POLITICS

IN THE end, America's presidential election closed with a familiar-sounding result that prompted a weary and anxious groan: a cliff-hanger, with George Bush winning after a technical wrangle in a heavily contested state. But that is misleading. Do not underestimate the scope of the Republicans' victory—or its importance for both America and the world.

In one way, the victory was a narrow one. The president carried Ohio by just 136,000 votes (or around 2% of the votes cast there). John Kerry reluctantly conceded defeat only when he calculated that there were not enough uncounted ballots to provide him with the votes he needed. That retreat looks a wise decision for America's sake—particularly seeing that this time Mr Bush won the national popular vote by 3.5m.

As that figure implies, it was a stunning result for Mr Bush—and not just because exit polls had indicated that Mr Kerry would win. The president won a clear majority of the vote (the first time anyone has done that since his own father in 1988, albeit thanks to the lack of any serious third-party candidate). The huge turnout that Democrats had yearned for ended up proving instead the power of conservative America.

Mr Bush also has a much firmer base in Congress. The Republicans added at least four more seats to their comfortable majority in the House of Representatives. Crucially, they made a net gain of four Senate seats, giving them in effect a 55-45 advantage in the upper chamber. Add in the occasional support of some conservative Democrats, and Mr Bush is close to the 60 votes necessary to survive a delaying filibuster procedure—a huge achievement and advantage.

Second term, second chance
So the “accidental president”, who reached the White House last time only with the help of those dimpled chads and the Supreme Court, has a real electoral mandate at last. He deserves congratulations for winning such a vote even in the face of a costly war and a patchy economy. The question is what he will do with his victory; and also how the rest of the world, which had been praying for a Kerry victory over the uncomfortably muscular Texan, will react.

After all, Mr Bush has in a sense been here before. In the months after September 11th, he had the support of 90% of a broadly united country (not just 51% of a bitterly polarised one). America also had the backing of most of the world. That was before the war in Iraq; before Abu Ghraib, Guantánamo Bay and Fallujah became household names; before the compassionate conservative lurched to the right on stem-cell research and gay marriage; before the budget deficit lurched out of control. Mr Bush's supporters will argue that he is hardly responsible for all these things. But arguing over who did what in the past is beside the point. The question is how to do things better in the future.

Mr Bush would do well to focus now on pragmatism over ideology. His aim must be not only his own place in history, but also America's: both will require more sensitivity and unity, and less shock and awe than in his first term. At home, one early test of his willingness to reunite his country will be whether he will appoint any Democrats to his new cabinet. Another awkwardness could well be the Supreme Court. The chief justice, William Rehnquist, is gravely ill. If Mr Bush allows the Christian right a veto over his appointments, he will re-ignite America's culture wars.

And Mr Bush will need all the friends he can get to tackle America's fiscal problems. During his first term, the president went on a spending splurge. That must now come to an end—not least because both the president and Congress must face up to the financial challenge posed by the retiring baby-boom generation. Here Mr Bush has the right instincts: he has talked, albeit vaguely, about creating an “ownership society” by partly privatising the Social Security (pensions) system and setting up health-care accounts. He should also combine conservative ideals with pragmatism by pushing tax reform.

The world on his shoulders
It is abroad, though, that Mr Bush has most to do; as Richard Haass, his own former foreign policy adviser, spells out (see article), the president's in-tray bulges with problems from Iran to Sudan, from North Korea to Israel. Once again, his cabinet appointments should provide an early clue. The manifest troubles in Iraq provide an excellent pretext for change. Getting rid of Donald Rumsfeld, who should have resigned after the Abu Ghraib debacle, would be a welcome start.

On the campaign trail, Mr Bush courageously stuck to his commitment to see through the task in Iraq and not to give up on his quest to spread democracy throughout the Middle East. But he needs to back up these words with action. In the short term, Iraq surely needs more American troops, not fewer. America will remain an imperfect salesman for western values as long as the public face of American justice is Guantánamo Bay, and as long as it is perceived to take a one-sided approach to the Israel-Palestine conflict. As a second-term president, Mr Bush can hold Ariel Sharon to his commitment to help create a Palestinian state and do more to rally Arab support for a renewal of the peace process.

Mr Bush stands a chance of success only if allies help, and only if he reaches out to allies. He can and should show his multilateral side by pushing hard for a deal in the World Trade Organisation. Europe's leaders, too, need to face up to reality, however. Mr Bush may not exactly be their pain au chocolat; but their interests are basically the same as his. Rather than concentrating on past quarrels, the Europeans can gain from working with America to achieve their joint objectives. Those lie, above all, in a peaceful Iraq, a de-nuclearised Middle East and a viable, non-violent Palestinian state. It is time to start talking again about how to achieve those things, together.

In his first term, Mr Bush's instincts were generally right; his execution let him down. His boldness has won a momentous electoral victory. The job of making his second term more successful than his first requires a new tone and new tactics—but also broad support at home and around the world.

MOVIES

The Incredibles

Before Disney started affixing the word "classic" to all its animated fare, there was a time when the term actually applied—mainly during the stretch where Walt Disney himself presided over the cels. "Classic" suggests endurance over time, but Disney films starting with 1989's The Little Mermaid, and carrying on through a series of song-and-sass entries, haven't always been built to last. At worst, they're like a cross between a Jay Leno monologue and a Broadway musical, choked with topical references to Joan Rivers and Botox, and their insidious influence has dictated the terms of family entertainment in Hollywood. With few exceptions, the thin pop-cultural references in these films evaporate after opening weekend.

Thank goodness for Pixar, which has rivaled the glory days of Disney with a run of bright, distinctive, whiz-bang animated films that could be seen 50 years from now without a moment being lost on anyone. With The Incredibles, an endlessly clever riff on superhero tropes, Pixar furthers a tradition of personal, character-driven storytelling that has the speed of a Warner Bros. cartoon, but doesn't rely too heavily on verbal gags to hang together. Written and directed by Brad Bird, who also contributes the funniest vocal performance as an artsy designer for the cape-wearing set, the film expands the possibilities of what computer animation can accomplish. But for all the artisans involved in putting it together, The Incredibles doesn't feel machine-processed: Like Bird's superb The Iron Giant or the films of Hayao Miyazaki (Spirited Away), it rings with the small, idiosyncratic touches of a single auteur.

Facing a career crossroads not unlike the one at the center of Spider-Man 2, all-purpose superhero Mr. Incredible (Craig T. Nelson) saves the world with almost tedious regularity. But the world takes him and his costumed comrades for granted. With taxpayers burdened by the lawsuits and damage to public property that follow their heroic deeds, Mr. Incredible, his wife Elastigirl (Holly Hunter), and others are forced to take regular jobs and quietly assimilate into society. Fifteen years later, a pot-bellied Mr. Incredible has squeezed into a cubicle at an insurance office, while Elastigirl has become a suburban housewife who looks after their children, who are under orders to suppress their special powers. But when a supervillain threatens to unleash a killer robot, The Incredibles spring into action.

By emphasizing a hero's dual identity as Peter Parker and Spider-Man, Clark Kent and Superman, citizen and idol, Bird not only plays around with the superhero myth (a montage on the perils of capes is especially funny), but also with the conformist standards of ordinary society. It's not uncommon for animated films to celebrate their protagonists' "specialness," but The Incredibles goes further in showing how constricting the roles of middle manager and housewife can be if the costume doesn't fit. The action sequences are choreographed with the crackerjack timing expected from Pixar, but the film's funniest and most affecting moments exploit the tension between a special family and a world that insists on dulling them down. Fortunately, The Incredibles and Pixar continue to prevail triumphantly over mediocrity.

Team America: World Police

Let me be the last to observe that we are currently living in a golden age of satire. While citizens in earlier eras had Walter Cronkite and the "CBS Evening News" to help them navigate contentious and confusing matters of public import, more and more of us seem to rely on Jon Stewart and Comedy Central. Which suits me just fine. I know I am not alone in confessing that my moral and ideological guides for the past half-dozen years have included four foul-mouthed Colorado youngsters made out of torn construction paper. Without "South Park," I would scarcely know what to think about issues like stem cell research, "The Passion of the Christ" or the Pokémon craze.

And so, with an election drawing near — on the very night of the second presidential debate, in fact — flush with a sense of civic duty, I put on my aluminum-foil Professor Chaos helmet and went to a screening of "Team America: World Police," the naughty new puppet action-musical from the resourceful and confrontational minds of Trey Parker and Matt Stone. I wanted a marionette version of what I get — twice a night, sometimes, thanks to TiVo — from "South Park": a wholesale demolition of everything pious, hypocritical and dumb in American culture and society, along with a few songs to hum on the way home and a few new ways to appreciate the inexhaustible comic possibilities of flatulence and excrement.

Maybe I expected too much. It's a big country, after all, busy inventing new forms of idiocy every day, and there's only so much a 98-minute movie can cover, especially if the filmmakers have to figure out how to make big-headed, loose-bodied puppets walk, shoot, fight and simulate sex. (Since the movie has an R rating, I'm pretty sure they weren't having real sex, though maybe that will show up in the DVD extras.) So perhaps Mr. Parker (director, co-writer, co-producer and bad celebrity voice imitator) and Mr. Stone (co-writer, co-producer and equally bad voice imitator), aided by a brilliant cohort of puppet-makers and set designers, had to be selective in their choice of targets. They expend most of their spoofy energy sending up action-movie conventions and over-the-top patriotic bluster, reserving their real satiric venom for self-righteous Hollywood liberals (with special attention to Alec Baldwin).

It seems likely, though, that their emphases and omissions reflect a particular point of view. "South Park," with its class-clown libertarianism and proudly juvenile disdain for authority, has always been hard to place ideologically, but a number of commentators have discerned a pronounced conservative streak amid the anarchy, a hypothesis that "Team America" to some extent confirms. Susan Sarandon, Tim Robbins and other left-leaning movie stars are eviscerated (quite literally — also decapitated, set on fire and eaten by house cats), while right-wing media figures escape derision altogether. The fact that Mr. Parker and Mr. Stone appeared in "Bowling for Columbine" does not grant immunity to Michael Moore, who is portrayed as an overeating suicide bomber.

Not that the movie is partisan, exactly. Tempting though it must have been, there are no puppets resembling John Kerry, George W. Bush, Dick Cheney or Edward M. Kennedy. The word Iraq is spoken only by the puppet caricaturing Sean Penn, who brags that he's been there. (The Matt Damon puppet is too dumb to say anything but his own name.) Saddam Hussein, an important supporting player in "South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut," has been retired from the comic bestiary in favor of Kim Jong Il, who in the movie's scenario (and maybe not only there) is organizing a diabolical plot to arm global terrorists with weapons of mass destruction. (In spite of his accent, Kim, voiced by Mr. Parker, sounds an awful lot like Eric Cartman of "South Park," which makes sense when you consider that Kim Jong Il is pretty much who Cartman wants to be when he grows up).

Opposing Kim's plot are the members of Team America, a squad of square-jawed, multiply talented Caucasians who fly around in screaming fighter jets, speed around on motorcycles and blow up a lot of stuff, including the Eiffel Tower and most of the pharaonic monuments in Egypt.

The team is led by a debonair super spy, Spottswoode, and their newest recruit is Gary Johnston, a Broadway musical performer (first seen appearing in a spot-on, devastating parody of "Rent"), who is recruited for his acting ability. Gary goes through the usual three-act gamut of rivalry (with a puppet whose resemblance to Seann William Scott is surely intentional), romance (with a puppet whose resemblance to Elisabeth Shue is probably not), self-doubt and redemption, much of it set to music. The most inspired song begins "I miss you the way Michael Bay missed the mark/ When he made `Pearl Harbor' " and continues to catalog the parallels between that misbegotten movie and Gary's ill-starred love affair.

But if they mock Michael Bay, Mr. Parker and Mr. Stone pay perverse tribute to Jerry Bruckheimer, the producer of "Pearl Harbor" (and just about everything else), by structuring their movie like one of his. Considering that it's all done with puppets, "Team America" is sometimes more satisfying as a straight-ahead blow 'em up than as a satire. Goofy as they are, the members of "Team America" are treated, in the end, with affection, even respect, which is part of the film's political gist. When Team America blows things up in other countries, they do it by accident, in the course of their sloppy but zealous fight against the people who want to do it on purpose. This is not a trivial moral distinction, and it is one the film hangs onto in impressive earnest.

The obscene patriotic ditty that is the Team America theme song might be hyperbolic (and impossible to stop singing), but it is not sarcastic. Nor is a speech, delivered twice in the course of the action, most powerfully at the climactic moment, that is meant as an answer both to the Hollywood peaceniks and to the wishy-washy world community, whose representatives have gathered in North Korea for a peace conference. Because of its graphic (though metaphorical) discussion of human anatomy, I can't quote any of the speech here, but it is one of the more cogent — and, dare I say it, more nuanced — defenses of American military power that I have heard recently. It is conveyed in language that no politician would dare use, by a puppet speaking to a roomful of puppets, in the wake of jokes about oral sex — all of which provides about as effective a camouflage as the pink and blue fatigues the Team America agents wear on their operations.

Of course Mr. Parker and Mr. Stone are joking — what else is new? — but like most good jokers, they also mean exactly what they say. Clever comedians that they are, they have also rigged "Team America" with an ingenious anti-critic device, which I find myself unable to defuse. Much as it may pretend otherwise, the movie has an argument, but if you try to argue back, the joke's on you.




GOOD, RECENT MUSIC

Wilco - Wilco Book

In 2002, Wilco evolved. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot documented a complete metamorphosis from unassuming Midwestern roots-rock band to arty urban ensemble. The change has had both positive and negative effects on the group, leading them not only to create what is widely considered to be one of this century's first truly classic albums, but also to follow it with the self-consciously jammy A Ghost Is Born, a calculatedly "difficult" record whose 10- and 15-minute marathons divided the group's fanbase and drew mixed reactions from critics.

In light of this transfiguration, it seems logical that we now have The Wilco Book. If you always loved liner notes, check this shit out-- these liners are so ridiculous that the music is purely an afterthought. Okay, that's not strictly true. Or it's at least not fair. The Wilco Book provides a visual representation of the band's state of mind circa 2002-2004, as it underwent its most difficult changes: the turnover of membership, and the complete overhaul of the band's sound. That said, don't come looking for gossip or dirt, because it ain't here. The most controversial item is the revelation that Mikael Jorgensen had to ban Jeff Tweedy from playing slap bass in the control room. Jay Bennett? He's alluded to briefly in an essay. Max Johnston and Ken Coomer? Consigned completely to the memory hole. Wilco did not set out to make their autobiography here, and they don't talk about their past much at all in these blog-like ruminations.

Their writing is surprisingly humble, though-- Jeff Tweedy seems to abhor talking himself up, and Mikael Jorgensen, whose contributions are huge (especially for such a new member) lends massive insight into the band's recording and rehearsal process. Glenn Kotche's drawings of percussion instruments-- "Inglenntions" Tweedy calls them-- are amusing and poignant, as are Tweedy's calming exercises, including sheets on which he's written the numbers 1-100. The band's sound engineers and techs chip in their own thoughts on live sound and equipment, and the inimitable Walter Sear of Sear Sound Studios fame tells his story candidly. But then there are the essays by Henry Miller and Rick Moody, which I fall asleep just thinking about. Miller's was written in 1962 and is a ponderous musing on watercolors and about a million other things, while Moody deconstructs the Wilco discography album by album. The analytical overreach in Moody's essay is so embarrassing that I'm surprised the band wound up including it. Put it this way: Would you publish photos of someone giving you a limp handjob?

Truth told, you could say that this tome's text exists primarily to provide the illusion of substance beyond imagery. And that wouldn't necessarily be an insult, as The Wilco Book's agenda is clearly visual. Near the back, there's a brief (almost hidden) mention of Hipgnosis, the company whose artwork adorned many a prog-rock album cover in the 70s, which is revealing-- this book isn't meant as a comment on the music that comes with it so much as a visual accompaniment. And at that, it's succeeds beautifully. I didn't want to touch the middle pages with Fred Tomasselli's stunningly complex pattern art while eating my foccacia because I was afraid I might ruin it.

And, oh right: How's the music? Well, naturally, for the hardest of the Wilco corps, the music is the thing, yes. And the disc, which compiles material from the recording sessions leading up to A Ghost Is Born, has its share of worthy material. It also has its share of unworthy material, so there's some trade-off, certainly. Do you need "Hamami"? It's a few minutes of the band members dropping percussive objects in a room with great acoustics more or less at random, and that's exactly what it sounds like. But you might-- if you are one of said xtreme fans-- need the lovely alternate version of Ghost's "Hummingbird", which features a clubby kickdrum and actually fits the mood and tenor of that album better than the version that made the cut.

Several of these tracks are edits of lengthy jam sessions, and a few stick well-- opener "Pure Bug Beauty" in particular. It reminds me a lot of Califone's Deceleration series, with lovely autoharp and piano, yet also feels similar in tone to the outro of "Reservations" or the intro to "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart". "What Good Am I" was recorded in a Perth, Australia hotel room by ex-member Leroy Bach, Tweedy and Jorgensen, and it's perfect, right down to the lo-fi quality and off-the-cuff performance. My favorite of these songs is the instrumental "Diamond Claw", a contender for Ghost that was left off... why? It has beautiful, George Harrison/Segovia guitar runs, haunting percussion, pretty piano, and the kind of direct emotional appeal found in Wilco's more conventional earlier work.

So what to make of this whole package, then? Well, choosing just one rating was a chore. It's a great book as far as showpieces go, and it does contain a lot of great information for fans, even if it did make me hate Rick Moody. Wilco being a rock band, though, it's the music that most people will come for, and that rates only fair, with seven or eight good-to-great tracks balanced by a handful of ugly little ducklings that never got to be swans. If you're serious about this band-- and I mean, like, deathly serious-- go for it. But if you just dropped in to see what condition their condition was in, hold off and let them carve a place in your life first. Once they've done that, you can decide if it's worth adding this to it.



The Arcade Fire - Funeral

Ours is a generation overwhelmed by frustration, unrest, dread, and tragedy. Fear is wholly pervasive in American society, but we manage nonetheless to build our defenses in subtle ways-- we scoff at arbitrary, color-coded "threat" levels; we receive our information from comedians and laugh at politicians. Upon the turn of the 21st century, we have come to know our isolation well. Our self-imposed solitude renders us politically and spiritually inert, but rather than take steps to heal our emotional and existential wounds, we have chosen to revel in them. We consume the affected martyrdom of our purported idols and spit it back in mocking defiance. We forget that "emo" was once derived from emotion, and that in our buying and selling of personal pain, or the cynical approximation of it, we feel nothing.

We are not the first, or the last, to be confronted with this dilemma. David Byrne famously asked a variation on the question that opens this review, and in doing so suggested a type of universal disaffection synonymous with drowning. And so The Arcade Fire asks the question again, but with a crucial distinction: The pain of Win Butler and Régine Chassagne, the enigmatic husband-and-wife songwriting force behind the band, is not merely metaphorical, nor is it defeatist. They tread water in Byrne's ambivalence because they have known real, blinding pain, and they have overcome it in a way that is both tangible and accessible. Their search for salvation in the midst of real chaos is ours; their eventual catharsis is part of our continual enlightenment.

The years leading up to the recording of Funeral were marked with death. Chassagne's grandmother passed away in June of 2003, Butler's grandfather in March of 2004, and bandmate Richard Parry's aunt the following month. These songs demonstrate a collective subliminal recognition of the powerful but oddly distanced pain that follows the death of an aging loved one. Funeral evokes sickness and death, but also understanding and renewal; childlike mystification, but also the impending coldness of maturity. The recurring motif of a non-specific "neighborhood" suggests the supportive bonds of family and community, but most of its lyrical imagery is overpoweringly desolate.

"Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)" is a sumptuously theatrical opener-- the gentle hum of an organ, undulating strings, and repetition of a simple piano figure suggest the discreet unveiling of an epic. Butler, in a bold voice that wavers with the force of raw, unspoken emotion, introduces his neighborhood. The scene is tragic: As a young man's parents weep in the next room, he secretly escapes to meet his girlfriend in the town square, where they naively plan an "adult" future that, in the haze of adolescence, is barely comprehensible to them. Their only respite from their shared uncertainty and remoteness exists in the memories of friends and parents.

The following songs draw upon the tone and sentiment of "Tunnels" as an abstract mission statement. The conventionally rock-oriented "Neighborhood #2 (Laika)" is a second-hand account of one individual's struggle to overcome an introverted sense of suicidal desperation. The lyrics superficially suggest a theme of middle-class alienation, but avoid literal allusion to a suburban wasteland-- one defining characteristic of the album, in fact, is the all-encompassing scope of its conceptual neighborhoods. The urban clatter of Butler's native Montreal can be felt in the foreboding streetlights and shadows of "Une Annee Sans Lumiere", while Chassagne's evocative illustration of her homeland (on "Haiti", the country her parents fled in the 1960s) is both distantly exotic and starkly violent, perfectly evoking a nation in turmoil.

"Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)" is a shimmering, audacious anthem that combines a driving pop beat, ominous guitar assault, and sprightly glockenspiel decoration into a passionate, fist-pumping album manifesto. The fluidity of the song's construction is mesmerizing, and the cohesion of Butler's poignant assertion of exasperation ("I went out into the night/ I went out to pick a fight with anyone") and his emotional call to arms ("The power's out in the heart of man/ Take it from your heart/ Put it in your hand"), distinguishes the song as the album's towering centerpiece.

Even in its darkest moments, Funeral exudes an empowering positivity. Slow-burning ballad "Crown of Love" is an expression of lovesick guilt that perpetually crescendos until the track unexpectedly explodes into a dance section, still soaked in the melodrama of weeping strings; the song's psychological despair gives way to a purely physical catharsis. The anthemic momentum of "Rebellion (Lies)" counterbalances Butler's plaintive appeal for survival at death's door, and there is liberation in his admittance of life's inevitable transience. "In the Backseat" explores a common phenomenon-- a love of backseat window-gazing, inextricably linked to an intense fear of driving-- that ultimately suggests a conclusive optimism through ongoing self-examination. "I've been learning to drive my whole life," Chassagne sings, as the album's acoustic majesty finally recedes and relinquishes.

So long as we're unable or unwilling to fully recognize the healing aspect of embracing honest emotion in popular music, we will always approach the sincerity of an album like Funeral from a clinical distance. Still, that it's so easy to embrace this album's operatic proclamation of love and redemption speaks to the scope of The Arcade Fire's vision. It's taken perhaps too long for us to reach this point where an album is at last capable of completely and successfully restoring the tainted phrase "emotional" to its true origin. Dissecting how we got here now seems unimportant. It's simply comforting to know that we finally have arrived.