Some dick cheese side-swiped my car this morning before utterly destroying the car parked next to it. The theory is this failed abortion with a coat hanger still stuck in his forehead lost control of his car, skimmed alongside my driver's side before turning the second car into abstract art. This walking cum stain on the floor of a porno theater then took off leaving a trail of wreckage and two fucked cars in his wake. I can only hope that shortly after he hit my car he careened into a tanker truck transporting AIDS blood.
This all happened around 6:30 this morning. My house mates noticed police cars dealing with the totaled car next to me but failed to notice any damage on my car, which is a little under two years old and was fucking cherry. I didn't notice any damage myself when I got into the car to drive to work this morning but I certainly began to once I pulled away from the curb and I noticed my car was buckling out from underneath me and emitting a high-pitch squeal that sounded a little bit like Ned Beatty in Deliverance. I tried to drive to work on it assuming that the seemingly weeks of rain it had endured had made the breaks wet. No such luck. I drove it to my mechanic (fortunately a few blocks up the road), swerving out dangerously each time I hit a pimple in the road, where I was informed that my suspension and likely axles were damaged by what had clearly been a car accident (shows you the keen mechanical eye I've got).
So after causing me to bail on my second consecutive work day (the first because of the Ebola Virus or whatever the fuck has been making my joints sore, making me cough up small pieces of my lung, making me shiver uncontrollably and not to mention miss the rare party I actually had interest in attending) I spent the entire day waiting around in the waiting rooms of various mechanics, auto-bodies, and car rental places, on the phone with my insurance provider and hitching a ride in a tow truck. I'm left wondering when I'm going to get my car back while I'm stuck driving a hideous-looking boat from Enterprise. I loved that car and now it's been violated like a prom date.
In a perfect world I'd get twenty minutes alone with this cowardly sack of shit who ruined at least two people's day and cost likely tens of thousands of dollars worth of damage. In the words of Vincent Vega, it'd been worth him doing it just so I could've caught him doing it. People like this don't deserve to die but having their legs permanently immobilized doesn't strike me as at all distasteful or an over-reaction. Some people just need to be hobbled. I don't have much faith in the cracker-jack LA police department so once again, the innocent are fucked over.
Goddamnit, I hate days that make me want to be a Republican.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Retiring... Sort Of
In case anyone cares, last week I came to the difficult decision that I no longer had time in my life to continue writing weekly recaps of the television show "Lost" for Matt Zoller Seitz's website. I'd been on the fence about the assignment (which typically took anywhere from four to six agonizing hours every Wednesday night) but because of the strike-shortened season reducing the number of episodes to 8 (by contrast I did 22 of them last year) I figured I could make it work.
Fortunately, or unfortunately depending how you look at it, the real world intervened. I'm going to be working on an independent film starting in early February in a position that requires a lot of responsibility and a lot of time. Complicating matters further, the entire film is being shot at night. This would force me to miss, at bare minimum 1/4 of the season due to work, making the whole endeavor kind of pointless. I don't feel good about bailing on Matt on such short notice but since I let him know last week I feel like I've moved out from underneath a dark cloud. The "Lost" gig was only made possibly due to a highly dysfunctional and not terribly productive work schedule. That it's finally beginning to resemble that of my contemporaries is a good thing even if it does mean I'll be out till 6am for a couple of week. Furthermore, the show moved to Thursday nights, the one night of the week where am I almost guaranteed to have plans. So hooray for personal freedom.
I have full confidence that Matt will be able to corral someone into taking over the position. God knows when I was holding court enough people came out of the woodworks convinced they knew more than I did. I wish whomever takes the job a ton of luck. It's a fun show to dissect but not an easy one. The fact that the network clearly plays favorites with who they do and do not send screeners to will only complicate the matter further. And for those who absolutely have to read my input, I'll no doubt chime in from time to time in the comments section over at the House. After all, just because I don't want the job anymore doesn't mean I think anyone can do it as well as I did.
Fortunately, or unfortunately depending how you look at it, the real world intervened. I'm going to be working on an independent film starting in early February in a position that requires a lot of responsibility and a lot of time. Complicating matters further, the entire film is being shot at night. This would force me to miss, at bare minimum 1/4 of the season due to work, making the whole endeavor kind of pointless. I don't feel good about bailing on Matt on such short notice but since I let him know last week I feel like I've moved out from underneath a dark cloud. The "Lost" gig was only made possibly due to a highly dysfunctional and not terribly productive work schedule. That it's finally beginning to resemble that of my contemporaries is a good thing even if it does mean I'll be out till 6am for a couple of week. Furthermore, the show moved to Thursday nights, the one night of the week where am I almost guaranteed to have plans. So hooray for personal freedom.
I have full confidence that Matt will be able to corral someone into taking over the position. God knows when I was holding court enough people came out of the woodworks convinced they knew more than I did. I wish whomever takes the job a ton of luck. It's a fun show to dissect but not an easy one. The fact that the network clearly plays favorites with who they do and do not send screeners to will only complicate the matter further. And for those who absolutely have to read my input, I'll no doubt chime in from time to time in the comments section over at the House. After all, just because I don't want the job anymore doesn't mean I think anyone can do it as well as I did.
Heath
I’ve got a couple blog pieces that have been percolating for a few days now that were put on a temporary hold. In part because of a nasty bug that’s apparently afflicted half of LA (it seemed to have arrived with our Monsoon Season) that had rendered me a coughing, shivering mess. This is now the third time since Labor day I’ve battled flu like symptoms, something I was especially gifted at staving off when I was in high school and college. I can only attribute this to my work habits and diet because who wants to consider the alternative.
Of course the other reason was me still stumbling towards some form of perspective on the sudden death of Heath Ledger. I’m not the type of person who goes weak in the knees over the death of a celebrity; I think the closest I’ve ever come was when Mark Sandman, lead singer of the rock band Morphine, dropped dead on stage, but that was a case where I’d actually met the guy. But this undeniably feels different. There’s a universal hurt going around as everyone tries to make sense of something that’s truly senseless to its core. This was the sort of “event” (if one could call it that) that you felt the need to share with as many people as you could as quickly as possible. This was a death that text messaging was invented for.
I feel ill-suited to eulogize the man, who at 28, was eerily close to my own age forcing an unwanted reality check upon me. I was never the champion of Brokeback Mountain that most were, and I recognize that that’s were the majority of the anguish people are feeling is coming from (it’s a glib analogy but remove that one title from the resume and the gulf between Ledger and the equally tragic and dead Brad Renfro is a lot smaller). Still, I had enormous respect for the actor whose attachment to a film guaranteed a performance that would jut out into unexpected angles. He turned a perfunctory supporting part in the largely irrelevant Lords of Dogtown into an unexplained Val Kilmer impersonation, investing every line with a flat So Cal divinity. He was like Spicoli without the quotation marks.
The first hints of what was to come were no doubt found in Monster’s Ball, a role that seemed like an aberration at the time but would lay the groundwork for the tormented outsiders the actor was drawn to over the next seven years. Ledger could have been a matinée idol on the basis of his looks, but like Leo DiCaprio, he went out of his way to distance himself from the Teen People crowd. Working with A-list directors like Ang Lee, Chris Nolan, Todd Haynes and Terry Gilliam, the latter with whom he was shooting a film at the time of his death, making it simply the latest in a long line of “cursed” projects for the filmmaker.
His last completed role is ultimately the one that would have garnered him the most attention on a global level, the coveted role of The Joker in Nolan’s sequel to Batman Begins, The Dark Night. Upon learning of Ledger’s casting in the film there was a universal sigh of relief, as though it signaled that the franchise hadn’t suddenly lost its way by relying upon stunt casting. The film, which is due in July, was arguably the most anticipated film of the year before Ledger’s death; it will no doubt attain the extra level of infamy. I take it as a sign of personal growth on my part that upon learning of Heath’s passing my first thought was not to wonder about the status of the film, but rather to think of the actor’s young daughter,
In closing, I’m reprinting a tribute written by Sean Burns posted on his Myspace. Ordinarily I’d just hyperlink to it but I know a lot of people don’t have Myspace and it would be a shame if that limited anyone from reading it. Burns is a master at these things; it’s an uncanny gift calling upon a skill that’s not usually rewarded. No one does the poetic and the profane better. This will no doubt come across as more morbid than intended, but I’d be honored to get a send-up like this some day.
Here’s the man’s words:
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"It’s A Goddamned Shame...
So I've been in a weird, melancholy funk ever since I heard about Heath Ledger yesterday afternoon.
I've always found it strange and borderline inappropriate, having feelings like this when a celebrity dies – I mean, it's not like we were friends or anything. Lord knows I had a grand old time mocking the world's comically hysterical outpouring of grief over The Crocodile Hunter, only to turn around and do pretty much the same thing myself a few weeks later when Robert Altman died. (I know this means I'm hypocrite, but it also means I have good taste.)
The most maddening thing here is that Ledger was just, in the past couple years, really starting to come into his own as an actor, maybe a potential giant -- taking fascinating risks with his performances and choosing chancy projects. He seemed to have his head screwed on straight, at least career-wise, and I was already looking forward to seeing what he'd pull out for those upcoming Malick and Gilliam movies. (We won't even get into the pants-pissing squeals of fanboy delight that blurt out involuntarily every time I watch that fucking awesome DARK KNIGHT trailer.)
But at least we'll always have Ennis Del Mar. Although I've never been naïve enough to think that a movie can change the world, I still do believe that certain characters find their way into our hearts, and because of this special kind of empathy sometimes folks just might leave the theater looking at things a little bit differently.
Working at a cinema that showed BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN for months on end, I amassed tons of anecdotal evidence – guys joking uncomfortably on their way in, coming to see "the faggot cowboy movie," only to find themselves unexpectedly, profoundly, moved.
It's Ledger who made that happen -- communicating the exquisite, agonizing torment of a man who cannot allow himself to be who he really is, inarticulate and clenched, his few, carefully chosen words escaping in almost glottal burps.
It's a towering, anguished performance --one of this decade's finest by any yardstick-- and during the film's lengthy run I must admit I watched that closing scene at least two dozen times. Ennis' reaction to his daughter's engagement is fraught with unspoken sentiments and hidden communications. Upon each and every viewing I was captivated all over again by Ledger's careful use of his body language -- the roughneck, kutzy character's belated, strangely delicate ascension, at long last, into some sort of elusive peace.
It's a goddamned shame we've just been robbed of any more moments like that one. What a fucking waste."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alright, I got that out of my system. Back to being petty.
Of course the other reason was me still stumbling towards some form of perspective on the sudden death of Heath Ledger. I’m not the type of person who goes weak in the knees over the death of a celebrity; I think the closest I’ve ever come was when Mark Sandman, lead singer of the rock band Morphine, dropped dead on stage, but that was a case where I’d actually met the guy. But this undeniably feels different. There’s a universal hurt going around as everyone tries to make sense of something that’s truly senseless to its core. This was the sort of “event” (if one could call it that) that you felt the need to share with as many people as you could as quickly as possible. This was a death that text messaging was invented for.
I feel ill-suited to eulogize the man, who at 28, was eerily close to my own age forcing an unwanted reality check upon me. I was never the champion of Brokeback Mountain that most were, and I recognize that that’s were the majority of the anguish people are feeling is coming from (it’s a glib analogy but remove that one title from the resume and the gulf between Ledger and the equally tragic and dead Brad Renfro is a lot smaller). Still, I had enormous respect for the actor whose attachment to a film guaranteed a performance that would jut out into unexpected angles. He turned a perfunctory supporting part in the largely irrelevant Lords of Dogtown into an unexplained Val Kilmer impersonation, investing every line with a flat So Cal divinity. He was like Spicoli without the quotation marks.
The first hints of what was to come were no doubt found in Monster’s Ball, a role that seemed like an aberration at the time but would lay the groundwork for the tormented outsiders the actor was drawn to over the next seven years. Ledger could have been a matinée idol on the basis of his looks, but like Leo DiCaprio, he went out of his way to distance himself from the Teen People crowd. Working with A-list directors like Ang Lee, Chris Nolan, Todd Haynes and Terry Gilliam, the latter with whom he was shooting a film at the time of his death, making it simply the latest in a long line of “cursed” projects for the filmmaker.
His last completed role is ultimately the one that would have garnered him the most attention on a global level, the coveted role of The Joker in Nolan’s sequel to Batman Begins, The Dark Night. Upon learning of Ledger’s casting in the film there was a universal sigh of relief, as though it signaled that the franchise hadn’t suddenly lost its way by relying upon stunt casting. The film, which is due in July, was arguably the most anticipated film of the year before Ledger’s death; it will no doubt attain the extra level of infamy. I take it as a sign of personal growth on my part that upon learning of Heath’s passing my first thought was not to wonder about the status of the film, but rather to think of the actor’s young daughter,
In closing, I’m reprinting a tribute written by Sean Burns posted on his Myspace. Ordinarily I’d just hyperlink to it but I know a lot of people don’t have Myspace and it would be a shame if that limited anyone from reading it. Burns is a master at these things; it’s an uncanny gift calling upon a skill that’s not usually rewarded. No one does the poetic and the profane better. This will no doubt come across as more morbid than intended, but I’d be honored to get a send-up like this some day.
Here’s the man’s words:
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"It’s A Goddamned Shame...
So I've been in a weird, melancholy funk ever since I heard about Heath Ledger yesterday afternoon.
I've always found it strange and borderline inappropriate, having feelings like this when a celebrity dies – I mean, it's not like we were friends or anything. Lord knows I had a grand old time mocking the world's comically hysterical outpouring of grief over The Crocodile Hunter, only to turn around and do pretty much the same thing myself a few weeks later when Robert Altman died. (I know this means I'm hypocrite, but it also means I have good taste.)
The most maddening thing here is that Ledger was just, in the past couple years, really starting to come into his own as an actor, maybe a potential giant -- taking fascinating risks with his performances and choosing chancy projects. He seemed to have his head screwed on straight, at least career-wise, and I was already looking forward to seeing what he'd pull out for those upcoming Malick and Gilliam movies. (We won't even get into the pants-pissing squeals of fanboy delight that blurt out involuntarily every time I watch that fucking awesome DARK KNIGHT trailer.)
But at least we'll always have Ennis Del Mar. Although I've never been naïve enough to think that a movie can change the world, I still do believe that certain characters find their way into our hearts, and because of this special kind of empathy sometimes folks just might leave the theater looking at things a little bit differently.
Working at a cinema that showed BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN for months on end, I amassed tons of anecdotal evidence – guys joking uncomfortably on their way in, coming to see "the faggot cowboy movie," only to find themselves unexpectedly, profoundly, moved.
It's Ledger who made that happen -- communicating the exquisite, agonizing torment of a man who cannot allow himself to be who he really is, inarticulate and clenched, his few, carefully chosen words escaping in almost glottal burps.
It's a towering, anguished performance --one of this decade's finest by any yardstick-- and during the film's lengthy run I must admit I watched that closing scene at least two dozen times. Ennis' reaction to his daughter's engagement is fraught with unspoken sentiments and hidden communications. Upon each and every viewing I was captivated all over again by Ledger's careful use of his body language -- the roughneck, kutzy character's belated, strangely delicate ascension, at long last, into some sort of elusive peace.
It's a goddamned shame we've just been robbed of any more moments like that one. What a fucking waste."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alright, I got that out of my system. Back to being petty.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Oscar Nominations Response
**I’ve found myself in the weird spot of not hating the Oscar nominations.
In fact, I think they’re kind of awesome.
Proving that they’re not you’re father’s father’s Oscars, the same Academy that once upon a time gave its highest awards to films like Driving Miss Daisy and Dances with Wolves built upon its relative edginess of last year’s Scorsese coronation and went with a best picture lineup of the following:
Atonement
Juno
Michael Clayton
No Country for Old Men
There Will Be Blood
Opinions will vary, and there are choices here I don’t necessarily agree with, but it looks to me to be a pretty sexy list.
I’ve gone on record often and early as a Juno booster so I’m especially happy that the film has not only survived a snarky blogger backlash (which will no doubt become deafening as the film is compared to everything from Napoleon Dynamite to My Big Fat Greek Wedding to… shudder… Crash), but eeked out a surprise nomination for the highly underrated Jason Reitman (somewhere out there Burns just got a douche chill). Talk about a conciliation prize for not getting to go on Oprah. Meanwhile I’m starting to believe that the similarly gnashing and unpleasant No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood will end up canceling one another out allowing for Juno to sneak in and win best picture pleasing myself, Roger Ebert and millions of text message teenage girls.
I’d started to doubt There Will Be Blood’s chances in the past week but that was obviously wrong. I’ve never been a PT Anderson guy but I’m happy he’s being rewarded for, in the words of Mike D’Angelo, finally “calming the fuck down.” Of all the nominated films, There Will Be Blood is the one that I feel will benefit the most from repeat viewings. It’s such a black-hearted, resentful film; I’m both surprised and really pleased that it exists even if I doubt it will ever be the film its champions claim it to be.
Then you have No Country For Old Men, a film that’s been in the driver’s seat for so long it’s easy to forget how pulpy and fatalistic the film is. I’d once feared that the film was too successful as a suspense film to be taken seriously as a drama, particular with the direction the film takes in its last act, but no one seems to have encountered these issues and the film has to be seen as the favorite at this point. Also could this be the first time in history a filmmaker wins 4 awards in one night (for producing, directing, writing and editing)? It’s always possible the Coens will have one of their buddies pretend to be Roderick Jaynes for the night (does anyone remember how this worked back in ’95?) but still, quite the accomplishment.
I consider a film like Michael Clayton disposable in the very best sense of the word. It’s not really about anything—you can pretty much fit the plot on the back of a match book—but it’s so well done and so supremely confident in itself that it’s the sort of film you can imagine yourself watching over and over on cable. Clooney is one of the true honest to God movie stars; everything he does is done with style and authority without ever crossing the line into preaching. I’m a little bit baffled at anyone who’d put this bit of comfort food at the top of their list, but I can certainly appreciate that it’s probably the most purely entertaining mainstream drama of the year.
And then there’s Atonement, the only one of the five best picture nominees I actively disliked. I found it to be costume porn and bad chick lit (easily my two least favorite genres) and it seemed as though the opinion-makers agreed with me but, in the end, it hung in there. Never underestimate the staying power of a period drama I suppose. Although, to be fair, in its own way the film’s every bit as unpleasant as Blood, as intentionally unsatisfying as Country and as cynical as Michael Clayton. Plus, it tosses around the “C-word” more often than my dad watching a Hillary speech, so props for that one.
The Academy just seemed a little bit more “on” this year than usual. Viggo Mortensen received his first nomination for his exemplary work in Eastern Promises, another violent genre film that in any other year would seem to be too "out there" for voters and yet there he is, all slithery menace and coiled intensity. He doesn’t stand a chance of winning but he’d have my vote.
Or how about the smarts to see through the gooey grandstanding of Paul Haggis’ In the Valley of Elah to recognize Tommy Lee Jones’ devastating performance in the film. It can’t be easy to rise above material this horrid and yet Jones doesn’t have an insincere moment in the film.
I’m pleased Laura Linney somehow found her way into the best actress race. She feels like one of those actresses who will never be recognized for how consistently great she is because she refuses to play to the cheap seats. This won’t be her year either but the more her name and face are out there the better off she’ll be.
Also worth pointing out: how stacked is the Best Supporting Actor category? Not a bum performance in the bunch.
Even though I think Ratatouille is the better film, I can’t help but root for Persepolis in the foreign language category.
Then there are the omissions. Apparently the Academy really didn’t like Sean Penn’s Into the Wild. I’m sure someone will spin this as a rejection of Penn’s politics, but I think the more obvious answer is that older voters found Emile Hirsch’s character to be a self-absorbed asshole who treats his parents cruelly. Guess it was hard to relate. American Gangster predictably was a non-issue receiving a lifetime achievement-style supporting actress nomination for Ruby Dee for a part consisting of convincingly slapping Denzel (I guess one could make the same case for 80-something year old Hal Holbrook in Into the Wild although that one feels more earned to me) as well as a nod for art direction (“that’s alpaca! Blot that shit!”) Sweeny Todd was doomed by its lousiness picking up a now automatic Johnny Depp nomination and not much else. Can’t help but giggle over the fact that for all his steadicam hotdogging, Joe Wright is on the outside looking in in the Best Director category. Man that Reitman nomination just keeps getting better and better.
The big question now is whether there will even be an Oscars because of the ongoing writer’s strike. The show’s producers have promised… something although they’re being short with details. I hope they took a long hard look at the Golden Globes fiasco before trying to turn the event into a Billy Bush hosted press conference.
Of course the one year I actually care who wins they would hold the show hostage on me.
**note:
Halfway through writing this, the news about Heath Ledger’s death broke. I was feeling decidedly less funny/boisterous after that and I think it shows in this sort of schizophrenic piece.
In fact, I think they’re kind of awesome.
Proving that they’re not you’re father’s father’s Oscars, the same Academy that once upon a time gave its highest awards to films like Driving Miss Daisy and Dances with Wolves built upon its relative edginess of last year’s Scorsese coronation and went with a best picture lineup of the following:
Atonement
Juno
Michael Clayton
No Country for Old Men
There Will Be Blood
Opinions will vary, and there are choices here I don’t necessarily agree with, but it looks to me to be a pretty sexy list.
I’ve gone on record often and early as a Juno booster so I’m especially happy that the film has not only survived a snarky blogger backlash (which will no doubt become deafening as the film is compared to everything from Napoleon Dynamite to My Big Fat Greek Wedding to… shudder… Crash), but eeked out a surprise nomination for the highly underrated Jason Reitman (somewhere out there Burns just got a douche chill). Talk about a conciliation prize for not getting to go on Oprah. Meanwhile I’m starting to believe that the similarly gnashing and unpleasant No Country for Old Men and There Will Be Blood will end up canceling one another out allowing for Juno to sneak in and win best picture pleasing myself, Roger Ebert and millions of text message teenage girls.
I’d started to doubt There Will Be Blood’s chances in the past week but that was obviously wrong. I’ve never been a PT Anderson guy but I’m happy he’s being rewarded for, in the words of Mike D’Angelo, finally “calming the fuck down.” Of all the nominated films, There Will Be Blood is the one that I feel will benefit the most from repeat viewings. It’s such a black-hearted, resentful film; I’m both surprised and really pleased that it exists even if I doubt it will ever be the film its champions claim it to be.
Then you have No Country For Old Men, a film that’s been in the driver’s seat for so long it’s easy to forget how pulpy and fatalistic the film is. I’d once feared that the film was too successful as a suspense film to be taken seriously as a drama, particular with the direction the film takes in its last act, but no one seems to have encountered these issues and the film has to be seen as the favorite at this point. Also could this be the first time in history a filmmaker wins 4 awards in one night (for producing, directing, writing and editing)? It’s always possible the Coens will have one of their buddies pretend to be Roderick Jaynes for the night (does anyone remember how this worked back in ’95?) but still, quite the accomplishment.
I consider a film like Michael Clayton disposable in the very best sense of the word. It’s not really about anything—you can pretty much fit the plot on the back of a match book—but it’s so well done and so supremely confident in itself that it’s the sort of film you can imagine yourself watching over and over on cable. Clooney is one of the true honest to God movie stars; everything he does is done with style and authority without ever crossing the line into preaching. I’m a little bit baffled at anyone who’d put this bit of comfort food at the top of their list, but I can certainly appreciate that it’s probably the most purely entertaining mainstream drama of the year.
And then there’s Atonement, the only one of the five best picture nominees I actively disliked. I found it to be costume porn and bad chick lit (easily my two least favorite genres) and it seemed as though the opinion-makers agreed with me but, in the end, it hung in there. Never underestimate the staying power of a period drama I suppose. Although, to be fair, in its own way the film’s every bit as unpleasant as Blood, as intentionally unsatisfying as Country and as cynical as Michael Clayton. Plus, it tosses around the “C-word” more often than my dad watching a Hillary speech, so props for that one.
The Academy just seemed a little bit more “on” this year than usual. Viggo Mortensen received his first nomination for his exemplary work in Eastern Promises, another violent genre film that in any other year would seem to be too "out there" for voters and yet there he is, all slithery menace and coiled intensity. He doesn’t stand a chance of winning but he’d have my vote.
Or how about the smarts to see through the gooey grandstanding of Paul Haggis’ In the Valley of Elah to recognize Tommy Lee Jones’ devastating performance in the film. It can’t be easy to rise above material this horrid and yet Jones doesn’t have an insincere moment in the film.
I’m pleased Laura Linney somehow found her way into the best actress race. She feels like one of those actresses who will never be recognized for how consistently great she is because she refuses to play to the cheap seats. This won’t be her year either but the more her name and face are out there the better off she’ll be.
Also worth pointing out: how stacked is the Best Supporting Actor category? Not a bum performance in the bunch.
Even though I think Ratatouille is the better film, I can’t help but root for Persepolis in the foreign language category.
Then there are the omissions. Apparently the Academy really didn’t like Sean Penn’s Into the Wild. I’m sure someone will spin this as a rejection of Penn’s politics, but I think the more obvious answer is that older voters found Emile Hirsch’s character to be a self-absorbed asshole who treats his parents cruelly. Guess it was hard to relate. American Gangster predictably was a non-issue receiving a lifetime achievement-style supporting actress nomination for Ruby Dee for a part consisting of convincingly slapping Denzel (I guess one could make the same case for 80-something year old Hal Holbrook in Into the Wild although that one feels more earned to me) as well as a nod for art direction (“that’s alpaca! Blot that shit!”) Sweeny Todd was doomed by its lousiness picking up a now automatic Johnny Depp nomination and not much else. Can’t help but giggle over the fact that for all his steadicam hotdogging, Joe Wright is on the outside looking in in the Best Director category. Man that Reitman nomination just keeps getting better and better.
The big question now is whether there will even be an Oscars because of the ongoing writer’s strike. The show’s producers have promised… something although they’re being short with details. I hope they took a long hard look at the Golden Globes fiasco before trying to turn the event into a Billy Bush hosted press conference.
Of course the one year I actually care who wins they would hold the show hostage on me.
**note:
Halfway through writing this, the news about Heath Ledger’s death broke. I was feeling decidedly less funny/boisterous after that and I think it shows in this sort of schizophrenic piece.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Clovershit
The thought of possibly seeing a worse film in 2008 than Cloverfield has me thoroughly depressed. There are certainly people who will respond to this film and what it’s attempting to do but it is first, last and thoroughly fraudulent; both painfully wedded and conveniently indifferent to its high-concept premise resulting in a film that’s satisfying neither as a post-modern experiment nor a monster movie.
Say what you will about The Blair Witch Project, and for the record I thought it was pretty close to being a masterpiece seven and a half years ago (my God has it been that long?) but the compulsive need to document a waking nightmare in that film was derived from boredom, frustration and loneliness. So much of the horror in that film came from documenting after the fact, as though recording it on camera would somehow make it all more real and easier to comprehend.
Here we have a bunch of asses walking around downtown Manhattan, fending off Godzilla (or whatever the fuck it is), lice monsters, falling bridges, fireballs, and military gunfire and for whatever reason they keep the camera rolling, dutifully pointing the lens at whatever complications come their way. Scaling the face of a building, carrying an injured friend, attacking giant spider monsters: these activities are best accomplished with two hands no matter what the Bad Robot people would have you believe.
So much of the film’s design is built around its perceived verisimilitude from the way the monster remains mostly just outside the frame (all the better, once we actually see it in daylight it’s terrible looking) to the approximation of “real time” to the way exposition is mostly foregone in favor of panic and unexpected revelation. Yet, at its core, the film is utterly false, traipsing on crude 9/11 imagery (Spielberg failed in this regard, don’t know why anyone thought the guy who created “Felicity” and wrote Under Siege 2 would succeed) in the service of an utterly bullshit rescue plot that flies in the face of both common sense and the audience’s presumed desire to see these people survive. How much of a routing interest is there really when every character on-screen lacks self-preservation instinct?
Of course it’s arguable whether we ever would have cared about these people even if they did put the camera down and not continuously walk towards the big scary monster tearing down buildings. Drawn from the J.J. Abrams model of self-absorbed Yuppie c*nts (the man’s legacy as a storyteller will no doubt be his affinity for pretty, affluent, vapid, white people in spacious apartments), Cloverfield finds us hurtling towards eminent danger to save a pretty girl our hero banged once and surprisingly indifferent to all the friends and family picked off along the way. Because really, what are they worth next to the girl you had a one-night-stand with who a few hours ago you’d resigned to never seeing again?
The film’s documentary approach is meant to lend extra insight into an extraordinary event yet its very existence only creates distance. We never feel like actors aren’t performing for the camera’s benefit, riffing about pop culture at inopportune times or babbling incessantly in an encouraged improvisational style (maybe we need the writers back on the job after all). Grief is predominantly ignored or swept under the carpet almost instantaneously. Emotional resonance comes in self-contained doses that don’t carry over to subsequent scenes. We don’t really get a sense of the toll the evening has taken on the characters, the fear and frustration that they should be going through having spent the night scurrying away from a giant lizard creature, let alone the annoyance of a douche bag shoving a camera in their face while they bleed out onto the floor.
In attempting to be realer than real, the film only reinforces the monster movie clichés it’s strenuously trying to avoid. In showing us how “normal, everyday” people would react in this situation it couldn’t be any less insightful or recognizably human.
Gun to my head, I’d rather watch Devlin & Emmerich’s Godzilla again.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Andrew really doesn’t hate everything…
First weekend back in LA after escaping from a floating prison in the south Atlantic was spent sitting on my ass as we’ve entered the most awesome time of the year for football fans. I live and die baseball, but you really can’t beat the NFL’s one and done playoff system where your fortunes can change in a matter of seconds. I made the “mistake” of watching only the Saturday games (aka the games that went down exactly as planned) and skipped both of Sunday’s stunning, tear-stained upsets. Thanks to those wily Chargers we as a nation will be spared the latest over-hyped Colts vs. Pats game which CBS is kicking itself over but every Patriot fan alive is secretly thrilled about (we all know they only barely squeaked by back in November).
But no one reads this thing for sports talk. I watched a couple of films this weekend that were pretty low on my radar that I loved to varying degrees in spite of mounting evidence that they would fall into the “meh” category. Of most immediate concern is Charlie Wilson’s War which was one of 19 films released on Christmas that I’m only just now getting around to and has already been chewed on and half digested by everyone of note. Going in, I knew how “horribly miscast” Julia Roberts would be and how “de-balled” the film was by not delivering viewers at the doorstep of 9/11 and how slight the film was because of it. And the truth is, all of the above is true to a point, but that doesn’t begin to get at all the great stuff that the film is as well. Namely how smart and funny and proudly R rated and (for the most part) unwilling to pander Charlie Wilson’s War is. This is a film about a bunch of people who like to drink and fuck and say really clever, biting things in-between funnel a billion dollars to a volatile, fundamentalist, Third World Country because they want to kill Russians as much as we did.
If we’re looking just at recent films, this most reminded me of Spielberg’s Catch Me if you Can (which, for the record I liked way more than most people) in that it’s essentially taking a serious issue and viewing it as a frothy good time floating above the surface of something horrible that’s destined to bubble to the top. Wilson and company no doubt viewed their actions as altruistic but the spirit of the film is one of a con-game; maneuvering on the sly and often in amazement at what you can accomplish simply through manipulating humans organs of all shapes and geographies and a healthy amount of bullshit.
I rarely have nice things to say about Mike Nichols as a director but he really is the perfect filmmaker for this material, treating major world events as though it were a sex farce fueled on recreational drug use and slipstream of booze. There’s an arrogance to the characters and a terminal short-sightedness to their dabbling in world events that comes across as an implicit criticism the more aware we are of what’s to come. The more the film presents Wilson as a kid playing with an ant farm, arming angry young Muslim men with RPG’s without pausing to think about what they’ll be doing with that training and weapons once their done shooting down Ruskie helicopters, the more sickening the noose tightening around your neck feels.
In fact, if there’s a critical error made on the film’s part it’s not the exclusion of the original script’s now infamous “9/11 ending,” it’s that it tries to create audience empathy in Wilson late in the film’s third act by forcing the character to address the after-effects of his actions. Embarrassing, bordering on didactic scenes of Wilson pleading with his supervisors for a measly million dollars (versus the half a billion they’d spent on weapons) to rebuild schools in Afghanistan only to be summarily turned down. Scenes of Wilson sitting alone in his apartment with tear stained eyes, quietly pondering what’s come of his life. The film places the brunt of awareness on Wilson’s shoulders, as though only he’s conscious of what he’s truly done and is helpless to fix it while the world showers him with praise. It’s cheap moralizing that arrives far too late that only weakens the film’s argument. By giving us a mirco-realization it undermines the idea that these people were dabbling with governments and ideologies they had no real understanding of only to be left completely blindsided at the blowback that came their way decades later as a result.
Still I really do have to tip my hat at what the film has done, and specifically to Aaron Sorkin, who I’d left for irrelevant after his “Studio 60” car wreck. The film is essentially the cynical, mirrored version of “The West Wing” crossed with a 1930’s screwball comedy that involves spitting out a lot of politico-speak and war machine jargon that never gets bogged down. Roberts is far too frigid and young to play the part of a billionaire, born again cougar (Burns put the idea of Susan Sarandon in my head but for some reason I kept thinking of Marcia Gay Harden during the film) but she’s essentially a footnote to the Hanks and Hoffman show. Hanks seems to be taking this opportunity to play Dean Martin, as he was once supposed to have in the long defunct Rat Pack film Scorsese was planning a decade back and its glorious watching him smirk, grope and spin as he leaves the over-reported but not really accurate image of Saint Tom in his dust. But really, this is the Philip Seymour Hoffman show. Fat, unshaven, foul-mouthed, ill-behaved and with a cigarette hanging from his lip, Hoffman’s CIA agent Gust Avrakotos is such an awesome movie character I spent half the afternoon trying to think of other films that would have been improved if he were in them (how much better would American Gangster had been if it were Gust chasing down Frank Lucas instead of boring old Russell Crowe in a Dorothy Hamill wig?)
Charlie Wilson’s War is such a remarkable film because it’s a bit of a Rorschach test for audiences. As a time-killer for 100 minutes, the film is bracingly funny, understated and really clever; an old-fashion “movie star film” that goes down like Kentucky bourbon. At the same time it’s laying out the groundwork for the most prolonged armed combat since Vietnam (and the clock’s still ticking) as well as the cavalier attitude that lead to it. The film doesn’t have to beat us over the head with present day events for its thesis to come through loud and clear any more than M*A*S*H or Apocalypse Now did. And for the record, I’m really happy that the film is quietly finding an audience after a slow opening. One of the few films currently in theaters that I’d feel comfortable recommending to, really, anyone.
**
If Charlie Wilson’s War was a pleasant surprise than Mathew Vaughn’s Stardust was pretty much a stunner. I had no expectations (read: zero) for this film. It somehow made its way to the top of my Netflix que while I was away from my computer for a week, but aside from the off-hand “it’s not bad” I heard from the handful of people who went to see it last summer, the biggest factor weighing in on the film was that it was Harry Knowles’ favorite movie of the year (and that aint much of an endorsement where I come from). So imagine my shock at how completely wonderful the film is. Pretend The Princess Bride wasn’t directed by a visually inept Rob Reiner on the back of a studio lot in 90-minutes of medium close up or written by William Goldman wearing out his arm from patting himself on the back and you get a sense of how bizarre and special Stardust is.
I was pretty indifferent to Vaughn’s Layer Cake which belonged squarely in the “please let it die” genre of the British criminal underworld flick, but I can no longer deny that there’s a sizable gulf between him and his former cohort Guy Ritchie. To the point, the film’s charming as a motherfucker, existing in the realm of storybook logic without ever becoming overly precious or whimsical. The film keeps jutting off in weird, unexpected directions that I suspect originated in Neil Gaiman’s book that Vaughn rolls with without missing a beat. The narrative is fairly simple yet, like all good fairy tales, it finds room for digression in traveling off the well trodden path.
The film is heavy on cgi but its greatest effect is the radiance given off (literally at times) by Claire Danes as the human personification of a fallen star. Danes is one of those actresses who never lived up to her early promise, often coming across as wooden and too self-aware to ever give herself over to a part. Yet Vaughn has coaxed out of her her most natural and open performance on film yet. We don’t need a digital assist to watch the actress glow. Despite saddling her with distracting bleached-eyebrows, Vaughn makes extraordinary use of Danes face, which has never been quite this expressive before. The actress sells every peculiar moment of the film with a disarming mixture of weariness and naiveté as though she should know better than to let herself fall in love but is helpless to fight it. It’s really difficult not to fall hard for the character.
Meanwhile how great a year is Michelle Pfeiffer having? Between this and Hairspray I’m starting to think she should play aging villainesses for the rest of her career. She seems to be having a grand old time letting herself aging horrifically on-screen (in marked contrast to the plastic surgery she’s supposedly had in real life) that would almost qualify as bravery.
There’s some queasy sexual politics in the film that I suppose are inherent to the type of story that it is, but what struck me the most about the film is its generosity and affection towards its characters. The way Robert DeNiro’s fey (although not explicitly gay), cross-dressing pirate is embraced by his crew after being outed, or the ever-growing assemblage of dead princes who serve as the film’s Greek chorus, cheerfully commenting on the world of the living behind disfigured visages. How every supporting part no matter how small the part, seems to be fully conceived and inhabiting this world. And, without giving anything away, there’s something really heartwarming and hopeful without becoming sappy about the implications of the film’s final shot that takes a really refreshing spin on what’s kind of a romantic mainstay. If I were to actually publish a year end ten best list (which I won’t) I don’t think I could keep this film off of it.
**
God, that was a fucking slog to write. You see why I mostly stick to negativity?
But no one reads this thing for sports talk. I watched a couple of films this weekend that were pretty low on my radar that I loved to varying degrees in spite of mounting evidence that they would fall into the “meh” category. Of most immediate concern is Charlie Wilson’s War which was one of 19 films released on Christmas that I’m only just now getting around to and has already been chewed on and half digested by everyone of note. Going in, I knew how “horribly miscast” Julia Roberts would be and how “de-balled” the film was by not delivering viewers at the doorstep of 9/11 and how slight the film was because of it. And the truth is, all of the above is true to a point, but that doesn’t begin to get at all the great stuff that the film is as well. Namely how smart and funny and proudly R rated and (for the most part) unwilling to pander Charlie Wilson’s War is. This is a film about a bunch of people who like to drink and fuck and say really clever, biting things in-between funnel a billion dollars to a volatile, fundamentalist, Third World Country because they want to kill Russians as much as we did.
If we’re looking just at recent films, this most reminded me of Spielberg’s Catch Me if you Can (which, for the record I liked way more than most people) in that it’s essentially taking a serious issue and viewing it as a frothy good time floating above the surface of something horrible that’s destined to bubble to the top. Wilson and company no doubt viewed their actions as altruistic but the spirit of the film is one of a con-game; maneuvering on the sly and often in amazement at what you can accomplish simply through manipulating humans organs of all shapes and geographies and a healthy amount of bullshit.
I rarely have nice things to say about Mike Nichols as a director but he really is the perfect filmmaker for this material, treating major world events as though it were a sex farce fueled on recreational drug use and slipstream of booze. There’s an arrogance to the characters and a terminal short-sightedness to their dabbling in world events that comes across as an implicit criticism the more aware we are of what’s to come. The more the film presents Wilson as a kid playing with an ant farm, arming angry young Muslim men with RPG’s without pausing to think about what they’ll be doing with that training and weapons once their done shooting down Ruskie helicopters, the more sickening the noose tightening around your neck feels.
In fact, if there’s a critical error made on the film’s part it’s not the exclusion of the original script’s now infamous “9/11 ending,” it’s that it tries to create audience empathy in Wilson late in the film’s third act by forcing the character to address the after-effects of his actions. Embarrassing, bordering on didactic scenes of Wilson pleading with his supervisors for a measly million dollars (versus the half a billion they’d spent on weapons) to rebuild schools in Afghanistan only to be summarily turned down. Scenes of Wilson sitting alone in his apartment with tear stained eyes, quietly pondering what’s come of his life. The film places the brunt of awareness on Wilson’s shoulders, as though only he’s conscious of what he’s truly done and is helpless to fix it while the world showers him with praise. It’s cheap moralizing that arrives far too late that only weakens the film’s argument. By giving us a mirco-realization it undermines the idea that these people were dabbling with governments and ideologies they had no real understanding of only to be left completely blindsided at the blowback that came their way decades later as a result.
Still I really do have to tip my hat at what the film has done, and specifically to Aaron Sorkin, who I’d left for irrelevant after his “Studio 60” car wreck. The film is essentially the cynical, mirrored version of “The West Wing” crossed with a 1930’s screwball comedy that involves spitting out a lot of politico-speak and war machine jargon that never gets bogged down. Roberts is far too frigid and young to play the part of a billionaire, born again cougar (Burns put the idea of Susan Sarandon in my head but for some reason I kept thinking of Marcia Gay Harden during the film) but she’s essentially a footnote to the Hanks and Hoffman show. Hanks seems to be taking this opportunity to play Dean Martin, as he was once supposed to have in the long defunct Rat Pack film Scorsese was planning a decade back and its glorious watching him smirk, grope and spin as he leaves the over-reported but not really accurate image of Saint Tom in his dust. But really, this is the Philip Seymour Hoffman show. Fat, unshaven, foul-mouthed, ill-behaved and with a cigarette hanging from his lip, Hoffman’s CIA agent Gust Avrakotos is such an awesome movie character I spent half the afternoon trying to think of other films that would have been improved if he were in them (how much better would American Gangster had been if it were Gust chasing down Frank Lucas instead of boring old Russell Crowe in a Dorothy Hamill wig?)
Charlie Wilson’s War is such a remarkable film because it’s a bit of a Rorschach test for audiences. As a time-killer for 100 minutes, the film is bracingly funny, understated and really clever; an old-fashion “movie star film” that goes down like Kentucky bourbon. At the same time it’s laying out the groundwork for the most prolonged armed combat since Vietnam (and the clock’s still ticking) as well as the cavalier attitude that lead to it. The film doesn’t have to beat us over the head with present day events for its thesis to come through loud and clear any more than M*A*S*H or Apocalypse Now did. And for the record, I’m really happy that the film is quietly finding an audience after a slow opening. One of the few films currently in theaters that I’d feel comfortable recommending to, really, anyone.
**
If Charlie Wilson’s War was a pleasant surprise than Mathew Vaughn’s Stardust was pretty much a stunner. I had no expectations (read: zero) for this film. It somehow made its way to the top of my Netflix que while I was away from my computer for a week, but aside from the off-hand “it’s not bad” I heard from the handful of people who went to see it last summer, the biggest factor weighing in on the film was that it was Harry Knowles’ favorite movie of the year (and that aint much of an endorsement where I come from). So imagine my shock at how completely wonderful the film is. Pretend The Princess Bride wasn’t directed by a visually inept Rob Reiner on the back of a studio lot in 90-minutes of medium close up or written by William Goldman wearing out his arm from patting himself on the back and you get a sense of how bizarre and special Stardust is.
I was pretty indifferent to Vaughn’s Layer Cake which belonged squarely in the “please let it die” genre of the British criminal underworld flick, but I can no longer deny that there’s a sizable gulf between him and his former cohort Guy Ritchie. To the point, the film’s charming as a motherfucker, existing in the realm of storybook logic without ever becoming overly precious or whimsical. The film keeps jutting off in weird, unexpected directions that I suspect originated in Neil Gaiman’s book that Vaughn rolls with without missing a beat. The narrative is fairly simple yet, like all good fairy tales, it finds room for digression in traveling off the well trodden path.
The film is heavy on cgi but its greatest effect is the radiance given off (literally at times) by Claire Danes as the human personification of a fallen star. Danes is one of those actresses who never lived up to her early promise, often coming across as wooden and too self-aware to ever give herself over to a part. Yet Vaughn has coaxed out of her her most natural and open performance on film yet. We don’t need a digital assist to watch the actress glow. Despite saddling her with distracting bleached-eyebrows, Vaughn makes extraordinary use of Danes face, which has never been quite this expressive before. The actress sells every peculiar moment of the film with a disarming mixture of weariness and naiveté as though she should know better than to let herself fall in love but is helpless to fight it. It’s really difficult not to fall hard for the character.
Meanwhile how great a year is Michelle Pfeiffer having? Between this and Hairspray I’m starting to think she should play aging villainesses for the rest of her career. She seems to be having a grand old time letting herself aging horrifically on-screen (in marked contrast to the plastic surgery she’s supposedly had in real life) that would almost qualify as bravery.
There’s some queasy sexual politics in the film that I suppose are inherent to the type of story that it is, but what struck me the most about the film is its generosity and affection towards its characters. The way Robert DeNiro’s fey (although not explicitly gay), cross-dressing pirate is embraced by his crew after being outed, or the ever-growing assemblage of dead princes who serve as the film’s Greek chorus, cheerfully commenting on the world of the living behind disfigured visages. How every supporting part no matter how small the part, seems to be fully conceived and inhabiting this world. And, without giving anything away, there’s something really heartwarming and hopeful without becoming sappy about the implications of the film’s final shot that takes a really refreshing spin on what’s kind of a romantic mainstay. If I were to actually publish a year end ten best list (which I won’t) I don’t think I could keep this film off of it.
**
God, that was a fucking slog to write. You see why I mostly stick to negativity?
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
And the Presidency Goes To...
Right around the time of the Iowa Caucus a theory started floating around on some of the movie websites I visit positing that there was a parallel between the (it would now seem temporary) fall from grace Hillary Clinton was enduring and the turned fortunes of the at one-time, written in stone lock for Best Picture, Atonement, which has been summarily ignored by both the Screen Actor’s Guild and the Director’s Guild. This got me wondering whether the peaks and valleys of a presidential race was really any different from the equally unending “race to the Oscars” and whether there where any other comparisons to be made between the candidates in both the presidential and best picture race.
A couple caveats to start: This should be taken in the spirit of fun. I’m not looking to hear how I’ve grossly simplified such and such candidate. Obviously I had to stretch to make some of these work (my Romney comparison is especially iffy) but these more or less reflect how the media is presenting these people at this point in time. The other thing is I’m limiting this to major candidates since I have no desire to try and find parallels between Bill Richardson and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly or Ron Paul to 3:10 to Yuma. That said…
No Country For Old Men: John McCain
The tentative favorite but no one feels very confident about it. Been in the game forever; viewed by some as “due” but may be too quirky and angry to get a majority vote. A superficial resemblance to previous winners but is pretty much a text book case of marching to the beat of their own drum. More popular with men than women.
Juno: Barack Obama
A ton of media hype at the moment which may not be reflective of actual popularity with voters. The one people are actually emotionally invested in. Skewers younger and outside the usual interests of the competition which will either end up causing a stunning surprise victory or the crumble most cynics have been calling for. All about verbal dexterity which detractors claim disguises a lack of depth. Will piss off *a lot* of people if they somehow win.
Atonement: Hillary Clinton
Was the early front-runner, now it’s kind of shocking to find someone who actually likes them. Gives the outward appearance of a contender but there’s really nothing there beyond the prestige and air of self-importance. Makes a point of calling attention to how smart they are. Technically proficient but completely airless and unsatisfying. More popular with women than men.
Michael Clayton: Mitt Romney
Has the air of a contender to them (wears suits well) but no one seems capable of nailing down what either is actually about. Rides the fence between activism and good old fashion showmanship. Just vaguely out there without any real vocal supporters. Keeps showing up at all the run-offs but seems likely to always come in second.
There Will Be Blood: Mike Huckabee
Passionate support but, at the moment, too localized to make a difference. Rather unpleasant the more you think about what they’re saying. Kinda bloated. Knows a thing or two about drinking milkshakes. Walks an uneasy line between creepy religion and the secular world. Emanates strange music.
Into the Wild: John Edwards
Just good old fashion, bleeding heart liberalism. Seems to belong to a bygone era when the country used to eat this sort of earnestness up but now it’s either falling on deaf ears or siphoning votes from stronger candidates. Surged a bit lately but is likely too little too late.
American Gangster: Rudy Guliani
The rockstar in the race that no one thinks can win. A big name that everyone is familiar with but when you really look under the hood you can’t help but be disappointed that they aren’t more impressive. No one really wants to badmouth them although the consensus is they just didn’t quite live up to their early buzz.
A couple caveats to start: This should be taken in the spirit of fun. I’m not looking to hear how I’ve grossly simplified such and such candidate. Obviously I had to stretch to make some of these work (my Romney comparison is especially iffy) but these more or less reflect how the media is presenting these people at this point in time. The other thing is I’m limiting this to major candidates since I have no desire to try and find parallels between Bill Richardson and The Diving Bell and the Butterfly or Ron Paul to 3:10 to Yuma. That said…
No Country For Old Men: John McCain
The tentative favorite but no one feels very confident about it. Been in the game forever; viewed by some as “due” but may be too quirky and angry to get a majority vote. A superficial resemblance to previous winners but is pretty much a text book case of marching to the beat of their own drum. More popular with men than women.
Juno: Barack Obama
A ton of media hype at the moment which may not be reflective of actual popularity with voters. The one people are actually emotionally invested in. Skewers younger and outside the usual interests of the competition which will either end up causing a stunning surprise victory or the crumble most cynics have been calling for. All about verbal dexterity which detractors claim disguises a lack of depth. Will piss off *a lot* of people if they somehow win.
Atonement: Hillary Clinton
Was the early front-runner, now it’s kind of shocking to find someone who actually likes them. Gives the outward appearance of a contender but there’s really nothing there beyond the prestige and air of self-importance. Makes a point of calling attention to how smart they are. Technically proficient but completely airless and unsatisfying. More popular with women than men.
Michael Clayton: Mitt Romney
Has the air of a contender to them (wears suits well) but no one seems capable of nailing down what either is actually about. Rides the fence between activism and good old fashion showmanship. Just vaguely out there without any real vocal supporters. Keeps showing up at all the run-offs but seems likely to always come in second.
There Will Be Blood: Mike Huckabee
Passionate support but, at the moment, too localized to make a difference. Rather unpleasant the more you think about what they’re saying. Kinda bloated. Knows a thing or two about drinking milkshakes. Walks an uneasy line between creepy religion and the secular world. Emanates strange music.
Into the Wild: John Edwards
Just good old fashion, bleeding heart liberalism. Seems to belong to a bygone era when the country used to eat this sort of earnestness up but now it’s either falling on deaf ears or siphoning votes from stronger candidates. Surged a bit lately but is likely too little too late.
American Gangster: Rudy Guliani
The rockstar in the race that no one thinks can win. A big name that everyone is familiar with but when you really look under the hood you can’t help but be disappointed that they aren’t more impressive. No one really wants to badmouth them although the consensus is they just didn’t quite live up to their early buzz.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Moment of Slow Realization
"I have a competition in me. I want no one else to succeed. I hate most people...
There are times when I look at people and I see nothing worth liking...
I see the worst in people. I don't need to look past seeing them to get all I need. I want to rule and never, ever explain myself."
I'm starting to think I should have liked this movie a lot more than I did. Second viewing in the coming weeks should be quite eye-opening.
There are times when I look at people and I see nothing worth liking...
I see the worst in people. I don't need to look past seeing them to get all I need. I want to rule and never, ever explain myself."
I'm starting to think I should have liked this movie a lot more than I did. Second viewing in the coming weeks should be quite eye-opening.
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