New Years = My Birthday = Twilight Zone marathon = my own private utopia

The Twilight Zone's New Year Eve-through-Day 48-hour marathon. A cornerstone of not only my late childhood, but also my teenage years and current phase of adulthood.



The yearly tradition started back sometime around 1994. Give or take a year or two. This is just a rough guesstimation. Back when the New Years marathon was on Channel 11, not yet having relocated to the Sci-Fi Channel. The Twilight Zone had been one of those cool-sounding classics that my pops and uncles would chat about, one that always seemed like the quintessential "Matt Show," but I had been hesitant to watch. The reason: it all seemed like it'd go over my 12-year-old head. The images and suspense would register, sure, but from what my elders had been saying, it seemed like a show that went deeper than the bizarre and often chilling. Social issues were dissected, and considering that the show originally aired during the early '60s, the relevancy of the subjects and themes covered were decades of their time.



But all this changed the New Years party celebrating the arrival of 1995, a shindig at my parents house that ushered in several of their longtime friends. Plus myself, a pre-teen ready to ring in my 13th birthday in mere hours. Being a New Years Baby has its instant advantages, most notably the built-in party that comes along with it. This time, it was me and about 10 forty-somethings in attendance. One guest, my dad's sarcastically-arrogant friend Dennis, was a huge Zone head, and asked to have the television set switched to Channel 11's ongoing T-Zone onslaught. In a lucky twist of fate for Mr. Dennis, his favorite episode just happened to be on: "A Game of Pool," the one where Jonathan Winters plays a ghost who challenges Jack Klugman's hotshot pool-player into a life-or-death game of billiards. Dennis loved to play pool, so it made sense.



Sitting on the couch next to Dennis, watching as the great episode bobbed and weaved from funny to morbid in quick strokes, I was hypnotized. Unable to look away. Even as the ep ended, Dennis went back into the kitchen for some more grown-up sipping, but I remained fastened, hooked into the Zones. The only time I allowed the partygoers to change the channel was to watch the ball drop. Moments after the New Year officially began, I swiped the remote control from one of my mom's sloppily-drunken gal-pal's hands and put Channel 11 back on.

I stayed up 'til about 5am that night, and ten Twilight Zone gems later, I fell asleep on the couch, officially a Zone fanatic. And every New Years since, whether it be for hours in a row or merely a few episodes scattered, I've made it an ritual to watch some of the marathon. It's been on the Sci-Fi Channel for the past half-a-decade, maybe longer, but its just as magical as it was on Channel 11. The funny part is that I actually own all 168 Zone episodes on DVD, thanks to my awesome parents and their greatest-birthday-gift-giving-effort-ever a few years back, when they gave me the entire "Definitive Edition" DVD set. One of my prized possessions, it remains, far behind but not lost amongst the thoughts of my dog Zoey. No joke.

As I type this, I'm watching the sneakily sinister episode "Queen of the Nile," about a journalist sent to profile a beautiful, seemingly-ageless actress, who ends up being the actual Queen of the Nile, kept alive and gorgeous for centuries thanks to the evil deeds of Egyptian gods. Sweet. The roommate and I are having guests over later for some pregame drinks before we head on out to our NYE celebration, but please believe that I'll do my damndest to keep The Twilight Zone the tube for as long as humanly possible. If anything, I'll use the trusty old "....but its my birthday, man! I should get final say on what to watch, no?" That probably won't work, since Rock Band 2 will surely trump my sentimenal, imaginative ass. But its worth a valiant shot, I say.

Everything about The Twilight Zone connects with every side of my personality, my outlook, my imagination fascination. Even when decidedly heartwarming, the show was never too stuck-up or lunkheaded to totally skirt the unknown. The supernatural was always looming, a mindbender of an ending found within the majority. As somebody who cherishes superb storytelling and screenwriting, the show has never lost its touch; no matter when I turn on any particular episode, the pacing and ideas-beneath-peculiar-dressing impress. Often times, astonish. Some simply enjoy The Zone for thrills, genre-muffling entertainment of the most enjoyable caliber. Others, though, such as myself, can't help but dig deeper to uncover the high intelligence and topical relevance. It isn't just TV....The Twilight Zone plays like a one-of-a-kind 30-minute, sometimes hour-long, trip into your theater of the mind.

I'd love to write ad naus about my personal favorite episodes here, but I've got a busy day on the horizon. Time is a-tickin'. But fuck, how amazing are "The Monsters are Due on Maple Street," "The Hitchhiker," "Five Characters in Search of an Exit," "After Hours," "People are Alike All Over," "Nervous Man in a Five Dollar Room," "Eye of the Beholder," "Deaths-Head Revisited," "The New Exhibit," "The Howling Man," and "The Masks"? Just to cite a few.





New Years Eve/Day: not only significant and timelessly special because its my born-day, but also because it first introduced me to unbeatable, never-will-be-matched greatness of The Twilight Zone. It'll forever remain both my favorite television show of all time and my top source of narrative superiority. Rod Serling (creator, head writer, all around genius), my idol and endless supplier of inspiration and brain satiating.



The hardcover book volumes of original Twilight Zone episodes scripts, the entries into my reading-material collection I'm most proud of, and intend to put to the most career-beneficially use in calendars to come.

Now, back to the marathon, a wonderful birthday gift I'd like to think that Rod Serling and the good folks at the Sci-Fi Channel give to me once a year. If only it came encased in wrapping paper.

Year in Review: How did I miss this story when it happened??

From AOL News:

"Silly Filly: On a fine October day, Gracie the horse decided to investigate a hole in a tree, but she went a little bit too far and got stuck. Owner Jason Harschbarger of Pullman, W.Va., snapped the photo before using a chainsaw to cut Gracie free. She was not seriously hurt."

This picture is having a profound impact on me, and I can't call why.

2008, The Shitty Year That It Was for Rap

Yeah, 2008 was even more of a shitty year for rap than it was for American-made, theatrically-released horror films. Infinitely more so.

Sad that the only albums I can honestly say I still give a shit about are: Elzhi's The Preface and Europass, Black Milk's Tronic, eMC's The Show, Planet Asia and DJ Muggs' Pain Language, Q-Tip's The Renaissance, Scarface's Emeritus, and T.I.'s Paper Trail. Why "sad"? Because only one of those albums made any impact, and we all know which one. And yes, I do realize that The Carter 3 came out, but I'm still as indifferent about that one as I was upon initial listen(s).

After such an uneventful, lackluster year on my ears, I have zero energy and/or motivation to write about it. So thankfully Smoking Section has taken the initiative to compile a hilarious-because-its-all-true list of the year's biggest turds. Enjoy.

The Smoking Section's spot-on "Most Disappointing Hip Hop Albums of 2008

Some good shooting of the shit....

A couple of interview clips from the Charlie Rose show with Brad Pitt (a top actor in my book) and David Fincher (very well could be my top working filmmaker today). For somebody like me, this is coolness, considering that neither guy gives too many sitdowns. So having both together in one room is pretty eventful.

Ah, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. A film I'd been waiting all year for, in hopes of it smacking upside the left-cheek with amazing-ness. Instead, it just backhanded me with mostly greatness but some weakness that has prevented it from leaving a huge mark. Maybe I need to see it again before I totally chalk it up to an admirable, well-conceived, somewhat letdown.

There's like nine parts to this, all found on Youtube. I'm just posting a couple here. And note the creepy little mustache that Pitt has; its for his Inglourious Basterds character, so it's a-okay. Quit giggling at it. No, he doesn't look like your pedophile neighbor.

Part 2


Part 3

"Why are you wearing that stupid man-suit?"

Revisiting this one tonight was a stellar idea.



After a good four years away from it, this one is still as hilarious, profound, unsettling, and perplexing as the first dozen times I watched it.

I refuse to believe that writer-director Richard Kelly is a one-cult-hit wonder. Here's to his next one, The Box, wiping the frustration-stains of his too-daring-for-its-own-good Southland Tales clean off. I mean, its based on a Richard Matheson tale, and Matheson is a pillar (in my mind). All the pieces are in play. Now, knock 'em down, Richie boy.

Oh, and Jena Malone truly is one of the most slept-on natural beauties in the game. I've seen plenty of her movie-press-run interviews, and she's never less than equal parts charming, quirky, and free-from-restraint.

I'd kick it with her any time, any place, any second.

Goblin ruled, still rules

Here's a case where I'll let the sounds do the justifying/explaining/entertaining here.

Goblin = a group of progressive musicians from Italy who scored some of the best genre flicks to come out of the 1970s/the best soundtrack-providers in cinematic history (at least for my corrupted sensibilities)

Listen to their work, and fall in love. Or not, though be warned: if you don't, I'll think less of you. Maybe just keep the far-from-impressed reactions to yourself, then.

George A. Romero's Dawn of the Dead, the first time I noticed the collective group name Goblin in the credits under "original music by..."


Dario Argento's Suspiria, officially my all-time top movie score, hands crashed-down on the table of decision (seriously, how fuckin' brilliant is this right here? Cool points forever awarded to Cage and RJD2 for sampling it on "Weather People," too)


Argento's Deep Red....Goblin and Argento went together like Danny Elfman and Tim Burton (Argento even produced Dawn of the Dead)


**Just watched Deep Red for the second time. The "painting is actually a mirror" trick is perfectly-executed, and genius maximized. Well played, Argento-sir. Well played.

>>>>BONUS
This one's not by Goblin; rather, it's the work of another great Italian horror film composer: Fabio Frizzi. And it rules just as much as the above Goblin stuff.

The main theme for Lucio Fulci's awesome-in-every-gloriously-overdone-Dawn-of-the-Dead-ripping-off-way Zombi. (Necro, that aforementioned horror-loving sick fuck/horrorcore rap producer, also sampled this one. What a guy.)

Valkyrie, post-watching thoughts...

It's late. I'm tired. Why couldn't the fuckin' AMC nearby have shown this closer to 9pm, not 11pm? Those inglourious basterds! Going with a bullet-point approach to my specific reactions here. But overall, I dug Valkyrie more than enough. Was highly entertained, never anywhere near bored. Taken as a straightforward suspense thriller, it was damn near first-rate; as a historical account, though, a bit hollow, lacking the meaty layers necessary for full impact. Go into this one as you may.



The Good:
**as just mentioned, the rapid-fire pacing and dedication to the "assassination plot against Adolf Hitler by members of his own army" mission at narrative hand made for what lazier folk would label as a "nail-biter." I, I'll just call it a great piece of tense entertainment. Aside from Colonel Stauffenberg, the head of the anti-Fuhrer mutiny played by Tom Cruise, the rest of the traitors are given zero backgstory, leaving their specific reasons for turning against Hitler mysteries. We just know that they're tired of the tyrant and his civilian-slaughtering, destructive ways.

**considering that we all know the film's outcome before even buying a ticket (the assassination attempt, although the best and most closely-effective of its kind, was unsuccessful, and all involved were executed immediately), the fact that Valkyrie still manages to captivate with ample suspense is something that director Bryan Singer (Superman Returns, X-Men, The Usual Suspects) should be saluted for here.

**and finally, a surprisingly well-handled aspect...the use of all English language here. The intention with the film (at least how it seems to me) is to deliver a top-notch popcorn thriller (albeit one with a bit more truthfulness and importance than other "popcorn" fare), and in order to do so, asses need to be in seats, thus rendering the use of German speaking and subtitles obsolete, unfortunately. I don't mind subtitles, but many (lame mofos) do, so be it. But at least the way the film's English-speaking is eased into within the opening minute it nicely-pulled-off.

And now....

The Bad:
**the stunt casting of Tom Cruise. Sure, Cruise sort of resembles the real Stauffenberg (Google him, I'm too lazy to search for a pic and post it here), but he's way too miscast here. Just see the scene where he angrily exclaims the infamous "Heil Hitler!" salute. The audience I was with erupted in laughter at something that should've been stone-cold serious. And really, if his performance was grade-A+, I wouldn't even have cared that it was a megastar in the role, but his work here is pretty flat. Not his best job done, by any means. He isn't terrible; he's just mediocre, and being that he's surrounded by some very-fine supporting talent (such as Tom Wilkinson, Bill Nighy, and Terence Stamp, all performing greatly here), his faults bleed through the screen.

**related to Cruise, the film's over-dependency on humanizing Stauffenberg by including a brely-there subplot involving his wife and children, as well as an opening scene where he's severely wounded in battle. Neither proves sufficient enough to the basic "assassination attempt" storyboard as things progress, and Stauffenberg is more of a supporting character here than the true lead, so efforts to give him narrative padding fall way short. I can think of at least three other characters in the film that I'd rather have learned more about, but never got to as Valkyrie approaches the all-real-people roster.

**and lastly, an additional negative flipside to the whole "lean, straight-to-the-core approach"....certain spots of the story would've been better served with some explanatory injections. For instance, just how did the choice of "hand-delivered bomb into one of Hitler's private meetings which would set off Operation Valkyrie" end up being the plan? What led to this exactly? Were any other elaborate ideas flirted with at any point? As Valkyrie has it, the plan is decided upon seemingly nonchalantly, and agreed upon rather quickly. Which I'm sure wasn't really the case.

Final Statement:
Valkyrie is totally worth seeing, as long as you go in expecting nothing more than a fast, lean, potboiler of a suspense ride. In no way a "great" film; just a very entertaining, though flawed, one, and one that I'd definitely watch a few more times. I'll just have to turn my critical switch to Off and enjoy the at-times-bumpy-but-ultimately-satisfying ride.

A little exploitation makes any night much nicer.....

I have this one second-cousin, named Larry, who has always been somewhat of an enigma. Quirky in several ways, mysterious in others, he's the guy that my pops and other relatives tell weirdly funny childhood stories about, to further explain his eccentricities. Some family members prefer to not engage in one-on-one convos with Larry, in fear of being cornered and forced into strange idle chatter, but not I. In fact, his personality kinks suit my interests more well than most others. Prime example: Christmas Eve, a few days ago. Larry and I got to talking, inevitably circling into a discussion of literature and cinema, two areas of interest we share in common.

The most intriguing bit of nostalgia he blessed me with was a fond memory of sneaking away from his parents as a teen, hopping on a bus into Manhattan, and catching double features of grindhouse-era exploitation cinema. Naturally, my ears perked up, and envy settled in.

The sleazy, sticky-floored, darkly-lit, shoddy-quality-film-reel experience of exploitation double features is one of the many things I wish I could've partaken in; replacing the overpriced, crowded confusion of my local AMC and/or Loews with much more quaint, cost-effective theaters where people were most likely having sex three rows behind you, while a couple of the older gentlemen seated within would probably exit the theater and proceed to break some laws, or at least some sense(s) of decency.

My fascination with the grindhouse experience is twofold: the just-discussed atmosphere of the terribly-maintained theaters, and the low-grade, morally-depraved films themselves. Watching over-the-top-in-gore slashers in the comfort of my bedroom or parents' living room doesn't quite gel, largely because of roommate/parent interferences and "You're fucking sick, Matt" damnations. Being that my setting options for such viewings are limited, though, that is precisely how I checked out two beloved exploitation slashers, 1973's Torso and 1982's Pieces. Months, maybe even a year, back, I'd read how horror aficionado/geek Eli Roth (creator of Cabin Fever, and the Hostel films) organized a double feature screening of both flicks at Los Angeles' New Beverly Theater, an act of "you must see these on a big screen" fandom. Roth is one of those dudes who's seen practically every horror film ever made, and talks about both his favorites and least-liked with contagious glee.

Torso and Pieces are two of his all-time most-cherished, so, regardless of whether I'd watch at home or somewhere more suitable, I had to check them out. And thanks to Netflix, availablity is no problem.

First up, Pieces.


A truly awful film in terms of execution and common sense, but not one without its charms. It's a shameless Texas Chainsaw Massacre derivative, and not something I'd rush back to watch again anytime soon, but I can understand why the Eli Roths of the world swear by it. The set-up: masked serial killer stalks hot coeds on an otherwise-lifeless college campus, slicing and dicing the PYTs with his trusty chainsaw in an effort to construct a jigsaw puzzle of human limbs. His very own Frankenstein's monster. Milton Bradley banned, too-controversial game: Fun with Ed Gein

That's it, plot wise, but really, what more would you expect from an '80s slasher anyway? The dialogue is atrocious, and Pieces has some of the worst dubbing this side of a Godzilla flick. And, even for an exploitation-era horror film, Pieces goes a bit too far with its "rawness" during some of its elaborate kill scenes. Namely, one part where the killer has cornered a cute tennis player in a girls' locker room shower, taunting her with his buzzing chainsaw. She's terrified, understandably, but rather than focus on her scared eyes, director Juan Piquer Simon zooms in on her crotch as she pees her pants. Quite the gentleman's act, right? While watching from the comfort of my couch, even I cringed, and shouted, "Oh come on, man, that's just unnecessary!"

Simon does deserve kudos, however for the bit where the knife jams into the back of the chick's head and exits through her open mouth, all while she's squirming on a blood-filled waterbed. That was quite impressive, and well handled. Hey, what do ya know? Youtube has said scene, in embeddable glory!


Then there's the acting in Pieces, though which is across-the-board subpar. Especially guilty is the main protagonist, a curly-haired, questionably-successful-with-the-ladies, 30-something-year-old university student entrusted by the police department to act as their "eyes and ears," and good-lord is he one of the most annoying, unlikeable characters around. As Pieces moved forward at a gory clip, I was afraid that dude would survive, being that he's the main guy and all, but fortunately I was wrong. Dead wrong. The film's final moment serves him with one fuck of a sendoff, and the concluding image is now up there alongside Sleepaway Camp amongst the most "what the fuck!" final images in horror history. This ending alone salvaged Pieces, elevating it from a forgettable dirtball featuring some pretty nifty kill scenes into a batshit-crazy tour-de-force of awesome stupidity.

I recommend watching this whole clip, but to see the stellar ending image, fast forward to the 1:15 mark. It's fucking amazing. Who knew that serial killer had been some sort of mad scientist with the capability to renanimate a corpse all along? Makes absolutely zero sense, but still rocks hardcore.



Torso, on the other hand, is a much more fascinating piece of work.


Originally, Torso was attached to a print of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and the two were shown as a double feature here in American. Artistically, it's surprisingly impressive, full of beautiful cinematography and shots that even the most tight-collared of film critics would have to commend. Even nicer on the eyes is the film's untouchable roster of female talent, an endless supply of stunningly-gorgeous women that lifts Torso into the upper echelon of eye-candy films I've ever seen. One girl in particular had me seriously sprung, like totally head-over-heels infatuated. Which made her eventual demise unexpectedly tragic (in a purely hormonal sense, of course; her character is as underdeveloped as they come).

Here's her curtain call, a logic-less head-scratcher: she's just avoided a raping at the hands of two motorcycle-riding hippies who had been feeling her up at some random hippie drug-orgy. As an escape route, she's stumbled into the muddiest, most perfectly-fog-drenched woods imaginable (don't ask), where our killer just happens to be hanging out, of course. Enjoy (this is actually a great-looking sequence, if nothing else). You can't get the clearest of looks at the actress, but even quick glances should justify my gargantuan-sized crush on miss thing. And excuse the partial nudity (yes, I do realize that posting such a video will have people thinking, "Matt is pretty twisted, huh? This is the kind of shit he watched during his free time?" Yes, it is. Wanna fight about it?):



Torso is basically another "college students being picked off one by one" story for the first hour or so. During which I was constantly confused and left with no fucking clue as to what was going on. Random people are killed, backstories are given that aren't ever touched upon again. Thankfully, Torso takes an inspired detour for its final 30 minutes, a cat-and-mouse stalker scenario in some fancy villa where four sexy-as-hell chicks have gone to hide from the killings going down on campus, and engage in some steamy lesbian sex (just for the fuck of it). What commences at the villa is all pretty intense, slow moving to effective degrees, and even takes a No Country for Old Men-like "less is more" approach to the deaths of some key characters. Also of worthy note: during the climactic mano-y-mano fight between the killer and the potential hero, one dude lands a sweet-ass dropkick straight out of Jackie Chan's Greatest Hits. Bravo!

Torso has tons of flaws (from some laughable acting, to overlong bits of pointless character exposition), but by the end credits I found myself pleasantly satisfied. If I can get my mitts on a DVD copy for no more than $15, I may even purchase. Because, even like the inferior Pieces, Torso is the kind of film that we'll never see made again, at least here in the States (makes sense that Torso come from Italy, actually). The director, Sergio Martino, couldn't give two shits about acceptance; he simply wanted to push the slasher genre forward with as much artistry and reckless taste-abandonment as he could. Sure, he was far from a Stanley Kubrick-level master, or even Dario Argento, but not many are, anyway.

I'd take something with only half the fun of Torso over a new Saw film any time, any day. Fuck, I wish I could've grown up 20-25 years ago. I would've been in grindhouse nirvana.

There Will Be Blood In The Hallways and Cafeteria

Just watched this again thanks to the IFC Channel.

This is/was one of those DVDs I bought just off the strength of alread-read reviews, and basic knowledge of the film's subject matter, which fascinate(s)(d) me. Watched it a week or so after the purchase, and immediately restarted it and viewed again. One of the quietest, bare-bones movies I've ever seen, but also one of the most hypnotically haunting and can't-shake-off to boot.



The last ten minutes alone are the stuff of everyday-life nightmares. Eeenie, meeny, miney, mo....

The anatomy of a school shooting, as seen/shot through the eyes of Gus Van Sant.

A must-see if you've yet to do so.

Post-Christmas Revival

Merry belated Christmas to who ever visits this little site of mine, by the way. Been running around like headless poultry the past few days, and had a pretty great Christmas yesterday, full of overeating, calorie-rific pastries, happy rugrats, and other joys.

Now, back to posting of weird shit.

Not much to say here, other than it's France's apparent answer to 28 Days Later. France, the current mecca of kick-ass horror. If that's not enough of a sales pitch, slap me in the face and keep it moving.

Mutants

Diggin' In the Youtube Crates

How could I have not heard this song before today? Thanks to one of my equally-old-school-adoring co-workers, this muddy gem from Saukrates, called "Father Time," has entered my world. And I'm quite the content camper.

Originally unleashed back in '95, apparently. Of course it was---that's when beats like these were the norm, and I could buy new rap albums at will and expect at least six or seven great tracks. Nowadays, well, no comment.

Just bask in the dark macabre here. Feels like a horror movie is playing in the background as the dude Saukrates freestyles. Fantastic.

Somebody give this photographer a raise, stat!

I'm not gonna front and act like I saw this live on the tube during last night's Monday Night Football, or that I even know what exactly happened (though I'd assume this Rams dude was in the wrong place at the wrong time).

These are just pictures that don't come around very often. Practically demand as many forums to be seen as possible.

Spotted over at: Yahoo Sports

2008, The Year in Film (Through My Distorted Eyes)

Late last week, I put together a "Top 8 Films of 2008" list over at the KING Mag website, so I'll spare doing another one here. But in doing said countdown, there was a great number of this year's flicks that I couldn't discuss/single out/insult thanks to space restrictions. On the same token, I'm not in the mood to write ad naus about every f'n movie that left a real mark on me, so here I present, a lazy list of films both great, surprising, and despicable (in no particular orders, and not limited to specific numerical boundaries).

As you can tell, this was a pretty great, diverse year at the movie for yours truly. Great (mostly solo) times.

2008's Movies That I Loved, And Will Watch For Years To Come
The Wrestler
Synecdoche, New York
The Dark Knight
Slumdog Millionaire
Revolutionary Road
Wendy and Lucy
Wall-E
Doubt
Rachel Getting Married
The Signal
Snow Angels
The Strangers
Let The Right One In
Pineapple Express
Timecrimes
Cloverfield

2008's Films I Respect And/Or Enjoyed, But Can't See Myself Re-watching Much
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Milk
Forgetting Sarah Marshall
Speed Racer
Changeling
Redbelt
The Wackness

2008's Films That Surprised The Hell Out Of Me, and I Loved Unexpectedly (Or More Than Expected)
Quarantine (a remake of a beloved flick that I expected to drop the ball, but thankfully carried it into the endzone, and then did the Iggy Shuffle)
Role Models
Iron Man
Rock N Rolla
Red
Che
Burn After Reading
The Visitor
Funny Games (another triumphant Quarantine-like remake case)
Tropic Thunder
Step Brothers (had damn-near written Will Ferrell's once-great-funny off, but he came to play here, as did Mr. John C. Reilly)
The Ruins
Fear(s) of the Dark
The Midnight Meat Train
Doomsday
Frost/Nixon
Kung Fu Panda
Wanted
Mulberry Street
Hellboy II: The Golden Army
Choke

2008's Films That Left Me Indifferent, And I'll Soon Forget...Actually, I Have Forgotten
Miracle at St. Anna
Eagle Eye
Zack & Miri Make A Porno
Sex & the City
Repo! The Genetic Opera
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
Traitor
Stop-Loss
The Incredible Hulk


2008's Films That Truly Sucked, With Little-To-No Redeeming Factors, And I'll Hate Forever
The Happening
Mirrors
Hancock
Seven Pounds
Blindness
Vantage Point
Righteous Kill
The Spirit

2008's Straight-to-DVD Films That Kicked Much Ass
Inside
Frontiere(s)
6 Films to Keep You Awake

....and, looking ahead:
***2009 Films I'm Anxious-As-All-Goodness-Gracious To See...Don't Let Me Down (Yes, This List Is Long...)
Inglourious Basterds
Shutter Island
Watchmen
The Wolf Man
Trick 'r' Treat
The Lovely Bones
Observe & Report
Vinyan
Martyrs
Funny People
Gomorrah
My Bloody Valentine 3D
The Unborn
Friday the 13th
Coraline
The Hurt Locker
Surveillance
Terminator Salvation
Drag Me to Hell
Monsters Vs. Aliens
The Soloist
The Road
Bruno
Bitch Slap
Last House on the Left
Moon
Whiteout
The Crazies
The Class
Kick-Ass
Jennifer's Body
Black Dynamite
Year One
Riot

...and finally, since I'm such a swell guy, a little treat for enduring these long, probably your-time-wasting lists: a pic of this year's biggest "sexy female I'd slept on for far too long" revelation....Mila Kunis.

Points of Interest, Today's Edition

1) Been listening to this dude's music a helluva lot lately, take from this what you/I will. Always considered Cage one of the more underrated lyricists around, but going back to his catalog over the last week or so, it's a truth even more-largely solidified. Dude raps his ass off, and goes at topics and subject matter that are truly secular to him and him alone.



May come off as blasphemy, but in the grand scheme, I may even prefer Cage to Eminem. ***Ducks an onslaught of bile***

2) Iron Man was pretty awesome, though it isn't appearing on any of my own personal nobody-else-cares-about-it-anyway "Best Of '08's Films" lists. But the rumors swirling around its in-development sequel point to Tony Stark's next two villains as:



Black Widow, and Hawkeye. If proven true, the sequel seems in good shape. Here's to Isla Fisher (Wedding Crashers; The Lookout) being cast as Ms. Widow, if so. Cute as hell, charismatic on screen, unconventional for this kinda role. Works for me.


3) Some new on-set images from Inglourious Basterds have popped online? Nice! Ones that show the pain-staking detail(s) that Tarantino continues to achieve = even nicer. I love fake posters, and things of this nature, in films.

Spotted over at: /Film

Alicia Keys wearing a bikini.....

....isn't as glorious as I'd envisioned, to be honest.

Spotted over at: The Superficial


I'm not the biggest fan of privacy-crushing paparazzi shots, but this was one I felt almost obligated to give attention. Alicia Keys in beachwear is quite the hook.

She's still fine, sure. But I'd be lying if I said some of the "seductive mystique" she had hasn't diminished ever-so-slightly. Whatever.

Now, back to reality....

the Thundercats movie we've all been waiting for....

....starring Brad Pitt, Hugh Jackman, and Vin Diesel is....

....still not happening. No chance in hell. But some dudes known as Wormy TV have, at least, imagined "what if," and put together this pretty amazing faux trailer for it.

Enjoy:



Spotted over at: Hollywood Elsewhere

In honor of the great, unfairly forgotten Wonder Showzen

....at least it feels like folks have forgotten. I can count on one hand how many people acually know what the fuck I'm talking about when I hit them with, "Did you watch Wonder Showzen? And, if you did, wasn't Clarence the single-funniest thing on TV at the time?"

Wonder who? Who the hell is Clarence?

It was essentially a kids' show on an unhealthy prescription of acid and date-rape drugs (a truly-adult mocking of Yo Gabba Gabba in design/presentation/structure), and there was some stuff that I couldn't believed MTV sanctioned. I mean, one of the main characters is a penis-head with eyes and pube-hair.



For the uninitiated, Clarence was this big blue hand puppet that some dude wore out in public, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog inspired I'm sure, and would annoy any poor soul who entertained its asinine questions. Clarence's crowning achievement: asking people to explain the "importance of patience" to the kids at home, while testing each person's respective patience through repeated questions, requests to say "louder." Pedestrians got heated, and I laughed uncontrollably.

So many jewels: Beat Kids, on-the-street child reporters who say the most offensive shit; "Slaves! Built the pyramids....Slaves! Built the Parthenon"; Tyler, "America's Most Perfect Child"; Potty Mouth, the kid whose mouth is an actual toilet that spews out endless profanity;

A Wonder Showzen greatest hits, courtesy of Youtube, that has no embed code unfortunately

I'm guessing MTV has stuck the proverbial fork in this one, which is a shame of Cloverfield-monster magnitude. More staged dating shows and kill-me-now Hills spinoffs, but no more subversive, hilarious, button-pushing shit like Wonder Showzen? MTV sucks balls of the largest size.

Said large-testicles on display here....I felt so wrong for laughing at this, but I ultimately submitted to the wrong:


Consider me the one-man promo team for MTV to bring this show back. Two short seasons wasn't nearly enough. Or at least, bring it back rerun style. I can watch my season DVDs whenever I damn well choose, granted, but the sleeping world deserves to see this shit for themselves. Wake up time.




How this dude get his ass either kicked or killed at some point is beyond me.


I watched this "Patience" segment with my dad once, and even Pops Barone lost his shit.

Clarence is one of my top friends on Myspace. He'll forever remain one until he takes his page down. That's my mans and them.

The year that was my life, sized up

The Groundhog Day of self-reflection....January 1. More like Groundhog Month of December, actually. It's the 31-day-home-stretch, yearly....a time for me to look back over the preceding eleven months, analyze how far I've come, how much further I need to reach. So goes the plight of a New Year's Baby. The numbered marriage of 2 and 7 is less than two weeks away, and I sit here wondering, What does 2007 mean, in the big picture that's called "My Life"?

12 months of stress, anguish, personal evaluation, re-structuring, and soul-searching. A few effecting-me-only bombshells greeted me after last birthday, a time when I thought I had it all figured out. Assumed I was living above the clouds in ways. Which all came crashing down like a failed jet-plane. Not to over-dramatize things, but essentially that's how certain revelations hit me, and me alone.

Questions surfaced, and fresh-starts became mandatory. While certain life-changes were halted by unforeseen, bad-timing circumstances, others happened much more easily than anticipated. Namely, a sense of contentness toward my place. Thanks to one hell of a cool, hard-working, and super-dad brother and a loving-mother, hardnosed but for all the good reasons sis-in-law, I'm the G-O-D-father to two of the greatest, coolest, funniest, craziest, and best-looking (hey, I can be biased) rugrats around: Gianna (or, Baby G, Lil G, Geezy G, etc) and Nicholas (or, My Man Nick, Lil Nicky, Ay-Yo-Nick, etc). I'm the son of two of the best parents you could ever hope for, a tag-team duo who'll unconditionally and without-hesitation look out for me when needed, no matter how big or measly the need is, they're on the job.

And, if not more importantly than damn close to equal value, I'm the lucky recipient of an arsenal of the most unique, layered, complicated, yet never-less-than supportive and an-escapist's-lifeline squads of friends around. There's the one who always knows how to have a great time, and won't let another person's over-thinking and/or lethargic inclinations prevent wild times from unfolding. Just unconsciously free-spirited, and it's a miracle more often than not. And then there's the longtime best friends who've found their significant others, their soulmates (sap pours on thickly some times, in ways you can't stop....here be one). Watching how perfectly they've settled into relationship-functions gives a still-single-but-not-for-lack-of-effort guy such as myself endless hope. Dating is a practice originally established within the fifth circle of Hell, but it's a needed evil, and we must deal. But couples like my friends' indirectly operate like a factory of Tony Robbins clones, fed nothing but Redbulls. And last, but not least in the slightest, I can't neglect to mention my fellow single co-defendants, the (un)lucky few who, on a weekly basis, brave the social scene with yours truly, embarking on the same liquor-and-skirt-chasing path, mostly favoring the liquor part unintentionally. These guys (whether single by choice, fate, or divine intervention) may be the most crucial of the friend-bunch, because without them, self-reflection would never end, and I'd surely have lost my shit-marbles by now if so.

The biggest realization that I've arrived at, though, by 2008's final setpiece: that I'm going to be alright. Took much sifting through paranoia and concern, but I've reached. Sure, I'm not awarded the bloated salaries that some around me rake in, and yes, I'm somebody who's not fairly-enough compensated by his bank-account-stuffers. But I've accepted these realities, because I'm doing something I love, and am able to make a living-on-my-own as a byproduct, and that's not half bad. Besides, this current economic snowball-to-nightmare has taught me invaluable money-saving, and spending-less habits/practices that'll be utilized 'til my final hour. And that's not half bad, either.

And true, I work in an industry that's undergoing a serious self-reflection of its own, but I'm not that phased. As long as I can write, and exercise my imagination, I'll be happy. Not to mention, I have a couple career-rejuvenators up my sleeve that (hopefully) 2009 will see the kickstarting(s) of, and I'm hella-excited about both. Let's just say, I sure do love reading scripts and/or dark fiction. Seems like writing either/or would be a hoot.

2008, a year that'll forever be recollected as a turning-point-milestone for y-truly. 12 calendar-pages from now, I'm hoping to have introduced not only new, exciting chapters, but entirely-fresh sets into the anthology called "life."

Wish me luck. Or don't, and concern yourself little-to-none over the matter(s). It's all about me, me, me, me, me, anyway. Forget about you, you, you, you, you. So what 'cha wanna do?

Beyonce has been defeated, in a landslide

I was really trying my hardest to not post this trailer for Fatal Attraction-light: WWE Divas Edition, or Obsessed, as it's referred to by the studio. Looks like crap, sure it will be crap. Walks like duck, quacks like one.

But it's a terribly-blah Friday night, riddled with snow, hail, and other fuck-you-Mother-Nature nonsense. And a friend of mine asked me if I'd seen this preview yet, and for some strange reason I immediately replied with, "Yeah, and how much hotter is Ali Larter than Beyonce in it, right?"

Which now has me thinking, and this is the sole reason I'm wasting energy making this post:

Ali Larter > Beyonce (not only in this trailer, but like overall)

Shocking? Maybe, and my once-strong crush on Beyonce is documented, on record. But Ali Larter is one of the fiercest chick-celebs around, and has yet to be sufficiently recognized as such. Is this her turn? Probably not, as I'm sure Beyonce will dominate the press and buzz here.

But just pause it on the quick shot of her disrobing in that car's passenger seat.

That one shot > "Single Ladies" video (wanna fight about it?)

Holy shit!!!

33 days left......so much crazy, what-the-fuck stuff going on here, I won't even begin to wonder. I'll just wait and ask what-the-fuck questions while watching, per usual.

Thing that make me laugh --- today's edition

1) One of the laziest, most absurd yet hilarious-enough-to-make-it-worth-mentioning casting rumors ever? If not, it's up there.

Courtesy of the hack bastards over at England's newspaper The Sun, who also at one point said that Cher was "confirmed" to play Catwoman, which Christopher Nolan and the Warner Bros. brass laughed off and discarded with ease.

Basically, if you don't feel like clicking over to The Sun, they're "reporting" that Eddie Murphy has signed on to play The Riddler, while Shia Labeouf will be Robin. Neglecting to mention how both Nolan and Christian Bale have publicly shat upon the Robin character as rubbish. And also forgetting to acknowledge how Nolan is pretty much a creative mastermind and that his left nut has enough intelligence to never, ever cast Eddie Murphy in any capacity within his Gotham City universe. Just the facts, ma'am.

But alas, at least we have this nice pic right here (Joker one from The Sun's original story; Robin from /Film



So yeah, that's totally untrue. A third Batman movie is currently "in talks," not confirmed just yet. Relax. Now, moving on....

2) Denis Leary, who can be hilarious when he wants, and obnoxious and pure asshole with similar lack of effort, clowning his pretty-bad movie catalog. Here, he's being the former:
(Also spotted over at /Film

Denis Leary Remembers Denis Leary Movies - watch more funny videos

3) People really seem to love this dude Zach Galifianakis. The stuff I've seen from him has always been pretty funny; not falling-over-myself funny, but chuckles, for sure. But this faux interview with Mad Men's Jon Hamm is greatness. Just watch, and giggle. It's bound to happen:

Between Two Ferns with Zach Galifianakis by Between Two Ferns

Inglourious Basterds pics, keep a-comin'

For the record, Inglourious Basterds is my most anticipated film of 2009. Got the script sitting on my desk at home, read it twice already. Love it. Can't wait to see it.

Last week, a couple shots from Quentin Tarantino's next insane piece of cinematic art, the World War II set, Nazi-slaying Inglourious Basterds (yes, that's really how he is spelling it), leaked online. Neither jazzed me up enough to post here, but then a third surfaced this morning, which has my juices flowing in overdrive. So it's not time to post them all. First, the initial pair:

Look closely at Brad Pitt's neck.....notice that huge scar?


Though it may appear as goofy fun based on this pic, this scene is actually one of the best that Tarantino has ever staged. Well, on script page, at least. Hopefully nothing is lost in translation.

And here's the latest, the one that I'm most excited by...it's one of the story's lead characters, Shoshanna, and her French theater projectionist hubby Marcel, pinning down an unlucky chap, ready for some meat-work. Without ruining anything, I'll just say that the way this Shoshanna/Marcel/theater plot-lines explodes is pure reckless mayhem.


Last picture spotted at: Empire

Wendy and Lucy, post-watching thoughts

If you know me, even in the slightest, you should already know that I'm an outspoken lover of dogs. Canine appreciator and defenders, forever. The seeds of which were first placed-under-dirt back in September 1996, the first night of high school, also the same night my family and I brought a pillar of the German Shepherd community home, the greatest pooch this side of the Mississip, ever: Zoseph P. Zoseph Barone. Zoey, for short. Yes, that is her full name, you can clown my dad for it; his idea totally, not mine. He thought it sounded authentically German, so he entered that on her certificate. Again, totally his plan, not mine. Thanks to her awesomeness, I've since become the dog-fan I am today, the kind of guy whose heart warms a bit when dogs pass him by, and who feels more sadness, compassion over seeing homeless dogs than humans, and wishes holy damnation on those who hurt defenseless, loving doggies. Yeah, that's me.

I divulge this to set up the profound impact that Wendy and Lucy, a new independent film starring Michelle Williams (Brokeback Mountain; mother of Heath Ledger's daughter, but that's secondary to her wonderful talent).


Only playing at one theater as of now, the Film Forum, in downtown Manhattan. Hopefuly it expands at some point. Well worth a peek.

The story is as basic as a film can be: Wendy, a drifter traveling in her beatdown '88 Honda Accord to Alaska from Indiana in hopes of brighter days, with little-to-no money in her pcoket, has only one true friend, her mutt/dog Lucy. After a few unfortunate circumstances while they're pit-stopping in a lower-class Oregon town, Lucy goes missing. Wendy, determined to find the only thing that loves her unconditionally and doesn't demand money or anything, uses whatever miniscule resources she has to track the dog down.

***Which makes me think, Billy Madison would be proud. "You gotta think....you have a pet. You have a responsibility. You don't give up after a [few minutes] like a goon. You get your ass out there and you find that fuckin' dog!!!" The truth.

That's it, pretty much. 80 minutes of said plot. But what makes Wendy & Lucy such a memorable and lasting movie is simply that....its simplicity. Not to mention the stand-and-applaud performance from Williams, who gives Wendy a quietness that suggests a woman who has fully accepted her meagerness, and simply rolls with the punches out of necessity and survival-needs. The trials and strife that life keeps shoving in her face have long been understood, and she's doing whatever possible to cope. Move forward in a world that seems to have forgotten about her, letting her fall through its cracks. She's on screen nearly every second, and I was never less than captivated. It's been a pretty outstanding year for actress-performances, and I can honestly say that Michelle Williams should be a shoe-in for a Best Actress nod, Oscar time. Hands down. Just nominate the gal already. Shit.



Co-written and directed by Kelly Reichardt, who I've read had previously made a couple other quality indies, Wendy and Lucy connects on a truly "human" level. Anybody who has ever stressed a lack of funds, you'll squirm and ache watching Wendy collect as many littered cans as possible for measly amounts of cash, shoplifting dog food, and washing herself in a tiny, grungy gas station bathroom, all just to make ends meet. If you've ever had a dog, your heart will shatter as we watch Wendy being driven away in a cop car as Lucy is tied up outside a supermarket, knowing that she'll return to a dog-less lot. I can't recall any music being used here, either; all that accompanied the natural sounds was the haunting humming of an Williams herself, a mouth-made melody that's still floating around in my head. Establishing melancholic residence.

I'm sure that I'd still love Wendy and Lucy even if I wasn't such a dog fanatic. But I'm not sure if the film would've lingered in my thoughts as heavily as it is now. The conclusion that Reichardt stages is completely unexpected, yet makes total sense, and it left me somewhat devastated. Thinking, "Would I have done that if this were myself and Zoey?" I wish to not even ponder further.



A small-as-can-be, inconspicuous, emotionally-powerful flick. Two Zoeys up, certainly. Makes me want to hop on the train, open the parents' house door, and giving big Zo a huge hug, and some well-deserved, tasty Snausages.

I'll see her tomorrow night, actually. Sweet.

The promise of great-looking promotional stills, a dangerous game.....

Based off imagery alone, The Unborn is leaving me with warm, tingly, can't-wait sensations.

But I've been down this road before. Many, many times. Much to my own peril/humiliation/frustration. So, reservations will be held until January 9.

Suck or score, there'll always be that stroke-of-marketing-genius poster for me to fondly recall. Which one? Oh, you want to see it, do you? Why, certainly, I'd love to post it again. It's the least I can, not like I'll enjoy it much or anything. The things I do for you, I swear:

Odette Yustman and jeans....scratch that, pants of any kind just don't mix. Oil and vinegar, babes.

Seven Pounds, post-screening thoughts....."Beware the jellyfish!"

Damn, Will Smith.....two bad movies in one year? Who'd have ever thought, huh? Hancock was a disaster on par with Wild, Wild West, and now comes Seven Pounds, a melodramatic, overlong "tearjerker" that doesn't only beat its emotions and themes of penance over your head---it sledgehammers its feelings atop your skull, and then pollutes the blood seeping from your head with bottomless plot holes, preposterous moments, and too many undercooked characters.



So yeah, highly disappointed by this one. From the moment its first trailer hit, though, it should've been apparent, the doom protruding. Admittedly, the trailer intrigued me tons at first, and I was riding shotgun here. But the more I revisited it, and then started seeing the nonsensical television spots, I grew increasingly more and more alarmed. Am I in store for a Pursuit of Happyness surprise, or a catastrophic fuck-of-cluster?

The latter, sadly. Very much the latter.

First things first, I do want to give some well-earned love to co-star Rosario Dawson, who elevates a whatever character into a really sympathetic and infinitely endearing woman, and her performance is pretty great. I've always thought that Dawson, aside from being drop-dead scrumptious and a total nerd in real life (in interviews, she professes love for everything from old school horror to comic books....*sigh*). Here in Seven Pounds, she plays "Emily Posa," a friendly, kind lady who suffers from congenital heart failure, and her life-clock is ticking down to its final frame. As the somewhat-confusing plot goes: Will Smith's character, "Ben Thomas," catches wind, and as part of his redemption-mission to save the lives of seven strangers decides to make the ultimate sacrifice for her. That is, of course, until he rather-too-quickly falls in love with her, which fucks up his plans something predictable.

Oh, and Emily has a black-and-white-fur-colored, Great Dane, named "Duke," who's a vegetarian. Props to Duke---the beast of a pooch has some serious acting chops. He's no Vincent the Dog from Lost, though. But still more than able.


What up, Duke!

And that's really the only aspect of Seven Pounds I can vouch for, because everything else left an angered after-effect, rather than its intended "uplift" or "evaluate your own life, sucker" messages. First off, the central conceit of "tormented man seeking salvation through tireless giving" is a bit much. I'm all for kindness and genuine care for others, but when our main character spontaneously gives up the huge, scenic beach house he inherited from his father to a domestically-battered mother of two, there's too many questions left untouched: What about taxes, for starters, considering that the mother comes from money-less, meager backing? Wouldn't she be kicked to the curb within like two months of living there?

Then, the ridiculous "jellyfish" plotline enters, and all narrative and believable hell breaks loose. I won't say too much about the role(s) said poisonous jellyfish plays, out of respect for the poor fools who still want to drop coin on the film, but let me put it this way: I'd be willing to bet a cool $200 that you'd laugh uncontrollably after I explained how this jellyfish comes into play during the finale. As hoped by Smith and director Gabriele Muccino, its supposed to be symbolic, moving, and heroic in its employment. In reality, though, the jellyfish (which looks too much like poorly-digitized CGI) is the final nail in this flick's coffin. Because, first off, the way the jellyfish is introduced so clearly telegraphs that it'll be used in some "important" way as things unfold. And then the "Ben Smith" character starts lugging this giant fishtank around with him, which in and of itself is a bit funny to watch.

So many questions remain: Didn't Ben's brother "Tim" say he'd come knocking out Emily's door if Ben didn't come right back out? Then how does Ben get away with bumping uglies, and then snuggling under sheets? Where'd Tim go? Was he just watching like a Gordnick (my Jersey friends should get this reference) peeping tom, jacking off? And, what was the point of the flashback moments, save for the highway accident? If you're going to show how Ben had a hot wife and a wealthy life, then explore it more.

Plot-gaps such as these would be excusable, honestly, if the screenwriter of Seven Pounds would've consulted a dictionary prior to signing off on final draft and looked up a little word known as "subtlety." Or maybe the blame should fall more on the shoulders of Smith (star, who's smart enough to see pretentious dribble before him/producer, natch) and/or director Muccino. I mean, they shot the damn thing, right?

You have Woody Harrelson totally wasted, but we're better off that he was, really, since his performance is the epitome of "awkward discomfort." He must've realized how ludicrous everything is/was, but figured, "Well, its a Will Smith project, so it should make some bank at least." Same goes for the usually-reliable Barry Pepper, who's few scenes here tip past the edge of overacting.



Will Smith's performance isn't a total failure---"total" being the operative word. There are some scenes where he reminds you how magnetic he can be on screen, but then there's also a bunch where his attempts at "manic" and "explosive" come off too forced. Key example: an early moment where he's calling a blind man, randomly, and berating the poor sightless guy in an effort to test the blind man's "good nature," which he proves, leading Ben to hang up and subsequently shout seven names in a fit of hysteria. It's way overboard. Not the naturalistic Smith we're used to, like the amazing stuff he did in I Am Legend. The "Robert Neville" character in Legend, in fact, has tons in common with Ben Thomas here; both are severely damaged widowers, both at the end of their respective rope, contemplating suicide but holding off "the end" due to glimmers of unexpected hope. It's too bad that Ben Thomas is a terribly-written character, in a long, bleak-for-bleak's sake film.

The worst thing about Seven Pounds, above all else mentioned already, is how big of a safe cop-out it really is. Without revealing too much of what's going on, for SPOILER SENSITIVE purposes, I'll attempt to break it down as censored as possible. Basically, the bottom-line, nuts-and-bolts story here comes down to a man killing himself, slowly but surely, for the sake of extreme charity, yet you're expected to forget that while watching. Instead, you'll see a sappy romance blossom, or a slapstick-y bit where Duke the dog overpowers the Smith character while being held by leash down a sidewalk. What isn't explored enough, though, is just how terrifying and morbid his endeavor truly is. In the hands of braver filmmakers and stars, it'd be hard-R, Requiem for a Dream-ish material if centered solely on the psyche of the soon-to-be-savior. But not here. Here, it's cookie-cutting sentimentality.

I'm sure Smith is largely to blame for such character-arch decision making, so to that, I offer this.....if Smith, as a result of the inevitable critic-bashing this flick receives, ever feels the urge to chin-check himself, to discover what a truly-fearless, don't-care-about-being-the-high-and-mighty-superstar actor would do, he should just buy a ticket to see Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. "Randy 'The Ram' Robinson'.....now there's an antithesis to Seven Pounds' "Ben Thomas."

I'll stop now, though, because Seven Pounds is a film that I'd love to pick apart, discuss with people after they've also endured it. I just can't look past a movie that so blatantly wears its "Oscar bait" tag, and fails to justify itself in any way. I'd love for Rosario Dawson's career to skyrocket thanks to her quality work here, but that's doubtful. The reviews will all say shit to the effect of "Dawson does her best, but even her fine work isn't enough....."

Here's something I thought I'd never say: halfway through Seven Pounds, I found myself wishing that those alien-looking, horrible-CGI-heavy creatures from I Am Legend would come crashing into Emily's shed, end Ben's misery early, and then rewrite the rest of the film as a Rosario Dawson/"Emily Posa" story. Only. At least the overly-stylized feel of Seven Pounds would've been stripped down to "okay, there's no Will Smith, hence no need for extra sheen" levels of simplicity. An audience member can dream.

I Loved This Movie, Man

Got to see a very-early screening of this one a couple weeks back, and as my high expectations had prefaced, I loved it, man. One of the best casts of funny-yet-not-big-name talent in memory, from its leads (Paul Rudd = my man crush; Jason Segel, who keeps getting funnier and funnier; and Rashida Jones, who could charm my pants off any day) down to the bit players (Andy Samberg; the great J.K. Simmons; Jon Favreau; and a couple of The State alums).

Best part about the movie, though: it's actually kind-hearted, like top-to-bottom sweet and harmless. Which sounds corny, but is really endearing when done right, I Love You, Man being a nice example. Plus, it's quite funny (one beer boat race/projectile vomiting scene had me LOLing along with the rest of the very-pleased crowd).

I can acknowledge, however, that this isn't the funniest trailer around. But don't let it ruin any anticipation. The movie itself, while nowhere near some of Rudd's recent flicks, is still good times.

I Love You, Man.......enjoy:



I got three words for you: Slappin' de bass.

Written and directed by John Hamburg, the dude responsible for Along Came Polly, a comedy that left me unimpressed in the theater but has gotten much, much funnier over repeated TV airings. White chocolate! Old school! One of Philip Seymour Hoffman's finest hours, to me.

Doubt, post-watching thoughts

Braved the bitter cold, wind, and snowfall to see this a couple hours ago, and well worth the frosted eyebrows and chills I entered the Clearview Cinemas with, no question.

My roommate bought Rock Band 2 last night, and I've already been bitten. Infected with the drummer-jones, and Modest Mouse's "Float On" is a-callin' me (one thing I'm noticing about Rock Band---it's making me love some rock tunes I never paid much mind to. "Float On" jams!). So I'm keeping this one short and sweet.

Acting all across the board here, superb. Meryl Streep is the most stone-cold, immovable hardass of a nun you could ever imagine, and she plays it without a flinch nor waver of vulnerability. And its really something else, though to be expected from the greatest actress alive. Bar none.


She's not one to be fucked with, I assure you.

Then you have quite-possibly my favorite natural screen-presence in the game, Philip Seymour Hoffman, finally playing somebody who you're genuinely rooting for (most of the time), as opposed to somber Debbie-downers (Synecdoche, New York) or plain-old scoundrels (Before the Devil Knows You're Dead), and he's as wonderful as ever. Toss in some cute-as-a-doll and talented-as-hell Amy Adams, giving her innocent and painfully-optimistic young nun such a defeated, overwhelmed air of hurt and anxiety over the crumbling of her once all-holy world that you're feeling for her without even realizing it.



***Worth noting: Philip Seymour Hoffman is in two of my fave films of '08: Synecdoche, New York, and now Doubt. Hell of a calendar, good sir. Oh, and I actually sat next to him at one point, too, which was pretty cool. It was at an early Tropic Thunder screening, with Larry David nearby our row. Awesome, obviously.

And, it must be said, hats all-the-way off for Doubt's Viola Davis, an actress I'd known nothing about 'til Doubt, who floored me in her one-off scene against Streep's character. Davis pops up as the mother of a Catholic-private-grade-school's lone Black student, who Streep suspects is having an indecent relationship with Hoffman's likeable priest. And Streep will stop at nada to expose, and ultimately send Hoffman packing in shame. As the mentally-battered mother, Davis brings the house down to bits, concealing levels of pain and fear for her son's well-being that constantly tear through her teary eyes, and quivering lips. A brief performance, but one that damn well better be nominated for some awards, if not winning a few, to boot.


Viola Davis....claps all around.

Acting aside, the thing that most impressed me about Doubt was the lack of explanation. The lines of truth and deserved-guilt are all blurred, leaving answers undiscovered, and it's such a brave and well-handled choice by writer-director John Patrick Shanley, who has adapted his popular stage-play here. Some people hate it when left to decide for themselves what they've just seen, but not I, says me-fly. That's the first key ingredient for film's longevity, to me, and a true sign of one I'll want to watch over and over again. The central message here, though, is pretty easy to gather: the old/established/content unable and unwilling to adapt/progress with the new, and going to whatever lengths to prevent any and all change.

It's one of those projects where all the dots seem to connect where needed, while the gloss and sheen are abandoned for raw performances and straightforward direction. Which is the exact opposite of the new Will Smith effort Seven Pounds, a flick I saw earlier today (and will discuss in its own capacity soon). With Seven Pounds, a totally over-the-top conceit unfortunately drowns out a pretty-great performance from my should-be-squeeze Rosario Dawson and left me thinking, "Talk about beating your 'importance' and 'depth' over viewers' heads." Sheesh, man. That's O-2 for Smith this year, following the fucking-horrendous Hancock. Tisk tisk. But saving more on that for later...

So yeah, many kudos for Doubt. I haven't stopped thinking about the film since it ended, especially after a finale that brought on some devastating and unexpected twists and character-arch shifts. The mark of a great film for me is how long it sticks with me, rather than the first-impression. Take The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, for example---a flick I really liked upon viewing, but one that soon disappeared from my thoughts, much to my surprise, and dismay, honestly. Ben Button is one I've wanted to adore all year long. Who'd have thought that little old Doubt would knock me out harder, huh?

It's been a crazy year at the movies like that. What can I say?

***Also worth noting: Doubt hit home in some ways. Some may recall my long, angry, drunken "Captain Save-A-Hoe" rant here, which I eventually took down in an act of "wash my hands and mind of it" discretion. But the events that went down that night with Sir Save-A-Hoe played out in a fashion somewhat-akin to the Streep/Hoffman dynamic in thhis film. Interesting, to say the least.

A Bush farewell that's intentionally for the laughs

George W Bush Goes to Broadway by Will Ferrell

I shall attend. Curious as hell to see how they keep this funny-little impression sustainable and humorous over the long course of 90 minutes. I'm optimistic, though.

I believe it'll be at NYC's Cort Theater from February 1 to March 15. Hopefully reasonably priced.

Oh well....I'll always have my scratched-up G.I. Joe action figures.....

....they can't fuck the memory of those up. Right?

I know, I know---I haven't seen this movie yet. Nobody has, it's probably not even ready to be seen. Post-production hell these days. Nine months away. Plenty of time to string together something that doesn't resemble one of those videos we watched in high school that showed live-action abortions, as cautionary measures. Traumatic, much? But, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to detect impending-suckage, and this one seems potent.



Yes, that is Marlon Wayans.

Okay, so Snake Eyes does look cool enough. As for the other three, though, and practically every other character I've seen from early production pics, not so much. Cardinal sin, number one: they look nothing like my old action figures, and that's a no-no extraordinaire. Since when did Duke and Ripcord resemble SWAT team members?

True, the great, under-appreciated Joseph Gordon-Levitt plays Cobra Commander, and eye-candy-du-jour Rachel Nichols is Scarlett. In the end, though, I'm guessing their presence(s) will be futile. Because, after all, this one's directed by Stephen Sommers.....the man behind Van Helsing, which rests comfortably in the canon of "films that'll forever make my blood boil over the mere thought of them." Damn hack.

I rest my case. I'm hoping that this one's at least entertaining, but again, the hunch is gloomy. At best.

The return of Tron, with sexy new graphics

Remember that cheesy-EFX-heavy, but tons-of-fun '80s movie/video-game-on-acid Tron? I loved that shit as a kid, had it on poorly-dubbed VHS (I should just forever refer to the films that my awesome grandfather used to dub on his dual-VHS-recorder as "poorly-dubbed VHS copies," because I've said the such at least 20 times on this lil' site.....like my own glossary term(s)).

In one of the more unexpected-but-welcome sequel announcements ever, a second installment, called Tr2n (excuse the terrible, indecipherable name....actually, how the fuck do you even pronounce that?) was given the Go-sign a few months back, with original star Jeff Daniels back in action. Well, today, another living, breathing human was added:

Olivia Wilde, one hell of a looker. Just stunningly radiant.



From Alpha Dog (which has no business being as entertaining and riveting as it is), and the TV show House, which I don't watch but have been told is quite good by many. So yeah, nerds and nostalgic folk, rejoice. Tr2n has some serious "talent" now. I hear she can act well, too. Two for one, baby.

Spotted over at: JoBlo

Jack and Ben are shacking up together??? WTF

36 days left....

The Day My Imagination Went Berserk

I used to sleep with a tire-iron under my bed. Conveniently positioned within arm's reach, right behind the draping box-spring sheet-covering, next to the legit-metal hammer. "Where the hell did my hammer and tire-iron go?" my dad would ask, to which I'd keep my mouth shut. He can't have them back, I need them for safety purposes.

Up until about age 12, these were my two weapons choice, the sticks of pain and forced skull-bashing that I'd prefer. If it ever went down. The adolescent mind, such a sponge. At least once a day, I'd skip around from specific scene to scene on my dubbed VHS copy of Romero's Night of the Living Dead. I wanted to be "Ben," save the day, though I'd rewrite the ending and live, rather than catch a redneck-racist's slug to the forehead. There's anotha one fo' da fire. And in one of my favorite scenes, Ben walks out onto the front yard to dispatch of the two zombies marauding about the random farmhouse that he and stranger Barbara are holed up in for the time being. In his hand: a tire-iron. Two strikes to the first ghoul's cranium, lights out for flesh-eater number one. A similar second-demise for the other undead, loitering creep.



Even in black and white, I could see the gory impact. I loved that shit. One day, I ventured into the garage, located the tire-iron, and decided to stash it in my room, for the oft chance that a zombie invasion would spring about overnight, and I'd need to fend for myself without warning.



And why the hammer, as well? Simple, really. After smashing my way through the horde of pulse-free intruders, swinging my tool-from-hell around like I'm Ty Cobb, one-handed-homers abound. Sending rotting-flesh fragments flying off faces and raining on carpet. Once the path was clear, I'd need to board up the windows, of course, just like Ben's genius self was crafty enough to do. Hammer, put to efficient use.

The perfect plan. Air-tight, all necessary and easily-overlooked bases covered. It was such a solid approach that I'd often find myself hoping that a Romero-like apocalypse of the dead would switch from fiction to fact. Because, naturally, I'd become the Ash in reality's impromptu Evil Dead scenario. The Bruce Wayne to Gotham's Joker-devised death infestation. More of a hero than Peter Petrelli, or Claire the petite-yet-sexy-as-a-mug cheerleader. What 12, 12 year old lad in his/her right mind sits around dreaming of a zombie outbreak?

Figures that I'd---soon after this plan was put into ready-whenever-for-it action---go on to write an 80-page zombie story, in one of those binded notebooks not falling within the Marble family. Fuck if I know where the book is now, sadly. Certainly somewhere in my parents' house, but most likely beneath piles of shit and saved-merely-for-memory's-sake items....I do, though, remember, distinctly, when the mother of one of my grade-school friends read the "book," and proceeded to rave about how "maturely" it was written, especially considering that it was penned by a 12-year-old. If she'd had given me such a compliment directly, 15-year hindsight would lead me to believe that she was just blowing steam up my crapper, but it wasn't I who was told this; I'd overheard her saying such kind words to her husband, while in the kitchen.

Pretty cool, huh? And to think, it all started with a poorly-copied version of Romero's unrivaled masterpiece Night and my dad's rusty old tire-iron. Inspiration works in mysterious ways, doesn't it?