Movie studios play this little game where they try to pretend the source of movie piracy is people recording preview screenings on their cell phones. They post security guards at the door to make sure people don't bring their phones inside, then those guards stand in the aisles during the show, scanning the crowd for non-existent offenders.
Looper is so good that the security guards were absolutely useless. Instead of watching the crowd, they were staring at the screen the whole time. I wouldn't have noticed, except for the fact that it occurred to me every 10 minutes or so how amazing this movie was, and how impossible it was to watch the crowd instead of the screen. Just to prove myself right, I darted my eyes over to the security guards to make sure they were watching the movie just like I had been.
And then, in that tenth of a second in which my eyes were on the guards instead of the screen, I got insanely jealous of them for watching such a great movie when I wasn't, so I immediately went back to watching. At least until I needed to verify that they were watching the movie just like I should have been.
So oblivious were the guards to what was going on, I could have propped my phone on top of one guy and adjusted the picture by shining a light off the other one's forehead while doing a celebratory tap dance with a peg leg, while wearing a parrot on my shoulder and an eye patch.
I couldn't blame them. Looper takes parts from Terminator, Blade Runner, Inception, Back to the Future, Wanted and the three and a half good Die Hard movies, creating a super movie that shoots rainbow pixie dust out from the screen and makes viewers into better people.
Writer/director Rian Johnson, who wowed everyone with the fast-talking high school film noir Brick in 2005, but hadn't done much since, lives up to his potential with a time travel movie that makes you wish you could go back to 2005 to show everyone who watched the awful time travel movie A Sound of Thunder to deliver the message "It gets better."
Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who is contractually obligated to star exclusively in mind-bending sci-fi thriller and seminal Zooey Deschanel anti-romances, plays a Looper, which is future-talk for Guy Who Shotgun Blasts Dudes The Mafia Sends Back In Time To Get Whacked.
The work is steady and pays well, but there are drawbacks. Like, say, when future you is Bruce Willis, sent back in time to be murdered by you, who then roundhouse kicks you instead, then totes you around trying to convince you to murder 5-year-olds who may grow up to be Looper eradicators.
Yeah, Loopers really need to unionize.
Then again, the downside of the job is canceled out by perks, such as the occasional moments when you're stranded on a farm run by a character named Hottest Single Mom Farmer Evaaaa! (Emily Blunt), who is not opposed to sexing up Loopers when she's absolutely certain her child, Five Year Old Whom Bruce Willis Wants To Shoot Like The Dog In Duck Hunt, is fast asleep.
The plot, though awesome, doesn't quite encompass what's great about Looper. What does encompass what's great about Looper is all the ramifications of hanging out with your future self. For instance, if you want to send him a message, you can text him. But if one of you doesn't have a phone, you can carve a message into your skin and it will show up on his arm in the form of a scar. Just wait until AT&T figures out a way to charge you for that.
The movie is set in 2044, a future of hover motorcycles -- Meaning season 37 of Sons of Anarchy must totally rock -- boomerang-shaped phones and tiny frog toys that Emily Blunt uses to make booty calls to Loopers.
Although the future is amazing, the people of the era will no doubt be nostalgic for 2012, back when that amazing time travel movie came out, and security guards were powerless to stop people from pirating it.
Starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Emily Blunt and Bruce Willis. Written and directed by Rian Johnson. 118 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Review: Hotel Transylvania
The whole time Hotel Transylvania played I sat frozen in terror. Judging by the general lack of creativity on display, I was absolutely sure the cast of gangly animated monsters would break out into a rendition of Monster Mash. If they couldn't work it in to the regular running time, they sure wouldn't miss the opportunity to shoehorn it into the credits.
I wasn't going to be able to handle the Monster Mash performance when it came. I knew it was destined to force me to hate a movie that I sort of liked, and I loathed that prospect. Luckily the catastrophe never came, and all my suspense was for naught.
That's just the way the movie goes, doing little to dazzle you but less to offend. Given half a chance, the kid-friendly monster romance will sink its fangs into you and convert you into its ranks of the gleeful undead. Like a giddy grandma on Halloween, it dispenses candy giddily, at least for your eyes and ears. The Count Chocula/Boo Berry-like animated style, along with the impossibly star-studded voice cast, jolts electric shocks into the dead, patched-together screenplay to pump what passes for life into the stumbling, Karlovian monstrosity, which you can only gawk at as it innocently stumbles about.
Adam Sandler voices none other than Dracula, who has created a sanctuary from monsterkind by building a mansion boardinghouse sequestered beyond a haunted forest. Mummies, hags, trolls, werewolves and the like scurry for protection from humans, which they imagine to be terrifying hunters of their kind. They all adore Drac's shelter, except for Mavis (Selenea Gomez), Drac's daughter, who longs to escape and check out the world of man for herself. Looking to protect his fresh-faced 118-year-old girl, Dracula conspires to trick Mavis into wanting to stay.
There's a lot of Monsters Inc., Little Mermaid and even a little Finding Nemo going on here. Drawing from classics, however, does not necessarily a great film make. The slapstick tries too hard, the verbal exchanges are as limp and tattered as the mummy's bandages, and the love story, pairing Mavis with extreme-dude Jonathan (Andy Samberg) is about as appetizing as Drac finds garlic.
But at least there is no Master Mash, which counts for something. Plus, the movie openly mocks Twilight, which scores it enough points to get me to drop my torch and pitchfork.
Starring the voices of Adam Sandler, Andy Samberg, Selena Gomez, Kevin James, Fran Drescher, David Spade, Jon Lovitz, Molly Shannon, Kevin James, Steve Buscemi and CeeLo Green. Written by Peter Baynham and Robert Smigel, based on a story by Todd Durham, Dan Hageman and Kevin Hageman. Directed by Genndy Tartakovsky. 91 minutes. Rated PG.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
I wasn't going to be able to handle the Monster Mash performance when it came. I knew it was destined to force me to hate a movie that I sort of liked, and I loathed that prospect. Luckily the catastrophe never came, and all my suspense was for naught.
That's just the way the movie goes, doing little to dazzle you but less to offend. Given half a chance, the kid-friendly monster romance will sink its fangs into you and convert you into its ranks of the gleeful undead. Like a giddy grandma on Halloween, it dispenses candy giddily, at least for your eyes and ears. The Count Chocula/Boo Berry-like animated style, along with the impossibly star-studded voice cast, jolts electric shocks into the dead, patched-together screenplay to pump what passes for life into the stumbling, Karlovian monstrosity, which you can only gawk at as it innocently stumbles about.
Adam Sandler voices none other than Dracula, who has created a sanctuary from monsterkind by building a mansion boardinghouse sequestered beyond a haunted forest. Mummies, hags, trolls, werewolves and the like scurry for protection from humans, which they imagine to be terrifying hunters of their kind. They all adore Drac's shelter, except for Mavis (Selenea Gomez), Drac's daughter, who longs to escape and check out the world of man for herself. Looking to protect his fresh-faced 118-year-old girl, Dracula conspires to trick Mavis into wanting to stay.
There's a lot of Monsters Inc., Little Mermaid and even a little Finding Nemo going on here. Drawing from classics, however, does not necessarily a great film make. The slapstick tries too hard, the verbal exchanges are as limp and tattered as the mummy's bandages, and the love story, pairing Mavis with extreme-dude Jonathan (Andy Samberg) is about as appetizing as Drac finds garlic.
But at least there is no Master Mash, which counts for something. Plus, the movie openly mocks Twilight, which scores it enough points to get me to drop my torch and pitchfork.
Starring the voices of Adam Sandler, Andy Samberg, Selena Gomez, Kevin James, Fran Drescher, David Spade, Jon Lovitz, Molly Shannon, Kevin James, Steve Buscemi and CeeLo Green. Written by Peter Baynham and Robert Smigel, based on a story by Todd Durham, Dan Hageman and Kevin Hageman. Directed by Genndy Tartakovsky. 91 minutes. Rated PG.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Friday, September 21, 2012
I work for Consumerist again*
*I don't work for Consumerist.
But I do according to Real Simple, which ignored me saying that I have not worked there since April during a 'fact check.'
Real Simple October 2012 - Virtual Currency
At least it was cool to be interviewed by such a huge magazine, and especially to get the title of my book mentioned.
But I do according to Real Simple, which ignored me saying that I have not worked there since April during a 'fact check.'
Real Simple October 2012 - Virtual Currency
At least it was cool to be interviewed by such a huge magazine, and especially to get the title of my book mentioned.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Review: The Perks of Being a Wallflower
The problem with life is that it disobeys the rules of a coming-of-age movie. Whenever you address your problems head-on, start to discover yourself, only to sink into doubt during a crisis of confidence only to overcome that doubt and emerge changed and better, the credits don't roll, leaving you happy ever after.
Instead, something awful happens that makes you realize you really haven't learned anything. You're no better off than you were before, and the only thing that came of your coming of age is more age.
The Perks of Being a Wallflower is determined to be more like life than a coming-of-age movie, and it's worse off for it. It lures you into the corner of Charlie (Logan Lerman), a tortured, friendless freshman, then lets a few good things happen for him, only to torpedo everything and have him sink to lower depths than before, with tougher problems and less hope.
Credit director Stephen Chbosky for nailing the rhythms and hells of adolescent life. His movie is based on his screenplay, which is based on his book, which is probably based on his memories, which is definitely based on a mess of insecurities and dread. The movie amounts to a brain dump about how hard it is to make friends, keep them, find romance and not screw it up, all while hanging on to your fleeting sanity.
Wallflower would be even more of a downer if not for the presence of Ezra Miller, who was Kevin in We Need to Talk About Kevin. As a flamboyant social outcast named Patrick, he takes the movie by force as the ringleader of a group informally called the Wallflowers, which is high school's version of the Island of Lost Toys. Chbosky seems more interested in coloring Patrick's character than the one that's probably based on himself, so he gives him all the best lines, most entertaining things to do and most absorbing conflicts.
Patrick may be the king Wallflower, but he's more like the giant man-eating piranha plant in the center of the room. Charlie, on the other hand, is so effective at living up to the Wallflower title that it's tough to see what Sam (Emma Watson), Patrick's stepsister and equally interesting wild child, would ever see in him.
Watson's got more talent than her Harry Potter classmates -- she was Hermione, in case you only ever knew her as That Girl Who Played Hermione Eight Times -- and it's exciting to see her trash her prim typecast to play the sort of girl moms warn their sons about. Patrick and Sam are too interesting to be relegated to sidebars in Charlie's long, dull descent into doom, and deserve their own movie so much that you start to coordinate your bathroom breaks and cell phone time checks to when they're off the screen.
The movie's other stars also have far too little to do. Paul Rudd plays Charlie's awesome English teacher, who cultivates the talent he sees in the kid. You hope he's got a plot twist or extra dimension somewhere up his tweed sleeves, but there's nothing. Kate Walsh and Dylan McDermott are Charlie's clueless parents, but you'll have to check IMDB to verify that they were even in the movie.
No such check is necessary to make sure Lernman plays sad, aloof and bored Charlie, who proves the greatest perk of being a real Wallflower is that at least you don't get stuck watching a movie about one.
Starring Logan Lerman, Emma Watson, Ezra Miller, Kate Walsh, Dylan McDermott and Paul Rudd. Written and directed by Stephen Chbosky, based on his novel. 102 minutes. Rated PG-13.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Instead, something awful happens that makes you realize you really haven't learned anything. You're no better off than you were before, and the only thing that came of your coming of age is more age.
The Perks of Being a Wallflower is determined to be more like life than a coming-of-age movie, and it's worse off for it. It lures you into the corner of Charlie (Logan Lerman), a tortured, friendless freshman, then lets a few good things happen for him, only to torpedo everything and have him sink to lower depths than before, with tougher problems and less hope.
Credit director Stephen Chbosky for nailing the rhythms and hells of adolescent life. His movie is based on his screenplay, which is based on his book, which is probably based on his memories, which is definitely based on a mess of insecurities and dread. The movie amounts to a brain dump about how hard it is to make friends, keep them, find romance and not screw it up, all while hanging on to your fleeting sanity.
Wallflower would be even more of a downer if not for the presence of Ezra Miller, who was Kevin in We Need to Talk About Kevin. As a flamboyant social outcast named Patrick, he takes the movie by force as the ringleader of a group informally called the Wallflowers, which is high school's version of the Island of Lost Toys. Chbosky seems more interested in coloring Patrick's character than the one that's probably based on himself, so he gives him all the best lines, most entertaining things to do and most absorbing conflicts.
Patrick may be the king Wallflower, but he's more like the giant man-eating piranha plant in the center of the room. Charlie, on the other hand, is so effective at living up to the Wallflower title that it's tough to see what Sam (Emma Watson), Patrick's stepsister and equally interesting wild child, would ever see in him.
Watson's got more talent than her Harry Potter classmates -- she was Hermione, in case you only ever knew her as That Girl Who Played Hermione Eight Times -- and it's exciting to see her trash her prim typecast to play the sort of girl moms warn their sons about. Patrick and Sam are too interesting to be relegated to sidebars in Charlie's long, dull descent into doom, and deserve their own movie so much that you start to coordinate your bathroom breaks and cell phone time checks to when they're off the screen.
The movie's other stars also have far too little to do. Paul Rudd plays Charlie's awesome English teacher, who cultivates the talent he sees in the kid. You hope he's got a plot twist or extra dimension somewhere up his tweed sleeves, but there's nothing. Kate Walsh and Dylan McDermott are Charlie's clueless parents, but you'll have to check IMDB to verify that they were even in the movie.
No such check is necessary to make sure Lernman plays sad, aloof and bored Charlie, who proves the greatest perk of being a real Wallflower is that at least you don't get stuck watching a movie about one.
Starring Logan Lerman, Emma Watson, Ezra Miller, Kate Walsh, Dylan McDermott and Paul Rudd. Written and directed by Stephen Chbosky, based on his novel. 102 minutes. Rated PG-13.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Review: Lawless
The square-dancing whiskey runners in the Prohibition-era Virginia-set movie Lawless may not think much of regulations from smarmy, moonshine-hating Yankees, but they sure do abide by melodramatic cliches.
If you're a timid would-be gangster who looks up to your invincible, cold-blooded criminal mastermind brother, you're sure to step in when your bro goes down to overcome your hang-ups and become a marauding booze baron.
If you're a pent-up preacher's daughter, you're sure to fall for the timid would-be gangster, gritting your teeth as he sinks deeper into a self-destructive web.
If you're a smarmy Yankee federal agent sent to Virginia to clean up the corrupt, booze-swilling backwoods, you'll hurl gratuitous insults at all comers until you're smacked with a climactic comeuppance.
If you're an innocent sidekick hobbled by a childhood case of rickets, your life is as fragile as a glass bottle in a bar fight.
There's nothing in the movie that takes you by surprise, but it's still as much Southern-fried fun to watch as a Dukes of Hazzard marathon. There's something inherently awesome about watching a moonshine-hauling jalopy skid down a winding dirt road, just out of target range of Johnny Law.
The dim-yet-fun thriller casts Shia LaBeouf in the lead role -- the timid would-be gangster, if you're keeping track. His performance is memorable because he's finally managed to find a script that doesn't order him to talk to himself throughout, as he did in all the awful Transformer movies, Disturbia, Eagle Eye and that Indiana Jones movie Harrison Ford likes to pretend he never made.
It's a welcome change of pace to see LaBeouf play a likable bad guy in front of a movie camera, rather than a Walgreens security cam. He sheds his peach-fuzzy innocence to slip on a grimy pair of boots, no doubt lined with lead to slam on the gas when it's time to make a getaway.
Tom Hardy, free of the ridiculous Bane mask from The Dark Knight Rises, is LaBeouf's grisly older brother who e v e r s o s l o o o o w l y comes a'courtin' to an exiled Chicago dancer (Jessica Chastain). Taffy-pull-speed flirtation must run in the family, because LaBeouf also takes his time romancing the preacher's daughter (Mia Wasikowska), who somewhere under several layers of petticoats and underwear is a naughty girl yearning to hide out in tent distilleries.
Guy Pearce has some fun with the thankless villain role, a Chicago agent determined to shake down the boozehounds, attacking not only with tommy gun fire and rude kicks in noses, but words. He says the word "hick" as often, and with the same tone, that GOP convention speakers utter "liberal." The ungentle gentleman has end boss battle written all over his Pomade-slicked head.
Watching the movie unfold is a lot like witnessing a heated game of checkers go down. Only with booze, blood and bullets. Which makes the movie pretty much a win, especially for LaBeouf, since there are no CGI sentient robots swiping all the best lines and no sacred franchises or Walgreens destroyed.
Starring Shia LaBeouf, Tom Hardy, Guy Pearce, Jessica Chastain and Mia Wasikowska. Written by Nick Cave, based on the Matt Bondurant book. Directed by John Hillcoat. 115 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Watching the movie unfold is a lot like witnessing a heated game of checkers go down. Only with booze, blood and bullets. Which makes the movie pretty much a win, especially for LaBeouf, since there are no CGI sentient robots swiping all the best lines and no sacred franchises or Walgreens destroyed.
Starring Shia LaBeouf, Tom Hardy, Guy Pearce, Jessica Chastain and Mia Wasikowska. Written by Nick Cave, based on the Matt Bondurant book. Directed by John Hillcoat. 115 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Review: Social Media is Bullshit
Due out Sept. 4, B.J. Mendelson's Social Media is Bullshit aims to tear down the curtain propped up by so-called social media gurus who peddle their consultant services to clueless companies looking to stay competitive in the changing media landscape.
Using wit, humor and formidable on-the-job experience, Mendelson demystifies the powers of Facebook, Twitter and the blog world to spread influence and maintain popularity. The book should be must-reading for any organization that hires a 20-something hotshot and hands over free reign over its internet branding, expecting magical results.
Far from the teeth-gnasihing teardown implied by the title, the book includes some solid advice about how to build a strong social media profile as a business or individual. He doesn't have any stunning revelations -- his point seems to be that genuine influence spawns from organic mastery of content rather than SEO-style tricks -- but that dovetails with his overarching point. Online, just as offline, there are no shortcuts to success.
Using wit, humor and formidable on-the-job experience, Mendelson demystifies the powers of Facebook, Twitter and the blog world to spread influence and maintain popularity. The book should be must-reading for any organization that hires a 20-something hotshot and hands over free reign over its internet branding, expecting magical results.
Far from the teeth-gnasihing teardown implied by the title, the book includes some solid advice about how to build a strong social media profile as a business or individual. He doesn't have any stunning revelations -- his point seems to be that genuine influence spawns from organic mastery of content rather than SEO-style tricks -- but that dovetails with his overarching point. Online, just as offline, there are no shortcuts to success.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Review: Cosmopolis
I try hard to convince myself that movies are fictional stories played out by actors pretending to be different people than they are, but can't convince myself that Cosmopolis is anything other than unscripted documentary about the life of Robert Pattinson, shot by security cameras. Especially now that his possibly PR-concocted relationship with KStew is on the rocks.
When I imagine Pattinson's daily life, I picture him being driven around in a gadgeted-up stretch limo, being all rich, pompous and entitled, screwing everything that moves either inside the limo or out — whichever he prefers at the time. I also picture him waking up in a coffin, because the dude needs no makeup whatsoever to look exactly like a vampire, but they must have cut that part out of the movie to avoid confusion with the Twilight movies. Which I also picture as an accurate depiction of Pattinson's life.
That said, I'll play along and assume director David Cronenberg is on the level and that he actually directed this thing, and got the story from some book. If that's indeed the case, I have to credit Cronenberg for economically telling a riveting, passionate and unpredictable story mostly through the spoken word. Eighty or 90 percent of the movie takes place inside the limo, but the cramped world never seems constricting — much like Phone Booth (2002) or Tape (2001).
Pattinson gets dinged for his soulless, dead-eyed performances, but I don't hold them against him. Not only because he's a vampire but because according to the movie, he has sex so often that he's probably exhausted but there's never any time for a nap. His flat, clinical performance in Cosmpolis is perfect for the character, who has piled up his billions by looking at the world as a matrix logic puzzle, exploiting his angles to obliterate his competition and suck funds out of investment sectors, consequences by damned. To him, life and love are little more than games that he's long since mastered and gotten bored with. Even as the fluctuation of the Chinese currency plunders his fortune, or rumors of deadly activities outside the car threaten the well-being of himself and others, he stays plugged in and absent — a passenger rather than a driver of the charade that passes for his existence.
Pattinson's blank performance is a magnifying glass that amplifies the work of the supporting actors. Samantha Morton, Sarah Gadon, Juliette Binoche and Jay Baruchel color Pattinson's character with various levels of introspection, fear a loathing for their master/lover/secret or not-so-secret enemy. No actor's flame flickers brighter, though, than Paul Giamatti, whose unhinged ferocity ricochets harder off of Pattinson's ice.
As fine as the performances are, Cronenberg's machine gun dialogue is the main attraction. The film bulges with verbose, highbrow debates and vicious monologues smacked back and forth like tennis balls. The sheer amount of words spoken in the movie is staggering. Its script could probably crush someone's foot if dropped.
Cosmopolis is a heavy movie indeed, and one that demands multiple viewings. But surely no viewing would slap you so hard in the face and make you like it as much as the first one would.
Starring Robert Pattinson, Juliette Binoche, Sarah Gadon, Jay Baruchel and Paul Giamatti. Written and directed by David Cronenberg, based on DonDeLillo's novel. 108 minutes. Rated R.
When I imagine Pattinson's daily life, I picture him being driven around in a gadgeted-up stretch limo, being all rich, pompous and entitled, screwing everything that moves either inside the limo or out — whichever he prefers at the time. I also picture him waking up in a coffin, because the dude needs no makeup whatsoever to look exactly like a vampire, but they must have cut that part out of the movie to avoid confusion with the Twilight movies. Which I also picture as an accurate depiction of Pattinson's life.
That said, I'll play along and assume director David Cronenberg is on the level and that he actually directed this thing, and got the story from some book. If that's indeed the case, I have to credit Cronenberg for economically telling a riveting, passionate and unpredictable story mostly through the spoken word. Eighty or 90 percent of the movie takes place inside the limo, but the cramped world never seems constricting — much like Phone Booth (2002) or Tape (2001).
Pattinson gets dinged for his soulless, dead-eyed performances, but I don't hold them against him. Not only because he's a vampire but because according to the movie, he has sex so often that he's probably exhausted but there's never any time for a nap. His flat, clinical performance in Cosmpolis is perfect for the character, who has piled up his billions by looking at the world as a matrix logic puzzle, exploiting his angles to obliterate his competition and suck funds out of investment sectors, consequences by damned. To him, life and love are little more than games that he's long since mastered and gotten bored with. Even as the fluctuation of the Chinese currency plunders his fortune, or rumors of deadly activities outside the car threaten the well-being of himself and others, he stays plugged in and absent — a passenger rather than a driver of the charade that passes for his existence.
Pattinson's blank performance is a magnifying glass that amplifies the work of the supporting actors. Samantha Morton, Sarah Gadon, Juliette Binoche and Jay Baruchel color Pattinson's character with various levels of introspection, fear a loathing for their master/lover/secret or not-so-secret enemy. No actor's flame flickers brighter, though, than Paul Giamatti, whose unhinged ferocity ricochets harder off of Pattinson's ice.
As fine as the performances are, Cronenberg's machine gun dialogue is the main attraction. The film bulges with verbose, highbrow debates and vicious monologues smacked back and forth like tennis balls. The sheer amount of words spoken in the movie is staggering. Its script could probably crush someone's foot if dropped.
Cosmopolis is a heavy movie indeed, and one that demands multiple viewings. But surely no viewing would slap you so hard in the face and make you like it as much as the first one would.
Starring Robert Pattinson, Juliette Binoche, Sarah Gadon, Jay Baruchel and Paul Giamatti. Written and directed by David Cronenberg, based on DonDeLillo's novel. 108 minutes. Rated R.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Review: My Sucky Teen Romance
The product of teen horror filmmaker prodigy Emily Hagins, the high school vampire romance mocks the bloodsucker-obsessed
pop culture world while simultaneously sucking the lifeblood from its
veins. Rounding up a gang of raw, fresh-faced actors, Hagins tells the
story of a group of friends at a sci-fi convention who encounter
real-life vampires and try to use knowledge gleaned from movies,
comic books and panel discussions to stay alive.
Elaine Hurt plays Kate, the proudly geeky protagonist who wants more than anything to become Bella to the Edward of Paul (Patrick Delgado), who proves to be not just a brooding vampire wannabe, but the genuine article. When an unlucky break finds Kate and her pals battling to save her soul, she struggles to reconcile her feelings for Paul with the movie tropes ingrained in her mind, as well as the need to protect her friends.
The dialogue and story twists are entertaining — for once, here are people who look and talk like actual teenagers, rather than 30-year-olds pretending to be younger — but the amateurish acting drags the production down to student film levels. The movie didn't quite do it for me, but I'd like to see what Hagins could do with a better cast and budget.
Elaine Hurt plays Kate, the proudly geeky protagonist who wants more than anything to become Bella to the Edward of Paul (Patrick Delgado), who proves to be not just a brooding vampire wannabe, but the genuine article. When an unlucky break finds Kate and her pals battling to save her soul, she struggles to reconcile her feelings for Paul with the movie tropes ingrained in her mind, as well as the need to protect her friends.
The dialogue and story twists are entertaining — for once, here are people who look and talk like actual teenagers, rather than 30-year-olds pretending to be younger — but the amateurish acting drags the production down to student film levels. The movie didn't quite do it for me, but I'd like to see what Hagins could do with a better cast and budget.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Review: Sparkle
There may or may not be an actual movie hidden among all the showstopping musical numbers in Sparkle. Not that there needs to be.
Sparkle is all about the music, and seems to have been created for Jordin Sparks, who so thoroughly owns the affair that you'd swear it was named after her. It's cosmically appropriate that Whitney Houston looms in the background as Sparks's mom, and it seems as though there's a passing of the torch from one generation's crossover star to the next.
A slimmed-down Sparks seizes the spotlight with the ferocity that fellow American Idol alum Jennifer Hudson did in Dreamgirls. There's no Hudson-like Oscar in store for Sparks this time out, but she finds something at least as valuable -- a new dimension to her growing superstardom. There's enough meat in Sparks' role for her to show she's a skilled actress who will show up in future movies because she belongs rather than a Katy Perry-style gimmick.
Sparkle, a 1960s Motown-set historical fiction-style retelling of The Supremes' rise to fame, is a remake of a long-forgotten 1976 movie that starred Irene Cara and Mary Alice. Sparks plays the title character, an unconfident dreamer who writes songs for her more confident sisters, the aspiring med student Dolores (Tika Sumpter) and the appropriately named diva Sister (Carmen Ejogo).
Stix (Derek Luke), a not-quite-trustworthy manager, romances Sparkle and convinces her to round up her sisters into a girl group. The girls shimmy, dance and croon their way up the ladder to fame, dodging slimy record label execs and cokehead comedian boyfriends along the way. And they do it under the nose of Houston's character, their disapproving, Bible-bopping mom.
Houston, a gifted actress who rarely got much of a chance to show what she could do, turns in some of her finest work in this movie. Many of her lines are haunting and almost transcendent with unintended double meanings, such as when she scolds her daughters for not learning from her mistakes.
Describing any more of the movie's plot would be like breaking down the narrative intent of Carly Rae Jepsen's Call Me Maybe video. The movie is mostly an excuse for slick choreography, heart-melting soul grooves and stage-owning razzle-dazzle.
Ejogo shows sexy flash as the group's troubled lead singer, and Sumpter's sassiness fills out the trio nicely. But wouldn't you know it, Houston effortlessly draws all attention to her when given her one chance to perform, belting out a heartbreaking number at the climax that all but ensures everyone in the theater will be wiping their eyes.
Sparkle may be the name of the movie, but in moments such as these, the movie truly shines.
Starring Jordin Sparks, Whitney Houston, Derek Luke, Cee-Lo and Mike Epps. Written by Mara Brock Akil, based on a story by Howard Rosenman, Directed by Salim Akil. 116 minutes. Rated PG-13.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Sparkle is all about the music, and seems to have been created for Jordin Sparks, who so thoroughly owns the affair that you'd swear it was named after her. It's cosmically appropriate that Whitney Houston looms in the background as Sparks's mom, and it seems as though there's a passing of the torch from one generation's crossover star to the next.
A slimmed-down Sparks seizes the spotlight with the ferocity that fellow American Idol alum Jennifer Hudson did in Dreamgirls. There's no Hudson-like Oscar in store for Sparks this time out, but she finds something at least as valuable -- a new dimension to her growing superstardom. There's enough meat in Sparks' role for her to show she's a skilled actress who will show up in future movies because she belongs rather than a Katy Perry-style gimmick.
Sparkle, a 1960s Motown-set historical fiction-style retelling of The Supremes' rise to fame, is a remake of a long-forgotten 1976 movie that starred Irene Cara and Mary Alice. Sparks plays the title character, an unconfident dreamer who writes songs for her more confident sisters, the aspiring med student Dolores (Tika Sumpter) and the appropriately named diva Sister (Carmen Ejogo).
Stix (Derek Luke), a not-quite-trustworthy manager, romances Sparkle and convinces her to round up her sisters into a girl group. The girls shimmy, dance and croon their way up the ladder to fame, dodging slimy record label execs and cokehead comedian boyfriends along the way. And they do it under the nose of Houston's character, their disapproving, Bible-bopping mom.
Houston, a gifted actress who rarely got much of a chance to show what she could do, turns in some of her finest work in this movie. Many of her lines are haunting and almost transcendent with unintended double meanings, such as when she scolds her daughters for not learning from her mistakes.
Describing any more of the movie's plot would be like breaking down the narrative intent of Carly Rae Jepsen's Call Me Maybe video. The movie is mostly an excuse for slick choreography, heart-melting soul grooves and stage-owning razzle-dazzle.
Ejogo shows sexy flash as the group's troubled lead singer, and Sumpter's sassiness fills out the trio nicely. But wouldn't you know it, Houston effortlessly draws all attention to her when given her one chance to perform, belting out a heartbreaking number at the climax that all but ensures everyone in the theater will be wiping their eyes.
Sparkle may be the name of the movie, but in moments such as these, the movie truly shines.
Starring Jordin Sparks, Whitney Houston, Derek Luke, Cee-Lo and Mike Epps. Written by Mara Brock Akil, based on a story by Howard Rosenman, Directed by Salim Akil. 116 minutes. Rated PG-13.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Thursday, August 09, 2012
Review: Goats
No matter how intelligent or well-heeled a kid is coming up, he's just as likely to squander and be crushed by his potential as he is to make some use of it. Ellis (Graham Phillips), a silver spoon-fed high school student who breezes through his studies and is too smart and evolved to take any advice from grown-ups seriously, seems certain to head down a troubled path.
The protagonist of Goats, Ellis drifts through life finding little that engages him. He reacts to his oppressions and influences instead of seeking out his own interests and goals. His role models range from a brain-fried, sexaholic hippie (David Duchovny), a vacant, self-discovery-obsessed mom (Vera Farmiga) and an absentee, success-driven dad (Ty Burrell), whose idea of success is to sacrifice matters of the heart for prestige. Shoved off from his eccentric desert home to a prestigious New England prep school, Ellis is left alone in the rye with nary a catcher in sight.
The antidote to the typical coming-of-age movie, Goats shuffles into the muck of adolescent angst, aware that there are no easy solutions for finding a sense of self, letting go of lifelong resentments or establishing and sticking to a moral code. Mark Jude Poirier did an admirable job of adapting his novel to screen, although camerawork — no matter how well-designed, can't replace the author's uncanny ability to paint scenes or translate his sly, descriptive observations. With the film, Poirier is forced to boil his novel down to dialogue and plot points, and much is lost in the distillation.
Duchovny is maybe too good for this movie, commanding his scenes as a poolboy/drifter/rancher/drug trafficker with effortless glee. His stuff saves the movie while sort of ruining it, detracting from Ellis's journey. Duchovny's out-there antics serve as welcome comic relief apart from Ellis's oft-overserious drama — he tangles with a headstrong, clingy roomie, falls for a possible call girl and wrestles with his grudging admiration and disgust of his dad — that you miss Duchovny's Goat Man when he goes away, and wonder what he's up to. But like Gandalf in Lord of the Rings and Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia, his actual antics are probably best left to the imagination. As a stark opposite to Duchovny, Phillips lacks a compelling command of what Ellis could have been. He's got the blank slate part right, but his character would have been more lovable if he were more precocious.
Keri Russell does well in the thankless role of Ellis's trophy mother-in-law, and Farmiga is a tasty flavor of nutso as his mom. Credit director Christopher Neil and his filmmaking team for wrapping a disjointed package in gorgeous trappings. Pretty, confused and thrilling to analyze and revisit, Goats is just like adolescence.
Starring Graham Phillips, David Duchovny, Keri Russell, Justin Kirk and Vera Farmiga. Written by Mark Jude Poirier, based on his novel. Directed by Christopher Neil. 94 minutes. Rated R.
The protagonist of Goats, Ellis drifts through life finding little that engages him. He reacts to his oppressions and influences instead of seeking out his own interests and goals. His role models range from a brain-fried, sexaholic hippie (David Duchovny), a vacant, self-discovery-obsessed mom (Vera Farmiga) and an absentee, success-driven dad (Ty Burrell), whose idea of success is to sacrifice matters of the heart for prestige. Shoved off from his eccentric desert home to a prestigious New England prep school, Ellis is left alone in the rye with nary a catcher in sight.
The antidote to the typical coming-of-age movie, Goats shuffles into the muck of adolescent angst, aware that there are no easy solutions for finding a sense of self, letting go of lifelong resentments or establishing and sticking to a moral code. Mark Jude Poirier did an admirable job of adapting his novel to screen, although camerawork — no matter how well-designed, can't replace the author's uncanny ability to paint scenes or translate his sly, descriptive observations. With the film, Poirier is forced to boil his novel down to dialogue and plot points, and much is lost in the distillation.
Duchovny is maybe too good for this movie, commanding his scenes as a poolboy/drifter/rancher/drug trafficker with effortless glee. His stuff saves the movie while sort of ruining it, detracting from Ellis's journey. Duchovny's out-there antics serve as welcome comic relief apart from Ellis's oft-overserious drama — he tangles with a headstrong, clingy roomie, falls for a possible call girl and wrestles with his grudging admiration and disgust of his dad — that you miss Duchovny's Goat Man when he goes away, and wonder what he's up to. But like Gandalf in Lord of the Rings and Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia, his actual antics are probably best left to the imagination. As a stark opposite to Duchovny, Phillips lacks a compelling command of what Ellis could have been. He's got the blank slate part right, but his character would have been more lovable if he were more precocious.
Keri Russell does well in the thankless role of Ellis's trophy mother-in-law, and Farmiga is a tasty flavor of nutso as his mom. Credit director Christopher Neil and his filmmaking team for wrapping a disjointed package in gorgeous trappings. Pretty, confused and thrilling to analyze and revisit, Goats is just like adolescence.
Starring Graham Phillips, David Duchovny, Keri Russell, Justin Kirk and Vera Farmiga. Written by Mark Jude Poirier, based on his novel. Directed by Christopher Neil. 94 minutes. Rated R.
Monday, August 06, 2012
Because I Told You So: Review: Hope Springs
Because I Told You So: Review: Hope Springs: I'm pretty sure Tommy Lee Jones was born crotchety and bitter. He must have emerged from the womb with a snide remark about the lighting and...
Review: Hope Springs
I'm pretty sure Tommy Lee Jones was born crotchety and bitter. He must have emerged from the womb with a snide remark about the lighting and a dry, sarcastic comeback after the doctor announced "It's a boy!"
Sixty-five years later, Jones is so crusty that ham sandwiches ask that his crust be cut off rather than the other way around. That's why he's an excellent fit for Arnold, the distant, emotionless robo-husband bound by contract to Kay (Meryl Streep), a little old lady who still has enough spunk in her to make the unpeeling of a banana look naughty.
Unhappy with their stale, withered marriage -- they sleep in separate rooms and keep their own bank accounts, which they use to buy each other anniversary gifts such as refrigerators and hot water heaters -- she cashes out a CD and kidnaps, uh, old-man-naps him away to a costly "intensive" couples therapy session in Maine. Things have gotten so dull for Arnold and Kay that when they're filling out applications that ask them to fill out a space under "sex," they write "Not since the Bush administration," unsure which exact Bush administration it was when they last got it on.
Tasked with leading the archaeological excavation designed to discover some trace of what the couple once found attractive in one another is Dr. Feld (Steve Carell), whose clinical approach to matters of the heart would be creepy if he didn't seem to get a little sad at the responses his clients give him.
Carell tones down his silliness to trace levels, allowing the master actors to take control, battering each other with barbs both verbal and unspoken. There are layers to both characters that both Jones and Streep take pleasure in peeling back. Streep is at once a sullen, downtrodden gramma and a pot of simmering rage and resentment. Jones, who spits out raspy, condescending one-liners like sunflower seeds, guards a well of regret, timidity and indecision beneath his hermit crab-like shell.
Director David Frankel (The Devil Wears Prada) tells his story with patience and a steady hand, unafraid to let his characters mope in silence for uncomfortably long periods or to keep the camera focused regretfully on seats abandoned in hissy fits. You kinda know, or at least hope, the couple will work out their problems and rekindle their spark, but until it happens you just feel sad. Especially when the lovers-turned-frenemies find flickers of their long lost affection before letting them slip away in the dark once again.
It's frighteningly easy to look at the characters and see your grandparents. Or your parents. Or yourself. After all, no one sets out to become the old, bickering married couple. Only the lucky ones make it that far.
Starring Meryl Streep, Tommy Lee Jones, Steve Carell and Jean Smart. Written by Vanessa Taylor. Directed by David Frankel. 100 minutes. Rated PG-13.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Sixty-five years later, Jones is so crusty that ham sandwiches ask that his crust be cut off rather than the other way around. That's why he's an excellent fit for Arnold, the distant, emotionless robo-husband bound by contract to Kay (Meryl Streep), a little old lady who still has enough spunk in her to make the unpeeling of a banana look naughty.
Unhappy with their stale, withered marriage -- they sleep in separate rooms and keep their own bank accounts, which they use to buy each other anniversary gifts such as refrigerators and hot water heaters -- she cashes out a CD and kidnaps, uh, old-man-naps him away to a costly "intensive" couples therapy session in Maine. Things have gotten so dull for Arnold and Kay that when they're filling out applications that ask them to fill out a space under "sex," they write "Not since the Bush administration," unsure which exact Bush administration it was when they last got it on.
Tasked with leading the archaeological excavation designed to discover some trace of what the couple once found attractive in one another is Dr. Feld (Steve Carell), whose clinical approach to matters of the heart would be creepy if he didn't seem to get a little sad at the responses his clients give him.
Carell tones down his silliness to trace levels, allowing the master actors to take control, battering each other with barbs both verbal and unspoken. There are layers to both characters that both Jones and Streep take pleasure in peeling back. Streep is at once a sullen, downtrodden gramma and a pot of simmering rage and resentment. Jones, who spits out raspy, condescending one-liners like sunflower seeds, guards a well of regret, timidity and indecision beneath his hermit crab-like shell.
Director David Frankel (The Devil Wears Prada) tells his story with patience and a steady hand, unafraid to let his characters mope in silence for uncomfortably long periods or to keep the camera focused regretfully on seats abandoned in hissy fits. You kinda know, or at least hope, the couple will work out their problems and rekindle their spark, but until it happens you just feel sad. Especially when the lovers-turned-frenemies find flickers of their long lost affection before letting them slip away in the dark once again.
It's frighteningly easy to look at the characters and see your grandparents. Or your parents. Or yourself. After all, no one sets out to become the old, bickering married couple. Only the lucky ones make it that far.
Starring Meryl Streep, Tommy Lee Jones, Steve Carell and Jean Smart. Written by Vanessa Taylor. Directed by David Frankel. 100 minutes. Rated PG-13.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Chick-fil-A Bully Apologizes
Adam Smith, who became infamous and lost his day job an a University of Arizona teaching gig for bullying a Chick-fil-A employee, has posted an apology. Here it is:
Thursday, August 02, 2012
Review: Total Recall
It's not uncommon to have hot, sweaty dreams involving Jessica Biel, but the problem with Colin Farrell's Biel dreams is that they only involve him and her shooting bad guys together. So you can't really blame him when he signs up to have a company hack his brain and wire it to help him get busy with Biel or remake an early 1990s cyberpunk thriller. Whichever's cheaper.
Farrell's wife, Kate Beckinsale, isn't happy with the maneuver, given that the couple is so poor that bare-chested, wistfully-staring Farrell can't even afford a shirt, and the producers can't afford a new script. Her solution is that Farrell should dream of her, and when he blows her off she ends up chasing him down and trying to kill him. Marriage can be tough.
The only way you'll get think Total Recall is totally mind-bendingly new is if you're 25 and couldn't convince your parents to let you watch the original Total Recall when you were 3, then got frustrated that you forgot about it. Some settings are swapped out, but the general plot outline and a bunch of dialogue is largely the same, albeit a little unfamiliar because Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sharon Stone have been replaced by people who can actually act.
Copying the 1990 cult favorite isn't such a bad thing. The new movie also nails the original's sense of heedless, ridiculous fun. As Farrell transforms into a super-spy who can mangle robo-cops with his bare chest, the movie rarely misses an opportunity to step back and subtly make fun of itself. There's something to be said for a movie that can make you chuckle one minute, then genuinely fear for the fate of its unkillable hero as he leaps through a Super Mario-like succession of platforms the next.
The movie is set in a world that's been entirely destroyed except for a Europe-spanning British empire and continent-sized ghetto of Australia. Don't fret, Americans, because no one has British or Aussie accents, so we clearly took over both places before the other continents were crushed. The rich British Americans, led by Bryan Craston of Breaking Bad, exploit the poor Australian Americans for cheap labor. There are revolutionaries out there who want to change things, but they mostly stick to ineffectual activities such as spraying graffiti all over their squalor.
The future may be bleak, but the technology sure rocks. Memory implantation machines are only the beginning. There are flying cars, wall-mounted iPads, phones installed in hands, elevators that go directly through the earth's core to get from one side of the planet to the other, and most importantly, three-boobed hookers.
Farrell's attempt at memory implantation -- an installation of Norton Biel Dream Enhancer -- either unlocks sleeper agent memories or frazzles his brain so he thinks he's a spy who finally gets to make out with Biel but adorably hold hands with her while running around, fleeing certain death. There are some Inception-like is-he-dreaming-or-not trickery, but subtlety and misdirection are not the strong suits for filmmaker Len Wiseman, whose credits include the first two Underworld movies and the fourth Die Hard. So you pretty much can tell what's happening. Meaning, stuff will explode. And then explode some more. And Farrell will once again wind up shirtless.
This may be Wiseman's best movie yet, yet it's only the second-best Total Recall. But it will have to suffice until Suri Cruise and a baby to be named later make another one in 22 years or so.
Colin Farrell, Kate Beckinsale, Jessica Biel and Bryan Cranston. Written by Kurt Wimmer and Mark Bomback, based on a screen story by Ronald Shusett, Dan O'Bannon, Jon Povill and Wimmer, which is in turn based on a short story by Philip K. Dick. Directed by Len Wiseman. 116 minutes. Rated PG-13.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Farrell's wife, Kate Beckinsale, isn't happy with the maneuver, given that the couple is so poor that bare-chested, wistfully-staring Farrell can't even afford a shirt, and the producers can't afford a new script. Her solution is that Farrell should dream of her, and when he blows her off she ends up chasing him down and trying to kill him. Marriage can be tough.
The only way you'll get think Total Recall is totally mind-bendingly new is if you're 25 and couldn't convince your parents to let you watch the original Total Recall when you were 3, then got frustrated that you forgot about it. Some settings are swapped out, but the general plot outline and a bunch of dialogue is largely the same, albeit a little unfamiliar because Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sharon Stone have been replaced by people who can actually act.
Copying the 1990 cult favorite isn't such a bad thing. The new movie also nails the original's sense of heedless, ridiculous fun. As Farrell transforms into a super-spy who can mangle robo-cops with his bare chest, the movie rarely misses an opportunity to step back and subtly make fun of itself. There's something to be said for a movie that can make you chuckle one minute, then genuinely fear for the fate of its unkillable hero as he leaps through a Super Mario-like succession of platforms the next.
The movie is set in a world that's been entirely destroyed except for a Europe-spanning British empire and continent-sized ghetto of Australia. Don't fret, Americans, because no one has British or Aussie accents, so we clearly took over both places before the other continents were crushed. The rich British Americans, led by Bryan Craston of Breaking Bad, exploit the poor Australian Americans for cheap labor. There are revolutionaries out there who want to change things, but they mostly stick to ineffectual activities such as spraying graffiti all over their squalor.
The future may be bleak, but the technology sure rocks. Memory implantation machines are only the beginning. There are flying cars, wall-mounted iPads, phones installed in hands, elevators that go directly through the earth's core to get from one side of the planet to the other, and most importantly, three-boobed hookers.
Farrell's attempt at memory implantation -- an installation of Norton Biel Dream Enhancer -- either unlocks sleeper agent memories or frazzles his brain so he thinks he's a spy who finally gets to make out with Biel but adorably hold hands with her while running around, fleeing certain death. There are some Inception-like is-he-dreaming-or-not trickery, but subtlety and misdirection are not the strong suits for filmmaker Len Wiseman, whose credits include the first two Underworld movies and the fourth Die Hard. So you pretty much can tell what's happening. Meaning, stuff will explode. And then explode some more. And Farrell will once again wind up shirtless.
This may be Wiseman's best movie yet, yet it's only the second-best Total Recall. But it will have to suffice until Suri Cruise and a baby to be named later make another one in 22 years or so.
Colin Farrell, Kate Beckinsale, Jessica Biel and Bryan Cranston. Written by Kurt Wimmer and Mark Bomback, based on a screen story by Ronald Shusett, Dan O'Bannon, Jon Povill and Wimmer, which is in turn based on a short story by Philip K. Dick. Directed by Len Wiseman. 116 minutes. Rated PG-13.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Winning A Tricky Hospital's Reindeer Games
It sucks to get a colossal hospital bill, but it's almost worth the pain (almost) for the chance to take advantage of the secret-handshake discount program operated by seemingly all medical billing offices. All you have to do is ask for a discount in exchange for paying the remaining amount in full upfront, and your bill will be magically shrink. Hospitals and doctors do this to grab your cash while they can out of fear that you'll ignore the bill and stiff them.
But the enemy is doing what it can to make things tougher on patients looking to slash their medical bills.
My son, Zack, was born three weeks ago, and the hospital sent me a bill yesterday. I found it odd that the bill's contact number had an (800) prefix, but still thought I wouldn't have too much trouble getting a discount like I did three years ago when Emma was born.
How wrong I was.
Not only did the first guy I spoke to turn me down, but so did his supervisor. They insisted the hospital didn't offer such a discount and never had. After I presented evidence to the contrary the supervisor admitted her operation was nothing more than a call center contracted out by the hospital. She recommended I call the mothership.
Once I did that — having to look up the number myself, because the call center didn't have it and couldn't or wouldn't transfer me — I got a 20 percent discount nice and easy. It's sad that those who don't have the perseverance to play billing office whack-a-mole will have to pay full price.
The lesson here, folks, is to never take "no" from an agency that lacks the power to make things right for you.
But the enemy is doing what it can to make things tougher on patients looking to slash their medical bills.
My son, Zack, was born three weeks ago, and the hospital sent me a bill yesterday. I found it odd that the bill's contact number had an (800) prefix, but still thought I wouldn't have too much trouble getting a discount like I did three years ago when Emma was born.
How wrong I was.
Not only did the first guy I spoke to turn me down, but so did his supervisor. They insisted the hospital didn't offer such a discount and never had. After I presented evidence to the contrary the supervisor admitted her operation was nothing more than a call center contracted out by the hospital. She recommended I call the mothership.
Once I did that — having to look up the number myself, because the call center didn't have it and couldn't or wouldn't transfer me — I got a 20 percent discount nice and easy. It's sad that those who don't have the perseverance to play billing office whack-a-mole will have to pay full price.
The lesson here, folks, is to never take "no" from an agency that lacks the power to make things right for you.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Review: The Watch
There's a scene in watch in which the four leads are crammed into a car on a stakeout, complaining about how bored they are.
It's all too easy to identify.
A bizarro action comedy, the Watch squanders the ample talents of Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, Jonah Hill and Richard Ayoade, each of whom are so naturally funny that it takes a significant effort for any of them to not make you laugh. Most of the time the movie is well up to the task.
The slumming temporarily un-funnymen play four overenthusiastic, small-town morons who form a neighborhood watch after some guy's skin gets ripped off inside a Costco. It's most definitely a Costco, not Sam's Club or a generic stand-in, because the store's sign gets prominent display in half the movie's scenes and the characters call it by name, going the Adam Sandler route of justifying product placement by taking it to such an extreme that it becomes a joke.
Give the script, as well as Costco brass, credit for not being afraid to taint the warehouse store's image with murders and shootouts on the premises. That's impressive for a place that doesn't even let you bring your drinks inside.
That's about the extent of the praise this thing deserves. Other than a few can't-miss awkward sex gags -- for example, the part in which the guys compare their thoughts on the texture and taste of a certain bodily fluid -- the writing is lifeless and the movie has all the edge of a dull razor. It's almost as though screenwriter Seth Rogen, who teams up with Evan Goldberg and Jared Stern, is sick of Hill getting all the roles he used to get so he intentionally wrote something awful to bring him back down to earth.
To his credit, Hill fares the best, with his boisterous, inappropriate one-liners keeping things halfway watchable. Vaughn, who gets far too few chances to strut his stuff these days, gets carried away with his motormouth shtick and goes off on overlong monologues that enter diminishing returns territory that Robin Williams knows all too well. Ayoade is the noob of the bunch, not able to contribute in a meaningful way, while Stiller, the eternal put-upon straight man, has nothing consistent to work with.
The plot takes a ridiculous turn that you're probably aware of if you've read anything about the movie, but in case you're in the dark, I'll let it stay a secret. Not so much to avoid spoilers, but to spare you the indignity of having to suffer through brain-tainting dullness. Suffice it to say that the unwatchable watchmen end up facing a threat that's more dangerous than the egg-tossing kids they confront early on. What might have been a welcome shock turns out to be a groaner.
My best advice is to avoid wasting big money to see The Watch in the theaters. Wait a few months, and if you still feel driven to try your luck with the movie, look for the DVD, which is sure to snag some prime shelf space at Costco. Maybe you can take advantage of the store's legendarily lax return policy and return the movie as defective because its jokes don't work.
Starring Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, Jonah Hill and Richard Ayoade. Written by Jared Stern, Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg. Directed by Akiva Schaffer. 100 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
It's all too easy to identify.
A bizarro action comedy, the Watch squanders the ample talents of Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, Jonah Hill and Richard Ayoade, each of whom are so naturally funny that it takes a significant effort for any of them to not make you laugh. Most of the time the movie is well up to the task.
The slumming temporarily un-funnymen play four overenthusiastic, small-town morons who form a neighborhood watch after some guy's skin gets ripped off inside a Costco. It's most definitely a Costco, not Sam's Club or a generic stand-in, because the store's sign gets prominent display in half the movie's scenes and the characters call it by name, going the Adam Sandler route of justifying product placement by taking it to such an extreme that it becomes a joke.
Give the script, as well as Costco brass, credit for not being afraid to taint the warehouse store's image with murders and shootouts on the premises. That's impressive for a place that doesn't even let you bring your drinks inside.
That's about the extent of the praise this thing deserves. Other than a few can't-miss awkward sex gags -- for example, the part in which the guys compare their thoughts on the texture and taste of a certain bodily fluid -- the writing is lifeless and the movie has all the edge of a dull razor. It's almost as though screenwriter Seth Rogen, who teams up with Evan Goldberg and Jared Stern, is sick of Hill getting all the roles he used to get so he intentionally wrote something awful to bring him back down to earth.
To his credit, Hill fares the best, with his boisterous, inappropriate one-liners keeping things halfway watchable. Vaughn, who gets far too few chances to strut his stuff these days, gets carried away with his motormouth shtick and goes off on overlong monologues that enter diminishing returns territory that Robin Williams knows all too well. Ayoade is the noob of the bunch, not able to contribute in a meaningful way, while Stiller, the eternal put-upon straight man, has nothing consistent to work with.
The plot takes a ridiculous turn that you're probably aware of if you've read anything about the movie, but in case you're in the dark, I'll let it stay a secret. Not so much to avoid spoilers, but to spare you the indignity of having to suffer through brain-tainting dullness. Suffice it to say that the unwatchable watchmen end up facing a threat that's more dangerous than the egg-tossing kids they confront early on. What might have been a welcome shock turns out to be a groaner.
My best advice is to avoid wasting big money to see The Watch in the theaters. Wait a few months, and if you still feel driven to try your luck with the movie, look for the DVD, which is sure to snag some prime shelf space at Costco. Maybe you can take advantage of the store's legendarily lax return policy and return the movie as defective because its jokes don't work.
Starring Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, Jonah Hill and Richard Ayoade. Written by Jared Stern, Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg. Directed by Akiva Schaffer. 100 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
5 Expressions That Only Foreign People Can Get Away With
1. No worries - Only works for Aussies. SoCal folk have attempted to co-opt this but it's just not taking.
2. Cheers - Solely for Brits. Non-Brits attempting to sound worldly just come off as desperate Anglophiles when they use this.
3. Hola - If you're not a native Spanish speaker, stop kidding yourself. Same with 'no problemo.'
4. Gesundheit - Just go with 'bless you' unless you're German. Even if you're an atheist. The words have no meaning so you're not undermining your beliefs.
5. Aboot - It sounds adorable when Canadians say it. Out of anyone else's mouth it comes off condescendingly.
2. Cheers - Solely for Brits. Non-Brits attempting to sound worldly just come off as desperate Anglophiles when they use this.
3. Hola - If you're not a native Spanish speaker, stop kidding yourself. Same with 'no problemo.'
4. Gesundheit - Just go with 'bless you' unless you're German. Even if you're an atheist. The words have no meaning so you're not undermining your beliefs.
5. Aboot - It sounds adorable when Canadians say it. Out of anyone else's mouth it comes off condescendingly.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Review: The Dark Knight Rises
"Mmmph blrrg grug Batman glogg freedom raaar!"
-Bane, The Dark Knight Rises
The movie's gimp mask-wearing, MMA fighter-like villain no doubt has many profound things to say. But he talks like he's got an Egg McMuffin lodged in his trachia, so you're left to guess as to his motives for destroying a city, trapping every single police officer in a sewer, beating up Batman and rocking a smelly tanktop.
Bane stands as a symbol for his movie, which may as well be called The Dark Knight Bloats. Christopher Nolan followed up his two Caped Crusader masterpieces with a dud of a finale that, like Bane, is giant, slow-moving, talks too much and doesn't have a heck of a lot of reason to exist.
The movie runs a little long at nearly three hours, but I recommend taking a nap for an hour or so in the middle to make it pass quicker. Nolan helps you out with that by making the mid-section into a sort of cinematic lullaby that rocks you to sleep with board meetings, emo conversations and many, many, many scenes that do not show Batman being Batman.
This is not a movie to watch if you'd care to see Batman in action, doing Batman-like things like catching crooks or swooping down and punching people in the back of the head. The first act is mostly a poetry slam of one character after another reciting expositional monologues about how and why Batman has been away for eight years, and why that's a good thing or a bad thing.
Bruce Wayne is holed up in his stately manor, which really should be called Wayne's World, limping around with a cane like Willy Wonka when he first appears in his 1970s movie. Bruce Wayne has made some questionable business decisions, such as hiring Catwoman (Anne Hathaway) as a maid and spent all his money on a nuclear fusion bomb that could either provide the world an eternity of free energy or explode the city, depending on who's got it at the time.
You know how Bruce Wayne always kept it a deep, dark, double secret that he was Batman? Well, he's pretty much done with that now, willing to have a heart to heart about it with a cop (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) he's just met. Bane also knows, probably because he's -- as Rush Limbaugh has cleverly deduced -- a stand-in for Mitt Romney, and figured it out because he's best pals with many billionaires. Also, I'm pretty sure Catwoman figures it out, unless Batman has a special Bat-kiss that differentiates his Bruce Wayne smooching experience.
It doesn't really matter that people know Bruce Wayne is Batman because he doesn't want to be Batman anymore. It takes a heck of a lot of boringness to get him back in his suit, and shortly thereafter something bad happens and he's no longer Batman again until just in time at the very end.
If I'm being a little hard on the movie, it's because I expected so much more from it, and because it does a great job of reminding you how good the other two were by flashing back to scenes from those films again and again. The point of the flashbacks is to restate profound philosophical points from those movies, I guess to avoid having to come up with any new ones of its own.
The Dark Knight Rises isn't awful and is perfectly watchable, but just doesn't make much sense or build upon the groundwork laid by the earlier movies. It's this series' version of The Matrix Revolutions, The Godfather Part III or Caddyshack 2. Nolan's other Batman movies were stylish, deep, exciting and shocking. This one is just content to sort of hang out on the porch and watch the cars pass by.
I'll close with a quote from Bane: "Mrkl mumf unite argyle frankensense blarg."
The words are as true today as they were during the midnight screening.
Starring Christian Bale, Anne Hathaway, Tom Hardy, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Gary Oldman, Marion Cotillard, Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine. Written by Jonathan Nolan and Christopher Nolan, based on a story by Christopher Nolan and David S. Goyer, using characters created by Bob Kane. Directed by Christopher Nolan. Rated PG-13. 165 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
-Bane, The Dark Knight Rises
The movie's gimp mask-wearing, MMA fighter-like villain no doubt has many profound things to say. But he talks like he's got an Egg McMuffin lodged in his trachia, so you're left to guess as to his motives for destroying a city, trapping every single police officer in a sewer, beating up Batman and rocking a smelly tanktop.
Bane stands as a symbol for his movie, which may as well be called The Dark Knight Bloats. Christopher Nolan followed up his two Caped Crusader masterpieces with a dud of a finale that, like Bane, is giant, slow-moving, talks too much and doesn't have a heck of a lot of reason to exist.
The movie runs a little long at nearly three hours, but I recommend taking a nap for an hour or so in the middle to make it pass quicker. Nolan helps you out with that by making the mid-section into a sort of cinematic lullaby that rocks you to sleep with board meetings, emo conversations and many, many, many scenes that do not show Batman being Batman.
This is not a movie to watch if you'd care to see Batman in action, doing Batman-like things like catching crooks or swooping down and punching people in the back of the head. The first act is mostly a poetry slam of one character after another reciting expositional monologues about how and why Batman has been away for eight years, and why that's a good thing or a bad thing.
Bruce Wayne is holed up in his stately manor, which really should be called Wayne's World, limping around with a cane like Willy Wonka when he first appears in his 1970s movie. Bruce Wayne has made some questionable business decisions, such as hiring Catwoman (Anne Hathaway) as a maid and spent all his money on a nuclear fusion bomb that could either provide the world an eternity of free energy or explode the city, depending on who's got it at the time.
You know how Bruce Wayne always kept it a deep, dark, double secret that he was Batman? Well, he's pretty much done with that now, willing to have a heart to heart about it with a cop (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) he's just met. Bane also knows, probably because he's -- as Rush Limbaugh has cleverly deduced -- a stand-in for Mitt Romney, and figured it out because he's best pals with many billionaires. Also, I'm pretty sure Catwoman figures it out, unless Batman has a special Bat-kiss that differentiates his Bruce Wayne smooching experience.
It doesn't really matter that people know Bruce Wayne is Batman because he doesn't want to be Batman anymore. It takes a heck of a lot of boringness to get him back in his suit, and shortly thereafter something bad happens and he's no longer Batman again until just in time at the very end.
If I'm being a little hard on the movie, it's because I expected so much more from it, and because it does a great job of reminding you how good the other two were by flashing back to scenes from those films again and again. The point of the flashbacks is to restate profound philosophical points from those movies, I guess to avoid having to come up with any new ones of its own.
The Dark Knight Rises isn't awful and is perfectly watchable, but just doesn't make much sense or build upon the groundwork laid by the earlier movies. It's this series' version of The Matrix Revolutions, The Godfather Part III or Caddyshack 2. Nolan's other Batman movies were stylish, deep, exciting and shocking. This one is just content to sort of hang out on the porch and watch the cars pass by.
I'll close with a quote from Bane: "Mrkl mumf unite argyle frankensense blarg."
The words are as true today as they were during the midnight screening.
Starring Christian Bale, Anne Hathaway, Tom Hardy, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Gary Oldman, Marion Cotillard, Morgan Freeman and Michael Caine. Written by Jonathan Nolan and Christopher Nolan, based on a story by Christopher Nolan and David S. Goyer, using characters created by Bob Kane. Directed by Christopher Nolan. Rated PG-13. 165 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Thursday, July 05, 2012
Review: Brave
After Cars 2 and the middling but still enjoyable Brave, Pixar has proven it's no longer the immortal dynamo it seemed to be for its first decade and a half of feature film production. The studio has fallen to earth, and seems more interested in grinding out a film a year rather than strictly releasing animated perfection.
The result of this outing is an entertaining family film with an idiotic plot and horrible yet still somehow likable protagonist who spends most of the running time fixing a terrible, irresponsible decision she makes early on. Forget that the title makes no sense, because bravery isn't apparent in any of the personality attributes expressed by Princess Merida (Kelly Macdonald), who refuses an arranged marriage that her parents tell her is necessary to preserve peace throughout factions they're associated with.
If the movie has anything that kids can can away, it's that whining and stubbornly sticking to your own self-absorbed opinions no matter what will pay off. Eventually your parents will fear you, and you'll always get your way. Not exactly a positive lesson, but frighteningly truthful.
The movie is beautiful and exciting, and nothing less should be expected from such cinematic wizards. When Merida befriends an anthropomorphic bear, whose identity I won't spoil in the off chance you haven't watched a trailer or read an article about the movie, the screenplay has a lot of fun with the comical cross-species interplay.
At the end of the day, you're left with 90 minutes or so burned in favor of heedless, forgettable fun. Faint praise is all that this movie is worth, but that's much more than you could say about Cars 2.
The result of this outing is an entertaining family film with an idiotic plot and horrible yet still somehow likable protagonist who spends most of the running time fixing a terrible, irresponsible decision she makes early on. Forget that the title makes no sense, because bravery isn't apparent in any of the personality attributes expressed by Princess Merida (Kelly Macdonald), who refuses an arranged marriage that her parents tell her is necessary to preserve peace throughout factions they're associated with.
If the movie has anything that kids can can away, it's that whining and stubbornly sticking to your own self-absorbed opinions no matter what will pay off. Eventually your parents will fear you, and you'll always get your way. Not exactly a positive lesson, but frighteningly truthful.
The movie is beautiful and exciting, and nothing less should be expected from such cinematic wizards. When Merida befriends an anthropomorphic bear, whose identity I won't spoil in the off chance you haven't watched a trailer or read an article about the movie, the screenplay has a lot of fun with the comical cross-species interplay.
At the end of the day, you're left with 90 minutes or so burned in favor of heedless, forgettable fun. Faint praise is all that this movie is worth, but that's much more than you could say about Cars 2.
Monday, July 02, 2012
Review: The Amazing Spider-Man
"Is this Spider-Man 4?" my 5-year-old son, Luke, whispered as the movie started.
"No, it's Spider-Man 1," I replied, bracing myself for the inevitable follow-up.
"But there already was a Spider-Man 1," he shot back, dissatisfied. "And Spider-Man 2 and Spider-Man 3."
"Yeah, well, some people didn't like the other Spider-Mans so they're starting over."
"But..."
"Shhh, time to watch Spider-Man" I said, relieved that there was no more time to ponder the ridiculousness of a series reboot so soon after the last set of webslinger flicks.
Shhh, Time to Watch Spider-Man may as well as been the title given to this one by the studio powers, desperate to make everyone forget the 2007 series-scuttling abomination known as Spider-Man 3.
Forget that it's as patently ridiculous to remake Spider-Man (2002) as it would be to rehash The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring or Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, which came out the year before. The series needed a rapidfire do-over. Director Sam Raimi's Spidey movies were pandering, lowest-common denominator puffballs that trampled over the continuity of the comic books and committed the heresy of eschewing live-action stunts for pathetic, herky-jerky CGI.
Worse, Tobey Maguire's Spider-Man was a whining twerp who wanted to be pitied for his super powers and the responsibilities that came with them.
Newcomer Marc Webb, who made the impossibly, ludicrously amazing (500) Days of Summer, seems to hate those movies just as much as I did, and is determined to zig wherever the previous Spider-Man movies zagged. His spandexed web-slinger, played by Andrew Garfield, ditches the woe-is me emo nonsense for a joyful, wise-cracking exuberance that's contagious. Webb's story sticks close to the comic's roots, even on ridiculous yet adorable points such as Peter Parker inventing his own wrist-mounted web shooters.
Garfield, who nailed the emotional core of The Social Network as Mark Zuckerberg's betrayed best pal, captures the vulnerability of the bullied geek turned spandexed vigilante. The rest of the casting is just as inspired, starting with Martin Sheen and Sally Field as Peter's crotchety guardians, on through Emma Stone's brainy-hot Gwen Stacy and Denis Leary as her skeptical-of-Spidey cop dad.
Webb and his screenwriters also deserve credit for their restraint, taking time to introduce the characters and ease methodically through Peter's evolution into his destiny in the manner of Batman Begins. By the way, how perfect is it that the Spider-Man director's last name is Webb? It's like having a Superman movie directed by a guy named Cape or a Ghost Rider movie made by someone named Crap.
Ah, but this Webb does become tangled, eventually becoming (500) Cliches of Summer Superhero Flicks. The villain, a rampaging scientist/lizard man played by (Rhys Ifans), is cursed with a non-existent motivation and rarely has something more profound to say than "Raar!" It's also head-scratching how often Spidey insists on sharing his not-so-secret identity with all comers, stripping off his mask like he's desperate for beads at Mardi Gras.
This new Spider-Man 1 that isn't Spider-Man 1, but is, may not be amazing, but after those last three mediocre-to-horrid movies, I'll take The Adequate Spider-Man and run.
Starring Andrew Garfield, Emma Stone, Rhys Ifans, Denis Leary, Martin Sheen and Sally Field. Written by James Vanderbilt, Alvin Sargent and Steve Kloves, based on a story by Vanderbilt, which was adapted by the comics by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko. Directed by Marc Webb. Rated PG-13. 136 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
"No, it's Spider-Man 1," I replied, bracing myself for the inevitable follow-up.
"But there already was a Spider-Man 1," he shot back, dissatisfied. "And Spider-Man 2 and Spider-Man 3."
"Yeah, well, some people didn't like the other Spider-Mans so they're starting over."
"But..."
"Shhh, time to watch Spider-Man" I said, relieved that there was no more time to ponder the ridiculousness of a series reboot so soon after the last set of webslinger flicks.
Shhh, Time to Watch Spider-Man may as well as been the title given to this one by the studio powers, desperate to make everyone forget the 2007 series-scuttling abomination known as Spider-Man 3.
Forget that it's as patently ridiculous to remake Spider-Man (2002) as it would be to rehash The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring or Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, which came out the year before. The series needed a rapidfire do-over. Director Sam Raimi's Spidey movies were pandering, lowest-common denominator puffballs that trampled over the continuity of the comic books and committed the heresy of eschewing live-action stunts for pathetic, herky-jerky CGI.
Worse, Tobey Maguire's Spider-Man was a whining twerp who wanted to be pitied for his super powers and the responsibilities that came with them.
Newcomer Marc Webb, who made the impossibly, ludicrously amazing (500) Days of Summer, seems to hate those movies just as much as I did, and is determined to zig wherever the previous Spider-Man movies zagged. His spandexed web-slinger, played by Andrew Garfield, ditches the woe-is me emo nonsense for a joyful, wise-cracking exuberance that's contagious. Webb's story sticks close to the comic's roots, even on ridiculous yet adorable points such as Peter Parker inventing his own wrist-mounted web shooters.
Garfield, who nailed the emotional core of The Social Network as Mark Zuckerberg's betrayed best pal, captures the vulnerability of the bullied geek turned spandexed vigilante. The rest of the casting is just as inspired, starting with Martin Sheen and Sally Field as Peter's crotchety guardians, on through Emma Stone's brainy-hot Gwen Stacy and Denis Leary as her skeptical-of-Spidey cop dad.
Webb and his screenwriters also deserve credit for their restraint, taking time to introduce the characters and ease methodically through Peter's evolution into his destiny in the manner of Batman Begins. By the way, how perfect is it that the Spider-Man director's last name is Webb? It's like having a Superman movie directed by a guy named Cape or a Ghost Rider movie made by someone named Crap.
Ah, but this Webb does become tangled, eventually becoming (500) Cliches of Summer Superhero Flicks. The villain, a rampaging scientist/lizard man played by (Rhys Ifans), is cursed with a non-existent motivation and rarely has something more profound to say than "Raar!" It's also head-scratching how often Spidey insists on sharing his not-so-secret identity with all comers, stripping off his mask like he's desperate for beads at Mardi Gras.
This new Spider-Man 1 that isn't Spider-Man 1, but is, may not be amazing, but after those last three mediocre-to-horrid movies, I'll take The Adequate Spider-Man and run.
Starring Andrew Garfield, Emma Stone, Rhys Ifans, Denis Leary, Martin Sheen and Sally Field. Written by James Vanderbilt, Alvin Sargent and Steve Kloves, based on a story by Vanderbilt, which was adapted by the comics by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko. Directed by Marc Webb. Rated PG-13. 136 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
5 Gawker Blogs I Wish Existed
1. Shitkicker — A smarmy, wise-ass take on cow herding, crop dusting and barn painting.
2. Clockwatcher — A smarmy, wise-ass take on meeting attending, cubicle decorating and time wasting at work.
3. Plagiarist — A smarmy, wise-ass take on news aggregation, aggregating news from other aggregators without giving proper credit.
4. Smutnik — A smarmy, wise-ass take on the adult film industry.
5. TaleSpin — An earnest, unironic evaluation of news you can use and fan-fic dedicated to the early-1990s animated series that starred Baloo the Bear as a rascally pilot. I really miss that show. Subtitle: "All the trouble we get in with another tale to spin."
2. Clockwatcher — A smarmy, wise-ass take on meeting attending, cubicle decorating and time wasting at work.
3. Plagiarist — A smarmy, wise-ass take on news aggregation, aggregating news from other aggregators without giving proper credit.
4. Smutnik — A smarmy, wise-ass take on the adult film industry.
5. TaleSpin — An earnest, unironic evaluation of news you can use and fan-fic dedicated to the early-1990s animated series that starred Baloo the Bear as a rascally pilot. I really miss that show. Subtitle: "All the trouble we get in with another tale to spin."
Friday, June 29, 2012
Review: Ted
Seth MacFarlane is a clever bastard. He knows that only way to get away with transferring his Peter Griffin voice to a walking, talking teddy bear in a movie is to acknowledge the party foul with a self-deprecating joke. So he uses one line two-thirds of the way into the movie and he's suddenly excused him from any accusations of laziness.
The animation mastermind behind Family Guy, American Dad and The Cleveland Show, MacFarlane has made a career out of that sort of circular humor. He has an ear for the absurd, and flings outrageous references up against the wall. It doesn't matter that only half of them stick, because the ones that do are funny enough to excuse the misfires. Ted may make you groan as much as it will make you laugh, but when it's on, the comedy gets you so giddy it makes you forget the awful stuff and halfway tricks you into thinking it's thoroughly perfect.
Part Child's Play, part Family Guy, part Wilfred and part fart joke marathon, Ted is all MacFarlane, for both better and worse. But mostly better.
MacFarlane voices the title character, a boozing, carousing plush doll who was dreamed into life back in the 1980s by John (Mark Wahlberg). Ted and John have grown into a pair of Flash Gordon reruns-watching, pot-smoking burnouts, much to the chagrin of John's ears-steaming girlfriend, Lori (Mila Kunis).
Lori drags John by the ear into adulthood, while Ted longs to lure John into suspended adolescence. That leaves Ted in the middle of the tug-of-war, juggling the only fart-joke-filled life he's known against a future of constant sex with a girl who looks like Mila Kunis. Both Wahlberg and Kunis play adequate straight parts, but they're really just the backup dancers for Ted's one-teddy show. The relationship stuff is dull, existing only to post up some framework for Ted's sickening-in-great-ways escapades.
Ted can rock a party like Charlie Sheen. He can hold his bong smoke, drink grown men under the table and is capable of seducing supermarket checkout girls, strippers and jazz singers with equal ease. He's got a knack for ironically racist wisecracks, a mean right hook and an inexplicable confidence in his awful driving ability. And boy, does he hate that Teddy Ruxpin.
Like Family Guy, Ted has its share of awkwardness, both intended and otherwise. Stars make surprise, self-mocking cameos that aren't quite as funny as intended, there are uncomfortably long pauses after punchlines that aren't as great as MacFarlane intended and then there's that Peter Griffin voice, which makes it tough to separate Ted from the character who's spent way too much time in your living room.
But overall, Ted is a ginormous victory for MacFarlane. Proof that his silly, so-stupid-it's-smart shtick can hold up over 106 minutes. Haters beware, because MacFarlane shows he's going to be just as popular a filmmaker as he is at TV animation. Lord help us all.
Starring Mark Wahlberg, Mila Kunis, Seth MacFarlane's voice, Giovanni Ribisi and Patrick Warburton. Written by MacFarlane, Alec Sulkin and Wellesley Wild, based on a story by MacFarlane. Directed by MacFarlane. 106 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
The animation mastermind behind Family Guy, American Dad and The Cleveland Show, MacFarlane has made a career out of that sort of circular humor. He has an ear for the absurd, and flings outrageous references up against the wall. It doesn't matter that only half of them stick, because the ones that do are funny enough to excuse the misfires. Ted may make you groan as much as it will make you laugh, but when it's on, the comedy gets you so giddy it makes you forget the awful stuff and halfway tricks you into thinking it's thoroughly perfect.
Part Child's Play, part Family Guy, part Wilfred and part fart joke marathon, Ted is all MacFarlane, for both better and worse. But mostly better.
MacFarlane voices the title character, a boozing, carousing plush doll who was dreamed into life back in the 1980s by John (Mark Wahlberg). Ted and John have grown into a pair of Flash Gordon reruns-watching, pot-smoking burnouts, much to the chagrin of John's ears-steaming girlfriend, Lori (Mila Kunis).
Lori drags John by the ear into adulthood, while Ted longs to lure John into suspended adolescence. That leaves Ted in the middle of the tug-of-war, juggling the only fart-joke-filled life he's known against a future of constant sex with a girl who looks like Mila Kunis. Both Wahlberg and Kunis play adequate straight parts, but they're really just the backup dancers for Ted's one-teddy show. The relationship stuff is dull, existing only to post up some framework for Ted's sickening-in-great-ways escapades.
Ted can rock a party like Charlie Sheen. He can hold his bong smoke, drink grown men under the table and is capable of seducing supermarket checkout girls, strippers and jazz singers with equal ease. He's got a knack for ironically racist wisecracks, a mean right hook and an inexplicable confidence in his awful driving ability. And boy, does he hate that Teddy Ruxpin.
Like Family Guy, Ted has its share of awkwardness, both intended and otherwise. Stars make surprise, self-mocking cameos that aren't quite as funny as intended, there are uncomfortably long pauses after punchlines that aren't as great as MacFarlane intended and then there's that Peter Griffin voice, which makes it tough to separate Ted from the character who's spent way too much time in your living room.
But overall, Ted is a ginormous victory for MacFarlane. Proof that his silly, so-stupid-it's-smart shtick can hold up over 106 minutes. Haters beware, because MacFarlane shows he's going to be just as popular a filmmaker as he is at TV animation. Lord help us all.
Starring Mark Wahlberg, Mila Kunis, Seth MacFarlane's voice, Giovanni Ribisi and Patrick Warburton. Written by MacFarlane, Alec Sulkin and Wellesley Wild, based on a story by MacFarlane. Directed by MacFarlane. 106 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
5 Pop Stars With Negligible Singing Ability
1. Katy Perry. She knows three notes: Talk, yell and shout.
2. Rihanna. She recognizes that "ella" rhymes with "ella," and can dance, but she's monotone.
3. Ke$ha. I don't even think her "rapping" voice. It sounds computer-manipulated in the vein of Johnny Bravo.
4. Miley Cyrus. She seems to be following the career trajectory of Hilary Duff, meaning she'll be working at Sonic by 2015.
5. Justin Bieber. Maybe I'm missing something, but it seems that Selena Gomez most of the talent in the relationship. And we're not talking about all that much talent to go around.
2. Rihanna. She recognizes that "ella" rhymes with "ella," and can dance, but she's monotone.
3. Ke$ha. I don't even think her "rapping" voice. It sounds computer-manipulated in the vein of Johnny Bravo.
4. Miley Cyrus. She seems to be following the career trajectory of Hilary Duff, meaning she'll be working at Sonic by 2015.
5. Justin Bieber. Maybe I'm missing something, but it seems that Selena Gomez most of the talent in the relationship. And we're not talking about all that much talent to go around.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Review: Seeking A Friend For The End Of The World
It would really suck if we found out a meteor was careening toward earth, set to end all life in a matter of days. But as Seeking a Friend for the End of the World teaches, there would be a silver lining for lonely dudes. Ladies would get crazy desperate, dropping their standards lower than they would at a dive bar on New Year's Eve at 11:59.
That's great news for Dodge (Steve Carell), a newly-single 50-year-old insurance salesman, who can suddenly get picky when it comes to romance. In the movie's first few scenes, he turns away middle-aged women who throw themselves at him, holding out for 20-something stunner Penny (Keira Knightley), who leaps through his apartment window and into his arms in the first of many scenes that make you go "hmm."
Never mind that Dodge's facial expression is permanently set to "constipated" or that he's got the personality of a dead dung beetle. Thanks to the meteor, he's a prime hunk of man meat in the eyes of Penny. Dodge is a suitable partner for an end-of-days travelogue, in which the couple wanders aimlessly through a realm of impromptu beach parties, Doritos-munching survivalists, bar-and-grill orgies, suicidal truckers and red-hot sex inside a car. Meteor, you are totally the best wing man ever.
Turns out the coming obliteration of creation not only distorts the judgment of romantic leads, but also filmmakers.
First-time writer/director Lauren Scafaria really wants you to root for her doomed lovebirds as she sends them through a gauntlet of tired screenwriting tropes, but the most sympathetic character ends up being the meteor, whom you wish will hurry the heck up and squash all these idiots. Dodge and Penny's plan seems to be to bore the meteor to death.
The movie is the type that gives think-piece indies a bad name. The parade of quirky characters are meant to be cute and unpredictable, but turn out as irritating and nonsensical. The script calls for Carell to spend too much time staring into the abyss, his craggy, vacant eyes revealing not only his character's regret for having wasted his time, but the actor's decision to sign up for this mess.
Knightley shows a little more life, and she deserves credit for resisting the urge to wince whenever she leans in to smooch Carell, but there's not much for her to do other than whining about wanting to fly to England to visit her parents.
Scafaria could have had a some more fun showing how urban areas would shut down if there was no tomorrow, but she keeps her characters out in the country, fleeing the riots and looting.
The concept would have had a better chance of success if it let Carell flex his comedic muscles, seeking out gallows humor in the end of existence, rather than sticking with its slow, somber vibe. With the talent onhand, the world could have ended with a bang, not a whimper.
Starring Steve Carell and Keira Knightley. Written and directed by Lorene Scafaria. Rated R. 104 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
That's great news for Dodge (Steve Carell), a newly-single 50-year-old insurance salesman, who can suddenly get picky when it comes to romance. In the movie's first few scenes, he turns away middle-aged women who throw themselves at him, holding out for 20-something stunner Penny (Keira Knightley), who leaps through his apartment window and into his arms in the first of many scenes that make you go "hmm."
Never mind that Dodge's facial expression is permanently set to "constipated" or that he's got the personality of a dead dung beetle. Thanks to the meteor, he's a prime hunk of man meat in the eyes of Penny. Dodge is a suitable partner for an end-of-days travelogue, in which the couple wanders aimlessly through a realm of impromptu beach parties, Doritos-munching survivalists, bar-and-grill orgies, suicidal truckers and red-hot sex inside a car. Meteor, you are totally the best wing man ever.
Turns out the coming obliteration of creation not only distorts the judgment of romantic leads, but also filmmakers.
First-time writer/director Lauren Scafaria really wants you to root for her doomed lovebirds as she sends them through a gauntlet of tired screenwriting tropes, but the most sympathetic character ends up being the meteor, whom you wish will hurry the heck up and squash all these idiots. Dodge and Penny's plan seems to be to bore the meteor to death.
The movie is the type that gives think-piece indies a bad name. The parade of quirky characters are meant to be cute and unpredictable, but turn out as irritating and nonsensical. The script calls for Carell to spend too much time staring into the abyss, his craggy, vacant eyes revealing not only his character's regret for having wasted his time, but the actor's decision to sign up for this mess.
Knightley shows a little more life, and she deserves credit for resisting the urge to wince whenever she leans in to smooch Carell, but there's not much for her to do other than whining about wanting to fly to England to visit her parents.
Scafaria could have had a some more fun showing how urban areas would shut down if there was no tomorrow, but she keeps her characters out in the country, fleeing the riots and looting.
The concept would have had a better chance of success if it let Carell flex his comedic muscles, seeking out gallows humor in the end of existence, rather than sticking with its slow, somber vibe. With the talent onhand, the world could have ended with a bang, not a whimper.
Starring Steve Carell and Keira Knightley. Written and directed by Lorene Scafaria. Rated R. 104 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
The 5 Greatest Things About 108 Degree Weather
1. Pants pocket sweat destroys your old, outdated phone, giving you an excuse to get a new one.
2. The inside temperature of your car matches that of a kiln, making it easy and convenient to complete ceramics projects.
3. Air conditioning bills surpass your paycheck, which is great because Jesus said it's tough for rich people to get into heaven.
4. You get the tan of your dreams in just four seconds of sun exposure. Although five will give you both a third-degree sunburn and heat stroke, while six will incinerate you on the spot.
5. The feared Yeti decides not to terrorize your populace, being that he prefers snow.
2. The inside temperature of your car matches that of a kiln, making it easy and convenient to complete ceramics projects.
3. Air conditioning bills surpass your paycheck, which is great because Jesus said it's tough for rich people to get into heaven.
4. You get the tan of your dreams in just four seconds of sun exposure. Although five will give you both a third-degree sunburn and heat stroke, while six will incinerate you on the spot.
5. The feared Yeti decides not to terrorize your populace, being that he prefers snow.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Review: That's My Boy
Way back in the olden days, Adam Sandler was the funniest man alive. He was so talented that he actually made Saturday Night Live a show that you looked forward to each week. Then he went and made Happy Gilmore, Billy Madison, Bulletproof, The Wedding Singer and Big Daddy, which were all phenomenal enough to leave audiences with cracked ribs and damp pants.
Back then, 20 million or so fans, including me, vowed to watch anything this guy was in throughout the rest of time, no matter how awful things got. We would stick around through hell, high water and I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, holding a vigil in hopes that the master would awake from his sleepwalk. One day, we prayed into our popcorn, Sandler would stop with the terrible The Longest Yard Remakes, the Just Go With Its, the Grown Ups and the Bedtime Stories and find the seat cushion that he accidentally lost his genius underneath.
By the time Sandler starred in a movie called Funny People, it seemed ironically titled. It just wasn't gonna happen for us. But the dumber of us 20 million still stuck around, and with That's My Boy, we've finally been rewarded for our ignorance, stubbornness and general stupidity.
The movie is a hurricane of disgustingly wrong sight gags, so-dated-they're-fresh references and dialogue that's must have been copied out of the teacher's edition of the Cruelly Funny One-Liners 101 textbook.
Sandler plays Donny, who impregnated his middle school teacher when he was a teenager and became a celebrity who wasted all his money, hung with the likes of Vanilla Ice and the two Coreys and ended up falling from grace just like those guys. Facing prison unless he can come up with back taxes, he wants to reconnect with his estranged son, Todd (Andy Samberg), whom he figures he can coax into a big-money reality shoe reunion with him and his mom.
Todd, who is about to get married to bossy bridezilla Jamie (Leighton Meester), is so embarrassed of Donny that he makes him pretend to be an old friend. Donny tries to re-forge the father-son bond while trying not to alienate Jamie's family and destroy the wedding. Which means, of course, that Donny will alienate the family and destroy the wedding as much as possible before eventually setting everything right, or not.
It's a blueprint for disaster, but Sandler -- armed with an anything-goes R rating and a sicker-than-usual mind -- is back in 1990s form, when he wasn't interested in trying to please everyone. He's made a vulgar, disgusting movie that joyfully tries to make the stodiger viewers file out of the theater, leaving more room for everyone who gets it to roll in the aisles. It seems as though he and his filmmaking team came up with a ton of great jokes that the money guys would deem unacceptable and cut out, leaving only the bland stuff. Then he took everything that had been cut and made that into the movie, trashing all the bland junk.
Samberg proves to be an able Robin to Sandler's Batman, turning what could have been a thankless straight-man role into a Ben Stiller-like sponge for indignities. Vanilla Ice, who gets a surprising amount of screentime as Donny's partner in crime, is game to mock himself and show some comedic acting chops that eclipse his questionable talent as a rapper. And bless the sweet yet deranged soul of 89-year-old Peggy Stewart, who manages to upstage Sandler, Samberg, Vanilla Ice and everyone else to appear to be Betty White's funnier younger sister.
That's My Boy turns out not only to be the title of the movie, but something Sandler's poor, suffering fans can gleefully say to each other as they acknowledge that their hero is back.
At least until Grown Ups 2 comes out.
Starring Adam Sandler, Andy Samberg, Vanilla Ice, Leighton Meester and James Caan. Written by David Caspe. Directed by Sean Anders. 114 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Back then, 20 million or so fans, including me, vowed to watch anything this guy was in throughout the rest of time, no matter how awful things got. We would stick around through hell, high water and I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, holding a vigil in hopes that the master would awake from his sleepwalk. One day, we prayed into our popcorn, Sandler would stop with the terrible The Longest Yard Remakes, the Just Go With Its, the Grown Ups and the Bedtime Stories and find the seat cushion that he accidentally lost his genius underneath.
By the time Sandler starred in a movie called Funny People, it seemed ironically titled. It just wasn't gonna happen for us. But the dumber of us 20 million still stuck around, and with That's My Boy, we've finally been rewarded for our ignorance, stubbornness and general stupidity.
The movie is a hurricane of disgustingly wrong sight gags, so-dated-they're-fresh references and dialogue that's must have been copied out of the teacher's edition of the Cruelly Funny One-Liners 101 textbook.
Sandler plays Donny, who impregnated his middle school teacher when he was a teenager and became a celebrity who wasted all his money, hung with the likes of Vanilla Ice and the two Coreys and ended up falling from grace just like those guys. Facing prison unless he can come up with back taxes, he wants to reconnect with his estranged son, Todd (Andy Samberg), whom he figures he can coax into a big-money reality shoe reunion with him and his mom.
Todd, who is about to get married to bossy bridezilla Jamie (Leighton Meester), is so embarrassed of Donny that he makes him pretend to be an old friend. Donny tries to re-forge the father-son bond while trying not to alienate Jamie's family and destroy the wedding. Which means, of course, that Donny will alienate the family and destroy the wedding as much as possible before eventually setting everything right, or not.
It's a blueprint for disaster, but Sandler -- armed with an anything-goes R rating and a sicker-than-usual mind -- is back in 1990s form, when he wasn't interested in trying to please everyone. He's made a vulgar, disgusting movie that joyfully tries to make the stodiger viewers file out of the theater, leaving more room for everyone who gets it to roll in the aisles. It seems as though he and his filmmaking team came up with a ton of great jokes that the money guys would deem unacceptable and cut out, leaving only the bland stuff. Then he took everything that had been cut and made that into the movie, trashing all the bland junk.
Samberg proves to be an able Robin to Sandler's Batman, turning what could have been a thankless straight-man role into a Ben Stiller-like sponge for indignities. Vanilla Ice, who gets a surprising amount of screentime as Donny's partner in crime, is game to mock himself and show some comedic acting chops that eclipse his questionable talent as a rapper. And bless the sweet yet deranged soul of 89-year-old Peggy Stewart, who manages to upstage Sandler, Samberg, Vanilla Ice and everyone else to appear to be Betty White's funnier younger sister.
That's My Boy turns out not only to be the title of the movie, but something Sandler's poor, suffering fans can gleefully say to each other as they acknowledge that their hero is back.
At least until Grown Ups 2 comes out.
Starring Adam Sandler, Andy Samberg, Vanilla Ice, Leighton Meester and James Caan. Written by David Caspe. Directed by Sean Anders. 114 minutes. Rated R.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
5 Jobs I Could Never Do
1. Construction. I'm bad with my hands, don't follow directions well, don't like heat or cold and all the bending over and lugging heavy crap around would kill my back.
2. Car salesman. If I worked at a new car dealership, I would tell everyone to go away and buy a used vehicle, because it makes more financial sense. If I worked in used cars, I'd tell people to use Craigslist because the stuff we sell is overpriced.
3. Any job without a computer in front of me. Sure, I could check stuff on my phone, but it runs out of battery too quickly, isn't convenient and I need to stay updated on stuff.
4. Waiter. I would forget what people ordered and not respond well to rude customers. Also, I don't get how they managed to carry food or stacked plates without dropping it all over the floor.
5. Surgeon. My hands aren't steady enough not to unintentionally cut peoples' aortas and whatnot. Best to keep me out of hospitals altogether.
2. Car salesman. If I worked at a new car dealership, I would tell everyone to go away and buy a used vehicle, because it makes more financial sense. If I worked in used cars, I'd tell people to use Craigslist because the stuff we sell is overpriced.
3. Any job without a computer in front of me. Sure, I could check stuff on my phone, but it runs out of battery too quickly, isn't convenient and I need to stay updated on stuff.
4. Waiter. I would forget what people ordered and not respond well to rude customers. Also, I don't get how they managed to carry food or stacked plates without dropping it all over the floor.
5. Surgeon. My hands aren't steady enough not to unintentionally cut peoples' aortas and whatnot. Best to keep me out of hospitals altogether.
Friday, June 08, 2012
Review: Prometheus
A note to future space explorers: When searching out the galaxy for intelligent life, steer away from planets filled with aliens with mouths inside of mouths who like to pop out of peoples' bellies. Stuff your ship's air ducts with enough insulation to prevent creatures from scurrying around and dropping on your head.
And for heaven's sake, bring your giant flamethrower with you into dark alien caves, even if your shipmates try to discourage you.
These (except for the air duct thing) are just a few of the lessons that come from Prometheus, which is a prequel to all the Alien/Aliens movies. It's set in the late 21st century, long before the aliens got so hard up for roles that they agreed to team up with the Predators for those regrettable AVP movies that were the monster movie equivalents of The Surreal Life.
Director Ridley Scott, who started the series back in 1979, absolutely flips out with crazy-convincing 3D special effects this time out, making the alien belly-busters, exploding heads and crash landings seem like they were shot on location in the brain of a Red Bull-addled 15-year-old. Scott no doubt used so much of the studio's money on effects that there was no cash left over for the costumes budget, which is why Noomi Rapace and Charlize Theron must wear spandex rags when they're not frolicking about in their space suits.
The crew is aboard a trillion-dollar expedition, funded by a guy who appears to be the holographic ghost of the decrepit Biff Tannen from 2015. The goal may or may not be to land on a strange planet, get in arguments with each other, then run around like crazy as aliens explode their bellies one by one, but that's certainly what happens.
Although the crew is made up of the super elite in the fields of various ologies such as geology, archaeology and psychology, it's missing an expert in holycrapletsgethehellouttahere-ology. That guy would have been helpful, having seen that the Aliens murdered a bunch of giant humanoid spacemen in the Alien Cave and recommended an immediate evac.
Since he isn't around, what we get is an old-fashioned clash of humans who just ignore you when you yell "DO NOT go into that Alien Cave/contaminated spaceship room/ because there are Aliens in there!" at the screen versus Aliens. As is the case in all previous Aliens movies, daring and gusto are little match for super sharp teeth and belly-burrowing, so the result is as lopsided as this year's Stanley Cup Finals.
The movie works despite its collection of characters that you sort of want to die. Theron is a cold-blooded boss lady who thinks nothing of flame-throwing colleagues who disobey her do-not-board orders. Michael Fassbender is obnoxious as a condescending android who is probably secretly pulling for the Aliens. Even Rapace and Guy Pearce, the core heroes, often act like bickering idiots who deserve to become Alien Alpo.
The grand accomplishment of Prometheus is that it takes all these hateful characters, Aliens, amazing effects and lack of clothing, mashes them together and keeps everything fun, exciting and unpredictable. The movie even does something its forebears never did, halfway trying to explain why Aliens exist and why they don't like us so much. The title refers to the Greek mythology titan who brought fire down to earth, and the movie certainly brings the fire. As well as the thunder, the blood and the spandex.
Starring Noomi Rapace, Charlize Theron, Michael Fassbender, Idris Elba and Guy Pearce. Written by Jon Spaihts and Damon Lindelof. Directed by Ridley Scott. Rated R. 124 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
And for heaven's sake, bring your giant flamethrower with you into dark alien caves, even if your shipmates try to discourage you.
These (except for the air duct thing) are just a few of the lessons that come from Prometheus, which is a prequel to all the Alien/Aliens movies. It's set in the late 21st century, long before the aliens got so hard up for roles that they agreed to team up with the Predators for those regrettable AVP movies that were the monster movie equivalents of The Surreal Life.
Director Ridley Scott, who started the series back in 1979, absolutely flips out with crazy-convincing 3D special effects this time out, making the alien belly-busters, exploding heads and crash landings seem like they were shot on location in the brain of a Red Bull-addled 15-year-old. Scott no doubt used so much of the studio's money on effects that there was no cash left over for the costumes budget, which is why Noomi Rapace and Charlize Theron must wear spandex rags when they're not frolicking about in their space suits.
The crew is aboard a trillion-dollar expedition, funded by a guy who appears to be the holographic ghost of the decrepit Biff Tannen from 2015. The goal may or may not be to land on a strange planet, get in arguments with each other, then run around like crazy as aliens explode their bellies one by one, but that's certainly what happens.
Although the crew is made up of the super elite in the fields of various ologies such as geology, archaeology and psychology, it's missing an expert in holycrapletsgethehellouttahere-ology. That guy would have been helpful, having seen that the Aliens murdered a bunch of giant humanoid spacemen in the Alien Cave and recommended an immediate evac.
Since he isn't around, what we get is an old-fashioned clash of humans who just ignore you when you yell "DO NOT go into that Alien Cave/contaminated spaceship room/ because there are Aliens in there!" at the screen versus Aliens. As is the case in all previous Aliens movies, daring and gusto are little match for super sharp teeth and belly-burrowing, so the result is as lopsided as this year's Stanley Cup Finals.
The movie works despite its collection of characters that you sort of want to die. Theron is a cold-blooded boss lady who thinks nothing of flame-throwing colleagues who disobey her do-not-board orders. Michael Fassbender is obnoxious as a condescending android who is probably secretly pulling for the Aliens. Even Rapace and Guy Pearce, the core heroes, often act like bickering idiots who deserve to become Alien Alpo.
The grand accomplishment of Prometheus is that it takes all these hateful characters, Aliens, amazing effects and lack of clothing, mashes them together and keeps everything fun, exciting and unpredictable. The movie even does something its forebears never did, halfway trying to explain why Aliens exist and why they don't like us so much. The title refers to the Greek mythology titan who brought fire down to earth, and the movie certainly brings the fire. As well as the thunder, the blood and the spandex.
Starring Noomi Rapace, Charlize Theron, Michael Fassbender, Idris Elba and Guy Pearce. Written by Jon Spaihts and Damon Lindelof. Directed by Ridley Scott. Rated R. 124 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
5 TV Shows I Regret Watching
1. Survivor — I could fill this list with reality shows, but I'll save myself from embarrassment by stopping with this one. I spent too many hours of my early 20s in suspense over utter stupidity. The fact that the show is still on and apparently people still watch it amazes me.
2. Lost — The final two seasons were as awful as the first four were great. The exhilarating ramp-up only made the face-plant all the more devastating.
3. She-Ra: Princess of Power — The He-Man spin-off tricked me into watching a girls' show, no more masculine than Rainbow Brite or Strawberry Shortcake. Only now am I coming to terms with how severely I was bamboozled and emasculated.
4. King of the Hill — Because it came from Beavis and Butt-Head creator Mike Judge, I expected greatness. When it didn't come, I kept on watching, assuming it would eventually become funny or at least spout some redeeming quality. Never happened, at least in the show's first 10 years, after which I grudgingly gave up all hope and stopped watching.
5. Home Improvement — Tim Allen, terrible though he is, was far from the worst part of the show. There was the stupid half-face Wilson gimmick, the awful child actors, Al's oafishness and, well, Tim Allen. I think I watched every episode. Woe unto me.
2. Lost — The final two seasons were as awful as the first four were great. The exhilarating ramp-up only made the face-plant all the more devastating.
3. She-Ra: Princess of Power — The He-Man spin-off tricked me into watching a girls' show, no more masculine than Rainbow Brite or Strawberry Shortcake. Only now am I coming to terms with how severely I was bamboozled and emasculated.
4. King of the Hill — Because it came from Beavis and Butt-Head creator Mike Judge, I expected greatness. When it didn't come, I kept on watching, assuming it would eventually become funny or at least spout some redeeming quality. Never happened, at least in the show's first 10 years, after which I grudgingly gave up all hope and stopped watching.
5. Home Improvement — Tim Allen, terrible though he is, was far from the worst part of the show. There was the stupid half-face Wilson gimmick, the awful child actors, Al's oafishness and, well, Tim Allen. I think I watched every episode. Woe unto me.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Review: Men in Black III
Men in Black 3 is not only a time travel movie, but a time machine that takes you back to when a Men in Black movie could actually be good. Too bad it can't erase Men in Black 2. But it does manage to counteract that movie's awfulness, sealing up the franchise's spot in the ranks of series known by the scientific classification of "mostly good."
Had the threequel been awful, MIB would have been thrust into the dungeon of the damned, with Resident Evil, The Mummy and Underworld. Instead, it's up in the clubhouse, knocking down martinis and setting up tee times with Harry Potter, Mission: Impossible and the Bourne movies.
Do you realize it's been an entire election cycle since Will Smith starred in an action movie? Or any movie at all? In 2008 he popped up in Hancock and Seven Pounds. Since then, he's spent most of his time turning his children into Karate Kids and songstresses who whip their hair back and forth. MIB3 again proves its time machine qualities by zapping the megastud back into existence as if there were no gap in the timeline.
Smith is as young-seeming and boisterous as ever, and his partner, Tommy Lee Jones, is older and craggier, settling for part-time work in this outing. For much of the movie his character is played by his 1969 version, courtesy of Josh Brolin. He's so scarily excellent at matching Jones's crotchety ways that throngs of moviegoers will demand Brolin and Jones remake Freaky Friday.
There are as many ways a time travel movie can go wrong as there are unwatchable NBA playoff games, and MIB3 avoids most of them by keeping things simple, stupid and splashy. It copies off Back to the Future's paper by injecting daddy issues, sad-but-reversible deaths and a time travel method (plunging off the tops of buildings and pressing a button when you almost hit the ground) every bit as plausible as DeLorean gunning.
Men in Black's specialty has always been trotting out a parade of aliens that seemed to have been designed by 11-year-olds, rendered by 15-year-old CGI editors. The awfulness of the animation would be distracting if the image of the hideous Johnny Knoxville-faced alien from the last movie, 10 years ago, wasn't seared into the brain of anyone who suffered through that one. About at the midway point of MIB3 you stop questioning the sight of hairballs launching scorpion boomerangs from their wrists or sushi shopkeepers dropping their trousers to reveal they're Teddy Ruxpin's pal, Grubby.
The plot, such as it is, involves Big Will BASE-jumping back to 1969, to save the world, Tommy Lee Jones who was Josh Brolin when he was younger, hang out with Andy Warhol, see that the Mets win the World Series and fight a future and past bad guy in a tag team battle royale ladder match as Apollo 11 launches, secretly filling outer space with a blue laser grid that will protect us forever and ever.
Just lost you there, right? Try and forget about the story and focus on Smith's buddy cop act with two iterations of Brolin/Jones. Oh, and know that there will be gyro cycles and humongous jetpacks. And most importantly, pie.
Now that Men in Black is officially a mostly good series, maybe Smith will get back to work and stop making Rebecca Blacks off his offspring. If not, we may have to sic that blue laser grid on him.
Starring Will Smith, Tommy Lee Jones and Josh Brolin. Written by Etan Cohen, David Koepp, Jeff Nathanson and Michael Soccio, based on the comic by Lowell Cunningham. Directed by Barry Sonnenfeld. Rated PG-13. 106 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Had the threequel been awful, MIB would have been thrust into the dungeon of the damned, with Resident Evil, The Mummy and Underworld. Instead, it's up in the clubhouse, knocking down martinis and setting up tee times with Harry Potter, Mission: Impossible and the Bourne movies.
Do you realize it's been an entire election cycle since Will Smith starred in an action movie? Or any movie at all? In 2008 he popped up in Hancock and Seven Pounds. Since then, he's spent most of his time turning his children into Karate Kids and songstresses who whip their hair back and forth. MIB3 again proves its time machine qualities by zapping the megastud back into existence as if there were no gap in the timeline.
Smith is as young-seeming and boisterous as ever, and his partner, Tommy Lee Jones, is older and craggier, settling for part-time work in this outing. For much of the movie his character is played by his 1969 version, courtesy of Josh Brolin. He's so scarily excellent at matching Jones's crotchety ways that throngs of moviegoers will demand Brolin and Jones remake Freaky Friday.
There are as many ways a time travel movie can go wrong as there are unwatchable NBA playoff games, and MIB3 avoids most of them by keeping things simple, stupid and splashy. It copies off Back to the Future's paper by injecting daddy issues, sad-but-reversible deaths and a time travel method (plunging off the tops of buildings and pressing a button when you almost hit the ground) every bit as plausible as DeLorean gunning.
Men in Black's specialty has always been trotting out a parade of aliens that seemed to have been designed by 11-year-olds, rendered by 15-year-old CGI editors. The awfulness of the animation would be distracting if the image of the hideous Johnny Knoxville-faced alien from the last movie, 10 years ago, wasn't seared into the brain of anyone who suffered through that one. About at the midway point of MIB3 you stop questioning the sight of hairballs launching scorpion boomerangs from their wrists or sushi shopkeepers dropping their trousers to reveal they're Teddy Ruxpin's pal, Grubby.
The plot, such as it is, involves Big Will BASE-jumping back to 1969, to save the world, Tommy Lee Jones who was Josh Brolin when he was younger, hang out with Andy Warhol, see that the Mets win the World Series and fight a future and past bad guy in a tag team battle royale ladder match as Apollo 11 launches, secretly filling outer space with a blue laser grid that will protect us forever and ever.
Just lost you there, right? Try and forget about the story and focus on Smith's buddy cop act with two iterations of Brolin/Jones. Oh, and know that there will be gyro cycles and humongous jetpacks. And most importantly, pie.
Now that Men in Black is officially a mostly good series, maybe Smith will get back to work and stop making Rebecca Blacks off his offspring. If not, we may have to sic that blue laser grid on him.
Starring Will Smith, Tommy Lee Jones and Josh Brolin. Written by Etan Cohen, David Koepp, Jeff Nathanson and Michael Soccio, based on the comic by Lowell Cunningham. Directed by Barry Sonnenfeld. Rated PG-13. 106 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
The Top 10 NES Games
Note: I believe this list played a large part in my position as videogames editor being eliminated at GuySpeed. I wrote this list for the site, saved it and received this feedback from management:
Base Wars and Bayou Billy are extremely odd choices – and wouldn't be on most people's top 100 new game lists. There's a lot of classic games (I.e. Punch Out, Contra, Metal Gear, Ghosts N Goblins, Metroid, Kid Icarus, River city Ransom, etc etc etc) that are hands down better than those 2 games. We should also replace those 2 games, as well as Blades of Steel, with 3 games that are more universal favorites like the ones I mentioned above.I refused to substitute the games -- this was my top 10 list, not one designed by committee -- instead offering to withdraw the post and deduct it from my invoice. Four hours later, I received an email telling me that my position had been eliminated (although I would still be allowed to cover E3 and submit posts for reduced pay) because there wasn't much interest in GuySpeed's videogame coverage. This was odd because I had recently been told to switch from doing news posts to top 10 lists for the same reason. This would have been my first top 10 to post at GuySpeed. Bayou Billy, I took one for you, sir:
If your childhood was anything like mine, the Nintendo Entertainment System was your babysitter, social conduit and cruel dominatrix. Its chiptune soundtracks, blocky-yet-beautiful graphics and uniformly evil difficulty level -- not to mention its wrist-ripping controller -- made it tough to go back to the likes of Pac-Man and Donkey Kong at the crusty, soon-to-be-extinct arcade.
There were so many brilliant, ground-breaking successes on the system that it would be easy to list my favorite 100 NES games. Here are the best of the best of the best.
10. Base Wars (Ultra, 1991) -- Baseball isn't such a slow-moving, leisurely sport when it's played by armed robots. Games were as much a war of attrition as they were about runs, because each play on the base paths was decided by one-on-one battles. You could customize your lineup with a mix of heavy bruisers, spry hoverbots and laser-cannoned snipers. There's no telling how many arm punches little brothers suffered from older siblings when they dared beaned the opponent's star batter, destroying him and forcing the game to end in forfeit.
9. Tetris (Nintendo, 1989) -- Forget Reagan and Gorbachev. This Russian import is what really ended the Cold War. The hypnotic, falling-blocks puzzle game set the standard for all others in the genre to strive for. If you didn't play this so much in your youth that when you closed your eyes you saw falling blocks, you aren't human. There have been countless Tetris updates since, but none feel quite as right as this one.
8. Super Mario Bros. (Nintendo, 1986) -- Saving the princess was a rite of passage that proved you had come of age as a young man. Even if you couldn't beat level 8-4, you lied and said you could as you snuck up late at night, practicing, failing and smashing your controller in frustration. The game plays a little stiff now, but at the time of release there was nothing like it. Filled with secrets such as the Minus World, warp zones and hidden 1-up blocks, Super Mario Bros. was the gateway-drug game for every child of the1980s.
7. Blades of Steel (Konami, 1987) -- Another arm-puncher. The hockey sim's on-ice fights were the rough template for Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat. And it somehow made sense that the loser got sent to the penalty box. It was also totally mind-blowing how the electronic voice announced the title. It was a sign that you were about to entire the big-time.
6. Mega Man 3 (Capcom, 1990) -- The first two Mega Man releases were great, but the third outing was when the series hit perfection, nailing just the right balance of incredibly frustrating challenge, stunningly cartoonish graphics and jubilant boss fights. Finally managing to pummel those bastards Snake Man and Needle Man after hours of failure felt like great accomplishments.
5. Castlevania III: Dracula's Curse (Konami, 1990) -- There was something about NES-era threequels that allowed the developers to refine promising concepts into thriving perfection. That was the case with this hack-and-slash tangle with the creatures of the night. You could suit up as whip-wielding hero or one of his three pals as you set to take down Count Dracula. Branching paths with different endings made you want to play through again and again.
4. The Adventures of Bayou Billy (Konami, 1989) -- Playing as a Crocodile Dundee clone slugging his way through the Deep South to rescue his captured girlfriend, Bayou Billy evolved the brawler genre by changing up the gameplay. One level you'd be punching crocs in the face, the next you'd steer a Jeep through an obstacle course, lobbing grenades at choppers. Then you'd pull out the NES Zapper and do a drive-by on enemies who chucked stuff at you. And that ending was pure magic.
3. Super Mario Bros. 3 (Nintendo, 1990) -- Here's the ultimate example of threequel perfection. The Mario formula shifted to an overworld navigation layout that added depth to the act of chugging through each world. In between levels, you could tangle with roaming Hammer Brothers or try a matching card games to stock your inventory with power-ups. You could save your progress and come back for more later, and there was even a head-to-head competitive multiplayer minigame to blow of steam. Just as Mario finally gained the ability to fly in the game, his series hit its loftiest heights.
2. Tecmo Super Bowl (Tecmo, 1991) -- We still prefer this game and its Super Nintendo remake to modern Maddens. The simplified football action may not have been realistic, but it's pad-popping, player-tumbling flourishes captured the spirit of the game better than anything not named NFL Blitz. There were eight plays the offense and defense could select, leading to pre-snap, rock-paper-scissors-like mindgames that were every bit as important as your reaction time and button-mashing ability on the field.
1. The Legend of Zelda (Nintendo, 1987) -- The cruelest of mistresses, the swords-and-sorcery exploration-fest tossed you into a brutal, monster-teeming open world with no direction or hand-holding. In the days before online walkthroughs existed, you had to rely on Nintendo Power walkthroughs and jungle gym secret swaps to make your way through the unforgiving fantasy realm. With its puzzles, items and upgrades, Zelda was the first action role-playing game in the lives of a generation of gamers.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Review: 6 Bullets
It's no longer sad that Jean-Claude Van Damme's career is reduced to direct-to-video movies. It's been so long since the days of Bloodsport and Kickboxer that it seems almost quaint to think back to the days in which Van Damme was a bona fide action star rather than a self-satirical joke.
The beauty of 6 Bullets is that Van Damme isn't in on the joke. Even at age 51 and with approximately one third of the muscle mass he rocked in his salad days, he plays the role of stone-cold enforcer with as much ferocity as he did Lyon in Lionheart.
Allow me to quote the Internet Movie Database's dead-on tagline for his latest movie:
6 Bullets does not fit the definition of what most would call a good movie, but screw most people. I had a great time with the movie, all the way up to the resonant finale, in which Van Damme unleashes a catch phrase contrasting his ability to forgive sins with that of God. Oh, Van Damme, you've still got it.
The beauty of 6 Bullets is that Van Damme isn't in on the joke. Even at age 51 and with approximately one third of the muscle mass he rocked in his salad days, he plays the role of stone-cold enforcer with as much ferocity as he did Lyon in Lionheart.
Allow me to quote the Internet Movie Database's dead-on tagline for his latest movie:
"An ex-mercenary known for finding missing children is hired by a mixed martial arts fighter whose daughter has been kidnapped."That says it all, doesn't it? Van Damme, of course, is the ex-merc, and he surrounds himself with actors far more obscure than him so he can still emit 1990s-style star power. Although the editing room seems to be doing Van Damme some favors in showing him dispatch roomfulls of enemies with his flashy fists and stone cold glare, he still shows that he's spry and physically imposing. The fight scenes are fun to watch, and the scenes that are intended to be serious inspire some good laughs because they're so self-serious.
6 Bullets does not fit the definition of what most would call a good movie, but screw most people. I had a great time with the movie, all the way up to the resonant finale, in which Van Damme unleashes a catch phrase contrasting his ability to forgive sins with that of God. Oh, Van Damme, you've still got it.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Review: The Dictator
A lot of brilliant movie comedians blow their loads early in their careers with their best stuff, collecting enough fans to stick by them as they get less funnier with each movie. It's happened to Adam Sandler, Will Ferrell and Seth Rogen, and now, with the OK-but-not-mind-blowing The Dictator, Sacha Baron Cohen.
One thing that's killing Cohen is his own fame. No longer will he be able to ambush people as Borat or Bruno for the sake of a documentary. Now he'll have to play regular characters with plain three-act scripts. Take away Cohen's ability to trap idiots into making fools of themselves is like stripping Superman of his ability to soar. Sure, he can still punch through walls, but he can no longer fly.
Weird accents and speech patterns can only take you so far when you're not exploiting hapless victims for shock effect, and Cohen beats all the forced comedy he can out of his north African dictator creation, Aladeen.
Cohen is subtly making his case to be known as the Charlie Chaplin of our time by echoing Chaplin's Hitler satire, The Great Dictator. Like the creaky 1940 movie, Cohen's film mixes up a delusional dictator with a lookalike he also plays. And just as in the older movie, the not-so-great Dictator ends awkwardly, with a long, semi-serious speech that makes blunt political points.
The biggest difference in the two movies is sex jokes. Cohen tries to play pubic hair, masturbation, misunderstandings about rape and homophobia -- not to mention loads of racial humor -- for his biggest laughs. He's skilled enough to make most of the jokes work, but they come off more as stand-alone rimshots than snowballing jokes that build into something bigger and more consistent.
Anna Faris pops up as Cohen's straight man and romantic interest, playing a hyper-politically correct Brooklynite caterer who takes Aladeen under her wing after he winds up in the U.S. and can't get anyone to believe that he's the real dictator after an underling has swapped him out for a body double.
The forced romance sucks a lot of the wind out of the comedy sails. Even though she's playing a character not meant to be taken seriously, Faris is too inherently sweet to be the continual butt of jokes that Cohen makes her, calling her mannish/boyish and overweight. Instead of rooting for the unlikely love to blossom, it's too easy just to feel bad for the Faris character. Their relationship seems to have seeped in from some other, dumber movie, just plopped in to give structure to a shapeless brain dump of one-off laughs.
When The Dictator is funny, it's funny enough to make you forgive it when it's awful. But when it's awful it makes you wonder whether or not it will ever get funny again. And whether Cohen will ever be as great as he once was.
Starring Sacha Baron Cohen, Anna Faris and Ben Kingsley. Written by Cohen, Alec Berg, David Mandel and Jeff Schaffer. Directed by Larry Charles. Rated R. 83 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
One thing that's killing Cohen is his own fame. No longer will he be able to ambush people as Borat or Bruno for the sake of a documentary. Now he'll have to play regular characters with plain three-act scripts. Take away Cohen's ability to trap idiots into making fools of themselves is like stripping Superman of his ability to soar. Sure, he can still punch through walls, but he can no longer fly.
Weird accents and speech patterns can only take you so far when you're not exploiting hapless victims for shock effect, and Cohen beats all the forced comedy he can out of his north African dictator creation, Aladeen.
Cohen is subtly making his case to be known as the Charlie Chaplin of our time by echoing Chaplin's Hitler satire, The Great Dictator. Like the creaky 1940 movie, Cohen's film mixes up a delusional dictator with a lookalike he also plays. And just as in the older movie, the not-so-great Dictator ends awkwardly, with a long, semi-serious speech that makes blunt political points.
The biggest difference in the two movies is sex jokes. Cohen tries to play pubic hair, masturbation, misunderstandings about rape and homophobia -- not to mention loads of racial humor -- for his biggest laughs. He's skilled enough to make most of the jokes work, but they come off more as stand-alone rimshots than snowballing jokes that build into something bigger and more consistent.
Anna Faris pops up as Cohen's straight man and romantic interest, playing a hyper-politically correct Brooklynite caterer who takes Aladeen under her wing after he winds up in the U.S. and can't get anyone to believe that he's the real dictator after an underling has swapped him out for a body double.
The forced romance sucks a lot of the wind out of the comedy sails. Even though she's playing a character not meant to be taken seriously, Faris is too inherently sweet to be the continual butt of jokes that Cohen makes her, calling her mannish/boyish and overweight. Instead of rooting for the unlikely love to blossom, it's too easy just to feel bad for the Faris character. Their relationship seems to have seeped in from some other, dumber movie, just plopped in to give structure to a shapeless brain dump of one-off laughs.
When The Dictator is funny, it's funny enough to make you forgive it when it's awful. But when it's awful it makes you wonder whether or not it will ever get funny again. And whether Cohen will ever be as great as he once was.
Starring Sacha Baron Cohen, Anna Faris and Ben Kingsley. Written by Cohen, Alec Berg, David Mandel and Jeff Schaffer. Directed by Larry Charles. Rated R. 83 minutes.
My novel, Stormin' Mormon, is available as a Kindle book for $1.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Top 5 Things I Fear About Getting Even Older Than I Am Already
1. Poor vision. If my vision ever declines enough to need them, I'll probably just try to fake it that I can see. Sunglasses annoy me, and there's no way I could ever touch my eyeballs to apply or remove contacts.
2. Lack of energy. I already need a good 6-8 hours more sleep per week than I used to. It will be frustrating not to have the energy to do the things that need to be done to get ahead in life. And it will be more depressing to feel the urge to choose sleep over success.
3. Cancer. It seems that it's pretty much a guarantee that you'll be hit with some form of cancer if you manage to live long enough. Which kind will it be? Waiting to find out will be the worst game of Uno ever.
4. Rectal/prostate exams. Eventually these become a part of your annual medical regimen. I'm not sure the diseases they might help diagnose and cure are worse than the tests themselves.
5. People around you dying. Death is the most frightening musical chairs contest ever. Each time someone close to you keels over, you've not only got to deal with life without them, but once again stare into your own existential void.
2. Lack of energy. I already need a good 6-8 hours more sleep per week than I used to. It will be frustrating not to have the energy to do the things that need to be done to get ahead in life. And it will be more depressing to feel the urge to choose sleep over success.
3. Cancer. It seems that it's pretty much a guarantee that you'll be hit with some form of cancer if you manage to live long enough. Which kind will it be? Waiting to find out will be the worst game of Uno ever.
4. Rectal/prostate exams. Eventually these become a part of your annual medical regimen. I'm not sure the diseases they might help diagnose and cure are worse than the tests themselves.
5. People around you dying. Death is the most frightening musical chairs contest ever. Each time someone close to you keels over, you've not only got to deal with life without them, but once again stare into your own existential void.
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
5 Superheroes Who Would Be Funny As Avengers
1. Spider-Ham. Always loved that guy. The mask did a great job of hiding the fact that he's teen pig photographer Peter Porker. Underrated.
2. Count Chocula. Probably more suited to be an X-Man, but he would rival Hulk for the "loose cannon" role.
3. Betty. You know, like from Betty and Veronica. She may not seem like much on the surface, but is clearly an immortal with death stare powers. Read between the Archie comics lines.
4. Felix the Cat. That little scamp is always wriggling himself out of hairy situations. Good cat to have on your side.
5. Super Man. Because it would be so demeaning to him to have to be a part of a team that takes down threats too big for him to handle alone. Judging from how he always acts as though the Justice League of America is so lucky to have him around.
2. Count Chocula. Probably more suited to be an X-Man, but he would rival Hulk for the "loose cannon" role.
3. Betty. You know, like from Betty and Veronica. She may not seem like much on the surface, but is clearly an immortal with death stare powers. Read between the Archie comics lines.
4. Felix the Cat. That little scamp is always wriggling himself out of hairy situations. Good cat to have on your side.
5. Super Man. Because it would be so demeaning to him to have to be a part of a team that takes down threats too big for him to handle alone. Judging from how he always acts as though the Justice League of America is so lucky to have him around.
Sunday, May 06, 2012
Review: The Avengers
Even with all the star power and momentum in the world, the long-masterplanned centerpiece of the Marvel movieverse could have easily ended up a bloated failure.
The poor special effects for Hulk alone -- which producers seemed to think was OK for the past two movies in that series -- could have torpedoed all his scenes, if not the entire movie. There was no guarantee that Robert Downey Jr., Chris Evans, Mark Ruffalo, Jeremy Renner, Chris Helmsworth and Scarlett Johansson could generate any workable chemistry. And the sight of the garishly-costumed heroes together could have been giggle-inducing rather than awe-inspiring.
Instead, the movie is just about perfect, at least as far as popcorn-chomping trifles go. While it infuriates me that some are dismissing Christopher Nolan's far superior work with Batman by calling The Avengers the best superhero movie ever made, I can't hate on The Aventures because it's such a rib-rattling explosion of entertainment, feeling almost too short at 143 minutes.
The film flows with the momentum of a comic book composed of full-page bleed impact-moment illustrations. Samuel L. Jackson serves as a strong point guard in this all-star game, setting up the myriad stars for easy, yet nonetheless thrilling, windmill dunks.
I caught the movie in LIEMAX 3D -- the half-hearted converted-theater "IMAX" instead of the true, wall-to-wall, giant-screeen wonder -- and appreciated the way the third dimension added depth without feeling the need to throw things in your face every five seconds.
The movie is something of a cinematic coming-out party for Joss Whedon, a TV god whose only theatrical credit was Serenity (2005), an adaptation/remake of his cult-favorite TV show Firefly. Consider Whedon a conqueror of another medium, and hope he follows through by directing the telegraphed sequel.
The poor special effects for Hulk alone -- which producers seemed to think was OK for the past two movies in that series -- could have torpedoed all his scenes, if not the entire movie. There was no guarantee that Robert Downey Jr., Chris Evans, Mark Ruffalo, Jeremy Renner, Chris Helmsworth and Scarlett Johansson could generate any workable chemistry. And the sight of the garishly-costumed heroes together could have been giggle-inducing rather than awe-inspiring.
Instead, the movie is just about perfect, at least as far as popcorn-chomping trifles go. While it infuriates me that some are dismissing Christopher Nolan's far superior work with Batman by calling The Avengers the best superhero movie ever made, I can't hate on The Aventures because it's such a rib-rattling explosion of entertainment, feeling almost too short at 143 minutes.
The film flows with the momentum of a comic book composed of full-page bleed impact-moment illustrations. Samuel L. Jackson serves as a strong point guard in this all-star game, setting up the myriad stars for easy, yet nonetheless thrilling, windmill dunks.
I caught the movie in LIEMAX 3D -- the half-hearted converted-theater "IMAX" instead of the true, wall-to-wall, giant-screeen wonder -- and appreciated the way the third dimension added depth without feeling the need to throw things in your face every five seconds.
The movie is something of a cinematic coming-out party for Joss Whedon, a TV god whose only theatrical credit was Serenity (2005), an adaptation/remake of his cult-favorite TV show Firefly. Consider Whedon a conqueror of another medium, and hope he follows through by directing the telegraphed sequel.
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
The Legend of Zelda: Symphony of the Goddesses Review
I swear to you that this is not a review of an orchestra concert, OK? So
hear me out before you close out this window and get back to your
Facebook stalking.
Some people love classical music and think it's perfectly reasonable to pay $50 a ticket to see a bunch of greybeards play the instruments the rest of us got bored with at age 10, and that's great. I am not one of them. For me, classical music fits in somewhere between high school trig class and staring at walls in my spectrum of preferred entertainment.
I'd gone 33 years without ever feeling the urge to see an orchestra concert, and was sure I could have gone a few hundred more. But then came The Legend of Zelda: Symphony of the Goddesses to change my mind. Like many people, I love all things Zelda. It's been that way since I was 8 and my grandma gave me a shiny golden cartridge to go along with my new Nintendo Entertainment System.
The concert converted me into a connoisseur of classical music. Now I can appreciate the oboes' flat notes, the harmony between the bass and the harps and the excellently refined dinging of the xylophone.
Just kidding. I hardly noticed the music, which as far as I was concerned was just elevator musak with vaguely recognizable melodies accompanying the freakin' awesomest Zelda movie anyone has put together.
Imagine if someone had been sitting behind you your whole life, recording your most triumphant moments and making them into a movie on a giant HD screen set to Joe Esposito's "You're the Best Around," Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger" and things like that. That's pretty much this concert. Only it's the life of Link and the music isn't quite so great.
My 5-year-old son, Luke, whose Zelda worship rivals my own, sat agog as Link shanked Ganon in the chest what seemed like hundreds of thousands of times through all the mainline Zelda games. We giggled as cuckoos swarmed the green-hooded hero, chasing him around and inflicting red flashes of pain. We stifled tears as Link waved goodbye to his little sister at the end of Wind Waker.
Almost every Zelda game has been a remake of the previous entry, with the hero, heroine and villains names unchanged. Despite that, fans try to make sense of the overarching "story," and Nintendo has lately sort of retroactively agreed that "oh yeah, this is totally a cohesive legend with an actual timeline." The show follows along that supposed timeline, subtly, unintentionally mocking the concept by showing how similar so many moments in every game have been.
Even though it's awe-inspiring to revisit some of the greatest moments of your gaming life, it's also halfway depressing, making you step back and think, "Did I really need to waste those 500 hours doing the same damn things over and over again?
Such thoughts were chased away by the next daring rescue, bellowing boss intro or horseback leap across a chasm.
The series, which has spanned 26 years, has a ton of high moments, and the visuals manage to capture just about all of the great ones. The only time the show falters is when it cuts to live footage of the musicians for a few seconds. I saw the moments as obligatory homages, sort of like when you tip your mail man, but Luke was not so forgiving. He protested by refusing to clap at the end of pieces that dared cut away from videogame footage.
To be fair, the musicians looked sort of bored having to play for a crowd of ingrates like us. No doubt they don't find 8-bit chiptunes as challenging as Beethoven's 92nd Sonata in the Fifth Octave, or whatever. We felt a little bad for them, especially for having to just sit there as the conductor, who did nothing but wave her hands around, pretending to be in control as no musicians watched, took all the credit.
By the way, although Luke and I are huge Zelda fans, were nowhere near as devoted as many of the other people who showed up. The crowd bustled with people wearing green Link tunics, black-and-gold Ganondorf armor and white, frilly Zelda dresses. Most of those who didn't go in full cosplay mode wore at least one piece of clothing emblazoned with the Triforce symbol. Perusing the crowd was self-affirming, giving even the biggest Zelda dweebs a chance to say, "Thank the goddesses I'm not as much of a dork as that guy."
Not that there was any judgment at play. Like a a comic con, there was a silent understanding that we had all seen the same things, suffered in the same ways and developed a shared understanding of a transcendent cultural movement that we not only have followed, but felt a part of.
Or maybe it was more like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. We were drawn together because we all have a serious problem, and it was time to admit it. Either or.
Some people love classical music and think it's perfectly reasonable to pay $50 a ticket to see a bunch of greybeards play the instruments the rest of us got bored with at age 10, and that's great. I am not one of them. For me, classical music fits in somewhere between high school trig class and staring at walls in my spectrum of preferred entertainment.
I'd gone 33 years without ever feeling the urge to see an orchestra concert, and was sure I could have gone a few hundred more. But then came The Legend of Zelda: Symphony of the Goddesses to change my mind. Like many people, I love all things Zelda. It's been that way since I was 8 and my grandma gave me a shiny golden cartridge to go along with my new Nintendo Entertainment System.
The concert converted me into a connoisseur of classical music. Now I can appreciate the oboes' flat notes, the harmony between the bass and the harps and the excellently refined dinging of the xylophone.
Just kidding. I hardly noticed the music, which as far as I was concerned was just elevator musak with vaguely recognizable melodies accompanying the freakin' awesomest Zelda movie anyone has put together.
Imagine if someone had been sitting behind you your whole life, recording your most triumphant moments and making them into a movie on a giant HD screen set to Joe Esposito's "You're the Best Around," Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger" and things like that. That's pretty much this concert. Only it's the life of Link and the music isn't quite so great.
My 5-year-old son, Luke, whose Zelda worship rivals my own, sat agog as Link shanked Ganon in the chest what seemed like hundreds of thousands of times through all the mainline Zelda games. We giggled as cuckoos swarmed the green-hooded hero, chasing him around and inflicting red flashes of pain. We stifled tears as Link waved goodbye to his little sister at the end of Wind Waker.
Almost every Zelda game has been a remake of the previous entry, with the hero, heroine and villains names unchanged. Despite that, fans try to make sense of the overarching "story," and Nintendo has lately sort of retroactively agreed that "oh yeah, this is totally a cohesive legend with an actual timeline." The show follows along that supposed timeline, subtly, unintentionally mocking the concept by showing how similar so many moments in every game have been.
Even though it's awe-inspiring to revisit some of the greatest moments of your gaming life, it's also halfway depressing, making you step back and think, "Did I really need to waste those 500 hours doing the same damn things over and over again?
Such thoughts were chased away by the next daring rescue, bellowing boss intro or horseback leap across a chasm.
The series, which has spanned 26 years, has a ton of high moments, and the visuals manage to capture just about all of the great ones. The only time the show falters is when it cuts to live footage of the musicians for a few seconds. I saw the moments as obligatory homages, sort of like when you tip your mail man, but Luke was not so forgiving. He protested by refusing to clap at the end of pieces that dared cut away from videogame footage.
To be fair, the musicians looked sort of bored having to play for a crowd of ingrates like us. No doubt they don't find 8-bit chiptunes as challenging as Beethoven's 92nd Sonata in the Fifth Octave, or whatever. We felt a little bad for them, especially for having to just sit there as the conductor, who did nothing but wave her hands around, pretending to be in control as no musicians watched, took all the credit.
By the way, although Luke and I are huge Zelda fans, were nowhere near as devoted as many of the other people who showed up. The crowd bustled with people wearing green Link tunics, black-and-gold Ganondorf armor and white, frilly Zelda dresses. Most of those who didn't go in full cosplay mode wore at least one piece of clothing emblazoned with the Triforce symbol. Perusing the crowd was self-affirming, giving even the biggest Zelda dweebs a chance to say, "Thank the goddesses I'm not as much of a dork as that guy."
Not that there was any judgment at play. Like a a comic con, there was a silent understanding that we had all seen the same things, suffered in the same ways and developed a shared understanding of a transcendent cultural movement that we not only have followed, but felt a part of.
Or maybe it was more like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. We were drawn together because we all have a serious problem, and it was time to admit it. Either or.
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