Songs of Shame Review

Woods, “Songs of Shame” (Woodsist 2009)

There’s something to be said for a band that knows its limitations. Finding a quiet, comfortable sound and sticking to it can be a great formula for success. Brooklyn’s Woods is just such a band, finding a comfortable sound on their 2009 full-length, Songs of Shame. An album full of cozy melodies and well-crafted songs, “Songs of Shame” finds Woods in their very own successful niche.

The album is a collection of mostly short, melodic, lo-fi pop tunes that can either blend into the background or reward the astute listener. Full of crunchy guitars, tape hiss, and deceptively memorable melodies, “Songs of Shame” seems like it should sound noisier. Brilliant, muted production blends these elements together and produces a laid-back, unified sound. Lead singer Jeremy Earl’s Neil Young-esque wail couples perfectly with the understated mess of noise, providing for relaxing listening.

While Woods have forged their very own brand of introspective lo-fi rock, there’s an obvious injection of American folk music in their songs. Heavy attention is given to the songwriting, and many songs are completely stripped down to acoustic guitar and vocals. Earl’s lilting melodies are quintessential folk fare, and his lyrics also owe much to the genre.

Earl’s lyrics are cryptic and quiet, much like the band’s sonic output. Simplicity is key here. The album’s single, “Rain On,” provides the most stunning example of Earl’s gift. He softly croons, “I won’t shovel through / All the shame that led me too / You wouldn’t pass it off / How the days will rain on you.” Short, simple, cryptic lyrics about shame and loss compliment these quietly jumbled lo-fi compositions.

“Shame’s” greatest strength is that it doesn’t try to do too much. Woods know what they can do, and they stick to their trademarked lo-fi sound. The short, condensed songs move quickly, and the album flows effortlessly from one song to the next. There’s a sense of cohesion throughout, and the sequencing of songs makes sense in terms of the pacing and unity.

“Shame” derails only once. The fourth track, “September with Pete” is a ten-minute lo-fi jam session that finds Woods denying their strengths. The tune feels out of place, and the instrumentation simply isn’t good enough to constitute a ten-minute song. Most of the other songs clock in at less than three minutes, and they succeed for it. “September with Pete” just doesn’t fit in anywhere, and it stands as “Songs of Shame’s” only glaring flaw.

“Songs of Shame” shows Woods at the top of their game. Aside from “September with Pete,” the band is extremely self-aware and plays to their strengths. Their unassuming sound and endearing melodies drive the album, and Earl’s songwriting meshes seamlessly with the sound they’ve cultivated. “Shame” finds Woods trying to be exactly what they are: quiet, understated, and introspective. It’s a refreshing, relaxing album that grows more endearing with each listen.

Hunger

In 1981, Irish political prisoner Bobby Sands went on a hunger strike in protest of the removal of the “Special Category Status” for Irish political prisoners by the British government. Sands’ hunger strike was preceded by the notorious “no wash” protests, in which the Irish prisoners defiantly refused to bathe while incarcerated. First-time director and acclaimed visual artist Steve McQueen tackles both struggles in his film, “Hunger” (2008). Through the employ of visceral images, political discourse, and the centerpiece – a harrowingly committed performance by actor Michael Fassbinder, McQueen has created a haunting depiction of the lengths to which a human being will go to have their voice be heard.

“Hunger” opens with quiet tension. A paranoid prison guard walks from his house to his car, checking for hidden explosives before he drives away. He then drives to the prison where the “no wash” protests have been underway for weeks. Here McQueen shows us the disgusting conditions and the impassioned prisoners that live in them. They are treated poorly, and beatings are frequent.

The film then segues into a lengthy scene between our main character, Bobby Sands (who is introduced nearly halfway through the film), and a priest who he has called to discuss revolutionary strategy with. The two sit at a table and talk of an upcoming hunger strike that is to take place. Here Sands gives his emotional and political justifications for his revolutionary actions. The entire scene is shown in just one 17-minute take that respects the reality of the encounter. The final half hour of the film graphically chronicles his hunger strike, and allows viewers to visually experience an action of true passion and revolt.

“Hunger” is a film that is unsurprisingly driven by its images. Feces adorn the walls of prison cells, piles of rotting food are cloistered in corners, and unshaven prisoners battle guards amongst the filth and grime. The hunger strike is carefully calculated, and achingly depicts the physical deterioration of an impassioned human body. McQueen keeps his camera eerily still throughout the film, giving the events a sense of palpable reality and austere urgency. The whole experience is revolting, yet strangely beautiful, as we see a man sacrifice his body for his higher-minded political ideals.

At the core of the film is the impactful performance of Michael Fassbinder. To prepare for the role, the actor lost forty pounds, adopting a sickly, emaciated look. Bobby Sands is a character of stunning conviction, and Fassbinder’s rendering of him is a perfect marriage of form and content. The actor physically and emotionally embodies the character, and offers up a visceral, honest performance.

“Hunger” is a film that avoids the pitfall of taking a decidedly political stance. While the prisoners are mistreated, we are also shown the strike’s psychological effects on the prison guards. This leads to a quality of transcendence that permeates every frame. It allows viewers to experience the passion, disgust, and anguish felt by people who are disenfranchised and silenced. The purity of the struggle rises above the political context, and the result is a film that speaks to the universal need for the human voice to be heard.

Nostalgia for the Light (Revised)

Everything we are experiencing in the world is the past. At least, that is one of the theses in Patricio Guzmán’s latest documentary, “Nostalgia for the Light.” Early on we are informed that, because of minute, millisecond delays in our perceptive abilities, the present is a fleeting idea, and not something to be tangibly experienced.

With audiences questioning the reality of the world they’re living in (and maybe even more interestingly, the one that they’re experiencing onscreen) Guzmán launches into a well-balanced film about the noble quest of the astronomer, the emotional and political ramifications of dictatorial leadership, nostalgia, and the importance of memory and the past.

The film opens with quietly breathtaking images of the world’s most powerful telescopes. These signify “Nostalgia’s” journey into the universal. The film is constructed through a series of interviews with seemingly unconnected subjects – an astronomer, an anthropologist, and numerous victims of Chilean dictatorial violence. By juxtaposing such drastically different subjects, Guzmán reveals universal truths about memory and its vitality.

All of the subjects interviewed against the backdrop of the Atacama Desert (the driest place on earth), and all of them have something to say about the past. The astronomers are searching for explanations about the construction of the universe, the anthropologist is searching for answers about political atrocities, and the victims of these political atrocities are searching for tangible tokens of the past. These interviews are interspersed with grandiose images of outer space, alluding to the far-reaching ideas Guzmán hopes to explore.

The film thrives during its personal examinations of political prisoners and victims of the atrocities committed by the Chilean military and government. We are introduced to an architect who can remember the exact dimensions of the political concentration camp that he lived in, a daughter whose parents were executed by the government, and a group of women tirelessly hunting for the remains of their loved ones. All have been wronged in some way by the government, and all have a different relationship with the past. Most affecting are the women that search for the bones of their husbands. As they explain, the uncovering of their relative’s remains will provide a moment of much needed catharsis in their quest for reconciliation with the past.

The haunting images of “Nostalgia” linger in the mind. The dignified faces of the political prisoners, the elderly women with arched backs, pouring over miles of the landscape, and the Atacama Desert – a vast, dry, empty space that allows for exploration and reflection. These images punctuate the pertinent points made by Guzmán’s interviewees and act as a visual connection for their verbal pontification.

For all its far-reaching grandeur, “Nostalgia” is not without flaws. The film suffers when it strays too far from the struggles of the political prisoners. The all-encompassing proclamations of the astronomers are at times overbearing, and the connections they make about the past are ones we’ve already intuited. A little more trust in himself as a director and the audience as an interpreter would strengthen the film. That being said, “Nostalgia for the Light” gives audience much to reflect on – exactly what it sets out to do from the start.

Nostalgia for the Light

Everything we are experiencing in the world is the past. At least, that is one of the theses in Patricio Guzmán’s latest documentary, "Nostalgia for the Light." Early on we are informed that, because of minute, millisecond delays in our perceptive abilities, the present is a fleeting idea, and not something to be tangibly experienced.

With audiences questioning the reality of the world they’re living in (and maybe even more interestingly, the one that they’re experiencing onscreen) Guzmán launches into a well-balanced film about the noble quest of the astronomer, the emotional and political ramifications of dictatorial leadership, nostalgia, memory, and the importance of memory and the past.

The Atacama Desert (the driest place on the planet) is the setting for Guzmán’s philosophical musings. His subject begins with astronomy, transitions into a political examination of the need for catharsis in post-Pinochet Chile, and ends up blending the two in a grandiose amalgamation about memory and its vitality.

The film thrives during its personal examinations of political prisoners and victims of the atrocities committed by the Chilean military and government. We are introduced to an architect who can remember the exact dimensions of the political concentration camp that he lived in, a daughter whose parents were executed by the government, and a group of women tirelessly hunting for the remains of their loved ones. Their task seems nearly impossible, but their need for catharsis in the form of human remains is understandable and affecting. An astronomer considers and compares their respective tasks. Why is the scientific research and study of the past venerated while the quest of these women to preserve their personal memories of the people they love deemed tantamount to insanity? The past isn’t something to be ignored, but something to live with.

While there’s great value in attaching the deeply personal, specific troubles of the political victims with the all-encompassing questions of the astronomers, the film slightly derails when it drifts too far from the Chilean struggle. The comparison adds a degree of universality that may have already been achieved with the personal stories. This brings up "Nostalgia’s" greatest weakness - its need to over-explain what’s happening onscreen. Rather than letting the audience feel the emotional power of the images, he forces talking heads to explain exactly what we’ve already intuited. In this case, it feels as if Guzmán is playing it on the safe side, not wanting any of his message (which is obviously near and dear to his heart) to fall by the wayside. A little more trust in himself as a director and the audience as an interpreter would strengthen the film. That being said, "Nostalgia for the Light" gives audiences much to reflect on - exactly what it sets out to do from the start.