Ruben Fleischer's "Zombieland"

First "Adventureland", now "Zombieland": Jesse Eisenberg keeps his Woody-Allen-meets-Michael-Cera delivery theme-park friendly. Here he plays pretty much the same character, except now he's called Columbus; the characters forego names in "Zombieland" and replace them with their locations of origin. Names denote attachment, and since something or other turned Americans into zomboids, attachment isn't wise. From the clever opening montage (set to Metallica's "For Whom the Bells Toll"), we learn that Columbus survives thanks to some recurrent rules, which come in handy as he travels across the United States of Animated Corpses, accompanied by Twinkie-seeking drifter Tallahassee (a very funny Woody Harrelson), punky love interest Wichita (a very fetching Emma Stone), and punky love interest's little sister Little Rock (a mostly unnecessary Abigail Breslin.) "Zombieland" is a well crafted, entertaining piece of work, more comedy than horror, and includes a rather inspired middle section which has probably been spoiled enough, involving a stay at the mansion of a famous personality. The gates sport the letters BM. As Tallassee says, "it ain't Bob Marley." So figure it out from there.

COPY-ONIONS!

You know, I talk up a movie that's just been released on DVD, (Ti West's "The House of the Devil"), I say it looks like an instant cult, and then three days later the Onion's A.V. Club puts it in "the new cult canon". 'Cause you know, the A.V. Club just rips off HALLUCINA, obviously. No, no, it's cool, I don't mind, I just got my pulse on the Unnewsual, I get it.

Jeff Kinney's "Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Rodrick Rules"

"Rodrick Rules" is the second entry in the "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" series, and it's funny and innocent. In a way it's a reprieve for me to read a book that doesn't involve death or illness or romantic disillusion, and instead concentrates on the things that really matter, like how a role-paying game of "Magicks and Monsters" can be ruined by the curious enthusiasm of a Mom who decides to play a character called "Mom". "Mom" prevents "Grimlon the Dwarf" from drinking mead and just generally wants things to be educational and diplomatic. You can't be diplomatic with a dragon! You hack and slash!

(It's amazing how just being a teenage boy seems the most difficult thing at the time: you know, having so many dumb fun things to fit into your life, and what with your parents trying to love you and providing you with a house and food and entertainment, the bastards! and then you have to go to school and interact with all those hot teenage girls. And everyting can go wrong and you can even get a pimple. OMG, the misery.)

There's an inevitable, unendurable-if-you're-older-than-12 movie coming out. Some things work because of their format. (HALLUCINA is not a podcast, for instance.) If the charm is in Jeff Kinney's designs, in the idea that you're reading a diary, in the way illustration provides punchlines, why make a movie other than as a path-of-least-resistance greed? "Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Rodrick Rules" works a lot like a Nicktoon. Nobody needs to see a live action "Spongebob Squarepants" movie, you know?
Except maybe we do.
I could see Wes Anderson's "Spongebob Squarepants" movie.
I really can imagine it. It could totally work. Bill Murray would play Squidward, Patrick Warburton would be Patrick Star, Philip Seymour Hoffman as a manic Spongebob. Scarlett Johansson would be the squirrel. She's already taken a dive into this sea, played Mindy in the "Spongebob" movie. The Life Aquatic would be redefined. You would see that wondrous world of Bikini Bottom. There are sea chanties and The Pogues done as bossa nova in the background, and you would see that pineapple under the sea dissected and labeled for your perusal.
There, Hollywood, work on that. Not on that George Lopez/ Speedy Gonzalez franchise starter I'm dreading.

CHAPTER 94: PARLEZ VOUS PARLIAMENT?

(That last stat freaked me out.)



Ever since the departure of M. De Choiseul, the French Parliaments have been jumpy... jumpy with the Jumprope of Intrigue, which can easily turn into the Whip of Punishment. Typically, the Whip is about to lash out at the Duke D'Aiguillon (Kevin Spacey), since the King has just nominated him to the command of the cavalry. The Parliaments converge, deliberate and come up with the decision to "investigate the suspicious conduct of the ex-governor of Brittany." But this is just idle frothing; what's needed is a public outcry to ruin D'Aiguillon. In these way-back, no Internet days, there is a surefire way to make the people rally toward scandal:
A funny-ass song.
While the composers get busy working on a slanderous ditty, the Parliaments print out 10,000 copies of their announcement to investigate D'Aiguillon, and comissioners will soon be sent to the hotel where he is now staying. D'Aiguillon is NOT expecting the visit: as a matter of fact, he's preparing to do some visiting of his own, to his uncle, the Duke de Richelieu (Jack Nicholson).
With the help of his cunning assistant Rafte (Michael Caine), Richelieu has let the rumor fly around that he turned down a Ministry so as not to owe anything to Madame Dubarry- so now D'Aiguillon looks like Madame Dubarry's lackey, and Richelieu has seen a surge in popularity since his unlinking from the King's mistress.
The Marshal's saturnine smile masks actual hurt: he'd been working for that Ministry, and to have it stolen by his snot-nosed nephew is an insult that requires revenge. D'Aiguillon knows there might be some bad blood there, and that's why he bluntly marches into Richelieu's office- only to be informed by Rafte that his master isn't home.
Even though D'Aiguillon can practically see his uncle's boots poking out of the bottom of the curtains.
RAFTE: "He'll be out for a few days. Come back next Thursday."
D'Aiguillon bites his lip, retires, and the Marshal de Richelieu emerges from behind the curtains.
MARSHAL: "It smells back here, Rafte! I can't hide much longer."
R: "Oh, Marshal, Parliament is almost on top of D'Aiguillon. You just have to wait it out, because if your nephew manages to talk to you before then, he'll ask for your help against Parliament."
M: "Bah, let them hang him."
R: "That's the spirit. You either say you'll help him, which you don't want to get caught doing, or say you won't help him, and that will alert him. Lay low until Thursday, and you'll be set."
Richelieu does lay low, (although he can't help himself and visit Nicole, as we saw last ep). Thursday arrives and the Parliaments pass their decree on D'Aiguillon. There's a general "Dead Man Walking" clamor as D'Aiguillon's incognito coach drives through Paris, and the subject of interest looks out the window to see the newsboys all like: "Extra! Extra! D'Aiguillon Is About to get His Ass Whooped! Funny-Ass Song About It on Page 5!"
Once more D'Aiguillon storms into Richelieu's office to find Rafte delivering charming, faux-ineffective smiles: "He was supposed to be here! Honestly, my dear Duke D'Aiguillon, why not just go home and wait for his eventual visit?"
D'AIGUILLON: "Stop. Rafte, just stop. Give it to me straight. He's messing with me because he doesn't want to see me. Don't lie to me. I can take the honesty. Should I give up on this?"
R: "If you just go home, I can guarantee he'll visit you within the hour."
More biting of the lips from D'Aiguillon, more retiring, more emerging of Richelieu from behind the curtains: "Seriously, Rafte, you need to clean back there more often. Did he believe you?"
R: "He suspects nothing. Now we wait for the comissioners to finish printing their decree, and for the appearance of that lawyer- Oh, here he is!"
At that moment the room is invaded by an ugly, greasy man covered in ink spots; Rafte pushes a groaning Richelieu back behind the curtains, and salutes the newcomer.
R: "Monsieur Flageot!"
(Flageot is that lawyer who, almost 70 chapters ago, was handling the land disputes of the Countess of Bearn, but I would not blame you one bit if you don't remember him. If Dumas doesn't, why should you?)
FLAGEOT: "Rafte, my man! The ink hasn't dried on the decree, but they're sending out five thousand copies. All like we planned."
R: "Oh, so sad. So sad. What a blow to the Marshal. He loves his nephew so!"
So as not to reply with an obvious lie, Flageot brings out some Spanish snuff and snorts it, in true lawyer fashion.
F: "This is good stuff! Anyway, the commissioners are heading to their carriages to take their decree to the Duke D'Aiguillon, who is luckily- I mean unluckily- chilling at home."
Rafte quickly brings down a bag of papers from a shelf, and hands it to Flageot.
R: "Here are all those lawsuits we discussed. The Marshal trusts your office to take care of all these profitable cases, and this new affair as well. I thank you for your legal advice on this unfortunate matter." And the all-purpose Rafte ushers the lawyer out, runs back, and retrieves Richelieu from behind the curtains.
M: "I'm not kidding, Rafte, I saw a dust dinosaur back there!"
R: "Maybe I'm too busy running this whole operation, Marshal! Now, run to your nephew's house! Don't you want first row seats to his downfall?"


ABOVE: Oh, Rafte! If you weren't such a sissy, you would totally be a bad-ass like this!

Math.

Did some math. There's (around- more or less- sort of- depending how I do it- IF I live to do it) 570 chapters in the SAMAS.

CHAPTER 93: THE MORE THINGS CHANGE...

Andree (Keira Knightley) stares at Nicole (Kirsten Dunst). It's one of those put-down stares she usually reserves for Gilbert or pushy carriage salesmen.
ANDREE: "And you're here to..?"
NICOLE: "Here to aid mademoiselle in anything she needs, of course. And since mademoiselle left me behind..."
A: "There's a REASON I left you behind. Go back to the Baron."
N: (sniffling) "I thought Mademoiselle would be happy to see me- since I love her so much. But I guess that's why they call it the blues. I feel the tears coming on. There, there's a tear." She pokes at the corner of her beautiful eyes.
A: "Ah, calm down, Nicole. I just don't think you would be a good fit here. I mean, it's one more mouth to feed. And you've got a BIG mouth. Besides..."
N: "Mademoiselle thinks I look like Marie Antoinette, I know all about that. But I've got BLACK hair now, thanks to Monsieur de Richelieu. He's the one who insisted on me coming here. He said the KING would appreciate it if mademoiselle wasn't so poor."
A: "But what about Dad?"
N: "Here's a letter from him."
Briefly the letter runs like so: "Take Nicole in. The King likes rich girls, and rich girls have waiting maids of their own. So fake it. Take care, eat your vegetables, dress slutty. Your Ever Loving Father, the Baron de Taverney."
Andree promptly tears the missive to pieces: "Thanks for making me feel cheap, Daddy! It's true, Nicole, I'm poor- will I look less poor with you hanging around? And as for the King, you know what? He's a gentlemen among gentlemen, and he has not once mocked my humble dress. He LIKES the fact that I'm not of these grand old ladies he must be bored to death with."
Nicole drags her bags into the room: "I didn't say a thing. So, can I stay? We'll be roomies! This is going to rock!" Before Andree has a chance to blink, Nicole has redecorated a corner of the apartment and put up an inspirational poster that shows an eagle and says "VISION: Because You Never Know When the King Might Need a New Ho."
She then proceeds to brush and braid the hell out of Andree's hair, so that "mademoiselle" softens. One's life can always be improved by servants. With her hair looking prom-ready, Andree goes off to read to Marie Antoinette.
The door has barely closed when Nicole proceeds to inspect her new territory: no drawer is left untouched, no little nook unprobed, no closet unexamined. Satisfied with her new digs, the waiting maid pushes the windows wide to survey the hood.
There's a bed of flowers below, then a large courtyard, and directly opposite, a set of windows to stare into. Nicole stands on tippy-toes and leans out, and instantly notices someone ducking out of sight in the window across the way.
"Huh," Nicole says, and ducks in turn. Waits a second. Then stands up quickly, and YES there's someone trying to spy on her.
"No way! Is that Gilbert?!?"
The fact that she can summon a semblance of SURPRISE at this development astonishes me.


ABOVE: Is that Gilbert peeping out of a window? AGAIN?

Indeed, across the way, our young philosopher/gardener is all like:
"No way! Is that Nicole?!?"
Agitated, befuddled, Gilbert (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) draws the curtains shut and considers nailing boards to the window. Nicole, his bestest frenemy! Nicole, who knows he snuck into Andree's bedroom! One word from her and Gilbert loses his gardening job at the LPT, which means a life of philosophizing to trash cans in a Parisian alley. And he who has been so happy knowing himself close to Andree, pruning her flowers!
With ninja-like stealth, Gilbert avoids Nicole for the next few days, without ceasing to keep tabs on her. He knows that, sooner or later, Nicole's little weakness will give him a negotiating tool.
The tool comes in the form of Monsieur de Beausire, that gallant soldier whom Nicole has so often let inside her garden, literally and metaphorically. From his watching nest, Gilbert follows the plume of Beausire's hat as it bobs outside Nicole's window. Nicole resists at first, let that be said in her behalf, but eventually a combination of Andree's absence and a particularly effective set of sweet-nothings sends her rushing out of the apartment, down to the courtyard- and into Beausire's arms.
Still in ninja mode Gilbert follows as Nicole and Beausire search for the more private corners of Versailles, and the result of his shadowing brings a smile to his face, a smile he doesn't mind parading the next day as he struts around the courtyard, whistling right under the window in which Nicole is knitting a mitten for Andree.
"Beautiful day," says the newly cocky philosopher/gardener. "Oh, hey, is that you up there, Nicole? What a fun surprise! All of the old friends are here at court now! Andree. You. MONSIEUR DE BEAUSIRE. It's like a family reunion or something."
It is now Nicole's turn to be agitated and befuddled and prick herself with the needle. She pains her way through a smile: "Oh, hi, Gilbert, what a fun surprise indeed! I'm a waiting-maid to mademoiselle now. You?"
GILBERT: "Chief assistant to the assistant supervising gardener!"
N: "Wonderful, wonderful, I'm so glad everyting's working out for you."
G: "Isn't this nice, that you and I can be friends like this and keep each other's secrets?"
N: "It's great!" (grits her teeth.)
Even after this calculated detente, Gilbert persists with his surveillance of Nicole, and is rewarded- and shocked- when the pretty waiting maid disappears later that day on an errand that has "secret" smeared all over it. But she does not meet the gallantly-plumed Monsieur de Beausire. The man who drags Nicole into a dark corner of the courtyard is much older, although of quick, energetic movements. Nicole and the old man share some words, but Gilbert's stash of stalking talents does not include lip-reading.
From his window, the young philosopher/ gardener watches as Nicole retreats to her domicile and the old man departs towards the gate of Trianon. One of those convenient flashes of moon makes Gilbert recoil as he recognizes Nicole's new friend.
G: "Wow. Forget Monsieur de Beausire- that was just a soldier. Now, Monsieur de Richelieu- that's a Marshal of France! Not too shabby, Nicole, not too shabby."

David Small's "Stitches: A Memoir"

It's mean to start talking about David Small's "Stitches" with a spoiler, but it's in the title:

"Stitches" is a memoir about the wounds our parents unwittingly inflict on us, about how the horrors of childhood dictate the errors of adulthood. A fusion of Alison Bechdel's "Fun Home" and David B.'s "Epileptic", Small's graphic novel is raw, the sort of memoir one could only write after most of its characters are dead- and forgiven. The son of a Michigan doctor and his sullen, unloving wife, Small was subjected throughout his childhood to "curative" X-Ray showers, which eventually left him with a cancerous growth from his neck, a series of operations, and the loss of his voice.
The wonder is that even as he takes us down the Alice-in-Wonderland sink-hole of disease, he manages to leave us with hope: that he's an artist, and sane, and making these particular confessions- that makes this book the greatest of survival stories. Go read now.

Sight UnSCENE! Week of February 24

"Shutter Island"- Seriously, one major release out last week? Hollywood, when you let ME down like this, you're letting us ALL down. Including yourself. Where is your self-esteem? VERDICT: Martin Scorcese and Leonardo DiCaprio? Who thought up that crazy combo?


"Celine: Through the Eyes of The World"- This musical thriller stars Celine Dion as Lotta Dakota, a pop star whose wigs determine whether she's a celebrity (blonde) or a simple downhome gal (brunette). But the show is stolen by The World, in its acting debut, as a psychotic voyeur who stalks Dakota. VERDICT: Check out this poster! Michael Jackson must be rolling in his cryogenic pod! (And no, it's not too soon.)

Joshua Ferris' "Then We Came to the End"

Dark as a spilled-ink cartridge, serious as a tumor, and still funny as all get out, Joshua Ferris' "Then We Came to the End" is one of the best novels to tackle the downward spiral of the '00s, (the aughts? The zeroes? Ain't no way I'll call them "the naughties".) It's a bonus that it does so with what's gotta be one of the most succesful novel-length use of the first person plural (that all-encompassing "we").
Chronicling the zoo-like atmosphere of an ad agency after all that crazy '90s money has vanished, "Then We Came to the End" thrives in that squirmingly familiar dread of a life wasted with a lay-off as its reward, like "Office Space" or its more genial TV counterpart, "The Office". It's "Dilbert" with the potential for murder, "Mad Men" as "Sad Men", "And Then There Were None" with post-its. That communal narrating voice hovers from madness to (recognizable) madness. These are your co-workers: the inappropriate mass e-mailers, the closet screenwriters, the copulators in the janitor's closet, the weirdoes who are on a countdown to going postal, the assholes who steal your chair when you're out to lunch, the bosses who may or may not have cancer. There's mourning and lay-offs and wacky mishaps with the copy machine. And there's, also, shockingly, uplift.
This was life in that crummy, crummy decade we just left behind.
The double-ohs?

Here's Naevus' cover of Tom Waits' "Walking Spanish", Ferris' chosen theme song for the book.

CHAPTER 92: MAKE-UP TIME!

Ain't Nicole a-joyed! The pretty waiting maid is moving on up to the Trianon, but first there's a stop at the Hanover Hotel, where Richelieu's brains-of-the-operation assistant, Rafte, awaits.
Rafte, you've shown up often enough- let's cast you! How about Michael Caine in Alfred mode?



Rafte is poring over Richelieu's correspondence, answering it on the Marshal's behalf. What a cheat! He raises an eyebrow as Richelieu waltzes in, Nicole in tow.
MARSHAL: "Look at this one, Rafte!"
RAFTE: "Oh, dear. A bit young, isn't she, Marshal? (sigh) I'll prepare the defibrilator."
M: "Look closer! Doesn't she remind you of..?"
R: "Ah! Goodness! I see it now! This can make her or break her."
M: "But we don't want her broken, so..."
R: "... We must make some minor alterations. That fair hair has to go!" Rafte motions to Nicole: "Come here, darling, I'm gonna work some wonder on you! You'll be the prettiest, least recognizable girl in France!"
Not ten minutes pass, and Nicole stares in astonishment at the mirror where her hair is now a shiny black. Rafte's not done with the hair dye: Nicole's eyebrows are similarly treated, her eyelashes re-shaped, her cheekbones colored, her mouth re-arranged.
Rafte peers from over her shoulder, triumphant: "Don't you look pretty? And no one would stop to notice any pesky similarities to the Dauphiness. Now, are you ready to make some cash?"
Nicole puts her hands on her hips: "What kind of girl do you think I am? And what kind of cash are we talking about?"
Rafte coughs: "Oh, darling! Nothing further from my mind."
Richelieu coughs too: "No, no, Nicole. There's many ways to make a fortune in court for a smart girl. But that smart girl has to pay attention to Papa Richelieu, is that clear? And do exactly what Rafte and I say. Listen closely..."
The Marshal stands up and closes the door to his office right on our eavesdropping faces.
I don't know what goes on in there, and neither does Dumas, but an hour later Nicole emerges. Her eyes glow like she's part firebug. The very next morning, Richelieu's carriage conducts her to Le Petit Trianon, and deposits her in the maid's quarters with her bags at her feet.


ABOVE: Nicole, before and after.

At the LPT, it's a pretty morning for Andree de Taverney (Keira Knightley). She's up early, composing a letter for her Dad in which she lets him know the King has extended her an invitation to play with the royal sceptre. Little birds are auditioning for Disney movies on her window sill. Light flows into her apartment from the garden. It's a large but simple room, most of the space is taken up by Andree's clavichord or harpsichord or whatever, but the girl has simple tastes and finds herself content here.
"Here," she muses outloud, "a gal has everything she needs. Flowers, music, a chorus of little birds, the attentions of a flirty King- the simple pleasures. I do believe I am the happiest woman in the continent! There is no one, not a single person, that could possibly ruin this beautiful, beautiful day!"
Then she looks up to see Nicole standing on the doorway to her apartment. She sighs: "Yeah, well, I had that coming, what with my little speech."
"Tada!" says Nicole. "Miss me?"
"Shut up, you."

Personal

Dear Imaginary Reader:
I used to be so open, I gave away my secrets in 2-for-1 specials. These days I trust people less with my sadness. Those close enough know things are hard for me now, those not close enough shouldn't even notice. As usual, I let Bob Dylan talk for me way too much, and he ain't talkin'.

Ti West's "The House of the Devil"

Ti West's "The House of the Devil" is an affectionate- and effective- recreation of low-budget '80s era horror, (and even high-budget '80s era horror looked low-budget.)

Very little happens in this "Rosemary's Baby" tale. The first half an hour is an exercise in nothingness- if not for that title you might be excused for thinking you were watching fill-in footage from a John Hughes comedy. Our heroine, Sam (hottie-to-watch-for Jocelin Donahue, with the feathered hair to make me think of a young Karen Allen) is a college girl desperately looking for a job. (Like that babysitting gig that will improbably help her with her mortgage.) She wanders around a campus. She gets stood up by the creepy guy who claimed to need a babysitter. She has pizza with her friend.
None of this setup is particularly scary- except that we understand we're caught within the confines of a scary movie from those crazy '80s, where anything was possible, so we feel dread. And the restraint West uses is admirable, his details always subtle. No one breaks out the Rubik cubes or says: "Molly Ringwald is going to be around FOREVER" with a wide wink at the camera.


ABOVE: Karen Allen? Jocelin Donahue? Which is which?

Things kick into horror gear once Sam is driven by her friend to the distant house that Satan built, where she meets the towering, quietly unnerving Mr. Ulman, (played by Tom Noonan from "Synecdoche, New York"), who informs her that there is NO BABY, but it's VERY IMPORTANT that she stays in the house until midnight.

Cue more scenes of nothingness. Sam walking around the empty house. Snooping on drawers. Then the silence is vibrantly cut by Sam dancing happily to the Fixx's "One Thing Leads Another."


"The House of the Devil" is undercut by an inevitably silly ending where West gives in to the need to provide someone out there with buckets of blood. Those people might feel the movie takes too long to get to the gore, but this is about suspense and not its cataclysmic release. Building up to the blood matters: the blood doesn't.



An instant cult should develop around a movie that's far more deserving than, say, "Paranormal Activity". Horror fans need to go watch now.

CHAPTER 91: RICHELIEU CRUSHES ON NICOLE

Now that Andree de Taverney looks about to earn a place of honor in the King's lap, the Duke de Richelieu (Jack Nicholson) rushes to a humble hotel on the Rue Coq-de-Heron, the residence of his dear, dear old buddy the Baron de Taverney, (Gene Hackman).
The latter exemplar bastion of humanity is sitting before a crackling fire, giving an ever-so-paternal lecture to his servant, Nicole Legay (Kirsten Dunst).
"I should spank that pretty little rump of yours," he says, with an anticipatory twinkle in the eyes. "There's dust all over the place, but where are you? Always out in the garden somewhere!"
"That's because," replies the exasperated waiting maid, "I'm bored here! Smothered! You were supposed to send me to Le Petit Trianon, with Andree!"
TAVERNEY: "That darned LPT! What for?"
NICOLE: "To expand my horizons! See people! Be seen!"
T: "Oh, my little Nicole, I will gladly see whatever you want to show!"
Just then the street-bell makes its tinkling noise and Nicole happily runs out to answer it. She crosses the garden outside the hotel, opens the outer door, and there is Richelieu, who casts a saturnine smile on Nicole and thinks: "Wowzers! Old Taverney never mentioned THIS hottie!" And his appreciative astonishment is only increased when a shadow pops out of the garden, passes between the Marshal and the maid, and then takes off down the Rue Coq-de-Heron.
RICHELIEU: "Did you see that?"
N: "Sure. Looked like a giant cat to me. Come in!"
The Marshal figures what kind of giant cat might be prowling around the vicinity of Nicole's skirts, and chuckles. He himself has skulked around gardens plenty in his time. "Well, then," he bows to Nicole. "Tell your master that the Marshal Duke de Richelieu has come to visit."
Nicole is suitably impressed as she leads Richelieu in, and retires. The Baron jumps out of his seat.
R: "Ah, I suppose you're surprised, my dear Baron de Taverney."
T: "YES, because I still have your boot up my ass from when you kicked me out the other day."
R: "Nonsense! That's how we do things in the Court these days. There's a little hazing at first, sort of like a big happy frathouse, but slightly less homoerotic. Let's put the other day aside. I come to fulfill your wish, and make your son, Philip, the captain of a nice lucrative company."
T: "Are you punking me?"
R: "No, no, just doing what any good friend would do. And don't thank me, thank the King. Of COURSE, he's only doing it to upset Madame Dubarry."
At the name, Taverney narrows his eyes: "But I'd heard that you're on Dubarry's side."
R: "Slander! Aspersions! Libel and lawsuits! Me, on the side of a woman without morals! No, I have broken with the Dubarrys. Of COURSE, I'm going to pretend to NOT break with them, see, but YOU will know that's just for show, and I'm on the side of your family. Aren't I fiendishly clever?"
T: "You're fiendishly something, alright."
R: "But since all it's settled with your son, let's discuss your daughter. I have seen her this very evening, dining with the King."
Crown signs light up on Taverney's orbs: "The KING? And here I was hoping she would land a Count!" He coughs. "I repeat: The KING? Doesn't the King have a bit of a tawdry past?"
R: "Ah, you do well to wonder if young Andree's reputation is at risk. And I'm not saying it isn't. The King's hands do wander."
T: "That would be terrible! My sweet little daughter! Virginity imperiled!" He pauses long enough for propriety. "On the OTHER hand, who are we to impose our silly morals on His Majesty?"
Richelieu flashes a conspiratorial smile- his wooden teeth have been recently scrubbed: "Indeed, old friend, and after all, wouldn't your delightful, delicious, de-lovely daughter be a better influence on the Monarch than a common harlot like the Countess Dubarry?"
T: "How right you are! Why, it's practically our religious duty to ensure the King takes an interest in my little girl!"
R: "But, you understand, for her to ascend so high in the King's esteems, she will have to be a special woman: smart..."
T: "Check."
R: "Sensible."
T: "Double check."
R: "Beautiful."
T: "Triple check."
R: "And willing to put out like crazy."
T: "..."
R: "Yes, don't answer that last one. My point is, she can't be acting like a paupery nun around court. Just today I saw her retreat without a servant of her own. Why don't you send her a servant? Say, that pretty girl who was here just now?"
The Baron frowns:
"Nicole Legay? No, that's one thing I can't do."
R: "Why not? She's perfectly suited to wait on Andree at the palace."
T: (shakes his head) "Can't. You didn't notice?"
R: "What?"
T: "Her face."
R: "I looked! Well, you know, 30% her face, 70% other attributes. Why?"
The Baron calls out, Nicole reappears and this time Richelieu keeps it at eye-level: "AH. YES. I see what you mean. You're right. She looks a lot like..."
Taverney interrupts: "Exactly."
Richelieu grabs Nicole's hands, makes her twirl, before the infuriated girl can reply he says: "Yeah, but check it, that OTHER person doesn't have a badonkadonk like this one." Nicole smacks him, the Marshal says: "I much deserved that. And liked it. Do it again." She does. He growls. "This young lady was born for greatness! My feisty little minx, how would you like to move to a royal palace?"
N: "Hmmm. HELLZ YEAH! You want to look at the badonkadonk again?"
R: "Sure, one for the road!"
She twirls again, winks at him over her shoulder, and Richelieu's ancient ticker stops. He sees his whole sordid gossipy life flash before his eyes, and then recovers.


ABOVE: Maybe you're not urban and don't know what a badonkadonk is. It's something like this.

R: "Whee! What a girl! Now all we need is a little make-up, hair dye, plucking of the eyebrows, and some such cosmetic tricks, and this child is Court ready. My assistant Rafte will take care of it. Andree will be happy, the King will be happy, and as for the maid's curious features... there's some cards that don't need to be played until it's poker night. Anyway, Nicole, would you like to...?"
"I'm packed," says Nicole, dragging suitcases behind her.
"Aren't you going to say goodbye?" whines the Baron de Taverney, but by then Nicole is settled in Richelieu's carriage.
"They grow up so fast," says Richelieu, and bids adieu to his dear, dear old buddy.

Hilary Mantel's "Wolf Hall"

Yes, I'm a sucker for historical epics and welcome any sign of their current well-being, but Hilary Mantel's "Wolf Hall" is cumbersome as an armor. The story of Henry VIII's court has been told often, so novelty does not explain the book's acclaim, (it won the Man Booker prize last year); maybe the critics took to the pedantic overabundance of details? "Wolf Hall" is less like "The Tudors" and more like an academic monograph. It is seldom fun or emotionally engaging, and just generally a tough read; Mantel is NOT an elegant writer, and people have clearly mistaken her lack of elegance for "style". ("If the sentence is this awkward, it must be 'cause it's really SMART.") Also, for all its period accuracy, the characters are saddled with 21st century psychological motivations they might have picked up from watching "Tyra".
Henry VIII fans- and particularly Thomas Cromwell fans- will pick it up as a given, but there's many better, more accessible tomes on the topic. (Try Margaret George's "The Autobiograpy of Henry VIII", or Alison Weir's "The Six Wives of Henry VIII", or Antonia Fraser's "The Wives of Henry VIII". Seriously, there's a ton of Tudor books out there.)


ABOVE: So many ladies, so few axes.

John Sandford's "Rough Country"

John Sandford seems re-energized by Virgil Flowers, the mellow-bordering-on-hippie Minesotta cop who does the things today's domesticated Lucas Davenport can't. In "Rough Country", Flowers has his musky-fishing downtime interrupted by the shooting of an ad exec with links to a mountain lodge for lesbians. Sandford can't help but look at lesbians as a little bit of a mysterious, odd conclave, not unlike Masons, but that aside, this is a typically fun, compulsively readable thriller.


ABOVE: Sad stat. 70% of the lesbians I met in college are now married. Yes, to dudes. Hairy, ugly dudes.

"Castle" Season 1

ABOVE: "If this worked for David Boreanaz, it can work for me."



Whedon-verse captain Nathan Fillion is looking fresh after that "Desperate Housewives" stint, inhabiting a similarly implausible world, one in which novelists practice their craft by autographing boobs. "Castle" is a likable show with very mediocre mysteries, but works thanks to the "Bones"-like interplay between Fillion (as cocky best-selling writer Rick Castle) and Stana Katic (as no-nonsense detective Kate Beckett).


ABOVE: Stana, you're killing us here!

After a serial killer models his (or hers?) streak on murders from Castle's books, our literary superstar begins to tail Kate for "research"- and, you know, to flirt with her for the next three or four seasons until the inevitable coupling that will make ratings plummet. The dull crimes are not too strenuous and leave Castle plenty of time to go play poker with buddies like James Patterson and Stephen J. Cannell. (What, no John Sandford?) Castle's tastefully boozy Broadway mom (Susan Sullivan) and his squeaky-clean daughter (Molly Quinn) round up the cast. Hannah Montana is a relative ruffian.

ABOVE: Gotta wait a few years for this one, bub.

Fun little tie in: the series of "Nikki Heat" books Castle is working on? Out for purchase.

Some Albums I've Been Listening To

Yes, I still call them albums.



The Norah Jones one is a snoozer, but since we all need to go to sleep at some point, "Chasing Pirates" is a nice single, and "Young Blood" would be a good song if she didn't sound downright confused when talking about gunning down werewolves.



You've got Led Zeppelin, you've got Nirvana, you've got Queen of the Stones Age, and you've got vultures buzzing on the carcass of RAWK. I mean, it's a pretty heavy record, but it's not particularly good, is it? Supergroups suck- that goes for Velvet Revolver and Dead Weather and Monsters of Folk and that other one some "super" people are plotting as we speak. The only exception: Asia.


I'm really getting into Beach House's "oeuvre". What's the Swedish word for "oeuvre"? Let's say it's Ubjork.

Chuck Klosterman's "Eating the Dinosaur"

Aaaah, here's Chuck Closterman with "Eating the Dinosaur". This is a man after my own mind, happily at play talking Nirvana, Hitchock, Mad Men, time travel, Werner Herzog, Weezer and ABBA. No, he says nothing new about any of them- Kurt Cobain was conflicted, Hitchock engages in voyeurism, Don Draper is an awesome mess, "Back to the Future" is cool, Herzog is Germanically weird, I was wrong and Rivers Cuomo is NOT being ironic after all, and "The Winner Takes it All" is a frikkin' beautiful song that captures what it's like to face the ex that destroyed you as good as anything outside of Dylan.


It's not necessarily illuminating, but it is pleasant talk- an engagement with a friend where you review cultural touchstones and (mostly) agree. Only the section on the Unabomber borders on the ridiculous. Klosterman runs with the "even a broken clock is right twice a day" motif and praises Ted Kaczynski's anti-technology screed as a visionary pamphlet that uniquely taps into the idea that "too much technology is bad".
DUDE.
EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.
Most people feel capable of communicating it without blowing other people up. This is like that girl who reads Valerie Solanas' manifesto and say: "Well, she does make good points about gender injustice." Yeah, but so what? Many sane women make the same points, but Solanas was a nut. Why are people unable to reconcile the fact that a dictator can be a murderer AND a loving father, a megalomaniac AND still have some valid thoughts on racial equality? Why go and say: "Well, the General was a little happy with the firing squads, but let's give him his due: he had some forward-thinking ideas about Pan-Africanism." He's not the only one, he didn't come up with the idea. The Unabomber's Manifesto is no more lucid- and certainly less lucid- than the technology-weary comments most people over 35 spouse, and they do so without murdering people for attention. Ted was the worst kind of crazy- the kind who thought people would think him saner if he was a KILLER.
No need to praise his writings as "prescient."

Here's another place where Klosterman and I depart: imagination. I have considered it in much the same terms. Here's a thought experiment. Think of your grandmother's face. Then think of, say, Jerry Seinfeld's face. You're seeing them both through the same television filter, aren't you? Your grandmother has become a character in a sitcom in your head. Try it, you can probably have your grandmother stand right by Jerry Seinfeld and imagine them talking to each other.
True.
Except I LIKE that- it's empowering- whereas Klosterman panics and says: "The movies stole our minds aaaaahh" when I relax and say "The movies EXPANDED our minds." There's nothing wrong with the above. He complains about how our memories of the South are just movie images stolen from "Gone with the Wind." As opposed to what? My "purer", unadulterated first person experience of being a Southern Belle 170 years ago? I take pleasure in my imagination, and anything that adds to it instead of detracting from it is good. These false memories don't make me LESS human, but MORE. Without them I would be limited to an animalistic state of ignorance, only my surroundings would make sense. The very definition of humanity is our imagination. I would propose that television has spread knowledge and racial and sexual and ethnic tolerance because it allows people to engage with strangers in a non-hostile manner, it helps us see that there is a world outside of the confines of our neighborhood.
So pooh to that whole "Ooooh technology is making us less human". Yes, I get the techno willies when I meet a friend and she spends half the time she's with me texting someone else, but it would be foolish to resist it. In her head, she's actually communicating with TWO people, she's doubling her potential as a human being. Klosterman himself accidentally proposes how this might be benefitial: do I really want her undivided small talk? Most people have a good two hour interview out of them and that's it. Elongating it with technological distractions might actually be conducive to friendship. My friend is not a paranoid's cartoon, she's quite capable of putting the phone aside for the moment if the conversation gets REAL. Most sane people don't feel the need to TWEET after they have sex.

When he ventures outside of music and sports, Klosterman talks like a solipsistic claustrophobe. (Me against the world I hate/ have dreamed up) No wonder he likes the Unabomber. People adapt. We're still human, even with cellphones. Relax.

But yes, this is mostly an engaging good read. As Klosterman correctly predicts, I skimmed the sports section.

Mike Judge's "Extract"

I talked up the eugenics-friendly "Idiocracy" before it was cool to do so, I love "Office Space" as much as anyone, and "King of the Hill" more than most, but I'll tell you: Mike Judge is a terrible director. When it comes to the technical bits he makes that fat fuck Kevin Smith look like Godard.

So here is "Extract", a weird, awkward, sour movie that is nonetheless not without the hallmarks of a Mike Judge movie: mean satire, funny human sketches, sharp workplace observations. No, he can't put the camera in the right place, or make his characters co-exist in the same universe, but the fact that this movie got made at all is sort of encouraging. It is doggedly unmarketable- its only possible audience is fans of Mike Judge, and people who stumble into it late night on cable.
There's three weird plotlines going on here:
1-The main storyline concers a flavoring company owner (Jason Bateman, looking a little confused) who gets drugged up by his bartender bud (Ben Affleck, enjoying himself like we haven't seen him do in ages), and decides to hire a gigolo to pose as a pool-boy to seduce his sex-withdrawing wife (Kirsten Wiig, in a small role that makes her endearing to me somehow.) Why would you pay someone to have sex with your wife? So he can have guilt free sex with a temp worker who looks twenty years younger than him (Mila Kunis). It's all creepy beyond words, and badly considered, and doesn't go very far.
2- A grab-bag of dumb character sketches: the Idiocratic metalhead, the guy who calls everyone "dingus" (J.K. Simmons), the myopic gossip lady who falsely accuses a Mexican worker of theft, the one-balled worker who sues the company (Clifton Collins, Jr.), the unbearable neighbor (David Koechner) that won't take no for an answer as he strong-arms people into attending a dinner they have to PAY for.
3- The worst of the storylines attempts to flesh out the life of the sexy young temp worker/ who's a con-artist/ kleptomaniac. This one goes literally NOWHERE, be warned.
These are all sporadically funny odds and ends, and everything is a little lost and a little off in "Extract". It is, in many significant ways, a BADLY made movie. BUT it is a testament to Judge's very unique vision that it is NOT a BAD movie per se. Just watch it, enjoy some aspects of it, marvel at its misanthropy, and walk away glad that, at the very least, it wasn't one of those well-oiled please-everyone lame-fests like "Valentine's Day".

Sight UnSCENE! Week of February 16

"Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief"- Chris Columbus returns to his old Hogwarts haunts with the latest installment in the "Harry Potter" saga. Now that the Death Eaters prowl the halls of everyone's favorite school, Harry changes his name to Percy Jackson in a clever attempt to confuse his enemies. Other than that, it's pretty much the same old magic hat: Quidditch tournaments, clever plot twists, vibrating brooms, etc etc etc. VERDICT: Was advertising the Winter Olympics in the title necessary? I don't think so. Too much synergy!


"Valentine's Day"- Originally, "Valentine's Day" was a horror movie called "Halloween's Day", but due to scheduling conflicts with its amazing cast it had to be pushed back a few months. In an attempt to keep it topical the actors were instructed to say "Valentine's Day" instead of "Halloween's Day", and all the pumpkins were digitally replaced with candy hearts. Also Robert Englund was digitally replaced with Anne Hathaway. Everything else pretty much stayed the same. VERDICT: If you wanted to get laid on Valentine's, you had to see it. Pretty simple.


"The Wolfman"- She asks me why...
I'm just a hairy guy
I'm hairy noon and night
Hair that's a fright.
I'm hairy high and low
Don't ask me why
I don't know!
It's not for lack of bread
Like the Grateful Dead

Gimme a head with hair, long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming,
steaming,
flaxen,
waxen
Give me down to there, hair!
Shoulder length, longer (hair!)
Here baby, there mama, Everywhere daddy daddy
Hair
Flow it, Show it;
Long as God can grow it, My Hair!

Let it fly in the breeze
And get caught in the trees
Give a home to the fleas
in my hair
A home for fleas,
A hive for bees
A nest for birds,
There ain't no words
For the beauty, the splendor, the wonder of my

HAIR

I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy
Snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty
Oily, greasy, fleecy, shining
Gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen
Knotted, polka-dotted; Twisted, beaded, braided
Powdered, flowered, and confettied
Bangled, tangled, spangled and spaghettied!

O-oh, Say can you see....
my eyes?
If you can,
Then my hair's too short!

Down to here, down to there,
Down to where, down to there;
It stops by itself!
doo doo doo doo doot-doot doo doo doot

They'll be ga-ga at the go-go
when they see me in my toga
My toga made of blond, brilliantined, Biblical hair
My hair like Jesus wore it
Hallelujah I adore it
Hallelujah Mary loved her son
Why don't my Mother love me?

VERDICT: It's just not the right time for a Robin Williams biopic.

R.I.P. Dick Francis

As Bob Dylan would say:
"All the tired horses in the sun!
How'm I supposed to get any ridin' done?"

Chris Miller and Phil Lord's "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs"

I was celebrating my birthday and we were playing "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs" and I seem to recall it was hilarious, with a bunch of SNL people, and there was even a monkey, and Mr. T! Hahahahah! "I Pity the Fool!" I laughed and laughed. Good God, that was some fine whiskey!

Kids, don't watch movies while getting drunk because then when you write your review your editor will say it's too short.


ABOVE: "I didn't say your boobs were too small, I said your head was too big."

HAPPY PRESIDENT'S DAY

And here's to my favorite president: PRESIDENT EVIL!!!

ABOVE: I feel some kind of... "CHANGE"

SO PERFEKT!!!

My Valentine's present to you, Dear Imaginary Reader. Counterprogramming, if you will.

CHAPTER 90: HAIR OF THE QUEEN THAT BIT YOU

"Dear Marie Antoinette! Madame Etiquette! Marshal de Richelieu! Dauphin-my-boy! I ran into Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney on my way to dinner!" says King Louis XV.
Marie Antoinette pouts: "But she never even read me my afternoon story!"
Louis XV: "Oh, she's a reader, is she? Well, I love bedtime stories, so send her over my way near bedtime. Now to the grub!"
The King sits down and begins to plunder pheasants and pluck grapes- he's worked up an appetite- but soon notices something's amiss. Andree can't join the fun; she sort of hovers away from the table because she's just a maid and hasn't been officially invited to partake with the nobles.
The King sees that Andree is mortified, and graciously turns to Madame de Noailles: "Well, let's go easy on the rules this time, Madame Etiquette. Tell the pretty girl she can sit at the table just once."
A stunned Andree accepts and sits at the table while everyone sizes her up, Richelieu leading the examination. It occurs to the old Marshal that there is never a bad hand, only a bad handler. He smiles widely at the King. The King says:
"Richelieu! Why am I seeing so many pearly whites, possibly made out of wood?"
RICHELIEU: "Why, I'm just grateful for the honors your Majesty deigns to drop on my lap."
XV: "I don't recall dropping anything in your direction."
R: "My nephew's lap, them. The Duke D'Aiguillon. And since I seem to be on a winning streak, I'm going to be bold and ask you for a favor for one of my bestest of friends, back from my days at Mahon. See, this old buddy of mine has a worthy son that only needs to become the captain of a company of soldiers to establish himself. The kid's name is Philip de Taverney."
"MY BROTHER!" Andree blurts out in excitement.
The King keeps an eye on Andree's excited blurts, and Richelieu does one of those: "Oh, is Philip your brother, Andree? Why, yes, Taverney rhymes with Taverney, it makes sense! Did you know I am one of your Poppa's oldest and dearest friends?"
(Hey, if the King's getting a new mistress, Richelieu's playing nice.)
Marie Antoinette taps her lips with a spoon: "Hmmmm. I did promise I would make the fortune of that young man. Philip was the very first person I encountered when I entered France. I just sort of... FORGOT... to help him out. But it's not my fault! I spent so much time just getting this huge hair-do in place, I forget to help people."

"No one's blaming you, dear," says the Dauphin, astounding everyone just by saying anything at all.
"Not at all," agrees the King. "If there has been an injustice, let's repair it. Let's make sure Philip de Taverney gets a good company, and a good salary. People who have such pretty relatives have nothing to worry about."
"OH! Thank you, thank you everyone!" Andree blushes and directs grateful looks at the King and Richelieu and the Dauphin and the Dauphiness and at Madame Etiquette, except that Madame Etiquette is glaring at her, her thoughts clearly along these lines:
"Alright, Little Miss Sunshine, back to handling wigs and doing book readings for the Dauphiness, none of this blushing gratefulness!"
Andree goes back to servant's quarters much to the King's chagrin, but much to Gilbert's pleasure: The gardeners of the LPT have windows that face the windows of the waiting maids. Really, Gilbert's philosophy should be "when you really really want to stalk someone, the universe conspires to make it happen."
If you'll recall, Gilbert is hardly the only lover in our tale who doesn't quite grasp the concept of rejection.
A certain Cardinal de Rohan (Alfred Molina) shows up at the Palace and, as he's done before, makes a pass at Marie Antoinette. Once more he's denied, but this time the Cardinal isn't too upset, for his visit has an ulterior motive. As he proudly leaves the palace, one of Marie Antoinette's easily-bribeable hair-cutters scuttles to the Cardinal's side and drops a little baggie in his hand.
In exchange, he slips her some coins.
Shady transaction!
The Cardinal's fingertips vibrate with the weight of his newly acquired treasure as he orders his coachman to take him to a certain house in the Rue St. Claude where MAAAAGIC happens. He slobbers all over the little bag on the way there: "My preciousss, we'll have the queensies yet, won't we?"
Upon arrival at Joseph Balsamo's house, that fortress gripped by the shadows of mystery, the Cardinal crosses himself. Balsamo's servant, Fritz, makes him wait in the lobby until it is nearly eleven clock at which point Joseph (Johnny Depp) appears.
JOSEPH: "You know there's such a thing as a cut-off time?"
ROHAN: "I'm sorry, but you said that to make a woman fall in love with me, all you needed was-"
J: "A lock of her hair, yes."
R: "I have it." He shakes the little baggy triumphantly. "Hmmm, is there any way I can keep it after your ritual?"
J: "You want to keep the hair? What for?"
R: "It's not WEIRD! People do that a lot! They make little hair dolls! They carry the lock around and smell it and stuff! Stop judging me!"
J: "What are you talking about?"
R: "Nothing. I don't care. Do whatever you want with the hair."
J: "I will," says Joseph, and hurriedly marches to Lorenza's apartment, with the wispy destiny of the monarchy curling in his hand. "I will now know the destiny of this nation, as foretold in a few strands of hair! HAIR! ALL IMPORTANT HAIR! Lorenza, SLEEP."
And there's Lorenza (Monica Bellucci) falling into a magnetic-love-trance, and, lovingly asleep as she is, running to her husband's arms.
J: "Tell me," he says, putting the lock of hair in her hands, "what can you sense?"
LORENZA: "You come in here with some other woman's hair and ask me to do magic? Vaffanculo!"
J: "Darling, this is is not any woman's hair, the balance of the world hangs upon these few strands!"
Lorenza's hands caress the hair.
L: "It's true. This isn't just any woman. It is a noble woman. And... yet she is not happy. Not the way I'm happy around you."
J: "What does that mean?"
L: "This woman does NOT love her husband. And her husband has not touched her yet."
J: "You don't say." Balsamo ponders this. "Shockingly enough, that is all I needed to know for now." He carefully puts the hair back in the bag, which he then conceals in a pocket. "Mind if I take a snip of your hair, Lorenza?"
L: "Take all you want," she says, but Balsamo only needs a small lock, which he then proceeds to burn by a nearby candle. He brings the resulting ashes to Rohan.
J: "Oh, I'm sorry, it couldn't be helped. Had to burn the hair. BUT I have terrific news. The oracle says this woman- whomever she may be- does not love her husband and is open to negotiations. Conclude what you will from that."
"Hope!" The Cardinal jumps up. "There's a chance then! Somehow! How can I thank you?"
J: "By not eating the magical ashes that I just gave you. They would make you turn into a werewolf. It's unpleasant."
The Cardinal runs out happily: "I wouldn't! Oh, the joy! The hope!" His carriage speeds away from the Rue St. Claude with such a joyous disregard for the rules of traffic that it nearly crashes against the carriage of the Duke de Richelieu, which is going in the opposite direction.
"Where ya going in such a hurry!" Howls Richelieu.
"Where are YOU going in such a hurry?" Hollers Rohan.
"I'm going to the next chapter, that's where I'm going! Wanna make something of it?!?"

Jean Plaidy's "Castile for Isabella"

If you're an observant Dear Imaginary Reader you may have noticed I'm a sucker for historical epics and tales of, as Aerosmith might say, "kings and queens and guillotines."

Just read Jean Plaidy's "Castile for Isabella", the first in a trilogy about the Spanish Kings Ferdinand and Isabella. Jean Plaidy is a pseudonym for the late-adequate Eleanor Hibbert, who also wrote as Victoria Holt. Very readable stuff, although the historical research is not particularly deep. Once upon a time girls could pop a novel like this during lunch time and it was a sign of their intellectual vacuity- now if you see a girl capable of picking up a frivolous novel like this for FUN she must be in MENSA. (Most people read one or two books a year if OPRAH really really insists.) Remember when people used to read and think and have imaginations and weren't always inanely attached to their cellphones?

I guess I just wasn't meant for these times. Brian Wilson, you and me buddy.

Happy Birthday

It's my BIRTHDAY tomorrow!!! Ladies, line up to pay tribute!

CRITERION: Yazujiro Ozu's "Good Morning"

You know how people say "artsy-fartsy"? This may be the one title in the Criterion collection that takes that to heart. GOD, Ozu loved his fart jokes!


ABOVE: "You smellt it, you dealt it!"

1959's "Good Morning" has dozens of them, (including the classic "Husband farts, wife says: "You called?" and the traumatic "Oooops, it's a wet one! Won't be getting to school in time today!"). The whole movie works itself around the Japanese version of "Pull My Finger"- "Push my Forehead". Yes, yes, there's also a typically subdued, humorous story of how two young siblings go on a silence strike to protest their parents' refusal to get them a TV set, and there's also minor gossip after the residents of a tight-knit community misinterpret everyday occurrences- but it's hardly "The Crucible". Aside from the gaseous chorus, what you get is a sharp comment on the absurdity of small talk, and access to a world of paper walls with no secrets allowed, where neighbors routinely open your door, enter your house, and then ask if you're busy. In a way, this reminded me of my Cuban childhood: you would be surprised how alien the concept of "calling ahead" is to some cultures. You wanna see a friend? Why, you go to their house. Once there, why wouldn't they be glad to see you? Aren't they your friends?
Over in my building, if my neighbors knock at my door, it better be 'cause there's a fire.
Or a damned good fart festival in the hallway.

"Breaking Bad" Season 1

Vince Gilligan's "Breaking Bad" gives you a different kind of American Dad.



Bryan Cranston, (who you know best as the dad from "Malcolm in the Middle" or Ted's boss in "How I Met Your Mother") plays Walter White, a high school chemistry teacher who collaborates with former student Jesse Pinkman (Aaron Paul) to develop the best little crystal meth lab in all of Albuquerque. Why? Well, he's got inoperable lung cancer, and needs money for his family to go on without him.
You got it: instead of degrading himself with things like "treatment" or accepting his charitable college friend's lucrative job offer, Walt goes and embellishes the American landscape with a new generation of meth-heads. If, as a Dear Imaginary Reader pointed out, the premise of "Weeds" is morally questionable, the premise of "Breaking Bad" goes out to the desert, buries the corpse of morality, and plants a cactus on top of it. (Pot makes you giggle; meth makes you join a motorcycle gang.)

But the meth-making in "Breaking Bad" is just a plot device, more so than in "Weeds"- (which actually means to say something about the Drug War's many absurdities). Walt could have as easily become a bank-robber or started selling high-quality fake IDs to high-schoolers. What's deeply- and wisely- examined here is his confrontation with death.(Confrontations with love and/or death- what else IS there?)
Walt freaks out in ways that feel real but TV rarely examines. Bryan Cranston's acting comes from an unexpected territory, and has been deservedly recognized. He behaves like Death is a brow-beating spouse: shame at his diagnosis pervades his every expression. At one point, his family, (composed of pregnant wife Skyler, cerebral-palsy son Walt Jr., shoplifting sister-in-law Marie, and DEA-agent brother-in-law Hank) confronts Walt on an actual DEATH intervention, and the way he hangs his head and tolerates their nagging as they tell him how to live his life- or rather, DIE his DEATH- may not explain how he can face off to tough drug-dealing competition, but does such a beautiful job of explaining how one feels before the imminent end, that it's hard to complain.

(My one complaint lies with the character of Jesse Pinkman- he seems like the most pathetic wigger in the block. I don't buy him, or his burgeoining buddy relationship with Walt.)


ABOVE: I'm a wigger AND I'm wigging out!

Ground Control

If I just linked to whatever amused me, this would be a big launcing pad for "The Onion", so I don't link. But this amused me.

Sight UnSCENE! February 9

"Dear John"- The chick from "Mamma Mia" and "Dear John", (the guy from something or other) make kissy faces at each other. They go look at the sunset on the beach. They sink their toes in the sand. They visit a Norman Rockwell exhibit. But then war, cancer and/or their purity rings keep them apart. VERDICT: Dear God, please stop Nicholas Sparks.


"Frozen"- So these people get stuck on a SKI LIFT, and then it gets really COLD! Take that, "Paranormal Activity"! A whole movie about a scary CHAIR! VERDICT: Mr. Freeze says: "In this universe, there's only one absolute... everything FREEZES!"


"From Paris with Love"- John Travolta steps up to the James Bond throne with a decidedly unorthodox take on the character. (The lines are now: "My name is Bond. James "FUNKY HAIR" Bond"; and "I'll have a Martini. Shaken, stirred, and pounded against the wall, because I'm about to get my Thetan on!") A deadly new weapon shaped like the Eiffel tower can transform normal Americans into beret-wearing, baguette-bearing, escargot-eating, easily-surrendering FROGS, and only Bond can stop the army of batrachians led by the evil Monsieur Grenouille. VERDICT: You'll be RIBBIT-ed to your seat.