Four of Them

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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