I’ve been experiencing a bit of a movie trend lately. A couple of months ago, I had a hankering for a giant monster movie, so I watched one of my favorites, 20 Million Miles to Earth. Then in February, actor Lionel Jeffries died and I decided to watch my favorite Jeffries performance, First Men in the Moon. Last night, I watched the 1981 movie Clash of the Titans because I’ve been seeing the trailer for the upcoming remake and hadn’t watched the original in many years. All of these movies have one thing in common – Ray Harryhausen, the special effects master who is a beloved icon to people who, like me, grew up watching science fiction, fantasy and horror films.
A good deal of buzz preceded the release of Clash of the Titans. Harryhausen’s previous two movies had been 1974's The Golden Voyage of Sinbad and 1977's Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger. Clash of the Titans would mark Harryhausen’s return to Greek mythology, the subject of Jason and the Argonauts (1963), the movie that many people agree contains his very best work. That, combined with the simple fact that it was a new Harryhausen movie (no matter who directs, writes, produces or stars, any movie that features Harryhausen’s special effects is a “Harryhausen movie”), created a great deal of anticipation.
I saw it the week it opened, and while I didn’t think it was his best work and the movie itself, aside from Harryhausen's effects, was rather weak, I was still entertained. Most of the critics were not and didn’t hesitate to express their disdain. It felt a little like they were attacking a member of my family and I kind of took those reviews personally – probably more personally than I would have taken them if they had attacked a member of my family. Although it was not Harryhausen’s best work, Clash of the Titans unfortunately turned out to be his last.
Watching it today in 2010 is a very different experience from watching it the week it was released in 1981. For one thing, my high school graduation had taken place only days before – I was a teenager and still had a teenager’s perceptions and tastes. For another, a lot has changed in nearly 30 years. Harryhausen’s effects, left in the dust by the digital age, now seem stiff and antiquated. The memory of how mind-blowing they appeared to me in my childhood makes the reality of how they look today rather ... melancholy. But in spite of that, in spite of the movie’s weaknesses, it still delights the 12-year-old boy in me, the kid who used to drop whatever he was doing when a Harryhausen movie aired on TV.
Clash of the Titans has the biggest cast of any Harryhausen movie: Laurence Olivier, Burgess Meredith, Claire Bloom, Maggie Smith, Ursula Undress – er, um, I mean Andress, and Harry Hamlin five years before he donned a suit for L.A. Law. Unfortunately, the script by Beverley Cross gives them some pretty creaky dialogue to recite. They do their best, but still, it’s not much to work with.
As I mentioned earlier, Harryhausen’s effects don’t hold up well these days. If you didn’t grow up watching his work and don’t have the sentimental attachment to it that so many of us do, it might make you wince. Even by 1981, it was a bit outdated. But if you’re like me and have childhood memories filled with his Cyclops, his seven-headed hydra, the giant octopus that destroyed the Golden Gate bridge, the Ymir’s rampage in Rome, flying saucers over Washington, D.C., the giant bees on Mysterious Island, the tyrannosaurus rex that menaced a scantily clad Raquel Welch, that army of angry, sword-wielding skeletons – if these are some of the threads that make up the fabric of your childhood, and if you haven’t seen Clash of the Titans in a long time, then I suspect that, also like me, you’ll be pretty forgiving, and you’ll smile a lot.
While watching this movie for the first time in many years, I made some observations I hadn’t made before:
- Why can’t human beings concoct gods that act like gods instead of like human beings? They don’t even act like well-behaved human beings! That has been the case with all of our gods, from the ancients to those worshiped today.
- Is that really Ursula Andress or a somewhat lifelike mannequin?
- This is the only movie ever made in which you can hear Sir Laurence Olivier say, “Let loose the Kraken!”
- Oh, my god, bare breasts in a Harryhausen movie! Where were they when I was a kid?
- Perseus isn’t very bright. But I doubt that gets in the way of his social life.
- Medusa’s tits look fake.
- Calibos bears a disturbing resemblance to a younger, beefier Larry King.
Harryhausen said of his retirement from filmmaking, “The thing that finally persuaded me to quit was that I saw that the nature of the hero was changing. When I was growing up we had heroes such as Cary Grant, Ronald Colman and David Niven, real gentlemen on the screen. Now, all you have is Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sylvester Stallone and all those people who solve problems with their fists. It's a different world and I sometimes feel I'm not part of it. Say what you like about Hollywood in my time, but they were in the business of happy endings, of escapism. Now, you have to sit through two hours of people dying, you know. Today, everything's so graphic it's rather unnerving.”
This June, Ray Harryhausen will turn 90. I don’t know if he’ll see the remake of Clash of the Titans, but if he does, I hope it’s a pleasant experience for him. Personally, I don’t hold much hope for it. Hollywood has not been making me a happy camper in recent years. I suspect it will be achingly loud, dizzyingly fast-moving, and take itself way too seriously.
There is a conversation with Harryhausen on the Clash of the Titans DVD in which he discusses the influence his work has had on so many. I’m glad he’s aware of it and that it brings him joy. His work has fed the imaginations of Hollywood heavyweights like Spielberg, Lucas, Cameron and Mirren. But those are only the famous guys. It also enriched the childhoods of countless millions of regular, non-famous folks who are better people because of it.
Gone are the days of “Dynamation,” which looked so eye-popping back then but now appears stiff and jerky. The new Clash of the Titans will feature seamless CGI in skull-cracking 3-D (soon, everything will be in 3-D -- even you and me!) and will probably do blockbuster business. I wonder if it will lead to a remake of Jason and the Argonauts. If so, I hope they don’t use motion-capture technology to create an army of angry, sword-wielding Keira Knightleys.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
It's About Damned Time!
“Avoid women directors. They ovulate. Do you have any idea what that does to a three month shoot?”
– Buddy Ackerman (Kevin Spacey) in Swimming with Sharks
“Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels.”
– Faith Whittlesey
Everybody’s summing up the Academy Awards right about now – who wore what, who spent the most time in the bathroom with whom at which parties, stuff like that. That’s certainly more interesting than discussing the show itself, which was the very definition of mediocrity. I used to anticipate the Academy Awards telecast with delight. Now I watch mostly out of blind, dumb habit – like a salmon swimming upstream, tearing itself up on the rocks so it can spawn and die even though it would rather be doing something else.
I was happy to learn that Steve Martin was hosting the show, but baffled as to why Alec Baldwin was hosting it with him. I happen to like Baldwin as an actor, but a host? Then I watched the show and understood why Martin needed the help – he’s really not that funny anymore. He seems rather ... tired. There was a time when I thought Martin was one of the most talented people in show business. But he seems to be suffering from Bob Hope Syndrome, a condition that causes a person of great talent to start coasting from middle age onward. He’s not the only one who has it, either – I realized that when Robin Williams came onstage and mumbled a few words without having one of his trademark seizures of stream-of-consciousness comedy or even trying to give the impression that he wanted to be there. But that’s not what I want to focus on right now. I want to focus on Kathryn Bigelow, who was the best reason to watch last night’s show.
I’ve been following and admiring Bigelow’s work since her ass-kicking 1987 vampire movie Near Dark. When I learned of the goofball high concept that made up 1991's Point Break – Keanu Reeves as an FBI agent (Wait, what?) who infiltrates a group of surfing bank robbers (Oh, now you’re just trying to annoy me, right?) with Gary Busey (Okay, you can stop now, I’m leaving.) – I thought it had to be a joke. But when I found out that Bigelow was at the helm, I was immediately interested. There aren’t many directors who could snag me into something that sounded that hopelessly silly, but she did because I knew she’d do something interesting with it. And I was right. It’s a movie I love and one I normally would not have bothered watching if not for her.
Hollywood heavyweights like Robert Redford, Paul Haggis, Meryl Streep, Reese Witherspoon, Tom Cruise and others have attempted to make important, here’s-what-it-all-means movies about our involvement in the Middle East over the past decade, and they have fallen flat on their faces. The few people who went to the theater to see those movies just took the opportunity to catch up on their sleep and critics typed their reviews with one hand while holding their noses with the other. Kathryn Bigelow comes along and makes a tiny little movie with no stars and little budget but a lot of nail-biting intensity and walks off with six Academy Awards, including Best Original Screenplay, Best Director and Best Picture. But that’s not the biggest part of this story.
Kathryn Bigelow is only the second American female director ever nominated for an Oscar! The first was Sophia Coppola for 2004's Lost in Translation. When you include Italy’s Lina Wertmuller and New Zealand’s Jane Campion, it turns out only four women directors have ever been nominated in the 82 years Hollywood has been dishing out Oscars. That’s not a typo and I’m not high – four.
Movies are a director’s medium. When you watch a movie, you are seeing the culmination of a director’s vision, decisions, and sensibilities. But what you most likely are not seeing is the culmination of the vision, decisions and sensibilities of a woman. I don’t know about you, but that bugs the hell out of me.
It is 2010. Gay people are on the verge of having the right to marry (despite the frantic efforts of superstitious bible-thumpers who spread the love of Jesus with the heels of their stomping boots). A woman came very close to receiving the Democratic nomination in the last presidential primary. The United States now has a black president. And only four women have ever been nominated for the Best Director Oscar. I don’t think I’m out of line when I say that this is a pretty fucked-up state of affairs, folks.
If you’re a movie buff, you can probably name five female directors. But can you name five female directors who were not actresses first? The most well-known women directors – for example, Penny Marshall, Barbra Streisand, Jodie Foster, Diane Keaton, Sophia Coppola – were first successful as actresses and became powerful enough to sit in the director’s chair. The fact that they began as actors does not in any way diminish their talent or work as directors, but I think it’s significant that they had to get there through a back door. That’s not to say there are no non-acting women directors out there, though.
Nora Ephron began as a writer and received Oscar nominations for her screenplays Silkwood, When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle. She began producing as well, and her directorial debut in 1992 was This is My Life. She’s made seven movies since then, including last year’s Oscar-nominated hit Julie & Julia. And like any good director, she’s not flop-proof – she directed the 2005 stinker Bewitched.
Nancy Meyers is another writer/producer-turned-director with some very successful movies to her credit. She was nominated for an Oscar her first time out of the gate for writing Private Benjamin in 1981. She became a director in 1998 with the remake of Disney’s The Parent Trap, which she followed with four succesful romantic comedies – What Women Want, Something’s Gotta Give, The Holiday and last year’s It’s Complicated.
Julie Taymor started out in television, then wrote, produced and directed her first feature film, Titus, in 1999. That was followed by Frida in 2002 and the stunning Across the Universe in 2007. This year will see the release of The Tempest, which she wrote, produced and directed.
Karyn Kusama is an up-and-coming director who wrote and directed the critically acclaimed 2000 movie Girlfight, followed it up with Aeon Flux in 2005, and directed last year’s horror film Jennifer’s Body. She’s currently at work on a new project.
The women listed above came off the top of my head. But you know what? I had to think a little while to come up with those four – and I still couldn’t come up with a fifth. I confined myself to American directors. There are others, of course, from all over the world -- but there are far too few. I thought of Ephron, Meyers, Taymor and Kusama because they’ve made some pretty commercial, well-known movies. But still ... I could only come up with four. And I’m a movie geek. What’s wrong with this picture?
Is it because women just don’t have what it takes to direct movies? If you answered yes to that question, please go away now and never darken my blog again. Of course women have what it takes to direct movies! They have talent and drive and creative energy to burn. The four women listed above are not freaks of nature, they are not exceptions to some rule. It’s just that they have somehow been fortunate enough to buck the system and kick down the door of this appalling men’s club called Hollywood. And that is the crime here – Hollywood, in this day and age, is still a men’s club.
Hollywood (all of California, for that matter) has a reputation for being ahead of the curve in liberal social changes. But that, I’m afraid, is a myth. For all of its left-wing politics and promiscuous, drug-taking celebutards, Hollywood is squirmingly conservative. Movies have become prudish again. Do you remember things like sex and nudity in movies made for and about grown-ups? Well, those days are over. For now, anyway. In Hollywood, people still conceal their homosexuality in order to protect their jobs. Can you believe that? But it’s true. The same town that gave us Paul Lynde also gave us Rock Hudson. And only four women – FOUR! – have been nominated for the Best Director Oscar in 82 fucking years.
Last night, Kathryn Bigelow took a sledgehammer to the status quo and shattered it into pieces. Let’s hope we see more women’s names under the credit “Directed by” from now on. Let’s hope more women are allowed to direct movies and that their talents are acknowledged during Oscar season in the future. Let’s hope the pieces of that status quo that Bigelow shattered don’t merge together and reassemble like some kind of undying monster in a horror movie.
– Buddy Ackerman (Kevin Spacey) in Swimming with Sharks
“Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels.”
– Faith Whittlesey
Everybody’s summing up the Academy Awards right about now – who wore what, who spent the most time in the bathroom with whom at which parties, stuff like that. That’s certainly more interesting than discussing the show itself, which was the very definition of mediocrity. I used to anticipate the Academy Awards telecast with delight. Now I watch mostly out of blind, dumb habit – like a salmon swimming upstream, tearing itself up on the rocks so it can spawn and die even though it would rather be doing something else.
I was happy to learn that Steve Martin was hosting the show, but baffled as to why Alec Baldwin was hosting it with him. I happen to like Baldwin as an actor, but a host? Then I watched the show and understood why Martin needed the help – he’s really not that funny anymore. He seems rather ... tired. There was a time when I thought Martin was one of the most talented people in show business. But he seems to be suffering from Bob Hope Syndrome, a condition that causes a person of great talent to start coasting from middle age onward. He’s not the only one who has it, either – I realized that when Robin Williams came onstage and mumbled a few words without having one of his trademark seizures of stream-of-consciousness comedy or even trying to give the impression that he wanted to be there. But that’s not what I want to focus on right now. I want to focus on Kathryn Bigelow, who was the best reason to watch last night’s show.
I’ve been following and admiring Bigelow’s work since her ass-kicking 1987 vampire movie Near Dark. When I learned of the goofball high concept that made up 1991's Point Break – Keanu Reeves as an FBI agent (Wait, what?) who infiltrates a group of surfing bank robbers (Oh, now you’re just trying to annoy me, right?) with Gary Busey (Okay, you can stop now, I’m leaving.) – I thought it had to be a joke. But when I found out that Bigelow was at the helm, I was immediately interested. There aren’t many directors who could snag me into something that sounded that hopelessly silly, but she did because I knew she’d do something interesting with it. And I was right. It’s a movie I love and one I normally would not have bothered watching if not for her.
Hollywood heavyweights like Robert Redford, Paul Haggis, Meryl Streep, Reese Witherspoon, Tom Cruise and others have attempted to make important, here’s-what-it-all-means movies about our involvement in the Middle East over the past decade, and they have fallen flat on their faces. The few people who went to the theater to see those movies just took the opportunity to catch up on their sleep and critics typed their reviews with one hand while holding their noses with the other. Kathryn Bigelow comes along and makes a tiny little movie with no stars and little budget but a lot of nail-biting intensity and walks off with six Academy Awards, including Best Original Screenplay, Best Director and Best Picture. But that’s not the biggest part of this story.
Kathryn Bigelow is only the second American female director ever nominated for an Oscar! The first was Sophia Coppola for 2004's Lost in Translation. When you include Italy’s Lina Wertmuller and New Zealand’s Jane Campion, it turns out only four women directors have ever been nominated in the 82 years Hollywood has been dishing out Oscars. That’s not a typo and I’m not high – four.
Movies are a director’s medium. When you watch a movie, you are seeing the culmination of a director’s vision, decisions, and sensibilities. But what you most likely are not seeing is the culmination of the vision, decisions and sensibilities of a woman. I don’t know about you, but that bugs the hell out of me.
It is 2010. Gay people are on the verge of having the right to marry (despite the frantic efforts of superstitious bible-thumpers who spread the love of Jesus with the heels of their stomping boots). A woman came very close to receiving the Democratic nomination in the last presidential primary. The United States now has a black president. And only four women have ever been nominated for the Best Director Oscar. I don’t think I’m out of line when I say that this is a pretty fucked-up state of affairs, folks.
If you’re a movie buff, you can probably name five female directors. But can you name five female directors who were not actresses first? The most well-known women directors – for example, Penny Marshall, Barbra Streisand, Jodie Foster, Diane Keaton, Sophia Coppola – were first successful as actresses and became powerful enough to sit in the director’s chair. The fact that they began as actors does not in any way diminish their talent or work as directors, but I think it’s significant that they had to get there through a back door. That’s not to say there are no non-acting women directors out there, though.
Nora Ephron began as a writer and received Oscar nominations for her screenplays Silkwood, When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle. She began producing as well, and her directorial debut in 1992 was This is My Life. She’s made seven movies since then, including last year’s Oscar-nominated hit Julie & Julia. And like any good director, she’s not flop-proof – she directed the 2005 stinker Bewitched.
Nancy Meyers is another writer/producer-turned-director with some very successful movies to her credit. She was nominated for an Oscar her first time out of the gate for writing Private Benjamin in 1981. She became a director in 1998 with the remake of Disney’s The Parent Trap, which she followed with four succesful romantic comedies – What Women Want, Something’s Gotta Give, The Holiday and last year’s It’s Complicated.
Julie Taymor started out in television, then wrote, produced and directed her first feature film, Titus, in 1999. That was followed by Frida in 2002 and the stunning Across the Universe in 2007. This year will see the release of The Tempest, which she wrote, produced and directed.
Karyn Kusama is an up-and-coming director who wrote and directed the critically acclaimed 2000 movie Girlfight, followed it up with Aeon Flux in 2005, and directed last year’s horror film Jennifer’s Body. She’s currently at work on a new project.
The women listed above came off the top of my head. But you know what? I had to think a little while to come up with those four – and I still couldn’t come up with a fifth. I confined myself to American directors. There are others, of course, from all over the world -- but there are far too few. I thought of Ephron, Meyers, Taymor and Kusama because they’ve made some pretty commercial, well-known movies. But still ... I could only come up with four. And I’m a movie geek. What’s wrong with this picture?
Is it because women just don’t have what it takes to direct movies? If you answered yes to that question, please go away now and never darken my blog again. Of course women have what it takes to direct movies! They have talent and drive and creative energy to burn. The four women listed above are not freaks of nature, they are not exceptions to some rule. It’s just that they have somehow been fortunate enough to buck the system and kick down the door of this appalling men’s club called Hollywood. And that is the crime here – Hollywood, in this day and age, is still a men’s club.
Hollywood (all of California, for that matter) has a reputation for being ahead of the curve in liberal social changes. But that, I’m afraid, is a myth. For all of its left-wing politics and promiscuous, drug-taking celebutards, Hollywood is squirmingly conservative. Movies have become prudish again. Do you remember things like sex and nudity in movies made for and about grown-ups? Well, those days are over. For now, anyway. In Hollywood, people still conceal their homosexuality in order to protect their jobs. Can you believe that? But it’s true. The same town that gave us Paul Lynde also gave us Rock Hudson. And only four women – FOUR! – have been nominated for the Best Director Oscar in 82 fucking years.
Last night, Kathryn Bigelow took a sledgehammer to the status quo and shattered it into pieces. Let’s hope we see more women’s names under the credit “Directed by” from now on. Let’s hope more women are allowed to direct movies and that their talents are acknowledged during Oscar season in the future. Let’s hope the pieces of that status quo that Bigelow shattered don’t merge together and reassemble like some kind of undying monster in a horror movie.
Friday, February 19, 2010
A Few Things That Annoy the Hell Out of Me
We’ve become a nation of complainers. We whine about the things that offend us as if we expect the entire universe to be restructured according to our whims and pleasures. Rather than focus on the many good things we have, we focus on the things we don’t like and bitch about them. Well ... I say why buck the trend? So, in what has become a great American tradition, here are a few things that get on my nerves.
Sports
I am not a sports fan. There was a time when those who are sports fans didn’t bother me at all. Of course, that was a long time ago. Before I reached the age of 10. Normally, I’m a pretty live-and-let-live, to-each-his-own guy. But it’s difficult to retain that attitude toward sports when you’re a male living in America and have no interest in them. Case in point: I was recently standing in line at a grocery store when the man in front of me -- a man I’d never met before -- turned around, grinned and said, as if he knew me, “Hey! How about that Super Bowl, huh?”
I raised my eyebrows slightly, smiled a little and said, “What Super Bowl?”
His grin fell away and he frowned. “You didn’t watch the Super Bowl?” This question was asked in the same tone of voice with which one might ask the question, “You ate a live baby?”
I maintained my expression of innocent curiosity -- an expression I have developed precisely for this specific situation, because it occurs so frequently -- shrugged one shoulder a little and asked again, “What Super Bowl?”
I should point out that this guy was a good deal bigger than I, which is why I immediately began to question my tactics when a flash of offended anger passed over his face. Then he closed his eyes, nodded knowingly and smiled. “Oh, okay. Heh. Yeah, that’s funny.” He turned his back to me then, confident that I was just having a little fun with him. He stayed that way for about half a minute, then turned to me again. “You did watch, though, right?”
“No. Who played?”
His eyes widened and the color left his face as he stammered, “Whuh-what? Y-y-you don’t know who played?”
“No.”
He narrowed his eyes then, cocked his head and looked at me askance, as if he were about to tell me I should return to the Middle East and rejoin my friends in Al Qaeda. And then he did something that I’ve noticed before in similar situations. (I’m not making this up, by the way.) He looked at my left hand. He checked for the ring on my finger that would tell him whether or not I at least had the good manners and taste to go through the motions of getting married, that I was willing to play along with the conventional heterosexual game of choosing a mate of the opposite sex and living as if I didn’t love show tunes and Joan Crawford movies and didn’t pay an unhealthy amount of attention to things like window treatments and floral arrangements. Then he gave me a weak, forced smile, nodded once as if to say, Okay, dude, you enjoy yourself, and he said no more to me.
That was just a little over a week ago. Now we’re in the middle of the Winter Olympics. Everyone has Olympics Fever. This is a virus to which I am immune. In order for me to give less of a flying fuck at a rolling donut about the Olympics, it would be necessary to alter the laws of physics. I would think that my lack of interest in the Winter Olympics would, if anything, suggest to the sports-loving doubters that I am, indeed, heterosexual. After all, some of the events are a little less than macho. Some of the events are a little less than sports, if you ask me. The one that makes me laugh the hardest is the event in which people prance around while flailing long ribbons through the air. When little children do this, it’s called playing, and they don’t get medals for it -- they get called in for dinner at six. Wait ... is that one in the winter Olympics or summer Olympics? See? I don’t know anything about this shit!
How about figure skating? Puh-leeeze. And curling? Curling? Really? The fact that curling is considered a sport and has been made an Olympic event has probably improved the self-esteem of millions of shuffleboard-playing Floridians over the age of 70. And then there's the luger who died at the beginning of this year’s festivities. Don’t get me wrong -- I’m saddened by the poor guy’s death, as I would be in any case. This was a human being with family and friends who loved him and no doubt have been devastated by the loss. But it’s not like somebody held a gun to his head and forced him to go 90 miles an hour down an ice ditch in a toboggan. And contrary to the opinions of some people on Twitter, I am not a heartless monster simply because I failed to wear sackcloth and ashes and rip my hair out all day while uttering long ululations over the death of someone I’d never heard of before.
I guess it’s not really the sports themselves that I find so annoying. It is the assumption by others -- most others, in fact -- that because I am a man, I must be a sports fan, and if I’m not, then I must be gay or somehow less than a man. Which, of course, is preposterous twaddlecock. And by the way, anyone who equates being gay with being less of a man reveals more about himself than about anyone else -- and he reveals nothing good.
Cell phones
This is an open letter to all the people who say they must have a cell phone, to all the people who walk through life constantly yammering into one, to all the people who have those damned Bluetooth things attached to their heads and walk around looking like a geek in a Borg costume who can’t find the Star Trek convention:
Dear Cell Phone People,
The cell phone has become a part of our lives within the last decade or so. Human beings have existed on this planet for about 200,000 years. Turn it off for a while and give us all a damned break, will ya? You’ll live.
Reality TV
The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines “reality” as follows: “The quality or state of being real; a real event, entity, or state of affairs.” The genre of television that has come to be known as “reality TV” does not -- I repeat, does not -- fall under this definition.
People who know they are being observed behave differently than they would if they weren’t being observed (or at least didn’t know it). This is known as the Hawthorne effect, and it applies perfectly to this brain-deadening phenomenon we know as “reality TV.” There is no “reality” in TV. Expecting “reality” from TV is like jumping into a swimming pool and expecting to stay dry. The instant cameras are involved, “reality” goes right out the window. The people on those shows know the cameras are there, they know they are not only being observed but are being vomited into living rooms all over the country. And when you take even a cursory look at the people who are the focus of “reality” TV, it quickly becomes clear that they know little else. I remember a time when obnoxious, self-centered, idiotic assholes were avoided at best and told to shut the hell up and go away -- or simply punched in the face -- at worst. Now they’re given TV shows. In his Westminster Abbey grave, Charles Darwin is spinning like a turbine.
If there are extraterrestrials monitoring our television broadcasts, then we are doomed. If they become convinced that we’re all like Jon and Kate, or those subhuman knuckle-draggers on The Jersey Shore, or -- good grief, I'm scaring myself -- Bret Michaels or the Kardashians, then it’s only a matter of time before they obliterate this planet and everything on it to keep us from infecting the rest of the galaxy.
Survivor really could be an interesting show -- if all those attention-starved drama queens actually were trapped on a deserted island with nothing to eat but each other. The last person still alive would be the winner -- and no picking your teeth on camera!
Please don’t get the idea that I know about these shows and the people on them because I watch them. I’d rather eat my own lungs with a spoon. Unfortunately, it isn’t necessary to watch “reality” TV in order to know way too much about it. The decisions of the judges on American Idol are now routinely reported as “news” by that pandering circle-jerk of slobbering ratings whores known as the American “news” media. Jon and Kate -- a couple that makes the Kramdens look like they had a healthy, loving marriage -- and that simpering life-support system for a uterus, that batshit-crazy baby-cannon, Nadya “OctoMom” Suleman, got more “news” coverage than the president, the war and the economy combined. There are people holding jobs, driving cars and voting who can tell you who was last kicked off of Dancing with the Stars but who wouldn’t know the vice president of the United States if he walked up to them on the street and said something typically stupid and inappropriate.
Put simply, we have lost our minds. But hey, if you don’t like “reality” TV, you can always switch over to NBC and watch people shove a rock around on some ice.
John Mayer
When is this guy gonna shut the fuck up?
Sarah Palin
I am of the opinion that both political parties -- the Democrats and the Republicans -- are nothing more than fronts for corporations who indirectly (and directly, too, I suspect, but I couldn’t prove it) stuff the pockets of politicians with loyalty-buying cash and are designed to keep everybody pissed off and busy fighting while the corporate overlords go about doing whatever the hell they want to do. Both parties accomplish nothing but division, rancor and disinformation and are about as useless as tits on the pope. I point that out only so you’ll know that what comes next is not motivated by any political party loyalty.
Could somebody please stuff an apple in Sarah Palin’s mouth, whip up a nice glaze and bring out the spit? Does this woman have any self-awareness whatsoever? Does she possess so much as an ounce of embarassment or shame? Does she ever stop and listen to what comes out of that inexhaustible mooseburger-hole in the bottom half of her face? Does she even know what a double-standard is? Is her watch broken? Is that why she doesn’t know her 15 minutes are up?
Let’s take a look at the Sarah Palin stupidity tote-board just from the past week or two. Rahm Emanuel, who is not known for his tact, uses the word “retard” in a diatribe and Sarah Palin, who has a son with Down syndrome, demands that he be fired for being so hateful and insensitive. Around the same time, radio comedian and Republican party mind-control czar Rush Limbaugh commends Emanuel on his use of the word “retard” because, Limbaugh says, he was referring to liberals, who are, indeed, “retards.” Sarah Palin says Limbaugh’s use of the word is okay because it was “satire.” Then, when a real source of real satire, the Fox animated series Family Guy, features a girl with Down syndrome who identifies herself as the “daughter of the former governor of Alaska,” Sarah Palin throws a tantrum and claims Family Guy was mocking the fact that her son Trig has Down syndrome. Rather than responding to it herself, she once again shoves one of her children forward to respond for her. She posts her daughter Bristol’s comments on Facebook which slam the folks at Family Guy -- a show that routinely jokes about AIDS, cancer, death, bestiality and pedophilia, to name just a few of its targets -- for being insensitive. While being interviewed by Fox News talking head Bill O’Reilly -- a man renowned for his sensitivity and tact -- Sarah Palin herself calls the Family Guy folks “cruel, cold-hearted people.” Andrea Friedman, the 40-year-old college graduate actress with Down syndrome who voiced the character on Family Guy, writes a letter stating that she was not making fun of Palin’s son Trig, but that she was making fun of Sarah Palin. “I thought the line, ‘I am the daughter of the former governor of Alaska,’ was very funny,” Friedman wrote. “I think the word is ‘sarcasm.’ In my family we think laughing is good. My parents raised me to have a sense of humor and to live a normal life. My mother did not carry me around under her arm like a loaf of French bread the way former Governor Palin carries her son Trig around looking for sympathy and votes.” Now, Palin’s supporters have taken to the internet to say that Friedman could not possibly formulate this statement on her own, what with the Down syndrome and all, and is being used as a pawn by politically motivated manipulators so she should not be taken seriously. So, essentially they’re saying we should pay no attention to Friedman because she’s, um ... er ... retarded.
The fact that Sarah Palin actually ran on a presidential ticket should cause this entire nation to hang its head in shame -- but, then, we still seem to be holding our heads up after Dan Quayle and George W. Bush, so perhaps I expect too much. Palin’s thin-skinned pettiness, her vindictiveness and her outright lies (death panels, anyone?) disqualify her as a person -- male or female -- who can be taken seriously. Her supporters support her only because she is on their team, a member of their political party whom they would support if she stood on her head and said that up was down. Their support is partisan only and intellectually dishonest. She is indefensible.
The Twilight books and movies
If you’re a vampire and you have to sparkle, get a room.
Glenn Beck
Glenn Beck is known for his tearful (to say nothing of paranoid and delusional) speeches on his Fox News show. In this video, you will see Beck posing for photos. Something is rubbed under his eyes to stimulate tears. While he’s waiting for it to take effect, you’ll hear him say, “My eyes are getting used to it.”
Glenn Beck is part of a long American tradition. Guys like him used to be called “snake oil salesmen.” They could also be found setting up large tents in which they held Elmer Gantry-style religious revivals that worked believers into a frenzy and pulled in lots of cash. Beck is the new incarnation of that traditional figure. Rather than selling “snake oil” or religion, Beck peddles the new religion -- angry political discontent (which is perfectly legitimate, until it enters Beck's realm of delusional craziness) and paranoia. He presents himself as the “everyman,” the “regular guy” -- even though he’s worth millions and lives in palatial homes and flies around in jets. He doesn’t come right out and directly say that Barack Obama is preparing to throw us all into concentration camps and build mountains out of the skulls of dissenters, but he poses these ideas as questions, and then says, with boyish innocence, “Hey, I’m just asking questions, that’s all!” Even Beck himself admits that he is a “clown,” that he is nothing more than a “performer.” And yet, millions of full-grown adults watch his show, listen to his radio program, buy his bestselling books, and take him very, very seriously.
I’m scared, Mommy.
Religion
After the recent earthquake in Haiti – which resulted in a death toll that still has not been calculated – televangelist Pat Robertson removed his head from his colon long enough to point out that the Haitians brought this horrible disaster upon themselves by making a pact with the devil and pissing off Jesus. More offensive than this statement -- which, in my opinion, amounted to nothing short of evil, inhumane hatred -- was the response -- or rather the lack of response -- from Christians. Did they rise up in outrage to say that this chuckling douchebag did not represent them? No. They remained silent -- at least until non-Christians voiced their disgust with Robertson. Then the Christians spoke up in protest -- not to protest Robertson's remarks, but to protest the disgust others were expressing. The typical response I got and the typical response I observed in other exchanges went something like this:
“I’m not a supporter of Pat Robertson, but I am a Christian, and I just want to say that he does not represent Christians because all Christians are different and have a wide variety of opinions and viewpoints.”
(That wide variety of opinions and viewpoints was not reflected in the response I heard repeatedly from a wide variety of Christians.)
“Yes, what Robertson said was stupid, but he and his organization did send a lot of money and help to Haiti in response to the earthquake, so at least he’s putting his money where his mouth is, and what have you done for Haiti lately, by the way? I don’t necessarily agree with what Robertson said -- although it is historically accurate -- but I support his constitutionally-guaranteed right to say it. The only reason you’re complaining is that you have a problem with religion, some kind of vendetta, and you’re just bitter and angry, and you should really stop it because it’s very negative.”
Negative, huh? So saying that hundreds of thousands of Satanic Haitians deserved to die because they made a deal with the devil isn’t all that objectionable and is canceled out with some charity work, but voicing any criticism of it is bitter and angry and very negative. Okay.
A common part of these responses from Christians was the claim, “I’m not a supporter of Pat Robertson.” Another frequent comment was a phrase I’ve encountered a lot in recent years: “I’m not religious, but I am spiritual.”
Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. Christians who defend Pat Robertson don’t really support Pat Robertson, so he managed to become one of the richest and most powerful figures in American Christianity with virtually no support from anyone. Also, religion is now recognized as such a bad thing that even believers do everything they can to distance themselves from it and want everyone to know that they are not religious, but they are spiritual, but even though they’re not religious, they think that people who criticize religion are bitter and angry and should shut the hell up and stop being so negative.
Pardon me while my head explodes.
Okay, that's my rant. Feel free to gripe about the things that annoy the hell out of you in the comments below.
Sports
I am not a sports fan. There was a time when those who are sports fans didn’t bother me at all. Of course, that was a long time ago. Before I reached the age of 10. Normally, I’m a pretty live-and-let-live, to-each-his-own guy. But it’s difficult to retain that attitude toward sports when you’re a male living in America and have no interest in them. Case in point: I was recently standing in line at a grocery store when the man in front of me -- a man I’d never met before -- turned around, grinned and said, as if he knew me, “Hey! How about that Super Bowl, huh?”
I raised my eyebrows slightly, smiled a little and said, “What Super Bowl?”
His grin fell away and he frowned. “You didn’t watch the Super Bowl?” This question was asked in the same tone of voice with which one might ask the question, “You ate a live baby?”
I maintained my expression of innocent curiosity -- an expression I have developed precisely for this specific situation, because it occurs so frequently -- shrugged one shoulder a little and asked again, “What Super Bowl?”
I should point out that this guy was a good deal bigger than I, which is why I immediately began to question my tactics when a flash of offended anger passed over his face. Then he closed his eyes, nodded knowingly and smiled. “Oh, okay. Heh. Yeah, that’s funny.” He turned his back to me then, confident that I was just having a little fun with him. He stayed that way for about half a minute, then turned to me again. “You did watch, though, right?”
“No. Who played?”
His eyes widened and the color left his face as he stammered, “Whuh-what? Y-y-you don’t know who played?”
“No.”
He narrowed his eyes then, cocked his head and looked at me askance, as if he were about to tell me I should return to the Middle East and rejoin my friends in Al Qaeda. And then he did something that I’ve noticed before in similar situations. (I’m not making this up, by the way.) He looked at my left hand. He checked for the ring on my finger that would tell him whether or not I at least had the good manners and taste to go through the motions of getting married, that I was willing to play along with the conventional heterosexual game of choosing a mate of the opposite sex and living as if I didn’t love show tunes and Joan Crawford movies and didn’t pay an unhealthy amount of attention to things like window treatments and floral arrangements. Then he gave me a weak, forced smile, nodded once as if to say, Okay, dude, you enjoy yourself, and he said no more to me.
That was just a little over a week ago. Now we’re in the middle of the Winter Olympics. Everyone has Olympics Fever. This is a virus to which I am immune. In order for me to give less of a flying fuck at a rolling donut about the Olympics, it would be necessary to alter the laws of physics. I would think that my lack of interest in the Winter Olympics would, if anything, suggest to the sports-loving doubters that I am, indeed, heterosexual. After all, some of the events are a little less than macho. Some of the events are a little less than sports, if you ask me. The one that makes me laugh the hardest is the event in which people prance around while flailing long ribbons through the air. When little children do this, it’s called playing, and they don’t get medals for it -- they get called in for dinner at six. Wait ... is that one in the winter Olympics or summer Olympics? See? I don’t know anything about this shit!
How about figure skating? Puh-leeeze. And curling? Curling? Really? The fact that curling is considered a sport and has been made an Olympic event has probably improved the self-esteem of millions of shuffleboard-playing Floridians over the age of 70. And then there's the luger who died at the beginning of this year’s festivities. Don’t get me wrong -- I’m saddened by the poor guy’s death, as I would be in any case. This was a human being with family and friends who loved him and no doubt have been devastated by the loss. But it’s not like somebody held a gun to his head and forced him to go 90 miles an hour down an ice ditch in a toboggan. And contrary to the opinions of some people on Twitter, I am not a heartless monster simply because I failed to wear sackcloth and ashes and rip my hair out all day while uttering long ululations over the death of someone I’d never heard of before.
I guess it’s not really the sports themselves that I find so annoying. It is the assumption by others -- most others, in fact -- that because I am a man, I must be a sports fan, and if I’m not, then I must be gay or somehow less than a man. Which, of course, is preposterous twaddlecock. And by the way, anyone who equates being gay with being less of a man reveals more about himself than about anyone else -- and he reveals nothing good.
Cell phones
This is an open letter to all the people who say they must have a cell phone, to all the people who walk through life constantly yammering into one, to all the people who have those damned Bluetooth things attached to their heads and walk around looking like a geek in a Borg costume who can’t find the Star Trek convention:
Dear Cell Phone People,
The cell phone has become a part of our lives within the last decade or so. Human beings have existed on this planet for about 200,000 years. Turn it off for a while and give us all a damned break, will ya? You’ll live.
Reality TV
The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines “reality” as follows: “The quality or state of being real; a real event, entity, or state of affairs.” The genre of television that has come to be known as “reality TV” does not -- I repeat, does not -- fall under this definition.
People who know they are being observed behave differently than they would if they weren’t being observed (or at least didn’t know it). This is known as the Hawthorne effect, and it applies perfectly to this brain-deadening phenomenon we know as “reality TV.” There is no “reality” in TV. Expecting “reality” from TV is like jumping into a swimming pool and expecting to stay dry. The instant cameras are involved, “reality” goes right out the window. The people on those shows know the cameras are there, they know they are not only being observed but are being vomited into living rooms all over the country. And when you take even a cursory look at the people who are the focus of “reality” TV, it quickly becomes clear that they know little else. I remember a time when obnoxious, self-centered, idiotic assholes were avoided at best and told to shut the hell up and go away -- or simply punched in the face -- at worst. Now they’re given TV shows. In his Westminster Abbey grave, Charles Darwin is spinning like a turbine.
If there are extraterrestrials monitoring our television broadcasts, then we are doomed. If they become convinced that we’re all like Jon and Kate, or those subhuman knuckle-draggers on The Jersey Shore, or -- good grief, I'm scaring myself -- Bret Michaels or the Kardashians, then it’s only a matter of time before they obliterate this planet and everything on it to keep us from infecting the rest of the galaxy.
Survivor really could be an interesting show -- if all those attention-starved drama queens actually were trapped on a deserted island with nothing to eat but each other. The last person still alive would be the winner -- and no picking your teeth on camera!
Please don’t get the idea that I know about these shows and the people on them because I watch them. I’d rather eat my own lungs with a spoon. Unfortunately, it isn’t necessary to watch “reality” TV in order to know way too much about it. The decisions of the judges on American Idol are now routinely reported as “news” by that pandering circle-jerk of slobbering ratings whores known as the American “news” media. Jon and Kate -- a couple that makes the Kramdens look like they had a healthy, loving marriage -- and that simpering life-support system for a uterus, that batshit-crazy baby-cannon, Nadya “OctoMom” Suleman, got more “news” coverage than the president, the war and the economy combined. There are people holding jobs, driving cars and voting who can tell you who was last kicked off of Dancing with the Stars but who wouldn’t know the vice president of the United States if he walked up to them on the street and said something typically stupid and inappropriate.
Put simply, we have lost our minds. But hey, if you don’t like “reality” TV, you can always switch over to NBC and watch people shove a rock around on some ice.
John Mayer
When is this guy gonna shut the fuck up?
Sarah Palin
I am of the opinion that both political parties -- the Democrats and the Republicans -- are nothing more than fronts for corporations who indirectly (and directly, too, I suspect, but I couldn’t prove it) stuff the pockets of politicians with loyalty-buying cash and are designed to keep everybody pissed off and busy fighting while the corporate overlords go about doing whatever the hell they want to do. Both parties accomplish nothing but division, rancor and disinformation and are about as useless as tits on the pope. I point that out only so you’ll know that what comes next is not motivated by any political party loyalty.
Could somebody please stuff an apple in Sarah Palin’s mouth, whip up a nice glaze and bring out the spit? Does this woman have any self-awareness whatsoever? Does she possess so much as an ounce of embarassment or shame? Does she ever stop and listen to what comes out of that inexhaustible mooseburger-hole in the bottom half of her face? Does she even know what a double-standard is? Is her watch broken? Is that why she doesn’t know her 15 minutes are up?
Let’s take a look at the Sarah Palin stupidity tote-board just from the past week or two. Rahm Emanuel, who is not known for his tact, uses the word “retard” in a diatribe and Sarah Palin, who has a son with Down syndrome, demands that he be fired for being so hateful and insensitive. Around the same time, radio comedian and Republican party mind-control czar Rush Limbaugh commends Emanuel on his use of the word “retard” because, Limbaugh says, he was referring to liberals, who are, indeed, “retards.” Sarah Palin says Limbaugh’s use of the word is okay because it was “satire.” Then, when a real source of real satire, the Fox animated series Family Guy, features a girl with Down syndrome who identifies herself as the “daughter of the former governor of Alaska,” Sarah Palin throws a tantrum and claims Family Guy was mocking the fact that her son Trig has Down syndrome. Rather than responding to it herself, she once again shoves one of her children forward to respond for her. She posts her daughter Bristol’s comments on Facebook which slam the folks at Family Guy -- a show that routinely jokes about AIDS, cancer, death, bestiality and pedophilia, to name just a few of its targets -- for being insensitive. While being interviewed by Fox News talking head Bill O’Reilly -- a man renowned for his sensitivity and tact -- Sarah Palin herself calls the Family Guy folks “cruel, cold-hearted people.” Andrea Friedman, the 40-year-old college graduate actress with Down syndrome who voiced the character on Family Guy, writes a letter stating that she was not making fun of Palin’s son Trig, but that she was making fun of Sarah Palin. “I thought the line, ‘I am the daughter of the former governor of Alaska,’ was very funny,” Friedman wrote. “I think the word is ‘sarcasm.’ In my family we think laughing is good. My parents raised me to have a sense of humor and to live a normal life. My mother did not carry me around under her arm like a loaf of French bread the way former Governor Palin carries her son Trig around looking for sympathy and votes.” Now, Palin’s supporters have taken to the internet to say that Friedman could not possibly formulate this statement on her own, what with the Down syndrome and all, and is being used as a pawn by politically motivated manipulators so she should not be taken seriously. So, essentially they’re saying we should pay no attention to Friedman because she’s, um ... er ... retarded.
The fact that Sarah Palin actually ran on a presidential ticket should cause this entire nation to hang its head in shame -- but, then, we still seem to be holding our heads up after Dan Quayle and George W. Bush, so perhaps I expect too much. Palin’s thin-skinned pettiness, her vindictiveness and her outright lies (death panels, anyone?) disqualify her as a person -- male or female -- who can be taken seriously. Her supporters support her only because she is on their team, a member of their political party whom they would support if she stood on her head and said that up was down. Their support is partisan only and intellectually dishonest. She is indefensible.
The Twilight books and movies
If you’re a vampire and you have to sparkle, get a room.
Glenn Beck
Glenn Beck is known for his tearful (to say nothing of paranoid and delusional) speeches on his Fox News show. In this video, you will see Beck posing for photos. Something is rubbed under his eyes to stimulate tears. While he’s waiting for it to take effect, you’ll hear him say, “My eyes are getting used to it.”
Glenn Beck is part of a long American tradition. Guys like him used to be called “snake oil salesmen.” They could also be found setting up large tents in which they held Elmer Gantry-style religious revivals that worked believers into a frenzy and pulled in lots of cash. Beck is the new incarnation of that traditional figure. Rather than selling “snake oil” or religion, Beck peddles the new religion -- angry political discontent (which is perfectly legitimate, until it enters Beck's realm of delusional craziness) and paranoia. He presents himself as the “everyman,” the “regular guy” -- even though he’s worth millions and lives in palatial homes and flies around in jets. He doesn’t come right out and directly say that Barack Obama is preparing to throw us all into concentration camps and build mountains out of the skulls of dissenters, but he poses these ideas as questions, and then says, with boyish innocence, “Hey, I’m just asking questions, that’s all!” Even Beck himself admits that he is a “clown,” that he is nothing more than a “performer.” And yet, millions of full-grown adults watch his show, listen to his radio program, buy his bestselling books, and take him very, very seriously.
I’m scared, Mommy.
Religion
After the recent earthquake in Haiti – which resulted in a death toll that still has not been calculated – televangelist Pat Robertson removed his head from his colon long enough to point out that the Haitians brought this horrible disaster upon themselves by making a pact with the devil and pissing off Jesus. More offensive than this statement -- which, in my opinion, amounted to nothing short of evil, inhumane hatred -- was the response -- or rather the lack of response -- from Christians. Did they rise up in outrage to say that this chuckling douchebag did not represent them? No. They remained silent -- at least until non-Christians voiced their disgust with Robertson. Then the Christians spoke up in protest -- not to protest Robertson's remarks, but to protest the disgust others were expressing. The typical response I got and the typical response I observed in other exchanges went something like this:
“I’m not a supporter of Pat Robertson, but I am a Christian, and I just want to say that he does not represent Christians because all Christians are different and have a wide variety of opinions and viewpoints.”
(That wide variety of opinions and viewpoints was not reflected in the response I heard repeatedly from a wide variety of Christians.)
“Yes, what Robertson said was stupid, but he and his organization did send a lot of money and help to Haiti in response to the earthquake, so at least he’s putting his money where his mouth is, and what have you done for Haiti lately, by the way? I don’t necessarily agree with what Robertson said -- although it is historically accurate -- but I support his constitutionally-guaranteed right to say it. The only reason you’re complaining is that you have a problem with religion, some kind of vendetta, and you’re just bitter and angry, and you should really stop it because it’s very negative.”
Negative, huh? So saying that hundreds of thousands of Satanic Haitians deserved to die because they made a deal with the devil isn’t all that objectionable and is canceled out with some charity work, but voicing any criticism of it is bitter and angry and very negative. Okay.
A common part of these responses from Christians was the claim, “I’m not a supporter of Pat Robertson.” Another frequent comment was a phrase I’ve encountered a lot in recent years: “I’m not religious, but I am spiritual.”
Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. Christians who defend Pat Robertson don’t really support Pat Robertson, so he managed to become one of the richest and most powerful figures in American Christianity with virtually no support from anyone. Also, religion is now recognized as such a bad thing that even believers do everything they can to distance themselves from it and want everyone to know that they are not religious, but they are spiritual, but even though they’re not religious, they think that people who criticize religion are bitter and angry and should shut the hell up and stop being so negative.
Pardon me while my head explodes.
Okay, that's my rant. Feel free to gripe about the things that annoy the hell out of you in the comments below.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
A Corpse, A Cop and Some Canines - Chapter 7
This is my first experience with a blog hop -- a progressive story in which each chapter appears in a different blog. If you haven't read the other chapters, then click on the links below and read those first:
Chapter 1: Alanna Coca
Chapter 2: Dee Carney
Chapter 3: Juniper Bell
Chapter 4: Ann Marie Gamble
Chapter 5: Barbara Sheridan
Chapter 6: Christopher Daley
Chapter 7: Ray Garton
Chapter 8: Heather Wildman
Chapter 9: Saranna De Wylde
Here's my chapter. When you're done, move on to the next chapter at Heather Wildman's blog by clicking the link below. Enjoy!
Chapter 7
Over the years, many people had told Dexter Manning that he had a drinking problem. He strongly disagreed. He was an alcoholic and he knew he was an alcoholic, and he didn’t have a problem with it. Now, as he stood in the woods peering through bushes and branches, he wondered if his drinking had become a problem, because he wasn’t sure if he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.
He’d been watching these people for a little while. He lived on the other side of this patch of woods in what amounted to little more than a shack. He regularly walked through the woods to go to the Hideaway, a little dive of a bar on this side of the woods. He’d left the bar at dusk and had been weaving and staggering his way home when he heard voices. There was never anyone in these woods besides Dex, so his curiosity won out. He’d found the source of the voices and watched from a safe distance.He’d seen the body on the ground. What was left of it. And he’d seen a woman appear out of nowhere. Out of nowhere! Now, having followed some of these people a little deeper into the woods, he saw the body that had just been thrown to the ground from a distance, bloody and ripped open.
Dex watched long enough to determine that what he was seeing was real and not the work of Jack Daniels. He had to report this. He couldn’t ignore something like this going on in what he’d come to think of as his woods. He walked away from the strangers as he removed his Jitterbug cell phone from the pocket of his denim jacket and punched 911. He cleared his throat and hoped he didn’t sound as drunk as he felt.“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”
“Well, it’s like this … “
* * *
“Your friend gave me some trouble,” Xerxes said to Anthony as he approached. “I’ve had a pretty shitty day, so I’m not in the mood for trouble. Okay?” His voice was a throaty growl. He had a broad face with a nose that ended in a fleshy bulb. His ears tapered to points on each side of the floppy knit cap he wore over his thick rusty hair. “This morning, I had to round up some werewolves who were scaring kids at a petting zoo in Arizona. Then I had to deal with a brawl started by a bunch of drunken trolls at a New Jersey flea market. Some smartass vampires got a little fuzzy on the concept of an all-you-can-eat buffet at a crowded Marie Calendar’s in Toledo. Now I’ve gotta deal with you people.” He looked at them, then his eyes settled on Katherina. “I understand this is your doing.”“That body?” she said. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“Not the body. Her.” He pointed to Jessica.“Her?” Katherina said. “She’s a mage.”
“She’s a mortal,” Anthony said. “A dabbler.”The hell hound moved among them, sniffing, watching. As he neared Katherina, she lowered her head, stiffened her back and hissed.
“And you,” Xerxes said to Katherina, “are messing with the Boundary. It’s not the first time, either. You’ve been cited before, and this time, I’m inclined to take you in.”The other wolves were moving in slowly, intensely watching the hell hound. A low growl rose from the pack as they circled the small group, their orange eyes glowing in the dark.
It wasn’t typical for a Boundary Guard to be accompanied by one of the hounds. But then, Xerxes was more than just a Guard. Anthony guessed that Xerxes’s day had been as bad as he’d described and he’d decided that having a hound along would be wise. But it wasn’t wise in the presence of a pack of wolves. They did not get along. Bringing the hell hound was an invitation to more trouble.To the wolves, Xerxes said, “You guys give me any trouble and I’ll have a whole troop of Guards here in seconds and you’ll all face a long detention.”
Katherina yowled piercingly, then hissed. Anthony turned in time to see her swing a paw at the hell hound, which apparently had gotten too close for her comfort. Her claws slashed the hound’s nose. The hound didn’t make a sound, nor did it hesitate. It was on Katherina in half a heartbeat. Its massive jaws closed on her slender neck and it twisted its head with a jerk.Katherina made a sound like a drain coming unclogged as her head flopped to one side and tumbled to the ground. An arc of arterial spray shot into the air as her body collapsed in a limp heap. The hound walked in a slow circle, licking its bloody snout.
Pointing at Katherina’s body, Xerxes said, “That will go into my report as an act of self-defense. It will also make my report a good deal shorter, I’m happy to say. Now. Anyone else want to eliminate some paperwork for me?”The growl from the wolf pack rose as they became more agitated.
Anthony turned when he heard another sound. It came from the road. Cars. He walked up toward the edge of the road and saw the red and blue lights of more police cars. The cruisers slowed to a stop, engines were killed and doors opened. By now they’d seen Anthony’s cruiser and knew he was here. He turned to alert Xerxes, but the little man already knew.Xerxes groaned as he scrubbed a palm down his face. Then he said, “Fuck me with a power tool.”
Heather Wildman is a serious lover of words and wit which led to the birth of Fast Friday. She has several short stories out in one ezine and two anthologies and her novella Ebin's Heart is set to be released through Red Rose Publishing February 25, 2010. She continues our story at her blog with Chapter 8.
Chapter 1: Alanna Coca
Chapter 2: Dee Carney
Chapter 3: Juniper Bell
Chapter 4: Ann Marie Gamble
Chapter 5: Barbara Sheridan
Chapter 6: Christopher Daley
Chapter 7: Ray Garton
Chapter 8: Heather Wildman
Chapter 9: Saranna De Wylde
Here's my chapter. When you're done, move on to the next chapter at Heather Wildman's blog by clicking the link below. Enjoy!
Chapter 7
Over the years, many people had told Dexter Manning that he had a drinking problem. He strongly disagreed. He was an alcoholic and he knew he was an alcoholic, and he didn’t have a problem with it. Now, as he stood in the woods peering through bushes and branches, he wondered if his drinking had become a problem, because he wasn’t sure if he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.
He’d been watching these people for a little while. He lived on the other side of this patch of woods in what amounted to little more than a shack. He regularly walked through the woods to go to the Hideaway, a little dive of a bar on this side of the woods. He’d left the bar at dusk and had been weaving and staggering his way home when he heard voices. There was never anyone in these woods besides Dex, so his curiosity won out. He’d found the source of the voices and watched from a safe distance.
Dex watched long enough to determine that what he was seeing was real and not the work of Jack Daniels. He had to report this. He couldn’t ignore something like this going on in what he’d come to think of as his woods. He walked away from the strangers as he removed his Jitterbug cell phone from the pocket of his denim jacket and punched 911. He cleared his throat and hoped he didn’t sound as drunk as he felt.
“Well, it’s like this … “
* * *
Anthony watched the little man make his way down the hill. The hound followed him slowly, hanging back as its menacing eyes moved across their faces and scanned the surrounding area.
Xerxes walked with a wobbly sway, like a dwarf. But he wasn’t a dwarf. His father was a leprechaun, his mother an elf. Xerxes himself was the Supervisor. His official title was Boundary Guard Supervisor, sort of like the chief of police, but instead of a gun, a taser and a baton, he was armed with magic. It was the job of Xerxes and the Guard to maintain the Boundary. As high priestess, Matsu had a lot of power in the shifter community, but Xerxes’ jurisdiction included shifters, elves, sprites, sorcerers, vampires, and everything else in realm of the immortal, and his authority trumped Matsu’s. The Boundary was the invisible barrier between them and the mortals with whom they shared the planet. The job of the Guard was to make sure the mortals remained unaware of them, to make sure the Boundary remained intact.“Your friend gave me some trouble,” Xerxes said to Anthony as he approached. “I’ve had a pretty shitty day, so I’m not in the mood for trouble. Okay?” His voice was a throaty growl. He had a broad face with a nose that ended in a fleshy bulb. His ears tapered to points on each side of the floppy knit cap he wore over his thick rusty hair. “This morning, I had to round up some werewolves who were scaring kids at a petting zoo in Arizona. Then I had to deal with a brawl started by a bunch of drunken trolls at a New Jersey flea market. Some smartass vampires got a little fuzzy on the concept of an all-you-can-eat buffet at a crowded Marie Calendar’s in Toledo. Now I’ve gotta deal with you people.” He looked at them, then his eyes settled on Katherina. “I understand this is your doing.”
“Not the body. Her.” He pointed to Jessica.
“She’s a mortal,” Anthony said. “A dabbler.”
“And you,” Xerxes said to Katherina, “are messing with the Boundary. It’s not the first time, either. You’ve been cited before, and this time, I’m inclined to take you in.”
It wasn’t typical for a Boundary Guard to be accompanied by one of the hounds. But then, Xerxes was more than just a Guard. Anthony guessed that Xerxes’s day had been as bad as he’d described and he’d decided that having a hound along would be wise. But it wasn’t wise in the presence of a pack of wolves. They did not get along. Bringing the hell hound was an invitation to more trouble.
Katherina yowled piercingly, then hissed. Anthony turned in time to see her swing a paw at the hell hound, which apparently had gotten too close for her comfort. Her claws slashed the hound’s nose. The hound didn’t make a sound, nor did it hesitate. It was on Katherina in half a heartbeat. Its massive jaws closed on her slender neck and it twisted its head with a jerk.
Pointing at Katherina’s body, Xerxes said, “That will go into my report as an act of self-defense. It will also make my report a good deal shorter, I’m happy to say. Now. Anyone else want to eliminate some paperwork for me?”
Anthony turned when he heard another sound. It came from the road. Cars. He walked up toward the edge of the road and saw the red and blue lights of more police cars. The cruisers slowed to a stop, engines were killed and doors opened. By now they’d seen Anthony’s cruiser and knew he was here. He turned to alert Xerxes, but the little man already knew.
Heather Wildman is a serious lover of words and wit which led to the birth of Fast Friday. She has several short stories out in one ezine and two anthologies and her novella Ebin's Heart is set to be released through Red Rose Publishing February 25, 2010. She continues our story at her blog with Chapter 8.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Better Late Than Never: My Favorite Movies of 2009
Normally, I compile a list of my favorite movies of each year. Nothing formal, usually scribbled on a piece of paper during the last week or two of the year and done only for my own amusement because I'm not a professional movie critic (although I'm available if anyone's hiring!). Now I’ve got a blog, someplace to put that list. But I never got around to it because the day after Christmas, I was hit by a hellacious flu bug that I’m convinced was whipped up in a secret subterranean government lab to be used against terrorists. It knocked me on my ass so hard it loosened my teeth and I was useless for nearly three weeks. But I’m recovering, and I’ve made that list of movies.
Most of these lists –- and they are ubiquitous at the end of each year –- are made up of ten titles. I don’t follow that rule because sometimes my favorites of the year include more than ten movies –- like this year. This is not a comprehensive list because I didn’t see everything that was released in 2009. I still haven’t seen some of its biggest movies –- like Avatar, for example, which I’m eager to see, and G.I. Joe, which I won’t see because I’d rather stick my face in a wood chipper. This is just my personal list, the movies I enjoyed most of those I saw, and it is in no particular order.
Taken
This is the kind of movie the great Don Siegel used to make –- simple, lean, focused and intense. Directed by newcomer Pierre Morel and written by Luc Besson (who also produced but was not credited) and Robert Mark Kamen, Taken fits that description. At first, I couldn't quite imagine Liam Neeson being the right choice as a former spy who races to save his kidnapped daughter from human traffickers. Had I been in the position to make that choice, I would have been wrong. This was a brilliant casting move. Neeson is quiet, mean and scary as hell. The movie does not flinch from his rage, which gets pretty bloody and painful.
Star Trek
When it comes to Star Trek, I’m a geekboy. One of my favorite movies of 1999 was Free Enterprise; while I’ve never reached the same geekboy heights (or depths, depending on your perspective) as the two guys in that movie, I can see a lot of myself in both of them. I approached the reboot of the Star Trek franchise with trepidation. The original series features one of the most iconic casts ever assembled in a television show, and the idea of seeing those characters played by new actors was a little worrying. Even more worrisome was the fact that J.J. Abrams was at the helm. I think Abrams has a lot of talent, but I wasn’t sure he was right for this movie, especially when I heard him say –- so many times! –- that he just didn’t care for the TV series and was more of a Star Wars guy. Isn’t that a little like hiring a Muslim to direct a remake of The Greatest Story Ever Told? So I was concerned and cautious.
I admit that I had some fanboy quibbles. For one thing, the more thoughtful –- cerebralish? –- science fiction that made the series stand out has largely been replaced by swashbuckling action. For another, I have a problem with the way Abrams directs fight scenes. It’s like he’s just not sure how to shoot them, so he hangs the camera from a bungee cord and knocks it around like a pinata and calls it good. But these are minor gripes. The fact is, it’s virtually impossible not to get swept up in this big, grand, old-fashioned adventure. I couldn’t quite warm up to Zachary Quinto as Spock, but I think he’ll grow on me. Giving the role of Scotty to Simon Pegg was a stroke of genius –- he and the brilliant Karl Urban as Leonard “Bones” McCoy steal the show. And damn, Zoe Saldana is a luscious Uhura. But I’d sure like to see more of her green roommate.
The Men Who Stare at Goats
Director Grant Heslov delivered the quirkiest movie of the year. Ewan McGregor is reporter Bob Wilton, who is determined to prove to his ex-wife that he’s not a weakling. Bob suspects he’s stumbled onto a big story when he learns of the New Earth Army, a unit that employs paranormal tactics –- and pretty damned goofy ones at that – and he tracks down anyone he can find who was involved. This leads him to Lyn Casaday, played by George Clooney, and into a rabbit warren of weirdness funded by our tax dollars.
The script by Peter Straughan (from Jon Ronson’s book) has a couple of minor stumbles, but it is witty, weird, makes its points without being preachy, and it has plenty of quotable lines to take home with you. Kevin Spacey provides some villainy in a role that, although smaller than usual, is the best one he’s had in awhile. McGregor is typically charming and bright. But let’s face it –- George Clooney is the closest thing we’ve got to an old-fashioned movie star. His performances have come a long way from the vague awkardness of his early work and he now moves through films with a sparkling effortlessness. The Men Who Stare at Goats is a movie in a class by itself, and not only is it an entertaining piece of work, it's based on some actual events.
Up
Has Pixar made a bad movie yet? Have they even made a mediocre movie yet? When I learned the premise of Cars, I was certain it would be their first misfire. The idea of a movie about ... well, talking cars just sounded too silly to work. But Pixar hit the bullseye again, and they just keep getting better. WALL-E was one of the best movies of 2008, and I think Up might be my favorite Pixar movie so far. The thing I like most about their movies is that even if you think you know what one of them is about –- even if you do know –- it never fails to surprise in big ways, and Up is no exception. But this time, I didn’t know anything about the movie except that it involved an old man in a house that flies with help from a whole lot of balloons. That’s my favorite way to see a movie –- cold, with little or no knowledge of what’s in store for me. That’s how I saw Up, and if you haven’t seen it yet, I recommend that you do the same. I’m not going to tell you what it’s about, only that you must see it. Like all of Pixar’s efforts, it is moving without being maudlin –- the first twenty minutes or so had me getting misty-eyed –- as well as suspenseful, exciting, and knee-slappingly funny. I think if Walt Disney were still alive, he’d turn his nose up at most of the work his own company is doing, but lovingly embrace the films of Pixar. They adhere to Disney’s storytelling principles, always have a strong emotional anchor, never condescend to their audience, and manage to be great entertainment no matter what you’re age.
Food Inc.
Just about everything you know about the food you eat and where it comes from is wrong, and if you don’t believe me, watch this infuriating documentary by Robert Kenner. It will change the way you look at and think about the stuff you put in your mouth. Having watched it, I now get pissed off every time I see a commercial for food that shows images of sunny orchards or vineyards or idyllic shots of American farms. Lies, all lies. This movie does what American journalism used to do before it became obsessed with celebutards and their drug overdoses and box office grosses. The simple message is this: Something is very, very wrong in America, and we can’t do anything about it until we’re aware of it. And speaking of American journalism ...
State of Play
With newspapers dropping dead all over the place and TV news now bearing a closer resemblance to Entertainment Tonight than anything that can be called “journalism” without breaking into a fit of guffaws, this movie almost feels like a period piece. When a congressman’s aide is killed in what appears to be an accident, reporter Cal McAffrey (Russell Crowe) smells a conspiracy. Using his old school connections and with the help of new media-savvy Della Frye (Rachel McAdams), he starts digging through the layers of cover-up to get to the truth. I didn’t even know they still made movies like this anymore! Russell Crowe is at the top of the list of great screen actors currently working (right up there with Billy Bob Thornton). He knows how to milk a lot of effect out of the smallest facial twitches and verbal pauses. As Representative Stephen Collins, Ben Affleck is slick and ingratiating. Written by Matthew Michael Carnahan, Tony Gilroy (who wrote and directed 2007's Michael Clayton, which achieved similar levels of greatness) and Billy Ray, the script makes what amounts to a bold and daring assumption these days: That the audience is intelligent and well-informed. With State of Play, director Kevin Macdonald reminds me why I used to go to the movies two or three times a week ... and why I seldom go anymore –- because this is what’s missing from the screen.
I Love You, Man
It’s not easy to capture an authentic, deep friendship between two men. We live in a culture that clings to machismo and also has a filthy mind (not that there’s anything wrong with having a filthy mind). When trying to create –- whether in a novel or a script –- a friendship between two men, you risk offending one with male behavior that (however ridiculously) might be considered inappropriate and triggering the other by suggesting (however inadvertently) a sexual relationship. I think the best example of success at this is the touching and funny relationship between Denny Crane and Alan Shore in David E. Kelley’s astonishingly brilliant TV series Boston Legal. Director John Hamburg’s movie I Love You, Man takes great relish in poking fun at all of this. I expected this to be another juvenile male comedy with lots of jokes about farts, tits and penises –- which is fine with me if it’s done well. But I was pleased to find a comedy that is smart and surprisingly sweet. If Paul Rudd and Jason Segal aren’t paired in more movies, then somebody’s not paying attention to how well these two guys work together. And why isn’t Rashida Jones being prominently cast in more movies? She is a walking, talking cure for the blues who I suspect has more range than she’s been allowed to demonstrate. Male friendship has never been this funny.
Monsters vs. Aliens
Something about the advertising campaign for this movie led me to believe it was going to be aimed directly at young children, but that's not the case at all. If you’re like me and you grew up watching science fiction and monster movies from the ‘50s and ‘60s, then you’ll find a lot to love about Monsters vs. Aliens. It’s a charming romp that will appeal to both kids and adults, who will be laughing at different times and at different things. It’s bursting with references big and small to movies famous and obscure –- the kind of movies that used to show up a lot on Creature Features back when I was a boy hungry for sci-fi, horror, and most of all, monsters. For my money, the green, globulous character B.O.B. steals the show, voiced by Seth Rogen (and it almost makes up for Rogen’s other two movies in 2009, the misguided Funny People and the shockingly bad, confused and brain-damaging Observe and Report). This has been a great year for animation, and Monsters vs. Aliens is one of the reasons. Another reason is ...
Coraline
If I had seen this movie when I was a little kid, I wouldn’t have slept for weeks –- and I would have loved it. As an adult, I still loved it. Based on the book by Neil Gaiman, Coraline is creepier and more disturbing than any dozen recent American horror films, but at the same time it’s funny, charming and visually stunning. It's packed with imagination, wit, and more than a dash of insight into human nature and child psychology. It seems we’ve become so overly cautious and protective of children that we’ve forgotten how strong and resilient they are, and how much they truly enjoy being scared by an imaginative story that speaks to the way they think and live. Neil Gaiman knows this, and so does writer-director Henry Selick. It almost made me wish I had kids with whom I could sit down and watch this wonderful movie. Almost.
Watchmen
In 1989, Tim Burton’s Batman surprised everyone by proving that a comic book hero could be portrayed in a big-budget movie for grown-ups that was dark, brooding and even –- gasp! –- serious. Now that’s the standard and movies adapted from comic books are among Hollywood’s biggest money-makers. Whenever I hear someone mocking the idea of adults reading comic books –- and there are still plenty of those people out there, believe me –- Watchmen by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons is the graphic novel I use to point out why they’re wrong. Zack Snyder’s movie brings it to life and puts it on the screen in a dark, visually rich fever dream of America’s recent history if it involved costumed heroes.
It’s not without a couple of flaws. I found myself wondering if I would enjoy the movie quite as much had I not read the book, which might be a handicap for some viewers. A bigger handicap for me was the flat, emotionless performance by Malin Akerman as Laurie Jupiter/Silk Spectre II. But the movie manages to succeed in spite of that, and for me, it succeeded in a big way. These are not your father’s superheroes –- they are deeply flawed and in some cases unstable people. When you think about, what mentally sound person would don a flashy costume and roam the streets fighting crime?
District 9
This is a movie set in South Africa that features no stars and is written and directed by an unknown. And it’s a dazzling piece of work. I’ve been rather surprised by the number of people I’ve encountered who didn’t like it. With the involvement of Peter Jackson, I expected it to be good, but it was more than that. It blew my brains out of the back of my head and splattered them all over the back wall of the theater. Under the surface, there’s nothing here that’s terribly original, but originality is pretty damned hard to come by these days. What District 9 offers is a strong, deeply engrossing and relevant story, a gritty, documentary-like look that’s all its own, seamless special effects, and on top of all that, it has something on its mind. It’s a great reminder that, when it’s done right, science fiction is a lot more than aliens, spaceships and stuff that blows up real good. The best science fiction is about something –- and I think District 9 is among the best.
In 2009, my number one favorite was a tie between two movies. Here they are:
World’s Greatest Dad
I was not impressed with Bobcat Goldthwaite’s directorial debut, 1991's Shakes the Clown. In fact, after watching it, I was pretty convinced that Goldthwaite would be prohibited –- perhaps even by federal legislation –- from directing anything ever again. But World’s Greatest Dad makes me glad I was wrong. Whatever preconceptions you may have about this movie, I’m willing to bet you’re wrong about it. It’s dark, funny, melancholy, squirm-inducing, and even shocking. Most of all, it’s thoroughly surprising. Robin Williams is a wonderful actor, but the movies he chooses to work in are hit-and-miss, and the misses are often among the most abysmal crap to come out of Hollywood. But the hits are worth the wait because seeing Williams at work with good material is always rewarding. World’s Greatest Dad is among his best movies, and it includes one of his most affecting performances. Trying to summarize the movie for you would either spoil it or make you unlikely to see it, because any attempt to explain it probably would make it sound offensive to many. But it’s not. World’s Greatest Dad is a joyous account of the messy, painful, funny and sometimes horrifying business of being a human being.
Whatever Works
There was a time when a Woody Allen movie was a sure thing. He was turning out one great movie after another. Take the Money and Run, Sleeper, Love and Death, Annie Hall, Interiors, Manhattan, Stardust Memories, Zelig, Broadway Danny Rose –- the list is breathtaking. His body of work is enormous, with his 45th movie (You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger) to be released this year. Any body of work that large has to include some clunkers, and Woody’s is no exception, especially in the latter half. Now going to the latest Woody Allen movie is kind of a coin toss, but I really don’t mind because it means he’s still making movies, and even a weak entry by Woody is better than the strongest work by a significant portion of the filmmakers working today. Whatever Works is his best movie in a long, long time.
Larry David plays Boris Yellnikoff, a morose and curmudgeonly genius whose attempts to convince everyone within earshot that relationships, religion, politics and life in general are all empty and meaningless does not exactly make him a popular dinner guest. Neither does his conviction that only he sees the big picture while all those around him are blind, unthinking, moronic cretins. Despite all of this, we actually like Boris, because there’s probably a piece of him in all of us, and although he may be a downer as a dinner guest, it's pretty hard not to agree with much of what he says. The movie opens with a monologue that Boris delivers to us, the viewers, and that alone is worth the price of admission. We follow him through a wildly unlikely relationship with a rather dim young waif named Melodie St. Ann Celestine, who has left her church-going life of beauty pageants and catfishing in a small southern town to come to the Big Apple and find herself. Instead, she finds Boris –- or, rather, he finds her –- and eventually, they both find themselves. Like life itself, the joy is in the journey. Written by Woody in the 1970s, then dusted off and updated thirty years later, Whatever Works is a delight of memorable characters, hilarious and quotable dialogue, great performances by a talented cast, and some entertaining insight from a filmmaker who seems to have relaxed in his senior years and come to realize that if you’re going to make this one-and-only life worthwhile, you have to find whatever works.
Most of these lists –- and they are ubiquitous at the end of each year –- are made up of ten titles. I don’t follow that rule because sometimes my favorites of the year include more than ten movies –- like this year. This is not a comprehensive list because I didn’t see everything that was released in 2009. I still haven’t seen some of its biggest movies –- like Avatar, for example, which I’m eager to see, and G.I. Joe, which I won’t see because I’d rather stick my face in a wood chipper. This is just my personal list, the movies I enjoyed most of those I saw, and it is in no particular order.
Taken
This is the kind of movie the great Don Siegel used to make –- simple, lean, focused and intense. Directed by newcomer Pierre Morel and written by Luc Besson (who also produced but was not credited) and Robert Mark Kamen, Taken fits that description. At first, I couldn't quite imagine Liam Neeson being the right choice as a former spy who races to save his kidnapped daughter from human traffickers. Had I been in the position to make that choice, I would have been wrong. This was a brilliant casting move. Neeson is quiet, mean and scary as hell. The movie does not flinch from his rage, which gets pretty bloody and painful.
Star Trek
When it comes to Star Trek, I’m a geekboy. One of my favorite movies of 1999 was Free Enterprise; while I’ve never reached the same geekboy heights (or depths, depending on your perspective) as the two guys in that movie, I can see a lot of myself in both of them. I approached the reboot of the Star Trek franchise with trepidation. The original series features one of the most iconic casts ever assembled in a television show, and the idea of seeing those characters played by new actors was a little worrying. Even more worrisome was the fact that J.J. Abrams was at the helm. I think Abrams has a lot of talent, but I wasn’t sure he was right for this movie, especially when I heard him say –- so many times! –- that he just didn’t care for the TV series and was more of a Star Wars guy. Isn’t that a little like hiring a Muslim to direct a remake of The Greatest Story Ever Told? So I was concerned and cautious.
I admit that I had some fanboy quibbles. For one thing, the more thoughtful –- cerebralish? –- science fiction that made the series stand out has largely been replaced by swashbuckling action. For another, I have a problem with the way Abrams directs fight scenes. It’s like he’s just not sure how to shoot them, so he hangs the camera from a bungee cord and knocks it around like a pinata and calls it good. But these are minor gripes. The fact is, it’s virtually impossible not to get swept up in this big, grand, old-fashioned adventure. I couldn’t quite warm up to Zachary Quinto as Spock, but I think he’ll grow on me. Giving the role of Scotty to Simon Pegg was a stroke of genius –- he and the brilliant Karl Urban as Leonard “Bones” McCoy steal the show. And damn, Zoe Saldana is a luscious Uhura. But I’d sure like to see more of her green roommate.
The Men Who Stare at Goats
Director Grant Heslov delivered the quirkiest movie of the year. Ewan McGregor is reporter Bob Wilton, who is determined to prove to his ex-wife that he’s not a weakling. Bob suspects he’s stumbled onto a big story when he learns of the New Earth Army, a unit that employs paranormal tactics –- and pretty damned goofy ones at that – and he tracks down anyone he can find who was involved. This leads him to Lyn Casaday, played by George Clooney, and into a rabbit warren of weirdness funded by our tax dollars.
The script by Peter Straughan (from Jon Ronson’s book) has a couple of minor stumbles, but it is witty, weird, makes its points without being preachy, and it has plenty of quotable lines to take home with you. Kevin Spacey provides some villainy in a role that, although smaller than usual, is the best one he’s had in awhile. McGregor is typically charming and bright. But let’s face it –- George Clooney is the closest thing we’ve got to an old-fashioned movie star. His performances have come a long way from the vague awkardness of his early work and he now moves through films with a sparkling effortlessness. The Men Who Stare at Goats is a movie in a class by itself, and not only is it an entertaining piece of work, it's based on some actual events.
Up
Has Pixar made a bad movie yet? Have they even made a mediocre movie yet? When I learned the premise of Cars, I was certain it would be their first misfire. The idea of a movie about ... well, talking cars just sounded too silly to work. But Pixar hit the bullseye again, and they just keep getting better. WALL-E was one of the best movies of 2008, and I think Up might be my favorite Pixar movie so far. The thing I like most about their movies is that even if you think you know what one of them is about –- even if you do know –- it never fails to surprise in big ways, and Up is no exception. But this time, I didn’t know anything about the movie except that it involved an old man in a house that flies with help from a whole lot of balloons. That’s my favorite way to see a movie –- cold, with little or no knowledge of what’s in store for me. That’s how I saw Up, and if you haven’t seen it yet, I recommend that you do the same. I’m not going to tell you what it’s about, only that you must see it. Like all of Pixar’s efforts, it is moving without being maudlin –- the first twenty minutes or so had me getting misty-eyed –- as well as suspenseful, exciting, and knee-slappingly funny. I think if Walt Disney were still alive, he’d turn his nose up at most of the work his own company is doing, but lovingly embrace the films of Pixar. They adhere to Disney’s storytelling principles, always have a strong emotional anchor, never condescend to their audience, and manage to be great entertainment no matter what you’re age.
Food Inc.
Just about everything you know about the food you eat and where it comes from is wrong, and if you don’t believe me, watch this infuriating documentary by Robert Kenner. It will change the way you look at and think about the stuff you put in your mouth. Having watched it, I now get pissed off every time I see a commercial for food that shows images of sunny orchards or vineyards or idyllic shots of American farms. Lies, all lies. This movie does what American journalism used to do before it became obsessed with celebutards and their drug overdoses and box office grosses. The simple message is this: Something is very, very wrong in America, and we can’t do anything about it until we’re aware of it. And speaking of American journalism ...
State of Play
With newspapers dropping dead all over the place and TV news now bearing a closer resemblance to Entertainment Tonight than anything that can be called “journalism” without breaking into a fit of guffaws, this movie almost feels like a period piece. When a congressman’s aide is killed in what appears to be an accident, reporter Cal McAffrey (Russell Crowe) smells a conspiracy. Using his old school connections and with the help of new media-savvy Della Frye (Rachel McAdams), he starts digging through the layers of cover-up to get to the truth. I didn’t even know they still made movies like this anymore! Russell Crowe is at the top of the list of great screen actors currently working (right up there with Billy Bob Thornton). He knows how to milk a lot of effect out of the smallest facial twitches and verbal pauses. As Representative Stephen Collins, Ben Affleck is slick and ingratiating. Written by Matthew Michael Carnahan, Tony Gilroy (who wrote and directed 2007's Michael Clayton, which achieved similar levels of greatness) and Billy Ray, the script makes what amounts to a bold and daring assumption these days: That the audience is intelligent and well-informed. With State of Play, director Kevin Macdonald reminds me why I used to go to the movies two or three times a week ... and why I seldom go anymore –- because this is what’s missing from the screen.
I Love You, Man
It’s not easy to capture an authentic, deep friendship between two men. We live in a culture that clings to machismo and also has a filthy mind (not that there’s anything wrong with having a filthy mind). When trying to create –- whether in a novel or a script –- a friendship between two men, you risk offending one with male behavior that (however ridiculously) might be considered inappropriate and triggering the other by suggesting (however inadvertently) a sexual relationship. I think the best example of success at this is the touching and funny relationship between Denny Crane and Alan Shore in David E. Kelley’s astonishingly brilliant TV series Boston Legal. Director John Hamburg’s movie I Love You, Man takes great relish in poking fun at all of this. I expected this to be another juvenile male comedy with lots of jokes about farts, tits and penises –- which is fine with me if it’s done well. But I was pleased to find a comedy that is smart and surprisingly sweet. If Paul Rudd and Jason Segal aren’t paired in more movies, then somebody’s not paying attention to how well these two guys work together. And why isn’t Rashida Jones being prominently cast in more movies? She is a walking, talking cure for the blues who I suspect has more range than she’s been allowed to demonstrate. Male friendship has never been this funny.
Monsters vs. Aliens
Something about the advertising campaign for this movie led me to believe it was going to be aimed directly at young children, but that's not the case at all. If you’re like me and you grew up watching science fiction and monster movies from the ‘50s and ‘60s, then you’ll find a lot to love about Monsters vs. Aliens. It’s a charming romp that will appeal to both kids and adults, who will be laughing at different times and at different things. It’s bursting with references big and small to movies famous and obscure –- the kind of movies that used to show up a lot on Creature Features back when I was a boy hungry for sci-fi, horror, and most of all, monsters. For my money, the green, globulous character B.O.B. steals the show, voiced by Seth Rogen (and it almost makes up for Rogen’s other two movies in 2009, the misguided Funny People and the shockingly bad, confused and brain-damaging Observe and Report). This has been a great year for animation, and Monsters vs. Aliens is one of the reasons. Another reason is ...
Coraline
If I had seen this movie when I was a little kid, I wouldn’t have slept for weeks –- and I would have loved it. As an adult, I still loved it. Based on the book by Neil Gaiman, Coraline is creepier and more disturbing than any dozen recent American horror films, but at the same time it’s funny, charming and visually stunning. It's packed with imagination, wit, and more than a dash of insight into human nature and child psychology. It seems we’ve become so overly cautious and protective of children that we’ve forgotten how strong and resilient they are, and how much they truly enjoy being scared by an imaginative story that speaks to the way they think and live. Neil Gaiman knows this, and so does writer-director Henry Selick. It almost made me wish I had kids with whom I could sit down and watch this wonderful movie. Almost.
Watchmen
In 1989, Tim Burton’s Batman surprised everyone by proving that a comic book hero could be portrayed in a big-budget movie for grown-ups that was dark, brooding and even –- gasp! –- serious. Now that’s the standard and movies adapted from comic books are among Hollywood’s biggest money-makers. Whenever I hear someone mocking the idea of adults reading comic books –- and there are still plenty of those people out there, believe me –- Watchmen by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons is the graphic novel I use to point out why they’re wrong. Zack Snyder’s movie brings it to life and puts it on the screen in a dark, visually rich fever dream of America’s recent history if it involved costumed heroes.
It’s not without a couple of flaws. I found myself wondering if I would enjoy the movie quite as much had I not read the book, which might be a handicap for some viewers. A bigger handicap for me was the flat, emotionless performance by Malin Akerman as Laurie Jupiter/Silk Spectre II. But the movie manages to succeed in spite of that, and for me, it succeeded in a big way. These are not your father’s superheroes –- they are deeply flawed and in some cases unstable people. When you think about, what mentally sound person would don a flashy costume and roam the streets fighting crime?
District 9
This is a movie set in South Africa that features no stars and is written and directed by an unknown. And it’s a dazzling piece of work. I’ve been rather surprised by the number of people I’ve encountered who didn’t like it. With the involvement of Peter Jackson, I expected it to be good, but it was more than that. It blew my brains out of the back of my head and splattered them all over the back wall of the theater. Under the surface, there’s nothing here that’s terribly original, but originality is pretty damned hard to come by these days. What District 9 offers is a strong, deeply engrossing and relevant story, a gritty, documentary-like look that’s all its own, seamless special effects, and on top of all that, it has something on its mind. It’s a great reminder that, when it’s done right, science fiction is a lot more than aliens, spaceships and stuff that blows up real good. The best science fiction is about something –- and I think District 9 is among the best.
In 2009, my number one favorite was a tie between two movies. Here they are:
World’s Greatest Dad
I was not impressed with Bobcat Goldthwaite’s directorial debut, 1991's Shakes the Clown. In fact, after watching it, I was pretty convinced that Goldthwaite would be prohibited –- perhaps even by federal legislation –- from directing anything ever again. But World’s Greatest Dad makes me glad I was wrong. Whatever preconceptions you may have about this movie, I’m willing to bet you’re wrong about it. It’s dark, funny, melancholy, squirm-inducing, and even shocking. Most of all, it’s thoroughly surprising. Robin Williams is a wonderful actor, but the movies he chooses to work in are hit-and-miss, and the misses are often among the most abysmal crap to come out of Hollywood. But the hits are worth the wait because seeing Williams at work with good material is always rewarding. World’s Greatest Dad is among his best movies, and it includes one of his most affecting performances. Trying to summarize the movie for you would either spoil it or make you unlikely to see it, because any attempt to explain it probably would make it sound offensive to many. But it’s not. World’s Greatest Dad is a joyous account of the messy, painful, funny and sometimes horrifying business of being a human being.
Whatever Works
There was a time when a Woody Allen movie was a sure thing. He was turning out one great movie after another. Take the Money and Run, Sleeper, Love and Death, Annie Hall, Interiors, Manhattan, Stardust Memories, Zelig, Broadway Danny Rose –- the list is breathtaking. His body of work is enormous, with his 45th movie (You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger) to be released this year. Any body of work that large has to include some clunkers, and Woody’s is no exception, especially in the latter half. Now going to the latest Woody Allen movie is kind of a coin toss, but I really don’t mind because it means he’s still making movies, and even a weak entry by Woody is better than the strongest work by a significant portion of the filmmakers working today. Whatever Works is his best movie in a long, long time.
Larry David plays Boris Yellnikoff, a morose and curmudgeonly genius whose attempts to convince everyone within earshot that relationships, religion, politics and life in general are all empty and meaningless does not exactly make him a popular dinner guest. Neither does his conviction that only he sees the big picture while all those around him are blind, unthinking, moronic cretins. Despite all of this, we actually like Boris, because there’s probably a piece of him in all of us, and although he may be a downer as a dinner guest, it's pretty hard not to agree with much of what he says. The movie opens with a monologue that Boris delivers to us, the viewers, and that alone is worth the price of admission. We follow him through a wildly unlikely relationship with a rather dim young waif named Melodie St. Ann Celestine, who has left her church-going life of beauty pageants and catfishing in a small southern town to come to the Big Apple and find herself. Instead, she finds Boris –- or, rather, he finds her –- and eventually, they both find themselves. Like life itself, the joy is in the journey. Written by Woody in the 1970s, then dusted off and updated thirty years later, Whatever Works is a delight of memorable characters, hilarious and quotable dialogue, great performances by a talented cast, and some entertaining insight from a filmmaker who seems to have relaxed in his senior years and come to realize that if you’re going to make this one-and-only life worthwhile, you have to find whatever works.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The Santa From Hell
“I’m an eating, drinking, shitting, fucking Santy Claus,” says Willie, an alcoholic, thieving, self-loathing department store Santa, as he sits at a bar.
Sue, the adorable bartender says, “Prove it.”
Cut to the parking lot, where we hear Sue chanting, “Fuck me Santa, fuck me Santa, fuck me Santa, fuck me Santa,” as she bounces up and down on Willie’s Yule log in the car.
That’s the kind of Christmas movie Bad Santa is, and if you haven’t seen it and this intrigues you, do yourself a favor – do not watch it on broadcast television or it’ll be a different movie entirely.
Willie (Billy Bob Thornton) is a safe-cracking thief who has an arrangement with fellow thief Marcus (Tony Cox), a black dwarf whose Asian wife Lois (Lauren Tom) is an astonishingly greedy, materialistic woman who cares about nothing but the loot Willie and Marcus can shower her with after their yearly Christmas department store heist. Every Christmas, they go to work in a department store with Willie playing Santa and Marcus his elf. Once employed by the store, they go about robbing it, making off with the money in the safe and all the merchandise on Lois’s long and demanding list.
Marcus is the brains of the operation, but only because Willie is a bleary-eyed drunk. He’s got a really, really bad case of alcoholism. He drinks to numb his feelings of worthlessness, his complete and utter hatred of himself. It’s often said that most alcoholics will not become determined to turn their lives around until they’ve hit rock bottom. Willie hit rock bottom a long time ago and set up residence there. He’s now the mayor. Marcus does not like working with Willie, and he likes it less each year. Willie is unreliable, a constant complainer, and ... well, he’s just not very good company.
“You're an emotional fucking cripple,” Marcus tells Willie. “Your soul is dog shit. Every single fucking thing about you is ugly.” And every word of that is true. But as bad off as he is, Willie is not hopeless. He is still salvageable. And his salvation comes in the form of a morbidly obese little boy named Thurman Merman.
When we meet Thurman, he is walking from the bus stop to the mall with snot running from his nose. He can’t even walk that short distance without being picked on by bullies. He is a magnet for ridicule, and it’s obvious by his reaction to this bullying – which is no reaction at all – that none of this is new to him. He just waddles on, seemingly unaffected as the boys call him names like “dipshit” and “moron,” not even blinking as the leader of the pack says, “Dumbass, why don’t you turn around?” and throws an empty soda can that hits Thurman in the back of the head. He doesn’t even flinch. He has internalized his pain so deeply that it doesn’t even show anymore. Thurman does not need to utter a word to let us know that, even at his young age, he is a battered bundle of hurt. This is as much Thurman’s story as it is Willie’s.
His destination is Willie, the department store Santa in the mall. By the time he gets there, a drunk Willie has had chocolate and snot sneezed all over his beard by a little boy and his foot has been stomped by an unhappy little girl. Children do not react well to Willie’s crankiness. While perched precariously on Santa’s knee, Thurman makes an observation about the droopy, dirty beard.
“It’s not real,” he says.
“No shit,” Willie says. “It was real, but you see, I got sick and all the hair fell out, so I had to wear this fuckin’ thing.”
“How’d you get sick?”
“I loved a woman who wasn’t clean.”
“Mrs. Santa?”
“No, it was her sister.”
Willie is trying to be offensive. He wants to scare this irritating fat kid away and be done with him. But Thurman is undaunted. Without missing a beat, he asks his next question with the same deadpan delivery: “What’s it like at the North Pole?”
“Like the suburbs.”
“Which one?”
“Apache Junction. What the fuck do you care? Now get off my lap. You sit there like a fuckin’ retard.”
“You are really Santa, right?”
Unable to believe the kid is still asking questions, Willie says, “No, I’m an accountant. I wear this fuckin’ thing as a fashion statement, all right?”
Thurman says, “Okay.” He is guileless and trusting, but those traits do not seem to come from stupidity. They come from a heartbreaking need to believe someone, anyone, to be able to trust someone, rely on someone. Anyone. We soon learn that Thurman has no one.
Willie encounters Thurman again in the mall parking lot. The boy interrupts a fight Willie is having with a man he encountered in the bar. Willie drives him home to find that he lives in a nice house in an upscale neighborhood. We learn that Thurman’s dad is “on an adventure exploring mountains” and he won’t be back until next year. And Mommy? “She lives in god’s house with Jesus and Mary and the ghost and the long-eared donkey and Joseph and the talking walnut.” Thurman is so immersed in his own world – the world to which he’s had to retreat to escape the pain and isolation of his life – that it never occurs to him that Willie might not know what the hell he’s talking about. Thurman is taken care of by Grandma, a dotty old lady who apparently does only two things – sleep and make sandwiches. No one else lives in the house. No one at all. Willie’s next question is, “Does your daddy have a safe?”
Willie moves in, drives the car in the garage, and barely tolerates Thurman’s endless questions. The boy follows him everywhere, clings to him like a piece of lint, comes to see him again at the department store. On his second trip from the bus stop to the mall, the same bullies accost Thurman again, this time pulling his undershorts all the way up to his chest in an epic wedgie. The look Willie gives him when he sees this is at once hilarious and crushing. It’s a look that says, How can you possibly be so pathetic? And it’s coming from a man who is so pathetic he can barely stand to live in his own skin. Pity gets the better of Willie and he begins to soften ever so slightly toward Thurman.
Meanwhile, the store’s manager – a stammering, timid, easily embarassed man named Bob Chipeska – is suspicious of Willie and Marcus. But especially Willie. Shortly after hiring them, Chipeska finds Willie having sex with a heavyset woman in a dressing room. He watches their feet under the door as Willie says, “Yeah, baby! Yeah, baby! You ain’t gonna shit right for a week!” When Chipeska nervously tries to let Willie and Marcus go, Willie tells him to reconsider and threatens to stir up a backlash.
“What are you talking about?” Chipeska asks.
“I'm talkin’ about firin’ a little black midget. A colored, African-American small person. That's what I'm talkin’ about. I'm talkin’ about your face all over goddamn USA Today, that's what I'm talkin’ about. I'm talking about 150 of these little motherfuckers all over the sidewalk out there, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Little picket signs, chantin’ and ravin’, and usin’ bullhorns and shit like that. Screamin’ and hollerin’ your name out. Unfair practices. Get me?”
It works, but Chipeska is still suspicious enough to go to the store’s detective, a laid-back, orange-slurping man named Gin. He explains the problem and asks Gin if he can find something on these guys. Gin is happy to oblige and begins to look into Santa and his elf. He learns where Willie is staying, learns that Thurman’s father is doing time in prison for white collar crime and that no one lives at the house but Grandma and Thurman. Gin puts the pieces together, figures out what Willie and Marcus are up to, and sits them down for a talk. He says he doesn’t want to take over, doesn’t want to be involved at all. He just wants half of the take. Marcus argues, tries to negotiate, but Gin is intractable. Half.
This setback sends Willie into an even faster downward spiral. He shows up for work falling-down drunk, wets his pants, and scares away a crowd of kids and parents. Later, Thurman finds Willie sitting in the car in the garage, engine running, a hose going from the exhaust pipe into the car window. A groggy Willie gives Thurman a letter to give to the police when they come to retrieve his dead body. And then Willie notices that the boy has black eye. Cut to Willie in his Santa suit beating the crap out of the lead bully who’s been tormenting Thurman. “You know, I think I turned a corner,” Willie tells Marcus later. “I beat the shit outta some kids today. But it was for a purpose. Made me feel good about myself. It was like I did something constructive with my life, or somethin', I don’t know. Like I accomplished something.”
Willie is right – he has turned a corner. Thurman desperately needs someone to believe in and Willie desperately needs someone to believe in him. Somehow, these two miserable, pain-wracked human beings have managed to find each other. Along with Thurman, Willie has also found Sue, the bartender with the Santa fetish. It was the fetish that first attracted Sue to him, but she seems to see something under Willie’s disgusting exterior that makes her stick around. Gin continues to complicate things – and later, Marcus complicates them further as the story gets even darker.
I often hear how funny Bad Santa is – and it is, that’s true – but no one ever talks about how painful this movie is, and how difficult it is to watch that first time. With its abundance of profanity and its dark tone, it appears to be the ultimate anti-Christmas Christmas movie. But there’s a lot more going on here than foul language and anal sex jokes. I can’t think of any other comedy that contains as much genuine emotional pain and personal anguish as Bad Santa. Willie and Thurman are vastly different characters inhabiting two worlds that could not be more dissimilar. But they are both raw, emotionally crippled, hobbled by their views of themselves and the way others view them, and both are in desperate need of help that they are incapable of asking for.
The first time I saw the movie, I was expecting a raucous comedy. Instead, I was bludgeoned with misery. I recognized that what I was seeing was funny on a certain level, but it was just too painful to laugh at, too raw to enjoy. At first. In part, it was the supporting cast that helped me to get past that pain and start laughing. Their reactions to Willie drew me in. But mostly, it was Terry Zwigoff’s sensitive, astute direction that makes it work. Stories about emotionally crippled misfits are Zwigoff’s specialty. He directed the deeply disturbing documentary Crumb (1994), about the life and family of underground comic book artist Robert Crumb, and the funny, effective movies Ghost World (2001) and Art School Confidential (2006). This movie could have been unredeemably offensive, throwing its obscenities at us for nothing more than their shock value. In Zwigoff’s hands, it is a surprisingly affecting character study, an abrasive comedy that attacks our current celebration of Christmas from a couple of different directions at once -- our greedy, insatiable materialism and our neglect of those among us who are in need, not necessarily of material goods or like food or housing but of emotional nourishment and shelter. In the process, it plays a trick on us – a pleasing trick, but a trick nonetheless. More on that in a moment.
The supporting cast is the Christmas movie equivalent of a box of sparkling ornaments. Lauren Graham, who plays Sue, is such a delightful and appealing blend of wholesome naughtiness that it’s rather amazing that she hasn’t had bigger and more frequent roles in movies. In his last film performance before his sudden death just two months prior to the release of Bad Santa, John Ritter stands out as the milquetoast store manager Bob Chipeska. He’s a squirming, twitching mess, and if given to the wrong actor, the role might have damaged the movie by being overly broad and cartoonish. But Ritter, whose strength was always physical comedy, pulls it off with great ease. His scenes with Gin, the store detective – beautifully underplayed by the late Bernie Mac – are memorable. As Marcus's wife Lois, Lauren Tom is unapologetically grating and despicable. The great Cloris Leachman’s performance in the small role of Grandma is uncredited, but she manages to make the empty-headed old woman not only funny, but somehow sweet and sad. But the performances of the three central actors are what make this movie tick.
Brett Kelly’s expressionless, deadpan performance as Thurman Merman is a small Christmas miracle. Rather than acting and emoting, he seems to be trying to hide from us, to hunker down and go unnoticed through life. It’s a quiet little gem of a performance that helps makes this movie as sad as it is funny, as heartbreaking as it is obscene. As Marcus, Tony Cox is completely convincing and explosively funny. I would advise you to try not to have any food or drink in your mouth when he delivers some of his lines. He has one exchange with Bernie Mac that made me laugh so hard, I missed the next few minutes of dialogue. Willie has shown up for work in a drunken stupor. Gin, the store detective, tells Marcus, “Get him outta here. I’ll go smooth things over with Chipeska. Tell him food poisonin’ or somethin’.”
Marcus says, “What do you mean, get him outta here?”
“Take him to the car.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a motherfuckin’ dwarf. So unless you got a forklift handy, maybe you should lend a hand, hm?”
“Special treatment ‘cause you’re handicapped. You’re all the same.”
“Special treatment? I’m three foot fuckin’ tall, you asshole! It’s a matter of physics! Draw me a sketch of how I get him to the car, huh?”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
“Sketch it up, you fuckin’ moron! Fuckin’ Leonardo Da Vinci.”
“Whatchoo call me, thigh-high?”
“I called you a fuckin’ guinea homo from the fifteenth fuckin’ century, you dickhead.”
“I could stick you up my ass, small-fry.”
“Yeah? You sure it ain’t too sore from last night?”
“You got some lip on you, midget.”
“Well, these lips were on your wife’s pussy last night. Why don’t you dust that thing off once in a while, asshole?”
After “a fuckin’ guinea homo from the fifteenth fuckin’ century,” I was lost, laughing until I had tears in my eyes. Who knew “Leonardo Da Vinci” could be such a funny pejorative.
The star at the top of this Christmas tree is Billy Bob Thornton. As I’ve pointed out in another review, I think this guy is among the very best movie actors working right now. He is able to convey volumes with the smallest touches. He makes Willie tragically human. The pain in his face and voice is palpable. We never learn exactly how Willie got to the depths in which we find him, but it’s all there on Thornton’s face, in his posture and gait, in his voice. Thornton creates a walking, talking, human wound, and he maintains that even while he’s being gut-bustingly funny.
As mentioned earlier, Bad Santa plays a trick on us, a little sleight of hand. One of the tag lines used to promote the movie when it was released in 2003 was, “Get naughty this holiday season.” It was sold as a bitter, foul-mouthed, anti-Christmas Christmas movie, and it delivered on that promise. But at the same time, it fooled us by being everything we expect of a Christmas movie. Under all the rank, obnoxious behavior and language lies a familiar story of two aching lost souls who manage to find a glimmer of hope and redemption at Christmas, who realize that they are worthy of love and acceptance after all, despite all they’ve been told about themselves – despite all they’ve told themselves about themselves.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Christmas Noir: The Ice Harvest
“As Wichita Falls, so falls Wichita Falls ... “
Someone has been writing those words on the walls of men’s rooms in bars, restaurants and strip joints all over the town of Wichita Falls. We don’t know who until the end of The Ice Harvest (2005), but those words are a thread that leads us through this melancholy, darkly comic story of corruption, murder, and quiet desperation at Christmas time. It touches on the ultimate meaninglessness of our existence even as it addresses the importance of self-assessment and personal responsibility.
When we meet Charlie Arglist (John Cusack) on Christmas Eve, he has just stolen over two million dollars from his boss, a local gangster named Bill Guerrard (Randy Quaid), with the help of his friend Vic Cavanaugh (Billy Bob Thornton). Vic decides to hold the money until they can get out of town. In the brief exchange during which this decision is made, we quickly learn that Charlie is a hesitant, reluctant thief who’s not sure he’s done the right thing, while Vic is a cold, hard-as-nails man who feels entitled to the money and possesses not a shred of doubt about the deed, a man who merely tolerates Charlie’s presence in this deal. We know all of this because the scene – the entire movie, in fact – is so brilliantly written and acted that even though everything on the surface is spare and minimal, it reveals volumes of information.
Charlie is a lawyer. A mob lawyer, as his friend Pete Van Heuten (Oliver Platt) is so fond of pointing out loudly and drunkenly when they meet in a bar later that evening. Pete is married to Sarabeth, Charlie’s ex-wife and the mother of Charlie’s two children. It turns out that Pete is no happier with Sarabeth than Charlie apparently was. Charlie drives the drunken Pete to Sarabeth’s parents’ house for Christmas Eve dinner and Pete makes a confession outside the house.
Pete says, “Back when you and Sarabeth were still married that last year ...“
“Uh-huh.”
“She and I were fucking.”
“No kidding,” Charlie says.
“Like minks. Everywhere. Kitchen table, your bed, garage.”
“Wow.”
“Jesus, Charlie we were friends. It doesn’t make you angry?”
“Actually, it makes me curious. Makes me wonder who she’s fucking now.”
There’s genuine affection between these two men, and it’s the most interesting relationship in the film. The scene in the house that follows the one described above is among my favorites, but it’s hard to pick favorites in a movie so full of one memorable, standout scene after another. All movies tell a story of some sort (well ... theoretically), but great movies are made up of outstanding moments. These are the scenes you remember most vividly afterward, scenes that capture a mood, an emotion, or the essence of the entire movie. The Ice Harvest is rich with such moments.
The entire film takes place on Christmas Eve. We follow Charlie Arglist around town as the web in which he finds himself entangled – by his own doing, of course – wraps around him more and more tightly. There’s a great story here. The Ice Harvest is the best crime film to come along in years. But as always with the best film noir – and this is pure, unadulterated noir – it’s not the story that stays with us after the movie ends. It’s the overall mood, the emotions expressed, the things the movie made us feel. For a movie with such a high body count, it’s in the feelings where The Ice Harvest hits us the hardest. And they are not the warm, cuddly feelings we’ve come to expect from a Christmas movie.
Early in the film, Charlie and Pete sit in Charlie’s car at a traffic light and have a conversation about regrets. Charlie says he doesn’t believe in them. He talks about his father and his father’s twin brother.
“Fraternal,” he says. “Looked a lot alike, though, him and my uncle. Different temperaments completely. My father, he's a cop. By-the-book guy. Believed in the law, wanted his only son to be a lawyer. Drank in moderation, didn't smoke. Kept up his life insurance premiums. Voted in every election, not just for president.”
“Lemme guess,” Pete says. “Uncle didn’t vote.”
“He said he didn't want to encourage the bastards,” Charlie says. “In and out of jail from the time he was 16 ... drunk all the time, fucked everything that walked. Won a fortune playing poker, lost it all the same way. Lost an eye in a fight. My father was 54 when he died of a massive embolism, right here in Wichita. My uncle died the very next day in a car wreck in California. So the point is ... it is futile to regret. You do one thing, you do another ... I mean, so what? What's the difference? Same result.”
Just as we quickly learn a lot from the first scene between Charlie and Vic, there’s a lot of information revealed about Charlie here. Is he telling this story to Pete alone? Or is he telling it to himself as well, trying to convince himself that he really doesn’t believe in regrets, that he has none? Throughout the movie, Cusack’s weary, quiet performance is loaded with regret. Even though it’s obvious that Sarabeth is a stone-cold bitch, Charlie seems to regret that he couldn’t make their marriage work. He regrets walking away from his children. He certainly regrets the fact that his son now hates him, and fully understands why. He even regrets being unable to talk his friend Pete out of marrying Sarabeth and knows all too well what Pete is going through now. And he regrets ever stealing that money from Bill Guerrard. This whole movie screams regrets. The only person with no regrets is Vic -- and that says a lot about people who have no regrets.
There is more sterling talent in and behind The Ice Harvest than we usually find in a single movie these days. The script, based on Scott Phillips’s novel, is cowritten by the great Robert Benton, whose writing, producing and directing resume includes such titles as The Late Show, Superman (screenplay only), Kramer vs. Kramer, Places in the Heart, Billy Bathgate, Nobody’s Fool, and another wonderful film noir from 1998, Twilight (not the one about sparkly vampires). The other cowriter is Richard Russo, one of the best novelists working today, who has worked on two film adaptations of his books, Nobody’s Fool and Empire Falls, and also cowrote Twilight and the delightful dark comedy Keeping Mum, among other things. The Ice Harvest is directed by writer, producer, director, actor and comedy god Harold Ramis, whose fingerprints are all over some of the greatest comedies ever made, including Caddyshack, Stripes, Vacation, Ghostbusters, Back to School, Groundhog Day, Analyze This – the list goes on.
From the stars to the supporting actors, the cast is impeccable. John Cusack gives one of his best performances here – wistful, sad, funny. Billy Bob Thornton is, in my opinion, one of the greatest movie actors alive today. He is able to convey so much with so little and is a quiet but powerful screen presence who demands your attention at all times. Equally adept at comedy, menace and even tenderness, I can’t imagine any role that Thornton could not successfully tackle. Here, he is colder than the snow and ice that permeate the film. The counterpoint to Thornton’s bitingly cold performance is the seductive Connie Nielsen. If the act of sexual intercourse could be transformed into a single living, breathing human being, it would be Nielsen in The Ice Harvest. Her smoldering, sexual turn as strip club manager Renata harks back to the steamy femme fatales that were common on movie screens back in the forties and fifties but are so sadly rare today.
As Bill Guerrard, Randy Quaid is big, ugly and menacing. He appears only briefly, but he’s a presence throughout the film, and when he finally steps onscreen, he is everything he has been built up to be. Ned Bellamy is gut-bustingly funny as the angry, violent bartender who says the most obscene things you’ve ever heard anyone say about his own mother (“Shut up, you toothless old whore!”). But even in the midst of all these glowing performances, there is one actor who stands out explosively and steals the spotlight every time he’s onscreen. Oliver Platt doesn’t seem to get a lot of attention, but in the future I think he will be recognized as one of the finest character actors of his generation. As Pete Van Hueten, he’s as angry as he is depressed, as hilarious as he is sad, and he will make you laugh hard.
Be sure to watch the DVD extras. They include two alternate endings. While I understand why the existing ending was chosen – it’s far more commercial, for one thing – I personally prefer either of the two alternates, because both are consistent with the film’s tone throughout, and both – to me, anyway – are more honest and satisfying. There’s also an interesting conversation between Benton, Russo and novelist Scott Phillips about adapting the book for the screen.
The Ice Harvest is more a movie that takes place at Christmas than an actual Christmas movie, but frankly, it’s the kind of Christmas movie I prefer. There is a mood during the holiday season that exists at no other time of the year, and contrary to what the media usually tells us, it is not necessarily a pleasant one. Writer Kate L. Bosher said, “Isn't it funny that at Christmas something in you gets so lonely for – I don't know what exactly, but it's something that you don't mind so much not having at other times.” I like that quote. It captures something most of us feel at Christmas that is so elusive, even Bosher can’t pinpoint it while describing it. The Ice Harvest is a movie that is, in part, about regrets. Wrong decisions. Mistakes made. Because Christmas comes at the end of the year, it’s a time when we tend to take personal inventory. For that reason, I think it’s a very appropriate movie.
The Ice Harvest takes us through a Christmas Eve that is dark, funny, sexy, sad and disturbing. At a time when we’re told we’re supposed to feel warm and happy and generous, this movie asks, What the hell are we doing here and what does it matter? It will make you feel quite relieved that all you have to do this holiday season is spend some time with your crazy family.
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