Even though I'm one of about 15 people excited about it, my favorite rapper ever (well, at least in my top three ever), the Gza/Genius, has a new album coming out this week, called Pro Tools, and it's pretty solid, thankfully. Not his best work ever (Liquid Swords, his debut = my fave album of all time, its true), but it has plenty of heat, these two records being my tops so far:
"Pencil" (feat. Masta Killa and Rza)
"7 Pounds" (produced by my current almighty producer, Black Milk)
I figure, what the hell...maybe somebody reading this will actually get excited about a Wu-Tang project once again. Rap sucks these days, so i gotta play whatever part I can in helping the dopeness stand apart from the wackness.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Mind Eraser
Note to self: open bars that start at 8pm are very, very bad news.
It was one of those nights, last night....drinks were flowing, the bar was packed and thankfully had some attractive females in attendance for once. By about 10pm, I was a good five sheets to the wind, and by midnight, I....well, pretty much everything after 11pm is a blur right now. I do recall almost getting arrested on the walk home, when I tossed the remnants of a 7 Stars (best.pizza.ever) slice onto the sidewalk. As my shitty luck would have it, the car parked next to where the crust landed had three undercover pigs sitting within it, and apparently they hate pizza crust. You'd have thought that I'd snuffed an old lady in front of these cops, the way they were fuming, asking me, "Why in the hell would you even do that?" Asking to see my ID, the whole nine. All over pizza crust. See, kids---it never pays to litter. Lesson learned.
Aside from that fast food felony, I'm also piecing together some of the convos I had at the bar, with friends and some females I'd just met. I'm pretty sure one of the girl's name was Lisa Marie, a name I assumed was a fake cover-up one, like so many chicks tend to give to guys they're not interested in. Lisa Marie just sounds made up, doesn't it? But alas, she insisted that it was her true government, and even had a friend come over to confirm it to me and show me her ID. I guess I made a bigger deal out of it then I thought I was.
But really, I've been trying to figure out what exactly I said to a certain few people, people who know me, not beer-goggle-assisted randoms. I know for a fact that I had a couple deep, feeling-pouring exchanges with a couple of people, but can't for the life of me remember what I said. And all this thinking isn't helping the ginormous hangover I'm still feeling.
I hate when this happens, though. I sip so much of the intoxicating stuff that my night becomes a total foggy mess, riddled with questions and concerns. So far, nobody has called me to yell at me or make fun of me or remind me of some shameful thing I did, so I'm assuming everything is kosher. But don't you just hate that? Not being able to piece a drunken together in its wake, yet knowing that some meaningful or eye-opening things were said and you have no way of proving it?
It's not like I'm just going to call certain heads and be like, "So, yeah, I know we had this deep talk last night, and feelings were put on the table, but sorry, I was absolutely shitfaced and can't remember what was said. Could you remind me?" Talk about defacing a special moment. Sheesh.
If I had to place the blame on this lapse of memory, it'd rest solely on the glasses of Mind Eraser drinks I busted through at the bar. It's some kind of shot-on-roids, in a regular-size glass that tastes a bit like Coffee Petron, and you have to take it in one big gulp the face, with the help of a straw. But fuck me, it truly lived up to its I-totally-get-it-now name.
Note to self: no more Mind Erasers.
It was one of those nights, last night....drinks were flowing, the bar was packed and thankfully had some attractive females in attendance for once. By about 10pm, I was a good five sheets to the wind, and by midnight, I....well, pretty much everything after 11pm is a blur right now. I do recall almost getting arrested on the walk home, when I tossed the remnants of a 7 Stars (best.pizza.ever) slice onto the sidewalk. As my shitty luck would have it, the car parked next to where the crust landed had three undercover pigs sitting within it, and apparently they hate pizza crust. You'd have thought that I'd snuffed an old lady in front of these cops, the way they were fuming, asking me, "Why in the hell would you even do that?" Asking to see my ID, the whole nine. All over pizza crust. See, kids---it never pays to litter. Lesson learned.
Aside from that fast food felony, I'm also piecing together some of the convos I had at the bar, with friends and some females I'd just met. I'm pretty sure one of the girl's name was Lisa Marie, a name I assumed was a fake cover-up one, like so many chicks tend to give to guys they're not interested in. Lisa Marie just sounds made up, doesn't it? But alas, she insisted that it was her true government, and even had a friend come over to confirm it to me and show me her ID. I guess I made a bigger deal out of it then I thought I was.
But really, I've been trying to figure out what exactly I said to a certain few people, people who know me, not beer-goggle-assisted randoms. I know for a fact that I had a couple deep, feeling-pouring exchanges with a couple of people, but can't for the life of me remember what I said. And all this thinking isn't helping the ginormous hangover I'm still feeling.
I hate when this happens, though. I sip so much of the intoxicating stuff that my night becomes a total foggy mess, riddled with questions and concerns. So far, nobody has called me to yell at me or make fun of me or remind me of some shameful thing I did, so I'm assuming everything is kosher. But don't you just hate that? Not being able to piece a drunken together in its wake, yet knowing that some meaningful or eye-opening things were said and you have no way of proving it?
It's not like I'm just going to call certain heads and be like, "So, yeah, I know we had this deep talk last night, and feelings were put on the table, but sorry, I was absolutely shitfaced and can't remember what was said. Could you remind me?" Talk about defacing a special moment. Sheesh.
If I had to place the blame on this lapse of memory, it'd rest solely on the glasses of Mind Eraser drinks I busted through at the bar. It's some kind of shot-on-roids, in a regular-size glass that tastes a bit like Coffee Petron, and you have to take it in one big gulp the face, with the help of a straw. But fuck me, it truly lived up to its I-totally-get-it-now name.
Note to self: no more Mind Erasers.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Somebody smash these MIRRORS! They're defective!
What a huge, huge bummer. In an effort to appease the horror gods, and to allow myself to see a movie for once without reading every single spoiler online first, I hit a midnight screening of the new horror flick MIRRORS last night. And I'm damn tired right now, but thankfully it's slow at work for the moment being, so I'm hoping the writing process for this post will revive me a bit.
So anyway, back to the matter at hand: MIRRORS....what a disappointing clusterfuck of a movie. My expectations and hopes have been relatively high, mainly due to the film's director/co-writer, Alexandra Aja. As part of this whole new French wave of horror makers, Aja could be considered the first to officially break through into American studios. His first all-Frenchy-made gem, HAUTE TENSION (or HIGH TENSION, as it was called when released here to little fanfare, so sadly), is easily in my top ten horror films of the last five or so years. It's brutal as hell, intense, packs enough gore to make these lame SAW films seem futile, and packs some of the best acting and musical score a scare-lover could ask for. And then he went and remade Wes Craven's THE HILLS HAVE EYES, and I loved that one, too. A total in-your-face, uncompromisingly visceral American studio-backed horror film, which is a rarity these days. Again, he conjured up some quality performances a sick soundtrack of pulsating electronica, and that trailer-pillage sequence is still one for the books.
So with the announcement of MIRRORS some time back, I was excited. Granted, it's a loose remake of an Asian flick, INTO THE MIRROR, but whatever. It's Aja, so it has to kick some ass, no? And it stars Kiefer Sutherland, and he's a pretty capable actor, eh? And Paula Patton and Amy Smart co-star, and both are insanely gorgeous women, so how could this go wrong, right?
Man, oh man. Let's start with my initial pet peeve here: how the online clips and promo footage TOTALLY ruined the film's two moneyshots--a gruesome self-inflicted throat slashing, and then a holy-shit-worthy jaw-rip-off that's truly a sight to behold. But again, both of these were pretty shown much in their respective entirety online weeks ago. And of course, being the bait-taker I am, I watched both, thinking deep down: "If this is what they're giving away online, just imagine what even crazier shit must be in the movie!"
Well, there's crazier shit, alright, but crazy in the sense that it has no shred of logic or coherence. Aja should stick to brutal carnage, because the supernatural arena is a terrible look for the dude. Basically, Sutherland is an ostracized detective with a drinking problem, trying to make amends with his family and taking a night watchman gig at this huge, abandoned department store in Manhattan. Working there after sundown, he starts noticing some "spooky" happenings within the dozens of giant mirrors housed within the store (called The Mayflower), which turns out [SPOILER WARNING! SPOILER WARNING! DON'T CONTINUE READING IF YOU PLAN ON WASTING YOUR MONEY AND SEEING THIS FLICK] to be the handiwork of some demon trapped with some particular mirrors. See, the Mayflower was originally an insane asylum, and one of the methods used against schizophrenia was to tie a patient down to a chair surrounded by wall-sized mirrors for days in, hoping to exercise the inner evil through constant reflection. Or some shit like that.
This explanation sucks, plain and simple. It's muddle, reeks of THE RING and THE GRUDGE, and takes way way too long to get to, exposition wise. And on the way to this conclusion, there's some truly heinous dialogue to be heard, especially some choice lines delivered by the truly-beautiful Patton. She's practically flawless looking, and has some acting chops, but the character she's given here (Sutherland's wife) is very weak, and says shit like, "Don't make me threaten you!" or annoyingly repeats her son's name, "Michael!? Michael!? Michael!?" while searching for him once the heeby jeebies enter their house (but wait, how did the jeeby demon even leave the department store? Hell if I know). Oh, and the kid playing this Michael needs to take acting lessons from Abigail Breslin, or pick a new career path, because he's grating as hell and just plain bad at the thesp thing.
Sutherland's performance is hit-or-miss, too. At times, he's basically just channeling his Jack Bauer character from the show 24, yelling stuff like "Dammit!" in moments of frustration. Other instances, he's pretty convincing in his turmoil and conflict. And poor Amy Smart, she's given like zero to do here other than to repeatedly tell Sutherland (she plays his sister) "There's nothing in the mirrors," or ask "You sure you're okay?" But then the mirror demon pays her a visit while she's getting ready for a bath (again, how the fuck did it leave the department store!?!?), and man is this scene nasty and well-done. But again, it's completely given away in the promo footage, and what's actually in the movie is ideally the same, save for a couple seconds more of awesome. I fucking hate when studios ruin their film's best parts before anybody has actually seen the movie.
In the end, though, I place the blame mainly on Aja's shoulders here. He was a bit overzealous, trying too many things all at once, rather than simply streamlining his better ideas. Either make a dark and moody ghost story a la THE RING, or go for full-on face-ripping mayhem and call it a bloody day. By no means, however, am I writing Aja off. Every filmmaker has that one misstep, so I'm considering MIRRORS Aja's.....come next summer, though, when his PIRANHA 3D hits screens, he better shape up and stick to the over-the-top gore balanced by strong visuals. Otherwise, he'll start heading down the "once cool but now played out" path of one Eli Roth, Mr. HOSTEL himself.
And speaking of Roth, why in the fuck did Quentin Tarantino cast him as bat-swinging Bazi killer 'Donowitz' in his upcoming INGLORIOUS BASTERDS? I'm clearly missing something here. But oh well, Tarantino is still my dude, so I'll reserve hate for now until I actually see the flick.
So anyway, back to the matter at hand: MIRRORS....what a disappointing clusterfuck of a movie. My expectations and hopes have been relatively high, mainly due to the film's director/co-writer, Alexandra Aja. As part of this whole new French wave of horror makers, Aja could be considered the first to officially break through into American studios. His first all-Frenchy-made gem, HAUTE TENSION (or HIGH TENSION, as it was called when released here to little fanfare, so sadly), is easily in my top ten horror films of the last five or so years. It's brutal as hell, intense, packs enough gore to make these lame SAW films seem futile, and packs some of the best acting and musical score a scare-lover could ask for. And then he went and remade Wes Craven's THE HILLS HAVE EYES, and I loved that one, too. A total in-your-face, uncompromisingly visceral American studio-backed horror film, which is a rarity these days. Again, he conjured up some quality performances a sick soundtrack of pulsating electronica, and that trailer-pillage sequence is still one for the books.
So with the announcement of MIRRORS some time back, I was excited. Granted, it's a loose remake of an Asian flick, INTO THE MIRROR, but whatever. It's Aja, so it has to kick some ass, no? And it stars Kiefer Sutherland, and he's a pretty capable actor, eh? And Paula Patton and Amy Smart co-star, and both are insanely gorgeous women, so how could this go wrong, right?
Man, oh man. Let's start with my initial pet peeve here: how the online clips and promo footage TOTALLY ruined the film's two moneyshots--a gruesome self-inflicted throat slashing, and then a holy-shit-worthy jaw-rip-off that's truly a sight to behold. But again, both of these were pretty shown much in their respective entirety online weeks ago. And of course, being the bait-taker I am, I watched both, thinking deep down: "If this is what they're giving away online, just imagine what even crazier shit must be in the movie!"
Well, there's crazier shit, alright, but crazy in the sense that it has no shred of logic or coherence. Aja should stick to brutal carnage, because the supernatural arena is a terrible look for the dude. Basically, Sutherland is an ostracized detective with a drinking problem, trying to make amends with his family and taking a night watchman gig at this huge, abandoned department store in Manhattan. Working there after sundown, he starts noticing some "spooky" happenings within the dozens of giant mirrors housed within the store (called The Mayflower), which turns out [SPOILER WARNING! SPOILER WARNING! DON'T CONTINUE READING IF YOU PLAN ON WASTING YOUR MONEY AND SEEING THIS FLICK] to be the handiwork of some demon trapped with some particular mirrors. See, the Mayflower was originally an insane asylum, and one of the methods used against schizophrenia was to tie a patient down to a chair surrounded by wall-sized mirrors for days in, hoping to exercise the inner evil through constant reflection. Or some shit like that.
This explanation sucks, plain and simple. It's muddle, reeks of THE RING and THE GRUDGE, and takes way way too long to get to, exposition wise. And on the way to this conclusion, there's some truly heinous dialogue to be heard, especially some choice lines delivered by the truly-beautiful Patton. She's practically flawless looking, and has some acting chops, but the character she's given here (Sutherland's wife) is very weak, and says shit like, "Don't make me threaten you!" or annoyingly repeats her son's name, "Michael!? Michael!? Michael!?" while searching for him once the heeby jeebies enter their house (but wait, how did the jeeby demon even leave the department store? Hell if I know). Oh, and the kid playing this Michael needs to take acting lessons from Abigail Breslin, or pick a new career path, because he's grating as hell and just plain bad at the thesp thing.
Sutherland's performance is hit-or-miss, too. At times, he's basically just channeling his Jack Bauer character from the show 24, yelling stuff like "Dammit!" in moments of frustration. Other instances, he's pretty convincing in his turmoil and conflict. And poor Amy Smart, she's given like zero to do here other than to repeatedly tell Sutherland (she plays his sister) "There's nothing in the mirrors," or ask "You sure you're okay?" But then the mirror demon pays her a visit while she's getting ready for a bath (again, how the fuck did it leave the department store!?!?), and man is this scene nasty and well-done. But again, it's completely given away in the promo footage, and what's actually in the movie is ideally the same, save for a couple seconds more of awesome. I fucking hate when studios ruin their film's best parts before anybody has actually seen the movie.
In the end, though, I place the blame mainly on Aja's shoulders here. He was a bit overzealous, trying too many things all at once, rather than simply streamlining his better ideas. Either make a dark and moody ghost story a la THE RING, or go for full-on face-ripping mayhem and call it a bloody day. By no means, however, am I writing Aja off. Every filmmaker has that one misstep, so I'm considering MIRRORS Aja's.....come next summer, though, when his PIRANHA 3D hits screens, he better shape up and stick to the over-the-top gore balanced by strong visuals. Otherwise, he'll start heading down the "once cool but now played out" path of one Eli Roth, Mr. HOSTEL himself.
And speaking of Roth, why in the fuck did Quentin Tarantino cast him as bat-swinging Bazi killer 'Donowitz' in his upcoming INGLORIOUS BASTERDS? I'm clearly missing something here. But oh well, Tarantino is still my dude, so I'll reserve hate for now until I actually see the flick.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Quarantine Watch - 2008; first official post
For those who've paid even partial attention to this blog, they'll have noticed the abundance of Quarantine mentions. Quarantine, for those not in the know, which is probably most of you since it's more of a geek thing really, is a new horror flick coming in October, and it's a remake of a 2007 Spanish flick called [Rec] that I swear by, and is fuckin' genius on celluloid. It's shot in that cinema verite, Blair Witch/Cloverfield format, and is like 28 Days Later confined into one infected apartment building. I hate trivializing movies by merely name-dropping others they're reminiscent of, but I'm not in the mood to overwrite a plot synopsis, so it'll due here.
A briefing: I've been close to obsessive with the Quarantine red band trailer (or, the R-rated trailer not seen in theaters, but only online) since it's 'net debut a couple weeks ago, and I've been counting the days 'til I can feats my eyes on it. And they're not doing press screenings, which is never a good sign but we'll look away from that for the time being, so I'll have to wait and see it when it opens on October 10. In fact, I may just take off that whole day from work, in honor of the film, but mainly because I have my great friend's wedding rehearsal dinner that night anyway. Two birds with one stone.
Back to the matter at hand, and my reason for this particular entry. Earlier today, I did a phone interview with the John Erick Dowdle and his brother Drew (John directed and co-wrote Quarantine; Drew produced and co-wrote the script). One of my job perks is being able to talk with some of the people behind the films that matter to me, or excite me, or intrigue me. So for the fulltime grind, I'm covering Quarantine in an upcoming ish. But mostly, this was my chance to either amplify my newvous concerns over whether this one will tarnish the stellar name of [Rec], or, if the cinema Gods aren't so crazy after all, to calm my conerns through the Dowdle's impressive answers and sentiments.
Thankfully, it was the latter. These were two of the nicest and giddiest people I've talked to yet. They're clearly uber excited about Quarantine, and love the original as much as I do, which rocks. And I learned that it's not a traditional remake, but one that was developed directly alongside its original. I'll delve into that more in my magazine piece on the subject. But yeah, I feel much better now, and I'm actually even more amped for this shit. I'd go into detail about the things they told me they're doing differently than the [Rec] makers, but it'd all be insignificant to anybody who hasn't seen [Rec], so I'll just leave it at = Matt hung up the phone quite pleased. Rejoice. Now, having never seen any of the Dowdles' other work, I have no clue whether they're even capable enough to do this, but at least they're hearts are in the right place. That's gotta stand for somethin'.
Oh, and I've decided to start doing some sort of "Quarantine Watch - 2008" within these blog postings. Which means, every now and then, up until its release, I'm going to toss in a gratuitous Quarantine posting of some sort, leading up the grand finale one on October 11 when I give me opinion on the finished product. Yes, I'm a nerd like that.
While we're on the subject of the Dowdles today....Quarantine will be their first mainstream flick, but not their official debut. Last year, they made this other "found footage" movie called The Poughkeepsie Tapes, which I hear is pretty sick. It's been floating around in Hollywood purgatory until the intake $$ numebrs of Quarantine trickle in. If Quarantine makes bread, Poughkeepsie will be dumped into theaters by year's end, just to capitalize off of their newfound momentum. Regardless, I just want to see the shit. It's basically a compilation of home video recordings found in a serial killer's home, footage of said nutjob stalking his victims and killing others. A real family fun, in other words.
In fact, to get a taste of just how bizarrely twisted Poughkeepsie will be, check out this clip I dug up on the 'Tube of You:
Don't ask me what the fuck is going on there....but do I love the shit out of it, you ask? I'll take "hell yes" for 100, Alex.
A briefing: I've been close to obsessive with the Quarantine red band trailer (or, the R-rated trailer not seen in theaters, but only online) since it's 'net debut a couple weeks ago, and I've been counting the days 'til I can feats my eyes on it. And they're not doing press screenings, which is never a good sign but we'll look away from that for the time being, so I'll have to wait and see it when it opens on October 10. In fact, I may just take off that whole day from work, in honor of the film, but mainly because I have my great friend's wedding rehearsal dinner that night anyway. Two birds with one stone.
Back to the matter at hand, and my reason for this particular entry. Earlier today, I did a phone interview with the John Erick Dowdle and his brother Drew (John directed and co-wrote Quarantine; Drew produced and co-wrote the script). One of my job perks is being able to talk with some of the people behind the films that matter to me, or excite me, or intrigue me. So for the fulltime grind, I'm covering Quarantine in an upcoming ish. But mostly, this was my chance to either amplify my newvous concerns over whether this one will tarnish the stellar name of [Rec], or, if the cinema Gods aren't so crazy after all, to calm my conerns through the Dowdle's impressive answers and sentiments.
Thankfully, it was the latter. These were two of the nicest and giddiest people I've talked to yet. They're clearly uber excited about Quarantine, and love the original as much as I do, which rocks. And I learned that it's not a traditional remake, but one that was developed directly alongside its original. I'll delve into that more in my magazine piece on the subject. But yeah, I feel much better now, and I'm actually even more amped for this shit. I'd go into detail about the things they told me they're doing differently than the [Rec] makers, but it'd all be insignificant to anybody who hasn't seen [Rec], so I'll just leave it at = Matt hung up the phone quite pleased. Rejoice. Now, having never seen any of the Dowdles' other work, I have no clue whether they're even capable enough to do this, but at least they're hearts are in the right place. That's gotta stand for somethin'.
Oh, and I've decided to start doing some sort of "Quarantine Watch - 2008" within these blog postings. Which means, every now and then, up until its release, I'm going to toss in a gratuitous Quarantine posting of some sort, leading up the grand finale one on October 11 when I give me opinion on the finished product. Yes, I'm a nerd like that.
While we're on the subject of the Dowdles today....Quarantine will be their first mainstream flick, but not their official debut. Last year, they made this other "found footage" movie called The Poughkeepsie Tapes, which I hear is pretty sick. It's been floating around in Hollywood purgatory until the intake $$ numebrs of Quarantine trickle in. If Quarantine makes bread, Poughkeepsie will be dumped into theaters by year's end, just to capitalize off of their newfound momentum. Regardless, I just want to see the shit. It's basically a compilation of home video recordings found in a serial killer's home, footage of said nutjob stalking his victims and killing others. A real family fun, in other words.
In fact, to get a taste of just how bizarrely twisted Poughkeepsie will be, check out this clip I dug up on the 'Tube of You:
Don't ask me what the fuck is going on there....but do I love the shit out of it, you ask? I'll take "hell yes" for 100, Alex.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Back To The Future
About once a week or so, I have one of those Lost "flash forward" moments. I've been doing this weekly unintended-routine for some years now, mostly as a means to end whatever stress or insecurity is tucked within my mind on that particular day. Today was the day for this week, and it was quite the fantasy:
I wake up around 8am or so, shower, shave and kiss my wife--an attractive lady with long dark hair and caramel skin--goodbye. Leaving my house, located somewhere in the Bergen County area of Jersey, I hop on the dreaded NJ Transit train into Manhattan. My final destination: the offices of Entertainment Weekly, where I'm knee-deep in a cover story profile on Michael Cera, who has evolved into quite the leading man in his mid-age. As a Senior Writer for the entertainment rag, I'm its go-to guy for all things Hollywood and pop culture. In fact, my press credentials for the Comic-Con convention are on my desk, next to my ripped ticket stub from the flight out to Colorado for last year's Sundance Film Festival, as well as a stub for the flight out to France for the Cannes Fest. It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it. Oh, and on my lunch break, I continue to jot down notes for my screenplay, a psychological horror gem that'll set the cinematic world ablaze in a couple years.
Of course, with the current economic scares we're all feeling, let's hope Entertainment Weekly is still poppin' by that time, but I belive it will. What can I say, I'm a dreamer like that.
I don't know, I guess I've just had one helluva year, self-evaluation wise. Like, I see myself in one place years from now, and I ask myself, "Are you on the proper path to get there?" Deep down, I believe that I am, but being the insecure chronic self-doubter that I've been my entire life, those questions always surface at one point or another.
The times, my friends, they are a-changing, and it's like the Wild Wild West out here in the real world. I know I have what it takes to withstand the inevitable storms. My best days, creatively, haven't even begun to scratch my talent's surface, I feel.
As for that "wife" I kissed goodbye, that's a whole other bag of worms to open, mentally. Why can't I just look into a crystal ball and see who I marry, thus deleting all of the worry and uncertainty that I'm forever feeling? Like, at least I'll know that I do in fact get hitched, and it all works out in the end. Some would say that seeing into my future in this way would ruin the joys and surprises that life's ride cruises through, and to that understandable sentiment, I retort with these three deeply-thought-out, delicately chosen words: "Fuck all that." I'd pay insane amounts of money to see who my future wife is, barring, of course, any sort of damaging Butterfly Effect on my life. Just a sneak peak at my romantic future, and then back to my present reality.
Am I alone in this? I don't think so. Anybody else who is single and dating a bunch of misfires would surely second my notion, right?
--Oh, and for those who've been readiing all of my posts, you may have detected a running theme of "Matt's quest for true love," and you'd be spot-on in such an observation. But deal with it, readers. It's always issue numero uno en mi cabeza, and if I can't exercise my demons on this here blog/journal/testimonial/time-consumer, then where can I ?
I wake up around 8am or so, shower, shave and kiss my wife--an attractive lady with long dark hair and caramel skin--goodbye. Leaving my house, located somewhere in the Bergen County area of Jersey, I hop on the dreaded NJ Transit train into Manhattan. My final destination: the offices of Entertainment Weekly, where I'm knee-deep in a cover story profile on Michael Cera, who has evolved into quite the leading man in his mid-age. As a Senior Writer for the entertainment rag, I'm its go-to guy for all things Hollywood and pop culture. In fact, my press credentials for the Comic-Con convention are on my desk, next to my ripped ticket stub from the flight out to Colorado for last year's Sundance Film Festival, as well as a stub for the flight out to France for the Cannes Fest. It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it. Oh, and on my lunch break, I continue to jot down notes for my screenplay, a psychological horror gem that'll set the cinematic world ablaze in a couple years.
Of course, with the current economic scares we're all feeling, let's hope Entertainment Weekly is still poppin' by that time, but I belive it will. What can I say, I'm a dreamer like that.
I don't know, I guess I've just had one helluva year, self-evaluation wise. Like, I see myself in one place years from now, and I ask myself, "Are you on the proper path to get there?" Deep down, I believe that I am, but being the insecure chronic self-doubter that I've been my entire life, those questions always surface at one point or another.
The times, my friends, they are a-changing, and it's like the Wild Wild West out here in the real world. I know I have what it takes to withstand the inevitable storms. My best days, creatively, haven't even begun to scratch my talent's surface, I feel.
As for that "wife" I kissed goodbye, that's a whole other bag of worms to open, mentally. Why can't I just look into a crystal ball and see who I marry, thus deleting all of the worry and uncertainty that I'm forever feeling? Like, at least I'll know that I do in fact get hitched, and it all works out in the end. Some would say that seeing into my future in this way would ruin the joys and surprises that life's ride cruises through, and to that understandable sentiment, I retort with these three deeply-thought-out, delicately chosen words: "Fuck all that." I'd pay insane amounts of money to see who my future wife is, barring, of course, any sort of damaging Butterfly Effect on my life. Just a sneak peak at my romantic future, and then back to my present reality.
Am I alone in this? I don't think so. Anybody else who is single and dating a bunch of misfires would surely second my notion, right?
--Oh, and for those who've been readiing all of my posts, you may have detected a running theme of "Matt's quest for true love," and you'd be spot-on in such an observation. But deal with it, readers. It's always issue numero uno en mi cabeza, and if I can't exercise my demons on this here blog/journal/testimonial/time-consumer, then where can I ?
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Excuse me miss, should I be ashamed?
A good of friend defied Matt Barone Logic last weekend. As he tells it, he saw a pretty face at some bar here in Hoboken and, while two shots of Everclear deep, mind you, waited for her to walk by him, grabbed by the arm, and confidently declared: "I'm taking you to dinner some night soon." Or something to that effect. It must have sounded more kind and charming and less forceful and wife-beater-ish when he said it, because it broke the ice and led to his getting her number, and they're continuous conversing still.
See, under the self-imposed guidelines I've lived by, females don't respond well to this sort of directness. It irks them, or makes them uncomfortable, or scares them, or results in a swift five-fingered slap across the man's dome. But when my friend did, it equaled some smooth, suave, charming approach, and it's truly boggled my brain since he first told me the tale the next day.
Have I been going about this all wrong? Should I just grab the next pretty girl I see and tell her, "W're grabbing dinner tomorrow night." I don't even know if I could....I'd be afraid that the girl would either smack me, or yell for help, or curse me off, amd my fragile self-esteem would surely crumble as a result. But maybe me never doing this is depriving me of possible wifeys, or dates, or girl-on-guy small-talk.
Like any other warm-blooded human male, I must walk by a minimum of 20 females day that I immediately think, "Damn, she's fucking hot!" But of course, walking by me is all they do. And I'm not the type to blatantly give myself whiplash as they pass, trading subtle glances for full-on tongue-wagging eye-fucking. I see how the dudes who do that are reacted to by the girl and those in the general vicinity, and it's not a public perception I'd want to voluntarily bring upon myself.
I often wonder, "Why can't one of these girls notice me, too, and our eyes connect, inspiring a convo on the spot?" That'd make life a helluva lot easier for yours truly. But instead, thye just stroll by, as we both go on our merry ways. No harm, no foul.
But maybe there is a foul here....maybe one of these girls passin' me by like The Pharcyde could be my future missus. Probably not, but you never know? I shudder to think about all of the wifeys I've let pass by due to my own trepidation and supposed respect for the privacy. Do girls even like when random dudes approach them? I can honestly say that I've never approached a girl I don't know...well, sober, at least. There has been a few times drunk in clubs that I've done so, and several has resulted in a new number added to my cell phonebook. But even those times, I've hesitated and deliberated. Maybe it's time I do so sober, during a lunch break or while sitting next to a Pretty Young Thing on my home away home, the PATH train.
Maybe one of these days, I'll man up and give this a whirl. Or maybe not. All I know is....if my friend ends up turning Ms. "We're getting dinner" into his legitimate girlfriend, the girls of Hoboken and NYC's West 23rd Street better brace themselves, because I'll be stopping any one of them who's even "kinda cute." Discretion won't be advised.
See, under the self-imposed guidelines I've lived by, females don't respond well to this sort of directness. It irks them, or makes them uncomfortable, or scares them, or results in a swift five-fingered slap across the man's dome. But when my friend did, it equaled some smooth, suave, charming approach, and it's truly boggled my brain since he first told me the tale the next day.
Have I been going about this all wrong? Should I just grab the next pretty girl I see and tell her, "W're grabbing dinner tomorrow night." I don't even know if I could....I'd be afraid that the girl would either smack me, or yell for help, or curse me off, amd my fragile self-esteem would surely crumble as a result. But maybe me never doing this is depriving me of possible wifeys, or dates, or girl-on-guy small-talk.
Like any other warm-blooded human male, I must walk by a minimum of 20 females day that I immediately think, "Damn, she's fucking hot!" But of course, walking by me is all they do. And I'm not the type to blatantly give myself whiplash as they pass, trading subtle glances for full-on tongue-wagging eye-fucking. I see how the dudes who do that are reacted to by the girl and those in the general vicinity, and it's not a public perception I'd want to voluntarily bring upon myself.
I often wonder, "Why can't one of these girls notice me, too, and our eyes connect, inspiring a convo on the spot?" That'd make life a helluva lot easier for yours truly. But instead, thye just stroll by, as we both go on our merry ways. No harm, no foul.
But maybe there is a foul here....maybe one of these girls passin' me by like The Pharcyde could be my future missus. Probably not, but you never know? I shudder to think about all of the wifeys I've let pass by due to my own trepidation and supposed respect for the privacy. Do girls even like when random dudes approach them? I can honestly say that I've never approached a girl I don't know...well, sober, at least. There has been a few times drunk in clubs that I've done so, and several has resulted in a new number added to my cell phonebook. But even those times, I've hesitated and deliberated. Maybe it's time I do so sober, during a lunch break or while sitting next to a Pretty Young Thing on my home away home, the PATH train.
Maybe one of these days, I'll man up and give this a whirl. Or maybe not. All I know is....if my friend ends up turning Ms. "We're getting dinner" into his legitimate girlfriend, the girls of Hoboken and NYC's West 23rd Street better brace themselves, because I'll be stopping any one of them who's even "kinda cute." Discretion won't be advised.
Monday, August 11, 2008
I'm Just Saying......
.....these Step Brothers spit harder than about 90% of the rappers out right now, and this beat KNOCKS! "I'm a pussy pirate, my name is Jack Sparrow...." hahaha
Hey rappers: give John C. Reilly a call. For the right price, he can even make your shit tighter....
Hey rappers: give John C. Reilly a call. For the right price, he can even make your shit tighter....
I Don't Wanna Play.....
Does not playing "the game" make me a loser? I frequently have chats with friends about this, and I'm starting to wonder if my lack of voluntary participation in "the game" is why I'm still living single like Latifah (except I'm a dude, so maybe that wasn't the right name to drop there. Fuck it, whatever). I've just never had any interest in conforming to some bullshit dating standard that strikes fear in the hearts of insecure men and women on a daily....scratch that, hourly basis.
You know the deal. You get a girl's number on a Friday night, while out at the bar and four beers deep. All goes well in the moment: free-flowing conversation, a couple songs danced to together, some nice pleasantries on the way out, pounds and back-pats from friends for having scored another series of digits equaling a phone number. But then you wake up the next morning and the dreaded "game's" rules hit you---when would it be socially acceptable for me to call her? If I call her tonight, will she think I'm overdoing it, or being a bit pushy? Maybe she'll think I'm some lame who never gets girls' numbers, and now that I finally have one, in her eyes, I'm so giddy that I just can't wait to call? How about I wait one full day and call her tomorrow night at precisely 10:08pm, that seems like a reasonable time, huh? Or perhaps I wait a few days and hit her during the week....but what if she's the type who works late, and we'll end up playing phone tag before one or both of us gives up. And then I'll have totally fucked up "the game."
Myself, I don't have the mental energy to endure all of that inner turmoil. So what I do is call the girl whenever the hell I feel in the mood to conduct our inevitably awkward first non-alcoholic-induced conversation. The next day; two days later; whenever the fuck I feel like doing so, I do it. But in turn, maybe some of these girls I'm ringing up are thinking too deeply into my call, and there in lies the problem I have with this dreaded "game." If I call you and you dont want me to call you, just either don't pick up phone, or simply tell me right away that you're not interested, and I'll be on my merry eg-bruised way. I'll only leave one voicemail, if any, so if I never hear back after that first initial effort, then I'm moving on. No harm, no foul.
But what's crazy to me is that all---well, the majority, actually---of my friends and associates who actually do play this stupid "game" seem to have much more success than I in developing serious relationships. And trust, I really do want a relationship of my own, and I live in some fantasy dreamland where, when I do meet "the one," we'll both know it rather painlessly and none of this "game playing" will be remotely necessary. So what I do, as a result, is approach the dating circuit with said mentality firmly intact.....which leads me to believe, then, that I just haven't met "the one" yet, because there seems to have some bit of game-playing with every girl thus far. Whether my calling too soon disinterested them, or my not calling soon or often enough led them to believe it was ME who was disinterested.
Whatever, man. All I know is, I won't be changing my ways any time soon. No "game" for me, ma'am. I'll keep clinging to the hope that I'll soon click with my Ms. Right, and we won't need to conduct ourselves as if we're strategizing a war. War breeds too many casualties. Besides, I'm a lover, not a fighter.
You know the deal. You get a girl's number on a Friday night, while out at the bar and four beers deep. All goes well in the moment: free-flowing conversation, a couple songs danced to together, some nice pleasantries on the way out, pounds and back-pats from friends for having scored another series of digits equaling a phone number. But then you wake up the next morning and the dreaded "game's" rules hit you---when would it be socially acceptable for me to call her? If I call her tonight, will she think I'm overdoing it, or being a bit pushy? Maybe she'll think I'm some lame who never gets girls' numbers, and now that I finally have one, in her eyes, I'm so giddy that I just can't wait to call? How about I wait one full day and call her tomorrow night at precisely 10:08pm, that seems like a reasonable time, huh? Or perhaps I wait a few days and hit her during the week....but what if she's the type who works late, and we'll end up playing phone tag before one or both of us gives up. And then I'll have totally fucked up "the game."
Myself, I don't have the mental energy to endure all of that inner turmoil. So what I do is call the girl whenever the hell I feel in the mood to conduct our inevitably awkward first non-alcoholic-induced conversation. The next day; two days later; whenever the fuck I feel like doing so, I do it. But in turn, maybe some of these girls I'm ringing up are thinking too deeply into my call, and there in lies the problem I have with this dreaded "game." If I call you and you dont want me to call you, just either don't pick up phone, or simply tell me right away that you're not interested, and I'll be on my merry eg-bruised way. I'll only leave one voicemail, if any, so if I never hear back after that first initial effort, then I'm moving on. No harm, no foul.
But what's crazy to me is that all---well, the majority, actually---of my friends and associates who actually do play this stupid "game" seem to have much more success than I in developing serious relationships. And trust, I really do want a relationship of my own, and I live in some fantasy dreamland where, when I do meet "the one," we'll both know it rather painlessly and none of this "game playing" will be remotely necessary. So what I do, as a result, is approach the dating circuit with said mentality firmly intact.....which leads me to believe, then, that I just haven't met "the one" yet, because there seems to have some bit of game-playing with every girl thus far. Whether my calling too soon disinterested them, or my not calling soon or often enough led them to believe it was ME who was disinterested.
Whatever, man. All I know is, I won't be changing my ways any time soon. No "game" for me, ma'am. I'll keep clinging to the hope that I'll soon click with my Ms. Right, and we won't need to conduct ourselves as if we're strategizing a war. War breeds too many casualties. Besides, I'm a lover, not a fighter.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
My New Obsession...Part 2
My first 'part" came when I wrote about the amazing Black Hole, and after doing that, I've decided to keep record of every graphic novel I read in entirety from here on out. I have tons of them in my scopes, ready to start buying and reading ad nauseum. It's pretty genius on my part....for a long ass time now, I've been telling myself, "Man, you have to read more actual books, not just magazine stories and the occasional movie script." But for the time being, I've found a happy medium for myself: the graphic novel.
See, they're not straightforward books in the traditional sense, but rather fully-realized comic book series', compiled together to form the comic equivalent of a book. So for me, its like reading literature, not comic. Whatever helps me sleep at night, but what's cool about this is that these are limitless in imagination, both narratively and artistically, and who doesn't like looking at pretty and demented pictures while knee-deep in a rich tale? I know I do.
But enough rambling. Over the last two days, I've both started and finished a pair of new ones. One I fuckin' thought rocked the shit; the other I was really digging until somewhat of a letdown conclusion. Here goes (keep in mind, this post is kinda long only because its on two new reads):
This is what that Angelina Jolie/James McAvoy/Morgan Freeman-saying-"Kill that motherfucker!" flick, which came out in June, was based on. Honestly, though, I can only say "based on" in reference to the two central characters and title, because the original novel is basically non-existent within the movie, in terms of storyline and visionary complexity.
In the book, the main character, Wesley (who is a dead-ringer for Eminem here, and looks nothing like McAvoy) has the same shitty life as the movie version dude: mundane cubicle job, a bitchy girlfriend who's fucking his best friend, a dependency on prescription drugs to battle stress and other mental hindrances. But then comes along the smoking-hot Fox (Jolie in the movie; a hybrid of Halle Berry and Pam Grier's Coffy here), who opens up a whole new world of guns, murder, excitement, and standing-up-to-those-who've-made-his-life-reek. There's a whole deep backstory involving the death of his father, who was a stud within The Fraternity, the secret society of fiends in which Wesley is moving up within the ranks of, rapidly.
The ginormous difference btw the novel and movie, however, is that the novel is this totally sick flipping-on-its-own-head of superhero mythology. Here, all of the superhero-battling villains have aligned together and completely wiped out all of your Supermans and Dark Knights. So instead of lifeless drone characters like the one played robotically by Common in the movie, you have supporting characters such as Mister Rictus (a deprived criminal mastermind who looks like Skeletor in a pimp's wardrobe), Shit-Head (a monster assembled from the fecal droppings from all of the world's most evil denizens), and others who would've made for insane film presence(s). What's dope is how each of these super-villain characters is a reimagining of famous comic enemies....all of The Professor's gang (he leads the Fraternity) are based off enemies of Superman, while those working for Rictus (the true villainy villain in this story) are based off of Batman's foes.
I do understand, though, that the film version intended to ground the characters in more of a reality, which made all of the far-fetched yet badass action stuff even more exciting ("Holy shit, a dude who looks like me just gunned down an entire building's worth of baddies by using the guns of those he'd just shot to shoot the next batch of baddies. Sweet!"). Doesn't mean I can't prefer this novel over it, however.
In all, both the novel and film are dopeness, but the former is undoubtedly the sicker of the two. Plus, it has such a brilliant and ballsy "fuck you, reader!" ending that I literally giggled like a scared schoolgirl upon reading it.
Now on to....
Here's one I'd heard about several months back, after catching wind of a movie version being held in studio oblivion (probably because it's not very good, that's usually the case for such hold-ups) for some time now. The as-yet-unreleased film take stars sexier-than-all-hell Kate Beckinsale and good-peeps Columbus Short (he's just a good dude, I've hung around with him before and he's one of the most down-to-earth "celebs" I've yet to interview). I read the movie's plot and learned that it's a murder mystery set in Antartica, where there hasn't been a recorded murder in decades, making this particular mystery killing even more puzzling for Beckinsale's U.S. marshall, Carrie Stetko, who is stationed in Antartica after bringing hell down on a prisoner who tried to rape her.
Or at least that's the backstory in the novel. From what I can tell, the film version is totally rewriting the story, to lesser quality, I'm sure. Besides, the novel Stetko isn't an especially good-looking gal; she's sort of a frumpy Janeane Garfolao type who has "sexual identity" issues (gay or straight?), all the more issue-rific when a cute blonde British investigator arrives on the scene to assist Stetko. You can cut the girl-on-girl tension with a knife. But alas, there is no British gal character in the movie, so so much for getting to see Beckinsale flirt with another hottie. Damn you, H-wood!
Like I said earlier, I really like Whiteout, but I just wish that the identity of the killer wasn't given away so early on, and that it was somebody else altogether. It's just not menacing and dark enough for my twisted tastes. But up until the last 20 pages or so, there's enough unseen troubles and clever whodunit suspense for me to ultimately big this one up.
--'tis all, for now. My next graph adventure that I've already started reading is Steve Niles' adapation of the iconic and classic I Am Legend, originally penned by that inspirational writing hero of mine, Richard Matheson. Yes, it's the same thing as that Will Smith blockbuster, only a much better story with a much much darker tone and more of a horror center, not a CGI-suffering sci-fi joint. At least the Big Willie movie was good, overall, so I'm not complaining. But I'm not going out on a limb here by saying that I'll end up liking this graph novel much more than his flick.
Now off to watch the latest guilty-pleasurable episode of I Love Money. And maybe I'm alone here, but as of late, Toastee and Brandi C. have eclipsed Hoopz as the objects of my viewing desire. Go figure.
See, they're not straightforward books in the traditional sense, but rather fully-realized comic book series', compiled together to form the comic equivalent of a book. So for me, its like reading literature, not comic. Whatever helps me sleep at night, but what's cool about this is that these are limitless in imagination, both narratively and artistically, and who doesn't like looking at pretty and demented pictures while knee-deep in a rich tale? I know I do.
But enough rambling. Over the last two days, I've both started and finished a pair of new ones. One I fuckin' thought rocked the shit; the other I was really digging until somewhat of a letdown conclusion. Here goes (keep in mind, this post is kinda long only because its on two new reads):
This is what that Angelina Jolie/James McAvoy/Morgan Freeman-saying-"Kill that motherfucker!" flick, which came out in June, was based on. Honestly, though, I can only say "based on" in reference to the two central characters and title, because the original novel is basically non-existent within the movie, in terms of storyline and visionary complexity.
In the book, the main character, Wesley (who is a dead-ringer for Eminem here, and looks nothing like McAvoy) has the same shitty life as the movie version dude: mundane cubicle job, a bitchy girlfriend who's fucking his best friend, a dependency on prescription drugs to battle stress and other mental hindrances. But then comes along the smoking-hot Fox (Jolie in the movie; a hybrid of Halle Berry and Pam Grier's Coffy here), who opens up a whole new world of guns, murder, excitement, and standing-up-to-those-who've-made-his-life-reek. There's a whole deep backstory involving the death of his father, who was a stud within The Fraternity, the secret society of fiends in which Wesley is moving up within the ranks of, rapidly.
The ginormous difference btw the novel and movie, however, is that the novel is this totally sick flipping-on-its-own-head of superhero mythology. Here, all of the superhero-battling villains have aligned together and completely wiped out all of your Supermans and Dark Knights. So instead of lifeless drone characters like the one played robotically by Common in the movie, you have supporting characters such as Mister Rictus (a deprived criminal mastermind who looks like Skeletor in a pimp's wardrobe), Shit-Head (a monster assembled from the fecal droppings from all of the world's most evil denizens), and others who would've made for insane film presence(s). What's dope is how each of these super-villain characters is a reimagining of famous comic enemies....all of The Professor's gang (he leads the Fraternity) are based off enemies of Superman, while those working for Rictus (the true villainy villain in this story) are based off of Batman's foes.
I do understand, though, that the film version intended to ground the characters in more of a reality, which made all of the far-fetched yet badass action stuff even more exciting ("Holy shit, a dude who looks like me just gunned down an entire building's worth of baddies by using the guns of those he'd just shot to shoot the next batch of baddies. Sweet!"). Doesn't mean I can't prefer this novel over it, however.
In all, both the novel and film are dopeness, but the former is undoubtedly the sicker of the two. Plus, it has such a brilliant and ballsy "fuck you, reader!" ending that I literally giggled like a scared schoolgirl upon reading it.
Now on to....
Here's one I'd heard about several months back, after catching wind of a movie version being held in studio oblivion (probably because it's not very good, that's usually the case for such hold-ups) for some time now. The as-yet-unreleased film take stars sexier-than-all-hell Kate Beckinsale and good-peeps Columbus Short (he's just a good dude, I've hung around with him before and he's one of the most down-to-earth "celebs" I've yet to interview). I read the movie's plot and learned that it's a murder mystery set in Antartica, where there hasn't been a recorded murder in decades, making this particular mystery killing even more puzzling for Beckinsale's U.S. marshall, Carrie Stetko, who is stationed in Antartica after bringing hell down on a prisoner who tried to rape her.
Or at least that's the backstory in the novel. From what I can tell, the film version is totally rewriting the story, to lesser quality, I'm sure. Besides, the novel Stetko isn't an especially good-looking gal; she's sort of a frumpy Janeane Garfolao type who has "sexual identity" issues (gay or straight?), all the more issue-rific when a cute blonde British investigator arrives on the scene to assist Stetko. You can cut the girl-on-girl tension with a knife. But alas, there is no British gal character in the movie, so so much for getting to see Beckinsale flirt with another hottie. Damn you, H-wood!
Like I said earlier, I really like Whiteout, but I just wish that the identity of the killer wasn't given away so early on, and that it was somebody else altogether. It's just not menacing and dark enough for my twisted tastes. But up until the last 20 pages or so, there's enough unseen troubles and clever whodunit suspense for me to ultimately big this one up.
--'tis all, for now. My next graph adventure that I've already started reading is Steve Niles' adapation of the iconic and classic I Am Legend, originally penned by that inspirational writing hero of mine, Richard Matheson. Yes, it's the same thing as that Will Smith blockbuster, only a much better story with a much much darker tone and more of a horror center, not a CGI-suffering sci-fi joint. At least the Big Willie movie was good, overall, so I'm not complaining. But I'm not going out on a limb here by saying that I'll end up liking this graph novel much more than his flick.
Now off to watch the latest guilty-pleasurable episode of I Love Money. And maybe I'm alone here, but as of late, Toastee and Brandi C. have eclipsed Hoopz as the objects of my viewing desire. Go figure.
Just Because.......
.......these videos make me laugh like a an overacting Frank Gorshin. Enjoy 'em all:
[can you feel the tension here?]
[and no, I'm not a sicko for this next one. Each and every one of you who watch it will laugh, I guarantee that....besides, how could you not laugh as this deranged, fugly pooch gets more-than-heated over being disrupted during his/her "happy time"]
[this is what happens when you've been pigeonholed as a hobbit after the mondo success of Lord of the Rings....get a better agent, my dude]
[his name is Nathaniel....and please believe, he fuckin' loves to dance!....btw, The Soup = best show on TV? Could very well be, if you ask me]
[can you feel the tension here?]
[and no, I'm not a sicko for this next one. Each and every one of you who watch it will laugh, I guarantee that....besides, how could you not laugh as this deranged, fugly pooch gets more-than-heated over being disrupted during his/her "happy time"]
[this is what happens when you've been pigeonholed as a hobbit after the mondo success of Lord of the Rings....get a better agent, my dude]
[his name is Nathaniel....and please believe, he fuckin' loves to dance!....btw, The Soup = best show on TV? Could very well be, if you ask me]
You Need To Watch This Movie
Zodiac made its televisial premiere last night, and needless to say, I watched the hell out of it, because it's an absolutely great flick. Granted, I already own it on DVD, but that's neither here nor there. It's one of those special movies that wraps its hands around your throat from the moment you start watching it, regardless of whether you tag in at the beginning or halfway thru or three-quarters of the way thru. Which makes it all the more saddening to me that it went virtually unnoticed when it came out in early 2007, swept under the rug after a weak opening weekend and nothing more than enthusiastic critical acclaim.
I first caught it at an early press screening a couple weeks before it opened, and it was one of those rare treats when high expectations are met tenfold. David Fincher, its director, has become one of my all-time favorite filmmakers---Seven, Fight Club, and even The Game (a film I hated when it first saw it but now actually really enjoy). Fincher has this meticulous eye, never skimping on exposition and detail while able to deliver gangbusting suspense and sneak-attack shock moments.
Zodiac is clearly the work of a long-laboring sticklet for detail and facts, which is fitting because the film itself is all about obsessions over solving the elusive "Zodiac Killer" case that haunted California in the 1970s. Great performances (especially from a pre-Iron Man Robert Downey Jr., as a flamboyant, arrogant, and fearless reporter who disintegrates as a result of failed investigation).Jake Gyllenhall even checks in with some great work, as does Mark Ruffalo.
But what really sets this flick apart is its pacing. With a two-and-a-half hour running time, it's a taxing effort to watch, but one that's definitely worth it. But it moves slow, covers all of its tracks. Those expecting some gory serial killer horror yarn wil be a bit letdown; like I said, its about those who passionately and endlessly hunted for the Zodiac's identity. There are some shocking scenes, though. But how Fincher stages them is what truly makes him the fucking man. My personal favorite is the scene when the Zodiac terrorizes a yuppie couple having a picnic near a lake. No music is used, it's just the naturalism of idle chatter mixed with scared trembling, touched with a dose of the Zodiac's cold matter-of-fact delivery. When the carnage comes, its a true sucker punch, even when not delivering the bloody moneyshot.
And then there's the moment when the Zodiac sabotages a mother and her infant child's car-ride on a deserted, dark highway. Once she and her seed hop in his car for a lift to the service station, you know something bad is going to happen, but the line "Before I kil you, I'm going to throw your baby out the window" is so abrupt and clamly spoken, its a jaw-dropper.
So yeah, I fucking love this movie. Actually, its playing again right now on TV, and of course I'm watching it again. I advise you all do the same the next time it's on.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Just because.......
....I used to stay up way-too-late at night just to catch Conan, in the hope that he'd be doing one of these endlessly-hilarious bits with good ol' Chucky Norris:
....there's like at least four more of these I could've posted, but I'll save those for the future. Maybe, in the yeeeaarr two-thouussanndddd!
....there's like at least four more of these I could've posted, but I'll save those for the future. Maybe, in the yeeeaarr two-thouussanndddd!
"Past Flavas"
It's life's little treasures that bring a cheese grin to my face. At least twice a day, I visit my trusty online domains for downloadable albums, hoping to either see something new that wets my whistle, music wise, or unearth some old hip hop gem. The latter just happened, as I've happened across Ali Vegas' unreleased Generation Gap album. And boy, does it have my nostalgia in high gear.
For those who don't know, Vegas was a (well, he still drops an occasional mixtape, so "is" may be more fitting, but his days have passed in my eyes, so "was" it is...how's that for a tongue-twister, eh?) teenage Nas-light back in the late '90s or so. Flow sounded like an Illmatic-era Nasir, without the same level of lyrical panache, of course. But what made his pseudo-Nasty Nas sounds so endearing to me was how he even rapped over beats that sounded like DJ Premier-light, Pete Rock-light, Large Professor-light, etc.....and listening to Generation Gap as I type this up, song after song is bringing me back to the days when I'd stay up 'til about 1am every school night back in late-grammar/all-of-high school, recording songs off the radio by holding down the Play and Record buttons on my stereo's tapedeck. Songs like "Queens," "It Ain't Hard to Tell," "The Specialist," and "One World" really have me in that teenage zone again. Thank God for it, too. Oh, and Vegas' "Narcotics" remains one of my all-time favorite songs, I remember how I'd play it nonstop in the good ol Arthur Buick whip, back when my tape deck actually worked.
I was pretty crafty, too, having never been caught by my parents. See, the trick was, I'd hook up some headphones to the stereo, so I could record the tunes at full volume and it wouldn't be waking the neighbors up. And just for good measure, I'd put the one headphone which wasn't placed in my eardrum under a pillow, totally covering my tracks.
I must have over 100 or so cassette tapes full of classic hip hop back at my parents house, stashed away in the attic somewhere, immersed in dust and forgotten memories. This Ali Vegas album has me wishing I could time travel back to when Sunday nights on Hot 97 FM consisted of Pete Rock & Marley Marl's "Future Flavas" show at 10pm, followed at 11pm by Stretch Armstrong's two-hour extravaganzae of underground rap nirvana. I can still hear those drops: "Lay some treeeats on usssssss....."
I've frequently voiced my disinterest and disgust with the majority of modern-day rap, so I won't do it again. But today, I've realize that, as long as forgotten gems such as Ali Vegas are still accessible via the Internet, I'll never totally stop loving H.E.R.
It's a rocky affair, but one I wouldn't give up for anything else.
For those who don't know, Vegas was a (well, he still drops an occasional mixtape, so "is" may be more fitting, but his days have passed in my eyes, so "was" it is...how's that for a tongue-twister, eh?) teenage Nas-light back in the late '90s or so. Flow sounded like an Illmatic-era Nasir, without the same level of lyrical panache, of course. But what made his pseudo-Nasty Nas sounds so endearing to me was how he even rapped over beats that sounded like DJ Premier-light, Pete Rock-light, Large Professor-light, etc.....and listening to Generation Gap as I type this up, song after song is bringing me back to the days when I'd stay up 'til about 1am every school night back in late-grammar/all-of-high school, recording songs off the radio by holding down the Play and Record buttons on my stereo's tapedeck. Songs like "Queens," "It Ain't Hard to Tell," "The Specialist," and "One World" really have me in that teenage zone again. Thank God for it, too. Oh, and Vegas' "Narcotics" remains one of my all-time favorite songs, I remember how I'd play it nonstop in the good ol Arthur Buick whip, back when my tape deck actually worked.
I was pretty crafty, too, having never been caught by my parents. See, the trick was, I'd hook up some headphones to the stereo, so I could record the tunes at full volume and it wouldn't be waking the neighbors up. And just for good measure, I'd put the one headphone which wasn't placed in my eardrum under a pillow, totally covering my tracks.
I must have over 100 or so cassette tapes full of classic hip hop back at my parents house, stashed away in the attic somewhere, immersed in dust and forgotten memories. This Ali Vegas album has me wishing I could time travel back to when Sunday nights on Hot 97 FM consisted of Pete Rock & Marley Marl's "Future Flavas" show at 10pm, followed at 11pm by Stretch Armstrong's two-hour extravaganzae of underground rap nirvana. I can still hear those drops: "Lay some treeeats on usssssss....."
I've frequently voiced my disinterest and disgust with the majority of modern-day rap, so I won't do it again. But today, I've realize that, as long as forgotten gems such as Ali Vegas are still accessible via the Internet, I'll never totally stop loving H.E.R.
It's a rocky affair, but one I wouldn't give up for anything else.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Ingredients to a Friday Night....
One part Ne-Yo's "Miss Independent" playing in the background....yeah, it's R&B and dedicated to chicks, but I'm feeling the hell out of this jam....wanna fight about it?!?!?!
One or two parts re-watching the trailer for Quarantine, simply because I'm hype as a mug about seeing it, and something about the trailer has my hypnotized.
Five Coronas.....this is my fifth I'm sippin' on as I type, I believe. Should be a long night.
.....let's see where this combination leads to....off to cause some mischief in the 'Boken.
Wish me luck.....
One or two parts re-watching the trailer for Quarantine, simply because I'm hype as a mug about seeing it, and something about the trailer has my hypnotized.
Five Coronas.....this is my fifth I'm sippin' on as I type, I believe. Should be a long night.
.....let's see where this combination leads to....off to cause some mischief in the 'Boken.
Wish me luck.....
Basterdization Time
Damn, I remember the days when a release date for a new Gza album would send me into a fanboy frenzy....and considered that the Genius himself has a new record coming in a few weeks and I'm sort of indifferent about it, it's pretty tell-tale where my head is at now. I'd hate to say it's that I'm "maturing," because that'd be obnxious bullshit even I wouldn't buy. You can be any age and listen to good hip hop. It's just that the music I once passionately adored is now about 92% garbage, and I can't take it no mo. Lil Wayne does little for me, Young Jeezy says nothing I can "feel," and Elzhi's album is coming out to zero fanfare. My, oh my.
Wanna know what truly excites me these days? Hollywood/movies (surprise, huh?).....take this bit of news I just read. Simon Pegg, who is otherwise known as one of the coolest dudes in the world in my stratosphere (if you haven't yet, see SHAUN OF THE DEAD and HOT FUZZ immediately....splendid, and now I must somehow pick up the newly-released box set of his old British show SPACED), is in talks to join the cast of Quentin Tarantino's (also one of the coolest in my land) next flick, INGLORIOUS BASTERDS (I know thats spelled wrong; it's how Tarantino has it spelled on the front page of the script, intentionally I'm sure), which is a fuckin' wild WWII epic, with such characters as "The Bear Jew" and "The Nazi Hunter." I grabbed the script when it leaked online, and read all 165 pages or so of it in like one 45-minute sitting. It's uneven as hell, totally off the wall, violent, etc. Pure Tarantino, and I f'n loved it.
Brad Pitt is set to star in it, so yeah, that's Pitt + Tarantino + (possibly) Pegg. You know what that'd equal, if it all comes to fruition? A seismic shift in the atmosphere of cinematic cool. Brace yourselves.
Wanna know what truly excites me these days? Hollywood/movies (surprise, huh?).....take this bit of news I just read. Simon Pegg, who is otherwise known as one of the coolest dudes in the world in my stratosphere (if you haven't yet, see SHAUN OF THE DEAD and HOT FUZZ immediately....splendid, and now I must somehow pick up the newly-released box set of his old British show SPACED), is in talks to join the cast of Quentin Tarantino's (also one of the coolest in my land) next flick, INGLORIOUS BASTERDS (I know thats spelled wrong; it's how Tarantino has it spelled on the front page of the script, intentionally I'm sure), which is a fuckin' wild WWII epic, with such characters as "The Bear Jew" and "The Nazi Hunter." I grabbed the script when it leaked online, and read all 165 pages or so of it in like one 45-minute sitting. It's uneven as hell, totally off the wall, violent, etc. Pure Tarantino, and I f'n loved it.
Brad Pitt is set to star in it, so yeah, that's Pitt + Tarantino + (possibly) Pegg. You know what that'd equal, if it all comes to fruition? A seismic shift in the atmosphere of cinematic cool. Brace yourselves.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
My Own Private Wonderland
Have you ever wished that with a simple snap of the fingers, or twitching of the neck, you could magically transport into some dreamlike world, where fucking unicorns are your transport and every lady looks like Christina Milian (or if you're a chick, every dude looks like Brad Pitt...I'm fair like that, ladies)? Where money isn't necessary for anything, because everything your heart desires is free of cost? Where people are measured based on their merits and character, and rewarded on such scales?
I know I do, like every hour or so. But that kind of shit only exists in Disney and Pixar flicks, which I realize. Just sucks. I look out of windows at times, and my vision of a utopia never changes:
-- financial headaches and concerns would be non-existent; rather, everybody would be on an even playing field, making each and all of us "wealthy," in whatever way we desire to feel as such
-- members of the opposite sex would use some of that brain-power generating within their pretty little skulls and see me as a great catch, and would fight over me. They'd realize that I'd treat them better than any other guy, that I'd make them laugh, that I'd be the best listener they've ever been around, and that I wouldn't sleep a wink until I knew they were content, regardless of what it is (romantic satisfaction, comfort, safety, blah blah blah)
-- whatever job it is that I hold, I'd be compensated in the way that I deserve. The dedication and unbreakable reliability I exude in the workplace would pay off in an agreeable salary, and my co-workers with power to make changes would realize my value and fight for my situation, not wanting to see me being mistreated and basically disrespected
-- Lil Wayne's music would never be heard ever, ever, ever again
-- publicists, particularly those working with music artist clients, would be ridden of their powers, and would undertake some other profession that doesn't require them to piss Matt Barone off to no end, on a daily basis
-- Zoey, my 12-year-old German Shepherd and bestest pal, would be immortal. She'd never experience hip problems, her hearing would forever remain as sharp as a tack. She'd be riding shotgun with me until my final day
-- I'd hang out with Gianna and Nicholas at least once a day, not this once a week bullshit. And on the days that people knew I'd be coming home to see them, they wouldn't be whisked out of my parent's house 47 seconds before I arrive, to go for "family walks," whatever the fuck those are
-- I'd be 100% happy with everything
Imagine that.
I know I do, like every hour or so. But that kind of shit only exists in Disney and Pixar flicks, which I realize. Just sucks. I look out of windows at times, and my vision of a utopia never changes:
-- financial headaches and concerns would be non-existent; rather, everybody would be on an even playing field, making each and all of us "wealthy," in whatever way we desire to feel as such
-- members of the opposite sex would use some of that brain-power generating within their pretty little skulls and see me as a great catch, and would fight over me. They'd realize that I'd treat them better than any other guy, that I'd make them laugh, that I'd be the best listener they've ever been around, and that I wouldn't sleep a wink until I knew they were content, regardless of what it is (romantic satisfaction, comfort, safety, blah blah blah)
-- whatever job it is that I hold, I'd be compensated in the way that I deserve. The dedication and unbreakable reliability I exude in the workplace would pay off in an agreeable salary, and my co-workers with power to make changes would realize my value and fight for my situation, not wanting to see me being mistreated and basically disrespected
-- Lil Wayne's music would never be heard ever, ever, ever again
-- publicists, particularly those working with music artist clients, would be ridden of their powers, and would undertake some other profession that doesn't require them to piss Matt Barone off to no end, on a daily basis
-- Zoey, my 12-year-old German Shepherd and bestest pal, would be immortal. She'd never experience hip problems, her hearing would forever remain as sharp as a tack. She'd be riding shotgun with me until my final day
-- I'd hang out with Gianna and Nicholas at least once a day, not this once a week bullshit. And on the days that people knew I'd be coming home to see them, they wouldn't be whisked out of my parent's house 47 seconds before I arrive, to go for "family walks," whatever the fuck those are
-- I'd be 100% happy with everything
Imagine that.
Sign Me Up!!!
my inner 15-year-old perv has just been reawakened, thanks to this teaser trailer for BITCH SLAP, which will surely be one of those movies that dies a quick death in cinemas, only to gain a gradual cult following....or, it'll just disappear into cinematic oblivion faster than MEET DAVE.
It basically looks like CHARLIES ANGELS, as written by Quentin Tarantino for his GRINDHOUSE fetish, only with way-hotter women and amplified sleaze. And if that description isn't instant "Matt Barone will be purchasing a ticket for this" distinction, I really couldn't tell you what is. Feast your eyes on this smokin'-hot underdog:
These bitches could slap me any day of the week....and I totally don't mean "bitches" in the derogatory sense. I'm no pig.
It basically looks like CHARLIES ANGELS, as written by Quentin Tarantino for his GRINDHOUSE fetish, only with way-hotter women and amplified sleaze. And if that description isn't instant "Matt Barone will be purchasing a ticket for this" distinction, I really couldn't tell you what is. Feast your eyes on this smokin'-hot underdog:
These bitches could slap me any day of the week....and I totally don't mean "bitches" in the derogatory sense. I'm no pig.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Dating Schmating
I had a sudden realization about 20 minutes ago....if it'd be socially and emotionally acceptable to be single forever, I'd gladly do it. Skip all of the bullshit and gaming that dating brings; never again sit up at night wondering when I'm going to meet "the one"; randomly hook up and never have to guesstimate when the last time we'll ever talk will be (two days from now? two weeks from now? two minutes, perhaps?). It's just that, the damn normalcy of starting a family/getting married/having kids/settling down keeps getting in the way of what could be a totally pleasant existence. One where it's just me, myself, and I ultimately, aside from my great family and friends. I'm talking romantically, emotionally here.
I went out for drinks tonight, and it was a nice time. But still, watching couples mingle, and watching guys trying to pick up women, none of it interested me in the least tonight., In fact, it all sickened me to a degree. It's such a waste of time....I'd much rather just have some drinks and not worry about "yo man, go talk to that girl," or, "we gotta hook up tonight." That never leads to anything more than one more number in my cell phonebook that I'm never going to call, and will surely delete in the months to come after I ask myself, "who the hell is Michelle?"
I see my niece and nephew, and dream of the day when I'll have rugrats of my own. But of course, to have said rugrats, it requires me finding her, and entrusting her with my heart and all that jazz. And with the luck I've had in my life, that's a scary thought. Will it ever happen? My resume doesn't bode well. There's the girl who strung me along for over two years trying to figure out racial issues, neglecting the fact that I was the best guy she'd ever talked to (her own words) over something I can't even control (me being a cracka-ass cracka); there's the girl who was too much of a chump to tell me flat out "you're not the one for me," and also strung me along for almost two years using "I hate long distance relationships" as her defense, only to ultimately start dating some dude with zero personality who, ironically enough, lives 30 minutes away from me, while she's across the country; there's the girl who likes flirt with me, knowing my I kinda like her, and telling me she kinda likes me too, but doesnt want anything serious right now, yet contradicts herself from time to time.
I could go on and on, really. There's some girls I've pretty much decided to cut all ties with, even though they may not even realize it. If they hit me on Myspace out of the blue some day, I'll reply with a simple comment of "kick rocks," for all their friends to see and speculate over. There are some girls (maybe only one or two, really), who I do care for but just don't know how to make it work, and don't want to cut ties with, even.
It's tough for me. Not many girls my age or any age, for that matter, want to sit around and talk about Watchmen while watching Inside, after agreeing excitedly to be my guest to a midnight screening of Mirrors on a Saturday night, an evening when they could be otherwise drinking and partying with others. Maybe the girl who'd enjoy these things is out there. I sure hope she is. But until I find her, I've decided to not give a fuck about having not found her yet.
If not for any other huge reason, I really want for Gianna and Nicholas to have some first cousins to play with and grow old with, and the only way for that to happen is for me to settle down. Question is, when in God's name will that happen? Why can't I find the one? Does she even exist? Why can't one of these random drunken hook-ups turn out to be something more? Why can't I just meet a cool girl while sober and not have to socialize in an alcoholic setting?
Because really, I'm such a walking contradiction. I love going to the movies once a week by myself, but I'd be lying if I didnt say that having the same female partner sitting next to me, eating Twizzlers and sippin' on $5 flat soda wouldn't make the moviegoing experience much sweeter. Plus, I have some weddings to attend in the not-too-distant future, and I'd love to have a date to bring that was a true date, not just a friend or acquaintance who loves weddings. The middle component of a 'homie lover friend.' I have too many female homies and friends. Now it's time to find that lover. What a damn contradiction I am. I wouldn't have it any other way. The act of daily self-discovery is what ultimately drives me. The time when I think, 'I just totally figured myself out" will be a day that I'll forever refer to afterward as Doomsday.
I went out for drinks tonight, and it was a nice time. But still, watching couples mingle, and watching guys trying to pick up women, none of it interested me in the least tonight., In fact, it all sickened me to a degree. It's such a waste of time....I'd much rather just have some drinks and not worry about "yo man, go talk to that girl," or, "we gotta hook up tonight." That never leads to anything more than one more number in my cell phonebook that I'm never going to call, and will surely delete in the months to come after I ask myself, "who the hell is Michelle?"
I see my niece and nephew, and dream of the day when I'll have rugrats of my own. But of course, to have said rugrats, it requires me finding her, and entrusting her with my heart and all that jazz. And with the luck I've had in my life, that's a scary thought. Will it ever happen? My resume doesn't bode well. There's the girl who strung me along for over two years trying to figure out racial issues, neglecting the fact that I was the best guy she'd ever talked to (her own words) over something I can't even control (me being a cracka-ass cracka); there's the girl who was too much of a chump to tell me flat out "you're not the one for me," and also strung me along for almost two years using "I hate long distance relationships" as her defense, only to ultimately start dating some dude with zero personality who, ironically enough, lives 30 minutes away from me, while she's across the country; there's the girl who likes flirt with me, knowing my I kinda like her, and telling me she kinda likes me too, but doesnt want anything serious right now, yet contradicts herself from time to time.
I could go on and on, really. There's some girls I've pretty much decided to cut all ties with, even though they may not even realize it. If they hit me on Myspace out of the blue some day, I'll reply with a simple comment of "kick rocks," for all their friends to see and speculate over. There are some girls (maybe only one or two, really), who I do care for but just don't know how to make it work, and don't want to cut ties with, even.
It's tough for me. Not many girls my age or any age, for that matter, want to sit around and talk about Watchmen while watching Inside, after agreeing excitedly to be my guest to a midnight screening of Mirrors on a Saturday night, an evening when they could be otherwise drinking and partying with others. Maybe the girl who'd enjoy these things is out there. I sure hope she is. But until I find her, I've decided to not give a fuck about having not found her yet.
If not for any other huge reason, I really want for Gianna and Nicholas to have some first cousins to play with and grow old with, and the only way for that to happen is for me to settle down. Question is, when in God's name will that happen? Why can't I find the one? Does she even exist? Why can't one of these random drunken hook-ups turn out to be something more? Why can't I just meet a cool girl while sober and not have to socialize in an alcoholic setting?
Because really, I'm such a walking contradiction. I love going to the movies once a week by myself, but I'd be lying if I didnt say that having the same female partner sitting next to me, eating Twizzlers and sippin' on $5 flat soda wouldn't make the moviegoing experience much sweeter. Plus, I have some weddings to attend in the not-too-distant future, and I'd love to have a date to bring that was a true date, not just a friend or acquaintance who loves weddings. The middle component of a 'homie lover friend.' I have too many female homies and friends. Now it's time to find that lover. What a damn contradiction I am. I wouldn't have it any other way. The act of daily self-discovery is what ultimately drives me. The time when I think, 'I just totally figured myself out" will be a day that I'll forever refer to afterward as Doomsday.
"Smelllll Ittt!"
Just got back from seeing Pineapple Express for the second time, my first time being a couple months back at an early press screening. After that initial viewing, I was raving about it like crazy, telling all my friends that's damn funny and my favorite of all these Apatow flicks. After just seeing it again, I don't know if it'll ultimately be my "favorite," but I still love it in all of its sublime weirdness.
Problem is, I'm not sure what all of those people I've raved about it to will agree once they see it. On a second go-round, I've realized just how off-putting it truly is. Here's a comedy from the dudes behind such undeniably great comedies like The 40 Year Old Virgin, Superbad, and Knocked Up shaking their successful cage. It's hard to truly explain the bizarre feeling I have while watching Pineapple....it's like, I'm never laughing out loud, but I'm consistently pleased and entertained.
I do think, though, that if you've never been high before, the performances---especially that of James Franco, who is frikkin' spot-on here---may not strike you hilariously genuine as they did me. And in terms of tone and aura, I'd put this one in the same "I'm so confused but I really like it" category as Napoleon Dynamite. Random shit happens, and you're unsure why, but you can't help but laugh. Like when Craig Robinson's hired gun "Matheson" suddenly dips his hands into bowls of green beans and mashed taters, or when Franco and Seth Rogen innocently, and high-off-mary-jane-ly, play a good ol' fashioned game of Leapfrog in the woods. And then there's the whole exchange between Franco, Rogen, and the twisted Danny McBride, in McBride's 'Red's" kitchen. None of it really serves any purpose; it just floats around, never sticking to the central plot (two stoners on the run from drug dealers), yet never failing to feel right at home, thanks to the bewildering mood captured by director David Gordon Green.
So I'm curious as to how many of my friends and associates will love this flick as much as I do. If they hate it and curse me off, I'll actually understand why---it'll definitely polarize people. I doubt it'll be hailed as a non-stop laughfest like Superbad was, or unite both men and women in praise a la Knocked Up. And anybody who says "You have to be stoned to fully appreciate it" is fuckin' retarded. That's hogwash. Bottom line: you'll either submit to the subversive proceedings and have a good time, or you'll constantly be waiting for that one LOL moment that may not come. Fuck a LOL; Pineapple is more about great performances, extremely quirky characters, and talents just having a good time making a lighthearted action comedy. And that's fine in my book.
One small gripe that I can't help but condemn: during the last 20 minutes or so, Pineapple derails slightly with an onslaught of over-the-top violence. I'm all about blending comedy with gunplay, but how it's executed here doesn't quite gel the way it should. You're never completely sold on the action, and it's not as thrilling as it should be. Green and company should've studied the final portion of Hot Fuzz; now, that movie absolutely nailed excessive violence marrying cleverly-written chuckles.
Oh, and to elaborate on Danny McBride....dude is goddamn funny. I'm officially jumping on the "McBride is the next big comedy star" bandwagon. His small but effective role in Tropic Thunder kills, he was utterly brilliant in his stubborn assholeness in the underrated The Foot Fist Way, and he steals every scene he's in here in the Express. The line "You just got killed by a Daewoo Lanos, motherfucker!" will go down in my history books as one of the funniest movie lines I've ever heard. You'll understand once you see it in the scene's context.
Check McBride, in full-on "Fred Simmons" character (his character in aforementioned Foot Fist Way) on an old ep of Conan. Watch how hard Will Ferrell is trying to hold in his laughter. You can't beat this right here:
Problem is, I'm not sure what all of those people I've raved about it to will agree once they see it. On a second go-round, I've realized just how off-putting it truly is. Here's a comedy from the dudes behind such undeniably great comedies like The 40 Year Old Virgin, Superbad, and Knocked Up shaking their successful cage. It's hard to truly explain the bizarre feeling I have while watching Pineapple....it's like, I'm never laughing out loud, but I'm consistently pleased and entertained.
I do think, though, that if you've never been high before, the performances---especially that of James Franco, who is frikkin' spot-on here---may not strike you hilariously genuine as they did me. And in terms of tone and aura, I'd put this one in the same "I'm so confused but I really like it" category as Napoleon Dynamite. Random shit happens, and you're unsure why, but you can't help but laugh. Like when Craig Robinson's hired gun "Matheson" suddenly dips his hands into bowls of green beans and mashed taters, or when Franco and Seth Rogen innocently, and high-off-mary-jane-ly, play a good ol' fashioned game of Leapfrog in the woods. And then there's the whole exchange between Franco, Rogen, and the twisted Danny McBride, in McBride's 'Red's" kitchen. None of it really serves any purpose; it just floats around, never sticking to the central plot (two stoners on the run from drug dealers), yet never failing to feel right at home, thanks to the bewildering mood captured by director David Gordon Green.
So I'm curious as to how many of my friends and associates will love this flick as much as I do. If they hate it and curse me off, I'll actually understand why---it'll definitely polarize people. I doubt it'll be hailed as a non-stop laughfest like Superbad was, or unite both men and women in praise a la Knocked Up. And anybody who says "You have to be stoned to fully appreciate it" is fuckin' retarded. That's hogwash. Bottom line: you'll either submit to the subversive proceedings and have a good time, or you'll constantly be waiting for that one LOL moment that may not come. Fuck a LOL; Pineapple is more about great performances, extremely quirky characters, and talents just having a good time making a lighthearted action comedy. And that's fine in my book.
One small gripe that I can't help but condemn: during the last 20 minutes or so, Pineapple derails slightly with an onslaught of over-the-top violence. I'm all about blending comedy with gunplay, but how it's executed here doesn't quite gel the way it should. You're never completely sold on the action, and it's not as thrilling as it should be. Green and company should've studied the final portion of Hot Fuzz; now, that movie absolutely nailed excessive violence marrying cleverly-written chuckles.
Oh, and to elaborate on Danny McBride....dude is goddamn funny. I'm officially jumping on the "McBride is the next big comedy star" bandwagon. His small but effective role in Tropic Thunder kills, he was utterly brilliant in his stubborn assholeness in the underrated The Foot Fist Way, and he steals every scene he's in here in the Express. The line "You just got killed by a Daewoo Lanos, motherfucker!" will go down in my history books as one of the funniest movie lines I've ever heard. You'll understand once you see it in the scene's context.
Check McBride, in full-on "Fred Simmons" character (his character in aforementioned Foot Fist Way) on an old ep of Conan. Watch how hard Will Ferrell is trying to hold in his laughter. You can't beat this right here:
See more funny videos at Funny or Die
The dark side of Italy
from the almighty Bloody-Disgusting.com:
"Update: This story has been CONFIRMED as true! We heard some interesting rumblings this afternoon that we are trying desperately to confirm. What we've been told - and should be taken strictly as rumor - is that Handsome Charlie Films, which is headed by Natalie Portman (pictured inside) and Annette Savitch, will be producing the remake of Dario Argento's Suspiria. In addition, word has it Portman will topline the film that David Gordon Green is attached to direct. Green's PINEAPPLE EXPRESS hits theaters tomorrow. Remember that this is RUMOR until confirmed."
You may or may not know, but I fuckin' adore the original SUSPIRIA, by the Italian horror god Dario Argento. I saw it on cable back in like freshman year of high school, and it totally freaked me out. In the wake of that initial viewing, it's become one of my fave genre flicks ever. The music used in is quite possibly my all-time favorite score in any movie, like, ever (created by the group Goblin....job well done, you weirdly-named rockers), and the gore scenes are shot with such virtuoso style and grandeur, they're almost things of beauty (well, as beautiful as a chick falling through a giant glass chandelier only to be hung by a chord, after a close-up shot of her beating heart being jabbed with a knife, can really be, of course).
I generally hate the idea of horror remakes, but this one is pretty intriguing to me.....first, David Gordon Green, an on-the-rise filmmaker I'm really digging (especially after seeing PINEAPPLE EXPRESS, which I'll be writing about later tonight after I see it for my 2nd time) is behind it, and I'm super curious to see what he can with horror. And now Natalie Portman is looking like it's heroine, and if you've seen the original, you'd surely agree that she's pretty much the best casting choice around. She's a pretty great actress, and one with definite credibility. It's off to a good start.....
[original SUSPIRIA's trailer....since I'm assuming nobody else has seen it who'll check out my blog. This is a pretty cheesy trailer, but it's all I could find, but do trust, it does the actual movie very little justice]
"Update: This story has been CONFIRMED as true! We heard some interesting rumblings this afternoon that we are trying desperately to confirm. What we've been told - and should be taken strictly as rumor - is that Handsome Charlie Films, which is headed by Natalie Portman (pictured inside) and Annette Savitch, will be producing the remake of Dario Argento's Suspiria. In addition, word has it Portman will topline the film that David Gordon Green is attached to direct. Green's PINEAPPLE EXPRESS hits theaters tomorrow. Remember that this is RUMOR until confirmed."
You may or may not know, but I fuckin' adore the original SUSPIRIA, by the Italian horror god Dario Argento. I saw it on cable back in like freshman year of high school, and it totally freaked me out. In the wake of that initial viewing, it's become one of my fave genre flicks ever. The music used in is quite possibly my all-time favorite score in any movie, like, ever (created by the group Goblin....job well done, you weirdly-named rockers), and the gore scenes are shot with such virtuoso style and grandeur, they're almost things of beauty (well, as beautiful as a chick falling through a giant glass chandelier only to be hung by a chord, after a close-up shot of her beating heart being jabbed with a knife, can really be, of course).
I generally hate the idea of horror remakes, but this one is pretty intriguing to me.....first, David Gordon Green, an on-the-rise filmmaker I'm really digging (especially after seeing PINEAPPLE EXPRESS, which I'll be writing about later tonight after I see it for my 2nd time) is behind it, and I'm super curious to see what he can with horror. And now Natalie Portman is looking like it's heroine, and if you've seen the original, you'd surely agree that she's pretty much the best casting choice around. She's a pretty great actress, and one with definite credibility. It's off to a good start.....
[original SUSPIRIA's trailer....since I'm assuming nobody else has seen it who'll check out my blog. This is a pretty cheesy trailer, but it's all I could find, but do trust, it does the actual movie very little justice]
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Sesame Streetsweeper
than you, New York magazine.....this lip-synching is so close, it's damn scary. All I'm saying is, don't dare walk down Sesame Street alone at night. Full time jack moves.....
Monday, August 4, 2008
Black Hole, son
Just finished the graphic novel that you see above. Basically read it within a two-hour clip, and this bitch is 368 pages, so you know it was a damn good read. I'm slowly but surely becoming a total geek for these graphic novels, which---for those not in the know---are comic books but extended into novel length, more often than not a compilation of a long-running comic strip series packed into one extensive solid read. It's like reading books, but not really. You're reading a full-on story, but it's constantly illustrated and typically of the fantasy nature. Whatever. Explanations are meaningless here. I'm loving them and I'll be buying some more tomorrow on my lunch break.
But this particular one, Black Hole, is quite heavy, though. Super existential. Trippy as a mug. But fucking brilliant and one that I'll surely re-read for some time to come. I'd compare its lasting effects to movies like Memento or Mulholland Drive; not in the "what the fuck was that all about?" of Mulholland necessarily, but more so in the way it doesn't leave your thoughts. I'm still analyzing certain moments and working the whole story out in my head, and I finished the thing like five hours ago.
Plot wise, think the 70s stoner classic Dazed & Confused, only done by David Cronenberg and drained of nearly all humor, with laughs replaced by extreme melancholy, macabre, and horror, but rather than a masked murderer, the horror of this teenage nightmare is angst, alienation, and feeling like an outcast in high school's social order. It takes place in the '70s, in Seattle. There's a mysterious sexually-transmitted disease known as "the bug" that is spreading throughout this particular teenage circle. Rather than depleted health and a flu-like symtpoms, though, the effects are physical deformities, such as a tail or a mini-mouth found on a dude's neck that utters his inner-most thoughts (yeah, sick shit is afoot). But for those unlikely to hide their changes, too deformed and grotesque to blend in, they've all congregrated to "The Pit," a secluded area deep in the woods where they've formed their own leper-ish society. But then some of the truly-hideous sick start succumbing to murder at the hands of an unknown assailant, and this is where shit really hits the fan and crosses over into this insane dreamland-meets-reality world.
It's told through the perspective of two protagonists, one guy and one girl. Both storylines are well-plotted. But I'll stop rambling about the plot, because odds are that most of those who actually read this won't ever read it, which would be a shame, because it's unlike anything else you'll ever immerse yourself in. Charles Burns, both its author and illustrator, is somebody I need to do my homework on now. His artwork here is so detailed, so intricate, and so great at exuding dread and sadness that there were times when I'd stop reading the actual story and get lost in the illos. It took Burns over 10 years to create this, and after reading, I'm surprised it didn't take him 20. It's no joke.
[some examples of the artwork and storyboard....]
[this is how all of the chapters are introduced, with a left black page and right illoed one; notice the similarities in the structures of both. That's how it is for every chapter breaker]
There's been talk for years about a movie adaptation, and honestly, its news that makes me super-nervous. This is some truly unique shit, and I'm not sure if anybody other than Burns can properly execute it again. But on the other hand, the almighty David Fincher (Seven, Fight Club, Zodiac....all great pieces of cinema) is attached, so all hope isn't lost. And if Zack Snyder seems to be able to actually translate Watchmen into a convincing motion picture (jury's still out until March 09, of course, but all the pics and that trailer are doing a great job thus far of proving haters wrong), then the impossible would become possible.
Now, on to Wanted, the graph novel that the Angie Jolie flick was based on. Much diff than the movie, I hear, so I'm pretty stoked. Or, I could just start reading Black Hole over again. Ahhh, decisions, decisions....
my kind of bitch
I fuckin' love this handpuppet/dog.....his report from last week's nerd-fanboy festival (which I wish I was at, so badly) Comic-Con. Enjoy, nerds:
Corona Light, Done Right/ Babywatch
a couple things still fresh on my mind from this past weekend down in Wildwood, NJ:
1) I may have a new favorite cerveza to sip on....now, Corona is my definite shit, not that watered down bellywash known as Corona Light, though. The OG 'cerveza mas fina,' I'm referring to here. Otherwise, Heineken Lights always hit the spot.....well, looks like Heiny Lights are falling back for a new kid on the bar, Bud Light Lime....my cousin's fiance put me on to these last night, and boy are they satisfying. I'm surely snagging a sixer this weekend. I advise you all partake, as well....
2) So I'm strolling down the boardwalk yesterday afternoon, sweating my ass off in the 90-plus-degree heat. Aimlessly walking from arcade to arcade, trying to win either a Wonder Pets or a Dora The Explorer stuffed animal for Baby G, though the cranes in this grabby machines grab terribly. Couldn't lift a feather. Wasting my hard-earned $0.50 per try, pissing me off royally (all I've come home with is a Baby Betty Boop doll, a stuffed pig, and some weird worm thing in a flower bed. weird). But as I'm heading toward Arcade Numero Cuatro, I happen across a girl, couldn't have been 16 years old, but maybe I'm shy a couple calendars here. At least I hope so, because this girl was extremely preggers. Belly sticking out immensely, fetus ready to come bursting out at any moment.
But what grossed me out here was this's soon-to-be-mother's choice of garb: a barely-there two-piece teeny bikini. Dang. Belly fully exposed, yet she's strutting her shit around the b-walk like she's heading to a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue photo shoot. Am I the only one who thinks very-pregnant women shouldn't be seen in two-piece bikinis out in public? I mean, a shirt covering one works, but not being worn in the "I'm so sexy, this should be my Myspace default pic" sense. Am i wrong here? Clearly, I've never been preggers, so I don't know the mindset it takes. Is this insensitive, like, women should be able to wear a bikini and not bake in the sun even when bearing seed(s)? Let me know, because I was rather disturbed by it. And I almost gagged on my delish Polish Water Ice (man, that shit is cracktastic).
1) I may have a new favorite cerveza to sip on....now, Corona is my definite shit, not that watered down bellywash known as Corona Light, though. The OG 'cerveza mas fina,' I'm referring to here. Otherwise, Heineken Lights always hit the spot.....well, looks like Heiny Lights are falling back for a new kid on the bar, Bud Light Lime....my cousin's fiance put me on to these last night, and boy are they satisfying. I'm surely snagging a sixer this weekend. I advise you all partake, as well....
2) So I'm strolling down the boardwalk yesterday afternoon, sweating my ass off in the 90-plus-degree heat. Aimlessly walking from arcade to arcade, trying to win either a Wonder Pets or a Dora The Explorer stuffed animal for Baby G, though the cranes in this grabby machines grab terribly. Couldn't lift a feather. Wasting my hard-earned $0.50 per try, pissing me off royally (all I've come home with is a Baby Betty Boop doll, a stuffed pig, and some weird worm thing in a flower bed. weird). But as I'm heading toward Arcade Numero Cuatro, I happen across a girl, couldn't have been 16 years old, but maybe I'm shy a couple calendars here. At least I hope so, because this girl was extremely preggers. Belly sticking out immensely, fetus ready to come bursting out at any moment.
But what grossed me out here was this's soon-to-be-mother's choice of garb: a barely-there two-piece teeny bikini. Dang. Belly fully exposed, yet she's strutting her shit around the b-walk like she's heading to a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue photo shoot. Am I the only one who thinks very-pregnant women shouldn't be seen in two-piece bikinis out in public? I mean, a shirt covering one works, but not being worn in the "I'm so sexy, this should be my Myspace default pic" sense. Am i wrong here? Clearly, I've never been preggers, so I don't know the mindset it takes. Is this insensitive, like, women should be able to wear a bikini and not bake in the sun even when bearing seed(s)? Let me know, because I was rather disturbed by it. And I almost gagged on my delish Polish Water Ice (man, that shit is cracktastic).
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Talk About Luck....
So I bumped into this kid I used to play summer league baseball with, while walking back to my apartment earlier. We got to small-talking; you know, the usual "where do you work now? how's your family? the real world sucks, right?" bullshit that we all do with old acquaintances. Totally washes over you once you've parted ways, and typically amounts to nothing more than 5-10 wasted minutes of your precious time. Who hasn't seen an old face from high school at a bar once and decided to take the long walk to get a drink, circling the perimeter of the venue all while keeping tabs on this unaware nuisance's location? I sure as hell know I have, probably less than two weeks ago, even.
But what made this particular "reunion" of sorts register for me more than usual was a certain story dude brought back to mind. It's a pretty scary one, and I hadn't thought about in a long ass time but now I am and it still sends chills down my spine.
This must've been back in like 2001 or so, my last summer of playing baseball before I officially hung up the first baseman's mitt and concentrated on my writing thang. It was a particularly uneventful game, we were beating some scrub team by some runs. All was going well. But see, there was this lip of grass right by the first base bag that curled up, and if you didn't stand in front, odds were that a hard ground ball would shoot up at your face once it reached the lip. For some stupid reason, I was standing like directly behind this lip, and a lefthanded batter hit this frozen rope of a grounder my way. Before I could even react, the baseball jumped right into the left side of my throat, like less than a hair away from my Adam's apple. I fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, pretty much in shock. The game was stopped, I was rushed to the hospital, and I couldn't utter a word out of my mouth.
The ball had bruised a prominent vocal chord near my throat, and there was a visible burise even. I couldn't talk for like a day and a half. But the scariest part for me was when the doctor said, "You're one lucky guy. If that ball had hit you less than an inch to the right, directly on your Adam's apple, it would've been lights out." Meaning, in all of his sensitivity, I would've died. On the spot. And as I thought back on it, I remembered how I did in fact turn my head ever so slightly, as a reflex reaction.
Crazy, huh? At least I think so. It must've had some effect on others if the dude today brought it up without hesitation. So yeah, I came this close to buying the farm about seven years ago. If not for less than an inch, I'd have never experienced the wonders of the publishing game, Baby G & Lil Nicky, the many fun things I've done with family and friends, living in Hoboken, and other shit I've done since then. Sort of morbid, yes, but unavoidable to ponder. But that's the past, and I haven't even touched a baseball in eons. So all is right in my world.
But what made this particular "reunion" of sorts register for me more than usual was a certain story dude brought back to mind. It's a pretty scary one, and I hadn't thought about in a long ass time but now I am and it still sends chills down my spine.
This must've been back in like 2001 or so, my last summer of playing baseball before I officially hung up the first baseman's mitt and concentrated on my writing thang. It was a particularly uneventful game, we were beating some scrub team by some runs. All was going well. But see, there was this lip of grass right by the first base bag that curled up, and if you didn't stand in front, odds were that a hard ground ball would shoot up at your face once it reached the lip. For some stupid reason, I was standing like directly behind this lip, and a lefthanded batter hit this frozen rope of a grounder my way. Before I could even react, the baseball jumped right into the left side of my throat, like less than a hair away from my Adam's apple. I fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, pretty much in shock. The game was stopped, I was rushed to the hospital, and I couldn't utter a word out of my mouth.
The ball had bruised a prominent vocal chord near my throat, and there was a visible burise even. I couldn't talk for like a day and a half. But the scariest part for me was when the doctor said, "You're one lucky guy. If that ball had hit you less than an inch to the right, directly on your Adam's apple, it would've been lights out." Meaning, in all of his sensitivity, I would've died. On the spot. And as I thought back on it, I remembered how I did in fact turn my head ever so slightly, as a reflex reaction.
Crazy, huh? At least I think so. It must've had some effect on others if the dude today brought it up without hesitation. So yeah, I came this close to buying the farm about seven years ago. If not for less than an inch, I'd have never experienced the wonders of the publishing game, Baby G & Lil Nicky, the many fun things I've done with family and friends, living in Hoboken, and other shit I've done since then. Sort of morbid, yes, but unavoidable to ponder. But that's the past, and I haven't even touched a baseball in eons. So all is right in my world.
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