Remember Electric Dreams? The dude buys a “state-of-the-art” computer that ends up falling in love with Virginia Madsen? And the computer (Edgar) tries to fight him for her? All to the soothing tones of Giorgio Moroder?
Ha ha!
I did not watch the VMAs. However, I did “happen on by” at one point, in time to see: (1) Florence Welch sing flat for half of “Dog Days Are Over“; (2) Lady GaGa galumph onto the stage with the help of 14 men (all right, two); and (3) Taylor Swift lay her Benevolent Fingertips of Justice upon the diminished Kanye. Okay, she sang a song. A vague, clichéed, and barely applicable song . . . something about monsters and fireflies and lunchboxes. The bottom line was that St. Swift can still, somehow, see the good in the shattered Kanye that we wolverines have savagely ignored as we gnaw away at his limbs. And lest we doubt her tidings of Purity, Truth, and Light, she sang it barefoot.*
photo credit: torieewearsprada
(If she really wanted to send a message, she should have sung it in a hoodie.)
Oddly, the performance did not end with Taylor and Kanye tenderly making out on stage, so I abandoned the broadcast in favor of finishing season one of The Tudors. Damn that ridiculous, intoxicating show! I began it for no other reason than Jonathan Rhys Meyers (damn that ridiculous, intoxicating man, while we’re at it). Never did I imagine that the cast would contain another who made me forget all about JRM; Henry Cavill, my hat is off to you. As are whatever other articles of clothing you choose.
Season two arrives soon.
Then it was time to break the seal on the Stieg Larsson movies, as I have done with the books. I ordered up the Swedish Girl with the Dragon Tattoo on demand and settled in.
Huh.
First off, no disrespect to cinematographers Jens Fischer and Eric Kress, but the lighting in this film seemed . . . off, somehow. It made everyone’s skin look worse than it was (and oftentimes, it wasn’t so hot to begin with).
Second, one thought I had while reading the book was that, given how research-heavy the plot’s ”action” is, it was difficult to imagine a very lively visual adaptation. Unfortunately, it still is. Director Niels Arden Oplev did strip out most of the phlegmatic corporate and banking details that spent far too much time stagnating in the novel (God bless him). But even so.
Also stripped (pun intended): two of the three sexual liaisons that protagonist Mikael Blomqvist indulged in throughout the book. A good thing, too; actor Michael Nyqvist’s problematic, semi-bowl-cut hairstyle would have been particularly difficult to square with a steady stream of concubines. The only babe to survive the cut (pun also intended) is the titular Lisbeth Salander, who was probably able to overlook his hair because she’s so damaged and contrary.
I only recently learned that the book’s Swedish title is Men Who Hate Women (which, frankly, makes a lot more sense than seizing upon an only dimly relevant piece of ink). Mikael Blomqvist is clearly intended to be the respectful antidote to this toxic and abusive portion of the population. Still, it’s worth pointing out that feminist warrior Lisbeth is only initially drawn to want to nail Mikael because he does not demonstrate an eagerness to nail her. I am woman, hear me indulge my psychological reactance.
A friend and Facebook fan directed me to this take on the delicate interplay between Mikael Blomqvist and one Mr. Stieg Larsson. Amusing and full of good points. I am less irritated by the literature than the post’s author seems to be; I’ve read far worse books, but as I’ve indicated before, it’s the phenomenon that bugs the heck out of me. I’m not angry at Stieg, I’m angry at them. The world. The public. The global denizens so wholly starstruck by such a run-of-the-mill piece of fiction.
Inked-up antisocials aren’t so exotic, hand to God.
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* Favorite (though completely un-PC) blog comment, from Gawker-reader anchower: “Revenge is a dish best served retarded.”
It’s not for nothing that Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino are such super-special friends. Both live in a world of hyperstylization, aggravated assault, and vacuum-packed people ready to spurt blood like a ruptured water main at the slightest nick of the razor.
This month, from Mr. Rodriguez, we have Machete — the film (trilogy, really) that began as a faux trailer in the theatrical endurance test that was Grindhouse.
But audiences wanted more, and the squeaky wheel gets the bloodbath.
Side Note: I cannot pretend that I found Tarantino’s half of Grindhouse to be nearly up to Rodriguez’s proverbial snuff. Death Proof‘s dialogue was so painfully, smugly overwritten that I cannot describe it further without applying masturbation imagery. The soundtrack was the only saving grace. But Tarantino bought back his soul with Inglourious Basterds. We are on speaking terms once more.
Anyway. Truthfully, I was all geared up for even more violence and gore than this satire actually served up. I’m not whining, really; there was some lovely slaughter. Body parts hurled hither and thither, etc. I did find it occasionally challenging to make conceptual sense of a few cast members. Not Danny Trejo. He was perfectly stalwart, perfectly craggy. A face like bread pudding. (If it doesn’t creep you out to watch Jessica Alba make out with bread pudding, then . . . boy, you must be dead.)
But Michelle Rodriguez . . . arg, how not to see her as the miserable wretch Ana Lucia? How not to just want her to go away? That is my eternal struggle.
(I did not have this problem with Jeff Fahey! On the contrary, I very much enjoyed watching Frank Lapidus take everything out on everyone.)
The heck with Michelle. Let’s talk about Lindsay. This movie proves, for me, that her off-screen antics (that phrase should probably be capitalized, it’s used so much) have made it impossible to take her seriously. The proverbial coffin is sealed by the fact that you’re not even supposed to take her seriously in this movie — not at all, in fact. And I STILL managed to take her less seriously than was required! (I know — it’s like trying to divide by zero.) I recommend that LiLo go back to expanding her clothing line. Those were some good times.
P.S. Also saw Scott Pilgrim vs. the World. Great entertainment! Please, no sudden movements or loud noises — we’re starting to see the first tiny, timid flutterings of Michael Cera expanding his repertoire!
There are only two scenarios in life that routinely send me into a state of what can only be called rage.
The first is when I need to be somewhere and the subway is delayed “due to a disabled train.” This seems to happen to me more times per week than I actually take the subway. I’m still trying to sort out the physics involved.
The other is when &@!%*# people don’t shut the &@!%*# up in the movie theater.
Now, be assured, I internalize my reactions. (None of this from the Glutton.) But that creates its own set of ramifications, as the rage grinds my finger bones into kibble and eats at my eyeballs from inside my head. (It’s a happy day when I exit a theater sporting as much eyeball as I came in with.) Most troubling, I miss hearty chunks of the movie I paid to see because I am sitting there fantasizing about the most appalling calamities and humiliations befalling the offenders while I laugh and laugh and laugh.
It’s a little scary, struggling to metabolize this degree of wrath that has been spawned by my otherwise mild-mannered mind.
It was The Last Exorcism this time around. The gamble is, of course, all the greater when one sees a scary movie in the theater, because then you must deal with all of the jackasses who complete the following process, in full, every 10 to 15 minutes:
1) Scream.
2) Giggle with embarrassment because you screamed.
3) Turn to your friend, who also screamed, and laugh at her because she screamed.
4) Tell your friend, “Oh my God, you were like . . . ” and then reenact how she screamed.
5) Giggle again, disproportionately.
6) Exchange HI-larious banter about who is more scared and therefore lamer.
7) Finish off by declaring, in a decidedly outdoors voice, “Dude, that was fucked up!”
Honestly, these types weren’t even the main problem in my Exorcism screening. Rather, we simply got a bunch of chicks sitting directly behind us having a 90-minute conversation on several dozen irrelevant (to anything, really) topics. Only once did they surface, to proclaim a character’s footwear to be some “ugly-ass boots.” (This observation was repeated, verbatim, 60 seconds later, as all the most important PSAs are.)
Because I can only count on my own fortitude in the face of such unmitigated evil for so much longer, I am proposing an investment opportunity here for the right reader: a new chain of zero-tolerance movie theaters. The terms of ticket purchase will be well publicized and issued in writing with each ticket. Only those consumers who are comfortable with supervised movie attendance will wish to patronize my chain, and the number of screenings will be tapered in accordance with demand. Two bouncers will be stationed in each showing. Disruptive behavior will be off the tables, although the audience will be permitted to applaud when an offender is ejected.
As for the movie itself — how the hell should I know? I was busy fantasizing about atrocities. Okay, maybe I remember a little bit. I would give The Last Exorcism an “Eh” rating (if you favor numerical ratings, I’m sure you can find a conversion chart somewhere). There were moments and images that were effective and that I enjoyed here and there, and then there were noteworthy failings and silliness. I found the first half to be much better than the second, and the ending to be roundly disappointing. I took no issue whatsoever with the ugly-ass boots.
As for whether or not it was scary: I did jump a handful of times. But for sheer, blunt horror, the episode of “Hoarders” that I watched when I got home had the movie beat about 10 times over. That, dear readers, will haunt me for days to come.
A parting message for anyone talking in movies:
Shut the &@!%*# up. What are you, five?
Behind am I again. I am sharing my experience at the Somerville Theatre‘s 35th-anniversary screening of Jaws, a week late. I blame work — normal, everyday work, which has nothing at all to do with being entertained and is therefore silly.
(Disclaimer: The statement above should be applied only to my work and not understood to malign anyone else’s personal work, which undoubtedly represents the very essence of Nobility and Purpose.)
Anyway, the theater was verily mobbed by a buoyant crowd. I myself was part of a party of six, two of whom had never seen the film. To thank us for our steadfast devotion to an oft-malfunctioning mechanical shark, the theater provided ‘Gansett beers for a dollar a cup (in addition to complimentary Pepsi). I’ll admit, I was hoping for a classic can, but I’m sure there are several hundred Massachusetts bylaws on the books making that an impossibility. At least the cups were labeled:
(Still, when I saw that the gentleman behind me had brought his own can from home, I became surly and unresponsive.)*
It had been many years since I’d seen Jaws, and I don’t know that I ever paid close attention to the quality of the filmmaking. Sure, the extras’ performances are pleasantly awful, in the grand tradition of 1970s disaster films, but the three main dudes do fine, and Spielberg’s camera angles are really lovely. The peppy audience cheered for John Williams‘ credit line, which was the right and proper thing to do. They cheered for the shark, like it was an option.
And, of course, they cheered the need for a bigger boat.
This got me to mulling later. Sure, it’s a great line — hey, I was excited to hear it, too. But . . . why does that line, out of all the lines in the film, make it to the pinnacle? People know that line who don’t even know what it’s from. Doesn’t it seem a tad arbitrary? And while we’re on the subject, how, out of the whole durned Star Wars rigmarole, does “That’s no moon, it’s a space station” become the be-all, end-all of timeless quotability?
I don’t have some sage theory on the matter; I just think it warrants a “Huh.”
Now, I haven’t seen a single one of the three follow-up Jaws films, which I understand get — ahem — better and better as they go. I will eventually see them, of course, by virtue of my chosen lifestyle. It’s just like how I’ve seen Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus, starring Deborah “Debbie” Gibson (click the link to tune in to DebTV!) . . . but I have not yet seen Mega Piranha, starring Tiffany – and I certainly have not seen Mega Python vs. Gatoroid, starring both of them, as God intended.** But once again, it is only a matter of fast-moving time.
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* A can might also have helped me to avoid immediately spilling a substantial portion of my beer down the side of my new and not-inexpensive leather bag. Plus a little on the guy in front of me, although he didn’t seem to notice.
** Largely because it isn’t out yet.
Now, where was I?
Oh, yes.
1) The Kids Are All Right – I caught this film when some friends and I went out drinking and then decided we were in danger of going home too early to be decent. Amusing and diverting. I was watching it from a somewhat singular perspective; I am not a kid person, you see,* and as Mark Ruffalo’s character is confronted with teenage biological offspring (via sperm bank) that he had not known existed, I was too busy scrutinizing his surprisingly relaxed interactions with them to think so much about the homo-/heterosexual interplay that the filmmakers may have expected would steal the proverbial show. Like Mark, I might be more inclined to consider breeding if the kids (who are all right, incidentally) were 18 when they showed up. Ah, well. The story proffers a cornucopia of awkward scenarios, so it’s nice that we can each pick our own focal bit of awkwardness, based on personal resonance.
In other news, I’ve decided that I like Mia Wasikowska. That is all.
2) A Single Man – One of my movie-going compatriots brought this film up at the aforementioned screening; I suppose she was reminded by its similar motifs of homosexuality and Julianne Moore. In turn, I was reminded that I never got to the older flick during my pre-Oscars cinema spree. I did get to A Serious Man, which I was forever confusing with A Single Man, in spite of the fact that the former featured entrely dissimilar motifs of Judaism and Michael Stuhlbarg.
To make up for my neglect, I watched A Single Man on demand. Far less amusing, although equally diverting. My favorite thing about it was the music, the earnest strings that accompanied virtually every minute of footage like a dreamy ether in which the narrative was suspended. I liked the film, but for the first time ever, I’m not entirely sure I liked Julianne Moore. She felt a little over the top to me. Yes, yes, I know her character was meant to be boisterous, hiding her pain, etc. Lay off. Okay, I found her portrayal of over-the-topness to be a bit over the top. Still, it’s not like she hasn’t made up for it elsewhere.
3) MGMT – There was grave information to be gleaned from this concert experience. It took the form of what the young’uns around me were wearing — the ones who had clearly been planning their outfits for days, if not weeks. Rompers, dear readers. They were in rompers. Not one and all, but how many must there be to instill alarm? Headbands were also everywhere — not this kind, but this kind. People who are less averse to offspring (their own and others’) than I am likely know all about such trends, but I never look directly at minors unless I have exhausted all other options.
What? Oh, the music? Yeah, that was good.
I’m not quite as big a fan of MGMT’s new album as I was of their last, owing in part to the fact that the title track, “Congratulations,” really bores me. (Never mind the fact that the video belongs in the dictionary under “self-important, condescending artist” — what? They removed that entry?) Parts of the album feel a little too clever to me, for what that’s worth. I consider the moderately epic semi-ballad “Siberian Breaks” to be a standout; it’s wayward, but lush. Unfortunately, it did not translate so well to a live, stadium-style performance. By that point in the show, all the little romper stompers were drunk on bouncier selections like “Kids” and “Time to Pretend,” and they showed insufficient interest in meditations on surfing in Russia. Fair enough. A bold move to play the song anyway, I say. But then they finished their encore on “Congratulations,” which provided me with a fine opportunity to scram and beat the rush.
Details aside, Andrew VanWyngarden’s voice comes through like a needle in a live show. Good on ‘im.
4) The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - Huh. Who knew the book would involve so much sexual torture? (Answer: People who read it.)
Now. I enjoyed it, I was entertained, I found the resolution reasonably satisfying, etc. The dénouement went on for too long, à la The Return of the King. The writing wasn’t bad, or didn’t seem to be, under the circumstances of translation. But . . . why this book? No knocks to Stieg, but well-constructed suspense novels are not so rare that this semi-random selection should set the world aflame. Is it the “exotic” Swedish setting? Is it society’s fascination with sullen, inked-up antiheroes? Is it the pretty cover? Is it the sexual torture?
Whatevs. I’ll read the other two, but not right now. Right now, I’m delighted to be able to read something far less recognizable on the subway. I’m shifting from Swedish sexual torture to Icelandic sexual torture for a while. You know, to cleanse the palate.
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* To put it mildly.
I have not forgotten the mission put forth in my Post-It post. But first, a few relevant notes on my trip.
I traveled to Iceland via Icelandair (like you do), and no sooner had I seated myself than I received the following sinister warning from my personal entertainment screen:
Given recent events, there was no question that this message constituted a threat, and for the first time in my life, I was afraid to fly. I decided that the only way to placate the Great Mel in the Sky was to watch his movie, and so I bypassed such time-tested classics as Mr. Bjarnfreðarson in favor of yet another Gibson revenge epic, in the grand tradition.
Edge of Darkness is one of those Boston-based films that wear their Bostonianness like a pair of creaky leather chaps. As Hermano has pointed out, movie makers routinely insist that everyone cast in such films make ham-fisted attempts at hardcore Boston accents, no matter how comical, out of the misguided belief that a failed stab at “authenticity” beats a safer film in which people at least sound like real human beings. Perhaps he and I are overly sensitive because we live in Boston — a city in which you can go days at a time without hearing a Boston accent at all, let alone one as galumphing as Mel’s. If he had just cut himself some slack and gone with some casual, nondenominational American, I think we yahoos still could have grasped, say, the special fraternity that grows among city police officers, or the fierce loyalty of the traditional urban family.
Regardless, each time I was sure that actress Bojana Novakovic (who played Mel’s daughter) was NOT Carey Mulligan, there would be some shot from some angle that made me unsure again. You can imagine how emotionally draining this was. Not to mention the fact that The Government and Large Corporations are conspiring to kill us all, in case you have somehow missed this fact after watching . . . pretty much any other Hollywood movie ever. It’s a wonder you’re not dead already. (What’s your secret?)
But I successfully completed the film, and Mad Max wreaked no vengeance on my person. Unless he was responsible for putting me in a middle seat.
In other (more) Icelandic news, I encountered an advertisement for an exciting cultural event in downtown Reykjavik, which I was sadly unable to attend:
Now, obviously you are wondering, “Where can I go to familiarize myself with the musical stylings of Severed Crotch?” The answer is: here. I like “Entropy” okay, but on the whole, I think it’s a little smug; it lacks the delicate formulation of “Ecstasy of Death.” I also want to take a moment to compliment the second band on the list on having found a font that is so righteous as to be largely illegible. I spent some time with it and ultimately identified it to be GonePostal — or Gone Postal, if you forgive the runny scrawl. They can be found here, and they are apparently seeking a label, if anyone would like to get in on the ground floor.
Blast, I’ve not posted in a bit, and now it shall have to be a bit more; I’ll be traveling until mid- next week.
So, this is a Post-It post, a note to self: Upon return, discuss The Kids Are All Right, A Single Man, and the MGMT concert/album . . . not to mention that damned Girl and her infernal Dragon Tattoo.
Then all will be back on track, I’m just sure of it.
Be well!
IN AN ELEVATOR:
Dude: So, yeah, you should see Inception.
Chick: You’re the second person who’s told me this! Have you seen Salt?
Dude: Uh . . . I’m gonna pass on that one.
Chick: *GASP!*
Dude: Angelina is done.
Chick: . . . YOU’RE done!
The voice-over in the commercial for The Expendables is done by a woman.
I am fairly certain that this is the first movie commercial I have EVER seen of which this is true.
As a woman, I am not bothered by the pattern; I understand the reasoning behind it, the allure of the gravitas — as it were — of a deep, rich voice. After all, maleness is not the only characteristic these voice talents have in common; there is also common depth, weight, an earthy vibration to their tones. Justin Bieber they are not.
Now, obviously the Expendables people are using the voice-over as a desperate attempt to counteract a table scrap of the testosterone that is rampant in this, the “manliest movie ever made.” One last chance to remind us that action heroes are sexy, in case we are thinking about something unrelated.
(Of course, the woman in question has a rather low voice.)
Hey, when it comes to unbridled masculinity, I say don’t fight it. But perhaps I am not altogether unbiased with respect to the subject. Meh. Whatryagonnado?
