In Arthur Penn's 1958 film The Left-Handed Gun, Billy The Kid (Paul Newman) was portrayed as a neurotic, self-destructive teen rebel who behaved like James Dean with a six-gun. Penn threw in the framing device of having a journalist follow Billy through his career of crime. Little Big Man (1970) also features a journalist looking to embroider the facts, but this time the writer meets his match in the shape of the wizened, 121-year-old Jack Crabb (Dustin Hoffman hidden behind several layers of make-up).
Cole Porter's lyrical and melodic genius is likely to endure as one of the last century's immortal contributions to culture. Lennon/McCartney, Holland/Dozier/Holland and possibly Bacharach/David may last as long; others currently revered will be forgotten in 50 years. So it's dandy that they're making a biopic about him, and fine that "an extraordinary range of contemporary artists" are performing his music for it. Trouble is, these artists are neither extraordinary nor a range.
Consider what could have been risked here.
Dug by both new breed and old (from Horse Stories compatriot Toby Burke to Dylan), Kelly has long been Australia's foremost troubadour since emerging from Melbourne's mid-'70s punk scene with a solo ambition that first flourished on 1985's Post. Produced by Tchad (Tom Waits/American Music Club) Blake, this two-CD follow-up to 2001's Nothing But A Dream is smartly conceived. Disc one rattles and blows like Highway 61 ghost-ridden by Hank Williams, a tumble of bordello piano, pedal-steel and blustery guitars. Disc two is more spare, sort of Time Out Of Mind left out in the rain by Warren Zevon.
It's an unlikely story: avant-garde cellist sees the light in a disco glitterball at New York gay club The Gallery and decides disco is the ultimate modern format for exploring minimalist composition. In the mid-'70s, Russell—conservatory-trained, a scholar of Eastern music forms, steeped in the ideas of Steve Reich and Terry Riley—was blown away by the engulfing quality of music transmitted over a massive club sound system and literally entranced by disco's use of repetition.
Don't expect John McTiernan's blustery military thriller to deliver the same buzzing chemistry between John Travolta and Samuel L Jackson as Pulp Fiction. The two stars barely even meet as Travolta's bad-ass investigator puzzles out the mystery of Jackson's missing Ranger instructor via a series of twist-heavy flashbacks. McTiernan delivers balls-out action, but he's a total hack, mauling all the subtlety out of a potentially intriguing yarn.
Art-rock doesn't, as far as we know, have a glorious reputation in the working men's clubs of South Yorkshire. Relaxed Muscle, however, suggest there's a captive market for electro duos in Doncaster, where the regulars suffer half an hour of performance art before bingo.
