Mac and Me

In business, if you’re not growing you’re dead. Growth implies a return on investment and is the sole requirement of a shareholder. Of course the larger a business becomes the more profits are required to turn its wheels, yet profits and growth potential remain inversely related. A business starts out all potential, no profits, and ends at market saturation with money to burn. So, contrary to instinct, few want stock in a company that reaches every consumer in the world. Once you reach your potential you’re dead. In the business world The Simpsons would only be syndicated.

This creates an interesting dilemma for companies like Coke and McDonald’s. In a perfect world, reaching critical mass would be cause for celebration. Execs in glossy hardwood board rooms patting themselves and each other on the back in turns between lines of cocaine and styrofoam plates of ice cream cake. One whole wall a cross between a Lite Brite and Google Maps; plugging in the last peg to glow green in their eyes as god knows where, in the harsh ever drift of an Antarctic naval base, the golden arches flicker to the 99 billionth served. Instead, in our drab reality, where penguins suffer for a dollar menu, where greed needs eternally breed, we have the same double breasted execs, in conspiratorial panics offering up any desperate crumb of thought.

“We present to you Mac and Me,” they say, the words entering with PowerPoint’s exciting pinwheel effect. “A joint venture between The Coca-Cola Company, McDonald’s Corporations and Metro-Goldwyn… uh…uh… Metro-Goldwyn Meyer subsidiary, Orion Pictures.” Edward Markum III was noticeably thrown by the slide whistle attached to the boomeranging text of MGM, a calling card of Brent, the overeager son of our tech challenged third Markum.

Luckily that didn’t stop him for long. Presenting statistics, fictional at best, with expanding bar and pie charts, Markum went on to, “clearly demonstrate demographic gullibility for product placement in film,” and a, “global adoration for Hollywood.”

Markum Gulability
A Taste of Markum’s Proof

While McDonald’s and Coke were already global, this joint venture of fiction and product would allow growth through a products utilitarian re-branding. “Everyone drinks Coca-Cola, but do they use it as medicine?” Markum asked, he hoped, rhetorically. “I’m the idea man, I don’t know how they expect me to do the research too,” he often complained, verbally and physically, into the vacuum of his mistresses.

Suffering the confused silence, and, as totem caboose, the full duration of Markum’s gaze, weasel faced Greg Tillby offered up a questioning, No?

“Good, didn’t think so.”

Tillby thought best to inspect the inseam of his trousers while McDonald’s went on to receive the slide, “Haven of Cool, Sanctuary for the Rad.” McDonald’s had yet to expand its menu of high margin desserts as research showed few had room after the caloric deluge of a value meal. By turning McDonald’s into a dance hall, by suggesting its parking lots for exercise, meals per visit could grow 12%.

Untitled presentation (2)
(Those with PowerPoint can find Markum’s original slide here)

Of course none of this was any good without a movie people were gonna love. Enter Stewart Raffill and Steve Feke with their trinity of aliens, empathy for the handicapped, and a theme song delicately stolen from Back to the Future.

The end. He sat down.

As a rule Markum never finished a presentation with Q & A. “Why the hell would I,” he explained naked, sitting Indian style and preening his navel, “it’s the only time anyone gets to put their dick in your soup.” He rises to help zip the back of her dress as she questions her makeup into the mirror. “Don’t like it, fine, what do you got? Next. I don’t need to sit and get roasted for it.”

Clap-clap-clap-clap-clap

They loved it.

Of course with hindsight we can chuckle at their misguided attempts: Coca-Cola trying to forge voodoo trust throughout Central America by purchasing the rights to paint their logo on water treatment plants in the regions burgeoning industrialized pockets; adding more aluminum to their cans so they could legally say Coke now had less sugar; the “adult taste” of McDonald’s Arch Deluxe or the diabetic rainbow of their “no mess” and “to go” fried soft serve; and last but not least Orion’s propaganda variant of E.T., Mac and Me. Coke themselves have since realized the error, abandoning such joint ventures in 1996, opting for a more natural, grass roots approach to growth by backing lobby’s for strict Catholicism; funding militant demonstrators who sweep through grocery and convenience stores puncturing prophylactics on the sly with tiny needles. But at the time it was understandable. Much easier, when you’re up against the wall, to green light the first presentation then have to stand up and give your own half baked ideas. And then there were guys like Tillby, too damn nervous to vent original ideas: caffeinated liquors for the coming-of-age and diet soda that gave up on the unicorn of zero calories in order to approximate taste.

Given its origin, it’s no surprise Mac and Me is not your ordinary awesomely bad movie. I often hesitate to quote favorite lines for fear of robbing the movie any gusto. But with Mac and Me, if I say, “here, strap this vacuum cleaner on your back,” it only plates the delicacy that follows, doesn’t spoil. There are just too many damn preservatives in corporate propaganda for that to happen.

Overturning Pitchforks

Sure, let’s make him fat. Certainly, huge. A political cartoon man representing the NFL watches his TV, lusting after the teary-eyed solidarity surrounding the lifetime ban of Donald Sterling. Now that’s good for business – trust.

On Feb 26th, the NFL was reminded that it’s just not that easy. Rather than admit it made a mistake or wait for the next scandal, which, given the NFL’s track record, couldn’t have been but a couple months out, the league chose to photoshop itself ahead of the issue, flex moral discipline, and in short, do anything to distract us from chronic traumatic encephalopathy. Once again this pandering ignored due process and its own collective bargaining agreement.

Give it time to belch and collect itself, and the NFL will jealously point out the many ways the NBA lucked into their Sterling example: an eccentric eighty-year-old, easing into dementia, whose uncouth milkshake of bigotry and entitlement had been stinking up the apartment for years, was caught venting his usual inbred prowess, not by concerned employees, writers or citizens, but the tabloid journalists at TMZ. So why shouldn’t Goodell and crew (fart noise) be able to catch a similar break from Law & Order: TMZ?

When each of these stories hit, positive discussions took place on entrenched racism, domestic abuse and corporal punishment. I don’t mean to judge the sincerity of public reaction but question its direction: there seemed to be a level of highbrow bloodthirst. When I heard Rice and Peterson discussed, it was about what the NFL knew: was the punishment too steep, too lax; is it enough to turn viewers off, to affect ad revenue. The law as it is for every man was either assumed or ignored. The Rice scandal did more to show the weakness in domestic violence law than in NFL policy. The best reaction was generic – raise awareness. In all the media noise I may have missed the impact that it had, but it felt like a sad testament to our present political climate that change only took place in the smaller, broken lobbyocracym, of business. It wasn’t us, it was Rice; it wasn’t every workplace, just the NFL; and in effort to look tough, to appease we the consumer, the league was more than ready for the pitch of vigilantism circulating.

There is a world of difference between Sterling and Rice, between a protected necessary evil and the criminal, but is it strange to think these organizations should have had to do anything above the law? Should not the law embrace the scope of our reaction onto every man, onto ourselves? I realize the glorious simplification I’ve made, but the point remains. At some point organizations cross the line from self-governance to processing law. By grabbing our pitchfork we lose some of the power as citizens that we gained as consumers.

Fatal Deviation

I know what you’re thinking. No, it’s not that Fatal Deviation. It’s not the filmed-but-never-released Speed 3: Fatal Deviation, where Sandra Bullock is stuck on a dune buggy speeding across the salt flats, forced to finish an entire coloring book, and if she ever goes outside the lines the whole thing is wired to blow! Vultures circle as she reaches for periwinkle, her face rips raw through the sandstorm, a skateboarding dragon stands before her as James Spader crowds her ear, “Ahhh yes, a daring choice, but toe the line, my sweet.” This summer, safety is a mirage, action has a new hue…

Sorry.

This is the Fatal Deviation where an Irish martial artist egotistically plays himself, in a movie he co-wrote, and if anyone on set tries to do anything that wasn’t done in a Van Damme flick he has a semi-coordinated, muscle-bound tantrum. Splits between chairs – check! Kicking a tree at the behest of your unassuming trainer – check! Standing on a dirt bike and firing a pistol – thank you, god, check!

James P Bennett’s Van Damme does differentiate itself in one key way – its pants. Bennett looks like a dog wearing boots for the first time, all the time. That may be closer to the truth than I imagine. Perhaps he felt the need to class it up for the movie and thought he’d check out this new-fangled denim he’s heard so much about, unaware that their comfort improves with wear. Either way I have something to say. Dear James, I love you from the waist down.

Quote me all you want, sexuality is the least of my worries. This movie opened a racial can of worms that will leave me more a social pariah than even my taste in movies. It’s not that I’m racist (I keep telling myself), but I can’t stop thinking, “If there’s an Irish Van Damme, is there a Canadian Brando?” – the horror eh – make’em an offer he can’t refuse d’er, hoser; “Is there a Steven Seagal of Botswana?” – stage direction: man looks at camera like idiot, has slick hair; “…or maybe an Australian Dennis Hopper” – boomeranged, sir! (Editor’s Note: some Santas do exist). Korean Fran Dresser, an Afghani Shatner? I can’t be the only one wondering who is the Finnish Devito. Alright, alright, I’m being racist, I’ll stop.

For a while I had this unconscious stereotype that gay people were inherently intelligent, having to overcome the stultified aspects of society on a daily basis. Which is ridiculous of course. It’s like assuming a Chinese individual is good at math; racism of grandeur is still counterproductive.

The fact that he’s Irish really has nothing to do with the movie. It’s merely a vague adjective for just how low the budget is. The village of Trim, in Navan, the county city of County Meath, Ireland, is about as far from drug lords and full contact fighting tournaments as I ever thought I would be. So unless Rick Steve’s is a liar, which he’s not, he’s too damn boring to ever tell a lie, Bennett doesn’t have much to work with here. Boy, can he make do. The man turns the sign outside a school into 50% of his back story.

What exactly happened in those ten years at St. Claude’s Reform School Bennett wisely leaves to the imagination. The fact that historic St. Claude La Colombiere, having spent his tertianship on high kicks, gave his final vow on the Fourth Heart of Efficient Grocery Shopping, gives us a pretty good idea, however.

So our recent graduate has packed his bag full of pictures, walked five minutes back into town, and is dead set on solving the mysterious death of his father. Spoiler alert: he watched it happen and just forgot.

It might be that they had the human decency not to ask a woman to take her shirt off (instead favoring a bare-assed man running in sandals); or that the complete lack of acting gave me some slight insight into the actors as people; or ending with a gag real shows just how much fun they had shooting this thing; but I can’t help getting that twinge of proud parenthood when I watch this wretch deconstruct. Wait… I know what it is. This is criticism of grandeur! I’m probably better off being racist than forming imaginary friendships with shit movies. Aaah, too late.

Fatal Deviation is 76 minutes of bonding over bad yearbook photos and reminiscing bad crushes with a smile. Cheers to Bennett and crew! The next Smithwick’s is on me.

 

 

 

No Retreat, No Surrender

Do not ignore this movie. There might be a dozen movies with Van Damme on the cover putting his right foot in and flexing all about, but do not be fooled, this is not a Van Damme vehicle. This is nobody’s vehicle.

Lionheart (1990) PosterBloodsport (1988) PosterDeath Warrant (1990) Poster                                                                                 The Hokey Movie Pokey

In only his fifth appearance (coming off three uncredited roles and a performance as Gay Karate Man) Van Damme is non-existent for much of the film, bookending the movie with two dialogue-free fight sequences as the mob’s Russian mystery muscle. Not that that would keep ol’ JCVD from cock’n around the set like a godsend, and this time with good reason: only one other material character has more experience, Tai Chung Kim, who once again reprises his role as a Bruce Lee double (see Game of Death I and II). If it weren’t for the fact that our lead was a baby/prop on General Hospital at the age of one, this would be everyone’s introduction to acting. It shows. Freshly plurped from the doe in a viscous pink gush, these fawns pool on set, our director yells action, and they begin their awkwardly enthused bumble, collection, careen, and, ratcheting leg after leg in wild inertia, clod hop across the screen streaming afterbirth and shaking their top hats. All things considered, a doctorate for effort.

So now we have our slick-haired villain in Van Damme, and our newborn pawns from the Talladega High Drama Club, but what’s the game? Good luck keeping up with this Inception-Matrix – the mob is collecting the best local dojos in the land as a cover for their illegal activities, and if (god forbid) you resist, they’ll schedule a karate exhibition at your local municipal building, split the 50/50 raffle with the chamber of commerce, crush your spirit beneath their padded iron fist, and show you what’s in store for rebels – K.O.!

I know that is pretty dense so don’t worry yourself if you couldn’t keep up. Most of the movie is about our young hero anyway, as he struggles to fit in in a new town. No, it’s not that he’s friendless: he makes a breakdancing best friend 12 seconds out of the car and has a girlfriend waiting for him without explanation. It’s that his father has yet to learn the necessary joy of violence. It’s that he is increasingly losing his grasp on reality, talking to and interacting with the voice in his head: a tactless, overbearing, jargon fanatic he believes to be Bruce Lee. It’s that his overweight neighbor wants him to suffer.

If ’80s movies have taught me anything it’s that fat people are inexplicably evil. This time I understand why. If I had been curbside listening to our well-quaffed hero meet R.J., I would have gone tandem to make sure his stay in Seattle wasn’t all pleated pants and roundhouse kicks. Just watch this asshole fall in love with a garage! Of course, once I had discovered his corpse-side coffee talks with long-dead karate champs I would have backed away from his gloriously unmedicated delusions, all the way to my Atari, and called it a day.

Mental health and bullying are no cause for laughter. The former is not a motivating factor, as much as this movie would like you to believe, and the latter leads to savage retribution. Kent Lipham may not have actually been a bully in real life, only playing one in movies, and look at what our supposed hero, Jason Stillwell, wrote for Lipham’s IMDB bio.

Kent Lipham was born to Jimmy and Nancy Lipham in 1961. He has a younger brother named Jamie. Around the age of sixteen, fearing he was becoming agoraphobic, his mother insisted Kent join a club. Not being very smart, athletic, or crafty the drama club seemed perfect for him. The roar of the grease paint and the smell of the crowd thrilled Kent. Finally he went to his mother and said “I’m going to be an actor and it’s all your fault!” After graduating from Talladega High School in 1980, Mom and Pop shipped Kent off to University where he studied Communication Arts (mostly theatre). His favorite subjects were puppetry and ballet, with modern jazz a close third. He received his B.F.A. from the University of Montevallo in 1984. He then packed his orange Malibu Classic and headed for Hollywood. He appeared in four films in the ’80s and early ’90s. Encouraged by fans visiting his message boards on IMDB he has recently decided to return to the business which had never really left his system to begin with.

Some wounds never heal.

This movie is full of meta life lessons for any revisionist- the retrograde performance of child actors; society’s continued ignorance of mental health; the complete lack of moderation on IMDB. But in reality (Mufasa!), No Retreat, No Surrender stands out for being enjoyable and free of graphic material. In awesomely-bad-movie land that’s like a WIC approval. Even the fight choreography is pretty good (though they sped it up in editing). Quit your job and watch this movie!

Road to Revenge (Get Even)

It is true what they say, two wrongs don’t make a right. It only takes one – John De Hart.

What kind of man is De Hart? His first internet search was, “members only jacket swap-meets in Henderson County.” When Dogpile came back empty-handed, after double-checking his solitude, he followed with, “what food makes the best tasting burps?” Always good for a few candy bars when the Little League kids do their fundraiser. He “straightens up” the garage. Pees wide leg stance, staring straight ahead; prides himself on never hitting the seat. His work stories fill you up past the brim, go for so long, by the time you break off (fourth attempt) his breakdown of “due by due west” and which way the parking stalls should be facing, you have to walk away verbalizing your disbelief as if it’s the only way to relieve the pressure of all the words that have been force-poured into your head.

He’s a man that can look himself in the mirror. There he sees the raw, thousand-faceted diamond the world has chance robbed itself of. A master sensei spin kicking across the sunset’s auburn glow. A soft spoken enchanter of ever slippery femininity. A man of the people whose chides and quips are the perfect garnish to every dish: a light chuckle butterflys around the room to the hearty syncopation of the chef’s guffaws, the waiter bows in admiration. A self-contained artist blushing refusal among the barroom usuals thirsting for revelation, for his vital melodies. Yes, there in the mirror reflecting the twin infinities of his rodent gaze he sees a man that gets things done and doesn’t take shortcuts.

There certainly aren’t any shortcuts on the Road to Revenge, plenty of one way streets and dog legged cul-de-sacs though. Forty minutes in, the title screen is still your best compass of an overarching plot. De Hart duck-duck-ducks off about six lefts before he gooses us with the titular right of revenge. But what a rich tapestry he weaves on his pegged loom: leather pants so tight you get shots of warped cod piece and a waft of blatant nut crack.

Don’t get the wrong idea with all this johnson talk, the movie has not liberated its gender roles. Men make the world go round while women are sex objects and victims. And yet hilariously, Road to Revenge passes the Bechdel test (now if that doesn’t silence strict Bechdel pedants, nothing will). Don’t worry about digesting these broader issues, De Hart ladles them, and just about everything else, with his patented atonal quiverings to help the medicine go down.

In an effort to spoil as little as possible I’ve probably given the appearance that De Hart is the only attraction. Far from it. Your villain is a dirty cop turned dirty judge, drug lord, satanist and petty liar, named Normad. I repeat, named Normad! Is that not enough?

Let me ask you something very important (sic) is it half full or is it half empty?… No, no, it’s water.
   -Wings Hauser

 

Trumping that by orders of magnitude is De Hart’s best bud Huck Finney, a dysfunctional ex co-worker whose life is in free fall. Wings Hauser (whom discerning indie fans might recognize as the wheelchair bound man in Rubber) gives an inspired performance considering the material. Tasked with bringing to life a recently divorced ex cop with an angry streak, who sees the light after drinking bleach, and reforms his life with the story of his namesake Huckleberry Finn, Hauser brings an uncomfortable level of believe-ability. Any level of method acting used on Huck Finney is worrisome to say the least. I certainly hope he did it by choice. If not, give me a call, Wings. De Hart is in violation of OSHA regulation Subpart E – Means of Egress under 1910.35 – Compliance with alternate exit route codes. Add to this De Hart’s non compliance of Subpart N – Materials Handling and Storage 1910.184 – Slings (see scope Whether t’wood be nobler), and we’ve got a slam dunk case.

I think I’ve proven I’m just the man to defend you against the real Normad. Revenge is sweet but a punitive track suit is sweeter, and we’re gonna milk him for all he’s worth, Wings! Give me a call either way because I want to schedule the ceremony for your Lifetime Achievement Award. I was going to give you Best Supporting Actor in a B Movie but what would that mean? You had better semiotics than Angelika Jager’s Valaria? A wider range than the football from The Room? You outshined Bloodsport‘s maroon man panties snapping to Van Damme’s plump little boom-boom? Granted the latter is pretty impressive, but what wouldn’t look good on that pert schpenukhus?* The point is, Wings, you have no true peers. Lifetime Achievement. Mission accomplished.

Yes, mission accomplished, except we still haven’t gotten any revenge and we’re running out of time. Let’s zoom into De Hart’s 10th grade mind.

– – –

A cardigan symmetry sits knowing 90 minutes is the perfect film like the Great Gatsby is the book. “Jonathan, you’re next.” Mr. Gardner dandies through this junior English class stroking his beard, as drunk on himself as a plum. De Hart stands shuffling ratty loose leaf. Exactly three pages, by assignment, to show Heather the wit and imagination; show her full force what has been held to stutters in the presence of her tight sweaters and the curve of her… her, her butt. Some cretin like Zach says ‘ass‘ in his mind. So below her. Now it’s his time.

His eyes widen, attempting to express the vastness, you can’t imagine! And he begins, muscle tense, narrating, singing his song as if by gunpoint. Heather pops a gum bubble. She’s looking at me! A wad of paper arcs the classroom. Gardner, pacing, gives a cuff upside the head. These shits aren’t worthy of Fitzgerald.

The real problem is John was so proud of all his set pieces that he couldn’t drop a word, not even the random ones about his poodle. Now he’s two and a half pages in and he’s got to bring his message home, to, to that heart nestled like a bird under those two tight, fuzzy… no no no!

He spaces out his words in emphasis. Happily… Ever… After… and returns to his desk. Soaring. No! Like a lion. Languid, proud, power proven.

It made no sense. He was a very serious, energetic lion, underfed apparently, drowning in those god damn khakis that zip into shorts, paws shodden with Airwalks. But proud nonetheless, walking past Heather without a single flutter. Ever hopeful.

– – –

Many stories pivot on the indomitable will, uplifting us with a man’s obstinate dream. And I don’t think it gets any more bull-headed than John De Hart waning nostalgic over his poached potential. So move over Shawshank Redemption, The road to Revenge is the most life-affirming statement of our time.

 

*Yiddish word for an attractively contoured male rectal carriage. Derived from shtup and tukhus

What Makes a Movie “Bad” – What Makes a Bad Movie “Good”

If you’re looking for a good bad movie then you’re already on an ironic quest; you probably didn’t pause before watching Death Bed: The Bed That Eats, and think, “Well isn’t that a silly way to describe something, good bad,” because you wanted to watch a bed eat people. Well carry on intrepid dumpster diver! But for the virginal wayfarer, stifling an amazed chuckle as stringed birds circle over head, with one maidenly foot hesitating over the great pool of schlock filled with sharks jumping themselves, consider the following to be two helpful hands shoving you full force in the back. Now swim!

What do we mean when we say, “a good bad movie?” 

By bad we mean the movie is dysfunctional. Good is referring to our enjoyment of the movie. So taking all the cuteness and fun out of the statement we have, “an enjoyably dysfunctional movie.” When your average person talks about a movie they use one word to refer to all of this and more. How was the movie? Good. And this response is the combination of critique and emotion and impulse, in any chance ratio. So be mindful of what exactly we mean by the words good and bad as we progress lest we be logically forced to appreciate the Twilight series.

What makes a movie bad?

To answer this question we must first define what a movie is. A movie is a statement made combining sight and sound. Through comedy, drama, horror, through as many means as the written word, a movie, like all statements, bares the weight of implying a truth (even a lie implies a truth, albeit one factually unsound, sarcasm an ironic truth, etc.) The fact that all statements imply a truth is what solves the Liars Paradox  (“This statement is false”), making it simply a contradiction (akin to, “I went north south”), and what helps us to understand if we’re laughing at or with a movie.  Even if it’s as base as, “boobs and guns are cool,” as fictional as, “damn it feels good to be a gangster,” or as simple as, “wouldn’t it be funny if… ,” the fact that a movie has a goal is all important.

All movies are meant to find its intended audience and to captivate them. I call a movie bad that fails to accomplish these goals. I call a bad movie good when it fails to find its intended audience but captivates its inherited one.

There are endless subjective arguments to be had over what is captivating about a bad movie, from babelfish dialogue crossing into a concussed noir to the weightless ballet of a sloppy fight scene, and never ending hairs to split over what hits or misses its mark, but it is important that we have a starting point for such discussions. The latter is especially critical. Countless lists confuse Troma flicks or Andy Sedaris with the Rooms of the world. As unsuspecting as it is on paper, there is a stark difference between the awesomely stupid and the stupidly awesome.

Let’s take a look at a few famous examples.

The Room:

Intended Audience – Everyone. Similar to that of any drama. More specifically, adults with an interest in relationships.
Inherited Audience – Fans of terrible cinema, voyeurs of spectacle.

Conclusion – The Room is a movie whose aspirations are artistically pure but whose expression is flawed. The enjoyment of movies in this category easily crosses into schadenfreude. There is no self parody taking place; a movie in this category cannot be faked.

Troll 2:

Intended Audience – Fans of camp and rollicking horror flicks.
Inherited Audience – Fans of terrible cinema.

Conclusion – Troll 2 wants to circle us around the campfire and entertain with some tried and true imagination: an interesting setting, an eerie atmosphere, a surprising turn of events. It is not setting a high bar for itself, however any of its failures are unintentional. The differences between successes and failures for such movies may not be distinct; they may both happen multiple times in the same movie. Budget and personnel constraints often create unique opportunities for each. Most best bad movie’s fall into this category.

Hard Ticket to Hawaii:

Intended Audience – Fans of terrible cinema, fans of camp.
Inherited Audience – Fans of terrible cinema, fans of camp.

Conclusion – Entirely self aware, tongue firmly planted in cheek, Hard Ticket to Hawaii has few, if any, artistic motivations and can only fail if it fails to entertain you. For all of the similarities to Troll 2 (acting, special effects, etc.), its intention to be ridiculous entirely changes the experience. On the whole they are less surprising and eccentric, which may effect your enjoyment. Often base and crass, movies in this category are quintessentially “guilty pleasures”.

Big Trouble in Little China:

Intended Audience – Everyone. Fans of action and adventure.
Inherited Audience – Everyone. Fans of action and adventure.

Conclusion –  As long as you don’t need your movies to be serious, Big Trouble in Little China provides characters with depth, a transportive, imaginative plot, and memorable dialogue. While frequenting the territory of camp, it never lets itself off the hook; uses it as a tool not an excuse; has a goal in mind and strives towards that goal in earnest. As you cover up momentary cheesiness and step back, you see logical steps towards Indiana Jones, The Princess Bride.

 Twilight (Series):

Intended Audience – Young adults. Fans of romance and fantasy.
Inherited Audience – Young adults. Fans of romance and fantasy.

Conclusion – Like Hard Ticket to Hawaii, technically speaking, Twilight is a “good” movie. Just keep in mind that the use of the word good thus far has simply meant functional: it found its intended audience and captivated them. It has been well documented that the English language is insane. The same word can have a half dozen strikingly different contextual meanings. We love drink specials, we love puppy yawns, we love bubble wrap, but not as much as we love our mothers, which isn’t to say we make love to our mothers, because then we’d be lovers… We say Twilight is good in this instance, but by good we mean something a little different. Something closer to… killpaindeath. There! Twilight is a killpaindeath movie.  I suppose I could have been making up new words this whole time but this post is far enough up its own ass already.

There you have it, a guide to circling the drain with me hand in hand!

Russian Terminator (aka Russian Ninja)

The following is my review/preview of Russian Terminator, followed immediately by its translation into the loosely gripped English of the movie. 

I worked in a call center for one long year, the last six months of which were spent with no downtime between calls. By the time I got done with a shift I barely had the will power to microwave hot dogs and drool obscenities at the eager fools on Wheel of Fortune who solve too quickly.  But I fought the good fight and slew the pastel happiness of each and every 400 or $600 winner with the half chewed chunks of my O. S. C. A. R. The point is, I was what I ate and I dreamt the same way: with a nutrition-less pink sponge, soggy with stress and sodium and the mundane.

It was the same dream every night. I was stuck in a stop-and-go commute and every time I tried to stop my breaks failed, or threatened to fail, barely catching, giving, and sliding. I’d white knuckle the wheel with held breath, foot slammed to the floor, only to tap the back bumper of a fellow commuter at a speed that threatened damage without offering the respite of either hopelessness or assurance. And then it would begin all over again, or continue, or whatever it is dreams of this nature wish to do.

Russian Terminator is just such a dream. Writer/director Mats Helge must have worked in a call center. His figurative dreams of being a photographer dashed. Sexually frustrated; considered the dreaded “friend” to his buxom, cross-aisle cube mate. Constantly harassed, alternately, by his male and female managers for the files they had assigned him. Get the files! Get the files! And in the meantime asking the same four questions of his on-the-phone script. Amongst this god damn insipid friction hold music was his friend. “Can I put you on hold?”, you have no idea. Then the muzak variants of Chopin in a Jefferson Airplane would blur his eyes into another calender daydream. An oasis of compartmentalization hovering just over the monitor. Red days scheduled on, Blue days scheduled off. But never enough blue to swallow the red. It was all bruised into a string of purple, of trying to relieve the stress. Rubbing the band where his headset rests. Black days, snow, randomly appearing. True friend. Snow. Draped in black.

Not sure how he filmed his own dream but cheers! We get a mildly dusty movie with just enough continuity to really baffle you; an opening shootout that brings tears of joy; plenty of celebrity look-a-likes (from Kenny Rogers to Rocky Rococo); a refreshing lack of sexual exploitation; a chase scene more convoluted than the Scooby-Doo doors; and to top it all off, dialogue written as by a multilingual 3rd grader. Hey, that’s still one hell of a third grader. I’d be proud. Here you go Timmy, here’s a pterodactyl sticker of a run-on review!

Translation:

I worked on phones for twelve months. It was busy. When I got home, I was tired. Almost too tired to eat the hot dog, and fuck you Wheel of Fortune! But I still did. I did eat the hot dog, Oscar. The hot dog was in my brain. 

Every night I am dreaming about driving. The breaks in my car are not good. I had white knuckles and couldn’t breath. I would kick the floor and tap my friend the computer quickly. I threatened him with speed. I had this dream over and over, of this nature. 

Russian Neen-yah is just a dream. Writer/director Mats Helge also worked on the phones. He couldn’t be a picture taker. He had an angry penis, thought his co-worker with breasts. His managers annoyed him with files. “Get us the files! How do we say, they are important!” He kept asking his four questions on the phones. He loved to be held while on the phone. “You don’t know how to hold me”, he would say about being held on the phone. Chopin’s music and airplanes from Jefferson each made his eyes water. There were red days and blue but black was better. Black was a snow day. If you saw his face you were his enemy, unless you were a woman. 

I don’t know how he filmed his dream but cheers! A dusty movie that is confusing; the gun shots at the start will make you happy; people look like celebrities (from Kenneth Rogers to Stony Pizza); the Gatorade of exploitations; and on top, me. I’m a hell of a third grader. I be proud. I am Timmy, I have a dinosaur sticker to prove it. Boyfriends can walk themselves home!

The Galaxy Invader

A psychological master thesis. The Galaxy Invader is the shirt rending tale of alcohol abuse, its terrible combustibility and the damage done to the familial framework.

I should know, I live in Wisconsin; where the brandy old-fashioned narrowly lost to the mosquito (via arm wrestling match) for election as our state bird. As an aside, in case you’ve begun a misguided flirtation that our local politics stray from the status quo, don’t. We had months of obnoxious televised hype over-salting the cracks of our favorite sitcoms. Mosquito flung mud among his smiling, photo shopped entourage (a crayon box of ageless minorities), ensuring us Old-Fashioned was a heartless elitist with precisely zero concern for the provision of safety nets beneath the underprivileged. Brandy O. F. Esq., meanwhile, draped by the staunch conservatism of his family wreck room’s wood paneling, spun shovel full after wormy shovel full that Mosquito was a vile slayer, a vamp burrowing deep into the tender necks of the unborn for their ever delicious stem cells.

The blood rush and division of entrenched politics is fitting for a film that forces its audience all over the spectrum. You’ll grow a bleeding heart as human life is placed two notches below perspiring, fridge entombed, luncheon meat; you’ll become as pleated and dogmatic as a televangelist for fear that the abundance of homo-erotic tension between a professor and his one time student will turn into some well hair brushed face sucking; you’ll become like Ross Perot, in love with the sight of Jimmy Stewart’s cousin zig-zaging through underbrush.

I’m sorry, were you expecting a Galaxy Invader? Nothing doing. This clumsy, rubber, punching bag is just one more thing for a family to argue over (after Scrabble and who should get the wheel barrow); just one more thing for greedy ham’n’eggers to swoon over like high school touchdowns. With no motivation or back story, the galaxy invader might as well not even be in the movie, let alone be its title.

A more accurate title? Let’s see… Vangelis Untunes a Casio, no no no, A Wheelbarrow for a Grapefruit, wait, how bout, Cross-training With Bernard Stewart, I got it, Pulled Punches, The Deep Ditch of Dysfunction, Bitching at J.J., Isn’t It Amazing How Much the 80’s Look Like the 70’s.

Well any of those names might be perfectly fitting for you, but if you’ve ever felt the clammy hand of alcoholism fondle your will to live, if you live in Wisconsin, where squirrels drop intoxicated from boughs overhead like the rotten fruit of our lager drenched hearts, then you know there is only one name for it: The Galaxy Invader.

 

Mission Statement

To end War and Peace, Tolstoy zooms out of his narrative and enumerates the mistakes made by historians in their struggle to find truth, to explain the cause for events. Falling back on vagaries such as Napoleon’s power or genius, Tolstoy suggests history suffers from a sort of confirmation bias as it attempts to explain the course of events entirely via the scope of its power players.

…historians have assumed that the events depended on the commands. But examining the events themselves and the connection in which the historical characters stood to the masses, we have found that they and their commands were dependent on the events. The incontestable proof of this deduction lies in the fact that, however many commands may be given, the event does not take place unless there are other causes for it; (p 1436) 

His contention, that the movements of mankind, a nation or a person, are not controlled by its leaders or intellectual maxims but by the intricate combination of all things, is as comforting as it is frightful. I am a nobody but I can make my share of a difference, hurray! I am just killing time but what I Google will ignites intricate fuses webbing our collective minds, barf!

Tolstoy goes on to delve into the implications this has on free will, justice, etc. things I won’t slaughter to bore you with, before he gives us this little bumper sticker: All knowledge is but the bringing of the essence of life under the laws of reason. (p 1450) With this is mind, that knowledge is found in the essence of life, and things bare a certain equality in sharing the impetus of events, then anything can give us insight so long as we are patient, durable, and smart enough to find it.

In the particular is contained the universal, says James Joyce; No ideas but in things, William Carlos Williams. These two hyperbole machines are logical steps down our path. Lets take a look at an example from Williams, partly for a poets brevity and partly because much of Joyce is brutal hell to comprehend.

To a Poor Old Woman

munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand

They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her

You can see it by
the way she gives herself
to the one half
sucked out in her hand

Comforted
a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her

In summation, a lady eats plums; but in the eyes of Williams, on our tongue, it becomes something more. Through repetition and varying line breaks we get a sense of her earnest enjoyment; a feeling that it means something. Perhaps it didn’t move you (I am not a huge Williams fan, though many are, so I won’t blame you), or you found his writing dry, uneventful, but what’s important here is his vision, his refusal of an elitist muse. That is something which so far I have fallen prey to, but as you read this blog you will find as many references to professional wrestling as Dostoevsky, more posts on bad movies than Metaphysics; and hopefully, find the universal in each of these particulars.

Another Eulogy From My Jobless Muses

The show must go on. Unlike “break a leg”, whose use has become gesundheit, this theatrical maxim of unknown origin has become shorthand for an actual human mindset and perhaps the easiest eulogy known to man. It’s definition according to dictionary.com reads, “People are counting on us to do this, and we must not disappoint them”.  These are some of the things we have come to count on, consider them condiments to death and taxes.

June 2nd, 2014, we were counting on the Bachelorette to closet too many hormones under the roof of one posh villa, shaking up the nutritionless froth of its drama. I could halfheartedly regret this joint decision of my free time and eyes for its gross spectacle but I’m not above spectacle (case in point, Bowe Holyfield 2), so even though I haven’t been watching the show my pizza found company. What’s really regrettable is the editing, that and the hypocrisy, and the bastardization of human interactions, but man that show has some bad editing!

Towards the end of this particular cookie cutter episode, containing all the usual tropes of fanciful dates: rappelling a skyscraper or done up in makeup to look elderly (each very telling situations for the heart), then punctuated with extensive candle lit cheers, their bulbous wine glasses held up in the stasis of, “I want to say how thankful I am that you chose me for this one on one date, and how excited I am for the opportunity to go through this amazing process with you,” or some such tripe that is roughly a laser pointer and a slide show short of being corporate filler for the emotions, even the base emotions of the loins, which are previewed and recapped until you’ve seen the overly edited soap thrice, towards the end of which, yesterday, we finally got our promised froth in the form of argument. Ooooh la la. Eric, an adventurer, and let me just say that has to look good on a resume, far better than gamer or balding anyway (my resume is a tad thin, no pun intended), Eric told Andi, our bachelorette, that he felt the reason they haven’t been progressing in their connection was in part due to her hiding, hamming it up for the camera a little, or, dare he say it, having a “poker face”. All domesticated heck broke loose.

It didn’t seem like much, but you never know, she may have had a bad incident. Out late, a weekend after being overworked, cutting free and making up for it, an attractive woman, the free drinks, Malibu and orange juice dripping off the walls, clothing her, hugging her hips, sticky, feeling a hot sexy mess, and finally a decent approach, square chin, his raw smile, the jaunt to the busy dance floor, its hypnotizing lights, the beat, the animal response, close flesh, the bubbling friction, the butterflies, I’m like a teenager, she thought, her head spinning, the thought brief and slow before the too quick realization and the faster expanding esophagus and abdominal cinch, involuntary propulsion, and the smash of her rusted orange contents, the vomit luckily muted by Lady Ga Ga’s latest saccharin repetitions, cauterized Pavlovian unto our dearest Andi. It’s a small world: I got sick on Chicago style hot dogs and split pea soup in fourth grade and haven’t regained a taste for them since. I’ve already spent too much time talking about the show without getting to my point, but I want to make sure I don’t judge; all I’m saying.

Even a coward has a sense of duty. Graham Greene

So Andi broke down. She felt disrespected by this insinuation that she wasn’t taking it seriously. How dare we. Preview, commercial, recap, cut. The next thing the audience sees is host Chris Harrison and Andi Dorfman sitting in chairs where Harrison informs us that Eric Hill passed away in April, after leaving the show, in a paragliding accident. They thought it wouldn’t be right to show the rose ceremony after this tragedy and instead wanted to make it all about Eric. What followed had little to do with Eric Hill and nothing to do with his life outside of the show. He was on four episodes of The Bachelorette. There was nothing about his friends or his family, his passion for extreme sports or even his favorite color. It was Chris Harrison, with all the humanity of a weatherman, walking Andi Dorfman through the implications this had for the show. He would never be able to laugh off the argument at the tell all!

On March 31st, 2013, Louisville played Duke in the Elite 8 of the NCAA men’s basketball tournament. Kevin Ware broke his leg badly after descending from a jump to block a shot. The compound fracture left Ware’s leg, bone exposed, dangling at a revolting angle. Players became very emotional, doubled up and crying. Louisville won the game 85 to 63 and later the national championship. Head Coach Rick Pitino said of Ware’s injury, “The bone’s 6 inches out of his leg and all he’s yelling is, ‘Win the game, win the game’, I’ve not seen that in my life. … Pretty special young man.” Ware would become a focal point for the team, the tournament, and received “tons” of messages of support from layman and celebrities.

May 23rd, 1999, “What happened was really a mirror image to a circus going wrong, with someone falling off the high wire or falling off the trapeze,” said professional wrestler Chris Jericho. For pay-per-view event Over the Edge, produced by now World Wrestling Entertainment, wrestler Owen Hart fell some 70 feet to his death when a gimmick for his entrance from the rafters involving a harness of argued quality went awry. The at home audience did not see the fall, cameras came back from a vignette to pan the audience, and were told of the accidents reality as facts came to light. Owner Vince McMahon and associates decided to carry on with the show; most of the 16,000 plus fans in attendance did not learn the seriousness of the situation until they left the event. The WWE held its weekly cable broadcast the next day in honor of Owen Hart. Owen Hart was survived by his wife and two children. His wife, Martha Hart, said in the Calgary Sun, “And after he lost his fight for life they just scooped him up and ordered the next match out. Where’s the humanity? Would he have wanted the show to go on? Absolutely not.”

Give me a minute here to be self aware. I know this post is striking the palette with the taste of country tap water: irony. Reality TV, sports, pro wrestling and morality? Which can be translated: business, business, business, ethics: Duck, duck, duck, goose. Birds of a feather? The quick answer is- it’s ridiculous to hold these entities as bastions of proper behavior. True. However remaining critical of them, and these polarizing examples, can be functional.

Kevin Ware’s injury, and Pitino’s reaction to it, are not as far removed from Owen Hart and Eric Hill as we might like. In between are the numerous situations where an athlete is carted off a football field with no signs of movement. The militant honor we have attributed these games allows them to move on as their own justification; Ware’s injury a badge of honor, a pep talk; postponement or cancellation appears equivalent to negotiating with terrorism. This common vein is what allowed ABC to commercialize Eric Hill’s death and tempted the WWE to continue Over the Edge.  While more people agree with Martha Hart than don’t, that the WWE handled Owen Hart’s death without tact, I doubt whether most would agree if Owen Hart’s fall had been less severe. These of course are not simple yes or no questions. I refuse adamance other than: in each situation there is an answer, one often independent of action.

It is now one claims there is a comfort in the constancy of nature. Chris Forhan

The mind set “the show must go on” is rarely stated literally. It’s, “I know he’s looking down with a smile watching us celebrate this one,” or, “He would want us to carry on”. When life delves into times of grief, routine can numb, anesthetize, let us plant our wounded leg’s first step. Yet, second only to despondency, is there anything easier than to carry on, to ride our life’s inertia? After Kevin Ware’s leg snapped, randomly, was it only sensitivity that made me completely not care who won the game anymore? was it sheer gruesomeness that made me stop watching? Perhaps. Or is it that there must be a point when the parallels to our chaotic human experience trump the pastime.

I also have that inner high school phy-ed teacher, blasting Van Halen, a polo shirt tucked into wind pants,  with diet Mt. Dew instead of coffee; whose personal jingoism refutes there are in fact two sides to a coin, because one is always out of sight; who still adores Paterno “as a coach” because he won, and puts all dead “in a better place”. At each sign of suffering, instead of seeking root cause, or reminded to remedy it worldwide, he hits G7 on the empathy vending machine, and, between a Milky Way and a Hallmark card, “win one for the Gipper,” uncoils and he bends over. The stubbornness of the human will is not always a triumph. It can ease its way through life, into and out of its own Eichmanns. The show goes on because of logistics, scheduling, money, and Hart is dragged from the ring. Our routine, fencing us, rounding us, dull, into the gray area’s where exploitation is televised and I swallow my pizza. This is what I seek to combat.

Grief is personal, as are any of its timetables, and it should not always take grief, but the show must stop for the showing of emotion to begin. Perhaps next time a man has his neck braced in the two minute hush, the game stops for us, we must reflect in order to find honor.

 
Sources:
http://espn.go.com/mens-college-basketball/tournament/2013/story/_/id/9118319/2013-ncaa-tournament-kevin-ware-louisville-cardinals-breaks-bone-leg-duke-blue-devils
http://www.jsonline.com/blogs/sports/226585451.html
http://slam.canoe.ca/OwenHart/may23_martha.html
http://www.canoe.ca/OwenHart/may25_wretor.html

Rick Pitino labels Kevin Ware’s injury ‘most difficult moment’ of his coaching career

http://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/ncaab/2013/04/01/louisville-coach-rick-pitino-update-kevin-ware-broken-leg/2043105/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_Coolbaugh
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_McSherry
Greene, Graham. The Power and the Glory. 190. 
Forhan, Chris. The Actual Moon, The Actual Stars. 51-52.