Welcome to Mooseport
Director: Donald Petrie
Cast: Gene Hackman, Ray Romano, Fred Savage
Rating: PG-13
2 out of 5

The worst thing about Ray Romano is Ray Romano. While his comedy may be funny, he in and of himself is an eternal schmuck.

And schmucks should not be put in Hollywood’s leading roles.

“Welcome to Mooseport,” Romano’s first film since he voiced “Ice Age’s” Manfred the Mammoth, falls under the same realm of physically and emotionally painful comedy as “Meet The Parents.”

While “Meet The Parents” garnered laughs, it was because the humor was so over the top, the lead so unbelievably stupid and unlucky, the situations to improbable to warrant any actual concern. It was the kind of movie that hurt so much you either had to laugh or send Ben Stiller a sympathy card.

“Mooseport” runs in the same vein, the only problem is that it’s not really funny. Romano essentially plays himself — a big nosed, blundering oaf.

A basic breakdown: Handy Harrison (how clever, he’s a plumber) has been dating Sally Mannis (“ER’s” Maura Tierney) for six years and won’t commit. Sally’s getting tired of it — duh. In a twist of fate, the only president ever to be divorced while in office, Monroe Eagle Cole (Gene Hackman), moves to town to start his post-White House career.

Cole meets Handy in the presidential bathroom — if I haven’t said it already, he’s the plumber — and bumbling oafism takes off running. Called out to fix a septic tank, Handy misses a date with his girl, and Cole, who has just been asked to be the town’s mayor, takes the opportunity to make a move.

Enter jealously. Instead of simply taking the plunge, buying a ring and asking Sally to marry him, Handy decides to run for mayor as well, pitting himself against the most liked president in history.

Hackman releases his hold on his signature cinematic intensity, trading it in for predictable humor. Tommy Lee Jones’ upside down head bopping routine in “Men in Black” was more entertaining than all of Hackman’s “Mooseport” lines put together.

But Baranski is the show stealer. Her character is nothing new, nothing special. She’s the same bitter ex-wife she played on “Cybil.” She plays that character because she’s good at it. She channels smugness, brutal honesty and the ability to undercut with the best of them.

Nevertheless, “Mooseport” earns no more than a snicker or two at best. Maybe a ha-ha. It’s too dull for anything more. There is no wit. It’s all situational irony, which can be, and in this case is, overdone.

Talking Heads
Album: Once in a Lifetime Boxset
Label: Warner Brothers
3 out of 5

David Byrne stood for the 80’s. No, he and the Talking Heads (Tina Weymouth-bass, Chris Frantz-drums, Jerry Harrison-guitar, keyboards) weren’t sellouts that rode their one hit pony to the ragged end. It was David’s stage awkwardness, his spastic jolts around the stage that represented how many people felt about being transplanted into the plastic ‘80s.

The Talking Head’s band name originated from a broadcaster’s term for television shows that offer the viewer words, not action. Yes, Byrne’s convulsive antics were the epitome of movement, but their lyrics addressed every social issue with tongue epoxied to cheek.

In Heaven, reality sets in, the lucky immortals realizing that “nothing really ever happens,” while Cities and Once in a Lifetime discussed material isolation. Every song reeked of meticulous oiling, and the origins of some of the tunes seemed like graduate school dissertations. The title of their album, Fear of Music was coined after a form of epilepsy where the subject flies into fits (Mr. Byrne) when they hear music. Cue the fans that went into elated seizures whenever the Heads hit the stage.

The band was born in Manhattan (roughly around 1974) and raised in the punk chic of CBGB’s (their first gig in 1975 was opening for the Ramones). But they were unlike any band up and coming in New York. There were no kitschy backdrops to contribute to eccentricity, nor were there outrageous outfits to draw Deborah Harry’s envy. There were a couple of simple lights and shirts that bore Lacoste insignias.

Somehow, everyone was attracted to these miscreants among misfits. The Talking Heads were able to unite punk, arthouse, funk, rock, and telltale folky lyrics into one seamless package. While other bands tore off their ‘70s garb to jump into the cheese pool of the ‘80s, the Heads embraced the darkness and became even cooler. By the time they disbanded in 1988, the Talking Heads left behind a body of work that can only be described as one of the greatest galleries of art ever created.

Now comes the gratuitous boxset which, like its creators, is an oddity among other artistic compilations. The CDs are inside a book (with the discomfited dimensions of a 2X4) covered in natural art that some could find ... disturbing (one of the more benign depicts naked women dangling candy for a bear cub). But, once the art leaves the mind (or stays forever), the reader will find the insert stories (77 pages written by rock critics and the musicians themselves) fascinating.

Then comes the music — three discs complete with five previously unreleased tracks and alternate endings to favorites like “New Feeling.” The music hasn’t aged a bit and poignant songs like the politically drenched “Blind” still elicit a venomous bite.

And just to be decadent, the boxset contains a fourth disc, a DVD called “Storytelling Giant” (originally shown on VH-1 in 1988). The disc covers all the Talking Heads musical videos, which are a mesh of ‘80s goofiness and groundbreaking technological themes.

Go ahead, tap into that decade where tacky ruled with an iron fist. Don’t fret, The Talking Heads are enlightened guides through this murkiness, and they’ll make the listener realize that even in 2004 the times are “the same as it ever was.”


Los Straitjackets
Album: Supersonic Guitars in 3-D
Label: Yep Roc Records
4 out of 5

Twang, echo, reverb — three essential elements of surf rock. Think “Wipe Out,” think Dick Dale, think the Ventures, Duane Eddy, Fender Jazzmasters. The ‘60s coming to mind? How about California? Dreaming of tall waves and long boards, wood paneled station wagons and transistor radios?

Perhaps it’s time to update your imagination. Instead of listening to “Walk-Don’t Run” from a transistor radio on the beach in California, listen to “Time Bomb” on your iPod. Still in the dark? Nashville band Los Straitjackets’ latest release, Supersonic Guitars in 3-D, adds more rock to the malt of modern surf rock.

Supersonic Guitars in 3-D is Los Straitjackets’ seventh album and follows a collection of holiday tunes released in 2002. Coming off an LP of winter favorites might drive anyone insane, but it seems like Eddie Angel, Danny Amis, Jimmy Lester, and Peter Curry were able to direct the frustration of working with Christmas music in long summer studio sessions into fuel for the riff machine they put to work to turn out the songs on their decidedly rock-oriented surf-revival record.

Though no one sings, the guitars are more than capable of carrying the songs, none of which are much more than three minutes, critical mass for instrumentals. The one that is more than three minutes is concealed in the form of the elusive “hidden track” — that is, time between tracks, the seconds that tick backwards on the counter on your CD player. Tucked between “Can You Dig It?” and “San Diego Shutdown” are 34 seconds worth of guitar riff drowning in reverb and warbling for help from beneath the surface with tremolo. The dying sounds of a suffocating guitar can be some of the most beautiful the instrument is capable of making — well worth the extra time.

Other standout tracks are the noisy “Time Bomb,” the mellow pop of “Isn’t Love Grand?,” the spy-rock shimmy of “Midnight in Salerno” and the soporific “Dreamland.”

Despite all of the things that make this record lively, interesting, quirky and fun, it comes off as a little dull. Perhaps that’s why the good folks at Yep Roc’s contracted design squadron dappled the cover, disc, and liner notes with the red and blue hues, and packaged 3-D glasses along with the 13 songs. Visual aides always help the listening experience.

Too bad the case can’t help the record. Supersonic Guitars in 3-D is a fine album, but it feels stifled in places, like it’s missing something. Maybe the full effect of four men in Mexican wrestling masks playing fun-fast riffs on sparkly guitars would help. Sound tantalizing? Lucky for you Los Straitjackets are playing a show at the Orange Peel on Feb. 26. If not for an audience, then why else would anyone wear a Mexican wrestling mask?

Before you check out the show, you should go ahead and buy the CD. If you remember liking surf-rock when it was new, chances are you’ll be pleased with the modern iteration. If you think the business about wrestling masks and metallic-finished guitars is too good to pass up no matter the music, go on and see the show — the only thing better than supersonic guitars in 3-D are supersonic surf-rockers in 3-D.