Biutiful (2010)

Que es eso? Yo no se.

   TONS OF SPOILERS IN THIS REVIEW 

    I don't even know where to begin with what the hell this is.  It was just 2 and a half hours of "whatisthisidonteven."  Not in a bad way, no...but not in an enchanting way, either. Let me just start by saying that Biutiful is a good film.  It's direction from Alejandro González Iñárritu was actually fantastic, as well as the performance from Javier Bardem. I can see where Bardem deserved the Oscar nomination. There was almost no problem to be seen with the way this film was done; it just had a random, weird, depressing story that could not be saved by the Justice League, Chuck Norris, or one of those Pokemon that speaks in full sentences. That's why I don't think it deserved an Oscar nomination for Best Foreign Film. It was just a collection of maudlin subplots. Don't believe me? Well, here we go.

   Bardem plays Uxbal, a caring father in Barcelona who can speak to the dead. Not that it really matters, since the film only explores that cute little talent of his once or twice. It's really quite irrelevant. He illegally finds work for immigrants (in other words, exploits them), trying to make end's meet, while the Chinese immigrants he capitalizes off of live in a sweatshop basement and spend their days sewing knockoff purses dealing with the abuse of their overlords. Did I mention the overlords are gay Asian businessmen whose romantic subplot serves no purpose in the film because it never develops? Yeah. There was a whole introduction into that romance, and then it turned into absolutely nothing. What is the purpose in creating a love interest for a seemingly useless secondary character if you are not going to follow through on it's development through the story or even give the audience any kind of backstory for it? You're just going to leave everything about these characters in suspension until you get to your 120 page mark. That's lazy writing, my friend. Lazy writing. Anyway, the overlords decide to use the immigrants for construction instead of sewing. They make this business decision as one of them smokes by the window in a blue Speedo. I kid you not.

    I'm sure you're saying "But there can't be any more random stories in this film, right?" Oh, it's only begun. We're introduced to Uxbal's wife, Maramba, a bipolar woman with a drug habit (that was never explained other than a reference to a relapse). She also walks on fat men while wearing nothing but a thong. Only in Europe. Anyway, Uxbal is separated from Maramba because her desire to "have fun" makes her a transient parent. She is selfish, irresponsible, and even abusive, but Uxbal constantly leaves the children, Ana and Mateo, in her care. The fun part where he realizes why that was a bad idea comes later. But before that, Uxbal is told that he has terminal prostate cancer, which has spread to his bones and his liver. I think that this is supposed to be the main plot in this gooey mess of a story. And yet, it still doesn't feel like there was enough focus on that, except for the many shots of him urinating blood and grimacing.

    But, wait! There's still more. Uxbal chases a black man getting arrested, who I assume is either one of his friends or one of the immigrants he helps, which results in him getting arrested. I don't know why he chased him. The point of that was never really explained. I just accepted it for what it was because I'll be damned if this movie has any rhyme or reason to it. Anyway, the black guy that we didn't even know gets deported, Uxbal asks his wife to watch the kids blah blah blah. MOST POINTLESS SEQUENCE I HAVE EVER SEEN. Why not just do a montage of him trying on hats while Cyndi Lauper songs play in the background? That would have been just as meaningful to the plot, but more fun to watch.

    It's still not over. Uxbal goes with his older brother (the fat guy being stomped on by his wife) to find out his dad, who he has never met, has died and they get his body shipped to Spain from Mexico. Yet another entirely pointless subplot.

    The last plot to be introduced is the basement of immigrants dying because Uxbal bought them cheap heaters that poisoned them. They later wash up on the beach, which is thoroughly disturbing and unnecessary.

    Speaking of disturbing and unnecessary, the Asian business men are found out for their unethical sweatshop, so Uxbal goes to a club where people have nipples painted on their posterior regions. I am not joking. It goes from Uxbal telling Maramba to leave with the kids because they've been found out, it's a few minutes of out-of-tune bass music then it's ass nipples out of nowhere. I think that will haunt my nightmares until the end of my days. Who even comes up with something that abominable? And who just springs something like that on the audience with no prior warning? SATAN.  Anyway, he has a pointless conversation with his brother in there. The only reason I say pointless is not because it doesn't have artistic value, it's just that it doesn't get the story anywhere. Or at least one of the stories.
    As a matter of fact, if there is any consistent element to this film, it's people pissing themselves. It could be turned into a lethal drinking game. I'm serious. Every time his kid wets the bed or he wets himself, take a shot. You will become so intoxicated that this movie will make perfect sense. And then you'll see a tunnel of light and all your dead pets rushing towards you. That's the kind of intensity this film produces.
    So remember me mentioning that Uxbal figures out that his bipolar, drug addict, prostitute wife is not an effective caretaker for the children? It all happens when he comes back from that disturbing club that will forever destroy my happy, child-like demeanor. He asked Maramba to take the kids on a vacation they had planned prior without him, because that's apparently the responsible thing to do in his universe. He comes back to find his child Mateo home alone with bruises on his face. His mother beat him and left him there because she believes he is verbally abusive. I've got to admit, this is one of the better quality sequences of the film. It propelled the story further, pushing the limits of Uxbal's sternness with Maramba's mania. He finally leaves her and takes the kids. I really wish the rest of the movie just stuck to Uxbal's struggle with his family. There was so much to work with, and so much was ignored.
    Uxbal takes the children back home, where Ige lives now. I don't know who that is either, but she was the deported guy's wife, so she must mean...something, even though we didn't know the deported guy that well.
    From there, the film tries to tie all the loose ends and make it complete in some way. I'm not even going to tell you about the ending. It's really not worth mentioning.
    Consensus? While the performances and cinematography are good, it does not change the fact that the story bashes out in a million directions. It's so soggy with emotion and artistry, nothing substantial is left. This is one of those movies that makes me question why I bother to watch movies at all. It's emotionally exhausting and far from entertaining. It's not even really that thought-provoking. It didn't make me concerned about human condition. It made me want to avoid Spain.
     Watch Biutiful if you're just looking for pure drama, and nothing else.

An Open Letter to All Things Heteronormative

Oh heteronormativity. Your many syllables cannot contain your venom, capture your broad frame, and define your versatility.  You envelop capitalism in your witchy, antiquated arms because you are marketable.  You fly off the shelves, comforting those who wish to be dragged back to the time when “men were men, women were women, dogs had yet to be domesticated, and Ronald Regan was lucid.”  You are everywhere and in everything because “it’s what people are willing to buy.”  While there is some truth in that, there is an unsung majority who bought into your malicious scheme, but was certainly unwilling: lesbians who get dragged to movies by straight girls.

It goes without saying that I will make no progress stereotyping lesbians or straight girls who held them captive.  No, I cannot speak for my legions of sisters who preceded me, nor the ones surely to follow.  I can only speak from my own experience.  I did not see Twilight of my own volition.  I had no interest in seeing Twilight.  And yet, I had to buy my own ticket to this twitchfest of lame and peaceable vampires.  Why was this, you ask?  I was nothing short of obligated to attend.  My straight female friends had been sucked into the berry-scented vacuum of heteronormativity.  How could these naïve, pubescent girls resist the luster of a showcase of two lovestruck teenagers (one of them seventeen, the other one hundred and seventeen) of two entirely different species, able to maintain their romanticized gender roles in spite of their extremely one-dimensional challenges?  Well, they could resist quite easily, but they had been so convinced that this was the most ingeniously devised dramatic piece since Les Miserables.  It was you, heteronormativity, that bewitched them, manipulating these otherwise fine young women in your bony, arthritic hands like clay.

Did they actually like Twilight in the first place?  Did they actually find such shallow drivel appealing?  It runs on a case by case basis, and even then we may never really know or understand.  What we do know for sure is this: I did not enjoy one damn minute of it.  Yes, I was irritated severely by Kristen Stewart’s constant twitching and Robert Pattinson’s constant inactivity.  With lines like “You know, your mood swings are kinda giving me whiplash,” the writing certainly didn’t treat me like a paying customer.  But all of those things lay atop the surface.  It was the matter within the membrane I found most troubling. 

I’ve seen the damsel-in-distress stories a million times before, but for the first time in my young life, I was in an environment in which I was not free to snark.  The teenaged girls I accompanied were too entranced by Edward Cullen’s creepy, hamster-like physique.  Were I to open my sarcastic (and concerned) mouth about the bad acting or the obsolete conventions that set feminism back to the 1920s, I would get a lecture about how rude I was to ruin this for them with my bitterness.  But I wasn’t bitter—I just wasn’t a stereotypical teenage girl.

This is just one of many examples of straight girls dragging me to movies.  There was another incident where I was dragged to Letters to Juliet when they promised we were just getting ice cream, but I’ll spare you the details of that as Letters to Juliet could quite possibly be an evil Aryan plot that could be used for another strongly worded letter.  Hopefully, all of this will end soon.  No longer will we roll our eyes in silence, dying to utter the awesome joke we just thought of, keeping our robotic Edward Cullen impersonations locked behind the cages of our lips. No longer shall we describe ourselves as “much displeased.”  This ends now.  I’ll tell you how.

THE THREE STEPS TO SLAYING HETERONORMATIVITY

Step 1: Include token homosexuals.  Any variant will do.  We’re taking baby steps, here.  Throw in the gay guy best friend and lesbian sister for the one-dimensional bride in a formulaic romantic comedy.  Has it been done before?  Yes.  Is it cartoonishly stereotypical?  Absolutely.  It wouldn’t be my first choice in solving this problem.  But think of it this way: If you don’t leave a business card, no one is gonna call.

Step 2: Break gender roles. It’s only step 2, and already it’s getting trickier. Maybe the leading lady doesn’t have her purse taken by the mugger, but rather roundhouse kicks him in the face.  Maybe the leading man doesn’t have to slash his wife’s tires because he wants to control her, but rather leaves her tires unscathed and ends up being a successful watercolor painter.  It doesn’t always have to be dainty women and macho men.  It’s trite and doesn’t have kicking or watercolors involved.

Step 3: Eliminate stereotypes.  Step 2 has opened the threshold for this, but now our token characters from step 1 have morphed into something more 3-dimensional.  The homosexuals are no longer eternally single supportive characters, but (gasp) characters all their own. Just like the straight people.  Now they can kick and paint. Maybe do other things.

Step 4: Stop being so attached to commercialism and archaic ideas.  As mentioned in the beginning of this strongly worded letter, heteronormativity sells.  It’s what people are comfortable with, so it’s what corporations will pander to.  If we as a society choose not to buy what they’re selling, you will never see another sparkly vampire as long as you live.  Nor will you see Amanda Seyfried and other blond people falling in love. (IT’S AN ARYAN PLOT, I TELLS YA!) Gender roles are furiously out-dated in the 21^st century. So what’s the point in buying into them?  This is my promise unto you, my children.  Buy as you would have faceless industries sell unto you.

Step 5: Cut off all of Michael Bay’s funds.  I was going to argue about the Transformers franchise being sexist, but the point of the matter is that this man cannot make a decent movie to save his grandmother from a volcano eruption.  And yet someone keeps funding him.  He is the embodiment of all that is excessive and has no artistic merit.  Please stop giving him money, for the sake of humanity.  Think of the children.

In closing, heteronormativity has haunted me all of my life, like the needy ghost who lives in the house we rent that freaks out if you don’t instant message him right away.  In all hopefulness, heteronormativity will haunt me no longer.  Straight girls will be able to drag me to movies without hearing me whine about it.  The sexist will be scoffed and the homophobic will be history.  And, best of all, I will never hear a woman in Cajun accent shriek, “Halp me! Halp me!”  because I will probably be in Canada by then.

Good bye to you, heteronormativity.  Return to your pitch black, bear-infested cave, because you sure are a bitch to type out 300 times.

Sincerely,

Hell on Hoverskates

Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides (2011)

Written by a monkey hitting random keys on a typewriter given a  finite amount of time.

          It began in a manner synonymous of all of my other cinematic misadventures. Dad asked if I wanted to see a movie with the rest of the family (today's misfortune was Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides). I say, "Well, I didn't hear good things about that one." This is and always will be a mortal mistake which results in inevitable combat. In my family, this means that everyone else is armed with (figurative) swords forged in the Pits of Hell by Lucifer's anthropomorphic Beard of Flame, whilst I swat at them with the November 2007 issue of Cat Fancy. "You can't trust movie critics," they say, "If they're so great, then why don't they make their own movies? When was the last time you heard of a 'Leonard Maltin Film'?" Well, that's the difference between a critic and a director. A critic is a person who is supposed to be good at watching movies, and a director is a person who is supposed to be good at making movies. But that's beside the point. I resigned sooner than usual, hoping I would snark the pain away while watching this excuse for a summer blockbuster.
       This movie was practically destined for failure, at least in the quality department. The POTC franchise has proven to be box office dynamite, but it's no secret that quality control has slipped in all the sequels. The original was enjoyable, but the rest are simply expensive, overproduced marketing ploys for the audience to be sucked into what I call Disney's Swirling Torrent of Capitalism. Long story short, it's a malicious plot to accumulate enough profit from movies, television, Disneyland, merchandise, nuclear weaponry, etc., to thaw Walt Disney's cryogenically frozen head on the surface of the sun so it can be shipped back to Earth to land in the Mojave Desert, spread a supervirus via Colorado River, and eventually command the collective will of humankind. But enough of that. Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides was destined for failure because of the departure of two of the most intriguing characters in the franchise.
         That's right. Pirates has become a sinking ship because of the departure of Pintel and Ragetti, better known as the skinny guy with the glass eye and the fat guy who says "Ello, poppet." Their presence was not only greatly missed: it was sorely needed. Any attempt at comic relief in the already unsubstantial On Stranger Tides falls flatter than joke about dead puppies rotting in a volcano. I knew that I wasn't going to watch incredible actors perform with witty dialogue and an interesting plot (or any discernible plot, for that matter), so what I really needed was to watch a lanky man with rotting teeth chase his eyeball around in the brig while his troll friend growled in an incomprehensible British accent. But no. I didn't get that. The closest I got to that in the fourth installment of the Pirates series was watching the Spanish traipse about here and there in their goofy, stereotypical garb. And there was only 2 minutes or so of that. Oh, also Kiera Knightley and Orlando Bloom aren't in this movie. I didn't really notice since they're technically considered props in those movies anyway.
        In Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, there are more subplots than even it's overlong 137 minute running-time can handle. For those who are only interested in the A-story, the Spanish and the British are in a land version of the Space Race to find the Fountain of Youth, knowing that Jack Sparrow once had the map in his possession. Sparrow is later shanghaied by Blackbeard and his daughter Angelica, who are also interested in finding the Fountain. Sounds cool, right? Wrong. The whole plot bogged down by trite dialogue and meticulously choreographed swordplay. This works in the sense that you're so impossibly uninterested that you don't give a flying toaster what they do with the story, thus the plot can become either inconsistent or completely nonsensical. This is most effective when the screenwriter ignores this fact entirely and goes about business as usual, but whoever wrote the script for POTC: OST was either a megalomaniac or a sadist, because the dialogue reflects this terrible person's desperate need to bring method to their madness. For example, *SPOILERALERTSPOILERALERT* Jack Sparrow figures out that Angelica is Blackbeard's daughter, which is why she is first mate on the Queen Anne's Revenge. But then Angelica tells Jack that she really isn't Blackbeard's daughter, and the audience sniffs out a savory little twist in the story; something that says "Wow. Maybe somebody wanted to think this script through." But then Angelica tells Jack that she really is Blackbeard's daughter and there's a pathetic attempt at banter based on "You lied to me about lying to someone else? INCEPTION. That is really good filler for one of the sequences in this film! I wonder if anyone is going to remember that they paid $10 a ticket to come here...".
       When it's not being entirely ridiculous, On Stranger Tides is painfully predictable. The first act (and the beginning of the second) could easily be turned into a drinking game (for those 21 and older. Unless you're in Canada. Sorry, but I have to have all my legal bases covered.). Every time a tracker shot of a mysterious character's back is revealed to be someone you recognize wearing a different costume, take a shot. If a mysterious figure turns out to be a woman wearing a moustache, take a shot. Every time a rack shot is used and the item of focus is later used for either a gag or a voodoo ritual, take a shot. If that item happens to be a pastry that Sparrow eats as he escapes from a room, take a shot. After about 15 minutes, you will not be able to feel your own face, much less tie your shoes. Honestly, Disney, when I can predict a film down to the shot, your Swirling Torrent of Capitalism has gone counterclockwise. To add insult to injury, the film ends with the line "It's a pirate's life for me." Why not just end Scarface with the line "Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta."? This is a movie, friend. It doesn't end like a 13-year-old girl's Facebook status. In fact, the only good line in the entire movie was when the Spanish guy shoots a patriotic Brit Indiana Jones style and then says, "Make note of that man's courage." LIKE A BOSS.
       The acting didn't induce as much retching as the writing did, but it still left much to be desired. Johnny Depp, who reprises his role as Jack Sparrow, doesn't even pretend to have any interest in acting at some point around the 60-minute mark. Penelope Cruz, playing Jack's old flame and Blackbeard's swashbuckling daughter Angelica, is basically there to look cute and speak in a Spanish accent. This is to be expected, as Kiera Knightley was basically there to look cute and speak in a British accent (although, Knightley did a much better job acting than Cruz did). A few more familiar (and uninteresting) faces were to be found, such as Barbossa and Gibbs. I say uninteresting because who goes to a Pirates movie dying to know what happened to Gibbs? Barbossa was a good character, but he's not the same adventurous, bandit-like pirate he was in past movies as he now works for the British crown. Why did they do that? One of the only interesting characters and they make him work for the most boring country on Earth. Don't argue with me. England has been scientifically proven to be incredibly boring. Ever had a scone? It's a cookie that got attacked by a vampire. Case and point.
        Blackbeard (Ian McShane) (yeah, I've never heard of him either) does a pretty good job given the script he has to work with, but I can't help but feel that he seems exhausted in certain parts of the film. Much like watching Norm from Cheers try and run laps. He's not like this through the whole movie, but there are many moments where he looks like he could use a good couch and a sleeve of Oreos. There are a couple of new characters, who are about as dimensional as a cardboard cut-out of Flo the Progressive Saleswoman. A young missionary aboard the Queen Anne's Revenge introduces himself by pointing his Bible at Blackbeard and going off on a salvation rant a la The Crucible. He later falls in love with a mermaid that he named "Serena" as if she was some sort of a dog that could just have tags slapped on it. I find it quite ironic that it's perfectly natural for a Christian man to fall in love with a mermaid, but if Barbossa and Gibbs started holding hands, it would've been abnormal. I mean, it would've been a little weird because it's out of left field, but they should have given us any reason to find Gibbs compelling at that point. He was getting way too much screen time for what he is--NOTHING. But back to the Charlie Church/Little Mermaid romance. It's much ado about nothing, really. I don't know why they bothered with this romantic subplot when they're already dealing with the overly-complicated Angelica/Jack romance. That relationship is all over the place. They were trying too hard and it just didn't work.
       So, if you have an IQ equal to that of Death Valley rainfall or you want to shave a few centuries off of purgatory, I highly recommend Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, which I give 2 out of 5 horribly misplaced subplots.

30 Things I Must Avoid to Be Immortal (or Must Do to Be Awesome)

Rough draft. LOL.

     

        Hey there, y'all! Or you guys. Or amigos. I got around to thinking today and I realized that I can't live forever. Luckily, I have looked for a loophole that might just grant me immortality. I made a list of things that I must do before I die. If I don't finish all these things, I can't die. At least, I think that's how it goes. Also, I LOVE LOVE LOVE enumerated lists, as you will realize from looking at this blog for five seconds. Here goes nothing!

BUCKET LIST

1. Gator wrasslin'
2. Shave a polar bear
3. Get a jet pack
4. Establish government in Antarctica
5. Legally change my name to "Shaq Attack"
6. Have an argument with Tom Hanks about the plural form of "moose"
7. Get a pet amoeba named "Shaq Attack, Jr."
8. Key Tom Hanks's car
9. Rip out someone's weave in a SubWay parking lot
10. Meet someone with a weave
11. Overcome my fear of Muppets
12. Invent parking meters for houses and become obscenely wealthy
13. Swim in a pool of lava
14. Throw watermelons at people
15. Become the patron saint of Missouri
16. Erase the words "glean," "tawdry," and "eschew" from the dictionary. They are the most annoying words on this earth.
17. Throw darks at a picture of someone I want revenge against
18. Beat up the ShamWow guy
19. Become a fishwife
20. What's a fishwife?
21. Jump into a bullfighting ring and start yelling, "Come at me, bro!"
22. Get elected as the King of Spain
23. Build a house out of moose antlers
24. Loudly referee a game of chess
25. Hatch a platypus egg with my mind
26. Conquer Portugal (see #22)
27. Fall in love. Just kidding. I want the world's largest Oreo pizza. With 2 liters of Pepsi. In under 30 minutes. Or it's free.
28. Catch as salmon right out of the river with my bare hands
29. Go back in time and make George W. Bush be born in Cuba. And stay there.
30. Furiously knock things off a desk with one swipe and re-watch it in slow motion. While I'm dressed like Kanye West.

      Anyone else have a bucket list they wanna share?

Black Friday (Yeah, I'm a h8r)

"This is sin! It's a sin, it's a sin, it's a sin!" 

      There's a damn good reason I posted this on a Tuesday.

      I haven't watched movies in a while, so there's nothing I can really say on that end of the HoH spectrum. SO, I'll do a 180 and flip over to my other favorite thing: music.
       Yes, music was done a great injustice recently. I'm sure that, by now, most of you have heard the nasally vocals of what I assume to be a thirteen-year-old banshee--Rebecca Black. Her song, "Friday" has some of the most inane mutterings and shallow lyrics since Yoko Ono's "Why". At least "Why" had an awesome John Lennon guitar intro. But then--the screeching commenced. With Black's "Friday," we aren't even granted 15 seconds of sweet mercy before hear what sounds like a chipmunk being tortured by a Trigonometry student. Don't believe me? Witness the horror. Rebecca Black - Friday OFFICIAL VIDEO (of HORROR)
      The video began innocently enough. Miss Black Friday "wakes up fresh" at "7 AM." The woman gets up at 7 AM? Do chipmunks also help her get dressed? I don't think I've gotten up at 7 AM on a weekday since I was 3. It's this sort of indulgence that makes me hate this kid right off the bat. If I didn't get up at 5:30 AM like everyone else on the planet, I'd be dancing off the walls too. But no; that's not the case. I have things to do. Screw you, lucky badger.
       Next, she tells us that she has to get a bowl to get cereal. WOAH. What muse did the gods bestow upon you to play such harps of inspiration to thine ears? CEREAL. Not waffles? You are most bold, Miss Black.
       She then goes out to catch the bus, but her prepubescent cronies pull up in Chrysler convertible. I'm starting to think that this a town populated with people who commit Ponzi schemes because they are saturated with material excess. But then our young artist is faced with a dilemma (in order to garner empathy, I assume): Which seat should she take in her friends 5-seated car, when there are 4 people in the other seats? You know, some people are preoccupied with where their next meal will come from or whether or not they can support their family. You're worried about where your ass (or as the Queen of England would say: "posterior") will be in your friends' luxury car. Attempting to sympathize------------->ERROR: SYMPATHY NOT FOUND. But Becky Black doesn't seem to get it; this is the lead to her chorus throughout the song. Even when it doesn't make any freakin' sense. (Also, isn't she supposed to be taking the bus? People will think she got kidnapped. Which will either stir up concern or relief...)
        The rest of the song, Rebecca sings about "fun" and "partying" while her "friends" (who she probably bullied into doing this) squirm uncomfortably as if a man in a white jacket was hiding behind the green screen with a large hypodermic needle and a Taser. Actually, I'm debating on whether or not these kids actually exist. Because the background vocals sound kind of like a laugh-track. And she's going to a party in someone's yard. While I'll admit, that's more interesting than my weekends (giving due credit to StumbleUpon), she builds it up an awful lot for it just to be someone's backyard with a bunch of Chinese lanterns. Not even Hawaiian punch and Chex Mix? If that's the case, the parties are way more kickin' in my hood.
       As if this video wasn't already an insult to my intelligence, her bridge is telling me what day of the week it is. She already told me a million times that it's Friday, but at this moment she takes the time to remind me, using her powers of deduction, that yesterday was Thursday, today was Friday, tomorrow will be Saturday, and the day after that will be Sunday. This must be one hell of a party if you have to constantly remind your self of what order the days go in. Do you have a giant unicorn statue made out of crack that has worn your synapses down to the nub?
       And, of course, there's the obligatory middle-aged man who, apparently, has nothing better to do but rap about the spoiled 13-year-old girl. This is a testament to the state of our economy. I feel really awful for this man. This girl was thinking, "Hey, Mr. Smith! He should rap in my music video!" and of course he didn't mind since he's probably a teacher in Wisconsin who could use a second income from Rebecca's daddy, who I'm pretty sure is either a record producer or a very menacing man, as this trash would not see the light of day otherwise. Also, I think this guy is the only African-American in the entire video. Which is unfortunate for the African-American community, as he is a 40-something year old man driving around a middle school party. I can't help but feel that that presents negative stereotypes. And not even the usual stereotypes. People who drive around middle school parties are normally men who wear 99 cent glasses and have a creepy John Waters-style mustache.
       This song is one of the worst crimes committed against pop culture, and I'm including the Oscars being hosted by James Franco and Anne Hathaway. My advice to Ms. Black: please, for the love of God, finish school and do something good in this world. So you're not an artist. So what? Have you ever seen an artist? You have two fates if you choose to be an artist: 1) starve to death in an abandoned boathouse OR 2) have hipsters whine at you for "selling out" after you make enough money to pay your water bill. The unfortunate part is that the former is preferable to the latter. So do what you've proven to do well in: getting unnecessary attention for something absolutely insubstantial, which narrows down to marketing and professional blogging.
        I'm afraid I must draw this post to a nasally screech--I mean abrupt close. Viddy well, little brother. Viddy well.

The Social Network (2010)

The poster-child of one-dimensional characters.

     Call me behind the times. I realize that The Social Network came out forever ago. Frankly, I wasn't interested enough in Facebook to see it. So I got it on RedBox today (ALL HAIL THE SCARLET MACHINE OF VALUE!!!). My reaction was just as I had predicted: underwhelmed.
     Don't get me wrong. The script was incredible. The cinematography and direction were fabulous. The performances were good. So why do I have a bone to pick with The Social Network?

1. Misogyny. I don't think there was a strong female character in the whole thing. Yes, I realize that they wanted to make the film authentic. However, there's a fine line between realistic and exhausting. For example, The Office seems pretty realistic, no? But try watching one season in a day. After a while, you get tired of people pausing in between jokes to look at the camera awkwardly. Likewise, in The Social Network, these young ladies are probably similar to the women that Mr. Zuckerberg encountered throughout his life. But I get really exhausted watching woman after woman in this movie don the generic "floozy" stereotype.  I think if you took out every scene where a woman does or says something stupid while the men did something important, the movie would be cut down to about 30 minutes.  Don't want strong female characters? Fine. Then cut out the five hours worth of stupid chicks. It's tiresome and unoriginal. Also, the setting is an Ivy League school for crying out loud. Are there no intelligent women there?
2. Character development. After watching this movie, I have decided that Mark Zuckerberg possesses no discernible human qualities. To rephrase the immortal words of Ms. Dorothy Parker, "The dude from Zombieland ran the gamut of emotions from A to B." One of the components of good drama is that the character has a wide range. Or some sort of range. But no. Zuckerberg was just a pompous prick the whole time, screwing his friends out of cash (namely Facebook co-founder, Eduardo Saverin, the only person who was half-way decent in this whole movie) and trying as hard as he possibly can to be the smartest guy in the room.  I mean, Jesse Eisenberg didn't do a bad job. I'm sure Zuckerberg is that much of a jerk in real life too. However, this is a movie. Can they at least make up an incident where he saves a cat from being hit by an eighteen-wheeler? Just to make him seem the least bit human? The script, while having witty dialogue, ignored character development almost entirely in the "protagonist." When I could find no likeable qualities in Zuckerberg's character, I said to myself, "Okay. He's one of two things: an antihero or someone putting on airs to protect himself. If it's the former, I will be entertained by the complexity of his malice. If it's the latter, then he'll do a 180 once he sees all the damage he's done and I'll be pleased with his redemption." But no. He consistently is a jerk throughout the film. Fine. There are plenty people like that in real life. But we don't make movies about them. There's nothing interesting about someone who is consistently anything. It's as boring as spaghetti boiled in a gym sock. You can make it just for the sake of being different, but that doesn't mean people will want to see it (or eat it). And if you're thinking, "Well, the chick writing this review is just a shallow moron who wants a nice character and a happy ending," you're wrong. I wouldn't want to watch consistently kind Zuckerberg either. Again, that kind of story is boring. It's lazy writing. I should hope that the real-life Mark Zuckerberg has some sense of humanity and has more than one emotion (snarky).
3. Why are there so many parties going on? This isn't Animal House. I mean, it's shallow, sexist tripe, but I didn't think it was that low. And yet, there was a party scene every five seconds. Where did this guy have time to make a website? He was quite possibly the most popular socially inept geek I've EVER seen.
4. What kind of ending is that anyway? SPOILER ALERT! Computer geek bad boy, Sean Parker (Justin Timberlake), gets caught with cocaine at  a (surprise) party with some interns. Zuckerberg expresses concern, but then looks at his business card. It then goes to a scene where he's on a laptop in the conference room where he's been questioned by lawyers throughout the movie. The lady from Parks and Recreation assures him that he's not really a jerk and walks out. Zuckerberg then sends a friend request to the only intelligent female in this movie (his ex-girlfriend that he humiliated). Then they try to give the audience closure by pulling one of those cheap, "So-and-so went on to do such-and-such" things before the credits. More lazy writing. Stupid ending.

       Those are basically my issues with The Social Network. If those sorts of things don't bother you, then by all means, rent it. I just don't see how this got 97% on Rotten Tomatoes while Pulp Fiction has only 94%. I mean, there's no way that The Social Network is as awesome as Pulp Fiction, one of the most iconic films of the 90s. But I digress.

       What I learned from The Social Network: The ingredients for success are a consistent arrogant attitude, nonstop parties, and surrounding oneself with very stupid women.

Dr. Dubstep (or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Hate Hipsters)

mu·sic - (noun) an artistic form of auditory communication incorporating instrumental or vocal tones in a structured and continuous manner. (Definition from

http://wordnetweb.princeton.edu/perl/webwn?s=music)

     Some people get mad about injustice. Others, inconvenience. My father gets mad about the British. Is it because he thinks we live in 13th century Ireland? Maybe. However, it wasn't until recently that I was able to share in his views. Why is this, you might ask? Well, after a little research on some obnoxious claptrap "music" my friends listen to called "dubstep," it appears that the British are to blame for this terrible sin against eardrums worldwide.

     If you're one of those lucky souls out there who lives in the Underground City of the Wormpeople, I'll bring you up to speed on what dubstep is. READ THIS AT YOUR OWN RISK.

     According to Wikipedia, the foremost authority on damn-near everything, "Dubstep is a genre of electronic dance music the originated from South East London." I will allow the reader a few moments to acquire a puke bucket and/or one of those cool memory eraser pens from Men in Black.

Did you ever flashy-thing me?

    You good? Super.

    Call me old-fashioned, but I like music that has...oh what are those things called...INSTRUMENTS. And occasionally, I'm in the mood for LYRICS. What does dubstep have to offer me in these departments? Typical instruments range from the synthesizer to a personal computer! Sometimes there's even something called a "drum machine," which is like a drum because it makes drum noises, but with buttons so you don't actually have to work. What a novel invention, my dear Watson! Why, do they sing words to this incredible music? No? Maybe just a sentence over and over again? Thank the stars above. For a second there, I thought it might be something meaningful.

     So far, there's not much going for dubstep. It appears to be an instrumentless, lyricless horror. So why in the world do hipsters like it? You know, hipsters? Those quirky, judgmental little frown-puppets who buy clothes from thrift stores and then get $1000 headphones? The infamous spawn of Wes Anderson normally like out-of-tune Kleenex box guitar set to lyrics about spirographs. This dubstep business is wordless and fine-tuned.

    Alas, fair reader, the hipsters are a fickle race. However, remember the most important rule in all of hipsterdom:

1. If it's stupid, hipsters love it. And will go to the ends of the earth to defend it. Until it becomes popular.

    Dubstep is insufferable. It's like listening to an obese man sit on hummingbirds while he's getting a back rub from Gilbert Gottfried. Entertaining enough, but after a while, you get so darn sick of it, you have to place your ear just centimeters from the garbage disposal in order to keep from having nightmares. Don't believe me? See for yourself: It sounds like someone's stomach. There's a reason this stuff is "underground." I think it's safe to assume that it's stupid, and therefore, hipsters like it.

    Why am I so irked by hipsters? That is a fair question. It is because I am surrounded by them. They are some of my dearest friends. These are good people; intelligent, some may say. However, they have been misguided by the false notion that everything mainstream is terrible. And they have a right to feel that way. I hate The Partridge Family just as much as the next guy. But, my friends, if you are reading this, please understand how stupid it is to arbitrarily like something just because it's obscure, okay? And if you're going to like something dumb just because it's obscure, don't you dare call it ingenious and then berate me on how narrow-minded I am when I don't like it. I'm not narrow-minded. I just don't want to waste 5-minutes of my hard-earned time listening to some straight-up clown growl into a microphone and play "music" into his MacBook Air. That's precisely why I hide in the bathroom at fine arts assemblies. To avoid the overpraised and undertalented.

     So, go ahead, hipsters. Jump up and down to your synth music in your parent's basement, chugging down PBR and puffing away at your American Spirits. The rest of us will be gentlemen and scholars, opening our ears only to those talented enough to play an instrument.

Mystery Science Theatre 3000: My New Obsession

[Insert hilarious quip here]

Hey peoples! Sorry that all I have is a short post today. If you can, check out Mystery Science Theatre 3000! If you're a snarky movie lover like myself, this is sure to keep you laughing. It's basically a guy and his two robot buddies riffing on lousy movies, but it's really witty! I wish there was more stuff like this on TV today. I watched the Hobgoblins episode. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time.

So yeah, check it out!

The King's Speech (2010)

Please win Best Picture.

           It's not too often in Tennessee that you get to see a film of "limited release," let alone one that's devoid of any Fundamentalist Christian propaganda. That's why I nearly did a backflip upon the realization that The King's Speech was playing at one of the local cinemas. I mean, I'm not normally into the artsy, Oscar-pandling movies, but it was between that, Gulliver's Travels, and Little Fockers. The choice was clear.
           I walked into the theatre to find that it was packed with old people. My dad had to sit in one of the few available up-close-and-personal seats. I was probably the only person there under 40. But worry not, my friends--I didn't let the old people depress me. I simply did what the rest of society does best: ignore the elderly.
           Now that the stage has been set, let the review begin. The King's Speech is a period piece about King George VI of England (played by Colin Firth), who struggled with a severe stammer all his life. To make matters worse, his reign takes place during the onset of World War II, the days of Churchill (played by Timothy Spall), Hitler, and classy people who wore hats indoors. His wife, Elizabeth (played by Helena Bonham Carter), seeks the help of an eccentric speech therapist, Lionel Logue (played by Geoffrey Rush), a failed actor from Australia, with whom King George forms a deep friendship.
          This was, quite possibly, one of my favorite films of 2010. It's near-perfection. Don't believe me? How dare you! Take this enumerated list, stick it in your pipe, smoke it, and then put it into consideration.

1. THE ACTING is freakin' fantastic. Colin Firth excellently plays King George (nicknamed "Bertie" by Lionel Logue) as a shy, frustrated man. And it's brilliant. You would expect to be annoyed by a character who constantly stammers, but the character is so well played that you begin to forget that he has any kind of impediment. You also wouldn't expect Timothy Spall (aka Wormtail from the Harry Potter series) to play a convincing Churchill, but you'll be surprised. (Honestly? The only work that guy can find is Wormtail?) Helena Bonham Carter does an excellent job as Elizabeth. The first time I saw her on screen I thought "Okay. She's just going to be a cheerleader who stops in about every 5 minutes. I don't need to worry about her." But she really brings a lot to a role that any other actress would've just made a minor, forgettable supporting role. Last, but certainly not least, Geoffrey Rush as Lionel Logue is absolutely great. He's eccentric, but not cartoonish, as most actors would easily mistake. He brings a great deal of energy to this role that makes him one of the best characters in the entire movie.
2. THE STORY is, as most would complain, predictable. They'd be right. It's predictable as hell. You know from the second you see Colin Firth give his first speech that he's going to overcome his impediment. I normally agree with the predictability complaint when it comes to original screenplays, but this is a historical piece, so I can't really understand where that's a valid complaint. Sorry if real life is a little predictable, people. M. Night Shyamalan doesn't write the history books. Although, that would explain a little about how Bruce Willis was dead the whole time during the War of Jenkins' Ear. Predictability is unavoidable in some cases, and in this one, it works. You end up cheering for King George like a Loyalist in 1776. (Yes, I know this movie wasn't set in 1776.) The story is a damn good one about a man who has power and responsibility thrust upon him after his father's death and brother's refusal to accept the kingship and during a time of great difficulty for his nation. I normally mark ailments/defects/impediments as faulty devices from which to create a sympathetic character (see my rant about Theatre Kids), but moviegoers really feel for Bertie because his stammer didn't just come out of nowhere. He's a blacksheep. He was neglected and laughed at all his life. This isn't like those pricks from Rent complaining about how they're poor and have AIDS. (If this sounds insensitive, watch Rent and you'll see what I mean. Those are quite possibly the most annoying protagonists on this planet.) And you're happy that he's found someone like Logue, who just accepts him for who he is. To conclude, you gotta love rooting for the little guy.
3. THE CINEMATOGRAPHY is pretty good. There are a few shots that I don't see too often in movies like this. For instance, when Bertie is sitting on the couch in Logue's office, it captures him from about the waist up in the lower left corner of the screen, and the rest is Logue's trippy wall. I know I'm talking gibberish, but I found it kind of interesting. The rest of it is pretty well done. I constantly thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster that they didn't over-do on the close-ups, like they keep doing with all these new dramas. I was very pleased with a lot of the lighting as well. It wasn't all the doom and gloom that, again, we see with a lot of dramas. It was handled well.

          If you can, please go see The King's Speech.


          Sorry if this post is a little dull, but it is a really good picture.
          Adieu.

Why I Hate Theatre Kids

I don't even know what show this is. I think if I find out, it will only make me angrier.

      Hola, my friendos! It's been a while. I'm at the old homestead, resting up after a bout of illness. I don't know what it is, but my throat randomly got sore, I started vomiting every time I felt like falling asleep, and my neck hurts now. According to the interwebs, it could be anything from a flu bug to the Bubonic plague. As much as I love the interwebs and regard them as the source of all knowledge, I can't trust it to give a reliable diagnosis. Oh well. Life goes on (hopefully).

      So all this laying around the house gave me some time to become reacquainted with my old buddy: daytime television. After a while, though, I remembered how depressing it is to watch Suzanne Somers try to sell me a girdle for what seems like eternity and to hear "A NEW CARRRRR!" echo like a battle cry in the CBS studio set of The Price is Right. At wits end, I switched it to CNN.

      Apparently, there has not been not one, not two, but four injuries on the Broadway set of Spider-Man:Turn Off the Dark. This got me thinking until I had an epiphany...

Theater sickens me.

       Yes, much to the despair of the two people who read this blog (undoubtedly theater geeks) I find that theater is quite possibly the most annoying thing ever invented. And yes, that includes Furby. As much as I hate those nasty little chirp monsters, I'll deal with it any day before I pay $60 too many to sit next to some turgid, pretentious jerk who uses words like "harlequin" to describe "dude in tights." And then you get scooted off the premises after the 1st act of Jersey Boys for sneaking in a Slurpee and then spilling it all over the people in the "Grand Circle". Well, pardon me. There's no freakin' cup holders. And for that ticket price, you know you can damn well afford to Scotch Guard that carpet.

       There's a good reason that I prefer film over theatre: subtlety. Theatre is, by it's very nature, obnoxious. I mean, look at the titles of musicals. Almost all of them have exclamation points at the end of their titles (Oklahoma!, Repo!, Oliver!, Snoopy!!!, Swing!, Carnival!, etc!!!!!) And it's not about acting or half-way decent writing with these people. It's about screaming the moral of the story at the top of their nicotine-laden lungs.

       I hate Rent. I honestly do. I think that thing was written by a straight guy who wanted to impress all his gay friends so that other straight people will impress their gay friends. I don't know a single gay person who likes that musical. Either way, Rent is about as pleasant as watching a badger drown in nacho cheese. And it's not just because all the characters have AIDS. Honestly, after having to deal with how obnoxious they are, I wasn't the least bit sad about that. That's a pretty amateur way to garner sympathy from your audience. Your audience should want to feel sympathy for your characters, not have it shoved down their throats. A way better play about AIDS is Angels in America. The dialogue is brilliant and the storytelling is 3000000 times better than that of Rent. Only 2 characters had AIDS in that play. I was able to genuinely love all nine of the main characters. Maybe it's because they were *gasp* realistic characters who had a little something called depth. As far as depth goes, the Rent characters are about as interesting as that guy you inevitably work with who weeps tears of joy at the utterance of the phrase "team-building exercise." The characters of Rent spend half their time going like, "Woe is me! I'm so poor and hungry!" when most of the junk gathering dust in their NYC apartments would be considered pretty bankable on eBay. I don't feel the least bit sorry for them. So what if you're a "tortured artist"? If you're intelligent enough to alphabetize the Blockbuster inventory, then there's no reason for anyone to feel sorry for you. God forbid that you actually work for a living, stupid hipsters.

       But the most upsetting part about the theater (or "theatre") is not the art itself, but the people so unapologetically obsessed with it. These people range from my dearest friends to my arch enemies. These people insist on sitting down with me to have a "sing-a-long" and berate me when I don't know the lyrics to  "La Vie Bohème." "And you call yourself a theatre geek?!" they say. I never said that. I just work on the tech crew because it's the only extracurricular activity where I can sleep without getting kicked out. Beat that, track team!

       I'll admit, there are isolated incidents in which theatre is tolerable. The Crucible is incredible. Take note, playwrights, that was actually well written, as a result of Mr. Miller actually putting thought into his play. Spamalot is legit, but anything Monty Python touches automatically turns to gold. Monty Python convinced my dad that not everyone from Great Britain was out to get him. (What they want from him, I'm not entirely sure.)

      What I hate most about theatre people is that they give eccentric people a bad name. You aren't eccentric because you make a scene in a restaurant or wear a hat that makes you look like a squid. That just makes you an imbecile. Eccentric people are a lot more interesting than you, theatre monkeys. Get over it.

       I guess that's why I hate theatre people. Until next time, my dear brethren, I shall leave you with the words of a man greater than myself. That'll do, pig. That'll do.