Four of Them

I know, darlings. This is a movie blog. What am I doing talking about comics? But you know what? It's my blog, and I'm meeting you halfway. And who you gonna tell? WHO'S GONNA BELIEVE YOU?

That picture means nothing.

All-Star Batman and Robin, the Boy Wonder


If you haven't read this, I commend your preserved innocence towards the whole Frank Miller lot. Because this thing is just full of mind fucks. The Batman of The Dark Knight Returns (might've been my first choice, if it weren't such a very confusing place to start a stand-alone movie)? He didn't get like that from years of brooding and face-punching and noir-ish monologues. He's just like that. The first we get of the cowl? He's kidnapping the recently-orphaned (and by recently, I mean, like, half an hour ago) Dick Grayson (age 12). He then spends real-world-time one year with the poor kid in the batmobile/rocket/fuck-you-whatever-the-fuck-else-I-say-it-is, slapping and growling at him and generally being an asshole of the highest order.

But, um, otherwise. This thing is full of gratuitous sex, impossible body parts, gore, traumatized children going sociopathic, Wonder Woman as a raging man-hater with a thing for a buffoonish Superman, and the Joker as a neo-nazi gangster. So, y'know. Just the sort of thing one'd pay ten bucks to see acted out by the latest European expat?

Also, of course, this glorious piece of Frank Miller gave us the phrase 'the goddamn Batman'.

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Here I've been, neglecting even your blogs, too deep into my comics and my Tumblr to stop and consider, gee, how is this affecting my vast, endless readership? And I know you've been hurting. In pain. I feel your pain. And I'm here. I'm here for you.

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1) Can a movie be too shiny?

2) You know, once upon a midnight dreary, I used to like Chelsea Handler. But then she started popping up in places outside of that talk show, and I realized she has the comic timing and improve skills of someone with neither of those things. So, to see her show up here, doing her standup/"woohoo-lookit-me-I'm-so-drunk-and-ca-ray-za-za-zay" schtick just kind of makes me pissy. On the other hand, old man.

3) I don't like Reese Witherspoon. Sometimes I do, but most days I don't. Something about the wholesome routine. Something about what appears to be her streak of putting herself in the middle of a whole lot of love triangles lately (Christ, lady, you can't have Christoph Waltz, Robert Pattinson, Paul Rudd, Owen Wilson, Captain Kirk, and Tom Hardy all vying for your goddamn affections. It doesn't just work like that.)

4) I hate romantic talk. Shit like "this has been the most romantic night". It annoys me, children.

5) Tom Hardy. You have been the Most Violent Prisoner in The British Penal System. You have been one half of what I'm sure is a loving, committed relationship with Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Who will be a Tinker-Tailor-Soldier, strike forced Spy division. You will be the goddamn guy that broke the goddamn Batman's goddamn back. This is not how we break into mainstream America.

6) Um. So. I keep forgetting this guy's name, because there's a million guys who're named Chris Something or Ryan Something or what have you, so he shall henceforth be known as Captain Kirk. Or Captain Sexy. Or Captain James T. Kirk-Spock (because they're a modern couple). Egads, what has Tumblr done to me?

7) Why is the fucking CIA just letting them blow each other up? In a motherfucking US city? Who is running our fucking federal task forces?

8) More people hanging out in upscale bars. I'll just be over here with my root beer and my half-high school education and all the financial benefits it allows me and my under-18 car sticker. Fuck the picture shows.

9) Well, at least they let Tom Hardy stay British.

10) Fire-sprinkler system? How fucking clever, Captain. Tom Hardy air-roofies your ass, and all you can think of is a slightly more advanced version of what middle schoolers got bored of in the goddamn 90s? You defeated the Kobayashi Maru, you son of a bitch. What would Spock say? Oh, that's right, nothing, because he'd be off filing for divorce already.

Good day, sir.

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Good. Hi. Hello.

I, my good folks who let blog headlines tell them what to do, am in a quandarry. I spiffle. A kerfuffle. Um. Other nonsense words of similar implications. With double consonants.

I haven't seen a movie properly for quite a few weeks. It's...empty-making? Is that a thing? Too bad, it is now.

Maybe it's been the start of school. Maybe the extinguishment of my soul (the two go hand-in-hand, after all). Maybe it's been my sudden time-suck of a hobby, comic books (the DC reboot certainly isn't helping jack shit). Maybe it's some other shit I haven't had the foresight to pull out my ass. But, you know. As it goes.

So. I apologize for lack of worthwhile (or any) content. Because I can't very well turn this into a all-Nightwing-all-the-time blog. That's Tumblr territory. No, sir, all I can do is wait for that bit of movie-moodifying (word. Patented. As of now. Deal with it) to strike. I know. Baited breath.

Meanwhile, you all have been quite busy. I shall investigate! I SHALL!

Or I will. If you want to rain on my Ye Olde Parade.

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Recently, I stuck my head out of Justice League International Vol. 1, ostensibly to blink out the pretty colors, and I looked around. I looked at all the DVDs I had stacked about my room, unwatched and dusting. I looked at my Netflix Queue, having barely noticed that it would soon be outsourced to some spelling-abomination called Qwikster. I looked at my local listings, realizing with some dismay that I missed the theatre run of Another Earth. I had, ladies and gentlefolk, not seen a movie properly in weeks.

So I busied myself on the internet, catching up with TIFF screenings and whatnot, combing through the backends of movie news sites, punching myself in the face for missing Are You Afraid of the Dark? and Columbiana (though, admittedly, that was more Irene's fault, that scheming bitch). I played catchup like nobody's business, my knowing compadres.

But something ate at me. Something at the back of my underdeveloped brain. Something blocked from full consciousness by internal speakers on constant replay of Amanda Palmer and David Bowie and Janelle Monae and all them bitches (my, I love name-checking). One day, when my internet was temporarily down because fuck you, internet, I sat to ponder this gnawing notion.

It had been triggered by the sudden intake of cinematic panic, surely? I went back to the print listings. I tried to place the inception (boom) of my ill-defined woes.

And then the magazines started screaming. It hit me like a pimp hand hits a ho.

Douchebags.

Douchebags everywhere.

And no, my smutty beloveds, not in the literal sense. In the holy-shit-there's-a-guy-in-a-goatee-and-he's-looking-right-at-me sense. Gentle readers, our movie screens have been overrun by smug.

Take Crazy Stupid Love. The main characters pick up chicks in an upscale bar with wall-sized windows and a special on appletinis. They define cool as layers of overpriced scarfs and man-rings. Sure, they go all itmeansnothingwithoutemotionalconnectionwaa at the end, but guys. The damage is done.

Which brings me to Ryan Gosling. Now, he's always struck me as douchey in a good way. Confident, but not offensively so. The douchebag you'd marry because, underneath it all, he really is kind of awesome. But he is, nonetheless, reeking of douchebaggery.

(note: this is based solely on...um, nothing)

From what I can tell of Drive, he spends the entire time in a Member's Only jacket, which, I don't care what nostalgia demands, is never good for anything or anybody, and can only bring sorrow to the world.

It's been a long time coming. One of my first posts was about how Iron Man was the new Scarface (blatant self-promotion, we meet again), and even before then (as in, my magnificent arrival on the blogosphere, because you know that's how you tell time, anyway), douchebag movies haven't exactly come and gone from the public consciousness. The Transformers movies have gone from innoffensive geek-wank to the ludicrous plotlines of 'which Victoria's Secret model will I devote the most time to?' to the part of Shia LaBeefz, who I refuse to take seriously because, come on, Even Stevens.

The arthouse, while always dominated by NYU grads with a tad too much money when it wasn't overun with The Foreigners, has recently seen a boom in post-collegiate mope-a-thons and rogueish anti-heroes, from Tiny Furniture and the entire mumblecore movement (although we must stop and acknowledge the gift it's given us in the form of Greta Gerwig) to the sustained popularity of George Clooney and Brad Pitt (I'm sorry, but the commercials for The Ideas of March and Moneyball make me want to blackmail those two into a fight to the death). Superhero movies have been overrun by the smug charisma of Chris Reynolds and Ryan Pine and...Jesus Christ, they all the look the same, don't they?

Even the Big Issue movies, like The Blind Side (I know, duh) reek of patronising Hollywood Liberals (forgive the Fox News slang) clucking their tongues at people who have yet to reach their superior, tofu-yoga-tea-orphans existences.

(The evolution of this post somehow went from regular douchebags to hipster douchebags, and for that I apologize. We will now wind back around to guys who fancy themselves nerds with inexplicably hot girlfriends)

Don't you miss the days when they were sidelined to Direct-to-DVD wastebins and mid-afternoon Comedy Central reruns? I do.

We must watch where we're going, future directors of the world. Everytime you wake up at night with a brilliant script idea, just remember: nobody cares about your painful breakup, and they certainly don't want to watch you contemplate it while staring out a rain-bombarded train window.

And already-established Hollywood bigwigs: no more cocky bastards who inexplicably succeed. No Entourage movie.

Good talk.

I'll be over here.

(if anyone would care to address this Serious Issue in a way that's not the shit of the land, be my guest)

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It's not like I'm freaking out or anything. I mean, this is such a first world problem, right? Not even worth mentioning!

Ha.

Ha ha.

WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON YOU FUCKING WHORE FACTORIES?

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Believe it or not, my pets (as, in my head, you're all ferrets I daringly rescued from the pound. It was epic), I wa sonce but a wee lass of 8-or-something. Carbon dating suggests I came into this world as an infant, but that's if you believe in that fancy-schmanzy evolution, which just don't add up, Mr. Scientist.

Anyway, as this squirming pile of baby, I spent an awful lot of time in front of the TV, Now, this consisted of public networks and Nickelodeon until, I don't know, Y2K, when we were suddenly the proud owners of basic cable. Whether the danger scared my parents straight, or the apocalypse actually happened and I made up this elaborate fantasy of 70+ channels to cope with the desolate wasteland that was once the world, it is not my place to decide. But in the end, we got Cartoon Network.

Ah, yes. Cartoon Network. My home turf. The network that shaped me into the webpage that flickers before you. How many hours did I spend huddled in front of Looney Tunes reruns, Ed, Edd, n' Eddy, WB transplants?

And then there were the TV movies. Yes, upon further reflection, CN and other channels of it's ilk (though far superior to any of them) took advantage of the sugar-high heroin that was primetime childrens' programming and subjected us to hundreds upon thousands of Scooby-Doo rehashings. What's New, Scooby Doo? A Pup Named Scooby-Doo. Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? Long have I been haunted by the question: if his name is Scooby-Doo, why does he always say it's "Scooby-Dooby-Doo!"? Is that his middle name? Does he have Tourettes? Is everyone else saying his name wrong to fuck with him? It seems like the kind of thing Fred would orchestrate. That asshole.

But. Right. We also got a shitload of TV movies. The one where they went to cyberspace. The one where they met those freaky goth-witch-whatever chicks. The one where they met, I don't know, Josie and the Pussycats. Actually, I don't know about that one. But probably.

One and all, they were terrible. Voice acting, animation, plot, dialogue, it was all like someone wrote it twenty years after their last joint. Somehow.

But then, my loves, but then. Came along a new Scooby-Doo adventure. At first, it seemed like any old battle the gang would fight on a weekly basis. Go to a Louisiana plantation (or something). Discover a mystery. Solve the mystery. Unmask the mask. Go home.

Except I think not.

Because the eponymous zombies? They're not the boat driver. They're not the farmhand. They're not the the butler. They're fucking zombies.

And then Fred tore off their fucking heads.

You see, the gang has been apart for awhile. Having careers and what-have-you. So they decide the dust off the ol' Mystery Machine and have a bit of reunion. Old friends, harmless mysteries, fetching Southern belles, BUT WAIT ONE FUCKING MINUTE.

They're adults now. They must deal with adult mysteries. Like the terrifying scribbles on the old plantation walls. And voodoo guys. And slaughtered pilgrims. And cat ladies. And the fucking zombies.

My memory is fuzzy on the specifics. But I remember pissing my pants. I remember a trailer featuring 'O Fortuna'. I remember Scooby and Shaggy getting stuck in a grave with a zombie and genuinely being afraid for them. This is not childhood nerves. Even then, I had a weary relationship with these movies. But this one? This one was hardcore.

For you. Just for you.

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But I've had ample time to see what the fuss about Tumblr was.

Don't worry, my lambs, I still love you. I just have a funny way of showing it.

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So, yes, I know, gentle readers o mine, this has nothing to do with anything. But we'll be back to normal programming once school kung-fu's me into semi-regular sleeping habits. But, for now, if you don't particularly care about comic book events, or comic books proper, you can just, you know, scurry along. Watch some cat videos. Whatever.

So. DC. We've come to this. Hey, man, I get it. The 21st century hasn't been kind to the comic book industry. What with people turning to the televisions and the internets and the iPods and that newfangled hippity-hop for their entertainment purposes. Even you, the biggest name in comics (besides Marvel, but pfft, Marvel) is forced to go big or go home. You've killed everyone. You've brought them back to life.

But now.

This.

A reboot.

Of everything.

You asshole.

Do you have ANY FUCKING IDEA what a pain in the ass it is to get into your comics? You've got 52 fucking Earths, and they each get their own versions of the same damn people. I've been into comics for a year, and I've barely cracked the impenetrable fortress that is Batman's continuity, forget about the rest of the bunch. I've neglected Vertigo. The Runaways (okay, Marvel, you get one). I go on vacation for a week, and suddenly Dick Grayson's the new Batman?

So now you're telling me, with the introduction of the Flashpoint universe, EVERYTHING I'VE SWEATED OVER IS OFFICIALLY NULL AND FUCKING VOID?

You bitches can't just be all, oh, wait, never mind, Barbara Gordon's Batgirl again. Because you know why? That would imply that the Killing Joke never happened. I will not stand for a world where the Killing Joke never happened.

Flashpoint is confusing enough.

I get that this is partially why you're rebooting, that the DCU has gotten too convulated with all the Post/Pre-Crisis nonsense, but for fuck's sake, my brain will go numb if I have to read one more Bruce Wayne origin story.

Well. At least you're brining Starfire back. It gives me hope for a comic book-meets-animated-series Teen Titans reunion.

No, I'm not mad at you. You're just a handfull sometimes.

Now get outta here, you little scamp. Don't go throwing rocks at Wildstorm. He can't help it.

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Irene, that bitch-ass hurricane that fucked the East Coast something fierce, has left me mostly untouched. Oh, sure, no water/plumming, but we still get TV! So yay!

Is what we said the first hour. Before we realized that all that celebratory moonshine had to go somewhere.

Also, the internet is just having a laugh. During the day, it will work for two seconds, go off for ten minutes, etc.

Did you know the UN declared it a warcrime for a country to deny it's citizens internet access.

Because they fucking did.

So now I'm up at these hours, for you, all for you.

On that note, I can't breath.

Life lesson, kids: if you know the internet's about to go out, leave open lots of long, interesting articles that aren't seperated into pages. You'll thank me. You'll all thank me.

Also, the above comic is something I found on Tumblr, and it makes me squee with such fangirlish delight, if word got out, I wouldn't be allowed to buy a house. Also, DCnU! Hazzah!

What is air? Is it the internet?

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Of course you did.

Here in the old armpit, we got a bit of the aftershock. Of course, it lasted for two minutes, nothing fell over, and my sister said she didn't feel anything, so I spent the succeeding half hour googling symptoms of schizophrenia.

My, how the local news was in a tizzy. Have a nice day.

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Crazy, Stupid, Love. Comedy. Romance. Chronic absentee from middle school English. Oh, yes. I went there.

Ahem.

In case you don't know, C,S,L (see what happens? SEE!?) is about Steve Carell, a hapless, loveable old schlub whose wife, Julianne Moore, leaves him for being a boner-killer (or whatever). After several nights depressing the patrons of one of those high-end singles bars I like to think homeless girls can reliably go to for free drinks, he is recruited by Ryan Gosling, a douchebag, to also be a douchebag. But then Ryan Gosling meets Emma Stone, a soon-to-be lawyer with a badass friend, Liza Lapira, and likes her or whatever. And then something about Carell and Moore's kid being in love with his babysitter. And everyone hates Kevin Bacon. The end.

But let's look at said babysitter-loving son. His name is Robbie, and he's played by Jonah Bobo (quiet, you in the back). Here's a kid who, hardcore and with no irony, believes in true love. Quite.

Now, if you'll recall, 500 Days of Summer is a movie. What's more, it's a romantic comedy about a dude who believes in true love, and hooks up with a chick who doesn't. This dude's played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who, as I chronicled, has been playing this same dude his entire career. But let's, for a minute, pretend that my brilliant theory is *l'horreur* not enitrely accurate.

Because this Robbie kid is one mid-afternoon viewing of the Graduate away from being Tom Hanson. And, hell, maybe that was just a deleted scene.

Who knows? Maybe he changed his name to distance himself from a Noodle Incident. Maybe he witnessed the group murder of Kevin Bacon, because fuck that guy. Maybe his parents miraculously birthed a precocious little shit who looks like Chloe Moretz. You don't know.

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Babies. It's okay. I'm here. Shhhhh...

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Because we must shove a couple years' worth of vacations into one month. It's the family way, yo.

Enjoy life for a week.

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Me. Deal with it.

What have I seen with these eyes? Rise of the Planet of the Apes and Stupid, Crazy, Love, which is collectively an English teacher's nightmare (as half-explained by good ol' Vince).

Well, my life's been fine. Thanks for asking.

Carry on.

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Ah, yes. It's that time of the month. No, not that one, piggish and/or sensitive menfolk. The one where I make excuses for the long stretches of not doing anything. I know. You're so disappointed.

It's not that I don't care, people. Truly, I love you more than my own hypothetical alien spawn. Yo.

It's just that, in the summertime, kids, while I have all the time the American education system allots, I have neither the patience, energy, or incentive to do jack shit about it. During the year, us young folk bitch about all the amazing shit we're gonna do when summer comes around, because we're not yet affected by what I assume in the summerless, soulless, tax-and-health-insurance-filled world of adulthood. Seriously, I don't envy you fuckers. No summer vacation? Three days off in the year? Fucking cubicles?

ANYWAYS. I have some things to say while I'm here.

1) Darren Criss? The one all you assholes have been drooling over? You don't know. You don't know SHIT. Because if you did know shit, you'd know noto credit him as Glee's Magical Homosexual Blaine Whatshisface. You'd know that he was, in fact, Harry Freakin' Potter.



2) The Great White Dopeness himself as bestowed upon me the honor of WINNA in his recent contest. Of course, I deserved it.

3) I won't be here for the better part of next month, due to Seattle shit I don't expect you children to understand.

4) I see my computer's about to combust. Good day, sirs.

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-England's most violent prisoner (Tom Hardy) goes about life as usual. Some undertones of him being a victim of the system, which is, y'know, that.

-Snappy, stylistic biopics about various atypical suspects is all well and good, but...

-But nothing!

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-It was bound to happen. A movie was sure to show up that made me shake my head towards my previous defenses of Richard Kelly. Because he doesn't have the monopoly on mind-fuck movies. It's possible to do it right, people.

-Because this? This is three different realities. Things happen that are scary, but then they're funny, and not absurd funny, funny like it's not taking itself too seriously. Nobody makes obscure, unexplained comments about death. Everything gets explained in some form or another, but there's still room for discussion. The performances are amazeballs, including Ryan Reynolds, who nobody can accuse of being a bad actor, but a very, very bland one (but not here!), Melissa McCarthy (who's really underrated as a straight-up dramatic actress), and Hope Davis (yay).

-And yet, the normal interactions aren't unsettling, like David Lynch.

-And...that's it. Good movie. Yeah.

-Oh, fuck off, I'm tired.

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You see, my loves, my darlings, lights of my life, whenever I come into a dilemma, and the general internet proves to be maddeningly unhelpful, I turn to you, my most trusted audience. Especially you. You're my favorite.

So in this dilemma, I'm flying the notoriously fuck-you airline Continental. Now, I haven't flown since before the company's merger with United, which, from what I hear, is Armegeddon with a bathroom. The problem is, I can't find any in-flight information.

So what I want to know, my dears, is, if you have flown this particular airline, coach, on a roughly 5 hour flight, at around 9 in the morning (Eastern time), what did you or did you not have to pay for? Like, was the food free, was there coffee, did you need a credit card for the luxury of Two and a Half Men reruns, etc. What I'm asking you is do I've got to spend five hours twiddling my thumbs, entertainmentless, coffeeless, hopeless?

I'm counting on you.

Don't let me down.

Don't let your country down.

Don't let yourselves down.

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Well, Andrew has made hisself a blogathon in light of the impending Emmy nominations. You can find some of that shit here, and I'm incredibly early on this, I a, but fuck it, I'll be gone most of August, I can't keep up.

ANYWAY. What's my favorite episode of the past TV season?

Community. "Paradigms of Human Memory". Look into the eyes of the abyss. Later.

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Pants: pissed.

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-This is a movie where the characters break the fourth wall to argue about who, exactly, is the main character. Technically, I should love it with all my heart. It's among the handful of movies I knew as a 13-year-old just discovering Wikipedia, by cast and subject matter rather than first-hand knowledge (with availability like it was at the time). It was among the ones that I would defend to the death rather than go out and try to find a copy of somewhere in the back of Blockbuster.

-In said argument, between Macauley Culkin's Michael Alig and Seth Green's James St. James, I wish Green had won. Only a narrative presence in the beginning and end, he is a much more interesting protaganist than Culkin, who's Alig is a fey, obnoxious little twit, cheerfully trying to break into the club scene before succeeding into an even more aggravatingly bright world of excess and coke. Doing the most awkward impression of a quasi-drag queen, Culkin is either incredibly good at portraying the dead-eyed, Bret Easton Ellis-ish monotony of the club kid scene, or embarassingly bad at showing the fabulous descent of the same.

-Meanwhile, Green, while initially going about the same stiff showboating as Culkin, playing his mentor-turned-sidekick, is, um, much better. Wry, the only truly entertaining one in the bunch.

-The movie is shot in digital, making it ugly and empty and hyper-observant of every pimply chin and Cheeto-stained carpet. Which I guess makes sense, if it's really trying to make its entire universe as flat and baffling as possible.

-The rest of the acting ranges from non-existant (Chloe Sevigny) to stiff (guy from My So-Called Life) to fine, I guess (Wilmer Valderama).

-It's extremely unpleasant if you're looking for a movie without subtitles for once (like me), possibly a gritty look at the precious little downfall of The Factory's wannabe-second-comers, possibly just an ironic way to pass the time and mock some stiff dialogue. Go ahead, it could've been worse.

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-Fuck you, Bad Teacher.

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(I love this picture)

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-This is one of those movies where a bunch of pretty, rich people spend most of their time making deep, mumbled declarations of loneliness, regret, and misery. It would be insufferably twee if it weren't for the charisma of the actors (Christopher Plummer, especially, makes you rue all the parts he never took, because you know those movies might've been twice as amazing as they were).

-Was I the only one baffled at why the dog kept asking Ewan McGregor if they were married yet?

-Speaking of which, him, that dog, and Melanie Laurent make the world's most motherfucking adorable little unit. It's not fair. It's just not fair.

-Well, the only character who's plight I understood, if not, per se, got, was Christopher Plummer's young, exuberent lover, played by Goran Višnjić. Throughout the movie, he keeps asking Ewan McGregor if "it's because [he's] gay" (for no particular reason in the beginning, then for a pretty good reason near the end, but never anything nefarious), and when visiting Plummer in the hospital, he jumps at the nurse justifying his right to be there before she even says anything. This particular aspect, not really any of the character's other, more important emotional points, is what stood out to me in a movie dominated by people with too many empty relationships. Because I imagine being openly gay in a world that only started, if not embracing, at least tolerating such a thing would leave one a tad paranoid, weary, etc.

-Also, the mom. The mom rocks.

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Come to think of it, I've never seen a Polish movie before. Yay new horizons!

-Nonetheless, from my 21st century point of view, the strangers-meet-tension-slash-madness-ensues bit is fucking old.

-And what is it with low budget sixties movies and that--you know what? I just realized that I equate this style of camerawork with Night of the Living Dead (the original, for I know no other), specifically, when the zombies are breaking through the window for the billionth fucking time, and Ben and whatshisface, Jim the Geriatric High Schooler, Brad?, whatever, are knocking their hands, and for some reason, the curiously silent, paper mache/clay way the fingers fall apart just doesn't sit right with me. And now you know.

-Oh, how sorry I am, all five of you, that I can't write a review anymore, how dreadfully dreadful I feel. Except not really, because who's even reading this, anyway?

-Polish is one of those languages I just don't like listening to. To my lonesome American ears it's in the Scandinavian school of sounding like a rewinding tape. Also, there's a bunch of Polish kids I go to school with, and they're a bunch of dicks, so take that as you will.

-Extremely unlikeable protaganists, these people. Well acted, I should assume, but unpleasent.

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despite many movies watched, and despite plenty of time to compose so many thoughtful tidbits on this and that and those, these can't be done, it simply cannot be helped. So here's the death of Cypher, who never stood a chance:

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Have you ever watched a movie where a character just spoke to you? Might've been the lead, might've been an extra, but somewhere, you see a character and just think: Yo.

I introduce you to Julian:

Julian? Julian is the assistant to the writer whose wife was so infamously raped by Alex (Malcolm McDowell) and his droogs. He showed up, and I knew I liked this guy. He just stands there when shit's happening, in his hipster glasses and his whatev-bra attitude.

He was played by David Prowse, the future Darth Vader (aka the only one that matters, thank you very fucking much, Christensen).

Enjoy.

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Have you ever reached a point, dear readers, where you've read so many damn reviews of a movie--usually a new movie, one you may or may not've seen opening weekend--that by the time you sit down to review it yourself, you find yourself at a loss for words? Not just because everything that can be said of it has been, chances are several times, and not just because you'll puke if you have think about the legacy of the director one more fucking time, but because you simply have nothing to say about it that you yourself would want to read?

-That question asked, if Martin Sheen was not mistaken one more time, I was gonna throw my shoe at the screen.

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It was in the $5 bin and I didn't buy it. What's wrong with me?

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I, gentle folk, am a twin. An identical twin, to be exact. Which means that, in The Womb, I was but a single fertilised egg that went rogue and split in two, thereby creating two seperate people who happen to have the same DNA. But if you asked the greater cultural area, we are Siamese in all but vital organs.

All my life, people have asked me if I've ever switched places with my sister to take a big test. The answer is no. Because this is fraud. Which is illegal. Also, it's stupid. Fucking stupid, in fact.

People always ask why we don't dress alike. Listen: most of the time, twins stop dressing alike the minute they develop personalities enough to pick their own clothes. Until then, parents are dressing you, and parents don't have time to be tailor dressing you. It's the same clothes with different colors. Most twins, by the time they're six, will be dressing differently.

People want to know if we're close. Sure we're close. As close as any other set of non-twin sisters are. There is no spiritual connection. There is no special twin language. There are no sympathy pains if one gets hurt.

People always ask if we're the exact opposites. One is a 'girly girl' and one is 'bookworm'. No. We have similar interests, and we have seperate interests. We do not inhabit the stereotypes sitcoms perpetuate.

People ask if we'd have a threesome. No. We're sisters. We're related. That's incest. What's wrong with you? That's fucking disgusting. Would you ever have sex with your brother? Fuck you. Go stand over there.

The summer Star Wars: Attack of the Clones came out, people threw shit at us at camp and screamed "The clones are coming! Get them!"

Thanks to such TV shows as Sister, Sister, The Suite Life of Zack and Cody, various teen sex comedies, and the Olsen twins (who are fraternal, thanks very fucking much), this is the shit I've got to deal with every day. We're two seperate people who happen to have the same birthday and have reasonable doubt in any DNA-based murder trial. Just because TV tells you we're inseperable dopplegangers doesn't mean we are.

Thank you for your time.

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-Margot Kidder stars as a French-Canadian model haunted by her former Siamese twin. Jennifer Salt is a reporter who witnesses said twin commit a gruesome murder, and goes on a spree to prove it.

-Brian de Palma as he voyeuristic, sleaziest best. Clever and trippy and sometimes really trippy.

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Starring ME! and DANIELLE! (my sister).

ME!: Recently, me, my sister, and my Parental (not present) went to see The Trip, a six-part miniseries (edited into a 2 hours-or-something film). Here's me and sister dear discussing it. We, of course, have somewhat diverting opinions.

So, Danielle, what did you think of the movie?

Danielle: Fuck that shit.

Me: How long was it again?

Danielle: Really fucking long.

Me: I liked it. Except I'm trying to write a summary of it, what was that other guy's name?

Danielle: WHO GIVES A SHIT!?

Me: Anything else?

Danielle: These guys think they're conversations are more interesting then they are. Like, who gives a shit about 40-year-olds being 40?

Fuck you for making me sit through this shit. I could've been off getting high with people from my own age group. Fuck you, I don't give a shit about a bunch of old fucking old people eating food! Fuck that food! Fuck England! Fuck you!

Me: I quite liked that scene in the car where they were talking about that movie where they rise at dawn or whatever.

Danielle: *beaming* "We rise at dawn, but leave my sister out of it!" Yeah, that was the funniest part of the whole movie.

Me: It was kind of poignant--Danielle, how do you spell 'poignant'?

Danielle: Who gives a shit?

Me: You give a shit.

Danielle: I don't.

Me: You do.

Danielle: Oh my god.

Me: What did you think of the whole Steve Coogan-is-really-lonely thing?

Danielle: Steve Coogan is Hades and nothing else.

Me: Where's that from?

Danielle: Percy Jackson.

Me: Oh.

Danielle: Some of that food looked really disgusting. Like, who the fuck eats pigeon.

Me: Can you see the irony in you saying these guys think they're conversations are more interesting than they are, meanwhile, we're posting a whole discussion about it?

Danielle: I'm not the one writing it down.

Me: Hey, this the most substantial thing I've written in months.

Danielle: Cool story, bro. Tell it again.

Me: Hey, this the most substantial thing I've written in months.

Danielle: Remember when that was the funniest thing ever? Oh my good, mention American Gods, I'm so fucking exciting, they've already signed on for six seasons, oh my god.

Me: We're talking about the Trip, let's talk about the Trip.

Danielle: Oh my god, fuck the Trip, I fucking hate the Trip.

Me: I'm sorry.

Danielle: Shut up, I'm reading.

Me: *typing* Shut up, I'm reading...

*end*

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If I wanted my movie fucking dubbed, I'd fucking ask for a fucking dubbed version.

Anyone with any information on getting a non-fucking-dubbed copy of Memories of Murder that requires as little money spent as possible, because what am I, a fucking tree?, if you would be so kind as to say something along those lines, uh, go.

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-Why the fuck do Ingmar Bergman movies always make me hungry? Seriously, when it's over, I just want some soup and a sandwich.

-Anyways.

-Starring Victor Sjöström as Isak, an aging professer who must deal with his past, present, and impending death on the way to getting an Honorary degree from Lund University. Taking his discontented daughter-in-law Marianne (Ingrid Thulin), and along the way picking up a young love triangle on its way to Italy (Bibi Andersson, Folke Sundquist, and Björn Bjelfvenstam), the girl of whom reminds him a childhood love.

-One of those movies that actually makes you think about death and aging. And food.

-For fuck's sake, I'm in the middle of a philisophical breakthough and then someone breaks out the soup and I have to get some fucking food.

-The ending made me happy.

-Well, in general, everything made me happy. A lot of cute flashbacks and old-people-bickering.

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-A store clerk falls in love with a teenaged Mexican boy. Unbalanced relationships of age, language, sexuality, etc, ensue.

-This is an eighties movie. You can tell by the denim jackets and the skinny jeans the 'totally redical, bro' accent on lead Tim Streeter (think Adam Baldwin in Full Metal Jacket, or preferably, the bully from Karate Kid, but less made-up lingo).

-This is also Gus Van Sant's first movie. It's shot in 16mm black-and-white, making everything soft and and gooey and breakable, claustrophobically close-up, like Eraserhead or Repulsion. Of course you get my meaning. Why wouldn't you?

-The characters behave to baffle, only explained by Streeter's voiceover, which I am grateful for, as he says that he's perfectly aware of how creepy his behavior is, and acknowledges the stereotype of American white guys ('gringos', evidentally) thinking their entitled to have illegal immigrants because they're poor and hungry.

-Stil, there's not much nuance here, or ambitious filmmaking. A surprisingly straightforward adaption of a semiautobiographical book by Walt Curtis, with a tendency to dreamily caress Johnny (Doug Cooeyate).

-I'd say there was a love triangle, but it wasn't, really, because only one of the three seemed interested.

-Um. So there's that.

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I still watch Nickelodeon. I mean, there were some years between 12 and 15 when I wasn't allowed to watch it, by my own perceptions that proper teenagers don't watch cartoons (ironically perpetuated by them). And then, at 16, thanks to Hot Topic and the ever-rising geek/nostalgia culture, where mid-life crisis comes earlier and earlier (which makes me worry for my thirties, frankly).

Why do I mention this? Why, because of this:

What. The Fuck. Is this. ?.

This. This thing. This abomination. This ghastly, Lovecraftian bastard between corporate greed and creative exhaustion. This is the live action adaption of the beloved-by-me-and-everyone-the-fuck-else Nickelodeon cartoon series The Fairly Odd Parents. An epic saga of a boy named Timmy Turner (voiced by the ubiquitous--if you've been an American child of the late nineties-early 2000s, that is--Tara Strong) who, seeking refuge from his evil babysitter Vicky, and the idiot parents who keep hiring her, is granted a pair of fairy godparents, Cosmo and Wanda. It's the greatest television show of all time. Fact.

That whatever just above? It stars Drake Bell from the also-of-my-childhood Drake & Josh, All That, and the Amanda Show. It's apparently a mixture of live-action and CGI. It's about Timmy Turner, fearing losing Cosmo and Wanda after he becomes an adult, goes into arrested development, staying in fifth grade until the age of 23.

Fuck you, Nickelodeon.

Do you know what they did, guys? DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DID?

The studio gluttons went after Ben 10. I remained silent. The took to Avatar: The Last Airbender. I avoided it. Oh sure, the former was from Cartoon Network. Irrelevent.

But this is going too far.

Cartoons are cartoons for a reason, boys.

It's because they're too stupid for live-action.

Or too smart.

Or too brilliant.

Or too weird.

Or too something.

The point is, they're drawn because that's who they are. No amount of CGI and bad acting can fix that little detail, Mr. Executive.

I don't see you turning Spongebob into an actual anthropomorphic sponge, do I? Or is that next? Will he be played by Dylan and Cole Sprouse? Tell me.

Actually, don't. Don't do anything. Stop raping my childhood, you sons of bitches. Stop. It.

(file under Cartoons That Shaped My Childhood)

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I have no poster. I have no thoughts anymore.

Give Fassy the Bond movie and be done with it.

Beast and Mystique made Nightcrawler. Prove me wrong.

Poor black/lady people in this movie. Poor them.

January Jones...you're testing it.

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Naturally, as patrons of this here blogsicle, its your appointed duty to cheer me the fuck up. Or no delightful half-reviews for you.

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-A hitman with an identity crisis (John Cusack) goes to his high school reunion, ostentatiously for a job, mostly to reconnect with his old girlfriend, who he jilted on prom night (Minnie Driver). Meanwhile, he is pursued by hitmen of various creed and legal authority, including a rival who's trying to recruit him into an assassins' union (Dan Akyroyd).

-You know a movie's good when they let Dan Akroyd be funny again. And John Cusack isn't a puffy-faced sadsack. Or he is, but it's tolerable. Also, Alan Arkin. Yay, Alan Arkin.

-Why must they squander Minnie Driver's voice in favor of an American accent? She's Jane, guys. Let her be Jane.

-The dialogue is clever without being precious, the action's incorporated into, rather than rudely interrupting, dramatic/comedic scenes, the supporting cast all get their little moments of awesome, and they actually make the most out of a required eighties-only musical selection.

-There's a Basque hitman who I think was albino. And you know me. I'm a sucker for semi-obscure Eurasian cultures.

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Or not. At this point I'm fairly indifferent.

Oh, and hi 100th follower Leith.aikan (which I'm spelling from vague memory, so fuck off)! How are you? Good? Good! Have a nice day, guy.

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4 young Japanese children, aged 5-12, are abandoned by their mother in a small apartment, with little money, and only one of them can leave for food.

This is one of those movies that likes to go into the grim details of such a deteriorating situation. Where time is measured by how small their crayons get. Where a mother has the responsibility of a child and the narcissistic entitlement of an adult. Where a kid'll hit up the potential fathers of his half-sister for cash.

Go have a group cry with your friends and swear to Xenu you won't suck as hard as that fucking lady.

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Be jealous, motherfuckers. I've got something to look forward to at the end of finals and the suffocating heat that comes with finals (that is, finals being taken in a building with broken air conditioning that they're taking their damn sweet time fixing). HAZZAH!

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Oh, sure, any and all FYC ads I make are made of random pictures I've got in my files, and yeah, I don't update what some pussies would call 'reliably', but dammit, when I do show up, I bring smiles to each and every one of your stupid faces. Get used to it, guy.

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If you've seen Insidious, you know exactly why I won't be sleeping tonight.

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-Ana Torent stars as a little girl living in rural, early-Generalissimo Spain, with her pathological liar sister and her parents, seperated in age by at least twenty years, the mother consumed in a long-distance affair, the father with his beekeeping. When a travelling cinema comes to town with Frankenstein, she begins to search for a monster of her own to befriend.

-This makes it seem much more plot-oriented than it is. Really, this is just a rough outline of a much looser narrative, oozing with metaphors and pretty, pretty pictures, painting the landscape yellow, a tale of a girl's isolation, a country's degradation, etc, etc.

-Torent is kind of amazing. She can't be more than ten here, but she manages to convey loneliness, innocence, maturity, all that shit, with her eyes.

-It's hard to explain in a few paragraphs. To theorize on what director Victor Erice meant--this was made at the tail end of Franco's reign, when the dictatorship had relaxed, but the censors were still alive and well--would require a greater knowledge of post-war Spain that I have. You could say that was the key to every other theory. Is this really so small a story as a little girl looking for Frankenstein, or is she just an avatar for the country itself? Should I be taking anything at face value? The late appearence of a Republican soldier, wounded and taking solace in a shack frequented by Torent in her search, says no, I shouldn't. But I will, because the literal story is as sad and sweet and beautiful as the metaphorical one.

-You've got to watch it to get what I mean, I tell you. Bro. Go. Now. I'll wait.

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As you may or may not be aware, in-page comment boxes are being a new variety of asshole hereforeto unknown to thinking man.

Now you all get redirected to a page if you care to comment. No popups. Because I love you.

Aren't you happy?

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