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Movie Review
"Eyes Wide Shut"
With its pro-monogamy moralizing, Kubrick's supposedly steamy last film is ultimately anti-erotic -- nothing more than an art-house version of an army training film.
By Charles Taylor
[07/16/99]

Movie Review
"Lake Placid"
David E. Kelley's first major feature hits some bumps but serves up one hell of a croc.
By Andrew O'Hehir
[07/16/99]

Music Review
Sharps & flats
With a series of dark acoustic records, Throwing Muses singer Kristin Hersh transformed herself from a post-punk Ophelia into a macabre folk singer. On "Sky Motel," she plugs in again.
By Michelle Goldberg
[07/16/99]

Music Review
Sharps & flats
Pastoral pop group Belle and Sebastian finally re-release their out-of-print debut "Tigermilk," a copy of which once sold for $1,200. The excellent disc is worth the long wait, if not the inflated auction price.
By Douglas Wolk
[07/15/99]

Column
From "Tootsie" to "Eyes Wide Shut"
Sydney Pollack directed Dustin Hoffman romping around in a skirt. Now he's co-starring as the orgy master who guides Tom Cruise through the debaucherous center of Stanley Kubrick's final film.
By Michael Sragow
[07/15/99]

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But seeing Springsteen with the reunited E Street Band, on the opening night of his American tour, July 15 at the Continental Airlines Arena in the Meadowlands complex in New Jersey, I realized I'm not as tough as all that. I'd never been to Springsteen's home state before, but there I was, packed in tight with a sold-out audience, and he had his work cut out for him: he was going to have to unite all of us -- the frat boys, the guy down in front waving an American flag, and me -- into some kind of, at least temporary, meaningful whole.

Also Today A saint in the city Bruce Springsteen is more than a rock legend; he's a god.

The wonderful thing was that he did.

For anyone who's been listening to rock 'n' roll for more than, oh, 10 years, there may be no greater pleasure than to be reeled back in -- a wriggling trout on the hook, a prodigal son or daughter reborn in the revival tent -- by someone who seemed to have lost you. In the case of Springsteen and the E Street Band, it took just one number -- the opener, "My Love Will Not Let You Down," a 1982 song that recently came to light on the 4-CD set "Tracks" -- and I'm still not really sure how he managed it. Anyone who's seen Springsteen live knows that he clearly feels completely at home in front of an audience: there's never a trace of awkwardness, no first-date getting-to-know-you period, no shaky warm-up numbers. But with the E Street Band -- with whom he hasn't performed in a decade -- Springsteen seems even more at home than usual, both utterly relaxed and supercharged. There was no sense of straining to recapture lost magic: it simply appeared, as if at his bidding.

It's tempting to assume that an E-Street reunion would have to work. It's almost sacrilegious to suggest that you could put that many terrific (and simpatico) players on stage -- Nils Lofgren, Max Weinberg, Roy Bittan, Danny Federici, Garry Tallent, Steve Van Zandt, and the beloved-by-all Clarence Clemons, as well as Patti Scialfa (who doesn't count as an official E-Streeter but whose remarkable poise is like a grounding wire) -- with less-than-amazing results.

But the sad truth of rock 'n' roll is that when old guys get together to play again, the results are so often just ... sad. Reunion tours always carry a musty whiff of nostalgia about them, although that's not always solely the performers' fault: they may be huddled together onstage trying to re-create a corner of their lost youth, but the audience itself is sometimes complicit, hoping to hear the old songs the same way they sounded in the dorm room some 20 or 30 years ago. The whole enterprise can be a hopeless scrambling down dead-end rabbit warrens, with everyone ending up in a personalized but closed-off pocket, feeling dissatisfied and disconnected.

On the other hand, Springsteen and his band -- although they've known one another for years and have played these songs so many times -- are about as far from a nostalgia trip as you can get. I confess that there's something almost comforting about hearing Roy Bittan's supple, rippling keyboards on songs like "Backstreets" and "Hungry Heart" -- they're so exquisitely placed, and so perfectly executed, that they leave you with an overwhelming sense that all is as it should be in the world. Clarence Clemons (one of the few rock saxophonists I've ever been able to stand, save a small handful that includes King Curtis) spins out phrases that are beefy and well-rounded but gin-dry. Nils Lofgren, agile and elfin, teases beguiling melodies out of his guitar solos, and some of his high, sweet vocal harmonies could tear you apart.

None of those players, and certainly not Springsteen himself, was rummaging around in the same old bag of tricks. They made for a bit of a crowd even on the huge stage, but you never got the sense (even with Van Zandt and Lofgren, a double whammy that could seem like overkill) they were treading on one another's territory. It seemed only as if they were damn glad to be doing the only kind of work they love.

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