Carolina Sanchez THE CHRONICLE | Ahjoomah’s Apron brings Korean cuisine to Chinatown with a refined approach and bold flavors.

Chinatown’s charm arguably lies in its uncalculated and authentic nature. Dated neon signs brand its street-side shops and kitschy decorations and DIY advertisements engulf the sidewalk window displays. But in the midst of such dissonance, the neighborhood desperately needed a spark of simplicity to create balance. Ahjoomah’s Apron answers this need with its modern, slick concept and intelligently designed atmosphere and cuisine.

Refinement is its central inspiration, as bold, slate walls envelop the space with an array of silver metal light fixtures. While its Chinese neighbors arguably aim for cluttered coziness, Ahjoomah’s Apron asserts itself in the opposite light with industrial openness. Booth-style seating with backless benches keep the space unified and provoke a sense of community among diners. Enormous images of common Korean dishes—like Yukgaejang, a spicy, shredded beef soup—with English descriptions spread across the walls to make the experience inviting for diners. It’s clear that Ahjoomah’s Apron aims to amicably celebrate its Korean origin while educating guests. It’s considerately working to diminish any trepidation new customers may feel toward eating Korean food—a brilliant effort to attract first-time Korean food diners.

On the evening of my visit, the restaurant, which played punchy K-pop tracks, drew a younger crowd. The large number of seated guests suggested a promising future for Ahjoomah’s Apron but didn’t overwhelm its smaller space. While the atmosphere felt like a fresh reflection of modern culture, its Korean authenticity was thankfully still present. A focused elderly woman, who was perhaps the owner, ceaselessly surveyed the space like a mother hen watching her chicks—an example of the restaurant’s seemingly classic approach to Korean dining.

The menu was limited to eight sections—a strategic move for such a new restaurant. The small number of selections suggests the kitchen’s confidence in its strengths. Unlike neighboring Chinese restaurants that give guests what feels like a 30-page novel to leaf through before ordering, Ahjoomah’s Apron makes the process of selecting dinner much less of a chore.

Prior to delivering the order, the perky waitress presented a spectrum of on-the-house dishes to whet the appetite. In a minimalistic presentation with sleek, separate bowls, the table received a small taste of tofu, cucumber, kimchi, potato, carrot and black bean—a kind gesture and clever touch. Collectively, the flavors were strong and boldly showcased, the delicious, natural notes of each raw ingredient used. This fresh array gives guests a brief yet refined introduction to Korean culture.

The menu’s most American- sounding dish, Fried Vegetable Dumplings, keeps the tasty streak of success alive with a perfect balance of textures. Wrapped in a crispy shell, its blend of crunchy vegetables and moist tofu made for a keenly dynamic dish. Although this appetizer was arguably a safe selection, the tofu was so dangerously flavorful it led the vegetarians at the table into a panic, believing the dumplings contained real meat. The tofu—an often-bland substitute for meat—was impressively cooked to eliminate its flavorless nature.

The visual presentation for one of the chef’s specials, La Bokki—a spicy stir-fried dish—was surprisingly restrained in comparison to the typically chaotic Chinatown cuisine. In a beautifully modern white bowl, the tangy dish is a myriad of Korean rice cakes, fish cakes, ramyun noodles, boiled eggs and red and green peppers. The creamy, orange sauce was unexpectedly spicy, providing a precisely pungent backdrop to showcase its neighboring flavors. Likewise, the rich fish cakes were thin enough to not overpower the dish, as fish often does, but still had sufficient flavor. The La Bokki was successfully bold, focused and well balanced—a refreshing debut of Korean cuisine, perfectly priced under $10.

New restaurants often make the mistake of showcasing everything they’re seemingly capable of creating. Ahjoomah’s Apron, however, has intelligently narrowed its strengths to create an atmosphere and collection of dishes founded on fashionable simplicity. Korean cuisine has the power to provoke a buzz of intimidation for those who have not yet indulged in its food, but this Chinatown newcomer has successfully made the culture approachable—a strength worthy of applause.

Photo CAROLINA SANCHEZ | Tyler, The Creator presented a multitude of new songs from his upcoming album “Wolf” at his March 13 show at the Metro, 3730 N. Clark St. Produced between stints as Odd Future’s frontman, this album will be Tyler’s third studio release as a solo artist.

Though the rapper’s disclaimer statement may have proved true after countless obscenities throughout the night, it sums up the confidently careless charm that attracts his largely teenage-boy fanbase to his music.

The SoCal rapper—who operates a solo career between front-manning and producing the raucous alternative hip-hop collective Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All alongside hip-hop artists such as Earl Sweatshirt, Hodgy Beats, Domo Genesis and Frank Ocean—humorously writes menacing, politically incorrect lyrics about rape and homophobia that have pushed critics to label him as “music’s antichrist.”

The show began promptly at 8:30 p.m. as the DJ played repeated synthesized organ notes of the high-strung, haunting Frankenstein-like melody of “Sandwitches,” the lyrics of which have basically become the theme song for the artist’s career after he performed the track for his national TV debut on “Late Night With Jimmy Fallon” on Feb. 16, 2011: “Call me immature/ F–k you think I made Odd Future for?/ To wear f—–g suits and make good decisions?”

Tyler performed multiple unreleased tracks to promote the April 2 release of his third solo album, “Wolf,” which is heavily beat-driven, and there was no lack of his characteristically high shock-value lyrics. No image was too inappropriate—rape, violence, sexism and homophobia all included. The most tactless was the penultimate performance of the chant “Bitch Suck D—k,” the flashy, condescending “Goblin” track that couldn’t possibly be more misogynistic.

In 2011, local LGBTQ and anti-violence groups famously protested OFWGKTA at the Pitchfork Festival in Chicago claiming they were upset the rap group was allowed to perform lyrics that were so blatantly offensive. The group responded by bringing them boxes of cupcakes. During the middle of his show at the Metro, Tyler performed double-time lyrics of his new trumpeting, anthemic single “Doms23,” which recalled the incident: “So, a couple f—s threw a little hissfit/ Came to Pitchfork with a couple Jada Pinkett signs /And said I was a racist homophobic … You think I give a f–k?”

Despite wide national backlash against Tyler, The Creator, the Metro was packed wall-to-wall with energetic, sweat-drenched teens, wide-eyed at the sight of their idol. Bodies were tossed above the crowd as OFWGKTA crewmembers Jasper Dolphin and Taco Bennett backed the rapper at the turntables with Tyler’s signature lo-fi video-game-like electronica production during classic tracks such as “Burger” and the synth R&B of Odd Future “AssMilk.”

Enter the irony. Although intermittently referring to the crowd as obscenities such as “fa—-s” and “as—–s” and performing tracks such as mixtape cut “Orange Juice” with lyrics as offensive as early Compton gangsta-rap group N.W.A., Tyler, The Creator displayed a sense of humility that proved even he couldn’t take himself seriously.

For example, when an audience member shouted out a song request, Tyler, whose father left him as a child, asked, “You want to hear that song? Yeah, well I want to meet my father, we don’t all get what we want.”

After the crowd began to react, Tyler quickly took it back and began to laugh, “I’m just playing.”

With manicured, major-label rap artists constantly trying to shamelessly promote themselves, Tyler, The Creator is refreshingly uncalculated. His unique style of trippy, bass-driven techno hip-hop that launched his Internet-driven career enticed fans to listen to the ring leaders’ controversial words as he rapped each line sarcastically with a smirk, donning a personalized Chicago Blackhawks jersey in front of an ugly, vintage painting of a forest landscape, mirroring his new album cover.

However, listening to his lyrics about raping women or murdering people for shock value is simply too much to stomach. The production and uniqueness that the confident and creative hip-hop artist Tyler, The Creator exudes is easily overlooked because most people feel too physically ill to nod their heads along with such awful and hateful words, regardless of whether Tyler has a sarcastic sense of humor about it. With a fanbase that has a majority of young teens, showcasing that misogyny and homophobia is not only acceptable, but cool, proves to be nothing but a setback in society today.

At the close of the show, Tyler, The Creator had the night’s best moment during the performance of his popular single “Yonkers,” which repeats a hollow, dark, echoed bassline. The crowd screamed out every word along with the rapper as the backing music cut out, with Tyler spitting his rhymes in sync with the rambunctious crowd.

The song began as the crowd screamed along with the quintessential words of the court-jester: “I’m a f—–g walkin’ paradox.”

Many aspects of director Leos Carax’s “Holy Motors” are left unexplained, including the function of the mysterious Holy Motors company and the frenzied actions of its employee, M. Oscar. Photo Courtesy IMDB.

Met equally with cheers and boos, veteran French director Leos Carax’s film of audacious, polarizing proportions refuses critical consensus. With its grand assemblage of generic elements, “Holy Motors” frustrates as often as it astounds.

The film begins with an image of Carax in a dream state as he surveys a movie theater. The spectators are dead in their seats, and Carax stands above them as a large dog ambles up the aisle. The film’s narrative then abruptly begins—an ambiguous tale of identity, performance and human emotion in the modern world.

The film’s protagonist is M. Oscar (Denis Lavant), an employee of Holy Motors, a company whose specific function is unknown. He spends his days being chauffeured around Paris in a white limousine, donning new costumes and identities. His initial alter ego is a haggard old woman who begs for coins on the street. Time passes, and he returns to the limousine to change into a complicated motion-capture suit.

The film continues in this manner, moving through a dizzying array of identities and challenges. There’s a brief mention of hidden cameras surrounding these deranged performances, but little explanation is given. Carax holds the audience responsible for the film’s cohesion.

“Holy Motors” leaps from moment to moment at an astonishing pace. Scenes are haphazardly thrown together, giving the film a strange, frenzied quality. Oscar commits murders, sings, dances, plays the accordion and kidnaps a supermodel (Eva Mendes) in quick succession. The resulting effect is nearly indescribable—it must be experienced to be truly understood.

For all of its ambiguity, singular moments in the film often stumble upon profound emotional depth. One such moment occurs late in the film when Oscar assumes the identity of a dying elderly man. Another Holy Motors employee comforts him at his bedside, and the two share an honest exchange in a world of methodically manufactured action.

Just as often, though, Carax paints his picture too brashly. An early scene finds Oscar in his motion-capture suit performing stunts in a specially designed room. A woman in a similar suit enters, and the two begin to gratuitously mime various sexual acts. The scene, a testament to the way we experience sex in the digital age, is over-the-top in its attempt at provocation. Such moments occur throughout, and sometimes make the film seem desperate for attention.

“Holy Motors” is a difficult film often bordering on brilliance. Its rapid-fire amalgamation of references and ideas is impressive—it gives nods to everyone from Jean-Luc Godard to Pixar—but much of its execution is brusque and unnecessary. It’s an insane, beautiful, frustrating wonder of a film, which is exactly what Carax set out to achieve.

Helicopter sound effects, operatic scales and the strumming of a harp underlined A$AP Rocky’s cracked voice as he opened his Oct. 11 show in the dimmed Congress Theater, telling the audience, “Welcome to my world.”

Rocky appeared onstage 56 minutes after his scheduled set time. Donning a bright orange ski mask, he greeted the rowdy crowd apologetically.

“We started late due to some technical difficulties … but I’m here nonetheless, so get ready for a crazy show.”

Crazy may have been an understatement. By the end of the show, Rocky’s rap collective, A$AP Mob, was recklessly leaping around the venue while security chased audience members around as if they were working a poorly run day care.

A$AP Rocky, who hails from New York, refers to himself most often as “that Pretty Mother F—-r,” and raps that the “only thing bigger than my ego is my mirror,” in his single “Wassup.” But Rocky has justifiable success to back up such confidence. With a $3 million record deal with RCA Records and continual radio airplay after the success of his pioneering mixtape, “LongLiveA$AP,” he proves to be one of the most successful members of his collective. He performed at this summer’s Pitchfork Music Festival, appeared as a guest rapper during Rihanna’s performance of her hit single “Cockiness (Love it)” at MTV’s Video Music Awards and was nominated for six BET awards, including “Best New Artist.” His first studio album, “LiveLoveA$AP,” is set to drop Oct. 31.

Though transfixing productions make him one of today’s most prominent hip-hop innovators, his raps are mainly about women, weed or women with weed. That said, A$AP’s concept for the LongLiveA$AP tour may have been overreaching. The stage backdrop displayed the famous World War II photograph “Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima,” except the flag was both upside down and black and white.

“The flags represent the battle,” A$AP said in between songs, as if to justify a school art project. “A battle because we’re misunderstood … but we ain’t fighting this battle alone!”

Throughout their set, the A$AP Mob waved a physical representation of the black and white flag as they needlessly skipped around the stage. Rocky didn’t fully connect with the audience at times and became distracted when the A$AP Mob joined him onstage.

Alternative rappers Danny Brown and ScHoolboy Q were the rousing opening acts. Although the three artists vary greatly in hip-hop style, the mixture of different performance types showed that new-generation rap has a bright future.

Brown, a whimsical up-and-comer from Detroit, began his segment—which proved to be the night’s best set—as the crowd was filing in. He played tracks from his most popular album “XXX,” which was named 2011’s “Best Hip-Hop Album Of The Year” by SPIN magazine. The early evening’s energy was pumped up by the crowd pleasers “Blunt After Blunt” and “Bruiser Brigade.” However, the venue’s poor sound mixing completely undermined some of Brown’s signature techno production and gritty, futuristic additives.

Brown’s enthusiastic stage presence kept the audience fully engaged despite the lo-fi sound. His large tongue pushed through a toothless grin, hanging on his chin in between verses while his lanky arms flailed around raucously. Brown’s goofy face paired with his asymmetrical perm kept the audience cheering while he boasted about his looks in “The Black Brad Pitt.”

ScHoolboy Q followed Brown, and although his music is more introspective, he played upbeat crowd pleasers such as “Nightmare on Figg St.” and “There He Go.” Though equally as captivating as Brown, ScHoolboy Q kept obnoxiously interrupting the flow of his set by sitting down for intermittent chats with his disc jockey after each song to ask the audience what he should play next or how well he was performing.

Rocky’s performance was most enticing once his Mob left the stage. He performed a few tracks from his acclaimed “LiveLoveA$AP.” “Wassup,” “Purple Swag” and the best performance in his set, “Brand New Guy” with ScHoolboy Q, established his solo talent despite a set cut short by the venue’s 10 p.m. curfew.

As rowdy as they may be A$AP Mob ensured a peaceful show. Immediately after egging the crowd on with their famous track “Coke and White Bitches,” the lights went dim as A$AP asked the audience to pray. The Mob then gawkishly clarified they love “all types of bitches, no matter if you white, black or purple.” Bizarrely enough, the crowd appreciated the group’s attempt to mix equal parts hipster and hood fans.

“Looper” begins by explicitly stating its basic premise through voice-over. Joe, played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt—whose face has been digitally reconstructed to match Bruce Willis’ gruff mug—explains that, in the future, time travel is both possible and highly illegal. In the year 2044, Joe makes his living as a Looper, an assassin employed by a crime syndicate that exists even further in the future. The mob pays men like Joe to erase any trace of their victims who are sent from a later time. While out on assignment, Joe is shocked to find that his usually anonymous victim is a version of himself from the future, played by Bruce Willis. Willis, on a mission of his own, escapes his execution and sets the film in motion by avoiding Gordon-Levitt’s blunderbuss and running free in his past.

Narratively, “Looper” feels jumbled and confused. Excessive exposition outlines the finer points of the film’s conceptual framework, and things become overwhelming as a result. Too many plot points, concepts and characters are presented, and by the film’s end, none feel as though they were given adequate attention.

At one point during the film, Gordon-Levitt sits with Willis at a diner. In this first confrontation between present and future Joe, the two begin to talk about time travel when Willis angrily yells, “I don’t want to talk about that time travel s**t … It doesn’t matter.” It’s a shame the film doesn’t take Willis’ advice. The characters spend too much time explaining the intricacies of their futuristic world and not enough time experiencing it.

The film is well-crafted technically, and Johnson’s feel for genre is impressive. “Looper’s” style is reliant on a crafty intermingling of generic conventions meshing elements from film noir, gangster, western and science fiction films. Men from the future wear cowboy hats, and the influence of organized crime is pervasive. The cinematography is flashy and sleek, the performances adequately move the plot along and the editing is polished and economical. Gratuitous violence dominates the action sequences, which feature choreography reminiscent of Quentin Tarantino at his most decadent.

It’s no secret that Johnson is something of a cinematic stylist. His debut film, “Brick,” won critical acclaim because it favors inventive narrative over thematic exploration. Johnson takes things a step further in “Looper,” opting to dazzle visually with a self-indulgent aesthetic rather than explore the potentially rich allegorical material right in front of him.

Making a film for the sake of spectacle isn’t an inherent negative—his previous “Brick” was an enjoyable experience and last year’s “Drive” is not without brilliant moments. “Looper” begins to disappoint when Johnson attempts to inject forced intellectual and emotional gravitas. The film is too concerned with its own overly stylized narrative, and any attempt at emotional profundity feels forced. For all of its consciousness of genre and style, the film lacks a similar awareness of its shallowness.

Joseph Cotten in "The Third Man"

Ethereal cinematography and a decidedly bleak, pre-Cold War atmosphere renders an already grave story much more somber. In the film, pulp novelist Holly Martins (Joseph Cotten) travels to Vienna after his old friend, Harry Lime (Welles), offers him a job. When he arrives, he learns Lime has died in an automobile accident, but it doesn’t take long for Martins to realize that there’s more to the story than meets the eye.

The experience of watching “The Third Man” remains unique. Stylistically, Reed and cinematographer Robert Krasker use extravagantly expressionistic techniques, including tilted angles, starkly contrasted lighting and ominously photographed cityscapes. Vienna, as depicted in “The Third Man,” is a wasteland controlled by the black market, and Reed captures this corruption with his camera, filling nearly every frame with a sense of dread.

The script from Greene doesn’t hurt matters, either. Although framed by a pair of funerals and predicated on widespread death, the film remains something of a satire. Ultimately too austere to be comedy, Greene merges a myriad of conflicting tones, undercutting scenes of dread with a cynical joviality.

The film’s eccentricities are pushed even further when its music—rendered on a zither, a stringed instrument native to Austria and surrounding countries—comes into play. Dubbed the “Harry Lime” theme, it’s a cartoonish piece of music that feels entirely incongruous with the rest of the film, yet nevertheless contributes to its oddball mood.
Considering all this, at the center of the film is Welles, his influence felt in innumerable ways. Firstly, his performance remains one of the most iconic in all of film noir. But his presence represents something larger: Much of the film’s stylization seemed culled from Welles’ wheelhouse, leading some to wonder whether he had more to do with directing “The Third Man” than Reed did.

Like cinema’s own version of the Oxfordian Theory of Shakespeare’s authorship, some critics and historians have suggested that Welles directed a good portion—if not all—of “The Third Man.” Considering he’s only onscreen for approximately seven minutes (depending on which version you see), it’s not unfeasible.

However, director Peter Bogdanovich, among other people, has labeled this a misconception. Admittedly, “The Third Man” is clearly indebted to Welles’ style, and as Bogdanovich suggests, it is impossible to watch the film without finding winks and allusions to the likes of “The Lady from Shanghai,” “The Stranger” and even “Citizen Kane.”

But rather than some sort of bastardization of Wellesian technique, the film reads like a celebration of the man as an artist, and therefore adds to its brilliance. Without the influence of Welles, “The Third Man” would remain one hell of a noir. His added presence, however, cements it as one of the earliest examples of cinematic modernism, a supreme homage to one of the great minds of the medium who, as an artist himself, had arguably yet to reach his peak.

Courtesy IMDb

In the film, Clooney’s character, Matt King, faces a barrage of crises. His wife is in an irreversible coma after a tragic boating accident, leaving him no choice but to pull the plug. Meanwhile his teenage daughters are ambivalent toward him, at best. Looming over his domestic troubles is the fate of a 25,000-acre beach front valley, which he oversees with his extended family, who in turn are pressuring him to sell to a real estate agent (Matthew Lillard). Best yet, he soon learns that his wife and said real estate agent were engaged in an affair in the months leading up to her accident.

As the fifth film from Alexander Payne (“Sideways,” “About Schmidt”), “The Descendants” is a complicated and intricate story about one man’s hell of a mid-life crisis. But in spite of its complexity, there aren’t many surprises to be found. The story unfolds precisely as you think it will, and the film’s sleepy, languid pacing doesn’t do much to raise the stakes. But there’s something to admire about Payne’s unpretentious, inconspicuous style, which creates space for moments of genuine emotion.

Payne is often praised for his sense of place and the way his characters reflect or are extensions of their surroundings. “The Descendants” continues this trend in a fashion that’s somewhat disarming. Considering most films set in Hawaii tend to accentuate the lavishness of its landscape, Payne strives to depict our 50th state as just like any other, filled with flawed people who are facing the same problems as those on the mainland.

In other instances, he presents Hawaii as outright dreary: Gray clouds and wet streets are more prominent in “The Descendants” than sand or palm trees, effectively subverting audience expectations and any hope that this might be a sunny story.

Unfortunately, this point is exacerbated by irritating narration provided by Clooney, who vocalizes his brooding character’s inner thoughts so that the audience may ascertain the full brunt of his despair.

One of the oldest rules in cinema is “show, don’t tell.” Payne achieves this splendidly when he lets the camera do the talking. Whenever he opts for Clooney’s bleak inner-monologue—in which he spouts such surly phrases as “Paradise can go f–k itself”—the film veers toward becoming an outright affront to the
audience’s intelligence.

Clooney’s casting quickly becomes the film’s saving grace. Playing refreshingly against type, he’s almost unrecognizable as the shlubby, graying and self-doubting Matt. His character’s vulnerability—seen in his awkward interactions with his children and desperate, one-sided arguments with his comatose spouse—is where “The Descendants” finds its footing as a sympathetic human portrait.

Payne, in his previous films, has excelled in mixing pathos with dark comedy. He’s mostly successful here as well, resulting in a film that is a likeable enough addition to his growing filmography.

The film, called “Into the Abyss,” profiles the aftermath of a triple homicide committed by death row inmate Michael Perry and his accomplice, Jason Burkett. Perry and Burkett attempted to steal a car from the Conroe, Texas home of Sandra Stottler, who was shot and killed by either Burkett or Perry—both claim the other is responsible—in the process. Stottler’s adopted son and his friend also fell victim to Perry and Burkett that night.

The film begins with an interview with Perry, a mere eight days before he’s put to death. From there, the film unfolds like an anthropological investigation, with Herzog labeling the death penalty as the final senseless act in a long series.

“Into the Abyss” has erroneously been labeled an “anti-death penalty film.” Though Herzog explicitly states his opposition to capital punishment, the film is by no means pushing any sort of political or ideological belief. “Into the Abyss” arrives as yet another sterling addition to his documentary canon, but Herzog deviates from his most tried-and-true theme of the human infatuation and relationship with nature. Instead, the film is a quizzical examination of human fate and consequence.

Herzog doesn’t dwell on Perry’s looming execution or even the details of his sentencing—the fact that Burkett is serving life in prison for the crime while Perry was sentenced to death goes glaringly unmentioned—but rather on the circumstances that brought these people together. Most of the film’s most engaging moments happen outside of prison walls, in which Herzog queries friends and relatives of the murderers and their victims.

What arises are stories in which education is immaterial, a predilection toward criminality runs in the family and death and incarceration are ever-present parts of life.

The question at the center of “Into the Abyss” seems to be, “Where does it all end?” Herzog goes so far as to make it clear that, despite the definitiveness of the death penalty, it scarcely provides closure or justice to the victims’ families.

But the buck stops there. Unlike his previous films, in which he very rarely shies away from espousing his own perspective, Herzog remains surprisingly absent from the film. His presence is only felt during the film’s testimonials—one of which finds him telling Perry, “I do not have to like you, but I respect you as a human,” minutes after meeting him for the first time. In scenes in which his engrossing narration is usually featured, simple title cards propel the story along.

For this reason, “Into the Abyss” is both a challenging and welcoming addition to Herzog’s filmography. Without his ethereal voiceover, the film is devoid of his trademark bluntness and probing inquiries. But the added ambiguity helps in ways, especially when it comes to remaining an objective observer of an intricate and delicate situation. In the end, “Into the Abyss” emerges as his most stirring and involving film since 2005’s “Grizzly Man.”

Directed by Clooney, “The Ides of March,” is the story of a young staffer and his crash course in dirty politics.

Though he may not have an auteurist’s touch, George Clooney has proved he knows his way behind the camera. His best film, “Good Night and Good Luck,” is a concise and culturally impactful film: bleak but ringing with pragmatic bells of optimism.

His newest directorial effort, “The Ides of March,” is a far more cynical view of the country’s current state. As the film follows a pair of rival campaigns, Clooney traverses the world of back room politics, where two-faced people take extreme measures to ensure their guy wins it all.

The only major player to start the film unscathed is Stephen Myers (Ryan Gosling), an up-and-coming staffer whose bright-eyed view of politics is fueling the campaign for Clooney’s character, Mike Morris, a Pennsylvania governor who’s locked in a heated race for the Democratic candidacy for president.

However, Myers soon learns the backhanded nature of the political system, leading him down a path of disenchantment. Clooney injects his film with Shakespearean stakes, depicting Myers’ path to disillusionment as a slow descent into the murky depths of humanity, where backstabbing and bridge burning is the name of the game.

Though it’s a well-constructed and sleekly paced film, “The Ides of March” doesn’t necessarily disclose anything substantial about the sordid realities of American government. In fact, most of its revelations fail to achieve the dramatic impact to which they aspire. ‘

Things get even worse when Clooney and his co-writers inject needless histrionics in the form of a sex scandal subplot.

What the film does have going for it—aside from its stirring score from Alexandre Desplat and its beautifully muted cinematography from Phedon Papamichael—is a refreshing sense of self-awareness.

As Morris, Clooney is every leftist’s wet dream. He’s openly agnostic, has plans to tax the wealthiest of Americans despite the cries of socialism and supports gay rights.

But behind closed doors, Morris is a scoundrel, solely responsible for the aforementioned sex scandal. On top of that, each of his policies, which he delivers so ferociously and convincingly, are merely talking points derived by Myers, the woeful idealist who is steam rolled by reality.

For an actor whose political leanings are as nearly well-known as his body of work, it makes sense that Clooney would opt to play the role of a valiant presidential candidate. After all, being a politician is a lot like being an actor: It requires wit, charisma and a great deal of salesmanship.

Clooney knows this as well as anyone. The most intriguing aspect of “The Ides of March” is watching Gosling follow in stride.

The parallels between the actors and their characters are uncanny. Myers studies Morris, often mimicking his wry smiles and affable gestures. Inversely, Gosling, the indie method actor known for his intensity, seems to be taking cues from Clooney, the suave and collected movie star.

Is “The Ides of March” an allegory on the nature of stardom? Probably not. But in an age where politicians play to a voter’s sensibilities in the way an actor plays to the audiences’, it’s virtually the same.

While the film lacks strengths in many areas, “Bellflower” especially yearns for some focus. Glodell—who wrote, produced, edited and directed the film—seems nearly incapable of expressing an emotion that isn’t marred with anger and imprecision. From its random moments of extreme violence to its incoherent narrative, “Bellflower” is an indulgent monstrosity, committing acts of anarchism and passing them off as feats of whimsy.

Glodell used cameras he jerry-rigged from pieces of other cameras, like some sort of cinematic Dr. Frankenstein. Old, analog equipment is merged with newer, digital equipment, resulting in something that looks like it belongs in a steam-punk graphic novel.

While undeniably inventive, this DIY trickery is just as gimmicky as the film itself. “Bellflower” has a distinct visual style, and in spurts, is outright gorgeous to look at; the film’s Sepia-toned atmosphere and starkly contrasting tones, all captured in natural light, are impressive.

Despite its occasional beauty, the film’s aesthetic is arbitrary and ill–conceived. Glodell directs with the mind of a gear head, not an artist. Style needs substance to back it up and “Bellflower,” with its thinly veiled characters and murky moral compass, has plenty of the former but is woefully short on the latter, making for an arduous and rarely rewarding experience.

Though it’s not for a lack of trying. When it comes to performance, Glodell strives for and often achieves a sense of naturalism. Early interactions between Woodrow and Milly—particularly during an impromptu cross–country trip—are endearing and most importantly, feel real.

Glodell was likely setting up for the tumult that erupts between them as the film progresses, but the tactic goes unrewarded. As good as these quieter moments are, they’re not enough to justify the vitriol Glodell unleashes on his characters as the film reaches its conclusion. Virtually nothing in “Bellflower” is earned but rather forced and ham-fisted.

As a result, the film is virtually impossible to take seriously. Even for a debut effort, there’s a distinct lack of nuance saturating the experience. To his credit though, Glodell seems intent on making a statement with “Bellflower.” The message just happens to be a Budweiser-soaked yawp of anarchistic glee that should fail to resonate with anybody other than high school boys who skateboard.

For Glodell and his extreme case of arrested development, girls really are the end of the world. Speaking volumes of his immaturity, “Bellflower” is a naïve treatment of male and female relations (whether they be modern or in this case, apocalyptic) that’s likely to hit theaters this year.

Unfortunately, the film frequently resembles something of a toothless cog. Hicks fans won’t learn anything they didn’t already know, and those unfamiliar with the comic only get an introductory course in his contributions to the world of stand-up. While Harlock and Thomas succeed in giving the man his due, Hicks’ voice as a social commentator is frequently drowned by their high concept visual style.

Hicks’ humor derived from his temper. Adrift in a world he considered lazy and inept, he laced the majority of his bits are with a cynical outlook on life. One of the main queries raised by Harlock and Thomas is the source of his ire, and how much of it was the real deal and how much was an act?

Because there isn’t much archival interview footage of the comedian, the film relies on testimonials from his friends and family to piece together his life. Beginning with his aspirations at age 13 to perform stand-up, the film constructs its narrative from photographs of Hicks at various points in his life that are given the animation treatment and typical Ken Burns effect.

The film doesn’t find its footing until we hear from the man himself, and the directors are able to illustrate how closely Hicks lived his life to what he preached on stage.

By the time we get there, though, the trip has been a garish and inauthentic foray that defies Hicks’ straightforward comic style. Their intentions are good, but Harlock and Thomas frequently miss the mark when it comes to rendering their subject in a faithful manner.

Hicks more than likely would have found the treatment inauthentic. They also fail to avoid typical bio-doc cliches when they delve into Hicks’ storied drug and alcohol abuse.

Still, it’s hard not to admire their intentions. During Hicks’ peak, America was elbow-deep in Reaganism and facing much of the same in then-president George H.W. Bush. That didn’t stop him from stirring the pot and taking aim squarely at the misconceptions of freedom and how so many Americans either fail to comprehend or are simply unaware of the true meaning at the center of our national identity. Hicks was constantly questioning the status quo; he never understood why everyone else didn’t do the same.

As a consummate contrarian, Hicks was unpretentious in character and pragmatic in his reasoning. He was also side-splittingly funny. He once compared his act to Noam Chomsky telling dick jokes.

Despite his brilliance, his acerbic diatribes rendered him little more than a cult figure during his career. Since his death from pancreatic cancer in 1994 at age 32, his status has grown considerably.

Harlock and Thomas’ film is undoubtedly an attempt to contribute to Hicks’s legacy as a kind of American folk hero—a traveling satirist who preached a message few wanted to hear yet remained committed to his cause.

“American” doesn’t necessarily do this idea injustice, but it doesn’t help it either. The film is about as straightforward and complacent as documentaries get. Hicks, a stand-up comedian who transcended mere joke-telling, was anything but.

My mother says some of the first words out of my mouth were, “I like those wheels,” pointing to the chrome hubcaps and whitewalls on my father’s 1970 Buick LeSabre. The sleek gold sedan, yacht-long with a black vinyl top, would later become the car in which I learned to drive. I didn’t bother to borrow a car when I took Kelsey Fogt to the homecoming dance. Which was weird because the new Buicks coming out in the early 2000s were, well, they were for old people.

All that has changed.

The Chicago Auto Show, running until Feb. 20 at McCormick Place, fully realizes the recent tectonic shift in where good design is done. From the late ‘80s until a few years ago, foreign makers had largely cornered the market on good design. But this year’s auto show solidified my opinion: the former innovators’ hallmark design elements are now old hat. They’ve been recycled for so long with so few updates that I’ve begun to notice maybe they weren’t so wonderful in the first place. This includes Lexus, Acura, Mitsubishi, Kia, Subaru (no surprise), and Mercedes (ditto). In contrast, General Motors is moving into glorious new territory. I’m particularly enamored with the exteriors of the Buick brand—a make I thought should have been axed years ago. It has been resurrected.

According to Chris Ayotte, marketing manager for the Regal model and its stunning GS variant soon to hit production lines, 41 percent of all Regal buyers have never bought a Buick before—and likely never considered it. Nearly a third of buyers have an import in the garage or replaced it with the Regal. The product nearly sells itself without marketing. Not easy for a marketing manager to admit.

“Very round but not fat. That’s a hard trick to pull off,” says Dave Lyon, the man in charge of GM’s North American design, about the Regal. “There’s a little bit of hollowness. Kind of showing its ribs a bit.” That’s designer-speak for keeping some extra height under the doors.

So how did they do it? Critics were calling for the entire design team to be fired when GM hit the bottom of the barrel. But according to Lyon, Buick’s new models came from largely the same group that worked on the tired forms of a decade ago. This time around, he says, the entire company got behind the importance of putting design before engineering or statistics.

“We’d design a car and show it to management,” Lyon says. “They’d say, ‘does this have the most headroom in its class?’ And we’d say, ‘no, but it’s the prettiest.’”

Finally, the design geeks are winning these battles.

Of course, if you were to fork over the $11 admission to the auto show—or use any of the discount offers described on the show’s website—you wouldn’t contain yourself to Buick.

Volkswagen is getting plenty of hype lately, so you might be inclined to visit it. But most of that hype is coming from itself, I think. It’s true that VWs and Audis, in general, are fantastically reliable long-term. So if you want to be a responsible adult, or seem like a responsible adult, buy one. Used. But if you like panache, your only hopes are the sound system designed by Fender (yes, like the Stratocaster) in the newest models, and the plaid seatcloth in the Rabbit.

Toyota continues to blur the line between minivan, car, and crossover, as the length and height of the Sienna, Avalon, and Venza seem to creep toward each other over time. This is not necessarily bad in terms of aesthetics; it just makes for a boring lineup.

Toyota’s size convergence is just the most poignant example of a wider trend in design for the American market: big cars are getting smaller, but small cars are getting bigger. And this isn’t just confined to foreign makers. The Ford Focus, new for 2012, is a step away from its small-car roots. The past three model years have featured a slick rally-inspired workhorse, the SES trim level, that you or I could afford after a few years’ depreciation. The 2012 model has left the rally and hiked its sticker to near-luxury status. Its replacement in the segment, the Fiesta, doesn’t approach the SES’ cool factor. Many folks say the Fiesta is a great car overall—and I don’t begrudge them the opinion. But if exterior design weighs heavily on your decision, the Hyundai Elantra is a better alternative for 2012.

Automakers are finally serious about bringing electric cars to the market, with GM and Nissan releasing the Volt and Leaf, respectively, this year. But by GM’s own design, the spotlight is on the Volt at the Chicago Auto Show, as a small test track allows you to ride along in the whisper-quiet sedan while a happy-looking driver talks about the car. The user interface is the star here, with buttons that sense heat instead of push in—like a third-generation iPod. And you can exert a considerable amount of control over how the car charges via a website and mobile apps.

The future is now, and somehow, GM is at the vanguard.