Indiana Jones and the New Eyes Like Static Post

Brock sits before a computer.

BROCK

WAAA-HOO!!!

Housecleaning

No, this isn't another post about House (don't think I didn't consider tacking something on though). It's a post about something I finally took care of: going down to SCC and getting my diplomas. I let the degrees sit at the school for about three months...mainly because I just kept forgetting about them. And maybe, deep down, I was sort of sad to tie off the last connection to the school.
But, to be honest, it was the most hassle-free experience I've had at that school. I just showed my ID and they brought out three packages - a certificate in film production, a certificate in screenwriting and an associates in applied science. I'm glad to have it done. Now all I have to do is get them framed in some type of foggy glass and then place them up high on a wall so that people will be unable to read them and will instead assume I'm some kind of med school grad or something...

Rox and the Sox

The Red Sox are the new Yankees. In other words, the new team to hate. With their show-off batters and mouthy pitchers, they’ve eclipsed nasty New York. That’s what I’ve read anyway. I really don’t know. I haven’t watched nearly enough baseball to know. What I do know, is that the Red Sox are the much stronger team. This World Series will truly be David vs. Goliath. Will the Rockies keep their momentum and swing the proverbial sling-shot, striking the mighty Red Sox square in the temple? I hope so. (So far, no. It's wierd watching the World Series in mid-afternoon.)

Torture him if you have to

To be frank, I kind of watch 24 every now and then. I enjoyed season 5, but season 6 wasn't too great (I stopped watching about a quarter of a way through). Well, some folks in the U.K. have been given a trailer for season 7 (along with a funny "thanks for watching" message by Kiefer Sutherland). I liked it . It looks like they're trying to revise the show, make it interesting again (although it looks like they're continuing to rip off Die Hard by using its latest sequel).

Hopefully, it'll be a nice distraction come Monday.

It’s the Pineapple

Of all the wonderful and amazing features I could experience in Hawaii, so far, the pineapple rules. Yes, the pineapple. I thought I knew what a pineapple tasted like. Oh, how ignorant I was. I thought pineapples were supposed to be tangy/tarty, unless they’ve been soaked in fructose syrup in a can. But ever since I first sunk my teeth into a Hawaiian pineapple (first night here), I’ve been eating them whenever I can. They are so sweet and succulent. They really lose their sweetness on the trip over to the 48. Okay, the weather and ocean are great too, but the pineapple rules.

Dying would be a great adventure

There are so many tremendous new things happening since I last blogged. I am afraid that I will be given over to hysterics the moment I start talking about all that is neat and new and be branded a histrionic (a label I already desperately need to stay away from). But, c’mon! There is a new Radiohead album out today. In Rainbows! I’m going to write a review for that and some other things this week. At the moment though, I don’t feel comfortable talking about it as I’ve only listened to it one and a quarter times.

So here’s what I’m going to do instead: I’m going to talk about last night’s episode of House.
Before I jump into that, let me note that I haven’t seen the first two episodes of the season due to scheduling conflicts. So kindly get off my back if I say something that sounds ill-informed.

First of all, is this doctor elimination game working for me? Absolutely. How about the new doctors…are they gelling? I think so. They’re both radically different from House’s previous tenants yet they remarkably overlap with a few of their key qualities. Was that done on purpose? This is me, smiling. Still, there are enough shades in these guys to bring out new sides to House. How about the ambitious blond girl? I can’t remember her name, and yes, that’s part of the joke…but I liked her scheming efforts. This is like the most sordid parts of elimination reality shows…but fictionalized, so we’re okay to enjoy it. Right? And in a way, last night’s episode vaguely commented on the price of such games. I.E.: their efforts to get into House’s permanent roster ended up killing a patient.
I really liked that. It worked on two levels for me. One: it showed us how silly this competition is and how ambitious these morons are…and, two: really made House seem petty. Sure, he reversed course towards the end of the episode, realizing it was time to cut the crap and try to save this guy before it was too late. But, this just adds another level of moral darkness to his character. He was always a bastard with some heart…but now? He’s just questionable. While I enjoy the writers showing us how tentative life is on this show, House has to save someone soon. Cause that’s probably the only thing about his character that gives him a permit to do the things he does.

Speaking of which, how about that Joshua moment? What I’m getting at is House electrocuting himself to see God. That was both shocking (if I make light of the pun, does that make it any less clever?) and a little out of hand. I know this show is well beyond reality, but would they seriously let him keep working after having shocked himself like that? I guess after all the crap he has done, that’s sort of a moot point. It would have smoothed the whole thing over though if he hadn’t been okay later on in the episode. Give him a week to recover…last time I checked a week was standard procedure for gunshots, overdoses and accidents.

I like Kal Penn’s immature ten-year-old-boy quality in this show. He’s generally annoying as hell, but herein, he’s annoying in a kind of funny way. I especially like him annoying House.

The new doctors seeking advice from House’s old crew is cool, but enough with the Foreman crap. He’s about as enjoyable this season as a sharp stick to the eye. And this better not become a pattern. The new group is shaking things up plenty, but from here on out, if they want advice, they should go to Wilson. This cast is getting too big for its britches.

And yes, I am a spoiler monger…so I already know which three he picks.

The Eastern Sun: Part 3

If you hit every big eastern city on your way out to the Atlantic coast, you run along a section of the country referred to as BosWash. This is really just the Northeastern Corridor – a collection of cities upon which the fortunes, politics and culture of the United States turns. Some call it the Main Street of America.
For the past month, we’ve been walking up Main Street. Every door here has been opened to us, every light left on. Like a runway, each city represented a light, and all lights led to Boston.
But now, it’s time to go. All lights lead to Phoenix.

Leading up to our departure, we’ve done a bunch of crazy things…

We met Marco in Philadelphia. I think I will remember that moment for the rest of my life – we were sitting in the lobby of an Embassy Suites. The room was amber and filling up with soft-spoken men in business casual. These bastards didn’t mind stealing a few threatening glances our way. And then, the elevator doors opened: there he was. Smiling. The Italian Stallion, the Rooster, by way of Philadelphia.
As Marco slung taunts my way (as he usually does), we barreled down the narrow pathways of the city, eyes searching the misty streets, hoping to find a spot for parking. By the way, driving in Philly is horrible. You have to turn right, stay straight, go back, turn left, pay toll, gas to pedal, approach a barrier, cars whizzing by, lights red, your dash vibrating with an anxious idle. It’s like being on coke and tied down. And the people of the city? They want your blood, man. There is something defiant and snide in their gait. They prowl the street like they own the city, as opposed to other places along the Corridor where the city owned them. It was just big enough to be impressive, just small enough to be manageable. It was a boxer, aglow with gaslight and electric.
We had fantastic Jamaican food while we were there. I had jerked chicken that made my nose run like a decathlon athlete. After sending Josh and Angie to bed that first night, Marco and I toured the city, finally ending up at the Hard Rock café where he bought a shirt for a friend. Apparently, this friend was collecting a Hard Rock shirt from every city. Cross Philly off that list buddy, cause Marco’s got you covered. And we had a drink. And we chatted…about cool things I’ve seen, cool things he has seen. I would never pretend to be an equal to Marco on the world traveler scene, but for once I could sit down with him and have notches on my belt. It was a damned fine drink, that drink.
Following our trip to Philly, we went to New York and saw Times Square and Grand Central Station. Times Square looks like a web site with all the flashing, colored pop-up adds. Grand Central Station looks like an ancient Greek palace submerged beneath the ground, and submerged even further below that palace was the shambled, clattering blood of the city. To say these places teemed with energy would be a cliché, but a well-spoken one. They do teem with energy, but they also teem with a plethora of other things. You fill in the gap with that one.

After getting back to Massachusetts we toured some museums, hit the Cape and prepared for the visit of John Anthony and his friend Aaron. It was as if my time on the East was bleeding like a hemophiliac’s wound. We toured Boston, hit the Green Dragon Tavern (of Paul Revere fame) and spent a day up in New Hampshire at the Highland Scottish Games. That was quite enjoyable. I had never been to a ski resort before, and the games were held on just such a resort, named the Loon. The snow had all melted, but the air was bursting with Scottish geeks. Scottish geeks dress and prance about to bagpipe music much like Lord of the Rings geeks by the way. These two cultures should seriously consider pooling their efforts.
We all went our separate ways at this event, crossing every now and then like fish in a tank. I spent the majority of my time split between the competitions themselves and the bar nestled up in the top of the Loon’s lodge. While enjoying a brew, I heard a tremendous precession thundering below the bar. People started to flock to the stairs to take a quick look. Gleeful cries went up and the sounds grew louder. And then, the bar was being overrun with a full Scottish band. Right there, in the middle of our amber hops, they touched the ceiling for a brief moment. And then everyone bought them drinks. Nice trick…I guess the bagpipes works just as well as the guitar if you’re in the right place.

Some other things happened. Some of it was of interest, some of it wasn’t. At one point or another, I may get around to sharing it. But don’t hate me if I don’t. All that matters is that I am in the 11th hour. All my bags are packed and my seat is reserved. This time tomorrow, I will be atop four wheels that are spinning across the country. In the past 24 hours, I’ve heard that Dave Matthew’s song “Where Are You Going” twice. It plays wherever I am. I have been cut to the quick by the East Coast and I have arrived at some conclusions about where I am going…so to say it was more then a trip would be appropriate. Clearly, it was more then a trip. Why? I got slightly melancholy today as I packed my bags and realized my footsteps wouldn’t clack against the Franklin streets again. But I also feel a new drive. I have to return home. I must melt back into the desert, dented by my dip into the Atlantic.
Did I dent the people here? Am I like a Sanjuro or Blondie, striding into town, making his mark and then taking leave? It’d be arrogant to say yes.

So, yes.

I'll see you in Phoenix

The Eastern Sun: Part 2

Since I last blogged, we've gone to Philly, New York City and Princeton.

Now...you may ask, why Princeton? Ya thinking of enrolling there? Not quite. We went to Princeton to read a few unpublished short stories by J.D. Salinger (of Catcher in the Rye fame). I've been a big fan of Salinger for quite some time and Josh also liked Salinger for Nine Stories. Once I mentioned these unpublished shorts to him, his first reaction was "we gotta go". So...to Princeton we went.
Now, the stories we read were some of his more notorious works. Every Nirvana fan knows the lore behind You Know You're Right and other rarities. Likewise, every Salinger fan knows there are stories out there that haven't been published, germs of ideas remain unseen, yet important to the shape of his entire career. Two of these short stories are The Ocean Full of Bowling Balls and The Last and Best of the Peter Pans. Bowling Balls is about a young, struggling writer, Vincent, who spends a day with his sick, younger brother, Kenneth. The both of them are the siblings of Holden Caufield, the notorious protagonist behind Catcher in the Rye. Regarded as one of Salinger's finer works, Bowling Balls deals with Holden's personal problems, hints at the figure Vincent would become, and displays the mature personality of Kenneth...a character whose presence is deeply felt in "Rye". Yes, as someone said, Bowling Balls is seeped in premonition.

The Last and Best of the Peter Pans was quite humorous. Taking place after the events in Bowling Balls, it details a coversation between Vincent and his mom (an actress) in which the two try to out-act the other. The story plays silly for most of is length...until the end, in which it hits you like a slap in the face. Tragic, dark, wry, this was Salinger at his best. It was like getting a glimpse into his notebook. We were presented with the ideas that would come to shape his entire career. And the effect of reading such works was tremendous.
In order to catch a glimpse at these rare stories, you must go through a procedure at the library: fill out some paperwork, get an ID, and be taken into a backroom where the material is brought to you by an attendant. No pictures can be taken, no notes of any sort written. The room where you read is very interesting...like the office of a law firm. The air is silent and thick. The stories? Stark...violent.

Great as this experience was, it was also heart-wrenching...for there were several more Salinger works contained within the box that we didn't know about. Pans and Bowling Balls are the two most noted of these works, but several others (The Magic Foxhole, I'm Crazy) begged to be read.

Maybe next time.

The Eastern Sun: Part 1

Gabe urged me a few days ago to post, and at his request…here I am.

Actually, he has good reason for asking: I’m currently engaged in a cross-country trip to the East Coast with Josh Provost and his wife, Angie. 30 days 30 states? …Something like that.
We decided to all take a trip through America a few months ago, with the apex of our journey being Josh’s hometown of Franklin, Massachusetts (just outside of Boston). There had been a number of reasons for this adventure: Josh was planning on visiting his family; there were friends along the way he wanted to visit, etc. But the foremost reason for this excursion was probably me. Up until a week and a half ago, I had seen little of the world…actually, little of the country. San Francisco was the only real “city” I had been to. And while Frisco is a visceral, voracious place, there were still great epicenters that blotched the country like juice on a white carpet. There was D.C., Boston and New York City. Yes, I had yet to experience the East Coast. And to be honest...I was undecided on this trip for a long time. I wasn't sure if it was something I wanted to do. Actually, I was probably just looking for a reason to stay in Phoenix. But I found none. With the East calling, I agreed to hit the road with the Provosts. So there – you have the inciting incident. Now, as for the trip itself…

In order to get to the East Coast, we had to drive from Phoenix to Texas, traverse the South, and run up through Virginia and Maryland. Why didn’t we fly? Simply put, I cannot. I have a condition, and I’ll thank you to keep it to yourself. Besides, this route gave us a flavor of the country, be it good or bad.
Actually, it was largely bad. The initial drive, with destinations in El Paso, Baton Rouge, Savannah and elsewhere, was hellish. Texas inspired some of our greatest ire. I swear, never has there been a state so proud and for so little. Baton Rouge and the rest of the South was marked by an amazing, just as you pictured it, swamp atmosphere, but other than that it was largely forgettable. Savannah struck me as a decent enough city to whittle away some time, especially if you know where to go. The trip didn’t really begin till D.C. though.

Washington, D.C.

D.C. was interesting…in a number of ways. First, the people there are hilarious. It’s like the world’s glut of overachievers and bullied kids collected there and formed a playhouse. They all had places to go, things to do…in a very surface value sort of way. The majority of our time was spent at the International Spy Museum, a great place in no way connected to the Smithsonian or other state sponsored museums. Actually, the ISM claims to be overseen by former CIA and MI6 operatives...a claim I believe. There were great artifacts littered throughout the museum (I got to actually see an umbrella gun used by the KGB during the Cold War) and plenty of diagrams depicting actual espionage techniques. One of the cooler diagrams showed a pipe-bug used within a Russian embassy. Basically, the Americans put a bug within the water pipes of a Russian Embassy, which recorded dialogue from within the building and was then flushed into the sewer-system nearby for retrieval. While we haven’t gone to any museums in Boston yet, I imagine the ISM will remain on top for most of the trip. It was one of the better, more comprehensive, engaging museums I have ever been to.

Naturally, since we were in D.C., we also had to see some of the monuments and sites of interest. First off was the National Archives, where we viewed documents like the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. To be honest, I wasn’t as blown away by these as I had imagined I would be. They are incredibly old and deteriorated documents. Most of the ink is nearly gone. Far more interesting, if only for humorous purposes, was a letter sent to FDR by a young Fidel Castro. In the letter, Castro laments his poor English and asks FDR for 10 American dollars green because he has never seen it before. I found the letter oddly precious. The 10-year-old even begins the letter by calling the President “his good friend”.
Absolutely devastating was the Lincoln Memorial. We saw it at twilight…and it was quite impressive. The inner-chamber where the statue is kept was far more immense and elegant than even the chamber for the “Documents of Freedom”. You feel both puny and empowered within this massive room. Also great was to sit on the steps leading up to the statue and look out over the National Mall as it lit up to the rising night.

The day after D.C. we drove across the toll-infested Eastern Highways to get into Franklin, Mass. It was weird to hit places like Philadelphia, New York and Baltimore all within hours of one another…but that’s how close everything is over here.

New York City

The next couple of days, Josh was recovering from a cold, so we kind of played it easy. After he recovered somewhat, we hit New York City. My feelings on New York City are like those towards a supermodel: you immediately fall in love, partly because of reputation, largely because of surface beauty. It’s a guaranteed love, for nearly everyone. Oh…it’s such an ugly leviathan. I never imagined enjoying any place as much as San Francisco…a simple, grand enjoyment of just existing within its atmosphere. But I felt that enjoyment in New York City.
We were there on September 11th, so you can imagine the events going on in the city that day. It was crowded and somber. In Battery Park there was a memorial laid out for the fire fighters who gave their life in the towers. Eerie and simple, this memorial featured the boots of all the dead lined up along a patch of grass within the park. Some boots had names written alongside them, likely so their owners would never have to take someone else’s boots out of the station locker. Here, they stood as our only knowledge of the person who had inhabited them.
The New York City subway was also energizing. A shambles, the sub rickets along through the bowels of the city like some kind of virus working its way through a bloodstream. I wasn’t amazed by how sprawling it was, but by how slapped together it seemed in comparison to the Metro in D.C. It wasn’t about glamour…just getting there.

Boston

Yesterday, our first day back into Mass, I hoped onboard the commuter T and went into Boston without Josh and Angie. They were both still recovering from the trip to NYC and I was anxious to get a glimpse of New York’s next-door rival.
To be honest, I was actually a little unimpressed by the city…at first glance. After spending a few hours walking around, its character starts to seep into you though. Not nearly as boisterous or as in your face as NYC or SF, Boston is subtle and takes time to appreciate. Built on education and rebellion, the city feels mannered and hidden. Pubs line nearly every block and unlike D.C., the rushed here seemed to actually have reason for the rush.
Being built on education and knowledge provided an interesting bookstore subculture to the city…as soon as I was out of the South Station I ran into the Brattle Bookstore where I found several older volumes for sale at the bargain price of $5.00! Yes, Boston breathes a rarified book culture. Old and out of print volumes fetch high-prices in stores everywhere. From the bargain bin I fetched a thick volume of short stories by Rudyard Kipling.
The highlight of the day was hitting a pub on the outskirts of Chinatown (odd, I know). Its owner was a rotund Chinese guy with blunt manners. When I first got into the pub, I had to hit the bathroom, so I quickly told him I would order a drink as soon as I used his facilities. He replied, “Hey, you can do anything you want, just so long as you flush”. When I asked him for Guinness, he tartly said, “Nope! Don’t have it!” After naming some drinks, he finally piped up a “yep!” for a gin and tonic.

In closing, I have to admit; it’s hard being away for so long. I feel like my normal routine has been interrupted and I must create new ones to live each day by. That’s probably good though…I need some upsetting in my affairs. I’m also sure I’m starting to get on Josh and Angie’s nerves. Maybe I’ll need to hop on a commuter rail again soon and do some more exploring. Ta…

P.S. I'll post some pictures soon!

Forgotten Songs

I was cleaning up my computer the other day, deleting a lot of old files, when I ran across a few old recordings. I almost deleted them as well. But, I decided to expose a couple, in their very imperfect form, to the public. Just for the heck of it. Keep in mind they're a few years old, probably first takes.

Untitled
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Next up

Rescue Dawn is next...I probably won't be writing reviews for other flicks, so I'll try and compose a detailed summary of the film and its creator, Werner Herzog.

Reviewsday (Part 2)

I won’t have time to write lengthier reviews of Ocean’s 13 and The Namesake as I had hoped, but I thought a quick summary of my impressions might be in order.

• Ocean’s 13: By far, an improvement upon Ocean’s 12. Although the heist is somewhat far-fetched (even for an Ocean’s film) it’s still enjoyable and funny. A real standout of the picture is a subplot involving Casey Affleck in a dice factory down in Mexico: despite being there simply to rig a set of dice used in the final scheme, he and other characters become drawn into a worker revolution. This part of the film is hilarious. And, as usual, the cinematography, art direction and editing are all top notch…possibly the best all year.
  
  

  
  
  

• The Namesake: One of the stronger films of 2007. Spanning the life of an Indian family in America, The Namesake takes a delightful amount of time to carefully develop and reveal its characters. Beginning with the marriage of a husband and wife in India, it spans all the way to the collapsed marriage of their son in America. The second half of the film is somewhat difficult to navigate. This is largely because a character played by Kal Penn (Gogol) stands as one of the most annoying and selfish characters in recent memory. Couple that with an already annoying and self-absorbed actor and you’ve got a tedious 30 minutes or so to plod through.
  However, the first half of the film, between Irfan Khan and Tabu, is unbelievable. Both deserve nominations, as does the understated, but strong direction of Mira Nair.

Reviewsday

Michael Bay's Transformers

You’re in your office, chugging down a cup of coffee when your partner pops in: “Room 2. You gotta hear this”. In a flash you’re behind a bright lamp and before a seedy “perp”. He spins you his story, laying down a series of events and insisting that this is how it “really happened”. But you’re not convinced. So you get up and head next-door, coming face to face with his partner in crime. And you’d better believe he has his side of the story to play.
Watching the Michael Bay directed and Steven Spielberg produced Transformers is faintly akin to this experience. There is more here then meets the eye. Up front we have director Michael Bay’s Transformers, and hanging in the rear is producer Steven Spielberg’s Transformers. And unfortunately, only one story is true…only one film is “right”.

Bay’s Transformers revolves around Josh Duhamel and his motley crew of soldiers, battling Decepticons in the Mid East. Like the original series, it isn’t really much more then a trumped up commercial (this time to get kids to join the Army). But to be fair, there is an overarching plot: These lone American troops must trudge through the desert with a Decepticon hot on their tail and attempt to reestablish communications with the military.

Okay, Now…

Spielberg’s version of Transformers focuses upon Shia LaBeouf as a young teen recently in the market for his first car. After wheeling and dealing with his dad and attempting to pawn off some old crap his grandfather left behind, he comes into possession of a transformer masquerading as a second generation Camaro.
While the two stories eventually cross paths, there are still some very distinct qualities to both.
Bay’s Transformers is not unlike his other works: it has an inhuman feel to it. It’s loud. And it’s expensive-looking. Its coldness is faintly covered up by shallow, canned moments like Duhamel telling his wife how much he misses her. Such humanity is secondary in a juggernaut of explosions, characteristically tied together by a vague patriotic air.
The second half of the film, Spielberg’s version, plays upon a set of clichés every bit as distinct as Bay’s: An idealistic male is trapped in a world that doesn’t quite accept him…that same kid “transforms” into a hero through his special bond with a mysterious power. Why, there are even embarrassing moments with the parents. It’s great. Throw in a shark and we’re there.

With such distinctions I think the best way to illustrate the winner is by contrasting two similarly themed scenes - At the start of the flick, Duhamel and his characters get a first glimpse of a Decepticon as it trashes the base they’re operating from. Their reaction is shock, terror and amazement. Sort of.
The way Bay presents that moment is pretty broad. We’re treated to more shots of the base exploding and people dying than reactions and personalities of this small unit.
Contrast that with the reactions given when LaBeouf’s character along with his romantic interest (played by Megan Fox) discovers that LaBeouf’s car is a massive robot. There isn’t nearly as much fan fare as with Duhamel. Instead, there is a quiet scene where the two characters are driven home by the transformer. Fox’s character, afraid to sit in front with a steering wheel that is steering itself, instead opts to sit on LaBeouf’s lap.
It’s a nice little moment…it’s a Spielberg moment. You get a very personal scene where the heroes learn about this great alien force, and while they’re at it, there is some romantic tension.
What I’m driving at here, if you haven’t guessed already, is that some of this movie works *cough*Spielberg*cough* and some of it doesn’t.

…

And just sitting in the audience, you felt the half of the story dealing with LaBeouf worked, while the half focusing upon government decryption, battles in the desert and a very unfortunate showing of Jon Voight, didn’t.
Sure, even I can admit that gigantic robots raise a film to a level where you just stop talking about the story and start ogling how “bad ass” everything is (A particularly exciting sequence has one transformer chasing LaBeouf and Fox down a winding L.A. freeway, only to transform mid-chase into a robot and continue the pursuit on-foot). And don’t think they miss the opportunity to play up some of that nostalgia either. When the robots transform, there is that delightful surge of electronic noise. Robots and humans alike are given cartoony dialogue. And YES, Peter Cullen is the voice of Optimus Prime.
Unfortunately, the film is thick. Very thick. There is a good 40 to 50 minutes that don’t need to be here…and I think you’d get a sense of what I’d cut out.
The script? Basically nothing more then a harvested version of the Independence Day script. The acting? LaBeouf and Cullen are pretty much the best in that regard. Fox was adequate, but I suspect she slept with Bay to land her role. The rest of the actors range from maudlin to poor. Several characters for that matter seemed extraneous: we’ve got about 9 major players, not counting the transformers, who each get considerable screen time. Truthfully, this film only needs about 5 major characters.
Aside from all that, the film is still quite a spectacle. It’s worth your cash on technical merits alone. And while Michael Bay isn’t hitting the set with All the President’s Men in his repertoire, this is the best film he has produced. Hell, at the least, I’m sure it’ll be on Criterion.

Michael Moore's Sicko

A plethora of “politicos” claim disdain for Michael Moore. On what basis? On the basis that he is a bad filmmaker. They say he’s manipulative, simplistic and divisive. Personally, I think such claims are true, but does that mean he’s a bad filmmaker?
Actually, no. These complaints only prove that he’s a pretty damned good filmmaker.
With documentaries like Roger and Me, Bowling for Columbine and Fahrenheit 9-11, Moore has successfully employed a number of filmic devices in an attempt to manipulate the emotions and opinions of his audience. Wrong? Perhaps. But, the fact that he is highly successful at it only cements him as one of the better filmmakers working today.
Still, Mr. Moore took a cue from his detractors when he set out to make Sicko, his first attempt at a crowd-pleaser (if such a denomination could be applied to his works). Rather than resorting to confrontational rants on camera, Moore focuses his efforts towards a series of stories about individuals who suffered as a result of the flawed health care system. And while he finally does appear on camera to examine the health care of other countries, he is less venomous then his previous incarnations. Yes, this is Michael Moore trying to relate to everybody.
And I do think it pays off.
With Sicko, Moore has created his most enjoyable film to date. Crossed with a playful sense of humor and tragedy, Sicko is a story that affects everyone, in this land and in others. Fittingly therefore, the film takes no outright political stance in presenting its opinions. It simply gives us the human side of this charged debate. Ludicrous examples of a man having to decide whether or not to reattach his ring finger or his index finger are juxtaposed against somber tales like an aged couple having to move into their daughter’s storage room after losing their house to medical bills. It’s mildly exploitive, sure, but it’s still just people telling their story into the camera. With these stories and others, Moore manages to present a very convincing argument against the American health care industry…an industry he colors as greedy and defrauding (although, with Nixon backing privatized health over secret audio recordings, such an industry paints itself as greedy regardless of Moore’s help).
And then we get on a plane to Europe. It is at this point when the film takes a turn for the worse. Colorful jaunts through the City of Lights have Moore popping into hospitals and pharmacies and asking how much this treatment costs, how much that drug will set him back. And the answers are all the same: Nothing.
I half expected Moore to look into the camera at one point and exclaim, “Golly!”
Instead, he continues his trek through various countries, running fast and loose with the facts in an attempt to glaze over possible downsides (such as taxes, dated equipment and long waits).
Unfortunately, this portion of the film is far less convincing then the first half. And why wouldn’t it be? Michael Moore talking to zoned out hospital attendants just doesn’t fly as well as documented facts on American politicians and their HMO's.
The height of Moore’s fantasy presentation of foreign healthcare comes with a trip to Cuba. When he arrives, he manages to get his sick friends decent treatment. I wanted to practically stand up in my chair and scream, “You’ve got to be kidding me!" The whole thing feels staged and phony.
The final gem comes when Moore learns that his strongest critic is forced to shut down his Anti-Michael Moore website in order to pay for his wife’s health care. “Generously”, Michael steps in by signing an anonymous check to keep the hate flowing.

Riiight…

Sicko ultimately isn’t real. It isn’t sound. What it is is an enticing argument against a flawed system, one that should be considered by all people, regardless of political views or lack thereof. Yes, it is manipulative work. It is part of a long line of manipulative works that Moore has presented in an attempt to change the latest injustice. That’s all true and that’s all irrelevant. What you should be asking yourself is “Will he accomplish anything with Sicko?” I hope so. This is a flawed, but important collection of alarming truths about a system claiming to have your best interests at heart.

Yippie Ki Yay!

One last hurrah; I think that’s an apt name for a trend currently making the rounds in commercialized film. Disappointed with the performance of half-baked productions, Hollywood has turned, in its moment of need, to characters previously thought buried for good. Most producers and directors claim their motives for such resurrections are noble. It’s clear however that this recent trend of old franchises is nothing more then an attempt to grasp at past glories…a need to restore profits for billion-dollar “strategic misfires”. Yes, these so-called triumphant returns are thin (Rocky Balboa anyone?). Beyond that, few make sense. And for those of you thinking that’s where I’m going with this review, allow me a moment to clarify:

The return of Die Hard makes perfect sense.

Showcased in numerous film school curriculums, played eternally on basic cable, the original Die Hard remains the template for all high-octane action adventure films. Revolving around a New York City Police Officer trapped in an L.A. high rise, Die Hard has been copied again and again by filmmakers. Even one of television’s most popular shows, 24, remains a loving, yet outright replica of John McClane’s adventures.
That is why I not only believe that “Live Free or Die Hard” makes perfect sense, but also shocked that it hadn’t been generated sooner.
Opening on an act of computer terrorism against the United States, Live Free dials immediately into John McClane as he attempts to reconcile with his disenchanted daughter, Lucy. Failing to win back her trust, McClane proceeds with the task of apprehending computer hacker Matt Farrell (Justin Long), only to be attacked by the very terrorists menacing the country. From then on, Live Free makes the wisest decision any film in its position could make: it never lets up.
Various Helicopter attacks, gunfights and explosions all build to a tremendous conclusion that makes the stakes higher and deadlier for McClane and his weary sidekick. This fast and furious pace is pulled off because of an ingeniously simplistic plot.
Okay. Are you ready for it? Cause I’m going to tell it to you. Here it is: McClane has to stop the terrorists.
I know! After films with alien goo and double (not to mention triple) crosses, I’m amazed to find a movie where the action boils down to the straightforward concept of a good guy simply trying to stop a bad guy. To be fair, McClane is given a very personal motivation later on in the film. But even then, the plot is largely straightforward. There are no double-crosses, no stories within stories. It’s a resurrection of the original Die Hard, albeit on a much grander scale.
Now, is it as sharp as the original, as innovative? Not by a long shot. It’s simply well built and deliciously unpretentious. Aside from that, the action is pretty ludicrous and the various challenges far-fetched. At one point McClane manages to outrun a fighter jet on a crumbling freeway, only to jump out of his wrecked vehicle and onto the back of the aircraft pursuing him. It’s…funny.
Aside from defying the laws of physics, the film turns in plenty of quotable lines and shocking deaths. Those concerned that the conscious decision to take the film from an R rating to a PG-13 need not worry…the action is still very intense and gruesome. McClane even manages to get off his trademark phrase before the film winds down.
More disquieting is Willis’ turn as McClane, which ranges from “phoning it in” to “quiet and assured”. While he remains likable for most of the film, it’s easy to see he’s just relying on his natural personality to keep the story afloat. Still, it’s all fine and good. Even Justin Long.
If I could have placed a surefire bet, I would have bet he would be annoying as hell in this flick. Guess what? He’s not. He’s actually kind of likable. Towards the end, I was even pulling for him to survive the villain’s wrath. Far more likable is Mary Elizabeth Winstead as Lucy Gennero (today its Lucy McClane). She’s volatile as McClane’s far from helpless daughter. Even Timothy Olyphant, an actor I normally dismiss, pulls out a dangerous enough baddie for McClane and Long to fight. Of course, he doesn’t match up with Alan Rickman’s performance in the original flick…but who does?
At the end of the day, Bomback and Wiseman both make few changes to the original formula. Instead, they simply satisfy themselves with making an action film that is louder and bigger, yet still personal enough to engage viewers on a deeper level. I’m very tempted to make Live Free or Die Hard a close second to the original.

In a Hollywood where tons of grounded franchises are given license to play again, Die Hard was the only film series I felt truly deserving of another chance, especially in world where every script is more then a winking facsimile of McClane’s first adventure. After having seen Live Free or Die Hard, I get to add a new side to that statement: it’s also the only film series that made good on its promise of a triumphant return.

Rise of the Adequate Sequel

In 2005, Tim Story released Fantastic Four, a movie about Marvel Comic’s first dysfunctional family. Originally a comic by Stan Lee, The Fantastic Four followed the adventures of a tightly knit group of scientists who were given superpowers by cosmic radiation. Story’s interpretation was largely faithful to the comic. Unfortunately however, the movie itself was a lackluster affair: there were some truly brilliant moments, but they populated a largely uninspired, formulaic screenplay. It was…(please forgive me) less then fantastic.

The film was a success however and Tim Story has followed it up with Rise of the Silver Surfer, the second installment in the Fantastic Four franchise. This time around, Story has not just the original characters to play with, but also the film’s antagonist, the Silver Surfer, a tremendous comic book icon in his own right. Given the failings of the past film, can Story and his crew manage to deliver a stronger film this time around?

Without immediately pointing out the movie’s failings, I think it’s safe to say that Rise of the Silver Surfer is probably this summer’s first truly entertaining flick. Otherwise? It’s adequate enough.
Undoubtedly, the film’s key strength lies in its running time: a cool 90-minutes. That means while the film might not be the most intellectual of affairs, it doesn’t quite hang around long enough to pretend otherwise. And in a summer littered with over-stuffed sequels, that’s kind of nice.
The film is also benefited by the charisma of Chris Evans, Michael Chiklis and Loan Gruffudd. Evans and Chiklis in particular seem to be having a tremendous amount of fun playing these characters. They’re both very infectious and the film really soars because of them. Story’s interpretation of the Silver Surfer, voiced by Lawrence Fishburne, is largely the same as in the comics. Cold, emotionless, the movie’s Surfer is pretty much what he should be…a dangerous servant tasked with a less then enviable job.

So there you go.

That dear reader is where the virtues of the film end. Otherwise, a number of poor choices carry over from the first installment and prevent this film from rising above its ilk. Chief amongst those flaws is the direction of Tim Story and the writing of Don Payne and Mark Frost.
Let’s start with Story. Now, while the film has a nice shot flow, I couldn’t help but feel it lacked an artistic style all its own. Story just doesn’t seem to have the balls or confidence directors like Bryan Singer or Sam Rami do. His interest lies in making sure the film is understandable and the screen direction clear, but as a director, that’s about as far as he’s willing to go. And in a film bestowed with such rich origins, it’s sad to see its director endowing the material with the mechanized style of a block-picture family comedy. Maybe next time around he can take a few more chances with his camera.
As for Payne and Frost, the two do a good enough job handing in a tidy screenplay, but there are a few points that could have used a quick rewrite before production. One gripe for me lies in the film’s dialogue: The lines needed to be sharper, snappier and quicker. As it is, banter doesn’t play much better than a Saturday morning cartoon.
And then we have the collaborative efforts of Frost, Payne, Story and actor Julian McMahon to sabotage the character of Victor Von Doom.
Doom just doesn’t work.
He’s sniveling, he’s smarmy…he just isn’t a credible threat to these characters.
Far more interesting would have been Stan Lee’s original interpretation of the character (which gave George Lucas most of his inspiration for Darth Vader). What’s worse is that McMahon seems to be stuck in jackass mode thanks to his work on Nip/Tuck. It’ll be real interesting to see if this guy avoids typecasting in his later years.
Still, he doesn’t deaden the screen as wholly as Jessica Alba. Her Sue Storm is about as exciting as a trip to the box factory. To be fair, these actors play their characters as a type; Evans is a hotshot, Chiklis is a big softie and Gruffudd is socially challenged. While that isn’t incredibly deep, it is appropriate to the material. But the key is that they’re all empathetic in their own way. Alba however, seems to be stuck on grating deadweight mode. While it is a type, it’s the most loathsome of types (it makes her as likable as a trip to the dentist). I’d pin a “too pretty to know better” charge on her, but she was smart enough to pick-up what the other actors were doing that she should have known better.

All in all, Rise of the Silver Surfer manages to fly by as an entertaining flick and nothing more. In its defense, it never had to be anything more. In fact, the film could have raised itself to the punchy status of Spider-Man 2. As it is, it doesn’t quite earn the title of fantastic…no, in the hands of Story and his team, we’ve got the Adequate Four.

SSC trip, Day 4

Looks can be deceiving. Yes, that is the first catch of the trip for me. But that hand is of the largest man in the world! And his hands are huge! Okay, that's my hand. Actually, I was quite surprised to catch anything at all. The Yampa river is running high and fast and I just stopped by for a quick fish. It was a nice surprise to hook one.

Today is cloudy and it rained in the morning. If it stays dry, we might take Zoe to a pond and try to get her a fish. We bought her a little fishing pole yesterday.

I plan to make a whole day of fishing on Thursday, possibley traveling North a little to the Delaney Buttes area. Tomorrow, we want to take Zoe for a pony ride.

Steamboat Springs, CO - 2007

The above photo was taken a few minutes ago, from the patio of the condo we're staying at. Temperature is in the 70s. Ah, so nice!

The fam left Saturday morning, not as planned. Zoe woke up sick. Stomach virus sick. Poor baby threw up a couple times. Figures! So, due to tending to Zoe not feeling well, we didn't leave until much later than we planned. The goal was to leave between 8:00 and 9:00 in the morning, but ended up being after 11:00. Thankfully, she fell asleep soon after and got some needed rest. However, when she awoke, sometime before Flagstaff, she didn't look so good. After stopping for gas and a bite to eat, we were just about to leave town when she got sick in the car. We had to stop for clean up. It was a bit tramautic for her.

Rebekah sat in the back with her and she got sick again somewhere in Northeast Arizona. Bekah was able to handle that without us having to stop.

We made hotel reservations at the halfway point of the trip, Monticello, UT at a Best Western. The town was quaint and the hotel was nice and clean.

We ate at a little place within walking distance called PJs. It appeared to be converted from a church, and I unfortunately didn't get a picture from the outside or within the main eatery. They also have four billiards' tables. Zoe didn't get sick from dinner so we thought we were in the clear. But in the morning she had one last go around, including some projectile. Amazing! I've never seen it in person.

We then made it to Steamboat with no problems. We did make a brief detour in Craig, to drive by my old childhood home.

Hopefully, pictures of BIG trout to come!

Next Up...

Review sometime later this week...

Bloated

At World's End and Spider-Man 3: REVIEW

By now, there have been thousands of reviews that have dissected the original Pirates of the Caribbean; each trying to understand what made it successful...what made it work. Most conclude that it was Johnny Depp’s vivacious performance. While that certainly remains a factor, part of the charm lies in the script’s simplicity.

It’s amazing to me how clear each character was. Even Depp’s Sparrow was driven by a lucid motive: he wanted a boat. True, the boat symbolized freedom…but still, the character’s drive was so easily understood that the cogs of his deception remained themselves understood.

Such is not the case with “At World’s End”.

When I sat down to write this review, I could not decipher a logline for the picture. I couldn’t even muster a through-line. Here’s what I do know about the film: it involves pirates and the East India Company and at one point there is a spectacular battle in the middle of a whirlpool. But taken as a whole, this movie is a complete mess.

To me, the problem lies in the charm of the original. Yes, Depp’s performance was brilliant. …But his motive? That was sublime. There is no such motive in “At World’s End”. 70 percent of the time, the actors don’t even seem to know where the hell they are. The original had a simple through-line (save the girl, get the boat). “At Worlds End” offers a contrived myriad of counter attacks and backhanded maneuverings, all derived from no motive other then Disney’s motive to kill 3 hours.

Yes, the film is roughly three hours. Why, I don’t know. A coherent storyline doesn’t materialize until the final twenty minutes of the film…and when it finally does materialize, it sucks anyway.
Plus, two of the film’s thespians offer up some of the most painfully earnest performances you’ll ever see. Can you blame them? They probably thought they were on the set of Lawrence of Arabia.

Another film to suffer from such glut is Spider-Man 3.

Directed by Sam Rami, Spider-Man 3 revolves around the idea of revenge. Mysteriously bestowed with a clingy alien tar, Peter Parker sets out on a quest of revenge against the man who murdered his uncle. At the same time, Harry Osborn sets out on his own quest for revenge against Peter. Additionally, Peter feels he’s ready to ask Mary Jane to be his bride. Also, the guy who allegedly killed Peter’s uncle turns out to be Sand Man, and he himself is on a quest to put his daughter through a much needed operation. Furthermore, the damn movie clocks in at two and a half hours.

Rami always danced close to the edge of bloated. In Spider-Man 3, he finally tosses aside reason and super sizes his franchise.
Why this has become such a trend in big budget sequels, I don’t know. (Perhaps they’re compensating for the insane ticket prices). In any case, I would think the inclination would be to streamline these franchise films into simpler, 120 minute flicks. It’ll save story for possible sequels and allow more show times to be booked. But damn it, there’s Rami, pissing out more plotlines then you can shake a stick at.
And yet, I have to give him more credit then the group behind “At World’s End”. Despite bursting at the seams with story, Spider-Man 3 does balance its load far more gracefully then the troubled Pirates sequel. Even better, Rami is able to draw out a conclusive message from his labyrinth plotline…namely, revenge is a poison. He conveys this with the recurring visual of the black alien symbiote that consumes Peter Parker. This slithering, slushy black goop strikingly crawls across the screen like a poison, infecting everyone it bonds with.

While I’m at it, I might as well say Rami’s directing aesthetic puts Verbinski’s to shame. The direction of “At World’s End” is comprehensible at best. Spider-Man 3, on the other hand, carries real color and punctuation. The editing and camerawork both work in tandem to create a zany visual aesthetic that smacks of its master’s sensibilities.
The movie also features Rami’s tacky humor. One standout moment has Bruce Campbell as the maitre d' in a fancy French restaurant where Peter and Mary Jane are dining. Elsewhere, a waitress asks James Franco how his pie is, and he replies by taking a bite and saying through the cheesiest grin ever, “Sooooo good”. Why, Rami’s interpretation of Eddie Brock is far more laughable than his brain eating comic counterpart. (In a side note, Topher Grace does infuse the character with a very unsettling odium later on in the picture)

While this cornball approach works in various scenes, it ultimately contributes to the film’s downfall. Following his acceptance of the black alien tar, Peter proceeds to dance through one of the lamest musical montages put to film. There were moments like this in the previous two films, but it seems a bit indulgent here.
Worst of all, the film’s bloated canvas really turns out to be a curse in the final act when Rami is forced to resolve very difficult subplots in ways that feel like an evasion. Powerless to escape a building that he himself lit on fire, Rami simply tells us there’s a trap door right beneath him. Unfortunate.

Having walked away from both films, I felt like I had just been bludgeoned with the weight of a David Lean flick (minus the thematic quality). Each film comes in at around two and a half hours…or two hundred and thirty pages. It’s both a burden to carry and watch. It’s also a disappointing fate for two franchises that began as throwbacks to the light-hearted popcorn flicks that built the summer.

And yet, I’m sure if I had been telling this to the respective studios, I’d simply be told to wait for the next installment.

Film review: La Doublure (The Valet)

I went into The Valet with little to no idea of its plot. What I did know was that the film was French and that the main character was a valet. From this information I extrapolated premonitions of an absurdist French narrative that focused upon the life of a valet and his existentialist crisis. Clearly, I was wrong.
What I was presented with was a basic romantic comedy, driven by a premise that was terribly fetching and terribly Hollywood; an ugly and poor valet, rejected by his true love, gets paid to live with a supermodel.

Really, premises don’t get much more brilliant then that.

Yes, this film focuses upon Francois Pignon, an everyman desperately in love with a young bookstore clerk who, sadly, has given their relationship that accursed “Just friends” label. But the hapless Pignon soon finds himself ironically posing as the boyfriend of a gorgeous model. Complications (and hilarity!) ensue.
This concept is of the kind that would appeal to nobodies everywhere. Heck, I’m shocked that Hollywood hadn’t picked up on this idea sooner (don’t worry, they’re ripping it off in 2008). What came as even more of a shock was how The Valet revealed itself. Beat for beat, it is essentially an L.A. production. The story is light…the humor is airy…and boy, the result is inconsequential.
Really, you can equate The Valet to pillow talk. This script clamors for a subplot so badly that it throws a second supermodel into the mix about halfway through the film just to complicate things.
But such complications are never really complications. They’re mild annoyances at best. And The Valet seems perfectly fine with that. It’s more content to play itself out as an absurdist comedy that does nothing more than grandstand as to how clever it is.
Is it clever? Sure, some lines crackle with wit, but there’s more thunder then lighting at play here.
More irksome is how the screenplay’s low ambitions extend to the protagonist and his arc. Pignon is uninteresting, his job sucks and few people expect him to marry a stunning girl. Admittedly, I sympathized with him. But here’s the problem: the solutions to Pignon’s issues are handed to him, time and again, on a silver platter.
Pignon needs money at the onset of the film to woo his prospective mate. This is an issue because he’s a broke valet who doesn’t rank high with the female gender. Then, out of nowhere, he gets entangled with a billionaire playboy who will pay Pignon to share a phony relationship with France’s loveliest supermodel. It’s a clever solution to both of Pignon’s problems.

He does nothing to generate this solution.

Out of the blue, the billionaire contacts him, offers him the cash and that very night he’s sharing a bed with this girl. How easily it all happens, with no effort on his part!
But that’s just the turning point, right? We can let it go because it spins the story into our second act. The rest of Pignon’s arc must come as a result of his own efforts, right?

Right?

Actually, no. Just about everything else is handed to Pignon. The supermodel even clears up conflict between Pignon and Emilie, the girl he really loves. It’s insulting. Everything perfectly falling into place wouldn’t be so naive if the film’s protagonist actually caused it to happen.
The rest of the characters range from charming to bland. I remain confounded as to why Pignon has such interest in Emilie (played by Virginie Ledoyen). She’s about as winning as a sharp object to the eye. The billionaire, Daniel, starts out somewhat sympathetic but gradually becomes a rabid parody of all French billionaires (a feat that I didn’t believe possible).

Thankfully, this film is short. As such, it remains entertaining. Besides, I don’t think it could have stretched beyond an hour and a half; About 10 minutes in and every member of the audience could have written the rest of the story on a single sheet of paper.

Double-spaced.