Exiled from Contentment

"With Nonoxynol 9, knock that shit right out."

2012-02-03T21:35:00.000-08:00

She was a cute girl, wearing a pretty sweater & jeans ensemble that tellingly clashed with her shiny knee-high fetish boots. The young woman led me into the small auditorium at the AMC and said that I could sit anywhere in the first five rows located directly in front of the screen, because the rest of the auditorium was reserved. It was a 162-seat theater, which meant that about 50 seats were available to the 200 or so "unreserved" people who came to see the Navy SEAL action film Act of Valor. Of the 50 seats, only about 10 were left. I had been among the first to arrive.

My friend, meanwhile, was out getting popcorn. So with my speed, cunning, and jacket, I managed to snag two seats, one behind the other at the far corner of the screen. Bowfinger seats. Chinaski in "Hollywood" seats. The hallway entrance got increasingly jammed up as those in front of the line tried in vain to spot any available place to sit, while Fetish Boot Girl tried her best to apologize about the clusterfuckery that was this advance screening. People were getting increasingly frazzled, as one would be after waiting up to 90 minutes in line and being among the first to arrive, only to find that all those careful precautions did not save them from a latecomer's fate.

I'm not in a finger-pointing mood, and even if I was, I certainly wouldn't point my fingers at the contented non-line-waiters who happily waltzed in minutes before showtime and looked over the many available seating options, before finally settling on the place they liked best. For one thing -- the only thing, perhaps -- it appears that a number of them were military. They, like us, were guests. Hell, they could've all been military, this could've been a military screening, and the Act of Valor people probably figured, hey, let's invite some civilians to this as well. I'm totally down with giving the military dudes top priority, just like I'm totally down with the idea that they should make a law that says if you're in the military but you're under 21, fuck it, you should be able to buy a fuckin' beer if you want to. So if I was gonna point my finger at anyone -- and remember, I'm not going to -- I'd say it was whoever picked one of the smallest screening rooms at this establishment to have this screening. AMC? Gofobo? I wouldn't know, I'm not pointing fingers, remember?

I looked at the happy people in the good seats -- by the look of their complexions, this was the Whites Only section -- and then back over to the Soylent Green human sardine can of despairing humanity struggling for seats/room/air in the hallway entrance (which mainly consisted of dirty Hispanics and sneaky Asians), and for some reason I thought of that scene in Summer Rental with John Candy and Richard Crenna at the nice seafood restaurant.

Two ladies in their late 30's began giving it to Fetish Boot Girl about the seating arrangement, reminding me yet again why I could never do any kind of job that required customer service: I would start punching people. The ladies then walked over to the row in front of me and found a couple of seats besides a cap-wearing gentleman in his late 40's/early 50's. They then asked in a demanding tone if those seats were already taken. He said yes in a purposely not-true way, and then stretched his legs over to take the empty seats. This put the ladies in the redline; the lead lady insisted that he was not being truthful and that she was going to take the seats anyway.

The cap-wearer looked at her and said in a 1980's high school cool guy manner "Calm down, it's a free movie" and the lead lady responded in an increasingly bordering-on-tears voice with "You know what? You're a real jerk!" and then the cap-wearer turned his attention back to the dark screen and chuckled. I looked over to the Whites Only section and noticed an Air Force recruiter observing all of this, which made me wonder if that guy ever has second thoughts about the choice he's made in his life -- defending a country of people who can't even agree to be civil about a fuckin' movie theater seat.

If he has had that thought, I'm sure he then countered it with the sad realization that the entire world is like this. It's in our blood, you see, and unfortunately, the closest thing to a blood transfusion for this dying planet is probably gonna be when we finally Alpha/Omega our entire species into the Big Black, as we've been threatening to do ever since that fuckin' ape cracked that other ape in the skull during the Dawn of Man. I know that's a scene from a movie, but still, I'm sure something like that happened back then, because I'm an idiot. Anyway, a security guard came to see if everything was all right/put them in their place and eventually the women found seats elsewhere. Or they left. I don't know. After what had just fuckin' transpired, I don't think it makes a difference either way, really.

My friend came back, the lights went down, and before the flickering digital presentation of Act of Valor, there was a brief video intro by the two directors of the film. They talked about how they used real active Navy SEALs (which I wasn't aware of) as actors and that they only had a few hours at a time to shoot with them (because of everything that being a Navy SEAL entails) or to use the real vehicles and various other Navy transporation, and here's the best part -- they used real live ammunition during the action scenes, because I guess those SEALs go all the way or no way at all. Holy Shit. If you know of anyone who acted in Act of Valor and/or performed stunts, but never came back from the shoot, well, now you know why.

They talked about other things but I was too busy trying to get comfortable with the terrible seat that I was so lucky to find; everything was at a terrible angle and way too close. I'm not against sitting up close if I have to -- I understand that Peter Hyams prefers sitting at the 5th row because he can't see the edges of the screen and therefore it's like literally being in that world, and if its good enough for the director of Busting, it's good enough for me -- but sitting up close with you head tilted up and all the way to the right is just, uh, it's just fuckin' awful in the First World definition of the word. But hey, "calm down, it's a free movie", right?

Also, because I am forever doomed to live in interesting times (as far as moviegoing is concerned), I ended up sitting next to a chatty family and the young man sitting next to me was like Michael J. Fox giving Muhammed Ali a handjob after 40 shots of espresso with a Red Bull diuretic chaser; he never stopped bouncing/shaking his leg, which meant I felt every single bounce/shake. Eventually I started bouncing/shaking as well in an attempt to counteract his bouncing, hopefully cancelling each others movement out by creating a kind of calm eye-of-the-storm effect, or at the very least, annoying the everlasting shit out of him. It took me about a good 20 minutes to finally make peace with the fact that I just wasn't gonna be able to take in the on-screen events with anything more than a basic primal understanding: guns go bang, bombs go boom, people fall down.

The best that I can put together is that this doctor chick has a cell phone, which must be, like, the greatest cell phone ever, even though it's a Blackberry and everyone's all about the iPhone now. It's the greatest cell phone in the world because it has info on some drug smuggler who has hooked up with a Muslim terrorist leader and Filipinos and Mexicans are involved. But here come the Navy SEALs to clear all this shit up and keep all that foreign menace from invading our precious soil with their terrorism plot of blowing shit up and destroying the American economy. Regarding the latter goal, it just shows that these guys are very impatient. Give us time, bros, we'll fuck that shit up soon enough.

So essentially what you're watching here is 100 minutes of Navy SEALs ventilating the Mexicans of Southeast Asia, the Mexicans of Eastern Europe, and finally, the Mexicans of Mexico. If you're an action fan, you'll find plenty to like and get your dick hard about -- and if you're a White conservative from Orange County or really just anyone-anywhere -- you'll also have the extra bonus of ejaculating from said erection into your tighty-whities at the sight of all the brown bullet-ridden corpses.

There are also sequences between the action where it appears that maybe Terrence Malick was sitting in during the script conferences and perhaps suggested that they have moments devoted to the SEALs during those non-ass-kicking periods of their life, you know, when they're chilling out at home with their families or surfing on the beach with their bros, all done to the voiceover of one of the leads as he writes a letter to his unborn son (the film focuses on two particular SEALs, who come off as affable monotone-voiced chaps who are refreshingly lacking in Macho; they don't put up a tough guy act, they just do kickass things when it's Go time). But because Malick simply suggested this shit and didn't tell them how to do it, it doesn't quite work as well, but you know what, it still works in its own way. I dug those scenes, and it's unfortunate that they spend less of the film's downtime on this stuff and more on scenes of the "real" actors hamming it up with their terrorist plannings.

I think the filmmakers were going for a hybrid of fly-on-the-wall Paul Greengrass-style docudrama along with the kind of Hollywood shit you see in a Bruckheimer joint. But it's those Hollywood moments -- the secret conversations between covert CIA agents, the MWAHAHA scenes between terrorists -- that hurt the film, rather than make it feel like more of your usual action entertainment. It's weird, because I think the scenes between the SEALs work a lot more than the scenes with the legit actors, even though the SEALs aren't the best actors or even good actors. That's not a diss on the SEALs, by the way; those guys were too busy keeping up their standards of badassery to work on their performances. Because in their line of work, it does them a lot more good to know the insides of a Kalashnikov, rather than the many facets of Stanislavsky.

The best actor in the film, believe it or not, is a member of a SEAL team; I don't know his name because like the rest of the active duty SEALs in this film, they're not credited with anything other than their character names (which may or may not be their real names as well). Anyway, he's the guy with the bushy Galifianakis beard and he's an expert in interrogation, and he's really funny. Homeboy has a tendency to reference films in his dialogue, but my favorite line is when he refers to a terrorist having "pulled a Roman Polanski", rather than just saying that the guy fled the country to escape sentencing. I also like how he casually calls the enemy "savages", and that had a bit of a chilling effect on me because the shit felt real, kind of like how they'll call any Iraqi insurgent "haji" or any low-budget militia as "skinnies". Because it's harder to send a motherfucker to the next world when you humanize them, I guess.

I loved the scene where he actually puts his interrogation skills to work. While watching that scene, I realized -- of course! -- that it makes perfect sense that he would be the best actor of the SEAL team because I'm sure there's a lot of that kind of shit needed when trying to get the goods from the interrogatee. Beard Guy shows up wearing a suit (up until now he's dressed in either ratty civvies or his uniform) and speaks in an easygoing manner to put the bad guy at ease. It's only a matter of time before he gets into Bad Cop mode, and even the way he plays that role is pretty surprising. He reminded me a lot of the head of security from one of my previous jobs, Ed.

Ed was a guy with a balding buzz-cut and a non-ironic mustache who was ex-military but now ran the security at this joint like it was the CIA. Once we passed each other in the hall and I said something because I can't do uncomfortable silences. He stopped, gave me his typically cryptic smile and said "You know what I like about you? (beat) You always have something to say", then turned back and continued walking. It was tough to tell whether he was being genuine or giving me some Clint Eastwood-style putdown shit. Anyway, I could see Ed doing military-style interrogation in a past life.

While watching the film, I had come down to the conclusion that it was shot with what appeared to be the entire range of digital cinematography from the last ten years. Some shots looked like expertly-transferred HDCAM (meaning the shit still looks like video) some shots have that DVX-100 24p standard definition look, other shots look like they were filmed on one of the REDs, and the rest is good ol' HDLSR. Later, I found out that it was pretty much just shot with the Canon 5D, so I guess the look of the film was really just a result of getting the footage by any means necessary, and not whether that shit was perfect quality or not. Don't get me wrong, I'm not dissing it, in fact, I applaud the look/style of Act of Valor -- for the most part.

When it works, the action cinematography has a great energy to it -- Christian Bale's favorite cinematographer, Shane Hurlbut, took these little cameras and really pushed them to their limits, forgoing the precious Theo Angelopoulos-in-comparison look most people tend to do with these babies and instead just grabbing the motherfuckers and MAYBE using one of those steering wheel Fig Rigs but otherwise just using the wonderful never-fail handheld stabilizer known as Your Fucking Hands. Pretty much anything not involving the SEALs has this raw look, while the stuff with the real actors is far more polished and even cranes and jibs appeared to be used.

Some scenes go crazy out-of-focus, and I can only assume that was either intentional, or as I mentioned before, these Bad Ass SEALs ain't got time for the camera jibber-jabber. Whatever the case, I thought I was watching the smooth rack-focusing of Todd Barron sometimes. They also throw in a lot of POV and damn-near POV shots of SEALs shooting, reloading, aiming, even changing gears while driving. It's pretty neat, and it would probably be even more impressive had I never played Call of Duty.

But it's still pretty fuckin' awesome to watch these SEALs do their thing, because that's what they're doing -- their thing, not some action choreographer's thing. You watch them perform in re-creations of scenarios they've gone through or at least been trained for; the movements, the communication -- it just has that Real feel to it. You can't help but geek out at the way they dispatch a "savage" who's standing next to a lake; if I had seen Jason Statham do that shit, that would've been cool, but because I'm watching a guy who probably did that shit to another human being at least once in his career, it's just cool on a different level -- the level of actual ownage inflicted on another human being, permanently. Hey, I never said I was exempt from the frailties of the human soul. We like violence. As I said earlier, it's in our blood -- hence our need to see so much of it.

Speaking of blood, this is an R-rated film, but not Verhoeven "R" or the last Rambo flick "R". It's more like red bullet holes in foreheads and the occasional pink mist. There is one character who gets tortured pretty badly, I'd say that's where most of the R-rating went. I have to give the filmmakers props for not Hollywooding that scene up -- not that you see much of it, but you do see the results and without giving much away, it wouldn't have happened that badly to that kind of character in another movie. But since this is being played out like real life, well, Real Life doesn't give a shit who you are or how you look or how your kind of character would get treated in another film. Whether you're a Hard Motherfucker or not, Real Life is like Gloria Estefan's proverbial rhythm -- it's gonna get you.

Unfortunately, the filmmakers didn't seem to trust the action scenes and verisimilitude enough to completely forgo the industry standard Confuso-Vision style. Instead they found a frustrating middle ground that combines Spielberg/Ridley Scott-style war chaos with Neveldine/Taylor-style anything chaos, rather than committing fully to one or the other. It's like they shot the film with jittery in-your-face handheld setups, and then took it to the editing room and hadn't decided whether to cut the already energetic footage with an emphasis on pacing/flow or to cut it with an emphasis on just being a fuckin' dick by Cuisinart-ing that shit. So they did both -- sometimes during the same sequence.

Now, there's a good chance that this wouldn't be as big an issue if I had been watching this flick in the Whites Only section, but I wasn't -- I was in the I Want A Crick In My Neck And A Headache Afterwards seat and it was just too much for me to take in, so yeah. Sorry to keep harping on that, but really, who LIKES those seats?

Script-wise, this flick would barely qualify as a C-level programmer on the second half of a double-bill. But the idea of watching real Navy SEALs doing their thing is innately awesome, and that's what gives Act of Valor its total entertainment value -- not to mention the only reason for this film existing in the first place (well, that and to have a 100-minute recruitment commercial for the Navy -- I'd love to imagine what the general national attitude would be, had this flick been about, say, the PLA Special Operations Force). I don't know if I'd pay full price and make it a night at the movies with this one, but I'd definitely get some friends, some beer, and some pizza for a Blu-ray viewing. Yeah sure, why not?

The real bitch of this rambling is that I'm talking all this Navy SEAL shit and I still haven't seen the film Navy Seals. What the fuck. That shit has Michael Biehn, Charlie Sheen AND Bill Paxton. From the director of Collision Course, no less. And yet I haven't seen it. At the risk of stating something that everybody already knows: I am such a fuckin' lame.

Movie Tally 2012: 1/01 - 1/31

2012-02-01T12:30:00.000-08:00

1. WAR HORSE - 1/01/12 - Theater
2. SHIVERS (aka They Came from Within) - 1/03/12 - DVD (re-see)
3. RABID - 1/03/12 - DVD (re-see)
4. FAST COMPANY - 1/04/12 - DVD (re-see)
5. THE BROOD - 1/07/12 - DVD (re-see)
6. CHINATOWN - 1/09/12 - Theater/Brea Plaza 5 (re-see)
7. LARRY CROWNE - 1/14/12 - Blu-ray
8. COLOMBIANA (unrated) - 1/14/12 - Blu-ray
9. FOR THE LOVE OF MOVIES: THE STORY OF AMERICAN FILM CRITICISM - 1/17/12 - DVR/TV
10. SCANNERS - 1/17/12 - DVD (re-see)
11. VIDEODROME - 1/17/12 - DVD (re-see)
12. THE STEEL HELMET - 1/17/12 - DVD (re-see)
13. THE DEAD ZONE - 1/18/12 - DVD (re-see)
14. THE FLY ('86) - 1/19/12 - DVD (re-see)
15. DEAD RINGERS - 1/19/12 - DVD (re-see)
16. PRIEST ('10) - 1/20/12 - Other/Cardio Cinema
17. MAD MAX - 1/21/12 - Theater/Egyptian (re-see)
18. MAD MAX 2 (aka The Road Warrior) - 1/21/12 - Theater/Egyptian (re-see)
19. MAD MAX BEYOND THUNDERDOME - 1/22/12 - Theater/Egyptian (re-see)
20. NAKED LUNCH - 1/31/12 - DVD (re-see)

January figures:

5 theater
0 drive-in
11 DVD
1 DVR/TV
2 Blu-ray
0 Netflix Instant Streaming
0 VHS
1 Other

5 new
15 re-see

20 viewings total for January 2012

Year to date: 20 movies

Flawed creatures, all of us, some more than others -- some WAY more than others

2012-01-24T21:04:00.000-08:00

For some reason, my friend Moshe cancelled his plans to join me at the Mad Max triple feature last Saturday night at the American Cinematheque/Egyptian Theatre. If I had to guess, it might have something to do with him finding out that Mel Gibson was going to be there, and since Moshe's a fuckin' Jew bastard who's only a couple years away from joining his fellow Christ-killers in their secret underground Hebrew cabal where they run all of the world's affairs, he knew he wouldn't be able to handle my man the Gibs preaching the gospel of Truth. Whatever. By the way, don't tell Moshe I said any of this, because I don't want to ruin my chances in Hollywood.

Anyway, I arrived and tried to get a refund on Moshe's ticket but the guy said No Can Do, but if I wanted to sell it to someone in the standby line, then Yes Can Do. So I went to the line and told the folks that I had one ticket for anyone who wanted it, and a man in a track suit -- who in the movie of his life would be played by latter-day Barry Bostwick -- raised his hand. I gave it to him free of charge, because unlike Moshe and his people, it's not always about money for me. As I walked away, I thought about what I just did, and rather than feel good about it, I felt like an absolute schmuck.

It was a long line that snaked out into the sidewalk, forcing the movie lovers to mix with the tourists, the homeless, the fake homeless, mi gente waiting for the bus to take them to their second (or third) job, the increasingly drunk club/bar-hoppers, and of course, the unsettlingly nice Scientologists. With all of this local color around, it was easy to miss the folks from Wasteland Weekend who prowled the Egyptian grounds while dressed as characters from the Mad Max series. The Last of the V-8 Interceptors was also there; parked in the courtyard, it was available for pictures to anyone with a cell phone camera worth a shit -- which my camera most certainly was not because money-wise, a good phone takes a back seat to rent & movies.

I recognized some of the volunteers; there was the long-haired dude in glasses from the Aero who seems like a nice guy, and there was Louis C.K.'s future wife, Jade Luber, taking surveys from the people in line. The introduction was handled by Grant Moninger, also of the Aero, and he did the usual spiel of the upcoming films playing at both American Cinematheque joints. But this time he said something that was new to me -- for these kinds of intros anyway -- he mentioned how one of the upcoming films on the schedule was going to be shown in a beautiful digital presentation. He talked about how the theaters were equipped with the various filters and line-doublers/triplers/quadruplers/whatever-the-fuck-they-are and that it wouldn't be like watching a Blu-ray at home, it would be better.

Film is Q from Juice and Digital is Bishop. You da past, bro. My time is now. It's a pixelated world and we're just a bunch of 1's and 0's occupying it.

Ah, what am I am saying. It could be worse, you know. We could be living in the pre-apocalyptic world of Mad Max; "a few years from now..." where one can't drive without getting fucked with (and then just fucked) by the motorcycle gangs. They chase you down, smash up your vehicle, and if you're lucky they just kill you. But most likely, you won't be lucky and you'll end up as violated as your ride by the end of the ordeal. Some of these gangers, they're not just psychopaths, drug fiends or a combo of the two, they're also these fuckin' sexual monsters who evidently always need to get off and they will get off -- to either gender.

And not in a bisexual way, either; like Red from The Shawshank Redemption would say, you'd have to be human for that, and these assholes sure as fuck don't make the cut. I'm sure even animals and the recently deceased are on the menu with this scum. I don't know about gang leader Toecutter and his boy Johnny, though, they might have their own little thing worked out; something about that scene when he shoves the shotgun barrel into his boy's mouth -- telling him to keep his sweet mouth shut -- that just gets me sooo ~~hard~~ creeped out.

So yeah, the near-future is all kinds of fucked up. On the one hand, you have these motorcycle hooligans doing their thing and terrorizing all those wide-open spaces & highways (aka Australia), but on the other, the captain of the MFP is a big, bald, mustache-wearing bear of a man named Fifi who likes to water plants half-naked with only a pair of leather pants and a scarf around his neck, so obviously there's been some social advances at least. Good for the citizens of this blighted place, I say, that's admirably progressive. Or maybe shit's so fucked up that people have other things to worry about, like hoping that a train carrying the recently deceased member of a particularly dangerous gang doesn't stop in their small burg.

That recently deceased motor-ganger was some psycho named Nightrider, and he got his trying to outrun the MFP -- which was working for him until they got Mad Max on his ass. Something else that came to mind while watching Nightrider's car turn into various fireballs and plumes of smoke; Nightrider was driving with a female passenger when his shit got exploded, and this chick must've been very lacking in the Good Impression department, because no one ever mentions her ever again, she didn't even get the train-riding coffin treatment. Either that or she was a real bitch and not deserving of acknowledgment. But how do you come off as a bitch to a bunch of animals? Holy shit, she must've been really fuckin' depraved, then.

You know how these movies go; it's just a matter of time before the leader of the gang and Max tangle assholes in one way or another. It's all going to be played out in the Thunderdome that is the highway --
and it's going to involve a lot of awesome sound effects of engines revving the fuck up and tires peeling the fuck out. C'mon, you've seen this film already, you know how much it owns. Those shots of motherfuckers' eyes popping out before eating shit permanently? That might as well be our eyes while watching this film (and the second).

I used to watch Mad Max and Duel so many times as a kid, which is probably why I'm all fucked up, but unlike Duel, I think I liked Mad Max even more in my horrible state of adulthood. It wasn't just the car/motorcycle chases, it was the style of the film that really got the ol' cinematic geek muscle pumping. George Miller directed the shit out of this movie; it's like maybe it was bugging him how small and practically non-existent the Australian film community was, like it fell on his shoulders to really make a name for his country and show the rest of the world how they fuckin' do shit Down Under.

He got cinematographer David Eggby and told him this wasn't some fuckin' television cop show where the photography endgame was to put the thing on sticks and make sure they got the proper focus and exposure -- NO! They were gonna take that camera, strap it down to a vehicle and place it as low to the fuckin' street as possible, and then...then they were gonna gun it down the highway, all the way to redline levels. You can tell when they did it that way, and you can tell when the actors were probably like "Fuck that shit, I'm not gonna do my thing while riding a motorcycle at top-speed! I'm an actor!", because that's when the occasional use of undercranked cameras, sped up footage and skipped frames came in, to make that shit look even faster than they were really going.

Any other film, that would've looked weak. But because Mad Max is a film that feels like somebody's fucked-up dream after drinking a gallon of Victoria's Bitter the night before (followed by a pint of XXXX), even the goofy shit feels right at home. In your face shot compositions, Kurosawa wipes, dissolves upon dissolves -- and that's just the visuals, man. The music, holy shit, the music -- it's from a dude named Brian May, not to be confused by the Brian May from Queen, but it's an easy mistake to make because the score is a 6-ft. muscle-bound bully of operatic emotion that kicks sand in the face of the 90-pound weakling known as Subtlety. The sound mix is all kinds of tainted Monster Energy Drink; in addition to the aforementioned awesome sounds of highway-rapeage, there's also fucked-up sounds of birds on meth or something, along with whatever other weird tragedies of nature they got going down in that country.

The print we watched was the original Australian version; the American one that came out back in the day, that was dubbed with Yank accents and even had some of the slang changed so that we can understand what they're talking about, on account of us United Staters being dumb assholes, I guess. I have to admit, though, I actually prefer the American soundtrack; even when it's expertly matched with the lip movements, dubbing never sounds completely natural, it sounds off. In the case of Mad Max, that just adds another welcome level of otherworldly-ness to the proceedings. It's one thing to hear Fifi declare "We're gonna give 'em back their heroes!" in his natural Aussie dialect, but it's another more awesome thing to hear that line in a voice more befitting a super-villain on some long forgotten 70's cartoon.

Following the first film, Geoff Boucher of the L.A. Times' Hero Complex site came out and introduced Mr. Gibson, who received a standing ovation from the packed house. The guy sitting in front of me seemed particularly happy about Gibson not being very tall; "He's like a midget!" I'm not sure, but I think it went for about 30-40 minutes, this interview, and you bet your sweet ass they weren't gonna open this up to the audience for a Q&A, what are you, crazy?! And just to make sure some evil Jew terrorist wasn't gonna jump down and stab Mel with one of his horns for speaking the truth, there were big Black men in suits situated near both aisles, who I reckon were there to protect The Gibs from Hebrew vengeance. They've seen Inglourious Basterds, they know how Jews get down.

He was very restrained; this wasn't the Mel Gibson you would see yukking it up/pranking it down with his co-stars during an Entertainment Tonight behind-the-scenes exclusive, this was Braveheart audio commentary Mel Gibson. He made the occasional joke and funny aside, but something tells me that he'd have been a lot more animated and there'd be a lot less of him looking down on the ground, had this interview been done 8 years ago, pre-Passion, pre-Sugar Tits, pre-You Should Just Fuckin' Smile And Bloooow Meeee. At one point, he started hitting himself on the head while trying to remember something, which amused me and made me think that maybe he was about to pull a Riggs and poke Boucher in the fuckin' eyes or something. But aside from that, the content of the Boucher/Gibson tete-a-tete (plus approximately 650 other tetes) was pretty average when you get right down to it.

The elephant in the room was briefly acknowledged in a vague way, the whole "recent events" thing; Gibson's response got applause from the audience.

The Gibs gets more out of being a filmmaker than an actor, says the man; you're in charge and you get to tell the crew where to put the camera and you get to tell the actors how you want them to fuckin' perform. He brought up a couple projects he's been working on; the let's-get-these-Jews-back-on-my-side film about the Maccabees, and another collaboration with Randall Wallace about the Vikings, called Berserker. Both films sound like they're gonna be bloody, and at one point Mel said something about the "art of torture" or something like that, which I think confirmed to the audience that yes, torture and Mel Gibson go together like bagels and lox. Also, he referred to Tina Turner as "Thunder Thighs", so that just might be a Gibson thing, giving nicknames to the ladies based on their physical attributes. So calm down, police woman, that Sugar Tits thing is just my boy Mel being Mel.

He spoke about all three films, mostly confirming stories about the making of Mad Max from the IMDB trivia page and audio commentaries on the DVD, like how he got the role, or about the fate of the stuntman who got smashed in the back of the head by a fuckin' motorcycle (he bled profusely but shook it off and survived). He mentioned stunt coordinator/Stunt Rock-er Grant Page (to some scattered applause by people who know what the fuck is up); Page taught stage fighting and various other physical things at a drama school (where Gibson and the actor who played the Goose attended), and he got the gig because he was pretty much the only guy in Australia who knew his shit when it came to stunts.

Some choice quotes were posted on this awesome Twitter page, thank God. Saves me the time of trying to remember. But I'll bring up a few things, anyway. He said that George Miller was a cool dude, he was very precise and analytical with his planning and shot lists, and as a result, there was very little wasted footage. Also, Miller had no problem whatsoever with telling you what he was doing and how he planned to do it, if you asked him. He wouldn't pull some filmmaker's secret bullshit on you. Sometimes Miller would insist on doing things his way, even if they weren't necessarily the way things were done in films (like screen direction), and that might have been a result of Miller and company pretty much learning as they went along.

Regarding the 4th Mad Max film that's in the works, Gibson said he was involved for a while until a few years ago (he didn't elaborate on why he's not involved anymore, but he and Miller are still buds). He thought Tom Hardy was an interesting choice and a good dude; about 6 months ago, they had lunch together and this was apparently Hardy's doing, as a way to get the old man's approval. Gibson gave Hardy his blessing and then told him something fucked-up and sprinkled it with passive-aggressiveness (which of course I can't remember) to basically keep the motherfucker on his toes and not make it THAT easy for the guy.

The second film is his favorite, the one that he felt totally accomplished what they were trying to accomplish with the first film (but didn't from lack of doing shit like this in the first place); he praised it for being kinetic and relentless. Most of the climactic truck chase was done by never moving the vehicles at all, they'd just shoot it at angles where you couldn't see the road and intercut it with the insane stunt footage. The third film, he said, wasn't sure what it was trying to be (I heard some audience members mumble in agreement). Based on what Mel was saying, it sounded like Miller had lost the heart to continue filming Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome because his producer/good friend/brother-from-another-mother Byron Kennedy had died in a helicopter crash. That's why the last one is credited to two directors, George Miller and George Ogilvie.

The Gibs left and the second film, Mad Max 2 (or The Road Warrior, if you wanna be that way) was next. Dude, I already wrote too fuckin' much, I'm gonna give this one short shrift because I love it so much. I almost don't want to ruin such a masterpiece with my bullshit about how much it owns -- which it does. Besides, you already know that Mad Max 2 is the shit, one of the best sequels ever made -- sure, it kind of pulls a Phantasm II and sacrifices some of that nightmare feel for a more straight-ahead manner of storytelling, but action-wise this motherfucker takes it to another level.

This film is another badass example of stunts being performed in that long-gone era that Stuntman Mike referred to as the "all or nothing" days. I have no idea how half of the shit done here did not result in either a sudden boom in business for Australian cemeteries or at the very least, a bunch of drunken Aussies tearing paralyzed ass and burning wheelchair rubber down the highways. You have guys jumping onto moving vehicles, jumping in between moving vehicles, or being strapped to the fuckin' things.

This time, it's a post-apocalyptic world; humanity finally finished with what it does best -- destroying each other. Now Max is aimlessly driving through the wastelands, with only his dog for company and that bad V-8 to take 'em both. Unlike today, gasoline is an issue and that's why he, the psycho-gangers, and the lucky unfortunates occupying an oil refinery are all up in each other's business. If that wasn't bad enough, it's pretty obvious that baths won't be in anyone's life itinerary. But at least there's a cute chick who looks like a member of some 80's Aussie pop band AND a hot Amazon chick with a bow & arrow to scare the creeps away. Fuck showers.

All this, plus Vernon Wells as Wez. The audience applauded when his name came up in the opening credits, as they should. In the cinema of my imagination, there's a totally fucked up buddy movie starring two Vernon Wells characters: Wez from this film, and Bennett from Commando. I don't think Gus Van Sant is interested in action movies, so I'd probably have to settle for Roland Emmerich.

I guess David Eggby had better things to do, because for this one they got muthafuckin' Dean Semler to step in and it's like this guy didn't miss a goddamn beat. If anything, this one has more of a Just Do It attitude in the lensing department; he and Miller were probably like Who gives a shit if the sky and lighting constantly changes in-between shots, the audience is gonna be too busy trying not to have their asses handed back to them for the 17th time, on account of all the hyperkinetic ownage we're doling out, mate.

As far as the dialogue goes, Mad Max is a fuckin' Woody Allen joint compared to Mad Max 2; there are plenty of sequences that are all visual and no dialogue. Max himself is a man of very few words, leaving it up to those settlers at the refinery and Lord Humungus (who just might be one of my all-time favorite film creations; he looks like something Miller doodled up in junior high during class and always remembered to use him one day, and to make things even better, he gave him a foreign accent) to do all the blabbing.

Which is why it's disappointing to see Max chatting motherfuckers up again in the third film, Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. Now, I'd seen this flick way back when I was a kid. I remember thinking it was OK. But over the years, it's developed a reputation as the Godfather III of the Max trilogy. Me, I liked The Godfather Part III. As for Thunderdome, I knew one day I would watch the film again, with older eyes, and give it the chance that many would refuse to give; by the time of the third film, the theater had lost about 2/3 of the crowd.

It means well, this movie, it really does. I'm giving it props for trying to take it to another level entirely; no longer content to be a lean-mean street battle joint, this Max is trying to go all epic on us -- even going as far as chucking composer Brian May for Lawrence of Arabia's Maurice Jarre. No dissing Jarre, he was the man and all, but c'mon Miller, stay true to the homies, man. Besides, you lose an important element in making it feel like part of the trilogy by pulling that shit.

With the first film you watched a decent dude lose his way and become the worst case scenario of a Hard Motherfucker -- he lost everything and really had nothing to live for. He became just another road killer and that's why to me, that final shot in the first film kinda breaks my heart because you're pretty much watching a fuckin' zombie, a terminal crazy. Then in the second one, you watch Max slowly, gradually learn how to give a fuck about others. By then, I think that was all you needed to tell in the Max saga. Where else are you gonna go with that character?

But I guess Miller had to continue with the series, mostly because of his growing obsession with pigs -- pig wind chimes in part one, random pigs at the refinery in part two, and pigs pigs pigs in part three. Not only pigs, but pig fecal matter as well. Jesus Christ, Miller, what the fuck? Why did you have to go there? Fuckin' pig shit everywhere, fuckin' huge tanks of pig shit to create methane as fuel for Bartertown, one of the main settings of this joint. This is one of those unfortunate films that manages to convey how horrible everything must smell, which is a real accomplishment given how unbathed part two was.

In a way, Beyond Thunderdome is a test run for George Miller's pig & penguin joints; it's family friendly (before Live Free or Die Hard and The Expendables 2, we had Conan and Mad Max losing their balls, ratings-wise) and involves a strong main character surrounded by a battalion of colorful wackadoo characters. Also, I guess Miller figured that since the audiences loved The Feral Kid in the last sequel, well, hey, how about a whole group of children for part three! And in this one, they'll talk! Money in the bank, mate! Then Miller's lackey said "Maybe the audience wants more of Mel crashing vehicles and double-barrel shotgunning them?" and Miller responded with "You're fired, mate."

The first third of the film is decent enough in a slightly diminished returns sort-of-way, but after the Thunderdome duel, the Give-A-Fuck factor falls hard. I don't know, maybe if this was just called Beyond Thunderdome and was about someone else other than Max, it would be OK. But no, it's a Mad Max movie, one with no chases until the end, and even the chase is frustratingly hot and cold. It's not a piece of shit, just a depressing drop in Good Times compared to the last two. At least it's primarily about the main character, unlike Once Upon A Time In Mexico, where Robert Rodriguez took the Mariachi series to Epic-ville but relegated Antonio Banderas to damn near second banana status.

Eh, at least Tina Turner was fun to watch. That's why we see less of her and more of those goddamn kids.

Anyway, I'll forgive George Miller for this mistake, the same way I forgave the Jews for murdering my Christ. MEL GIBSON FOREVER.

Back scratch fever

2012-01-21T14:13:00.000-08:00

I did not expect to receive a request so soon (or at all), but here I am, rambling about a short film that I was requested to ramble about. It's called The Code and it can be seen on Funny or Die, the website that mostly comprises of celebrities trying to show the unwashed masses on the Interwebs that they too have a sense of humor -- they too are With It, as the old doctor would say.

I've never rambled about a short film, and I think the best way to go about it is probably not to go about it too much. I mean, in the time that it would take to read an average rambling of mine, you could've seen The Code, like, 3 times. So go see The Code and forget the rest of this bullshit. But for those who are probably reading this off of their Androids or iPads or iPhones while waiting in line for something and none of your many friends is available to chat with and there's no interesting people to Tweet about behind their backs, or no First World problems to FML about, well, read on, lady and gentleman.

The Code starts off with a guy named Chad, who doesn't really look like a Chad (I like my Chads with Zack Morris hair), but he acts enough like one to live up to that fuckin' name. He would also live up to the name of Charlie Harper, as in Tiger Blood's late character from Two and a Half Men, because he's dressed like him. Also, he's a porn star, so fuck that guy (although if you work in the porn industry, you probably already have).

He's on one of those dates, the kind where you chill out in a dark area late at night with a nice blonde lady, plying her with wine in an effort to loosen her up enough that she'll move on from wine glasses to skin flutes shortly thereafter. I like how she smiles and calls Chad funny, and I guess Chad felt that gave him permission to laugh, like Yeah, I crack myself up, even though you didn't laugh and only smiled, probably to be nice, but yeah, I'll laugh like I think I'm even funnier than you think. That's like if you were to go up to Brett Ratner and politely tell him that you thought Tower Heist was funny and suddenly he's doubled over laughing going, "I know, right?! I'm so funny!" I wouldn't know if that shit was funny or not, because I never saw the fuckin' thing. I understand the actors never rehearsed, though.

I like how the chick in The Code is wearing a cross pendant and talks about how she's never dated a porn star before. She's open-minded, this chick; to me, the cross denotes a love for The Christ, but obviously she's not too strict about how she lives her life as a Christian otherwise she'd never give a deep-dicking expert like Chad a shot at all. I don't know, maybe I'm absolutely wrong -- as is my wont -- because Jesus The Christ was down with that whore Mary Magdalene, he never judged, so maybe Pretty Blonde is a true Christian.

It doesn't matter; just as Chad's about to neck this broad and get the ol' main vein primed, along come some fuckin' zombies to cockblock the motherfucker with their unholy need for human flesh and/or brains. It doesn't look good for our Pretty Blonde and it looks worse for Chad, because he has one of those no-dignity scream/flailing arms combos right before falling on his designer khaki shorts -- and that's before some psycho killer wearing a psycho killer mask and brandishing a psycho killer weed trimmer shows up to the Let's Kill These Attempted On-Getters party.

This is all in the first minute or so of the five-minute-plus running time, so that's a good place to stop giving away shit. Anyway, I liked it. For a film with people getting their faces splattered up, The Code has an agreeable, genial feel to it, rather than that too-cool-for-school attitude that I'm getting sick and tired of. I was particularly a fan of Chad and the main zombie; there's also another character that pops up halfway through and I liked how nobody liked this guy or his type -- the emo hipsters of the horror film world. You'll know when you see him.

I laughed at the jokes and I dug the low-budget gore; I could be wrong, but it looks like they used actual fake blood and chunks, and not some post-production After Effects shit -- nowadays, that's enough to make useless me want to get up off my fat sedentary ass, stand on my atrophied blubber legs, and clap my weak hands together. If that shit's fake, well, they sure fooled me or I need some fuckin' spectacles.

It feels like the opening sequence to a program or a film, one that doesn't so much spoof the genre as it has some fun with it. It looks slick enough but they didn't get carried away with it, and maybe it's because I'm a weirdo but sometimes I get turned off by these HDLSR/After Effects joints that try to wow you with their beauty while forgetting to at least fuckin' amuse me with their bullshit -- LOOK AT WHAT I CAN DO WITH THIS EQUIPMENT!!! Look, that's fine and all, calling cards are the shit, but I think sometimes that shit sacrifices the potential entertainment value and the only thing they really say with these flicks is either Give Me Work or Hey, We're Fans Of Tim & Eric Too!

In conclusion, I like the website, but Funny or Die is still a stupid name and I'm just jealous and depressed and being a hater or something, I don't know. Oh yeah, here's The Code:

The Code - watch more funny videos

Movie Tally 2011 - Complete List

2012-01-03T14:57:00.000-08:00

1. BUSTING - 1/03/11 - Netflix Instant
2. CROSSFIRE - 1/04/11 - DVD
3. OUT OF THE PAST - 1/05/11 - DVD
4. MACHETE - 1/05/11 - DVD (re-see)
5. THE SOCIAL NETWORK - 1/05/11 - DVD (re-see)
6. HIS KIND OF WOMAN - 1/06/11 - DVD
7. POLICE ACADEMY 2: THEIR FIRST ASSIGNMENT - 1/07/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
8. DISORDERLIES - 1/07/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
9. CLASS ACT - 1/09/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
10. FOREIGN INTRIGUE - 1/10/11 - Netflix Instant
11. LEFT BEHIND - 1/11/11 - DVD
12. THE MECHANIC - 1/12/11 - Netflix Instant
13. LEFT BEHIND II: TRIBULATION FORCE - 1/13/11 - Netflix Instant
14. LEFT BEHIND: WORLD AT WAR - 1/14/11 - Netflix Instant
15. THE BIG BUS - 1/15/11 - DVR (re-see)
16. 127 HOURS - 1/15/11 - Theater
17. SUBURBIA (1996) - 1/15/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
18. ACTION JACKSON - 1/17/11 - Netflix Instant
19. AMOS AND ANDREW - 1/19/11 - Netflix Instant
20. MIRACLE MILE - 1/19/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
21. THE PHILADELPHIA EXPERIMENT - 1/20/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
22. THE BALLAD OF CABLE HOGUE - 1/20/11 - Netflix Instant
23. WHERE THE BUFFALO ROAM - 1/21/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
24. RAMPAGE (2009) - 1/22/11 - Netflix Instant
25. ZONE TROOPERS - 1/24/11 - Netflix Instant
26. THE DRIVER - 1/24/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
27. DUEL - 1/24/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
28. WILD AT HEART - 1/26/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
29. TRUE ROMANCE - 1/26/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
30. THE MECHANIC (2011) - 1/28/11 - Theater
31. BONNIE AND CLYDE - 1/29/11 - Netflix Instant
32. HEART AND SOULS - 1/29/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
33. R.O.T.O.R. - 1/29/11 - Netflix Instant
34. THE SIEGE OF FIREBASE GLORIA - 1/30/11 - Netflix Instant
35. BARFLY - 1/30/11 - DVD (re-see)
36. SOMETHING WILD - 1/30/11 - DVD
37. LAURA - 1/30/11 - DVD
38. THE DILEMMA - 1/31/11 - Theater
39. DILLINGER - 2/01/11 - Netflix Instant
40. GROUNDHOG DAY - 2/02/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
41. MURDER IN THE FIRST - 2/03/11 - Netflix Instant
42. SIX AGAINST THE ROCK - 2/03/11 - Netflix Instant
43. 3:15 - 2/03/11 - Netflix Instant
44. BORDER COP (aka The Border) - 2/04/11 - Netflix Instant
45. BEST OF THE BEST - 2/04/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
46. BEST OF THE BEST II - 2/04/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
47. XANADU - 2/04/11 - Netflix Instant
48. PHANTASM II - 2/05/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
49. BLUE VALENTINE - 2/07/11 - Theater
50. BRIDE OF THE MONSTER (MST3k version) - 2/08/11 - Netflix Instant
51. MANHUNT IN SPACE (MST3k version) - 2/08/11 - Netflix Instant
52. A RAGE IN HARLEM - 2/08/11 - Netflix Instant
53. ATTACK OF THE GIANT LEECHES (MST3k version) - 2/09/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
54. INDESTRUCTIBLE MAN (MST3k version) - 2/09/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
55. THE RULES OF ATTRACTION (unrated cut) - 2/09/11 - Blu-ray (re-see)
56. STAGECOACH - 2/10/11 - Netflix Instant
57. POLICE ACADEMY 3: BACK IN TRAINING - 2/11/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
58. POLICE ACADEMY 4: CITIZENS ON PATROL - 2/11/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
59. POLICE ACADEMY 5: ASSIGNMENT MIAMI BEACH - 2/13/11 - Netflix Instant
60. POLICE ACADEMY 6: CITY UNDER SIEGE - 2/13/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
61. POLICE ACADEMY: MISSION TO MOSCOW - 2/14/11 - Netflix Instant
62. GONZO: THE LIFE AND WORK OF DR. HUNTER S. THOMPSON - 2/15/11 - Netflix Instant
63. THE BIGGEST FAN - 2/15/11 - DVD
64. SCARED TO DEATH (Elvira's Movie Macabre) - 2/17/11 - DVR
65. STRAIGHT TIME - 2/17/11 - Netflix Instant
66. FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS - 2/18/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
67. RUNAWAY TRAIN - 2/18/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
68. MAD RON'S PREVUES FROM HELL - 2/18/11 - Netflix Instant
69. MEN OF RESPECT - 2/19/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
70. ST. ELMO'S FIRE - 2/19/11 - Netflix Instant
71. A/K/A TOMMY CHONG - 2/19/11 - Netflix Instant
72. ALL ABOUT THE BENJAMINS - 2/21/11 - Netflix Instant
73. THE CHASE (1994) - 2/22/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
74. 127 HOURS - 2/22/11 - DVD (re-see)
75. DRIVE ANGRY 3D - 2/25/11 - Theater
76. MAN PUSH CART - 2/25/11 - Netflix Instant
77. UNIVERSAL SOLDIER - 2/26/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
78. DEMOLITION MAN - 2/26/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
79. THE KING'S SPEECH (R-rated cut) - 2/27/11 - Theater
80. HAPPY GILMORE - 2/27/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
81. LENA'S HOLIDAY - 2/28/11 - Netflix Instant
82. BIRDEMIC: SHOCK AND TERROR - 3/01/11 - DVD (re-see)
83. BLACK COBRA - 3/06/11 - DVD
84. THE NO MERCY MAN - 3/08/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
85. JOHNNY FIRECLOUD - 3/08/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
86. THE SUMMERTIME KILLER - 3/08/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
87. FATHEAD - 3/09/11 - Netflix Instant
88. BLACK COBRA 2 - 3/10/11 - DVD
89. DARK OF THE SUN (aka The Mercenaries) - 3/10/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
90. HELL RIVER (aka Partizan) - 3/10/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
91. KILLERS (2010) - 3/12/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema
92. THE FIGHTER - 3/12/11 - Theater (re-see)
93. RIVER OF NO RETURN - 3/14/11 - Netflix Instant
94. THE PURSUIT OF HAPPYNESS - 3/14/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema (re-see)
95. THE FIGHTER - 3/14/11 - DVD (re-see)
96. PLANET TERROR ("Grindhouse" cut) - 3/15/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
97. DEATH PROOF ("Grindhouse" cut) - 3/15/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
98. MACHETE - 3/15/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
99. BLACK COBRA 3 - 3/17/11 - DVD
100. INVICTUS - 3/17/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema (re-see)
101. MIDDLE MEN - 3/17/11 - DVD (re-see)
102. IRON MAN - 3/19/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema (re-see)
103. JOE - 3/23/11 - DVD
104. ONLY THE STRONG - 3/23/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
105. HEREAFTER - 3/24/11 - DVD
106. TALES FROM THE SCRIPT - 3/25/11 - Netflix Instant
107. DUMB AND DUMBER (unrated cut) - 3/26/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
108. CRY UNCLE! - 3/26/11 - Netflix Instant
109. FINAL JUSTICE (MST3K version) - 3/26/11 - Netflix Instant
110. DOG DAY AFTERNOON - 3/27/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
111. KILL BILL ("The Whole Bloody Affair" cut) - 3/27/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
112. THE ENTITY - 3/27/11 - Netflix Instant
113. PAPER MOON - 3/28/11 - Netflix Instant
114. AIRPLANE II: THE SEQUEL - 3/29/11 - Netflix Instant
115. JEANNE DIELMAN, 23 QUAI DU COMMERCE, 1080 BRUXELLES - 3/30/11 - Netflix Instant
116. COCAINE: ONE MAN'S SEDUCTION - 4/03/11 - Netflix Instant
117. THE KING'S SPEECH (R-rated cut) - 4/04/11 - DVD (re-see)
118. ...AND JUSTICE FOR ALL - 4/04/11 - Netflix Instant
119. A FISH CALLED WANDA - 4/09/11 - Netflix Instant
120. JULIE & JULIA (w/commentary) - 4/10/11 - Blu-ray (re-see)
121. BABYLON A.D. (unrated Euro cut) - 4/12/11 - DVD (re-see)
122. WINTERBEAST - 4/13/11 - Other/Justin.tv
123. HEIST ('01) - 4/14/11 - DVD (re-see)
124. ENTER THE VOID (director's cut) - 4/15/11 - Theater/Nuart
125. THE HILLSIDE STRANGLER ('04) - 4/16/11 - Netflix Instant
126. IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS - 4/16/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
127. REVELATION ('99) - 4/17/11 - Netflix Instant
128. TRIBULATION ('00) - 4/18/11 - Netflix Instant
129. SCREAM 4 - 4/18/11 - DVD/Screener
130. JUDGMENT ('01) - 4/19/11 - Netflix Instant
131. SGT. KABUKIMAN N.Y.P.D. - 4/19/11 - Netflix Instant
132. DEADFALL ('93) - 4/19/11 - Netflix Instant
133. VICIOUS LIPS - 4/20/11 - Netflix Instant
134. VILLAGE OF THE GIANTS - 4/20/11 - Netflix Instant
135. BODY SLAM - 4/20/11 - Netflix Instant
136. CAMILLE ('08) - 4/25/11 - Netflix Instant
137. THE SLEEPING CAR - 4/25/11 - Netflix Instant
138. BOBBIE JO AND THE OUTLAW - 4/25/11 - Netflix Instant
139. ROADKILL ('11) - 4/26/11 - DVR/TV
140. STUDENT CONFIDENTIAL - 4/27/11 - Netflix Instant
141. THE INCREDIBLE MELTING MAN - 4/28/11 - Netflix Instant
142. FINISHING THE GAME - 4/28/11 - DVD
143. THE FAST AND THE FURIOUS ('01) - 4/28/11 - DVD (re-see)
144. FAST FIVE - 4/29/11 - Theater
145. AIRHEADS - 4/30/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
146. HIGH-BALLIN' - 4/30/11 - Netflix Instant
147. SHOOT THE PIANO PLAYER - 4/30/11 - Netflix Instant
148. THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW - 5/01/11 - Theater
149. THE PINK PANTHER 2 - 5/01/11 - Netflix Instant
150. ABAR: BLACK SUPERMAN - 5/03/11 - DVD
151. LEGION OF IRON - 5/03/11 - Netflix Instant
152. CHROME AND HOT LEATHER - 5/03/11 - Netflix Instant
153. HOT TUB TIME MACHINE - 5/04/11 - Netflix Instant
154. THE WIZARD - 5/04/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
155. WHITE DOG - 5/04/11 - Netflix Instant
156. THOR - 5/05/11 - Theater
157. BLACK DYNAMITE - 5/06/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
158. BIRDEMIC: SHOCK AND TERROR (w/Rifftrax commentary) - 5/06/11 - DVD (re-see)
159. LEON: THE PROFESSIONAL - 5/14/11 - DVD (re-see)
160. UNDERWORLD ('96) - 5/14/11 - Netflix Instant
**SHORT FILM** - HOSPITALS DON'T BURN DOWN - 5/17/11 - Other/YouTube
161. LIFEFORCE (international cut) - 5/18/11 - DVD (re-see)
162. CROCODILE DUNDEE IN LOS ANGELES - 5/18/11 - DVD
163. OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE - 5/19/11 - DVD
164. OVERBOARD - 5/20/11 - DVD (re-see)
165. RIVER'S EDGE - 5/21/11 - Theater/AFI Mark Goodson Screening Room (re-see)
166. PRIME CUT - 5/21/11 - Theater/AFI Mark Goodson Screening Room (re-see)
167. 3 DAYS OF THE CONDOR - 5/21/11 - Theater/AFI Mark Goodson Screening Room (re-see)
168. AT CLOSE RANGE - 5/21/11 - Theater/AFI Mark Goodson Screening Room
169. JACOB'S LADDER - 5/21/11 - Theater/AFI Mark Goodson Screening Room (re-see)
170. LEGEND OF FONG SAI YUK - 5/21/11 - Theater/AFI Mark Goodson Screening Room
171. BADLANDS - 5/25/11 - DVD (re-see)
172. DAYS OF HEAVEN - 5/25/11 - Blu-ray (re-see)
173. BILOXI BLUES - 5/25/11 - DVD (re-see)
174. THE THIN RED LINE - 5/27/11 - DVD (re-see)
175. THE NEW WORLD (extended cut) - 5/28/11 - DVD (re-see)
176. HANNA - 5/28/11 - Theater
177. SUDDEN DEATH - 5/30/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
178. THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS - 5/30/11 - Netflix Instant
179. LICENCE TO KILL (unrated cut) - 5/30/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
180. THE TREE OF LIFE - 6/02/11 - Theater/Arclight Hollywood
181. MOONLIGHT SERENADE - 6/04/11 - DVD
182. BIRDEMIC: SHOCK AND TERROR (w/Rifftrax commentary) - 6/05/11 - DVD (re-see)
183. FINAL JUSTICE (MST3k version) - 6/05/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
184. TRUE GRIT (2010) - 6/19/11 - DVD (re-see)
185. SUCKER PUNCH (extended cut) - 6/20/11 - Blu-ray
186. GROSSE POINTE BLANK - 6/24/11 - Theater/Regency Academy 6 (re-see)
187. SOUTH CENTRAL - 6/30/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
188. POLTERGEIST - 7/02/11 - DVD (re-see)
189. TRANSFORMERS: DARK OF THE MOON 3D - 7/04/11 - Theater
190. FREE ENTERPRISE (extended cut) - 7/08/11 - DVD (re-see)
191. KISS KISS BANG BANG - 7/08/11 - Theater/Regency Academy 6 (re-see)
192. LIFEFORCE (70mm U.S. cut) - 7/09/11 - Theater/Egyptian (re-see)
193. FLATLINERS (70mm) - 7/09/11 - Theater/Egyptian
194. THE BATTLE OF ALGIERS - 7/21/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
195. CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE FIRST AVENGER - 7/22/11 - Theater
196. NIGHT MOVES - 7/22/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)

197. THINGS ('89) - 8/01/11 - DVD

198. SAW (uncut) - 8/12/11 - DVD (re-see)

199. SAW II (unrated) - 8/12/11 - Blu-ray

200. SAW III (unrated) - 8/13/11 - DVD

201. SAW IV (unrated director's cut) - 8/13/11 - DVD

202. SAW V (unrated director's cut) - 8/13/11 - Blu-ray

203. SAW VI - (unrated director's cut) - 8/13/11 - DVD

204. SAW: THE FINAL CHAPTER - (unrated) - 8/13/11 - Blu-ray

205. HALF BAKED - 8/14/11 - DVR (re-see)

206. TUFF TURF - 8/22/11 - DVD

207. OUR IDIOT BROTHER - 8/27/11 - Mission Tiki Drive-In

208. 30 MINUTES OR LESS - 8/27/11 - Mission Tiki Drive-In

209. SHAKMA - 8/28/11 - DVD

210. FINAL COMBINATION (aka Dead Connection) - 8/31/11 - Netflix Instant

211. THE HELP - 8/31/11 - Theater

212. STAR 80 - 8/31/11 - Netflix Instant
213. DIARY OF A WIMPY KID: RODRICK RULES - 9/3/11 - Blu-ray
214. X-MEN: FIRST CLASS - 9/3/11 - Blu-ray
215. ELVIRA, MISTRESS OF THE DARK - 9/6/11 - Netflix Instant
216. THE LIFE OF REILLY - 9/6/11 - Netflix Instant
217. NIGHT OF THE COMET - 9/7/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
218. RISING SUN - 9/8/11 - Netflix Instant
219. RAIN MAN - 9/8/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
220. EAT PRAY LOVE (director's cut) - 9/9/11 - DVD
221. DEADLY INTENT - 9/10/11 - Netflix Instant
222. BEETHOVEN - 9/10/11 - DVD (re-see)
223. DRIVE ('97; director's cut) - 9/15/11 - DVD (re-see)
224. BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY - 9/18/11 - DVD
225. THEY CAME TO ROB LAS VEGAS - 9/18/11 - DVD
226. CONTAGION - 9/18/11 - Theater/IMAX
227. THE LION KING - 9/19/11 - Theater
228. DRIVE ('11) - 9/21/11 - Theater
229. ROCKY - 9/22/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema (re-see)
230. THE BOYS IN THE BAND - 9/25/11 - DVD
231. CRUISING - 9/25/11 - Netflix Instant
232. WALL STREET: MONEY NEVER SLEEPS - 9/28/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema (re-see)
233. FAST FIVE - 9/30/11 - Theater/IMAX (re-see)
234. BEYOND THE DOOR - 10/1/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
235. CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON 3D - 10/1/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
236. HELL NIGHT - 10/1/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
237. BRAIN DAMAGE (R-rated cut) - 10/2/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
238. THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM ('91) - 10/2/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
239. HORROR PLANET (aka Inseminoid) - 10/2/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
240. BASEKETBALL - 10/3/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
241. VIGILANTE FORCE - 10/6/11 - Netflix Instant
242. IL BOSS (aka Wipeout!) - 10/9/11 - Netflix Instant
243. RULERS OF THE CITY (aka Mister Scarface) - 10/9/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
244. UNKNOWN ('11) - 10/9/11 - DVD
245. ARIA ('87) - 10/13/11 - Netflix Instant
246. 2 DAYS IN THE VALLEY - 10/15/11 - DVD (re-see)
247. STAKEOUT - 10/16/11 - DVR (re-see)
248. THE STAR CHAMBER - 10/18/11 - DVD
249. HOUSE ON THE EDGE OF THE PARK - 10/20/11 - DVD
250. FAST FIVE (extended cut) - 10/21/11 - Blu-ray (re-see)
251. RED STATE - 10/26/11 - Netflix Instant
252. BLUE STATE - 10/26/11 - DVD
253. DEMON SEED - 10/27/11 - DVD
254. PET SEMATARY - 10/29/11 - Theater/Aero (re-see)
255. TOURIST TRAP - 10/29/11 - Theater/Aero
256. THE PIT - 10/30/11 - Theater/Aero
257. VIDEODROME - 10/30/11 - Theater/Aero (re-see)
258. ALICE, SWEET ALICE (aka Communion/Holy Terror) - 10/30/11 - Theater/Aero
259. JUST BEFORE DAWN (U.K. cut)- 10/30/11 - Theater/Aero
260. HALLOWEEN - 10/31/11 - DVD (re-see)
261. CALIBER 9 - 11/1/11 - Netflix Instant
262. SCARFACE ('83) - 11/5/11 - Theater/Brea Plaza 5 (re-see)
263. ASSASSINS ('95) - 11/8/11 - DVD (re-see)
264. THE FOG ('80) - 11/9/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
265. HAROLD & KUMAR GO TO WHITE CASTLE (unrated) - 11/11/11 - DVD (re-see)
266. HAROLD & KUMAR ESCAPE FROM GUANTANAMO BAY (unrated) - 11/11/11 - DVD (re-see)
267. A VERY HAROLD & KUMAR 3D CHRISTMAS - 11/11/11 - Theater
268. ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK - 11/11/11 - DVD (re-see)
269. BLADE RUNNER (int'l theatrical cut) - 11/13/11 -Blu-ray (re-see)
270. MESRINE: KILLER INSTINCT - 11/13/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
271. MESRINE: PUBLIC ENEMY #1 - 11/13/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
272. THE THING ('82) - 11/14/11 - DVD (re-see)
273. PRINCE OF DARKNESS - 11/14/11 - DVD (re-see)
274. THEY LIVE - 11/15/11 - DVD (re-see)
275. THE MUPPETS - 11/15/11 - Theater/Grove
276. PUSS IN BOOTS ('11) - 11/19/11 - Theater
277. THE WAY - 11/22/11 - Theater/Laemmle 7
278. HUGO (3D) - 11/22/11 - Theater/Arclight Pasadena
279. PLANES, TRAINS & AUTOMOBILES - 11/23/11 - Theater/Aero (re-see)
280. HANNAH AND HER SISTERS - 11/23/11 - Theater/Aero
281. J. EDGAR - 11/25/11 - Theater
282. THE BLACK HOLE ('79) - 11/29/11 - DVD (re-see)
283. JACKIE BROWN - 11/30/11 - Blu-ray (re-see)
284. DIE HARD - 12/8/11 - Theater/Nuart (re-see)
285. HOOK (70mm) - 12/11/11 - Theater/Aero
286. LAST ACTION HERO (70mm) - 12/11/11 - Theater/Aero (re-see)
287. CLIFFHANGER (70mm) - 12/11/11 - Theater/Aero (re-see)
288. JACKIE BROWN - 12/13/11 - Blu-ray (re-see)
289. TOY STORY 3 - 12/14/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
290. ELF - 12/18/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema
291. A CHRISTMAS CAROL ('84) - 12/21/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema
292. MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE - GHOST PROTOCOL - 12/22/11 - Theater/IMAX
293. DIE HARD - 12/23/11 - Theater/Egyptian (re-see)
294. DIE HARD 2 - 12/23/11 - Theater/Egyptian (re-see)
295. A VERY HAROLD & KUMAR 3D CHRISTMAS - 12/24/11 - Theater (re-see)
296. THE REF - 12/24/11 - DVD
297. THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO ('11) - 12/25/11 - Theater
298. NATIONAL LAMPOON'S CHRISTMAS VACATION - 12/25/11 - DVD (re-see)
299. LOVE AND DEATH - 12/29/11 -Netflix Instant (re-see)
300. INTERIORS - 12/29/11 - Netflix Instant
301. ZELIG - 12/30/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
302. FANNY & ALEXANDER (television version) - 12/31/11 - Blu-ray (re-see)

Yearly totals:

125 Netflix Instant
76    theater
71    DVD
14    Blu-ray
9    Other
5    DVR/TV
2    drive-in
0    VHS

173 new
129 re-see

total for 2011:

302 movies

Movie Tally 2011: 12/1 - 12/31

2011-12-31T15:15:00.000-08:00

284. DIE HARD - 12/8/11 - Theater/Nuart (re-see)
285. HOOK (70mm) - 12/11/11 - Theater/Aero
286. LAST ACTION HERO (70mm) - 12/11/11 - Theater/Aero (re-see)
287. CLIFFHANGER (70mm) - 12/11/11 - Theater/Aero (re-see)
288. JACKIE BROWN - 12/13/11 - Blu-ray (re-see)
289. TOY STORY 3 - 12/14/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
290. ELF - 12/18/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema
291. A CHRISTMAS CAROL ('84) - 12/21/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema
292. MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE - GHOST PROTOCOL - 12/22/11 - Theater/IMAX
293. DIE HARD - 12/23/11 - Theater/Egyptian (re-see)
294. DIE HARD 2 - 12/23/11 - Theater/Egyptian (re-see)
295. A VERY HAROLD & KUMAR 3D CHRISTMAS - 12/24/11 - Theater (re-see)
296. THE REF - 12/24/11 - DVD
297. THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO ('11) - 12/25/11 - Theater
298. NATIONAL LAMPOON'S CHRISTMAS VACATION - 12/25/11 - DVD (re-see)
299. LOVE AND DEATH - 12/29/11 -Netflix Instant (re-see)
300. INTERIORS - 12/29/11 - Netflix Instant
301. ZELIG - 12/30/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
302. FANNY & ALEXANDER (television version) - 12/31/11 - Blu-ray (re-see)

December 2011 figures:

9   theater
0   drive-in
2   DVD
0 DVR/TV
2 Blu-ray
4 Netflix Instant Streaming
0   VHS
2   Other

7   new
12 re-see

19 viewings total for December 2011

Year to date: 302 movies

Unoccupied forest

2011-12-23T15:58:00.000-08:00

Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol stars Tom Cruise as a megastar whose last couple of films have been disappointments at the box office in the United States, where it matters -- AMERICANS! YEEEAH WOOOO! -- so off he goes, back into another IMF adventure in an effort to ensure that he doesn't become the Soccer of movie stars. (Besides, Rowan Atkinson wouldn't appreciate someone else muscling in on his position.)

From what I can recall from my increasingly hazy memory of an awesome childhood, back when I watched some of the old series on KDOC back in the day, the Impossible Mission Force was kind of its own thing, kinda like a world government A-Team. But in the movies, they're more or less a United States-only deal; and yet, the films still managed to feel asexual in the patriotism/jingoism department. I guess because the IMF isn't about that, they're just about making sure the goddamn world isn't gonna fall apart (and by world, I mean United States primarily, followed by the other countries). They (and by They, I mean Cruise) accomplish an Impossible Mission and rather than America Fuck Yeah, the overall feeling is Great, the world will survive another week. It's the same thing with James Bond, but Skyfall doesn't come out until next year, so I'm not writing about that shit.

So Mr. Cruise plays Ethan Hunt, who I thought was gonna retire in the last joint, but he's back in action for reasons that are more fun to find out when you watch the movie, rather than having some piece-of-shit spoil it for you in a blog. Eventually, Hunt goes on the job with his team (played by guy from Spaced and the hot teacher from Precious) over in the Kremlin, and of course, because this is a Mission: Impossible joint, something fucked up happens and next thing you know, this mission, it just got a hell of a lot more impossible-r. In fact, it actually becomes an impossible mission, one that cannot be completed successfully -- which Hunt and company prove by failing to complete it, you know, successfully.

Ghost Protocol is not just a cool name created by the screenwriters or a movie about Goldie Hawn's spirit haunting Capitol Hill, it's the save-ass move pulled by the government that disavows the entire IMF after the Kremlin operation went tits-up; so now Hunt is faced with the shadowy under-the-table task of clearing the IMF's name in this royal screw-job, and it involves doing crazy shit like dodging bullets, zip-lining across former Communist streets, running through sandstorms, climbing up impossibly tall buildings with electro-sticky gloves, and getting the shit beat out of him. But, you see, Hunt realizes that all this is better than his other option -- finding a new job. Shit, in this economy? Talk about mission impossible!

Let me talk about that building-climbing madness, by way of typing it on my keyboard; Hunt straps on these gloves that allow him to stick to the windows of skyscrapers located in a desert city devoted to excess and Fuck You America, You Need Us And This Is What Your Money Buys Us -- and me, I don't do heights very well, so this was quite possibly the most exciting/terrifying shit I've seen in a movie this year.

What totally added to my sweat-soaked palms was watching all of this in IMAX -- the real IMAX, not that digital slightly-bigger-than-a-regular-screen shit -- and I'm telling you, man, super-crisp images shot from nearly 3,000 feet off the ground, looking straight down in some shots, well I hate to admit that I was fearing that sadistic asshole God would suddenly decide right then and there to grant my Purple Rose of Cairo/Last Action Hero wishes and throw me right into the movie at that exact moment. Of all the fuckin' scenes in the film, He chooses that one for me to go into.

He couldn't have tossed me into a Paula Patton scene? That would've been awesome. I don't really get the I Want A Hot Chick To Kick My Ass thing that some guys are into (and Vincent Vega mentioned in a deleted scene from the Pulp Fiction screenplay), but having said that, I kinda understand it in the case of the lovely Ms. Patton. There's a moment in the movie where her character kicks off her shoes and immediately bolts out of the room, having transformed into a freight train that is shipping nothing but Absolute Ownage -- and if I was that particular train's destination, the sight of her headed towards me with daggers in her eyes, hate in her heart, and Revenge in her mind, well that would render me incapable of running. I would be too enamored with the sight of this beautiful woman getting closer and closer towards me -- enamored? no, hypnotized! -- to realize that I'm about one second away from having my orbital bone shattered.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that she's awesome, this chick. This lady, she's the kind of gal who can inspire fat monsters to learn to read and make ATF agents travel through time to prevent her death by explosion. She's a keeper and it's too bad my father (or your father) isn't Alan Thicke, otherwise you can be part of that equation -- the equation of looooove.

There's also a hot assassin chick in this flick, as they tend to be in these movies, and it made me think of how cruel and unforgiving the movie world is. I mean, you have Paula Patton and this French blonde gal, both of them as easy on the eyes as a large print book -- and you figure their characters could make a lot more money for a lot less work, had they chosen a different field, like modeling or acting. Whatever, at least I'll justify French Blonde Chick's choice in life because she gets paid for her services in diamonds. Think about that; somewhere along the way in this poor deluded girl's life, she realized two things: One, she loves diamonds, and Two, she's pretty good with the killing. And it was at that moment, whenever it was, that she put 2 and 2 together and it equaled Kill People For Diamonds.

That makes a lot of sense actually, because in one way or another, women are vicious bloodthirsty people when it comes to those former lumps of coal; fuckin' Blood Diamond starred Leonardo DiCaprio at his arguably hottest, but the shit bombed anyway because ladies don't want to watch a movie that tells them that there's a very good chance that a fuck-ton of innocent people were maimed and/or murdered (and let's throw some good ol' Rape while were at it) during the process of creating those lovely rocks on their fingers. Even the nicest women in the world seem OK with this; I've noticed some get chillingly rational about it, after being told. Worst of all, I'm sure even The Adorable Amy Adams is probably OK with it.

I suppose Simon Pegg is like the Amy Adams for geeks, and while I appreciate the dude and his contributions, I just can't get a nerd boner for him like the rest of the internet does. His films are pretty cool and he's good in the film, and funny when he needs to be, what else can I say.

The Hurt Locker shows up in this joint too, playing an analyst (the secret agent kind, not the Tell Me Your Problems kind) who eventually gets involved in Cruise and company's shenaniganeries; I remember for a while there were rumors that the Bourne series would continue Damon-free, and that Hurt Locker would take his place. After seeing him handle his business in Ghost Protocol, I can see that; he's got that mix of suave and don't-fuck-with-him, and in some instances, he's even more impressive than Cruise in the badass department.

Perhaps Cruise noticed that Hurt Locker was stealing his thunder and was all like Hell No and declared he would actually perform his own stunts during the skyscraper sequence, because if you're the kind of guy who's willing to believe in aliens being thrown into volcanoes, you're probably gonna believe that a 3,000 foot drop is just not gonna happen to you because you're Untouchable. Sure, you can try to convince him otherwise, but home-cruise is just gonna flash his pearly whites and call you glib. Motherfucker doesn't even know what that word means. Or maybe he did know what he was getting himself into, but sometimes you just gotta say What The Fuck and just fuckin' do that shit.

You know, I look at Hurt Locker and Tom Cruise together, and my first thought is man, it's too bad Cruise is already married. I mean, he and Hurt Locker look so good together, it would make perfect sense if they were to pair off and go out for a night on the town and pick up some hot chicks. They would be unstoppable, creating a black hole of pussy-getting from which no vagina can escape, once it crosses the event horizon -- their hotel room. These dudes can go years as a bachelor couple, but alas, Cruise is already married and true to his other half.

The first two Missions were directed by seasoned pros picking up a paycheck while giving us a sampler platter on why they're so awesome; the last two Missions were directed by first-time feature directors who had something to prove. Together, they all proved that the Mission: Impossible series is like the Alien series, in that they all reflect the motherfucker running shit behind the camera, for better or worse. Whoever they pick for the 5th one, I hope he or she has the good sense to cast Tig Notaro as Ethan Hunt's sister or something, because that would amuse me (and only me, I'm sure).

But for the 4th flick they got Brad Bird, who had already made some pretty top-notch joints like Ratatouille and The Incredibles; but you know how it is, there are assholes out there who won't acknowledge those flicks as real films, on account of being animated. So maybe Bird had enough of that shit and was willing to put his untarnished reputation on the line by venturing into flesh & blood characters in front of the camera. The result of that move is that Bird has fuckin' thrown the goddamn gauntlet on the expensive designer table, and then just stood back with his arms out, like What, muthafucka, what!

I'm not saying he reinvented the wheel, but he did something almost as good (and increasingly rare, nowadays) -- he made a very well crafted action-thriller, some downright old-school style Hollywood entertainment garnished with a twist of Modern. I'm talking action scenes that make sense, edits that serve the purpose of telling the story in the most exciting yet audience-friendly way (as opposed to showing off what can be done with an AVID), and scenes that are cool/exciting to watch because the situations are cool/exciting, not because the music and flashy filmmaking are insisting that you should be gripping to the edge of your seat and all that other bullshit. There's also a pretty cool end scuffle/scramble that is damn-near Spielbergian in its combination of clever, frustrating, and overall Good Times -- it's the kind of fight that you usually see Harrison Ford and Pat Roach take part in, in any of the first 3 Indiana Jones flicks.

There's a chase sequence in a sandstorm (no Deep Hurting with this one), and I swear Bird did it that way to destroy any possible argument that the situation would dictate the style. What I mean is that the screen is covered with all of this sand, and you can barely see the characters, and yet, the shit is easy to follow. Lesser filmmakers would use it as an excuse to continue with the Cloverfield-cam and then defend it with "Well, hey -- it was a sandstorm, sandstorms should be as confusing to the audience as they are to the characters!" Good for you, Bird; keep shoving this sequence in anyone's face that says otherwise.

What I also really liked about this entry in the series is that this actually feels like a caper where the entire team is involved; the first two joints were pretty much All Cruise, All The Time and the third one flirted with the idea of playing with others, but in this one, the IMF guys all get their moment to shine. I mean, shit, there are actual gaps in the film that don't involve The Cruise. Supposedly, Martin Landau and a couple of the other OG IMF-ers were pissed off with the first flick, but I wouldn't be surprised to find out if they dug on this one because, you know, there's actual teamwork involved this time, as opposed to Everyone Stand Back And Watch Me Rock This Joint action from Mr. Mapother.

In fact, the one scene that actually involves Hunt doing his thing while everyone stands back and watches him rock this joint happens because everyone else is busy doing another important part of the task at hand. Better yet, it's obvious Hunt does not want to do this; if I recall correctly, I think it's Hunt who brings up a couple of alternatives in hope of not having to do what he eventually does.

The bad guy makes the least sense out of everything in this entire movie (not to mention the entire series); I think he just wants to end the world because, I don't know, it's time that the world ended or something. Sad part is, while it makes very little sense in the film, it does make sense to me personally -- that is, if home-bad feels the same way about the world that I do: We've fucked up so badly, perhaps it's best to reboot that shit and hope the new tenants are classier people. (For the record, these are just passing thoughts that are overcome by my main thought which is It's Better To Be Alive, Period. As far as I'm concerned, I don't care how much damage we're doing to the room, if you want us out, you're gonna have to drag us out. I don't want some fuckin' Russian Swede facilitating that long process.)

That "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" asshole from Slumdog Millionaire shows up, and for some reason, I was reminded of Wayne Newton's character from Licence to Kill; all the blood in his brain rushed down to his darkened appendage, after having spotted the hotness that is Paula Patton, and he's therefore unable to make a single intelligent choice. Maybe I have to watch Slumdog again to confirm, but this actor looks damn near elfin in Ghost Protocol, in comparison to his host character in the Danny Boyle flick; maybe Boyle's better at making dudes look harder than they really are. That's probably what it is: how you film someone. I bet if Tom Cruise showed up in a Salman Khan movie, he'd probably look just as underwhelming.

It's a good flick, a fun flick. I'd recommend the extra cash for IMAX, that is, if it's a real IMAX; if you can't see it that way, just watch it on the biggest screen you can find. It's good times, made better with decent popcorn and maybe, just maybe, an audience that came to enjoy a film and not show off their cell phones and other displayed acts of douchebag jackasseries. Me, I went to an early AM show, so it worked out well with the audience. All the assholes sleep in, I guess. That's why I had to wake up early for a change to catch this one.

Well, that's it, folks. As I mentioned in the last post, I'm done with the whole posting ramblings on a regular basis thing (well, a relatively regular basis, anyway). I'll post every once in a while, to maintain LAMB status and if I feel like I just absolutely cannot keep my thoughts to myself about a particular movie. Also, I'll be happy to take any requests, so hit me up if for whatever weird reason you like to read my embarrassing thoughts on a flick. Having said that, I'll most likely cave in a month or so and act like I never typed this paragraph (or the last post) and come back with some bullshit on a regular-style tip.

Once again, thanks to those who read my shit and shared it with others. It's not bullshit when I tell you how much I appreciated that. Now's as good a time as any to have written that. Take care and gut yontif, you crazy kids.

"Well, Frank -- it looks like blah blah blah...puts on sunglasses blah blah, blah-blah-blah." YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHH

2011-12-19T00:04:00.000-08:00

Hi guys. I just wanted to clear out my drafts folder in Blogger, to get a better count of how many of these fuckin' things I actually bothered to write. So I figured it would be amusing to post them here, for anyone who's interested to take a gander at. Keep in mind, I just quit while writing them, so some might just end mid-sentence, kinda like

Anyway, I've had some super-awesome people (and even an awesome movie theater) go as far as to retweet, link and share my stuff, and for that I am very, very, very grateful. But when you write like me -- that is, in what I suspect is a badly-written, off-putting, and antagonizing manner, you're gonna be even more of an acquired taste than fuckin' key lime pie; maybe that's why the hit counts never really changed. The few friends I made through this blog, well, I managed to fuck it up with half of them, so I get part of how this happened.

And what happened? I'm not burned out (even though my recent ramblings might say otherwise), because I enjoy writing these ramblings for the most part. It's just that I have a slight case of the Bummers realizing (from evidence real or imagined, I'm not even sure anymore) that I'm basically writing for a Void nowadays. Sure, I mainly write for myself, but it was always nice to know that someone -- for whatever reason -- was reading this and actually getting some kind of amusement out of it. But not a void, man; voids don't get amused by shit. Trust me, I've tried; I've juggled, sang songs, told racist jokes -- and not a single reaction from these fuckin' voids. It's like trying to make Joan Baez laugh, fuckin' with these voids. Me, I prefer people.

So I'm probably going to lessen my output by, like, a lot. So hit me up on Twitter, Facebook or e-mail if there's a particular flick you'd like me to write about, because I don't think I'm gonna write much anymore, aside from whatever Movie Of The Month they have over at The LAMB. Anyway, take care and keep warm. I'm gonna go back to the fetal position on the floor, sucking my thumb and crying for mama, because I'm a fuckin' crybaby little bitch boy because Waaah, I'm a douchebag and want attention, waaah.

---------------

You touch-a my car, I break-a you face (GONE WITH THE POPE, 7/27/10)

The job gives me a paycheck to pay bills with and medical/dental so I can get root canals & fondled testicles, but the schedule makes it hard to occasionally go check something out during the week. When I found out that the New Beverly Cinema was to going screen a Duke Mitchell double-feature (Eric Caiden and Brian Quinn of the Grindhouse Film Festival put it together, as they do twice a month for their, uh, Grindhouse Film Festival) of Gone with the Pope and Massacre Mafia Style, I was like whoa baby. So of course it was going to be held on a Tuesday night, the 2nd busiest night at my place of employment.

This Tuesday night conundrum came up the month before when the New Bev had a double-bill of De Palma flicks which also happened to be 2 of my favorite all-time movies. But I guess I was able to justify not going because at least one of those films was going to eventually get screened again somewhere. And while I'm sure Gone with the Pope would get screened again, I just didn't have the patience to wait. So I bullshitted my boss (who incidentally, I had yelled at the week before) and told him something about having to pick up my infirm grandmother from the hospital and that no one else was available for whatever bullshit emergency reason. He wasn't happy about it, but what could he do, say No Fuck Your Grandma? So off I went.

After making a stop at the new Rocket Video location nearby (Yay for browsing before waiting in line!), I got in line and looked at the different people waiting for tonight's entertainment -- many in geek-style shirts; I saw a Badass Cinema/Alamo Drafthouse shirt (best worn by Jordan Ladd in Death Proof), an I Got A Fever shirt with Walken's face on it, a Death Wish 3 shirt, a Hobo With A Shotgun shirt, a Hawaiian shirt which in this crowd is probably some kind of ironic statement, and a shirt with a glasses-wearing baseball player on it with Chinese writing on the top AKA one of The Dude's shirts from The Big Lebowski. There was a girl in the front, part of the Grindhouse crew; she had dark red hair in long pigtails, fingerless gloves that went to her wrist, tall boots and fishnets. I designated her as my imaginary girlfriend for the night. I imagined me and her geeking out to the on-screen proceedings, and I could see having a couple of drinks with her, and I could see her protecting my fragile ass against some rough ruffians picking a fight with me at the bar -- Little Miss Badass.

I saw my main dude (relatively speaking, I've only spoken to him once and it was something like "Hey, that was a pretty cool movie, huh?" and he looked like he wanted to get away from my creepy ass) Clu Gulager talking up a couple ladies near the front. At one point he made a sweeping arm gesture, probably telling a story, but I liked to think he was telling the chicks to get the fuck out of his seating area. Marc Heuck was talking to some people, and he always seems in a better mood when he's not at the Nuart, probably for the same reason I'm in a better mood whenever I'm not at work. He was telling some people about the film Acts of Violence, an awesome movie in the same way that Dangerous Men and The Room are awesome. I caught it back in May, and like most movies I watch nowadays, was too tired to write about. But that shit's playing the New Bev in August, so I might second chance that bitch. Anyway, I think he was telling someone that he caught it with only 4 or 5 people in the entire theater, including Max Landis' girlfriend, or something like that, and something about Junior High School Musical? I don't know. It's all random snippets and words coming from different directions, and I'm like Kevin Bacon in Stir of Echoes, my motherfucker's on Receive and I can't stop the voices, yet if you're standing 2 feet away from me and ask me something, I'm all like "Que? Como?". Oh, you're gonna be in a coma, all right.

The show sold out, and people were desperately trying to find seats to the point that some couples and friends had no choice but to separate and take whatever empty seats they could find, no matter how far apart they'd end up. It was some sad Titanic life-boating shit going on. But either Brian or Eric, the guy in the striped shirt and glasses, he would go around trying to help roaming seat-scavengers find a place to sit. Lots of seats were taped over, reserved for special guests, I guess. A couple in the back had cameras set up over them, ready to record the Q&A for posterity? Or a DVD? Whatever the reason, it was interesting to watch the people in the reserved areas stand around freely in their areas, chatting with friends and having a good time while everyone around them tried their best to find a spot for themselves to sit.

The movie started and there were some trailers that I can remember

Untitled (TRON: LEGACY, 12/17/10)

The thing that sucks about the IMAX (the real one, not that fake shit they have at the AMC Theaters) is that it's even more difficult to try to get good seats on opening weekend. It's not like the Arclight where you can reserve your seats and show up a minute before the lights go down with no problem -- you have show up early and wait in line, and while there used to be a time when I dug waiting in line for a movie (getting all hyped up), I think my increasingly alarming sense of my own mortality is making me more antsy about time spent doing nothing. Plus, I have a decreasingly alarming amount of friends (about 3 now, I reckon) so that means more often than not, I'm by myself, so it's not like I have people to talk to while waiting. I guess what I'm trying to say is that waiting in line sucks dick -- a dick you have to suck after waiting 90 minutes in line.

Which is why I love it when my local IMAX will occasionally add an extra 2:30 am showing following the opening Thursday midnight screening. I saw Star Trek like this, and boy oh boy, was it awesome to watch an IMAX movie at an ungodly hour with, like, 8 other people, knowing that in about 12 hours or so, this same practically empty auditorium is going to be packed with motherfuckers. See, this is completely different than the time when I went to see Speed Racer at the IMAX on opening weekend at an 8pm show and found myself to be the only person in attendance. That was simultaneously awesome and sad. True story. But in the case of the movie I watched a few hours ago, Tron: Legacy, there were more people than you'd expect at 3am on a Friday morning (Christmas break, I'd guess). I still got a good seat, though.

I went to the restroom so I can relieve the ol' bladder and noticed the urinal was one of those waterless no-flush deals which are cool for 2 reasons -- one, they save water; and two, you can gaze at the collection of various pubic hairs that would normally be washed away but instead remain in the urinal. Black, White, Asian, Hispanic, terrorist -- this group of short & curlies is the closest thing to united racial harmony the human race will ever get to (next to a graveyard, of course). As I washed my hands, a group of guys came in and one of them said to his friend "That was disappointing" and his friend asked "Yeah?" and the disappointed guy confirmed it with a "Uh-huh". Then another guy came in and said in a surprised manner, "It smells like pee in here".

My pistola and chili-cheese omelets (HEREAFTER, 3/25/11)

In his review of Hereafter, some critic called Clint Eastwood "overrated" as a director and I didn't hold it against the guy because I was in his house, so to speak; I clicked on the link, I knew what I was getting into. Nothing wrong with sharing an opinion, even if it's the lone dissenting one (as long as the shit's genuine and you're not getting your rocks off being a fuckin' contrarian). It's the same thing here, if you're reading my ramblings, you're looking to see what I thought of a movie and for the most part, I like everything, but if I don't like it, I'll fuckin' say so.

But sometimes, in a non-forum forum, I don't know, sometimes I think it's best to keep your fuckin' mouth shut if you're looking to be the Debbie Downer in a room full of happy motherfuckers. I mean, if I'm talking to a friend or stranger and they bring up a movie they like but I think it's a piece of shit, I prefer to err on the side of not raining on the parade by focusing on something I did like about that garbage or I'll just change the subject. But more often than not, I just let the person go on, because I like hearing people go on about stuff they dig. Never got what you get out of jumping in and being all Well I Thought It Sucked. What was it Tarantino once said, "don't talk to me about what you don't like, talk to me about what you DO like"?

So yeah, this guy was reviewing Hereafter and that's what got me started on that shit. Me, I really liked this movie. Usually, I'm pretty good about catching a Clint Eastwood joint in the cinema but I don't know what the fuck happened that caused me to miss that shit, I have no excuse, really. But I'm glad I finally got around to it. The reviews weren't the best on this one, but maybe it's because they expected this movie to be about Life and Death and were disappointed it was really about life and death, the lowercase version.

I mean, I don't know how Eastwood and writer Peter Morgan managed to pull this off, but they took a story that involves 3 different countries, 1 federal republic, a tsunami, a terrorist bombing, the White Light people go to when they die, Jay Mohr looking old and made it feel small and personal. From what I understand, the promotions for this movie made it seem like The Sixth Sense II and that's what disappointed many a moviegoer -- they did not expect a relatively quiet and somber (something Eastwood's been specializing in for a while in his old age) character study on the human need to believe in an afterlife.

I always try to catch a non-DTV Amy Adams movie on the big screen, and it's the same thing when it comes to Clint Eastwood, that guy's one of my favorite directors. Even when I don't totally dig on his movies, I still dig his simple but effective style, especially in the last decade when he got all moody and somber with his shafts of light and pools of darkness with that motherfucker Tom Stern. I ended up missing Hereafter in the theater because I'm lame, but I remember the reviews not being so hot for the most part.

Untitled (SCREAM 4, 4/18/11)

(This one, I didn't even get to the movie. I just lost interest. - EFC)

So I was reading an interview with Reese Witherspoon -- I mean she was the interview subject, not that she was reading it beside me -- and she was talking about her new movie with Robert Pattinson and I was like Right On, because Reese is like 35 and Twilight's like 24 and I'm sure they're supposed to be banging. Between that and The Adorable Amy Adams playing Lois Lane to some other younger Superman, I like seeing the paradigm shift a bit when it comes to May-December coupling in movies and that it's not treated like She's Old And He's Young And They're In LOOOOVE. I mean, we've seen guys like Sean Connery and Michael Douglas embarrass themselves by hooking up with chicks young enough to be their daughters and I think it's about time the ladies get some of that young stuff in movies. I guess it was going to happen sooner or later after all the Cougar bullshit in our culture, plus you have Punk'd and Demi Moore shopping for lube in real life. Anyway, that's not what I'm here to talk about. I'm here to talk about a bunch of people trying to prove their relevancy in Scream 4.

He pronounces "Homicide" as "Homocide", that's why (BLACK COBRA, 3/6/11)

My ex-con friend has been out of the clink for over a year now and thankfully our interaction has been minimal; we went to the gym a couple times and a couple times he'd invite me over and I'd smoke a fat one before going over, that way I can withstand the crushing boredom of hanging with a man who lives for the gym and not much else. Me, I live for doughnuts.

So this guy, he invited me over for some carne asada this past weekend and to see his latest proof of I Don't Use Condoms aka his newest newborn son (kid #5 from baby mama #3, I believe) and the problem is that while he managed to luck himself into finding a house, he's also sharing said house with others -- others with 3 punkass pugs who shit all over the floor and going to the backyard doesn't help because the pugs go out there too. That's where the grill was, the backyard aka the China Of Flies because there's gotta be about a billion of those sons-of-bitches out there. Then one of my buddies' sons jumps into the pool and splashes water on the pugs, and here they come, jumping all over me, getting smelly wet dog on my fresh clothes. It was like having a barbecue at Critical Bill's place, and the worst part was that I was absolutely, painfully sober for it all.

Terrible -- both the place for being what it is, and me for writing about this shit behind a motherfucker's back. I am scum, I know this so don't act like you're dropping heavy knowledge on me, I've wasted nearly three years of my life rambling about my various scum-baggeries on this here blog, a blog I mostly write from my own place, a place that reeks of feet, weed, pizza and jism -- but you don't see me kindly forcing my preciously few friends over to my abode to suffer through that shit. I know all this, trust me -- I know.

Hey, if I use your full name and you have issues with it, let me know and I will correct it but do me a favor and don't be a dick about it. I was reading someone else's blog and he namechecked the person who inspired him to make that particular entry, and in the comment section she basically made this guy look an asshole with her words, fuckin' chiding him like some kid pulling some shit he wasn't supposed to pull. At least put a fuckin' smiley face or something at the end, that way that shit can't be misconstrued by overly sensitive cunts like Yours Truly -- the most overly sensitive cunt in the world (but I do try -- Lord, do I try -- not to be, which is even harder now that I've dramatically cut down my pot-smokage).

Man, the 80's were fuckin' awesome and I kinda wish I could've been Of Age back then, but then again, maybe not -- knowing me, I'd probably be spending that time speeding down the freeway in the middle of the night, blasting "Tonight, Tonight" by Genesis on my brand new Blaupunkt tape deck while pounding bottles of Michelob in between doing bumps of Pure Bolivian Flake off my dashboard in my fuckin' Honda Civic hatchback, headed for yet another party where I wouldn't go home with a girl (hence my saving some of the coke for showing off later).

Untitled (CLIFFHANGER in 70mm, 12/16/11)

Renny Harlin came up on stage, looking trim and very director-ish (expensive leather jacket over a t-shirt & jeans ensemble) to introduce the second film of the evening at the Aero (following Last Action Hero and also in 70mm), Cliffhanger. First he wanted to give a shout-out/props to the director of the previous film, one badass muthafucker named John McTiernan. He mentioned how his film came out in May 1993 from Tri-Star and McTiernan's came out the following month from Columbia -- and today, they are both owned under the umbrella of the Sony people.

Mr. Harlin then called us all nuts for being here at 10pm on a cold Sunday night to watch an 18-year-old film. Thankfully, he was not one of those directors who find it hard to put two words together (and yet somehow are able to command a crew of hundreds on a film); Harlin had plenty to say and was also very aware of his garrulous nature, because he kept apologizing to the audience for constantly having "one last anecdote" about working on the film. He was actually a pretty funny dude, made even funnier with his deadpan monotone-ish delivery; that voice, by the way, lent itself to a pretty impressive Stallone impersonation (which he did quite often, to the audience's approval).

Here's some of the stories I remember:

-- Janine Turner has a phobia of helicopters. This became an issue after she brought this up on location, where her character has a couple scenes in and around helicopters.

-- Stallone is afraid of heights. Again, something he brought up rather late in the game, which is also an issue when the movie is called Cliffhanger. Harlin ended up doing some macho head-games to convince to do stunt scenes like the opening sequence, where he's hanging 8,000 feet over the ground; Harlin went out himself on one of those harnesses and basically did one of those "See, it's very simple and easy" and Stallone figured if this fuckin' Fin can do it....

-- Michelle Joyner (playing the chick who ends up hanging for dear life in the opening sequence), gave such an incredible audition that both Harlin and the casting director were in tears by the end of it. The second audition was with Stallone, who also ended up teary-eyed. Harlin didn't want a stuntwoman to play the part, because in his opinion, stuntmen don't make the best actors (I hope Zoe Bell isn't reading this). In the end, Joyner performed her own stunt, hooked up to a rig that would drop her 20 yards down the 8,000 foot length. This means that Michelle Joyner has bigger balls than I can ever hope to grow.

-- Harlin convinced the studio to purchase about $300,000 of weather insurance, given how unpredictable the weather was over in the Italian Alps (where they shot most of this flick). In the end, after all the lost shooting days were totalled up, the studio ended up saving $8 million (which the insurance company had to pay).

-- One of the head muckety-mucks at Tri-Star (Harlin: "I'm not going to tell you that it was Mike Medavoy") strongly suggested that the best way to close the film would be to cue the Motown hit "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" over the end credits. Harlin was able to successfully forget to take that suggestion.

He told a story about the premiere of Cliffhanger at the Cannes Film Festival; he was nervous because he felt a Stallone action joint felt out of place at this supposedly classy location, but by the end of the film, the entire audience gave the flick a standing ovation. As he exited the theater with his mother, fake snow was being pumped out onto the steps of the massive theater and Trevor Jones' majestic score blared through the outside speakers -- it was one of those I'm King Of The World (woo) moments, like something out of a movie. Stallone then leaned into Harlin and said something to the effect like "Remember this moment, Renny. Because it'll never happen like this again." Harlin then told us, that yes, he was right -- nothing like this ever happened for him since.

I dug that he mentioned how this was his last feature to be shot with anamorphic lenses; even though he's continued to shoot in the 2:35.1 format, he's gone on to using Super 35. He does admit that the anamorphic lenses did have a "classic" quality to them that the Super 35 lenses did not, because the latter has great depth of field while the former's depth of field is shallower than Jerry Seinfeld and Brett Ratner chilling out at the kiddie pool. Whatever. Nowadays all I see is shallow depth of field, because everything on the street's being shot with those fuckin' HDLSR's.

I liked that Harlin was both friendly and talkative, with just the right wicked amount of passive-aggressiveness -- he said that he would take questions, if they were "genius" questions, which basically to me sounded like "Don't ask me something lame and waste both our time". One guy asked Harlin why the film was rated NC-17, which confused the Finn because he was pretty sure Cliffhanger was rated R. Well, they're both right, actually: the film had a lot of juicy squibs cut out to get the R-rating.

----------------

OK, that's it.

Sticking your tongue out at the recently deceased is really douchey, even for me, King Douche.

2011-12-16T18:52:00.000-08:00

Continued from this shit right here
After watching a Sunday afternoon matinee of Hook in 70mm at the Aero, I took a dinner break, then returned to that theater for an evening double-feature of Last Action Hero and Cliffhanger (both in 70mm). Both films were released in the summer of 1993, which was a time in my life that I look back on fondly, so now you know why it was important that I attend this screening: that evil motherfucker Nostalgia, trying to throw me for a melancholy loop again (and again and again and again...)

My friend, the petulant Goth-y girl, gave the intro and I guess the guy she traded phone numbers with last night must have called her back finally, because she was in a more cheerful mood this time out. She even did one of those cute girl-squeal/yelps when she accidentally created some feedback on the P.A. system, as she placed the microphone down.

I've already written about Cliffhanger before -- plus I intend to write about it again (along with notes on director Renny Harlin's introduction at this particular screening), after watching my recently acquired pre-test screening/MPAA workprint of it - (12/18: Cancelled due to nobody giving a shit) so I'll just focus on the Arnold joint for this posting.

The 70mm print for Last Action Hero was stunningly beautiful (as was Cliffhanger's print). It was awesome; thanks to the movie magic that can only be conjured by watching a film presented in the format of the times, I felt like I was watching this flick on opening night at a theater presenting it in 70mm. Time travel, baby; I was in Santa Monica, but I might as well have been in Westwood or Hollywood circa June 1993, watching it in the best non-IMAX format available, in brand-new SDDS sound. It felt even more real, because the theater was only filled to 20% capacity -- just like it played in theaters back then! The guys at Sony must've taken very good care of this print, either that, or it just never got that much play to begin with. Because it's Last Action Hero.

The presumably non-SDDS sound was turned up to the Kick-Ass level, which is A-OK with me, but apparently not to the fatter-than-me nerd sitting a few rows behind me who yelled out his sarcastic comment on the sound not being loud enough or something. I'm a fat nerd, but it's always awesome to point out those in worse shape in order to make myself feel better for being a hopeless piece-of-shit -- although to be fair, he spoke with, like, 5 or 6 friends before and after the movie, and I showed up by myself and had no friends to speak to (par for the course, in my case), so I'm totally, unequivocally, the bigger loser in this equation. In any equation, really. I don't know why I brought this up. Neither do you.

The movie opens with Alice in Chains' "What the Hell Have I", a fuckin' bad jam from a soundtrack full of them. I didn't even see the film until it was on video, yet you bet your sweet ass I made fuckin' sure to buy the soundtrack after listening to it at my cousin's house one afternoon. It's mostly comprised of tunes from 80's metal bands and early 90's alternative (and Cypress Hill, to throw the ethnics a bone); the film's way of sonically bridging the gap between old and new. Come to think of it, there was a lot of gap-bridging back in the early 90's; the badass Judgment Night soundtrack was basically White Boy Music Meets Black Man Music, and then you had guys like Public Enemy hooking up with Anthrax for "Bring the Noise". Yeah, man, the early 90's -- back when it was still cool to have hope in that kind of bullshit.

The film itself is kind of like that too, combining heavy Hollywood silverbacks of the 1980's (from both sides of the camera) with the increasingly meta-saracasto storytelling of the 1990's. You have Arnold Schwarzenegger and John Muthafuckin' Badass Cinematic Action Master Even Though His Better Days Are Behind Him The Man Directed DIE HARD so Don't-Fuck-With-Me-On-This McTiernan hooking up for a second time, both of them riding in on a wave of hits (McT's wave was beginning to ebb after Medicine Man, though). Only this time, they would be entering unknown territory; sure, it's an action film, but it's also very much supposed to be a comedy, and a family film, and a feel-good magical romp, and a satiric look at the cliches and stereotypes imbued in the usual kind of joint that features an Austrian shooting gaping holes into people.

And perhaps that's the problem with this flick -- they didn't know what kind of film they were supposed to make. At least that's what McTiernan has said, in that wonderful state of way-after-the-fact retrospection (of course). He said the studio never made up its mind about what exactly Last Action Hero was supposed to *feel* like and that left McT with no clue whatsoever as to what tone to go with, so he basically ended up shooting a different movie with each scene, which I guess explains why the final product feels like such a fuckin' mess.

What do you blame that shit on, the script? Or the lack of one? Maybe it's both. From what I understand, a couple of dudes sold a script titled Extremely Violent, and in typical Hollywood fashion, the Powers That Be loved it so much, that they hired a battalion of writers to completely change the fuckin' thing until it vaguely resembled the child everyone doted on at the beginning of this caper. Fuckin' Awesome Shane Black got most of the credit, and while there are many funny lines mixed in with the lame ones (Arnold mostly fucks up the latter with his accent), it still didn't help the flick enough. Perhaps they thought that since Last Action Hero didn't know the Good Movie song, maybe they can help fake it by hiring someone like Black or uncredited William Goldman to hum a few bars.

I don't know. Maybe McTiernan figured it would all work out in the end, since from what I understand, he started shooting Die Hard with something like 30 or 40 pages of script, while the rest was written and rewritten as they went along -- and that joint ended up playing like some precision-crafted Swiss clockwork. Many good movies are made that way -- but many bad ones are made that way too. This film, for example.

All I know is that Last Action Hero has a great premise -- movie geek pre-teen Danny Madigan joins his cinematic hero Jack Slater (played by my former governor) on-screen, with the help of a magical movie ticket that creates a portal allowing the Real World to connect with the Movie World -- and teases you for 130 minutes on how awesome this idea is going to be when it plays out. Except it never does, it just teases you, and not even a good kind of teasing, it's a lame kind of teasing, like a chick bragging about the new slut shoes she bought and how sexy she looks in them, yet never wears them in front of you. Don't think I forgot about that shit, Nadia.

So Madigan finds himself getting into adventures with Slater; I found it interesting that the kid is more enamored with the character of Slater, rather than the actor who plays him. He doesn't give a shit about the actor. Speaking of actors, the supporting cast consists of an impressive line-up that would've been more impressive had this movie been made in 1986 -- F. Murray Abraham, Anthony Quinn, Art Carney, Michael V. Gazzo, Robert Prosky, Joan Plowright.

But there's also awesome motherfuckers like Tom Muthafuckin' Noonan as the axe-wielding Ripper, Charles Dance as the one-eyed sharpshooter Benedict, and Frank McRae as the angry, screaming Lieutenant (not to be confused with his performance from that same year's Loaded Weapon 1, where he played the angry, screaming Captain). Mercedes Ruehl plays Madigan's mom, and while she's a respected Oscar-winning/Tony-winning/Obie-winning actor, it still makes the hair on the back of my sweaty blubber neck stand up with the way she says "...so YOU cangotothemovies?"

Also, I think this was Bridgette Wilson-Tennis Pro's first film (playing Slater's daughter), and 13-year-old me was surely grateful for the introduction. I also dug how they did that bullshit overdone DADDY! welcoming shit, where Wilson's squealing and regressing into childhood (like she overdosed on puppies & rainbows) upon the sight of her father -- way too many movie daughters pull that shit on movie fathers, so that was cool that they were making fun of that oft-repeated moment in films. Or at least I hope they were making fun of it, and not partaking in that garbage. Calm down, girl -- all he did was bang your mom.

The main problem I had with this film was with the character of Madigan (the actor behind the role is good and non-annoying for a child actor); here's this kid who doesn't have the greatest life (Dad's dead, Mom's too busy putting food on the table, drug addicted creeps are breaking in to the apartment), and BOOM, now he's in the movie he was watching, partnered up with Jack Slater. Fuckin' awesome, right? Right. So then WHY OH WHY does he spend most of his time trying to convince everyone around him that this is all a movie? What does he fuckin' get out of that, or from weirding Slater out by constantly bringing up the magic ticket and how they're always on the verge of jumping through a movie screen into the real world? I mean, wouldn't you just go with the fuckin' flow and use your movie knowledge to your advantage in this situation?

Shit man, if I ended up with the magic ticket and found myself inside a Jason Statham movie, I'd be all like "OK, Jason -- you go own those motherfuckers, and I'll go bang Amy Smart!" and then we'd give each other one of those manly high-fives before taking off to complete our separate tasks. Or better yet, maybe go into a hot chick movie and hope they're into depressed overweight assholes. Most likely though, I'd jump into Dinner Rush or Big Night.

But I guess whoever was re-writing the pages that day was more interested in that whole Story Is Conflict deal, and wrongheadedly figured Hey, let's make the conflict about this kid trying to get the Action Hero to understand that this entire scenario is fictional. So instead, there's only the occasional hint of the kind of movie it could've been, like whenever Madigan geeks out on something cool Slater's about to do (or just did). But no, mostly it's just him trying to wet-blanket a dream situation that could've been the key to muthafuckin' paradise for a boy who loves movies.

It's frustrating because as big a failure as this film is, it still features glimmers of hope to torture you, like it really wanted to be a good movie but the evil movie god had already damned it to hell, Lamia-style. I mean, the action is still pretty fuckin' sweet -- exaggerated, baroque sequences that are both funny and Pretty Fuckin' Cool (and personally would be even cooler in a movie that takes it all dead serious) -- because this is John McTiernan directing, and he really was in my opinion one of the absolute best action filmmakers in the muthafuckin' world, people. I may not have faith in the human race or a Higher Power, but goddammit I still have faith that McT will come back Born Again Hard.

Watch Die Hard again, watch how he slyly uses the non-action moments as ways to introduce the geography of the location, that way when the shit eventually goes down, you know exactly where you are, where the good guy is, and where the bad guys are coming from. Notice how this bad muthafucka will even occasionally manage to make super badass exciting action sequences employing long, wide takes and minimal cuts (using quick whip-pans instead). Well, he still pulls off that sweet style here, while spicing it up with a freak-flag-flying technique of zooming the fuck into a shot -- regardless of whether that shit is still gonna be in focus or not -- and then cutting to a clear-crisp close-up of the subject in question. Although I did notice that Fuckin' Awesome Dean Semler was the cinematographer, and he used the same technique in The Three Musketeers starring The MaSheen, so maybe that was all him, I don't know.

If Last Action Hero was a 30-minute film comprised of only the action scenes, I'd say it was pretty fuckin' good. But instead we have 100 more minutes of missed opportunities, wasted time on bullshit, and poor excuses for lip service on things that are genuinely awesome. Instead we have a heartbreaking, frustrating-as-fuck failure as a motion picture. I will admit that it does have its amusing moments sprinkled in between long protracted gaps of Lame and the mercilessly few action scenes -- like the Rottweiler pyramid and the alternate Terminator 2: Judgment Day poster. It is not an entirely painful experience.

One of the silly-in-a-cool-way action sequences ends with Slater falling into the La Brea Tar Pits in slow-motion; in the foreground of the frame is an animatronic dinosaur, looming over the presumably Owned-By-Tar main character. It's like they knew, man, it's like the filmmakers fuckin' knew that they were composing the most representative image of what would become of Last Action Hero shortly after its release (a week after Jurassic Park, presumably to give the Spielberg flick one weekend of glory before finally stepping in and stomping its snakeskin boots all over the competition and taking its rightful place on the box office throne), and sure enough, it was like a self-fulfilling prophecy: Last or First, it didn't matter, this Action Hero was just another jabroni who missed his mark and drowned in sticky liquid death -- only in reality, it was red ink -- while the dinosaurs remained standing tall, proud, and very, very, very profitable.

I remember being super-hyped for this movie, and at school, I was more than happy to name this film alongside Jurassic Park, Hot Shots! Part Deux, and yes, Cliffhanger, as my Can't Wait To See 'Em summer movies for 1993 to my friends and teachers (even though they never asked, I told them anyway, stupid little chatterbox that I am). But even at that young age I inhaled as many movie publications as I could, and the reviews were all telling me that Last Action Hero was, like, the absolute worst fucking movie ever made. Word of mouth didn't help either; both a friend and a neighbor had told me how they walked out of it halfway through. Fuck, I thought, I guess I'm not gonna bother with this one, I'll just wait for pan-and-scan VHS. (I was still about 12 months away from saving enough cash for a Laserdisc player.)

When I finally went to rent the movie in January '94, I looked at the box and noticed that instead of using the awesome Struzan-esque poster art from the theatrical release, they used a lame close-up of Arnold Schwarzenegger holding up a gun that he never used in the actual movie, with some stupid nondescript explosion behind him. Man, you can tell Columbia Pictures was done with this fuckin' movie, after it failed to become the biggest movie of the summer, let alone the biggest movie of its opening weekend. Then I took the movie home, saw the fuckin' thing, and got very depressed when it was over. I didn't give it another chance until a couple years later on widescreen Laserdisc, hoping my opinion would change. It didn't.

Yet such is my sad life, that I bought a ticket to see this in 70mm -- and I can say now without any reservation, having seen it in the best possible format of its time, that this movie isn't good or OK. It's just fuckin' sad, that's the best way I can describe.

In addition to the action sequences, this joint also has the slight value of Shits & Giggles because it's very much an early 90's time capsule, not only in some of the song choices, but in the way this flick features cameos from celebrities who were not long for the megastar world -- Chevy Chase pre-talk show, Damon Wayans pre-Blankman, Jean-Claude Van Damme pre-the rest of the world turning into fuckin' snobs, and (M.C.) Hammer pre-banana hammock. This was definitely a fitting movie for them to appear in.

In conclusion, the entire audience tittered during the movie premiere scene, where the real Arnold Schwarzenegger was portrayed as a harmless boob under the over-control of his then-wife, Maria Shriver. Unfortunately, this print was missing the 90-second sequence where Arnold sneaks off to fuck the help -- because it added nothing to the plot, and besides, it's not like you can feature dueling accents grunting and moaning in ecstasy, that shit's too strong for a PG-13 movie.

Where there was no love to be found

2011-12-14T17:59:00.000-08:00

Hook was playing at the Aero Theatre in 70mm; I've never seen it, and 70mm FILM is an awesome thing, so I went.

The slightly-Goth gal at the ticket counter must've had a really good night or a bad morning or both, because she was soooo not in the mood to have some fat sweaty Latino stick out his debt-ridden credit card to her and ask for 1 ticket (please). It didn't matter if this fat fuck was using his Be Nice At The DMV-voice to assure her that he was, indeed, one of the good guys, one who understood. As far as she was concerned, I deserved the dagger-eyes and Go Fuck Yourself body language. She made this all very clear after handing me my ticket and immediately looking back down at nothing, without even a "Thank you" or fake job-smile. The older lady who took my ticket, on the other hand, was very nice. Because with advanced age, comes an understanding of Life -- not to mention a worldly confirmation to your soul that says You Are Not The Most Important Person In The World (Nobody Is, Except The Rich And Famous), so quit acting like a cunt who's been wronged by everyone and Be Decent to your fellow man, for Christ's sake.

So this flick, Hook, it's a Spielberg joint and I remember back in '91 this was, like, a huge fuckin' mega-extravaganza of stars and movie-magic. At least that's what I gathered from the never-ending onslaught of advertising for it. Anyway, for whatever reason, it never grabbed my fancy, let alone tickle it. It stars Robin Williams and Dustin Hoffman, and back then, those guys were money-making mega-stars; nowadays, they're still big names, only now they're the kind of big names that do better at the box office when matched up with other big names in an ensemble cast.

Williams plays one of those white-collar characters of High Position who is so busy being a fuckin' Boss, that he ends up fucking it up in the Family department. Hollywood loves making movies about guys like these -- successful suits who make big deals, working their asses off for the Corporation, treating the lowly underlings as human beings (meaning he's a Cool Boss) -- because the studio execs who read these scripts (well, they read the coverage from the lackey who read it for them, anyway) see themselves as that person, the best-case scenario of what they could only hope to be, rather than what they really are.

But rather than making themselves better people in real life, they greenlight these fuckin' movies and demand rewrites upon rewrites (to justify their position), and they believe that by having the character go through a grueling 3-act redemption, that somehow wipes the slate clean of both the sins of the main character AND them. As if watching Rich White Guys learning to become better people in a movie serves as a bona-fide act of self-flagellation for these motherfuckers: Ah yes, now everything is right again! Johnson, bring me a coffee with two sugars, a Sweet & Low, and half-a-Equal, served at slightly below scalding temperature. In a French demitasse from Tangiers. With a plastic spoon. From Target, not the 99 Cent store. And reschedule my sauna/cocaine session with Michael Bay for 2:34. Oh, and re-write my speech for the Hollywood Democratic Fundraiser I'm giving tonight, because I'm all about the working man. I was a working man, once -- I interned one summer at Orion, rather than stay with my folks in Martha's Vineyard. Go! Now, Johnson, now! GO NOW OR IT'S YOUR ASS!!!! I'LL THROW YOU AND YOUR FAMILY INTO THE FUCKIN' STREET!!!!!

So yeah, this movie. Williams was too busy showing off his cell phone holstering skills at the office to make it to his son's baseball game in time. The son (played by The Kid from Dick Tracy) is understandably upset by this, and demonstrates it by drawing a picture (during a flight to see his grandmother-in-law) of his father falling to his death in an ocean teeming with Mork-hungry sharks. After they arrive in England (where grandma Wendy lives), the old bird is disappointed to see that Williams is acting like some big-time studio executive; always on the cell phone, barely acknowledging his kids (except to scream at them).

It turns out that this Wendy broad is THE Wendy, as in, the Wendy from the Peter Pan story -- and not only is the story real, but it's none other than Robin Williams who was the real Pan. But you know how it is; first you spend your youth having fun with your boys, having food fights, experimenting with your sexuality by crossdressing in tights, and never growing old. But next thing you know, you fall in love with a chick and forget about your boys and suddenly it's 25 years later and you're rich & miserable, you got two kids, a wife who's keeping in better shape than your fat hairy ass, and you're like What Happened To My Life, I Used To Be Cool.

Meanwhile, in Never Never Land, Captain Hook (played by Rain Man) is still keeping it real. Sure, it's not so cool to be older and still playing the I'm Young game with your crew, but whatever, he's living his life the way he wants to live it. I guess Spielberg is using all this shit as a metaphor or whatever you'd fuckin' call this shit: You become an adult, do adult things, and accept adult responsibility -- or -- you stay single and immature and fuck around with your buddies, playing pirate, and hitting the nightclubs with your old ass (wearing an unconvincing wig to disguise your gray balding pate).

I guess Hook is missing his old nemesis and wants to relive the old times, so he has his boys break into grandma's house and jack the children while the rest of the family is out at some ceremony/function, where they're dedicating an orphanage wing or something to Wendy. After getting Detective Inspector Phil Collins on the case, Williams tries to chill out with some booze, but along comes Tinkerbell to try to convince him to become The Pan again, because the hooooooooook brings you baaaaaaaaack....

You know, that ceremony sequence I mentioned in the last paragraph? It's actually my favorite scene in the entire film; Williams is giving a treacly (yet sincere) speech about how awesome Wendy was for taking in so many orphans (himself included) and raising them, teaching them well, letting them lead the way and showing them all the beauty they possess inside, gimme some more crack Bobby, etc. It ends with all the orphans in the audience standing up and applauding their love for this old broad; most of them are pretty old themselves, and I'm sure they all live pretty respectable lives, which is why it's so touching to think that it all came out of this lady taking care of them, when no one else would. Biologically, she may not be their mother, but while they were in her care, she put most moms to shame. In any other film, this would've been the ending, some Mr. Holland's Opus kind-of shit, but in this joint, this happens in the first 30 minutes or so.

Which is why it's kind of a drag that the majority of the first act feels kinda....draggy. That scene is so awesome, but what preceded it and what follows it feels pretty lame. In fact, it's kinda funny that this film ultimately mirrors the Peter Banning character (that's Robin Williams to you); the more he finds out about who he used to be, the more fun the movie gets. Until he finally becomes The Pan (spoiler for a 20-year-old movie about Peter Fucking Pan) and the movie finally gets off the ground with some medium-level Good Times. But that also means that for the first half, this shit's almost as boring as the main character's non-Pan self.

Supposedly, Spielberg publically admitted defeat on the cinematic battleground with this joint, saying that he failed with Hook and that one of his mistakes was not allowing Robin Williams to get all Robin Williams in the movie. I don't know, man. I mean, the point of Banning not being funny for the first half (and some may argue the second half as well) is that he isn't the awesome fun-loving Peter Pan anymore. Shit, if you ask me, they should've just done what they've been doing with so many Peter Pan productions and had some chick play him. That would've been entertaining; get Meryl Streep or whoever was big in '91 to play Banning. Then when Banning goes all Pan again later in the film, it wouldn't look so fuckin' gay when he/she is prancing around in tights.

Calm down, people; by "gay", I mean no offense. I'm clearly referring to men having sex with other men.

I wouldn't say Spielberg failed, because from the second half on, Hook becomes a pleasant family adventure joint. You have amusing sequences like when the Lost Boys (and Ruf-i-ooooo!) fuckin' Eye Of The Tiger Banning back into prime Pan shape, or when Banning falls into the ocean and is saved by 3 hot mermaids who give him the Kiss of Life (the film cuts away before they take turns blowing him; being mermaids and all, that's pretty much all they can do sexually, aside from using their hands). The final battle on the pirate ship was fun to watch too, with the egg cannons and fat black kids who double as their own pirate-smooshing weapons (no pirate can withstand the power of the Rolling Fat Black Kid, except for the pirate known as Captain D.I.A. Betes).

You also have awesome old-school soundstage production design, old-school effects, and magical Dean Cundey anamorphic cinematography (this was a couple years before Spielberg's joints started getting Kaminski'd). John Williams' score is beautiful, which is a waste of a sentence because, c'mon, it's John Williams, of course that shit's gonna be tight. I also like that it's one of his scores that have a holiday feel to them, even though I don't think Hook takes place during Christmas, I'm not sure.

I also liked watching Julia Roberts as Tinkerbell, all cute & pixie-like, back when she was the new girl in town, not the seasoned seen-it-all Lady Of A Certain Age that she is now. Apparently, her direction on this film was to just act like Julia Roberts With Wings, so here she's all cackles and smiles. Meanwhile, Eric Roberts was like, Muthafucka, I hooked her up with her first gig and now she won't return my fuckin' phone calls? (Then he'd take a hit of some sweet stress-relieving cheeba.)

Gwyneth Paltrow has a cameo in this, well, actually, no. It's not a cameo when you're not famous yet; at the time of Hook's production, she was just a girl struggling to make it in the business, working hard and starving while waiting for that One Big Break...and then she got it when Steven Spielberg picked her out of a sea of thousands of aspiring actresses -- haha, just kidding.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...

(I'm sorry, give me a second here to get over what I just wrote there about her.)

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

OK, where was I?

I saw this on a Sunday afternoon, and that's really the kind of flick it is: a Sunday afternoon adventure. Sure, it's no great shakes, but I guess decent Spielberg is like bad sex & pizza -- still pretty good (unless combined). But you can tell he was shooting for Classic status with this one, and when you're Steven Spielberg, anything less than Oscar-caliber is an outright disappointment (unless it makes record-breaking ducats like The Lost World: Jurassic Park, because taking a celluloid dump will always be justified/excused if said 35mm fecal matter makes boffo box-office. If decent Spielberg is like bad pizza, then bad Spielberg is like awesome pepperoni, yet no pizza to put it on. It really IS always about food for me).

Someone behind me was crying towards the end, and I figured that person was one of the many who grew up on this flick and had nothing but pleasant thoughts towards this movie over the past 20 years. I'm not hating, good for them, I wish I felt the same way; I'm sure if I caught this flick back when I should've caught it, I'd like it a whole lot more. But alas, I waited until now, in my bitter old age during a bitter old time on this bitter old planet and -- Jesus Christ, it's been 20 years?! TWENTY YEARS!

The print was good; there was the occasional scratch, grease-pencil mark, and skipped frame -- but it was still impressive in its overall seventy-millimeter-ness. See, this is part of why I'll miss Film when it's eventually liquidated by the studio Nazis from the Krakow Ghetto that is the revival circuit; sometimes, with the best prints, I'll lose myself for a second as I fall under a movie's spell and briefly -- too brief! -- I'll imagine that this is what it looked like/felt like to watch this film at the time of its release. Because it's in the same format it was presented in back in the day, right? So it might as well be 1991 when I saw this film, in a 70mm theater in Los Angeles, on a crisp December afternoon. Look, I don't know what the death clock is on 70mm, or if it's even ticking for it at all, the way it's currently ticking for 35mm, but who's to say that shit won't be next?

Anyway, the film ended and I ambled my pear-shaped mess of a body down the street over to Father's Office, where I gorged on sweet potato fries and their titular burger, while some English broad in the next seat stared at me, probably thinking to herself "Typical American". You shut your limey mouth, lady. Or I'll eat it. Because I'm hungry, you see -- I eat the burger, I eat the mouth, I eat every muthafuckin' thing.

Click here for the follow-up, if you're not already bored out of your fuckin' mind by this shit

Movie Tally 2011: 11/1 - 11/30

2011-12-01T06:02:00.000-08:00

261. CALIBER 9 - 11/1/11 - Netflix Instant
262. SCARFACE ('83) - 11/5/11 - Theater/Brea Plaza 5 (re-see)
263. ASSASSINS ('95) - 11/8/11 - DVD (re-see)
264. THE FOG ('80) - 11/9/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
265. HAROLD & KUMAR GO TO WHITE CASTLE (unrated) - 11/11/11 - DVD (re-see)
266. HAROLD & KUMAR ESCAPE FROM GUANTANAMO BAY (unrated) - 11/11/11 - DVD (re-see)
267. A VERY HAROLD & KUMAR 3D CHRISTMAS - 11/11/11 - Theater
268. ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK - 11/11/11 - DVD (re-see)
269. BLADE RUNNER (int'l theatrical cut) - 11/13/11 -Blu-ray (re-see)
270. MESRINE: KILLER INSTINCT - 11/13/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
271. MESRINE: PUBLIC ENEMY #1 - 11/13/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
272. THE THING ('82) - 11/14/11 - DVD (re-see)
273. PRINCE OF DARKNESS - 11/14/11 - DVD (re-see)
274. THEY LIVE - 11/15/11 - DVD (re-see)
275. THE MUPPETS - 11/15/11 - Theater/Grove
276. PUSS IN BOOTS ('11) - 11/19/11 - Theater
277. THE WAY - 11/22/11 - Theater/Laemmle 7
278. HUGO (3D) - 11/22/11 - Theater/Arclight Pasadena
279. PLANES, TRAINS & AUTOMOBILES - 11/23/11 - Theater/Aero (re-see)
280. HANNAH AND HER SISTERS - 11/23/11 - Theater/Aero
281. J. EDGAR - 11/25/11 - Theater
282. THE BLACK HOLE ('79) - 11/29/11 - DVD (re-see)
283. JACKIE BROWN - 11/30/11 - Blu-ray (re-see)

November 2011 figures:

9 theater
0   drive-in
8 DVD
0 DVR/TV
2 Blu-ray
4 Netflix Instant Streaming
0   VHS
0   Other

8 new
15 re-see

23 viewings total for November 2011

Year to date: 283 movies

Hiking with an attractive woman for weeks is tough, especially if she's not interested in you. Then you're just begging for some occasional privacy so you can let the poison out, otherwise you'll be too distracted by blue balls to enjoy nature.

2011-11-24T14:14:00.000-08:00

I have a headache and should be getting some more sleep in preparation for Thanksgiving dinner a few hours from now, and I'll be damned if that's not a run-on sentence. But hey, pointing out a run-on sentence in this blog is like handing out speeding tickets at the Indy 500, right Willard?

Anyway, for whatever reason, I'm not gonna get a few extra hours of hangover-killing rest, I'm gonna ramble about The Way, which is one of those low-budget labor-of-love deals -- this time it's Emilio Estevez doing things his own damn self -- but unlike other joints of its ilk, this one looks a hell of a lot more expensive because it was shot in the countrysides of France and Spain, and when you're dealing with God as a production designer, chances are that you're gonna get some quality settings. I've seen other flicks over the past couple days, but this was the first, and I only have time to ramble about one joint, so yeah, here you go.

Martin Sheen plays an ophthalmologist from Los Angeles, and one day he gets a phone call regarding his son (played by Emiliooooooo), and let's just say that Sheen's gonna have one less person to leave shit to in his will. Yeah, turns out his boy died in an accident over in the Pyrenees. What was he doing there? Oh, you know, pilgrimage and all that. He was walking the Camino de Santiago, and the route chosen for this film is a long hike from the land of rude people and great coffee, all the way over to the place where people speak Spanish with a lisp that is cute on women and odd on men. People go on this pilgrimage for various reasons (spiritual, travel, bragging); Emilio's was mostly good ol' There Are So Many Places Out There I Haven't Seen wanderlust.

So off goes Mr. Sheen, off to pick up his dead son -- and after a good night's sleep (or at least as good a night's sleep one can get while mourning the recent death of a loved one), he decides that he's gonna finish the Camino trek in his boy's place, while spreading recently-cremated Emilio ashes along the way -- I mean, The Way -- because if Emilio Estevez is gonna walk five hundred miles, then goddammit, Martin Sheen will walk five hundred more.

It's a road movie, but instead of burning rubber, the characters are beating feet; Sheen eventually groups up with 3 fellow travelers played by Deborah Kara Unger, some fat Dutchman, and the dad from Millions. The fat Dutchman is pulling a Dewey Oxburger, thinking this walk (which can take weeks to complete) will make him a lean, mean, pot-smoking machine in time for his brother's wedding; Dad-from-Millions is just some douchebag writer who thinks he can jot down his observations and make a book from it (unlike me, who just puts it in a blog), and Unger's character proves that even Canadians can be surly, sarcastic assholes. Surprisingly, they never run into Gwyneth Paltrow or the Harry Knowles of television chefs during this journey, which is weird, because I thought Paltrow was like Queen White Girl of Spain or something.

This is seriously, to me, one of Martin Sheen's best performances, bar fuckin' none. The Academy most likely won't recognize it because they pay more attention to higher-profile fare featuring lots of drama queening and hamming up, which is too bad, because homeboy's performance is one of those awesomely understated deals that still manages to pack a punch. Whatever. I'm sure he'll get a Lifetime Achievement award. He better.

There's a scene about halfway through the film where his character has a bit too much to drink, and he fucks up by choosing that particular time to air his grievances regarding his Camino crew; it's a slow burn that eventually turns into a goddamn blaze, and the way Sheen plays it feels way too fuckin' real, as opposed to just some actor using the moment to turn it into an excuse for overacting. Considering Sheen's past with alcohol use (hell, just watch Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker's Apocalypse to see it in real-life effect), his acting in that scene has more than a ring of truth to it -- it's a fuckin' gong of truth. The manner in which the Camino crew handle his outburst also felt realistic; with both body language and minimal dialogue they manage to tell this dude "You know, we understand that you're hurting, and you don't mean what you said, but for the next few hours, go fuck yourself, asshole."

The film itself is also surprisingly subtle as well, for the most part; Estevez's last couple of joints, The War at Home and Bobby were more Sirk-sian in how they were more than happy to tell you how you were supposed to feel during any particular scene, thanks to things like slow-motion montages set to classic tunes/dramatic compositions. The Way, on the other hand, is told in more of an objective -- rather than subjective -- style; I don't recall any dolly shots or tracking setups, and I'm pretty sure it was all handheld, even the static shots. The lighting is all natural (from either the sun or candlelight) and that, combined with the Super 16mm format, gives this joint more of a raw, documentary feel. I think half of the cast is comprised of non-actors who really live in the areas our heroes visit, which adds to the docu-feel of the proceedings.

The music score feels less emotional and more psychological, serving more to put you in the mindset of any particular character, and leaving how to feel about it up to your lazy ass. The songs are OK; I was never the biggest fan of Alanis Morissette's "Thank U", but considering that she did play God in a movie, maybe she's God in this movie too and the song is kinda like her narrating this shit -- a God who once sucked Dave Coulier's cock in a movie theater. I wonder what movie they were watching. Something Canadian, I bet.

It's a nice movie that gets its point across about spirituality and our inherent need to strengthen our virtues (while eliminating our flaws), without getting emotionally overwrought about it all. (For the record, I'm all for sappy shit, but only when it's done right.) Sure, there is drama, but it's never some overly done Movie kind of drama; like I mentioned before, it's that matter-of-fact style that still manages to keep a motherfucker very interested. I mean, shit man, it's about how a dude chooses to handle the death of his only son -- you really don't need to ladle extra syrup on these pancakes, you dig? You're watching a group of people walking this long journey, they meet some interesting people along the way, get to their destination, and that's it. Whether or not their lives turn for the better, well, that's not what the movie is interested in telling you.

In movies, people come out of these experiences with their worlds completely rocked, and it changes the way they live their lives. In real life, that's not always the case -- shit, it's rarely the case -- sometimes we just go back to living the way we've always lived. But hopefully, we've come out of it a little wiser about something -- anything -- maybe that's what the movie is saying. The ending kinda annoyed me at first, it felt a little movie-fake, but then a few hours later I managed to pull my head out of my ass, and on second thought, it makes plenty of sense for the character to uh, go that way.

Anyway, I dug this flick, it's a nice and thoughtful way to spend two hours, and it's definitely got me considering going on one of these pilgrimages. Backpacking's the shit, and I'd like to go once more into the European breach, where I can once again take in some nice sights, meet interesting people, and learn just how precious a hot shower and bed can become to a motherfucker. The only thing that would've made this movie better is maybe an appearance by Keith David and Dean Cameron, with their rent-a-cop hating, pizza delivering, french fry-protecting tomfooleries.

But, hey man -- Tcheky Karyo is in this mutha! That guy's awesome. That's how I'll close these thoughts on The Way, talking about Tcheky Muthafuckin' Karyo; so, this guy? Like I said, he's awesome. Took notice of him in La Femme Nikita, and have been taking notice of him since. One of my closest friends became even closer when I found out we shared a fondness for that French mofo; and nothing gets us happier than being given the opportunity to do our Tcheky Karyo impressions, well, aside from a pair of titties. But if you're ever hanging with us, be warned, folks: Never mention anything regarding the roasting of foods, lest we end up freaking you out by suddenly going "You know, the Chinese have the best roasting methods in the world -- BUT I PREFER THE FRENCH ONE!"

OK, I'm off. Happy Thanksgiving, lady and gentleman. Hug your loved ones. Eat. Watch movies. Enjoy life. And don't be a dick -- besides, that's my gig.

A fifth of that Black Jack, a 16 oz Coke

2011-11-17T19:27:00.000-08:00

"What movie is this line for?" asked the older lady who had just walked up to me, and I told her it was for The Muppets, to which she responded "Huh?", and not in that I Didn't Hear You sort-of-way, but in that "Aren't you an adult?" kind of way. That's OK, though; I was not the only adult, in fact, the majority of this particular queue was old enough to buy alcohol legally. We were here because of a love for Jim Henson's creations -- and because we managed to get on the guest list.

You see, Jeremy Smith (aka Mr Beaks of AICN and Internet fame) set this screening up at The Grove in Los Angeles -- a nice place where you can look at people who most likely make more money than you -- and once inside the Pacific Theatres auditorium, Mr. Smith-Beaks asked us to indulge him as he led us in a Mahna-Mahna singalong, which reminded me of what I saw 20 minutes earlier: 3 men in the restroom singing a couple verses from Wham's "Last Christmas" while taking a piss (1 at the urinal, the other 2 in separate stalls). Because singing was involved in both instances, obviously. I didn't notice any dudes in the audience holding their dicks while singing Mahna-Mahna (and it wasn't for lack of looking, either).

Preceding the feature was a Toy Story Toon titled "Small Fry" and I don't know why I had the stones to doubt Pixar about this one, but I did; I figured this would be a cute time-filler and they probably got Tom Hanks' brother from Acts of Violence to do Woody's voice, as well as the relatives of all the other famous actors who worked on the trilogy to take over. But no, they got the whole fuckin' cast back together, they got Wallace Shawn, John Ratzenberger, and even the guy who played Patricia Richardson's douchebag husband from that Tool Time show.

Because this was a Pixar joint, the motherfuckers behind-the-scenes put their usual 220% into telling this brief tale about Buzz Lightyear's visit to a fast-food joint. It's good stuff, and considering how goddamn perfect the last film ended, I'd prefer that the Toy Story adventures continue like this, rather than with another film; in addition to giving us a few minutes of Good Times, these shorts also serve as postcards informing the rest of us about how our guys are doing. They're doing well, by the way, thanks for asking.

So then The Muppets started, and in the opening scene we're introduced to a new Muppet named Walter. I once worked with a guy named Walter and he always felt a need to tell me stories of his many sexual conquests, each disgusting verbal image punctuated with "I was piping her, dawg! Piping her!" Anyway, the non-piping Walter is the younger brother of Jason Segel's character, and I guess Segel is a real mensch, because he doesn't give a shit that his mother obviously slept around one drunken night with a Muppet behind her husband's back, instead he treats Walter with the kind of love and respect that only a kind-hearted sibling can give. They do way too much stuff together, though, and if you disagree with me, then you're disagreeing with The Adorable Amy Adams.

Yeah man, she's in this movie too, and I think she may have gone a tad Method in going for the Miss Piggy parallels because she appears a little heavier here, or maybe she was channeling her inner Cookie Monster before someone told her this was a Muppet movie, not Sesame Street. The extra weight is most likely a result of having given birth before production, and besides, this is The Adorable Amy Adams we're talking about, this only means that there's even more of her adorable self to find adorable. C'mon, this is Amy Adams, people. She's been in Leap Year and that Ben Stiller museum bullshit and I still haven't found her doing anything I'd put in the neighborhood of Wrong. She looks wonderfully fine, baby weight or not. Having said that, I'd also like to say the following: That's quite enough, Ms. Adams.

So yeah, Adams' character is also Segel's love interest and she's been incredibly accommodating, patient and gracious about his brother tagging along with them on every goddamn thing they do. Most recently, she's given the OK to Walter going with them on a 10-year-anniversary trip to Los Angeles, even though privately she wishes the fuckin' guy can take a solo trip while she and the Segs can have some two-way fun times. Well, she's in luck because shortly after they arrive in the city of shitty traffic and shittier parking, Walter does take a breather in Kermit the Frog's old office at the now rundown Muppet Studios -- where he fortunately overhears that bad Chris Cooper's plan to demolish the old Muppet Theater (because he's an evil oil magnate named Tex Richman and the location happens to be located on top of some prime vehicular go-juice).

What to do? I'll tell you what to do -- you go Electric Boogaloo on the motherfuckers and try to raise enough money (ten million dollars) to buy the theater back. So off they go -- Walter, The Adorable Amy Adams, and that Segal guy -- to convince Kermit to get the ol' Muppet gang together and stage a telethon with the singing and the dancing and the twisting and the kung-fu fiiiiiiighting. Deedle-deedle-dee-dee-do.

Let me talk about this Segel dude (who also co-wrote the screenplay); I've never seen Forgetting Sarah Marshall or that TV show where Neil Patrick Harris bangs women, so I'm not that up on the guy and his business and his talent or lack thereof. But I've seen him on Craig Ferguson and I've also seen him on Craig Ferguson's show, and he came off as very likable and funny. He seemed like a good dude, and fuck it, I'm saying he is a good dude, because in the end, he shepherded this project out of the Good Idea Barn and into the Pasture of Motherfuckin' Fruition -- and I apologize for writing such a stupid sentence in a blog already full of them.

When Segel and the Muppets try pitching the telethon to a high-powered TV exec (ah, Rashida Jones, the things you do to me), she counters back with charts showing them how irrelevant they are nowadays, telling them how Cynicism sells, not some fruity Muppets who are all about good feelings (one of the hit shows is something called "Punch Teacher", and that clip ends with a hilariously fucked-up off-screen line of dialogue).

That made me wonder how much of the studio exec dialogue came out of Segel's real-life pitch meetings, as he tried to get a new Muppet movie off the ground. The exec tells them that they need a big star to headline the telethon, and I'm sure that was the same shit Segel was told when it came to making The Muppets; in the film's case they got Amy Adams and some celebrity cameos (I was particularly fond of seeing Alan Arkin and Emily Blunt -- it's a Sunshine Cleaning reunion!), but for the telethon, I was less impressed and more amused by who they managed to get -- especially when you consider that there's someone in the Muppet Theater audience who can arguably be considered a bigger star at this particular point in time.

Some of the original Muppet crew (including that contentious muthafucka Frank Oz) have been vocal about not digging on this movie, and I guess the "fart shoes" gag might be part of the problem. Perhaps that kind of humor never made it to the Muppets back in the day, but I can't be too sure. Listen man, I haven't seen any of the other Muppet movies since I was in elementary school, so I can't compare this joint with The Muppet Movie or The Muppets Take Manhattan, because I honestly don't remember them all too well plot-wise.

But I must have part Robocop in me though, because while I can't really remember them, I can still *feel* them and this new one left me feeling just as happy -- if not more -- as the previous Muppet flicks made me feel, so that sounds like a class-A success to me. Even Walter felt like an old friend, even though this is his first barbecue. Also, the fart shoes gag is the only bathroom joke I can recall from the film, and it's not even that bad, it's really just an old-fashioned whoopie cushion gag, not twenty-seven Eddie Murphys in various stages of latex make-up and fat suits, unable to control themselves (to diminishing returns).

Anyway, the end result -- directed by some dude from Flight of the Conchords and featuring songs written by another dude from Flight of the Conchords -- is both a highly-entertaining family film (a family film that sneakily manages to feature a certain hit song by Cee Lo Green -- yes, I know they credit the clean version in the soundtrack, but you Just Fucking Know that Segel and company meant the other one) and a love letter to these goddamn Muppets, and it's absolutely brimming with Neo-Sincerity (while still having a sense-of-humor about certain accepted cliches, getting all meta on us). This is a film that wears its heart on its sleeve, one that embraces the ever-fading ideals of Kindness and Compassion, while insisting to the audience that the most important thing is to just fuckin' Try.

Man, to take that proud stance in a time where cynicism runs rampant and mean-spiritedness is disguised as being "cool", well that makes The Muppets pretty goddamn punk, if you ask me.

That tea & crumpet-eating mofo Martin Amis once wrote about the first time he saw E.T. The Extra Terrestrial; he said he was fuckin' bawling his British-novelist eyes out by the end of it. Then he noticed that the conveniently well-rounded group of people sitting to the left and right of him (Japanese businessman, black guy, punk rocker, mother -- they were only a construction worker away from singing YMCA) were also crying. He said that they weren't so much crying for the on-screen characters, as they were crying for their "lost selves". I was thinking of that while pulling an Amis by glancing for tears in the audience (there were a few). Me, I didn't cry; I was feeling the film, but not that deeply. Besides, I don't cry at movies, I'm a man -- I wait until I'm alone in the privacy of my own home to let that shit flow.

But yeah man, those E.T. tears, I believe, are the same kind of tears that also rolled down many a moviegoers' chubby cheeks during the first 15 minutes of Up and the last 15 minutes of Toy Story 3 -- the dreaded Growing Up Sucks A Dick But We Have To tears (aka Pixar Tears). An old man wakes up in bed without his wife, a teenager sighs as he sits alone in his car, a boy says goodbye to his alien father/brother surrogate -- sure, we know these are fictional characters in a fictional setting in a goddamn movie, but while the on-screen events are not real, the fuckin' brutal emotions they stir up in us (not to mention related past memories) are way too fuckin' real. Fuck you, Wistfulness! Goddamn you to Hell, Nostalgia! That's why we cry at fuckin' "cartoons", asshole hack comedian whose name I can't remember but will probably be famous someday on a sitcom that will last 10 years. That's why.

All right, fine -- that's why *I* cry at the fuckin' things.

So on that tip, you have The Muppets: a bunch of these cloth-skinned creatures philosophizing in song about the lovers and dreamers (and me!) who believe in dreams and illusions, despite the general factual consensus proving otherwise -- But you know what, man? Perhaps you're not alone in having these thoughts. Maybe we ALL have 'em! -- which is the kind of thing some of us want to hear in our old age, long after we reached the end of our formative years and had the curtain lifted, introducing us to the ugly, horrifying, crippling machine of despair, anguish, and hatred that is commonly referred to as The Real World (not to be confused with that MTV show featuring some nasty dude who shot snot rockets out of his nose and grossed out some raza dude with HIV by eating peanut butter with his nasty booger hands. Man, if I was Pedro, I'd have spit in that peanut butter and say "Try eating that shit now, ya fuckin' disgusting no-shower-taking, nose-picking, bike-riding, born insecure, rat-soup-eating MUTHAFUCKA!" ).

So on the tip of *that* tip, I will be very surprised if I find out that I was the only one in that theater who knew that men & women were really controlling and voicing the Muppets, and yet still chose to believe Kermit, Miss Piggy, Gonzo, Fozzie, Kristen Schaal, Animal, Rowlf, Swedish Chef, non-piping Walter, etc., were real. Because they sure as fuck were real when I was a kid. It's still real to me, dammit! I STILL BELIEVE!

It's a sweet film, and a very funny one at that; maybe not Pixar-quality, but fuck man, nobody's perfect. Besides, I'd have to see it again to make that judgment. As it is, it's definitely one of the better examples of the kind of family film that both the kids and adults will enjoy, and no one will feel like a complete schmo for buying a ticket to -- unless you are in fact, a schmo who refuses to enjoy awesome shit. Me, I couldn't stop smiling during it.

In conclusion, Amy Adams gets to eat a Pink's chili dog in the movie and that to me, is oceans of awesome to watch, and not in some sexual way, either. Don't get it twisted, peeps. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to have another Me Party.

ALTERNATE SPOILER-ISH ENDING

Hey man, let me tell you something that happens in the movie, and how fucked up it was to me. So the Muppets find Gonzo and try to convince him to do the show. He (it?) says no, because he has a successful business distributing bathroom fixtures and he's on his way to 1% Land, so off they go, disappointed. Because this is a movie, he changes his mind by the next scene, and to show his commitment, he blows up the warehouse containing his entire business. Which is fine for him, but what about the hundreds of loyal workers he just fucked out of a job? In this economy, no less. What a fuckin' asshole. WHAT A FUCKIN' ASSHOLE. That piece of shit, I never liked him, I never trusted him. For all I know, he had me set up and had my friend Angel Fernandez killed. But that's history. I'm here, he's not.

Oh, and they sing Starship's "We Built This City", which made me really uncomfortable because it reminded me of a rather unfortunate (and NSFW) soundalike I once caught on Sirius/XM. You've been warned.

Chances of me not embarrassing myself yet again are...remote.

2011-11-05T10:42:00.000-07:00

Click here for the first part of this badly-written bullshit.

People gathered in the lobby and were told once again by Aero volunteers about the present situation; the Aero people were told this street work was supposed to happen last weekend, so they complied and made sure to have everything done at the theater by the proper time. Except it wasn't supposed to be for last weekend, it's supposed to be this weekend -- and apparently while we were enjoying the first two films, things got pretty heated between The City & SoCal Edison and Grant & the Aeronauts, as each side fought, one to close the Aero down for the night, the other to keep it running; the police were contacted and even legal action (like, lawsuits & lawyers) was brought up. But unfortunately, nothing could be done because the Aero people were dealing with "cocksuckers". Someone in the crowd yelled "Occupy Aero!" and we laughed. Oh, how we laughed.

We were then told that we could return the following Saturday at 11pm (following their Verbinski'd screening of Rango) with our ticket stubs and catch the rest of the movies -- and perhaps because of Daylight Savings Time ending, we might even get an extra movie out of the deal. Just then, a man entered with a stack of pizzas, like he was delivering for the McCallisters or something; Feel free to help yourself to the rest of the snacks and coffee before leaving, they told us. The pizza was gone in a couple of minutes, and even those who scored had to survive a Japanese subway crush of people to get to it.

I went to my car and just as I was about to turn the ignition, I was hit with yet another pre-Beetis urge to take a piss, so I went back to the Aero to use their facilities. That move saved me some gas money and a follow-up trip to the Aero, because it turns out that the Horrorthon was going to continue as planned. I don't know what happened, but in the end, They were gonna let us have our movie marathon. One of the volunteers ran out into the sidewalk to try to get people back in and tell them everything was all good again.

I decided to grab a snack before going back to my seat, so I went to the lobby, and it was there that I spotted Phoebe the Dog's human, Ms. Lauren P. Henderson (of "New Adventures of Wonder Woman" fame). She's one of the 2 or 3 people who read this blog, and I foolishly decided to go up and give her my thanks -- because I'm genuinely appreciative of that kind of thing, and because I needed to remind myself why I shouldn't talk to new people. Sometimes you have to show people that you are indeed a badass motherfucker who is not to be trifled with, you gotta show these muthas that you are indeed Hard and a tough guy, and that is why I made sure to hold my chocolate chip mini-muffin in her direct sight as we talked (speaking of mini-muffins...). Because that's how gangstas roll -- clutching a chocolate chip mini-muffin like a fuckin' BOSS.

Considering how I handled myself during our brief chat, it was only fitting that the third movie of the night was The Pit, about a douchebag creepy creep creep who creeps out everyone else with his creepy douchebaggery and probably smells bad too. It was projected from a DVD, and at first, the movie's soundtrack consisted of some depressed Russian guy doing the dialogue for all the characters, but then someone switched it back to the original English audio.

Our main character, Creepy McCreeperson, has just entered puberty, adding to the fresh Clearasil, dirty socks, and sticky jism vibe. I'm perfectly fine judging him because we see enough of this dude to know he's off in a bad way; I'm usually sympathetic to characters with no friends, but not this one. He's just a fuckin' weirdo who stares at librarians through windows, doing some pre-Photoshop picture work by putting pictures of women he knows on top of photos of naked women, and various other pre-jerkoff-session shenanigans, and his parents are just putting up blinders to it all, probably because they're drunks (at least the mother gave me that vibe, like she had a shot or two before every scene). That's probably why they make the dumb choice of hiring a young shapely college student to babysit him, rather than some old bag he can't get all stiff in the pants over (and even then, who knows). You'd think they would know better.

The only friend Creepy has is a stuffed teddy bear (as opposed to an empty one), and fuck, I guess I can't fault him for that. Back when I was about 6 or 7, I was such a little girl that I asked my parents for a Teddy Ruxpin doll, because I saw some fuckin' commercial where a boy took it to school and all the kids were like OH WOW THIS GUY'S THE FUCKIN' MAN. Because my father is such a good person, rather than beat the fuck out of me until I started liking football (LIKE A MAN), he actually bought the doll for me and then I took the Teddy Ruxpin doll to school. God must've been giving half-a-shit that day, because in a gracious moment of mercy, He did not damn me to a long, sadistic day of mocking and alienation from my fellow classmates. Believe it or not, they were tripping out on the fuckin' thing.

But Creepy isn't so lucky; he gets shit on by the cool kid in his class and some Lucy from Peanuts/Harriet from Small Wonder type in his neighborhood. Even an old lady in a wheelchair is like Fuck You, Creepy, Outta My Face. They want nothing to do with him and whenever he gets too close, they either yell at him for being his creepy-ass self or punch him in his greasy face. Then he goes home and talks to his doll and writes loving messages on the bathroom mirror while his babysitter is trying to take a shower. Oh, and he also heads out to this fuckin' scary pit in the middle of the woods and talks to whatever is in there. He says they're "trolologs" or something, and every time he mentions them, a couple people in the audience would start to sing that Trololo song, and that was certainly a lot funnier than the fart sounds coming from the back corner of the theater during every film AND THEY ALWAYS GOT A LAUGH. ALWAYS. Evidently, you'll never go wrong with making haphazardly-placed fart sounds with your mouth during a film, never. I bet you that the guy responsible for those comic nuggets of gold went home content and satisfied with himself. Then he shat himself. Because I believe in happy endings.

Anyway, half of this movie would've made a good psycho-mystery about whether or not those creatures living in the pit are real, and not just a figment of his lonely, sexually-frustrated imagination -- except the filmmakers kinda give up their tell with the opening scene. I'm guessing it wasn't meant to open that way, with a scene we're gonna watch pretty much in its entirety later on anyway: Creepy shoving a bully into the pit to get promptly eaten by the Trololololololols. Oh yeah, didn't I tell you? They eat meat; at least that's what Creepy finds out after noticing how fussy they are with the chocolates he's been feeding them. Yup, homecreep eventually finds out that these creatures aren't godless vegan liberals, they love some good ol' red meat, and after trying to satisfy them with stew cuts from the local butcher shop, he's out of cash. Lucky for him, he does have a steady line of Bad People in the neighborhood, and if he can somehow get them to follow him to the woods....

This was such a weird and creepy movie, even the sense of humor is creepy. It's as if the movie was written and directed by the main character himself, like maybe he's telling his life story, and that's why we have such an askew sense of humor and a point-of-view that appears to favor the unsympathetic lead. In that way, it's very much like a Victor Salva film, only, you know, the director of this movie merely fed people to man-eating monsters, while Salva did...that other thing.

Having said that, The Pit was very entertaining; you just can't help but laugh at it all -- and the fucked up thing is that sometimes I found myself laughing with it. Also, I was very unnerved by the fact that not only did I not see the victims get eaten after falling in the pit with the Trolologs, I didn't hear them screaming either -- but you certainly heard some OM NOM NOM-ing going on. It's different from hearing people scream bloody murder as they're bloodily murdered and chomped on in other movies; perhaps the victims were in complete shock during that, and that's why they didn't make any noise. It certainly wasn't because the director didn't give a shit, he knew what he was pulling.

Later on in the film, after a particular character gets The Pit treatment, the film treats us to shock-cut inserts of jagged teeth clamping down on twitchy, bloody flesh and limbs. It's already bad enough that we're shocked by this sudden R-rated shit happening in what previously felt like a PG-rated joint -- it's even worse because it was happening to someone I certainly didn't want to see get treated like one of my daily Wendy's double combos. And to think, all of this shit could've been avoided if the fuckin' Internet was easily available back then -- Creepy would've been too busy spanking it to his Photoshopped porn, rambling in his movie blog, or chatting with like-minded creeps online to be fuckin' with some Trolologs.

The fourth film of the evening was Videodrome, directed by David Cronenberg (definitely on my list of Filmmakers Who Own The Fuck Out Of The Cinematic Arts). Man, what can I say about this film that hasn't already been said many times over! Goddamn, what a fuckin' movie. I'd like to think that the lack of asshole fart noises by the Panama Hat Group in the back corner was a sign of how much they were getting straight up Owned by this 87-minute exercise in 35mm Awesome. Or maybe they were too bored to bother and thought it sucked. Well, they're wrong -- it is they who are the sucky ones.

James Woods is too badass to play a Canadian, but whatever, there he is, playing Toronto-residing motherfucker Max Renn; he runs a small-time television station that specializes in big-time titties. I guess those Canadians are too hardcore to be fazed by the programming, so Renn's out looking for some harder-core softcore. Well, he finds it in the form of a pirated broadcast called "Videodrome" that consists of people getting whipped, beaten and killed. Soon, Renn finds himself really getting into all this staged snuff that is obviously fake -- or is it? DUN DUN DUN.

Deborah Harry plays this chick who hosts a radio show, and after appearing on a talk show with Renn, they hit it off and BAM -- she's cutting herself and putting out cigarettes on her tit in front of him. She didn't even wait until the third date to introduce that shit. She's into the rough stuff, and after watching Videodrome, she decides that she has to be on that fuckin' show. She knows what she wants, this one; if she wants to get on a television show where people get whipped to shit and strangled to death, fine. If she wants to have James Woods stick needles through her earlobes, okay. But I draw the line at her only using one side of her headphones while working the radio show -- it's a call-in show, not some fuckin' DJ turntable-spinner hour. Use both of the motherfuckers.

There's this other character named Brian O'Blivion, and I'm assuming he's kinda based on that Canuck fuck from Annie Hall who told that asshole in the movie theater to stop acting like he knows him. Because some of the stuff they talk about in Videodrome is similar to the stuff he wrote about in real life. Anyway, it's kinda cool to watch this guy (and that McLuhan motherfucker) talk all this mad shit about television being the retina to the mind's eye, like it's part of our fuckin' being. Because it's not so far off from what ended up happening in real life -- only it wasn't the television screen that we fuckin' melded with, it's computers. We're practically 24/7 hooked into our laptops, iPads, and iPhones. It's gotten to the point that we get all fucked up and discombobulated if we leave home without any of that shit. You'd think we left the house without our pants on -- no motherfucker, it's just a phone, you'll get by.

We've created avatars and new identities online ("O'Blivion was not the name I was born with...soon all of us will have special names"); and some poor bastards even find themselves pulling a total fuckin' O'Blivion by only communicating through the Interwebs -- where it really matters, as opposed to human interaction. E-mail, Twitter, Facebook. OK fine, some of them create blogs too.

The shit's Criterion status, so like I said, EVERYONE has written/spoken about this tight flick. I feel I can't add anything to this, I can't continue beating a dead horse in honor of this fuckin' awesome movie. Plus, part of the fun is in just watching this story unfold and boggle your shit up something awful while you pretty much experience the same mindfuckery that Woods' character is going through. Cronenberg's relentless and downright cruel in the way he Just Doesn't Give A Fuck about how you're taking this all in, because you're taking it, bitch -- all of it.

It would be interesting to see how you'd update this film in remake-happy Hollywood nowadays (please don't, though); VHS and Betamax would have to be replaced by...DVD and Blu-rays? Shit, those are physical mediums, even those motherfuckers are halfway out the fuckin' door in 2011. It'd be tough to go digital with Videodrome. Would it even work out without the twisted sight of a slimy, fleshy, pulsating cassette being jammed into a dude's chest vagina? Yeah, you heard me: Chest Vagina. And that shit pales in comparison to the fuckin' skin-covered bionic gun that fires CANCER BULLETS at people. Just typing those words gives me the shivers. I'd rather get shot by Wildey any fuckin' day of the week.

I take it back; Canadians are too hardcore sometimes -- Cronenberg, specifically. I guess when you live in a country where basic health care is free, you don't worry as much about how you're gonna pay for that shit. So, as a result of having nothing to worry about, you find yourself with plenty of time to entertain crazy thoughts of guns that fire bullets that create instant tumors in your body. Goddamn, Canada. Fuck you and your poutine.

Oh, and that Jamaican eye doctor is, like, one of the best movie characters ever -- and he's only in the movie for ten seconds. He's got that strange foreign-tinged way of speaking that leaves a motherfucker confused whether this guy is being laid-back & funny or straight-up passive-aggressive towards your ass.

Film number five was Alice Sweet Alice (originally titled Communion, but the Aero's print was titled Holy Terror), starring Brooke Shields, or at least that's how they've always sold it, when in reality she's only in the first 15 minutes or so. Our Brooke plays a sweet girl named Karen, and life isn't so easy for her because she has a terrible sister played by that rhythm box chick from Liquid Sky. So it's Karen's First Communion, or at least that was the idea, because instead Karen ends up getting murdered by someone in a raincoat and mask, and since Rhythm Box Chick also happens to enjoy wearing a raincoat and mask while being a douche, well, I guess that narrows it down for us, suspect-wise.

God, there are so many punchable faces in this flick -- or maybe it's not so much the faces as it's the extreme angles used when framing the faces. It's probably a little of both; I mean, they cast this painfully obese gentleman in the role of a disgusting piece-of-shit kid-toucher type. Motherfucker is plopped down on his bed or couch, eating what is either tuna or cat food from the can, and he has huge stains on the crotch of his pants. Such is his grossness, that piss stains would the best case scenario as to what's going on down there. But it's not just that, it's also the voices and whining and screaming all throughout. They don't necessarily do anything particularly annoying, they just fuckin' are -- they have the Annoying aura about them.

Which is too bad, because this is, for the most part, a well-made film (albeit a little too slow at times) with some definite Hitchcock influences in the camera work; My favorite scene takes place in an abandoned building, it's suspenseful and all that, and it ends with an inventive angle that makes me wonder if Sam Raimi ever caught this flick back in the day. The overall giallo-ish feel reminded me of something like Don't Torture A Duckling, only this distant cousin of a film would be titled Don't Act Like A Whore or something, only with way too much dumb crying by yentas and ineffectual men who might as well toss their balls into the collection plate next Sunday.

Because of shit like that, I couldn't help but laugh most of the time. Or who knows, maybe it was just the early morning hour and free M&M-induced sugar crash getting to me. Perhaps I'll give it another day in court sometime in the future, I don't know. All I know is that a scene where someone gets stabbed a bunch of times -- with scary Stabby Stab Stab music -- probably shouldn't be as hilarious as it came off here. Hey, maybe that's why the director went on to make the slasher spoof Pandemonium; some executive watched bits & pieces of this movie and figured Alfred Sole was the guy for the job, having already made a pretty funny murder joint.

As the sun began to rise, we watched our final film of this year's horrorthon: Just Before Dawn (the extended U.K. cut), directed by Jeff Lieberman, the guy behind Blue Sunshine (which I really dug) and Squirm (one of the rare MST3K'd movies that was actually pretty good). Here you have that bad Gregg Henry driving into the mountains with his bud Jack Lemmon's Son, a couple of special lady-friends, and a fifth wheel dork (the kind of guy the other ladies probably call "harmless"). Henry's character owns some land up there and they're gonna go camping, which again makes me bring up the fifth wheel guy; WHY would you go on a camping trip with two couples, and WHY would two couples want to invite a single dude? Sounds pretty sadistic, if you ask me. They just want to torture the poor guy while they get hot & heavy in front of him. Man, I thought you were his friends.

It's cool though, because in comes Chattanooga Choo Choo's own George Kennedy with his burly borderline-albino ass. He's the park ranger in these here parts, and he pretty much tells them to go back to fuckin' Starbucks -- oh wait, they didn't have Starbucks back in 1981 -- I mean, go back to fuckin' Chock Full o'Nuts and forget all about camping out here, because the wilderness is an arena for Men, not a group of high-school characters with post-collegiate haircuts. They don't listen.

See, maybe if Gregg Henry and Jack Lemmon's Son watched the first five minutes of this film, they'd understand. But they didn't, so they have no image of some poor hunter getting a machete through the dick to use as a frame of reference for what they're dealing with. And what are they dealing with? Some guy who looks like an evil, mutated version of Damon Packard's character from Reflections of Evil and acts like a crazed, inbred mountain man with a thirst for blood. Probably because he *is* a crazed, inbred mountain man with a thirst for blood.

You know, I just realized that of all the films to pick from George Kennedy's wide body of work a couple paragraphs ago, the first one that popped into my head was fuckin' Chattanooga Choo Choo. What the fuck.

Anyway, I liked this one. It's considered a slasher movie, but it felt a lot more like Deliverance or Southern Comfort to me, making this joint a solid entry in the Stay Away From The Green Ghetto sub-genre. It's got a couple of good scares mixed in with all the tense shit going on, and I liked how Brad Fiedel's score was hardly used; instead the filmmakers went with the psychological approach by having the majority of the soundtrack taken up by the sounds of nature, rather than the expected emotion-manipulating Run Run Run Kill Kill Kill music. It's been almost a week, so my memory is hazy, but I don't remember there being much blood in the entire film, with the obvious exception of the opening scene crotch-stab. I also dug how even though the characters are the usual slasher movie types -- Alpha Male, Party Guy, Easy Chick, Demure Final Girl, Nerd -- they're not as paper-thin as their labels might suggest.

You have these city kids showing up with their RV and their loud music, and one of them thinks it's all good because he has a piece of paper that says he owns the land, but that doesn't mean a goddamn thing. Ownership or not, this place ain't their backyard; they're just visitors, and they're not only dealing with Crazy Inbred Mountain Man, but with your usual nutty backwoods family as well -- I'm talking a family comprised of cousin/wives and daughter/cousins -- and they don't give a shit what that document says. Probably because they can't even read what the fuck it says. But I bet that even if they could read it, they still wouldn't give a fuck.

And so, the 6th Annual Dusk-to-Dawn Horrorthon came to a close. We got up, stretched, and stuffed our pockets with what remained of the mini-muffins and Worx Energy shots on the table in the lobby -- and by We, I mean Me, of course. Then I went home and ~~talked to my Teddy Ruxpin~~ had sex with a bunch of chicks. Yeah, that's it.

By the way, the Aero went on to re-schedule the last 3 films of the Horrorthon, along with Romero's Night of the Living Dead. Those with ticket stubs from last Saturday can return on 11/5 (that's today!) and enjoy the flicks they missed out on (or re-watch them); those who don't have stubs will only need to pony up $10 to attend the 4-movie event. Me, I'm too busy with the aforementioned ~~Teddy Ruxpin~~ chicks.

People don't say "Excuse me" anymore, they just squeeze past you and maybe just maybe, they'll give a passing glance loaded with a kingly disdain that only the truly assholish deserve to receive. And that's you: the asshole who committed the crime of being in their way and not having the decency to read their minds and curtsy the cunts.

2011-11-03T20:48:00.000-07:00

"Provisions!" said the lady with the packed knapsack, to her friends in line in front of the Aero Theater for the American Cinematheque's 6th Annual Dusk-to-Dawn Horrorthon. She wasn't the only one; as usual with these all-nighters, people came loaded for bear -- blankets, pillows, backpacks full of snacks, coolers packed with drinks -- even though the fine folks at the Aero would supply free snacks and beverages, leaving me to feel like Sgt. Elias in Platoon, wanting to tell these groups of Chris Taylors that they're humping too much stuff, but I guess it's fun to do that kind of thing, so what do I know? Absolutely nothing, dear reader, absolutely nothing.

Some arrived in costume; I spotted 3 vampires, a young couple in old couple drag (and a wheelchair), a Bride of Frankenstein, and a group of dudes in full Droog wear -- they walked in whistling "Singin' in the Rain", which amused me for the same reason I was amused watching the departing patrons of the New Beverly Cinema whistle "Singin' in the Rain" following a screening of A Clockwork Orange: they're referencing a scene in the film where A WOMAN IS RAPED AND HER HUSBAND IS FORCED TO WATCH WHILE GETTING BEATEN HALF TO DEATH. There was also a chick dressed like Richie Tenenbaum, there was a devil (or The Devil, if you're not into the whole brevity thing), and even a couple of the concession stand peeps got into the spirit of things; one guy was wearing what I want to say is that mask Max from Where the Wild Things Are had on (but I'm probably very wrong about; Totoro, maybe?), and one girl in an all-black outfit was going as a hot chick. Either that, or she was just simply a hot chick.

Inside, there was music playing on the sound system, but unlike last year's Horrorthon, it didn't make me want to jump out of a building, punching birds and windows on the way down. Instead, I remember hearing "Jump in the Line (Shake, Senora)" from that sleeping-on-live-tv motherfucker, and the theme to The Munsters television show, among others. There's eavesdropping and can't help but hear: A girl passed by me with her date; she excitedly told him "My God! We have so much in common!" and then they discussed college majors as they sat down. Then I overheard one dude telling his bud that he needed to sit on the aisle seat because he was on a low-carb diet, and that plus his heavy H20 intake guaranteed quite a few trips upstairs to R. Kelly the porcelain. I have that same problem too, but I'm not on some diet, that's for fuckin' sure. I probably just have The Beetis.

A particular group of people sat in the back corner of the auditorium, and I bet these award-winners sit there every year, because that back corner has always been the noisiest one in past Horrorthons -- the dreamers who fantasize themselves as The Second Coming Of MST3K. They gave out some warning shots before the film by starting with the Alan Alan Alan shouts. One of them was an older gentleman wearing a Panama hat and I bet he was the leader. I don't know when I became such a fuckin' no-fun-having grouch, but there you have it. I decided to do something about it though; I left my coat on my seat and went back outside to my car, where I proceeded to pack my portable vaporizer with soul-saving sativa and then placed it on my person, in case the shit just got too fun for my no-fun-having ass during the night. As I walked back, I noticed some newly-posted signs on the sidewalk near the Aero, something about Temporary No Parking on Saturday Oct. 29th from 10pm to 10am.

Mr. Grant Moninger then came down to the stage and began the evening with his usual Horrorthon routine; screaming and doing damage to his vocal cords in an effort to set the crazy mood of the event. I used to be absolutely fuckin' flabbergasted (and a wee bit scared) by Grant's extreme delivery, but now I'm more prepared for it, and plus reading this article kinda helped me get more in tune with what Mr. Grant was going for. At least I now know that his is just a performance, not a frightening cry for help. Even his rocket-speed launching of candy and movies wasn't so bad this time -- ending up with 3 bags of M&M's didn't hurt either. Also, you know, the weed.

The lights went down and we watched the latest Horrorthon intro by Mr. Damon Packard; this time it was "Galactica '80" and "The New Adventures of Wonder Woman", and as usual, the on-screen cast credits consisted of a mix of Horrorthon attendees with various other names. I might as well list the other clips, videos and shorts that were shown between features -- the ones I can remember, anyway, since I waited about five days to write about this and my memory of the evening is dissipating like so much vaped bud. Old faves from previous Horrorthons were also included, but I already wrote about those last time, so go here if you want to read about 'em:

-- 2 old Brit ladies trying out reclining chairs on some BBC show

-- A clip from the TV-movie Where Have All The People Gone, featuring James Arness' brother, Kurt Russell's wife from Breakdown, and some other dude eating the fuck out of an abandoned kitchen.

-- Clip from one of Charles Manson's parole hearings. Christ Almighty. Those guys must show up with popcorn if his rants are always this entertainingly bonkers. Anyway, fuck that Steve Railsback-looking motherfucker, watch this clip instead.

-- A clip of some movie where some chick asks this dude if he wants to stick around and watch some motherfucker in a crazy monkey mask dance some crazy tribal dance. The gentleman declines.

-- A bunch of kids in Halloween costumes singing that Mulberry Bush song, led by a kid in a dragon costume, and he's apparently a child actor in his Fat Jim Morrison phase because he's all fucked-up & confused, and the song itself is a slow, dark, drugged-out cover. Dragon Kid is obviously tripping balls, discovering new things about his inner self during this vision quest he's taking while leading his friends on this sing-along jaunt through the woods. Soon, he will Tame The Snake and Become The Dragon.

-- After what feels like five minutes of a computer-animated castle (graphics highly reminiscent of something out of Video Toaster or Amiga) intercut with those evil Wiccans, New Agers and general various Non-Christians, we finally discover that we're watching an intro to a program called Pagan Invasion and today's episode is about Halloween and how evil that fun shit is. This must've been before these guys tried beating those evil heathens at their own game with that "Trunk Or Treat" idea.

-- Creating Rem Lezar. Some blue superhero in NYC is walking with two kids he probably snatched from unsuspecting parents, and along the way one of the kids claims to have seen the Twin Towers while the other kid is like Bullshit, and somehow that leads to this.

-- A clip from a series written/directed by Grant Moninger (edited/sound designed by Damon Packard) titled Olympic Blvd.

-- Action sequence from some foreign flick; a gas station in the country is hit by a group of professional assassins, the kind of professionals who shoot everything and everyone willy-nilly, so it's hard to gauge if they are in fact, professionals. They are effective, though -- they kill EVERYONE, even the kids get it (in fact, they get it the worst, since it appears the child actors were outfitted with adult-sized blood squibs).

-- Another foreign joint. Cops catch some punk-ass rapist and his victim is there to HAHAHA his ass. Then the narrator cuts in and tells us that the rapist still went to jail despite his bigshot father's connections, and the rape victim is, like, a banker or something in New York City and I think the narrator misses the Big Apple, I don't fuckin' know. The End.

-- The first minute of an old Horrorthon favorite, the Homework Hotline show. Pay attention to the dude sitting next to the host; he's about as awkward as I am whenever I'm sober, or when I'm talking to one of the preciously few readers of this here blog (more on that later).

-- A Dog's Love. Holy shit, I thought this was an expertly-made fake joint recreating a silent film, but this is an actual silent short from 1914. Goddamn. Even back then, they were putting out some harsh flicks. The Aero only showed about a couple minutes, but trust me, I've since watched the whole thing and without a snickering crowd all pepped up on WOO! and HAHAHA!, it's kinda tough to watch, in the way that NINETY-NINE PERCENT OF DOG MOVIES ARE HARD TO WATCH. Here it is, if you dare. I'm a pussy, and I'm even more of one when you involve a dog. Thank God for that final shot. By the way, you know they probably beat the fuck outta that dog to get a performance out of him, that's how they rolled back in the 10's. And yet that dog probably got to eat great food in the Whites Only section. Ain't that a motherfucker.

-- "Dracula Live From Transylvania". George Hamilton collects a paycheck hosting a special on these bloodsucking bastards. He interviews some lady who claims to be a vampire expert and ol' Georgie's keeping his best straight-face during that bullshit, like he has been for most of his career.

-- That anti-drug all-star music video Robert Evans produced, as a way to superficially atone for getting caught smuggling Scarface-sized amounts of co-fuckin-caine while making Popeye, because Evans' spinach was that muthafuckin' yeyo. I remember in that documentary of his, Evans refers to this event as "a happening". Yeah, something's happening, all right -- sure as fuck ain't *this* shit.

Anyway, the movies!

First off was Pet Sematary, starring Time Trax, Tasha Yar, and Herman Munster. I'm sure you know what this shit's about; family moves to a new house, which is located right next to a busy road frequented by many a semi -- in other words, the perfect place to live if you have young children who tend to wander off and cats who think they can control automobiles with their minds or something. Guess how that shit works out? Oh well, at least there's that old Indian burial ground (this was made in 1989, you could still call 'em Indians back then) that brings dead motherfuckers to life. I'm sure that's gonna work out well for everybody.

But there's this recently dead dude named Pascow, and because Time Trax tried to save him (he's a doctor) while everyone else was like Fuck That Guy, Pascow figures he's gonna do this dude a solid before moving on to the next world by warning him about that bad Indian burial ground. Man, Pascow has some extra time on Earth and he's gonna spend it trying to help out a stranger? Maybe he doesn't have any higher priority peeps on his list, like family or friends, or maybe he's like Fuck Those Guys because he's an asshole. Good thing they don't know about this shit he's pulling; what wasted unconditional love, on somebody who doesn't believe in the stuff (or a helmet). Oh well.

Unfortunately for Pascow, he's dealing with a man who is now past being rational about anything because, well, because shit happens that I'm not sure I should get into, even though this is a 22-year-old film and I don't want to spoil something so recent. Haha, just kidding -- both the cat and kid get smushed by the semis. NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

No, seriously -- NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

You know, that scene kinda fucked me up as a kid when I first saw this flick; that was also the only time I had seen it. I didn't like Pet Sematary back then, and I'm sorry to say I didn't care for it last Saturday either. The NOOOOO scene, perhaps it is a strong scene, following up Time Trax's anguished scream with snapshots of the young boy he just lost but when you're in a room full of laughing audience members, well, you know, when in Rome (starring Kristen Bell)....

Even with my fellow Horrorthon-ers laughing, Pet Sematary was still a surprisingly morose & depressing experience for me (for the most part), and since the movie kinda sucks, well, that means it's not the good kind of morose & depressing. I don't know, that's how I reacted both times with this flick. People go on about how scary that whole deal with the Zelda character is, but I was more saddened by it because it made me think of real-life versions of that shit. Mary Lambert directed this; she also directed an episode of Tales from the Crypt ("Collection Completed") that also depressed the shit out of me. I know she recently directed a SyFy movie, and while I haven't seen it, I bet that shit's depressing too. But then again, her Sega CD game Double Switch was all right and I wasn't too depressed with that one. It's no Sonic CD, though, that's for goddamn sure.

The cool thing is that Herman Munster's character is fun to watch with his New England way of saying words like "road", and Tasha Yar is nice to look at in that Androgynous Cabin Boy/Girl way (she also plays tense & confused pretty well), and there's also that hilarious painting in Tasha Yar's parents' crib to look at. Occasionally, they really overdo it with the melodrama, to the point that you can't help but laugh, giggling audience or not. I mean, that scene between the grandfather and Dr. Time Trax during the kid's funeral, they pretty much did that same scene in Scary Movie 3, only that movie was a comedy and this one is a dead serious horror joint -- but they are both damn near the same in idea and execution (albeit one goes like a minute longer, but still, yo). In other words, when I wasn't too busy wallowing in a Pet Sematary funk, I was flying high on Pet Sematary's shitty goofiness. Fuck, now that I think about it, either this movie is bipolar or I am.

Stephen King wrote both the book and the screenplay, and because of that, he has no right to ever complain about Kubrick fucking up The Shining. Also, he made Maximum Overdrive so he really needs to simmer down now. But I can see what he was going for with the depressing shit, I think he wanted to do what George A. Romero did with the O.G. Night of the Living Dead; King has brought up that movie many times as something that genuinely scared the shit out of him, in particular the scene where the girl does that thing to that character (trying not to spoil a 42-year-old movie for you). I think he was going for that here, with the little boy and fat English cat dying and Tasha Yar's sister getting all fucked up with spinal meningitis, maybe that was supposed to make the audience go all Oh Shit He Went There or something, I don't know, I'm tired. In any case, this movie deserves to have its Achilles tendon slashed open and its throat adorably chomped by a zombie toddler, because it's not that scary and not that entertaining, but I'm obviously the asshole in this equation because the fuckin' thing was a hit at the box office.

The second film was Tourist Trap, and unlike Pet Sematary, this movie was pretty fuckin' tight. That bad muthafuckin' rifleman, Chuck Connors, plays this lonely dude out in the country slash desert, living in his out-of-business museum (nobody comes by these parts anymore, on account of that new highway detouring potential customers). But here comes a group of teens or college students -- whatever they are, it's one dude and three chicks and you Just Fucking Know the guy has at least had 14 passing thoughts of becoming the Mack with these honeys in, like, the past 5 minutes. Anyway, they're on the kind of road trip that these future body-bagees usually take in these flicks, and they have a flat tire. One of their friends has already gone out to find a garage or something, but he hasn't come back yet, so now they're here, looking for this asshole.

Well, they found Chuck Connors instead, checking out the three lovelies swimming in one of them there waterin' holes they have in these country/deserts, carrying his huge phallic-symbol of a shotgun. Like his 6'6 stature wasn't enough. They're understandably creeped out a tad by him, but he appears to mean well, and he's invited them to his little museum, so why not?

I'll tell you why not; way-too-lifelike animatronic dolls, like the kind they have at Disneyland, all over the place. Yeah, it's one of those joints -- and that, coupled with Connors' being way too friendly and helping (and being Chuck Connors), you can pretty much guess this is going somewhere that these characters don't wanna go, but we in the audience wanna see. Specifically, a house located next door to the museum that Connors is very clear about them staying away from; that's because there's a scary dude in a freaky mannequin mask living there. Because it's a scary dude in a freaky mannequin mask, and because this is a movie, you know his deal isn't that he's freakishly private or something (besides, that's my deal), there's something else going on, and it ain't good.

Chuck Connors is great in this, he's Chuck-o-riffic, he really brought some Connors to the table. When I was a kid, I only knew him as the dude from Soylent Green and as the guy Bob Costas had a hetero crush on. But then I caught The Muthafuckin' Rifleman reruns on KDOC-TV a couple years later, and while I still didn't want to be his boyfriend, like fuckin' Costas over here, I gladly had another person to add to my badass file. I'm sure Mr. Connors would've been elated to hear that news, that some little kid added him to a non-existent file that the "writer" of a blog 20 years in the future would make up for a paragraph that had no point, let alone a punchline. But hey, you know what other show Connors was in? Fuckin' Branded. I didn't even know until recently that fuckin' Larry Cohen created that show. Larry Cohen! And Sam Peckinpah created The Rifleman! Back to the movie!

The other cool part of his performance is that on occasion, I swear, he morphs into latter-day Rutger Hauer in both looks and mannerisms. It's uncanny. The chicks are great too, but to be honest, I really wasn't paying attention to what the fuck they were saying, I was just checking them out. It was just BLAHBLAHBLAHWAHWAHWAH coming out of nice lips. Whenever all three stood together in the same shot, I felt like I was at Rekall, picking out my preferred type of woman for my memory implant; Slim, athletic, voluptuous? Demure, aggressive, sleazy? (Be honest.) Tanya Roberts is one of the girls and this is the first time I've seen her with dark hair, and she rocks that look just as well as her blonde look. I don't know who the other two chicks are but they wear the uniform representing their character types very well. The guy with them? He's a douche, exposing his flabby arms like that's gonna get him all the 70's pussy or something. It's almost as bad as Vernon Wells' showing-off-my-lack-of-definition outfit in Commando.

Pino Donaggio composed the score, and it reminded me of his work on the DePalma joints; I know I've heard those breathy female vocals before in at least one of those movies, or at least it felt that way while watching it. David Schmoeller directed this, and based on his other flicks, this is easily his best. But I'm not grading-on-a-curve, this movie is Good Times all the way.. The whole mannequin deal is creepy, making Tourist Trap something like a preemptive antithesis on Mannequin with Kim Cattrall. Hear me out; the latter's gonna leave lonely losers lusting after those dolls in real life, praying to whatever god they pray to in hopes that somehow that fake chick's gonna turn into a real chick. (I'm not speaking for myself, obviously. No way. No way Jose.) But Tourist Trap is gonna leave people kind of wary of those fuckin' things, next time they find themselves at a Macy's or something.

The killer in this particular horror flick is a trip, man. He speaks in one of those old fashioned Evil voices and wears that fucked up mask, while delighting in the harsh shit he does to his victims; my favorite scene involves him slowly plastering up this poor girl, and he's describing to her how she's going to die, the stages and everything (he's obviously done this enough to know). He tells her how the plaster will feel like it's burning her face; that means it's hardening up. Then he says that she won't be able to breathe, but it won't be the suffocation that'll kill her, it's the fear-induced heart explosion that will end her. Tensed me up something awful, that scene. By the way, my band Fear-Induced Heart Explosion is playing the Arby's on Sunset next Sunday night. (Free with a two Beef & Cheddar minimum.)

I'm gonna say this (write, actually) right now: Tourist Trap is a PG-rated slasher flick with no actual slashing and a minimal body count (for a joint like this, at least). And yet, I'd sooner watch this movie than the unrated cut of Friday the 13th (the real one, not that Marcus Nispel bullshit) again. It's creepy, tense, and never boring -- which I hate to admit all the F13 flicks suffer from at one point or another. Also, PG titties.

Directly following the film, either Grant or another volunteer (can't remember) came out and told us that based on a miscommunication from The City of Santa Monica, and Southern California Edison to the Aero Theater -- that was what the Temporary No Parking Signs were about -- it looks like the Horrorthon would be cut short after only two films, because what these SoCal Edison guys have to do involves shutting down all the power in the immediate area, including the Aero. For the rest of the night. This would be a good place to stop.

Click here for the second half of this stupid, badly-written waste-of-time.

Movie Tally 2011: 10/1 - 10/31

2011-11-01T19:31:00.000-07:00

234. BEYOND THE DOOR - 10/1/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
235. CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON 3D - 10/1/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
236. HELL NIGHT - 10/1/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
237. BRAIN DAMAGE (R-rated cut) - 10/2/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema
238. THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM ('91) - 10/2/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
239. HORROR PLANET (aka Inseminoid) - 10/2/11 - Theater/New Beverly Cinema (re-see)
240. BASEKETBALL - 10/3/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
241. VIGILANTE FORCE - 10/6/11 - Netflix Instant
242. IL BOSS (aka Wipeout!) - 10/9/11 - Netflix Instant
243. RULERS OF THE CITY (aka Mister Scarface) - 10/9/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
244. UNKNOWN ('11) - 10/9/11 - DVD
245. ARIA ('87) - 10/13/11 - Netflix Instant
246. 2 DAYS IN THE VALLEY - 10/15/11 - DVD (re-see)
247. STAKEOUT - 10/16/11 - DVR (re-see)
248. THE STAR CHAMBER - 10/18/11 - DVD
249. HOUSE ON THE EDGE OF THE PARK - 10/20/11 - DVD
250. FAST FIVE (extended cut) - 10/21/11 - Blu-ray (re-see)
251. RED STATE - 10/26/11 - Netflix Instant
252. BLUE STATE - 10/26/11 - DVD
253. DEMON SEED - 10/27/11 - DVD
254. PET SEMATARY - 10/29/11 - Theater/Aero (re-see)
255. TOURIST TRAP - 10/29/11 - Theater/Aero
256. THE PIT - 10/30/11 - Theater/Aero
257. VIDEODROME - 10/30/11 - Theater/Aero (re-see)
258. ALICE, SWEET ALICE (aka Communion/Holy Terror) - 10/30/11 - Theater/Aero
259. JUST BEFORE DAWN (U.K. cut)- 10/30/11 - Theater/Aero
260. HALLOWEEN - 10/31/11 - DVD (re-see)

October 2011 figures:

12 theater
0   drive-in
7   DVD
1 DVR/TV
1   Blu-ray
6 Netflix Instant Streaming
0   VHS
0   Other

16 new
11 re-see

27 viewings total for October 2011

Year to date: 260 movies

It's like doing extra credit homework for a teacher who didn't ask for it, but if it makes you feel better, fine, go ahead

2011-10-04T22:21:00.000-07:00

At first, it was looking kinda iffy whether or not there was going to be another one of these deals; I'm talking about the all-night horror movie marathon held every October at the coated-with-awesome New Beverly Cinema for the past three years; the fruits of the laborious Mr. Phil Blankenship, who is no longer with the New Beverly. Because of this, there was a very good chance there wouldn't be another all-nighter. But according to Brian J. Quinn, he of the Grindhouse Film Festival, one particular New Bev'r championed the idea of continuing this shindig, and of course, I can't remember the name of the guy, but he was serving popcorn for most of the night and not looking particularly happy about it -- and neither would you, if you had the long line of munchies-seeking cinephiles who wanted their layered-butter popcorn and wanted it NOW. But hey, them's the breaks, kid -- and besides, I need my butter in the middle and top of the popcorn, unbuttered popcorn's for squids.

So it came down at the last minute; Quinn and company took the reins and went to work booking flicks for the all-nighter. Then Saturday night came, and there they were, and there I was, at the New Beverly Cinema for the 4th annual All Night Horror Show (which everyone still insists on calling Horrorthon, probably because Twitter only gives you 140 characters). As usual, many showed up with pillows & blankets, ensuring them hours of movie-missing sleep, and if that doesn't work, the cooler full of Beck's beer would surely do the job (those guys were gone by movie #4).

Quinn hosted the evening, and he gave props to Mr. Blankenship and Stressed Popcorn Guy Who's Name I Forgot. He also told us about how the trailers were provided by yet another person whose name I can't remember and Quentin Tarantino. He asked that we silence our cell phones and try to refrain from sharing our various bodily functions and odors with the rest of the audience. He then talked about how all the movies we were going to watch were picked because they were Good Times in different respects and that we shouldn't get into MST3k mode and act all superior to them from the very first frame and to that I say A-Fuckin-Men, brother. Not every movie has to be viewed through Everything Is Terrible! lenses, man, you gotta give 'em a chance.

After the trailer reel, the first film of the evening began; Beyond the Door, about some sweaty hobo in a suit (it's the scraggly beard and oily hair that leads me to that judgment) who kept some chick from giving birth in a room full of candles, and I guess that pissed off the narrator who also happens to be Satan, but to make things worse, Satan is some piece-of-shit Ashton Kutcher type who takes pleasure in punking Hobo In A Suit by making him and his car take a flying leap off a fuckin' cliff and then freeze-framing the motherfucker in mid-air, like I Own You Bitch. Also, a woman gets possessed.

Yeah man, Hayley Mills' sister gets possessed by the same punk-ass Satan that is punking Hobo's punk-ass. Because she lives in such a fucked-up little household, it takes a while for the family to notice something is up; the daughter is obsessed with the novelization of Love Story, carrying fuckin' bags and suitcases filled with them and she also swears a lot, like me (I was a sailor once). The young son, he's all right; he's cute but it looks like he's addicted to Campbell's Green Pea soup because he's got cans of it everywhere, he even sips that shit through a straw. As for the dad, he's kind of a dim motherfucker with an Arkansas-garage-worker mustache who is totally disrespectful to his kids, calling them "idiot" and leaving them alone in the apartment with a Devil-possessed woman even though Hobo Without A Shotgun just fuckin' told him not to.

Here's a flick filled with scenes involving Moms spewing out various chunky/viscous liquids from her mouth, doing 360's with her head, and having her face end up looking more and more possessed-looking -- and yet the most disturbing moment involved her giving her son a way-too-long kiss on the mouth. Jesus Christ, woman; if you're gonna go Full Predator and rob the cradle, at least pick a cradle outside your own house.

This was my first time watching the flick and I dug it. It's got that weird, dreamy style to it that some of the better Italian ripoffs feature (in addition to the usual staples of porno-ish music and WTF moments); it's like the director knew that just because he was making an Exorcist ripoff, doesn't mean he has to go through the motions, so why not have some fun with it? He uses freeze frames, repeated loops of certain moments, and then there's that unnerving deal where the soundtrack drops the background ambience and all you can hear is the characters' near-whispering their dialogue with what I swear sounded like a slight echo-y effect to it. Anyway, this flick is like Skynet in that it's self-aware; like that whole deal with the green pea soup cans, that's both genuine eye-tie weirdness AND a wink to the audience, acknowledging the inspiration for this joint. Also, on occasion there are these weird bronchial fart-noises that I assume is the Devil breathing, and that's scary, because I don't even know what the fuck a bronchial fart is.

A raffle was held afterwards and a couple lucky ducks wound up taking home VHS tapes from Johnny Ramone's personal collection, then we watched Bugs Bunny own that furry monster, then we watched one of these fake-ass interviews between this chick named Dorothy and Bela Muthafuckin' Lugosi; it takes place in his backyard and this was back when you can fool a person into thinking that this interview was done all in one real-time take, even though there are cuts and various setups involved. I don't know how much of Lugosi's stuff was scripted, or if his answers were actually off-the-cuff, but he comes off like a pretty decent dude.

Keep in mind that he was flying high off his success from Dracula -- he hadn't reached his Ed Wood nadir yet -- so maybe that's why he seems rather pleasant and charming here. He talks about becoming an American, and keeping up with modern slang -- "the cat's whiskers" was a new one to me -- and how he rarely attends Hollywood parties, leaving more booze for F. Scott Fitzgerald and Nathanael West as a result, I bet. He's got this awesome mix of Distant and Interest towards his female interviewer, and I bet you that was his game, and this stud probably got his share of flapper tang back in his day as a result of said game. Or maybe not, because it ends with him scaring the shit of poor Dorothy, and what does he do as a result of her running away all Keystone Kops/Benny Hill-style from him? He laughs. Bela Lugosi rules.

We then put on our 3D glasses for the second film of the evening, Creature from the Black Lagoon, about a creature from the black lagoon that goes around killing South Americans in the Amazon, so it's not like anyone gives a shit, but once he gets the hots for a White chick, it's fuckin' on, because it's 1954 and you're sure as shit not getting away with interspecies dating, let alone interracial. Do you see this, Creature? It means Not Welcome!

The main dude is named David and he's like a marine biologist or something; his raza friend Dr. Maia shows up with a Black Lagoon Creature fossil, the sight of which causes David to get a Major Discovery Hard-on, so he, Dr. Raza, David's hot White girl, and the douchebag money-man financing this endeavor are off to the Amazon in search of ways to get themselves killed in the name of Science.

I'm looking at David's chick Kay and thinking Wow, what a dish! I mean, she's very pretty and her body is very nice to look at, because it's obvious that she eats real food -- in moderation, of course -- but I'm sure she'll occasionally splurge on an extra helping or a dessert, because we only live once, right? Good for her, I say. Actresses today, they gotta look like they dig on the heroin, leaving impressionable girls with little-to-no self-esteem to starve themselves because they think they're fat. Man, I want to know who to blame: Hollywood? The media? Us? I don't know, but whoever it is, they're getting a punch in the fuckin' throat when I find the fuck out.

So yeah, this Creature; I guess back in the day, the sight of this scaly motherfucker was browning many an audience member's seat, but now it's different. Now we look at it and go Oh How Quaint. Maybe back then, this guy was considered an evil murderous monster, but 2011 Me watches this and feels bad for the dude. He's just living his life in the Amazon, and I don't think he's a man-eater, he probably munches on the occasional piranha or two -- good, they deserve it, the jerks -- and he's lonely out there, real lonely. He can be shy too, only popping his hand out of the water very slowly every once in a while, before letting his reticent nature win over and down goes his hand, back into the murky deep.

Sure, every once in a while some native passes by, but those are usually dudes and he's not down with that kind of loving -- it's Creature & Eve, not Creature & Steve. But then here comes this hot White girl with a Black girl's ass, merrily swimming in those savage waters, and I bet you the Creature probably didn't even know he had genitals until they started taking over his brains at that moment. And like most men, the possibility of pussy made the guy lose anything resembling Rational Thought and now it's Killing Time -- and why not, I mean, all those other dudes are potential competition, so off he goes to take them out, as the shutter falls, and we see it all in 3D.

I caught this flick before at the Nuart and thought it was cool; my opinion remained the same during this viewing. The 3D was nice, nicer than you'd expect from a film from that period; I've seen shittier 3D in today's movies. It was pretty impressive; the Creature looks like he's coming out of the screen, it looks like the diver is pointing his spear gun at us, and the audience members look like they're blocking our view as they keep going back and forth between their seats and the lobby. The only problem I had with this overall fun time at the movies is that the pacing is also very 1950's, but I guess back then people were fine with what felt like endless swimming footage, because it's in three dimensions, daddy-o! This and Anaconda would make a pretty cool double-bill. Either that or digitally insert Jon Voight into this flick.

The third film of the evening was Hell Night, starring Linda Blair and one of the Van Pattens, the one who isn't an Emmy-award winning television director or the father from Eight Is Enough. This slasher joint's about your average 80's-era drunk college students, and a group of them have to go into this old abandoned mansion and stay the night in order to get into one of those fraternities/sororities. Of course, this isn't just some regular mansion, there had to have been something fucked up that happened there, and sure enough, the owner was some guy with the worst sperm in the world who eventually snapped and retroactively aborted his four Special Needs children, before doing the same to this wife and himself. Supposedly, no one's been inside the estate ever since, which I guess would explain the hundreds of lit candles all around the house.

It's two chicks and two dudes; one couple is likable (she's a decent girl who worked as a mechanic in father's garage all through high school; he's only pledging this fraternity because of his father) and the other couple represents everything about your standard 80's teen dead meat (she's easy and carries booze & drugs on her person; he's a happy-go-lucky surfer who's probably this dude's uncle). Meanwhile, the main frat asshole and his asshole friends have set up various pranky douchebaggeries like speakers and projectors all around the estate in order to scare the shit out of the pledges. Ah, but what they don't know is that there is Something Out There, and sure enough, heads are getting chopped or 180'd, and various stabbing weapons are being used to weapon stab through much alcohol-pickled flesh.

I guess I can call this a re-see; back in the good ol' days, my sister and cousin (two separate people) brought this movie home on VHS, so I remember vague glimpses and flashes of moments from this movie, but I might as well have been watching this for the first time at the New Bev. Anyway, this was one of the better 80's slasher films, with some creepy moments that I'd rather not spoil, but fuck it, I'll let one go: there's a scene where British Druggy Whore is in bed, sleeping the sleep of the heavily Quaalude'd, and the camera slowly approaches her, closer and closer until her body almost fills the frame -- suddenly, the movie cuts to a wide shot of the bedroom, revealing the fuckin' killer standing right over her. That was pretty tight, yo.

The first half was better than the second half, because it was tighter (there are some scenes involving characters walking through the dark estate that crosses the line from Deliberately Paced to All Right Already, Get To The Fuckin' Point) and because the characters start pulling stupid Because It Was Written That Way In The Script bullshit during the second half. There's a scene in a police station that was just frustrating the fuck out of me, and not in a good way; I wasn't buying anything that was happening there, and while I get the idea of The Horror Of Nobody Helping You, I wasn't buying the way that shit was being presented. That shit felt too fuckin' convenient, which might have worked in the writer's next produced screenplay, muthafuckin' Tango & Cash, but not with this joint.

Mr. Quinn had mentioned how the fourth film -- the secret film -- was a secret because even he didn't know what movie he was going to get. The last minute planning of this caper led to him requesting various prints of movies and hoping that they were available on such short notice, and this one didn't come through until about two or three days before the event. Nevertheless, it was a film he dug and it had a minor theatrical release at the time: Frank Henenlotter's Brain Damage.

Some dude named Brian (ah, you clever Henenlotter, you) wakes up one night in his apartment and finds blood on his bedsheets. Unfortunately for him, the blood didn't come from a severed horse head but from his own body. Turns out this freaky penile creature named Aylmer has chosen Brian as his new host, but Aylmer's not a total leech, he's gonna hook up our boy with some sweet, sweet blue juice that causes the recipient to take a ride on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies. Yup, it's the greatest drug ever -- and the only cost for further trips down Euphoria Lane is human brains for Aylmer to eat. It's always something, isn't it?

At first, Brian is too fuckin' lifted to notice that during his nightly trip-out sessions on the streets of New York, Aylmer's attacking people and burrowing into their heads to eat their brains (and gain their knowledge?) -- although in one case, a poor hooker-type (it's never confirmed, but to quote Dave Chappelle, she's definitely wearing the uniform) gets hers sucked out while she's trying to suck off Brian. Now, the print we watched was the cut R-rated version, so for those who watched it with me that night at the New Bev, this is what we missed out on from the director's cut (It's totally NSFW; also, I was amused by the related videos, not to mention occupied with them afterwards):

Keep in mind that I haven't seen Henenlotter's latest, Bad Biology, when I say this: Brain Damage is his fuckin' masterpiece. Yeah, I said that shit. As much as I dug his first film Basket Case, I think this one is even better. Sure, there's a slight deja-vu'ish feel to the proceedings -- both are about young men and the murderous creatures they carry with them, and how that shit is fucking up their lives -- but you know, Toy Story 2 and Toy Story 3 are damn near the same fuckin' movie and that didn't keep the latter from straight-up owning the already damn-good former. So there.

But yeah, man, this flick is pretty awesome in that it's both gleefully nasty/trashy exploitation and About Something, kinda like old-school Romero; this is really a story about a man throwing his life away on drugs, because the results are the same: he misses out on work, alienates his loved ones, commits serious crime -- all in the name of getting another hit from his supplier. Except the drug isn't heroin or crack being pushed by Superfly, it's some Windex-looking shit that you inject through back of your neck and the supplier is a talking slimy phallus.

There's a great shot where Brian runs off to a back alley for some Aylmer Juice-taking privacy, and in the foreground, there's a homeless dude with a bottle of booze -- and the part that kills me is that Homeless Dude is crying, in between taking swigs of alcohol, like he knows he's in a world of shit and the bottle was probably what led him there, but goddammit, he needs it: the fuckin' bottle owns him. So in effect, you have Brian in the background, representing the beginning stages of addiction, and then you have the homeless guy in the foreground representing the final stage of addiction -- total absolute physical/emotional dependency.

This flick is like a Henenlotter best-of; gross-out gags, gore, comedy, drama, way-too-real seedy New York locations. But it also has a couple things that represent some of his not-so-best qualities, like wide-eyed motherfuckers screaming in only the worst, most shrill manner possible; the first five minutes or so were very tough to take, since they feature some old lady screaming and screaming and screaming in that horrific combo of anguish & annoying (if I only knew what was in store for me in about another couple of hours). So I'd probably watch the first five minutes on Mute, next time. Otherwise, damn good flick.

Our fifth flick was another joint that didn't get much theatrical play, aside from film festivals, but I think that was because this was mostly likely always intended for Straight-to-Video (the way-too-cropped top and bottom of the image in this print was a giveaway), since it's a Full Moon production: The Pit and the Pendulum, directed by Stuart Gordon, he of the angry face and friendly attitude. I believe this was producer Charles Band's personal print, but I could be mistaken.

Yeah, it's another adaptation of that underage-cousin-loving emo's short story, taking place in Spain during the Inquisition, only here it's obvious that everybody was expecting that shit, on account of these robed assholes being here for a while already. Man, it sucks to live in 1492 Spain, because Torquemada and his boys are in full effect, jacking up everybody they think is not down with the Pope; they're climbing in your windows, they're snatching your people up, trying to torture them, so ya'll need to hide your kids, hide your wife, and hide your husband -- because they're torturing everybody out here. It's not as hilarious as when Mel Brooks was doing that shit, and if you're too sensitive to watch yet another witch-burning, kid-whipping auto-da-fe in the public square, you get accused of being in league with the Dark Arts.

There's this chick Maria, she kinda resembles a Spanish Jessica Harper, and she's just trying to make some bread by selling bread with her husband. But once she steps in to stop some poor kid from getting whipped (apparently, he's being punished for crying at the sight of his mother being strangled to death, what a pussy), that's it, man; her beauty causes Torquemada to get all stiff under his robes, and because he has no game, he does the next best thing -- he accuses her of being a witch and has her arrested. Then the fun really begins.

Torquemada is played by national treasure Lance Henriksen, and goddamn, if there was such a thing as a Straight-to-Video acting category in the Oscars, then this motherfucker would've won in 1991 for his performance in this movie. He is that fucking good here. He's always working, but I wish Hollywood would hook him up with more big-budget work, because he's surely got the goods and they deserve to be flaunted to a wider audience. At first, his Torquemada comes off like he's totally hardcore about his beliefs, but once he sees this chick, goddamn. He figures it's nothing a little flogging from one of his boys can't fix, and perhaps that will beat the horniness out of him -- but the cock wants what the cock wants, I guess, and slowly he starts to lose his shit over her.

I liked how most of his crew only appear to be as true to the cause and are really just hypocrites enjoying the ability to torture-porn people with impunity; two of them are played by Gordon players Jeffrey Combs and Tom Towles, and right there you have both sides of the spectrum -- Combs is totally by the book about stuff, and while he's all for torture, that's just because that's what the rules say to do; Towles, on the other hand, is totally getting off on the perks of the job, such as being able to inspect every inch of a hot chick's naked body for Devil marks. There's also this asshole fat dude who would be completely hateable if he wasn't so goddamn hilarious at times.

Pretty much everyone here is tops in the acting department -- the guy from Dinner Rush and Scarface who's also in all of Darren Aronofsky's joints; Happy Gilmore's grandmother; the guy who plays Latin Jessica Harper's husband; Stuart Gordon's wife (once again dying a violent death); and my man, muthafuckin' Oliver Reed, playing a cardinal from Rome who talk-a like-a dis, like-a he's-a fuckin-a Mario from-a da video game. It's a real stretch for him, playing a guy who drinks a lot (sure enough, it's Amontillado he's quaffing on).

I rented this on VHS back when I was 13 years old, because it's not like my parents knew what the fuck I was renting with my allowance money, and I sure as fuck wasn't gonna watch in front of them, but aside from Absolute Nakedness, I didn't get much out of this flick at the time. But upon second viewing, old-ass Me thinks this flick was pretty goddamn awesome. It's just so tense and involving; you boo-hiss the villains, cheer the hero, and beat off to the damsel-in-distress -- Good Times, in other words. There's also a lot of humor that I missed out on the first time, because you know, I was 13 and just wanted to see tits and blood. Since then, I've matured and now expect much more from my cinema viewings -- tits, blood, AND humor.

The last film of the evening (well, morning at this point), was a British joint called Horror Planet -- although a better title for it would be Dumb Motherfuckers Planet, because Jesus Tapdancing Christ, these are the dumbest motherfuckers in the world, dumber than me, even. In fact, I think that's why they're on another planet -- they were too fuckin' stupid to live on Earth, so they got their asses kicked out of this planet and were told to go colonize another one and don't even think of writing back. This was originally titled Inseminoid, but that really just refers to one part of the movie -- a movie that is comprised of individuals succeeding in accomplishing clusterfuck after clusterfuck after clusterfuck.

Officially, they're on this strange planet to do the archeological dig thing, and they can't even fuckin' do that right; one poor woman gets her foot caught through an open floor panel of the airlock entrance while out in the deadly-freezing caves, and because her spacesuit is fucking up and she's only got limited time before freezing to death, she's told by one of the guys inside the base that she must perform some quick wire-patching shit to fix the fuckin' heater or defroster or whatever the fuck was gonna keep her alive. So what does she do? She ignores homeboy, takes her helmet off, exposing her face to the Killer Wind Chill, shoves an oxygen tube in her mouth, and takes what looks like Ramon the gardener's hedge trimmers and slowly slices through her leg like it was Thanksgiving up in this bitch. When her homies finally get to her, they find her dead with an embarrassed look on her frozen face -- as she should be.

Then this other broad ends up getting raped by an alien -- what the fuck is it with these sci-fi movies that involve women getting fucked by monsters, man?! -- which is represented as a hallucination in what appears to be the same set from the opening of Beyond the Door (minus the candles), where she finds the team's doctor making some weird English pervy face as he injects her with his syringe, making me think that's why he became a doctor, to prick all the chicks with his phallic symbol. Then some big clear tube is shoved into her Christmas pudding and what appears to be tennis balls floating in Campbell's Green Pea soup is shot up in there. At that point, I wondered whether I should go to Norms or IHOP for breakfast after the show.

This results in our girl acting all wacky and doing goofball things like slicing up Steve Martin's ex-wife Jack the Ripper-style, because she's a hater, I guess. Maybe she's doing this because now she's down with the aliens -- because once you go xenomorph, you never go back. So our girl goes around, killing her former co-workers by stabbing 'em, slicing 'em, burning 'em -- then she'll rip open their innards and eat them because one good turn deserves another, I don't know. But I don't feel bad for any of the victims, because they're stupid, unlikable, and stupid. I know I used "stupid" twice, but I can't stress that shit enough.

Actually, death is a relief for these dumb assholes because it means they no longer have to hear Crazy Brit Chick scream anymore. Yeah man, didn't I tell you? She loves to scream. Absolutely lives for it. She screams for everything -- she screams when she's in pain, she screams when she's angry, she screams when she's losing, she screams when she's winning. Scream scream scream. The only thing I got from all that screaming -- aside from the urge to jump through the screen Last Action Hero/Purple Rose of Cairo-style and strangle her -- was a good look at her chompers, and based on all the fillings in her teeth, perhaps it's a good thing that she's chowing down on human meat, because she's certainly had enough sugar in her life, evidently.

What we have here is some symbolic/metaphor/whatever shit going on here; this chick got knocked up and now everybody has to pay. Everybody has to put up with her mood swings; one moment she's begging you to help her because she's in so much pain, and the next she's gleefully (and literally) tearing you a new one. Eventually she cannons those alien kids from her cooch -- yay, more screaming! -- and the terror doesn't stop because the dummy in charge of all the other dummies on this planet, Mark, also happens to be her man. And I guess the sight of her man hanging out with the two surviving dummy chicks makes this new mother feel all unattractive and unwanted, so now Jealousy has entered the picture. The last third of the film consists of her doing more of her Stalking Killer thing while constantly screaming MAAAAAAARRRRRRK! like the worst housewife in the world. Over and over and over she's screaming that shit.

I caught Horror Planet (aka Inseminoid) last year on Netflix Instant and didn't think much of it then, but the masochist in me decided to give it another day in court. Besides, the Netflix version was pan & scan and this was a nice-looking print on the big screen. By the way, the ending is longer on the Netflix version; there's an extra scene of some dudes showing up on the planet a few months later -- it was cut out of the theatrical print, yet whoever was in charge of that didn't bother cutting the dudes out of the end credits montage, leaving quite a few in the audience confused, like Who the fuck are the new guys? It's a lightning-paced film that is never boring, but goddamn, that screaming really puts a damper on the whole experience. Which is too bad, because the character of Crazy Brit Chick is otherwise lots of fun to watch; I loved how she'll suddenly make evil faces and wide-eyed expressions whenever going into Exterminate Mode, but I cannot stress it enough how those whiny-screams made that shit unbearable. Horror Planet, Inseminoid, Dumb Motherfuckers Planet -- whatever, it all sounded like Marriage to me.

So the film ended, Mr. Quinn thanked the remaining All Nighters, and off we went. In the end, I decided on Norms. Fin.

Check out Cathie's blog about the event. She says more with less, unlike me, who deserves to be visited by Crazy Brit Chick in his sleep.

Movie Tally 2011: 9/1 - 9/30

2011-10-01T12:09:00.000-07:00

213. DIARY OF A WIMPY KID: RODRICK RULES - 9/3/11 - Blu-ray
214. X-MEN: FIRST CLASS - 9/3/11 - Blu-ray
215. ELVIRA, MISTRESS OF THE DARK - 9/6/11 - Netflix Instant
216. THE LIFE OF REILLY - 9/6/11 - Netflix Instant
217. NIGHT OF THE COMET - 9/7/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
218. RISING SUN - 9/8/11 - Netflix Instant
219. RAIN MAN - 9/8/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
220. EAT PRAY LOVE (director's cut) - 9/9/11 - DVD
221. DEADLY INTENT - 9/10/11 - Netflix Instant
222. BEETHOVEN - 9/10/11 - DVD (re-see)
223. DRIVE ('97; director's cut) - 9/15/11 - DVD (re-see)
224. BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY - 9/18/11 - DVD
225. THEY CAME TO ROB LAS VEGAS - 9/18/11 - DVD
226. CONTAGION - 9/18/11 - Theater/IMAX
227. THE LION KING - 9/19/11 - Theater
228. DRIVE ('11) - 9/21/11 - Theater
229. ROCKY - 9/22/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema (re-see)
230. THE BOYS IN THE BAND - 9/25/11 - DVD
231. CRUISING - 9/25/11 - Netflix Instant
232. WALL STREET: MONEY NEVER SLEEPS - 9/28/11 - Other/Cardio Cinema (re-see)
233. FAST FIVE - 9/30/11 - Theater/IMAX (re-see)

September 2011 figures:
4 theater
0 drive-in
6 DVD
0 DVR/TV
2 Blu-ray
7 Netflix Instant Streaming
0 VHS
2 Other

14 new
7 re-see

21 viewings total for September 2011

Year to date: 233 movies

Ssssssssssssssssss

2011-09-26T16:52:00.000-07:00

So I completely forgot that Don't Ask Don't Tell ended recently, and it was kinda funny (funny ha-ha, not funny queer) that I received The Boys in the Band from ~~Netflix~~ Qwikster in the mail on the same day. By the way, I'm cool with the total buggering that ~~Qwikster~~ Netflix is giving my physical brothers, as long as this means that I will be able to stream those films eventually -- and I mean eventually Now, not eventually Five Years From Now. Anyway, I decided to make it a Gay/William Friedkin double-feature by following it up with Cruising.

This flick is from 1970 and it's an adaptation of an off-Broadway play by Mart Crowley and it's directed by the hardass General of ruthless badass motherfuckers in the cinematic arts, Mr. William "I hate fuckin' Mexican marimba music" Friedkin. I mean, at least that was his deal during his heyday, back in the 70's -- when this guy (according to Jewfro's book, at least) was foaming at the mouth while terrorizing his actors and firing crew members every few minutes, like he was injected with the Chinese Shit from Crank and in order to keep himself alive, he had to be a colossal prick to everyone else on that set who wasn't named William Muthafuckin' Friedkin.

This movie is about a group of gay dudes in New York, and we're introduced to them during an energetic hustle-bustle montage set to Harpers Bizarre's cover of Cole Porter's "Anything Goes", because you know how those gays are with their showtunes. The song features lyrics along the lines of "The world's gone mad today/Good's bad today/Black's white today/Day's night today" and it can all be taken like some fuckin' hetero bitching to his wife about how we have all these homos loving up on one another nowadays -- and blacks can sit in the front of the bus! can you believe that? -- or, since the singers of the song sound slightly sissy themselves, the use of the tune can be interpreted as the film kinda telling us "Yeah, man -- they're into guys. But we're getting into the homestretch of the 20th century, times are changing, and if you can't handle it, then tough titty". Or in other words: We're here. We're queer. Get used to it.

I think right off the bat, Friedkin wanted to let the audience know that while this is a filmed adaptation of a play, this shit ain't no "filmed play"; homeboy's combining French Connection-like handheld camerawork with slick dolly moves and quick cuts. During the opening sequence, we see our main dude Michael and he's busy getting shit ready for a birthday party he's going to throw for his bro-mo Harold. We also see this dude Donald driving his fast penis of a car through the cavernous anal opening that is the Holland Tunnel, we see this guy Larry taking model photographs of Maud Adams, we see Larry's lover Hank playing basketball (played by Sybok from Star Trek V), we see queeny-queen Emory closing up at the antique shop he works at (that sound you hear is me going into total shock at the idea of a gay guy working at an antique shop), and then there's Bernard, working at a bookstore and since this is the late 60's, he's wearing a suit to work.

So we watch these dudes have their fun at the party, they're being bitchy at each other while waiting for the chronically tardy Harold, having some laughs and drinks, and dancing to Martha and the Vandellas' "Heatwave" ("Remember that dance we used to do at Fire Island?" one of them asks, reminding me of the time that I once confused Fire Island with Parris Island -- think about that one for a while) until some fuckin' breeder named Alan shows up to spoil their gay ol' time. See, earlier that evening, Alan called up Michael (they were college roomies back in the day) and he sounded pretty fucked up about something and needed to talk to him about it, but then later on, he called again to say Forget about it, it's cool. But here he is, even though he said he wasn't coming over. Well, what the fuck, Alan? Make up your fuckin' mind.

Part of the Alan problem is that he's straight, and because this play (and movie, obviously) was made/takes place before the Stonewall Riots, all these dudes actually appear to give a fuck about what Ultra White Conservative Man thinks of them. For reals, yo; Michael actually has to tell them about this, that Alan might be coming over and Please Don't Let Him Know How We Roll -- and they all agree/understand! Except for Emory, he's not having that shit, in fact, he somehow manages to go Super Saiyan with his flamboyance despite Alan's presence and in spite of Michael & company dialing it down.

I suspect that a lot of straights would love it for gays to live life like it was the pre-Stonewall era -- behind closed doors, on the down-low -- living as invisible men not worthy of human acknowledgement. But meanwhile, these asshole baby-makers can continue necking each other in the park in front of everyone because they're straight and only straights are capable of true public displays of affection or something. Me, I'm a hater, I don't want to see straights OR gays making out in public, that's some annoying show-offy "we're in loooove" shit, but whatever, that's my hang-up; it's a free country and no one should be kept from necking in front of Whole Foods while you're carting out tonight's lonely supper to your Prius.

The problem of having to keep where you like to stick your dick inside of under wraps is that it eventually makes a motherfucker feel like he is doing something wrong, because if it was "normal", why would you have to hide this part of your life from others? You can only live like that for so long before the self-loathing starts kicking in, and I think that's a big part of what this joint's about.

It's like that movie about the gay shepherds who wish they knew how to quit each other, I think it was called I Wish I Knew How To Quit You; in my humblest of opinions, the characters portrayed by Jake Gyllenhaal and The Joker were born gay and cursed to live in a time & place where people were too ignorant to accept/deal with that shit. It's a good thing we as a society have evolved past that kind of hateful shit and gays no longer have to worry about what others think about them, and more importantly, they no longer have to think that there's something wrong with how they were born, isn't that right, 14-year-old kid who recently killed himself?

Anyway, I bring all this shit up because it appears that our guy Michael is suffering the most from these kinds of feelings about his lifestyle. His problems at the beginning seem to consist of not being able to deal with getting older (don't I know the fuckin' feeling) and his unpaid debts, otherwise he's kind of in control of his shit. He starts off the party drinking only club soda, talking about how he's been off booze and smokes for a few weeks. But somewhere along the way, you'll notice him switching to vodka and downing that wonderful Liquid Amnesia like it was muthafuckin' ice water on a hot-ass day, and after a bottle or two, it turns out this dude can be quite the mean drunk -- mean, man, mean -- and it can't be a coincidence that this starts happening after a talk with Alan and certain assumptions that were made.

Suffice it to say, things get more and more fucked-up between the characters during this birthday party (OK, here's one example: Alan punches that bitch Emory in his Mary-ass face as a response to his fifty-caliber bitchiness towards him, which apparently works because Emory chills way the fuck out for the rest of the picture) and that's even before Birthday Boy Harold shows up.

Oh, but when he does, holy shit, do things get even more ramped up -- Harold's introduced like he's a badass hitman for the gay mafia, and you know why? Because he IS a badass hitman for the gay mafia, only instead of handguns and icepicks, he uses words and body language to take out his targets and watching him do his thing is just as FUCK YEAH-inducing as watching Jason Statham transport a motherfucker into the next life, because Harold, dear reader, is that fucking awesome. This Disco Stu-looking mofo is a genuine Character in a film full of them; he shows up in his queer pimp suit and purple shades, half-burned joint in hand and -- fuck it, check it out for yourself. He's like this during the entire movie and it never stops being anything less than Good Times whenever he's on-screen:

I'm not one for dress-up, but sheeeeeiiiit, I think I want to be Harold for Halloween. That guy and Omar from The Wire are like the hardest homos this side of the Castro district.

This was a good flick; sure, you can say it's dated but then so are flicks about race from that time period; it's expected and hoped for that over the years things would change, so perhaps being dated is a good thing for flicks like these. It has great performances, non-stop snappy theatrical dialogue, and there's definitely that William Friedkin intensity in full-effect here. It's like the drunker Michael gets, the darker this film gets; the lighting gradually changing from low-contrast to high-contrast, and the camera setups changing from wide shots that include everyone to close-ups that make the subject look like the whole world is waiting right out of frame to pounce on the motherfucker.

The thing I noticed the most with Crowley's dialogue is how it stays the same throughout -- mostly bitchy comments & the occasional epithet -- even though the tone of the piece is completely different by the end. I guess it's the context in which you say it -- not to mention the emotion behind those words. I mean, these guys are calling each other "fag" and "fairy" and a bunch of other stuff nonstop -- and that's not counting the additional shit that's being thrown at Bernard (Black) and Harold (Jewish), and it's ostensibly all in fun, you know, the kind of politically incorrect shit that only the closest of friends/most hated of enemies shoot at each other with. But somewhere along the way, the emotion behind those words and harsh statements is no longer the same, and the intention in using those words has completely changed. Or maybe they were always meant that way, and the real illusion was that they were meant in jest.

Next came Cruising. Man, this was an odd film. Some creepy dude with a creepy voice and dressed in creepy vaguely-Nazi leathers is hooking up with other similarly leather'd-out dudes looking to give/receive Man Love, and then he stabs them to death. At least the first on-screen victim managed to get his bang on, before meeting his maker, but the rest literally die hard. What a horrible way to go, with blue balls.

You have Paul Sorvino playing the Charles Durning role, an NYPD captain who's under pressure by the powers-that-be to find the killer, not so much because it sucks that some dude is killing other dudes, but because there's gonna be a political convention in town soon (I forget which party). So he gets police officer Al Pacino to take an undercover assignment that would require him to immerse himself in the gay S&M/leather scene, and his attitude to being presented with this task is surprisingly laid-back, considering what might be required of him. Or maybe he didn't think of that, maybe he was too blinded at the time thinking about the promotion to Detective he would get after the case.

So off he goes, our fair Pacino -- straight into the gay. He hits up the S&M leather clubs, aka the dark side of the Blue Oyster Bar, thinking he can find an In with these non-ironic mustache-wearers. Friedkin devotes long dolly shots to the standing-room-only dimly-lit smoky rooms filled with guys dancing and macking on each other, then there will be the occasional cut to someone getting whipped (I have a feeling little-to-no Black cruisers request for that particular kink) or to a small group gathered around to witness one of these guys getting fisted by a dude who in my uninformed opinion isn't using anywhere near a properly comfortable amount of KY for the job. There's also a special appearance by The Gimp in happier times, before he hooked up with Zed. Me, I have a small acceptable amount of homophobia, so I'd feel uncomfortable to find myself at a place like this, but at least I can dig on the music while sipping on my Diet Coke, wondering why nobody is hitting me up, probably because I'm too fat for the ladies and not fat enough for the bear-lovers.

At first, Pacino is totally lost, really lost; I mean, if you have to ask Powers Boothe -- one of the most macho motherfuckers in cinema -- what the different colors of bandanas mean in the gay community, then you are really out-of-place. But soon he finds himself getting more savvy in all things Male & Sweaty -- by the way, all these leather extras are the Real Deal, doing in front of the camera what they normally do on a Saturday night -- and he even starts getting himself into better shape, giving us a peek into Pacino's acting future as he repeatedly screams while lifting weights, it's hilarious. It's left up to the audience to decide how far he goes to pass as One Of Them; in my opinion, he does indeed go above and beyond the call of booty -- shit, all Keanu had to do was surf convincingly. There's a lot in this movie that's as ambiguous as Ace & Gary, and I'll give Friedkin credit for most of it, but some of it I'm just gonna chalk up to dropping the ball.

The main problem I have is that Pacino's character is absolutely cipher-riffic; there's really not much to this guy when the movie begins, and all we really know about him is what he goes through. That works for flicks like Spartan, where the plot is the character, but I'm not sure that was the intention here -- and the side characters are more interesting than the lead! I mean, it's kinda tough to figure out how much this assignment changes him when I don't even have the foggiest of what he's changing from. Or maybe that's the point; I don't know, maybe Friedkin wanted to tell us that this guy was pretty much an empty vessel going through the motions, and that the Scent of a Man (nature's amyl nitrate) has opened him up a whole new world of excitement and confusion -- perhaps a world he was always meant for. I don't know, but knowing Friedkin, he'd probably call me a moron for needing everything spoon-fed and then I'd tell him "Oh yeah, because Deal of the Century was really fuckin' deep" and then he'd start foaming at the mouth, demanding that I get an abortion, before stopping and apologizing to me, saying that he forgot where he was and had a flashback to being married to Jennifer Nairn-Smith for a second there.

Hey look, there's Karen Allen as the girlfriend! So full of awesomeness and pretty! What is she doing here? Hell if I know. Her role consists of showing up every 15 minutes to hug up with Pacino or get banged by him. By the time we see him show this chick his Big Boy Caprice, he's already exposed his sweet Sicilian ass to The Gay, and he seems to be fucking her rather rough; this is either his fierce way of re-establishing his love of the vagina or maybe he's banging her with yesterday's hard-on, and since yesterday he was knee-deep in Man-Ass, that tells you everything right there, doesn't it?

This flick has a lot of post-production dubbing, which was mostly due to gays protesting/disrupting the shoot and fucking up the sound, but I think it really adds to the creepy feel of Cruising, these voices that match the actor's lip-movements and yet seem...out-of-place. The killer is played by at least 2 different actors, but they have the same voice, giving the impression that maybe it's not the same guy, or it might be various different guys -- the Evil Murderous Spirit Of Homophobia is going in and out of various dudes, Fallen-style, and when it's not entering the closeted self-haters or the straight gay-haters, it's wafting through the air in any room where the term "family values" gets tossed around like so much salad. Jail salad. Whatever it is, it's fucking scary. I mean, these poor guys, they get dressed like a generic bad guy from any 16-bit beat-em-up video game, looking for some ass (or some lips) and the last thing they want is a fuckin' knife to the back. It's already tough enough to be gay in this town, what with fuckin' Joe Spinell and Mike fuckin' Starr fucking with you (right before they demand that you fuck them).

By the way, during at least one of the stabbing sequences, Friedkin intercuts flash-frames of gay porn, and while I'll give him points for Tyler Durden-ing the audience with that shit, I'm not gonna give him a full pat on the back for it either. Because it's not like he's schooling us with his Phallic Knife Plunging Into Flesh = Cock Plowing Through The Valley Of Feels-So-Good bit; anybody who's ever seen Psycho, or a giallo or a slasher movie featuring scantily-clad victims already knows about this kind of symbolism. Hell, I remember watching this documentary about Dario Argento, where the man himself goes into unsettling length about how murder scenes are erotic and that the killer gets off on sticking it in while the victim experiences her "death orgasm". Anyway, my point is that if anything, Friedkin probably thought he was putting it all together for us and I'm like C'mon, we're not that fuckin' stupid -- and by the way, I'm keeping the baby.

Friedkin had to cut out about 40 minutes from the film in order to get an R-rating; he says it was mostly sexual stuff, not plot points. Goddamn -- 40 minutes of more fisting and banging and young Ed O'Neill? Even for a 1980 Hollywood production, it's harsh enough as is, but I wonder how much of this stuff could've passed with an R-rating in 2011 -- or how much more would have to be taken out? I'm not sure, man, I mean, I just watched an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia that featured two guys engaged in the romantic act of bare-ass hobo-buttfucking, and that's on a basic cable show! But then again, who knows, because as anyone who has seen This Film Is Not Yet Rated can tell you, the MPAA has always been harder on gay sex than on straight sex, and at this point I am fully aware I can't write anything without it sounding like Tobias Fünke was dictating it to me. Oh EFC, you blowhard!

I can understand the protests and hate this film received from gays; mainstream Hollywood finally decides to put some money into a film dealing with gay culture, starring a great actor and helmed by an Oscar-winning director -- and yet they choose to focus on an extreme underground subculture that feeds into every straight's worst suspicion/nightmare about homosexuals? Bitch, are you for real? But I honestly don't think Friedkin was on a I Hate Gays kick with this, because if anything, Friedkin is more of a I Hate All People motherfucker with his celluloid worldview, plus the Sorvino character even states that this heavy leather scene is not part of regular gay life (I watched the slightly Lucas'd version that is missing the opening disclaimer that insists this film only deals with a small portion of the gay community).

It's too bad that the negative buzz gave Cruising a reputation for being a terrible film, when it's actually pretty decent. It's very well-made, and I'd put Friedkin's work on this right up there with his work on The Exorcist and muthafuckin' Sorcerer, and the unsettling tone of the film is right on -- the shit gets genuinely scary at times (great ending, too) -- but it's definitely flawed with Pacino's thin-in-all-respects character and Friedkin's occasional lapse into what feels like inscrutability for the sake of inscrutability (aka The Southland Tales Special) and that's why I'd have to put this on the Appreciate More Than Like list.

But I have to give The Frieds credit for making something beyond the usual serial killer flick, especially when you consider the fact that he was just coming off a couple of flops and could have made things easier for himself (and his career) by making something more audience-friendly. Instead, he said Fuck 'Em in typical Wacky Willy fashion and made a film that features Al Pacino do a hysterical popper-enhanced dance and a big muscular cowboy hat-wearing black dude in a jockstrap giving people the mother of all pimp-slappings -- just because.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to have crazy mad sex with lots of hot women, right after I take this sleeping pill.

Jockin' the bitches, slappin' the hos.

2011-09-13T20:33:00.000-07:00

A St. Bernard requested that I ramble about her favorite film, Beethoven. The dog's name is Phoebe and she's a service dog and I've mentioned her and her "disabled and wobbly human" Lauren before, but in case you didn't already know, she and Lauren are awesome. I use that word a lot, "awesome", but that's because it's a great go-to word to display my overly-positive feelings about something, plus I'm an idiot with a small vocabulary. Thesauruses are for pussies -- and comparing those who use important/needful things to pussies is for idiots with small vocabularies.

The DVD came from Netflix and because I stupidly assumed that we live in the age of the 16x9 television, the shit came in 4x3 Full Frame, which ultimately wasn't that bad because the movie looks like it was filmed Open Matte with the intention of having it play un-fucked with on the square box at home for the kiddies over and over again, so it wasn't like I was missing any visual real-estate. The cinematographer was Victor J. Kemper, who probably got the job because one of the movies he shot was Dog Day Afternoon, and this movie, it's about dogs, right? He also shot for John Cassavetes and maybe the St. Bernard in this movie had a reputation for improvising like a motherfucker, so the producers thought Mr. Kemper was equipped for that kind of filmmaking, I don't know.

Doing kind of a full rundown here, so if you want to come into this 19-year-old dog movie fresh, do like you always do and stop reading at this point. If you want to know my opinion, well here you go: it's not a bad movie, it's nice and cute and it brought out the occasional AWWW and the even less occasional HA HA HA, but I'm not gonna go around preaching the Gospel of Beethoven anytime soon. It's OK, you know. Amusing, that's the word I'm looking for -- Beethoven is an amusing movie. Hey, I never said I was a critic, just some asshole with no one to talk to, and blogs are like the equivalent of the barber shops where old men can sit there all day just to ramble their thoughts to a captive audience of people getting a little taken off the top because no one else is around or doesn't want to be around to listen to their bullshit, so, uh, yeah.

The movie begins with Stanley Tucci playing the kind of role he used to play before he Big Night'd his ass into more meaty roles, and Oliver Platt plays his partner-in-henchmanning. They're sneaking in stolen dogs into this warehouse while being overseen by their overseer, and I guess it's supposed to be a surprise later in the film when this Big Bad is revealed, based on the way he's lit during this scene (his eyes are the only brightly lit part), but c'mon, it's still too bright and you can tell who it is because these guys work for Dean Jones. He was in all of these Disney family films (as opposed to Disney porno films) back in the 60's and 70's with titles like That Darn Cat, The Love Bug and Why That Loveable Negro! and he was always the lead, always the good guy. But now in what basically amounts to a 90's version of those flicks, he's the villain, so it's kind of a turnaround or a 180 or whatever you want to call it.

Back to Stan and Ollie; while Platt is wearing coveralls, Tucci's got one of those trendy-for-the-nineties suits on, only he's totally fucking it up with these cowhide boots and to make things worse, he tucks his pants into them. Really, Stanley Tucci? You're not a chick and you're not Rick James circa 1979, so pull your pants out of those boots and cover those motherfuckers up. These characters, by the way, would later reunite in the sequel Beethoven 2: The Imposters, which was a financial failure due to it having absolutely nothing to do with Beethoven and because it tried pulling some Planet-Zeist-in-Highlander II: The Quickening shit by having it take place during the 1930's on some fuckin' boat.

Anyway, why are they jacking all of these dogs, and what does Dean Jones want with them? The movie's sure as fuck not gonna tell you, at least not now, so instead the opening credits begin and we are introduced to our titular St. Bernard, back when he didn't have his titular name yet. We see him as a puppy in a pet store and it seems like a very nice pet store because Melora Walters works there, and she usually plays meek soft-spoken chicks who wouldn't fuck around with animals, not even in Boogie Nights, even though I'm sure that fuckin' Colonel tried convincing her and Jack Horner to maybe dabble in the bestiality sub-genre (and I do mean "sub") because there's money to be made doing that shit.

But guess what? It's all fuckin' connected, man, the pet store and that evil Dean Jones, because after hours Stan & Ollie break into the pet shop and dog-nap some of the puppies -- including our St. Bernard -- and hightail it out of there in their SWAT/bread truck. Our dog, though, he manages to break out, along with his new Jack Russell Terrier buddy. Rather than go on the lam together, they separate and travel completely different paths; Beethoven manages to find a family's house to crash at, while the Jack Russell Terrier tries his hand at being a fuckin' bum who lives off of what I throw away, but he'll just be Jack Russell Terrier, no more, no less.

Yeah, Beethoven finds a house, looking for potential suckers and he definitely finds one in this little girl named Emily Newton, who just happened to be dreaming of a puppy before she woke up. The little doggie starts kissing Emily and in walks Bonnie Hunt (playing the mom), her brother Ted (wearing the kind of glasses that hipster chicks too hardcore for black frames like to wear nowadays), and her hard-up big sister Ryce. These guys, they take the sight of this strange street dog licking the little girl's face rather well; you'd think they'd kind of freak the fuck out because for all they know, this dog could be infecting her with Gwyneth Paltrow Cooties, but alas, this is the way it was written in the screenplay by Edmond Dantes (that's John Hughes to you, buddy) and Amy Holden Jones (the auteur behind The Slumber Party Massacre). I wonder if it was the latter scribe's idea to have the family eat at a kitchen table that has a bowl of live goldfish as its centerpiece; I mean, I'm sure the Newtons dine on fish every once in a while, which is kind of fucked-up for the goldfish, to have to witness that barbaric shit happening to their fellow gill-breathers.

Let's talk about Bonnie Hunt for a second (in the form of a long-ass paragraph); if you've ever seen her get interviewed, then you probably already know that she's a very funny lady who is so overwhelmingly awesome that even that cranky asshole David Letterman probably writes love letters to her mother's vagina for popping out someone so full of pure uncut Win. I was particularly fond of her interviews on The Late Late Show with Tom Snyder -- which was my favorite late night talk show at the time, because Snyder didn't give a fuck and because there was no audience to try to win over -- she was so fuckin' quick and also displayed expert poise in handling Snyder's repeated requests that she one day appear on the show in her old nurses' uniform. Goddamn, I miss that dirty old man, now more than ever. Anyway, it makes perfect sense that someone as talented as Ms. Bonnie Hunt starred in something like 17 different sitcoms and talk shows only to have them end up cancelled.

So Ms. Hunt and the kids try to convince the goddamn paterfamilias (played by that bad Charles Grodin -- also one of my favorite talk show guests) to keep this dog, but he's at the very least, hesitant about the idea. He brings up how dogs drool, smell, make messes, and eventually die -- the same argument I use against having children -- but since the movie is called Beethoven and not No Country For Young Dogs, he relents and now they have to find a name for the dog. Because this movie was shot in 1991 the kids come up with such potential monikers as M.C. Hammer and Ultimate Warrior, but because the movie was released in 1992 this scene is funnier than it has any right to be, because by that point, homeboy dropped the M.C. from his name and soon The Ultimate Warrior would find himself out-ski from the WWE. In the end, the dog reacts favorably to Emily's piano performance of the 5th Symphony, so Grodin decides on the name of....Beethoven. Cue the Dog-Growing-Up-And-Literally-Pissing-On-Grodin's-Hospitality montage scored to Paul Shaffer's rockin' old white man cover of "Roll Over Beethoven" blared in Dolby Stereo (in selected theaters)!

Poor fuckin' Grodin -- this guy comes home from a long day's work running his car air freshener company, trying to impress potential business investors played by Patricia Heaton & David Duchovny (although based on Mulder's performance here, he should've spelled that shit "Doucheovny"), and then has to clean up all of the dog's messes. He was right! He was absolutely right! There's fuckin' drool in his shoes, dog fur all over, dirty floors, wet spaces, paw-printed suits, it's a madhouse he has to live in. At one point, Beethoven is all wet & dirty and he shakes it all off, causing goo, drool and slime to splatter all over Mardukas up in here and it was then that I remembered that Ivan Reitman produced this movie.

I bet you that shit was his idea, because he directed a monster-sized hit movie called Ghostbusters that featured one of the stars getting slimed by a Class 5 full-roaming vapor; he probably brought that up at the script meetings, saying that Grodin's character should get slimed and everyone else was like "Yeah, but dogs don't slime, they get water and mud and drool all over you, but not slime" and Reitman probably cleared his throat and said "It worked in a little $200+ million grossing film called Ghostbusters" and then gave some asshole-smug smile. Then his stupid little bratty kid stomped into the room and kicked one of Reitman's underlings just because and Ivan's all "Oh, Jason! You're so precious!" and little fuckin' asshole Jason was like "You bet your ass, homeskillet!" and Ivan's like "Just where do you come up with these sayings? You are indeed the living end, my child, the living end!" before tossing to Jason yet another fat wad of cash for him to do with as he pleases. Goddamn. GODDAMN.

Anyway, Grodin's kids are reaping the rewards (while he's getting raped by the responsibilities) and they're loving life with this dog, taking him out for trick-or-treating as a horse (fairly easy for this miniature horse-like creature, they just put a saddle on him) and they don't even know that Beethoven's still living the life of Riley when they're not around. Yeah man, after the kids go to school and the mom's out banging the milkman or something, The Beet's being a sneaky son-of-a-bitch.

You see, even though they lock him up in his corral during the day, homedog's like Charles Bronson in The Great Escape or the mythical character who gave eternal cuntface twat Madonna quite the rogering in her song "Like a Virgin" -- he's digging tunnels, specifically one big tunnel under the corral fence and off he goes! Off to roam the mean streets of Happy Clean Town, USA (pop. 3,718 - 2 black, 1 hispanic), where he can continue his daily routine of Always Eating; seriously, it's not enough to snatch the bacon off of Grodin's plate, and if he keeps that kind of Exiled from Contentment diet up, Beethoven's gonna catch some serious 'Beetus. But maybe that's why he's walking all over town -- he works off all those calories with all that cardio, in between liberating leftover food from sidewalk cafes and drinking from the water hose at the local fire station while only a few feet away sits the faggy Dalmatian, parched and unloved.

Like me, Beethoven eats everything but he especially loves him some pastries (he gets the hook-up from the friendly lady at the bakery) but unlike me, he will happily share his treats with others, like his alley-loitering Jack Russell Terrier friend. The little dog munches on this rather phallic-shaped pastry, which I guess is foreshadowing when you consider what happens during the climax of the film.

(He bites Dean Jones in the Tom Jones, that's what happens.)

Because they don't actually have to live with Beethoven, everybody in the neighborhood loves him and they don't fink on him for running around sans owners, even when he's visiting the young'ins at their schools, like Ryce; the poor girl has recently been getting all crotch-perspired whenever this fellow student named Mark (oh hai Mark!) shows up. This threw me off, because based on Ryce's love for M.C. Hammer and Heavy D and the Boyz -- not to mention the poster on her bedroom door of a spotted dalmatian that implies how black & white can co-exist -- I figured she was into the dark stuff, but Mark is a white dude, so what do I know? Ryce is too nervous, but lucky for her, Beethoven's a smooth smooth who will hook a sister up, and he manages to get Mark interested in talking to Ryce.

He gets around, this canine! Because this movie takes place in a time before bullied kids discovered firearms and trenchcoats, Ted's been taking a lot of shit from a group of the lamest group of bullies ever. Well, here comes Beethoven to the rescue, flashing his chompers at the little villains while standing behind Ted, not giving himself away -- thereby making Ted feel like he scared the kids off by himself, giving him some much-needed self-confidence. He also saves Emily from drowning in a pool, which is awesome unless you're a parent who lost his or her kid in a drowning accident, like my aunt & uncle, and boy am I glad I never brought *this* movie over to their place -- can you imagine the awkwardness when that scene comes up, watching this young girl miraculously saved as Beethoven carries her on his back, further advancing the He's Really A Little Horse theory I had going, while my aunt & uncle start doing the whole Why God Why cry/mope, like they're gonna get an answer from that twisted sadist.

Grodin unfortunately doesn't understand the kind of selfless things this dog is doing for the family, since he's already riding the Fuck This Dog train and he's not one to pull the emergency cord. Later on, Duchovny and Heaton show up to have Grodin sign some contracts, only he doesn't know that these two assholes are plotting to fuck him over because that's what you do in Big Business. I thought it was rather bush league of the filmmakers to use these fuckhead characters as an opportunity to spread their foul pro-family propaganda; you find out that they don't want kids and are rather content with that decision and then later in the film, Hunt gives Grodin shit by saying something to the effect of "Your family is going down the drain and you're worried about a dream!" because fuck a dream -- keep popping out kids and live your unhappy zombified existence in order to support them because the more, the merrier in the Keep Consuming game. And what becomes of those who don't agree? They get their asses handed to them by Beethoven when he ties his leash around the chairs they're sitting on and takes them for a fuckin' ride. It is Good Times to see Duchovny's smug ass get dragged down a sidewalk, though, that's for sure.

Because this is a movie for the kids, it turns out Dean Jones is getting paid by Howard Stern's dad to test out some new explosive hollow-point bullets by firing them into the skulls of large dogs. See, that's why Jones is paying Joe Gould's Secret and Ready to Rumble to jack all these dogs -- he either shoots them in the fuckin' head or shoots them up with chemicals and drugs. The best part is that Jones is also a veterinarian, leaving me all disturbed as I wonder how many innocent dogs did this guy yank from his clients, all under the guise of I Had To Put Him Down Because He Attacked Me. So many families destroyed by this guy, just so he can drive his awesome Porsche and pile up stacks of cash in his safe (while his minions stack up just as many dog corpses in the incinerator). But hey, that's capitalism, baby -- you gotta get yours at all costs. Like that mumbly, not-really-talented, bullet-ridden rapper is fond of saying: Get Rich or Die Tryin'.

Somewhere, somehow, a family is at home watching Beethoven on television and some kid is asking his or her mom or dad to explain this particular plot turn; "Oh, well honey, you see, the bad man wants to fire a .357 hollow-point bullet into the doggie's skull, and once he's finished cleaning up all the doggy brain matter and mopping up all the blood and pick up the pieces of shattered broken doggy skull, he will take the written and videotaped results over to his employer, the ammunition manufacturers, where they will then take these results and figure out whether or not they've succeeded in creating a bullet that inflicts the most permanent damage to its target".

Jones thinks he can pull this shit on the Newton family, by visiting Beethoven and then pouring fake blood all over his arm and getting our dog to attack him -- and it works, dear Jesus, it works. Now Grodin's gotta drive ol' Beet to the vet, so he can put him down (but in reality, Jones is gonna shuttle him off to get shot in the head) and the sequence begins with a shot of Beethoven innocently rolling around in his corral that just about broke my fuckin' black heart. Then Grodin's talking to The Beet in the car, feeling all bad about this Green Mile drive he's making with him, and the motherfucker is just crushing it in the dramatic department while Randy Edelman's overly-sappy score is doing its thing.

Then later when they arrive at the vet, I think the reality of the situation has dawned on the dog, and he looks just so fucking sad -- either that or Chris the Dog (the actor who plays Beethoven) was hitting the bong something fierce in between takes, because his eyes are very heavy-lidded, like he has Forest Whitaker Disease, only it's affecting both eyes. As Grodin leaves, he takes one final look at the dog, now behind a cage, and Beethoven responds by barking back the dog equivalent to Harry Dean Stanton's "AVENGE ME!" line in Red Muthafuckin' Dawn.

But calm down, this ain't Million Dollar Doggy, this is Beethoven, so soon Grodin and his family are out to get their dog back -- one of the things Hunt tells her husband is "I know he slobbered and he smelled bad, but he loved us" and I'm like, Is she talking about a dog or an elderly relative? -- and face off with Jones. He tells them that the dog's already been destroyed, but Grodin, he's not buying that shit, so he throws a right cross and knocks his old ass out because the boyz in da hood are always hard, you come snatching their dogs and they'll pull your card. Then he and his family wait across the street under some bright-ass lights, because that's what you want to do when sneakily following someone, you want to make sure that you're in plain unobstructed sight.

They follow him to his Warehouse of Dog-Skull Obliteration and it all goes down like family-movie-climax clockwork; Beethoven breaks free and chases Stan & Ollie around, until he finally catches up with Tucci and chomps on his foot, causing the guy to give out one of those patented Stanley Tucci girl-screams. It was at this point that I can see why Phoebe the Dog considers this her favorite movie, because this flick is like James Bond for dogs, particularly for St. Bernards: you have this St. Bernard who gets to eat everything and have fun with kids and even occasionally chomp on the occasional human or two, and people applaud your actions -- why of course, it's total escapist fantasy to these dogs.

The rest of the dogs escape and the Jack Russell Terrier bites Dean Jones in the junk, and then Jones gets owned Basket Case-style which would've been the most awesome bit in the entire movie, if it weren't for the scene that follows: Stan & Ollie escape the warehouse and are chased by the rest of the dogs. They run through some loading docks full of incoming/outgoing shipments of fruits and vegetables, and one of the dogs figures since he's not gonna get this chance again, he grabs a head of lettuce and takes off with it. I'd post a better pic but my VLC is acting up like a young Jason Reitman at a Beethoven script meeting.

So Jones and his henchmen get thrown into the slam for fucking around with dogs, with the help of the Newton family offering damning testimony. Everything's happily ever after for Charles Grodin, Bonnie Hunt, Emily Newton, Ted "Hipster Ariel Glasses" Newton, and most importantly, Beethoven. But if you give a shit about that chick Ryce, well, check this out: the Newtons end up on the local news, and as a result, Ryce gets a phone call from Mark, which totally makes her night, I'm sure. She thinks he's fallen for her, but c'mon, we all know what's up; Mark called her right after seeing her on television, which obviously means he's a star-fucker. Poor girl, she'll learn eventually.

In conclusion, Vote Phoebe!

Movie Tally 2011: 8/01 - 8/31

2011-09-01T00:54:00.000-07:00

197. THINGS ('89) - 8/01/11 - DVD

198. SAW (uncut) - 8/12/11 - DVD (re-see)

199. SAW II (unrated) - 8/12/11 - Blu-ray

200. SAW III (unrated) - 8/13/11 - DVD

201. SAW IV (unrated director's cut) - 8/13/11 - DVD

202. SAW V (unrated director's cut) - 8/13/11 - Blu-ray

203. SAW VI - (unrated director's cut) - 8/13/11 - DVD

204. SAW: THE FINAL CHAPTER - (unrated) - 8/13/11 - Blu-ray

205. HALF BAKED - 8/14/11 - DVR (re-see)

206. TUFF TURF - 8/22/11 - DVD

207. OUR IDIOT BROTHER - 8/27/11 - Mission Tiki Drive-In

208. 30 MINUTES OR LESS - 8/27/11 - Mission Tiki Drive-In

209. SHAKMA - 8/28/11 - DVD

210. FINAL COMBINATION (aka Dead Connection) - 8/31/11 - Netflix Instant

211. THE HELP - 8/31/11 - Theater

212. STAR 80 - 8/31/11 - Netflix Instant

August 2011 figures:

1 theater
2 drive-in
7 DVD
1 DVR/TV
3 Blu-ray
2 Netflix Instant Streaming
0 VHS
0 Other

14 new
2 re-see

16 viewings total for August 2011

Year to date: 212 movies

If I had an ass that red and irritated, I'd be non-stop pissed off too.

2011-08-30T16:22:00.000-07:00

He takes another sip of his coffee and begins to write about Shakma, although he truly feels that the title should always be written in all caps and yelled -- SHAKMA! -- because that's the way it should be.

So I had heard about SHAKMA! since it's release 20 years ago, having seen the poster and having caught bits and pieces playing at the awesome video store that displayed said poster back-in-the-day. I also missed a screening of it at the Cinefamily a couple years ago, but I didn't miss out on one of my all-time favorite tweets about that film, one that displayed the sheer joy gained out of watching a killer baboon doling out raw psycho street-style ownage to a bunch of med students -- and after finally watching SHAKMA! the other night, I'd have to agree with that sentiment wholeheartedly.

See, SHAKMA! takes place in this medical research building located in Orlando, Florida and I guess Shaquille O'Neal was off playing ball somewhere else because I'm sure Shaq Diesel would've stepped in early in the film and stopped these assholes from doing what they were about to do, which is put some poor baboon (the titular SHAKMA!) through a surgical procedure that apparently involved reaching into SHAKMA!'s inner wiring and flicking the setting switch to Evil, because Dr. Shaq's a good dude and he wouldn't have stood for that kind of cruelty to animals in the name of science. He would've given Professor Sorenson (played by Roddy McDowall) and his students a stern talking to, because that's how my boy Shaqma rolls.

But alas, Shaq Daddy was not there to teach these...scientists...a lesson, so McDowall and company go ahead and power-saw SHAKMA!'s head open and fuck with it something awful. So they do what they do, and then cart the passed-out baboon to wherever you put the passed-out baboons. Then the movie introduces who I'm pretty sure is going to be the main dude, a med student played by Christopher Atkins From The Blue Lagoon (that's his official full name, he changed it to include the movie he's best known for). We see him fucking around with his chick, a fellow med student played by Amanda Wyss from Silverado and A Nightmare on Elm Street (but she only goes by the name Amanda Wyss).

Atkins and Wyss have a cool thing going on; he likes to push her buttons, or at least I hope that's what he's doing, and that he really doesn't honestly think that she's a "militant feminist" just because she's not interested in the life of a happy homemaker -- darning the socks, cooking the dinners, making the babies. I mean, c'mon, Atkins, if that's what she really wants to do, then why would she be in fuckin' medical school, ya fuckin' jackass? Better yet, why are you in fuckin' medical school? Obviously you don't have the capacity in your man-animal brain to understand where this chick is coming from, let alone the intricacies of the human body.

He also fails to grasp the idea behind having animals at a research facility, I mean, did he think they were placed there to boost morale? Sorry, chief -- all those rats and monkeys are there to get Hostel'd on in the name of Science. But I guess he didn't know that, because as soon as he finds out that his beloved SHAKMA! is now a bloody baboon who had his brain cut up, he gets all emo about it, which I guess triggers the psychic bond that is created whenever Man and Animal become very close, because suddenly SHAKMA! wakes up and is immediately open for ass-handing-back business. He takes a swipe at some random douche and then another douche hits the alarm, causing McDowall to arrive, dressed like he just came from the local Dress Like Pee-Wee Herman contest, where he placed 11th because the colors and material have to be same, not just the particular types of clothing, I mean c'mon, he didn't even have the right shoes. Anyway, in the end, wannabe Pee-Wee is able to sedate SHAKMA!

Pure fuckin' incompetence -- that's what really sets this party off. McDowall gives Atkins the simple task of shooting up SHAKMA! with a particular sedative (I think it's supposed to kill the baboon, I'm not sure because I was sooooo fuckin' blitzed while watching this) and this fool actually manages to fuck that up; Atkins ends up grabbing the wrong vial because he was looking the other way while grabbing it -- remember, this is a man who is pursuing a career that involves having responsibility for the health and well-being of others. So because he shot SHAKMA! up with what I'm guessing was a very light tranquilizer, or SuperAIDS version 2.0 (commissioned by the CIA), our baboon is only taking a nap for the time being while a group of these wannabe Dr. Houses are setting up for a weird Mazes and Monsters type of game, to be played in the research building after hours. Somehow they got McDowall to take part as the Game Master -- shit, the whole thing might have been his nerdy idea, I don't remember.

So yeah, this game; the building is locked up and most of the lights are shut off, allowing the group to split up and go around looking for keys and clues and shit, trying to either find or stay away from Nemesis, who I guess is like the douchey frat-boy minotaur in the labyrinth that is the research building. This Nemesis guy, he's not the Resident Evil villain or the Albert Pyun movie, he's just one of the med students and he's been asked to take part in the game, and he has to wear a stupid monster mask when playing as Nemesis. Meanwhile, his chick is waiting outside in her car, listening to the most awesome generic jazzy synthesizer music on her tape deck.

The game players all keep in contact with each other, using the kind of walkie-talkies you beg your dad to buy you at Toys R Us, and then you bitch about 'em afterward because you can't hear shit, but hey, at least they came with a Morse Code button that you never properly used and a Morse Code key that you never bothered to learn. Meanwhile, McDowall is chilling out in his office (at this point, he's now dressed like someone who should be sliding me a cold mug of Budweiser with one hand, while wiping down the bar with the other), keeping tabs on their locations with a map on his computer. This is what you did for fun in 1990, I guess. I'm not judging, because to be honest with you, I wish I could play something like that, but I don't know, I'm afraid of people or something.

But I'm not afraid of the bearded med student/computer nerd who's either got a stroke or is gay, based on the way he speaks, because that would be wrong, to be afraid; during a conversation with Atkins, he pronounces "game master" like he wanted to cut it off at the first half of the first syllable, creating a key that would unlock the gates to a whole new world of acceptance and understanding, but he won't. He probably secretly hopes that his lisp will be enough to out him, and his friends will pick up on it and not be hateful dicks to him because of his alternative lifestyle. Or maybe that's just how the actor playing him thinks computer nerds talk. Anyway, he's the first to get fuckin' merked by SHAKMA! and even his death stare is annoying.

There's this young girl, played by a young adult, and she's the Nemesis guy's little sister; she's part of the game, playing some kind of princess who awaits the winner of the game in the top floor, ready to award the person who saves her with underage poon or something, I don't fuckin' know. All I know is that she has a thing for Atkins, and maybe he has something for her, based on the pervy looks they share. But it's mostly her who is doing the staring, usually while Atkins is busy doing something else and not paying attention. Man, that would be awesome to have that happen to me, to be the one lovingly stared at, rather than be the one doing the staring -- and better yet, I'm not being stared at because of my usual freaky/ugly/fatty ways, no, not at all, I'm being stared at because somehow this nice girl looks at all of this fat brown pockmarked flesh and the first thought that goes through her twisted head is not Call The Cops Call The INS, but instead it's I Want That.

So while these assholes are playing their game, SHAKMA! is prowling the fuckin' hallways, being a fuckin' boss and occasionally owning a motherfucker. The first time SHAKMA! does his thing, it's when one of the med students goes into the primate room; he enters, sees a bunch of opened-up cages, blood splattered all over the walls, then turns to find SHAKMA! in mid-monkey-chew. SHAKMA! looks back at the med student, still chewing, all like "'Sup, man? I didn't even know you were coming" and then upon realizing that the med student is not happy with what he's witnessing, SHAKMA! (who hates being judged) jumps onto the counter, knocks over a monkey cage -- with a monkey still inside! -- and gives the dude a look like "Yeah, that's right, I did that shit!" before finally jumping onto the guy to tear him various new profusely bleeding orifices. Orifici?

No joke, man, the actor who plays SHAKMA! needs a fuckin' retroactive Oscar for his performance here. I mean, if that fuckin' overrated shit-stinking Bart the Bear managed to convince the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences to let him amble his Harold Perrineau-eating ass onto the fuckin' Kodak Theater stage, then why not Typhoon the baboon? This baboon is awesome; he's either locomotion-ing down the hallways at furious speed, bouncing off the walls like some amped-up basehead who's just tried Crystal Meth for the first time (and took way too much), or he's nonchalantly munching on the flesh of one of his previous victims during downtime. When he's not doing that cool shit, he's doing even cooler shit, like going the fuck off on doors. Man, this baboon hates him some fuckin' doors -- I suspect that when SHAKMA! was young, some asshole old man paid homeless doors to beat the shit out of him, therefore instilling within Lil' SHAKMA! a violent abhorrence for all things Doorknob'd and Deadbolted.

At one point, Atkins tries to defend himself against the almighty SHAKMA! by using a flashbulb to distract him, thinking he's Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window in this bitch, and SHAKMA! gets a full bright flash in his face. But my boy reacts by quickly closing his eyes and reflexively shaking his head, then bounces back with this "No, you did NOT just flash that shit in my face" look/screech before getting back into Killing-mode. It's beauty, eh, the way he kills -- even after it's obvious that you're a goner, it's not gonna keep him from giving you a quick Haggar-style jump kick with both feet, because he's the kind of baboon who likes to break it off after sticking it in, the little screechy bastard.

Let me talk about that screech/growl shit he does -- it is Good Times, people. Right now, it just hit me that the producers of this film really missed out on making some serious merchandise/licensing money with a SHAKMA! car alarm. That shit would've made some serious bank, on account of being so fucking effective; a thief tries to break into your cherry Geo Metro and suddenly triggers a barrage of loud-ass SHAKMA!-screams going at 150 decibels -- putting the Fear Of God into that poverty-driven piece-of-shit and causing him to run the fuck away. Plus, any passerby or neighbors will have extra incentive in notifying the authorities because Jesus Christ Someone Please Turn Off That Godforsaken Alarm. The SHAKMA! alarm also makes a great deterrent, because any thief worth his worthless salt would not try to fuck with any automobile displaying the "Protected by SHAKMA!" label, he ain't taking that chance, because like the slogan for the SHAKMA! Auto Alarm says: "You Mess With The Baboon, You Get The Horns".

I don't think I've made it clear how splendid a job I think this Typhoon fellow did in his role as SHAKMA! The Killer Baboon. He doesn't just Bring It with the killing scenes, he's also got a bit of a Pacino-esque hamminess to him; half the time, ol' Shakee Boy is making these crazy open-mouthed faces and at first I thought he was being kind of an over-actor, but now I'm thinking something else. Like, maybe he's making fun of his co-star Christopher Atkins, who occasionally displays similar wide-eyed/wide-mouthed theatrics in this film (particularly during the scene when he discovers the acid-melted face of one of his buddies -- no joke, SHAKMA! will absolutely fuck you up).

Typhoon probably noticed that shit and when it came time to shoot his coverage during that OMG My Friend's Face Has Been Melted Off scene, he looked over to the crew members (Typhoon's been chummy with them, sometimes even playing cards with them in his trailer between setups, like Tom Hanks has been known to do) and said "Hey guys, check me out -- I'm Chris Atkins!" and then started doing the faces, cracking everyone up, because when you work long hours on low-budget shoots like this one, you need all the levity you can get. Well, the director -- ruthless Eli Cross wannabe that he is -- he had them roll camera during that shit, then later had that shit printed and told the editor to try and use some of that footage somewhere in the movie.

I bet you the director didn't even have the decency to tell Typhoon about this, preferring to let him know when he watches the film for the first time. Boy, did Typhoon feel betrayed upon seeing what was meant to be a private moment between talent and crew, now blown up and presented to everyone on a 40-foot screen. But he knew someone who felt even more betrayed at the moment, and he was sitting only a few seats away: Christopher Atkins. Typhoon knew that he did wrong -- no matter how lighthearted his intentions were -- and he had to make up for it as soon as possible, especially knowing how sensitive Atkins could get. Typhoon couldn't judge Chris on his fragile nature, for he too was once like Mr. Atkins, having had to deal with all kinds of jokes and barbs from producers about how he'd fit in this business since Hollywood is all "monkey business" anyway. Or those lame smart-ass questions from agents asking him if he and a bunch of his fellow simians ever got together with a typewriter and tried writing Shakespeare. Oh, how those "jokes" stung him!

And yet, here he was, dishing out the same kind of hurt to his polite co-star. No, this had to be made right -- and soon! Typhoon decided he would make his move during the after-party, only he wouldn't be too sudden about it, he'd have to drink up at least one flute of courage before working up the nerve to make amends. But he would, and it did -- and thankfully, Chris being the sensitive, positive and trusting soul that he was, forgave Typhoon, and all was well again.

I spoil shit all the time here, but I'm going to spoil something particularly big here so SPOILER BITCHES, but yeah, I want to talk about how surprised I was by the fact that the love interest gets dusted in this flick. I thought I had it pegged: Amanda Wyss will live and so will Nemesis' Little Sister, because there's no reason to kill them off because why be different from every other movie ever made? I figured Atkins wouldn't survive because three's a crowd in the survivor game, plus, he needs to atone because it's kinda his fault that this shit happened. I mean, yeah, it's McDowall's fault for Tampering In God's Domain with whatever the fuck he was doing to SHAKMA!'s brain, but it's also Blue Lagoon's fault for not paying attention to what drug he was injecting SHAKMA! with. Seriously, Atkins -- that's a dangerous killing machine that you were told to put down and you decided that it wasn't Top Priority for your eyes to pay attention to the fuckin' label? What an asshole!

But no, they don't kill off Atkins, so in his place they kill off love interest Amanda Wyss! Wow! It's a pretty fucked-up sequence, and the way it plays at first, you think she'll get away from SHAKMA!, but no. She manages to hide out in a bathroom stall, standing on the toilet while trying to pull off an air vent cover. The end of this scene is shot from the outside of the stall, so we only see the top half of Wyss as she tries to make a jump for the air vent -- but then you hear my homebaboon doing his screech thing and down goes Amanda, out of frame and into a world of shit (literally, if the last occupant of that stall forgot to flush). The sound of screams and bloody murder follow...until...out pops Amanda into frame again, barely hanging on (both figuratively and literally). Everything's quiet now as she slowly tries to make an attempt at crawling up onto the air vent. A few beats pass, and then -- SKKKRRRREEEEEEEE!!!! SHAKMA! pulls her back down and finishes what he started.

Now, I was wondering what happened in that brief period of non-violence; was SHAKMA! being a sadistic fuck and fooling Miss Wyss into thinking that she might escape this ordeal? I only wish it were that simple. I'll tell you what fuckin' happened, but first I have to fill in some details for ya: throughout the movie, upon closer inspection, you'll notice that SHAKMA!'s dong is rather primed during all of his murderous shenanigans. It's disturbing, but maybe it's supposed to be, because watching this hairy, angry creature running rampant with his penis hanging out, killing everything that he doesn't agree with, well it's like SHAKMA! is the male id personified.

So when you consider that, along with where SHAKMA! is located during his attacking of Miss Wyss -- on the floor, looking up at the girl standing on the toilet, leaving her ass in full prime view -- well, it doesn't take the proverbial rocket scientist to figure out that when you're as Horny As Fuck as this pent-up creep is, you take advantage of the time a quick break gives you and you beat that meat, son, you beat that fuckin' meat. Unfortunately for poor Amanda Wyss, my boy SHAKMA! is like The Flash when it comes to Turning Japanese, so she didn't have time to escape before he finished and now he's back to giving the lady a hands-on lesson in How To Die Slowly.

By the way, it's thoughts like these that keep me from ever wondering why I'm doomed to die alone.

At first, I thought the filmmakers justified her death for committing the crime of being a smart, assertive woman who could get along just fine without a man's help -- whereas Nemesis' Little Sister is allowed to live because she's dumb and needy and therefore Not A Threat To Man's Dominance. But no, they kill the little sister off too because this movie is like Judd Nelson in that it's just so goddamn relentless and way harsh. Each woman's death is mourned in similar ways by Atkins; he picks up each woman's SHAKMA'd-up body and does that slow, traumatized Riggs-in-Lethal Weapon 2 shuffle-walk as he carries it down the hall, only with Wyss he does this extra bit where he leans in and gives her one final kiss on the lips -- which is still OK by the rules, because as my late beloved grandmother was fond of saying, "It's not necrophilia, if no fluid is involved".

One by one, the team of potential Marcus Welbys and Meredith Greys are taken out, even McDowall (who is last seen dressed like he should be running on top of Mt. Rushmore with Eva Marie Saint in tow) gets it in the end, leaving only one man to fight the deadly terror, with only cunning, booby-traps, and an overall sense of I Don't Give A Damn Anymore at his disposal. So basically, this is Predator for the Scrubs crowd. But ultimately, what this film really is, is a scorching indictment on the severe damages to society caused by Man's stupidity -- particularly one man's stupidity, Christopher Atkins' stupidity. I think it's a harsh way for one man to learn his lesson, but short of having the dead bodies magically awaken and having SHAKMA! reveal himself to be a dwarf stuntman, then having George Bluth Sr. and his one-armed friend come out and say "And that's why you always read the label!" -- short of doing that, I think this was the only way for homeboy to learn.

After what I'm about to write, you might think that I got a free trip to New York and was invited to the premiere screening of SHAKMA! at the Radio City Music Hall, where everyone in the audience was hooting, hollering and bouncing beach balls around, but I honestly thought SHAKMA! was a good flick. First off, I like everything, so there's that -- and second, I thought it was a pretty well put-together low-budget scare joint. The idea of a crazed baboon skulking around dark corners of a practically abandoned building that you are trapped inside of, well shit, that's pretty scary to me. Hell, being in a well-lit, wide-open space with an even-tempered baboon would scare the shit out of me. It's an effective B-movie thriller, is what I'm saying. But I'm also saying that I was as high as Harrison Ford giving a rare friendly interview when I watched it, so there's that too.

I'm disappointed that they didn't make more SHAKMA! flicks because that baboon was awesome and I would've seen ten more sequels devoted to his flank-steak ass running around, killing doors and people. Don't give me that "But SHAKMA! got burned to death at the end" bullshit, because as the late Moustapha Akkad taught us, Evil Never Dies (as long as there is money to be made off of it). Seriously, this guy could've been the next Freddy Krueger and it's too bad they never got around to making SHAKMA! 2: SHAKMA!'s Revenge, where the ghost of SHAKMA! can torture some young innocent baboon and possess him, and it's all ladled with thick servings of homoerotic subtext.

It's not too late though; everyone's remake/reboot/sequel/prequel crazy nowadays, so why not call that crazy fuckin' kraut Werner Herzog to direct and since Typhoon's probably dead now, get Nicolas Cage to play the fuck out of SHAKMA! and together they can call it The SHAKMA!: Port of Call Orlando if they want. Then the press can call up Abel Ferrara for his opinion and he'll be like "Whaddya fuckin' talkin' about? I didn't direct no fuckin' movie called SHAKMA!, I was too busy hustlin' and lookin' like a filthy deranged drug addict to be fuckin' with some fuckin' monkey, Jesus fuckin' Christ, ya fuckin' killin' me with these fuckin' questions! Lend me five dollars."

In conclusion, there's a black guy in this movie and while he isn't the first guy to die, in retrospect, he probably wishes he was the first to go because homeboy is rockin' some hair and clothes that make this New Jack look like he just came back from doing background work in House Party 2: The Pajama Jam! because that was the style back when this movie was made, the early 90's -- which I miss dearly, actually, because the present day sucks a dick, until it becomes the past and then suddenly you're missing that shit with all of your heart while at the same time going What The Fuck.

I Dig Your Blog

2011-08-25T20:50:00.000-07:00

Erin over at In It For The Kills has chosen me and 4 other people better than me to receive the "I Dig Your Blog" award, and I'm grateful for that, so thank you, Erin.

Part of the deal with receiving said award is that I have to post 3 facts about myself, so here I go:

1) Growing up, I wanted to be an astronaut. I had to settle for being a space cadet.

2) My first pet was a cat that I named "General", after homecat from Stephen King's Cat's Eye. There were no trolls in our household, to my knowledge, but if there were any, I'm sure the General took care of those motherfuckers.

3) I almost got kicked out of high school in my sophomore year, as a result of suffering from a severe case of Punching Motherfuckers In The Face, which I had shown early signs of since the 5th grade (I also managed to get suspended on my 2nd day of 6th grade for said symptoms of PMITF). I was not a bully, though, let's get that straight, just way-too-fucking sensitive about being fucked with, and I guess I had a very Please Fuck With Me aura about me. It did not help that I already knew how to box (from my father) and I studied taekwondo (from some Korean), in fact, this got me further into trouble, because it's one thing to haphazardly bomb fists on some asshole, but it's another to work an actual combo on the attempted Lunchable stealer. That shit gets the authorities involved, with their judgmental asses.

But hey, as a result of being part of the GATE program, I was able to finish and graduate with my class by doing this Independent Study thing, which meant I only had to attend school twice a week and it felt like I won the goddamn lottery (saw a lot of flicks with my free time) -- although in exchange for that (and not being expelled), I had to go see a therapist about my PMITF. My first meeting with the therapist, he compared my handshake to that of a dead fish. By the way, I'm an idiot nowadays, GATE don't mean shit. Anyway, here's a completely unrelated video clip of a man and his dog, because I have no where else to share this:

The other part of this I Dig Your Blog deal is that I have to pass this award to 5 other blogs (that I dig). I completely understand if the following people don't take part, Life can keep a motherfucker busy and all that, but for the record, here they are:

Cat's Blog - It was her blog that originally got me interested in doing one of my own. She's always been very nice to me, despite evidence proving to her that perhaps she shouldn't be.

Don't Pet Me, I'm Working - Met an awesome St. Bernard named Phoebe at the Aero Horrorthon, and this is the blog belonging to her awesome owner, Lauren.

The Projector Has Been Drinking - Marc Edward Heuck's blog. One of the most awesome things he ever did was give me a You Gotta Be Kidding Me look when I asked him if they accepted credit cards at the Nuart, while standing right in front of a goddamn credit card machine. What can say, I ask stupid questions and he was rather exasperated with the drunken Big Lebowski crowd that night.

Fist of B-List - Karl Brezdin's tight site about the kind of shit a motherfucker like me grew up watching, I'm talking Cynthia Rothrock flicks, Jeff Wincott punch-kickers, Don "The Dragon" Wilson kick-punchers, anything featuring Matthias Hues getting owned in the end.

Colonel Mortimer Will Have His Revenge - I just happened to visit his cool movie site one day and noticed he linked to my blog on his blogroll. He didn't have to do that, especially since I didn't know. How about that, he just did it because I think he liked it. Well, I like your blog too, bro. In fact, I dig it.

I didn't link any Tumblr blogs, because I didn't want to fuck up their shit by forcing them to change their photo-blogs with some written shit like mine. But yeah, check out Phil Blankenship's Video Maniacs tumblr blog, if like me, scoping out VHS tapes gives you the same feeling one usually gets when looking at an attractive woman. OK, that's it.

Yeah, because the first thing you want to do with a chick who just had hamburger smeared all over her face and chest is make out with her

2011-08-24T22:21:00.000-07:00

I know that there are a few people who do, in fact, read these ramblings every once in a while; on occasion I'll receive a request from one of them to ramble about a particular film. I find this flattering, even though I totally understand that these very nice people probably like my blog for the same reason people like Tommy Wiseau and James Nguyen, or Rebecca Black and William Hung. Anyway, this awesome motherfucker asked me to write about Tuff Turf, which I'd never seen but always intended to because James Spader's sweet, sweet ass starred in it.

Yeah, Spader and his sweet, sweet ass always had it going the fuck on in the 80's; I remember when my mom took me to a double-feature of Mannequin and Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol and it became one of The Greatest Nights Of Cinema Ever -- plus my mind was pretty fuckin' blown because G.W. Bailey was in both of those movies, and then my mind was blown even further about a year later when my sister brought home the VHS of Less Than Zero, which came off like an even darker version of Mannequin because James Spader and Andrew McCarthy were in both films. And to think, I had yet to discover Pretty in Pink.

So, I finally got a hold of the seemingly out-of-print DVD of Tuff Turf and watched it the other night, and I was pleasantly surprised to not only hear a Marianne Faithfull tune at the beginning, but to see that the crisp night photography was done by Willy Kurant; he shot Masculin Féminin for Jean-Luc Godard, but I'm gonna be honest and tell you that I didn't know about him from that flick -- not at the time, anyway -- instead, I first knew of Kurant after watching an early-90's flick called Day of Atonement (a re-edited/retitled cut of some French wannabe Godfather flick that featured Christopher Walken and that fine Jennifer Beals -- it has some hilarious dubbing of the French actors, so they can sound more American). He also shot Pootie Tang, which makes sense because in addition to being one of the funniest motherfuckers around, Louis C.K. is also very much a film snob -- a film snob who made Pootie Tang -- so it's no accident that Kurant was hired by him to lens his first studio film and Gallic up scenes like this one.

Anyway, the film starts off with Kim Richards all slutted up, setting up some poor dude in a gray suit and brown shoes at a bus stop to get jacked by her boyfriend and his fellow hoodlums. You'd think he'd know better in such a dark area, but the man sure makes it easy for these jackers by counting out his money way out in the open -- me, I'm like Bill Murray in Stripes when I pull out the green, turning my shit away so you can't see how I'm rolling -- but whatever, it looks like he's only got a bunch of ones anyway, so he must be one of those fake ballers who places the big bills in front, so no wonder he doesn't put up any struggle when they get up on him and flash the steel.

But let me go back to Kim Richards; she's got this interesting look going for her in that her hair and outfits scream Bad Girl but her face politely insists Good Girl -- she's far more convincing (and prettier) when she un-sluts herself late in the film. All I knew about Ms. Richards was that she was in a Disney flick and a John Carpenter joint in the 70's and that she was related to the chick from Curfew and that useless walking STD, Paris Hilton. So I looked her up on the IMDB and found out she was on that Real Housewives of Beverly Hills show. Fuck, I knew about that show but had no idea she and her sister Kyle were in that shit. On the one hand, it was nice to know that she's most likely doing well financially if she's a RHOBH, but on the other hand, fuck man, she's a goddamn RHOBH? Aren't those ladies supposed to be, like, Real Cunts of Southern California or something?

Then I read the comments on her IMDB page's message board from people who watch her on that program, and apparently she's like the fuckin' Fredo of that show with her weak-willed ass, and that she's possibly a heavy drinker. I don't even know this chick, yet I was saddened to hear about that, but not surprised. I don't know, man, she just looks like the vulnerable type, like too fuckin' vulnerable; she has one of those faces that always seems primed and ready-made for some asshole husband to yell at her about the dinner being cold, right before the inevitable backhand.

Even at 46 years old, Kim Richards looks like she would still make the dumb/fatal mistake of Jan Brady-ing her ass back to the ice cream truck and politely stating that she asked for a Vanilla Twist. If that's the case, and if these IMDB-posting motherfuckers are right about her being a shit-taking pushover, then I hope she one day bounces back and escapes from the Witch Mountain that is her sister and the rest of those Botox'd leatherfaces and comes out of it stronger and healthier. But if she's just as bad as them, then I don't know, live your fuckin' life, lady, I don't give a shit, I got my own problems. Whatever the case, it's some crazy prescient-type shit to see her standing in front of a mirror in this movie and acting out this fantasy of being a high society rich girl, laughing about how she's recently been eating lobster so much -- never knowing that she would actually have those kind of Rich White Girl problems later in real life.

Back to the film; so these guys are about to fuck up the businessman something proper, but here comes James Spader's sweet ass to the rescue, on his fuckin' $500 bike. It's really none of his business, but good for him, spoiling these assholes' mugging attempt by riding in and spraying beer on them and causing one dude to spray paint his bro in the face, all while jamming to that Be-Bop-A-Lula song on his Walkman.

Yeah, this Spader's a real badass teen, man, but because his room is littered with books by guys like John Updike, Frederick Lewis Allen and Richard Bach -- not to mention he's got an Albert Einstein poster up on his wall -- there's more than meets the eye to this guy. By the way -- that Einstein poster? It's got a quote from the man, something about how great spirits always encounter violent opposition from mediocre minds, and I'm like, Of course Spader's character would think this pertains to him. Hell, anyone with that poster thinks that shit is referring to them -- oh, I'm a great spirit that no one understands! -- kinda like how Ayn Rand fans always think that bitch was referring to them when talking her shit, they all think they're Howard Roark up in this motherfucker.

But Spader? He ain't no second-hander, but he does use both hands to double-dart gun the roaches on his wall. He's also new in town, new to the school, trying to stay out of trouble. I know this because Spader's mom did the film a favor by having one of those awesome phone conversations that is really exposition in disguise and then his father continues said awesome exposition by telling Spader some shit he should already know by now -- like his son needs to be reminded on his first day at a new school that it's his first day at a new school.

Maybe I heard this wrong, but during the scene where Spader meets the very fair-and-balanced principal, something about "rooftop rock concerts" is mentioned and I guess that's one of the various hardcore gangsta shenanigans that got homeboy kicked out of the two prep schools he previously attended in the mean state of Connecticut. Sounds like the kind of shit that would get Zack Morris a slap on the wrist and maybe a Hey Hey Hey Hey What Is Going On Here from Principal Belding, but Spader had to move to another fuckin' state as a result of stunts like that, which is way too harsh for my taste, if you ask me, but what can you do? They probably weren't taking that kind of shit back in the 80's, and unfortunately Spader was born too early, homeboy's clearly a man born in the wrong time.

The new school is actually pretty nice and non-threatening, at least to me it was; it didn't appear to be the kind of school that would be in dire need of a Morgan Freeman or John Belushi to clean up and set straight. But there is a Bad Element here, and they happen to be the same Bad Element that Kim Richards was hanging with at the beginning of the movie, led by the slightly David Hess-ian actor Paul Mones, a name that seemed very familiar to me, and it would be familiar to you too if you grew up watching Jean Claude Van Damme fucking people up. You see -- as I found out when I confirmed it on IMDB -- Paul Mones co-wrote the screenplays for Double Team and The Quest, which is amusing to me because in Tuff Turf he looks like the kind of guy that Van Damme would be beating the shit out of in one of his earlier flicks. Anyway, Mones also wrote & directed a movie starring original hipster Jeff Goldblum, but I really don't care about that right now.

What I do care about is finding out that muthafuckin' Robert Downey Jr. is in this movie! Holy shit, I had no idea because he's credited without the Jr. part in his name, so I figured from the credits that it was his father (a prince) who was going to show up somewhere down the line, but no, man, it's Iron Man himself -- not only that, it's yet another Less Than Zero connection. First off, looking at him in this movie, and knowing what I know now -- what all of us know now -- is that it's so fuckin' obvious this was made while he was gettin' up in them drugs something fierce, man. FIERCE. Some scenes, he looks less druggy than others, so maybe he was clean during the movie and got into Party Mode halfway through, I don't know. Maybe he was clean throughout the whole movie and just suffered from Jim Breuer disease, looking fucked-up all the time. Anyway, here he plays a dude who befriends Spader and even gives him a switchblade for protection, now that Mones & company are looking to fuck him up for fucking up their money.

At first, their various fuckeries with The Spades involve The Darker Side of The Karate Kid type of bullying; they spray-paint his face and launch his $500 bike into the air by driving straight into it, which is fuckin' hilarious, watching that bike fly up in slow-motion like it's The Most Tragic Moment Ever -- which it is, if you were a 17-year-old and your bike got straight-up merked like that. Anyway, you see these guys and the school they're terrorizing and realize that it's a clear-case of Big Fish In A Little Pond; I mean, this group of rough ruffians and tough tuffians might be able to scare the shit out of your average straight bleached-blond youngster in way-too-short-shorts, but you put these assholes in any high school located in, uh, I don't know, South Central Los Angeles, perhaps, and they'd get their punk asses handed to them. But they are threatening enough that if you were a character in an 80's teen movie, you'd much rather have to deal with William Zabka and his lunch-table-lifting jackofferies, instead of these guys -- at least until the inevitable Second Plot Point, when these douchebaggas upgrade the kind of steel they like to carry.

It's interesting (and perhaps very telling) that Mones' has this cross pendant dangling very conspicuously from his neck, the better to display his total lack of Getting It because with all the crime and bullying he does, I don't think he understands what that cross symbolizes, let alone what the motherfucker nailed to it was all about. Fuck it, I guess it makes sense and it's believable that his character would be that fuckin' clueless and/or hypocritical because we gots lots of motherfuckers today who are all about The Christ and his message of love, yet these same people would slam a door in their child's face if he or she told him or her that he or she had a preference for chugging his fellow man's cock or chowing her fellow girl's box (or scissoring their fellow girl, if that's what they're more into).

By the way, these hardcore religious types love to quote that Leviticus shit, never thinking that this shit wasn't so much written by The Man Upstairs and his son James Caviezel as it was dictated to human beings, and maybe one of these human beings had a hard-on for the gays (but not in that way) and snuck in one night into the Jesus files and did a little ghost-writing of his own, adding some bullshit about how doing the homo thing is an abomination, knowing that by doing this revision shit, he was fucking future generations of gay people (but not in that way). If that was the case, I bet you this asshole, after he died, he arrived at the pearly gates thinking how awesome he was and then God just gave him this look like "Seriously, dude?" and rather than use His God-powers to fix that shit, He figured it's just one more fucked-up test to give us human beings, to see how many people would believe that shit. As of now, He still can't believe people are following that shit to the letter, and He probably feels about us humans the same way that dude on YouTube felt about his dog shitting on the beach.

While I'm on this Uncomfortably Discussing Homosexuality roll, let me bring up one of Mones' lackies; he's this raza dude and if you didn't know that just by looking at him, you'll know from hearing him because he's always saying the word "maricón" and if you don't know what that word means, then you're probably Tom Cruise and everything's sunshine and denials with you. Everything is "maricón" with this guy, which later makes you wonder -- these guys are fond of wearing belly shirts and thin headbands straight out of Cruising and during one scene, right before Mones (shirtless) and his crew attack Spader's sweet, sweet ass (also shirtless) in the locker room (right next to the showers), Mones gives Spader this Shawshank-style "Hey, anybody come at you yet?" look -- so maybe mi hermano was just calling it like he saw it.

I wasn't of age during the 80's, but all I hear about is how that decade was all about Gettin' Yours and living a life of excess and making as much as you can while telling your fellow man to go fuck himself, and I guess a lot of that shit would reflect in the movies and television shows of the time -- you were supposed to want all that shit, otherwise you can never be happy. So maybe that's why there's a sequence in this flick where Spader takes Iron Man, Vanilla Twist, and this chick who reminded me of my homegirl Kelli Maroney over to crash a country club for a taste of the good life.

It's there that these Tuff Turfians learn that there is more to life than eating delicious burgers and fries, there's also bullshit salads and non-filling hors d'oeuvres too -- all while taking these stuffed shirts down a peg or two and teaching them to Get Down. In other words, thanks to former rich kid Spader, these poor kids ended up getting a real treat by getting to live life like a baller, even if it was just for 20 minutes. But then, if you flash forward about 12 years or so later, you see a movie like Titanic, where poor scrappy DiCaprio takes rich unhappy Winslet down to party with the lower class -- where people REALLY know how to party, and where Winslet learns that these rich motherfuckers, man, they are missing the fuck out of Life. Which I guess tells you the difference between the messages of the movies of the 80's and 90's, even though Titanic took place in the 10's, so I really don't know what my fuckin' point is. I'm an idiot.

The best part of this country club sequence is when Spader goes up on-stage during a break in the house band's set to play a song on the piano and with the magic of lip-syncing, croons to Ms. Richards some bullshit about how he walks the night, and I say it's bullshit because he only walked the night for about 10 seconds in this entire movie -- otherwise he's either riding his $500 bike ($500!) or driving a jacked Porsche that obviously belongs to the Dumbest Motherfucker In The World, on account of him or her leaving the fuckin' keys in the ignition in the middle of what is obviously Tuff Turf. C'mon, people -- you don't leave your fuckin' keys in a car parked in the middle of Tuff Turf! Seriously!

Anyway, Spader is such a boss dude, he manages to woo over Kim Richards over to the non-greasy side with his singing and his various other Spaderies, like playing music and reading outside Ms. Richards' apartment (that's his way of serenading her and displaying his intelligence to her) in his awesome leather jacket, but this doesn't sit well with Mones and his crew of flunkies, so that means even more confrontations and threatening-sounding synthesizer music.

But man, fuck that Paul Mones, man, he's such a fuckin' prick in his stupid vests like he's in The Warriors and then he feels he's the victim of a My Chick robbery when Spader comes along, yet doesn't notice how fuckin' douchey he sounds when he refers to Ms. Richards as "my property". I don't think he even really loves her, despite what that asshole might say or think; she lives in an apartment located above the liquor store her father owns/works for and I bet you all he sees in her is his cock and some free booze. Man, fuck you, Mones -- I didn't even think Double Team was all that, anyway. KNOCK OFF FOR LIFE, BITCH.

But it's not just future screenwriters The Spade's got to deal with; his mother is simply not Getting It and giving him shit (he has a cool father, though), and she's holding him up to the gold standard that is his super-preppy brother who's got good things going in his collegiate life, this guy who probably has a girlfriend named Buffy. By the way, Spader's not a total opposite from his bro; while his sibling is dressed in a shirt & tie (rolled-up sleeves, natch) with one of those lightly knotted sweaters worn off the shoulders like he's fuckin' Bronson Pinchot about to ride the Viper, Spader's also got some pretty privileged duds he parades around in periodically (whenever he's not Walking The Night in his badass leather jacket); we're talking a light pink dress shirt under the kind of sweater that looks like something Paul Reiser would have on during any given episode of My Two Dads, whenever he was feeling particularly father-ish. But I can dig it, that's how dudes dressed back then, I guess.

The music seems like the kind of stuff they listened to back then; the soundtrack is pretty sweet, even though I don't recognize much of it (I reckon it's original stuff made for the movie) but it's definitely got that unmistakably 80's vibe to it. They also mix it up with some of that White Boy Goes Black Man music, courtesy of a band called Jack Mack and the Heart Attack, and these guys, man, I already knew about from the movie that hacks like Kubrick and Coppola and Malick only wished in their wildest dreams they could have made -- Police Academy.

But now, thanks to Tuff Turf, I know how these guys look; the trombone player/hypeman looks like a thinner Paul F. Tompkins wearing Powers Boothe's disguise from the climax of Sudden Death, and the lead singer looks like Bonecrusher from Deadbeat at Dawn. But Kim Richards, she hears this Jack Mack and she's like Step Back, because this fragile-looking thin girl with very long hair suddenly turns into a shorter thicker woman with fake-ass hair extensions when she's dancing. It's the power of music, ya'll!

Anyway, this is a cool 80's joint and I was surprised to find out afterwards that the shit was almost 2 hours long, because it never felt lagging or slow. Sure, it's funny to see the styles & clothes of the time, and watching Spader's sweet, sweet ass with his making-the-ladies-wet-with-his-singing routine is Good Times too, but overall I thought this was pretty legit; the villain's an asshole, the lead is relatively root-worthy (I mean that in both the American and Australian definition) and the climax involves dart guns and Tenebrae dobermans. I dug it -- and if you like watching emotional scenes get sabotaged by hilariously distracting posters of Johnny Rotten, then by all means, Tuff Turf this shit.

In conclusion, Jim Carroll is also in this flick and so is Cat Sassoon -- two more friends that DIED.

Any paragon of virtue

2011-08-21T03:05:00.000-07:00

I was supposed to do it all in one post, my ramblings on watching all seven Saw flicks with my friends, back-to-back (the movie, not me and my friends), but because I ramble way too fuckin' much, I had to break this shit into two separate posts. Problem is, too much time had passed between watching the films and writing about them, hell, I was surprised that I was even able to write as much about the first three movies, since even those ramblings came rather late (I usually need to write about this shit within 3 days, or my alcohol-damaged/pot-resin'd brain forgets about it).

As for the rest of the Saw flicks, well, most of my initial thoughts have faded away, so I can only give you very brief impressions about them (relatively brief, anyway), so sorry about that. Although, considering my opinion of the final Saw film, it's kind of appropriate that I conclude my ramblings on this series in such a manner -- slapdash, thrown together and rushed (and when you consider that my ramblings in general are already slapdash, thrown together and rushed, that really says a lot). As for what my friends and I did between movies -- we snacked, took smoke/bathroom breaks, and drank lots of Cherry Coke. Then it was 9:00 in the morning, and we went our separate ways. So let's wrap this sucker up, shall we?

SPOILERS HERE, SO IF YOU DON'T WANT 'EM, WHY DON'T YOU GO BACK TO YOUR HOME ON NO-SPOILER ISLAND

Saw IV: Jigsaw's dead (long live Jigsaw), but someone's stepped in and is picking up where that guy left off, picking dumb obsessed cops to fuck with, and this time it's one of the SWAT guys who committed the crime of thinking he can be everywhere and save everyone, like he's Dr. Manhattan or somebody. By the way, in addition to abandoned buildings and green-tinted visuals, the Saw series loves it some SWAT guys; damn near all of the Saws have a scene featuring SWAT guys entering a building with their flashlight-attached Heckler & Koch's. It also loves it some scenes of robed people in pig masks snatching people in isolated areas, followed by a quick cut to black.

I'm surprised by how many people dug this one; even though it returns to Saw II's speedy pace of events and includes some pretty nasty surprises, overall I wasn't feeling this one, with the exception of the flashbacks regarding Jigsaw; homeboy actually gets to have quite a bit of dramatic shit to play, this guy should feel blessed to have gotten this role, and not just because of the bank it would make him and the attention it would garner. I'm not as familiar with the roles of Tobin Bell, but I have a feeling he probably had a lot more to play with in the Saw series than he ever did with previous roles in the past 20 years of his career. Well, aside from this.

Also, if you ever doubted director Darren Lynn Bousman's love of transitions, man, you won't be doubting it after watching this one. There must've been lots of blood, sweat and tears on the set trying to pull these mothers off, but they did, and they're pretty sweet, these transitions. Crazy transitions. Transitions up the ass. Transitions transitions transitions. If fades & dissolves were human beings, Bousman would punch 'em in the throat, he has no love for those assholes.

Saw V: Now this one seems to get a lot of hate, but I don't hate on it, I thought it was eh, feh, and a little meh, but it was still better than IV. So what we have here is the new Jigsaw, played by the very Michael Pare-esque Costas Mandylor, and he's trapped 5 people who are as dumb as they are unlikable; Julie Benz is among them, and between Rambo, Punisher: War Zone, The Boondock Saints II, this flick, and the show Dexter, she seems to be the go-to hottie for all things Killing-related (she also appears to be the Lionsgate lucky charm for their violent action flicks, having appeared in most of them, so if they ever make a Crank 3, don't be surprised if she pops up in it somewhere, preferably catfighting with Amy Smart). But yeah, she was in the second Boondock Saints and on a related note, it was pretty awesome to see "Papa Joe" Yakavetta from the first Boondock show up here, speaking in his normally proper English accent. Anyway, I thought it was funny that they killed the characters in order of least to most hateable.

There's cool O.G. Jigsaw backstory here as well, told in flashbacks (the only way one can keep Tobin Bell in this series), and they continue the on-going saga of having the dumbest, most obsessed authority figures march their dumb asses towards inevitable ownage. Yet there's still a sense that these filmmaking motherfuckers are treading water, using water wings made out of the audience's money. Anyway, hooray for Betsy Russell.

Saw VI: This one's more like it. This is my second favorite after Saw III -- it's goofy, insane, and best of all, fuckin' inspired; the victims here are all motherfuckers who work for a health insurance company and they get the Jigsaw treatment for being smug coverage denying/cancelling motherfuckers. The main dude at this place has to go through a Saw III-style series of tests, only here he doesn't so much have to save the victims as he has to choose which ones will survive, and since he makes his living more or less choosing who lives or dies anyway, this should be a cinch for him, right?

Thankfully/entertainingly, the answer is Fuck No.

The best trap is the one where his staff of assholes who seem to get off on finding discrepancies in past applications of current policy holders and cancelling/fucking them over, well, they're all tied up to this spinning carousel, and Main Smug Asshole has to choose which 2 out of the 6 staff members gets to live. The rest get a close-range shotgun blast to the chest (even poor Eddie Winslow from Family Matters gets no mercy), and it is a glorious sight to see. Shit, this goddamn film in its entirety is a glorious sight to see -- nay -- to behold! And the ending! Oh sweet Jesus, that ending -- the Saw films all have great endings, but this one might be my fave. I feel like Christian Bale in Harsh Times, tripping the fuck out after seeing homeboy turn that vato into a fountain of BLOOD!

The only part I thought was kinda unfair was during one of the tests, when the janitor -- the fuckin' janitor, man, c'mon -- is revealed to be one of the possible victims, and his crime -- get this -- his fuckin' crime is that he's 52 years old and smokes. That's it. It's one thing for some rich asshole to be throwing his health away on those cancer sticks, because that guy's got money, toys, bitches, respect -- why would he want to smoke? But the poor janitor, I'm sure he doesn't make that much money, he's scraping by just to get by, so let the poor guy have his cigarettes, let him have his brief moments of joy, it's all he's got. At this rate, they were probably only a couple sequels away from ripping some motherfucker's spleen out in a trap just because he or she liked cheeseburgers.

Saw: The Final Chapter (or Saw 3D, as it says on-screen): Easily the worst of the series, you can tell this was pretty much a rush job so they could complete the series, since the young gunslinger known as Paranormal Activity came into town and started muscling in on the Halloween action. I suspect that they were originally going to start a new trilogy that was all about Australian Michael Pare, since Saw VI pretty much completed Jigsaw's "grand plan", leaving only one loose end to tie. But then after that lame found-footage bullshit handed their asses to them at the box office, the filmmakers were probably scrambling for a way to save face and wrap this shit up while bullshitting everyone into thinking that it was always meant to end this way.

The opening is pretty awesome, if you discount the fact that it makes absolutely no fuckin' sense in the grand scheme of this whole Jigsaw business; the previous victims were somehow connected/related to Jigsaw's world, even in the loosest of ways, but I don't know how some late teens/early twenties love triangle fits into it. Was this some desperate way to get the younger Final Destination crowd? I mean, all the previous "test subjects" in the Saw movies were refreshingly older, it wasn't the usual Dead Teenager types who were being fucked with. But why would they go that way now? Young kids are the ones who go to see these flicks anyway, these kids today with their Phil Collins and their Melissa Etheridge, I didn't hear them complain about not seeing themselves on-screen during the last 6 Saws. But then again, maybe I'm wrong; it's not like I waste my time talking to young kids, not since that goddamn Sex Offender Registry outed me. 8-year-olds, dude.

Calm down, I was only kidding. Or was I? DUN DUN DUN -- HIDE YO KIDS, HIDE YO WIFE

And as ridiculous as the situations and traps got in the series, they still had a genuine unnerving menace to them as well, but this final chapter? Feels like some straight-up parody. I don't know if they were going for a tone similar to the last 2 Chucky movies, but I can't say they succeeded in their attempt because I laughed WITH those movies, whereas with Saw 3D, I was mostly laughing AT that lame bullshit. Maybe I missed something, but apparently, somewhere during the series, Jigsaw went Full Stansfield and demanded that EEEEVVVVEEEERRRRYYYYOOOONNNNEEE gets got, because it seems like half the population of this vaguely Canadian metropolis has gone through his tests at one time or another. There's even fuckin' support groups for Jigsaw test survivors, like it was some AA shit, complete with free coffee and donuts.

Cary Elwes finally returns, having gone full Shatner with his role as Dr. Gordon; he pops up about 3 times, and his is a welcome sight to see. Plus it was cool to see Lionsgate continue to hook up Boondock Saints alumni by having Powder McManus himself as the lead (more-or-less), playing some douche who has been passing himself off as a Jigsaw survivor, even writing a best-seller about his experience. Well, he's the dumbest motherfucker in the world to be pulling that shit in Jigsaw City, where as I said before, it's like 2 out of every 3 citizens have been tortured by the motherfucker, so guess what happens to his ass. I'll give you a hint: it's the same fuckin' shit the lead assholes had to do in Saw III and VI.

I'll give it this, though; it sure felt like the goriest Saw of the bunch -- there's a fantastic sequence involving a group of racist skinheads (and their racist groupie) getting owned by one of Jigsaw's traps, and the final test in the movie is genuinely fuckin' disturbing in how it plays out. But see, that's all this one has going for it, the gore, and even then, the power of that shit is diluted from being surrounded by a shitty thrown-together story.

Hell, even one of the traps pulls a Necrobutcher by sucking a fat dick; it's a self-activated machine gun that works when a couple of dumbasses stand in front of it and don't move a muscle as it aims and fires at them. I'm sure that's not the effect it's supposed to have, I'm sure it sounded awesome on paper, but it sure didn't translate well in front of that HD camera. Even for a Saw joint, this movie has a super-cheap look to it, both production design-wise -- big surprise there -- and Fuck Film Let's Shoot This On Digital-wise, which is odd since I think this was the most expensive one.

You'd think it wouldn't look like a direct-to-video Saw sequel, but it does -- come to think of it, that's what these sequels have always felt/looked like, DTV-sequels given a theatrical release -- but still, this shit was pushing $20 million, budget-wise, so either someone was pocketing the cash or the entire cast & crew was eating lobsters and truffles for breakfast, lunch and dinner, washed down with bottles of Cristal and grenades packed full with the finest, uncut Bolivian flake. Then they remembered there was still a movie to be filmed.

They didn't have enough money to get decent secondary actors, so they hired rejects who auditioned for Gran Torino and DIDN'T get the part, that's how bad they are in this movie; the latest Dumb Obsessed Cops are really....really....not good. I guess all the other good Canadian actors were working on other movies while this one was being made, Atom Egoyan and Don McKellar probably snaked all the good ones.

Anyway, this last chapter kinda sucked, but at least they gave it an ending that did just that -- ended all this shit -- while still leaving enough room for a new beginning, which I'm sure they'll do in a few years. They'll take a break, get their shit together, wait for that Paranormal Activity bullshit to lose it's luster, and then guess who's back, back again? Yup, it's Saw -- only they'll do something fucked up like call it The Saw or go back and reset the title to just plain Saw again (to confuse us) or maybe they'll continue numbering the sequels, only next time they'll change it from Roman numerals to good ol' Western Arabic (to fuck with us).

But first, they're gonna bleed every green drop of potential money from the original series, maybe even pull some special Godfather Saga-style re-edit of the movies, so the events can play in chronological order, and they'll release it on Blu-ray and everyone's gonna get excited -- until the complaints start pouring in that the transfers have been tinted blue or red for some reason and it's not even 1080p, it's in 1080i, and everyone's gonna get pissed about it and bitch on the message boards that Harry Knowles is a sellout for lavishing praise on this new boxed set, because that's what we're good at, that's what we do! GAME OVER

Order of preference (if that shit matters to you):

SAW III
SAW VI
SAW II
SAW
SAW V
SAW IV
SAW 3D or THE FINAL CHAPTER or whatever you want to fuckin' call it

We do not want you here. We do not like you.

2011-08-18T10:22:00.000-07:00

“Oh my goodness you like those kinds of movies? I can maybe watch one but that's it.”

                  -- a text message from my sister, referring to either
                     the Saw movies or girl-on-girl porn

A few years ago -- during a break at either the New Beverly Cinema's All Night Horror Show or the Aero Cinematheque's Horrorthon -- a buddy of mine brought up the idea of having a Saw marathon. I had only seen the first one while he hadn't seen a single one, so we decided to have our back-to-back night of torture porn goodness as soon as the filmmakers and/or Lionsgate called it quits with those shits. Well, as of last October, the Saw machine has stopped -- for now. Because something tells me that much like the Halloween movies and the Friday the 13th movies, the Saw movies will pull a Chev Chelios in that they'll get better after dying.

Like that first-wife-beating, first-child-ignoring, asshole musical genius once said: Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans, and that's what kept us from setting up our evening of Saw at first, but eventually the night finally came and I had already acquired the entire series earlier that week from my awesome neighbor, a hard-working family man who not only gives good firearms conversation and hooks me up with free quality bread (rye! sourdough! bagels! I'm super fat!), he evidently also likes to unwind after a hard day's work by watching people scream in pain as they try to get through astonishingly baroque traps left by some sanctimonious asshole, hence his owning all seven Saw films.

After snatching said Saw series, I then rushed off to 7-11 for a couple bottles of Vitamin Water and some chips, then stopped over at Cigar Castle to buy a couple of choice stogies, while my wife LeEtta picked up some pizzas from the local -- oh, wait a minute, that's the other guy, not me. My bad. I get really confused sometimes. Two of my buddies showed up to give me some company, but more importantly, they brought Cherry Coke.

SPOILERS, LITTLE GIRL, SPOILERS

The first film was indeed Saw, about two guys -- a Brit and an Aussie -- trapped in an abandoned bathroom (really?) and trying their absolute fuckin' hardest to speak with convincing American accents without slipping into one of those odd Tim Roth-in-Reservoir Dogs voices. They also each have an ankle chained to the bathroom pipes, there's a bloody dead guy in the middle of the room, and oh yeah, then they find out that one has to kill the other by 6:00, so yeah, there's that too.

Most of the film consists of flashbacks about how they ended up in this predicament, as well as cutting to scenes involving a detective played by Danny Glover, and because he hasn't yet declared that he's approached an age in which he should no longer get involved in stressful/overly demanding situations, he's gathering an increase in heat on the trail of the "Jigsaw Killer"; some asshole who is kidnapping other assholes and placing them in these horrific traps that require these assholes to make some fucked up choices if they want to survive -- the idea being that they'll come out of it as former assholes, if they live through the ordeal. Anyway, turns out that our two wannabe American-speakers are the latest potential victims/survivors of Jigsaw's latest trap.

I've seen Saw once before in 2005, in its R-rated DVD incarnation, and I remember liking it even though the pacing got a tad protracted at times, like the filmmakers forgot the movie's called Saw, not Saaaaaawwwww. But the stuff that works in the film, really fuckin' works and overall it was a decent flick. The performances are pretty good; Danny Glover's got a nice dual mode going on here, first he's kind of an overly-assured dude who thinks he's got it all figured out, and then once he watches the karaoke salesman from Keeping the Faith get multiple-shotgun-blasted, he becomes Mr. Obsessed, and you get the sense that sleeping, eating and bathing are all low-priority for him from here on out.

Then there's Cary Elwes, who's pretty awesome here in that he's kinda like a subtle William Shatner at times, doing this whole ACTING! deal with his character. It's like he's an old fat English theater actor stuck inside a leading man's body (albeit a slightly plump leading man, but fuck that shit, the dude is getting older and a motherfucker's metabolism slows down with age, so give homie a break, don't hate on the motherfucker just because he doesn't look exactly like Westley anymore. Jesus tap-dancin' Christ, people).

The strongest scene for me was actually one that didn't involve any traps, it involved a gun being held to a frightened little girl's head while the sick fuck holding the gun listens to her heartbeat with a stethoscope -- that shit is so brilliantly ill, that if I were to ever meet director James Wan or writer Leigh Whannell, I'll have to buy them a fuckin' drink for coming up with it, even though they probably have more money than I do. I'd also buy the little girl a drink for her way-too-convincing performance in that scene, except that shit would probably get me locked up and/or a visit by that ultra-smug motherfucker who judges son/daughterfuckers with his Beacon Of Moral Purity act on television while cheating on his wife behind closed doors, but I'm not hating because that shit's between consenting adults, not a kid and some creep with fucked-up wiring. Fuck it, it doesn't have to be alcohol, I'll buy her a Yoo-Hoo or something.

All the events of this movie appear to take place in the same shitty 2-block radius somewhere in downtown Los Angeles, and aside from the now-iconic bathroom set, most of this movie looks fuckin' El Cheapo; the doctor's office in this flick, shit man, it looks like the set probably still reeked of semen and sweaty asses from the previous film that was shot there.I guess most of the budget went to scoring Danny Glover, Cary Elwes, and the chick who got blasted by a shotgun-wielding psycho in the family comedy Patch Adams and they didn't have much left for sets that didn't look like some rejected shit from a circa 1991 Don "The Dragon" Wilson joint.

Let me Tarantino this shit back to shortly after the first film's theatrical release, when I spoke to a guy who worked on Saw Uno and potentially could've hooked me up with some work, had I not slipped on a banana peel and fell straight into a pool of laziness and alcoholism. I remember two things from our conversation: first, he was very amused at the sight of the young Asian director speaking with a straight-up Fosters Beer/shrimp on the barbie accent (I guess he didn't know about the large Asian population Down Under) and second, the crew worked for very little money and put in some serious fuckin' overtime, yet he Just Fucking Knew that rather than reward said crew by keeping the sequel local, the producers were going to take that shit to Canada in order to minimize costs and maximize wallet girth. Sure enough, the motherfucker was right because the rest of the series was shot in Toronto -- they didn't even try to pull a Police Academy and take that shit back to L.A. for a couple sequels and throw a couple bones to some locals, they just fuckin' stayed up north, makin' that money, eatin' Tim Hortons, sippin' Purple Chango.

Back to our movie night; Saw II was next and in this one, Donnie Wahlberg plays one of those hardcore tough-guy detectives, and he's so grizzled and beaten-by-life that he doesn't even have time to get his clothes pressed and I think he must've lost a lot of weight recently because he's a baggy outfit-wearing motherfucker. But then again, he probably buys his shit from one of those places where you can get 3 suits for $100, and the off-the-rack joints tend to not be the best fitting, but hey, what can you do, the funeral's tomorrow and you can't show up in your 1989 Saturday night party borderline-Cosby sweater, just 'cause it's the closest thing to respectable in your closet, and surely you can't show up wearing one of your ironic hipster unicorn tees, nobody's that big of an asshole.

Anyway, he has one of those douchebag teenage sons who's always getting into trouble, and rather than break out the fuckin' Boone's Farm wine and celebrate after his son ditches him to run to Mommy's, he's all fucked up because he loves his son and all of that bullshit. But because this shit's called Saw II and not How To Make Your Douchebag Son Understand You, Plot Point #1 peeks its ugly head and it turns out Jigsaw's behind the little brat's disappearance, and even though Donnie has that fine Dizzy Flores and a crew of hardcore SWAT motherfuckers from the Vaguely-Canadian Police Department backing him up, Mr. Saw's holding all the cards in that warehouse hideout of his. You see, J. Saw has a bunch of monitors displaying a video feed from some unknown location, where a group of strangers have just woken up to find out they're J-Sizzy's latest "test subjects", and Probably Still A Virgin is among them.

This flick's a little flashier than the last one (which was mostly flashy with the edits as a way to disguise some low-budget shit), but I didn't mind; I remember reading lots of hate online at the time, regarding what they considered to be unnecessarily flamboyant camera moves & seizure-inducing editing during some of the trap scenes, and I'd have to disagree with them. See, I think the point of doing that was to get you into the mindset of the victim as he or she becomes increasingly panicked/frustrated/anguish as they try to get out of the trap, which is made worse by the victims knowing that they don't have forever to be careful about this shit, because they're on the clock, bitch, and midnight is coming.

I'd say overall, this one's about even with the first and it could've been better except this shit has it's own flaws to keep it from surpassing the original, like the raza with big arms who's just mean & evil because you need someone mean & evil to fuck shit up. But I did like that the sequel had a way fuckin' faster pace to it, and I preferred the interactions between Jigsaw & Marky Mark's brother in this flick over Cary Elwes & Leigh Whannell's slightly accented shenanigans in the previous joint.

All kidding about being Marky Mark's brother aside, I gotta give it up to Donnie Wahlberg for playing his character in the first third of the film as some generic hardass, and then spending the rest of the film with increasingly watery eyeballs after discovering about his son's current situation, while still trying to put the fear of having a motherfucker feel the vibrations into Jigsaw (and failing miserably, because Jigsaw knows what the fuck is up, now that Donny Don's revealed some serious vulnerabilities).

They get into Jigsaw's medical condition (he's got the big Casino) and how he's taking it out on people who aren't fully appreciating their lives in various ways; he'd probably disagree, though, saying that he's not on some vengeful wrath deal, but rather, he's giving them an opportunity to be "reborn". By the way, if I'm mixing any of this shit up, please forgive me, I watched all 7 flicks in a row and it gets to a point that with enough time, enough lack-of-sleep, and enough marijuana, one can easily confuse-o-blend these movies into one bloody, rusty, green-tinted slurpee of cheap sets, awesome gore and B & C-level actors.

I'm not a fan of the term "torture porn" -- even though I had no problem using it like 2 or 3 times already -- and I didn't consider the first Saw an example of T.P., because you're with the characters and you're feeling their pain and you don't want a motherfucker to saw his foot off, even though the titular tool hangs over the entire film like a threat that will eventually be carried out. But hey, that's not torture porn, that's good filmmaking.

And that's the main problem with Saw II -- there's a slight lack of said good filmmaking, causing this shit to feel rather torture porny at times because I didn't give a shit about most of the victims, I'm really just watching these people get owned for the fun of watching them get owned, rather than getting emotionally involved in their plight. I only cared for two people: Shawnee Smith's character, because she had already gone through this shit in the last movie (and because she's cute) and homeboy from South Central (or as some of you might know him as, Tuneman from Speed and Speed 2: Cruise Control).

It was interesting watching this movie with a friend who does not like anything remotely scary; when I heard she was coming over, I didn't believe it. This is the same girl who would not go to the horror movie marathons at the Aero and New Bev, and here she was watching her some Saw. Turns out the hardest part of watching the Saw movies for her was the music, particularly with the first one, because that really creeped her out. The music is definitely The Most, particularly that track called "Hello Zepp", because by the third film, my buddies and I realized that whenever that tune came on, it meant the movie was about to drop some heavy fuckin' science on the viewer (not to mention the unsuspecting on-screen characters).

Saw III was next, and I want to bring up that the extended director's cut wasn't available, so instead we watched the unrated cut of the theatrical edit, which I found out later wasn't missing anything worth not missing, aside from a catfight that would've been cool to watch because two chicks fighting is always a good thing because, you know, they might get it on or something -- but hey, a rough version of that scene is on the unrated DVD extras; it's awesome in a watching-women's-tennis-with-your-eyes-closed kinda way because one chick pushes the other against the wall and there's a lot of groaning/moaning/panting going on and now I have to take a break to watch it again.

Speaking of chicks getting physical, there's a scene involving Shawnee Smith getting the absolute shit beat out of her by Donny Don -- beaten with a large pipe! punched in the face! slammed repeatedly against a wall! -- and rather than keel over and piss herself like Kurt Russell's not-really daughter in that movie The Chris Brown Inside Me or whatever that shit was called, she takes her lumps like a fuckin' champ and gives just as good as she gets.

Sheeeeeiiiiiiit, I couldn't take nearly as much of a beating as she did, probably because I'm not a fictional character in a movie that stretches credibility tighter than a drum set made out of Joan Rivers' skin, but whatever, she looks pretty badass with her crazy hair and leather coat and blood dripping from her face, looking like some punky female Parker in a movie no one would ever make, on account of Hollywood being run by pussies (or Jews, if you're Mel Gibson). Sure, there's Anna Karina in Made in U.S.A., but that was made by Jean-Luc Godard, back when he was beginning to dabble in his now-permanent I Like Being An Antagonizing Contrarian Dickwad Who Thinks He's Better Than Everything phase, so I don't count that shit.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, the unrated cut. It's the longest of the series at 113 minutes, while the director's cut is just a shade over two hours and while I'm usually all about the director's vision, c'mon man -- it's Saw III, not The Bridge on the River Kwai, so trim that bitch down, chief. Save the indulgences for your cult rock operas. Anyway, we watched the unrated 113-minute cut, that's what I was trying to say.

So in this one, it looks like that fine Dizzy Flores is gonna be the Main Dude/Obsessed Cop here, taking over for Danny Glover and Come On Come On Feel The Vib-- Oh I'm Sorry, That's My Brother You're Thinking Of. But goddammit, they tricked me because poor Dizzy can't catch a break in these goddamn movies, she's always meat wagon material, but at least she always goes out hard: she's either getting eaten or impaled or power-drilled through the eyeball, and in this flick she gets her fuckin' ribcage torn open, causing her guts to plop down on the ground, plus she's barefoot, so she's probably really cold too. Anyway, she and Michelle Rodriguez need to do a buddy cop movie or something where it ends with everyone BUT their characters getting killed, leaving our dynamic duo as the only ones left alive, because that would be a change for them, you see.

The filmmakers cruelly decided not to make Saw III about an attractive detective, and instead made it about Low-Budget Russell Crowe looking all bloated and assed-out because his dumbass son rode his bike onto oncoming traffic. He ends up getting Jigsaw'd into yet another abandoned building (because a Saw movie without an abandoned building is like a day without sunshine), only instead of getting thrown into some elaborate trap and being forced make the decision to live or die, he's thrown into a series of traps, and it's not his life he's playing with, it's the lives of the people who were somehow involved with his son's first-and-only-date with 4 Firestone tires: the witness to the accident (she ran away from the scene), the judge (he gave the driver a light sentence), and the vehicular manslaughter himself (the recipient of said light sentence -- but why did it have to be a brotha? Movie's racist, yo, racist, call Al Sharpton). Oh yeah, there's also some doctor chick who's being forced to delay Jigsaw's inevitable death-by-Cancer, or else the armed shotgun-shell collar she's wearing will go off and give her face a 12-gauge bukkake.

Because this one wasn't nearly as freight train-paced as Saw Dos, it took a bit getting used to at first, but eventually my patience paid off because this ended up being the best of the first 3 flicks; it has the most fucked-up traps, it has some great shit between all the characters (particularly anything involving Evil Chick getting physical with Victim Chick), and acting-wise these motherfuckers Brought It. Visually there's a lot of cool transitions between scenes where the camera moves from one location to another in the same shot; they're very reminiscent of a film directed by actor Saul Rubinek called Jerry and Tom, so it must be a Canadian thing, these awesome scene transitions. There's titties in this movie too -- the only titties in the entire series, I believe -- but it's during a torture trap scene and I don't know about you pervs but it's hard for me to get hard watching a woman screaming bloody murder as she freezes to death.

Also, I heard that part II was originally written as a stand-alone movie (which was then rewritten to fit the Saw universe), but I think this flick could easily have been it's own thing as well, because what you have here is a solid entry in the Revenge Ain't What It's Cracked Up To Be sub-genre of vengeance flicks: you have this dude, this Low-Budget Russell Crowe, who has so much anger and anguish (his drinking certainly doesn't help that shit) and suddenly he has the people he holds responsible for his current residence in Sucks To Be Me-ville handed to him on a rusty silver platter, about to die painful, horrible deaths, and all he has to do is....absolutely nothing.

But because Man is a complex beast, it turns out that letting them die is far easier said than done and now this fuckin' guy actually finds himself considering not only saving them from their plight, but considering making the necessary sacrifices that are required in order to save them (one trap involves him having to incinerate his dead son's stuffed animals and pictures in order to find a key that will save someone's life) -- and while he's racking his brain on this whole forgive/not forgive angle, his victims are currently being frozen/drowned/twisted to death in the slowest way possible.

I don't know how, but in this one I actually fuckin' cared for all the characters, even the assholes, even Jigsaw. Life is a motherfucker, is what this movie seems to be saying (because everyone in this movie has been motherfucked by Life), but goddammit, it's sure as fuck better than Death (especially Death by Freezing) and you only make things worse when trying to add Revenge into the mix. You gotta let that shit go, folks; I don't wanna be the one to tell you how it's gotta be, but livin' is the only way you're ever really gonna see. That's right, motherfuckers, I just invoked the Joe Public rule on all your asses.

It's kind of telling, I think, that while the rest of the Saws average about 90+ minutes, this one was a lot longer. I mean, considering all the shit that gets touched upon in this particular entry, and consider how this particular entry ends, and while you're still considering on those two things, consider this shit too: this was the last Saw that Leigh Whannell & James Wan were involved with writing-wise. They were probably hedging their bets with this one, wrapping it up in such a manner that this could also work as the last Saw movie ever made -- that is, if the grosses don't meet expectations.

Except the grosses DID meet expectations, not only that, they fuckin' surpassed said expectations, leaving the filmmakers to consider whether to leave on a high note, or bleed this motherfucker dry -- and it's safe to say that we all know which direction they took with it, right? Anyway, I can see that I've been writing quite a bit and I've only touched on the first three movies. Fuck, there's still four more Saws to ramble about, though, so I think I'm gonna have to Part 2 this shit by ending it here for now. Or perhaps I should do what the Saw guys didn't do, and quit while I'm ahead. I don't know, man. I don't know much of anything, but I do know that the Double Stacks at Wendy's cost more and taste shittier nowadays. Fuck that shit. You did me wrong, Wendy's, you did me real wrong. I'd go on a diet to spite you if it wasn't for the plain & simple fact that I'd have to put in an effort. Fuck THAT shit.

Click here for my shitty conclusion to my shitty ramblings.

That dog does not want to be anywhere near your crotch, sir. Stop it.

2011-08-03T17:19:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, friend-to-all-video-stores Phil Blankenship tweeted about a movie called Things, and it sounded pretty awesome in a WTF sort-of-way. A cool-sounding company called Intervision Picture Corp. recently released a special edition DVD (and a limited run of VHS copies), but fortunately for me and unfortunately for them, I was able to put my money back into my awesome wallet when my buddy told me that he already owned the previous DVD release (from the filmmakers' website) and would lend it to me. Later, I took my money back out of my awesome wallet and used it to buy a gram of Skywalker OG which was ultimately some bullshit, so I guess both Intervision and I lost 20 bucks that day.

Things is one of those ultra-low-budget/shot-on-weekends flicks made by some Tim Hortons-eating motherfuckers back in 1989; they shot it on Super 8 film and the only "professional" actor in the entire movie is a porn star named Amber Lynn. She plays this woman who looks like she just came back from some corporate hotshot type's mega-yuppie house, doing blow with said hotshot and another girl, until some bald dude in glasses showed up with a gun and rudely ordered the two girls to vacate the premises.

Now she's standing in front of what looks like the fuckin' Federated Group, or the Home Entertainment section of Crazy Gideon's circa 2004 (which means the products on display are from the early 80's) and either she's pretending to be or actually is an anchorwoman for the local news, only she keeps looking over to her right while reading Tonight's Stories for some reason, like she can see the manager of Crazy Gideon's staring at her and who can blame him -- this chick looks like she'd be more than up for a little Disco Disco Good Good.

I don't know, man, I'm watching her read the cue cards and it's like it never occurred to the filmmakers that maybe those cards should've been placed a little closer to the camera, perhaps even in the same fuckin' room. She has a co-anchor who carries with him the air of Kirk Cameron if he was gay and in Less Than Zero, and it looks like he co-anchors his shit from the Furniture section of Crazy Gideon's, sitting on a couch chair but not the comfy kind, it's the kind you can't recline. These news reports are placed pell-mell throughout the film, and they mostly consist of Amber Lynn telling us about 2 guys who are currently on the run or missing or something, I don't fucking know, don't expect me to pay attention to the goddamn thing.

But the main story involves this dude with a sweet mustache and a sweet-ass John Stamos circa '89 mullet and he's dressed like Garbage Day from Silent Night, Deadly Night Part 2, so to me, he's already Lieutenant Awesome in this bitch. He shows up at his brother's house in the woods, with Canadian Ricky Jay as his +1. Nobody's home, though -- or at least that's the impression the movie gives you until suddenly out pops the brother, talking that Hey Keep It Down bullshit, because his wife's in the next room; she's been fallen very ill, ever since she let some quack named Dr. Lucas perform some kind of experiment on her inner plumbing because Blondie here can't shit out a baby.

I'm not too sure it's the wife's fault, though; I mean, look at the fuckin' husband -- he looks like he'd be the kind of guy to shoot blanks, probably due to his balls getting irradiated as a result of too much fucking around old computer parts, because this guy looks like he loves him some fuckin' computers. In the pre-credits opening sequence, he's introduced trying to bang some naked chick with a mask over her face. Already in the first couple of minutes this movie is overwhelmingly Win; the badly dubbed actor sounds like one of Trey Parker's many anonymous side-character voices on South Park, the sad drugged-out porno music is a total beaut with its synthesized cheesiness, and at the end of the scene, you find out that this was all a dream -- meaning that even in this geek's fantasies, the best he can do is score with Butterfaces who need to mask themselves in order to entice the opposite sex.

Anyway, while the poor wife is suffering from intense pain in the bedroom, Perfect Husband, Sweet Mustache, and Canadian Ricky Jay are in the living room drinking beer and pranking each other with Cockroach Sandwiches because it's "Party party party!" according to one of them upon arrival. Look, I'm no fuckin' bon vivant who could put P. Diddy, Kanye West, or any other black music producer to shame when it comes to throwing nauseatingly excessive shindigs, but c'mon, 3 guys and a sick girl ain't a fuckin' party -- at best, it's a disturbing viral video.

And the shit's gonna get even more disturbing because it turns out that Dr. Lucas is one of those EEEEVIL doctors -- a mad doctor. Whenever he's not sticking his finger in some old guy's rectum or keeping up his shitty penmanship by writing referrals and prescriptions, he's busy torture-porning innocent people and it doesn't even seem to be a In The Name Of Science deal with him, I think he just likes to unwind by flaying the flesh off someone's hand or tearing a motherfucker's tongue out. He's the kind of madman who MWAHAHA's while his way-past-any-help victims beg for the sweet release of death.

What's even more freaky is that he does this with the help of a staff; how the fuck did he luck himself into finding like-minded people, did he post an ad on Craigslist? Or is the local job market so bad that these people are willing to ignore all the mutilations and scooped-out eyeballs as long as they're getting health insurance? The movie was shot in Canada but I think it takes place in the States, so I don't think this part of the film is supposed to be a Barbarian Invasions-style indictment on socialized medicine in the Great White North (I bet it won't stop Glenn Beck from using clips from this movie to stir the pot, though). Ah, doesn't matter now -- what matters is that unbeknownst to Sterile Husband and Barren Wife, the doc's created some kind of Thing or Things (kinda hazy on that one) that end up incubating inside the ol' ball & chain before finally pulling an Alien (causing the wife to pull a John Hurt) and now it's fuckin' on.

I take that back, it's not so much "on", as it's just merely "there". Perhaps it's just me, but these guys are reacting rather differently than expected upon discovering that there's a bunch of cat-sized carnivorous monsters prowling the house, having just eaten an innocent woman "to the skull" and looking for more of the same -- or maybe not, because these Things are as lackadaisical as our protagonists. They're not particularly fast or menacing, despite resembling junior Deadly Spawns crossed with a tarantula with a terrible case of Elephantiasis of the nuts -- it's pretty tasty -- but yeah, they walk like someone is holding them off-camera and doing that slightly-bouncy walk that kids would do with their toy soldiers and G.I. Joes when playing War or something. Mostly the Things just chill out and bum around the house; only occasionally, will they attack, and even then, they prefer to use the path of least resistance. These Things are fuckin' slackers, man.

For the most part, the Three Amigos in this flick don't seem too bent out of shape about what's going on, and the main emotional undercurrent between them seems to be one of either Frazzled Annoyance or Drunken Disbelief; the husband doesn't so much mourn the horrific death of his wife, as he just uses it as an excuse for him to start telling his buddies how this all reminds him of some horror novel he read. The plot of the movie seems to be an annoyance to the movie itself, which is far more content spending it's time with the characters acting like tipsy weirdos from the planet of Do The Complete Opposite Of What A Human Being Would Do and speaking in such a rambling, non-sequitur'd manner, that it makes one wonder if Coleman Francis (in Narrator Mode) did a dialogue polish (from beyond the grave) on the screenplay.

But that's cool with me because that's what really makes Things worth watching; you can eliminate the whole Killer Penile Tarantulas On The Loose plot and this movie would still be Top of the Pops for me. These guys, they're putting tape recorders and jackets in freezers and declaring out loud every fuckin' thing they do or see, whether or not there's another living person in the room with them. When they speak, they seem to be in a competition where the actor who can do the most stressing-of-the-wrong-syllable-in-a-word will win a prize -- shit, man, everything they do in general is just so fucking strange. Like, there's one part where Sweet Mustache takes a swig of beer and complains about the flavor, ("Must of came from a well in West Africa"), so he takes the bottle over to the sink and adds "pure American water" to it while humming to himself, then he puts his hand over the bottle and shakes it up before drinking it again.

They devote, like, an entire fuckin' minute of screen time to that kind of bullshit. They also devote long stretches of time to motherfuckers opening cabinets and looking inside for food, motherfuckers looking at artwork on the wall, motherfuckers playing with one of those drinking birds (the same kind from Darkman), leaving me to consider the possibility that the film's title might not be referring to the sharp-fanged monsters at all, but rather, it's serving as a description of the overall plot: just a random series of things happening.

I think a large part of this movie's weirdness stems from the filmmakers fancying themselves as Funny Motherfuckers. See, they're going for an Evil Dead vibe of mixing in the scary with the funny (they also make some of the clumsiest, awkward references to movies EVAAAR in this joint), and while they do succeed in making an overweight asshole crippled by back pain for being an overweight asshole laugh, it's because the humor is so astoundingly unfunny that I couldn't help but crack the fuck up -- it's like the cinematic equivalent to Darrell Bluett. I mean, c'mon -- I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to take it seriously when one character shoves his hand into some leftover blood & guts on a bed, then puts it up to his nose before declaring "Yeah, that's human blood, all right". Whatever, I'm not hating on the motherfuckers, and as long as people are laughing, who gives a shit as to WHY they're laughing. It's better than them booing, that's for fuckin' sure.

Yeah, you can't hate on the fuckin' movie in a Mean Asshole Blogger kind-of-way, at least I can't, even though it's absolutely fucking terrible. See, Things looks/feels like an unfortunate case of some guys who literally just started making movies, meaning we see all the classic fuck-ups one would normally make when one is 14 years old and fucking around with Daddy's Quasar VHS camcorder.

It reminds me of something Robert Rodriguez wrote in that book of his; when he was shooting student films, he noticed how polished his joints were compared to the rest of his class, and that was because most of them waited until they were in film school to pick up a camera. Rodriguez, on the other hand, had been practicing his craft for years with the family video camera & VCR, so by the time he upgraded from VHS to 16mm, homeboy already had a decent grasp on shit like Pacing and Shot Composition -- because nobody starts off making movies like a smooth motherfucker, you gotta fall on your face and eat shit many fuckin' times before you can get your shit together long enough to make an El Mariachi or an Evil Dead.

It's like they wanted to throw in everything but the kitchen sink, until they found out they could only afford a kitchen sink, because the house they were shooting in came with one. They didn't even get the sound right, so they re-recorded everything in post and the shit's in sync, like, half the time, and the sound design itself is very selective because sometimes I guess we in the audience don't need to always hear someone screaming, even though their mouth is open.

Maybe Francis Ford Coppola was in a wine & lithium stupor one night and caught this heartbreaking work of staggering unintentional genius (by way of incompetence), and he got the idea of the No-Screaming scream from them, then used that shit for the end of The Godfather Part III. There's also the music, which sometimes sounds warped, like it was being played on a faulty tape-player. Also, the movie sometimes leaves it up to you to figure out what the fuck a character is looking at/reacting to. And I swear, during one scene I caught a quick glimpse of the clapperboard in-between shots. These are a few of my favorite -- ahem -- things.

The best section of the movie is probably the last 20 minutes or so, because it really begins to ladle on the ridiculousness, particularly with the return of Dr. Lucas. The dubbing also goes completely off the fuckin' rails at this point, like maybe they realized how far gone the movie was and figured they could salvage it by having Super Wacky Fun Time and playing the whole thing off like it was a 70's Kung Fu flick. The actors then go into silent movie theatrics; any opportunity to wildly flail one's arms and make overly expressive faces is taken and ran with all the way to fuckin' Baja. Have you ever seen that short film Paul Thomas Anderson & Adam Sandler made for one of those charity shows where a bunch of celebrities with tax shelters and off-shore accounts show up and guilt trip you with how awesome and caring they are towards their fellow man, all while making you laugh (and think!)? Well, the acting in Things occasionally reminded me of that short.

My initial reaction following Things was similar to this guy's reaction, but after giving myself about a day to recover, I can conclude that yes, it's one of those post-Wood so-bad-they're-good joints, the kind of movie that I wouldn't be surprised to find out has already played at the Cinefamily/Silent Movie Theater to a room full of people hopped up on Pabst Blue Ribbon, giddiness and skinny jeans. This is pure uncut shit, though -- your casual viewer of The Room or Birdemic: Shock and Terror might not be able to handle it, they might come out of it like that kid in that Stephen King short story, The Jaunt.

But if you're the kind of person whose inner child has already been Day of the Locust'd, then you're probably the kind of person who would/should look for this sort of thing. You might enjoy watching it and mocking it/getting owned by it, forgetting for at least 80 minutes that your own cinematic endeavors aren't so far apart from this one. For those 80 minutes, man, you are Somewhere Else and you didn't even have to get high to get there, you're totally sober and yet it still feels like someone put something into your drink -- not for raping purposes, of course not, because who the fuck would want to sexually relate with YOU -- but just to see you make an ass of yourself as you try to make sense of the nonsensical and fail miserably at it. Because you don't so much watch Things as you just let Things happen to you.

In conclusion, I love that the credits were made with the same fonts one can find in your average editing software or public access character generator, but nobody ever uses on account of being some ugly, garish lame-ass shit. Helvetica forever, bitches.

YOU HAVE JUST

EXPERIENCED

MY RAMBLINGS ON

THINGS

THINGS Moments: Reaction In The Bathroom from Intervision Picture Corp. on Vimeo.

Movie Tally 2011: 7/01 - 7/31

2011-08-01T00:57:00.000-07:00

Not like you give a shit, but the ego was demanding that I acknowledge this meaningless milestone in some way, so here I go, burying it in the monthly entry I don't bother linking on The Twitter or The Facebook:

Went through the fiery ritual of Carousel during the early part of July, and thankfully I did not spend it like I did most of my birthdays (trying to will myself dead to make the pain go away). Instead I spent it rather blissfully; it was a weekend of 3 movies that happen to be on my personal list of Movies I Think Are The Bee's Knees And The Cat's Pajamas, starting with Free Enterprise on DVD and ending with Lifeforce in 70-muthafuckin-millimeter -- and in between was a midnight showing of Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, made even more awesome by my friends joining me for it.

That birthday night, as I sped down the freeway towards Pasadena to meet up with said friends for a pre-movie round of drinks, I turned on the ol' Sirius XM and the song "Dead Man's Party" by Oingo Boingo came on. I was briefly shaken by this, taking it as some kind of terrible omen, until I realized that this song is always playing on any given radio station every day, which would make it a terrible omen on everyone's birthday -- in other words, it's not an omen at all. Well, not unless you consider the fact that eventually we will all die, which in that case, good work Danny Elfman, you're like goddamn Nostradamus in this bitch, a Nostradamus who gets to fuck Bridget Fonda. Anyway, I came out of Carousel renewed and feeling oddly optimistic for a little while, and that was nice.

188. POLTERGEIST - 7/02/11 - DVD (re-see)
189. TRANSFORMERS: DARK OF THE MOON 3D - 7/04/11 - Theater
190. FREE ENTERPRISE (extended cut) - 7/08/11 - DVD (re-see)
191. KISS KISS BANG BANG - 7/08/11 - Theater/Regency Academy 6 (re-see)
192. LIFEFORCE (70mm U.S. cut) - 7/09/11 - Theater/Egyptian (re-see)
193. FLATLINERS (70mm) - 7/09/11 - Theater/Egyptian
194. THE BATTLE OF ALGIERS - 7/21/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)
195. CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE FIRST AVENGER - 7/22/11 - Theater
196. NIGHT MOVES - 7/22/11 - Netflix Instant (re-see)

July 2011 figures:

5 theater
0 drive-in
2 DVD
0 DVR/TV
0 Blu-ray
2 Netflix Instant Streaming
0 VHS
0 Other

3 new
6 re-see

9 viewings total for July 2011

Year to date: 196 movies

C'mon people, you should know by now that these Marvel movies end with something after the credits, so sit your ass down.

2011-07-26T14:22:00.000-07:00

After sitting down in my seat, eagerly awaiting Captain America: The First Avenger, I noticed a family two rows down that included a grandfather-aged man wearing a Captain America t-shirt and a tow-headed grandson-aged boy wearing a similar shirt and carrying what appeared to be a popcorn bowl shaped like Captain America's shield. There was also a family in the row in front of me, only this little bastard had a fuckin' mohawk on his head, so I guess that hairstyle is acceptable with today's youth; I'll bet you the proverbial dollars to the proverbial donuts that Mohawk Boy is a fuckin' asshole to his fellow boy at school. I felt even more certain of this feeling after seeing his father (he of the High & Tight haircut, yet probably never served a goddamn day in the military) put his disgusting and most likely unwashed bare feet up on the seat in front of him, proudly displaying his stupid ankle tattoo -- a bitch tattoo, if you ask me -- while he stretched his legs out and clenched his toes whenever he laughed. He laughed a lot.

Then an entire group of about 10 to 15 very well-behaved Asian children appeared, all wearing blue t-shirts with a school logo on them, all genuinely happy to be there; they were led by a man who was trying to get enough seats for them to sit down. I realized he could get damn near the entire row if I gave up my seat (as well as the seat reserved for my friend Mr. Large Popcorn Bag), so I gave them up and he seemed very appreciative -- and so was I, for that matter, because now it meant that I had an excuse to leave and exchange my ticket for the next showing a half-hour later (where I can probably get a better seat) and I guess I pretty much wasted your time and mine by writing about this.

Soon I was in a smaller theater with a surprisingly childless crowd and I guess Jesus decided to love me a little more that day because a group of tall, athletic and mostly blonde girls in what I'm guessing were college volleyball uniforms showed up and sat in my row, probably because they thought I was harmless and/or gay. That's where it starts and ends by the way, this isn't a fuckin' Penthouse Forum entry, unless you count what I did after the movie once I got home as a result of sitting next to that many short shorts and exposed legs, which in that case would make it The Saddest (And Most Believable) Penthouse Forum Entry Ever.

Anyway, it turned out that there were even more Girls Of Indeterminate Sport, only they were in the auditorium next door watching No Strings Attached 2: Friends With Benefits -- basically it was a split decision over who to swoon over: Chris Evans or that guy from The Social Network who didn't think a million dollars was cool. A billion dollars, on the other hand...

So, the movie, yes, the movie; Captain America: The First Avenger takes place in the early 40's during Dubya Dubya Too and focuses on this five-foot-nothing/hundred-and-nothing proto-Rudy with shit to prove; he's not happy with his fragile frame and litany of medical conditions sparing him from getting his nuts blown off over in another country, he still wants to fight for the Stars & Stripes.

Steve Rogers, he's called, and he's very likable during this part of the movie, probably because of that whole underdog thing he's got going for him. Plus, he will actually go out into the alley and go toe-to-toe with some piece-of-shit who kept talking in a movie theater -- sure, it was less about this asshole talking and more about WHAT he was talking about (talking mad shit over a newsreel about dead soldiers), but still, when you get down to it, Rogers was willing to try to beat this fuck to teach him to shut the fuck up at the cinema.

Anyway, because it's a movie based on a comic book, Rogers becomes the test subject to Stanley Tucci's super-serum that ends up turning him into a super-soldier, allowing Rogers to do super-soldier stuff like hocking war bonds and fake punching Fake Hitler while a bunch of current hot chicks/future old ladies dance around him on the stage. Eventually he gets to own the occasional Kraut in combat and it's interesting that you rarely (if ever) see a swastika or even hear the word "Nazi" that often in this movie, in fact, the bad guys in this movie aren't even the Nazis, but an offshoot group called Hydra.

That was a tad disappointing; I mean, if that's how it is in the comic book, then fine, but I kinda liked the idea of Captain America not so much being The First Avenger as maybe The First Inglourious Basterd -- or at least The First Guantanamo Bay Guard -- but who knows, maybe Hollywood didn't want to risk losing all that potential Neo-Nazi ticket money by pissing off all the skinhead'd, Jew-hating, anti-diversity, White Power-believing asshole audience members who just want to have a good time and watch a superhero kick ass but not at their expense because c'mon, we're all human beings here, we have rights -- but more importantly, we have feelings.

Well, Nazi or not, the main villain is still pretty scary/impressive; Red Skull is his name (actually it's some Kraut name, but who gives a shit) and he's played by Hugo Weaving doing a typically awesome job. The make-up effects are fantastic too, even though I wonder if Red Skull really hates allergy season; I mean, he has no nose (a Saigon whore bit it off, I reckon) but that gaping cavity is still there and that shit can get messy right quick. Whatever, that's his problem, not mine, so fuck that guy.

Red Skull's accent reminded me of Jurgen Prochnow, which then reminded me of how frustratingly disappointed I was with The Keep, which then reminded me of the story I heard about how Michael Mann supposedly screened 3 different cuts of Collateral in 3 separate auditoriums during the premiere and the one that got the best response was the one that was released into theaters the following weekend, and even if that isn't true, it sure as fuck feels true, knowing that wacky talented constantly re-editing bastard. But I digress.

I'm comparing this flick to one of director Joe Johnston's previous films (the one I'm pretty sure got him this job), The Rocketeer. In that one, there was no mistake whatsoever who the bad guys were -- those fuckin' Heil Hitler-ing cocksuckers (in Captain America, they go "Heil Hydra!" and use both arms in their salute, because they are twice as evil and strong, I guess). This was the same movie where a fuckin' bad scary gangster declares out loud that he might be a murdering, thieving, criminal piece-of-shit (I'm paraphrasing here), but he's still an American and next thing you know he's standing side-by-side with a G-man, blasting tommy guns at those Nazi motherfuckers. America Fuck Yeah!

But I guess nowadays it ain't so cool to ride the Proud To Be An American wave, lest you look like some cracker asshole who calls any Middle Easterner a "towelhead" (or "pamperhead", if you're the delightful Sir Larry The Cable Guy, OBE), which is too bad, really. Now we have to be downright Canadian about our American patriotism; in the last Superman movie they tried to be cute as they worked their way around that "Truth, justice, and the American way" line because God Forbid, right?

As for this flick, they try to slightly de-Fuck Yeah the proceedings and make it a tad more palatable to the America-haters by doing things like making the creator of the super-serum a German dude who is sooo not down with the Third Reich, and by having the hot chick in this movie a Brit; there's a scene where one recruit gives the Brit chick some shit for being from another country, and her response is to deck the motherfucker -- this is basically the filmmakers telling any dissenters in the audience to shut their goddamn mouths and just enjoy the movie.

I said "slightly de-Fuck Yeah the proceedings", though, because the filmmakers still manage to fill the movie with plenty of American flags while being sneakily P.C. about it all, and I'm sure the Pacifica Radio crowd will still find plenty to bitch about. Anyway, Cap doesn't go it alone on these missions, he has a team of colorful characters to assist him and they're basically a rainbow coalition of badasses; you have this Asian guy who seems pretty well-adjusted for someone who probably has a family currently interned in some camp while he fights for the country that put them there, you have the token Black guy who is thrilled to be able to drink in mixed company but has no idea that the brothas back home are being guinea pig'd with syphilis by Uncle Sam, you have a French guy (of course, he doesn't speak English) who in a few years will get the memo from his fellow Frenchies that he's supposed to hate Americans, and then you have a couple of White guys who are loving life because it's the mid-20th century and they're a couple of White guys. By casting these various types, the filmmakers show us the real America -- diverse yet united in a love for this country and a hatred of all Nazis and wetbacks (there's no raza in this flick).

The chick in this movie, she's fit, yo; apparently many a fellow Interneter agrees with me because the name Hayley Atwell has been among the top searches on Yahoo and most likely The Google. I liked the relationship between her and Steve Rogers, because I found it very truthful to Real Life; see, she knew him when he was the skinny/scrawny Steve Rogers, and during that time, she was nice to him and you can tell she liked his personality but it's not until he goes from Boy to Man and shows up all pumped up that he not only becomes Captain America but The Captain Of Her Heart as well. Hell, the first time she sees him, she can't even restrain herself from wanting to touch his buff chest. It made me wonder what would happen if halfway through the movie Rogers lost his powers and became Clark Kent again -- you know what would happen, she'd be off of his jock and on to another guy, like Tony Stark's fondue-loving father with the pedo-stache (back then, those were just regular mustaches).

It's not The Greatest Comic Book Movie Ever Made, but then again in retrospect, neither were most of the comic book movies of the past 10 years (didn't stop the critics from saying that shit though); it's a solid flick, with good action and drama -- ultimately a fine way to spend an afternoon and get some air-conditioning without feeling guilty about it afterwards. But apparently it didn't make that great of an impression on me because I can't think of anything else to say about it. Let's see, I talked about Red Skull, Chris Evans, Brit McHottie, Joe Johnston -- oh, OK, I know what to say now.

I think Joe Johnston was the perfect choice for this movie, because in addition to the indisputable fact that he directed the indisputably awesome The Muthafuckin' Rocketeer, he's also great with giving his best flicks an infectious Gee Whiz vibe to them. I mean, shit man, in the Sincerity department, Steven Spielberg almost comes off like a cynical hipster compared to Johnston when he's unleashed without his meds (which is very rare, unfortunately). Even that fuckin' digital Panavision Genesis cinematography can't tarnish the fuckin' nostalgic glow that emanates from this flick; like The Rocketeer Fuck Yeah, this movie looks and feels less like a recreation of the past and more like a fondly remembered fever dream of an idea of the past.

But is it as good as Rocketeer Comin', Yo? Well, no -- but what the fuck is? It's still pretty good, though, and would make a cool double-bill with it -- hell, let's make it a triple-feature and add Zone Troopers to that movie night. Have you seen Zone Troopers? No? Oh, come on, man, it's on Netflix Instant, you should see it. You should also see Trancers, because it's got most of the same cast and crew -- including the writers, who went on to write a movie by the name of....yup, you fuckin' guessed it: The Rocketeer Like A Muthafucka. Sorry about the mess I just made in your room from blowing your fuckin' mind right now with that. Holy shit, did that sound wrong.

In conclusion, Tommy Lee Jones is looking really old and grizzled nowadays, even for Tommy Lee Jones.