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.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
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.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Movie Review: The Devil Wears Prada
Okay, there was this one time, ages ago, when my best friend (straight) and I were watching the Oscars in his apartment in Omaha, NE. The show goes and he squints at the red carpet preshow I was forcing him to watch. The day before he had been bitching about how he didn't care for Joan Rivers and how he found the whole thing to be quite fake and gregarious.
And as he watched now, he leaned back and said something that I still laught about today.
"She looks like crap in the dress."
Here he was, straight as an arrow--and all his education and straightness--and he knew what looked good and what doesn't.
And we think gays are shallow? Seems to be universal.
But our obsession with beautiful manifests itself in slick commercials, ongoing programs of self-improvment and reality shows of the pressures of said art. Now there's a movie too.
The Devil Wears Prada is a formula movie. I noticed novelty is far and few between this year. Must be because last year was so full of duds, they went with easy crowd-pleasers. This is one of them. Girl gets glossy job, starts to join their ranks of elitism and then decides it's too fake of a life. Yep, heard it before.
The film is decent, but far from a hit. Every one nails down what they are supposed to do and the plot meaders from expected experience to expected experience. But whereas TransAmerica uses it to teach lessons, Prada seems to just be going through the motions.
Where the film will appeal to many is Meryl Streep. She plays the villianous boss to the hilt and when she's not on screen, you keep finding you wish she was. Is this supposed to be comedy? If it is, it's not very funny. If it's supposed to be a drama, then more angst needs to grace the screen.
What bothered me is the interactions the characters had. I've read Dr. Deborah Tannen's collected works, and I do believe that women speak in a manner that is different from men. Especially at work. So when Streep's boss insults the protagonist's shoes with a crude (but perfect!) stare, why does the youth merely kowtow into a new pair of heels? Why doesn't she quit?
For we wouldn't have a movie without it happening. I just felt that if Anne Hathaway's young office assistant is so intelligent that her boss sees it on her resume--how can she be so dumb as to merely accept her position as underling? And worse? She improves herself by being more fake.
In the end, of course, everything fixes itself in the manner I'm describing, but still...I have more faith in today's youth. It shouldn't take a year and trip to Paris to figure out your boss is so wrong.
So this is fair-to-middlin' movie. See it for Streep. See it for the clothes. See it for the air-conditioning. But don't keep you hopes up too high. This is merely high fashion, after all.
And as he watched now, he leaned back and said something that I still laught about today.
"She looks like crap in the dress."
Here he was, straight as an arrow--and all his education and straightness--and he knew what looked good and what doesn't.
And we think gays are shallow? Seems to be universal.
But our obsession with beautiful manifests itself in slick commercials, ongoing programs of self-improvment and reality shows of the pressures of said art. Now there's a movie too.
The Devil Wears Prada is a formula movie. I noticed novelty is far and few between this year. Must be because last year was so full of duds, they went with easy crowd-pleasers. This is one of them. Girl gets glossy job, starts to join their ranks of elitism and then decides it's too fake of a life. Yep, heard it before.
The film is decent, but far from a hit. Every one nails down what they are supposed to do and the plot meaders from expected experience to expected experience. But whereas TransAmerica uses it to teach lessons, Prada seems to just be going through the motions.
Where the film will appeal to many is Meryl Streep. She plays the villianous boss to the hilt and when she's not on screen, you keep finding you wish she was. Is this supposed to be comedy? If it is, it's not very funny. If it's supposed to be a drama, then more angst needs to grace the screen.
What bothered me is the interactions the characters had. I've read Dr. Deborah Tannen's collected works, and I do believe that women speak in a manner that is different from men. Especially at work. So when Streep's boss insults the protagonist's shoes with a crude (but perfect!) stare, why does the youth merely kowtow into a new pair of heels? Why doesn't she quit?
For we wouldn't have a movie without it happening. I just felt that if Anne Hathaway's young office assistant is so intelligent that her boss sees it on her resume--how can she be so dumb as to merely accept her position as underling? And worse? She improves herself by being more fake.
In the end, of course, everything fixes itself in the manner I'm describing, but still...I have more faith in today's youth. It shouldn't take a year and trip to Paris to figure out your boss is so wrong.
So this is fair-to-middlin' movie. See it for Streep. See it for the clothes. See it for the air-conditioning. But don't keep you hopes up too high. This is merely high fashion, after all.
Movie Review: TransAmerica
I used to hate when they lumped my issues with that of bisexuals and transgendered individuals. I really did. I was younger and could not understand how my travials were equal to theirs. Surely, discrimination is fairly universal, especially with the current government, but me--who loved men with men--could not possibly understand what it was like to feel like a woman on the inside and want to be different.
As time passed and my wisdom grew, I realized that, they too, have only a handful of films to show the world their situation in a manner that is uplifting and approachable. Gay movies, when made into the mainstream, ended with violence and saddness--and films about transgendered individuals were even smaller in number--I mean, Silence of the Lambs? Not a good example of transgendered experiences.
This is the first film, as a matter of fact,that opened my eyes to several points that I have to mention. An art film of sorts, the movie stars Felicity Huffman from Desparate Housewives fame. I use the term fame, for choosing an out of the way title like this says volumes about her. Her husband is William H. Macy, also an actor of profound merit, who chooses work that are also unique and highly challenging---Mrs. Huffman is cut from the same cloth it seems. Here she is a pre-op transexual who recieves news that she fathered a son many moons ago and he's in trouble.
The film then moves into the comfort zone of the usual 'road/buddy' picture as she bails the young man out of jail and they begin a cross-country trek to her home. The choice of formula is important. Like many, I'm sure we don't understand the transgendered experience but we know the plotline. We know they will get to know each other better in the process, and we can breathe a small sigh of relief in that there isn't too much new information.
And really, because of this plot, the theme is, by far, more approachable to a wider audience. Couple it with a performance that was outstanding, and you learn much, even if you didn't intend to. Mrs. Huffman doesn't play the part for yuks or curiousity. She really plays her as a woman of self means and energy that carries the movie. Kudos to her.
As you watch, too, the story is very adaptable. You see that her problems are fairly similar to any outsider, her issues are just as crazy as any other family's. I was impressed.
Maybe you should pay this a visit. I know feel I might understand a bit better than before...I know I don't have any issue with trasgendered people sharing billing with gays, lesbians or bisexuals as much any more.
As time passed and my wisdom grew, I realized that, they too, have only a handful of films to show the world their situation in a manner that is uplifting and approachable. Gay movies, when made into the mainstream, ended with violence and saddness--and films about transgendered individuals were even smaller in number--I mean, Silence of the Lambs? Not a good example of transgendered experiences.
This is the first film, as a matter of fact,that opened my eyes to several points that I have to mention. An art film of sorts, the movie stars Felicity Huffman from Desparate Housewives fame. I use the term fame, for choosing an out of the way title like this says volumes about her. Her husband is William H. Macy, also an actor of profound merit, who chooses work that are also unique and highly challenging---Mrs. Huffman is cut from the same cloth it seems. Here she is a pre-op transexual who recieves news that she fathered a son many moons ago and he's in trouble.
The film then moves into the comfort zone of the usual 'road/buddy' picture as she bails the young man out of jail and they begin a cross-country trek to her home. The choice of formula is important. Like many, I'm sure we don't understand the transgendered experience but we know the plotline. We know they will get to know each other better in the process, and we can breathe a small sigh of relief in that there isn't too much new information.
And really, because of this plot, the theme is, by far, more approachable to a wider audience. Couple it with a performance that was outstanding, and you learn much, even if you didn't intend to. Mrs. Huffman doesn't play the part for yuks or curiousity. She really plays her as a woman of self means and energy that carries the movie. Kudos to her.
As you watch, too, the story is very adaptable. You see that her problems are fairly similar to any outsider, her issues are just as crazy as any other family's. I was impressed.
Maybe you should pay this a visit. I know feel I might understand a bit better than before...I know I don't have any issue with trasgendered people sharing billing with gays, lesbians or bisexuals as much any more.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Movie Review: Prarie Home Companion
Ever hear of culture shock? I mean, really powerful stuff, the kind where you enter a strange land with even stranger people? Happened to me once, when I went away to college. It started small enough. My friend had sent me a book called, "How to talk Minnesotan." I thought it was a joke. The kinda thing you send to people to create a sense of identity over the holidays or special situations. I read it, but I didn't really understand it.
Then I arrived in Moorhead, Minneasota.
Culture shock. No one hurried. Nothing was a yes/no answer--everything was a tale. And they laughed at the weirdest things. Every Sunday, my idiot roommate, blonde as the Norweign sunset would be glued to the radio, the radio, listening to Prarie Home Companion. Since he liked it, and I hated him, I refused to like it.
Time passed, and with it came wisdom. I discovered that culture can be a very strong thing--and helps with pride. Think of a gay teen, struggling with his own identity, realizing that he is part of something larger than himself. Pride building. Think of the adopted Korean tyke, learning her countries vast history and knowing, she too, is part of a bigger whole.
Prarie Home Companion does that for many people of the upper midwest. I'm refering to the radio show. As the internet and technology separate people from their origins farther and farther is provides a refuge for a kinder place and time. Now you have to understand the presentation in Prarie Home Companion. It's format is simple humor, borderline English, born out of the complexities of life--and how humor is, literally everywhere. The best comparison I can make is a Woody Allen movie. It's humor is angst and urban and you aren't really sure if you should laugh unless you are from New York. Such is the gaffaws of Prarie Home Companion.
The show has been on for 30 years. I guess that would be the reason to turn it into a movie. They have such a successful format, I was confused as to the reason of the choice. Personally, I think it would have fit better on public television, but no matter.
The film is really only good if you know the world of PHC. Garrison Keillor's delivery is his standard, plain drawl, without emotion, full of wit. Here, a storyline is introduced, if only to give a reason for characters to interact backstage. Seems the show is being closed and this is it's last night.
That simple.
Garrison goes ahead and does his usual schtick, but adds some touches in the screenplay that are a bit odd. He has the angel of death come for a visit. The juxtaposition of her walking around and no one being bothered by this is, I guess, slightly humorous, but it adds a darkness that doesn't normally come with show.
It is a typical Robert Altman film, if you know this auteur. Frankly, this is one of his better efforts, and not nearly as long. Here, his bickering and realistic way of filming dialogue (the actors are not improving, but do speak over one another and are always on eye level, as if you were evasdropping on their conversation) fits well. The characters talk, chat,fight and then all the overlapping tones clear as they head out onstage--emphasizing the clear, crisp sound of the radio show.
The skills of the big name actors are also emphasized. Radio is difficult. Emote with only your voice. Sing. Be clear. You can tell each performers background in this regard.
I, frankly, liked the film, compared to my early college years. I've grown, as I've said and thought this to be a nice diversion. But it isn't recommendable. If you like PHC, go see it. Otherwise, unless you have a stake in it (you like Bob Altman, some of the actors or art films in general), it won't do you much.
Then I arrived in Moorhead, Minneasota.
Culture shock. No one hurried. Nothing was a yes/no answer--everything was a tale. And they laughed at the weirdest things. Every Sunday, my idiot roommate, blonde as the Norweign sunset would be glued to the radio, the radio, listening to Prarie Home Companion. Since he liked it, and I hated him, I refused to like it.
Time passed, and with it came wisdom. I discovered that culture can be a very strong thing--and helps with pride. Think of a gay teen, struggling with his own identity, realizing that he is part of something larger than himself. Pride building. Think of the adopted Korean tyke, learning her countries vast history and knowing, she too, is part of a bigger whole.
Prarie Home Companion does that for many people of the upper midwest. I'm refering to the radio show. As the internet and technology separate people from their origins farther and farther is provides a refuge for a kinder place and time. Now you have to understand the presentation in Prarie Home Companion. It's format is simple humor, borderline English, born out of the complexities of life--and how humor is, literally everywhere. The best comparison I can make is a Woody Allen movie. It's humor is angst and urban and you aren't really sure if you should laugh unless you are from New York. Such is the gaffaws of Prarie Home Companion.
The show has been on for 30 years. I guess that would be the reason to turn it into a movie. They have such a successful format, I was confused as to the reason of the choice. Personally, I think it would have fit better on public television, but no matter.
The film is really only good if you know the world of PHC. Garrison Keillor's delivery is his standard, plain drawl, without emotion, full of wit. Here, a storyline is introduced, if only to give a reason for characters to interact backstage. Seems the show is being closed and this is it's last night.
That simple.
Garrison goes ahead and does his usual schtick, but adds some touches in the screenplay that are a bit odd. He has the angel of death come for a visit. The juxtaposition of her walking around and no one being bothered by this is, I guess, slightly humorous, but it adds a darkness that doesn't normally come with show.
It is a typical Robert Altman film, if you know this auteur. Frankly, this is one of his better efforts, and not nearly as long. Here, his bickering and realistic way of filming dialogue (the actors are not improving, but do speak over one another and are always on eye level, as if you were evasdropping on their conversation) fits well. The characters talk, chat,fight and then all the overlapping tones clear as they head out onstage--emphasizing the clear, crisp sound of the radio show.
The skills of the big name actors are also emphasized. Radio is difficult. Emote with only your voice. Sing. Be clear. You can tell each performers background in this regard.
I, frankly, liked the film, compared to my early college years. I've grown, as I've said and thought this to be a nice diversion. But it isn't recommendable. If you like PHC, go see it. Otherwise, unless you have a stake in it (you like Bob Altman, some of the actors or art films in general), it won't do you much.
Movie Review: In Good Company
Before I really get into the crux of this review, I have to say something about it's stars. This movie has four major actors in the pivotal roles. Dennis Quaid, Topher Grace, Scarlett Johanssen and Marq Helsenberger. I've heard of them, I know that. If you've not, well, I think you might be dead. My question?
WHY AREN'T THEY FAMOUS YET?
Okay, so Scarlett has done a crapload of blockbusters and noisemakers, but what of those other three? I don't know about you audiences, I really don't. Yes, I blame you all. I can't blame the filmmakers. They are just following the money. And these actors don't bring in the bucks. So why splash their names on a marquee? Because it isn't worth it to them.
Here's my example. I watched In Good Company. Now in order to prove my point, I have to elaborate on the plot. It's a comedy/drama, not unlike Terms of Endearment in the approach department. Instead, you have a good man (Quaid) a pitchman for a good magazine. He uses clout to get people to buy ads for the periodical. Sadly, the Sport Illustrated title is bought out by a big coporation (not very surprising--they are in the government's pocket as it is) and many jobs are lost. His isn't--instead, a new boss is installed. A young yuppie, Topher Grace, is placed above poor Quaid. Now, get this, he's dating Quaid's 20 year old daughter! And the whole time, Marq, Quaid's wife is pregnant--giving Quaid's character a reason to put up with this crap!
Now, let's flesh this out a little.
It sounds so contrived that when I read it, I thought I was reading a episode of a sitcom.
But here's the thing. All four of these performers are so real, that they never once let it go spinning out of control. There's a skill present that these four hold onto that keeps the film based in a reality we can relate to.
Excellent performances by all.
But movies are a group piece and, really, the fault lies in the filmmakers. Well written, the movie isn't really funny. It's a bit of a downer--with a small message about 'the old ways are still the best ways.' But it's such a long drawn out narrative that we grow bored.
Thank God for Quaid and Grace. We'd be asleep if it weren't for them.
But why, oh why aren't they famous yet? Get Marq OUT of CSI and onto the screen! Quaid? I want to see 20 more of your pictures, stat! Scarlett and Topher? The Spirit Awards are waiting for you guys!
WHY AREN'T THEY FAMOUS YET?
Okay, so Scarlett has done a crapload of blockbusters and noisemakers, but what of those other three? I don't know about you audiences, I really don't. Yes, I blame you all. I can't blame the filmmakers. They are just following the money. And these actors don't bring in the bucks. So why splash their names on a marquee? Because it isn't worth it to them.
Here's my example. I watched In Good Company. Now in order to prove my point, I have to elaborate on the plot. It's a comedy/drama, not unlike Terms of Endearment in the approach department. Instead, you have a good man (Quaid) a pitchman for a good magazine. He uses clout to get people to buy ads for the periodical. Sadly, the Sport Illustrated title is bought out by a big coporation (not very surprising--they are in the government's pocket as it is) and many jobs are lost. His isn't--instead, a new boss is installed. A young yuppie, Topher Grace, is placed above poor Quaid. Now, get this, he's dating Quaid's 20 year old daughter! And the whole time, Marq, Quaid's wife is pregnant--giving Quaid's character a reason to put up with this crap!
Now, let's flesh this out a little.
It sounds so contrived that when I read it, I thought I was reading a episode of a sitcom.
But here's the thing. All four of these performers are so real, that they never once let it go spinning out of control. There's a skill present that these four hold onto that keeps the film based in a reality we can relate to.
Excellent performances by all.
But movies are a group piece and, really, the fault lies in the filmmakers. Well written, the movie isn't really funny. It's a bit of a downer--with a small message about 'the old ways are still the best ways.' But it's such a long drawn out narrative that we grow bored.
Thank God for Quaid and Grace. We'd be asleep if it weren't for them.
But why, oh why aren't they famous yet? Get Marq OUT of CSI and onto the screen! Quaid? I want to see 20 more of your pictures, stat! Scarlett and Topher? The Spirit Awards are waiting for you guys!
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