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Ghost In A Teeny Bikini (2006)

  • Mar. 30th, 2009 at 7:44 PM

Pornstar Muffin Baker (Christine Nguyen) receives news that her rich uncle has passed away and has possibly left her with a large inheritance.  Her presence is requested at the estate of her late uncle for the reading of his will, and she happily makes the trip with her boyfriend in tow.  Unbeknownst to her but knownst to us, her attorney, Archibald Weisenheimer, plans on mischief as does the maid and butler, and the obvious question becomes: who do you most want to see naked and giving head?  At first I was on Muffin's side since
Christine Nguyen is prettier than the rest of the cast, but then something about Archibald's daugher, Evilyn (Rebecca Love), had me switching sides.  I can't quite put my finger on it but in the end I was rooting for a good solid blowjob performance from the forces of darkness.  Maybe it was her fetish getup, I dunno.  At any rate the movie features six sex scenes and since they're the only reason to watch this movie I'll provide a handy viewer's guide to them:

1. Muffin Baker (Christine Nguyen) vs. Bardo (Nick Manning).  Muffin has sex with Bardo because Bardo has rescued her from the clutches of giant ants.  You don't see the giant ants but there's always the chance that more will show up so while Muffin rides Bardo she keeps a wary eye on the exits with machine gun in hand.  It's clearly the funniest moment of the film.  At any rate, it soon becomes clear that you've been watching a film within a film.  Solid sex scene.

2. Muffin Baker vs. Ted Wood, Jr. (Voodoo).  Muffin has sex with Ted Wood (HAHAHAHAHA) because he's her boyfriend and that's what good pornstar girlfriends do.  Ted bangs her for awhile and although nothing funny happens you come away feeling happy because you've seen more naked Muffin.

3. Fuscia (Michelle Lay) vs. Marsh (Evan Stone).  Fuscia has sex with Marsh because they're servants and that's what servants do when they're alone.  They're both kind of creepy-looking and I suspect the director, Fred Olen Ray, was hoping for somebody's Rocky Horror Picture Show fantasy to come to life when he had the butler and maid fuck for no reason.

4. Madame Zola (Syren) vs. Marsh.  Madame Zola has sex with Marsh because she's been possessed by Tabitha (Nicole Sheridan), the titular Ghost In A Teeny Bikini, and Tabitha is horny.  Madame Zola came for the seance but stayed for the sex, and, really, also came for the sex and stayed for the seance, but whatever.  The point is that Syren has sex and that's good, although Evan Stone still looks creepy, which is not good.

5. Evilyn (Rebecca Love) vs. Ted Wood, Jr.  Evilyn has sex with Ted Wood (HAHAHAHAHA) because she is trying to destroy his relationship with Muffin.  Ted is receptive to the idea because Muffin isn't in the mood for sex and also because Evilyn has a certain air about her that suggests doing needs doing.  My favourite sex scene even though Ted's in it.

6. Muffin Baker vs. Tabitha.  Muffin has sex with Tabitha because she's asleep and Tabitha is horny.  This is hot lesbian sex with a point, though: it inspires Muffin to figure out how to get the fortune.  If ever you needed an additional argument in favour of lesbian sex, there you are.

There's also singing in the movie and I think Nguyen really did sing her own song because it sounds just terrible.  On the other hand, Evan Stone's song was kind of funny in an intential sort of way.  Breaking into song like that gives you a sort of WTF moment and helps pass the time between sex scenes.

You might as well watch hardcore pornography if you're already interested in this film but if you're a Fred Olen Ray fan or if you just need the tits and sex sounds, this movie'll do ya fine.

please stay tuned

  • Mar. 21st, 2009 at 1:37 AM
because we're coming back starting this weekend.

This Dream I Had

  • Jul. 25th, 2008 at 2:03 PM

So I'm not having pregnancy dreams, mostly, and my mother is disappointed--keeps checking to make sure that I'm not dreaming about being cheated on [symbolic of my hidden insecurities!], being trapped in a huge, ugly house [=my pregnant body, apparently], or small, fuzzy animals who need me to protect or nourish them. 0.o I'm not having these dreams, although I've read about them--maybe because my insecurites aren't hidden, or because I've always felt as though my body were a strange, ugly house that I don't want to live in. But last night I finally did have a dream; I dreamed that I had the kid, and that he looked exactly the way his pop must have as a squishy-faced newborn [blue eyes, placenta-flavored blond hair, teeny roman nose]. Since I hope that the kid will look like his biodad, that's . . . probably what it means.

I assume that the timing is a result of my consultation with the midwifery practice yesterday. They seem like sweet and good and capable people--now I just have to wait for them to decide whether they'd like to work with liddle ole me. While we waited for the midwife, my mom and I watched this video of people having babies. Not a revelation, exactly, but it's hard to get out of my mind now that that shit fucking HURTS. Listening to sweet, exhausted aftermath ladies talking about how it hurt worse than anything ever but since there's no way to avoid it they just hung on is mildly intimidating. Nevertheless, I want to have the kid out of the hospital, with no drugs. Why?

My mom was a childbirth educator for several years, and as a result, I soaked up a load of information about childbirth as a young teen who knew that she'd never let anyone do that to her. I saw woman after woman [on video, usually] screaming and crying and finally push a fucking eight-pound creature out through her vagina. So it hurts, check, but the really awful videos to watch involved drugs. I saw side-by-side footage of undrugged babies and their drugged comrades--the drugged babies just flop around sadly and look dead, it's really awful. The undrugged kids, set on the mom's stomach, could pull themselves up to the nipple, latch on, and start breastfeeding--it's really fucking amazing. So I've got this idea that [at least for me! We all make our own choices!], painkillers during pregnancy = child abuse. Also, frankly, it sounds scarier to me to be fuzzy about what's happening than to be in really awful pain. At least I know what pain is like; I have no real idea what childbirth is like, and don't want to be impaired while I try it on. Shit,  you aren't supposed to use a car while on that stuff--why attempt anything even more important?

I'm halfway through now, so the twat-shredding pain is beginning to seem very real and inevitable. It's a pretty weird thing to have happen to a gal, yeah?

Otter SMASH!

  • Jul. 25th, 2008 at 1:48 PM

Well, they pulled it off: a fun superhero movie. For some reason most superhero movies have been wallowing in exposition and unbelievable romance all these years, always being careful to make sure you hate nearly everyone involved with the production of the film before giving you the final payoff of explosions and things actually happening. Superhero movies tend to be as afraid of their b-movie roots as I am of crowded restaurants and they act about as snobbish. But the truth is that the best movies, those that are most fun to watch, are the "high brow" masterpieces and the pulp trash, and watching everything in between makes up your punishment for the sins you don't confess.

There isn't much plot to The Incredible Hulk, which means there's a chance you'll have some fun while watching it. Normally you're just setting yourself up for disappointment if you leave a big budget studio project to its own plot devices, but this time the filmmakers were so preoccupied with making sure the film didn't feel like Hulk (2003) that they left less time for thinkin'. Some people seem to think of this as a drawback, as though Spider-Man was a thoughtful take on orphan empowerment, but I for one am just asking for a bunch of action bridged by functional dialogue and plotting.

Taking up where Hulk ended, Dr. Bruce Banner  (Edward Norton) is on the run from the U.S. military, hiding out down in Brazil in a slum that you'll just have to see to believe. I'm glad somebody filmed it. He's been working to cure his condition that causes him to turn into a raging green giant when overly excited, and he's also been pining after his lost love. Unfortunately, the U.S. military finds out where he's hiding and the rest of the film involves one long chase scene punctuated with short fight scenes. The love story is rejoined, only this time it seems like they enjoy each other and the last time that showed up in a superhero movie was...never.

The villain (Tim Roth) is boring and predictable and perhaps it's supposed to be a little disturbing in that the climactic battle is a rage-off and perhaps we're supposed to give a fuck that we're cheering for the smarter angry monster and that ought to tell us something but it doesn't and maybe I'm misjudging the entire film. An interesting villain would be oh, say, The Leader, who we are certain to see in the sequel since his character (Tim Blake Nelson) is set up unconvincingly in the last half of this movie. Then we could watch the conflict between rage and intellect play out not only in the character of the Hulk, but also between the Hulk and the villain.

But I can't go on. I just can't do it. I've no real idea what other things to say about this movie. It's ok. It's not a terrible movie. It's a little boring but in that way that makes two hours seem like only one hour, which is to say it's still not much different from most superhero movies. Ultimately it feels like a waste of money to go to a movie like this if the movie itself is going to be the highlight of the trip. Make sure you watch this movie with someone whose company you really enjoy.

Recommended for: Jacques Renault

Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog

  • Jul. 20th, 2008 at 1:15 PM


I've been trying to tell people about Dr. Horrible recently, but most of my conversion attempts have had to start with "Do you know who Joss Whedon is?"--not a promising beginning. Dr. Horrible is going offline at midnight TONIGHT, but is available on iTunes for six bucks, and will come out on dvd some blessed day.

Joss Whedon, for those of you who don't already know, is the geek god behind _Firefly,_ _Angel,_ _Buffy the Vampire Slayer,_ and the first twenty-five issues of _Astonishing X-Men._ _Dr. Horrible_ is a project conceived and created during the writers' strike; it's a forty-minute musical about supervillain Dr. Horrible and his nemesis Captain Hammer ["Corporate Tool"]. It's really a gem--this will probably be a dull review, because I'm only entertaining when I'm annoyed, and _Dr. Horrible_ is perfectly charming. Captain Hammer is played by Nathan Fillion, one of Joss's favorite stars, unbelievably good-looking for a Canadian and certainly a candidate for any future stalking I might undertake. [He's going to be in the _Wonder Woman_ movie next year! Woo!]

Unusually, I'm reluctant to reveal spoilers on this one, but I do want to mention that Whedon et al resist the temptation to sweeten the story and the ending--Dr. Horrible is evil, after all, and can't reasonably be expected to change his ways for a girl. The ending isn't 'rocks fall'--you can tell, because that'll turn me against a movie/show/book/song every goddamn' time--but it isn't stupid-happy, either. Just watch it--it's really only $5.97 on iTunes, and you should give Joss your money. He consistently does good things with it! Of course, I may have to revise that statement if fucking _Dollhouse_ really does come out next year and looks like shit. It's often no great task to pick out the influences on a Whedon show, but _Dollhouse_ looks to be drawing on shit I hate [_Camp Concentration,_ some of the more tedious ideas of William Gibson's, and Barbie's Psycho Dreamhouse]. I don't have any particular beef with Eliza Dushku, but I don't have a lot of confidence in any stupid idea intended to rest squarely on her dusky Northern shoulders. She's pretty, and sulks well, but nothing I've seen her do so far suggests that she's capable of demonstrating "burgeoning self-awareness, and her desire to know who she was before, a desire that begins to seep into her various imprinted personalities and puts her in danger both in the field and in the closely monitored confines of the Dollhouse." [from an E! online interview that I'm too lazy to properly link to.] 

Here’s the thing; I love musicals. Most new musicals I think are absolute shit, but, believe it or not, because I’m some kind of reactionary—I just that, for example, a musical where you just take the hits of ABBA and set them to a crappy love story . . . blows. But Joss Whedon has an interest in and talent for creating genuinely new musicals—sure, both _Dr. Horrible_ and the _Buffy_ musical have been short, low-budget stuff, but they’re charming and original and nerdy. Real musicals are nerdly! The _Lion King_ or _Mama Mia_ is just cashing in on the massive popularity of some already mainstream money machine. Sure, you have to hire someone to choreograph your _Little Mermaid_ Heely ballet, but there’s nothing really new going to happen. Whedon’s musicals remind me of Sondheim [in my humble the patron saint of musical theater]. Did you ever see _Into the Woods_? There’s a quirky sense of humor there that cannot be allowed in the McDonald’s musicals, a sense of fun and offbeat, snarky fun that you won’t find in fucking _Mama Mia._ That’s why you need to watch _Dr. Horrible_; we need people to write new musicals that don’t suck rancid dolphin cock.



Go to drhorrible.com right fucking now, girls and ladies.  

The Hulk Had a Blog, and I Read It

  • Jul. 4th, 2008 at 9:30 PM

So let me say it right up front: I liked the new _Hulk_ movie quite a bit. I’ve listened to a few people talk about why the Ang Lee movie was just too good for comic book geeks—something about the Hulk being not a literal monster but the rampaging id, God save us—but it was a boundless sea of shittiness. Aha, peazel, I hear you cry, but you admit yourself that you are one of those geeks yourself—maybe the movie was just too artistic for you. Well, it’s hard to argue that it isn’t possible [I not only read Penny Arcade, I not only listen to Downloadable Content obsessively, I enjoy the podcast Gabe and Tycho did for WotC—that’s right, just Mike, Jerry, and Steve Kuntz playing D&D together. I am Lord Nerdlington], but—what’s that formulation again? Oh yeah—some of my favorite films are artistic. My three favorite movies, in fact, are all foreign, and my very favorite is not only not available on DVD in this country but was shot in black and white. So I can, in fact, appreciate artistic bullshit; but _Hulk_ one was just bullshit, full stop. I didn’t watch the deleted scenes, not feeling up to ten full minutes of watching the Hulk sit on his princess bed, eat chocolate candies by the handful, and cry about how boys never call, but I saw more than my fair share of bullshit just watching the theatrical release version. Shit, I watched _Ghost Rider,_ and even that turkey cannot compete with the sheer tonnage of bullshit crammed into Lee’s assterpiece. You like that? Yeah you do.

The fact that I hated the first movie so much made me willing to go see _Hulk 2: Hulkier!_ in theaters; it seemed impossible for this movie to disappoint me. And sure enough, it had many excellent features, some of which I will discuss here, and the rest of which you’ll have to buy me a drink to invent. My favorite thing was the relationship between Banner and Betty Ross; this is the first superheroic relationship in film to be believable. In one scene where Banner realizes that he can’t have sex without Hulking out [a nice touch, by the way—harks back to my beloved X-Men], the conversation between the two of them is both funny and genuinely touching. Is that just because Liv Tyler’s so appealing? Only time will tell, I guess.

The fighting in _Hulk Two: Hulk, Too?_ was deeply satisfying for me—it wasn’t until midway through the first major fight that I realized that I’d never really rooted for the Hulk of the previous installment to make some noise. Even when he was fighting the mutant cancer dogs, surely the most just of any possible conflict [note: hmmm.], I just wanted the Hulk to shut the fuck up and stop bothering me. Maybe he could run errands offscreen, and take his awful [note: not awe-inspiring, just annoying] father with him.  But watching Edward Norton chase cowardly South Americans through their own bottling factory was fantastic. The very best combat nugget, to my mind, takes place at the University of Toronto [yes, I watched this movie with a Torontonian who wouldn’t shut the fuck up about where things had been filmed, and as a result can’t even remember where much of the film was actually supposed to be set] when the Hulk has to destroy a couple of sound cannons and then protect his lady from her own father. Dun-dun-duuun!

The worst part of this movie was a cowardly scientist who looked something like the even geekier cousin of that chaos theorist from the first_ Jurassic Park_ movie. It seemed like the movie had suddenly taken a virulently anti-intellectual tone, which snapped me out of immersion for the first and only time; it was kind of horrifying. Imagine making out with a cute dude, and everything’s going fantastic, and then you glance down and see that he’s rubbing a rat against his penis. Oh, wait, I already reviewed that movie [see: _Phantom of the Opera_]. The runner-up in the worst film element contest, sadly, goes to the main villain—he’s a Russian who works for the British on loan to the U.S. who sports a mysterious Irish accent. As soon as he turned up, it was pretty clear that he was going to be the unstable, evil foreigner; I am in fact a fan of clichés in the appropriate context, but this was just goofy.

The movie has its flaws—there are others, but again, you’d have to buy me a drink and sit patiently to get at them—but it’s definitely worth seeing unless you are a complete punk who hates superhero movies [except perhaps for some imaginary superhero movie that has no dialogue] like my colleague here.

Eight out of ten stars.

Recommended for: Betty Briggs.

 

Iron Man (2008)

  • Jun. 15th, 2008 at 5:07 PM
 

I have no hope for you if you go to a superhero movie looking for rich dialogue and superior character development. Similarly, I have no hope for you if you think you're getting it when you see a movie like Iron Man. All that you can hope for is a few fun action sequences that aren't ruined by horrible dialogue. If you get something better than that, consider your time not wasted.

Iron Man is played by Robert Downey, jr., who manages to be both un-annoying and even mildly charming. This might seem like damning with faint praise, but consider the charmless acting in Fantastic Four (2005), any of the Batman movies, and in Hulk (2003), and you'll surely realize acting in a superhero movie is harder than it may at first seem. (the script writers will never do you a favour) Much has been made of Downey's real-life persona making him a natural fit for the role of the callow-but-talented playboy asshole Tony Stark, which seems wildly offensive to Downey, but I guess he makes enough money to brush it off. His personal assistant, Pepper Potts, is played by Gwyneth Paltrow, who seems to have way too much talent to be playing this role, but she's been on record saying she's afraid she'll have a difficult time ever finding good acting roles again after taking two years off. Points for being willing to work up from the bottom, but I rather wish she'd taken Nicole Kidman's route of doing interesting movies that nobody ever hears about while waiting for the occasional big role to pop up. Paltrow, instead, looks pretty and spends the movie doing nothing much. It's funny how it all adds up to increased box office potential in the long run. The identity of the bad guy is supposed to be a secret, I think, but if you've ever seen a superhero movie before you'll have very quickly figured out who it will be. (and this might be the problem of casting a big-name actor for the part: no one will ever assume he's not going to have a significant role in the end) Still, to avoid spoilers, I won't tell you who it is. Jeff Bridges, by the way, does a nice job as Obadiah Stane, Tony Stark's business partner. Oh, also, there's a token black man who will have an expanded role in a sequel, and also a reporter from Variety or Vanity Fair - it doesn't much matter - who for some reason attends arms industry press conferences. She has sex with Stark but I think we're supposed to take her seriously because she puts on a serious face later. I suppose it's no more sexist than the source material.

The quality of the main actors seems to be considered a strength for Iron Man, but I don't see it. Eric Bana and Jennifer Connelly are good actors and that didn't help Hulk much at the box office or in the affections of geeks. Gwyneth Paltrow's job in Iron Man is to look pretty, and she pulls that off, but it's not exactly due to the quality of her acting. (unless I've misjudged her off-screen life drastically) The acting in Iron Man is fine, but all that was needed, I suspect, was for Downey to be charismatic enough to hold our attention and he does that. Bana certainly didn't. Nobody in Fantastic Four could do it. (I'm tempted to say Jessica Alba's job was only to look pretty too, but sadly she had real speaking lines and plot developments to handle)

Oh, hey, the plot. For some reason Stark decides to fly to Afghanistan and then go way out into the wild to test his new missile system for generals. Why he would do this - why anyone would do this - isn't addressed in the movie but then it's a superhero film so this is the sort of plot hole one leaps over. Surprisingly, Stark's army convoy is ambushed by bad guys - Afghans? Taliban? Al-Qaeda? - and everyone other than him is killed. Actually, he's mostly killed, but in captivity his life is saved by a fellow prisoner who jams an electro-magnet into Stark's chest in order to save Stark's heart from embedded shrapnel. (it's never explained why Stark doesn't have the shrapnel removed when he returns to the U.S. but I think we're supposed to be satisfied with the explanation that the shrapnel is "too close to the heart") The bad guys want Stark's know-how employed to build them a bomb, and Stark decides to bust out of lock-down by building a nuclear-powered metal suit. Bust out he does because although the bad guys can plainly see their bullets bouncing off Stark's armour to no effect their only tactic, to the last man standing, is to stand clear of protection and shoot Stark point-blank. One bad guy creeps up to Stark and fires a bullet at the back of his head, the bullet bouncing back and killing the bad guy instantly. It's played for laughs, but it just made me feel uncomfortable, like scene in Union Pacific (1939), when the Indian waves his tomahawk at the cigar store Indian. Anyway, later Stark realizes some hard truths about the military-industrial complex and decides to right his wrongs by becoming a metal-clad superhero. He's betrayed and ultimately must confront his betrayer in the climactic battle.

The plot's weak, obviously, and pretty lame, but it doesn't really need to be more than serviceable. I just need my superhero movies to have lots of good action involving costumed superheroes battling it out with costumed bad dudes. There's not much of that in Iron Man, but still there's a fun CGI sequence involving Iron Man and two U.S. fighter jets dogfighting for awhile. Cut 30 minutes of plot and character development and keep all of the action sequences and we would have had a really fun superhero movie on our hands. Instead we have an ok film, fitting somewhere in between good superhero movies like the first two Spider-Man films, and the bad such as the Fantastic Four films, right around the Batman Begins (2005) level.

For the record, my favourite comic book adaptation is Akira (1988), likely followed by Sin City (2005). Unbreakable (2000) is probably my favourite superhero movie.

Recommended for: Bobby Briggs.

You're Next, Thor

  • Jun. 15th, 2008 at 5:05 PM
 

Iron Man! I was really excited about seeing this movie, mostly because I never really liked Iron Man. See, I really like comics, and I grew up a Marvel girl, but my love was reserved largely for the X-Men (almost all of the X-Men, embarrassingly—I even read the ill-fated Generation X), the Fantastic Four, and Captain America. I never much cared for the Avengers—surely even Marvel fans can admit that they’re just a cut rate JLA, right?—and only read of the Captain’s adventures in his solo rag (and briefly, wonderfully, in Joe Kelly’s Deadpool). I mean, the Avengers were more or less the Captain, Iron Man, Thor (not the worst of his kind, I admit it—that dubious honor probably goes to Hercules, or maybe Wonder Man—the party-fied powerhouses!—but still a dink by any reasonable measure), the Hulk (yawn. I mean, I don’t mind him existing particularly, and he can be a tragic guest star every so often, but he’s too mindless and too powerful and way too inarticulate. Not a team player), Quicksilver ( . . . fast), and Namor (and what fucking genius put him on a team? Namor’s a dick, a majestically unapologetic prince of tuna, and didn’t he start out fighting the damn’ Avengers?). And then, of course, we have the West Coast Avengers (or, I can hear the fanboys whining, the Avengers: West Coast): Hawkeye (a former hoodlum unworthy to lick the balls of Oliver Queen), Mockingbird (I’d make a similar comparison to Black Canary, but it’s just too sad), Hank Pym (I mean, I know that many heroes end up going through more than one pseudonym, but it’s a rare asshole who uses so many that he gets confused and has to resort to the name his momma gave him. Also, Hank Pym is a wife-beating asshole and I’m not sure why he gets credited to the forces of good), the Wasp (a reasonable choice, I guess—when you have the power to become tiny, you really need a team backing you up. Oh, and the power to leave the abusive asshole you fell in love with), Wonder Man (much as I hate the phrase “love to hate” . . . I mean, he was a stuntman-turned-movie star whose incredible powers were tempered by the fact that he didn’t much give a damn about anything but chasing pussy), the Scarlet Witch (who suffered from a not-uncommon problem—she was far too powerful to be allowed to actually use her powers. Whenever she got much play, it tended to revolve around her personal life and the fact that her children, e.g., didn’t exist), the Vision (why can we not as a people accept the fact that superpowerful robots are a bad idea and move on? They get possessed, they get reprogrammed, they come to feel solidarity with toasters and rise up against us), Tigra (a catgirl, whose cat aspect mostly involved being a huge whore. At least they aren’t letting the feminists ruin comics, am I right?), and the Moon Knight (genuinely cool, completely bats, and a very strange choice for a team player. He’s a split personality who worships an imaginary god and wears a cowl; he has never been nominated for the Mister Stable award. And fuck you, Batman is the exception who proves the rule on that team thing). Oh, and you can take your inactive reserve and fuck yourself—the Thing is not an Avenger, he just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.

So. Iron Man! I never liked Iron Man; he was a self-involved, alcoholic jerk who only did good when it seemed like it might be fun. He seemed like such a weenie without the suit, and he didn’t have any problems that he didn’t bring on himself—you have to remember that I was an X-Men fan. Tony Stark was a weenie of privilege, and he wore too much eyeliner. My absolute favorite part of the most excellent Civil War was the companion volume that took the form of Tony Stark’s files. What an asshole! So that’s why I was excited about the Iron Man movie; I’ve seen many a superhero flick, and they tend to fuck up the characters pretty badly. Sounds great! Sign me up! Watching what the man did to Nightcrawler made me want to cry, but they could make Tony Stark a tap-dancing panda and I wouldn’t be much bothered. Feel free to take my low expectations into account when I say that the movie was pretty great, but I really liked it (although in my humble the last twenty minutes aren’t really worth sticking around for). Marvel had creative control of this one, and it shows: the origin story gets updated in a logical and consistent way (and why is this so often a problem? I’m looking at you, Fantastic Four and The Hulk); Tony Stark drinks like a fish, but it isn’t commented on in this episode; and there are numerous friendly nods to the fans in the crowd, including the appearances of S.H.I.E.L.D. and hints toward Rhodey’s future career as Iron Man and War Machine.  The Iron Man suit is fantastic, and his flights made me all misty-eyed over what movies can do for geeks these days. I was especially impressed by the way that the movie compensated for the fact that we can’t in fact build awesome robots by giving Stark’s bots R2D2-style personality. Gwyneth Paltrow is a charming Pepper Potts, although I can’t help wondering what she’s doing in this movie—didn’t she do real movies once upon a time?

I decided to write up a review of Iron Man after reading David Denby’s review in the New Yorker; I feel fairly confident in asserting that he didn’t actually watch the film. You should look it up, it’s worth reading—I’ve never agreed with him about a movie, but this piece left me actually enraged. Watch the movie, read the review, and then try to convince me that he watched the whole movie. It seems more likely that he stopped some eight-year-old  coming out of the theater and asked a few bored questions.

So what’s wrong with this movie? The fact that Obie Stane wouldn’t stop talking (and that he started every sentence with “Tony”) really got on my nerves after awhile; the reporter from Vanity Fair is a weird, over-sexed chipmunk of a character, and I’m not sure why she keeps popping up to ask the tough questions in a stupid voice; and I was really disappointed by the climactic fight between Iron Man and War Monger. It took me awhile to figure out why, but I think I have it—in this movie, Iron Man is at his best when in the air, but he’s forced to fight War Monger by hopping around at ground level and getting tossed into things.

My greatest hope for the future of the franchise rests in the Avengers movie coming out in 2011. We’ll be getting a Thor movie and a Captain America movie before then, at least; Iron Man is at his jerkiest in a group, and he may well shine in the Avengers movie. In an assholey way, I mean.

 

Eight out of ten stars.

Recommended for: Comics fans and other kids.

Mind Me

  • May. 24th, 2008 at 11:45 PM

I read this Michael Crichton book something like ten years ago—in it, he has the author insertion persona talk about Japanese veneration of the “art of artlessness,” about the difficulty of constructing something that looks perfectly unstudied and unselfconscious. This is a perfect description of what kids-in-mind.com has accomplished (whether or not it’s a goal of the Japanese . . . and I’d bet on not. The book was a paranoid rant against the yellow peril. But it was kind of fun). Kids in Mind is a website intended to help parents avoid inappropriate film content for their kids, but I suspect that it’s read mostly by grownups looking for giggles. Me, I find it less funny and more zen; each film review reads like a sort of extended koan, a poem about the human condition. I will here quote an example.

A man and a woman kiss in bed (she is wearing a shirt and panties revealing bare legs to the hip), she straddles him and they kiss passionately, they roll over and fall on the floor (it is implied that they have sex) and we see her wake up nude the next morning (her bare legs, back and shoulder are visible).

Two women wearing low-cut dresses (cleavage and bare shoulders are visible) stand on either side of a man and snuggle against him as he gambles and one blows on his dice suggestively. Two men watch as three female flight attendants dance while holding glasses of champagne on a plane (we see bare abdomens and cleavage).

A man and a woman nearly kiss. A man and a woman appear to be attracted to each other.

A woman wears a shirt unbuttoned to expose part of her bra and cleavage and bare legs to the hip. Women are shown wearing low-cut tops and dresses that reveal cleavage in many scenes.

A man and a woman wearing a very low-cut dress in the back that reveals her bare back to the hip and cleavage dance together at a party. Men and women dance together at a party.

A man asks another man if it's true that he has gone "12 for 12" with the Maxim cover models (implying that he had sex with all of them) and the man says yes. A man teases another man about the "lovely lady he woke up with" and asks, "What was his name?" A woman enters a room to see a man wearing a metal suit and being tugged at by machines and he says, "This is not the worst thing you've caught me doing." A man wearing a metal suit tells machines trying to take the suit off to "be gentle, this is my first time."

Several military vehicles drive through the desert, one explodes (we see the vehicle thrown and flames burst), and soldiers get out of the other vehicles and are shot (we see blood spurts on a windshield and hear screaming); a man gets out of one vehicle and runs, a bomb lands on the ground next to him and explodes, and he is struck and thrown to the ground (we see blood seeping through his shirt and blood on his face).

Men with guns attack a village, people run into a building, they are chased and shot (we hear the gunshots), others are forced into a truck and the men are lined up against a wall to be shot and one man is struck and kicked while on the ground (the attack is interrupted before they are shot). Men with guns hold other men on the ground on their knees, they receive orders to "take care of things" and we hear gunshots (suggesting that all of the men were killed). A wounded man with blood on his chest and face dies. Two men open a cell door, it explodes and they are thrown and killed (we see their bodies).

A man in a metal suit picks up a car with a woman and children inside (they scream) and prepares to throw the car but does not, he grabs a motorcycle and flings it against a wall (throwing the driver off), and he is then thrown into a bus and the bus explodes (he is shot out and into the sky). Someone falls into a reactor and causes an enormous explosion. A man wearing a metal suit is shot out of the sky by a rocket, crashes to the ground (he's OK), he then fires on the tank that fired at him and blows it up (we don't see anyone inside the tank). A man wearing a metal suit shoots and destroys many weapons causing large explosions.

A man in a metal suit flies through the air, is shadowed by two fighter jets, a rocket is fired at him, he blows up the rocket, clings to the belly of one plane, the plane spins trying to knock him off, he lets go, one plane crashes into him breaking its wing, the plane spins out of control, and the pilot ejects -- his parachute deploys just before it is too late.

A man in a metal suit is shot at repeatedly, he shoots a rocket at a man and it explodes behind him (we see the man later with a badly scarred face), shoots a flame thrower that ignites many men (we see men running in flames), as well as stockpiles of weapons, causing explosions. A man in a metal suit shoots several men who hold people with guns to their heads (we see the men slump to the ground dead, there's no blood). A man in a metal suit punches through a wall, pulls a man out through the hole and slams him to the ground (people standing around him move closer to him suggesting that they are going to attack him). Two men in metal suits fight: one stomps on the chest of the other, one is thrown, one has cables yanked out of its mechanisms, one shoots at the other, and one threatens to kill the other.

We see a man thrashing and screaming during a surgical procedure, and we see bloody tissue being removed and a device being implanted. A man regains consciousness and pulls a tube out of his nose (we hear squishing as it comes out) and he gags and coughs. A man is rendered paralyzed and another man removes a device from his chest (he gasps and goes gray suggesting that he is dying). After a surgery a man discovers that a device has been implanted in his chest and that it is attached to a car battery (we see him carrying the battery around in several scenes). A man has a metal cylinder in his chest (we see inside the metal; there's no blood or body matter), he tells a woman to reach inside it and pull out a wire, she does (we hear squishing and she complains that it is filled with pus and that it smells, we hear a zap and the man twitches), she puts another device in the cylinder and the man is jolted; she pulls her hand out and we see slime on her hand.

Several men with guns enter a laboratory, they are each struck or thrown by a man in a metal suit, there is a large explosion, and the man in the metal suit breaks through the ground outside and holds a weapon on a woman. Several men with guns enter a cell, one man is kicked across the room by a man in a metal suit, other men shoot at him, he kicks and punches them out of the way, breaks through a door, a man shoots at him at close range (the bullet ricochets and strikes him in the head, there's no blood).

A man is forced to his knees, his head is placed on a table and a red-hot coal is pushed near his face as a threat. A man's head is forced under water several times as a form of punishment and his head is placed in a burlap bag in a later scene. We see a man with a bloody face tied to a chair and men with guns stand around him. We see photos of dead human and animal bodies after an attack.

A man wearing a metal suit flies high into the atmosphere, ice forms on the metal, the flying mechanism fails, he falls toward the ground and nearly crashes onto a busy street. A man wearing a metal suit flies into the air, the propulsion mechanism sputters, and he falls back to the ground and crashes into sand (we see the suit in pieces and he has some blood on his face and arm). A man testing jet propulsion boots is flipped through the air and slams into a wall (we see him with a few abrasions on his face later). A man tests out a flight stabilizer and is thrown back from the blast. When a man in a metal suit lands on his roof, he breaks through the roof, then the floor of the first floor and then onto a car parked on the bottom floor (sirens blare). A man tests a device that fires a blast into a wall and then three plate glass windows, shattering them.

A man uses a device that makes a high-pitched whistle to incapacitate a man (we see the man's veins on his face protrude through the skin and he goes limp). Two men being held hostage stand and raise their hands in the air when their captors with guns enter and threaten them. A man yells at and threatens a man.

During a weapon demonstration, a rocket is launched, it spurts smaller explosives and when they strike the ground there is an enormous explosion that blows a wave of dust and a gust of wind into people that are gathered to watch.

A man speeds in his car. A man is strapped and screwed into a metal suit. Machines pull and tug at a metal suit trying to remove it from a man who struggles and complains.

A man is referred to as the Merchant of Death. A man is told that he is locked out of his company by the Board.

There are also sections for substance ab/use, discussion topics, and my favorite: a count of every naughty word used in the film.

1 mostly muffled F-word, 2 scatological terms, 1 anatomical term, 7 mild obscenities, name-calling (sour patch), 7 religious exclamations.

This is of course Iron Man, a film that I’ve seen three times in the theater so far. I’m reasonably familiar with the movie, then, but the Kids in Mind review gave me an entirely different perspective on the film. I think part of what I find so interesting is the fact that no names are used—it doesn’t matter who is snuggling whom—that is totally irrelevant to the review. Weird, huh? It doesn’t seem like this could really be designed to protect little kids: take this entry. “A man wearing a metal suit tells machines trying to take the suit off to ‘be gentle, this is my first time.’” Okay, this is a mildly sexual joke—but no little kid is going to have any idea that there’s a sexual connotation to it, so what’s the harm?

As a child, I was under the supervision of adults who probably would really have appreciated this website. I wasn’t allowed to watch the Smurfs because there was magic used, for example—I wasn’t allowed to see the Disney film Bedknobs and Broomsticks—I got in trouble for reading The Handmaid’s Tale because of the sexual content of the books. As with my parents’ methods of censorship, there are some suggestive lacks at the ‘site; they aren’t really concerned with racism, or sexism, or heterosexism, despite that fact that kids pick up on that kind of poison easily enough. I grew up watching hideous Christian claymation series Davey and Goliath, a series which hated women and had one particularly weird episode which smugly focuses on the racism of a black character (who existed only for the duration of the episode and the purpose of serving as a negative example).

I can’t star this one. Several stars for thoroughness?

Recommended for: the kind of parents who shouldn’t be allowed within five hundred yards of a minor child.

Kids-In-Mind

  • May. 24th, 2008 at 11:45 PM
 

Kids-In-Mind is a website devoted to listing in detail anything potentially objectionable in a film so that parents will have a handy guide for selecting films for their children to watch. The site rates movies on a scale of zero to ten, ten being the least child-friendly, on three criteria: "Sex & Nudity", "Violence & Gore:, and "Profanity". It also lists potential discussion topics (re: themes) raised by the film, and gives a brief summary of the film's "message". The site doesn't make recommendations to parents, only providing this guide.

Interested to see how it works, I decided to look up my five most favourite films from the past ten years (Kids-In-Mind has been up and running since 1992) but discovered that none had been reviewed. This is too bad, since one of them, George Washington (2000), features kids as the main characters and hasn't been rated by the MPAA so a site like this could be of optimal value to an interested parent.  Moving on, I looked up all of my most favourite films from the past ten years and was encouraged to see that fully one two of every three of them had a review on this site, including great kids movies like 2002's Spirited Away (0 for sex & nudity, 4 for violence & gore, 0 for profanity) and 2005's Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. (2.3.1)

If, like me, you can't remember all that sex and nudity from Curse of the Were-Rabbit, Kids-In-Mind is helpfully detailed in cataloging its scatological sight gags: "A nude man stands with a box wrapped around his waist and the sign on the box reads 'May contain nuts.' A woman stands behind two melons (at the height of her chest) and strokes them while saying, 'he has never shown any interest in my produce.'" etc. It goes into far more detail than I would have supposed was necessary for even the most concerned of parents such as when it lists "A woman says that she has feelings for a man." I can't quite picture the parent who'd be disturbed by that one.

Of course, the reviewers hope to err on the side of safety, listing as much as they can think of to be as helpful as they can to concerned parents. But when they tell us the message of No Country For Old Men (2007) is "life is random", I'm left questioning the value of the help offered. The message of The Departed (2006) for Kids-In-Mind is "do not trust anyone", and the message for the remake of 3:10 to Yuma (2007) is "making a living in 19th could be dangerous", suggesting, at least, the need for a copy editor on the payroll, or perhaps what is needed are a few reviewers not so easily baffled by the films they watch.

But then what kind of parent wants his kid watching No Country For Old Men? Does a parent really need Kids-In-Mind to help them figure out that violent R-rated neo-westerns aren't for little Billy?  Perhaps these parents have internal quotas for bad words in mind so that 29 "fucks" are ok but the 30th is just too much. How much trust in obscenity counts should one have if the counter can't be trusted to understand the film's "message"? Maybe the reviewer missed a profanity because he was stumped by the mise-en-scène. But again: who wonders if their kid would like The Departed?

Much more likely is a parent wondering if an animated film will be appropriate for their child and so it's not a little surprising that Kids-In-Mind hasn't reviewed either The Triplets of Belleville (2003) or Howl's Moving Castle (2004). You'd sort of assume Kids-In-Mind has a handle on recent award-winning animated feature films but no, they're no Saw (2004), all four volumes of which have been reviewed. Although Kids-In-Mind is particularly concerned with films given a PG-13 rating these days, not even The Triplets of Belleville's PG-13 rating could gain it a review. Similarly, if you liked March of the Penguins (2004) don't bother checking Kids-In-Mind to see if Winged Migration (2001) is also appropriate; it too failed to garner a review.

Of what use, then, is Kids-In-Mind to a concerned parent? Under "Discussion Topics" for Alien (1979) no mention is made of "misogyny", "gender roles", or the role of "scientific inquiry". Instead a suggested topic of discussion with one's kid is "alien life", nearly as relevant to the child's life as the topic of "quarantine". The "Discussion Topics" for Babe (1995) make no mention of "individuality" or the importance of being true to oneself and one's friends or even "perseverance" when faced with hard times and difficult tasks, instead listing, in total, "separation from parent, animals as food, and racism."

You won't find much help here in determining which movies are best for your child, but I can give you a handy head start on your search. There are three movies reviewed on Kids-In-Mind that are both G-rated and have garnered no more than a single "1" in one of its ratings of sex, violence, and profanity: The Adventures of Elmo in Grouchland (1999), Piglet's Big Movie (2003), and Spellbound. (2002)  If you're one of those confused parents thinking about renting a particularly unfavoured child a grownup movie, Rob Zombie's Halloween (2007) prequel is the only reviewed film to garner a perfect 10 in all three categories.

Recommended for: Betty Briggs.

incapacitating rage

  • Apr. 27th, 2008 at 4:02 PM
 

Sometimes you really have to sit down and make a list of reasons not to put out your own eyes and throw them at strangers. My most recent experience with this kind of self-destructive depression came after watching both versions of _Angels in the Outfield._ I had seen the 90s remake as a kid—I’ve been an Angels fan since I was a tiny kid in California—and it filled me with a burning rage even then. The worst part of this terrible movie is the same now as it was then; the impossible dream is that the Angels would win the pennant. The World Series is never mentioned, even after the triumphant finale—clearly the Angels go on the blow the next however many games and return home in disgrace.

Both movies are terrible; small orphans wish with all their small, sad hearts for the home team to do well. Roger, the adorable child who stars in the remake, isn’t technically an orphan—his mother is dead and his father is a nogoodnik who has gotten on his Harley and taken off for Canada. The players are mostly goofballs who weigh five hundred pounds or have huge ears and no sense or are four feet tall or whatever.  Here’s a thing you may already know: when your team sucks, it isn’t funny. Yes, the Angels sucked for most of my life so far, but it was never funny, it was heartbreaking—watching people have a good laugh at our expense really just makes me a bitter and violent peazel. It’s not even just this fucking Disney movie—the year we won the World Series, they called it the ‘Cinderella Series.’ Fuck you!

In preparation for this review, I went to two games this week: Sunday I saw the Cardinals and Giants at Busch Stadium and Friday, the Royals and Jays at Kaufman Stadium. The Cardinals game was a lot of fun—sure, they got blown out, but it was a gorgeous day and the St. Louis fans are as good-natured a crowd as you’ll find anywhere. Even when the home team was well behind, good plays got applause, and nobody really got heckled. Royals fans, on the other hand, are big assholes. At least where we were sitting, everyone in shouting distance was, well, shouting—at one point, some jackass behind me screamed at the [black] batter that he’d trade him for a bucket of chicken. That was a Royals batter, by the way—they screamed at the home team, they screamed at the Jays, and they drank crappy beer like tomorrow would never come. I can only hope that in fact they never saw another dawn.

I like baseball, I honestly do, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a baseball movie that I’ve liked. _Field of Dreams,_ that Lou Gehrig one with Jimmy Stewart, not _Eight Men Out,_ and certainly not these _Angels_ movies. I hate heartwarming shit in general, which may be part of the problem, but I have to believe that there’s a baseball movie out there that I’d like—maybe one with more baseball and less big-eyed child. Oh yeah—I saw _A League of Their Own,_ too. yeech.

I was going to continue this review, but I’m feeling kind of sick. I blame these terrible, terrible movies.

3 of 10 stars.

Recommended for: People who have jewelry which features angels.

Hungry For Monsters (2004)

  • Apr. 22nd, 2008 at 2:48 PM
In 1992, Peter Freyd's daughter, by then a Professor of Psychology at the University of Oregon, accused him of sexually abusing her when she was a child. Mr. Freyd responded with his wife and two others by forming the False Memory Syndrome Foundation, dedicated to promoting the the incredibly self-serving theory that people remembering later in life abuse they suffered as children were in fact often recovering untrue memories in therapy. The theory, called False Memory Syndrome, is not accepted by clinicians, and the FMSF is not regarded as a reliably independent proponent of the theory anyway. The foundation has found itself in the midst of controversy ever since its inception, not least when two of the founding four members gave interviews in which they seemed to advocate pedophilia. Among other projects, the foundation funded Hungry for Monsters, a documentary purporting to be about a high school girl who, suffering from something like false memory syndrome, accused her father of sexually abusing her.

That the documentary fails to convince that sexual abuse didn't occur despite something like a 5-1 ratio of screen time in favour of the father's defense suggests the FMSF misspent its money. That the documentary fails to address most obvious questions concerning the case suggests this reviewer misspent his time. What did Child Protection Services believe in Nicole's initial story about sexual abuse that caused them to remove her from her parents' custody? What did Nicole actually say to CPS? What did Nicole's court-appointed psychiatrist, Linda Cohen, see in Nicole that suggested Nicole's tale of sexual abuse was true? How was Nicole able to accurately describe the interior of the house to which she claimed she'd been taken for further sexual abuse? What did her brother see or know? These any many equally relevant questions are left unaddressed by the documentary, seemingly because this documentary doesn't represent an investigation so much as an amicus brief. Let's be clear here: this documentary is a conclusion in search of an argument. That the documentarian, George Paul Csicsery, is unable to locate his argument makes one wonder why the documentary isn't longer.

Csicsery could have helped himself out by spending a little more time having the opposing sides directly address each other's claims. Most of the documentary is structured so that the story is advanced by someone baldly asserting a claim without challenge from the opposing side. The result leaves us with no way to judge either side's claims and no way of deciding for ourselves what happened. What remains at this point is more propaganda than documentary and poorly-produced propaganda at that. Shot on video with the occasional closeup of things like a teddy bear between interviews one is left to consider that the FMSF's funding couldn't have been so substantive that Csicsery would sell out so completely. Perhaps Csicsery really believes Nicole may have been suffering from borderline personality disorder. I have barely an idea what happened to Nicole: one way or another she got screwed.

Hungry for Monsters is inept, insulting, and morally repugnant. There is little redeeming about it: no interesting questions raised, no interesting story told, no sincere investigation of the facts, there's not even an interestingly-framed shot to enjoy. Unless you're a student of the history of the false memory syndrome theory, or interested in the ways in which proponents of FMS lie to themselves or to others, there can be little of interest here for you.

As a corrective, watch Awful Normal (2004), which came out the same year as Hungry for Monsters. In it, two incredibly strong sisters film themselves confronting their sexual abuser and the result is both powerful and difficult to watch. In it you'll get to see what familial support really looks like and, if nothing else, you can watch subjectivity without the cowardly pretense of objectivity. For a more nuanced, somewhat ambiguous, and far better documentary than either Hungry for Monsters and Awful Normal, watch Capturing the Friedmans (2003), about a father and son both charged with child molestation.

Recommended for: Bob.

Snuff Film

  • Apr. 22nd, 2008 at 2:45 PM

This movie turned out kind of weird. It was my pick, but it’s really, really not what I was hoping for; there’s an interesting story to be told about this kind of thing, but this fucked up anti-support propaganda shit is no good at all. The father [“wrongly accused”] is a creepy-ass motherfucker—I dare you to watch this film and disagree. Listen to him talk about his daughter!

The story, insofar as I can piece it together, is this: the student, Nicole, had a huge crush on her teacher. She told the teacher things to get attention from her—I don’t know whether they were true or not. The whole crushing weight of her redneck family came down on her, and she recanted.

Most telling moment: the pastor explains why he doesn’t believe Nicole, and says that he can’t believe her, knowing the parents, “knowing where they live”: they have money, so they can’t have molested the daughter! The father is angry that his daughter  didn’t seem to feel bad about fingering him, suggesting that she might be “evil.”  Other great quotes: the defense’s shrink says that Nicole’s story had become “pardon the expression . . . like a religion” in which logic was entirely circular and subservient to the preconceived ideas. Gee, that’s kind of offensive—I’m really not inclined to pardon the expression, cockbite.

In the end, Nicole maintains that she was abused, but says that she wants to go home. Her parents told her, by their own admission, that she wouldn’t be allowed to come back home until she retracted all charges against her parents, until she told them that she had never been abused.

The lawyer that her parents hired for Nicole is a stupid bitch—she talks about being mean or rude to Nicole quite cheerfully. She mocks her clients apparent pain. The whole situation is weird, and the film is weirder—Nicole is a college graduate who lives with her parents and works with abused children. At the end of the film, we get a list of people who refused to be interviewed for the film, a list which is more damning to the piece of shit movie than to the sensible folks who refused to be drawn it.

Any film that denies child abuse should be viewed with suspicion; this picture in particular is designed to undermine the credibility of distressed children. Those who made it should burn in hell.

Two stars out of ten.

Recommended for: Much of my family!

 

THX 1138 (1971)

  • Apr. 16th, 2008 at 1:35 AM

Riding the new wave, George Lucas came up with a genre film, produced by his buddy Francis Ford Coppola, that removes the excitement and cheesy special effects of earlier science fiction films and leaves only the thin plot and cold character. That it succeeds as a point of interest anyway suggests he's learned something from Alphaville and 2001: A Space Odyssey. You can make a science fiction film without the explosions and alien costumes but you're really going to have to come up with an interesting "look".

Science fiction films are, after all, period pieces, and fairly conservative ones at that. In the future repressive regimes will control your life and the preeminence of popular culture today will be marginalized by the militarism of tomorrow. Everyone will look identical; either they'll be garbed in plastic Mao suits or everyone will be punked out in exactly the same fashion. If you're going to do a serious, authentic science fiction film, you have to have the costuming down just so. That no one knows what fashion will be like in two hundred years makes it easier to hammer out the details.

In THX 1138 everyone wears white or red jumpsuits, and shaves their heads. Individuality has been largely suppressed and the few dissidents extent are dealt with swiftly and harshly. There's no mistaking this for the present day ca. 1971, right-wing fantasy camps notwithstanding, but it's close enough to our experience to seem at least superficially plausible. Although it's doubtful such a regime would ever be imposed, at least the dress code looks like something one could experience in a labour camp.

Of course this is hardly new. Lucas derives inspiration from the usual source of respectable science fiction: the literary dystopia. His future looks "Orwellian" and if you've been to a shopping mall built in the 70s and 80s then you already know it's not difficult to feel a little oppressed by progress. Little surprise then that Lucas didn't need to construct sets to show his dystopic vision but rather cleverly filmed in new buildings around San Francisco. In this he's taken a page from, among other films, Alphaville, filmed in and around Paris in such a way as to show an ugly, depressed city of the future.

THX 1138's contemporary, A Clockwork Orange (1971), also took advantage of a bleak cityscape to create a future on a low budget and it works well. But while A Clockwork Orange for something gritty and "realistic", THX 1138 is heavily stylized in that way that makes angry people dismiss it as "arty". Lucas just has to shoot that stairway at an interesting angle, doesn't he? Doesn't he?!

There isn't much in the way of plot or character development to THX 1138. What little story there is involves a man, THX 1138 (Robert Duvall), impermissably falling in love with his wife after she illegally weans him off of some of his meds. They have forbidden sex and she gets pregnant and very soon they're arrested. The remainder of the movie concerns the attempt to flee the system. It's standard potboiler made interesting by the visual feel of the film. It's starkly lit, moody, interesting, cool. It's about as far from the warmth and excitement of his next science fiction work as can be imagined, but he's never made a film with a big budget look better than does this, his first film.

Recommended for: Dennis Bryson.

Happy To Be In America

  • Apr. 16th, 2008 at 1:33 AM
 

I am sick and tired of dystopias. I know it makes me sound like a right-wing nutbar, but I don’t want to see any more science fiction movies that are relentlessly negative about our future. There, I said it. Maybe unemployed dystopists can create a new genre—they can critique our society by means of historical pictures. What would Edwardian England have looked like if dominated by mass production and Reaganomics? I don’t fucking care, frankly, but if it’ll keep the gloomy futurists busy to recreate it, they have my blessing.

_THX Blah Blah Blah_ is the story of a future in which we all look the same and take the drugs omg it’s so true. Our hero, THX himself, eventually escapes his oppressive home city [with the help of a genius programmer who reminds me for some reason of my boyfriend’s uncle] only to starve to death on the surface of a hostile, radiation-soaked future Earth. THX doesn’t have much of a personality, but since that’s only one of the aggravating points being driven inexorably home by this movie, I guess I’m not allowed to complain about it.

But Peazel, I hear you protest, how can you bitch about dystopic science fiction movies and love cyberpunk at the same time? Here’s the thing, dear reader—I never really thought of cyberpunk as dystopic. I mean, the United States may have broken up into many territories ruled by corporations, but that doesn’t sound so bad. The culture that has emerged in this future world is pretty neat, and there seem to be a lot of worthwhile developments and reasons for living. In the underground city that is THX’s home—let’s call it Barfopolis, since if they named it I wasn’t listening—the only worthwhile thing seems to be a masturbatory aid invented by a dentist [or so I can only assume from its appearance]. And while I may sound old-fashioned to the people of the evil future, I point out to THX and those like him that at least in my day, it was considered polite to close the door behind which you were giving yourself a hand. No one wants to see that: NO ONE WANTS TO SEE THAT. And to be perfectly honest, I liked the robot cops. I think that they were probably supposed to be unsettling, but they seemed like reasonable, friendly guys with open, honest aluminum faces. They didn’t seem to use force when it wasn’t warranted.

This isn’t a bad movie, although I didn’t like it; it’s well-crafted and does what it sets out to do. But for God’s sake, can we just for once go a year without a single occurrence of ‘bitter’ as flavor of the week? You think that people are too materialistic, fine. You worry about justices being appointed to the Supreme Court who don’t believe in the right to privacy—hey, me too. But maybe you could just whine to your friends or keep a journal or something, rather than trying to paper your walls with media justification for your survival when the revolution comes.

Five out of ten stars.

Recommended for: People with their own political blogs.

Zoo (2007)

  • Apr. 7th, 2008 at 12:58 AM

On July 2, 2005, Kenneth Pinyan died of acute peritonitis, the result of his colon having been perforated by his Arabian stallion's penis.  He'd been receiving anal sex from his horse while a friend videotaped the act, and apparently this was a common past-time for the friends but they were aware enough of general perceptions surrounding bestiality to hesitate, fatally, in deciding to take Pinyan to the hospital.  By the time Pinyan made it to a hospital for treatment it was too late to save him.  The horse appeared to be physically uninjured after the ordeal, but was gelded anyway due to fears for its sexual health.

Already you know more about what happened to Pinyan than Zoo ever tells you.  At 75 minutes the documentary takes far too long to tell its tale, which consists of reenactments relating the tale of Pinyan's death from the perspective of his horse-rapist friends.  The film adds the perspective of a horse rescuer, but the narrative of Zoo is primarily concerned with giving people an idea of what it is like to be someone who seeks out anal intercourse with horses.  At this, it fails.

Zoo fails to tell us much of what actually happened, it fails to get inside the heads of those close to Pinyan, fails to attempt an explanation of horse-raping's appeal, fails to discuss what the rest of the community must have known about this horse-rape group's activities prior to Pinyan's death (not one person in this rural community suspected horses were abused?  No one thought something strange was going on?), and fails to place any aspect of the documented events into a broader cultural context beyond a bland assertion about the internet.  This documentary provides few answers.

Instead Zoo focuses on surface-level musings and impressions by and about the participants, and its strength is in its stylings.  Indeed, the cinematography is a lovely as anything you're ever likely to see in a documentary (give that man, Sean Kirby, another film to shoot quick!), and the meshing of actors with non-actor participants in the reenactments is seamless and interesting.  It's a distracting game to determine which people are being played by actors and which are being played by themselves, and a welcome distraction it is because there's just not much else to which one can pay attention.

I suppose the director, Robinson Devor, could have sensationalized the story's details.  He could have heaped scorn upon the horse-rapists and made us weep at shots of sad-eyed horses improperly socialized due to years of, say, rape.  I suppose, also, he could have explored questions of anthropomorphism and victimization.  He thought he was doing the latter, but in the end he did none of it.  It's too easy to exploit this subject, and too hard to answer questions about it, but he managed to get some good interviews with principal subjects in the case and he managed to secure the services of a great cinematographer and that's enough.

Recommended for: Windom Earle.

 

Zoos are fucking lunatics, okay, but they’re not the craziest or the most perverted minority on the internet. [For the record, in my book, it’s a three-way tie between otakin, babyfurs, and vores.] There’s a real problem with some of the little communities that form on the interwebs. I explain by using my own personal experience—I had or have this fucked up habit—for the sake of argument, let’s say that it’s eating cotton wool. So back in the early days of the intraweb, I join a mailing list for those who eat cotton wool but dimly realize that it isn’t a good idea. After awhile, I ended up leaving the group because it seemed to in effect not provide support but merely reinforce a fucked-up behavior. Similarly, while I don’t really want teen zoos to be kicked out by their parents and commit suicide, the fact that they congregate online and persuade each other that it’s cool to fuck animals is rrrreally doubleplusungood—they need help. They need to stop with the animal lust and fucking. It’s like there’s some kind of sliding scale of outcast, where at one end you have the young man who wants to be a ballerina and at the other the young man who likes to skin live babies and then wear the skin while they rape the tiny bodies. Bad news, zoos: you’re on the wrong side of that scale.

I’ve lurked a couple of zoo forums, and most of the people just seem sad to me—it’s like you can see where it started with some of these kids, tiny teen boys who were afraid of people and so challenged their unspeakable urges toward some less scary target. I’m the one who picked Zoo, and the experience is somewhat similar to that of lurking a zoo forum—watching a room full of oldish white men imagine getting fucked by horses was a deeply creepy moment. I expected to write a really angry review, but in fact, after disgust, I feel mostly pity. I am very glad that bestiality is now illegal in Washington state, I think those caught should be imprisoned and forcibly therapized—they are sad, fucked-up rapists, and they need to be fixed or hidden away.

I remember reading about the death when it occurred in alt weekly paper The Stranger—while ordinarily they would play such a story for laughs, even they seemed to find an awkwardly pitiable aspect to the crime and the criminals. Thirty-two minutes into the film, one of the animal rapists starts scornfully trying to demonstrate that he is sophisticated and not missing out. The thing is, the animal rapists keep talking about how they don’t force the animals, completely ignoring the fact that bestiality is best equated to statutory rape—even if they seem willing, we do not concede their ability to consent, and in fact we know that their inability to consent is the reason you really want to fuck them.

Ah, see? I have located my rage. I wrote this review as I was watching the film, and now, at the end, I’ve changed my mind—every one of these people needs to be killed.

Eight out of ten. Interesting.

Recommended for: Those among you who slow down to gape at car accidents.

Jesus of Montreal (datey-o)

  • Apr. 3rd, 2008 at 9:44 PM
 

Daniel (Lothaire Bluteau) contracts with a Catholic priest, Fr. Leclerc (Gilles Pelletier), to put on the church's annual passion play with an eye on rescuing it from the same old stodgy performances with which the church usually endures.  Daniel calls upon several actors to join him and as the troupe prepares for performance they come across information concerning the life and times of Jesus that they'd never been taught before.  Taking Fr. Leclerc at his word, the troop decide to put on the passion play updated with the information they've gleaned from their own research.  The audiences love the updated play and all seems to be going well for the troupe until, one day, Fr. Leclerc breaks the news to Daniel that the church has a few problems of a theological nature with the play.  The church wants a few re-writes to the script, the troupe refuses to compromise their vision, and the rest of the movie involves playing out the allegory to the near-abandonment of sensible plot resolution.
 
Yes, let's be clear: Daniel is a mulleted Québecois Jesus Christ.  Fr. Leclerc is Judas, I think, and other members of the acting troop are various disciples, and Mireille (Catherine Wilkening) is Mary Magdalene.  That this can be determined at all suggests the allegory works to some extent, but it's easy to be distracted in looking for allegorical references in the details of the actual plot.  It's these very details that seem to suggest a story not only not found in the Bible but also never hinted at, which is fine in and of itself but Daniel and Co. seem utterly shocked that the Catholic Church disapproves of their non-Biblical revisionism.  Is it really shocking or upsetting or even controversial to think the Catholic Church doesn't want its money spent on a retelling of the passion play that violates Church doctrine?  Does someone who is taken entirely by surprise at the notion of the Church wanting to control its own passion play seem Christlike or stupid?

Of course Denys Arcand, the film's writer-director, thinks the Catholic Church is merely being obstinate here.  That they don't allow for self-nullifying theology involving Jesus having been only human is just so typical of the Pope and the Montreal basilica.  Arcand sees Jesus as an old rebel, defying the odds and the establishment in the name of peace and love.  He wondered what such a rebel would look like today, and came up with a man who flips out at casting calls for beer commercials.  The theatre might be holy to Arcand, but I suspect most Christians would suspect Arcand's kinda missed the point about their religion.

At any rate Jésus de Montréal seemed just right to film critics, winning the Toronto International Film Festival's International Critics Award, 12 Genie Awards, including Best Motion Picture, and the Jury Prize at Cannes.  It was nominated for a BAFTA and a Golden Glove, and was nominated for Best Foreign Language Film at the Academy Awards.  In other words, a whole lot of critics found something to admire in this work that I can't find.  I'm tempted to dismiss the movie's appeal as a product of an anti-church sentiment, critics deriving pleasure from watching this film mostly in the form of knowing somebody somewhere else is upset by watching the very same thing.  But in fact the critics seemed to find the message timely, the humour sly, the allegory clever.  Although struggle and redemption against ecumenical tyranny remains timely enough, I suppose, I failed to laugh even once and the allegory was insipid.

When Mireille chooses to "prostitute" herself (get it?  get it?!) by removing her clothes at an audition for a beer commercial, Daniel becomes so upset that he trashes the place.  He's running them out of the "temple", which in this case is a sound stage.  Mireille is really happy Daniel destroyed her chance at a paying job, but Daniel is arrested by the "Romans", that is, the police, anyway, for destruction of property.  Because Daniel is obviously crazy a court has him examined by a psychologist who determines in a few minutes that Daniel's saner that most judges, which prompts "Pontius Pilate", or, a judge, to release Daniel on parole, thereby sort-of washing his hands of the matter only not really.  When Daniel goes back to performing the unrevised play against the wishes of the church, police officers arrive to stop him.  But the Catholic audience, which stands in for Jews now, is upset by the interference of the police and one particularly big Catholic-Jew moves to stop the police which results in the death of Christ.  It seems like a strange lesson to have internalized for the audience, but the movie doesn't have time to explain as the allegory plods on and on, randomly.

If you're already an Arcand fan, give this one a shot; it's a classic.  If you aren't familiar with his work, don't start here and do yourself the favour of not starting at all.  The film is trite and dull and filled with assholes you're supposed to like but can't.

Recommended for: Richard Tremayne.

Go back to Hochelaga-Maisonneuve, you cunt!

  • Mar. 30th, 2008 at 1:49 AM
 

I have to break character for a minute here. I had planned to write a long tirade about French Canadians and how much I hate them, illustrated perhaps with badly photoshopped pictures of Denys Arcand fellating the queen of France. Alas, the movie is so bad, and has pissed me off so completely, that I find myself forced to write something like a real review.

It seems painfully clear that directors get some kind of societal bonus points for making anti-Christian movies. I’m a Kevin Smith fan—I even have both of his Green Arrow collections—but I’m sorry, Dogma was not better than Mallrats. It’s like reviewers start out giving movies five extra points if there’s a child-molesting priest or intolerant parishioner involved. Full disclosure, I’m a Catholic myself, but fer goshsakes: you do not get special credit for bashing organized religion in your piece-of-shit movie. I’m looking at you, Arcand, you maple-snorting, joual-talking cock monkey.

I don’t know whether he’s going to mention it himself, so here’s a little more full disclosure; my esteemed collaborator is Canadian. That’s why he picked this fucking movie—he’s just longing for there to be some kind of cinema canadian that he can be proud of . . . I think. There are good Canadian directors—I hear that David Cronenburg is a talented sum’bitch, and Guy Madden is a fucking genius—but come on, Canada, it’s not like you guys have some kind of vital “scene.” Shit, maybe there’s some kind of unofficial limit on how many talents you can have up there in Moosejaw: number of worthwhile Canadian directors, 2; number of Canadian authors you wouldn’t be wasting your time if you read, also two (Margaret Atwood and Alice Munro). And hey, massive coincidence time! None of these talented persons are from the land of milk and insular horseshit, Franada!

Right, Right, the movie. [sighs] Okay. I really don’t have any beef with the idea of ‘modern-day Jesus movie’; obviously you’d want to put in a bunch of parallels to the life of real Jesus, and it’s hard to pass up the low-hanging fruit of commentary on modern society. Fine. Montreal Jesus, tho, thinks that it’s funny. Bad news, allophone assface: you are desperately unfunny. When pretentious, self-aware, jerky actors start to quote the lyrics of a Doris Day song, it’s so far from funny that your humble reviewer was treated to a double take. Wait—humma-wha? That—was that supposed to be funny? The parallels between the Jesuses vary from the labored to the suspiciously absent; when it would detract from the purity of our hero . . . es, we get to skip them. I’m kind of grateful that we don’t see pudgy porn actor betray hippie Jesus three times before the cock crows, the absence of any such unflattering parallels makes me cranky. As for the worst parallel included, it’s a tossup in my book: Satan the entertainment lawyer or hippie Jesus getting his girlfriend fired? The Satan episode wasn’t too bad at first—a pointy-faced entertainment lawyer offers to help hippie Jesus get famous and rich, fine. He’s even got a ho dressed like a birthday cake, possibly my favorite character in the movie. The whole thing made me actually start screaming at the television, however, when Barrister Satan draws hippie Jesus over to a window overlooking downtown Cheesetown and says shit like “See the city? All this could be yours if you just fall to your knees and worship godless capitalism!” Yeah, thanks, movie—I need this kind of subtlety like I need an anal probe. The other parallel makes the cut because it seems actually retarded: while Solicitor Satan is ground into your face like some kind of hellacious spa treatment, it’s not an unreasonable mety-for. Bachelor number two, however, makes no goddamn sense at all. Mary prostitute, commercial artist and eighties waif, is trying to get hired to do a commercial for some kind of lameass bière québécois de la langue française and the producers ask her to take her top off and display her talent. She’s mildly reluctant, but when she complies, hippie Jesus totally loses his shit—he starts flipping over tables and smashing microwaves. Here’s the thing: not to get overtly theological on your collective ass, but when Jesus overturned the tables of the moneychangers at the temple, he was filled with a righteous anger because these merchants were taking advantage of the devout, profiting off of the desire of all good Jews to worship at the temple and obey the laws set forth in the Torah. Hippie Jesus flipped out because his girlfriend was willing to sell her sexuality in some mild way, but was required to demonstrate its existence by her potential employers. Show me the actual parallel here, you self-righteous, Bill 101-venerating cockbite.

Perhaps the part of the movie that makes me the angriest is, well, the plot: hippie Jesus and his asshole friends are hired by the Catholic Church to perform a religious play on Church property. They write some kind of anti-religious bullshit-a-thon. The priest pulls them aside and says “Look, guys. We’re really not paying you to shit on our faith at our house—let’s make some changes, okay?” They mock him and refuse—he fires them in a benevolent, priestly (if somewhat irritated) fashion, they trespass, security guards try to throw them out, and hippie Jesus sustains a fatal head injury at the hands of a theatergoer. The part I’m leaving out, of course, is the way we’re being ordered to think of the Church—Arcand’s summary would look more like this: “hippie Jesus and his asshole friends are hired by the SUPER HYPOCRITICAL AND UNPLEASANT Catholic Church to perform a SHALLOW religious play on SELFISH Church property. They write some kind of FANTASTIC ART anti-religious bullshit-a-thon. The priest pulls them aside and says “RAR, I AM A MONSTER!! YOUR ART IS FOR THE FIRE! WE USED TO BURN PEOPLE, AND I WISH WE COULD NOW!!Look, guys. We’re really not paying you to shit on our faith at our house—let’s make some changes, okay?” They mock him and NOBLY refuse—he fires LIKE THE HYPOCRITIAL, SMALL-MINDED SHIT THAT HE IS them in a benevolent, priestly (if somewhat irritated) fashion, they NOBLY CARRY ON WITH THE ART BUSINESS trespass, security guards try to throw them out, and hippie Jesus sustains a fatal head injury at the hands of a theatergoer BUT THE CHURCH IS RESPONSIBLE REALLY.”

[rubs face] Look, more full disclosure: earlier this week, I watched this movie called The Mission: it was fucking amazing, and dealt with the potential problems of organized religion and the ugly bits of Catholic history in an insightful, passionate, overwhelmingly beautiful way. It wasn’t funny—it had that in common with Jesus of Montreal—but it wasn’t trying to be funny. That’s where the comparison falls apart. Also, just to be nitpicky, I was distracted throughout Hippie Jesus by the really terrible job done with the subtitles—things were mistranslated or ignored in every conversation. At one point, most people are speaking English, and none of the French is subtitled at all. Lazy assholes.

In conclusion, Denys Arcand, fuck you and your Révolution tranquille.

 Well, I had originally posted this Monday--but not to the community. D'oh!

 
So, as I understand it, there are basically four different positions in football—throw man, catch man, run man, and hit people man. Also, somebody kicks sometimes, but not very often. I was expecting the next sentence of this review to be something like “My understanding of this American pastime was infinitely enriched by my experience of Warren Beatty’s Heaven Can Wait,” but instead, we’re looking at something like “And after watching Warren Beatty’s Heaven Can Wait, I can confidently state that the game is boring as shit under all circumstances.” I mean, they have like one hundred dudes on a team, and they all get paid, and they don’t play very long at a time. Some of them get paid as much as Warren Beatty! 

Full disclosure: I have been to football games. One time I got frostbite. Every time, according to the peanut gallery, I was a grumbly pain in the ass. I’m not a massive sports fan, but I do like some sports—I like baseball, I like hockey although I don’t really understand it yet [did recently purchase a Canadian children’s book on the subject, tho, so look out!], soccer and basketball bore the crap out of me but I quietly admire their whatever, and the Olympics are a good idea. 

Before watching this movie, I thought that Warren Beatty was a good-looking person—I hadn’t ever seen the man, but I read Doonesbury and so I assumed that anybody who dated hordes of babes must be good-looking—but in fact he looks that that creepy man from Little House on the Prairie. 

All I’m saying is, I hope my guardian angel isn’t British and creepy. 

Okay, so when I was a kid, I watched this movie that I’ve been trying to find ever since—there’s some kind of African palace-y thing, and everyone dressed like British safari morons, and I think the palace came down at the end. Anyway—Warren Beatty qua Mr Millions dressed like the hero of that movie, whatever it was. 

Against my better instincts, I’ve been reading more Gor books since my last review, and sure enough, they’re informing this review as well as that past one. This film has a sassy British frump-dyke—my co-conspirator claims that she’s supposed to be hot—and I keep imagining her giving a creepy Gorean monologue as her clothes are cut off of her by heroic rapists. Like, say, Warren Beatty. Hey!
“When I arrived on Farnsworth, I knew that I was a free and independent woman, that I had power over men. How foolish I was! I had been indoctrinated, trained, propagandized, by a society that feared its own sexuality and biological destiny. I had always been proud of my ability to refuse men, of my coldness; I sometimes believe that British women compete in frigidity because they despise their sex. We are despicable! Only when I found my true master, on Farnsworth, did I truly learn what it is to be a woman! I cannot say whether all women are naturally slaves, they must each ask themselves that secret, and look into their own hearts, all I know is that this slave was born a slave and can only be fulfilled by a true master. As a bond girl, I was no longer allowed to be old; I was truly a hot little slave, an insatiable slut, and my master has forced me to realize this truth, to admit it to myself, and to cry it out to him. Only in bondage have I found true mental liberation, a sense of freedom that I never could have imagined as a free woman. I can only hope for all my British sisters that they find their masters, and the happiness that I have found here on Farnsworth.” 

It turns out that football is exactly what I thought—it’s really boring and depends heavily on fad diets and clichés. 

Julie looked frightened. “Might this slave know what is her master’s desire?”
Warren of Beatty scowled. “Serve paga, bond girl.”
Julie knelt before Warren, pouring him a goblet of wine. Never daring to meet his eyes, she offered him the goblet. He ignored her. She kissed the goblet, then, nervously, offered it again to her master; he accepted it, and tears of gratitude came to her eyes. When he had finished the wine, Warren of Beatty turned to her again. “I now demand of my slave the second wine.”
Julie bit her lip. “The second wine?” She did not know what the second wine, the wine of her slavery, might be. Warren of Beatty looked disgusted. He turned away from his miserable slave and made as though to go to his furs alone. Julie stretched out a hand to him, impulsively, pleading. “Master, please! Teach this miserable slave how to please you! Teach her of the second wine!”
Warren looked back at her, and seemed to be considering her request. “Does the slave sincerely wish to please her master? Does she know her duty?”
“Her duty—her duty is to look beautiful and please free men!” she blurted out. Smiling savagely, Warren of Beatty took her by her hair and dragged her to his furs, where I simply cannot follow. Sorry, constant reader.