Saturday, September 13, 2008

Book It! 2008 - Blindness

Remember Book It! ??

Back in grade school, I was a Book It! beast, filling my pin with gold stickers on the reg. Granted, some of the time I was shamefully rephrasing the book's synopsis on the back cover, but whatever. Apples and oranges, that was. Either the teachers didn't care, or just didn't notice. But fairness meant little to an adolescent me since my reward for a pin full of stickers was a personal pan pizza at the heavenly Pizza Hut. And shit, when I was a kid, there was no great eating-out restuarant imaginable.

But what made Book It! so cool was that, when I didn't submit to slacker-syndrome and rewrite the synopsis, it was a program that inspired me to put down my magazines and horror comic books and actually read a piece of literature.

These days, I feel like I'm in the midst of an adult Book It! program, a self-imposed one. The first entry was Cormac McCarthy's outstanding The Road, which I read last month. And just this afternoon, I finished the second entry: Jose Saramago's international best-seller Blindness.

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What both of these, as well as my upcoming slate of books-to-read, share in common is that movie adaptations are on the horizon. And I figure, what better way to form a well-rounded opinion of each respective flick than to read the original novel first? Makes sense to me, at least.

Blindness is amaing stuff. I was in love with The Road after reading it, and I still am, but now, Blindness has usurped The Road as my fave book. Of course, I've yet to read a staggering amount of literature, but I'm working on that, and thanks to the pair I've finished thus far, I'm pretty amped about this mission.

The premise of Blindness is simple, but then simultaneously complex. For no explained rhyme of reason, an epidemic of sudden blindness strikes. One man loses his sight at a traffic light; a prostitute loses her's while in the act of fornication; and so on and so forth. This isn't your common blindness, though...it's a "white sickness," with those falling victim to it seeing all blinding white.

And from here, we meet our main crew of characters. The two aforementioned (the first blind man and the young, pretty prostitute) are amongst the pack, but our main protagonist is the wife of a doctor, who for some strange reason is the only person who never loses his/her sight. But out of love for her now-sight-less husband, she accompanies him to this abandonded mental asylum, where the government has quarantined hundreds of now-blind citizens. This is when the real horror, drama, compassion, romance, and hope springs up. The asylum is divided into three individual wards, with our "heroes" living in the first, and then this delinquent, criminal, cold-hearted band of misfits living in the third ward. This crew of scoundrels is closest to the food rations that the military supplies, and after confiscating the edible goods, they begin to demand things from their neighbors in return for grub--valuable belongings, but worse, sexual intercourse and whoring out of all women residing in the first and second wards.

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I won't get into further spoiling specifics, but needless to say, a whole mess of shit goes down, mostly of the depraved variety, but also some of hopeful humanity. The doctor's wife especially, who does everything in her power to use her sight to help those in her ward, and they begin to forge a familial bond.

I honestly have nothing bad to say about this book. Every page felt necessary, every event served a purpose thematically and dramatically. Saramago's (who is a Pulitzer Prize-winning scribe, by the way) writing style has this acute sense of urgency, it's pretty much effortless to get immersed within his prose. There's no quotation marks separating dialogue, it all bleeds together, which is clever because it doesn't allow the reader any sort of line breaks to drift off or lose his/her reading momentum. And none of the characters are ever identified by name (a tactic also used cleverly in The Road). Each is distinguished by basic identification, typically that of the doctor's wife's discretion.....The Girl With The Dark Glasses; The Old Man With The Eyepatch; The First Blind Man and The First Blind Man's Wife; The Boy With The Squint; The Doctor; and so on and so forth.

Why I love this nameless technique so much is that it strips characters of any pre-judgment from the reader. No ethnicity in the name to form some sort of racially-wrong opinion from jump. No exact age or physical descriptions to visualize somebody more attractive or less attractive than he or she actually is. You're left to judge each character on just that precise thing: their "character." And in a story like Blindness, this is crucial. None of the characters can see each other, so they're left to rely on what those around them do, and what they say, and the feelings derived from their speech and actions. It's really, really intelligent on Saramago's part, I must say.

Best example: the young, strong-at-heart, warm (former) prostitute and the kind-hearted and philosophical old man forge a real love for each other....not in a sexy-times way, but in the way that they vow to live together if this epidemic ever blows over. They care deeply for each other, in ways that a meant-for-each-other husband and wife would in other circumstances. And really, this is only because they;re without sight. If the girl could see the wrinkly, pasty old man, she'd have never developed such a connection. Such is the cold way of humanity, a coldness that can be altered when something as basic as sight is deleted. It's really thought-provoking stuff at play, here.

This is a book screaming for a film adaptation, in my opinion. But one handled by an independent filmmaker, or somebody with real thematic and storytelling prowess. No big-budget blockbuster kinda dude. Or dudette. Somebody like Darren Aronofsky comes to mind for me (he did Requiem for A Dream), or maybe even Ridley Scott. But knowing that Fernando Merielles (City of God, The Constant Gardener) is responsible for the film coming out on September 26 (starring Julianne Moore, Mark Ruffalo, Danny Glover, Alice Braga, and others) does make me feel a bit relieved. Only a bit, though, because the early reviews of it have been pretty mixed, which doesn't fill me with as much optimism as I'd like.

Turning Blindness into a worthy film can't be easy, because some really disturbing and bleak shit happens. Women are graphically raped and sodomized. One fiend has scissors jammed through his throat just as he's ejaculating on a poor woman he's forced to give him oral pleasure. The military blow unsuspecting blind men's heads off at point-blank range. There's a church where, in a sort of blasphemic, hopeless act of religious betrayal, all of the statues (Crucifixion, Mary holding the baby Jesus, etc) have white bandages covering the eyes.

I really hope that Merielles hasn't skimped on the extreme nature of the middle section of this story. Once our crew breaks free of the [POSSIBLE SPOILER] asylum, venturing fearlessly out into the real world looking for a roof over their heads and food to eat, the tone gradually shifts back into positive territory. But while they're in the asylum, it's really dark and harrowing. It'd make one helluva movie, and I sure hope it does.

I'll find out on September 26, when I see Blindness on its opening night. I can't wait....but I really hope that I'm not pissed-off while exiting the cinema. I'll always have the book to fall back on, but I sure would love to see this narrative materialized, visually.

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Friday, September 12, 2008

Why Wasn't I Informed About This????

Gotta love New York City....particularly Times Square. Earlier this week, in a genius yet creppy as fuck promotional campaign for the 20th Anniversary DVD Edition of CHILD'S PLAY, a bunch of kids and midgets dressed as Chucky paraded around T-Square, with no real direction, destination, or motive.

Other than shameless promo.

I sooo would've went up to Times Square to snap a picture with some of these if I had known....

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Frikkin' cool....

So Much For Scholarships....

Maybe it's because I have a niece now, a cool-as-all-hell, two-and-nine-month old barrel of awesome named Gianna....but stories like this actually grind my gears a bit all of the sudden.

So there's this 22-year-old chick named Natalie Dylan, for those who haven't heard about this yet, who is basically slutting herself out for what she seems to believe is a good cause.

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Basically, she needs to pay for grad school or some shit, so she's selling her virginty to the highest bidder. And the whole shebang (emphasis on "bang") is being hosted by that haven of debauchery and wall-to-wall whoo-ahs out in Nevada, The Bunny Ranch.

It was originally thought that this whole mess was being put on by Howard Stern, a rumor that of course was easy to buy into....turns out Stern isn't the pimp here, its whoever runs the Ranch.

This chick is taking polygraph tests, and other highly scientific procedures, to prove that she is in fact a virgin. Smart move, being that she's actually pretty fuckin' hot, and I personally found it hard to believe that a girl as smoking as her would still cling tightly to her V-card. The cherry is still ripe, sort of speak.

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And naturally, horny guys with little shame and large bank accounts have already set the bidding war ablaze, with the tally so far up to like $275,000 just to spend time with Ms. Dylan and (I'd sure as hell hope) lay the pipe. See, she claims that this isn't all about money, and that she's going to make sure that the guy gets along with her, and that it's somebody she isn't disgusted or sickened by.....

Right? She better watch her ass, then. Say some poor dumbass drops like $300,000 just to stake his claim on her cherry, sort of speak, but then she has dinner with him and decides, "Nah, kick rocks, loser." Dude would be liable to smack a bitch, I'd think.

My main issue here, though, is how fucking lame men are that they'd pay any sum of finance to have sex with this girl. I mean, sure, she's pretty sexy, and she's untainted goods. But shit, $275,000?!?!?! Paying for sex never makes sense to me, honestly, so I have deeper confusion-heavy issues at play here.

Besides, isn't this really a form of prostitution? Kind of illegal? Probably not....I'm sure that I'm missing some sort of loophole, or whatever law being enforced in my head isn't in reality an actual law to break.

The respect I have for Natalie Dylan is small, really, simply for the fact that she's selling her purity in a public domain. But I can't help but respect her business savvy....if only ever-so slightly. She knows she's gorgeous, and she knows that the male gender is pretty much blinded by sweet tail, so why not put herself through grad school by stealing some lame's hard-earned paper? She could very well just ditch the poor fool once the sexy times have ended. Kick him out of bed, show him the exit, and count her money that was most likely earned after about three minutes of actual physical interaction, sexually. Talk about "easy" money.

But that respect only lasts so long.....I guess I'm most bothered by how the media has turned this into an actual news item. Why? Maybe because idiots such as myself will discuss it. And sex sells, now and forever. But man is this a sad time we live in, when bullshit such as The Hills is must-see-TV and churns out talent-less drones of celebrities, and when some over-the-hill blowhard like John McCain could damn well be our next leader.

What to do, what to do.....

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Martyrs Watch -- Like, Seriously Man?!

Another day, another surge of Martyrs anticipation. It's almost becoming a parody of itself at this point, my longing to see a film that I won't see until at least early 2009, yet drooling over new bit of press and info that emerges.

First, a fresh take from some other lucky summa-da-bitch who has seen it, taken from Ain't It Cool News:

"The recent French horror resurgence is already mutating beyond anyone's wildest imaginations. Haute Tension [High Tension] may have gotten most of the attention from folks in the genre ghetto (and, in my opinion, undeservedly so) but more recent works like A l'interieur [Inside] have really started to push the envelope, taking the horror film in directions it's rarely gone before.

And then there's Martyrs. Good God. Fuck pushing the envelope, Martyrs tears up the envelope, burns it, mixes the ashes with blood and hands it back to you as a cocktail.
.....
One person puked at the midnight screening of this, and quite frankly I was shocked there weren't more such reactions, or more walkouts. Another person during the Q & A tried to unfavorably compare it to Haneke's Funny Games, but to me it's Funny Games that pales in comparison. Haneke showers his audience and characters with contempt, while Laugier has nothing but respect and empathy for his creations, even the monsters, and for anyone who watches them. This is a beautiful, horrible, tragic, ghastly, shocking, heartbreaking work of genius that lovingly scars you for life.

Martyrs is one of those films you can't unsee, and wouldn't want to."

---

Next up, a brief news item that discusses how the film is practically banned in its own home country, thus proving that I'll have to settle with watching it on DVD eventually, not in a dark, comfortable cinema....beggars can't be choosers, they say....this taken from Bloody Disgusting:

"After the premiere of his French horror film, Martyrs, director Pascal Laugier took the stage in front of nearly 1,400 screaming fans, who gave the film a standing ovation. During the Q+A session, which took a very interesting turn (more on that soon), Laugier told the audience that the film received an "18A" rating in France - the equivalent to an X-rating here in the States. What's even more shocking is that Martyrs is the first film to receive the rating without containing a single scene of sex. From what we're told, this is as close to being banned as you can get. Thank God the film has been sold in nearly 40 countries, including here in the States, where Dimension Films will release it on DVD next year."

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Wednesday, September 10, 2008

"Love Shutdown"

The following has to be said, if not for any other reason than to state my peace before apologists and D-riders alike tirelessly defend the song's merits and try to convince yours truly that its a "creative, next level" exercise in artistic limitless-ness.

But here's the bottom line, because M.B. said so: Kanye West's new song, "Love Lockdown," is fucking terrible. Ear-tainting repello. Audible horror. Insert any other pairing of words describing "music" and "inferior."

It's basically "T-Pain singing over a clusterfuck of a Europop instrumental, as performed underwhelmingly by Kanye West." When I first heard it last week in my co-worker's office, I honestly thought it was a goof. "This can't really be his new single," I wondered to myself. But then the song continued.....and West kept singing horribly....and the beat started adding in new irritating and muffled sounds....and then West faux-sang some more....and then I started shaking my head in a torrent of confusion, disgust, and an ounce of humor.

Fucking T-Pain has anybody with vocal chords thinking they can sing. Give T-Painful credit for that, at least. He's changed the game, single-handedly. For the worse, of course, but changed it nonetheless.

I know, I know....Kanye West is full of emotion here, and the words seem heartfelt enough. But conviction and genuine feeling don't cancel out the fact that the song sucks. He can't sing worth a shit, the lyrics are far from impressive, and the beat is just downright grating.

I've never been a huge fan of West as a rapper, but here, I'd gladly rather he spit some hokey punchlines. At least when he delivers goofy raps with conviction, I can tolerate them because his production is usually great and he can flow a bit. But this singing shit of his has to go. Now.

They're saying that his new album is called 808s & Heartbreak.......which leads me to believe that it could very well be an entire album of cry-baby, whiny, "I miss my girlfriend," emo bullshit. All shitty singing, from Intro to Outro. Dear God, if this ends up being the case, I may not even download it for free.

It's been said many a time already on the respective blogs and AIM status lines of several colleagues of mine already today, but I'll say it on my own here: Rappers, for the love of all that's listenable, stop singing. Or trying to sing. You're a rapper, and you get paid tons of money to write words that rhyme together. Stick to that script. Leave the singing to dudes like Ne-Yo.

"Love Lockdown," if I never hear you again, I'll die a happy man.

Points do, though, go to Kanye West for being a bit daring and shaking his artistic cage a bit. It just didn't work, man. So go back to your old formula, por favor.

The audio travesty itself:

**M.B. Note: so every clip of the song playing on Youtube has been taken down, by the record label, I'd presume. Copyright reasons, surely, but I'd like to think its because even they know the song smells foul. Wishful thinking.

Martyrs Watch -- Sick Concept Art, pics

Blah blah blah....even more reviews sare surfacing from the Martyrs screening held this week out at the Toronto International Film Festival.....all are glowing, chock-ful-of-praise, fawning.....blah blah blah.

I'm fucking dying to see this movie even more.....etc etc etc.

Rather than further vent my excitement over seeing this movie sometime within the next year (fingers crossed), I figured it'd be cooler to just post some pics of the insane concept art used in pre-production, that I've happened across in my daily net-scouring exercises.

Check 'em out:

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And here's a new poster, that's equally quality:

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Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Season of the Fix -- Fringe

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Call me a glutton for punishment, or even a tad masochistic, but I sure do love stories that confuse the fuck out of my noggin. Lead me down one narrative path only to detour toward some unforeseen one that boggles my mind. Sometimes never even landing at one sensical destination. This is the rationale I use to justify my heavy love for David Lynch films, and shit like Memento.

The press-ignited promise that the new Fox show Fringe would be such a televisial feast was enough to have me plopped, ass-first, on my couch to watch its pilot ep. Its the latest brainchild from that creative nerd J.J. Abrams (Lost, Cloverfield, next year's new Star Trek movie), meaning naturally that expectations are a smidge on the high side over here. Did it live up to my self-imposed hype?

Undecided still, I am.

Background check: So there's this really-crazy shit that goes down on a nighttime flight, myseriously. With the plane appearing as if its about to go down, crash in a blaze of glory, the passengers flip into a frenzy, but what seems to be an impending crash ends up being something else altogether. And wild. The passengers' faces start melting, or forming pussy burn-like lesions all over. It's tough to tell, exactly, as the lights keep flashing and its tough to get a clear view. But this makes it all the more cool to watch.

Fast forward to a pair of FBI agents, the female named Olivia Dunham and the dude named John (played by some guy who looks a helluva lot like Thomas Jane), secretly in love, cuddling post-whoopie in some seedy motel room. They each are called to the plane scene, the plane hasn't crashed, though. It landed itself smoothly, as a result of some new technology where planes can self-operate. Inside, though, lie the decomposed, nasty-looking corpses of all the passengers. And from here, a whole bunch of head-scratching shit goes down. Dunham's lover/colleague is burned in a botched arrest attempt, after a shady dude who could be responsible for the plane debacle ends a chase scene by blowing both agents skyhigh, fireballs full of the same contaminated chemicals that turned those passengers into comatose lepers, leaving loverboy hospitalized with a similar decomposition, while Ms. Dunham just has a facial flesh wound. No heebie-jeebie juice got into her blood.

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After some investigating, Dunham finds a link between both incidents: some former doctor, Walter Bishop, who's now locked in an insane asylum. The blonde cutie then tracks down the nutjob's son, Peter (played by Dawson's Creek has-been possibly come back, Joshua Jackson), so she can question him in the asylum. Sucks for everybody involved, though, being that Peter hates and resents looney-tunes-Walter.

Things moved along swiftly, not exactly leaving me floored or pinned to the tube, but compelled just enough to not change the channel. But fortunately, the final moments brought about a pretty unexpected twist that played out quite well, and planted some seeds of possible-dopeness that I'll now have to keep watching to see if they blossom into a quality series.

Such as, just what in the hell is this Massive Dynamic company up to? And will Abrams turn Massive Dynamic into another Dharma Initiative, with fake commercials and websites, the whole nine? I hope not, 'cause that'd sure be unoriginal as a mug.

This is all a bit wordy, I know, but its somewhat mandatory to be so. Fringe has layers of shit going on, mostly intriguing and some snooze-worthy. I must say, I went into the show hoping to be instantly grabbed, just like the first episode of Lost did some however-many years ago. Fringe is definitely worthy of further viewing, but like True Blood last night, the show has only hooked me so much. The jury is out.

If it continues to up its sci-fi/X-Files-ish ante, I'll be one happy camper. Chick who plays Olivia Dunham, a first-time-in-my-eyes-at-least actress named Anna Torv, seems more than capable to anchor the show, and Pacey-himself, Josh Jackson, isn't as annoying as previously thought. For now, at least.

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A smile is on my face. I now have two new idiot-box shows to invest time and energy into....maybe I should try out a new half-hour comedy sitcom next, instead of only dark trippy hour-long genre drama. We shall see. Ohhhh.....we shall see.

Matt Barone = Fashionisto

Obviously, this post's headline is the ultimate oxymoron, a total okie doke. Utter bullshit. I'm about as far from a fashion icon as Adam Sandler (you ever see him dressed at awards shows? Hilarious, dude literally comes straight from his local pub in sneakers and t-shirts. Classy guy). Yet, earlier today, I still somehow found myself seated in attendance at a swanky Manhattan fashion show. Runway, and all. I must've been like Waldo in that spot. "What doesn't fit here? Oh, yeah, that dude wearing black Air Force 1s, baggy Sean John jeans, and a solid gray colored shirt."

Not that I voluntarily attended this shit, now. I was there for business purposes, checking out a new R&B singer who performed in between runway sets. She had one hell of a voice, but her two songs sucked overall, and she had three lifeless yet attractive drones as backup dancers.

But all wasn't lost, fortunately. I did get first-person, right-in-front-of-me looks at a couple of smoking-hot celeb gals: Mel B, and Danity Kane's blonde babe Aubrey O'Day. And neither failed to meet, and well, exceed, expectations.


Of course, I know jack-shit about women's style, so don't expect me to comment and/or critique any of the pieces I saw. Lucky enough I was even seated in one of those traditional white foldable chairs, next to people taking notes on that clothing, snapping camera phone pics, chit-chatting with the trendy person next to them. It was like I was Anne Hathaway in THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA, while she say wide-eyed at that fancy fashion show. Except I can give a fuck about high-end fashion. And I'm not a really hot actress. But apples and oranges, these are.

First up was Khloe Kardashian's new line, called "Dash." Creative name, right? Womp womp. But surprisingly, Khloe (the fugliest of the otherwise bangin' Kardashian sisters) wasn't as beastly in-person as she seems any other time. Not saying that she was hot or anything; rather, she's a quintessential girl that I'd go after during a drink-full night out in Hoboken. And I'm not ashamed to admit it. As for her clothing line, blah blah. I'd never buy any of it for a girl.

[actually, Khloe looks good to me in this pic, too....let me find out I'm developing a thang-thang for her now....]

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Then the singer, who I was there to see, came on. Her name is Kreesha Turner....nice voice, strong stage presence, really cute. But wack-ass songs. Send her back to the studio, EMI Music. Asap.

Then to the grand finale....Mel B's new lingerie line, Ultimo B. What a jip! Mel B herself didn't even model any of this "sexy" underwear. Fuck! But cot damn, Mel B is a sight for sore eyes in person. Dare I say, she looks BETTER in person.

[here's her modeling some Ultimo B, in an ad....sweet, huh?]

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I love that woman. Ditto for Aubrey O'Day, who modeled one of Kardashian's outfits, a skintight yellow t-shirt and flatteringly form-fitting jeans. Her body is crazy. I'm not super into blondes, but for Aubrey, I'd make an exception any day.

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As for Mel B's lingerie line.....not exactly an expert opinion here, but I'd be pretty content if a girl I was with stripped down to her skivvies and was wearing a piece of Ultimo B. Sexy stuff. Too bad, though, that all the girls wearing it today were rail-thin.

Aubrey was also carrying around some shitty little white dog the whole time, a dog wearing a black shirt and looking mucho embarassed. Poor pooch....what's with these blond socialite types using mini-canines as accessories? Shouldn't the ASPCA be on top of this by now?

'Tis all.

Wait....was this at all sexist, or chauvinistic? Oh well, if it was, whatever. I'm a dude, right? Just being honest here. Mel B and Aubrey O'Day are badd chicks.

Don't expect to hear more about yours truly attending fashion shows, however. I haven't felt so out of my element in ages. I'll stick to movie screenings and things of that sort. Much better to be in darkness than in light surrounded by people who's every move is dictated by what Elle, GQ, or Vogue magazines tell them is "in."

It's Macys all the way for me. Now, til eternity.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Season of the Fix -- True Blood

Save for Lost, I really don't watch too many television shows, and this is something I've long wanted to change about myself. Problem is, I'm sans DVR/TiVo here at the apartment, and my schedule varies on a daly basis so much that I'd be hard-pressed to stick to a regular, consistent weekly viewing ritual. Lost, being such a clusterfuck of brilliant sci-fi and intriguingly "what the fuck" enigmas, had me hooked from day one, when that poor sap got sucked into the airplane propeller. And ever since I've been unable to look away.

But still, there's tons of shows I wish I was a regular with: Heroes, Dexter, Prison Break, for starters. Wish I would've watched Six Feet Under. Know I should've been up on The Wire since day one. Californication seems like a winner, as does Weeds.

So this season, being rather intrigued by a slew of new shows, I've vowed to give as many as possible a real shot.

First up, is HBO's True Blood, a show that seems right up my twisted alley. Vampires. Extreme content. From the respected creator of aforementioned Six Feet Under, a fella named Alan Ball. Seems worthy of being my first potential-TV-addiction for this new season.

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The premise is a compelling one, at least to me. Sookie Sutherland, played by the increasingly-attractive one-time Oscar winner Anna Paquin, is an innocent-enough chick working as a waitress at a dive bar called Merlotte's Bar & Grille, a popular local haunt in this nondescript Southern gothic town. (Sookie Sutherland is quite the name, isn't it? Many a perverted joke could be inserted here, but I'll resist the urge....for now). Her brother, Jason, is a construction worker of sorts, who's also banging every cute piece of tail this side of the Mississip. Sookie's best friend, the livewire, sassy gal named Tara, harbors hidden lust for Jason, and she's just been hired as a bartender by Merlotte's namesake owner, Sam, who not-so-secretly loves Sookie.

The catch to all this is....vampires co-exist in society. They're seen in a cloak of intrigue, the public has this love/hate relationship with them. There's talk of some sort of Vampire Rights Act, and its spokeswoman goes on Real Time with Bill Maher to discuss its ramifications. This drink called True Blood, made from blood obviously, is sold in select locations for vamps to consume, in the hopes that'll prevent them from seeking blood within humans, thus killing folks. Humans who slurp on a vampire's blood feel a fix, a high such as drug intake. And there's also people referred to as "fangbangers" who get sexual kicks out of letting vampires bite them, and have rough dirty vamp sex with them.

All a bit sordid, eh? Indeed, and True Blood holds nothing back, in terms of sexual nature. Jason has a whole running sequence where's fucking this fangbanger chick, who shows him a homemade sex tape in which she takes it from behind from a vampire. See here:

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Shit hits the fan, emotionally, though, once Bill, a mysterious and suave vamp, enters Merlottes and catches the open-to-suggestion eyes of Sookie. And here, an inevitable forbidden love affair is seed-planted. And in a fit of unexplained rage, Jason strangles the fangbanger he's banging to death. Or so it seems. And thus, the inaugaral season of True Blood is underway.

At first, I was a bit bored. The characters seemed a bit goofy, and sort of like caricatures. Especially TKTK, who seemed to be a hackneyed "strong outspoken Black female" character. But as the hour progressed, things picked up nicely. The stuff with Sookie's brother seems like it'll develop quite nicely, and the staff at Merlottes is filled with colorful enough personalities to promise some serious drama as the season moves forth. I wish there was more vampire insanity, but I'm sure that'll come in time. Or at least a horror lover such as myself could hope.

I'm not 100% sold, but I'm definitely willing to continue on the True Blood ride for a couple more weeks. Giving it a benefit of the doubt. The way this first episode, called 'Strange Love,' ends is pretty effective, continuing a seedy plotline that appears in the first 20 minutes but then seemingly disappears for the remainder of the episode, and it doesn't bode well for poor Sookie.

And speaking of Sookie.....when the fuck did Anna Paquin become so hot?!?! She's always struck me as a bit plain-Jane, run of the mill in her cuteness. But here, she's damn close to reaching va-va-va-voom territory, and I for one am not peeved at it, at all. Check her fine self out:

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Hopefully True Blood keeps getting better. There's such strong potential here at work. I could easily seeing the show self-imploding if the wrong turns are taken, narrative wise. But as of now, I'll consider my newfound TV kick at a cool 1-0record.

Up next, J.J. Abrams' Fringe, on Fox. Starts tomorrow night. I'm there, dudes. Now, off to the new season of Entourage, a show I have thankfully submerged myself in. Without Ari and Drama, the show would suck, real talk. And from what I can tell, all of these characters are doing the EXACT same shit as always. The writers better add some new blood into the show, or take some unforeseen plot turns. Otherwise, I'm jumping ship rather soon.

--
Oh, by the way, that crazy-ass '80s gem Night of the Demons is on later tonight on the godsend Monsters HD. Hell fuckin' yeah. Shit creeped me out royally as a wee lad. Let's see if its held up over the years.

Remember when that possessed girl sticks her lipstick up her hoo-hah?! Sick, right? Oh, I forgot...most of the heads reading this probably don't even know what the hell Night of the Demons even is. So that called-out scene just either made you run to Blockbuster, or shake your head in disgust. To each his/her own, I guess. Diff strokes for diff folks.

Let The Right One In.....viva la American theatres

Great, great news....actually news that I read a few weeks back, but I figured it's worth mentioning here, to hopefully ignite some little bit of buzz amongst friends and associates.

An amazing, haunting, and touching little "horror" film, called Let The Right One In, is getting an extremely-deserved theatrical release here in the states, starting October 24, just in time for All Hallow's Eve. It's from Sweden, and won the top prize at the Tribeca Film Fest a few months back. I caught it during Tribeca, and absolutely adored it. I'll write more about it closer to release, but basically, it's about a shy, socially-awkward little boy who moves into a new apartment building and befriends a little girl who lives nearby, and who just happens to be an immortal bloodsucking vampire.

What was so amazing about the film, really, was that, despite a few striking and creepy "horror" sequences, it's really this heartfelt and dark love story, showing how these two vastly-different children forge a close, loyal bond in the face of murder, mayhem, and societal outcasting.

I'm telling you....international cinema is fucking bodying anything American studios are doing, genre-wise. And of course, some dumbass studio is already prepping a remake.

Losers. Do yourselves a favor and catch this original one when it drops in late Oct. Here's the great-lookin' poster.


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....and the trailer:




It's a special one, I swear.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Bring The Pain

It doesn't happen very often these days, but every now and then, a new rap album drops that reinvigorates that inner-fire of mine with excitement. That oft-forgotten realization that I'll be bumping said album for months to come, not that initial 2 or 3 spins in my iTunes before disappearing into oblivion (sorry, recent Nas and Lil Wayne albums, I've already deleted you from any current playlists).

That new Elzhi album, The Preface, gave me this feeling not too long ago. Another album that's set for October release recently did the same, but the fact that I own it is something I can't even divulge, so I'll save my praise of it for next month.

This past week, another record injected my ears with this sense of hip hop eupohoria: DJ Muggs vs. Planet Asia, Pain Language

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Muggs has always been a fave producer of mine, and here, he's in gloriously muddy, dark, macabre, hardcore places here sonically. Planet Asia, an MC I've always liked but sadly slept-on as a whole 'til now, kills it throughout. Beats bang. Lyrics score. Every song wins, and even the skits are bleak bits of grit.

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Some samplings:

"Sleeper Cell"



"Pain Language"



"All Hail The King"



....told you. The shit is so so serious. If you know anything about me, you'd know the type of rap I've long preferred, and this Pain Language is just that.

And it's about to establish permanent residence within M.B.'s iTunes.