Sunday, July 25, 2010
The New York Times blogs my book
I hassled them for months and months and months about this and my badgering has finally paid off. Now I'm looking at you, Newsweek and Maxim.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Movie review: Salt
This is posted at OK.
I’m fairly certain Salt is not a fictional drama, but instead an insider documentary on the secret life of Angelina Jolie.
Just look at those eyes of hers. You can just tell she’s up to crazy things in the dark of night. So it stands to reason that she’s a triple agent superspy capable of assassinating multiple heads of state within a 24-hour period, start and end a nuclear war before it begins, murder hundreds of gun-toting cronies with hand-to-hand death grip kills and dye her hair black just because.
And what a perfect cover it is to make a movie about this secret life. Now if anyone were to accuse her of being superspy Evelyn Salt, people will just laugh it off as mistaking movies for reality. That is, unless you’re as smart as me, and know that everything you see in movies – especially spy movies -- is exactly true.
The movie does solve one other mystery about Jolie’s life, which is why it is she adopts approximately 700 kids per day. The reason, my friends, is guilt. See, on a daily basis she offs at least 388.888 mindless goons who foolishly stand in her way, so being that the goons are family goons who have an average of 1.8 goonchildren each, Jolie takes it upon herself to raise the innocent youngsters. Which seems nice and all, but is actually obscenely cruel, given that if Angelina Jolie is your mother you can’t think of her in, you know, that way.
It’s a small condolence for the kids that they’re likely given free passes to their mom’s movies. They’re in luck with Salt, which is as exciting and wonderfully ludicrous a spy thriller as I’ve seen in a while. It’s basically the Bourne movies without all the calmness and stark attention to reality.
Remember the scene in one The Bourne Identity in which Bourne races around in a Mini Cooper and wrecks a city? Yeah, Salt doesn’t need a Mini Cooper to do that. Girlfriend is intense. She’s an unstoppable hurricane of fists, feet and bullets.
Let me cite an example of just what a badass she is. Early in the movie, a Russian dude tells the CIA that salt is going to kill the Russian president when he comes to the U.S. The CIA, Secret Service and basically every ninja warrior fed in the country bands together to prevent this from happening, but guess what? In comes Salt, hair dyed black because Salt with black hair looks nothing like Salt with brown hair, and, well (spoiler alert) they don’t make movies about superspy assassins who can’t make their targets fall through giant holes in churches she makes with improvised explosives.
From there it just gets crazier. Salt meets up with an ex Soviet spy guru who trained her to become a sleeper agent by, no joke, making her watch Brady Bunch and kiss his ring. He has even crazier plans for her, but Salt has her own plans, one of which involves dressing up like a dude who’s about as convincing as Amanda Bynes in What a Girl Wants. Why? Because nothing in this bat-doodie crazy movie makes a lick of sense. But don’t blame the writers, blame Jolie, live-er of what Ricky Martin once referred to as “La Vida Loca.”
I’m fairly certain Salt is not a fictional drama, but instead an insider documentary on the secret life of Angelina Jolie.
Just look at those eyes of hers. You can just tell she’s up to crazy things in the dark of night. So it stands to reason that she’s a triple agent superspy capable of assassinating multiple heads of state within a 24-hour period, start and end a nuclear war before it begins, murder hundreds of gun-toting cronies with hand-to-hand death grip kills and dye her hair black just because.
And what a perfect cover it is to make a movie about this secret life. Now if anyone were to accuse her of being superspy Evelyn Salt, people will just laugh it off as mistaking movies for reality. That is, unless you’re as smart as me, and know that everything you see in movies – especially spy movies -- is exactly true.
The movie does solve one other mystery about Jolie’s life, which is why it is she adopts approximately 700 kids per day. The reason, my friends, is guilt. See, on a daily basis she offs at least 388.888 mindless goons who foolishly stand in her way, so being that the goons are family goons who have an average of 1.8 goonchildren each, Jolie takes it upon herself to raise the innocent youngsters. Which seems nice and all, but is actually obscenely cruel, given that if Angelina Jolie is your mother you can’t think of her in, you know, that way.
It’s a small condolence for the kids that they’re likely given free passes to their mom’s movies. They’re in luck with Salt, which is as exciting and wonderfully ludicrous a spy thriller as I’ve seen in a while. It’s basically the Bourne movies without all the calmness and stark attention to reality.
Remember the scene in one The Bourne Identity in which Bourne races around in a Mini Cooper and wrecks a city? Yeah, Salt doesn’t need a Mini Cooper to do that. Girlfriend is intense. She’s an unstoppable hurricane of fists, feet and bullets.
Let me cite an example of just what a badass she is. Early in the movie, a Russian dude tells the CIA that salt is going to kill the Russian president when he comes to the U.S. The CIA, Secret Service and basically every ninja warrior fed in the country bands together to prevent this from happening, but guess what? In comes Salt, hair dyed black because Salt with black hair looks nothing like Salt with brown hair, and, well (spoiler alert) they don’t make movies about superspy assassins who can’t make their targets fall through giant holes in churches she makes with improvised explosives.
From there it just gets crazier. Salt meets up with an ex Soviet spy guru who trained her to become a sleeper agent by, no joke, making her watch Brady Bunch and kiss his ring. He has even crazier plans for her, but Salt has her own plans, one of which involves dressing up like a dude who’s about as convincing as Amanda Bynes in What a Girl Wants. Why? Because nothing in this bat-doodie crazy movie makes a lick of sense. But don’t blame the writers, blame Jolie, live-er of what Ricky Martin once referred to as “La Vida Loca.”
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Review: Inception
This is posted at OK.
We've all seen these opaque, befuddling Inception trailers for months now, and everyone knew it would be mind-blowingly awesome because it's directed by Christopher Nolan, maker of the two amazing Batman movies, The Prestige and Memento. The guy is so talented he could make a blockbuster if you gave him a still camera, a monkey, a beach ball and a glitter pen.
The thing is, no matter how much you read up about the movie, you had no idea what it was about. I can't tell you how many times over the summer I've had conversations that went just like this:
Person: Hey, have you seen Inception yet?
Me: No, but it looks awesome.
Person: Yeah it does. What's it about?
Me: I have no idea. But it will definitely be awesome.
So now I've watched Inception, had my mind splattered all over the theater just like I knew it would be, and I still don't really know what it's about. That's just how amazing this movie is.
The movie is so good that I feel superior to you for having seen it though you haven't. Sort of like how your grandparents lived through the Depression and can always shoot down any sob story you've got by saying "Well, I lived through the Depression." This is the exact opposite of that. You can tell me you've won the lottery and are going to be a back-up dancer in the next Beyonce video and I can top it with "Well, I've seen Inception."
Without giving too much away, here is what I learned from the movie:
-"Inception" means implanting an idea into someone's brain. The act is believed, in the world of this movie, to be impossible. Which, of course, means that it totally IS possible, but will take an entire 2 1/2 hour movie to prove that this is so.
-Leonardo DiCaprio and his sidekick, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, play dream-hackers who travel the globe sedating targets -- secret agents and big business types -- and siphoning secrets from their subconsciousness as they sleep.
-Secret agents and big business types would rather not have their dreams hacked, not only to protect their secrets but because then they'd have to wake up and explain to their wives, girlfriends and therapists why they were dreaming about Leonardo DiCaprio and Joseph Gordon-Levitt all night. So they purchase Norton Utilities Dream Security 7.0, which puts lots of skiing, white-camouflaged, machine-gun toting assassins in their dreams. They're pretty scary but not so great at aiming. Which is good because if they were the movie would have been a lot shorter and ended not as happily.
-Everything, and this is the most important, is not what it... wait for it... seems.
Ellen Page checks in later as a Padawan dream Jedi in training, Ken Watanabe is the billionaire businessman who bankrolls the heroes' latest expedition and Cillian Murphy, the Scarecrow in Batman Begins, plays the billion-heir energy corporation scion whom everyone is hacking with a dream within a dream within a dream.
Confused yet? Good, because Inception totally inceptions the idea of confusion into your brain. Along with unrelenting awesomeness and many "there is no spoon"-like moments of profound bewilderment that will get you philosophizing, arguing, pontificating, hoping for a sequel and praying you don't dream about Leonardo DiCaprio tricking you into thinking your dream is a reality so he can make you fall asleep into a second dream which you think is yours but is actually his and find out your ATM pin number and by the way my brain is melting so I should really stop.
In sum, the most important thing to take away is that I have seen Inception and you have not.
Starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Ellen Page, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Ken Watanabe. Written and directed by Christopher Nolan. Rated PG-13. 148 minutes.
We've all seen these opaque, befuddling Inception trailers for months now, and everyone knew it would be mind-blowingly awesome because it's directed by Christopher Nolan, maker of the two amazing Batman movies, The Prestige and Memento. The guy is so talented he could make a blockbuster if you gave him a still camera, a monkey, a beach ball and a glitter pen.
The thing is, no matter how much you read up about the movie, you had no idea what it was about. I can't tell you how many times over the summer I've had conversations that went just like this:
Person: Hey, have you seen Inception yet?
Me: No, but it looks awesome.
Person: Yeah it does. What's it about?
Me: I have no idea. But it will definitely be awesome.
So now I've watched Inception, had my mind splattered all over the theater just like I knew it would be, and I still don't really know what it's about. That's just how amazing this movie is.
The movie is so good that I feel superior to you for having seen it though you haven't. Sort of like how your grandparents lived through the Depression and can always shoot down any sob story you've got by saying "Well, I lived through the Depression." This is the exact opposite of that. You can tell me you've won the lottery and are going to be a back-up dancer in the next Beyonce video and I can top it with "Well, I've seen Inception."
Without giving too much away, here is what I learned from the movie:
-"Inception" means implanting an idea into someone's brain. The act is believed, in the world of this movie, to be impossible. Which, of course, means that it totally IS possible, but will take an entire 2 1/2 hour movie to prove that this is so.
-Leonardo DiCaprio and his sidekick, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, play dream-hackers who travel the globe sedating targets -- secret agents and big business types -- and siphoning secrets from their subconsciousness as they sleep.
-Secret agents and big business types would rather not have their dreams hacked, not only to protect their secrets but because then they'd have to wake up and explain to their wives, girlfriends and therapists why they were dreaming about Leonardo DiCaprio and Joseph Gordon-Levitt all night. So they purchase Norton Utilities Dream Security 7.0, which puts lots of skiing, white-camouflaged, machine-gun toting assassins in their dreams. They're pretty scary but not so great at aiming. Which is good because if they were the movie would have been a lot shorter and ended not as happily.
-Everything, and this is the most important, is not what it... wait for it... seems.
Ellen Page checks in later as a Padawan dream Jedi in training, Ken Watanabe is the billionaire businessman who bankrolls the heroes' latest expedition and Cillian Murphy, the Scarecrow in Batman Begins, plays the billion-heir energy corporation scion whom everyone is hacking with a dream within a dream within a dream.
Confused yet? Good, because Inception totally inceptions the idea of confusion into your brain. Along with unrelenting awesomeness and many "there is no spoon"-like moments of profound bewilderment that will get you philosophizing, arguing, pontificating, hoping for a sequel and praying you don't dream about Leonardo DiCaprio tricking you into thinking your dream is a reality so he can make you fall asleep into a second dream which you think is yours but is actually his and find out your ATM pin number and by the way my brain is melting so I should really stop.
In sum, the most important thing to take away is that I have seen Inception and you have not.
Starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Ellen Page, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Ken Watanabe. Written and directed by Christopher Nolan. Rated PG-13. 148 minutes.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Best Video Games Of The Year So Far
1. Tecmo Bowl Throwback
2. Red Dead Redemption
3. Heavy Rain
4. Picross 3D
5. God of War III
6. Alan Wake
7. Super Mario Galaxy 2
8. Bayonetta
9. No More Heroes: Desperate Struggle
10. Darksiders
11. Mass Effect 2
12. Super Street Fighter IV
13. Blur
14. Metal Gear Solid Peace Walker
2. Red Dead Redemption
3. Heavy Rain
4. Picross 3D
5. God of War III
6. Alan Wake
7. Super Mario Galaxy 2
8. Bayonetta
9. No More Heroes: Desperate Struggle
10. Darksiders
11. Mass Effect 2
12. Super Street Fighter IV
13. Blur
14. Metal Gear Solid Peace Walker
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Review: Despicable Me
This is also posted at OK Magazine.
“Despicable” is too harsh an evaluation for the animated 3D kid magnet du jour. I’d go with “Bland Me” or “Direct-To-Video-Worthy Me.”
The anti-hero, voiced by Steve “I’m Leaving The Office To Star In Forgettable Movies” Carell, is a pointy-nosed Dr. Evil clone named Gru who wants to pull off the biggest heist in history. Something even bigger than what Sex and the City 2 did to throngs of unwitting Carrie devotees. He wants to launch a rocket skyward, zap the Moon with a shrink ray then keep it for himself.
Gru treats the world the way LeBron James does the Cavaliers. He makes kids balloon animals just to pop them in their faces. He laughs in the faces of minions who demand raises. He’s the kind of guy who , if left to your own devices, would fill up your DVR with MTV reality shows so there’s not enough room left for True Blood.
I’d have been content with watching Gru continue to spread his brand of palatable evil for 95 minutes, but the filmmakers see fit to give him a heart of gold. Gru adopts a trio of sisters with the sole reason of sending them to a rival’s evil lair to help him steal that shrink ray he needs. But they bring out his softer side, and you don’t need to take your 3D glasses off to see where this decidedly
one-dimensional story is headed.
Carell lends little of his personality into Gru, and instead blends an Eastern European accent with a series of grunts, joining with the writers to make Gru the least interesting character in the film. The sisters, Annie-like scamps who have the best lines, are more watchable, but the real winners are the minions, runt-sized yellow blobs of slapstick incompetence that resemble Pac-Man ghosts. Whenever the little guys leave the screen you long for their return.
Usually Luke, my 3-year-old, and I see eye to eye on kid movies. But our roads fork here. The little man cackled endlessly at jokes intended and not, and was genuinely interested in the utterly nonsensical story that didn’t whip up as much drama and tension as the too-slowly-advancing numbers on my cell phone clock. So parents, you’ll definitely want to spare yourself some boredom and send your 3-year-olds out alone to watch this one.
Starring the voices of Steve Carell, Jason Segel and Russell Brand. Written by Ken Daurio and Cinco Paul, based on a Sergio Pablos story. Directed by Pierre Coffin and Chris Renaud. Rated PG. 95 minutes.
“Despicable” is too harsh an evaluation for the animated 3D kid magnet du jour. I’d go with “Bland Me” or “Direct-To-Video-Worthy Me.”
The anti-hero, voiced by Steve “I’m Leaving The Office To Star In Forgettable Movies” Carell, is a pointy-nosed Dr. Evil clone named Gru who wants to pull off the biggest heist in history. Something even bigger than what Sex and the City 2 did to throngs of unwitting Carrie devotees. He wants to launch a rocket skyward, zap the Moon with a shrink ray then keep it for himself.
Gru treats the world the way LeBron James does the Cavaliers. He makes kids balloon animals just to pop them in their faces. He laughs in the faces of minions who demand raises. He’s the kind of guy who , if left to your own devices, would fill up your DVR with MTV reality shows so there’s not enough room left for True Blood.
I’d have been content with watching Gru continue to spread his brand of palatable evil for 95 minutes, but the filmmakers see fit to give him a heart of gold. Gru adopts a trio of sisters with the sole reason of sending them to a rival’s evil lair to help him steal that shrink ray he needs. But they bring out his softer side, and you don’t need to take your 3D glasses off to see where this decidedly
one-dimensional story is headed.
Carell lends little of his personality into Gru, and instead blends an Eastern European accent with a series of grunts, joining with the writers to make Gru the least interesting character in the film. The sisters, Annie-like scamps who have the best lines, are more watchable, but the real winners are the minions, runt-sized yellow blobs of slapstick incompetence that resemble Pac-Man ghosts. Whenever the little guys leave the screen you long for their return.
Usually Luke, my 3-year-old, and I see eye to eye on kid movies. But our roads fork here. The little man cackled endlessly at jokes intended and not, and was genuinely interested in the utterly nonsensical story that didn’t whip up as much drama and tension as the too-slowly-advancing numbers on my cell phone clock. So parents, you’ll definitely want to spare yourself some boredom and send your 3-year-olds out alone to watch this one.
Starring the voices of Steve Carell, Jason Segel and Russell Brand. Written by Ken Daurio and Cinco Paul, based on a Sergio Pablos story. Directed by Pierre Coffin and Chris Renaud. Rated PG. 95 minutes.
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
Little Known Fact
Before 1997, wide theater screens did not exist. You may think you remember seeing them before that point, but that's because you're nothing but a contradictory agitator with a fuzzy memory who is foolish enough to challenge my authority.
No, before '97, theater screens were perfect squares, just like your TV screens, or at least the way they were before HDTVs existed.
Like all inventions, the creation of the widescreen format was born out of necessity. See, this was the year the movie Titanic came out, and Kate Winslet was so unbelievably fat in that movie -- contrary to popular belief, the film was called Titanic after Winslet's character, and not the ship in the film -- that scientists had to come up with entirely new technology to accommodate her overwhelming girth without having to crop part of her image out of the screen.
So hence, widescreen. We all get to see more of our movies than we otherwise would, all thanks to Kate Winslet. And Twinkies. A whole lot of Twinkies.
No, before '97, theater screens were perfect squares, just like your TV screens, or at least the way they were before HDTVs existed.
Like all inventions, the creation of the widescreen format was born out of necessity. See, this was the year the movie Titanic came out, and Kate Winslet was so unbelievably fat in that movie -- contrary to popular belief, the film was called Titanic after Winslet's character, and not the ship in the film -- that scientists had to come up with entirely new technology to accommodate her overwhelming girth without having to crop part of her image out of the screen.
So hence, widescreen. We all get to see more of our movies than we otherwise would, all thanks to Kate Winslet. And Twinkies. A whole lot of Twinkies.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Luke's Jim Crow Laws
Discrimination in Arizona isn't limited to HB1070. Luke (3) has tried to restrict access to the backyard playhouse to Emma (1) because of her still-developing speech abilities.
"The castle is only for people who talk easily," Luke says.
He's been overruled by the Supreme Court, me, but sadly reflects the biased sentiments of half the child populace in my household.
"The castle is only for people who talk easily," Luke says.
He's been overruled by the Supreme Court, me, but sadly reflects the biased sentiments of half the child populace in my household.
Monday, June 28, 2010
I Call Offsides On Soccer Offsides
Mexico, I have no pity for you that Argentina scored against you on a goal despite the shooter being offside. When you pull that goal zone trap nonsense, sending a defender up the field despite a striker headed past you toward the goal without the ball in the hopes that the referee will bail you out of your defensive stupidity, you DESERVE TO BE SCORED ON.
Soccer really needs to change its offside rule in order to stop encouraging such weak defensive tactics. From now on, offside should only be called behind midfield. If the ball is around the goal, it should be a free-for-all.
Soccer really needs to change its offside rule in order to stop encouraging such weak defensive tactics. From now on, offside should only be called behind midfield. If the ball is around the goal, it should be a free-for-all.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Review: Grown Ups
I missed my high school reunion, but Grown Ups is exactly how I pictured it would have been: You see a bunch of people you used to get along with and admire, but the years have worn away your bonds. You’re left with awkward conversation, forced pity-chuckles at lame ice-breaking jokes and a whole lot of pulling your cell phone out of your pocket to check the time.
Adam Sandler, Rob Schneider, David Spade and Chris Rock have all made brilliant comedies before, but all have lost most of whatever comedic magic they once had. Maybe they said all they had to say. Maybe time, wealth and comfort dulled their edges. Maybe they stayed the same and I grew up.
The latter explanation is doubtful, but maybe.
For whatever the reason, Grown Ups is a painful, unfunny slog that manages to make time stand still as you suffer through a reunion comedy with all the panache of a vacation slide show. The movie fails to vault even the pathetically low bar it hits for itself, relying on poop jokes, groin injuries, farts and one-liners with all the originality and punch of a greeting card to liven things up. They actors seem to be making it up as they go along, which wouldn’t be so bad except for the fact that they’ve got nothing interesting to say or do.
The motif is that the five friends – Kevin James, whom I intentionally left off my list of people who have made funny movies before, is also along for the ride – who reunite 30 years after they won the city basketball championship as kids. They gather for their coach’s funeral in generic “New England” – it’s actually labeled as such onscreen – setting up a pointless running gag in which Sandler wears a rotation of shirts and hats from several colleges in the reason.
All but Spade, who plays an eternally drunken bachelor, bring their wives and kids in tow, muddying up the movie with way too many characters who serve only to sap screentime away from the stars. James, Schneider and, to some extent, Sandler, all play straight while only Spade retains his comic persona, cracking wise in the usual hit-and-miss routine he fell into once he lost comedy team partner Chris Farley.
These guys expect to be funny just by showing up, and only Sandler has that ability, and he chooses to use as little of that as possible in this outing.
It’s a good thing the Sand-man made that remake of The Longest Yard a few years ago, because otherwise Grown Ups would stand out as the comedic mastermind’s worst effort by far.
Starring Adam Sandler, Rob Schneider, Kevin James, David Spade and Chris Rock.
Written by Sandler and Fred Wolf. Directed by Dennis Dugan. Rated PG-13. 102 minutes.
Adam Sandler, Rob Schneider, David Spade and Chris Rock have all made brilliant comedies before, but all have lost most of whatever comedic magic they once had. Maybe they said all they had to say. Maybe time, wealth and comfort dulled their edges. Maybe they stayed the same and I grew up.
The latter explanation is doubtful, but maybe.
For whatever the reason, Grown Ups is a painful, unfunny slog that manages to make time stand still as you suffer through a reunion comedy with all the panache of a vacation slide show. The movie fails to vault even the pathetically low bar it hits for itself, relying on poop jokes, groin injuries, farts and one-liners with all the originality and punch of a greeting card to liven things up. They actors seem to be making it up as they go along, which wouldn’t be so bad except for the fact that they’ve got nothing interesting to say or do.
The motif is that the five friends – Kevin James, whom I intentionally left off my list of people who have made funny movies before, is also along for the ride – who reunite 30 years after they won the city basketball championship as kids. They gather for their coach’s funeral in generic “New England” – it’s actually labeled as such onscreen – setting up a pointless running gag in which Sandler wears a rotation of shirts and hats from several colleges in the reason.
All but Spade, who plays an eternally drunken bachelor, bring their wives and kids in tow, muddying up the movie with way too many characters who serve only to sap screentime away from the stars. James, Schneider and, to some extent, Sandler, all play straight while only Spade retains his comic persona, cracking wise in the usual hit-and-miss routine he fell into once he lost comedy team partner Chris Farley.
These guys expect to be funny just by showing up, and only Sandler has that ability, and he chooses to use as little of that as possible in this outing.
It’s a good thing the Sand-man made that remake of The Longest Yard a few years ago, because otherwise Grown Ups would stand out as the comedic mastermind’s worst effort by far.
Starring Adam Sandler, Rob Schneider, Kevin James, David Spade and Chris Rock.
Written by Sandler and Fred Wolf. Directed by Dennis Dugan. Rated PG-13. 102 minutes.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Review: Toy Story 3
This review is posted over at OK Magazine:
To me the most commanding sign of the power of this great and beautiful film is the way it managed to make my 3-year-old son cry. Luke is not a sensitive child. It takes a lot to get to the boy. You usually have to deny him ice cream or clip his fingernails against his will. To get to this child abstractly, using only images and sounds, takes a tremendous amount of emotional heft.
Toy Story 3 accomplished the task with just a line of dialogue and a whimper. I don't want to spoil the scene beyond identifying it as one that involved one of the movie's more distant and funny characters -- a noise-emitting baby doll. And damned if it didn't have me clutching my son and willing my lower lip to stop trembling as well.
This movie is by far the best I've seen this year, and I'd be willing to bet my laptop that it snags one of the best picture Oscar nominations and is a strong contender to take home the best picture prize, no matter what other works of genius come along this year. Toy Story 3 feels like a once-every-five-years confluence of perfection in tone, delivery, timing, humor and drama. The movie dwarfs the two awesome previous films in the series and somehow manages to elevate Pixar's stratospheric reputation even higher.
Like Up, last year's Pixar masterpiece, Toy Story 3 stares the concepts of love, dedication and mortality in their dagger eyes, refusing to blink as it sends you down a difficult and wrenching road, coaxing you along gently with humor and understanding. The toys are no longer a rascally gang of wise-cracking buddies who get into misadventures suitable for a sitcom, but are rusted, worn-down tools passed over by life, staring into the existential void.
Woody runs around like a revival preacher, trying to convince his friends that their owner Andy will still have some sort of use for them at some point down the road. The movie cleverly prods at humanity's need to rationalize death with concepts of an afterlife. Things only get deeper from there. The movie analyzes the march of the time in a way Ozu or Kurosawa do, taking on a feel you'd expect to find in a Miyazaki film in terms of plot development, as the toys wind up in part of a day care center that becomes a prison camp.
As Woody plans the toys' great escape, you wonder along with them to what end their best laid plans will reach. Even if they win, they lose, and will surely end up discarded by the only owner who has ever loved them.
There are bad guys who stand in the heroes' way, but as in a Miyazaki movie, they have their reasons for behaving the way they do, and may or may not be willing to see things the way the heroes do, even when they inevitably wind up in the same mental place.
The movie starts off fantastically, gets better as it rolls along and reaches an apex at the end, with betrayals, tearful partings, terrifying dilemmas and swashbuckling rescues.
It ends predictably, but only because this is a great and unique story with an epic footprint that could only finish one way -- the way you knew it would when you walked into the theater. Don't expect foreknowledge to make it any easier to choke back the tears, no matter your age.
Starring the voices of Tom Hanks and Tim Allen. Written by Michael Arndt, John Lasseter, Andrew Stanton and Lee Unkrich. Directed by Unkrich. Rated G. 103 minutes.
To me the most commanding sign of the power of this great and beautiful film is the way it managed to make my 3-year-old son cry. Luke is not a sensitive child. It takes a lot to get to the boy. You usually have to deny him ice cream or clip his fingernails against his will. To get to this child abstractly, using only images and sounds, takes a tremendous amount of emotional heft.
Toy Story 3 accomplished the task with just a line of dialogue and a whimper. I don't want to spoil the scene beyond identifying it as one that involved one of the movie's more distant and funny characters -- a noise-emitting baby doll. And damned if it didn't have me clutching my son and willing my lower lip to stop trembling as well.
This movie is by far the best I've seen this year, and I'd be willing to bet my laptop that it snags one of the best picture Oscar nominations and is a strong contender to take home the best picture prize, no matter what other works of genius come along this year. Toy Story 3 feels like a once-every-five-years confluence of perfection in tone, delivery, timing, humor and drama. The movie dwarfs the two awesome previous films in the series and somehow manages to elevate Pixar's stratospheric reputation even higher.
Like Up, last year's Pixar masterpiece, Toy Story 3 stares the concepts of love, dedication and mortality in their dagger eyes, refusing to blink as it sends you down a difficult and wrenching road, coaxing you along gently with humor and understanding. The toys are no longer a rascally gang of wise-cracking buddies who get into misadventures suitable for a sitcom, but are rusted, worn-down tools passed over by life, staring into the existential void.
Woody runs around like a revival preacher, trying to convince his friends that their owner Andy will still have some sort of use for them at some point down the road. The movie cleverly prods at humanity's need to rationalize death with concepts of an afterlife. Things only get deeper from there. The movie analyzes the march of the time in a way Ozu or Kurosawa do, taking on a feel you'd expect to find in a Miyazaki film in terms of plot development, as the toys wind up in part of a day care center that becomes a prison camp.
As Woody plans the toys' great escape, you wonder along with them to what end their best laid plans will reach. Even if they win, they lose, and will surely end up discarded by the only owner who has ever loved them.
There are bad guys who stand in the heroes' way, but as in a Miyazaki movie, they have their reasons for behaving the way they do, and may or may not be willing to see things the way the heroes do, even when they inevitably wind up in the same mental place.
The movie starts off fantastically, gets better as it rolls along and reaches an apex at the end, with betrayals, tearful partings, terrifying dilemmas and swashbuckling rescues.
It ends predictably, but only because this is a great and unique story with an epic footprint that could only finish one way -- the way you knew it would when you walked into the theater. Don't expect foreknowledge to make it any easier to choke back the tears, no matter your age.
Starring the voices of Tom Hanks and Tim Allen. Written by Michael Arndt, John Lasseter, Andrew Stanton and Lee Unkrich. Directed by Unkrich. Rated G. 103 minutes.
Frugal Festival
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Karma Doesn't Exist
Well, maybe it does in some sort of afterlife way, but I don't believe in on-earth karma though -- as in, you do something good and get rewarded and do something bad and get punished.. I think it's hell for both the nice and cruel and everyone scraps for whatever joy they can before the lights go out. If you're rewarded for anything in this world it's for keeping your eyes open.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Top 10 Things That Will Suck About Missing E3
10. Not getting to see and talk to people whose stuff I read every day the one time of the year it's possible to do so.
9. Not getting to walk around pretending to be important, playing any game I choose that won't be out for several months.
8. Not getting to whisper smack talk to whatever strangers are sitting next to me during press conferences about overenthusiastic developers talking about silly, stupid games.
7. Not getting blown away at the same press conferences with stunning, out-of-nowhere announcements.
6. Not getting to pick through the rack of free crazy British game magazines I've never heard of.
5. Not getting to meet my L.A. friends for lunch.
4. Not getting to play my DS when I'm waiting in line for something and have no one else look at me like I'm weird.
3. Not getting to ride shuttles to off-site press conference. The process give you that same feeling of wonder and anticipation as grade-school field trips.
2. Not getting to walk behind G4 stand-up broadcasts in a cheap effort to get my face on TV.
1. Just because.
9. Not getting to walk around pretending to be important, playing any game I choose that won't be out for several months.
8. Not getting to whisper smack talk to whatever strangers are sitting next to me during press conferences about overenthusiastic developers talking about silly, stupid games.
7. Not getting blown away at the same press conferences with stunning, out-of-nowhere announcements.
6. Not getting to pick through the rack of free crazy British game magazines I've never heard of.
5. Not getting to meet my L.A. friends for lunch.
4. Not getting to play my DS when I'm waiting in line for something and have no one else look at me like I'm weird.
3. Not getting to ride shuttles to off-site press conference. The process give you that same feeling of wonder and anticipation as grade-school field trips.
2. Not getting to walk behind G4 stand-up broadcasts in a cheap effort to get my face on TV.
1. Just because.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Ass Backwards
Every day is the same. You wake up, shave, go for a run, eat your Peanut Butter Toast Crunch, take your shower, head into the office, zone out at your computer for the first hour or so. The usual 8:30 a.m. urge to pee lures you into the bathroom, and then you unzip and reach for what needs to be reached for and... nothing!
Whoah. Is this some sort of dream? A life lived in zombified stasis shocked out by the realization that you suddenly have no penis. Perhaps it's emasculation by the subconscious, making some sort of comment on your lack of resolve and self-determination by seizing your virility. All that filters through your mind in a split second of nervous frenzy, and then your index finger brushes against cloth.
This is reality. No dream. Your manhood is still there, not vanished but covered. You just put your boxers on backwards.
What can be done to correct such an error? Nothing immediately, for nature's call must be answered. In an act of contortion worthy of Cirque du Soleil, you yank up the right leg of the shorts, twist to the left and let flow. Only midstream does it occur to you that a simple pull-down would have not only taken less physical exertion, but also decreased the risk of splashage on the side of your pant leg, which teeters all to close to the base of the raging flow, which channels like the output of a firehose, extinguishing an imaginary blaze with fury before gracefully, morosely, sliding down to the base, where its sulphuric pungency is mitigated by the brave pink pisser freshener disk. You wait it out 30 seconds, then 60, and finally the Splash Mountain surge throttles down into a lazy It's a Small Word drift, and intense concentration manages the changing trajectory so it doesn't defile your Levi 501s. The nervous beads of sweat on your forehead facilitate chills of euphoria as the inner water ceases without incident. You are relieved that the catastrophe from Mrs. Carvinger's first grade class was not repeated, and you will not have to go to the office to change into a ratty pair of shorts from the lost and found, and you would not have to grudgingly fold your disgracefully soaked pants into a paper bag, to be left by your desk the rest of your day like a brown-bagged scarlet letter as you learned the finer points of addition and vowels, then shielded the bag from your mother after she picked you up, spotting, as mothers do, what you were trying to hide within the first seconds, and unknowingly rubbing in the pain by asking, "What's in the bag?"
No, you live to pee another way. But still you are confronted with the problem of having your underwear on wrong, causing a Rubik's Cube inside your pants, taunting you with its complex web of impossibility.
Your right brain screams for you to just rotate the boxers around as if they were a sock, but the leg holes prohibit that technique. It occurs to you that there that the only option is to start from square zero. You must hole up in a stall, untie your shoes, take the pants and underwear off, double check you've got it right before you zip up again, then try to resume your day. All the levels of bureaucracy to right your disaster crush your very essence, pinning you into paralysis. For though you'd like to have your underwear on correctly, the steps it will take to get there are all too discouraging.
No, you will not retool, for the same reasons you are not an FBI agent or a lawyer. You have spotted an easier route and taken it, reasoning that the relief it will yield to attain the ideal boxer formation is not worth the effort. You will plug through your day with drawers on backwards, confident that since you survived the first trip to the bathroom without incident, you will surely survive a second. You sit back down at your desk to space out at the computer once again, downstairs senses amped to a higher level. Yes, you can feel it. You can't imagine that everything is all right, not with such unfamiliar constriction upfront and terrifying unshelteredness in the back. That slit in the front of the boxers - it most certainly matters. But your decision is made, and nothing shall be done. Your heart longs for tomorrow, when you'll get to start over and set things right, like the prayers for resurrection in a church, wishing defeated lives out of boredom and poverty into an ethereal promise of rapture. Dreams of tomorrow are only an opiate escape from your current doom, which you have not only originated on accident but chosen. Irrevocably, backwards underwear is your reality, your eternity, your lot. You adjust your pants and start typing away.
Whoah. Is this some sort of dream? A life lived in zombified stasis shocked out by the realization that you suddenly have no penis. Perhaps it's emasculation by the subconscious, making some sort of comment on your lack of resolve and self-determination by seizing your virility. All that filters through your mind in a split second of nervous frenzy, and then your index finger brushes against cloth.
This is reality. No dream. Your manhood is still there, not vanished but covered. You just put your boxers on backwards.
What can be done to correct such an error? Nothing immediately, for nature's call must be answered. In an act of contortion worthy of Cirque du Soleil, you yank up the right leg of the shorts, twist to the left and let flow. Only midstream does it occur to you that a simple pull-down would have not only taken less physical exertion, but also decreased the risk of splashage on the side of your pant leg, which teeters all to close to the base of the raging flow, which channels like the output of a firehose, extinguishing an imaginary blaze with fury before gracefully, morosely, sliding down to the base, where its sulphuric pungency is mitigated by the brave pink pisser freshener disk. You wait it out 30 seconds, then 60, and finally the Splash Mountain surge throttles down into a lazy It's a Small Word drift, and intense concentration manages the changing trajectory so it doesn't defile your Levi 501s. The nervous beads of sweat on your forehead facilitate chills of euphoria as the inner water ceases without incident. You are relieved that the catastrophe from Mrs. Carvinger's first grade class was not repeated, and you will not have to go to the office to change into a ratty pair of shorts from the lost and found, and you would not have to grudgingly fold your disgracefully soaked pants into a paper bag, to be left by your desk the rest of your day like a brown-bagged scarlet letter as you learned the finer points of addition and vowels, then shielded the bag from your mother after she picked you up, spotting, as mothers do, what you were trying to hide within the first seconds, and unknowingly rubbing in the pain by asking, "What's in the bag?"
No, you live to pee another way. But still you are confronted with the problem of having your underwear on wrong, causing a Rubik's Cube inside your pants, taunting you with its complex web of impossibility.
Your right brain screams for you to just rotate the boxers around as if they were a sock, but the leg holes prohibit that technique. It occurs to you that there that the only option is to start from square zero. You must hole up in a stall, untie your shoes, take the pants and underwear off, double check you've got it right before you zip up again, then try to resume your day. All the levels of bureaucracy to right your disaster crush your very essence, pinning you into paralysis. For though you'd like to have your underwear on correctly, the steps it will take to get there are all too discouraging.
No, you will not retool, for the same reasons you are not an FBI agent or a lawyer. You have spotted an easier route and taken it, reasoning that the relief it will yield to attain the ideal boxer formation is not worth the effort. You will plug through your day with drawers on backwards, confident that since you survived the first trip to the bathroom without incident, you will surely survive a second. You sit back down at your desk to space out at the computer once again, downstairs senses amped to a higher level. Yes, you can feel it. You can't imagine that everything is all right, not with such unfamiliar constriction upfront and terrifying unshelteredness in the back. That slit in the front of the boxers - it most certainly matters. But your decision is made, and nothing shall be done. Your heart longs for tomorrow, when you'll get to start over and set things right, like the prayers for resurrection in a church, wishing defeated lives out of boredom and poverty into an ethereal promise of rapture. Dreams of tomorrow are only an opiate escape from your current doom, which you have not only originated on accident but chosen. Irrevocably, backwards underwear is your reality, your eternity, your lot. You adjust your pants and start typing away.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Review: The Karate Kid
This is posted at OKmagazine.com.
The fact that this movie exists infuriates me. The fact that it's good
makes my head explode in anger.
The good news about The Karate Kid remake is that it may lead the
young and dumb to the original 1984 film, one of the finest pieces of
cinema ever constructed. Did I stutter? That's right, The Karate Kid
is one of the best movies ever made, and if you don't believe me or
disagree it's because you haven't watched the movie in a quarter
century. I refuse to let you even proceed in reading this review until
you go back and watch it right now. Seriously, don't come back until
you've done so.
OK, now that we're all on the same page, let's all sigh and accept the
fact that it's unreasonable to expect any movie, let alone a remake,
to match the magnificence of Joe Esposito's You're the Best Around and
crane kicks that win the heart of Elisabeth Shue and put that
terrifying bastard Johnny in his place.
You've gotta take this new Karate Kid for what it is - a community
theater repertory version of a Shakespeare classic. It's cute and
harmless and lasts too long but your cousin's friend is in it so you
just sit there, smile and clap.
Jaden Smith, the androgynous 11-year-old offspring of Will Smith and
Xenu, volcano god, plays Dre, whose auto-worker mom gets transferred
from Detroit to China because that happens all the time. Dre is
foolish enough to talk to a girl his own age, and the racist Chinese
kids whose parents are totally gonna invade us in the Red Dawn remake
(as a provision of the Patriot Act all 1980s remakes will retrofit the
Chinese as our one-size-fits-all enemies) give Dre an MMA beat-down.
The bullying continues for scene after scene after scene until it's
like OK we get the point these kids are mean -- someone come and teach
this boy how to pull off comical prop-fu humiliations on these brats
before my bladder explodes. So enter Jackie Chan, who plays apartment
superintendent Mr. Han, who knows good kung fu -- the kind that can
only be learned by doing mundane things such as putting on and taking
off your jacket over and over again -- as opposed to the evil Cobra
Kai bully fu these kids are taught in a fancy dojo.
Han provides big laughs in the movie's funniest, least appropriate
scene, in which he delivers a manual annihilation to the gang of
12-year-olds. Because when you step to Dre, fool, you step to death
row.
Never mind that Dre's mom lets her boy spend an inordinate amount of
time with the creepy guy a couple doors down who could very well be a
child molester for all she knows. Through the ancient training
technique known as the training montage, Han teaches Dre to punch so
hard that "whoosh" sound effects emit from his swings, as well as
execute elaborate scorpion kicks that can only be completed with wires
and CGI, which magically make bullies be nice to you and transform
racist people into colorblind fans. Despite the corniness, it's
joyous, exuberant stuff, and I am ashamed to admit that during the
final tournament I rooted for little Dre with actual, unreasonable
fear that he would lose.
A final word to parents: This is an excellent movie to take your
3-year-old to if you want to have him laying continuous hi-yah
beatdowns to that punk 1-year-old sister of his who totally has it
coming.
Starring Jaden Smith and Jackie Chan. Written by Christopher Murphey,
based on a story by Robert Mark Kamen. A remake of a 1984 film.
Directed by Harald Zwart. Rated PG. 135 minutes.
The fact that this movie exists infuriates me. The fact that it's good
makes my head explode in anger.
The good news about The Karate Kid remake is that it may lead the
young and dumb to the original 1984 film, one of the finest pieces of
cinema ever constructed. Did I stutter? That's right, The Karate Kid
is one of the best movies ever made, and if you don't believe me or
disagree it's because you haven't watched the movie in a quarter
century. I refuse to let you even proceed in reading this review until
you go back and watch it right now. Seriously, don't come back until
you've done so.
OK, now that we're all on the same page, let's all sigh and accept the
fact that it's unreasonable to expect any movie, let alone a remake,
to match the magnificence of Joe Esposito's You're the Best Around and
crane kicks that win the heart of Elisabeth Shue and put that
terrifying bastard Johnny in his place.
You've gotta take this new Karate Kid for what it is - a community
theater repertory version of a Shakespeare classic. It's cute and
harmless and lasts too long but your cousin's friend is in it so you
just sit there, smile and clap.
Jaden Smith, the androgynous 11-year-old offspring of Will Smith and
Xenu, volcano god, plays Dre, whose auto-worker mom gets transferred
from Detroit to China because that happens all the time. Dre is
foolish enough to talk to a girl his own age, and the racist Chinese
kids whose parents are totally gonna invade us in the Red Dawn remake
(as a provision of the Patriot Act all 1980s remakes will retrofit the
Chinese as our one-size-fits-all enemies) give Dre an MMA beat-down.
The bullying continues for scene after scene after scene until it's
like OK we get the point these kids are mean -- someone come and teach
this boy how to pull off comical prop-fu humiliations on these brats
before my bladder explodes. So enter Jackie Chan, who plays apartment
superintendent Mr. Han, who knows good kung fu -- the kind that can
only be learned by doing mundane things such as putting on and taking
off your jacket over and over again -- as opposed to the evil Cobra
Kai bully fu these kids are taught in a fancy dojo.
Han provides big laughs in the movie's funniest, least appropriate
scene, in which he delivers a manual annihilation to the gang of
12-year-olds. Because when you step to Dre, fool, you step to death
row.
Never mind that Dre's mom lets her boy spend an inordinate amount of
time with the creepy guy a couple doors down who could very well be a
child molester for all she knows. Through the ancient training
technique known as the training montage, Han teaches Dre to punch so
hard that "whoosh" sound effects emit from his swings, as well as
execute elaborate scorpion kicks that can only be completed with wires
and CGI, which magically make bullies be nice to you and transform
racist people into colorblind fans. Despite the corniness, it's
joyous, exuberant stuff, and I am ashamed to admit that during the
final tournament I rooted for little Dre with actual, unreasonable
fear that he would lose.
A final word to parents: This is an excellent movie to take your
3-year-old to if you want to have him laying continuous hi-yah
beatdowns to that punk 1-year-old sister of his who totally has it
coming.
Starring Jaden Smith and Jackie Chan. Written by Christopher Murphey,
based on a story by Robert Mark Kamen. A remake of a 1984 film.
Directed by Harald Zwart. Rated PG. 135 minutes.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
Read The Law, Idiots
Everyone who disagrees with Arizona HB 1070 has not read the law. If you read it you will be included among all smart people who know the law is a golden ray of sunshine that will fix all the state's problems and eliminate all crime instantly. Also, you will know the reason for the Arizona Diamondbacks' recent suckage.
I quote:
So there you have it. Reading teaches stuff.
I quote:
The Arizona Diamondbacks shall no longer win nor score runs. Failure to comply will subject the team to lawsuits and be cause for its deportation.
So there you have it. Reading teaches stuff.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
10 Things That Are Worse Than BP's Oil Spill
Sure, the spill is a horrendous, nonstop flood of awful that will not only destroy the Gulf of Mexico, turning it into a new Black Sea, but will surely eventually turn all oceans into something resembling a McDonald's fry vat, but it's not THAT bad. Here are some things that are worse:
1. Watching a San Antonio Spurs game.
2. Finding out your TV broken so it only plays NASCAR.
3. Waking up from a dream that your dead dog is back alive, and still is nice, not a
mean Pet Sematary zombie, then waking up to find out he's still dead.
4. Eating Cheerios. Without milk.
5. Going outside to get the mail wearing only your underwear then realizing you've accidentally locked yourself out.
6. Eating at Wendy's.
7. Forgetting to buy a copy of Secrets of a Stingy Scoundrel.
8. BP drilling in the ocean and springing an endless leak of Vanilla Coke. Because seriously, think of all that wasted deliciousness!
9. A massively coordinated attack by the birds of the world.
10. The Golf Channel.
1. Watching a San Antonio Spurs game.
2. Finding out your TV broken so it only plays NASCAR.
3. Waking up from a dream that your dead dog is back alive, and still is nice, not a
mean Pet Sematary zombie, then waking up to find out he's still dead.
4. Eating Cheerios. Without milk.
5. Going outside to get the mail wearing only your underwear then realizing you've accidentally locked yourself out.
6. Eating at Wendy's.
7. Forgetting to buy a copy of Secrets of a Stingy Scoundrel.
8. BP drilling in the ocean and springing an endless leak of Vanilla Coke. Because seriously, think of all that wasted deliciousness!
9. A massively coordinated attack by the birds of the world.
10. The Golf Channel.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Sickened
When I erupted into a sneezing fit Saturday night I was sure it was allergies. Jessica told me I had a cold, and I thought she was an idiot for suggesting that because the inside of my head was all itchy and I felt fine other than the constant sneezing. To prove to myself how great I felt despite my machine-gun allergy sneezing fit, I stayed up all night playing Tecmo Bowl.
It turned out that I had a cold, of course. I woke up the next morning not sneezing quite as much but feeling awful. I could barely move most of the day and let the TV watch my kids as I laid motionless on the couch and Jessica installed a ceiling fan in Emma's room.
So I was the idiot. But at least I got my Tecmo Bowl in.
It turned out that I had a cold, of course. I woke up the next morning not sneezing quite as much but feeling awful. I could barely move most of the day and let the TV watch my kids as I laid motionless on the couch and Jessica installed a ceiling fan in Emma's room.
So I was the idiot. But at least I got my Tecmo Bowl in.
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