Archive for July, 2009

After waiting in line for over half an hour, you’re really going to send me home to get proof that I live with my wife? Really? So that I can come back and spend another hour of my day on line in your non air-conditioned sadness factory? Really?

And I’m sure you’ve been treated poorly by some of the jerks you deal with, but I was nothing but civil. Don’t compare me to the Indian man who screamed at you or the hippie who sang off-key to his ugly baby. Just because they complained (loudly) to you and were angry doesn’t mean that you have to cut me off and tell me to “step aside unless you have proof you live [in your house with your wife].”

I now have some bills. I am on my way back. But I’m also bringing a dull spoon so that, in the event that there is another surprise t to cross or i to dot, I can beat you to death with it. It will take a long time, but so does everything in the post office.

Sincerely,
The sweaty bearded fat man currently scowling at you as he listens to your shitty muzak

Were I not spending the day sweatily dry heaving, I’d write more, but such is life.

And I wasn’t able to see any movies this week.

I’m a bad person.

Kisses!

If they need to be touched, you touch them.

Fuck me for being on time. Tons of car commercials, one for the U.S. Air Force, one for Starz (which I’m pretty sure is one of the reasons for the decline of the cinematic box office [why take my family to a movie theater for $50 -- if we aren't hungry -- when I'm already buying cable every month?]), and apparently Sprint thinks that a terrible singer singing a terrible song on a gigantic 3-D Facebook page will make me want their new phone (to Sprint and everyone else that advertises before the movie: I will go out of my way to avoid everything you are pushing since I find it disgusting that I have to watch ads for your crap despite the exorbitant ticket prices [for all non-SAG members of the audience] and astonishingly overpriced concessions [oh, I can't stay mad at you, wheelbarrow of popcorn!]).

And like Pavlov’s dog, every time the lights fade and the screen tells me “Here’s the feature presentation!” I relax and pay attention. And then the radio starts again and the screen goes blank. EVERY. WEEK. But this time as I sank in my seat, muttering invectives at no one in particular, I noticed that 80% of the audience was kids. Not teenagers. Kids. Like screaming for soda kids. Six, maybe seven years old. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why they’re here. I mean, Up is playing next door. Ice Age 3 is upstairs. Surely the parents aren’t dragging the kids along so that THEY can see this, are they? Truly?

But once the movie was halfway done, I realized that big Hollywood movies are, for the most part, becoming porn.

Lemme ’splain. It’s often said that the way to pitch a movie is to boil it down to a sentence (por ejemplo, Short Time was probably pitched as “Due to a blood sample mix-up, police officer and family man Dabney Coleman thinks he has hours left to live, so he tries to get killed in the line of duty for the insurance money,” while The Apple was probably described as “hours of sparkly Biblical homo-erotica carelessly stuffed into an 86-minute musical with God fixing everything at the end by stepping out of his floating gold Rolls-Royce.”

The Proposal was no doubt pitched as “In order to avoid being deported, Sandra Bullock forces her assistant to marry her (even  though he hates her), but first she has to meet his cuh-razy family in Alaska of all places!” And if a second sentence was requested, it would prolly look like “But will this business-minded bitch start to fall for her perfect hunky assistant played by Ryan Reynolds or will he fall for her… or BOTH?!?!” Which is not to say that a movie that can be boiled down to a sentence is bad (Schindler’s List: “Guy saves Jews for monetary reasons during WW2, but grows to have a conscience and saves even more.” Basquiat: “It’s the life story of Basquiat.”). But good movies figure that a simple plot leaves room for character development or suspense or a car chase or Batman. The Proposal has a lot of characters that act like caricatures (charicaters?) but it’s gentle and you don’t have to think very hard and the scenery is pretty and I think I understand now why the kids were there.

It I can put on my big boy pants for a sec, the attention span of America has finally hit rock bottom. Most schoolkids have no idea what an answering machine is, what a VCR is, what it felt like to race home in order to watch something that, after airing once, might never be seen again. A couple can own a 2-disc DVD copy of whatever is currently playing in theaters for less than the price of two tickets. Or they can watch it on cable. Or Netflix it.

On the one hand, I’m glad that Hollywood is helping the theaters out by creating more 3-D/IMAX/can’t-wait-must-see-it-now fare in recent years (I don’t remember ever paying to see a movie twice [including at the $1.99 in Saratoga], but I paid to see The Dark Knight twice and again for the IMAX version [although I feel like Scott Finklepuss might have refused my reimbursement... so we'll stick with paying twice], so either there is a shift towards more must-buy-a-ticket-to-get-the-full-effect pictures [you were right Mr. Castle] or I’ve become even more of a rube in my middle age than I thought). People can now justify taking the brood to see Up in 3-D instead of turning on Nickelodeon and telling everyone to just shut up while Mommy naps.

On the other hand, never overestimate the intelligence of most Americans (m’self included, thankyewvurruhmuch). And don’t forget that most of today’s teenagers had a bootleg DVD copy of Star Wars III the week it hit theaters. Granted, it didn’t seem to hurt the mammoth box office, but this generation of kids will never know the simple pleasure of putting a dollar in a vending machine and getting a soda AND CHANGE, nor will they use “let’s all go to the movies!” as a go-to weekend activity as frequently as those of us without an internet did.

As people start to realize that there’s enough of a backlog now of quality movies (from the last 10 years alone) that if we all stopped going to movies in theaters and waited for the director’s cut DVDs and gave Netflix a workout or took them out of our libraries (for free), we’d never have to stop seeing great movies (and TV shows without commercials, a season at a time) in our lifetime (especially considering Apocalypto! is right around the corner). This is why I will go down the street to see The Final Destination in 3-D, but would have happily waited for the unrated DVD if not for the gimmick.

B’on the other other hand, stupid people love their routines. We fear change. We thought about trying that new restaurant but it smelled weird so we hit Sizzler again. We demand to see Obama’s birth certificate (again). We like the part when the guy got hit in the nuts and then he fell down but then he was OK later. Which is why Hollywood continues to produce (wait for it) by-the-numbers rom-coms that can not only be boiled down to one sentence, they can also be explained by their posters. Even if they’re in Russian.

And it explains the kids. They have ADD. They can’t watch 90 minutes of anything without getting bored. So, the stuck-in-their-rut parents will take their kids to the movies (mustn’t… break… from… routine….) and the kids will watch the movie, play their PSPs, talk to their folks, go to the bathroom, etc. A movie like Memento doesn’t mesh with this scenario, but The Proposal, like a porno, almost encourages you to stretch your legs between the money shots (or funny shots, if you will).

Stop me if you’ve heard this one.

Sandra Bullock (who should absolutely take this movie’s make-up people to court — she was wearing so much make-up, some of it got in my popcorn) works as a high-ranking publishing executive and a bitch that everyone hates because she treats everyone like shit (every cartoon character, sorry, person working in the office IMs “The witch is on her broom!” to each other as soon as she shows up every day so that they can stop, um, IMing and go back to doing work). Ryan Reynolds is her assistant and puts up with her because he wants to get his book published… someday.

Turns out Sandra is Canadian and her visa is expiring tomorrow and she has to leave the country and quit her job. UNLESS she can convince Ryan to marry her so she can stay in the U.S. and keep her job. He would be made an editor and get a divorce after a year or two. BUT Ryan is on his way to Alaska for the weekend for his grandmother’s birthday party. SO Sandra tells INS that they’re going to Alaska to get married.

Of course, lying to INS is a serious offense with plenty of jailtime, so you’d think it would behoove both of these wool-pullers to really sell their charade (surrounded by tons of Ryan’s family and friends, the two of them have a perfect opportunity to sell this hastily thrown together farce — all it would take is a kiss that didn’t look like k.d. lang trying to seduce John Travolta). But Sandra cannot not be an absolutely detestable jerk for even five minutes (to be fair, something this easy to follow almost requires play-to-the-seats-in-the-back slapstick, so I feel for Ms. Bullock).

And I feel for Aasif Mandvi, whose accent was a breath of fresh air (I have no idea what it was but I loved its unique melody) and whose all-too-brief scene comes all-too-soon in the movie. And I feel for Craig T. Nelson (yikes — Father Time no likey Coach) and Mary Steenburgen as Ryan’s parents. And Betty White as his grandmother. And especially the guy who plays Ramone (the running joke is that in this small Alaskan town, he is the male stripper, general store manager and cater waiter, among many other things). All great actors, all in a wet noodle of a movie.

Also, I have a feeling that after Amy Poehler had her first audition in L.A., Hollywood used black magic to create what they thought was a “better” version in Malin Ackerman. They succeeded in that she is taller and thinner, but failed in that she brings nothing to the table that a photograph wouldn’t also provide (whereas I could happily watch Amy read the phone book).

I also found it weird how awkward the extras are, how this super-tiny town is able to support a general store that sells candy, a candy store and a “fudgery,” how Sandra wears more make-up to bed than she did to her wedding, how she can’t swim but can tread water for five minutes, and how John Candy and Steve Martin had more sexual chemistry in Planes, Trains and Automobiles than Ryan and Sandra do in this movie.

But I must say that I laughed a few times and, despite my not buying most of his character’s choices, I will once again profess my mancrush on Ryan Reynolds. The guy is just naturally funny, which is probably why this over-the-top cartoon doesn’t play to his strengths (if that makes any sense). And I was able to put together a grocery list between money (sorry, funny) shots.

Like a mediocre sitcom or inoffensive background music, The Proposal gives you exactly what you would go to a movie like this for: easy laughs, pratfalls, decades of familial animosity being resolved in minutes, an ending that you don’t expect (if you’re 6) followed by the ending you do expect (especially if you’re 6) — and nothing more.

Not roll-your-eyes bad, but also not something you’d want to watch more than once (if at all).

C+

FULL DISCLOSURE: The original version of this movie is one of my all-time favorites. It’s suspenseful, it’s funny, it’s beautifully shot and chock full of New York character actors that beautifully capture New York City in the 70’s (everything from a supervisor who complains about a female co-worker’s ring falling into “the terlit” to an almost human-shaped Jerry Stiller to Hector “Oh, is Garry Marshall making another family movie? I guess I’ve got another gig!” Elizondo as a lecherous racist hijacker to Robert Shaw, whom I often refer to as the evil John Cazale, though I’ve forgotten why).

I wore out my VHS copy just over a year and I’ve given my replacement DVD more than a few spins, as well (though I certainly appreciate the thought, Scotty — what a very pleasant surprise!).

However. Despite my affection for the original, I actually went into this movie hoping to like it. Seriously. From what I had heard about the production, test screenings, etc., I feared it would be awful, but if I’m by myself (and I’m not in my living room — incidentally, if you’re in the MOVIE THEATER with me, neither are you, jagmo) then I don’t want to watch a shitty movie. I have loads of time to do that at night while my wife drifts off to sleep watching her Northern Exposure DVDs (I think Sarah Palin ruined Alaskan comedies for me, so I watch shitty movies with my headphones on). And even though John Travolta makes me sad for a number of legitimate reasons, I’d heard good things about both the movie in general and his performance in particular. So my expectations were low, but my mind was open.

The trailer for Public Enemies reminded me of the old Movie Math game we’d play to amuse ourselves.

(The Untouchables + Heat) x O Brother, Where Art Thou? = Public Enemies

Of course, I never did see it because America didn’t want to watch Batman chase Captain Jack in the Dust Bowl. Heck, they didn’t even want to see Batman chase rowbits enough to make that the #1 movie! Rowbits!In the future! Or from the future! And Helena Bonham Carter for some reason! Boy, I can’t wait for Parts 2 and 3 of this trilogy!

I should also note that when I sat down (in the tiny room this was showing in), there was one person in the back of the theater and me. After the commercials ‘n sitch had started, a couple of teenagers sat in front of me (I was on the end of the 3rd row) and almost immediately began making out. Thankfully they slouched down to do it (and they were a couple of seats in) so I couldn’t see anything beyond an occasional elbow and (I wish I was kidding) the back of the female’s head when she sat up to answer her phone. But the noises. Oh, the disturbing noises! Many an awkward “ow, sorry” and “wait” floated in the air, dancing with the sounds of a fat 35-year-old eating his wheelbarrow of popcorn before being overpowered by the movie’s remarkably terrible score (the original’s was superb in its hulking simplicity and supreme funkiness; here they’re replaced by annoying train noises and whatever sound a jump cut makes).

The couple would leave about an hour into the movie (I envied both their youth and taste), which made me realize how much I missed being occasionally distracted from this limp noodle of a movie.

But as they left, one of them dropped a small CD that, on my way out I picked up and listened to at home. Here’s an excerpt (two men are talking, Streisand plays softly in the background):

“Howzabout we remake The Taking of Pelham One Two Three?”

(strong nasal inhalation)

“OK. The book, the movie or the TV movie?”

(strong nasal inhalation)

“None.”

“Hmmm….. yes… we own the title, so we could just make a whole new movie from scratch…”

(strong nasal inhalation)

“Well, we’d borrow liberally from all three but this way we could add or subtract whatever we wanted.”

“OK… OK… People always expect remakes to be less complicated, more streamlined… let’s shatter those expectations! Let’s complicate the fuck out of it!”

(two strong nasal inhalations)

“Oh! Yeah! Yeah! I see where you’re going…” (strong nasal inhalation) “…How about the hero is also a thief and a liar! Why does the hero always have to be so, like, you know…”

(two strong simultaneous nasal inhalations)

“Right! An anti-hero! Terrific!”

“…And the hijackers aren’t even after the money!”

“What?”

“Yeah… they hijack the train so that the stock market crashes and their gold would be worth more!”

“Right! Because gold isn’t worth very much nowadays, right?”

(strong nasal inhalation)

“What?”

“Right?”

“What?”

“And fuck that ending.”

(strong nasal inhalation)

“The sniffles?”

“Yeah… that’s dated. We need shootouts. Lots of shootouts.”

Then that track ended and the rest of the disc was Avril Lavigne.

But the conversation, assuming it was authentic, answered many of the questions I had while audiencing.

Right off the bat, Tony Scott (who I think may have never actually travelled in the NYC subway system… or in NYC… or Earth) tries to combine shots of the hijackers boarding the titular train (which is a relatively empty 6 train) with the camerawork of a hyperactive teenager. Because I have a keen eye and was fighting the urge to see what could possibly be making that sound in front of me, I noticed that the train goes uptown, then downtown, then uptown, then sideways… I became a member of the Premiere Magazine Gaffe Squad while in high school. I’m just doing my job, ma’am. Weak continuity makes me sad.

Anyhoodles, one of the passengers is using his computer to video chat with his girlfriend (again, which New York City is this taking place in? Earth-2’s?). Shit’s gonna go down… but thanks to the modern-day setting, the passengers have a connection to the outside world. Granted, it’s a connection that shouldn’t exist and is wholly unnecessary for the purpose of the film, but whatevs.

When we meet Denzel, we learn that he was a big muckety-muck at the MTA but he’s suspected of taking a bribe, so they’ve demoted him… to being in charge of the subway system. I know that someone read this script and thought, “Why would they give such a job to someone they’re treating like a pariah and expect to be firing soon?” and I wish that person had said something to someone of authority.

Matthau was tired, world-weary and snippy, but clever. Denzel just sort of is. He’s a charismatic actor and I’ve always liked him (I even sat through all of The Great Debaters despite his haircut in that film), but there was really nothing especially interesting about his character (it was all told, not shown — his current probation winds up playing a major part in his dealings with Mr. Travolta, another wholly unnecessary addition that distracts the audience from the stunning lack of emotional dimensions). And Travolta… oh, boy. I love Robert Shaw. The Sting, Jaws, Black Sunday… he’s always wonderful whatever he’s in, but his Mr. Blue was perfection. Steely, authoritative perfection. Travolta replaces Shaw’s icy calm with 327 uses of the word “motherfucker.” 308 of them are said at the top of his lungs.

The dialogue that wasn’t gratuitous cursing wasn’t any better. Yelly McScientologist chats up the motorman:

“Where you from?”

“Brooklyn.”

“You Irish?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so.”

Riveting.

And, like most of the summer’s fare, you can’t have a terrible blockbuster unless a wonderful actor is slumming in it. This is one of John Turturro’s many many such films. This year. And James Gandolfini does a subtle impression of Mike Bloomberg, adding a dash of Ed Koch and 4,000 metric tons of Tony Soprano.

Other discrepancies between the old and the new:

* LOTS of people get killed by the hijackers in 123.

* The Martin Balsam character from One Two Three (sniffly Mr. Green) has no analogue in 123. If anyone in the audience is rooting for any of these hijackers, they are either hijackers or the parents of the actors in the film.

* Thanks to America’s dwindling attention span, a countdown clock occasionally appears onscreen in 123. This reminds me of the story I heard from a lady who teaches at what is considered by many to be the #1 private school in New York state. One of her students (of double-digit age) was unable to read a non-digital clock. In 2009. Which, I fear, is why Tony Scott didn’t just cut to the clock on the wall. Or the watch on Denzel’s wrist.

* We get to see some of the passengers urinate in 123. And one of them is a little boy!

* One Two Three was about people hijacking a train for ransom. 123 is about a guy who invested $2,000,000 in gold before going to prison ten years ago (back then gold was worth about $300/ounce, today it’s closer to $1,000/ounce), who decides that the roughly $7,000,000 he would now have isn’t enough, so he figures that a hijacking will crash the stock market and make gold really valuable(r).

* Did I mention Shaw’s icy calm? Yeah. Johnny T likes to yell “He can lick my bunghole, motherfucker!” He is so… gay.

* In the 70’s, that walkie-talkie was the only connection Matthau and Shaw had. In 123, the aforementioned laptop that works in the tunnels of Manhattan for some reason gets discovered by the news outlets. Travolta sets up a modem or some such so that he can monitor the stock market online. He chooses MSNBC, which is good for the passengers, because that’s the only network that doesn’t have the hijacking as their major breaking story. For some reason.

* B’also? If Travolta’s doo-hickey allows for internet access, how is it possible that no one’s phone rings for the HOURS that they’ve all gone missing?

But the biggest difference is the way it ends. It isn’t the shrewd but lethargic detective work of Stiller and Matthau (and a bad cold) that saves the day — it’s a shootout on a bridge. And I wish I had timed it, but there is a sniper in a helicopter, a dozen heavily armed cops with rifles charging at Denzel and John, Denzel has a gun pointed at John and… for the next three or four minutes, that’s what’s going on. Literally.

Should the film have been made? I’ve stopped caring. You win, Hollywood. DiCaprio is producing a new Twilight Zone movie? Great. Send me a miniature flag with the logo and I’ll wave it. But if you’re going to remake classics, which you will be doing until Apocalypto!, could you not suck all of the fun and suspense out of them and replace them with Hollywood’s shittiest parents (did you see what Denzel did to his daughter at the MTV Reality Television Awards this year? I think I saw pee trickling down her legs.)?

On a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being the lowest, 10 being the highest), I gave this movie far more time than it deserved.

C-

Next up, The Proposal, Transformers 2, Bruno and Harry Potter (I may have missed Ice Age 3 and that may have been my intention).

Mac: let me call you on Friday. Lemme know what time of day is best.

Manning: Shut up.

The rest of you: Soon. Been busy, but should be back to daily posts (and many many movie reviews) by next week.

I’ve been low and logy of late (during the day – I cheer up when whatsherface gets home). Looking for work, searching for purpose. You know how it go.

Soon.

1 teaspoon ground oregano
1 teaspoon chili powder
1 teaspoon dried sage
1 teaspoon dried basil
1 teaspoon dried marjoram
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon pepper
2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons paprika
1 tablespoon onion salt
2 tablespoons Accent

So claims Ron Douglas who quit his Wall Street job in 2007 in order to crack the KFC code (among others). His book “America’s Most Wanted Recipes” is in stores now.

And while I don’t think Colonel Sanders had access to Accent, word of mouth is that the above recipe is as close as it gets without a sullen teen lethargically fucking up your order.

Bon apetit!

You’re welcome.

Many thanks to Scott for sharing this.

Ode to Sean Hannity
by John Cleese

Aping urbanity
Oozing with vanity
Plump as a manatee
Faking humanity
Journalistic calamity
Intellectual inanity
Fox Noise insanity
You’re a profanity
Hannity

What a prick.