The Way Of The Shirey

Movie Reviews and Oscar Commentary

2009-01-29T22:31:00.016-09:00

OSCAR-BAITER or, why you should avoid the Oscars and see these movies instead.

As the movie awards season begins, many people are inundated with the pressure to see the films that are all the rave, all the hype, and all the buzz. Most average moviegoers never make it to more than one or two of these films, usually because they come to the realization that they don’t really want to.

Hollywood is so in love with its “Oscar-bait” films that it jumps off the cliff of pretentiousness and leaves most people feeling alienated. As if the general movie going public isn’t sophisticated enough to decipher a Kate Winslet accent or an historically interpretive story. Apparently, anyone in a red state is too dumb to understand or appreciate anything other than something with Larry the Cable Guy.

Oh, Hollywood, you can suck it.

I shit talk the Oscars, the Golden Globes, and any other pop culture self-gratifying awards show that pretends to be more important than it really is. It’s not that I’m against an organization awarding its members for outstanding work…it’s that EVERY year so many great people are overlooked.

This year is no exception. Just about anyone who has seen “The Dark Knight” would attest that it is a well made, thought provoking, and innovative comic book/crime film hybrid, which pulls together the fantasy and reality of comic book characters, making them relevant and believable, while still upholding their fictional allure.

Or, they’d at least say that the movie was pretty fuckin’ badass.

However, despite Heath Ledger’s recognition, which is justly deserved whether he had died or not, director Christopher Nolan, the man MOST responsible for the film’s success, was completely ignored, as was the nomination for best picture. Apparently, hobbits can win best picture, but men in bat suits are shit out of luck. These two particular omissions are by and far the most upsetting to fans of the film and for fans of GOOD films to boot.

Instead, we are led to believe, by nomination votes, that a film like “The Reader,” or even “Benjamin Button,” are far superior films. Look, I saw “Benjamin Button.” It was a great film. Great performances, direction, cinematography, score, etc., but I couldn’t quelch the constant nag in my brain that they simply repackaged “Forest Gump” (Buttons screenplay is written by Eric Roth, who also adapted Forest Gump).

Are we awarding points for originality or for WHO copied WHAT the best?

With that being said, I am personally choosing to ignore the Oscars. Their voting process is flawed and it shows me that they need a serious revamp in the system before it can become relevant to me again. The process is outlined here.

The initial selection process of nominees is as jacked as the ratings board. Hopefully the Obama Change slogan that Hollywood so giddily embraced will trickle into their own political processes and generate a revamped and accurate feel for what films are worthy of awards and nominations.

However, one point we can’t ignore is that “the people” don’t choose the nominees. Fellow actors, directors, producers, etc. are academy members…NOT Joe Public (or six pack). So, by that token, you should be able to see behind the farce…it’s an awards show for Hollywood, decided by Hollywood, and voted on by Hollywood and shoved in your face to prove that these films matter and you should watch them, thereby filling their Hollywood pockets.

It’s all well and good that an organization wants to recognize its own BY its own, but don’t try to pretend that we should give a shit because you do. In my opinion, The Dark Knight is the epitome of “Best Picture.” It was one of the best reviewed, well received, and made more money than any other film. Wouldn’t that make more sense for a “best picture” rather than what Whoopi Goldberg checks off on her nomination card?

Here are the nominations for this year. Peruse and dis at your own discretion.

This brings me to two films I have seen during “the awards season” that I feel have not received the accolades they deserve. Although one of them has a well-deserved nomination for Best Actor, they have otherwise been ignored. Now, in the long run, the truth is that I REALLY don’t give a shit if the Oscars recognize them or not.

However, the average moviegoer (meaning someone who doesn’t read the daily trades, work in the industry, or study film) usually relies on these nominations when choosing what they will spend their hard-earned money on. My goal in writing reviews has always been to share my opinion, which I feel is well developed enough in regards to film that I can give you some perspective and appreciation for what you will invest your time and money on.

Nothing pains me more than seeing people buy tickets to a movie that I KNOW sucks, either by seeing it already or distancing myself from it like a gang on a street corner. I’m here for you, Joe Moviegoer. I will not lead you astray. Although my opinion will not always mesh with the general public, I am informed enough to keep you in the clear.

Having said my piece on the Oscars, I’m not going to retread it throughout these reviews. There are more important things to discuss with them rather than their lack of recognition by their peers.

So, let’s begin, shall we?

Gran Torino is directed by Clint Eastwood, who seems to have evolved from punching monkeys and glinting cowboys/cops into a finely tuned filmmaker. He’s been directing for decades, but not until the last few years has he really come into the realm of great significance.

After “Million Dollar Baby,” where Eastwood took your emotions on a rollercoaster ride and didn’t strap you down, he delved deeper into his treasure trove of emotional resonance and gave us an adaptation of “Flags of our Fathers,” and “Letters From Iwo Jima,” (which I still haven’t watched and shame myself for), both of which received a mixed bag of reception, but are undeniably well-made. Personally, I think a lot of people skipped out on those films and shit talk them without the real insight (i.e. having really seen them).

Eastwood then churned out “Changeling,” which no one saw (yet another mark of an Academy Award nominated film). Some would argue that “Million Dollar Baby” is Eastwood’s crowning achievement as a serious filmmaker. I, however, beg to differ.

Gran Torino, Eastwood’s latest offering is a perfect blend of many of Eastwood’s past films, culminating the hard-edged characters he’s played throughout the years into what we might imagine they might be if they retired in a mixed race neighborhood in Michigan.

It’s a simple premise: After the death of his wife, a retired Korean war vet faces the changing times with much disdain and hardship as he is deeply set in his ways in an ever-changing world. After the teenage son of a Hmong family (southeastern Asians) attempts to steal Eastwood’s mint Gran Torino, Eastwood attempts to steer the boy away from a life of gangs and crime, while putting his own demon’s to bed.

Eastwood plays it cool, grumpy, and stoic, all while giving the depth and torment of a man who has always lived his life by a certain standard yet finds that even in his dwindling years can still find it within himself to change.

Eastwood’s character is an unforgiving racist, but not in a deeply violent or hateful way. We all want to pretend that we are so perfect and politically correct, but the truth is that most people stereotype all races, genders, etc., whether they admit it or not. I call bullshit on all of you who say you don’t. Eastwood’s character merely voices those thoughts and stereotypes.

And, honestly, it generates more laughter than anything else, which I felt was healthy for an audience to sit through and laugh together about it. We all know it’s wrong and not acceptable to any degree, yet it exists in almost all of us, so it’s more of a tension release in which we can all laugh at our own ignorance.

The racism in the film is heavy handed and tackled to a great degree. Eastwood never lets up his slurs, even to the bitter end, but his mind is forever changed and altered as he begins to accept his neighbors as family, learning and developing a repor more deeply felt than that of his relationship with his own sons and grandchildren.

If anything, the racism pulls the film together. You want to cheer Eastwood on, push him to interact, to socialize with those he slurs under his breath. And through each interaction he loosens up more and more, peeling back the layers of a man who put up a façade of hate for so long that he can’t even remember why it was there to begin with.

I don’t know if Eastwood has any sons that he’s trying to send a message to, but the relationship he has with his film counterparts is depressing to watch. His grown sons in the film are arrogant, spoiled, distant, nonchalant, and unappreciative of the man they call their father. They attempt to convince him to go to a home, almost as if it would just be easier to have him locked away somewhere rather than have to check on him as he lives on his own.

I have no doubt many people have felt this way when confronting the prospect of caring for their parent’s in their dwindling years. And it’s sad, really. Eastwood's character lets everyone know that just because he’s old doesn’t mean he's incompetent or unable to sustain himself. However, his sons seem to know so little about the man that they don’t see any other way.

What drives Gran Torino is the relationship between Eastwood and the Hmong boy, Thao, who attempts to steal the title car. It’s painfully obvious that throughout the film the boy becomes more of a son to Eastwood than his own blood. And, as heartbreaking as that is, it’s just as heartwarming. Again, you want to cheer the relationship on, Rocky style.

And although the racism and gang violence is on the heavier side of things, Eastwood balances everything out with a healthy blend of humor, especially in the fish-out-of-water department. Watching a racist old vet start to blend with another culture, one he portends to hate, is more funny than painful and is a testament to Eastwood as an actor who can still reel us in even if he isn’t uttering famous one-liners.

Gran Torino is a meditative film, driven by a constant sense of dread. As things build to good things that lead to better things that lead to everything almost too perfect, you feel that something must go wrong, deeply wrong, and you find yourself clinging to the hope that somehow, someway you can see a happy resolution before the credits roll.

“Sense of dread” films are the best. I chew my nails, I tap my foot nervously, and my mind is working like a supercomputer as I try to figure out how things will pan out, or, more importantly, how I WANT them to pan out and if the film will follow suit. Gran Torino is chalk full of good things evolving into better things while the impending “showdown” awaits and you just know that it’s going to go one way or another but you just can’t put your finger on it.

This is what makes movies great. This is what makes movies WORK.

Another highlight of this film is that of what a man leaves behind. Man, and the struggle to leave a worthy legacy in his wake, is something that infects all of us, one way or another, some deeper than others. Some ponder it daily, striving minute-by-minute to make a difference that will impact future generations. Some simply deal with the mess they’ve made, never having any hope for making great strides of progress.

It is man’s struggle, especially, as he gets into the twilight years and things haven’t quite worked out how he expected. He never finished that novel. Never went fishing with his sons. Never got over that girl. Never finished that degree. There is a laundry list with unchecked marks that we will take to our graves.

Gran Torino explores the dwindling legacy of a man in his twilight years; what he has, what he’s lost, what he’s leaving behind, and the amends he’s making as the end grows near. It’s a dual contemplation, one both for Eastwood the character and Eastwood the director.

For my money, Gran Torino is a meditative and thought-provoking film which explores the lives we lead vs. the lives we thought we would and how there is still hope to fix your legacy even as you reach the end of it.

Which takes me to my next film, The Wrestler. Director Darren Aronofsky goes off the stylistic reservation, creating what feels like a shot for shot documentary than a feature film.

Like Gran Torino, we have a simple premise, but a deeply (I can’t find my thesaurus and “deep” is where I’m at, so DEAL) involving tale with multiple thematic elements (man, that sounds like film school student blotter…fuck it). An aging wrestler, played to perfection by Mickey Rourke, deals with debilitating health and the pangs of loneliness and regret as he finds himself delving into his later years.

Rourke is a marvel to watch. He IS the show. As Randy “The Ram” Robinson, Rourke gives us a ringside seat into what we probably would never imagine as the life of a professional wrestler. The Ram is long past his prime, having reached his peak in the pro wrestling world decades past, he is now doing low-key shows to make extra cash while working stock at a grocery store.

He has an estranged daughter (played by the always lovely Evan Rachel Wood), and is enamored with a local stripper (played by the always…eh…well, Marisa Tomei…with pierced nipples). He lives in a trailer park and sometimes goes to the local American Legion to hawk his wrestling goods and sign autographs.

He’s an old dog still swimming in the pool of young talent, guys that are hungry to get where The Ram was twenty years ago. And yet, he’s still got it. The showmanship, the professionalism, the drive, it’s all there, even as his body is literally falling apart.

Again, we face the themes so present in Gran Torino, involving man and his legacy. The Ram has nothing to be ashamed of professionally. He has a bevy of fans who routinely come to him for autographs and handshakes, and the promoters still treat him with respect and admiration.

However, his personal life is in shambles. I never heard any mention of a wife or girlfriend, and his daughter is completely cold and distant, wanting nothing to do with him. Tomei’s stripper shares a similar dilemma with The Ram, as she is getting on in years (the kiss of death for strippers is much younger) and although she is still smokin’ hot, she finds that her career, her own legacy leaves much to be desired.

She is a mother and a woman who wants to have and be more, but is limited…this is all she knows. And, like The Ram, when all you know is jeopardized it can seem that there’s nothing left living for…or maybe that you’ve been looking in all the wrong places.

After suffering a near fatal heart attack after a match, The Ram decides to forego a big rematch with his old rival and focus on the things that he has neglected his entire life…namely his family and a career outside wrestling. However, his career is merely taking a position at the deli counter in the grocery store and the only family he has is his estranged lesbian daughter.

The Ram also reaches out to Tomei’s stripper, as so many “customers” tend to do, and is met with the expected stop sign. However, with her recent epiphany, she relents and agrees to hang out with The Ram socially. It’s tough for her to do, but she’s at a crossroads…at what point does she reciprocate? At what point does she move on and take a chance on someone?

Similarly, The Ram, now done with wrestling and working full time to win back what he has lost, convinces his daughter to speak with him and confesses to her in the most heartbreaking moment of the film and the shining moment for Rourke. He knows he fucked up. He knows that there’s no reason for her to forgive him or feel sorry for him, but the fact remains that he still loves her and wants to make amends.

She agrees to have dinner with him and you just know that somehow, someway it’s never going to happen. What happens after he misses the dinner is definitely a foregone conclusion though. With the most sincere honesty that leaves a lingering sting in the air, she tells him she never wants to see him again…and you can feel she means it.

And even through all his screw-ups, you want The Ram to win. Like Rocky did so well more than thirty years ago, you want the underdog to have his day. No matter his wrong doings, which are fairly average compared to worst-case scenarios, you want The Ram to get the golden ticket.

While trying to continue the tiptoeing romance with Tomei, The Ram finds that she is still clamoring to hold onto her life, even while trying to be a part of his. Like The Ram trying to still be a wrestler and juggle his family and love life, it’s too much to take at once. Tomei rejects The Ram once again and he has sunk to the lowest point since his heart attack.

So, what does a man do when he has lost everything? His career, his passion, his family, his love? He turns to that which has been the constant in his life, the one thing he could always count on. For The Ram, it’s wrestling and in a great big “fuck it” moment, The Ram calls up the promoters and agrees to the rematch with his old rival.

This is what sets The Wrestler apart from your typical underdog story. It’s not wrapped up with a neat little bow on top. It’s not cut and dry. Because, ultimately, that’s where the movie connects on a human level…that’s life. I’m not saying you can’t have a happy ending, but it never works out how you plan it and you very rarely get everything you want.

The Ram’s epiphany is that his legacy, his passion, doesn’t rest with his estranged daughter or with the infatuation with a stripper. His heart belongs in the ring, no matter how cheesy or inappropriate that may seem to someone else. He has already screwed up every relationship and side job in his life. But, the one thing he got right, the one thing he truly put himself into, is all he has left.

“I’m still jumpin’ from the top rope,” he says at one point. And that is where he is at his crowning, shining moment. A man’s life is made up of many moments (not trying to alienate the ladies either, I’m just speaking from my own perspective…catch me on my review for “Confessions of a Shopaholic” for the flipside), many choices, and ultimately our legacy is created from that.

In one regard, Gran Torino is about how it’s never too late to change our lives for the better, while The Wrestler is about how sometimes change isn’t the answer to our lives. In the end, both films left me with this;

What we leave behind is also what we take with us.

Fortunately, both of these films will leave their own legacy that can affect viewers and hopefully challenge some thought about these themes for as long as the future holds. When the Eastwood’s, the Rourke’s, the Aronofsky’s, etc., all leave this earth, their testament to not only film, but to the human condition, will continue to live on with great films like these.

So, next time you’re at the theater and you’re looking for something with substance, devoid of the Oscar-bait stigma, consider settling in with one of these films. Without pretense or agenda they will likely leave you with a resonating experience rather than a confusing itch as to why such a film would be honored by its community.

MOVIE GRADES: A+

Generally Annoyed

2009-01-18T17:28:00.015-09:00

I’ve gotten quite a few inquiries asking if I intend to do a movie year-end wrap up. The answer is no. Many well-informed individuals whose opinions I typically respect have summed up the majority of my feelings on the movies of 2008 and I don’t feel the need to repeat them. We all loved The Dark Knight, Iron Man, and Benjamin Button. The only difference is the wild cards, which all of my respected friends have; some loved High School Musical and the second Narnia. Some loved Punisher War Zone. I don’t have a cure for them, but am concerned.

I, on the other hand, have my own vices, two of which seem to be eternally loathed; Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull and Speed Racer. I enjoyed the hell out of both those films (not that either is perfect), whereas I have yet to find a single individual to share those sentiments. I always fall back to Domino for that one. I love that movie still. Tony Scott is one of the best directors of the last thirty years and Keira Knightley yelling “Put your fucking weapon down!” in her cockney accent makes my pee pee maker tingle.

Like I said, we all have our vices.

However, I want to talk about a few things that have been grinding on my nerves lately and hopefully you can relate. If you can’t, then you are probably part of the problem and perhaps this little blog will set you straight.

As many know, I am expecting my first child this year (we preordered) and throughout the process of preparing to bring someone into this world that will later hate and despise you, we have combed the stores, Internet, and parental advice in deciding what to populate our baby’s life with. Certainly there are a bevy of worthless items, made more for the parent’s amusement than for an actual purpose that serves your child.

And one of those most annoying and ridiculous things to surface is the “Baby on Board” sign. As if Garfield on suction cups wasn’t annoying enough (which seems to have fortunately gone to the fad cemetery), the general populace has been subjected to these obnoxious yellow and black signs that seem to have a purpose at first glance…until you give it some thought.

These signs (which come in numerous sizes at Babies R Us) seem to be telling you, the childless, pompous, asshole driver that you better watch your speed and proximity to the baby-lugging mini-van sporting the timeless message…or else!

Or else what, motherfucker? I can see it now; a cop pulls me over after one of these annoying vehicles with the sticker in the window cuts me off:

“Is there a problem, officer?”
“Yes, sir. You nearly hit that mini-van in front of you.”
“Uh, yeah, that crazy bitch cut ME off and nearly ran me off the road…perhaps you should have pulled her over?”
“Maybe you weren’t paying attention, sir…She had a Baby On Board sign. Did you happen to catch that, smart guy?”
“Oh dear…I-I’m so sorry, officer. I had no idea. I didn’t see it. I was busy texting and eating Kentucky Fried Chicken while changing songs on my iPod. I must have missed the sign. If I had known…”
“I’ll let you go with a warning, sir…and one of those drumsticks.”

I mean, seriously…am I supposed to somehow change the way I drive because some dumbass puts that sign in their window? Like I’m some speed demon, whipping in and out of traffic as if I’m trying to get to the Obama inauguration until I suddenly see that sign? Then I what? Slow down? Stay in the lines? Drop back fifteen meters? Is there some kind of protective bubble that I am to abide by because of that stupid sign?

There is no traffic law or rule that acknowledges or grants special road privileges because of that sign. And if your baby is in a car seat, which IS a law, then he/she is all fucking good. They are a passenger like everyone else and no sign is going to change that.

Let me clear up the little bullshit story that supposedly started that stupid sign; The old tale goes like this; Supposedly, a woman and her kids were in a traffic accident and when the police arrived on scene they somehow missed the baby in the car (because what? They didn’t happen to notice the fucking baby car seat? Come oooonnnnnnnn) and the baby died as a result. If they just would have had that baby on board sign, that baby might be alive today and they would be all grown up and driving a death trap mini-van with their own Baby on Board sign. And the world would be perfect.

If you are a new or old parent and you are still rocking that sign then it’s time to really think about the validity of such a mark of ignorance. Do you really think that sign is making a difference other than pointing out that you are making some asshole rich by buying his moronic suction cup sign? It’s junk!

In a fragile economy like this, which was made that way by our own ignorance as BAD consumers, we should all be more fiscally responsible and build those tools to continue throughout our children's lives and ours. Buying shit like these signs is a picture perfect example of a piss poor American consumer; someone who doesn’t really THINK about what they are buying and instead buying it because it FEELS like something they should have.

The only exception would be if you are buying one of these signs as a joke to piss off someone who hates these things. Which is how I got one for Christmas.

While we’re at it, let’s talk about bumper stickers with personal messages. If you ever want to really SHOW OFF your personality and beliefs and feel that the best place to do so is the ass end of your car then you have proven a few things; 1) You are a moron 2) You are a moron, and last, but not least 3) You are a moron.

I don’t fucking care if you love Obama or Bush. I don’t care if you’re Green. I don’t care if you love Jesus or Buddha. I don’t care if you don’t want to drill, mine, or fish. I don’t give a fuck if you think I should watch out for motorcycles. I don’t care if you are Christian or a Darwinite. All I really care about when looking at the ass end of your car is that you obey the rules of the road and don’t drive like a dickhead. That would be a PHENOMENAL start.

Your pretentious car message splattered onto a piece of weatherproof paper on the back of your shitmobile is not going to change my mind or inform me of anything other than the fact that you are a moron. In fact, if you really want someone to stay away from your vehicle for your baby’s safety then it might be in your best interest to put a bunch of hippie messages; Peace, change, green, gay, whatever stickers all over your car. Better yet, get a ribbon that says Support Everything.

I will stay far the fuck away from you. Rubbing into your vehicle would cause a rainbow of smudges on my truck that I just don’t need. Bottom line here: Nobody cares and your resale value just went down the toilet. If you want everyone to hear your opinion then start a blog (natch).

Look, I’m not an angry person. Okay, I do swear this much usually, but not when it’s not professional. However, this is my happy place. And I’m happy to share my anger. Let’s hold hands and continue, shall we?

Movie Theater Etiquette

We’ve all been to the movies. Most of us enjoy the experience. However, if you were to ask, probably those same people would say that their chief complaint with going to the movies is dealing with other, less courteous patrons.

Amen to that, I say.

Obviously, I go to the movies a lot. Duh. I am not an average moviegoer and I certainly don’t expect that everyone should follow suit. It’s a personal choice based on personal interest. I don’t frequent sporting events at all. I’m just not into it. I respect it, but don’t participate. So, don’t try to make friends with me by talking football. I’ll just nod my head in that familiar “Yep, whatever you say, dude,” kinda way and wait for you to change the subject.

So, with so much experience frequenting the cinema, I can assure you that I have seen it all. I have seen the most despicable acts by people against other people while coming together to enjoy a movie. I’ve seen people arrested, kicked out, fights, screaming kids, the whole gamut. It’s obnoxious. It needs to stop.

There’s a simple formula to how you should behave in public. It’s the easiest thing in the world for the majority of the population. If you are in a big, congested area with lots of different folks, all you need to do is ACT LIKE YOU WOULD AT CHURCH. Now, we could go round and round about how people SHOULD act and how they ACTUALLY act, whether it be at church or the movies, but the bottom line is that we KNOW how we should act at Church and thereby shouldn’t have any trouble applying it here.

Notice how everyone gets dressed up nice, watches their language, and is generally nice, pleasant, polite, and respectful at church? Then, what happens when they go home? They change their clothes, pop a beer, put on the game, scratch their balls and curse everything from baby on board signs to the economy. If we could somehow bridge that gap and carry over our church manners into a movie theater setting then all would be well in the world.

However, since there’s no Jesus statue or robe-wearing preacher in the theater we feel that we can just be assholes in public since there’s no accountability. To me, regardless of what your religion is, you should apply the basic principles of humanity and society, which is simple kindness and respect for everyone around you.

So, before I jump into my rant, keep that in mind. Church manners.

Oh, where to begin. Let’s break it down.

Movie talkers: Check it out, if you want to bullshit during a movie then STAY THE FUCK HOME. If you are too dumb to understand what’s going on in the movie then you need to shut your trap and attempt to warm up that noodle in your head by reading, improving your vocabulary, or maybe going back to get that GED. Reserve your questions for after the lights come up.

Seat Kickers: Come on. Seriously. I wish I could go to the home of one of the many seat-kickers I’ve endured throughout the years and, while they are lying comfortably on the couch and watching The Hills, I’d just stand there and kick the back of the sofa throughout the entire show. I’d never say a word. I’d just stand there. And kick. And maybe giggle devilishly with my eyes open real wide.

The Movie Challenged: Perhaps because I am so well informed about movies that I find this so ridiculous. A couple shows up at the movies and have no idea what’s playing. They just decide to come out to the big city and see one of them picture shows. So, and it’s sad that the theater actually provides this, they are given a piece of paper with a listing of all movies playing and a synopsis of each.

So, these movie-challenged dingbats stand there, holding up the line as they decide what looks good and if it coincides with the time they want to see it.

I get it. Not everyone goes to the movie sites and reads up or gives a shit what’s coming. Same as I don’t give two shits who goes to the super bowl or playoffs or whatever. Fair enough. However, if I was going to buy tickets to a game I would know the time and the place beforehand so that I could prepare accordingly.

There’s this thing called the Internet that lists show times and synopsis as well. Five minutes of your time will save you that embarrassing venture at the theater, holding up the line only to decide to see some shit like August Rush.

The In Frequenters: This is more funny than annoying, depending on the individual. While seeing Australia this year on Thanksgiving, I noticed a lot of families dragging Grandma and Grandpa out of the house and to the theater for some good ol’ family movie time. However, this is the first movie said grandparents have been to all year…and it shows.

It’s like someone brought a short bus of window-lickers to the theater for the holiday. People tripping on the stairs, spilling popcorn and sodas, staring at the ceiling in awe, and still being wowed by the dumb ass Sprite commercial with the kids jumping into a pool that looks like a basketball court. I shake my head in disbelief and realize that I would probably look just as dumb going to the ballet. “Do they bring hot dogs to your seat here?”

And lastly…

Cell phone and Text abusers: Do I really need to reiterate that you aren’t at home? What’s interesting is that the movie theaters now have full on pre-show ads about turning your cell phone off. Of course no one gives a shit, but the fact is that theaters now have to pay for advertisements to remind people not to be discourteous assholes while the movie is playing.

Personally, I think a better ad would be to hire someone like David Spade to simply stand in a movie theater lobby and say:

“Hello movie patrons. Happy to have you at the movies. Unfortunately, there are likely some discourteous assholes in this theater that are going to text or even answer phone calls while the movie is playing because they don’t have any church manners or basic human respect for fellow patrons.

So, Cinemark has paid me $500,000 to stand here and remind you that you’re all in this together and you should respect one another by NOT using your cell phone during the movie. So, thanks for not doing the right thing. I like money and I didn’t even have to do a terrible VH1 show to get it.

Thanks for making me rich America! So, actually, I hope there are a couple douche bags that will break the rules so I can come back and do another one of these next month. Keep it up, you manner less a-holes and enjoy the show!”

The cell phone has really screwed things up. I mean that. We all view it as a necessity. It makes communication so much easier, so much more convenient. However, that’s not true. It has made us assholes. It has lessened our patience and made us spoiled technobrats.

Remember the TV show Miami Vice? Go back and watch an episode. Guess what’s missing? Cell phones. But guess what? Sonny and Crocket still cracked the fucking case and did so with Phil Collins playing in the background! Take that, cell phones!

If you were fortunate enough to have been around when cell phones weren’t even in existence then you might remember something that is missing today: Peace and quiet! How awesome was it to be out all day and not have a thousand people calling you to ask you minute questions and send you stupid texts? You came home, hit play on your answering machine, picked up your land line and returned calls, if you wanted to.

You had a little something I like to call freedom. Today, everyone from the rich to the poor and the black to the white have a fucking cell phone and are suckling on the telecommunication titty until it’s dry. Many times I will leave my cell phone at home only to come home and find messages wondering where the hell I am and how DARE I not pick up or reply. The simple answer is that I am not tied to my cell phone like a nameless cog in the matrix.

My point should be obvious. If you can’t put your stupid ATT shitphone down for a two-hour movie then you should STOP BREATHING AND NEVER START AGAIN. If you can’t sit through a movie without fucking with your phone then you need to either a) get some Ritalin, b) cease to exist, or c) NEVER come to the movies.

My favorite is how people open up their cell phones to text during a movie, thinking that the light from their phone won’t be seen from everyone above them. It’s not a simple little light in a pitch-black theater. It’s a fucking surefire and it’s blinding me and it’s obnoxious.

There are literally ZERO excuses for texting or talking in a theater. Go ahead and think of one and I will debunk it. Your mom is in the hospital and you want to know her condition? Go to the hospital then! Your babysitter is burning down the house? Get home then! You certainly don’t need to send back and forth texts. “Is the fire spreading or can it wait until the end of the movie?” Come on.

I would love to yank the phone out of a movie texter’s hand just to see what they are writing. I guarantee it will be some shit like this:

MovieTextDouche: This movie is gay
MovieTextEnabler: What movie r u seeing?
MovieTextDouche: Bloody Valentine 3D…I have 3D glasses on. Lol
MovieTextEnabler: Why didn’t u invite me? U suck!
MovieTextDouche: What r u doing?
MovieTextEnabler: Watching Keeping up w/Kardashians. I want her butt. Lol.
MovieTextDouche: Me too. RFLMAO. What did you eat for lunch today?
MovieTextEnabler: A piece of lettuce. Delish!
MovieTextDouche: I had BK. Whopper w/cheese. And a coke. And fries.
MovieTextEnabler: I love BK. I like their fries. A LOT! Lol.
MovieTextDouche: This movie is gay. I’m bored.
MovieTextEnabler: Why don’t u leave and come over here?
MovieTextDouche: I’m havin' too much fun annoying this dick behind me with my texting. LOL. He can SUCK it!

And so on an so forth…

Now, you could say, “Well, why don’t you say something?” However, that’s not the problem. The problem is that I HAVE to. Why should I have to say something? I have to disrupt the theater and probably cause an altercation (because manner less fucks are usually ill tempered as well) because someone is a dickhead? Because they have no church manners? I’m not the theater cops and I’m not Hank Moody. I’m just a simple patron who expects the same courtesy he affords others.

Church Manners. Pass it on. A message from The Way of The Shirey of Latter Day Church Manner users.

That wraps up my annoyances for now. I have plenty of others, which involve baby shit, baby names, parental visits, and Alaskan drivers, but I’ll save those for later. For loyal followers of this blog, I am about to revamp the whole thing and start an actual website. Blogger is fairly limited for what I’m trying to do and very time consuming. I am going to reformat to accommodate more posts, which will help keep me regular (like a column, not a bodily function).

Hopefully, the all new, all better Way of the Shirey will be up and running by summer, but I don’t have a set date. So, be patient! I do have a kid that will be keeping me up at night very soon and I doubt he’ll be like the e-trade baby right of the bat, full of investment and Dreamweaver knowledge. We’ll get him there, though.

Thanks for not texting while reading my blog!

2009-01-09T21:28:00.006-09:00

BABYLON A.D.
Reviewed by: Paul Shirey

Director: Mathieu Kassovitz

Actors: Vin Diesel, Michelle Yeoh, Mélanie Thierry, Mark Strong, and Gerard Depardieu (Yes, that one).

Movie: 1.5 stars
DVD: 1 star
Overall: 1.5 stars

WHAT’S IT ABOUT?
Vin Diesel plays Vin Diesel as a mercenary hired to escort a hot chick and Michelle Yeoh from Russia to New York for reasons I’m still trying to figure out. Read on.

IS IT A GOOD MOVIE?
You’ve seen this movie a hundred times already and it was way better before. Babylon A.D. is a hodgepodge of every sci-fi action flick made in the last twenty years. Take Children of Men, The Fifth Element, Blade Runner, Minority Report, and the Riddick movies, toss them in the ol’ cinematic blender and out comes Babylon A.D….the latest bastard stepchild of the sci-fi genre.

This is one of those movies that feels like they really wanted it to succeed, threw tons of money at it, and everything just fell apart. Vin Diesel is just fine as the mercenary Theroop (like Turok…whatever) if you want to settle for more of the same. Surprisingly enough, Michelle Yeoh is actually quite convincing as a nun/martial arts master (oh, you heard me right). She even cries. So, you know that’s good. Aurora, the chick he’s taking to New York, is hot enough, but there’s no boobage or anything beyond her acting like the typical “chosen one” spazz, so who cares?

The SFX are slightly above average, but mostly on par with XXX, which also sucked. The action is sparse and unfocused, the story is convoluted and cliché and we’re done. Chances are you’re gonna be at Blockbuster or filling up your Netflix Queue and run across this Vin Diesel movie that you never saw in theaters (because you blinked) and you’ll be curious to see if it sucks or not, since you liked him in the Riddick flicks and that car movie with Jordana Brewster, but I assure you, this is one Babylon better left in ruins.

VIDEO/AUDIO
Video: 1:85:1 Widescreen. Not a bad movie to show off on Blu-Ray due to the ripped off visual collage from better-made sci-fi…but you could do worse…like Johnny Mnemonic…or better, like Blade Runner.

Audio: English 5.1 Dolby Digital for those inclined. Unfortunately, the few moments where the filmmakers could have even attempted something sexy with the sound they didn’t even try. Don’t bother waking the neighbors for this one.

THE EXTRAS
I watched the standard disc version with both the theatrical and unrated versions of the film. The only main difference is a pointless car chase at the end of the theatrical cut, which was omitted from the unrated version (which also ends with a dedication “for my daughters.” Not the best legacy, dude). Other than that, the only extra on this puppy is a bunch of FOX trailers for more movies that failed at the box office.

FINAL DIAGNOSIS
Diehard sci-fi and/or Vin Diesel fans may find tidbits of interest in Babylon A.D., but there’s hardly a shred of anything memorable. You’ll most likely say, “It wasn’t that bad…” Then there will be a long silence and you’ll look over to whoever you made sit through the whole thing with you and you’ll bow your head and hand over the five bucks you just lost.

2009-01-09T21:15:00.007-09:00

PINEAPPLE EXPRESS
Reviewed by: Paul Shirey

Director: David Gordon Green

Actors: Seth Rogen, James Franco, Danny McBride, Gary Cole, Craig Robinson, Amber Heard, and Rosie Perez

Movie: 4 stars
DVD: 3.5 stars
Overall: 4 stars

WHAT’S IT ABOUT?
Seth Rogen plays a dead-end stoner who witnesses a murder and pulls his dealer, played by James Franco, into the mix and on the run from a vindictive drug boss.

IS IT A GOOD MOVIE?
I’ve heard a lot of people say that they just didn’t “get” this movie or felt they had to be stoned to enjoy it. However, I sipped a Diet Coke and ate popcorn and laughed my ass off, drug free. If you’re a fan of Rogen/Apatow style comedy then this is definitely for you. It’s got the improv style comedy that’s been steamrolling through movies like this since Anchorman and it delivers the goods, even if it comes off a little awkward from time to time.

It’s hard to steal the show from Rogen, but Franco and McBride do just that. Franco plays the staring-at-the-wind drug dealer to perfection and McBride is hysterical as the double-crossing dealer, Red (who bakes a cake for his dead cat’s birthday…awesome). Whenever these three are onscreen together you can feel the comedy magic. It’s like hanging out with three of your best friends and talking shit for a few hours. Like Superbad before it, Pineapple Express, for better or worse, is continuing the new sub-genre of “bromance” flicks, which isn’t all-bad, but isn’t all-good either. I guess it depends on how in touch you are with your “bromantic” side.

Surprisingly enough, the action in the film isn’t too bad. It’s not Tony Scott or anything, but it’s a giant leap over something you’d see in a Pink Panther movie. And with more blood. The violence is borderline over-the-top and they play it off in a clumsy manner, which is the way it should be since most drug dealers/stoners aren’t former Special Forces soldiers. Although it’s a bit much to see Seth Rogen suspended from wires Matrix-style, it’s all good fun and big laughs. Ultimately, I think this will gain a bigger audience on DVD, and deservedly so. And don’t believe the hype that you have to be stoned to enjoy this.

I’m not saying it wouldn’t hurt, but…

Also, “Tryin’ to get a mothaf**kin’ scholarship!” is a line we need to spread around. Good stuff.

VIDEO/AUDIO
Video: 2.40:1 widescreen. As mentioned before this is a much better-looking comedy than most. The action scenes are pretty well staged and with enough damage and gore to give your HD a good run. This is one of the few comedies I’d recommend picking up on Blu Ray.

Audio: English 5.1 Dolby Digital. Like the action scenes, the sound design is above average for the genre. There are plenty of gunshots and a better-than-average car chase that give you the go ahead to crank this one up a notch. Or maybe listening to the inhalation of illegal substances at high decibels is your thing. Either way, it’s a good listen.

THE EXTRAS
There are two versions here, an unrated and rated cut of the film and one with a second disc of extras. I watched the single disc, unrated version, which had plenty of extras to tide me over.

Extended/Alternate Scenes: (9:50)
I could take or leave these scenes. All the best improv is in the movie, and there’s nothing here that will make you start a petition to have these put back in, which are all just missing pieces of scenes already in the film.

Gag Reel: (4:55)
I usually dig the gag reels, but too often the gags aren’t quite as funny to the viewer at home, because they apply heavily to what’s going on on-set. This is a cluster of pseudo-funny moments, but again, nothing special.

Making Of: (21:07)
This is a nice “cliff notes” making of. Not too long or too short and gives a good feeling of how the movie was made. The most interesting aspect was learning that the inspiration for the film came from Brad Pitt’s character in True Romance, which shines a whole new light on Franco’s character.

Commentary:
This is the gold nugget of the extras. Seth Rogen sums up the commentary best by stating that it “feels like a radio show.” Nearly the entire cast and some crew come and go throughout the commentary, as if just dropping by to say a few words and head out. I’ve seen this before and it truly baffles me that people would want to show up for just a few minutes in a commentary or even show up late for the recording session. A few people literally phone it in.

However, it’s a fun commentary, replete with Rogen’s trademark laugh throughout and with the added bonus of numerous stories and anecdotes from all involved, including a story about LL Cool J and how Seth Rogen has seen Rosie Perez naked. If you don’t have anyone to watch the movie with then just turn on the commentary and you’ll have a whole gang with you.

FINAL DIAGNOSIS
Pineapple Express is highly underrated and is given a bad rap by those who feel it’s just another stoner comedy. It’s got great characters, off-the-wall action, a healthy amount of bromance, and laughs aplenty, which are consistent and steady. Get some friends together and have a good time. In the basement. When your parents aren’t home. Have air freshener handy. Enjoy.

REVIEWS

2008-12-10T15:48:00.031-09:00

MOVIE WRAP UP

I realize I’ve been slacking on the reviews, much to the shock and dismay of many of you. With the burning fire that was the election, getting out of active duty, finding out that my hell spawn is on its way to earth, and searching for a job, my writing time has been hindered.

However, if I intend to make a living with my creative abilities then it would seem imperative that I take it upon myself to sharpen those tools.

So, here’s a re-cap/wrap up of the many movies I’ve seen since that steaming pile of garbage “W.”

BURN AFTER READING

Directed by: Joel and Ethan Coen

I’ve been a Coen Brothers fan since I was a kid. I used to watch “Raising Arizona” regularly and even though I didn’t fully understand the quirks of their style back then I was most definitely entertained.

The Coen Bros. have defined their own style of filmmaking, which is typically noir-ish, off-beat, quirky, overly violent, and outrageously funny. That’s a lot of elements in one style, but they have remained remarkably consistent throughout the years and it’s a great comfort for moviegoers.

They absolutely have a scale to grade on; their movies range from “No Country For Old Men” (being at the top of the chart) to “The Hudsucker Proxy” (the rock bottom on the chart). I would say that “Burn After Reading” falls somewhere in the middle. It’s very much a “safe” Coen brother’s movie; there’s no real stakes that pull at your nerves, due largely to the fact that you could care less about any of the characters.

The basic story (as if that’s possible in a Coen bros. Movie) is that two gym employees (Brad Pitt and Frances McDormand) find a CD that contains a copy of an ex-CIA’s memoir. Thinking they have stumbled on some National Security type material, they decide to blackmail the ex-CIA operative for some quick cash and, most importantly, to pay for McDormand’s plastic surgery. However, the ex-CIA operative in question is none other than a very unstable man, played by the always entertaining John Malkovich.

George Clooney plays a womanizing Treasury Agent who is banging Malkovich’s wife, played by Tilda Swinton and…oh, why bother. Look, the shit’s complicated, but not so much that you can’t understand what’s going on. If you’ve seen a Coen Brother’s movie then this will be very familiar. There are double-crosses, cheating, confusion, mistaken identity, and some hilarious interludes. You want a plot synopsis then go to IMDB.

The strength of this film is the performances, because every actor is playing against type. Brad Pitt plays an annoying and moronic guy that is way over his head and watching him fumblefuck everything he tries to pull off is a riot, up to and including his “SPOILER” eventual demise. Clooney, who can’t seem to find footing as a leading man in Hollywood because he keeps choosing roles like this, plays a guy who is not quite what he seems; he’s the guy hiding the freak flag. You’ll never forget what he has built in his basement.

When Pitt and McDormand decide to blackmail Malkovich they take the CD containing the memoir to the Russian Embassy, blatantly participating in treason against the United States. The Russian’s however, are not stupid and don’t take the offer seriously at all. That doesn’t stop our two hapless blackmailers though and they decide to get more information by breaking into the ex-CIA operative’s house and stealing more important shit.

While there are plenty of laughs to be had, the ultimate problem with this film is that you don’t give a shit what happens to any of the characters (save Richard Jenkins, who plays the gym manager in love with McDormand) because they are all completely unredeemable. None of them have an arc that turns them from bad to good. They just go from bad to worse.

This is the bleakest of black comedies; at least in something like “Heathers,” despite their terrible deeds, you still find yourself rooting for one person or another. In “Burn After Reading” you’re merely hoping that everyone gets their due, which is a frozen stiff corpse.

Don’t get me wrong; I enjoyed the movie, but it will never go down as a classic Coen brother’s movie, due largely to the characters within. In fact, it’s the only Coen brother’s movie I’ve seen where I didn’t care what happens. In the end, the movie is like a long, drawn out joke that someone builds up and once the punch line is delivered you laugh a little and forget the whole thing.

MOVIE GRADE: C+

CHOKE

Directed by: Clark Gregg

Based on the novel by: Chuck Palahniuk

I read this novel in Iraq and thought it was one of the best of Palahniuk’s work, second to “Fight Club.” I have read many of his novels and I’m here to tell you that they aren’t all gold. The man is an outstandingly talented writer, but that doesn’t mean that every sentence he writes is chiseled onto stone tablets. I absolutely hated “Survivor” and I’m constantly scratching my head when people clamor over why that hasn’t been made into a movie. I hope it stays that way.

“Choke” on the other hand was ripe for adaptation and, like “Fight Club,” it benefits from the creative team keeping the integrity of the book intact. Sam Rockwell plays Victor, a sex-addicted man who works at a Colonial Re-enactment theme park who earns additional money by forcing himself to choke at restaurants, leaving his fate to the other patrons, who after saving him feel a connection, which leads to them sending him gifts and money.

Additionally, Victor is dealing with his mentally ill mother who never addresses him as her son, but as someone else. Victor has no idea who his father is and tries desperately to get his mother to spill the beans. She directs him to a journal, written in Italian no less, which deduces that Victor was conceived from a cloning experiment. His original clone? None other than Jesus Christ.

Are you still with me? Do you need to sit down? Look, this is all typical Palahniuk fare and none of it turns out how you’d expect, although “Choke” definitely has a more satisfying finale than most of his other works and the movie fortunately keeps that in mind.

Unlike “Burn After Reading” this is a dark comedy that lets you get inside the good and the bad of each character and allows you to give a shit, rather than hoping everyone just gets a bullet in the brain. Victor’s sex addiction meetings make for some hilarious scenes and Rockwell’s voice over carries the film well, giving an extra bit of depth into his thoughts and observations as we peruse this journey.

There are very familiar Palahniuk themes here; addiction, group meetings, mental illness, and of course, the all-revealing plot twist in the end. Although not as monumental as “Fight Club,” the ending twist here is no less pivotal and interesting; almost a relief, given the circumstances.

Sam Rockwell plays a very convincing Victor, adding a face to the character from the page and certainly a voice. With the exception of Angelica Huston, who plays Victor’s mentally ill mother, the cast is relative unknowns or “unpopulars,” which I think lends to some credibility since well-known actors tend to bring their own baggage to their roles once they have reached household name status.

My only real complaint with “Choke” is its style. It doesn’t really have any. Actor/Director Clark Gregg does a great job of retaining story integrity but doesn’t seem to have the technical or creative style to pull off something that could have used some inventiveness. “Fight Club” director David Fincher took his style to a whole new level with that film, utilizing different camera and film techniques, computer technology, etc. Gregg plays it safe, almost owning the fact that “Choke” was made independently.

And perhaps that’s not his fault. Sometimes you just don’t have the money. However, I think that a little creativity goes a long way and “Choke” could have really benefitted from a director with a sharp talent for taking a mostly organic setting and making it interesting and compelling in as many ways as would seem fit for the material.

MOVIE GRADE: B-

ROCKNROLLA

Directed by: Madonna’s ex-husband

Guy Ritchie has come a long way since his “Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels” days.

Okay, no he hasn’t.

He’s about the same. And that is a GREAT thing. Ritchie, like the Coen brothers, has his own style. I can tell a Guy Ritchie movie after a few frames. He has a distinct ear for Cockney dialogue, a wildly creative eye, and a whip-smash editing style that will leave you reeling.

Essentially, watching a Guy Ritchie movie can be likened to visiting a pub in the dodgy end of England, getting shit-faced, singing songs with a group of rugby players, participating in a bar brawl, and ultimately waking up naked in a strange place with a very slutty, yet very sexy girl lying next to you. When you sit up, rubbing your eyes, you ask yourself, “What the fuck just happened?”

That’s a stretch, but it’s what I would liken to the Guy Ritchie experience. I love his first American film, “Snatch,” which is highly quotable and unforgettable in its style and bold humor. Ritchie crafts intricate plots, almost too much to comprehend, with double-crosses, triple-crosses, revealing secrets, and the ultimate fate of man to suffer the consequences of his actions, both good and bad.

In many ways it feels that Ritchie has already peaked; “Snatch” is a conglomeration of his best work (even if only his second film) and with “RocknRolla” you feel that you have already seen what he can do and are constantly waiting for something new. However, it never comes. What does come though is more of the same…and, as I stated before, this is a GREAT thing.

While not making any new headway in style or story, Ritchie instead crafts another fun and wild ride with similar characters and situations, but with different actors, different music, and different locations. It’s like the new novel in a series of detective novels. The mainstays and themes and styles are all there, it’s just another adventure.

The last thing we need is Guy Ritchie deviating from what he does best. The last time he did that we were subjected to “Swept Away,” which starred the ex. And it was a disaster, like all Madonna movies. We don’t ask Picasso to paint movie posters (well, yeah he is dead…but still) and we don’t ask Guns n’ Roses to sing kids bop albums, so why would we ask Guy Ritchie to make something other than what he’s good at?

For that, I can’t say a negative thing about “RocknRolla.” It is every bit as fun and entertaining as Ritchie’s previous crime films and it gives a general taste for his work, which should make you thirsty for more. If anything, the movie does just that for me.

MOVIE GRADE: B+

BODY OF LIES

Directed by: Ridley Scott

Man, I had such high hopes for this one. Ridley Scott. Russell Crowe. Leonardo DiCaprio. Action Thriller. Holy shit, it’s like a dream team put together, almost unreal. And yet, this movie is just a mess. DiCaprio plays a CIA operative embedded in the Middle East during our current conflict’s there, who struggles to befriend the locals, keep up relations with the governments of each country, and ultimately bring down the bad guys.

This sounds like a good arc for your protagonist, but the problem is that there’s just too much going on and not enough of it grounded in reality. Based on the novel of the same name by David Ignatius with a screenplay adaptation by William Monaghan (The Departed) this should have been crackling with dialogue and story. It’s not.

DiCaprio does his usual job of embodying a character, but not as successful as his last two outings (The Departed and Blood Diamond). It’s obvious that he is making the leap into leading man status in Hollywood, playing the tortured hero roles that usually solidify that status, but this is not one to put on the calling card. He doesn’t phone it in, and really it’s not his fault, but you can’t transcend bad material, no matter who you’re starring with or who’s directing.

Russell Crowe is straight worthless in this movie. A great actor relegated to playing the overweight suit that never gets into the action is not what I’d call a good role for someone of his skill sets. It’s a waste of his talents and I’m actually surprised that he’d even accept the role. Obviously reteaming with Ridley Scott, who helped catapult Crowe to fame with “Gladiator” is a factor, but at some point you should say “no” to material that is better suited to another actor.

“Body of Lies” jumps all over the place, literally. You get lost in the shuffle of locations; Are we in Turkey? Iraq? Washington D.C.? Yes, yes, they throw the title card up to let you know, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t leave your head spinning. This is the problem with “globe-trotting” thrillers. You have to let your audience settle in. We get used to things and we want to see them play out. Pulling the rug out from under us creates the stress of not knowing where we are or what’s going on and that is not a pleasant movie-going experience. We get enough of that in real life.

Another issue with the film is its action quotient. Director Scott, who is one of the all-time greatest directors in the history of film, bar none, knows better. It really seems like he didn’t get the movie or he just didn’t respond with the inspiration he needed to craft a truly thrilling actioner. Make no mistake, this is NOT an action movie and the thrills are more like grinding nerves.

As DiCaprio’s agent character works with the Turkish government to bring down a major terrorist leader he receives opposition and political positioning from his own government in keeping relations up. That is the essential story thread for “Body of Lies” and ultimately that premise is, well, boring. The stakes are “supposedly” built up when DiCaprio falls for a local girl who is later kidnapped. However, that entire relationship is so unnecessary and built up like a mud hut. It’s eye-rollingly annoying and we’ve seen it a hundred times.

Lastly, we are left with a completely unsatisfactory ending. The media made a big hullabaloo about the torture sequence, which is nothing but a hammer to a finger. We’ve seen it before, and shockingly enough, it’s not shocking. Painful to imagine, sure, but not shocking in a movie. You want real shocking go and research how terrorists really torture people…you won’t think that the U.S. using water boards is jack shit compared to that.

There is no heroic arc for DiCaprio and certainly not for Crowe. Crowe is pretty irredeemable because he’s played off in the new cliché which is “American Government is Evil.” Yeah, yeah, American military and government agencies are all chock full of self-serving, politically motivated, war mongerers who never want to see the end of war. That shit is tired people and completely wrong. I would really like to see someone portray these real people in the correct light. You can’t be objective in film, that much I know, but you can still get your facts right.

In the end, DiCaprio quits the CIA and decides to try to win back his “kidnapped” girl. I call preposterous. Perhaps I’m wrong and you can point me to a CIA agent that has acted in such a way, but I doubt it. Essentially, “Body of Lies” leaves us with the notation that we (Americans) have got it all wrong and that we should look at places like Iraq to be great places to live.

Been there, done that, got the fucking T-shirt, and you can keep it. Funny enough that so many groups here in the U.S. complain about Iraqi rights and helping out the innocent people and I never saw ONE of those groups out there helping anyone. I saw American soldiers helping them. It is my hope that one day someone can tell an accurate story. “Generation Kill” was a great start. And nobody watched it. The theory is that it’s too soon for people to respond to an accurate account of our current situation, but obviously not too soon for an inaccurate one.

While “Body of Lies” has the beautiful and detailed style of the masterful Ridley Scott, it has very little of anything else. This is one of those movies you watch and see every missed turn and later theorize on what would have made the movie great with your friends. “Body of Lies” is just that.

MOVIE GRADE: D+

ZACK AND MIRI MAKE A PORNO

Written and Directed by: Kevin Smith

Ah, Kevin Smith. With the exception of “Jersey Girl” Smith doesn’t disappoint. Smith has zero cinematic style, but for what he lacks in technical skill he more than makes up for with his witty and raw dialogue which oftentimes feels like standing in the middle of some of your best conversations with close friends.

Pen to paper, Smith is a genius. Cinematically, he needs work, but he’s getting better. The good news is that this is probably his best looking film since Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back. He even uses some slow motion in this one, which shows some growth as a filmmaker and not just as a storyteller.

Now, there are some that criticize Smith as being a one-trick pony of dick and fart jokes, and although that’s a staple in his work, the fact is that Smith has a big heart and he disguises it with said dick and fart jokes. However, the heart is always revealed in the end, sometimes to a lesser fanfare (see: Mallrats).

Seth Rogen and Elizabeth Banks star as Zack and Miri, respectively, two high school “buds” living together and barely making ends meet. Zack works in a coffee shop along with Delaney (played by “The Office’s Craig Robinson) and has no ambition for his future. You know that he will likely be stuck working menial jobs for the rest of his life. But, hey, he’s still funny so that’s okay.

After venturing to their high school reunion, Zack and Miri find that the “hottest guy in school” is now dating a gay porn star. Justin Long is great as the raspy voiced gay porn star and it was a little unsettling to see Brandon Routh, who played the title role in Superman Returns, as a gay character, but surprisingly it added an extra depth to the character, even if played only for laughs.

After drowning their sorrows at the bar, Zack comes up with the idea to make their own porn, deducing that at least their high school graduating class would want to see them in porn and that that would be enough money to justify it. Miri reluctantly agrees and so begins the hijinks.

They begin casting for the porno, bringing in fan-favorite Jason Mewes in a non-Jay role, this time as a weird yet toned down character that will basically do anything on camera. We are also treated to two well-known real porn stars, Traci Lords and Katie Morgan, playing, of course, porn actors in the movie.

The laughs are continuous as Zack and Miri struggle with casting, the movie theme, and location. When their original theme and location are literally bulldozed over, they relegate to shooting at the coffee shop where Zack works. The screwing and shooting is handled with humorous taste (with the exception of one scene…I’ll get to it) and makes for some hilarious moments. It’s nowhere near, not even close, to the raunch you may expect from the movie’s title. This is really more of Kevin Smith being Kevin Smith, this time working with bigger actors and a different theme. And like Guy Ritchie, that’s a great thing.

The struggle of the movie is whether or not Zack and Miri are going to sleep with one another. They agree to it and feel the obvious pangs of how it will change things. This is nothing new. The exploration of “friends” sleeping together and changing things is a common theme we’ve seen in many a romantic comedy. (Are people really so stupid to think that it won’t? It amazes me how often we forget that we are human)

And ultimately, that’s what Zack and Miri is; it’s Kevin Smith’s first romantic comedy, told under the raunchy pretense of a porn movie. It’s full of laugh-out-loud moments and one particularly unforgettable moment that will make you rethink anal sex if you are even considering it.

However, the movie’s biggest flaw is its lack of a realistic follow through. After Zack and Miri finally seal the deal on camera they also seal the deal on their feelings for one another and, as we suspected, change things in the normal way that sex always changes things amongst friends; causes jealousy and hurt. Not to say that these are the only outcomes of sex…sometimes it leads to a great relationship, more great sex, and sometimes marriage and kids, etc. However, the fact remains that where there once was no jealousy or consequence to your feelings, now there is a “Predator-like” vision surrounding that person that red flags any and all negative influences, up to and including a nice smile from an attractive cashier.

So, now armed with their true feelings but reluctant to share them with each other, jealousy drives the porno to stop production. Zack moves out of the shared apartment with Miri and gets another job, essentially vanishing from existence. He is later confronted by Delaney who finds Zack working as a mascot that gets shot with paintballs (I don’t know, I’ve never heard of it either). Delaney has been editing the porno in the basement and outs Zack’s feelings for Miri.

He brings Zack to his house to show him the work-in-progress of the porno. Zack watches the “scene” with him and Miri and realizes he needs to see her. Delaney smiles, telling Zack that they’re missing an ending to the porn.

Zack runs back to the old apartment to find Miri…just, y’know waiting around. They hug and kiss and roll credits. While this may seem like your prototypical romantic comedy ending there are too many loose ends. I mean, it basically closes the book on the whole porno thing, leaving us with the message that “porn can bring true love” or some such shit, yet it never wraps up whether or not they will finish the porn or pay the actors that all worked for free to make it.

Perhaps I’m looking too much into it, but it, like the unfinished porno, felt incomplete. However, this should not dissuade you from seeing the movie. It is full of hilarious performances, especially from the always reliable Seth Rogen, and a star-making performance by Craig Robinson. There are plenty of your typical Kevin Smith gags and streams of dialogue, so there’s no disappointment there.

If you’re at Blockbuster and you’re holding “Zack and Miri” in one hand and “Ghost Town” in the other, the choice should be obvious.

MOVIE GRADE: B

ROLE MODELS

Directed by: David Wain

I really didn’t expect much from this. I like Paul Rudd and Sean William Scott is tolerable, but neither is a huge box office draw for me. However, the fact that David Wain (Reno 911, original member of “The State”) directed this and Paul Rudd rewrote the script made for a nod in the right direction. Another factor is the film’s R-Rating, which is largely for dialogue and a few boobies. It’s not hardcore at all, by my standards, but is a rollickingly good time. I like that word. Rollickingly.

Rudd and Scott are salesman that sell an energy drink called Minotaur, driving around in their Minotaur sales truck and speaking (selling) at schools that it’s better to drink Minotaur than to take drugs. Rudd is suffering from a lack of enthusiasm for the job and the recent break up from his girlfriend (played by Zack and Miri’s Elizabath Banks…who is starring in everything ever made from this point on it seems).

After a psychological breakdown while selling Minotaur at a school, Rudd and Scott find themselves under arrest and sentenced to community service. From there they’re sent to Sturdy Wings, a Big Brother like program where adults provide a positive role model influence to otherwise challenged kids.

This is a great premise that easily could have fallen into the usual traps, but Wain and Rudd keep it fresh and fun, always teetering on the edge of what we expect to see and then taking it in another direction.

Rudd is partnered with Augie (played by Superbad’s McLovin, Christopher Mintz-Plasse), a teenager who lives out his life as a medieval role-player. Scott is partnered with a Ronnie (played by Bobb’e J. Thompson…no, I didn’t misspell that) a foul-mouthed boy who provides a bevy of laughs with his antics.

Rudd plays out his relationship with Augie like the sentence that it is, never getting too involved, until finally he begins to see that Augie is just a normal kid going through normal growing pains, just using role-playing as his outlet. The role-playing stuff is hilarious and frighteningly enough, real. There are many real –life role players who dress in costume and play out fantasy worlds in large groups. It’s an escape from reality and I’m sure it has its place…just not in my world. However, I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t see the allure of it.

Rudd, who recognizes the ridiculousness of role-playing at first, sees how important it is to Augie and decides to become his champion for it. Augie’s parents are vehemently against the role-playing and feel that there is something wrong with him. Here is where the film begins to balance out a lot of heart with the flow of laughs and it’s a welcome adage to the formula.

Scott and Ronnie bond over, what else? Boobies. Scott begins to break down Ronnie’s outer shell of crassness to see a normal boy who just wants the love of a father figure in his life and has been let down too many times. While that may seem cliché, it fits perfectly and doesn’t force too much drama in the face of an obvious comedy, but still gives the audience a healthy balance.

Usually films like this are played out just for laughs, never giving much depth into the characters beyond their antics. For “Role Models” though, we are given what all good stories need, and that’s something to care about. Movies are a reflection of our lives in many ways, from the fantastic creations from our minds to the grounded reality of our everyday lives and it’s important to give an audience something to relate to. It’s strange that a movie like “Role Models” would inspire that, but it’s a good example of what you should do when building a story out of a high concept idea that could easily turn into a one-joke pony; give it some heart.

The ending consists of Rudd and Scott, along with Ronnie, helping Augie in the final “battle” with the role players, where all the costumed weirdos gather to “fight” to the “death.” I don’t want to spoil Rudd and Augie’s “theme” but it is reminiscent of a very popular rock band from the 70’s and is hysterical.

This was a surprisingly hilarious and redeemable film. I have become a big fan of Wain as of late and was always a fan of “The State” the early comedy troupe he was involved with which has shot off talent in all directions since they disbanded. Talent like Wain, and even Rudd in the creative department, shows audiences that your last name doesn’t have to be Smith or Apatow to make a great comedy.

MOVIE GRADE: A

QUANTUM OF SOLACE

Directed by: Marc Forster

Ah, James Bond. I have grown up with all of the James Bonds. My father had me watch the Sean Connery ones and I later became a big fan of the Roger Moore films. I saw the Dalton and Brosnan Bonds in the theater and now the Craig films. It seems that Bond is more about the actor playing him than the movies themselves. And really, that’s kind of the allure.

Bond is, for all intents and purposes, a stereotypical character. Even in his deepest moments, you still feel that that’s how he should be. Until Dalton took over with “The Living Daylights” Bond didn’t really get too deep. He struggled sure, but usually he was just a step ahead and kicking ass in his usual deadly and debonair way.

However, the character of Bond generally reflects the times, and Craig is certainly a reflection of the more turbulent and violent times. Or maybe that’s just the more turbulent and violent films. “Quantum of Solace” feels a lot like a British version of The Bourne Identity series, much like The Bourne Identity series feels like an American version of James Bond.

The competition, however, is largely in style rather than in substance. Bond hits a lot harder, shoots a lot straighter, and generally kills a lot more grittier than he ever has before. “Solace” makes sure of that.

Craig is an excellent, if not unlikely, Bond. With his blond hair, sky blue eyes, and chiseled frame, he looks more like an ultimate fighter than an MI6 agent. However, he employs great resources to the role, using everything from martial arts moves to facial tics to build a character steeped in mythology. He is a timely Bond.

Now, I thought that “Casino Royale,” Craig’s first film as Bond, and the franchise’s own “reboot,” was an outstanding Bond film from start to finish. Absolutely one of the best in the series. It was as close to a Bond origin story as we’ve gotten thus far and made for a thrilling ride. Even the card playing scenes were intense. Now, that’s saying something.

For “Quantum” however, I felt it was a mixed bag. We got some of the good stuff, but not enough. The choice to continue the series by picking up literally minutes after “Casino Royale” was a bad choice. By continuing that thread it seems to stretch a plot way too far and too thin, to the point where you see no end to the villainy. By creating villain on top of villain you lessen the quality of the previous one, which in turn weakens the overall story.

Le Chiffe, the chief villain in Royale is relegated to a mere patsy after watching “Quantum” and the all-new main villain is actually a lot wimpier. At no point did I ever feel that this guy was a challenge to Bond. There was no contest. Bond would womp this guys ass and be back in time for tea and biscuits.

Unlike “Body of Lies” this spy thriller is welcome to globe-trotting and it’s not hard to follow the beats. However, Bond films do tend to get wrapped up in some ridiculous plot lines and this one is all about real estate and oil. And water. And I’m asleep.

Another weakness is our Bond girl, played by Olga Kurylenko. Yeah, yeah, she’s hot, whatever. She is still a weak ass actress. I guess that’s to be expected. It’s Bond, get used to it…he uses women with bad accents and even worse acting and that’s that. I guess. But, it’s not the case in every Bond film. Some have definitely been stronger than others. I guess the main problem with Kurylenko is that she’s forgettable. She’s no Xena Onattop, that’s for sure.

Now, all this may sound like I didn’t really like “Quantum.” Not true. It’s highly enjoyable with some fun and frenetic action sequences. It’s got the Bond brand and the Bond flavor. Daniel Craig is a strong and formidable Bond, definitely the roughest of the bunch and he brings it. You couldn’t ask for more from the leading star.

Story wise though, we need a punch. I’m not saying we need to go back to Bond in space, nor do we need the tongue-in-cheek flair, but something other than the corporate villain, which is so freakin’ tired. Not every villain wears a suit, laughs at his own jokes, and is invested in oil fields and real estate.

Overall, “Quantum” is a solid entry in the series, but is severely hindered by its pseudo-revenge story which is just stretched way too thin. Craig, however, saves the day with his bravado performance as Britain’s stellar agent. I’m hoping for a charm on the next one.

MOVIE GRADE: B

TWILIGHT

Directed by: Catherine Hardwicke

Man, I talked a lot of shit about this movie for a long time. I snickered at the MySpace tweens who gushed over the book and wet themselves at the very thought of this coming to theaters. However, like the Harry Potter phenomenon, there is one good thing that comes out of the fan’s passion for these books: The fact that they’re READING instead of watching the CW or the Hills or taking part in any other medium that only requires a complete and total vegetative state. For that reason alone I cannot completely shit talk the Twilight series.

Now, the movie on the other hand…

First off I had no intention of seeing this movie until I caught on to the “fangirl” reaction to it. Like Sex and the City earlier this year, women, this time in the guise of tweens, were rallying behind a property that was made for and by a woman. Girl power, bitches! Get your tween on!

I mean, how many girlfriends had to endure their dork husbands/boyfriends gushing over comic book movies like “Iron Man” and “The Dark Knight” all summer long? All of them. And while women certainly enjoyed those two films, they are, for all intents and purposes, geared towards men.

So, here you have a property, like Sex and the City, which is geared towards female viewers. And I’m glad for it. The fact that not only is it female fans of these series’ getting into it, but the series’ are predominantly created by females. However, there is one serious drawback to this, which I will expand on. You will call me a sexist asshole and I’m fine with that.

Let’s talk about Vampires for a second here, though. What is it about vampires? The power, the immortality, the mythology, the blood? Since Dracula, a torn character who renounced God because of his wife’s fate in the afterlife after her suicide, becomes a creature of Satan yet still hungers for that which he had forsaken himself; love.

If you look at all the vampire series that have followed Dracula and expanded the mythology you will find these common themes. Not all of them are driven by love, but it is a predominant factor in these stories.

Strangely enough, the first Sookie Stackhouse novel (there are eight, I believe) by Charlene Harris was adapted by Alan Ball for HBO and called “True Blood.” Now, I watched “True Blood” every Sunday and enjoyed the hell out of it. The basic premise; a young woman, Sookie, who is able to read minds, falls in love with a vampire named Bill, but is torn by their relationship as a couple, seeing as one is dead and one is alive. The series also showcases vampires “coming out” and co-existing with humans openly (which is not a surprising theme to be used by the uber talented Ball, who is gay).

Now, let’s take a look at Twilight. A young girl whose mind cannot be read falls in love with a vampire and is torn by their relationship as a couple, seeing as one is dead and one is…you get the idea. I don’t know which came first and I’m not gonna Google it to find out, but I’ll use this analogy; Twilight is like True Blood as adapted for the CW and made for tweens.

It’s PG-13 True Blood. True Blood lite. Now, some may think it’s unfair to compare the two different series, but they can go cry to their momma about it. I’ll compare whatever I see fit. I have not read either series and only know them from the incarnations onscreen. And that’s my comparison.

So, now that that’s out of the way; Is Twilight good or not? Strangely enough, although it’s not made for me and I didn’t love it, I appreciate what it stands for and, more importantly, who it’s made for. Twilight is porn for teenage girls. Hell, it may be porn for grown women.

Porn for men is visual, obviously. We want to see the nakedness, the bodies contorted together, the nudity, the thrusting, the boobies, whatever…you get the idea. Men primarily see sex as a physical and visual thing. It’s not that men can’t be romantic or feel the emotional connection of sex, they just see it differently…in that they SEE it more so than they feel it. We are taught from a young age to appreciate beauty and grace in a woman, which you primarily see not so much feel. Whereas woman are taught to feel and look for qualities in men. They are looking for an emotional and secure FEELING. They aren’t looking to see the size of his pecker.

Now, certainly there is some role reversal as we get older, but in the young sexual awakening years this is where many teenagers’ heads (and other regions) are. And Twilight is the quintessential female sexual awakening book of this generation.

Let me explain. Bella (played by Kristen Stewart) moves in with her sheriff father (Billy Burke) in Seattle and finds that her peers are something more than human. A group of vampires, a coven if you will, is trying to lead a quiet existence while interacting with humans (but feeding on animals). A small group attends high school (forever, since they are undead and don’t age…could you imagine a fate more terrible than doing high school homework for the rest of your life? Being a vampire is truly going to hell) and one of them is Edward, the dashingly handsome vamp who is deeply attracted to Bella.

Bella is just as intrigued and what we have here is a direct correlation to a young female falling for a guy that, for the first time, makes her loins catch fire. Edward, in turn, is so torn with lust for Bella that he cannot attend school (this is explained that she makes him thirst to feed on humans, namely her). When they meet in science class Edward literally looks like he is jizzing in his pants.

As the two of them draw closer, it builds under the pretense that they are attracted to one another but that the torment is much deeper since he is a vampire and she is not. However, my theory is that the relationship between Bella and Edward is a metaphor for sexual awakening.

I’m sure someone reading this is thinking I’m being perverted. Well, you’re wrong. That’s the problem with sex in America; we are so fucking uptight about it and consider any discussion of it as perverse. And yet the subject and very act of it flood our consciousness consistently. Get the fuck over it.

If you think back to your own “awakening” you will remember the overwhelming feeling, which is something so very new and unfamiliar, but undeniably favorable. It is the birth of sexual desire for another person, and in the case of Twilight, it is the birth of a female’s sexual desire. Now, I’m not saying that every woman has her “awakening” as Stephanie Meyers (the author) writes it, but the majority of women feel this in a more emotional way, like that of Bella, than a physical one.

Emotionally, Bella is tied to Edward, she is drawn to him in a way she cannot describe, but feels it like a driving force. Her curiosity is unending. She MUST know why Edward torments over her, why he is the way he is, and she MUST have him in her life. I’m sure this sounds very familiar to parent’s of a teenage daughter.

I would dive into the subplot of an evil group of vampires committing murders locally, but it’s so insignificant to this movie (possibly deeper in the connecting stories, but not here). The depth and connection of this film is the relationship between Bella and Edward and it is beaten over your head continuously.

Robert Pattinson plays Edward with the dashing charm that you would expect for his role and Kristen Stewart is perfectly cast as the beautiful yet tormented Bella. I’m sure they will have a blast making this series.

Technically, however, the movie suffers. Although it has some nicely edited sequences, the “action” sequences, to include vampire baseball, are beyond cheesy. Director Hardwicke is not a seasoned action director and crafts the vampire movements like something out of Smallville. Likely, this is why she has not been hired to direct the sequel. This is something I will expand on in my Punisher War Zone review, at which point you can throw your sexist remarks my way.

At one point Edward takes Bella up treetops and they simply sit and talk, laughing and enjoying each other’s company and other times they are simply lying in the grass and staring at each other. I’m not making this up. And, I have to deduce, that this MUST be a fantasy romance for girls, because you will never find a heterosexual male writing about lying in the grass staring at a girl he’s in love with. In a male version of this they’d be fucking in the bushes. Plain and simple.

However, I don’t want to compare this to male fantasy. We all know where that leads. This is for the girls and I won’t steal it away. While I don’t feel it like a woman does, I completely get it. I get the struggle with finding your sexuality, of that first love, and the complications that go with it. Being a vampire in this story is merely a metaphor for the struggle to be with the one you love at a young age.

Shit, they don’t even show fangs in this movie. I thought they were vampires! Take it or leave it, that’s my theory on Twilight and even though I am not a fan, I am also not a hater. This one is for the girls, and if I ever have a daughter she will never be allowed to watch this. She is going to a convent. She will be a nun.

Well, she certainly won’t be drinking tomato juice from a wine glass and wearing all black clothing and fake plastic fangs and referring to herself as undead.

MOVIE GRADE: B-

AUSTRALIA

Directed by: Baz Luhrman

Holy freakin’ three hours, Batman! We saw this on Thanksgiving and I had no idea it was that long going in. Normally I am well prepared going in, but not this time, and I think that affected my overall feelings for the movie.

The premise for this film is simple enough that they could have easily chopped an hour out. A cattle ranch owner’s wife (Nicole Kidman) flies to Australia to help her husband with a business deal only to find that he’s been murdered and that there is a plot by a competing ranch to take over her land. She decides to stay and reclaim the land she owns with the help of a cattle driver (Hugh Jackman).

Add a cute little aboriginal kid who is adopted by Kidman and Jackman and you have yourself a nice little outback adventure flick. “Australia” is directed by Baz Luhrman, the director behind Moulin Rouge, and I was worried that he would use the hyper style that was so infused in that film with this one. Fortunately there are only a few moments that replicate that style. The rest is gravy.

Beautifully shot with beautiful scenery and beautiful actors, “Australia” is a beautiful looking movie that will beat you over the head with its beauty. It has many intense and goose-bump inducing sequences that will leave you with a super cheesy tingle in the back of your spine, but that’s the purpose of movies like this.

In many ways, it feels like the Australian version of “Far and Away,” another sprawling epic also starring Nicole Kidman. The music is grand and boasting, the action is big, and the story is rich with stereotypical characters such as greedy businessmen, conniving thieves, and the local native who seems to have all the answers (this time in the form of an aboriginal medicine man).

All that said, this is a highly entertaining and, did I mention, beautiful movie. However, it seems to end at the two hour mark only to introduce an unexpected third act that intertwines the real life bombing of Darwin by Japanese military with the characters own struggles. Naturally, Jackman and Kidman hook up and adopt the little aboriginal boy (who is actually quite good in this…which I’m thankful for because usually child actors can really fall off the mark). The boy is referred to as a “creamy” because he is of mixed race (Caucasian and aborigine) and the facets of racism are drilled into our skulls once again.

The whole race thing is beginning to drive me insane. Nearly every sports movie is about the first black whatever. First black man to win the Heisman, first black swim team, first black basketball team, first black college basketball team, first black pilots, first black everything. Look, we have our first black President already…when will it end? I want to know when the first black professional shoe shiner movie is coming out. I’m camping out for tickets.

I realize that history is history and I’m not suggesting we change it because someone is “annoyed” with it. Not by a long shot. The truth should be told. But, holy shit…am I sick of it. I’d like to see a story told about a black, white, Hispanic, Indian, Arabic, what-the-fuck-ever kind of person that did something as a person rather than as a color. It starts to feel that we are being subjected to the race card in all these films, etc., which while trying to break the mold of racism instead keeps it burning alive. Whatever happened to people doing something because they were great people rather than because of the color of their skin?

Okay, that’s the end of my race rant.

The kicker throughout the film is the struggle for Kidman and Jackman to keep the aborigine boy, which is basically illegal, and after all the shit they go through to save his ass, the little shit runs off at the end to go walkabout with his grandfather.

“Australia” despite the racism aspect (which I understand is fitting and accurate for the story…trackin’) is a very fun adventure film, with throwbacks to some of the epics from the 1950’s. Also, for the ladies and gay men you have a shirtless Hugh Jackman blatantly pouring water over his body. For the men, you have a stunningly gorgeous Nicole Kidman who makes an art form out of wearing tight-fitting horse riding pants.

MOVIE GRADE: B+

PUNISHER WAR ZONE

Directed by: Lexi Alexander

Oh, where to begin? Frank Castle, a.k.a. The Punisher is a Marvel Comics character whose family was killed when they stumbled upon a mob hit in Central Park. Fearing witnesses, the mobsters turned their guns on Castle and his family. Castle survived and vowed vengeance on all criminals to the end of his days. The end.

Simple origin, simple premise, much like that of Death Wish. Although a simple origin though, Castle is a deeper character, due largely to the fact that he is unflinching. I have read nearly every Punisher comic book to date. You could say I’m a bit of an expert. He has always been a compelling character to me. He is the vengeance seeker we all think we’d become if something as dire were to happen to us. Likely though, we would not become the Punisher, but it is fascinating to watch a man on a mission who never ceases to give it up. Ever.

Now, Marvel has struggled with the character a few times and lost sight of this, but the character of Frank Castle, the mission, has always shone through and fortunately the writers behind his numerous books have stayed true to this and have created a reign that is unbelievably consistent.

Having said all that, the character has inspired three movies, each attempting to embody the soul, torment, and eventual vengeance of one Frank Castle. And now, out of those three movies, ALL of them have failed miserably.

The first film starred Dolph Lundgren as Castle, a former FBI agent whose family was blown up in a mob hit. Castle exacts revenge, this time on the Yakuza, but never once dons the skull on his chest. The movie plays out like a late night Cinemax action movie, no substance and all over-the-top and uninspired action. Blah, strike one.

The second film starred Thomas Jane, who was the ONLY saving grace of the film, as he worked hard to portray Castle both physically and mentally. Unfortunately, with a script so far off the mark from the origins of Castle (here he is an FBI agent again) who finishes “one last job” as an undercover agent and retires to Florida where, this time, his entire family, mom, dad, wife, son, and partygoers are all killed by the mob. Castle escapes with his life, builds a stupid Punisher car and kills like ten people, to include an overly annoying villain played by John Travolta. The filmmakers went out of their way to get Castle OUT of his skull embossed vest, adding more indignity to the character. The action was completely uninspired without ONE sequence that required any creativity.

Which brings us to War Zone. This time out we have Ray Stevenson (Titus Pullo in the HBO series “Rome”) as Castle/Punisher. Stevenson looks the part of Castle, but there isn’t scene fucking one that allows him to play the role correctly. I can’t place the blame of this film’s failure on his shoulders alone, but the truth is he didn’t bring anything to fulfill it.

Dominic West plays Jigsaw, the Joker of Punisher villains, and I can see where he was trying to go, but the Italian Gumbah approach is so fucking lame that it instantly makes a joke of his performance. They also add his cannibalistic brother, Looney Bin Jim, played by Doug Hutchinson, who is actually more interesting, but ultimately a big fat cliché and completely irredeemable.

We learn nothing about these villains, and by that I mean how they tick. Heath Ledger’s performance as the Joker in “The Dark Knight” is the new template for movie villainy, especially for comic book villains. Christopher Nolan exercised an understanding of how an audience must hunger for the motivations of all characters, especially the villain. We learn nothing about the Joker’s past, but we learn everything we need to know about his motivations through his actions and words.

With Jigsaw in PWZ, we learn jack shit. We learn that he’s an Italian mobster obsessed with his looks and he wants money. Big fucking deal. Who gives a shit? Clearly, the screenwriters (two of which worked on “Iron Man”) had no understanding of character development as it pertains to this series.

The last thing any audience needs is to be subjected to yet another carbon copy bad guy that is literally jigsawed together from every other better made film that required an Italian mob boss villain.

Next up is Soap, a character from some of the more recent runs on the Punisher book. Soap is an interesting enough character in the comics, but is completely miscast with Dash Mihook. Soap is an undercover police officer who unofficially helps the Punisher by supplying him with information on known criminals. However, Soap is fairly insignificant and completely unnecessary to Punisher lore. He’s a character in passing, not a staple to the series, which is proven in this film alone.

Then, we have Julie Benz, going for worst actress since Maria Pitillo in “Godzilla” playing the wife of an undercover cop accidentally killed by The Punisher. Her Italian accent is off, her role is unnecessary and is an obvious case to make The Punisher have a heart of gold. Adding more fuel to the fire that has burned the franchise to the ground is Benz’s daughter, who “bonds” with Castle, once again to provide us “insight” into Castle as a family man.

To further drive the stake into our hearts is a black F.B.I. agent who is hell-bent on capturing The Punisher…by himself…no task force or anything…just, y’know, in plainclothes, combing the streets, asking around. Oh, which he does by the way. I buy it. Oh yeah. Then, there’s the Hispanic ex-gang banger who helps The Punisher as well. It’s obvious that the studio was FINGER BANGING this movie with every hand on the lot because it’s filled with every stereotype from every piece of garbage straight to video movie ever made.

The fact that we have the black F.B.I. agent, the Hispanic ex-junkie, the strong female wife, and the stupid little girl shows that the studio didn’t give a shit about story integrity and instead felt that they had to expand their appeal by providing a “root-for-me” hero of every race and gender to make it “all-inclusive” for all shapes, colors, and sex organs.

Lastly, we have Microchip, who IS a staple in Punisher lore. Micro acts as a weapons supplier who believes in what Castle is doing and dedicates himself to helping out. Now, it was kind of cool to see Micro onscreen, unfortunately they bolo it right out the gate by having Castle be annoyed with his presence. In reality, Micro was always the Alfred to Castle’s Bruce Wayne. They had a dynamic for a long run in the books. Until Micro double-crossed Castle, to which he got a shotgun blast to the head.

And, as is the recurring problem with this movie, they fuck Micro’s whole story by including his aging mom and flat dialogue that means nothing.

So, there’s your all star line up and if you know nothing or care very little about The Punisher and his whole mythology then you should probably stop reading. You won’t care. Plain and simple. But, make no mistake, Punisher War Zone is a bad movie by all movie standards, not just because it completely sodomizes a comic book property.

First off, the action is so over-the-top that you can’t help but laugh at it. It’s not staged in such a way to get your adrenaline pumping. It merely makes you giggle at the absurdity of it all. It’s like when you see a behind the scenes video on the making of a movie and you see how fake the props are of human beings that get destroyed. Through concise editing you’ll never know the difference, but that’s clearly not the case here.

To make it worse, every time someone is shot they’ve inserted a “squish” sound which becomes increasingly annoying. We get it. Blood spatter. Great. Is that the only sample you have? Also, even though “Rambo” did an outstanding job of its use, the implementation of computer generated blood has reached its tipping point. Enough! It is blatant, obvious, and looks completely fake. Call Paul Verhoeven if you don’t know how to set up a squib, you morons.

Let’s talk about motivations. Character motivations are what drive a story. Why your characters do what they do is the biggest piece of a story. What drives them to kill, to love, to care, to not care, to leave, to show up…all of those aspects and millions more are what make a character interesting, believable, and relatable.

In PWZ there are no clear motivations and every attempt at showing them is met with the cold, wet smack of the idea hitting the concrete. The real travesty is that the filmmakers continuously credit their ideas as an ode to Garth Ennis, who wrote the last six years of Punisher stories, which were the absolute best of the character. I scratch my head til I’m bald to understand what fucking stories they read; just because you add an obscure character like Soap to your movie is not an ode to Ennis.

I imagine if Ennis saw this story he would shoot and bury himself just so he could turn in his grave at the atrocity they’ve made of the character he has worked so hard on. Ennis is a prolific and unparalleled writer and deserves the accolades he’s earned for his work. He doesn’t deserve to have his name dragged through the mud for a bunch of would be filmmakers who just pillaged his work in search of a gem and instead created a festering turd.

Director Lexi Alexander was adamant about capturing the look of The Punisher and it was obvious that that’s as far as she got and still didn’t succeed. Everyone fawns over artist Tim Bradstreet’s covers to The Punisher (he has never drawn a complete issue) and apparently that’s the only thing they strove to capture. Great, you captured a cover. Here’s your cookie.

Alexander is a former kickboxing champion who previously directed the film “Green Street Hooligans” which is actually pretty good and another reason why I had my hopes high for this movie. However, PWZ has sealed my feelings on something I’ve long felt to be true and herein is where I’m sure I’ll be called a sexist. I don’t care.

Women should not be directing action films. There is a simple, biological explanation for this. Action films fuel adrenaline, entail violent acts and violent situations, usually the likes of which women are not involved. Although there are absolutely women on this planet who have kicked ass in real life, there is no comparison as to who has done more in that department. NONE.

The reason is because men have more adrenaline, a much larger propensity to violence, and a general understanding of what it is and ultimately what inspires that adrenaline feeling. I’m not saying that a woman can’t enjoy or get a rush out of an action film. I’m saying that, like Twilight and it’s estrogen influence, action films are fueled by macho male adrenaline thrill seeking. It is the root of action films. We want to get, as they say, pumped up.

How many women do you know that want to get that thrill from an action movie? It’ll be a short list, I assure you. Lexi Alexander kick boxed some people in the head and so executives figured she could handle an action flick. They couldn’t have been more wrong.

Another example is director Mimi Leder, who directed “Deep Impact” and “The Peacemaker.” Both were disappointing at the box office and simply could not attain the thrill that is needed to make these films successful. Now, imagine either one of these movies directed by the likes of Michael Bay (which isn’t hard, since he did the much more successful “Armageddon”) or Tony Scott? No fucking contest people.

Now, you could say that an unsuccessful action film directed by a male is the counter-argument. To that, I say simply that that is just a director who lacks vision. Look, the bottom line here is that you want to find the right person for the job. That goes for anything. Jonathan Hensleigh fucked the last Punisher movie and he’s supposed to be an action movie guy. However, you certainly don’t want to see his version of Pride and Prejudice, I assure you.

You wouldn’t ask Nora Ephron to direct the next installment of Die Hard, so why would you put a woman on something as big dick driven as The Punisher? It makes no sense, people! Nein!

If you have a vagina and you want to direct an action movie then you need to step out of line and find another career…unless your last name is Bigelow. Then, you just might be the one exception.

There is literally no pay off to watching this movie. It is like watching poop coming out of someone’s ass for an hour an forty minutes. Only in the world of “idiocracy” would this movie be a success. We aren’t quite there yet, as cynical as we may be about ourselves. The ending to this movie is a snooze. The big shootout amounts to about twenty dead guys. That may seem like a lot, but then you probably never read a Punisher comic. And if you base your opinion of that character after this movie then you most likely never will.

The absolute best thing we can do is let this franchise R.I.P. It was dead on arrival to begin with and I fault that failure with the inability of every creative team entrusted with the property for simply not grasping the material. They dropped the ball and followed it into the street.

The best thing we can do at this point is forget this movie ever happened. Ignore its existence and move on with our lives.

MOVIE GRADE: Is there a grade lower than F?

So, that’s my wrap up. I have seen a few other movies on DVD, such as the second Narnia movie (crap), but am not going over those. I’m heavily at work on my own comic book work, writing, and finding a pay-the-bills job until I’m rich and famous.

There’s always a storm brewing in my brain and I should have a post-Holiday blog out by the first of the year or sooner. Thanks for reading!

Veteran's Day 2008

2008-11-10T23:56:00.013-09:00

The infantryman is a volunteer; he goes into battle of his own free will and has many
times over sacrificed his life for his brothers in arms and for his country.

For more than 200 years this standard has been upheld.

While there are many varying viewpoints of war and policy and everything in between
the simple fact remains; the U.S. Soldier is the reason we have the freedom we have.
There are many residents of this great nation that don't believe that. And many of them
haven't the heart or the courage to step into the uniform.

And while those same people will say that this great nation was born of ideals,
those very ideals were secured by men with guns who had the will to carry out the wishes
of this nation in order to secure a more perfect union. Our freedom was never won by
handshakes and diplomacy.

For those that would believe that our Army should be reserved for their "Independence
Day" fairy tale and not in an effort to secure our nation from those that would do us harm
it would do them well to remember the lessons of our short history.

Your rights are only as protected as much as you are willing to fight for them.

Or as much as the brave few are willing to fight for you.

To my fellow brothers in arms who are halfway across the world...
for the long patrols...
for the unending boredom interrupted by a few hours of the most intense moments of
your life...
for the bullshit details...
for the monotonous guard shifts...
for babysitting the lazy IA's and IP's at every checkpoint...
for the shitty chow...
for the random rocket attacks...
for the changing ROE...
for the crappy bootleg copy of the new James Bond movie...
for the half hearted "care packages"...
for the internet and phones being down again...
for the moron PSG that doesn't know what the fuck he's doing...
for the media reporting every bad thing they can find and ignoring every good thing
staring them in the face...
and you still re-enlisted...
for your courage...
for your bravery...
for your will to carry on the mission...

You have my eternal gratitude and pride...to have served alongside many of you, to
have shared in your turmoil, your successes, your shortcomings, your fear, your pain,
and your ultimate sacrifices...

To every veteran of the United States Military, Army, Marines, Navy, Air Force, Coast
Guard...you are the true heroes of this nation and I will always be proud to have been
amongst your ranks. My heart swells with pride and fills with hope when I know that you
are there...

The Infantryman

Author Unknown

The average age of the Infantryman is 19 years. He is a short haired,
tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by
society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, but old
enough to die for his country. He never really cared much for work and
he would rather wax his own car than wash his father's;
but he has never collectedunemployment either.

He's a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average
student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old
jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when
he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.
He listens to rock and roll or jazz or swing and 155mm Howitzers.
He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because
he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk.

He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he
can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less. He
can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade
launcher and use either one effectively if he must. He digs foxholes and latrines
and can apply first aid like a professional. He can march until he is told to
stop or stop until he is told to march. He obeys orders instantly and
without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity.

He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and
wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry. He
sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle. He
can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts.

If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food.
He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.
He has learned to use his hands like weapons and his weapons like they were
his hands. He can save your life -- or take it, because that is his job.

He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay and
still find ironic humor in it all. He has seen more suffering and
death then he should have in his short lifetime. He has stood atop
mountains of dead bodies, and helped to create them.
He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat
and is unashamed. Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather,
he is paying the price for our freedom.

Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the American Fighting Man
that has kept this country free for over 200 years. He has asked
nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding.

Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.

He is an INFANTRYMAN!

POLITICS

2008-10-19T19:12:00.023-08:00

The Cinema of Politics and the decline of American culture

Rarely do I make political commentaries unless in conversation with intelligible people. I don’t feel the need to beat anyone over the head with what I believe, but I will be happy to share if provoked.

And lately, I’m feeling pretty damn provoked.

The catalyst for this little rant is none other than Oliver Stone’s latest cinematic decline; W. From the trailers I thought that W might be a humorous and over-the-top satire from the left, something along the lines of Dr. Strangelove or even Dave.

Instead, what we have is a deranged director’s vision played out on screen, as if supplanting his living room rants about how much he hates Bush and what he has “done” to the Country by creating a movie out of them.

First off, this movie has no idea what it’s about. While trying to appear at first humorous, then satirical, then deeply serious, then suddenly surreal, this movie has no direction, no purpose. Perhaps, Stone felt that this was his perfect homage to the subject himself. Unfortunately, he forgot that the average moviegoer would be watching this drivel…and that likely all the real players involved would be avoiding it like the plague.

And so, like Alexander before it, I suffered heartily through W. Anyone that enjoys this movie and sees it to be brilliant is a complete and utter moron. It doesn’t matter what your politics are; there is nothing of value in this film. Everyone raves about Josh Brolin’s portrayal and he is a phenomenal actor, especially of late, and bears an uncanny resemblance to Bush in many scenes to be sure. However, all he really does in the movie is eat.

Apparently, that’s what President Bush does. He just eats and talks and swigs beer and puts his boots up on the desk, all while sending us to war because God told him to.

Every actor in this film plays it so obvious that they absolutely hate the person they are portraying that the whole thing seems like an SNL skit. Whereas most “historical” films inspire the actor, whether he’s playing Hitler or Jesus, to delve into the character and become that person both good, bad, etc., this is a one trick pony. (Don’t tell me it can’t be done…HBO’s “John Adams” and “Generation Kill” are excellent examples of well researched historical dramas from very different eras.)

It is a true shame as most of the actors in the film are some of the best. Unfortunately, they all let Stone talk them into what amounts to an underdeveloped and unfocused hack job, which comes off more as a failed Broadway play than a film “based on a true story.” And really, where’s the “true” come from, Mr. Stone?

Nearly every scene in the film is completely fabricated. With the exception of recreating some speeches, this film is a complete fairy tale. There were no journalists in the room, no flies on the wall, and no documented accounts of the “narrative” that takes place from scene to scene.

I’m sure there are plenty of people who think there should be. That the everyday American public should have a live feed into the war room, just like Big Brother, where they can vote online as to what the President and his cabinet should do in every instance. (See the film “Idiocracy” to see your future if you agree with this sentiment.)

Stone didn’t contact a single person, a single individual, involved in this story. But, don’t take my word for it. And if that’s not enough to convince you, then by all means, dig further. That’s something most Americans are failing to do every day; fact check. Too lazy to go beyond the headlines on MSNBC. Stone has been documented saying that he was going to have a website up by the time of the release, which would back up his “claims.” I have yet to find one, not that it would matter, seeing as the fact remains that he didn’t consult with ANY of the people he’s portraying.

The truth is that this movie is nearly all fiction. Based on anecdotes, tall tales, and every unconfirmed piece of “history” he could find; it’s a bloated mess. Oliver Stone has fallen from grace completely. His politics as a liberal Democrat, anti-war buffoon, and peyote smoking hippy have served him well. Sadly, I admired Stone’s career early on; Platoon, Born on the Fourth of July, JFK, Natural Born Killers, Any Given Sunday; all powerful and strong films. And yes, nearly all of those had a political message. But, at least they had some kind of direction, whether I agreed with it or not. W has none of that. Muted and distorted “history,” conversations and events made up out of thin air, and a cast that is merely venting instead of acting.

If Brolin’s portrayal isn’t enough to convince you, watch Thandie Newton as Condeleeza Rice. I have no doubt that every time Stone called cut for her scenes, the entire cast and crew burst into laughter as if just watching Jim Carrey nail a comedic scene.

The portrayal of Bush’s acceptance of Christ is handled in a very condescending and stereotypical way as well, again with no basis on fact (and yes, I am a Christian.). The very concept of prayer is handled in a way to associate it with every bad thing that came from the Bush administration. I’m surprised that such a liberal would be so quick to bash Christianity when people of his stock are usually so quick to defend any and all other religions.

Stone has the skills to pull off a film that could have been meditative, focused, smart, and maybe, just maybe, accurate. Well, actually, I take that back. He doesn’t. Like Spike Lee, Stone is an old dog, focused on one thing; his own personal conspiracy theories. If Stone really felt that this was going to be a smart way to contribute to Obama’s campaign then he should have just sent him the money (which he has done anyways). And, in all actuality, he waited too long. Did he forget that the election is in less than a month from the opening?

The politics behind the making of this film, let alone the fact that it was even made, is what truly depresses me. And it should depress you too. Some say it is a tribute to the Country itself that an inaccurate mess like this can be made about a nation’s leader while he still holds office. But, that’s the tricky thing; by celebrating the fact that you can make this farce isn’t a celebration of America, it’s a celebration of the decline of our ideology. And good filmmaking.

I noted earlier about being provoked. Take a look at this little video if you haven’t already been subjected to it.

So, did you feel inspired or insulted by that video? Did you get the warm tinglies because one of your favorite actors “spoke” to you? If you felt inspired then you should just stop reading this and go put your head in a blender and hit puree. It’s over for you.

If you felt insulted then you are in the clear. Because, and you don’t need me to tell you this, they are insulting you. Apparently, the American public is too God-damned stupid to figure out that they should vote, or how to vote, or why to vote. Apparently, because we are working class people that pay our hard-earned money to make these bloated actors become rich and “famous,” we need them to take us by the hand, to lead us, and show us the way.

Certainly, with Hayden Panettiere paddling out on her surfboard to save dolphins (great acting by the way) or Madonna and Angelina Jolie adopting Africans, they have the background and education to tell us what is good for us. And, while they’re at it, while they’re putting out this “bipartisan” message, we flip the channel to see these very same actors, ALL OF THEM in fact, are supporters of Barrack Obama.

Go to P.Diddy’s website, the Vote or Die (what the fuck does this mean, anyway, I still don’t get it) poster child and you will be inundated with his video blogs in support of Obama as he TIVO’s speeches by McCain and Palin and plays it back to you while pretending he is in a horror movie.

Bipartisan my fucking ass.

Do you honestly, truly believe that P. Diddy wants you to simply vote? Are you fucking kidding me? P. Diddy wants you to vote for HIS CANDIDATE. He does NOT want you to vote for the other guy. Is that basis enough for you? Is P. Diddy, and his ridiculous webisodes enough to convince you of who you should check off on that ballot?

South Park, my favorite of all social commentator’s, seems to be the only ones that can transcribe P. Diddy's stance on voting.

There is no doubt that this is an important election. Guess what? THEY ALL ARE! There is no election that’s just ho-hum. The election of a President is HUGE, no matter what state the Country is in. There is ZERO difference here.

The fact that I am being inundated with ACTORS, people that make a living PRETENDING to be someone else, telling me how, when, and why I should vote is a slap in the face. I want to look all of them in the face and say one thing: “Don’t I pay your salary? Now, shut the fuck up and go make a movie.”

The POP CULTURIZATION of America is the saddest and most lethal thing that has swept this Nation in a long time. Instead of wanting to be good Americans, seeking out being a vital part of this Country, contributing to the economy, working to make things better through service and support, the new generation has become a generation of selfish crybabies who would rather be plastered on a magazine cover or featured in a reality TV show than be a part of the Country they live in.

They are starting to become the very things they preach that they aren’t: robots.

Sadly, many Americans are looking to celebrities for their own voice. What happened? Did we forget to pick up a book? To research? To learn? To decide for ourselves? That is what our Country is founded on!

I attended a small business seminar last month and we were discussing how truly difficult it can be to run a small business and how hiring employees today from the most current generation has hurt these businesses. The reason is because this next generation, the Y generation, has become more like the Y-me? Generation. They are selfish, self-involved, lazy, and completely without any hard work ethic. They are part of an instant gratification generation, with point and click temporary solutions to permanent problems.

And before I pigeonhole an entire generation, let me say that I am deeply proud of those that fall in the category of those who do NOT act or conduct their lives in this manner. Fortunately, not all hope is lost and I am thankful to those who still believe in working hard and earning the things they want out of life rather than impatiently waiting for it to be downloaded into their lap.

Unfortunately, too many parents and teachers have neglected to teach this to their children. Someone has stopped paying attention, so the kids have turned to who does give them attention; such as Paris Hilton. Ah, yes, here we go again with her. I’m sure you’re so sick of her being compared to what’s wrong with America. Why, because you like making excuses for her? Is she really someone you want your child to look up to? Give me a fucking break. She should be banned from planet Earth.

And she is to blame. Along with all the rest of the “Hollywood elite,” the privileged few who make ten to twenty million dollars a movie and feel that that gives them the right to dictate your own thoughts and feelings to you.

Now, let’s be clear. I am a Republican. Plain and Simple. And I KNOW why I’m a Republican. I don’t simply say it to stir your blood or get attention. I am a member of that party because it is closer to my views on this Nation, on education, healthcare, economy, and foreign policy, etc., than any other party. Not to mention the fact that the majority of liberals can never seem to come up with a realistic solution. It’s always very broad and dramatic, like that little kid you humor in class who says ridiculous off the wall shit. We all stop, have a laugh, and then get back to grown up talk.

Years ago, before I had really developed what I felt or thought or why I leaned right or left, I simply regurgitated what I heard others say, namely my parents and friends. I was in a conversation with my Godfather and we were talking about President Reagan. I was nineteen and cocky and didn’t know jack shit about politics. I blurted out that I thought Reagan was a good president.

And I learned the most valuable lesson, not only about politics, but about knowledge, both of the facts and of oneself. My Godfather asked me the showstopper: WHY? Why did I think President Reagan was a good president? I had no answer. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I don’t know, I just think he did a good job.”

His response? Bullshit. I had no idea what I was talking about. And my Godfather called me on it. He looked me in the eyes and explained that it’s okay to have an opinion, but make sure you know what you’re talking about. Don’t just blurt shit out if you don’t know what you’re saying. It makes you look stupid and rightly so.

I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of it. And he was right. God bless him, he was right.

I have never forgotten that lesson. It has stuck with me every day of my life. It is imbedded in my subconscious.

This is a lesson that all nineteen year olds should learn. Especially in this Country, where the Hollywood elite are preaching down to us like we are moronic cattle. Use your own brain, learn the facts, learn to check the facts, and formulate your own opinion.

Did Leonardo DiCaprio’s performance in Titanic sway you enough to vote for his candidate? What about Jay-Z? Did Matt Damon kick enough ass in the Bourne movies to convince you that he has the knowledge and insight to get you to vote for his choice?

Then, there’s David Letterman, who blasted McCain every night on his show because he didn’t stop by (or cancelled his appearance, I can’t remember which.) Who gives a shit? Since when did appearing on a late night TV show have anything to do with what kind of President you will be? Now all candidates have to be good sports? I, for one, was proud of McCain for not showing. He didn’t owe David Fucking Letterman shit. Then he went and did it anyway and claimed that he (McCain) screwed up!

Suffice it to say, I am hugely disappointed in McCain for saying he screwed up. Bullshit. He should have come on the show and said, “Dave, listen, I’m not trying to be a late night celebrity guest…I’m trying to become President of the United States. I have shit to do, I’m sure you understand.”

Alas, I am not McCain’s advisor.

The focus for a candidate to appear on a talk show or entertainment program is just stupid. Debates, town hall meetings, or a news-style interview is where you can learn something about the person you may choose to run for President, and more importantly, what they are going to do for you if elected.

Instead, so many Americans are getting invested in a candidate because they play the fucking saxophone or cross country ski. What the fuck do any of those things have to do with how they will run the Country?!

And while we’re all congratulating Tina Fey on her impersonation of Sarah Palin, let’s not forget that she has openly been quoted as saying that if Palin wins then she (Fey) is going to leave the planet. I wonder who she wants you to vote for? The line between farce and satire in pop culture has clearly been crossed. No longer is it about entertainment…it’s now an all out media war to see how much they can sway you to their side.

(A side note on Palin and Alaska. I live in Alaska, which doesn’t make me an automatic supporter of hers, but the fact remains that Alaska is pretty well split on those for and against her. What really pisses me off is, once again, the uneducated “lower 48” who seem to think that Alaska is an insignificant group of 500 people, mostly Eskimos, who live in Igloos and eat seal pup for breakfast. Get the facts straight before you start shit-talking. I’m so sick of the elitist attitude that judges any state that isn’t blue. It is the United States of America, not the United Blue (or Red) States of America.

Put the gavel down and read a book.

Alaska is a smaller population than most, which is why I continue to live here, where I am not suffocated by overpopulation and excess taxes. Alaska is the best kept secret in the Union.)

Surprisingly, an unlikely celebrity to really get the picture on celebrity endorsements is none other than Kid Rock (who openly supports the military rather than any political party…and yes, the military is generally Republican). In a quote from CMT Insider, Rock said, "I truly believe that people like myself, who are in a position of entertainers in the limelight, should keep their mouth shut on politics.”

"Because at the end of the day," he goes on to say, "I'm good at writing songs and singing. What I'm not educated in is the field of political science. And so for me to be sharing my views and influencing people of who I think they should be voting for ... I think would be very irresponsible on my part."

Do you really believe that all the young kids out there who are waving the Obama signs are tried and true Democrats and know why? The first thing they will throw in your face is how we “need change.” No shit. Change is coming no matter what. What change are we talking about here? Explain the change he’s bringing…I have no doubt you will mostly be met with the sound of crickets chirping. And that certainly doesn’t excuse the McCain supporters who don’t have a response either.

Certainly, some of them may have a righteous and justified response; good for them. That’s how it should be. However, many are suffering from the same nineteen-year-old regurgitation syndrome. Go to You Tube and watch videos of supporters for both Obama and McCain. You will find moronic and stereotypical comments which will shame both political parties. Watch some of the yourmanonthestreet interviews and you will see my point.

This is why it is so important to get educated, get off the bandwagon, and really KNOW what you are saying, what you believe and why.

Even my beloved comic book medium has gotten into the bullshit. Fuck you Erik Larson. Go draw something.

I’m not writing this to convince you to vote for anyone. I’m writing this to shine the spotlight back on the actors, singers, comedians, and every other socio-political celebrity who is trying to brainwash you into their corner. This is your wake up call. Don’t hit the snooze button.

Put down the US Weekly and step away from the celebrity. I want to explain something to you, and I’m going to do it without trying to get you to vote for any one particular candidate. My bias is already clear. Plus, I don’t make more than ten million dollars a year and am not featured regularly on TMZ.

Let’s set the record straight on one thing; a candidate does NOT need to be regarded as a celebrity. There is a distinct difference, which is the root of the whole problem to begin with. A candidate needs to be versed on the issues that face the Nation and have a clear direction for how to handle those issues and steer the nation. They don’t have to sing, dance, act, play the sax, snowboard, or watch The Hills. If you think different about that, then please plug in your blender and get to work.

You do NOT need a celebrity to tell you who to vote for. They do not have your best interests in mind. Just because they support Barrack Obama or John McCain does not mean that you have to as well. What you, as a citizen of this great Country need to do, is get informed. I say the below without being condescending. I say it because I really care about this Nation, and I want you to know, if you don’t already, the truth.

First, you need to learn how to discern between fact and fiction. You need to learn about who has a bias to one side or the other. Yes, this is going to take some reading, some research, and some involvement. Believe it or not, every newspaper, every TV network, every media outlet has one bias or another, some stronger than others. Here’s a resource to get you started. Once you learn these, then you will be able to pull the facts and discard the bullshit from everything you read and hear, rather than taking it at face value.

And let’s not forget that you should have a working knowledge of the U.S. Constitution, the history of the United States as a whole, and how we instill that system into a working democracy. In order to become a citizen of this Nation if you weren’t born here you must be tested and pass. Here is a sample. See where you fall.

Now, once you are able to do that, you need to dive a little deeper. If you can’t decide which party you fall under, Democrat or Republican or, even worse, a green party or other, then it’s time to do even MORE research and learn how the parties were created, why they were created, which politicians have held office in those groups, what they have done, and ultimately, what they stand for.

You can even see who is endorsing who!

Based on your own situations, experiences, beliefs, and education, you will most likely be able to figure out which party suits your interests.

Once you are all caught up, you should begin to research what both Obama and McCain stand for. Look at the issues. More importantly, look at the issues that affect you. You don’t need me to explain the rest. Then, listen to the candidates, watch their debates, and soak in what they have to say. At that point you will decide for yourself.

Furthermore, you need to know how the election process works. You should have a good understanding of the Electoral College and how your vote counts. Here’s a great resource, where you can even look up how each state voted with the official documents. Most people have no fucking clue. I dare you to test me and ask five people you know to explain it to you.

That all sounds like a lot of work, doesn’t it? It is. But, it’s the price of freedom. And that freedom is being able to decide for yourself and not having Halle Berry decide for you.

However, as the ME Generation continues to grow and the reality TV show mindset flourishes, we lose sight more and more of what it means to be an American, of what our government is built upon, and how we can go about keeping it alive and well while keeping it fair and balanced.

For once, I will agree with that most annoying of slogans: Kill your TV. Shut it off and learn to decide for yourself.

If Oliver Stone, P. Diddy, and Hayden Panetierre are the inspiration for your check in the box on November 4^th, then this Country is truly doomed. And it won’t be the loud-mouth celebrity to blame. It will be your fault for listening to them.

Here’s my “don’t vote” spiel. Don’t vote because a celebrity tells you to. Don’t vote for a certain candidate because a celebrity endorses him. Don’t vote because it’s your right as an American.

Get smart and vote as an informed voter, aware of the issues, the parties, the politics, the history and because you have a genuine, knowledgeable opinion on what you feel is best for you and for the Country. Vote for the candidate whom you feel has your best interests and the Nation’s in mind. Above all else, remember this:

HOLLYWOOD IS NOT AMERICA.

Your vote will always count as long as you turn in a ballot, but you’re vote will never really count if you don’t know who you’re voting for and why. If that’s the case and you’re doing it for a celebrity, then by all means, take their advice from the first minute of their bullshit PSA…

…and for the love of God, don’t vote.

As for the movie grade for “W”; let’s switch the “W” for an “F” and call it a day.

A TALL TALE 2: EVEN TALLER

2008-09-19T16:26:00.026-08:00

Let’s talk about continental breakfasts for a second. Usually, they are pretty scant; muffins, fruit, cereal, milk, yogurt...you know, the shit you normally eat at home for breakfast. Nothing fancy or sexy. So, to my chagrin, the Hampton Inn not ONLY has a strip club next door, but a kick ass continental breakfast to boot. Doughnuts, biscuits and gravy, eggs, sausage, bagels, and all the usual shit. Perhaps, I just need to get out more. No, that’s for damn sure…but still. Finally, a hotel that makes it worth rolling out of bed before noon while on vacation…

Wifey and I get dressed and ready to conquer the big, bad Cali landscape. She tells me she doesn’t want to do Venice Beach today, so I dress casual, but not beach casual. She tells me while we are driving on the highway that she’s changed her mind and that she now DOES want to go to Venice Beach. I simply turn my head and stare at her. I continue to stare, saying nothing. My blank expression says it all. In my head, there is a movie playing….in that movie, I am the star (Jean Claude Van Damme) and she is the villain (Drew Barrymore) and I have somehow managed a spinning helicopter kick to her head while IN the car.

“Carla” guides us to Venice without fail and we are parked and entering the fray in no time. Venice is like the remnants of post apocalyptic fallout, long after the “bad times” have ended and the world has started to get better and society slowly comes back into its own. Everyone is still fucked up and weird and crazy, but now they have style and hope and a burning desire to smoke marijuana a lot.

I am immediately aware that I am NOT dressed for success here. I am in jeans, sandals, and polo shirt. I look like I should get my ass kicked or at least robbed and mugged. But, I do have my Oakley’s on, which have more combat experience than most people in my presence. They are magic and will protect me.

Everyone is in some form of nakedness or extreme comfort. Everyone is very open and comfortable with their sexuality, their piercings and tattoos on display, and the vendors are hocking their wares like a home shopping network special laced with “the pot.”

It’s basically a long line of cheap t-shirts, crappy jewelry, paintings, bongs, and ice creams joints with a few outside eateries scattered about. We walk the strip up and down, taking a detour to the beach where I huff through the sand, stealing images of men fondling their girl’s asses under their bathing suits, kids digging in the sand like mindless zombies, and seagulls stealing beachgoers bags. Since I am the overdressed asshole, I’m the only dipshit in jeans on the beach. Wifey thinks it’s cute. She takes a picture. I deleted it off of her camera.

Wifey is particularly excited to take me to Muscle Beach Gym, where she is adamant about men working out in nothing but Speedos and somehow equates that to something I would be utterly fascinated with and must see before I die. Lucky for me there are, like, two guys working out there, shirtless, but with adamant below-the-waist clothing. Wifey is deeply troubled by the absence of near male nudity and I am equally troubled by her deeply troubled trouble over this issue.

I make the words pretty.

Venice gets tiring. I start to feel like I’m walking through an American Bazaar, much like the ones rampant in Afghanistan, everyone selling the same shit, just arranged slightly different from booth to booth. I buy a t-shirt. It has a sweet Jim Lee drawing of the Punisher on it (from PWJ #8 to be exact) and it makes me happy. I bought a Cobra Commander shirt from Urban Outfitters the day before. Turns out it’s one of those slim fit shirts with the wide neck and that really sucks because I’m not a waifish Emo kid that eats air for food and drinks his tears like a milkshake.

The pretentiousness of Urban Outfitters has far outweighed its novelty, which happens a lot with stores that like to haunt their image as leftist revolutionaries within their product. Obama t-shirts, Grow Jesus pills, and full price thrift store prices for shit that is cool to browse but NOT cool to buy and take home.

If you make your belly growl in order to pinch pennies to buy something from Urban Outfitters then you deserve your fate. Write that down or bookmark this page. It might save your life.

T-shirts. I am obsessed with t-shirts. I’m even in the throes of starting my own pretentious t-shirt and clothing company. So, naturally, I spy shirts everywhere, looking for unique designs, looking for what’s selling, what the new trends are, etc. That being said, I absolutely abhor (doesn’t saying that make me sound like a rich person at a dinner party that has had one too many glasses of wine?) the Volcom style of shirts with the day-glow colors that make me want to puke. And they are the most popular. I swear I won’t get my company off the ground until that style is OUT.

Trying to keep myself from buying shit I don’t need isn’t hard at all, but I knew coming in that the allure to buy new t-shirts would be there. Fortunately, I’m very choosy. So, if you ever see me in public and I’m wearing a t-shirt you know that I took great care in choosing to wear it, more so than Alicia Silverstone in “Clueless,” comparing her outfits on the computer prior to getting dressed. You are in the presence of t-shirt greatness if I grace you with my appearance while garbed in one. You will walk three paces behind me and to the left, your head down.

Our time is cut a little short as we have to make it to the rehearsal dinner, which is at a seafood joint along the Pacific Coast Highway called “Gladstone’s.” We are spread out in booths and order food, which while good, wasn’t exactly a knock out of the park. Perhaps I’m spoiled by Alaska. Probably the biggest selling point of “Gladstones” is that the waiters will wrap your leftovers in aluminum foil and sculpt them like some kind of sea creature.

Like a clown with balloons they take this task very seriously. One of the guests with us was a nine-year-old and he deliberately didn’t finish his food to get this special wrapping treat. To his dismay they quickly made him a sea turtle and the disappointment was not lost on his face. Then, at my table, they pulled out all the stops and created an epic for the minister of the wedding; a huge shark with a mermaid attached to his fin. You could see the envy on the little boy’s face. He now hates God.

Which made it all the more shocking when he plunged his steak knife into the minister’s head and ganked his leftover seafood pasta wrapped in the form of a shark and mermaid. Blood was showering everywhere, like a fountain, and I was reminded of the scene from “Aliens” when Bishop the android is torn in half by the alien Queen.

Man, you gotta see “Aliens” if you haven’t already. Classic.

No, for real, that happened. I wasn’t joking. Read the police report.

As we left the restaurant I was courted the offer of going to get a drink with my father-in-law afterwards. It was already late and I felt, as I have of late, that I am getting old in my youth as I was a bit tuckered, and here was this man, nearly thirty years my senior that was still ready to party. What the hell happened? In many ways I was hoping that he would forget about it or we could just let it slide and I could play stupid later and drop the new commonly used excuse of “Oh, I didn’t know you were serious!” which is both insulting and ignorant all at once and unfortunately I’ve used it on more than one occasion.

No such luck. Pops-in-law does not forget. We are back at the hotel (coincidentally, our room is right next to the in-laws, which seems like a joke out of the next “Meet the Ben Stiller” comedy, but painfully true here) and he is changed and ready to roll. We ditch our bitches and move out.

Strangely enough, the last time I ventured out to a strip club was with dad AND brother in law, which makes for some supreme awkwardness. I’m as cool and laid back as the next guy, but I don’t know how I’d feel about my son-in-law getting lap dances and flirting with strippers in my presence. Perhaps it’s their way of keeping an eye on me, testing the waters, making sure I’m not THAT GUY who disappears for a lap dance and comes back thirty minutes later, looking disheveled and drained.

For the record, I’m not that guy. I don’t have that much money or good looks or charm. Man, I suck.

Okay, so, here’s the next coolest thing about the GPS; you can punch in “entertainment” and locate bars and clubs and, yup, you guessed it, strip clubs. We punch it up, set a destination and off we go. “We’re gonna go look at naked vagina’s!”

Our first destination is the “Jet Strip.” It’s neon lit and sparsely staffed. Once inside we are treated to a typical, yet clean joint with mostly Asian girls, fully nude. Our waitress, who is also Asian, gives us the lowdown. Then she delivers the deal breaker: no alcohol. For whatever reason, I don’t know, Google it, you can’t drink booze and look at vagina. Diet Coke is fine, but booze plus vagina equals something very bad, although I don’t know what that is. Usually the booze has led to the vagina, but never mind that now.

Dad-in-law is none too happy about this. He was looking forward to a drink like a child looks forward to Disneyworld only to find out that the park is closed when he arrives. We sit and stare, make comments about the girl’s tattoos. The last thing I’m gonna do is play the typical game of “I’d fuck her,” which is played by ALL males, like it or not. Instead we look on in amusement, never really revealing our true inclinations to the stage entertainment. It’s like two guys playing poker never to reveal his hand by any gesture.

First off, Dad-in-law is a cool guy, laid back, and really just wants to relax and chat. Why not do it in front of what we all love? However, it must not be absent to him that it can make for tricky territory for someone who signed up to have interactions with only one vagina for the rest of his life which, coincidentally, happened to be brought into this world by him. Choose your words and actions carefully, mon ami. Yes, I am Gambit (if you don’t get it then you don’t read comics and you probably have never been picked on in high school).

The ladies are paraded out all together, introduced by name and brought before us, like an offering to the royals. We look, peruse, and enjoy, then are summarily enticed by their wares. One of them is particularly forceful and friendly and wins over Dad-in-law. But not for himself. She asks if he wants a dance and he says, “No, but…he would…” I suddenly realize I’m “he” and that I’m also in the Twilight Zone.

The stripper doesn’t care either way. She negotiates with him as to what kind of treatment I’m getting. “Topless or no?” she asks. He motions to me, “I don’t know, whatever you want…” I’m put in the middle. Why can’t they just decide for me. Is this a test? If I say yes will the charade be over? “I knew it, you want someone else’s tits, you bastard! You will never see my daughter again!” This is game show pressure here. I’m looking for Howie Mandel. I decide to go for broke. I hit the fuck it button. “Yeah, topless works for me.”

She wastes no time and leads me to the back room to a “booth” which is basically a comfy chair with armrests and a beaded curtain. It’s a three-for-one special, which means I get a “dance” for three songs for the price of one. She does her thing and in the end compliments my thighs. I never know what to say, ever, and confronted with the end of a stripper dance usually leaves me feeling guilty in a way.

A half naked girl writhes all over you, touching you, rubbing on you, and putting on the foreplay performance of the century and then it’s like someone turned the lights on and yelled “party’s over, get out!” It’s business as usual and I return to the table, where Dad-in-law pays for my perversity and we finish our drinks.

Once again, the awkwardness is not lost on my face. It’s not like you come back and start jabbering about how the dance was. I can only imagine that one, “Man, she was pretty hot. She rubbed the shit out of my cock and had her titties in my face the whole time. She used her ass pretty good too. What a talented lady…”

Yeah, you grow an extra set and use that on YOUR Dad-in-law. Let me know how that goes. I’m sure there’s somebody out there that will tell me “Dude, that’s how it is with me and my father-in-law. He’s cool as shit. We go huntin’ together and strip clubs and rob banks, and kung fu newly hatched chickens and everything…no problem.”

Well, you aren’t normal. That’s not normal. Fortunately, in my viewpoint, I was blessed with humility and don’t take everything, despite what it may sound like from time to time, so lightly.

But, naked girls do rock.

Dad-in-law is ready to roll and I can sense the feeling that no alcohol has soured the experience. We decide to give it another shot and even though we are sharing a very awkward bonding moment, I am ready for it to be over. However, I feel it’s important for him, so I go along, every bit the trooper. I can whether tougher storms than staring at naked girls. Sue me.

We go to the “Bare Essence” next, which had some very lovely girls and was way louder to boot. We pulled up a booth in the back and chillaxed back. As the waitress came to take our order, Dad-in-law was stabbed in the chest again and denied alcohol. Sure enough, they were fully nude. Fully nude equals a peach tea Snapple or Mountain Dew. Enjoy.

One big difference with “Bare Essence” was the aggressiveness. We weren’t there five minutes and I had a stripper laid across me with her tongue in my ear, ready for a dance. It must have been a slow night. I respectfully declined and couldn’t quite gauge how Pops felt about it. He’s a cool customer, no doubt, but the sight has GOT to inspire some thoughts about my integrity.

The girls flocked to the table, working us over, nearly demanding that we will buy dances, like it or not. We do not have a choice in the matter. Naked girls will grind against us and we’re just gonna have to deal with it. Oh, and pay for it, too.

At this point, something strange happens. As if wielding a truth serum aura, the girls sit down and begin stumbling over themselves. I am polite and nice, perhaps something they aren’t used to, and they begin to trip over my simple questions, such as “what is your name?” They stutter and hesitate as if stumped on a question on a game show. “Miche—I mean, Jordan…but, that’s not my real name…”

I’m not a seasoned strip club goer, but I do understand that they don’t use their real names. If your real name is Cherry Mae or Lola Pop, then you don’t even have a choice from birth…you will strip. End of story.

At one point, my little ear chomping Asian girl is back and working her magic to take me in the back. She makes half hearted conversation, asking me where I’m from. I tell her Alaska. She looks surprised and asks, “Ohh, where’s that?” I don’t miss a beat. I go on to explain it as if it’s very common not to know where the 49^th state is. “You know where Canada is?” I ask. “Uh huh.” She says, like a second grader grasping the concept of the ABC’s.

“Yeah, it’s right next to Canada.” I say, no sarcasm AT ALL. “Ohhhhhhh.” She says. I send her away. You must have at least a GED or equivalent in order to rub your ass on my pelvic region.

I talk to another girl for awhile and she seems cool enough and we go to the back for a one song wonder. When complete I am escorted to the bar where I pay for the dance. I’m told it’s forty-one dollars. The “Jet Strip” had that great 3 for 1 special, which gave me three songs for thirty bucks. Not a bad deal.

However, here I was dropping forty one bucks for a girl to tossle around me as if trying to get comfortable in her seat for three minutes. The girl was hot, no doubt, but for forty-one bucks I could have bought four albums on iTunes, three or more pre-viewed DVD’s from Blockbuster or fed my whole family for the night.

Then the bartender/collector advised me to tip my girl. I turned to her. “Here’s a tip…use a condom.”

We left, sober and broke, and drove back to the hotel. It was an interesting escape and awkward bonding experience to be sure, one I will not forget, if for no other reason than the fact that I did my first price and compare on the lap dancing lassies of L.A.

When I got back to the hotel, Dad-in-law reminded me that what happens at the strip clubs stays at the strip clubs. I agreed.

Then, I wrote this blog.

The next day I had it all mapped out to venture to a place of delectable fanboy delight; Jay and Silent Bob’s Secret Stash. Now, I had never heard that the place was anything super spectacular, but I took many things into account, the biggest being that it was owned by Kevin Smith, auteur of such cinema classics as “Clerks,” “Mallrats,” and “Chasing Amy.”

Smith is the uber Fanboy himself, the cool man’s Harry Knowles, if you will. I had high hopes for the store…I mean, one of the champions of comics and comic fan related goods would have to have his hands so deep into the pulse of the avid collector that his hands would be engulfed in blood. Right?

Well, not so much. Don’t get me wrong, there is some cool shit there, but nothing like what you’d expect. The most surprising thing I found was the overabundance of DVD’s, new and used, and the underwhelming supply of comics. Sure, they came bagged and boarded, but the shelves were in such disarray that I wanted Smith to walk in while I was browsing and have a meltdown on the staff and the overall appearance of the place. I pictured him breaking into one of the glass cases that held Cock Knocker’s light saber and beating the employees with it.

More than anything, the place seemed like a Mecca for fans of his movies with all the memorabilia, etc; and that’s fine…and perhaps I had preconceived notions to begin with…but that doesn’t make it any less of a letdown. However, the fact that Jim Lee, comic book artist extraordinaire, drew a sketch on a door in the back is enough to make it worth the visit. I even took a picture of me looking like an asshole standing next to it. Observe:

I mean, how do you pose next to a picture drawn on a door? How do you pose next to Michelangelo’s Sistine chapel? Do you just smile? Hands on hips? A somber look, perhaps? Introspective? I got it, middle finger, right? Oh, no, no, how about thumb in my zipper? I’ll settle for awkward asshole smile. And so it is. People posing for pictures are one of the funniest things in the world, because how often do we actually stop and pose and smile in our everyday lives? Future generations will wonder what drugs we were on to always have the same stupid smiley face in every documented image from our past.

The next stop was for us to do the McDonald’s test. What is that you ask? Well, I’m glad you did. Here’s a little trip into my life. As if this weren’t enough. I love double cheeseburgers from McDonalds. I fucking love them. I wish I could eat them all day long and look like Matthew McConnaughey and not a jumbo tron that needs to be airlifted for her Montel taping. That’s an exaggeration to say the least, but you get the message.

BEGIN RANT:

We all know that McDonalds is bad for you. No shit, Sherlock. I love how everyone got all up in a tizzy over that bullshit “mockumentary” Super Size Me. McDonalds is to blame for people being fat? Genes aside, the main reason people are massively engorged is because they don’t eat right or exercise. That’s not Ronald McDonald’s fault. The only thing Morgan Spurlock proved with that schlock is that a) Fast food is bad for you (you didn’t get the memo, moron?), b) One Michael Moore isn’t enough, obviously.

I know, I know, the government, along with McDonalds and Al Queada all got together one day to figure out how to fly planes into the World Trade Center and make American’s fat. So, here’s my message to anyone who still wants to blame McDonalds for catering to the plus sizes; Shut your moronic hole. McDonalds is a business, a restaurant if you will, that serves cheap, inexpensive food very quickly (depending on where you live), and makes no nutritional promises. Use your noodle, make better choices, and sweat for an hour a day. Life will improve and we won’t have to blame fast food for all our problems anymore.

Of late, they have begun to take steps toward making a healthier menu, but here’s the thing…I don’t go to McDonalds for healthy food. I want a grease-soaked, fat pill, not a low carb alternative veggie burger. If I want health fare I’ll go to Subway or a salad bar or get gastic bypass and eat a blueberry and two cashews. Stop trying to take away the “good” bad things that life offers…some of us know how to moderate and balance the good from bad without having the metabolism of a jack rabbit on crack.

END RANT:

Now that that’s cleared up, let’s get three cheers for McDonalds double cheeseburgers! Look, they are a buck-fifty and the perfect Saturday afternoon meal. For me anyways. Even though I severely punish myself with exercise the next day. So, the test…I went to my local McDonalds in Eagle River prior to my L.A. trip. I’m convinced this one has the worst service of all McDonalds, but I go anyways, because it’s nearly fifteen miles to the next closest. Upon opening my wrapped up bundle of big boy delight, I find that it looks like someone played a full game of rugby with it first.

Observe:

So, after the disappointment at Jay and Silent Bob’s, I hoped to make up for it with another test. I order a double cheeseburger from the L.A. McDonalds…quality test is on. And, low and behold, this burger rocks! The standard is impeccable. The bun is aligned with the meat, the cheese evenly spaced, the condiments spread around rather than tossed like a hacky sack. And it tastes just as luscious. L.A., if nothing else, has better double cheeseburgers than Alaska….

Are you hungry for one yet? I’ll be right back…

The following day we trekked to Hollywood. It was my first time into the foray and I was interested to see what all the fuss was about. Apparently, it’s about what happens when people are encouraged to freely express every little thing about themselves in public.

Every type of the freakiest of freaks roams the walk of stars, some in costume and some…in costume. You can get your picture taken with a black Batman, Spider-man with his shirt untucked or even Master Chief from Halo. The strip is lined with tons of stores, some interesting, some not, some selling the same tourist shit as the other.

The stars were interesting, but you have to ask yourself why. I mean, we’ve seen Harrison Ford’s name onscreen and in print, etc, so why is it so great to have his name on a slab on the street? Not to be a spoilsport, but maybe we should ask these questions from time to time and maybe we won’t have to be subjected to every little thing that pop culture throws our way, like “The Hills” and Fidel Castro style hats.

Below is a picture of me with my favorite star of all time. Actually, I have no idea who he is, which is exactly why I had my picture taken with his star. It felt lonely and I haven’t even Googled his name to find out who he is. I’ll leave it to you. In the meantime, let us celebrate Richard Boleslawski for all of his accomplishments in Hollywood…whatever they may be.

The main hub, which is near Mann’s Chinese theater is abuzz with activity. It looks like a concert is either about to begin or end. Then there is a massive outdoor mall that never seems to end and circles around and around and I’m pretty sure I saw kids that have been missing off of milk cartons for years trapped within its grasp.

Luckily, we were able to escape. One thing I did notice was the fact that California malls and outdoor areas all seem to have some kind of “water” thing going on. Water shooting out of the ground, from fountains, misting, you name it. And, wherever that water is, you will find half naked Hispanic children playing in it. I don’t know what it is about Hispanic children that draw them toward these fountains of glee, but they love that shit more than Asian kids love seizure inducing anime cartoons.

It seems every race or ethnicity has their own inclination to certain things as kids. Call it geographical, genetic, even stereotypical, whatever, there is plenty of truth there. White kids, in particular, always seem to find their way into mud and sand. Who can explain these things?

So, the last big hoorah for us before the wedding day and that cramped flight back to the last frontier we decided to do Universal Studios. Here’s the thing about theme parks; I’m too fucking old. I have no kids and I don’t belong there. There comes a point in your life when Six Flags is a chore. It’s not fun. It sucks. Either way, call it for the sake of doing it, we go to Universal Studios.

Surprisingly, I had no idea that they had an entire “downtown” area that precedes the park entrance. This was really cool, with lots of interesting shops, eateries, etc. We spent a good hour wandering around there before even venturing in.

Once in we started the jaunt from ride to ride and after the first two, I was already feeling the throes of old-mandom. We waited near an hour for the Jurassic Park ride, which was fun, but nothing special. The problem with most theme parks is that the technology just can’t keep up. The dinosaurs looked like something you could buy in the Halloween aisle at Target. And they sprayed water on you. Whoop-de-fuckin’-do. Now, If a dinosaur reached out and bit the head off of one of the patrons on the ride, THAT would be something to get excited about. I’d wait another hour to do that one again!

We went on the Backdraft ride, which is more like standing still and watching flames dance around. It was cool enough, but again, suffers from the lapse in technology. Another ride that I’d heard about for years was the Terminator 3D ride, which was cool and fun, but super, uber cheesy. They have actors that look like the actors onscreen stage acting along with the theater screen, which is pretty cool. However, I think I annoyed some people when I kept interrupting and yelling out, “That’s not Linda Hamilton!” continuously. I think she even fired some blanks from her M4 at me.

In the end, it was a fun trip, but I’ve really got to resolve to stay away from theme parks until I have bastard offspring to bring with and tear the joint up. I don’t need to be viewed as an old couple visiting Crobar at this stage in my life.

Wedding Day:

I decided to wear my Dress Blues for this little shindig for two reasons: 1) It’s cheaper than renting a tux b) It gets attention, c) I’m proud to be able to d) chicks dig a man in uniform. All those wonderful reasons still don’t lessen the fact that Dress Blues are the most uncomfortable outfit to wear EVER. The suit is sized to fit me, but that makes little difference. It feels like a suit of armor and makes you sweat like Chris Farley during a live sketch on SNL.

Our journey to the wedding is a long trek into the hills and thank God for Carla. That chick led us nearly right to it, but holy fuck was it a long drive. We nestled into a cabin-esque California cove for a modest, yet elegant ceremony. All in all, it was a nice time and even though every picture I am in has me looking the exact opposite direction of everyone else it turned out well.

On departure day we had only one thing in mind; In and Out Burger. Our friends had raved about it and told us that it was our duty to go and to order our food “animal-style.” I don’t know where the term comes from, but man, that shit was good. Cheese and onions and special sauce and 250,000 calories later I was mos def satisfied.

Below are the remnants of our experience:

And so, safely seated in our plane back to the “real” world we had many great memories to reflect on. Wifey and I sat back and talked about our trip and what it meant to us:

WIFEY: I had a great time. Did you?

ME: Yeah, it was good. Better than I anticipated.

WIFEY: What was your favorite part of the trip?

ME: Seeing family and friends, visiting the Promenade, the Hollywood walk of fame, Universal studios, the shopping, buying t-shirts, and just being around people I love, like you.

Wifey stares, then does a slow roll of her eyes, never breaking contact.

WIFEY: So…you liked the strippers best…

I put my headphones on and lean back with a smile on my face, cracking open a copy of Tarantino’s “Inglorious Bastards.”

ME: …Don't blame me for your dad knowing how to party.

We ascend into the sky and I look out at the lights disappearing into the distance. I really need to vacation more.

And one last thing...

A TALL TALE

2008-08-24T16:36:00.018-08:00

Many people don’t know this, but prior to joining the Army, my plan was to pack up my shit and take the high road to Hollywood. It was a final destination as far as my career choices go (although you wouldn’t know it since I’m so far removed at this point). However, I took a different path and so averted a “what might have been” scenario in the world of movie stars and freaks on a leash.

So, naturally, the day was inevitable. With a brother-in-law about to tie the knot in the long, slender state, I found myself submitting a leave form to the sunny land, right in the middle of “the shit.”

This is a big thing for me, believe it or not. Despite my swear word blogs (such as the one you’re reading now), my ambition far outweighs my cynicism. I, too, wish to be a part of the Hollywood machine. A stronger, smarter, and more mature sort of “Entourage” if you will. I’m not out for Indiana Jones-style fortune and glory, but merely the realization of my dreams, which, coincidentally, include writing and directing movies.

Yeah, I blast the shit out of ‘em on my site, talk trash, and throw down the judgmental hammer on a monthly basis. I assure you, it’s all tough love. And, in some cases, genuine disgust for the really bad shit, due largely to the fact that, yes, I KNOW I could do better and in others, I’m left questioning how and why some movies are made. Time will tell which category I fall into…trash talking blogger with five readers or Hollywood success story (will you still read my blog? C’mon…you read Zach Braff’s…)

So, what the fuck am I talking about? Yeah, I guess I did take a turn to Nostalgia lane, curving around Daydream Avenue, and getting stuck in Pipeline alley. Let’s get back to the story, shall we?

Fuck my dreams. Yeah, you heard me right. I know you don’t care and I’m cool with that. I’m the only one that should give a shit. You’re here to read some colorful swear words and enigmatic manipulation of the English language. You got it. Superfuckincalifragilous, Motherfucker.

We missed our flight to start out. Wifey checked the internet prior to leaving the house and our flight was shown as delayed, so we didn’t rush out as early as originally planned. However, after standing in line to check baggage, we learned that our flight was on time and that Alaska Airlines just slipped an exploding vibrator in our assholes. At once.

We waited in a line to check our baggage onto the next flight that we may or may not get on. Then we waited some more at the gate in which we may or may not get on. Then we waited in suspense like a game show as the flight people put one stand-by after another onto the flight. I wanted to win the big prize, which was a cramped seat on a full aircraft that would leave me to hold in my gas for five hours to be polite to other passengers.

I lost. We lost. We drove back home, the biggest tease of all complete. Our next flight would be a day later. We made it on time and decided to eat Quiznos before boarding, which was a huge mistake, because holding your gas after that is a near impossibility. I should have been on Fear Factor: In the Skies!, the camera closing in on me as I attempt to pucker every fart in my belly for four hours, the clock counting down until I de-board the plane, blasting a shit cloud into Joe Rogan’s face just as I make time, killing him in front of a live audience and taking home $50,000 bones. Holy crap that would be a kick ass series finale!

Relax, relax, I made it safely and only shared my intolerable cruelty on the one I love most. That being said, it is interesting how couples start out isn’t it? We do our best early on, beating our chests and showing our teeth and clubbing the competition over the head with tree branches, but then it all just goes into a downward spiral from there, doesn’t it?

Dressing up in your “hottest outfit,” perfecting your stride, accentuating what you believe to be your assets in front of your proposed mate, it’s all golden until after you seal the deal. Then, for the first time, she lets out a cute little “squeaker” and you think that it is just the cutest damn thing in the world. You snicker and giggle and then…well, then she gets bold. Then comes the loud belches and the underwear splitting gas vomit that spews out of her and you are suddenly shocked, then, slowly, mortally desensitized to it all.

True love comes when the things you thought were cute are now annoying and the things you found annoying are now cute.

Now, we simply give each other “the look” which says it all in one simple glare, “You are fucking disgusting and the only reason I can even begin to forgive you is the fact that I am legally obligated to smell your shit and even though some people think that’s romantic, they are probably not married and still play cutesy foot under the table at restaurants and don’t realize that I am stuck fucking you for the rest of my life and that Prince Charming never farted in Cinderella’s face from what I saw and Walt Fucking Disney can kiss my ass to hell, because I’ve been lied to, cheated, and I will endure, because ultimately I am Cinderella, and I have, on occasion, farted in Prince Charming’s face and truly this is the death of a dream, the dream of a princess in a perfect world and Holy God that smells like something dead in a hotel bathtub with one month old Chinese food piled on top.”

Or something like that.

We have a rental car, which, in the end would prove to be the best idea on Planet Earth. We drove to the hotel and settled in. It was a hotel. There was a bed, a TV, a bathroom, and free soap. And a fridge. Ah, now you’re jealous.

Day one involved breakfast with in-laws. Day one also involves Wifey driving us. With no map. And directions written on numerous sticky notes. I gave her five minutes. In that five minutes we were lost and suddenly in the middle of the road with traffic coming from both sides, horns blaring, and a woman frozen in fear. I order her to pull over and exit the vehicle where I proceed to curb stomp her in front of a woman’s home while she waters her lawn. She yells at me to stop and I pull out the tire iron from the back of the car, and…

We switch places. I buy a map. I find us on it. I have her follow along, just like story time in kindergarten. We make it to the Palisades, where rich Hollywood fucks live. And my brother-in-law. While there, my father-in-law hands me a device that looks like a mini-DVD player. I look at it like a Neanderthal trying to understand TIVO. It’s a GPS. It would later become the greatest device ever made, next to pocket pussy.

We have breakfast at a quaint little California chic place on Main Street where they immediately inform us that a six percent gratuity will be added. Whoop-dee-freakin’ doo!

We strolled down the street for a hot minute to check out some of the “unique” shops, which were all very different and cool in their own unique and cool little way. Wifey bought a Wonder Woman shirt, that was, in fact, cool, but I had to ask her if she even knew anything about Wonder Woman. You see this a lot and sometimes I am guilty of it, because I can’t tell you the origins of Quicksilver (I could cheat and Google it right now and you’d never be the wiser…but I won’t.) anymore than she can tell me about Wonder Woman.

We are all quick to become walking advertisements and I’m kind of okay with that within the realms of self-expression, because truthfully, I love it when people wear stupid shit that I never would. It makes me laugh, point, and judge all in one glance and that makes me happy. “Look at that bitch with the Wonder Woman shirt…she probably doesn’t know jack fuggin’ shit about Princess Diana!”

L.A. drivers are obnoxious but nowhere near as obnoxious as Chicago drivers. Really, I was prepared for some ‘Death Race’ style shit, but the Cali-Crowd ain’t got shit on the Windy City racers. Armed with our new GPS system, which is a fucking marvel of science, better than a cure for AIDS even, we were on our way without a shred of doubt as to our location or destination. We named the talking device “Carla” and she was a fucking mint.

We ventured to FOX studios where we would be meeting our old roommate, Mr. Boy. Mr. Boy is a great friend whom I have known for many years now and had I not joined the Army I have no doubt that we would probably still be roomies. But, I’d still be getting more bitches.

Pulling up to FOX there was a sight to behold…Nakatomi Towers from ‘Die Hard.’ Yes, the mountain of a skyscraper used in the 1988 masterpiece that propelled Bruce Willis to stardom. We took a picture. I thought I would write more about that, but it’s just not THAT interesting. Also, I’m too lazy to delete this whole paragraph. Read on.

It was great to see Mr. Boy who then took us to the New Regency offices where he had worked prior and my old friend Suckerpunch now worked. Yes, that’s his real name. Suckerpunch had his own cubicle with a picture of Abraham Lincoln. He had arrived. He also had a box of Asian porn that was used in the box office mega blockbuster “Shutter” which you have all seen and I feel stupid for even having to remind you of how great it was here.

Oh. Yeah. Nobody saw it. But still…there was a BOX of Asian porn! Suckerpunch signed one of the photos and it now resides on our fridge. Nothing like getting my breakfast in the morning to be greeted by a naked Asian chick with Suckerpunch’s signature.

We met some of Mr. Boy and Suckerpunch’s new pals, all of whom were great. I felt at home around all these guys as I am a walking, talking movie robot and it’s good to be around others that speak the same code. In one of the offices they had what they referred to as a “bazooka,” the most commonly used reference for a rocket launcher to non-military types.

The guys seemed to be proud of this thing and asked me to verify its authenticity. Unfortunately, I had to lay on some bad news. Nobody calls ANYTHING in the Army a “bazooka”. What they actually had was an old AT4, which is a shoulder fired rocket launcher, good for one use. No reloading. Fire and forget. However, this AT4 was “movie modified,” which means it had shit added to it that simply doesn’t exist on ANY piece of rocket hardware.

An M4 trigger guard and pistol grip were mounted at the bottom and on top was a scope, namely a PVS14 night scope (non-working). Absolutely ridiculous and utterly hilarious. I promised the guys that I would send them a video of me firing a real AT4 to compensate for the heartbreak. Now, just ain’t I the cool Army guy? I know, I know, go fuck myself. Got it.

Mr. Boy took us on the lot tour, which I guess isn’t exactly “okay” but we broke the rules anyway. I tried to act inconspicuous and enjoy the sights but Wifey decided that she only had one mode: Maniacal tourist. She took pictures of everything, stopping, yelling out for us to pose, taking shot after shot for posterity’s sake. All this while every type of individual on the lot passed by, but none of them questioning our presence. Security seemed to be non-existent, so really, I guess it’s not hard to understand why so many movies get “scooped” on the internet these days.

Wifey ended up getting some good shots, the big wall murals of Star Wars and The Simpsons, New York (a massive set that looks just like old New York), and David Mamet’s parking spot. Truly we were in the presence of greatness.

From there we took to Rodeo, shopping arena to the uber wealthy and snooty. Wifey was overly excited, even though she would not be buying even a pair of socks from that place. I could see us sitting there, filling out the loan paperwork for a pair of socks, waiting nervously for approval, then celebrating with Champagne while Wifey slips on her new $65,000 socks and we walk out of the store and back onto Debt Street.

Instead, her excitement was over a little cupcake shop called “Sprinkles,” which I guess has become very popular. It’s a tiny little place with numerous types of cupcakes, the flavor of each one indicated by a circular color coded candy piece on the top. Say that five times fast. I dare you.

We waited in line to sample some of these artery cloggers and found them to be quite delicious, if not super rich. If you can eat more than one at a time, then prepare to be air-lifted from your home one day while watching Tyra. What surprised me was the customers…they were nearly all young, hot (or attempting to be young and hot) females. I mean, they were lining up out the door. Who would have thought that hot chicks with hot bodies would be lining up for cupcakes?

Either they are hitting the gym for three hours a day or Sprinkles is the least digested food in California.

We decided to walk the streets and peruse the shops, never daring to enter for fear of being treated like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman”. If your income doesn’t reflect it then I don’t think it would be incomprehensible to think that you may feel like trailer trash shopping at Banana Republic when entering one of these establishments. They are very foreboding.

Instead, I watched with much humor, as those that could, for whatever reason, afford such excess, do their own version of window shopping. Women with big sunglasses and short, stylish dresses would walk along the windows, arms outstretched to their sides, as if tip-toeing on glass, and slowly cruise the windows, sending a loud and clear message that they could afford to be there, that they belonged there, and that the rest of us were just tourists. Which, we were.

Our next stop was the Promenade, which is a massive outdoor mall with any and every store you could need and never have any use for. Still, it’s all there. And it’s freakin’ packed to the rooftops with people, to include various “street people.” Men in gold painted suits, five-year-old Asian girls singing Alicia Keys, and performance artists with a mini-boom box doing interpretive dance, and monkeys that will take a dollar from your hand. For free! Wait…what?

L.A. truly feels like a place where people let their dreams fly, even if it’s a complete waste of time, if they can make a dollar off of it, then they are fulfilled enough that their dreams are on their way to coming true. I mean, a monkey…it walks up…it takes a dollar out of your hand…and everyone loves it! Seriously…a dollar is like a gold bar in L.A.

Also, let’s talk about crazy people for a minute. Crazy people are everywhere. I haven’t traveled the entire globe. In fact, the only places I’ve been out of the United States are the armpits of the world and certainly they have their crazies…and then some. L.A. is no different. However, they don’t seem as scary or harmful as everywhere else. I could be speaking too soon, but that’s how I felt there.

Most of the crazies in L.A. are walker-talkers. They talk to themselves while walking, never stopping to talk to anyone, just rambling on as they walk. Now, maybe some of these crazies were on their Bluetooth and I just didn’t see it, but actually, I think you’re crazy if you do that anyway. It’s annoying and you need to stop.

I was walking into Wal-Mart about a month ago and this guy was passing me who I did not know and says “Hey, what’s up?” while looking right at me. I replied, “Hey, how are ya?” even though I had no idea who he was. He then just launched into conversation and walked right past me as if I were Patrick Swayze in “Ghost” and I’m the asshole because I didn’t know he was on his retarded Bluetooth. Fuck me, right?

It’s shit like that that makes you second guess yourself when trying to be courteous in this world. “I’m not saying hi to that motherfucker…he may just be talking to his fucking Bluetooth.” Technology may advance our society and give us a multitude of tools and resources at our fingertips, but it also advances something else we’ve been pretty fucking good at since the dawn of humanity: Being annoying assholes.

Where the fuck was I? Someone keep me on track here. Oh. That’ll be me. So, crazy peeps. The biggest difference between L.A. crazies and Alaska crazies is that in Alaska you cross the road to avoid our crazies. They are usually drunk natives (no offense to the natives, but it’s pretty accurate) and while they talk the crazy, they also walk the crazy, carry weapons, wish to speak with you about acquiring some spare change, and will get very belligerent if you don’t have time to talk. In L.A. they seem to be pretty morose, even proud of their status.

Yes, I am equating craziness with homelessness, because you have to be crazy to be homeless. How the fuck can you be normal if you think it’s better to live on the street and beg for quarters when you could get a job and be an active member of society? I have long since grown weary of homeless people with poorly written cardboard signs trying to make me feel guilty for not giving them spare change. As if being a member of society that contributes, or even sacrifices, for the betterment of our Nation makes me an asshole because I don’t divvy out dollars to those that can’t do the same.

Enough about crazy, homeless people. Let’s talk about the sights. Yes, there are some beautiful women in L.A. In truth, there are beautiful women everywhere, but the pressure to be beautiful in L.A. is massive. It’s the entertainment industry capital of the world so the struggle for perfection, style, and everlasting beauty is ever present. The same goes for men. Conform to the standard or go be a waiter or some other profession that doesn’t call for you to be seen and liked and desired for sexual relations.

Most of the women in L.A. are dressed for success no matter what they’re doing. Naturally, because of the weather, they are dressed in super chic and stylish dresses and fashions or stripped down to the bare minimum in order to showcase their assets. Let it be known, I don’t have a problem with this. Merely my observation. There are plenty of beautiful women in Alaska, unfortunately their opportunities to get dressed up (or down) are slim to none, so they aren’t given the same privileges as the L.A. girls.

Still…you can’t ignore that they are a sight to behold. It was refreshing, for lack of a more deviant word, to see a little more than I’m used to. Being in the Army for the last six years has left me devoid of such sights, so cut me some fucking slack. I promise, one day I will blog about how much I love my wife and kids and minivan and how I never think anything subversive or dirty and how I’ve got all my priorities right and know the secret of life and have it all figured out and tuck my shirt in and eat only organic foods and watch only TV programs rated PG.

Until then, howabout you let me enjoy some boobies? It is not lost on me that I’m married nor the fact that I’m a man. So save the hippie hammer and hit yourself in the nuts with it if you have a problem with me looking at women. We’re all here to enjoy some swearing and unapologetic prose.

God, blogging is so much better than therapy.

So, we have dinner at “Ford’s Filling Station” which is a restaurant owned by Harrison Ford’s son and we ate some overpriced food, but shared a good time with good friends. I felt once again to be privileged to be in the company of good friends and it really made me miss the old days and dream about making them new again. Time will, as always, tell that tale.

To top the day we went to see “The Dark Knight” in IMAX, which was, not surprisingly, amazing. Even more interesting was the fact that the theater has adopted an assigned seating policy, so when you buy your tickets you are buying assigned seats as well, much like a concert. I personally think that is brilliant. No matter how late you show you’ll always have your seat and that is fucking bad ass. The only problem would come when you have to sit next to annoying or stinky people. Or little kids at R-rated movies.

Upon leaving, Suckerpunch handed me a massive stack of screenplays from his office, which was truly the best thing I got from the entire trip. Saying good-bye was awkward and heartfelt because I really did miss those guys and am both envious and proud of their success. In many ways, I feel I missed out, but I also feel that it has all happened for a reason.

Okay, so I’m looking in the bottom left corner of Word and it’s saying I’m at six pages, which is a lot to ask you to read in one sitting. I have just decided on breaking this into two parts. I’ve got too much to say to slim it down.

That’s right, so now you’ll have to salivate for the next part. I’ll go ahead and give some teases to get you ready: Hollywood, Universal Studios, and Strip Clubs! And a Wedding! Holy Crap you’re gonna check this site EVERY DAY until I publish part two!

TRUE STORY

2008-08-20T19:07:00.008-08:00

How Terrorism Ruined My Copy of Schindler’s List

It’s a Sunday and I’ve tried in vain to get my wife a full and true movie education; today is as good as any. I’m gonna lay “Schindler’s List” on my wife. The Academy Award winning Debbie Downer of an epic, directed by Steven Spielberg, is by no means an everyday movie. It’s not like popping in “Old School” and giggling like a stoned teenager to Will Ferrell streaking down the quad.

The truth is there is never a “good” time to watch “Schindler’s List.” I mean, the movie is three hours long, in black and white, every actor has an accent (that isn’t American anyways) and it’s about the holocaust. I don’t give a shit how many golden trophies it took home, it’s not your typical weekend fare.

In fact, I first saw the movie when it was in theaters and I was the only white, non-Jewish boy in the theater. Everyone else was fifty or older, Jewish, and sniffling throughout the entire thing. I had a large soda and popcorn for God’s sake. “Popcorn, soda, twizzlers, comfy shoes, and Jews being slaughtered in black and white, courtesy of the imaginative filmmaking wizardry of one Steven Spielberg…oh joyous cinema!”

Is it a great movie? Absolutely. No doubt. But seriously, did anyone see it? Besides me? Raise your hand…higher…higher…That’s what I thought. Nobody saw it. And if you ask them, usually they’ll react as if they haven’t seen the fucking Grand Canyon…”Nooo, but I hear it is magnificent…I have always meant to, but…man, I gotta do that…it’s going on my Bucket List right now. I’m SO glad you reminded me of that.”

However, if you are unlucky enough to be maritally conjoined with me, then you will have to suffer through every movie I consider a masterpiece, or at least a staple in film knowledge. So far, only one woman has had to endure such trials. Just a few weeks ago, since she was raised in a cave with bears and no cable TV, I opened her eyes to the visceral thrill-ride that is “Roadhouse,” the Patrick Swayze starrer that garnered such gems as, “Does a hobby horse have a wooden dick?”

For whatever reason she agreed to a sit-down of “Schindler’s List” on this particular Sunday. I am ecstatic. I’m thrilled. Finally, I have a reason to watch this movie again. You don’t dare sit down and watch “Schindler’s List” by yourself at home. What if someone sees you? Immediately you will be inundated with questions like, “Is something wrong? Is everything all right? Do you need to talk? Do you have something to tell me? Why did you shave down to that tiny moustache? Where did you get thigh high black leather boots and a septum?”

I pop the DVD in and sit back to relive the depressing masterpiece for the second time in my life (NO, I’ve never watched it since I bought it…are you crazy??). It starts off well enough, although my wife has already confused Oscar Schindler with Amon Goeth (played by Ralph Fiennes), which is not a good thing to happen so early on. We get through it. I explain to her who the Nazi’s were and why they are bad. I point out Poland and Germany on a map. We’re moving on.

Then…the unthinkable. The intolerable happens. Motherfucking disc starts to skip, stall, and freeze. Any time this happens the entire groove of a movie is fucked. It disrupts everything because no matter what’s happening in the movie, the new dilemma is that your disc is jacked and you know that if the problem persists then you will have to eject the disc, wipe it down continuously and then get through all the promotional shit that leads to the chapter you were on. We’re talking ten minutes here.

The disc keeps skipping. I’m pissed. She now is confusing this with Kill Bill. We are having problems. I eject and inspect the disc. Sure enough it looks like shit. “How could this have happened?” I wonder. I think for a minute. Then it dawns on me. Like an angel of heaven, holding a kernel of knowledge, his hand outstretched for me to read the nugget of insight as to why my “Schindler’s List” disc is stuttering like a retard on crack.

Terrorists.

Terrorists ruined my copy of “Schindler’s List”. You want an explanation? Fuck that. Just take my word for it.

Okay. Fine. Here’s the deal. For whatever reason, only God and myself from 2003 know the real reason, but I decided while packing my shit for a year-long tour of duty in Operation Enduring Freedom in Khost, Afghanistan, I decided to add “Schindler’s List” into my DVD book playlist. Perhaps I thought that in-between combat patrols or twelve hour guard shifts I may get a hankering to kick back and soak in some “Schindler” to brighten up my otherwise boring and monotonous day in ye olde war-torn country.

However, like most of the movies on my playlist, I never took the movie out, never even thought about watching it once during my tour. It wasn’t that there wasn’t time. It’s the simple fact that Schindler’s list is about as enjoyable and engaging as a PBS documentary on the holocaust. When it’s over you feel dirty and abused, like you need a shower and some serious soul searching. Being at war gave plenty of that. I didn’t need Spielberg’s help there.

So, I luckily returned from that first tour with no scratches or dents. However, my DVD collection would not be so lucky. You see, Afghanistan is dirt and dust. I lived in a tent the entire ten months, never sleeping in a nice cozy enclosed area. Dirt and dust ran rampant and it got EVERYWHERE, to include the nice little plastic sleeves that held my discs of cinematic joy. In the span of those ten months, nearly all my discs would suffer the same fate.

Fast forward four years later and I’m spitting on the disc, swabbing it with my T-shirt and re-inserting it into the DVD player in order to finish this damn movie (we’re more than forty minutes in…we are committed). Fuck it. I run to the garage and grab a spare DVD player (duh. Who doesn’t have like a hundred DVD players? I have three. In the garage. And two TVs. That I don’t use. What the fuck?)

The spare player sucks dick for gas money. I’m screwed.

I turn to my wife, who, in the darkly lit room, reminds me of one of Schindler’s Jews, a harmless factory worker avoiding the death camps while working in Oscar Schindler’s factory. I must save her. I must keep her on the list. I must get a new copy of this fucking movie, pronto.

I slip on suitable clothes for the public. I grab my keys. I speed off while my wife waits in darkness, patiently. I am her knight. I am her Oscar Schindler. I must deliver her unto this movie. I don’t have much time. Soon she will be overcome by the distractions of time, finding herself a slave to the plights of MySpace and TMZ.com. I must hurry.

I go to Wal-Mart, home of everything you could ever need. This should be quick. Painless. Easy. No, it’s the opposite. I can’t find anything. The DVD’s are hardly in alphabetical order. Who decides what to sell here? Why are some five dollars, some seven, and some thirteen? Who makes this shit up? Who decides what’s being held in stock here? Why the fuck are there twenty copies of “Are We There Yet?” and ZERO copies of “Schindler’s List?” After checking every possible DVD location in the store (which is everywhere...the checkout lanes, the gun counter, the toy section, the underwear…oh these are some nice lace thongs and…oh…what’s that? The Goonies? I haven’t seen that in ages! Underwear and Goonies…God, I love Wal-Mart!”) I give up. I must move on. My wife is probably at the computer now. I am running out of time.

I go to Fred Meyer’s (which is like Wal-Mart, part 2). I fight my way to the DVD section. The DVD’s are in alphabetical order. Hallelujah. However…Houston, we have a BIG fucking problem, there’s no Goddamn “Schindler’s List” and I’m about to blow. I start checking the ridiculous “bargain bins” and racks. It’s nowhere. Who the fuck wants “Schindler’s List” for five bucks? WHO??

I run the aisles. I am a man on a mission. I have lives to save here. Any second, my wife could lose her marbles while being lobotomized on the internet or worse, getting sucked into anything on the E! Channel. I must get her back into the safe zone of cinematic art.

Fucking Fred Meyers. They have a Starbucks, a grocery section, a clothing section, a home and garden section, a seasonal section, an alcoholic beverages section, but rest assured, they most definitely do not have a Goddamn, fucking, Schindler’s List section.

I’m in my truck. I’m driving. I’m fuming. I cannot believe the Gods are making me do this. I am looking at the familiar colors of blue and yellow and I’m pulling into the parking lot and I’m swearing in my head every second that I’m doing it, and I’m running inside like a man into an emergency room with a bride about to give birth, looking for a fucking movie that no one wants to sell but bloody well better want to rent.

I head to drama, because that’s the only section that a movie that does nothing but cause it can be resting. And the phrase, uttered so frequently under our breaths in a quick, swift sentence, usually in a fit of peril…”You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It rolls off the tongue. I’m frantic now. I’m heading down every aisle. I start to blame the Blockbuster workers. They are probably too fucking stupid to realize that the movie is supposed to be in drama. They probably stuck it in action. “Schindler’s List”…witness one man’s heroic efforts to rescue the Jews during World War 2, risking his life to save thousands…” Must be an action flick, right? “Starring Chuck Norris as Oscar Schindler and Jessie the Body Ventura as all of Nazi Germany!”

I can’t believe my fucking eyes. They really don’t have it. I’m leaving Alaska. That’s it. I’m leaving Alaska. I don’t want to live in a state where I can’t simply drive to my local Wal-Mart and buy a copy of “Schindler’s List.” This is not the world I want to end up in. This is like living in some Thai village where they crank up the generator once a year and watch the only movie they have, Terminator 2, and cheer for their great fortune. Fuck that.

I want everything at my greedy, American fingertips. As I begin to leave I see that Blockbuster has further categorized their movies. Now, not only are there genre sections, but 99 cents sections, movies for five nights. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is going on here? I comb the alphabet one more time. Low and Behold, the grail I’ve been searching for is there. I grab a disc and head to check out. I can’t fucking believe I’m renting this movie. I look at my watch. I have lost forty minutes. Surely, my wife is too far gone by now, wrapped up in vacuuming or dusting or Denise Richards: It’s Complicated. Fuck me.

The Blockbuster shithead gives me my movie, ensuring that I know what day it’s due back on, as if someone who rents Schindler’s Fucking List can’t count to five. Fuck you, video clerk. Fuck you very much.

I’m heading home. I have the package. I will save you, my dear wife. I will save you from the throes of Living Lohan and I love Money. I will bring you back from a world of In Touch and US Weekly. I will show you that the world is shit and that we do horrible things to each other and that this nice little Jewish man named Steven Spielberg has done a splendid job of reminding us of that.

I get in the house, calling out to her. Nothing. She must be lobotomized by now. I may be too late. I run to the computer room. No! She’s on the computer, typing, it’s too late, I’m too…

She’s checking the bank statement. Something constructive. The hamster in the wheel is still running. I grab her by the arm and yank her back to the TV room. Disc inserted. I get to the chapter we left off on quickly. The black and white splendor is upon us again. Her eyes glaze over and she sinks back into the comfortable movie coma. I did it. I did it.

I sit back and try to let my brain calm down and settle back in to the movie. But it won’t quiet down. How the fuck did this happen? I start to do some reverse engineering; I bought Schindler’s List because it was a great movie, even if very depressing; I took it with me to Afghanistan because only God and me from 2003 knows why; I went to Afghanistan because I joined the Army and that’s where they sent me; The Army went to Afghanistan because that’s where the terrorist masterminds who attacked us on 9/11 were hiding out; therefore, terrorists are responsible for the destruction of my one and only good copy of Schindler’s List, due to the fact that it was destroyed in my possession while deployed for combat operations against said terrorists during Operation Enduring Freedom.

Those motherfuckers.

If you ever needed more of a reason or justification for our presence in Afghanistan/Iraq I want you to think about my story. Think about how many more DVD’s that these terrorists have plundered in their tenure of terror.

All over the world, soldiers are returning from the war with scratched to fuck DVD’s, unplayable, irreparable, and ultimately unsalvageable. A nation of veterans plagued for the rest of their days to hunt down the cinematic classics they so adored enough to take to the trenches with them and in doing so, lost them to the war on terror.

Such is my plight. Such is my life. But, I will not give up. I will replace and rebuild my empire, one DVD at a time.

COMING UP: My trip to L.A. and a series review of Generation Kill

MOVIE REVIEW

2008-07-18T15:44:00.035-08:00

The Dark Knight
Directed by: Christopher Nolan (Batman Begins, The Prestige, Memento, Insomnia)

Written by: Christopher Nolan, Jonathan Nolan and David S. Goyer

WARNING: Do not read this review if you do not want to have anything spoiled for you. Although I will not discuss key plot points or surprises, I will talk at length about everything else. If you plan on seeing this movie, come back and read this after you’ve seen it. Seriously, this is one you don’t want to ruin.

Okay, first and foremost, I have to tell a small story. My wife and I are driving to the theater last night and arrive about 11:15 p.m. for the 12:05 a.m. show. Plenty of time to get in line, get some popcorn and chillax ‘til show time. However, at the monumental moment when I’m supposed to dish out the tickets we bought early, I discovered that only a driver’s license, military I.D. and debit card were in my pocket.

I didn’t want to carry my overweight wallet, so I grabbed only the essentials, sans the tickets to the SOLD OUT show. There’s no sweet talking at that point. So, in the rain, at 11:15 p.m., like a stage in a videogame, I had to drive back to my home in bumfuck Eagle River and back, stopping for gas on the way, and get into the sold out show in time.

Luckily, I made it with ten minutes to spare, but seriously…can you imagine? All the hype, anticipation, and preparation…and I forget the fucking tickets. I win dickhead of the year award. Fortunately, some good friends held us seats (hey, we already had tickets, so chill out seat Nazi’s). Moral of the story; don’t let anticipation cloud out preparation.

So, The Dark Knight. I don’t think a Batman film has been anticipated so much since the release of Tim Burton’s 1989 film. I remember sitting in the theater for that one, jam-packed and everyone giddy as hell. The amazement and awe of seeing a Batman film crafted with care and vision was a new experience for moviegoers.

That was twenty years ago, and although Burton’s vision was strong and capable, it wasn’t perfect. It was fun and cool and weird in that Burton-esque way. Then came Batman Returns, which was high on the weird factor and low on the wow factor. I remember leaving the theater and hearing the word of death when exiting a movie: “sucked.” Over the years I have come to appreciate Batman Returns for its oddities (It doesn’t hurt that Michelle Pfeiffer was sexy as hell as Catwoman)

Batman Forever and Batman and Robin were the nail in the coffin for the Bat-franchise. Director Joel Schumacher brought a lot of color and light to a dark character and seemed to almost make fun of the Batman legacy, not to mention adding nipples to their costumes. I love to hate both of those movies. They are laughable and embarrassing to every individual involved.

Batman and Robin was particularly excruciating to get through. It gave me a headache and I just wanted it to end. Upon leaving the theater from that little gem I had only one thought: It’s over. No more Batman movies. And at that point, if that’s what they wanted to make, I didn’t even want to see another one.

Then, along came Christopher Nolan, who got out the shock pads for the Bat-franchise and zapped it back to life. When I heard that Batman Begins would be a complete reboot I knew it was the right way to go. To build off of the mess that was left behind would have been a complete disaster. I now view them as two totally different franchises. And it’s easy to see how they could be viewed as such. The similarities are so few and far between that there’s no contest.

Batman Begins was the perfect origin story. It focused on the character of Batman/Bruce Wayne, without relegating him to a side character overshadowed by a plethora of obnoxious villains. It’s a common action/adventure movie cliché; the bad guys becoming more interesting than the good ones. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but if the title of your movie is Batman then that’s who it should be about.

Most people are very confused about Batman’s origins or simply don’t care. However, the hordes of fans that have read the character’s legacy for decades in the numerous comic series’ from DC, have come to expect a certain level of respect, integrity, and authenticity to his portrayal. Batman Begins does just that.

Although Batman Begins takes many liberties and makes many twists on old storylines, it condenses the true-to-comic origins of Batman/Bruce Wayne into a two-and-a-half hour movie. That is no small feat. Whereas Burton and Schumacher’s vision relegated the origin of the character to minute flashbacks, Nolan took us deep into the heart and mind of the character, exploring every depth of who and why he is.

It is a rare thing for someone to take so much care in crafting a tale like Batman Begins. Not only did that film defy all the traditions of comic book movies, but it redefined the genre, letting other future filmmakers know that it was okay to follow the traditions and lineage of a character rather than pissing it all away to make a big, loud, messy, Hollywood machine.

Which brings us to The Dark Knight. There is no other movie this year that I looked forward to more. There still isn’t. I’m more excited to see this again than I am to watch any other new film this year.

In anticipation of the release of TDK I read the cliff’s notes of many reviews. I usually do this with any movie I’m about to see, because with rare exception, you can get the gist of whether or not a movie is going to be shit or not by the percentage of positive reviews (rotten tomatoes is a great resource for this). In nearly every review there were words that kept repeating; Oscar, haunting, brilliant, intense, and dark.

The Dark Knight is deserving of all of those words and more. It’s one of those rarest of film moments when you can say: Believe the hype.

The film picks up in what seems like only a few months after Batman Begins ends. Batman is an established force in Gotham City and has become feared by the criminals and somewhat respected by the police. Nearly all the players from Batman Begins are back with the exception of Katie Holmes (Mad Money over The Dark Knight? Are you kidding me?), whose character of Rachel Dawes is replaced by Maggie Gyllenhal.

The other new addition to the cast is Aaron Eckart (Thank you for Smoking) as Harvey Dent. Now, most comic aficionados know that Dent becomes the villain Two-Face, a classic Batman villain, previously portrayed with embarrassment by Tommy Lee Jones in Batman Forever.

Now, everyone is buzzing about Heath Ledger as the Joker. And I’ll get to him. But, here’s the real surprise of The Dark Knight; Aaron Eckart is bloody brilliant in it. Eckart makes you believe in Harvey Dent (which is his campaign slogan). He sells the character and for every second onscreen up to the point that he becomes Two-Face, you want Harvey Dent to be the good guy. You want him to be, as he is called in the film, the white knight. Unflinching in his quest for justice and the righteousness of good, Dent is on a crusade to save the city and if Gotham City were real and you were a registered voter there I have no doubt he’d win his election by a landslide. He sells it that good.

Harvey Dent would send John McCain and Barrack Obama back to the old folk’s home and the nursery, respectively. Dent sells it so good that you almost feel ashamed that there aren’t candidates like him running for office today. Of course, the twist of the character makes it a moot point. However, the metaphor of “two-face,” fits perfect with the political as well as literal transformation.

Eckart emotes the rage that is unleashed with ferocity. You truly feel his pain, his loss, and the disappointment in his sudden departure from white knight to fallen villain.

Gyllenhal as Rachel is just fine. She seems to be the most underwritten character, but she has enough to work with that helps you understand why both Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent would pursue her. Her arc in this film is both monumental and subtle, depending on which character it is affecting. Rest assured it runs deep. In my opinion, however, I think Katie Holmes sold the tenacity of the character much better than Gyllenhal.

Gary Oldman is the quintessentially perfect Lt./Commissioner Gordon. Gordon is a staple in the Batman legacy and Oldman plays the character straight out of the comics. He has always been an amazing actor (If you’ve never seen him in The Professional then you need to go to Netflix right now and put it in your queue) and he is an asset to the film.

Michael Caine may not look the character of Alfred the Butler from the comics, but he plays him to a tee. Caine brings a gentle strength to his character, acting like a matronly parent to Bruce Wayne/Batman. He is the only family Bruce has (unless you read the comics, which recently revealed Bruce has a son named Damian) and acts as his mother, father, and caretaker. Caine brings a professional legitimacy to the film, a solid veteran actor who nurtures every character he plays.

Also returning is Morgan Freeman as Lucious Fox, Batman’s equipment and company head. Freeman, like Caine, brings the clout and respect of a veteran actor to the film, bringing life to a character that could easily be relegated to a no-name actor whose only screen time necessities are to introduce gadgets and drop small plot points. And that’s the beauty of the casting for this film. No one is treated as a bit player or a walk on. Everyone, including those that have a mere two seconds onscreen, treats their part as integral to the story.

Alas, there is Heath Ledger as the infamous Joker. If you asked anyone prior to seeing this film who they thought the best Joker was, they would undoubtedly tell you Jack Nicholson in the ’89 film. And, in my opinion, they would be correct.

Now, after you see TDK, I’m willing to bet that Ledger would take the top prize. Some reviewers have said that they are now almost disappointed in Nicholson’s Joker from the ’89 film because he didn’t take it to the lengths that Ledger did. I don’t agree with that. Nicholson was every bit sadistic and twisted in Burton’s vision as Ledger is in Nolan’s. However, each film is within its own context, which I’ll get to in a minute.

Ledger, looking like a more colorful version of Brandon Lee in The Crow (another tragically lost actor), doesn’t play the Joker in this film. He oozes the Joker. When he looks in the camera you don’t see a great actor giving a great performance; you see a sick, sadistic, twisted, and evil man. What Ledger brings to the character is a gritty and homicidal portrayal of a man with no morals, no values, no consequences; a complete sociopath with no regard for anything but the chase.

Like the comics, where Joker and Batman have gone tit-for-tat since the 40’s, these characters are the yin and yang of one another. At one point, the Joker says to Batman, “I think you and I will be doing this for a very long time…” to which Batman can only reply that the Joker will rot away in a cage. And that’s the journey, the everlasting battle between the two.

(If your curiosity ever takes you outside the realm of the movies, I recommend checking out Frank Miller’s [300, Sin City] visionary graphic novel The Dark Knight Returns which takes you into the future of Batman and how his struggles with the likes of Joker, etc. have progressed and how they ultimately end. Great stuff.).

Ultimately, Ledger creates a Joker of brutality, a gothic terrorist hell-bent on destruction for destruction’s sake. Ledger perfected the mannerisms, the ticks, and that cackling sadistic laugh to perfection. He slipped into the dirty, purple suit and got lost in the character. You couldn’t ask for anything more, because he simply brought so much to the table. It is a fitting and lasting tribute to the talent and professionalism of a great actor.

As for Christian Bale as Batman; as far as I’m concerned he IS Batman. Adam West was a cartoon character as Batman, so it’s hard to even compare him. Michael Keaton played Bruce Wayne/Batman as an odd, eccentric and conflicted character, but at least a distant second to Bale’s portrayal. Val Kilmer and George Clooney were mere fill-ins, men in capes, playing second fiddle to the larger than life villains in Schumacher’s Power Ranger-tized Bat films.

Bale is the clear winner. He is also the strongest of all those actors. As Bale’s star rises higher and higher (from Batman to the new Terminator to the new Michael Mann crime drama Public Enemies) he has become a force to be reckoned with. Bale balances the debonair billionaire façade of Bruce Wayne delicately with the quiet and deadly rage of Batman. The challenge of dealing with public outcry, police and government corruption, mob bosses, and deranged villains, puts Batman’s entire mission out of balance, forcing him to make choices he never anticipated. Bale transcends his performance with these issues, starting off cool as ice in his dealings with the bad guys to a near scale tipping balance of crossing completely into the dark side.

It’s important to examine the context of Christopher Nolan’s Bat films within the larger picture. Nolan has crafted a Gotham City that feels real. The dialogue, the interactions, the choices and decisions; they all feel real. They feel like things we would encounter in our own world, not in a comic book. we feel like we could exist in Nolan’s DC universe, alongside the likes of Batman, the Joker, and Harvey Two-Face Dent.

The Dark Knight, in many ways, feels like a Michael Mann (Heat) directed crime thriller, rather than a Christopher Nolan directed comic book film. The intensity of this film is nerve shattering. You will be at the edge of your seat from start to finish because as the story progresses, from one scene to the next, the stakes continue to rise and never let up.

Usually, certain plot points are resolved before the third act, freeing up the story for the “one last thing.” Not here. Everything builds, like a Beethoven symphony, the story unfolds, layer by layer, note by note, finally into a crescendo of resolution and certainly not under the same circumstances as any of the other Bat films.

And the action. Oh, yes, the action is every bit as stepped up and extravagant as a sequel normally is, only there’s one difference; it doesn’t feel indulgent; it feels like a perfect fit. The violence is quick and real. The body count is high and the film takes great pains to let you know that it’s not messing around. Had they shown just a bit more blood and gore this would easily be an R-rated film.

What I am anticipating is parents whining about the violence and saying that they should be able to take their kids to this film. Listen, don’t take your snot-nosed little eight year old to this movie. Take them to Wall*E. I would very much like to throw a batarang into the first whining parent’s face that says this film is too violent. They have likely never read a Batman comic or know jack shit about his origins enough to be an expert on that.

The great myth is that Batman is a kid’s character. Look, just because you put him on your bed sheets or your underoos doesn’t make him a kid’s character. I have no such illusions when I walk around the house in my House of 1,000 Corpses bath robe.

The bottom line is (and this is surly to be a blog later on) I’m sick of the parental whining about violence in TV, film, and video games. They already have their borderline censorship warning labels and ratings systems and if they’re too dumb to figure those out then they shouldn’t be procreating anyway. PG-13 means it may not be suitable for anyone under 13. So, don’t take your eight-year-old son, Johnny Shitpants, to go see The Dark Knight and then whine on some message board that the film is too violent.

Just go get your tubes tied.

Tangent complete. Back to business.

Many people complained about Batman’s fighting style in Batman Begins, saying it was too quick cut and hard to follow. It looks like Nolan took a slight hint and this time gave Batman a more brutally advanced style. When Batman punches a thug, he doesn’t do it so much with martial arts precision, but with a deliberate full force punch, going for the knock out.

What it shows is the adaptability of Batman to his environment, modifying his tactics and techniques for a more successful outcome. The other change is the use of the Batpod, a miniature, motorcycle like vehicle that essentially branches out of the tumbler a.k.a. the Batmobile.

At first I saw the Batpod as gimmicky, a new vehicle to help sell toys to kids.

Boy, was I wrong.

It’s one of the coolest pieces in the film. I sat with a schoolboy smile watching Batman do his work on the Batpod, obliterating vehicles in his path, driving up walls, and underneath tractor trailers. Nolan and co. really took their time in crafting the action pieces, playing the stunts hard and fast, but intricately detailed and choreographed to produce the maximum effect.

One thing that seems to hardly get a mention in all TDK reviews is the music. Lest we forget that the film is scored by none other than Hans Zimmer (The Rock, Gladiator, Crimson Tide, etc) and James Newton Howard (Signs, Blood Diamond, Unbreakable), two of the absolute best composers working in film today, creating a collaborative score just as they did for Batman Begins.

The score is an amazing mix of different themes and textures, balancing the action and emotion in perfect harmony. You can feel where Zimmer begins and Newton Howard ends and where they meet in the middle. The score is every bit heroic, dark, tragic, and inspiring as the film itself, rattling a terrifying violin mixed with deep guitar thrusts whenever the Joker arrives on scene to symphonizing the challenges and ultimate victory of Batman. It is a powerhouse score and if you’ve never sat down and listened to one, checking this one out would be a great start.

So, with all that said, where does it leave The Dark Knight in the grand scheme of things? Is it a masterpiece? Is it brilliant? Is it Oscar-worthy? I think so, absolutely. I am the first to tout that the Oscars are bullshit, but when an organized award recognition event takes place to recognize the achievements in film and crowns a film like Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, I start to think that they might be coming to their senses.

As far as the whole Oscar concept goes, if that’s the measure of a great film, then I think The Dark Knight presents the greatest challenge so far this year to anything competing for best picture and certainly, as most tend to agree, best actor to Ledger for his uncompromising Joker.

But, more importantly, what The Dark Knight does is set a bar, built upon Batman Begins and recently by this summers Iron Man. That bar is placed squarely in the category of putting passion, integrity, and respect into a character which has a decade’s long legacy to uphold. Nolan and co. pay tribute by both respecting the original mythology and by building upon it without tearing away what makes it great. And they do this without being pretentious or trying to prove anything. They do it to make a great film that both fans and non-fans can appreciate and enjoy.

The comic book movie is here to stay. It has taken a long time to find its niche, but finally, they are here. The challenge is to sustain the greatness while not letting it get sour. Such are the challenges of any genre. Thankfully, there are filmmakers like Christopher Nolan, Jon Favreau, and Sam Raimi to build and uphold the new standard.

I think most people will walk out of The Dark Knight with a thoughtful smile, feeling that sense of amazement at what they just saw. The film wows and haunts at the same time, pulling all the right emotional strings, leaving a lasting impression.

It’s the perfect mix of action and drama, a pitch perfect crime drama, a tale of tragic loss, a fall from grace, and an epic story of one man’s journey from an orphaned child to a vengeance seeking vigilante to, ultimately, a dark knight, a flawed hero who will sacrifice all he has to bring justice to the world.

MOVIE GRADE: A+