.....this is what their films would look/feel like.
As Watchmen's thought-it'd-never-get-here release date keeps getting nearer and nearer, the fever is settling into sweaty anxiety. Further amping the impending awesomeness is this quick teaser for the Tales of the Black Freighter animated-film adaptation, that'll be released straight-to-DVD a couple weeks after Watchmen wrecks shop in theaters.
For the tragically unaware, Tales of the Black Freighter is a horror-action comic strip that unfolds within the Watchmen universe as it is read by a kid who constantly loiters next to a newsstand, and it's hardcore. So hardcore that it demands its own room to breathe, instead of being chopped up and left to disappoint with Zack Snyder's Watchmen flick.
And this moving picture version looks about as dynamite as I'd hoped.
Having yet to see the original 1974 film, I can't say that I'm at all up in arms over this remake, starring Denzel Washington and John Travolta, and directed by Washington's frequent co-pilot Tony Scott (Crimson Tide, Deja Vu, and Man on Fire, as well as the non-Denzel flicks The Last Boy Scout, Domino, and Enemy of the State). The original is said to be greatness, so into my Netflix Queue it goes, and I know that many who love the hell out of that one aren't too pleased about this new take.
Since I'm totally objective on this one, I can't say that I'm too mad at this trailer. Looks every bit like Tony Scott's other films---full of quick camera cuts, flashing lights, kinetic action/violence, and the such. John Travolta seems horribly miscast to me, though; the days of me buying the fat-lady from Hairspray as a badass villain are long gone (remember Face Off, btw? That movie was great times). "My man" Denzel looks as reliable as ever, on the other hand, and it's great to see local Bergen County, NJ hero James Gandolfini doing it big still, post-Sopranos' final episode blackout. The general subway-suspense premise is tapping into my metropolitan sensibilities nicely, and the radio back-and-forth between Washington and Travolta sounds cool.
I'm in, it seems. This has tons of potential. Who knows? Maybe Travolta kills this one ("kill" meaning good, not "kill" meaning bad), or I watch the original and go gaga over it so much that I re-watch this trailer and become infuriated. Seems the original is much more restrained while still providing slick action in bulk, rather than the convulsive feel that this trailer (and Tony Scott's involvement) promise.
The Taking of Pelham 123 (opening on June 12)
For comparison's cause.....here's the trailer for the original, called The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (spelled out numbers....see the difference?):
Okay, based off the trailers alone.....I already like the original better. I'm a 1970s-filmmaking lover, which explains most, but it just looks ten times tougher, if you ask me.
So, I've seen this, up close and personal. Admittedly, though in a pool of shame, I was anticipating the pics with boyish glee. Ms. O'Day is perhaps the hottest blond chick in the game, says I. And I'm not a real blonde-preferring" guy, so that's saying a bunch, I'd think. She's slutty as hell, and far from an ideal role model for little blonde girls, but I'm not a little blonde girl. I'm a 27-year-old dude, and gorgeous chicks with reckless demeanors will never go out of style. Wanna fight about it?
Unfortunately, though, the pictures inside don't cut the cheese for me. Topless shot, included, but overall nothing close to what I'd hoped for. Touched-up beyond belief, even more so than my magazine-employee-self can let slide. Some of the shots look more like smut-paintings than pics-of-a-human-being.
I'm still privately wishing that I could bump into this woman while we're both at the same club, neither one of us quite "sober." Not even a disappointing Playboy spread could squash that.
I should make a point to read that Flight of the Conchords interview, however. That show has become a new favorite.
The ongoing late night debate rages on, and I finally have a definitive answer of mine. I may prefer to watch Conan O'Brien, simply because his brilliantly-sophomoric brand of humor speaks to me (whatever that says about me), I can totally acknowledge that the reigning king of the scene is, and unquestionably will remain, David Letterman.
Just watch how he handled this classic-debacle of an interview with Joaquin Phoenix last night. After doing my nightly flip-through-the-late-night-show-capsules-to-see-what-guests-are-on-each-show ritual, the viewing choice was crystal---Joaquin Phoenix was to be seated next to Letterman, and I immediately knew that televisial crack was afoot. My expectations were exceeded. Whatever Phoenix's current M.O. truly is, whether he's doped up on God-knows-what or performing some bizarre Andy Kaufman-esque art-hoax, I hope he never stops, because so far everything his weird-bearded self has done has been the stuff of entertainment platinum. If its the former, let's just hope it doesn't lead to death's door, of course.
The way Letterman handled this awkward sitdown further proves his dominance. Phoenix says no more 20 words the entire time, and it's captivating. Thankfully, Letterman isn't afraid to bust shots at his guests when they're far from up-to-snuff, and his subtle interjections and silence-fillers hit like darts. Just imagine if this had been Jay Leno instead. I like Leno enough, he seems like a nice guy and all, but he would've never reamed into such a shitty guest with as much confidence as Sir Letterman.
This is the best shit I've seen all week. Enjoy:
If I was one of the many heads involved with Two Lovers, Phoenix's new flick that he was supposed to be promoting, I'd be quite livid. "Any press is good press," they say, but I can't imagine anybody feeling compelled to see a movie that its own star doesn't seem to give two shits about.
UPDATE (2/13/09): I've re-evaluated my thoughts on this one since the other night. Wrote up a new take over at the KING site, if you want to see what my two-days-removed stance is --- KING site, Friday the 13th column post
And there we have it....the new Friday the 13th flick. Seen, absorbed, partially dissected on the way home. There's a bit of an opinion tug-of-war going on here, because there were a slew of elements that I really liked in the film, but just as many, if not more, problems that can't go unaddressed. I think a big issue I have is one that I do acknowledge as somewhat "never happy" in its unfairness, but so be it. Opinions are like my asshole....or something like that.
First, the plot rundown: well, not much in the way of plot here, really, which isn't a surprise, and is actually welcome, being that we're in Camp Crystal Lake. Basically, the Jason Voorhees mythology is the same (his mother went on a killing spree years ago, seeking vengeance against irresponsible camp counselors who let her deformed, handicapped son Jason drown; but Mrs. Voorhees got her head lopped off by the massacre's lone survivor). The only kink here is that somehow water-logged dead-kid Jason came back and watched his mother's execution firsthand, and it fucked his head up royally. As the film's present-day scenario opens, Jason lives in the woods surrounding Crystal Lake, and has a mutual pact with the local townsfolk---don't fuck with me, and I won't fuck with y'all, but whoever intrudes on dude's territory becomes a carving board. Cue the first group of weed-chasing soon-to-be-victims, all offed except for one, Whitney, who goes missing. Two months later, her brother, Clay, goes looking for her, and gets mixed with a new group of poorly-written college kid characters. Then, of course, the bodies pile up Connect Four.
The premise is right, and the stage is nicely set for some inventive carnage. Creative kills are what always made the Friday the 13th films so gruesomely charming, so you'd think director Marcus Nispel and screenwriters Damian Shannon and Mark Swift would go for broke and pull off some holy-shit death scenes, right? Well, you'd be dead wrong, and there's my first major qualm with this flick---there isn't one truly memorable kill scene. Nil. That's a cardinal sin, my friends. Rather than put their thinking caps on and push envelopes like weight, the filmmakers opted to either overuse Jason's trademark machete or simply "pay homage" to some of the franchise's more popular kills, instead of dreaming up their own. Crossbow fires an arrow through somebody's eye-area, as in Part III? Check. Somebody dies while in a bodybag, like in Part VII? You got it, though at least the sleeping bag demise here kinda-cleverly flips it into a non-weapon murder.
This clip shows a tribute paid to Part II, and perhaps the best-employed homage in the entire movie.
Lord knows if I had the chance to scribe this screenplay, I would've spent sleepless night after tired night trying to blow people away with the kill scenes. Sure, a couple of machete slashes would appear, but not the five or so that we see here. Okay, okay---the death by machete splitting right down the center of that one dude's forehead was pretty awesome. Just feels like a slightly wasted opportunity overall.
The second big flaw I couldn't shake was how the filmmakers totally shoot their load all over the screen only 20 minute in, never a good idea. Save the best for last, man. After an opening credit sequence that shows the Mrs. Voorhees beheading, we're thrown right into a condensed, 15-minute Friday the 13th film of its own before the red title card appears. Talk about getting things off on the right foot, too---the mayhem that baghead-Jason causes for the five campers in this section is taut, intense, brutal, and relentless. Had me thinking, Shit, this is going to be even better than I'd hoped if they keep this momentum going. Sadly, nothing else in the remainder comes close to the pre-title-card story. Meaning, it's downhill from there.
Lastly, the biggest nitpick of mine, one that harkons back to the first graph here: this feels absolutely nothing like a Friday the 13th film. Granted, the whole point was to completely relaunch the franchise and give it some new blood, so to speak. I would've loved to have even a second of nostalgic feeling, though. The original films feel wonderfully skeevy, sleazy. Fearless in their absurd abandon and so debauchery-and-graphic-slaughter-filled that they're at times uncomfortable to watch. This new one, however, is too now. Too reliant on heavy industrial music, and an overall atmosphere that feels like the long lost twin of Nispel's Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake.
This Jason Voorhees shares more with that redo's Leatherface incarnation than should've ever been the case, in fact. Both operate out of an underground lair, for example, and that's a massive narrative decision made here that I'm not a fan of in the least. Yes, it makes sense to show where Jason goes when he's not killing everybody in sight, but why does he have to live in a dirty, claustrophobic mineshaft straight out of Horror Movie Cliche 101? Especially when the film is coming right after the more effective mineshaft setting of My Bloody Valentine 3D? Jason here comes across as a devil's reject who couldn't make the A-team against those Hills Have Eyes 2 (the terrible recent sequel) freaks.
I've been nothing but negative so far, so I'm sure this next statement may come across as hypocritical, but fudge it. I didn't hate Friday the 13th, at all. Would I see it again? Sure, why not? I was entertained throughout, and any time some visceral brutality is on screen courtesy of Hollywood's pussy-powered suits I have to salute. Plus, the script knows when to toss in comic relief, and does it well. I'm just too in love with the old-school '70s/'80s style of filmmaking that, when today's talents attempt remakes, I'm a harsh critic to the max. Doesn't help that I've been rewatching as many old Friday installments as possible in preparation, so the tone of those is fresh in my mind.
Undeniable props must be awarded to the casting folks for their choices in women here, though. This could be one of the strongest crop of scream-queen-hotties ever assemled in a single horror flick. Seriously. There isn't one weak-looking spot in the lot. to make matters even better, the three most smoking ones all go topless! You can't beat that with The Bear Jew's bat! America Olivo (recipient of her own Barone's World post earlier today), Willa Ford (yes, the one-time pop singer turned plain-old sex kitten), and Julianna Guill (first time seeing her, better not be the last) nearly steal the show away from Mr. Voorhees in his own shit.
That's Will Ford in the cut-off yellow top, and Julianna Guill seated next to her. Guill is a "stupendous" problem, I swear.
Friday the 13th, ultimately, is an enjoyable-enough horror flick that's unfortunately riddled by way too many missed opportunities. One of those "imagine what this could've been" situations. Like, how lame was the "Jason finds the hockey mask" scene here? You'll (hopefully) concur once you've seen the film. Trust me, though, it's about the weakest possible way Jason could ever get his beloved mask, and the whole scene itself feels painfully tacked on just to have a half-assed backstory for the mask.
The final shot is excruciatingly predictable and lazy-in-inclusion, as well. I won't totally spoil it here, but it shouldn't take a brain surgeon to know that Jason comes back for one last scare, after we're led to believe he's no more. The way the "Gotcha!" moment plays out in this Friday the 13th is insulting, if you ask me. A prime example of the overused scare-then-immediately-roll-the-credits tactic that never works in modern-day horror films, yet keeps being rehashed.
Call me a Tarantino-sweater if you must, and come at me all you wish with that "This isn't 1994, loser, so stop turning all giddy every time Quentin Tarantino puts out a new movie," Tarantino-naysayers. I could give a shit less. Inglourious Basterds' script kicks your ass, and this first official trailer (no longer riddled by Entertainment Tonight's lameness) has me giddier than Lower East Side transgender-types at a Lady GaGa concert.
Can't hardly wait. Counting the days. Utterly ecstatic. Etc. Etc. Etc.
Just watch it, and love it, as I do (August 21 needs to magically reinvent itself as February 21 somehow.....fuck):
Call me crazy, but I'm really digging Brad Pitt's bizarre Foghorn Leghorn accent here, btw. Also, I initially hated the idea of casting Eli Roth (dude behind Cabin Fever and the Hostel films) as Donowitz, aka "The Bear Jew," but he's looking f'n badass now. Watching Roth use that Nazi's skull for batting practice is a thing of savage beauty, my friends.
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Bonus Trailer Fun: Here's the full-length trailer for Angels & Demons, too. The next Tom Hanks/Ron Howard/Da Vinci Code-story-continuing flick that's already ten times better than that film based off this preview alone. So far, I'm loving the creepy, Satanic, religious-conspiracy-gone-sacrificial-corpse-heavy feel. Angels & Demons is a Summer 2009 flick that I was totally expecting to not give a what about, but that's now shifting gears:
Tonight's still the night, when I finally get to watch the blood, machetes, boobies, and hockey masks of the new Friday the 13th. Very excited, and keeping fingers crossed that it doesn't turn out to be another My Bloody Valentine 3D (a slasher reboot that I awaited anxiously, only to be entertained while watching but then left indifferent and forgetful like less than two days after).
Since I've yet to see the actual film, though, I can't offer any feedback, and I have a separate Friday-pegged post idea I'm going to delve into later tonight. The itch to cover it further has been un-scratch-able, so I've been pondering: What Friday item appeals to me the most for the time being?
Answer: the appearance, albeit brief from what I'm speculating, of one America Olivo. A new wondrous face-and-body who apparently has a rather awesome death scene in this new Friday the 13th. The first I'd heard of Olivo, my latest crush-rush, came amidst my fascination of the hopefully-will-be-seen-this-year indie exploitation romp Bitch Slap, a chicks-kick-ass flick that features a bevy of hotties, the hottest being Miss Olivo. Then, I discovered that she has an obscure background in campy horror films, and I was twice attracted, and then came her placement in Friday the 13th, and I was totally at mast. She's also supposed to pop up briefly in Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, which is also nice.
Enough of me talking her up and down, though; all the words and sentiments are best left said via these:
Hopefully this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship/lusting-for.
***She even has her own website, which houses tons more make-me-happy pics: Americaolivo.com
I've still yet to figure out why the Transformers toys and mythology wasn't a larger part of my childhood. See, I was aware of it all, and knew the skeletal basics well enough to get by while my friends would engage in girl-repelling geek debates over who was cooler, Optimus Prime or Soundwave. So for me to sit here and ramble on with reactions to the following characters designs of Devastator and The Fallen as they'll be seen in Michael Bay's forthcoming Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen would not only be dishonest---it'd make your nine-year-old cousin sound like Aristotle while discussing the problems he sees in this Devastator look.
Still, though, I thoroughly enjoyed Bay's first Transformers flick, despite acknowledging all of its faults and exaggerations and blah blah blah. Leap off your high horse, haters, and just enjoy the thing for what it is: a huge-budget eye-orgy of aliens, robots, and Megan Fox. Thus, naturally, I'm pretty excited about this summer's darker, beefier sequel, and that quick teaser commercial seen during the Super Bowl left me content. And these Devastator and The Fallen designs look rather cool to me, so I'm even more anticipatory now.
See for yourselves:
Devastator
The Fallen
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Speaking of Transformers stuff.....this video may have passed you by back when it initially hit. If so, you must watch. It's one of the funnier Youtube-era mock skits I've seen:
I guess I've been a bit too "loyal." Pledging allegiance to a fault.
It's no secret (if you know anything about me) that Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone has been, and still is, a benchmark in my life, in terms of inspiration and enjoyment. Seriously, I can watch any given episode, even lesser ones such as "The Mighty Casey," repeatedly; it's all in the storytelling employed by Serling, Richard Matheson, and Charles Beaumont. Whether otherwordly or grounded in the everyday, the T-Zone stories meshed suspense, fantasy, and underlying social messages so well, so fluidly, that you could just rerun the original eps today and it'd still blow every other television show out of the goddamn boob-tube. No bullshit.
Considering this intense adoration I have for the original show, it should be understandable that I've long been leery of the 1985 reboot, same-named The Twilight Zone.
I'd heard mostly negative chatter, which sounded about right to me---Twilight Zone without Serling seems worse than McDonalds without their glorious french fries (sorry, I submitted to the temptation recently, and it was practically an orgy of the mouth). And then I checked out some clips of 1985-Zone episodes on Youtube, and the ish seemed like a Tales from the Darkside ripoff, meaning, a knock-job of an already-mediocre anthology series. Gone were/still-are the topical awareness of the original series; present were/still-are basic "shocks" and standard horror yarns, stripped of all-important soul and left to sustain as hollow grounds. Which wouldn't be a big deal, truthfully, if it had just called itself anything other than The Twilight Zone.
Plus, the Grateful Dead-orchestrated theme music sucks, as does the opening title sequence---both key elements of the original show. Why keep the Twilight Zone name? I'd wonder to myself, a bit peeved.
Thanks to the Chiller channel, however, I've been able to DVR several episodes now, and I must admit---the 1985 version isn't a total washout. Of course, the storytellers involved couldn't even reload Serling's typewriter, but who can, really? Taken as nothing more than largely-cheesy entertainment, it has its memorable moments. More crappy episodes than stellar ones, but it's at least interesting to see the early work of actors the likes of Bruce Willis and Helen Mirren, as well as directors such as Wes Craven and William Friedkin. I can't exactly call myself a "fan" of the relaunch, though; just somebody who'll now gladly watch the episodes when they come up on Chiller, and then quickly dispose of them off of my DVR memory bank.
All that being disclosed, I now want to post one of the better entries from the 1985 spin, director William Friedkin's (The Exorcist, The French Connection, and recently Bug)intense, great-looking "Nightcrawlers." Unlike nearly every other 1985-Zone story, this one actually has shreds of Rod Serling's original M.O.---namely the "Vietnam war veteran who can't shake the horrors of the war" angle. Some of the best Serling Zone tales dealt with war vets (i.e., the Nazi deathcamp-of-ghosts winner "Death's Head Revisited"), and something tells me that the man himself would've given his prestigiuous thumbs-up to "Nightcrawlers." Even though it's certainly more mean-spirited and violent than traditional Zones.
Check it out if you're intrigued at all, it's a two-parter, but only 20 minutes total; the final five minutes are bad-to-the-ass (No Milk? For the record, I'm a Milk fan, I just didn't feel like saying tired-old "No Brokeback"):
You know why even this successful episode doesn't feel like it's The Twilight Zone? No introduction/conclusion narrations. Nobody could do them like Sir Serling, so I guess they were better off cutting their losses, eh?
By no means am I trying to sound profound here, or as if I'm attempting to elevate something that's simply crude-yet-intelligent comedy into something much deeper. This is just something I've thought about a bit today. So, bare with me.
If this were 1993, I'd be heartbroken right now. In my grammar school days, I was somewhat of a baseball fiend. Played upwards of 120-or-so games a summer on various traveling all-star squads. Watched games, mostly Yankee ones due to a familial bond with the Bronx Bombers, nightly with my pops. Indulged in some innocent games of Wiffle Ball with my dad in our backyard, contests that'd frequently escalate into bitter rivalries of shit-talking and momentary friction (all in good father/son fun, of course). ESPN's Sportscenter morning telecasts accompanied my usually-cereal breakfasts prior to continuing the grade-school-blues, and the baseball game highlights were show-stoppers. Spoon, put down; Cinnamon Toast Crunch, feeling soggy from neglect.
Imagine that version of yours truly, now, waking up for some tasty Apple Jacks goodness, ready to watch good ol' Sportscenter, and being greeted by Alex "A-Roid" Rodriguez openly admitting to past steroid use, six years after the fact and only because his tail is firmly tucked between his legs and now-diminishing Hall-of-Fame dreams. Parts of my baseball-loving soul would've been shattered, deflated. I would've laughed only when my father would vehemently insult A-Fraud, but otherwise I'd be a bit disappointed. Not as much as I would be if it were the almighty Frank Thomas, or Tim Raines (my all-time fave baseball player based off the simple reason that his was the first baseball card I ever held on to), but still scarred.
I reflect on such an imaginary/nostalgic scenarion for one basic reason: the me of 2009 really doesn't give a shit. Gone are the days when I heart-ed baseball and everything about it. And gone are the feelings of slight-idolatry that I projected onto MLB stars. So the fact that A-Rod has been revealed as a steroid user induces a clear "Well, fucking duhhh!" reaction from my brain more than anything else.
The most intriguing aspect of this whole A-Rod mess is something that I'm probably alone in finding such interest, and that's the strangely-perfect timing that the controversy shares with HBO's days-away new half-hour comedy show, Eastbound & Down. A show that I've been totally looking forward to for a pair of months now, since the day when I interviewed its co-creator/co-writer/pilot-director Jody Hill. Our phoner chat was centered around his upcoming Seth Rogen-starrer Observe and Report, but we managed to cover Eastbound & Down some as well, mainly because I had heard about the thing and was highly curious. The way Hill described it left me expecting comedy gold, further proof that the man is pretty awesome at writing laughers full of straight-up pricks, assholes, and douchebags doing little other than being pricks, assholes, and douchebags. It's unapologetic, unsympathetic comedy, and I'm a fan. The first dose of this Jody-Hill-and-friends formula came with last year's little-seen cult fave The Foot Fist Way, which I admired more than adored, and was actually adored by the likes of Will Ferrell, Ben Stiller, and Judd Apatow. Definitely worth a look.
Danny McBride, Jody Hill, and a guy who thinks they're the next big things....so much so that this guy got McBride to ride shotgun with him in this summer's Land of the Lost
So what's the connection with A-Rod, you may be wondering? The plot of Eastbound & Down (executive-produced by Will Ferrell and his creative co-defendant Adam McKay) is one that feels unexpectedly-timely now, in the wake of Rodriguez's image: Danny McBride (show-stealer in Pineapple Express, and Foot Fist Way lead) stars as Kenny Powers, a Johnny Rocker-ish former baseball stud/relief pitcher who earned an unfavorable reputation as a loudmouth, angry, violent scumbag, and who, after having seen his career crumble and public image disintegrate, now has to move back to his random hicktown, North Carolina home and mentor little kids.
It's a premise that screams "laughs on tap," and based off the first episode (which I've had the priv of seeing already, and airs this Sunday, 10:30, on HBO), I'm right as a turn. The Kenny Powers character is truly despicable, cursing people off and acting generally awful at all times. He sports a wicked mullet and an even more-wicked ignorance that shows itself through arrogant slurs and cold-hearted jokes. I don't want to give any jokes away or anything, so I'm trying not to quote it much here, for now. All I can say is---give it a shot, especially if you share a similar sensibility for comedies as I do. It's unlike any television comedy you've seen in a long-ass time....never playing it safe, and resting uncomfortably over the line of good-taste-scrimmage.
In all reality, Alex Rodriguez shouldn't watch Eastbound & Down and start worrying. First of all, he's amassed a large enough fortune that he'll never have to establish residence in a bumblefuck town, like Kenny Powers does. And odds are, this present dilemma of his won't be a career-ender; he'll continue playing, and will still out-earn every other player in the league. The negative ramifications of this situation won't extend past possible Hall-of-Fame "no go," even more/louder BOOs at both home and away games, and a slight ostracizing from his peers. All shitty things, but much better off than Kenny Powers has it.
In an era when more and more superstar, overpaid athletes are watching their once-diesel images get battered and bruised by the performance-enhancing choices they've made years ago, though, Kenny Powers could be seen as a fictional "don't let this happen to you" template for the MLB. Similar to how Randy "The Jam" Robinson should have Vince McMahon's employees fearing their impending twilight years. Of course, Eastbound & Down has no intentions or pretensions to come across this way; this is only a Barone's World perspective. Grains of salt not included.
I'm linking an interview with Danny McBride that I read earlier today over at The Onion's AV Club below, in which McBride says how, while neither himself nor Jody Hill or Ben Best (another of the show's co-writers) really follow sports all that much, Eastbound & Down was inspired by the flood of tarnished baseball-player-images and an influx of fallen-sports-heroes. So it's kind of ironic that this A-Rod shitshow would surface the same seven-day-stretch that their show premieres within.
Or maybe I'm just looking too far into this. Who knows. Whatever. Wanna fight about it?
Bottom Line: I'm saying that you should check out Eastbound & Down this Sunday, for whatever that's worth. This first season is only six episodes long, so it won't require a super-long commitment, and that's always a bonus, no? I'm rooting for Danny McBride/Jody Hill/Ben Best, because I feel like they're really trying to bring something a bit edgier, meaner, happy-ending-less into comedy, and that's pretty damn cool.
So glad to see that some folks out there still share my love for this woman, in a large enough capacity to put her on the front page:
I've yet to see the issue yet, but I filed something for this issue that marks my debut with them. Nothing big or anything monumental, but something I loved doing. And that's really all that matters to me nowadays.
If you're up on this week's big/new film release, then it should come as no surprise that I'm impatiently waiting my chance to see it. By "it," of course, I'm referring to the Friday the 13th "reimagining." Thanks to my favorite job perk, I'll be seeing the flick a couple of days early, on Wednesday night.
The Evolution of Sir Jason Voorhees.....whoever made this is both a scholar and a gentleman
This being the film's release week and all, I've had the Friday films on the brain tons. The Jason Voorhees franchise isn't one that I'm super clingy to, like I am with, say, George Romero's Dead series, but that's not to imply that I'm no fan. On the contrary, I love watching every one of them (save for the totally useless Jason X piece-of-shit). I just realize that, aside from the first one, none of them hold even a shred of suspense, and are all pretty shitty movies. The entertainment and schlock factors are consistently ripe, though, so I'm on the Camp Crystal Lake team.
It's also a welcome change for me in that this new remake is a rarity---a reboot that I'm actually fully in favor of, rather than condemning it as a lazy, unnecessary raping of a stellar original. There's plenty of improvement-room with the Friday the 13th flicks. Hopefully the new filmmakers follow through on such potential.
So, in honor of this weekend's Friday the 13th, I have a couple of related posts in mind. The more personal one, I'll write up on Wednesday before I go see the flick. For now, I've tracked down an awesome Youtube compilation of one person's (who isn't me, though I'm basically in agreement with said person) 40 favorite kills all the kills from the first eight Fridays. I've watched twice already, in a matter of 30 minutes. Sick like that, I am. True story.
It's hilarious....by the time you get to like the 1:45 mark, shit is overboard and cheesy that you can't help but giggle with every subsequent dispatch. There-in lies the charm of the Friday films---so beyond natural mayhem, so deep into slasher extremities that any true horror head sits back and basks in the absurdity.
Pound for pound, Friday the 13th has to be the goriest, most splatter-ific horror franchise of all time. The champ is back.
I'm guessing the majority of heads who visit my little site here aren't aware of this fella yet, so here's a brief catch-up: A new rapper from a suburb on the outskirts of Philadelphia. Discovered off of Myspace by Scooter Braun, a young, respected industry tastemaker based out of Atlanta. Yes, his voice sounds eerily similar to that of Eminem, and it's conveniently lazy to label him as a "wannabe Em" or whatever. Truth of the matter is, though, that he's a totally different artist than the Mathers fellow; Roth's tunes are much more upbeat, without the bitter angst and back-against-the-wall defiance, and he's more frat-boy-from-the-'burbs than slumdog-turned-millionaire. He's all about drinking, smoking, partying, chasing skirts, and occasionally examining self. As a songwriter, he's quite solid, which is proven by his cleverly-titled debut, Asleep in the Bread Aisle, which I heard last week, and highly impressed.
The actual reason why I'm bothering to post his first video on my little site is a different beast, really. Typically, I try not to bring too much of the hip-hop ish onto here, for my own personal reasons. I've had a couple convos with Mr. Roth, though, and I've realized that it'd be foolish for me to not endorse the guy. Why? Because he's me, in a sense. The sense that he's just a everyday White dude who grew up in the suburbs, had the love of a deep family and both parents, and happened to grow up loving and admiring rap music, without ever letting the culture change who he really was/is. Like me, he couldn't relate to a good 80% of what his favorite rappers spoke of (violence, drugs, inner city struggles, etc, etc.), and never approached the foreign subject matter with anything more than an appreciation of lyrical abilities and a out-of-his-norm fascination. Roth represents all the "Matt Barones" of the world in this respect (of whom I know plenty), so for that I must salute the dude. Also helps that he can actually rap well.
I also love knocking back beers and surrounding myself with drunk chicks, so we have that in common, to boot. Though my college experience looked nothing like this. If anything, I would've been the guy checking IDs at the party's entrance while wearing an extra-medium-sized yellow jacket. Instead of the one scooping up that sloppily-inebriated girl off the staircase and "making her feel better." So not fun.
So, yes, I'm an Asher Roth fan. Curious to see who else shares my sentiment here.
Asher Roth - "I Love College" (extra points if you catch the Weezer sample)
Katy Perry, strutting her goods at some party, on some carpet, at some Grammy weekend event. Which party/which carpet/which event is all inconsequential. Looking like this, she could've been auditioning for a role in the next Twilight flick and I'd be infinitely intrigued.
Some of her music qualifies as "guilty pleasure" around these parts; Perry herself, however, is straightforward pleasure, minus any prosecution or defense. Something tells me that she and I would hit it off, too. Oh well, another one of the many "will never happen...get a life, loser" follies.
No, this isn't the one with Laurence Fishburne and Ja Rule. It's the far-superior original, from the brain of the great John Carpenter.
Loving this poster.
I'm opting to just post an awesome clip this time, rather to write an endless stream-of-thought about the flick. It must be said, though, that this is one I've waited far too long to check out, and it now completes my "John Carpenter catalog" domination.
And it's a very-enjoyably barbaric, chest-thumping, fearless action shoot-'em-up-like-heroin show from an era of synth-heavy soundtracks and glowing-red blood spurts. The best of times, in other words. Nobody (for my $$$) has ever used unconventional music in films as amazingly as Carpenter has. This Assault on Precinct 13 clip backs me up:
[What makes this scene so effective is the way that Carpenter sets this little girl character up. The couple of scenes she's in prior to this one feel totally random and unnecessary for the plot's sake, talking with her father in a car about pointless shit. Seasoned viewers should be able to sense that something bad is in her future, however, despite her mundane presence]
Goes to show....just be happy with your basic vanilla cone, kids.
Never have I fancied myself as an actor, or at least as somebody who'd ideally make for a talented on-screen-er. If for a second I ever thought I could do it above-average-capably, I totally would enroll in acting classes and give it a go. I mean, turn on any random cable movie channel and you'll see an average of five terrible actors at any given time, any given day. So I'm sure I could pull off a poorly-written character in some shitty straight-to-DVD horror flick that nobody outside of the genre-obsessive world would ever see anyway. Shit, maybe I should look into this a bit more, huh?
Any acting-rooted dreams of mine stop many day-hallucinations before giving an Academy Award acceptance speech, or anything of the want-to-be-acclaimed-as-an-acting-great such. Well, maybe I should retract that, come to think of it. Because the only real dream/goal/wish that I've ever had centered around being an actor is one that does in fact require a bit of greatness, or at least name-prestige.
You see, I've always harbored this secret desire to be interviewed James Lipton on my very own episode of Inside the Actors' Studio.....
....which is a bit surprising, since I absolutely loathe being the center of attention, anywhere. Hate it when all eyes and ears are honed in on me and what I have to say. Would much rather blend into the wallpaper, buzz about like a fly from wall to wall. Enjoy the perks of a certain locale without having to commandeer the bulk of its entertainment value. But there's something so cool to me about Inside the Actors' Studio. Whenever its on Bravo, I immediately cease all other actions and watch, regardless of the interview subject in question. Whether its Conan O'Brien or Matt Damon or Fran Fuckin' Drescher, I can't help but be captivated.
With this one, zero explanation as to why I'd want to watch is necessary:
Much credit should be given to Sir Lipton, for his disarmingly-relaxed demeanor as an interviewer, and the insane amounts of research he and his staff put in to digging into the actor's hidden past. The interview subjects, even if they're the introverted, quiet type (see James Gandolfini's episode), always give off clear degrees of respect and admiration to Lipton; they realize that this glasses-wearing, soft-spoken-yet-sharply-witty, cinema-encyclopeda sitting before them is a consummate professional. They're in great, experienced hands.
Maybe it's because, through my profession, I'm always the one interviewing people that any chance I have of being interviewed myself is one I welcome with enthusiastically-open arms. For whatever reasons, I strangely enjoy answering questions, especially ones about myself. I'm pretty much an open book, so I can answer any and all inquiries with quick honesty. Add in the fact that on Inside the Actors Studio your responses are being closely studied by an extremely-attentive audience, and my always-erratic confidence would be sky-high while seated next to the dude Jimmy Lipton.
Even Hellboy has been given the privilege.
Say that tomorrow Lipton himself hit my cell to request my presence for an experimental Actors' Studio interview. Something for his freshest crop of acting students, like an interview exercise to test their attention-capacities by enduring a two-hour long Q&A session with some anonymous 27-year-old from Jersey who watches weird films like it's his 9-to-5. I'd be armed and dangerous, packing two "me as an actor" childhood stories that I've never shared before. I'll save both in-detail-recollections for later posts here, but two quick teasers (as if these memories are trailers for Tranformers: Revenge of the Fallen and G.I. Joe or some shit...who am I kidding?): 1) My first thespian-ic moment came in the 4th grade, when I was selected by the faculty of St. Catharine's Interparochial School to play Jesus in the school's annual "Stations of the Cross" play in the church. I did it all....carried a paper-mache cross; consoled which ever female classmate of mine played Mary (probably Jen Bressor). It may have been the best Jesus portrayal this side of Jim Caviezel. Kidding, I'm sure I made Pauly Shore seem like Brando.
2) That same year, my class was involved in the D.A.R.E. program, and as part of our "graduation" ceremony, we had to break off into groups and put on five-minute skits that showed the drugs are bad, mmmkay? life lessons we had learned. I was the goodie-two-shoes kid in the class (sad but true, though not shocking in the least), so I had the genius idea that I'd play the druggie in the skit (like if Paris Hilton played a MENSA member). I also had the honor of conceptualizing the skit and developing the characters. My role ended being "T.J.," the bad-seed dude who tries peer-pressuring a couple of kids into buying pot. My wardrobe: a backwards Raiders cap, a black Raiders coat (Starter, of course), and some of the most stereotypically "thug" dialogue imaginable. Sample, off of memory: "Come on, don't be a loser, man! You ain't cool if you're not doing drugs. Word!"
I share the man's hatred of "custom ringtones," btw.
That's about the extent of my acting expertise. Nevertheless, I'll reach my final hour having never let go of my Inside the Actors' Studio dream. Considering that the likelihood of yours truly ever making it onto James Lipton's grand stage rivals the chances of Dubya Bush ever being considered "misunderstood," though, I'll now take part in a self-imposed-interview, through Lipton's infamous final questions (answered just now right off the top of my head):
1. What is your favorite word? irreversible 2. What is your least favorite word? swagger 3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? uniqueness 4. What turns you off? arrogance 5. What is your favorite curse word? fuck 6. What sound or noise do you love? Gianna saying "I love you, Matt" 7. What sound or noise do you hate? my alarm clock 8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? fulltime screenwriter 9. What profession would you not like to do? taxi driver 10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? "I have a room full of Amerie lookalikes ready to welcome you, Matthew."
...and, as expected, it's Paul Blart: Mall Cop's evil twin brother. The one who gives Paul swirlies and fucks his female friends after beating up Paul's loser friends.
Here's a new (red-band, or "R-rated") trailer that I've been anxiously waiting on for months now. Interviewed the writer/director, Jody Hill, of it for a freelance assignment, and he totally sold the shit out of this one. Declarations such as "inspired by shit like Taxi Driver" led me to believe that the man took Seth Rogen miles away from his comfort zone for a dark, violent, non-safe comedy.
Hill also indulged in some foreign horror geekouts with me (specifically geared around Inside), so needless to say the man is cool as hell in my book. So I'm rooting for him, and I'll be tuned in next Sunday for the premiere of his new HBO series Eastbound & Down, which he co-created, and directed the first episode of. Useless trivia: Hill plays the dude in Superbad who announces to the entire house party that Jonah Hill's character has period blood on his jeans.
Here's Observe and Report, his mainstream directorial debut that's quite far from "mainstream" in terms of tone and recklessness, and that's always welcome:
Hmmmm. Somewhat let down, not entirely disappointed. Not as hilarious-looking as I'd hoped, but I'm still optimisitic. The film's supposed "nihilistic comedy" vibe is apparent, which makes me happy, and Anna Faris is looking finer than ever. And the montage at trailer's end shows glimpses of some fisticuffs and skateboards-to-skulls that give me levels of anticipation-comfort. Most importantly, though, is that I feel like the trailer hasn't spoiled the film's funniest/strongest moments, like too many do; rather, seems like the big shots are being saved for the actual movie. What a notion, huh? If only those behind Quarantine had thought of that before ruining 75%of the flick in the trailer.
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