10.07.2005 20:27 Uhr

USA 2005, dir. Steven Spielberg.

"For neither do man live, nor die, in vain." Steven Spielberg's latest, the new and improved version of War of the Worlds ends on a hopeful, optimistic note. The sonorous voice, as the narrating voice of the opening sequence, a voice that is quiet throughout the movie, is obviously supposed to be either H. G. Wells or/ and Orson Wells from the famous radio play. It lends credibility and authority to an otherwise rather free adaptation of the original novel.

But the degree of faith towards the original is not the point here. Worlds is an empty action drame with familiar visual effects. Surprisingly, the movie does not even try to supply a human or love interest. In the paper, it was the ZEIT, I think, that Spielberg had the genius idea of showing not a scientist but a guy next door deal with the alien attack. But he's taking things a bit far.

Ray Ferrier is utterly clueless. He's an unlikeable slob, never really tries with his kids nor appears to care to, he's curious, but a coward, he stumbles through the wreckage with no idea what to do, No Plan. In the end, he reaches Boston and his ex-wife, whose life is relatively intact, with the grandparents and her new partner alife. Ferrier delivers his kids and is done. Wordlessly, he pats shoulders with his alienated son. We never get close enough to see is he has an emotion for all that's happened.

But the alien armada, the tripods, appear to be as clueless. In an insidious plot they injected the earth with war machines millennia ago, watched and waited and, finally, struck. Somehow, they forgot about decontamination, though, and after a couple of days of destruction, the fighter-pilots succumb to the Earth's bacteria and viruses - nastinesses us humans are long immune to.

Humanity is safe, for once, though through no capability of their own. The human army is on the spot, but scrambles pointlessly. The 'Nam veteran snaps back into guerilla mode and all the way over the top. Most people are burnt to ashes before they know what hit them. The rest the tripods collect, keep in cages, and suck dry.

Basically, and quite contrary to its closing note, War of the Worlds, the new movie, is about the pointlessness of life and death. It's been criticised as Sc*****gy propaganda - but I never knew the 10% of your brain-people were so nihilistic.

Apart from the small irony, Worlds is sufficiently exciting and totally devoid of humor. It's probably better on the big screen then on TV, but not really worth the 7 EUR 50.

10.07.2005 20:14 Uhr

Die Frankfurter Äpplerkneipen, nur echt mit richtig übellauniger Bedienung sind schon länger ordentlich in. Und seit einiger Zeit findet man Frankfurter traditionelle Küche in den Szene-Hang outs. Erst in der Schönen Aussicht. Jetzt in der Frankfurter Küche - übrigens keine Anspielung auf das gute alte Frankfurter Bad, unangenehme Überraschung auf jeder 2. Wohnungsbesichtigung, sondern terminus technicus für eine real existierende Nachkriegsinnovation und im Museum für Stadtgeschichte zu besichtigen.

Die Frankfuter küche, wieder im Ostend, jedenfalls, ist nicht ganz so Innendesign-schick wie die Aussicht, aber okay. Der direkte Blick auf die Küche ist eher Geschmackssache (wenn auch sehr unterhaltend). Die Küchenduft wie mittags bei Muttern. Die Bedienung super-süß und überlastet. Die Preise zivil bis normal.

Die typische Karte: Sachen mit grüner Soße, angemachter Käse ("Schneegestöber" und der allgegenwärtige "Handkäs mit Musik"). Und "Himmel und Erde" - Kartoffelbrei mit Zwiebeln, Speck und Äpfeln. Als Kind am Küchentisch meiner Oma wusste ich nicht, dass diese unerwartete Delikatesse urfrankfurterisch ist - genau wie meine Ruhrgebiets-Oma. Die Original-Kombi mit gebratener Blutwurst kriege ich heute nicht mehr runter. Aber in der Küche substituieren sie klaglos Bratwurst (die allerdings etwas fettig ist).

Alles in allem Daumen hoch.

Frankfurter Küche

Hanauer Landstraße 88, Frankfurt

+49 69 43056878

10.07.2005 18:36 Uhr

Das Binh Minh hat jetzt schon einen ganz guten Ruf. Aber als ich da letztlich von der Stadt bis fast ans Ende der Ostendstraße gelaufen bin, habe ich mich vorsichtig auf etwas sehr Gutbürgerliches mit ein bisschen Aisa-Nippes und einer erstaunlich guten Küchen eingestellt. Ein bisschen wie die Eintracht-Klause am Oeder Weg. Mit dem touri-affinen überladenen Asia-Kitsch der innenstädtischen Asienrestaurants wäre in der Ecke weniger zu rechnen gewesen.

Stattdessen: Ein kleiner, gerader Innenraum mit großer Fensterfront und Terrasse, von einer niedrig gestutzten Bambushecke umzäunt. Die Terrasse zurückhaltend, der Innenraum modern-asiatisch, gerade Linien, starke Farben, minimalistisch. Und leise Soul-Musik anstelle von El Condor Pasa auf dem Koto.

Vietnamesisch kenne ich bisher nur aus den Quan Vans und war nie so begeistert oder mir überhaupt bewusst, etwas anderes als den üblichen Thai-China-Imbiss-Stil zu essen. Aber Vietnamisch à la Binh Minh ist leicht, mit unaufdringlichen, individuellen Aromen. Kleine Saucen mit wenig Öl. Frische Nudeln. Sehr, sehr lecker.

Ganz klasse: der Eistee mit einem deutlichem Hauch von Zimt.

Binh Minh

Vietnamesisches Restaurant

Ostendstr. 61, Frankfurt

+49 69 90431124

10.07.2005 14:36 Uhr

Kaffee Matthews sits in concentration, manipulating knobs, sliders, buttons on two mid-sized mixers. Her foot beating time. Which time, though? The beat accelerates to a nervous flutter, then subsides. A surprisingly French guy in front of me bobs along to the music (I won't say rhythm). Kaffe Matthews makes sound from four speakers. The sound is unrhythmic, unmelodic, throbbing at best.

Kaffe Matthews speaks, a little story about a snoring man who keeps a woman awake. There are distorted voices, sampled earlier in the lobby. I think I can make out mine. Occasionally, Kaffee Metthews smiles to herself. As if a ping or scratching sound had come out particularly well. Or as if an old friend had just come up. I wondered if her looks of concentration and pleasure were spontaneous or part of the performance.

Ten minutes into the show, the French guy in front of me stops bobbing. Someone from the audience leaves. Matthews, who hasn't so much as said hello, looks up and looks after her. The sensor in front of her has taken up the change in the room's atmosphere and channelled it into the soundscape.

Twenty minutes into the show, there is some sort of a climax. A long one. Another ten minutes? Then the application quits. I take it as part of the performance. But the curator half gets up and apologizes and tells the artist its okay. So maybe there was a crash after all. Matthews works on a Mac, the Apple-logo carefully taped (why?). She comments briefly on the incident, referring to herself (and her equipment?) as "we". Then continues with another piece of noise.

After an hours, Kaffe Matthews leaves to restrained - cool! - applause, and returns for a lengthy encore.

I don't even understand Jazz, so I'm no judge for this beyond "nice" or "fun". Sometimes I wonder, though, what makes a thing, as opposed to another thing, art, and the other thing not. Maybe sometimes it is just the courage to go through with something for a tangible amount of time and in public.