Women In Peril

[Yes, that third person in is indeed a woman. Hard to believe, right? For about the first 20 pages or so, I kept making sure mentally that she was in fact a 'she' and not a 'he.' My guess is that she bats for the other team, if you know what I mean, but it's never outright stated. Just hinted at in subtle fashion toward the end. But anyway, I digress... ]

Just finished a new comic book. Not sure if this one's even considered a graphic novel, since it came out as one continuous narrative, to the best of my knowledge. Four Women, by a highly-respected fella named Sam Kieth. It's one I'd been put on to, shit, about a year ago now maybe, but finding it in stores and/or online has been tougher than locating Cam'ron in Harlem nowadays. I was recommended it by a friend who swore that its plot and storytelling style were both perfectly up my alley, so naturally I was quite intrigued. Finally tracking it down on the wonderful haven of discount shopping half.com a couple weeks ago, the time had ultimately come for me to experience it for myself.

Quite happy that I did so, now. A swift, entertaining, intense, harrowing and very quick read, filled with twists and character-arch shifts and all that good stuff. It centers on a fateful night where four female friends, three mid-aged and one in her late-teen years, en route to a wedding reception. Their car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, and rather than things remaining dormant 'til sunrise, things naturally go haywire. And why wouldn't they? This is dramatic fiction, dammit. So these two sleazy, greezy, trucker dudes pull up behind them, and proceed to terrorize the shit out of these four helpless dames. Well, helpless is how they first seem, until a couple of them take action with mixed results. I won't divulge what exactly happens, in case others feel compelled to read it, but let's just say its an unhealthy mix of monster truck rallying, stabbing-via-rusty-pole, rape, and shattered friendships. Fun for the whole family.

What makes it so effective is how Kieth structures the narrative here. Who you think is one person eventually flips and proves to be somebody else entirely, and the whole thing is told as our main protagonist sits in a therapist's chair, torn between what her guilt wants her to think happened, and the truth that her heart can't fully accept.

The first thing I thought while reading it was, "Damn, Quentin Tarantino could make the shit out of a movie adaptation." Strong and eccentric female leads, engaging in extended dialogue before enacting some sweet revenge on trashy scum. Cast some of the typically-fine actresses whom QT is fond of, and you'd have my ass in a seat on opening night, for cot-damn sure. If Tarantino ever reads this, I expect producer credits. (Riiiight, like he'd ever in a million years even know this blog existed, let alone read it. But in the fantasy land I live in internally, it's his laptop's homepage. Nerdy, eh?)

Kieth, who also illustrated this comic, should be commended for his paintbrush chops on display, too. I'm no art major, so I won't get all super-pretentious-technical here, but he attacks his canvas with a bit of playful, non-imposing skethces here. Gives it almost a kids-comic-book feel, but it surprisingly works. This isn't a horror story, so trying to cause nightmares with the imagery would prove counteractive. By using such non-threatening art, he's allowed the reader cling to the underlying story going on within the four gal pals, rather than the frequently-horrific goings-on around them. At least that's the impression the art gave me. I could be way off from what others have interpreted the pics as, but who gives a shit. Opinions are, as they say, like assholes.

So, in all, Four Women was a rather worthy reading experience for yours truly. It didn't necessarily rock my world or cause me to engage in deep meditative thought in its aftermath, but I really appreciate the storytelling and true dedication and focus on character over spectacle. It's the kind of story I one day hope to scribe myself, not to mention a tale I'd love to write a screenplay-on-equal-level down the line.

I'd totally push for casting chicks like Kristen Bell, Rosario Dawson, Mila Kunis, and Olivia Thirlby, though. Maybe one or two of them would even make sense for Four Women's characters in reality, but fuck it. My kind of chick flick has tasty eye candy.....Yeah, I should probably work on such pervy tendencies if I'm ever going to make it credibly in Tinseltown. Note to self, made and banked.

Finally: A Promising Horror Sequel?!?!

Copied and pasted from Arrow In The Head, a horror component of the great moviehouse site, joblo.com:

"A couple months ago I mentioned that Julien Maury and Alexandre Bustillo (the team behind the brilliant Inside) may have been in talks with Bob Weinstein and Dimension about continuing what Mr. Zombie had started [with his Halloween]. Now, thanks to an article in Rue Morgue Magazine, we have further confirmation that this is indeed the case! Here’s a brief snippet of what was said:

'It's a proposition we couldn't refuse,” Maury explained and added that he and Bustillo are well aware of Zombie's re-imagining of Michael Myers and they're out to put their stamp on the character, not copy what came before them. "Therefore, our vision will be done with utmost respect, with a continuity of [Zombie's] work but also a real evolution of the world he set in place.'"

.....

I've been anxiously waiting on the news of what the brilliant duo behind Inside would be doing next. Inside was their first flick, and showed more potential than any film debut I've seen in God-knows-how-long, so seeing whether they can avoid the sophomore jinx or not has been quite intriguing for me. At first, they were attached to a remake of Hellraiser, the sadistic S&M horror jawn that brought good ol' Pinhead to the world. But alas, Hollywood is a bunch of pussies and these two dudes had to leave the project because their vision for it was apparently too raw, too evil, and too much. Meaning, exactly what it needed to be.

So the fact that these two guys are now attached to a second Halloween project is a mixed bag for me. On the negative side, I really wish these talented foreign genre filmmakers would be allowed to make their own original stuff here stateside, rather than being forced to handle tired remake and remake-sequels to get their feet in America's doors, sort of speak. But positively, this does mean that Bustillo and Maury are, in fact, coming to our shores, and I'm really optimistic that this will be good times for US horror hounds such as myself.

As for Rob Zombie's original Halloween spin, it tore my opinion in half like Mike Myers machete slash. The first section of the movie was pretty great, showing the demented and disturbed childhood of Myers, and I thought it all worked like gangbusters up until Myers left the insane asylum and headed back to Haddenfield. From that point on, however, Zombie abandoned all originality and basically did a shot-for-shot H-ween redux, and not terribly well. If he had just stuck to his own beginning vision, it could've been great. Introduce a whole new set of characters around Laurie Strode, and cast a different actress in the Strode role, one who could elicit some sense of compassion from audiences just as Jamie Lee Curtis once did. And try to avoid creating such white-trashy characters that the film reeks of Devils Rejects, which is a film I love but should remain its own entity. Zombie relies on this white-trash asthetic way too much.

So when Maury says he wants to stay true to the world Zombie created, I'm a bit concerned. They should just create their own universe and let the bodies drop in it. But still, though, these dudes have sick eyes and used some amazing camera techniques and frame tactics in Inside. Plus, John Carpenter's almighty OG Halloween has arguably the most iconic soundtrack in all of horror; the score of Inside, while far from iconic, is still bloody phenomenal. Nice meshing here, too.

Their "Halloween 2" could be something special. Time shall tell, my sick friends. Time shall tell.

The Hills Have Douchebags

I fucking hate The Hills. Worst show on TV right now, possibly ever. Hell, in my eyes, it is the worst show in the history of television. Totally staged. Boring as can be. Polluted with the biggest jerkoff characters this side of Big Brother.

My roommate is watching it, and being that our Internet connection is in our living room, I have no choice but to feel its wrath of putridity (think I just made up a word there....that doesn't sound like an actual word, right?) as I type away on my trusty laptop.

Spencer Pratt, or whatever his last name is, could quite possibly be the biggest douchebag to ever grace an idiot box monitor. I'd seriously pay a cool $100 just to kick the shit out of him. He could even try fighting back, it'd make no diff. He'd stand no chance against my pent-up rage against his show that has played a mammoth part in destroying pop culture.

I have so many friends who make it a weekly routine to watch this stupid show. Most times, catching every subsequent repeat. And I thought my obsessive viewing of Family Guy reruns was a bit much. Family Guy is like Rasputin compared to The Hills.

....

Oh dear God....some asinine new 'reality' show called Exiled has just come on after The Hills Have Douchebags. Not as ass-awful, but pretty darn close. Why does MTV suck so royally? I remember the days when MTV had quality programming such as Yo! MTV Raps, Dead at 21, The Head, Beavis & Butthead, Liquid TV, The Grind, and shit hosted by one of my first full-on celebrity crushes, MTV veejay Idalis. What a smokin' hot dame she was. My lord.



Remember her? Oh, how I loved thee....

How about this? MTV used to be the home of such genius moments as what you're about to watch. "Back in the days, when I was young, I'm not a kid anymore, but some days I sit and wish I was a kid again....."

A Proper Movie Opening....

I've seen this movie twice now, both advances screenings. The only reason I say that is because I can't say I'm telling people to run out and see it, for the simple fact that its not out 'til October. But trust: it kicks ass. Guy Ritchie is back in his long-gone pure Snatch zone. It may even be better than Snatch, in all honesty.

It's called Rock N Rolla, and I fucking love(d) it. And it has one of the cooler opening sequences that I've seen in a long time. And thankfully, that sequence has been put online by the dude who created it. Check it, it rocks. And rolls. Forgive the corniness. But this credit sequence really sets the tone for the rest of the movie. Of course, you can't agree 'til you actually see the full damn thing, but take my word for it:




Remember the opening credit sequence for Seven? Damn, that was amazing. Any others come to mind? I'll be racking my brain for some quality ones, that's for sure. But for now, nicely done, Rock N Rolla crew.

Very Upset Right Now

Son of a bitch! I really need to kickstart this Hollywood/movie journalist grind into super-duper high gear, because these film festivals are really where it's at.

In the hopefully-not-too-distant future, your boy will be at every one of these, as some sort of job requirement.....Cannes Film Festival....Sundance Film Festival...Toronto International Film Festival....hell, even Comic-Con.

I just realized that not one, but two of my most-anticipated flicks are screening during early-September's Toronto fest, and this means that I'll be forced to read every excited post-screening review online for months until these two French sick-times get U.S. release.



The first is Martyrs, literally a film I'd kill a kitten at this very moment just to watch in the dark confines of a movie theater. I've written about it before here, and having just skimmed through two new reviews surfacing after other film fests, I'm fucking losing my mind in anticipation. Both reviews are raving, ecstatic, all-praising, etc. This movie is going to rock my shit whenever I do finally see it, and boy can I not wait.





I remember when I first started reading about Inside last year on all of my trusty horror movie websites, and how it was consistently flooring every audience it was shown to....same goes for Spain's [Rec]. It's crazy to me just how geeked I'm getting these days for foreign genre cinema. Something tells me I really need to get my fucking passport. It's not a game anymore.

And next.....

[Vinyan]


The second is Vinyan, a flick by a French filmmaker named Fabrice Du Welz who I'm slowly learning more and more about, and I'm intrigued. It seems to be some weird tribal Lord of the Flies merged with Children of the Corn, and seems to be quite badass. But besides the simple truth that its from almighty horror heaven France, my main reason of excitement is that the score is provided by Francois Eudes, the same wizard behind the fucking brilliant music heard in Inside and High Tension. Just absolutely sick, jarring, pulsating, and invigorating tunes that really elevate the tension in these already-gripping movies.



To everybody who will be attending the Toronto International Film Fest, I have three simple words for you and yours:

Middle. Finger. You

Quarantine Watch -- Clip Comparisons

Round two of my official Quarantine Watch 2008....this one is a bit of an overkill on the part of the chap who made it, but keeping in the spirit of my collecting all things [Rec]/Quarantine, it'll due.

Thing is, this one in particular will really only make sense for those who've seen [Rec], which is a very-very select few. Oh well, still being posted for my records.

Black Friday(s)

Back on the scene, after one hell of a weekend down in Atlantic City. Wow.

Remember last weekend when I wrote about getting so drunk that my Friday night was a total blur? Well, multiply that by about 25 and then pour about four shots of Coffee Petron on the top and you have this past Friday night. Like, literally, I've only been able to loosely piece together upwards of 30% of the night through forced memory-digging and random revelation. "I had my hands all over some good-looking girl's ass all night? Sweet!" "It took me almost two hours to find my hotel room within the Borgata? Terrible!" "None of my friends knew where the fuck I was all night? Crazy!" "These mysterious scratches on my right arm happened last night? Possibly from that girl I was kicking it to the whole night? Jesus!"

At least the second night was good times and I was actually present the entire time, fully conscious and aware.

I must admit, however, how much I'm hating the fact that two Fridays in a row I got so polluted (a new term for "drunk" that I learned this weekend, btw) that I'm devoid of any recollection of events. Fortunately nothing that bad happened either time, such as arrests (although I was close that one time) or worse (waking up next to some hog....I just can't get down like that).

Fuckin' Coffee Petron. We've become mortal enemies now. And thus far, the bottle is kicking my ass all the way to kingdom come.

'Til we meet again.....

No Detour Needed Here....

Just finished reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road, first released back in September of 2006. One hell of a book, I must say. It's one of those stories that packs such a hidden wallop on your emotions and senses, you're left almost blindsided with self-directed questions, soul searching, passion for living. Humanity is veered at with a strong sense of duality; the darkest sides of man make you cringe and want to go postal, yet the beauty of true love and bonds give you hope. It's heavy stuff, I tell you.

The aftermath of an unspoken, unknown, mysterious global apocalypse. Buildings are charred, burnt to the ground or abandoned or half-sustained. Mother Nature cries gray tears, dusty gray snowfall and freezing-cold raindrops. The streets look like dust-filled corners of bedrooms. Corpses, mostly decomposed to extreme degrees, clutter the scenery. The lucky few who have survived have been left as shells of humanity---scruffy, scarred, unhealthy, clad in whatever garments they can scrounge up from the corpses they pass. No electricity to keep them warm. Just whatever fires they can muster up outdoors. The majority of those still living have devolved into the most savage degree of man, resorting to cannibalism to maintain breathing and killing whomever crosses their path out of a sort-of self-imposed survival necessity.

But "the man" and his son, "the boy," are two of the 'good guys.' Heading in an uncertain direction that they hope is South, they're hoping to make it to the sea, where they can ideally make an escape from the cruel world they're clinging to reluctantly. All they have is each other. All they need is each other. The boy, optimistic and innocent, yet maturing at a rapid pace. His one and only, his father, is a tortured soul, haunted by dreams of his loving wife who gave up on living and abandonded her family, constantly considering suicide yet harboring such urges at the sight of his dear offspring. If he dies, who'll look after the boy? He'd rather the boy die alongside him, so they can both enter the better place together. But, of course, he can't kill his own flesh and blood.

[I wrote that, btw. I didn't copy and paste from the book cover. I just wanted it to exist understandably as my own synopsis]

There's so much that I'm admiring about this book. It's one of those works of literature that makes a writer, or somebody who even fancies his or herself as one, immediately want to step his or her game up. Drastically. You think, could I ever create such an amazing piece of work, written with such clarity and such a distinct tone and secular vision? It's a National Bestseller and a winner of the Pulitzer Prize, so please believe, I'm not merely blowing smoke here.

McCarthy employs so many unique touches here. Two particularly ring brilliantly for me: 1) Providing no actual names for any of the characters, for instance. In the post-apocalyptic world he's created, mankind is a mere fragment of what it once was, and nobody is special. Nobody is doing better than any others, alas nobody deserves any special distinction. 2) Never breaking the story up into chapters is another. It moves swiftly and urgently, yet is only divided into nut graphs, extended line breaks. It's a reader's equivalent to two love-driven survivors traveling across a barren wasteland with no clear path. They're just moving forward, just as the reader is here.

McCarthy's use of language is also something to behold. Example, explaining the bond between the father and son:
"....each the other's world entire."
The emptiness of their world:
"He tried to think of something to say but he could not. He'd had this feeling before, beyond the numbness and dull despair. The world shrinking down about a raw core of parsible entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds. Things to eat. Finally the names of things one believed to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How much was gone already/ The sacred idiom shorn of its referants and so of its reality. Drawing down like something trying to preserve heat. In time to wink out forever."
Questioning his existence after killing a man to protect his son:
"This is my child, he said. I wash a dead man's brains out of his hair. That is my job."

Those are just examples I'm especially liking at this present moment. There's endless amounts of others. I could say so much more about this book, but I'll leave up to others to seek it out and read it for themselves. There's a movie adaptation coming out in mid-November, starring the great Viggo Mortensen. I doubt it'll better this book, but I have high hopes for it to at least do this work extreme justice. If not, at least the book is here to save itself.

We all travel down our own personal roads. After reading this, I'm fully realizing just how important it is to not take your life journey solo. You'll never make it out alive in the end.

Eat Your Soup

The Soup has officially taken over Family Guy as the funniest show on TV, according to yours truly. It was a tough, bloody fight to the finish, but Joel McHale and his clips emerged victorious.

The Soup's weapons of choice? Stuff like this:

Two Seconds In Heaven

Where would I be without life's simple pleasures. The one-or-two second happening that, for that brief instance, makes life seem like a treasure. Something worth hunting for and worth risking it all to unlock. Something with endless amounts of bounty stuffed deep within its perameters.

**Looking at a picture of Gianna and Nicholas sitting with Uncle Matt on a couch, as the rest of his family sings "Happy Birthday," not caring that Uncle Matt is turning 26, not 12, and that family sing-a-longs are better suited for younger kids, not adult men. But its that unconditional family love that keeps Uncle Matt going, and as they're singing, he's hoping that this same scene will be taking place on his 46th birthday.


**Walking into the front door of my parents' house every Thursday night and being greeted first by Zoey, the world's greatest canine and the one living being in this existence who is always happy to see me, no matter how bad my day was or how much stress I'm under, unbeknownst to those around me. She loves me with such a genuine conviction that I don't see her a four-legged nonhuman, but as an equal. A loved one, loved just as much as any other family member would be.

**Glancing into a mirror and thinking, "Damn, I'm looking pretty good,' knowing that not-so-many years ago the mere thought of a mirror reflection of myself would send chills down my spine. "I've really come a long way, huh? Yes, you have. Now look out, world. Here I come!"

**Tossing my DVD copy of the French horror masterpiece INSIDE into my laptop, just to watch the scene that always sends positive chills down my spine and gets me thinking, "One day, I'll write a scene just as subtle, simplistic, but simultaneously chilling and visceral" as the moment when the heroine emerges from the kitchen, bloodied up and covering the gaping hole in her neck with duct-tape, holding that homemade spear in her hands. Her head peers upward, eyes darting through the camera lens, acting as a cue for the most tribal and charging musical score I've ever heard.

**The moment when my pops says, "Don't forget to call me when you get back to your apartment" every time he drops me off at the NJ Transit station, knowing that he loves me so much that he won't rest easily until he knows for certain that I've arrived back safely and in one piece.

**The instance when my mom and I finish ordering our meals during our frequent weekend mother-and-son weekend dining excursions, knowing that the two of us have a good hour to chit-chat and bond. Even when the conversation is routine and hardly-revealing, it still feels right.

**Thinking back to my freshman year of college, that one random weekend I went back home to reunite briefly with family. My older brother, who I'd always thought saw me as a lame, walked into the kitchen wearing a St. John's University baseball cap. See, SJU was my school of study. He was so proud of me that he voluntarily chose to buy a cap representing the university his younger brother decided to attend.

Life has many more simple pleasures....I'm sure I'll feel inspired to add some more to this in the future. For now, though, these are some of the components to Uncle Matt's happiness.

Without each, I can't even imagine.....

Diggin' in the Fantastic Crates

I'm sure few will disagree with me here, but man did those two FANTASTIC FOUR movies really suck. Bad acting, lame stories, poor scripts, shoddy direction, etc etc etc

Jessica Alba as an invisible woman? WTF? I mean, her sexy factor has declined immensely over the years, peaking with her SIN CITY pole-dancing erotica, but still, the girl will forever be hot in some ways. So why the hell cast her as a gal who fellas CAN'T see? Dumbasses.

But yeah, those flicks were real turds, which makes the fact that this trailer I uncovered on Youtube seems better all the more sad. Handled by the infamous schlock-meister Roger Corman (dude is a veteran and notorious for producing and directing some of the most enjoyably-sleazy and low-grade cinema ever created), FANTASTIC FOUR was actually first turned into a movie way way back in 1994, but assumably because of the film's shitty quality and other ramifications, it was shelved and has yet to see the light of day. Fortunately, this trailer is available, and damn do I wish I could've seen this version over the two terrible ones we were cursed with. Enjoy the cheese:

Reading really is fundamental....who knew?!

If I truly want to be the unabashed cinephile that I long to be seen as, there's one crucial missing piece to the puzzle, and thankfully, I've realized it. And now, it's time ro remedy this dilemma.

So many movies, particularly ones currently in production or on the eve of release that I'm anticipating like Amy Winehouse does the crack, originate from books. You know, those hardcover/paperback collections of narrative pages and literature that I've neglected for far too long, opting for magazine stories and more recently comic books/graphic novels. The graphic novels are here to stay, as are mag pieces, but now I'm adding the fiction prose into the mix. I'm pretty geeked, too. Barnes & Noble is such an untapped resource, I'm envisioning many a dollar bill being dropped within its walls from here on out.

I started my first entry into this personal renaissance earlier tonight, and I'm alredy halfway through it, because it's fucking amazing so far:

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

The reason why this is my first choice is because its the source material for a new movie coming around Thanksgiving that looks pretty great, and I keep hearing how stellar the book is, Pulitzer Prize and all. Plus, McCarthy wrote the No Country for Old Men book, and that movie rocked my world, so now seeing how briliant a scribe he is, I'll have to go back and read No Country, the book, now, and hope that the Coen Brothers' take won't become totally inferior as a result.

But yeah, The Road is really some breathtaking reading, and I'll report back with a full post-game report on it once I'm done. Which, at the rate I'm going, could be like tomorrow or Thursday night.

And I'm totally open to book suggestions, if anybody wants to drop a note with some recommendations. Any and everything, other than lame romance novels that my mom would read. Clarification: if Fabio is on the cover, please keep the fact that you actually liked said book to yourself. Reps should grow bigger, not deplete.

No Thanks

Whoever said "chivalry is dead" is probably just as big an asshole as all of these people who refuse to acknowledge it when its presented her/his way. A bit harsh? Perhaps, but in my experiences, at least, the majority of the people in this world wouldn't know an unnecessarily-kind gesture if it politely smacked them in the face. Excuse me..."this world" should be replaced with "New York City and the northern parts of New Jersey,' my common dwellings and the places where I unconsciously go out of my way to be courteous, but rarely am shown love back for it.

Maybe it's a bit self-important to feel this way, but I ponder: is it that difficult to say 'thank you' to somebody who holds open a door for you? Especially when this door-holding lad has been holding said door for a good 10 or more seconds, having seen you approach yet wasting a good 12 seconds his day to spare you the chore of opening said door yourself? I think not. But alas, people seem to have some sort of allergic reaction to acknowledging when I do such an act for them, and it's pretty astonishing to me.

Here, good ol' me, who says "thank you" and salutations of the such more often than I probably should. Maybe I'm a chump for doing so, who the hell knows. It just comes naturally to me, I guess it's good parenting on my 'rents behalf, or just some internal inclination to go about my days as positively as humanly possible.

But it's wearing thin on me, this lack of respect from fellow pedestrians. Not to say I'm going to stop holding doors for people, or allowing people to go ahead of me on lines if we both arrive at the line's end at the same second. I'll surely just continue to let the resentment fester inside, 'til one day I unexpectedly slam a door right on some asshole's face. I can picture it now: as the hard door surface smashes into his nose, busting it open for a stream of red to pour out like somebody bit into a juicy chocolate-covered cherry, I'll stand there, Joker-like grin from cheeck to cheek. And then this broken-nose chap comes toward me, looking to fight back, but I swiftly unleash all of the pent-up rage from my lifelong lack of respect on the rest of his face, sparing the nose simply for the purpose of not adding insult to present injury.

All because that asshole lady with the scowl on her unpleasant face had to push into me even as I had the door for her miserable ass. Well played, bitch.

Surprisingly, I'm kinda smiling while writing this, though it may seem as if I've had to wipe off the fumes that have left my steaming ears and collected on the laptop monitor. Call it "silent rage," if you will.

A Shot of Brandi

Really, my shame over this shouldn't be something I feel the need to defend or preface with a disclaimer, being that tons of my friends admittedly adore this trashy show, too, but still, my pride begs me to do so:

I Love Money is currently my favorite show on the boob-tube, save for my obsessive viewing habits surrounding Family Guy repeats on The Cartoon Network. But yes, I Love Money is the guiltiest of all guilty pleasures, a televisial feast that truly provides zero benefits to its viewers other than hot people and cold humanity. But I'll be damned if a Sunday goes by without me catching the latest episode. And more often than not, I opt for the first lowket airing at 11:30am, something VH1 doesn't advertise for whatever reason, but works wonders in allowing me to still have a Sunday night to myself, having already seen the shitshow episode in all of its seedy glory.

Going into the series, my personal favorite female from any of these ...of Love shows was Hoopz. Physically fit, gorgeous, sporty, cool personality, stays away from the drama (for the most part), and hotter than my bedroom without any AC in the dead of July, Hoopz had it all. But gradually, as the show has commenced, I've switched over to the bimbo side: Brandi C. is my present infatuation (well, "infatuation" in the most innocent, TV watcher sense, of course).


[not the best picture, but it'll do....plus, that Vodka bottle only strengthens the points I'm about to make]

I don't know what it is about her. Typically, I'm not big on blondes, especially ones who bring the airhead-y, slutty-in-aura presence of a Paris Hilton type. But Brandi C. has me questioning my tastes. Have I gone over to the blonde side full force? Doubtful, but at least when it comes to her, I'm all about it. She just seems like the kind of chick who'd knock back some Petron shots with me and party the night away. No strings attached. No questions asked. No philosophical debates. Just wild times.

Maybe I'm totally misjudging her, and VH1 has painted in a way that masks her actual intelligence and multi-faceted character. But alas, unless I'm ever given the chance to hang out with her, this is all I have to work with: what I see on I Love Money. Hell, she just vomited profusely and apparently swallowed some of it after having to digest her meal for a challenge, and I'm still feeling her sexy ass. Which proves that, my heart will....go on.

Feel free to hate all you want, or condemn for liking such a bimbo. I'm already beating myself over it, so sticks and stones will do very little, my friends.

Genius Product

Even though I'm one of about 15 people excited about it, my favorite rapper ever (well, at least in my top three ever), the Gza/Genius, has a new album coming out this week, called Pro Tools, and it's pretty solid, thankfully. Not his best work ever (Liquid Swords, his debut = my fave album of all time, its true), but it has plenty of heat, these two records being my tops so far:

"Pencil" (feat. Masta Killa and Rza)



"7 Pounds" (produced by my current almighty producer, Black Milk)





I figure, what the hell...maybe somebody reading this will actually get excited about a Wu-Tang project once again. Rap sucks these days, so i gotta play whatever part I can in helping the dopeness stand apart from the wackness.

Mind Eraser

Note to self: open bars that start at 8pm are very, very bad news.

It was one of those nights, last night....drinks were flowing, the bar was packed and thankfully had some attractive females in attendance for once. By about 10pm, I was a good five sheets to the wind, and by midnight, I....well, pretty much everything after 11pm is a blur right now. I do recall almost getting arrested on the walk home, when I tossed the remnants of a 7 Stars (best.pizza.ever) slice onto the sidewalk. As my shitty luck would have it, the car parked next to where the crust landed had three undercover pigs sitting within it, and apparently they hate pizza crust. You'd have thought that I'd snuffed an old lady in front of these cops, the way they were fuming, asking me, "Why in the hell would you even do that?" Asking to see my ID, the whole nine. All over pizza crust. See, kids---it never pays to litter. Lesson learned.

Aside from that fast food felony, I'm also piecing together some of the convos I had at the bar, with friends and some females I'd just met. I'm pretty sure one of the girl's name was Lisa Marie, a name I assumed was a fake cover-up one, like so many chicks tend to give to guys they're not interested in. Lisa Marie just sounds made up, doesn't it? But alas, she insisted that it was her true government, and even had a friend come over to confirm it to me and show me her ID. I guess I made a bigger deal out of it then I thought I was.

But really, I've been trying to figure out what exactly I said to a certain few people, people who know me, not beer-goggle-assisted randoms. I know for a fact that I had a couple deep, feeling-pouring exchanges with a couple of people, but can't for the life of me remember what I said. And all this thinking isn't helping the ginormous hangover I'm still feeling.

I hate when this happens, though. I sip so much of the intoxicating stuff that my night becomes a total foggy mess, riddled with questions and concerns. So far, nobody has called me to yell at me or make fun of me or remind me of some shameful thing I did, so I'm assuming everything is kosher. But don't you just hate that? Not being able to piece a drunken together in its wake, yet knowing that some meaningful or eye-opening things were said and you have no way of proving it?

It's not like I'm just going to call certain heads and be like, "So, yeah, I know we had this deep talk last night, and feelings were put on the table, but sorry, I was absolutely shitfaced and can't remember what was said. Could you remind me?" Talk about defacing a special moment. Sheesh.

If I had to place the blame on this lapse of memory, it'd rest solely on the glasses of Mind Eraser drinks I busted through at the bar. It's some kind of shot-on-roids, in a regular-size glass that tastes a bit like Coffee Petron, and you have to take it in one big gulp the face, with the help of a straw. But fuck me, it truly lived up to its I-totally-get-it-now name.

Note to self: no more Mind Erasers.

Somebody smash these MIRRORS! They're defective!

What a huge, huge bummer. In an effort to appease the horror gods, and to allow myself to see a movie for once without reading every single spoiler online first, I hit a midnight screening of the new horror flick MIRRORS last night. And I'm damn tired right now, but thankfully it's slow at work for the moment being, so I'm hoping the writing process for this post will revive me a bit.

So anyway, back to the matter at hand: MIRRORS....what a disappointing clusterfuck of a movie. My expectations and hopes have been relatively high, mainly due to the film's director/co-writer, Alexandra Aja. As part of this whole new French wave of horror makers, Aja could be considered the first to officially break through into American studios. His first all-Frenchy-made gem, HAUTE TENSION (or HIGH TENSION, as it was called when released here to little fanfare, so sadly), is easily in my top ten horror films of the last five or so years. It's brutal as hell, intense, packs enough gore to make these lame SAW films seem futile, and packs some of the best acting and musical score a scare-lover could ask for. And then he went and remade Wes Craven's THE HILLS HAVE EYES, and I loved that one, too. A total in-your-face, uncompromisingly visceral American studio-backed horror film, which is a rarity these days. Again, he conjured up some quality performances a sick soundtrack of pulsating electronica, and that trailer-pillage sequence is still one for the books.

So with the announcement of MIRRORS some time back, I was excited. Granted, it's a loose remake of an Asian flick, INTO THE MIRROR, but whatever. It's Aja, so it has to kick some ass, no? And it stars Kiefer Sutherland, and he's a pretty capable actor, eh? And Paula Patton and Amy Smart co-star, and both are insanely gorgeous women, so how could this go wrong, right?

Man, oh man. Let's start with my initial pet peeve here: how the online clips and promo footage TOTALLY ruined the film's two moneyshots--a gruesome self-inflicted throat slashing, and then a holy-shit-worthy jaw-rip-off that's truly a sight to behold. But again, both of these were pretty shown much in their respective entirety online weeks ago. And of course, being the bait-taker I am, I watched both, thinking deep down: "If this is what they're giving away online, just imagine what even crazier shit must be in the movie!"

Well, there's crazier shit, alright, but crazy in the sense that it has no shred of logic or coherence. Aja should stick to brutal carnage, because the supernatural arena is a terrible look for the dude. Basically, Sutherland is an ostracized detective with a drinking problem, trying to make amends with his family and taking a night watchman gig at this huge, abandoned department store in Manhattan. Working there after sundown, he starts noticing some "spooky" happenings within the dozens of giant mirrors housed within the store (called The Mayflower), which turns out [SPOILER WARNING! SPOILER WARNING! DON'T CONTINUE READING IF YOU PLAN ON WASTING YOUR MONEY AND SEEING THIS FLICK] to be the handiwork of some demon trapped with some particular mirrors. See, the Mayflower was originally an insane asylum, and one of the methods used against schizophrenia was to tie a patient down to a chair surrounded by wall-sized mirrors for days in, hoping to exercise the inner evil through constant reflection. Or some shit like that.

This explanation sucks, plain and simple. It's muddle, reeks of THE RING and THE GRUDGE, and takes way way too long to get to, exposition wise. And on the way to this conclusion, there's some truly heinous dialogue to be heard, especially some choice lines delivered by the truly-beautiful Patton. She's practically flawless looking, and has some acting chops, but the character she's given here (Sutherland's wife) is very weak, and says shit like, "Don't make me threaten you!" or annoyingly repeats her son's name, "Michael!? Michael!? Michael!?" while searching for him once the heeby jeebies enter their house (but wait, how did the jeeby demon even leave the department store? Hell if I know). Oh, and the kid playing this Michael needs to take acting lessons from Abigail Breslin, or pick a new career path, because he's grating as hell and just plain bad at the thesp thing.

Sutherland's performance is hit-or-miss, too. At times, he's basically just channeling his Jack Bauer character from the show 24, yelling stuff like "Dammit!" in moments of frustration. Other instances, he's pretty convincing in his turmoil and conflict. And poor Amy Smart, she's given like zero to do here other than to repeatedly tell Sutherland (she plays his sister) "There's nothing in the mirrors," or ask "You sure you're okay?" But then the mirror demon pays her a visit while she's getting ready for a bath (again, how the fuck did it leave the department store!?!?), and man is this scene nasty and well-done. But again, it's completely given away in the promo footage, and what's actually in the movie is ideally the same, save for a couple seconds more of awesome. I fucking hate when studios ruin their film's best parts before anybody has actually seen the movie.

In the end, though, I place the blame mainly on Aja's shoulders here. He was a bit overzealous, trying too many things all at once, rather than simply streamlining his better ideas. Either make a dark and moody ghost story a la THE RING, or go for full-on face-ripping mayhem and call it a bloody day. By no means, however, am I writing Aja off. Every filmmaker has that one misstep, so I'm considering MIRRORS Aja's.....come next summer, though, when his PIRANHA 3D hits screens, he better shape up and stick to the over-the-top gore balanced by strong visuals. Otherwise, he'll start heading down the "once cool but now played out" path of one Eli Roth, Mr. HOSTEL himself.

And speaking of Roth, why in the fuck did Quentin Tarantino cast him as bat-swinging Bazi killer 'Donowitz' in his upcoming INGLORIOUS BASTERDS? I'm clearly missing something here. But oh well, Tarantino is still my dude, so I'll reserve hate for now until I actually see the flick.

Quarantine Watch - 2008; first official post

For those who've paid even partial attention to this blog, they'll have noticed the abundance of Quarantine mentions. Quarantine, for those not in the know, which is probably most of you since it's more of a geek thing really, is a new horror flick coming in October, and it's a remake of a 2007 Spanish flick called [Rec] that I swear by, and is fuckin' genius on celluloid. It's shot in that cinema verite, Blair Witch/Cloverfield format, and is like 28 Days Later confined into one infected apartment building. I hate trivializing movies by merely name-dropping others they're reminiscent of, but I'm not in the mood to overwrite a plot synopsis, so it'll due here.

A briefing: I've been close to obsessive with the Quarantine red band trailer (or, the R-rated trailer not seen in theaters, but only online) since it's 'net debut a couple weeks ago, and I've been counting the days 'til I can feats my eyes on it. And they're not doing press screenings, which is never a good sign but we'll look away from that for the time being, so I'll have to wait and see it when it opens on October 10. In fact, I may just take off that whole day from work, in honor of the film, but mainly because I have my great friend's wedding rehearsal dinner that night anyway. Two birds with one stone.

Back to the matter at hand, and my reason for this particular entry. Earlier today, I did a phone interview with the John Erick Dowdle and his brother Drew (John directed and co-wrote Quarantine; Drew produced and co-wrote the script). One of my job perks is being able to talk with some of the people behind the films that matter to me, or excite me, or intrigue me. So for the fulltime grind, I'm covering Quarantine in an upcoming ish. But mostly, this was my chance to either amplify my newvous concerns over whether this one will tarnish the stellar name of [Rec], or, if the cinema Gods aren't so crazy after all, to calm my conerns through the Dowdle's impressive answers and sentiments.

Thankfully, it was the latter. These were two of the nicest and giddiest people I've talked to yet. They're clearly uber excited about Quarantine, and love the original as much as I do, which rocks. And I learned that it's not a traditional remake, but one that was developed directly alongside its original. I'll delve into that more in my magazine piece on the subject. But yeah, I feel much better now, and I'm actually even more amped for this shit. I'd go into detail about the things they told me they're doing differently than the [Rec] makers, but it'd all be insignificant to anybody who hasn't seen [Rec], so I'll just leave it at = Matt hung up the phone quite pleased. Rejoice. Now, having never seen any of the Dowdles' other work, I have no clue whether they're even capable enough to do this, but at least they're hearts are in the right place. That's gotta stand for somethin'.

Oh, and I've decided to start doing some sort of "Quarantine Watch - 2008" within these blog postings. Which means, every now and then, up until its release, I'm going to toss in a gratuitous Quarantine posting of some sort, leading up the grand finale one on October 11 when I give me opinion on the finished product. Yes, I'm a nerd like that.

While we're on the subject of the Dowdles today....Quarantine will be their first mainstream flick, but not their official debut. Last year, they made this other "found footage" movie called The Poughkeepsie Tapes, which I hear is pretty sick. It's been floating around in Hollywood purgatory until the intake $$ numebrs of Quarantine trickle in. If Quarantine makes bread, Poughkeepsie will be dumped into theaters by year's end, just to capitalize off of their newfound momentum. Regardless, I just want to see the shit. It's basically a compilation of home video recordings found in a serial killer's home, footage of said nutjob stalking his victims and killing others. A real family fun, in other words.

In fact, to get a taste of just how bizarrely twisted Poughkeepsie will be, check out this clip I dug up on the 'Tube of You:



Don't ask me what the fuck is going on there....but do I love the shit out of it, you ask? I'll take "hell yes" for 100, Alex.

Back To The Future

About once a week or so, I have one of those Lost "flash forward" moments. I've been doing this weekly unintended-routine for some years now, mostly as a means to end whatever stress or insecurity is tucked within my mind on that particular day. Today was the day for this week, and it was quite the fantasy:

I wake up around 8am or so, shower, shave and kiss my wife--an attractive lady with long dark hair and caramel skin--goodbye. Leaving my house, located somewhere in the Bergen County area of Jersey, I hop on the dreaded NJ Transit train into Manhattan. My final destination: the offices of Entertainment Weekly, where I'm knee-deep in a cover story profile on Michael Cera, who has evolved into quite the leading man in his mid-age. As a Senior Writer for the entertainment rag, I'm its go-to guy for all things Hollywood and pop culture. In fact, my press credentials for the Comic-Con convention are on my desk, next to my ripped ticket stub from the flight out to Colorado for last year's Sundance Film Festival, as well as a stub for the flight out to France for the Cannes Fest. It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it. Oh, and on my lunch break, I continue to jot down notes for my screenplay, a psychological horror gem that'll set the cinematic world ablaze in a couple years.

Of course, with the current economic scares we're all feeling, let's hope Entertainment Weekly is still poppin' by that time, but I belive it will. What can I say, I'm a dreamer like that.

I don't know, I guess I've just had one helluva year, self-evaluation wise. Like, I see myself in one place years from now, and I ask myself, "Are you on the proper path to get there?" Deep down, I believe that I am, but being the insecure chronic self-doubter that I've been my entire life, those questions always surface at one point or another.

The times, my friends, they are a-changing, and it's like the Wild Wild West out here in the real world. I know I have what it takes to withstand the inevitable storms. My best days, creatively, haven't even begun to scratch my talent's surface, I feel.

As for that "wife" I kissed goodbye, that's a whole other bag of worms to open, mentally. Why can't I just look into a crystal ball and see who I marry, thus deleting all of the worry and uncertainty that I'm forever feeling? Like, at least I'll know that I do in fact get hitched, and it all works out in the end. Some would say that seeing into my future in this way would ruin the joys and surprises that life's ride cruises through, and to that understandable sentiment, I retort with these three deeply-thought-out, delicately chosen words: "Fuck all that." I'd pay insane amounts of money to see who my future wife is, barring, of course, any sort of damaging Butterfly Effect on my life. Just a sneak peak at my romantic future, and then back to my present reality.

Am I alone in this? I don't think so. Anybody else who is single and dating a bunch of misfires would surely second my notion, right?

--Oh, and for those who've been readiing all of my posts, you may have detected a running theme of "Matt's quest for true love," and you'd be spot-on in such an observation. But deal with it, readers. It's always issue numero uno en mi cabeza, and if I can't exercise my demons on this here blog/journal/testimonial/time-consumer, then where can I ?

Excuse me miss, should I be ashamed?

A good of friend defied Matt Barone Logic last weekend. As he tells it, he saw a pretty face at some bar here in Hoboken and, while two shots of Everclear deep, mind you, waited for her to walk by him, grabbed by the arm, and confidently declared: "I'm taking you to dinner some night soon." Or something to that effect. It must have sounded more kind and charming and less forceful and wife-beater-ish when he said it, because it broke the ice and led to his getting her number, and they're continuous conversing still.

See, under the self-imposed guidelines I've lived by, females don't respond well to this sort of directness. It irks them, or makes them uncomfortable, or scares them, or results in a swift five-fingered slap across the man's dome. But when my friend did, it equaled some smooth, suave, charming approach, and it's truly boggled my brain since he first told me the tale the next day.

Have I been going about this all wrong? Should I just grab the next pretty girl I see and tell her, "W're grabbing dinner tomorrow night." I don't even know if I could....I'd be afraid that the girl would either smack me, or yell for help, or curse me off, amd my fragile self-esteem would surely crumble as a result. But maybe me never doing this is depriving me of possible wifeys, or dates, or girl-on-guy small-talk.

Like any other warm-blooded human male, I must walk by a minimum of 20 females day that I immediately think, "Damn, she's fucking hot!" But of course, walking by me is all they do. And I'm not the type to blatantly give myself whiplash as they pass, trading subtle glances for full-on tongue-wagging eye-fucking. I see how the dudes who do that are reacted to by the girl and those in the general vicinity, and it's not a public perception I'd want to voluntarily bring upon myself.

I often wonder, "Why can't one of these girls notice me, too, and our eyes connect, inspiring a convo on the spot?" That'd make life a helluva lot easier for yours truly. But instead, thye just stroll by, as we both go on our merry ways. No harm, no foul.

But maybe there is a foul here....maybe one of these girls passin' me by like The Pharcyde could be my future missus. Probably not, but you never know? I shudder to think about all of the wifeys I've let pass by due to my own trepidation and supposed respect for the privacy. Do girls even like when random dudes approach them? I can honestly say that I've never approached a girl I don't know...well, sober, at least. There has been a few times drunk in clubs that I've done so, and several has resulted in a new number added to my cell phonebook. But even those times, I've hesitated and deliberated. Maybe it's time I do so sober, during a lunch break or while sitting next to a Pretty Young Thing on my home away home, the PATH train.

Maybe one of these days, I'll man up and give this a whirl. Or maybe not. All I know is....if my friend ends up turning Ms. "We're getting dinner" into his legitimate girlfriend, the girls of Hoboken and NYC's West 23rd Street better brace themselves, because I'll be stopping any one of them who's even "kinda cute." Discretion won't be advised.

I'm Just Saying......

.....these Step Brothers spit harder than about 90% of the rappers out right now, and this beat KNOCKS! "I'm a pussy pirate, my name is Jack Sparrow...." hahaha


Hey rappers: give John C. Reilly a call. For the right price, he can even make your shit tighter....

I Don't Wanna Play.....

Does not playing "the game" make me a loser? I frequently have chats with friends about this, and I'm starting to wonder if my lack of voluntary participation in "the game" is why I'm still living single like Latifah (except I'm a dude, so maybe that wasn't the right name to drop there. Fuck it, whatever). I've just never had any interest in conforming to some bullshit dating standard that strikes fear in the hearts of insecure men and women on a daily....scratch that, hourly basis.

You know the deal. You get a girl's number on a Friday night, while out at the bar and four beers deep. All goes well in the moment: free-flowing conversation, a couple songs danced to together, some nice pleasantries on the way out, pounds and back-pats from friends for having scored another series of digits equaling a phone number. But then you wake up the next morning and the dreaded "game's" rules hit you---when would it be socially acceptable for me to call her? If I call her tonight, will she think I'm overdoing it, or being a bit pushy? Maybe she'll think I'm some lame who never gets girls' numbers, and now that I finally have one, in her eyes, I'm so giddy that I just can't wait to call? How about I wait one full day and call her tomorrow night at precisely 10:08pm, that seems like a reasonable time, huh? Or perhaps I wait a few days and hit her during the week....but what if she's the type who works late, and we'll end up playing phone tag before one or both of us gives up. And then I'll have totally fucked up "the game."

Myself, I don't have the mental energy to endure all of that inner turmoil. So what I do is call the girl whenever the hell I feel in the mood to conduct our inevitably awkward first non-alcoholic-induced conversation. The next day; two days later; whenever the fuck I feel like doing so, I do it. But in turn, maybe some of these girls I'm ringing up are thinking too deeply into my call, and there in lies the problem I have with this dreaded "game." If I call you and you dont want me to call you, just either don't pick up phone, or simply tell me right away that you're not interested, and I'll be on my merry eg-bruised way. I'll only leave one voicemail, if any, so if I never hear back after that first initial effort, then I'm moving on. No harm, no foul.

But what's crazy to me is that all---well, the majority, actually---of my friends and associates who actually do play this stupid "game" seem to have much more success than I in developing serious relationships. And trust, I really do want a relationship of my own, and I live in some fantasy dreamland where, when I do meet "the one," we'll both know it rather painlessly and none of this "game playing" will be remotely necessary. So what I do, as a result, is approach the dating circuit with said mentality firmly intact.....which leads me to believe, then, that I just haven't met "the one" yet, because there seems to have some bit of game-playing with every girl thus far. Whether my calling too soon disinterested them, or my not calling soon or often enough led them to believe it was ME who was disinterested.

Whatever, man. All I know is, I won't be changing my ways any time soon. No "game" for me, ma'am. I'll keep clinging to the hope that I'll soon click with my Ms. Right, and we won't need to conduct ourselves as if we're strategizing a war. War breeds too many casualties. Besides, I'm a lover, not a fighter.

My New Obsession...Part 2

My first 'part" came when I wrote about the amazing Black Hole, and after doing that, I've decided to keep record of every graphic novel I read in entirety from here on out. I have tons of them in my scopes, ready to start buying and reading ad nauseum. It's pretty genius on my part....for a long ass time now, I've been telling myself, "Man, you have to read more actual books, not just magazine stories and the occasional movie script." But for the time being, I've found a happy medium for myself: the graphic novel.

See, they're not straightforward books in the traditional sense, but rather fully-realized comic book series', compiled together to form the comic equivalent of a book. So for me, its like reading literature, not comic. Whatever helps me sleep at night, but what's cool about this is that these are limitless in imagination, both narratively and artistically, and who doesn't like looking at pretty and demented pictures while knee-deep in a rich tale? I know I do.

But enough rambling. Over the last two days, I've both started and finished a pair of new ones. One I fuckin' thought rocked the shit; the other I was really digging until somewhat of a letdown conclusion. Here goes (keep in mind, this post is kinda long only because its on two new reads):



This is what that Angelina Jolie/James McAvoy/Morgan Freeman-saying-"Kill that motherfucker!" flick, which came out in June, was based on. Honestly, though, I can only say "based on" in reference to the two central characters and title, because the original novel is basically non-existent within the movie, in terms of storyline and visionary complexity.

In the book, the main character, Wesley (who is a dead-ringer for Eminem here, and looks nothing like McAvoy) has the same shitty life as the movie version dude: mundane cubicle job, a bitchy girlfriend who's fucking his best friend, a dependency on prescription drugs to battle stress and other mental hindrances. But then comes along the smoking-hot Fox (Jolie in the movie; a hybrid of Halle Berry and Pam Grier's Coffy here), who opens up a whole new world of guns, murder, excitement, and standing-up-to-those-who've-made-his-life-reek. There's a whole deep backstory involving the death of his father, who was a stud within The Fraternity, the secret society of fiends in which Wesley is moving up within the ranks of, rapidly.

The ginormous difference btw the novel and movie, however, is that the novel is this totally sick flipping-on-its-own-head of superhero mythology. Here, all of the superhero-battling villains have aligned together and completely wiped out all of your Supermans and Dark Knights. So instead of lifeless drone characters like the one played robotically by Common in the movie, you have supporting characters such as Mister Rictus (a deprived criminal mastermind who looks like Skeletor in a pimp's wardrobe), Shit-Head (a monster assembled from the fecal droppings from all of the world's most evil denizens), and others who would've made for insane film presence(s). What's dope is how each of these super-villain characters is a reimagining of famous comic enemies....all of The Professor's gang (he leads the Fraternity) are based off enemies of Superman, while those working for Rictus (the true villainy villain in this story) are based off of Batman's foes.

I do understand, though, that the film version intended to ground the characters in more of a reality, which made all of the far-fetched yet badass action stuff even more exciting ("Holy shit, a dude who looks like me just gunned down an entire building's worth of baddies by using the guns of those he'd just shot to shoot the next batch of baddies. Sweet!"). Doesn't mean I can't prefer this novel over it, however.

In all, both the novel and film are dopeness, but the former is undoubtedly the sicker of the two. Plus, it has such a brilliant and ballsy "fuck you, reader!" ending that I literally giggled like a scared schoolgirl upon reading it.

Now on to....




Here's one I'd heard about several months back, after catching wind of a movie version being held in studio oblivion (probably because it's not very good, that's usually the case for such hold-ups) for some time now. The as-yet-unreleased film take stars sexier-than-all-hell Kate Beckinsale and good-peeps Columbus Short (he's just a good dude, I've hung around with him before and he's one of the most down-to-earth "celebs" I've yet to interview). I read the movie's plot and learned that it's a murder mystery set in Antartica, where there hasn't been a recorded murder in decades, making this particular mystery killing even more puzzling for Beckinsale's U.S. marshall, Carrie Stetko, who is stationed in Antartica after bringing hell down on a prisoner who tried to rape her.

Or at least that's the backstory in the novel. From what I can tell, the film version is totally rewriting the story, to lesser quality, I'm sure. Besides, the novel Stetko isn't an especially good-looking gal; she's sort of a frumpy Janeane Garfolao type who has "sexual identity" issues (gay or straight?), all the more issue-rific when a cute blonde British investigator arrives on the scene to assist Stetko. You can cut the girl-on-girl tension with a knife. But alas, there is no British gal character in the movie, so so much for getting to see Beckinsale flirt with another hottie. Damn you, H-wood!

Like I said earlier, I really like Whiteout, but I just wish that the identity of the killer wasn't given away so early on, and that it was somebody else altogether. It's just not menacing and dark enough for my twisted tastes. But up until the last 20 pages or so, there's enough unseen troubles and clever whodunit suspense for me to ultimately big this one up.

--'tis all, for now. My next graph adventure that I've already started reading is Steve Niles' adapation of the iconic and classic I Am Legend, originally penned by that inspirational writing hero of mine, Richard Matheson. Yes, it's the same thing as that Will Smith blockbuster, only a much better story with a much much darker tone and more of a horror center, not a CGI-suffering sci-fi joint. At least the Big Willie movie was good, overall, so I'm not complaining. But I'm not going out on a limb here by saying that I'll end up liking this graph novel much more than his flick.

Now off to watch the latest guilty-pleasurable episode of I Love Money. And maybe I'm alone here, but as of late, Toastee and Brandi C. have eclipsed Hoopz as the objects of my viewing desire. Go figure.

Just Because.......

.......these videos make me laugh like a an overacting Frank Gorshin. Enjoy 'em all:


[can you feel the tension here?]




[and no, I'm not a sicko for this next one. Each and every one of you who watch it will laugh, I guarantee that....besides, how could you not laugh as this deranged, fugly pooch gets more-than-heated over being disrupted during his/her "happy time"]



[this is what happens when you've been pigeonholed as a hobbit after the mondo success of Lord of the Rings....get a better agent, my dude]



[his name is Nathaniel....and please believe, he fuckin' loves to dance!....btw, The Soup = best show on TV? Could very well be, if you ask me]

You Need To Watch This Movie

Zodiac made its televisial premiere last night, and needless to say, I watched the hell out of it, because it's an absolutely great flick. Granted, I already own it on DVD, but that's neither here nor there. It's one of those special movies that wraps its hands around your throat from the moment you start watching it, regardless of whether you tag in at the beginning or halfway thru or three-quarters of the way thru. Which makes it all the more saddening to me that it went virtually unnoticed when it came out in early 2007, swept under the rug after a weak opening weekend and nothing more than enthusiastic critical acclaim.

I first caught it at an early press screening a couple weeks before it opened, and it was one of those rare treats when high expectations are met tenfold. David Fincher, its director, has become one of my all-time favorite filmmakers---Seven, Fight Club, and even The Game (a film I hated when it first saw it but now actually really enjoy). Fincher has this meticulous eye, never skimping on exposition and detail while able to deliver gangbusting suspense and sneak-attack shock moments.

Zodiac is clearly the work of a long-laboring sticklet for detail and facts, which is fitting because the film itself is all about obsessions over solving the elusive "Zodiac Killer" case that haunted California in the 1970s. Great performances (especially from a pre-Iron Man Robert Downey Jr., as a flamboyant, arrogant, and fearless reporter who disintegrates as a result of failed investigation).Jake Gyllenhall even checks in with some great work, as does Mark Ruffalo.

But what really sets this flick apart is its pacing. With a two-and-a-half hour running time, it's a taxing effort to watch, but one that's definitely worth it. But it moves slow, covers all of its tracks. Those expecting some gory serial killer horror yarn wil be a bit letdown; like I said, its about those who passionately and endlessly hunted for the Zodiac's identity. There are some shocking scenes, though. But how Fincher stages them is what truly makes him the fucking man. My personal favorite is the scene when the Zodiac terrorizes a yuppie couple having a picnic near a lake. No music is used, it's just the naturalism of idle chatter mixed with scared trembling, touched with a dose of the Zodiac's cold matter-of-fact delivery. When the carnage comes, its a true sucker punch, even when not delivering the bloody moneyshot.

And then there's the moment when the Zodiac sabotages a mother and her infant child's car-ride on a deserted, dark highway. Once she and her seed hop in his car for a lift to the service station, you know something bad is going to happen, but the line "Before I kil you, I'm going to throw your baby out the window" is so abrupt and clamly spoken, its a jaw-dropper.


So yeah, I fucking love this movie. Actually, its playing again right now on TV, and of course I'm watching it again. I advise you all do the same the next time it's on.