. The story was too jumpy to really make it a cohesive film, but I found it a generally entertaining riff on the history of soul music. Jennifer Hudson is as good as she's hyped to be. Beyoncee is just as vaccuous and unremarkable as she is in real life. And Eddie Murphy is good enough to make me die a little every time I see a poster for one of his fat-suit movies.

I also saw Music & Lyrics (don't ask) this weekend, which was (expectedly) schmaltzy, but surprisingly enjoyable. Hugh Grant's dry self-deprication has apparently grown on me in the past few years and I managed to get through most of the movie without having the urge to beat Drew Barrymore over the head with a blunt object. Even the music was halfway decent (lest you think I've lost my credibility as a music snob, I'll remind you that the original music was done by power-pop guru Adam Schlessinger of Fountains of Wayne).

I still gotta make it through Babel, Letters From Iwo Jima, United 93 and Last King of Scotland by Sunday. Wish me luck.