The year that was my life, sized up

The Groundhog Day of self-reflection....January 1. More like Groundhog Month of December, actually. It's the 31-day-home-stretch, yearly....a time for me to look back over the preceding eleven months, analyze how far I've come, how much further I need to reach. So goes the plight of a New Year's Baby. The numbered marriage of 2 and 7 is less than two weeks away, and I sit here wondering, What does 2007 mean, in the big picture that's called "My Life"?

12 months of stress, anguish, personal evaluation, re-structuring, and soul-searching. A few effecting-me-only bombshells greeted me after last birthday, a time when I thought I had it all figured out. Assumed I was living above the clouds in ways. Which all came crashing down like a failed jet-plane. Not to over-dramatize things, but essentially that's how certain revelations hit me, and me alone.

Questions surfaced, and fresh-starts became mandatory. While certain life-changes were halted by unforeseen, bad-timing circumstances, others happened much more easily than anticipated. Namely, a sense of contentness toward my place. Thanks to one hell of a cool, hard-working, and super-dad brother and a loving-mother, hardnosed but for all the good reasons sis-in-law, I'm the G-O-D-father to two of the greatest, coolest, funniest, craziest, and best-looking (hey, I can be biased) rugrats around: Gianna (or, Baby G, Lil G, Geezy G, etc) and Nicholas (or, My Man Nick, Lil Nicky, Ay-Yo-Nick, etc). I'm the son of two of the best parents you could ever hope for, a tag-team duo who'll unconditionally and without-hesitation look out for me when needed, no matter how big or measly the need is, they're on the job.

And, if not more importantly than damn close to equal value, I'm the lucky recipient of an arsenal of the most unique, layered, complicated, yet never-less-than supportive and an-escapist's-lifeline squads of friends around. There's the one who always knows how to have a great time, and won't let another person's over-thinking and/or lethargic inclinations prevent wild times from unfolding. Just unconsciously free-spirited, and it's a miracle more often than not. And then there's the longtime best friends who've found their significant others, their soulmates (sap pours on thickly some times, in ways you can't stop....here be one). Watching how perfectly they've settled into relationship-functions gives a still-single-but-not-for-lack-of-effort guy such as myself endless hope. Dating is a practice originally established within the fifth circle of Hell, but it's a needed evil, and we must deal. But couples like my friends' indirectly operate like a factory of Tony Robbins clones, fed nothing but Redbulls. And last, but not least in the slightest, I can't neglect to mention my fellow single co-defendants, the (un)lucky few who, on a weekly basis, brave the social scene with yours truly, embarking on the same liquor-and-skirt-chasing path, mostly favoring the liquor part unintentionally. These guys (whether single by choice, fate, or divine intervention) may be the most crucial of the friend-bunch, because without them, self-reflection would never end, and I'd surely have lost my shit-marbles by now if so.

The biggest realization that I've arrived at, though, by 2008's final setpiece: that I'm going to be alright. Took much sifting through paranoia and concern, but I've reached. Sure, I'm not awarded the bloated salaries that some around me rake in, and yes, I'm somebody who's not fairly-enough compensated by his bank-account-stuffers. But I've accepted these realities, because I'm doing something I love, and am able to make a living-on-my-own as a byproduct, and that's not half bad. Besides, this current economic snowball-to-nightmare has taught me invaluable money-saving, and spending-less habits/practices that'll be utilized 'til my final hour. And that's not half bad, either.

And true, I work in an industry that's undergoing a serious self-reflection of its own, but I'm not that phased. As long as I can write, and exercise my imagination, I'll be happy. Not to mention, I have a couple career-rejuvenators up my sleeve that (hopefully) 2009 will see the kickstarting(s) of, and I'm hella-excited about both. Let's just say, I sure do love reading scripts and/or dark fiction. Seems like writing either/or would be a hoot.

2008, a year that'll forever be recollected as a turning-point-milestone for y-truly. 12 calendar-pages from now, I'm hoping to have introduced not only new, exciting chapters, but entirely-fresh sets into the anthology called "life."

Wish me luck. Or don't, and concern yourself little-to-none over the matter(s). It's all about me, me, me, me, me, anyway. Forget about you, you, you, you, you. So what 'cha wanna do?

Beyonce has been defeated, in a landslide

I was really trying my hardest to not post this trailer for Fatal Attraction-light: WWE Divas Edition, or Obsessed, as it's referred to by the studio. Looks like crap, sure it will be crap. Walks like duck, quacks like one.

But it's a terribly-blah Friday night, riddled with snow, hail, and other fuck-you-Mother-Nature nonsense. And a friend of mine asked me if I'd seen this preview yet, and for some strange reason I immediately replied with, "Yeah, and how much hotter is Ali Larter than Beyonce in it, right?"

Which now has me thinking, and this is the sole reason I'm wasting energy making this post:

Ali Larter > Beyonce (not only in this trailer, but like overall)

Shocking? Maybe, and my once-strong crush on Beyonce is documented, on record. But Ali Larter is one of the fiercest chick-celebs around, and has yet to be sufficiently recognized as such. Is this her turn? Probably not, as I'm sure Beyonce will dominate the press and buzz here.

But just pause it on the quick shot of her disrobing in that car's passenger seat.

That one shot > "Single Ladies" video (wanna fight about it?)

Holy shit!!!

33 days left......so much crazy, what-the-fuck stuff going on here, I won't even begin to wonder. I'll just wait and ask what-the-fuck questions while watching, per usual.

Thing that make me laugh --- today's edition

1) One of the laziest, most absurd yet hilarious-enough-to-make-it-worth-mentioning casting rumors ever? If not, it's up there.

Courtesy of the hack bastards over at England's newspaper The Sun, who also at one point said that Cher was "confirmed" to play Catwoman, which Christopher Nolan and the Warner Bros. brass laughed off and discarded with ease.

Basically, if you don't feel like clicking over to The Sun, they're "reporting" that Eddie Murphy has signed on to play The Riddler, while Shia Labeouf will be Robin. Neglecting to mention how both Nolan and Christian Bale have publicly shat upon the Robin character as rubbish. And also forgetting to acknowledge how Nolan is pretty much a creative mastermind and that his left nut has enough intelligence to never, ever cast Eddie Murphy in any capacity within his Gotham City universe. Just the facts, ma'am.

But alas, at least we have this nice pic right here (Joker one from The Sun's original story; Robin from /Film



So yeah, that's totally untrue. A third Batman movie is currently "in talks," not confirmed just yet. Relax. Now, moving on....

2) Denis Leary, who can be hilarious when he wants, and obnoxious and pure asshole with similar lack of effort, clowning his pretty-bad movie catalog. Here, he's being the former:
(Also spotted over at /Film

Denis Leary Remembers Denis Leary Movies - watch more funny videos

3) People really seem to love this dude Zach Galifianakis. The stuff I've seen from him has always been pretty funny; not falling-over-myself funny, but chuckles, for sure. But this faux interview with Mad Men's Jon Hamm is greatness. Just watch, and giggle. It's bound to happen:

Between Two Ferns with Zach Galifianakis by Between Two Ferns

Inglourious Basterds pics, keep a-comin'

For the record, Inglourious Basterds is my most anticipated film of 2009. Got the script sitting on my desk at home, read it twice already. Love it. Can't wait to see it.

Last week, a couple shots from Quentin Tarantino's next insane piece of cinematic art, the World War II set, Nazi-slaying Inglourious Basterds (yes, that's really how he is spelling it), leaked online. Neither jazzed me up enough to post here, but then a third surfaced this morning, which has my juices flowing in overdrive. So it's not time to post them all. First, the initial pair:

Look closely at Brad Pitt's neck.....notice that huge scar?


Though it may appear as goofy fun based on this pic, this scene is actually one of the best that Tarantino has ever staged. Well, on script page, at least. Hopefully nothing is lost in translation.

And here's the latest, the one that I'm most excited by...it's one of the story's lead characters, Shoshanna, and her French theater projectionist hubby Marcel, pinning down an unlucky chap, ready for some meat-work. Without ruining anything, I'll just say that the way this Shoshanna/Marcel/theater plot-lines explodes is pure reckless mayhem.


Last picture spotted at: Empire

Wendy and Lucy, post-watching thoughts

If you know me, even in the slightest, you should already know that I'm an outspoken lover of dogs. Canine appreciator and defenders, forever. The seeds of which were first placed-under-dirt back in September 1996, the first night of high school, also the same night my family and I brought a pillar of the German Shepherd community home, the greatest pooch this side of the Mississip, ever: Zoseph P. Zoseph Barone. Zoey, for short. Yes, that is her full name, you can clown my dad for it; his idea totally, not mine. He thought it sounded authentically German, so he entered that on her certificate. Again, totally his plan, not mine. Thanks to her awesomeness, I've since become the dog-fan I am today, the kind of guy whose heart warms a bit when dogs pass him by, and who feels more sadness, compassion over seeing homeless dogs than humans, and wishes holy damnation on those who hurt defenseless, loving doggies. Yeah, that's me.

I divulge this to set up the profound impact that Wendy and Lucy, a new independent film starring Michelle Williams (Brokeback Mountain; mother of Heath Ledger's daughter, but that's secondary to her wonderful talent).


Only playing at one theater as of now, the Film Forum, in downtown Manhattan. Hopefuly it expands at some point. Well worth a peek.

The story is as basic as a film can be: Wendy, a drifter traveling in her beatdown '88 Honda Accord to Alaska from Indiana in hopes of brighter days, with little-to-no money in her pcoket, has only one true friend, her mutt/dog Lucy. After a few unfortunate circumstances while they're pit-stopping in a lower-class Oregon town, Lucy goes missing. Wendy, determined to find the only thing that loves her unconditionally and doesn't demand money or anything, uses whatever miniscule resources she has to track the dog down.

***Which makes me think, Billy Madison would be proud. "You gotta think....you have a pet. You have a responsibility. You don't give up after a [few minutes] like a goon. You get your ass out there and you find that fuckin' dog!!!" The truth.

That's it, pretty much. 80 minutes of said plot. But what makes Wendy & Lucy such a memorable and lasting movie is simply that....its simplicity. Not to mention the stand-and-applaud performance from Williams, who gives Wendy a quietness that suggests a woman who has fully accepted her meagerness, and simply rolls with the punches out of necessity and survival-needs. The trials and strife that life keeps shoving in her face have long been understood, and she's doing whatever possible to cope. Move forward in a world that seems to have forgotten about her, letting her fall through its cracks. She's on screen nearly every second, and I was never less than captivated. It's been a pretty outstanding year for actress-performances, and I can honestly say that Michelle Williams should be a shoe-in for a Best Actress nod, Oscar time. Hands down. Just nominate the gal already. Shit.



Co-written and directed by Kelly Reichardt, who I've read had previously made a couple other quality indies, Wendy and Lucy connects on a truly "human" level. Anybody who has ever stressed a lack of funds, you'll squirm and ache watching Wendy collect as many littered cans as possible for measly amounts of cash, shoplifting dog food, and washing herself in a tiny, grungy gas station bathroom, all just to make ends meet. If you've ever had a dog, your heart will shatter as we watch Wendy being driven away in a cop car as Lucy is tied up outside a supermarket, knowing that she'll return to a dog-less lot. I can't recall any music being used here, either; all that accompanied the natural sounds was the haunting humming of an Williams herself, a mouth-made melody that's still floating around in my head. Establishing melancholic residence.

I'm sure that I'd still love Wendy and Lucy even if I wasn't such a dog fanatic. But I'm not sure if the film would've lingered in my thoughts as heavily as it is now. The conclusion that Reichardt stages is completely unexpected, yet makes total sense, and it left me somewhat devastated. Thinking, "Would I have done that if this were myself and Zoey?" I wish to not even ponder further.



A small-as-can-be, inconspicuous, emotionally-powerful flick. Two Zoeys up, certainly. Makes me want to hop on the train, open the parents' house door, and giving big Zo a huge hug, and some well-deserved, tasty Snausages.

I'll see her tomorrow night, actually. Sweet.

The promise of great-looking promotional stills, a dangerous game.....

Based off imagery alone, The Unborn is leaving me with warm, tingly, can't-wait sensations.

But I've been down this road before. Many, many times. Much to my own peril/humiliation/frustration. So, reservations will be held until January 9.

Suck or score, there'll always be that stroke-of-marketing-genius poster for me to fondly recall. Which one? Oh, you want to see it, do you? Why, certainly, I'd love to post it again. It's the least I can, not like I'll enjoy it much or anything. The things I do for you, I swear:

Odette Yustman and jeans....scratch that, pants of any kind just don't mix. Oil and vinegar, babes.

Seven Pounds, post-screening thoughts....."Beware the jellyfish!"

Damn, Will Smith.....two bad movies in one year? Who'd have ever thought, huh? Hancock was a disaster on par with Wild, Wild West, and now comes Seven Pounds, a melodramatic, overlong "tearjerker" that doesn't only beat its emotions and themes of penance over your head---it sledgehammers its feelings atop your skull, and then pollutes the blood seeping from your head with bottomless plot holes, preposterous moments, and too many undercooked characters.



So yeah, highly disappointed by this one. From the moment its first trailer hit, though, it should've been apparent, the doom protruding. Admittedly, the trailer intrigued me tons at first, and I was riding shotgun here. But the more I revisited it, and then started seeing the nonsensical television spots, I grew increasingly more and more alarmed. Am I in store for a Pursuit of Happyness surprise, or a catastrophic fuck-of-cluster?

The latter, sadly. Very much the latter.

First things first, I do want to give some well-earned love to co-star Rosario Dawson, who elevates a whatever character into a really sympathetic and infinitely endearing woman, and her performance is pretty great. I've always thought that Dawson, aside from being drop-dead scrumptious and a total nerd in real life (in interviews, she professes love for everything from old school horror to comic books....*sigh*). Here in Seven Pounds, she plays "Emily Posa," a friendly, kind lady who suffers from congenital heart failure, and her life-clock is ticking down to its final frame. As the somewhat-confusing plot goes: Will Smith's character, "Ben Thomas," catches wind, and as part of his redemption-mission to save the lives of seven strangers decides to make the ultimate sacrifice for her. That is, of course, until he rather-too-quickly falls in love with her, which fucks up his plans something predictable.

Oh, and Emily has a black-and-white-fur-colored, Great Dane, named "Duke," who's a vegetarian. Props to Duke---the beast of a pooch has some serious acting chops. He's no Vincent the Dog from Lost, though. But still more than able.


What up, Duke!

And that's really the only aspect of Seven Pounds I can vouch for, because everything else left an angered after-effect, rather than its intended "uplift" or "evaluate your own life, sucker" messages. First off, the central conceit of "tormented man seeking salvation through tireless giving" is a bit much. I'm all for kindness and genuine care for others, but when our main character spontaneously gives up the huge, scenic beach house he inherited from his father to a domestically-battered mother of two, there's too many questions left untouched: What about taxes, for starters, considering that the mother comes from money-less, meager backing? Wouldn't she be kicked to the curb within like two months of living there?

Then, the ridiculous "jellyfish" plotline enters, and all narrative and believable hell breaks loose. I won't say too much about the role(s) said poisonous jellyfish plays, out of respect for the poor fools who still want to drop coin on the film, but let me put it this way: I'd be willing to bet a cool $200 that you'd laugh uncontrollably after I explained how this jellyfish comes into play during the finale. As hoped by Smith and director Gabriele Muccino, its supposed to be symbolic, moving, and heroic in its employment. In reality, though, the jellyfish (which looks too much like poorly-digitized CGI) is the final nail in this flick's coffin. Because, first off, the way the jellyfish is introduced so clearly telegraphs that it'll be used in some "important" way as things unfold. And then the "Ben Smith" character starts lugging this giant fishtank around with him, which in and of itself is a bit funny to watch.

So many questions remain: Didn't Ben's brother "Tim" say he'd come knocking out Emily's door if Ben didn't come right back out? Then how does Ben get away with bumping uglies, and then snuggling under sheets? Where'd Tim go? Was he just watching like a Gordnick (my Jersey friends should get this reference) peeping tom, jacking off? And, what was the point of the flashback moments, save for the highway accident? If you're going to show how Ben had a hot wife and a wealthy life, then explore it more.

Plot-gaps such as these would be excusable, honestly, if the screenwriter of Seven Pounds would've consulted a dictionary prior to signing off on final draft and looked up a little word known as "subtlety." Or maybe the blame should fall more on the shoulders of Smith (star, who's smart enough to see pretentious dribble before him/producer, natch) and/or director Muccino. I mean, they shot the damn thing, right?

You have Woody Harrelson totally wasted, but we're better off that he was, really, since his performance is the epitome of "awkward discomfort." He must've realized how ludicrous everything is/was, but figured, "Well, its a Will Smith project, so it should make some bank at least." Same goes for the usually-reliable Barry Pepper, who's few scenes here tip past the edge of overacting.



Will Smith's performance isn't a total failure---"total" being the operative word. There are some scenes where he reminds you how magnetic he can be on screen, but then there's also a bunch where his attempts at "manic" and "explosive" come off too forced. Key example: an early moment where he's calling a blind man, randomly, and berating the poor sightless guy in an effort to test the blind man's "good nature," which he proves, leading Ben to hang up and subsequently shout seven names in a fit of hysteria. It's way overboard. Not the naturalistic Smith we're used to, like the amazing stuff he did in I Am Legend. The "Robert Neville" character in Legend, in fact, has tons in common with Ben Thomas here; both are severely damaged widowers, both at the end of their respective rope, contemplating suicide but holding off "the end" due to glimmers of unexpected hope. It's too bad that Ben Thomas is a terribly-written character, in a long, bleak-for-bleak's sake film.

The worst thing about Seven Pounds, above all else mentioned already, is how big of a safe cop-out it really is. Without revealing too much of what's going on, for SPOILER SENSITIVE purposes, I'll attempt to break it down as censored as possible. Basically, the bottom-line, nuts-and-bolts story here comes down to a man killing himself, slowly but surely, for the sake of extreme charity, yet you're expected to forget that while watching. Instead, you'll see a sappy romance blossom, or a slapstick-y bit where Duke the dog overpowers the Smith character while being held by leash down a sidewalk. What isn't explored enough, though, is just how terrifying and morbid his endeavor truly is. In the hands of braver filmmakers and stars, it'd be hard-R, Requiem for a Dream-ish material if centered solely on the psyche of the soon-to-be-savior. But not here. Here, it's cookie-cutting sentimentality.

I'm sure Smith is largely to blame for such character-arch decision making, so to that, I offer this.....if Smith, as a result of the inevitable critic-bashing this flick receives, ever feels the urge to chin-check himself, to discover what a truly-fearless, don't-care-about-being-the-high-and-mighty-superstar actor would do, he should just buy a ticket to see Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. "Randy 'The Ram' Robinson'.....now there's an antithesis to Seven Pounds' "Ben Thomas."

I'll stop now, though, because Seven Pounds is a film that I'd love to pick apart, discuss with people after they've also endured it. I just can't look past a movie that so blatantly wears its "Oscar bait" tag, and fails to justify itself in any way. I'd love for Rosario Dawson's career to skyrocket thanks to her quality work here, but that's doubtful. The reviews will all say shit to the effect of "Dawson does her best, but even her fine work isn't enough....."

Here's something I thought I'd never say: halfway through Seven Pounds, I found myself wishing that those alien-looking, horrible-CGI-heavy creatures from I Am Legend would come crashing into Emily's shed, end Ben's misery early, and then rewrite the rest of the film as a Rosario Dawson/"Emily Posa" story. Only. At least the overly-stylized feel of Seven Pounds would've been stripped down to "okay, there's no Will Smith, hence no need for extra sheen" levels of simplicity. An audience member can dream.

I Loved This Movie, Man

Got to see a very-early screening of this one a couple weeks back, and as my high expectations had prefaced, I loved it, man. One of the best casts of funny-yet-not-big-name talent in memory, from its leads (Paul Rudd = my man crush; Jason Segel, who keeps getting funnier and funnier; and Rashida Jones, who could charm my pants off any day) down to the bit players (Andy Samberg; the great J.K. Simmons; Jon Favreau; and a couple of The State alums).

Best part about the movie, though: it's actually kind-hearted, like top-to-bottom sweet and harmless. Which sounds corny, but is really endearing when done right, I Love You, Man being a nice example. Plus, it's quite funny (one beer boat race/projectile vomiting scene had me LOLing along with the rest of the very-pleased crowd).

I can acknowledge, however, that this isn't the funniest trailer around. But don't let it ruin any anticipation. The movie itself, while nowhere near some of Rudd's recent flicks, is still good times.

I Love You, Man.......enjoy:



I got three words for you: Slappin' de bass.

Written and directed by John Hamburg, the dude responsible for Along Came Polly, a comedy that left me unimpressed in the theater but has gotten much, much funnier over repeated TV airings. White chocolate! Old school! One of Philip Seymour Hoffman's finest hours, to me.

Doubt, post-watching thoughts

Braved the bitter cold, wind, and snowfall to see this a couple hours ago, and well worth the frosted eyebrows and chills I entered the Clearview Cinemas with, no question.

My roommate bought Rock Band 2 last night, and I've already been bitten. Infected with the drummer-jones, and Modest Mouse's "Float On" is a-callin' me (one thing I'm noticing about Rock Band---it's making me love some rock tunes I never paid much mind to. "Float On" jams!). So I'm keeping this one short and sweet.

Acting all across the board here, superb. Meryl Streep is the most stone-cold, immovable hardass of a nun you could ever imagine, and she plays it without a flinch nor waver of vulnerability. And its really something else, though to be expected from the greatest actress alive. Bar none.


She's not one to be fucked with, I assure you.

Then you have quite-possibly my favorite natural screen-presence in the game, Philip Seymour Hoffman, finally playing somebody who you're genuinely rooting for (most of the time), as opposed to somber Debbie-downers (Synecdoche, New York) or plain-old scoundrels (Before the Devil Knows You're Dead), and he's as wonderful as ever. Toss in some cute-as-a-doll and talented-as-hell Amy Adams, giving her innocent and painfully-optimistic young nun such a defeated, overwhelmed air of hurt and anxiety over the crumbling of her once all-holy world that you're feeling for her without even realizing it.



***Worth noting: Philip Seymour Hoffman is in two of my fave films of '08: Synecdoche, New York, and now Doubt. Hell of a calendar, good sir. Oh, and I actually sat next to him at one point, too, which was pretty cool. It was at an early Tropic Thunder screening, with Larry David nearby our row. Awesome, obviously.

And, it must be said, hats all-the-way off for Doubt's Viola Davis, an actress I'd known nothing about 'til Doubt, who floored me in her one-off scene against Streep's character. Davis pops up as the mother of a Catholic-private-grade-school's lone Black student, who Streep suspects is having an indecent relationship with Hoffman's likeable priest. And Streep will stop at nada to expose, and ultimately send Hoffman packing in shame. As the mentally-battered mother, Davis brings the house down to bits, concealing levels of pain and fear for her son's well-being that constantly tear through her teary eyes, and quivering lips. A brief performance, but one that damn well better be nominated for some awards, if not winning a few, to boot.


Viola Davis....claps all around.

Acting aside, the thing that most impressed me about Doubt was the lack of explanation. The lines of truth and deserved-guilt are all blurred, leaving answers undiscovered, and it's such a brave and well-handled choice by writer-director John Patrick Shanley, who has adapted his popular stage-play here. Some people hate it when left to decide for themselves what they've just seen, but not I, says me-fly. That's the first key ingredient for film's longevity, to me, and a true sign of one I'll want to watch over and over again. The central message here, though, is pretty easy to gather: the old/established/content unable and unwilling to adapt/progress with the new, and going to whatever lengths to prevent any and all change.

It's one of those projects where all the dots seem to connect where needed, while the gloss and sheen are abandoned for raw performances and straightforward direction. Which is the exact opposite of the new Will Smith effort Seven Pounds, a flick I saw earlier today (and will discuss in its own capacity soon). With Seven Pounds, a totally over-the-top conceit unfortunately drowns out a pretty-great performance from my should-be-squeeze Rosario Dawson and left me thinking, "Talk about beating your 'importance' and 'depth' over viewers' heads." Sheesh, man. That's O-2 for Smith this year, following the fucking-horrendous Hancock. Tisk tisk. But saving more on that for later...

So yeah, many kudos for Doubt. I haven't stopped thinking about the film since it ended, especially after a finale that brought on some devastating and unexpected twists and character-arch shifts. The mark of a great film for me is how long it sticks with me, rather than the first-impression. Take The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, for example---a flick I really liked upon viewing, but one that soon disappeared from my thoughts, much to my surprise, and dismay, honestly. Ben Button is one I've wanted to adore all year long. Who'd have thought that little old Doubt would knock me out harder, huh?

It's been a crazy year at the movies like that. What can I say?

***Also worth noting: Doubt hit home in some ways. Some may recall my long, angry, drunken "Captain Save-A-Hoe" rant here, which I eventually took down in an act of "wash my hands and mind of it" discretion. But the events that went down that night with Sir Save-A-Hoe played out in a fashion somewhat-akin to the Streep/Hoffman dynamic in thhis film. Interesting, to say the least.

A Bush farewell that's intentionally for the laughs

George W Bush Goes to Broadway by Will Ferrell

I shall attend. Curious as hell to see how they keep this funny-little impression sustainable and humorous over the long course of 90 minutes. I'm optimistic, though.

I believe it'll be at NYC's Cort Theater from February 1 to March 15. Hopefully reasonably priced.

Oh well....I'll always have my scratched-up G.I. Joe action figures.....

....they can't fuck the memory of those up. Right?

I know, I know---I haven't seen this movie yet. Nobody has, it's probably not even ready to be seen. Post-production hell these days. Nine months away. Plenty of time to string together something that doesn't resemble one of those videos we watched in high school that showed live-action abortions, as cautionary measures. Traumatic, much? But, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to detect impending-suckage, and this one seems potent.



Yes, that is Marlon Wayans.

Okay, so Snake Eyes does look cool enough. As for the other three, though, and practically every other character I've seen from early production pics, not so much. Cardinal sin, number one: they look nothing like my old action figures, and that's a no-no extraordinaire. Since when did Duke and Ripcord resemble SWAT team members?

True, the great, under-appreciated Joseph Gordon-Levitt plays Cobra Commander, and eye-candy-du-jour Rachel Nichols is Scarlett. In the end, though, I'm guessing their presence(s) will be futile. Because, after all, this one's directed by Stephen Sommers.....the man behind Van Helsing, which rests comfortably in the canon of "films that'll forever make my blood boil over the mere thought of them." Damn hack.

I rest my case. I'm hoping that this one's at least entertaining, but again, the hunch is gloomy. At best.

The return of Tron, with sexy new graphics

Remember that cheesy-EFX-heavy, but tons-of-fun '80s movie/video-game-on-acid Tron? I loved that shit as a kid, had it on poorly-dubbed VHS (I should just forever refer to the films that my awesome grandfather used to dub on his dual-VHS-recorder as "poorly-dubbed VHS copies," because I've said the such at least 20 times on this lil' site.....like my own glossary term(s)).

In one of the more unexpected-but-welcome sequel announcements ever, a second installment, called Tr2n (excuse the terrible, indecipherable name....actually, how the fuck do you even pronounce that?) was given the Go-sign a few months back, with original star Jeff Daniels back in action. Well, today, another living, breathing human was added:

Olivia Wilde, one hell of a looker. Just stunningly radiant.



From Alpha Dog (which has no business being as entertaining and riveting as it is), and the TV show House, which I don't watch but have been told is quite good by many. So yeah, nerds and nostalgic folk, rejoice. Tr2n has some serious "talent" now. I hear she can act well, too. Two for one, baby.

Spotted over at: JoBlo

Jack and Ben are shacking up together??? WTF

36 days left....

The Day My Imagination Went Berserk

I used to sleep with a tire-iron under my bed. Conveniently positioned within arm's reach, right behind the draping box-spring sheet-covering, next to the legit-metal hammer. "Where the hell did my hammer and tire-iron go?" my dad would ask, to which I'd keep my mouth shut. He can't have them back, I need them for safety purposes.

Up until about age 12, these were my two weapons choice, the sticks of pain and forced skull-bashing that I'd prefer. If it ever went down. The adolescent mind, such a sponge. At least once a day, I'd skip around from specific scene to scene on my dubbed VHS copy of Romero's Night of the Living Dead. I wanted to be "Ben," save the day, though I'd rewrite the ending and live, rather than catch a redneck-racist's slug to the forehead. There's anotha one fo' da fire. And in one of my favorite scenes, Ben walks out onto the front yard to dispatch of the two zombies marauding about the random farmhouse that he and stranger Barbara are holed up in for the time being. In his hand: a tire-iron. Two strikes to the first ghoul's cranium, lights out for flesh-eater number one. A similar second-demise for the other undead, loitering creep.



Even in black and white, I could see the gory impact. I loved that shit. One day, I ventured into the garage, located the tire-iron, and decided to stash it in my room, for the oft chance that a zombie invasion would spring about overnight, and I'd need to fend for myself without warning.



And why the hammer, as well? Simple, really. After smashing my way through the horde of pulse-free intruders, swinging my tool-from-hell around like I'm Ty Cobb, one-handed-homers abound. Sending rotting-flesh fragments flying off faces and raining on carpet. Once the path was clear, I'd need to board up the windows, of course, just like Ben's genius self was crafty enough to do. Hammer, put to efficient use.

The perfect plan. Air-tight, all necessary and easily-overlooked bases covered. It was such a solid approach that I'd often find myself hoping that a Romero-like apocalypse of the dead would switch from fiction to fact. Because, naturally, I'd become the Ash in reality's impromptu Evil Dead scenario. The Bruce Wayne to Gotham's Joker-devised death infestation. More of a hero than Peter Petrelli, or Claire the petite-yet-sexy-as-a-mug cheerleader. What 12, 12 year old lad in his/her right mind sits around dreaming of a zombie outbreak?

Figures that I'd---soon after this plan was put into ready-whenever-for-it action---go on to write an 80-page zombie story, in one of those binded notebooks not falling within the Marble family. Fuck if I know where the book is now, sadly. Certainly somewhere in my parents' house, but most likely beneath piles of shit and saved-merely-for-memory's-sake items....I do, though, remember, distinctly, when the mother of one of my grade-school friends read the "book," and proceeded to rave about how "maturely" it was written, especially considering that it was penned by a 12-year-old. If she'd had given me such a compliment directly, 15-year hindsight would lead me to believe that she was just blowing steam up my crapper, but it wasn't I who was told this; I'd overheard her saying such kind words to her husband, while in the kitchen.

Pretty cool, huh? And to think, it all started with a poorly-copied version of Romero's unrivaled masterpiece Night and my dad's rusty old tire-iron. Inspiration works in mysterious ways, doesn't it?

The One-Song Soundtrack to Me

This is totally going to come off pretentious, but fuck it. Deal with it. Because I really do feel that this instrumental tune is the closest a piece of music will ever come to nailing me. The mood shifts from melancholy to rapturous, specifically. I've loved this since I first bought RJD2's Dead Ringer back in 2002, and I'm only now realizing just how fitting it is to me. Slower than snails running on a floating a glacier.

Pretentious, right? Don't say I didn't warn you.

RJD2 - "Ghostwriter"

My indescribable, quite perplexing crush on....

.....Lady Gaga hasn't lost any steam. Rather, it amplifies every time I see that "Poker Face" video. I can't call it. Some pics of her are anything but hot, more like "creepy." But then I see her in videos or in clips like this, and I'm smitten all over again.

What a feeling.

new Wolverine trailer.....pretty damn cool

And, even more promising.....Brett Ratner is nowhere to be found here. Rejoice.

X-Men Origins: Wolverine

X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE HD


Ryan Reynolds is that dude, by the way....glad to see him in such a big-deal project. Golf-claps for the presence of Danny Huston, as well (in the pantheon of horror-movie bad guys, his lead vampire in 30 Days of Night is/was pretty fuckin' badass. Believe that.)

The magic pencil trick should spark a whole new category: Best On-Screen Homicide

Even more well-intentioned, hopefully-won't-go-ignored (for, if little more, a Best Picture nomination, a Screenplay shout-out, and a Best Director nod for Christopher Nolan....Heath Ledger being nominated is a no-brainer, they better not fuck that one up) on behalf of Warner Bros. for The Dark Knight's Academy Award campaign.

This is pretty great:



Spotted over at: Hollywood Elsewhere

***Though, for the sake of two-sided arguments and "Matt's not delusional" disclosure, here's an interesting piece from The Guardian that calls out some of the more ludicrous plot-points found in The Dark Knight. In hindsight, they do have some valid points here.

"1. Wait, so the Joker really orchestrated that big truck chase just so that he could get caught and go to prison, then he could kidnap that guard and grab his phone to make the call to set off the bomb he'd previously sewn inside the henchman in the next cell? That would kill the guy who stole the mobsters' money, thus enabling him to … er, what? Heath Ledger's Joker may have been a psychopath, but he had a nerdish capacity for forward planning."

I saw this over at /Film, which raised this issue, too: "And not to mention that Ledger’s character tells Harvey Dent that he’s a guy without a plan, just 'a dog chasing cars.'"

Touche. But, fuck it still: consider me an overwhelmed lover of The Dark Knight's script, regardless of such holes.

From Suck to Awesome: Halloween III: Season of the Witch

Every now and then, the trend is bucked. The norm, flipped. Something that I loved, swore by as a kid devolving into laughably-awful art. Films like Transylvania 6-500, or the made-for-TV film adaptation of The House of Dies Drear. When I was younger, these were products that I would've attested to being "brilliant," or at the least "cool-as-hell." Experiencing them now, though, reveals the hard-to-stomach truth: they're utter shit, totally inept and heinous creations that only a kid (such as I was) could enjoy with a straight face. Sort of like Soulja Boy's music, today, in more-relatable terms.

One of the greatest joys for me, however, is when the oppostie happens. It's a rare event, but sometimes things that I shrugged off, brushed aside as artistic-queafs in my earlier years age like the finest of fancy liquid intoxicants. Sure, this doesn't necessarily mean that the respective "thing" is really that good, or that I unfairly dismissed. It's just that, in my older years, now having nurtured a stronger sense of appreciation and affinity for/of "schlock," I can sit back, absorb, and have some well-jolly shits and giggles.

Caee in point: 1982's Halloween III: Season of the Witch. The first two Halloweens are quite possibly my favorite one-two horror sequence of all time. The later sequels, though, were all forgettable at best, mere "one death, two death, three death, etc" body-pilers that abandoned any shred of innovation and stone-cold seriousness found in the first two. But then, there was always the third entry, Season of the With, which always left me scratching my head more than anything else. Where the fuck is Michael Myers? I'd wonder. Why didn't they just call it Season of the Witch, rather than piggyback off the Myers' franchise's success?

Now, though, I know the truth: long story short, John Carpenter (the filmmaking genius who birthed the series) envisioned this film as the first of a yearly Halloween-labeled series, where a new director would have a chance to make an original, genre-pushing scareshow that'd utilize the Halloween brand. Like a Tales from the Crypt, or Night Gallery vibe. (Something that M. Night Shyamalan is currently doing, which is wise, because he sucks now; hopefully he'll better as a behind-the-scenes shotcaller) The plan never extended past this one, unfortunately, leaving later audiences confused and pissed.



Sucks. Because, looking at Season of the Witch now (or earlier today, as I did on the tube, the third time in the last few months I've watched it), it's hard not to love the film for the batshit-crazy mess that it is. Totally ludicrous, without an inkling of rationality. There in, though, rests its many charms.

1) Its easily one of the coldest, most mean-spirited films I've ever seen. Think about it; the whole premise centers on an evil Halloween-mask-maker hellbent on killing the world's children (and subsequently their parents) on H-ween night, via an annoying-as-fuck, but can't-shake-from-your-head commercial broadcast-ed jingle. 2) The corporate Lucifer behind the whole shibang is some immortal warlock/neo-Nazi kingpin who's harboring the prehistoric Stonehenge monument in his factory's basement, guarded by robots masked as men in business suits. 3) It stars Tom Atkins, who any self-respecting obsessor of horror puts in the same air-of-coolness as Bruce Campbell. Why else would it be justifiable and unquestionable that his doctor-character would meet the daughter of a murdered patient, run away with her to play detective, and end up having sex with her hours later? Because he's Tom motherfucking Atkins, that's why! He's got it like that, bitches!


The man whose middle name should be Motherfuckin

Seriously....the Stonehenge monument involved in some post-Nazi-reign plot to kill the world's kiddies by turning their skulls into cages full of snakes, insects, and other creepy-crawlies? How amazing is that, really? One of a kind, for sure. Ridiculous and moronic, certainly. But one good time to watch? Fuck sure.

See for yourselves:


Even though the movie is by no means "good," that scene is pretty well-handled, and creepily effective in my book.

An awesomely-bad film that gets better every time you (or I) watch it. I hear that some horror-heavy, small theaters out in Cali show it at midnight like once a year, to a packed crowd of aficionados and people who share my same "one hated it, now love it" belief. That's something I need to do before I die, it seems....

And, just because I'm a dude who more-than appreciates a smoking-hot brunette....now, I'll pay tribute to one Stacey Nelkin, who plays the aforementioned dead-man'-daughter who beds Tom Atkins and looks adorably-smashing from start to finish here.

Did she appear in any other films? I shall investigate.

Greatest sitcom ever? In my world, the champ is here.....

Why isn't this show syndicated anymore? Fall back on the overflow of Seinfeld reruns (seriously, is it that re-watchable?) and give me some of the Arnold family. Please. But keep the Family Guy coming. Oh, for the love of all that's holy---never stop the Family Guy.

When this was on, I was a few years younger than sir Kevin Arnold, but that didn't stop me from identifying with him, hugely. Older brother who thrived by tormenting me, bullying so he'd look cooler in front of his loser friends? Check. Loving parents who'd occasionally bicker but ultimately come together in the end? Double Check. Quaint yet colorful-enough suburban scenery? Yup.

All I needed was somebody to provide every-moment narration to my world, and my very own Winnie Cooper, and the parallel would've been uncanny.

Funny (or sad), I'm still looking for my very own Winnie Cooper, fifteen calendars later. Damn shame. I've had some Becky Slaters since, but zero Winnies. Where for art thou?

***Keeping the TV-throwback sentiment going....hottest child-star-who's-now-all-grown-up ever, right here?

[Party of Five's Lacey Chabert]

Indeed.