Some closure to the Trick 'r Treat saga?

Letting that one great girl slip through my fingertips due to my uncertainty of "Am I ready to invest total energy into a relationship right now?"? Nope. Not bailing out of my workplace early enough to jump on open positions elsewhere, pre-industry-wide-hiring-freeze? Close, but not quite. Each of those personal follies had no definite resolution if I had chosen the other path. Romance could've flourished for months with her, but it could've just as easily faded away without warning. And that industry was/is so fucked that the same outcome from my former spot could've happened anywhere else. Those are mistakes that I can't dwell on much.

My biggest fuck-up of 2008, however, did present itself with a neat, closure-offering endgame, and I blew it. I would've been one of the lucky few to catch an early look at one of the most anticipated and critically-beloved American-made horror films of the last decade. But, no.

Through Fangoria magazine's website, I got myself on a list for a free Trick 'r Treat screening in downtown Manhattan back in October, and I was ecstatic. Impatiently awaited the big day for over a month. Kept re-reading every early review of the Michael Dougherty-written/directed horror anthology, smiling and giddily reacting to every fawning ounce of praise and declaration that Trick 'r Treat is "the best Halloween movie of all time." Better than John Carpenter's Halloween, they say, and a better anthology film than Creepshow. Add on the fact that pussyfooted Warner Bros. has held the film captive for about two years now, unsure how to release and market the thing when they should've just released it in one of the last two Octobers and called it a day, and everything surrounding this film had me mega-amped to see the thing.


Notice the release date on the poster: October 2007.....yeah, not quite.

On the long-awaited day (October 13, 2008), I exited the office early. Hopped on the 1 train. Arrived in the theater's neighborhood with an hour to spare before showtime. Nobody waiting outside the theater in tightly-packed procession yet. Should I be the first, front and center? Snag the best seat in the house? Would've been brilliant. I was starving, though, so the sight of a Subway prompted me to feed the beast. I figured, "There won't be that many people at this screening, so I can get there 20 minutes beforehand, no problem." There was a long line at Subway, of course, so by the time I ordered and consumed my 'grilled chicken breast on whole wheat bread, with chipotle dressing" dinner, it was 25 minutes until the movie started. Fuck, I thought, I better hustle. I turned the corner, and my mouth dropped-----there was a line down the block about 60-people deep to see the shit, and they had already started letting people into the venue. My balls were kicked. Hopes, dashed. There wasn't a chance in Hades that I was getting in ("first come, first seated"). My one chance to see Trick R Treat with a crowded audience, the way it's meant to be experienced, was botched. All because I was hungry and couldn't resist the allure of a $5 footlong. Fuck you, Jared.

At first, I was ready to bring the fury down on the douchebags at Fangoria who confirmed RSVPs for upwards of 100 people when the theater only seated about 60. But then I only blamed myself. I've never looked at a bread guest-starring-meat sandwich" Subway sandwich the same again.

Until now, when I, or any other horror/film fan in the know, would ever get to see Trick 'r Treat was uncertain. Warner Bros. press releases repeatedly flirted with the notion of a straight-to-DVD release, only to then renig and tease with a possible theatrical run. The latest news, though, feels somewhat locked-in, and that's the semi-announcement this week that Warner Bros. will release Trick 'r Treat on DVD/Blu-Ray this October. A theatrical release to coincide with? Doubtful, but you never know.

Here's the new trailer:



October can't come soon enough. And please believe, I'll be checking Fangoria's website on a daily basis to see if another free screening is scheduled. Second time's a charm.

Trailer and news from: Shock Til You Drop

Thousands of patient, loyal fans are about to get their just due.....

It's about damn time, huh? Finally, after years of false release dates, widespread fanboy blue balls, bittersweet nostalgia, and a ever-growing support base, MTV's cult sketch comedy series The State is hitting shelves in DVD format on July 14. A five disc set bringing Louis and his gold balls, Barry and Levon, the Prodigal Toothbrush, and every other hilarious skit together, at last. This overlooked gem of a comedy show only aired for two years (1993-1995), but has slowly built a faithful legion of lovers over the course of 14 years. No easy feat there. .



The State's alumni members have gone on to quietly strongarm modern-day comedy: directing the films Wet Hot American Summer and Role Models (David Wain), creating and starring in Comedy Central's Reno 911! (Thomas Lennon, Ben Garant, and Kerri Kenney), writing Night at the Museum and its upcoming sequel (Lennon and Garant, again), starring in Starz' new hands-down winner of a show Party Down (Ken Marino), stealing every one of VH1's "I Love the Whichever Decade" specials (Michael Ian Black), and a slew of other accomplishments. Who doesn't love Joe Lo Truglio in Superbad ("The tiger got outta the cage, man!"), or even Pineapple Express? Yup, he's also from The State.




Any time one of these post-State jobs is discussed amongst friends, I namedrop the respective funny-person's original home, but I'm routinely met with blank stares and disinterest. Save for some cousins and one of my friends (Ms. Cendra, if you're out there reading this), not one person I know can cite their favorite skit, and that's a shame. Will this new DVD set change that? Can a new crop of viewers be won over? I'd like to think so, but the end result is ultimately meaningless around here. I'm just happy that I'll have the entire series in my possession, rather than strolling down memory lane in Youtube's clip-heavy car.

My fondest memory of The State: staying up late with my Uncle Greg to watch the episodes in their first runs, his disregarding whatever babysitter rules he should've been following ("Put the kid to bed by 11pm, the latest") so we could watch Louis interrupt the Last Supper to dip his balls into something, to laugh our asses off as a grade school staring contest is ante-upped with the presence of a dude in full clown makeup. One of the happier memories of my adolescence, no doubt.

Here's a sketch that the cousins and I used to quote like we were being paid to do so:


True story, I actually did own a "Best of" The State VHS back in high school, but I gave it to the girl-of-my-high-school-dreams, a gift of personal romance. I figured, what better way to leave a permanent impression on this girl for when after our blossoming thing evaporates than to bestow her with something we mutually find hilarious despite our friends' lack of mutual enjoyment? Her heart went a-flutter, then she broke mine, and I was never able to watch "Porcupine Racetrack" again. Talk about your all-time backfires.

Come July 14, though, it'll be full-circle time.

First learned over at: Chud

First clip from Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen

A film that I've gotten into several arguments over is Michael Bay's gargantuan 2007 smash Transformers. It's a bit ridiculous that a special effects, eye candy extravaganza from Sir Blows-Shit-Up Bay would cause more debate than other recent films that I love, such as, say, Synecdoche, New York, but such is the reality that I live in (tons of film-likers in my world, not enough cinema-lovers). Some heads get mad at me for loving Transformers as much as I do, giving me that old "You should know better than not" jive. My defense is, and always will be: It's a movie about giant alien robots duking it out on Earth's soil. Why shouldn't it be loud, shiny, and style over substance. Call me crazy, but I feel that Bay accomplished exactly what he set out to do with the film, and in that respect it shouldn't be seen as anything other than a creative success.

All that being said, it should come as no surprise that this summer's Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is high on my Must-See Summer Movies list. Especially when I take into account that Bay considers this sequel to be much darker and aggressive in tone. The first trailer that surfaced a couple months back looked great, and now we have our first official clip from the film, courtesy of Bay's own personal website.

I came across this clip, which concludes in a blistering montage of action shots from the film, over at /Film, and now I'm presenting it to all of my fellow Transformers-fans-in-waiting. We get Sam Witwicky (Shia Labeouf) having a "heartfelt" chat with his old pal Bumblebee, while Sam's girl Mikaela (Megan Fox, though that goes without saying) strips down to a short white miniskirt. But the real goods here (other than Fox's stems) are the clips after this scene. Check it for yourselves:



Come on....how could anyone not love that?

Clip originally from: MichaelBay.com

I first saw it over at: /Film

The first look at Rob Zombie's H2 is among the Internet community

Rob Zombie's H2: The Devil Walks Among Us (or just H2, not sure which title is the end-all, be-all one as of now) is in the can and ready for an August 28 street date, and Entertainment Tonight *sigh* was the first outlet to show footage from the film's teaser trailer. When the ET-less, high-quality teaser will surface is anybody's guess (I'm guessing sooner than later, though), so this is all we've got for now. And I must say, I'm pleasantly surprised with what I'm seeing:



The horror community has been in a minor frenzy over several non-Halloween-esque changes Zombie has made to the mythology in this sequel, all of which he's voluntarily and enthusiastically announced via Myspace blogs. Two of the most alarming:: the choice to show hallucinations that Michael Myers has of his dead mother, and altering that legendary William-Shatner-inspired white mask into a few new looks, including a ripped-up Terminator/cyborg-looking model, a blood-smeared version, and then removing the mask altogether to show actor Tyler Mane's grizzly, "Rob Zombie himself on steroids" face.

I, like most others, was feeling iffy about these tweaks, but what I'm seeing in this footage looks pretty solid. That ripped-face mask seems to work (as seen in that mirror shot), and I'm liking the homage to 1981's Halloween 2 with Myers hacking through hospital employees while Laurie Strode is recovering from her hellish night. Falls into line with Zombie's original Halloween remake, condensing the its entire predecessor into one act and then running creatively wild with the rest. In on-set interviews, Zombie has openly acknowledged how uneven his Halloween was and taken full responsibility. He says that H2 has been a relief because he's been able to do whatever the hell he wants, free from the shadow of John Carpenter to fully capture a 100% Rob Zombie vision.

We'll see if that's a good thing or not. I've grown to like his Halloween more and more since its 2007 release; it's still flawed beyond measure and the stuff in Haddonfield with Laurie Strode is only saved by Danielle Harris' brave but too brief performance, but there's so much goodness found in the "Michael Myers' origin story" section that I can't help but dig the film as a whole. It remains, if nothing more, a rather intriguing experiment in remaking horror.

There is one thing about this footage that I'm not feeling, however, and that's what appears to be end of Danielle Harris' "Annie" character. It's not looking good for my girl. Not that I'm expecting her to survive this sequel or anything. A guy can hope, though, right? The odds of seeing Harris back on the big screen any time soon after H2 is slim to none, sadly, so the more would be the better here. My guess, she's buys it within the first 30 minutes. Womp to the womp.



To paraphrase my favorite song of the moment: "She's the best I never had, the best I never had, the best I never had."

In appreciation of Lucky McKee's May.....

It's not often that a horror film made within the last ten years blows me away solely with its originality, but that's exactly what Lucky McKee's May (2002) has done. May is a wolf in sheep's clothing, a film unfairly hurt by the prejudice-ready trappings of its central plot. Awkward outcast female yearns for social acceptance, falls for a guy, gets rejected, flies off the deep end, and breaks loose some gruesome hell. At first, the film feels like "The Post-College Adventures of Stephen King's Carrie." But McKee has several tricks up his sleeve here, the most important of which being the patience to develop his May character to the hilt before unleashing her psychotic side. By the time her inner darkness is exposed, the character totally charmed my socks off with her goth-chick cuteness and compelling weirdness. Even as she sliced and diced, I was right there with her, cheering her on and hoping she'd emerge alive and happy.

This being an independent horror film devoid of big studio involvement and a need to please the masses, that of course doesn't happen. May works so well because nothing that happens from the 45-minute mark forward is expected. McKee consistently surprised me with May's plot turns and sadistic derailment, made all the more enjoyable thanks to a stellar lead performance from otherwise-unknown actress Angela Bettis, who owns this film from Fade In to Fade Out. Bettis handles a rollercoaster of a role with constant command, making May's pleasant moments seem believably sweet and her darkest actions feel completely warranted.

The way McKee develops the character, May comes from a friendless childhood that resulted from a terribly-lazy eye. Her sluggish eyeball gave her douchebag kiddie peers ample fodder to ridicule May, and she ran the course of life with no friends or companions other than a creepy white-faced doll that her mom handmade for her, which she calls "Suzy." Only, Suzy talks to May (the chick is crazy, you dig?) and tells her what to do in certain situations, most consequential being the intimate moments May shares with her crush and first-ever suitor, Adam (played by Jeremy Sisto, who you'd know from Clueless and Wrong Turn).




I don't want to spoil the surprises that May's story has in store, so seek this one out to see where tragic outcast May's tale goes. Trust me---it's not where you'd suspect, and it'll make you squirm and sympathize in equal measure. For the first hour, May is in no way a horror film; it's a dark, dramatic character study of a girl lacking in any social skills whatsoever. So much so that every encounter she has, whether it be with Adam or a group of blind children she volunteers to look after, left me feeling uneasy, unsure of what she'd do at any given second. I couldn't trust the character, but that doesn't mean that I didn't like her.

May is Snicker-thick with moments that payoff beautifully by story's end. As the resolution was unfolding, I found myself clicking back to small details packed within past scenes, thinking "Oh shit!" as loose ends tied themselves. Earlier moments that felt random all began to make crystal-clear sense. McKee's script turns out to be one that required much fine-tuning. Like a giant puzzle that's constantly falling into place without the viewer ever realizing it until the final frames.

Bonus points go to McKee and May for utilizing a young Anna Faris tons of scenery to chew on. Playing a promiscuous lesbian co-worker of May's who has a big thing for our heroine, Faris is a spark plug here, off-setting the film's thick grimness with her slutty flirtations and naive airhead ways. Oh, and Faris is hotter than ever here. Case in point:




If you've ever felt closed off from the cool kids, or simply unable to establish quality friendships, May will definitely strike a chord. You'll have to clutch your stomach and endure the endgame carnage, all played with a nice touch of realism rather than any Grand Guignol, but it's well worth the gag reflex. Going into the film, I wasn't expecting to love May as much as I now do. A slew of positive horror-writer reviews and McKee's commendable adaptation of Jack Ketchum's novel The Lost were all I had as reasons to watch on a quiet Friday evening. In the end, though, May and her poetic descent into the macabre left me feeling a mess of emotions. The most prominent being "empathy."

For a horror flick, that's a job well done.

Rashomon, or the beginning of my Kurosawa phase

Seriously, how bad was last year's Vantage Point? What a case of cinematic blue balls. Easily one of 2008's biggest letdowns on my end, a film that first surfaced with a live-wire, eye-opener of a trailer but then materialized with uneve acting, a muddled script, and an irritating creative decision to rewind the tape every time the perspective changed between characters. The first time the film went all fast-paced backward, I cringed but figured that Pete Travis, the director, wouldn't be misguided enough to do it again. But then it happened again, and again, and then once more, and then about three more times. Until the audience in my theater began laughing and/or sighing in disbelief at each "rewind." Didn't help that Matthew Fox turned in a painfully bad performance, Dennis Quaid just looked one-note pissed the entire time, and cutie Zoe Saldana was killed off in the first ten minutes.

Be gone, Vantage Point. Be gone.



Now having finally watched iconic Japanese director Akira Kurosawa's awesome Rashomon (1950), I've seen what Travis and company were admirably trying to do but failed on all fronts. Really, Rashomon makes me hate Vantage Point even more. It's not exactly fair, though, to compare the two films; it's like trying to draw a parallel between Robert Wise's The Haunting and The Haunting in Connecticut. Just plain ridiculous. Rashomon is one of the finest, most influential films ever made, so Vantage Point never stood a chance, anyway.

The same narrative trick is attempted in both----trying to solve a crime by showing the event through the eyes of multiple characters, only to reveal that "truth" is merely in the eye of the beholder. One of the many reasons that Rashomon so greatly pulls this storytelling okie-doke off is that the actual truth is never given. All we're left with is four vastly different accounts of a rape/murder in the woods. The final version could be regarded as the most reliable, only because it's from an objective witness with no ties to the bandit, the rape victim, and her now-dead husband. Or, does he? The witness turns out to have some unexpected stake in the case, which blurs the lines of reality even further, and leaves Rashomon's central verdict open-ended as the Fade Out comes.

It's pretty astonishing to think that Kurosawa executed such a groundbreaking, twisty tale nearly 60 years ago. Truly light years ahead of his time with this. Early on, I thought I was in for a murder mystery, but then the killer's identity is confessed by the deviant himself, which threw my frame-of-mind off the rails. So he's the killer then? So what else is left to figure out? What a fool I was to think that. As soon as the hysterical rape victim begins offering her recollection to the courthouse, I started asking her questions, but in my head. "Why are you so upset when the bandit just told us that you were fierce and heroic?" A wonderful little device used by Kurosawa here came into the light at this moment---I realized that we're never going to see the interrogator, only the defendants. As if they're speaking directly to the viewer. Answering our questions, confusing our thoughts with each changing speaker. Truth is totally subjective, and it changes through small yet thematically large details with each new defendant.



Rashomon is a film that I can't recommend enough. For those partial to martial arts and fight scenes, you get some pretty badass sword fighting. If you're a movie-watcher such as myself who loves a good wildly-structured headscratcher, it's tops. But ultimately, it's worth seeing just off of GP alone. You'd be hard-pressed to find a filmmaker who won't admit to being heavily influenced by not only Rashomon, but Akira Kurosawa himself.

I may go watch it again now. Or tomorrow, definitely. Hell, the film even managed to creep me out quite a bit thanks to an eerie testimonial from a freaky-deeky female medium giving the murder victim's side of the story. And I wasn't expecting this one to give me any willies at all. Many so-called "horror legends" can't even do that.

The Girlfriend Experience with Sasha Grey.....who wouldn't want that?

Steven Soderbergh's The Girlfriend Experience is a film that's been talked about and quietly praised since its out-of-nowhere debut at January's Sundance Film Festival. Soderbergh must not have slept for more than about 12 hours total over the last year, between finishing up his four-hour epic Che and then somehow squeezing in the time to complete this, a much more lo-fi, intimate film. You have to hand it to a guy like Soderbergh----he's a truly dedicated filmmaker, one who clearly makes the films that he really wants to make in between the occasional Ocean's 11 franchise-mover.

When you've earned the clout that he has since 1989'S sex, lies, and videotape, that creative immunity isn't something to question. I knew only the bare essentials about The Girlfriend Experience prior to this trailer----that it was about a high-price call girl (played by porn star Sasha Grey, she of Sasha Grey's Anatomy fame; a title so obvious, yet so oddly clever) who specializes in engaging her clients in conversation and companionship more than just turning sexual tricks. But being a call girl, she never knows who exactly she's about to spend hours at a time with, which opens the plot up to either tragedy or some other less-morbid type of conflict. My plan is to catch this one at next week's Tribeca Film Festival, if possible, so I'll hopefully find out the answer then.



The response from Sundance has been largely positive, with some reviews singling out the intimacy of Soderbergh's story and direction, others acknowledging how he's managed to merge his independent sensibilities with his mainstream chops, and the rest of showing love to Grey's natural, revelatory performance. Looks like we have a winner on deck, so keep an eye out for The Girlfriend Experience when it opens in New York City limited release on May 22.

***The BW List: Car Scenes, Glaring Omission

Honestly, I'm hugely ashamed of myself. A couple weeks back, I compiled a few of my all-time favorite film scenes involving automobiles in light of that week's Fast & Furious opening. The problem I've been having with these lists I've been putting together is that my head works so quickly, so many streams of thought flowing side by side, that I tend to overlook films and scenes that wholly deserve inclusion.

And just now, while watching some late night cable, I came across one of my favorite films of the last decade, Children of Men. So brilliant, so sadly passed over by the Academy that awards season. Amongst several others, one aspect of the film that I continue to find so astonishing is Alfonso Cuaron's hyper-realistic direction. Don't even get me started on that seemingly-single-take climax, because I'll just ramble on and on about its unparalleled excellence. In the same vein of love, though, is my fondness for this scene, which (SPOILER ALERT) kicks the film's plot into overdrive. Its another one of Cuaron's masterful "single shot takes" earlier in the film, an unexpected siege on the main characters' car that escalates into a crescendo of horror and tragedy. Cuaron took an approach that had been used before and perfected it----sewing together a bunch of separate shots and making them seem as if its one continuous take.

**I remember when I interviewed Chiwetel Ejiofor (the driver of the car in the scene) for a KING story, I snuck in a question asking how exactly Cuaron pulled this scene off, to which he laughed and gave me one of those "I can't spoil the secret, now" responses that I simultaneously understand, respect, and selfishly loathe. Landing the man Chiwetel Ejiofor for a six-page feature story/shoot in KING will forever go down as my proudest accomplishment while working for the mag. Took months to secure, defied perceptions of the mag, and realized my hopes of giving the mag some Hollywood credibility. They can't take that one away from me. Ever.**

If you've yet to see Children of Men, please do so with the quickness. And think twice about watching this scene, 1) because the picture quality isn't the best, and 2) the film deserves to be seen in its entirety and total context. But for the short-of-will-power and fans of the film, here's the "car attack" scene that should've been at least second-slotted on my previous BW List: Favorite Car Scenes. It's something else:

The Hurt Locker is ready to stuff your adrenaline inside it

The official full trailer for Kathryn Bigelow's The Hurt Locker has finally materialized, and it's as great as I was hoping. There's a difference between this trailer anticipation and others, however----I had the privilege of seeing an early media screening of The Hurt Locker last month, and I feel confident in saying that the film immediately secured a spot in my inevitable "Best Films of 2009" list. Give the trailer a look:



Bigelow (she of Point Break and Strange Days notoriety and film world respect-receiving) has pulled off something that I'd thought impossible, that being an Iraq War-set film that manages to entertain, captivate, and even inspire some thought without coming off as if she's drunk on pints of preachy sentiment. Films such as Stop-Loss and In the Valley of Elah have their merits, sure, but audiences obviously wanted little to do with the "the war's effects on its soldiers is scarring, so pay attention" arch of those failed efforts. The Hurt Locker treats itself as a pure action suspense show, a superb one at that.

I'll delve into the film more closer to its limited June release, but just know that The Hurt Locker is definitely one to place high atop your looking-forward-to film list. Bigelow pulls off some seriously tense, seat-clenching setpieces, and the acting from all involved (especially the beast that is Jeremy Renner here, and the underappreciated Anthony Mackie) is A+ quality.

Get ready.

Simon Cowell joined by some other, cooler Basterds

Of all the places in the world to premiere new behind-the-scenes and actual film footage for the next Quentin Tarantino flick, American Idol is probably the last outlet I would've ever expected. But that's exactly what happened last night when Tarantino guested on Idol to direct the remaining contestants' performances. Whatever that means, exactly. I'm one of the ten or so people in this country who doesn't routinely watch the show, so I can't say what QT-directed performances of glossy pop wannabes looked like, or sounded like.

If I had known Tarantino was going to be on Idol, though, I would have tuned in, or at least set the DVR. I'm a big fan like that. Fortunately, we have this little tool called the Internet these days that spares people like me from having to sit through American Idol just to get the 40-second goods we clicked in to see: some new Inglourious Basterds footage. And boy does this one keep looking cooler and cooler. Sure, I'm, as I just said, a huge fan of the guy, so maybe I'm biased to some degree. But you can't watch the final seconds of this footage, with guns blazing and the set erupting into an inferno of anarchy, and not get gassed, even a tad.



If money weren't a thing and I had my passport primed and ready, I'd totally hop on a plane and crash the Cannes Film Festival, just to see Inglourious Basterds nice and early. And if they didn't let me in after going through all that globe-trotting trouble, I'd be forced to grab a gattling gun and make like Freaks and Geeks alum Sam Levine in the above footage. Those monstrous weapons look heavy---good thing I've been busting out those push-ups.

***I didn't notice at first, but after watching this footage again, I've realized that this clip gives us our first look at Mike Myers' character, General Ed Fenech, a product of heavy makeup. Talk about going incognito. I could be wrong, but I'm willing to bet dividends that this is indeed Myers:

The BW List: When Lame Movies Happen to Good Talent

Considering my current state of being, I'm the last person who should criticize somebody for "taking a paycheck." Accepting a gig that does little for his/her artistic sensibilities but goes a long way financially. We all need to pay the bills, keep the lights on, pad the bank accounts, rob our country blind. I get it. But for the objective onlooker, seeing people you respect do this never fails to sting. Disappointment is inevitable, not always branded with the unfair "sell-out" tag yet still looked down upon as a lapdog of sorts.

In the film world, this happens on a weekly basis. Actors and actresses you love pop up in shitty films, or obvious money-makers that you'd rather be subjected to a Lucio Fulci/Zombi drawn-out eye-gauging than ever voluntarily watch. Case in point: Leslie Mann co-starring in this weekend's 17 Again.



I haven't seen the film, nor do I ever plan on doing so. Yes, I'm aware that it currently stands at an unexpectedly respectable 65% on Rotten Tomatoes, but whatever. And I'm not blatantly hating on your boy Zac Efron here, either. Do I like the guy as a talent? Nope, but my total indifference to this pretty-boy-with-good-dance-moves-who-I-can't-sign-on-to-a-pop-culture-blog-and-not-see isn't the focal point of my 17 Again negativity. Rather, it's the tired, contrived Big/Vice Versa "age reversal" plotline. It's cheap, unoriginal, and, really, never that funny.



I'm sure that Leslie Mann will have some funny, or at least charming, moments in 17 Again, though. How can she not? The woman is naturally hilarious, one of Hollywood's funniest and most overlooked ladies. The rare case of nepotism that doesn't feel worthy of his/her success (she's married to comedy giant Judd Apatow). Just go watch Knocked Up again for proof, or even rewind back to Adam Sandler's Big Daddy, where her few scenes as the former Hooters girl all scored. She's someone who deserves a few leading roles in well-made films; granted, she seems to have one coming this summer with Apatow's Funny People, but that's simply another one with her husband. It's time that she stretches herself successfully into non-Apatow territory. 17 Again is a terrible place to start, despite the film's surefire prognosis. People will see her, laugh with her, root for her. But she deserves better.

Of course, I could be left with a pie in the face if 17 Again turns out to be universally loved. This is a kneejerk reaction, though, so if that does happen I'll totally admit defeat.

This all got me wondering, "What other talents that I love have appeared in films I had zero interest in ever seeing?" And from that inner thought comes this list of the examples that stand out most in my head. Worth noting: I've seen all of these films, which makes the bitterness all the more potent.



Chiwetel Ejiofor in Slow Burn (2005): Back in '05, the London-bred Ejiofor was on a nice track to stateside notoriety. His turns in the critically-hailed English films Dirty Pretty Things (2002) and Love Actually (2003) put him on the radar, leading to his hardly-recognizable villain work in John Singleton's well-received Four Brothers. But then came Slow Burn, a poorly-executed attempt to modernize the old "sleazy, sexy crime thriller" genre with a slumming-it Ray Liotta and LL Cool J trying out In Too Deep material again. Nothing in the film worked, and Ejiofor's "Ty Trippin" character suffered from more than just a terribly stereotypical name. As evidenced by his great work in 2006's Children of Men and 2007's American Gangster (not to mention his strong lead work in last year's slept-on Redbelt), Ejiofor has bounced back nicely. But his one major fuck-up still burns slowly in my brain.



Paul Rudd in Over Her Dead Body (2008): This one has tons in common with Leslie Mann's 17 Again. Rudd, like Mann, is an Apatow regular who always brings the goods, clocking in scene-stealers in everything from Anchorman to The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Even going back to the guy's rookie days with Clueless, Rudd has always been that co-star you can't get enough of and hope can one day become the leading man. Unfortunately, his agent agreed at the wrong time and sent him the script for Over Her Dead Body, an abysmal high-concept romantic comedy that actually co-stars American Pie's Jason Biggs, who has become a skidmark for every bad rom-com he's starred in over the last decade. In an effort to make Eva Longoria a movie-star, this piece-of-dung existed, and Rudd was its most painful-to-watch casualty. Like Ejiofor, thankfully, the man has recovered, proving he is in fact capable of picking strong lead role material with Role Models and I Love You, Man. If I were him, though, I'd find every existing print of Over Her Dead Body and stage a bonfire. Some things are best left forgotten.




Elisabeth Banks in Meet Dave (2008)/ Rosario Dawson in The Adventures of Pluto Nash (2002): Signing on to a modern-day Eddie Murphy comedy has become the ultimate "taking a paycheck" job for some of Hollywood's most gifted comedic actresses. Later this year, the divine Kerry Washington will be the guy's latest victim, thanks to his next Brian Robbins-directed turd A Thousand Words. Until then, the worst example of Murphy's magnetic suck is a tie between Elisabeth Banks and Rosario Dawson, two ladies of equal awesomeness who couldn't avoid the pull. Dawson has the misfortune of being associated with Murphy's first genuine shitshow Pluto Nash, a science fiction debacle so atrocious that the mere mention of it inspires both guffaws and gagging. Six years later, Banks' Meet Dave bombed at the box office, a sacrificial lamb meant to remind us just how far Murphy's comedy has fallen. The sad part was that Meet Dave came at a high point in Banks' career, the same year as two of his biggest roles to date (Laura Bush in W. and the second title name of Zack and Miri Make a Porno). One can only hope that Murphy seeks out Katherine Heigl for his next project and leaves the likeable women alone.

Antichrist trailer, using Willem Dafoe's natural creepiness to its advantage

Every now and then, courtesy of some cosmic alignment that pushes forth creativity and artistic focus, a trailer comes along for a new, under-the-zeitgeist genre film that backhands my senses and leaves me standing at attention. This here is one of those.

Lars Von Trier's Antichrist, a film that I've heard rumblings about for months now but haven't been able to land on any exact plot or concept. Which is pretty much still the case after watching this first trailer, though the overall grim and hallucinogenic atmosphere cancels out any frustration or shoulder-shrugging. I've read that the story plays on a "What If" scenario of Satan creating our world, not God. So then, something to do with forces of Mother Nature wreaking supernatural havoc, possibly. Or a "crazy lady violently spiraling down her own wormhole" procedural, flipped on its head, even. Whatever the case is ultimately, you'll still have Willem Dafoe being Willem Dafoe, and that's never a disadvantage.

Check it:


Lars von Trier's Antichrist - Official Trailer from Zentropa on Vimeo.

As IMDB puts it: A grieving couple retreats to their cabin 'Eden' in the woods, hoping to repair their broken hearts and troubled marriage. But nature takes its course and things go from bad to worse.

Well, that clears things up. Slightly.

This Lars Von Trier fella has earned heaps of goodwill with his past films, including Dogville and Dancer in the Dark, but unfortunately I've yet to see any of the Copenhagen, Denmark native's past works. Netflix will soon remedy that. Even though I can't personally attest to the man's skills, I can still conjur up massive excitement over a respected, visually-strong, critically-saluted filmmaker tackling the horror stuff, which doesn't happen very often. And when it does, you get films such as Frank Darabont's The Mist, or Stanley Kubrick's The Shining. Point made, and then some.

Antichrist will be making its way around the international film festival circuit throughout the year. Meaning, I won't get to see it until early 2010. Fucker.

Reconsidering Observe and Report again....somebody stop me

A second viewing of Jody Hill's Observe and Report is on the horizon. I can feel it. Any comedy that leaves me questioning certain scenes and debating within myself over what was real and what wasn't deserves some more business, especially considering that I can't recall any other comedy that has had such a puzzling, fascinating effect on me.



Am I overthinking this film a bit much? You could say so, but then you'd be a bit off in your assumption. Hill has gone on record about his direct intention to leave the audience confused as to what was meant as "funny" or "disturbing," so he'd surely smile at this. Besides, when is ever a bad thing to overthink a film? Even shit ones? Okay, paying too much mind to Beverly Hills Chihuahua would be a waste. I'll give you that. But Observe and Report is so unique and line-snapping in its tone that the viewer almost has to enter the theater with a free mind and a punching-bag of a brain.

While I'm still unsure as to why I found so much comedic pleasure in a scene where a naked man is gunned down at point-blank distance, it's the entire section of the film that includes the shooting that has me wondering. [POSSIBLE SPOILERS WARNING] Once Ronnie Barnhardt gets out of jail and reads the postcard from his former partner Dennis, Observe and Report strangley goes from Debbie Downer to visceral triumph, which I found myself a bit angry about the other day. But now, after taking into serious account Hill's praise-filled name-dropping of Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy, I'm asking myself, "Were the final ten minutes of Observe and Report even real, or just some fantasy commencing in Ronnie's twisted mind?"



Like the final moments of Taxi Driver, there's no clear details seen that answer this question in Hill's film. I'm not exactly sure if that's something to compliment Hill for, or to criticize the guy for some lack of clarity. The tone of the film shifts so drastically during Ronnie's redemptive visit to his old workplace that it's impossible to not think that what we're seeing is a dream. Similar to how one could question Travis Bickle's survival after the shootout with Harvey Keitel's pimp and his goons. The crowd I saw Observe and Report with cheered during the final minutes, which must make Hill happy. The conclusion is totally designed to elicit some hooting and hollering, but it's still morally reprehensible enough to unsettle the more conscious filmgoer.

I doubt that this question will be answered after a second Observe and Report intake, though. The only way to ever get a closure-providing statement on the matter would be to ask Jody Hill himself, and I'm willing to be that he'd pull a David Lynch and leave his work open-ended and enigmatic. Even if you attack Hill for the film's tonal contradictions or blurry intentions, I'm subscribing to the belief that you got to respect the guy for applying such a non-comedy approach to the comedy genre. And (depending on your personal opinion, though mine is obvious) succeeding, at that.

The overthinking will never end.

Blame It (On the Undead)

I try to avoid TMZ at all costs. Simply typing the website address into my Explorer's toolbar and then clicking "Go" leaves me feeling dirty, cheap, voyeuristic. I'd rather get my celebrity gossip necessities from second or third parties, like this story.

Woody Harrelson seems to have attacked a paparazzi douchebag recently and smashed the photo-stalker's camera. Harrelson was with his daughter, so you could chalk this up to the man protecting the privacy of his kid, but then you'd be innocently wrong. Turns out, Harrelson thought he was in his very own George Romero flick:

The Actor's Defense: "I wrapped a movie called 'Zombieland,' in which I was constantly under assault by zombies, then flew to New York, still very much in character... With my daughter at the airport I was startled by a paparazzo, who I quite understandably mistook for a zombie."

Whether he was high or not when this quote was said, it's still pretty awesome. Clearly the lamest excuse ever, but great. I too live in a dreamworld where a zombie invasion could break out at any minute; because, if so, I'd be the world's biggest hero. I've seen all the films, read some of the Max Brooks books. Used to sleep with a tire-iron under my bed as a kid so that if any flesh-eaters came into my room at night I'd be able to split their melons open, like Night of the Living Dead's "Ben" on that farmhouse's front lawn. I even wrote two 75-page zombie horror novels before I entered high school.



I mean, come on? Obviously I'm well equipped. Even Woody Harrelson would have to salute the kid.



Quote and story first learned over at: JoBlo

So far, so good.....

A head sliced off by a boat's engine propellers. The body of the show's biggest-named star (albeit a has-been C-lister) cut in half, guts left to dangle in mid-air. And that was just the first episode.



Count me in through July 2nd.

Observe and Report's ending, reconsidered

I've been thinking about the end of Observe and Report for the last few days, bouncing back and forward with my opinion. Ultimately, I've decided that I actually don't like the final resolution, though I won't spoil it here for those who haven't seen the film, since it's opening today and it's hardly 3pm.



When people do see it, though, assuming some will, I'd love to pick the last couple of minutes apart. The problem I'm having is that the entire tone of the film (despicable guy rapidly descending into self-destruction and public endangerment) is kicked to the curb for a last-second reversal of fortune that doesn't feel right. Feels cheap, out of place, pandering to the same conventions that the rest of the film so knowingly spits at. There's a scene that involved a fat flasher/pervert approaching a major female character in slow motion before being gunned down at point blank range, and that's where the film should've ended and credits should've rolled. Or, if an additional moment or two was necessary, writer-director Jody Hill would've been better served to make this scene's aftermath one of imprisonment, not fulfillment. It's a shame, since the slo-mo flasher sequence is damn great, and its climax is sudden and bloody good.

If anybody out there sees Observe and Report this weekend, please hit me so we can engage in a wee bit of debate. I'm still a big fan of the film, though. And I must warn the masses----this isn't a LOL comedy. In fact, I didn't let out a hearty laugh once, but I was engaged throughout and totally down for the cause. It's something different, and hopefully an important change-of-course for studio comedies.

All that being said, I must close this with a confession: I really want my own "Nell."



Cute as hell, sweet and personable. Pure. A smile that could melt a homicidal fool's heart. She's total "wife material." Well played, Collette Wolfe.

Walkin' High on the Moon

Hopefully, I'll be able to catch this one when it plays at the Tribeca Film Festival later this month....wait, fuck am I kidding? I have all the time in the world as of now, so there's no excuse.

Sam Rockwell is a great actor, one of my favorites (catch Snow Angels now on cable if possible, he's shattering in it), so a film starring him and only him for the majority of the runtime is foolproof material. Give it a trailer as wowzer as this one, and then you have the best-looking straight science fiction flick to come out in some time. Aside from Danny Boyle's Sunshine, has there been a great no-frills sci-fi movie in recent memory? I think not.

Here's the trailer for Duncan Jones' Moon (Jones is the son of David Bowie, I read somewhere):



Gives me the fuzzy feeling of 2001: A Space Odyssey, with a nice narcotic musical score. And tons of pristine-looking visuals.

This one's high on the list.

A Night with Vinyan; A Buck-Shot to the Senses

I wouldn't call it a beautiful mind exactly. More like a grotesquely-attractive one. A thoughtbox that has twice now managed to leave me in a slightly comatose state after being subjected to its creative, visual, and narrative sides, all at once, twice now. The guy has only made two films, but both shatter all conventional genre tricks, taking their time to stack up the dread and astonished confusion to Jenga Champion heights.

The fella's name is Fabrice Du Welz, a Belgian filmmaker, and I've finally seen his sophomore head-raper Vinyan, after nearly a year's worth of anticipation.


Fabrice Du Welz

After I watched his debut, Calvaire (The Ordeal), early on in my Netflix lifespan, I couldn't shake the cold, distant-from-reality feeling the film left me with. Some idiot writers have dubbed Calvaire the "Gay Chainsaw Massacre," due to its sporadic homo-psychotic scenes and the plot's skeletal cloning of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. While those jackasses trivialized it into a heap of puns, I fell right in Calvaire's existential malarchy trap, knees deep and loving every fucked-up second. At not one point did Du Welz take an expected plot turn, stage a seen-that-before scene. Even when the images made no sense and felt bizarre simply for bizarre's cheap sake, I couldn't help but love the shit. Like this random folk dance sequence, which I'm sure is meant to show the audience that the townsfolk in Calvaire aren't the most trustworthy, but really just comes off as some inexplicable hypnosis. You'll either laugh at the absurdity or be left in unease. Myself, a fascinating mixture of both:



Du Welz won me over with Calvaire, no doubt, so once word spread that the writer-director's next one, Vinyan, is a stylistic leap forward, I instantly become enthralled with the chance of some day soon seeing it. Of course, the film played well at the film festival circuit last year and had heads talking due to its eccentricity and holy-shit final act, which naturally meant it would linger in release purgatory before hitting DVD shelves with zero fanfare. Other than to those such as myself who put ourselves in "the know." All I had to work with was this mesmerizing underwater opening credit sequence, a "Huh" slice of coolness that leaves me with the same bewilderment that the opening credits of Gaspar Noe's Irreversible does:




So what did I get out of Vinyan? A viewing experience that made that of Calvaire seem only satisfactory. Where to begin? With the film's plot, perhaps: Paul and Jeanne (actors Rufus Sewell and Emmanuelle Beart, both quietly dynamic here) are on a vacation near Burma when they come across a tourist video that features a little jungle-living kid that Jeanne swears is their son Joshua, who was lost at sea during the 2004 tsunami and presumed dead. After some debate, Jeanne wins, and the couple doles out their entire life savings to hop on a sketchy boat to the Thai-Burmese border, where the video was shot. As the trip continues into a downward spiral of dead-ends and growing bleakness, the boat's guide gets lost and docks on a nondescript, dark, creepy isle full of silent little naked kids covered in hardened mud and preying around the jungle in stalker-mode.

The little bastards look like children straight out of a National Geographic issue guest-edited by the team from Fangoria. And once the couple's boat becomes off-course and stranded, Vinyan turns into Apocalypse Now crossbred with Who Can Kill A Child? scripted and directed while on an acid trip. That's a seriously twisted and potent elixir, and I'm not fibbing when I say that the final 15 minutes of Vinyan had me paralyzed to my couch. The paralysis first kicked in during this dream sequence that Jeanne has; she's been mentally deteriorating throughout the film, and by the time they're stuck on the tribal island, aka the Fifth Circle of Earthbound Hell, she's totally gone. A walking slab of jelly, only motivated by the sad, tragic hope of finding her obviously-dead son. In this dream, she's surrounded by a group of kids wearing the same red shirt her son wore on the day he was taken by the tsunami wave. Only, the kids' faces are all stretched-out and mask-like, and the camera zooms sideways and in-and-out rapidly as faint screaming sounds (the same ones heard at the tail-end of that above Vinyan opening credits). It's unsettling along the lines of that nightmarish Aphex Twin video for "Come to Daddy." Heebie jeebie central.




Vinyan isn't a film I'd honestly recommend to too many people. I'll be delicately picking and choosing who gets the "You should really watch this" heads-up. If your attention span is that of a pencil and a simple growling stomach makes you stand up and leave the room while a DVD is playing, do yourself a favor and stay the fuck away from this one. It's not meant for you; go watch The Love Guru or something. Du Welz moves this thing along at a snail's pace, but in a good way. I never lost interest, and was rewarded by Vinyan's haunting final act, but the only-marginally-patient watcher will most likely tune out or get bored by the 20-minute mark. If so, I'm sorry. You can't win them all. Only people like me who love this kind of bizarre shit. And also, lovers of intense, stark, gorgeous cinematography and some of the best jungle scenery presentation since Francis Ford Coppola and the already-referenced Apocalypse Now.

It takes some balls and some truly disturbed sensibilities to dream up and then so strongly execute Vinyan's final 15 minutes. But this dude Du Welz has done it rather convincingly. I'd really love to see him get the green-light for an American studio film, just to witness either his un-compromise or disappointing descent into studio politic bend-over bulldonkey. Because there's no way in Hell that he'd get away with making a film such as Vinyan on an American studio's watch.

Unfiltered DVD releases of international cinema, bless y'all.

Vinyan trailer (that actually makes the film seem much more accessible than it is, believe me. Don't be fooled, this is only to give a sharper feel for the film):

Joke or not?

I honestly can't figure it out. If there wasn't an actual IMDB page for this, I'd think it was some Funny or Die like joke. But such an IMDB page does exist, so I'm just left befuddled.

Gooby



It's like Teddy Ruxpin and Fozzy Bear were kidnapped by some mad scientist, sliced into feathery pieces, thrown into some mass-expanding life machine, and cast out into the world of tongue-in-cheek family cinema.

God I love the limitless of film.

Your second chance at greatness....

Woke up this morning, and the piece-of-shit Sir Arthur Buick wouldn't start. Sitting around my 'rents' house, waiting to get my haircut, anticipating the return of tu madre so I can use her Durango to ride to the barbers. Sucks the large one, but 'tis what 'tis.

At least I just came across this splendid news:

HBO has officially confirmed that its original comedy series Eastbound and Down-—a /Film fave—-has been renewed for a second season. Better yet, given the fast ascent up the comedy ranks of the show’s masterminds, Danny McBride, Jody Hill, and Ben Best, one may have expected another six-episode season further down the pipeline. Instead, the next season begins filming later this year and will air in 2010. Woo. When we were on the set last year, co-director David Gordon Green revealed that a follow-up pitch was being entertained that centered on McBride’s profane bulletproof tiger Kenny Powers shipping off to South America to quasi-fulfill his baseball career. However, the idea seemed to be news to much of the cast, and given how well received the ensemble performances of Andy Daly, Katy Mixon, John Hawkes, and Steve “Ass Blood” Little, I wouldn’t bet on it.

I was hoping that HBO would be smart enough to bring this growing-number-of-fans' favorite back sooner than later. Glad they've proven me right. Easily the funniest show the network has aired in, I don't know, forever. And that's including my dude Tim from The Life & Times of Tim. HBO should just cancel that shell-of-its-former-self Entourage altogether and go all out with Kenny Powers. Shit, he has Stevie already, that's all the entourage that HBO needs, anyway.

We better get some more Ashley Schaeffer, too:


News spotted over at: /Film

Dream a Big (Message) Dream

Dreams come, and then dreams go. In one side of the brain, and promptly out the other. I wonder, when you don't remember them vividly enough to discuss specific details the morning after, did those dreams even really happen?

Rather than tread into psychoanalytical areas that I'm not mentally prepped for at the moment, I'd much more prefer to focus on one particular recent dream that has stuck out in all its colorful, memorable detail. It went down internally this past weekend, while I was snoozing in the cozy Boston hotel room. Before sleep hit me, following up the left-hook combo landed by that Long Island Iced Tea and Fire & Ice's stir fry buffet (greatest restaurant ever? yes, greatest restaurant ever), I was half-watching Saturday Night Live, hosted by Seth Rogen (the episode sucked overall). Fell into dreamland midway through Weekend Update.



Soon found myself in a fictitious world where I was dating this curvy, gorgeous Dania Ramirez-lookalike, and she was head over heels for me. Holding hands, cuddling in public. The romance was thick, like my faux girlfriend's lower region (sorry, I'm still far enough removed from KING-mode just yet). Us two lovebirds were strolling casually around the Manhattan Mall, no store-destinations in mind, just window-shopping and killing time before an eveing screening of Observe and Report (Like I said, Rogen was the last person I saw before sleep....and I'm not even going to "Pause" that because it's totally unnecessary here).

Hunger set in, so Bizarro Dania and I headed to the food court, a little Ranch One Chicken in our sights. Zoned in, ready to attack (for dinner). As we got off the escalator, though, who do we see? Seth Rogen, just sitting at a table alone, eating some Sarku Japan. "Oh shit, look who it is?!" my girl shouts. She runs over to him, begins to express her huge fandom, and Rogen is cool as ice, accepting the compliments graciously and asking us to sit down with him for a second. So we do, after grabbing our chicken sandwiches and fries (my side = veggies....I'm a pussy even in my dreams). Banter ensues. Of course, all centering around movies. I ask him if he's see Timecrimes, the amazing Spanish time travel flick from Nacho Vigalondo. He has, and he shares equal excitement for it. I then inquire if he's seen Fabrice Du Welz's Vinyan, another recent favorite of his (the guy is more than comedy, my dream-self finds out). Two for two.

Naturally, the two of us are getting along swimmingly. There's only one major dilemma: my girl has never seen any of these films. Her initial star-struck glee has slowly dissipated into a bored, watch-checking labor. "Umm, Matt, your new BFF's movie is about to start in like 10 minutes, we should make moves," she inteerupts as Rogen and I are chatting about screenwriting techniques---He the teacher, I the learner. I shrug her off, much more interested in collecting some tips and wisdom from our third dinner party. The look of frustration continues to accelerate on wifey's pretty face, yet I could give two shits less.

The second that Rogen and I switch the conversation to Hollywood studio politics, B-Dania stands up, kicks her chair to the ground, and defiantly says, "You know what? Fuck this! You obviously care more about this movie bullshit than you do about spending time with your girl. This shit is over!" And then she heads to the escalator. As she rides the moving staircase upward, I notice her flirting with some lame asshole wearing tight jeans, a sweater vest, and a trucker hat (hipster fucko). But I don't care. Immediately, I return to my conversation with the Hollywood major-player seated next to me. And all is well.

So what do I gather from this dream? It's simple, really. At this time in my life, I now realize what my top priority has become. Hell or high water, I got to get that side of my hopefull-professional-future in order, moving forward. That open house for NYFA next weekend is officially step number one, so let's hope that is an informative success, a dream-pusher instead of a goal-staller.

And no, people. Don't even think "Oh, Matt dreams about Seth Rogen." It could've been any actor/screenwriter in the game seen in my dream. Just so happened that I was watching dude on the tube seconds beforehand. The point of the dream resonates, regardless.

Eminem Made Me Angry

Now this is just sad. Upsetting. A cop-out when it could've/should've been a first round knockout. I hate to take the typical "hater" route here, but this is coming from a true Eminem fan, one who wants only for the guy's new music to be great, for both my sanity's and rap-love's sakes. And this is bad, no way around it.

Eminem's new video, "We Made You." It's here, and it's expectedly the same brand of goofy, bouncy, disposable first single he puts out before each of his albums. Part of me had this feeling that Eminem had realized that he could drop a first record produced by DJ Premier and with Jazmine Sullivan on the hook and the shit would still be a smash. He doesn't need lame shit like this anymore....or, does he? This "We Made You" does its job at reassuring fans that Em can still have fun at other celebrities expenses. But, see, the times have changed.....fuck it, watch the video first:



He must've recorded this song at the end of 2008, right? And it was just held by Interscope for time purposes, no? Samantha Ronson and Lindsay Lohan? Sarah Palin? Amy Winehouse? Jessics Alba and Cash Warren? That's just lazy, and obvious, and late. This shit makes "Just Lose It" sound like "Criminal." The main problem here is that celebrity gossip is more accessible and overexposed than ever, between your Perez Hiltons, DListeds, and TMZs; we don't need Eminem to skewer these assholes anymore. Been there, heard that. You can read jokes and slams against celebs on a minute-by-minute basis by simply double-clicking Internet Explorer---what more can Eminem say that we haven't laughed at already when it was presented with much more wit? Any fool with a Blogspot account and tons of free time can be a "first-single-minded Eminem."

Digs at Moby and Christina Aguilera were understandable; they had slighted Em in the press, basically asking for retaliation. Not one person namedropped on "We Made You" has done so; attacking them is unnecessary, kind of desperate. If there was any wit in these verses, however, I wouldn't be as agitated. Lines talking about wanting Jessica Alba's breasts on his mouth are thoughtless. I didn't wait five years for that.

Yeah, he can still ride a beat like none other, even when rapping in this annoying high-pitched British accent. But that's not good enough. This Dr. Dre beat is trash, honestly, and the references to people like Jennifer Aniston and visual jokes about a fat Jessica Simpson are as uninspired as it gets. "Rock Band is the most popular game out, right? Cool, let's have Em rapping on a Rock Band backdrop! Oh, isn't there a new Star Trek movie coming out? Perfect! Em as Spock!" The only somewhat clever idea is giving Eminem the Elvis Presley treatment, but even that comparison is old news.

Please don't tell me that Relapse is going to suck? "Crack A Bottle" still hasn't totally won me over, and now this song hits and misses. I still think that Em has tons of tricks up his sleeve that he's saving for the album, but he's 0-for-2 so far.

Netflix Fix -- And Soon The Darkness (1970)

Just the other day, a friend and I were talking about the possibility of ever taking some kind of solo European vacation. One of those trips where its person, alone, exploring a far-off country. Full of self-discovery, adventure, intrigue. But then also a true test of one's survival skills, and street smarts. Personally, the idea of a one-man vacay overseas is rather compelling, though I'm not entirely sure that I'll ever pull the trigger and actually take one. Besides, I've seen enough movies to know how susceptible an American tourist in unfamiliar terrain. The old "fish out of water" plot device is one of the most abused and overused tricks in the thriller genre, with "good" flicks such as Hostel far outweighing the forgettable misfires, like, say, Turistas (anybody?).

And those are just a couple of the recent examples. Tomorrow, in fact, I'll finally get to watch Fabrice Du Welz' Vinyan on trusty DVD, and that's yet another entry into this subgenre. And Soon The Darkness, a largely looked-over British potboiler made back in 1970 by director Robert Fuest, has set the bar for Vinyan Mary-Jane-high.


Loving this poster. Looks a lot like that old Last House on the Left one I've always thought was/is top quality.

A few weeks back, news surfaced of an in-development remake of And Soon The Darkness, starring two starlet-apples in my eye, Amber Heard (Pineapple Express) and Odette Yustman (Cloverfield, The Unborn). The notion of remaking an obscure British film with a pair of America's hottest young actresses immediately got me going; I'd much rather see a little-known foreign throwback get the recognition over yet another iconic slasher series from here in the states.

Prior to the news of an Amber Heard/Odette Yustman sexy sandwich, I'd never heard of the original And Soon The Darkness, so the film instantly hopped into my Netflix. Finally came around to watching it late last night, and I'm glad to opine that its one hell of smart, suspenseful little number. Plays up all of the necessary "fish out of water" puzzle pieces to effective levels of unease.

Cathy (actress Michele Dotrice) and Jane (Pamela Franklin)

....and now, Amber Heard and Odette Yustman. Quite a difference, eh?


The story centers around Jane, a cute, short-haired, innocent-minded college-age tourist from London who has just seen her bicycling trip across France take a mischievous turn. After a verbal scuffle with her wilder, blonde bombshell of a best friend, and travel partner, Cathy, Jane rode off in protest, leaving Cathy alone near woods on the side of a road. But when Jane goes back to check on her friend, Cathy is gone. This leads to an investigation complete with shady strangers giving Jane prolonged stares and speaking in foreign languages that she frustratingly can't understand, and an unearthed murder mystery that brings with it eerie similarities with Cathy.


Now that's how you cut together a trailer.

The film's script (written by fellas named Brian Clemens and Terry Nation) is the real MVP here, a tightly-structured pressure cooker that loves fucking with the audience. His strongest constant-okie-doke is a character named Paul, a suave Frenchman that catches Cathy's eye intitially but then begins to look more sinister by the second. His motives remain unclear, difficult to pin down. It doesn't help the viewer's private-eye side that Fuest consistently flips our perceptions of Paul. We're made to believe that he's taken to Jane out of sympathy, but when he drives near the spot where Cathy disappeared on his motorbike, we see tire tracks next a pair of Cathy's missing panties. Instant connection made. And then later Paul reveals himself to be a detective, yet the head of the local police department claims to have no idea who Paul is moments later.

If And Soon The Darkness was simply a clever whodunit mystery, I would've been happy enough. But Fuest shows flashes of Alfred Hitchcock here that give the film a nice slice of nail-chomping atmosphere, amplifying the isolation of a scared, confused non-local impressively. The subtle creeps, all around. Two scenes in particular achieve a pretty strong anxiety: First, the last time we see Cathy before Jane's investigation begins; as she wakes up alongside the road from leaves rustling, Cathy cautiously begins to pack her belongings and get ready to ride and find her friend, but Fuest uses nifty sight tricks (a pair of panties there one second and gone the next; the sound of spinning bike-tire wheels; switching the camera's point-of-view to inside the bushes peering out at Cathy) to his advantage, and the end product is a damn tense sequence with little sound. Secondly, a scene near the film's end that finds Jane hiding in the closet of a trailer truck as the suspected villain snoops around; its a standard cat-and-mouse setup, but then we're hit with a total "Oh shit!" jump scare that is both revelatory and shock city.

File And Soon The Darkness under "Awesomely Pleasant Surprises." I went into this Netflix Fix hoping to merely meet a personal quota, seeing a film that the remake of which has become an anticipation-item of mine. I wasn't expecting to love this humble British flick as much as I now do. Looks like Amber Heard, Odette Yustman, and who-the-fuck-is-he director Marcos Efron have their work cut out for them. The Heard/Yustman And Soon The Darkness was honestly little more than a hormone-driven must-see, but now I'll be watching with a heavy "They better not fuck this up" microscope.

It's already been said that the remake will relocate the setting from France to Argentina, for whatever that's worth. Now, how about explaining what the hell the title And Soon The Darkness means exactly? The original takes place entirely during the daytime, and the impending nightfall is never referenced in any sort of menacing way, so what gives? It's an awesome title for a film, though. Just wondering, "Why?"

Broken Record Syndrome: Comedy's Twisted New Danger

As if I haven't voiced enough love for HBO's now-gone Eastbound and Down, let me start this off by saying that the six-part story of Kenny Powers' attempt at reclaiming his "throne" was the ballsiest TV series of the last couple years, and if you missed, "You fucked up den" (to quote Jay Dog from the almighty Whiteboyz). What made the series so special was how the screenwriters (Jody Hill, Danny McBride, and Ben Best) embraced their main character's despicability and never tried making him any more sympathetic than he barely was. In Powers' eyes, he was on a path of redemption, but he was the only person who saw what he was doing as a true positive, other than his psychologically-warped lackie Stevie. Just when you thought the final episode was going to end on a triumphant note for Powers, we found out that his failed life was right back on square one. No easy way out, no cathartic resolution. He was still in the same shitter that he started out in.

Constructing everyman epics around loathesome antiheroes is what Jody Hill does so well. His directorial debut, last year's indie buzz-grabber The Foot Fist Way, showed the flawed promise that Eastbound and Down perfected. Fred Simmons (played by Danny McBride, like "Kenny Powers"), the pigheaded tae kwon do instructor at Foot Fist's center, fancies himself a king in a land of suburban peasants, when in reality he's the biggest court jester around. This sad truth is driven home once Simmons' martial arts hero, Chuck the Truck (a clear Chuck Norris knockoff), comes to town and fucks Simmons' trashy wife and treats his biggest fan as if he's more of a nuisance than a motivation. And once the film ends, we're not left with a man reformed in any way; we're sent off feeling the exact same ill will toward Simmons that he's negatively earned from Scene One. Not to mention, uncomfortably laughing all along.



Fred Simmons vs Chuck the Truck

The Foot Fist Way is slow in spaces, sluggish in pacing. Not all of the jokes hit hard enough, and the overall texture gives the vibe that Hill and company became too confy in the film's mockumentary approach, forgetting to spice up their plate from time to time. Going with a terrible human being for its lead, though, and allowing him to fail, and then fail again, gives the film a nice, sleazy charm.

It's great to see that Hill hasn't abandoned this "moral villain becomes the happy-ending-free antihero" aesthetic with Observe and Report, his first mainstream film that should be at least marginally successful thanks to its A-list star, Seth Rogen. Rogen's demented mall cop character, Ronnie Barnhardt, wishes he could be a legitimate gun-toting police officer, and sees himself as a bigger deal than he actually is. Which would be sad to watch if Ronnie wasn't such an abhorrent scumbag, a racist blowhard much better at spying on sexy mallgoing ladies than catching the perverted flasher showing his chubby belly and man-junk freely in the parking lot. Even though he's totally unable to apprehend the flasher, Ronnie sees this case as his big chance to prove himself and become the hero, and turns a sexual deviant into his own means of salvation. Only, it doesn't work out that way. His sadistic tendencies get the best of him. There's zero self-improvement to be had.


Jody Hill and Seth Rogen

Except for a more pristine look than the peanuts-and-duct-tape The Foot Fist Way (courtesy of a major studio-funded cinematographer) could ever afford, Observe and Report feels right at home alongside Hill's past work, especially Eastbound and Down. Rogen proves that he's more than the schlubby, underachieving stoner with his Ronnie incarnation, mostly shedding his past cuddly, likeable demeanor and putting on a fresh coat of scary and convincingly imbalanced. I can't help but think, though, that Hill conceived this Ronnie Barnhardt with Danny McBride in mind, but then the studio came along and demanded a bigger name, resulting in Hill calling his buddy Rogen. Fortunately, Rogen holds his own, embodying the character's every dirty facet even when it seems like he's just doing his best McBride impersonation at times.

Hill shows no fear. What he's delivered is a '7Scorcese-light throwback that, while not totally successful at capturing that tone, does come off quite like a '70s-loving film student's writing comedy while on a bender. In a good way. You get line-pushing moments ranging from Ronnie taking intercourse-advantage of a drunk girl covered in her own vomit, to skateboard kids getting their skulls bashed in by their own boards, to an Oldboy-style tracking shot fight sequence that has Ronnie fending for survival against a swarm of cops with only a flashlight in his hand. All played for the hearty chuckles, weirdly enough. Hill has repeatedly said that Observe & Report is his attempt to create a "comedic Taxi Driver," a lofty aspiration that, while not entirely fulfilled, shows where the guy's head is at in terms of storytelling and filmmaking. And it's at a place that a lover of nihilistic entertainment such as myself both admires and welcomes.

This generation's "Judd Apatow comedies" (in which Rogen himself is obviously a massive element), while unquestionably great, lack any real sense of danger, any unexpected turns. The routine beats (guy underachieves, he's presented with a life-changing opportunity, and he ultimately emerges a better person) are always hit, and you leave the film content and amused, but not challenged. Hill would hate for that midlevel expectation to be laid upon his stuff; he wants to catch you off guard with images and plot-turns that'll make you feel as if you're watching the wrong film. "Isn't this supposed to be a comedy? Why am I feeling more paralysic than hilarity?" It's a tough trick to execute, making the audience laugh out loud one minute and then shriek in disbelief the next. But Hill seems to have a growing handle on it.

I could only imagine what Hill could do with a horror film, or a straight-up psychological thriller. When a scene such as this represents a perfect ending in your eyes (as it does mine), the sky is the limit as to how fucked up you could make something:

Taxi Driver (avoid watching if you've never seen the film, and go rent it immediately)

Your new Freddy Krueger is.....a great, Oscar-nominated actor? How about that?

Due to my good-times weekend out in Boston (Quincy Market's food court is a place of edible wonders, and the house tequila at The Purple Shamrock tastes like Petron left uncapped for a year past its expiration date), I missed the boat on this one by a couple of days. But it's a bit of horror casting news that is nothing short of spot-on, so I'd be sloppy to let it slip by. After months of hopeful rumors and roundabout confirmations and denials by all involved, those remake-ruiners at Platinum Dunes have absolutely nailed the casting of Freddy Krueger for next April's A Nightmare on Elm Street redo:

Jackie Earle Haley



From the moment that the first word hit online about Haley's possible involvement, this has seemed like such pitch-perfect casting, and now that it's official, I'm actually gaining some excitement for this project. Initially, the thought of Platinum Dunes fucking up yet another great horror film sent douche-chills down my spine. Put it this way: those guys managed to turn a remake of an already-subpar film (the original Friday the 13th) into an inferior, frustratingly inept cash-guzzler, so just imagine how badly they could butcher an actually-strong flick like the original Nightmare? And let's not even get into that Platinum Dunes raping of The Hitcher, or this past January's laughably moronic The Unborn.

With Jackie Earle Haley signing on, however, the stakes are much more promising. The man is an Academy Award nominee (for Little Children), and he's coming off his universally-loved Rorschach turn in Watchmen. Plus, his next film is Martin Scorcese's Shutter Island. He has the luxury to pick and choose his next starring vehicle with care, and he's chosen a Nightmare on Elm Street remake? The script for this flick must be something special, at least one would think/hope. Haley must be genuinely excited to fill Robert Englund's Shaq-sized shoes and reinvent Freddy Krueger, and that's the coolest. I'm totally a Haley fanboy (if you haven't seen his work in Little Children, make that happen....and he was the only good thing about Will Ferrell's unfunny, derivative Semi-Pro)

Bonus Jackie Earle Haley pic....remember him here?

Yup......Kelly Leak.

I for one can't wait to see what he does. This remake has gone from "meh" to "must" overnight, now. Of course, the Platinum Dunes team could very well fuck this up, but the fact that its a first-time director, music video vet Samuel Bayer (Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit"), behind the lens opens up the stylistic possibilities immensely. And assuming that the script is up to snuff, the cast of young faces isn't as bland as the recent Friday the 13th's, and Haley's body isn't inhabited by Nicolas Cage during filming, this one is looking mighty healthy. For now.

Speaking of the young cast, the only head signed on so far is Kyle Gallner (the main kid in The Haunting in Connecticut, previously known for Veronica Mars)---he was surprisingly good in Haunting in CT, so he's a good start here. My nomination for the lead role of "Nancy"? Here goes:



Yes, my girl Olivia Thirlby. Simply out of my yearning for her to blow up commercially some day, just so I could see more and more of her. "That's the world I want to live in."