Eric Rohmer: Under the Microscope

Despite being the co-founder and longtime editor of legendary French cinema mag Cahiers du Cinema and one of the most prolific of the French New Wave directors, very few people have ever heard of Eric Rohmer. In fact, most students of film have never even heard of Eric Rohmer, much less seen one of his movies.


Why is this? Well, I don’t have the answer, but I imagine it has something to do with the fact that his movies are not very cool--they lack the flashy style of a Truffaut or Godard movie, they’re too intellectual, too dialogue-heavy, too plot-light.

In spite of these normally off-putting qualities, if you are a patient viewer who enjoys soaking in the intricacies of the characters and their environment, his movies are very enjoyable to watch. Rohmer’s style is unique and consistent, his topics right out in the open, his characters raw and vulnerable, and his lustful camera lends credence to his characters paralyzed by indecision. Also to his credit, Rohmer’s early works have improved with age, if only because the passage of time has highlighted their timelessness--whereas I cannot say the same for many of those by his New Wave peers.

Rohmer’s films have weathered the years so well because their subject is a simple one--love. Love between a man and a woman, with another woman/man or two thrown in for good measure. His characters almost always must choose between two or three options, the choice never being easy, always involving the defining and redefining of their idea of love. Typically, his characters take slightly too long with this choice, paralyzed by indecision, and fail as a result.

Much great art, especially when it comes to storytelling, is produced by men and women operating outside the normal realm of sociability. Instead of blending in, these artists hungrily observe the lives of others from afar and study the immortalized opinions of the greats who lived before them. Judging from his movies, Eric Rohmer seems to be an intelligent man who thinks about and discusses life more than he lives it (much like Woody Allen and Martin Scorsese); the kind of man who neither shits nor gets off the pot, but instead externally hashes out the implications of every option in depth, with whomever might venture near his proverbial toilet. Rohmer’s intelligence has clearly handicapped him socially, and he seems frustratingly aware of it.

The protagonists of his most celebrated movies--whether young, old, male, female--all appear to be slightly different slices of Eric Rohmer himself. Each is unique, but shares many of the same problems--namely, they are presented with a chance to end their loneliness by pairing up with a woman/man, but are paralyzed when required to choose between two distinct options, and ultimately wind up with neither. To further rub in the humiliation, they often also discover they never had a chance to begin with, and therefore wasted a fat chunk of time discussing and debating an impossibility. Whether the character is vain or completely lacking in self-confidence, we see that their fate is the same when they fail to choose decisively.

Rohmer’s movies are simply shot--there are no complicated camera moves, no daring stylistic choices, no cheesy camera placements, no unconventional editing, etc--and yet powerful, because they allow his characters to move within a space, allow their humanity to breathe. The locations are sumptuous, the actors intriguingly attractive, and we are shown as many dull moments in their lives as exciting ones; essentially, we are allowed to view them as real people--they are relatable. And so we hope for their happiness, and so we forgive them their faults.

One of Rohmer’s trademarks is what I would say is easily the lustiest camera ever--scenes will open on a sexy pair of legs, and a minute later the woman will sit into frame; or, the camera follows a tiny pair of shorts around a room as we hear a conversation; women casually dress and undress in front of the camera and random men onscreen, feeling no need to hide their bodies. Rohmer has obviously created a world he wishes he could live in, but knows only exists in his mind and in his movies. That being said, he is wise to share this fantasy world, with its roots planted firmly in reality--ever the realist, even his fantasies typically have disappointing endings for the characters involved.

For those of you out there who are exhausted by the rampant availability of awful romantic comedies, and the dearth of smart romantic cinema since Woody Allen’s heyday, feel free to dig into the treasure trove that is Eric Rohmer’s oeuvre. Here is a handy guide for the neophyte:

The Litmus Test

Pauline at the Beach (1983)--Probably my favorite of his films, although I also love La Collectionneuse and Claire’s Knee. Pauline at the Beach seems to be where Rohmer reached his peak and made the most ‘Rohmer’ movie he could make, while at the same time it is his most palatable to the masses--a stunning achievement, considering the nature of his work. The film is packed with fascinating, raw, male and female characters, both young and old, volatile yet naturalistic relationships, a beautiful setting, and an ending that is at once realistic and satisfying.

The Greats

La Collectionneuse (1967)---His first masterpiece. About a man-eating young woman who has no desire to eat the one man who doesn’t want her to eat him, and how it eventually drives this man insane with desire. As soon as he works his way in, to finally have a shot at her, he suddenly has yet another change of heart and abandons her on the side of the road. She moves on without skipping a beat.

Claire’s Knee (1971)---The most hilarious of all Rohmer’s protagonists--the hair, the beard, the wardrobe, the fact that he only travels by motorboat...he at once fascinates and repels. This wannabe-Romeo fancies himself a ladies man and fails to realize that by the time he decides a woman is worthy of his romantic/lustful attentions, it is too late--she has already seen him for who he really is and brushes him off without second thought, in favor of a much-less intelligent, but much-more confident and attractive man. Funny, because the man gets exactly what he deserves, especially in light of his earlier crowing, but there is also an air of tragedy about it; he garners our sympathy as he tries to maintain his pride in the face of defeat. This is the story of a patently unhappy man who would have no problem with women if he would simply stop thinking so much and avoid immediately placing himself high above the beautiful, intelligent women he meets.

The Aviator’s Wife (1981)----Worst title ever, great movie. Rohmer’s Parisian version of Woody Allen’s Manhattan, or so it seems. Although still sumptuous and full of beautifully lingering shots, this film moves at a much more rapid clip than Rohmer’s earlier work. It seems like he was trying to modernize, to adapt to the marketplace--and it works. It is the story of one man, who loves a woman who takes his love for granted, and meets another, much younger woman who seems a much better match. Once again, choice enters into the mix; should he chase this young woman? Or should he resume his quest to conquer his somewhat-cold existing lover? And what is the deal with her other man? Will she choose the pilot over our hero? A charming dissection of love that turns into somewhat of a detective story. One of the sexiest woman-in-her-underwear-during-a-long-emotional-scene scenes ever committed to celluloid. And for all you ladies out there...there’s a pilot, too!

The Green Ray (aka Summer) (1986)----A pitch-perfect exploration of the trials and tribulations of a beautiful woman who wishes she were ugly, so that men wouldn’t just want her for sex and she could live her life like a normal, sociable human being. A tour-de-force performance by Marie Riviere (who also co-wrote, along with Rohmer), who expands on her complicated character introduced in The Aviators Wife. Although her character has a different name in this one, the two roles have so much in common that it is not hard to view Delphine as Anne two years down the road. Rohmer displays Delphine’s quirks in much the same loving way that Allen displays Annie Hall’s; even though everyone around her thinks she is weird and unnecessarily reclusive, the audience is on her side at every turn. Her biggest problem is that nobody wants to actually listen to what she has to say; they only want to hear themselves speak and deliver long tirades full of useless advice. Delphine is a vegetarian and nature-lover--so much so that ‘nature’ is fully a character in this movie, and the sound design during this character’s biggest scene is particularly stunning. The movie has a wonderful pace to it--a step back from that of The Aviator’s Wife, but perfect for its subject

The Very-Goods

A Summer’s Tale (1996)---A movie made in 1996 that looks like it is from 1976, a tape recorder the only noticeable inconsistency. The story centers on a young man who juggles three women at a beach resort in northern France. One is unattainable, but toys with him; another wants all of him or none of him; the third truly loves him, but remains his friend in order to see whether or not he will pursue her--luckily for him, all are beautiful. As is the case in a Rohmer movie, Gaspard ends up alone, leaving town to purchase an 8-track recording system to avoid a choice he will regret no matter his decision. It is an interesting, lush 100-minute treatise on romantic indecision, and ranks right up there with Rohmer’s best; a true return to form.

The Marquis of O (1976)----After a shockingly-bad opening, this film recovers well and, in the end, impresses. The hokeyness of this clearly-low-budget period piece is forgotten after the first five or ten minutes and the emotionally-rich story quickly moves to the forefront. Bruno Ganz, whom I loved for his subtle, brilliant performance in The American Friend (Wim Wenders, 1977), was equally as impressive here, in his portrayal of ‘The Count.’ The staid world of the 18th-century aristocracy seems laughable, though certainly faithful to history, and the drama that unfolds within that world is well-painted by Rohmer. My favorite moment? When the Marquis sulks, alone, in her vast, beautiful, many-servant-staffed country estate, and we are supposed to feel sorry for her; yes, her parents threw her out, but, come on--she isn’t exactly out on her ass!

Boyfriends and Girlfriends (1987)----Eric Rohmer as a woman, but adapting the character well to the other gender. She is very smart, lonely, horny, but awkward and reserved. She must choose between two men who are both good-looking, but one of them is a handsome ladies-man she can’t talk to, and the other is an intelligent, athletic gentleman who would make the much better choice--but dates her beautiful, vapid new best friend...

Excellent, But--WARNING--Super Intellectual, Dense & Wordy

My Night at Maud’s (1970)---A dense intellectual feast, centering mostly on one man’s love for the wisdom of Pascal. Like most Rohmer movies, this one is thin on plot, but this is even more guilty of that than the others. If you don’t like watching people sit in chairs and talk endlessly about their philosophies on life and love, this one is not for you. If you enjoy philosophy and don’t mind a slow, talky film, this one will have you on your knees by the end, shouting, “Just FUCK HER ALREADY!” at your TV--I don’t care how timid you are. Trust me.

Skip Unless You’re Curious or a Completist

Bakery Girl of Monceau (1963)---A short. Somewhat interesting, but not exceptional.

Suzanne’s Career (1963)---Also a short. Slightly more interesting than Bakery Girl, a bit more raw; exposes the ruthlessness men are capable of when chasing women.

Full Moon in Paris (1984)---- Again a whiny female lead who wants things her way, no matter what. Fresh out of design school, she relishes her freedom and is not ready to be embalmed in the suburbs with her older, doting boyfriend. She maintains a pied-a-terre in the city so she can dance all night with her friends and not have to worry about the train schedule back out to bumble. But what to do when men pursue her and she must make a choice? As is the case so frequently in a Rohmer movie, though usually only with the male leads, she winds up alone in the end, due to her inability to make the wise choice at the right time.
Probably my least favorite of Rohmer’s films. The lead, although very appealing physically, was a bit too whiny for my taste. Not only that, but it was too easy to agree with her decision to not spend much time with her boyfriend--he was a brutish bore who smothered her with his love. He didn’t seem to have any good qualities, since even his love for her got chalked up in the negative category.
It was satisfying to see her get what she deserved in the end, and the movie certainly seemed a faithful representation of the slow dissolution of a doomed relationship, but that doesn’t mean it makes for good cinema. A misstep for sure.

Chloe in the Afternoon (aka Love in the Afternoon) (1972)---Aside from a beautiful opening montage of life on the streets in Paris, and a few similar interludes throughout, this is only a good film. After his previous three efforts, as well as the promise of the premise, I found it disappointing. Whereas the failure of his other movies to involve much in the way of a plot, or a satisfying ending, has never bothered me before, this time it did--this time I had trouble believing it. The supporting female characters are fascinating, but I found the lead terribly dull. I would skip this one, unless you’ve already watched his best and are curious about this one.

Nadja in Paris (1964) / A Modern Coed (1966) (shorts) --- Nothing remarkable.

A Good Marriage (1982)-------Disappointing. The female protagonist is wholly unlikable. There is no shred of emotion in the entire movie. Everyone seems to be reading from a script, rather than reacting naturally. It wasn’t very long, but it seemed to drag on forever, and get nowhere. The last minute is the only part of the movie I enjoyed; it seemed to belong to a different movie (although the music was the same as during the opening credits, where it was also out of place, considering the movie). AVOID.

Didn’t Bother to See, Probably Never Will,
You Should Do the Same

Triple Agent (2004)

The Lady and the Duke (2001)

The Romance of Astrea and Celadon (2007)

Sadly Unavailable on DVD

Perceval (1978) -- I had this one on my Netflix queue, only to be later informed it is unavailable. Damn! Another period piece, and I’ve read it’s a good one.

Rendezvous in Paris (1995)

A Tale of Winter (1992)

Autumn Tale (1998)

Four Adventures of Reinette and Mirabelle (1987) -- Supposedly not so great, but I’m sure there is something redemptive in at least one of these four tales. Then again, maybe not. Sometimes the chemistry works, sometimes it doesn’t.

Unavailable on DVD, Probably for the Best

The Tree, the Mayor, and the Mediatheque (1993)

_

Child Pornography

According to the New York Times today, three leading internet-access providers (Verizon, Sprint, TimeWarner) are promising to block access to Internet bulletin boards and Web sites nationwide that disseminate child pornography. Starting sometime in the relatively near future.

This wasn't already the case? Really?

Well, who am I to judge; I should take solace in the fact that at least these socially responsible corporations are finally taking action on their own to combat this problem, instead of waiting for it be forced upon them. Oh, wait--

"The agreements resulted from an eight-month investigation and sting operation in which undercover agents from Mr. Cuomo’s office, posing as subscribers, complained to Internet providers that they were allowing child pornography to proliferate online, despite customer service agreements that discouraged such activity. Verizon, for example, warns its users that they risk losing their service if they transmit or disseminate sexually exploitative images of children.

"After the companies ignored the investigators’ complaints, the attorney general’s office surfaced, threatening charges of fraud and deceptive business practices. The companies agreed to cooperate and began weeks of negotiations."

How heroic...we had to go undercover and then threaten them. I mean, who wears the pants in this country? How does that old ditty go?

"I pledge allegiance, to the corporation..."

Just Another Day in Los Angeles

Guess which person in the photo above had the following conversation with an attractive young female friend of mine working an event at Bar Nineteen12 at the Beverly Hills Hotel:

"Excuse me--can I ask you a question?"
"Yes, can I help you with something?"
[Grabs her wrist]
"Do you dance the way you move?"
"No."

If you guessed Leisure Suit Larry--the octogenarian swinger (above center & below)--you are correct! Can you believe it? I can! What's he got to lose? His bad plugs? Hey-Oh!

By the way, if you thought Leisure Suit Larry was dead--think again, and watch this awful trailer announcing another title in the forgettable series, set for a 2008 release.

In other news, in trendy offices all across Hollywood and West Hollywood, Chicken-Less Nuggets are all the rage for breakfast this week. You heard it here first, folks! Eggs and toast have officially gone the way of the Dodo.

Stay tuned for more news as it breaks...

OMG--Cutest Thing Ever!!!

o, & btw, only 335 dys til mthr's dy!
spnd! spnd!

It's NBA Playoffs, Baby!

And I couldn't care less!

Meanwhile, in the hotly-contested Lakers-Celtics series, the basketball world's abuzz with news of Phil Jackson's recent weight gain.

Don't point that finger at me, buddy! It's your own fault!

Granted, I haven't seen him on television since...when did Michael Jordan retire?
But, regardless, the question on everybody's lips is this:

How does a vegetarian Buddhist living in Los Angeles grow that many chins?


(btw, Lakers suck)

Which Thoroughbred Would YOU Rather Have a Beer With?

With the 141st Belmont Stakes fast approaching--and Big Brown’s victory as assured as it gets (anything can happen, but the odds are not good), I think it’s time to ask the most important question--which thoroughbred would you rather have a beer with? [I can't get this underline to go away, so deal with it-Ed]


Big Brown, the tender-hooved 2-7 favorite at this Saturday's Belmont Stakes? Big Brown is the cornerstone of the first-ever Equine Hedge Fund, the horse everybody loves to hate, but an undefeated Triple-Crown contender who will probably get you a $600 tax rebate down the line.



Behindatthebar, the sickly racing artist who, like Edvard Munch and Kafka before him, still has a fighting chance to achieve greatness, provided he doesn't choke on his own tongue?



Casino Drive? Probably the only horse racing in America these days that is NOT on steroids, since he hails from Japan, where they don't do that shit. Does his Far-Eastern cultural heritage intrigue or repel you?



Denis of Cork? He's no Big Brown but he's certainly a Super Cutie...



Or maybe Eight Belles is more your speed? The conversation will be a little one-sided, since Eight Belles was killed on the track after finishing second to Big Brown at the Kentucky Derby this year--but maybe you're more into long, boring monologues anyway, like most people are. Perhaps you can tell him all about why a horse with two broken ankles is better off dead.

If Iraq is Our Vietnam...

Then I look forward to a renaissance of '70s auteur cinema.

I'm happy to lead the charge--anybody have a couple million dollars laying around?
I promise I'll make a good movie!

Fruit Machines Are For Wankers...

Stumbled upon the following funny item while reading up on the history of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police on wikipedia.org:


"Following the 1945 defection of Soviet cipher clerk, Igor Gouzenko and his revelations of espionage, the RCMP Security Service implemented measures to screen out 'subversive' elements from the public sector. What began as a perceived need to create a bulwark against communism had, by the 1950s, been extended to homosexuality because homosexual acts were illegal, considered a sign of “character weakness,” and because the KGB could use it to blackmail civil servants into revealing state secrets.

"Scores of people were fired as part of this campaign, which included the development of a 'fruit machine.' This machine was based on the premise that changes in pupil dilation when viewing beefcake photos of nude men would scientifically determine whether or not a test subject was gay.

"After four years, the machine failed to produce results, and the program was discontinued."


I now ask the Canadian Government the following questions:

1. Really?
2. Really?
3. Four years?
4. How do you know it 'failed to produce results?' Did the machine say the man wasn't gay, but then he demanded to give you a blow job? Or did the machine keep saying you were gay and it was, therefore, 'wrong?'
5. Where can I get one of these fruit machines? I'd love to continue the research, for the sake of science.

Prairie Dogs Are So Hot Right Now

The latest de rigeur accessory among Hollywood's fashionable elite?
Prairie dogs.

Don't have one yet? Didn't think so---they don't sell 'em at Wal-Mart, chump!

Before everybody else in the subdivision beats you to the punch, y'all best be gettin' yoselves to Rodeo, bitches, where the exclusive Swiss boutique La Maison des Chiens de Prairie will be more than happy to hook you up with your very own cuddly critter, or two, or three--for a mere $17,000 a pop.*

Don't like the 'do on your little 'dog? Not to worry--La Salon des Chiens de Prairie, in the rear of the shop, offers cuts, dies, shaves, mani/pedis, and, of course, Brazilians.
What more could a poor little prairie dog ask for?

If pooper scoopers are not your thing, but you still want to get in on the craze, then try the world of fine art on for size:

"Prairie Dog Rapture" by Anthony Falbo

*Note: The City of Beverly Hills would like to remind you to dispose of your dead prairie dogs properly--please notify the city's Dead Prairie Dog Collection Service and place the dead prairie dog by your garbage can, in the appropriate green plastic 'dead prairie dog bag' (available at your local pharmacy/grocery store).




In other scary photo news (this one real), check it out:

OMG! LOL!! Cutest Couple Ever!!!

Who Keeps Letting Roland Emmerich Make Shitty Movies?

For your consideration:

Universal Soldier (1992) --- 'The Muscles from Brussels' as a flexible, muscled, French robot trying to act...and failing. Dolph Lundgren tried almost the same thing--except his robot was Swedish; he also failed.

Stargate (1994) --- This one was actually pretty good. He must have had a ghost writer/director. Or maybe James Spader hypnotized me or something. James Spader is the single greatest human being in the history of mankind, by the way.

Independence Day (1996) --- Atrocious. Except for Liv Tyler, who will always be my one true love, even though we must forever remain 500ft apart... Wait--that was Armageddon. Are they the same movie? Should be...

Godzilla (1998) --- Unapologetic shite.

The Patriot (2000) --- Mel Gibson as Braveheart...but in America! Who knew the vaunted British military was actually defeated by one 5'8" Australian racist! It was! I swear!
[sidenote: did you know Mel Gibson is actually American? Moved to Australia when he was 12...]

The Day After Tomorrow (2004) --- Only turned a profit because foreign audiences loved the poster--the Statue of Liberty crumbling into the ocean. They were disappointed by the lack of a point, the cardboard characters, and by the fact that America was not crushed into rubble and salted.

10,000 BC (2008AD) --- Did not even cover its production budget with domestic receipts. Once you add in marketing costs...yikes. And you wonder why there's no money left to make good movies? American military forces abroad were able to force enough customers into theaters for this clunker to clear $173 million in foreign receipts, but still...who should we be making movies for? Americans or terrorists?*
*please note all foreigners are terrorists. It's not my fault. They are.

Trade Marks of Roland Emmerich Films, according to imdb.com:

- Often features an object crashing into the camera.
- Often features a zoom-in shot of a villain's eyes widening when the villain meets his demise
- All of his major films have featured a couple kissing in front of a luminous background
- Often features the number "44" somewhere in his films in reference to his movie Moon 44
- Movies frequently feature a scene with rain.
- Large-scale disaster films.
- Often uses a shot of a teacup and saucer rattling wildly to demonstrate a strong vibration

Wow. Now those are truly original, artistic additions to the treasure trove of cinematic technique. Thank you, Roland.

Wondering what's next on his slate? Heck! I know I am!

2012 (2009) --- The end of the world is nigh, but don't fear--everyman John Cusack, a part-time limo driver and writer, will probably save the day in some farcical manner.

Fantastic Voyage (2010) --- Two-hit wonder Coolio dusts off his ride for one last spin around the block--to save the world!


Was it, counterintuitively, the staggering losses of 10,000BC that prompted his latest two deals? Do they not blame the director when a movie fails, only when it succeeds?
"Ah, it was the writer's fault this time."
Well, Roland Emmerich also wrote 10,000BC and 2012 (and Godzilla and Independence Day and Stargate).

"Um, it wasn't marketed properly."
You mean ensuring everybody in the solar system was aware this movie was coming out somehow confused your target demographic? What was your target demographic? Cavemen who stare in wonder at flickering lights, impressed by computer-generated saber-toothed tigers?

"No comment. Please join us again next year for the same movie--but with lovable John Cusack!"

Proof yet again that once your foot is all the way in the door--no matter how it might have gotten there--it is impossible for it to be removed. Think the Wachowski Brothers (well, actually now they are brother and sister, technically, if the rumors are true) will ever live down the stink-bomb that is Speed Racer?
I do! They have hundreds of millions of dollars! They made The Matrix! They can do whatever they want, no matter how shitty the concept/execution! Get ready for more embarrassing failures at a multiplex near you--on all eight screens!

Meanwhile, Woody Allen has to go to England to get a movie made...

[Speed Racer---Production Budget= $120 million; Marketing Budget= $4 trillion; Global Box Office Receipts after 18 days in Release= $67 million]

[Match Point---Production Budget- $15 million; Marketing Budget= $5; Global Box Office Receipts=$85million]


Interesting factoid found in my exhaustive research for this seminal article---

Roland Emmerich is supposedly referred to as "Das Spielbergle aus Sindelfingen" in his native Germany. Translation? "Little Spielberg from Sindelfingen." Do you think it's mere coincidence that they both suck? Do you think it's mere coincidence that each has warranted a blog entry on consecutive days, despite the fact that I hadn't written one in three weeks? Do you think it's mere coincidence they both use toothpaste? Or, will you finally believe in the legend of the Curse of Das Spielbergle?



And so, for all you millionaires out there, perk up those hairy old ears--your money is better invested in the stock market (or Woody Allen), even in these dire times, than in Roland Emmerich.

Yet, shadowy figures keep arrogantly betting on him, giving him bigger and bigger budgets, and blaming audiences when they lose, and in the process, willfully aiding and abetting the dumbing down of our culture.

Insanity.


Oh, wait--silly me--I forgot to answer the question! It's been so long...

And the answer to the question is:

The person who keeps letting Roland Emmerich make shitty movies is...Roland Emmerich! (Well, at least in part--you also have to blame the distributors who pony up advance capital in exchange for exclusive rights, as well as the gullible, Diet-Coke-swilling public.)

Emmerich and his partner, Dean Devlin, have produced all of his movies through their own company--Centropolis Entertainment, founded in 1985. I think they raise funds through some kind of pyramid scheme, but, as of press time, this could not be confirmed--OR denied...

Steven Spielberg Should Be Crucified

Why?

That's why.

I know it's a bit harsh, in light of all the good he has done in the past (Jaws, E.T, Indiana Jones I & III, producing Goonies, Back to the Future, and Gremlins), but he's let his previous success get to his head and still thinks he should be behind the wheel in Hollywood.

Don't people retire anymore, once they cease to be relevant?

Clearly Spielberg won't let us alone until he kicks the bucket and hands one of his sons the reigns to the empire that is Amblin Entertainment; it is for this reason I think he needs to be taught a lesson--Pilot-style.

Oh, what do you think should happen?
We tickle him until he says he's sorry?
I'M sorry, but that just won't cut it.
He doesn't deserve that kind of leniency.

Not after:

- Hook (1991)----Ugh.

- Jurassic Park (1993)---a great book, a pretty hokey adaptation (example: of course he has to make the girl the smart kid, for no reason, but then doesn't follow through and she becomes a screaming damsel in distress, as opposed to a truly strong female character)

- Schindler's List (1993) --Not that great, people. The cinematography is enjoyable, as always, but that credit goes to Janusz Kaminski, not the Berg. Story-wise, script-wise, directing-wise? Pretty hokey and boring. Just because it involves the Holocaust does not mean it is Oscar-worthy.

- Jurassic Park 2: The Lost World (1997) ---did we need to go back?

- Amistad (1997) ---not even sure what to say about this one...

- Saving Private Ryan (1998) ---awful; the first installment of the Tom Hanks/Steven Spielberg Shitbox Trilogy. Realistic, expensive special effects in the opening D-Day scene; that's about the only thing worth watching. You want to see a GREAT fictionalized movie about WWII? Try watching one by a talented director who actually LIVED THROUGH IT--Paul Verhoeven's Black Book.

- A.I: Artificial Intelligence (2001) ---Not necessarily a great project, but I do not doubt Kubrick would have pulled it off; how much more glaring can the gap between a great director and a populist director be?

- Minority Report (2002) ---so many glaring improbabilities, within the world he created. Example: Everybody is looking for Tom Cruise, every retinal scanner in the city is searching for him, finding him...to the point where he pays somebody to REMOVE HIS EYEBALLS. Then he takes those eyeballs and uses them to access to the most secure facility in the city, the hall of super-secret records, or whatever. You mean to tell me they didn't lock out his access? Really? Or could Steven just not figure out any other way he could get Tom in there, and he didn't think anybody would notice or care, because his audience is dumb and just wants the good guy to win? And that's just ONE inconsistency...

- Catch Me If You Can (2002) ---please. A great real-life story made totally boring, mostly by stretching the truth to increase the role of the pursuing investigator, so that it would be worth Mr. Hanks' time. It wasn't. Everybody on the crew should have stayed in bed those 3 months.

- The Terminal (2004) ---Yet again, another true-life story that could have made a great movie. But instead, Spielberg casted Tom Hanks to play an Iranian man stuck in DeGaulle for decades. Of course, Spielberg moved it to JFK, made him from a fictionalized country, never mentioned the real-life story, and felt obliged to add in a love interest--Catherine Zeta Jones. Yeah. The real story just wasn't interesting enough--it's so much better when you add in a completely-unrealistic romance with a sexy woman.

- War of the Worlds (2005)---Tom Cruise tried desperately to prove his masculinity in the opening scenes. Let's see...he's a single father down on his luck who drives around a sexy muscle car and helps the neighborhood auto mechanic when the guy just can't figure out what's wrong with the car he's fixing... And then shit happens and he's stuck with his kids, trying to help them stay alive, and it's tough, lemme tell ya. But things aren't so tough for most people, evidently. His wife's entire family, including grandparents, somehow make their way safely to Boston and are chillin' at a brownstone in the tony Beacon Hill neighborhood--which is somehow untouched by disaster, as if aliens respect rich people too much to go after them.

- Jurassic Park 4 (2009)-----he didn't have the heart to direct the 3rd one, but he did executive produce it... I bet this one is gonna be killer. Let me guess: bigger better dinosaurs...a precocious child or two...aliens that look like E.T...soft furry animals that make for great licensing items...and a 2hr-long piece of crap.

[Side note: Can't wait for his Lincoln movie...Liam Neeson as Abraham Lincoln, Sally Field as Mary Todd Lincoln, Harrison Ford as Vice President Johnson...and let me make a suggestion for John Wilkes Booth--Shia LeBoeuf. Hey, why not? It's not like it will matter how good this movie is--it's a Spielberg joint, dawg, we gotsta go see it!!!]


Oh, brother. I'm so tired of bitching. He isn't even worth the breath, this Spielberg, and yet I expend it. One last pass:

Is it any wonder that two of the three richest men in Hollywood (Geffen is safe...for now...) are both guilty of ruining their own legacies by not only returning to them for no reason, but also for proceeding to sully them beyond believe? And, let me tell you, both Lucas and Spielberg's heavy hands were visible on this one. I blame Lucas for the prairie dogs and monkeys, I blame Spielberg for everything else.

In closing, go to hell, Steven Spielberg. You have done more to ruin movies than you ever did to help them. I hope you realize that some day.



Question of the Week:
It took 18 years to get a script everybody agreed on and THIS was it? THIS was the one that everybody loved? What were the other ones? Various people's excrement smeared on 3-hole-punched toilet paper? Fuck you.

Saw 'Iron Man' today

and I loved it!

Robert Downey, Jr, was perfect for the part, the character was well-written, the story was tight, the humor was spot-on, the action and sex were well-sprinkled-in, the politics were right, and director Jon Favreau helmed the mission with surprising aplomb.

Pure and simple, this movie was fun from start to finish. Fun during the action sequences, fun during the character moments, fun during the comic relief, fun during the torture sequences. Well, maybe not fun...but certainly gripping--yet without a heavy touch.

Rather than be a burden to the action, like in most movies of its kind, the plot not only served the action beautifully, but rocketed forward with the sort of unchecked swagger only Robert Downey, Jr, could keep up with.

Downey was at once fantastic and believable, a walking caricature of a boy-genius-cum-playboy, whose resourcefulness and daring always wins the day. So what if he also likes to party and bed bevies of beautiful women? He earns it. Downey's Tony Stark is the epitome of a man's man, a hard-partying lovechild of Batman and MacGyver, and the packed, vocal crowd at the theater I saw the movie in loved every second of it.

Jon Favreau, a man I love to hate much more than most people, even though Swingers was pretty well-written, really surprised me today. Why? Because in the process of making this movie, he made a lot of great decisions. The dripping masculinity was equal parts arrogant and self-deprecating; I laughed a lot, even when the comedy dropped to pseudo-Tim Allen levels; the two hour runtime flew by, the pace unrelenting; the conventions of the genre were delivered creatively, giving me what I needed, yet doing so in unexpected ways, with well-practiced ease; Robert Downey, Jr, and Gwyneth Paltrow were fantastic, and part of that credit must go to the director guiding their performances.

The fact that the leading weapons manufacturer in the United States, Downey's Tony Stark, realizes his company is hurting the world at least as much as it is helping it, and decides to do something about it, is especially timely in the waning days of Bush/Cheney rule. Clear skies are nigh, the dark cloud is about to move on, and hope once again fills the hearts of men. What better time could there be to release Iron Man?

Iron Man was the best action movie I've seen in a long time--probably since Christopher Nolan's Batman Begins in 2005--and I do believe it is right up there with, if beneath, Richard Donner's Superman in the pantheon of comic book movies, but it was not without problems.

Jeff Bridges, although convincing and likable at the outset, grew into a disappointingly simplistic, shallow villain. I think it's safe to blame the writing of his character for that and I'm sure he would agree, seeing as it showed in his uninspired performance during his biggest scenes. Luckily, Bridges is not on-screen too much, and Downey is allowed more space to roam around and crow, master of the henyard.

While Terrence Howard's performance/role was serviceable, unremarkable; I cannot say the same for that of Gywneth Paltrow. The chemistry between Downey and Paltrow, who plays his faithful assistant, is palpable. Pepper Potts is a sexy, capable, loving, loyal amalgam of Bruce Wayne's Alfred and Austin Powers' Vanessa Kensington (and let us not forget to credit Get Smart's Agent 99) and Paltrow hits the role out of the park, imbuing her performance with the perfect blend of playfulness, humor, and emotion, and uttering at least two of the more memorable lines from the film.

"...and sometimes I take out the trash."
"I'll have a vodka martini...with a lot of olives. Like at least three olives."

In short, Iron Man was a real crowd pleaser and, for once, I didn't mind joining that crowd--it's no wonder the movie made over $100 million this weekend.

The viewers are there, Hollywood. You just need to make good movies if you want people to go out and throw their money at you. Stop blaming the internet, pirating, extravagant home theaters, and a lagging economy; just make more movies like Iron Man. And The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, which I saw for the second time the other night and, for the second time, loved. Promise me you'll rent it, because I know none of you saw it.

Oh, and one more thing--stick around for the end of the credits for Iron Man. There's a nice little treat for you if you do.

[For those of you unfamiliar with the work of Robert Downey, Sr, you should definitely check out Putney Swope (1969), a brilliant satire of the advertising industry that he wrote, directed, and produced. He also voiced the main character, Putney Swope.]

"Look at the bitch, Dino!"

In February, Los Angeles passed a law requiring dogs to be spayed or neutered before they are 4 months old. I guess this law makes sense as some sort of 'civic responsibility' protocol, due to the daunting packs of feral dogs that roam our streets and harass the wives of city councilmen, but it just seems wrong to de-man a man, be he dog or human, or de-woman a woman, be she dog or woman.

But all that jazz is beside the point. The point is two of my friends had to have their dog neutered the other day.

This dog--I'll call him Dino--is a macho, prized purebred, and my friend Sal is a doting, equally macho owner. He hails from Spain, where machismo was invented. This being the case, it was a tough decision for him to abide by the impending law, and Sal and his wife, Delores, were only able to get themselves to do so after taking care of a few things.

"A few things" was actually only one thing--freezing Dino's sperm. I guess it was easier for them to deal with Dino being 'broken' if they at least had the power to create children for him , should Dino decide in his later years that he wants to bring children into this cruel, cruel world.

Conveniently, the only doggie sperm bank in the country happens to be located in California, a fact I find very hard to believe. I mean easy to believe--very, very easy to believe.

Now, since I heard this story from my mailman, through a game of telephone, I don't know all the details, but I do know some:

Delores drove 110 miles to San Marcos, CA, to the Canine Cryobank, with little ole Dino--a virgin--to supervise his first-ever sexual experience.

As it turned out, her involvement went a bit beyond 'supervision.'

As it turned out, Delores had to hold Dino's head in place, forcing him to look at the 'teaser bitch' as a female technician jacked off her dog. She offered helpful encouragement:

"Look at the bitch, Dino! Look at the bitch!"

A 'teaser bitch,' for those of you weirdos out there unfamiliar, is a female dog in heat, brought in to excite the male dog from afar, which I find fascinating. Why are doggie porn magazines not enough? Why is direct, clinically-precise stimulation of his doggie dick not enough? Why is any random sexy bitch, as opposed to one who is specifically in heat, not enough? Why are they not allowed to 'play?' He just has to be held down while he looks at her? They can't even kiss?

There must be a science to it. I mean, I doubt the scene is created just for kicks, since dog semen acquirers/injectors are clearly busy people who don't fuck around; this must just be the efficient result of over 25 years of trial and error.

That's right--I said 25 years. They've been freezing dog semen for more than TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. A dog who died before Back to the Future came out could have a kid tomorrow. In fact, the day before Dino done got did, a filthy little bitch was inseminated with semen that was twenty-six years old. Wow.

Back to Dino. Let's dog-ize this story once more. This is about a dog named Dino. His name is Dino. Let's not forget that. Dino was born, Dino was purchased and taken away from his family, Dino grew up with his new loving owners, Dino went through dog puberty, Dino's semen was deemed a citywide nuisance, Dino was held down and hand-raped by a specialist, Dino had his balls cut off.

What is Dino supposed to do now? Sit in a rocking chair in the front yard, with a blanket over his lap, reading Proust and frowning? Hide in the trees and drink himself into a stupor, repetitively reminiscing about his solitary orgasm?

"Let's see...I was in a room with some smokin' hot bitch who totally wanted me, but she was playin' hard to get, or she was tied to a post or something, I forget now, and all I wanted to do was run over and fuck her, and I don't know why, I don't even really know what that means, but that's irrelevant because I couldn't move. I couldn't stand to look at her, to smell her, but not be able to have her, so I tried to look away, but that woman kept forcing me to look at her. I tried to see what the hell was going on with my dick--it felt like something was happening to it, something weird, something good--but I couldn't move my head at all. Then I had the greatest feeling known to dog, suddenly felt tired, the bitch left, and I went home and took a nap. Then she took me somewhere else, somebody cut my balls off, and I've never felt that feeling again. Is there some correlation? I think there is and I can't understand a world that would deprive me of that feeling. What is the point of living anymore? Woe is me..."

Dino, if you're reading--my condolences, dog. I wish you the best, but fear depression shall rule the day. Good luck with that.

Especially when, on your deathbed, you come face to face with a younger version of yourself, fresh from the laboratory, full of vim and vigor and the arrogance of innocence--a further, deeper reminder of that most enjoyable/awful day, the final nail in your coffin.

Oh, and by the way, in case you were wondering, yes--you can have dog semen shipped around the world FedEx Overnight. Huh. What a package to be waiting for, or to receive in error, or to have leak all over your package...

What a world we live in...

We Got One!

America's energy policy is somehow better than Europe's for once.

Power plants in European nations are converting back to coal at an alarming rate. Fifty coal-fired power plants are set to begin operation over the next five years, since coal is cheaper than oil or natural gas and nations are wisely hesitant to adopt volatile nuclear energy technology. The United States, on the other hand...

...fewer new coal plants are likely to begin operations, in part because it is becoming harder to get regulatory permits and in part because nuclear power remains an alternative. Of 151 proposals in early 2007, more than 60 had been dropped by the year’s end, many blocked by state governments. Dozens of other are stuck in court challenges. (courtesy New York Times)

But what does NASA think of all this?

“Building new coal-fired power plants is ill conceived,” said James E. Hansen, a leading climatologist at the NASA Goddard Institute for Space Studies. “Given our knowledge about what needs to be done to stabilize climate, this plan is like barging into a war without having a plan for how it should be conducted, even though information is available. (courtesy New York Times)

In nearly every other capacity, however, Europe remains more responsible, more intelligent, and more-level-headed than the United States, so, you know, there it is...

I Am Bear, Feel My Wrath!

Big Bear Lake, CA---A 700lb. bear killed an animal trainer here today. Fittingly, this bear was an employee (?) of Predators in Action, a company that trains wild animals for use in the motion picture industry.

No doubt the bear had good reason to bite the man in the neck, having been imprisoned, prodded, poked, and told what to do for how long now? Not to mention the fact that this bear was recently forced to appear in Will Ferrell's abysmal Semi-Pro--is that not reason enough to kill somebody?

As of yet, no decision has been made as to whether or not the bear will be snuffed out as part of the long-running, and sometimes unpopular, state-sponsored vengeance killing scheme, but let's hope he survives.

This bear is a bear of principal, and I respect that.

(photo: Cristina Bush, AP)

Top 5 Spots I Like to Light A Strike Anywhere Match

1. Zipper
2. Sole of my shoe
3. Brick wall
4. Leathery skin of a long-forgotten starlet
5. Eva Longoria's teeth

If You Hate Larry the Cable Guy...

...and you should...then you might very well love this open letter David Cross wrote to him recently. If you love David Cross, and you should, you might very well love this letter for two reasons.

Marketers Are So Creative!

My favorite sighting today, on the side of a box of Honey Nut Cheerios--

"It's where healthy, fun, and delicious can all hang out together."

Really? I didn't think those dirty dawgs could ever chill in the same crib at once...props to General Mills, Inc, for figurin' that shit out!

Hope for the Future After All

As I walked to meet a couple friends for a late dinner the other night, lost in thought, probably thinking about how badly I need a hair cut, or that I should start stuffing my drawers with a bigger sock, I was roused back to reality by the laughter of little girls.

I turned to my right and was delighted to discover a glowing two-man tent on the other side of a fence, in the postage-stamp-sized front yard of a tiny house crammed onto a small wedge of a lot, between a skeezy old church and a hair salon.

I was not delighted in the 'I'm a pervert' sense, like you might have been, pervert, but rather because this is exactly the sort of romanticized childhood activity that I did not think existed anymore--especially in 'the city.'

The girls were playing with flashlights, talking, giggling--totally unaware of the danger they were in, the tempting bait they represented to the countless pedophiles that troll around at night praying to stumble upon this exact situation.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that there are at least two parents in this country who refuse to protect their children from life, who refuse to expect worst-case scenarios, who refuse to abandon their faith in mankind--albeit at a risk. No doubt aware of this risk, the parents, or parent, remained out of sight, but ostensibly awake and nearby, projecting their presence loudly at any would-be kidnapper/molester. All the lights in the house were on. The television blared. The front door was wide open, as were the windows.

For all I knew, however, the situation inside the house could have been any of the following:

1. A solitary mom or dad was sleeping on the couch in front of the TV, derelict of duty.
2. A solitary mom or dad was sitting on the floor by the front door, shaking from an overdose of caffeine, clutching a loaded gun, hoping they wouldn't have to use it, hoping they would be able to if they had to, vowing not to sleep that night so his/her child (+1) could have careless fun that night, wondering what that noise was...
3. Two parents were sitting on the couch in front of the TV, dead, killed for the $6 in their wallets as their innocent, oblivious children giggled in the front yard.
4. Two parents were sitting on the couch, eating popcorn, watching Leno, pretending their ears weren't attuned to the slightest changes in the sonic patterns of the cool spring evening, pretending they were cool enough to let their kids be kids without having to worry about it every second, feigning an inability to sleep so they could stay up longer to safeguard their children, thinking every second that they should probably bring the kids inside now just to be on the safe side.

Remember when such activities weren't dangerous? When everything fun didn't have a dark side? When we lived in a Norman Rockwell world of ice cream sundaes, steadies, hot-rods, and baseball cards? When parents didn't sue everybody under the sun when an accident happened? When you didn't hear about every bad thing that ever happened to a child because the news programs used to actually focus on newsworthy events like wars, politics, the economy, global/national culture, etc? When kids could be kids, and only a small percentage of them were kidnapped or raped? I do. It wasn't that long ago.

[Actually, now that I think about it, kids have probably always been safer in their front yard at night than in a church. Ha! It's funny because it's true...]

Yep, kids today sure do have it bad.

"Your grades aren't good? That's nonsense. You're smart. You must just have ADD--here, take this speed. I mean, it's not speed, it has a different name, so it's totally fine. It's medicine. You look depressed. Are you depressed? Here, take these mood-altering drugs with atrocious side effects--but don't you dare ever drink beer or smoke pot or I'll be really mad! I'll go through all your possessions to make sure you're not smoking pot, because I saw a TV movie where a kid was smoking pot and then he got hit by a car. No, you can't go outside now--it's after dark. I saw on the news that a kid in Detroit got killed when he was outside at night. I watched part of the funeral on Oprah. I didn't have time to cook tonight, again, since I'm working two jobs to pay for our meds, so you'll have to eat Burger King again. No, you can't play football--people get paralyzed playing football. Why are you always playing video games? Why are you so fat? Go play in the playground or something, they finally replaced all those scary things like merry-go-rounds and tornado slides and open spaces with three-foot-long plastic slides and really fun games like tic-tac-toe and spin-the-pointless-steering-wheel. I'll drive you..."

Hopefully the backlash has begun; hopefully the pendulum will now swing away from this over-medicated, over-protected, overweight extreme we have been tolerating for the last twenty years, back toward the kinder, gentler, carefree, healthy, grass-stained childhood I remember. A couple girls camping in their front yard have finally given me a reason to believe this might actually happen, and that's a beautiful thing.

Here's to hoping they made it through the night...

Gospel Brunch At House of Blues Didn't Suck!

This past Sunday, a friend invited me to the House of Blues on the Sunset Strip for the weekly Gospel Brunch. I initially balked at the idea, when it was pitched to me weeks beforehand, because I figured it would be super expensive and probably forgettable, but I'm glad I went.

First off, some girl my friend knew met us outside and gave us four free tickets (worth $200!). Nice. What did my friend do to deserve such a favor? He's not sure. He met her playing beer pong at a bar one night and she offered to 'hook him up' because she works at the House of Blues. I'll have to ask Miss Manners (or is it Ms. now?) if my friend is now obligated to have sex with her. I'm pretty sure he is.

The girl then gave us a tour of our breakfast options, spread out across the rambling dark first floor--two omelette stations, a waffle bar, fresh fruit spread, lunch options, desserts, etc. Again, nice.

It was already after one o'clock in the afternoon and I was hungry--I had stayed in bed til noon, arduously fighting my body's hard-wired desire to get out of bed and do something, simply to make sure I wouldn't eat before the brunch. I was glad I waited.

I was also glad we had smoked a joint ten minutes previously. My mouth watered.

The girl--well, to be fair she was very much a woman, nay, an angel--poured three mimosas and a bloody mary straight off and kept 'em coming. My friends and I toasted our good fortune, downed our glasses, and hit the buffets. As much as I wanted to eat everything in sight, as soon as I got my expertly-crafted omelette I was so worried it would get cold--and so hungry that I couldn't stand its tortuous presence under my nose--that I quickly scooped up some apple cobbler, hustled back to our table, and cleaned my plate in record time. Sadly, I was never able to return to the food spread, although I would have loved a mini Belgian waffle with fresh fruit. Hell, I'd love one right now...

After we inhaled our food, our Angel invited us upstairs to partake in a bizarre House tradition. The first five times she tried to explain it to us, none of us understood what the hell she was saying. It seemed to involve "throwing napkins at people" and them "loving it." She gave up and told us to just follow her upstairs. We did.

Once upstairs, she tried a few more times to explain why we were up there. I sort of understood what she meant when she said "we have the only moving bar in Los Angeles" and "it follows this track," but it still wasn't super clear--especially with regard to the napkins. Our Angel handed us each a stack of napkins and proceeded to set more napkins down on a crack in the floor. We guzzled champagne with furrowed brows and waited.

"Here we go!"

Suddenly, the entire room lurched and began to split down the middle, like some special effect in an Indiana Jones movie. As the crack widened, our fellow diners down below became visible, and we all launched our handfuls of napkins at them.

Believe it or not, they loved it.

Why did they love it? I have no idea. But adults and children alike smiled Disneyland-commercial smiles and reached up toward us, clutching at napkins wafting down on the air currents. These poor souls experienced something not unlike sheer bliss. (How boring are their lives that this is exciting? Even the three-year olds should be ashamed!) The four of us, plus a few staff members, watched from above, mesmerized. The lowly subjects down below waved at us like we were royalty; we waved back in kind. Out of napkins after the first twenty seconds of bar-rotating, I was tempted to dump champagne on them, but thought it not only a waste, but also perhaps not as welcome a gesture. I'm guessing used napkins would also have elicited something more ugly than happiness, but I'll have to wait until next time to find out for sure. (I mean, let's be honest--for all these poor people knew, the napkins we dropped had been down my pants for the last hour.)

Back down at our ringside seats on the ground floor--now with much more headroom, courtesy of the ceiling/upstairs-bars rotating off to the sides--the show got underway.

A midget dude in a suit busted out and juiced up the crowd with some surprisingly powerful singing, as well as a preacher-like call-and-response, which would normally have annoyed me, since I vehemently dislike religion being thrust upon me, but, I mean, it was the Gospel Brunch, after all, so it was okay; I had technically asked for it.

Behind the midget dude were four middle-aged, gospel-singing churchladies straight out of 1950's Georgia--and/or the movie The Blues Brothers, which I was unable to avoid thinking of throughout the entire performance.

The last time I brought up The Blues Brothers to a musician I regretted it, so I kept my mouth shut on Sunday. Just so you don't make the same mistake I did many years back, let it be known that country musicians do not like to hear white boys from Chicago request the theme from Rawhide or Stand By Your Man. While at a country bar on the north side of Chicago on night, I walked over to the stage and stuck a five-dollar bill on the strip of duct tape extended from floor-to-ceiling, which was intended for tips/request.

Here is the exchange that followed:

"Can you do Rawhide?"
"Nope."
"Really?"
"Don't know the words."
"Really?"
"Sing it for me and I'll do it."

I was too drunk and too put-on-the-spot to think of any of the words, or even the melody, which is always hard when a band is blasting a different tune right in front of you. I tried again.

"I can't remember, either. That's weird. How about Stand By Your Man?"
"Nope."
"What? You don't know the words to that one either?"
"No, I do. But I ain't gonna put on a dress and sing it to ya."

They band laughed at me. I took my five-dollar bill of the duct tape and walked back toward my table. Before I got there, though, I had a thought--what about Johnny Cash? He's country enough, right? I walked back over to the band.

"How about Ring of Fire?"
"Alright."

I replaced the five-dollar bill on the duct tape and returned to my seat, relieved, frustrated at how hard it was to make what had seemed like a simple request. Shit, like it's my fault I don't know any other country songs? Country music sucks! What did they want me to say--"Oh! I know! I want to hear Proud to Be an American by Lee Greenwood!" I know they were just taking the piss, to borrow a British phrase, and I know I deserved it, but that doesn't make the experience any less frustrating and embarrassing. Save yourself from it and just request Ring of Fire right off--no, wait, Walk the Line ruined that. Request some Ray Charles country music--no, wait--Ray ruined that. Now anybody who requests any good country music will be mocked as somebody who only knows about those songs/artists because of a movie and because they bought the soundtrack at Starbucks, regardless of whether or not that is true. It's a tough world out there, kids. Especially at Carol's Pub, where the bouncer wields a Maglite the size of my leg. Don't act like you don't know what that's for...

[note: now that I am older and wiser, I can recommend that you request some Lee Hazlewood, but I bet many of the bands won't know it. Another good option is any track off of Tumbleweed Connection, Elton John's country album, which is, according to a friend of mine in Nashville, every country musician's favorite album, which I accidentally discovered because I love Elton John.]

Anyway, the four women singing on Sunday at the House of Blues were all decked out in solid-color satin skirt-suits--one purple, one sky blue, one green, one pink (?)--and they each wore a classic big ole churchgoing hat. They were priceless and they could also sing and our Angel kept popping around the corner and refilling my glass of champagne after every sip. What more could a man ask for?

I feel I should mention that one of the singers had fingernails at least 6-8 inches long. No joke. She would clap and wave her hands around and draw attention to them as much as possible. They were scary looking and sad. What causes a person to want to grow fingernails that long? What hole in their life is filled by frustratingly, disgustingly long fingernails? How do they use phones/computers/pens? Who do they think will be impressed with them, or find them attractive? Who knows. Maybe the Lord loves that shit. Or maybe she'll burn in hell for them. Who knows! But I bet she hopes for the former...

At some point, I realized the guy sitting in front of our table, who kept looking at us funny, had handcuffs on his belt. Lettering on his polo shirt identified him as a PROBATION OFFICER. He was sitting with a grip of about ten young girls in matching blue 'industrial employee' shirts and blue Dickies-type pants, but it never occurred to me that they were all together and that he was their escort from a Juvenile Detention Facility until my friend suggested it. I think he was guessing, since I never saw them speak to one another, but I think he was right. The girls enjoyed the show, as you might have imagined, and I'd hate to say they shouldn't have been there, but I do have to wonder what the deal is. Who forked over all the bread ($40 a head, without alcohol), or was it some sort of 'give back to the community' program within House of Blues, Inc? What other sweet-ass field trips do they get to go on? Should I be jealous? Who knows!

Several of the juvey girls went up to sing during a rousing number called Thank You--so did my friend, Pedro, and a handful of other audience members. Everybody introduced themselves and sung "thank you" as impressively as they could. Some of them were okay, some of them were not. Especially a little old crazy white librarian-type woman whom I had earlier dubbed '#1 Fan' after watching her blow kisses at the singers as if she had been following them around on tour for her the last four years and it was some sort of tradition they had going. All she said was 'thank you,' once, and without feeling, before passing the mike. Some #1 fan...

I should mention a mostly-unrelated but interesting fact--Pedro is Mariah Carey's #1 Fan. Seriously. And it's not because he thinks she's sexy (he's gay). Pedro is a devoted member of her official fan club and gets wristbands mailed to him so he can attend album signings and the like. He knows everything about her. He's met her on several occasions and she knows who he is because the first time he met her he knocked over dozens of 11 year-old children (and their parents) to run right up to Mariah and then proceeded to cry like a baby until he soaked his shirt with his own tears! I am not making this up--that's just what Pedro is like.

The performance ended, we drank some more champagne, watched as our Angel cleaned up after everybody and dismantled the tables and chairs, which was depressing, left her a fat tip, said goodbye, and headed off into the California sunshine, off to the next stop on the party train. It was Sunday, after all...

I highly recommend recreating this experience if you have the chance and the bread (or the connections). Enjoy.

'The Man' Is So Crafty

Item: I heard a commercial for ATV Insurance on the radio yesterday.

I waited for a punchline that never came.
It actually exists.
Have you heard this?

Do insurance companies not make enough money off our cars, homes, lives, health, vacations, etc? They have to go after our ATVs now?

How many people even own ATVs? Was it even worth printing up all the brochures, designing the new web pages, and creating the commercials?

More to the point, it seems to me that people who own ATVs are not exactly the kind of people who are worried about getting into accidents. They are the kind of people who require warnings before shows like Jackass come on the air; they are the kind of people who ignore those warnings; they are the kind of people who go to the emergency room holding their own severed leg in their hand, among miscellaneous other odd and vicious injuries; none of these injuries would be covered by their insurance.


The biggest question though, I guess, is that, in this age of constant mega-corporate-conglomerate-ass-rape, why would anybody pay for insurance they are not legally required to have?

What's next, bicycle insurance? Just $100/month! Subway insurance? [Note: policy void if weird person is in train car with you]

Shine A Light -- Review

Martin Scorsese’s Rolling Stones IMAX extravaganza, Shine A Light, opened on April 4th, and I was lucky enough to be one of the 1000 or so people in LA crammed into the only two theaters in town playing the film. As expected, I enjoyed it. Also as expected, the audience was full of douchebags--but that’s a story for another time.

Despite the band’s desire to be immortalized at one of their typical stadium shows, luckily Marty was able to convince them to add two performances to their A Bigger Bang tour in a smaller, more intimate venue--New York City’s historic, 2800-seat Beacon Theater.

The theater was a beautiful backdrop--well-aided by the set designed and built by Marty’s crew--although it certainly could have been filled with a livelier, less-handpicked, less-moneyed, more-representative audience. Let’s see...the front row just happened to contain only upper-class females aged 21-30? Are you kidding? Did you think we wouldn’t notice, Marty? The LA Times referred to these ladies as “a cluster of hedge-fund hotties front and center.” Truth. The men in the crowd, standing back a bit, giving the ladies their space, lest they be tasered by Scorsese’s militant PAs, were all chubby banker-types holding aloft cell phone cameras all night long.

Why watch a once-in-a-lifetime concert when you can get low-grade video of it on your phone?! It’s not like Scorsese’s shooting it in IMAX or anything...

Speaking of cinematography, it was lush and intimate, as you would imagine, albeit too reliant on extreme close-ups of Jagger’s oh-so-British 64-year-old teeth, and too afraid to linger on wide shots and two-shots. My favorite shots in the film were the two-shots of Mick and Keith and the wide shots of the band, and they were far too brief and far too few. I also would have liked to have seen more of drummer Charlie Watts pounding away, and some longer close-ups of the guitar fingering during the instrumental portions.

Shots of the audience should have scrapped entirely, in this case, as they were distracting and immediately deflated the energy of the performance, due to the energy/quality of the crowd. Had Scorsese/Jagger decided to pack the place with a Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus sort of crowd, then I would definitely have wanted to see them; however, it was not, and so I didn’t--my imagination would have served me far better than reality, in this instance.

The sound was killer and the set-list was great; I can actually imagine myself buying the soundtrack, which I’ve only done twice in my life--Dumb and Dumber, when I was 16 with money to burn, and Storytelling, because it was essentially a Belle and Sebastian album. There is no way Mick could have chosen a set-list that would have made everybody happy, as the Stones catalog is simply too vast; this being the case, I thought he was successful in his approach to give the crowd some of the hits, some of the lesser-known stuff, and a few well-chosen covers.

I loved Jack White’s duet with Mick. I don’t think there is a musician alive today that would have been a better choice to play with the Stones, as Jack is the heart-and-soul of blues-influenced rock and roll.

Blues legend Buddy Guy was also great to see up there and it was a treat to watch him, Keith Richards, and Ronnie Wood jam together, but I was shocked they didn’t let him have a solo--Buddy can play the guitar better with his teeth than 90% of working guitarists out there can do with their hands.

Christina Aguilera was woefully out of place on stage with the Stones during her number--girl’s got pipes, for sure, but I don’t care. I don’t want to see her out there with the Stones, just like my jaw would drop if Celine Dion or Mariah Carey had strutted out; she has nothing to do with either the blues or rock and roll. The worst part? She got a solo. Ouch. And, just to rub it in, Mick grooved all up on her, but didn’t lay a finger on Jack or Buddy--come now, Micky-baby, play fair!

Despite their advanced age and scarily-skeletal faces, the band performed well and, with the glaring exception of silver-haired, mild-mannered bookstore manager Charlie Watts, still managed to look the part of rock stars. Mick was skinny as ever, somehow still possessed the energy of a teenage coke-head, and even though he brought in two back-up singers to hit the high notes for him, I thought his voice held up well. I must admit, though, I was sometimes reminded of scary, nearly-as-old, gravelly-voiced New York Dolls frontman David Johansen, who counts Jagger among his early influences. I’d like to see the two do a number together someday. Any takers out their in promoter-ville?

Keith was as charming as ever, loving every second of it as if it was the first time, and hitting his guitar licks like clockwork, more because his heart beats in time with the blues than his brain remembers the notes (I can’t say the same for his vocals, although they were charmingly off-key, off-beat).

Charlie Watts was firmly in the background of the film, represented mostly by the hilarious footage of his younger self and his ‘oh boy, I’m an old man trying to do a teenager’s job’ weary-eyed looks to the camera in the present day.

I thought the footage of the Stones from the early years was brilliantly used to break up the would-be monotony of the concert, as well as to put their enduring success in perspective. Mick, Keith, and Charlie--the only three members left from the early days (Ronnie Wood joined in 1974, after founding-guitarist Brian Jones was fired and then his replacement Mick Taylor left the band; bassist Bill Wyman left the band in 1993)--all came across as innocent, charming, honest, funny, and wise. Contrasting their younger faces, words, and deeds with their current performance, it was not hard to see why/how they have endured--they have always done it for the love of the music, and they have always wanted to do it until they can’t do it anymore.

Although I did like the idea of warming up the audience with some pre-concert action, I wish Marty would not have felt the need to thrust himself into the picture with a long, drawn-out, ultimately pointless opening about how hard it is to shoot a concert video. Why make excuses before you even begin? Did he feel the need to start Raging Bull with a five-minute sequence on how hard it was to shoot the movie, in case nobody liked it? (The answer is ‘no,’ although who knows, maybe his producer nixed the idea--“too expensive!”).

I would rather have just watched the band’s arrival, heard some interesting snippets of pre-show dialogue, and then seen part of the sound-check. Watching Marty whine repeatedly about not having the set-list, and then finally receiving it in an obviously-staged moment immediately before the lights went up, was embarrassingly bad--it was something Bruce Filanch would have done before a Billy Crystal-hosted Oscars ceremony, not a bit that should go in a Scorsese film. Especially because Marty shot this concert TWICE, and could easily rub out any kinks the second time around (indeed, most of the footage is from the second performance). I cringed for him--Marty wants so much to be loved, but sometimes he doth try too hard.

The most aggravating Marty moment, however, came at the very end, when the audience watches him directing a camera movement, instead of seeing Mick Jagger & Co.’s explosive exit into the Manhattan night. WTF, Marty? Do you think people forget what you look like or something? Why are you trying, in your later years, to so desperately ‘get yourself out there?’ Just keep being you, keep making great movies, and we will love you. Don’t suddenly try to imitate cameo-master Alfred Hitchcock or self-promote a la Brett Ratner.

We love Marty for being Marty, just like we will always love the Stones for being the Stones--the best rock and roll band in the world. Still.

Goodtime Charlie gives Shine A Light a B+, his highest grade of the year so far. Go see it!


To read about Goodtime Charlie’s experience at a Rolling Stones concert in 2005, click here.

Hey! Will Ferrell! You've Reached Saturation!

Confessional--I loved you in:
Zoolander (2001)
Old School (2003)
Anchorman (2004)


Now, listen up, assface:

Quality, not quantity.


I'm not sure whether or not you have realized it yet, but we (you) are no longer living in the era of 'stables,' meaning that studios no longer have herds of actors over a barrel, tied to long-term contracts, required to work whenever the studio head deems it necessary, regardless of the quality of the project. Actors, especially the big ones, have more power now than ever before and, hopefully, they ever will in the future (because it has, as I'm sure I don't even have to say, proven itself to be bad for the movie industry.)

This being the case, it confuses me as to why you make the decisions you make. Don't get me wrong--without having gone through it myself, I do understand what you had to go through to get to where you are right now. I've witnessed the trials and tribulations of actors first hand; I know it wasn't easy.

I would never take that away from you--this hard-fought-but- still-in-the-end-sudden freedom to do as you please, but, at the same time, I am almost to the point where I feel as though I should.

Simply because every time you fart some agent/manager/creative executive says "genius!" does not mean that every idea you have actually is genius. You need to be your own judge here, and you need to do it well--that's part of the responsibility of stardom/sainthood.

Will Ferrell movies that came out in 2005:
The Producers
Winter Passing
Wedding Crashers
Bewitched
Kicking and Screaming
The Wendell Baker Story

Okay, so, using your A-list-star/veto power, you were involved in six movies in 2005, only one of which was remotely good (Wedding Crashers). That is not a good hit ratio (0.167); not even for a batter in the National League; you would have been reassigned to the minors, considering your number of plate appearances. I will remind you, the reader, SIX MOVIES IN ONE YEAR!?!

Although I still think you shouldn't have agreed to be in the movie because the script/concept sucked, I actually SAW Winter Passing, and your performance was one of the few highlights of the movie; how come you can't be so reserved and mysterious in other movies? It would behoove you. Don't take the failure of the movie as a failure of you in that role. Likewise, don't take the success of you in other roles as an indication that you should play that particular role again...or even should have played it in the first place (Elf?).


Will Ferrell movies that came out in 2006:
Curious George
Talladega Nights
Stranger Than Fiction

Jesus. Need I say more?


Will Ferrell movies in the works since 2006:
Blades of Glory (2007)
Semi Pro (2008)
Step Brothers (2008)
Land of the Lost (2009)

Two have been released so far; two have been awful. I have no higher hopes for the others.


Although, thankfully, your pace has slackened, I still worry about you, Will. I think you should have taken some time off to recover your comedic self, to relax, to go on extravagant vacations, to discreetly cheat on your wife with various daughters of Greek shipping magnates, to let the creative juices fortify themselves, to re-earn my confidence in you, to allow scripts to pile up, and to then reward yourself with the pick of the litter, the cream that rises to the top.

It's not like you need the money; it's not like you need the fame; so...what is it that you need? What are you getting out of all of these shitty movies, besides some unnecessary green? Are you involved in some sort of career-destroying bet that I am not aware of? I certainly hope so, for your sake, but I doubt you have such an excuse.

Woody Allen makes only ONE movie a year, and he is regarded as amazingly productive as a result. Why?

Two reasons:
1. Despite their frequency, his movies have usually been very good.
2. Because he is an artist, and we know he gives his all to them, as a writer/director/star; and yet they are still so frequent (if recently not so great, considering I haven't liked one since 1995, but that's okay--he's 72 years old, with many classics in his cap, and I forgive him).

Which begs the question:
Why can't you, Will, be as discerning an artist, in your capacity as an actor/comedian?
Why can't you say to yourself, "okay, I will only make one movie a year, but it will be GREAT!"?

What's the problem? Are you running out of money?
Do you have a $20million/year gambling problem, or something?
99.9% of the world--including 99.9% of the U.S.--could live their entire lives off of the salary of ONE of your movies, and you shot 6 of them in one year. [Will Farrell's estimated 2005 salary= $40million]
So don't tell me you have some sort of financial reason.
That being the case, what reason DO you have?
Do you even have a reason?
Or is this where you smile, let your eyes go dead, and freeze, hoping somebody else will come up with the answer for you, before the commercial break?

(Great bit, by the way...)

Life isn't like Saturday Night Live (thank, God).
Grow up and take responsibility for yourself, your career, and your legacy--cuz nobody else will. Trust me.
I told them not to.

Oh, and just so you know, the answer to that question that's been haunting you is 'yes, everybody is tired of seeing you in your skivvies.' It's not funny, it's not sexy, and it's certainly not shocking anymore, so...stop? Please?

[One thing I bet you didn't know about Mr. Farrell, that I couldn't resist throwing into this article, although it has no real place: He won a James Joyce Award from the Literary and Historical Society of University College Dublin for the 2007/2008 school year. Other recipients this year included: Eddie Izzard, J.K. Rowling, Michael Palin, Rory Bremner, Johan Norberg, and Richard Swinburne. And so I can think of at least two more reasons for Joyce to roll over in his grave...]

Idea for a Movie

A story about Jews living in Europe during World War II, and how they heroically, admirably, humorously coped with it.


Starring Anthony Hopkins, Naomi Watts, Zac Efron, Hayden Christenson, and Amy Adams

Rob Lowe is Getting Awfully Tired

Of all these young female nannies getting all up on him and then forcing him to sue them for violation of their confidentiality agreement, part of which probably read like this:

"...and you promise never to tell anyone about all the sex we have or any other inappropriate thing I might do, so my wife of 16 years won't get mad, which is important because I love her very much. And you will also promise never to bring up the twenty hours of community service I did in Dayton, Ohio, in 1988, after being caught starring in a 'sexually-explicit videotape which involved a minor.' I hate being called a laborer."

If you haven't been paying attention to Lowe's legal woes over the years, which I hope is the case, because otherwise there's something wrong with you, here are a few points of interest:



1988---Sentenced to perform 20hrs community service in Dayton, Ohio, as a result of the above-mentioned video. That sounds like an awfully harsh punishment, John Q. Law! Rest assured he never even thought about sex with young girls ever again after that whole torturous ordeal...

2007--Sues ex-nanny Laura Boyce for allegedly violating the terms of her confidentiality agreement she signed before beginning work with Lowe and his wife, former make-up artist Sheryl Berkoff. She allegedly spread "malicious lies."

2007--Sues his former chef, Pete Clements, for allegedly violating...some part of his contract that must have forbid him from bringing "third parties" back to Lowe's house and violating them on Lowe's bed. And stealing prescription drugs. And "overcharging them for food." Isn't that an integral part of a chef's job? Come on, Rob...don't be petty.

2007--Ex-nanny Jessica Gibson blackmails Rob & Sheryl, demanding $1.5million by the end of the week or she 'will tell all.' Lowe informs the police that he would like to handle matters on his own, does not press criminal charges, and instead sues Gibson for violating the terms of her confidentiality agreement.

And I'm not sure what year it was, but a girl I know also had sex with Rob Lowe in the recent past, so, you know, it's no secret that the guy likes his ladies.

What innocent man has this many lawsuits going on involving inappropriate/immoral sexual encounters yet is, as his imdb bio claims "a clean and sober husband and father?"

The better questions: Who cares? Does anybody even like Rob Lowe? Would anybody care if malicious lies were told about him? Would anybody hear them? (besides me...) Would it really change anybody's opinion of him?

I just think it's funny that he is working so hard to stop the truth from getting out (and failing), not realizing how much worse he makes it for himself. I wonder if he's at all associated with Scientology...