A Bad Day for Die Hard

My profound apologies for a prolonged absence.  I return with a topic that has been floating 'round this skull of mine lo the last couple fortnights.  In the course of film history, there are few perfect examples of filmmaking perfection.  Dr. Strangelove.  Obviously.  Back to the Future.  Duh.  And then there is the greatest action film of all time, which consequently doubles as the greatest Christmas film of all time:  Die Hard.  Say it with me: Yippee-ki-yay motherf***er.  That line of dialogue was the single best line of macho bravado ever delivered within the genre.  The only thing that even comes close is "Hasta la vista, baby." Amazingly, we are talking about a 25 year-old film.  It holds up amazingly, and I might not have my facts straight here, but I believe it was the last action film that did not star the Rock...sorry, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson...oh, it's just Dwayne Johnson now?  Ok.  Tony "Tiny" "Zeus" Lister sends his regards.  You'll be seeing him real soon, maybe in that No Holds Barred remake that 'Merica is dying to see.

The ensuing years since idyllic 1988 have resulted in four sequels to Die Hard, with increasingly vomit inducing titles.  With the release of the fifth film earlier this year, it was clear that the filmmakers are openly mocking the few remaining people that might actually pay for tickets.  Therefore, I have recognized my duty to place some context on this hallowed franchise, in the hopes that people can continue to enjoy this masterpiece without getting bogged down in the parody of it all. In order to do so, I have attempted to use math and science, engaging partners at both Rotten Tomatoes (rottentomatoes.com) and Metacritic (metacritic.com) to achieve an accurate picture of the critical response to each film.  While Rotten Tomatoes measures the percentage of critics responding favorably to a film, it fails to measure the level of reaction to the film.  Conversely, Metacritic measures the average score of each critic, but does not give the overall sense of critical consensus inherent to Rotten Tomatoes.  For example, a movie could receive a 100% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, which seems outstanding.  But if each review was only slightly positive (let's say 2.5 out of 4 stars), Metacritic would reflect only a 63 out of 100 score for the same set of reviews. Not so great, is it?     So for my extremely scientific analysis (I wear glasses, so this is about as legit as it gets), I have multiplied these two numbers together to arrive at a number I call the Filmic Coefficient of Ultimate Goodness (FCUG).  Without further ado, here it is:

Die Hard (1988; FCUG: .658) - This film speaks for itself.  If you doubt me, watch it again.  Or if you haven't seen it, you should probably shrivel up and die.  Bruce Willis at his best.  A perfect screenplay.  Alan Rickman in a role where he isn't a bumbling alcoholic and doesn't look like a Trent Reznor with a wand.  (I know what you're saying, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.  Look again.  That movie doesn't exist.  Prove to me that it does.  You can't.  So shut up and forget it.)  Carl from Family Matters.  FBI Agents Johnson and Johnson...no relation.  No, but it's going to need a paint job and a shitload of screen doors.  Now I have a machine gun, ho ho ho.  I AM AN EFF BEE EYE AGENT!  (Keanu!  How did you get in here? We're not discussing Point Break today.)

It is important to note that John McClane had two children and a wife that is coming to visit in Los Angeles, which sets up this whole movie.  He and his wife have clear marital tension, as demonstrated by their bicoastal living and her use of her maiden name.  The children are young and play a small role in the film, but they will come into play before long.  For all intents and purposes, McClane appears to be a caring, respectful father.  But he never actually has interaction that would demonstrate this.  After all, he let them move away in the first place.

Die Hard 2: Die Harder (1990; FCUG: .4489) - Die Hard, meet director Renny Harlin.  Renny Harlin, meet mediocrity.  Oh, you've already met?  Of course you did.  You married Geena Davis.  Then she left and you dressed Saffron Burrows up to look like Geena Davis in a movie about Samuel L. Jackson getting eaten by a shark.

Not sure what happened here.  Or to put it differently, I know exactly what happened here.  Die Hard made money and they rushed out a sequel.  And they put that subtitle on it: Die Harder.  Get it?  It's Die Hard...but moreso.  How can you lose?  It may be the second most mocked sequel title ever, following Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo.  Unless...is that subtitle German?  Let me check Google Translate.  Ok, I was mistaken this whole time.  Die Harder is actually German for The Harder, which makes slightly more sense. 

This movie was all that the "er" implies.  More of the same.  Jokes about how the same thing can happen to the same guy twice.  A guy gets stabbed in the eye with an icicle (THE PERFECT CRIME!).  And Holly McClane doesn't die in a plane crash.  Although she might as well have, since it's the last we see of her.  And just when they were reconciling!  The point is, this one was about the money.  It's non-essential viewing.  Feel free to skip it if it isn't your bag.  That FCUG is a remnant of good will toward the original.  Bruce Willis still had hair at that point though, which is a good sign. 

Die Hard: With a Vengeance (1995; FCUG: .3016) - Firstly, ignore that FCUG.  This is the undisputed second best movie in the series.  Undisputed.  Someone clearly knew they were going off the tracks after the second one so they regrouped and brought back original Die Hard director John McTiernan, who was able to take time out of his busy schedule paying private detectives to spy on his wife.  The genius in this one was very simple: Subtract the "Die Hard" scenario of a confined space in favor of a sprawling terrorist cat and mouse game (or is it?), but bring back an old friend in the form of the Gruber family.  I like to imagine that Alan Rickman and Jeremy Irons really were brothers.  That would have been a pretentious little household, probably accompanied by lots of skipping from room to room. 

The point is, we had fun together, this movie and I.  Samuel L. Jackson was a good addition.  The memorable lines may not have been there, but they maintain the intensity for a solid 90 minutes.  This film deserves proper respect for cleaning up the mess of Die Harder.  A couple of things are missing in this film however.  1. A number.   This is not Die Hard 3.  It is, but it isn't.  This is not problematic in itself, but it would pave the way for the crimes against humanity that would follow down the line.  2.  No Holly McClane.  No Holly Gennaro.  No kids.  Which, again, is fine.  He is a crusty old cop, we knew that.  So there was a divorce somewhere in the mix, she took the kids.  He didn't change.  It was actually refreshing to have a scenario that rang true to real life.  Saving his family from terrorists couldn't save his marriage.  I like it.  This was a fitting conclusion to the series...except:

Live Free or Die Hard (2007; FCUG: .5589) - Twelve years later this monstrosity emerged from the ashes.  One year prior to the release of Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, it also laid waste to cherished childhood memories.  Again, ignore the FCUG.  If I was aware that science would stab me in the back, I never would have used that approach.  I can only assume that the 12-year gap between movies was to allow Justin Long to hit puberty and Kevin Smith to gain enough mass to crash back to Earth.  BECAUSE THEY WERE IN THIS MOVIE!  As actors, saying words and stuff.  Is there a movie that represents more clearly the softness of the action genre during this decade than a major role awarded to Justin Long? 

But perhaps this movie would have been forgettable if we all just dropped it here.  My main takeaway was that given the correct calculations, a human can run down the wing of a flying jet and jump off without serious injury.  That is useful knowledge.  Die Hard was never dependent on huge action pieces but this movie forgot to remember that. 

Mary Elizabeth Winstead.  She should be thankful that Maggie Gyllenhaal exists.  It means that she is not the worst actress of her general stature.  She does a serviceable job as Nondescript McClane Child (Female) in this movie, at least in comparison to the other elements.  Her character should not be in the movie, but I guess that is a moot point.

Len Wiseman directed it.  His only truly successful effort so far was impregnating Kate Beckinsale, and that was probably an accident.  She was a better match with Michael Sheen anyway, but you know what Beyonce says about putting a ring on it. 

A Good Day to Die Hard (2013; FCUG: .042) - Finally, we arrive at modern day.  Was it really six years since the last installment?  Bruce Willis looks old.  Senior citizen old.  He is not the tough guy that he used to be.  And the whole point of his persona was that he wasn't the tough guy.  He was the determined, everyman that got things done because of his "Can Do" attitude.  He is America made flesh.

So here's the problem with this film.  (Let me pause to point out that FCUG of .042.  Science works.)  Nondescript McClane Child (Male) shows up and he's a criminal or maybe he's an EFF BEE EYE AGENT (Seriously, Keanu.  You're gonna have to chill out.  No more Kool-Aid.)  Then in a totally shocking twist, it turns out that we don't care. 

The worst crime of all is that we finally get some insight into the fathering abilities of John McClane.  It turns out that he's a complete asshole as a father.  He ridicules and bullies his grown son, and they imply a long history of this behavior.  So what about that man that blew up half of Nakatomi Plaza in order to save his wife?  Doesn't matter.  He probably yelled at his son when he lost a Little League game.  I'd be willing to bet that he hit him at least once when he was a child.  If he found out his son was gay, he probably would have drowned him. 

At this point, I am not only failing to enjoy the latest Die Hard with an absurd title.  I now hate the original Die Hard.  I wish John McClane had been killed by Hans Gruber.  At least then, Holly Gennaro/McClane could have remarried and the McClane children would have had a chance at a loving male role model.  Am I reading into this too much?  I probably should have known he wasn't a good father when his wife packed up the kids and moved to California.  But his positives seemed to outweight the negatives.  Now, I'm not so sure.  Of course, this is all based on the assumption that A Good Day to Die Hard actually exists and it wasn't just a fever dream.  That remains to be seen.

Parting Thoughts
I want to make this very clear.  Regardless of math, these are the official Die Hard Quality Rankings from best to worst:

• Die Hard
• Die Hard: With a Vengeance
• Under Siege
• Die Hard 2: The Harder
• Where the Die Hard Things Are
• How Stella Got Her Die Hard Back
• Willy Wonka and the Die Hard Factory

Blah Blah Bookshelf

Many thoughts are floating around my head today, but I feel the need to spend a few moments on the underappreciated art of words.  I'm got my mind on movies and movies on my mind lately.  I think that's rap.  But those aren't the words to which I refer.  Books, as it were.  The summer season is quickly approaching us or perhaps it is here.  Do we go by Memorial Day as the unofficial harbinger of summer still?  Or is it perhaps the release of the summer's first genre-defining blockbuster?  By that measure, summer arrived with the release of GI Joe: Retaliation.  No, no.  I kid.  I didn't hate the movie, but I hate on it.  You slutty little preposition, you make all the difference in the world.  I can't resist one tangent today, having mentioned GI Joe.  When was the last time Bruce Willis looked in the mirror?  Does he realize how old he has become.  His neck is kinda disgusting and wrinkly.  And his premature balding has become mature balded.  We know you don't have to shave it anymore, Bruno.  I say this with love.  Punk Rock Girl and I will be watching Die Hard 5 tonight.  I refuse to acknowledge the real title.  The mere fact that I failed to catch this "film" in theaters speaks volumes.  Once upon a time, a Die Hard movie release would have been a High Holiday in my religion, whatever that might be.  Now, it is a laughingstock.  It should have died with Die Hard: With a Vengeance (my second favorite in the series).  Then it should have died with Die Hard 4, which had a title only slightly less absurd than 5.  That one was weighed down by Kevin Smith (Get it?  A fat joke.) Who knew the title would be so prophetic.  This confounded tangent has blown up on me, so I will wrap it up.  I have more to say on the subject, so I'll save a full blown analysis for another day.  I'm dangerously close to invoking Kingdom of the Crystal Skull in a cross franchise tie-in, and if that comes up, we'll be here all day.

Let me reorganize my note cards...right, BOOKS.  Summer is the season for beach reading.  I don't go to the beach, but I do read.  The term itself, "beach reading," loosely translates to "I'm reading stupid books.  Leave me alone.  With advances in medicine, I'm technically still a 'young adult.'"  In the past week, I have filled my Kindle with reading material for the first half of the summer.  As usual, I am already reading 3 of the 4 books simultaneously.  Soon I'm sure to be 4 of 4.  These books have my full endorsement (without actually having read them) if you would like to read along with me.

BIG, IMPORTANT BOOK OF THE SUMMER - The Orphan Master's Son by Adam Johnson - This one was recently bestowed with the Pulitzer Prize for last year.  I wish I had waited and purchased the heavy paperback with the Gold Ribbon on the front that confirms I'm smart.  I'm still trying to figure out how my Kindle can let people know I'm better than them without having to engage in actual conversation.  North Korea is the timely topic of this book.  Straight from the headlines!  But it is fictional all the same.  As a portrayal of life within a country of which I know little, it is quite fascinating.  A severe density accompanies this book, as with many Pulitzer winners.  I unfortunately don't have much more to say on the subject right now.  This tome has the greatest chance of remaining a work-in-progress at summer's end.

AWFUL TITLE, REDEEMED! - NOS4A2 by Joe Hill - One glance at that title is enough to run you off.  I feared it, but I'm giving it a chance and my warm nature appears to be paying off.  Joe Hill is an emerging talent, by which I mean he will someday be a household name like his father, Stephen King.  Already he has developed a strong following with his novels, stories and comics.  In particular, I recommend Heart-Shaped Box (novel) and Locke & Key (comic).  I recently read a review that stated he has found his own voice that is unique and completely independent of his father.  Bulls***.  He is Stephen King's son.  Maybe his writing style took an early branch from the King family highway, but he is his father's son and has his father's idiosyncracies.  Imagine Stephen King crawled into a cocoon to burst forth as a fresh author for a new generation.  That description seems more apt.  My point is...awful title.  Really, really awful title.  I'm about 20% done and I'm still not sure what would have possessed him to choose that title.  Great story though. 

NON-FICTION ON TOPIC I HATE - Louder than Hell by Katherine Turman and Jon Wiederhorn - Subtitled The Definitive Oral History of Metal, this book delivers what it promises.  Gene Simmons claims he was the first to use the devil horns in the context of heavy metal, to which Ronnie James Dio responds, "Simmons will tell you he invented it, but then again Gene invented breathing and shoes."  This book is not in my wheelhouse, but I can never turn my back on music journalism.  If you enjoyed Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk Rock, this is an excellent companion piece.  If not, read Please Kill Me first.  Punk takes precedence. 

SUMMER READING - Inferno by Dan Brown - How can I defend this purchase?  I can't.  I won't.  I struggled with the decision myself.  But now it sits there on my Kindle.  I'll probably tear through it in a few days while more worthwhile novels go unread.  That saddens me.  Brown is the epitome of beach reading this summer.  By the time I'm done, you won't need my opinion.  It will just be the next Dan Brown book, fading into the past alongside the Da Vinci Code.  God willing, we won't have another movie about Tom Hanks inability to get a decent haircut.  (He wears a Mickey Mouse watch!  He's young at heart...exposition, exposition, exposition...Jesus raped Joan of Arc and Spider-man was born!)  Now I hate myself even more.  The story center's around Dante Alighieri's Inferno this time.  Can't a book just be a book?  Does it have to be a tool of the Freemasons or Illuminati?  I expect this one to be slightly less believable that the Dante's Inferno video game of a few years ago.

I've depressed myself.  I need a drink. 

Quick Thoughts

I've got a lot on my mind today, so we're going to enter the lightning round.  Speaking of game shows, do you remember when contestants on the Wheel of Fortune got to spend their money on the spinning showroom?  Pat Sajak is an interesting character to me, one that is reflected in Jeff Probst's success with Survivor.  They have both attempted to host a talk show that no one wanted to see.  They both believed that they had credibility outside their game show.  Sajak is a few years ahead of Probst in this respect.  He ducked out of the limelight and developed an impressive alcohol tolerance, I assume.  Now he hosts Wheel on autopilot, barely checking in from his booze-fueled haze.  Probst still has a glimmer of hope in his eyes, but this will soon die.  One trick ponies.  Chuck Woolery, Bob Eubanks and many others who I would recognize but never know their name.  The sad reality of game show hosts is real and sad.  That's deep.  This is where my heads at.  Enter at your own risk.

-In less than two weeks, season 4 of Arrested Development launches on Netflix.  This reality never seemed possible, but here we are.  With what emotion do we approach?  Can they recapture the magic of this insanely brilliant show years after they left it behind?  Let me back up:  Did they recapture the magic of this insanely brilliant show in Season 3?  I'm not sure they did.  Mr. F may have plunged a little too far off the deep end.  But I must admit that I love seeing Jason Bateman in Michael Bluth mode and not the variations on Michael Bluth mode that he's been selling on the big screen.  Buster juices and GOB cavorts on stage to "The Final Countdown."  You can count me in, brother. 



-Speaking of Netflix Originals, Arrested Development and House of Cards have distracted from the meat in this sandwich.  Hemlock Grove is an Eli Roth creation, which is probably enough to steer away from the subject entirely.  At times it feels like this werewolf soap opera would be more at home alongside One Tree Hill on the CW.  If I were to author the Hemlock Grove equation, it would go something like this:  Twilight + Twin Peaks + An American Werewolf in London = Hemlock Grove.  I know, I started with Twilight there, which I haven't seen and will not see.  So f*** me, right?  Nein.  Nein.  The romanticism is palpable, but there is something more sinister at work below the surface.  Punk Rock Girl and I are only three episodes in, but it has held my interest and keeps me guessing. 

-On the subject of math (I know, brilliant segue, right?), here's an interesting article on the ABC Conjecture and a fascinating math superstar/recluse that may or may not have solved an age old math dilemma.  You'll probably want to skip it, but that's on you.  Why are you so lazy?  The Paradox of the Proof

-I can't let significant Marvel news pass without commenting.  Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. promo apparently premiered over the weekend.  I've watched it a couple of times now.  Joss Whedon has appeared infallible since the Avengers dropped last year.  Clark Gregg (aka NOT Sparks Nevada) was an exceptionally likeable common thread throughout Marvel's Phase One of American Movie Domination. We shed a tear when he died in the Avengers.  We scratched our head when we heard he would star in Phase One of Marvel's Television Domination.  I was onboard.  Then came this picture:

Joss, baby, I know you like strong women characters, but this is a joke, right?  Am I signing up for Marvel's Agents of Dollhouse?  I am trepidatious.  Is that Doctor Who lurking in the back there?  Whedon is clearly locked in some Sisyphean struggle where he is doomed to remake Buffy the Vampire Slayer ad infinitum.  Buffy may be a man this time, but you can't fool me. 

-Side Effects is an excellent movie.  I've always held Steven Soderbergh in high regards as a director.  His ability to balance artistic urges with mainstream flair has resulted in some extreme highlights (Out of Sight, The Limey...and Ocean's Eleven probably wasn't half bad) but his track record of late was underwhelming to me (Haywire and Magic Mike).  Side Effects mines a surprisingly deep topic in the sale and marketing of anti-depressants for a film that looks reminiscent of so many that came before but ends up being something truly original.  The ending may knock this down a slight peg from a home run to a triple, but it never panders to the audience.  Supposedly this is Steven Soderbergh's last film, as he claims to be retiring.  I'll believe that when he's dead.  He has filmmaking in his blood and he'll be back for more. 

-Baseball is ugh right now.  The Angels are falling like some sort of quintessential falling object. (Your move Raymond Chandler!)  They sit 10 games out of first place. 10 games!  Are you kidding me?  They've barely been playing for a month.  Meanwhile, the Phillies are scrapping, hanging on by their fingernails while the season threatens to run away from them.  Still, there's desperate and there's so desperate that you decide to watch hockey playoffs instead.  I'm nowhere near that yet.  The Columbus Blue Jackets.  That's actually the name of a hockey team.  And they want to be taken seriously?  No wonder they take every couple of seasons off.

-I read today that the Sixth Sense was inspired by an episode of the old Nickelodeon show, Are You Afraid of the Dark?  This makes so much sense to me.  Now that M. Night Shyamalan's last defender has taken a seat, we can agree that his movies have all been stolen from kid's shows.  The Village = Salute Your Shorts.  The Happening = Clarissa Explains it All.  The Lady in the Water = You Can't Do That On Television.  The Last Airbender = Well, that one explains itself.  I guess he got tired of faking it and sought out the actual rights to a children's show.  Unbreakable though.  That movie was pretty tight.  (Look at me.  I'm practically a gang banger using language like that.) 

-The Official Cousin of the Blah Blah Blog submitted a reader question yesterday, asking my opinion on the film Centurion, staring Michael Fassbender.  As usual, I have no simple answer to provide.  Punk Rock Girl and I took in the film over a year ago and I generally remember liking it.  But my obsessions with directors lead me back to the film's creator, Neil Marshall.  This genre chameleon pops up in the Internet consciousness every couple of years with new geek catnip.  Start with Dog Soldiers.  (A werewolf movie!  You want themes?  I got themes out the ass.)  Dog Soldiers is his, "Hi! I'm Neil Marshall, Let Me Introduce Myself!" movie.  He still had something to say at that point.  Follow it up with The Descent, about a bunch of white women in a cave with Gollum.  That's how I remember it anyway.  It's good.  Not great.  If we proceed chronologically, we come to Doomsday.  Best as I can tell, he edited together some clips from the Mad Max movies with Braveheart for that one.  He may have filmed some original content, but it doesn't come to mind.  Then we have Centurion, an under the radar film that benefits more from Fassbinder's presence than anything else.  It has character, if not a budget.  The Neil Marshall train has yet to pull into a recognizable station yet, so I withhold overall judgment.  If his career had a Facebook profile, I might click "Like." If that means something, so be it.

-Vampire Weekend.  Modern Vampires of the City.  5/14.  Can't wait to get my vinyl copy delivered tomorrow.  Everything I've heard streaming online is phenomenal, but I will let you know once I hear it on vinyl.  Will Ezra Koenig be invited to the pants party?  Wait and see!   

Marry a Man

I apologize heartily for my absence.  My job occasionally takes me down into a deep, dark place where I am required to work full eight-hour days and not surf the Internet with the appropriate level of dedication that it deserves.  Is "surfing the 'net" still a term that people use?  It feels horribly antiquated, as if I have traveled back in time to watch the Sandra Bullock movie from the 90s.  I'm talking about The Net here, as if that wasn't clear.  I haven't actually ever seen it, but I imagine it to be a horrible representation of what computers can actually do.  It's probably a bunch of spy types sitting around in control rooms staring at monitors and saying, "Enhance...Enhance...Enhance."  But the use of computers and technologies in movies and TV is a subject for another day.  However, I will indulge my personal favorite usage of video games on a television show, from the old NBC show Life: 

GameTrailers

A few things are apparent from this scene.  First, whoever wrote it has never played a video game.  They do not know how a console works.  They probably don't know how computers in general work.  Second, they hate people who do play video games, and they assume that everyone who plays these games are 30 year olds who live with their mother.  And these are the major problems present without actually getting into the specifics of the Prince of Persia games.  How did this scene happen without someone scoffing loudly enough to draw attention?  But here I am getting off track again on a topic I promised to withhold for the present.

On this beautiful Thursday, I want to give the world a gift.  Chances are you have already seen this by now, as it sweeps the nation, but I need to share it.  I have watched this on heavy repeat the past two days to the point where the images may be permanently imprinted on my screen.  It needs no explanation.  Devour it.

Between Two Ferns With Zach Galifianakis: James Franco from Zach Galifianakis

Now I'm going to take a brief detour into self-indulgence, as I am wont to do.  Punk Rock Girl and I had the pleasure of taking in Iron Man 3 along with the majority of America last weekend and conjured many thoughts in my mind, multiplying like Mickey's broom splinters dousing me in buckets of water.  Some of these thought actually centered on the movie itself, but those aren't the thoughts I'm going to share today. 

Jon Favreau.  He was once the fat guy in Rudy.  Now he is the fat guy in Iron Man 3.  In between those two tentpoles, a confusing career has taken shape.  Is he an actor or is he a director.  Technically, I guess he's both, but while I respect him as one, I'm not sure what to make of the other.  Therefore, the best place to start is undoubtedly with Jon Favreau: Writer.  Swingers was released in 1996, during my freshman year in college.  For context, a film student probably gets his head about as far up his or her ass as it will go during their sophomore/junior year.  By the end of freshman year, I would say you're probably about nose-deep in asshole.  So there's a little context for you.  Granted, I wasn't actually a film student, but as my film studies classes were the only one I actually attended that semester, I think it's a fair point.  Take my remembrances with a grain of salt, but this is how I remember them.  Swingers was a strong business card for both Favreau and his Matt Damon, Vince Vaughn.  Or is he Favreau's Ben Affleck?  I'm having trouble with this metaphor.  Nevertheless, Swingers was low budget all the way, produced some great lines and launched the careers of the stars.  However, it wasn't good.  You know how a low budget movie sometimes looks good and you say, "Wow, they really made the most of their money."  This was the opposite.  The production value was visually distracting.  That probably makes the fact that it was watchable all the more impressive.  Even today, I would probably linger on it briefly if I came across it on television.  At least until Big Bad Voodoo Daddy snapped me out of my stupor with an unwelcome reminder of the 90s swing music revival.  Ugh.  Ok, this movie was a product of its decade.  I respect that.  Side note:  Shortly after Swingers, Vince Vaughn made Return to Paradise.  Essentially a remake of the exemplary Midnight Express with a different emphasis, it is notable mainly for a sex scene between Vaugh (6'5") and Anne Heche (5'5").  I think he actually palms her during the scene.  That sounded dirty.  I mean to say that he tosses he around like a tiny ragdoll.  This scene may have been responsible for her whole lesbian dalliance.

After a couple of TV movies, Favreau came into his own as a director.  He wrote and directed Made, a trifle that bares little attention.  He broke through to the adult table with Elf, a movie that succeeded as much on Will Ferrell's performance as anything else, but prominently featured a narwhal.  Next came Zathura, the pseudo-sequel to Jumanji.  I think we can all agree that Zathura does actually exist.  They can never take that away from him.  Maybe it wasn't bad, but we were all still working on getting the taste of Jumanji out of our mouths.  Now here's the baffling part:  Somehow Favreau impressed Marvel enough to hand him the keys to what would become their multi-billion dollar empire with the first Iron Man.  As their first feature, this was placing a lot of trust in the man, and he knocked it out of the park.  Robert Downey Jr. played a large role in that, sure.  Iron Man 2 was not necessarily a step back, but it also wasn't a step forward in any recognizable fashion.  The last piece of film we have from him (not counting TV episodes) is Cowboys and Aliens, a humorless film that was apparently greenlighted on the basis of it's title. 

What exactly do we make of this career?  Is Favreau a director of note or is he just a placeholder for more visionary directors?  Enter Shane Black, director of Iron Man 3 and Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.  In only two movies, this man has taken what Favreau began and imbued it with a new life.  Maybe it's not fair to say two movies, because this is the man responsible for creating Lethal Weapon, the Long Kiss Goodnight, the Last Boy Scout...and the Last Action Hero.  Chance are, if there is movie with an L in the title, Shane Black probably played a role in bringing it to the screen.  And let us not forget he also wrote one of my childhood favorites, the Goonies meets Van Helsing masterpiece, The Monster Squad. 

The great Disney/Marvel film program has shown a few cracks as they attempt to launch Phase 2 in the post-Avengers filmscape.  But Shane Black has a fine-tuned ear for dialogue and took Tony Stark to the next level in terms of both action and humor.  I'm not sure the Iron Man movies feature anything in between those two extremes, but Black plays them to the hilt in Iron Man 3.  His visual language does much to highlight the shortcomings of Favreau.  Put into the context of this film, Favreau comes off as more of a project manager than a true director.  That sounds more insulting that I initially thought, but I stand by the assessment.  He is a slave to the talent around him, giving them room to flourish but not serving as the driving force behind the creative process.  Shane Black's movies crackle with a crispness that Favreau has not yet achieved and maybe never will.  He sets the creative tone with his writing and dares the cinematography and special effects to keep up or fall behind.  Iron Man 3 is an example of pure cinematic boldness.  It's emotional impact may be null but if you were expecting that in the first place, you probably have Alzheimer's. 

Now that I have built up Shane Black at Jon Favreau's expense, let me couch.  I know Jon Favreau personally.  What I mean is that I once had the pleasure of attending the Hellboy 2 premiere and was able to watch Favreau converse with the more talented Guillermo Del Toro from across the room.  We later made plans to meet up at Disneyland, where Favreau and his family walked by while Punk Rock Girl and I waited in line for Finding Nemo.  We didn't have to exchange words, we both knew what was up.  As a close personal friend of Jon Favreau, I don't expect him to go away.  I think he is simply waiting for the right material to take his trade to the next level.  Look at how far he has come from the days of Swingers.  With his supporting role in I Love You, Man, he made Punk Rock Girl laugh out loud at a volume and length that made me quite uncomfortable to be seen in public with her.  That talent is priceless and cannot be tamed.  Stay tuned.

A Situation of Concern

With a topic so controversial and bleak, it is difficult to find an adequate starting point.  Yesterday I was faced with two references to the foreign concept of the "Brony."  I was unfamiliar and a subsequent explanation left me agape.  Webster's Dictionary defines "Brony" as...You thought I would do that?  I'm not a high school valedictorian.  Does anything turn you off more than a graduation speech that begins with a dictionary definition or ends with a quote from Doctor Seuss.  Apparently valedictorians are too busy studying to actually find a personality.  And that is why most of them end up as prostitutes in the Czech Republic.  And why is Czechoslovakia now the Czech Republic, or is it?  I don't have any stats to support that claim, so let's make like deodorant and roll on.

Anyways, Urban Dictionary defines "Brony" as: 
Typically refers to 13-30 year old male fans of the 2010 reboot of the show My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, but may also include females (see fillies).

Brony = Bro + Pony

While generally associated with a negative stereotype by outsiders, due to it's former 80's frilly girly-girl twinkle-toed tea-parties and all-female main casting, bronies are attracted to the new show by it's good animation, acting, writing, and humor.
So...hold up.  That's a word.  Clearly this was written by a Brony, as demonstrated by the distinctly apologistic final sentence.  Made up or otherwise, this word something people type into computers using those letters in that order on purpose.  How did America become this cesspool?  Not to beat an dead pony, but I blame the hipsters.  It was they that made this form of deviance acceptable.  A brief Googling came up with the following article:  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/01/10/bronycon-2012-bronies-my-little-pony_n_1196695.html.  Following the link will give you a quick rundown of the 2012 Winter BronyCon.  Maybe I am overstepping boundaries here, but does this not imply four seasonally centered BronyCon's?  Or two at the absolute, rock bottom minimum.

Here is my issue.  This is not a gender role thing.  I may or not have possessed a Cabbage Patch Kid when I was a child.  My mother was sometimes confused about my gender.  BUT...let us not forget that Cabbage Patch Kids were produced by Coleco, which made the Colecovision gaming console, which I used to play the Smurfs video game on, which I kinda killed at, for what that's worth (a s*** ton).  So in retrospect, my Cabbage Patch Kid made me a bit of a badass, a trait which remains to this day.  (Bonus fact of the day: Coleco is an abbreviation of the Connecticut Leather Company.  Nothing I ever used from Coleco had a lick of leather.  Mind=Blown)

Back to the issue.  These are not individuals who want to share their love of a product with the world.  They feel the need to develop a subgroup of a subgroup in order to make themselves feel better about the life decisions they have made.  Instead of attending a general My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic convention, they need to have their own to prove that they are the hardest of the core.  That reeks of hipster.  Why can't a "Brony" share their love of little plastic ponies with the girls for which the product was intended?

Because it's creepy.  Grown men with little girls.  You know what is just as creepy?  Grown men with little boys who play with ponies.  And now they want to rent convention halls so they can share their feelings in private?  In my day, they had a club for people like this.  It was called NAMBLA.  They had conventions too, but they always ended in tears and chafing, I assume.

In fact, I think I have seen the Unofficial Brony Mailing List.  You can find it on the Internet if you search for Megan's Law.  If you ever find yourself being a Brony, you should probably inform the government if you live within 500 feet of an elementary school or park.

Here is the point of this situation.  Play with ponies, I don't care.  Don't touch kids innappropriately.  You are weird.  I am weird.  You are creepy because you feel the need to classify your weirdness and pretend that your social deviance equals superiority.  I am not creepy because I don't feel the need to impress my weirdness upon others.  My weirdness sleeps deeply and peacefully inside me.  If you are a Brony, you are pathetic and have not yet realized it.  If you wake up and smell the pony s*** that you're spreading, the world will be a better place.    

An Ugly Topic

Punk Rock Girl read my screenplay this weekend.  Not for the first time, but for the first time in a couple of years.  This came as a surprise to me.  It seems I was fast asleep, and she was looking for the copy Neil Gaiman's Coraline that I recently purchased for her.  That would be fine, if it wasn't a lie.  Coraline was sitting right where she left it, on the kitchen table underneath the new socks I purchased at Target this week.  They are the ones with moisture wicking so that your feet stay dry and don't develop fungi.  But that is a story for another day. 

In order to understand my horror upon seeing her with my screenplay, I may need to give you some background.  I occasionally write for a living when the rest of the BS inherent to my job fails to occupy my time.  I enjoy writing for a living.   There are better topics to write about than temporary staffing, but you can't always get what you want, as Mick once said. My ability to successfully navigate this deadline-driven, theoretically stressful environment has resulted in my reputation as a robot among my coworkers.  This notion is silly, and I resent them for it.  But I didn't want to get to know them better anyway.  Now...where was I. 

Screenwriting inspires me to a greater degree.  I love the translation of written dialogue to the big screen.  Unlike my standard proposals at work, these are documents worthy of actually caring about.  So to put words on paper in this capacity is a much more daunting task.  It is an art form that means something to me and reflects my soul (note: souls do not exist) to a greater degree than anything else I create, except for maybe the Roger Rabbit pencil holder I made for my dad in art class in sixth grade.  He still has it.  It is hideous, as is everything formed with these wood blocks God (note: God does not exist) gave me for hands. 

My screenplay is not a bad screenplay.  Does that imply that it is good?  I would not make that assumption.  It is a flawed screenplay.  Flaws that can be fixed, but flaws nonetheless.  That is all I see when I look at it.  Disappointment and error.  I don't see the positives or joys.  But isn't that the necessity of the whole thing?  If I were to focus on the great things I achieved, why would I be driven to achieve my full potential? 

The business of Hollywood drives me absolutely insane.  The city is filled with writers and producers based on sole credits in college short films.  Does this make them a screenwriter?  They seem to think so.  In an industry driven by ego, what does a title actually mean?  I am not a screenwriter.  I am not paid to do so, so I am not.  I have too much respect for the art form to make false claims.

What does all of this mean? 
1. It couldn't thrill me more that Punk Rock Girl wants to read my screenplay in one sitting.  I love that she believes so uniformly in my abilities.
2. In my eyes, the screenplay is a 120-page list of my shortcomings in their purest form.  Maybe that is a beautiful thing in a poetic sense but it makes me feel like a nervous puppy on the 4th of July.
3. I need to rewrite my screenplay.  My characters deserve better.  Maybe attacking my own imperfections is the only way to address my plight. 
4. Diablo Cody is a uniquely American problem.  She must have been an awful stripper, but she's a worse screenwriter.  Of this I am certain.

  My incoherence is particularly on display this morning.  I don't know if it is the topic at hand or a weekendly residue in need of scraping from my consciousness.  Only time will tell. 

Cruise People

I am not "Cruise People."  I do not like using cruise as an adjective or a verb.  I have never been on a cruise.  I do not want to go on a cruise.  People say to me, "How do you know you won't like it if you don't try it?"  Because I have spent 35 years with myself and nothing disgusts me to my core as much as the thought of a cruise. 

My wife is not "Cruise People."  She thinks she might be because she did it once.  But when it comes to vacations, Punk Rock Girl is essentially a labrador with a tennis ball.  "Ooooooooooh, I want to go to (fill in the blank)" is on constant repeat in the playlist of my life.  The fact that she wants to visit Ecuador is not separated from the mode of transport that might deliver her.

And yet I am regularly called upon to explain why I don't want to board one of the vile behemoths of the sea.  Apparently stooping to the common language of the uneducated with "I'm not Cruise People" doesn't carry the sufficient weight that I feel when it detaches venomously from my tongue.  So perhaps I need to take a minute to explain that my impression of a cruise is basically summed up by the future civilization of Wall-E.  Human beanbags floating around drinking Big Gulps is the status quo in this imaginary world in my head.  These people are from places with names like "Oklahoma" and they have a favorite cow.  I do not want to board a floating hotel with these people.  I want to pass them at the buffet while I leave the hotel where they pile orange chicken on top of their mashed potatoes.  You need more?  Ok, then.  Here are the top reasons I am in no mood to trip the cruise fantastic:

• Eating is not a recreational activity.  It is a necessity.  If you truly feel empowered by the opportunity to order more than one entree and send back any you don't like, you are a glutton and God will punish you with ateriosclerosis.  You will end up in your own personal version of Se7en (ugh...I can't believe my keyboard typed it that way) and you won't have Kevin Spacey to blame for your rampant diarrhea.
•  I do not want to talk to strangers.  My parents taught me not to talk to them and I love my parents.  If these strangers had anything to add to my life, they would not have waited for elevensies on the big boat to impart their wisdom.   
• Speed 2: Cruise Control
• There were places with regimented activities where people were forced to participate with dire consequences for being a fuddy-duddy.  They were called concentration camps and I thought we all agreed they were bad.  Now you want me to set sail on the Carnival Dachau?
• Beautiful people have their own boats.  People that go on cruises are not beautiful.  They are wrinkled and oddly shaped.  They often wear bathing suits.  I would end up spending the entire trip staring at the sun in hopes of blinding myself. 
• Excess is not attractive.  Spend good money on high quality in appropriate quantities. 
• My vacations never center around the hotel.  When I travel, I want to spend time in that locale, not the means of transport.  Man invented methods of flight.  It doesn't get old.  Embrace it.

These are the reasons I do not intend to cruise.  Punk Rock Girl is the only person that will ever convince me to board one of these monstrosities.  Even then, I will not approach the trip with an open mind. 

To paraphrase Colin Farrell in In Bruges, "If I grew up on a farm, and was retarded, cruises might impress me.  But I didn't, so they don't."

I'll leave you on this subject with the words of David Foster Wallace on the subject, from his wonderful article "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again."

I have learned that there are actually intensities of blue beyond very, very bright blue.  I have eaten more and classier food than I've ever eaten, and eaten this food during a week when I've also learned the difference between "rolling" in heavy seas and "pitching" in heavy seas.  I have heard a professional comedian tell folks, without irony, "But seriously."  I have seen fuchsia pantsuits and menstrual-pink sportcoats and maroon-and-purple warm-ups and white loafers worn without socks...I have heard upscale adult U.S. citizens ask the Guest Relations Desk whether snorkeling necessitates getting wet, whether the skeetshooting will be held outside, whether the crew sleeps on board, and what time the Midnight Buffet is.  I now know the precise mixological difference between a Slippery Nipple and a Fuzzy Navel.  I know what a Coco Loco is.  I have in one week been the object of over 1500 professional smiles.  I have burned and peeled twice.  I have shot skeet at sea.  Is this enough?  At the time it didn't seem like enough.  I have felt the full clothy weight of a subtropical sky.  I have jumped a dozen times at the shattering, flatulence-of-the-gods sound of a cruise ship's horn.  I have absorbed the basics of mah-jongg, seen part of a two-day rubber of contract bridge, learned how to secure a life jacket over a tuxedo, and lost at chess to a nine-year-old girl.

I have now heard - and am powerless to describe - reggae elevator music.  I have learned what it is to become afraid of one's own toilet.  I have acquired "sea legs" and would like now to lose them.  I have tasted caviar and concurred with the little kid sitting next to me that it is: blucky. 

I have heard people in deck chairs say in all earnestness that it's the humidity rather than the heat.  I have been - thoroughly, professionally, and as promised beforehand - pampered.  I have, in dark moods, viewed and logged every type of erythema, keratinosis, pre-melanomic lesion, liver spot, eczema, wart, papular cyst, potbelly, femoral cellulite, varicosity, collagen and silicone enhancement, bad tint, hair transplants that have not taken - i.e. I have seen nearly naked a lot of people I would prefer not to have seen nearly naked.  I have felt as bleak as I've felt since puberty, and have filled almost three Mead notebooks trying to figure out whether is was Them or Just Me.

Preach it DFW.  (And R.I.P.)

Underrated Film Club: Rocknrolla

Thank you for joining me today for the first in a series of lectures highlighting the often overlooked masterpieces of world cinema that deserve our attention.  Today's entry is from the spectacularly uneven career of Guy "Guy" Ritchie.  Is that his real name?  IMDB would have you believe that it is, and who am I to challenge Amazon's DVD sales portal?

Guy Ritchie Filmography
Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels - 1998
Snatch - 2000
Swept Away - 2002
Revolver - 2005
Rocknrolla - 2008
Sherlock Holmes - 2009
Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows - 2011

After laying claim to his particular brand of cinema in 1998 with the ascendant Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Guy Ritchie seemed destined for immeasurable success and many rubies.  His major achievements in this era included paving the way for Jason Statham to eventually star in Crank 2 and making a movie so impressively British that Tom Cruise didn't realize it was in English and bought the rights to remake it in the "American English."  Of course, he eventually realized that America doesn't have an equivalent for Cockney rhyming slang, except for maybe the controversial Ebonics.  And although the ashes of Leroi Ron Hubbard prophesied that America would welcome Tommy in blackface with open arms, his robot brain malfunctioned, causing him to miss his opportunity. 

Snatch was the unofficial remake of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels with a bigger budget and brighter stars.  It fell short of the original but it was fun.  We began to wonder if the wunderkind was a one-trick pony.  It may have been a pretty pony, with a nice bow in its mane and the finest cuts of oats.  But it still shit...a lot.  Sorry, that metaphor got away from me.   If you take anything away from Snatch, let it be that it was a 7.  Not bad, but a downward trend from Lock, Stock's exuberant 10.  Consequently, I recently learned there was a spin-off television show in England called Lock, Stock...  Why is this not something I have seen?  It's availability should be a given.

Now our man entered the darkness of the Madonna years.  Clearly a marriage forged in the fires of Mordor, it somehow came to pass that she should work together.  The Material Girl no longer haunted the films of Warren Beatty.  Does Swept Away deserve mention?  Probably not.  I didn't see it and I never will.  But Revolver, I saw.  I can't unsee it, no matter how hard I try.  This is the low point of Guy Ritchie's career to date, in terms of credibility and box office.  It has been a few years since I've seen it, but I believe the plot revolves around Ray Liotta putting on a Speedo.  Jason Statham is in there somewhere.  I think he slightly beat out Liotta's gut for top credit.  Here is the rub though...it took place in the United States.  Why?  Does Guy Ritchie has some brilliant insight into the country?  I submit he does not.  He did not know the American version of the people he wrote and directed.  His characters came from the streets where he grew up, whether they actually did or not is irrelevant.  I believed they did and they were authentic.  The U.S. already has American Guy Ritchie, but his parents named him Joe Carnahan.  Not to open a whole 'nother can of worms, but how can I not follow this tangent?  Carnahan made Blood, Guts, Bullets and Octane (his Lock, Stock) in 1998 as well.  It was rough but showed promise.  Narc (the Carnahanian masterpiece) came out in 2002, also with Ray Liotta's same gut but fewer Speedos.  I can't recommend it highly enough.  Then he made the Smoking Aces, which attempted to out-Ritchie Ritchie.  Ultimately, the film was found to cause cancer and banished from the Earth in my mind.  Currently, Carnahan is serving time in one of the high numbered circles of hell for making an A-Team-like substance.  It was there that he was forced to make a movie about Liam Neeson not fighting wolves with tiny liquor bottles.  Forget him for now.  I wish I could.

Rocknrolla
Now we come to the entire point of this gathering: Rocknrolla.  In the grand scheme of things, it may not seem important.  But we were languishing in a post-Snatch world where a unique film talent we had fallen in love with no longer existed.  We needed something to believe in again.  It was then that Rocknrolla rose from the ashes.  It sounded like Guy Ritchie.  It felt like Guy Ritchie.  It smelled like Guy Ritchie.  It tasted like Guy Ritchie.  It (insert fifth sense here)ed like Guy Ritchie.  We once again believed that Ritchie was a positive force in the world.  He broke free from the shackles of Madonna and justified his existence.  That is why Rocknrolla needed to exist.  Cookie cutters shaped like USC and UCLA spit out miniature Spielbergs and, God help us, Lucases every day.  We need voices like Ritchie that actually experienced life prior to finding their calling.  Rocknrolla takes us into a world that exists somewhere across the pond.  I need to believe that.  Maybe that world only exists in Guy Ritchie's mind, but One Two, Handsome Bob and Mumbles roam free.  It is an exercise in persistent style, and I am glad that it exists.

That shambled along much longer than I expected before getting to the point.  Since then, Ritchie has managed to put together two Sherlock Iron Man movies in an age where Benedict Cumberbatch is the only truly relevant Holmes.  To be truthful, the second one was quite entertaining.  Rumors have him circling similarly soulless films for his next chapter.  But Rocknrolla gives me faith that Ritchie will return to the wicked streets of London someday, where small-time thugs reach for the big brass ring while razor-sharp dialogue spits from their North and South.  And I will be the first in line to buy my ticket and welcome him back.


  

Diminished Returns

As I currently stumble my way through God of War: Ascension (which I blame mostly on the developers and maybe 20% on myself) on my Playstation, I realized that I had ceased to enjoy the game on the level that its preceding trilogy had inspired.  Maybe it isn't quite the dropoff of Sophie Marceau following up Braveheart by starring as David Spade's love interest just four years later, but much like Sophie's choice (hee hee), the path God of War took to this point is not paved without the occasional bad decision.  The series survives despite its weaknesses rather than on their shoulders.  Is it fair to hold it up to a standard that may never have existed in the first place or was that reputation fairly earned?

God of War has a good story based in mythology.  False. 
God of War has a story.  Ehhhh...that's a little closer to the truth. 
God of War has a premise that justifies large scale battles with epic consequences.  Sure.  I'll go along with that.     

God of War has prodigious combat.  True-ish.  Once you cut away the fluff.
God of War's combat is like an onion, it has many layers.  Seriously?  Maybe an onion with rotten outer layers. This is an onion you want to eat?
God of War stages impressive battles with repetitive combat that minimize the redundancy of the routine combat. I'll give you this one.  The game never fails to entertain but does so with cinematic grandiosity rather than a well thought out combat system.

God of War has strong RPG elements.  This is a joke, right?  How did you even get in here?
God of War has RPG elements.  Still?  Let's agree to agree that you are wrong.  When did the definition of RPG elements become so lax that every shooter laid claim to the title?  Call of Duty?  Fallout?  I enjoy a good RPG, I don't enjoy those titles.  Mass Effect.  Uh-uh.
God of War comes in a box with an instruction manual.  Now that is something we can agree on.  Unless you downloaded it, in which case you didn't even get this courtesy.  I rented it.

My internal dialogue has made me think I hate not only this game, but the series as a whole.  This couldn't be farther from the truth.  The initial trilogy delighted me with it's gore and epicness, but it seems they may have gone back to the well one time too many and some of the luster is fading.  On the face, the game seems to be more of the same, so to be judgmental of its primary characteristics calls its predecessors onto the mat as well.  Kratos will survive.  He is an enduring character that grounds the game in perseverance and general badassery. 

As the fourth entry in the God of War series proper, I think it's worth considering how they got here.  We live in the age of the trilogy.  Ever since George Lucas claimed that he always conceived of Star Wars as a trilogy, "artists" have spoken of their visions for a three-part story.  Did they really have plans or is it a convenient strategy to lend legitimacy to sequels?  Recent popular trilogies in the video game realm have played this strategy to the hilt.  Mass Effect, Killzone, Halo, Uncharted.  But do they stop at three?  Some do, some don't.  When you talk about the impact of a story in three parts with a beginning, middle and end, how do you expect people to take the fourth installment seriously?  Isn't it superfluous by definition? 

George Lucas also managed to circumvent this issue with Star Wars, eventually claiming that his trilogy was actually a trilogy of trilogies.  Very clever.  Unfortunately he came down with Alzheimer's and died before he directed Episodes 1-3 of that series.  Now J.J. Abrams will be responsible for figuring out the beginning of the end.  Ultimately, each story must survive on its own, whether it is the beginning, middle or end of an overarching beginning, middle or end.  God of War achieved that level of credibility with the first three entries in the series.  But the fourth one represents a bit of a stumble into familiar territory that lacks polish.  If Sony wants to keep this juggernaut chugging into the PS4 era, it will need to figure out what made the previous entries so unimpeachably fun and ditch the posturing.  I'll let you know if I still feel the same way at the end, but I'll stick with it for now.    

Spitting Venom

I probably have more thoughts floating around in my head about Modest Mouse than any other band, ranging from the inocuous (How does Isaac Brock growl out those low notes without shredding his vocal cords?) to the philosophical (Is "Good News for People Who Love Bad News" a great album but a bad Modest Mouse album)?  The answer to the latter is "No" but it is thought provoking.  I prefer to see it as a gateway drug that let a larger portion of the population in on the secret.

For the first time last night, I was able to find out how Modest Mouse sounded in person.  Living in the shadow of Coachella does have it's advantages.  Following the expansion to two identical weekends last year, Pomona became a prime location for catching the festival's crumbs. I fully acknowledge this will not put my hipster protests to bed, but Punk Rock Girl and I waded through the sea of flannel shirts holding PBR tallboys to watch the show at the Fox Theater in Pomona.  I'm not sure how all of the children snuck out on a school night, but Pomona, am I right?  Skipping the opener to proceed directly to the main attraction, we were not disappointed.  If anything, I feel the Fox Theater sound was a slight letdown to the band, but with the amount of distortion Modest Mouse feeds on, I think I would need another control in my experiment to know where the blame lies.  The group was not polished, as this represents one of a few scattered dates rather than a cohesive tour.  We're still waiting on their first new album since 2007 to justify that roadtrip.  But regardless, their talent shone through.  And we were treated to three new songs, enough to give us hope that an album is indeed in the pipeline.  Spitting Venom though, right?  Totally.

In honor of the show, I will rank the Mouse's top 5 proper albums:
1. The Moon and Antarctica
2. We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank
3. The Lonesome Crowded West
4. Good News for People Who Love Bad News
5. This is a Long Drive for Somone with Nothing to Think About

For the record, 25 year-old Steve would have ranked Good News first.  Now, I prefer to consume my Good News in the words of Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior.  Also for the record, 45 year-old Steve will listen only to Jackson Browne and Steely Dan. 

Longreads.com

Longreads.com is my latest addiction.  I have always been a fan of the long-form article.  It provides a strident counterpoint to the Reddits and Diggs of the world which have reduced reading to headlines and cat pictures.  Tangent: Reddit has gone downhill quite quickly recently as the uncleansed have overrun it.  This isn't a surprise.  Digg underwent the same indignities not too long ago.

In the hopes of convincing you, I have posted my favorite article from Longreads so far.  This delightful piece is a compelling tale that could have been written by the offspring of Agatha Christie and Cormac McCarthy if time travel were possible.  With that intro, I beg you to read the story of The Body in Room 348.  Or wait and I'm sure you'll see it summarized on a thrilling episode of CSI in the not too distant future if reading isn't really your bag.  The original story is pulled from Vanity Fair, which is an excellent source of articles along these lines when the perfume samples don't drive you away. 

Also this:

 

Soul Withering Darkness: The Weekly Lowlights

Life on Earth isn't only about happiness and rainbows.  Take gravity, for example.  If you are lucky enough to live to a ripe old age, gravity will slowly crush you into a shadow of your former self, leaving a twisted husk for the maggots to devour.  Pop culture is not unlike gravity.  It slowly pulls you down despite every seeming peak of a Searching for Sugar Man or Fault In Our Stars.  With that, I present to you my weekly lowpoints:

G.I. Joe: Retaliation (2013) - Disclaimer: As a young boy I was a He-Man devotee.  As such, my commitment to the G.I. Joe legacy is tenuous.  Dolph Lundgren and Courtney Cox teamed up to produce the perfect He-Man movie when I was just a lad, a movie so successful that no man has attempted to best it.  G.I. Joe: Rise of the Cobra was an atrocious first entry in the series and Hasbro does not have a strong identity in film production, so the latest film does not have much to live up to.  Ultimately, I don't hate the movie itself.  However, I loathe the idea of the movie.  Look what they reduced Jonathan Pryce to for God's sake!  Perhaps this entire movie is part of the dreams in his head at the end of Brazil.  Let me sum it up this way, Duke dies within the first 15 minutes.  This is the G.I. Joe equivalent of Cyclops dying offscreen in X-Men: The Last Stand.  Destro: Dies in the first third.  Or at least his eyes did, since that's all I ever got to see.  That left me with the Rock, Friday Night Lights girl and generic action filler for the rest of the film.  Until Bruce Willis showed up in a completely incomprehensible role.  I think it is time to stop pretending that John McClane has anything left in the tank.  He looks like a frail old man with a wrinkly neck flap.  But enough about that.  There's a cool fight scene on a mountain with Darth Snake Eyes and the Cobra vehicles rang with some level of authenticity.  I can't believe in addressing the elephant in the room...why is there not a PSA at the end of the closing credits? 

GameTrailers

Doritos Loco Cool Ranch Taco - Punk Rock Girl has been relentless with her interest in this new offering from Taco Bell.  Yesterday she was finally given the opportunity to try one at my behest.  I declined to participate in this particular taste test.  I had tried the original Doritos taco and primarily found fault with its delivery system, which requires a cardboard sleeve to aid consumption.  I was not willing to use this contraption or dirty my hands with Doritos dust.  But her love of Cool Ranch Doritos is absolute so I decided to play matchmaker.  Punk Rock Girl was a trooper in the face of certain gastrointestinal distress, finishing the entire taco.  The ultimate verdict:  Never again.  God did not intend for these two creations to intertwine in such a manner.  I can only assume it was deliciousness overload that her mind could not comprehend.  Maybe we'll try again when humanity develops a sense capable of appreciating the full package.  In the meantime, I wait for the latest creation from the future diabetics who brought you the KFC Famous Bowl:

The Week in Review

My daily life is typically consumed by the need for constant input.  It is rare that I slow down enough to rehash old ideas or visit media that is played out.  New experiences are the invaluable currency that drive my exploration.  Each week, I close the book on a number of activities that bear notation and feel the need to download my thoughts on the subject so that I might freely move on to the next source of inspiration.  Some of these methaphorical books are also actual books.  I call them metaphactual.  Here are my recommendations for this week celebrating the 20th anniversary of the violent end to the Branch Davidians Compound in Waco, Texas.

Pick of the Week

Searching for Sugar Man (2012) - I first spotted posters advertising this documentary during my vacation in London last summer.  In particular, the "From the Producer of Man on Wire" designation grabbed by attention, as that was certainly a documentary worth noting from the past few years.  Like many others, I assumed this was the long awaited film biography of Bob Sugarman, the influential Jewish tort lawyer from the 1970s.  In this respect, I was sorely disappointed, but I soon found myself invested in the story of Sixto Rodriguez, a folk artist from the early 1970s that recorded two well-reviewed albums that sold approximately six copies before fading from memory.  That's only the U.S. story though.  The albums were introduced in South Africa through copies and bootlegs, building a dedicated following that outsold hit acts like Elvis.  I don't want to ruin the outcome of the story because the beauty of the film only begins with Rodriguez's initial failures.  He is an inspiring man that deserves a place along the Bob Dylans of the world for his ability to capture the message of the downtrodden.  However, his abbreviated career has created an intriguing snapshot of an alternate reality Dylan that was never tempted with success or caught plagiarizing.  Rodriguez's story is more pure because he was given every opportunity to become a bitter shell cast off by the recording industry but he remains unbowed by the thieves who stripped him of his rightful place.

Other Stuff That Didn't Completely Destroy My Soul

Jurassic Park 3D (1993) - Steven Spielberg and I have had our differences over the years.  His tastes are a little too Spielbergian for me.  What are the odds?  Fifteen-year-old Steve (Ingham) had fewer misgivings about the man.  With good reason, since many of his crimes were yet to be committed at that point.  In time, Indiana Jones and E.T. gave way to A.I. and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, but even those atrocious misfires could not take the luster off a classic like Jurassic Park.  It is the rare confluence of story and technology that So why is it not the Pick of the Week?  Punk Rock Girl and I caught this one in 3D, which was the primary decision driving the film's rerelease in the first place.  I've never been sold on 3D, a choice that America is arriving at quickly, if box office returns and TV sales are to be believed.  I had my hopes, but this film was no exception.  The 3D was a distraction at times throughout the film, the muddied compositions detracting from quiet scenes much more than it added to the bombastic action throughout.  But even this technical issue could not distract from the spirit of the film.  The story is streamlined to perfection and the cast is excellent.  This movie was a welcome friend from the past that benefits from the big screen experience but can also be viewed at home for a reminder of how much talent the wunderkind behind Duel and Sugarland Express once wielded.

If I may make a short detour, I need to make brief mention of my one obsession with regards to Jurassic Park.  A lesser known Samuel L. Jackson figures prominently in the movie as the director of the command center at the heart of the park.  His role does not feature copious amounts of dialogue.  Therefore, I find it quite jarring to have him repeat the phrase "Hold on to your butts" during his two key moments in the entire film.  Is this intended to be a catchphrase?  Did Spielberg expect to see Jackson's face emblazoned across t-shirts with this line?  Or was this just laziness in the script?  Was Spielberg sitting in the editing suite and slapped his forehead at this blatant oversight and reshoots were impossible?  We need an answer.  This deserves a book or at least a long-form magazine expose.  America needs to know.

The Fault in Our Stars - John Green (2012) -  Young Adult fiction is one of the great scourges currently dragging our country down into the abyss of mediocrity.  (I know "America, love it or leave it, Steve.  These colors don't run."  If only it were that simple.)  Twilight is like cancer in book form.  Stephanie Meyer is like the person who invented cancer, whatshisname...oh yeah, God.  The Hunger Games, fine if you're a teenage girl.  If you're my age, you should probably shore up your credibility by reading it between James Joyce's Ulysses and something by a Russian.  The Russians would never write The Hunger Games.  Their Hunger Games is One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. 

So what's my point?  Elevating youth fiction as a credible source of literature for adults degrades our society.  I look forward to another 20 years, when the Pulitzer Prize is awards to America's strongest journalistic source, People Magazine.  Adults need to challenge themselves when it comes to reading or we will continue our national regression into stupidity and arrogance.  That's my disclaimer.  Now then...you have my full recommendation to pick up John Green's 2012 YA novel, The Fault in Our Stars.  Although it centers around the lives of two teens coping with cancer, it never condescends to the subject by granting simple answers.  Sure, the characters can grate on you a bit at their most annoying, but what are you gonna do.  They're teenagers.  It's authentic.  It's not a complex story but it is written and paced expertly.

Put a Bird On It

Hipster culture is something I orbit frequently, guilt by association as it were. 
The case against me:  I have a mustache that I have been known to wax.  I enjoy listening to records and believe that the sound has a quality absent from modern electronic recordings.  I enjoy sampling microbrews and frequenting gastropubs.  I enjoy demolition derbies in a non-ironic fashion. 
The case in my favor:  F*** hipsters.  I'm not one.  I've never even tasted a PBR, much less at a neighborhood dive while listening to the hot new band of which you've never heard.  Then again, have I mentioned how excited I am to have tickets to Cloud Nothings and the Japandroids later this month?  But you've heard of them, right?  Those acclaimed, totally non-hipster bands that are selling out dingy cement slabs while flannel-wearing douches sip small-batch whiskeys aged in barrels used to transport rum on the Pinta which has given them just the slightest hint of black currant?  Goddammit.  I think I might be a hipster.  But I'm fighting it.

This is the internal struggle that presented itself when I placed that title upon my blog post.  This blog, as with all things in life, is done for Nicole, my wife.  If it makes her happy, then I need no other reason.  So if I choose a blog title referencing Portlandia, the beacon of hipster folderol, I assign it no meaning other than loving her.  Now that we've worked our way through that, I have additional thoughts.

Baseball season in underway and things have not started well.  This is not a problem.  A sample size of less than 25-30 games is useless.  The Braves won't win 140 games, and the Astros won't lose...well, the Astros could lose 120.  Anyways, my Punk Rock Girl and I attended our first game of the season last night (Angels fell to the A's 8-1, blah).  The real excitement completely escape my attention until this morning.  Those who know me understand where my allegiances lie.  First and foremost:  God's Glory.  Seriously, though, it goes something like this:  Green Lantern (v2.0, aka Hal Jordan), the Phillies, my dogs, the rest of my friends and family, genocide, Coldplay.  As a Phillies major with a minor in the Angels, my hatreds are thus: Dodgers, Braves, Jayson Werth, Red Sox, Yankees.  So when I read the headline that a Dodger-Padres brawl resulted in a star pitcher's broken collarbone, you can imagine my excitement.  My excitement (please let it be Clayton Kershaw, please let it be Clayton Kershaw) turned to dismay when I clicked the link.

If there is one player in MLB that I feel an emotional connection to, it is Zack Greinke.  His troubles have been well documented, social anxiety disorder and depression.  Started in Kansas City, went to Milwaukee.  Came to the Angels then signed a huge contract last offseason with the Dodgers.  I champion him for standing up and creating awareness for his issues on a national scale.  What better way to deal with anxiety than standing on a raised platform in front of 40,000 people every five days?  For him to end last night as the focal point of a fight with lasting physical implications is disappointing.  He may be a Dodger, but he is also a kindred spirit.

My aversion to sports such as the NFL centers on the macho aura that doesn't permit weakness, real or perceived.  The remnants of this culture still circle baseball, but the modern era continues to make inroads.  One particular Stonehenge is the notion that pitchers must protect their hitters when they are threatened.  Did Zack Greinke buy into this code and intentionally hit Carlos Quentin last night?  Perhaps.  Did he egg Quentin on during their brief exchange before Quentin charged the mound?  Perhaps.  But when Greinke emerged from beneath the pile with a broken collarbone, intentions were meaningless.  A crucial bone in the skeletal pitching apparatus, it appears it will cost Greinke more than two months with questionable results thereafter.  I hope his recovery is speedy and thorough.

Sorry for the baseball obsession today.  It surely won't be the last time though.  If you haven't completely tuned out at this point, I read a couple of excellent articles on Grantland this week that I highly recommend:

For the Dodger haters:  Extraordinary Payroll, Ordinary Talent
Whatever happened to Kobe's rap career?  This was a thing: 

The Secret History of Kobe Bryant’s Rap Career

Inadvertent Substance Misuser

Pressures to engage in a blog have reached critical mass, so I present this effort as an attempt to keep the peace.  I know not what my blog is or what it will become.  To truly enter the morass of self-loathing and paranoia that is my mind would probably drive whomsoever reads this to drink and/or priapism.  It may just devolve into me posting pictures of My Little Pony with captions like SpunkieNutz luvs U!!!  I assume SpunkieNutz is the name of a My Little Pony, I was too lazy to look one up.  I would prefer to continually type My Little Pony as if it isn't a cumbersome label to push across your tongue.

In my usual unfortunate nature, I am find myself in the middle of four or five books at the same time without a plan for completing any of them on a reasonable timeline.  The most compelling title is also the least urgent, with its lackadaisical short story structure.  Honestly, George Saunders?  You couldn't be bothered to fill an entire book with a single story?  The Tenth of December is the title in question. If you haven't read any of Saunders' work, I can't recommend him highly enough. His work teeters on the precipice between Sartre and Terry Gilliam, if such a precipice exists. If not, I apologize for an inept comparison. Another short story collection, "Civilwarland in Bad Decline," is a favorite of mine. However, the following passage hails from the story "Pastoralia" in the collection of the same name. It concerns a mother and her 24 year old son discussing his shortcomings and sums up my love for the author:

"I was trying," he says. "But still they kicked me out."
"Kicked you out of what?" she says. "Wait a minute, wait a minute, go back. They kicked you out of what? Of rehab?
"It's nothing bad, Ma!" he shouts. "You don't have to make me feel ashamed about it. I feel bad enough, being called a thief by Mr. Doe in front of the whole group."
"Jesus, Bradley," she says. "How are you supposed to get better if you get kicked out of rehab? What did you steal this time? Did you steal a stereo again? Who's Mr. Doe?"
"I didn't steal nothing, Ma," he says. "Doe's my counselor. I borrowed something. A TV. The TV from the lounge. I just felt like I could get better a lot faster if I had a TV in my room. So I took control of my recovery. Is that so bad? I thought that's what I was there for, you know? I'm not saying I did everything perfect. Like I probably shouldn't of sold it."
"You sold it?" she says.
"There was nothing good ever on!" he says. "If they showed good programs I just know I would've gotten better. But no. It was so boring. So I decided to throw everybody a party, because they were all supporting me so well, by letting me keep the TV in my room? And so, you know, I sold the TV, for the party, and was taking the bucks over to the Party Place, to get some things for the party, some hats and tooters and stuff like that, but then I've got this problem, with substances, and so I sort of all of a sudden wanted some substances. And then I ran into this guy with some substances. That guy totally fucked me! By being there with those substances right when I had some money? He didn't care one bit about my recovery."
"You sold the rehab TV to buy drugs," she says.
"To buy substances, Ma, why can't you get it right?" he says. "The way we name things is important, Ma, Doe taught me that in counseling. Look, maybe you wouldn't have sold the TV, but you're not an inadvertent substance misuser, and guess what, I am, that's why I was in there. Do you hear me? I know you wish you had a perfect son, but you don't, you have an inadvertent substance misuser who sometimes makes bad judgments, like borrowing and selling a TV to buy substances."
"Or rings and jewels," says Janet. "My rings and jewels."
"Fuck, Ma, that was a long time ago!" he says. "Why do you have to keep bringing that old shit up? Doe was so right. For you to win, I have to lose. Like when I was a kid and in front of the whole neighborhood you called me an animal torturer? That really hurt. That caused a lot of my problems. We were working on that in group right before I left."
"You were torturing a cat," she says. "With a freaking prod."
"A prod I built myself in metal shop," he says. "But of course you never mention that."