Electric Shadows

Learn

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 19:20:00 +0000

There is a difference between your and you're.

If you do not know the difference between these words and do not know how to use them, I refuse to take you or any of your ideas seriously.

Stop wasting my time.

Jonathan Frakes: On the Record about his Soap Fucking

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 20:56:00 +0000

I was a psychology major in college. I hadn't considered it as a profession. And then I went to New York. I thought I had died and gone to heaven because I was doing the soap during the day. It still is the best training. I think enjoying it helps. I wouldn't say boredom drove it, but I certainly looked around and got a sense of who was doing something that appealed to me, or something that I wanted to do. Fortunately, some of the editors were so helpful, when they could have been so reticent. A lot of these guys could smell competition…

I think I got the best of it, because Rick was so adamant about making sure that, before he gave me one, that I really was prepared. It could have been an appalling situation. I saw other kids who folded under the pressure from their home... they didn't think they could make it and they were told by their parents that they shouldn't stick with it if they loved it. I think we all had hoped that at some point we'd get paid to do this.

I'm not quite sure that I felt shackled. I know others do feel that way. I did the soaps for awhile. I was happy to do it. I was young and single. I had always wanted to do other things, but I've been so busy for the last 2 years, that there haven't really been any windows of time. I just need to be asked!

Source

The Mist

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Fri, 31 Aug 2007 17:26:00 +0000

I've been eagerly awaiting the film adaptation of Stephen King's The Mist for some time. Since I first read the story, probably 15 years ago, I wanted to see this story on the big screen. I found the novella to be a perfect Night of the Living Dead-style monster-siege story with an ever-escalating threat from both the bugaboos and the survivors turning on one another. More than any of King's other work, it seemed like a no-lose proposition to make it into a movie. And, so, now that the movie's finally happening, I'm excited to see the trailer but find my reactions to it are (perhaps unfairly) burdened with high expectations.

Reactions I just can't keep to myself, apparently.

Anyway, judging from the trailer, it's shocking to me how relevant the religious conflict in the story could be. With all the Left Behind bullshit and the phenomenon of ardent Christians feeling ever more embattled by our increasingly permissive and secular culture, this aspect of the movie looks to be the best part. Who can say if the movie will pull it off as well as the trailer does, but it looks like the actress portraying the zealot is playing the character as more than just a caricature of an evangelical, more subdued than I'd imagined while reading the source material and, interestingly, motivated as much by fear of her God as fealty. This pleases me as her gathering a congregation within the supermarket always seemed to be the trickiest part of the story, in terms of translating it to the big screen, and if they pull it off, I can probably forgive a lot of other problems with the film.

Hey, speaking of problems, here's a doozy: I count three mentions of the titular Mist in the trailer, and every time someone says the word Mist, it sounds like they're saying it italicized and capitalized. The trailer is about 2 and 1/2 minutes long, and that they couldn't avoid three annoying and import-laden mentions of The Mist would seem to indicate that these Mist takes are pretty heavily ladeled throughout the film. Indeed, if I've done my math right, three Mists over 2.5 minutes equates to about 108 over 90 minutes. I hope my math is wrong.

I don't want to beat up on a trailer too much, so here's hoping that it all works out in the end... for the sake of my 14 year old self, if nothing else.

Portland Editing

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Tue, 19 Dec 2006 23:24:00 +0000

So...

We're living in Portland, Oregon now. I have to say, the overall feeling I have of living here is that it is quite a bit similar to what I imagine it's like to live in Hobbiton. People are friendly. Traffic is courteous and unaggressive. The produce is fresher and more flavorful than anywhere I've ever lived. It's a quiet, unassuming city with a lot of charm. And good God do they love their booze here.

But the reason I'm breaking my silence is not to share thoughts on Portland. Rather, I'm doing some freelance video editing. I am taking talking head interviews and documentary footage to make some nice company who likes to pay me money a promotional video. Yippee. I love editing and getting paid, and the company people seem to like what I do, so everyone's happy. In trying to make an interview on this project come out smoother and eliminate unnecessary stammering, I'm working on a moment where a woman says, "So, we..." I need her to say, "And we..." at this moment. The transition from "so" and "we" is narrow... she never really stops saying the "o" sound before moving onto the "w" sound. No hard cut will work.

So here's what I do: I take a phrase from earlier where she says, "And wire..." I chop it so it is like, "And w"

I chop "So we" to start about halfway through the "w" sound in "we"

Bump them up together... play it back...

It sounds like "And wuheye eee"

No good. I trim a little from either side. Then Throw a 2 frame crossfade on the audio. Play it back.

It's perfect (enough). "And we"

This trick is something I've done before, but it rarely works because the intonations have to be just right. Everytime it does come out, I pump my fist in triumph and have the desire to bore the world with all the microscopic triumphs and joys found in the technical inanities found in video editing.

Hmm. Depending on how much work comes my way, I think I'll start reporting about these little triumphs that go into a good edit on this blog. I always want to tell everyone I know about these little triumphs, but for some reason, it's difficult to explain vocally without lapsing into tedium.

A Review?: Snakes on a Plane

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Fri, 18 Aug 2006 17:03:00 +0000

Spoilers abound.

Snakes on a Plane has the good sense to provide the titular snakes on the titular plane and not much else. It's not a great bad movie or a decent film--it's an average bad film, the kind-of movie you see on TBS all the fucking time. The great relief is that, besides the obligatory "motherfuckers" spoken by (and clearly re-shot by) Samuel L. Jackson, it doesn't wink too much at the audience, letting them do their own nudge-nudging. Jackson, in fact, provides a sturdy anchor for all the improbability... and, good God is David Koechner a god-damned relief whenever he's onscreen, wasted as he is. The rest of the characters are pretty weak and bland, one-dimensional archetypes representing segments of society like the cast of one of those disaster movies from the 70s (did Airport '77 have it so good/bad?). During the first act, when the film establishes these, um, characters, it's nigh-well intolerable and anytime the action slows down to focus on the emotional turmoil of these stand-ins for humanity, the dullness is depressing.

It reveals that not much has changed in the slasher-movie paradigm. Have sex? Die. Do drugs? Die. Are snobby? Die. Fat? Die die die! The only thing that seems to have changed is that "The Brother" doesn't die first and "the sissy" is found to be useful and not some sort-of burden to the brute masculinity needed to overwhelm the snakes (sorry right wing fundies...Snakes on a Plane is the official death-knell to your anti-gay crusading...the zeitgeist has officially shifted). The movie has a few fun geek-show gore moments where people die in surprising and graphic ways, but completely misses the chance to have some visceral bloodthirsty, vengeance-filled snake-deaths. With one or two exceptions (including a shout-out to Gremlins), anytime the movie offs a snake, it's vague, unclear, and coy about it. Call me human, but when I see a poisonous snake bite a man in the junk, I want to see that motherfucking snake get his motherfucking head bitten off in all the gory detail.

The movie plants some seeds that could have really blossomed into some absurd and delightfully logic-free moments. But it's playing it far too safe to launch into the stratosphere of absurdity. Why introduce the kickboxer if you're not going to use him? Sure, he gets a moment of heroism, but what he does is so average that you'd believe any other character could do the same thing. The premise itself is ridiculous enough that I wouldn't have minded seeing a kickboxer kick-boxing his way through the snake-pile--I would have relished it. And why build up the entrance of the bizarre-looking croc-o-snake (or, if you will, allisnaker), a giant constrictor with two rows of teeth accompanied by Jaws-esque music, if you're not going to have the passengers or Jackson or even the girl with the dog have a show-down with this behemoth?

If one is interested in seeing this film, it is imperative to see it opening weekend with the amped up, self-aware, irony-soaked crowd of youngsters ready to cheer, chortle, and mock the very things that are usually taken for granted in movies of this ilk. I was fascinated that the crowd, primed by months and months of Snakes on a Plane internet jokery, was ready to lambast any moment of the film that tried to be genuine. I wondered if this would have been the case, absent the months and months of buildup. And I wished that everyone would watch all of movies with such a generous, yet critical eye as the audience turned toward Snakes on a Plane. The world would be better off if audiences could be counted on to sneer and boo at, say, Tom Cruise during some of the schmaltzier Mission: Impossible 3 moments the way they did when Samuel L. Jackson advised Julianna Margulies to stay strong.

Anyway, Snakes on a Plane does deliver some effective and compelling snakes-on-a-plane peril. It's a sometimes fun goofball film that, despite earning instant kitsch status, will probably fade from memory like a silly dream had four years ago. It reminded me of the Kurt Russell vehicle Executive Decision more than once. Even that barely-average film had the capacity to wring applause from the crowd as the nerdy Kurt Russell, sweating like Robert Hays, semi-successfully landed a huge commercial airliner. This movie climaxes on a nearly identical note and it's just as stupid and yet rewarding. We're living in a post-9/11 world now and we could all use a United 93 that ends on a happy note. Well, for most of us. The sex couple, the peeing man, and that fat lady clearly had it coming.

No no, seriously

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Wed, 19 Jul 2006 16:14:00 +0000

Lack of posts. The voices cry out and demand WHY? They are insistent. I am to explain my behaviors.

The truth of the matter is that I am quitting my job and moving to Portland, Oregon for no particular reason other than I need a shake-up and being poor may be just the thing to rouse me out of my well-fed lethargy.

Thus, the reviews will not be coming fast and furious as belongings are gathered and moved across the country. In fact, I doubt they will be coming at all.

Following September 1, though, I believe there will be time. And perhaps we will see the rebirth of One Movie a Day shortly thereafter, springing from the ashes with a new lease on life.

I love you all with a passion that defies the Earth's gravity. Oh, and if anyone can hook me up with work in Portland, speak up now for the love of God.

In case this isn't apparent:

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Wed, 05 Jul 2006 15:41:00 +0000

The purpose of Electric Shadows has shifted from a personal blog to a place for me to continue writing about film. I'll write mostly about movies on my Netflix Queue, but some first-runs will no doubt sneak into my musings.

There may still be some pithy movie unrelated posts, but I can't really work up the drive to do that regularly.

Also, there will be cookies.

But no milk.

I am lactose intolerant.

Movie Review: Eraserhead

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Mon, 03 Jul 2006 16:21:00 +0000

Reason for Watching: Has been one of my favorite films since I saw it back in the mid-90s. Rented this so that Tara (a Lynch fan) could finally see it. Wanted to see if it would hold up after ten years of personal growth.

Capsule Reaction: This is movie heaven and everything is fine.

The baby scares me. This malformed mockery of human reproduction taps some primal ganglia in my cerebellum. It terrifies me on a very deep and personal level to watch the thing as it wails, spits the food it's been fed, gets sick, and lies there, wriggling. Without hyperbole, I will admit that the intensity of my abhorrence is such that I struggle to even continue watching this film, though it's a personal favorite. It is one of the best special effects ever put on film, utterly convincing from its appearance to its departure.

Put in such a state of fear and anxiety by this nightmarish creation, I, staunch atheist that I am, am relieved to hear the pleasing voice of the Lady in the Radiator assure me that, "in heaven everything is fine." What's more: I actually believe her. There are no atheists in a fox hole and no atheists staring at a sputtering, hideous demi-child.

Eraserhead scared me so much when I saw it in high school, I had trouble sleeping that night. It was the last movie to affect me in this way, the last to inspire fear of the dark. From this earlier viewing, I remember only the thrill of being so terrified and the thrill accompanying the click of previously underutilizied neurons firing with abandon. Thinking about Eraserhead helped me learn how to read films better than I had been trained to by my more mainstream viewing habits.

So many of the conversations I've had about this film have focused on the topic of "what does it mean?" This may have more to do with the company I keep, but I suspect this experience is not unique to myself. And, while it can be fun to try and suss out the meaning of Eraserhead through its symbolic imagery and all that, it's depressing to me that so many feel that the film needs to have any objective meaning outside of the viewer's own imagination. Even more befuddling is the anger I often hear expressed at this marvelous work, a reaction from those who feel they are having their leg pulled by some sort-of con man who's had the good luck to be recognized as an "artist" by the "establishment."

This isn't to say that not "getting" Eraserhead makes one a philistine. The film, like much of David Lynch's work, is asking for this hostility. After some confusing imagery at the beginning of the film, it settles into what seems to be a strange, yet conventionally handled narrative. The movie has characters, establishing shots, dialogue, and the normal sort-of narrative criss-cross in the editing. When the non-literal, confusing imagery from the beginning begins interfacing with all of this (relative) normalcy for reasons defined only in the creator's head, it feels arbitrary at times and even a touch malicious. And maybe it is. I don't know. I don't care.

The imagery in the movie is, alone, enough to recommend it. The baby is terrifying, but it would not be so if it were not surrounded by such a hostile, howling landscape of urban decay. The black and white photography is brilliant, hearkening back to the wonderful imagery found in German Expressionism films of early cinema while simultaneous forging ahead with new images all its own. The movie is scored with a collection of masterful sound effects. These serve to heighten and broaden the scope of the film outside the boundaries of its frame, revealing the character of the world that cannot be seen but is most definitely felt by the people that inhabit it.

Combine these elements with the fractured, abstracted narrative and we're effectively in the world of dreams. I'm pretty sure it's become a cliche to say that Eraserhead captures the feeling of a nightmare, but this aspect of the film cannot be dismissed. That the characters express themselves mainly in terms of heightened emotions enhances this feeling as well. Everyone in the film is bouncing from one extreme emotion to another, sometimes within the space of seconds. This makes a lasting imprint on the memory, though, like a dream, it is incredibly non-specific. You can't remember exactly what was said, just that someone was furious or ecstatic or horrified. Further: because these people seem to live in purely emotional states, their actions can seem irrational or unmotivated. Thus the linear progression of events in the film becomes jumbled when trying to remember the film.

Describing the film and the horror it tapped in me feels like transcribing the hazily-remembered beats of a powerful nightmare from two weeks ago. In either case, stating plainly what terrified me about the experience sounds banal or even dull. The more one tries to grasp one detail, the more others slip away. Few films in my memory have been as successful at creating the stream-of-consciousness feeling of dreams as this one. And fewer have embraced the non-literal qualities of film, eschewing the realism that comes so easily to the photographic medium in favor of an impressionistic quality that somehow feels more true. This remains one of my all-time favorite films and is, I think, one of the greatest films ever made.

Oldboy

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Sun, 25 Jun 2006 05:26:00 +0000

I'm going to start writing about the films I see again.  Starting with this one.

Movie Review: Oldboy

Reason for Watching: Ever late to the party, I heard many good things about Oldboy from a variety of sources with increasing frequency over the past month.  Curiosity.

Capsule Reaction: Super-good genre piece with all the inherent joys and limitations the phrase "genre piece" entails.

White elephant in the room time.  When I saw the main character of Oldboy bite into a live octopus with gusto, I couldn't help but notice how little empathy I had for the creature.  Even when its tentacles curled up and grasped the man's nose, the act seemed to be more reflexive than desperate.  To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what I was supposed to feel during this scene.  I suppose it exists to demonstrate to the viewer Dae-su Oh's commitment, his fortitude, or even his impatience to strike out at the world.  And, true, it nicely echoes a pledge he's previously made in the film to devour every part of a torturer's body.  Nevertheless, it's a literal show-stopping moment that takes one out of the picture and inspires no thought but the obvious: what the hell does that taste like?

Onward.  Oldboy is a fantastic film stymied by an overstuffed and absurd storyline.  The premise is delicious and simple: a drunken lout, Dae-su Oh, is abducted and held captive for fifteen years with no explanation.  When he emerges, he's understandably devoted to discovering why this ordeal has befallen him and who he can hold responsible for the fifteen years of life he has lost.  It is a mystery and a quite complex yet simple affair as it turns out.  There's nothing so unbelievable as to break all strands of credulity in Oldboy, but it flies pretty close at times (A late-movie revelation about the hypnosis of two key characters comes to mind.)  Worse, information is sometimes doled out in a dialogue-heavy manner with acting, subject matter, and dialogue not unlike that of an unconvincing video game cutscene you wish you could skip.

In fact, very often the movie feels much like a more-mature-than-usual video game with its ruminations on the futility of revenge, its casual use of violence as the sole method of communicating differing levels of anger, despair, grief, and shame.  These attributes are tolerable at best in the burgeoning world of video games.  Here, in movie-land, when these same things raise their heads, their adolescent natures grate.

That said, these are the kind of gripes you have for a movie that's so close to greatness, you want to shake the fun out of it.  "Stop fucking around with these well-made fight scenes, the leering sadism, and the villain's impossibly fiendish plot," I wanted to say to Oldboy, like a parent trying to get a bright high school kid to stop hanging out with the bad crowd.  The movie is wonderfully made.  It's shot in an elegant, emotionally affecting way, the kind of cinematography that, using color and framing, subtly guides your own emotions to the ones the movie's interested in exploring without being heavy-handed.  Additionally, the movie's adolescent tendencies serve it well when it's digging into the characters' pain, whether it is physical or emotional.  It renders emotional torture as effectively as the tooth-pulling physical kind and reveals the inner lives of its characters with cinematic clarity, insight, and invention.

Best of all, Min-sik Choi is brilliant as Dae-su Oh.  He finds more reasons to express joy and happiness in the familiar revenge-bound antihero than any other in memory and when called upon to deliver moments of intense regret, fear, or despair, he delivers with such skilled passion that, to my foreign eyes and ears, he needs absolutely no translation.  It is his work that nearly elevates this film above a well-executed genre film and into greatness.

Val Lewton

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Fri, 23 Jun 2006 21:12:00 +0000

Of all the flicks I watched when I was down, the Val Lewton production entitled The Body Snatcher was, by far, the most enjoyable.

I've been reading James Agee's film criticism as of late, specifically this book, and this venerable, witty critic has such a raging hard-on for Val Lewton, it makes me wonder where this producer's bad work lies?

So far, it does not lie in the box set I have. We'll see!

The Body Snatcher contains one of the weirdest and most depressing moments I've witnessed in any film. Boris Karloff's clever and malicious character gets to intimidate, toy with, and ultimately kill a simpleton played by Bela Lugosi. Such an immediate portrayal of their respective careers one won't find anywhere else... even weirder is the fact that later in their careers, it was Lugosi who was forced to play the mostly-mute idiot while Karloff got to play the more subtle, crafty part.

Of course, all of these ruminations are born from the depiction of the rilvalry between Lugosi and Karloff that was featured in Tim Burton's Ed Wood. The veracity of this rilvalry is unknown to me at this time. Still...

Tonight I am seeing that Al Gore nonsense about Global Football or something. Sometime this weekend, I am watching MOTHERFUCKING ERASERHEAD for the first time since high school.

A death in the family.

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Mon, 19 Jun 2006 22:12:00 +0000

Noteworthy events recently:

Tara's laptop computer device went on the fritz big-time. This has the effect of making everything feel wrong and out-of-alignment. But it appears a warranty of some sort covers it. And the data on the machine has been recovered. So that's happy news. In the meantime, though, she has to use my computer which, while I'm happy to let her, always makes me feel weird.

There's an infestation of bugs trying to get in our house. Not sure what they are. They look like big ants with an extra extension. There have been numerous sightings. Today we opened the front door and three of them came crawling in like they were expected guests. They became guests of the bottom of a shoe.

Finally: I have had a vasectomy and the drugs they've given me have really taken an edge off of me. I have to go back to work tomorrow and I have no idea how I'm going to stay awake all 8 hours. I was supposed to go back today, but after spending yesterday high as a kite on vicadin and valium (the correct spelling of either of these can suck my dick) there was no way in hell I was going to try it.

I've been down for 3 days now. Here's a summary of movies watched:

Gangs of New York
The New World
The Ice Harvest
Lord of War
Return of the Living Dead 1,2,3
The Body Snatcher

I will not be writing reviews of all of these. I am far too tired.

Back in the Saddle

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Wed, 14 Jun 2006 15:29:00 +0000

I've started writing a screenplay. I wrote a little last night. I'm not really comfortable talking about what it is or what it's about in this webspace. It's enough, I think, for me to share that it is. I will say it's the first idea I've had in years that I feel I absolutely have to write. The first idea that feels like I am the only one who can write this thing. It felt good to sit down with it last night, but it having been, oh, 4 years or so since I've written something of personal significance, of my own volition (that is, not at the behest of someone else), and with every intent of finishing the damn thing within my lifetime, I was frozen at first by a million little insecurities. Mostly, I was afraid that, being so out of practice, I was not up to the challenge of doing this grand idea of mine justice. That, through writing, I would destroy it.

I got through this large block with a helpful suggestion from Tara. She suggested that, before I engage in writing my pet project, I write a short, one-page piece as terribly as I wanted. This proved to be both fun and spirit-lifting enough that I was able to break through the freeze ray that had settled on me. At the risk of being aphoristic, I remembered after I wrote this stupid little thing for a page that I, personally, enjoy having something awful come out of me than nothing at all.

As I plan on writing this script until I finish a draft and I'd like to share as much of the process as I'm comfortable with on this blog, I present here the 1 page free-write that so buoyed my spirits. Enjoy.

JAKE
I haven't done anything so stupid as this before.

ANDY
What are you talking about?

JAKE
Well this is stupid. My finger is in my hair.

ANDY
You put it there.

JAKE
Yeah but now I'm missing a finger on my hand.

ANDY
That's indicative of stupidity?

JAKE
Look (tries to point, sees the spot where his finger should be stops). Never mind.

ANDY
You were going to make a point. What was it?

JAKE
I was just going to say that it's not worth it to me that my finger is my hair when it could very well be on my hand. It does more shit there. It makes me happy there.

ANDY
I hate it when you stand on ceremony.

JAKE
Tough.

ANDY
I understand I don't have to like it. But you don't have to insist on it.

JAKE
Your honesty is befuddling. Frankly, I find it hard to care when my pointing finger is in my hair. I find it hard to stand on ceremony when my finger is in my hair.

ANDY
HAHAHAHAHAHA. Herr Finger.

JAKE
That's offensive. I have a German Shepherd.

Forbidden Zone on stage?

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Mon, 12 Jun 2006 19:58:00 +0000

Wish I was there.

RePurposes

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Fri, 09 Jun 2006 15:34:00 +0000

Am not liking the way this thing is going. It's just sitting here.

I'm going to dedicate this blog to getting my netflix queue down to more manageable numbers and writing reviews about everything I see from Netflix. I miss writing about film.

More on this after the weekend.

These donuts aren't going to make themselves!

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Thu, 08 Jun 2006 23:09:00 +0000

Sometimes I just think of a pithy little line like the above but have nothing else to say.

.

.

.

I don't know how to make donuts.

A message from Peter Weller

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Tue, 30 May 2006 22:04:00 +0000

Robocop is down about something. What could it be?

DRUGS.

Movie Review: It Waits

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Wed, 24 May 2006 05:17:00 +0000

The name of this film screams out for a pithy, glib assessment of its quality using a structure parallel to the title. "It" stands for the movie and a present-tense verb describes the experience of viewing "It".  This is appealing in that it has the simplicity of the thumbs up/down Siskel & Ebert style of review but adds the subtle connotations of the verb one chooses to place after the subject.  While it's easy enough to think of how one expresses the most extreme reactions to a film using this new method (for instance: It Rocks! or It Sucks!), so much more fun can be had with vaguely absurd yet honest assessments such as It Meanders!, It Suffices!, or, my own favorite and one that describes my reaction to It Waits perfectly, It Tries!

My patience, to be precise, is what It Tries.  It Waits is wrapped up in a sturdy package of inconsequence. The story is pat: a young lady is forced to draw upon her deepest survival instincts to save her skin from a threatening, mysterious beast in the deep, treacherous forests of the American wilderness.  The direction is a stale rehash of overused tried-and-true horror filmmaking: POV shots of the monster stalking its prey, gore, etc. In fact, the only things that distinguish It Waits from others of its ilk are a talking parrot that reminds one of Gizmo from Gremlins and an unusually affecting back story for its protagonist.

The young woman, you see, is a forest ranger, overcome with guilt over her culpibility in the death of her best friend.  Despite the strapping young boyfriend who's willing to talk about her problems to a fault ("Whatever it is you're hiding… it's diminishing you," says the concerned beau [awww]), she'd rather take the jobs that let her remain alone in an isolated cabin.  Here she sort-of tends to her rangerly duties, but most of her time is spent grieving and talking to the parrot (who, with a perfect mimickry of cold-blooded intelligence, keeps asking innocently posed questions about the grieved-for dead friend).

As our mythmakers would have it, nature abhors a young lady of child-bearing age withdrawing herself from society, and, so, must send forth a demon to help her regain her cultural faculties.  Of course, this means she'll have to get in touch with her fightin' parts and find that, despite having monstrosity within her, she's really an okay person and fit to rejoin the living.  And that's what happens here.  Ho hum.  All of the interesting character bits are swept aside once the monster attacks start; the heroine's defensive maneuvers aren't any different from Laurie Strode's or Ellen Ripley's. Too bad, then, since her self-loathing makes her more interesting as monster prey than is usually found in the pristine virgins or warrior moms of other horror films. Too bad, also, that the acting of Cerina Vincent as our heroine is best left unmentioned.  Whatever strengths are found in the characterization of the heroine can be safely attributed to the writing.

Worse still: the monster is uninteresting.  The opening scene and an exposition-spouting character suggest that this blood-thirsty creature has something to do with Native Americans, but these intimations fade into vagueries and are left behind as the movie fulfills its plot obligations.  The design of the creature doesn't help matters as it has a simplistic skeletal look and wings borrowed from the baddie in Jeepers Creepers.  There's no identity to the thing, nothing about it that centers it as an aspect of this particular environment or as an aspect of the main character's psyche.  The creature in It Waits would be perfectly comfortable scaring things wherever you put it; whether it was in a forest, a space station, or a studio apartment, the results would be about the same. (It Makes Do!)  Thus, we're left with a generic monster terrorizing a bland actress.  Not exactly the stuff that freezes one's blood or quickens the pulse.

Blog for turkey

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Mon, 22 May 2006 18:23:00 +0000

Self-examination ahead.

Every now and then I am possessed with a panicky, crazed mood in which every possible activity I could engage in seems to take too long, too much effort, or too much thinking. This prevents me from doing just about anything as I dart from idea to idea like some stupid insect trying not to die.

What's more, the longer I don't settle down and engage with something, the more panicked I get. Come on, a not so helpful voice in my head commands, DO SOMETHING! Something meaningful, something elaborate, something supercool that no one in their right mind could ever look at and not be swayed by awe that you, a mere human, accomplished it. What the hell are you waiting for?

The intensity of the feeling makes the place underneath my fingernails get uncomfortably warm. I have trouble sleeping. In reaction, I leap from interest to interest in my dilettante vocabulary to try and soothe the place in my brain that is currently unfulfilled. Will I write? Compose? Shoot some video and edit it? Perform something?

The answer, of course, is that I will do nothing. I will sit at home and watch TV or a bunch of movies because, somehow, this quiets the nagging voice.

The worst, though, is when this mood attacks me while I'm at work (which I am right now).

I cannot focus. I cannot plan ahead. I cannot multi-task. I can't do anything except sit here and wonder what the hell I should do next, feeling too hot in every nook and cranny of my body.

I don't think this happens when I'm engaged in a long-term project. I think this same mood strikes me when I'm working hard at something, but the ready-made outlet at hand gives it the mask of a burst of inspiration. So what I'm suffering through right now is, I suppose, a kind of wet-dream for my creativity (whatever creativity means), a useless explosion of energy that accomplishes nothing but an increase in my body temperature.

I should try and train my body to turn this into a literal wet dream as that would be eminently more pleasureable and, also, would at least have a finite ending to look forward to.

It's time to break out the champagne.

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Tue, 09 May 2006 17:25:00 +0000

Dr. Katz is finally out on DVD.

Prediction

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Mon, 08 May 2006 16:34:00 +0000

I haven't seen Mission Impossible 3 yet, but I have listened to Michael Giacchino's score. My prediction: I think we're going to start hearing Track 12, Bridge Battle in trailers before too long. It's intense, got the kind of build that trailer-cutters love, and it's so rhythmic as to be super-easy to piece together different parts of it to accomodate the pace of the spot. Look out trailer watchers! This could be the next Bishop's Countdown!

Well, you, um, heard it here first!

Anyway, the score is good fun, though, on a first (super-casual) listen it doesn't seem to have much of an identity other than appealing retroisms. Giacchino is great at pulling off this modernistic faux-60s sound (somehow he manages to write music that contains both the excitement of something new as well as the feeling that one has heard this music before and liked it [most film music, at best, contains the latter for me and not the former]), as his score to The Incredibles also demonstrated, but in both cases I can't help but feel a little undernourished.

Truth vs. Fiction!

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Fri, 05 May 2006 04:59:00 +0000

I'd meant to write 10 or so of these Rush Limbaugh pieces, but, after his arrest made the news after, what two days of my doing so, it felt like the joke was on me.

Still, I want to do one or two more in the coming weeks just to find some degree of closure within myself on the whole matter.

Additionally, I'm working on a reviewish piece about the DVD releases of the Showtime series Masters of Horror. This was meant to be done a few days ago, but the scope of the thing has creeped (shades of my days reviewing sequels to Robocop and the like). The ever creeping scope is in no small way inspired by a viewing of a documentary about American horror films entitled The American Nightmare.

In the meantime, look at the faggots dance!

(or on an Ipod if you like)

The Rush Limbaugh Story: Part 11

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Fri, 28 Apr 2006 22:53:00 +0000

In Which Our Hero is Arrested

The Rush Limbaugh Story: Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Thu, 27 Apr 2006 06:07:00 +0000

In Which Our Hero Debates
(with himself)

"My friends," Limbaugh said into the microphone, his anger building with each word, "the liberals have an agenda.  The feminazis have an agenda.  The tree-hugging whackos," (he was satisfied with the way he'd just punched the word whackos, stretching a two syllable word into four or even five), "they too have an agenda.  It's the same agenda, you know.  The same agenda behind all of them."  He glanced down at his computer monitor, making sure that he had all his facts straight one last time before he made his declaration.

Sure enough, the facts were staring back at him, organized into a chart and nigh-well irrefutable.  Two years of exhaustive research that came to one inescapable conclusion.  "The liberals, the feminazis…. They want to impede your ability to live your life.  To make it impossible for you to make the choices that you know would be most beneficial for you…for your friends and family.  They want nothing more than the reunification of the Soviet Union and, soon after, the destruction of everything this great country of ours holds dear.  And when the Communists come marching in, who do you think they will put in charge of their new occupied territory?"  He paused.  He glanced down again.  Just to be sure.  "The Clintons, that's who."

He was on a roll and wanted to say more about this pressing subject, but the clock which counted down until the end of this segment of his show was nearing zero.  Part of his responsibility as a radio commentator was to honor his commitments to his advertisers.  After all, they paid his salary.  "Be back after this," he said and pushed back, away from the microphone.

The break began.  He had some time to think about what he'd said.  The impact it would have.  Limbaugh was concerned that his statements might be misinterpreted, that no one would believe him, that his study on the modern liberal would not be believed.  But, if he was challenged, he'd simply reveal the cold hard facts he possessed.

His assistant came inside.  "Need anything Mr. Limbaugh?" Jimmy asked.  Limbaugh was in no mood to talk.  "No, Jimmy," he said.

"Your water's low.  Let me refill that."  Jimmy reached for Limbaugh's half-full water bottle.  Limbaugh made no effort to stop him.  Jimmy was overeager, hoping to impress his idol every second of the day.  Stopping Jimmy would only be followed by the young man's puzzlement and a request for an explanation of some sort as to why Limbaugh didn't want to be properly hydrated.  The assistant took the bottle and left the room.

I just want to be alone, Rush thought as he lit a cigar.  It was a thought that had recurred a lot in the past few months.  Ever since his drug problem had hit the liberal media and his third wife had filed for divorce, he just wanted to be alone.  He wanted to remember why he scoured the newspapers everyday, why he watched Fox, CNN, MSNBC on a continuous basis, and why he searched the internet like some tech-savvy nerd.  He knew the reason: he was seeking answers, seeking the truth.  He'd been that way since that fateful day on the farm, so many years ago.  He knew this.  But he could not feel it.  Not anymore.

And was it worth it?  He'd failed to stop the September 11th attacks, despite knowing everything about the plot but the date.  Everything but the mothercrappin' date, he thought, sighing.  Maybe that was really when this need to be alone had started.  Knowing deep down that he could have saved the lives of those people like he'd saved the kitten today… that he might have really made a difference for once.

One of the television monitors displaying a live broadcast of CNN cut to a shot of the Earth from space.  It was a familiar site.  Doing something about Global Warming, he speculated.  But there were no supposed depleted coast lines on display, this was, apparently, just a shot of the Earth taken from a satellite in the last news cycle.  The news team had touched it up, sped up the rotation, and outlined the countries of the world using a purple color Limbaugh found offensive.  He scoffed.  There's China.  Of course they're going to show China.  China's their last hope after we bash North Korea.

The Earth rotated to display the United States.  Perhaps it was because this image followed so closely Limbaugh's disgust at the liberals' transparent plot to emphasize Chinese superiority or perhaps it was because today he'd faced a life or death situation and escaped with his life only due to his Midwestern ingenuity, but, whatever the reason, the all-too familiar shape of his country, America, filled him with such a deep and abiding sense of belonging that he rose to his feet.  He was searching for his own answers, true, but there was also a country out there that needed him, that depended on him to provide such facts as he'd just revealed.

Yes, America, his home, was what counted.  Limbaugh raised his right hand and held it flat against his forehead in a military salute.  "God speed, good country," he said to the TV, his voice quiet, serene.

Jimmy came back, water bottle now full of filtered water, just as, Limbaugh felt assured, the country would be filled with answers.  Why did they feel bad?  There was only one answer.  And it was staring at him from his computer monitor, the information organized into a chart and unquestionably irrefutable.  "Thank you, Jimmy," Rush said, taking a sip from the water bottle.  The young man, already on his way out of the audio booth, stopped in his tracks, turned, and looked at the broadcaster.

"What did you say, sir?" Jimmy asked.

"I said 'thank you, Jimmy'" Rush replied, repeating each word exactly so as to avoid any more confusion.  Jimmy was reliable, a good kid, but he could be dense and, at times, acted as deaf as Limbaugh himself.

Jimmy nodded, said nothing for a moment, but Limbaugh could see tears welling up in his assistant's eyes.  He's getting soft, Rush thought.  Probably afraid of the fallout he'll have to endure tonight.  Well, if he folds, I can find a new Jimmy.  Be a damn shame, though.

"Thank you, Mr. Limbaugh," Jimmy said, though this confused Rush even more since he'd done nothing worthy of praise, not for Jimmy.  If anything, he thought, I've made the kid's life harder and it'll only get worse from here.  He only shook his head and said, "Get out of here now.  I've got a show to do."

The Rush Limbaugh Story: Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Wed, 26 Apr 2006 02:50:00 +0000

In Which Our Hero is Introduced to Us by Way of a Daring Feat!

"Mothercrap," Limbaugh shouted before he could stop himself. Normally, he wouldn't have used such an expletive in front of a child, but when his ankle had slipped on the tree limb he'd thought that this would be the end.

"You're almost there!" shouted Annie, seven years old, blonde-haired, and staring straight at him.

He looked down and saw the child was no longer alone. A crowd of onlookers had gathered at the bottom of the tree. Dear God, he thought. There's a fireman down there. He inhaled, looked away, and placed a shaking hand on the next highest tree limb. God damn, he thought as he hoisted himself up. This is hard.

Without the crowd down there, he might have turned back, told the little girl to save her own kitty, and gone back to his waiting car. But not anymore. He was in the thick of it now and there was no getting out of the tree with anything less than a cat in his arms. Funny how heroes are made, he thought to himself (and not for the first time in his life). Sometimes you're just put in a situation and you just gotta do--he pulled himself up by another branch--the best you can.

He could see the cat now: an orange little guy poised on the tip of a relatively thin branch. The cat heard Limbaugh's ascent and turned to look at the intruder. Their eyes met and Limbaugh faltered, scared of the deceit and malevolence he saw in the cat's gaze. The eyes of the beast.... he thought. The prophecy is true after all. That bedevelled old nag was right....

He put all thoughts of his future out of his head and thought only of the little girl down there. The girl who only wanted her kitty back. A girl, he realized, not too different from himself. Strength renewed, he wrapped his legs around the trunk of the tree and reached out to the fiend before him. "Come on little guy," he said, his voice gentle, deep, melodious, professional. "Come to Rushie."

The cat hissed at him. He put his arms back around the tree. The bark scraped on his arms as he hugged it. What now?

He tried again. "Come on fella," he said, again using every oratory skill at his disposal. "Come on down. You're safe now."

The cat took a few halting steps towards Limbaugh. It stopped again and hissed, suspicious of this strange man.

A creaking sound followed by a slight tremor in the branch the cat sat on alerted Rush to the severity of the situation. Still, his voice was calm when he said, "It's okay. Here kitty kitty." (He won't respond to such a cliche! Limbaugh berated himself. Be original Goddammit.) He drew in breath through his nose, felt the air rush down to his diaphragm, and then spoke, "Cat, get into my arms this instant or we're all going to die. DO YOU HEAR ME? WE'RE GOING TO DIE UP HERE!"

The cat leapt into Limbaugh's waiting arms. Just as it did, a splintering crack sounded. The branch the cat had been sitting on a moment ago broke off and fell. Limbaugh cradled the cat in his arms and patted it. "Close call," he said. Then another, similar crack sounded.

Time slowed. He felt the limb give way below him. Felt himself begin to fall backwards. Falling meant defeat. Would probably mean death. The girl would see it all. So would the fireman. Limbaugh would have none of it.

He transferred the cat into one hand. With the other, he reached up and grabbed the next highest branch. It was a thin branch, he noted, and would definitely not support both his weight and the cat's. But he just needed it to hold long enough to buy enough time for his next move.

Holding the weak branch in one hand and the cat in the other, Limbaugh brought his feet up in front of him, pressed them flat against the tree trunk, and pushed himself off the trunk and out of the tree. He flew through the air, said to the cat, "You lucky son of a bitch, you know you'll land on your feet," before throwing the cat straight up into the air. He hit the ground, rolled, and caught the falling cat.

Applause broke out. The fireman started crying. The little girl ran up to Limbaugh and helped him up. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you so much mister."

"It's no problem," he said, brushing the grass and leaves out of his hair. He handed the cat to the girl. "This little guy," he said, "what's his name?"

"Carter," the girl said. "His name's Carter."

Limbaugh nodded. He'd known the cat's name the moment he'd laid eyes on it. But the situation just confirmed a long held belief of his: Heroes don't pick their moments. Moments make heroes out of men. He'd saved the cat despite what he knew... despite the prophecy. This made him, Rush Limbaugh, a good person.

The cat looked at him--looked through him--and Limbaugh knew that he'd see the eyes of this beast again. He smiled at the girl, ruffled her hair, and said, "Excuse me. I've got a show to do."

House of the Dead

noreply@blogger.com (DMW) — Tue, 18 Apr 2006 17:49:00 +0000

People far wittier and more clever than I have surely written about the myriad of weaknesses found in Uwe Boll's House of the Dead, a zombie film composed of the shadows projected by other films. I'm aware that adding to the conversation about this film is completely unnecessary (not to mention super-untimely... the movie contains a line in which a character doubts that George Romero will complete a fourth Dead film). Those with masochistic viewing tendencies probably have seen this movie and/or are aware of it. Those without such tendencies are probably unaware of its existence or, if they are, aren't bothered by the fact that they haven't seen it.

I do have such a masochistic pull towards movies such as this. As I've hinted at before, I enjoy the moving pictures in much the same way a dog enjoys thrown sticks. This poses a problem when baffled friends, well-wishers, and enemies want to know how on earth I could have enjoyed, say, Tim Burton's remake of Planet of the Apes (I thought it was all supposed to be a joke. Wasn't it all a joke?). The masochistic pull I feel towards seeing a film that has such an awful smell surrounding it is, most likely, some underhanded way in which I challenge this dog-stick relationship I have with the medium and, thus, play a game of relationship brinkmanship with film. This is no doubt because I am, for reasons I can't yet fathom, deeply ashamed of being so interested and passionate about the movies.

So, anyway, in this doggish way, I found House of the Dead an enjoyable film as the image was properly exposed, in focus, and, failing that, the audio was intelligible. So there.

Nevertheless, this film is certainly as bad as it is reputed to be. But my mind reels at just calling it bad and moving on. There are certain bad movies that achieve such a quality of illogic and absurdity that one wishes that this quality was the intent of the filmmakers (while knowing that it was not and, had it been, the result would probably be impossible to watch). This is quite entertaining, since it provides a nice mental challenge to try and tune into the logic of the film and just when you think you've got it all figured out... the hay zombies show up. These films feel like some sort-of Star Trek mind-trap devised by God-like beings who turn out to be insane children.

House of the Dead is not this bad. It is the worst kind of bad movie: a vapid bad movie. Sure there are some howlingly bad lines in there ("Guys, check out this book. Looks pretty old, maybe it'll help us.") and nearly every bad decision that could have been made in the making of this film is represented with gusto (who knows why the decision was made to splice in clips of the arcade game the movie is [it turns out] prequelizing). But, despite the exuberant nature of the movie's awfulness, the underlying tone is one of pale, pathetic imitation. Other, better films are, if I'm being generous, referenced and imitated often and in such a one-to-one manner that, in a non-generous mood, I'd say outright theft of intellecutal property occurs more than once during this film's running time.

In this way, House of the Dead feels like Resident Evil's little brother. This is bad news for House of the Dead since Resident Evil is pretty piss-poor to begin with. It's pathetic to watch the movie run through the motions of what makes a successful zombie movie in this day and age, playing the rhythms right, but missing every single note in the process. This isn't as maniacally fun to watch or to try and figure out as Zardoz or The Keep. It's ultimately an embarassing experience because you can see exactly what the film's trying to do and you can see it clearly fail every step of the way. What's more, what the movie's aiming for is so lowest common denominator that it never, with one exception*, makes any so bad-they're funny extreme boners of commercial calculation or pushes itself into any ground untrod by braver films before it.

So, yeah. House of the Dead is a bland awfulness.

Film, I wish I knew how to quit you.

*I'm supposed to believe Sega has a banner ad at a rave? What the fuck?!