Caught in the Carousel

I have no difficulty in selecting Smog's Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle as my album of the year. It is as sophisticated as an Art Deco wristwatch and features the most elegant string arrangements since Lambchop's Nixon. The sequence of tracks flows so perfectly that there are no stand-out songs—the whole is ten times greater than any part—but every part is quite stunning in its precision and clarity. Callahan's voice has become a kind of somber bell intoning a very original sort of Soul and quite remarkably there are sections you can dance to. To say that this album relegates Richard Hawley's Truelove's Gutter and Bonnie Prince Billie's Beware into a distant joint-second place is the best compliment I can pay it.

The Beatles re-issues were beautiful and fetishistically lavish. As for the re-mastering, the original CD cuts were so ahead of their time that the minor sonic improvements in the new versions are mainly just a nice excuse to listen, right the way through, all over again. As if anyone needed an excuse. That being said, the Mono Box is a joy and I continue to finger it like a case of jewels.

There were several remarkable treats at the cinema. Werner Herzog's "Encounters At The End Of The World" was hilarious, profound, troubling and hugely moving. Never has humanist philosophy been so accessible, entertaining and surprising.

I thought Michael Mann's "Public Enemies" was very underrated. Like most of his films, it was a clever technical exercise in character identification. The machinery is clinical and callous, the narrative a purely linear functional frame on which to hang the moral and the acting secondary to the kinetic inevitability of the crazy hand-held close-ups. It all compels us to the tragic end and the brilliant punchline—the lover's last words sensitively whispered into his grieving girl's ear by one of those who sought to kill him. It may be ham-fisted but beneath its simple surface, Ali's nimble feet are dancing away.

I went to see Tarantino's "Inglorious Basterds" twice in three days to be sure that the UK critics had got it so badly wrong. It was (nearly) universally lambasted for shallowness, tastelessness and relentless plagiarism. I found a hugely entertaining and human film whose main subtext was a savage critique of the Bush era's military bloodlust of vengeance. That strand ran alongside a powerfully ironic commentary on Israeli state-violence against Palestinian civilians. In the mix too is a witty farce of impersonation and identity which amounts to something of a paean to the possibilities of good acting. I think it "might just be" his masterpiece.

And masterpiece is the only appropriate term to describe Roberto Bolano's 2666 which was published in the UK this year. As a work of art it towers over everything I've come across in the last decade with the exception of Michaelangelo's La Pieta in St. Peter's in Rome. Well, that and the final of this year's "X Factor."

And lastly, Don Paterson's new collection of poems is called "Rain". I've yet to find a flaw or a hiccough but all the pleasure is in trying and then trying once again.

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