I have no idea where this is going...correction, I have an idea, but this was not what I intended....figured it was time to post something after four months!
Roger had developed a love and hate relationship over the years with the gawkers beyond his second story apartment's window. He was old enough now to know that life is much more complicated the older you get and no where near the black and white friends your childhood brought. He learned he loved his family; but liking was still up for discussion.
The people outside his window were annoying him. They came by day and night and just stood there, failing to whisper at what they stared at. He supposed that he could move his computer away from the window and close the curtain more often. And, even though he hated the smell of smoke, he loved his cigarettes, so the location in his bedroom was maintained. He could smoke, chat online and stare at the annoying passersby.
He knew why they were there. He admitted to himself, long after, that the house across the way was, in a sense, why he also stayed at the window. When he first got the job downtown, a nightly cruise of gawking at the Star home brought the apartments to his attention.
Roger was a writer. He had written much but published nil. This did not stop him. In fact, online chatting, a form he considered writing, kept him socially active, even if in passing.
That and the gawkers.
"Yep, more, this time a single one, a blonde, just like the rest," he said to himself. After realizing he had said it out loud, he feigned a glance to the ground to pretend he was talking to a nonexistent cat.
He felt the blonde woman glance up at him in the twilght. The Indian summer had run longer then was expected, but the time change had brought the shadows a wee bit earilier. Experience had taught him that anyone south of his window could hear pretty much anything he said.
It made recent visits with Kenneth a bit more quiet then one would expect.
The Star house deserted since the early evening, watched the exchange with a lone lamp in the wooded living room.
The blonde put her hands on her hips and slide them down into her pockets glancing to the second story window.
A car passed and Roger grasped a view down onto the street at the wandering stranger.
He knew her.
The Thursday night, normally a doorway to the impending weekend, changed in character. He could not remember how he knew her. Her looks, no matter how commonplace, resembled a memory--if only for a flash. He started to light a smoke. No one was in the chatrooms he frequented anyhows.
He stood and decided to leave the desk lamp on. The streetlamps were less personal on the dark street below.
He climbed the wood steps slowly, hoping secretly that the young woman was who he thought she could be, a colleague who could chase the night. All his histories had been erased from this town he grew up in; recent interactions with locals fruited little.
The orange and red light of his sparking lighter illuminated his face more then the street around him and the front porch. A swinging bench had been added when the home was built in older times--if history was correct, his builiding was created at the same time as the Star home across the street--in the early 1900. And the timeline was still somewhat evident. The bushes had groomed themselves into borderline trees before the porch's rails. To sit on the bench and smoke would have afford him more privacy then his apartment window.
He elected to merely lean on the column.
She was still there, only a few yards across the tar.
He exhahled and aimed his head high.
The Star house was a marvel of stereotypical haunted hosues. Built a hundred years ago, the only modern intrushions were a satiellie dish on the steep green roofs and an airconditioner attached to the rear kitchen. In the daylight, as the same as this night, the stained and beveled glass clean as to be considerred new, shone like pictures into the interior. It made gawking inevitetable. People could see as far back as a servant stair from the front parlor. An old television broke the view, but reflected the gawkers from it's angled screens.
The house was the only reason to visit downtown, in this area. No map found a listing of it, but the locals know about the Star house. In the 30s, a young bachelor moved in and used it to board travelors. Business never ended until discoveries of several corpses on the Fountain Valley, a short walk away. In fact, the paths encouraged gawkers to stroll along the creek, depositing them here.
The home's notoreity increased ten fold when a group of hippies moved in. In this conservative location at the edge of the mountains, the churches needed a reason to begin their barrage of discontent. Following a series of disaapearances, the house found itself in the news again--the hippies killed for cash and their habits.
Roger knew more about the house then expected. He had planned on writing a fictionalization of events inside. This dream ended when his mother sent him a copy of the book written by a guy he knew in high school.
So it was more then chance that he would end up here, off of downtown, near the house of ill-begotten fame, trying, desparetely to write.
And find a life.
The girl stopped and looked up the street.
"Looks innocuoous enough," she stated, looking back at the second story.
"Me or the house?" She smiled and her teeth matched the whiteness of her eyes. The dark erased the edges off of her face. The smile he could define. The rest was a blur, more visible if you looked off to the side. The streetlamps, either by design or accident, bracketted the house, but cast shadows before it.
"Cute, funny." She changed her facing and a kick of wind blew in the opposite direction, carrying smoke towards her. He fluttered his hand in front of face to aid the disipation of gray matter.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
A journal entry "Monster"
He hated the label, "monster," but he could understand why they called him that. He saw the papers; he knew the routine. They refused to meet with him, discuss what he figured out was the most important--deciding on an agenda that worked only for them.
Yet he was the monster.
He exercised as they did. He ate at thei same restaurants. And he practiced his ability to love just like everyone else. They let the fucking homos do what they want--even gave them their own television shows.
But not him.
There was a time, when he was younger, he would sit on the stoop in front of his house and have a cricket or a cicada taped to teh pavement. They never cried out as used his mother's twizzers pull it's legs in opposite directions. It did not weep. Instead it merely appeared annoyed at the procedure and tried to pull away.
And he wondered, why don't humans do the same?
He practiced with his subjects. He told them what we was going to do, but they protested. They were the lonely ones--wassn't this what they wanted? Attention until they died?
The latest report in the newspaper labled him Marlowe Monster for his use of hookers on Marlowe street. But these women had already given up on their lives. He was just helping them die faster then their lifestyle would allow.
Yet he was the monster.
Yet he was the monster.
He exercised as they did. He ate at thei same restaurants. And he practiced his ability to love just like everyone else. They let the fucking homos do what they want--even gave them their own television shows.
But not him.
There was a time, when he was younger, he would sit on the stoop in front of his house and have a cricket or a cicada taped to teh pavement. They never cried out as used his mother's twizzers pull it's legs in opposite directions. It did not weep. Instead it merely appeared annoyed at the procedure and tried to pull away.
And he wondered, why don't humans do the same?
He practiced with his subjects. He told them what we was going to do, but they protested. They were the lonely ones--wassn't this what they wanted? Attention until they died?
The latest report in the newspaper labled him Marlowe Monster for his use of hookers on Marlowe street. But these women had already given up on their lives. He was just helping them die faster then their lifestyle would allow.
Yet he was the monster.
Movie Review: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Ah, what be said about Harry Potter that hasn't been said already. I love the kid, frankly, seeing how he gets kids gett so riled over his printed page. I wish my students could do the same. My kids can't read their own names a majority of the time.
But even they know Harry. The books and movies go beyond a tremendous success. They connect with audiences on a different levels. Here, we remember that time in our own lives--starting with such promise as we are young and starting out to when we leave to the adult world, when reality has moved in and shoved ideals to the back.
Such is the journey of Mr. Potter; such is our jouney with him. The time of this movie is when we realize the wonderment of the world around us becomes oh-so-much smaller. Harry's friend has died in the last movie; but the world he livees in refused to believe him when he says that Voldemort, the nememis of this tale, did it.
It's like when adults refuse to believe their children's dreams or visions for the future. We die just a little; Harry's is emphasized by the size of the picture.
It is a hard picture to watch. It is complicated for those of us not familiar with the book. The pages appear to be up there as much as possible.
But it works. Surely, the magic is gone, but if a person has followed the story in some manner, it is truly complete. And a bit frightening. Even sad.
The movie also hit me on a chord it did not intend. The plight of American public schools under the tyranny of this current administration. In this realm, schools are judged from outsiders and of course, negatively--giving polictics a reason to shut them down and use them for their own devices.
Harry is accused by the ruling class of his world, the Ministry of Magic. He is believed to be lying and that the school is up to something--so they'll send their own emissary a terrifically evil acted Imelda Staunton's Dolores Umbridge--to deem the school worthy of closure. Then they won't have any more doubters born from the location.
So she arrives and then has shake the tree. She tells them everything is wrong (it isn't) and that they just ahve to take and pass their exams to the elimination of everything else (sorta like state testing--to the exclusion of everything else...). I do not know if author JK Rowling had intended to make that message, showing the stupidit of No Child Left Behind, but it was there for this teacher.
Making me appreciate Mr. Potter's storylines just a bit more.
Is it a good movie? Not for those outside. Inside? I think you'll be more that satisfied.
But even they know Harry. The books and movies go beyond a tremendous success. They connect with audiences on a different levels. Here, we remember that time in our own lives--starting with such promise as we are young and starting out to when we leave to the adult world, when reality has moved in and shoved ideals to the back.
Such is the journey of Mr. Potter; such is our jouney with him. The time of this movie is when we realize the wonderment of the world around us becomes oh-so-much smaller. Harry's friend has died in the last movie; but the world he livees in refused to believe him when he says that Voldemort, the nememis of this tale, did it.
It's like when adults refuse to believe their children's dreams or visions for the future. We die just a little; Harry's is emphasized by the size of the picture.
It is a hard picture to watch. It is complicated for those of us not familiar with the book. The pages appear to be up there as much as possible.
But it works. Surely, the magic is gone, but if a person has followed the story in some manner, it is truly complete. And a bit frightening. Even sad.
The movie also hit me on a chord it did not intend. The plight of American public schools under the tyranny of this current administration. In this realm, schools are judged from outsiders and of course, negatively--giving polictics a reason to shut them down and use them for their own devices.
Harry is accused by the ruling class of his world, the Ministry of Magic. He is believed to be lying and that the school is up to something--so they'll send their own emissary a terrifically evil acted Imelda Staunton's Dolores Umbridge--to deem the school worthy of closure. Then they won't have any more doubters born from the location.
So she arrives and then has shake the tree. She tells them everything is wrong (it isn't) and that they just ahve to take and pass their exams to the elimination of everything else (sorta like state testing--to the exclusion of everything else...). I do not know if author JK Rowling had intended to make that message, showing the stupidit of No Child Left Behind, but it was there for this teacher.
Making me appreciate Mr. Potter's storylines just a bit more.
Is it a good movie? Not for those outside. Inside? I think you'll be more that satisfied.
Movie Review: Hairspray
A time existed, not that very long ago, when musicals did more then bring tourists to New York City. The pop standards, still found on the occasion internet radio, were brought the public in these small wonders. Songs covered almost every allowable topic--but mostly the important stuff, you know, love. And people would pay to hear the songs they could hear for free on the radio (or the internet) and maybe sing along.
That was the power of the musical.
It never really went away, either. The sixties brought Hair, and ability for the audience to understand what the boomers were going through; the sevenites brough A Chorus Line and the audience could understand teh angst of very show before them. The message, of course, was neatly tucked away behind a delicious hummable tune of happily rhyming words or powerful, emotional ballads. All approachable by the wiling ear.
That, too, was teh power of the musical.
Broadway is an interesting place--using audience's knowledge to drag them back to teh Great White Way and justify their ticket purchase by using a topic they are already familiar with--movies. I can't say this is a bad thing. It means, finally, the tourists are returning. And sometimes, jsut sometimes, the musical improves on the source movie.
Look at The Lion King. Decent Disney flick, not classic. But the playwrights took it to a new level and made it a celebration of the stage using cultural references and puppest that the audience had never experienced before. Children were aware of the Disney label going into the house; they left with the potential that musical theatre carries.
Which brings us to this review--Hairspray. The origianl movie I saw in my teen years. A tale from my personal fave, Jon Waters, it mocked the world in which I lived in.
And what teenager can say no to being against the establishment?
In this case, a daily, early 60's television dance program had fully white dancers bopping to fully white music. But the times hadn't changed. African Americans were marching for equal representation. A young, portly young lady, named Tracy Turnblatt decides she wants to buck the scene. She is not the standard of television beauty; and her friends are black. She was going to get on that show and shake everything down.
It was Waters at his best. It used the medium of film to carry a heavy message in a wave of comedic commentary.
The movie could have been iimrpoved on.
But some dancers and musicains saw tehree was a chance to improve. They made it into a musical in NYC in 2002. It was a hit. THe message was sstill there and still strong, but it was easier to digest. Now it was mixed in with the same ditty tunes that helped carry the message as the audience exited humming.
it was only a matter of time before a movie was made.
And it's a good one. For the same reasons as mentioned.
It is, quite possibly, the best movie of the summer. It is very hard to contain this movie. The smiles are broad on the actors as much as on the audience--ironic, considering the messsage--one about intergration and racisim. But I do believe, we, as a people laugh together better than fight.
And here is a bit of a movie to do it. No violence, no sex (however, a TON of inneundo) make for a movie that truly a whole family can attend.
It works, not only for the reasons above, but because the cast really are having a good time. You have John Travolta, in drag no less, practically screaming "watch this!"; you have terrific newcomer Nikki Blonscky celebrating her role with all the energy of a cheerleader on a pot of coffee. She's happy she got the role in the movie--dammit, we should be to.
And we are. I think of it of a friend who loves computers. The dude lives, breathes and eats PCs. He can talk about them forwards and backwards, perhaps even upside down. And he's so excited when he talks about them--you can help but be caught up--even if you don't know what the heck he's talking about.
Such is the strength of her performance. Such is the strength of the entire cast.
I loved it. It will become a guilty pleasure, that's for sure.
That was the power of the musical.
It never really went away, either. The sixties brought Hair, and ability for the audience to understand what the boomers were going through; the sevenites brough A Chorus Line and the audience could understand teh angst of very show before them. The message, of course, was neatly tucked away behind a delicious hummable tune of happily rhyming words or powerful, emotional ballads. All approachable by the wiling ear.
That, too, was teh power of the musical.
Broadway is an interesting place--using audience's knowledge to drag them back to teh Great White Way and justify their ticket purchase by using a topic they are already familiar with--movies. I can't say this is a bad thing. It means, finally, the tourists are returning. And sometimes, jsut sometimes, the musical improves on the source movie.
Look at The Lion King. Decent Disney flick, not classic. But the playwrights took it to a new level and made it a celebration of the stage using cultural references and puppest that the audience had never experienced before. Children were aware of the Disney label going into the house; they left with the potential that musical theatre carries.
Which brings us to this review--Hairspray. The origianl movie I saw in my teen years. A tale from my personal fave, Jon Waters, it mocked the world in which I lived in.
And what teenager can say no to being against the establishment?
In this case, a daily, early 60's television dance program had fully white dancers bopping to fully white music. But the times hadn't changed. African Americans were marching for equal representation. A young, portly young lady, named Tracy Turnblatt decides she wants to buck the scene. She is not the standard of television beauty; and her friends are black. She was going to get on that show and shake everything down.
It was Waters at his best. It used the medium of film to carry a heavy message in a wave of comedic commentary.
The movie could have been iimrpoved on.
But some dancers and musicains saw tehree was a chance to improve. They made it into a musical in NYC in 2002. It was a hit. THe message was sstill there and still strong, but it was easier to digest. Now it was mixed in with the same ditty tunes that helped carry the message as the audience exited humming.
it was only a matter of time before a movie was made.
And it's a good one. For the same reasons as mentioned.
It is, quite possibly, the best movie of the summer. It is very hard to contain this movie. The smiles are broad on the actors as much as on the audience--ironic, considering the messsage--one about intergration and racisim. But I do believe, we, as a people laugh together better than fight.
And here is a bit of a movie to do it. No violence, no sex (however, a TON of inneundo) make for a movie that truly a whole family can attend.
It works, not only for the reasons above, but because the cast really are having a good time. You have John Travolta, in drag no less, practically screaming "watch this!"; you have terrific newcomer Nikki Blonscky celebrating her role with all the energy of a cheerleader on a pot of coffee. She's happy she got the role in the movie--dammit, we should be to.
And we are. I think of it of a friend who loves computers. The dude lives, breathes and eats PCs. He can talk about them forwards and backwards, perhaps even upside down. And he's so excited when he talks about them--you can help but be caught up--even if you don't know what the heck he's talking about.
Such is the strength of her performance. Such is the strength of the entire cast.
I loved it. It will become a guilty pleasure, that's for sure.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Movie Review: Ratatouille
Did you honestly think that I could write a bad review for a DisneyPixar release of any kind?
I didn't think you could.
But the fact is, I'm more than willing to admit that this is not one of their stronger releases.
There I said it! Ratatouille is not a strong Disney/Pixar release. Garsh that is cathartic. Now I don't want you to think that I went in specifically looking for a problem with this movie, for there is little wrong. It wasn’t as if I needed something wrong to point out the fallibility of this wunderkind studio.
It is a pretty cute little tale of a rodent named Remy with dreams of cooking at a great Parisian restaurant like Maxim's named Gasteau’s. He reads the books by the author and when the opportunity is afforded to him, he takes the chance to cook. Pretty simple—and what could be predicted by the trailers. The young rat finds a decent enough patsy, a quasi-nerd that just wants to succeed at something. The rodent uses the young man as a front to make his own dreams come true.
Now I said this is a good movie. Heck it sounds like it was tailored for someone like me--a great lover of delicious food. So we have a Disney movie AND a foodie movie. So, there, you have two biases, right next to each other. So any negative criticism takes on a new sort of importance.
The kind of movies Pixar makes are profoundly more mature then the audience tends to aim for when heading out to the matinee. Look at Toy Story 2. Toys being taken away to Tokyo for a musuem? What 9 year old is going to get that? Power problems in Monstropolis in Monsters Inc.? That doesn't go well in the single digit set.
And great cuisine created for a most difficult critic in all of Paris?
See? I loved the movie, but it just did not fit the definition of a good Disney film. Sure, the rodents are cute when alone; but when we are treated to them en masse, our brain immediately cuts to images unintentional-rats that carry fleas and the plague.
It is innate for all of us. It is like flinching when you see a snake. You might have no fear of them, but if one appears in your vision, you jolt.
Protagonist aside, there are some other drawbacks to this movie that distract from the fact that this is a Disney movie. Kitchens are serious places in my world. It is one locale. How do you make it funny for the tykes? The filmmakers add a series of slapstick moments where the rat manipulates the geek named Linquini into becoming the best chef in the world. Remy uses hair pulling to make the geek a total puppet and leads to some great, old-fashioned, silent-movie-reminding gags.
But it appears forced. The movie is still so top notch, it is like adding a fight scene in the middle of "Terms of Endearment." It may have worked on paper, but in execution, it is uneven.
Such is the whole movie. It is brought down by a being such a mature movie and a perspective that running around merely ‘enhances’ it’s story.
It hurts me as I write this. The filmmaker, Brad Bird, has a special place in my heart. He worked and created both the Iron Giant and Incredibles. Both are highly intelligent flicks and every moment is used as if it is supposed to be there.
These mistakes surprise me.
My guess is, I have recently learned, the film was abandoned for a period of time while Pixar ironed out their contract with Disney. This flaw shows. It shows because the rest of the film is so good. It was as if some teens were given the helm, added the silly 'puppet' sequences and by then, it was too late. They went ahead and edited what they could.
The main thing is Pixar tried. They really did. Who would have thought of an animated film about rats and cooking? It's brilliant in sheer audacity! And for me, that gives me home that these moviemakers will continue to make films that are creative and deep.
I didn't think you could.
But the fact is, I'm more than willing to admit that this is not one of their stronger releases.
There I said it! Ratatouille is not a strong Disney/Pixar release. Garsh that is cathartic. Now I don't want you to think that I went in specifically looking for a problem with this movie, for there is little wrong. It wasn’t as if I needed something wrong to point out the fallibility of this wunderkind studio.
It is a pretty cute little tale of a rodent named Remy with dreams of cooking at a great Parisian restaurant like Maxim's named Gasteau’s. He reads the books by the author and when the opportunity is afforded to him, he takes the chance to cook. Pretty simple—and what could be predicted by the trailers. The young rat finds a decent enough patsy, a quasi-nerd that just wants to succeed at something. The rodent uses the young man as a front to make his own dreams come true.
Now I said this is a good movie. Heck it sounds like it was tailored for someone like me--a great lover of delicious food. So we have a Disney movie AND a foodie movie. So, there, you have two biases, right next to each other. So any negative criticism takes on a new sort of importance.
The kind of movies Pixar makes are profoundly more mature then the audience tends to aim for when heading out to the matinee. Look at Toy Story 2. Toys being taken away to Tokyo for a musuem? What 9 year old is going to get that? Power problems in Monstropolis in Monsters Inc.? That doesn't go well in the single digit set.
And great cuisine created for a most difficult critic in all of Paris?
See? I loved the movie, but it just did not fit the definition of a good Disney film. Sure, the rodents are cute when alone; but when we are treated to them en masse, our brain immediately cuts to images unintentional-rats that carry fleas and the plague.
It is innate for all of us. It is like flinching when you see a snake. You might have no fear of them, but if one appears in your vision, you jolt.
Protagonist aside, there are some other drawbacks to this movie that distract from the fact that this is a Disney movie. Kitchens are serious places in my world. It is one locale. How do you make it funny for the tykes? The filmmakers add a series of slapstick moments where the rat manipulates the geek named Linquini into becoming the best chef in the world. Remy uses hair pulling to make the geek a total puppet and leads to some great, old-fashioned, silent-movie-reminding gags.
But it appears forced. The movie is still so top notch, it is like adding a fight scene in the middle of "Terms of Endearment." It may have worked on paper, but in execution, it is uneven.
Such is the whole movie. It is brought down by a being such a mature movie and a perspective that running around merely ‘enhances’ it’s story.
It hurts me as I write this. The filmmaker, Brad Bird, has a special place in my heart. He worked and created both the Iron Giant and Incredibles. Both are highly intelligent flicks and every moment is used as if it is supposed to be there.
These mistakes surprise me.
My guess is, I have recently learned, the film was abandoned for a period of time while Pixar ironed out their contract with Disney. This flaw shows. It shows because the rest of the film is so good. It was as if some teens were given the helm, added the silly 'puppet' sequences and by then, it was too late. They went ahead and edited what they could.
The main thing is Pixar tried. They really did. Who would have thought of an animated film about rats and cooking? It's brilliant in sheer audacity! And for me, that gives me home that these moviemakers will continue to make films that are creative and deep.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Journal Entry: Sunsets
My journal ideas said that a sunset is virtually impossible to describe. Guess what this story is about?
Hortie had always thought she would fall for a Deaf man. She knew it. She figured they would never tease her fro her weird sounding name; she knew they never would tell her that her singing was bad, even in the shower.
She never thought she would have fallen for a man who was blind. Robert Banks was everyone a single woman at her age would have hoped for. He had finished high school early, he played on the only sports team offered to him, goalball. He ran daily and read and spoke three different languages. He played the guiltar to calm himself on rainy days when the thunder confused him and made his dog anxious.
They worked together for a strong five years at the Deaf and Blind school in varying capacities. Working together was a bad description--they were separate buildings but their concerns and comrades were the same. They saw each other almost daily. She admired him and his drive.
She gave a small laugh when had asked her to 'see' a movie. The irony of the statment made him quip, "it's okay, I've used that pick-up line on several ladies and you were the first to get the joke."
She was smitten all of a sudden.
They datged off and on for several months when another rainstorm yelled across the Front Range. When the water stopped dropping, she stated she needed to get out and feel the cleaniness.
He had no idea, but since she was the only one who could drive, he concurred after a quick stop for warm coffees.
She found them a decent rock facing west high on the hill and smiled.
"You're smiling, it's good to hear," he mentioned.
"Haven't I been lately?"
"I think you might be asking the wrong person, don't cha think?"
Her smile broadened.
In the silence, she moved closer.
"It's sunset, your favorite time."
"It is."
"They say it's impossible to describe a sunset."
"I've heard that."
"Can you desribe it for me? I'd like to know why it's so important for you."
He sensed her tense. It was not out of fear of asking her to do something so esoteric. It was because she did not consider herself a poet.
She paused.
Then she put her arm around the blind boyfriend and pulled him tight to her.
"Thanks for doing that," he said,"I think I get it."
She did not let go until sometime later.
Hortie had always thought she would fall for a Deaf man. She knew it. She figured they would never tease her fro her weird sounding name; she knew they never would tell her that her singing was bad, even in the shower.
She never thought she would have fallen for a man who was blind. Robert Banks was everyone a single woman at her age would have hoped for. He had finished high school early, he played on the only sports team offered to him, goalball. He ran daily and read and spoke three different languages. He played the guiltar to calm himself on rainy days when the thunder confused him and made his dog anxious.
They worked together for a strong five years at the Deaf and Blind school in varying capacities. Working together was a bad description--they were separate buildings but their concerns and comrades were the same. They saw each other almost daily. She admired him and his drive.
She gave a small laugh when had asked her to 'see' a movie. The irony of the statment made him quip, "it's okay, I've used that pick-up line on several ladies and you were the first to get the joke."
She was smitten all of a sudden.
They datged off and on for several months when another rainstorm yelled across the Front Range. When the water stopped dropping, she stated she needed to get out and feel the cleaniness.
He had no idea, but since she was the only one who could drive, he concurred after a quick stop for warm coffees.
She found them a decent rock facing west high on the hill and smiled.
"You're smiling, it's good to hear," he mentioned.
"Haven't I been lately?"
"I think you might be asking the wrong person, don't cha think?"
Her smile broadened.
In the silence, she moved closer.
"It's sunset, your favorite time."
"It is."
"They say it's impossible to describe a sunset."
"I've heard that."
"Can you desribe it for me? I'd like to know why it's so important for you."
He sensed her tense. It was not out of fear of asking her to do something so esoteric. It was because she did not consider herself a poet.
She paused.
Then she put her arm around the blind boyfriend and pulled him tight to her.
"Thanks for doing that," he said,"I think I get it."
She did not let go until sometime later.
The BoogeyMan of Devil's Lake
More random fiction---unfinished and unedited. Whilst in spinning class--I heard the song, "I'm Your BoogeyMan" by KC and the Sunshine Band. This is the result.
Rob had finished driving a good two hours from Grand Forks into Devil’s Lake. He checked out bright and early from the Best Western, in hopes of beating any traffic out of that city. He realized as he greeted the roads that he was still stuck on several big city ways—there never was any traffic any where near Grand Forks.
But the early rising of unfamiliar surroundings of Eastern North Dakota did not fulfill his need for breakfast. He could have stopped in several of the truckers’ stops along the way, but he knew that many the roadsters were piloted by the husbands of the women in Devil’s Lake. He could not risk discovery from someone.
He arrived in the Lake shortly before ten am and felt it would be safe enough to hit only coffeehouse in area. He was normally there, however much earlier, on Saturday mornings.
The bells rang on the front door of the small parlour of the bistro. Every single face turned to look. Some waved at him, including some students.
One such student was working at the counter as both cashier and barista.
“Good morning Mr. Bryson! How was Grand Forks?”
“Um, good morning, Cherise. I’ll just go with my usual skinny mocha. You know how to make it the way I like it,” Rob explained.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” she took his money and looked down quickly.
“Thanks.”
Noises shrieked from the espresso machine and over the din, louder now, Cherise continued her line of questioning. Rob was not sure if she just couldn’t take a hint or thought there was an emergency.
“Did they take your manuscript?”
Seeing that she choose to pick the OBJECT in his arm and not the company he might have had (the large, juvenile, accidental hickie on his neck he would discover when he got home), he figured it alright to admit some travel.
“No, they didn’t. Wouldn’t even really look at it. How did you know?”
“I didn’t. But you are all dressed—not in your running garb. And Brian’s cousin works at the Best Western. Good choice. When we go for football games, that’s where we stay.”
Rob would have cursed under his breath had he not had an audience of students behind him. They were not watching outright, that came from experience, but they were listening, he would later discover.
“Was that one of your private tutor, I don’t know, what you’d,” the machine exhaled into Cherise’s face and caused her to step back. She began again, “Was that one of your private tutor, I don’t know, what you’d call a tutoree?”
“Mentoree? Yeah, he was. He was a mentoree. An old student now at UND,” he lied, “good kid, wanted to do better in his English course.”
“Sure he did. And you’re the best for that,” she said as she prepped the toppings on the coffee.
He could not tell if she believed him.
He fumed and left the café as fast as he could. His stomach whined some when he saw the donuts on display on the counter, but thought it would best to just leave and not give an opportunity for the conversation to be elaborated upon.
The internet is a wonderful thing. Rob knew exactly what he was getting to when he moved to this town. Some liked to lable it the halfway point between Bismarck and Grand Forks, but Rob knew better.
It was the entrance to small town hell.
Every single stereotype, the chatting, the nosy neighbors, all the things that kept the intellluctuals away--it was all true by this point, 3 school years later.
He selected the small town because it had what he needed and nothing else. In this land of internet connectivity, he knew he wouldn't be far from life, if the need surfaced. But he didn't want a life, at least, not when he moved her. Coming out of the closet was not the easiest of situations to deal with--his parents ignored the fact that he had two degrees but with Sum Cum Laude honors. They only saw him as filthyand wished nothing more of him in the Illnois outback. It wasn't much sooner afterward that his first love, his only physical love by that point decided, "let's just be friends."
It was time to grow up--and get away.
Devil's Lake was the answer. He knew no one there, they did not know him. He had little urge to slam back the closet door and lock it, so approached it all with an open mind.
It did not help.
When a person is seeing only the negative and only one hope to get out of it--well, one's glasses become a bit rosy. Rob was that way. The pay was terrific at the school he worked at; and outwardly, if he did not pay attention, no one said a word to him.
But in the silent stares and quiet of the supermarket, given nothing else to think about--he knew they were talking about him.
He could see their glances over the aisles. He could hear them when they felt him out of earshot.
He knew they stared at him and wondered. Not only if he was gay, but if he did things that they read about in magazines. Did he want to have sex with the football team, the basketball team (the first team he had ever seen that was all white) and the baseball team together.
He could not ignore them.
So he escaped them everyday.
Rob wrote. He wrote a journal, a blog, a myspace and several bulliten boards. Stories drifted out of him like his next breath.
Scary stories.
He knew better then to go to the public library with all the glances.
He did much shopping on the internet as well.
His most famous tale, the one that got him some noteraity, was a short one that was included in an anthology of the Year's Best Short Stories. It had dealt with a teacher who hated life so much that he sold himself out to the college he worked for--by blowing the place up violently.
He liked dragging it out and reading it again and again when the mood suited him.
Rob met Howie at the one YMCA housed in Devil's Lake. Rob hated glancing in the locker room. THe small town housed only old men who were not worth the time or his own high school students who might turn on him. That was why he williing glanced at Howie. He lived elsewhere, for his gym bag was a carry on from a recent flight that still had tags. That was evident.
That and the young man wore two bathing suits.
As the young man disrobed a mere two lockers from Rob, Rob realized that they were the only two there that evening. THe young man pulled two bathing suits out and put both on. One was torn and ripped and the brief was snug over the top. The layering caused Howie's rear to bulgde and it made Rob laugh to himself. The young man lived elsewhere and had strange habits.
Rob smiled the next day when he learned that Howie had come from UND in Grand Forks to intern in his colleague's classroom. The youth called Minneapolis home, his blonde hair a testament to his Norweign hertitage.
His swimming trunks belied the fact that he competed in triathleons all over the nation.
The rainbow on the back of Howie's car gave the rest of the information away. Rob dare not bring it up, but the students filled in the gaps with their gossips and looks. Rob knew more about Howie before meeting him then most people should.
Rob had finished driving a good two hours from Grand Forks into Devil’s Lake. He checked out bright and early from the Best Western, in hopes of beating any traffic out of that city. He realized as he greeted the roads that he was still stuck on several big city ways—there never was any traffic any where near Grand Forks.
But the early rising of unfamiliar surroundings of Eastern North Dakota did not fulfill his need for breakfast. He could have stopped in several of the truckers’ stops along the way, but he knew that many the roadsters were piloted by the husbands of the women in Devil’s Lake. He could not risk discovery from someone.
He arrived in the Lake shortly before ten am and felt it would be safe enough to hit only coffeehouse in area. He was normally there, however much earlier, on Saturday mornings.
The bells rang on the front door of the small parlour of the bistro. Every single face turned to look. Some waved at him, including some students.
One such student was working at the counter as both cashier and barista.
“Good morning Mr. Bryson! How was Grand Forks?”
“Um, good morning, Cherise. I’ll just go with my usual skinny mocha. You know how to make it the way I like it,” Rob explained.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” she took his money and looked down quickly.
“Thanks.”
Noises shrieked from the espresso machine and over the din, louder now, Cherise continued her line of questioning. Rob was not sure if she just couldn’t take a hint or thought there was an emergency.
“Did they take your manuscript?”
Seeing that she choose to pick the OBJECT in his arm and not the company he might have had (the large, juvenile, accidental hickie on his neck he would discover when he got home), he figured it alright to admit some travel.
“No, they didn’t. Wouldn’t even really look at it. How did you know?”
“I didn’t. But you are all dressed—not in your running garb. And Brian’s cousin works at the Best Western. Good choice. When we go for football games, that’s where we stay.”
Rob would have cursed under his breath had he not had an audience of students behind him. They were not watching outright, that came from experience, but they were listening, he would later discover.
“Was that one of your private tutor, I don’t know, what you’d,” the machine exhaled into Cherise’s face and caused her to step back. She began again, “Was that one of your private tutor, I don’t know, what you’d call a tutoree?”
“Mentoree? Yeah, he was. He was a mentoree. An old student now at UND,” he lied, “good kid, wanted to do better in his English course.”
“Sure he did. And you’re the best for that,” she said as she prepped the toppings on the coffee.
He could not tell if she believed him.
He fumed and left the café as fast as he could. His stomach whined some when he saw the donuts on display on the counter, but thought it would best to just leave and not give an opportunity for the conversation to be elaborated upon.
The internet is a wonderful thing. Rob knew exactly what he was getting to when he moved to this town. Some liked to lable it the halfway point between Bismarck and Grand Forks, but Rob knew better.
It was the entrance to small town hell.
Every single stereotype, the chatting, the nosy neighbors, all the things that kept the intellluctuals away--it was all true by this point, 3 school years later.
He selected the small town because it had what he needed and nothing else. In this land of internet connectivity, he knew he wouldn't be far from life, if the need surfaced. But he didn't want a life, at least, not when he moved her. Coming out of the closet was not the easiest of situations to deal with--his parents ignored the fact that he had two degrees but with Sum Cum Laude honors. They only saw him as filthyand wished nothing more of him in the Illnois outback. It wasn't much sooner afterward that his first love, his only physical love by that point decided, "let's just be friends."
It was time to grow up--and get away.
Devil's Lake was the answer. He knew no one there, they did not know him. He had little urge to slam back the closet door and lock it, so approached it all with an open mind.
It did not help.
When a person is seeing only the negative and only one hope to get out of it--well, one's glasses become a bit rosy. Rob was that way. The pay was terrific at the school he worked at; and outwardly, if he did not pay attention, no one said a word to him.
But in the silent stares and quiet of the supermarket, given nothing else to think about--he knew they were talking about him.
He could see their glances over the aisles. He could hear them when they felt him out of earshot.
He knew they stared at him and wondered. Not only if he was gay, but if he did things that they read about in magazines. Did he want to have sex with the football team, the basketball team (the first team he had ever seen that was all white) and the baseball team together.
He could not ignore them.
So he escaped them everyday.
Rob wrote. He wrote a journal, a blog, a myspace and several bulliten boards. Stories drifted out of him like his next breath.
Scary stories.
He knew better then to go to the public library with all the glances.
He did much shopping on the internet as well.
His most famous tale, the one that got him some noteraity, was a short one that was included in an anthology of the Year's Best Short Stories. It had dealt with a teacher who hated life so much that he sold himself out to the college he worked for--by blowing the place up violently.
He liked dragging it out and reading it again and again when the mood suited him.
Rob met Howie at the one YMCA housed in Devil's Lake. Rob hated glancing in the locker room. THe small town housed only old men who were not worth the time or his own high school students who might turn on him. That was why he williing glanced at Howie. He lived elsewhere, for his gym bag was a carry on from a recent flight that still had tags. That was evident.
That and the young man wore two bathing suits.
As the young man disrobed a mere two lockers from Rob, Rob realized that they were the only two there that evening. THe young man pulled two bathing suits out and put both on. One was torn and ripped and the brief was snug over the top. The layering caused Howie's rear to bulgde and it made Rob laugh to himself. The young man lived elsewhere and had strange habits.
Rob smiled the next day when he learned that Howie had come from UND in Grand Forks to intern in his colleague's classroom. The youth called Minneapolis home, his blonde hair a testament to his Norweign hertitage.
His swimming trunks belied the fact that he competed in triathleons all over the nation.
The rainbow on the back of Howie's car gave the rest of the information away. Rob dare not bring it up, but the students filled in the gaps with their gossips and looks. Rob knew more about Howie before meeting him then most people should.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Movie Review: Transformers
Have you ever heard of a melodrama?
In the olden days of the Wild West, they were theatre for masses. Storylines bordered complex, but the presentation was kept juvenile enough that a man, drunk off his butt could come in and get the story midstream. They were the purest form of entertainment--really hard work for sophisticated actors to take a great idea and whittle it down into something a general audience could digest.
I think I just saw a melodrama.
Transformers is what Pirates of Caribean should have been; it is what all summer movies really should become. I felt like I was in a drive-in.
Micheal Bay, for some reason, is continulally given this big budget pictures for really crappy movies. Armaggedon? Crap. Pearl Harbor? Historical crap.
Sure, both movies had their moments. They seamlessly combined top-of-the-line special effects with actors and kept your jaw on the floor and your head spinning.
Depth? That was down the hall at the art theatre. Mr. Bay wants explosions, lotsa, lotsa explosions.
So I had very little hope for this movie going in. Growing up, my mother subjected me to fifties movies of her youth. Now I'm becoming the adult and now I've got my precious 80's, of which the famed "Transformers" cartoon and toy were born of.
My turn. My partner's turn. Now we can look back at the happy times. That's why we went to see this movie.
But something happened.
Seems that Mr. Bay's childish style of moviemaking worked here much better. The simpler plot, the lack of depth worked to his benefit.
And kept those explosions.
I could go on about the plot, but if you've read the poster, you pretty much got what's going on. An alien race with the ability to mimic machinary brings their war down here.
Simple. Now have the good aliens and the bad aliens fight. Alot.
Explode things.
Folks, as I reread this, I may be sounding very angry at this movie. It's not bad at all. Just simple. And violent.
I'd like to call the robots themselves "eye-candy" but that would not do these amazing behemoths service. They are indeed huge robots with all the guts of a car or truck hanging from one place or another.
They are more like "eye-heroin."
You cannot take your eyes off the screen. The camera in the older days would be static and the special effects would be brought out to you like a good stiff drink. Here? Director Bay moves the camera like a photojournalist in war, giving glimpses of these huge monstrosties in the environment. They fight, they scream and, truly, it is amazing.
What is also amazing is a young Shia LaBouf. Far from the usual teen pinups who use their looks to gain fame, he has cut his teeth with growing up in the business. He is given very little to do with the movie (actors are merely something to watch between special effects sequences in Bay's movies) but you can't take your eyes off of him. He is the kind of kid you met at some party and just knew he was clean-cut enough to accomplish something in his life. That drive is right there on the screen. I want to see him do more.
Yes, he suffers from the 'ugly' theory I once proposed. That the uglier the actor, the better the performance. Don't believe me? Look at Forrest Whittaker as Adi Imin in THe Last King of Scotland. The man is very definition of excellent.
Shia is not exactly Playgirl material.
And we may never see him again because he doesn't have the 'leading man' qualities of Leo DiCaprio or Daniel Craig.
Tis a pity.
I hope this doesn't happen to young Shia.
I hope, also, you might take the time to visit this movie. It isn't a sequel. You might enjoy the noise. There is no commitment. You will truly have a good time.
In the olden days of the Wild West, they were theatre for masses. Storylines bordered complex, but the presentation was kept juvenile enough that a man, drunk off his butt could come in and get the story midstream. They were the purest form of entertainment--really hard work for sophisticated actors to take a great idea and whittle it down into something a general audience could digest.
I think I just saw a melodrama.
Transformers is what Pirates of Caribean should have been; it is what all summer movies really should become. I felt like I was in a drive-in.
Micheal Bay, for some reason, is continulally given this big budget pictures for really crappy movies. Armaggedon? Crap. Pearl Harbor? Historical crap.
Sure, both movies had their moments. They seamlessly combined top-of-the-line special effects with actors and kept your jaw on the floor and your head spinning.
Depth? That was down the hall at the art theatre. Mr. Bay wants explosions, lotsa, lotsa explosions.
So I had very little hope for this movie going in. Growing up, my mother subjected me to fifties movies of her youth. Now I'm becoming the adult and now I've got my precious 80's, of which the famed "Transformers" cartoon and toy were born of.
My turn. My partner's turn. Now we can look back at the happy times. That's why we went to see this movie.
But something happened.
Seems that Mr. Bay's childish style of moviemaking worked here much better. The simpler plot, the lack of depth worked to his benefit.
And kept those explosions.
I could go on about the plot, but if you've read the poster, you pretty much got what's going on. An alien race with the ability to mimic machinary brings their war down here.
Simple. Now have the good aliens and the bad aliens fight. Alot.
Explode things.
Folks, as I reread this, I may be sounding very angry at this movie. It's not bad at all. Just simple. And violent.
I'd like to call the robots themselves "eye-candy" but that would not do these amazing behemoths service. They are indeed huge robots with all the guts of a car or truck hanging from one place or another.
They are more like "eye-heroin."
You cannot take your eyes off the screen. The camera in the older days would be static and the special effects would be brought out to you like a good stiff drink. Here? Director Bay moves the camera like a photojournalist in war, giving glimpses of these huge monstrosties in the environment. They fight, they scream and, truly, it is amazing.
What is also amazing is a young Shia LaBouf. Far from the usual teen pinups who use their looks to gain fame, he has cut his teeth with growing up in the business. He is given very little to do with the movie (actors are merely something to watch between special effects sequences in Bay's movies) but you can't take your eyes off of him. He is the kind of kid you met at some party and just knew he was clean-cut enough to accomplish something in his life. That drive is right there on the screen. I want to see him do more.
Yes, he suffers from the 'ugly' theory I once proposed. That the uglier the actor, the better the performance. Don't believe me? Look at Forrest Whittaker as Adi Imin in THe Last King of Scotland. The man is very definition of excellent.
Shia is not exactly Playgirl material.
And we may never see him again because he doesn't have the 'leading man' qualities of Leo DiCaprio or Daniel Craig.
Tis a pity.
I hope this doesn't happen to young Shia.
I hope, also, you might take the time to visit this movie. It isn't a sequel. You might enjoy the noise. There is no commitment. You will truly have a good time.
Movie Review: Team America-World Police
Suppose they told a joke and no one laughed?
That's what happened to me, I mean, was I the only one in on the joke? I knew that my fellow Coloradoans, Matt Stone and Trey Parker are notoroius for terrific satire, labblasting everything from themselves to the world-at-large. You grow to expect it from the creators of South Park.
In fact, it is one of the few comedies I'm willing to watch. I know, I suppose I could have seen Team America: World Police in the movies--but it was released in that nadir of cinema, springtime. .The place where movies in search of a Very Specific Audience are wont to go.
This is actually a decent movie. Now I didn't say good. For it is really a one note joke. And if you get it, it all kinda goes down from there. And if you don't get it, you'll think it is very, very weird.
The entire movie is told in puppets. Big marionettes like they used to have on the early seventies television kids' programs, you know, "the Thunderbirds." In it, terrorists are about to lay seige to all the worlds' delegations and so a special counter-terrorist team is activated to get to them first.
But here is the joke.
Look at the title again. "World Police." Since when did America become the police to world? Never has, but, for some reason, the politicos like to think so. It gives them reign to invade small countries with oil.
So we are sent around the world to beat up terrorists. Now the terrorists are another joke in this movie. See...they are never named. Just like the Republicans highjakcing the term to inspire fear in voters ("if you vote for us--the terrorists will never win!"), the villains in this movies are just merely called the terrorists. At one point, the leader of North Korea becomes the bad guy.
Just as disturbing as the real world.
The lamblasting continues with making fun of peace loving actors who feel they have something to say about world events; to comments that action is really just a bunch of explosions.
But no one seems to get the joke here. The movie flopped.
Which explains why Bush was elected, I suppose.
I give these two full credit--South Park and this little movie show two men with a ton of talent and commentary. I think I might chaulk them up to the 'why aren't they more famous?' line.
And the movie?
If you have no idea about what I've said here, well, I doubt you would enjoy it. If you are one to find fault in the currect polictcal climate, then maybe you might get the joke. I know I laughed.
And I don't like comedies.
That's what happened to me, I mean, was I the only one in on the joke? I knew that my fellow Coloradoans, Matt Stone and Trey Parker are notoroius for terrific satire, labblasting everything from themselves to the world-at-large. You grow to expect it from the creators of South Park.
In fact, it is one of the few comedies I'm willing to watch. I know, I suppose I could have seen Team America: World Police in the movies--but it was released in that nadir of cinema, springtime. .The place where movies in search of a Very Specific Audience are wont to go.
This is actually a decent movie. Now I didn't say good. For it is really a one note joke. And if you get it, it all kinda goes down from there. And if you don't get it, you'll think it is very, very weird.
The entire movie is told in puppets. Big marionettes like they used to have on the early seventies television kids' programs, you know, "the Thunderbirds." In it, terrorists are about to lay seige to all the worlds' delegations and so a special counter-terrorist team is activated to get to them first.
But here is the joke.
Look at the title again. "World Police." Since when did America become the police to world? Never has, but, for some reason, the politicos like to think so. It gives them reign to invade small countries with oil.
So we are sent around the world to beat up terrorists. Now the terrorists are another joke in this movie. See...they are never named. Just like the Republicans highjakcing the term to inspire fear in voters ("if you vote for us--the terrorists will never win!"), the villains in this movies are just merely called the terrorists. At one point, the leader of North Korea becomes the bad guy.
Just as disturbing as the real world.
The lamblasting continues with making fun of peace loving actors who feel they have something to say about world events; to comments that action is really just a bunch of explosions.
But no one seems to get the joke here. The movie flopped.
Which explains why Bush was elected, I suppose.
I give these two full credit--South Park and this little movie show two men with a ton of talent and commentary. I think I might chaulk them up to the 'why aren't they more famous?' line.
And the movie?
If you have no idea about what I've said here, well, I doubt you would enjoy it. If you are one to find fault in the currect polictcal climate, then maybe you might get the joke. I know I laughed.
And I don't like comedies.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Final Segment: The Visitor
He observed, unconsciously, the face of his colleague before him. It smirked some, then became furrowed in a deeper thought. At first, I thought the youth was just copying my face in jest, but then I realized.
He was imaging my thoughts. Reading them, if youwill.
My heart returned it a heavy rhythm fueled by anger and intrigue. The monster in front of me was readying my mind.
I mimmediately tried to remember the feelings I had when I was in yoga class, or in meditation. Empty, empty, empty. But my heart, retched into a position upon my aunt's passing, was taking power over the rational mind. I held an image in my head of a jet black playing card--hoping that this would be a ticket to freedom.
"It won't work, Gary, it won't work. It's okay. Look, I know you have a schedule to keep, as do I. But I need to speak to you, I really do. Do you mind stepping downstairs?" The young man stretched as if his yard work had taken it's toll on his spine. I made a pop and I heard it and my eyes were lift from his smooth face to the edge of his shorts--where a small patch of fur and stomach were suddenly revealed.
I swallowed hard, shook my head and looked back to my aunt lying behind me.
A chill ran down my spine.
It was joined by tears.
I guess there is no better way to go, I mean, lying in your own bed, most likely asleep, with comfort and smells of all that makes you happy. Uncle Jack's photo sat beyond her, a big smile blessing his face of a time, I have no idea when, long ago when she cracked a joke and he laughed--and she snapped the picture.
I looked to her eyelids and wondered what she saw now beyond the stressors that had revaged her for so long.
But reality bit into me like a mosquito--was he making me think these things?
I turned to found that he had left to the top of the stairs.
"I cannot ease your pain, Gary, that is something mortals fight alone and for different reasons."
"Whatever. Please don't try to console me, you murderer," the statement was ill-suited to the company and was made on impulse. The youth nodded his head down, as if ashamed.
He had stopped sweating, but his t-shirt was damp and clung to his chest. He did not breathe.
"Please, come with me."
"Willingly? Not on your life!" I stood and approached the door, pulling me close enough to see the freckles on his upper arms. I held a hand up to the door frame.
He laughed.
"I hate to have to say this, but do you think you can beat something like me?" He raised his eyebrow.
I laughed to myself and my momentary vanity. "No, actually, I guess not, but I'd rather perish in a fighting."
He laughed to himself as well. "Oh you will, trust me," and with a smile he walked down the stairs. His humor must have been borne, for he yelled up, "don't worry, you can visit with her moreso later--she's not going anywhere."
On the drive home after this event, I would think this statement terribly rude. But I had forgotten he was imaged to me as a child, a teen rather, perhaps a young adult. I laughed only becaused I needed it more than anything else.
I entered the living room unsure what to expect and, at this point, too sad to really care.
He sat on the couch, almost feline in appearance.
"Before I left, when encounters like this tend to happen, I'd like to ask a simple question."
I nodded, afraid if I opened my mouth again I'd begin to weep over my loss
"What do I look like to you?"
I furrowed my brow and thought about it. I provided a description of a young man, thin and brisk, covered in sweat.
"Why?"
"I appear differently to different people. I was just wondering. You know Gary, I never forgot you."
"Huh?"
"You remember a few months back? When you discovered your partner was leaving for a coworker? When you sat there, alone, that Saturday night? You had given up on weeping and you thought about, well, you thought about, you didn't want this world any more?"
My jaw went slack. Again, I felt violated, removed from my comfort zone with the reealization that I had been watched during a horible crisis. But it was not as huge of an issue now for some reason--most likely due to his interventiion.
The feeling escaped quickly and then I began to weep when I realized what he was saying.
"You were very lonely. You went beyond the human emotion to stay around. You thought about..."
"...my partner's gun lying upstairs beside the bed."
"I asked permission..."
"...permission?"
"Permission to comfort you."
I realized, just as my emotions seemed beyond me now, that night, they also escaped any rational thought.
"You made me look this way."
I turned to leave the stranger behind, finding that this rush of information was not what I came here for. I had just wanted to visit with my Aunt during this lonely time--knowing what she was going through in part.
I did not want this.
The visitor stood and walked over to me. Normally I refused to be touched, I had not been raised to be so touchy and feely. But I did not wince. I did not hold back, deciding that fate was, by far, stronger than anything right now. He leaned forward and hugged me. He stepped back, letting his hands rise to my neck and the back of my head.
His eyes were a blue I had never seen before or since.
He smiled and leaned forward again and kissed me.
I closed my eyes.
When they opened, he smiled and stepped backwards towards the back of the house. He reached down to the coffee table and picked up my aunt’s cordless phone and held it out to me as if it were a gift.
“This should work now. They won’t bother you and will totally understand.”
“They?” My throat shook and the word came out differently then expected.
He smiled again and stretched and yawned, as if ready for a nap. The t-shirt pulled up at his waistline and exposed his white skin underneath.
He turned to leave, I suspected, out the back door. He stopped as if I had said something; thought something.
He looked over at me one final time and smiled.
“It will be some time before I see you. Please, know, you have a purpose you have yet to fulfill.”
I did not hear the backdoor close, let alone open. I called the nearest hospital and wept.
He was imaging my thoughts. Reading them, if youwill.
My heart returned it a heavy rhythm fueled by anger and intrigue. The monster in front of me was readying my mind.
I mimmediately tried to remember the feelings I had when I was in yoga class, or in meditation. Empty, empty, empty. But my heart, retched into a position upon my aunt's passing, was taking power over the rational mind. I held an image in my head of a jet black playing card--hoping that this would be a ticket to freedom.
"It won't work, Gary, it won't work. It's okay. Look, I know you have a schedule to keep, as do I. But I need to speak to you, I really do. Do you mind stepping downstairs?" The young man stretched as if his yard work had taken it's toll on his spine. I made a pop and I heard it and my eyes were lift from his smooth face to the edge of his shorts--where a small patch of fur and stomach were suddenly revealed.
I swallowed hard, shook my head and looked back to my aunt lying behind me.
A chill ran down my spine.
It was joined by tears.
I guess there is no better way to go, I mean, lying in your own bed, most likely asleep, with comfort and smells of all that makes you happy. Uncle Jack's photo sat beyond her, a big smile blessing his face of a time, I have no idea when, long ago when she cracked a joke and he laughed--and she snapped the picture.
I looked to her eyelids and wondered what she saw now beyond the stressors that had revaged her for so long.
But reality bit into me like a mosquito--was he making me think these things?
I turned to found that he had left to the top of the stairs.
"I cannot ease your pain, Gary, that is something mortals fight alone and for different reasons."
"Whatever. Please don't try to console me, you murderer," the statement was ill-suited to the company and was made on impulse. The youth nodded his head down, as if ashamed.
He had stopped sweating, but his t-shirt was damp and clung to his chest. He did not breathe.
"Please, come with me."
"Willingly? Not on your life!" I stood and approached the door, pulling me close enough to see the freckles on his upper arms. I held a hand up to the door frame.
He laughed.
"I hate to have to say this, but do you think you can beat something like me?" He raised his eyebrow.
I laughed to myself and my momentary vanity. "No, actually, I guess not, but I'd rather perish in a fighting."
He laughed to himself as well. "Oh you will, trust me," and with a smile he walked down the stairs. His humor must have been borne, for he yelled up, "don't worry, you can visit with her moreso later--she's not going anywhere."
On the drive home after this event, I would think this statement terribly rude. But I had forgotten he was imaged to me as a child, a teen rather, perhaps a young adult. I laughed only becaused I needed it more than anything else.
I entered the living room unsure what to expect and, at this point, too sad to really care.
He sat on the couch, almost feline in appearance.
"Before I left, when encounters like this tend to happen, I'd like to ask a simple question."
I nodded, afraid if I opened my mouth again I'd begin to weep over my loss
"What do I look like to you?"
I furrowed my brow and thought about it. I provided a description of a young man, thin and brisk, covered in sweat.
"Why?"
"I appear differently to different people. I was just wondering. You know Gary, I never forgot you."
"Huh?"
"You remember a few months back? When you discovered your partner was leaving for a coworker? When you sat there, alone, that Saturday night? You had given up on weeping and you thought about, well, you thought about, you didn't want this world any more?"
My jaw went slack. Again, I felt violated, removed from my comfort zone with the reealization that I had been watched during a horible crisis. But it was not as huge of an issue now for some reason--most likely due to his interventiion.
The feeling escaped quickly and then I began to weep when I realized what he was saying.
"You were very lonely. You went beyond the human emotion to stay around. You thought about..."
"...my partner's gun lying upstairs beside the bed."
"I asked permission..."
"...permission?"
"Permission to comfort you."
I realized, just as my emotions seemed beyond me now, that night, they also escaped any rational thought.
"You made me look this way."
I turned to leave the stranger behind, finding that this rush of information was not what I came here for. I had just wanted to visit with my Aunt during this lonely time--knowing what she was going through in part.
I did not want this.
The visitor stood and walked over to me. Normally I refused to be touched, I had not been raised to be so touchy and feely. But I did not wince. I did not hold back, deciding that fate was, by far, stronger than anything right now. He leaned forward and hugged me. He stepped back, letting his hands rise to my neck and the back of my head.
His eyes were a blue I had never seen before or since.
He smiled and leaned forward again and kissed me.
I closed my eyes.
When they opened, he smiled and stepped backwards towards the back of the house. He reached down to the coffee table and picked up my aunt’s cordless phone and held it out to me as if it were a gift.
“This should work now. They won’t bother you and will totally understand.”
“They?” My throat shook and the word came out differently then expected.
He smiled again and stretched and yawned, as if ready for a nap. The t-shirt pulled up at his waistline and exposed his white skin underneath.
He turned to leave, I suspected, out the back door. He stopped as if I had said something; thought something.
He looked over at me one final time and smiled.
“It will be some time before I see you. Please, know, you have a purpose you have yet to fulfill.”
I did not hear the backdoor close, let alone open. I called the nearest hospital and wept.
Movie Review: Ghost Rider
I gave up watching videos because I worked at a video store and had seen everything.
I started working at a movie theatre, for I wanted to see more movies.
I got rid of my NetFlix, for I got to see everything I wanted.
Then there was Ghost Rider. I wasn't renting movies, but for any readers of my blog know, this is a genre of film that my partner and I adore and love to abhor--super hero movies. Growing up the geeks we are, this style of film became popular just as our life started together.
Then there was the evitable fallout. Too much of a good thing, they say, brings about sequels and bad movies.
Bowing to the almighty dollar the studios knew they had something in those Spiderman and X-Men titles. People were lining up to buy tickets.
Worse, actors, especially male actors, have always wanted to done a cape and fly.
Heck, it is the motivation to why my better half and I can donate 15 hours a week to City of Heroes. For an hour every night, we can put on (digital) costumes and fly about saving the world from unhinged evil. No tight underpants; no strange looks.
Ghost Rider starts Nick Cage, who was once promised to be Superman in Superman Returns--especially if comedic wunderkind Kevin Smith was going to take the helm. Kevin got smart--he makes comedies and heroes of a different sort, even if he is a comic book fanboy. But Cage must have been hurt--for someone green lighted it.
Shakespeare once asked us to "suspend disbelief." In that, we need to pause our thinking, critical minds and actually sit back and give the show a chance. I’m more then willing. I knew Pirates 3 was bad, but I still wanted to watch. But Ghost Rider is such a glaringly bad picture; the holes in plot and filmmaking are as glaring as an open wound. Think of it as driving by a particularly bad car wreck. You don’t want to slow down; you hope the body isn’t close to your lane. But as soon as you drive past *poof* you slow down and gander.
Certainly the tale isn’t very original. Devil finds a patsy willing to make a deal for his dying father’s life—you know, the selling souls bit. Yeah, you’ve not heard that one, have you. At what point are people going to learn this is a stunt by the Devil and the payoff has yet to be successful? Anyhow, Johnny Blaze signs the papers and gains immortality. See, the Devil has other purposes for him and need to keep him alive.
Now what part of inspired casting does show up here—Peter Fonda as the Devil. Think about it. He started motorcycle anti-establishment craze with his friend Jack Nicholson in Easy Rider. Now he’s the Devil with a Harley. Works for me.
But it can’t sustain me for an hour and half.
So Johnny becomes the Devil’s pet and get to collect souls that are ready to head to hell. Now they are already bad, so I guess Blaze doesn’t have a problem. Of course, the Devil has been collecting souls for eons, one would wonder why he would need help—so to remove this problem, it seems Evil’s son is attempting a coup de grace over his father with the help of some other demons.
Okay, I’ll buy that. Evil becoming just like his dad, let’s give him come credit.
Now comes the McGuffin—several souls have signed a paper in blood in exchange for something. We don’t know what, but the paper exists. And the previous ‘Rider’ hid said paper to make sure the Devil would never gain its power.
So immortality and absolute ability to bend the world to evil existence needs MORE power?
And that the previous “Rider” hid the paper somewhere in a cemetery, so the Devil can’t reach it.
Ah, huh? Isn’t the cemetery like a supermarket for evil and soul collecting?
And you are beginning to see—the problems of this movie begin to pile up, one on another and bring the title down by sheer weight.
Worse, there’s no sense of fun at all. Early, Cage uses his gift for comedy briefly and I sighed, hoping that his laughter could turn this movie into something slightly more light. No can do. He also becomes all Serious with Righteousness and begins to hammer more nails into the coffin of this movie.
Too often then not, we critics slam the movie but offer precious little advice to how to avoid all of these pitfalls in a storyline. Well, here’s my idea for this movie. Sure, keep the signing of the contract with the Devil but have him not always cheating death, but instead doing quite well. Have him an avid church-goer trying to cleanse himself of sins left and right. Have him donating thousands to children.
Finally, disaster happens and Blaze finds himself on death’s door.
The Devil finally arrives.
I need you to get a particularly bad soul for me.
Seems there’s a horrid, evil killer who the police have shot at and various others have tried to stop.
Ghost Rider tries but also cannot get to him.
So it begins—seems that special soul is actually Evil’s son.
See? Wasn’t that more interesting? I think so. I’d go see it.
I started working at a movie theatre, for I wanted to see more movies.
I got rid of my NetFlix, for I got to see everything I wanted.
Then there was Ghost Rider. I wasn't renting movies, but for any readers of my blog know, this is a genre of film that my partner and I adore and love to abhor--super hero movies. Growing up the geeks we are, this style of film became popular just as our life started together.
Then there was the evitable fallout. Too much of a good thing, they say, brings about sequels and bad movies.
Bowing to the almighty dollar the studios knew they had something in those Spiderman and X-Men titles. People were lining up to buy tickets.
Worse, actors, especially male actors, have always wanted to done a cape and fly.
Heck, it is the motivation to why my better half and I can donate 15 hours a week to City of Heroes. For an hour every night, we can put on (digital) costumes and fly about saving the world from unhinged evil. No tight underpants; no strange looks.
Ghost Rider starts Nick Cage, who was once promised to be Superman in Superman Returns--especially if comedic wunderkind Kevin Smith was going to take the helm. Kevin got smart--he makes comedies and heroes of a different sort, even if he is a comic book fanboy. But Cage must have been hurt--for someone green lighted it.
Shakespeare once asked us to "suspend disbelief." In that, we need to pause our thinking, critical minds and actually sit back and give the show a chance. I’m more then willing. I knew Pirates 3 was bad, but I still wanted to watch. But Ghost Rider is such a glaringly bad picture; the holes in plot and filmmaking are as glaring as an open wound. Think of it as driving by a particularly bad car wreck. You don’t want to slow down; you hope the body isn’t close to your lane. But as soon as you drive past *poof* you slow down and gander.
Certainly the tale isn’t very original. Devil finds a patsy willing to make a deal for his dying father’s life—you know, the selling souls bit. Yeah, you’ve not heard that one, have you. At what point are people going to learn this is a stunt by the Devil and the payoff has yet to be successful? Anyhow, Johnny Blaze signs the papers and gains immortality. See, the Devil has other purposes for him and need to keep him alive.
Now what part of inspired casting does show up here—Peter Fonda as the Devil. Think about it. He started motorcycle anti-establishment craze with his friend Jack Nicholson in Easy Rider. Now he’s the Devil with a Harley. Works for me.
But it can’t sustain me for an hour and half.
So Johnny becomes the Devil’s pet and get to collect souls that are ready to head to hell. Now they are already bad, so I guess Blaze doesn’t have a problem. Of course, the Devil has been collecting souls for eons, one would wonder why he would need help—so to remove this problem, it seems Evil’s son is attempting a coup de grace over his father with the help of some other demons.
Okay, I’ll buy that. Evil becoming just like his dad, let’s give him come credit.
Now comes the McGuffin—several souls have signed a paper in blood in exchange for something. We don’t know what, but the paper exists. And the previous ‘Rider’ hid said paper to make sure the Devil would never gain its power.
So immortality and absolute ability to bend the world to evil existence needs MORE power?
And that the previous “Rider” hid the paper somewhere in a cemetery, so the Devil can’t reach it.
Ah, huh? Isn’t the cemetery like a supermarket for evil and soul collecting?
And you are beginning to see—the problems of this movie begin to pile up, one on another and bring the title down by sheer weight.
Worse, there’s no sense of fun at all. Early, Cage uses his gift for comedy briefly and I sighed, hoping that his laughter could turn this movie into something slightly more light. No can do. He also becomes all Serious with Righteousness and begins to hammer more nails into the coffin of this movie.
Too often then not, we critics slam the movie but offer precious little advice to how to avoid all of these pitfalls in a storyline. Well, here’s my idea for this movie. Sure, keep the signing of the contract with the Devil but have him not always cheating death, but instead doing quite well. Have him an avid church-goer trying to cleanse himself of sins left and right. Have him donating thousands to children.
Finally, disaster happens and Blaze finds himself on death’s door.
The Devil finally arrives.
I need you to get a particularly bad soul for me.
Seems there’s a horrid, evil killer who the police have shot at and various others have tried to stop.
Ghost Rider tries but also cannot get to him.
So it begins—seems that special soul is actually Evil’s son.
See? Wasn’t that more interesting? I think so. I’d go see it.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Continuation from a previous fictional posting--"The Visitor"
My heart began to pound in chest and I felt a pain in the front of my throat. I had to see my aunt. I knew there was little I could do at this point to protect mysel from the stranger--other than give him a very wide berth.
So I fled to the stairs beyond him. Leaving him behind.
As I passed him, and I cannot ever forget this, he did not move, but I caught his personal aroma. He smelled of sweat, that was evident, but my brain, in that gleemin moment, caught a sweeter smell. I would later use the word 'flowers, but I realized that wasn't the case. I only grasped 'flowers' becuase of his look of a greensman. I guess I could say 'honey' or 'sugar' and have the same idea.
I glanced over my shoulder but all I remember was the sunlight hitting his sweat and shining at me as I took the stairs two by two. I was panting before I started the dash.
At the top of the stairs, I saw that my aunt's bedroom door was open slightly.
"Aunt GRACIE! GRACIE!" I howled, boosted by my pounding chest. I guess I had hoped that someone next door would have heard and called someone or, at the very least, my visitor downstairs would vacate realizning my occuring anger.
"Aunt Gracie, Aunt Gracie, Aunt Gracie," I chanted into the room throwing up the door, making a mark on the far wall.
She looked asleep, as the cliche as says, but it works for this moment. I exhaled sharply using the moment of hope to stablize myself. I'm sure my armpits were glistening with sweat from the bolt up the stairs with a tie on, I do recall some sweat clogging around my collar.
I seated myself gently to her left in direct contrast to my anger and nerves from outside. I looked again to the door.
The stranger had not followed me.
I looked back to my Aunt. Her oxygen was across the bed from me, out of reach, but it was on.
But she was not breathing.
I realized then someone had entered the room behind me. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I turned to face him, thinking of what I could grab to hit him with.
"It's okay, Gary, you know it is okay. She's better now. I know she is."
"She didn't, who, the heck..." I felt a surge go into my head, a thought of reason in this moment of madness.
I realized the young man was no human at all.
My heart, having slowed down some, sped back up. I'm sure something registered on my face for he smiled the face of recognition.
I stood up slowly and permitted myself a glance at my Aunt. My new friend might be on to me should I allow my thoughts to waver in any manner. I've no idea if he could read minds, throw fire or grow fangs.
Strangely, as frightened as I was, I did not want to leave the area. His presence equated an intrusion on my family and, no matter what form, it was not to be accepted. I willed up the courage to speak to the fetch before me.
"Leave. Disappear. Do whatever it is you do. I have no need of you. She has no need of you-:"
"-now," he finished my sentence.
I closed my eyes slowly and thought of what I would have to do next to survive the next few minutes.Not that it mattered. An inventory came up in my brain. What was I running home for? To feed a dog--a dog that could easily live in my friend's home with his canines. To my friends? They all had jobs and partners, what need would my existence continue for them?
So I fled to the stairs beyond him. Leaving him behind.
As I passed him, and I cannot ever forget this, he did not move, but I caught his personal aroma. He smelled of sweat, that was evident, but my brain, in that gleemin moment, caught a sweeter smell. I would later use the word 'flowers, but I realized that wasn't the case. I only grasped 'flowers' becuase of his look of a greensman. I guess I could say 'honey' or 'sugar' and have the same idea.
I glanced over my shoulder but all I remember was the sunlight hitting his sweat and shining at me as I took the stairs two by two. I was panting before I started the dash.
At the top of the stairs, I saw that my aunt's bedroom door was open slightly.
"Aunt GRACIE! GRACIE!" I howled, boosted by my pounding chest. I guess I had hoped that someone next door would have heard and called someone or, at the very least, my visitor downstairs would vacate realizning my occuring anger.
"Aunt Gracie, Aunt Gracie, Aunt Gracie," I chanted into the room throwing up the door, making a mark on the far wall.
She looked asleep, as the cliche as says, but it works for this moment. I exhaled sharply using the moment of hope to stablize myself. I'm sure my armpits were glistening with sweat from the bolt up the stairs with a tie on, I do recall some sweat clogging around my collar.
I seated myself gently to her left in direct contrast to my anger and nerves from outside. I looked again to the door.
The stranger had not followed me.
I looked back to my Aunt. Her oxygen was across the bed from me, out of reach, but it was on.
But she was not breathing.
I realized then someone had entered the room behind me. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I turned to face him, thinking of what I could grab to hit him with.
"It's okay, Gary, you know it is okay. She's better now. I know she is."
"She didn't, who, the heck..." I felt a surge go into my head, a thought of reason in this moment of madness.
I realized the young man was no human at all.
My heart, having slowed down some, sped back up. I'm sure something registered on my face for he smiled the face of recognition.
I stood up slowly and permitted myself a glance at my Aunt. My new friend might be on to me should I allow my thoughts to waver in any manner. I've no idea if he could read minds, throw fire or grow fangs.
Strangely, as frightened as I was, I did not want to leave the area. His presence equated an intrusion on my family and, no matter what form, it was not to be accepted. I willed up the courage to speak to the fetch before me.
"Leave. Disappear. Do whatever it is you do. I have no need of you. She has no need of you-:"
"-now," he finished my sentence.
I closed my eyes slowly and thought of what I would have to do next to survive the next few minutes.Not that it mattered. An inventory came up in my brain. What was I running home for? To feed a dog--a dog that could easily live in my friend's home with his canines. To my friends? They all had jobs and partners, what need would my existence continue for them?
Monday, June 25, 2007
Movie Review: Paris, Je t'aime
Love is a many splendored thing.
Love brings us up where we belong.
I'll be loving you...always.
All clichés, I'm fully aware of that. But the facts of the matter all are correct. See love is a very complicated topic. Very. For every artist I've seen capture a glimpse of this elusive emotion, great many fail. I'm stuck thinking of Whoopi Goldberg as Gianaan on Star Trek: TNG. After ensign Crusher lost his first love, he informed her that he'll love again. He insisted he'll never feel that way again.
She says he will, for, "every time you feel love, it will be different."
So this emotion, this thing that everyone feels at some point in their loves--sometimes multiple times with multiple forms--is as imperative to our lives on earth as breathing or eating.
And as complex as quantum physics.
But why is it so difficult to capture in poetry, lyric or film?
Because, like Whoopi said, “every time you feel love, it will be different."
I might love this movie or that--you might not, but such is the nature of this beast called love.
I bring this up because love is the definitive theme of my most recent movie, Paris, Je t'aime. I know of not the reason why urban locales play to our romantic sensibilities. There's "I Love New York," there's "I Love L.A." There's something about a city like Paris that invokes concepts of love in all of us, culturally.
Which is surprising, considering how rude the French are supposedly.
However, playing on that theme, a few filmmakers got together and decided to make several very short films about this grande dame of a city. An interesting film festival, each movie is no longer than ten minutes about the concept of love, in some form or another plays out--even if it's familial love, sexual love or comedic love. It's there, and the format, apparently works.
I guess we all know some kind of love.
The format is particular good in this ADD world of ours. When we can be sold a 46,000 dollar car in less than 30 seconds in an auto ad, I think an audience has what it takes to understand these quick tintypes.
Several years ago, a move was created to rid the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences of the short film division. They were tiny films, all under 45 minutes, made by college film students. You could vote on them by attending special screenings. Many voters would not go for whatever reason. Many felt that these movies were too tiny to notice. Why drive all the way out to see a movie of someone who might not be worth it next week?
They obviously did not rid themselves of the division--why? Because some of the greatest filmmakers in Hollywood history has gotten their teeth cut on such short movies. Martin Scorese and Steven Speilberg come to mind. So it's great that the medium lives on--like Picasso having to go back to art school.
Paris has several incredible directors returning to their film school past and making a direct, short story movie.
The results are amazing. However, given this format in the first place--sometimes inconsistent. Some directors’ auteur sensibilities (Gus Van Sant, excellent at creating visual acuity of young, nubile men) shine through, but so do their faults (Alfonzo Cauron uses a long one shot to build tension of a man and woman speaking of a coming up meeting--but the payoff doesn't match the tension).
Because of this up and down of 18 short movies of love, it is difficult to say, this is good/this is bad. It does not work for a movie like this.
For myself? I found the lack of extravagance invigorating. The fact that these famous directors are willing to experiment further in their medium is terrific. Same with the performers. Because of so many, no one person's performance can be listed on the marquee. And since I love Paris already, I was good to go.
I am in love and have been in love before. I might not have agreed with what some of the artists were saying, but I could understand, merely by proxy. This is a wonderful little film (s) that I think should be seen by those, those who can understand the many facets of love, who would appreciate such an art.
I, for one, loved it.
Love brings us up where we belong.
I'll be loving you...always.
All clichés, I'm fully aware of that. But the facts of the matter all are correct. See love is a very complicated topic. Very. For every artist I've seen capture a glimpse of this elusive emotion, great many fail. I'm stuck thinking of Whoopi Goldberg as Gianaan on Star Trek: TNG. After ensign Crusher lost his first love, he informed her that he'll love again. He insisted he'll never feel that way again.
She says he will, for, "every time you feel love, it will be different."
So this emotion, this thing that everyone feels at some point in their loves--sometimes multiple times with multiple forms--is as imperative to our lives on earth as breathing or eating.
And as complex as quantum physics.
But why is it so difficult to capture in poetry, lyric or film?
Because, like Whoopi said, “every time you feel love, it will be different."
I might love this movie or that--you might not, but such is the nature of this beast called love.
I bring this up because love is the definitive theme of my most recent movie, Paris, Je t'aime. I know of not the reason why urban locales play to our romantic sensibilities. There's "I Love New York," there's "I Love L.A." There's something about a city like Paris that invokes concepts of love in all of us, culturally.
Which is surprising, considering how rude the French are supposedly.
However, playing on that theme, a few filmmakers got together and decided to make several very short films about this grande dame of a city. An interesting film festival, each movie is no longer than ten minutes about the concept of love, in some form or another plays out--even if it's familial love, sexual love or comedic love. It's there, and the format, apparently works.
I guess we all know some kind of love.
The format is particular good in this ADD world of ours. When we can be sold a 46,000 dollar car in less than 30 seconds in an auto ad, I think an audience has what it takes to understand these quick tintypes.
Several years ago, a move was created to rid the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences of the short film division. They were tiny films, all under 45 minutes, made by college film students. You could vote on them by attending special screenings. Many voters would not go for whatever reason. Many felt that these movies were too tiny to notice. Why drive all the way out to see a movie of someone who might not be worth it next week?
They obviously did not rid themselves of the division--why? Because some of the greatest filmmakers in Hollywood history has gotten their teeth cut on such short movies. Martin Scorese and Steven Speilberg come to mind. So it's great that the medium lives on--like Picasso having to go back to art school.
Paris has several incredible directors returning to their film school past and making a direct, short story movie.
The results are amazing. However, given this format in the first place--sometimes inconsistent. Some directors’ auteur sensibilities (Gus Van Sant, excellent at creating visual acuity of young, nubile men) shine through, but so do their faults (Alfonzo Cauron uses a long one shot to build tension of a man and woman speaking of a coming up meeting--but the payoff doesn't match the tension).
Because of this up and down of 18 short movies of love, it is difficult to say, this is good/this is bad. It does not work for a movie like this.
For myself? I found the lack of extravagance invigorating. The fact that these famous directors are willing to experiment further in their medium is terrific. Same with the performers. Because of so many, no one person's performance can be listed on the marquee. And since I love Paris already, I was good to go.
I am in love and have been in love before. I might not have agreed with what some of the artists were saying, but I could understand, merely by proxy. This is a wonderful little film (s) that I think should be seen by those, those who can understand the many facets of love, who would appreciate such an art.
I, for one, loved it.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Movie Review: 28 Weeks Later
Not only has summer arrived---I've been on a writing kick, if you've not noticed. I treated myself to the "On Writing Horror" text from Writer's Digest and getting back into the swing of things that go bump in the night. So it comes to be that I wanted to see this horror flick, to kinda rekindle a zombie story I had worked on two years ago for my partner.
I suppose I could should have picked up Brooks' "World War Z" instead.
I really wanted this movie to be good, I really did. A recent conversation with my better half renewed in my mind something of an alarming trend in summer fare--bigger special effects and lesser storylines. It seems that Hollywood keeps thinking that if they dazzle us with the lighting, we won't see that we really don't give a crap about what's happening.
Which is interesting. Callium Murphy (yeah, I spelled it wrong, you have an issue with that?) powered us into the first part of this tale, way back in Danny Boyle's "28 Days Later" (to which this is a sequel)--his strong presence emphasized a real individual unsure of what to do in a zombie-filled England. He goes from geek to killing machine by the end of the movie. And we cared about him. We cared about him and his desires so much that when his friends were threatened, we were too.
But again, the imagery of horrific red-eyed monsters took over, and that movie too, sank under it's own weight. The terrific first act ends up in a locked manor house in the second act and removes us from what scares us--the flesh munching zombies. Sure, the message was there, THANK GOD, to keep me watching. For that manner house was filled with sex crazed military types.
But really, don't we already know that the real monsters are ourselves? I watch the news enough.
This movie keeps that theme going. Most of the zombies are dead, having starved to death and, of course, the repatriation of England has begun. A small green zone (hmmmm, art imitating Iraqi life, perhaps?) has been estabalished in central London. Prior to this moment, a small opening flashback has the terrific Robert Carlyle literally abandoning his wife to be zombie-kibble while he hightails it out of sight. See? We're still evil.
But why? Why leave your wife? Well, golly gee, there's the first of several loopholes this film decides we're too stupid to worry about.
And begins to prove--the storylines are STILL thin.
But the movie looks great!
I just realized this is the opposite of Pirates 3. Too much story there.
But not Robbie's character. He left his wife. The wife he was more than willing to go all Frenchie with in the kitchen not two minutes earilier.
Men. The wife is devoured, or so it seems, and Robbie's character is carted off to London. Seems his kids were on vacation when this nasty RAGE virus broke out and now are allowed to come back into England to live with dear old turncoat dad.
Ooooo. Folks, we have a Character with a Secret that will effect every action he has for the rest of the movie. The weight and motivation has been added, so we, the audience can watch and see if this burning secret, this non-effect murder of his own wife, will do something.
But alas, it's not to be. So what we have here is another great start but zero payoff. The kids are a bit of enignma too. They are permitted in with the statement that, "you are now, quite possibly, the youngest kid in all of Britian." In other words, they weren't letting kids in. But they let this one in.
How nice. Why aren't you letting the kids? I know they are a bit of a problem controling and everything, but why not?
Loophole? Anyone?
Okay, so forget the loophole--those two kids escape, see, and, well, without listing the spoilers, bring the zombies back into London with renewed vengeance.
Including dear old mom. See, she wasn't dead. Or she was, sorta. Or well, LOOPHOLE.
And our characters? Who cares? The writers, producers and director didn't, so why should we. They are treated like chessboard pieces, required to make their moves in standard horror fashion at the right time.
Which is sad, really. They really had potential here. Yes, the imagery is perfect too. There's a scene of carpet bombing London! LONDON! There's excellent performers, even tho they are being forced to slog through this, who are really giving it a go.
But without the characters being filled out--we began to lag in caring. As my "On Writing Horror" book illustrates numerous ways, we, as an audience will not encounter vampires (or ghosts or werewolves or what have you) so we have to give protagonists to parallel. The more 3-D those characters are, the more we want them to live through the perils before them.
I'm tended to think of Kathy Bates' character in "Misery." She was such a good actress and it was so well written, she made a villain that we, in the end, felt pity for. We knew what she would do--and the horror was we understand why.
In the end, I was rooting for the zombies. They looked better and at least had motivations for their actions.
In the end, it is sad. We have all of these sequels before us and they are falling flat.
Maybe I need to move to Hollywood. This many loopholes; this much talent wasted, well, it is not like I can do any worse.
Sure, there were times during the movie I said to myself, "what would I do in a similar situation?" Of course, my answer would be that I'd start writing a better reality.
I suppose I could should have picked up Brooks' "World War Z" instead.
I really wanted this movie to be good, I really did. A recent conversation with my better half renewed in my mind something of an alarming trend in summer fare--bigger special effects and lesser storylines. It seems that Hollywood keeps thinking that if they dazzle us with the lighting, we won't see that we really don't give a crap about what's happening.
Which is interesting. Callium Murphy (yeah, I spelled it wrong, you have an issue with that?) powered us into the first part of this tale, way back in Danny Boyle's "28 Days Later" (to which this is a sequel)--his strong presence emphasized a real individual unsure of what to do in a zombie-filled England. He goes from geek to killing machine by the end of the movie. And we cared about him. We cared about him and his desires so much that when his friends were threatened, we were too.
But again, the imagery of horrific red-eyed monsters took over, and that movie too, sank under it's own weight. The terrific first act ends up in a locked manor house in the second act and removes us from what scares us--the flesh munching zombies. Sure, the message was there, THANK GOD, to keep me watching. For that manner house was filled with sex crazed military types.
But really, don't we already know that the real monsters are ourselves? I watch the news enough.
This movie keeps that theme going. Most of the zombies are dead, having starved to death and, of course, the repatriation of England has begun. A small green zone (hmmmm, art imitating Iraqi life, perhaps?) has been estabalished in central London. Prior to this moment, a small opening flashback has the terrific Robert Carlyle literally abandoning his wife to be zombie-kibble while he hightails it out of sight. See? We're still evil.
But why? Why leave your wife? Well, golly gee, there's the first of several loopholes this film decides we're too stupid to worry about.
And begins to prove--the storylines are STILL thin.
But the movie looks great!
I just realized this is the opposite of Pirates 3. Too much story there.
But not Robbie's character. He left his wife. The wife he was more than willing to go all Frenchie with in the kitchen not two minutes earilier.
Men. The wife is devoured, or so it seems, and Robbie's character is carted off to London. Seems his kids were on vacation when this nasty RAGE virus broke out and now are allowed to come back into England to live with dear old turncoat dad.
Ooooo. Folks, we have a Character with a Secret that will effect every action he has for the rest of the movie. The weight and motivation has been added, so we, the audience can watch and see if this burning secret, this non-effect murder of his own wife, will do something.
But alas, it's not to be. So what we have here is another great start but zero payoff. The kids are a bit of enignma too. They are permitted in with the statement that, "you are now, quite possibly, the youngest kid in all of Britian." In other words, they weren't letting kids in. But they let this one in.
How nice. Why aren't you letting the kids? I know they are a bit of a problem controling and everything, but why not?
Loophole? Anyone?
Okay, so forget the loophole--those two kids escape, see, and, well, without listing the spoilers, bring the zombies back into London with renewed vengeance.
Including dear old mom. See, she wasn't dead. Or she was, sorta. Or well, LOOPHOLE.
And our characters? Who cares? The writers, producers and director didn't, so why should we. They are treated like chessboard pieces, required to make their moves in standard horror fashion at the right time.
Which is sad, really. They really had potential here. Yes, the imagery is perfect too. There's a scene of carpet bombing London! LONDON! There's excellent performers, even tho they are being forced to slog through this, who are really giving it a go.
But without the characters being filled out--we began to lag in caring. As my "On Writing Horror" book illustrates numerous ways, we, as an audience will not encounter vampires (or ghosts or werewolves or what have you) so we have to give protagonists to parallel. The more 3-D those characters are, the more we want them to live through the perils before them.
I'm tended to think of Kathy Bates' character in "Misery." She was such a good actress and it was so well written, she made a villain that we, in the end, felt pity for. We knew what she would do--and the horror was we understand why.
In the end, I was rooting for the zombies. They looked better and at least had motivations for their actions.
In the end, it is sad. We have all of these sequels before us and they are falling flat.
Maybe I need to move to Hollywood. This many loopholes; this much talent wasted, well, it is not like I can do any worse.
Sure, there were times during the movie I said to myself, "what would I do in a similar situation?" Of course, my answer would be that I'd start writing a better reality.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Recent fiction
Dear all,
I'm unsure what this is borne from--but here is the beginning of a tale I've been working on for the last two days. It is unedited. Feedback, as always, is welcome.
I suppose I remember the moment like some people remember where they were when Kennedy died or the second plane hit the World Trade Center.
See? Your brain immediately clicked into that moment as I mentioned them. For me, it was no different that sweltering day. I knew something was amiss as I drove home to change my clothes from work. You see, I had elected to use the alleyway to arrive at my Aunt Gracie’s house instead of the front as I had been doing for several months now. When she had moved into her home before my arrival into this world, it was on the edge of town, quite solitary. She could build her gardens and run her dogs without another neighbor in sight.
The city caught up with her. Down the street a Home Depot and a Walmart had taken up residence and the once quite location was now subject to traffic at the strangest time. Like that Thursday afternoon. The cars were lined up before I had reached them, making the exit to her alleyway not only a time chomping option, but an open invitation to get a move on with my plans for the afternoon.
As I glanced at my watch as it rounded the top of the steering wheel, I realized that I had removed more time than fate hate originally allotted. I could possible indulge in a cup of coffee at my Aunt’s house before hitting the gym. The pick-me-up of caffeine would do me clear me of the traffic and the heat outdoors.
I cranked the air conditioner one last time before stepping out. The blue of the sky did not huddle close—instead choosing to permit the warmth of the sun direct access to the yellow lawn. Green arcs of grass held to the corners of the yard, the result of short sighted sprinklers. But the rest had gone to ruin—and I did not have time, again, today to nurse it to health. Normally, if my partner had still been around, I would have found some creative way to bribe him into action on behalf of the grass.
Alas, he had moved on to his own greener pastures.
And I had to take care of Aunt Grace. Her gardens had weeds taller than the flowers that had still found time to sprout, her walkways were clear of plant life and dirt for some reason.
No wind blew. The heat was palpable and swarmed about my dress shirt, pressing inwards. I looked to the swamp cooler a few yards away and realized it had breathed its last life. The cord was bright red in competition with all around it; it should be doing its job.
Another thing my partner should have handled.
Having come around the back of the house, I could see more of the mixed disrepair. Sure, the windows were clean and shiny, the walkways swept and visible, but, along with the garden, high plants held the ground between the concrete and the base of the home, the yellow patches had outweighted the green. The dog house had cobwebs thrown around where the wind could not touch it, the red of the dog bowls warn out to a dead gray.
The doorknob glinted from the light of the sun and warmed my palm.
I was very aware all of a sudden. I would later describe it as that feeling you have when you lie awake at night—thinking you heard something, but, for some reason, you cannot identify. Your senses become acute; every other noise is bold and clear.
I had forgotten about work; I had forgotten I was on a schedule.
Something was wrong.
I opened the door and looked up. The temperature was different-proof the swamp cooler decided to move on sometime recently. I threw the keys down on the empty counter, knowing full well that there had not been anything on them for some time, only the garbage was full of the silver tins that carried meals from a central kitchen. I made a mental note to clean them out when it struck me.
I have no idea what makes me recall this now. It does not jibe with my memory until this very moment. I knew, I guess, that something was wrong exact at the moment I turned from the kitchen to face the dining room with the living room beyond. But as I recall it now, I had the sensation that one would have, I suspect, before lightning strikes. As a boy, the tales of the ‘tingling’ going down one’s neck before electricity fell from the sky always made me wary—I would be playing outside before a hateful of rain and would feel that sensation—and now that I think about it, it had returned.
I darted to the living room, heading to the stairwell with Aunt Gracie’s room at the top.
I stopped and ran a hand to my chest, under my tie.
A young man was standing in the living room.
I cannot recall driving home from work today; I cannot remember which papers still need to be graded.
I remember him.
“Hey,” he said as if waiting to be discovered in my entrance. He had removed his trucker cap and was wiping his forehead, as if he had completed some very important heavy lifting. His eyes were away from me as he moved his head to the side, but his hair was damp and had a rim from the hat. Moisture glistened on his Adam’s apple and insulted his t-shirt with a dark yellow splotch. The shirt had similar discolors under each armpit, exposed by the motion of wiping his brow.
A farmer tan highlighted his removed sleeves, long tears crossing each shoulder. The white of the shirt clamped to his chest due to wetness and tightness; his shorts, a modern pair of cargos sawed off above the knees, gave off some more evidence of a young man who was hard at work.
My thoughts wound up tight; I suspected something wrong.
A thief stood in my living room.
I had no weapon but my wit. I used the moment to look back at the kitchen. Surely there was a knife in one or two of the drawers.
The thought must have resonated, the youth swung back to view me full-shoulders, as if I had yelled his name.
“Name’s Ulee,” the young man smiled, showing teeth that had the same patch of yellow to the side of his mouth. “Ulee James.”
My nose lowered and my chin aimed for my throat.
“And you are doing what, exactly?”
The youth was nonplussed.
“Work. With your aunt. No worries, Gary, no worries at all,” he picked at the center of his chest and waved his shirt back and forth trying to bring his body temperature down.
I swallowed, fearful of his definition of ‘work.’
“Are you done? With this work?” I looked beyond him to see the front door was still bolted and all the windows closed. The cold air from the recently deceased swamp cooler banished quickly as this encounter endured.
“Yeah, I guess you can say I am? You think she has any lemonade? This summer heat is a killer,” he said and looked to the kitchen.
“I doubt it.” I raised both of my hands parallel to the floor in a calming gesture. “Look kid, I don’t know who you are and why you’re here, but I don’t want any trouble now, do you understand?”
“Trouble?” the word illustrated confusion on his high cheeked face. He was flushed and had the brown markings of a tan that had begun to fade. The outdoor work, whatever it was had caused segments of his lower arms and legs to become freckled with dead skin that gave the illusion of being unclean. His blue eyes matched his blonde streaked hair that had returned residence underneath his cap.
“Trouble. I just need you to step back, if you could please,” I withdrew my cell phone like a gun at high noon.
Ulee contorted his face as if watching a foreign program with great distaste. He looked to the floor and wondered what he was standing on. The humor of his reaction calmed me enough to exhale. I began to wonder if he thought me the intruder.
“No, no, ah, no, there’s no trouble Mr. Joyce, no trouble at all. I was just leaving and…” his conversation stopped as he watched me hold the phone up to my ear.
“Good, then this should be painless,” I dialed emergency.
Ulee’s expression settled and he blinked while he angled his head to the side. “You probably should ask how I know your name at this point. Works in all the horror movies.”
The phone did not connect, instead sending a warning bleep that the call failed. I blinked too. How did he know my name?
I'm unsure what this is borne from--but here is the beginning of a tale I've been working on for the last two days. It is unedited. Feedback, as always, is welcome.
I suppose I remember the moment like some people remember where they were when Kennedy died or the second plane hit the World Trade Center.
See? Your brain immediately clicked into that moment as I mentioned them. For me, it was no different that sweltering day. I knew something was amiss as I drove home to change my clothes from work. You see, I had elected to use the alleyway to arrive at my Aunt Gracie’s house instead of the front as I had been doing for several months now. When she had moved into her home before my arrival into this world, it was on the edge of town, quite solitary. She could build her gardens and run her dogs without another neighbor in sight.
The city caught up with her. Down the street a Home Depot and a Walmart had taken up residence and the once quite location was now subject to traffic at the strangest time. Like that Thursday afternoon. The cars were lined up before I had reached them, making the exit to her alleyway not only a time chomping option, but an open invitation to get a move on with my plans for the afternoon.
As I glanced at my watch as it rounded the top of the steering wheel, I realized that I had removed more time than fate hate originally allotted. I could possible indulge in a cup of coffee at my Aunt’s house before hitting the gym. The pick-me-up of caffeine would do me clear me of the traffic and the heat outdoors.
I cranked the air conditioner one last time before stepping out. The blue of the sky did not huddle close—instead choosing to permit the warmth of the sun direct access to the yellow lawn. Green arcs of grass held to the corners of the yard, the result of short sighted sprinklers. But the rest had gone to ruin—and I did not have time, again, today to nurse it to health. Normally, if my partner had still been around, I would have found some creative way to bribe him into action on behalf of the grass.
Alas, he had moved on to his own greener pastures.
And I had to take care of Aunt Grace. Her gardens had weeds taller than the flowers that had still found time to sprout, her walkways were clear of plant life and dirt for some reason.
No wind blew. The heat was palpable and swarmed about my dress shirt, pressing inwards. I looked to the swamp cooler a few yards away and realized it had breathed its last life. The cord was bright red in competition with all around it; it should be doing its job.
Another thing my partner should have handled.
Having come around the back of the house, I could see more of the mixed disrepair. Sure, the windows were clean and shiny, the walkways swept and visible, but, along with the garden, high plants held the ground between the concrete and the base of the home, the yellow patches had outweighted the green. The dog house had cobwebs thrown around where the wind could not touch it, the red of the dog bowls warn out to a dead gray.
The doorknob glinted from the light of the sun and warmed my palm.
I was very aware all of a sudden. I would later describe it as that feeling you have when you lie awake at night—thinking you heard something, but, for some reason, you cannot identify. Your senses become acute; every other noise is bold and clear.
I had forgotten about work; I had forgotten I was on a schedule.
Something was wrong.
I opened the door and looked up. The temperature was different-proof the swamp cooler decided to move on sometime recently. I threw the keys down on the empty counter, knowing full well that there had not been anything on them for some time, only the garbage was full of the silver tins that carried meals from a central kitchen. I made a mental note to clean them out when it struck me.
I have no idea what makes me recall this now. It does not jibe with my memory until this very moment. I knew, I guess, that something was wrong exact at the moment I turned from the kitchen to face the dining room with the living room beyond. But as I recall it now, I had the sensation that one would have, I suspect, before lightning strikes. As a boy, the tales of the ‘tingling’ going down one’s neck before electricity fell from the sky always made me wary—I would be playing outside before a hateful of rain and would feel that sensation—and now that I think about it, it had returned.
I darted to the living room, heading to the stairwell with Aunt Gracie’s room at the top.
I stopped and ran a hand to my chest, under my tie.
A young man was standing in the living room.
I cannot recall driving home from work today; I cannot remember which papers still need to be graded.
I remember him.
“Hey,” he said as if waiting to be discovered in my entrance. He had removed his trucker cap and was wiping his forehead, as if he had completed some very important heavy lifting. His eyes were away from me as he moved his head to the side, but his hair was damp and had a rim from the hat. Moisture glistened on his Adam’s apple and insulted his t-shirt with a dark yellow splotch. The shirt had similar discolors under each armpit, exposed by the motion of wiping his brow.
A farmer tan highlighted his removed sleeves, long tears crossing each shoulder. The white of the shirt clamped to his chest due to wetness and tightness; his shorts, a modern pair of cargos sawed off above the knees, gave off some more evidence of a young man who was hard at work.
My thoughts wound up tight; I suspected something wrong.
A thief stood in my living room.
I had no weapon but my wit. I used the moment to look back at the kitchen. Surely there was a knife in one or two of the drawers.
The thought must have resonated, the youth swung back to view me full-shoulders, as if I had yelled his name.
“Name’s Ulee,” the young man smiled, showing teeth that had the same patch of yellow to the side of his mouth. “Ulee James.”
My nose lowered and my chin aimed for my throat.
“And you are doing what, exactly?”
The youth was nonplussed.
“Work. With your aunt. No worries, Gary, no worries at all,” he picked at the center of his chest and waved his shirt back and forth trying to bring his body temperature down.
I swallowed, fearful of his definition of ‘work.’
“Are you done? With this work?” I looked beyond him to see the front door was still bolted and all the windows closed. The cold air from the recently deceased swamp cooler banished quickly as this encounter endured.
“Yeah, I guess you can say I am? You think she has any lemonade? This summer heat is a killer,” he said and looked to the kitchen.
“I doubt it.” I raised both of my hands parallel to the floor in a calming gesture. “Look kid, I don’t know who you are and why you’re here, but I don’t want any trouble now, do you understand?”
“Trouble?” the word illustrated confusion on his high cheeked face. He was flushed and had the brown markings of a tan that had begun to fade. The outdoor work, whatever it was had caused segments of his lower arms and legs to become freckled with dead skin that gave the illusion of being unclean. His blue eyes matched his blonde streaked hair that had returned residence underneath his cap.
“Trouble. I just need you to step back, if you could please,” I withdrew my cell phone like a gun at high noon.
Ulee contorted his face as if watching a foreign program with great distaste. He looked to the floor and wondered what he was standing on. The humor of his reaction calmed me enough to exhale. I began to wonder if he thought me the intruder.
“No, no, ah, no, there’s no trouble Mr. Joyce, no trouble at all. I was just leaving and…” his conversation stopped as he watched me hold the phone up to my ear.
“Good, then this should be painless,” I dialed emergency.
Ulee’s expression settled and he blinked while he angled his head to the side. “You probably should ask how I know your name at this point. Works in all the horror movies.”
The phone did not connect, instead sending a warning bleep that the call failed. I blinked too. How did he know my name?
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Movie Review: Pirates of the Caribean: At World's End
Yes, it's officially the start of summer.
I start off by mentioning that because, for the first time this many moons, I'm seated here and I don't have the stressors that have kept me from writing. No aggravations of papers to be graded; no whining from a voice in the back of my head saying I have to get this-and-that completed.
The reason I point this out BEFORE I review this, the latest from Disney, is because it profoundly will bias my review. Let's just say I have a guilty pleasure and this is it.
Pirates is a bad movie.
Now, now, now, take a deep breath. Being a bad movie doesn't mean I didn't like it.
Seriously.
You've gone from yelling at me to laughing and pointing at your monitor, haven't you.
Look at it from my perspective, if you will. No stressors. The sure sign that summer has arrived. I love me an art film more than most, but when it comes to summertime, I know it's arrived when the movies drop in quality, up the special effects quoitent and drill stupidity into the script.
You are looking at a guy who knows fall has arrived when Starbuck's starts serving Pumpkin Spice Lattes, should you need more perspective.
So Memorial day rolls in and everyone's brain goes flying out the window like so many frisbees and kites that arrive around the same time.It's only fitting that our movies play to that sensibility.
Pirates is a bad movie. How do I know? I see the young writers, asked to make a screenplay based on a ride back in 2003 and it was a huge success. The producers decided to send their kids to college so they asked for a sequel to be penned. Those same writers sat in their think-tanks and jotted down idea after idea to put on the screen.And folks, that's a lot of ideas.A LOT of ideas.So the film comes out quite tangled, leaving the audience going, "waa? Who, with, okay, now, wait..."But the movie doesn't wait. Storyline topples over storyline and the movie becomes so mixed up that people watching have begun to watch their watches for the two plus hours to end.
Not me, however. I loved it. See? Maybe it's because I'm a Disney addict that, even tho I know the movie was bad, I didn't care. An addict. Yes, that's it. Like a person doing drugs---it makes them feel good, even at their own detriment. The film is pure fluff. Every dollar bill is smeared across the screen. And we have ACTORS, not matinee idols carrying the movie farther then expected. What's not to like, other than the film is conveluated and disjointed. Action sequences are sacrificed for more chatting and the chatting is more complicated then working a Rubic's cube blindfolded.
But I didn't care.Let's look at the evidence. Jack Sparrow is still in limbo and needs to be freed, Davy Jones is still acting like a woman scorned, Elizabeth is still pinning over her love for Jack and being unable to communiate to her fiancee, Will saw her kiss Jack and was wondering if their relationship was truly over, Barbossa wants the Black Pearl back and, and, and, and, and...Yes, folks all of these storylines do tie up in the end but at the cost of a headache.But again, I didn't care. I had my raspberry iced tea and knew, somewhere down the line, the stories would all be resolved. And I would enjoy it---after all, the stress of the world has been removed.
I start off by mentioning that because, for the first time this many moons, I'm seated here and I don't have the stressors that have kept me from writing. No aggravations of papers to be graded; no whining from a voice in the back of my head saying I have to get this-and-that completed.
The reason I point this out BEFORE I review this, the latest from Disney, is because it profoundly will bias my review. Let's just say I have a guilty pleasure and this is it.
Pirates is a bad movie.
Now, now, now, take a deep breath. Being a bad movie doesn't mean I didn't like it.
Seriously.
You've gone from yelling at me to laughing and pointing at your monitor, haven't you.
Look at it from my perspective, if you will. No stressors. The sure sign that summer has arrived. I love me an art film more than most, but when it comes to summertime, I know it's arrived when the movies drop in quality, up the special effects quoitent and drill stupidity into the script.
You are looking at a guy who knows fall has arrived when Starbuck's starts serving Pumpkin Spice Lattes, should you need more perspective.
So Memorial day rolls in and everyone's brain goes flying out the window like so many frisbees and kites that arrive around the same time.It's only fitting that our movies play to that sensibility.
Pirates is a bad movie. How do I know? I see the young writers, asked to make a screenplay based on a ride back in 2003 and it was a huge success. The producers decided to send their kids to college so they asked for a sequel to be penned. Those same writers sat in their think-tanks and jotted down idea after idea to put on the screen.And folks, that's a lot of ideas.A LOT of ideas.So the film comes out quite tangled, leaving the audience going, "waa? Who, with, okay, now, wait..."But the movie doesn't wait. Storyline topples over storyline and the movie becomes so mixed up that people watching have begun to watch their watches for the two plus hours to end.
Not me, however. I loved it. See? Maybe it's because I'm a Disney addict that, even tho I know the movie was bad, I didn't care. An addict. Yes, that's it. Like a person doing drugs---it makes them feel good, even at their own detriment. The film is pure fluff. Every dollar bill is smeared across the screen. And we have ACTORS, not matinee idols carrying the movie farther then expected. What's not to like, other than the film is conveluated and disjointed. Action sequences are sacrificed for more chatting and the chatting is more complicated then working a Rubic's cube blindfolded.
But I didn't care.Let's look at the evidence. Jack Sparrow is still in limbo and needs to be freed, Davy Jones is still acting like a woman scorned, Elizabeth is still pinning over her love for Jack and being unable to communiate to her fiancee, Will saw her kiss Jack and was wondering if their relationship was truly over, Barbossa wants the Black Pearl back and, and, and, and, and...Yes, folks all of these storylines do tie up in the end but at the cost of a headache.But again, I didn't care. I had my raspberry iced tea and knew, somewhere down the line, the stories would all be resolved. And I would enjoy it---after all, the stress of the world has been removed.
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