Even though I'm one of about 15 people excited about it, my favorite rapper ever (well, at least in my top three ever), the Gza/Genius, has a new album coming out this week, called Pro Tools, and it's pretty solid, thankfully. Not his best work ever (Liquid Swords, his debut = my fave album of all time, its true), but it has plenty of heat, these two records being my tops so far:
"Pencil" (feat. Masta Killa and Rza)
"7 Pounds" (produced by my current almighty producer, Black Milk)
I figure, what the hell...maybe somebody reading this will actually get excited about a Wu-Tang project once again. Rap sucks these days, so i gotta play whatever part I can in helping the dopeness stand apart from the wackness.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Mind Eraser
Note to self: open bars that start at 8pm are very, very bad news.
It was one of those nights, last night....drinks were flowing, the bar was packed and thankfully had some attractive females in attendance for once. By about 10pm, I was a good five sheets to the wind, and by midnight, I....well, pretty much everything after 11pm is a blur right now. I do recall almost getting arrested on the walk home, when I tossed the remnants of a 7 Stars (best.pizza.ever) slice onto the sidewalk. As my shitty luck would have it, the car parked next to where the crust landed had three undercover pigs sitting within it, and apparently they hate pizza crust. You'd have thought that I'd snuffed an old lady in front of these cops, the way they were fuming, asking me, "Why in the hell would you even do that?" Asking to see my ID, the whole nine. All over pizza crust. See, kids---it never pays to litter. Lesson learned.
Aside from that fast food felony, I'm also piecing together some of the convos I had at the bar, with friends and some females I'd just met. I'm pretty sure one of the girl's name was Lisa Marie, a name I assumed was a fake cover-up one, like so many chicks tend to give to guys they're not interested in. Lisa Marie just sounds made up, doesn't it? But alas, she insisted that it was her true government, and even had a friend come over to confirm it to me and show me her ID. I guess I made a bigger deal out of it then I thought I was.
But really, I've been trying to figure out what exactly I said to a certain few people, people who know me, not beer-goggle-assisted randoms. I know for a fact that I had a couple deep, feeling-pouring exchanges with a couple of people, but can't for the life of me remember what I said. And all this thinking isn't helping the ginormous hangover I'm still feeling.
I hate when this happens, though. I sip so much of the intoxicating stuff that my night becomes a total foggy mess, riddled with questions and concerns. So far, nobody has called me to yell at me or make fun of me or remind me of some shameful thing I did, so I'm assuming everything is kosher. But don't you just hate that? Not being able to piece a drunken together in its wake, yet knowing that some meaningful or eye-opening things were said and you have no way of proving it?
It's not like I'm just going to call certain heads and be like, "So, yeah, I know we had this deep talk last night, and feelings were put on the table, but sorry, I was absolutely shitfaced and can't remember what was said. Could you remind me?" Talk about defacing a special moment. Sheesh.
If I had to place the blame on this lapse of memory, it'd rest solely on the glasses of Mind Eraser drinks I busted through at the bar. It's some kind of shot-on-roids, in a regular-size glass that tastes a bit like Coffee Petron, and you have to take it in one big gulp the face, with the help of a straw. But fuck me, it truly lived up to its I-totally-get-it-now name.
Note to self: no more Mind Erasers.
It was one of those nights, last night....drinks were flowing, the bar was packed and thankfully had some attractive females in attendance for once. By about 10pm, I was a good five sheets to the wind, and by midnight, I....well, pretty much everything after 11pm is a blur right now. I do recall almost getting arrested on the walk home, when I tossed the remnants of a 7 Stars (best.pizza.ever) slice onto the sidewalk. As my shitty luck would have it, the car parked next to where the crust landed had three undercover pigs sitting within it, and apparently they hate pizza crust. You'd have thought that I'd snuffed an old lady in front of these cops, the way they were fuming, asking me, "Why in the hell would you even do that?" Asking to see my ID, the whole nine. All over pizza crust. See, kids---it never pays to litter. Lesson learned.
Aside from that fast food felony, I'm also piecing together some of the convos I had at the bar, with friends and some females I'd just met. I'm pretty sure one of the girl's name was Lisa Marie, a name I assumed was a fake cover-up one, like so many chicks tend to give to guys they're not interested in. Lisa Marie just sounds made up, doesn't it? But alas, she insisted that it was her true government, and even had a friend come over to confirm it to me and show me her ID. I guess I made a bigger deal out of it then I thought I was.
But really, I've been trying to figure out what exactly I said to a certain few people, people who know me, not beer-goggle-assisted randoms. I know for a fact that I had a couple deep, feeling-pouring exchanges with a couple of people, but can't for the life of me remember what I said. And all this thinking isn't helping the ginormous hangover I'm still feeling.
I hate when this happens, though. I sip so much of the intoxicating stuff that my night becomes a total foggy mess, riddled with questions and concerns. So far, nobody has called me to yell at me or make fun of me or remind me of some shameful thing I did, so I'm assuming everything is kosher. But don't you just hate that? Not being able to piece a drunken together in its wake, yet knowing that some meaningful or eye-opening things were said and you have no way of proving it?
It's not like I'm just going to call certain heads and be like, "So, yeah, I know we had this deep talk last night, and feelings were put on the table, but sorry, I was absolutely shitfaced and can't remember what was said. Could you remind me?" Talk about defacing a special moment. Sheesh.
If I had to place the blame on this lapse of memory, it'd rest solely on the glasses of Mind Eraser drinks I busted through at the bar. It's some kind of shot-on-roids, in a regular-size glass that tastes a bit like Coffee Petron, and you have to take it in one big gulp the face, with the help of a straw. But fuck me, it truly lived up to its I-totally-get-it-now name.
Note to self: no more Mind Erasers.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Somebody smash these MIRRORS! They're defective!
What a huge, huge bummer. In an effort to appease the horror gods, and to allow myself to see a movie for once without reading every single spoiler online first, I hit a midnight screening of the new horror flick MIRRORS last night. And I'm damn tired right now, but thankfully it's slow at work for the moment being, so I'm hoping the writing process for this post will revive me a bit.
So anyway, back to the matter at hand: MIRRORS....what a disappointing clusterfuck of a movie. My expectations and hopes have been relatively high, mainly due to the film's director/co-writer, Alexandra Aja. As part of this whole new French wave of horror makers, Aja could be considered the first to officially break through into American studios. His first all-Frenchy-made gem, HAUTE TENSION (or HIGH TENSION, as it was called when released here to little fanfare, so sadly), is easily in my top ten horror films of the last five or so years. It's brutal as hell, intense, packs enough gore to make these lame SAW films seem futile, and packs some of the best acting and musical score a scare-lover could ask for. And then he went and remade Wes Craven's THE HILLS HAVE EYES, and I loved that one, too. A total in-your-face, uncompromisingly visceral American studio-backed horror film, which is a rarity these days. Again, he conjured up some quality performances a sick soundtrack of pulsating electronica, and that trailer-pillage sequence is still one for the books.
So with the announcement of MIRRORS some time back, I was excited. Granted, it's a loose remake of an Asian flick, INTO THE MIRROR, but whatever. It's Aja, so it has to kick some ass, no? And it stars Kiefer Sutherland, and he's a pretty capable actor, eh? And Paula Patton and Amy Smart co-star, and both are insanely gorgeous women, so how could this go wrong, right?
Man, oh man. Let's start with my initial pet peeve here: how the online clips and promo footage TOTALLY ruined the film's two moneyshots--a gruesome self-inflicted throat slashing, and then a holy-shit-worthy jaw-rip-off that's truly a sight to behold. But again, both of these were pretty shown much in their respective entirety online weeks ago. And of course, being the bait-taker I am, I watched both, thinking deep down: "If this is what they're giving away online, just imagine what even crazier shit must be in the movie!"
Well, there's crazier shit, alright, but crazy in the sense that it has no shred of logic or coherence. Aja should stick to brutal carnage, because the supernatural arena is a terrible look for the dude. Basically, Sutherland is an ostracized detective with a drinking problem, trying to make amends with his family and taking a night watchman gig at this huge, abandoned department store in Manhattan. Working there after sundown, he starts noticing some "spooky" happenings within the dozens of giant mirrors housed within the store (called The Mayflower), which turns out [SPOILER WARNING! SPOILER WARNING! DON'T CONTINUE READING IF YOU PLAN ON WASTING YOUR MONEY AND SEEING THIS FLICK] to be the handiwork of some demon trapped with some particular mirrors. See, the Mayflower was originally an insane asylum, and one of the methods used against schizophrenia was to tie a patient down to a chair surrounded by wall-sized mirrors for days in, hoping to exercise the inner evil through constant reflection. Or some shit like that.
This explanation sucks, plain and simple. It's muddle, reeks of THE RING and THE GRUDGE, and takes way way too long to get to, exposition wise. And on the way to this conclusion, there's some truly heinous dialogue to be heard, especially some choice lines delivered by the truly-beautiful Patton. She's practically flawless looking, and has some acting chops, but the character she's given here (Sutherland's wife) is very weak, and says shit like, "Don't make me threaten you!" or annoyingly repeats her son's name, "Michael!? Michael!? Michael!?" while searching for him once the heeby jeebies enter their house (but wait, how did the jeeby demon even leave the department store? Hell if I know). Oh, and the kid playing this Michael needs to take acting lessons from Abigail Breslin, or pick a new career path, because he's grating as hell and just plain bad at the thesp thing.
Sutherland's performance is hit-or-miss, too. At times, he's basically just channeling his Jack Bauer character from the show 24, yelling stuff like "Dammit!" in moments of frustration. Other instances, he's pretty convincing in his turmoil and conflict. And poor Amy Smart, she's given like zero to do here other than to repeatedly tell Sutherland (she plays his sister) "There's nothing in the mirrors," or ask "You sure you're okay?" But then the mirror demon pays her a visit while she's getting ready for a bath (again, how the fuck did it leave the department store!?!?), and man is this scene nasty and well-done. But again, it's completely given away in the promo footage, and what's actually in the movie is ideally the same, save for a couple seconds more of awesome. I fucking hate when studios ruin their film's best parts before anybody has actually seen the movie.
In the end, though, I place the blame mainly on Aja's shoulders here. He was a bit overzealous, trying too many things all at once, rather than simply streamlining his better ideas. Either make a dark and moody ghost story a la THE RING, or go for full-on face-ripping mayhem and call it a bloody day. By no means, however, am I writing Aja off. Every filmmaker has that one misstep, so I'm considering MIRRORS Aja's.....come next summer, though, when his PIRANHA 3D hits screens, he better shape up and stick to the over-the-top gore balanced by strong visuals. Otherwise, he'll start heading down the "once cool but now played out" path of one Eli Roth, Mr. HOSTEL himself.
And speaking of Roth, why in the fuck did Quentin Tarantino cast him as bat-swinging Bazi killer 'Donowitz' in his upcoming INGLORIOUS BASTERDS? I'm clearly missing something here. But oh well, Tarantino is still my dude, so I'll reserve hate for now until I actually see the flick.
So anyway, back to the matter at hand: MIRRORS....what a disappointing clusterfuck of a movie. My expectations and hopes have been relatively high, mainly due to the film's director/co-writer, Alexandra Aja. As part of this whole new French wave of horror makers, Aja could be considered the first to officially break through into American studios. His first all-Frenchy-made gem, HAUTE TENSION (or HIGH TENSION, as it was called when released here to little fanfare, so sadly), is easily in my top ten horror films of the last five or so years. It's brutal as hell, intense, packs enough gore to make these lame SAW films seem futile, and packs some of the best acting and musical score a scare-lover could ask for. And then he went and remade Wes Craven's THE HILLS HAVE EYES, and I loved that one, too. A total in-your-face, uncompromisingly visceral American studio-backed horror film, which is a rarity these days. Again, he conjured up some quality performances a sick soundtrack of pulsating electronica, and that trailer-pillage sequence is still one for the books.
So with the announcement of MIRRORS some time back, I was excited. Granted, it's a loose remake of an Asian flick, INTO THE MIRROR, but whatever. It's Aja, so it has to kick some ass, no? And it stars Kiefer Sutherland, and he's a pretty capable actor, eh? And Paula Patton and Amy Smart co-star, and both are insanely gorgeous women, so how could this go wrong, right?
Man, oh man. Let's start with my initial pet peeve here: how the online clips and promo footage TOTALLY ruined the film's two moneyshots--a gruesome self-inflicted throat slashing, and then a holy-shit-worthy jaw-rip-off that's truly a sight to behold. But again, both of these were pretty shown much in their respective entirety online weeks ago. And of course, being the bait-taker I am, I watched both, thinking deep down: "If this is what they're giving away online, just imagine what even crazier shit must be in the movie!"
Well, there's crazier shit, alright, but crazy in the sense that it has no shred of logic or coherence. Aja should stick to brutal carnage, because the supernatural arena is a terrible look for the dude. Basically, Sutherland is an ostracized detective with a drinking problem, trying to make amends with his family and taking a night watchman gig at this huge, abandoned department store in Manhattan. Working there after sundown, he starts noticing some "spooky" happenings within the dozens of giant mirrors housed within the store (called The Mayflower), which turns out [SPOILER WARNING! SPOILER WARNING! DON'T CONTINUE READING IF YOU PLAN ON WASTING YOUR MONEY AND SEEING THIS FLICK] to be the handiwork of some demon trapped with some particular mirrors. See, the Mayflower was originally an insane asylum, and one of the methods used against schizophrenia was to tie a patient down to a chair surrounded by wall-sized mirrors for days in, hoping to exercise the inner evil through constant reflection. Or some shit like that.
This explanation sucks, plain and simple. It's muddle, reeks of THE RING and THE GRUDGE, and takes way way too long to get to, exposition wise. And on the way to this conclusion, there's some truly heinous dialogue to be heard, especially some choice lines delivered by the truly-beautiful Patton. She's practically flawless looking, and has some acting chops, but the character she's given here (Sutherland's wife) is very weak, and says shit like, "Don't make me threaten you!" or annoyingly repeats her son's name, "Michael!? Michael!? Michael!?" while searching for him once the heeby jeebies enter their house (but wait, how did the jeeby demon even leave the department store? Hell if I know). Oh, and the kid playing this Michael needs to take acting lessons from Abigail Breslin, or pick a new career path, because he's grating as hell and just plain bad at the thesp thing.
Sutherland's performance is hit-or-miss, too. At times, he's basically just channeling his Jack Bauer character from the show 24, yelling stuff like "Dammit!" in moments of frustration. Other instances, he's pretty convincing in his turmoil and conflict. And poor Amy Smart, she's given like zero to do here other than to repeatedly tell Sutherland (she plays his sister) "There's nothing in the mirrors," or ask "You sure you're okay?" But then the mirror demon pays her a visit while she's getting ready for a bath (again, how the fuck did it leave the department store!?!?), and man is this scene nasty and well-done. But again, it's completely given away in the promo footage, and what's actually in the movie is ideally the same, save for a couple seconds more of awesome. I fucking hate when studios ruin their film's best parts before anybody has actually seen the movie.
In the end, though, I place the blame mainly on Aja's shoulders here. He was a bit overzealous, trying too many things all at once, rather than simply streamlining his better ideas. Either make a dark and moody ghost story a la THE RING, or go for full-on face-ripping mayhem and call it a bloody day. By no means, however, am I writing Aja off. Every filmmaker has that one misstep, so I'm considering MIRRORS Aja's.....come next summer, though, when his PIRANHA 3D hits screens, he better shape up and stick to the over-the-top gore balanced by strong visuals. Otherwise, he'll start heading down the "once cool but now played out" path of one Eli Roth, Mr. HOSTEL himself.
And speaking of Roth, why in the fuck did Quentin Tarantino cast him as bat-swinging Bazi killer 'Donowitz' in his upcoming INGLORIOUS BASTERDS? I'm clearly missing something here. But oh well, Tarantino is still my dude, so I'll reserve hate for now until I actually see the flick.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Quarantine Watch - 2008; first official post
For those who've paid even partial attention to this blog, they'll have noticed the abundance of Quarantine mentions. Quarantine, for those not in the know, which is probably most of you since it's more of a geek thing really, is a new horror flick coming in October, and it's a remake of a 2007 Spanish flick called [Rec] that I swear by, and is fuckin' genius on celluloid. It's shot in that cinema verite, Blair Witch/Cloverfield format, and is like 28 Days Later confined into one infected apartment building. I hate trivializing movies by merely name-dropping others they're reminiscent of, but I'm not in the mood to overwrite a plot synopsis, so it'll due here.
A briefing: I've been close to obsessive with the Quarantine red band trailer (or, the R-rated trailer not seen in theaters, but only online) since it's 'net debut a couple weeks ago, and I've been counting the days 'til I can feats my eyes on it. And they're not doing press screenings, which is never a good sign but we'll look away from that for the time being, so I'll have to wait and see it when it opens on October 10. In fact, I may just take off that whole day from work, in honor of the film, but mainly because I have my great friend's wedding rehearsal dinner that night anyway. Two birds with one stone.
Back to the matter at hand, and my reason for this particular entry. Earlier today, I did a phone interview with the John Erick Dowdle and his brother Drew (John directed and co-wrote Quarantine; Drew produced and co-wrote the script). One of my job perks is being able to talk with some of the people behind the films that matter to me, or excite me, or intrigue me. So for the fulltime grind, I'm covering Quarantine in an upcoming ish. But mostly, this was my chance to either amplify my newvous concerns over whether this one will tarnish the stellar name of [Rec], or, if the cinema Gods aren't so crazy after all, to calm my conerns through the Dowdle's impressive answers and sentiments.
Thankfully, it was the latter. These were two of the nicest and giddiest people I've talked to yet. They're clearly uber excited about Quarantine, and love the original as much as I do, which rocks. And I learned that it's not a traditional remake, but one that was developed directly alongside its original. I'll delve into that more in my magazine piece on the subject. But yeah, I feel much better now, and I'm actually even more amped for this shit. I'd go into detail about the things they told me they're doing differently than the [Rec] makers, but it'd all be insignificant to anybody who hasn't seen [Rec], so I'll just leave it at = Matt hung up the phone quite pleased. Rejoice. Now, having never seen any of the Dowdles' other work, I have no clue whether they're even capable enough to do this, but at least they're hearts are in the right place. That's gotta stand for somethin'.
Oh, and I've decided to start doing some sort of "Quarantine Watch - 2008" within these blog postings. Which means, every now and then, up until its release, I'm going to toss in a gratuitous Quarantine posting of some sort, leading up the grand finale one on October 11 when I give me opinion on the finished product. Yes, I'm a nerd like that.
While we're on the subject of the Dowdles today....Quarantine will be their first mainstream flick, but not their official debut. Last year, they made this other "found footage" movie called The Poughkeepsie Tapes, which I hear is pretty sick. It's been floating around in Hollywood purgatory until the intake $$ numebrs of Quarantine trickle in. If Quarantine makes bread, Poughkeepsie will be dumped into theaters by year's end, just to capitalize off of their newfound momentum. Regardless, I just want to see the shit. It's basically a compilation of home video recordings found in a serial killer's home, footage of said nutjob stalking his victims and killing others. A real family fun, in other words.
In fact, to get a taste of just how bizarrely twisted Poughkeepsie will be, check out this clip I dug up on the 'Tube of You:
Don't ask me what the fuck is going on there....but do I love the shit out of it, you ask? I'll take "hell yes" for 100, Alex.
A briefing: I've been close to obsessive with the Quarantine red band trailer (or, the R-rated trailer not seen in theaters, but only online) since it's 'net debut a couple weeks ago, and I've been counting the days 'til I can feats my eyes on it. And they're not doing press screenings, which is never a good sign but we'll look away from that for the time being, so I'll have to wait and see it when it opens on October 10. In fact, I may just take off that whole day from work, in honor of the film, but mainly because I have my great friend's wedding rehearsal dinner that night anyway. Two birds with one stone.
Back to the matter at hand, and my reason for this particular entry. Earlier today, I did a phone interview with the John Erick Dowdle and his brother Drew (John directed and co-wrote Quarantine; Drew produced and co-wrote the script). One of my job perks is being able to talk with some of the people behind the films that matter to me, or excite me, or intrigue me. So for the fulltime grind, I'm covering Quarantine in an upcoming ish. But mostly, this was my chance to either amplify my newvous concerns over whether this one will tarnish the stellar name of [Rec], or, if the cinema Gods aren't so crazy after all, to calm my conerns through the Dowdle's impressive answers and sentiments.
Thankfully, it was the latter. These were two of the nicest and giddiest people I've talked to yet. They're clearly uber excited about Quarantine, and love the original as much as I do, which rocks. And I learned that it's not a traditional remake, but one that was developed directly alongside its original. I'll delve into that more in my magazine piece on the subject. But yeah, I feel much better now, and I'm actually even more amped for this shit. I'd go into detail about the things they told me they're doing differently than the [Rec] makers, but it'd all be insignificant to anybody who hasn't seen [Rec], so I'll just leave it at = Matt hung up the phone quite pleased. Rejoice. Now, having never seen any of the Dowdles' other work, I have no clue whether they're even capable enough to do this, but at least they're hearts are in the right place. That's gotta stand for somethin'.
Oh, and I've decided to start doing some sort of "Quarantine Watch - 2008" within these blog postings. Which means, every now and then, up until its release, I'm going to toss in a gratuitous Quarantine posting of some sort, leading up the grand finale one on October 11 when I give me opinion on the finished product. Yes, I'm a nerd like that.
While we're on the subject of the Dowdles today....Quarantine will be their first mainstream flick, but not their official debut. Last year, they made this other "found footage" movie called The Poughkeepsie Tapes, which I hear is pretty sick. It's been floating around in Hollywood purgatory until the intake $$ numebrs of Quarantine trickle in. If Quarantine makes bread, Poughkeepsie will be dumped into theaters by year's end, just to capitalize off of their newfound momentum. Regardless, I just want to see the shit. It's basically a compilation of home video recordings found in a serial killer's home, footage of said nutjob stalking his victims and killing others. A real family fun, in other words.
In fact, to get a taste of just how bizarrely twisted Poughkeepsie will be, check out this clip I dug up on the 'Tube of You:
Don't ask me what the fuck is going on there....but do I love the shit out of it, you ask? I'll take "hell yes" for 100, Alex.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Back To The Future
About once a week or so, I have one of those Lost "flash forward" moments. I've been doing this weekly unintended-routine for some years now, mostly as a means to end whatever stress or insecurity is tucked within my mind on that particular day. Today was the day for this week, and it was quite the fantasy:
I wake up around 8am or so, shower, shave and kiss my wife--an attractive lady with long dark hair and caramel skin--goodbye. Leaving my house, located somewhere in the Bergen County area of Jersey, I hop on the dreaded NJ Transit train into Manhattan. My final destination: the offices of Entertainment Weekly, where I'm knee-deep in a cover story profile on Michael Cera, who has evolved into quite the leading man in his mid-age. As a Senior Writer for the entertainment rag, I'm its go-to guy for all things Hollywood and pop culture. In fact, my press credentials for the Comic-Con convention are on my desk, next to my ripped ticket stub from the flight out to Colorado for last year's Sundance Film Festival, as well as a stub for the flight out to France for the Cannes Fest. It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it. Oh, and on my lunch break, I continue to jot down notes for my screenplay, a psychological horror gem that'll set the cinematic world ablaze in a couple years.
Of course, with the current economic scares we're all feeling, let's hope Entertainment Weekly is still poppin' by that time, but I belive it will. What can I say, I'm a dreamer like that.
I don't know, I guess I've just had one helluva year, self-evaluation wise. Like, I see myself in one place years from now, and I ask myself, "Are you on the proper path to get there?" Deep down, I believe that I am, but being the insecure chronic self-doubter that I've been my entire life, those questions always surface at one point or another.
The times, my friends, they are a-changing, and it's like the Wild Wild West out here in the real world. I know I have what it takes to withstand the inevitable storms. My best days, creatively, haven't even begun to scratch my talent's surface, I feel.
As for that "wife" I kissed goodbye, that's a whole other bag of worms to open, mentally. Why can't I just look into a crystal ball and see who I marry, thus deleting all of the worry and uncertainty that I'm forever feeling? Like, at least I'll know that I do in fact get hitched, and it all works out in the end. Some would say that seeing into my future in this way would ruin the joys and surprises that life's ride cruises through, and to that understandable sentiment, I retort with these three deeply-thought-out, delicately chosen words: "Fuck all that." I'd pay insane amounts of money to see who my future wife is, barring, of course, any sort of damaging Butterfly Effect on my life. Just a sneak peak at my romantic future, and then back to my present reality.
Am I alone in this? I don't think so. Anybody else who is single and dating a bunch of misfires would surely second my notion, right?
--Oh, and for those who've been readiing all of my posts, you may have detected a running theme of "Matt's quest for true love," and you'd be spot-on in such an observation. But deal with it, readers. It's always issue numero uno en mi cabeza, and if I can't exercise my demons on this here blog/journal/testimonial/time-consumer, then where can I ?
I wake up around 8am or so, shower, shave and kiss my wife--an attractive lady with long dark hair and caramel skin--goodbye. Leaving my house, located somewhere in the Bergen County area of Jersey, I hop on the dreaded NJ Transit train into Manhattan. My final destination: the offices of Entertainment Weekly, where I'm knee-deep in a cover story profile on Michael Cera, who has evolved into quite the leading man in his mid-age. As a Senior Writer for the entertainment rag, I'm its go-to guy for all things Hollywood and pop culture. In fact, my press credentials for the Comic-Con convention are on my desk, next to my ripped ticket stub from the flight out to Colorado for last year's Sundance Film Festival, as well as a stub for the flight out to France for the Cannes Fest. It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it. Oh, and on my lunch break, I continue to jot down notes for my screenplay, a psychological horror gem that'll set the cinematic world ablaze in a couple years.
Of course, with the current economic scares we're all feeling, let's hope Entertainment Weekly is still poppin' by that time, but I belive it will. What can I say, I'm a dreamer like that.
I don't know, I guess I've just had one helluva year, self-evaluation wise. Like, I see myself in one place years from now, and I ask myself, "Are you on the proper path to get there?" Deep down, I believe that I am, but being the insecure chronic self-doubter that I've been my entire life, those questions always surface at one point or another.
The times, my friends, they are a-changing, and it's like the Wild Wild West out here in the real world. I know I have what it takes to withstand the inevitable storms. My best days, creatively, haven't even begun to scratch my talent's surface, I feel.
As for that "wife" I kissed goodbye, that's a whole other bag of worms to open, mentally. Why can't I just look into a crystal ball and see who I marry, thus deleting all of the worry and uncertainty that I'm forever feeling? Like, at least I'll know that I do in fact get hitched, and it all works out in the end. Some would say that seeing into my future in this way would ruin the joys and surprises that life's ride cruises through, and to that understandable sentiment, I retort with these three deeply-thought-out, delicately chosen words: "Fuck all that." I'd pay insane amounts of money to see who my future wife is, barring, of course, any sort of damaging Butterfly Effect on my life. Just a sneak peak at my romantic future, and then back to my present reality.
Am I alone in this? I don't think so. Anybody else who is single and dating a bunch of misfires would surely second my notion, right?
--Oh, and for those who've been readiing all of my posts, you may have detected a running theme of "Matt's quest for true love," and you'd be spot-on in such an observation. But deal with it, readers. It's always issue numero uno en mi cabeza, and if I can't exercise my demons on this here blog/journal/testimonial/time-consumer, then where can I ?
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Excuse me miss, should I be ashamed?
A good of friend defied Matt Barone Logic last weekend. As he tells it, he saw a pretty face at some bar here in Hoboken and, while two shots of Everclear deep, mind you, waited for her to walk by him, grabbed by the arm, and confidently declared: "I'm taking you to dinner some night soon." Or something to that effect. It must have sounded more kind and charming and less forceful and wife-beater-ish when he said it, because it broke the ice and led to his getting her number, and they're continuous conversing still.
See, under the self-imposed guidelines I've lived by, females don't respond well to this sort of directness. It irks them, or makes them uncomfortable, or scares them, or results in a swift five-fingered slap across the man's dome. But when my friend did, it equaled some smooth, suave, charming approach, and it's truly boggled my brain since he first told me the tale the next day.
Have I been going about this all wrong? Should I just grab the next pretty girl I see and tell her, "W're grabbing dinner tomorrow night." I don't even know if I could....I'd be afraid that the girl would either smack me, or yell for help, or curse me off, amd my fragile self-esteem would surely crumble as a result. But maybe me never doing this is depriving me of possible wifeys, or dates, or girl-on-guy small-talk.
Like any other warm-blooded human male, I must walk by a minimum of 20 females day that I immediately think, "Damn, she's fucking hot!" But of course, walking by me is all they do. And I'm not the type to blatantly give myself whiplash as they pass, trading subtle glances for full-on tongue-wagging eye-fucking. I see how the dudes who do that are reacted to by the girl and those in the general vicinity, and it's not a public perception I'd want to voluntarily bring upon myself.
I often wonder, "Why can't one of these girls notice me, too, and our eyes connect, inspiring a convo on the spot?" That'd make life a helluva lot easier for yours truly. But instead, thye just stroll by, as we both go on our merry ways. No harm, no foul.
But maybe there is a foul here....maybe one of these girls passin' me by like The Pharcyde could be my future missus. Probably not, but you never know? I shudder to think about all of the wifeys I've let pass by due to my own trepidation and supposed respect for the privacy. Do girls even like when random dudes approach them? I can honestly say that I've never approached a girl I don't know...well, sober, at least. There has been a few times drunk in clubs that I've done so, and several has resulted in a new number added to my cell phonebook. But even those times, I've hesitated and deliberated. Maybe it's time I do so sober, during a lunch break or while sitting next to a Pretty Young Thing on my home away home, the PATH train.
Maybe one of these days, I'll man up and give this a whirl. Or maybe not. All I know is....if my friend ends up turning Ms. "We're getting dinner" into his legitimate girlfriend, the girls of Hoboken and NYC's West 23rd Street better brace themselves, because I'll be stopping any one of them who's even "kinda cute." Discretion won't be advised.
See, under the self-imposed guidelines I've lived by, females don't respond well to this sort of directness. It irks them, or makes them uncomfortable, or scares them, or results in a swift five-fingered slap across the man's dome. But when my friend did, it equaled some smooth, suave, charming approach, and it's truly boggled my brain since he first told me the tale the next day.
Have I been going about this all wrong? Should I just grab the next pretty girl I see and tell her, "W're grabbing dinner tomorrow night." I don't even know if I could....I'd be afraid that the girl would either smack me, or yell for help, or curse me off, amd my fragile self-esteem would surely crumble as a result. But maybe me never doing this is depriving me of possible wifeys, or dates, or girl-on-guy small-talk.
Like any other warm-blooded human male, I must walk by a minimum of 20 females day that I immediately think, "Damn, she's fucking hot!" But of course, walking by me is all they do. And I'm not the type to blatantly give myself whiplash as they pass, trading subtle glances for full-on tongue-wagging eye-fucking. I see how the dudes who do that are reacted to by the girl and those in the general vicinity, and it's not a public perception I'd want to voluntarily bring upon myself.
I often wonder, "Why can't one of these girls notice me, too, and our eyes connect, inspiring a convo on the spot?" That'd make life a helluva lot easier for yours truly. But instead, thye just stroll by, as we both go on our merry ways. No harm, no foul.
But maybe there is a foul here....maybe one of these girls passin' me by like The Pharcyde could be my future missus. Probably not, but you never know? I shudder to think about all of the wifeys I've let pass by due to my own trepidation and supposed respect for the privacy. Do girls even like when random dudes approach them? I can honestly say that I've never approached a girl I don't know...well, sober, at least. There has been a few times drunk in clubs that I've done so, and several has resulted in a new number added to my cell phonebook. But even those times, I've hesitated and deliberated. Maybe it's time I do so sober, during a lunch break or while sitting next to a Pretty Young Thing on my home away home, the PATH train.
Maybe one of these days, I'll man up and give this a whirl. Or maybe not. All I know is....if my friend ends up turning Ms. "We're getting dinner" into his legitimate girlfriend, the girls of Hoboken and NYC's West 23rd Street better brace themselves, because I'll be stopping any one of them who's even "kinda cute." Discretion won't be advised.
Monday, August 11, 2008
I'm Just Saying......
.....these Step Brothers spit harder than about 90% of the rappers out right now, and this beat KNOCKS! "I'm a pussy pirate, my name is Jack Sparrow...." hahaha
Hey rappers: give John C. Reilly a call. For the right price, he can even make your shit tighter....
Hey rappers: give John C. Reilly a call. For the right price, he can even make your shit tighter....
I Don't Wanna Play.....
Does not playing "the game" make me a loser? I frequently have chats with friends about this, and I'm starting to wonder if my lack of voluntary participation in "the game" is why I'm still living single like Latifah (except I'm a dude, so maybe that wasn't the right name to drop there. Fuck it, whatever). I've just never had any interest in conforming to some bullshit dating standard that strikes fear in the hearts of insecure men and women on a daily....scratch that, hourly basis.
You know the deal. You get a girl's number on a Friday night, while out at the bar and four beers deep. All goes well in the moment: free-flowing conversation, a couple songs danced to together, some nice pleasantries on the way out, pounds and back-pats from friends for having scored another series of digits equaling a phone number. But then you wake up the next morning and the dreaded "game's" rules hit you---when would it be socially acceptable for me to call her? If I call her tonight, will she think I'm overdoing it, or being a bit pushy? Maybe she'll think I'm some lame who never gets girls' numbers, and now that I finally have one, in her eyes, I'm so giddy that I just can't wait to call? How about I wait one full day and call her tomorrow night at precisely 10:08pm, that seems like a reasonable time, huh? Or perhaps I wait a few days and hit her during the week....but what if she's the type who works late, and we'll end up playing phone tag before one or both of us gives up. And then I'll have totally fucked up "the game."
Myself, I don't have the mental energy to endure all of that inner turmoil. So what I do is call the girl whenever the hell I feel in the mood to conduct our inevitably awkward first non-alcoholic-induced conversation. The next day; two days later; whenever the fuck I feel like doing so, I do it. But in turn, maybe some of these girls I'm ringing up are thinking too deeply into my call, and there in lies the problem I have with this dreaded "game." If I call you and you dont want me to call you, just either don't pick up phone, or simply tell me right away that you're not interested, and I'll be on my merry eg-bruised way. I'll only leave one voicemail, if any, so if I never hear back after that first initial effort, then I'm moving on. No harm, no foul.
But what's crazy to me is that all---well, the majority, actually---of my friends and associates who actually do play this stupid "game" seem to have much more success than I in developing serious relationships. And trust, I really do want a relationship of my own, and I live in some fantasy dreamland where, when I do meet "the one," we'll both know it rather painlessly and none of this "game playing" will be remotely necessary. So what I do, as a result, is approach the dating circuit with said mentality firmly intact.....which leads me to believe, then, that I just haven't met "the one" yet, because there seems to have some bit of game-playing with every girl thus far. Whether my calling too soon disinterested them, or my not calling soon or often enough led them to believe it was ME who was disinterested.
Whatever, man. All I know is, I won't be changing my ways any time soon. No "game" for me, ma'am. I'll keep clinging to the hope that I'll soon click with my Ms. Right, and we won't need to conduct ourselves as if we're strategizing a war. War breeds too many casualties. Besides, I'm a lover, not a fighter.
You know the deal. You get a girl's number on a Friday night, while out at the bar and four beers deep. All goes well in the moment: free-flowing conversation, a couple songs danced to together, some nice pleasantries on the way out, pounds and back-pats from friends for having scored another series of digits equaling a phone number. But then you wake up the next morning and the dreaded "game's" rules hit you---when would it be socially acceptable for me to call her? If I call her tonight, will she think I'm overdoing it, or being a bit pushy? Maybe she'll think I'm some lame who never gets girls' numbers, and now that I finally have one, in her eyes, I'm so giddy that I just can't wait to call? How about I wait one full day and call her tomorrow night at precisely 10:08pm, that seems like a reasonable time, huh? Or perhaps I wait a few days and hit her during the week....but what if she's the type who works late, and we'll end up playing phone tag before one or both of us gives up. And then I'll have totally fucked up "the game."
Myself, I don't have the mental energy to endure all of that inner turmoil. So what I do is call the girl whenever the hell I feel in the mood to conduct our inevitably awkward first non-alcoholic-induced conversation. The next day; two days later; whenever the fuck I feel like doing so, I do it. But in turn, maybe some of these girls I'm ringing up are thinking too deeply into my call, and there in lies the problem I have with this dreaded "game." If I call you and you dont want me to call you, just either don't pick up phone, or simply tell me right away that you're not interested, and I'll be on my merry eg-bruised way. I'll only leave one voicemail, if any, so if I never hear back after that first initial effort, then I'm moving on. No harm, no foul.
But what's crazy to me is that all---well, the majority, actually---of my friends and associates who actually do play this stupid "game" seem to have much more success than I in developing serious relationships. And trust, I really do want a relationship of my own, and I live in some fantasy dreamland where, when I do meet "the one," we'll both know it rather painlessly and none of this "game playing" will be remotely necessary. So what I do, as a result, is approach the dating circuit with said mentality firmly intact.....which leads me to believe, then, that I just haven't met "the one" yet, because there seems to have some bit of game-playing with every girl thus far. Whether my calling too soon disinterested them, or my not calling soon or often enough led them to believe it was ME who was disinterested.
Whatever, man. All I know is, I won't be changing my ways any time soon. No "game" for me, ma'am. I'll keep clinging to the hope that I'll soon click with my Ms. Right, and we won't need to conduct ourselves as if we're strategizing a war. War breeds too many casualties. Besides, I'm a lover, not a fighter.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
My New Obsession...Part 2
My first 'part" came when I wrote about the amazing Black Hole, and after doing that, I've decided to keep record of every graphic novel I read in entirety from here on out. I have tons of them in my scopes, ready to start buying and reading ad nauseum. It's pretty genius on my part....for a long ass time now, I've been telling myself, "Man, you have to read more actual books, not just magazine stories and the occasional movie script." But for the time being, I've found a happy medium for myself: the graphic novel.
See, they're not straightforward books in the traditional sense, but rather fully-realized comic book series', compiled together to form the comic equivalent of a book. So for me, its like reading literature, not comic. Whatever helps me sleep at night, but what's cool about this is that these are limitless in imagination, both narratively and artistically, and who doesn't like looking at pretty and demented pictures while knee-deep in a rich tale? I know I do.
But enough rambling. Over the last two days, I've both started and finished a pair of new ones. One I fuckin' thought rocked the shit; the other I was really digging until somewhat of a letdown conclusion. Here goes (keep in mind, this post is kinda long only because its on two new reads):
This is what that Angelina Jolie/James McAvoy/Morgan Freeman-saying-"Kill that motherfucker!" flick, which came out in June, was based on. Honestly, though, I can only say "based on" in reference to the two central characters and title, because the original novel is basically non-existent within the movie, in terms of storyline and visionary complexity.
In the book, the main character, Wesley (who is a dead-ringer for Eminem here, and looks nothing like McAvoy) has the same shitty life as the movie version dude: mundane cubicle job, a bitchy girlfriend who's fucking his best friend, a dependency on prescription drugs to battle stress and other mental hindrances. But then comes along the smoking-hot Fox (Jolie in the movie; a hybrid of Halle Berry and Pam Grier's Coffy here), who opens up a whole new world of guns, murder, excitement, and standing-up-to-those-who've-made-his-life-reek. There's a whole deep backstory involving the death of his father, who was a stud within The Fraternity, the secret society of fiends in which Wesley is moving up within the ranks of, rapidly.
The ginormous difference btw the novel and movie, however, is that the novel is this totally sick flipping-on-its-own-head of superhero mythology. Here, all of the superhero-battling villains have aligned together and completely wiped out all of your Supermans and Dark Knights. So instead of lifeless drone characters like the one played robotically by Common in the movie, you have supporting characters such as Mister Rictus (a deprived criminal mastermind who looks like Skeletor in a pimp's wardrobe), Shit-Head (a monster assembled from the fecal droppings from all of the world's most evil denizens), and others who would've made for insane film presence(s). What's dope is how each of these super-villain characters is a reimagining of famous comic enemies....all of The Professor's gang (he leads the Fraternity) are based off enemies of Superman, while those working for Rictus (the true villainy villain in this story) are based off of Batman's foes.
I do understand, though, that the film version intended to ground the characters in more of a reality, which made all of the far-fetched yet badass action stuff even more exciting ("Holy shit, a dude who looks like me just gunned down an entire building's worth of baddies by using the guns of those he'd just shot to shoot the next batch of baddies. Sweet!"). Doesn't mean I can't prefer this novel over it, however.
In all, both the novel and film are dopeness, but the former is undoubtedly the sicker of the two. Plus, it has such a brilliant and ballsy "fuck you, reader!" ending that I literally giggled like a scared schoolgirl upon reading it.
Now on to....
Here's one I'd heard about several months back, after catching wind of a movie version being held in studio oblivion (probably because it's not very good, that's usually the case for such hold-ups) for some time now. The as-yet-unreleased film take stars sexier-than-all-hell Kate Beckinsale and good-peeps Columbus Short (he's just a good dude, I've hung around with him before and he's one of the most down-to-earth "celebs" I've yet to interview). I read the movie's plot and learned that it's a murder mystery set in Antartica, where there hasn't been a recorded murder in decades, making this particular mystery killing even more puzzling for Beckinsale's U.S. marshall, Carrie Stetko, who is stationed in Antartica after bringing hell down on a prisoner who tried to rape her.
Or at least that's the backstory in the novel. From what I can tell, the film version is totally rewriting the story, to lesser quality, I'm sure. Besides, the novel Stetko isn't an especially good-looking gal; she's sort of a frumpy Janeane Garfolao type who has "sexual identity" issues (gay or straight?), all the more issue-rific when a cute blonde British investigator arrives on the scene to assist Stetko. You can cut the girl-on-girl tension with a knife. But alas, there is no British gal character in the movie, so so much for getting to see Beckinsale flirt with another hottie. Damn you, H-wood!
Like I said earlier, I really like Whiteout, but I just wish that the identity of the killer wasn't given away so early on, and that it was somebody else altogether. It's just not menacing and dark enough for my twisted tastes. But up until the last 20 pages or so, there's enough unseen troubles and clever whodunit suspense for me to ultimately big this one up.
--'tis all, for now. My next graph adventure that I've already started reading is Steve Niles' adapation of the iconic and classic I Am Legend, originally penned by that inspirational writing hero of mine, Richard Matheson. Yes, it's the same thing as that Will Smith blockbuster, only a much better story with a much much darker tone and more of a horror center, not a CGI-suffering sci-fi joint. At least the Big Willie movie was good, overall, so I'm not complaining. But I'm not going out on a limb here by saying that I'll end up liking this graph novel much more than his flick.
Now off to watch the latest guilty-pleasurable episode of I Love Money. And maybe I'm alone here, but as of late, Toastee and Brandi C. have eclipsed Hoopz as the objects of my viewing desire. Go figure.
See, they're not straightforward books in the traditional sense, but rather fully-realized comic book series', compiled together to form the comic equivalent of a book. So for me, its like reading literature, not comic. Whatever helps me sleep at night, but what's cool about this is that these are limitless in imagination, both narratively and artistically, and who doesn't like looking at pretty and demented pictures while knee-deep in a rich tale? I know I do.
But enough rambling. Over the last two days, I've both started and finished a pair of new ones. One I fuckin' thought rocked the shit; the other I was really digging until somewhat of a letdown conclusion. Here goes (keep in mind, this post is kinda long only because its on two new reads):
This is what that Angelina Jolie/James McAvoy/Morgan Freeman-saying-"Kill that motherfucker!" flick, which came out in June, was based on. Honestly, though, I can only say "based on" in reference to the two central characters and title, because the original novel is basically non-existent within the movie, in terms of storyline and visionary complexity.
In the book, the main character, Wesley (who is a dead-ringer for Eminem here, and looks nothing like McAvoy) has the same shitty life as the movie version dude: mundane cubicle job, a bitchy girlfriend who's fucking his best friend, a dependency on prescription drugs to battle stress and other mental hindrances. But then comes along the smoking-hot Fox (Jolie in the movie; a hybrid of Halle Berry and Pam Grier's Coffy here), who opens up a whole new world of guns, murder, excitement, and standing-up-to-those-who've-made-his-life-reek. There's a whole deep backstory involving the death of his father, who was a stud within The Fraternity, the secret society of fiends in which Wesley is moving up within the ranks of, rapidly.
The ginormous difference btw the novel and movie, however, is that the novel is this totally sick flipping-on-its-own-head of superhero mythology. Here, all of the superhero-battling villains have aligned together and completely wiped out all of your Supermans and Dark Knights. So instead of lifeless drone characters like the one played robotically by Common in the movie, you have supporting characters such as Mister Rictus (a deprived criminal mastermind who looks like Skeletor in a pimp's wardrobe), Shit-Head (a monster assembled from the fecal droppings from all of the world's most evil denizens), and others who would've made for insane film presence(s). What's dope is how each of these super-villain characters is a reimagining of famous comic enemies....all of The Professor's gang (he leads the Fraternity) are based off enemies of Superman, while those working for Rictus (the true villainy villain in this story) are based off of Batman's foes.
I do understand, though, that the film version intended to ground the characters in more of a reality, which made all of the far-fetched yet badass action stuff even more exciting ("Holy shit, a dude who looks like me just gunned down an entire building's worth of baddies by using the guns of those he'd just shot to shoot the next batch of baddies. Sweet!"). Doesn't mean I can't prefer this novel over it, however.
In all, both the novel and film are dopeness, but the former is undoubtedly the sicker of the two. Plus, it has such a brilliant and ballsy "fuck you, reader!" ending that I literally giggled like a scared schoolgirl upon reading it.
Now on to....
Here's one I'd heard about several months back, after catching wind of a movie version being held in studio oblivion (probably because it's not very good, that's usually the case for such hold-ups) for some time now. The as-yet-unreleased film take stars sexier-than-all-hell Kate Beckinsale and good-peeps Columbus Short (he's just a good dude, I've hung around with him before and he's one of the most down-to-earth "celebs" I've yet to interview). I read the movie's plot and learned that it's a murder mystery set in Antartica, where there hasn't been a recorded murder in decades, making this particular mystery killing even more puzzling for Beckinsale's U.S. marshall, Carrie Stetko, who is stationed in Antartica after bringing hell down on a prisoner who tried to rape her.
Or at least that's the backstory in the novel. From what I can tell, the film version is totally rewriting the story, to lesser quality, I'm sure. Besides, the novel Stetko isn't an especially good-looking gal; she's sort of a frumpy Janeane Garfolao type who has "sexual identity" issues (gay or straight?), all the more issue-rific when a cute blonde British investigator arrives on the scene to assist Stetko. You can cut the girl-on-girl tension with a knife. But alas, there is no British gal character in the movie, so so much for getting to see Beckinsale flirt with another hottie. Damn you, H-wood!
Like I said earlier, I really like Whiteout, but I just wish that the identity of the killer wasn't given away so early on, and that it was somebody else altogether. It's just not menacing and dark enough for my twisted tastes. But up until the last 20 pages or so, there's enough unseen troubles and clever whodunit suspense for me to ultimately big this one up.
--'tis all, for now. My next graph adventure that I've already started reading is Steve Niles' adapation of the iconic and classic I Am Legend, originally penned by that inspirational writing hero of mine, Richard Matheson. Yes, it's the same thing as that Will Smith blockbuster, only a much better story with a much much darker tone and more of a horror center, not a CGI-suffering sci-fi joint. At least the Big Willie movie was good, overall, so I'm not complaining. But I'm not going out on a limb here by saying that I'll end up liking this graph novel much more than his flick.
Now off to watch the latest guilty-pleasurable episode of I Love Money. And maybe I'm alone here, but as of late, Toastee and Brandi C. have eclipsed Hoopz as the objects of my viewing desire. Go figure.
Just Because.......
.......these videos make me laugh like a an overacting Frank Gorshin. Enjoy 'em all:
[can you feel the tension here?]
[and no, I'm not a sicko for this next one. Each and every one of you who watch it will laugh, I guarantee that....besides, how could you not laugh as this deranged, fugly pooch gets more-than-heated over being disrupted during his/her "happy time"]
[this is what happens when you've been pigeonholed as a hobbit after the mondo success of Lord of the Rings....get a better agent, my dude]
[his name is Nathaniel....and please believe, he fuckin' loves to dance!....btw, The Soup = best show on TV? Could very well be, if you ask me]
[can you feel the tension here?]
[and no, I'm not a sicko for this next one. Each and every one of you who watch it will laugh, I guarantee that....besides, how could you not laugh as this deranged, fugly pooch gets more-than-heated over being disrupted during his/her "happy time"]
[this is what happens when you've been pigeonholed as a hobbit after the mondo success of Lord of the Rings....get a better agent, my dude]
[his name is Nathaniel....and please believe, he fuckin' loves to dance!....btw, The Soup = best show on TV? Could very well be, if you ask me]
You Need To Watch This Movie
Zodiac made its televisial premiere last night, and needless to say, I watched the hell out of it, because it's an absolutely great flick. Granted, I already own it on DVD, but that's neither here nor there. It's one of those special movies that wraps its hands around your throat from the moment you start watching it, regardless of whether you tag in at the beginning or halfway thru or three-quarters of the way thru. Which makes it all the more saddening to me that it went virtually unnoticed when it came out in early 2007, swept under the rug after a weak opening weekend and nothing more than enthusiastic critical acclaim.
I first caught it at an early press screening a couple weeks before it opened, and it was one of those rare treats when high expectations are met tenfold. David Fincher, its director, has become one of my all-time favorite filmmakers---Seven, Fight Club, and even The Game (a film I hated when it first saw it but now actually really enjoy). Fincher has this meticulous eye, never skimping on exposition and detail while able to deliver gangbusting suspense and sneak-attack shock moments.
Zodiac is clearly the work of a long-laboring sticklet for detail and facts, which is fitting because the film itself is all about obsessions over solving the elusive "Zodiac Killer" case that haunted California in the 1970s. Great performances (especially from a pre-Iron Man Robert Downey Jr., as a flamboyant, arrogant, and fearless reporter who disintegrates as a result of failed investigation).Jake Gyllenhall even checks in with some great work, as does Mark Ruffalo.
But what really sets this flick apart is its pacing. With a two-and-a-half hour running time, it's a taxing effort to watch, but one that's definitely worth it. But it moves slow, covers all of its tracks. Those expecting some gory serial killer horror yarn wil be a bit letdown; like I said, its about those who passionately and endlessly hunted for the Zodiac's identity. There are some shocking scenes, though. But how Fincher stages them is what truly makes him the fucking man. My personal favorite is the scene when the Zodiac terrorizes a yuppie couple having a picnic near a lake. No music is used, it's just the naturalism of idle chatter mixed with scared trembling, touched with a dose of the Zodiac's cold matter-of-fact delivery. When the carnage comes, its a true sucker punch, even when not delivering the bloody moneyshot.
And then there's the moment when the Zodiac sabotages a mother and her infant child's car-ride on a deserted, dark highway. Once she and her seed hop in his car for a lift to the service station, you know something bad is going to happen, but the line "Before I kil you, I'm going to throw your baby out the window" is so abrupt and clamly spoken, its a jaw-dropper.
So yeah, I fucking love this movie. Actually, its playing again right now on TV, and of course I'm watching it again. I advise you all do the same the next time it's on.
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