After seeing Headhunters at Independent Film Festival Boston this week, I have decided that Askel Hennie is the Norwegian Vincent Kartheiser.

1) One of my favorite things about the Antoine Dodson phenomenon (and believe me, it’s a tough race) is watching more and more people run around discussing memes and trying to make it sound as though this word has been a part of their casual vocabulary for years.

2) The latest title sequence for Hell’s Kitchen is inexcusable.  In all aspects.

3) I love Inspectah Deck‘s name.  I love it.  I make this face whenever I see it:
If I had my way, all rappers would give themselves similar professional titles: Comptrollah, Social Workah, Census Takah, Artificial Inseminatah. . . .

4) I so want AMC’s The Walking Dead to be good.  But I’ve been hurt so many times before.

5) The hypothetical remake of The Rocky Horror Picture Show is dangerous.  The only thing I dared to hope might still preserve a movie from having “tribute paid” in the form of being  rudely manhandled off of its own pedestal by copycat enthusiasts was active, fervent cult status.  I hoped studios would be too wary of these twitchy “cult” types to mess with their stuff, fearing that these people were unhinged to some degree and were likely to perform all sorts of bizarre acts of retribution involving trout.  But, predictably enough, the woefully overly inflated Glee bubble (which will totally pop, by the way, splattering everyone in its path except the unimpeachable Jane Lynch with — no, not Slushie, just garden-variety noxious goo) has fostered a sense of invincibility among its producers.  They believe they can battle the cult and win.  The gall!  Does anyone truly expect that the hallucinogenic, yet oddly mesmerizing pointlessness and perversion of the original will be maintained when, say, Kristin Chenoweth and Russell Brand are prancing around as Columbia and Riff Raff?  I think not, pilgrim.

(Believe me, I am far from a die-hard Horror fan.  I just have a sense of propriety.)

In any case, assuming this project goes through, expect the cult’s entire pantry to be raided.  The Evil Dead starring Zachary Levi, Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure starring Rainn Wilson, and Harold and Maude starring Justin Bieber and Betty White.

 6) Apparently, some hoarders are also simultaneously battling other issues.  Weird.

It’s true.  It took a full week after Sharktopus aired on SyFy for me to watch it.  I won’t insult you by trying to make some excuse.

Yes, the sharktopus has its own theme song.  It goes without saying that this is a Very Special Movie.

Blame Eric Roberts for the sharktopus.  He’s the Machiavellian U.S. navy contractor who devoted his life to engineering this — *ahem* — perfect weapon, which can be controlled via electrical impulses and is intended to stalk pirates and drug runners.

Now, why can’t it just be a shark? you ask.  Why does it need its octoparts?  You silly goose.  The common shark is unfairly hindered; it can only chew on things that are physically in the water, if you can imagine.  If only it had some sort of appendages with which it could paw at those safely on land . . . maybe sharpened appendages — y’know, for stabbing them, in case simply hauling them into the water grows tedious.

But that’s not all!

The sharktopus can also lumber onto boats or land on its eight sexy gams and hang out for a bit.  Maybe even indefinitely — breathing doesn’t seem to be much of an issue. In fact, breathing may be entirely irrelevant: the monster’s gills are almost entirely obscured by badass spikes.  Do not underestimate the broad-based badassness of the sharktopus.

So, S-11 (as it’s known to its friends) is wandering around making wookie noises and killing people for sport (it doesn’t eat them), and rogue ex-scientist Andy Flynn is running around with various, more conventional weapons and trying to splatter its innards, and Machiavellian Eric Roberts is wringing his hands and fretting that some harm may befall his noble creation.  Sara Malakul Lane, who plays Roberts’ daughter, spends a lot more time fighting her British-hybrid accent than she does fighting the sharktopus.  And of course, the usual ball crawl of one-dimensional fringe characters rounds out the fiesta: the heartless reporter who’ll stop at nothing to get Her Story (ever notice how this character is always a chick?), the skeptical radio host who refuses to warn the beach people properly, the old drunk who holds vital information and will only give it up for the right price.  Plus God knows how many whooping, spring-break-type extras serving as chum in the movie’s waters.

The special effects — oh, excuse me, the special FX — are by Dilated Pixels, and they are as seamless as you can likely imagine.  If a human being has to interact too intimately with the sharktopus, then hey, just CGI the human, too!  Another example of technological frontiersmanship: several scenes feature characters texting on smartphones, an activity that is invariably accompanied by those unmistakable olde-tyme AOL instant messaging sounds.  The final face-off revolves around Lane having scant seconds to guess a computer passcode; if you, as an audience member, can’t guess the code before she does, you must have been in a coma for the bulk of the movie (a definitive possibility).

Still, when jerks on Jet Skis are speeding around and ruining your oceanic fishing experience, you can count on the sharktopus disliking their hubris as much as you do, and making them pay.

In other news, I saw The Romantics this week.  Anna Paquin needs to wrangle her Sookie Stackhouse southern accent a bit better; it was clearly displeased about not being invited to the wedding.  But you’ll be relieved to know that Katie Holmes still says all of her lines out of the side of her mouth.

Don’t sue a stripper. She’s a stripper. Life sued her, and she lost.

- Joel McHale, Community

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.”

AT THE PARK AVENUE FESTIVAL IN ROCHESTER, NY:

Do you remember a point in time when Buffy was all there was?

The wrong time.
The wrong place.
And a day at the beach becomes . . .
A nightmare.

If Shark Week in hi-def on the Discovery Channel doesn’t call for a tribute playlist, then I can’t imagine what would.

photo credit: petersbar

Mark Farina, “Dropped into Water”

Swim, swim.

This track kicks off the series of unfortunate mishaps that lead us to interface with our sharks.  It’s quirky and jovial — jazzy, even — as befits a tranquil, tropical scenario in which nothing has tried to eat us yet.

Frightened Rabbit, “Swim until You Can’t See Land“

I saw these guys a couple Januarys ago, on a very snowy night in Allston, Mass.  This is not my favorite of their songs, but it’s catchy, and it represents an important part of the adventure:

. . . And a nod to the boredom that drove me here,
To face the tide . . . and swim . . .

O the arrogance of man, driven by boredom to tapdance on danger’s doorstep.  Meanwhile:

Are you a man, or are you a bag of sand?

An important existential question to broach with oneself regularly.

Experimental Dental School, “A Seal is a Shark’s Meal”

I saw these folks live, as well, a couple of years back.  They were opening for Deerhoof, and it was uncomfortably crowded.  But I hung tough because I hated to leave before “+81” (choo choo-choo-choo, beep beep).  Mission accomplished.

A terribly perfunctory, matter-of-fact song, both musically and lyrically.  Expect to be reminded early and often that a seal is, most assuredly, a shark’s meal.

Bonobo, “The Shark“

Clearly reflective of the shark at his emotional baseline.  He’s got nowhere in particular to be, nothing in particular to bite.  He’s moseying, inasmuch as a legless thing can mosey.  And, frankly, he’s having a pretty nice day.

I am now distracted by the thought of a playlist devoted entirely to bonobos.  It would probably consist of a lot of Marvin Gaye.

!!!, “Hammerhead“

I am an absolute sucker for !!! — the sort of music I feel compelled to grunt along with. Based on their groove, they were all but predestined to do a shark-based track.  This one begins with the band’s signature, funked-out vibe — you know the shark is grunting along with it, too — before spinning off into a percussive kerfuffle like a feeding frenzy.

Way Out West, “Sharkhunt“

The shark motif does tend to bring the electronica acts out of the woodwork.  And while I’m not entirely sure this track would be my first choice of accompaniment if I were heading out with my trusty speargun (“Rusty”), it’s a nice, middle-range dance piece (no big, club-incinerating climaxes, but neither is it a chillout mix).

Here’s where we arrive and get all up in the shark’s grill.

Freezepop, “Shark Attack“

Oh, Freezepop.  So perky when describing a potentially threatening scenario!  Although actually, that scenario seems to be a “dangerous” round of Wheel of Fortune, if we pay attention to the lyrics.  We must be ready for the very real possibility that we are now steeped in metaphor.

Regardless, it is clear that the shark has turned the proverbial tables on us.

The Drones, “Shark Fin Blues“

Not the anthem of a Shark Week fan!  Still, bits and pieces of it make for a fine narrative soundtrack to the Discover Channel’s quality programming.

I said, why don’t you get down in the sea,
Turn the water red like you want to be? . . .

Just keep one eye on the horizon, man, you best not blink.
They’re coming fin by fin until the whole boat sinks.

Sounds about right.

PsyShark, “Blue Shark“

It’s clear from this psytrance epic that we are in hazardous waters.  Some of these bloopy sounds suggest we may be running low on oxygen, as well.  The genre isn’t named for nothing; psytrance is a bit like an aural hallucination, crossbred with the melodies of a 1980s Atari game.

Perhaps PsyShark was inspired by this.

Shriekback, “Hammerheads“

Nuts.  According to this song, we have grossly misjudged the situation.  It is, in fact, “the age of the hammerheads,” which are “the darlings of God.”  We are in danger of being eaten, sure, but rejoice!  We have the option of joining their movement and becoming “hammerhead people” to save ourselves.

Yes, yes, hammerheads!  Swimming, kissing.
We are big and clever, and we don’t know anything. . . .

God save hammerheads!  Keeping going,
We are sleek and special, and we’re sure of something.

Not the most message-driven cult, perhaps, but Shriekback’s dark, Laibach-esque ranting in this track has convinced me that the fates are on the hammerheads’ side. Pass me the Kool-Aid (or chum, as it were).

Teenage Tartan Ninja Rampage, “Drown amongst the Deadmen“

A grim synth track.  I hear more danger and uncertainty here than I do a foregone conclusion of death; I’m more inclined to think the shark and I are tussling at this point. And sure, he’s got the teeth, but I’m scrappy, and not to be counted out so early.

Electrelane, “Gone under Sea“

Lively and in French, but don’t be fooled; I’ve disappeared.  I’ve “flowed under the waves,” or something to that general effect.  I underestimated the shark’s right hook.

The Surf Legends, “Can’t Kill the Shark with Coconuts“

No, no, I’m fine.  I poked him in the eye.

A more chipper and whimsical tune.  This is the one you play when you’re back on the boat, sipping a raspberry bellini and chuckling to yourself  in a self-deprecating manner about how foolish you were to try to kill the shark with a coconut.  (You may also be nursing a flesh wound.)  The song includes some happy-go-lucky whistling to drive home the fact that, sometimes, the lesson is worth the loss of limbs.

Tempting though it may be to have another go, “Air Jaws” is on now — that’s the one where the Great Whites come exploding out of the water like aliens out of John Hurt’s chest.  Not to be missed!

*     *     *

photo credit: brownpau

No sooner do I figure out what I think of the Anne Frank graphic novel* than I have to figure out what I think of an Animal Farm musical.   And, while we’re on the subject of classic literature, don’t get me started on the thought of Diablo Cody working on a Sweet Valley Twins screenplay.  I’m exhausted.

But stepping back onto (somewhat) firmer ground: it’s been a bayouful** few days, what with finishing season two of True Blood and season one of Treme.

photo credit: WilsonB

I live my life sans HBO (I know, I’m so brave), so I am reliant on DVDs and the kindness of strangers when it comes to such serial programming.  DVDs took care of the former, and friends Bee and Cray took care of the latter; we gradually watched the whole season of Treme at Bee’s place — often on fittingly sticky evenings — an effort that culminated in a thematic Big Easy finale-feast extravaganza for which Cray made jambalaya and Bee bought Purple Haze beer.  (Lest you think I am merely a leech, I provided French bread, wine, and my winning personality.)

Treme chronicles several New Orleans residents’ life experiences beginning three months after Katrina.  It is not the most jovial series, nor is it particularly up-tempo.  But it is very faithful, both to its characters and to its richly personalized setting.  Most endearingly, several characters are musicians, and hence the episodes feature prolonged musical interludes in the grand Louisiana tradition.  One episode included guest appearances by both McCoy Tyner and Jeff “Tain” Watts — a treat for me, as I have seen both perform live.  Cray, who attended Tulane and has been back to New Orleans as recently as a few weeks ago, tells me the series has done great things for the city, kicking up more tourism and swelling the fan bases of local musicians such as Kermit Ruffins, one of her personal favorites.

The show will be back for another season, although I must admit that it felt like most story lines were wrapped up tidily in the finale of season one.  Still, atmospheric considerations alone lead me to recommend it: join me, simmer in the N’Orleans soup. As a bonus, if you’ve longed to get a look at Steve Zahn’s ass, this is the show for you.

photo credit: DoctorWho

Now to True Blood. I enjoy watching this show, although I’m a bit grumpy with myself about it.  Call me what names you will — I don’t think it’s a very good show.  I haven’t read Charlaine Harris‘s Sookie Stackhouse books, so I can’t comment on those, but I don’t think the show’s plot lines and details are very creative as these trendy supernatural things go — just a bit bloodier.  And while some of the more peripheral performances are good (thumbs up to you, Nelsan Ellis), I find the Paquin/Moyer “chemistry” to be stilted and unnatural.  I didn’t learn until after I’d finished season one that they were really together; oh dear.  Hence, I was not disappointed to hear that they had been “snubbed” by the Academy come Emmy time.  The one thing that absolutely impresses me — and is rightfully nominated — is Digital Kitchen‘s opening sequence for the show; genius!

What makes the intro sequence so successful is how sweatily evocative it is of the show’s best asset: its setting.  Steamy Bon Temps, LA, feels real and reachable; these are excellent shadows from which to be watched.  Evil feels as inescapable as the humidity, and it seems plausible that the forces of light and darkness might square off here with little attention from elsewhere in the world.

Another round of kudos goes to: the soundtrack.  Good in season one, great in season two.  I am particularly tickled by Chuck Prophet’s “You Did (Bomp Shooby Dooby Bomp).”  Nice stuff.  The same goes for Jace Everett’s and CC Adcock’s bump-and-grind masterpiece “Evil (Is Going On).”  Love, as always, to Eels for “Fresh Blood.”

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* I guess it’s fine.

** Definitely a word.

After suffering terrible insomnia out of fear that, by not yet having read the Stieg Larsson trilogy, I might be deemed ineligible to participate in Life as We Know It, and after suffering a prosaic working day of peevishness and malaise, I finished yesterday with an evening of small pleasures.

First, as I caught up on So You Think You Can Dance to Yet Another Róisín Murphy Song via my DVR, I was tickled to see a routine set to The Atomic Fireballs’ Man with the Hex — even if it was the danged quick step.  I had all but forgotten about that song; its charm is not limited to its merciless throwback to Labyrinth, but let us not pretend that doesn’t help.

Heh.  Goblins.

Then, as I made my way out to a local dive bar (actually more of a bellyflop bar, if we’re honest) called the Cantab Lounge to see some local jazz/funk/blues bands (The Jazzadelic Organ Trio, The Rollo Tomasi Quartet, and Mike the Spike, since you asked), I passed the park that is quite close to my home.  More of a parklet, really.  Or maybe a median strip.  Anyway.  El parquito shows free movies on Thursdays in the summertime, and last night’s was Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, which is obviously awesome.*  I passed by just as Pee-Wee was urging Simone to follow her dreams while they sat in the big dinosaur.  It pleased me.

Then there was the live show itself.  In the Cantab’s downstairs venue (“Club Bohemia,” if you will), one quickly notices a bit of writing on a pipe above the small stage (featured below in tandem with the RTQ):

Should one approach, as your trusty glutton did, it would reveal itself to be the following:

Now, given the recent, most undignified heat wave, not to mention the aforementioned bellyfloppiness of the bar, I became momentarily alarmed that the AC was going to cut out any minute and plunge all who were present into despair.  But it didn’t.  Further, the featured bands all proved themselves to be entirely cool, so no hazards there.  I suppose the words were just a simple advertisement for this band.  But I prefer to let the little pipe message remain a slightly ominous, slightly enjoyable gray area.

Finally, there was treat of the shirt being worn by the RTQ bass player:

And if you don’t know why that is awesome, stop wasting your time here and go catch up.

A postscript piece of joy that is kicking off my weekend: tonight I set my DVR for a little morsel on the Discovery Channel called “Moose Attack!”  Much like “Extreme Poodles,” this title gave me no choice.

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* I was less forthcoming with my praise when I first saw it in the theater.  Being that I was six, I was not prepared for the full force of Large Marge.**  In fact, I believe I may have been inconsolable for a good 20 minutes after.

** But now, of course, I know that Large Marge is the most awesome part of all.

There I was, giddy as a chipmunk for a month or more about the imminent return of one Craig Kilborn to television, humor, and my arms.  I spent the weekend frolicking to the thought of him restored to a decent time slot and a position of (at least some) creative control.  Not only am I a dyed-in-the-wool devotee of Kilborn’s acerbic wit (such a critic’s phrase, no?), but I had always assumed that he and I would end up together if I was unsuccessful in convincing Joel McHale to give it all up for me.

And then I forgot.

Yes, Craiggers’ exalted homecoming was tonight, and I was right there on my couch, munching leftover Chinese food, and watching one of the 332 episodes of The Office that air daily.  I failed him.  And I think he knows it.  When did we stop communicating?

The Kilborn File will last a scant six weeks before it is reassessed.  I had better get my act together, or his eye will wander.