' The Michigan Daily - Friday, November 16, 1990 - Page 9

CINEMA
(dtinued from page 5
dfy to such an extent, that when he
,onvinces it that she is dead, it goes
trough an identity crisis and com-
fpits suicide (only to be replaced by
another copy).
. The film works on many levels,
tit its complex structure does not
"detract from its pure watchability:
,ltimately, it's a mystery, a love
story and a question of what we re-
'ally want and what is really impor-
-tait. This print is a restoration of
;the original film, putting back sev-
viral scenes and references that were
4imoved by the censors at its origi-
' arelease.
'It would have been interesting to
see what films Tarkovsky would
}Have made had he lived to see the
"New and Improved" Soviet Union
pf; today. Even more interesting
jvduld have been his reaction to what
his prot6ge and cohort, Andrei Kon-
chalovsky is doing today. His last
lp was Tango and Cash.
" Solaris is showing at Angell
*ud. A Saturday and Sunday at 9:15.
- Mike Kuniavsky

out more mundane curiosities such
as alka seltzer. Beck rescues him
from that particular dilemma: "It's
alka seltzer. You put in the water
and you drink it," he says, shaking
his head with disgust. The alien's
ability to change bodies makes it
difficult for the two to track but it is
blatantly open in what it likes -
Ferraris, acid rock and bloodshed.
Careful attention to detail pro-
vides much of the film's humor: the
Ferrari dealer's desk ornament that's
a little porcelain Ferarri with cocaine
stashed in the trunk, or the cafe
scene, rivaling Jack Nicholson's
quest for toast in Five Easy Pieces,
as the alien rude boy belches, flatu-
lates and rocks the cafe with heavy
metal.
Director Jack Sholden does a
great job of showing the alien's cu-
riosity as it explores the characteris-
tics of each new body, standing in
front of a mirror and massaging its
face or constantly staring at its
hands. Sholden's high-intensity ex-
pertise comes through in a classic,
albeit obligatory, car chase as the ex-
traterrestrial Al Capone takes a Sun-
day drive through the park at 90-
miles-an-hour, tapping his hands on
the wheel and bobbing his head to
the blaring music. This is one of the
slow scenes, so be prepared to have
as little breathing space as possible.
The Hidden will be showing tonight
at 7:30 and 9:30 p.m. in Aud. B.
- Jon Rosenthal
If Woody Allen and Jean-Claude
Killey could have a child, they
would have given birth to Waren
Miller. For the last 40 years, he has
written, produced, directed and nar-
rated movies which not only show
skiing as sport, but also as art and
sometimes comedy - equally as
pleasing to watch as to participate
in. Miller's latest release, Extreme
Winter, should not show any
drastic change of pace from his usual
formula.
For certain there will be plenty of
skiing off cliffs into unmarked ter-
rain, little kids falling down, ani-
mals dressed for the winter (like
Zudnik the Wonder Dog) and the
beautiful landscapes where the skiing
takes place. In about a month, many
of us will be heading out to the
slopes, but because of finals, the
wait will seem much longer. If you
will not be able to take the anticipa-
tion, seeing this film should offer
satisfaction until Christmas break.
Extreme Winter wil be showing at
the Michigan Theater Friday at 7:30.
-Andrew J. Cahn

BUDDY
Continued from page 5
certainly had all sorts of sexual
implications; but it also allowed the
performer to escape, for a moment,
being an "oversexed, ignorant,
childish, lazy nigger" with
newspapers lining his shoes and a
burlap rag for a shirt whose only
option other than "drinking muddy
water and sleeping in a hollow log"
was living in a "one room country
shack." Today, mainstream blues
have been molded into nothing more
than a free-enterprise market place
where the wares of the male libido
are bought and sold.
All of this leads us to the reason
why Buddy Guy is the greatest guitar
player alive - his vision of the
blues is one of rare honesty, bitter
irony and breathtaking flights of
fancy. His technique is a combina-
tion of the classic raw and biting
Guild sound distorted until there is
nothing left but rage, played with no
caution at breakneck speed, with the
devastatingly pure, crystalline clarity
of a Fender Strat.
On his versions of "One Room
Country Shack" and "Sweet Little
Angel," Guy plays high single notes
with such heavy sustain and finesse
that they dangle in the air for several
seconds like a demonic imp hovering
overhead but fall to the ground with
the delicacy and emotional release of
a long drawn-out sigh.
Immediately after such ethereal
music, he can turn right around and
cut and mangle the atmosphere he
just created with some of the
fiercest, most unrelenting solos
imaginable. On his best record,
Stone Crazy, Guy's guitar playing
comes frighteningly close to tum-
bling and skidding out of control and
falling into some dark abyss. On "I

Smell a Rat," instead of taking it
out on the the woman who has been
cheating on him, he beats the crap
out of his guitar with tumultuous
jabs that rake across blue notes and
triplets creating a maelstrom of
jagged splinters of sound.
Ultimately, though, the catharsis
that his music offers pulls him out
of these depths, allowing his music
to acquire a sense of elevating beauty
that transform his solos from rank
ugliness to something approaching
affirmation.
But it is more than his death-de-
fying guitar escapades that lead crit-
ics like Peter Guralnick to call him
"the contemporary blues artist."
Buddy Guy oozes sincerity when he
sings; you can't help but to believe
everything he says implicitly. It is
this quality that allows him to turn a
banal standard like "Money" or
"Fever" into a song with passion and
intensity. He sings with the waver-
ing melisma of Bobby "Blue" Bland
that has its origins in the Black Bap-
tist churches and their minor key
falsetto versions of Bible stories. At
once bemoaning his fate and soaring
above it with a cleansing shout, he
exorcises the demons of the blues in
the most moving kind of purifica-
tion ritual.
This country's treatment of blues
and jazz has turned the musicians and
their music into grotesque crowd-
pleasers. Audiences' ignore the
artistry involved and place many of
the musicians at the beck and call of
an exploitative system. Buddy Guy
puts it best himself: "Just let me
play my axe." A
BUDDY GUY jams at the Blind Pig
tonight with doors opening around
9:30 p.m. Tickets are $12 in
advance from TicketMaster (plus
the evil service charge). If you buy
'em at the door, they cost $15.

I I

Dancing queens
Four dancers look up to the future, as they anticipate their BFA thesis
concert. Ginger Glenn,(from left) Lesli Cohen, Jill Moskow and Jennifer
Bulgarella will perform tonight and tomorrow at 8 p.m. in the School of
Dance, Studio A. Look for a variety of styles, with accompaniment
ranging from Handel to Podme Electronique by Edgar Varese. The
dancers say of their program, "We're not facing world issues, we're
attacking personal conflicts and portraying how we see life." Each
dancer has choreographed and directed a group number, and will also
perform solo works. The evening promises dramatic intensity as well
as humorous entertainment, for a mere five dollars.

all that Shapiro-esque Say-It-Loud-
I'm-Wack-And-I'm Proud-kissing-
Leroi Jones' ass dogma shit. I knew
it. I knew it. That soul brother
number 23 stuff had to show itself.
Look, we're neither of us "Asiatic."
Admit it, Forrest, you love pork.
You've got to realize that Big Daddy
is so active his name should be a
verb. Like the man said, he's RAW.
He's got dreads; you got a poncy-
purple Prince conk.
F.G.: Well, Kane's supposed to
be the archetypal brotherman, isn't
he? This is the newest installment in
Blaxploitational rap music. As long
as there is a UCAR or Aaron
Williams, I don't have to raise my
fist.
NZ: Raise your wrist, dontcha
mean? Kane's got Gamilah Shabazz,
Malcolm X's daughter guest-rapping
on "Who Am I?" This is dropping
serious wisdom like Ralph
Ellison, Richard Wright, Toni
Morrison or even that liberal phoney
Alice Walker.
FG: Rosebud. That makes
Shabazz all the more misunderstood.
Dropping real science on this partic-
ular record is a lost cause, sort of
like the Diversity requirement here at
the corporate-white liberals v. con-
servatives-who-don't-deserve-to-live-

Eurocentricity of Lynchigan.
NZ: Yep, I'm sick of these whi-
te liberals trying to castrate us. But
it takes two hundred Playboy maga-
zines to get you up, Forrest. Big
Daddy is a "Smooth Operator." Take
lessons before your dillbag withers
away and falls off.
FG: Kane will never again hit
like he did with "Ain't No Half
Steppin'." The only groove half as
good here is on the "Taste of
Chocolate" episodes. I for one am
exhausted with the myth that he is
playing on. If he is psychosexually
complacent, cool, but don't spray
your almighty jism onto the audi-
ence. Sucka.
NZ: Piss off. You're talkin'
more shit than the Tidy Bowl man,
you pseudo-intellectual wanker. At
least we agree on one song. That
"Big Daddy vs. Dolomite" is a
macedocious piece of hip-hop.
FG: Yeah, but we did better than
that right here. They had the dozens,
but our braggin' and dissin' ballis-
tics melted the smegma off the
biggest dicks in rap music.
NZ: Yeah, we're the macks who
take it to the max.
-Forrest Green III and Nabeel
Mustafa Zuberi

Sudnik


In The Hidden, a science fic-
/detective-drama/comedy, a hid-
alien rampages through Los An-
s. Michael Nouri as Sgt. Beck of
.LA's finest and Kyle MacLachlan as
f FBI agent Cooper - whoops! -
Lloyd Gallager stalk the alien as it
bides in, and takes control of, one
'uman body after another.
Beck is the confused straight man
who can't figure out why law
Abiding citizens suddenly turn into
' bloodthirsty killers and then just up
'r die with or without the usual
police assistance. Gallager,
meanwhile, seems to know exactly
what's going on with the outerspace
Sociopath but has difficulty figuring
ice, c

RECORDS
Continued from page 8
FG: So that's it, you sensitive
Almodovar Alda. You want to sleep
with Kane. He and that walrus-
lookin' bowl of lard sound like
they're in bed together on that
wimpy straight R&B shit. That's
why you glorify all that dance and
disco, you're crying 96 tears to do
69 with big Barry White, you jive
turkey.
NZ: Even that humongous hunk
does the Nasty better than you, you

fungus-covered dog turd. Don't diss
the Big Daddy or the Big Fatty.
They're more real than you could
cope with, you puddle of piss.
FG: Real? Big Daddy Kane is as
simple simon as Sybil. He's
schizophrenic, confused and going
through more back alleys than
Coleman Young in his bulletproof
limousine. The truth is, "real" Black
folk don't need this kind of hypocrit-
ical "Another Victory" crap coupled
with tough manifestos like "Love,
peace and hair grease."
NZ: So you're comin' out with

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CASH IN ON GOODGRADES.

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