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.
Good. Hi. Hello.
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.
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.
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)
It's not like I'm freaking out or anything. I mean, this is such a first world problem, right? Not even worth mentioning!
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON YOU FUCKING WHORE FACTORIES?
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.
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.
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.
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?