The first two days of Rothbury were excellent, to be sure: filled with both amazing bands and excellent experiences, but they served primarily as an appetizer, Saturday and Sunday were by far the main courses. It’s unusual for a festival to offer anything less than all-weekend passes, but to offer passes for Saturday and Sunday, as well as just for Dylan’s show, is nearly unheard of.

Zappa Plays Zappa faithfully recreate the avant-garde fusion rock of Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention faithfully and with gusto, but not precisely charisma. The group is instrumentally gifted, particularly keyboardist Scheila Gonzalez (they must be to play selections from Zappa’s massive back catalogue) and pleasant to watch, but perhaps it’s impossible to play rock music 100% balls-out unless it truly is your own. That’s not a swipe at Frank’s son, Dweezil, who did his best to do his papa justice, but something about hearing Frank’s voice on tape with accompaniment by young fresh faces feet a little dishonest. Regardless, they closed with “Don’t Eat The Yellow Snow,” and the entire audience sang along. What more can one really ask of a tribute act?

Les Claypool (ex-Primus, Oysterhead), however, truly did the spirit of psyche-out rock and roll justice. Claypool, often considered to be one of (if not the) most creative and technically proficient bassists in the world, wowed the crowd with his goofball sense of humor and flamenco-influenced slap techniques. His backing band, consisting of keys/percussion, drums, and an electronic cello, all wore identical vaudeville outfits and green masks while Les himself changed masks many times during the show, though he stuck mostly to reflective goggles. Les used a total of two electric bass guitars as well as a true electric bass, and a single-stringed monstrosity of a custom instrument, all of which he slapped and popped to perfection. As can be expected, though, the real focus of his set was his sly, acerbic, and slightly backwoods sense of humor.

The real focus of Saturday was, of course, the Dead. Though Jerry Garcia may be dead, that did not stop the remainder of the Grateful Dead from performing a killer show to a completely packed audience. The massive Odeum stage was completely full and most people were overheated, immobile, and loving it. Their set was literally so flowing and monumental that describing it with wor5ds on a computer screen seems inadequate. Suffice to say they played, at least according to dyed in the wool Deadheads in the audience, every Grateful Dead song anyone could ask to hear live. To hear musicians from a bygone golden era still killing it live and doing what they do best is the kind of news that nourishes the soul.

That evening brought a slew of electronic jams from the likes of Sound Tribe Sector 9, Shpongle, and MSTRKRFT. MSTRKRFT, a hard electronic duo from Canada, ironically began their performance at midnight with the 4^th of July fireworks celebration exploding behind them. Though their discography is small, they padded their set with extended jams and remixes (particularly their remix of ‘DANCE’ by Justice) enough to make it entertaining throughout, and overall provided the most intense electronica set of the evening.

Shpongle gave them a run for their money, though. Shpongle are known for a very immersive and quirky blend of electronica and progressive rock music known as psybient (a mixture of psychedelic and ambient) with samples and influences from Middle Eastern music. Sadly, their flutist/multi-instrumentalist couldn’t make it, but with the help of a killer video show DJ Simon Possford put on an incredible performance that fully indulged any desire for a throwback to the heyday of psychedelia.

Sunday was notably less energetic—everyone present was feeling that things were beginning to wind down, and despite the palpable excitement for Dylan’s performance, things were a bit slower, a bit lower, and a bit more relaxed.

That didn’t stop noted live performer Matisyahu from stirring the crowd into a frenzy, though. Matisyahu is a Hasidic Jew and dub performer, whose backing band is Brooklyn based instrumental group The Dub Trio. Matisyahu played a set of crowd-pleasers as well as select cuts from his upcoming third album; the best cut from that release he played was a huge anthem called ‘Smash Lights.’ Matisyahu began his set fairly low-key, but quickly began whirling and dancing around the stage like a madman, jumping on amps, and performing the only stage dive of the festival—a rarity for ‘Yahu, since his religious beliefs preclude being touched by hundreds of unwashed hands. Thankfully, he’s willing to make exceptions.

Ani DiFranco, even in these ‘evenminded’ times, was one of the few frontwomen with sets at Rothbury, but played and performed at least as well, if not better, than almost all of her male counterparts. While her set was a bit talky—at least two breaks between songs lasted as long as the songs preceeding them in the name of praising president Obama—but her charisma was striking. The peak of her set was a reworking of an old folk classic, ‘Who’s Side Are You On,’ as a tribute to Michigan, where the economic crisis has hit so hard. DiFranco played a selection of mostly newer songs, which is understandable considering her 20+ album history. Unfortunately she wasn’t the only artist to make that choice as many fans discovered when she ended her set early so people could get good spots to see Bob Dylan—the main event.

Most of those people with good spots (that is to say, the sober ones) were probably disappointed if they had not caught up on Dylan’s newer material. An audio sample that introduced the main man and his band claimed that he hit his peak of songwriting in the 90’s, which incited a few boo’s from the audience. Dylan himself hit the stage in gold and black, but refrained mostly from his guitar, instead playing harmonica and keyboard to most of his tracks. Dylan’s voice, however, was almost completely inaudible.

The truth is, (here comes that pesky, but necessary, first person point of view) I have not listened to any albums or songs Dylan recorded since becoming a born again Christian and ceasing to become relevant for his new output back in the mid 70’s. I recognized two songs in his entire two-and-a-half hour set. I couldn’t even hear the vocals on ‘All Along the Watchtower.’ That means I only connected with a single Dylan song. One. That one song, by the way, was closer ‘Like A Rolling Stone,’ which did, in fact, kick ass. I later learned that, suppo0sedly, the set was classics-heavy, and Dylan played ‘Highway 61’ at one point. Honestly, that makes the sting worse: Dylan’s backing band play the tunes more faithfully than he can sing them. An hour later, though, driving home, all I could think about was how in all likelihood I will never witness Bob Dylan singing touching and important songs like ‘Hurricane’ or ‘

Jacques Lacan wrote about how one’s reality is inevitably mapped onto one’s fantasy, as one’s fantasy directs the actions that lead to one’s reality.  He also said that fantasy realized is nightmare.  And that’s why I love Beth Cooper.

Honestly, I do love Beth Cooper.  She is probably the most attractive female I have visually encountered other than my current girlfriend and I by the end of the movie, I really felt a connection to her, like I’d known her for years.  Hayden Panettiere, call me, baby…

Denis Cooverman (Paul Rust) was in a similar situation.  Since seventh grade he had loved Beth Cooper, but was way too much of a dork to ever talk to her. So, at his high school graduation speech, he came out and said it.  “I love you, Beth Cooper.” Amazingly, Beth thinks it was cute enough not to have her raging hulk military boyfriend (Shawn Roberts) decimate Denis on the spot, though that endeavor is the primary plot vehicle for the rest of the film.

Following his grad speech, Beth comes over to Denis’ house for a one-man party with her bimbo friends (Cammy Alcott and Treece Kilmer).  Her friends think its all a joke, but Beth really wanted to stop in and at least say “Hi!” to the nerd who proclaimed his undying love for her.  In the only awkward scene in the film, Denis proceeds to slice his hand open with a corkscrew, and pop himself in the eye with the cork, knocking himself out.  Beth comes to his pathetic aid, slapping an Eggo on his black eye, and inadvertently giving him a boner by kneeling over him. (Hayden Panettiere is incredibly good-looking).

In escaping from her coke/’roid-raging BF Kevin, it is only by hitting Denis head-on with her car that he and Beth are able to spend the rest of the evening together.  Welcome to the real Beth Cooper, Denis.  You’re going to die.

Based on the book by screenwriter Larry Doyle, it is precisely the hyper-archetypal nature of the film that makes it an effective, if at times unintentional satire of the coming-of-age genre.  Guy finally has guts to tell girl he loves her.  Girl pities guy, guy gets hit by the proverbial car, girl falls in love with guy.  Cooverman alludes to this is a spat of dialogue “Need I remind you that the concept of the coming of age story was only created in the last fifty years or so…!”  as he runs out the door away from a fit of terror.

At times the film’s satire is in its over-the-top badness (the occasional terrible dialogue, rabid raccoons, use of Star Wars paraphanallia, hopeless subplots, dumb blondes).  Most important however is the film’s ability to turn commonly-used story devices on their heads.  Where in The Graduate, Mr. Robinson suggests to Ben to go out and “have a good time,” Denis’ father (played by Alan Ruck) tells him where the Magnum condoms are and leaves him alone in the house with champagne.  While both Denis’ father and Mr. Robinson (by introducing Elaine) are enabling their adult interpretation of sex for a younger generation, Mr. Robinson is duped, unknowingly giving up his wife before his daughter, while Mr. Cooverman goes out and gets laid in the back of the station wagon like HE was the one who just graduated from high school.

The most telling scenes in coming-of-agers are when the characters pronounce their love to each other.  In Jerry Maguire, the scene where Tom Cruise pleads to Renée Zellweger “YOU complete ME.  I love YOU,” and she goes “shut up, shut up.  You. Had. Me. At. Hello.” happens in the final sequence.  Similarly in Garden State: it is not until Zach Braff skips his flight at the very end that he is able to fully communicate to Natalie Portman that he loves her.  Every romantic comedy involves a leap of faith,  and most of the time, it will be employed at the end to leave audiences with a good feeling. In Beth Cooper, however, it is practically the first line in the film.  Though it may seem like a naive course of action to take, Denis knows exactly what he’s doing when he says those all-too hidden words.  The movie picks up right where most romantic comedies have left off, right when he says he loves her.  Yet it’s real, and Beth knows it is, and that’s why everyone is sincere who’s supposed to be throughout the film.   He wants Beth to notice him, and in his fantasy realized… nightmare.  “You’re not Beth Cooper,” he realizes… people are trying to kill him… his house is destroyed.

And that’s what makes Beth Cooper so great.  At the end of romantic comedies/coming-of-age films (which invariably act as romantic comedies) the characters, at the very least, are gushing, liplocked love birds, high on cloud nine with their new-found soulmates.  By beginning the film with the leap of faith and the fantasy of Beth, Denis straggles home at the end, bloodied, beaten, beat.  The movie wasn’t about making reality fantasy,  but about making the fantasy of Beth a reality and all the crap humans have to through for that to happen.  And the best part?  He still loves her, and for the first time, he knows why.

Bruno just isn’t that funny.  The movie’s a series of crude jokes that poke fun at both homosexuality and homophobia, yet expects us to understand which is ironic and which is farcical.  Unlike Borat, which was entirely ironic in its anti-semitism (because Sacha Baron Cohen, creator and lead actor, is jewish), Brüno is a convoluted portrayal of fashion (which is synonymous with “gay”), the American understanding of Germanic people (i.e. Hitlers, all of them), and how homophobic the deep south really is.  But wait, didn’t I already know that?

I never thought I would say this, but Brüno makes Borat‘s plot look like The Usual Suspects.  A gay Austrian fashion designer and another mainstage on Baron Cohen’s Da Ali G Show, Brüno loses his job in Vienna and goes to America to gain celebrity.  Through a series of irrelevant racist, sexist, and overtly offensive  mishaps, Brüno realizes he must become straight to become famous and seeks the help of different facets of the deep south.  Within the last half hour of the movie, he finds himself consulting with two southern pastors who will help him convert to heterosexuality, a group of professional hunters, and two drill sergeants at a Reserves boot camp.

The last half hour of the movie, while it lacked any significant humor, was disturbingly sad.  Where Brüno exceeds its predecessor Borat is in its thematic meaning: the latter was supposed to be a critique on anti-semitism, but it fell short and just seemed racist.  Brüno, however, was effective in its commentary on homophobia within the United States.  The final scene of the movie portrays Baron Cohen as Brüno with his counterpart Lutz (Gustaf Hammarsten) engaged in a homoerotic wrestling sequence.  They begin to fondle each other sexually in front of several hundred Ultimate Fighting fans, whose reactions range from verbal disgust (“faggot”, “motherfucker”, “queer”, etc.) to crying.  Although the scene was meant to be somewhat humorous, it was more so disturbing.  As my friend put it, there was “a lot of hate” for just one movie.

There certainly was a lot of hate.  At points, the movie was overwhelming in its unabashedness, but mostly it was boring, racist (without a point), and full of recycled jokes.  I don’t know, maybe I liked Borat because I was a teenager when I saw it; I don’t want to outgrow ironic humor, but I think that Sacha Baron Cohen needs to reassess his definition of farcical commentary.