• "It's Great That My Friends Happen to Be Incredible Actors": Mark Webber Talks About Making "Explicit Ills"



    The 28-year-old actor Mark Webber (Broken Flowers, Animal Factory, and the forthcoming Scott Pilgrim movie, which he describes as "Kill Bill meets Say Anything) made his debut as a writer-director last year with Explicit Ills, a semi-autobiographical, multi-character drama, with a cast that includes Rosario Dawson, Paul Dano, and Lou Taylor Pucci, in his hometown of Philadelphia. It showed at the 2008 SXSW Festival, where it won the Audience Award for Best Narrative Feature, as well as awards for its terrific cinematography by Patrice Lucien Cochet. The movie has just started popping up in theaters, and Nerve/Screengrab contributor Bryan Whitefield's recent discussion with Webber, before a live audience at the Apple Store in New York City, is available as a podcast.

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  • OST: "Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai"

    If you've been following the "OST" feature here at the Screengrab for a while, or even if you're just familiar with the kind of chicanery that goes on in the music business under the guise of protecting intellectual property, you'll know that an astonishingly large number of movie soundtracks present you with a product that's wildly -- even borderline fraudulently -- different from what you encountered in the movie.  The difficulty and cost of obtaining clearance rights to music, especially for small, cash-poor independent films, and the greed and short-sightedness of record companies (or just their willingness to butt heads with equally greedy movie companies over the size of their slice of the pie) has sunk many a soundtrack.  Jim Jarmusch's inventive, compelling Ghost Dog:  The Way of the Samurai ran afoul of this very problem, but with a curious endgame:  there are, in fact, two available records affiliated with the movie -- one best described as a soundtrack, and the other a score.  Both are extremely worthwhile, but neither is completely successful on its own; both are very different in character, although they were written by the same person; and both feature material from the film as well as material that never appeared in it, though only one is available in the United States.

    It should come as no surprise that Jarmusch's 1999 pseudo-remake of Jean-Pierre Melville's fantastic Le Samourai features a terrific soundtrack.  As befits his image as a New York hipster filmmaker, Jim Jarmusch's movies have always placed music in a prominent position; from the haunting, unnerving guitar wails of Neil Young that formed the basis of the soundtrack to Dead Man to the exotic, emotionally powerful jazz-funk of Ethiopian composer Mulatu Astaque that was featured in Broken Flowers, Jarmusch is one of a handful of directors -- others include Quentin Tarantino, Wes Anderson, and Sofia Coppola -- who can be counted on to take as much care with the soundtrack as they do with the film itself.  After reading that Italian-American mafiosi were fond of gangsta rap, and consulting with his star Forest Whitaker, Jarmusch decided to bring in the RZA, producer and mastermind behind the hugely influential Wu-Tang Clan, to write both the score and the soundtrack to Ghost Dog.  This began a collaboration between the two that became deeper and more profound than either had anticipated; the RZA ended up consulting with Jarmusch on some of the language of the street hustlers in the film, helped out with the design and costuming, and even appears briefly in the film (as do Timbo King and a handful of the Wu-Tang Killa Bees auxiliary).  The movie and the music are gorgeously integrated on every level, reflecting a realness that couldn't have come about if any other director and any other musician had been behind it:  scenes are perfectly broken up by the intrusion of killer hip-hop tracks (all of which the RZA wrote, produced, or both); the scenes themselves feature gorgeous nighttime driving shots of Whitaker's lethal but loyal assassin, accompanied by evocative, skeletal beats also made by the RZA.

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  • Take Five: Road Trip

    Opening this Friday, Neil Burger's The Lucky Ones is a bit of a gamble as a follow-up to The Illusionist.  Following the plight of three soldiers recently returned from Iraq (played by Tim Robbins, Michael Pena and Rachel McAdams), it quickly turns into a sort of social statement-cum-sign o' the times story as they find themselves on a road trip together across the country.  It's hard to predict how The Lucky Ones will be received; Iraq movies are always a crapshoot, and the movie's curious blend of comedy and drama may not fit in with the subject matter.  But it's always fun to see a new road movie, especially this late in the year when the possibility taking real-world road trips becomes more and more daunting.  Road pictures have a long and storied history in Hollywood, and filmmakers have managed to fold everything from bone-chilling noir to high-concept comedy to existential drama into the format.  America is especially adept at making road pictures, not only because of the grand canvas that is the national geography, but because of our total immersion in car culture.  Here's five of our favorites.

    DETOUR (1945)

    Film noir, despite its association with the urban environment, was never afraid to take its show on the road as long as there was a nice juicy crime at the center of the story, and Detour serves up a doozy.  A grade-z Poverty Row picture made for the cost of Clark Gable's lunch, Detour nonetheless proved to be one of the most effective noir films of its day, thanks to its relentless, grubby energy.  Tom Neal, who starts the picture looking like he's had his insides scooped out and just gets worse from there, plays a sad-sack piano player who just wants to get to the west coast so he can be united with his former flame.  But along the way he gets framed for murder after running afoul of Ann Savage in one of the most terrifying femme fatale roles of all time.  A terrific, unsparingly bleak little film that proves a little can go a long way.

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