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When I was thirteen or so, my movie tastes were pretty simple. I was just starting to get into movies at that time, but there was one thing that was a hallmark of a good film to me: Boobies. I didn’t appreciate things like expertly crafted dialog, breathtaking cinematography, or brilliantly nuanced acting. I liked movies with boobs, preferably big ones. Now, I didn’t go extolling the virtues of Shannon Tweed’s oeuvre (that came a couple of years later, in a rather tongue in cheek fashion), or praising Andy Sidaris’ softcore movies about busty law enforcement-y types fighting crimes and fucking everyone in Hawaii (what, you don’t remember Hard Ticket to Hawaii?) This newfound appreciation for softcore porno and erotic thrillers coincided directly with my stepfather’s decision to scrap HBO for Cinemax to save a buck or two on the cable bill. Thanks to that decision I lost Kids in the Hall and innumerable stand-up comedy specials, and I was left with a wide variety of shitty movies that I had never experienced before. And I figured out if I stayed up just a little bit later on Friday nights that I would see boobies galore. This could be the reason that I’m a night owl today.

Now that I’m a world-weary man of thirty, my movie tastes are a bit more refined. I don’t care for any one particular kind of movie, I just like them good (and calamitously bad, as it were). Many of my favorite movies feature no nudity at all, if you’d believe that. But I think I finally reached the point that even a bad movie can’t be saved by a healthy rack. Case in point, the object of my poison pen today, Factory Girl.

Factory Girl chronicles the rise and fall of Edie Sedgwick, one of Andy Warhol’s model/actress types that was the toast of New York in the mid-sixties. You could even say she was the brightest star of the bunch. Sedgwick was a trust-fund socialite that was drawn to the Factory’s art scene and became a star in her own right, until drugs became her undoing. Sienna Miller, tabloid diva, fashion whore, and all around pretty lady, plays Sedgwick with a tremendous depth and emotion that was a very pleasant surprise. Perhaps it’s her own ties to the modern day cult of celebrity that allowed her to connect with the role of a sixties tabloid diva, fashion whore and all around pretty lady, but she really knocks it out of the park in this movie.

Sedgwick starts off as an idealistic college student, ready for her big trip to New York City to make a name for herself with her art. She goes with her friend Chuck, played by motherfucking Jimmy Fallon, who I think is a no-talent ass clown and even thinking about his face makes me cuss in my head. And it’s a good thing Fallon is a real assbag in this movie, so I don’t have to pretend to like him.

After being in the city for a little while, Sedgwick and Fallon get to meet the man himself, Andy Warhol, played by Guy Pearce. Warhol is instantly taken with Sedgwick, and the rest, as they say, is history, or at least a gaudy version of it. He puts her in his movie/art projects and together they become the toast of New York, the king and queen of the pop art scene. During this time Sedgwick gets involved with drugs and her trust fund starts dwindling thanks to her extravagant spending and bankrolling of Warhol’s projects. You get the sense that Warhol wasn’t exactly the most swell cat while watching this movie. He seems manipulative and greedy and willing to do anything and use anyone to maintain his fame.

In the midst of this, an old friend introduces her to Not Bob Dylan. I say it’s “Not Bob Dylan” because they never refer to him as Bob Dylan, even though he’s supposed to be Bob Dylan. How do I know this? Well, aside from history, he’s wearing a harmonica around his neck when they meet. He goes on stage and you can tell he’s kind of a big deal. These are the only clues, because Hayden Christensen plays him, and that guy sucks rocks at acting. Apparently he never heard of Bob Dylan or did any studying of his speech or anything, because he sounds nothing like him and acts nothing like what we’ve seen in Dylan footage of that era. He’s pretty much Anakin Skywalker with funny hair and a harmonica around his neck.

The film portrays this relationship in a fairly ambiguous light, which is good for Christensen since he can only act one way, arrogant, but is a turning point in the drama. As their relationship intensifies, Warhol grows more and more jealous. His affection for Sedgwick at first seems very genuine, which is weird since that guy was mega-gay. Anywho, Warhol drops the bomb on her that Not Bob Dylan secretly got married and that’s when the shit hits the proverbial fan. Warhol, having used her for all he needed, delights in crushing her and quickly moves on to the next flavor of the month. More or less ostracized from the Factory, her trust fund tapped out, Sedgwick’s drug abuse increases and she wastes away into depravity and desperation.

The film closes with her in a clinic, presumably the Cottage Hospital where she rehabbed, and seeming to turn the page on a new and positive chapter of her life. This clinic setting is interspersed through the film, and gives you a ray of hope that everything’s going to turn out okay for Ms. Sedgwick. Then the on-screen narration says she died at the age of twenty-eight. Bummer.
 

Edie Sedgwick is a fascinating character, and would more than likely be more ubiquitous than Paris Hilton if she existed in our times. A rich girl that binds herself to a famous artist, gets fucked up all the time, dicks around with the biggest pop star of the time. Can you imagine? Sienna Miller plays the role with a depth of emotion that is wholly unexpected from someone who is known more for what she’s wearing than who she’s playing. And they’re virtually spitting images of each other. Whoever did the styling and the make-up deserves an Oscar. Sienna Miller is Edie Sedgwick in this movie.

Which one’s which? That’s Sienna on the bottom. How about them apples?

The story of Edie Sedgwick serves as a tremendous cautionary tale of the price some are willing to pay for celebrity, and what ultimate costs some pay, but something with this movie rings hollow. Perhaps it’s because everyone else’s acting in it is cruddy and unsympathetic.  The film looks cool and all, and you can sympathize with Sedgwick, but the whole of the movie feels labored. I checked the run time on it a few times throughout watching it, which is not a good sign. If you’re into the era, particularly the Warhol scene, then I’d say you should watch it, but anyone else would do well to stay away from this one.

Even a nude Sienna Miller in a few steamy scenes can’t really salvage this movie into something I’d recommend. I guess this is how it feels to be a grown-up.

Perhaps it’s my upbringing with Mystery Science Theater 3000, but I have an unhealthy obsession with bad movies. Those robots and that guy taught me that even in the worst of movies there is entertainment to be had. Since then I’ve built up a small collection of Japanese monster movies and campy American classics. My wife doesn’t understand it, and I could never put it into words. I don’t just like bad movies. It needs to be a special kind of bad. The kind of bad when you know someone put their heart and soul into making the movie, be it the actors, director, screenwriter, whomever, and woefully missed their mark. A tired movie that recycles lame jokes and has actors sleepwalking and mugging their way through a performance, something like The Love Guru,or Meet the Spartans, for example, both of which I refuse to watch, doesn’t get any love. But something like Point Break, featuring the wooden Keanu Reeves and god among men Patrick Swayze attempting to share in some bro-love on the other side of the law? That’s something over which I could wax rhapsodic. I think it’s the earnestness involved. If you’re half-assing it I can’t love it. But if you’re really trying your best I can love it and appreciate what you were trying to do, all the while laughing at your misfortune on the way.

At the AV Club, writer Nathan Rabin spent a year (and decided to extend it) revisiting movies that crashed and burned in a series entitled My Year of Flops. Finally, here’s a person that got where I was coming from. He gives movies that were critical and commercial failures another look through eyes that aren’t tainted by overwhelming critical disapproval and attempts to reevaluate them on their own merits. Often times the movies are still shit (Failures), but there are also gems that may have missed a note or two (Secret Successes). But the best of them all are the Fiascos, the movies that reach, reach, REACH for the stars, but fall flat on their face in one or many facets. This is a tale of one of those movies.

Right when I was really getting into this series of articles, Rabin reviewed The Apple. The description blew me away. In fact, it blew me away so much that I really don’t feel like I can do the movie justice on my own, so here’s a link to his article. If you choose to bear with me, I’ll provide my insights and reactions to the movie, but this guy is a fucking Apple scholar.

The plot is pretty simple. In the future, the future? of 1994 (this was released in 1980 after all), two pure of heart Canadian singers (Alphie and Bibi) enter the Worldvision Song Contest. I’m not really sure what the prize is, maybe “best band in the world.” I don’t know. Unfortunately for Alphie and Bibi they followed contest ringers The BIM Band, led by brother and sister Dandi and Pandi (a white dude and a black chick, so racially their parents must be pretty cool). The BIM Band, who I would go see on a moment’s notice for all the money I have in my wallet at any time ever, is the rockingest fucking band I’ve ever seen in my life. They have a guy who plays the split keytar and everything. Suck on that, Alphie and Bibi. Evil music magnate Mr. Boogalow, played by some guy that looks like a fey(er) Philip Zimbardo, rigs the contest so that the BIM Band wins. Pretty good for him, since he’s the B in BIM, Boogalow International Music. But the evil Mr. Boogalow sees something in these kids, maybe it’s just their innocence, or the fact that even though their song is gayer than eight dudes blowing nine dudes the crowd still loves them, but he tries to woo them into the BIM fold by tempting them with Dandi and Pandi. Alphie says no thanks, but Bibi says “aw word” to the low rent offspring of Roger Daltrey and Davy Jones that is Dandi, leaving Alphie off on his lonesome while she engages in (simulated) sex, drugs and (awful, show-tuney) rock-n-roll. Thus concludes act one.

By this point in watching the movie, you’re going to think a few things. The first one is “holy fuck.” Yeah, that’ll probably hit you around the three-minute mark. Then you’ll think “for fuck’s sake, this is a lot of singing.” Strap yourself in, buddy, because this is a gaudy-ass musical complete with the lamest songs with the worst lyrics you’ve ever heard. Take this gem, for example: “It’s a natural, natural, natural desire/to see an actual, actual, actual vampire!” Is it really? As with all approximations of the future, it’s easy to see them as comically naïve. Is everyone really going to dye their hair to look gray with red splotches and streaks? Are their cars going to be just as stupid looking as 1970’s cars, but with big wings and funny adornments? Okay, yes. In the future that really happens sometimes. Are people really going to listen to music like this? Hear you this! I have seen the future that is 1994 and the answer is no. In many ways it’s much worse, but not until Limp Bizkit becomes popular in 1996 or so.

Act 2 sees our star-crossed lovers in two different stations in life. Bibi is the latest hitmaker in Mr. Boogalow’s BIM stable. How a folkie waif turned from Linda Rondstadt light to Tina Turner’s character from Beyond Thunderdome’s extroverted white cousin can probably be blamed on the drugs and Dandi’s dong, but sure enough there she is, singing about America’s addiction to speed, presaging the rise of NASCAR from backwater hillbilly timewaster to front-page hillbilly timewaster. Or was that in reference to drugs? Shit, I still don’t know. But this movie made me wish I had drugs, or at least made me feel like I had taken drugs.

Alphie, on the other hand, is struggling in his little room trying to make good music in the face of crass commercialism and pining for Bibi. He lives in the house of the woman that plays Professor Sprout from Harry Potter, the chick that kind of looks like one of the monsters from The Muppet Show. He even grabs her tits, too. Yikes. He gets rejected by the powers that be at BIM, and seeks out Bibi. He searches for her at a party at Mr. Boogalow’s, gets drugged by Pandi, and everything turns into a hot tranny mess. Literally, there are trannies everywhere, everyone looks like a mess, and I bet it’s hot with all of those people crammed in there. Pandi seduces him, leading to a really awkward and stomach churningly weird musical scene with numerous simulated sex acts with dudes packing major pipe in banana hammocks. I may have blacked out at this point. Obviously freaked out by this freak out, Alphie runs away and joins a hippie commune.

Are you still with me? Are you feeling confused? Nauseous? Do you think my writing is disjointed? Now you know how I felt watching this movie. It was the longest ninety minutes of my life.

The movie concludes it’s third act with Bibi rejoining Alphie at the hippie commune. They magically have a baby that looks about two and a half with a full head of hair in what appears to be no time at all. Boogalow brings the goon squad to reclaim Bibi, but the hippie chief turns into God, comes into town in his holographic gold Rolls Royce, and saves the day by leading his hippies, and our beloved Alphie and Bibi along with their miracle baby, to walk off into holographic heaven. I guess it’s hard to find where you park a holographic car.

Seriously, I couldn’t make any of this up if I tried. All of this shit happened in a single, ninety minute movie. I made hardly any jokes or exaggerations at all. Without a hint of hyperbole, The Apple is the most over the top movie I’ve ever seen. It is too much everything. Too much singing, too much dancing, too much glitter, too much bad acting, too much future, too much trannies… And it’s not like it was some independent filmmakers lark, either. This movie is an actual MGM studio release! Studio execs greenlit this shit! They must’ve spent a FORTUNE in all of the dancing extras. Do you think dancing nuns dance for free? DO YOU??!??

Now, strip away all the glittery, Vegas revue show tranniness of the whole thing, and what’s left? A timeless story of the pure being tempted by evil, and seeing that it will ultimately leave you empty and unfulfilled, an allegory on the evils of conformity and the homogenization of culture, a cautionary tale against excess. Yes, The Apple is all of these things. But by showing us these things wrapped in a glittering, shimmering wrapper you may not leave the movie with those lessons learned. You’re probably going to be like me, and think “where can I get one of those fucking keytars?” And you may recognize the irony of a movie that seems to champion the simple life being the most excessive piece of cinematic trash that you’ve ever seen. But what it does have in spades is the aforementioned earnestness. Someone really felt the themes they were trying to convey in The Apple. The director, who ironically also directed the classic Stallone arm-wrestling movie Over the Top, was truly uncompromising in his vision. What can I say about the originators of this story? The phone number for the Betty Ford Center is 1-800-434-7365. Call them up and get some help to kick the habit. I cannot begin to fathom the amount of drugs these people ingested thinking up this movie. Be it a function of budget or fried brains, The Apple is chock full of some of the weirdest imagery I’ve seen in a movie. And God bless them for it.

All this being said, The Apple could be the ultimate bad movie. I can’t imagine there will ever be a movie this fucked up and grandiose released by a major studio ever again. The folks at The Apple really shot their wad with this one, and blew it for everyone else in the process. This is why you won’t see Crispin Glover’s movies about retards having sex in a Regal Cinema, so we have these folks to thank for that, too. Do I recommend this movie? I guess not for everyone. But if you read this and thought “now I have got to see what the fuck that is all about,” I think you’re exactly right. You do have to see what the fuck that’s about. Because no amount of prior reading is going to get you ready to watch this shit.

But a couple of tabs of acid, an eight ball, and a bottle of champagne just might.

I think I had an eventful stuff watching weekend, but nothing warranting a whole review. Looks like you’re getting a post dump. I’ll light a match on my way out.

The Happening

Yeah, I had enough to drink on Friday to agree to watch The Happening, M. Night Shamalamadingdong’s latest movie. Boy, I was so ready to muster up two-four pages of outright ass-rippery on this one, but it was so bad I didn’t even feel like it. Seriously. Let’s just run down the laundry list: dumb acting, dumb lines, way dumb premise. SPOILER ALERT: The fucking plants are killing everyone because we’re assholes. Yes, that’s right. The plants are killing us by releasing some poison in the atmosphere. There is absolutely no tension. Shit happens, people kind of react to it (as much as a plank of wood would react to something that wasn’t fire), the next thing happens, repeat. There’s no point where your protagonist, who isn’t really all that sympathetic because he’s a dipshit, seems like he’s in real danger, and if he were you’d probably be glad. Don’t go see this movie. Don’t even waste your money on renting the dvd. I’m not kidding. You guys know I love bad movies, but this isn’t just bad. It’s awful. But it does feature the funniest “What the fuck?” line from a movie I’ve seen in forever, the crusty old lady that yells “Why you eyein’ my lemon drink?”

The Onion Movie

This is a dvd-only release from the people at The Onion, pretty much one of the greatest things ever. My expectations were low, so I was pleasantly surprised to see what is basically a Kentucky Fried Movie for the 21st century. Add it to your queue and see Steven Seagal as COCKPUNCHER

Tiger Motherfucking Woods

Allow me to get a little sporty on you and say Tiger-Tiger-Tiger Woods, ya’ll. He kept me glued to the screen for two straight days mixing human vulnerability and superhuman skills. I’ve always been a Tiger fan, but this weekend just added to the legend. Check this out to see what I’m talking about. The quality isn’t great, but you’ll get the point. Hail to the king, baby.

The Savages

I guess this was a good movie and all. I imagine if I were twenty years older it would probably be better. The acting was good. I don’t know, it’s got Philip Seymour Hoffman in it, if that’s something you might be interested in. Oh, and Chris Partlow from The Wire. And an old guy smearing poop on a wall. That’s about all I have to say about that.

So that’s about it, I suppose. The new Rambo came in on the Netflix today, so I’ll definitely write that up since it’s what inspired me to start reviewing movies again. Fucking awesome.

Franchises are an interesting concept. An original gets created that’s so good (to someone, I suppose. I mean, Applebee’s is a franchise and that place sucks rocks) that the idea just has to be shared. The originator sells franchise licenses to make carbon copies of the original to repeat the success and charm of the original restaurant in perpetuity. Sounds like a nice idea, right? Anywhere you go you can get a delicious cheeseburger just like the McDonald’s down the street. Or you can get that same Bloomin’ Onion that you and your family just love to split at any Outback with fairly minimal variation from place to place. What normally ends up happening is, through mass production, the product and idea get watered down to the point that you’re left with something bland and far less palatable than the original. But the problem is that, as a breed, human beings like the familiar. On the whole, person X would rather nosh on some riblets at Applebees than try the divey looking barbecue shack that looks like it would never pass health code, even though it entices you with the smell of hickory smoke and pork as you drive by. That’s just how some people are wired.

There are also franchises in movies. As soon as your movie hits $100 million in box office expect a call from the suits telling you it’s sequel time. The big studios love movie franchises. When they find one you can just imagine them pitching little tents in their Armani suits. Why? Because they don’t have to seek out a new, original script, for one. They just put a 2 next to that Spider Man on their release schedule for two summers from now and wait for it to be done. And the public normally follows suit predictably by coming out in droves. You can’t fault the studio execs. They’re just looking out for their bottom lines, artistic quality be damned. If they know they can trot out some dead horse and make scads of money, why not?

That’s not to say that I’m above franchises. Famous Dave’s, Chick-Fil-A, Buffalo Wild Wings… all good franchises. Movie wise, the original Star Wars is a quintessential franchise, and you can’t f with that. But there’s an inherent distrust of franchises: that we’re getting mass-produced junk instead of something made with love.

Then, of course, there’s Indiana Jones, another franchise brought to you by George Lucas. Indiana Jones has always held a special place in my heart. There are action movies all over the place. A glut of them, really. But Raiders of the Lost Ark was an adventure movie. Adventure movies take you places you’ve never seen in search for things you couldn’t imagine. It allows you to remove yourself from what you know, and accept the fact that an archaeologist can be an asskicker, too. Indy didn’t need guns blazing and things exploding, though a few of each here and there didn’t hurt. He used his head to solve ancient riddles to keep from getting his head cut off, and always managed to escape, no matter how implausibly.

That being said, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull really pushes the bounds of the implausible. Don’t get me wrong. I liked the movie, I really did. I was entertained the whole time. But maybe I just didn’t get how ridiculous some of the things were in the original movies, because there was some stuff that made me laugh out loud at how ridiculous they were. No, I won’t give you examples. I want you to see it for yourself, because one of the things was spoiled for me and I think it deadened how ridiculous it was, and it still was pretty ridiculous to me.

Kingdom of the Crystal Skull centers on Indy’s quest for the crystal skull, which is not just a carved crystal skull, it’s an actual skull from an alien. It is said to unlock El Dorado, the mythical city of gold. Urging him along on this quest is the Soviet government, most notably Colonel Dr. Irina Spalko, played to the archetypal hilt by Cate Blanchett. The Colonel Doctor (which I thought was a joke at first, but she’s really a colonel doctor) wants to use the crystal skull to get to El Dorado as well, where it will give her the ultimate mind control device to take over the world. Well of course it will.

Along the way Indy gets put on extended leave of absence from his teaching job and runs into a young greaser tough named Mutt Williams, played by Shia LeBouf. Yeah, I said that right. A greaser tough. You really need to check your disbelief at the door on this one. Turns out Mutt’s mom was kidnapped and held hostage because of her relationship to Professor Oxley, another archaeologist played by John Hurt, who looks like a fucking mummy. Seriously, if he fell down he’d turn to dust. It’s scary. She told Mutt that she needs Indy’s help.

Then we launch into the classic map cut-scene where we see the flight path to their destination, complete with a million stops in between. They end up in the Amazon and start their quest. They find the crystal skull, and are found by the Russians. When they get to camp both Professor Oxley and Mutt’s mom are there. Oh yeah, Mutt’s mom is the kind of homely chick Marion from Raiders of the Lost Ark who was a total bitch yet Indy and that other guy were totally infatuated with her (played by Karen Allen). I don’t get it either. He could plow throw all of his anthropology students, but he’s hung up on this bitchy woman. I have to say that I love her performance, though. I mean, not love love, because it’s not very good or anything, but you can tell she’s so happy to be there. I can’t remember the last time I saw her in something, and there’s probably a good reason for that.

I’m not going to spoil the rest for you, but you probably already know what happens. Indy succeeds and everyone’s happy in the end. Yay!

Look, I could find a number of reasons to blast this movie out of the water. There is definitely more than a fair share of summer blockbuster cheese: prairie dog reaction shots (aw…), groin shots, the ending… If I were more cynical I would, but maybe I’m mellowing in my old age. There were a couple of things that made me groan, but I couldn’t help but be entertained. If I were looking for realism and grit I wouldn’t go to an Indiana Jones movie. These were made as homage to the original cheesy adventure movies that Lucas and Spielberg grew up with. It’s bound to have some things that make you think “no fucking way.” If you’re expecting more you’re just fooling yourself. This movie is genuinely entertaining from beginning to end. Harrison Ford still does a great job. He moves well even though he probably has perpetual pelvic bruises from banging that skeleton Calista Flockhart. I think there are a lot of worse ways you can spend your movie dollars than Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Like anything made by those assholes that made Meet the Spartans.

And at the very least, you’ll think twice before you throw away your old refrigerators. You’ve been warned…

When the wife told the mother-in-law that we were going to a book reading, the mother-in-law scoffed, “going to hear your favorite author read a book? Isn’t that a yuppie thing to do?” In some circles it may be, but then again most book readings don’t give you a bookmark with anal beads on it as a freebie handout. Welcome to Chuck Palahniuk’s book tour celebrating the release of his latest novel Snuff.

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For the uninitiated, Chuck Palahniuk is the author of Fight Club, brought to you in motion picture form starring dreamboat Brad Pitt. He’s also written eight other novels, each one dripping with wit, tangential factoids, and bodily fluids of various types. Love him or hate him, Palahniuk’s work is provocative and entertaining. And for those that really love him, he goes on tour to get face to face with his fanbase, offering various goodies in appreciation of you getting off your keister and coming to visit.

This was my second book tour stop. The first was for his horror novel/short story compendium Haunted. That stop was characterized by flying plastic body parts (“They make a great dog toy,” he deadpanned) and barbecue scented air fresheners, which added just enough olfactory ambience to make me nauseous while he read the story “Hot Potting.” Chuck was very affable, personally signing whatever you happened to bring for him to sign and chatting with everyone for a bit. He’s an author that really enjoys connecting with his fanbase and making an effort to make his visits special.

When I saw that he was coming around to promote Snuff I jumped on the opportunity to spend a couple more minutes with the author who really got me into reading again. The event was held at the Avalon Theatre in northwest Washington, DC, and arranged by Olsson’s Books & Records, a local bookstore chain of sorts. Admission was thirty dollars, but this included an autographed copy of Snuff, which after tax and the cost of the book made the book tour stop cost about four bucks and change. This trip was uncharacteristic in that it was stated he did not have time to personalize anything before or after the event. From the hurried tone of the evening it seemed as though he had another engagement, probably a plane, to catch. No matter, as I’m not the type to bring stacks of books and tell him how I named my dog after him and what not. It was a nice perk of the last one to get to shake his hand and offer a couple words and get a few in return last time, but no big deal.

Most of us were soaked by the rain by the time we got into the theater, though another couple was nice enough to offer us the protection of their giant umbrella. We had to wait for motherfucking Sex in the City to let out so we could get into the theatre, and a big old rainstorm came through while we were lined up down the block. Yet another reason to hate that garbage. As we filed in we were handed our copies of Snuff and the aforementioned bookmark with the anal beads that came with the warning “This is for your book, not your bum” in fine print by the pull ring for the beads. I wish I would’ve seen that two minutes sooner…

Outside of the lack of personalization and face time with Chuck, the evening went pretty much as the last one did. The emcee and interviewer, a local author who liked to cuss a lot, introduced Chuck and down the side aisle he came in all of his understatedness with I am assuming his publicist in tow. It’s funny that a guy that appears so slight and so normal is responsible for some rather subversive prose. He opened with a sweet story about his friends and their fourteen year-old diabetic cat, which he claims he used as a sound check device, then he got into the meat of the evening.

A trademark of an evening with Chuck Palahniuk is giveaways, and this night’s giveaways were blow-up dolls to go along with the sex theme of Snuff. Once he handed out a few he ran a contest to see who could blow theirs up the fastest. Here’s a picture of the lucky winner a couple seats down. The winners received a copy of some other book that I can’t remember but he said it was his favorite short story collection of the year. At the end of the night they handed out autograph hounds, which apparently was a big deal to people before electricity who would get them and have their friends sign them as mementos, that he had spent the past winter signing for the book tour. An autograph hound is also an object from Snuff, so it’s topical. I happened to snag one of those in the free for all.

After the initial giveaways he did a reading. Instead of an excerpt from Snuff, he read a new story that he wrote especially for his book tour. It was fucking hilarious. “Loser,” based on a real life friend, was about a girl who’s sorority happened to go to a taping of The Price Is Right. On acid. The girl gets called and eventually navigates her way to the showcase showdown where she guesses the pile of steaks that fit in a barbecue that fit on a speedboat that fits on a trailer that goes with an SUV cost “a million trillion dollars.” The story was written in the voice of a vapid sorority girl who was pretty out of touch with things like the cost of a loaf of bread ($8?) and anything else not pertaining to her sphere of experience. I don’t want to give any more of it away, so hopefully at some point the story will be transcribed online or included somewhere else.

The next portion of the evening was the interview. At the Haunted tour stop he more or less spoke for himself prior to the Q&A section. I’m sure it’s a bit tough to come up with a presentation to repeat over and over again, so having an interviewer probably allowed him to relax more. However, from the sound of things, the interviewer hit on a lot of things that he gets asked frequently. The answers were insightful and well thought out, though. He talked a bit about the success of Fight Club and it’s absorption into the popular culture fabric and his input into the movie adaptations of his works.

The truly insightful part was when the fans did a Q&A, as the interviewer admittedly had not read all of his books, which I thought was kind of weird. How are you supposed to ask someone good questions if you don’t know their stuff? Despite their reputation, hardcore Chuck “cult members” either weren’t there in droves or aren’t as hardcore (“Crazy motherfuckers,” the emcee put it) as they’re believed to be. The fans stepped it up, though he kind of was elusive in answers about his writing process. He didn’t divulge how much porno he watched while researching Snuff, though he did say a lot of the inspiration was from a fan he had met at a book tour stop that did some porno of her own.

I think the crux of the evening, and of Palahniuk’s body of work, is when a person asked how he’s able to make characters that do such vile and awful things into sympathetic characters. He replied that, and I’m paraphrasing here, that we as people learn at a young age that we can get people to like us by using certain attributes, be it our looks, sense of humor, intelligence, or what have you. And there comes a point in a person’s life when they realize that this thing has taken them as far as they can go, so they come up with a coping mechanism or scenario that allows them to avoid dealing with the world on a regular level, because people wouldn’t like them if they knew how fucked up they were under the thin layer of humor/smarts/looks that they show the world on a daily basis. His characters are lonely people looking for ways to connect with people without really connecting with them, be it beating the shit out of each other in an underground fight club, making yourself choke so that other people will save you and feel connected with you, or by fucking six hundred guys at the same time. Connections are being made, but they are inauthentic, and the person ends up lonelier than before.

Chuck also told a couple of his “true story” stories: the Pug Dog story and the Sea-Tac story. Both of which are gross, humorous, and true, the former told to him in a letter from a fan and the latter from a friend. Ask me to tell you them some time, but the Sea-Tac story almost made the wife throw up. Totally awesome.

In between the interview and the Q&A, Chuck brought along an added bonus, the trailer for Choke. The film is set to be released in September and looks really funny, though it appears that Hollywood has added a love story dynamic that I don’t really remember from the book, though it has been a few years since I’ve read it.

All in all, if the Chuck show comes to your town I highly recommend you going to see him. He’s an engaging guy that definitely knows how to show an audience a good time. If you’re expecting a gray haired academic in tweed peering at his own dusty book over his reading glasses you’ll be very disappointed, but if you’re looking to hear an author that’s passionate about his work, his fans, and his characters, you’d be hard pressed to find something better than Chuck Palahniuk book tour event. It’s equal parts lecture, story time, and tent revival, and 100% fun.

And if you’re lucky, you’ll go home with your own set of anal beads. As if you didn’t have them already. Sinners.

 Have you ever tried eating popcorn with a numb hand? Of course I made the inevitable jokes prior to watching The Strangers, how you’d have to sit on your left hand until it became numb and feed yourself popcorn so it felt like someone else was doing it, but this movie startled my wife so frequently in the first half hour that I really couldn’t feel my left hand due to her GI Joe kung fu grip. And don’t just write that off as her being a fraidy cat, either. The Strangers is fucking scary.

I have to admit; the movie poster and trailer didn’t do too much to sway me to watch this movie. Oh boy, I thought, another stupid horror movie. That guy has a bag on his head… Oooh, scary. And Liv Tyler. That would’ve been awesome. Ten years ago. Okay, that’s a bit extreme. She’s still pretty hot.

I’ve tried to see what the kids see in these new horror movies, really I have, but there just hasn’t been much there for me. At least in the eighties, when horror movies were really bad there was gratuitous nudity to distract you. Not so with the latest crop of Japanese remakes or eighties slasher rehashers, which substitute the original movies’ grittiness or camp for pretty faces to market and cheap scares. So you’ll understand why I wasn’t too jazzed for another horror movie with another pretty face.

My prejudgment couldn’t have been more wrong. The Strangers scared the shit out of me. Like looking out the windows and double-checking that all the doors are locked before I went to bed scared the shit out of me. It didn’t give me bad dreams, and I was back to my devil-may-care single checking that doors are locked the next night, but it scared me like few horror movies ever have, and probably ever will.

The funny thing is the opening shots of the movie pretty much show you the ending. Some people may be put off by this apparent spoiler in the beginning, but it adds an even greater dread throughout the film. You know what’s coming, and there’s nothing you can do about it but see how it plays out, every agonizing moment of it. The film is deliberately paced and almost excruciating in the cat and mouse game played between our protagonists and their tormentors.

The Strangers starts with couple James and Kristen, played by Scott Speedman and Liv Tyler, on their way out to the country on an awkwardly silent drive. James’ plans for a nice romantic night after a friend’s wedding have been dashed by his own failed marriage proposal to Kristen. This provides its own level of tension as James and Kristen have to make the best of their situation while isolated, forcing them to confront the three-hundred pound gorilla in the room. All of the sudden their insular bubble of awkwardness is shattered by a knock on the door. A girl whose face is cloaked in shadow asks for someone who isn’t there, and as quickly as she comes she leaves. Kind of an odd visit for four in the morning, no?

James leaves to get Kristen a pack of cigarettes and we see her alone in the living room when a man in a crude mask made out of a sack appears from out of the shadows, giving the viewers their first jolt. And just as quickly he retreats back into the shadows. Thus starts the game, innocently enough at first: the smoke detector that Kristen knocks to the floor ends up neatly on a chair. Then things get progressively more sinister.

I’ll leave the shocks and scares for the cinema, but first time filmmaker Brian Bertino really hits it out of the park on his debut. Cheap scares are foregone (for the most part) for the slow, deliberate building and sudden releasing of tension. Filmed more or less from the perspective of the young couple, the movie puts the audience in the same boat as them. We’re living through every minute at the same time they are, so the shocks are more genuine. It’s one of those movies where you feel uneasy and shift and squirm in your seat while the characters are being chased or trapped or stalked.

The Strangers is one of the most satisfying movies I’ve seen all year. Even with slightly heightened expectations from a positive review I read, the movie exceeded any preconceived notions I may have had. Bertino set the bar rather high for himself, perhaps carrying the torch in the twenty-first century for the return of the Hitchcockian thriller, leading those of us looking for a horror movie that you don’t have to be fourteen to enjoy through the forest of CGI laden shit. Or maybe this blind pig found a truffle. Either way, The Strangers was thoroughly enjoyable, as enjoyable as something like this can be, and I look forward to more movies like it.

Lately I’ve been talking a lot about movies. I’ve been making a concerted effort to head to the theater for anything that looks interesting or even remotely watchable. And so far it’s been pretty rewarding. I enjoy watching movies, and apparently I love to talk shit about them even more. Today’s movie review is going to look at not just the movie I saw, Death Note, but also the circumstances around the watching of this movie, and the strange cult of dorks that pop big boners over anything Japanese.

For those of you who don’t know, I live in a town called Hagerstown, Maryland. Hagerstown is characterized by its overall dearth of anything worthwhile, cultural or otherwise. Every time I go out and deal with the public here I feel like a refugee in a zombie movie. The natives here frighten me. For every good one there are ten bad ones with poor hygiene, big trucks, and a general disdain of anything not country. The town is consumed by racism, homophobia, xenophobia, and anything good-ophobia. This also includes the movie theater. Apparently there are two, but the one never has movie listings on Moviefone, so as far as I’m concerned there’s only one. It’s a big ass multiplex not unlike one you would find at any mall or shopping center in any suburban town. Sixteen screens of whatever Hollywood has to offer. No surprises, just the big studio stuff. I’ve come to accept this. There’s nothing I can do about it, and it’s not too bad. I have Netflix if I want to watch something a bit more challenging. Or I can make my way to Baltimore or DC if there’s something really independent that’s out that I want to see.

Regal Cinemas, the movie theater conglomerate that owns my particular multiplex, offers a number of “special features” from time to time that are limited runs of anything from old movies to operas. Prior to Baby Mama they showed two such previews, one for First Blood, which I’m really fucking bummed that I missed because I was watching THE BLACK KEYS, BITCH!, and Death Note, a Japanese film that I’d never heard of and promptly forgot about. When I checked the movie listings I saw that it was playing that night, and I said eff it, I want to go see it. Why? I didn’t know if this movie was going to be good or awful, but it was something different. If my movie bucks could encourage them to keep bringing back different fare from off the beaten path then it’s worth the investment. I talked wifey into it, so off we headed to the movies on a completely unknown movie adventure.

Something didn’t feel right in the parking lot. It was a Tuesday night and spots were really hard to come by. We got our tickets at the Fandango kiosk thingie ($10, a dollar more than usual) and partook of some food court dinner. The clientele around the mall was a bit different than normal. Lots of pale guys and girls. Some glasses. Guys in jorts. Multiple packs of three awkward looking people rolling together. Cutesie purses. Silly Crocs. The wife and I exchanged glances, we communicated with our eyes what we couldn’t say aloud, we were in the midst of serious dorkdom. She went to the theater to scope out seats and said “it sounds packed in there.”

I thought this was kind of odd. Considering my previous mention of the paucity of culture in Hagerstown I did not expect a theater full of Japanimaniacs. But sure enough as we strolled into the theater, there was hardly a seat to be found. The Nerd Tsunami washed up in Hagerstown for a two night only screening of a Japanese movie based on a Manga (which is Japanese for comic, as far as I know).

Before I talk about the movie, let me clarify some points. Anyone who knows me knows my love of Asian cuisine. They have probably watched an Asian movie with me at some point, and not just a karate movie. But I draw the line at anime, and the odd Japan obsession that seems to come along with a love for anime. I dabbled in the big eyed cartoon arts at one point, probably because it featured dirty cartoon fucking and I thought that was kind of cool. Not that tentacle raping hentai anime, just regular Japanese cartoon people fucking. But I quickly got out of it, probably when I realized that watching cartoon people fucking is kind of creepy. The whole thing just wasn’t my thing, and I let it at that.

Then I went to work with some anime zealots at the Nerd Factory (game testing and tech support company) while I was in college. I learned a lot about anime and Japanese culture from these Japanophiles, and I liked it even less. I loved how I could say “you know, those are just cartoons,” and get sweet and innocent looking girls to call me motherfucker as if I called their mothers whores. You know the best part about zealots, don’t you? Fucking with them.

In the years since I left there, and my subsequent job with the douchebag that rocked a fanny pack and brought his Magic the Gathering cards with him to work, I haven’t had regular contact with Japan addicts, and it allowed me to appreciate their culture a lot more. Who can’t get behind the people that invented such wonderful things as Nintendo, Playstation, katana swords, sushi, Wii, and Yan Yan snacks? I even dabbled a little bit in Japanese cinema, and found my forays to be quite rewarding, if not disturbing (I’m looking at you, Audition).  But as much as I may be into different things, I define my tastes, I don’t let my tastes define me. That’s why I never saw fit to rock a Hello Kitty lunchbox, dress up like the dudes in Dragonball Z, or wack it to Japanese porno. Okay, two out of three isn’t bad,

With all this in mind we made the leap into the theater. I expected a mostly empty auditorium with a few scattered nerds here and there. What I didn’t bargain for was falling into a grand Japan nerd happening. The movie was interrupted with cheers and hoots and even random yellings of things (such as the pack of girls that yelled “POCKY!” when they saw the delicious snack food on the shelf in a convenience store). No, Dorothy, we were not in Kansas anymore.

So now that I’ve let that out, let me get to the movie. Death Note is a movie based on a manga of the same name in which a law student named Light (played by some Japanese guy with funny hair that is apparently gay, according to a shouting audience member at one point of the movie) becomes disaffected with the state of the legal system that he reveres and is studying so hard to become a part of. After witnessing a particularly unrepentant gangster brag about how he wouldn’t ever be punished, Light storms out of a bar, tosses his law text and finds a peculiar notebook that says “Death Note” on it in the middle of the street. He snatches the book and takes it home to investigate it. Written in plain English (and thank God for that) are the instructions on how to use the book. Whoever’s name you write in the book while picturing their face (so that in my case some other poor schmuck named Matthew Lillard doesn’t get killed) will die within forty seconds of a heart attack. While watching the news and hearing about a particularly nasty criminal, Light decides to give the book a whirl and, lo and behold, it works, kicking off an unprecedented cleansing of criminality around the world. If the system cannot bring them to justice, Light will.

Not too long after he starts taking names, and therefore kicking ass, an apparition named Ryuk approaches him about the Death Note book. Ryuk is a spirit that determines who dies, kind of like a Japanese Grim Reaper, but with a cool name that I’m sure one of my audience mates would be glad to tell me after making me feel dumb for not knowing it (it’s a shinigami, I decided to do some “research”). The two form a strange partnership in which Light gives Ryuk apples in exchange for Ryuk looking creepy and occasionally giving him tips. Oh yeah, Ryuk is CGI, and fucking scary looking. Imagine if Pennywise the clown from Stephen King’s It fucked Jack Nicholson’s Joker from Batman and had a baby that could fly. Yeah, that’s about right. It’s a miracle I fell asleep last night. And you can’t see him unless you’ve touched the Death Note, which may play an important part at some point in the film. Just throwing it out there. 

As the criminal body count goes up crime goes down, but the cops are not happy. It seems as though they quickly figure out that all of these criminals dying of heart attacks is not some great coincidence. It must be the work of someone, who they dub Kira. They don’t know how they’re doing it, since these criminals are all over the world, but it must be someone. So they call in the greatest detective of all time, L, who we don’t see or hear other than a weird distorted voice and a big L on a laptop. Yeah, pretty weird.

The movie quickly turns into a battle of wits between Kira and L, who always seem to be one step ahead of each other. L analyzes the pattern of killings and determines that it must be a student, so Light figures out how to manipulate the book to determine when the victims will die to prearrange his killings ahead of time to break his own pattern.  Then he sees that he can do more than just kill people with heart attacks by being brilliant enough to read the instructions. When he figures out he’s being followed, he finds a way to not only find out who is following him, but everyone else working on the case and kills them all.

The task force finally hooks up with L in person, who’s a punk kid like Light that has a really weird affinity for junk food. Thanks to all of the FBI people on the Kira case being killed, he narrows it down to either someone on the Kira Task Force or one of their relatives, and that’s when Light comes under suspicion. See, Light’s dad is the head of the task force. And oh yeah, Light’s dad is the fucking Chairman from Iron Chef. No shit, the dude that chomps the big yellow pepper at the beginning of o.g. Iron Chef. I guess things have cooled off at Kitchen Stadium, so he’s found time to act. Good for him.

The cat and mouse game continues through the end up to the gripping cliffhanger ending, which apparently sets the stage for part two which has already been made (Death Note is a 2006 movie) and they may have even showed it afterwards, but it was too much nerdery for us, so we rolled out at the credits.

The movie poses a great moral question: who’s worse, the criminal, or the person that kills them? You could look at it as an indictment on the criminal justice system, the death penalty, or even on vigilante justice. But I ask you this, without vigilante justice, there would be no Death Wish, or Tango & Cash, or just about any other great movie ever made, so what’s the beef with vigilante justice? I’m sorry I even posited that question, vigilante justice. I love you.

Where was I? Yeah, the movie was pretty good. There were parts where everyone was laughing and the wife and I just looked at each other thinking “I don’t get it,” so it must have been explained in Manga Nerd issue 703, but the story is a good one. From reviews I’ve read they say the mannerisms of the characters are spot on with the manga, so I’ll take their word for that. The whole Kira vs. L thing was very interesting. I liken it to two supercomputers playing chess against each other, each one thinking infinite moves ahead of each action they take. I imagine everything unfurls rather neatly in the second half.

I definitely recommend this movie, but you probably want to rent it at home. Go down to the Asian market, get yourself some consommé flavored potato chips and some Pocky, and Jap yourself to pieces. I’ll be looking forward to part 2, wherever it may be. Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.

I drift my stolen taxicab around the corner and accelerate down Broadway. I can see the lights and scrolling marquees of Times Square approaching in a blur. At somewhere near top speed I form a third lane through traffic waiting for the light to change without hitting a car. A pedestrian that happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time gets bent by the force of 3000 pounds of American steel honed into a narrow blunt edge, backed by 200+ horsepower, then rolls up over the windshield behind me. The car hood pops up and all I can see is the bright golden yellow of the paint job with a big streak of blood. I don’t let up on the throttle. Car horns honk, people yell. I hit some things that I’m not sure what they are. Finally the hood flies away and I’m back off down the street, on my way to shoot some wiseguys off of a crane with a sniper rifle and lob grenades at union shop flunkies refusing to work, all for a couple bucks. And I’m thinking to myself “Fuck, I’ve missed playing Grand Theft Auto.”

Grand Theft Auto IV is the latest offering from Rockstar Games, and continues with the grand tradition of a massive world for you to live out your Id’s wildest fantasies, namely random murder and car theft, with a little erotic debauchery thrown in to boot. No, the game franchise has not grown much spiritually, but it has grown in many other ways.

Grand Theft Auto IV is a bit of a misnomer, since this is actually the sixth standalone game that falls under the Grand Theft Auto banner (I don’t count stuff like Vice City Stories, though maybe I should. But I’ve never played it and don’t know anyone who has, so that shit doesn’t count.). In this installment you play Niko Bellic, an eastern European immigrant who’s come to America to make a new life yourself through the encouragement of your cousin Roman. Little is known about Niko at the beginning, but as the game progresses his story unfolds and you find that the life he left behind in the Balkans is a lot like the life you’re leading him through in the States. He’s a gun for hire and seems to have no qualms killing your boss or your daughter’s girlfriend or whomever for some dough.

Fans of the Grand Theft Auto series will find that the controls are pretty much the same as they’ve been from the beginning, although it does feature optional usage of the PS3’s Sixaxis controls, which I’ve never used, so fuck it. You’ll also notice that the graphics are pretty much the same, at least from what I can tell on the PS3 version. There are some richer textures here and there, but it’s not a huge graphical leap forward. Then again, if you’re expecting that, you may want to get into another series of games. GTA gives you more of what you love about GTA: depth, crazy depth. Liberty City (that is, New York City, for all intents and purposes) is massive, full of sharp looking buildings and familiar landmarks (one particularly cool shot was in the previously mentioned sniper mission where the Statue of Liberty stands in the background as you’re holding your sniper rifle. Someone join me in a chorus of America, the Beautiful. No? Then fuck you anyway.). GTA IV lets you blast your way through all five boroughs with all of the familiar bodegas and businesses (there are even bootleg Duane Reade drugstores).

There are many new features that help improve gameplay a lot. My favorite new feature is the GPS system. Whenever you’re on a mission the vehicle’s GPS will automatically give you the best route to where you’re going. No more fumbling through neighborhoods to find that contact anymore, just follow the yellow line. You can even set your own waypoint on the GPS to find the quickest route to food (to refill your life meter), your girlfriend, or the strip club.

There is also a PDA type of feature managed by your cellphone. The phone manages your contacts and allows you to call them for jobs or to just hang out. Becoming better friends with people will unlock special functions such as free cab service from your cousin or delivered to you (sort of) guns and ammo service from your Rasta friend Little Jacob. This is also where you enter your cheat codes, though I’m trying to play it legit for as long as possible.

I can’t really say that I’ve found any negatives, yet. The game felt a little slow to me at first. I really only got into it once I started putting caps in the asses of punks around town. While I am an apologist for the lack of graphical innovation, I am a little disappointed that they aren’t at least a little better on a next generation console. I frequently have a hard time reading text messages and other things on my phone, though that could just as easily be because I have a bitch tv and not a sweet new plasma or something. I would also like to see more and varied save points, though I’m sure that will come with more time and the auto-save pretty much saves the game when you need to. It just sucks to have to drive for five minutes or so just to save the game to turn it off. Finally, I’m not as into this story as I was the San Andreas or Vice City stories. I think Rockstar has purposely doled out info on the Niko character slowly so you’re not totally sympathetic to his situation from the beginning, which is why I’m having a harder time connecting, I think. Thematically it’s a cool idea, and it prompts me to play more so I can find out more about this dude, so all in all it’s not such a bad thing. It does seem to have a more “big picture” feel to it, as opposed to San Andreas, where you started off with a good story, then branched off on a number of subplots which didn’t feel like they had anything to do with the whole purpose of the game (in particular, the fiery Latina girlfriend. She sucked.).

If you’re wondering whether you will like this game you should ask yourself “did I like the older Grand Theft Auto games?” If your answer is yes, then you should like this game. It builds on all of the prior games strengths and fixes some of the weaknesses. If your answer is no, it’s not going to win you over and make you a GTA believer. But I can say that the more I play it the more I want to play it, and I can’t wait to see what happens next and what new kinds of stuff I can get Niko into. GTA games provide a total gaming experience, from shooting to driving to Sims like relationship management. They’re the perfect kind of games for people who can’t decide what kind of games they want to play, and this one is the finest of the bunch as of yet.

And even if it loses it’s luster after another couple of weeks, I can always pop it in and go on a kill crazy rampage if I have a rough day at work. Beats paying for therapy.

The married man often has to make sacrifices. Some might say this is the principal difference between being single and being married. You have to shop for shit you don’t care about when you’d rather be doing anything else from time to time. Sometimes you can’t listen to totally great music because “that guy is screaming” and get treated to the mewling tones of the Dixie Chicks. And, most frequently, you get stuck watching a movie you know you’re not going to like all that much because she wants to see it. Sure, there’s a movie by a great writer and director out in the theater now but you can’t see it because it’s about mixed martial arts, but hey, here’s this movie about pregnant chicks!

I’ve been a rock over the years in our relationship. I refuse to watch chick flicks, or things that set my Utero-Sense into the warning zone reserved by movies that are definitely chick flick-ish. It’s worked out well thus far. I’ve dodged many chick flick bullets, and am a much happier man for it. But I got drug into this one, but not exactly kicking and screaming, because of Tina Fey.

Ah yes, Tina Fey. What red-blooded American male can’t get into some Tina Fey? She’s easily one of the sexiest females in show business. She’s not classically beautiful, but she’s very fetching. She rocks the glasses, which for most people I know brings out that whole “I want you to read to me… naked” vibe. And she’s devilishly funny, being responsible for Mean Girls, a surprisingly funny movie that gave us the last time Lindsay Lohan was genuinely hot, as well as creating 30 Rock, one of the most refreshingly funny and original shows on television today. I can’t say that I’m a Fey fan from way back. She was anchoring SNL’s Weekend Update during my “I’d rather rip bong hits and go out drinking” phase. And on the nights that I did opt to watch it, she was on the other side of the desk from Jimmy Fallon, a no-talent knobgoblin that would rather chuckle at himself than, you know, act. But the taste of Fey has been acquired, and is longing to be sated. Fortunately enough for any man suckered into going to see Baby Mama, Fey and her cleavage (yeah, she’s got cleavage!) provide enough to keep us pushing through what is pretty much a tired and predictable movie.

Fey plays driven career woman Kate Holbrook. Kate is in her late 30’s, married to her career, and has got baby fever. Attempts at artificial insemination (where did that ever go? Sperm banks are comedy gold!) fall fruitless, and her OB/GYN informs her that her uterus is T-shaped and there’s a million to one shot that the seed will ever be planted. See what’s happening there? This movie features prominent usage of the word uterus and visits to an OB/GYN. There’s even stirrups! Better bring some General Foods International Coffee!

Looking for an alternative, Kate turns to Chafee Bicknell, a facilitator for linking up barren would-be parents with uteri for hire. (The Chafee Bicknell subplot is kind of humorous, featuring an obviously older Sigourney Weaver that is pregnant and having kids. Ew.) The womb in waiting? White trash wildflower Angie Ostrowiski, played by Amy Poehler, who was coerced into subletting her baby box by her idiot white trash boyfriend.

When Angie and her boyfriend split, Kate asks her to move in with her to help her with the pregnancy. The unlikely pair find common ground and become buddies, before a terrible secret threatens to tear their relationship apart. Will this odd couple remain friends when all is said and done? You’re just going to have to watch to find out! Or think about it for a minute or two (give or take a minute or two) and you can probably figure it out.

The performances on the whole were pretty good. Fey was pretty swell. The cameos and lesser stars help make things interesting, first and foremost Steve Martin, who plays Kate’s eccentric hippie boss. The secret of his success? Have a big penis. As any of us successful men can tell you, this is the truth. There’s also the black guy from 40 Year Old Virgin as Kate’s door man, who plays the movie’s Jiminy Cricket with a little ghetto slang. Siobahn Fallon, who used to be the annoying red-haired chick on Saturday Night Live (any relation to Jimmy? Did I care enough to look it up? No!), is kind of lame as the birthing coach with a speech impediment. She does help provide a funny running joke about rubbing olive oil on the taint to prevent tearing which I found pretty funny, mainly because they used the word taint. That word just makes me laugh whenever I hear it or think about it. Taint. Tee hee.

All in all I’d say it wasn’t a bad movie. I sure didn’t hate it, but I definitely wouldn’t say that I loved it. I kind of knew this was going to be a chick flick going into it, and I was correct. That being said, the ladies will probably enjoy this movie a lot more than the guys. And, if you’re a Fey-Phile, you’ll probably enjoy watching this movie, too. Spoiler alert, Tina Fey has pretty sweet legs, too! The whole movie just seemed a bit broad (no pun intended) for the main person behind 30 Rock. There are many layers and subplots for you to get into, but they’re all rather predictable and/or stale. Career woman wants baby, career woman finds love, woman deals with crazy mother, two polar opposites find common ground and become BFF… It’s all been done before. Perhaps with a little more nuance and quirk (two things Fey has mastered in her body of work) this could’ve become a very good movie as opposed to merely an alright movie. But, then again, nuance and quirk don’t really make for box office boffo, and that Audi won’t pay for itself!

In summation, Tina Fey, her cleavage, and her legs. How much is it worth to you? Is it worth nine bucks and sitting through a chick flick? That’s for you to decide, but knowing what I know now I probably would have waited for it to come out on video. But I also would be firing up the Google Image Search for “fey, rack.”

The summer blockbuster season is finally upon us, and I could really care less. I can’t remember the last “summer blockbuster” that I went to the theater and enjoyed. While I did develop an odd love for Transformers, a big beautiful pile of stinking garbage, I didn’t watch it at the movies. I can’t even remember any other big deal movies that came out in summer. The first Spiderman was aight. I’m a big fan of Men In Black (Heyyyy, girlfriend!). But for the most part I just find your average run of the mill summer blockbuster a pointless exercise in how to entertain sheep.

That being said, I was fucking pumped to see Iron Man. As much as the superhero genre has burned us in the past, there has also been a smattering of good superhero movies (well, Batman Begins was bad ass, anyway). What would Hollywood do with Iron Man, a pretty cool, though not really first tier (Superman, Spider Man, Batman), superhero? Robert Downey, Jr., you say? Do go on. Mikey from Swingers directing? You had me at Downey…

The buzz for Iron Man reached deafening levels in the weeks up to the film’s release. At that point I had seen something like four different trailers and scads of screenshots. I had officially gotten myself excited to see a summer blockbuster superhero movie with a recovering addict as the superhero lead.

And Iron Man didn’t disappoint.

The movie starts off with a bang, but don’t expect your usual, non-stop butt-whippery of other superhero genre films. Iron Man actually gets into who Tony Stark is. Not only why he creates the suit, which you’ll see is genius born from necessity, but his obsession with the suit, and most importantly, why he stays in the suit. Stark isn’t just some bozo with dreams of saving the girl and being somebody. He’s already one of the richest men in the world with all the toys and snatch anyone could ask for. He’s not the same guy he was fifteen minutes before at any point of the movie, which is a mean feat for any Hollywood movie these days, but especially so for a superhero movie.

The action scenes are pretty spectacular from the beginning scene in the wilds of Afghanistan to the climactic final battle. A big plus is that there really aren’t any of those stupid “no effing way” parts like in most big ticket movies (keeping in mind that this is a superhero movie based on the premise that this guy has a metal suit that he can fly in powered by technology that doesn’t exist). Nothing like that retarded scene in Live Free or Die Hard where Bruce Willis shoots the car up the toll plaza curb into the helicopter. That was fucking horseshit. The suit looks amazing, too. Even though you know it’s CGI it still looks fairly real.

I think Robert Downey Jr. did a fantastic job as Tony Stark. His natural puckishness really lent itself to Stark’s brash smartass persona. I’m glad for Downey, he’s a great actor that’s really starting to get some good roles again (loved Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, too). Hopefully this will help keep him on screens for some time to come. Gwyneth Paltrow did a capable job as Stark’s assistant Pepper Potts (oh yeah, good comic book name). And El Duderino was very memorable in his turn as the bald a-hole partner Obadiah Stane. I’d probably be an asshole if my name was Obadiah Stane, too.

All in all, I’d say you could do a whole heck of a lot worse with your movie-going bucks than Iron Man. It really kept me entertained the whole time and passed the “I really need to go to the bathroom, but I don’t want to miss anything” test. Jon Favreau did a good job of making it visually appealing and gave us some good vroom vroom time with fast cars and really awesome looking weapon shots and explosions. My only real complaint is that they saved Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man” until the closing credits. Come on, wouldn’t it have been bad ass to have him do his thing to some “Iron Man”? On second thought, it probably would’ve been cliché. Never mind. But if you haven’t seen it yet, go see that shit. You’ll have a good time, laugh a few times, and maybe even cheer a little bit. It’s no Larry the Cable Guy – Health Inspector, but what is, really?