Count me in through July 2nd.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
So far, so good.....
A head sliced off by a boat's engine propellers. The body of the show's biggest-named star (albeit a has-been C-lister) cut in half, guts left to dangle in mid-air. And that was just the first episode.
Count me in through July 2nd.
Count me in through July 2nd.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Observe and Report's ending, reconsidered
I've been thinking about the end of Observe and Report for the last few days, bouncing back and forward with my opinion. Ultimately, I've decided that I actually don't like the final resolution, though I won't spoil it here for those who haven't seen the film, since it's opening today and it's hardly 3pm.
When people do see it, though, assuming some will, I'd love to pick the last couple of minutes apart. The problem I'm having is that the entire tone of the film (despicable guy rapidly descending into self-destruction and public endangerment) is kicked to the curb for a last-second reversal of fortune that doesn't feel right. Feels cheap, out of place, pandering to the same conventions that the rest of the film so knowingly spits at. There's a scene that involved a fat flasher/pervert approaching a major female character in slow motion before being gunned down at point blank range, and that's where the film should've ended and credits should've rolled. Or, if an additional moment or two was necessary, writer-director Jody Hill would've been better served to make this scene's aftermath one of imprisonment, not fulfillment. It's a shame, since the slo-mo flasher sequence is damn great, and its climax is sudden and bloody good.
If anybody out there sees Observe and Report this weekend, please hit me so we can engage in a wee bit of debate. I'm still a big fan of the film, though. And I must warn the masses----this isn't a LOL comedy. In fact, I didn't let out a hearty laugh once, but I was engaged throughout and totally down for the cause. It's something different, and hopefully an important change-of-course for studio comedies.
All that being said, I must close this with a confession: I really want my own "Nell."
Cute as hell, sweet and personable. Pure. A smile that could melt a homicidal fool's heart. She's total "wife material." Well played, Collette Wolfe.
When people do see it, though, assuming some will, I'd love to pick the last couple of minutes apart. The problem I'm having is that the entire tone of the film (despicable guy rapidly descending into self-destruction and public endangerment) is kicked to the curb for a last-second reversal of fortune that doesn't feel right. Feels cheap, out of place, pandering to the same conventions that the rest of the film so knowingly spits at. There's a scene that involved a fat flasher/pervert approaching a major female character in slow motion before being gunned down at point blank range, and that's where the film should've ended and credits should've rolled. Or, if an additional moment or two was necessary, writer-director Jody Hill would've been better served to make this scene's aftermath one of imprisonment, not fulfillment. It's a shame, since the slo-mo flasher sequence is damn great, and its climax is sudden and bloody good.
If anybody out there sees Observe and Report this weekend, please hit me so we can engage in a wee bit of debate. I'm still a big fan of the film, though. And I must warn the masses----this isn't a LOL comedy. In fact, I didn't let out a hearty laugh once, but I was engaged throughout and totally down for the cause. It's something different, and hopefully an important change-of-course for studio comedies.
All that being said, I must close this with a confession: I really want my own "Nell."
Cute as hell, sweet and personable. Pure. A smile that could melt a homicidal fool's heart. She's total "wife material." Well played, Collette Wolfe.
Walkin' High on the Moon
Hopefully, I'll be able to catch this one when it plays at the Tribeca Film Festival later this month....wait, fuck am I kidding? I have all the time in the world as of now, so there's no excuse.
Sam Rockwell is a great actor, one of my favorites (catch Snow Angels now on cable if possible, he's shattering in it), so a film starring him and only him for the majority of the runtime is foolproof material. Give it a trailer as wowzer as this one, and then you have the best-looking straight science fiction flick to come out in some time. Aside from Danny Boyle's Sunshine, has there been a great no-frills sci-fi movie in recent memory? I think not.
Here's the trailer for Duncan Jones' Moon (Jones is the son of David Bowie, I read somewhere):
Gives me the fuzzy feeling of 2001: A Space Odyssey, with a nice narcotic musical score. And tons of pristine-looking visuals.
This one's high on the list.
Sam Rockwell is a great actor, one of my favorites (catch Snow Angels now on cable if possible, he's shattering in it), so a film starring him and only him for the majority of the runtime is foolproof material. Give it a trailer as wowzer as this one, and then you have the best-looking straight science fiction flick to come out in some time. Aside from Danny Boyle's Sunshine, has there been a great no-frills sci-fi movie in recent memory? I think not.
Here's the trailer for Duncan Jones' Moon (Jones is the son of David Bowie, I read somewhere):
Gives me the fuzzy feeling of 2001: A Space Odyssey, with a nice narcotic musical score. And tons of pristine-looking visuals.
This one's high on the list.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
A Night with Vinyan; A Buck-Shot to the Senses
I wouldn't call it a beautiful mind exactly. More like a grotesquely-attractive one. A thoughtbox that has twice now managed to leave me in a slightly comatose state after being subjected to its creative, visual, and narrative sides, all at once, twice now. The guy has only made two films, but both shatter all conventional genre tricks, taking their time to stack up the dread and astonished confusion to Jenga Champion heights.
The fella's name is Fabrice Du Welz, a Belgian filmmaker, and I've finally seen his sophomore head-raper Vinyan, after nearly a year's worth of anticipation.
Fabrice Du Welz
After I watched his debut, Calvaire (The Ordeal), early on in my Netflix lifespan, I couldn't shake the cold, distant-from-reality feeling the film left me with. Some idiot writers have dubbed Calvaire the "Gay Chainsaw Massacre," due to its sporadic homo-psychotic scenes and the plot's skeletal cloning of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. While those jackasses trivialized it into a heap of puns, I fell right in Calvaire's existential malarchy trap, knees deep and loving every fucked-up second. At not one point did Du Welz take an expected plot turn, stage a seen-that-before scene. Even when the images made no sense and felt bizarre simply for bizarre's cheap sake, I couldn't help but love the shit. Like this random folk dance sequence, which I'm sure is meant to show the audience that the townsfolk in Calvaire aren't the most trustworthy, but really just comes off as some inexplicable hypnosis. You'll either laugh at the absurdity or be left in unease. Myself, a fascinating mixture of both:
Du Welz won me over with Calvaire, no doubt, so once word spread that the writer-director's next one, Vinyan, is a stylistic leap forward, I instantly become enthralled with the chance of some day soon seeing it. Of course, the film played well at the film festival circuit last year and had heads talking due to its eccentricity and holy-shit final act, which naturally meant it would linger in release purgatory before hitting DVD shelves with zero fanfare. Other than to those such as myself who put ourselves in "the know." All I had to work with was this mesmerizing underwater opening credit sequence, a "Huh" slice of coolness that leaves me with the same bewilderment that the opening credits of Gaspar Noe's Irreversible does:
So what did I get out of Vinyan? A viewing experience that made that of Calvaire seem only satisfactory. Where to begin? With the film's plot, perhaps: Paul and Jeanne (actors Rufus Sewell and Emmanuelle Beart, both quietly dynamic here) are on a vacation near Burma when they come across a tourist video that features a little jungle-living kid that Jeanne swears is their son Joshua, who was lost at sea during the 2004 tsunami and presumed dead. After some debate, Jeanne wins, and the couple doles out their entire life savings to hop on a sketchy boat to the Thai-Burmese border, where the video was shot. As the trip continues into a downward spiral of dead-ends and growing bleakness, the boat's guide gets lost and docks on a nondescript, dark, creepy isle full of silent little naked kids covered in hardened mud and preying around the jungle in stalker-mode.
The little bastards look like children straight out of a National Geographic issue guest-edited by the team from Fangoria. And once the couple's boat becomes off-course and stranded, Vinyan turns into Apocalypse Now crossbred with Who Can Kill A Child? scripted and directed while on an acid trip. That's a seriously twisted and potent elixir, and I'm not fibbing when I say that the final 15 minutes of Vinyan had me paralyzed to my couch. The paralysis first kicked in during this dream sequence that Jeanne has; she's been mentally deteriorating throughout the film, and by the time they're stuck on the tribal island, aka the Fifth Circle of Earthbound Hell, she's totally gone. A walking slab of jelly, only motivated by the sad, tragic hope of finding her obviously-dead son. In this dream, she's surrounded by a group of kids wearing the same red shirt her son wore on the day he was taken by the tsunami wave. Only, the kids' faces are all stretched-out and mask-like, and the camera zooms sideways and in-and-out rapidly as faint screaming sounds (the same ones heard at the tail-end of that above Vinyan opening credits). It's unsettling along the lines of that nightmarish Aphex Twin video for "Come to Daddy." Heebie jeebie central.
Vinyan isn't a film I'd honestly recommend to too many people. I'll be delicately picking and choosing who gets the "You should really watch this" heads-up. If your attention span is that of a pencil and a simple growling stomach makes you stand up and leave the room while a DVD is playing, do yourself a favor and stay the fuck away from this one. It's not meant for you; go watch The Love Guru or something. Du Welz moves this thing along at a snail's pace, but in a good way. I never lost interest, and was rewarded by Vinyan's haunting final act, but the only-marginally-patient watcher will most likely tune out or get bored by the 20-minute mark. If so, I'm sorry. You can't win them all. Only people like me who love this kind of bizarre shit. And also, lovers of intense, stark, gorgeous cinematography and some of the best jungle scenery presentation since Francis Ford Coppola and the already-referenced Apocalypse Now.
It takes some balls and some truly disturbed sensibilities to dream up and then so strongly execute Vinyan's final 15 minutes. But this dude Du Welz has done it rather convincingly. I'd really love to see him get the green-light for an American studio film, just to witness either his un-compromise or disappointing descent into studio politic bend-over bulldonkey. Because there's no way in Hell that he'd get away with making a film such as Vinyan on an American studio's watch.
Unfiltered DVD releases of international cinema, bless y'all.
Vinyan trailer (that actually makes the film seem much more accessible than it is, believe me. Don't be fooled, this is only to give a sharper feel for the film):
The fella's name is Fabrice Du Welz, a Belgian filmmaker, and I've finally seen his sophomore head-raper Vinyan, after nearly a year's worth of anticipation.
Fabrice Du Welz
After I watched his debut, Calvaire (The Ordeal), early on in my Netflix lifespan, I couldn't shake the cold, distant-from-reality feeling the film left me with. Some idiot writers have dubbed Calvaire the "Gay Chainsaw Massacre," due to its sporadic homo-psychotic scenes and the plot's skeletal cloning of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. While those jackasses trivialized it into a heap of puns, I fell right in Calvaire's existential malarchy trap, knees deep and loving every fucked-up second. At not one point did Du Welz take an expected plot turn, stage a seen-that-before scene. Even when the images made no sense and felt bizarre simply for bizarre's cheap sake, I couldn't help but love the shit. Like this random folk dance sequence, which I'm sure is meant to show the audience that the townsfolk in Calvaire aren't the most trustworthy, but really just comes off as some inexplicable hypnosis. You'll either laugh at the absurdity or be left in unease. Myself, a fascinating mixture of both:
Du Welz won me over with Calvaire, no doubt, so once word spread that the writer-director's next one, Vinyan, is a stylistic leap forward, I instantly become enthralled with the chance of some day soon seeing it. Of course, the film played well at the film festival circuit last year and had heads talking due to its eccentricity and holy-shit final act, which naturally meant it would linger in release purgatory before hitting DVD shelves with zero fanfare. Other than to those such as myself who put ourselves in "the know." All I had to work with was this mesmerizing underwater opening credit sequence, a "Huh" slice of coolness that leaves me with the same bewilderment that the opening credits of Gaspar Noe's Irreversible does:
So what did I get out of Vinyan? A viewing experience that made that of Calvaire seem only satisfactory. Where to begin? With the film's plot, perhaps: Paul and Jeanne (actors Rufus Sewell and Emmanuelle Beart, both quietly dynamic here) are on a vacation near Burma when they come across a tourist video that features a little jungle-living kid that Jeanne swears is their son Joshua, who was lost at sea during the 2004 tsunami and presumed dead. After some debate, Jeanne wins, and the couple doles out their entire life savings to hop on a sketchy boat to the Thai-Burmese border, where the video was shot. As the trip continues into a downward spiral of dead-ends and growing bleakness, the boat's guide gets lost and docks on a nondescript, dark, creepy isle full of silent little naked kids covered in hardened mud and preying around the jungle in stalker-mode.
The little bastards look like children straight out of a National Geographic issue guest-edited by the team from Fangoria. And once the couple's boat becomes off-course and stranded, Vinyan turns into Apocalypse Now crossbred with Who Can Kill A Child? scripted and directed while on an acid trip. That's a seriously twisted and potent elixir, and I'm not fibbing when I say that the final 15 minutes of Vinyan had me paralyzed to my couch. The paralysis first kicked in during this dream sequence that Jeanne has; she's been mentally deteriorating throughout the film, and by the time they're stuck on the tribal island, aka the Fifth Circle of Earthbound Hell, she's totally gone. A walking slab of jelly, only motivated by the sad, tragic hope of finding her obviously-dead son. In this dream, she's surrounded by a group of kids wearing the same red shirt her son wore on the day he was taken by the tsunami wave. Only, the kids' faces are all stretched-out and mask-like, and the camera zooms sideways and in-and-out rapidly as faint screaming sounds (the same ones heard at the tail-end of that above Vinyan opening credits). It's unsettling along the lines of that nightmarish Aphex Twin video for "Come to Daddy." Heebie jeebie central.
Vinyan isn't a film I'd honestly recommend to too many people. I'll be delicately picking and choosing who gets the "You should really watch this" heads-up. If your attention span is that of a pencil and a simple growling stomach makes you stand up and leave the room while a DVD is playing, do yourself a favor and stay the fuck away from this one. It's not meant for you; go watch The Love Guru or something. Du Welz moves this thing along at a snail's pace, but in a good way. I never lost interest, and was rewarded by Vinyan's haunting final act, but the only-marginally-patient watcher will most likely tune out or get bored by the 20-minute mark. If so, I'm sorry. You can't win them all. Only people like me who love this kind of bizarre shit. And also, lovers of intense, stark, gorgeous cinematography and some of the best jungle scenery presentation since Francis Ford Coppola and the already-referenced Apocalypse Now.
It takes some balls and some truly disturbed sensibilities to dream up and then so strongly execute Vinyan's final 15 minutes. But this dude Du Welz has done it rather convincingly. I'd really love to see him get the green-light for an American studio film, just to witness either his un-compromise or disappointing descent into studio politic bend-over bulldonkey. Because there's no way in Hell that he'd get away with making a film such as Vinyan on an American studio's watch.
Unfiltered DVD releases of international cinema, bless y'all.
Vinyan trailer (that actually makes the film seem much more accessible than it is, believe me. Don't be fooled, this is only to give a sharper feel for the film):
Joke or not?
I honestly can't figure it out. If there wasn't an actual IMDB page for this, I'd think it was some Funny or Die like joke. But such an IMDB page does exist, so I'm just left befuddled.
Gooby
It's like Teddy Ruxpin and Fozzy Bear were kidnapped by some mad scientist, sliced into feathery pieces, thrown into some mass-expanding life machine, and cast out into the world of tongue-in-cheek family cinema.
God I love the limitless of film.
Gooby
It's like Teddy Ruxpin and Fozzy Bear were kidnapped by some mad scientist, sliced into feathery pieces, thrown into some mass-expanding life machine, and cast out into the world of tongue-in-cheek family cinema.
God I love the limitless of film.
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:
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
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
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Eminem Made Me Angry
Now this is just sad. Upsetting. A cop-out when it could've/should've been a first round knockout. I hate to take the typical "hater" route here, but this is coming from a true Eminem fan, one who wants only for the guy's new music to be great, for both my sanity's and rap-love's sakes. And this is bad, no way around it.
Eminem's new video, "We Made You." It's here, and it's expectedly the same brand of goofy, bouncy, disposable first single he puts out before each of his albums. Part of me had this feeling that Eminem had realized that he could drop a first record produced by DJ Premier and with Jazmine Sullivan on the hook and the shit would still be a smash. He doesn't need lame shit like this anymore....or, does he? This "We Made You" does its job at reassuring fans that Em can still have fun at other celebrities expenses. But, see, the times have changed.....fuck it, watch the video first:
He must've recorded this song at the end of 2008, right? And it was just held by Interscope for time purposes, no? Samantha Ronson and Lindsay Lohan? Sarah Palin? Amy Winehouse? Jessics Alba and Cash Warren? That's just lazy, and obvious, and late. This shit makes "Just Lose It" sound like "Criminal." The main problem here is that celebrity gossip is more accessible and overexposed than ever, between your Perez Hiltons, DListeds, and TMZs; we don't need Eminem to skewer these assholes anymore. Been there, heard that. You can read jokes and slams against celebs on a minute-by-minute basis by simply double-clicking Internet Explorer---what more can Eminem say that we haven't laughed at already when it was presented with much more wit? Any fool with a Blogspot account and tons of free time can be a "first-single-minded Eminem."
Digs at Moby and Christina Aguilera were understandable; they had slighted Em in the press, basically asking for retaliation. Not one person namedropped on "We Made You" has done so; attacking them is unnecessary, kind of desperate. If there was any wit in these verses, however, I wouldn't be as agitated. Lines talking about wanting Jessica Alba's breasts on his mouth are thoughtless. I didn't wait five years for that.
Yeah, he can still ride a beat like none other, even when rapping in this annoying high-pitched British accent. But that's not good enough. This Dr. Dre beat is trash, honestly, and the references to people like Jennifer Aniston and visual jokes about a fat Jessica Simpson are as uninspired as it gets. "Rock Band is the most popular game out, right? Cool, let's have Em rapping on a Rock Band backdrop! Oh, isn't there a new Star Trek movie coming out? Perfect! Em as Spock!" The only somewhat clever idea is giving Eminem the Elvis Presley treatment, but even that comparison is old news.
Please don't tell me that Relapse is going to suck? "Crack A Bottle" still hasn't totally won me over, and now this song hits and misses. I still think that Em has tons of tricks up his sleeve that he's saving for the album, but he's 0-for-2 so far.
Eminem's new video, "We Made You." It's here, and it's expectedly the same brand of goofy, bouncy, disposable first single he puts out before each of his albums. Part of me had this feeling that Eminem had realized that he could drop a first record produced by DJ Premier and with Jazmine Sullivan on the hook and the shit would still be a smash. He doesn't need lame shit like this anymore....or, does he? This "We Made You" does its job at reassuring fans that Em can still have fun at other celebrities expenses. But, see, the times have changed.....fuck it, watch the video first:
He must've recorded this song at the end of 2008, right? And it was just held by Interscope for time purposes, no? Samantha Ronson and Lindsay Lohan? Sarah Palin? Amy Winehouse? Jessics Alba and Cash Warren? That's just lazy, and obvious, and late. This shit makes "Just Lose It" sound like "Criminal." The main problem here is that celebrity gossip is more accessible and overexposed than ever, between your Perez Hiltons, DListeds, and TMZs; we don't need Eminem to skewer these assholes anymore. Been there, heard that. You can read jokes and slams against celebs on a minute-by-minute basis by simply double-clicking Internet Explorer---what more can Eminem say that we haven't laughed at already when it was presented with much more wit? Any fool with a Blogspot account and tons of free time can be a "first-single-minded Eminem."
Digs at Moby and Christina Aguilera were understandable; they had slighted Em in the press, basically asking for retaliation. Not one person namedropped on "We Made You" has done so; attacking them is unnecessary, kind of desperate. If there was any wit in these verses, however, I wouldn't be as agitated. Lines talking about wanting Jessica Alba's breasts on his mouth are thoughtless. I didn't wait five years for that.
Yeah, he can still ride a beat like none other, even when rapping in this annoying high-pitched British accent. But that's not good enough. This Dr. Dre beat is trash, honestly, and the references to people like Jennifer Aniston and visual jokes about a fat Jessica Simpson are as uninspired as it gets. "Rock Band is the most popular game out, right? Cool, let's have Em rapping on a Rock Band backdrop! Oh, isn't there a new Star Trek movie coming out? Perfect! Em as Spock!" The only somewhat clever idea is giving Eminem the Elvis Presley treatment, but even that comparison is old news.
Please don't tell me that Relapse is going to suck? "Crack A Bottle" still hasn't totally won me over, and now this song hits and misses. I still think that Em has tons of tricks up his sleeve that he's saving for the album, but he's 0-for-2 so far.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Netflix Fix -- And Soon The Darkness (1970)
Just the other day, a friend and I were talking about the possibility of ever taking some kind of solo European vacation. One of those trips where its person, alone, exploring a far-off country. Full of self-discovery, adventure, intrigue. But then also a true test of one's survival skills, and street smarts. Personally, the idea of a one-man vacay overseas is rather compelling, though I'm not entirely sure that I'll ever pull the trigger and actually take one. Besides, I've seen enough movies to know how susceptible an American tourist in unfamiliar terrain. The old "fish out of water" plot device is one of the most abused and overused tricks in the thriller genre, with "good" flicks such as Hostel far outweighing the forgettable misfires, like, say, Turistas (anybody?).
And those are just a couple of the recent examples. Tomorrow, in fact, I'll finally get to watch Fabrice Du Welz' Vinyan on trusty DVD, and that's yet another entry into this subgenre. And Soon The Darkness, a largely looked-over British potboiler made back in 1970 by director Robert Fuest, has set the bar for Vinyan Mary-Jane-high.
Loving this poster. Looks a lot like that old Last House on the Left one I've always thought was/is top quality.
A few weeks back, news surfaced of an in-development remake of And Soon The Darkness, starring two starlet-apples in my eye, Amber Heard (Pineapple Express) and Odette Yustman (Cloverfield, The Unborn). The notion of remaking an obscure British film with a pair of America's hottest young actresses immediately got me going; I'd much rather see a little-known foreign throwback get the recognition over yet another iconic slasher series from here in the states.
Prior to the news of an Amber Heard/Odette Yustman sexy sandwich, I'd never heard of the original And Soon The Darkness, so the film instantly hopped into my Netflix. Finally came around to watching it late last night, and I'm glad to opine that its one hell of smart, suspenseful little number. Plays up all of the necessary "fish out of water" puzzle pieces to effective levels of unease.
Cathy (actress Michele Dotrice) and Jane (Pamela Franklin)
....and now, Amber Heard and Odette Yustman. Quite a difference, eh?
The story centers around Jane, a cute, short-haired, innocent-minded college-age tourist from London who has just seen her bicycling trip across France take a mischievous turn. After a verbal scuffle with her wilder, blonde bombshell of a best friend, and travel partner, Cathy, Jane rode off in protest, leaving Cathy alone near woods on the side of a road. But when Jane goes back to check on her friend, Cathy is gone. This leads to an investigation complete with shady strangers giving Jane prolonged stares and speaking in foreign languages that she frustratingly can't understand, and an unearthed murder mystery that brings with it eerie similarities with Cathy.
Now that's how you cut together a trailer.
The film's script (written by fellas named Brian Clemens and Terry Nation) is the real MVP here, a tightly-structured pressure cooker that loves fucking with the audience. His strongest constant-okie-doke is a character named Paul, a suave Frenchman that catches Cathy's eye intitially but then begins to look more sinister by the second. His motives remain unclear, difficult to pin down. It doesn't help the viewer's private-eye side that Fuest consistently flips our perceptions of Paul. We're made to believe that he's taken to Jane out of sympathy, but when he drives near the spot where Cathy disappeared on his motorbike, we see tire tracks next a pair of Cathy's missing panties. Instant connection made. And then later Paul reveals himself to be a detective, yet the head of the local police department claims to have no idea who Paul is moments later.
If And Soon The Darkness was simply a clever whodunit mystery, I would've been happy enough. But Fuest shows flashes of Alfred Hitchcock here that give the film a nice slice of nail-chomping atmosphere, amplifying the isolation of a scared, confused non-local impressively. The subtle creeps, all around. Two scenes in particular achieve a pretty strong anxiety: First, the last time we see Cathy before Jane's investigation begins; as she wakes up alongside the road from leaves rustling, Cathy cautiously begins to pack her belongings and get ready to ride and find her friend, but Fuest uses nifty sight tricks (a pair of panties there one second and gone the next; the sound of spinning bike-tire wheels; switching the camera's point-of-view to inside the bushes peering out at Cathy) to his advantage, and the end product is a damn tense sequence with little sound. Secondly, a scene near the film's end that finds Jane hiding in the closet of a trailer truck as the suspected villain snoops around; its a standard cat-and-mouse setup, but then we're hit with a total "Oh shit!" jump scare that is both revelatory and shock city.
File And Soon The Darkness under "Awesomely Pleasant Surprises." I went into this Netflix Fix hoping to merely meet a personal quota, seeing a film that the remake of which has become an anticipation-item of mine. I wasn't expecting to love this humble British flick as much as I now do. Looks like Amber Heard, Odette Yustman, and who-the-fuck-is-he director Marcos Efron have their work cut out for them. The Heard/Yustman And Soon The Darkness was honestly little more than a hormone-driven must-see, but now I'll be watching with a heavy "They better not fuck this up" microscope.
It's already been said that the remake will relocate the setting from France to Argentina, for whatever that's worth. Now, how about explaining what the hell the title And Soon The Darkness means exactly? The original takes place entirely during the daytime, and the impending nightfall is never referenced in any sort of menacing way, so what gives? It's an awesome title for a film, though. Just wondering, "Why?"
And those are just a couple of the recent examples. Tomorrow, in fact, I'll finally get to watch Fabrice Du Welz' Vinyan on trusty DVD, and that's yet another entry into this subgenre. And Soon The Darkness, a largely looked-over British potboiler made back in 1970 by director Robert Fuest, has set the bar for Vinyan Mary-Jane-high.
Loving this poster. Looks a lot like that old Last House on the Left one I've always thought was/is top quality.
A few weeks back, news surfaced of an in-development remake of And Soon The Darkness, starring two starlet-apples in my eye, Amber Heard (Pineapple Express) and Odette Yustman (Cloverfield, The Unborn). The notion of remaking an obscure British film with a pair of America's hottest young actresses immediately got me going; I'd much rather see a little-known foreign throwback get the recognition over yet another iconic slasher series from here in the states.
Prior to the news of an Amber Heard/Odette Yustman sexy sandwich, I'd never heard of the original And Soon The Darkness, so the film instantly hopped into my Netflix. Finally came around to watching it late last night, and I'm glad to opine that its one hell of smart, suspenseful little number. Plays up all of the necessary "fish out of water" puzzle pieces to effective levels of unease.
Cathy (actress Michele Dotrice) and Jane (Pamela Franklin)
....and now, Amber Heard and Odette Yustman. Quite a difference, eh?
The story centers around Jane, a cute, short-haired, innocent-minded college-age tourist from London who has just seen her bicycling trip across France take a mischievous turn. After a verbal scuffle with her wilder, blonde bombshell of a best friend, and travel partner, Cathy, Jane rode off in protest, leaving Cathy alone near woods on the side of a road. But when Jane goes back to check on her friend, Cathy is gone. This leads to an investigation complete with shady strangers giving Jane prolonged stares and speaking in foreign languages that she frustratingly can't understand, and an unearthed murder mystery that brings with it eerie similarities with Cathy.
Now that's how you cut together a trailer.
The film's script (written by fellas named Brian Clemens and Terry Nation) is the real MVP here, a tightly-structured pressure cooker that loves fucking with the audience. His strongest constant-okie-doke is a character named Paul, a suave Frenchman that catches Cathy's eye intitially but then begins to look more sinister by the second. His motives remain unclear, difficult to pin down. It doesn't help the viewer's private-eye side that Fuest consistently flips our perceptions of Paul. We're made to believe that he's taken to Jane out of sympathy, but when he drives near the spot where Cathy disappeared on his motorbike, we see tire tracks next a pair of Cathy's missing panties. Instant connection made. And then later Paul reveals himself to be a detective, yet the head of the local police department claims to have no idea who Paul is moments later.
If And Soon The Darkness was simply a clever whodunit mystery, I would've been happy enough. But Fuest shows flashes of Alfred Hitchcock here that give the film a nice slice of nail-chomping atmosphere, amplifying the isolation of a scared, confused non-local impressively. The subtle creeps, all around. Two scenes in particular achieve a pretty strong anxiety: First, the last time we see Cathy before Jane's investigation begins; as she wakes up alongside the road from leaves rustling, Cathy cautiously begins to pack her belongings and get ready to ride and find her friend, but Fuest uses nifty sight tricks (a pair of panties there one second and gone the next; the sound of spinning bike-tire wheels; switching the camera's point-of-view to inside the bushes peering out at Cathy) to his advantage, and the end product is a damn tense sequence with little sound. Secondly, a scene near the film's end that finds Jane hiding in the closet of a trailer truck as the suspected villain snoops around; its a standard cat-and-mouse setup, but then we're hit with a total "Oh shit!" jump scare that is both revelatory and shock city.
File And Soon The Darkness under "Awesomely Pleasant Surprises." I went into this Netflix Fix hoping to merely meet a personal quota, seeing a film that the remake of which has become an anticipation-item of mine. I wasn't expecting to love this humble British flick as much as I now do. Looks like Amber Heard, Odette Yustman, and who-the-fuck-is-he director Marcos Efron have their work cut out for them. The Heard/Yustman And Soon The Darkness was honestly little more than a hormone-driven must-see, but now I'll be watching with a heavy "They better not fuck this up" microscope.
It's already been said that the remake will relocate the setting from France to Argentina, for whatever that's worth. Now, how about explaining what the hell the title And Soon The Darkness means exactly? The original takes place entirely during the daytime, and the impending nightfall is never referenced in any sort of menacing way, so what gives? It's an awesome title for a film, though. Just wondering, "Why?"
Broken Record Syndrome: Comedy's Twisted New Danger
As if I haven't voiced enough love for HBO's now-gone Eastbound and Down, let me start this off by saying that the six-part story of Kenny Powers' attempt at reclaiming his "throne" was the ballsiest TV series of the last couple years, and if you missed, "You fucked up den" (to quote Jay Dog from the almighty Whiteboyz). What made the series so special was how the screenwriters (Jody Hill, Danny McBride, and Ben Best) embraced their main character's despicability and never tried making him any more sympathetic than he barely was. In Powers' eyes, he was on a path of redemption, but he was the only person who saw what he was doing as a true positive, other than his psychologically-warped lackie Stevie. Just when you thought the final episode was going to end on a triumphant note for Powers, we found out that his failed life was right back on square one. No easy way out, no cathartic resolution. He was still in the same shitter that he started out in.
Constructing everyman epics around loathesome antiheroes is what Jody Hill does so well. His directorial debut, last year's indie buzz-grabber The Foot Fist Way, showed the flawed promise that Eastbound and Down perfected. Fred Simmons (played by Danny McBride, like "Kenny Powers"), the pigheaded tae kwon do instructor at Foot Fist's center, fancies himself a king in a land of suburban peasants, when in reality he's the biggest court jester around. This sad truth is driven home once Simmons' martial arts hero, Chuck the Truck (a clear Chuck Norris knockoff), comes to town and fucks Simmons' trashy wife and treats his biggest fan as if he's more of a nuisance than a motivation. And once the film ends, we're not left with a man reformed in any way; we're sent off feeling the exact same ill will toward Simmons that he's negatively earned from Scene One. Not to mention, uncomfortably laughing all along.
Fred Simmons vs Chuck the Truck
The Foot Fist Way is slow in spaces, sluggish in pacing. Not all of the jokes hit hard enough, and the overall texture gives the vibe that Hill and company became too confy in the film's mockumentary approach, forgetting to spice up their plate from time to time. Going with a terrible human being for its lead, though, and allowing him to fail, and then fail again, gives the film a nice, sleazy charm.
It's great to see that Hill hasn't abandoned this "moral villain becomes the happy-ending-free antihero" aesthetic with Observe and Report, his first mainstream film that should be at least marginally successful thanks to its A-list star, Seth Rogen. Rogen's demented mall cop character, Ronnie Barnhardt, wishes he could be a legitimate gun-toting police officer, and sees himself as a bigger deal than he actually is. Which would be sad to watch if Ronnie wasn't such an abhorrent scumbag, a racist blowhard much better at spying on sexy mallgoing ladies than catching the perverted flasher showing his chubby belly and man-junk freely in the parking lot. Even though he's totally unable to apprehend the flasher, Ronnie sees this case as his big chance to prove himself and become the hero, and turns a sexual deviant into his own means of salvation. Only, it doesn't work out that way. His sadistic tendencies get the best of him. There's zero self-improvement to be had.
Jody Hill and Seth Rogen
Except for a more pristine look than the peanuts-and-duct-tape The Foot Fist Way (courtesy of a major studio-funded cinematographer) could ever afford, Observe and Report feels right at home alongside Hill's past work, especially Eastbound and Down. Rogen proves that he's more than the schlubby, underachieving stoner with his Ronnie incarnation, mostly shedding his past cuddly, likeable demeanor and putting on a fresh coat of scary and convincingly imbalanced. I can't help but think, though, that Hill conceived this Ronnie Barnhardt with Danny McBride in mind, but then the studio came along and demanded a bigger name, resulting in Hill calling his buddy Rogen. Fortunately, Rogen holds his own, embodying the character's every dirty facet even when it seems like he's just doing his best McBride impersonation at times.
Hill shows no fear. What he's delivered is a '7Scorcese-light throwback that, while not totally successful at capturing that tone, does come off quite like a '70s-loving film student's writing comedy while on a bender. In a good way. You get line-pushing moments ranging from Ronnie taking intercourse-advantage of a drunk girl covered in her own vomit, to skateboard kids getting their skulls bashed in by their own boards, to an Oldboy-style tracking shot fight sequence that has Ronnie fending for survival against a swarm of cops with only a flashlight in his hand. All played for the hearty chuckles, weirdly enough. Hill has repeatedly said that Observe & Report is his attempt to create a "comedic Taxi Driver," a lofty aspiration that, while not entirely fulfilled, shows where the guy's head is at in terms of storytelling and filmmaking. And it's at a place that a lover of nihilistic entertainment such as myself both admires and welcomes.
This generation's "Judd Apatow comedies" (in which Rogen himself is obviously a massive element), while unquestionably great, lack any real sense of danger, any unexpected turns. The routine beats (guy underachieves, he's presented with a life-changing opportunity, and he ultimately emerges a better person) are always hit, and you leave the film content and amused, but not challenged. Hill would hate for that midlevel expectation to be laid upon his stuff; he wants to catch you off guard with images and plot-turns that'll make you feel as if you're watching the wrong film. "Isn't this supposed to be a comedy? Why am I feeling more paralysic than hilarity?" It's a tough trick to execute, making the audience laugh out loud one minute and then shriek in disbelief the next. But Hill seems to have a growing handle on it.
I could only imagine what Hill could do with a horror film, or a straight-up psychological thriller. When a scene such as this represents a perfect ending in your eyes (as it does mine), the sky is the limit as to how fucked up you could make something:
Taxi Driver (avoid watching if you've never seen the film, and go rent it immediately)
Constructing everyman epics around loathesome antiheroes is what Jody Hill does so well. His directorial debut, last year's indie buzz-grabber The Foot Fist Way, showed the flawed promise that Eastbound and Down perfected. Fred Simmons (played by Danny McBride, like "Kenny Powers"), the pigheaded tae kwon do instructor at Foot Fist's center, fancies himself a king in a land of suburban peasants, when in reality he's the biggest court jester around. This sad truth is driven home once Simmons' martial arts hero, Chuck the Truck (a clear Chuck Norris knockoff), comes to town and fucks Simmons' trashy wife and treats his biggest fan as if he's more of a nuisance than a motivation. And once the film ends, we're not left with a man reformed in any way; we're sent off feeling the exact same ill will toward Simmons that he's negatively earned from Scene One. Not to mention, uncomfortably laughing all along.
Fred Simmons vs Chuck the Truck
The Foot Fist Way is slow in spaces, sluggish in pacing. Not all of the jokes hit hard enough, and the overall texture gives the vibe that Hill and company became too confy in the film's mockumentary approach, forgetting to spice up their plate from time to time. Going with a terrible human being for its lead, though, and allowing him to fail, and then fail again, gives the film a nice, sleazy charm.
It's great to see that Hill hasn't abandoned this "moral villain becomes the happy-ending-free antihero" aesthetic with Observe and Report, his first mainstream film that should be at least marginally successful thanks to its A-list star, Seth Rogen. Rogen's demented mall cop character, Ronnie Barnhardt, wishes he could be a legitimate gun-toting police officer, and sees himself as a bigger deal than he actually is. Which would be sad to watch if Ronnie wasn't such an abhorrent scumbag, a racist blowhard much better at spying on sexy mallgoing ladies than catching the perverted flasher showing his chubby belly and man-junk freely in the parking lot. Even though he's totally unable to apprehend the flasher, Ronnie sees this case as his big chance to prove himself and become the hero, and turns a sexual deviant into his own means of salvation. Only, it doesn't work out that way. His sadistic tendencies get the best of him. There's zero self-improvement to be had.
Jody Hill and Seth Rogen
Except for a more pristine look than the peanuts-and-duct-tape The Foot Fist Way (courtesy of a major studio-funded cinematographer) could ever afford, Observe and Report feels right at home alongside Hill's past work, especially Eastbound and Down. Rogen proves that he's more than the schlubby, underachieving stoner with his Ronnie incarnation, mostly shedding his past cuddly, likeable demeanor and putting on a fresh coat of scary and convincingly imbalanced. I can't help but think, though, that Hill conceived this Ronnie Barnhardt with Danny McBride in mind, but then the studio came along and demanded a bigger name, resulting in Hill calling his buddy Rogen. Fortunately, Rogen holds his own, embodying the character's every dirty facet even when it seems like he's just doing his best McBride impersonation at times.
Hill shows no fear. What he's delivered is a '7Scorcese-light throwback that, while not totally successful at capturing that tone, does come off quite like a '70s-loving film student's writing comedy while on a bender. In a good way. You get line-pushing moments ranging from Ronnie taking intercourse-advantage of a drunk girl covered in her own vomit, to skateboard kids getting their skulls bashed in by their own boards, to an Oldboy-style tracking shot fight sequence that has Ronnie fending for survival against a swarm of cops with only a flashlight in his hand. All played for the hearty chuckles, weirdly enough. Hill has repeatedly said that Observe & Report is his attempt to create a "comedic Taxi Driver," a lofty aspiration that, while not entirely fulfilled, shows where the guy's head is at in terms of storytelling and filmmaking. And it's at a place that a lover of nihilistic entertainment such as myself both admires and welcomes.
This generation's "Judd Apatow comedies" (in which Rogen himself is obviously a massive element), while unquestionably great, lack any real sense of danger, any unexpected turns. The routine beats (guy underachieves, he's presented with a life-changing opportunity, and he ultimately emerges a better person) are always hit, and you leave the film content and amused, but not challenged. Hill would hate for that midlevel expectation to be laid upon his stuff; he wants to catch you off guard with images and plot-turns that'll make you feel as if you're watching the wrong film. "Isn't this supposed to be a comedy? Why am I feeling more paralysic than hilarity?" It's a tough trick to execute, making the audience laugh out loud one minute and then shriek in disbelief the next. But Hill seems to have a growing handle on it.
I could only imagine what Hill could do with a horror film, or a straight-up psychological thriller. When a scene such as this represents a perfect ending in your eyes (as it does mine), the sky is the limit as to how fucked up you could make something:
Taxi Driver (avoid watching if you've never seen the film, and go rent it immediately)
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."
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."
Thursday, April 2, 2009
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!"
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!"
Bruno arrives, in unrestricted preview glory
You loved Borat, right? Well, if you didn't then I you must have the sense of humor of Hitler's rotting, worm-housing corpse. Assuming that you don't fall under that distinction, here's the trailer for comedy's walking nerves-and-huge-balls ("Pause," I guess) Sacha Baron Cohen's latest, Bruno.
This is the red band trailer, meaning R-rated, meaning its on some otherness. Just watch:
The fact that Cohen could still fool enough people in this world into thinking he really was this Bruno character and not the star of one of the biggest comedies of the new millenium is a monstrous feat in and of itself. Weirdly, my favorite bit in this trailer may be that all-velcro outfit. This movie is going to kick all kinds of body parts.
Bonus One of Bruno's greatest moments from the egghead-level awesome Da Ali G Show:
This is the red band trailer, meaning R-rated, meaning its on some otherness. Just watch:
The fact that Cohen could still fool enough people in this world into thinking he really was this Bruno character and not the star of one of the biggest comedies of the new millenium is a monstrous feat in and of itself. Weirdly, my favorite bit in this trailer may be that all-velcro outfit. This movie is going to kick all kinds of body parts.
Bonus One of Bruno's greatest moments from the egghead-level awesome Da Ali G Show:
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
The Best Worst: The Video Dead (1987)
If there's a greater joy out there than engulfing your senses in a purely shit film that you hate to love, I can only hope that somebody points me in its direction. That one "feast of banality" can devolve a film lover into a totally blazed pothead minus any actual chronic. A fool suffering from uncontrollable laughter without the presence of a crackerjack stand-up comedian. The guilt never disappears, now, but it's a shame that you permit to wash over you like pig's blood on young Carrie White.
Appreciation for truly awful films seems to be the new black nowadays, and that's just wonderful. Last week, a notoriously terrible movie called The Room (2003) opened in downtown Manhattan for a limited run, thanks to popular demand. I wish I could've caught it; a few months back, there was this great story in Entertainment Weekly discussing The Room's rabid celebrity cult following, stars such as Paul Rudd and Kristen Bell quoting it regularly and namedropping it in interviews. And then there was Best Worst Movie, which premiered out at South X Southwest two weeks ago, which points its light all over 1990's Troll 2, another abysmal piece of wannabe-cinema that even its own cast and crew acknowledge as awesomely-bad.
Bad is all good these days. So with that notion in mind, I've decided to shed some sun on a virtually-unknown little miggle called The Video Dead (1987). The first time that The Video Dead turned me into its tongue-in-cheek slave was back in my late grammar school days. I caught it late one night on the USA Network, when Rhonda Sheer (that lovable party woman with the huge upperbody-knocks) was the host of "Up All Night." If it weren't for the title's "Dead" inclusion, I never would've givent this shit the time of day, but I'm a sucker for zombie films. Can't turn them off, must see them all.
I'd consider myself (even back in those immature years) somewhat of a "zombie film expert," so the fact that I'd had no clue that something called The Video Dead even existed was my first red flag, but, alas, I jumped aboard. From the opening scene, I was under its every command, every beckon. The flick opens up with this random old television set arriving at a humorless writer's house, and of course the dumbass signs for it. And then, in a great bit of character development, he talks to himself, declaring, "I don't even watch TV!" Screenplay written by I HateSubtlety Jones. The box only plays one program (the fictional Zombie Blood Nightmare), and within minutes the film-within-this-shitty-film's walking corpses come through the TV thanks to some special effects that look as if Gore Verbinski could've used the scene as a reference point of exactly what not to do when he shot that awesome ending for his The Ring remake.
Three months later, two annoying, cardboard, very-'80s-looking teenage siblings move into the house, prepping it before their parents arrive. The boy is introduced with a such a lame sight gag that I'm only reminded at how brilliant Shaun of the Dead is for executing a similar touch flawlessly----we see a pair of worndown sneakers shuffling aimlessly through the woods, so we're "supposed" to think that its a zombie, when, TaaDaa!, its our protagonist, Jeff (played by a corpse of an actor, Rocky Duvall, in his worst Corey Haim impersonation).
Let's make a deal: If you can watch this clip in its entirety, I'll buy you a drink, whoever you are, whenever you desire.....sound good? I'm confident that you'll tap out right after Jeff is revealed.
Jeff is hands down one of the least compelling film leads of all time----lifeless, unsympathetic. His sister, Zoe, is slightly more likeable, but not by much. Which makes their impending zombie-triggered conflict all the less interesting. A threat that, I must note, only includes five zombies. Maybe six, I could've missed one. But no more than six, total. My guess, they couldn't afford any more makeup or prosthetics, nor the $100 a day it must've taken to pay for a couple more zombie-actors.
But then, writer/director Robert Scott does something transcendent......he manages to make The Video Dead so inept, so lacking in brain cells, that the film becomes an overachiever without even trying. For somebody who can't appreciate a crap-film, The Video Dead could very well be the slowest, least-magnetic movies ever. Nothing ever happens, except for sluggish exchanges between the siblings, cold-as-ice flirtations between Jeff and the even-more-vapid blonde next door, and an appearance from the most unqualified bounty hunter/hero character Robert Scott could have ever (under)developed. I've seen The Video Dead about five times now, and during each time I've repeatedly questioned myself, "How the hell am I sitting throught this? I can literally feel my intelligence bein insulted, as if that educated side of my brain is either Bart Simpson or Millhouse and this movie is Nelson."
Really, explaining any more of the plot is pointless, since, like I said above, nothing effective ever fucking happens. The following scene is all that needs to be seen for proof: After puffing some of that green stuff, Jeff notices that the robotic buxom blonde on his TV, who is trying to evade "The Garbage Man" killer (who looks like a sloppy, larger Mickey Rooney) in some movie, starts talking to him, seducing him with her non-existent sexual charm. This chick then enters his bedroom and puts the moves on Jeff, who responds like a 12-year-old discovering his first Playboy. Then, she's killed by Sir Garbage, who provides some useless survival tips, needlessly holds the final "R" on "Mirrorrrrr!" and he's never mentioned in the film again. Enjoy this spectacle of divinity:
In a rapturous world, The Video Dead would receive its just due, just as The Room and Troll 2 have recently. I totally understand why it never will---at least those two films aren't paced with the quickness of a turtle addicted to downers. You can have some effortless kicks watching those, thanks to rapid-fire randomness; The Video Dead, on the flipside, moves along at an unbearable clip. You either have to adore zombie joints or cheesy horror, or suffer from insomnia and require a foolproof means of insta-sleep.
I fall into both categories. Thus making The Video Dead a slice of heaven atop my shoulders.
Appreciation for truly awful films seems to be the new black nowadays, and that's just wonderful. Last week, a notoriously terrible movie called The Room (2003) opened in downtown Manhattan for a limited run, thanks to popular demand. I wish I could've caught it; a few months back, there was this great story in Entertainment Weekly discussing The Room's rabid celebrity cult following, stars such as Paul Rudd and Kristen Bell quoting it regularly and namedropping it in interviews. And then there was Best Worst Movie, which premiered out at South X Southwest two weeks ago, which points its light all over 1990's Troll 2, another abysmal piece of wannabe-cinema that even its own cast and crew acknowledge as awesomely-bad.
Bad is all good these days. So with that notion in mind, I've decided to shed some sun on a virtually-unknown little miggle called The Video Dead (1987). The first time that The Video Dead turned me into its tongue-in-cheek slave was back in my late grammar school days. I caught it late one night on the USA Network, when Rhonda Sheer (that lovable party woman with the huge upperbody-knocks) was the host of "Up All Night." If it weren't for the title's "Dead" inclusion, I never would've givent this shit the time of day, but I'm a sucker for zombie films. Can't turn them off, must see them all.
I'd consider myself (even back in those immature years) somewhat of a "zombie film expert," so the fact that I'd had no clue that something called The Video Dead even existed was my first red flag, but, alas, I jumped aboard. From the opening scene, I was under its every command, every beckon. The flick opens up with this random old television set arriving at a humorless writer's house, and of course the dumbass signs for it. And then, in a great bit of character development, he talks to himself, declaring, "I don't even watch TV!" Screenplay written by I HateSubtlety Jones. The box only plays one program (the fictional Zombie Blood Nightmare), and within minutes the film-within-this-shitty-film's walking corpses come through the TV thanks to some special effects that look as if Gore Verbinski could've used the scene as a reference point of exactly what not to do when he shot that awesome ending for his The Ring remake.
Three months later, two annoying, cardboard, very-'80s-looking teenage siblings move into the house, prepping it before their parents arrive. The boy is introduced with a such a lame sight gag that I'm only reminded at how brilliant Shaun of the Dead is for executing a similar touch flawlessly----we see a pair of worndown sneakers shuffling aimlessly through the woods, so we're "supposed" to think that its a zombie, when, TaaDaa!, its our protagonist, Jeff (played by a corpse of an actor, Rocky Duvall, in his worst Corey Haim impersonation).
Let's make a deal: If you can watch this clip in its entirety, I'll buy you a drink, whoever you are, whenever you desire.....sound good? I'm confident that you'll tap out right after Jeff is revealed.
Jeff is hands down one of the least compelling film leads of all time----lifeless, unsympathetic. His sister, Zoe, is slightly more likeable, but not by much. Which makes their impending zombie-triggered conflict all the less interesting. A threat that, I must note, only includes five zombies. Maybe six, I could've missed one. But no more than six, total. My guess, they couldn't afford any more makeup or prosthetics, nor the $100 a day it must've taken to pay for a couple more zombie-actors.
But then, writer/director Robert Scott does something transcendent......he manages to make The Video Dead so inept, so lacking in brain cells, that the film becomes an overachiever without even trying. For somebody who can't appreciate a crap-film, The Video Dead could very well be the slowest, least-magnetic movies ever. Nothing ever happens, except for sluggish exchanges between the siblings, cold-as-ice flirtations between Jeff and the even-more-vapid blonde next door, and an appearance from the most unqualified bounty hunter/hero character Robert Scott could have ever (under)developed. I've seen The Video Dead about five times now, and during each time I've repeatedly questioned myself, "How the hell am I sitting throught this? I can literally feel my intelligence bein insulted, as if that educated side of my brain is either Bart Simpson or Millhouse and this movie is Nelson."
Really, explaining any more of the plot is pointless, since, like I said above, nothing effective ever fucking happens. The following scene is all that needs to be seen for proof: After puffing some of that green stuff, Jeff notices that the robotic buxom blonde on his TV, who is trying to evade "The Garbage Man" killer (who looks like a sloppy, larger Mickey Rooney) in some movie, starts talking to him, seducing him with her non-existent sexual charm. This chick then enters his bedroom and puts the moves on Jeff, who responds like a 12-year-old discovering his first Playboy. Then, she's killed by Sir Garbage, who provides some useless survival tips, needlessly holds the final "R" on "Mirrorrrrr!" and he's never mentioned in the film again. Enjoy this spectacle of divinity:
In a rapturous world, The Video Dead would receive its just due, just as The Room and Troll 2 have recently. I totally understand why it never will---at least those two films aren't paced with the quickness of a turtle addicted to downers. You can have some effortless kicks watching those, thanks to rapid-fire randomness; The Video Dead, on the flipside, moves along at an unbearable clip. You either have to adore zombie joints or cheesy horror, or suffer from insomnia and require a foolproof means of insta-sleep.
I fall into both categories. Thus making The Video Dead a slice of heaven atop my shoulders.
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?
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?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The BW List: My Four Favorite Car-Starring Movie Scenes
For a moment there, I was actually considering the task of writing a “review” of sorts on Fast & Furious, which I was able to check out a couple of weeks back. My outline was in place, positive and negative points spread out over the course of what would’ve been an inevitably overlong six paragraphs. Some puns and one-liners were waiting in the vocabulary wings. But as I started writing the outline into a fleshed out piece, a brutally-honest fact dawned—there is absolutely no point in putting together a critical analysis of Fast & Furious. It’d be a waste of time. Words hanging in thin air, unable to influence or deter. Purely futile.
Four films into the franchise now, the Fast & Furious series is well established. You’ve either been waiting impatiently for this new entry, or you could give to shits less. The gear-heads and adrenaline junkies can’t get enough of the terrible dialogue, subpar acting, over-the-top CGI car chases, and gorgeous Latin women wearing miniskirts and midriff-bearing tank tops. I’m partial to that last aspect (and, trust me, the female sexiness is amplified in this new flick), but otherwise these films don’t do much for me. Was I quite entertained by Fast & Furious? Yes, but that’s only because I’d made a mental decision prior to the ludicrous opening setpiece that I’d go shamelessly along for the goofy, glitzy ride. As Vin Diesel, Michelle Rodriguez, and random newcomer Tego Calderon attempt a three-car takedown on an oil truck in the Dominican Republic, the ridiculousness is set in motion before the film’s title even appears.
If that opening sequence, complete with enough computer graphics to have Michael Bay cheering, doesn’t make you laugh, then the rest of Fast & Furious should please. Besides, you’ll have plenty more chances to giggle at the film’s stupidity. My favorite moment of idiocy? There’s a part where Vin Diesel’s character literally beats Paul Walker’s face in for a good two minutes, but once Diesel stops his pulverizing, all Walker has to show for it is a drop of blood under his nose, which he quickly wipes off. Just Incredible. And asinine. Or, just ass.
Enough of about Fast & Furious itself, though. Like I said earlier, I really don’t see any purpose in a critique. This is one of those films that caters specifically to its demographic and cares about nobody else. And I’m all for movies that know their roles. Just as I know my role—I’m the furthest thing from a car lover, or a grease monkey. Admiring Michelle Rodriguez’ chiseled hotness far outweighs whatever model of automobile she’s driving. I couldn’t even name one car type featured in the film.
While watching, however, I couldn’t but think of some random car-starring scenes from much better movies that I love. Which brings me to this list—--my four favorite film scenes prominently featuring cars. Some are from legitimate auto-centric films, and others merely use the wheels as window dressing. Last week’s “Based on a true story” list was my first-ever of its kind, so I admit that I overlooked a couple films (David Cronenberg’s Dead Ringers and Greg McLean’s Wolf Creek) and suffered a few other kinks. I’m working on that. Hopefully this list is a step in the right direction.
[In no particular order]
Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry’s Open Road Race Against the Police Chopper (1974): Admittedly, I had never even heard of Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry before seeing Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof. Ever the cinephile, Tarantino gave his nearly all-female cast a vast knowledge of cinema, specifically of the “car chase films” 19702 subgenre. Days after seeing Grindhouse, I purchased both Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry and Vanishing Point (1971) just off the strength. This one is mostly a forgettable bore, unfortunately, wasting a super-cool leading man (Peter Fonda) in a stew of sluggish exchanges and too few actual car chases. Two huge redeeming moments in the film’s concluding act manage to salvage some of the wreckage, at least. There’s the abrupt, tragic “shock” ending (which I do love), and then there’s an all-real-machines pursuit that’s pretty awesome. Our three criminal protagonists continue to flee from the law in their lime-green whip, even as the coppers amplify the pressure with a chopper that hovers mere feet above. The sheer ballsiness of the scene alone makes it worth a peek.
Christine, the entire movie (1983): If you’ve never seen a 1980s-made John Carpenter film before, remedy that with the quickness. The Fog, Escape from New York, The Thing, and even the fun-yet-hokey They Live—--they’re all great. The one that is nearest to my heart, though, is the Stephen King adaptation Christine, mainly because it’s one of the few movies my older brother (an avid car appreciator) and I watched together as wee lads. I still see tons of my younger self in Arnie, the nerdy, socially awkward teenager who becomes tragically infatuated with “Christine,” a demonically-possessed red 1958 Plymouth Fury he buys for dirt cheap. Of course, once Christine starts killing Arnie’s bullies with extreme force the comparisons between us cease. But that’s when the film kicks into overdrive, becoming a slasher flick where four wheels replace a machete. You get an annoying fat guy crushed into a wall, and a John Travolta-wannabe chased down a dark, empty highway by an enflamed Christine (a visually-grand sequence). The best scene, though, is much more subtle—Arnie’s best friend tries to break into Christine, when suddenly Little Richard’s “Keep A-Knockin’” starts playing on the radio. Pretty damn clever.
Death Proof’s Fatal Four-Way Crash (2007): Or, as I like to call it, “the best car crash scene ever.” Considering all of the unique touches of creative genius found within Quentin Tarantino’s portfolio, it’s a bit odd that this scene from his half of the criminally-underappreciated Grindhouse has become my all-time top QT moment. “To each his own,” they’ll say. From the moment that Jungle Julia’s requested jam “Hold Tight” (by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich) kicks in and the girls rock out, everything about it gleams like the sinister duck on the hood of Stuntman Mike’s fatality-proof ride. I’ve spent many nights rewatching this scene, taking such a guilty pleasure out of Tarantino’s morbidly-brilliant decision to go for broke and show the deaths of all four women. I swear, there should’ve been a camera on my face as I sat in the theater and basked in this for the first time; the open-mouthed amazement must’ve been
priceless (I’m sick like that). The special effects-free car chase that closes Death Proof is also a stunner, but my money rests on the vehicular homicide extravaganza.
High Tension’s Chainsaw-Through-Windshield Massacre (2003): This one requires a stretching of “car scene” preconceptions, since there isn’t any actual moving automobile to be seen. Rather, you get a stalled vehicle that’s excessively sprayed with blood in one of the grisliest kills of recent years. Alexandre Aja’s Haute Tension (known as High Tension here in America) pulled in strong business out in France, so Lionsgate Films awarded the damn-good horror flick a miniscule stateside release. Besides myself and about ten other people, though, nobody had a clue, and it suffered an early box office demise. At least they didn’t just remake it. It’s a shame, really, because High Tension is infinitely better and more ghastly than any American-made horror film of the last five years. A lazy, ill-conceived plot twist almost spoils the film, but that’s all forgiven once the final, show-stopping spot of gore kicks in—our killer jumping on the hood of a poor stranger’s shitty car, cutting through the windshield, and slicing the guy’s chest open. Red stuff rains over our heroine, frozen with fear in the backseat. As if only showing her blood-splattered face wasn’t enough to drive the 50-second-long carnage home, Aja then provides a close-up of the blades ripping through flesh. It’s the small details that mean the most.
To see that High Tension, click here
Four films into the franchise now, the Fast & Furious series is well established. You’ve either been waiting impatiently for this new entry, or you could give to shits less. The gear-heads and adrenaline junkies can’t get enough of the terrible dialogue, subpar acting, over-the-top CGI car chases, and gorgeous Latin women wearing miniskirts and midriff-bearing tank tops. I’m partial to that last aspect (and, trust me, the female sexiness is amplified in this new flick), but otherwise these films don’t do much for me. Was I quite entertained by Fast & Furious? Yes, but that’s only because I’d made a mental decision prior to the ludicrous opening setpiece that I’d go shamelessly along for the goofy, glitzy ride. As Vin Diesel, Michelle Rodriguez, and random newcomer Tego Calderon attempt a three-car takedown on an oil truck in the Dominican Republic, the ridiculousness is set in motion before the film’s title even appears.
If that opening sequence, complete with enough computer graphics to have Michael Bay cheering, doesn’t make you laugh, then the rest of Fast & Furious should please. Besides, you’ll have plenty more chances to giggle at the film’s stupidity. My favorite moment of idiocy? There’s a part where Vin Diesel’s character literally beats Paul Walker’s face in for a good two minutes, but once Diesel stops his pulverizing, all Walker has to show for it is a drop of blood under his nose, which he quickly wipes off. Just Incredible. And asinine. Or, just ass.
Enough of about Fast & Furious itself, though. Like I said earlier, I really don’t see any purpose in a critique. This is one of those films that caters specifically to its demographic and cares about nobody else. And I’m all for movies that know their roles. Just as I know my role—I’m the furthest thing from a car lover, or a grease monkey. Admiring Michelle Rodriguez’ chiseled hotness far outweighs whatever model of automobile she’s driving. I couldn’t even name one car type featured in the film.
While watching, however, I couldn’t but think of some random car-starring scenes from much better movies that I love. Which brings me to this list—--my four favorite film scenes prominently featuring cars. Some are from legitimate auto-centric films, and others merely use the wheels as window dressing. Last week’s “Based on a true story” list was my first-ever of its kind, so I admit that I overlooked a couple films (David Cronenberg’s Dead Ringers and Greg McLean’s Wolf Creek) and suffered a few other kinks. I’m working on that. Hopefully this list is a step in the right direction.
[In no particular order]
Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry’s Open Road Race Against the Police Chopper (1974): Admittedly, I had never even heard of Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry before seeing Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof. Ever the cinephile, Tarantino gave his nearly all-female cast a vast knowledge of cinema, specifically of the “car chase films” 19702 subgenre. Days after seeing Grindhouse, I purchased both Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry and Vanishing Point (1971) just off the strength. This one is mostly a forgettable bore, unfortunately, wasting a super-cool leading man (Peter Fonda) in a stew of sluggish exchanges and too few actual car chases. Two huge redeeming moments in the film’s concluding act manage to salvage some of the wreckage, at least. There’s the abrupt, tragic “shock” ending (which I do love), and then there’s an all-real-machines pursuit that’s pretty awesome. Our three criminal protagonists continue to flee from the law in their lime-green whip, even as the coppers amplify the pressure with a chopper that hovers mere feet above. The sheer ballsiness of the scene alone makes it worth a peek.
Christine, the entire movie (1983): If you’ve never seen a 1980s-made John Carpenter film before, remedy that with the quickness. The Fog, Escape from New York, The Thing, and even the fun-yet-hokey They Live—--they’re all great. The one that is nearest to my heart, though, is the Stephen King adaptation Christine, mainly because it’s one of the few movies my older brother (an avid car appreciator) and I watched together as wee lads. I still see tons of my younger self in Arnie, the nerdy, socially awkward teenager who becomes tragically infatuated with “Christine,” a demonically-possessed red 1958 Plymouth Fury he buys for dirt cheap. Of course, once Christine starts killing Arnie’s bullies with extreme force the comparisons between us cease. But that’s when the film kicks into overdrive, becoming a slasher flick where four wheels replace a machete. You get an annoying fat guy crushed into a wall, and a John Travolta-wannabe chased down a dark, empty highway by an enflamed Christine (a visually-grand sequence). The best scene, though, is much more subtle—Arnie’s best friend tries to break into Christine, when suddenly Little Richard’s “Keep A-Knockin’” starts playing on the radio. Pretty damn clever.
Death Proof’s Fatal Four-Way Crash (2007): Or, as I like to call it, “the best car crash scene ever.” Considering all of the unique touches of creative genius found within Quentin Tarantino’s portfolio, it’s a bit odd that this scene from his half of the criminally-underappreciated Grindhouse has become my all-time top QT moment. “To each his own,” they’ll say. From the moment that Jungle Julia’s requested jam “Hold Tight” (by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich) kicks in and the girls rock out, everything about it gleams like the sinister duck on the hood of Stuntman Mike’s fatality-proof ride. I’ve spent many nights rewatching this scene, taking such a guilty pleasure out of Tarantino’s morbidly-brilliant decision to go for broke and show the deaths of all four women. I swear, there should’ve been a camera on my face as I sat in the theater and basked in this for the first time; the open-mouthed amazement must’ve been
priceless (I’m sick like that). The special effects-free car chase that closes Death Proof is also a stunner, but my money rests on the vehicular homicide extravaganza.
High Tension’s Chainsaw-Through-Windshield Massacre (2003): This one requires a stretching of “car scene” preconceptions, since there isn’t any actual moving automobile to be seen. Rather, you get a stalled vehicle that’s excessively sprayed with blood in one of the grisliest kills of recent years. Alexandre Aja’s Haute Tension (known as High Tension here in America) pulled in strong business out in France, so Lionsgate Films awarded the damn-good horror flick a miniscule stateside release. Besides myself and about ten other people, though, nobody had a clue, and it suffered an early box office demise. At least they didn’t just remake it. It’s a shame, really, because High Tension is infinitely better and more ghastly than any American-made horror film of the last five years. A lazy, ill-conceived plot twist almost spoils the film, but that’s all forgiven once the final, show-stopping spot of gore kicks in—our killer jumping on the hood of a poor stranger’s shitty car, cutting through the windshield, and slicing the guy’s chest open. Red stuff rains over our heroine, frozen with fear in the backseat. As if only showing her blood-splattered face wasn’t enough to drive the 50-second-long carnage home, Aja then provides a close-up of the blades ripping through flesh. It’s the small details that mean the most.
To see that High Tension, click here
Drag Me To Hell's slightly pornographic/orgasmic poster
Just look at Alison Lohman's face. It's like those demons are getting a little naughty below the poster's spacial restriction. I'm just saying....
The first poster for Sam Raimi's return to horror, Drag Me to Hell
Poster first surfaced at (where the pic is bigger, too): Shock Till You Drop
Condensed, double-sided pic that I've posted first seen at: /Film
Drag Me To Hell is said to be PG-13, sure, but even a PG-13 spin on shit like this is welcome with open arms. Bring it, Sam Raimi. Ready over here:
Evil Dead 2
The first poster for Sam Raimi's return to horror, Drag Me to Hell
Poster first surfaced at (where the pic is bigger, too): Shock Till You Drop
Condensed, double-sided pic that I've posted first seen at: /Film
Drag Me To Hell is said to be PG-13, sure, but even a PG-13 spin on shit like this is welcome with open arms. Bring it, Sam Raimi. Ready over here:
Evil Dead 2
Monday, March 30, 2009
(Lack of) Food for Thought
Pride may not be the real issue here, but there's a certain amount of stock I hold dearly within my fortitude to handle films that "go there." That leave no image of brutality unseen, drop the gauntlet of good taste down fast in order to leave it shattered on the sticky cineplex floor. My stomach is deep, full of room for such harsh visions. So whenever a movie sneak attacks me and leaves me feeling queasy, I have no choice but to stand up and salute. Wave the white flag in the filmmakers' direction. The only time I can recall actually closing my eyes during a scene was when I first saw Inside at Lincoln Center, specifically the infamous-in-these-parts scissors scene at the end. One eye was half open, the other's lid pressed firmly atop the socket, unable to look away. It was a truly harrowing experience.
Steve McQueen
Having just watched Steve McQueen's unbelievably raw Hunger at the IFC Center, I can now shamelessly say that a movie has left me feeling nauseous like I've never felt before, regardless of the setting or my physical/health state. One sequence in particular had this effect, a single take tour-de-force that places the viewer in the midst of some of the fiercest, most inhuman police brutality imaginable. In a TKTK prison in Northern Ireland, back in 1981 (Hunger is based on true events), the British government has imprisoned dozens of Irish "political terrorists" who refuse to obey the Brits' law. The prisoners are on a "no wash" strike, meaning they're all filthy by choice, the walls of their cells caked in hardened, smeared feces. In an effort to enforce their methods with blunt precision, a slew of cops in full armored suits line in a hallway, shields before them and nightsticks in hand. In a bit of ritualistic pounding, they all begin to beat their sticks on the shields. Then, each prisoner is yanked out of their cells, naked, and thrown through the gauntlet of cops, who all take violent swings with their nightsticks as the nude inmate crawls through for survival. Once at the end of the hell-way, each beaten man is violated anally and then left to rot on the floor.
McQueen shoots the scene in one long take, and it's pretty breathtaking. Until this point, Hunger is a rather subdued, controlled film, moving along patiently with little dialogue and plenty of drawn-out in-cell scenes. That's why this police-imposed, one-sided riot is so unnerving. McQueen swoops the camera from prisoner to prisoner throughout the scene, erratic with his hands. Whatever feeling of ease the viewer has had is immediately swallowed up and spit out as if a T-Rex is doing the oral flinging.
I felt the bottom of my throat give out a bit, and the scene wasn't even halfway over. Crazy.
For a first time filmmaker, McQueen achives nothing short of a gargantuan effort with Hunger. Scene after scene, the film is an exhibition of the man's visual gifts. Directly after that aforementioned prison beatdown setpiece, we follow one of the prison's high-ranking officers as he visits his sick mother in a nursing home. It's obviously an attempt to make the viewer sympathize a bit with the mongrels in blue. But then, like the robber who sucker-punches McLovin in Superbad, we're hit with a point-blank execution that I totally didn't see coming. At all. As a result, McQueen had me second guessing his every subsequent move. I was basically the guy's puppet, a plaything that he could trick and blindside however he pleased cinematically.
Fortunately for my senses, the remainder of the film is devoid of random violence. Well, actually, "fortunately" isn't the right word. While never less than stunning, the final act of Hunger is tough to watch without cringing a tad. At this point, our lead, Bobby Sands (played amazingly by Michael Fassbender, who impressed in Eden Lake and will surely impress in Quentin Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds; the guy is one to watch), has decided to kick his freedom-fighting into high gear by organizing a hunger strike within the prison, which 74 other inmates agree to. Now, I'm not sure if what we see from here on out is actually Fassbender, or just some incredibly realistic trickery by McQueen and his cohorts. But if you thought Christian Bale looked sickly in The Machinist, you haven't seen a damn thing yet. Fassbender turns into a breathing skeleton, rib-cage sticking out, every other bone excruciatingly visible. Sands lasted 66 days before succumbing to the emaciation, and if dying of hunger is even half as unbearable and painful as seen on Fassbender here, I'm taking my ass to Outback for lunch tomorrow just to make sure I'm well fed. Damn, does it look like almighty hell.
Michael Fassbender, pre-hunger pains
It's films like Hunger that remind me why I'm so infatuated with cinema, which makes it all the more shameful that it's only playing in one theater in this area. Going largely unknown, looked over, outside of film buffs and critics. Something this delicately made, richly acted, and historically significant deserves a chance, so whenever the DVD streets I highly recommend giving it a go. You might toss up your cheeseburger while watching, but there's no doubt in my mind that you'll finish the film feeling floored. Pedal to the emotional metal.
Put it this way: any film that can turn an overlong scene where a guy mops an entire prison hallway into an intensely hypnotic event isn't fucking around.
The Pain I Felt (While Watching Adventureland)
There's a scene towards the end of Greg Mottola's Adventureland that rampaged my gut harder than I ever expected the film to, and I've been grappling with "why" since I saw this last week.
It's a heartbreaking moment clearly staged with every intention to ring a few tears from the audience, though let's be clear that I didn't cry, at all (I'm a man, dammit! Actually, that defense is moot, since I recently nearly shed some eye water while watching Dear Zachary, thus proving movies can do it to your boy at times). James Brennan, the film's curly-haired, cool customer despite his somewhat dweebish demeanor (played to the nice tee by Jesse Eisenberg), has learned some world-shattering secrets that bring his summer love Em Lewin (Twilight's Kristen Stewart, here proving that she's a solid actress and much more than what that shitty vampire series makes her out to be). Crumbling inside despite his best efforts to hide the exterior pain, James confronts Em on the street in front of her side-guy's house. The scene, lasting no more than a minute, features some wonderful non-verbal emoting by Stewart, her face cringing and contorting in shame and sadness, while Eisenberg rips into her with PG-13-compatible force.
And then it's over, and I was left in a state of sorrowful confusion. As if, I was James, and I was experiencing the first catastrophic heartbreak of my freshly-in-post-college-stage life. A week removed from seeing Adventureland now, I'm pretty sure I know why the scene slugged me as harshly as it did, and the answer lies in Mottola's Superbad follow-up's overall success---how he captures that cliched, rarely executed properly "real life" aesthetic. There's no doubt that Mottola himself (he wrote Adventureland, as well as directed) went through a painfully similar emotion-devastation in his younger years, probably not unlike the scene that plays out between his James and Em characters. Every note rings true. So much good will has been earned for the characters up until this point of collision that watching their blooming love crack is akin to helplessly seeing a best friend go through the relationship ringer. James needs a beer, that you'd gladly buy for him, but that's not a possibility. You're stuck in the theater, and he's trapped in that damaging big screen scene.
On the whole, Adventureland is a pleasant surprise. In no way as hilarious as Superbad, but that's the film's biggest attribute, how it goes for the natural laughs over the sophomoric, sight gag types. How the central romance between James and Em tries with very little effort yet is ultimately better and more believably-plotted than any on-screen romance I've seen in recent times. Sure, the great duo of Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig is totally underused, and that juvenile "Tommy Frigo" friend of James' brings nothing more than obvious "sight gags" that are thankfully minimal but always tone-trivializing. Adventureland isn't without its flaws, and those who fall victim to the "from the guy who brought you Superbad" marketing campaign may leave the film a bit peeved that they weren't served any penis drawings or McLovin-like larger than life characters (though Martin Starr's incredibly awkward "Joel" does try his damndest to be that guy). If you go into the film with an open mind and a a willingness to ride shotgun with Mottola down his memory lane, you'll exit with those warm, fuzzy stomach-knots, reminded of that first or second love and all the ups and downs he/she brought with him/her.
As for that breakup scene in the street, I can't help but be reminded of a certain Senior Year high-school heartache of my own. Mine took place on the phone, while lying on the floor of my bedroom, so it wasn't as publicly vulnerable as that in Adventureland. But it sliced my arteries just as much, if not more, for reasons I'll leave to myself, for now. I'm guessing that those who see the film will have love-less, sucky memory of their own drudged up.
You'll have Greg Mottola, Kristen Stewart, and Jesse Eisenberg to thank for that therapy bill.
It's a heartbreaking moment clearly staged with every intention to ring a few tears from the audience, though let's be clear that I didn't cry, at all (I'm a man, dammit! Actually, that defense is moot, since I recently nearly shed some eye water while watching Dear Zachary, thus proving movies can do it to your boy at times). James Brennan, the film's curly-haired, cool customer despite his somewhat dweebish demeanor (played to the nice tee by Jesse Eisenberg), has learned some world-shattering secrets that bring his summer love Em Lewin (Twilight's Kristen Stewart, here proving that she's a solid actress and much more than what that shitty vampire series makes her out to be). Crumbling inside despite his best efforts to hide the exterior pain, James confronts Em on the street in front of her side-guy's house. The scene, lasting no more than a minute, features some wonderful non-verbal emoting by Stewart, her face cringing and contorting in shame and sadness, while Eisenberg rips into her with PG-13-compatible force.
And then it's over, and I was left in a state of sorrowful confusion. As if, I was James, and I was experiencing the first catastrophic heartbreak of my freshly-in-post-college-stage life. A week removed from seeing Adventureland now, I'm pretty sure I know why the scene slugged me as harshly as it did, and the answer lies in Mottola's Superbad follow-up's overall success---how he captures that cliched, rarely executed properly "real life" aesthetic. There's no doubt that Mottola himself (he wrote Adventureland, as well as directed) went through a painfully similar emotion-devastation in his younger years, probably not unlike the scene that plays out between his James and Em characters. Every note rings true. So much good will has been earned for the characters up until this point of collision that watching their blooming love crack is akin to helplessly seeing a best friend go through the relationship ringer. James needs a beer, that you'd gladly buy for him, but that's not a possibility. You're stuck in the theater, and he's trapped in that damaging big screen scene.
On the whole, Adventureland is a pleasant surprise. In no way as hilarious as Superbad, but that's the film's biggest attribute, how it goes for the natural laughs over the sophomoric, sight gag types. How the central romance between James and Em tries with very little effort yet is ultimately better and more believably-plotted than any on-screen romance I've seen in recent times. Sure, the great duo of Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig is totally underused, and that juvenile "Tommy Frigo" friend of James' brings nothing more than obvious "sight gags" that are thankfully minimal but always tone-trivializing. Adventureland isn't without its flaws, and those who fall victim to the "from the guy who brought you Superbad" marketing campaign may leave the film a bit peeved that they weren't served any penis drawings or McLovin-like larger than life characters (though Martin Starr's incredibly awkward "Joel" does try his damndest to be that guy). If you go into the film with an open mind and a a willingness to ride shotgun with Mottola down his memory lane, you'll exit with those warm, fuzzy stomach-knots, reminded of that first or second love and all the ups and downs he/she brought with him/her.
As for that breakup scene in the street, I can't help but be reminded of a certain Senior Year high-school heartache of my own. Mine took place on the phone, while lying on the floor of my bedroom, so it wasn't as publicly vulnerable as that in Adventureland. But it sliced my arteries just as much, if not more, for reasons I'll leave to myself, for now. I'm guessing that those who see the film will have love-less, sucky memory of their own drudged up.
You'll have Greg Mottola, Kristen Stewart, and Jesse Eisenberg to thank for that therapy bill.
Shutter Island Watch -- Officially starts now
Whether this is the first official teaser poster or just some other form of slick early marketing for the film is inconsequential, honestly. All that matters is that this first look at Shutter Island (the upcoming Martin Scorcese-directed, Leonardo Dicaprio-starring adaptation of Dennis Lehane's amazing book) is fucking awesome. Proves that Scorcese and company are maintaining the book's permeating creep factor, which gives me those damn butterflies inside.
Yeah, Inglourious Basterds has definitely slid down to my number two Must See Film of '09.
***The folks at JoBlo (where this pic was initially seen by yours truly) made a point to reference Session 9, so being the massive loyalist to that film that I am, it's only right that I also call it out. Shutter Island really doesn't have much in common with Session 9, but their similar insane asylum settings is worth pointing out. Also worth pointing out that if you haven't seen Session 9 yet you should march your little ass down to Blockbuster or on to Netflix and remedy that. JoBlo calls it "grossly underrated," and they're not just blowing smoke.
First spotted over at: JoBlo
Yeah, Inglourious Basterds has definitely slid down to my number two Must See Film of '09.
***The folks at JoBlo (where this pic was initially seen by yours truly) made a point to reference Session 9, so being the massive loyalist to that film that I am, it's only right that I also call it out. Shutter Island really doesn't have much in common with Session 9, but their similar insane asylum settings is worth pointing out. Also worth pointing out that if you haven't seen Session 9 yet you should march your little ass down to Blockbuster or on to Netflix and remedy that. JoBlo calls it "grossly underrated," and they're not just blowing smoke.
First spotted over at: JoBlo
Sunday, March 29, 2009
"I'm kind of a big deal."
It was only a matter of time, really. The most quotable movie ever (Anchorman) pilfered by the ever-unimaginative music industry. I'm sure a few rappers have paraphrased our boy Ron Burgundy before (I just can't recall any specific lyrics off top), but never in this way.
Sad part is, I'm not mad at this song. Has "smash" exuding from its mp3 file. A bit too close in tone to "Bust It Baby," but still works.
Flo Rida w/ Ne-Yo "Be On You"
Sad part is, I'm not mad at this song. Has "smash" exuding from its mp3 file. A bit too close in tone to "Bust It Baby," but still works.
Flo Rida w/ Ne-Yo "Be On You"
Friday, March 27, 2009
Nacho Supreme
Keeping this one short and tart. It's late, I'm zonked. Mentally tapped. Had a night of debauchery planned, but all went South (no) thanks to some tardy, unfocused friends. No sweat, though. It was all for the better, since I got to watch the great little Timecrimes (2007; put in minimal theaters in America late last year briefly), a Spanish "time travel" thriller that's smarter than a female MENSA member giving a male road scholar some brains. It's more responsible for my current cranial fatigue than a week's worth of job-doing, no question. Written and directed by a fella named Nacho Vigilondo, Timecrimes is one of those films that vastly impresses from opening frame to closing reel, full of head-spinners, mind-blowers, and tightly-constructed narrative zigs and zags.
It's serious like that.
You basically have this schlubby, everyday-joe middle-aged guy named Hector who sneaks some peeks, using binoculars, at a sexy naked chick in the woods behind his house as his wife is going out to run some errands. The birthday-suit-wearing lady disappears, so, being the voyeuristic perv that he is, Hector heads in the woods to find her, and from here sets off a chain of events that fondles the chronology of time in so many wicked ways that you'd think Vigalondo gets off to calendars that don't have swimsuit-clad chicks splattered throughout. Hector reluctantly enters some sort of time machine being worked on by a random scientist operating within the woods (scientist played by Vigalondo himself), and by doing so Hector embarks on a fucked-up journey where there's three Hectors all trying to not screw up the natural chain of events. It's like Groundhog Day on mean-spirited acid, but instead of the same day being started over and over again, Hector's day never ends, yet still restarts. Heady for days and nights.
Vigalondo must've fine-tuned this script for a good year or two un-distracted, because it's so neatly crafted and hole-less that I have no choice but to hail Sir Vigalondo as "that new Spanish filmmaking dude." Timecrimes is exciting, creepy, surreal, violent, confusing, streamlined, clever, and enigmatic, all at once, never seeming contrived.
Of course, since American film studios suck scrote, a Timecrimes remake is already being developed. I think by David Cronenberg, actually, which is rather promising, in ways. But I can't but wish that Timecrimes was given a bigger stateside theatrical release, for droves of audiences to bask in its dopeness. Filmgoers around these parts would've largely ignored it, naturally, but it deserved a big shot. Bigger than it got.
You should've rented it yesterday. Catch up with yourself, now.
It's serious like that.
You basically have this schlubby, everyday-joe middle-aged guy named Hector who sneaks some peeks, using binoculars, at a sexy naked chick in the woods behind his house as his wife is going out to run some errands. The birthday-suit-wearing lady disappears, so, being the voyeuristic perv that he is, Hector heads in the woods to find her, and from here sets off a chain of events that fondles the chronology of time in so many wicked ways that you'd think Vigalondo gets off to calendars that don't have swimsuit-clad chicks splattered throughout. Hector reluctantly enters some sort of time machine being worked on by a random scientist operating within the woods (scientist played by Vigalondo himself), and by doing so Hector embarks on a fucked-up journey where there's three Hectors all trying to not screw up the natural chain of events. It's like Groundhog Day on mean-spirited acid, but instead of the same day being started over and over again, Hector's day never ends, yet still restarts. Heady for days and nights.
Vigalondo must've fine-tuned this script for a good year or two un-distracted, because it's so neatly crafted and hole-less that I have no choice but to hail Sir Vigalondo as "that new Spanish filmmaking dude." Timecrimes is exciting, creepy, surreal, violent, confusing, streamlined, clever, and enigmatic, all at once, never seeming contrived.
Of course, since American film studios suck scrote, a Timecrimes remake is already being developed. I think by David Cronenberg, actually, which is rather promising, in ways. But I can't but wish that Timecrimes was given a bigger stateside theatrical release, for droves of audiences to bask in its dopeness. Filmgoers around these parts would've largely ignored it, naturally, but it deserved a big shot. Bigger than it got.
You should've rented it yesterday. Catch up with yourself, now.
Where milk comes from.....
Full disclosure: If not for Film Drunk, I would've never been exposed to this video clip. And my life would've been all the darker, emptier for it. So, credit is completely due. Film Drunk is the most consistently funny movie news site on the Net, in my opinion, so get familiar with it. Just a suggestion.
Now, to this video. Speaks for itself. If anybody can figure out what its original source material is, I'll be forever in your debt.
The weekend is much brighter now.....
Now, to this video. Speaks for itself. If anybody can figure out what its original source material is, I'll be forever in your debt.
Film Drunk: "So I had a choice between (A) telling you all about Queen Latifah’s new play-on-words titled rom-com (Just Wright) and (B) posting this clip of a dog milking a goat. You can see how that went. My only criticism is that the goat character is just screaming for some sunglasses and a cigarette. I believe this is actually Brett Ratner’s demo reel."
The weekend is much brighter now.....
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
