....Back when I was first succumbing to the hormone monsters. Yes, in the 8th grade. Let's just say that I arrived fashionably late to the perversion party.
**UPDATED: NEW TRAILER...ONE MUCH RICHER IN PLOT AND EXPOSITION, OF COURSE
Fandango or Amazon pre-sales. Opening night attendance or DVD first-day-on-shelves purchasing.
Some Grindhouse, some Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill, and some live-action Maxim spreads, all in one sleazy, shameless stew. I'm there.
No opening date yet, but Meryl Streep, Kate Winslet, and Amy Adams should buy these chicks five-star-meals in thanks of Bitch Slap's "early 2009" window of release. Puts Bitch Slap out of Academy Award contention, saving Best Actress/Best Supporting Actress nominations for others.
I'd vote for America Olivio any day, any hour. I even have a gold statue just waiting to be polished. Snap! Over the line? Apologies. She's exceptionally fine, is all. Wait, she's in the upcoming Friday the 13th remake, too, huh? All-too-obvious "America, The Beautiful" headline mentally saved for a later post.
Dreams of a world where all women can pull off the "tied-up wife beater" look like this. Looks across the room and sees a butterbean of a female. Snaps back into reality.
Call me a sleeper. Slap me in the cheek. It's deserved.....So many things that I've been told about or have read praise of in past years are smacking me in the face now, wake-up call style. Waited too long, now everybody's going to be up on this, and you'll seem less cutting-edge in the weeks to come.
Case in point: World War Z, a critically-slobjobbed zombie book penned by Max Brooks, the son of comedy cornerstone Mel. Being the zombie lore blowhard that I am, I caught wind of the novel years back, yet never pulled the buy-then-read trigger. And then I heard that the folks in H-wood have been trying to greenlight a film adaptation as a result of the page-turner's greatness, and how, if executed strongly, it could be a seminal genre flick, and give my precious undead the credibility and prestige they've long deserved. Yet still, I opted to download mediocre rap album after album, flavor-of-the-moment mp3 before mp3. You moron!
The book is a flashback-heavy story, an oral history told through survivor accounts of a zombie apocalypse that pretty much deleted civilization. The focal person is a "nameless editor [filing a report] as part of a government report." There's more to it, of course, and it all sounds quite epic.
Today, it was announced that, under the production of Brad Pitt's Plan B company, director Marc Forster (dude behind the new Bond entry Quantum of Solace, who cut his teeth doing more intimate projects such as Monster's Ball, the Johnny Depp-anchored Finding Neverland, and Will Ferrell's "dramatic turn" in Stranger Than Fiction) is attached to bring World War Z to cinemas. Interesting. Skipped a free Quantum of Solace screening this week, regrettably, meaning I'll have to drop coin now, if for no other reasons than to see slick action and Olga Kurylenko. I mean, I suffered through Hitman just to stare at her; Bond's gotta be better than that shite-show.
Was going to pick up Revolutionary Road as my next book, to tackle once I finish The Killer Inside Me. But World War Z has just strongarmed the on-deck circle.
Watchmen fever, the latest relapse. Just when I put the geek-gasms behind me, realizing that March is still a kinda-long ways away, and that it's better to expect the worst here rather than get hopes fucking-kite high to levels beyond the filmmakers' reach, shit like this is dropped, pulling me right back in.....
Basically, this is the "real" trailer, with some plot included. That first one was ideally just to make us nerds happy, to show that they're not botching Alan Moore's masterpiece. Or at least, that they're on the proper track.
Loving it. Makes me want to read the graphic novel for the fifth time, right now. This flick just keeps looking better and better, and better. To me, that is. Feels like the mass consensus is divided, majority on the positive side, but still a cynical lot a-growin'. The peanut gallery is never at peace. Good thing, too.
Here's a set-up from IWatchStuff.com, typically funny and well put (dude who runs that site is hilarious): "This Watchmen trailer is going to knock you on your nerdy ass. It will knock your books out of your arms, shove you in a locker, and make you do its homework, but you'll still pathetically ask it to come to your birthday party."
.....
And then there's this, the first blahzay, effortless, whatever poster for Judd Apatow's next.....
It'll be great, though, I'm sure. Posters don't make movies. But am I wrong in thinking that putting co-star The Rza somewhere on this poster would've amplified its cool, tenfold? At the very least, as a headshot pop-up in the bottom right corner, a Mortal Kombat's "Toasty!"-like plug-in. Yes? No? Survey says.....Yes.
By the way....how much does Leslie Mann rock? So much so that I actually used "rock" in her honor, and I never say that. "I waaannt some fucckin' Freennch toast!"
.....because the "kid with imaginary monster friends" that remains inside of me is officially excited.
And yes, I did, in fact, have imaginary monster friends. Even had a grade-school-aged ghost friend named Tim, who burned to death in this creepy-looking house that rested on the hill behind this complex of baseball fields, where my Little League career transpired. He'd do mundane shit like play Lite-Brite and watch Yo! MTV Raps with me. Burnt skin, lacerations, charcoal dust dandruff and all. A true friend, to the end.
A cornerstone of my youth, and quite possibly a key factor for my current "tales from the darkside, just not those seen on that terrible George Romero-backed show of the same name that's currently re-ran on the Sci-Fi Channel, and man is it still awful" loving self.
There's one particular tale found within that send shivers down my flesh like cascading streams, just at a mere thought. "The Green Ribbon," which basically followed a young boy as he developed a crush and flirtatious relationship with a cute female peer, who forever wore the titular green ribbon around her neck. Love blossoms, they eventually get married. But miss thing never tells our protag why exactly she never takes the ribbon off. Turns out,as we discover while she's lying on her death bed, elderly in years, removing said scarf causes her barely-hanging-on head to fall off. Which it does, when he gives it the old heave-ho. One decapitation special, coming right up.
Not the most frightening premise, I'll admit. But shit, it seeped into my subconscious from the moment I first finished it, and even now, the willies are unavoidable. The way it's written, damn creepy.
"The Green Ribbon" crossed my mind this morning, after years of dormant deep-in-my-mind filing-away when I was seated next to a lady wearing a green scarf. Close enough, I thought. Naturally, the urge to yank the neck-dressing off and catch her falling cranium was potent, but I resisted.
If my life were the neverending Twilight Zone episode I truly wish it were, the outcome would've much cooler than the smack-in-the-face reality was ready to bite.
***As a nice bonus, here's another Alvin Schwartz book that caused many a "I'm too old to sleep in my parents' bed, must grow a pair of testes and sleep here" night. This was the first of three Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark editions. All great. The artwork /illustrations alone were the stuff of nightmares-come-alive. I picked them up one year when St. Catharine's grade school held their annual Book Fair in the library, my personal fave day on the academic calendar. Always found some gems.
******Just caught another glimpse of that preceding Obama Girl picture. Fuck me. I may be infatuated now.
Like many, I've never fully supported the idea of an "Obama Girl," regardless of how hot she is or how campy her homemade music video was. And how she's still being photographed in a quasi-celeb light baffles (the below show is from a recent photo op). Can't knock her slick sense of self-marketing, but come on. "Enough is enough." I get it.
But taken on her own physical merits (face, smile, curves, etc), tell me she's not the sexiest thing around. Consider this a pointless post, meant for little other than ogling. Besides, in a world full of undeserving famous folk, Obama Girl isn't the worst. Or most infuriating. So deal with it, and get all googly-eyed.
This was inspired by randomly changing the channel and landing on America's Funniest Home Videos. Just so happened that a pretty-hilarious clip of a cat suckerpunching a dog across the jaw was underway, which first made me giggle but then I became a bit tight. Heated. Perturbed. How dare that lousy pussy resort to such trickery and chump-style tactics? Got me thinking.....
What the fuck?! Oh hell no...this dog needs to tag me in, like now.
Cats are overrated. Little emotionless balls of fur. Scallywags. Placed upon pedestals of loyalty without deserving such distinction. Really, felines possess, as a whole, the personalities of a litter box: fresh and clean only when tended to; otherwise, they're rank and foul. Purring against your leg, giving you those loving eyes. You stroll over to the pussy's food-and-water corner of the room, and see cobwebs and penny-sized puddles. Son of a bitch, you're only being nice to me 'cause you're hungry enough to vomit a hairball and immediately treat it like digestable catnip.
I see through the manipulative ways of the feline. There's always exceptions, of course. Tigger, my first "Matt's pet," first given to me as a Christmas gift when I was six years old, was one damn fine animal. Full of personality, and genuine in his bonding. He'd rest on my chest with a full bowl of grub, no question. But then there was my brother's jerkoff cat Bubba ('cause he was a fat piece of shit; as obvious as the name appears), who treated me like some inferior being, which resulted in various torture methods inflicted by yours truly. None too malicious or damaging---there was that age-old trick where you hold a cat by the hair around its neck, and it's rendered motionless, but able to flash a fuck you stare that's piercing in its anger and discontent.
As shown here.
Though, I was always more partial to chasing Bubba's tub-of-lard frame around the house with overflowing Super Soaker. Me, the bounty hunter; Bubba, my prey. Role Reversal 101.
Now, that's more like it.
Perhaps my need for instant recognition and fawning from loved ones plays into my underlying sense of insecurity. The untouchable, unfuckwitable lack of head-to-toe confidence that's plagued me since the early grade school days of my older brother calling me "Megan" and tormenting me in front of my close female friend Allison. Must block out memory, must look past, must overcome.
Whatever the reason, whether it services my self-inflicted inferiority complex or not, the feeling of receiving warmth and exciteable love on the second of sight is tremendous, and nobody's---man or beast---shown me such God's-honest adoration than Zoey, German Shepherd extraordinaire, the best dog ever, and my ride-or-die pooch. Those days when I stumbled around high school's hallways feeling as if I was a pinball ricocheting from one cooler guy to the next out-of-my-league lady, followed by scary bus rides home where everybody else on board chatted up rainstorms while I cowered in my seat, headphones on bumping Ghostface Killah's "Assassination Day"? Zoey was right there, front door and center, waiting for my return, jumping on lap and licking on face as soon as my Jansport hit table. The sports games where I'd had a 0-4 batting day or missed a couple of easy, loss-causing lay-ups, uncontested, only to endure rides home with my dad offering constructive and insightful criticism that hit my ears like rebel forces launching doomsday missiles? Zoey was there still, acting like a game of pull-chew-toy was a gift from the canine gods.
She didn't tickle my in-need-of-innocent-idolatry bone to acquire a snausage, or only when nature called nonstop like Bill Lumberg and threatened to soil my parents' precious carpet. All she wanted was to kick it with her pal, the guy who pet her without pretense, and treated her like she was Sheeba, Queen of the Animal Kingdom. And, yes, Zoey is the greatest dog, ever. But regardless, the fact that she is a dog is the explanation for her wonderful demeanor. Like cats, there's always exceptions to this dog rule, but scumbag pups are the minority. It's a dog-eat-dog world, only in the metaphorical sense. Not literally. Cats? Let 'em go cannibal.
One guess which side I'm on....let's rig that shit.
Zoey's gradually passing her torch to the godchildren these days (sadly, she's getting old, 'tis the fucked-up cycle of life), though Big Zo hasn't lost a step in her own right. Not one inch. But the Gianna/Nick duo makes every Thursday night (and occasional weekend afternoon) feel like I just won the lotto, with those smiles they flash my way, and the "No, I want Matt to [do it]" requests Baby G issues.
Little kids and dogs. If every dickhead and fucknut in the world was replaced by one or the other, this would be a nirvana, tangible rather than dreamlike. Imagine that.
Danny Boyle's Slumdog Millionaire. I jotted down some post-early-screening reactions a few weeks back, if you want an analysis with a heavier word count.
Don't be surprised if this one brings the unexpected ruckus during the quickly-approaching Oscar/Golden Globe/etc award season. It's that damn good, and that damn worthy.
Sorry, Dark Knight ravers. It's been dethroned. Still reserving judgment until I see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Revolutionary Road and Milk.
For the time being, however, Slumdog Millionaire is tops.
.....was that 1999 special 25 Lame, where Jon Stewart, Janeane Garofalo, Chris Kattan, and Denis Leary sat around, shooting the shit, and bashing the 25 lamest videos MTV could compile at the time. It's a forgotten, lost gem in the network's vaults, one I'd love for them to air once in a while over their typical bullshit (The Hills, Exiled, My Parents Are Picking Who I'm Going To Fuck Next, etc.).
This is only a three-video clip, but it's better than nothing. I'm surprised Youtube doesn't have the part where Vanilla Ice joined the panel to officially retire the "Ice Ice Baby" video, only to wreak psychotic baseball-bat-destruction on the set. "No, Vanilla!"
The part where they watch that uber-cheesy Journey video is here, though, thankfully. If anybody has this entire special on VHS or whatever, let a man know. I'd actually pay a few bucks for it.
Just watched Gaspar Noe's Irreversible again. Fourth time, maybe the fifth. I now feel totally confident in saying that the movie's some kind of perverse, tragic, mean-spirited masterpiece. Subversive, inventive, scathing genius. Part of me wishes I could watch it for the first time again, knowing very little and expecting middle-ground product. Shit closelines your senses and challenges you to keep looking, and in the end conjurs some real emotion. Whether you're in love with its twisted vision of everyday evil, or appalled by the unflinching moments of savagery.
Whatever your end-game feeling is, it'll surely be extreme, scout-for-two-weeks-in-the-4th-grade's honor (if you've yet to see it...if you haven't and know me on a "let's get together" level, let me know, a DVD night is a must).
At the moment, the sequence I can't shake off my brain comes in the beginning, during the frantic hunt for La Tenia in the Rectum nightclub. It's as if the cameraman is riding a tilt-a-whirl for a good ten minutes straight, weaving and swooping from private room to red-lit nook and cranny, catching some uncomfortable bits of sexual mayhem. What sells the whole nauseating-but-riveting thing, though, for me, is the dizzying, hypnotizing music, scored by Daft Punk's Thomas Bangalter.
Not sure how much justice is done for this specific soundtrack without the scene itself, but hopefully this Youtube audio file entices you enough to make you seek out the film itself. In a "this composition's so bugged, I can only imagine how wild the real movie is; I shall investigate.'"
I've had this playing on repeat for a good 15 minutes now, and I'm unsure when the Stop option will be worked out. Needless to say, my mind's mush, as a result. Seriously. You could probably hurl a baseball at my forehead right now and I'd feel nathan.
Maybe I should watch The Hills now. Probably would finally "get" it. Kill some more braincells, in the process. Audrina's sexy-but-vapid ass would sound like Socrates, though Spencer the King of Douches wouldn't improve. Not in the slightest. Slime is incapable of metamorphosis.
Look at precious, spunky Juno MacGuff, all grown up (a year later; not exactly "all grown up," but based off these pics you'd never tell the difference).
Confession: I have a thing for Ellen Page....an innocent attraction first triggered in the harshest of circumstances---Page, with short bob-y hair, staging a castration on a pedophile in the claustrophobic Hard Candy. Really liked the movie; couldn't avoid sizing up the vengeful nymph on screen. As in, "Yeah, I would."
The world caught on thanks to Juno (I watched that one again this past weekend...still enjoyable, but I'm starting to lean toward the "Juno = overhyped to tears" faction. Doesn't hold up that well). And with the breakthrough this year of Mila Kunis, I'd pretty much forgotten about Ms. Ellen Page in '08.
But now she has to go and hit a recent red carpet looking cuter than ever. Sending me back into my petite/younger/waif-ish/spitfire one woman jones. Urging me to watch Hard Candy tonight. Wincing at the thought of being de-balled. *Shrieks*
.....and every other drooled-upon and financially-invested-into scene from The Dark Knight, in entire-script form.
If you're anything like me, script reading is great times. Especially when you already know that the resulting film slam-dunks. Enjoy, courtesy of Warner Bros.:
Zombie movies are my ultimate fix. If you know me well enough, then you're already aware. An outspoken George Romero loyalist. Night of the Living Dead is my first memory of watching a horror movie that actually scared the piss out of me. I'd rush home from grade school to re-watch its follow-ups Dawn of the Dead and Day of the Dead on grainy, dubbed-VHS tapes, thanks to my down-for-the-cause grandfather who had a dual-VCR-recorder.
Return of the Living Dead. All of the Lucio Fulci splatter-zombie flicks. The 28 Days Later series. Etc, etc, etc. All seen, owned.
Which leads to some new stills I came across today for two upcoming 2009 flesh-eaters. Waiting with baited breath for.....
First up: The Horde, a balls-to-the-gore-soaked-wall zombie flick....from France! Considering how head-over-heels in love I am with French horror, the thought of a Romero-esque project coming out of the home of croissants is geek-gasm-potent. Remind me that it's produced by the dude (Xavier Gens) who directed Frontiere(s), a flawed-but-still-tough Hostel/Texas Chainsaw-ish French hybrid that has some of the best final-girl-gets-bloody-revenge scenes in years, and I'm souped. Word to Joel McHale.
The Horde has a promising sort of John Carpenter's Assault on Precinct 13, but in Hell, set-up. Four corrupt police officers ransack a mobster's hideout, but end up facing a Mafia firing squad after their ambush fumbles. But then swarms of zombies bust in, indirectly save the coppers, but then rip apart everybody's skin. Which forces the mob and po-po to tag-team for survival. Here's one of the comatose sons-of-bitches:
Hells. Yes.
Second: George Romero's sixth zombie entry (he's a persistent old man, isn't he?),as-of-now called ....of the Dead (seriously), a direct follow-up to this year's Diary of the Dead, which I had/have tons of issues with (it's not scary, there's not enough zombie mayhem, Romero's trademark subtlety is gone, and the acting is mostly atrocious). And remembering that I wasn't in love with his fourth, Land of the Dead, either, my heart needs Romero to deliver at least one more ass-kicker. Or else, just forget about zombies altogether, Georgie, and go back to some Martin type shit.
....of the Dead (was once referred to as Island of the Dead, being that it takes places on an isolated isle....yeah, would've seemed like a dense four-year-old named it that), is my last straw. I'll always have his original three masterpieces, but I'm holding out for a last gem. We'll see. Nonetheless, I'll be there, opening day, tongue wagging and fingers crossed so hard they may snap off. Here's some shots that kind of give me hope. Just kind of:
**Bonus, free of charge: A scene from Lucio Fulci's quality Zombi that all horror movie heads, especially those partial to the living dead, cherish.....a zombie versus a shark. Non-breather against underwater predator. Head to head. Bub and Jaws, toe to toe. Gotta love this:
ShockTillYouDrop reports that the second can-use-as-a-dumbbell thick volume of this violently-loved horror comic series will release in January, so I felt compelled to purchase Volume 1, finally.
Just bought. Took me long enough.
There's been talks of a movie in development for some time (starring Megan Fox, I'd hope), and the basic premise alone [teenage girl survives a slasher-movie-like, multiple-girl slaughter, then joins forces with a giant named Vlad to hunt down and dispatch of the genre's most notorious killers, such as Jason Voorhees, Chucky, Michael Myers, etc, all in her search for The Lunch Lady] rules.
A tongue-in-cheek yet still honest-to-goodness gory and ferocious horror comic about slashers, for lovers of slasher cinema? Score. Omnibus is crazy big, though. Hopefully I'll finish the whole shebang come January, before the second edition hits. If it's as sick as others have exclaimed time and time again, shouldn't be a problem.
If I were an animation creation, Cassie Hack would be mine, wife status. I can tell already....first Lady Gaga, and now Hack---feels like my "type" is transforming, something peculiar.
Filed under "Movies I'm now impatiently waiting on".....
Casey Affleck was, easily, one of my top performers of 2007. Gone Baby Gone was a great piece of moody investigation blues, and Affleck proved ten times more charismatic and attention-commandeering as a leading man than I'd ever guessed. Then came The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, a dense, quiet, arthouse-goes-Western dose of psychological drama that'll forever rest comfortably in my "how was this movie so overlooked" memory bank-vault, and Affleck chilled at that coward.
Big brother Ben has been demoted to "the other Affleck."
But the better-thesp Affleck hasn't had much going on since his Oscar nom for ...Robert Ford in this year's nobody-watched Oscar telecast. So the following announcement immediately drew my eyes and ears in:
Affleck has signed on to star in The Killer Inside Me, based on a 1952 classic noir by beloved author Jim Thompson that some say must've inspired Bret Easton Ellis' killer-yuppie novel American Psycho. He'll play the main character, " an amiable small-town Texas lawman wrestling with a dark secret, demonstrated through increasingly sociopathic actions." Upon deeper investigation, these "actions" are the brutally-violent murdering of townsfolk, namely prostitutes.
Dude was great playing "disturbed man harboring homicidal tendencies" as Robert Ford, so this sounds like a great fit. Props awarded to the casting crew and Killer Inside Me director Michael Winterbottom for passing by more prestigious names for Casey A. This one's high on my to-watch front, now. No question.
About to buy Jim Thompson's original book after work today, in fact. It's not a game. This story sounds right up my dark, seedy fictional alley. Was going to decide on-spot between Jack Ketchum's The Girl Next Door and Richard Yates' Revolutionary Road, but those may have to fall back momentarily.
Besides, Jessica Alba's also down for Killer Inside Me as a prostitute, and there's no denying the potential greatness that exists in Alba hoping for acting cred through portraying a hooker. It's like, she's finally realizing where her true talents reside: her blazer of a body and melter of a mug. "Respected actress" she's not. Though, something like Killer Inside Me seems like a decent step in the right direction.
How about a shot from my favorite performance of her's (next to the winning Sin City, of course)?
Yes, I saw Honey in a theater. With a friend, named Ben. What? That shit came out at the height of my once-burning passion for Alba (Idle Hands and Dark Angel had me soaring in lust).
She's a bad, bad actress. Won't be able to keep up with Affleck in pure "batshit crazy" mode. Throw some skimpy olden-times garb on her, though, and I won't give two shits. I'm shallow like that.
That "Just Dance" song and video hooked me, but I tried resisting. Way too glam/chic for my taste. Then, her new "Poker Face" video hit, and despite sounding damn-near the same as "Just Dance," the fascination overloaded. Guilty pleasure tunes, all the way. Listen in my headphones, not out loud in public, all day.
But more than her music, Lady Gaga herself has me. Somewhat sprung.
Now, I'm smitten. An inexplicable crush, I have.
I dare anybody to watch her videos and not feel that strange tingle. Bizarre and out-there enough to have my interests standing at full-mast.
So not my typical "type." Odd. I can't call it.
Here, pre-blonde glow. Looking either drunk or high. But check the frame out. Can you blame me, really?:
Later than 1am on reading this one. But a rather engaging, heart-touching piece of creative storytelling (young girl is raped and murdered; she watches, from Heaven, her family struggle through years of grief and evolve into a hardened unit that never would've happened if she were still breathing). Bleak at times, but not in the extreme, visceral ways I'm typically more partial to, while sad in ways that have me loving my family (especially Lil' G, known to the government as Gianna) the more after finishing page 325.
The way Sebold ends the story is the only real drawback. Things start off swiftly, gripping from page one. In the middle, it slows down considerably, but still commands. As the resolutions, or lack thereof, surface, though, steam is let out. Namely in how the killer's subplot is wrapped up, which left me saying out loud (literally), "Fuck outta here....that's it? Just like that?"
Let's see if Peter Jackson turns it into an equally-touching movie. But Mark Wahlberg as the father? Ehhh...pre-2008, I would've supported, but post-The Happening-and-Max Payne, not so much. Ryan Gosling dropping out of the role before Wahlberg stepped in = tragic.
Emerged victorious last night, downing three large shots of my nemesis, Root Beer Flavored Vodka, and proceeded to have a great night, which I completely remember today. No blackout. No projectile vomiting in some random hotel's hallway. No passing out on my living room's couch while my roommate glances at me in shame for four consecutive hours as he watches the tube.
Just me, a great Manhattan nightclub (Ultra), further drinks a-flowin', hooking up on the dancefloor, and meeting, and getting the digits of, a cute, easy-to-talk-to girl named Bobbi Jo on the way home (yes, there's actually women named Bobbi Jo in Northern New Jersey...who knew, right?).
Great night, and even greater victory. Word has it, Root Beer Flavored Vodka's one-win, fluke spirit subsequently retired after being discarded of into our recycling can.
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