The Power of Familiarity – Genre Cinema and the Other

At the outset, a brief metaphor from within the milieu that will be further discussed in the subsequent pages of this essay: in the 1991 action/adventure/children’s film Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze, the four titular heroes encounter rival super-mutants created by their nemesis, The Shredder. In order to overcome their powerful adversaries, the protagonists develop a counter-mutagen, which, when administered orally, will cause the villainous creations to revert to their original, harmless, animal forms. Knowing the super-mutants will refuse ingesting large doses of the exposed serum, the turtles conceal their subterfuge within several donuts, which are then offered freely to their antagonists. True to plan, the super-mutants cannot resist the sugary temptation and succumb to the serum inside. In essence, genre films affect their audience in a similar fashion: de-emphasizing, concealing, or attempting to bury altogether some form of social commentary whilst overtly projecting a familiar story with pre-established narrative arcs, characterizations, and cinematic visuals. In the above film, the outward story is one of comic mayhem and utilizing collaboration to triumph over a collective antagonist while trumpeting the virtues of friendship, loyalty, and tolerance toward others (the Turtles live in the sewers to avoid ridicule by the public). Underneath, however, is the more insidious message that will penetrate deeper into the viewer’s subconscious: all the characters in this film are also commodities, embodied in trading cards, video games, plastic action figures, and daily cartoons, which in themselves serve as vessels to perpetuate the insatiable desire to accumulate products. The film cloaks its advertisements within an ostensibly virtuous shroud, and it is this perverse sleight of hand that allows the less visible theme to prevail over its counterparts. Yet, without the attractive bubble of the genre, these hidden themes would sacrifice their potency, for the audience would be forced to recognize and evaluate all aspects of the narrative, and the messages would be muddled and lost within a barrage of unfamiliarity, or noticed and eliminated. Nothing perpetuates or debunks perceptions more potently than an idea enveloped within a pre-existing framework.

Utilizing the success of genre cinema, perhaps no concept has penetrated deeper into the public subconscious than the idea of the cinematic Other. In their essay Pornography, Ethnography, and the Discourses of Power, Christian Hansen, Catherine Needham, and Bill Nichols elaborate on the Other concept, which they define as embodying four characteristics. First, the Other is often the embodiment of a stereotype, or “represents that which cannot be acknowledged or admitted within the culture that engenders it” (204). The roots of figures like the femme fetale or the modonna/whore can be traced to an unspoken fear of powerful women or other unresolved gender issues within patriarchal societies. Second, the Other, “as projection and construct, functions as a threat or obstacle to the hero in pursuit of a goal” (205). Genre films provide myriad embodiments of this characteristic, typically in a dehumanizing light: the American Indian in early westerns, communists during the Cold War era, to, in more recent years, corporations as nothing but bloodthirsty capitalists willing to decimate any and all obstructions to their quest for financial omnipotence. Third, the tendency in Western thought to “[relegate] all such discourses to the category of master narrative: accounts that subsume all that they survey to one controlling story line; leaving little if any room for anomaly, difference, or Otherness” (207). Given that most “master narratives” are conceived, controlled, and embodied by white male Westerners, even virtuous outsiders are perceived with a degree of unfamiliar distance, whether it be the kind, wise, and ‘mystical’ Asian sensei in Western martial arts films, or female action heroes being given little opportunity to achieve the stereotypical ideal for female happiness: loving a man, getting married, and having children. Fourth, “there is a fundamental agreement that an alliance prevails between camera, sound, and white dominant, masculine subjectivity that relegates other subjectivities to subordinate Otherness rather than perceiving them in terms of relative difference” (208). By utilizing low angles, isolation within the frame, and other cinematic techniques, the white, male western protagonist is not depicted as among the Indians, each with their own set of equally valid perceptions, but instead he becomes an ocular surrogate for the audience, creating an ‘us’ and ‘them’ scenario, where naturally persons outside ourselves are converted to Others.

Before delving further into the Other concept within a particular genre, it is important to explore the reasons why genre films, of all the transportation methods for sensation, achieve a unique poignancy in their ability to perpetuate and disseminate the concept. Cinema on the whole derives its power through the reinterpretation and combination of previously existing art forms, namely theater, photography, music, and literature. At its core, the traditional film is a performance given a singular perspective by the photographer, which is subsequently set to music. Once these elements are aligned, the editor arranges them in a coherent strand; in much the same manner the novelist assembles a story by combining dialogue, action, and exposition. Through the collective power of these art forms, cinema becomes a highly persuasive vehicle for altering thought, as it is capable of stimulating several parts of the sensorium concurrently. Thus, cinema becomes the art form which best simulates reality. By incorporating or approximating commonplace sensations, less is required from the viewer in terms of the cognitive power necessary to keep the cinematic world together in our heads. This perceived submergence in the environment thus reassigns the task of interpreting the world to the specific viewer, whom, now emboldened by this transference of authority, will willingly accept his senses to be true.

With regards to narrative, cinema draws much of its power from the way it differs with its closest cousins: the novel and the play. For novels, the essential split originates from determining the onus of visual interpretation, which Seymour Chatman describes thusly: “So in its essential visual mode, film does not describe at all but merely presents; or better, it depicts, in the original etymological sense of that word: renders in pictorial form” (450). The implicit nature of the cinematic visual exists in stark contrast to the explicitness of the novel, which requires specific description for the reader to construct the narrative. A novel may describe a “man wearing a hat”, but an image of the same only suggests the hat, and the viewer may instead notice the man’s eyes, nose, or mouth. The ability to choose is empowering, and the manipulation of this choice by filmmakers provides cinema with much of its persuasive capability. The same argument of imagery suggestion could be made for theater, but the photographical nature of cinema proves the greater of the two because it better creates a sense of immersion. In terms of narrative presentation, stage plays appear more objective in their focus due to the practicality of the audience experience; meaning, one views a play entirely from a fixed perspective (a seat in a theater) and can take in the whole of the drama (the characters, sets, etc.) in one continuous sensation. Due to the nature of the stage production, less sensory guidance is given to the audience, and this increased burden of interpretation elevates the audience to a higher position of power than the cinema. Yet, cinema is ultimately the more persuasive medium because these same aspects of theater are detrimental to immersion. Theater actors are bound to the stage and the audience is bound to its seats, thus inhibiting theater from accurately mimicking the subjectivity of everyday life; a feat that cinema, conversely, can achieve with a wide array of photographic techniques. Through cuts, zooms, musical cues, and the like, our eyes and ears can be directed to specific moments, and the constant bombardment of new depictions to interpret is perpetually reaffirming our sense of immersion and interpretive control. Thus, does the viewer feel like the pilot of his own experience, and the filmmaker’s manipulation of this inflated perspective allows cinema propagate the concept of the Other with great effectiveness. The narrative of cinema is presented as real, therefore the Other, and all its embodying characteristics, appears real as well.

While cinema in general has immense power to proliferate the Other concept, genre cinema specifically harnesses the greatest capacity to do so. As mentioned previously, genre cinema subverts viewers’ intellectual gatekeepers by surrounding the Other with a familiar setting. Thus coaxed into a sense of familiarity, the Other is more effectively burrowed into the subconscious. It does this by two methods, the first by exploiting the perceived artistic demerits that genre cinema engenders; or, as Leo Braudy puts it: “Genre films offend our most common definition of artistic excellence: the uniqueness of the art object, whose value can in part be defined by its desire to be uncaused and unfamiliar, as much as possible unindebted to any tradition, popular or otherwise” (663). The perception of genre cinema as ‘trash cinema,’ devoid of profundity or artistic merit, diminishes the number of accepted interpretations of a film, and this circumvention of the permitted allows the Other to roam freely across moral blockades. Conversely, so-called ‘art films,’ or films that otherwise attempt to break from the genre tradition, are inhibited in their persuasiveness by their assumed quality, and are approached with a higher degree of investigatory energy. Subtler themes and subtext are sought out with greater ferocity, in part because they are assumed to exist, but also because focusing too heavily on the broader themes brings the art film perilously close to the genre film and the intellectual scrap heap. Thus, art films invite conscious interpretation of the Other, preventing it from greater influence, while genre films are more persuasive because they are presumed not to be.

Secondly, genre cinema, by subtly tweaking its own conventions, takes on a greater relative power than a similar change would have in another type of film. Braudy again: “The very relaxing of the critical intelligence of the audience, the relief that we need not make decisions−aesthetic, moral, metaphysical−about the film, allows the genre film to use our expectations against themselves, and, in the process, reveal to us expectations and assumptions that we may never have thought we had” (667). Frequently, this is embodied in genre films in which figures that were once Others are brought out of their roles. Westerns with positive portrayals of Indians, horror films with strong female characters: these films derive much of their power from the intentional reversing of the expected personification of Otherness. Films have existed with these concepts before, but put within the context of their genre’s conventions, and their potency increases by virtue of the contrast with the familiar. Unfortunately, many times the Other is brought so far outside his traditional role that he is effectively cast back into a new Otherness. Rather than being portrayed as bloodthirsty savages, now Indians in westerns are commonly given quasi-magical powers, and their supposed purity of life aids the white protagonist on his quest for self-acceptance. Still, the exaggerated, positive re-Othering can have its virtues, by calling attention to society’s inability to achieve more realistic versions of Otherly acceptance. Jean-Loup Bourget argues this point in a response that such positive Others are ‘escapist’: “A Utopian world which calls itself a Utopia is not escapist in the derogatory sense of the word; rather it calls the viewer’s attention to the fact that his own society is far removed from such an ideal condition” (193). Regardless of the portrayal of the Other, the potency with which the concept is disseminated derives from the fulfilling of audience expectations, coupled with their intentional alteration in key instances. Consider a checkerboard covered with only red checkers. To change all the checkers to black would diminish the importance of each individual change, but to change just one checker isolates and amplifies it.

While the Other has been around since the inception of genre cinema, the various forms taken by specific Others can and has evolved over time. The following analysis will trace this evolution in one genre, the modern Hollywood action picture, and one of the Others commonly encountered there: Asian people and culture. The selection of this particular genre is for several reasons: first, modern action cinema is a quintessentially cinematic genre that cannot be duplicated in other mediums, given its dependence on inherently cinematic traits like motion, quick editing, and spectacle. Second, their sheer popularity with audiences suggests its version of the Other has been more widely viewed, implying a greater degree of influence. Finally, the visual language of modern action cinema is greatly influenced by a people it often portrays as the Other, namely through the the wushu films and action/gangster pictures of China and Hong Kong. This is an unfortunate irony given that, as Ella Shohat points out, “Western art has always been indebted to and transformed by non-Western art” (14). All too often the West elevates aspects of another culture without elevating the perception of its people.

Within action cinema, the Asian Other is typically portrayed as one of two modes. The first is the Undefeatable Fighting Force commonly seen in martial arts films made in Hollywood with white protagonists (Bloodsport, Kickboxer, Lethal Weapon 4, Rush Hour 3). Often, these characters are given little to no dialogue and use martial arts to nefarious ends, while simultaneously confounding the protagonists with their savage fighting style. The two Jean-Claude Van Damme films, Bloodport (1988) and Kickboxer (1989) exemplify this trait, by making his adversaries nearly sub-human in their lack of language and humanity. The villains, Chong Li in the former (played by the hulking Bolo Yeung) and Tong Po in the latter, spend most of the films grunting, scowling, or beating (mostly white) extras to a pulp, often killing them to prove their menace. Eventually, Van Damme rises up and defeats both, but not before they resort to ‘dirty’ tricks in desperate attempts to prevail. These instances of the Other embody stereotypes within their own genre, but simultaneously violate stereotypes enforced elsewhere. Both demonstrate skewed versions of ‘yellow peril’, what Gina Marchetti refers to as “…the notion that all nonwhite people are by nature physically and intellectually inferior, morally suspect, heathen, licentious, disease-ridden, feral, violent, uncivilized, infantile, and in need of the guidance of white, Anglo-Saxon Protestants” (3). The physical superiority of Chong Li and Tong Po runs in contrast to the expected, permitted role for Asians to take in the cinema, while simultaneously encroaching on the stereotype of the “hypersexual and athletic black” (Hansen, Needham, and Nichols 204)  (at one point Tong Po rapes a female protagonist). Through this ‘breaking out’ of one pre-established stereotype and into another, the Undefeatable Fighting Force violates the white male ‘master narrative’, thus targeting himself for termination within that system. The concept that an Asian man will become powerful enough to challenge the white protagonists offends the mores of the preexisting order. The Other not only must remain Other, but any attempt to alter or subvert the specifics of his Otherness will result in negative repercussions by the architects and managers of the system which defined him. This act of returning the social balance to its previous arrangement is portrayed on screen as a triumph of virtue over a seemingly invincible foe, and the David versus Goliath motif parallels Linda Williams’ interpretation of Carol J. Clover in their analysis of a different genre, the slasher film: “…pleasure, for a masculine-identified viewer, oscillates between identifying with the initial passive powerlessness of the abject and terrorized girl-victim of horror and her later, active empowerment” (733).

The second role most commonly seen for Asians in action films is that of a sensei or guide (the aforementioned Van Damme films, The Karate Kid, Rush Hour 2, On Deadly Ground, Kill Bill). This character often embodies an increasingly nature-oriented view of the world, and thus is considered ‘wise’ compared to the modern, ignorant Westerner. Typically, these characters encounter the white protagonist at some kind of crossroads and through their ‘Zen’ philosophy, vague mysticism, and martial arts training, they provide the hero with the knowledge and temperance he needs to succeed. Like the Undefeatable Fighting Force, these Others typically know martial arts, but rather than exploit their abilities for lasciviousness, financial gain, or celebrity, these characters abide by the old cliché that one learns martial arts so one never has to use it. In certain films, the white protagonist travels to Asia, and thus surrounded by yellow peril must turn to this Other to effectively ‘translate’ the perceived primitiveness and savagery of the culture into a language with a timbre more suited to the Westerner. In Kickboxer, for example, following the crippling of his brother in a match by the Muai Thai fighter Tong Po, Van Damme’s character, Kurt Sloane, seeks out Xian Chow, a kind and unassuming villager to teach him the art of Muai Thai kickboxing. As a representative of the West, his presumed position of power requires he not only defeat Tong Po and reestablish the hierarchy, but must do so using Tong Po’s techniques, thus re-solidifying the West’s superiority in all arenas. This is accomplished through a series of training sequences where Xian Chow employs a variety of rudimentary exercises, such as dropping coconuts on Sloane’s stomach, stretching his limbs with ropes to increase flexibility, and getting him into drunken pub brawls to test his muscle memory. These sequences are given weight because of the implied knowledge that as the Asian sensei, these techniques possess an almost magical quality and will unlock a power that Western training styles (going to the gym, sparring) cannot accomplish. The stereotype of the sensei being in concert with some kind of divine understanding is brought to life visually by Sloane having visions of ancient Thai warriors training in a similar fashion. While the sensei is a powerful character, he is permitted by the system to survive because he imparts his knowledge to the white protagonist without challenging his authority, thus allowing the power structure to remain unabated.

In recent years, a shift has begun to occur in the portrayal of Asians in western action cinema. Spurred by an increase in the non-white population of America, along with the success of the Hong Kong gangster pictures of the late 1980s and early 1990s, Hollywood has incorporated many of the stylistic elements, along with several of their creators, into Western action pictures. As a result, as Mary C. Beltrán argues, power in these modern cross cultural action pictures is determined less by the perception of inherent white dominance, but “cultural savvy” (61) and “the ability to better one’s opponent and maintain one’s dignity, even in another’s territory” (58). A variety of action films from the late 1990s involve Asian protagonists, often played by previously established international stars like Chow Yun Fat or Jet Li, traveling to America and embodying the heroic characteristics previously reserved for white protagonists. In films like Romeo Must Die, The Replacement Killers, Rush Hour, or Bulletproof Monk , the Other takes the form of a sensei/Undefeatable Fighting Force hybrid, continuing to aid a Western character in peril, but from the vantage point of the primary narrative captain (and principal distributor of righteous violence) . In many cases the narratives around these characters involves some kind of ‘Asian business’ brought to American shores, which proves indecipherable and impenetrable for the traditional Western protagonist. As a result, an Other must be brought in to simultaneously navigate the fresh cultural waters of America and defeat the threat posed by the invasion of his fellow Others. By doing so, he returns the troublesome anomaly to its original source, reestablishing the status quo. He remains an Other, but in contrast to earlier action pictures, the white male protagonist is incapable of resolving the drama alone, and must rely on the Other for aid in more than an instructional capacity. The business of the Other must be resolved by the Other, and not by the Westerner in Other clothing, donned solely to perpetuate his supremacy. Ultimately, these recent action films preserve the image of Western dominance, but not before it is diminished and temporarily loaned to the Other.

While this portrayal of Asian people and culture still exhibits echoes of more ignorant times, it nevertheless represents the ability for the Other to evolve on screen. This shift is influenced both by the public’s evolving social consciousness causing a negative response to previous depictions, thus designating them outdated, offensive, or incorrect; but also because the increased mashing up of cultures in modernity allows for broader exposure to the cinematic output of what were previously Other cultures. This allows for a greater understanding of the Other since his portrayal is not filtered through the Western paradigm, while simultaneously opening the door for an influencing of the Western cinematic language through the incorporation of stylistic elements, as well as personnel, from Other societies (who naturally reduce the Otherness of their own origins). Because of their rigid narrative and visual construction, genre cinema specifically can do more to evolve the concept of the Other into more positive areas. By taking advantage of the perceived realism of cinema and the familiarity of their narrative forms, the altered portrayal of the Other in genre film can more effectively subvert preconceived notions and impact perceptions to a greater decree. If the cinematic Other is to be evolved, it will be genre film leading the charge.

Works Cited

Beltran, Mary C. “The New Hollywood Racelessness: Only the Fast, Furious, (and Multiracial) Will Survive.” Cinema Journel 44.2 (2005): 50-67. Print.

Bloodsport. Dir. Newt Arnold. Perf. Jean Claude Van-Damme and Bolo Yeung. Warner Home Video, 2004. DVD.

Bourget, Jean-Loup. “Social Implications in the Hollywood Genres.” Journel of Modern Literature 3.2 (1973): 191-200. Print.

Braudy, Leo. “Genre: The Conventions of Connection.” Ed. Leo Braudy and Marhsall Cohen. Film Theory and Criticism. New York: Oxford UP, 2004. 663-79. Print.

Bulletproof Monk. Dir. Paul Hunter. Perf. Chow Yun-Fat and Seann William Scott. MGM, 2003. DVD.

Chatman, Seymour. “What Novels Can Do That Films Can?t (And Vice Versa).” Ed. Leo Braudy and Marhsall Cohen. Film Theory and Criticism. New York: Oxford UP, 2004. 445-60. Print.

Gina, Marchetti. “Introduction.” Romance and the “Yellow Peril”: Race, Sex, and Discursive Strategies in Hollywood Fiction. Berkley and Los Angeles: University of California, 1993. 1-9. Print.

Hansen, Christian, Catherine Needham, and Bill Nichols. “Pornography, Ethnography, and the Discourses of Power.” Representing Reality: Issues and Concepts in Documentary. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1992. 201-28. Print.

The Karate Kid. Dir. John G. Avildsen. Perf. Ralph Macchio and Pat Morita. Sony Pictures, 2005. DVD.

Kickboxer. Dir. Mark DiSalle and David Worth. Perf. Jean Claude Van-Damme and Michel Qissi. HBO Home Video, 1999. DVD.

Kill Bill – Volume One. Dir. Quentin Tarantino. Perf. Uma Thurman and David Carradine. Miramax, 2004. DVD.

Kill Bill – Volume Two. Dir. Quentin Tarantino. Perf. Uma Thurman and David Carradine. Miramax, 2004. DVD.

Lethal Weapon 4. Dir. Richard Donner. Perf. Mel Gibson, Danny Glover, and Jet Li. Warner Home Video, 1998. DVD.

On Deadly Ground. Dir. Steven Seagal. Perf. Steven Seagal, Michael Caine, and Joan Chen. Warner Home Video, 1999. DVD.

The Replacement Killers. Dir. Antoine Fuqua. Perf. Chow Yun-Fat and Mira Sorvino. Columbia Pictures, 1998. DVD.

Romeo Must Die. Dir. Andrzej Bartkowiak. Perf. Jet Li and Aaliyah. Warner Home Video, 2000. DVD.

Rush Hour 2. Dir. Brett Ratner. Perf. Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker. New Line Cinema, 2007. DVD.

Rush Hour 3. Dir. Brett Ratner. Perf. Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker. New Line Home Video, 2007. DVD.

Rush Hour. Dir. Brett Ratner. Perf. Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker. New Line Home Video, 2007. DVD.

Shohat, Ella, and Robert Stam. “From Eurocentrism to Polycentrism.” Unthinking Eurocentrism: Multiculturalism and the Media. London: Routledge, 1994. 13-54. Print.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze. Dir. Michael Pressman. Perf. Joseph Amodei and Kurt Bryant. New Line Home Video, 2002. DVD.

Williams, Linda, and Marhsall Cohen. “Film Bodies: Gender, Genre, and Excess.” Ed. Leo Braudy. Film Theory and Criticism. New York: Oxford UP, 2004. 727-41. Print.

Double Feature Day!

At long last, I have completed my slog through the ‘B’ titles in my movie guide, so I can finally get back to my queue and catch up on all the more recent movies I haven’t seen yet.

I’m Not There (Todd Haynes, 2007)

With the recent slew of biopics about famous musicians in recent years, the prospect of a Bob Dylan movie seemed a perilous concept. How could an iconoclast like Dylan, that is treated with the reverence reserved for Messiahs by his devoted fans, ever be the subject of a film biography that pleases both them and a mainstream audience? Unlike Ray Charles or Johnny Cash, both who battled and defeated drug addiction, Dylan has lived a more difficult life to adapt to the screen. Sure, there are some major moments: his birth onto the folk scene, going electric, his motorcycle crash, divorce from his first wife, conversion to Christianity, and so on, but to simply show these in chronological order in the standard biopic format would do a disservice to their magnitude, but also to the man himself, who devoted several albums to breaking with tradition and form.

That being said, Todd Haynes, the eccentric filmmaking who has previously made films about Karen Carpenter with Barbie dolls and recreated the Douglas Sirk-style melodrama, devotes his formidable talent and love of past filmmaking styles to Dylan’s story. Eschewing a traditional narrative, he instead offers a series of vignettes into the different facets of Dylan’s life and personality, with each section lead by a different actor. We see Dylan the Guthrie disciple, played by a young black actor named Marcus Carl Franklin. He is devoted to reviving the past folk scene until he is told by a kind woman to sing about his own time. This introduces us to Christian Bale playing the Greenwich Village version of Dylan, an up-and-coming folk singer on the verge of superstardom. Once famous, his tour of England chronicled in the documentary ‘Don’t Look Back’ is heightened by an amazing performance by Cate Blanchett, who received an Oscar nomination for the role. Later, at the height of his popularity, he is played by Heath Ledger as a man whose fame and prickly relationship with fame is driving his marriage apart. Later, Bale returns as the Christian Dylan, in a brief scene that has him preaching to a small congregation.

All of these interpretations are fairly straightforward and familiar to fans with knowledge of the actual events they are based on. The most divisive and abstract of the vignettes focus on Richard Gere as a drifter living in a small southern town that’s about to be destroyed to make way for a freeway. This episode is supposed to represent Dylan’s periods of being a recluse, like after his motorcycle crash in 1966 when he retreated to Woodstock and didn’t tour again for eight years. Dylan often wrote songs about outlaws and drifters like the man Gere plays, but that fact would be lost on many people not familiar with his whole discography.

On the whole, ‘I’m Not There’ is a portrait of a man with a brain that doesn’t quite work the same way others do. He is constantly bringing up strange points, never answering a reporter’s question straight on, and is content to be unpopular, or, at the very least, he wants to cast off the ‘voice of a generation’ tag he was branded with. As a traditional biography, the film fails mightily, since the narrative’s chronology is jumbled and key moments in his life are omitted or barely touched upon. As an artistic interpretation of a famous artist, however, it is a smashing success for devoted Dylan fanatics (of which I include myself). For an artist that is constantly tweaking his own songs, changing pace, arrangement, and so on, the idea of a traditional biography about his life is nauseating. Luckily, Haynes took a cue from his subject and similarly tweaked the traditional form, this giving us a strange and wonderful insight into one of America’s most beloved musicians.

Teeth (Mitchell Lichtenstein, 2007)

A breakout film from Sundance, this campy black comedy takes a traditional plot device from ancient myth, vagina dentata, or toothed vagina, and interpolates it into modern America. The story concerns Dawn, a puritanical girl that grew up in the shadow of a nuclear reactor, which subtly explains her mutation, although it is never explicitly stated. At her high school, she is picked on relentlessly for being a part of an abstinence group that roams the area preaching pledges. The children pledge to remain abstinent until marraige and are given a red ring to symbolize their devotion to the cause. Ironically, this devotion to abstinence serves as a defense mechanism for Dawn’s lovers, since her vagina in crammed full of razor sharp teeth which later befuddles an autopsy expert. Dawn discovers her secret when she is raped by one of her friends, and when her anatomy chomps off his member, she is left feeling horrified and scared. The rest of the film is about Dawn coming to grips with her unique anatomy, culminating in several scenes that are too campy to be gross, and which I found completely hilarious. The wry satire of abstinence pledges and the catharsis of seeing macho assholes get their comeuppance in gruesome ways makes ‘Teeth’ a fantastic movie to surprise your friends with. I only regret that I knew the premise of the film before watching it, because I feel that going in blind is the best way to experience the unique tone and story of this beautiful little movie.

Late to the party, now wishing I didn’t show

Juno (2007, Jason Reitman)

Since this film has already been analyzed from every conceivable angle, I’ll simply offer my few short thoughts on the picture, which I found to be watchable, but ultimately not very profound or interesting.

1) People were right. The first 15 or so minutes of this thing are pluck-your-ears-off irritating. I imagine Diablo Cody had a list of every stupid internet buzz word or ‘hip’ piece of slang at her side while she wrote this thing, and once she got to around page 20 of the script realized she had already blown through 60% of them. I mean, do people really say ‘homeskillet’ anymore? I remember kids saying that in 5th grade and thinking it was lame then. This chick won an Oscar? Man, in a few years they had better get my award ready for my teenage coming-of-age story, ‘How Betty ‘LOLerskates’ Whitman Crunked Her ROFLcopter Back’.

2) The cast was nice and did what they could with some of the more mangled, overly written dialogue. I especially liked JK Simmons as Juno’s dad, but then again he’s pretty great in everything. He exhibited the perfect balance of scolding his daughter for being a moron and caring for her predicament. Still, he’s better in ‘Spiderman’ and ‘The Ladykillers.’

3) I have a hard time believing that a kid as smart and savvy as Juno would have sex without a condom. Or that Bleeker would let her, even if he had wanted her for a long time. This is a kid that thinks about his future every second of the day, yet it didn’t occur to him to use a little protection?  Maybe I’m over thinking this, since there would be no movie if they had thought like the intelligent people the movie wants me to think they are. It’s a bit like some old joke I heard about ‘Forrest Gump’: what if his bus comes? There’s no movie. And also, how long were they sitting at that bus stop? I guess the bus could have come in between scenes and we don’t see it, but why would that lady continue listening to him? Maybe I’m insensitive, but I’d prefer not to wait for a bus while listening to a jabbering moron recite his life story like I’ve got nothing else to do, like, you know, THE REASON I NEED TO TAKE THE BUS.

4) How thoroughly has Wes Anderson permeated the indie film scene? It seems every year there’s a new critic’s darling that apes his style,  with carefully framed, purposely artificial art direction-driven scenes strung together by soft indie rock. Here’s the deal, when there’s a director with a unique visual style like Anderson, you probably shouldn’t rip it off. Everyone will know where you got it from, and it’s impactful to an exponentially lesser degree each time. See this article.

5) Lastly, the prase ‘honest to blog’ is quite possibly the most annoying combination of words I have ever heard. I’m very glad this didn’t become a thing.

The precociousness of youth

The Butcher Boy (Neil Jordan, 1997)

From Irish director Neil Jordan comes this tale of a mischievous boy that  that turns everyone’s life around him completely upside-down. Adapted by Jordan and Pat McCabe from his own novel, protagonist Francie Brady, played by newcomer Eamonn Owens, is talkative, unpredictable, spontaneous, and a constant spinner of tales. Along with his best friend, Joe (Alan Boyle), he wreaks his particular brand of havoc on a poor local boy named Phillip Nugent (Andrew Fullerton) and his mother, who is Francie’s arch nemesis. Mrs. Nugest is played with a stiff upper lip and evil stepmother scowl by Fiona Shaw, whom most Americans will recognize as Mrs. Dursley from the Harry Potter movies. Filling out the cast is an assortment of known Irish character actors, including Brendan Gleeson as the local Catholic schoolmaster and Stephen Rea as Francie’s father. Also of note is the provocative casting of Sinead O’Connor as the Virgin Mary, a move I’m sure upset a few Catholics in the audience.  The story takes us through the defining moments of Francie’s childhood, culminating in a sadistic act that catapults the film from mildly odd to downright absurdity.

Throughout the movie, I couldn’t tell if the film was supposed to be fantastical or the true story of McCabe’s childhood (at least until the final reel). The film is told in a series of episodes that take Francie around town, working for the local butcher, to a school for troublesome boys, and finally to a mental hospital. As a result, the film loses its narrative thrust and each segment seems more like a charming short film than a piece of a larger story. Also, Francie is a mean, nasty kid that does little to endear himself with the audience, which would be fine if his exploits were clever or served some larger purpose. Unfortunately, his episodes of rotten behavior string together basically unchanged for the duration of the film, and only once Joe has become sick of his antics and begins shunning him does the film attain any kind of emotional power. There are many films about growing up in the UK and unfortunately this film does not do enough for most of its running time to stand out from the herd.

While the screenplay is unfulfilling, the film possesses other virtues, namely the acting and camerawork. The film is beautifully shot and the town feels alive and unique, a bustling, quirky town could be the subject of many stories. The cast is note perfect, especially the children who have to do much of the heavy lifting. Even with these successful elements, I feel the film ultimately fails to be a gripping narrative due to its screenplay’s structure and the uninteresting protagonist. The screen has seen many mischievous children in the past, and while this story goes places those usually more innocent yarns do not, Francie spends all but the final act being a fairly standard issue ‘troubled child’. ‘The Butcher Boy’ is a noble effort, but alas an unsuccessful one.

I wish I could be more formal…

Gran Torino (Clint Eastwood, Two-Thousand-Eight*)

It has been well established that Clint is a bad-ass, and not in a ‘once every few movies’ kind of way, but in an eternal ‘this guy could play a perpetually weeping 11 year old girl and still kick anyone’s ass that ever lived’ kind of way. That being said, ‘Gran Torino’, his latest film as director/actor/kicker of all ass, does little to refute this point. As I am a man of simple recommendations, here goes: if you want to watch one of cinema’s all time greatest bad-asses doing his thing, see this movie. Conversely, if you have no affinity for bad-assness, or not-quite-good-ness, or anything approaching what this move lays on the table, then by all means stay away. Go watch ‘Sex and the City’ or ‘The Women’ or ‘Twilight’. You don’t want Clint and he doesn’t want you. But for everyone else, see this movie because it serves as a blueprint for how every man sould act when he gets old (minus the racism & other P.C. faux pas). I feel old all the time, but watching this told me how to age like a fucking bad-ass. All hail Clint, may he live to be 200 years old. No more need be said, as Walt would have wanted it.

*WordPress kept changing ‘2008′ to ‘200  + smiley face’, so I changed the date to words to fix it. I don’t get it either.

Hitchcock’s zany experiment

Rope (Alfred Hitchcock, 1948)

It begins with a scream. Cut to a rope pulled tightly over a young man’s neck, a few last gasps and then his body falls limp into the arms of the perpetrators: the arrogant, scheming Brandon (John Dall) and his fidgety, nervous roommate/possible lover Phillip. They stuff the body in an Italian chest with a poor lock, but no matter since no one will look inside. Next begins the grand finale of their perfect crime: to throw a lavish party in the very room where the crime was committed, inviting friends and family of the diseased to drink and eat with the dead man’s body still in the room.

So begins ‘Rope’, Alfred Hitchcock’s fun and stylish film adaptation of the stage play by Patrick Hamilton. The play takes place in real time over the course of the party, so to keep with this time frame Hitchcock tried something completely different: he filmed the movie with nothing but reel-long takes, often burying the cuts in seamless transitions so the film plays like one long shot. Since film reels at the time were about 10 minutes in length, the camera will every so often move behind a character’s back and become dark, signaling a reel change. Granted, this method of shooting the film appeals mainly to cinema geeks and industry people, but the film is a great study of the superiority complex possessed by the rich, and their belief that other classes of people are unworthy of their time, or even their lives.

Throughout the party, Brandon is constantly referencing the diseased in offhanded ways, alluding to the condition of the man in the box. Of all the guests, only their former housemaster at prep school, Rupert (James Stewart), seems to detect anything fishy. Rupert is first tipped off by the awkwardness of Phillip, who seems very uncomfortable and edgy the entire evening. In a later act of arrogance, Brandon addresses the party guests about the philosophy he claims he learned from Rupert: that certain people are intellectually superior to others, and the morals and customs of the lesser beings do not apply to the greater. Therefore, if a higher being was to murder a lower, it would not only receive no condemnation, but be praised as a thinning of the gene pool of the lower order. Throughout the film, Brandon is cocksure with the sense of entitlement prevalent with persons of his societal standing, while Phillip is nervous, easily agitated, drinking heavily, and clearly incapable of coming to grips with the deed the two have committed. As a film produced under the Hay’s code, the audience knows the two will be caught eventually, but the joy of the film is watching Rupert carefully extracting the truth from the two men, culminating in a great climax of confrontation that provides Brandon with much needed comeuppance.

Throughout the film I hated Brandon. He’s the kind of young person that never had to worry about anything in his life, and for that he feels he’s earned a special place above normal society. This film serves as a wonderful satire of the upper classes. What if their sense of superiority was taken to the extreme, and they began murdering ‘lesser’ people to prove their intellect and willingness to support their ideals with action? That their foil comes at the hands of a former schoolmaster, who from Stewart’s portrayal seems to have not come from a place of privilege, is a wonderful exercise in shadenfreude. Aside from this, ‘Rope’ is standard Hitchcock, that is to say masterfully crafted and wildly entertaining. Was there ever a director that could better take boilerplate suspense plots and spin them into riveting acts of cinema? ‘Rope’ serves as another in the long list of examples that the answer is no.

Interracial love from the director of ‘Birth of a Nation’

Broken Blossoms (D.W. Griffith, 1919)

After directing the epic ‘Birth of a Nation’, a film that I’d imagine has been the subject of more ‘It’s a great film, but…’ lectures than any other, D.W. Griffith attempted in his next few films to offer a cinematic mea culpa. While the enormous epic ‘Intolerance’ is the most famous of these, ‘Broken Blossoms’ came a few years later and actually cost more than Birth, although it does not appear so on screen. Shot entirely on sets that are designed to mimic a few squalid areas in London, the film is visually quite beautiful in its visual despondency and crafts a believable milieu for its characters to roam. Blossoms also incorporates a slew of cinematographic tricks to make star Lillian Gish appear radiant and otherworldly, as she is the fable’s stand in for pure innocence and benevolence. Also appearing here is Richard Barthelmess, a longtime Griffith collaborator, as the kind Chinese man that aids the heroine.

As The Yellow Man, Barthelmess begins the story in China, where as a Buddhist he decides the western world needs a touch of Eastern kindness and moves to London to improve the world. Years later he finds himself poor, outcast, and addicted to opium that he smokes alone in his apartment above his shop. His life is suddenly transformed when he encounters Gish, the pitiful daughter of local boxing ace Battling Burroughs. Burroughs is a drunk, violent man that often takes out his rage on his daughter in the form of a leather whip, and when he whips her to the point of near-death she manages to drag herself to the Chinese shopkeeper’s door and collapse. There, she is mended, given nice silk clothes, and treated as a human being for the first time in her life. The Chinese man is instantly in love, although their love is never consummated and instead takes the form of wide-eyed stares of longing. Of course, Burroughs finds out about this and assumes his daughter is having a tryst with a foreigner, the one thing he hates above all others. Thus, the conflict is borne, to be played out in a number of riveting scenes that lose none of their emotional power despite the lack of sound.

While ‘Broken Blossoms’ is an excellent film, it requires a certain caveat before watching. The acting can be broad at times, which is common for many silent movies. Also, the attitudes towards the Chinese seem painfully dated to a 21st century audience, as the Chinese character is played by a white man in makeup, continually referred to as ‘Chink’ or ‘Yellow Man’, and possesses myriad stereotypes: addicted to opium, a shopkeeper, constantly sharing Buddhist wisdom in a removed phrasing that implies a higher plane of consciousness. Still, the story is effective and essential for students of film history, considering much of the common cinematic language was invented by Griffith. ‘Broken Blossoms’ is ultimately a fable about tolerance and forbidden love, and in this regard it succeeds wonderfully.

I wonder if the book is any good

The Golden Compass (Chris Weitz, 2007)

In an attempt to repeat the success they had with ‘Lord of the Rings’, New Line Cinema sunk millions of dollars and the future of their studio on a lavish production of Phillip Pullman’s atheist-leaning fantasy trilogy ‘His Dark Materials’, and supposedly they were so confident in their imminent riches they sold the foreign distribution rights to offset the cost of production. Unfortunately, the film was only a modest success in America and New Line was soon gobbled up by Warner Bros., thus squashing the prospects of seeing the other two books in the trilogy adapted for the screen. As a result, we are left with an undercooked story that can’t help be feel anticlimactic, especially since the film spends such a great deal of time dealing with issues that I assume are resolved in subsequent books. For the first film, the task fell to Chris Weitz, a director who until now had never helmed a large scale film, and apparently he was so overwhelmed by the task he swore them off forever. Sadly, his feelings are painfully evident on screen as the film world, while pretty, lacks the grandeur and believability that Peter Jackson accomplished on the Rings films. The world of Golden Compass is distractingly clean, with even the dirtier locations obviously the work of an art department looking at pictures of dirt and recreating them with artificial elements. All this would be less distracting if the narrative were stronger, but it suffers greatly from the film adaptation and left only a feeling that this story is much larger than the canvas allows. While clocking in at a standard two hour running time, the story feels rushed, as if the film only needs to check off the necessary plot developments in each scene before moving onto the next elaborate locale.

The plot concerns an alternate universe to our own in which our souls are not inside us but are embodied in Daemons, animal representations that are different for everyone and can speak to their owners. The protagonist is a young girl named Lyra who has spent her life growing up in a kind of boarding house / university that is apparently at some odds with the powerful Magisterium, an ancient organization that seems an obvious stand-in for the Catholic Church. Lyra is visited one day by her uncle, Lord Asriel, whom Daniel Craig plays as a more confident Phileas Fogg. Asriel is obsessed with learning the mysteries of Dust, a substance that he believes ties their world and all other worlds together. The Magisterium views Dust as something dangerous and seems to silence Asriel, but he manages to escape and pursue his experiments, although we never learn about them in this film. Before leaving the school, he entrusts Lyra with an Alethiometer, or Golden Compass, a device that the Magisterium has made a mission of destroying throughout the world, save for the titular device. Lyra is soon visited by the mysterious Mrs. Coulter, a wealthy ally of the Magisterium played by Nicole Kidman. Mrs. Coulter offers to take Lyra to the north, but her intentions are soon discovered to be evil and Lyra escapes, starting a journey that eventually involves a sort of air-pirate, nomads, giant talking polar bears, and evil science experiments.

The chief problem with the movie is a lack of information. For most scenes, names were dropped left and right that are scarcely defined and I suspect that someone who had read the novel would have a much better time comprehending the geo-political landscape at play here. Sadly, the film has little time for this because it has to make room for middling action scenes, scores of characters that are given such little screen time they scarcely register, and foreshadowing to later developments that will never appear on a movie screen. While the performances are mostly competent, the dialogue is generally the kind of fantasy story gobbledygook that would seem completely unnatural because it is chocked full of exposition that anyone living in the world would already know. Ultimately, the film comes across as a missed opportunity. Judging by the stellar reputation of the novels, I assume there is a great story here, but it is sadly bungled by a filmmaker that either has little connection to the material, or was so overwhelmed by the massive production he got sidetracked by dealing with the art and effects departments and couldn’t focus on telling a more compelling narrative. Thus, the film’s main function is to serve as a two hour advertisement for the novels, which it excels at and I now plan to read to find out where the story was supposed to be heading. ‘The Golden Compass’ is a prime example that makes the case for how exceptional the ‘Lord of the Rings’ films are, that while they may be a tad overrated, seeing something like this reminds me how difficult it can be to translate an entire fictionalized universe to the screen. Sadly for New Line, this film only makes me appreciate a different film more.

Neglected Queue Roundup

Since I’ve finally gotten my hands on a working television, I’ve re-immersed myself in my Netflix & Gamefly queues that had been long neglected, either because the movies I had were long and depressing, or the sudden influx of zombies has sapped away my time. The answer lies somewhere in the middle, so in lieu of writing lengthy reviews for each piece of media I consumed during this mad-rush to catch up, I’ll simply give my brief thoughts on each item. Regular-length reviews will resume now that I’m back to writing more frequently, or at least that’s the plan.

The Wrestler (2008, Darren Aronofsky)

So much hay has been made about this movie as mimicking star Mickey Rourke’s actual life (hot in the 80’s, cold in the 90’s, now trying to make a comeback) that it almost obscures the film itself. While this movie will mostly be remembered for Rourke’s amazing performance as Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson, I feel special mention should be made of director Darren Aronofsky, whose first two films, ‘Pi’ and ‘Requiem for a Dream’ showcased his dazzling and hyperactive visual style. Fast cuts, motion effects, and other kinetic trickery lent themselves well to the stories of a math genius going insane and heroin addicts, respectively. His next film, ‘The Fountain’ was a passion project for him that he spent years trying to put together, first with Brad Pitt in the lead before finally settling with Hugh Jackman and several million dollars cut from the budget. The resulting film was frustrating because the lack of money was evident in the smaller, often claustrophobic sets, especially in the Spanish Conquistador section of the movie. While ‘The Fountain’ has some amazing visuals, particularly the outer space sequences, the film suffered greatly from its truncation and lost much of its emotional power. With ‘The Wrestler’, Aronofsky is back to working with someone else’s material, in this case an original script by former Onion writer Robert D. Siegel, and the result is a wonderful, character driven drama about hanging on to your passions long after your body or society has deemed them over, and to carry on would be a sad, pathetic affair. What surprised me most was a distinct lack of excessive visual flair, normally an Aronofsky trademark, and a sharp focus drawn on the writing and acting. As fellow wunderkind Paul Thomas Anderson did on the marvelous ‘There Will Be Blood’, Aronofsky virtually removes his signature from the film and allows the audience to become enveloped by the milieu of regional professional wrestling. The events and wrestlers are portrayed with an almost documentary-like verisimilitude, showing these men that are literally destroying their bodies on a weekly basis for a handful of 20’s and an adoring crowd of a few hundred people, max. The only weak link in the film is Even Rachel Wood as Rourke’s daughter, who is given little to do except give clichéd emotional outbursts about Rourke’s negligence as a father. Also worth mentioning is Marisa Tomei’s performance as an over-the-hill stripper coming to grips with outgrowing her profession, and Rourke’s pining for her affections beyond the pleasantries exchanged between dancer and patron. The film comes highly recommended, especially for people that thumb their noses and make snarky comments toward professional wrestlers.

Das Boot (1981, Wolfgang Petersen)

This is a stirring, riveting drama about life on a German U-boat in World War II, a hellish life in a tiny, cramped metal box. Nearly all of the films 3 ½ hour running time (I watched the Director’s Cut) takes place on board the sub as the film chronicles one voyage from beginning to end. During the course of the trip, the crew fires on English destroyers and attempts to slink away beneath the waves, only to be hunted down and nearly blown up by depth charges. The films long running time allows the viewer to become completely immersed in the life that thousands of people experienced, so much so that when the sub is in dire straits one forgets that these men are technically the enemy and we should be rooting for them to perish. Instead, I found myself rooting for them to survive since the movie makes little mention of the politics of the war and spends most of its time observing the day to day professionalism of the crew. These were boys, most in their late teens, and the captain is considered old as a 30 year old. Much like ‘The Wrestler’, ‘Das Boot’ plunges us into a unique world and details every inch for the audience. This film is highly recommended for anyone that wants to learn about life in a profession that claimed 75% of its participants.

Broadcast News (1987, James L. Brooks)

A light romantic comedy about a love triangle in the DC office of the network news, this movie is mainly worth watching for Holly Hunter, the vivacious, quirky, and completely adorable actress that managed to melt even my black, bitter heart with her eccentricities. The plot concerns William Hurt’s character, Tom, a buffoon that uses his good looks to attain success, much to the chagrin of Albert Brooks’ character, Aaron, a persnickety veteran reporter that eyes the weekend anchor desk despite his distinct lack of photogenic qualities. Both men vie for Hunter’s workaholic producer, Jane, a woman whose maniacal devotion to her job would be grating if Hunter wasn’t as charming as she is. I felt most of the jokes were a little flat, and I was rooting for Aaron to win the girl so much that I felt a little offended when the movie tried to make me value Tom, but ultimately Hunter is the reason to watch. As with many Brooks movies, there’s a great big sentimental streak running through the film, but Hunter’s quirks elevate what could have been maudlin material to something passable. She is vulnerable, funny, smart, and big hearted. Basically, she’s the kind of girl that would attract every man on the planet if she could avert her gaze from work for a few minutes. This movie and ‘Raising Arizona’ helped put Hunter on the map, so it’s worth watching to see the genesis of a great actress.

Breaking the Waves (1996, Lars von Trier)

Like his later film with Bjork, ‘Dancer in the Dark’, Waves concerns a simple woman that is taken advantage of by a selfish man and thus thrusts misery upon herself. The woman concerned here is Bess, played with wide-eyed innocence and piety by a young Emily Watson. Bess lives in a remote Scottish village and belongs to a church that does not allow women to speak during the service. She helps clean there and prays by herself in the sanctuary, where she vocalizes God to herself. Yes, she thinks she talks directly to Him. Into this life enters Yan, a Swedish oil rig worker played by Stellan Skarsgård. The two get married and for a while are rapturously in love with each other, and when Yan returns to the rig after the wedding, Bess cannot contain herself and runs after the helicopter carrying him away and must be restrained by her friend. While she pines for him from the village, Yan is injured at work and is laid up in a bed, crippled. Bess stands by his side and will do anything for him, so he tells her that if he ever forgets how to make love he will die. He requests that she go out and sleep with other men and tell him about it, and since Bess believes God wants her to honor her husband, she obeys him. The downward spiral that ensues would have been suffused with overblown monologues and award-baiting crying scenes in a lesser director’s hands, but von Trier shoots this film in a documentary style that makes the resulting tragedy quietly devastating. I found this film less powerful than ‘Dancer in the Dark’, but it is an exceptionally well made piece of cinema and worth watching, provided you have a high tolerance for depressing storylines.

Ratchet and Clank: Tools of Destruction (2007, Insomniac )

Not a movie but a video game, the first for the series on the Playstation 3. Tools contains all the hallmarks of previous entries: solid controls, a lush, vivid world, crazy weapons, and a goofy sense of humor. It’s pretty much the same as the other games, but prettier, so if you like a good platformer this is definitely worth a look.

Random (a little buzzed) thoughts on this New Years ‘08/’09

So, one more year is left in the annals of history and we are better or worse off for it. This is the year several peers of mine decided to put rings over each others fingers and have a pastor utter some words over them to make their love ‘official’ or some shit like that, including a few close friends that I wish all the best. This was also the year that America decided to pull its collective head out of its ass and elect the obviously intelligent candidate, rather than the crotchety old man that received the party nomination many years after his prime. Prime, in this case, meaning “not willing to sell out his principles to get a vote”, but that is another rant for a past age, as he is the loser, and the future, all glorious and neon colored, is what awaits us. So, on with the random-ass rants:

1) Really, Space Needle, really? One of the most transformative years in a long while was met with Star Wars music at midnight? Really? Fucking Star Wars? I get that the Space Needle ceremony was a montage of famous movie themes, but did you really have to start with Star Wars? Maybe it’s the movie nerd in me talking, but the fireworks show had exactly two highlights: the ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ theme, which evokes the timeless epic it is, and ‘The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly’ theme, which really evokes nothing to do with New Years, but was fucking badass, and badass needs no category or appropriate time to present itself. Badass is eternal.

2) Local news commentators are deservedly trapped in their local prison. I was watching Channel 5 when the year changed and Christ Almighty are these people terrible on television. For everyone that feels cable news is a cesspool of cast-off talent, clingers on, or pretty girls desperately questing for ’serious’ journalism despite the fact that they can barely string together two words unless they have the coke supplied by their producer they are probable fucking for the job (this is not meant to be sexist), feel renewed in your purpose! Just turn to any local affiliate and observe the nadir of the televised word, as these local fools are incapable of making me give a rat’s ass, nay, a rat’s ass’ ass about anything they have to say. I mean, really, how hard is it to hand the mic to some drunk-ass Seattleites and ask them how TOTALLY INSANE 2009 is going to be? If your answer was ‘not hard at all’, then you, sir or madam, are far too qualified to cover New Years for the local news. Fucking Christ these people were terrible.

3) Apropos of nothing, the movie ‘No Country for Old Men’ is the fucking elephants balls dropped in a blender, mixed with candy, badass juice, and pure, unexpurgated orgasms and served in a crystal chalice by the pinup girl of your choice. This movie was on TV as I was avoiding the poison of local news, and I was reminded of how awesome of a job the Coens did at adapting McCarthy’s novel. Perhaps this is a bit narcissistic, but I warm most to authors that seem to sympathize with my world-view most. McCarthy, Vonnegut, and Dostoyevsky seem to feel the same way I do: that life is a pile of shit upon shit, unless you like shit, or if you realize that other people in the world have shit upon shit upon shit ad infinitum, and unless you can learn to enjoy shit, that nothing will ever please you. So please, for the love of the maybe-existent-God, learn to enjoy shit, because if there’s one thing more prevalent in this universe than hydrogen, it’s shit, so you had better teach your ignorant ass some tolerance to be happy or else you’re in for a depressing-ass life. I like that, as it’s how I see it. It’s not ‘life sucks, and then you die’, it’s ‘life is BEGGING YOU TO THING IT SUCKS, but don’t give in, mein optimist, because there is good shit just around the corner, if you would just get over this shit mountain you are currently trapped on. I don’t know if that makes me a pessimist or an optimist, but I have never had my beliefs more reflected or shaped by any artist than McCarthy, Vonnegut, or Dostoyevsky.

4) Please, Obama, don’t fuck this up. America turns to you to correct the shit-pile slung up by Dubya, and if there’s anything America needs, it’s a pick-me-up. You don’t even have to really DO anything, although that would be ideal, just make us feel like the world is a better place than the newspapers would lead us to believe. Besides, the Bush administration proved that even national news headlines could be invented at a whim, so would you please throw us liberals a bone? Give us something: a massive public works project, a plan for a green future, a foreign policy that doesn’t amount to a dick-measuring contest with other superpowers, or a domestic agenda that doesn’t cast Gay America into a bin labeled ‘TO BE DEALT WITH LATER’. You’ve got a terrific opportunity here. Please, don’t make me ashamed to have voted for you.

5) ‘What’s the Story, Morning Glory’ is a pretty good album. I never understood the ’sounds like The Beatles’ criticism. What’s wrong with trying to sound like the Best Band Ever?