.....here it is, crispy-clean, clear HD style. Ten times more holy-fucking-shit-this-rules than before.
Excuse the spacial limits of this site, cutting off the right side of large video clips a bit. If anybody knows how I can fix this, let a dude know.
Dr. Manhattan, hurry the fuck up and make March 6, 2009 the present already. For real, for real.
Question: why does Matthew Goode, as the pivotal Ozymandias, look so much like Topher Grace here? Or is that just my eyes deceiving me?
....speaking of Matthew Goode, btw---if you haven't seen his and Joseph Gordon-Levitt's intensely-slept-on modern-day noir The Lookout, get on your jobs and watch it. Well worth your precious man/woman-hour-and-forty-minutes.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
The Official "Let's Boycott Saw V" Post
[Excuse any typos that may appear.....I typed this in rant-form, violently and stream-of-conscience, and I'm in no mood to read it back at this present moment. I will later, though.]
I never thought I'd say/type what I'm about to say/type, but here goes: "Thank the heavens for High School Musical 3."
There, said/typed. Done. Why would I say/type this? Simple, really. I'm so fucking over this whole Saw film franchise, that the notion of HSM3 (yes, I too abbreviate it that way, because I'm as hip as your 12-year-old female cousin) emerging as this weekend's box office champ means that Saw V will not be the champ. It'll make some money either way, I'd imagine, enough to be deemed successful. But I'd rather that that another Saw film be number one. Enough already.
And thank the higher powers for that. I'm not going to rant to over-done degrees here (Okay, I'm lying, you know I'm about to), but I can't let Saw Whatever Fucking Number It Is, Because Really, The Numerical Distinction Is Pointless hit screens and not state my peace. Not only because I'm a horror lover, but because I'm a cinema lover. Basically.
First off, before I even get into Saw V....the Saw films, as a whole, are nothing more than a gateway drug. A crash-course into horror films for the uninitiated. Or for those who are too apathetic or close-minded to give films like Suspiria or The Shining a fair shot. They see these Saw films, and think, "Cool, I can call myself a horror fan now because I love these Saw movies!" Which is okay to a point, because it's great to see horror films making money and reaching new people. But the dilemma comes when these newfound fans then go and watch films like the aforementioned Suspiria and The Shining. Those older types of movies take their time, and tell real stories, and attempt to build suspense through developed characters and other narrative devices. These Saw films, on the other hand, are all shock-and-awe. The Saw lover turns on a horror classic and thinks, "This shit is so boring. So slow. Where's the blood, the gore for gore's sake, the seizure-like quick edits and scene cuts, that are too chickenshit to actually watch the horror from a still, unflinching measure?" Okay, the latter section of that thought bubble was more me than the fan, but you should get the point.
What's the point of even making a fifth Saw installment, first of all? Other than for Lionsgate to turn around some more profit, which I understand. That being said, I guess the bigger, more pertinent question should be---why in the fuck would anybody pay to see a fifth Saw? This once-intriguing series reached its apex at the end of Saw II, a flawed-but-surprisingly-effective sequel that I had no hopes for, but left pleasantly entertained and slightly impressed, by the clever twists and the way it flipped the concept of time. And admittedly, Saw III wasn't a complete shit-show, but it was really unnecessary.
The reason: once Saw II generated heavy-funds at the box office, Lionsgate decided to commit to a yearly strategy of marketing the next inevitable Saw flick as the horror experience to watch that respective Halloween. And in order to stick to this business plan, the ideas of "genuine necessity," "intelligent screenwriting," "legit characters," and "all plausability" were put into a pit-of-nails and forced to find their way out. Presumably, these concepts did escape, though they dug a hole and crawled all the way to France, where quality horror currently lives. But I digress.
All these films are now are excuses for bored teens-and-twentysomethings to kill a Friday night by watching elaborate death scenes. Like, I wonder what crazy shit they can think of this time?! But there's zero suspense in these latest sequels, and--as seen to extreme measure during Saw IV's final confusing, multiple-flashback-upon-flashback, what-the-fuck-is-going-on final act, the hired-for-this-film screenwriters are only brought on to find ways of connecting the four thousand Saw characters together. "Hey, let's have this new cop show up in a flashback with Jigsaw from the second film, to show that he really does serve a purpose now." Or, "Remember that dude who walked by in the background of that hospital scene from the first Saw? Wasn't he just one of the Production Assistant's hired by Lionsgate? Fuck it, give him a call and let's have him play the unloved bastard child of Jigsaw, because he was a dreamboat and maybe we can lure a couple of those High School Musical fans away from that shit!"
Give me a fucking break. I won't even go into how terrible the actors in this franchise have become. Well, actually, the acting in the first Saw was pretty atrocious, and nearly made me hate the film. But now, they're seriously scraping the barrel.....Costas Mandylor as the star??? What? Does anybody else even remember that he was one of the Young Guns? Wait, was he one of the Young Guns? Does it even matter? He's putrid, acting-wise.....and, to Meagan Good---you're insanely gorgeous, like flawlessly beautiful, but you're not the greatest actress in the world. Sorry to be frank. But I know you're trying to redirect your career, in order to be taken seriously for a change. Well, playing Saw Victim Number 3 in this new one is the exact opposite of a smart choice. I've read some of the reviews for Saw V (all are expectedly bashing and damning) and not one mentions your name, meaning your work and character serve no purpose. You're just an impending-corpse, a pretty pawn awaiting some cock-a-mamee torture device. Get a new agent, sweetheart.
Think about it. $11 can go a long way. That's a Chinese food takeout dinner. A music CD, for those who still actually buy CDs. But, a total waste if spent on a Saw V ticket this weekend. If you're really clamoring for a new horror film to see this Halloween, here are some suggestions:
1) Quarantine is still in theaters, and though it's not perfect in any way, it's a great ride, and has some genuinely thrilling and relentless moments. Plus, it's not a Saw sequel.
2) Hop on a train, or a bus, or into your car, and drive your ass into Manhattan to catch Let The Right One In, the so-great-its-bound-to-be-slept-on Swedish vampire love story/Gothic horror/intense character piece/childhood alienation allegory that I've been raving about for some weeks now. Not only is it the best horror movie of the year so far, it's likely to top overall Best of 2008 film lists come January 1, 2009. Oh yeah, and it's not a Saw sequel.
3) Same commands as #2, only directed toward the IFC Theater on West 4th Street, where the five-animated-tales-in-one French creepfest Fear(s) Of The Dark is exclusively playing. I've yet to see it, though I plan on doing so either tonight or next week, but I'm willing to put my entire bank account down on the fact that it's vastly superior to Saw V. Meaning, obviously, that's not another Saw sequel.
4) And finally, if you'd rather just stay home, rent any one of these DVDs---Inside, Frontiere(s), The Strangers. Or hell, rent Saw or Saw II, for that matter. Those weren't bad at all.
In closing, I'm clearly not seeing Saw V this weekend. Or next week. Or ever, if I have any say in the matter. Is it a bit pretentious and asshole-y to slam a flick I've never even seen? Of course, but that logic doesn't apply for a 2007-and-beyond Saw sequel. Wanna know why? Because they're all the exact same movie, redone and remixed to illogical lengths. Tell me I'm wrong. They're wastes of money that belittle their audience with asinine things and ludicrous thangs. They thrive on the presumption that people who buy Saw V tickets have no intelligence, and are willing to toss all common sense and logic out the window, rather than question every second of contrived seen-this-before.
Besides, what's the point of seeing a movie when you know Saw VI is already in production? Why not just wait 'til Saw VI comes out next year and rent Saw V prior? Why even waste your time now?
And here's one to ponder---you know that new VH1 reality show Scream Queens? You know what the prize for winning that piece-of-lameness is, right? A role in Saw VI. Yes, the series has devolved into a marketing ploy, a gimmick that'll be mentioned in the same breath as A Real Chance of Love, and Rock of Love: Charm School, and Brooke Knows Best, and whatever other quasi-reality shitshow VH1 throws at Cablevision.
Case, at rest.
I never thought I'd say/type what I'm about to say/type, but here goes: "Thank the heavens for High School Musical 3."
There, said/typed. Done. Why would I say/type this? Simple, really. I'm so fucking over this whole Saw film franchise, that the notion of HSM3 (yes, I too abbreviate it that way, because I'm as hip as your 12-year-old female cousin) emerging as this weekend's box office champ means that Saw V will not be the champ. It'll make some money either way, I'd imagine, enough to be deemed successful. But I'd rather that that another Saw film be number one. Enough already.
And thank the higher powers for that. I'm not going to rant to over-done degrees here (Okay, I'm lying, you know I'm about to), but I can't let Saw Whatever Fucking Number It Is, Because Really, The Numerical Distinction Is Pointless hit screens and not state my peace. Not only because I'm a horror lover, but because I'm a cinema lover. Basically.
First off, before I even get into Saw V....the Saw films, as a whole, are nothing more than a gateway drug. A crash-course into horror films for the uninitiated. Or for those who are too apathetic or close-minded to give films like Suspiria or The Shining a fair shot. They see these Saw films, and think, "Cool, I can call myself a horror fan now because I love these Saw movies!" Which is okay to a point, because it's great to see horror films making money and reaching new people. But the dilemma comes when these newfound fans then go and watch films like the aforementioned Suspiria and The Shining. Those older types of movies take their time, and tell real stories, and attempt to build suspense through developed characters and other narrative devices. These Saw films, on the other hand, are all shock-and-awe. The Saw lover turns on a horror classic and thinks, "This shit is so boring. So slow. Where's the blood, the gore for gore's sake, the seizure-like quick edits and scene cuts, that are too chickenshit to actually watch the horror from a still, unflinching measure?" Okay, the latter section of that thought bubble was more me than the fan, but you should get the point.
What's the point of even making a fifth Saw installment, first of all? Other than for Lionsgate to turn around some more profit, which I understand. That being said, I guess the bigger, more pertinent question should be---why in the fuck would anybody pay to see a fifth Saw? This once-intriguing series reached its apex at the end of Saw II, a flawed-but-surprisingly-effective sequel that I had no hopes for, but left pleasantly entertained and slightly impressed, by the clever twists and the way it flipped the concept of time. And admittedly, Saw III wasn't a complete shit-show, but it was really unnecessary.
The reason: once Saw II generated heavy-funds at the box office, Lionsgate decided to commit to a yearly strategy of marketing the next inevitable Saw flick as the horror experience to watch that respective Halloween. And in order to stick to this business plan, the ideas of "genuine necessity," "intelligent screenwriting," "legit characters," and "all plausability" were put into a pit-of-nails and forced to find their way out. Presumably, these concepts did escape, though they dug a hole and crawled all the way to France, where quality horror currently lives. But I digress.
All these films are now are excuses for bored teens-and-twentysomethings to kill a Friday night by watching elaborate death scenes. Like, I wonder what crazy shit they can think of this time?! But there's zero suspense in these latest sequels, and--as seen to extreme measure during Saw IV's final confusing, multiple-flashback-upon-flashback, what-the-fuck-is-going-on final act, the hired-for-this-film screenwriters are only brought on to find ways of connecting the four thousand Saw characters together. "Hey, let's have this new cop show up in a flashback with Jigsaw from the second film, to show that he really does serve a purpose now." Or, "Remember that dude who walked by in the background of that hospital scene from the first Saw? Wasn't he just one of the Production Assistant's hired by Lionsgate? Fuck it, give him a call and let's have him play the unloved bastard child of Jigsaw, because he was a dreamboat and maybe we can lure a couple of those High School Musical fans away from that shit!"
Give me a fucking break. I won't even go into how terrible the actors in this franchise have become. Well, actually, the acting in the first Saw was pretty atrocious, and nearly made me hate the film. But now, they're seriously scraping the barrel.....Costas Mandylor as the star??? What? Does anybody else even remember that he was one of the Young Guns? Wait, was he one of the Young Guns? Does it even matter? He's putrid, acting-wise.....and, to Meagan Good---you're insanely gorgeous, like flawlessly beautiful, but you're not the greatest actress in the world. Sorry to be frank. But I know you're trying to redirect your career, in order to be taken seriously for a change. Well, playing Saw Victim Number 3 in this new one is the exact opposite of a smart choice. I've read some of the reviews for Saw V (all are expectedly bashing and damning) and not one mentions your name, meaning your work and character serve no purpose. You're just an impending-corpse, a pretty pawn awaiting some cock-a-mamee torture device. Get a new agent, sweetheart.
Think about it. $11 can go a long way. That's a Chinese food takeout dinner. A music CD, for those who still actually buy CDs. But, a total waste if spent on a Saw V ticket this weekend. If you're really clamoring for a new horror film to see this Halloween, here are some suggestions:
1) Quarantine is still in theaters, and though it's not perfect in any way, it's a great ride, and has some genuinely thrilling and relentless moments. Plus, it's not a Saw sequel.
2) Hop on a train, or a bus, or into your car, and drive your ass into Manhattan to catch Let The Right One In, the so-great-its-bound-to-be-slept-on Swedish vampire love story/Gothic horror/intense character piece/childhood alienation allegory that I've been raving about for some weeks now. Not only is it the best horror movie of the year so far, it's likely to top overall Best of 2008 film lists come January 1, 2009. Oh yeah, and it's not a Saw sequel.
3) Same commands as #2, only directed toward the IFC Theater on West 4th Street, where the five-animated-tales-in-one French creepfest Fear(s) Of The Dark is exclusively playing. I've yet to see it, though I plan on doing so either tonight or next week, but I'm willing to put my entire bank account down on the fact that it's vastly superior to Saw V. Meaning, obviously, that's not another Saw sequel.
4) And finally, if you'd rather just stay home, rent any one of these DVDs---Inside, Frontiere(s), The Strangers. Or hell, rent Saw or Saw II, for that matter. Those weren't bad at all.
In closing, I'm clearly not seeing Saw V this weekend. Or next week. Or ever, if I have any say in the matter. Is it a bit pretentious and asshole-y to slam a flick I've never even seen? Of course, but that logic doesn't apply for a 2007-and-beyond Saw sequel. Wanna know why? Because they're all the exact same movie, redone and remixed to illogical lengths. Tell me I'm wrong. They're wastes of money that belittle their audience with asinine things and ludicrous thangs. They thrive on the presumption that people who buy Saw V tickets have no intelligence, and are willing to toss all common sense and logic out the window, rather than question every second of contrived seen-this-before.
Besides, what's the point of seeing a movie when you know Saw VI is already in production? Why not just wait 'til Saw VI comes out next year and rent Saw V prior? Why even waste your time now?
And here's one to ponder---you know that new VH1 reality show Scream Queens? You know what the prize for winning that piece-of-lameness is, right? A role in Saw VI. Yes, the series has devolved into a marketing ploy, a gimmick that'll be mentioned in the same breath as A Real Chance of Love, and Rock of Love: Charm School, and Brooke Knows Best, and whatever other quasi-reality shitshow VH1 throws at Cablevision.
Case, at rest.
My Bloody Valentine 3D/ Notorious trailers.....
Trailers for two upcoming January-release flicks popped up online this morning, making me a feel a little bit better after dropping $4.50 for a measly cup of Chai Tea, just because I left home sans jacket and needed something to warm my freezing ass up (fuck you, Starbucks, and your overpriced lattes).
First up: My Bloody Valentine 3D
--Not ashamed to admit it, I own the original 1981 My Bloody Valentine on DVD.....got it for five bucks at some seedy DVD shop downtown. Worth all five bucks, too. A poorly-made, ridiculous, but all-the-more-fun-for-being-so '80s slasher. Not exactly begging to be remade, but since the OG version wasn't very good anyway, I'm all for a remake of this one. Plus, they've gone and made this one in 3D! Fireballs roaring into the audience; whatever those blade-like tools miners use, whizzing (or wizzing, however its spelled) past your skull. Hot girls, "dreamy" guys (including that dude from Supernatural). Last notion, sarcastic, of course.
This one looks like guilty-pleasure fun, perfect for the dumping ground of whatever-movies that is mid-to-late January. Check it:
...and speaking of January dumping ground releases.....
Next up: Notorious
--I really want to be excited about this one, I swear....a biopic of one of the greatest rappers ever (notice I said "one," because I'm not one of the Biggie-is-the-G.O.A.T. people; he's great, sure, but I'll argue all day that he's not even in my top like eight of all time....**ducks for cover as tomatoes fly his way**). But this movie is looking a whole-lot suspect, based off what I've seen. Sure, Derek Luke and Anthony Mackie are quality actors, but can you even tell that they're supposed to be Puffy and 2Pac here? And dude playing Biggie, Jamal "Gravy" Woolard, actually looks less like Big now after having seen this full trailer than I thought he did.
I don't know, this trailer isn't cutting the mustard, though it's certainly stronger than that pure-shitty teaser that came out a month or so ago. But I'll keep fingers crossed. See and judge for yourself:
First up: My Bloody Valentine 3D
--Not ashamed to admit it, I own the original 1981 My Bloody Valentine on DVD.....got it for five bucks at some seedy DVD shop downtown. Worth all five bucks, too. A poorly-made, ridiculous, but all-the-more-fun-for-being-so '80s slasher. Not exactly begging to be remade, but since the OG version wasn't very good anyway, I'm all for a remake of this one. Plus, they've gone and made this one in 3D! Fireballs roaring into the audience; whatever those blade-like tools miners use, whizzing (or wizzing, however its spelled) past your skull. Hot girls, "dreamy" guys (including that dude from Supernatural). Last notion, sarcastic, of course.
This one looks like guilty-pleasure fun, perfect for the dumping ground of whatever-movies that is mid-to-late January. Check it:
...and speaking of January dumping ground releases.....
Next up: Notorious
--I really want to be excited about this one, I swear....a biopic of one of the greatest rappers ever (notice I said "one," because I'm not one of the Biggie-is-the-G.O.A.T. people; he's great, sure, but I'll argue all day that he's not even in my top like eight of all time....**ducks for cover as tomatoes fly his way**). But this movie is looking a whole-lot suspect, based off what I've seen. Sure, Derek Luke and Anthony Mackie are quality actors, but can you even tell that they're supposed to be Puffy and 2Pac here? And dude playing Biggie, Jamal "Gravy" Woolard, actually looks less like Big now after having seen this full trailer than I thought he did.
I don't know, this trailer isn't cutting the mustard, though it's certainly stronger than that pure-shitty teaser that came out a month or so ago. But I'll keep fingers crossed. See and judge for yourself:
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Best R&B Song Ever? Yes, Says I.
Video made me knock-kneed back when BET initially played it...Tamia became "object of my fantastical celeb crushing" number one...and I shamefully jacked some of these lyrics for a love letter I wrote a gal years later.
Thus giving this tune the Top Spot Rank.
Yanks at my ticker's strings every time I hear it, still.
Where's the giant-four-toed statue???!!!
Season 5 promo:
That fucking four-toed statue better pop up again this season.....been waiting on an explanation since the end of Season 1.
Does it imply that the island was first inhabited by Homer Simpson's early ancestors? What, exactly?
That fucking four-toed statue better pop up again this season.....been waiting on an explanation since the end of Season 1.
Does it imply that the island was first inhabited by Homer Simpson's early ancestors? What, exactly?
I'm afraid of an old man.....
....and can you blame me?
Based off this new poster alone, Clint Eastwood, all nearly-80 years old of cinematic legend that he is, can still kick my ass. With extreme prejudice.
Quite humbling, huh?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Slumdog Millionaire, Post-Screening Thoughts
[Clarification time: These "Post-Screening Thoughts" entries aren't reviews at all. If they were, I'd have them outlined and rough-drafted ad nauseum prior to putting finger to keyboard. Rather, these are just knee-jerk, off the dome reactions to movies. Nobody's editing them, not even yours truly. Just write what comes to mind and send it out into the world and cyberwebs. Hopefuly they make sense....in time, I'll throw up some legit reviews, ones I fine-tune. For now, though, post-game thoughts all day.]
Slumdog Millionaire is a huge, heartfelt declaration of "See, I told you so, self" for everybody who, at one point in time, thought, "Man, school is overrated. I'd learn much more out in the real world." Or, for the much more brutally-frank, "Fuck school, it's a waste of time."
Not saying that Slumdog Millionaire is anti-classroom. In fact, school and it's many threads are non-existent. But the film, directed by the masterful-chameleon-of-a-filmmaker Danny Boyle, is a home run of Ryan Howard measure, an exhilirating and kinetic testament to the power of the human experience. The small details learned throughout daily routines, and happenings both painful and joyous. It's a really great piece of cinema gold, one I hope sneaks into the Oscar/Golden Globe awards season whilrwind current and muscles around the fancier, higher-profile comp. It's that damn good.
Comes out on November 12, in limited release, but I was lucky enough to catch an advance screening earlier. The main attraction for me was Boyle, a director who totally reinvents himself with every project. Trainspotting. Shallow Grave. 28 Days Later. Sunshine. All films I love, and admire, and marvel at from time to time. Thematically and genre-wise, the Manchester, England-born Boyle has no classification; in terms of visual and storytelling styles, though, he's consistent as hell, in a positive way. He takes chances with his camera, shooting from angles others would never think of, encouraging his editors to slice-and-dice scenes into sickly-dope frenzies. Color schemes change from bright to dark, too, yet you never feel lost or confused. Somehow, he gels it all into one pot, and the results are far from chunky. Or clunky.
[Boyle]
With Slumdog Millionaire, Boyle has a field day in a personally-unchartered land: India. The story, adapted from a book called Q&A, seems a bit goofy, at first---this 18-year-old kid from Mumbai is a contestant on the Indian version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, and he's killing it. Nailing every question, shocking the world. But right before he's set to answer the final, $10 million inquiry, he's arrested and detained by the police department under suspicion of cheating. In their eyes, how could a measly 18-year-old know so much? Something's afoul, right? Wrong, and the kid, Jamal Malik, re-watches his performance with the skeptical Police Inspector and explains how he knows each answer. In doing so, though, we're transported through his rollercoaster of a hard life, from watching his mother killed during a religious riot, to surviving amongst a group of criminals-in-training with his older brother, Salim, to experiencing evolving-love with the girl of his dreams, Latika.
The storytelling here is so rich, so deep. Boyle frames the flashbacks and backstory developments with the interrogation between Jamal and the Inspector, weaving back and forth from the past, to the present, and back slightly to the recent past of his gameshow appearance. It's never jarring, or even barely muddled. Each question presented by the snarky, suave Who Wants To Be... host continues the story of Jamal's turbulent past.
Which American President's face appears on the U.S. $100 bill?
Who is credited with the invention of the revolver gun?
To Jamal's growing surprise, he's hit with question-after-question of shit he knows, though the answers are taken from often-painful memories. Dark times that we recall alongside him.
First off, the acting here is pretty much flawless on all fronts, largely-rookie thespians who are actually teenagers. A dude named Dev Patel plays Jamal, and he's stellar. Tall and lanky, he's not an imposing individual, and he portrays Jamal with genuine good will and morality, yet with eyes that ooze heartache and emotional bruising. When he hurts, you hurt, and when shit goes his way, you're ready to stand up and clap it up. Same goes for sexy-young-thang Freida Pinto, who plays 18-year-old Latika. Besides the fact that she's sexy-as-a-motherfucker, blessed with a face so gorgeous you'll think it's computer-generated or some shit, Pinto is equally good at generating compassion.
[Ms. Pinto, looking cute as ever...she looks a lot like that actress Sarah Shahi, for those who know her; Shahi was in The L Word, and was one of Leah Remini's friends in Old School, you know, the one who was deep-throating that cucumber a bit too well...no, zero bells rung? Ahh, fuck it...Shahi is also hot, easier said that way]
And, in the end, the persistent love between Jamal and Latika is the heart and soul of Slumdog Millionaire. This is essentially a love story, one padded by copious amounts of conflict. The final scene is a real crowd-pleaser, a happy ending that's totally earned and impossible to deny.
In other ways, Slumdog Millionaire is a modern-day Charles Dickens tale, the rags-to-riches tale of a hard-on-his-luck little boy. Some parts Tom Sawyer, other doses Huckleberry Finn. It's dynamite storytelling, I'm tellin' you.
Boyle, wisely and bravely, gives the sentimental proceedings heavy splashes of visceral energy, keeping things honest by capturing Jamal's tragedy-and-violence-soaked past with real honesty. There's the time back when he was no older than eight years old, when he and his brother, homeless, were picked up by a savior-turned-captor-and-exploiter, a gangster-like fiend who'd send his "slumdog" (homeless, vagabond, slum-living) kids out to earn money, through hustles such as begging and singing. Realizing that blind singers have bigger earning potential, for sympathy's sake, though, their "boss" finds the best singers in the group, knocks them out with chloroform, pours acid into their eye sockets, and then scoops the eyeball out with a spoon. The scene where we learn this is a gut-wrench and a half.
Slumdog is, hands down, one of the top three films I've seen in 2008 thus far. I know a great one when I see it, and I'd even put this above my current-Holy-Grail-of-modern-horror Inside...I'm not so horror-centric that I can't let a crowd-pleasing drama knock a gore-ride off its throne. An equal opportunist, M.B. is.
The direction is full of verve and endlessly impressive. The story is multi-faceted and deft at running the emotional gamut. The performances are all tried and true. And, most importantly, it celebrates humanity. Book smarts aren't always more beneficial than street smarts, as Jamal would tell you (Jamal never spent a day in a classroom, yet he's as intelligent and worldly as they come). Life experience, in the grand scheme of things, trumps formal education, and Slumdog Millionaire shows just how the mind can mature and improve by simply meeting somebody new.
In the same breath, I've met a new film that I now love. If I had it on DVD, I'd watch it again right now.
Once it comes out, hunt it down and see it. You'll feel the better and richer for having done so. Guy-who-was-a-scout-for-two-weeks-only-to-quit-because-the-meetings-impeded-on-his-precious-Ninja-Turtles-viewing-schedule's honor.
Slumdog Millionaire is a huge, heartfelt declaration of "See, I told you so, self" for everybody who, at one point in time, thought, "Man, school is overrated. I'd learn much more out in the real world." Or, for the much more brutally-frank, "Fuck school, it's a waste of time."
Not saying that Slumdog Millionaire is anti-classroom. In fact, school and it's many threads are non-existent. But the film, directed by the masterful-chameleon-of-a-filmmaker Danny Boyle, is a home run of Ryan Howard measure, an exhilirating and kinetic testament to the power of the human experience. The small details learned throughout daily routines, and happenings both painful and joyous. It's a really great piece of cinema gold, one I hope sneaks into the Oscar/Golden Globe awards season whilrwind current and muscles around the fancier, higher-profile comp. It's that damn good.
Comes out on November 12, in limited release, but I was lucky enough to catch an advance screening earlier. The main attraction for me was Boyle, a director who totally reinvents himself with every project. Trainspotting. Shallow Grave. 28 Days Later. Sunshine. All films I love, and admire, and marvel at from time to time. Thematically and genre-wise, the Manchester, England-born Boyle has no classification; in terms of visual and storytelling styles, though, he's consistent as hell, in a positive way. He takes chances with his camera, shooting from angles others would never think of, encouraging his editors to slice-and-dice scenes into sickly-dope frenzies. Color schemes change from bright to dark, too, yet you never feel lost or confused. Somehow, he gels it all into one pot, and the results are far from chunky. Or clunky.
[Boyle]
With Slumdog Millionaire, Boyle has a field day in a personally-unchartered land: India. The story, adapted from a book called Q&A, seems a bit goofy, at first---this 18-year-old kid from Mumbai is a contestant on the Indian version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, and he's killing it. Nailing every question, shocking the world. But right before he's set to answer the final, $10 million inquiry, he's arrested and detained by the police department under suspicion of cheating. In their eyes, how could a measly 18-year-old know so much? Something's afoul, right? Wrong, and the kid, Jamal Malik, re-watches his performance with the skeptical Police Inspector and explains how he knows each answer. In doing so, though, we're transported through his rollercoaster of a hard life, from watching his mother killed during a religious riot, to surviving amongst a group of criminals-in-training with his older brother, Salim, to experiencing evolving-love with the girl of his dreams, Latika.
The storytelling here is so rich, so deep. Boyle frames the flashbacks and backstory developments with the interrogation between Jamal and the Inspector, weaving back and forth from the past, to the present, and back slightly to the recent past of his gameshow appearance. It's never jarring, or even barely muddled. Each question presented by the snarky, suave Who Wants To Be... host continues the story of Jamal's turbulent past.
Which American President's face appears on the U.S. $100 bill?
Who is credited with the invention of the revolver gun?
To Jamal's growing surprise, he's hit with question-after-question of shit he knows, though the answers are taken from often-painful memories. Dark times that we recall alongside him.
First off, the acting here is pretty much flawless on all fronts, largely-rookie thespians who are actually teenagers. A dude named Dev Patel plays Jamal, and he's stellar. Tall and lanky, he's not an imposing individual, and he portrays Jamal with genuine good will and morality, yet with eyes that ooze heartache and emotional bruising. When he hurts, you hurt, and when shit goes his way, you're ready to stand up and clap it up. Same goes for sexy-young-thang Freida Pinto, who plays 18-year-old Latika. Besides the fact that she's sexy-as-a-motherfucker, blessed with a face so gorgeous you'll think it's computer-generated or some shit, Pinto is equally good at generating compassion.
[Ms. Pinto, looking cute as ever...she looks a lot like that actress Sarah Shahi, for those who know her; Shahi was in The L Word, and was one of Leah Remini's friends in Old School, you know, the one who was deep-throating that cucumber a bit too well...no, zero bells rung? Ahh, fuck it...Shahi is also hot, easier said that way]
And, in the end, the persistent love between Jamal and Latika is the heart and soul of Slumdog Millionaire. This is essentially a love story, one padded by copious amounts of conflict. The final scene is a real crowd-pleaser, a happy ending that's totally earned and impossible to deny.
In other ways, Slumdog Millionaire is a modern-day Charles Dickens tale, the rags-to-riches tale of a hard-on-his-luck little boy. Some parts Tom Sawyer, other doses Huckleberry Finn. It's dynamite storytelling, I'm tellin' you.
Boyle, wisely and bravely, gives the sentimental proceedings heavy splashes of visceral energy, keeping things honest by capturing Jamal's tragedy-and-violence-soaked past with real honesty. There's the time back when he was no older than eight years old, when he and his brother, homeless, were picked up by a savior-turned-captor-and-exploiter, a gangster-like fiend who'd send his "slumdog" (homeless, vagabond, slum-living) kids out to earn money, through hustles such as begging and singing. Realizing that blind singers have bigger earning potential, for sympathy's sake, though, their "boss" finds the best singers in the group, knocks them out with chloroform, pours acid into their eye sockets, and then scoops the eyeball out with a spoon. The scene where we learn this is a gut-wrench and a half.
Slumdog is, hands down, one of the top three films I've seen in 2008 thus far. I know a great one when I see it, and I'd even put this above my current-Holy-Grail-of-modern-horror Inside...I'm not so horror-centric that I can't let a crowd-pleasing drama knock a gore-ride off its throne. An equal opportunist, M.B. is.
The direction is full of verve and endlessly impressive. The story is multi-faceted and deft at running the emotional gamut. The performances are all tried and true. And, most importantly, it celebrates humanity. Book smarts aren't always more beneficial than street smarts, as Jamal would tell you (Jamal never spent a day in a classroom, yet he's as intelligent and worldly as they come). Life experience, in the grand scheme of things, trumps formal education, and Slumdog Millionaire shows just how the mind can mature and improve by simply meeting somebody new.
In the same breath, I've met a new film that I now love. If I had it on DVD, I'd watch it again right now.
Once it comes out, hunt it down and see it. You'll feel the better and richer for having done so. Guy-who-was-a-scout-for-two-weeks-only-to-quit-because-the-meetings-impeded-on-his-precious-Ninja-Turtles-viewing-schedule's honor.
new Watchmen footage = geek-gasm/new Friday the 13th
Unfortunately, I missed the Spike TV "Scream Awards" last night, though I plan on catching a rerun. Well, maybe not, now that the sole reason I was going to watch anyway has popped up on glorious Youtube.
A new trailer for Watchmen, with more meat than before. I must say, I'm pretty much stunned at how Zack Snyder has captured the comic's imagery, from what I'v seen already. And there was a private test screening last week out in LA, and the feedback sounded A-OK to me. Bring this shit on, Warner Bros.; don't push the release back, or else I'll summon Ozymandias' giant killer squid on your offices. Especially since [SPOILER ALERT FOR THOSE WHO'S READ THE COMIC] word has it that the massive, city-smashing, good-will-intending-yet-blood-shedding squid is a no-go in movie form. Bummer.
Check it, in kinda-shitty quality, but good enough for me:
Yeah, shall re-read the comic a few more times before this shit comes out (fingers crossed) in March.
***Here's a bonus, the second reason for yours truly to peep the Scream Awards....the quick teaser for the upcoming Friday the 13th remake.
A remake (or reboot, whichever they're labeling it as) I'm actually somewhat-optimistic about. I'm part of the "the original Friday movies, though charming and entertaining as hell, were all quite shite, really, so a re-doing has potential, if handled properly and not like some bullshit Haunting of Molly Hartley dreck." Something tells me I'm going to like this one....[UPDATE: HD version available now, posted here, do enjoy, or hate on]
Friday The 13th in HD
Must admit....that "jayy jayy jayy, ba ba ba," or however it'd be spelled, still gives me the giddy schoolboy chills.
A new trailer for Watchmen, with more meat than before. I must say, I'm pretty much stunned at how Zack Snyder has captured the comic's imagery, from what I'v seen already. And there was a private test screening last week out in LA, and the feedback sounded A-OK to me. Bring this shit on, Warner Bros.; don't push the release back, or else I'll summon Ozymandias' giant killer squid on your offices. Especially since [SPOILER ALERT FOR THOSE WHO'S READ THE COMIC] word has it that the massive, city-smashing, good-will-intending-yet-blood-shedding squid is a no-go in movie form. Bummer.
Check it, in kinda-shitty quality, but good enough for me:
Yeah, shall re-read the comic a few more times before this shit comes out (fingers crossed) in March.
***Here's a bonus, the second reason for yours truly to peep the Scream Awards....the quick teaser for the upcoming Friday the 13th remake.
A remake (or reboot, whichever they're labeling it as) I'm actually somewhat-optimistic about. I'm part of the "the original Friday movies, though charming and entertaining as hell, were all quite shite, really, so a re-doing has potential, if handled properly and not like some bullshit Haunting of Molly Hartley dreck." Something tells me I'm going to like this one....[UPDATE: HD version available now, posted here, do enjoy, or hate on]
Friday The 13th in HD
Must admit....that "jayy jayy jayy, ba ba ba," or however it'd be spelled, still gives me the giddy schoolboy chills.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Book It!....the New Phase
Been reading books at a ferocious clip lately. More out of a sense of "why the fuck have I not been reading books regularly," and/or, "music is boring the bejesus out of me, causing movies to bring to the spotlight my appreciation and obsession with fictional storytelling, a natural progression into fiction literature if there ever was one." Yes, my thoughts are that unnecessarily wordy.
And, just as I suspected, falling in love with Cormac McCarthy's brilliant The Road (the first book I cracked open and submitted to in the wake of this "I sweat fiction" realization) unleashed the prose-piercing beast within. I've read six books in the month-and-a-half-and-change, two of which (Jose Saramago's Blindness, and Dennis Lehane's phenomenal Shutter Island) I've already "blogged" about.
Now, I feel the need to keep records of the books I've consumed here. Sort of like a log, a capsule of narrative treasures. No long-winded reviews or analysis; just quick-hitters. Plot summaries, in case anybody reading is open to my influence, followed by snappy feedback. Gotta feed the beast within somehow, now.
1) Cell, by Stephen King: What The Signal flick must've ganked inspiration from, or if not, would call its "kindred spirit." A sudden transmission sent through cellular phones turns users into ravenous killers, mumbling gibberish while feasting on warm human flesh. A ragtag crew of non-cell-owners (a graphic artist, a gay suit-and-tie type, and a high school girl) band together for survival, and gradually realize that this ever-growing society of "phone-crazies" is evolving, and operating within lifestyles codes and peculiar behavior.
Reaction: Way, way overlong, flipping in at around 350 or so pages. Easily could've clipped a good 80 off, give or take. But its scope is so enormous and fully-realized that I find myself now appreciating Cell more than adoring. Writing-wise, though, its vintage King---droll humor, snappy pop culture references, and matter-of-fact violence dictated with a stellar sense of visual gusto. Didn't fall head over heels for the book, but still enjoyed. The random way one major character dies slugged my emotions, more than I'd have imagined the book could or ever would. So for that moment alone, this one earns mucho points...Would make for one sick movie, hopefully one not overseen by Hostel's Eli Roth, the long-rumored filmmaker circling the project. Why not somebody like Ridley Scott? Too much of a "slumming" project for his caliber, you say? Pish tosh. Scott's command of action would work wonders with Cell's three major setpieces, and he's clearly a genre head (Blade Runner, or Alien, anyone?)
[a visual bonus....somebody's artistical rendition of Cell's opening scene....which, in the pantheon of opening scenes, is pretty fucking great. Grabs you in like a fishhook through the cheek]
Next Up....
2) Red, by Jack Ketchum: A peaceful, world-worn-down war veteran, and widower (not to mention father of a psychotic runaway son who murdered his mother and little brother), lives alone with his loyal, aging dog, named Red. One otherwise routine day, he and Red are fishing down by a river, when three derelict teens try their hands at robbery. The old man doesn't have much $$$, so in unprovoked retaliation, they shoot poor Red in the doggy-head. Setting off, naturally and justifiably, a Charles Bronson-like revenge-stimulated bloodlust in the old fella. And things get messy.
Reaction: Loved this book. Granted, any tale involving the death of a friendly and loving dog heartily tugs at my inner strings, making the old man somebody I'd loudly root for, any day of the week. But basic plot aside, its the smooth, addictive way that Kethcum writes. Told in such succinct to-the-pointness, yet reaches levels of unexpected complexity, in each and every sentence. It's linear storytelling, yet, it grabs you in ways that any Memento-ish structure could. The violence doesn't erupt; it blindsides your senses, offering little warning. Slap-boxes on the spot, rather than even-slightly-telegraphed hits.....consider me a Ketchum-head now, and his infamous opus The Lost is in the running for "next book I'll read." It's sitting on my desk, waiting.
And finally...
3) Lullaby, by Chuck Palahniuk: A journalist is investigating various cases of infant "crib death," those tragic fatalities where babies flatline suddenly, in their place-of-sleep. The deeper he digs, though, the more he uncovers a mystical cause--a book, Poems and Rhymes from Around the World, which, on page 27, has a "culling song" written out, a lullaby-spell that, when read, kills whomever passes through the reader's thoughts. The unfortunate, unsuspecting person slumps to the ground, dropping dead-as-a-doornail. The journalist discovers that a real estate agent also knows this culling song, and together they go on a nationwide road trip in hopes of all existing copies of the book, specifically every page 27. But, being a Palahniuk book (dudes is notorious for non-linear prose, rampant deviance, provocative tales and truly-bizarre imagery....he wrote the original Fight Club book, for those not in the know), there's much more at play here. Wiccan practitioners of the cynical variety; paramedics who get off on sticking their dicks in deceased hotties; and flash-forwards that feel like flashbacks, amidst other outrageousness.
Reaction: Like Red, Lullaby has given me a new author to bow down to--Mr. Palahniuk. I've heard tons about his loyal readership, referred to as The Cult, and now I see why. Talk about "having a writer's voice all his own"; dude is so sick with it, I had to re-read the book IN ONE SITTING immediately after I completed it, just to wrap my head around the twists and turns that reveal themselves in the final chapters, yet were now-obviously at play since page 1. It's the kind of book that is done little justice being read on noisy trains full of please-shut-the-fuck-up worthy girls and Goth guys blasting shitty metal through their iPod-connected-headphones. Who frequently inhabit the PATH train. No, Lullaby is best indulged in the quiet of my bedroom, as I'm suspecting all Palahniuk books are. There's so much going on at once, its like feeling your way through a labyrinth. Like a David Lynch film in written form, only Palahniuk's books actually tie together by El Fin.
--Stacked atop the cigar humidor in my bedroom, awaiting my eyes: Jack Ketchum's The Lost (something about the disturbed post-murder lives of a serial-killing duo); Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones (a little girl dies, and then, as an unseen spirit, watches her family cope with her passing while investigating her unsolved, supposed murder); Chuck Palahniuk's Haunted (a group of writers are locked in a room, and none can leave 'til they write one head-spinning tale a piece, or something like that).
I'm also gung-ho about tearing through the entire Ketchum and Palahniuk catalog(s) now. Part reading pleasure, part must-take-notes-because-these-are-two-authors-I'd-love-to-soak-up-as-much-game-as-possible-from.
Detecting a dark, anti-Harry Potter and the Whatever Nerdy Shit's Whatever The Fuck/Twilight/Babysitters Club theme here?
I prefer my yarns strangling, not sweater-knitting.
And, just as I suspected, falling in love with Cormac McCarthy's brilliant The Road (the first book I cracked open and submitted to in the wake of this "I sweat fiction" realization) unleashed the prose-piercing beast within. I've read six books in the month-and-a-half-and-change, two of which (Jose Saramago's Blindness, and Dennis Lehane's phenomenal Shutter Island) I've already "blogged" about.
Now, I feel the need to keep records of the books I've consumed here. Sort of like a log, a capsule of narrative treasures. No long-winded reviews or analysis; just quick-hitters. Plot summaries, in case anybody reading is open to my influence, followed by snappy feedback. Gotta feed the beast within somehow, now.
1) Cell, by Stephen King: What The Signal flick must've ganked inspiration from, or if not, would call its "kindred spirit." A sudden transmission sent through cellular phones turns users into ravenous killers, mumbling gibberish while feasting on warm human flesh. A ragtag crew of non-cell-owners (a graphic artist, a gay suit-and-tie type, and a high school girl) band together for survival, and gradually realize that this ever-growing society of "phone-crazies" is evolving, and operating within lifestyles codes and peculiar behavior.
Reaction: Way, way overlong, flipping in at around 350 or so pages. Easily could've clipped a good 80 off, give or take. But its scope is so enormous and fully-realized that I find myself now appreciating Cell more than adoring. Writing-wise, though, its vintage King---droll humor, snappy pop culture references, and matter-of-fact violence dictated with a stellar sense of visual gusto. Didn't fall head over heels for the book, but still enjoyed. The random way one major character dies slugged my emotions, more than I'd have imagined the book could or ever would. So for that moment alone, this one earns mucho points...Would make for one sick movie, hopefully one not overseen by Hostel's Eli Roth, the long-rumored filmmaker circling the project. Why not somebody like Ridley Scott? Too much of a "slumming" project for his caliber, you say? Pish tosh. Scott's command of action would work wonders with Cell's three major setpieces, and he's clearly a genre head (Blade Runner, or Alien, anyone?)
[a visual bonus....somebody's artistical rendition of Cell's opening scene....which, in the pantheon of opening scenes, is pretty fucking great. Grabs you in like a fishhook through the cheek]
Next Up....
2) Red, by Jack Ketchum: A peaceful, world-worn-down war veteran, and widower (not to mention father of a psychotic runaway son who murdered his mother and little brother), lives alone with his loyal, aging dog, named Red. One otherwise routine day, he and Red are fishing down by a river, when three derelict teens try their hands at robbery. The old man doesn't have much $$$, so in unprovoked retaliation, they shoot poor Red in the doggy-head. Setting off, naturally and justifiably, a Charles Bronson-like revenge-stimulated bloodlust in the old fella. And things get messy.
Reaction: Loved this book. Granted, any tale involving the death of a friendly and loving dog heartily tugs at my inner strings, making the old man somebody I'd loudly root for, any day of the week. But basic plot aside, its the smooth, addictive way that Kethcum writes. Told in such succinct to-the-pointness, yet reaches levels of unexpected complexity, in each and every sentence. It's linear storytelling, yet, it grabs you in ways that any Memento-ish structure could. The violence doesn't erupt; it blindsides your senses, offering little warning. Slap-boxes on the spot, rather than even-slightly-telegraphed hits.....consider me a Ketchum-head now, and his infamous opus The Lost is in the running for "next book I'll read." It's sitting on my desk, waiting.
And finally...
3) Lullaby, by Chuck Palahniuk: A journalist is investigating various cases of infant "crib death," those tragic fatalities where babies flatline suddenly, in their place-of-sleep. The deeper he digs, though, the more he uncovers a mystical cause--a book, Poems and Rhymes from Around the World, which, on page 27, has a "culling song" written out, a lullaby-spell that, when read, kills whomever passes through the reader's thoughts. The unfortunate, unsuspecting person slumps to the ground, dropping dead-as-a-doornail. The journalist discovers that a real estate agent also knows this culling song, and together they go on a nationwide road trip in hopes of all existing copies of the book, specifically every page 27. But, being a Palahniuk book (dudes is notorious for non-linear prose, rampant deviance, provocative tales and truly-bizarre imagery....he wrote the original Fight Club book, for those not in the know), there's much more at play here. Wiccan practitioners of the cynical variety; paramedics who get off on sticking their dicks in deceased hotties; and flash-forwards that feel like flashbacks, amidst other outrageousness.
Reaction: Like Red, Lullaby has given me a new author to bow down to--Mr. Palahniuk. I've heard tons about his loyal readership, referred to as The Cult, and now I see why. Talk about "having a writer's voice all his own"; dude is so sick with it, I had to re-read the book IN ONE SITTING immediately after I completed it, just to wrap my head around the twists and turns that reveal themselves in the final chapters, yet were now-obviously at play since page 1. It's the kind of book that is done little justice being read on noisy trains full of please-shut-the-fuck-up worthy girls and Goth guys blasting shitty metal through their iPod-connected-headphones. Who frequently inhabit the PATH train. No, Lullaby is best indulged in the quiet of my bedroom, as I'm suspecting all Palahniuk books are. There's so much going on at once, its like feeling your way through a labyrinth. Like a David Lynch film in written form, only Palahniuk's books actually tie together by El Fin.
--Stacked atop the cigar humidor in my bedroom, awaiting my eyes: Jack Ketchum's The Lost (something about the disturbed post-murder lives of a serial-killing duo); Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones (a little girl dies, and then, as an unseen spirit, watches her family cope with her passing while investigating her unsolved, supposed murder); Chuck Palahniuk's Haunted (a group of writers are locked in a room, and none can leave 'til they write one head-spinning tale a piece, or something like that).
I'm also gung-ho about tearing through the entire Ketchum and Palahniuk catalog(s) now. Part reading pleasure, part must-take-notes-because-these-are-two-authors-I'd-love-to-soak-up-as-much-game-as-possible-from.
Detecting a dark, anti-Harry Potter and the Whatever Nerdy Shit's Whatever The Fuck/Twilight/Babysitters Club theme here?
I prefer my yarns strangling, not sweater-knitting.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Changeling, post-screening thoughts
Obviously, Clint Eastwood's intentions with Changeling, his latest heart-tugger of a dark drama, weren't to further infuriate those "fuck the po-lice" chanters, worldwide. I'm sure he appreciates the fine work that the large majority of law enforcement persons do on a daily basis. But damn if I didn't leave this film hating cops.
Well, the cops in this film, that is.
The premise is a parent's nightmare amplified to intense measures, made all the more "imagine if this shit happened to me" by the fact that it's based on a true story. Back 1928, Los Angeles, a single mother, Christine Collins, lives with her nine-year-old seed, Walter. Perfectly happy. She works her ass off to provide for the kid, while he gets his learn on in class. But then, one day while he's home alone, Christine returns to her pad, where the scenery is sans Walter. And she hunts, and looks, and investigates. And the LAPD seems a bit suspect in their pursuits, especially when they claim to have found Walter in Dekalb, Illinois, only that when Christine is reunited with Walter in front of press and flashing newspaper cameras, it's not Walter. In fact, this impostor is three inches shorter, and is circumsized, unlike the real Walt. But the LAPD, feeling the heat of bad press amidst seedy corruption, wants to keep the ordeal in positive light. Yet, Christine isn't having it, and she's vocal about the fake Walter. So the LAPS has her committed to a psycho ward, without anybody--press, clergy, friends--being aware. She gets out, after months of mistreatment and neglect, thanks to a feisty, distrustful pastor. And I'll stop right here, rather than spill the whole bag o' beans.
But the police dept. is responsible for the whole cover-up, using their abused-power to ignore searching for her missing son while silencing Christine with illegal action. Well, not the entire department, just a couple chinks in the lawful armor. But huge enough jerkoffs to give the entire force a shite name.
The larger-than-life Angelina Jolie plays Christine, and it's the exact type of scenery-chewing role that her strong chops and immense presence can devour like Artie Lange does a buffet. Its a pretty powerful performance at times, especially when her icy fury bubbles beneath a trying-to-keep-my-compure exterior. But, and here's where I disagree with the almighty-GQ-critic Tom Carson and his stance in this month's new issue, this is one role where she actually is overpowered by her surroundings. The story, the secondary plot-movers. Christine and her struggles remain the heart of the tale, but I found myself more invested in what goes down around her, not directly in front of her.
And here's where I'll salute the great Clint Eastwood, in how he stages the parallel investigation, conducted while Christine is in the mental clink, of the suspected kidnapper. This side-scenario is gut-wrenching shit, and played to a manic, unpredictable, and infintely-compelling tee by the unknown thesp Jason Butler Harner, who strikes like a hurricane in a show-stealing performance. He looks like Kyle Maclachlan mixed with Pee Wee Herman, and he counters Jolie's steely somberness with explosive bits of childlike hysteria. Great job, Mr. Harner.
Jason Butler Harner
And the moments where his character hacks up trapped kidnap-ees in his ranch's shed, forcing his pre-teen-age cousin to assist in the slaying, cut to the bone-chilling core.
Changeling isn't a perfect film, by any means. The last section, full of courtroom scenes and post-game plot wrap-ups, drags on in spots. And the solid Jeffrey Donovan (from that USA network show Burn Notice), who plays the scumbag head of the police investigation, misses the mark here, in a one-note job. All slimy assholeness, and no hints of compassion, to even find him believable.
[M.B. Note: Have to thank an anonymous commenter for pointing out a flaw in what I've written; I don't make very strong a case for why Donovan's character, TKTK, doesn't work for me. Simply put, my problem is that he comes off a bit wooden. Like, he's clearly a dirtbag, and that registers, but I didn't find myself as resentful toward him as I should've, and that's 'cause Donovan plays him with such a chilled arrogance, that it crosses the line from menacing to mundane. At least to me. So my "hints of compassion" remark is wrong, and thanks again to the commenter. The character is just rotten, so compassion isn't really necessary, anyway.]
But this story is so unbelievably-heavy that it'd take a real hack to turn it into a total fuck-up. Eastwood, of course, is an anti-hack. He's a master craftsman. Changeling isn't as superb as his Mystic River or Million Dollar Baby, but its still one not to miss.
There's a slew of firecracker scenes. One in particular plays like the most sadistic and punishing of psychological horror cruelty, only its a realistic exchange between patient Christine and the psych ward's no-bullshit, pretty-dickhead top doctor. The mind games he plays with her emotional confusion and frailty are tougher to endure than most Saw-like torture porn. And an interrogation at the end, where a detective questions a kid who turns up a year later after escaping from the kidnapper/murderer's grip, hits so close to the parent-and-son pulse, I damn near teared up. True story. A stark contrast in pitch-perfect tone from the execution-by-hanging scene that precedes it, a surreal devil-gets-his-just-due crowdpleaser that's unflinchingly shot by Eastwood. No cutting away, even when the noose cracks neckbone after neckbone, squirming legs and all.
Should Jolie get an Oscar nod? I've yet to see all the competition, but I'd be surprised if there isn't five better female performances by mid-January. She's damn good here, but not as amazing as the Academy should recognize. Maybe a nod for director Eastwood, if anything. But really, fuck an Oscar. For now. Changeling is just a quality flick, plain and simple.
[M.B. Note: The anonymous commenter also asked whether I think this film will play well to a widespread aud, or if its a bit too bleak....it's definitely bleak, no denying that, and I'm not convinced that Jolie herself is a huge draw. Sure, she's a megastar of jaw-dropping proportions, but A Mighty Heart--another deathly-serious drama of her's--tanked at the box office. Granted, that one was Iraq War related, and we all know well Iraq War films have performed. But my gut says that Changeling will do mediocre business. Stolen kids meeting bloody-ax-fates just don't guarantee huge bank, unfortunately. Or fortunately? Whatever.]
Good work, you two.
**Worth mentioning: thought I'd be done with Quarantine, but wouldn't ya know...dude who plays the infected-dog's victim in Quar plays the psych ward's doctor here. Quite the diverse month of movies, Denis O'Hare. But you'll always be canine food to me, sir.
Well, the cops in this film, that is.
The premise is a parent's nightmare amplified to intense measures, made all the more "imagine if this shit happened to me" by the fact that it's based on a true story. Back 1928, Los Angeles, a single mother, Christine Collins, lives with her nine-year-old seed, Walter. Perfectly happy. She works her ass off to provide for the kid, while he gets his learn on in class. But then, one day while he's home alone, Christine returns to her pad, where the scenery is sans Walter. And she hunts, and looks, and investigates. And the LAPD seems a bit suspect in their pursuits, especially when they claim to have found Walter in Dekalb, Illinois, only that when Christine is reunited with Walter in front of press and flashing newspaper cameras, it's not Walter. In fact, this impostor is three inches shorter, and is circumsized, unlike the real Walt. But the LAPD, feeling the heat of bad press amidst seedy corruption, wants to keep the ordeal in positive light. Yet, Christine isn't having it, and she's vocal about the fake Walter. So the LAPS has her committed to a psycho ward, without anybody--press, clergy, friends--being aware. She gets out, after months of mistreatment and neglect, thanks to a feisty, distrustful pastor. And I'll stop right here, rather than spill the whole bag o' beans.
But the police dept. is responsible for the whole cover-up, using their abused-power to ignore searching for her missing son while silencing Christine with illegal action. Well, not the entire department, just a couple chinks in the lawful armor. But huge enough jerkoffs to give the entire force a shite name.
The larger-than-life Angelina Jolie plays Christine, and it's the exact type of scenery-chewing role that her strong chops and immense presence can devour like Artie Lange does a buffet. Its a pretty powerful performance at times, especially when her icy fury bubbles beneath a trying-to-keep-my-compure exterior. But, and here's where I disagree with the almighty-GQ-critic Tom Carson and his stance in this month's new issue, this is one role where she actually is overpowered by her surroundings. The story, the secondary plot-movers. Christine and her struggles remain the heart of the tale, but I found myself more invested in what goes down around her, not directly in front of her.
And here's where I'll salute the great Clint Eastwood, in how he stages the parallel investigation, conducted while Christine is in the mental clink, of the suspected kidnapper. This side-scenario is gut-wrenching shit, and played to a manic, unpredictable, and infintely-compelling tee by the unknown thesp Jason Butler Harner, who strikes like a hurricane in a show-stealing performance. He looks like Kyle Maclachlan mixed with Pee Wee Herman, and he counters Jolie's steely somberness with explosive bits of childlike hysteria. Great job, Mr. Harner.
Jason Butler Harner
And the moments where his character hacks up trapped kidnap-ees in his ranch's shed, forcing his pre-teen-age cousin to assist in the slaying, cut to the bone-chilling core.
Changeling isn't a perfect film, by any means. The last section, full of courtroom scenes and post-game plot wrap-ups, drags on in spots. And the solid Jeffrey Donovan (from that USA network show Burn Notice), who plays the scumbag head of the police investigation, misses the mark here, in a one-note job. All slimy assholeness, and no hints of compassion, to even find him believable.
[M.B. Note: Have to thank an anonymous commenter for pointing out a flaw in what I've written; I don't make very strong a case for why Donovan's character, TKTK, doesn't work for me. Simply put, my problem is that he comes off a bit wooden. Like, he's clearly a dirtbag, and that registers, but I didn't find myself as resentful toward him as I should've, and that's 'cause Donovan plays him with such a chilled arrogance, that it crosses the line from menacing to mundane. At least to me. So my "hints of compassion" remark is wrong, and thanks again to the commenter. The character is just rotten, so compassion isn't really necessary, anyway.]
But this story is so unbelievably-heavy that it'd take a real hack to turn it into a total fuck-up. Eastwood, of course, is an anti-hack. He's a master craftsman. Changeling isn't as superb as his Mystic River or Million Dollar Baby, but its still one not to miss.
There's a slew of firecracker scenes. One in particular plays like the most sadistic and punishing of psychological horror cruelty, only its a realistic exchange between patient Christine and the psych ward's no-bullshit, pretty-dickhead top doctor. The mind games he plays with her emotional confusion and frailty are tougher to endure than most Saw-like torture porn. And an interrogation at the end, where a detective questions a kid who turns up a year later after escaping from the kidnapper/murderer's grip, hits so close to the parent-and-son pulse, I damn near teared up. True story. A stark contrast in pitch-perfect tone from the execution-by-hanging scene that precedes it, a surreal devil-gets-his-just-due crowdpleaser that's unflinchingly shot by Eastwood. No cutting away, even when the noose cracks neckbone after neckbone, squirming legs and all.
Should Jolie get an Oscar nod? I've yet to see all the competition, but I'd be surprised if there isn't five better female performances by mid-January. She's damn good here, but not as amazing as the Academy should recognize. Maybe a nod for director Eastwood, if anything. But really, fuck an Oscar. For now. Changeling is just a quality flick, plain and simple.
[M.B. Note: The anonymous commenter also asked whether I think this film will play well to a widespread aud, or if its a bit too bleak....it's definitely bleak, no denying that, and I'm not convinced that Jolie herself is a huge draw. Sure, she's a megastar of jaw-dropping proportions, but A Mighty Heart--another deathly-serious drama of her's--tanked at the box office. Granted, that one was Iraq War related, and we all know well Iraq War films have performed. But my gut says that Changeling will do mediocre business. Stolen kids meeting bloody-ax-fates just don't guarantee huge bank, unfortunately. Or fortunately? Whatever.]
Good work, you two.
**Worth mentioning: thought I'd be done with Quarantine, but wouldn't ya know...dude who plays the infected-dog's victim in Quar plays the psych ward's doctor here. Quite the diverse month of movies, Denis O'Hare. But you'll always be canine food to me, sir.
Sarah Michelle Gellar, and my undying love
Back when I was awkwardly battling through self-discovery and constantly trying to work up the nerve to kick game to attractive high school classmates, I'd often take solace in a particular WB program. You see, I knew there'd always be one girl in my life, however sad it was to actually believe so.
And that apple-of-my-eye was Sarah Michelle Gellar. Or, as I liked to call her, Buffy.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer was a weekly fix for me back during its first three-or-so seasons. Think about it. Vampires, ghouls, horror-y drama, and sexy "high school" girls. How could I have not been a fiend? When Buffy wasn't on her job, Eliza Dushku was there to keep me distracted and satisfied. Even nerdy redhead Alyson Hannigan could've caught it. And by "it," I hope you know what I mean. If not, sorry, baby ears.
Ms. Gellar (is the Prinze Jr. ever included? I refuse to acknowledge that tool Freddie, anyway, in any capacity. He sucks, big time) injected additional steroids into my affection as the sex kitten in I Know What You Did Last Summer, that post-Scream cinematic opportunist that I loved. Yes, loved. I even enjoyed that sequel with Brandy. Sue me. And then Gellar met her early demise in Scream 2, hanging around long enough to make me swoon yet again. She was a bonafide scream queen, a genre project regular and slayer of fanboy hormones. Especially mine.
Then she tipped my crush-scales as Daphne in those whatever-quality Scooby Doo flicks. And if you know me, you know how I much I adore the Doo. Saw both those joints in the theater. Proud of it.
Gellar's career has been colder than a witch's tit lately, but that hasn't stopped her from looking smoking-hot in a new photo shoot, overseen by photog Randall Slavin. Just to prove she's still got it, check this out:
May seem a bit tame, or even blahzay to most. But that pic is a heart-pounder in these brown eyes.
Freddie Prinze Jr??? Really??? Fuck me.
And that apple-of-my-eye was Sarah Michelle Gellar. Or, as I liked to call her, Buffy.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer was a weekly fix for me back during its first three-or-so seasons. Think about it. Vampires, ghouls, horror-y drama, and sexy "high school" girls. How could I have not been a fiend? When Buffy wasn't on her job, Eliza Dushku was there to keep me distracted and satisfied. Even nerdy redhead Alyson Hannigan could've caught it. And by "it," I hope you know what I mean. If not, sorry, baby ears.
Ms. Gellar (is the Prinze Jr. ever included? I refuse to acknowledge that tool Freddie, anyway, in any capacity. He sucks, big time) injected additional steroids into my affection as the sex kitten in I Know What You Did Last Summer, that post-Scream cinematic opportunist that I loved. Yes, loved. I even enjoyed that sequel with Brandy. Sue me. And then Gellar met her early demise in Scream 2, hanging around long enough to make me swoon yet again. She was a bonafide scream queen, a genre project regular and slayer of fanboy hormones. Especially mine.
Then she tipped my crush-scales as Daphne in those whatever-quality Scooby Doo flicks. And if you know me, you know how I much I adore the Doo. Saw both those joints in the theater. Proud of it.
Gellar's career has been colder than a witch's tit lately, but that hasn't stopped her from looking smoking-hot in a new photo shoot, overseen by photog Randall Slavin. Just to prove she's still got it, check this out:
May seem a bit tame, or even blahzay to most. But that pic is a heart-pounder in these brown eyes.
Freddie Prinze Jr??? Really??? Fuck me.
what to do, what to do
Thinking of changing the name of this here blog....never been in love with the current title, came up with it on the spot, without deliberation or discretion.
Not a terrible one, but I have a couple others I'm in deeper love with.....problem is, then I have to redirect those who check this site out now-and-again, and that'd be a pain in the ass. Sort of like when you get a new cell phone number, or email address, and you have to tirelessly update the masses.
Too much effort involved. Perhaps I'll change the name, perhaps I won't.
Does it really make a difference, anyway? I'm probably the only person who even cares. Oh well.
Does anybody even catch the Gang Starr reference in this blog's title, though? If not, it could sound a bit corny, I'd imagine. Oh well, squared.
Not a terrible one, but I have a couple others I'm in deeper love with.....problem is, then I have to redirect those who check this site out now-and-again, and that'd be a pain in the ass. Sort of like when you get a new cell phone number, or email address, and you have to tirelessly update the masses.
Too much effort involved. Perhaps I'll change the name, perhaps I won't.
Does it really make a difference, anyway? I'm probably the only person who even cares. Oh well.
Does anybody even catch the Gang Starr reference in this blog's title, though? If not, it could sound a bit corny, I'd imagine. Oh well, squared.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Netflix Fix -- I Stand Alone
This dude Gaspar Noe...something's seriously tetched in his head. Not that I'm complaining, though, or even condemning. More like, I'm saluting his creative insanity. Somewhat admitting jealousy, even. It takes some sort of subversive brilliance to pull off what he's capable of doing, and I'd hope I can conjur similar reactions whenever I attempt this brand of storytelling.
[Gaspar Noe]
I'd honestly never even heard of Noe until like a month or so ago, when I scanned the credits for one of my new crack-fixes, Irreversible. The film bitchslapped my senses with such ferocity that I vowed, "Anything else this filmmaker has done, I must experience." Painless, IMDB-centered researched followed, leading me to a flick he made before Irreversible, in 1998, called Seul contre tous, translated to I Stand Alone. Reviews and press surrounding it promised a viewing journey not quite as perversely-abstract as Irreversible, but one equally punishing to common decency and PC cinema.
In simpler terms, right up my dark alley.
Gave I Stand Alone a go late last night, after realizing that my hopes of going out and partying up were null and void. Entered my DVD player around 2:30am, though I slightly feared that I'd slip into snooze-ville during its runtime. That wasn't the case, which can be considered the film's first check-mark. The second, one awarded before I even watched, was that the film is of French origin, and we all know how much I adore the movieland of France.
There's this nameless (well, I'm sure he has a name, but Noe never reveals it) butcher, see, who is 50 years old and has recently returned home from a jail sentence, given to him after he killed a man he thought had raped his autistic teenage daughter. He'd enacted revenge on the wrong man, though, and was sent up North. He's released, and reunites with his new wife, whom he "lovingly" refers to as "that cunt, fat momma," and her mother. But this butcher is ruthlessly-cynical and anti-society. Hates any and everybody, except his daughter Cynthia, who lives in a mental institution now, after the rape. The butcher tries rejoining his French brethren, but is met with cold shoulders and employers who won't hire a former convict. After a particularly-brutal incident with pregnant "fat momma" that'd have any rivals of domestic violence pissed off to lava-burning degrees, the butcher hitch-hikes back to native Paris, where he originates from and where his daughter's mental home resides. One negative and rejecting event leads to another, and the butcher pretty much loses his shit. And what follows isn't pretty. Or easy to watch.
But Noe, a fella with infinite amounts of style and kick-ass panache, never stages this descent into madness with straightforward flare. The majority of I Stand Alone is narrated by the butcher's inner conscience, as we watch him walk down streets or sit at bars alone. By doing so, Noe makes the butcher's deteriorating psyche "stand alone," sort of speak. Overflowing with racist and misogynistic POVs. And we're right there with him, every fucked-up mental step of the way. Like "Simon" in Session 9, the persuasive, egging-on demon in his head is made a major character, convincing the butcher to carry out sick undertakings with forceful commands.
And the butcher is made all the more believable through a strong performance by Phillippe Nahon, an imposing man who first sent chills down my spine as the again-nameless killer in High Tension. The first seemingly-random scene in Irreversible, it's worth mentioning, has the butcher opining over a troubled life, which threads together all of Noe's film, uniquely. I've read that Noe even made a 40-minute short film, called Carne, that acts as a preface to I Stand Alone, so I'll have to get my mitts on that at some point,too.
Nahon is great, but the real star remains Noe and his direction. Like in Irreversible, his use of stark sound effects and unconventional editing cues work like charm school employees here. Quick cuts into facial close-ups are accentuated by what sound like gunshot blasts, and a number of scenes are concluded with loud, abrasive horn bursts, which keep the pace as breakneck as possible despite the somewhat slow-paced narrative progression. You're never fully at ease watching a Noe film, unsure of what he'll throw your way at any given time.
Such as, how a mundane domestic dispute between the butcher and his wife-whom-he-hardly-loves escalates into the butcher killing her unborn, in-stomach fetus, in a way I won't spoil here, but man is it brutal. Take this, for now: after doing what he does, the butcher's conscience says, toward "fat momma," about the never-will-be-born seed, "Your baby's hamburger meat now, ground beef." Paraphrasing a thought heard earlier in the film, he's spared the baby, in his warped mind, the misfortune of entering a world that only offers "a reproduction code written on your balls," where porn stars are the only ones who truly understand the meaning of life: you either have a cock or a hole, and those with holes go through life wishing they had cocks, so they hop from one cock to the next hoping to make up for this. [This is the butcher's stance, not mine now--M.B. note] Not to mention, he comes to to conclusion while sitting in a seedy porno theater by himself.
Also worth noting is how Noe depicts the spewing-hatred of the butcher, in extended monologues, a la Spike Lee's The 25th Hour, one even taking place in front of a mirror, with the butcher pointing a gun into the looking glass. I wonder if Spike Lee ever saw I Stand Alone? I doubt it, but it begs to wonder. In the same comparative breath, Taxi Driver came to mind throughout I Stand Alone, for good reasons. Both involve the downward mental spirals of men who feel left out by society, and out of touch with an ever-changing social landscape.
The most daring piece of trickery used by Noe here, however, comes toward the end, right before the jaw-dropping climax. Perhaps in an unexpected bit of audience compassion, though I highly doubt it, Noe offers up a black-screen ATTENTION sign, and warns those watching that "you have 30 seconds to leave this screening of the film," as a ticker then counts down, while the butcher continues to tear apart his reality. I braced myself, expecting something even Satan would cringe at. What happens, while not as oh-my-God as I was anticipating, is pretty sick. Not to spoil the whole wow-shebang, but it involves what the butcher does to his daughter--whom he's taken out of the institution for a visit-focused day, and brought back to a hotel--in an effort to rid of her the pain he's directy and indirectly caused upon her. Let's just say: incest ensues, then use of a handgun at point-blank range, and then a severely-demented, conscience-versus-man war of words sends the surviving person into a dizzying state of inner anarchy. The way Noe stages the whole sequence is like repeated UFC-fighter-kicks to the cranium, yet is impossible to stop watching.
And then suddenly, a kinda-happy-yet-still-rather-depraved twist is revealed, one that works only because it doesn't abandon the film's overall sense of bad taste.
I Stand Alone is a fucking bleak ride. Not a horror film, at all, but psychological drama of the darkest caliber. Presented in a renegade way, and hard to shake off once the end credits roll. The best word I can jot down to describe Noe as a filmmaker is "dangerous." I Stand Alone isn't as splendid as Irreversible in my eyes, but its still a potent, sleeper winner.
Give me something new to OD on, Mr. Noe. I'll be far-from-patiently waiting.
[Gaspar Noe]
I'd honestly never even heard of Noe until like a month or so ago, when I scanned the credits for one of my new crack-fixes, Irreversible. The film bitchslapped my senses with such ferocity that I vowed, "Anything else this filmmaker has done, I must experience." Painless, IMDB-centered researched followed, leading me to a flick he made before Irreversible, in 1998, called Seul contre tous, translated to I Stand Alone. Reviews and press surrounding it promised a viewing journey not quite as perversely-abstract as Irreversible, but one equally punishing to common decency and PC cinema.
In simpler terms, right up my dark alley.
Gave I Stand Alone a go late last night, after realizing that my hopes of going out and partying up were null and void. Entered my DVD player around 2:30am, though I slightly feared that I'd slip into snooze-ville during its runtime. That wasn't the case, which can be considered the film's first check-mark. The second, one awarded before I even watched, was that the film is of French origin, and we all know how much I adore the movieland of France.
There's this nameless (well, I'm sure he has a name, but Noe never reveals it) butcher, see, who is 50 years old and has recently returned home from a jail sentence, given to him after he killed a man he thought had raped his autistic teenage daughter. He'd enacted revenge on the wrong man, though, and was sent up North. He's released, and reunites with his new wife, whom he "lovingly" refers to as "that cunt, fat momma," and her mother. But this butcher is ruthlessly-cynical and anti-society. Hates any and everybody, except his daughter Cynthia, who lives in a mental institution now, after the rape. The butcher tries rejoining his French brethren, but is met with cold shoulders and employers who won't hire a former convict. After a particularly-brutal incident with pregnant "fat momma" that'd have any rivals of domestic violence pissed off to lava-burning degrees, the butcher hitch-hikes back to native Paris, where he originates from and where his daughter's mental home resides. One negative and rejecting event leads to another, and the butcher pretty much loses his shit. And what follows isn't pretty. Or easy to watch.
But Noe, a fella with infinite amounts of style and kick-ass panache, never stages this descent into madness with straightforward flare. The majority of I Stand Alone is narrated by the butcher's inner conscience, as we watch him walk down streets or sit at bars alone. By doing so, Noe makes the butcher's deteriorating psyche "stand alone," sort of speak. Overflowing with racist and misogynistic POVs. And we're right there with him, every fucked-up mental step of the way. Like "Simon" in Session 9, the persuasive, egging-on demon in his head is made a major character, convincing the butcher to carry out sick undertakings with forceful commands.
And the butcher is made all the more believable through a strong performance by Phillippe Nahon, an imposing man who first sent chills down my spine as the again-nameless killer in High Tension. The first seemingly-random scene in Irreversible, it's worth mentioning, has the butcher opining over a troubled life, which threads together all of Noe's film, uniquely. I've read that Noe even made a 40-minute short film, called Carne, that acts as a preface to I Stand Alone, so I'll have to get my mitts on that at some point,too.
Nahon is great, but the real star remains Noe and his direction. Like in Irreversible, his use of stark sound effects and unconventional editing cues work like charm school employees here. Quick cuts into facial close-ups are accentuated by what sound like gunshot blasts, and a number of scenes are concluded with loud, abrasive horn bursts, which keep the pace as breakneck as possible despite the somewhat slow-paced narrative progression. You're never fully at ease watching a Noe film, unsure of what he'll throw your way at any given time.
Such as, how a mundane domestic dispute between the butcher and his wife-whom-he-hardly-loves escalates into the butcher killing her unborn, in-stomach fetus, in a way I won't spoil here, but man is it brutal. Take this, for now: after doing what he does, the butcher's conscience says, toward "fat momma," about the never-will-be-born seed, "Your baby's hamburger meat now, ground beef." Paraphrasing a thought heard earlier in the film, he's spared the baby, in his warped mind, the misfortune of entering a world that only offers "a reproduction code written on your balls," where porn stars are the only ones who truly understand the meaning of life: you either have a cock or a hole, and those with holes go through life wishing they had cocks, so they hop from one cock to the next hoping to make up for this. [This is the butcher's stance, not mine now--M.B. note] Not to mention, he comes to to conclusion while sitting in a seedy porno theater by himself.
Also worth noting is how Noe depicts the spewing-hatred of the butcher, in extended monologues, a la Spike Lee's The 25th Hour, one even taking place in front of a mirror, with the butcher pointing a gun into the looking glass. I wonder if Spike Lee ever saw I Stand Alone? I doubt it, but it begs to wonder. In the same comparative breath, Taxi Driver came to mind throughout I Stand Alone, for good reasons. Both involve the downward mental spirals of men who feel left out by society, and out of touch with an ever-changing social landscape.
The most daring piece of trickery used by Noe here, however, comes toward the end, right before the jaw-dropping climax. Perhaps in an unexpected bit of audience compassion, though I highly doubt it, Noe offers up a black-screen ATTENTION sign, and warns those watching that "you have 30 seconds to leave this screening of the film," as a ticker then counts down, while the butcher continues to tear apart his reality. I braced myself, expecting something even Satan would cringe at. What happens, while not as oh-my-God as I was anticipating, is pretty sick. Not to spoil the whole wow-shebang, but it involves what the butcher does to his daughter--whom he's taken out of the institution for a visit-focused day, and brought back to a hotel--in an effort to rid of her the pain he's directy and indirectly caused upon her. Let's just say: incest ensues, then use of a handgun at point-blank range, and then a severely-demented, conscience-versus-man war of words sends the surviving person into a dizzying state of inner anarchy. The way Noe stages the whole sequence is like repeated UFC-fighter-kicks to the cranium, yet is impossible to stop watching.
And then suddenly, a kinda-happy-yet-still-rather-depraved twist is revealed, one that works only because it doesn't abandon the film's overall sense of bad taste.
I Stand Alone is a fucking bleak ride. Not a horror film, at all, but psychological drama of the darkest caliber. Presented in a renegade way, and hard to shake off once the end credits roll. The best word I can jot down to describe Noe as a filmmaker is "dangerous." I Stand Alone isn't as splendid as Irreversible in my eyes, but its still a potent, sleeper winner.
Give me something new to OD on, Mr. Noe. I'll be far-from-patiently waiting.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Post-Wedding Thoughts, A Well-Rested Day Later
You know that time-clock that's ticking away, at an alarmingly-rapid and relentless rate? The one that's programmed in Personal Time Zone in your brain, first set years ago when you told yourself: "By age 25, I'm going to be married with one kid, and living in a nice suburban house with a picket fence and a neighborhood block parties, two short walkable blocks away from a respected grade school where my children will feel comfortable and eager to learn"?
Mine wasn't birthed in exactly that sentiment, but something similar. The age-of-married-by is 30, and being that I'll be advancing to the 2-followed-by-7 in less than three months, the ticks of the clock are ringing like gong-drum hits in High Definition, ramped up to 11, Spinal Tap style, heard through an unfiltered bullhorn. Thank the lucky stars, impending marriage to a female-who'll-be-named-later isn't a daily concern. Doesn't weigh my psyche down like an anchor. If so, I'd be going on tons more dates these days, I'll tell you that.
But having just participated in a pretty-much-flawless wedding ceremony, celebrating the official union of one of the most-inspirationally-functional couples I've ever seen, I can't help but wax prophetic about just when-in-the-fuck I'll tie the knot. Seal the deal. Start a family. Smash that inner-clock into a broken piece of technology. Just like I did with that annoying-ass chicken clock back in high school; my closest friends will recall this ("Woooww! Yeeahhh! Hey baby, shut the fuck up, you irritating son-of-a-bitch that should be grilled and smothered in BBQ sauce, not conceptualized as a rock-a-billy alarm designed to disrupt my precious slumber." Cluck cluck this.)
Of course, the first step to getting married is actually starting a relationship with a female who'll one day end up taking your last name. But, I'm still working on this part. Not as aggressively as I once was, but I figure, what's meant to be will be, and the more you push the issue and wonder "How can I speed this process up to ludicrous speeds," the more you'll feel defeated and want to run up in the Hallmark offices and kick in the front door, waving the .44, screaming, "Valentine's Day division, don't hit my partially-empty heart no more."
Weddings really are something special; family members all assembled, friends knocking back free shots with random uncles and aunts. Heartfelt speeches, and never-before-seen pictures of the bride and groom as wet-behind-the-ear youngsters. I wonder, just how will my inevitable (knock on wood) wedding commence---will my brother offer up a diatribe about how I was once a chubbier, quieter introvert who he'd thought would never meet a girl, let alone one who'd voluntarily spend time with me? Will my dad, who I've only seen cry once and for tragic reasons, tear up and hug it out, publicly? Will my mother serve stories of our endless ma-and-son dinner excursions, and how my new wife is one lucky girl to have such an engaging and loveable meal-eating partner? How about Gianna and Nicholas; after stealing the show as the flower girl, will Little G act an adorable fool on the dance floor, while my-man-Nick jacks the hearts of every female in the place, planting the seeds of his eventual-player lifestyle? And will I myself tear up as pictures of yours truly with the late Zoey (I'm a realist...by the time I get married, I'd be one fortunate and fate-defying son-uva if Zoey is still alive) flash on the projector, with some emotion-strumming slow jam providing the soundtrack?
Only time will spill the beans. Until these moments materialize from fantasy to reality, though, I've gotta keep on spending money on dinners with girls who I'll never take out again, and hooking up drunk-ily in bars with girls I'm envisioning great things with through Corona-goggles.
The early bird gets the worm, as they say. Or as I say, and more fittingly so here, the drunken gentleman gets the nerve to approach an otherwise-unattainable female. And who knows, that tall-order-of-a-sexy-conquest could just end up evolving from beer-soaked, cleavage-bearing T-shirt to white-dress-wearing, "I do"-saying Mrs. Barone.
Next round's on me, fellas.
Mine wasn't birthed in exactly that sentiment, but something similar. The age-of-married-by is 30, and being that I'll be advancing to the 2-followed-by-7 in less than three months, the ticks of the clock are ringing like gong-drum hits in High Definition, ramped up to 11, Spinal Tap style, heard through an unfiltered bullhorn. Thank the lucky stars, impending marriage to a female-who'll-be-named-later isn't a daily concern. Doesn't weigh my psyche down like an anchor. If so, I'd be going on tons more dates these days, I'll tell you that.
But having just participated in a pretty-much-flawless wedding ceremony, celebrating the official union of one of the most-inspirationally-functional couples I've ever seen, I can't help but wax prophetic about just when-in-the-fuck I'll tie the knot. Seal the deal. Start a family. Smash that inner-clock into a broken piece of technology. Just like I did with that annoying-ass chicken clock back in high school; my closest friends will recall this ("Woooww! Yeeahhh! Hey baby, shut the fuck up, you irritating son-of-a-bitch that should be grilled and smothered in BBQ sauce, not conceptualized as a rock-a-billy alarm designed to disrupt my precious slumber." Cluck cluck this.)
Of course, the first step to getting married is actually starting a relationship with a female who'll one day end up taking your last name. But, I'm still working on this part. Not as aggressively as I once was, but I figure, what's meant to be will be, and the more you push the issue and wonder "How can I speed this process up to ludicrous speeds," the more you'll feel defeated and want to run up in the Hallmark offices and kick in the front door, waving the .44, screaming, "Valentine's Day division, don't hit my partially-empty heart no more."
Weddings really are something special; family members all assembled, friends knocking back free shots with random uncles and aunts. Heartfelt speeches, and never-before-seen pictures of the bride and groom as wet-behind-the-ear youngsters. I wonder, just how will my inevitable (knock on wood) wedding commence---will my brother offer up a diatribe about how I was once a chubbier, quieter introvert who he'd thought would never meet a girl, let alone one who'd voluntarily spend time with me? Will my dad, who I've only seen cry once and for tragic reasons, tear up and hug it out, publicly? Will my mother serve stories of our endless ma-and-son dinner excursions, and how my new wife is one lucky girl to have such an engaging and loveable meal-eating partner? How about Gianna and Nicholas; after stealing the show as the flower girl, will Little G act an adorable fool on the dance floor, while my-man-Nick jacks the hearts of every female in the place, planting the seeds of his eventual-player lifestyle? And will I myself tear up as pictures of yours truly with the late Zoey (I'm a realist...by the time I get married, I'd be one fortunate and fate-defying son-uva if Zoey is still alive) flash on the projector, with some emotion-strumming slow jam providing the soundtrack?
Only time will spill the beans. Until these moments materialize from fantasy to reality, though, I've gotta keep on spending money on dinners with girls who I'll never take out again, and hooking up drunk-ily in bars with girls I'm envisioning great things with through Corona-goggles.
The early bird gets the worm, as they say. Or as I say, and more fittingly so here, the drunken gentleman gets the nerve to approach an otherwise-unattainable female. And who knows, that tall-order-of-a-sexy-conquest could just end up evolving from beer-soaked, cleavage-bearing T-shirt to white-dress-wearing, "I do"-saying Mrs. Barone.
Next round's on me, fellas.
Basterd sighting!!
Just woke up from a six-hour nap, in the wake of a great, yet long, day yesterday. Was in the bridal party of one fun-ass wedding/reception. Still a bit tired from the whole thing, so not in the mood to reflect on the event just yet....
....but for now, I just stumbled across something that put a smile on the mug. A first look shot of Brad Pitt in his Inglourious Basterds get-up.[Basterds, with an "e," is how Tarantino himself has it spelled; that's not a typo or anything....same goes for the Inglourious spelling] That's the new Quentin Tarantino WWII film that just began shooting, and after reading its script, I'm confident in saying that it'll be fucking insanity once its released. Can't wait.
Nothing super-revealing about this pic, other than the fact that it shows Inglourious Basterds has FINALLY began shooting. Is a reality. No long just speculation or jibber-jab from Tarantino.
Pic first spotted at JoBlo.com, which grabbed it from Tarantino.info:
Here's a bit of dialogue from the script, setting up Pitt's character, Lt. Aldo Raine, a good ol' country boy who heads a crew of Nazi hunters and killers:
"I sure as hell, didn't come down from the goddamn Smoky Mountains, cross five thousand miles of water, fight my way through half Sicily, and then jump out of a fuckin air-o-plane, to teach the Nazi’s lessons in humanity."
Bring it on.
....but for now, I just stumbled across something that put a smile on the mug. A first look shot of Brad Pitt in his Inglourious Basterds get-up.[Basterds, with an "e," is how Tarantino himself has it spelled; that's not a typo or anything....same goes for the Inglourious spelling] That's the new Quentin Tarantino WWII film that just began shooting, and after reading its script, I'm confident in saying that it'll be fucking insanity once its released. Can't wait.
Nothing super-revealing about this pic, other than the fact that it shows Inglourious Basterds has FINALLY began shooting. Is a reality. No long just speculation or jibber-jab from Tarantino.
Pic first spotted at JoBlo.com, which grabbed it from Tarantino.info:
Here's a bit of dialogue from the script, setting up Pitt's character, Lt. Aldo Raine, a good ol' country boy who heads a crew of Nazi hunters and killers:
"I sure as hell, didn't come down from the goddamn Smoky Mountains, cross five thousand miles of water, fight my way through half Sicily, and then jump out of a fuckin air-o-plane, to teach the Nazi’s lessons in humanity."
Bring it on.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Walk Like A Dinosaur, Sen. McCain
Spotted over at Dlisted.com....
No explanation needed. Just get your chuckle on:
No explanation needed. Just get your chuckle on:
gratuitous Let The Right One In post, number whatever
New red band (or "R-rated") trailer for Let The Right One In....
Been doing my mental list of 2008's Best Films So Far, and as of now, this one rests comfortably in the top three....
It hits like one measly theater in Manhattan next Friday.....I advise people to hunt this spot down and see this.
Been doing my mental list of 2008's Best Films So Far, and as of now, this one rests comfortably in the top three....
It hits like one measly theater in Manhattan next Friday.....I advise people to hunt this spot down and see this.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Eden Lake = that new goodness??
Just announced, the suits at The Weinstein Company (through their Third Rail Releasing division) are dumping this UK-horror flick Eden Lake into theaters on Halloween, in what I'm sure will be like seven screens nationwide.
Hopefully, one's here in New York, because I'm highly intrigued. The flick seems pretty bland, in description: a loving couple drives into the woods for a romantic day sprawled out on the beach, when a group of teenage scumbags derails their plans into blood-soaked anarchy.
Yawn, right? Perhaps nil....The critics over in the United Kingdom have been hailing this as the "best British horror movie in years," and I've been seeing the words Eden and Lake popping up on all of my beloved genre sites for some time now.
Thought I'd have to wait 'til it hits DVD in December, but now I can catch it on the big screen....fantastic. Let's hope it ends up being bloody good, not just another Deliverance/Last House on the Left/Hills Have Eyes love-child-from-derivative-hell.
Shit, let's hope it'll be playing New York, first of all.
Trailer:
Hopefully, one's here in New York, because I'm highly intrigued. The flick seems pretty bland, in description: a loving couple drives into the woods for a romantic day sprawled out on the beach, when a group of teenage scumbags derails their plans into blood-soaked anarchy.
Yawn, right? Perhaps nil....The critics over in the United Kingdom have been hailing this as the "best British horror movie in years," and I've been seeing the words Eden and Lake popping up on all of my beloved genre sites for some time now.
Thought I'd have to wait 'til it hits DVD in December, but now I can catch it on the big screen....fantastic. Let's hope it ends up being bloody good, not just another Deliverance/Last House on the Left/Hills Have Eyes love-child-from-derivative-hell.
Shit, let's hope it'll be playing New York, first of all.
Trailer:
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The good kind of audible Statik
Whoa, whoa, whoa now.
Got my new audio crack, that new album that I'll bump endlessly for some time now, while my friends will never know it even exists. Well, until now, courtesy of this here trusty site o' mine.
Statik Selektah - Stick 2 The Script
He's a DJ/producer from Beantown, white dude such as myself. Has a great ear for this rap shit, makes beats that I'd make if I'd had ever purchased the studio equipment I flirted with doing years back. True story, I really did once, but lack of finances prevented.
This is his second record; the first was also tough, but this new one is mucho tougher. Compilation, featuring dudes like Redman, Jadakiss, M.O.P., Talib Kweli, Little Brother, Royce Da 5'9, etc.
Check some tracks....if you're like me, these will sound divine to the lobeage:
"All 2gether Now," with Young Chris, Freeway, Peedi Crack (State Property)
"On The Marquee," with Little Brother, Joe Scudda, Chaundon
"For The City," with M.O.P., Jadakiss
That goodness. Told ya.
Got my new audio crack, that new album that I'll bump endlessly for some time now, while my friends will never know it even exists. Well, until now, courtesy of this here trusty site o' mine.
Statik Selektah - Stick 2 The Script
He's a DJ/producer from Beantown, white dude such as myself. Has a great ear for this rap shit, makes beats that I'd make if I'd had ever purchased the studio equipment I flirted with doing years back. True story, I really did once, but lack of finances prevented.
This is his second record; the first was also tough, but this new one is mucho tougher. Compilation, featuring dudes like Redman, Jadakiss, M.O.P., Talib Kweli, Little Brother, Royce Da 5'9, etc.
Check some tracks....if you're like me, these will sound divine to the lobeage:
"All 2gether Now," with Young Chris, Freeway, Peedi Crack (State Property)
"On The Marquee," with Little Brother, Joe Scudda, Chaundon
"For The City," with M.O.P., Jadakiss
That goodness. Told ya.
Pointless Image Time
No substantial purpose to this, other than finding a home for some images I can't get enough of....
How can you not love this pic? Of that damn speaking pooch who prevented Quarantine from taking the top spot on this past weekend's box office throne. Dumb bitch. Or whatever you call a male dog that stings as much as "bitch" does.
I'm in love with Mila Kunis. Simple as that. Forgetting Sarah Marshall showed me the way, clinched my decision. Here she is at the recent premiere of Max Payne. Sadly, however, not even her participation nor gun-toting-while-wearing-what-looks-like-leather will have me paying to see Max Payne....what once looked promising looks like a true piece of shit now.
Hell. Fucking. Yes.......this flick's release date can't come soon enough, whenever the hell it may actually end up being.
Was coasting through the Movie Hotties section of JobBlo.com yesterday, and came across a poll trying to decide whether oft-forgotten, under-employed (in my opinion) actress Lacey Chabert [Party of Five, Mean Girls, that fucking atrocious Black Christmas remake] is hot or not. Obviously, it was a hands-down yes, she's hot. But it reminded me that she'll forever remain one of the most beautiful women, like ever. Of all time. She's about as close as an actress gets to being my "exact, to-the-letter" type.....and ladies should appreciate how I opted for a natural pic here, rather than a skin-showing one. Also shows how natural of a looker she is. Okay, enough gushing.
Thus concludes today's Pointless Image Time.
How can you not love this pic? Of that damn speaking pooch who prevented Quarantine from taking the top spot on this past weekend's box office throne. Dumb bitch. Or whatever you call a male dog that stings as much as "bitch" does.
I'm in love with Mila Kunis. Simple as that. Forgetting Sarah Marshall showed me the way, clinched my decision. Here she is at the recent premiere of Max Payne. Sadly, however, not even her participation nor gun-toting-while-wearing-what-looks-like-leather will have me paying to see Max Payne....what once looked promising looks like a true piece of shit now.
Hell. Fucking. Yes.......this flick's release date can't come soon enough, whenever the hell it may actually end up being.
Was coasting through the Movie Hotties section of JobBlo.com yesterday, and came across a poll trying to decide whether oft-forgotten, under-employed (in my opinion) actress Lacey Chabert [Party of Five, Mean Girls, that fucking atrocious Black Christmas remake] is hot or not. Obviously, it was a hands-down yes, she's hot. But it reminded me that she'll forever remain one of the most beautiful women, like ever. Of all time. She's about as close as an actress gets to being my "exact, to-the-letter" type.....and ladies should appreciate how I opted for a natural pic here, rather than a skin-showing one. Also shows how natural of a looker she is. Okay, enough gushing.
Thus concludes today's Pointless Image Time.
The English are coming....with some truth for that ass
Was watching some episodes of Fawlty Towers with my pops this past weekend, while up at his cabin. Its a show that he'd routinely make me watch back when I was a wee lad, for reasons rotating around "let's show Matt some intelligent comedy, rather than those asinine Adam Sandler movies he loves" and "I love this shit, so I'm going to make my son, who seems to be cultivating a keen liking to pop culture and the entertainment biz, like it, as well" ideals.
Mission accomplished. Funniest part is, Fawlty Towers---a cult classic of a England-originated sitcom, where legendary comic dynamo John Cleese plays the live-in owner/manager of a bed-n-breakfast, where sharply-written hijinx ensue---a good 70% of my dad's catchphrases and insulting punchlines he's used against everybody from myself to my mother (all in sarcastic good fun, of course) are directly bitten from Basil Fawlty's ever-snappy dialogue.
In this same breath, pops also had me watching Cleese's other iconic addition into the comedy canon, Monty Python's Flying Circus, another brutally-smart-and-sly bit of laughs served up in the form of a sketch comedy program.
All this leads me into this clip I stumbled across online earlier....a recent interview w/ Cleese, where he offers his 20-cents regarding Sarah Palin. He says little that hasn't been said or at least thought before, but Cleese is a road scholar, so it means more than yours truly spitting it out:
[btw, Michael Palin is one of Cleese's also-funny associates from the Monty Python crew]
Posted for no other reason than to further belittle Palin. Like this site has any chance of impacting the rapidly-approaching election, but whatever. Peace-of-mind goes a long way.
Mission accomplished. Funniest part is, Fawlty Towers---a cult classic of a England-originated sitcom, where legendary comic dynamo John Cleese plays the live-in owner/manager of a bed-n-breakfast, where sharply-written hijinx ensue---a good 70% of my dad's catchphrases and insulting punchlines he's used against everybody from myself to my mother (all in sarcastic good fun, of course) are directly bitten from Basil Fawlty's ever-snappy dialogue.
In this same breath, pops also had me watching Cleese's other iconic addition into the comedy canon, Monty Python's Flying Circus, another brutally-smart-and-sly bit of laughs served up in the form of a sketch comedy program.
All this leads me into this clip I stumbled across online earlier....a recent interview w/ Cleese, where he offers his 20-cents regarding Sarah Palin. He says little that hasn't been said or at least thought before, but Cleese is a road scholar, so it means more than yours truly spitting it out:
[btw, Michael Palin is one of Cleese's also-funny associates from the Monty Python crew]
Posted for no other reason than to further belittle Palin. Like this site has any chance of impacting the rapidly-approaching election, but whatever. Peace-of-mind goes a long way.
Monday, October 13, 2008
what I call a "frustrating evening"....
....well, a somewhat frustrating one. Did get to catch Quarantine again, and I'm pleased to say that it holds up. Still really like it. And this time, unlike the last, I saw it in a theater full of spectators, who all cheered and screamed and shrieked throughout. Even clapped as the credits rolled, and chatted amongst themselves on the walk out about how "good" that was, and how "much better than I expected" it turned out to be.
Sweetness.
The evening continued in quality as I hit my personal crackspot....Extraordinary DVD, on the corner of 14th and 7th. Gets new DVDs weeks early, meaning they had The Strangers DVD (Unrated edition, with both uncut and theatrical prints included). Copped that shit with the quickness. Gonna watch the bonus features shortly. Fuckin' great sleeper of a movie. Me likey.
At that point, the evening seemed like one for the books. But then, I got off the F train and approached the Two Boots Pioneer Theater on Avenue A, where the Trick 'R' Treat one-time only screening was to commence in roughly 35 minutes. Problem was, there was a fucking line about 200 people deep stretched longways down East 3rd Street.
What in the fuckity fuck? I took this film and Fangoria's loyal readership for granted. When shit's free, people will flock. In droves.
You can probably see where this story is going....the actual theater only holds like 150 heads, tiny. I was standing somewhere between 174 and 183. Got shut out. Denied. Swindled, sort of.
What in double fuckity fuck?! If I'd had known that admission wasn't guaranteed, I'd have gotten my ass there rapidly. Early in the game. Without a walk-back-to-the-train of shame.
And at that point of disappointment, there was no way in Sam-hell I was waiting around for two hours to see Let The Right One In, a film that is great, granted, but I'd seen already. So, took my ass home. Where I sit now, pissed off.
Really wanted to see Trick 'R' Treat. Now I have to wait like a year 'til its released on DVD. Son of a whore.
So, to those responsible for this free event and who crushed my evening's high-hopes with extreme prejudice, I offer this, courtesy of Dubya himself:
Fangoria...you know I still love ya, though, right?
Sweetness.
The evening continued in quality as I hit my personal crackspot....Extraordinary DVD, on the corner of 14th and 7th. Gets new DVDs weeks early, meaning they had The Strangers DVD (Unrated edition, with both uncut and theatrical prints included). Copped that shit with the quickness. Gonna watch the bonus features shortly. Fuckin' great sleeper of a movie. Me likey.
At that point, the evening seemed like one for the books. But then, I got off the F train and approached the Two Boots Pioneer Theater on Avenue A, where the Trick 'R' Treat one-time only screening was to commence in roughly 35 minutes. Problem was, there was a fucking line about 200 people deep stretched longways down East 3rd Street.
What in the fuckity fuck? I took this film and Fangoria's loyal readership for granted. When shit's free, people will flock. In droves.
You can probably see where this story is going....the actual theater only holds like 150 heads, tiny. I was standing somewhere between 174 and 183. Got shut out. Denied. Swindled, sort of.
What in double fuckity fuck?! If I'd had known that admission wasn't guaranteed, I'd have gotten my ass there rapidly. Early in the game. Without a walk-back-to-the-train of shame.
And at that point of disappointment, there was no way in Sam-hell I was waiting around for two hours to see Let The Right One In, a film that is great, granted, but I'd seen already. So, took my ass home. Where I sit now, pissed off.
Really wanted to see Trick 'R' Treat. Now I have to wait like a year 'til its released on DVD. Son of a whore.
So, to those responsible for this free event and who crushed my evening's high-hopes with extreme prejudice, I offer this, courtesy of Dubya himself:
Fangoria...you know I still love ya, though, right?
What I call a "productive evening"....
Taking in a cinematic menage a trois tonight...actually, more like a four-way orgy of horror goodness, if I'm being technical with the mathematics.
Seeing Quarantine again immediately after work, just for the hell of it (it's a quick fix, one I'm planning on indulging for a third time next week....junkies need to satiate their urges, or else gradually watch their mental chip away like asbestos bits falling from top-to-bottom in the head)
Then hitting a free Fangoria Mag-sponsored screening of this flick Trick 'R' Treat. It's one of those multiple-tales-in-one films, a la Creepshow, a subgenre that's been sadly neglected in recent memory. What was the last good one I can even recall? Off the dome, none come to mind. Not a good thing....the reviews and press surrounding Trick 'R' Treat have been wall-to-wall positive, which further sends hateful chills down my spine in regards to Hollywood---you see, Trick 'R' Treat was originally supposed to hit theaters last October, through Warner Bros. But for surely-idiotic reasons, the pussies at Warner Bros. bailed last minute and the flick's been floating in heading-toward-an-inevitable-straight-to-DVD-life-span purgatory for a year now, and it seems that it'll ultimately be delayed to a DVD release of October 2009. Retarded. But thankfully, Fangoria, in their horror-pleasing ways, has arranged a free showing tonight down by Avenue A. And of course I couldn't miss it.
Odds are, I'm going to love the hell out of Trick 'R' Treat. Will post my post-watching thoughts later. The trailer is up on Youtube, btw, but I'm too lazy at the moment to grab an embed and post it here. So sorry.
[notice the October 2007 release date on this original poster....damn shame]
And immediately after Trick 'R' Treat ends, Fangoria has a second $$$-deficient screening that I'll be sitting through, for the wonderful Let The Right One In, which I've already blabbed on about here. Amazing vampires-redefined-and-freshly-envisioned flick from Sweden, and a great way to end my horror marathon-of-a-day.
Gonna be a great, late night. Wouldn't have it any other way.
Seeing Quarantine again immediately after work, just for the hell of it (it's a quick fix, one I'm planning on indulging for a third time next week....junkies need to satiate their urges, or else gradually watch their mental chip away like asbestos bits falling from top-to-bottom in the head)
Then hitting a free Fangoria Mag-sponsored screening of this flick Trick 'R' Treat. It's one of those multiple-tales-in-one films, a la Creepshow, a subgenre that's been sadly neglected in recent memory. What was the last good one I can even recall? Off the dome, none come to mind. Not a good thing....the reviews and press surrounding Trick 'R' Treat have been wall-to-wall positive, which further sends hateful chills down my spine in regards to Hollywood---you see, Trick 'R' Treat was originally supposed to hit theaters last October, through Warner Bros. But for surely-idiotic reasons, the pussies at Warner Bros. bailed last minute and the flick's been floating in heading-toward-an-inevitable-straight-to-DVD-life-span purgatory for a year now, and it seems that it'll ultimately be delayed to a DVD release of October 2009. Retarded. But thankfully, Fangoria, in their horror-pleasing ways, has arranged a free showing tonight down by Avenue A. And of course I couldn't miss it.
Odds are, I'm going to love the hell out of Trick 'R' Treat. Will post my post-watching thoughts later. The trailer is up on Youtube, btw, but I'm too lazy at the moment to grab an embed and post it here. So sorry.
[notice the October 2007 release date on this original poster....damn shame]
And immediately after Trick 'R' Treat ends, Fangoria has a second $$$-deficient screening that I'll be sitting through, for the wonderful Let The Right One In, which I've already blabbed on about here. Amazing vampires-redefined-and-freshly-envisioned flick from Sweden, and a great way to end my horror marathon-of-a-day.
Gonna be a great, late night. Wouldn't have it any other way.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Gon' Country....for Good Reason
Was living the "simple life" all weekend, a la Paris Hilton and Lionel Richie's little girl. Okay, far from how they did it, actually, being that the leash Hilton's dog wears cost more than what I make in a year, I'd imagine. Maybe not, but you get the point.
I was in upstate New York, all day Saturday and pretty much all day today (Sunday), staying at my dad's 17 acres of farmland. It's his pride-and-joy, a sanctuary for the hard-as-hell-working man to retreat on weekends, enjoying peace, quiet, scenery, animals, and missing-teeth locals. But its certainly added some years on to his life, so for that I'm a passionate lover of what Hobart, New York has to offer my pops.
This is a yeary thing for us....though, I wish I could do it more than one-weekend-a-year. Just that, schedules rarely coincide. I know it means bunches to him when somebody, anybody rolls with him. Alone, which is how he visits pretty much every weekend, is fun only to a point. Sure, he's befriended tons of locals, and just the fact that he's physically there puts his mind and heart at ease. But he's awfully proud of the lot, and loves sharing its many quaint pleasures with family and friends. So it sort-a breaks my heart knowing that I can't go with him more often. But thus is the way of life, I guess.
I'd been trying to make this weekend happen all summer. Sucks that it took 'til mid-October to finally arrange, but in a way, it all worked out for the best, since my brother and sis-in-law decided to tag along, bringing my niece and nephew. Making for even-better times, naturally.
Gianna riding her lil' Barbie four-wheel-quad around the wide stretches of grass. G and my dad watching the "fishies" swimming across the brook. Nicholas getting shook sby a donkey suddenly belting out a "hee-haw!" Gianna holding on for dear life to Uncle Matt's left arm as my dad drove us over bumpy-grassland in his beloved Mule, which is basically a tricked-out golfcart used to commute around the hills and vast property.
Great times had by all. Yeah, Gianna has her "diva in training" moments, and Nick lets out some brutally-deafening cries when he's tired. But I wouldn't have traded this weekend for anything this busy world has to offer.
Peace, quiet, family, fun, money-not-necessary enjoyment. A fine way to spend a couple of days, I must say.
The experience send my mental back a few years, too. Back to the summer of 2004. The summer when I scored my first magazine feature story---a q&a article for KING, during my intern days, with Coral from MTV's The Real World galaxy of how-the-fuck-are-these-people-stars? As a result of this assignment, my green-behind-the-lobes mug graced the does-anybody-actually-read-this-anyway Contributor's Page. Which was a pretty big deal for me.
Even more so for my parents. Part of me wished that this crowning achievement didn't come hand-in-hand with a somewhat sexual-interview and Coral's tig-ol-bitties plastered all around the story. But whatever. Their son's face was featured in a national magazine, and it sort-of legitimized the profession I'd chosen and they'd yet to fully comprehend.
'Til this moment, I couldn't tell whether my 'rental units fully approved of me being an entertainment scribe. They were just happy that I was happy, sure. And I'm the first person in my family to pursue a truly-desired career and fulfill the dream, after graduating from a major university. So the pedigree for parental-pride was in place. But still, the fact that I was working at a magazine that would be otherwise foreign to mom and dad was stained my dome.
That is, until the weekend in '04 that I hit the farm with pops. That first morning, he brought me to his favorite little breakfast nook, The Coffee Pot. Where all the locals gather for damn-good omelettes and pancakes. Seriously, that shit rivals IHOP in taste factors. Always hits the spot, as it did this morning, in fact.
We walked in, my dad introduced me to the owner/cook, and this unexpected look of "It's him!" overtook his grill (facial one, not the burning-hot maker of delish sausage patties). Then he pointed to the back wall, where bulletins were posted and fliers were seen. Up on the top right corner was my Contributor's Page, tacked right next to an announcement for some Scarecrow Festival in the works for Halloween (don't know what a Scarecrow Fest is exactly, but sounds like sweetness to me).
Imagine my shock. How in the fuck would these kind-hearted hicks and yokels even know what KING Mag is, let alone cut out the Contrib's Page in my honor? Then it dawned on me....my dad, in pure pride and secondary accomplishment, had told his new neighbors what I'd done. He didn't think my job was lame, or foolish, or confusing, or poorly chosen.
That was the instance where my career path felt legit. Right. Understood. Appreciated. By those who matter most to me, and for whom I've pretty much done everything I've ever been able to. Just to make them proud.
Mission was accomplished. Still is, matter of fact.
I'm still a city-dude at heart, will be forever. But I'd be lying if I said that Hobart, New York, doesn't hold a secure, spotlight-positioned-above spot in my red organ.
I was in upstate New York, all day Saturday and pretty much all day today (Sunday), staying at my dad's 17 acres of farmland. It's his pride-and-joy, a sanctuary for the hard-as-hell-working man to retreat on weekends, enjoying peace, quiet, scenery, animals, and missing-teeth locals. But its certainly added some years on to his life, so for that I'm a passionate lover of what Hobart, New York has to offer my pops.
This is a yeary thing for us....though, I wish I could do it more than one-weekend-a-year. Just that, schedules rarely coincide. I know it means bunches to him when somebody, anybody rolls with him. Alone, which is how he visits pretty much every weekend, is fun only to a point. Sure, he's befriended tons of locals, and just the fact that he's physically there puts his mind and heart at ease. But he's awfully proud of the lot, and loves sharing its many quaint pleasures with family and friends. So it sort-a breaks my heart knowing that I can't go with him more often. But thus is the way of life, I guess.
I'd been trying to make this weekend happen all summer. Sucks that it took 'til mid-October to finally arrange, but in a way, it all worked out for the best, since my brother and sis-in-law decided to tag along, bringing my niece and nephew. Making for even-better times, naturally.
Gianna riding her lil' Barbie four-wheel-quad around the wide stretches of grass. G and my dad watching the "fishies" swimming across the brook. Nicholas getting shook sby a donkey suddenly belting out a "hee-haw!" Gianna holding on for dear life to Uncle Matt's left arm as my dad drove us over bumpy-grassland in his beloved Mule, which is basically a tricked-out golfcart used to commute around the hills and vast property.
Great times had by all. Yeah, Gianna has her "diva in training" moments, and Nick lets out some brutally-deafening cries when he's tired. But I wouldn't have traded this weekend for anything this busy world has to offer.
Peace, quiet, family, fun, money-not-necessary enjoyment. A fine way to spend a couple of days, I must say.
The experience send my mental back a few years, too. Back to the summer of 2004. The summer when I scored my first magazine feature story---a q&a article for KING, during my intern days, with Coral from MTV's The Real World galaxy of how-the-fuck-are-these-people-stars? As a result of this assignment, my green-behind-the-lobes mug graced the does-anybody-actually-read-this-anyway Contributor's Page. Which was a pretty big deal for me.
Even more so for my parents. Part of me wished that this crowning achievement didn't come hand-in-hand with a somewhat sexual-interview and Coral's tig-ol-bitties plastered all around the story. But whatever. Their son's face was featured in a national magazine, and it sort-of legitimized the profession I'd chosen and they'd yet to fully comprehend.
'Til this moment, I couldn't tell whether my 'rental units fully approved of me being an entertainment scribe. They were just happy that I was happy, sure. And I'm the first person in my family to pursue a truly-desired career and fulfill the dream, after graduating from a major university. So the pedigree for parental-pride was in place. But still, the fact that I was working at a magazine that would be otherwise foreign to mom and dad was stained my dome.
That is, until the weekend in '04 that I hit the farm with pops. That first morning, he brought me to his favorite little breakfast nook, The Coffee Pot. Where all the locals gather for damn-good omelettes and pancakes. Seriously, that shit rivals IHOP in taste factors. Always hits the spot, as it did this morning, in fact.
We walked in, my dad introduced me to the owner/cook, and this unexpected look of "It's him!" overtook his grill (facial one, not the burning-hot maker of delish sausage patties). Then he pointed to the back wall, where bulletins were posted and fliers were seen. Up on the top right corner was my Contributor's Page, tacked right next to an announcement for some Scarecrow Festival in the works for Halloween (don't know what a Scarecrow Fest is exactly, but sounds like sweetness to me).
Imagine my shock. How in the fuck would these kind-hearted hicks and yokels even know what KING Mag is, let alone cut out the Contrib's Page in my honor? Then it dawned on me....my dad, in pure pride and secondary accomplishment, had told his new neighbors what I'd done. He didn't think my job was lame, or foolish, or confusing, or poorly chosen.
That was the instance where my career path felt legit. Right. Understood. Appreciated. By those who matter most to me, and for whom I've pretty much done everything I've ever been able to. Just to make them proud.
Mission was accomplished. Still is, matter of fact.
I'm still a city-dude at heart, will be forever. But I'd be lying if I said that Hobart, New York, doesn't hold a secure, spotlight-positioned-above spot in my red organ.
Post-Game -- Indirect Satisfaction
A 64% score on the nationwide film critic site Rotten Tomatoes....
$14.2 million during its opening weekend, falling second to the two-week-champ Beverly Hills Chihuahua, which played to broader audiences, of course. Yet, my special one finished first out of all new flicks, including the bigger-profiled Leo Dicaprio/Russell Crowe snoozer Body of Lies....
Only made for a measly, reported 412 million budget, thus making it a nice-sized hit already....
...yes, it does feel good that Quarantine is a success, on pretty much all fronts. Not that I work for the studio, or anything, though I do kinda feel like the Screen Gems company should mail my ass a generous royalty check for all the voluntary street team work I've been doing for the flick.
But, my reputation (whatever it actually may be, that is) remains intact and avoiding-of-hatred. For this time....
**Wipes his brow, takes a deep soothing breath, and exhales**
Take that, once-impending jeers!!
$14.2 million during its opening weekend, falling second to the two-week-champ Beverly Hills Chihuahua, which played to broader audiences, of course. Yet, my special one finished first out of all new flicks, including the bigger-profiled Leo Dicaprio/Russell Crowe snoozer Body of Lies....
Only made for a measly, reported 412 million budget, thus making it a nice-sized hit already....
...yes, it does feel good that Quarantine is a success, on pretty much all fronts. Not that I work for the studio, or anything, though I do kinda feel like the Screen Gems company should mail my ass a generous royalty check for all the voluntary street team work I've been doing for the flick.
But, my reputation (whatever it actually may be, that is) remains intact and avoiding-of-hatred. For this time....
**Wipes his brow, takes a deep soothing breath, and exhales**
Take that, once-impending jeers!!
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