Film Elder Presents. . .

And Be a Jukebox Hero...

2007-01-17T14:13:00.000-08:00

Following is a list of songs I’d like to see in the next edition of Guitar Hero, compiled as a response to Brian the Lion and DanFish. I make no claims to these being the best songs to put in the game, except where I specifially make such claims. Rather, these are the songs I would personally love to play. There's a slim chance I'll ever play music for a living, so I can only hope that Harmonix will indulge my fantasy world.

1. “Jukebox Hero,” Foreigner

This may be the best possible encore song that was ever recorded. I guarantee that everyone in the immediate vicinity, even those from adjacent apartments, will be over to watch your performance by the time the chorus rolls around. However, this has got to be one of the songs where the original master recordings are used, because whoever covers the songs for the game is bound to completely massacre this song.

2. “Juicebox,” The Strokes

Yes, it’s a blatant Doors rip, but The Doors could never rock this hard, because their guitarist sucked and they didn’t have a bassist. Listening to the lead and bass parts on this tune gives me chills, because I have no idea how one would ever get their fingers around them on anything above a “Medium” difficulty setting.

3. “Chameleon,” Creedence Clearwater Revival

Possibly the least popular of all Creedence tunes, but it would also single-handedly make up for the dearth of country-rock in the first two Guitar Heroes. As much as we all love “Carry On Wayward Son,” it cannot represent all of the fun little tracks which made up the rest of the genre. While this track may be a bit too heavy on the sax for a game which is mostly about guitars, the rhythm line is so damn hard to play that it wouldn’t matter.

4. “Lobster Magnet,” Ben & Garry’s

Bonus song gold. Oh, and there has to be a microphone attachment, because screaming “LOBSTER STICKS TO MAGNET” as loud as you can should gain you a billion extra points.

5. “Summertime Blues,” Eddie Cochran

How has this not been the leadoff track for either of the games yet? Simple enough guitar part, the song is legendary, and it’s structured in such a way that the player could actually improve over the course of it. There’s not much more you could ask for out of a level in Guitar Hero; throw in the fact that Eddie Cochran may have been the original Guitar Hero and you’ve got the perfect track.

6. “Save It for a Rainy Day,” The Jayhawks

You’re saying it’s too soft for the game, and you probably have a point. However, the simple lyric line hides three guitar parts which include too many hairpin turns of phrase to count, and a solo which would beguile even an accomplished Guitar Hero junkie.

7. “Dance to the Bop,” Gene Vincent & The Blue Caps

Quick, fierce, and almost ridiculously hard to play. Gene Vincent may well have invented the mind-bending guitar solo with this song, so it’s sad that the number is all but forgotten today. In fact, the first level on the new Guitar Hero should feature all the guitar hits of the mid-fifties, as they’d be perfect to acclimatize new inductees into the Church of GH. And, after all, wouldn’t it be fitting to pay homage to the people who invented the genre in the first place?

8. “Conquest of the Planet of the Apes,” They Might Be Giants

Same reason as “Lobster Magnet,” except that the player must now shout “CONQUEST!” at inappropriate moments.

9. “Danger! (High Voltage),” Electric Six

Oh, you know you want this as a bonus track. I fully believe that guitar-heavy disco one-hit wonders from five years ago deserve their place in Guitar Hero just as much as any other tune, especially because I can’t wait to hear what the sound-alike vocalists do with Jack White’s insane vocals.

10. “Money for Nothing,” Dire Straits

Nine minutes of pure rock. No ridiculously long two-note speed solos like in “Freebird,” but the song goes through so many tempo changes that it becomes about a trillion times harder. The song was also a rallying cry for the return of rock in the mid-eighties, and the album sold thirty million copies. It’s an important moment in rock history, a damn great song, and a wonder that it has yet to appear in one of the games. Added bonus: Knopfler rerecorded his guitar part for Al Yankovic’s parody, so there’s a good chance that he’d allow the original track to be used in the game.

11. “Van Nuys (Es Very Nice),” Los Abandoned

Another one for the independent bonus tracks. Los Abandoned rocks harder than any group out there right now, and are just beginning their surge into the mainstream. (See my previous entry on the best albums of 2006 for more of my praise of this band.) While lacking any true solos or lead guitar hooks, the rhythm is so scorching and unrelenting that you’re not going to care. At the expert setting, the opening barrage may just be enough to set the player’s hand on fire.

12. “Screaming Skull,” Sonic Youth

C’mon, Harmonix! This one should have been a no-brainer to follow “Who Was in My Room Last Night?” on the last game. The only problem with this track is that the guitar part is so ridiculously out of tune and off-meter that I’d have no clue how to adapt it to the controller. Ah, hell, I’d play it just to see what they do with the sound of the Transporter from Star Trek which takes the place of the lead guitar at the end of the song.

13. “Ball and Biscuit,” The White Stripes

Brian the Lion said it better than I ever could.

14. “ABACAB,” Genesis

Oh, fuck yeah! Possibly the best of the Phil Collins Bombast Mini-Operas, “ABACAB” also dictates the construction in its name, as the A-B-and-C sections of the song repeat as their letters appear in the title. The number may be a bit too synth-heavy, but the guitars that are there are gold. The top and tail consist of grinding solos which could catch even the most seasoned Hero off-guard. Remember how you felt the first time you played “YYZ” on Easy Mode and got your ass kicked? Yeah, take that and double the length. That’s what “ABACAB” would bring to the proceedings, and why it must appear in the new game.

15. “Jesus of Suburbia,” Green Day

Included here in the vain hope that Harmonix sees it fit to put all of American Idiot on as a bonus track. Green Day would often play through the entire album live during their last tour; a full tour through the forty-odd minutes of that ordeal would be the ultimate capper to the Guitar Hero experience.

16. “Supervixen,” Garbage

Is there a better riff to lead off a song then the start-and-stop lead-in to Garbage’s first album? I challenge that there is not.

17. “Theme from NARC,” The Pixies

The Pixies rocked harder than any of their contemporaries, and they never got any more lunatic than on this track. It’s a cover of the theme to the 1980s video game NARC (hence “Theme from NARC”), and it clocks in at under two minutes. Both of these should stop it from being included in the game, but the fact that it’s essentially one long solo, and a badass one at that, all but screams for its induction into the annals of Guitar Hero.

18. “To Hell with Good Intentions,” McLusky

Whoever covers this will get the vocals totally wrong, and it will suck. Too bad, because the song itself is one of the better candidates for Guitar Hero, as it contains three separate guitar tracks, each one more difficult than the preceding. It also has one of the better screaming rockstar lyric lines of recent music, accurately reflecting the hard rocking lifestyle that everyone who plays the game is supposed to be emulating.

19. “Pulling Mussels (from the Shell),” Squeeze

The English New Wave has been sorely underrepresented. While only a decent track for single player, the co-op mode would be wicked, as the entire song is built around the idea of two dueling rhythm guitars.

20. “The View from the Afternoon,” Arctic Monkeys

There’s your recent track for the pile. This number would be great for the second tier, as it appears to be a simple cruncher in the vein of “Woman” or “I Wanna Be Sedated,” but the straightforward melody hides some really wicked stops and starts. I can only imagine how many profanities will be hurled at television screens nationwide when players miss the four-bar break at the bridge for the three-hundred-and-thirty-seventh time.

21. “Busy Lights Busy Carpet,” Q and Not U

Because the idea of seeing the “FAILED 3% Complete” popping up over and over again gives me the happy shakes.

22. “Freak of the Week,” Marvelous 3

Butch Walker writes better pop songs than most carbon-based life forms, and the fact that he’s been reduced to appearing on Rock Star: Supernova makes me sad. Anyway, “Freak of the Week” is the only song of his you’d even remotely recognize. It could fill the “Fat Lip” position as the minor hit from the late 90s, except that “Freak of the Week” is a much better song, and way more fun to play.

23. “Pump It Up,” Elvis Costello & The Attractions

The loudest and arguably most famous song in Elvis’ catalog, this one squeaks in on recognition factor alone. I’d much rather include “From a Whisper to a Scream,” but no one seems to have ever heard of it.

24. “I Can See for Miles,” The Who

No, seriously. Give us some Who next time, or heads will roll.

25. “Letter from an Occupant,” The New Pornographers

Bap-ba-bap-bap-duh-NUH-NUH-NUHNUH-NUH-DUGGGHHHH! Power pop nirvana.

26. “Go Your Own Way,” Fleetwood Mac

There should really be a Party Mode on these games. Y’know, it would include only anthems from the seventies and eighties, those soaring tracks which everyone instinctively knows the words to, so that all of the drunken partygoers could gather around and blurt out the lyrics while the two guitarists go hog-wild. This, of course, is the archetypal song for such a mode.

27. “Picture Book,” The Kinks

Van Halen instead of The Kinks for “You Really Got Me?” Yeah, screw that. Bring The Kinks onto the roster in style by picking something off of Village Green. Added points if the song immediately segues into “Warning” by Green Day, which was the most blatant rip in the history of rock. At least Clapton, Lennon, and Mercury had the good sense to steal from people that their audience had never heard.

28. “Princes of the Universe,” Queen

Speaking of Freddie Mercury, hell yes! This one! Not anything else unless you suddenly decide to get cheeky and include “Flash’s Theme.”

29. “Steam,” Peter Gabriel

I’d ask for “Sledgehammer” or “Red Rain,” but both of those are too far removed from straight guitar-rock. With “Steam” you get Gabriel’s wacked-out sense of what makes a good rock song, and you get three or four good solos.

30. “Three Hundred,” The Stereo

A super-indie band writes one of the greatest pop songs of all the time, and nobody hears it except for a few of my friends at ‘SC. But how perfect would it be to have a song where “C’mon, ROCK OUT” is shouted before the last solo? Yeah, I thought so.

31. “Hold on Loosely,” .38 Special

Okay, so maybe this is king of all country-rock. All of the rocking of “Freebird” but at a third of the length, so your douchebag friend who wants to prove how cool he is can now fail earlier. Plus, the cooler Van Zant brother was in this band, so suck it, Lynyrd Skynyrd.

32. “Real World,” Matchbox 20

Yeah, I know, it’s not called Pussy Adult Contemporary Doily Boring Hero. Truth is, though, that Rob Thomas seems to write ten great pop songs before breakfast each day, and this is about the only one which rocks hard enough to merit inclusion. Sure, we could also include “Smooth” into that mix, but it would be impossible to license.

33. “Alive,” Pearl Jam

We’d be lucky to even get “World Wide Suicide,” I know, but I refuse to think that Avenged Sevenfold could make it in and Vedder could get the shaft. Not the most complicated guitar in their repitoire, but it’s my personal favorite. Besides which, “Yellow Ledbetter” is too slow.

34. “Song 2,” Blur

Another two-minute wonder. Everyone knows this one, and everyone bangs their head along with it. There’s no better reason to include a song than that.

35. “Give a Little Bit,” Supertramp

Copy-paste the Fleetwood Mac reasoning. Don’t you dare use the Goo Goo Dolls version.

36. “Plug in Baby,” Muse

Music elitists could argue up and down about which Muse song defines them the best, and which one is the most coherent musical statement. However, they’re all wrong, as what matters is the rock, and this one rocks harder than all of them. Great opening riff, difficult rhythm part, and all-around great song.

37. “Sell Out,” Reel Big Fish

Why the hell has there been no ska in Guitar Hero yet? I mean, really; it’s an entirely different style of guitar playing, so one would think that some token song would have already been thrown into the mix. Well, this is as good of a place to start.

38. “Inna-Gadda-Da-Vida,” Iron Butterfly

There’s got to be another monster to end the next game. You can’t go to “Freebird” and then have no big piece to end the next game; that’s just a big old cocktease. The only problem is that there aren’t too many songs which are even bigger and more badass than “Freebird.” So you either have to go here or to…

39. “I’ve Seen All Good People/Your Move,” Yes

This monstrosity. And since there’s more mandolin and organ for the first five minutes than guitar, it’s clear that Iron Butterfly is the only sensible choice.

40. “Just What I Needed,” The Cars

It’s my favorite song, it’s one of the most recognized rock songs of all time, and it’s got at least three solo guitar licks. Do you really need a reason to put this in the game? It’s the freakin’ Cars! It’s a shame this has yet to be included, but that can all be reversed with a bitchin’ rendition in Guitar Hero III.

41. “Green Onions,” Booker T and the MGs

Too much organ work in this tune? Yeah, I don’t care. Steve Cropper is a guitar god, and his work has to appear somewhere in this series.

42. “*69,” R.E.M.

This gets to be the R.E.M. contribution for a couple of reasons. First of all, it’s got the best guitar work outside of “Radio Free Europe.” Secondly, it’s going to be a struggle for the cover vocalist, and I can’t wait to hear what that sucker interprets the lyrics as. Most of all, though, the rights should be supremely easy to get, as this is one of the songs which was recorded in R.E.M.’s bout with Indie Cred.

43. “Black Dog,” Led Zeppelin

I don’t know what the licensing problems are with the Zep, and I don’t care. The world wants Harmonix to get the Led out. Choose this one or “Whole Lotta Love.”

44. “Bastards of Young,” The Replacements

Even MTV knew not to mess with this song; anything you add onto the Replacements will just interfere with the pure rock. Westerberg has constantly avoided the persona of the “rocker,” but his music speaks otherwise. “Bastards” is one of my favorite rock songs, and it ranks as a milestone on the merits of the music video. It all but demands inclusion.

45. “Black Magic Woman,” Santana

Santana’s longest, and his best. As a guitar craftsman, he is without parallel within his style.

46. “Born to Raise Hell,” Motorhead

“Ace of Spades?” More like Ass of Spades. “Born to Raise Hell” opened Airheads, a film which made Brendan Fraser and Adam Sandler fucking metal. If a song can do that by itself (and I fully believe that it did), then it merits inclusion in Guitar Hero.

47. “Rock & Roll Pt. 2,” Gary Glitter

Who cares if he’s currently doing time in a Vietnamese prison? It’s the most recognized guitar riff of all time. Double points if “Rock & Roll Pt. 1” is included, and I’ll have puppies if “Gary in the TARDIS” makes it in there somehow.

48. “Tighten Up,” Archie Bell & The Drells

Guitar Hero has been ridiculously anglo-centric so far. Yes, I realize that most people’s skewed vision of rock includes mostly Brits and Southerners, but the overall picture is much more complicated. With what could arguably be called the last great first-wave soul number, Archie Bell (and the Drells, from Houston, Texas) demonstrated why a bunch of pasty white boys weren’t the only ones who could lay claim to being guitar gods.

49. “Where Were You?,” Jeff Beck and Terry Bozio

How in the hell would you play a song which is all harmonics within the game engine? I don’t know, but I’d love to find out.

50. “And Your Bird Can Sing,” The Beatles

Last time I heard, the rights to these songs were on the move. Now’s your chance to include the most influential band in the History of Rock in the game about the History of Rock. Make it happen, Harmonix.

Musical Punditry: 2006

2006-12-19T22:04:00.000-08:00

This was a damn good year for music, no matter what your particular taste. For the first time in a long time, I’ve had to knock albums off of this list to accommodate the usual size. (Unsurprisingly, Pitchfork and I agree on one.) Without further ado, and in no particular order, I present…

The Top Nine for 2006!

The Sounds, Dying to Say This to You

The Sounds have apparently never heard of the sophomore slump, as their second album flies out of the gate with a vitality that was only vaguely hinted at on their previous disc, Living in America. This is a good-time record to rival The Cars’ Heartbeat City or Elvis Costello’s Get Happy!!, filled with insanely catchy pop hooks and irresistible melodies. The band seems loath to provide their audience with any reason to be sad, as even their ballad, “Night After Night,” is repeated in an upbeat rock version at the end of the album. Dying to Say This to You is just damn good times, and is a must for anyone who is serious about their fun.

Scissor Sisters, Ta-Dah

What can really be said about Scissor Sisters? They defy explanation. Calling them the prodigal children of Elton John isn’t quite right; there are definitely influences in the music, but the band advances what Elton was doing in the mid-seventies to such a degree that the comparison loses merit halfway through the first listen. The comparison to other bands is unavoidable, though, because one of the tracks even carries the too-literal name of “Paul McCartney.” That track is better and more complex than anything its namesake has crafted since Jet, so there’s no easy joke there. Despite the best efforts of rock critics, Scissor Sisters defy convenient namesake pigeonholing. It doesn’t matter; the urge to dance through the whole album is more than enough to banish those who wish to categorize the album.
Wait, what about if Freddie Mercury and Elton John had a baby? Yeah, that sorta works for the sound.

Arctic Monkeys, Whatever People Say I Am That’s What I Am

Yes, they are played out now. No, they were not the second coming like everyone from Rolling Stone to NME told us they were going to be. But Whatever People Say I Am is a hell of a rock record, and that can’t be changed no matter how much hype is attached to it. The Monkeys have a knack for the sort of mini-epics which The Who pioneered; witness “The View from the Afternoon,” which kicks off the album. Four different time signatures and three dominant melodies flash by in four minutes, but it holds together into one experience. Less complex but still impressive, “I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor” and “Dancing Shoes” rival any other straight-rock group still recording. As long as bands such as these are keeping the tradition of crunchy guitars alive, there will still be hope for popular music.

"Weird Al" Yankovic, Straight Outta Lynwood

Michael Jackson is an irrelevant joke. Al Yankovic has a top-ten album. What kind of crazy-ass bizarro world are we living in? Don’t ask questions, just go and buy the album. You’ll die laughing.

Gnarls Barkley, St. Elsewhere

Like any good summertime anthem, no one saw it coming. One day we had never heard of it, and then the next it was the world’s favorite song. Such was the fate of this album’s leadoff track, “Crazy,” the sort of wonderful runaway hit which accompanies a sweltering June day in the city. The song felt like a breath of fresh air, as the labels had apparently decided to stop releasing good songs for the summer sometime in 1996. “Crazy” was impossible to get sick of, and was near-impervious to criticism, holding fast to the tenets which had made the Motown sound incredibly popular in the 1960s. Then we heard the album, which inexplicably was even better than the single. Thanks, Danger Mouse, for bringing funk back in a big way.

Los Abandoned, Mixtape

Los Abandoned has never heard of you either! Ever since stumbling upon their performance at a festival two years ago, I’ve been championing them to anyone who would listen. Their style is unique among the rock scene, springing forth with a massive assault that is reminiscent both of the synth-pop of the 1980s and Chicano Rock. The lyric lines are enough to floor any casual listener, as several numbers (including the fantastic “Van Nuys (Es Very Nice)”) are delivered blisteringly-fast in the Angeleno patois, a nasty little trick which guarantees that anyone not from certain areas of Los Angeles will have to listen to the track several times to decipher the intricate lyrics. If the cultural blend was all that this album had in it, it would still be worth recommending. Luckily, Los Abandoned works hard for their rock, guaranteeing that you’ll want to listen over and over again.

Matisyahu, Youth

Mark my words: we will never hear from Matisyahu again. From the beginning he was destined to be a one-hit wonder, as an Orthodox Jew singing reggae can really be nothing else. Too bad, as he has an amazing flow.

Jerry Lee Lewis, Last Man Standing

The Killer teams up with the legends of rock ‘n’ roll to prove once and for all that he’s better than all of them, and also better than you.

Elvis Costello, My Flame Burns Blue

While Rod Stewart, Barry Manilow, and countless other pop stars of the same era descend into irrelevance by recording songs made famous by their parents’ generation, Elvis Costello continues to innovate. This current record finds Costello backed by a full orchestra, gutting and reworking some of his best tunes. “Clubland” and “God Give Me Strength” benefit the most from the change, regaining the vitality which familiarity had drained from them. If this bucking of career trends isn’t enough, Elvis goes even further with the second disc, which contains Il Sogno, a symphonic work based upon A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Thank you, Mr. Costello, for never succumbing to the easy out.

Excuses, Promises, and News from the Front

2006-12-08T12:32:00.000-08:00

The real problem I have with this blog is that I feel that it must be wholly independent from the LiveJournal-esque, personal style of blogging. I do not wish it to become a list of things I did, things I saw, and things I like without investigation and explanation. When I present you with something, I want it to be substantial and interesting. The Internet is chock full of sites which will tell you the personal taste of the writer without any reason as to why they liked what they did. Many articles have been started for this blog only to be abandoned, because I didn't think they were worth your time or mine. Further updates will come when an idea springs.

In the meantime, I urge you all to check out The Boy from Out of This World, the blog concerning a new documentary on Teenagers from Outer Space. The director (directress?) behind the project is one of the more driven people I've ever met, and she has a great passion for this project. The film is going to be wonderful, and I suggest you get excited on the ground floor. Oh, and today's entry concerns an interview with Mr. Lloyd Kaufman, one of my Gods of Cinema. So what are you waiting for? Click over!

Socrates Weeps.

2006-10-11T13:54:00.000-07:00

Wouldn't it be great if we could quit the Internet?

The World Wide Web has become the friend who is more trouble than they are worth. For all of its advantages, such as immediate music delivery, frequently-inaccurate, peer-vetted encyclopedias, and time-wasting revivals of 1980s arcade hits such as Dig Dug, there are a million reasons to hate it. Most of them arise from the idiots who inhabit the message boards and comment sections of the blogs and news websites. A recent discussion about the "Talkback" section of the famed Ain't It Cool News website yielded the following comment from my brother: "That site is filled with some of the most hateful, contemptuous people who walk this Earth. Its creator chief among them." His rhetoric may have been inflated, but his sentiments were spot-on.

To wit: a recent article reviewing the television program Heroes on the AICN website was immediately followed by nearly fifty comments (and growing) decrying the show for a myriad of reasons, most of which centered around how the characters weren't tailored to exactly the commentator's liking, or how lead actress Hayden Panettiere had not yet reached the age of consent. (What is especially hilarious about this last comment is that, within her home state of New York, Ms. Panettiere has indeed reached the age of consent, but one would not have to be the Amazing Kreskin to realize that one of those who believed they were illegally lusting after her on the AICN talkbacks would have a snowball's chance in hell of courting her in the real world.) Similar comments followed a review of Battlestar Galactica; a daring and inventive season premiere episode was greeted mostly with scorn, and those who dared to speak out in favor were bombarded with homosexual epithets. This has become the dialogue fostered by the "fansites" of the Internet; what is presented as free entertainment for a wide audience is dismissed, and those who enjoy it are greeted with the homophobia that runs rampant through all avenues of the Web.

And one would be foolish to assume that this level of commentary is restricted to the low-culture enclaves of fan websites. Unfortunately, these sentiments are everywhere. I point you, dear reader, to the first article written by our friend Hildy Johnson for the Huffington Post. The article continues the line of biting observational wit she continues to display at AvenueF, and one would figure that an piece the well-written would create a general consensus, one that might read as such: "Good job! Excellent first article! Looking forward to reading more!"

Of fucking course not; don't be stupid. This is the Internet, not civilized society. The comment section following her article has quickly fallen under the jurisdiction of those who cannot spell Vanity Fair, let alone read it. The main contention seems to be the use of the word "pedophile," as many of those hateful bastards who have deemed themselves Master of Internet concluded that Hildy had used the word incorrectly, and therefore had invalidated her entire argument. Funny enough, Ms. Johnson has an education, is rather bright, and speaks English, so she had not misused the word. Once one considers this rather important fact, the comments section disappears into irrelevancy. Despite this, I guarantee that the comments will continue for weeks with variations on the theme known as "I know what the definition of Pedophile is, and you don't." To those who would continue to comment, I say this: Get a job. Own a dictionary.

That's not my place, though. I can't rewrite the rules of the Internet, nor can I stop the millions of insane babies who continue to use it daily. I can't even ignore them, because one can't tell when they're being ignored in a vacuum.

Wouldn't it be great, then, if we could all just quit?

The Tools to Get There.

2006-10-10T18:13:00.000-07:00

And two months just like that. Blame the job, huh?

Lately I've taken to writing all of my work on an old Smith-Corona typewriter. Something about the computer's screen makes it nearly impossible to construct a complete sentence, let along anything worth posting or publishing. I'm a fast typist, but a lousy one, so pretty much anything I type on this infernal machine will be missing letters, have the wrong letters places, or will be simply old-fashioned misspelled. But the fact that I would give any copy editor a stroke is worth it for the tactile sensation, for the satisfying THINK that the keys make when they hit the paper. Plus, the typewriter provides some link to my persistent fantasies of the 1940s, fostered by too many viewings of The Maltese Falcon and The Big Combo. Besides, if they made computers which were 1/2 as stylish as these machines, today's modern offices would have at least some level of class. (And, yes, I wrote that previous sentence to try the "one-half" key on the typewriter. I know you can't see it, but how often do you get to use something like that?)

But enough on my methods of expression, at least the ones that you cannot see because I have to retype the entire work into the computer. I pulled out this Smith-Corona in the first place because I had entered a writing rut. After three months of intensive editing, I had drifted away from the inspiration and drive which had led me to start this blog and which informed all of my screenplays. Construction eluded me, and what I did manage to write in the way of dialogue felt awfully faux-bois. I'm not sure to what I can attributed my stymied nature in relation to the computer, but I can probably say with some authority that three months of editing had made me loath to sit in that chair or stare at that screen anymore. A change of venue was in order, even it it was only across the room.

So here we go, dealing with a period key that always stick and with an unfamiliar layout which often causes me to hit three or four letters at a time. I'll conjure images of Steven J. Cannell and Jessica Fletcher for as long as ti takes to get back into the groove of writing. In all honesty, I'm starting to enjoy the SMACK of these letters over the CLICK of my laptop's keys. And while I realize that it will all end up in the computer anyway, I can at least enjoy the process of getting it there.

The retro-blogger. Who would have thought?

Invading Your TV. . .

2006-08-07T21:45:00.000-07:00

Film Elder Productions is suddenly a company on the rise. Okay, well, maybe not on the fast track, but to have even one project off the ground this soon after college is a feat within itself. It's a matter of pride for me, and I'm more than happy to toot my own horn.

So let me take a moment to promote the first two Film Elder videos to make it to the web. The first is Les Pongues, a trailer to a film we hope to release sometime before Christmas. It's a French film we picked up at Cannes, and I think it's going to be a hit. Take a look:

If you're still with me after that, I'd like to present a special preview for The Declan Dempsey Show, a program we're going to be producing for the Web this fall. Part documentary, part sitcom, TDDS concerns the return of world-famous recording artist Declan Dempsey. Witness the trials and tribulations, and possible relapse and death, of one of rock music's most entertaining trainwrecks:

That's just a taste of what we're working on here at Film Elder. If you like them, tell your friends. If you don't like them, then tell your friends anyway. Just make sure they spell the name right.

The Way to Run a Railroad

2006-07-31T21:27:00.000-07:00

Every studio has an identity. Whether they know it or not, every film buff automatically comes with a certain set of expectations when they see a certain corporate logo in front of a movie. This is especially true in the age of imprints, as every one of these mini-studios makes so few pictures a year that each one contributes a much larger percentage of the image than they once did. Out of the hundreds of film studios floating out in the industry these days, every film buff tends to single out two or three as their favorites, and one of mine was Morgan Creek Productions. Now, they didn’t produce any of my favorite movies, and they had more than their share of clunkers handed off to them by the upper management at Warner Bros., but they had something of which most film studios only dream: one hell of an opening. The opening fanfare suggested a company which knew the full history of cinema, one that was open to new ideas, that was willing to take risks, and that was probably run by a man who didn’t suffer fools gladly.

It was a hell of a fanfare.

My impression of the studio, though, was fully confirmed last week when The Smoking Gun obtained a copy of a letter written by James G. Robinson, the current CEO of Morgan Creek. The Creek’s new film is called Georgia Rule, and teams Felicity Huffman and Jane Fonda with professional drug-depository Lindsay Lohan. Apparently, Ms. Lohan has been negligent in her appearances to the set, prompting Mr. Robinson to fire off the aforementioned angry letter. It reads, in part:

“I am now told you don’t plan to come to work tomorrow because you are ‘not feeling well.’ [. . .] We are all well aware that your ongoing all night heavy partying is the real reason for your so called ‘exhaustion.’ We refuse to accept bogus excuses for your behavior. [. . .] You have acted like a spoiled child and in doing so have alienated many of your co-workers and endangered the quality of this picture. Moreover, your actions have resulted in hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage. We will not tolerate these actions any further.”

Right on! Aside from the fact that he should fire his secretary for having only a tenuous grasp on grammar rules, Mr. Robinson’s letter exemplifies the correct approach to managing a studio. There have been very few indispensable talents in the annals of film history; if you aren’t Hitchcock, Walken, or Astaire, then there is a very good chance that there are many other actors who can fill your shoes just as well. In fact, the replacement has often shown to be a much stronger choice; imagine if we had actually seen Back to the Future starring Eric Stoltz or James Caan in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. The point is that no actor has the right to hold up the production of a film with their behavior, as mounting a film is an expensive proposition without the human element clouding the whole thing up. If the film is to come in on time and on budget, then all involved must regard their work as work, and budget their time accordingly. A first-year associate at a white-shoe law firm would be canned if they appeared in as tardy a manner as Ms. Lohan does to her job, and there is no reason why she shouldn’t bear the same consequences.

Now, I don’t have it out for Ms. Lohan specifically. She proved that she had decent comedic chops with Mean Girls, and Robert Altman coaxed a superb performance out of her for A Prarie Home Companion. Still, Lohan is hardly a unique being; I could bring you two dozen actresses I know at both USC and UCLA who are not only more talented, but have significantly lower blood alcohol contents. Now that certain studio bosses have wised up to how they should treat their misbehaving stars, Ms. Lohan should curb her indulgent lifestyle before it gets her completely banned from working in certain corners of the industry. This buisiness is infamous for using people up and spitting them out; it would be a shame to see yet another young star fall victim.

Do not forsake me, oh my darlin'

2006-07-26T23:04:00.000-07:00

“I had friends who worked for old man Hess. They say it stood for Holidays, Evenings, Saturdays, and Sundays. That’s what you have to look forward to if you run your own business.”

Picture, if you will, a fat kid with a wicked stutter sitting in front of a telecast of Star Trek: The Next Generation sometime during the late 1980s. The images captivate him, as he is not yet old enough to notice the matte lines, and Jonathan Frakes represents the high-water mark of rugged manliness that the child has witnessed. Sometime during this episode, the fat kid gets it into his mind that hanging around in pajamas and pretending to shoot things with lasers would be a pretty good gig.

It takes him an entire commercial break to form the sentence: “I want to be in pictures when I grow up.” It takes him over a decade to do something about it.

The little steps he takes gang up on him, and then he suddenly finds himself sitting behind a desk and running his own company.

. . .Funny how that works.

Ladies and gentlemen, Film Elder Productions is open for business! For the past week I’ve been doing backflips; it feels so odd to have my greatest goal realized. But for now, J.D. Dempsey and I will raise a glass to our new endeavor, and hope for the best outcome possible.

Cheers.

Eighties Post: Saturday Morning Adaptation

2006-07-05T09:31:00.000-07:00

Picture, if you will, a conference room in the offices of a successful television network sometime during the 1980s. Well-dressed men sit around the table and debate their upcoming fall lineup, attempting to invent a program to fit the gap in their Saturday morning programming. One of the men happens upon a brilliant idea: the company should adapt a recent motion picture into a cartoon show! Yes, it’s brilliant! Kids were flocking to the theaters in droves for the first time in decades, and it seemed like anything starring any one of the myriad teen stars could easily make its money back. Why shouldn’t that translate to small-screen success? Besides, cartoons were cheap to make, and seasons didn’t have to be as long; the network would have a license to print money. So the executives started to look for the most recent success to adapt, when what they really should have done is fired the idea man and renewed Bravestarr for another season.

But why should he have been fired for a creative, practical idea? I’ll tell you why: these cartoons sucked. Sure, there were a few successes, such as the faithful The Real Ghostbusters or the hallucinatory Beetlejuice, but the bulk of these screen-to-animation adaptations were horrible copies of something a huge number of kids held dear. Take, for example, The Karate Kid. The film is one of the great eighties inspirational films, featuring an amazing soundtrack and probably the most imitated single Karate move in the history of civilization. (Editor’s Note: For those born after 1986, I’m referring to the fabled “Crane Kick.” I’m not going to explain how it works, because that’s why Wikipedia exists.) Karate Kid Part II is one of the few sequels which lives up to the promise of the original film, and I acknowledge the existence of Karate Kid Part III, which is more than I can say for The Next Karate Kid. These films work incredibly well in their own way, providing excellent inspirational stories while still making time for whiz-bang action sequences. So, naturally, the cartoon featured Daniel-San and Miyagi going around the seven continents in a flying car attempting to track down the pieces of a mystical all-powerful emblem. I think there were also a kid sister and a talking panda, but don’t quote me on that. The show vanished after a disastrous run in the Autumn of 1990, and I think we can all see why: it had nothing whatsoever to do with what made Karate Kid a runaway hit in the Summer of 1984.

With videogame adaptations these liberties could be overlooked somewhat, as games of this era were essentially plotless. Not a single gamer would complain that Pole Position had strayed from its roots when it turned the project into a story of fraternal twins who ran a detective agency out of their automotive stunt show, because the roots of Pole Position were essentially cars going “vroom.” Film conversions were something wholly other, and were usually considered an affront to fans of the original. However, seen through the haze of many television seasons and an understanding that nearly all cartoon series are lackluster, these adaptations don’t seem as bad as they did twenty-odd years ago. They’re still terrible, but perhaps something could be learned from their blatant disregard for canon and viewer preference. When adapting a story to another medium, perhaps it isn’t necessary for those in charge to remain faithful in any way whatsoever to the source. The demise of Saturday morning programming all but put an end to this sort of cartoon, but one can imagine what could have come to fruition with a few more years of tinkering. To wit, a few programs which could have been:

Stand and Deliver: The Series
Jaime Escalante is a teacher with a problem. Each day, he attempts to teach inner-city kids the value of a well-rounded education. But every night, the call goes out for a hero, and he answers it by transforming into Calculoid, a superhero who defeats his foes with the power of advanced mathematical theorems! In the dark alleys of Los Angeles, Calculoid fights a never-ending battle for justice and higher education, forever pursued by the Advanced Placement Board, a team of superpowered federal agents who abhor learning and intelligence! Voices include Adrian Zmed as Escalante/Calculoid, Maurice LaMarche as General Deathguard, and Wil Wheaton as Lou Diamond Phillips.

Missing in Action in Space

Chuck Norris is caught in a timewarp while piloting an experimental spacecraft on its maiden voyage. Emerging four hundred years later, he finds that Earth has been overrun by a bloodthirsty force from beyond the stars, one that hates freedom, democracy, and karate. In this desolate future, Norris faces his most deadly enemy yet: Space Vietcong! Featuring the voices of Chuck Norris as Chuck Norris, Pat Morita as Sensei Chang, and Mako as Super-Cong.

The Real Wall Street!

After a protracted legal battle with PBS over the name of the show, Oliver Stone’s 1987 smash hit finally makes its way to Saturday morning TV. Join in the adventures of Gordon T. Gecko, underground stockbroker and lizard-about-town, as he fights the forces of greed and tyranny who threaten his grassy home. (The format took a dramatic turn in the second season, when Gordon joined an international banking syndicate and relocated to Manhattan. The show, rechristened Gordon and the Wall Street Brigade, barely lasted the season before being cancelled and replaced with reruns of Bucky O’Hare.) Lorenzo Music provides the voice of Gordon T. Gecko.

Oh, what could have been.

For You, US.

2006-07-04T18:26:00.000-07:00

A 99-year-old man goes in for his yearly checkup. His doctor states that the man is in excellent health for his age and, God willing, he'll still be around at the same time next year.

"Oh, I know for a fact that I will," says the old man.

His doctor responds, "and how's that?"

"Haven't you seen the statistics? Very few people die at my age."

__________________________________________________________

Very few die at 230, either. Happy birthday, America!

Holding Out for a Hero

2006-07-04T11:40:00.000-07:00

This country needs a hero. We need a man of action, one who we not only admire but who we truly believe in, through whom anything is possible and everything is attainable. After nearly five years of constant bulletins declaring the global situation dire and unbeatable, America needs a reminder that their lives can be conquered and changed. The symbol of this change will not come from the current; too many Americans are weary and jaded from the myriad crises’ constant media exposure to celebrate anything stemming from them. Besides, no one in America is interested in praising live heroes anymore, only mourning when another candidate falls. Witness the case of Pat Tillman: an ex-NFL player who left his cushy multimillion-dollar job to fight in Afghanistan, he was killed while serving his country. News outlets and pundits alike devoted weeks to crying over the loss of such a brave young man, but suddenly ceased when reports surfaced that Tillman was killed by friendly fire. He had died not a hero’s death, but rather an unfortunate accident; he was more useless to these naysayers as he would have been if he had come home safe and given an honest opinion of the status of the war effort. Audie Murphy would be lost in this society, for all sides of the political spectrum in this country cannot comprehend a heroic individual within the confines of a situation as disparaging and ill-defined as our current one.

The next hero has to rise from fiction. The nation won’t accept them otherwise.

Media efforts of the current day aren’t helping the situation. These heroes are wracked with guilt, torn about their responsibilities, and generally dour people. Twenty million people tune in each week to watch 24’s Jack Bauer defeat terrorists and make the world safe for John & Jane Public, making him one of television’s most popular figures. As amazing a character as Jack Bauer is, he is not the hero we need. Jack is single-minded in his attempts to bring terrorists to justice, ignoring and internalizing nearly everything else in his life. His actions cause the deaths of nearly everyone he holds dear, place him on the FBI’s Most Wanted List, and destroy him both physically and mentally. He keeps us safe, but destroys himself in the process. America’s new hero can do no such thing; we need to know that all of us, including ourselves, will make it past the present day intact, so our hero must also.

The archetype for America’s new hero should be John MacClane, the protagonist of John McTiernan’s 1988 film Die Hard. Trapped in a skyscraper crawling with terrorists, armed with only a service revolver and a cutting sense of irony, MacClane managed not only to foil the terrorist’s evil plans, but also win back his estranged wife, help a police officer rid himself of the ghosts of his past, and undercut every situation with a devilish remark and a smile. John and Jack are analogous beasts, as both are men in desperate situations who will do anything to win. MacClane has something Bauer doesn’t, though: a sense of humor. Where a typical Jack Attack consists of a grimace and a possible defiling of a corpse to set up a diversion, John MacClane made it through three movies (and four video games) by telling terrorists exactly where they could stick it before shoving it there himself. For argument’s sake, let’s just take a look at how these two protagonists react to getting stuck in a heating vent during an escape:

Jack: “Damnit!”
John: “Now I know what a TV dinner feels like!”

While not John’s best quip, you understand the difference between the two styles. Jack fails his audition as America’s needed hero because he’s cold, brutal, and methodical. He’s exactly as depressing as our modern age, and therefore useless in removing our doldrums. The only way to shock the nation out of our current state is to excite all the emotions, to get us laughing, crying, and cheering all at once. We need every nook and cranny of our soul occupied so that we cannot even think about the hero’s ultimate demise. MacClane provided the groundwork, but he’s a hero for a different time. So here’s the message to every artist out there: bring us our conquering hero, and make sure he can tell a joke.

Rock. . .Robot Rock.

2006-06-06T07:20:00.000-07:00

Last week marked the eighty-fifth anniversary of Carl Capek’s coining of the term “robot.” He invented the word for the inventions in his play Rossum’s Universal Robots, and the use and etymology of this obscure Russian playwright’s invented word has grown to almost insane proportions. “Robot” (along with its colloquialisms and offshoots like cyborg and android) conjures up any number of iterations, cultural references, and definitions, from the metallic adversaries of Captain Video to the lethal fembots of the Austin Powers films to that insipid dance which carries the robot’s name. In other words, more than any other science-fiction trope, the robot has worked its way into our shared cultural lexicon, giving shape to this realm of fiction in the general public and further defining the shorthand we all use to define our dreams.

The use of the robot, though, seems to vary drastically according to the socio-political background and mores of the culture which is employing the device, even down to the basic definition of the robot itself. For instance, the descendants of the Soviet culture which birthed the very concept of the robot now has turned its back on the concept, relying more on mythical creatures and the supernatural for its inhuman scares (to which the recent success of the Nightwatch series attests). When the robot is applied in Britain, it usually appears in an archaic and inorganic form, whether it be the frightening Cybermen of Doctor Who or the bumbling Kryten of Red Dwarf. Germany, having once created one of the definitive robot stories in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, has now seemingly abandoned the concept altogether, focusing, as many of the cinemas of Western Europe are wont to do, on self-important and overly violent character pieces rather than the realm of the fantastic. While the robot once had an evolutionary life in the national fiction of these countries, it is now all but dead.

While the old world has abandoned the conceit, the idea of the robot continues to evolve in two disparate, but equally thriving, cultures: the United States and Japan. What makes the artificial being so attractive to these countries while the idea is nearly abandoned elsewhere? The myriad answers point not only to the success of this stalwart trope of sci-fi, but also to the engrained identities of these two societies. After all, both the U.S. and Japan lean heavily on their sense of cavalier imperialism for their national identities. The Japanese have proven themselves to be vindictive in battle and less than gracious in defeat, trampling over their neighbors in land-grab attempts to expand their empire and fighting their enemies long after the battle has ceased. We here in America do not fare much better historically, as we made a habit of wiping out the indigenous population of our country and going back on our promises to remain isolationist and anti-imperialistic. Woodrow Wilson ran on the campaign slogan “he kept us out of war,” and then immediately set about getting us mired in World War I and attempting to rewrite the ways of the world by creating the League of Nations. When you look at the histories of these two countries, it only seems fitting that their fiction would continue to use a trope which requires the characters to play God. The robot, by its very design, must have an earthbound designer, or at least a mortal one. These cultures have been at the forefront in the modern age in attempting to hold their will over others, so the only logical next step is to create a new race to impose upon. Capek saw this reasoning coming, and therefore ended R.U.R. with the robots rising up and triumphing over their masters. Once a being can comprehend the idea of self-preservation, Capek reasoned, it will not take to enslavement without a fight. Americans, the younger and less-stable country, took this warning to heart, and most of the early robot stories feature a great deal of phobia about our creations; even after the invention of Asimov’s Positronic Laws, robots tended to go on murderous rampages in attempts to conquer their creators. The Japanese forcibly silenced their army at the end of World War II, and seemingly regressed into their rigid class system, so their representation of the robot differs slightly. You are more likely to see the representation of robot as surrogate daughter, subservient maid, or confused amnesiac-figure represented in manga than the one-man army of American fiction. When the robot is a killer, it is usually wracked with self-doubt or a gigantic suicidal streak, and is only delaying the inevitable freak-out over the fact that it isn’t a real human. (For further viewing on this subject, I do not point you to the execrable Ghost in the Shell or the last few episodes of Bubblegum Crash, unlike many of my colleagues who for some reason delight in those gigantic piles of elephant dung.) And so we see the two great imperialist powers of the 20^th Century, each reflecting their own identity crises through the guise of the robot.

The robot shares an impressive number of similarities in its American and Japanese editions, several of which speak not only to cultural mores, but also to our similarities as human beings. Robots tend to be used as reflections of ourselves, as creations which allow us to view creation itself from a distance and begin to surmise exactly what makes us so different. The most well-known of these commentary characters is Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation. While Brent Spiner, the actor who portrayed the android, is an accomplished and nuanced performer, his part was often overwritten and hackneyed. There is an episode entitled Role Model where a young boy who has survived a cataclysmic accident adopts the logical thought patterns and robotic mannerisms of Data. The boy can only move on when Data explains his longing to be human, and how envious he is that the boy can feel the pain of loss. The episode is terribly written, but it speaks to the main themes American and Japanese writers tend to touch upon when writing about the sympathetic robot. As typically written in these stories, the robot is our analogue, another sentient being who wishes to understand its maker just as we continue the search for our place in the universe. As Data states in “Encounter at Farpoint,” the pilot episode of The Next Generation, he has seen the universe in a way that is unique to all other sentient beings in the universe, but he’d “give it all up for the chance to be human.” In Data’s search for his place in the grand scheme, we see a reflection of our own psychological longings, and also get a chance to reevaluate exactly why we’re searching.

Of course, our creations are not always seen in the same benign manner as Data. Ronald D. Moore, one of the writers on The Next Generation who actually seemed to have a sense of how Data should be written, went on to write the rebooted Battlestar Galactica, a series which treats the creations of man as an openly hostile warrior race bent on destroying us all. Galactica danced around the idea of the robot (here called “cylon”) and its sense of self. However, when Moore and his writing staff finally got around to explaining the psychological quest of their cylon race, they threw the entire audience for a loop. As the character of Brother Cavill, a cylon masquerading as a human priest, states during an interrogation, “we should be true to ourselves. We’re machines, and we should try to be the best machines the universe has ever seen. But somewhere along the line we got it into our heads that we were the children of man [. . .] our first major error.” For once, the robot of modern American sci-fi is not simply attempting to replicate the behavior of his creator, but trying to turn itself into something wholly other. The show benefits on this front from its obvious parallels to the War on Terrorism, even if the representation is more sympathetic than would be for a real-life representation of our current war. The result is an evolution of Capek’s original theory: not only are the robots of Galactica attempting to conquer their masters, but they are also attempting to advance their own standings and become something other than the creation of mortals. It’s a noticeable shift from the sycophantic longings of the Enterprise’s ersatz lieutenant commander, and demonstrative of the almost nihilistic mindset of the current American media. Not only is the human race in the middle of a war in the new Galactica, but they aren’t even rulers of their own domain. Instead of a human race united in the achievement of their creation, we are instead presented with humanity brought to its knees by an idea gone wrong. The idea of the robot as metal marauder has returned with an evolutionary twist; humanity won’t just be wiped out, but replaced.

Galactica offers another interpretation of the robot threat, one that ties into a more fetishistic representation. Each Galactica begins with an opening crawl which states, in part, that “there are many [Cylons]. And they have a plan.” The plan, it turns out, is an attempt by several Cylon agents to meld the two species and create a baby who would be a Human-Cylon hybrid. Of course, this subplot leads to the representation of certain Cylon models as extremely sexual; Tricia Helfer, who plays a Cylon dubbed “Number Six,” is a former model and, in the opinion of this writer, one of the most beautiful creatures to ever walk God’s green earth. Ms. Helfer (along with Grace Park, who plays Cylon sleeper agent Sharon “Boomer” Valerii) is the current iteration in a long line of actresses who have played the sexualized robot. Debates will rage from here until doomsday in the critical realm about whether these characters represent the objectification of the female or the feminization of the object, but the narrative device will remain extremely popular nevertheless. Almost never seen outside our two major arenas of America and Japan, these two countries have produced a plethora of stories dealing with the sex life of the gynoid, or female robot, the results of which explain nearly everything about the attitudes of sexuality in these countries. American stories in this milieu tend to pull their punches; after a perfunctory glimpse of the sex act or the form of the synthetic woman, the manuscript will veer uncontrollably back towards conventional tropes.

Take, for example, Michael Crichton’s Westworld, where the first thirty minutes offer several indications that the complex filled with robots was designed specifically for guilt-free murder and promiscuity. Americans don’t deal in guilt-free, however, and the human perpetrators quickly become prey at the hands of one haywire robot hunter. Westworld sets the tone for every American story featuring the sex-aware gynoid: no one gets away clean, and the robot must always remain the object, and never the protagonist. The Japanese take a view which is nearly the polar opposite of the American prudishness, creating a world which indulges in sexual acts and images which many tastemakers and pundits on this side of the world would label deviant. Yes, the Japanese have a more lax view concerning rape, mutilation, and especially interspecies relations than we do, these stories can also be seen as empowering for the female robot where the Americans favor disempowerment. The gynoids of these stories are often the protagonists, and always figure into these stories as major roles. One could hardly imagine Armitage III or Ghost in the Shell to be produced by an American studio, let alone gain the popular reputation they enjoy in their native country. Therein lies the essential contradiction of the Japanese representation, as the violence towards these artificial women is exponentially more intense and explicit, but the feminine objects themselves have a greater say in the stories.

Lord only knows what Capek would have thought of the evolution of his creation. The robot is not only one of the most well-known icons of the sci-fi pantheon, but also a sounding board for many of the most essential issues we discuss through fiction. Many of the writers employing the robot have stalled its evolution as of late, taking a potent device and reducing it to clichéd tropes. Those who continue to evolve it, such as Galactica’s Ronald D. Moore, use robotic-human relations and the qualities of Capek’s creation itself to continue sci-fi’s grand tradition of social commentary and critique. Here’s to Capek and his tin men, who at eighty-five show no signs of rusting.

Bigotry, Thy Name Is Fanboy!

2006-06-01T10:41:00.000-07:00

The release of X-Men: The Last Stand has proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that comic-book fanatics will immediately turn out en masse for any film featuring their favorite characters. The film broke box-office records this past weekend, stunning prognosticators and putting smiles on the faces of executives at 20^th Century Fox who had bet their careers on the fierce loyalty of Stan Lee’s “True Believers.” But like Rip Van Winkle’s nattering wife, these fans discover even the tiniest flaw, and these complaints, both pertinent and achingly trivial, will guarantee that they’ll rise up and declare that the director be drawn and quartered. The filmmakers have forgotten to include their favorite c-list character, or have changed a small detail about a character’s personality, or deviated slightly from the story arc laid out thirty-odd years ago in back issues they have poured over dozens of times. No matter if the quarrel stems from Moira McTaggart’s accent or which of Spider-Man’s girlfriends plummeted from the top of the Queensboro Bridge, fanboys are quick to dismiss the film, the director, the actors, and any higher-level executives involved in greenlighting the film. Innovation is anathema to this section of the population; they wish to see exactly what Chris Claremont or Todd McFarlane or Alan Moore created, and nothing else. While it is easy to dismiss these complaints as trivial and small-minded, especially when it comes to adapting a work into a medium as complex as film, the problem behind this form of critique is far more alarming.

For, you see, these fanboys are bigots.

I wish I didn’t have to type those words; after all, I am an active participant in this culture, albeit nowhere near as voraciously as some. I was one of the first in the country to read the Funeral for a Friend series which recounted the death and rebirth of Superman, nearly every issue of Groo the Wanderer has fallen into my collection, and I can recount which stories were my first for each of the major Marvel and DC Comics characters. I want to stand tall and be counted with those who know the history of the Secret War better than they know the progress of the current one, and for whom every crisis will be compared to the one which occurred on Infinite Earths. I can’t, though, as long as my peers display such blatant discrimination when it comes to adaptations of their favorite works.

This bigotry is displayed through two avenues. The first, and less damaging, is an institutionalized form, one that is akin to something you might find in any club, organization, or religion with long-established hierarchies. Fanboys are notoriously intolerant of anyone they view as an outsider, any man or woman who is not as well-versed in the chronology and etymology of the characters who inhabit the comic book worlds. For example, say that you have just been hired to direct an adaptation of the short-lived book Slapstick. The character was at best a third-tier hero, and his title ran for only a few years, but fans would immediately appear out of the woodwork to question your abilities on the internet and harass you when you do your Q&A at the San Diego Comic Convention. They’ll want to know whether you’re keeping the chronology of both versions of the book, whether you’re changing the character’s alter-ego, and whether you’re including the character’s most famous one-liner. If you do not answer these questions correctly, and you won’t, fanboys will feel that they have been given free reign to vilify you everywhere they can, referring to you by a vulgar epithet that rhymes with your last name and declaring that you are the dumbest single life form to ever walk the planet. Don’t worry that you’ve done something personal to offend them; anyone who accepted the job was immediately doomed to months of persecution at the hands of the fanboys. You see, you’ve stolen their job from them. There is only one person who is ideally suited to direct this film, and they’re it. Only this given fanboy has the distinct knowledge of the book in question, and has been given, presumably by God himself, the power to discern what would go into the most slavishly accurate, and therefore best, adaptation of the work. You’re not as proficient in the way of comic books as this rare specimen of a human being, and therefore you are “f**king retarded.” Such is the plight of the director who dares to helm one of these films.

The second form of discrimination was once less seen, but now poses a much greater problem for the fan population. There is a section of the comic-reading world which has become infinitely more vocal since the propagation of internet forum discussion that thrives on ignorant and hateful stereotypes. It is a common sight to spy postings in the forums of Ain’t It Cool News which serve to remind us that Bryan Singer, the director of the forthcoming Superman Returns, is homosexual. This fact was all well and good when Mr. Singer was directing the first two installments of the X-Men series; in fact, his outlook supplemented the comic’s interpretation as outcast parable. However, Singer’s move to the character of Superman, seen by many comic fans as the embodiment of wholesome middle-American values, has prompted fears that the director will “gay up” the franchise. Similar fears of a director’s personal affiliations interfering with a project came to light last year during the build-up to Fantastic Four. Tim Story, the director of that film, had previously worked in the minority comedy milieu, scoring gigantic hits with such pictures as Barbershop. Through the gratifying anonymity of the internet, fanboys can air their favorite bigoted epithets without having to own up to them. It’s lamentable, but you could have heard the same discussions in the back corners of your favorite seedy comic shop at any point since the Silver Age. The fans represent all kinds of viewpoints, and will voice them loudly and repeatedly when their favorite book is threatened.

Not a word was uttered by the cashier at Jim Henley’s the other day when I handed him the trade of X-Tinction Agenda and the new issue of Astonishing X-Men. The newest installment of the X-Men films had just reached the cinemas, so I almost expected some sort of comment about my choice of books. But the damage had been done; an interloper, someone not of the comic-book sect, had made an objectionable film, one which failed to meet all the often unreasonable demands of the most devoted. God help the next director to venture there.

It's a Bird!

2006-05-03T02:17:00.000-07:00

To the film buff, a person’s favorite movie can often define exactly what kind of person they are. Those who list The Godfather tend to be practical and business-oriented, Star Wars fans are usually dreamers, and anyone who says The Notebook is a freakin’ moron. But no matter what your pick is, the wonderful thing is that it can change with time. It’s indicative of our nature as humans that our personal number-ones can shift and change as we do.

That’s why I’m really glad my favorite movie is no longer Superman IV: The Quest for Peace.

I was four, it had Superman, and it was much shorter than the other two movies (no, I don’t count Superman III; even back then I knew it sucked). Still, that’s no excuse, and the battle for pole position quickly raged between The Empire Strikes Back, Blade Runner and The Commitments. The Man of Steel continued to hold a place in my heart despite my dismissal of his ridiculous fourth installment, and I followed all the attempts to reboot the franchise with great interest. I cursed the destruction of the Burton-Smith interpretation of the Doomsday plotline, and breathed a great sigh of relief when JJ Abrams’ cinematic abortion blew up on the tarmac. John Williams’ “Superman March” gives me goosebumps every time I hear it.

And that’s why this is perfect. The first teaser was obviously for the fans, setting up the various symbols and interpolating a piece of Williams’ old score which only die-hard devotees would recognize. Today’s offering is a ridiculous cornucopia of shots that would make the kid audiences of yesteryear’s blockbusters drool. Looking for matte lines around Superman while in-flight? CGI blurring? Bad compositing? It ain’t there! Each and every effect shot looks flawless, and they’ve still got another two months to work on them. Oh, and the actors ain’t too shabby either. Singer pulled a major coup getting Kevin Spacey to take over for Gene Hackman.

The trailer speaks for itself. Can’t wait for June 30th, and probably the seven or eight times I’ll run back to the theater to see it again.

The Whitney Should Punch the Keys!

2006-04-12T02:45:00.000-07:00

The phrase “video art” conjures images of Andy Warhol, Claes Oldenberg, and Laurie Anderson for most of the artistic community. The term is seemingly forever linked with pretty young men staring endlessly into the lens of a bulky videotape camera, jerky edited images of the New York landscape, or possibly even intentional video noise thrown over the visage of a naked middle-aged woman. These ideas haven’t changed since the first Sony television made its way into MoMA as part of a larger installation which attempts to show the suffering and degradation of the human soul as it existed in the larger metropolises of the 20th century.

That’s exactly why the Whitney Biennial sucked.

Art as it exists in motion-picture media is tired and stale. When Nam June Paik taped a piece in which he dipped his head in ink and ran it across a gigantic piece of paper, very few people, if anyone, owned camcorders. Novelty is what carried the piece more than anything else, especially since the stunt itself is not interesting enough to merit an installation. The videotaped image can be cut, chopped, looped, and distorted, bringing another layer of meaning and depth into the mix. It had never existed in the art world before, so naturally crowds gathered to take a look at this newly emerging form. Now a sizable portion of the art-faring world owns at least one kind of video-recording device, so the value of the video format itself has diminished somewhat. Another step must be taken to keep the audience staring at a sixteen-hour unbroken shot of the Empire State Building.

The problem with the form is that it hasn’t developed anything new. The subjects will still address the camera like an interviewer, a few seconds of footage will loop over and over, and the same tricks will be used to throw the image off-kilter. While I know other innovations in the art world would sometimes take hundreds of years, I’m also aware that the current scene has sped to an insane rate, plunging us from Damien Hirst to Andres Serrano in no time flat; with that sort of turnover, one could have expected a major advancement in this field between 1963 and now. Instead one finds the same tricks employed over and over, much to the audiences chagrin. “Down by Law,” instead of eliciting the outrage from the crowd that I’m sure the curators were expecting, simply drew a large amount of befuddlement and lachrymose stares. Aficionados aren’t impressed anymore. There needs to be a new breed of concepts in moving image art, or we need to chuck the entire field altogether.

Ladies and gentlemen: the time is right for You’re the Man Now Dog to invade the Biennial.

While the site, at first glance, reveals little other than a demented sense of humor and a hypnotizing need to watch the repeating gifs over and over again, there is also more artistic merit in the site then you would often give it credit for. First of all, the manipulation of the images is beyond anything Warhol could have dreamed when he first silk-screened a picture of Marilyn Monroe onto canvas. Celebrity and non-celebrity alike, from Patrick Stewart to Brian Peppers, receives a royal full-motion treatment complete with personalized soundtrack. On YTMND, everyone is famous for their allotted fifteen minutes, or however long it takes you to navigate away from the page. The media manipulation also hovers in the realm of the absurd, but is unlike any sort we’ve yet seen displayed in museums of contemporary art. The “art” of YTMND relieves almost solely on prefabricated material, and yet the resulting creations often seem more fresh and alive than the pieces from which they are assembled. I can tell you that I’d much rather watch any of the “Conan Summons” pages than the interview segments of your typical Late Night, and the line from Finding Forrester which gives the website its name has spawned a hundred better works than the middling Gus Van Sant entry. Each one of the links to a new YTMND creation holds the promise of something truly new and exciting, such as this or this or this, and even those which are shoddily made or disappointing still hold more sway over the audience than any given Warhol regurgitation or artist who simply must show us all of the work he did in pee.

So when the next Biennial rolls around in 2008, I hope the Whitney has the guts to say no to the endless cycle of boring artists. If I step into an installation then and see a man urging me to go back in time, or a reworked version of Mike Tyson’s Punch Out!! designed to be intentionally racist, I’ll be a happy man. Art exhibitions will be on their way towards a bright future.

Eighties Insanity: Episode Two--"Rockers on a Half-Shell"

2006-04-11T04:09:00.000-07:00

Do you remember your first concert? From pop junkies to teenyboppers, the first band you see live becomes an irrevocable part of your childhood, an unshakable testament to the first time you really moved beyond listening to Raffi on a “My First Sony” and joined the ranks of people who could rattle off a “top five” of favorite bands without thinking. (Elvis Costello and the Attractions, The Beatles, The Cars, The Who, Led Zeppelin.—Ed.) There are as many first concert experiences as there are music elitists; maybe your parents took you out to Jones Beach to see Bon Jovi, or maybe you waited until you were in seventh grade to see Hanson at The Beacon. As much as I’d like to tout Bouncing Souls at Coney Island High or Les Savy Fav kicking me in the head at CBGB, I have a deep, dark secret lingering in October of 1990. That’s where my first concert is holding court on a half-shell.

My first concert was the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles’ Coming Out of Their Shells tour.

Now, I know the Turtles phenomenon seems incredibly stupid from our vantage point in the mid-naughts, but it was truly all the rage back then. Anyone who was between, say, five and fifteen at the turn of the decade can attest that nothing was as cool as these four wise-cracking amphibians who inexplicably learned their ninja skills from a gigantic talking rat. While I still hold a rather impressive amount of admiration for these characters, I’ve begun to think that the ancillary pieces of the franchise were what brought kids screaming to the Turtles, and not the characters themselves. After all, the toys were numerous and incredible (well, all of them except Leatherhead), and the video games weren’t the usual rushed crap we were used to associating with licensed products. You know as well as I that all the money we spent playing TMNT: The Arcade Game could have probably ended poverty in America or balanced the federal budget or built a wall around Mexico or something. The toys, games, and bedspreads were a damn sight better than anything allotted to Toxic Crusaders or Widget or Teen Wolf, and that’s probably what kept the series on longer than any of its competition.

So we all presumably stuck around for all the goodies that would come from the TV series, and the live concert Turtles might have been the greatest of all these treats. I still remember entering a near-empty Radio City Music Hall on the last day of their tour in New York, guided by my father to the first row mezzanine in order to grab the best seat in the house. (That’s one of the great things about being a fifth-generation New Yorker—if you don’t know all of the ins-and-outs of any given place, there’s a good chance your immediate family does.) I perused the souvenir program over and over again waiting for the show to begin, studying all of the portraits which were rendered in that oh-so-nineties pixilated style. Around the seventieth time I read the article on how much Donatello loves playing the Keytar, the lights dimmed and a strange voice boomed over the Radio City sound system—

When there’s music inside of you, someday you know it’s got to come through. . .

A blast of fog as they came rising from beneath the stage. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Granted, this phenomenon had also happened when my dad had taken me to see the first performance of the Moscow Circus in the US, but these were the Turtles! Live! On stage! Who cared that they were Bedazzled-out more than Homer’s “Disco Stu” jacket? Donatello was there, and he was totally rocking out on a Keytar! I was transfixed from word one, especially since “word one” was here represented by one of the catchiest opening ballads that one could ever hope to hear out of a quartet of three-fingered cartoons. Seriously, kids, “Out of Our Shells” rivals at least Warrant or early-stage Extreme, if not Van Hagar.

Out of our shells. . .we’re coming out of our shells. . .

Anything could happen from this point. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Sam Rockwell, reprising his role as “Douchebag #2” from the first TMNT movie, had entered from Stage Left doing cartwheels while Eastman and Laird set fire to a pile of hundred dollar bills. This event would not have seemed out of place, because the Turtles were real and they were here in Radio City Music Hall right now. So of course they took this opportunity to shill their album, which was only available at Pizza Hut.

Those bastards. This announcement was particularly offensive to me for two reasons. First of all, I lived in New York, and there were no Pizza Huts on any part of Manhattan. We have the best pizza in the world, so you’d have to be a complete putz to want a pie from a chain store. Secondly, they had already sold all of them, which I was not aware of until I was informed by another kid at school who had attempted to track this cassette tape to the end of the Earth. If the advertisement for Pizza Hut wasn’t enough to annoy me, there was a sudden change in the concert. Instead of hearing the Turtles sing their songs, which had been more than satisfactory for this star-struck boy, we got a side-story involving April losing her voice through the implementation of the same sort of ground effects you’d find on a Datsun, and an appearance by the world’s gayest representation of Shredder. I remember distinctly thinking this guy reminded me of “the man who sings the song which helps Flash save the world,” which meant that I thought Shredder was played by Freddie Mercury. All due respect to Queen, but you’ll understand if I wanted Shredder to get out of the way so that Donatello could rock his Keytar a bit longer. And don’t even get me started on the April plotline; I already didn’t like her as much as the Turtles, being that I didn’t care for girl characters who didn’t serve on the bridge of the Enterprise, but my distaste was compounded by the fact that this woman was obviously not April and by the part of the show where she begged the entire audience to clap so that they could break the machine and she could get her voice back or some junk. Now, I don’t know if it’s the fact that I had some disastrous encounters with audience participation when I was a kid (thanks, Bob McAllister), but I hate when I feel obligated to do something from my seat in the audience to keep the performance going. I don’t care if Tinkerbell dies; don’t get in my face about not clapping. I also will not clap to get April’s voice back, especially since she’s not Paige Turco, and especially since her song sucked.

Anyway, the show got back on track with Skipping Stones, Splinter’s chance to front the band and present a ballad which was just this side of Corey Hart. I remember not being as into this song as I should have been, mostly because I was eagerly awaiting the return of Donatello, but it’s the most vivid memory I have of the show. I have no idea why this number lodged itself in my brain much longer than the totality of the “Tubin’” and “Sing About It” segments, but “Skipping Stones” is today one of my favorite songs performed by the Turtles.

All things change as time goes by, moving onto bigger seas and not quite knowing why. . .

The heroes on a half-shell were back with a vengeance when they showed up to perform “No Treaties.” Basically an excuse to fire off pyrotechnics indoors, “No Treaties” carries the jingoistic sentiments of the last throes of the Cold War. You’ll find that most of the rockers of this period contained a “fuck all of our enemies because we’re totally wicked awesome” message, and this one is no exception. Declaring that there will be “no treaties after the war,” the Turtles finally grab their weapons and prepare to kick unholy Shredder ass. No letting Casey Jones strike the killing blow this time; it’s all TMNT, all the time. Man, if only our fictional characters had this sort of outlook today. I still think the first Iraq War lasted three whole seconds because we were still so jazzed that we brought the Berlin Wall down, and our music reflected this same self-centered elitism. The War on Terror would be over right now if we just ditched whiny pissants like the jackoff from Bright Eyes and hip-hop screamers like T.I. in favor of over-the-top arena rockers. Gary Cherone, I’m looking at you.

Anyway, the Turtles solve it all with a trendy hip-hop song, and a young boy goes away with his first taste of live pop music and of the legendary Radio City Music Hall. Six years will go by before the kid dives into “the scene” fully, and by that point his obsessions will range far and wide, bringing him face-to-face with every act from Gary Wright to Le Tigre. He’ll never forget that autumn day in Manhattan, gripping his father’s hand as they climb the arching staircases of that wondrous palace. Nothing will ever match that sensation.

And a Crossover Episode. . .

2006-04-09T04:18:00.000-07:00

A full entry will be posted later tonight, but we are currently interrupting your usual blog-reading experience to note that Mr. James McLennan Rabbitte, head writer and maintainer of "Film Elder Presents," has been featured on another noteworthy internet endeavour. Mr. Rabbitte appears in the latest installment of "ALivejournal," a strange and entertaining webcomic, and will hopefully be joining the prinicpal characters for further adventures (at least, Mr. Rabbitte and his sense of self-worth hope so). The comic in question can be found here.

Apologies on the interruption; again, our regularly-scheduled installment of "Film Elder Presents" will appear later tonight.

Dictated, not read,
Webmasters.

Eighties Insanity: Episode One -- "Until the Night They Killed His Brother"

2006-04-06T02:27:00.000-07:00

An addition of a Rubik’s Cube to my bedroom has sent me on a nostalgia binge. This entry will probably be the first of many which will fall under the “hey, remember that thing from back then” category, but I promise to make them more entertaining than the usual fare of that nature you’ll find on the internet. (Apologies in advance to Retro Junk, still the reigning king of media nostalgia on the internet. Stay classy, you guys.) The first one is the ire of anyone who has worked at a Blockbuster, stayed up too late at film school, or simply watched any given movie channel on a Saturday afternoon in the early 90s.

Yes, I’m talking about Gleaming the Cube.

Now, if you have never had the insane pleasure of watching this film, allow me to explain the high-concept idea which fuels this piece of quintessential eighties cinema. Christian Slater plays Brian Kelly, a stereotypical “rebel teen” as written by a Hollywood screenwriter. He loves skateboarding and his adopted Vietnamese brother, but hates consumerism and authority. Why? Because he’s a rebel, man! But then his brother is murdered, so the things he loves are most definitely outweighed by the things he hates. As anyone who watches a movie ever knows, this means that revenge is nigh. Watch Kelly go as he implements the mystic art of Slater-Fu, which would go on to fell bad guys in films from Pump Up the Volume to Hard Rain.

Seriously, though, no one is watching this film for hard-hitting social commentary, even when Cube attempts to divert its plot into some gabbery about Vietnamese politics. No, you’re watching for the most 80s-tastic of all cinema plot devices: the skateboard. Now, cultural anthropologists have traced the origins of the skateboard in America back to at least the streets of Dogtown in the 1970s, but, luckily for us, the phenomenon didn’t make the ten-mile trek down to Hollywood until John Brolin kicked some skater ass in Thrashin’. Cube came after the floodgates had opened on this particular fad, so we get the immense pleasure of numerous skate montages choreographed by none other than Stacy Peralta, de facto leader of the Z-Boys of Dogtown. Thrill to five minutes of Slater pulling ollies while “Stukas Over Disneyland” plays on the soundtrack!

“But Jimmy,” I hear you cry, “people still board and listen to The Dickies today! What’s so 80s about this movie?” Yes, people may still use skateboards, but does anyone cast Steven Bauer in a movie today? This film has a cast to beat all other 80s films. The cast list for Cube sports Manolo from Scarface, John from V, Padre Quinn from Timerider, Sherrif Brackett from Halloween, Cavin from Gummi Bears, The dude who gets crushed to death in Big Trouble in Little China, and Tony Motherfrakkin’ Hawk. It’s as if someone organized a convention for fifth male leads from eighties movies and then filmed the results. If Victor Wong and his crazy eye had made an appearance, then the universe may have imploded upon witnessing the pure eighties of it all.

As it is, there are enough psychotic moments in the movie to make up for the lack of Wong and late-stage skateboard action. Did you dig the scene where Michelle Rodriguez pilots a convertible under an 18-wheeler in Fast and the Furious? Watch Tony Hawk do it on a skateboard going eighty on the Pasadena Freeway! And you haven’t seen high drama until you’ve seen Steven Bauer’s magical gravity-defying car, Richard Herd’s revolver that can shoot a pinpoint target from something like four hundred yards away, or Christian Slater’s dress skateboard that he brings to his brother’s funeral. It was ridiculous touches like these that made the eighties a wonderful time to be a moviegoer. Even if you hated the film, you could still have a ball picking out all of the random parts of the film’s world which just shouldn’t be. Can you say the same about She’s the Man or Larry the Cable Guy: Health Inspector?

* * *
Eighties Insanity Short Takes!: Pole Position

Remember Pole Position? The video game where you drove a car, and that’s it? Yeah, wait until you see what happened when it went through the inevitable cartoonification back in 1984. Now the story concerned Dan and Daisy Darrett, ace drivers whose stunt show doubled as a covert spy organization. They also had two cars imbued with artificial intelligence; in the great tradition of robotic duos, one sounded like Don Adams, and the other sounded like he was retarded. Oh, and the Darretts also had some sort of cat/possum hybrid that was looked after by their younger sister. You’ll understand why I spent a good decade thinking I had dreamed this program up before I uncovered an episode deep in my collection of unlabeled VHS tapes.

As with most eighties cartoons, a good feel for the series can be gained from the opening credits. Be warned, though; the theme song will lodge itself in your brain and never leave.

Eighties Post: Negative One -- "The Truth is a Virus"

2006-04-02T23:58:00.000-07:00

(I’m about to start a celebration of somewhat-forgotten media crap from the 1980s. The true introduction will follow in the next forty-eight hours, but for now enjoy this piece I wrote in June 2004 for the earlier version of this blog.)

* * *

So, I recently picked up a copy of Alan Moyle's Pump Up the Volume on the cheap at Best Buy. I hadn't seen the film since I had caught it on late-night television when I was in middle school, but I remember liking it quite a bit, and I figured that I couldn't go wrong at five bucks. So, on a whim, I grabbed it off the shelf and took it home to watch.

Honestly, it surprised me quite a lot.

The plot is pretty basic; the idea of a teen running a pirate radio station had been covered before in teen-exploitation films before (e.g. On the Air Live with Captain Midnight). There's the standard romance subplot between reclusive Mark (Christian Slater) and Nora (Samantha Mathis). The school officials are evil and bullying, just as in The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller's Day Off and Class and countless other comedies of this ilk. While the film carries these traits admirably, they still carry the stigma of the "80s Teen Film."

However, Alan Moyle is too quick-witted a writer to fall into the traps which these conventions usually present. He manages to differentiate himself through two major factors: his keen ear for teenage dialogue, and his extreme revolutionist bent. The first is particularly interesting, especially in the way it separates the two halves of the film. The adults speak in tried maxims and decantings, making the same "you're in trouble young man" and "kids today need to learn respect" posturings that we're used to. The teens, though, shy away from any of these trappings. The characters, especially Mark when he slips into his radio persona of Happy Harry Hard-On, address true concerns of the modern teenager, but never in unbelievable or cornball fashion.

Take, for example, Billy Morrisette's turn as the expelled punker rebel. Roughly halfway through the film, he is interviewed by a local news crew outside his former high school. As he gives the interview, decrying the injustice of his expulsion, he lights road flares and tosses them onto school grounds. A few minutes later, he wordlessly enters the campus, carrying a placard which states simply, "I Got a Right to an Education." Slater's Mark/Hard Harry character shows a similar contradiction. Uprooted from his Manhattan home and placed in a school in Arizona, he acts the part of bookish recluse during the day while rallying against the system on the airwaves at night. This on-air persona has dual sides as well: while he initially preaches a doctrine of sex and nihilism, he shows a true concern for his peers when one of the students commits suicide after annoucing his intentions on the Hard Harry program.

It was this teen contradiction-slash-dichotomy that really drew me into the film, because it felt more real than any other teenage-aimed film I had seen. Sure, we all love The Donger, but is he real? The teens of The Breakfast Club are little more than stereotypes. However, through Pump Up the Volume and Slater's brilliant performance, Moyle has come closer than any other filmmaker to actually capturing the confusion that comes with being a teen. Does it make sense that this punk kid would actually want to learn, or that a symbol of youthful rebellion would take time out of his sermons on destruction to eulogize a boy from an opposite social circle? No, not under the conventional terms of engagement of the teen film. Moyle's film doesn't wish to touch on the same points as other films in its genre, though. It's much more concerned with showing the unconcentrated anger of teens become harnessed and directed through adolescence and the gauntlet of high school. As Hard Harry says late in the film: "parents [and] teachers are always telling you what to do. But you know what you have to do."

The film, ultimately, is concerned less with the downfall of the crooked school administrators or Harry's radio show, and more with a generation coming into its own. By the end of the film, the teens have control of the local social structure, and are beginning to spread their influence nationwide. They have harnessed their anger, and have directed it towards those who they feel have oppressed them the most: the adults in charge. While most teen films would have shown this with the law-breaking Mark/Harry triumphant, and with the adults soundly humiliated, Moyle goes for a different approach. Actually, by having Mark ultimately fail in his ordeal, he becomes an even stronger symbol of teen life. He may have failed, but he has inspired others to harness their anger and confused states to rise up against their oppressors. They begin to strike out not with the arms of Red Dawn or the universe manipulation of Donnie Darko, but by the only way the teen audience can: with their words and ideas. The film identifies with the teen audience, and ultimately shows them a way to actually express their ideas and join together to make their lives better, instead of wasting their anger aimlessly.

A sign appears about midway through the film, posted on the wall of the high school: "The Truth is a Virus." That basically sums up my ideas about the film. It presents teenage life for the dormant volcano that it actually is; it takes one rebel rouser to get a group going, but once they get going they can accomplish something truly groundbreaking. The film is impressive in its depiction of realistic teenage life and rebellion, and Christian Slater gives one of the greatest screen performances of his generation.

So, if you happen to see a copy of this in the five-buck bin at Best Buy or Virgin or HMV or Tower or wherever, I'd highly suggest making a home for it. This film should be required viewing for every high-school-age student in America.

The Wrath of Korobeiniki

2006-03-25T04:26:00.000-08:00

I know that I am long overdue for an update. Now, I’m sure that loyal readers (and I know that there are a few) are waiting with bated breath for the next installment of my investigative report on vodcasting, but I have a perfectly good excuse as to why it hasn’t appeared yet:

I’ve been playing Tetris DS.

“But Jimmy,” you say, “why the hell would you pay twenty bucks for a game which you already own three times over and which is available on the internet in hundreds of different permutations?” Well, dear reader, I believe that you underestimate the amount of love I have for this game. I’m the kind of Tetris player who once played an uninterrupted game for eight hours, promptly fell asleep, and then dreamed a full eight hours of falling tetrads. I’m the guy who sets impossible-to-beat records on other people’s copy of the game. I’m fully of the disposition to believe that Tetris single-handedly ended the Cold War. In short, I am a Tetris fanatic, and the lure of a newly updated and shiny version was too much for me to resist. Couple this update with the classic Nintendo motif, and I pretty much void my sanity as I gladly pay twenty dollars American Cash Money for a game which I’ve grabbed up several times before. A word to the wise: I will pretty much agree to anything of any sort if it carries the trappings of one of the original games released for the Nintendo Entertainment System. Hell, I’d probably even go to graduate school if Urban Champion was somehow involved in the process.

So that’s why I haven’t been writing for the blog. I’ve been cracking 200 lines in Marathon, cheating the CPU in Push, and losing by that much against dudes in Japan over wi-fi. This entry was even supposed to be longer, but a calling to beat my previously set high score put an end to that right quick. Will I be able to pry myself away from this heathen electronic long enough to provide my readers with a new installment? Well, I better; there are some very interesting things on the horizon. . .

Coincidental Sacrilidge!

2006-03-14T21:26:00.000-08:00

Now, normally I don't approve of single-picture posts within the blogosphere, but this one was too good to pass up. I found this particular item while moseying around the Times Square Toys 'R' Us today (on my way to B&H, which I didn't realize was closed for Purim), and I knew I had to get it. The Hooker-Style Peter Griffin is already pretty disgusting, but check out the mislabeling on the package. . .

Pure. Comedy. Gold.

And I'm going to hell.

From the Small Screen to Your Screen, Part One.

2006-03-13T21:46:00.000-08:00

The personal screen has descended upon us faster than anyone could have ever expected. The ViPod (or whatever the hell we’re supposed to call it these days) was a revolution, combining the gotta-have-it aesthetics of Apple Computer’s best non-computer products and the consumer desire to shake the bonds of crappy TV. The possibilities for your viewing choices on this platform are, given the ease of conversion from any other format, nearly limitless, which doesn’t stop your average user of the iTunes music store from downloading last night’s Battlestar Galactica or a vintage episode of The A-Team. While I have fallen victim to this mainstream supply a few times, as I was interested in how terrible the pilot episode of Night Stalker really was, my attention has drifted more towards the proliferation of DIY productions for this new machine. I was never a huge fan of mainstream television anyway; my attentions were always drawn towards WLNY (New York 55!), PIX, MNN, and the other giants of way-out local television. The on-the-cheap syndicated shows, the no-budget Secaucus-based crap, and the near-forgotten late movies were more fascinating to my eyes than anything that the “Big Three” could ever provide.
For independent TV fans like me, the phenomenon of the video podcast is a boon to our entertainment palette, an alternative to the rather slim pickings among new television shows (Conviction, anyone?). In honor of the format’s one-year anniversary, I want to talk about a few of my favorite video podcasts (or Vodcasts, if you’re a total contraction whore) and try to pinpoint exactly why this phenomenon is flourishing outside of the technology addicts and the fans of Steampipe Alley. First up is. . .

--Rocketboom

Okay, I guess this one doesn’t really need that much additional publicity, seeing as this podcast is the first to cross over onto “conventional TV” through an episode of Crime Scene Investigation, but I really have to comment because I can’t fathom how the show is popular outside of New York City. I personally dig the hell out of the show’s style, but, y’know, duh. Host Amanda Congdon delivers the news in a cutting style which will be familiar and welcoming to anyone who grew up watching Rosanna Scotto, Chuck Scarborough, or Ernie Anastos, but completely foreign to anyone else. That’s not even mentioning her off-handed comments which pepper the broadcast in-between headlines, which drip the subtle sarcasm of a girl raised by the New York private school system. By the end of the first headline, I was beginning to wonder if she went to Chapin, Spence, or Marymount by the way she cut through the absolute stupidity of certain headline subjects. The content of the show is intriguing as well, acting like a Bizarro-World MSNBC designed specifically with geeks in mind. I wouldn’t have known about the headless mule-bot, the Nerd Prom, or Spore without it. In fact, the stories seem to appeal to the larger near-nerd crowd which has long been neglected on the Internet, those who dwell somewhere between the popular kids and the out-and-out P.B.D.s (Parent’s Basement Dwellers). So I guess my initial reticence about the widespread viability of the program comes not from the content, but from the host herself. I’m a fan of Ms. Congdon (despite the fact that I have reason to believe she may be a Cylon, which I may or may not address in a future post), so I’m a fan of the show. In the end, I guess, widespread acceptance of a show like this really doesn’t matter. There are no ratings and there is no adspace; all that Ms. Congdon needs is a few devotees who speak her language and are interested in the same stories. I do, I am, and I’ll be watching every weekday without fail.

--Ask a Ninja

Here’s another reason why we need video podcasts: this sort of absurdity would not fly on any conventional broadcasts, let alone a network. The format of the program is typical internet fodder, giving a quirky character free reign to answer often ridiculous questions drawn from e-mails. The strength of the character dictates the success of the series, and the titular ninja is one of the most insane characters I’ve yet seen in a podcast. From telling us that “a tape covered in worms is not a gift” to the assertion that video podcasts are the internets answer to “a factory that serves pies to whales,” The Ninja is a consistently hilarious personality. The idea of merchandising a show like this scares me, due to the fact that it’s inherently not commercial, but it’s on its way regardless; check out the website for the link to Ask a Ninja-brand ringtones. Yes, I grabbed one, mostly to supplant my phones awful supply of ringtones, but also to show my respect and admiration for the show. This of course raises another question about video podcasting, which is how the loyal fans can keep their favorite show “on the air.” There are no sponsors in the conventional sense, and the merchandising structure is nowhere near as sophisticated as it is within the corporate world. So how does one go about ensuring the survival of a particular show when the medium is so tenuous? I welcome your comments and theories, because I have no honest idea. The format is only a year old, after all; I’m sure Milton Berle wasn’t concerned about the longevity of The Texaco Star Theater in 1948. It’s assured that these shows will end eventually; how long the first hits last in comparison to their idiot-box counterparts will be an interesting harbinger of the format as a whole.

Coming in Part Two: Advertising the podcast, recycling the public domain, and reinventing old personalities. . .

The Oscar Posts: Number Two.

2006-03-04T02:11:00.000-08:00

Alright, kids. I declined a party invitation tonight under the auspices of getting some worthwhile sleep tonight, but a massive, all-day headache has rendered that plan completely asunder. So, let’s instead delve into the subject which will be occupying the airwaves of radio, television, and wireless internet over this weekend.

Ladies and Gentlemen: let’s talk Oscars.

Now, as I stated in an earlier post (which you may seek out at your leisure), this is one of the most scintillating years we have seen in recent memory. There is no threat of a sweep, as there was in 2003 with the arrival of The Return of the King. The Best Picture category is home to five genuinely interesting and provocative films, as opposed to an attack of whatever the Brothers Weinstein could throw against an insipid faux-epic. Such names as Amy Adams, Paul Giamatti, and Rachel Weisz dominate the acting categories; gone are the days of a yearly Russell Crowe nod or whichever ancient legend happened to make a movie that year. We will not see a travesty such as Lauren Bacall’s nomination for The Mirror Has Two Faces, nor will a lackluster performance like Juliette Binoche’s English Patient turn beat it out. This field is truly deserving, and any one of them could grab the coveted bronzed dude on Sunday.

That said, let’s take a look at a few of the categories and judge which of the nominees has the best chance of being recognized at the ceremony. To wit—

Best Director
So, this year’s crop of nominees has a one-to-one correspondence to the Best Picture films. This matching means that there is no odd-man nominee to shove out of the running immediately. Instead, let’s look at the two men who have a snowball’s chance of winning: Bennett Miller and Paul Haggis. Haggis’ film, Crash, is an ineptly directed tour-de-force, one of those films which seemingly arranged itself in the editing bay and was launched without regard for content or context into the marketplace. Whatever misgivings I may have about the film, I can still tell you that there are some excellent performances, and that the script does reach a few poignant moments. However, these pieces do not make up for the fact that the film has no narrative cohesion, and that the cinematographic style changes from scene to scene. Mr. Haggis made no attempt whatsoever to make his film hang together, and for that he should be immediately stricken from consideration. As for Mr. Miller, the plain and simple truth is that he’s a first-time director whose film has been mostly praised for a single performance. This combination does not bode well for his chances with the wizened Academy, a governing body which prizes experience and grandeur above all else.

Then we can discount Spielberg, because he’s won four Oscars. Not only is he not going to win this year, odds are that he’ll never win again.

We’re left with polar opposites. Ang Lee, twice-nominated auteur who made a humanistic drama to bounce back from one of the biggest tentpole debacles in cinema history, and George Clooney, Hollywood royalty and star of such films as Return of the Killer Tomatoes! and Return to Horror High. Actually, they may not be so different after all. The deciding factor, then, will be the content of their films. As I said before, pomp tends to win over everything, so expect the lush hills and lingering shots of Brokeback Mountain to one-up the taut interiors of Good Night, and Good Luck.

Rebelde Sin Equipo

2006-02-25T04:20:00.000-08:00

I came out here to learn the rules, and I knew full well from the beginning that I would break them.

I still remember seeing Robert Rodriguez on television right before the release of Desperado; he talked about how he used what he had, and had written the script around who was going to be available on what days. Then they said how much El Mariachi had cost. Seven thousand dollars? The man had made a film for the combined price of the two computers in my dad’s office. If that’s all it took, then why wasn’t I going out to make one right now?

A few months later, Desperado hit the video stores, and I was able to take it home and see what Mr. Rodriguez could do with seven million. I was transfixed. The man had essentially flipped off the entire film industry, circumventing whatever rules had been established in the process of making “good movies.” Movies cost lots of money, took way too much time, and eventually ended up being a muddled jumble of several people’s vision. He shot quickly, cheaply, and on his own terms. How crazy is that?

Now I’m on the edge of making my own film, launching myself directly into territory which astounded me ten years ago. Some of my friends that my proposed budget is leading me directly into a cinematic suicide mission, because we all know it’s impossible to shoot a film on a budget of less than six figures. A colleague of mine is getting together funding to make a horror movie for three hundred thousand dollars, which is a plan which appears more than sound. The catch? He doesn’t even like horror films. I’m sure he’ll go on to be successful with this endeavor, just as he is successful in everything that he does. As for me, I’d much rather go down in flames doing something that I love, knowing that I blew far less capital in my failed attempt than I would have if I had made the film in the supposedly proper fashion.

I came out here to learn the rules. I’ve spent four years beholden to the rules of unions, permits, lengthy postproductions, and films which undeservedly balloon to hundred-million-dollar budgets. It’s time to take all that I’ve learned and witnessed and throw it out the window. There’s movies to be made.

Three-Act Anxiety

2006-02-22T01:59:00.000-08:00

Begin at the beginning and end at the end, kid. No one’s going to remember if the middle’s boring, as long as you start with a bang and end with a flourish.

It’s good advice, but the only problem is that the writer still has to drag himself through that middle to get to write the end. Try as one might, there is no magic way to circumvent the task of writing all that bothersome second-act exposition to get to the really meaty confrontations in the third act. If you think that the scenes where characters plant information are hard to watch, try slugging through five or six drafts of each of them to make the dialogue even remotely palpable for the audience. If there was some way to just let the audience know that Dr. Embalmzo’s Radioactive Houseboat is currently harbored in the Bay of Fundy, we’d use it. We don’t want to tell you any more than you want to listen, because exposition is a tedious affair for all involved.

Then there’s the matter of getting every scene to fit. I’m a stickler for narrative coherency in every film, which is why even my favorite movies have moments which continually bug the hell out of me. So each of my scripts goes through a metamorphosis as I write them, losing sub-plots, characters, and sometimes entire narrative tones in my quest to have the whole thing make sense. I can’t go the Raymond Chandler route, allowing one murder to be committed by a completely unknown assailant in order to streamline the narrative; for my nerves to be calmed, all of the pieces have to fit into place.

These thoughts race through my mind as I begin the second draft of my feature script. Having considered the comments of the few people who have seen the first draft, and after reading the thing again myself, I’ve decided to scrap large chunks in favor of fulfilling my own quirks. Actually, I’ve decided to throw out damn near everything except the plot outline. Once this draft is over and finished, I’m sure I’ll look back and find that I’ve benefited from scrapping the entire first go at the material, and that the resulting work is something of which I can be somewhat proud.

Right now I’m hanging on the precipice of the second act. How do these characters change? Who is my modifier? Where does it end? Hell if I know. But I plan to have a good time finding out.

A Day Like Today. . .

2006-02-10T03:28:00.000-08:00

Today was a day for Mr. Frostee. It was time for those milkshakes which seem to go up in price two bits every time we stow our winter coats, but which we buy anyway because, hey, it wouldn’t be June without them. It wouldn’t be June unless we were finishing the last few gulps as the N/R/B/Q rolls into the station, not taking time to savor the last bit of ice cream as we lick it hastily off the end of the straw, taking the container and hurling it like Starks into the nearest trash can. Swish.

Today was a day for Loew’s, perfect for standing outside on 86th arguing about our choices. Finally ducking inside after a small forever, we escape from the blinding head for just a few hours, letting the fantasies of others cool our minds. By the time we venture back into the real world, the sky has opened and has let a torrent rain down, drowning the Upper East in a deluge it deserves richly. We run through it with abandon, caring nothing for our clothes, books and papers. We’ll all be home soon enough, drying out and wiling away a few hours on video games and Simpsons reruns. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

Today was a day for the Bowery, for St. Mark’s Place, for Villages East and West. We’ll sit out on our stoops, too captivated by the weather to do much of anything else. We see men and women of every shape, color, and size, all bonded together by their mutual oppressor the heat. We speak in bad jokes, stupid observations, monosyllabic retorts, each one layering itself onto the day’s sentiments. They feel right as they float their way down the street, lazily bumping into other groups saying the same thing. The last thing any of us talk about is tomorrow. It’s not coming.

But it did, and now I’m not just a dreamer. The dream is approaching quite rapidly, and I’m not sure if I’m ready. I know I could be great if only I could go and do something, but on these days when all my forward momentum is tied up in pending events, all that there is to do is go for a walk outside, where every step feels like a dozen years and three thousand miles ago.

In times of great stress, nostalgia seems to be only a stopgap measure. All I want is a good time. All I need is a rested soul.

For those 8.5 minutes. . .

2006-02-02T02:54:00.000-08:00

Memphis has a new roommate, and John Archer has signed on to work my film.

“Really? . . .I mean. . .Really?”
“Yeah, Faith. Everything’s suddenly spun.”

Now, I credit myself with a great deal of sang-froid. Every situation, I find, has at least one solution which I can employ to great effect. But the door opened, and instead of Ms. Memphis Belle there’s Ms. Diane Court. . .well. . .my brain shut down for a moment. Here’s the basic progression of what went down in there:

First, I had to figure out that this wasn’t Belle or her [apparently departed] roomie. Then, the mind had to realize that, yes, I do recognize this woman, and. . .wait, Jesse Quick? No, but they do look astonishingly alike. Oh, wait, I know who this is! It’s Diane Court; she did a whole bunch of School of Theatre shows I actually liked, and didn’t she go to London with—wait, what the hell is she doing here? And, more importantly, did I get the right apartment?—

Out of this mess nothing emerges. I don’t think my mouth even opens before Jessica Stein, my stalwart and much more together companion, sweeps in to save the day. It’s always good to have another theatre major around when confronted with one unaware, as they speak the same language.

Jessica is laughing as we turn the corner away. She finds it hilariously awkward; I’m just trying to figure out how my life got so damn small. It may well collapse into a singularity.

RING RING RING goes John Archer’s cell phone somewhere on campus. We’re on the fifth volley of phone tag and he might actually pick up this time—

“Jimmy! What’s happenin’, brothaman?”
“Archer! I need a producer, and Irish and I both decided that you’re the best man out there, so what I need to know from you right now is do you want to get in on the feature—”
“Yes! Oh, thank God; I’m tired of being asked to crew on ponderous short films. Can we do this in 35mm? What about lights? I can get in some 1ks from. . .”

And just like that, the film is shifted into high gear. Eight minutes and thirty seconds prior, I was ready to throw in the towel and head to the apartment to watch Andy Warhol films. In less time than it takes to walk from my place to campus, my life had shifted immensely.

So what’s behind door number two?

The Oscar Posts: Number One.

2006-02-01T02:23:00.000-08:00

I’m not an overly violent person, but I’m going to headbutt the next person who tells me why I should like Crash. I respect the fact that you liked it, and I admire what they tried to do with the film. However, it is my humble opinion, if not a well-established scientific fact, that Paul Haggis completely missed his mark in the execution. There are simply too many plotlines in the rigmarole for any of them to click. There are some good performances, especially given the broad-stroke hackneyed dialogue, but this factor alone is not enough to save the entire film from ruin. So, essentially, Matt Dillion deserves his Academy Award nomination, but Paul Haggis’ mismanaged work doesn’t merit his three. (Even mention a Narnia snub around me and I’ll lay you out.)

That said, I’m pretty happy overall with the nominations. This year is the first in a while that I’m rooting for more than one film to win the Best Picture award. As far as I’m concerned, Capote, Good Night and Good Luck, and Brokeback Mountain are all of superior quality, and could stand the test of time along with the strongest of past winners. Even a Crash or Munich win would not be a disaster on the scale of The Greatest Show on Earth or Forrest Gump; the “Best Picture” may well live up to its name this year. (But, honestly, Brokeback deserves it the most.)

Let’s not ignore the new crop of actors inducted into the Academy rolls this morning, either. Of the twenty nominees in the acting categories, fourteen of them are first-timers. By my calculations, that’s the most since 1973, when The Godfather seemingly made up the entire supporting category. These selections hopefully signify a change in the makeup of Hollywood’s acting elite, and perhaps a chance for younger, unknown actors to break into the mainstream. After all, if Dr. Ross, The Flamingo Kid, and Marvel Ann can be recognized by the most respected awards body in film, then why can’t any b-player or comic sidekick eventually rise to that level? (I’m looking at you, Ted Raimi.)

So let the betting and prognosticating begin! I’ll be returning later this week with my official lines on each category. Oh, and Academy? David Newman for Serenity. That’s all I’m saying.

How I Believe.

2006-01-31T03:42:00.000-08:00

[Warning: This entry contains Jesus. Parental discretion is advised.]

Alright, I hate to have to do this thing right in the middle of the usual, but I have something that I need to say. It needs to be out there, because I think I’m just going to pop if I let it germinate too much longer. So, here goes:

I’m a believer. Yes, beneath all the rampant skepticism and secular miasma which is central to my character, I’m what they used to call a Christian. I can even remember when the term wasn’t a divisive point among the liberal community in America. But how did this devil-may-care punk from Manhattan end up being one of “those kinds” of people? Well, strangely enough, I wasn’t raised to believe there was any sort of divide. My mother is a Presbyterian, and my father a Catholic, and yet there was no arguing over who taught what aspects of religion to me. Over my many years of religious schooling, my pastors all preached acceptance and love of every walk of life. The message was so simple, and the way was so clear: you were supposed to be a good person, and not go out of your way to hurt anybody. They had done that a bunch in the Old Testament, and it just made God so angry that he killed a bunch of people. How easy is that to understand?

Then things started to change. Our first pastor, who was a kind and understanding man with a true passion for the Gospel, was dismissed from the church. Turns out that he was a homosexual, and that fact was much, much more important than his winning ways with the clergy. His replacement was a nasty man who delivered a sermon during the children’s service about why there is no Santa Claus. He also kept a mistress on the payroll. His replacement was the sister of a very famous Manhattanite who ended up suing the archdiocese for sexual harassment. It turns out that her replacement was the mistress.

It was at about this time that I left the enclave of religious education and began my tenure at my extraordinarily left-leaning high school. After all I had seen I was beginning to grow skeptical of my own faith. I had been told to love everyone and keep a very distinct moral code, but those who had taught me that had proved to be utter bastards. The week before I left parochial school, one of my peers had caused a power outage in the East Village because he was fucking around with the fuse box. He blew himself up. It was time to leave.

So I threw myself into this new secular surrounding. Now, I had not lived a particularly sheltered life. I couldn’t have; it was the Eighties, and I was living in Alphabet City. Haring lived down the street, and Chico was seemingly everywhere. Meanwhile, Dad let me watch Predator, listen to rap music, and have beer every once in a while. This was not a strict house, but our secular nature was always balanced by a sense of piety and devotion to God. We had a good life, and he had definitely provided the means to get by. This balance went to the dogs during my time in high school. A succession of awful events, not to mention my exploration of new and daring political and social views, started to divorce me from the church and from Christianity in general. It turns out the world is harsh, nobody follows the rules, and I’d been fed lies. I was out.

I’m not sure who I should credit for bringing me back. Actually, I know exactly who, but I’m not sure if she would take it. Shortly after the first diagnosis, I spent a while speaking with Memphis on the nature of her faith. We both shied away from using the terms “religious” or “Christian” when describing our relations with God, because both of those had become code-words for either the fanatic jerks on TV or the fanatic ankle-biters on campus that refused to even acknowledge the existence of other religions. I knew these kinds rather well, as I had gained a bit of infamy on campus by combating them in my “Religion and Ethical Issues” course on the eve of the Iraq War. I asked Memphis if I could ever come back to the church, whether it had shifted too much towards these detestable individuals to let me back in. She put it very simply: it’s about love. My teachers, the zealot pundits, and my ridiculous peers didn’t matter; all that mattered was that “God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whomever so believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” God set a standard, and all he expects from us is that we treat our fellow man with the common decency that we’d grant him. If those who claim to be Christian can’t get that right, then fuck ‘em.

So listen up: I’m gonna tell vulgar jokes, make violent movies, and campaign vigorously for better sex education programs in public schools. And still I’ll believe. I’ll believe with every inch of my soul, because to believe is to know that you can make this world a better, happier place for all involved. Why bicker when he gave us so much to celebrate?

That’s why I’m a believer. Because I know, and because I know it’s right. Can you say the same?

Seventeen Again

2006-01-24T01:21:00.000-08:00

“Even for you, James, that was pretty out of character. I didn’t know what to say.”

Ms. Belle rebounds me back into a semblance of reality late on Sunday evening. Where had I been for the past week?
___________________________________________________________________

The phone back in my hand, I check my messages for the first time in weeks. What I get for not being technologically savvy is message after message after—

“James? It’s Faith. I want to see you.”

Times have changed, but we certainly haven’t. At least, not enough to change this little corner of the world. Holding her in my arms is like turning the whole world back in on itself. I’m fifteen and the world is mine. I’m sixteen and my heart is broken. I’m seventeen and the city is on fire—

“You know me better than anyone. You have to.”

She says that her car is getting California tags. It’s funny that’s how I know we’ve come so far. I used to dream that I’d wake up in Manhattan, back in my old bed only to find that none of this had ever happened. I thought sometimes that if I wished hard enough that we could erase all the mistakes and do it all right this time. I’m sure everyone wants to at one point or another. Now I know I can’t.

“I love you, Faith. More than you’ll ever know.”
“I love you too, James. I think I have some idea.”

For a few minutes after, everything feels right again.
___________________________________________________________________

“We want this film to happen. Figure it out, and we’ll do the rest.”

It’s a go! Thanks to the interference of some very interested parties, my film now has backing and a solid base on which to begin production. The crew will hopefully begin forming more rapidly over the next few weeks, but I feel quite confident since I’ve got Hildy Johnson as my second-in-command—

“You’re looking for a lead actress that can speak Gaelic? Doesn’t that seem just a bit quixotic?”

She’s right, you know; that’s why she’s going to be my assistant director. That facet, along with several others, has contributed to my decision to completely gut the second and third acts of the script. I will finish a complete rewrite by Saturday. No, it isn’t unreasonable; there’s just no time to stretch it out. So here we go, running headlong into the biggest project I’ve ever undertaken in my life. Let’s see how it goes.
___________________________________________________________________

Lord Shale’s party was a rousing success by any measure, and it was good to see that many people again. I could start to tell that something was wrong, though, when my ears started to buzz like I’d just been hit with a shot from a mortar. Then I started to feel sick, and I eventually had to vacate. The weekend had hardly begun, and I was already a wreck.

Maybe, then, it wasn’t the best idea to stay up until mid-Sunday working on a film. Yes, the Annual 24-Hour Film Festival hit the SCULA campus this weekend, and I was once again pitted in mortal kombat [with a Kapital K] against my friends and compatriots to see who could make the best, or at least the most ridiculous, short film. The films screen on campus this Saturday, and I will be sure to keep all you faithful readers abreast of whether Hildy, Shale, King Max or I win the competition. Of course, we could all lose . . . but that’s probably not going to happen.

I wake up in the middle of the day to check my voice-mail messages. I’ve missed the Rhino going-out-of-business sale, my lawyer wants to start talking permits for filming in Manhattan, and oh here’s the message from the irate Puerto Rican Ex-Army man who now thinks I’m a bastard. Fuck.

Somewhere in between my room and the kitchen, something snaps. I guess it might have been whiplash from the conversations I had with my doctors earlier in the week, which at once confirmed my old fears and generated totally new ones. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel right; it was alien, totally removed from wherever I’ve been—

“You’re coming home, James. That’s it.”

My own self from five years ago comes roaring back. I hate him. No matter how infuriating the people around me get, not matter what they do to piss me off, I have never hated any of them outright. I loathe myself.
___________________________________________________________________

“Even for you, James, that was pretty out of character. I didn’t know what to say.”

I knew I was lost when Memphis stopped our conversation dead. I didn’t actually have any conception of what had happened until I mentally backtracked and realized that he said it, not me. What had caused it? Pressure and fear, dear reader. Several professionals had been quite confident over the past six months that I was not going to live to see next Christmas, and I was beginning to agree.

“You have to learn how to use that heart again, even after so many have broken it.”

I thought that I had reached the end of the line. I was dead certain that every move I was making would be among my last, and it was causing me to lose all perspective. Not much has changed; I’m still sick, and there’s still the chance that, well, this may be it. Who knows? Whatever happens, it’s important that I keep control, and that I live life in a manner with which I’m comfortable. I’m worlds away from where I started, so it’s important to remember what brought me this far in the first place. When you’re born dead, sometimes you have to remind yourself what made you lucky in the first place.

“If you need me, you call. If I don’t answer, you make damn sure to tell me I should call back. I don’t want things going all egg-shaped on us.

. . .Besides, we’ve lived through worse.”

The last week one.

2006-01-13T02:18:00.000-08:00

On my way to baggage claim on Sunday, my phone met the acquaintance of the LAX floor. It didn’t get along with it well, and, combined with the fact that I left for Los Angeles without putting my AC adapter in my bag, I was left incommunicado. It was a strange feeling, especially since I had gotten so used to my constant data stream from the wi-fi connection in my room. I’m sure there’s a lesson there about technology’s intrusion into our everyday lives, and how the psyche has taken on unnatural affectations in order to compensate, but I was simply perturbed that I couldn’t check my damn e-mail.

___________________________________
The film is underway. The script is a lean seventy pages, and it can be shot in various locations which all happen to be located within half a mile of my apartment. There is, however, the troubling matter of money, as films require much of it in order to get made. So, I begin the arduous task of finding investors, a task which suddenly becomes fit for Hercules when I look at the first investor’s contract and realize that he wants the rights to the film in perpetuity throughout the universe. I want to mumble “fuck this” and get up from the table, but I instead tell him that I’ll think about it.

___________________________________
I’ve finally called Faith Lahane for the last time. If she ever deigns to pick up the phone, I may answer. But I know that if I keep running that way, all I’ll get is tired.

___________________________________
Despite my reticence to sign away my work to the first shmuck who offers up cash, I’m still forming my crew in hopes that the project will magically come together. I’m surrounded by a huge amount of talented individuals, being that I go to freakin’ film school, so most of my recruiting happens like this:

Picture, if you will, a near-empty movie theater. This is the site of Classical Hollywood Cinema, a class I’ve wanted to take since I arrived at SCULA. A quick break between lecture and screening allows me to say my hellos to Ms. Hildy Johnson, whom I did not see through the entire break despite our close proximity. We have just enough time to speak about our strange Christmases and our mutual distaste of the recent Narnia film before the lights start to go down. Right before the projector clicks on for the first time this semester, I turn to her. “Hey, have you ever assistant directed before?” “I’d love to learn.” “Seals it. You’re hired.” If there’s one thing you can say, it’s that I work quickly.

The flash of 35 millimeter. The brilliant monochrome of Modern Times. An image which burned its way into my mind at seven years old: Chaplin floundering in the water outside his ramshackle home, and Paulette Goddard trying in vain to pull him ashore.

___________________________________
Obi-wan’s voice resonated down the line for the first time in months, worried that I had changed too much. She tells me not to worry, and just to remember to secure the basics. Nobody figures it out for another ten years, anyway.

If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born. “Come in,” she said, “I'll give you shelter from the storm.”

Five Reasons the Movies Should Die.

2005-12-31T14:09:00.000-08:00

I was going to post the best and worst films of the year in this entry, but a few revisitings (Mad Hot Ballroom, The Baxter, Rize) have caused me to completely rethink the order of my top ten. So, all you get right now are the worst. Here come five movies which made me hate my profession with the fury of a million suns. I promise that the Best Film and Notable Performance Lists will be a bit more cheery than this one.

The Worst Films of the Year 2005 (Or: Fuck These Movies).

5. Rent

Chris Columbus is the worst director in the history of cinema. Ed Wood, Ray Dennis Steckler, and Joel Schumacher at least had passion for their jobs, and it showed in the total calamity of their resulting work. Columbus is just a lazy shmuck; every directorial choice is met with the path of least resistance, and any problem is ignored. There is at least one continuity or factual error in every frame of this film, and there’s no movement by Columbus to fix any of them; I’m sure every member of the cast and crew caught the gigantic “NYC 2012” banner in the background of one scene, but Columbus couldn’t be bothered to shift the camera over five feet to place it out of frame. That’s the pinnacle of awful filmmaking, especially in a high-profile production such as this one. Here’s hoping that resulting financial disaster stops this director’s career in its tracks.

4. War of the Worlds

Shameless, pedantic, and unnecessary, Spielberg throws another H.G. Wells interpretation at us so that we can marvel at just how much this story has to do with our world today. With the George Pal film, the 80’s TV series, and Orson Welles’ incomparable radio drama already on record, did we really need another version of War? Aside from a few terrorist references and some startlingly terrible September 11 imagery, Spielberg’s film gives us nothing that the older films had not already offered. What, then, is the point? In their rush to prove that they could create a film from scratch in under nine months, Spielberg and Tom Cruise never once stopped to think whether this remake was in any way needed. It comes as no surprise that it wasn’t, and therefore leaves us with nothing but a bad taste in our mouths and a memory of Tim Robbins’ career-ending performance.

3. Man With the Screaming Brain

Come on, Bruce Campbell! You’re not even trying anymore. I understand that you’ve made a living throwing yourself around and getting hit in the face with various forms of fake blood and guts, but there’s no reason to keep doing it when you’re obviously so tired of the formula. I know you’re good at other things; Jack of All Trades was a solid program, and your books are absolutely hilarious. Evil Dead is twenty-six years gone, and it’s time that you scrap that tired format and move on. Considering the response this film received, I don’t think anybody will mind.

2. Robots

This film is proof positive that nobody in Hollywood is paying attention to anything around them. If they did, the creative team behind Robots would have realized that their film just wouldn’t cut it in the post-Pixar age. Technically competent but completely lacking in any form of narrative entertainment, Robots is the worst kind of filmmaking-by-committee. We care about none of the characters, nor do we bother to be enthralled by the standard-issue plotline. It’s torpor for adults, and insulting to the kid audience brought up on Toy Story and The Incredibles. That’s an F for effort, Blue Sky. Better luck next time.

1. Crash

Make no mistake, folks: Crash is the worst film of this year. A racist and awful portrait of interpersonal relations in modern-day Los Angeles, Crash hates pretty much everyone and makes it known until it’s blue in the face. Take Ludacris’ character, for instance; after a full minute of condemning the white characters for being afraid of black people, it turns out that (Surprise!) he actually is a carjacker, and we should be afraid of him! Or Brendan Fraser’s District Attorney character, who turns out to hate black people even as he delivers speech upon speech preaching tolerance in the city. At least, that’s what I think his plotline was about; since he’s on screen for about ten seconds, we really can’t tell. When there are a dozen plotlines shoved into a two-hour film, there’s very little time to develop any to a reasonable point. At the end of the film, these clichéd and hackneyed plots have made no impact upon our sense of tolerance and brotherhood, and we may be even worse off because of the negative reinforcement caused by the one-dimensional characters. Congratulations, Paul Haggis; you’ve written a film which makes me hate Asians, Blacks, and WASPs with equal zeal. I hope that was your point.
__________________________________________________________
Coming Soon: The Women of the "Gay Cowboy Movie," everybody's favorite Baldwin, and the return of Woody Allen.

All Their Personal Belongings

2005-12-30T20:48:00.000-08:00

Did you ever think we’d grow up?

We were going to grow old regardless, just like our teachers and those family members you only saw when you flew to the Midwest at Christmas. Growing up, though, seemed to occupy the realm of the impossible. None of us would live to occupy the stations of adulthood; either the world would end or we would. Stranger things have happened.

Over lunch at the Mayrose today, the conversation turned to Faith Lahane and Eve Harrington, two members of my old high school class who had joined my search for work in Los Angeles. Lahane and I used to swear that we would impair Eve’s career at every turn, do everything we could to stop her from gaining any advancement she didn’t deserve. I’ve met very few human beings less worthy of success. Imagine my surprise, then, when I found out that she had posted a false birthday on the IMDb and passed herself off as an ingénue. She’s a featured player in the next Zooey Deschanel film.

Faith Lahane, meanwhile, has moved into a swank pad in Hollywood and is dating a casting director for one of the majors. I have to ask, but Moll doesn’t even have to hear the whole question. “Yes, a girl. Because, you know, she’s gay.” I already knew, and the second time still doesn’t resonate. “Shouldn’t that make you feel better? I mean, it’s not you, right? It’s just all guys. You shouldn’t have to feel that it’s a personal affront—” I ask if we can stop talking about it. You can say it all you want, but the heart won’t hear it. It’s a stubborn bastard, and I sometimes wish it would quit out.

Things are changing. My life, and apparently my world around me, is in flux. I remember when Faith still wore glasses, when she was eleven and gawky, sporting that crazy puffy hairdo. I knew Eve when she was still just showboating around school, when she once corrected someone’s pronunciation of her name by stating that it “rhymed with beef,” and when I stumbled (regrettably) upon her robbing Gilligan of his virginity. So where am I in this transformation? As usual, I have no idea. I guess I have to realize that I’m not the person who can offer up quick evaluations on my own personality. All I can do is go forward with my current plans and see what happens with it.

I was getting up from the table when Moll finally asked me what the worst part was. “Every one of you coupling up. Even when it’s okay, it still feels like something’s missing.” “Just remember that people love you, James. That’s what matters.” “They’re so far away.”

We’re leaving by side entrance when we spy an old classmate of ours. Outwardly speaking, he hasn’t changed one iota since we were both bored out of our skulls in AP Lit. It turns out that he helps run the place, and that he’s just gotten engaged.

I didn’t think we’d ever grow up.

Christmas Post 2005!

2005-12-23T10:22:00.000-08:00

Ladies and Gentlemen:

What follows is the obligatory “Night Before Christmas” post. In my humble opinion, it’s really, really bad. However, this entry replaces an angsty Christmas entry about my loss of innocence, so consider yourself lucky. No matter what follows, though, the sentiment remains the same. . .

Merry Christmas!

I hope that every one of you reading out there is as happy as you can be.

--J. Rabbitte.

‘Tis two days before Christmas, and I thought you should know
I’m leaving The City, to where there is snow.
My bags are all packed with things every which way
Why pack with care? I’ll be back on Monday.
My cousins are traveling with me in my car
After that trip, I’ll need a stocked whiskey bar.
With Ma in the kitchen, wine perched in her lap
A few glasses of that and Dad will try to rap
When out to the lawn I’ll run with such speed
There’s nowhere to go, but a long break I’ll need
Away to the slopes I will fly like a flash
I need a release! Anyone got some hash?
This Christmas ordeal is so trying, you know
I must take a break or we’ll all come to blows
When did we decide that that we need Christmas cheer?
We should be in Manhattan, where escapes are near!
I haven’t been happy with Christmas, you see
Since first we moved it upstate in ’03.
But endure it I must, for family is prime
No need to complain. . .at least, not this time.
Maybe, you say, if you just fake a smile
You might just have fun, at least for a while.
So here I go to the Catskills, to indulge in the snow
And hope that my urge to be jolly will grow.
On Christmases long past I’ll draw to spread cheer!
No need for soft drugs; I’ll dispense with the beer
So to my readers I say without getting sappy
Merry Christmas to you, and try to be happy.

Next Year, Baby. . .

2005-12-18T22:43:00.000-08:00

I try not to dwell on the past anymore. I’ll allow myself to look back on it fondly, to remember the places I’ve loved and occasionally rest on my laurels, but there’s no reason to regret the choices I’ve made. Years of remorse won’t shift past events into idyllic focus, so why bother? Moving on is really the only choice.

So here comes Christmas, and then those few days of boredom and depression before the new year. Symbolic new beginnings for everyone! It’s as good as any time to start all over, as the whole world is keen to reinvent itself. So what’s new in the new year, you may ask? Well, damn near everything. Since I’ve (almost) (probably) totally cleaned up the mess that Jesse Quick left when she checked out, all things move forward from there. The first major hurdle is going to be reversing all the major health difficulties of the past seven (seven!) years. New evidence suggests that the problem is Celiac Disease, but I think that’s total bullcrap. Look, if it’s not cancer like my doctor originally predicted, then why would the troubles be linked to something as pissy and lowbrow as Celiac? Not to be a disease elitist, but problems just do not follow in that order. Of course, my body’s violent and troubling reaction to whatever drug du jour I was put on this week doesn’t help one bit. So I’m cutting out the chaff: no more Pamine, Donnatal, Simethecone, anything. None of this crap I’ve been shoveling into myself in the hope that it dulls the pain. The non-medicinal crutches go too: no more liquor when times get rough. No more buying crap food in bulk and then eating it because, hey, it’s in the house. No more punishing late-night editing binges to throw myself into my work in an unhealthy manner. Yeah, like any of these are gonna happen.

Luckily, other factors come into play when school is pretty much all but over. I’ll have one day of classes next semester, and none of that eight-hour span appears to be incredibly strenuous. I’m definitely thinking about dialing down my commitment at the station, especially since they don’t pay me, and possibly about cashing in some of my excess cash. Do you know what all this maneuvering means? That’s right: Feature Film. I’ve been talking about it for nearly sixteen years, so why not cash in on the whole “boy genius” thing while I’m still technically young? The crew and actors shouldn’t be a problem; that’s one of the added benefits of going to film school. SCULA is just teeming with semi-talented near-professionals, and I seem to know bunches of them. Hey, it’d make a better group than usually gets together to make films; have you actually sat down and watched Clerks. recently? My ideal plan is to make a film cheaper than Tarnation and quicker than The Day the World Ended (you can look up the figures for both). When it all goes south, I’ll have realized I’ve set ridiculous goals for myself and I’ll be able to relax. When it’s all done, I’ll either have a complete film to shove out on the festival circuit or a good piece to put on my reel. Maybe I’m being a bit naïve and unrealistic about the whole thing, but it’s worth a shot. Now all I need is a script.

As for everything else. . .well, I’ll never be calm about anything in my life. Why should I? I’ll continue to complain, continue to try and move forward out of any given rut. It’ll be different, though, or at least I’d hope. December 30th will mark six years to the day since Quick wrecked and ravaged the whole shebang. Some of her physical reminders linger; a scar still runs down my neck, and one troubling disorder that she unleashed has worked its way back into my life. That’s no reason to let her hang about my thoughts. This year marked those first tentative steps out the door. This January I’ll start running.

But if there’s one thing I must do despite my greatest fears. . .

Four Moments for December.

2005-12-15T03:02:00.000-08:00

Remember last year when you were on your own?

The semester’s over, and I’ve made it out of Los Angeles and back to a cold-as-hell New York. I love coming home no matter the situation, but right now anything is a welcome change. Many of my old friends seem hell-bent on creating drama where there should be none; the plight of the Brothers Hatfield is just one of many ridiculous situations where I feel that I must get involved, if only to play mediator and make sure that everyone refrains from killing one another. That superlative screenwritress Memphis Belle warned me against this tactic right before I jumped on the plane: “No one’s forcing you to do anything, Jimmy. Relax.” It’s good advice, Belle, but when was I ever one to follow good advice? I know I shouldn’t, but I’ll probably continue to make sure that everyone gets along at great expense to my own well-being. This reasoning defeats the entire purpose of leaving LA in the first place, but years of habit are hard to break.

You swore the spirit couldn’t be found.

Tonight, five years after the fact, my mother finally stated her first opinion on Jesse Quick, infamous speedster of the North Country Fair. “You know, James, you and Quick were cute together. You even sorta looked the same. When you were kinda chubby, so was she, and when you had slimmed down she had gotten skinny. I remember when you two were leaving Grand Central, and you had to be the happiest people in there. Too bad she turned out so loony.” It’s true; the whole affair ended in heartbreak, but looking back on it all I can do is shrug and say that it probably wasn’t meant to be the last. Who really does end up with the first girl with whom they fall in love?

December rolled around and you were counting on it to roll out.

Some things in Manhattan never change, as indicated by the fact that I can jump right back to my radio and push it to WPLJ, WQXR, and WHTZ, each still playing the same format I’ve heard since birth. Other factors are completely different; that sporty little restaurant in Chelsea I liked has been replaced with a Mexican bar, OMFUG is on the move, and the upcoming transit strike stands to be the most catastrophic urban event since the Hiroshima bombings. . .at least, if our intrepid local newsmen are to be believed. No matter; the man without a home has returned, and he has found that more of it survived than he remembered. It’s a good thing, too. Stability has proved itself to be in short supply.

As days go by the more we need friends and the harder they are to find.
If I could have a friend like you in my life, well, I guess I’d be doing just fine.

Today I venture out into my frozen metropolis for the first time this break. It’s not going to be a stress-free operation, but I guess that’s alright; I’ve pretty much given up all hope of reverting to a completely serene existence. I just have to realize that various factors in my life will never resolve themselves, and that I’ve been through worse. Not the most typical Happy Holiday thoughts, I know, but they keep me going until the next bout of euphoria.

Everything’s gonna be cool this Christmas. . .

Hey! A movie I liked!

2005-12-13T01:42:00.000-08:00

But I can’t mess with events happening three thousand miles from here, especially not when I’m so close to coming home. Let’s flip over to Side B and explore the good bits that were this weekend. . .

Have I told you about Hildy Johnson yet? I guess I’ve mentioned her a few times, but I have yet to do a full introduction; there really has to be a point on this journal where I pause and fill you in on the entire cast. The young lady in question, though, is a literate and disarming figure, exactly the kind of woman who lives up to her namesake. You have to be, though, if you’re constantly surrounded by the loud witticisms of the Big Game Hunters. All in all, she’s wholly the antithesis of the typical SCULA student, and I’m glad to know her.

So, Hildy and I went out to see Ang Lee's Brokeback Mountain this past Saturday. We actually went out to see it on Friday night, but, to make a long story short, I am bad at the game of Los Angeles. Who knew that a man could get so lost going from the 10 Freeway to The Grove? Nevermind; the point is that I eventually found our way there, and a wonderful time was had under the gaudy Christmas decoration and manufactured snow of one of Los Angeles’ many pre-fab adult playgrounds. As Hildy put it, The Grove is “a theme park without the theme. . .and, really, without the park.” What’s left? Shopping and the occasional exclusive movie. Still, I try to go as often as I can, if only to have an excuse to walk around a bit. The City of LA is a bit lacking in safe, comfortable walking environs.

But I digress, as I started this entry to talk about the film. We eventually made it to Brokeback the next day; I was feeling terribly stupid about my navigational incompetence the night before, and it was a bit of a relief to be able to get to the vicinity of the theater in a more direct manner. I would root for the return of the drive-in movie, if only for the fact that everyone and their mother went out to The Grove this past Saturday, and it made parking a chore.

“What about the film?” you say, and I reply that I’m getting there. No, I will not go back and edit what I’ve written, as I steadfastly refuse to trim these entries unless I’ve said something I catch as particularly boneheaded.

Okay, the film. Let’s put it simply: Brokeback Mountain is wonderful. From the trailer, I was expecting an “important” film, one of those movies which you’re required to like when Oscar season comes around. Nothing on the level of, say, Crash, mind you, but still an overly sanctimonious message movie. To my surprise, Brokeback is a subtle film. For all of the hubbub about this movie being a vital piece in the gay rights movement, the homosexuality comes out less like a protesting statement and more like a natural expression of love between two troubled individuals. Kudos to Lee and Larry McMurtry for crafting a film with controversial elements that doesn’t dwell specifically on the fact that the elements are, in and of themselves, controversial. The characters come first, amazingly; most other directors would have stopped to remind us that we’ve never seen any western featuring homosexual leads. Also, other directors might have felt the pull to make the lead characters sympathetic, almost angelic figureheads; Brokeback’s creators luckily realized that not every minority portrayed on film necessarily has to be a pariah, and therefore weren’t afraid to occasionally make the characters total dicks.

The actors were superb as well, each aging convincingly through the nearly twenty years the film covers and managing to work through huge swings in tone with very few false moments. I could gush individually about each of these performers, but it would probably be redundant. Each handles their character as a human being, realistically showing the progression from adolescence into middle age without any startling jumps. There really isn’t any point in the film, at least until the very end, where you’re truly aware of any major jump in their ages. The characters roll by with minor changes as the years progress, just as it should be. There’s no showboating, no big speeches which guarantee awards, and we never once think about the teenybopper fare from which these actors have graduated. The real triumph is that we believe we’re watching the story of Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist, not of Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal.

In case you couldn’t discern my conclusion from the lengthy review, I would heartily recommend that you see Brokeback Mountain. It’s a stunning work of character when movies seem to be interested in anything but. And in case you need a second opinion, I do believe Hildy loved it too.

Somebody Going to Emergency.

2005-12-12T20:11:00.000-08:00

I think it’s only fair to start this entry with an issue which has put me on edge all day. Early this morning, I received an e-mail message from my parents containing only a link to a newspaper article. Thinking it was an article about this week’s box-office returns, I put off reading it for a few hours while I went about packing for the trip home. When I returned to my computer and clicked on the link, I was confronted with the following logline—

SKERRITSVILLE -- A family blowout degraded into what State Police called a "Dodge City" shotgun battle between two local brothers Sunday inside the home they shared.

As I read on, the reasons behind my mother’s hastily-sent message became clear: the Brothers Hatfield, whom I have known for half my life, had waged an unholy gun battle in their home and the woods around my parents’ retreat. While neither one was dead, they had managed to injure each other quite well, and they had been thrown into a rather large prison in Upstate New York. If they are convicted on all of the charges, and they most probably will be, each of the brothers could face ten years in Coxsackie Maximum. Ten years! Odds are that I’ve seen both of them for the last time.

Look, I’d be upset by this news no mater what, but it just seems a bit more poignant arriving right before I head back home. The ratio of shit moments to good ones this semester was rather high; at times I grew a bit more than despondent. September and October can pretty much be written off outright; nightmares and blackouts brought on by stress ruined those months. You know, I can even chart the lowest point of the semester: it would have to be the Friday of Halloween weekend, when a few local ruffians called me a faggot and pitched a Coke bottle at my head as I was walking to a party. Funny enough, that was the same night I met Hildy, and, well, she wrote about it in a more fluid and interesting manner than I could. Sometimes it takes very little to bounce back, and just the fact that I could still meet vital, impressionable people even after I’d pretty much given up the entire idea of humanity in the collegiate environment. . .well, that was something. I ran the rest of the semester attempting to find these occasional moments of levity and human connection, despite the constant nagging mystery illnesses and the obscene amount of work. In fact, it was starting to look like this year would end on a high note.

Leave it to the Brothers Hatfield to fuck everything up. Our Christmas plans are probably blown due to the fact that the house down the road is now a crime scene, and I’ll be forced to abandon any pre-New Year’s plans I had, because they figured into most of them. I guess I should have known not to count on anything; hey, if the prognosis of August had stood, I would be back in New York undergoing a fun regimen of whatever radioactive barrage my doctor could throw at me. It’s still a bit infuriating to think that everything has to be rearranged because a few dumbass friends of mine got their hands on shotguns. If the trend of the past month-and-change holds, this development will actually yield some wonderful events. Of course, I shouldn’t count on anything.

Song of the Day: December 11, 2005

2005-12-11T03:35:00.000-08:00

I realize that these songs really don't pop up daily, thus rending meaningless the headline of "Song of the Day." However, "Song of the Week," "Song of the Occasionally," and "The Bi-Weekly Song" all sound idiotic. No matter how you slice it, though, today's song is. . .

XTC's "Mayor of Simpleton"

This selection comes from a recent event. See, Hildy and I were driving to The Grove this afternoon when this number popped up on my car stereo. In fact, it was eminating from a mix CD which I had made when I was at my most despondent this year. It's a telling sign of how I craft my musical choices, as I try to color my darkest moments with upbeat music. Anyway, I was trying to explain exactly how the song impacted my life and why I love it so much, and I was coming up with a complete blank. As I am wont to do around Hildy, I stumbled around some ridiculous phrases, citing the intricate, witty lyrics (to which Hildy noted "you shouldn't listen to music for the lyrics alone"), the three-chord simplicity, and the generally peppyness of the song. I think what I finally ended up saying was this: "I can never feel bad when this song is on."

Okay, so I got close. The lyrics really are a sticking point for me; heck, even the title itself contains a neat little turn of phrase. These lyrics are not merely witty, though; lyricist Andy Partridge manages to evoke a complex and funny love story through simple images, never straining for a lyric or bending his meter out of shape to fit in one more word. Check out the words to the bridge, which create an excellent snapshot of the song's tone:

I'm not proud of the fact that I never learned much
Just feel I should say
What you get is all real, I can't put on an act
It takes brains to do that, anyway. . .

Now, I wouldn't consider these the greatest lyircs ever written, not by a long shot. They don't have to be; all that you need to do is get a sense of character and of tone, and this piece delivers in spades. I'm a real sucker for the fact that not only is the narrator's whole argument brought full circle in these four lines, but also that these four lines echo the structure of the entire piece. That's dedication.

Then there's the deceptively simple tune. On first listen, all you hear is the lead line; it's a pretty simple C-D-G progression, but it's effortless and sticks in your head so firmly that you have to go around whistling it. With each progressive listen, though, you begin to hear the buried guitar, bass, and synth lines; once heard, they become unmistakable. Amazingly, every buried line carries with it a completely alternate melody for the song, each of which also works as a harmony for the lead. Last time through, I counted seven, and then pretty much stood in awe at how long the band must have spent tooling out these alternates. It's numbers like this one that stopped me from going into songwriting as a full-time profession; it's a whole different way of thinking.

I'll shut up now and let you listen. For all the things I wanted to explain while getting tongue-tied, the song ultimately speaks for itself.

On Parties.

2005-12-11T02:02:00.000-08:00

How do I possibly summarize my feelings towards parties at the fair university of SCULA? I'm sure they're much like parties at other universities, and I guess that's the problem. I'm just not fond of the whole ordeal in general: the music is always too loud, the people you want to see always too elusive, and the alcohol always rank. As Hildy Johnson put it as we walked around the Grove last night, "the thing about college parties is that they're dishearteningly like high-school parties." I cannot agree more. You expect college to provide moments of levity, of polite conversation over some drinks, even possible intensely cerebral discussions in some dark, huddled corner of a neglected apartment. The thing is that everyone works themselves so hard (well, comparatively so) that all anyone wants to do at one of these parties is drink until they can't remember their own name. For those of us who drink less than the usual college student, this overreliance on alcohol in all its forms can lead us into a disheartening and depressing party environment. There are, however, those occasional moments of levity. Observe tonight's party, a ridiculous display if there ever was one--

Depressing moment: I head back to my bathroom to find that someone has written "No Tampons?" on my mirror with toothpaste. The culprit has also spit on my toothbrush. I spend the next twenty minutes cleaning both.

Moment of levity: I head downstairs to the opening strains of "Hey Ya!" For the next three minutes and change, our group seems to be as happy and close as ever before. Suddenly, it's the best moments of this apartment's last eighteen months all shoved into one space.

My spirits raise until the next song starts, and I am clocked in the head by an overeager frat boy determined to show his love for 50 Cent. As I land on the floor, I could swear I was back on Amsterdam Avenue, as awkward and ostracized as I ever have been. Hey, at least there was the intervening moment this time.

An open letter to Hollywood

2005-12-07T02:25:00.000-08:00

ATTN: Hollywood Studios
C/O The International Jewish Banking Conspiracy
The Direct Center of the Core
Earth, Sol System 00001

December 7, 2005

To Whom It May Concern:

I have been a loyal customer of each of your respective studios for years. From my first experiences seeing Who Framed Roger Rabbit and The Land Before Time at the Bay Cinema to the life-changing screening of Quiz Show at the Guild on 50th to my recent trip to see RENT, I’ve shown up for whatever you provided, and devoured it all. My endearing love was shown when I begged to see The Rocketeer at the Village East a second time, when I spent hours on the phone to secure tickets to The Phantom Menace, and when I spent hours agonizing over the selection of my first true “date movie” (we eventually went to see Bananas at MoMa). What I mean to say is that I have an intimate knowledge of your products, and that I enjoy them immensely. Recently, however, I’ve had a bit of trouble discerning your new system for sorting and displaying your items. The old system worked incredibly well, which is why I’m at a bit of a loss as to why you would reorganize your merchandise. My main question about this new system is as follows:

Where do you exhibit all the new good movies?

I’m sure that there is something very obvious that I’m missing, but I feel like an idiot for not being able to work it out. Have these movies been moved to their own special theaters? If so, I don’t see any new markings to tell me where I might go to find these engagements. When Dolby Digital was introduced, and when 70mm prints were being exhibited in Manhattan, the theaters screening the equipped prints were usually surrounded by a box or marked with an X in the print advertisements, and there were no such marks on any engagement listed in this Sunday’s Los Angeles Times. Perhaps Crash was an aberration, but I wouldn’t want to assume that screed/abortion detailing a rather clichéd and ignorant take on race relations was supposed to be a “good” movie. You’re much smarter than that, Hollywood; that film was most obviously part of the new segregated exhibitions for terrible movies. I happened upon a theater showing good films when I went to see Serenity, but it had changed to a terrible screening room by the time I went back to view A History of Violence. I don’t think it would be too much of an inconvenience on your part to inform us film buffs at which theaters the good films can be found, because some of us are growing dismayed at the increasing number of cinemas exhibiting crap.

This weekend, I’m taking a young lady to see Brokeback Mountain, a film which promises to be quite entertaining. If the film is not moved to the few elusive good theaters remaining, and turns out to be only on the same level of quality as Robots, Crash, or any of the other lackluster films of the year, I will be quite upset and be forced to write you many more irate letters.

Regards,

James Rabbitte

Song of the Day: December 5, 2005

2005-12-06T00:22:00.000-08:00

I’m riding on a pure geek high tonight, kids. I’ve just returned from an Arrested Development function on campus, and have therefore in the past few hours met Steve Holt (STEVE HOLT!), watched what will probably be one of the very last episodes of one of the best shows in television history, and seen practically everyone I know who resides on the West Coast. I’m just happy, and that’s why tonight’s “Song of the Day” is. . .

David Bowie’s “Modern Love.”

Now, if you’re anything like me, you’ve often contemplated what songs would be on the soundtrack if your life was a movie. Well, I’ve given this idea a lot of thought over the many hours I’ve spent neglecting my studies, and I believe that this song is the only possible opening-credits music I could possibly have. Actually, I’d love to have it play during my everyday life; there’s very little else in pop music which is as propulsive as the opening guitar scrapes of this number. Bowie, like our previous “Song of the Day” subject Elvis Costello, is a music chameleon, seemingly adapting different styles just to see if he can. “Modern Love,” as well as its accompanying album Let’s Dance, is Bowie’s stab at a pure power-pop sensibility, but rather than indulging in the brainlessness which generally accompanied the songs produced by those in the same business (wither latter-day Queen?), the Thin White Duke put a detailed, sophisticated spin on the whole genre, expanding on the basic rules and creating a richly detailed sound to the song. The execution veers from trio rock to Spectoresque Wall-of-Sound production in the nearly five minutes the track runs, adding instruments and harmonies so cunningly that it may take you quite a many listens to weed them all out. Of course, to do that you’d actually have to stop dancing, and that’s probably not going to happen unless to force yourself.

So just take a listen . If your night was anywhere near as fun as mine was, it’ll be a great coda.

All a Lot of Oysters

2005-12-05T04:33:00.000-08:00

I’ve found myself ruminating an inordinate amount on the concept of predestination. Do we make our own fates, or is every decision chosen and finalized by some cosmic force far greater than ourselves? After a great deal of thought on the matter, I can say the following with quite a lot of conviction:

I don’t have a clue.

All that I have figured out is that everything happens for a reason; whether or not we have any say in the matter is still highly suspect. Let me expand on this rather ambiguous claim with a story of the weekend. . .

Saturday was an extended panic. Scurrying here, running there, and yet I never managed to leave my apartment. This sort of sedentary alacrity can be used to define my life since late August; lots of personal affairs from all over the globe, each jockeying for priority, every one seemingly of dire importance. I spend moments on the phone and hours in my living room working out the kinks in my psyche with the always-wonderful Jessica Stein, and it all cumulates in a final not-so-reassuring mantra of “everything’s going to turn out fine.” It’s not, but the phrase was just a stopgap measure to get through the day and into the next. I make plans to attend a theater party later that night, but as the hour rolls around I begin to get sick. Very sick. I know that staying at the party in this condition would be ill-advised, not to mention no fun at all, so I give my apologies to the hostess and begin the walk home. A funny thing, though: instead of backtracking, cutting across one of Los Angeles’ larger avenues in order to get home quicker, I take the long route, taking the extra few minutes to walk along a well-lit boulevard. Of course, at this time of night the whole stretch is deserted, but it’s a bit more comforting to keep on a route where I can see more than six inches in front of myself.

I get so used to walking through this deserted Los Angeles that it’s a shock when I see people again. To be more precise, it’s a shock when I run headlong into Natalie Murphy, Manhattan’s favorite Irish stunner and newly-minted Angeleno. I see her first, as always, but the moment I’m visible to her she lets out a gasp and embraces me. To the usual confounded annoyance of her boyfriend and the same group of always-around friends, we talk for a short while. To the outside world it’s nothing much, but to me it’s the sort of audio comfort-food which starts to bring me back. In the middle of a miserable experience like that night, one’s got to be reminded that not everything is terrible, and that it’ll stay that way as long as there are people who know and who care. There’s no way to tell her everything that’s bothering me, and there’s no way to fix it all out there on the sidewalk, but it’s a good beginning.

“Call Me!”

I turn away and walk to the quad just in time to see a young man do a swan dive into a six-inch-deep reflecting pool. It gives me a great idea for a new story.

Neither of these events would have happened if I hadn’t left that party early. Did I choose to leave that party early, or was that decision made for me? Couldn’t tell you. All I know is that both of those events sent the wheels into motion, and stopped me from going to bed a miserable wreck. They happened for a reason, and a reason is all I can really ask for nowadays. Life’s too complicated for answers.

Congraturation!

2005-12-03T04:40:00.000-08:00

The above quotation from the hit video game Arkanoid basically summarizes my feelings at the end of this semester. There's a vague sense of accomplishment in the whole ordeal, but my thoughts are all akimbo and I'm too exhausted to organize them again.

What do I say to summarize it all? I guess I don't have to; not every piece is going to resolve itself immediately upon the advent of arbitrary deadlines. There was a air of absolute finality to many semesters past which created a concrete milestone on which to hang my psyche. I know it sounds rather ridiculous, but coming home on a sleepy December night only to fall onto my bed and crash out, waking a short time later to the sound of the phone and a girl with whom you happen to be madly in love. . .that's an ending! None of this stretched-out, classes ending at midnight, unresolved personal issues bullcrap! Endings, not fizzlings!

But tonight offered up a great show courtesy of USC's amazing Big Game Hunters, and the promise of (hopefully) (maybe) a new, wonderful beginning. It's in my hands to keep it rolling, and I find my brain yelling, as it is wont to do when I'm in situations like this one, "run with it, you bastard! You might just fall into something good!"

I winced when they called me pretentious. I hate that goddamned word; it brings me back down, off into the ghetto of derivative artists and exclusionary elitists, all those who represent what I was told to never strive towards and who I'm always scared I'm becoming. I said I wasn't, and there was a snort from the crowd. A snort, as if I had asserted that mice are indeed larger than people, or that Jimmy Carter was our greatest president! But you know what? I forgot that I had any sort of wounded ego quickly thereafter. Who has the time when a young woman with an addictive smile and a matching love for Carole Lombard is right there in front of you?

Let's forget about endings. I'm more interested in these very promising beginnings.

Look! I Have an Opinion!

2005-12-02T01:55:00.000-08:00

As this blog is currently experiencing the first throes of its second life, I figure that now would be as good a time as any to exercise a few of the more ill-advised projects that could be undertaken in this forum. Tonight's target will be. . .

Quick-Fix Punditry!

Yes, the Bill O'Reillys, Ann Coulters, and Michelle Malkins of the American press have shown us that anyone with a bad suit, worse haircut, and perfunctory education can weasel their way into the news media and blurt opinions which can solve any problem. The problem with these infuriating individuals is that these phrases leave their mouths at such supersonic speeds that they never stop to think whether they are saying anything of note. Surprise! They usually aren't. This detail is of no concern to the pundits; they get paid good money to talk loudly and act as if every problem is solved through either physical or rhetorical brute force. Here, the round peg is not just forced into the square hole, but set aflame and fired out of a cannon, annihilating the hole and rebuilding it in the image of the flaming peg.

To be honest, it sounds like a lot of fun. Follow me, if you will, on my first campaign into pundit territory. You're about to be engulfed in the Film Elder Hermetically Sealed Chamber of Righteousness! Because, hey, No-Spin Zone had already been taken.

Problem: The avian flu! It threatens to jump into the human population wholesale by the end of next year, creating a pandemic situation which could possibly claim a billion lives. How do we stop this menace?
Flippant Answer: Kill all birds. Everything already tastes like chicken, anyway; all other meats will be a fine substitute. Also, red meat has long been overlooked as a source of wholesome American ideals, and will come back into favor once there is no other alternative except pork.

Problem: The United States just sent its 1000th prisoner to the death chamber. Are we being too hard on crime? Is using the ultimate punishment really the answer?
Flippant Answer: Of course! Hell, we should put more people on death row, and sell tickets! All the proceeds can go to funding a private-school voucher system. Also, once the prisoners are killed, we can sell them on the secondary market as a chicken substitute.

Problem: The Department of Justice has recently called a meeting to discuss a secret Pentagon plan to leak propagandist sentiments into Iraqi newspapers. Was this movement a last-ditch move to curry favor in Iraq and turn the sentiment in a war we are so obviously losing?
Flippant Answer: If you don't support this war, you are a homosexual down syndrome rapist with AIDS. I am also pretty sure you are responsible for the deaths of Presidents Arthur and McKinley.

See? Being a pundit is simple; all that it requires are a few simple, fallible ideas in the midst of nearly indecipherable phrases. All I have to do now is sit back and wait for some up-and-coming conservative news organization to realize how well I speak for the common man, and I'll be set for life.

Song of the Day: December 1, 2005

2005-12-02T00:05:00.000-08:00

A little late, but here's the first ever Film Elder Song of the Day. Today, we'll be listening to. . .

Elvis Costello's "New Amsterdam"

What I like about Elvis' music is that the tune is immediately accessible, but the lyrics hold dense secrets which take numerous listens, and occasionally a lyric sheet, to decipher. This track is no exception, starting with this mysterious little couplet: "you're sending me tulips mistaken for lilies/You give me your lip after punching me silly." I can't count myself enough of a horticulturalist to know the intended meanings behind the two flowers, but the second line probably dictates the meaning of the first. No matter what, the twisting wordplay ties itself inexorably on to the music. It is this knack which Costello shows with tricky couplets that makes the track shine; my favorite arrives right before the bridge, where Elvis states to a prospective girlfriend that she's "twice shy and dog-tied because you've been bitten/Everything you say now sounds like it's been ghost-written." It is at this point that the theme of jilted lovers comes into the clear, giving new life to the tired lyrical trope of the broken heart. We've all heard lover's laments, but Elvis is more concerned with what happens when the lover stops lamenting and (unsuccessfully) tries to move on.

The next twist is unexpected, but a neat turn on the theme. The middle eight separates us from the give-and-take between Elvis and his unnamed female cohort and turns inward, focusing on the singer's own existential problem: "back in London they'd take you to heart after a little while/Though I look right at home I still feel like an exile." For anyone who's ever spent time trying to foster a professional career in a strange and unfamiliar city, his words ring truer than one would often expect. The attempt to make interpersonal connections in a totally unfamiliar setting is one I've been struggling with for the past four years, and I still often find myself at a loss. I've said it many times before, but it's just a totally different language out here.

In just a shade over two minutes, Costello manages to deftly comment on both relationships and separation anxiety, while still balancing a tune which is catchy to the point of absurdity. Also, he gets major points for creating a successful rock tune in a waltz tempo. All that's left for you to do is listen to it.

It's Only Rock 'N' Roll

2005-11-30T00:25:00.000-08:00

From where I stand, it has been a disasterous season for football. The New York Jets are in danger of posting their worst season in ten years, the Indianapolis Colts are threatening to go undefeated, and commentators are at their most useless point in the history of television broadcasting. Thanksgiving weekend provided a welcome respite from the norm of the 2005 National Football League schedule; several last-second decisions and overtime battles warmed the heart of every sports fan of long-standing. Just when I was beginning to regain a time semblance of hope in the NFL, though, a bit of news came flying down the AP Wire to completely dispel my air of good cheer:

The Rolling Stones will be playing the Super Bowl Halftime Show.

Now, I know that I must keep my expectations low when dealing with the "Big Game." It is, needless to say, the most widely-watched of all television programs each year; one must not expect a Laurie Anderson peice or a live performance by Godspeed You! Black Emperor when one's granddad could well be watching. But this decision is converative to the point of atrophy. The Rolling Stones are not merely old news; they are ancient. I find myself at a loss not only to find an innovative piece of music in their oeuvre since 1978's Some Girls, but to even find a track I've enjoyed since that album. These four men are a rampaging nostalgia machine, existing only to remind those boomers who still seem to run everything that they were ever on the cutting edge. This same principle governed Paul McCartney's appearance at the event last year, but even he seemed to realize the ridiculousness and the futility of his performance. It was a pathetic, boring performance, but the boomer audience in the seats of the arena and those watching at home ate it right up.

Sometimes I wonder if these artists are truly out of ideas, or whether they are simply trapped by the more unimaginative members of my parent's generation, those who can't bear to see their youth slipping away, and therefore keep all of the remnants and accouterments wrapped around them well into their middle age. These people may well be your parents; they are most often seen at college homecomings, standing outside in khaki shorts, hawaiian shirts and porkpie hats, remembering the best times of college and pretending that they can recapture their former glory by returning to the scene and wishing. Mick Jagger did amazing things with his life and created works which have been celebrated the world over, wheras this sad marker of humanity probably did very little with that degree he earned from a state school thirty-odd years ago. He lives vicariously through the artists of his day, and he'll be damned if any one of them tries to move beyond while he cannot. (It's pathetic, but sometimes I wonder if I'll look back at this statement in thirty years and wonder what I could have done with my degree.)

What bothers me the most is that this music has very little to do with the participants themselves, the players of the teams who will eventually make it to this contest. Do you think the average young football player gives a damn about the Rolling Stones? Not to pidegonhole anyone's musical taste, but I highly doubt the average twentysomething athelete listens to the music preferred by the average fiftysomething couch-jockey. Since the Super Bowl is supposed to be a celebration of their individual achievements, then shouldn't the music reflect their own personal tastes? One wouldn't flood a sophisticated cocktail party with a Tom Jones record, so by the same token we should not subject players to a musical choice which is completely incongruous to the event in question. Here's the solution:

Yank the Stones. Book Kanye West.

See if anything comes of it.

2005-11-29T00:51:00.000-08:00

And welcome back!

After a hiatus of two years, eight months, and twelve days, I've decided to put this version of the blog back online. If it survives the next few weeks without facing the vengeful wrath of the "delete blog" button, I'll try and make it more detailed and varied. Perhaps you will marvel at my crude attempts to become a cartoonist; maybe you will be treated to a note-by-note dissertation on Eddie Cochran's C'mon Everybody; or, most likely, you will simply recieve a more coded, and yet strangely more detailed, version of my daily comings-and-goings than I usually emparted on the original incarnation of the Film Elder blog.

So, with these words we begin again. It's good to be back in the swing.