Song of the week:
"Locked in the Trunk of a Car"
by The Tragically Hip
They don't know how old I am
They found armour in my belly
From the 16th century
Conquistador, I think
They don't know how old I am
They found armour in my belly
Passion out of machine-revving tension
Lashing out at machiine-revving tension
Brushing by the machine-revving tension
Morning broke out the backside of a truck stop
The end of a line, a real rainbow-likening luck stop
Where you could say I became chronologically "fucked-up"
Put ten bucks in just to get the tank topped off
Then I found a place, it's dark and it's rotted
It's a cool, sweet kinda-place where the copters won't spot it
And I destroyed the map, I even thought I forgot it
However, every day I'm dumping the body
It'd be better for us if you don't understand
It'd be better for me if you don't understand
I'll give real money to the first person who can tell me what the hell he's talking about.
Monday, February 24, 2003
The Hours
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.
--Pink Floyd, "Time"
It's certainly the way of the women of The Hours. Across time, across continents, the one constant running through these characters is the desperation of their own lives. Led by director Stephen Daldry (Billy Elliot), the most stellar ensemble of the year creates a film that is no less than a masterpiece.
The Hours opens with a river, and like that river, the film flows through the lives of three women, each somehow connected through a single novel. In England in 1923, Virginia Woolf (a nearly unrecognizable Nicole Kidman) begins work on Mrs. Dalloway while struggling to deal with the life around her. In Los Angeles in 1951, Laura Brown (Julianne Moore) reads Mrs. Dalloway as a way to escape the family she doesn't know how to care for. And in 2001 New York, Clarissa Vaughn (Meryl Streep) finds herself lost as she plans a party for her AIDS-stricken friend Richard (Ed Harris), who calls her "Mrs. Dalloway" as she fits her life to the people around her.
Daldry and his editor, Peter Boyle, make it all flow together seamlessly, cutting back and forth between the three women in a stream-of-consciousness narrative that is unbelievably powerful. The most mundane of events -- the cracking of eggs, for example -- is connected through the film to reveal more and more about the characters. It's not an easy task to weave the three stories together, but the editing is perfect and never distracting. Also excellent is the haunting, beautiful score composed by Phillip Glass.
The performances are flawless. Kidman shuffles around her English cottage, puffing away on cigarettes and glaring over her nose at the servants. Whether she's watching her niece and nephews give a funeral for a dead bird or hissing her frustrations at her well-meaning husband Leonard (Stephen Dillane), Kidman perfectly captures the brooding Woolf, turning in the best performance of the year, female or otherwise. Meryl Streep is her usual dependable self, but Julianne Moore is positively heartbreaking, as she manages to turn the simple act of baking a cake into an epic struggle. Claire Danes, Jeff Daniels, Miranda Richardson, John C. Reilly, and Toni Collette are all excellent in small roles.
The Hours has moments of stunning power, scenes that stick with you long after the credits roll. One scene in particular sticks out for me. Laura drops her son off at a babysitter and heads to a motel, bottles of sleeping medication in her purse. Even she's not entirely certain what she's going to do. This is intercut with Virginia confessing to her niece that she may have to kill off her own heroine. Back in the hotel, Laura lies on the bed, the bottles on the dresser next to her, her eyes vacant...and suddenly water fills the room, flowing upwards, covering her completely. The film immediately cuts back to Virginia, with the audience as choked and breathless as Laura. It's a haunting piece of filmmaking, one that's impossible to forget (and I'm fully aware that this limp description does the scene no justice at all).
I know that I said About Schmidt was the best film of 2002, but I've changed my mind. The Hours is one of the most gut-wrenching films I've seen, a complex, emotional masterpiece that is the easy choice to take Best Picture. It's perfectly acted, directed, written, and edited -- a pure, flawless masterpiece.
Rating: *****
--Pink Floyd, "Time"
It's certainly the way of the women of The Hours. Across time, across continents, the one constant running through these characters is the desperation of their own lives. Led by director Stephen Daldry (Billy Elliot), the most stellar ensemble of the year creates a film that is no less than a masterpiece.
The Hours opens with a river, and like that river, the film flows through the lives of three women, each somehow connected through a single novel. In England in 1923, Virginia Woolf (a nearly unrecognizable Nicole Kidman) begins work on Mrs. Dalloway while struggling to deal with the life around her. In Los Angeles in 1951, Laura Brown (Julianne Moore) reads Mrs. Dalloway as a way to escape the family she doesn't know how to care for. And in 2001 New York, Clarissa Vaughn (Meryl Streep) finds herself lost as she plans a party for her AIDS-stricken friend Richard (Ed Harris), who calls her "Mrs. Dalloway" as she fits her life to the people around her.
Daldry and his editor, Peter Boyle, make it all flow together seamlessly, cutting back and forth between the three women in a stream-of-consciousness narrative that is unbelievably powerful. The most mundane of events -- the cracking of eggs, for example -- is connected through the film to reveal more and more about the characters. It's not an easy task to weave the three stories together, but the editing is perfect and never distracting. Also excellent is the haunting, beautiful score composed by Phillip Glass.
The performances are flawless. Kidman shuffles around her English cottage, puffing away on cigarettes and glaring over her nose at the servants. Whether she's watching her niece and nephews give a funeral for a dead bird or hissing her frustrations at her well-meaning husband Leonard (Stephen Dillane), Kidman perfectly captures the brooding Woolf, turning in the best performance of the year, female or otherwise. Meryl Streep is her usual dependable self, but Julianne Moore is positively heartbreaking, as she manages to turn the simple act of baking a cake into an epic struggle. Claire Danes, Jeff Daniels, Miranda Richardson, John C. Reilly, and Toni Collette are all excellent in small roles.
The Hours has moments of stunning power, scenes that stick with you long after the credits roll. One scene in particular sticks out for me. Laura drops her son off at a babysitter and heads to a motel, bottles of sleeping medication in her purse. Even she's not entirely certain what she's going to do. This is intercut with Virginia confessing to her niece that she may have to kill off her own heroine. Back in the hotel, Laura lies on the bed, the bottles on the dresser next to her, her eyes vacant...and suddenly water fills the room, flowing upwards, covering her completely. The film immediately cuts back to Virginia, with the audience as choked and breathless as Laura. It's a haunting piece of filmmaking, one that's impossible to forget (and I'm fully aware that this limp description does the scene no justice at all).
I know that I said About Schmidt was the best film of 2002, but I've changed my mind. The Hours is one of the most gut-wrenching films I've seen, a complex, emotional masterpiece that is the easy choice to take Best Picture. It's perfectly acted, directed, written, and edited -- a pure, flawless masterpiece.
Rating: *****
Saturday, February 15, 2003
The kind of mail I get.
Anybody else out there seen something along these lines? I must get three of these things -- all worded exactly the same -- every day.
(received just moments ago)
Subj: rocktmbstn,hi there...:)
Date: 2/15/2003 12:11:15 AM Central Standard Time
From: sexylaurie8a5pf@att.net
To: rocktmbstn@aol.com
First thing I hope this is the right email address rocktmbstn@aol.com ...:) You probably don't remember me, but we talked online a while ago.
I don't really know what happened, but I guess we both just got really busy or something. I feel really bad because I don't want you to think I was ignoring you or anything.
Anyway, I know we haven't talked in a while but I thought we had the beginnings of a pretty good thing going so I was just wondering if you'd be interested in getting back in touch. Maybe with a few emails first so we can feel each other out again?
You probably don't remember what I look like, there are some pics of me at:
http://www.secretsexads.com/
My User name is laurie243 .
I hope you're still interested. I'm gonna feel pretty dumb showing you that website if you blow me off.....but I hope that gives you some confidence that I'm for real. I DEFINITELY don't just hand that out to people.
I hope this works out for the best, you were the most compatible guy I met on that site and I feel horrible for letting it slide.
Anyway, check out the site and email me if you want to get together. I hope so. Talk to you soon!
Love ,XX
Laurie
Well, a few things come to mind right away:
1) "You were the most compatible guy I met on that site." What site was this, exactly?
2) I've never met, spoken to, or otherwise come in contact with anyone named Laurie in my life.
Now, what is going through the minds of the people at secretsexads.com, who obviously sent this to me? Do they think I'm really stupid enough to fall for this and go to their site? And if that's the case, why are they shooting themselves in the foot by sending it to me over and over and over again?
The weird thing is that, about a year ago, I did exchange several e-mails with a girl named Leslie, and if they'd used that name, they might've gotten me (although there was no "site" for me to be "the most compatible guy" on involved). But in every one of these mails, it's always Laurie.
My morbid curiosity is begging me to go to this site just to find out who this mysterious Laurie is, should she actually exist. I'm betting it's merely a ploy to get me to go to the site and get blitzed by the pop-up ads.
If anyone from secretsexads.com is reading this, just so you know: it's time for a new plan of attack.
Anybody else out there seen something along these lines? I must get three of these things -- all worded exactly the same -- every day.
(received just moments ago)
Subj: rocktmbstn,hi there...:)
Date: 2/15/2003 12:11:15 AM Central Standard Time
From: sexylaurie8a5pf@att.net
To: rocktmbstn@aol.com
First thing I hope this is the right email address rocktmbstn@aol.com ...:) You probably don't remember me, but we talked online a while ago.
I don't really know what happened, but I guess we both just got really busy or something. I feel really bad because I don't want you to think I was ignoring you or anything.
Anyway, I know we haven't talked in a while but I thought we had the beginnings of a pretty good thing going so I was just wondering if you'd be interested in getting back in touch. Maybe with a few emails first so we can feel each other out again?
You probably don't remember what I look like, there are some pics of me at:
http://www.secretsexads.com/
My User name is laurie243 .
I hope you're still interested. I'm gonna feel pretty dumb showing you that website if you blow me off.....but I hope that gives you some confidence that I'm for real. I DEFINITELY don't just hand that out to people.
I hope this works out for the best, you were the most compatible guy I met on that site and I feel horrible for letting it slide.
Anyway, check out the site and email me if you want to get together. I hope so. Talk to you soon!
Love ,XX
Laurie
Well, a few things come to mind right away:
1) "You were the most compatible guy I met on that site." What site was this, exactly?
2) I've never met, spoken to, or otherwise come in contact with anyone named Laurie in my life.
Now, what is going through the minds of the people at secretsexads.com, who obviously sent this to me? Do they think I'm really stupid enough to fall for this and go to their site? And if that's the case, why are they shooting themselves in the foot by sending it to me over and over and over again?
The weird thing is that, about a year ago, I did exchange several e-mails with a girl named Leslie, and if they'd used that name, they might've gotten me (although there was no "site" for me to be "the most compatible guy" on involved). But in every one of these mails, it's always Laurie.
My morbid curiosity is begging me to go to this site just to find out who this mysterious Laurie is, should she actually exist. I'm betting it's merely a ploy to get me to go to the site and get blitzed by the pop-up ads.
If anyone from secretsexads.com is reading this, just so you know: it's time for a new plan of attack.
Friday, February 14, 2003
"The nice guys are all over there. In seventh place."
---Leo Durocher
"If love is blind, I guess I'll buy myself a cane."
---Guns N' Roses, "Locomotive"
"If you could, save me from the ranks of the freaks who suspect they could never love anyone."
---Aimee Mann, "Save Me"
More insomnia, so I'm taking it out on you.
It is once again Valentine's Day. And I am once again (perhaps that should be "still") single. So much in my life has changed in the last 365 days---a different job, a different car, a different home...and yet, I'm still sitting here on Valentine's Day, just like I did last year. I guess I should be grateful for at least that little bit of stability.
I have to watch myself here, because this could easily slide into a fit of whining and crying and feeling sorry for myself, and that's really not what I'm intending to do. So I'll tread lightly.
But it's hard not to feel shitty on this day. I mean, the entire world is celebrating something I don't have. V-Day just shines a great big spotlight on this empty patch in my life and says, "Hey, look over here! There's a big fuckin' hole!" The fact that I'm not seeing anyone doesn't bother me on most days, but when it's called to my attention so bluntly, it has a tendancy to get under my skin. Not enough to the point that I'll do something drastic, but it's not pleasant.
A guy at work told me that if he's seeing someone as Valentine's approaches, he dumps her, to "avoid the hassle." This type of mindset baffles and astounds me. I feel like Lester Burnham, watching Ricky quit his job and just standing in awe.
"How can you do that?" I asked. "Just throw away a perfectly good relationship, just to avoid buying her flowers?"
He shrugged. "Dunno. But there's always other women." And he'll dump them, too, of course.
"It's same thing with their birthdays," he said.
What's sad is, he's right---there are always other women...for that guy, and guys like that guy. [Here comes the bitching...] Have you seen that Coke commerical, where the two guys are talking, and one of them says something really smart about the vending machine, only to laughed at by friend? Then, these two girls walk up, and the "friend" uses what the smart guy said as a pickup line...and it works! The smart guy is just left standing there drinking his Coke, looking like the jackass sidekick to Mr. Smooth. If a dime for every time that happened to me...
...well, I'd have about $2.20. But hey, that's a lot of dimes.
So it's yet another Valentine's Day of bitching and moaning. At least some things can be counted on.
---Leo Durocher
"If love is blind, I guess I'll buy myself a cane."
---Guns N' Roses, "Locomotive"
"If you could, save me from the ranks of the freaks who suspect they could never love anyone."
---Aimee Mann, "Save Me"
More insomnia, so I'm taking it out on you.
It is once again Valentine's Day. And I am once again (perhaps that should be "still") single. So much in my life has changed in the last 365 days---a different job, a different car, a different home...and yet, I'm still sitting here on Valentine's Day, just like I did last year. I guess I should be grateful for at least that little bit of stability.
I have to watch myself here, because this could easily slide into a fit of whining and crying and feeling sorry for myself, and that's really not what I'm intending to do. So I'll tread lightly.
But it's hard not to feel shitty on this day. I mean, the entire world is celebrating something I don't have. V-Day just shines a great big spotlight on this empty patch in my life and says, "Hey, look over here! There's a big fuckin' hole!" The fact that I'm not seeing anyone doesn't bother me on most days, but when it's called to my attention so bluntly, it has a tendancy to get under my skin. Not enough to the point that I'll do something drastic, but it's not pleasant.
A guy at work told me that if he's seeing someone as Valentine's approaches, he dumps her, to "avoid the hassle." This type of mindset baffles and astounds me. I feel like Lester Burnham, watching Ricky quit his job and just standing in awe.
"How can you do that?" I asked. "Just throw away a perfectly good relationship, just to avoid buying her flowers?"
He shrugged. "Dunno. But there's always other women." And he'll dump them, too, of course.
"It's same thing with their birthdays," he said.
What's sad is, he's right---there are always other women...for that guy, and guys like that guy. [Here comes the bitching...] Have you seen that Coke commerical, where the two guys are talking, and one of them says something really smart about the vending machine, only to laughed at by friend? Then, these two girls walk up, and the "friend" uses what the smart guy said as a pickup line...and it works! The smart guy is just left standing there drinking his Coke, looking like the jackass sidekick to Mr. Smooth. If a dime for every time that happened to me...
...well, I'd have about $2.20. But hey, that's a lot of dimes.
So it's yet another Valentine's Day of bitching and moaning. At least some things can be counted on.
After months and months of waiting, my copy of Scott Keith's Tonight...In This Very Ring arrived via UPS. If you are at all interested in professional wrestling in any way, I highly recommend picking it up. It's a fun, fast read, immensely entertaining (which is particularly notable considering that I already knew 99.2% of the information contained in the book). I can't stand to watch the WWF -- err, excuse me WWE these days, but I can still read Scott Keith's stuff.
So I give the book ****1/2, a clear improvement over his previous effort, The Buzz on Professional Wrestling, which was good enough as a history book, but in attempting to be objective, Keith became oddly distanced from the subject matter, and smothered his own brash, hilarious writing style, which I why I read him in the first place.
(I should note that the star rating I use to rate movies was stolen directly from the wrestling world, and more specifically, from Scott Keith. Credit where credit is due, and all that happy horseshit.)
But all that stuff is perfectly intact here, along with a seemingly unending series of jokes at the expense of HHH, which is always welcome. For wrestling fans, it's a must-read; for non-fans, it's still a great, funny look at the bizarre Kingdom That Vince Built.
So I give the book ****1/2, a clear improvement over his previous effort, The Buzz on Professional Wrestling, which was good enough as a history book, but in attempting to be objective, Keith became oddly distanced from the subject matter, and smothered his own brash, hilarious writing style, which I why I read him in the first place.
(I should note that the star rating I use to rate movies was stolen directly from the wrestling world, and more specifically, from Scott Keith. Credit where credit is due, and all that happy horseshit.)
But all that stuff is perfectly intact here, along with a seemingly unending series of jokes at the expense of HHH, which is always welcome. For wrestling fans, it's a must-read; for non-fans, it's still a great, funny look at the bizarre Kingdom That Vince Built.
Thursday, February 13, 2003
The Late-Night Movie
It's a quarter to five in the morning. I can't sleep. So I'm sitting up, sitting on my couch, watching TV. Some bad movie is on, the type of C-grade thriller that only airs at a quarter to five in the morning on a syndicated network. Does this stuff ever see theatrical release? Or is it specifically produced to occupy this kind of timeslot?
See, I can't just watch a movie. My obsession with film runs too deep. I can't just accept that it's a cheap thriller and leave it at that; I have to think about it. I analyze it. And some questions occur to me.
Do the actors in this movie (and the director, and everyone working on it) know that it's terrible? Are they actually convinced that what they're doing is entertaining, meaningful art? Or did the actor playing the villain have to do thirty-seven takes of the scene in which he yells to the hiding protagonist "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" just to get the disgust out of his voice? Does the screenwriter know he's a hack? Is he secure in this knowledge? Is he proud of it? Or did he read over his finished script with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a loaded pistol in the other? Do his friends make fun of him behind his back? Does he even tell his friends what he actually does for a living, or do they all believe he's a librarian or something?
My biggest fear is that I'll end up like that guy. To me, that would be worse than never making it in the movie business: making it, only to find my movies playing on the WB at five a.m. on a Thursday.
Of course, I say that, but if some C-grade producer called me tomorrow and offered me a job directing crap like this, I'd be on a plane to Hollywood in a heartbeat. Directing crap is better than not directing at all.
Isn't it?
It's a quarter to five in the morning. I can't sleep. So I'm sitting up, sitting on my couch, watching TV. Some bad movie is on, the type of C-grade thriller that only airs at a quarter to five in the morning on a syndicated network. Does this stuff ever see theatrical release? Or is it specifically produced to occupy this kind of timeslot?
See, I can't just watch a movie. My obsession with film runs too deep. I can't just accept that it's a cheap thriller and leave it at that; I have to think about it. I analyze it. And some questions occur to me.
Do the actors in this movie (and the director, and everyone working on it) know that it's terrible? Are they actually convinced that what they're doing is entertaining, meaningful art? Or did the actor playing the villain have to do thirty-seven takes of the scene in which he yells to the hiding protagonist "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" just to get the disgust out of his voice? Does the screenwriter know he's a hack? Is he secure in this knowledge? Is he proud of it? Or did he read over his finished script with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a loaded pistol in the other? Do his friends make fun of him behind his back? Does he even tell his friends what he actually does for a living, or do they all believe he's a librarian or something?
My biggest fear is that I'll end up like that guy. To me, that would be worse than never making it in the movie business: making it, only to find my movies playing on the WB at five a.m. on a Thursday.
Of course, I say that, but if some C-grade producer called me tomorrow and offered me a job directing crap like this, I'd be on a plane to Hollywood in a heartbeat. Directing crap is better than not directing at all.
Isn't it?
Tuesday, February 11, 2003
I've finally decided to begin my prose adaptation of my current Vampire chronicle, entitled En Prise. I'll post each new section here as I write it.
This section is merely a brief prologue, an introduction to the larger work.
EN PRISE
by J. Walker
Prologue
Samantha watched as the sun shrank under the horizon, casting the town into darkness. Soon, the Quick would return to slumber and the true masters of this world would rise to take their place. Her plan – okay, their plan, she corrected herself – would soon set into motion an epic chain of events. And the Quick would remain ignorant, as they always did, of the entire world shifting around them.
She laughed at herself. The entire world shifting around them…that’s deep, Sam. Fortunado would have had a good laugh at her expense if she’d said that out loud. Samantha held minor poetic aspirations, the end result of which was statements such as those. And Fortunado never missed an opportunity to offer his “constructive criticism.”
But where was Fortunado, anyway? He was at least thirty minutes late, which was twenty minutes later than usual. Samantha began to worry, more about her (their) plan falling apart than Fortunado’s safety.
She took a quick look at her surroundings. The small town around her offered little aesthetic beauty; seeing it through the Shroud didn’t help matters any. The roads below her were cracked and poorly paved, the houses in disrepair. From her vantage point, the town seemed to fade as the last rays of sunlight touched the tops of the trees and houses.
And suddenly, there he was, standing right next to her. “Sorry I’m late,” Fortunado said, throwing an arm around her as she jumped in alarm. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I frighten you?” A playful grin spread across his lips.
“Dammit, I told you to stop that.” She pushed him back with one hand while gripping the rail with the other, trying to regain her composure. Jesus, you’d think you’d be used to that by now. “I’m assuming that everything is okay?”
“Of course. What kind of idiot do you take me for? Don’t answer that,” he cut her off. He pulled his old cigarette lighter from a pocket and began idly twirling it in one hand. “Everything went exactly as we planned.”
“Then it begins tonight?”
“Looks like it.”
Samantha nodded. It felt so strange, knowing that the months – years – of preparation were coming to fruition soon.
Fortunado was peering over the rail, taking in the sight of the town below. “All this work and effort for this shitty town. Doesn’t seem right.”
“It’s not about the town. You know that.”
“Still doesn’t seem right.” He once again put an arm around her. “But here we are, fighting the good fight. You and me against the world, kiddo.”
And he makes fun of the way I talk. “I’m over a hundred years older than you. Don’t call me ‘kiddo’.”
Fortunado didn’t respond. Samantha didn’t bother moving his arm.
Together, they watched the sun disappear completely. Night reigned over the town.
As Samantha saw that complete darkness envelop the city around them, a fleeting panic washed over her. What if they wrong? Her predictions had never missed before, but they were sometimes less than fully accurate. She could have missed something, a detail, a miniscule detail, and the whole plan could be upset and thrown out of balance. They should stop it. There was still time, they could--
She felt Fortunado's mouth at her ear. He whispered kind words to her, soothing words. She always panicked in times like these. Fortunado knew it as well as she did, and knew just what to say to calm her. It was good having a friend like him. Even if he was an arrogant prick most of the time.
When she calmed completely, Fortunado released her and once again looked over the railing. "Doesn't seem right," he said once more, flicking absently at his lighter.
A few moments later, they saw a lone, familiar figure fiddling with the lock on a building down below them.
Fortunado leaned close again and whispered, “And so it begins….”
The first chapter will be posted soon. Feedback is appreciated.
This section is merely a brief prologue, an introduction to the larger work.
EN PRISE
by J. Walker
Prologue
Samantha watched as the sun shrank under the horizon, casting the town into darkness. Soon, the Quick would return to slumber and the true masters of this world would rise to take their place. Her plan – okay, their plan, she corrected herself – would soon set into motion an epic chain of events. And the Quick would remain ignorant, as they always did, of the entire world shifting around them.
She laughed at herself. The entire world shifting around them…that’s deep, Sam. Fortunado would have had a good laugh at her expense if she’d said that out loud. Samantha held minor poetic aspirations, the end result of which was statements such as those. And Fortunado never missed an opportunity to offer his “constructive criticism.”
But where was Fortunado, anyway? He was at least thirty minutes late, which was twenty minutes later than usual. Samantha began to worry, more about her (their) plan falling apart than Fortunado’s safety.
She took a quick look at her surroundings. The small town around her offered little aesthetic beauty; seeing it through the Shroud didn’t help matters any. The roads below her were cracked and poorly paved, the houses in disrepair. From her vantage point, the town seemed to fade as the last rays of sunlight touched the tops of the trees and houses.
And suddenly, there he was, standing right next to her. “Sorry I’m late,” Fortunado said, throwing an arm around her as she jumped in alarm. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I frighten you?” A playful grin spread across his lips.
“Dammit, I told you to stop that.” She pushed him back with one hand while gripping the rail with the other, trying to regain her composure. Jesus, you’d think you’d be used to that by now. “I’m assuming that everything is okay?”
“Of course. What kind of idiot do you take me for? Don’t answer that,” he cut her off. He pulled his old cigarette lighter from a pocket and began idly twirling it in one hand. “Everything went exactly as we planned.”
“Then it begins tonight?”
“Looks like it.”
Samantha nodded. It felt so strange, knowing that the months – years – of preparation were coming to fruition soon.
Fortunado was peering over the rail, taking in the sight of the town below. “All this work and effort for this shitty town. Doesn’t seem right.”
“It’s not about the town. You know that.”
“Still doesn’t seem right.” He once again put an arm around her. “But here we are, fighting the good fight. You and me against the world, kiddo.”
And he makes fun of the way I talk. “I’m over a hundred years older than you. Don’t call me ‘kiddo’.”
Fortunado didn’t respond. Samantha didn’t bother moving his arm.
Together, they watched the sun disappear completely. Night reigned over the town.
As Samantha saw that complete darkness envelop the city around them, a fleeting panic washed over her. What if they wrong? Her predictions had never missed before, but they were sometimes less than fully accurate. She could have missed something, a detail, a miniscule detail, and the whole plan could be upset and thrown out of balance. They should stop it. There was still time, they could--
She felt Fortunado's mouth at her ear. He whispered kind words to her, soothing words. She always panicked in times like these. Fortunado knew it as well as she did, and knew just what to say to calm her. It was good having a friend like him. Even if he was an arrogant prick most of the time.
When she calmed completely, Fortunado released her and once again looked over the railing. "Doesn't seem right," he said once more, flicking absently at his lighter.
A few moments later, they saw a lone, familiar figure fiddling with the lock on a building down below them.
Fortunado leaned close again and whispered, “And so it begins….”
The first chapter will be posted soon. Feedback is appreciated.
Saturday, February 08, 2003
"Not that I expected anything different...."
I call myself a pessimist. And I am, as anyone who knows me will certainly agree. I have an unique ability to see the dark cloud within every silver lining. I don't like it, but it's the truth. I'm exactly like Eeyore, except I'm not a donkey, or purple, or homeless. Nor do I have a removable tail. But you see the point. In fact, at my old job, I was frequently referred to as "Eeyore," and several items featuring the character were giving to me as gifts.
But beneath this harsh, dreary exterior, there's an optimist, hiding way down deep inside (I'd call it my inner child, but I was pretty pessimistic as a child, too). And that optimist loves nothing more than positive things to happen, if only to shut Eeyore up for a little while.
The only problem: when I'm in a good mood (as I am at the moment), the dominant Eeyore mindset has no idea what to do, and I turn to an emptyheaded idiot. I'm lucky to be forming coherant sentences at this point.
My day at work was surprisingly painless, and even enjoyable at times. I was making pretty good tips, I wasn't overburnded with a ridiculous number of deliveries, and the weather wasn't bad. I had good music on the radio, flipping between the score from Magnolia and Coldplay's A Rush of Blood to the Head. I felt myself coming into a good mood as the music played and the hours flew by.
My final delivery was to a neighborhood I'm not usually big on going to. It's near the junior high. It's not exactly a ritzy area, and tips aren't very good there. But it was my last delivery, and then I could go home, so I was still somewhat pleased.
I knocked on the door. While I waited for an answer, I heard a dog barking behind me. I turned to look for the dog, but saw none. As I looked, the door opened behind me. I turned back, and said, "Hello ----"
The girl who answered the door was very attractive. She was short, early twenties, with long blonde hair.
And no clothes.
I consider myself to be an intellectual person. I do, really. I'd like to think that this image wouldn't effect me. But there she was, totally nude, and Eeyore just said, "Fuck it." My brain completely shut off.
I think I somehow managed to convey the amount she owed me. She handed over the cash (which I think was enough to cover it; I didn't count), and said, "Tell all the people you work with, the faster you get here, and the more breadsticks you bring, the more we" ...She motioned toward another girl (fully clothed) on the couch... "take off." I nodded and promised to deliver the message.
I realize how ridiculous it sounds. I'm not entirely sure it actually happened, to tell you the truth. It sounds like the stuff out of bad erotic fiction, like Logjammin'. Eeyore would like nothing more than for me to wake up in a hospital tomorrow morning, discovering that I had been in a terrible car accident, and the previous twenty-four hours were no more than a dream.
But until then, I'll just stay an idiot.
I call myself a pessimist. And I am, as anyone who knows me will certainly agree. I have an unique ability to see the dark cloud within every silver lining. I don't like it, but it's the truth. I'm exactly like Eeyore, except I'm not a donkey, or purple, or homeless. Nor do I have a removable tail. But you see the point. In fact, at my old job, I was frequently referred to as "Eeyore," and several items featuring the character were giving to me as gifts.
But beneath this harsh, dreary exterior, there's an optimist, hiding way down deep inside (I'd call it my inner child, but I was pretty pessimistic as a child, too). And that optimist loves nothing more than positive things to happen, if only to shut Eeyore up for a little while.
The only problem: when I'm in a good mood (as I am at the moment), the dominant Eeyore mindset has no idea what to do, and I turn to an emptyheaded idiot. I'm lucky to be forming coherant sentences at this point.
My day at work was surprisingly painless, and even enjoyable at times. I was making pretty good tips, I wasn't overburnded with a ridiculous number of deliveries, and the weather wasn't bad. I had good music on the radio, flipping between the score from Magnolia and Coldplay's A Rush of Blood to the Head. I felt myself coming into a good mood as the music played and the hours flew by.
My final delivery was to a neighborhood I'm not usually big on going to. It's near the junior high. It's not exactly a ritzy area, and tips aren't very good there. But it was my last delivery, and then I could go home, so I was still somewhat pleased.
I knocked on the door. While I waited for an answer, I heard a dog barking behind me. I turned to look for the dog, but saw none. As I looked, the door opened behind me. I turned back, and said, "Hello ----"
The girl who answered the door was very attractive. She was short, early twenties, with long blonde hair.
And no clothes.
I consider myself to be an intellectual person. I do, really. I'd like to think that this image wouldn't effect me. But there she was, totally nude, and Eeyore just said, "Fuck it." My brain completely shut off.
I think I somehow managed to convey the amount she owed me. She handed over the cash (which I think was enough to cover it; I didn't count), and said, "Tell all the people you work with, the faster you get here, and the more breadsticks you bring, the more we" ...She motioned toward another girl (fully clothed) on the couch... "take off." I nodded and promised to deliver the message.
I realize how ridiculous it sounds. I'm not entirely sure it actually happened, to tell you the truth. It sounds like the stuff out of bad erotic fiction, like Logjammin'. Eeyore would like nothing more than for me to wake up in a hospital tomorrow morning, discovering that I had been in a terrible car accident, and the previous twenty-four hours were no more than a dream.
But until then, I'll just stay an idiot.
Sunday, February 02, 2003
Darkness Falls
I miss Mystery Science Theater 3000. I miss Crow, Servo, Mike, Joel, and the Satellite of Love. I remember a time when laughable cinematic garbage like this would be inflicted upon us by Dr. Clayton Forrester, as part of his evil plan to take over the world. But now, those days are gone, and we are left to fend for ourselves. We must be strong!
If you're in the right frame of mind, a movie like Darkness Falls can be a blast. The trite dialogue, ridiculous plot twists, and horrible characterizations can be either painful or hilarious, depending on how you look at it. Take, for instance, the basic plot of the film: In a small town called Darkness Falls, the Tooth Fairy haunts and murders the children when they've lost their last baby tooth.
Yeah, that's right, the goddamn Tooth Fairy.
I could explain why the Tooth Fairy wants to kill everybody, but it's not really relevant (and indeed, the film itself mentions it once at the beginning only because it has to). See, now the Tooth Fairy is out for revenge against Kyle Walsh (Chaney Kley), the only child to escape her wrath. Since his encounter with the spirit twelve years ago, Kyle's become plagued with night terrors and a paralyzing fear of the dark, obsessing about the Tooth Fairy. But now he has to face his fears and return to Darkness Falls as a favor to his old girlfriend, Caitlin (Emma Caulfield). It seems that her brother, Michael (the profoundly annoying Lee Cormie), has also escaped the Tooth Fairy, and she's coming for him, too.
If it sounds silly in print, wait until you see it on the screen. The Tooth Fairy floats around, hissing and groaning from darkness as her potential victims cower in the corner. Her one weakness is light, so Kyle carries around a bag full of flashlights...but he should know better than that: this is a horror movie, so any flashlight will only remain lit for 15-30 seconds before it starts flickering (the response to which is always the flashlight's holder banging it and whispering, "Come on, come on"). The very first establishing shot of the town telegraphs where the final confrontation will end up; it's pretty easy to guess.
The acting is bad all around, but usually bad in that Keanu Reeves way -- it's a hell of a lot of fun to openly mock. The only exception to this Lee Cormie as the cute widdle kid Michael -- he is bad in that John Travolta way, so bad that you begin to actively root for the Tooth Fairy to kill him to end your own misery. The characters are all stock stereotypes, from the Jewish lawyer to the flannel-wearing drunken rednecks to the disbelieving police officers. The fact that it took three people to write this crap is astounding, and depressing. Jonathan Liebesman's direction is the only thing halfway respectable about the whole affair, and even it is barely pedestrian at best.
That said, Darkness Falls can be very entertaining under the right circumstances. When the DVD is released, pick it up at Blockbuster, and invite all of your friends over. We'll make the Satellite of Love gang proud.
Rating: DUD
If you're in the right frame of mind, a movie like Darkness Falls can be a blast. The trite dialogue, ridiculous plot twists, and horrible characterizations can be either painful or hilarious, depending on how you look at it. Take, for instance, the basic plot of the film: In a small town called Darkness Falls, the Tooth Fairy haunts and murders the children when they've lost their last baby tooth.
Yeah, that's right, the goddamn Tooth Fairy.
I could explain why the Tooth Fairy wants to kill everybody, but it's not really relevant (and indeed, the film itself mentions it once at the beginning only because it has to). See, now the Tooth Fairy is out for revenge against Kyle Walsh (Chaney Kley), the only child to escape her wrath. Since his encounter with the spirit twelve years ago, Kyle's become plagued with night terrors and a paralyzing fear of the dark, obsessing about the Tooth Fairy. But now he has to face his fears and return to Darkness Falls as a favor to his old girlfriend, Caitlin (Emma Caulfield). It seems that her brother, Michael (the profoundly annoying Lee Cormie), has also escaped the Tooth Fairy, and she's coming for him, too.
If it sounds silly in print, wait until you see it on the screen. The Tooth Fairy floats around, hissing and groaning from darkness as her potential victims cower in the corner. Her one weakness is light, so Kyle carries around a bag full of flashlights...but he should know better than that: this is a horror movie, so any flashlight will only remain lit for 15-30 seconds before it starts flickering (the response to which is always the flashlight's holder banging it and whispering, "Come on, come on"). The very first establishing shot of the town telegraphs where the final confrontation will end up; it's pretty easy to guess.
The acting is bad all around, but usually bad in that Keanu Reeves way -- it's a hell of a lot of fun to openly mock. The only exception to this Lee Cormie as the cute widdle kid Michael -- he is bad in that John Travolta way, so bad that you begin to actively root for the Tooth Fairy to kill him to end your own misery. The characters are all stock stereotypes, from the Jewish lawyer to the flannel-wearing drunken rednecks to the disbelieving police officers. The fact that it took three people to write this crap is astounding, and depressing. Jonathan Liebesman's direction is the only thing halfway respectable about the whole affair, and even it is barely pedestrian at best.
That said, Darkness Falls can be very entertaining under the right circumstances. When the DVD is released, pick it up at Blockbuster, and invite all of your friends over. We'll make the Satellite of Love gang proud.
Rating: DUD
Chicago
Chicago is a whole lot of fun. It's a delightful romp, fast, sexy, and loud, and it's a great way to mark the comeback of the musical. It doesn't reach the apex of style that was last year's Moulin Rouge!, but it's a very good film all the same. What it lacks in technical achievement (and it does lack a great deal), Chicago makes up for in the enthusiasm of its performances and the rush of its music.
The problem with musicals nowadays -- with the exception of animated Disney films -- is overcoming the audiences' built-in cynicism toward characters suddenly bursting into song. Chicago oversteps this hurdle nicely in the first shot: the camera zooms into the right eye of our starry-eyed heroine, Roxie Hart (Renee Zellweger). More than anything, Roxie wants to sing and dance on the stage; so when her life is turned upside down overnight, she soothes herself and adjusts by imagining the world around her a full-blown cabaret show. All the singing and dancing takes place only in her head, so that cynical hurdle is nicely avoided.
The life-changing event occurs when Roxie murders her lover (Dominic West) in a state of blind panic. She's soon shipped off to the big house, threats of execution hanging over her head. She finds herself confronted with the crooked warden, Mama Morton (Queen Latifah), rows and rows of similarly convicted women who all claim "he had it comin'" for such crimes as gum chewing, and her idol, Velma Kelly (Catherine Zeta-Jones), who's also in for murder. But Velma's become a bigger star in the slammer than she was outside of it, thanks to her lawyer, Billy Flynn (Richard Gere), and Billy's got similar plans for Roxie.
The film is at its best during its musical scenes. When Roxie's fellow prisoners line up to sing the "Cell Block Tango," the movie soars into the stratosphere. Roxie's husband, Amos (John C. Reilly) bemoans his own uselessness in the film's best song, "Mr. Cellophane," while Richard Gere tap dances (literally!) through a sticky trial. The stars do all their own singing and dancing, and it's surprising how well they do. The weakest is easily Gere, who has a rather odd British accent in his songs, but is clearly having so much fun that it's easy to ignore.
Unfortunately, when not in sing-a-long mode, the film falls a little flat. The muddy cinematography, odd lighting, and drab set design become more apparent, and less enjoyable. Also, the film manages to say nothing at all about society's fascination with criminals, though it seems to want to. Whenever the film was in the "real world," I was sitting back, waiting for the film's bandleader (Taye Diggs) to introduce the next musical number. It also seems to drag quite a bit toward the end, as the ending seems to get farther and farther away. But whenever I'd get bored, another song would burst out, and I'd be swept away again.
I never thought I'd say something like this, but I'm glad to see musicals are making a comeback. As long as they're as fun and inventive as Moulin Rouge! and Chicago, I'm perfectly happy.
Rating: ***1/2
The problem with musicals nowadays -- with the exception of animated Disney films -- is overcoming the audiences' built-in cynicism toward characters suddenly bursting into song. Chicago oversteps this hurdle nicely in the first shot: the camera zooms into the right eye of our starry-eyed heroine, Roxie Hart (Renee Zellweger). More than anything, Roxie wants to sing and dance on the stage; so when her life is turned upside down overnight, she soothes herself and adjusts by imagining the world around her a full-blown cabaret show. All the singing and dancing takes place only in her head, so that cynical hurdle is nicely avoided.
The life-changing event occurs when Roxie murders her lover (Dominic West) in a state of blind panic. She's soon shipped off to the big house, threats of execution hanging over her head. She finds herself confronted with the crooked warden, Mama Morton (Queen Latifah), rows and rows of similarly convicted women who all claim "he had it comin'" for such crimes as gum chewing, and her idol, Velma Kelly (Catherine Zeta-Jones), who's also in for murder. But Velma's become a bigger star in the slammer than she was outside of it, thanks to her lawyer, Billy Flynn (Richard Gere), and Billy's got similar plans for Roxie.
The film is at its best during its musical scenes. When Roxie's fellow prisoners line up to sing the "Cell Block Tango," the movie soars into the stratosphere. Roxie's husband, Amos (John C. Reilly) bemoans his own uselessness in the film's best song, "Mr. Cellophane," while Richard Gere tap dances (literally!) through a sticky trial. The stars do all their own singing and dancing, and it's surprising how well they do. The weakest is easily Gere, who has a rather odd British accent in his songs, but is clearly having so much fun that it's easy to ignore.
Unfortunately, when not in sing-a-long mode, the film falls a little flat. The muddy cinematography, odd lighting, and drab set design become more apparent, and less enjoyable. Also, the film manages to say nothing at all about society's fascination with criminals, though it seems to want to. Whenever the film was in the "real world," I was sitting back, waiting for the film's bandleader (Taye Diggs) to introduce the next musical number. It also seems to drag quite a bit toward the end, as the ending seems to get farther and farther away. But whenever I'd get bored, another song would burst out, and I'd be swept away again.
I never thought I'd say something like this, but I'm glad to see musicals are making a comeback. As long as they're as fun and inventive as Moulin Rouge! and Chicago, I'm perfectly happy.
Rating: ***1/2
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
Adaptation
In the film Get Shorty, Delroy Lindo's character
describes a screenwriter as merely someone you hire to fill in "all the
commas and shit." And in Robert Altman's The Player, a studio
executive ponders the need for screenwriters altogether, while another
executive kills a writer and no one notices. Despite being the foundation for
just about everything seen on a movie screen, writers are down on the far end
of the totem pole in Hollywood. With this rampant lack of respect, is it any
wonder that so much of the work turned out by Hollywood screenwriters is the
same old dreck? I mean, why waste your time, energy, and emotions creating a
truly original work of art when it's just going to get crapped on by some
producer trying to appeal to the masses? Isn't it easier just to photocopy
what everyone else is doing, just the way Syd Field tells you, and hand in
your 117 pages and be done with it?
When Charlie Kaufman, the Oscar-nominated screenwriter
of Being John Malkovich, was given the assignment to adapt Susan
Orlean's The Orchid Thief into a major motion picture, the battle
between his desire to stay true to Orlean's prose and Hollywood's desire for
a commercially viable star vehicle nearly drove him to the point of madness.
After struggling and fighting with it, Kaufman, out of desperation, turned
his own internal battle into his script. Suddenly, the film became Adaptation,
a chronicle of his own effort to adapt The Orchid Thief, featuring
himself as the main character (portrayed by Nicholas Cage, in the best
performance of his career).
It's an out-there concept, and not an easy one to pull
off, but it works. The feeling one gets is that the film is creating itself
right in front of us: the film's false-start opening is later revealed to be
Charlie's desperate attempt to find a starting point for his script. We're
also shown scenes from The Orchid Thief, with Orlean (Meryl Streep)
and her subject, John LaRoche (the always excellent Chris Cooper); they're
given to us completely out of any sort of context, and seem to be Charlie's
aborted attempts to get his script moving.
Making things worse for Charlie, his twin brother
Donald (also Cage) has decided to become a screenwriter himself. He
immediately goes the Syd Field approach, attending seminars and breezing
through his script (a hilariously clichéd story about a serial killer with
multiple personalities -- "The only device more overdone than serial killers
is multiple personalities," Charlie moans). While Donald is getting raves
from the industry, Charlie is stuck staring at the blank page in his
typewriter.
Charlie begins to fixate on the photo of Orlean on her
book jacket, in a way that neatly mirrors Orlean's own fixation with LaRoche.
He wants to talk to her -- maybe a conversation with her can free up the
mental blockade he's erected for himself -- but his own insecurities hold him
back. And when he does attempt to make a connection with someone -- a waitress
at a coffee shop -- it ends in disaster. His feelings of shame and
self-loathing escalate, his deadline approaches, and his pages become no less
blank.
The performances are all-around spectacular, especially
from Cage. After years of snoring through Gone in 60 Seconds and Con
Air, it's amazing to remember just how good an actor he was -- and still is,
I suppose this shows. Chris Cooper is getting heavy Oscar buzz for his job as
John LaRoche, and deservedly so.
If Adaptation falters, it's in the last act,
when it just seems to run out of steam. Completely lost for an ending,
Charlie gives the script to Donald, who gives it the Hollywood touch: drugs,
sex, and car crashes (there are two car crashes in this film, and they are
among the most incredible I've ever seen; kudos to Spike Jonze). The joke is
certainly funny, and even a little touching in its own way, but it's a tad
too jarring up against the rest of the film.
I do have one question: who in their right mind thought
Charlie Kaufman would be a good choice to adapt The Orchid Thief in
the first place? No matter -- at least we get something good out of the deal.
Rating: ****
describes a screenwriter as merely someone you hire to fill in "all the
commas and shit." And in Robert Altman's The Player, a studio
executive ponders the need for screenwriters altogether, while another
executive kills a writer and no one notices. Despite being the foundation for
just about everything seen on a movie screen, writers are down on the far end
of the totem pole in Hollywood. With this rampant lack of respect, is it any
wonder that so much of the work turned out by Hollywood screenwriters is the
same old dreck? I mean, why waste your time, energy, and emotions creating a
truly original work of art when it's just going to get crapped on by some
producer trying to appeal to the masses? Isn't it easier just to photocopy
what everyone else is doing, just the way Syd Field tells you, and hand in
your 117 pages and be done with it?
When Charlie Kaufman, the Oscar-nominated screenwriter
of Being John Malkovich, was given the assignment to adapt Susan
Orlean's The Orchid Thief into a major motion picture, the battle
between his desire to stay true to Orlean's prose and Hollywood's desire for
a commercially viable star vehicle nearly drove him to the point of madness.
After struggling and fighting with it, Kaufman, out of desperation, turned
his own internal battle into his script. Suddenly, the film became Adaptation,
a chronicle of his own effort to adapt The Orchid Thief, featuring
himself as the main character (portrayed by Nicholas Cage, in the best
performance of his career).
It's an out-there concept, and not an easy one to pull
off, but it works. The feeling one gets is that the film is creating itself
right in front of us: the film's false-start opening is later revealed to be
Charlie's desperate attempt to find a starting point for his script. We're
also shown scenes from The Orchid Thief, with Orlean (Meryl Streep)
and her subject, John LaRoche (the always excellent Chris Cooper); they're
given to us completely out of any sort of context, and seem to be Charlie's
aborted attempts to get his script moving.
Making things worse for Charlie, his twin brother
Donald (also Cage) has decided to become a screenwriter himself. He
immediately goes the Syd Field approach, attending seminars and breezing
through his script (a hilariously clichéd story about a serial killer with
multiple personalities -- "The only device more overdone than serial killers
is multiple personalities," Charlie moans). While Donald is getting raves
from the industry, Charlie is stuck staring at the blank page in his
typewriter.
Charlie begins to fixate on the photo of Orlean on her
book jacket, in a way that neatly mirrors Orlean's own fixation with LaRoche.
He wants to talk to her -- maybe a conversation with her can free up the
mental blockade he's erected for himself -- but his own insecurities hold him
back. And when he does attempt to make a connection with someone -- a waitress
at a coffee shop -- it ends in disaster. His feelings of shame and
self-loathing escalate, his deadline approaches, and his pages become no less
blank.
The performances are all-around spectacular, especially
from Cage. After years of snoring through Gone in 60 Seconds and Con
Air, it's amazing to remember just how good an actor he was -- and still is,
I suppose this shows. Chris Cooper is getting heavy Oscar buzz for his job as
John LaRoche, and deservedly so.
If Adaptation falters, it's in the last act,
when it just seems to run out of steam. Completely lost for an ending,
Charlie gives the script to Donald, who gives it the Hollywood touch: drugs,
sex, and car crashes (there are two car crashes in this film, and they are
among the most incredible I've ever seen; kudos to Spike Jonze). The joke is
certainly funny, and even a little touching in its own way, but it's a tad
too jarring up against the rest of the film.
I do have one question: who in their right mind thought
Charlie Kaufman would be a good choice to adapt The Orchid Thief in
the first place? No matter -- at least we get something good out of the deal.
Rating: ****
Friday, January 03, 2003
Training Day
What is justice? How far are we willing to go to see it? Is it all right for an overworked, underpaid cop to stick a quarter of a million ill-gotten dollars under his coat, so long as the criminals are brought down? Can we accept the notion of a narcotics officer consuming large amounts of the very substances he tries to remove from the streets, if it helps him infiltrate the bad guys? And just who are the "bad guys," and are they really that bad? Training Day asks these questions and more, resulting in what is almost a truly thought-provoking masterpiece. Unfortunately, the climax sees fit to answer all those questions, replacing the shades-of-gray brilliance of the first two acts with cliched fisticuffs and coincidental plot machinations.
Meet Detective Alonzo Harris (Denzel Washington), a street thug with a badge, prowling the streets of South Central in his Monte Carlo, beating up college kids and using fake search warrants to obtain evidence. You're horrified, and so is his trainee, Jake Hoyt (Ethan Hawke), until Alonzo points out the unavoidable fact that he gets the job done. His methods may not be completely on the level, but they work. Even the street gangs respect him, letting him roam their "jungle" unheeded. Not to mention that Alonzo is a pretty cool guy himself -- his wit and charm make his already persuasive argument pretty easy to swallow. At first, Jake resists, clinging to his innocent beliefs, but soon finds himself toking up on PCP-laced marijuana and drinking on duty at Alonzo's insistence.
The majority of the film is comprised of Alonzo and Jake cruising in "the office" (Alonzo's car) and discussing the merits of the street justice approach. "To protect the sheep," Alonzo says, "you've got to catch a wolf...and it takes a wolf to catch a wolf." As the day progresses, Jake finds himself deeper and deeper in the web of the L.A. drug world, and Alonzo's ideas seem like a pretty good idea after all. But as more of that web is revealed, and Jake is involved in high-tension shootouts with bandana-wearing gangstas, he begins to wonder just where the line should be drawn. And that's where Training Day goes off the rails. Too bad.
The performances are incredible. This may not be the best work of Denzel's career, but it is a stunning, against-type performance. Alonzo is just dripping with confidence and charisma, turning into blind rage on a dime. It's totally credible, and completely unforgettable, more than worthy of the long-overdue Best Actor Oscar. Hawke brings a genuine sense of wide-eyed innocence to Jake, but it's not a stupid innocence -- he's got a good head on his shoulders, but he's wholly unprepared for what Alonzo shows him. The supporters are good all around, with special attention to be given to rappers Snoop Doggy Dogg as a wheelchair-bound crack dealer and Dr. Dre as one of Alonzo's thugs. Actual gang members appear as extras in the film, and the gangs allowed the filmmakers to actually enter their territory for use in the movie -- the end result being an unending sense of realism. You can feel the grit of L.A.'s drug zones pouring from the screen in every scene. It makes me glad I don't live in Los Angeles anymore.
The realism holds up until the aforementioned third-act climax, anyway, which turns Training Day into a joke of coincidental storytelling. In describing the events, you would have to use the phrase "just happens" a lot -- "This guy just happens to find this over here, which just happens to do this, and so he just happens..." and so on. When the sun goes down in the film, the characters jump from thought-provoking cinema into Lethal Weapon 5. It's disheartening, and downright depressing.
But the first 100 minutes are electrifying, and only point toward the masterpiece that may have been. I still like it enough to give it a full recommendation, but be prepared for some eye rolling as the last reel kicks in. Training Day definitely passes, but it could have been so much more.
Rating: ***1/2
Meet Detective Alonzo Harris (Denzel Washington), a street thug with a badge, prowling the streets of South Central in his Monte Carlo, beating up college kids and using fake search warrants to obtain evidence. You're horrified, and so is his trainee, Jake Hoyt (Ethan Hawke), until Alonzo points out the unavoidable fact that he gets the job done. His methods may not be completely on the level, but they work. Even the street gangs respect him, letting him roam their "jungle" unheeded. Not to mention that Alonzo is a pretty cool guy himself -- his wit and charm make his already persuasive argument pretty easy to swallow. At first, Jake resists, clinging to his innocent beliefs, but soon finds himself toking up on PCP-laced marijuana and drinking on duty at Alonzo's insistence.
The majority of the film is comprised of Alonzo and Jake cruising in "the office" (Alonzo's car) and discussing the merits of the street justice approach. "To protect the sheep," Alonzo says, "you've got to catch a wolf...and it takes a wolf to catch a wolf." As the day progresses, Jake finds himself deeper and deeper in the web of the L.A. drug world, and Alonzo's ideas seem like a pretty good idea after all. But as more of that web is revealed, and Jake is involved in high-tension shootouts with bandana-wearing gangstas, he begins to wonder just where the line should be drawn. And that's where Training Day goes off the rails. Too bad.
The performances are incredible. This may not be the best work of Denzel's career, but it is a stunning, against-type performance. Alonzo is just dripping with confidence and charisma, turning into blind rage on a dime. It's totally credible, and completely unforgettable, more than worthy of the long-overdue Best Actor Oscar. Hawke brings a genuine sense of wide-eyed innocence to Jake, but it's not a stupid innocence -- he's got a good head on his shoulders, but he's wholly unprepared for what Alonzo shows him. The supporters are good all around, with special attention to be given to rappers Snoop Doggy Dogg as a wheelchair-bound crack dealer and Dr. Dre as one of Alonzo's thugs. Actual gang members appear as extras in the film, and the gangs allowed the filmmakers to actually enter their territory for use in the movie -- the end result being an unending sense of realism. You can feel the grit of L.A.'s drug zones pouring from the screen in every scene. It makes me glad I don't live in Los Angeles anymore.
The realism holds up until the aforementioned third-act climax, anyway, which turns Training Day into a joke of coincidental storytelling. In describing the events, you would have to use the phrase "just happens" a lot -- "This guy just happens to find this over here, which just happens to do this, and so he just happens..." and so on. When the sun goes down in the film, the characters jump from thought-provoking cinema into Lethal Weapon 5. It's disheartening, and downright depressing.
But the first 100 minutes are electrifying, and only point toward the masterpiece that may have been. I still like it enough to give it a full recommendation, but be prepared for some eye rolling as the last reel kicks in. Training Day definitely passes, but it could have been so much more.
Rating: ***1/2
Panic Room
There are few filmmakers who use computers as creatively as David Fincher. Sure, both George Lucas and Steven Spielberg have used digital effects to develop vast, imaginative worlds, and Robert Zemeckis showed in What Lies Beneath how CGI could be harnessed in lame attempts to create suspense. But in Panic Room, Fincher repairs what Zemeckis screwed up and creates a true Hitchcock film of the modern era. If Hitch was around today, and had a few contacts at Industrial Lights and Magic, his films would probably look a hell of a lot like this.
Each of Finch's previous films seemed to have been more about atmosphere and theme than plot. Se7en featured several extraneous scenes designed to develop the desired message, as did Fight Club. But those philosophical (and, some might argue, pretentious) diversions have been gleefully tossed over the side here -- Panic Room is 100 percent story, and once it starts, it never lets up for an instant. Many may mourn the loss of those thought-provoking diversions, but Fincher makes up for it by piling on the suspense to almost unbearable levels.
Jodie Foster is Meg Altman, a recent divorcee searching for a new place for her and her teenage daughter, Sarah (Kristen Stewart). They luck into a showing of a home not yet on the market -- a spacious mansion on the west side, complete with a yard and a working elevator. But the home's most intriguing feature is the panic room: a bomb shelter-like cubbyhole tucked into one of the bedrooms. It features its own ventilation shafts, its own phone lines, emergency supplies, and surveillance monitors revealing every room in the house. The room is surrounded on all sides by three inches of steel, and once the door is locked from the inside, it can only be unlocked from the inside. It's designed as a shelter, should someone break in.
Meg -- who suffers from mild claustrophobia -- isn't too wild about the room, but Sarah's impressed, and the house is the right price, so they take it. But on their very first night, they are forced to take cover in the room when (surprise!) a trio of burglars break in. The panic room seems to be the safest course of action, until a complication arises: the robbers don't want high-tech electronics or jewelry, they're after something else -- and it's inside the panic room.
Thus begins a battle of wits between those within and those without. The thieves make a move; Meg and Sarah countermove. It's fascinating to watch, and screenwriter David Koepp (Snake Eyes, Mission: Impossible) should be commended for keeping everyone on an even playing field -- there is no stupidity in this house. The girls are razor-sharp, and their quick thinking saves their lives on numerous occasions. And the robbers -- the security expert Burnham (Forrest Whitaker), the jumpy Junior (Jared Leto), and the masked psycho Raoul (Dwight Yoakam) -- are just as smart, pulling brilliant schemes out of thin air. There are a few MacGyver wisecracks thrown around, but they're accurate -- everyday household objects are used to create elaborate traps. It's a blast to watch these people think.
Actually, it's a blast to watch everything in this movie, thanks to David Fincher and his pair of cinematographers, Darius Khondji and Conrad W. Hall (son of Oscar-winning DP Conrad L. Hall). Not content to merely photograph the proceedings, Fincher's computer-assisted camera zooms around the house, through floorboards, cracks in the wall, and even a keyhole as the evening's events unfold. This fly-on-the-wall style is incredible -- it pulls you out of your normal role as audience member and throws you into the action. It's easy to forget that you're just watching a movie up there. A pair of sequences in particular (one as the thieves arrive in the rain, the other a slow-motion scene shot almost entirely without sound) are especially noteworthy in this regard. It's a breathtaking experience; I found myself (literally) on the edge of my seat, my $4.00 soda forgotten about in the cupholder beside me. It's absolutely riveting.
Fans of Fincher's work may be a tad disappointed in this movie's apparent lack of weight. Unlike Se7en, Fight Club, or The Game, there aren't any heady topics for discussion after the film present here. Oh, you can see Finch toying with some ideas, like the horrors of intrusion and violation, and the power of the will in defense, but they seem peripheral to the point. Fincher has called Panic Room his "popcorn movie" -- the easy-to-digest blockbuster for the mainstream audience. Don't let that fool you, though -- he is definitely at the top of his form in this one.
If the film has a flaw, it's only a minor one. There's a lack of character resolution at the end; something feels missing from the final scene. But as I said, it's a minor problem. Panic Room is a near-perfect suspense thrill-machine, and a worthy heir to the title of the Hitchcock Film of the Twenty-First Century. I hope Robert Zemeckis is watching.
Rating: ****1/2
Each of Finch's previous films seemed to have been more about atmosphere and theme than plot. Se7en featured several extraneous scenes designed to develop the desired message, as did Fight Club. But those philosophical (and, some might argue, pretentious) diversions have been gleefully tossed over the side here -- Panic Room is 100 percent story, and once it starts, it never lets up for an instant. Many may mourn the loss of those thought-provoking diversions, but Fincher makes up for it by piling on the suspense to almost unbearable levels.
Jodie Foster is Meg Altman, a recent divorcee searching for a new place for her and her teenage daughter, Sarah (Kristen Stewart). They luck into a showing of a home not yet on the market -- a spacious mansion on the west side, complete with a yard and a working elevator. But the home's most intriguing feature is the panic room: a bomb shelter-like cubbyhole tucked into one of the bedrooms. It features its own ventilation shafts, its own phone lines, emergency supplies, and surveillance monitors revealing every room in the house. The room is surrounded on all sides by three inches of steel, and once the door is locked from the inside, it can only be unlocked from the inside. It's designed as a shelter, should someone break in.
Meg -- who suffers from mild claustrophobia -- isn't too wild about the room, but Sarah's impressed, and the house is the right price, so they take it. But on their very first night, they are forced to take cover in the room when (surprise!) a trio of burglars break in. The panic room seems to be the safest course of action, until a complication arises: the robbers don't want high-tech electronics or jewelry, they're after something else -- and it's inside the panic room.
Thus begins a battle of wits between those within and those without. The thieves make a move; Meg and Sarah countermove. It's fascinating to watch, and screenwriter David Koepp (Snake Eyes, Mission: Impossible) should be commended for keeping everyone on an even playing field -- there is no stupidity in this house. The girls are razor-sharp, and their quick thinking saves their lives on numerous occasions. And the robbers -- the security expert Burnham (Forrest Whitaker), the jumpy Junior (Jared Leto), and the masked psycho Raoul (Dwight Yoakam) -- are just as smart, pulling brilliant schemes out of thin air. There are a few MacGyver wisecracks thrown around, but they're accurate -- everyday household objects are used to create elaborate traps. It's a blast to watch these people think.
Actually, it's a blast to watch everything in this movie, thanks to David Fincher and his pair of cinematographers, Darius Khondji and Conrad W. Hall (son of Oscar-winning DP Conrad L. Hall). Not content to merely photograph the proceedings, Fincher's computer-assisted camera zooms around the house, through floorboards, cracks in the wall, and even a keyhole as the evening's events unfold. This fly-on-the-wall style is incredible -- it pulls you out of your normal role as audience member and throws you into the action. It's easy to forget that you're just watching a movie up there. A pair of sequences in particular (one as the thieves arrive in the rain, the other a slow-motion scene shot almost entirely without sound) are especially noteworthy in this regard. It's a breathtaking experience; I found myself (literally) on the edge of my seat, my $4.00 soda forgotten about in the cupholder beside me. It's absolutely riveting.
Fans of Fincher's work may be a tad disappointed in this movie's apparent lack of weight. Unlike Se7en, Fight Club, or The Game, there aren't any heady topics for discussion after the film present here. Oh, you can see Finch toying with some ideas, like the horrors of intrusion and violation, and the power of the will in defense, but they seem peripheral to the point. Fincher has called Panic Room his "popcorn movie" -- the easy-to-digest blockbuster for the mainstream audience. Don't let that fool you, though -- he is definitely at the top of his form in this one.
If the film has a flaw, it's only a minor one. There's a lack of character resolution at the end; something feels missing from the final scene. But as I said, it's a minor problem. Panic Room is a near-perfect suspense thrill-machine, and a worthy heir to the title of the Hitchcock Film of the Twenty-First Century. I hope Robert Zemeckis is watching.
Rating: ****1/2
Thursday, January 02, 2003
Changing Lanes
A woman sitting near me during Changing Lanes would not shut up. At every plot twist, she would murmur, "Uh-oh!" She laughed inexplicably throughout, though no one else in the theater found anything remotely amusing in the action onscreen. And with every screamed shout of indignation by the characters, she would cry out in agreement: "Yeah!!" No matter how people asked her to quiet herself, she kept it up, all the way until the credits. As I walked out, I overheard the couple sitting in front of me openly voicing their wish to throttle the annoying patron. I mean, they were pissed.
It's more than mildly ironic that such an encounter would occur during a screening of Changing Lanes, because the film's main focus is our implied "social contract" -- the unspoken agreement between us all that says we won't be rude or mean (or loud in the movie theater) and that we'll always try to help if we can. If one person violates that contract, dire consequences are likely to follow. The trailers have done this film a great disservice -- trailers seem to depict it as a hot-blooded, suspense-filled human chess match, ala Panic Room, but it's actually nothing of the kind. It's still not any good, mind you, not by any means, but it's not as shallow as the advertisements seem determined to make it out to be. It is, however, just as boring and preachy as you think it is.
The concept here is actually pretty good, and man oh man, Changing Lanes can't wait to get there. Our main characters are introduced very simply, cutting back-and-forth between them every twenty seconds or so for about five minutes. We get the basics, but nothing of consequence. Ben Affleck is Gavin Banek, your typical Big Shot Lawyer who cruises around in his fancy car, cheating on his wife (Amanda Peet) with his secretary (Toni Collette). He's about to seal the deal on a huge case that will make his firm millions -- he just needs to deliver some very important documents to the courthouse. Meanwhile, across town, we find Samuel L. Jackson as Doyle Gibson, your typical Estranged But Loving Father, putting the finishing touches on a loan so he can buy his ex-wife a house in a last-ditch attempt to keep his children near him. Oh, and he's a recovering alcoholic, too, for no good reason other than to give William Hurt something to do as his AA sponsor. Doyle is going to unveil the new house at his custody hearing -- this morning at the courthouse. All of the above (and more) is covered in about four minutes, with the action swinging back and forth, crosscutting between the two of them. It's almost dizzying, and not in a good way.
But fate strikes: as both are headed to the courtroom, Gavin and Doyle are involved in some kind of car accident on the FDR. I wish I could tell you what happened, but I'm not entirely sure myself -- this scene, like much of the film, is edited in such a shoddy, pedestrian manner that it's impossible to discern the events. Gavin's car is just scratched up, but Doyle's is disabled. In a hurry to get to court, Gavin leaves Doyle stranded, without even given him an insurance card. He does, however, leave something more important -- the crucial file he was on his to court to deliver is dropped on the road. Doyle picks it up, and heads on his way, only to show up too late to make a difference at his custody hearing. When Gavin shows up sans file in the courtroom, he's given until the end of the day to find it. And so it begins.
From there, Changing Lanes always feels like it's just getting ready to take off. Every beat of the film seems to contain a masterpiece just waiting to get out, but it never gets around to doing it. Lying in the cold, wet murk of this film is a classic somewhere, but director Roger Mitchell (the auteur behind Notting Hill...yuck) doesn't know how to find it. He seems to have an almost fetishistic obsession with glass -- what felt like fifty percent of the film is shot through glass, be it windows, windshields, or glass doors. All of the offices in Gavin's law building are built from glass, and many scenes within them are photographed from the outside. Why? No reason I can discern. Add this to the choppy, Bruckheimer-like editing, and Changing Lanes becomes a very hard film to sit through. Half of your time is spent just trying to figure out what's going on.
The script is at turns both compelling and frustrating. One very notable aspect is its refusal to call sides -- neither Gavin nor Doyle are the "bad guys" here. Each resorts to hideous (and illegal) tactics to get at the other, so much so that the point of all this is lost (to them, not the audience) beneath macho posturing and "How do you like that, motherfucker!" showdowns. They alternate roles as the film progresses: one will be sad and regretful of the events, the other pissed as hell and working for vengeance. The first will decide to end it and call a truce, but just before they get a chance, the other's next heinous plan will enact, and the two will switch sides for the next fifteen minutes. It quickly becomes obvious and predictable. And this is all before the film commits its major sin in the final act: I hoped, somewhere in the back of my mind, that Mitchell or the screenwriters would have the guts to steer this movie into truly reproachful territory, driving the point home with a shocking climax; I was disappointed. The finish is the safe way to go, never mind the fact that it's completely preposterous, even compared to the rest of the film.
If there's anything in this film to give high praise to, it's the cast. I'm a big fan of both Jackson and Affleck, and they are stellar here. Both Gavin and Doyle go through lots of emotional turmoil, and the two actors (Jackson especially) give excellent performances. Dylan Baker only appears in two scenes as one of those Hollywood "guys who knows how to make people do things they don't want to do" (who wields "computer voodoo"), but he's instantly memorable -- the unrestrained glee he exudes while destroying someone's life made me shudder.
All in all, I can't say that I really hated Changing Lanes, but I can say I was sorely let down. The film's message is a good one, even if it is handed down a little heavy. I'm going to go ahead and give it my standard "Maybe you'll like this more than I did" score, and I mean it -- this movie deserves a lot of credit for not being what I was afraid it would be...even if it's not much of anything else.
Rating: **
It's more than mildly ironic that such an encounter would occur during a screening of Changing Lanes, because the film's main focus is our implied "social contract" -- the unspoken agreement between us all that says we won't be rude or mean (or loud in the movie theater) and that we'll always try to help if we can. If one person violates that contract, dire consequences are likely to follow. The trailers have done this film a great disservice -- trailers seem to depict it as a hot-blooded, suspense-filled human chess match, ala Panic Room, but it's actually nothing of the kind. It's still not any good, mind you, not by any means, but it's not as shallow as the advertisements seem determined to make it out to be. It is, however, just as boring and preachy as you think it is.
The concept here is actually pretty good, and man oh man, Changing Lanes can't wait to get there. Our main characters are introduced very simply, cutting back-and-forth between them every twenty seconds or so for about five minutes. We get the basics, but nothing of consequence. Ben Affleck is Gavin Banek, your typical Big Shot Lawyer who cruises around in his fancy car, cheating on his wife (Amanda Peet) with his secretary (Toni Collette). He's about to seal the deal on a huge case that will make his firm millions -- he just needs to deliver some very important documents to the courthouse. Meanwhile, across town, we find Samuel L. Jackson as Doyle Gibson, your typical Estranged But Loving Father, putting the finishing touches on a loan so he can buy his ex-wife a house in a last-ditch attempt to keep his children near him. Oh, and he's a recovering alcoholic, too, for no good reason other than to give William Hurt something to do as his AA sponsor. Doyle is going to unveil the new house at his custody hearing -- this morning at the courthouse. All of the above (and more) is covered in about four minutes, with the action swinging back and forth, crosscutting between the two of them. It's almost dizzying, and not in a good way.
But fate strikes: as both are headed to the courtroom, Gavin and Doyle are involved in some kind of car accident on the FDR. I wish I could tell you what happened, but I'm not entirely sure myself -- this scene, like much of the film, is edited in such a shoddy, pedestrian manner that it's impossible to discern the events. Gavin's car is just scratched up, but Doyle's is disabled. In a hurry to get to court, Gavin leaves Doyle stranded, without even given him an insurance card. He does, however, leave something more important -- the crucial file he was on his to court to deliver is dropped on the road. Doyle picks it up, and heads on his way, only to show up too late to make a difference at his custody hearing. When Gavin shows up sans file in the courtroom, he's given until the end of the day to find it. And so it begins.
From there, Changing Lanes always feels like it's just getting ready to take off. Every beat of the film seems to contain a masterpiece just waiting to get out, but it never gets around to doing it. Lying in the cold, wet murk of this film is a classic somewhere, but director Roger Mitchell (the auteur behind Notting Hill...yuck) doesn't know how to find it. He seems to have an almost fetishistic obsession with glass -- what felt like fifty percent of the film is shot through glass, be it windows, windshields, or glass doors. All of the offices in Gavin's law building are built from glass, and many scenes within them are photographed from the outside. Why? No reason I can discern. Add this to the choppy, Bruckheimer-like editing, and Changing Lanes becomes a very hard film to sit through. Half of your time is spent just trying to figure out what's going on.
The script is at turns both compelling and frustrating. One very notable aspect is its refusal to call sides -- neither Gavin nor Doyle are the "bad guys" here. Each resorts to hideous (and illegal) tactics to get at the other, so much so that the point of all this is lost (to them, not the audience) beneath macho posturing and "How do you like that, motherfucker!" showdowns. They alternate roles as the film progresses: one will be sad and regretful of the events, the other pissed as hell and working for vengeance. The first will decide to end it and call a truce, but just before they get a chance, the other's next heinous plan will enact, and the two will switch sides for the next fifteen minutes. It quickly becomes obvious and predictable. And this is all before the film commits its major sin in the final act: I hoped, somewhere in the back of my mind, that Mitchell or the screenwriters would have the guts to steer this movie into truly reproachful territory, driving the point home with a shocking climax; I was disappointed. The finish is the safe way to go, never mind the fact that it's completely preposterous, even compared to the rest of the film.
If there's anything in this film to give high praise to, it's the cast. I'm a big fan of both Jackson and Affleck, and they are stellar here. Both Gavin and Doyle go through lots of emotional turmoil, and the two actors (Jackson especially) give excellent performances. Dylan Baker only appears in two scenes as one of those Hollywood "guys who knows how to make people do things they don't want to do" (who wields "computer voodoo"), but he's instantly memorable -- the unrestrained glee he exudes while destroying someone's life made me shudder.
All in all, I can't say that I really hated Changing Lanes, but I can say I was sorely let down. The film's message is a good one, even if it is handed down a little heavy. I'm going to go ahead and give it my standard "Maybe you'll like this more than I did" score, and I mean it -- this movie deserves a lot of credit for not being what I was afraid it would be...even if it's not much of anything else.
Rating: **
Wednesday, January 01, 2003
Hunter episode guide
Season 1 - The Truth/It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)
Episode 2 recap contains introductory information. Episodes 9-13 are recapped on one page.
All episodes recapped on one page. Titles for episodes 5-8 are unavailable thanks to shoddy notes-taking by the Storyteller.
Episode 2 recap contains introductory information. Episodes 9-13 are recapped on one page.
- The End [not recapped]
- Corpses
- Sunday
- You're No Fun Anymore
- The Sting
- Your Fairy Fucking Godmother
- Green
- Gimme Shelter
- The Big Red Number
- Name That Tune
- The Map
- The Labyrinth
- The Minotaur
All episodes recapped on one page. Titles for episodes 5-8 are unavailable thanks to shoddy notes-taking by the Storyteller.
- Lovesick
- Anonymous Liberty
- Under Cover of Afternoon
- The Top of the Eighth
- ?
- ?
- ?
- ?
- Bad Things Are Happening All the Time
- Not Guilty
- 1
- Schadenfreude
- The Clearing
- The Black Hand, Part 1: No Surprises
- The Black Hand, Part 2: In Limbo
- The Black Hand, Part 3: Knives Out
- House of Leaves
- The Chamber of 32 Doors
- Nothing Bad Happened Today
- We Now Return to Our Regularly Scheduled Program
- Not Dark Yet
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