Zack and Miri Can't Get It Up

Who doesn't love a good dick joke? Or a witty ass riff? Or even a shameless, not to mention brainless, diss of a starring an actress you don't like, going a little something like, "Not only is she a cocksucker, but her movie sucked cock"? Ha, ha. Get it?

Look, comedies-centered-around-the-sophomoric-art-of-sex-crazed humor and I have always gotten along famously. Any time those American Pie movies are on the tube, I'll glady sit down and watch, and still laugh like the first time I saw them. And Superbad remains one of the funniest films I've ever seen, and that whole bit where Seth flashes back to the days of his obsession with "dick drawings" is the pinnacle of this prude-scaring execution. When done with some intelligence and hard-to-detect-but-there tact, this style of giggles is more than welcome.

Zack and Miri Make A Porno, however, bends this comedy genre over, plugs it from behind with a man-just-sprung-from-jail's force, frequently attempting to whisper "heartfelt" sweet-nothings into it's ear. It's an overdose of dick-and-ass jokes, that hits its mark a few times but ultimately left me bored.


[nice view]

Not for lack of appreciated effort by several involved, though. Elizabeth Banks, as cute and just-one-of-the-guys naturally funny, gives Miri a genuine arch, to where you truly believe that a knockout like her would actually fall head-over-heels with her lifelong best pal, the overweight and crass Zack (Seth Rogen's character). And in his brief, one-very-funny-scene cameo, Justin Long ("the Mac dude," from Dodgeball, dates Drew Barrymore and Kirsten Dunst interchangeably) fully commits to a hoarse-voiced gay male porno actor, and delivers one of the film's best lines: "...[my movie] Shut Your Mouth or I'm Gonna Fuck It." Then, there's the always-great Craig Robinson (The Office, Pineapple Express, the bouncer in Knocked Up's best scene), here to play Seth's co-worker at a Starbucks-knockoff coffee shop who tags onto their makeshift porno as "producer," merely to look at "titties" that belong to his bitch of a wife. Robinson's droll, matter-of-fact delivery never misses, and you wish he had more scenes in this one, especially.



[Robinson....a really cool dude, too; interviewed him for a profile story, and after the story went to print, on stands, he actually sent me a text message telling me that "I rocked the shit out of that story for me," and thanking me, which virtually NEVER happens in this biz. Pretty cool of him, eh?]

The pieces were all in line, and I was ready to triumphantly shout "Jenga!" by the time the closing credits ran. But as Zack and Miri Make A Porno progressed, I realized just how tired the rampant "X-rated" jokes were becoming. Literally every joke here stems from either a "dick in ass" or "cock and balls" source. For the first 3o minutes or so, I was there with it, and chuckling along. But then, I caught myself predicting every punchline, and shuffling my feet waiting for this shit to end, so I could go grab some delish Mongolian BBQ at the Newport Center Mall's food court (Great Khan's = great, indeed).

The telegraphed-joke disease specifically inflicted Seth Rogen, who in every other movie he's made I've loved as a comic actor. And coming off Pineapple Express, an unexpectedly-strange laugher that'll most likely make my year-end best-of list, I've been pro-Rogen, tendfold. So many people that I know and respect have declared "I'm tired of Seth Rogen, all his movies are the same," and I'd actively find ways to defend the dude. But in Zack and Miri, his whole "underachieving, schlubby guy who gets the hottie" routine felt played out, "been there, done that, Mr. Rogen." I counted a good eight or nine times where I said his punchline before he himself did, and that's never good. And other than a seriously-scruffy beard here, Zack could've been Ben from Knocked Up, or Cal from 40-Year Old Virgin, and I would've known the difference.

I'm not off the Rogen train just yet, because even here I didn't dislike him; I just felt like I know him too well now. Hopefully, his next one, Observe & Report, will reinvigorate. It's being billed as a comedy version of Taxi Driver, with Rogen playing a disgruntled mall security cop who loses his sanity and gets a bit trigger-happy, which sounds as far away from "fat stoner hooks up out of his league" as a flick can get. Fingers crossed.


[Banks, Justin long, and Rogen...the movie's funniest sequence, IMO]

Perhaps, though, the blame of Zack's underwhelming character shouldn't be put on Rogen's shoulders, but on those of writer/director Kevin Smith. Smith has a real cult following, people who adore the shit out of his guy-centric comedies (Clerks, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, Mallrats, etc). Can't say that I've ever been a huge fan of Smith, honestly; his movies make me laugh a bit, sure, but never to the point of wanting to ever watch them again. Granted, his Dogma did work really well for me, mainly because of the fantastical, God-versus-fallen-angels plotline, which was a nice curveball, creatively. But typically, I've found his humor a bit too juvenile for me, and predictable.

I was hoping Zack and Miri would change that, considering the heavy "Team Judd Apatow" element involved (Rogen, Robinson, even Banks to a smaller degree), but no dice. But unfortunately, Smith's usual "appeasing the inner 9th grader in all of us" chops poured in here. Take the whole "we need to make a catchy porno movie name that plays off a popular movie" conceit...okay, now: Dawn of the Dick...Cocunts (Cocoon)...Edward Penishands....Star Whores. Original, huh? Seriously, any second grader could've written those jokes. And that's my problem here; nothing in this movie struck me as creative, or witty, or even laugh-out-loud funny. Obvious, instead of blindsiding.

A couple of other artistic choices had me groaning, as well. First, a so-lame-I-almost-couldn't-believe-it-was-happening dance montage where the characters do supposedly-funny dance moves as DMX's "Party Up" plays. What is this, 2001? The fuck? And second, the moment where Zack and Miri realize their hidden feelings for one another. It comes as they're filming a sex scene together for the porno-within-the-movie, and it's actually a pretty well-acted and tender moment. But then, just as you're ready to stand up and cheer, Smith undercuts it with some Bon Jovi-sounding song, as if to beat over our heads that its a romantically joyous bit of intercourse going down in front of our eyes. Rather than leaving the soundtrack turned Off and letting their love-making do all of the work.

Just frustrating. A movie with a good amount of laughs that pale in number-comparison to the array of saw-that-shit-coming jokes. And a love story within that doesn't quite feel earned enough. I'd been asking for a disappointing and/or bad movie to come my way these days, after seeing a long series of winners. Zack and Miri Make A Porno isn't bad, but it's certainly a letdown. Had high hopes, and only a few were met.

Womp womp.

Rogen's 2008 ouput goes something like this....Pineapple Express = the greatness; Zack and Miri Make A Porno = should've been, but isn't the goodness. Pineapple is so subversive and bizarre, like very few comedies I'd seen prior. Sort of like a bigger-budgeted, bigger-star-attached spin on the tone of Napoleon Dynamite.

Though, the bit in Zack and Miri where we see just how fucking disgusting the aftermath of giving a girl anal while she's constipated can really be had me LOLing...yeah, I know. But trust me, it's even worse when played out here.

Oh, I should give Smith a thumbs-up for setting this flick in Monroeville, Pennsylvania, the locale used in the original Dawn of the Dead, also known as my favorite horror film ever. Those "Monroeville Zombies" hockey jerseys worn are a nice touch, too.



I'd never wear one of those, but I'd definitely buy one and keep in the collection. The least I could do.

He's the new (for me) writer or writers....

I must say...I've read quite a few of Stephen King's books, and enjoyed them. Some I've loved to no end (The Shining, Carrie, From A Buick 8), others I've enjoyed though at times bored me if not slightly underwhelming me in their basic thrills (Cell, namely). King has a savvy humor to his writing, that blends in well with the scares and chills found within his tales. Such a unique, all-his-own voice, which I admire.

But if you know me, you know that, when it comes to my horror storytelling, I'm a-thousand-times-more partial to humorless. To the gut. Cold-blooded. Piercing. Sure, an occasional joke or whatever is allowed, but best left to character dialogue, and not writer's interjection. And yes, I fuckin' adore Shaun of the Dead, so my sense of humor does get along with my imaginary-sadist side. But that's the minority, folks.

Which all leads to this...I've found my favorite horror fiction author. Had thought it to be Mr. King, but I'm realizing now that he won such honors only because he's the author I've read the most works of, not because he's fully earned it. Make sense? It should. And that point is further smashed by the following statistical truth: I've only read two books by my new favorite horror fiction dude. But these two works alone have excited me and gripped more than any of King's. So therefore, I'm crowning Jack Ketchum as my favorite author.


[that's Ketchum....dude's hoodie says it all, huh...worth nothing here that "Jack Ketchum" is actually a pen-name; research shows me that his real name is Dallas Mayr, and he's a former music critic...I'm a hip-hop critic, from time to time...hmmmm]

Ketchum's is a name I've read about for the past year or so pretty regularly, while killing time (pun intended, get it?) on my various horror websites. The lion's share of his book-ography has either been adapted into films already or are currently in pre-production. Naturally, I was intrigued. I fancy myself a holder of a cinematic eye, so I figured, Ketchum's books must be that shit, then. Indeed, they are. The two that I've read, Red and The Lost, were fuck-I-don't-want-to-put-this-book-down-but-I-have-to-go-to-fucking-work good. Containing everything I'd want in a page-turner: great, well-drawn characters; sudden acts of stunning violence and gore; smart, fluid dialogue; and a lack of plot holes and narrative choices that, once I finish reading, ring true to what I would've done with the set-ups he presents.

His characters are priority numero uno, and given such rich and compelling back-stories, that there's hardly an unappealing, he/she-can-die-now-and-I-won't-give-two-shits one in the lot. He spends time explaining why each person does what he or she does, even when the actions aren't for the faint of heart. Internal monologues are recurrent, and no stone is left unflipped. Skeletons are injected with souls and come crackling out of closets to haunt you like that bone-twitching scene in the original House on Haunted Hill when the walking skull-and-bones dude scares the backstabbing lady to death. Which is why I'm so surprised that all of the book-to-film adaptations of Ketchum's work have been met with generally positive reviews. If there's one that books are able to do much better than movies, it's providing ocean-deep background and history for multiple figures. Movies are stricken by running times, where as books can go one for 400 pages and not feel overlong.


[now that's a book cover...]

And meticulous, dense character development is the name of the game in The Lost, which I just completed an hour or so ago. Wednesday, as I carried the 395-page book with me to the PATH train, I was somewhat intimidated by its thickness, its size. "Between the truncated train rides and everything else cluttering my weekdays, it's going to take weeks for me to finish this shit," I thought. That was, before I actually turned leftward-in Page One, jamming its hook into my brain like that I Know What You Did Last Summer fisherman out for blood. From that point forward, my workdays were progressing with, "Need to leave, need to continue The Lost." And now, a hair past two days later, shit's a Reynolds (wrap). Breezed right through it. And man, was it a scorcher.

Location: Sparta, New Jersey, an actual town in South Jerz that's pretty much the boonies, very to-itself and inconspicuous. The main character is a teenager, Ray Pye, who's basically a suave, ladies-man, wannabe-Mick Jagger bent by a real Hannibal Lecter-like fascination with inflicting pain and feeling pleasure from watching others tremble in his presence. A true scumbag. As the story opens, he's hanging out in the woods with two younger friends, the insecure and follower-type Tim Bess, and the also-insecure, from-a-broken-home, Jennifer, who is utterly infatuated with Ray. And Ray knows it, so he fucks her frequently to get his rocks off, which angers Tim because he secretly sweats Jennifer....so anyway, they're in the woods, and Ray happens across a pair of attractive female campers nearby. I won't spoil what triggers this, but in a random fit, Ray blows both girls away with a rifle he had stashed all along. And convinces a scared-and-bewildered Tim and Jennifer to keep mum. Shut the fuck up.

Fast forward four years, Lieutenant Charles Schilling is still convinced that Ray killed the two girls, but hasn't been able to pin him, and now the case has gone cold. His partner, Ed Anderson, has retired as a result of the un-solve-able case, and Ed's now in a loving relationship with Sally Richmond, an 18-or-so year old girl who's young enough to be Ed's daughter. Which means they're keeping the sex-and-dating a secret from the rest of smalltown Sparta. Also in love is Ray, now, with Katherine, a beautiful California-to-New-Jersey transplant who suffers from a mother confined to an insane asylum back in Cali.

That's the basic set-up. What transpires, though, as characters interweave with one another and emotions flare, is a total derailment. I can honestly say, I was reading with my jaw firmly slumped the floor as the climax grew and grew. Devolving into a serial killer bloodbath. Sexually sick at times. Hard to stop reading the whole time, though. The way Ketchum describes the outbursts of death-dealing always hits like a sneak attack to the sternum: [the following excerpt comes directly after a casual conversation between two friends]

"Lisa felt something strike the back of her shoulder, an acorn falling from high above, she thought, from the tree, but knowing even that something was wrong, that whatever it was had struck her too hard and then instantly heard the cracklike someone stepping on a branch in the brush out there in the dark and at first there was no pain, it was only startling, a sound out of sync with the world. But she turned at the sound and at the sudden wet feeling feeling on her shoulder.

And that was when her face exploded.

Her teeth shattered the bullet. Fragments of teeth and bullet drilled her cheekbone and poured out through her cheek.

Had her neck been turned a quarter of an inch to the right the third bullet would have severed her jugular, would have cracked her larynx a quarter inch to the left. Instead it entered and exited clean thumped into the tree beside Elise's shoulder."

Serious shit. But so well dictated.

The reason why I cited each major chaaracter above is simply to do The Lost justice. Ketchum goes to incredible lengths to flesh out each person, in typical Ketchum fashion, of course. Each chapter is distinguished by whichever character's perspective it's being told from, and they're all given equal time to shine. As a writer, this guy clearly cares about all of his creations, even the despicable ones like Ray Pye. Not once, while reading this, did I feel cheated, or disconnected from any of the central peeps when something good or bad happened. Everything registered. Everything clicked. And Ketchum's visuals are worded to extremely-detailed ends. Which plays out like a "movie for the blind," a cinematic experience that I had playing head-wise throughout the reading process.

I'll stop now, though, because, well....I'm a bit tired of typing. And hungry. And ready to watch the old-school The Day The Earth Stood Still (a sci-fi classic I've shamefully yet to see, and which has been remade into a huge December blockbuster, starring the positively-vapid Keanu Reeves, and hitting this Dec.), courtesy of Netflix....but again, The Lost is a Philadelphia Phillies-level winner.

Next week, I'll be stepping foot into a Barnes & Noble, walking around aimlessly looking for the ever-elusive "horror fiction" section (seriously, why is B&N so god-damn confusing in its layout?), and dropping dollar-bills on some more Ketchum. The plan, to read his entire catalog. I'm hooked, officially.

And here, as a lil' bonus, the trailer for The Lost's independent film version, which I hear is actually pretty damn good and faithful to this book. It's up next in my Netflix Queue (right before the film take on Ketchum's you-killed-my-dog-so-now-your-ass-is-grass revenge tale Red, actually), so I'll judge for myself shortly. Based off this trailer alone, I'm pretty optimistic. Looks about right.

Martyrs Watch -- A Date When I'll Finally See This Shit

Been ages since I've talked about this one, huh?

Honestly, I've exhausted anything I can say about how much I want to see Martyrs already, so I'll keep this one brief. Besides, Trick R Treat has quietly overtaken the French gore-and-existential-thought-fest (Martyrs, that is) in my "Need. To. See. This. Now" mental inventory, anyway.

But still, seeing Martyrs is a priority. One that was clouded in "fuck, why can't they give the DVD a release date finally, since this will never make American theaters, like, ever" frustrations.

Well, "finally" is over. Just got pegged with a February 24, 2009 street date. Not exactly around the corner, but at least the endgame is in sight, for once. And also meaning that my trusty DVD supplier near Union Square will have it in around February 10 or so. A bit of a consolation.



**Sidenote: Martyrs' writer /director Pascal Laugier has apparently just signed on to re-write and direct the impending, inevitable Hellraiser remake, bringing my dude Pinhead back into the pop culture lexicon. This remake has been flirted with a long ass time now, burning through script-writers, namely the two dudes responsible for my early-2008 obsession Inside. So we'll see how Laugier handles it. If it ever happens, that is.

Music Videos Can Scare Me, Too.....

In he spirit of tomorrow's Halloween (my favorite holiday, ever), here's a hardly-seen-before music video by a band I know nothing more of, but had me trembling like a moose in front of Sarah Palin.

I can still vividly remember the first time I saw this.....it was way past the witching hour one night, probably during my 17th or 18th year in this world. Was flipping through the channels, turned to MTV, and caught one of those "alternative music video" shows they used to run after midnight. Can't recall the name of the exact program, but it was all about obscure artists and clips the network was either too-smart or too-pussy-footed to air during the routine day.

A couple of truly-shitty videos in, I was quickly losing interest and tempted to switch over to see if there was a Shannon Tweed and/or Julie Strain flick playing on Skin-A-Max (why sit here and lie? I'm an open book). But then, this video came on, and for some strange reason, my inner masochist told me to keep the station-changer stuck on Music TeleVision.

Fuck you, inner masochist. Aphex Twin's "Come To Daddy." Scared the ever-living-stool out of me. Literally gave me a nightmare that night. Vacated my thoughts for a couple days after. I'd even venture to say that this 5-minute music video is ten times more effective than a good 80% of horror/psychological/genre films overseen by full-length filmmakers.

Insane and unsettling atmosphere. Little older-women dwarf creatures straight out of Don't Look Now. Industrial metal that sounds like the soundtrack to a Lucifer-thrown kegger. And the granddaddy moment, a Gheorghe Muresan-tall demon who serves no other purpose than to inspire pants-shitting through simple screaming.

Maybe I'm just a pussy, but I doubt it. "Come To Daddy" will freak you out, I'm almost certain. So, meaning, of course, I love this video.



Yikes.

Two movies in two years?! Keep it up, Daniel Day-Lewis....

The other day, somebody (pretty sure it was my dad, of all people) asked me, "When does Daniel Day-Lewis have a new movie coming out?" To which I responded, "In a perfect, fair world, every Friday for the next two or so years, but in this cold, at-times-cruel one we live in, sometime in late 2009, and it's a musical called Nine."

Okay, that's not exactly how I said it, but it might as well have been. No need to write an extended thesis here.....Daniel Day-Lewis is a relentless force of thespian-ic majesty, everybody knows this. There Will Be Blood was a viewing experience that wrecked me so hardcore, I'd say that December 2007 was defined by its inescapable presence in my head.

For now, though, just to show that the infamously elusive and one-movie-every-like-five-or-six-years talent-giant is, indeed, currently working, here's an on-set shot of he and Penelope Cruz in character for Rob Marshall's Nine. Marshall also directed Chicago and Memoirs of a Geisha (so I'm sure some of you ladies out there will be excited by this upcoming flick, then....what? Chicks dug Geisha, it's a proven fact. I even saw the shit on a date--reluctantly--and kinda liked it, though it was ultimately more boring than mesmerizing....I did, though, get some nookie after the movie, so who am I to complain?).


[seen over at PopSugar.com]

Nine is a musical, and.....wait a sec. Fuck, I hate musicals. If it's not one directed by a mad visionary like Tim Burton, starring a great like Johnny Depp, and soaked in Goth-goodness and cartoon-ish blood, I'll pass. Or, unless it stars Daniel Day-Lewis, and co-stars Penelope Cruz, Nicole Kidman, Kate Hudson, Sophia Loren, Marion Cotillard, and Fergie (yes, that Fergie....work with me here, people---Marshall cast her, who knows).

In other words, I'll definitely see Nine when it hits. Otherwise, yeah, musicals are the big-screen equivalent of jamming razor blades into my ears while I'm seated in a theater. Take a guess on whether I saw Mamma Mia! or not....

An early holiday shopping idea, for M.B.'s stocking....

If anybody who knows and/or likes me needs a Christmas gift idea to bless yours truly with, here's one:



....and here's the close-up.....


"You ever wonder what Stuntman Mike, Pam, Mr. Pink, Nice Guy Eddie, Mr. White, Mr. Blonde, Vincent Vega, Jules, Elle Driver, The Bride, Bill, Max Cherry, Jackie Brown, Butch and Marsellus Wallace were like as kids? Well, wonder no more." Says the tagline on the Dutch Southern (brand creative enough to design this kick-ass T-shirt) website.

I swear, I'd totally wear this shirt if somebody bought it for me. Quentin Tarantino's coolest characters as rugrats, all together at once? "Screen printed on an American Apparel olive tee"? Yes, please. Only 18 beans, too. A fuckin' highway robbery, if you ask me.

Dutch Southern has some other fine pieces of upperb-body-garb on their site, also, such as "Dance Off" (Thriller-zombie Michael Jackson, Peter Boyle's monster from Young Frankenstein, and a dude who's either Teen Wolf or an Ape from the Planet cutting some rug), and "Hope for a Better Tomorrow" (Mad Max, Snake Plissken, and Chuck Heston from that Planet with those damn dirty apes).

Oh, and for attribution's sake, this was first spotted at JoBlo.com (I'm good like that; I'd hate it if somebody jocked my fresh---uggh, I actually just said that---and didn't acknowledge....not that anybody from JoBlo.com actually reads this site, but whatever).

thanks, Richard Dreyfuss....

Still sifting through the post-game imprints left by the pretty-sure-it's-great Synecdoche, New York, by the way.

Only posting this following clip because Richard Dreyfuss (who plays Dick Cheney in Oliver Stone's W., the George Bush biopic) pretty much nails my own take on the film. An opinion I've been struggling to put into word-form since I saw W. on Sunday with my pops. Though, I'd change my "good film" quotient down to like 5/8 of a great flick, or 4.5 even, not the 6/8 that Senor Dreyfuss says here.

But his I-don't-care-that-this-dude-just-employed-me honesty regarding Oliver Stone's execution is pretty cool, can't lie. Good to see you back, Richie.

Synecdoche, New York.....man, oh man

**Shit, still waiting for that one terrible movie to end my mostly-positive streak. This one wasn't it**



See, this is the exact kind of movegoing experience that makes me long and dream of ways to meet some new friends, who'll check out any-and-all types of flicks at the drop of a dime. Until that day, though, I'm stuck seeing shit by my lonesome, and deliberating about what I just watched within my own thoughts, debating and discussing to myself, like some schizophrenic.

This is also the exact kind of film that critics and cinema-buffs alike allude to when they describe something as "a film that'll divide audiences split down the middle." Or, if it's not that exact kind, then it essentially embodies what that distinction means. Having just seen it (alone), I'm currently ass-first atop the fence, heavily leaning toward the "loved it" side but not totally sure just yet. It's an uncomfortable, prickly, booty-hurting, yet strangely satisfying and invigorating place to sit.

Synecdoche, New York. What a peculiar mind-bang, a dense, infinitely-layered and intentionally impossible-to-definitely-decipher directorial debut from Charlie Kaufman, an Academy Award winning screenwriter (for Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) who's known for his uniquely-eccentric and beautifully constructed stories, which also include Being John Malkovich and Adaptation. His projects never follow the rules, and require multiple viewings to fully grasp and either like or loathe. Synecdoche, New York (which he also wrote) is pretty much Kaufman at his most personal, and most what-the-fuck.

Again, I'm still figuring out where I stand on this one. On the one hand, I was never less than intrigued, and in-tune. Largely due to its lead, Philip Seymour Hoffman, an outright-brilliant actor who's officially in my top three favorites now. Just watch his boiling rage and conflicted selfishness in Sidney Lumet's slept-on Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, or any of his other powerhouse performances, whether major (Capote) or minor (Boogie Nights, Magnolia). And here, in Synecdoche, New York, Hoffman's ability to convey this inner sense of torment, pain, and crackling hope is on front street, and it's something serious.



This isn't an easy one to break down, plot wise, but I'll give it my best go. Hoffman plays Caden Cotard, a director of stage plays living in Schenectady, New York, with his wife Adele (Catherine Keener, who, ever since 40-Year Old Virgin, I've had such an older-woman-hard-on for) and four-or-so-year-old daughter Olive. Caden's growing increasingly sick, much to his surprise, and he's feeling somewhat detached from life and his own ambitions. Detecting as much, Adele--an accomplished canvas artist--takes Olive and moves to Berlin, leaving Caden to test his temptations with the cute, shy box office clerk, Hazel (played by Samantha Morton), who clearly has a thing for him. But then, one day, he's awarded a MacArthur grant, and decides to relocate to New York City to write, produce, and direct a massive stage play full of "purity and truth," and centered around his own life and starring the entire town of Schenectady, who travels with Caden to wherever-the-hell-they-go. "Synecdoche," I guess. Only, the play begins mirroring his present reality---actors trading identities, scenes flip-flopping with real events, Caden and Hazel hire doppelganger/identity doubles. And, unsurprisingly, shit gets really confusing.

Before I delve into my thoughts concerning this wild shit, it's worth noting just how many great actresses there are in this, all given meaty and challenging roles. Michelle Williams, Dianne Wiest, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Hope Davis, Emily Watson. Kaufman deserves credit for scribing a smorgasbord of strong female characters, for sure.

So now, on to my personal analysis of Synecdoche, New York. Leaving the theater, initally, I was battling between a few different theories. [POSSIBLE SPOILER ALERT, THOUGH I'M SURE NONE OF THIS WILL REALLY MAKE SENSE UNLESS YOU'VE SEEN THE FILM, AND I DOUBT THEY'D REMOTELY RUIN THE VIEWING EXPERIENCE IF THIS ENTICES YOU TO DROP CASH ON THIS FILM, WHICH I HIGHLY ENDORSE, MIND YOU]....[ONE MORE NOTE: I'LL EXPLAIN MY THEORIES WITHOUT REVEALING MUCH EXACT PLOTPOINTS OR DETAILS, FOR SPOILER-FREE PURPOSES...REALLY, THIS IS MORE FOR MY OWN NEED-TO-JOT-DOWN-MY-THOUGHTS INTENT MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE...OKAY, ENOUGH OF THIS ALL-CAPS BULLSHIT]
1) Caden's dead, and "Synecdoche, New York" is his heaven. The massive stage warehouse where he's conducting his latest production is heaven, and it's where he's directing scenes that are re-evaluating his past life and allowing him to change his own past, for piece of mind's sake. He learns about the deaths of loved ones as they actually happen in the living world, and what we're watching is progressing years at a time, without us knowing how many years exactly unless it's voiced by somebody in a scene, which happens a few times.
2) Or, Caden is a God-like figure, and all of these scenes and characters-upon-inverted-identities are his attempts at bringing happiness to the slew of actual soul-filled people in the film---Adele, Claire (Michelle Williams), Olive, Hazel, etc.
3) Or, Caden's a dreamweaver, and all of the individual scenes he's directing are dreams of those actual soul-filled people
4) Or, any two of these at the same time. Or all three at the same time. Or none, and I'm way the fuck off on all accounts.

Though, I'm sort-of confident about one thing....this is Kaufman working out his own fears of death and the afterlife. Or so I think. My confidence, my ass. Well, "confidence" does, actually, allow me to declare Synecdoche, New York as a work of pure writer's joy, a narrative so passionately and intricately developed that it deserves unanimous applause regardless of a person's individual opinion.

Sounds tricky, huh? Fucking tell me about it. At this very moment of typing, I'm still tossing around theories and conflicting schools-of-thought. It's all a lot to register, which is why, the more I think about it, I'm pretty sure that I'm a surefire fan of Synecdoche, New York. Whether I can fully explain it or not, and whether Kaufman actually achieved his initial artistic vision or not (which we'll probably never know, since Kaufman is one of those auteurs who refuses to explain his visions, which I salute him for, honestly), the profound impact that the flick is having on me is crazily effective.



This film falls firmly in place with other "bewildering, confusing, maddening to the point where I want to immediately rewatch and rewatch, to tear the shit apart" movies I've grown to love: chief among these, David Lynch's triple whammy of Mulholland Drive, Eraserhead, and Inland Empire. These are head-smashers that I've argued about before, it seems that people get a tad peeved that I love these movies so much, even though I can't really solve them or justify the mind-numbing effects they inspire. But fuck it, I'm all about being challenged by something uncompromising and twisted. Kick rocks.

I get it, too. Kaufman deifnitely could've trimmed some of the later "this is Hoffman as acted by a taller guy as watched by Hoffman, who is standing next to Samantha Morton as acted by Emily Watson, in a scene that may or not may not be real" sequences. Some seemed to there for little more than momentarily comic relief. Also, something tells me that the point of Synecdoche, New York is lost in the shuffle of so much exposition and character interaction. In this respect, I'm not even sure if I can this a total success. Again, I'm conflicted here, my dudes.

The dictionary defines "synecdoche" as....."A figure of speech in which a part is used for the whole (as hand for sailor), the whole for a part (as the law for police officer), the specific for the general (as cutthroat for assassin), the general for the specific (as thief for pickpocket), or the material for the thing made from it (as steel for sword)."

Surely, the fact that Caden's from Schenectady and the film's called Synecdoche (two similarly-structured words that rhyme) has some meaning and significance. And in time, hopefully shorter than longer, I'll definitively know. But at this exact second, my brain's a bit too fried to try. So I'll sleep on it.

But hats off to Charlie Kaufman.



Many critics hate this film, and many others are in awe. I'm closer to the awe side, though saying I "love" it would be somewhat premature. I need to sit with this one and watch it a few more times, to lock into a true opinion. Problem being, this shit cost $12.50 to see (in Times Square, sadly not a free press screening), and that's a raping-of-the-wallet I refuse to bend over for again. Will just have to wait for the DVD to land. And hopefully some friends will be game to watch with.

Synecdoche, New York is funny, sad, depressing, uplifting, touching, dark, eerie, plodding, dragging, visionary, secular, angering, and at times ridiculous. But at other times impressively intelligent and wholly-realized.

I need to rest my head, now. Shit's throbbing.

further proof that The Hills is boob-tube ass

Anybody who knows me is aware of my hatred for The Hills and everything it stands for/has spawned/has destroyed, etc.

So, of course it brings great joy to see David Letterman---who seems to get off on putting dumbass undeserving celebs (say, Paris Hilton, for another example) rather than faking it and attempting to treat them like real talents---turn his filter off here, expectedly. Sort of wish he would've went in a bit harsher, but you clearly detect his feelings of "this girl is a moron, not sure why I'm interviewing her, but let me make the best of this waste of time." Though, that "living in a tree" line was pretty sharp.

And yes, Spencer is a weasel. And a jackass. And a full-blown toolbox. And the biggest ass on the planet.....oh, and nice "15 minutes" zinger, Lauren. See, I'm not a total hater.

Lauren Conrad is the kind of girl I should be hooking up with in Hoboken, not watching start her own mega-money empire for no good reason.....but I'm just saying.



Seriously, all zillion of you.....how can you actually watch and care about The Hills? Try to defend yourselves. Doubt you can, convincingly.

Self-Examination Overload.....

Not sure why I do it myself, but every time Larry Clark's 2001-made, teens-going-down-the-shitter film Bully is on the IFC channel, I allow myself to get sucked in, unable to switch my idiot box to something more cheerful, like, say, The Suite Life with Those Twins from Big Daddy, or even Family Guy. Knowing where matters are heading, yet powerless, I sit through the entire two-hour ringer. And by the time the last surreal, whirlwind 25 minutes hit, Bully has my skull-filler fried and pulverized.



If Bully sounds and seems foreign, here's the skinny, minny---it's an "inspired by true events" story of these lowlife, jobless, direction-deficient Florida teens who conspire to kill a cold-hearted peer who's existence has done little other than terrorizing their collective happiness. As expected, the murder is a total amateur mess, though directed and acted by the Bully squad with a chilling naturalism that really digs into your nerves like a blade. Stars the late Brad Renfro, as well as Bijou Phillips, Michael Pitt (the great Funny Games remake), and Nick Stahl. And if filmmaker Larry Clark's name rings a chime, it's most likely due to his other great youth-gone-wild-and-degenerate movie, Kids. "I have no legs! I have no legs!"

It's strange, whenever I watch Bully, my post-game psychosis is off the charts. Makes me think about everything from my personal life to society in general to the teen-years universe that Gianna and Nicholas will find themselves in years from now. Too much to handle, mentally, at one given time. But worth battling through here, rather than "sleeping on it," permitting it to dominate the impending dreamland I'll soon slip into, willingly.

For now, though, I'll stick to my own personal life. Society in general is dense enough to scribe a novel around, and after reading the reports on this neo-Nazi crew who were just outed for their planned assassination attempt on Barack Obama, I've pretty much decided to wave the white flag and give up on humanity. Simply look out for myself and my loved ones, as well as cherished assocites, because this world we live is a shitshow when you have raving lunatics and mind-fucked people like those neo-Nazi assholes. But they're not the only problem. Too many ignoramus-es running around, scared to open their minds so they spew and spread hatred and warped logic like semen from a man-whore who prefers going raw-dog. Better to live your own life to the best of your ability, strive for your secular happiness, and bring those you love and appreciate along with you for your ride, for as long as they're willing to sit shotgun. That's the key to pleasantry, I believe.

And as for my niece and nephew, all I can do is love them unconditionally and be the best uncle/godfather that my aptitude and powers suffice. They're both angels, living/breathing reminders of why this world and life are so special and amazing. They're just chilling, growing up and hoping to catch a Yo! Gabba Gabba or two a day, and little else. The realities of 2008-and-beyond have yet to reach them, and they're the better for it. They're button-cute and personality-injected rugrats that bring a smile to my face instantly, and as long as I'm around, they'll have an uncle/godfather who's down for their cause(s), and here, all day, every day.

So, those two topics breezed through, on to my personal life. I'm damn happy about it, and realize more by the day that I'm one blessed dude. Have a great, loving family, and some great-yet-all-totally-different-than-I friends. Am knee-deep in the early years of a career that's been calling me since 1996, back when I was randomly and unknowingly enrolled into a Journalism class as a high school freshman. Feel more confident about my looks that I ever have before, which is important considering that my late teen years and early 20s were a clusterfuck of avoiding mirrors and belittling my chances with the ladies simply because I feared that none would find me studly or babe-like. Which isn't the case anymore, hasn't been for a couple 365-day-cycles now. Have found a passion that I can truly say is my path-to-success, which is film, and the watching/obsessing over it, and covering of it as a reporter/writer/editor, and hopefully, powers willing, screenplay-writing and fiction-literature scribing.

All fine and chipper, but I can't shake some common questions about my career, and writing abilities, and chances of impacting the bigger, mainstream publications and media outlets in big-dgog ways. Inquiries such as, "Am I good enough?" "Do I have what it takes?" "Will the potential and passion I know is brewing within fully reveal itself to those in my field who matter and can properly cultivate?" "Will I ever be fairly paid for the work I do?" "When the hell will that first intriguing, all-swallowing fiction story idea seep its way into my creative-brain-side, materializing into a film treatment or even a long-form narrative work?"

I sure hope the answers and solutions show their non-existent, metaphorical faces soon. 'Til they do, though, I'm going to keep on plugging, and improving, and ass-busting (my own, so no immature "Pause" required here, fellas).

Crazy. All of this just because I watched some waste-of-space kids stab their jackass enemy "friend" repeatedly, then bash his head in with a bat, then toss him into a marsh for crabs and alligators to feast upon, and then slowly unraveled and dimed each other out, resulting in a slew of jail sentences.....guess this means that Larry Clark's work with Bully was/is a smashing triumph. Causes me to think furiously, and of course, what greater aftermath can a piece of art ever trigger?

Here's to yours truly one day creating my own piece of art that registers in similar or greater fashion. "I think I can, I think I can." Isn't that right, Little Engine That Could?

Role Models, post-screening thoughts

I went into this one expecting the worst. Though I'm not sure why, because on the surface, Role Models seems foolproof. At least by my calculations.



Do the math....Brian Fontana + Stifler, multiplied by McLovin and the sexiest/most underrated blonde in Hollywood, and all carried out by a calculator manufactured in the lost gem of an MTV comedy series The State = Role Models. How could such a long-winded math problem go wrong?

[just in case you're utterly lost and confused, that's....Paul Rudd + Seann William Scott, multiplied by Superbad's Christopher Mintz-Plasse and Elizabeth Banks, carried out by members from MTV's old sketch comedy show....if that's even any simpler. Probably not, but fuck it...come to think of it, The State and the place it holds cemented in my noggin deserves its own post on this here site at some point. Note to self made.]

Oh, and again, Elizabeth Banks is in it. And she's frikkin' awesome....beauty, sense of humor, great comic timing, tomboy-mixed-with-Playboy-pinup. The total package. She's the basic discontent-girlfriend-of-the-male-lead here in Role Models, a pretty thankless role. But she makes it work.

[obligatory Banks pic, of course....see your fine self again this weekend in Zack & Miri Make A Porno, baby]


Yet, this kind of broad comedy is generally hit-or-miss territory. Especially when not overseen by the Judd Apatow machine (yes, I'm an Apatow film groupie, sue me). Funny-looking trailer and talented actors don't always add up to a good time. And my negative suspicions had me fearing the worst with Role Models. But, you know what? I really enjoyed it. Not raving about it, or hailing it as this year's Superbad or some shit. But it had me LOLing in certains spots, and contently entertained throughout. And that's saying something, I think.

And really, I needed a harmless, fun, goofy, charming, run-of-the-mill laugh generator in my life, considering the surplus of horror and motion picture darkness I've voluntarily submerged myself in lately. Good timing, Universal Pictures publicity department.

I won't be purchasing this one on DVD whenever it hits retailers, but for a free press screening, it did its job. That doesn't sound like the strongest of recommendations, I know, but really, if you need somebody to recommend Role Models to you, then you'll probably dislike it anyway. If the idea of Rudd and Stifler (sorry dude, but you'll forever be "Stifler") playing "big brother" types, out of court-order necessity to avoid jail-time, to a a live-action Dungeons & Dragons nerd and potty-mouthed spitire ten-year-old, respectively, sounds funny to you, then you'll leave the theater happy once this one concludes. What you see in previews and trailer is what you get here.



If this all sounds a bit sophmoric and corny, then take your ass to High School Musical 3, you lame. Or toss even more duckets into that talking chihuahua fat pockets. Or be like one of the mindless sheep who made Saw V an undeserving success this past weekend.

Rudd has always been the droll, matter-of-fact-zinger-delivery secret weapon in the Knocked Up/40-Year Old Virgin/Anchorman mix, in my opinion, so seeing him as a lead in something that's not a fucking disgrace to cinematic comedy (that Eva Longoria-co-starring piece of fecal matter Over My Dead Body, anybody?) is more than welcome. And Stifler (I'm not calling him Seann William Scott, deal with it) is always good for chuckles when playing the cocky womanizer type. So Role Models earns smart-points off the bat by casting both dudes in roles that suit their comedic strengths. Further kudos for the casting of McLovin as an uber-nerd who wears a cape and gleefully participates in Medieval Times war games with sad-sack middle-aged men and fellow teenage geeks. Talk about believable casting. And then there's the side-splitter-in-development Bobb'e J. Thompson, a spunky little guy who fires off F-bombs and "boobies" with the panache of his elder screen-sharing counterparts.

The secret ingredient here, though, is funnywoman vet Jane Lynch, who you'd most likely know as the manager of the Circuit City-knockoff that Steve Carell works in in 40-Year Old Virgin ("Fuck...buddies."). She pops up in comedy after comedy, slam-dunking minor character roles, and her work here (as former cocaine addict/convict who now heads the kids outreach program Sturdy Wings) is some of Lynch's best yet. She swipes each scene she's in, especially the Sturdy Wings informational video sequence. This chick needs to call Judd Apatow with the quickness and demand her own film, star and lead. Pair her with the equally-lead-deserving Craig Robinson, as some sort of dysfunctional interracial couple, and you'd have yourself comedy platinum. For real.

[Lynch...she's even kinda hot, for a short-haired older broad. So says I.]


Role Models is nothing spectacular. It's nowhere near as subversively funny as Pineapple Express (a comedy gem I'll defend 'til my dying days), nor as riotously consistent with the knee-slappers as a Superbad-like flick. But watching Stifler and Rudd riff off each other is great fun at times, and overall, it's a tough film not to enjoy. At least somewhat. It'll definitely make for some good cable television viewing months from now, at the very least. Plus, the inevitable KISS-meets-D&D finale battle is pretty damn funny, top to bottom.

I'm a subscriber to this following school of thought, furthermore....in terms of comedy movies: as long as it makes me laugh at least five times out loud, then I'm happy. I rate comedies on a different mental scale than I do with horror, or drama, or any other genre. And Role Models made me laugh enough to give it the M.B. thumbs up. And really, what more could I have asked for?

***Sidenote....I'm sort of thirsting to see a truly-shitty movie, some time soon. I've been fortunate enough lately to see only flicks that pleased me. But really, I'm due for a true turd. Puke hardened on the big screen. Even W., a flick I didn't exactly love, still entertained me enough to not loathe the thing. Maybe I should just bite the money-wasting bullet and see Saw V, then. Or not.

Tomorrow night I plan on catching Charlie Kaufman's directorial genesis Synecdoche, New York, and reviews have been pegging it as love-it-or-hate-it mindfuck. No middle ground. Typically, I'm a fan of cinematic brain-slices, and its star, Philip Syemour Hoffman, is one of my hands-down favorite actors, so prognosis looks positive as of now.

Will it be the piece-of-shit I feel I need, or head-damager I have trouble shaking off, to good effect(s)? Time shall tell.

"Drinkin', Smokin', Tokin'...."

Spotted over at TMZ:

"McCain Drops Out of Race

John McCain's brother Joe just announced he's withdrawing from the campaign ... so now Palin really is John's #2.

Joe's announcement came days after a 911 tape surfaced, in which he bitched about traffic and then dropped the F-bomb.

The effect on McCain's campaign is unknown."



When my pops first told me about McCain's dumbass brother, you know what immediately came to mind? See for yourselves:

Get 'em, Biden!

Barbara West, you dumb bitch.

Watching this, it felt like John McCain pulled some voodoo heebie-jeebie shit and transported his soul into this otherwise-WASPy-moron's body. Then tried to hit Joe Biden with a barrage of anti-Obama questions, to which Biden, understandably, got a bit PO-ed.

Man, these extreme right-wingers really grind my gears.

Fear(s) Of The Dark = strange, yet kinda hypnotizing

Ever the loyal, passionate, borderline-OCD genre film head, I trekked into the Village earlier to catch Fear(s) of the Dark, which is only playing at the overpriced-but-still-charming IFC Center theater. One of my favorite venues to see movies, namely because it has this seedy, dingy, sort-of-decrepit feel and it screens some truly bizarre movies, viewing experiences that further heighten the strangeness. It's a trip.



Sidenote---seeing David Lynch's Inland Empire at the IFC Center a couple years back was seriously one of the most surreal moments, like ever. In my now-nearly-27 years of existence. Three hours of incoherent, creepy head-fucking, in a theater that resembled the one seen in Lynch's mind-scrambling masterwork Mulholland Drive. I left that shit with my brain fried, stumbling down West 4th Street and into the PATH train in a potent daze. Cars drove backwards, people stared at me, the air tightened and lessened. I was an ant crawling through a drug-like wasteland. All because Inland Empire and the IFC Center plowed my psyche in a cinematic three-way....me being the submissive bottom bitch.

But back to Fear(s) of the Dark....from France (shocker, huh, that I'm a fan of a new French genre joint....Freedom Fries, kiss my left asscheek). Animated, but not in some cookie-cutter Pixar style. No, this is like sketches from a supernatural, unhinged artist. Black-and-white shades, shadows upon shadows. Pretty unsettling, at times.

Five stories are intertwined, each distinctive in approach and animation style. There's this weird opener that splices in between the remaining four entries, with a warlock-like dude who resembles that V For Vendetta mask-guy, walking four growling, hungry, murderous dogs, each pooch breaking off its leash and ripping some poor unsuspecting victim's limbs apart. Then there's a kinda-brilliant entry about a shy college kid who falls for a hot girl, only to find out she's been taken-over by some species of praying mantis that festers in human bodies, hibernating, waiting for the right time to strike. Next, a young Chinese girl slowly loses her mind as she keeps hearing tales of an ancient, bloodthirsty samurai who may in fact be hanging around, ghost-wise. The fourth is told from a man who, as a child, lived in a village where residents would frequently vanish, possibly abducted by a mysterious creature living in the woods. And finally, a silent-film-styled haunted house tale, with a wanderer seeking solace in a deserted cabin that harbors some homicidal history.

[Trailer]


Fear(s) is pure theater-going fun. Not sure this flick will play nearly as well on a television screen, so for that I'm glad I took my ass into the city tonight for it. Locked in a room, lights turned out, a giant screen before your eyes. Fear(s) is something you have to fully give in to, concept and all. Realize that, for the next 82 minutes, you're entering a world where all rules and original perceptions are nil.

When it's hitting the mark, Fear(s) is skin-tickling creepy. The best portions are the one with the praying mantis girl and the haunted house one. Charles Burns, the genius artist/wriet behind my all-time favorite graphic novel (sorry Watchmen, you're a close second) Black Hole, is the creative force for the mantis tale, and it looks exactly like Black Hole, which is fucking great. All black-and-white, like fully-realized stick figures. Animation aside, though, the mood he captures is pure moutnign dread. You know the shy kid, Eric, is doomed, but you can't put your finger on how, or why. And when his girl starts turning psycho-hose-beast, I cringed a bit. It's intense, and has one hell of a payoff.



The haunted house closer is equally superb. The lights are off in the cabin, so our protagonist tip-toes around the premises with only a candle and a lighter for illumination sources. He finds an old photo album, one that brought to mind those scary-ass "dead" photos from The Others. And when the knife-wielding ghost makes her background debut, some people in the audience with me screamed and vocally shrieked. So Fear(s) scored, there.



Fear(s) has its problems, specifically during the monster-in-the-woods section, which has one genuine "Oh shit!" jump scare but ultimately goes nowhere. And this narration that segways into each new story gets a tad repetitive---a girl voicing her own personal fears, flip-flopping between intriguing notions and pretentious blabbering bullshit. And a couple of the stories falter in the end, too, suffering from the Saturday Night Live/M. Night Shyamalan curse of we-can't-end-this-shit-to-save-our-lives. Or, in simpler terms, an ending that blows, tarnishing all that came before.

Consider me a Fear(s) head, still, though. It's a slickly macabre, innovative creepshow. Good shit, good shit.

Beware the root beer-flavored vodka, my friends.....

It all started innocently enough.

Throw myself back into the social scene. Conclude my nearly-two-month "sabbatical" from bars and lounges and what not. Elect a club in Manhattan as the venue for my rebirth, of sorts.

But then, Mother Nature intervened. Send buckets of rain down upon us, forcing yours truly to relocate the festivities. Hoboken, good ol' Hoboken, now. No worries, though. Staying local prevents me from shelling out wasted-money for overpriced entrance fees, and spares me that dreaded late-night PATH train ride back home, which is preceded by about 40 minutes of sitting on the 34th Street station's dirty floor, waiting for my chariot while trying to subside a night's worth of liquor ODing.

Things were going as planned. Some friends came through. We had our destination, Lounge 11, set. So far, not bad. That was, until the Three Olives brand root beer-flavored vodka was cracked open. That's when the evening spiraled into Hades.

Admittedly, the root beer-flavored vodka was my call. I'd tasted it at work a few months back when reps from Three Olives put on a demonstration for us, in hopes of earning mag placement. And the root beer one was fucking delish. I thought, "Wow, this would be the perfect vodka to do shots of....doesn't taste that bad, goes down smooth. It's foolproof."

What a fucking idiot I was. And still am. Let's just say, after three gargantuan shots of said root beer-flavored vodka, the rest of the night is a blur, an indiscernable mist. I'm guessing I actually did step foot into Lounge 11, at least, and I only know this because of the stamp on my right hand. But how long I stayed there is a mystery. And how and why I ended up at some random hotel kegger, and then projectile-vomited all over said hotel's hallway before stumbling back to my apartment, by myself, is a head-scratcher of Roswell magnitude.

Why couldn't I have been more disciplined, and limited myself to only one root beer-flavored vodka shot? How come, every time I hang out with my friend Ben, I always disappear on him? Well, that second question is simple, really---when Ben's around, the drinks flow like Niagara Falls.

I somehow managed to walk my ass to NJ Transit this morning, though, to head back here to the 'rents, to see W. with my pops (entertaining movie, yet didn't effect me the way I'd hoped it would...some pointless touches, like including the infamous choking-on-a-pretzel incident, that feel tacked on to simply show George Bush's Greatest Hits...a good-but-not-good-enough letdown, for sure. Though, Josh Brolin did a damn-fine job).

What's the point of writing about such a terrible night? I don't know, to be honest. Maybe it's some sort of subconscious effort to learn from mistakes. Like, I'll one day skim through this here site and come across this post, and think, "Right, right. That's why I can't drink root beer-flavored vodka anymore."

What a hellish morning after, and an even worse night before. Fuck.