You restless souls, you're gonna find it

I finally got to see the documentary The Devil and Daniel Johnston on DVD after hearing a lot of buzz about it. It is a terrific film tracing the life of Johnston, a singer/songwriter/artist/cult hero admired by the likes of Kurt Cobain and Sonic Youth. Johnston suffers from manic depression, delusional thoughts and psychotic episodes and has been medicated and in and out of mental hospitals for most of his life.

Like Capturing the Friedmans and Tarnation, this documentary benefits immensely from the subject's past self-documentation. Johnston recorded untold hours of his lo-fi musical stylings, stream-of-consciousness thoughts and tense family conversations onto a plethora of cassette tapes. And like In the Realms of the Unreal, a documentary about the fascinating hermit artist Henry Darger, The Devil and Daniel Johnston gives a remarkable look into the mind and artwork of a would-be genius/man-child held back and yet somehow fueled by his mental illness. It's disturbing to watch how his condition tears his personal relationships apart, but touching to see how many people rally around him and celebrate his tentative body of work almost obsessively. Kudos to director Jeff Feuerzeig for this obvious labor of love.

Also worth checking out is the tribute cover album "The Late Great Daniel Johnston: Discovered Covered," featuring Sparklehorse and The Flaming Lips doing an amazing version of "Go" and Guster covering "The Sun Shines Down on Me."

***

In other news:

The past Sundance buzz building romcom road trip film The Puffy Chair should be retitled "Two Potheads and Bitch." Seriously, dude, I couldn't make it past the 15 minute point. I have to say the dialogue was real to life. Excruciatingly so. I could not bear to spend more than that short span of time with such obnxious people.

OMG, is the new The Shins album, "Wincing the Night Away," as beautifully fragile and sweet as a snowflake dipped in sugar or is it just me?

Fabled beauty

Pan's Labyrinth is a simply beautiful fable. From the perfect casting and costuming to the ravishing visuals, delicious art direction and tasteful special effects, this is a film that's not to be missed. Writer/director Guillermo del Toro is a magnificent storyteller, wedding magical realism with a powerful message that can be extrapolated to fit the world's political stage in a very poignant way.

As a fable, it distills things to their archetypal essence. In one expression, one sentence, we know who each character is--a tribute to the actors (Ivana Baquero, Sergi Lopez, Ariadna Gil and Maribel Verdu are standouts) and to the director.

The tagline of the film is, "Innocence has a power evil cannot imagine." What a lovely, inspiring, empowering thought. Oh, let that be true! This film will leave you believing that it is.

Justice for all

As I sit here typing on one of the most disgustingly dingy keyboards I've ever put my fingertips upon, I have to think there's something pretty amazing about the American justice system.

It is in a jury assembly room in downtown L.A. where I type and wait, wondering if my name will be called to report to a courtroom. My emotions are mixed. In the negative column: having to haul ass across town at what felt to me like dawn; spending the day in a fluorescently lit room that resembles an airport terminal without any promise of travel; trying to juggle work requests via e-mail on rented courthouse Internet time.

On the plus side: getting a little fahklempt when overhearing a fellow juror talking about how the film "12 Angry Men" inspired her to embrace being called in for duty; catching up over a delightful lunch with an old friend under the architectural stylings of Frank Gehry; giving my weekly routine a good old-fashioned goose in the keyster.

Despite the clunkiness of the jury sorting system and the drabness of its environs, it is reassuring to know--as the jury room orientation video pointed out to me--that each citizen has the opportunity to have his or her case heard by 12 other people who--by the looks of the folks in this room--represent a broad cross-section of countrymen.

At a time when our nation's horrifying foreign policies make maintaining one's American pride seem like a wobbly proposition, it is good to be reminded that some of the unalienable rights our founding fathers established are still being preserved. Within spitting distance of a Starbucks, no less.

Selflessness and Swank

When I first read about Wesley Autrey, the subway rescue hero who risked his life under a roaring train to save a student who was mid-seizure, I wanted to write a post praising him, but didn't know quite what to say besides, "Wow, check this dude out." Luckily, my friend C-girl sent me a You Tube clip of Wesley's appearance on Letterman. After watching his funny, charming, ever so genuine self tell his story to Dave, all I can say is, "Wow, check this dude out." You'll be glad you did. Here's the remarkable clip.

In other caring citizen news, MD'A posted a hilarious mini-review of the new Hilary Swank dedicated-teacher-against-the-odds vehicle called Freedom Writers. Don't miss it! I mean the funny post, not the movie.

Bird scratch fever

"Do you like birds?"

The question seemed innocent enough. I looked up from the pet store bird cage I'd been peering into, wondering who was talking to me.

It was a boy of about 14 years of age, leaning against a door that lead into a glassed-in bird room. He was tall for his age and very stocky. I quickly sized him up as the kind of kid who must endure regular playground beatings. Stretched-out t-shirt, saggy shorts, easily triggered flinch response.

"Yeah," I answered, not sure if that response was really true, but what the hell. I was just killing time in the bird aisle while my friend bought her bunny a bag of kibbles and bits.

"OK, well," he continued, "I want you to help me with an experiment. Will you?"

"Um, what is the experiment?" I queried, walking towards him.

"I want to see if I can get this bird to kiss you. Is that OK with you?"

I gazed into his puffy, moon-shaped face and noticed a series of pale pink scratch marks scattered about his cheeks and forehead. I had to wonder, was this evidence of past failed bird kiss experiments?

Despite my hesitation to participate, I did follow him into the glass room to look at the bird in question.

"C'mon," the boy said. "It's easy."

"No, thanks. But I'll watch you try it on yourself."

He declined to be the subject of his own experiment. Funny, that.

"It's OK. I volunteer at the zoo. I know what I'm doing," he reassured me.

"Do you want to make a living at it when you grow up?"

"I already make a living at it," he bragged, shrugging his shoulders for emphasis, then confessed: "Actually, I only volunteer. I'm too young to get paid."

"That's cool," I drawled, watching him bob nervously from foot to foot like an overmatched welterweight.

"Have you ever seen the bird show at the city zoo?" the boy asked. "You know how they get that bird to fly in circles at the end of the show? Well, I'm not supposed to tell you this, but we trim his wings a certain way so he can only fly in circles."

He looked down quickly at the linoleum floor, as if embarassed by his torrid admission, and then slipped out the glass door. Bird boy had flown the coop.