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.
-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.
-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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
It was in the $5 bin and I didn't buy it. What's wrong with me?
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.
-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.
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*
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.
-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.
-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.
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)
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.
Naturally, as patrons of this here blogsicle, its your appointed duty to cheer me the fuck up. Or no delightful half-reviews for you.
-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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
-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.
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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