Here's one for the laughs: Keanu Reeves as "Dr. Jekyll"

When I was a wee lad, picking out my choice costume for Halloween was more important than holding onto my entire-elementary-school-career-long Spelling Bee Champion title (and that was a belt I wore with pride and vigor). Even if the final decision was far from innovative (yes, I was Jason Voorhees one year, shamefully), I made sure that my incarnation stood out from the others. For Sir Voorhees, I dabbled on tons of fake-blood smears across the hockey mask and dipped my plastic machete in the same store-bought life liquid. Not exactly a visionary tweaking, but it was something, at least.

The proudest costume in my personal history, though, was the homemade Mr. Hyde get-up I whipped together during my eleventh year. You see, Robert Louis Stevenson's classic Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde story was, and still is for that matter, a tale that I cherished, picking up copies in hardcover, pocket-size, kiddie versions, and whatever other versions Barnes and Noble concealed. My only gripe with the Jekyll and Hyde text, however: there has never been a good film adaptation in my lifeitme. Both Fredric March's iconic performance in the 1931 black-and-white version and Spencer Tracy's a decade later (each titled Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, naturally) are quality, but those was many moons before my conception; I'm talking a modern-day take on the tale that doesn't suck. To date, the top interpretation (and that word is used loosely in this case) is Abbott & Costello meet Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and that's only because my pops conditioned me to love the comedy of Bud and Lou. I want an actually-chilling 21st century Mr. Hyde on screen, though.



The source material is so ripe----a brilliant lab-man sips on a potion that unleashes his dark side, an inner madman that proceeds to murder. When word was announced a while back that Guillermo del Toro was developing a fantastical spin on the story, I felt content. del Toro can do no wrong in my eyes. But now, a second in-development Jekyll and Hyde has hit the news circuit, and this latest one is going to star Keanu Reeves......Keanu fucking Reeves?!?! Sigh squared. Yes, I love Bill & Ted as much as the next twenty-something, as well as Speed, but don't let anybody fool you into thinking that Reeves has the necessary acting chops to pull off the double-sided emotions of Jekyll and Hyde. There's a reason why I consider his emotionless alien role in that mediocre The Day the Earth Stood Still remake to be typecasting.

Reeves' film will be titled Jekyll, simply, and is said to be a "modern-day" update, meaning the original story's Victorian setting will be ditched for today's landscape. Sigh, again.

Let's see.....actors more suited to play this two-for-one character: Clive Owen, Sam Rockwell, and Michael Shannon, for starters. Keanu Reeves would place about 87th on my wish list. Sigh fucking sigh.

****In a lighter, much cooler change-of-topic, here's the first official poster for Neill Blomkamp's District 9, a film I've been writing about a bit here lately. It's a great, nice and subtle eye-opener for the flick, clearly delivering the film's "aliens are social outcasts" theme. And it makes me smile amidst that awful Keanu Reeves item.



Both bits courtesy of: Empire Online

The Guilt of an Incomplete Nerd

I'm getting more and more excited to see both X-Men Origins: Wolverine and Star Trek by the day, but I'm also feeling a bit bandwagon-rider-ish as a result. Thinking way too much about this, obviously. Just go watch the movies and be entertained. Spend your time and mental energy on more substantial matters, like becoming a millionaire.

Sorry....this is the questionable path that I've chosen.



This must be how all of my friends felt back when Zack Snyder's Dawn of the Dead remake came out in March of 2004, a time when you'd have regularly heard me preaching the lessons and facts surrounding George A. Romero's original film and its other installments. I was speaking on either deaf or disinterested ears, yet I still rambled endlessly. And those around me went to see the film, loved it, but came back to me with a "I felt like I wasn't fully enjoying it, though, since I'm not as schooled on the backstory as somebody like you is." The same can be said of my overdone obsession with Grindhouse during its unfortunate theatrical run. I was informing everybody with arm's reach on what "grindhouse" means exactly, and why the Robert Rodriguez/Quentin Tarantino passion project was full of grainy shots, choppy editing, and wall-to-wall camp. Most could care less, while my main concern was to give heads the complete picture so that the Grindhouse experience could be appreciated to full capacity, rather than merely in-the-moment.

It's a bit like walking into a final exam with little-to-no knowledge on the content, only to find out that the test is open-book and a brainless chimp could ace that shit.

A great film is simply that: a great film. A piece of cinema that can be appreciated on a pure surface level. Deeper affinity is inevitable if you're an expert on the film's background or respective mythology, but such know-what isn't necessary. Dawn of the Dead was a live-wire thrill coaster in its own right, but I hold it closer to my heart than others because it pulled off the difficult task of paying reverential homage to Romero's work while creating its own believable world. I caught the "Gaylen Ross" store name reference while others may not have, and the quick cameos from Tom Savini, Ken Foree, and Scott Reiniger made me smile even though others didn't react.

I know the nuts-and-bolts of the X-Men/Wolverine history, but I'm nowhere close to being a "fanboy." So, before seeing the new Hugh Jackman-starring film this weekend, shouldn't I go on a reading binge at my local comic book store and become a true know-it-all? I feel like that'd make the viewing experience all the more fulfilling, and less of a pedestrian enterprise. And speaking of enterprises, I know infinitely less about the Star Trek legacy, yet I'll be first in line to see J.J. Abrams' franchise relaunch next Friday. Sure, I'm the exact type of person that the filmmakers' are hoping to attract----a non-fan who is attracted to popcorn excitement and badass special effects, as well as Abrams' good name. Guys like me are the ones who'll turn Star Trek into the money-making behemoth Paramount Pictures is hoping for.

Still, though, I can't shake this "impostor" feeling. A guilty sensation that will hit its fever pitch if I see even one audience member wearing a Captain Kirk t-shirt, or fake Spock ears. Worst case, I'll contort my fingers into the "Live Long and Prosper" hand-sign, since any dumbass can do that with ease. But I'll feel totally uninitiated. The way I'm feeling about the film right now, I wouldn't be surprised if I give my spot up on the ticket line to somebody who is clearly more of a Trekkie than I, which I'll discover thanks to incognito eavesdropping. "I can't wait to see if they truly capture the essence of the Klingons" would be one surefire giveaway. "Something tells me that this Anton Yelchin fella won't hold a candle to Walter Koenig" an even bigger clue.

What will somebody more like myself say? "I hope Zoe Saldana shows some skin!"

Odds are, I'm in the miniscule minority with this train of thought surrounding Hollywood's franchise reboots and remakes of genre classics. I'm perfectly fine with that. The most this reasoning will ever get me is a nod of respect from the geek community anyway. Such respect and $12 could buy me a Star Trek movie ticket, so who cares? Now, if I were currently dating a fangirl I'd really have a problem on my hands.

The latest remake is.......Drop Dead Fred. Somebody pass the booze.

You could've asked me, "Guess what forgotten kids' comedy from the '90s is being remade?" and then given me 100 guesses to come up with the right answer, and I still would've never hit you with this correct response. Especially since it's a film that was both a box office abortion and a critical punching bag. Ain't It Cool News is reporting, via The Hollywood Reporter, that 1991's Drop Dead Fred, the heartwarming tale of a little girl's booger-picking, farting, recklessly wild imaginary friend who stays with her through adulthood, is next on the redo block in Universal Pictures' system. What the fuck?!



Perhaps the original's reviled nature is what makes Drop Dead Fred so surprisingly acceptable as a remake. Unexpected, but partially sensical. It's far from a sacred property, and there's really nowhere to go but up in quality. Drop Dead Fred holds a dear place in the hearts of many, though, including yours truly. Why else would I even be commenting on it here? My first experience with the film was back in my pre-teen years, when my mother rented it for me at the local Dollar Video (a competitor of Blockbuster Video that didn't last very long, yet was always my preferred rental destination). I was home sick from school and needed some lowbrow entertainment. Mom nailed her selection, and I found myself loving Drop Dead Fred. The film had everything my 12-year-old brain could ever ask for: an imaginary friend to prove that I wasn't crazy for having my own (what's good, Joe?), cutie deluxe Phoebe Cates, and immature jokes and crude sight gags. Slam dunk.

A few years back, Drop Dead Fred randomly played on a cable movie channel. I watched, hoping for an enjoyable trip down Nostalgia Lane. Only, I was met with a detour down Wow, How Could I Have Liked This Drive. Right up there with Transylvania 6-5000 in the pantheon of films I once loved but now can't sit through without wincing. Some charms remain, but overall it's a poor film that ultimately makes sense as a remake. The central plot (imaginary friend sticks around even when the kid is an adult) is clever, and the reported casting of Russell Brand (Forgetting Sarah Marshall) in the title role, originally played a fella named Rik Mayall, seems spot-on. A role that Brand was born to play.


Fred himself....As a kid, I thought this character was hilarious. Now, though, he could be the most annoying, unbearable, somebody-off-him-immediately creation ever.///Russell Brand, your new "Drop Dead Fred"

Phoebe Cates' shoes are tougher to fill, though. If I were able to toss my five cents in, the nominee would be Diora Baird. Why such an unestablished actress, you ask? It's simple, really: I'm all for fresh faces getting big breaks. Not convincing enough? Just look at her, then.....



Okay, okay. My real nominee is Mila Kunis. I just came across that new Diora Baird pic yesterday and couldn't let it pass me by.

News learned over at: Ain't It Cool News

I'm anticipating the third Twilight film now.....my God!

As defiantly as I've been resisting the Twilight film and all of the lore surrounding author Stephanie Meyer's teenybop vampire franchise, I've been unable to shake the feeling that I'd one day give in and give the film a look. Initially, I feared that my general love for horror and bloodsuckers would leave me feeling incomplete without tasting the lowest-common-denominator. Then, suspicion turned to a much more "dating world" direction, and I began thinking that one of these date-nights the girl would suggest renting Twilight, and I'd be powerless by said girl's sexiness that I'd submit and watch Robert Pattinson's stone-cold screen presence.

Never did I think, though, that a filmmaker that I'm very fond of would attach himself to the franchise and that would be the reason I joined the Tiger Beat side. Yet, that's exactly what has happened, with the announcement today that director David Slade will be handling the third film in the series, The Twilight Saga: Eclipse. Supposedly, Eclipse is the darkest and meanest of the lot, and requires a filmmaker with more edge than most.



Erik Feig, Summit Entertainment's President of Production: "Stephenie Meyer's ECLIPSE is a muscular, rich, vivid book and we at Summit looked long and hard for a director who could do it justice. We believe we have found that talent in David Slade, a director who has been able to create complex, visually arresting worlds. We cannot wait to see the ECLIPSE he brings to life and brings to the fans eagerly awaiting its arrival in summer of 2010.”

Slade has proved his sinister sensibilities with the awesome twosome of Hard Candy (where Ellen Page's best performance can be seen....sorry, Juno) and 30 Days of Night (what a vampire film should be....sorry, Twilight), so on the surface this makes sense. But the vibe I've gotten from Slade via his interviews and taste in subject matter has never been in the same vicinity as Twilight, other than the obvious "vampire" thing. But the vamps in 30 Days of Night spoke broken English and conducted mass homicide with zero remorse; Twilight's loverboy vamps would be scared shitless of them. Odds are, dude was offered a truckload of money, and that, on top of the guaranteed box office mayhem that the film will inspire, screamed louder than any pride. Can't knock the guy's hustle, though.


David Slade

I wonder if Twilight fans realize just how impressive of a filmmaker they've got for this Eclipse installment. Probably not. They were nearly given Drew Barrymore for Eclipse, so they should be counting their lucky Edward Cullen (that's his name, right?) posters that Slade is the final choice. I won't even begin to discuss how different stylistically Slade is from Barrymore, and how Eclipse clearly doesn't have a distinct tone in mind if you consider this 180-degree shift in filmmaker. Juan Antonio Boyaga (director of the great Spanish ghost tale The Orphanage) was also rumored to be close to signing on to Eclipse, and that choice was a bit closer in tone to Slade.

Let's get one thing clear, though: I'm not saying that Slade is Scorcese or anything. He's just a talented, somewhat-new director who has already cranked out two films that I love, so anything he gets his hands on is worthy of my time. Yes, even if its a Twilight film. The way Hard Candy commands attention and dishes out suspense in bountiful amounts despite being limited to a simple one house setting is seriously impressive, and the utter bleakness and striking nighttime visuals of 30 Days of Night look better with each viewing. The guy has chops. Ironically, it was only a couple days ago that I was wondering just what Slade would tackle next. Who knew it'd be this, huh?

And to think, I was this close to avoiding this franchise altogether. Now I just need to find a lovely lady to watch Twilight with me. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

One thing that should be made clear: I'm not expecting anything in Eclipse to even approach the level of awesomeness seen in this 30 Days of Night highlight. This is Slade at his best:


News learned over at: Ain't It Cool News

The BW List: When Lame Movies Happen to Good Talent

Considering my current state of being, I'm the last person who should criticize somebody for "taking a paycheck." Accepting a gig that does little for his/her artistic sensibilities but goes a long way financially. We all need to pay the bills, keep the lights on, pad the bank accounts, rob our country blind. I get it. But for the objective onlooker, seeing people you respect do this never fails to sting. Disappointment is inevitable, not always branded with the unfair "sell-out" tag yet still looked down upon as a lapdog of sorts.

In the film world, this happens on a weekly basis. Actors and actresses you love pop up in shitty films, or obvious money-makers that you'd rather be subjected to a Lucio Fulci/Zombi drawn-out eye-gauging than ever voluntarily watch. Case in point: Leslie Mann co-starring in this weekend's 17 Again.



I haven't seen the film, nor do I ever plan on doing so. Yes, I'm aware that it currently stands at an unexpectedly respectable 65% on Rotten Tomatoes, but whatever. And I'm not blatantly hating on your boy Zac Efron here, either. Do I like the guy as a talent? Nope, but my total indifference to this pretty-boy-with-good-dance-moves-who-I-can't-sign-on-to-a-pop-culture-blog-and-not-see isn't the focal point of my 17 Again negativity. Rather, it's the tired, contrived Big/Vice Versa "age reversal" plotline. It's cheap, unoriginal, and, really, never that funny.



I'm sure that Leslie Mann will have some funny, or at least charming, moments in 17 Again, though. How can she not? The woman is naturally hilarious, one of Hollywood's funniest and most overlooked ladies. The rare case of nepotism that doesn't feel worthy of his/her success (she's married to comedy giant Judd Apatow). Just go watch Knocked Up again for proof, or even rewind back to Adam Sandler's Big Daddy, where her few scenes as the former Hooters girl all scored. She's someone who deserves a few leading roles in well-made films; granted, she seems to have one coming this summer with Apatow's Funny People, but that's simply another one with her husband. It's time that she stretches herself successfully into non-Apatow territory. 17 Again is a terrible place to start, despite the film's surefire prognosis. People will see her, laugh with her, root for her. But she deserves better.

Of course, I could be left with a pie in the face if 17 Again turns out to be universally loved. This is a kneejerk reaction, though, so if that does happen I'll totally admit defeat.

This all got me wondering, "What other talents that I love have appeared in films I had zero interest in ever seeing?" And from that inner thought comes this list of the examples that stand out most in my head. Worth noting: I've seen all of these films, which makes the bitterness all the more potent.



Chiwetel Ejiofor in Slow Burn (2005): Back in '05, the London-bred Ejiofor was on a nice track to stateside notoriety. His turns in the critically-hailed English films Dirty Pretty Things (2002) and Love Actually (2003) put him on the radar, leading to his hardly-recognizable villain work in John Singleton's well-received Four Brothers. But then came Slow Burn, a poorly-executed attempt to modernize the old "sleazy, sexy crime thriller" genre with a slumming-it Ray Liotta and LL Cool J trying out In Too Deep material again. Nothing in the film worked, and Ejiofor's "Ty Trippin" character suffered from more than just a terribly stereotypical name. As evidenced by his great work in 2006's Children of Men and 2007's American Gangster (not to mention his strong lead work in last year's slept-on Redbelt), Ejiofor has bounced back nicely. But his one major fuck-up still burns slowly in my brain.



Paul Rudd in Over Her Dead Body (2008): This one has tons in common with Leslie Mann's 17 Again. Rudd, like Mann, is an Apatow regular who always brings the goods, clocking in scene-stealers in everything from Anchorman to The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Even going back to the guy's rookie days with Clueless, Rudd has always been that co-star you can't get enough of and hope can one day become the leading man. Unfortunately, his agent agreed at the wrong time and sent him the script for Over Her Dead Body, an abysmal high-concept romantic comedy that actually co-stars American Pie's Jason Biggs, who has become a skidmark for every bad rom-com he's starred in over the last decade. In an effort to make Eva Longoria a movie-star, this piece-of-dung existed, and Rudd was its most painful-to-watch casualty. Like Ejiofor, thankfully, the man has recovered, proving he is in fact capable of picking strong lead role material with Role Models and I Love You, Man. If I were him, though, I'd find every existing print of Over Her Dead Body and stage a bonfire. Some things are best left forgotten.




Elisabeth Banks in Meet Dave (2008)/ Rosario Dawson in The Adventures of Pluto Nash (2002): Signing on to a modern-day Eddie Murphy comedy has become the ultimate "taking a paycheck" job for some of Hollywood's most gifted comedic actresses. Later this year, the divine Kerry Washington will be the guy's latest victim, thanks to his next Brian Robbins-directed turd A Thousand Words. Until then, the worst example of Murphy's magnetic suck is a tie between Elisabeth Banks and Rosario Dawson, two ladies of equal awesomeness who couldn't avoid the pull. Dawson has the misfortune of being associated with Murphy's first genuine shitshow Pluto Nash, a science fiction debacle so atrocious that the mere mention of it inspires both guffaws and gagging. Six years later, Banks' Meet Dave bombed at the box office, a sacrificial lamb meant to remind us just how far Murphy's comedy has fallen. The sad part was that Meet Dave came at a high point in Banks' career, the same year as two of his biggest roles to date (Laura Bush in W. and the second title name of Zack and Miri Make a Porno). One can only hope that Murphy seeks out Katherine Heigl for his next project and leaves the likeable women alone.

Reconsidering Observe and Report again....somebody stop me

A second viewing of Jody Hill's Observe and Report is on the horizon. I can feel it. Any comedy that leaves me questioning certain scenes and debating within myself over what was real and what wasn't deserves some more business, especially considering that I can't recall any other comedy that has had such a puzzling, fascinating effect on me.



Am I overthinking this film a bit much? You could say so, but then you'd be a bit off in your assumption. Hill has gone on record about his direct intention to leave the audience confused as to what was meant as "funny" or "disturbing," so he'd surely smile at this. Besides, when is ever a bad thing to overthink a film? Even shit ones? Okay, paying too much mind to Beverly Hills Chihuahua would be a waste. I'll give you that. But Observe and Report is so unique and line-snapping in its tone that the viewer almost has to enter the theater with a free mind and a punching-bag of a brain.

While I'm still unsure as to why I found so much comedic pleasure in a scene where a naked man is gunned down at point-blank distance, it's the entire section of the film that includes the shooting that has me wondering. [POSSIBLE SPOILERS WARNING] Once Ronnie Barnhardt gets out of jail and reads the postcard from his former partner Dennis, Observe and Report strangley goes from Debbie Downer to visceral triumph, which I found myself a bit angry about the other day. But now, after taking into serious account Hill's praise-filled name-dropping of Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy, I'm asking myself, "Were the final ten minutes of Observe and Report even real, or just some fantasy commencing in Ronnie's twisted mind?"



Like the final moments of Taxi Driver, there's no clear details seen that answer this question in Hill's film. I'm not exactly sure if that's something to compliment Hill for, or to criticize the guy for some lack of clarity. The tone of the film shifts so drastically during Ronnie's redemptive visit to his old workplace that it's impossible to not think that what we're seeing is a dream. Similar to how one could question Travis Bickle's survival after the shootout with Harvey Keitel's pimp and his goons. The crowd I saw Observe and Report with cheered during the final minutes, which must make Hill happy. The conclusion is totally designed to elicit some hooting and hollering, but it's still morally reprehensible enough to unsettle the more conscious filmgoer.

I doubt that this question will be answered after a second Observe and Report intake, though. The only way to ever get a closure-providing statement on the matter would be to ask Jody Hill himself, and I'm willing to be that he'd pull a David Lynch and leave his work open-ended and enigmatic. Even if you attack Hill for the film's tonal contradictions or blurry intentions, I'm subscribing to the belief that you got to respect the guy for applying such a non-comedy approach to the comedy genre. And (depending on your personal opinion, though mine is obvious) succeeding, at that.

The overthinking will never end.

Blame It (On the Undead)

I try to avoid TMZ at all costs. Simply typing the website address into my Explorer's toolbar and then clicking "Go" leaves me feeling dirty, cheap, voyeuristic. I'd rather get my celebrity gossip necessities from second or third parties, like this story.

Woody Harrelson seems to have attacked a paparazzi douchebag recently and smashed the photo-stalker's camera. Harrelson was with his daughter, so you could chalk this up to the man protecting the privacy of his kid, but then you'd be innocently wrong. Turns out, Harrelson thought he was in his very own George Romero flick:

The Actor's Defense: "I wrapped a movie called 'Zombieland,' in which I was constantly under assault by zombies, then flew to New York, still very much in character... With my daughter at the airport I was startled by a paparazzo, who I quite understandably mistook for a zombie."

Whether he was high or not when this quote was said, it's still pretty awesome. Clearly the lamest excuse ever, but great. I too live in a dreamworld where a zombie invasion could break out at any minute; because, if so, I'd be the world's biggest hero. I've seen all the films, read some of the Max Brooks books. Used to sleep with a tire-iron under my bed as a kid so that if any flesh-eaters came into my room at night I'd be able to split their melons open, like Night of the Living Dead's "Ben" on that farmhouse's front lawn. I even wrote two 75-page zombie horror novels before I entered high school.



I mean, come on? Obviously I'm well equipped. Even Woody Harrelson would have to salute the kid.



Quote and story first learned over at: JoBlo

Your second chance at greatness....

Woke up this morning, and the piece-of-shit Sir Arthur Buick wouldn't start. Sitting around my 'rents' house, waiting to get my haircut, anticipating the return of tu madre so I can use her Durango to ride to the barbers. Sucks the large one, but 'tis what 'tis.

At least I just came across this splendid news:

HBO has officially confirmed that its original comedy series Eastbound and Down-—a /Film fave—-has been renewed for a second season. Better yet, given the fast ascent up the comedy ranks of the show’s masterminds, Danny McBride, Jody Hill, and Ben Best, one may have expected another six-episode season further down the pipeline. Instead, the next season begins filming later this year and will air in 2010. Woo. When we were on the set last year, co-director David Gordon Green revealed that a follow-up pitch was being entertained that centered on McBride’s profane bulletproof tiger Kenny Powers shipping off to South America to quasi-fulfill his baseball career. However, the idea seemed to be news to much of the cast, and given how well received the ensemble performances of Andy Daly, Katy Mixon, John Hawkes, and Steve “Ass Blood” Little, I wouldn’t bet on it.

I was hoping that HBO would be smart enough to bring this growing-number-of-fans' favorite back sooner than later. Glad they've proven me right. Easily the funniest show the network has aired in, I don't know, forever. And that's including my dude Tim from The Life & Times of Tim. HBO should just cancel that shell-of-its-former-self Entourage altogether and go all out with Kenny Powers. Shit, he has Stevie already, that's all the entourage that HBO needs, anyway.

We better get some more Ashley Schaeffer, too:


News spotted over at: /Film

Dream a Big (Message) Dream

Dreams come, and then dreams go. In one side of the brain, and promptly out the other. I wonder, when you don't remember them vividly enough to discuss specific details the morning after, did those dreams even really happen?

Rather than tread into psychoanalytical areas that I'm not mentally prepped for at the moment, I'd much more prefer to focus on one particular recent dream that has stuck out in all its colorful, memorable detail. It went down internally this past weekend, while I was snoozing in the cozy Boston hotel room. Before sleep hit me, following up the left-hook combo landed by that Long Island Iced Tea and Fire & Ice's stir fry buffet (greatest restaurant ever? yes, greatest restaurant ever), I was half-watching Saturday Night Live, hosted by Seth Rogen (the episode sucked overall). Fell into dreamland midway through Weekend Update.



Soon found myself in a fictitious world where I was dating this curvy, gorgeous Dania Ramirez-lookalike, and she was head over heels for me. Holding hands, cuddling in public. The romance was thick, like my faux girlfriend's lower region (sorry, I'm still far enough removed from KING-mode just yet). Us two lovebirds were strolling casually around the Manhattan Mall, no store-destinations in mind, just window-shopping and killing time before an eveing screening of Observe and Report (Like I said, Rogen was the last person I saw before sleep....and I'm not even going to "Pause" that because it's totally unnecessary here).

Hunger set in, so Bizarro Dania and I headed to the food court, a little Ranch One Chicken in our sights. Zoned in, ready to attack (for dinner). As we got off the escalator, though, who do we see? Seth Rogen, just sitting at a table alone, eating some Sarku Japan. "Oh shit, look who it is?!" my girl shouts. She runs over to him, begins to express her huge fandom, and Rogen is cool as ice, accepting the compliments graciously and asking us to sit down with him for a second. So we do, after grabbing our chicken sandwiches and fries (my side = veggies....I'm a pussy even in my dreams). Banter ensues. Of course, all centering around movies. I ask him if he's see Timecrimes, the amazing Spanish time travel flick from Nacho Vigalondo. He has, and he shares equal excitement for it. I then inquire if he's seen Fabrice Du Welz's Vinyan, another recent favorite of his (the guy is more than comedy, my dream-self finds out). Two for two.

Naturally, the two of us are getting along swimmingly. There's only one major dilemma: my girl has never seen any of these films. Her initial star-struck glee has slowly dissipated into a bored, watch-checking labor. "Umm, Matt, your new BFF's movie is about to start in like 10 minutes, we should make moves," she inteerupts as Rogen and I are chatting about screenwriting techniques---He the teacher, I the learner. I shrug her off, much more interested in collecting some tips and wisdom from our third dinner party. The look of frustration continues to accelerate on wifey's pretty face, yet I could give two shits less.

The second that Rogen and I switch the conversation to Hollywood studio politics, B-Dania stands up, kicks her chair to the ground, and defiantly says, "You know what? Fuck this! You obviously care more about this movie bullshit than you do about spending time with your girl. This shit is over!" And then she heads to the escalator. As she rides the moving staircase upward, I notice her flirting with some lame asshole wearing tight jeans, a sweater vest, and a trucker hat (hipster fucko). But I don't care. Immediately, I return to my conversation with the Hollywood major-player seated next to me. And all is well.

So what do I gather from this dream? It's simple, really. At this time in my life, I now realize what my top priority has become. Hell or high water, I got to get that side of my hopefull-professional-future in order, moving forward. That open house for NYFA next weekend is officially step number one, so let's hope that is an informative success, a dream-pusher instead of a goal-staller.

And no, people. Don't even think "Oh, Matt dreams about Seth Rogen." It could've been any actor/screenwriter in the game seen in my dream. Just so happened that I was watching dude on the tube seconds beforehand. The point of the dream resonates, regardless.

Your new Freddy Krueger is.....a great, Oscar-nominated actor? How about that?

Due to my good-times weekend out in Boston (Quincy Market's food court is a place of edible wonders, and the house tequila at The Purple Shamrock tastes like Petron left uncapped for a year past its expiration date), I missed the boat on this one by a couple of days. But it's a bit of horror casting news that is nothing short of spot-on, so I'd be sloppy to let it slip by. After months of hopeful rumors and roundabout confirmations and denials by all involved, those remake-ruiners at Platinum Dunes have absolutely nailed the casting of Freddy Krueger for next April's A Nightmare on Elm Street redo:

Jackie Earle Haley



From the moment that the first word hit online about Haley's possible involvement, this has seemed like such pitch-perfect casting, and now that it's official, I'm actually gaining some excitement for this project. Initially, the thought of Platinum Dunes fucking up yet another great horror film sent douche-chills down my spine. Put it this way: those guys managed to turn a remake of an already-subpar film (the original Friday the 13th) into an inferior, frustratingly inept cash-guzzler, so just imagine how badly they could butcher an actually-strong flick like the original Nightmare? And let's not even get into that Platinum Dunes raping of The Hitcher, or this past January's laughably moronic The Unborn.

With Jackie Earle Haley signing on, however, the stakes are much more promising. The man is an Academy Award nominee (for Little Children), and he's coming off his universally-loved Rorschach turn in Watchmen. Plus, his next film is Martin Scorcese's Shutter Island. He has the luxury to pick and choose his next starring vehicle with care, and he's chosen a Nightmare on Elm Street remake? The script for this flick must be something special, at least one would think/hope. Haley must be genuinely excited to fill Robert Englund's Shaq-sized shoes and reinvent Freddy Krueger, and that's the coolest. I'm totally a Haley fanboy (if you haven't seen his work in Little Children, make that happen....and he was the only good thing about Will Ferrell's unfunny, derivative Semi-Pro)

Bonus Jackie Earle Haley pic....remember him here?

Yup......Kelly Leak.

I for one can't wait to see what he does. This remake has gone from "meh" to "must" overnight, now. Of course, the Platinum Dunes team could very well fuck this up, but the fact that its a first-time director, music video vet Samuel Bayer (Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit"), behind the lens opens up the stylistic possibilities immensely. And assuming that the script is up to snuff, the cast of young faces isn't as bland as the recent Friday the 13th's, and Haley's body isn't inhabited by Nicolas Cage during filming, this one is looking mighty healthy. For now.

Speaking of the young cast, the only head signed on so far is Kyle Gallner (the main kid in The Haunting in Connecticut, previously known for Veronica Mars)---he was surprisingly good in Haunting in CT, so he's a good start here. My nomination for the lead role of "Nancy"? Here goes:



Yes, my girl Olivia Thirlby. Simply out of my yearning for her to blow up commercially some day, just so I could see more and more of her. "That's the world I want to live in."

Maximum Tension

It takes something special for a film to literally get better with each viewing. That's exactly how I feel about Larry Clark's Bully (2001), a "based on real events" study of Florida youth wasted, polluted, and turned homicidal that maintains such a hypnotic hold from start to finish that I don't feel iffy in calling it "great." It's not for everybody, depicting its teenage characters in such a disgusting light that there's hardly a redeeming quality to leave with. Aside from some pretty dynamic, fearless acting and a plateful of energetic, trippy visual and audible style from Clark (who also directed Kids, another film of this topical ilk).



Bully just finished on basic cable a few moments ago, and of course I watched from end to end. I wrote about Bully on this here blog in the past, but this time I'm in a different space. I've decided that the film's climactic setpiece is officially one of the most intense, visceral, pulse-kicking scenes I've ever witnessed, one that (like the movie itself as a whole, like I said at the gate-opening) somehow manages to elevate in wonderment every time I see the thing.

Bit of plot round-up first, in case you have no idea what Bully is about---Marty (played by the late Brad Renfro) is best friends with Bobby (Nick Stahl), and Bobby is the epitome of scumbag. Out of his own hidden insecurity, he treats Marty like pure shit, basically turning Marty's life into a breathing nightmare. As Bobby continues to emotionally terrorize everybody around Marty, including his new spaced-out girlfriend and her stoner, deadbeat friends, they all decide to kill Bobby. Enough is enough. They hire a pseudo-"gangster/hitman" and then drive out to a far-off swamp, and then this happens.

Here's that unbelievably tense scene (if you don't feel like spoiling Bully, then don't watch, but I still suggest you do either way; it's just that crazy):



That bizarre, dizzying music that amplifies over the progression. The blurry shots, back to the shaky-cam nervousness. All of it, equals that "Wow" factor.

In the immortal words of Happy Gilmore: "Now you're gonna get it, Bobby!"

Another reason for me to hate what the Internet has become....

And it has begun.

Honestly, I thought it wouldn't ever hit the movie world, but I guess I was just living in my often-all-too-comfy dreamworld. I've long subscribed to the theory that seeing a film, whether it be a dollar-sign-packed blockbuster or a frugal independent exercise, on the big screen in a packed movie theater is the best way to experience cinema. That's why I'm known to see flicks that I love multiple times in theaters, regardless of the money spent. And every time I try to sit down at home and watch a DVD with family or friends, I'm constantly in a state of unease, knowing that the slightest cell phone ring or growling stomach will beckon my co-watchers away instantly. Short attention spans, be damned. In a theater, though, it's just you, darkness, and that massive projector.



Obviously, I'm in the minority of thought. Earlier today, some crafty scoundrel leaked a clear-quality, DVD-pictured copy of X-Men Origins: Wolverine onto the Internet. The problem: the film doesn't hit theaters until May 1, and it's this summer's first major tentpole entry. This is unheard of, quite possibly the most significant example of cinematic piracy ever. Or at least in recent memory. This is the exact early-exposure leakage catastrophe that has sent the music industry (namely on the hip-hop side) into its current downward spiral. But up until now, Hollywood has been practically immune. True, movies manage to appear online not long after their theatrical release dates, but never an entire month prior.

Several theories are floating around. There's little doubt that somebody got their hands on a screener copy that was being circulated amongst studio heads and other must-see-people, post post-production, but as for exactly "who," some ideas are out there. One speculates that the person who uploaded the film did so as a "fuck you" to Wolverine's distributor, Fox; Fox is the company that nearly sabotaged the release of Watchmen for Warner Bros. when they took Warners to court over a decade's old rights issue. A second notion, this one hugely paranoid, thinks that the film was deliberately leaked by Fox themselves, as some sort of defense mechanism against a film (Wolverine) that they fear will be tank financially and be met with scathing, negative response. By leaking it themselves, they can gauge people's responses early, and turn this fiasco into a "woe is me" scenario is the movie flops. There's a heavy fear within the movie realm that the film is going to blow, but this theory seems to be a bit too conspiracy-ish for my tastes.

Me? I'm guessing that it was some overzealous asshole who was involved in the screener-disc handling process, with an axe of some kind to grind. Whatever the case, I have zero intentions of finding the online copy and watching. X-Men Origins: Wolverine isn't high on my must-list in the first place, so my curiousity factor isn't as high as most. But regardless, even if I were to see the film, I'd want to check it out on the large screen, not the tiny, grainy laptop one I'm looking at now as I type. I'd want some overpriced popcorn and a Slushee within my grasp, not a watered-down Bud Light that's been sitting in my fridge for weeks already. Especially considering that this is a special effects orgy of a film----imagine watching Cloverfield for the first time on your laptop. Or, hell, T2: Judgment Day. Or Transformers. This same stance applies to why I never buy or watch bootlegged DVDs that heads buy in subway stations. I want to see a film in its best possible sense. What do I know, though? I'm the same obsessed movie-lover who watches two DVDs a night just on carnal instinct alone.


His middle finger must be the only one sticking upward today.

Will this X-Men Origins: Wolverine leak signal more of its kind, resulting in a domino slide for future films and ultimately a similar meltdown like that of the music industry? My better sense says "Nope." I'm confident that the majority of folks are smart enough to realize the difference between downloading a movie and dloading music----regardless of whether you bought a CD or pirated mp3s, you're just going to listen to them on the same machinery; but with movies, there's always the option of seeing a film larger than life in a theater. It's a matter of whether you feel the necessity to drop $12 on the richer experience. I know I am, now and forever.

Of course, if it were, say, Sam Raimi's Drag Me To Hell that leaked, or, imagine this, Scorcese's Shutter Island, would I be reacting with the same won't-watch defiance? Shit, no. I'm man enough to admit it. But I'd still pay to see those movies in a theater on opening night. That's the difference between film and music for me these days. I haven't bought a CD in over two years, yet I've downloaded every damn album out there during that time. Yet I'd act in totally different, money-dropping fan fashion if Inglourious Basterds sprung a regrettably premature leak. No monetary questions asked.

How about you?

Dan Akroyd: "Hey, do you wanna see something really scary?" Me: Yes, dammit!

The odds of this new The Haunting in Connecticut scaring me in any way, shape, or shriek are slimmer than Nicole Richie's waist, yet I'm still seeing it later tonight. When it comes to horror flicks that my better judgment says will be mediocre at best, I'm a total masochist. Minus the ball strapped into my mouth, or hands tied behind my back. Instead, overpriced fountain soda in hand, significantly leaner wallet in pocket. The main problem I have with modern-day "haunted house films" is that they never, ever steer clear of convention, jacking scenes and set-ups from the infinitely superior classics. It's best to accept that no film of this ilk will ever come within a peachfuzz-hair-strand of Stanley Kubrick's The Shining, or 1963's The Haunting---both stellar in all facets. Hell, these new flicks don't even stand a chance of topping the original, not-as-good-as-those-two-greats Amityville Horror, even when they're blatant moving-photocopies (see The Haunting in Connecticut).



Yet, I'll continue to spend hours upon hours in darkly lit theaters watching these latest attempts, because I'm sucker for horror-love. I can't help but feel pounds of inner sadness, though, at the dreadful feeling that it's become nearly impossible for a new ghost story to give me the shivers. Have me frozen in my seat, overpriced fountain soda poking at my bladder in a state of "Let me out, man! This shit is freaking me out, too! And I'm liquid nothingness!" Maybe I'm too seasoned of a viewer. Or perhaps I'm putting too much stake in a film's necessity of at least bringing fond memories of The Shining to mind for all the right, effective, successful reasons. It's not even a matter of a PG-13 rating, either. Initially, I cringe at that teeny-bopper-targeted rating for a horror flick, but when I sit back and think clear of prejudice, I realize that something as wonderful and simple as The Haunting, if released today, would very well earn a mere PG rating, no 13 required. Scares can be scored without gore or wanton violence; it's all about the execution.

Which brings me to a little rarely-seen-by-most United Kingdom TV movie from 1989, The Woman in Black. I forget which cable channel it was that I first saw this film on, back when I was barely out of grammar school. But boy, did it treat my mind like a cow's ass being branded.

IMDB'S plot synopsis: "When a friendless old widow dies in the seaside town of Crythin, a young solicitor is sent by his firm to settle the estate. The lawyer finds the townspeople reluctant to talk about or go near the woman's dreary home and no one will explain or even acknowledge the menacing woman in black he keeps seeing. Ignoring the towns-people's cryptic warnings, he goes to the house where he discovers its horrible history and becomes ensnared in its even more horrible legacy."

A couple years ago, I came across it for cheap on Amazon.com and immediately threw it into my DVD arsenal, and wouldn't you know it.....The Woman in Black still scares the piss out of me. I've long tried putting my finger on exactly why it frightens me on par with The Shining and those classics, maybe even more so in ways. There's no question that the Woman in Black herself carries the lion's share of the blame; speechless, motionless and with those piercingly-dead eyes, she's the epitome of "scary old lady." Pad her presence with the film's overall bleak Gothic tone (courtesy of director Herbert Wise), and you have a recipe for minimalist success that today's filmmakers wish they could pull off.



Two scenes in particular have done wonders for my insomnia over the years. The first is something of an infamous "Oh shit!" moment amongst horror heads in the know, deservedly so----the lawyer is shuffling about restless in bed, standard nocturnal practice. Like most of us do, he concedes defeat and sits up, but unlike all of us, he is met with the Woman in Black hovering over his bed. A shock moment if there ever was one. The second is the film's final moment, a denouement that bleeds with tragic macabre----not to entirely spoil it (though, chances are none of you will have the opportunity to see this flick unless it's on my watch, which is unfortunate), but it's the unhappiest of endings, taking place on a lake after the lawyer thinks he's escaped the Woman in Black's clutches forever. While on a little rowboat with his wife and infant child, he learns that the scary old bitch isn't done with him yet. I remember distinctly just how bruised and gut-punched this final scene left me the first time I watched. Just devastating.


watch the picture behind him at the 1:02 mark

Part of me thinks that I should just go home and re-watch The Woman in Black tonight, rather than drop coin on The Haunting in Connecticut. I'd surely fulfill my want-to-be-scared-this-evening quota. For free, too. That's not going to happen, of course, and I'll soon be exiting the 34th Street AMC theater with equals droplets of annoyance and frustrations.

Despite the fact that I neglected to bring an extra pair of clean underwear with me today, I'd totally pay an extra $10 for the Woman in Black to appear as a theater usher tonight. While the attention-deficit, manufactured-Hollywood-crap-garbling audience around me wouldn't even bat an eyelash, I'd be intensely shook.

"They took myyyy thuummbb!"

Eric Roberts, in 1984's The Pope of Greenwich Village. What a wild yet focused, spastic but controlled performance. You've been cast alongside an in-his-initial-prime Mickey Rourke, and you own nearly every scene you share with the Mick. No easy feat.



As the live-wire, hot-headed Paulie, cousin of somewhat cooler-acting Charlie (Rourke), a then-28-years-old Roberts churns out a a character who can't control his reckless urges even when he's fully aware of just how badly he's fucking things up for both he and Charlie. The Pope of Greenwich Village is an under-hailed entry into the "down and out guys concocting an illegal get-rich scheme that goes to shit" subgenre of crime flicks, not unlike Dead Presidents or Stanley Kubrick's The Killing. What sets this one apart, though, is a natural comedic flair throughout, largely served up by Roberts. Which is driven home in the surprisingly "happy" final scene. His "Paulie" is the standard problem-starter alongside Rourke's straight man, and their scenes together exude "cool."




At this year's Independent Spirit Awards, Rourke began his acceptance speech by shouting Roberts out and challenging all talented, risky filmmakers to give Roberts a shot similar to the one Darren Aronofksy gave Rourke with The Wrestler. I second that notion, now having rewatched The Pope in Greenwich Village. The electric talent seen here is no doubt still within the guy; just watch The Dark Knight for the tenth time and pay close attention to his understated menace as crime boss "Maroni." Dude hasn't gone South skill-wise.

How about somebody out there scripts up a flick that follows the uphill climb of a former gangster trying to do right by his motherless teenage daughter. That's a role today's Roberts could blow a hole through, no question.



How about it? 2010, the year that Eric Roberts makes his triumphant comeback. Clock starts now.

"Actual Facts," But Not Really

Whipped up a list of my favorite "based on a true story" gimmick-y horror flicks for the latest entry in my "Theater of Mine" column over at the KING site. Check it out, if interested. Timed with this week's latest Amityville Horror knockoff, The Haunting in Connecticut, which I'm very likely catching tonight.

Initially, The Haunting in Connecticut's trailer lulled me into a premature sense of optimism, most likely due to those slick organ notes at its end. I'm a sucker for Gothic-y, atmospheric scores. But the more I've seen from it and read about it, I can't shake the feeling that it'll ultimately be a forgettable slop of PG-13 jump scares and shrieky-music cues. And those never do anything more than irritate.

At the least, the flick provided an excuse to write up this list, which was pretty fun and relatively effortless. Whether that's good or bad, who knows? Made me happy, and that's the M.O. [LINK BELOW THE PIC]

The list includes a cameo from my boy "Tarman," from 1985's so-damn-good Return of the Living Dead, which is reason enough alone to give it a go, no?


And, really, every post should have some Tarman. "Moooorre.....braaainnnss!" *followed by a smile*

This is the first list of this kind I've ever done, so there are some kinks that'll be ironed out next time, and more the time after. I have some future list ideas in the works, so I'll give myself plenty a chance to improve. For one, I forgot about a few films that should've made the cut (Wolf Creek, David Cronenberg's Dead Ringers, David Fincher's Zodiac even); and two, a commenter pointed a choice-of-word error regarding Ed Gein, who only killed two people, making my use of "several" a bit improper. Like I said, a work in progress.

LINK: My Nine Favorite "Based on a True Story" Genre Films

Who loves me, man?

It feels so long ago, I keep forgetting that I've already seen the film, but early this past December I was able to get myself into a very-early screening of the new Paul Rudd/Jason Segel comedy I Love You, Man, which hits theaters this weekend. As I expected, the film was/is a winner, capturing that same nice-cutesy humor of Forgetting Sarah Marshall, but with tons more effective supporting character actors elevating their respective scenes. You get J.K. Simmons (too briefly, frankly) going line-for-line with Andy Samberg, who plays Rudd's personal-trainer gay brother who happens to be more manly than his straight bro. There's the should-act-more Jon Favreau doing his best douchebag-ery as the husband of Rudd's fiancee's (Rashida Jones, aka "Ms. I Make Freckles Super Sexy") best friend (blonde jackpot Jamie Pressly). And then you even get an attractive new face, Sarah Burns, complete with slick comic timing and ample charm, leaving a lasting impression and begging the question, "Will she get more work? Because I'd really like that."


Pressly, Jones, Burns

Rudd as a leading man is as foolproof as you'd suspect, and Segel is much better here than he was in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, a high compliment since "Peter Brenner" was one of my favorite characters of 2008. In I Love You, Man, Segel does a great job of never showing his Ace card---is he a con artist, or simply a fun-loving, unassuming sweetheart? The chemistry between the two leads is a clear product of a tight off-screen friendship, an added bonus that gives their banter a naturalism that's impossible to dislike.

Chances are highly likely that I'll see it again this weekend, or one night next week. So I can both refresh my memory, and enjoy some good-natured entertainment in light of my recent theater-going choices: I've seen The Last House on the Left twice now, as well a double-viewing of Watchmen, and neither comes even centimeters near uplift. I have a feeling that this Clive Owen/Julia Roberts flick, Duplicity, will be a smile-friendly trip, and I'll be seeing that tomorrow, actually. Could this be a total reversal of film tone for yours truly? Not quite---I also plan on catching that new Nicolas Cage end-of-the-world flick Knowing this weekend, despite the fact that its a Nicolas Cage flick. The action scenes look good enough to bypass Cage's recent suck-a-thon streak. Which is going He-Man-strong.

Back to I Love You, Man, though, and it's central idea of a "bromance." No need to explain what that terms means; it's pretty self-explanatory. Besides, that brain-numbing sign of televisial apocalypse MTV's Bromance with Brody Jenner conveyed enough bad will to soil the expression into your mind like fossilized feces. I Love You, Man should rectify that manure-taste, thankfully, and give guy/guy interactions of the heterosexual stance a good name.



The question I've ben posing to myself, in relation to the film, is this: would one of my boys and I see this together? As in, would any of my boys be comfortable in self enough to make it a "movie night" with me, possibly even buying my ticket (okay, that part is a stretch, but was worth wondering about). Back in the days of high school and less "must enter at least one bar this weekend" requirements, I'm sure myself and a good five other dudes would gladly buy tickets and sit seat-by-seat for something like I Love You, Man. Times were much more innocent. Girls somewhat-less of a top priority on weekend evenings. This was a time when me letting a friend know about party approaching for a college friend or work acquaintance wouldn't have immediately been met with "Will there be any hot girls there? If not, I'm good, man. I'll pass." Call that selfishness, or shallowness, or just regular-old lameness. Whatever the case, the times of casually kicking it at the movies with my boys is fading away slowly. Which sucks, especially for a movie-addict such as myself, who'd gladly spend every weekend night at a cineplex over a bar.

Grabbing dinner with just one guy friend always feels acceptable. I'm all for it, and typically my other friends mirror the sentiment. Even showing ID at a bar's entrance before knocking back some Coronas is welcome consistently. So why not a movie? Is it the darkly-lit setting? Confusion as to whether we should sit at least one seat apart or not, assuming the theater isn't too crowded?


The Brokeback Mountain reference brings this pic to an out-of-context-to-my-post field, but some pics are too funny to avoid.

This isn't to say that none of my friends would be down to have a bromantic evening this weekend in front of I Love You, Man. Laughing alongside Rudd and Segel as they attend a Styx concert, or Segel foolishly picks a fight with Lou Ferrigno, or Rudd awkwardly coins the term "Slappin de bass." It's just that, honestly, I can only think of two such friends. Thus is the reality of growing up and becoming more bromantic with Johnnie Walker and/or Jack Daniels. I've accepted it. Moved forward. I get the feeling that movie-nights are seen as "childish." "Missed drunken-hookup-with-sloppy-bar-maven opportunities." That's hogwash to me, but I'm willing to gamble that I'm in the minority.

I'm ready to see I Love You, Man alone. Well, I do love myself, so maybe I'll be inventing a new male-faux-pas term in the process: Self-Love Story. Minus any necessary "Pause" or Billy Idol song allusions, of course.

The "early Wes Craven was a hack" analysis

Whether you worship at the altar of the filmmaker's respective filmography or not, genre cinema's icons coast by on wheels of admiration, and rightfully so. Where would horror be without the early work of fellas such as John Carpenter, Dario Argento, George Romero, Joe Dante, and so on, so forth?

I wonder, though, if casting a veteran director in such a light doesn't cause people to overlook the possibility of his/her inferior skills. Case in point: Wes Craven. Earlier this week, in preparation for Dennis Iliadis' vastly-effective, better-than-your-favorite-mainstream-critic-not-named-Roger-Ebert-is-declaring The Last House on the Left remake, I rewatched Craven's 1972 original. The plan was to compare and contrast the two after I'd seen this new one, but as I sat on the train home from the early screening, all I could do was beat Craven's predecessor down peg after peg. What I officially realized while giving the DVD another go was just how shitty of a film that '72 entry is, and that even the more visceral sequences have lost chunks of their force. Sitting through them back in the early '70s must've been one hell of a right hook to the senses, and a few scattered spots throughout the desecration-in-the-woods setpiece still pack a significant punch. But too much surrounding those punches is trite, meandering, and foolish. First off, Craven's decision at the time to cut back-and-forth from the rape images to two dumbass hick cops totally undermines the power of the girls' plight, a truth that's been hailed ad naus by all film critics and lovers. It's all the more obvious while watching Iliadis handle the sequence, though, showing just how damaging the viewing experience can be when you're at the mercy of an uncompromising, widely-talented visual filmmaker. Something that Craven was not.



Disclaimer: No, I do not enjoy watching rape. Chill. What truly makes the rape sequence in this new Last House soar through the roof, for me, though, is the way Iliadias and screenwriters Adam Alleca and Carl Ellsworth preface it. From the moment the four on-the-lam deviants encounter the two innocent gals in their hotel room, the tone of what transpires improves greatly over that of Craven's film. In Craven's the four criminals are insulting, coarse assholes with zero redeeming qualities, at times coming off a bit cartoonish. So when they toss the girls into the trunk of their car, there's zero mystery about what's going to happen. When the rape scenes comes, same with the murders, it's more of a climax than a revelation. In this remake, however, the only reason why this section also resulted in a climax is that I know the source material in and out; If I were a casual moviegoer, though, with no knowledge of the original, I would've been unsure as to the villains' intentions. There's a great scene in their SUV as they're driving the kidnapped, scared girls to God-knows-where that's as much a showcase for Iliadis' directorial chops as it is a testament to the remake's superiority. You can't tell what's going to happen, if the villains are going to kill the girls, or just one of them. Krug, the crew's ice-cold leader, shows a morsel of respect toward Mary, the stronger of their prey, and you think, "Maybe he'll let her go." But then Mary acts a bit too impulsively, fucks up any hope of salvation, and the villains have a diesel motive to move ahead with rape/murder.

The Last House on the Left 2009 has a slew of narrative changes such as that, and they're all for the better, which isn't to say that tweaks in the script are my justifications for proclaiming Wes Craven to be a hack director. There just wasn't even one facet of this remake that felt lesser than its original. And I recalled myself thinking the exact same thing about Alaexandre Aja's awesome Hills Have Eyes remake. So many flaws and missed-the-mark moments are abound in Craven's 1977 Last House follow-up that Aja, like Iliadis, was given ample room for improvement.



The point surfaces: the only early Craven film that is near flawless is A Nightmare on Elm Street, but otherwise there's not a "undeniably great" film in his lot. Each is spotty, uneven. Worth merit more for its after-effects than for its actual quality. Scream, of course, is great, but I consider that a rebirth for the guy, thus rendering it "out of contention" here.

On second thought, didn't he have a hand in writing that recent Hills Have Eyes 2, or as I like to refer to it, Worst Horror Sequel of the Last Ten Years? Pretty positive he did. "Rebirth, schrebirth," I guess, unfortunately.

Lest we forget that Craven directed a little piece of shit called Deadly Friend, too, a mess only saved by the quintessential death-by-basketball scene in film history. Or that he was responsible for Eddie Murphy's Vampire in Brooklyn, a laugher-for-the-wrong-reasons that explains itself in title alone. Blacula it was not.



And back to Aja's Hills Have Eyes real quick.....look no further than the trailer-attack. One of the most intense, stomach-twisting, perfectly-paced and scored sequences in recent memory, all to the credit of Aja. I not-too-long ago watched both that scene and its companion piece from Craven's '85 flick back to back (because that's the kind of thing I like to do on my spare time, yes), and it was quite staggering just how immensely more insane and devastating Aja's is, in the context of modern filmmaking advances or not. Neither scene is particularly showy in terms of effects, so the time-frame argument feels meaningless. Aja now is just a way better filmmaker than Craven then. That simple.

Listen....I respect Craven immensely, and I'm wholly aware of how much his contributions mean to my beloved genre. I'm just the type who tries to call a spade "a spade" as often as possible. Until some well-informed film head can break down the technical prowess of Wes Craven "the director," I'm sticking to my rifles. Ironically, the person most responsible for my realization is Wes Craven himself---he produced both the Last House and Hills Have Eyes remakes, and hand-picked eye-opening foreign filmmakers to commandeer the ships. So for that, I can admire the man even more. Who knows, maybe he'd agree with me that his early career wasn't the best of skill-flashing. He's repeatedly admitted that he had no clue what the hell he was doing while making his Last House on the Left. Just sucks that it shows more than ever now.

Craven's best at what, then? As a producer, clearly. He has an impeccable eye for talent, as seen in his picks of Aja and Iliadis. The versions of his stories that he's behind-the-scenes instead of the camera for thrive much more on character and delicate pacing. The guy knows what makes for good horror, and knows how to pull it out of others. Shame that he can't do the same for himself.

I'd be lying to myself if I didn't give early Craven kudos for this, though.....from 1985's foul-tasting Hills Have Eyes 2, comes..... a dog flashback!!!:

Iron Man 2's cast finally locks itself in

Many have asked me why I don't talk about last year's Iron Man that much, assuming that I'm not a fan. Wrong they are. It's just not as lofty in my mind as, say, the dozen films from last year I do still bring to attention. Still totally enjoyed Iron Man, loved everything about it except for its way-too-anticlimactic final hero-vs-villain confrontation. The really good far outweighed that one bad, fortunately, especially the little touches: the first time Tony Stark tries flying, a proper example.

For some inexplicable reason, I'm finding myself giddily enthused for next year's sequel, which is odd considering the lack of energy I've paid the first film other than deserved props awarded. I think the initial excitement settled in once Don Cheadle was announced as a sudden replacement for Terrance Howard, who I felt brought nothing to Iron Man. Cheadle is one of the best working actors in the game, so a notch was latched onto the sequel's iron belt. And then the announcements of Sam Rockwell and Mickey Rourke---two of my favorites on any screen---joining the fold as two villains hit, and I became officially jazzed. Then, British eye-pleaser Emily Blunt was announced as the victor of a coveted "Black Widow" third villain role, and the shit became a venerable platter of untouchable talent. However, backtracks and take-backs threatened the joy with reports of Rourke being lowballed with a meager financial offer, and Blunt having to fall back due to contractual obligations to star alongside Jack Black in a Gulliver's Travels film. All wasn't seeming well with Iron Man 2 suddenly.

Well, the revolving door seems to have finally shut, and the cast is confirmed. Rourke will indeed be playing the head villain, "Whiplash," who "will incorporate elements of the Crimson Dynamo’s backstory and appearance, along with elements of the comic book Whiplash, a former Stark employee who builds a costume that allows him to wield cybernetically controlled and electrically charged whips that can cause some serious damage to the Iron Man armour. Think Indiana Jones plugged into the mains and you’re on the right path." [Empire Online]:



And, stepping for Blunt to fill the Black Widow's skintight leather one-piece and stilettos is Scarlett Johansson, which should make any comic book-loving straight male pop something down below. Emily Blunt was clearly the best choice, so this is definitely a downgrade. Johansson has yet to prove much in the way of "exceptional acting" abilities, though she's exceptionally hot and always likeable on screen---two important traits. If anything, just think, this body, wrapped in a form-fitting bad-girl garb:



Albeit while delivering a terrible Russian accent, since Black Widow hails from, you guessed it, Russia, and Johansson doesn't strike me as a master of voice deception. Chatter has it that Johansson auditioned for the role early on but was passed over for Emily Blunt. Luck changes sometimes, a truth that Mrs. Ryan Reynolds must be currently preaching as a tome. Not to mention blockbuster franchise over pride.

Iron Man 2's cast now stands at: Robert Downey, Jr., Gwyneth Paltrow, Don Cheadle, Mickey Rourke, Sam Rockwell, and Scarlett Johansson. How's that for "stacked"?

Iron Man 2, out in May 2010.

News learned over at: Empire Online

"The more Ram Jams, the better," I say.

As pointed out by a friend at work.....check out this DVD cover shot for The Wrestler. I can't get over how weird it is that they've chosen a point-of-view shot of a Ram-Jam-victim over the standard "Ram with his head down, fatigued" image. It's actually quite badass, but, still, odd.



Or maybe it's not a big deal at all, and I'm just strange. Jury is out and about.

The McDonalds "Shamrock Shake" Mystery

This post is dedicated to the St. Patty's Day celebration tomorrow in Hoboken, within which I'll be stumbling around drunk starting at precisely 9am. Wish me luck.

Give me anything that's mint-flavored and you'll forever be a friend of mine. Chocolate chip mint ice cream, the greatest of all time. Those mint cookies sold by the Girl Scouts, absolutely divine. You get the drift.

So somebody please explain how in the fuck I've never heard of the enigmatic "Shamrock Shake" prior to this afternoon, when a friend at work put me on? And if anybody knows where I can find one of these, hit me immediately. I'm not playing around here. It's regarded as the Loch Ness monster of the fast food universe, which is mind-blowing in its ridiculousness. Yet, cool.





This has the makings of the perfect dessert, and I'm now determined to find some. I mean, the Shamrock Shake even had its own mascot at one point, Grimace's Irish cousin. That's just wonderful:



Again, if anybody has some insider tracks on the whereabouts of the Shamrock Shake, I'm standing by. It's time for some recon.