Despite the excellent spec review by C. Dennison, he missed the most important detail! As has been reported elsewhere, the blu-ray version of this entertaining and well-done mash-up of fantasy and scifi, Beowulf and Predator-like narratives, has been irresponsibly and irreparably ruined in the transfer offered by Alliance of Canada. Similar to what Alliance did with Se7en, they have cropped the film's original aspect ratio of 2.35:1 down to 1.78:1! Not sure what "genius" was behind this decision, but for anyone wanting to see this film in an blu-ray version, hope the currently financially-challenged Weinstein Group are one day able to offer this film with the transfer it deserves!

While this album has its moments, there is a decided commercial and pop sensibility to the music, a melodic cohesion and simplicity that should appeal to a broader base of listeners, but is unlikely to thrill or impress advocates of Modest Mouse's earlier albums. As others have suggested, the album does grow on you, but it is hardly a substitute for the creative brilliance or willingness to bare or push musical boundaries found on This is a Long Way to Drive..., Lonesome Crowded West, Building Nothing Out of Something, or Moon Over Antarctica. The constantly shifting musical motifs are largely absent, as is a sense of the unexpected. And the lyrics have lost their oblique and multiple interpretation, instead becoming direct and at times even banal, as on the songs Dance Hall or Bukowski.

The midpoint to this album is unmemorable, and seriously intrudes on what otherwise might be viewed as a superior commercial pitch: Dance Hall, with its cheesy organ chords reminiscent of Danny Elfman in Hollywood decline (The Clash never would have touched it); Bukowski's largely one-dimensional musical score; the purely derivative The Devil's Workday, covered long ago -- and much better -- by Tom Waits and Smoke; The View, which is marred by cheap eighties techno overlays not even worthy of reference to Talking Heads; and the mixed Satin in the Coffin, which opens like a Johnny Horton ballad. Other songs, such as Blame It On the Tetons, while pretty, fails to really distinguish itself from any number of other sweetly chorded ballads by numerous traditional country and rock imitations. And Black Cadillacs sounds like just another well done rock anthem.

The remaining songs on the album offer glimpses of earlier brilliance and sparks of creativity, especially on the final The Good Times Are Killing Me. And the overlay of instrumentals and sound effects often remain inspired. But overall, the songs, while eminently listenable, remain, compared to much of their earlier work, one-dimensional. As someone else has said, this album is better than 90% of the other tripe out there, but its essentially commercial pedigree cannot be ignored.

As far as those claiming this is a masterpiece or the best Modest Mouse album ever, depending upon one's musical tastes and background, suppose this album could be construed as such; fan is, after all, short for fanatic. But those that adore this album needn't really worry: all will be forgiven as mainstream record sales soar. And why shouldn't Brock and the boys make some decent money? They're far more deserving than most, and for a time gave us some memorable music that will remain long after this album is forgotten.

Been a while since I registered a review here, but thought I should weigh in, what with all the five star reviews so far posted.

This is a decent debut, but certainly not deserving of all the accolades being showered upon it by previous reviewers. Covering little ground that is new or significant, the author delivers a competant tale that should appeal to De Lint fans, while possessing none of the latter's power of imagery or languange. Further, the tale is hampered at times by a certain clumsiness that often afflicts a first time novelist, which is no where more evident than in the author's attempt to jump start his novel with action more typical of an episode from Buffy than what one would expect of a serious novel. Also, more often than not attempts at humor fall flat or turn toward the burlesque, and it is hard to believe most readers will be satisfied with the novel's resolution, though it does leave room for further sequels.

Still, Hetley's handling of natural description and his secondary world in the main is well done, as is the overall competancy of writing, thereby offering divertissement if not truly serious stimulation. And the novel does touch upon comtemporary issues such as abortion and sexual politics, though not with any great depth.

I suspect the author's fiction will improve in future, but for the moment this offering is only marginally better than average.

After two earlier albums noted for their vitality, drive, and uneasy yet intriguing fusion of hard-edged alternative, reiterative melodies and sonics, here Appleseed Cast moves into the arena of progressive rock, a decision whose result is far from laudatory. Those who missed growing up in the heyday of prog rock may find the tightly controlled, self-conscious and processed sounds of Owl -- either volume -- fresh, but to my ear they're only tones already worn and tired. Granted, as with so much else in the history of the genre, one can exclaim over the band's technical proficiency, but the bulk of the songs lack authenticity, becoming but another formulaic footnote in a body of music that only occasionally produces brilliance, so much else lost amidst bells and chimes and choir vocals that dull the senses with their new age, atmospheric and mood-orchestrated sensibilities.

If you want to listen to music the at least attempts to establish its own ground, without sounding like so many canned versions of innocuous mood music done by others whose names are beyond count, listen to Appleseed Cast's first two albums: End of the Ring Wars and Mare Vitalis. Otherwise you can turn to these inoffensive if lackluster treats for background listening as you fall off to sleep.

After two earlier albums noted for their vitality, drive, and uneasy yet intriguing fusion of hard-edged alternative, reiterative melodies and sonics, here Appleseed Cast moves into the arena of progressive rock, a decision whose result is far from laudatory. Those who missed growing up in the heyday of prog rock may find the tightly controlled, self-conscious and processed sounds of Owl -- either volume -- fresh, but to my ear they're only tones already worn and tired. Granted, as with so much else in the history of the genre, one can exclaim over the band's technical proficiency, but the bulk of the songs lack authenticity, becoming but another formulaic footnote in a body of music that only occasionally produces brilliance, so much else lost amidst bells and chimes and choir vocals that dull the senses with their new age, atmospheric and mood-orchestrated sensibilities.

If you want to listen to music the at least attempts to establish its own ground, without sounding like so many canned versions of innocuous mood music done by others whose names are beyond count, listen to Appleseed Cast's first two albums: End of the Ring Wars and Mare Vitalis. Otherwise you can turn to these inoffensive if lackluster treats for background listening as you fall off to sleep.

This is another example of Orson Scott Card's admonishment of science fiction as info-dump. At its outset offering much promise, as early as the chapter entitled The Alchemist the narrative elements have become increasingly subordinated to didactic discourse on early metallury and technology, as well as ruminations upon Eastern philosophy. The end result, as John Deakins suggests, is tedium, with the already peripatetic and episodic storylines assuming all the narrative interest of an instruction manual.

A darling of the critics and techies, this is the fourth novel that I have read by Robinson in which the narrative elements have been subsumed by the author's over-riding desire to inform or incorporate discussion or speculation that would be better served by nonfiction. Bottom line, those books that I have read by the author are narratively boring, as he often confuses story with text. In this case, without even being aware of Mr. Deakins' warnings, I abandoned the work three quarters in, based upon prior experience with Robinson certain of what was coming as well as what was not.

This will be the final novel I pick up by this author. If I wished a lecture in metallurgy, alchemy, theories of history, or Eastern religion and philosophy, I would be far better served -- as well as likely more intellectually stimulated -- by any number of college courses, or the more comprehensive and at times insightful writings of scholars. At least I wouldn't have to put up with nonfiction masquerading itself as story. Those of you who like this sort of pseudo-pedagogy, or find fictional legitimacy lent by technical detail or ongoing discourse, are welcome to it, though I question the author's approach to fiction is compelling, either as narrative or as instruction.

Picked this up on a flyer, based on all the hype. While well performed, after thrity some years of listening little here that seemed particularly fresh, keen or innovative, with a long list of other performers in mind that have done somewhat similar work better: Blood Oranges, Bad Livers, Howe Gelb and Giant Sand or, for that matter, on ocassion the Band or even the Rolling Stones! By comparison, this sounds rather mainstream and commercial. Expect some reading this will be indignant -- after all, a lot of critics stumbled over their own tongues on this one -- but there really is much more vital and varied music out there, and has been for quite a while.

Either the band's fooling us or fooling themselves. After Gelb's lacksadaisical piano putterings on Lull, followed by this erratic and loose collection of covers, one is left to wonder whether Howe Gelb and crew have either lost interest, steam or both. Perhaps, looking at the inner liner photo of a golfer at the end of his swing, captioned "retirement," we should all, band included, take the hint? If so, a sad closure to one of America's most innovative and eclectic musical careers.

While there are a couple bright moments, it is perhaps significant that the high point of the album is the cover of their own tune, Blue Marble Girl. However, the Neil Young sonic stylings layered across the original are not enough on their own to rescue the rest of what is largely a muddled or unconvincing effort. Despite comments above, Bono's The Beat Goes On barely amuses in the closing, let alone the initial version, with both the reprise of Miller's King of the Road and Cash's I'm Leaving Now (Adios) failing to measure up to the orginals. And was there any credible reason, besides mucking around, to revisit Black Sabbath's Iron Man? If so, this becomes a rather odd and unfocused imitation. Finally, the cut Plants and Rags holds some interest, as does the segued combination of El Paso and Out On the Weekend, though Giant Sand certainly makes no real inroads upon the Neil Young original as performed with Crazy Horse, and the merging of the two songs at times appears contrived.

Overall, this seems an ill considered and poorly thought out performance on the part of Giant Sand, almost as if thrown together as an afterthought. After all the other great music this group has produced over the years, both together and in solo projects, the issue of this album can only come as a disappointment, and should be reserved solely for the die-hard, bury-your-head-in-the-Sand fan. Otherwise avoid and hope for something better in the future, or a less frugal or discerning friend willing to burn you a copy of track eleven.

While I imagine this album will prove commercially successful, it is far cry from being the artistic achievement found in 97's "Come on Home." With only a couple truly memorable cuts, this effort lacks the creativity and authentic voice, both lyrically and musically, found in the previous work. Within terms of other music available, only average, despite the high production values. Boz' voice and inflections remain singular however, and fans of his music will probably be pleased.

While some readers appear to have preferred "Gilded Chain" to Duncan's second installment, I found this a far better book, with greater depth of characterization and a more focused plotline. As at least one other reviewer has noted, the previous character of Durendal often seemed too larger-than life, and the temporal and locational shifting between chapters, especially the rather standard sword and sorcery jaunt halfway around the world to fabled Samarinda, at times became more rambling excursions than concise additions to the narrative. While by book's end "The Gilded Chain" had revealed a rationale for its seemingly peripatetic plotline, the end result in and of itself did not entirely satisfy or justify the liberties taken earlier within the narrative.

This second installment, which in part can be read as a self-contained novel despite some necessary preamble established in "Gilded Chain," with its occasional concurrency with events presented in the first book, as well as a structure inherent to both works that begs for a closer and resolving linkage that apparently is to follow in "Sky of Swords, seems much more successful and focused and linear in the evolvement of its temporal shifts, a significant portion of the tale told in reminiscence, and the leap forward that takes place at book's end, unlike "Gilded Chain," a more natural and credible transition. The magical elements running throughout the narrative here are more concrete and fully realized, even ignoring factors established in the first novel, and both events taking place and the world surrounding appear more clearly delineated. The intrigue infusing the plot is not as fitfully revealed, and the characters, with greater flaws and indecision, are at once more dimensional and credible, over all presenting a richer and more engaging tale than found in "Gilded Chain."

That said, some of the same characteristics that nagged one in the first book continued to persist here. I remain unsure, not having read the third book, how the inconsistencies that intentionally exist in both, internally and by comparison, relate to the over all tale the author is trying to tell. Having read assertions by others that have completed all three books, I am led to believe that all will be revealed by the end, and that the author's intentional misdirection and playing with the veracity of his varying perspectives will assume a guiding rationale that will inform and increase the narrative's appreciation. Should this be the case, the author is to be applauded for the creativity in which he has approached the structure of his series. However, for the moment, the uncertainties created by this approach appear obviously unsettling and somewhat confusing for most of the readers that have chosen to respond, and whether this is a tactic as presented in serialization that will prove to be justified, in the end offering more creative advantage than disadvantage, waits to be seen. At present I remain somewhat skeptical within the format of three distinct and separate books released a year apart. But I will read the third when in becomes available in paperback---to date I do not believe these tales justify the expense of hardbound---and will remain open to be astounded.

Finally, I agree with the reviewer who found the inclusion of Baelish to be at times distracting. While any number of authors have proven successful in creating languages that join or contribute to the flow of English narrative, there are just as many who seem to lack the ear necessary to avoid interruption or discordance with the flow of language, or simply seem to think that stringing together unexpected consonants and vowels alone will suffice. While Baelish does not suffer from the second flaw, borrowing as it does upon a mish-mash of Old English with influences from other etymological sources, the resulting combination of vowels, consonants and suffixes within the framework of modern day English requires the reader to constantly refer to the provided pronunciation guide, interrupting the narrative more than it contributes.

At this point, especially when compared to better examples of heroic fantasy, such as the recent work by Matthew Stover or Steven Erikson, awarding this work four stars is likely over-generous. So much of the success or failure of this work hinges upon the resolution that will come in the final, third installment, that any true appraisal must be held in abeyance. Ultimately, the very nature of this trilogy's structure may prove to be its own undoing.