Blunderbuss

Jack White’s better than this, and he knows it. Having spent the last decade as the leader of The White Stripes, White established himself as one of the premier guitarists of his generation. Following The White Stripes’ breakup last year, he moved on to start his own record company (Third Man Records) and produce an almost comically diverse collection of artists. From Stephen Colbert to Insane Clown Posse, White made clear he has no boundaries. In between production gigs, he found time to mess around in the studio himself, eventually deciding to record his first solo effort. Many wondered how he would fare without Meg (his former wife and White Stripes drummer), despite the fact that he wrote all of The White Stripes’ songs himself. His previous side projects (The Racontuers and The Dead Weather) indicated he would be able to make do regardless of who he worked with, but neither band ever approached the White Stripes’ pure blues-rock bliss. Perhaps Meg forced him to simplify his approach, but he never seemed to fare better with more talented musicians. The same holds true for Blunderbuss, a surprisingly mediocre record for such a bold, enigmatic artist.

While White’s bluesy style is still present, Blunderbuss bears the imprint of the Nashville country scene (home of Third Man Records) more than anything he has recorded, and suffers as a result. White is most comfortable and successful when working within the blues/garage rock paradigm, where he can show off his prodigious guitar skills. Even the White Stripes’ least guitar-centric record (the underrated Get Behind Me Satan) felt exciting and vital due to White’s restless energy. Blunderbuss, on the other hand, is a rather pedestrian effort. Most of the songs are simply good, no more, no less. And while that would be acceptable for most artists, I’ve come to expect better things from Jack White. This is the man who gave us “Seven Nation Army” and “Fell in Love with a Girl,” mere adequacy is no longer acceptable.

The underlying problem with White as a solo artist is that he simply has too many options. Consequently, he tries a little bit of everything, creating a watery mixture of mediocrity. When it comes to arranging a broad array of instruments, White is competent, but he’s no Sufjan Stevens. Rather, he’s at his best when he’s front and center, able to show off his considerable talents. Many have criticized White throughout his career for being a control freak, but the truth is he’s more talented than just about any potential collaborator. And who could argue with the results? From their self-titled debut to Icky Thump (their final record), The White Stripes were one of the most exhilarating bands around. Taking the spotlight off of himself is only a waste of his abilities. For such an idiosyncratic, driven musician, I’m surprised he was excited enough about the material on Blunderbuss to release it.

Jack White will more than likely make music for the rest of his life. Inevitably, there will be missteps, even for someone as talented as him. Bob Dylan himself has a fair amount of duds in his discography, an unfortunate reality of the law of averages. But rest assured, Jack White will be back, hopefully with better material.

Mr. M

Self-described as, “Nashville’s most [messed] up country band,” Lambchop has spent the better part of two decades artfully combining elements of country, chamber pop, and even lounge music. While they experienced something of a breakout with 2000’s Nixon, the band has nonetheless stayed under the radar throughout its career, even among the indie crowd. Admittedly, I hadn’t heard of them myself until this year, when I came across the standout track (“Gone Tomorrow”) on their excellent eleventh album, Mr. M. There have been few truly memorable records this year, with Mr. M being a rare exception.

Great art often arises from adversity, as is the case with Mr. M. Dedicated to the memory of late songwriter Vic Chestnutt (who was a good friend of Lambchop lead singer Kurt Wagner), the specter of death looms over the album like a shadow from which Wagner struggles to escape. Wagner’s vocals have always been understated, but age and emotional turmoil lend them a weariness and resignation that gives the record a greater emotional heft. Wagner often sounds exhausted, as if the loss of Chestnutt has left him pondering the futility of his own existence. This vocal approach suits him well, as he has a severely limited range that hamstrung him at times on Lambchop’s earlier releases. Now, his tired whisper of a voice allows the finely-crafted instrumentation to take center stage, while giving his somber lyrics their full emotional impact.

Lambchop has always managed to skillfully incorporate pianos and strings into their songs, but the arrangements on Mr. M are particularly elegant, perfectly complementing the unmistakable air of sadness. The songs themselves amble along at a leisurely pace, in no hurry to get anywhere, yet never wasting time. While this approach would prove dull in the hands of a lesser band, Lambchop have the chops (pun absolutely intended) to pull it off. Each moment is carefully considered and completely necessary, even on the instrumental tracks, which still manage to be essential components of the album rather than mere interludes.

Most bands that last eleven albums eventually run out of ideas and resort to spinning their wheels. Lambchop is not that type of band. Instead, they have spent the years subtly tweaking and refining their sound as they have matured. Mr. M still sounds like a Lamchop album, but it packs more of an emotional punch than much of their previous work, ensuring that it will stay relevant for years to come.

In an age of instant gratification, when we expect everything and anything to be available immediately, it’s nice to have something that reveals itself slowly, forcing you to listen in and pay attention. This lack of accessibility may scare some away, but those who spend time with it will reap the benefits.

2012 Grammy Recap

Another year, another wasted opportunity. The Grammys have deservedly faced criticism for eschewing artistic merit in favor of commercial appeal, and this year was no exception. With the best-selling album of 2011, Adele swept the major categories (Album, Record, and Song of the Year) to the surprise of no one. While she is a more worthy recipient of these awards than some recent winners, Kanye West seemed the obvious choice for his 2010 instant-classic, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, which inexplicably was shut out of the Album and Record of the Year categories (it received a Song of the Year nom for “All of the Lights”) despite massive critical and commercial success. Maybe the voters at the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences have become sick of Kanye’s brash personality (though it didn’t seem to bother them on his first three albums), or maybe they’re simply idiots, but for whatever reason, Kanye was snubbed.

The absence of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy left the Album of the Year category embarrassingly thin. In addition to Adele’s 21, Foo Fighters’ Wasting Light, Lady Gaga’s Born This Way, Bruno Mars’ Doo-Wops & Hooligans, and Rihanna’s Loud received nominations. I’m sorry, but for a ceremony claiming to reward artistic excellence, one simply cannot make the argument that it is doing so. Looking at the  2010 and 2011 Pazz and Jop Critics’ Polls (the most definitive barometer of critical opinion), only one of the five albums (21) placed in the top 25 in either year. Arcade Fire’s massive upset last year had me hoping that the Grammys were beginning to change, but alas, it seems that it was more an anomaly than a burgeoning trend.

On the positive side, Bon Iver won for Best Alternative Album and Best New Artist, providing a fitting cap to an incredibly successful year. They also managed to score Record and Song of the Year nominations for “Holocene”. And while Kanye didn’t receive much recognition in the major categories, he still ended up with an impressive four wins.

On the negative side, Grammy voters, desperate to prove they were in touch with current musical trends, awarded Best Dance Recording and Best Dance/Electronica Album to Skrillex over the far more deserving Cut Copy and Robyn. In addition, the consistently mediocre Foo Fighters dominated the rock categories, prevailing over Radiohead, The Decemberists, and Wilco. Personally, I’ve never had any major problems with Foo Fighters, but they’re in no way superior to the three aforementioned bands.

Unlike cinema, music does not have a credible large-scale event where its best artists are celebrated. If they could get their act together, the Grammys could be that event, which is why I become incredibly frustrated every year when countless deserving artists are ignored in favor of more popular alternatives. While I’ll continue to hope that Grammy voters will come to their senses, I’m not holding my breath.

The Smile Sessions

While not a commercial or critical success at the time of its release, The Beach Boys’ landmark 1966 album Pet Sounds has gained a rabid following in the years since. Lead songwriter Brian Wilson’s use of orchestral arrangements and innovative song structures had not been seen in American pop music before, and its impact cannot be overstated, as its influence can be heard in everyone from The Beatles to Animal Collective. Wilson’s planned follow-up to Pet Sounds, Smile, sought to take the innovation even further. Designed as a concept album consisting of a musical journey across America, Smile would have been arguably the most ambitious pop album of its time. The project ultimately proved too much for Wilson, as pressure from both his label and band, combined with deteriorating mental health, forced him to move on to the less sprawling, poorly received Smiley Smile. Over the years, recordings from the Smile sessions were bootlegged, and Smile gained a reputation as the greatest album never released. Not until 2004 would Wilson complete the record, albeit with a new band, and release it to critical acclaim. Rumors that the original sessions would be released circulated for the next seven years, until Capitol Records announced their official release earlier this year. After missing three planned release dates, The Smile Sessions finally saw the light of day on November 1.

Having already listened to (and loved) the Smile bootlegs, I knew what to expect from the official release. Even then, I could not help but be astounded by its sheer genius. It is difficult to put into words how jaw-droppingly brilliant this album is, so much so that I have no hesitations placing it among the greatest pieces of recorded music ever released. After multiple listens, I still feel the same sense of awe I experienced the first time through, as I continue to marvel at its effortless fusion of ambition and accessibility. Wilson has an uncanny ability to choose instruments which evoke the exact emotion conveyed by a song, whether it be an organ, cello, ukulele or any of the seemingly infinite variety of instruments used on the album. The instrumental arrangements are equally impressive, as seemingly diverse and incompatible parts always manage to come together to form a perfect whole. The Beach Boys have always been known for their remarkable vocal harmonies, but the vocal arrangements on Smile are impeccable. While the arrangements on Pet Sounds were considered innovative and experimental at the time, they pale in comparison to those found here. What could have been chaotic and aimless in the hands of a less talented musician is crystal clear with Wilson at the helm. The song structure is even more ambitious than that found on Pet Sounds, featuring frequent abrupt and unexpected turns that manage to never feel jarring or sloppy. This sense of unpredictability gives the album a chaotic energy that is maintained throughout its duration.

The pure joy conveyed by 60s pop has become lost in the soulless synth and bass-heavy pop that dominates the airwaves today, and The Smile Sessions give us a rare opportunity to revisit pop’s golden age. After years of being built up to mythic proportions, Smile had unreasonable expectations to fulfill. Amazingly, it manages to surpass the hopes of even the most optimistic Beach Boys fans. The only thing about Smile that bothers me is the fact that it took 44 years to get the release it deserved. Run, don’t walk, to your nearest music retailer to pick up this long-awaited masterpiece; it will certainly be worth your time.

The Whole Love

Over the past decade, Wilco has become a model of dependability and consistency. After beginning the 21st-century with a five-year, three-album run (Summerteeth, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, and A Ghost Is Born) that could compete with any from the past quarter century, Wilco managed to propel themselves into the upper echelon of the music world. While it is apparent that they are now past their prime, they have managed to stay relevant by subtly shifting their sound while maintaining their identity. From the mutli-layered, guitar-driven experimentation of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot to the stripped-down Americana of Sky Blue Sky, Wilco has explored a wide variety of sounds without ever overreaching. By now, one generally knows what to expect from a Wilco album, and their latest effort, The Whole Love, is no exception.

At this point in their career, Wilco do not have much new to say, and they instead focus on playing within and refining an established sound. As has been the case with the rest of their post-Summerteeth output, The Whole Love boasts very clean and professional production that gives all of the band members a chance to shine. Their sound has an excellent depth to it, as nearly every instrument can be heard in each song. This has long been a staple of their work, allowing their albums to improve on repeat listens. Unfortunately, the stellar production here is not always fully utilized, as some of the songs are shallow and one-dimensional. The album bookends nicely with two standout tracks at the beginning (“Art of Almost” and “I Might”) and end (“Whole Love” and “One Sunday Morning”). The middle tracks, while pleasant, are not particularly revelatory. Yet frontman Jeff Tweedy’s songwriting experience assures that few of them ever lose focus, compensating for their lack of originality. The sequencing follows a fairly conventional structure, alternating between upbeat to deliberate. This makes the album feel more like a collection of songs than a cohesive whole, though the songs are, for the most part, strong enough to prevent this from becoming a major problem. Ideally, I would have liked if they had kept with the somewhat experimental disposition of the first track, “Art of Almost”. Wilco has always shown a surprising ability to maintain momentum in longer songs, which often become the highlights of their respective albums (“Impossible Germany” and “Bull Black Nova” being prominent examples). Yet the strongest cut here is the irresistibly catch “I Might”. Four minutes of straightforward, indie-pop bliss, it is the type of song Wilco have mastered over the course of their career. Tweedy’s vocals and lyrics, while still competent, are not as strong as they were in their heyday. The haunting imagery and emotional vulnerability found in “Via Chicago” and “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart” is instead replaced with half-baked abstractions.

While it is apparent that they are no longer at the top of their game, Wilco can still hold their own in the indie rock world. The Whole Love may not be the place to start for those unfamiliar with Wilco, but it is a worthy addition to their impressive discography nonetheless.

Relax

Alternative hip-hop duo Das Racist burst onto the scene three years ago with their novelty single, “Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell”. Despite becoming something of an underground hit, no one knew what to make of the song. Was it a satire of commercialism and product placement, an indictment of hip-hop, a joke, a combination of all three? The release of two critically-acclaimed mixtapes (Shut Up, Dude and Sit Down, Man) shed some light on the group’s intentions, proving that Victor Vazquez (aka Kool A.D.) and Himanshu Suri (aka Heems) possessed legitimate talent, as their deceptively intricate lyrics and conversational rapping styles were unique for a genre obsessed with extravagance. Praise from music blogs led to a meteoric rise in popularity, landing them slots at prominent music festivals such as SXSW, Pitchfork, and Primavera Sound. This, along with endlessly amusing interviews (when asked by the New Yorker if they saw their work as a critique of white America, Heems deadpanned, “I think it is solely a critique of John Boehner. As our bandmate Ashok Kondabolu would say, John Boehner represents the utmost in white demonry.”) and music videos, built anticipation for their first proper album, Relax.

Aside from a handful of missteps, Relax is an impressive debut and worthwhile addition to their brief catalog, though admittedly a step down from Sit Down, Man. On the positive side, the production is sharper and more focused than on either of their mixtapes, where meandering, sometimes unpleasant beats undercut their witty verses. This is especially evident on standout track, “Power”, which marks the first time Victor and Heems have been overshadowed by a beat. Even the lesser tracks are aurally pleasing, providing a distraction from their surprisingly uninspired lyrics.

These improvements are complemented by labyrinthine wordplay, which is brimming with the pop-culture references and surrealist touches that made the verses on Shut Up, Dude and Sit Down, Man so memorable. Whether they’re blending references to Indian poetry and Chris Farley, or slyly recalling lines from their previous tracks, Das Racist’s dense lyrics are some of the most ingenious in hip-hop today. Their cultural literacy is astounding, and provides a compelling contrast to their slacker image.  As rappers, Victor and Heems are more polished, while still retaining their playful vibe and droll sense of humor.

At fifty-one minutes, Relax is a couple of tracks too long, and it would have benefitted from the removal of a few of the weaker cuts (“The Trick”, “Girl”, and “Celebration” being the most egregious offenders). Even on the stronger tracks, the sharp verses are sometimes undercut by unmemorable and monotonous choruses. Stylistically, Das Racist make an effort to widen their range at times, though it only confirms their one-dimensionality. Their attempt at R&B (“Girl”), while surprisingly inoffensive, has nothing worthwhile to offer. I appreciate their efforts to branch out, but Victor and Heems are so proficient as rappers that they would be best served sticking to their strengths.

In what has been a disappointing year for major label hip-hop, independent alternatives such as Shabazz Palaces and Das Racist have stepped up to fill the void. Das Racist may not be for all tastes, but those looking for a change of pace from the stagnancy of mainstream hip-hop will find plenty to like.

Watch the Throne

The rise of file-sharing and iTunes has debilitated the relevance of the album format, relegating it to audiophiles and die-hard fans. Consequently, the “event” album, one that provokes breathless anticipation for the entire product, rather than merely a single or two, has become an increasingly rare occurrence. Thus, when two of the biggest names in music announced they would be recording an album together, it immediately took its place among my most anticipated albums of the year. Fresh off of his most recent effort and one of my favorite albums of last year, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, Kanye West is at the top of his game, and the prospect of another full-length release, this time with mentor and hip-hop titan Jay-Z, was incredibly tantalizing, to say the least. Throw in rising R&B star Frank Ocean and production from Q-Tip, Swizz Beatz, The RZA, and West himself, and I was chomping at the bit for what would surely be an instant classic. The first song released from the recording sessions, “H.A.M.”, was met with a lukewarm response, tempering expectations for the full release. After presumably gauging and reacting to the song’s tepid response, West and Jay announced that it would not make the final album, instead being released as a bonus track on the deluxe edition. Six months later, the first track from the album, “Otis”, was met with much greater acclaim, reviving hopes that Watch the Throne would be one of the year’s best hip-hop releases.

And while it doesn’t measure up with West or Jay’s best, Watch the Throne is still a very enjoyable listen. As is the case with most of Yeezy and Hova’s work, the production is without doubt the highlight of the album. As brash and bold as West and Jay themselves, the beats force the listener to take notice, and seeing that they’re crafted by some of the most accomplished producers in hip-hop today, the results are mesmerizing rather than irritating. The brazenness of the production is appropriate considering the self-congratulatory nature of Yeezy and Hova’s lyrics, though it’s very much in line with what both have accomplished with their previous work. It would have been nice to see them venture out of their respective comfort zones, as West did to great effect with Jon Brion on his sophomore effort, Late Registration. Abstract hip-hop virtuoso Madlib, whom West had previously indicated would be involved with the album, would have fit this role perfectly. Regardless, it’s difficult to take issue with the bevy of  talent on display.

While West and Jay exude confidence at every turn, neither sound as hungry as they have on their best releases, giving the album an air of complacency. Yet Yeezy and Hova possess such immense talent that their lesser efforts are considerably more interesting than most rappers’ best. Their lyrics here are often clever, though they sometimes fall prey to self-pity. I’ll give them a pass on bragging about their luxurious lifestyles, but when they bemoan the difficulties they face as a result of their opulence, I’m not buying it. From a purely aesthetic standpoint, West’s flow sounds sharp as ever, though the same cannot be said for Jay, who is clearly in decline.

The album contains some standout tracks (“Lift Off” and “Otis” the best among them), and while there aren’t any real duds, there aren’t any true show-stoppers either. No one is pushing any boundaries here, and while that makes the record accessible, it inhibits it from fulfilling it’s potential. The same is true for Frank Ocean, Beyonce, and Ben Hudson. All three are talented and turn in respectable performances, but none of them are able to fully utilize their talents. Watch the Throne is worth a listen or two for fans of West and Jay, but those looking for the type of transcendent masterpiece that both are capable of producing will be left wanting more.

Helplessness Blues

After Fleet Foxes’ magnificent self-titled debut album, it was difficult to imagine how they could get much better. With enormous expectations to fulfill, anything less than a stellar follow-up would be considered a disappointment. Lead singer Robin Pecknold, aware of these expectations, labored intensively over the new album, at times coming close to scrapping it altogether. Thankfully, he did not, and what ensued not only matches, but surpasses their much-revered debut.

Helplessness Blues essentially follows the same formula as Fleet Foxes: delicately arranged instrumentals complemented by soaring vocal harmonies, held together by Pecknold’s commanding voice. What results is a more mature and refined effort by a band firing on all cylinders. Not a shred of uncertainty can be found at any point throughout the album, with Pecknold in particular teeming with confidence. He is clearly the most talented member of the group, and takes control of the album with assurance, displaying his prodigious musicianship at every turn. He reminds one of Brian Wilson, with his perfectionist tendencies (“I really had trouble letting go of the record,” he admitted in an interview in Spin Magazine) and his remarkable ability to create exquisite combinations of vocal melody and instrumental composition. Pecknold’s lyrics also show improvement, fearlessly contemplating the problems that arose due to his obsession with the album and confronting the consuming nature of art with surprising maturity. Where his lyrics could previously feel vague and impersonal, they now have greater sense of immediacy and intimacy.

Like Fleet Foxes, Helplessness Blues is a testament to the album format, with the songs becoming richer and more rewarding when experienced as a whole. And there is not a bad song on the album, as Fleet Foxes’ ability to create an expansive sound with a fairly limited amount of instruments is on full display. This is especially apparent on some of the longer tracks, the eight-minute “The Shrine/An Argument” in particular, which reveals an ability to craft songs with broader scopes and hints at grander ambitions that will hopefully be fulfilled in the future. Strong influences from the likes of Simon and Garfunkel, Neil Young, and The Beach Boys are readily apparent throughout, giving the album the feel of an instant classic.

With Helplessness Blues, Fleet Foxes have themselves one of the best releases of the year thus far, managing to live up to the hype while establishing themselves as one of indie rock’s elite bands. With such a promising start to their young career, it is exciting to think of what the future holds for them.

The King of Limbs

There is simply no one in the music business like Radiohead. Their latest effort, The King of Limbs, was announced a mere five days before its release, and yet still managed to induce a level of excitement and fervor most bands cannot generate with far more elaborate marketing campaigns. Creatively, at a point where most bands would begin to coast off of their previous successes, Radiohead continue to push and reinvent themselves, with consistently stunning results. Since 1995, they have left the rest of the music industry behind, releasing seven excellent albums, four of which (OK Computer, Kid A, Amnesiac, and In Rainbows) rank among the best of the past 25 years, and each of which sounds distinctly different from any of the others. Not since R.E.M’s run in the 80s and 90s has anyone come even close to matching Radiohead’s combination of quality and quantity. The debate is no longer whether Radiohead is the best band of our generation, but whether they are the best of all-time, as they pour every ounce of creativity and ambition into each one of their albums, a feat to which few other bands can attest. Their ability to make each instrument (lead singer Thom Yorke’s voice included) work in perfect harmony is awe-inspiring, and has created some of the most sublime musical moments in recent memory. Their magnum opus, 2000’s Kid A, was and still is ahead of its time, a heartbreaking, penetrating deconstruction of a band struggling with the demands and pressures of stardom. Defined by a sparse, electronic sound, it is both distant and intimate, while unrelentingly and unapologetically ambitious . Rarely have such visceral feelings evoked by such subdued sounds. A generation-defining masterpiece, Kid A represents the full realization of Radiohead’s potential, reaching heights few other musicians could even dream of.

While not as transcendent as Kid A, The King of Limbs is still full of excellent craftsmanship, managing to carve out its own niche in Radiohead’s discography while maintaining their impossibly high artistic standards. Where their previous album, In Rainbows, was characterized by a warm, intimate sound, King of Limbs is more precise and calculated. It is readily apparent that each note is meticulously composed, yet the chemistry between the band members is so strong that it never feels soulless. Rather, each instrument plays a clearly defined purpose, never unnecessarily upstaging the others. Possibly the most restrained of Radiohead’s albums, King of Limbs drifts along for a brief 37-minutes, not building to a climax of any sort, but rather taking the time to appreciate the subtlety of the quieter moments. Such an approach requires tremendous confidence, and Yorke and company are brimming with it, displaying a patience that rewards multiple listens. The dense textures may seem a bit muddled at first, but with each repeated listen, the intricacies slowly begin to reveal themselves.

Despite being a great overall record, King of Limbs does have flaws. It lacks a strong central theme, and as a result, does not feel quite as significant as Radiohead’s previous work; the album’s length lends to this as well. The confidence exuded by the band is a double-edged sword. Much of what made Kid A and Amnesiac, and even OK Computer to a lesser extent, great was the sense of turmoil and uncertainty that gave the music emotional weight. While the album’s tremendous compositions indicate that the recording process was arduous, one can sense that it took place in a far more relaxed atmosphere. This makes the album very proficient technically, but not as emotionally devastating as their best work.

Yet these problems are relatively minor, as The King of Limbs is still a great album, and certainly lives up to the incredibly high expectations of Radiohead and their fans. It won’t convert any naysayers, but those who eagerly anticipated its release will not be disappointed.

A Prophet

Initially, I was skeptical, as Jacques Audiard’s latest film, A Prophet, was being compared to some of the greatest films ever made, including The Godfather and Goodfellas. Surely, I thought, this was merely a case of over-zealous critics being reactionary, as these hyperbolic claims seemed excessive. Yet after seeing the film myself, I not only understand, but agree with the vehement praise. A Prophet is a sure-fire classic, and is certainly worthy of the lofty accolades it has received.

The film begins with a young Arab man, Malik El Djebena, beginning his sentence in a French prison. He soon begins to work for Cesar Luciani, the leader of the most powerful faction in the prison, the Coriscans. As Malik assimilates himself into the prison community, he must decide where his loyalties lie as the balance of power begins to shift.

At the center of the film is the exquisitely crafted transformation of Malik from a timid outsider to an essential player in the prison’s hierarchy. This is not simply a “good guy” to “bad guy” shift though, as Audiard refuses to give in to prison and crime-film stereotypes.  Each character is fully realized and intricately designed to an extent where one cannot help but become invested in everyone’s outcome. Audiard also shows extraordinary patience, never rushing from one plot point to the next, but rather letting the story flow organically. This roots the film in a sense of realism that fully immerses the viewer into the story, yet does not draw attention to a false sense of “grittiness”. Prison isn’t romanticized or demonized, instead it is a living, thriving entity in itself. And while I wish Audiard had broadened the scope of the story slightly to more firmly establish some of the supporting characters, the narrowed focus assures that the development of the principal characters is unimpaired.

Arguably the most essential element in the success of Malik as a character is the career-defining performance by Tahar Rahim. It does not merely feel as if Rahim is playing Malik; he becomes him. He is so in touch with Malik and his emotions that he knows he does not have to over-play them, while he also has the confidence not to under-act. He trusts the audience’s intelligence in being able to read between the lines, and what results is a performance on par with Al Pacino’s in The Godfather, and in my opinion, better that Ray Liotta’s in Goodfellas. Credit must also be given to the superb script, which gives Malik enough depth that Rahim does not have to create the character through his performance, but can focus on interpreting him instead.

Audiard’s filmmaking is remarkably confident and polished, as he manages to find the perfect balance between a gritty, realistic style and a more refined, aesthetically-pleasing one. This allows the viewer to become fully engaged in the film without constantly being reminded of how “authentic”  it is. His pacing is impeccable, with scenes moving quickly enough to keep the film from dragging, but deliberate enough to focus on detail. Editor Juliette Welfling’s role in the success of the film’s pacing must also be acknowledged. Her work over the past decade (some of her more prominent credits include: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, The Beat My Heart Skipped, and The Science of Sleep) has been some of the best in the world of film, and she certainly has a bright future. Ultimately, A Prophet is an outstanding cinematic achievement, one absolutely deserving of emphatic praise.