Netflix Fix -- The Panic In Needle Park (1971)

As on-the-surface and/or obvious as this may sound, I'm so infinitely happy that I've never had the urge to fuss around with hard drugs. I've kicked it with Mary Jane a few times, granted, but I'm talking the truly-damaging junk. The hard white. Crack attacks. The such. One part "having hung around a solid group of straight-and-narrow" friends and another dose "having common sense," my drug-free life has been a good one, and the mere thought of what a drug-happy existence could be like scares the piss out of my sack. Nothing going right, family hating me and crying at my sight. Not being able to be around Gianna and my man Nick, probably stealing paper from my pops in order to score. In some fucked-up alternate Twilight Zone, it'd be the "Strung Out In a Desolate Modern Wasteland" episode, based on true events.



Having recently seen The Panic In Needle Park in its entirety, I can't help but revel in my own no-drugs world. What a bleak, road-to-nowhere existence that its two protagonists, Bobby (played by a young Al Pacino, in his breakout performance) and Helen (played by Kitty Winn, a phenomenal actress who I can't seem to place from any other films without IMDB's assistance), trap themselves within. The setting for such a hellhole being Manhattan's Upper West Side, W.72nd and Broadway, known back in the '70s as "Needle Park" by its large heroin addict population. The Panic In Needle Park is, essentially, a drug ballad, a love story following two lost souls in search of an exit that they can only seem to navigate while strung out. Through a mutual friend, Helen, a painter from Ft. Wayne, Indiana, meets Bobby, a degenerate ex-con/heroin addict going nowhere in life yet getting by on basic sweet-talk. They quickly fall in love, and we ride third-seat as their lives disintegrate into deeper fixes, prostitution, snitching, jailtime, and overdoses.



Not exactly a romance to watch any time near Valentine's Day. Shot in grainy, almost-documentary-like fashion and using no underlying soundtrack, The Panic In Needle Park is brutally frank. Raw like ground chuck. Visceral without trying hard at all. The scenes where the camera closes in on arms' veins being injected with the heroin are hard to sit through, since they look painfully authentic. Figures, then, that, after some research, I've learned that the director, Jerry Schatzberg, reportledly cast 'actual' heroin "Fuck no" if it were today, but considering that this was a no-dollars-spent indie made in 1971 it could've been possible.



The voyeuristic feeling given off here is one amazing thing, but the acting delivered by the two leads is something else entirely. No wonder Pacino went on to snag some meaty roles back in the mid-1970s---he's dynamite here. Like he's not even "acting," but being himself in front of some dude with a camera. Not saying that the guy was a heroin addict (as far I know), though; he's just so believable in Bobby's back-and-forth from sympathetic and loving to animalistic and cunning. In one of Pacino's best moments here, Bobby learns that Helen (who he plans on marrying) was having sex for drugs while he was away on a brief prison stint. The ravenous force that he confronts her with is rough enough to leave Tony Montana shaking.

And then there's Kitty Winn, who, again, never even existed in my "mental actress rolodex" until The Panic In Needle Park's opening credits rolled, and I haven't the foggiest as to why. She's even more unforgettable than Pacino here, in my opinion, and that's saying a bucketful. Before Helen submits to the drugs all around her, she's a clean, innocent, lonely dreamer clinging to the affections that Bobby, and only Bobby, shows. During this portion of the character's development, Winn had me wishing I could meet such a cute ride-or-die chick, a girl able to look past a man's crystal clear faults and focus on her love for dude. Of course, at her own peril, which this film never lets Helen get away with, at all. Once she's gotten her first fix, Helen becomes even more erratic and unstable than Bobby, and its in this latter section that Winn had me wondering if she'd received an Oscar nod for this performance (she didn't, though she did rightfully win Best Actress at '71's Cannes Film Festival).



One scene where Winn really broke my heart was also one that was a bit tough to watch for a dog lover such as myself. Deep into the story, when both Bobby and Helen routinely "get off" on their fix of choice, there's a momentary lapse of stupidity, and they flirt with the idea of living a better, wiser life. Their first step is to buy a cute puppy, which Bobby names "Rocky." On their way home from getting Rocky, they're on a ferry, petting the new dog and generally feeling good. Dumbass Bobby, unfortunately, forces Helen to get high with him in the men's bathroom, during which she leaves Rocky out on the wing of the ferry. As Helen stumbles out of the shitter higher than a kite riding wind, she sees Rocky run off the edge of the ferry, into a choppy water grave. Tears flow, disbelief sets in, and sadness cracks through a drug-clouded mind. It's a small scene within the film's larger context, but it totally wiped me out.

Dog scene included in this Youtube-available portion, if you want to test your heart's stamina with it:


The Panic In Needle Park is easily right up there next to films like Requiem for a Dream in the "watch this if you're ever tempted to start down a drug path, you weak-minded fool." It wouldn't be too risky of a guess to say that filmmakers hailing from New York City must love this flick; without even trying, it drops you smack-dab in the heart of Manhattan. I wasn't even a thought in Anne Barone's head back in 1971, so I can't say that The Panic In Needle Park is an "accurate depiction of NYC at that time." I can say, though, that the film felt totally real in relation to the NYC of 2003-and-beyond that I do know firsthand. Which is quite a testament to director Schatzberg's work here.

Before closing.....I can't help but wish I could chat with We Own The Night's writer/director James Gray about this flick. There's a scene here that has Pacino's Bobby acting as a spectator in an apartment's living room "cocaine factory," and like the similar moment in We Own The Night, its a quiet, paranoid nervewracker. Almost as if Gray directly lifted it for his own film nearly 20-some-odd years later.

"I'm freezin' my nips off out here." -- Stewie Griffin

If you're not an avid horror person, you've most likely never seen Adam Green's Hatchet, a little slasher-film-that-could that scored a limited, brief theatrical run back in the September 2007. Like Eli Roth, Green is one of these walking-horror-encyclopedia filmmakers who gives welcomely-candid, highly-referential interviews to all the horror websites, which are always appreciated. As for Hatchet, I can't call myself a huge fan; it revels a bit too much in its own homage-paying irony, and the jokes don't always connect. The gore scenes are admittedly first-rate, though, and its killer, Victor Crowley, is well-handled. In all, Hatchet is fun-enough times.


Two obvious excuses to see Hatchet, on the right: actresses Mercedes McNabb and Joleigh Fioreavanti. The knowledgeable slasher fan that he, Green wisely cast a pair of wowzers in the flick, who surprisingly play their characters better than expected, or even needed.


Green, right (obviously), and one of the two ladies seen above, Fioreavanti (who needs more work, or at least some photo shoots)

What's most intriguing about Green is that he's, on several occasions, stated a devotion to make more than just horror films. A romantic comedy is in the works, while his debut, Spiral, is a pretty slick little psychological thriller in itself. His next project, Frozen, sounds like it'll walk the fine line between horror and survival-action: it's about three youngsters (two guys and a girl) who are left stranded in the bitterly-frosty outdoors after shit goes haywire on a skiing trip, and then shit goes even more haywire.

This behind-the-scenes clip shows just how insanely rigorous Frozen's production is going to be, and it's pretty wild. Just imagine having to shoot an entire film in these conditions.....fuck all that. Green is a better man than I, it seems. Even if the film ends up sucking story-wise, it's practically guaranteed that the look and feel will be authentically "chilling" (See what I did there, I went for the obvious adjective. Pathetic).

For some frustrating, pain-in-my-rear reason, I can't embed the video here. So if you want to see what all my fuss is about, check the clip out over here: Dread Central

[Assuming you've just watched that] The man has balls. Can't deny that. As for the actors (one being Shawn Ashmore, from X-Men and The Ruins), they must've really loved the script, because this ish is indie, meaning miniscule paychecks in exchange for frost-bite and hypothermia. Method acting, becomes Delusional acting. Says tons about the possible quality of Green's story, though, which is pretty enigmatic.

Almost forgot about this one....

For shame, me.

In the course of all my excitable hyping of Inglourious Basterds and The Wolfman, I've totally neglected to state my nearly-equally-high hopes for Michael Mann's summer gangster epic Public Enemies. Johnny Depp as John Dillinger, Christian Bale as the man hot on his trail. Mann's snap-crackle-pop action sensibilities and dramatic command. It'll take either a horrendous script or a cataclysmic filmmaking folly on the parts of all involved for this one to under-satisfy.

The first poster for Public Enemies made its way online today, and, while nothing mind-blowing, it features a nicely iconic shot of Depp in gangster mode. Score one for this flick. Now let's get a trailer, mofos.

When being a fan (or just stricken with terrible fashion tastes) goes wrong

Lot29 recently dropped this hoodie, for losers and uber-nerds to wear with "pride."



Seriously, if I ever see anybody I know wearing this in public, expect me to go that way. Apparently this thing is sold out online everywhere you look....there better not be any of you to blame.

Sure, I bought one of those old Scooby Doo shirts made by Iceberg off of Ebay back in college, for like $40, but did I ever actually wear it out? Hell no, Gina. Waste of money, of course. But sometimes, you gotta Doo what it Doo. In this Dark Knight case, however, I advise against such closet enhancement. Imagine if a pretty-young-or-old-thing comes over, slinks into your bedroom, and before getting it in she opens your closet doors to get a better peek at your style, and sees that mess. She'd scram with haste, and you'd be left alone with Palmela and Handgela. Sad, sad.


This horrible look first spotted at: /Film

Suspicions confirmed....

......this is going to be the tits, man.



Venture to say that, so far, this looks better than Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen? Think so. This one seems to have some plot, at least, and I'm loving the Mad Max-on-GHB look, feel.

Yup, this just usurped Transformers as the can't-wait-for flick of the summer. Let us all find out that McG has been sick with it all along but just hasn't had the right material.....

For some basic backstory on Terminator Salvation, check this out: Yahoo's "Need To Know: 10 Facts About Terminator Salvation"

The Battle of the Bootleg E.T.s

Last weekend, by chance, or divine intervention if you're like me and view such things as positive, I basked in the sheer awfulness of a forgotten '80s piece-of-shit film, Ghoulies 2 (1987). Yes, that much-needed, plothole-filling sequel to 1985's Ghoulies, that for some odd reason took place at some cheap-ass local carnival and neglected the cardinal rule of a horror film: at least attempt to create some tension.


Never before, or after, has a movie's poster image been so metaphorical.

My friends who were also watching knew all about the film, yet ironically enough I, Mr. Movie Junkie, knew nothing other than a basic knowledge gained by having seen its predecessor. As Ghoulies 2 plodded forward, though, I realized just how fortunate I'd been. Truly one of the worst movies I've ever seen. One of those flicks that has me wondering throughout, "How in all that's mighty did this even get made?" Of course, the bar was set much lower for genre cinema back in the glorious 1980s, but still. I wish Youtube had the entire carnival-set climax, one of the most overlong, tension-free, all-around-botches setpieces imaginable, 15 minutes of the ghoulies (who are more cuddly than creepy) causing little more than slapsticky mischief throughout the premises. Making people fall off of rides, have refreshments splatter all over their clothes. Stuff that'd make you laugh, not shriek. It turns into a Farrelly Brothers horror film, and, yes, that's as horrible as it sounds written out.

That hungover afternoon, Ghoulies 2 was a total fuck-off of time. An hour and a half I shouldve dedicated to reading, or eating, or bashing my head into a wall. Now, though, a full two weeks removed from that debacle, I see the fateful purpose of that viewing nightmare. Earlier today at work, I brought Ghoulies 2 up to a co-worker who also appreciates a good piece of schlock moviemaking, in hopes that he'd share my angry sentiment. Much to my shock, he actually sang the film's praises; apparently, he has a higher tolerance for feces than I. But right as I was about to toss insults and bile his way for such an unjustifiable opinion, he hit me with the nostalgic A-bomb: "That reminds me, have you ever seen Muchies, or Munchie Strikes Back?"



My mind was blown. No, I thought, I've never even heard of those. Do tell. Rather than depending on his gift of gab to do his dude Munchie justice, he kept it at, "The first one was a Gremlins ripoff, but then the sequel brought it into some shitty E.T. ripoff territory for no apparent rhyme or reason. But the sequel is awesome." He then expressed his love of all things Gremlins-esque, meaning those Ghoulies flicks, the Critters series, and the Munch. "Those movies are all great, but Munchie is still the ultimate badass."



And then he advised that I consult Youtube for some clips of Munchie in action. After watching these following two clips, I realized the divine reason behind that Ghoulies 2 experience:




Leather jacket and a varsity sweater? Munchie had style, son. How was he not a bigger genre icon back in the '90s? Oh, right, because his movies were atrocious abortions. Yet, I can't deny the power of Munchie, and how badly I need to see Munchie Strikes Back (1994) while drunk and/or stoned. Do they even sell it on DVD? If so, should I buy it right now, or wait 'til tomorrow?

After meeting Munchie, I figured I'd try putting my co-working friend on to another E.T. jackoff that I watched whenever on cable back in the day: Meathead, that Big Mac-loving alien who charmed his way through Meatballs 2 (1984), another sequel that, like Munchie Strikes Back, totally diregarded anything and everything about its namesake original.



Check Meathead out in live action, and decide which extraterrestrial/creature BFF you'd rather chase some tail with....Munchie, or this guy---Meathead:

The Arrival and Discovery of Meathead


I'm going with Munchie, only because he'd be much better for my rap. Meathead is more the dude you confide in after Munchie's arrogant, smooth-talking ways grind your gears thin.

In conclusion ..... Munchie > Meathead (but only by a slim margin)



Congrats, Munch.

Hi, I'm 27 years old, yet you'd be justified in thinking otherwise sometimes...

Before pulling the trigger on a post such as this one, I, like a broken record playing Dilated Peoples' "Clockwork," hesitate. Several times. Am I just pandering to my meatheaded inner teenager? Should I be elevating past such hollow, kneejerk perversions?

But then I look at the pictures, and register the coolness, and all self-questioning is abandoned for sheer indulgence. Sue me. Insult my intelligence. All good with me.

So, last year, when McG's Terminator Salvation was first announced, the word was that it'd be rated PG-13, news that rightfully sent panicky shivers down the franchise's collective fan-spine. Any series that revels in bodycounts, heavy firepower, and homicidal robots must be R, and a hard-R at that. PG-13 is for pussies. Well, turns out that director McG never intended the film to be PG-13 and the jury is still out on its ultimate rating. Some fanboys rejoiced, of course. Others could care less.

At Cali's Wonder Con recently, there was a Terminator Salvation panel, where McG dropped some insider nuggets about the indecisive rating. He revealed that there'll be a topless scene featuring the film's hottest piece, Moon Bloodgood, that is meant to pay homage to the original Terminator film or some shit. And said nudity, more so than the violence and nihilistic anarchy, is a major reason why R may end up being seen at the poster's bottom.

And what did I take most out of this tidbit? A juicy reveal about one of the film's scenes? Some sort of plot wonderment? Nope.....all my eyes and ears felt was stimulation at this fact: Moon Bloodgood will be topless. Meaning, this woman will be topless:



Not sure which I am at this present moment: Beavis, or Butthead? You decide.

Once again, Vanity Fair kills it

As they frequently do, Vanity Fair has another creative, amazing-looking multiple-actor photoshoot coming out in their next issue, this time celebrating 2009's new class of comedy royalty, or something to that effect. I guess it doesn't matter that every one of these actor-comedians was around last year, too, making this just an extension of 2008 rather than some sort of prediction/speculation statement. When the shoot is this awesome overall, though, small details like that are frivolous.

Included in the shoot are: Seth Rogen, Paul Rudd, Danny McBride, Jason Bateman, Anna Faris, Bill Hader, Jonah Hill, Jason Segel, Russell Brand, Will Arnett, Amy Poehler, and Leslie Mann.

All are deserving choices....even Jonah Hill, who hunch tells me will soon prove himself to be much more than that little fat dude who scores big-deal projects by simply making Judd Apatow laugh off-camera. Seems he has some screenplays sold all of his own storytelling abilities, which says something. Russell Brand is one that I've yet to fully converted on; he was pretty funny in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, but that MTV Awards hosting gig was way too awkward, fish-terribly-out-of-water. The choices of Jason Bateman, Bill Hader, and Leslie Mann, however, are cash-money. Especially Mann, who deserves to headline her own romantic comedy already, fuck a Katherine Heigl. Mann owned Heigl in Knocked Up.

And then there's Danny McBride, who is currently proving on HBO's Eastbound & Down what I've felt since I ho-hum-ly watched that Foot Fist Way screener last year and became a fan: while type-casting as the "arrogant, caveman-like slob who hates everybody but himself" is possible, he's still looking at one hell of a "comedy giant" future. The fact that Vanity Fair shot him a la Jack in The Shining just makes me like the guy even more:



Here's the dude who could be considered my "man crush" if somebody put a gun to my head and asked me who mine would be: Paul Rudd, getting his Young Frankenstein on....



Finally, the funniest shot of the bunch: Sir Man Crush as Tom Ford, and Rogen, Hill, and Segel as Scarlett Johansson and Keira Knightley (three as two....use your imagination), poking fun at that 2006 Vanity Fair cover:




And they say that magazines are dead. Name me one website that could pull off a shoot such as this. All you'd get from these bloggers/websites would be disses and potshots thrown at these folks, possibly a Q&A paired with some seen-that-before publicity shot. So not cool.

Full gallery over at: Vanity Fair

Netflix Fix -- Nightmare City (1983)

I've yet to actually watch this one, plan on giving it a go later tonight. But I can already tell that analysis will be futile, serious and/or comical musings obsolete. This one is pure, trashy-tasting cheese, in the strictest sense. All I know about Umberto Lenzi's Nightmare City is that its structure gives the impression that Robert Rodriguez used it as one his many influenes while conceptualizing Planet Terror, and that its a mutant-zombie flick that includes some of the worst makeup effects imaginable.

Something to do with a news reporter tracking a sudden mutant-zombie apocalypse, one that leaves its victims-turned-assailants' faces into spreads of boils, zits, fungi, and Spencers'-gag-quality Halloween accessories. And these creeps are real perverts, copping feels on sexy ladies before slicing their nipples off, sometimes even licking a breast or two for kicks. Yeah, it's that kind of movie.

At the very least, I'm hoping for some cheap laughs and good times. Anything resembling a "good film" will probably send me into shock, but I need not worry. Just check this clip out, it pretty much sets the stage as convincingly as any scene could:



Should come as no surprise that Quentin Tarantino seems to be a fan. One of the characters in Inglourious Basterds is named "Hugo Stiglitz," also the name of Nightmare's City lead actor. Some nerd trivia for that ass, free of cost.

The new soundtrack around these parts is.....

........this:



Only one quick listen through, and I'm already declaring this man the new King of R&B. Yes, that means better than Ne-Yo. And I'm a big fan of Mr. -Yo, but still. Facts are facts. Proof is in the sonic pudding---the innovation, the winks at the past, and everything else.

This newly-structured album version of "Right Side of My Brain" is better than any other new R&B song you've heard in 2009, I'm sure of that.

Well done, sir. Two albums in, two winners notched. Somebody buy this man a drink.

For the love of all that's "holy," shut the fuck up

Is the general public even aware that the cable channel G4 even exists? It falls on channel ## 175 in my cable option, as it has for a good three years or so. For lovers of video game culture, sci-fi movies, the old show COPS, and basic nerd nirvana fodder, G4 is basically a Playboy Channel that their parents will actually let them watch. The only reason why I ever learned of its existence, though, has nothing to do with the fact that I am, at heart, an appreciator of such culture.

For me, it was all about the first time I laid eyes on Olivia Munn, courtesy of that homerun cover shoot she did with Complex mag a couple years back. Munn, a co-host on G4's comical, enjoyable nerd news program Attack of the Show, blindsided my eyes instantly; I wondered, "Who is this chick, and where has she been all my life?" Working for G4 for two of my life's years, at least. The thing that I, and all others who pledge allegiance to comic books and not-so-sexy culture, love about her is that she's a Maxim cover-worthy looker who just happens to be one of "us," a trait that she wears like a favorite shirt. Dressing up as Princess Leia, Wonder Woman, or whatever other fantasy lady character comes to mind. Spitting off deep knowledge of the Marvel and DC universes. You get the drift.



Well, since they must have nothing else to complain about for the time being, some overly-sensitive, need-to-worry-about-more-important-things-like-child-molesting-priests Christian blowhards have targeted Munn as some sort of misleading prostitute. Total, utter bullshit, of course. Here's the defense from Christwire.org:

"This female acts like she is into gaming, cartoons and nerds. What she is doing is, using this wool to lure young men into watching her and then she starts using her devil powers to expose them to breasts, uncovers legs, mouth sex acts, sexual suggestions and other unholy things.
Even her website is full of scum and sin. She posts photos of her half naked and posts videos partaking in simulated sexual acts. On her 'blog' she tries to act like she is an every women, who loves regular men. We all know she is using this on youth to gain ratings and to drive traffic to her website, when in reality she is doing drugs with her high dollar pimps."

Really, going after Olivia Munn of all people? No wonder I haven't gone to church in like five years and Bill Maher's Religulous preached to my choir like spot-on lecturing. "Full of scum and sin," they say. "Her devil powers," they call her natural hotness. Seems that the dangerous minds over at Christwire have never seen a magazine rack, or turned on a TV. As if Olivia Munn is doing anything that 95% of the rest of pop culture isn't.

Why not allow reclusive, antisocial kids bask in her looks and dream about reading TKTK with her while lying in their bed with those Batman bedsheets? No girl who looks like Munn will ever do such a thing with them in real life. And isn't part of being a kid the ability to have an imagination? I know that when I was a teenager, my weekly "hangout" sessions with Sarah Michelle Gellar (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) and "Faith" (Eliza Dushku) were great ways for me to cope with the sad then-facts that the "hot girls" in school didn't give me the time of day. When you're as into shit that others could deem as "weird" or "geek," your thoughts can easily veer toward "I'm a loser," or "Nobody will ever find this attractive." So having an Olivia Munn around to give these kids the "You're cool just the way you are" cosign seems much more productive than destructive.

Don't expect to hear about me attending church any time soon, as long as nonsense like this keeps surfacing. I here at Barone's World celebrate Miss Olivia Munn. So much so that I'm about to post some of my favorite Munn pics, so that I can sit here and dream about meeting her at the AMC Times Square theater next Friday night, where we'd hold hands while taking in Watchmen on IMAX before shifting over to Red Lobster for some cheesy biscuits, then grabbing a few cocktails at whatever bar is nearest. Because she totally seems like she'd be all about such an evening.

Just to lighten things up a bit, since it feels like I wrote this from a stance of "anger" more than my true "agitated yet mostly just amused by the stupidity" vibe, let's cap this off with.....





If these are shots of her "doing drugs with high-dollar pimps," she can be my dealer any time, any day, any way.

News first spotted over at: Warming Glow

Five Silver Bullets in the Clip

If there has ever been more perfect casting in the last ten or so years of horror, I challenge any brave-but-ultimately-wrong sould to present the example(s). While I'm waiting for the incorrect answer(s), here's a series of so good, so right images from Rick Baker's makeup work on the upcoming The Wolfman, starring Benicio Del Toro, who was pretty much born to play the role.

These images are what appears to be the much-rumored, highly-anticipated "transformation" scene, which many (including myself) uses little if any CGI and goes the painfully-real-looking, skin-and-bone-stretching route of An American Werewolf in London, only that it'd be ten times cooler now thanks to modern advances. Based off these five images below, it looks like Rick Baker and his team are about to blow my baggy jeans right off.

As suggested by the dude Arrow on Joblo (attribution below), it's best to squint your eyes and scroll through these as quickly as possible. Treat them like one of those flipbooks you'd make as a kid:







Fuckin' awesome. No other words necessary.

Originally, The Wolfman was supposed to howl in theaters in April, I believe, which would've meant I'd be salivating in anticipation right about now. But alas, it was bumped back to November, which bodes well for the film's quality but not so much for my lack of patience for such things as modern-day spins on classic horror icons that star A-list talent and look great. Van Helsing, this shall not be.

The Wolfman is my personal dave Universal monster, ever since my pops showed me the Lon Chaney, Jr. take on VHS back in like the 1st grade. Probably because he's way more vicious than the Count or Frank. Wolfman was even the nastiest in The Monster Squad, which forever reminded the world that the Wolfman indeed has nards. And don't you forget it.

Pics first spotted over at: Arrow In The Head

Wait....the Jonas Brothers get the IMAX treatment, but not THIS? Kill Yourselves.

It's been another busy one today, thus zero posts (not that anybody other than myself really cares; I'm more so just speaking to myself like a total loser than explaining an absence to any actual audience). But I couldn't let something as baffling and amazing as this go unposted:

Behold, Big Man Japan



Webster's should just cut to the chase already and file "Japanese" and "crazy" as synonyms and keep it moving. In a great way, not derogatory in the least. Where else could something as nonsensically jaw-dropping as Big Man Japan be thought up, really?




Nice diaper.

Netflix Fix -- Inferno (1980)

You know a film is pretty awesome when even after your third time seeing it you still can't figure out what in the hell is exactly going on. Well, at least I know it's awe-to-the-you-know-what. Inferno, a sequel of sorts to Dario Argento's could-be-a-horror-masterpiece Suspiria, falls splat in the center of that category. As far as I can tell, and realize that this is the same explanation I mustered after my first time seeing it years back, the second Mother, "Mater Tenebrarum," doesn't want any of these too-curious New Yorkers to discover her, and she's hellbent on slaughtering them in some truly stunning ways.

Such as this, which happens early on and too-quickly concludes the screen time of one Eleonora Giorgi, who is dynamite to look at and actually gives this character a nice weight of anxiety (sorry about the Italian language....it's all I could scrounge up). Something tells me that Brian Bertino, the man behind last year's great The Strangers, was influenced by this scene; it's all in the eerie, off-putting record skips:


Beware the Following Geek-Out (Any Ladies Reading This....Please Don't Hold This Knowledge Against Me): Oh, yeah, "There's more than one Mother to warrant calling this one the second?" the unseasoned Argento/horror head may ask. Basically, Argento has arched three of his flicks around a mythology known as The Three Mothers, three witches living in a trio of locations: Mater Suspiriorium, "The Mother of Sighs" and formally named Helen Markos (seen decrepit in 1977's Suspiria), lives in Germany; Mater Lachrimarum (who shows up in last year's so-bad-it's-kinda-good Mother of Tears and is a true hottie, evil or not) lives in Rome; and this film's Mater Tenebrarum, "The Mother of Shadows," lives in New York. Yes, I'm a huge nerd for knowing this, but any self-respecting horror lover should. Wanna fight about it?

The thing is, this was all so much easier to follow in Suspiria, the best of the trilogy by far stretches. The mythology wasn't airtight in that one either, but at least I only scratch my head for a few seconds; here, in Inferno, however, whatever fingernails I have left from not biting them off completely end up dull and edgeless as a result of the incoherent narrative. If there's one thing I never turn on an Argento film for, though, it's a storyline that makes total sense, since his earlier films all looked absolutely magnificent and not many filmmakers can stage a murder scene as fluidly and eye-poppingly as my boy Dario. In some ways, I hold Inferno up in the same league as David Lynch's films---the type of movie-watching that never even-partially exposes its true thread but never lessens its vice grip on my attention.

Oddly, my favorite moment in Inferno is one where the character manages to survive a run-in with the Mother. The film's opening stretch follows the poet sister as she first investigates the cellar of the apartment building, believing in this Three Mothers story and wanting to see for herself just who hides out "beneath the soles of her shoes." Turns out, the cellar is flooded, and she, being a dumbass, drops her keys into a watery hole in the floor. Naturally, she jumps in to retrieve the keys, and the underwater sequence that follows is pitch-perfect in its hallucinatory creepy.



Yet, so many inquiries remain: Why are there so many damn cats running around this apartment building, and why is that old dude on the crutches drowning a sack full of the felines? Why isn't there at least one sympathetic, even-partially-developed character for me to root for? How fake is the crutches-guy's "accidental" fall into the water? Whoops, my ass cheek. Did Argento write this script by simply designin the many elaborate death moments and then just add a few connecting scenes of dialogue and boredom while he was on the can? And finally, do we really understand why Mater Tenebrarum is even bothering with such a lame crew of intruders?

How does Mater Tenebrarum magically travel to Rome in a matter of minutes to kill the lifeless, cardboard male protagonist's sexy-poet sister? Fuck if I know. You could leave it at "She's a f'n supernatural demon witch, so she can do whatever her cold heart pleases," but still, I would've appreciated even an attempt to explain. Nevermind, ultimately, because what results from this inexplicable location jumping is this murder-set-piece, which is stellar:



Oh, and I can't let this one slip by: why does crutches-guy inform himself that "Rats are eating me alive!" when nobody is around and, yes, rats are eating him alive. Meaningless, an answer is, because the scene as a whole rocks harder than Pantera, especially when the random deli butcher runs over and drives a meat-clever into dude's neck.

So many questions, so little reason to truthfully want, or need, answers. Inferno is the most nonsensical script that Dario Argento ever scribed. Zero sense is made. The skeletal costume worn by Mater Tenebrarum looks like some $50Halloween get-up you could buy at Ken's Magic Shop., and the ending confrontation between the Mother and our "hero" very anti-climactic. If not for the plethora of gorgeous-looking, slickly-paced murders, the film would be laughably terrible. Pure Mystery Science Theater 3000 fodder. It could be the ultimate "film that's just an excuse to show repeated whoa moments" experience, but when would that ever be a bad thing?

And now.....flying cats, anyone?

I wonder: has T-Pain has ever even seen Parenthood?

Now here's a "when two worlds I love collide" happening if there ever was one. Sure, Jake Gyllenhall, Forest Whitaker, Samuel L. Jackson (mean-mugging just because he's a bad mofo like that), and a few other randoms are present, but the real WTF guest star is a total mind-blower.

Ron Howard, in a hip-hop video complete with curvaceous video models, popped champagne, and Hype Williams' direction. Amazing. The filmmaker formerly known as Opie has always come across as a really cool, happy-go-lucky fella, but never before has he been so "pimp." Well played, sir.

Jamie Foxx w/ T-Pain - "Blame It"

Your movie sucked, but I still love you.

By no plan or design whatsoever, it's turned into "Fine Piece of Ass Day" here in Barone's World.

Probably because I've been working nonstop all day and brief respites with girls-I-lust-for scenery are what's necessary to keep me sane. With Megan Fox still in mind, this next lady makes perfect sense, since she looks like a gift-of-nature mashup of Ms. Fox and Jessica Alba. Her name is Odette Yustman, and she was the only reason that I didn't start pelting the screen with wasted Twizzler sticks while watching the plain-terrible cinematic abortion The Unborn this past January. A bit late on the magazine's part, she's now gracing the cover of UK's Arena, looking all kinds of desirable. Here's a couple select shots from that.

She's no Kate Winslet acting-wise, not even an Anne Hathaway-light (meaning, she's a pretty bad actress), but I'm not talking film criticism here.

(I had this first pic in bigger size, but I'm working with one-lane-highway thin spacing here, tragically)



See what I mean? Baggy black pants on a gal typically turns my switch off, but Yustman makes it pop like corn. Re: that last simile.....now you see why I've never tried my hand at becoming a rapper.

Sidenote: So she loves Dolls, huh? So do I. Recently watched it courtesy of DVR. Nothing spectacular, but a fun way to waste some quick time with Child's Play rejects.

Now, back to the neverending grind that is February 24, 2009. Don't be surprised if there's not at least one more female looker making a cameo in Barone's World before day's end. Hell, maybe even a two-for-one deal. I'll need it.

Pics from the Arena cover spread were spotted over at: City Rag

This woman is now single. Gentleman, start your engines.

Yes, I'm totally aware that doing a post like this makes me that guy. So be it. I am a guy, and certain things are just unavoidable, one such thing being a reason to post a lingerie shot of a Megan Fox type. And yes, I do realize that the chances of newly-single Megan Fox and I ever getting together are about as likely as Eddie Murphy ever making a funny comedy again. When you've living perpetually (and involuntarily) single, the thought of chicks such as this also sharing in your single-hood is a bit of solace. Take what we can get.

Besides, she's been needing to drop that Brian Austin Green herb for some time now. Good to see she's come to her senses. To salute such an awakening, here's one more pic:



In my search to find the most suggestive picture of her that I could, there's a "Jackpot, baby!" if I've ever seen one.

Is Megan Fox the sexiest woman alive, the pinnacle of hotness that pop culture is trying to make her? Certainly not. I'd take Eliza Dushku or even Emmanuelle Chriqui over her any day. She's still steamier than most, though, and worthy of ogling. I defy you to rebut otherwise.

Mama says....

Let's give the movie stuff a rest for a second, shall we? Good.

Nothing much to say about this video. It's star is a clone of Spuds Mackenzie, that old beer spokesdog that I loved so much as a kid that my mom sent me a birthday card from Spuds himself, signed by him and everything. Of course, I wasn't even past the 2nd grade yet so I assumed that Spuds had in fact figured out how to hold a pen and neatly, legibly sign a birthday card for some little loser in suburban New Jersey that he didn't even know existed. Was 2nd grade a bit too old to believe such a thing, you ask? Wanna fight about it? And this Spuds doppelganger has a unique bark that sounds an awful lot like it's saying "Mama," and then some weird Euro trance beats kick in, and you're ready to put a leash on this bitch and take it to Pacha for some dancing.



Come to think of it, there actually is a way I can relate to this film.

The way this pooch says "Mama" instantly reminded me of the enigmatic '80s horror turd Spookies, specifically the beginning of the nonsensical end climax where that pudgy zombie pops up in front of our heroine and calls her "Mommma! Mommma! Maaaaaaaa!" See for yourselves at the 1:50 point of this Spookies ending clip, and compare/contrast:



God what a piece of feces Spookies is. But oh how I do love it.

Dog video spotted over at: Film Drunk

The first good Watchmen clips finally save the day

Finally, some full Watchmen clippage that doesn't have me expecting the worst. Feels like they've gotten this Rorschach stuff right, which is rather comforting.

Okay, I'm back to being optimistically excited.

Netflix Fix -- Bad Lieutenant (1992)

When I was interviewing filmmaker Jody Hill (writer/director/producer of stuff such as Eastbound & Down and The Foot Fist Way) a few months back, he went on and on about his love of older cinema. We're talking flicks from 15 years back or more, the films that played by no rules and had no qualms bombarding the senses with images and characters that defied morals and decency. Stories didn't play their cards safely. Endings didn't have to be pleasant. Hollywood couldn't give two shits about good taste.

And all was right in the world of moviemaking.

Hill's sentiments mirrored mine quite closely, though I'm a few years younger than he is. Like him, I'm an addict of renting the films of yeateryears to play catch-up, mainly because I know that I'm in for something I've never seen before, or at least predecessors for things that modern-day films try to pass off as their own. The vow that Hill made was to inject unhealthy doses of this nihilistic approach into the comedy genre, and as evidenced by Eastbound & Down and the red band trailer for his upcoming Seth Rogen vehicle Observe & Report, he's remaining a man of his word thus far.

In our chat, Hill kept referencing Taxi Driver as a prime inspiration, but I'm willing to bet that Abel Ferrara's Bad Lieutenant (1992) is right up there next to Travis Bickle's time under the New York City streetlights. Bad Lieutenant, starring Harvey Kietel at his most badass-est , an no-blinks character study of the nameless Lieutenant, a Queens police head who regularly snorts drugs, solicits prostitutes, poorly runs his dysfunctional family, gambles on Mets games, and engages in other random acts of bad behavior who (finally) begins questioning his world after a nun is viciously raped in the middle of a church.



Pretty much the worst lieutenant ever conceived, and exactly the kind of despicable, zero-saving-graces protagonist that somebody like Hill (I hate to keep dropping his name here, so bare with me....he just drives home the point of this post tightly for me), and myself, seems to gravitate toward for inexplicable reasons. It digs deeper than just pure entertainment value, or admiration for a steroid-strong acting performance. Characters like The Lieutenant never stop fascinating from Fade In to End Credits, mostly because they represent the type of person you'd never want to spend more than two minutes with in real life; yet, when seen through the disconnect of television screen, they're like magnets. Undeniable in their compelling nature, and effective messengers of life's fucked-up facets that go otherwise glossed over as "taboo."

Late into Bad Lieutenant, there's an emotional climax that would send religious activists and closed-off thinkers into panty-bunched hissies. It's such a great scene, because it demonstrates just how morally corrupt Keitel's character is even in his rare "sympathetic" moments. [Spoiler Warning] After some drug-induced soul-searching, he confronts the raped nun in her church as she's praying. He tells her that he's going to say "Fuck the law" and kill the deviants who raped her, for her. She, however, informs The Lieutenant that she's already forgiven the rapists, which sends The Lieutenant into a rattled, confused frenzy. Even when he thinks he's avenging his own sins and cleansing his soul through vengeful intentions, he's defying the higher power. It's a can't-beat-my-darkness pickle. Jesus himself approaches The Lieutenant once the nun exits, and all our our shattered man can do is call Jesus a "rat fuck" and question why he wasn't there for the nun in her time of protective-need.

Religion is treated as both a necessary form od redemption and a cause of constant grief. When was the last time you saw that kind of double-sided coin morality in a flick?



There's a modern-day extension of this great flick currently in the works, a New Orleans-set new installment for Bad Lieutenant starring Nicolas Cage. Now a believer in the power of Abel Ferrara's original, I can say without hesitation that a new spin with Cage in the driver's seat is a shitshow waiting to happen. Maybe I'll be proven wrong, since the venerable Werner Herzog is behind the camera, but there's just no way that 2009-era Nicolas Cage will even come within miles of Harvey Keitel's 1992 work. It's not even worth attempting, so go and make another National Treasure film, sir Cage.

My hope, and call me a pessimist all you want, is that Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans sucks as much as I'm anticipating. Because if it doesn't, my head might pull a Scanners due to "Have I been wrong all this time?" self-analysis. I'm convinced that skeevy, thoughtful, uncompromising character descents such as Bad Lieutenant can't be duplicated or even approached-by-a-long-ways today. And as long as that remains the truth, I'll forever have older gems to seek out and ponder.

Unwrapping stuff like this flick never loses its luster. Up next in this particular conquest will be early Robert Deniro's The Panic in Needle Park, and I'm sure I'll more than enjoy. Until then....

This scene is certified NSFBE (Not Safe For Baby Eyes):


And that's one of the "kinder" things he does.

Kenny Powers is more awesome than you.

Why do I get the uncomfortable feeling that you're not watching this show, when you most certainly should be?



Family Guy aside, this is easily the funniest shit on the tube. As I suspected it would be. Only four episodes left, just enough time to sign up.

Do the damn thing.

That is all. Goodnight.

REC back in effect

Because these sorts of things excite me much more than they really should, how's about I post the first two stills from REC 2, eh? Yes, I'm probably the only person who visits this blog of mine (Do I mean that I frequently log on to my own site, like a loser who IMs himself? I'll leave that for you to decide) who has actually seen [Rec], or even heard of the film prior to reading about it here, but this is my world, and REC 2 is an important part of my things-to-look-forward-to.

Zero plot has been divulged about REC 2, but this first still shows that it'll clearly be a direct continuation of the first flick. How can I tell? Well, that's my man Manu right there being (unsuccessfully, I presume) subdued, all infected and still thirsting for sexy-ass Angela Vidal, and the interior design seen here looks just like the inside of the apartment building that [REC] so awesomely staged itself.



This second still seems to promise a younger cast of protagonists, or at least a few teens mixed into the bunch. Fine by me. I'm more excited that this still directly references the coolest moment in [REC] ---- that shot from the top of the staircase before Angela and the cameraman haul ass into the mad-satanic-scientist's apartment. If you're still reading all of this despite having no idea what in sam-hell I'm talking about, I must salute your loyalty, by the way.



Here's to Angela Vidal (played by Manuela Velasco), infected or not, showing up in Rec 2. There's no such thing as "too much Manuela Velasco," as far as I'm concerned. I mean, just look at her:



Bizarro Shakira, much?


Stills spotted over at: Bloody Disgusting

There was something missing last night.....

Finally, the Academy Awards have come and gone. All of the endless pre-show speculation, predictions, follies, oversights, and lazy reporting can be tucked into bed and fed Nyquil through a tube. The winners were announced in exactly the way we all expected, including Sean Penn (Really, the Academy was never going to give Mickey Rourke a statue....too risky, too unpredictable. He may shouted out that girl he calls Gap Tooth again, for crying out loud!). As much as I love anything Hollywood-news-related, the tireless Oscar blogging and forecasting began running dry weeks ago, since anyone with half a film-brain knew that Slumdog Millionaire was on the verge of strong-arming the festivities. Which is precisely what happened.

My one glaring question concerning this year's Oscars, though, remains unanswered --- where the hell was Che during all of this?



I've done a bit of brain-refreshing research, and all signs point to Steven Soderbergh's behemoth-in-size yet intimate-in-approach biopic as an Academy Award qualifier as far as release dates go. So why zero nominations? And not just total omission amongst the Oscar lists, but pretty much every other awards events?
Not saying that Che should've been a Best Picture contender. Best Actor and Best Director, however? Sure. Even a cinematography nod would've been welcome.

As much as I love Brad Pitt as an actor, there's no justifiable way anybody can say that is Benjamin Button performance is tops over Benicio Del Toro in Che. End of debate there. The other four remaining Best Actor fellas (Penn, Rourke, Richard Jenkins, Frank Langella) all feel right, so I won't question their inclusions. Let's just leave this at "Del Toro over Pitt any day." Same goes for Steven Soderbergh, Che's director, over Ron Howard (Frost/Nixon). Look, I loved Frost/Nixon as much as the next surprised fan, but Howard's work in it, though impressive, is more about letting his actors do the work as he tightly paces the action. Soderbergh does pretty much the same thing with his observer's-eye approach to Che, but then he also mixes in some truly striking action/battle sequences and other subtle but seriously-effective visual touches (the final shots seen from the dead eyes of Che Guevara's corpse are especially powerful).

This isn't something that I'm defiantly crying "Bullshit!" over, but just an issue that I'd love to hear some closure on. All of the necessary elements were in place ---- epic biopic (check), acclaimed director (double check), strong lead actor (triple check). Che is an arduous task to watch, but one that I found myself gaining newer, deeper appreciation for as days went by and I was further removed from it, left to understand just what Soderbergh and company really meant to accomplish, which they have in spades.



Odds are, I'm missing some vital morsel of behind-the-scenes information here. Could it be some sort of bad-luck-charm curse at the hands of IFC Films, the company that picked Che up for theatrical distribution, which is also currently playing the Italian Mafia critical darling Gomorrah, another Oscar cold-shoulder recipient? Maybe my calendar combing was faulty and Che didn't qualify, or perhaps Soderbergh and company didn't campaign for it well enough. Most likely, though, the film was met with more apathy than I'd initially comprehended. A shame, really.

I just watched Donald Duck kill his way through softcore porn, and I'm now angry at myself.

In the opposite-spirit of the Academy Awards (which concluded an hour or so ago and brought with them only one minor-surprise, that being Sean Penn unfortunately besting my dude Mickey Rourke), I've followed the "elegant," celebratory broadcast by watching the a film that Oscar would hate me for: The New York Ripper (1982). Why, you may ask? Well, it's quite simple, really----everybody and their aunt will be writing their post-game Oscar reactions, frustrations, agreements, etc, if they haven't already, and it'd be pointless for me follow the obvious road. Which is why I also refused to do any "live Oscar blogging," like every other unoriginal movie site has been doing for the past four hours. Just go on Twitter instead. It's equally as lame while doubly as unfortunate.

Like a fucking duck!

Sorry, a bit of momentary Tourettes there.

No, I've opted to watch and discuss a film that opens with a Lassie clone playing fetch with a severed, totally-fake-looking human hand. Something must be wrong with me. Because I can't resist a bad horror film, and because it's from one Lucio Fulci, who, like Dario Argento, has a long resume that I've vowed to conquer sooner than later. Seeing all of Fulci's films is something that one could either brag about or wisely keep unspoken; none of his movies are "good" in any real stretch of opinion, only deemable as "worthy of attention" due to the man's gleefully over-the-top scenes of splatter. If ever an opportunity arises for mutilation, gut-spilling, close-up shots of flesh being ripped open, or agonizing female death, Fulci goes in, almost sadistic to the point of "This feels like something I shouldn't be watching voluntarily." So, of course, I watch his shit voluntarily.



The New York Ripper, however, is a whole other league of wrong for Fulci. The Fulci flicks I can admit to truly enjoying are pure fantasy bullshit---his Dawn of the Dead jackoff Zombi, namely, which combines some of my favorite horror movie music with tons of head-scratchingly awesome moments (zombie fights shark underwater) and inventive kills (the splinter-in-eyeball gag that lasts an eternity). I'm also fond of his The Beyond, one of the most confusing films ever made that's saved by some wild imagery, and City of the Living Dead, another zombie puke-fest. In these films, Fulci kept both feet firmly planted outside of reality, which made all of the good-taste-free work go down much easier. None of what you see is meant to disturb you on any human level. The New York Ripper is an exception, though. The killer is a living, breathing creation from Fulci's sick mind, and the rampant naked-girls-defiled-and-bloodied fetish Fulci seems to be massaging just feels ickier than a raw sewage facial.

This is a really bad movie. Laughably poor, and never once scary. Painful-to-endure dialogue, a weakly-constructed "who's the killer?" mystery. The New York Ripper is a "giallo," a murder mystery seeped in elaborate death scenes and an overarching whodunit subplot that guys like Fulci and Argento cashed many a check thanks to. Argento's giallos make Fulci's seem like hack student films, though. Argento's mysteries genuinely surprise, and there's real tension to be had in stuff like Deep Red and Tenebre. On the other hand, Fulci's filmography drips with meandering scripts, zero character development, and misogynistic undertones upon undertones. The guy loved to film beautiful women meeting horrible ends, which isn't necessarily as twisted as Argento's repeated scenes where his daughter, Asia, is raped in some fashion, I guess, but that's a whole other point.


Lucio Fulci, probably describing a dream he had in which some Sophia Loren-lookalike was being raped by a demon and then gutted open in extremely-tight close-up shots and scored with '80s porno music.

The New York Ripper is easily the worst Fulci film I've seen yet. Rather than break down every bad aspect at play here, though, I'll mention only one element that defies logic---the killer, for no understandable reason whatsoever, talks in a Donald Duck voice. No shit. "Quack quack" and all. Early on, an eyewitness tells a policeman that the killer talked like a duck, but I figured this was a mute point that wouldn't come to realization. But literally five minutes later, we have our first murder, and, unfucking-believably, Donald Duck opens his beak and The New York Ripper goes from already-bad to that little piece of shit that won't totally flush. Who knows, maybe Fulci was pulling a Punk on horror audiences and meant for this to be a comedy. How else can you explain a killer who talks like a goddamn duck?! Like a fucking duck!



It's my own fault, really. I borrowed this DVD from a friend at work who warned me about the duck voice and how bad this movie is, but I still wasted 90 minutes of my life sitting through it. Another night of going to sleep at 2am because I was suffering through a sleazy horror show. Certain movies I can watch, accept the fact that I'm a bit tetched for watching, but then still recommend them to friends. I enjoy being a harbinger of fucked-up cinema. The New York Ripper isn't one of those films. Honestly, me writing about it on a blog that is available for all of the world to read is pretty counter-productive. Now that this is written and out on the Interwebs, somebody could very well seek this dreck out and watch, thinking, "I wanna see what all of Matt's fuss was about." But then, said fool will see The New York Ripper's drawn-out female public masturbation scene in a seedy Manhattan peep show, and the part where a girl is tied to a bed as the killer slices off her breast with a tiny razor. And I'll be to blame, and said person will most likely look at me with a permanent screwface from that point on.



Really, Fulci should've just called this The New York Stripper and went full-on porn. Then, at least, you could perversely revel in the smut. But any time you start enjoying this shit on a smut-peddler level, that Donald Duck bastard flies out of nowhere on some "Quaaaacckkk!" ish and digs some sharp object into the hot chick you've been ogling, and we're not talking any sexual entendre here. Like fucking Donald Duck!

The New York Ripper really doesn't deserve to exist. There's not one positive thing to be said in its respect. Being a Fulci flick, you'd hope that I could at least sing the praises of its gore effects, but even those fall short in this one. Apparently, The New York Ripper is held in some high regard by horror die-hards, which, if true, gives a horror die-hard such as myself a bad name. There's seriously a scene where a dude "toes" (think "fingers," but with toes) a women inside an open restaurant/bar for a good two minutes. Again, in The New York Stripper that could've possibly worked, but no dice here.

Terrible movie. I should've just watched Quarantine again like I'd initially planned. Or, better yet, the Let the Right One In screener I proudly own. Damn you, Donald Duck.

In all fairness to anyone who might actually watch this clip, be warned: though totally fake-looking, there is much bloodshed and Duck-fuckery to be seen/heard. Donald Duck's wrath just needs to be heard to be believed.....and don't mind the Italian speech. It's actually better than the shitty dubbing job done for the DVD version I watched. Just hang in there 'til the Duckman cometh:


....or....



Riddle me this: How is The New York Ripper like a duck? It's wack, wack, wack, wack, wack, wack.

"That one girl I call 'Gap-Tooth'"

True Story --- In terms of pure entertainment value, the Independent Spirit Awards trump the Oscars. If you've never watched the IFC Channel-found ceremonies, I suggest you start making a habit of it come next February; it always airs the day before the Academy Awards, and, being that it airs on cable, it's a million times more raw than your boy Oscar. F-bombs fly from the mouths of people you may have deemed "sophisticated" at other censored, stuck-up awards programs. Filters are off. Small, sadly overlooked jewels that Oscar is to sadiddy to fuck with, such as The Signal and Wendy and Lucy, are honored.

The aspect of the Independent Spirit Awards I actually like the best is how they always put me on to a few obscure, little films that deserve my attention, and I'm yearly-thankful. Yesterday's broadcast has me hunting down Medicine for Melancholy, and further wishing I could somehow see Ballast, which looks just great.

But here's the hands-down highlight of yesterday's awards....the man himself, Mickey Rourke, giving the best acceptance speech I've seen in years. I'm currently watching the Oscars, fingers tightly crossed that Rourke takes home the gold in t-minus two hours, and counting. One, becaue The Wrestler is astounding still, and was totally robbed of a Best Picture nod, and Rourke is just a force of owned-in human emotions in it, and two, I'm dying to hear what he'll say on Oscar's big stage, with the censors on guard and the band ready to play his long-winded ass off.



It's Mickey Rourke's world now, snitches, and we're just all being thoroughly entertained in it.

I remember reading a magazine story/set visit on Zack Snyder's Dawn of the Dead remake, and Sarah Polley said something to the effect of, "Every movie should have a zombie in it." Well, I think every awards show should have Mickey Rourke, winning something at least once every 20 minutes. Fuck Hugh Jackman dance numbers and a 1930s-vibe; just toss Rourke a mic and watch the magic ensue.