Every now and then, a new film project is announced that screams "Matt Barone will fucking love this!" as if from the top of a mountain, holding a megaphone, hooked into a kick-ass speaker/sound system, yelled by ten Eliza Dushku clones dressed in skimpy two-piecers.
Case in point: "Oscar nominee Michael Shannon, Willem Dafoe, Chloe Sevigny and Udo Kier have signed on to Werner Herzog and David Lynch's first collaboration, the psychological horror tale My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done....Herzog is directing the film which will commence principal photography in the California locale of Coronado Island in March. Eric Bassett is producing and Lynch serves as executive producer. Lynch regular Grace Zabriskie also stars.....The story is loosely based on events surrounding a San Diego man who acted out a Sophocles play in his mind and murdered his mother with a sword....'I always wanted to make a horror film, but not with bloody axes and chain-saws," Herzog said, adding: "An anonymous fear should rather creep up at you.'"
My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done = strangely-awesome title
Sure, his contribution here will be little more than "mostly hands-off producer," but who cares. Nobody working in Hollywood can make a film that pisses me off, fascinates me, leaves me feverishly questioning why I like it so much, and blows my mind out the water like David Lynch. So, he earns "picture included" rights here.
Let's see here: David Lynch is involved; it's a horror film directed by a highly-acclaimed and proven-great filmmaker; stars creepy-character-actor-extraordinaire Michael Shannon (who has always struck me as a dude tailor-made to be in a David Lynch film); and the plot is deliciously dark and devoid of any possible happy places.
If this comes out and doesn't make it to my year-end best-of list, no matter what year it hits, I'll be more surprised and speechless than Katie Couric was while interviewing Lil "I Can't Be Media Trained" Wayne.
***Just 'cause I've got Lynch films on the brain now, let's enjoy some of the man's work, shall we? From first and last.....
Scene from Eraserhead (1977):
One of the many scenes/images from 2006's Inland Empire that had my mind scrambling while seated in the IFC Theater; what a bizarre, unsettling, unforgettable experience that was:
Don't even bothering asking "What the hell is going on?" for either one. It's futile. You don't "fully comprehend" a Lynch flick, you "submissively experience" it.
News of My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done spotted (earlier today) over at: Screen Daily
Not that there was much "excitement" to begin with, anyway.
Of course I'm going to see this, and with the bar set as underground as I'll have it, it could very well turn out to be good times. Right now, though, this looks shit-sandwich-like.
I love dinosaurs and creatures with open arms, and, despite having yet to see many actual episodes, the old Land of the Lost television show seems like something I'd be into. Danny McBride is on my good side, too, and Anna Friel is an eye-soother. But overall, this looks way too much like Will Ferrell doing his usual Will Ferrell thing, only with more CGI and people wearing Sleestak costumes. Step Brothers aside, the days of that being really-funny are long gone, my friends.
The marketing dilemma: Trying to find an effective way to promote Fox's new sci-fi-ish show Dollhouse, a delayed-in-Detox-fashion new series from fanboy television fave Joss Whedon (Buffy the Vampire Slayer and its spinoff Angel; Firefly and its accompanying feature film, Serenity). The folks at the Fox network haven't seemed too enthused about the product Whedon has delivered thus far, hitting the show with push-backs worse than Rihanna's forehead. But Dollhouse is finally ready to premiere on February 13 (I believe), so it's really time to get the word out and about.
But how? Ding! Realize that the star of your show is the almighty Eliza Dushku, and release these new promo shots that display her strongest "chops." May not result in big ratings, or even a long shelf-life for Dollhouse, but to hell if I care right now.
Obviously, I'm totally tuning in now, or at least setting the DVR. Meaning, the new promo tricks have worked like gangbusters. What a sheep I am.
This goodness (and more of it) spotted over at: Egotastic
The last thing I'd ever consider myself, or want people to think I'm attempting to emulate, is a "fashion head." If you've ever seen how I dress myself in the morning, you'd concur. I'm no slob, but I do keep it simple as grade school arithmetic.
When a celeb that I've regularly included on this blog/site steps out of his hotel room in what can only be considered "style WTF," however, I can't help but notice. Today, such a poorly-garbed talent is Mickey Rourke, in this disaster:
Sheesh. Like some deformed bastard child birthed by a VR Trooper costume and a Motocross uniform, if clothes could procreate.
The man is still an unparalleled actor, and his life-story is compelling like none other. Now, just imagine the secondary quotes his mirrors could divulge. Those that are still in one piece, of course.
***Okay, don't think I'll ever do another "comment on somebody's fashion" post again. Just didn't feel comfy.
This was inevitable, I guess. Watchmen fever is in full swing, I understand, but explain me this: what's the point of introducing Watchmen character Halloween costumes nearly eleven months away from the holiday, one month before the film even comes out? Insult to injury alert: not only are these premature---they're absolutely horrible. The kinds of costumes that immediately cause drunk lookers-on in Halloween-open-bars to heckle and harass, and all the Sexy Nurse and Sexy French Maid chicks to turn both their upper and lower cheeks away. Maybe the Silk Spectre-dressed girls will be attracted, but even that's a Stretch Armstrong.
Though, part of me knows I'd totally consider wearing the Rorschach one. To shame. He's the one with the beige trenchcoat, hat, and white/black-shifting mask. A drunk me would so approach drunk and hot girls on some "Hrrrrm, baby. I can make you say hrrrrmm." You'll get this Hrrm business once you see the movie, assuming it just zoomed above the forehead.
--In order of disgraceful appearance: Nite Owl, Rorschach, Ozymandias, The Comedian
Don't judge Watchmen foolishly off of these. In both the original text and this new new film, the characters look five million times cooler.
Topless Robot's hilarious-but-ironically-honest headline says it all: "Seriously Stop It, or Alan Moore's Going To Kill Somebody"; Alan Moore wrote the Watchmen graphic novel, and is notoriously against film versions and merchandising bastardizations of his work. Hates the notion of this upcoming film. Is most likely loading an AK-47 in anticipation of the first little trick-or-treater who'll knock on his door dressed in that abysmal Comedian costume. Parents, steer clear of the Moore residence. Please.
Costumes first spotted over at the brilliantly-named: Topless Robot
....while also feeling something special for Ari Graynor
On the whole, pretty cool little film. Wasn't laughing out loud much, but I was pleasantly entertained and charmed throughout. Michael Cera's whole uncomfortably-sweet routine is getting a bit old, lucky for him he had Ms. Dennings and her adorableness to save the day. And I'd hit the bar with Ms. Graynor any day, and then even whip up a turkey sandwich for her.
Since Cera is in both, I'm justifying I initially deemed "lazy and cliche": comparisons to Juno. That being said, I think I'm preferring Nick & Norah over Juno. Yeah, I totally am. Cera's "Nick" is from Hoboken, too, so its inevitable, really.
No worries, Ellen Page. We'll always have Hard Candy.
[Of course the tone here wasn't going to stay all "beautiful female celebs and Family Guy-level funny" for long. Let's be levelheaded, now.]
Learning that Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer is "based upon real events" feels like one of the bigger "no shit" revelations in recent memory. This one seriously feels like you've got front-row seats for wanton death and casual depravity, quasi-documentary style in the vein of the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I'd heard about its true-life aesthetic in the past, but forgot. Just finished watching it for the first time (seriously tardy with this one), and the amount of disgust and voluntary-filth I'm still feeling demanded further investigation. Come to recall, its based upon the confessions of Henry Lee Lucas, a "serial killer" hall-of-famer who reportedly offed around 600 people between 1975 and 1983, supposedly one per week.
Watching the film, though, you'd think the "Henry" played here by Michael Rooker was in fact the actual Mr. Lee Lucas, because what we have is a shot-mostly-straightforward voyeur-special on the man's everyday life. When he's bored or even the least bit riled up, he turns spontaneously homicidal; when at his grungy digs, where he lives with Otis, a friend he met back in prison, we watch his awkward, budding love affair with Otis' kinda-fugly sister, Becky. Just so happens that we're jumping into Henry's life as a climactic turning point is in his card (it is a movie, remember).
Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer is simply an no-questions-asked look into a methodical mass murderer's world, a slasher film that replaces the masked assailant and all-Maxim-model-looking victims with people you'd see walking down the street on your way to grab a cup of coffee. Far from impressive folks, and in this case truly despicable ones. But the film is all the more gruesome and clawing for such basics. Simplicity is the calling card. Even when director John McNaughton (who went on to direct the infamous Neve Campbell/Denise Richards skinamax gem Wild Things) drops the flick's horror moments, we hardly ever see any actual "murder." The few times that we do, the brutality feels real, but the film is at its most effective when opting to show patient views of Henry's kill-aftermath(s). A slow camera-whirl around the bloodied, ravaged body, punctuated by the sounds of screams and struggle, plus an off-center score that sounds like an ear's descent into some other dimension, one where the audio is the central note heard in the dizzying "Where is La Tenia?" club sequence from the awesome Irreversible.
The film's opening nicely sets up this "I'm only going to show you the end, not the middle" approach of Naughton's. Check the first four minutes, for visual aid:
And, for contrast's sake, this is what it feels like when Henry (with Otis, who, after witnessing Henry's out-of-nowhere double murder of prostitutes, catches the homicide fever) does his dirty work for us to actually see:
Can't say I blame Henry in this case, though; that salesman was a real douche.
From top to bottom, this is definitely a movie that practically requires a shower (or at least a nice splashing of water on the face) once the pretty-brilliant final shot (which wants to be somewhat ambiguous, but it's obvious that we're seeing the post-game of a central character's life, at least to me) comes along. Not a film I'd rush back to watch again and again, but definitely a great example of how horror can be at its most disturbing when grounded in reality, not overboard fantasy.
There's one sequence, in particular, that had my eyes wide open and sensibilities under self-interrogation in ways I've rarely felt in my many years of shock cinema exposure: all seen through a camcorder Henry is holding, we watch Otis disrobe a housewife while her husband lies bloody and bag-over-head-and-arms-tied-behind-back on the floor, a la A Clockwork Orange. But then, their teenage comes home, walking in on his parents' final seconds, and the way the son is dispatched of (thanks to snapping sound effects that sound way too real) is so heartless, so sudden, that the already-difficult scene is elevated to terrifying heights.
And that, my friends, is what horror should be. Relax and take notes.
.....just to keep this blog's balance in check. It's only right.
Scarlett Johansson, walking the red carpet at the premiere of this new date-movie-to-the-max He's Just Not That Into You, which I laughably want to see, for inexplicable reasons. A perfect date movie.....that's my hook! Doesn't seem as tool-like if I buy two tickets, rather than one.
I may pledge allegiance to the likes of Olivia Thirlby and others routinely, but don't get it misconstrued: Scar Jo (as the pop culture hipsters refer to her) has Hollywood in her va-va-voom vice-grip. Yet another reason why Ryan Reynolds makes jealous ones envy (tell me he doesn't, dudes?). I sweat Megan Fox like the rest of them (though not as hardcore as most), but the truth is, Johansson has her bodied. There's a visual for you.
Tons more alternate shots of this untouchable looker once you click this: The Superficial
There's a rumor floating around that Amerie has signed with Def Jam, and has a new album on the horizon. I'll believe it when I receive the press release email; for not, anyway, this is much better news.
Miss Amerie (who, if you know me well enough, is a top five, dead or alive in the sex appeal department, on top of being one of the most unfairly neglected and better-than-you-think R&B ladies in memory) has a new photo shoot out. And while it's not her best yet, it's still leaps and bounds beyond any recent Sasha Fierce ish, or whichever other "divas" you prefer. Truth hurts. Remember her, actually? I had a thing for that Aftermath one-hitter-quitter, in an older-woman-fetish way.
Gorgeous, undoubtedly. In some alternate universe, I'd propose to this woman, and she'd actually say "Yes." But then my old chicken ("Woowwww! Yeaaaahh! Hey baaaaby, wake up. Come and dance with me!") would sound, and I'd be sans she.
Just visited my own blog (the Internet's equivalent of instant-messaging yourself when you're bored) to watch that Offspring trailer again, and I realized something: tonally, Barone's World could use some laughs lately. As far as the topics covered. I mean, damn---flesh-eating, feral kiddies; the smuggling of illegal immigrants in hopes of overcoming poverty; a new basement-dirty hip-hop song; and other less-than-peppy subject matter.
How about some chuckles, then? And when it comes to busting guts, one Stewart Gilligan Griffin is always clutch. So now, a random assortment of the kid's greatest hits:
Let's take it away from simply-Stewie to Peter-rific, now:
"Surfin' Bird"....a song that has long left me giggling, ever since I first heard Pee-Wee Herman sing it in Frankie and Annette's slept-on '80s cheese Back to the Beach.
Try to look past the no-name actors and overall "totally independent" feel here, because this one is an adaptation of a downright sick, awesome, nasty, very-well-done novel by one of my favorite authors, Jack Ketchum. The book, also titled Offspring, is a recommended-read not only for horror chums but for anyone who appreciates strong, fearless storytelling. Actually a sequel to Ketchum's Off Season, but for legal-rights reasons an Off Season movie can't be a go, so we're jumping right in with Offspring, instead. All good.
It's a perfect book to turn into a film minus star power and plus uncensored grit, so I'm pretty excited. Give it a peek---if you're anything like me, you'll like what you see.
As of now, there is no set release date, but hopefully it'll be out by the end of the year.
Offspring
Fun fact: The CSI dude who says "They ripped her heart out" is Jack Ketchum himself.
Yeah, I'm biased as fuck in this case. Wanna fight about it?
Raekwon w/ Ghostface Killah & Method Man - "Wu Ooh"
Unfortunate song title aside, this is exactly what I'm talking about. Give me 13, 14 more tracks like this on Cuban Linx 2, and watch me toss gas-faces to all those who hate on Wu-Tang.
"My family live in the Hills/ They call us Bin Ladens"......"I'm what these kids is killin' to be/ But I don't want my children to be"
Now here's a match made in the heaven-of-my-eyes: John Carpenter (one of my favorite directors of all time) is set to make his return to horror filmmaking with a supernatural flick, The Ward, starring my current blonde-chick-fix, Amber Heard.
The Ward's plot is described as "a young woman fighting off a malicious ghost when she becomes trapped in a mental hospital." Which sounds generic as hell, but in Carpenter's hands, it could be something special. Think about it....this is the guy who turned "escaped mental patient stalks babysitters on Halloween" into a sublime piece of cinema (Halloween), and "vengeful pirate ghosts seek vengeance on a waterside town" into one of the creepiest flicks I've ever seen (his original The Fog, not that piece-of-dung remake with the tool from Smallville, DeRay Davis' "Black-male-supporting-character cliche on steroids" and Maggie Grace's vapid acting skills).
Carpenter hasn't made a good genre flick since, shit, 1998, when Vampires hit, and thankfully didn't totally bite ***pats self on back***. Nothing stellar, but the James Woods-starring bloodsucker show had its charms. So the man has been sitting back, looking for the right material to bring his awesome side back (I can hope). Here's his thoughts on The Ward's script: "the kind of script that I've been looking for: a complex, visceral story, full of suspense and scares." Again, sounds generic, but Carpenter doing "complex, visceral" feels about right.
And then there's Amber Heard, a ten-spot with I'm more appreciative of for her looks than her chops. She was a commanding lead in All the Boys Love Mandy Lane, though, so hopefully The Ward is a platform for her to show and prove.
If she fails and the performance is a mess, on top of the movie sucking and painfully proving that Carpenter has gone the way of Dario Argento (i.e., a stale master), at least I'll have some pupil treats before me. It's happened many times before in my horror flicks---see Jessica Alba in The Eye, for starters.
And now, a scene from All the Boys Love Mandy Lane that, umm, implies for itself.
The mission that I've cast upon myself: see every single Academy Award-nominated film before this year's looming Oscar telecast, which is rapidly inching my way. Even if I don't meet this goal, I'm already impressed with just how many of the celebrated flick I have experience to date. Still, plenty remain. And, for clarification's sake, I'm talking every single film called out by the Academy, not just the Best Picture nominess; even if a film has only one nomination and it's for, say, Cinematography, I still must see.
A daunting assignment, absolutely. Especially when you consider the varying degrees of current-release-status at hand. While most of the movies are in theaters now, timed conveniently close to the February 22nd airing, many others are a bit tougher to conquer. First, you have the Best Foreign film entries, most of which are actually playing in limited release somewhere around Manhattan, but finding the time to see them all is intimidating as hell. Not to mention, hugely frustrating, since I had the free opportunity to see each at some point months back in early media screenings, courtesy of job-perkage, but unfortunately I opted not to for some now-regrettable reason.
Secondly, there are several flicks presently found in availability-limbo, meaning their current status is nestled between "no longer in theaters" and "not yet on DVD." For these such flicks, though, I've devised one brilliant scheme: track down the script somewhere online, read through it, and at least get familiar with the flick that way. Of course, sticking to the script (pun not intended, but fitting) means that, unless the film is only nominated in one of the two Best Screenplay categories, I won't be able to see a nominated performance, or cinematography, or whatever. But fuck it---me beg, me not allowed to choose. Besides, I'm able to breeze through good screenplays with time-saving ease, so I'll still have time to watch such mind-stimulating televisial feasts as For the Love of Ray J and I Love Money 2. Why pay for a lobotomy these days, anyway?
First up is first-time writer/director Courtney Hunt's script for Frozen River, a two-time nominee (Best Actress, Melissa Leo; Best Original Screenplay, Courtney Hunt). I first head about this one almost a year ago to the day, after it had wow-ed the heads at the Sundance Film Festival before going on to blow the pen-caps off critics in subsequent festivals, then receiving a miniscule release. It's the story of a struggling, financially-stricken, trailer-living, 38-year-old mother of two, Ray Eddy (played by nominee Leo). Unable to provide for her five and fifteen year old kids, she is at hope's end. But then she, by chance, meets a 20-year-old Mohawk Indian girl named Lila Little Littlewolf, with whom she begins smuggling illegal immigrants as a money-making means.
I expected this Academy-hailed script to be a winner, sure, but I never expected to finish it under an hour. At 107 pages long, Frozen River doesn't look like something I'd bang out in one simple sitting, but that's exactly what it turned out to be. Hunt sets up the Ray Eddy character so well that every moment after about page 10 hits hard, translating her anguish and desparation. The necessity of money and what one will do to acquire it is the name of the theme-game here, and, told through the points-of-view of two meager, unbecoming yet deeply-loving mothers, it registers like a charm. I really need to see how this plays out in film form, now; the tonal shifts from "bleak crime thriller" to "heartbreaking domestic drama" bob and weave together with real smoothness, and the Eddy children characters are given enough backbone and layering to become more than just "sympathetic child plot-movers."
Charging ahead with one powerful scene after another, Frozen River's script reaches an unstoppable-read pitch a little past midway, in a sequence that involves a cold-weather-suffering infant baby and a smuggling job gone wrong. The scene's oh-shit! revelation hit me with more force than some of the best horror-movie-jump-scares out there. I can only imagine what my response would have been had I seen it unfold on a big screen rather on a laptop screen in typed-out prose. Same goes for a later car chase involving two young Chinese prostitutes and a nearly-blown-off forehead.
It's the level of script that I'd imagine any screenwriter (whether professionally experienced or virginal aspiring types) could salute. Very little flash, scarce amounts of showboating. Just smalltime characters doing naturalistic things to overcome everyday turmoil. It should come as no shock that Frozen River was made independently, because, aside from the unknown cast (though, vet character actress Melissa Leo should see her stock rise now) and the un-proven filmmaker behind it, this doesn't strike me as a script that a major film studio would read and think, "We must make this! Toss this Courtney Hunt woman large sums of cash, pronto!" Instead, I'm pretty sure the post-reading reaction went something like this: "This sure is a great screenplay, but we'd never make a penny back if we funded this. Toss it back into the pile."
Courtney Hunt
Bless that old independent filmmaking spirit, then. Frozen River is strong stuff, and I'm anxiously awaiting the day when my Netflix Queue places it atop the crowd.
The next Academy-is-stroking-it-these-days screenplay I'm going to tackle is Mike Leigh's Happy-Go-Lucky. Hopefully tomorrow night. Supposed to be a crowd-pleasing feel-good-er. These days, I'll never say no to one of those.
Normally, I wouldn't even pay something like this enough time-of-day to discuss it in Barone's World (that's not me being pretentious, by the way; it's just the name of this blog site, 'tis all). But this atom-bomb of a chess move that 50 Cent has hit Rick Ross with deserves as much recognition as possible. It's just that unbelievable, and further proof that, thanks to the almighty Internet, there are no rules of any kind left out here.
For those who are unaware and do actually care, Rick Ross initially went at 50 a couple weeks ago in a new record called "Mafia Music," prompting 50 to respond with "Officer Ricky," named after Ross' pre-rap career as a corrections officer. This out-of-bounds-but-brilliant video is 50's latest (and greatest) strike.
Enjoy:
----
BONUS
Here's another celebrity-soundbite totally worth posting. It's Christian Bale flipping his shit on some poor Director of Photography who messed up a shot while filming Terminator Salvation. Bale's fury is like that damn Energizer Bunny....it keeps going, and going, and going. Seriously, it's pretty astonishing just how long he drags this rant on for:
Going to approach this post-Netflix-Fix-watching post a bit differently than usual, mainly because I'm dead-exhausted and need some shut-eye. But this one was a really good flick, and deserves some recognition. So rather than discuss the plot and what points made it work, and which areas could use improvement(s), I'm simply calling out one specific scene that's the goodness.
Quick plot summary, though, to give the scene some vital context: Frank Carveth is a loving father of five-year-old Candice; Candice's mother, Nola Carveth, is a nutball who lives in a secluded psychiatry complex where she is undergoing some radical new treatment at the hands of controversial Dr. Raglan. This treatment, a facing-of-personal-demons hypnosis, has heightened Nola's inner rage, spawning a woodshed's worth of deformed "children" all from her subconscious; monstrous-looking dwarves who kill all of those she feels anger toward at the moment, without her even knowing. Miniature slashers cut from that old-lady-dwarf from Nicolas Roeg's Don't Look Now, looking like shrunken Beasts (from Beauty & the Beast) in the faces. Mugs not even a mother could appreciate.
All sounds a bit complex, bizarre. But then again, it's an early David Cronenberg flick, "written and directed by." Cronenberg pretty much cornered the market on his own unique subgenres of horror: how the mistreatment and misunderstanding of one's own body and flesh can prove hazardous. The decaying of flesh, a person's body betraying them in usually-gory yet beautifully-staged-and-shot ways. See: Shivers; The Fly; Scanners.
This particular scene from The Brood, though, isn't an example of this "body does you bad" conceit. It's nothing more than an exhibition of Cronenberg's razor pacing skills and fearlessness. Murder in a packed kindergarten classroom? Now that takes some balls.
Great stuff right there. The Brood is highly recommended. Psychologically involving, and wildly inventive.
Up next in my Netflix Queue is another Cronenberg effort....The Dead Zone, with Christopher Walken, based on Stephen King's book. A flick I've seen many scenes from but have yet to sit down with from start to finish, properly. That'll soon change.
Cinemax, in a wonderful bit of programming, is airing Apocalypse Now Redux, the extended cut of Francis Ford Coppola's flawless 1979 Vietnam War epic. It's a top three film of all time, entering the top two on any given day, flip-flopping with A Clockwork Orange for the reigning-champ slot. All three-and-a-half hours, impossible to turn off once its begun, impressive in infinite ways during every single frame.
The first time I saw Apocalypse Now was in its "redux" form. Super late to the game, and I'm somewhat ashamed to say that the only reason I saw it at that time (early into the Fall semester of my sophomore year at college, late-2001) was because the film class I was taking required me to do so. Professor Brady (a great man, who just so happened to be a large, dead ringer for Col. Sanders...."Something must be wrong with his madula oblangada!"), aware that Redux was playing for a limited time in a Dolby Surround Sound theater in the heart of Times Square, made seeing Apocalypse Now Redux our weekly homework assignment.
So I went with my friend/classmate Alex on an especially-frigid October evening, the wind blowing and howling into freezing bursts of face-punishing air. We bought our tickets, filed into the theater. Noticed that we made up the theater's entire population, a cool Two In Attendance. Of course, we sat many-a-seat away from each other, completely ignorant to the head-smashing experience that was about to rear its profound head. The movie started, the sounds blaring in crisp-force that would've made an IMAX screen jealous. And as the film progressed, I found myself lost in a seriously-warped mindstate. Obviously, I'm way too much of a spring chicken to have any clue as to what being in Vietnam felt like, but it's nearly impossible to not feel a certain "I'm actually there" sensation while watching Apocalypse Now, especially while seated in a dark, lonely cinema.
Coppola should forever be held atop a shrine for the feats he accomplished. Visually, every scene in the film feels brutally authentic, honest. Acting-wise, there's not a one even-teetering-on-mediocre performance in the lot, from the topliners (Martin Sheen, Marlon Brando, Robert Duvall, Laurence Fishburne) down to the nameless soldier who when asked by Sheen's "Captain Willard," "Hey, who's in charge here?" devastatingly responds in a panic: "Ain't you!?"
I won't delve too deeply into the technical astonishments of the film here, mainly because the film holds a much more personal meaning to me. There couldn't have been a better time for me to have seen Apocalypse Now for the first time than that nippy October night back in '01. Take a second to think back to what had just gone down at that time: 9/11. Being a New York City college student, the mood of fear, paranoia, an uncertainty sparked by those Twin Towers attacks held us all in a vice-grip for months. The strongest of fears I felt at that time was the potential "Army draft" that was ready to be reinstated. I love this country, sure, but fuck no; no way I wanted to go fight in any war, let alone one in enigmatic Iraq. How savage is the fighting over there? What good would my dying in combat really do over there? Am I strong enough to withstand the mental tug-of-wars and destruction-in-daily-plain-view?
Endless questions, zero answers. But then, I saw Apocalypse Now, right at the peak of my own nervous self-inquisitions. I saw what could be myself in teenage "Mr. Clean" (played by a young Laurence Fishburne, in his first major film role I believe), specifically during his death scene; as he's listening to a recording made by his mother back in the Bronx, updating him on all of his family's doings and declaring their undying love and support for him, ready for him to come back home after having "avoided those bullets." The boat is lit up with gunfire, and Clean is hit, dying instantly. We see his bloodied corpse sprawled out in the middle of the boat, as the recording keeps playing. I imagined my own mom's voice, telling me how Zoey was getting so big, and that my cousins ask about me on a ritualistic basis: "When is Matt coming back home?" And how she, while thinking about me and looking at pictures of yours truly alongise my pops, would have no clue that I was in fact lying dead inside some tank in the Iraqi slums.
In a movie overflowing with haunting images and surreal realities of a time past, Mr. Clean's death is the one that has since stuck in my head. I often play Clean's final moments back within my thoughts, despite not having seen Apocalypse Now in a couple of years (until today, that is; I own it on DVD, but haven't revisited in quite some time). It's a mental stain, but not a "stain" in that "fuck, I just spilled fruit punch on my sofa, and now it'll never come off" way; it's a "stain" in that the scene is permanent while being totally welcome, acknowledged as something important.
By the time the already-cerebral masterpiece reaches the dark jungles of Cambodia where once-celebrated-Army-titan-and-now-insane-war-criminal Col. Kurtz (played with controlled lunacy by the great Marlon Brando), I'm so lost in a trance that the sights of Dennis Hopper's drug-riddled, "Renfield"-ish madman and the real-as-sin animal slaughter hit like illegal punches after the bell has rung. The film is a reinterpretation of the classic story "Hearts of Darkness," a tale about a sane man who loses his marbles while amidst a primitive, savage society, realizing that his more-advanced ways could be seen as almighty, and proceeds to act as a sort of God for the primitives. That's exactly what has happened to Col. Kurtz in Apocalypse Now, and it's scary to think just how tasty sudden-power can be. So delish that it could shatter a man's sanity, make him forget about his loved ones and any code of ethics he once cherished.
Apocalypse Now....easily the most eye-opening, mentally-lasting film I've ever had the privilege of seeing in a theater. Really, I haven't scratched the surface on the many things I take out of this film, every time I sit down with it. But regardless of my given mood, the death of wee-lad Mr. Clean is the most unavoidably tattoo-ed.
I wanted to end this with a brilliant quote from the flick, but didn't want to go with the obvious ones: "The horror....the horror" or, "I love the smell of Napalm in the morning....it smells like victory." So, I've opted for:
"You see, there are two of you: the one who kills, and the one who loves."
After almost a year of wanting it, needing it, getting tired of watching it in shitty quality Torrent file-form on the laptop....one of the top three horror films to be made within the last five years (possibly more) has joined the elite ranks of my DVD collection.
Thanks, the Canadian division of Amazon.com and your Region 1 ways:
Just in case you don't know, or forgot (or weren't checking out my little site during Quarantine's pre-release months), [Rec] is totally-insane-and-amazing Spanish flick that Quarantine offered a surprisingly-worthy American version of. [Rec] is the superior one, naturally, but kudos to Quarantine for holding its own. No easy task.
For those who want to see this, hit me on the hip (means call my cell), and we;ll schedule something. It'd be both my honor and pleasure.
Yeah.....it's the shit.
And don't dare come at me with that inexcusable "Oh, but it has subtitles, forget that then" jargon. You'll immediately be dissed and dismissed.
It's feeling like some sort of Doomsday Project out here. Turn on the tube, and you're met with stories of parents successfully plotting to kill their children; shut the TV off in disgust, pick up a newspaper or sign on to any random news-y website, and something to the effect of "Company Doe, Inc. has just laid off 8,000 employees" greets your eyes within nano-seconds. Flip on the radio, hoping for some audible salvation, and you hear Lil Wayne's spacey ass attempting to make "rock music," causing eardrums to ooze out that inner red liquid that you nearly lost all of a month or so back when Kanye West covered up his terrible singing abilities by Auto-tuning his voice to sound "provocative," yet coming off more "intolerable" than "incredible."
Throw us a bone here. Something, please give already.
In times like these, I'm actually quite proud of myself for being able to maintain a calm sense of "just gotta ride it out and enjoy the things I do have." Such as a job (knock on stable wood, of course, just like everybody else in America), big creative dreams, a healthy loving family, great friends, and a massive DVD collection that'll continue to increase thanks to my insatiable appetite for cinema. Plus, this Monday night officially begins my journey into screenwriting, slowly but surely turning my only-have-been-talked-about dreams into a working-on-it-actively-now reality. Tons of stories bouncing around and grappling within my head, now given somewhere to grow.
All good things, indeed. But you know what my secret weapon for inner tranquility is, though? It's one of many, but the one I want to divulge at this given moment. Guilty pleasure central. Shameless indulgence in crappy product, no question. Here goes....the enjoyment of Harlem World's melted-mozzarella-on-a-provolone-spread jam "I Really Like It."
A video that defies "good idea" conceptualism.
Remember this one? Back in 1999 (ha! it's the 10th anniversary, come to think of it), jolly-old Mase launched his offshoot side group of neighborhood friends and sibling Baby Stace (Yup, that was really her rapping name.....what could be an even worse artistic tag? How about her groupmate's: Blinky Blink? Case shut.). Their album, cleverly-titled The Movement, pretty much sucked, released on So So Def and cluttered with they-wish-they-were-even-near-mediocre rappers and a mish-mosh of soft production and the occasional "hard street" beat. Forgettable, floppage. Totally.
"I Really Like It," though, is just sublime, if you ask me. A song so blatantly cheesy packaged in a video that is pure "ether" to an artist's credibility, "I Really Like It" is the kind of sarcastic-gem that VH1's old Awesomely Bad countdowns were designed for. A lowest-common-denominator spin on then-known-as-Puff Daddy's tried and true sampling bend, perpetrated by one of Puff's very own.
Still, the irony remains---Even the worst of musical sludge can sometimes raise a spirit or two. And "I Really Like It," no matter what time of day or mood I'm in, is a song that puts me in a happy place. It's just so downright perky, that it's undeniably a picker-upper. And when everything around you seems to be in dire straits, why not bask your ears in something that's end-to-end cheerful? Even if it's truly a shit sandwich on wax.
The Hobbit = the first Lord of the Rings prequel film, coming in 2012. With the coolest guy working in Hollywood, Guillermo Del Toro, directing. I've never been the biggest LOTR obsessor, but the idea of Del Toro being given commander-duties on the biggest franchise this side of Romero's Dead films (okay, Stretch Armstrong there, but a zombie lover can fantastize with the best of them) is quite pleasing. Interviewing Sir Del Toro shall forever remain a journalistic career highlight; could've talked international horror cinema for hours.
Empire, the best movie magazine around. Damn shame that owning each issue of cinema overload beats the piss out of your wallet. $10 an issue, thanks to importing costs and the such (it's printed out in London). I'm sure the Watchmen story is a doozy; all I've really read thus far have been the pretty-much-daily news bits following the court case and fandemonium.
This weekend, there's a new cute-teen-girl-haunted-by-ghosts-with-long-black-hair flick coming: The Uninvited. While watching the trailer, it only takes a cool 35 seconds, give or take a millisecond, to realize that its nothing more than a brain-drained, PG-13, Hollywood-lessened remake of a solid Asian horror exercise. The list of terrible examples is frightening (for all the wrong reasons): The Eye; Pulse; One Missed Call; Shutter. Remember any one of those? I'd hope not. The only worthy exceptions have been The Grudge (the passable first one, and just-barely the slightly-less-than-passable sequel) and the first of this kind, The Ring, which genuinely won.
And don't even get me started on Alexandre Aja's dreadfully-moronic Mirrors.
The ingredients found in The Uninvited's trailer would all shout "Present!" if the theater its playing in were a high school's homeroom: the above-mentioned ghosts with long dark locks, haunting an attractive, tormented young girl or two, most likely within the walls of a spook-house that was innocently seen as domestically-snug. The ghosts contort and crawl around awkwardly, as if the limbs are twisting and broken. And by trailer's end, a seasoned moviegoer is most likely groaning, "How many times have I seen that shit before?!"
See, and groan, for yourselves (in case you've yet to):
It wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that I won't be seeing The Uninvited this weekend, or any time after (until the DVD hits, potentially). No use in wasting cash on something you know is going to be derivative, and, besides, I think it'd be excruciating having to watch the gorgeous, comedically-gifted Elizabeth Banks unsuccessfully try to act "scary" or "sinister"; it smells of Ryan Reynolds' unconvincing work in that crappy Amityville Horror remake, something foul.
I'd be better off just watching the Korean flick this generic ho-hummer is based on, I thought late last week, which is why I bumped A Tale of Two Sisters to the tippy of my Queue's pecking order the other day. The critical love for Two Sisters, made in 2003 by filmmaker Ji-woon Kim, is across-the-map glowing, some film-heads claiming that it's one of the creepiest movies to have come out within the last decade. That's a bold enough statement for me to be compelled. Sold!
C'mon....All you need is that preview to accept that The Uninvited is merely America's bloodless, overacted, miscast, neutered version.
Having just watched A Tale of Two Sisters, I don't need to actually "see" The Uninvited to know that its source material has been truncated and streamlined; A Tale of Two Sisters is heavier than an anvil hat on the brain. The Hollywood suits would never test the intelligence of the film's teenaged target audience the ways that Ji-woon Kim does here. The last 25 minutes alone had my head spinning and think-box grinding away, trying to decipher the twists and flip-flops that kept coming at me faster than Lost being fast-forwarded. The final shot, before the credits do their thing, brings the explanation home, though I'm still a bit cloudy on a few points that I won't go into here---I'd be better served discussing this flick with somebody else who has seen it, rather than circle-jerking myself off with a one-man analysis.
The skeletal story seems elementary: teenage Su-mi returns home after a stint in a mental insitution, and right off the bat we can tell that's all not well on the homefront. Daddy is shacking up with a stepmother, a replacement for Su-mi's birth-mom who seems to have died years before. Su-mi, defiant and confrontational towards her stepmum, only has one ally, her meekish and quiet sister Su-Yeoun. Before the Su's even know it, supernatural happenings start plaguing the house, sketchy goings-on that cause the stepmom to gradually increase her bitchiness yet leave the father strangely apathetic, ignoring the problems under his roof.
Like all the best Asian horror flicks, A Tale of Two Sisters never rushes itself to get to jump-scenes or gotcha!-moments. Ji-woon Kim lets the very-layered story unravel with real patience and very little music. Really, only about three or four official "scare scenes" are to be found, but that's inconsequential thanks to an overall mood of gloom, remorse, sorrow, and devolving pleasantness. There's also this strong sense of claustrophobia being that the entire movie (save for a few twenty-second instances here and there) takes place in the house. Each room becomes unusually familiar, and seemingly-unimportant objects we can see on dressers and under tables later reveal themselves to be crucial elements.
As for the horror pieces here, one part in particular stands out like a third nipple: it's a dinner scene, the stepmother and father having invited the girls' uncle and his main squeeze over for some supper. Ji-woon Kim plays this one perfectly, lulling the viewer into a state of numbness with an extra-long, one-sided, bizarrely-staged conversation that goes on and on, before suddenly the meal erupts into total mayhem:
A Tale of Two Sisters is definitely one that I'll have to watch again at some point; one sitdown doesn't feel like I'm doing the film justice. The twist(s) that the flick drops toward the end demand deeper looks. And the film's powerful melancholy vice-grip has me thinking that it'll be one I ponder for some days to come.
I may actually need to see The Uninvited sooner than later, come to think. Just to witness firsthand how badly they've sliced and diced Ji-woon Kim's R-rated, cerebral work. Sucks that Paramount Pictures isn't having any early media screenings....though that in itself is a red flag for the film's probably-fecal quality. Oh well.
Finally sat down to watch this one, after months of reading lavish online praise. Another one of these sad cases where a small yet scrappy and well-polished horror flick is dropped in like seven theaters nationwide for only two weeks, before hitting DVD racks with little media attention outside of the niche horror community. (See, Eden Lake. No, really...see it. It's great)
A damn shame, because Rogue is a pretty fun little ride. Shot like a pristine travel video for the Australian outback and acted commendably all around, its a simple survival yarn about boat-ride tourists trapped on a small island that's right smack in the middle of a mammoth crocodile's "territory." One by one, the unlucky "blokes" become croc chow, in the midst of in-crew squabbling and bickering.
And it's, safe to say, the best killer crocodile movie ever made. Not that there's tons of competition out there, or anything. But I feel confident in calling it such. Fuck a Primeval; that ish was wack juice packaged.
Written, produced, and directed by Greg McLean, a nicely-chopped filmmaker who's definitely one to keep peepers on. He was behind the homicidal-Aussie-abducts-and-picks-off-three-travelers film Wolf Creek, which my friends hated and blamed me for their having watched it, but has improved gradually with repeat viewings to become a miniscule dose brutality that I'm quite fond of. Here in Rogue, McLean exhibits similar minimalism with the scares that he showed in Wolf Creek, and it's just as effective, if not more. Very few crocodile attacks are seen, but when they do come, they're out of nowhere and pack a bone-cracking force. Especially one bit involving an irrational father who thinks he's just survived a botched escape plan. Naturally, he's bloody wrong, and the croc chomps down, rips his arm off, throws the man across the river, and proceeds to enjoy a juicy tourist snack. Yummy.
Speaking of the crocodile, it's fuckin' badass. Clearly CGI-made, but used sparingly enough that the computer-animation-usage doesn't look like a video game monster.
As the film gets in its groove, we're led to believe that, in standard horror practice, the bodycount will be staggering. The tourist group has about ten or so people tallied, so there's nothing foolish in thinking at least eight of them will flatline, violently, by film's end. Shockingly, McLean keeps the corpse-pile lean (no Mc); only four meet the croc's machete-like teeth, three of which meeting their makers off-screen. Normally, slim-pickins in the death registry is something to frown upon (greet, don't fear, the reaper), but for some odd reason it feels comfy in Rogue. Reasonable and smartly-plotted. This is more a survival action thing than a full-on monster mash, really.
It feels like a whatever nitpick, but I could've used some more character development here, considering that the kills were miniscule. Not caring about those on screen is tolerable when they're simply present to provide a glorious murder scene; when they're being used as foils for internal conflict and plan-making-kinks, however, I'd prefer to know them a smidge better. And aside from the heroic travel writer and tour guide Kate (short-haired fox Radha Mitchell), I can't recall any ditsinguishing character features from the boat's occupants.
Rogue isn't anything ground-breaking, or even exceptional, and may only appeal to the small faction of heads who love themselves some oversized-creature features. But even if you're just a straightforward fan of suspenseful thrillers, it's a good way to kill 90 minutes of your life. And it's on cable now, so it won't even cost you a nickel. Always welcome.
Plus, like I said earlier, it's the best killer crocodile movie ever. Much better than, say, this:
Though, that does look like something I'd totally watch. Voluntarily, without shame. Smiling, giggling, enjoying.
I mean, saying you'll be "wrestling during Wrestlemania" while walking the Screen Actors Guild awards red carpet, with a hint of humor, and then challenging Chris Jericho outright, is all in good fun.
And then actually going on Larry King's show to debate with Jericho is a somewhat-clever publicity stunt.
But not when you're a month away from (possibly, hopefully, very well could) winning the Best Actor award. The Academy doesn't exactly respect gimmicky, kinda-hokey moves like this. Has he shot himself in the foot here? I'd like to hope not, but fuck if I don't think he has just waved his statue "bye/good," Joaquin Phoenix-style.
I'd love to be proven wrong here, however, come Oscar night. Rourke deserves the prize, and this whole Wrestlemania jazz could blow over and be forgotten within a week. Optimism, employed.
Admittedly, though....it would be rather awesome to watch Rourke flatten Jericho with a top-rope-triggered "Ram Jam." I'd pay to see that (if no-pay-per-view Youtube didn't exist, of course).
.....or, a couple of randoms I'm fond of at the moment:
The uptight, clearly-not-comprised-of-15-year-old-boys TV censors have halted this PETA "you should become a plant-eater" commercial from airing this Sunday during the Super-Steelers-will-whoop-ass-Bowl. It's a bunch of Maxim model-types getting a bit too frisky with assorted vegetables, and it's amazing. Because, in case there's any question, my inner 15-year-old-boy still runs wild, and now I'm feenin' for some broccoli like none other.
Fellatio on a carrot would be one monstrous aphrodisiac, right? You know it would. Stop acting otherwise.
......
And, for those who don't regularly Refresh the homepages of despicable gossip blogs (you're better and stronger-willed than I; back-pats all around), Jessica Simpson has inflated to your-fat-aunt status, and it's kinda gross-looking. But at least it spawned this New York Post comic:
Been mulling over the Academy Awards' "Best Picture" nominations for the last week, and I've realized that if I had the power to select the five nods, it'd look completely different. When I whipped my little reaction post last week, I unfortunately neglected to address this, because the overwhelmed feeling I was overtaken with left me a bit dazed, left to stew in immediate impulses rather than sit with the nominations' list.
But now, some days removed and much freer of thoughts, here's my personal Best Picture nominees list (meaning, the five films I feel should've been nominated, if the Academy wasn't so conventional, voting based off political motivations and "is this a period piece, or about the Holocaust specifically" or whatever questions):
The Dark Knight Slumdog Millionaire The Wrestler Wall-E Milk
See....no singled-out love for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, The Reader, or Frost/Nixon. I almost threw in Revolutionary Road, but I've decided that my liking of that one is more aimed at the performances of Kate Winslet, Leonardo Dicaprio, and Michael Shannon (two of which were snubbed vehemently by the Oscar folk). Doubt almost made it, as well, but the power of my dude Wall-E is all too mighty.
If only I had my own E-vaa to watch the Oscars with, lying on my snug bed.
