Four of Them

(reminder)

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-The lowdown: Jane (Samantha Mathis) is a drug addicted stripper (and hooker, because they're one in the same, evidentally). After ODing, she finds out she is HIV positive. While leaving the hospital, she is followed by Tony (Long-Haired Teenage Joseph Gordon-Levitt), an orphan (or something) who (quasi-spoiler alert) has AIDS. From his dad. Ouch.

-Anyway, they bond and shit, she goes cold turkey and he starts coughing up blood, and she goes to the set of some artsy porno (in a motel, duh), where the film-school director wants her to channel Catherine Deneuve in Repulsion.

-She runs off before anything goes down, and during the subsequent withdrawel scene, the camera goes into the shadowy, claustrophobic angles of the same film. That's not to say this is some brilliantly choreographed cinematography, but it was an interesting parallel.

-Right. Otherwise, the camera work is shit, very TV-movie, and the movie itself is reactionary, hysterically grabbing you by the shoulders and screaming 'THESE PEOPLE ARE FREAKING HOPELESS, YOU BASTARD! AIDS IS BAD! THINK ABOUT THE CHIIIIIIILLLLLLDDDDDDRRRREEEEN!' Or something to that effect.

-Most of the time, it's pretty campy, sometimes it borders on gritty (ahem), a lot of the time it's schmaltzy, and occasionally delves into truely affecting.

-

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-Yes, well...not nearly as scary as it was hyped to be. I mean, certainly Clint Eastwood is fine, if laughably unnatural-looking in suede pants and fucking sidebars, but I didn't find Jessica Walter creepy so much as annoying and, yes, occasionally batshit insane. As per the seventies, lots of shots showing off their location budget, lots of long, lumbering walks in down the street, weird sex where the girl is practically tearing the skin off of the guy's back.

-I hate the song 'Misty'. I despise it.

-If Clint Eastwood were a radio jockey, it would be for hardcore country music. Wanna know what that is? No you don't.

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See, while I love my grandparents, I hate the state of Florida. This puts me in a conundrum, as they live in Florida. Fucking South Florida, where old people are abandoned by their families to a live of sunscreen, shallow pools, and pottery classes. Truly a hell on earth.

But hey! It's just a few hours away from Miami! You know what that means!

TONY MONTANA, FUCK YEAH!

Oh. Right.

Goddamn Florida.

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The eponymous Billy asks, nay, demands your attention to these questions, the first ever for horror bloggers (I think). See, I'm not a horror blogger, but goddammit, neither are half the people who did it anyway. So.

1: In Ten Words or Less, Describe Your Blog:

-Это blog, о фильмах, и музыке, и mustaches иногда.

2: During What Cinematic Era Where you Born?
A: The Classic Horror Era (late 30's to 40's)
B: The Atomic Monster/Nuclear Angst Era (the late 40's through 50's)
C: The Psycho Era ( Early 60's)
D: The Rosemary's Baby Era (Mid to Late 60's)
E: The Exorcism Era (Early to mid 70's)
F: The Halloween Era (Late 70's to Early 80's)
G: The Slasher Era (Mid to late 80's)
H: The Self Referential/Post Modern Era (1990 to 1999)

-The goddamn Self Referential period.

3: The Carrie Compatibility Question:
(gay men and straight women - make your choice from section A)
A: Billy Nolan or Tommy Ross, who would you take to the prom?
(straight guys and lesbians - make your choice from section B)
B: Sue Snell or Chris Hargensen, who would you take to the prom?

-A: Billy.

-B: Sue Snell, I guess.

4: You have been given an ungodly amount of money, and total control of a major motion picture studio - what would your dream Horror project be?

-A time machine that brings back the Dario Argento of yesteryear.

5: What horror film "franchise" that others have embraced, left you cold?

-Fuck you, Saw. I'll see you in hell wear you belong.

6: Is Michael Bay the Antichrist?

-He's not nearly that important.

7: Dracula, The Wolf Man, The Frankenstein Monster - which one of these classic villains scares you, and why?

-Dracula. Or Nosferatu. Or Alucard. Or Gary Oldman.

8: Tell me about a scene from a NON HORROR Film that scares the crap out of you:

-Toy Story 3. You know the one.

9: Baby Jane Hudson invites you over to her house for lunch. What do you bring?

-My yellow friend, my blue friend, and my red friend. Maybe some nice brisket.

10: So, between you and me, do you have any ulterior motives for blogging? Come, on you can tell me, it will be our little secret, I won't tell a soul.

-To stroke my massive ego, dear boy.

11: What would you have brought to Rosemary Woodhouse's baby shower?

-Some baby sunglasses.

12: Godzilla vs The Cloverfield Monster, who wins?

-Godzilla. Cloverfield can kiss my ass.

13: If you found out that Rob Zombie was reading your blog, what would you post in hopes that he read it?

-I have nothing to say to you, sir. Go stomp on some more film reels.

14: What is your favorite NON HORROR FILM, and why?

-I can't say what my favorite or least favorite movie is. It'll drive me crazy.

15: If blogging technology did not exist, what would you be doing?

-Nothing. I'm secretly a computer virus.

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That's right, ladies. The seductive allure of Blogathon has dragged me in yet again. This time, it is courtesy of The Kid, who asks us: why do we hate remakes so much? Or something like that.

Well, seeing as how I'm much too lazy to go looking around for pictures, we're freestyling it. Yo.

Okay, here's why I hate remakes: a lot of the time, they show a blatant disrespect and/or disregard for their originals. Especially remakes of Asian horror films, a trend that might've been put to rest with The Uninvited, or maybe even The Unborn (though it isn't a remake, the generic title, blue tinting, and themes or oddly-jointed demons coming for re-venge could easily be mistaken for such).

You see, they're all too glad to attach the original's good name in press releases, but when it comes time for execution, well, what they do can land anywhere between ineptness, scorn, and all-out hatred.

This is, of course, not true for all cases. Many non-horror films have been remade swimingly. I hear The Karate Kid is serviceable, for example. I mean, there are many remakes every year that go off wonderfully fine, even great. The remake, when done well, can reintroduce a whole new audience to a film beaten down by time, give it new life.

But what sucks is this: for we, the people who saw those movies before they were remade, it holds only a curiousity factor, as we'll likely know the ins and outs before the trailer is released. If they cast someone for the modern day Hollywood glamour, we're out. It will, to us, forever be that thing that makes your blood boil whenever it's on TV, or worse yet, when your less-versed compadres mistakingly think it is the one and only version of the story.

Remakes stand the constant threat of abusing the original's loyal fans, with such key words as 'wider audience' and 'freshen up' and...whatever. Disregarding us as those crusty old-movie fans who don't really matter in the grand Cinema scheme of things.

So take of that what you will. I, personally, like sequels, because my main interest in many movies is the characters, despite myself. Have a nice day.

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Because we're better than that, guys. We're movie bloggers! We're probably the only mass group of individuals who all live up to their moniker of 'pretentious douchebags'! We got class, dammit it!

Surely, sisters, we can rise above the juvenile free-for-all that is Planet Terror!

And yet, that is a machine gun leg.

To clarify: a leg, made entirely out of machine gun.

HOLY SHIT, I WANT ONE! WHERE DO I GET ME A MACHINE GUN LEG?! DON'T HOLD OUT ON ME, RODRIGUEZ!

This is the greatest movie ever. Seriously, I judge movies based directly on how many dragons and machine gun legs they have in ratio to all the boring, non-amphibious, non-heavily-equipped scenes.

It also involves Bruce Willis, Our Zombies Are Different Because They Have Pus-y Boils All Over Their Faces, lot of shit blowing up for no reason, angry little people who have a borderline pornographic relationship with guns, too-stupid-to-live Everybodys, and melting balls. If that isn't the American dream, I don't know what is.

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Fuck. Yeah.

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-I was gonna write about Mutual Appreciation, mumblecore, blah, but I lost the DVD before I could watch it. And, y'know, it was from the library, so I'm kind of fucked if I can't find it in a week. So I'm pulling out the good ol' mental stock.

-Words would do the magnificence of the Dude a great injustice.

-And yet, is it wrong that my favorite performance was Julianne Moore's? I mean, the voice.

-Oh, Donny.

-Walter is also pretty badass.

-What's worse, children? Germans or nihilists?

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Elisabeth Shue, Jennifer Lawrence, and Max Theriot will be starring in what has been described as 'to Psycho what Disturbia was to Rear Window'. Because Disturbia is an example to be following.

A Contract With God, an autobiographical graphic novel, helmed by four directors (Alex Rivera, Tze Chun, Barry Jenkins, and Sean Baker) taking different chapters. The story is of vignettes about the author's upbringing in a New York tenement.

Daniel Craig confirmed for Fincher's Dragon Tattoo, as if people were still wondering. Rest assured, you two.

M. Night Shyamalan's name booed during the Devil trailer at Comic Con. There are no words.

Character posters for The Green Lantern are released, but, y'know, unless they go with the John Stewart school of Lantern, I just don't give a shit, here's a link.

Apparently, Adam Sandler think hurting kids is, like, really funny. I remain, as with all tales of Sandler douchebaggery, nonplussed.

David Fincher-produced The Goon, a post-zombie apocalypse comic book adaption, gets an amusing teaser trailer.

Maggie Smith is replacing Julie Christie in 'The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel'.

A teaser for On Stranger Tides:



Let Me In might not suck:



The guy from Marvel who dissed Edward Norton got his ass booed at Comic Con when he came to announce the new Bruce Banner (Mark Ruffalo) and Hawkeye (Jeremy Renner).

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For one, the first Hesher clip is released, and proceeds to kick our collective asses:



I get mentioned on a podcast (like, woo):



And, evidentally, Wikipedia has a whole page dedicated to male prostitutes in the arts. Use this how you will.

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This Guy Over Here lists four Scandanavian movies that are vastly underrated. Spoiler, it involves Reprise.

Frank sees Inception again. He liked it better.

McD, Gave Burke, and the guys at Cinerama talk Toy Story 3, Predators, and (gasp) Inception.

Marshall contemplates one-word titles, and continues his Origins project with Pompous Film Snob.

Luke reexamines the Oscars of 1998.

Univarn gets all game-showy with The Film Enigma, pitting the Hatter and Alex against each other.

Speaking of Hatter, the seventeenth episode of the Matineecast.

M. gets a new job.

Sugary abandons us.

Sorry, un-links. It's not that I don't like you, it's just that I don't respect you.

Did you know The Great White Dope was in a motherfucking movie. And that you can win a copy of it?

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Because Comic Con has made life worth living. Have a nice fucking Sunday.

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-Argento's somewhat-typical murder mystery, with a slightly Western feel. I don't like it very much, I'm afraid...perhaps it's the lack of psychotic Goblin music. I mean, there's Ennio Morricone, but it's just not the same.

-Speaking of Morricone, I'm 100% sure at least the DVD menu music was in Kill Bill. And Inglorious Basterds, maybe.

-Wanna know what pisses me off? I've taken a semester of photography, and I can point out all the shit that paparazzi photographer guy does wrong. Like, the reason you leave the door to the darkroom shut is to keep the photo paper from exposure. And you don't smoke in a darkroom. Because, y'know, shit in there is flammable. Even if you don't combust the whole goddamn building, the smoke will kill the negatives. Therefore, I suspect this guy to be a fucking moron.

-How I miss you, Karl Malden.

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Hello, my loyal and trusted 71 followers (suck it, yesterday's 69!). If you are not just joining us, you'll know I have often bemoaned the introduction of Netflix into my life. Specifically, the Instant Play option. I have not slept in two days, people.

So, here's a quick round-up of how I spent those waking hours:

The Tracey Fragments

-Tracey Something-owitz (along those lines) is a dissaffected teenager living in Canada (those Canadians, they always sneak up on me) with her extremely dysfunctional parents and her little brother, Sonny, who she hypnotized to think he was a dog. At school, some over-the-top bullying goes down amongst a bunch of skinny bitches Ellen Page could break in half, so why doesn't she? Anyway, she meets some new Euro-emo boy, Sonny goes missing, she meets a drug dealer guy who's actually cool, unlike Euro-emo boy, who's a toolbox, and then some stuff happens, she runs away to find Sonny, some angsty shit goes down, there's a therapist played by be-dragged Julian Richings, more angst, Tracey ends up naked under a shower curtain, riding the bus. And scene.

-What I didn't like was the editing. It was compromised of a split screen a la Conversations With Other Women, except not split, a million different windows showing a million different things, some different vantage points of the same thing, some of scenes happening elsewhere, depending on where it is on the screen. I appreciate what the director and the editors are trying to do here, but I can't watch it without getting a headache. Still, Ellen Page, basically carrying the movie on her shoulders, gives a painfully honest performance, and it is fairly entertaining when my eyes weren't bleeding.

Otto; or, Up With Dead People

-Um. A for effort.

-My first inclination was to call this a piece of Euro-Canadian (them again!?) arthouse shit, but then they got into the whole is-it-or-is-it-not-a-story thing, some enat little gimmicks and some fairly entertaining satire, and I gotta say, it grew on me (painfully). It's about this guy, Otto, who apparently rises from his grave and zombies around for awhile. At first, it is alluded that zombies are commonplace, but then the line between reality and avant-garde fiction blurs. He ends up cast in a documentary by underground filmmaker Medea Yarn, her girlfriend Hella (who appears as a silent movie star, completely filmed in scratchy black-and-white and all), some other people, etc...

-This movie is weird. There's actualy gay pornstars actually fucking, but there are maybe three sex scenes in the entire movie, and it both mocks and plays straight psycho-political avant-garde filmmaking, and the acting is anywhere from off to bad, and they all live in Germany, and are clearly German/Belgian from their thick accents, and yet they all speak English. And there's the whole Hela thing, which is cool, but very random, and there's the almost-cute, almost-sad ending, metaphors for disenfranchised consumerists, what is real, what is fake, all breaking down to: is Otto actually a zombie? He certainly thinks so, and the opening narration would have you think it, but as the movie goes on, nobody ever even considers it the realm of possibility that he was a zombie, and he eventually meets his old boyfriend, the one aspect of his pre-mortem life he remembers, and learns that he has all kinds of mental problems, shit like that...

-I am so horrible at describing things lately.

The Juror

-A single mother gets called to jury duty for high-profile mafia hits, and Alec Baldwin is menacing. To be honest, I just skipped through everything not involving Anne Heche (as the doctor best friend who has sex with Alec Baldwin's character, and then he forces her to fatally overdose) or Joseph Gordon-Levitt (as the son who keeps getting a-threatened by Baldwin, and who's adorable, even if he wears nineties-plaid and still has that dreadful 3rd Rock From The Sun Seasons 1-3 hair.

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"Oh baby, I was typecast the minute I did a film called, 'Girlfight' years ago. That has nothing to do with anything, it just to do with... you allow yourself to be typecast. If I decided I didn't want to be typecast tomorrow I'd just go do an indie film where I play some poor girl who goes through some excruciating experience and win myself an award for crying or being raped [breaks into laughter] or playing someone with mental illness. But at the end of the day I'm not in it for the acting. If I were in it for the acting then I would be worried about people not giving me the opportunity to express my vast array of emotions on the screen.

I could give two shits. I only wanna be someone or I respect or someone that I consider interesting or fun. I'm here to entertain people and make a statement about female empowerment and strength and that's what I've done for the last 10 years, and people can call it typecast, but I pigeonholed myself and I put myself in that box for saying no to everything else that came on my plate. Saying no to the girlfriend, saying no to the girl that gets captured, no to this, no to that. and eventually I just got left with the strong chick that's always being killed and there's nothing wrong with that."

(via)

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(do you have one? I'm not digging around, so, y'know, speak up, yo)

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-This is one of those movies that I find I have nothing to say about...everything is just so agreeable and lovely and nice, neither complimenting nor insulting would do it justice. I can say how fantastic the leads of Charlotte Gainsburg and Gael Garcia Bernal are, how wonderful the stop/claymation dreams are, the pure preciousness of the plot and execution, how Bernal's character's behaviour--his inability to differentiate dreams from reality--would, in some typical world, would be considered delusional at best, schizophrenic at worst, but here, he's genuinely endearing, as is Gainsburgh, oh, look at all those languages that populate, Michael Gondry is brilliant, etc, etc...

-Oh. I did have something to say. Well.

-Enjoy this, in the meantime:


(I've decided that Tumblr is the greatest thing ever)

And this:

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I know. Stupid motherfucking title. But I don't feel like giving these two movies their own posts.

-Okay, at the insistance of my sister, who, if possible, loves Joseph Gordon-Levitt more than me (though both of us agree we'll never watch an episode of Family Ties for him). Also, this is some half-assed submission for Sebastian's blogathon (on top of all that shit I got in archives).

-This was perfectly and completely alright. The premise: a young couple (Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Lynn Collins) are trying to decide where to move to in New York. For some reason, they flip a coin on it. The movie is a tag-team of what the consequences are for each outcome. One, Yellow, is them going to Manhattan and ending up in a crime thriller, being chased around the city by people vying after a phone they found in a cab. The other, Green, one which is considerably less...interesting, is them going to Brooklyn (I think), with the girl, Kate, telling the guy, Bobby, she's pregnant.

-There are some instances of the universes maybe-overlapping, or at least being winked at, like in Yellow, where the couple takes refuge among a crowd of elementary school field-trippers in green T-shirts.

-The performances are fine, and I like that the script was written without dialogue, and they came up with them on the spot or something. Like, when they find the phone in the cab in Yellow, Bobby says "Somebody is hating life right now". I don't know why, but I can't stop giggling at that.

-Joseph. Dear. Grow out that goddamn beard.

-Note: this is a basic retelling of Oliver Twist, from Dodger (Dodge)'s point of view. It is generally the same. So if I really need to warn of spoilers, then go sit in on a fifth grade English class and educate your damn self.

-Nick Stahl, of Carnivale, plays Dodge, a street hustler amidst Fagin's merry band of, uh, male hookers. Okay. He meets a fresh-faced 'beauty' named Oliver, an orphan (or something) who has run away from a foster home, and introduces him into the whole prostitution-and-drugs thing. Fagin is Fagin, a bit more sympathetic than in the book, though he does beat down Dodge a few times. Nancy is a waitress at a diner the boys frequent, girlfriend of the never-seen benefactor and Fagin's boss, Bill. The whole Grandfather thing is replaced with the Senator, a regular client of the boys who never actually has sex with them (for most of them, he just talks with them about their cocks, but with Oliver, he has him talk about his mother). Joshua Close plays Oliver, now a supporting character to Dodge's sordid tale, a naive, innocent teenager easily sucked in by the apparent kindess of strangers.

-Dude...in the third act, some weird-ass shit goes down. I won't spoil that particular part, because it is most definitely not related to the book, but it is rather disturbing, that whole business. I can't describe it well, anyway.

-Performances are good. Stahl uses that perpetual scowl of his to advantage, anyway. The other actors, Fagin and Nancy and all the other boys, they work with what they get, I guess.

Have a nice, STD-free day.

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-A rather brilliant, thoughtful sci-fi in a time when Star Wars rendered such rare. Visually haunting, anyway.

-On some note, Tilda Swinton should play David Bowie. I planted the seed, Hollywood, make it happen.

-Holy shit, Thin White Beast-era Bowie is some kind of androgynous beautiful. And is that not the definition of an ever-lasting sex symbol? Not someone like Megan Fox, who sure, is hot, but has an expiration date. People like Bowie and Swinton and, to some extent, Cate Blanchett (ahem), who appeal to everyone, of any gender or orientation. Who anyone can stare at and not feel weird.

-Well, they will feel weird, but that's because they're staring at someone.

-Which is rude.

-I get the feeling the Michael Clayton poster (the good one) was inspired by this poster.

-Candy Clarke is surely the week link here, which is saying something, because she's rather good.

-Tell me, was it, like, Hollywood creed of the seventies for everyone to go full-frontal?

-As for Criterion supplements, not much to speak of. Interview with Candy Clarke and Rip Torn about characters, Bowie, script, all that. Original trailer, production notes.

-What I like most about Bowie, in the infinite ways I like him (though, strangely, I'm not too crazy for his music, or at least a lot of it), is that he just exudes the whole alien-but-at-the-same-time-tragically-human air that is essential for this role, an alien from a dying planet sent to the Planet of Water (yo) to bring some back (whether salt water would suffice is never addressed). He must be confused (but not the absurd amount of fish-out-of-water someone else would've approached it with, because you have to assume aliens of such technological achievemant would do some research on the planet they were invading, naive, grow to world-weary cynicism, keep a relatively frosty demeanor, but underneath all that, he is still just longing to return to his family, who we can assume are long dead, as with everyone else of his planet.

-Seriously, of all his many film roles (hello, Tesla), this has to be my favorite.

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-Easily Woody Allen's greatest late-period film (I haven't seen either Match Point or Vicky Christina Barcelona, so shut up). I mean, characters, as they always do in massive-cast films, come and go with little to no fanfare, and I don't know if the songs were original for the film or not, but they were incredibly unoriginal and generic, but then, there was that amusing Marx dance near the end...

-It really is pretty great. All the good things about (again, late-period) Woody Allen: upperclass New York City, neurotic love, awesomely comfortable women, a biting, self-deprecating sense of humor, all that. The cast is lovely, as you'd expect from the lot.

-One thing I found absurdly amusing: Lukas Haas (who's having a good month here, and somehow avoids a gruesomely implied death for once) plays the son in a large, dysfunctional Manhattan family, who suddenly became the conservative Republican to the extremely liberal Democrats of the familial norm, something his father (playing his type, Alan Alda) constantly laments. As it turns out, this sudden conservative breakout was due to a clogged artery, literally from lack of oxygen to his brain.

-I love Tim Roth. He's so over-the-top weird.

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-Racial and class tensions between upperclass Pakistanis and white, working class Londoners (is that a word?), embodied in the gay relationship between ambitious, aspiring businessman Omar (Gordon Warnecke, who has an odd, overly-eager smile that, when not full-out smacked on his face, is dancing about his lips unsettling. Seriously, I don't know what I think of his performance) and childhood friend Johnny (Daniel Day-Lewis, who would be fantastic as always, despite this being his pre-method days, if I weren't so mesmerized by his bleached hair. This is the eighties, sure, but holy shit), a former right wing extremist who begins working for Omar at the eponymous laundrette his uncle tasked him with bringing back to life, thereby quickly resuming their old fling.

-I love how the taboo isn't in the gay relationship (the people who do know don't seem to care, and the people who don't, but suspect, don't seem too perturbed by it either, but that could be chalked to 'just a suspicion', which is odd, as they aren't exactly quiet about it), but the different socio-economic backgrounds of the two. It's rather refreshing, considering this was an eighties movie (and, by definition, an infantryman in the defense of my mortal enemy).

-A rather sweet, still-topical movie, despite the complete lack of believable comflict--Johnny's old gang keeps hanging around, eventually beating down Johnny, who comes in defense of certified asshole, drug dealer and uncle (not the one who gave the laundrette) or something to Omar, Salim, and shit gets bloody, but you never believe anyone's going to die (at least I didn't). Same with every conflict in Johnny and Omar's relationship, it's believable that such squabbles would happen, but...

-Am I the only one who finds it weird that, in relatively-modern Britain (ahem), Omar would meet his paternal first cousin Tania (played as bored and desperate to not be by Rita Wolf), and then everyone, family, the two themselves, talk about them getting married, as a very real notion. They are cousins. Not third-removed-on-my-great-aunt's-side cousins, cousins like his dad is her uncle, and her dad is his uncle, and they might as well give each other blood transfusions, they are so genetically matched.

-Daniel Day-Lewis is funny when he's being threatening and actually meaning it.

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I don't know if you, my loyal audience, know this, but conspiracy theories are a bit of a thing for me. I'm not talking 9/11-level nay saying, just the opportunistic, patriarchal society we, the privileged middle class of America, live in. These are some of my lovelier works:

Netflix will bring the end of days, and that's just how they want it.
Let's face it. Man just wasn't meant to have so many movies at his disposal at all hours. It just can't be done without consequences. Movies will disintegrate, gradually at first...let's not go out to the movies, we have plenty right here! If we continue, movie studios will start shutting down. Professional production will halt, leaving us with the mind-numbing badness of internet-exclusive amateur Youtube sketches. Interest will drop, brains will implode, society will collapse. After all, what's the point in doing anything if not for the aspiration of having your story told on the big screen? Zombie, zombie apocalypse! Social unrest! More and more stores fall to the crippling depression we'll find ourselves! Run, Canadians! There's still time! SAVE YOURSELVES!

Gym class is a NRA conspiracy.
(I'm rather proud of this one)
Well. Not the whole of gym class. More the programs available. As I know it in my own wretched schooling, your options for regular PE sports are: softball, baseball, basketball, lacrosse, tennis, and frisbee. Frisbee. I know how to play frisbee. My dog knows how to play frisbee. Not that I have a dog. But if I did, you be damn well be sure he'd know frisbee.

So why would they teach us such useless sports that all break down to 'how many basketball helium can you suck before someone notices', when they could be teaching us, say, self-defense? Nun chucks and Tae-kwon-do and whatever that Brazilian shit is? Because, dear children, this whole program is put together by the National Rifle Association. That's right. If we don't know any practical self-defense for future muggings, we'll all get pussy-ass scared. And when we get pussy-ass scared, we vote Republican. And what's one of the leading issues among the Republican platform?

Gun control.

The entirety of the physical education of America's public schools is to influence future voters into voting for more lenient gun laws.

(I don't know what kind of shit goes down for all you Europeon/Canadian folks)

Have a nice day.

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-An enormous cast, children, and nothing about the movie is their fault.

-I won't give a synopsis, cause that ain't my business, yo. Just many interweaving stories of the eponymous Women in Trouble, almost all involving sex and pregnancies.

-This isn't very good. I mean, it is amusing, and pleasing enough, but there are too many characters. They are dropped and picked up at random, with some characters (Elektra Luxx and her fellow pornstars, the cheated-on therapist played fantastically by Sarah Clarke) particularly spotlighted, with others (Marley Shelton's wispy flight attendant, Josh Brolin's British rock star) are there to service the other's plotlines, one scene wonders that make for amusing anecdotes on top. Much too disorganized, much too into caricatures of women, with each of the six main ones representing a certain aspect of women in general: the porn star, all that noise.

-But as I said, the cast elevate the movie. Carla Gugino is awesomely sarcastic and dry as the seasoned porn star, now pregnant with the kid of Brolin's rock star (he's fine too, but really isn't given much). Adrianne Palicki is hilarious, a ditsy (fine, stupid) but sweet up-and-coming porn star who pukes every time she has to eat pussy, the sidekick of sorts to Emmanuelle Chriqui's coworker (and, I guess, call girl, but they never elaborate). Palicki, Gugino, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt (name shows up in the credits very last, as in, a post-credits scene) have the funniest scene in the whole movie, and they're all great in it.

-Yes. Anyway. Isabella Gutierrez is a precocious, if at time grating, wise-beyond-her-years teenager of questionable maternity, and does well. Okay.

-The men are sidelined to cheating husbands, promiscuous rock stars, and porn website reporters (which just explains itself).

-They talked the Pythagorean theorem, I understood what they were saying. Good for me.

-Overall, you could do worse with a Saturday afternoon, but for a quick laugh, just skip past the credits.

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I don't do podcasts, because I can't talk without going over myself, mumbling, or having some sort of pitch/mental issue, but here's Rachel and Jess talking Angelina Jolie, TV shows I've never heard of, and Leonardo DiCaprio shit. Enjoy.

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-In a decrepit Taipei movie theatre on its last night, a screening of Dragon Inn, several patrons and staff silently go about their subplots.

-The first line of dialogue not overheard from the movie isn't until roughly forty minutes in. There is almost no camera movement, almost ten-minute shots of a crippled (it's never explained how or in what way, just that we can plainly see she has a limp) ticket girl cleaning the empty theatre at the end of the night, a young Japanese tourist wandering around, looking for what Wikipedia tells me is a 'homosexual encounter', two old men who had acted in the movie (Shih Chun and Tien Miao as themselves) in brief nostalgia, one with their grandson. Etc.

-While at times a captivating, beautiful thing (in that way you find yourself when you sit on a park bench and watch another guy do the same for an hour), an overall a sweet and melancholy (both) ode and farewell to the moviegoing experience, and a quiet nod to the assholes that ruined it, the ones who shuffle about seats and crack peanuts and treat it like a party, leading to some absurdly amusing bits, it is impossible to watch this movie, with its unbelievably long segments of silence and inactivity.

-Seriously.

-I have me a theory: with directors who feature extended shots of busywork that's tedious and whatnot, they're covertly trying to rub our own dull existences in our faces. No matter how interesting we think ourselves, in the end, nobody would want to watch us do anything. We suck, basically.

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(because they're twice as interesting as anyone Hilary Swank has ever played)

Roman Polanski

Do you know how many movies you can get out of his life? From Holocaust film to marriage drama to courtroom to tale of isolation or whatever. He's cinema's anti-hero, he is. From the escape from Krakow, to the production of Knife in the Water, Sharon Tate's death, the sexual abuse trial. The only question is what the tone should be. ...

Pete Doherty and Carl Barat

Of The Libertines, Doherty and Barat have had a notoriously turmulous relationship. While best friends, Doherty's erratic behaviour and subtsance abuse (ahem) have put a rift between them. It could be a touching and ultimately tragic chronicle of their relationship...I mean, the whole thing can be summed up when each were individually asked about the state of the friendship. While Barat replied: "If I'm honest, I miss having a best friend who, for all his foibles, who got me...you know, when you meet someone who gets you and you get them on the deepest level, I mean that...that's something that I always missed about Pete." Doherty, visibly choked up, said that he "just missed Carl."

Elagabalus

By 18, this guy pimped his way through four years of Roman Emperoring. He, a transexual hedonist, forced the Roman government to bow to the sun god, reportedly had affairs with several dudes, on top of his five wives (four, technically, as he seperated and remarried Iulia Aquilia Severa, and this is for debate), and is all but confirmed to have prostituted himself about the imperial palace, all before getting assassinated in the year 222. Tell me you wouldn't want to see that.

Who do you want to see get their own Hollywoodization?

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-The more I look at Paul McGann, the more he looks like Mads Mikkelsen.

-Withnail, I found, to be an obnoxious asshole, but the kind that you can't help but gravitate towards because he's kind of cool, despite his massive ego.

-What's a toilet trader?

-My god, I wish I could articulate the complexities of Withnail and I (I think his name's supposed to be Marwood)'s relationship, all that, but I can't get over how British it is. The only other somewhat modern thing I've ever come across in my limited experience are the Adrian Mole books.

-The Camberwell carrot looks glorious.

-So Bruce Robertson was molested by Franco Zeffirelli when he was playing Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet, is what Wikipedia tells me. And the real-life Withnail, Vivian MacKerrell, died of throat cancer when he was at some young age I don't feel like calculating. Who says the internet makes you dumb?

-I could also give an in-depth review on the cinematic genius of this movie, the brilliance of the dialogue and characterization, the shittiness of the cinematography (excused for lack of budget, I guess, and hey, it was the eighties, everything looked like shit), the subtly heartbreaking outcome of events, the devastatingly funny and depressing performances by McGann and Richard E. Grant (who has the bets sneer out of anybody) and Richard Griffiths and whoever played Danny and how awesome the name Presuming Eddie is and how much I want both this poster and the poster of just the two of them on my wall, and how not one scene in this movie is bad, or wasteful, or wasted, or unnecessary. But I shan't, see.

-"My thumbs have gone weird."

-"Tell him if you must, I no longer care. I mean to have you even if it must be burglary."

-"Don't threaten me with a dead fish."

-Go see quotes.

-But then the narration disappeared.

-And the glasses, come to think of it.

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-...it's here. A movie that not only lives up to its hype, but exceeds it. Masterful, ya'll. Christopher Nolan, in words that may be redundant at this point, is a genius, has put himself in the pantheon of brilliant filmmakers.

-The score is lovely. Epic and sweeping and beautiful. But I missed the trailer music.

-Joseph Gordon-Levitt is officially the coolest actor working regularly. Why? He took down, like, three guys, in a spinning, zero-gravity hotel hallway. That was, like, really spinning. Ellen Page plays audience-POV well, Leonardo DiCaprio puts on his Serious Face in a role superficially similar to his in Shutter Island , but tops it, Cillian Murphy has a bigger role than advertising would let on, and nails it in his borderline-creepy (for fans of Red Eye) American accent...

-Ken Watanabe continues his noble quest to make everyone look bad, Lukas Haas shows up in the beginning, only to have his character (the original architect before Page's Ariadne, Nash) carted away with little explanation but for a grim implication (seriously, what happened to him?), Talulah Riley has an amusing bit, Tom Hardy kicks the proverbial ass as dashing comic-reliefer Eames, the Forger who, like, forges, Michael Caine shows up for two or three scenes as a professer and friend of DiCaprio's Cobbs, Tom Berenger, in his first wide-release film since 2001, is good...

-Peter NameIcan'tspellsoKobayashifromTheUsualSuspects is brief as Murphy's dad for some reason, Dileep Rao, who was in Drag Me To Hell, and other things, probably, is the chemist who plays Mystic Drug Guy, and then gets an awesome car chase and some jokes about pissing. And that covers it.

-I should be going batshit over the ending, but I'm not. It's one of those things that never really put questions in my head, except the casual (and obvious) (SPOILERS OUT OF CONTEXT) 'was it all real?' In fact, it might have kept the movie from the title of 'masterpiece'.

-That, and nobody but Cobbs and wife (ahem) Mal (Marion Cotillard, did I mention her? Right, well, she plays her role extremely well, as always, a crazy, creepy, emotional mess of a phantom, who probably was, indeed, 'lovely') gets any character development. I get that maybe this is only slightly off for routine for them, and there's no reason why they should be changed men, but even Ariadne, with her newfound knowledge of dreams, is still herself, no existential crisis when most people would be, etc.

-The visuals are so beautiful, so darkly weird and almost Dalian, to give you the sense of 'what if my dreams had a plot?' (which, as we all know, is fuck to happen), I just want them as posters.

-The climax, might I add, featuring fights/chases taking place in all three dreams-within-dreams in some epic storytelling, is, in my humble opinion, aboslutely gut-wrenchingly suspenseful, because you know what shit goes down if they lose, or the clock runs out.

-Picture: within the time it takes for a car to fall off a bridge (a few seconds), ten minutes of badassery is going down in an antigravity hotel, and something like and hour/ten hours (I forget, probably the latter) of guerilla warfare on what might be the Apps. Yes.

-Who was that dude on the train in the beginning? Affiliate or willing passerby?

-This movie might give me an existential crisis far greater than the permanent one that comes with watching Charlie Kaufman films.

-In conclusion, everybody in Hollywood stop making action movies. Just stop. You'll never top this, you won't even come close. Just stop and go back to massacring romantic comedies.

-I'm a bit lost now. I mean, I don't remember a time where I wasn't waiting for Inception. Now it's gone. Like...what am I supposed to do now?

-EDIT: Speculation...is Fischer Jack Ripner? Think about it.

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-So a guy, played by Max Minghella of Agora supporting, thinks himself the biggest art shit since the turn of the century or whatever. He goes to art college, where dreams go to die and pretension pools the streets like flood water. In this art school, apparently, instead of countless self-portraits in the exact same style as Our Noble Hero's. This is, I'll wager, a way to help us sympathise with him, with his obviously extremely competent portraits getting overlooked for literal crayon scribblings. Which, y'know, helps, because the guy's kind of a whiny little bitch.

-Oh, yeah, he's in love with an art model Johnny Depp's Wife From Hell. She's kind of like Kim Novak in Vertigo, so she must get credit.

-Guy from Avatar, Guy from Middleman, Guy from Reno 911!, Guy from American History X (and My Name Is Earl), Guy from Party Down, Girl from The L Word all show up. Basically, a lot of That Guys.

-Also, Jim Broadbent is a maybe-serial killer, John Malkovich and Anjelica Huston are wary teachers.

-Remind me never to go to art achool.

-Seriously, from what I can tell, if you're a good artist, going to art school is a redundant way to boost your ego and throw away 800 bucks. If you're not, it is also to boost your ego and throw away 800 bucks, because nobody can seem to tell the difference between true works of beauty and someone painting tin foil pink and gluing it to a canvas.

-The 800 doesn't even really seem to matter, because everybody's a rich suburbanite with delusions of rebellion and political statement.

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-This is the funniest movie ever.

-Seriously, the dialogue is so corny, the sensationalist approach to the whole addiction thing is literally hysterical, Marky Mark puts on his Angry Face, someone actually says "I can't watch you do this to youselfs!"

-Leonardo DiCaprio, no matter how many times he shoots up and mugs old ladies and beats up rival basketball teams, he is still Leonardo DiCaprio, hairless boy wonder, he of permanent baby face and manicured pinky toe. He is somewhat decent here, for all the suspension of disbelief, especially in this scene where he begs his mom for money from the other side of her door. So yeah.

-Jim Carrol, the real one, shows up relaying some drug-related/addled tale in a junkie den somewhere near the middle. I knew this right away. It's exactly the place and circumstances where the real guy being portrayed shows up to tell some real a-tellins', a spotlight that's too bright to just be for atmosphere.

-Oh, everyone...

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-Uh.

-I semi-officially declare blogathon: Anyone who can come up with the best explanation for what the fuck just assaulted my eyeballs gets a plug and, I dunno, guest post or something. Go.

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-Matthew Gray Gubler is basically Reid from Criminal Minds, but twitchier, stupider, awkwarder, and less morally solid. And nerdier, if that's possible. But he's still pretty okay.

-Dameon Clarke is creepy and charismatic as the serial killer instructor Mike, immensely entertaining during the non-sequitor steps to being a serial killer properly, in the form of a seminar.

-I. Hate. Shaky. Cam.

-The movie itself is fairly questionable in terms of quality. Some iffy, meandering pacing leading to a sudden, if amusing, climax and epilogue.

-Tis fine.

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Game.

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Everyone shut up about Inception.

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-A lovely film, I don't care what you say. Visually stunning, magnificently acted (though I don't care for Nicole Kidman's soft and perennially breathless voice (it wears thin), and I wish Robert Downey Jr. would do more movies like this), small and self-contained, a domestic drama, an epic romance, and even a coming-of-age tale (if you like stretching) at the same time, all very surreal and slightly disturbing, like Arbus' (Arbus's? I hate apostrophes) pictures.

-One scene I liked near the end (spoilers, duh): Allan Arbus (indeed, the real Diane's husband, but as this is very fictional, he is not the dude from MASH) finds her roles of film while she out. He develops them, hangs the negatives up, and tells his daughters to leave, no doubt anticipating something scandalicious or whatever. He turns on the light, and instead of finding some damning pictures of Diane and Downey's Lionel in the throes of desperate passion (...), there are dozens of pictures of the stairway leading to Lionel's apartment, of his door, of slightly off objects about the neighborhood.

-I don't really like how Kidman played her, even if it was on its own an excellent performance. I get this is fictional and all, but I've always pictured Arbus as...I dunno. Jaded and sarcastic or something. She was a priveleged housewife, she probably wasn't like that at all, or at least not until later, but still...how awesome would that've been?

-I also don't get the motivation behind this movie. It's not a biopic, it's not alternate history or anything. I don't get why it was made.

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-I was under the impression that there would be, in the fevered dream sequence, a thing where Jimmy is falling on a swirling black-and-white background. You know the one I'm talking about.

-I love Jimmy Stewarts voice. So hard to take him seriously, and yet, you can't help it.

-Brilliant, everything. The murder mystery, the dialogue between Scottie (Stewart) and his confidante Midge (Barbara Bel Geddes), the same between Scottie and Kim Novak's two very different, complex characters, Judy and Madeleine, the ending, everything.

-I am now convinced Alfred Hitchcock secretly had a fetish for modestly dressed, bespectled women. At least as the second bananas.

-It did lull during the romantic bits, but that's because 1) romantic bits are always boring, and 2) I find pre-80s kissing scenes hilarious.

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That, dear boys, is how you market a movie.

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-You have to wonder where Dirty Harry went in Clint Eastwood. Lately, his filmography is mournful tales of loss, redemption, war, and/or southern crime, but not even Gran Torino is what he used to do. Nonetheless, I don't think he was the right choice to direct this movie. He's very conservative, I think, adding a female romantic interest for the protaganist (John Kelso, played by John Cusack, in the role of passive narrator previously held by the author of the nonfiction book, who was gay). I mean, it may just be me, but that subplot was the worst in the entire film, which is otherwise very Southern in pacing, graceful and menacing and whatnot, but that whole aspect just annoyed the shit out of me.

-Jude Law does a disservice to accents everywhere. He's only in three or four scenes, only one of which requires more than two lines, but still. Damn.

-Kevin Spacey is a droll motherfucker.

-Minerva rocks, okay?

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-So, uh, in retrospect, this problem might've been solved if I had actually looked up the film...but, y'know, I was browsing about Netflix, and saw the name, and saw that it was by Michael Winterbottom, and I was all like 'Hey! He's made movies I like!', and so I read, like, two sentences of the description, and by 'sexually explicit', I thought, y'know, lots of nudity and dry humping, whatevs...

-This movie makes normal people renting porn feel proud, and movie buffs feel weird. I think.

-Note: if you are reasonably pretty couple, a British guy and an annoying American girl, like having sex, have money to go to indie-band concerts, and have an open-minded friend with a reasonable knowledge of video camera, you can do a shot-for-shot remake of this. Seriously, all they do, the two main actors (one of whom was a child actor in Britain, so, y'know, shit) is fuck and go to concerts.

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-Okay, I get why people hate Michael Pitt. He has one of those faces. But I like him. He's a decent actor, I don't know what he's like as a person (or as much of a person as an actor can be, because, y'know), as a veer away from interviews involving all famous, non-Stephen Fry entities, but he makes movies that go anywhere from loathsome to nerdgasm-tastic, depending on who you ask (Funny Games US, Last Days, The Dreamers, etc.), which I can respect. I'm done.

-Anyway, plot: A young homeless man, Toby (Pitt) gets involved with a self-obsessed paparazzi (Steve Buscemi, in all his sleazy glory) and a pop star (Alison Lohman). Pitt (oh, god, him again) is playing against type (or, at least, his most famous type), as in, Toby is, like, really nice. One of those doggedly well-meaning and slightly naive dudes who you can't help but like. Buscemi plays a preening narcissist, who insists he is a 'licensed professional', and first lets Toby bunk with him because he (Toby) offers to work for him for free, but then, they become (kinda) friends and shit. It's all very complicated, I could never tell what, exactly, Buscemi (right, his name's Les)'s motives were, whether he was doing half the shit he did because he cared about Toby or he just wanted to get his much-bragged about 'shot heard round the world', although you could tell he cared for Toby at least a little (because, y'know, he stared sadly at some boots Toby left behind).

-Right. What?

-Alison Lohman spends most of the movie in underwear and tight dresses and fake-fur coats, as K'harma (?), a popstar who's only song we hear is blandly catchy enough that one could believe she'd actually make it big. Everything about this movie is a satire on something--pretentious directors and vicious, sexpot agents and self-serving soap actors with charitable pet projects, asshole celebrity boyfriends with no discernible job in their own right, douchebag TV actors. Et cetera. What was I talking about?

-Who would you rather be: Paparazzi or pop star?

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-Considered Hitchcock's last masterpiece, and for very good reason.

-Every time I think about the title, I always think of the Edgar Allan Poe poem 'The Bells'. Specifically, a dramatic reading of it by who I think was Helen Mirren, that I heard in English class last year.

-Awesome effects, good sirs.

-I never want to go outside ever again.

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-They killed it.

-Seriously, what the fuck? First, they take Daisy, originally played as a character with, y'know, layers and two seasons worth of character development by Laura Harris (who I could actually believe people could fall in love with at first sight), replace her with Sarah Wynter, retcon every episode after her introduction, then bloat that into an annoying caricature of ditsy, self-involved, narcissistic actress. Then they get rid of Rube (sure, it was because Mandy Patinkin wasn't having it), and replace him with the most half-assed villain in the history of villainy, played by Guy From Lost. Who, incidentally, has, like, five scenes, and is never really a threat. Then they toss out the show's uniquelly sardonic tone and carefully balanced comedy and drama, making it a lifeless imitation. Replace all the old sets with shiny new ones (Der Waffelhouse burned down!), keep the annoying little sister, curb Cynthia Stevenson, give all the other reapers a handful of scenes where every single one of their traits were magnified...

-God, this thing sucked.

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(courtesy of Danielle)

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(courtesy of darling sister Danielle)

--First things first---is blood spatter analysist an honest-to-goodness profession and, if so, how does one obtain it? Is a degree required?

--I know this whole sweet-and-innocent act is to display how positively broken she is, but Rita's whole bit is really tap dancing at my last nerve. How does someone so naive end up with a frikken crackhead? And is anyone else reminded of Renee Squishyface when they hear her talk?

--Paul Bennett looks like he was picked off the That 70's Show set.

--I love---nay, adore---how Deb is going all respect me! one minute and then walking into work proclaiming how hard she fucked her boyfriend in his office the next. There's nothing wrong with singin' it, honey, but I don't wanna hear it when you get smacked in the ass by that Sassy Token Black Guy. Not my problem.

--You know what? Every single woman in this show thus far have been really extra annoying. Especially Deb. Dexter finds out that the man who named him as next-of-kin in his will is, in fact, his biological father and, oh shit, dead and what does she do? Get pissed that Dexter doubted his foster father for five seconds and got a blood test between him and this other guy. It was a perfectly fallable excuse and you need to shut your smoking little mouth and stick to being Exorcised (as Emily Rose, of course).

--Having said this, the chick who plays Deb Morgan is actually quite good at being extra annoying.

--My main concern is the...likeliehood of Dexter being an actual sociopath. I don't have any degrees or anything, but isn't a clinical sociopath devoid of all human emotion? From what I can tell, Dexter seems pretty able to connect to certain people in a very human way; his sister, for one. And he has a pretty strong affection for Rita and her kids. NOT TO MENTION the frenzy he went in during that therapy session, which looked pretty goddamn emotional to this viewer. Maybe he's just very charming, but he seems pretty in love with them. He's in the middle of sniffing out bodies on a douchelord's boat and his first thought is "I wonder if they'd like fishing...focus!". Yeah, maybe he feels a bit disconnected from society at large, but this could easily be Autism or Asberger's or something. And the intense need to kill, and lack of guilt for the act, may or may not stem from a severe form of schizophrenia. I don't know, but this does not make a sociopath to me. I watch Criminal Minds, I would know.

--Title sequence? Preverse and disturbing. Never have eggs looked so revolting.

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(I had a banner for this, but I can't find it)

Picture me, your androgynous compadre of a blogger, that Arthur Rimbaud/Screaming Toast (IT CAN'T BE BOTH!) that makes your heart sing. Picture me strolling down the hallowed halls of (uh) Wal-Mart.

(don't judge me, ass hat)

I happen upon the five dollar bin of DVDs, that I browse while my Parent gets shampoo or 9mms or whatever Parents do in Wal-Mart. And I find a bit of glorious cheese in the form of the Core House Greats Collection.

Yeah. Epic.

So the first film in this illustrious 3-disk, 12-movie collection is Blood of Dracula's Castle. The synopsis is as follows:

"Count Dracula (Alexander D'Arcy) and his vampire wife (Paula Raymond), hiding behind the pseudonyms of Count and Countess Townsend, lure girls to their castle in the Arizona desert to be drained of blood by their butler George (John Carradine), who then mixes real bloody marys for the couple. Then the real owners of the castle show up, along with Johnny, who is a serial killer or a werewolf depending on which version you watch. The owners refuse to sell, so Dracula wants to force them to sell."

Or something.

The first thing you should know, people: This is by Al Adamson. The director behind Dracula vs. Frankenstein. That Al Adamson.

The film looks like it's been put through a broken paper shredder. The actors would surely be flattered to be compared to wood. There is a ten minute chase sequence for no reason. The eponymous Dracula is only mentioned as Dracula in passing. This movie features two of the most bored captives in the history of celluloid. It wasn't even that fun, not as incompetant as F vs. D, yet holds no artistic merit.

And scene.

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-In my humble opinion, I do not get why this movie is so critically acclaimed. It is perfectly ok, but I doubt it earned the notoriety it has received internationally. While certainly as misogynistic as its reputation would suggest, it is hardly the breakthrough crime thriller of the century.

-Meanwhile, the main character, Lisbeth Salander, played to misanthropic perfection by Noome-whatever, kicks so much ass the entire male race, past present or future, collectively grabbed their dicks and winced.

-I love the originally translated title, Men Who Hate Women. It is so fucking appropriate.

-My sister thanks Netflix.

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-Aronofsky's first film, before his quality as a director became so controversial.

-Or, as very controversial.

-There is something very German Expressionist here. The symbolism, the big picture, the vaguely pussy main character (neurotic, possibly schizophrenic math genius Max Cohen). Just strikes me a such. I mean, definable shapes even litter the background as mathematical equations and results.

-I noticed that, as the movie went on, and Max became more and more paranoid (for good reason, he had at least three different nefarious organizations tailing him at some point), the black-and-white image got fuzzier and fuzzier, until everyone became a silhouette.

-I learned a lot about math today. Good for me.

-Next year, I'm totally convincing my mat hteacher to let us watch this.

-In other, non-awesome-movie related news, I have finally joined the ranks of the Netflix army. I'll be contributing to the official downfall of Blockbuster, thank you very much. Do I feel bad? Yes. You know why? Half the movies made count on DVD revenues to recoup their budgets. So if everyone watches the movies online, the studios will cut more and more movies that are considered risky, only release ones guarenteed to recoup in box office alone, and boom, the end of intelligent society as we know it. Think about that shit, ya'll.

-I will get back to my motherfucking book now.

EDIT: A hearty thank you to Castor at Anomalous Material for the giftcard that enabled me to buy this lovely film.

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-I love Reese Witherspoon in this (which I'll never say again). Her tight, penguin-like walk, unglamorous clothes and hair (which is something you've got to take into account these days), perky, clipped Midwestern accent, underlying scheming, it's all so wildly appropriate for what could've been a caricature (or just created one) of an overachieving high school student. She is one of two candidates I'd predict go on to grow up to be Nicole Kidman's Suzanne (Susanne? Susane?) of To Die For (the other, and closer, being Evan Rachel Wood in Pretty Persuasion, who has the same general ambition of media fame and is entirely more nefarious and manipulative than Tracy Flick).

-Otherwise, Jessica Campbell is pretty good as rebellious third party class president candidate Tammy. Matthew Broderick is both sympathetic and unlikeable as main protaganist (one of three or four main narrators) Jim McAllister, favorite teacher at the Omaha, Nebraska high school, undone by his hatred for Tracy Flick (who slept with his best friend, also a teacher, and getting him fired, though she suffered no consequences).

-The only person in this entire movie with no ulterior motives in Chris Klein's Paul Metzler (brother of Tammy, boyfriend of Tammy's former lover Lisa (Frankie Ingrassia).

-I wish I could say more, but I have nothing left. It was darkly amusing, but I have no real thoughts on it as a whole.

-Uh...end.

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