It's just a Pharcyde thing.
On any other evening, between the usual times of 7-9pm, this sight would do little more than invigorate me, give me fuel to bang out an extra set or two. The gym is a place of increased self-esteem, my very own "quantum of solace," but in its own double-edged sword effect on my confidence, Club H Fitness also taunts me. Causes me to question my own backbone. Will you ever work up the nerve to just approach the damn girl? No more gentle pleasantries upon entering and exiting, but actual human conversation? Normally I'm able to just catch a smile, a somewhat-promising glance of "This guy seems cute," but then I go about my elliptical-and-weight-machine buffet of increased mojo.
This day, though, threw me for a loop-tee-loop. Sent my thoughts into maximum overdrive, distracted my focus from locker room unwind straight through water fountain cooldown, 50 minutes later. Walking in, I noticed her, there behind the front desk like any other night. She must've won Employee of the Month a slew of times, because she's there every evening, always with a biscuit-warm smile on face, easing you into the physicality of Club H. There's a nametag on her right bosom, but I've yet been able to get a long enough look at it to acquire her parent-issued label. Gotta work on that. Her usual attire is standard gym-employee garb---generic black Club H tee-shirt that fits her just right, accentuating her slender frame amplified by curves in all of the money-shot areas. Long, straight brown hair. Even a slight bucktooth, a dentist's-wet-dream that's unavoidable. But when she smiles, even the snaggle-chompers fall back, allowing the natural charm to overshadow the slight oral setback. It's an imperfection that gives her an additional sense of down-to-Earth-ness. She can't be sadiddy, snobby like most other beautiful girls, then, right?
Always on front-street broadcast, her bucktooth seemingly reformed Terminator style for this particular encounter. Who would've even noticed, with what she had on? She could've been wearing a dunce-cap with a propeller on top for all I knew, because for the first time since I'd initially noticed her, months earlier, she opted for her own personal wardrobe. And thank the sexy-lady stars for that.
The first thing I noticed were the brown spandex pants; she'd been leaning over the front of the check-in desk, talking to a co-worker as he entered something into the computer. Who gives a fuck what, considering how proper miss thing looked in this outfit. Brown spandex, tucked into some baige Ugg boots right directly between the ankles and knees; a tan turtleneck sweater, loose enough to appear comfortable. My eyes were held captive, my fitness routine that I'd plotted out in-brain sinking in a puddle of mental mush. Then, as if some high power was invested in servicing the "Sensory Overload of Matt Barone," she turned in my direction as I walked past the desk's left side, toward the men's locker room. Showing off her shapely body (think of Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze in Ghost, his hands over hers, smoothing out that vase-like statue; their hand motions would've ran the course without interruption up and down this girl's body).
Jesus, I knew she was a looker, but I didn't know she had it like that!
Nameless Beauty: "Hi there, back again, I see."
Me: "Yeah, even though for a second I was tempted to walk right past the front door here, right to my apartment, to watch some Family Guy."
Nameless Beauty: [Laughs] "Oh, I love that show! Normally, I'd be against people skipping the gym, but that'd be one time where I'd make an exception."
Me: [Laughs] "Oh good, 'cause I was expecting you to make fun of me or something."
Nameless Beauty: "No way! I've seen you here enough to know that you're not the type to be all lazy. At least I'd hope not...."
Me: "Of course not."
Right here, looking back, I wish I could've had an outer-body experience, because I'd have slapped the piss out of myself for just saying "Okay, see you later," and going about my workout. But that kind of shit only happens in the movies; in reality, I missed my chance. Dropped my one shot-glass, and had no money to buy another. She seemed engaged in our mini-chat, even admitted to loving Family Guy...that was the perfect opportunity, asshole.
Was that my one opp? Did I totally drop the ball, near the endzone, at the four-second mark? Why the fuck did I clam up, and not ask for her name? Not saying it would've led to a first date the next night, but still. Could've opened the door for future, longer convos. Not just the welcoming, friendly smile I've gotten ever since. And even those smiles, are they a sign that she's hoping I'll spark up another random exchange? Maybe one where I'll mention how badly I'm hooked into True Blood, even though I'm sort of ashamed by it, and she'd hesitantly agree and reveal a similar guilty-pleasure-fix?
Or am I just being a loser? Wasting minimal thought on a totally one-sided intrigue? I'm probably just one of about 50 dudes who she small-talks with. It's part of her job description, for Pete's sake? And, really, who the fuck is this "Pete," anyway? She's like a waitress at Hooters, in this respect. They flirt with you, looking all sexy-like, but they're only in it for the tips. This chick at Club H is only it for her paychecks.
The neverending internal struggle. To approach, or not to approach? To keep tail tucked firmly between legs, or to let the tail wag freely, allowing my balls to breathe and do what it do? Those are the questions....
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
FlashBack to the Future
The actual movie has an inescapably thick potential of "suck" around it, mainly because it's part the 2009 edition of After Dark's yearly Horrorfest series, a lowest-common-denominator collection of independent horror.
They're not all terrible (the recent fest's Mulberry Street is pretty damn good, while the first one's The Hamiltons has its charms). But regardless of the actual flick, this poster is fucking impressive. Retro, gritty, dirty, and eye-grabbing. Like a modern-day "video nasty," the breed of films I wish I was around during the heyday of, so I could've sat in the grungy, sticky theaters for poor-quality double features. Thanks for the momentary feeling, Grindhouse.
They're not all terrible (the recent fest's Mulberry Street is pretty damn good, while the first one's The Hamiltons has its charms). But regardless of the actual flick, this poster is fucking impressive. Retro, gritty, dirty, and eye-grabbing. Like a modern-day "video nasty," the breed of films I wish I was around during the heyday of, so I could've sat in the grungy, sticky theaters for poor-quality double features. Thanks for the momentary feeling, Grindhouse.
"Do you have the crazy?"
via Empire: Now here's a remake I'm actually banking on....
Like Haley's Comet whizzing by overhead, or an Eddie Murphy movie that doesn't piss on his credibility (once again, I tried watching Norbit last night, and couldn't last longer than 20 minutes...a new record, though), this is a freak occurrence: there's a remake on the horizon that I'm surprisingly excited for, and that's The Crazies.
One of my favorite film posters ever, btw.
The original, made back in 1973, isn't bad film or anything. In fact, I'd venture to say that it's pretty ahead-of-it's-time, and does ooze with a nice sense of paranoia and a fierce man-versus-neighbor arch that can hit close to home. Plus, it was directed/co-written by one of my coolest-people-ever-award-recipients, Mr. George A. Romero, which is the only reason I bought the DVD without having seen it first. Some of the acting is poor, granted, and the 25-year passage of time has certainly dated it in spots. But overall, it was a worthy $10 purchase (courtesy of Half.com, thank you so kindly). Plot wise, goes a lil' something like this: this manmade virus infects a small Pennsylvania town at a rate that makes for frantic exposition, turning residents into lunatics who kill on impulse. The military is called in, and as expected, matters don't improve much. In genre cinema, why is it that our armed troops are about as effective a bunch of Jerry's Kids toting pocket-rockets? Just saying.
Original's trailer:
Bottom line: The Crazies isn't a film that I'm gaga for, that I'd swear by. Consider me a nice-sized fan, but one with a realistic grasp. There's room for improvement, as long as these new filmmakers go with a hard-R-rating, specifically maintaining the batshit nutty recklessness associated with "armed, Hazmat-suited soldiers gunning down citizens in broad daylight." And a cast of able actors, ones who won't give off the impressions of Ridalin-needing overacting when playing "gone crazy," and others who'll genuinely seem paralyzed with fear and confusion as their once-quaint suburban existence world shatters overnight. This lead casting of Timothy Olymphant is promising; he's a talented dude who has yet to find the right film role(s). Sign up some more heads of his pedigree, and we'll be in biz.
***They better flub-cast the role played by sexy-ass Lynn Lowry; between The Crazies and David Cronenberg's superior Shivers, Lowry is up there with Pam Grier, in terms of '70s dreamgirls.
My nomination for Lowry's successor:
Rachel Nichols....skilled, and equally sexy. Shit, she was the only reason I suffered through the dismal P2, and her G.I. Joe work next summer will give her some widespread facetime. I'd say it's brilliant casting. **Pats self on back, and waits***
Over the last couple Kim Kardashian (deal with it) and KING Models (gotta support the team that pays me) calendars, this theme of "sudden societal transformation into rabid harbingers of destruction" has made its presence felt, from Stephen King's Cell down to the great little movie-that-could The Signal. So now is clearly the time for Hollywood to abandon all creativity and cling to a previously done concept that conveniently feels right at home in 2008/9.
IMDB has the remake's drop-date down for September 25, 2009. Interesting, shows a bit of optimism on the studio's part. Not a summer tentpole, but gives it room for a dark, action-heavy thriller to rake in some nice earnings post-heatwave. A la this year's Eagle Eye. Clearly this isn't as big as Eagle Eye, now, but still.
**Just noticed that the director's, Breck Eisner, only other notable film has been that Matthew McConaughey shitshow Sahara....**cringes, all the sudden**
Like Haley's Comet whizzing by overhead, or an Eddie Murphy movie that doesn't piss on his credibility (once again, I tried watching Norbit last night, and couldn't last longer than 20 minutes...a new record, though), this is a freak occurrence: there's a remake on the horizon that I'm surprisingly excited for, and that's The Crazies.
One of my favorite film posters ever, btw.
The original, made back in 1973, isn't bad film or anything. In fact, I'd venture to say that it's pretty ahead-of-it's-time, and does ooze with a nice sense of paranoia and a fierce man-versus-neighbor arch that can hit close to home. Plus, it was directed/co-written by one of my coolest-people-ever-award-recipients, Mr. George A. Romero, which is the only reason I bought the DVD without having seen it first. Some of the acting is poor, granted, and the 25-year passage of time has certainly dated it in spots. But overall, it was a worthy $10 purchase (courtesy of Half.com, thank you so kindly). Plot wise, goes a lil' something like this: this manmade virus infects a small Pennsylvania town at a rate that makes for frantic exposition, turning residents into lunatics who kill on impulse. The military is called in, and as expected, matters don't improve much. In genre cinema, why is it that our armed troops are about as effective a bunch of Jerry's Kids toting pocket-rockets? Just saying.
Original's trailer:
Bottom line: The Crazies isn't a film that I'm gaga for, that I'd swear by. Consider me a nice-sized fan, but one with a realistic grasp. There's room for improvement, as long as these new filmmakers go with a hard-R-rating, specifically maintaining the batshit nutty recklessness associated with "armed, Hazmat-suited soldiers gunning down citizens in broad daylight." And a cast of able actors, ones who won't give off the impressions of Ridalin-needing overacting when playing "gone crazy," and others who'll genuinely seem paralyzed with fear and confusion as their once-quaint suburban existence world shatters overnight. This lead casting of Timothy Olymphant is promising; he's a talented dude who has yet to find the right film role(s). Sign up some more heads of his pedigree, and we'll be in biz.
***They better flub-cast the role played by sexy-ass Lynn Lowry; between The Crazies and David Cronenberg's superior Shivers, Lowry is up there with Pam Grier, in terms of '70s dreamgirls.
My nomination for Lowry's successor:
Rachel Nichols....skilled, and equally sexy. Shit, she was the only reason I suffered through the dismal P2, and her G.I. Joe work next summer will give her some widespread facetime. I'd say it's brilliant casting. **Pats self on back, and waits***
Over the last couple Kim Kardashian (deal with it) and KING Models (gotta support the team that pays me) calendars, this theme of "sudden societal transformation into rabid harbingers of destruction" has made its presence felt, from Stephen King's Cell down to the great little movie-that-could The Signal. So now is clearly the time for Hollywood to abandon all creativity and cling to a previously done concept that conveniently feels right at home in 2008/9.
IMDB has the remake's drop-date down for September 25, 2009. Interesting, shows a bit of optimism on the studio's part. Not a summer tentpole, but gives it room for a dark, action-heavy thriller to rake in some nice earnings post-heatwave. A la this year's Eagle Eye. Clearly this isn't as big as Eagle Eye, now, but still.
**Just noticed that the director's, Breck Eisner, only other notable film has been that Matthew McConaughey shitshow Sahara....**cringes, all the sudden**
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Behold, in this corner, The Wrestler.....
Can't wait. This one's going to knock socks clean off. I can feel it in the aiiirrr...
....and I've always loved this woman =
Underrated as hell, finer than Merlot, and a great look for any film, The Wrestler included. You've never seen Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, huh? Remedy that, pronto.
....and I've always loved this woman =
Underrated as hell, finer than Merlot, and a great look for any film, The Wrestler included. You've never seen Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, huh? Remedy that, pronto.
Last House on the Left side of optimism
via, Bloody-Disgusting: Last House remake's first official stills doing little to ease my anxiety....
"Another classic horror flick is being remade....".....It's starting to sound like a broken record, but not some old Kool G Rap vinyl on unintended loop; but rather, some Michael Bolton shit, jumping back and forth, back and forth, causing ears to bleed and hope in mankind's creativity and artistic know-how to disintegrate, chip and flake at a time.
Last House on the Left is one of those films that I love despite its faults, at the cost of feeling a bit sleazy for it. [It's horror legend Wes Craven's first film, for those who don't know.] A great deal of it is laughable now, especially the whole "two goofy cops on the prowl" subplot. And it's not particularly scary. The only section of it that still generates some genuine disgust and eyes-peeled hypnosis, in fact, is the infamous "double rape and murder in the woods." Just tasteless, and executed with such a real-time sincerity that it's more snuff than style. But it's a product of its unsure, numbed-to-violence-thanks-to-Vietnam time (which I learned from the wonderful documentary An American Nightmare). And the acting convinces overall, the music cues are all disorienting and invigorating, and the repercussions this two-girl-slaughter causes, at the hands of one's vengeful parents, are great fun to watch for any horror head. Try not clutching your crotch as a result, men.
Having re-watched it recently, the first thing I thought was, "How in the hell will this movie be remade and even retain a fifth of the brutality and zero-compromise I've just seen?" Because if there's anything that Hollywood is surgical at, it's snipping the balls of off hardcore terror flicks in a sort of cinematic sex change operation. The final gender-flipped products being PG-13 fluff, or R-rated gloss.
Some of my trusty horror writers and bloggers have seen a very-rough cut of Last House on the Left's redo, and they've all responded surprisingly, positive and pleasantly satisfied, though not without some complaints, still. I trust these dudes, so I'm hoping for the best. But I can't totally shake the feeling of impending-suck. Just have to wait 'til next April, when this remake hits.
And that second still, found in the link above, seems to be from the aforementioned "woods" portion....here's to hoping the exposed entrails remain intact.
"Another classic horror flick is being remade....".....It's starting to sound like a broken record, but not some old Kool G Rap vinyl on unintended loop; but rather, some Michael Bolton shit, jumping back and forth, back and forth, causing ears to bleed and hope in mankind's creativity and artistic know-how to disintegrate, chip and flake at a time.
Last House on the Left is one of those films that I love despite its faults, at the cost of feeling a bit sleazy for it. [It's horror legend Wes Craven's first film, for those who don't know.] A great deal of it is laughable now, especially the whole "two goofy cops on the prowl" subplot. And it's not particularly scary. The only section of it that still generates some genuine disgust and eyes-peeled hypnosis, in fact, is the infamous "double rape and murder in the woods." Just tasteless, and executed with such a real-time sincerity that it's more snuff than style. But it's a product of its unsure, numbed-to-violence-thanks-to-Vietnam time (which I learned from the wonderful documentary An American Nightmare). And the acting convinces overall, the music cues are all disorienting and invigorating, and the repercussions this two-girl-slaughter causes, at the hands of one's vengeful parents, are great fun to watch for any horror head. Try not clutching your crotch as a result, men.
Having re-watched it recently, the first thing I thought was, "How in the hell will this movie be remade and even retain a fifth of the brutality and zero-compromise I've just seen?" Because if there's anything that Hollywood is surgical at, it's snipping the balls of off hardcore terror flicks in a sort of cinematic sex change operation. The final gender-flipped products being PG-13 fluff, or R-rated gloss.
Some of my trusty horror writers and bloggers have seen a very-rough cut of Last House on the Left's redo, and they've all responded surprisingly, positive and pleasantly satisfied, though not without some complaints, still. I trust these dudes, so I'm hoping for the best. But I can't totally shake the feeling of impending-suck. Just have to wait 'til next April, when this remake hits.
And that second still, found in the link above, seems to be from the aforementioned "woods" portion....here's to hoping the exposed entrails remain intact.
a new He-Man movie? Fuck yeah.
Via, IGN: By the power of Grayskull, riding 300's waves....
Nothing's in production yet, so this could very well go the way of oblivion. The Skeletor fanatic that's hidden dormant within me since childhood has his boney fingers crossed, though.
I can definitely get with this. Kung Fu Panda is good times, and that old Dolph Lundgren movie gets worse and painfully-worse as years go by. It was called Masters of the Universe, right? The costumes looked like they were bought at Ken's Magic Shop down the street from my parents' house. Not even up to Party City's standards. He-Man is due.
And just imagine the kick-ass line of toys that'll come with this. Right around the age when my man Nick will be all about action figures, too. Uncle Matt has his future Friday nights planned out already....
***Remember that I Love the '80s episode, when the He-Man opining redirected to issues of underlying sexual tension? Michael Ian Black: "He-Man was maybe the single most homoerotic cartoon ever devised."
Nothing's in production yet, so this could very well go the way of oblivion. The Skeletor fanatic that's hidden dormant within me since childhood has his boney fingers crossed, though.
I can definitely get with this. Kung Fu Panda is good times, and that old Dolph Lundgren movie gets worse and painfully-worse as years go by. It was called Masters of the Universe, right? The costumes looked like they were bought at Ken's Magic Shop down the street from my parents' house. Not even up to Party City's standards. He-Man is due.
And just imagine the kick-ass line of toys that'll come with this. Right around the age when my man Nick will be all about action figures, too. Uncle Matt has his future Friday nights planned out already....
***Remember that I Love the '80s episode, when the He-Man opining redirected to issues of underlying sexual tension? Michael Ian Black: "He-Man was maybe the single most homoerotic cartoon ever devised."
slight retraction on my previous Twilight post....
Wait a minute here....Twilight is a hair over two hours long? And actually features "vegetarian" vampires?? Who can't be killed by sunlight or even stakes through the heart???
To be clear, I am aware that the book's "vegetarian" tag implies that the respective undead only feed on animals, and not humans. Not exactly lettuce and beets, but still, that's about the lamest shit I've heard all year. Don't even call them vampires, then; label them "flower children who prefer blood with their hummus-and-dog entree." Vegan vampires, haha. Please don't tell me that the later books in the series introduce house-trained werewolves, too, taken for walks by their owners. Terrible.
Something tells me I'd be better off not seeing this for the sake of "fair, balanced insulting," and watching Let The Right One In again instead. Now there's a young vampire story I can get behind. No discriminatory chewers, no daytime galavanting. Just right.
To be clear, I am aware that the book's "vegetarian" tag implies that the respective undead only feed on animals, and not humans. Not exactly lettuce and beets, but still, that's about the lamest shit I've heard all year. Don't even call them vampires, then; label them "flower children who prefer blood with their hummus-and-dog entree." Vegan vampires, haha. Please don't tell me that the later books in the series introduce house-trained werewolves, too, taken for walks by their owners. Terrible.
Something tells me I'd be better off not seeing this for the sake of "fair, balanced insulting," and watching Let The Right One In again instead. Now there's a young vampire story I can get behind. No discriminatory chewers, no daytime galavanting. Just right.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
I really don't wanna grow up....
Must be an another positive after-effect of the great Gianna/Nick duo....call me crazy, but aren't kids' movies becoming more and more badass? Kung Fu Panda was quality, Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa had me laughing as much as the kids in attendance, and next year's Monsters vs. Aliens is near the top of my looking-forward-to statsheet.
This coming from a guy who, foolishly I'll admit, regularly shunned Pixar flicks and Disney feelgoods. No reason other than, basic disinterest. Friend recommendations abound, I'd still be as apathetic as ever. It's all changing, though, like a tide, or whatever. I mean, I'm damn excited to see Bolt either this weekend of early next week; I'd initally written off my intrigue over it as a byproduct of my dog-lover side, but I'm starting to think there's more to it.
And now comes this full trailer for Coraline, a Gothic fairy tale of sorts, from the warped mind of Neil Gaiman (an author I'm vowing to catch up on, in the near future). Looks like a great time. Count me in:
Just wait 'til Gianna and Nick are old enough to ask Uncle Matt to take them to the movies....Shit, looks like I'll have tons of catching up to do. Can you believe I've never seen Ice Age, or The Incredibles? Shame, shame.
This coming from a guy who, foolishly I'll admit, regularly shunned Pixar flicks and Disney feelgoods. No reason other than, basic disinterest. Friend recommendations abound, I'd still be as apathetic as ever. It's all changing, though, like a tide, or whatever. I mean, I'm damn excited to see Bolt either this weekend of early next week; I'd initally written off my intrigue over it as a byproduct of my dog-lover side, but I'm starting to think there's more to it.
And now comes this full trailer for Coraline, a Gothic fairy tale of sorts, from the warped mind of Neil Gaiman (an author I'm vowing to catch up on, in the near future). Looks like a great time. Count me in:
Just wait 'til Gianna and Nick are old enough to ask Uncle Matt to take them to the movies....Shit, looks like I'll have tons of catching up to do. Can you believe I've never seen Ice Age, or The Incredibles? Shame, shame.
this Twilight movie made me do it.....
I'm doing my best to stay tongue-tied here. But Francis Ford Coppola's great, overlooked Dracula was on the tube a couple nights ago, and I couldn't help but get a bit riled up. Now, there's a vampire love story handled properly; in other words, R-rated, gory, and uncompromising.
I get it, I really do: Twilight is teen fantasies come to life, something for females of all ages to watch and dream of a world where their high-school-aged-self was swept feet-off-hallway-floor by an Emo-looking undead heartthrob. The scares are nowhere, the vampire mythology is kept partially-intact to merely the most basic degrees, and theaters will overflow with screaming, laughing, swooning, and moaning women that drown out the sure-to-be-telegraphed-dialogue. Simple mathematics. Get it, got it. Not exactly what Bram Stoker intended, but serves a purpose.
It's like Soulja Boy---there's an audience for it, unfortunately, so I just have to accept it, even though it desecrates lore and craft that I cherish; In this case, the goodness of classic vampires. Though, I'd watch a week-long marathon of Twilight while tied to a chair underneath a steady drip of water splashing atop my forehead while Megan Fox stood in front of me in a string bikini taunting "You'll never get this, I'm David Silver's sex-toy," rather than listen to one Soulja Boy song, but that's beside the point.
Will I see Twilight? Here's the ironic kicker: I'm planning on it. But I'll wait and catch an afterwork, non-weekend screening once the Beatle mania subsides. Just to see for myself before I continue to plow stakes through its romantic heart. I hate people who condemn films they've never even seen, so I can't be that guy. But shit, doesn't it just seem like little more than a more-anticipated, better-casted spin on dreck like Blood & Chocolate? You know it does. All in the same mediocre gang.
But yes, Twilight has made me do this, for the sake of vampires everywhere, of every age, that un-live for nothing more than to drink blood and fuck shit up. No time for pillow-biting, heart-breaking, or compassion. Like the comic giant himself Steve Niles told me when I interviewed for him for the 30 Days of Night film adaptation: "Our vampires treat humans like beer cans: pop open their tops, drink their blood, and toss them into the garbage." Now that's something to swoon over.
And on that fitting note, I present a Youtube-assisted collection of favorite vampire movie moments. All great, all ten times cooler than any second of Twilight. Hi haters!
1) from 30 Days of Night, when Marlow and his Goth-heads-gone-wild crew really start bringing the pain:
2) trailer for 1922's untouchable Nosferatu, a flick which gave me night-terrors throughout my bed-wetting years; I wanted the rising-from-coffin bit, but Youtube failed me; still, it's the grandaddy:
3) Near Dark, quite possibly the "coolest" movie of this kind, ever, though the blood-lovers here are never actually called "vampires," but that's clearly what they are; skip to the 3-minute mark for the goods:
4) 1931's Dracula, my first exposure to the neverending arsenal of vamps that Vlad the Impaler hath wrought; like Nosferatu, this one's a mere trailer....fuckin' Youtube:
5) A movie that awards anybody who's also seen and loved it a shitload of cool points = The Monster Squad; here's the opening, which is pure Transylvanian macabre:
Now, tell me, Twilight faithful....would Edward Cullen, James, or which ever other Tiger Beat pin-ups stand a chance versus these creatures of the night?
Does it really matter at the end of the day? Of course not. Twilight is going to pull in Harry Potter dollars, and we'll get even more PG-13 vampires. I lose, you win.
For the record, though, I fucking love True Blood. Go figure, eh?
I get it, I really do: Twilight is teen fantasies come to life, something for females of all ages to watch and dream of a world where their high-school-aged-self was swept feet-off-hallway-floor by an Emo-looking undead heartthrob. The scares are nowhere, the vampire mythology is kept partially-intact to merely the most basic degrees, and theaters will overflow with screaming, laughing, swooning, and moaning women that drown out the sure-to-be-telegraphed-dialogue. Simple mathematics. Get it, got it. Not exactly what Bram Stoker intended, but serves a purpose.
It's like Soulja Boy---there's an audience for it, unfortunately, so I just have to accept it, even though it desecrates lore and craft that I cherish; In this case, the goodness of classic vampires. Though, I'd watch a week-long marathon of Twilight while tied to a chair underneath a steady drip of water splashing atop my forehead while Megan Fox stood in front of me in a string bikini taunting "You'll never get this, I'm David Silver's sex-toy," rather than listen to one Soulja Boy song, but that's beside the point.
Will I see Twilight? Here's the ironic kicker: I'm planning on it. But I'll wait and catch an afterwork, non-weekend screening once the Beatle mania subsides. Just to see for myself before I continue to plow stakes through its romantic heart. I hate people who condemn films they've never even seen, so I can't be that guy. But shit, doesn't it just seem like little more than a more-anticipated, better-casted spin on dreck like Blood & Chocolate? You know it does. All in the same mediocre gang.
But yes, Twilight has made me do this, for the sake of vampires everywhere, of every age, that un-live for nothing more than to drink blood and fuck shit up. No time for pillow-biting, heart-breaking, or compassion. Like the comic giant himself Steve Niles told me when I interviewed for him for the 30 Days of Night film adaptation: "Our vampires treat humans like beer cans: pop open their tops, drink their blood, and toss them into the garbage." Now that's something to swoon over.
And on that fitting note, I present a Youtube-assisted collection of favorite vampire movie moments. All great, all ten times cooler than any second of Twilight. Hi haters!
1) from 30 Days of Night, when Marlow and his Goth-heads-gone-wild crew really start bringing the pain:
2) trailer for 1922's untouchable Nosferatu, a flick which gave me night-terrors throughout my bed-wetting years; I wanted the rising-from-coffin bit, but Youtube failed me; still, it's the grandaddy:
3) Near Dark, quite possibly the "coolest" movie of this kind, ever, though the blood-lovers here are never actually called "vampires," but that's clearly what they are; skip to the 3-minute mark for the goods:
4) 1931's Dracula, my first exposure to the neverending arsenal of vamps that Vlad the Impaler hath wrought; like Nosferatu, this one's a mere trailer....fuckin' Youtube:
5) A movie that awards anybody who's also seen and loved it a shitload of cool points = The Monster Squad; here's the opening, which is pure Transylvanian macabre:
Now, tell me, Twilight faithful....would Edward Cullen, James, or which ever other Tiger Beat pin-ups stand a chance versus these creatures of the night?
Does it really matter at the end of the day? Of course not. Twilight is going to pull in Harry Potter dollars, and we'll get even more PG-13 vampires. I lose, you win.
For the record, though, I fucking love True Blood. Go figure, eh?
Tori Spelling already looks like an alien, so......
Okay, okay....maybe this upcoming Star Trek flick isn't as cool-looking as I initially thought. A renig, sure, but watch this pretty-brilliant fanmade trailer mashup and then tell me I'm not right to take back all my excitement. It still looks like popcorn fun, yes, but I can't blame Trekkie purists for their fury at seeing the characters turned into 90210 fodder:
This trailer's been available for only two days, and somebody had the verve and skill to piece this together. Well played, anonymous Internet nerd.
**Must give credit: first came across this on ToplessRobot.com
This trailer's been available for only two days, and somebody had the verve and skill to piece this together. Well played, anonymous Internet nerd.
**Must give credit: first came across this on ToplessRobot.com
Kids Do The Craziest Things
Who knew that Miley Cyrus was such a fucking nutjob, huh? And is it just me, or does she have a man-voice?
Tom Cruise, much?
Tom Cruise, much?
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Makes The Omen's Damien seem as scary as a Baby Genius.....
Taken from that new spit-up-in-my-mouth-causing trailer for the Wayans Brothers next cinematic queaf Dance Flick.
Let this assault your eyes, haunt your dreams, make you uncomfortable, and laugh, all at the same time:
And you said all babies are cute. Must not include poorly-executed CGI toddlers.
Let this assault your eyes, haunt your dreams, make you uncomfortable, and laugh, all at the same time:
And you said all babies are cute. Must not include poorly-executed CGI toddlers.
Revolutionary Road....it has begun
Just started this classic, this morning on the train. Cranked through 40 pages on that short ride, already. I'm hooked, can't wait to continue. Only within Chapter Two and the writing is something serious. Reads like butter, baby.
Have a ticket to an early screening of the Christmas-opening film adaptation, with Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet for those unaware, on December 10. That gives me 22 days to finish the novel. No sweat. Something tells me I'll breeze through this one, concluding its bleak portrayal of '50s-era suburban-set domestic implosion by this week's end.
Gratuitous Pupil-Pleasing, for November 18, 2008
The headline says it all. Now, without further delay.....
Do I agree with her fame and talent? Nope. But am I right there, in regards to her physical chops? Damn skip. And this new "paparazzi" snapshot is tough to deny.
The Goonies was an event, any time it played on the tube. A huge element being Kerri Green, redhead cutie who played the popular girl/apple in Josh Brolin's eye. She's back, starring in some shitty-sounding indie flick I can't even recall the name of, but somebody put together this after-and-before pic, which I scooped up from /Film ....she still looks good, which is reassuring. She's no Soleil Moon-Frye, but it'll do.
Terrible video; truly forgettable song. But it's my one-time-celeb-fixation Mya's new clip, and she's commanding a good 97% of the camera-time, in skimpy threads. That alone warrants interest. Who the fuck invited that dude on to the set, though? Absolutely uncalled for. But yeah, this is an otherwise horrible effort, best viewed on Mute, as I did, and am right now.
El fin.
Do I agree with her fame and talent? Nope. But am I right there, in regards to her physical chops? Damn skip. And this new "paparazzi" snapshot is tough to deny.
The Goonies was an event, any time it played on the tube. A huge element being Kerri Green, redhead cutie who played the popular girl/apple in Josh Brolin's eye. She's back, starring in some shitty-sounding indie flick I can't even recall the name of, but somebody put together this after-and-before pic, which I scooped up from /Film ....she still looks good, which is reassuring. She's no Soleil Moon-Frye, but it'll do.
Terrible video; truly forgettable song. But it's my one-time-celeb-fixation Mya's new clip, and she's commanding a good 97% of the camera-time, in skimpy threads. That alone warrants interest. Who the fuck invited that dude on to the set, though? Absolutely uncalled for. But yeah, this is an otherwise horrible effort, best viewed on Mute, as I did, and am right now.
El fin.
Monday, November 17, 2008
I have a confession to make, now that I've been caught, red-eyed....
You'd think that a sanctuary would have thicker walls, but then you'd be wrong. The place I retreat to for me-time, strange-movie-watching, and other necessary vices is encased by four Amy Wino-thin walls. The slightest dropped book echoes throughout the entire apartment, like some sort of cavernous pit being yelled into. Reverberating, bouncing from kitchen ceiling to 42-inch flatscreen tube in the living room.
Neglecting the reality of this, I slipped moments ago. Fumbled. Botched. My roommate mutes the living room's TV, then shouts to me in my room: "I know somebody who has a dirty little secret, and I'm telling." Gulp. I'm busted. "What are you talkin' 'bout, man?," I responded.
Creeping, approaching footsteps inching toward my door. The opposite of positive anticipation seeping into my frame. Should've lowered the fuckin' volume. Now I'm busted, stupid. "Somebody likes sneaking into his bedroom to watch WWE wrestling, doesn't he?"
Guilty as charged. Thanks, Clock Tower Apartments and your barely-there walls.
It's true: My name is Matthew Barone, and I'm a closet WWE Wrestling fan. Not that I aggressively follow every storyline, every match, every deception, every ridiculous attempt at humor. I don't have time for all that; way too much going in the cinema universe. I pick and choose my battles as wisely as possible. But, that doesn't mean that on Monday nights, for the past couple years, any time between 9pm and 11pm, I'm not slipping in and out of my bedroom, watching bits and pieces of that evening's WWE Raw broadcast, like a nicotine-fiend slinking out for quick puffs when people think he/she is in the bathroom.
When I was a wee lad, I was all about fake-as-Scientology wrestling. Super Fly Snuka was that dude, and the Ultimate Warrior ruled. I had three Wrestling Buddy stuffed dolls (Warrior, Hulk Hogan, Macho Man Randy Savage), each of which I'd grapple with in my living room. It's worth noting that, to this very day, I have an undefeated record. Those "buddies" were chumps, feather-stuffed sacks of puss that couldn't beat their meat and come out victorious.
The day that my WWF (it'll honestly always be WWF to me, not WWE...I'm old school like that) love affair snapped into pieces was somewhere within my 14th year of life. I tuned into my beloved weekly fix, ready to watch some mediocre-staged-and-acted sports entertainment, and bask in all the American cheese. About a half hour into the episode, though, some tall Spanish dude comes walking down the fighters'-runway, named El Gigante. And fuckin' dude was wearing a muscle-suit. As in, the kind of full-body get-up you'd wear on Halloween to trick-r-treat as "Muscle Man." These fuckers can't even work out or take steroids and fake it anymore?! Goddamn muscle suits? Fuck outta here, Vince McMahon. The bell dinged in brain, It's time to stop this, grow up, read a flippin' piece of literature.
Three or four years breezed by, with zero urges to change the channel to a WWE telecast, and I definitely knew when each was on. Just had no desire to devolve back to my adolescent, innocent, make-believe-fighting-adoring self.
Over the last two years, however, temptations have been stronger than ten roid-charged wrasslers. Not even sure why. Gone are the days of fantastical characters and imagination; elaborate costumes and goofy backstories are things of the past. Now it's just dudes using their government names, or at least fake-names that sound like government-recognized monikers. It's all bad acting, and little over-the-top fiction. Like The Hills infused with Tough Enough (yes, I shall take as many digs at LC and her mindless droogs as humanly possible).
But, possibly a key component in my newly-invigorated WWE guilty-pleasure-addiction, the federation has in recent years upped its number of female combatants, even calling them "Divas," and only allowing slammin', fit, sexy-cubed chicks. No more beefy, manly dames in spandex. Chyna, go benchpress 300 pounds, you beast. Now, it's ladies like this:
And this:
And, yes, even this:
Any guy who'd make fun of me for watching a television program featuring those bitties is suspect in my book-of-views.
Divas, unfairly so, only get about six minutes of screentime per episode, so they're not the only draw. It's totally not worth psycho-analyzing, though, because I know what it is: the kid in me still lives. Inside. Breathing. Thriving. Enjoying. Every vice and interest from those days remains, whether largely or miniscule. Making it difficult to fully curb the wrestling bug. I don't know why my better judgement doesn't tell me, Stop wasting your time, do something productive, turn this shit o-f-f. I know it's trash-tastic, and I can't help it. John Cena bumrushes Chris Jericho during a terribly-scripted backstage interview, and I'm intrigued. The Miz and John Morrison cheat their way to another unearned tag-team triumph, and I'm a bit salty, siding with the losers.
A little brainless fun for the eyes never hurt anybody. Look at me, I'm walking proof. Things are A-okay for me, and I watch a good hour or so of WWE a week.
So yes, Mr. Roommate, I tip-toe into my room on Monday nights and watch glue-soaked-eyed. Channel 38, between 9pm and 11pm. And you know something? I'm proud of it.
Worst case, haters of the world, just look at this:
I'm more-than-partial to my girl on the left, Layla El. A near-flawless female specimen, if I've ever seen one.
Try denying that, people. Sign me up for a no-disqualification match, 3-on-1. Submissions are allowed, though. Anything else would be uncivilized, and just plain wasteful.
Neglecting the reality of this, I slipped moments ago. Fumbled. Botched. My roommate mutes the living room's TV, then shouts to me in my room: "I know somebody who has a dirty little secret, and I'm telling." Gulp. I'm busted. "What are you talkin' 'bout, man?," I responded.
Creeping, approaching footsteps inching toward my door. The opposite of positive anticipation seeping into my frame. Should've lowered the fuckin' volume. Now I'm busted, stupid. "Somebody likes sneaking into his bedroom to watch WWE wrestling, doesn't he?"
Guilty as charged. Thanks, Clock Tower Apartments and your barely-there walls.
It's true: My name is Matthew Barone, and I'm a closet WWE Wrestling fan. Not that I aggressively follow every storyline, every match, every deception, every ridiculous attempt at humor. I don't have time for all that; way too much going in the cinema universe. I pick and choose my battles as wisely as possible. But, that doesn't mean that on Monday nights, for the past couple years, any time between 9pm and 11pm, I'm not slipping in and out of my bedroom, watching bits and pieces of that evening's WWE Raw broadcast, like a nicotine-fiend slinking out for quick puffs when people think he/she is in the bathroom.
When I was a wee lad, I was all about fake-as-Scientology wrestling. Super Fly Snuka was that dude, and the Ultimate Warrior ruled. I had three Wrestling Buddy stuffed dolls (Warrior, Hulk Hogan, Macho Man Randy Savage), each of which I'd grapple with in my living room. It's worth noting that, to this very day, I have an undefeated record. Those "buddies" were chumps, feather-stuffed sacks of puss that couldn't beat their meat and come out victorious.
The day that my WWF (it'll honestly always be WWF to me, not WWE...I'm old school like that) love affair snapped into pieces was somewhere within my 14th year of life. I tuned into my beloved weekly fix, ready to watch some mediocre-staged-and-acted sports entertainment, and bask in all the American cheese. About a half hour into the episode, though, some tall Spanish dude comes walking down the fighters'-runway, named El Gigante. And fuckin' dude was wearing a muscle-suit. As in, the kind of full-body get-up you'd wear on Halloween to trick-r-treat as "Muscle Man." These fuckers can't even work out or take steroids and fake it anymore?! Goddamn muscle suits? Fuck outta here, Vince McMahon. The bell dinged in brain, It's time to stop this, grow up, read a flippin' piece of literature.
Three or four years breezed by, with zero urges to change the channel to a WWE telecast, and I definitely knew when each was on. Just had no desire to devolve back to my adolescent, innocent, make-believe-fighting-adoring self.
Over the last two years, however, temptations have been stronger than ten roid-charged wrasslers. Not even sure why. Gone are the days of fantastical characters and imagination; elaborate costumes and goofy backstories are things of the past. Now it's just dudes using their government names, or at least fake-names that sound like government-recognized monikers. It's all bad acting, and little over-the-top fiction. Like The Hills infused with Tough Enough (yes, I shall take as many digs at LC and her mindless droogs as humanly possible).
But, possibly a key component in my newly-invigorated WWE guilty-pleasure-addiction, the federation has in recent years upped its number of female combatants, even calling them "Divas," and only allowing slammin', fit, sexy-cubed chicks. No more beefy, manly dames in spandex. Chyna, go benchpress 300 pounds, you beast. Now, it's ladies like this:
And this:
And, yes, even this:
Any guy who'd make fun of me for watching a television program featuring those bitties is suspect in my book-of-views.
Divas, unfairly so, only get about six minutes of screentime per episode, so they're not the only draw. It's totally not worth psycho-analyzing, though, because I know what it is: the kid in me still lives. Inside. Breathing. Thriving. Enjoying. Every vice and interest from those days remains, whether largely or miniscule. Making it difficult to fully curb the wrestling bug. I don't know why my better judgement doesn't tell me, Stop wasting your time, do something productive, turn this shit o-f-f. I know it's trash-tastic, and I can't help it. John Cena bumrushes Chris Jericho during a terribly-scripted backstage interview, and I'm intrigued. The Miz and John Morrison cheat their way to another unearned tag-team triumph, and I'm a bit salty, siding with the losers.
A little brainless fun for the eyes never hurt anybody. Look at me, I'm walking proof. Things are A-okay for me, and I watch a good hour or so of WWE a week.
So yes, Mr. Roommate, I tip-toe into my room on Monday nights and watch glue-soaked-eyed. Channel 38, between 9pm and 11pm. And you know something? I'm proud of it.
Worst case, haters of the world, just look at this:
I'm more-than-partial to my girl on the left, Layla El. A near-flawless female specimen, if I've ever seen one.
Try denying that, people. Sign me up for a no-disqualification match, 3-on-1. Submissions are allowed, though. Anything else would be uncivilized, and just plain wasteful.
Eye-Catchers of the Day
Reportedly, this is Johnny Depp as The Mad Hatter in Tim Burton's upcoming Alice In Wonderland:
Not the most knowledgeable on Alice lore, I'll admit, so maybe others can answer this: has The Mad Hatter always been this zombie-like and creepy? Looks good to me, though the idea of yet another Burton/Depp team-up isn't exciting. It's becoming more predictable than Entourage. And I can't help but think that Depp's Mad Hatter looks a helluva lot like his Willy Wonka, only with demon eyes and a Casper complexion.
And then there's this:
Not much in the way of comment or analysis; just excitement and "that damn publicist better tell me when the next press screening is" itching. This one's gonna be killer.
Not the most knowledgeable on Alice lore, I'll admit, so maybe others can answer this: has The Mad Hatter always been this zombie-like and creepy? Looks good to me, though the idea of yet another Burton/Depp team-up isn't exciting. It's becoming more predictable than Entourage. And I can't help but think that Depp's Mad Hatter looks a helluva lot like his Willy Wonka, only with demon eyes and a Casper complexion.
And then there's this:
Not much in the way of comment or analysis; just excitement and "that damn publicist better tell me when the next press screening is" itching. This one's gonna be killer.
The Dark Knight lightens up.....
No clue who originally made this, but it's too great not to share with others. Just imagine how those in Gotham would react if The Dark Knight emerges victorious at next year's Academy Awards, but keep your thought process in the world of Zoolander. And here's the final product:
It's a celebration, bitches. Even Batman's morose ass is excited; hell, he's voluntarily riding shotgun as The Joker drives. Bygones, can, thankfully, be bygones.
It's a celebration, bitches. Even Batman's morose ass is excited; hell, he's voluntarily riding shotgun as The Joker drives. Bygones, can, thankfully, be bygones.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Michael Myers goes from sick to (very well could) suck....
Mike Myers no longer Inside....
Just read over at Arrow In The Head that Julien Maury and Alexandre Bustillo---the two Frenchmen responsible for the best hardcore-horror movie in the last five years, maybe even more, A' l'interieur (Inside)---have left the sequel to Rob Zombie's Halloween resurrection. I expressed some marginal excitement over this back when the pair's involvement was first announced a couple months back, only because after the brilliance that is Inside, I'd be willing to watch Maury and Bustillo direct an episode of Gossip Girl. It'd be like the chainsaw murder scene in American Psycho meeting 90210, then fucking and lasting for 40 minutes straight, and would totally rule.
Another Rob Zombie-helmed Halloween sounds rather blah. Just more loud, abrasive redneck/white trash characters and not enough of John Carpenter's minimalist tension. His Halloween was 65% of a good flick, 35% of dull raping of Caprenter's entire movie over Zombie's only-30-minute final act.
Sorry, Mike...those visionary filmmakers have come out of the closet. No La Tenia.
Now that Maury and Bustillo are off the sequel, consider any intrigue I once had completely evaporated. Halloween 2 now sleeps next to Saw VI in my anticipated-horror list.
Begs the question, however....when the fuck will Maury and Bustillo direct some new goodness? Inside was their breakneck, eye-popping-via-scissors debut, but they've done nada since. They even fell off the Hellraiser remake, so smarts would now tell them to chunk a deuce to the Weinsteins and stick to limitless, own-vision-encourage foreign film. I don't think Hollywood would even work for them. They'd just become another Eric Valette, or those two dudes who made the great Ils (Them) and then came here and had their testicles snipped off to make The Eye.
In the honor of Maury and Bustillo, I think I'll toss Inside into my laptop right now, and skip to the adrenaline-rising part where Sarah comes to on the kitchen floor, assembles a makeshift spear, and prepares to bring the fiery storm to The Woman In Black, as that insane electronica score kicks in. Sickness.
Sarah, you sexy, resilient beauty. Blood-red is so your color.
God, I love this movie....
Just read over at Arrow In The Head that Julien Maury and Alexandre Bustillo---the two Frenchmen responsible for the best hardcore-horror movie in the last five years, maybe even more, A' l'interieur (Inside)---have left the sequel to Rob Zombie's Halloween resurrection. I expressed some marginal excitement over this back when the pair's involvement was first announced a couple months back, only because after the brilliance that is Inside, I'd be willing to watch Maury and Bustillo direct an episode of Gossip Girl. It'd be like the chainsaw murder scene in American Psycho meeting 90210, then fucking and lasting for 40 minutes straight, and would totally rule.
Another Rob Zombie-helmed Halloween sounds rather blah. Just more loud, abrasive redneck/white trash characters and not enough of John Carpenter's minimalist tension. His Halloween was 65% of a good flick, 35% of dull raping of Caprenter's entire movie over Zombie's only-30-minute final act.
Sorry, Mike...those visionary filmmakers have come out of the closet. No La Tenia.
Now that Maury and Bustillo are off the sequel, consider any intrigue I once had completely evaporated. Halloween 2 now sleeps next to Saw VI in my anticipated-horror list.
Begs the question, however....when the fuck will Maury and Bustillo direct some new goodness? Inside was their breakneck, eye-popping-via-scissors debut, but they've done nada since. They even fell off the Hellraiser remake, so smarts would now tell them to chunk a deuce to the Weinsteins and stick to limitless, own-vision-encourage foreign film. I don't think Hollywood would even work for them. They'd just become another Eric Valette, or those two dudes who made the great Ils (Them) and then came here and had their testicles snipped off to make The Eye.
In the honor of Maury and Bustillo, I think I'll toss Inside into my laptop right now, and skip to the adrenaline-rising part where Sarah comes to on the kitchen floor, assembles a makeshift spear, and prepares to bring the fiery storm to The Woman In Black, as that insane electronica score kicks in. Sickness.
Sarah, you sexy, resilient beauty. Blood-red is so your color.
God, I love this movie....
Trekkie in the making???
Never been a fan of Star Trek, nor a hater or attacker. Just indifferent. Partially because of the dozen or so movies I'd have to backlog and watch to catch up with the whole mythology, character development, etc.
But this trailer for J.J. Abrams' reboot is pretty f'n slick. Dare I say, I'm excited to see a Star Trek movie? I think so. Guess I'll have to toss the whole catalog onto the Netflix waiting list. Or just go the half-assed route and consult the Wikipedia records.
The still frame caught on Pause here makes it look like Karl Urban's getting plugged in the shoot, eh? That is Karl Urban, no? Sure it is.
Streaming thoughts......There's been plenty of people I'd love to bumrush with a Vulcan death grip, even recently, and I have always been grade-A at doing the Trekkie hand-sign code. Should count for something.
But this trailer for J.J. Abrams' reboot is pretty f'n slick. Dare I say, I'm excited to see a Star Trek movie? I think so. Guess I'll have to toss the whole catalog onto the Netflix waiting list. Or just go the half-assed route and consult the Wikipedia records.
The still frame caught on Pause here makes it look like Karl Urban's getting plugged in the shoot, eh? That is Karl Urban, no? Sure it is.
Streaming thoughts......There's been plenty of people I'd love to bumrush with a Vulcan death grip, even recently, and I have always been grade-A at doing the Trekkie hand-sign code. Should count for something.
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