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?

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Movie Review: Cars

I just had to go to this conference in the mountains this past week, and I was alright with going. Sure, I was alone, but the drive was through some of the most beautiful terrain, so I had zero concerns as the roads twisted and turned, attempting to make me barf with motion sickness.

See, I hate driving. Three hours stood between me and the meetings. I stacked up on CDs and the portable DVD player for when I got there.

One hour in, I looked over and saw what I referred to in the past as a 'creamer truck. A long, silver cylinder being hauled by a Mack or a Peterbilt through the narrows of I-70. Behind it, I knew for sure, a bright red Mack followed.

And my mind flew back to seeing this title last week, when a Mack truck was doing the same thing...only making faces in the rear end of the silver cylinder.

Yes, after seeing this movie once, I memorized everything.

You see, in our neat little nation of ours, the car-culture rules. That is why this gas problem hits us so profoundly; this is why Europe giggles at us so.

We cannot help it, we love our cars. I hate driving. I LOVE my truck. My family's heart orders like this: my partner, my dog, my truck. Why is this?

The debate would be long on the philosophical, but I will point to this little movie that could. Cars exists because of our car culture; Cars streamlines that love into something just as magicial as every other Pixar title.

Pixar. As you know, Disney imploded it's feature animation unit and bought out this tiger of a studio. Six pictures later, the energy has not waned, keeping Disney in the limelight--and will probably keep doing so. Disney's older studio was just as good. With it's feature animation unit, Disney chose famed tales of different cultures, tooled and edited them and gave them a zing and spit them back out for the masses. The masses did not mind, for the stories were streamlined and highly creative on various levels.

Pixar was formed outside of their jurisdiction, and as such, was given a creative leeway that the feature animation unit could not enjoy. Not that it mattered--the themes picked by then-enfant studio were just as deep and meaningful as the main features. They each had a deep felt theme (some amoung them? Toy Story's undying friendships, the use of creativity in A Bug's Life, the famed 'quest' of yore becoming the focus of Finding Nemo) that was conveyed through the audiences ability to relate to the characters on screen. How does a human relate to bugs, toys, monsters and in this case, cars?

Damn good writing, that's how.

Remember that car culture comparison I noticed before hand? The authors of the screenplay must have noticed it too, for the people watching this film really do relate to the talking vehicles onscreen. In this Pixar outing, a young hotshot racer pulls a three way tie with an old retiring machine and another upstart. Having to move the race to California, the three board their trucks and head west on the Interstate. Our hero, with nods to Steve McQueen, is named Lightening McQueen accidently finds himself on the old Route 66 passage--and in the old town of Radiator Springs. He destroys the cities main throughofare and is sentenced to fixing it. The forced time forces him to slow down and realize that life in the fast lane does pay off as much as he wishes.

Okay, that's pretty deep for what has become, for many, a kids format for film. But Pixar pulls us in by starting first with a slam-bang opening sequence that, to my brain and eyes, was so photo realistic, peeling my eyes from the silver screen was not an option. From there, it, as Disney has trained them to do, relies on the actor's to truly act their parts--and by having big names this becomes the result in their entire bevy. Paul Newman came out of retirement to play a Hudson Hornet, dangnabit, he really does look like car, I'm afraid to say. Poor guy. His voice, all gravelly, even carries the sound of engine dying. Whoa.

The only drawback is that by showing what life is like 'in the slow lane,' the picture also slows--and with all the high energy in pictures beforehand, the audience loses that spark for a bit. It does return, but the pace is uneven.

Lastly, even the credits are good. Yes, entertainment even pops up during the credit. But with movies this satisifing, why would you want to leave? No one does, so they even give you fun stuff to watch then as well.

If we had more movies like this, boring summers would not exist.

Movie Review: X-Men 3

I read an interesting article in the Advocate a few days before seeing this movie. It talked about why people like my partner and myself have such a liking to comic books and their many facets of television and movies. It was an editorial, but it made a good point--super heroes tend to live a double life like many gays and lesbians.

Not mention, they are hot, but we don't need to elaborate there.

Still, that's why so many of my kin ran to the movies when "X-Men" opened up. The whole story line of being 'different' and having to survive in a discriminatory world was profoundly (and sadly) too easy to relate to. I took "X-Men" probably more strongly than most.

I knew I was going to see this movie. I was nervous, being a cineast and knowing from my sources some of the changes they were making (Juggernaut as a mutie? Where's Bryan Singer's style? Why did James Marsden leave?). But I had no choice in those matters.

This film, like others I've seen this summer--is slightly better than most, but really doesn't have the power or skill of the first two. First off, as mentioned, characters are toyed with. They show up, like friends at a graduation party, but don't do much else then eat the dip and leave early. The first storyline involves the return of Jean Grey. Only now, she's evil. So evil that she destroys things. ALot. Why? I'm not sure, other than she's angry.

See what I mean? The story isn't quite right. The main protagonists flit between all the violence but don't become anything more by the end of the story. No one changes in their attitudes.

And they are given such great opportunities to send a message during this movie. A second storyline involves finding a cure for all of mutantkind. Imagine that and the impact it has on gay culture. How many of us hear the tales of 'ex-gays?' How many of my friends have wanted to not be what they are born to be? That's heady stuff and gives this film some gravitas.

But it is not played out. Merely mentioned to give both sides action sequences as they fight over it. So the concept is there, but the execution is not.

I so wanted to like this movie, and, in many ways, it is decent--but far from the end of a trilogy. I am very open to adaptations--I totally understand the need to play with storylines. But I have a problem when the plot detracts from the overall theme of a piece. There's a great message here, a way for nongays to understand something that they might not experience. It is as if the filmmakers did not have confidence in the message they were sending and decided to go for the gut with one more fight scene.

Unfortunate. So, yeah, it's good. But my heart kinda ached a wee bit after seeing it.