Filed under: Books | Tags: alan moore, dave gibbons, graphic novel, trailer, watchmen
So I’ll admit, I’ve fallen victim to the newfound hype that is the highly-anticipated silver screen debut of the beloved 1980s graphic novel Watchmen. I’ve been privy to the book for a number of years and always meant to give it a shot, but seeing as the ratio of books-I-own to books-I’ve-read is pitiful, I never made the plunge and shelled out the twenty bucks. On a recent weekend retreat for a friend’s wedding, a fellow travel companion of mine snatched the book from her brother’s bookshelf much to his behest, and it soon fell into my hands for the remainder of the trip. Sadly, it had to be returned to its rightful home, but the drive to read more had been officially sparked. I was able to secure a copy this past weekend from a friend who zealously procured the superduperhardcoverspecialedition, and the quest had begun. I dropped the three books I had been reading and dove into October of 1985 (incidentally, the month and year in which I was born) in the heart of dirty New York.
I’ll admit, I might have been slightly more interested in reading the novel since the debut of its utterly mesmerizing accompanying trailer, which is irrefutably dripping with dark, beautiful images that make one’s skin crawl. My eyes widened, my heart pounded, my teeth dug into my lip. What is this world I see? How soon can I know everything about it? I’ll sadly have to wait until March 6 of 2009 for my graphic thirst to be completely quenched, but until then, I simply cannot wait to finish this surreal, tantalizingly imaginative, conspiracy-woven web of cells and sin in four-color form. The nerdy girl who spent her Sundays on a stool in Dewey’s Comics is starting to reemerge, but at least now, she won’t be made fun of.
I’m proud to call myself highly irritating when it comes to pandering and peddling TV shows off on my friends and family, but thus far, I have hardly received any complaints. If I had a nickel for every person that I insisted watch Arrested Development, I’d have, well, about a buck twenty. But if I had a dollar for every person that henceforth became obsessed with consuming frozen bananas at their marathons d’homage, well, then, I might just have enough to skip out on work for a week. I’ve gotten Boyfriend quoting Desmond on Lost, Brother staying up till three am to witness the next escape attempt a la Prison Break, Mother commenting on Tim Gunn’s Project Runway style, and Roommate feeling icky by way of Ricky Gervais’s loose lips on Extras. However, my latest pawn is a true gem, one that my brother has come to love so much that I’ve made its theme song his personalized ring-tone. Oh yes, we’re completely obsessed with serial killers.
Stemming from Jeff Lindsay’s line of best-selling books, the Michael C. Hall vehicle Dexter is a Showtime empire in itself, and rightfully so. The show’s namesake and protagonist, Dexter Morgan, is a forensic blood spatter expert who moonlights as a moralistic murderer. The dichotomy of his Jeckyl and Hyde are superbly paralleled, unmasked only by a series of chilling yet whimsical narration delving into his innermost demons. Hall owns every scene; he’s seductively sadistic while masterfully evoking just the right amount of pity. In a word, he’s a sympathetic serial killer, bringing darkness into light. All the while, his spunky yet reluctant sister, his damaged-goods girlfriend, and his unsuspecting coworkers -a likable motley crew of detectives – see only Dexter’s most genial mannerisms, which he effortlessly conveys.
August 19th brought good tidings to my DVD collection as I procured Season Two on its release date, and have since been introducing the Bay Harbor Butcher to Brother, who finds everything from the intoxicatingly nauseating opening credits to each and every nail-biting clincher to be nothing short of pure genius. Season One put knots in my stomach, but Season Two is ensnaring my intestines and lodging them in my throat (much like I picture Dexter might be capable of doing). One incredibly dangerous thing is for sure: until I finish re-watching Season Two, I’m going to be once again convinced by the ludicrous romantic in me that serial killers are still people, too.
Filed under: Everyday
Tomorrow will shoo me smack dab into reality once more after a distracting foray of a long weekend with my friends and Boyfriend. I’ve been too consumed with grief and worry to be alone with my thoughts, prompting anyone and everyone surrounding me to keep my feeble mind from straying quite too far. Hopefully this week will bring a hospital visit and a heavy heart. In the mean time, I was able to celebrate a great many birthdays, including two of my close friends and my mother. Ah, this tangled world. How strange, how cruel. How utterly unpredictable.
In other attempts to play cool, I have been sinking into books, movies, and TV shows all the more. I’ve been moonlighting at bars, and swaying to jukeboxes, and laying on white sands, and enjoying read-a-louds. I’ve been watching music swell from dark-lit basements, and sleeping on my stomach as a hand strokes my hair, and hiding from the sun. I call many places home, I call couches my bed, and beds my sanctuary. I share covers. I share thoughts. I share burdens. Is it all okay that life still remains? Is it all okay?
- Currently reading: Watchmen, Alan Moore.
- Currently listening: 19th Nervous Breakdown, The Rolling Stones.
Filed under: Everyday
My mother phoned me while I was at the gym; on my return trip, I called her back. Her voice was echoing and deep. She inquired as to my brother’s whereabouts. Then the words came fumbling out. ”Something horrible has happened.”
There was a fire in my aunt’s house. My aunt and her daughter are in critical condition. My uncle did not make it out alive.
These people are more than family to me; to be honest, we’re not even blood related. My mother has been best friends with Kathy since the first day of high school, and they have subsequently become my godparents, my aunt and uncle, and my friends. Tara is due back to college in two weeks, but she’s in an induced coma and most likely has not yet been informed of her father’s death. Patrick was staying at his uncles, and for the next week, he has no family. They have no father. I don’t know what to do.
Filed under: Movie Reviews | Tags: ben stiller, jack black, jay baruchel, Movie Reviews, robert downey jr, tropic thunder
This has been an unusually mind-numbing week in the name of cinema; in only a few short days, I’ve managed to submerge myself in cheesy girl-talk, violent slapstick, and mindless site-gags. And by the latter, I divulge that I went to see the most ridiculous blockbuster of the summer, Tropic Thunder. Yet another mildly entertaining popcorn flick in the name of comedy, Thunder provided just enough laughs to get by. It’s hardly as quick or as clever as Ben Stiller’s other directorial forays (see: Reality Bites, Zoolander), but it still has his brand of hilarity smeared all over it. The plot is overly simple: a few numb-nut actors aim to make an over-the-top blockbuster chronicling the best Hollywood moments of the Vietnam War. However, the production is sinking faster than quicksand, and the rookie director attempts to make it feel a little more “realistic” by leaving the prissy actors to their own devices in the middle of the deadly jungle. Through a dismal series of misunderstandings, the thespians are flung into battle and are forced to band together like brothers (sound familiar?). And cut.
It seems nearly too obvious that the pitch for the movie is as far as Stiller got before teaming up with Justin Theroux to attempt a “script.” After a few semi-humorous turns, the plot quickly falls by the wayside, and the actors must attempt to rely on what little they can do with a few wimpy lines. Sure, it’s mildly amusing, don’t get me wrong. But how many ridiculous gag jokes can one take while floundering for an ounce of story? What truly makes this film work is its star power. Something in me can’t say no to Stiller donning his best idiotic face, and Jack Black, is, well, very Jack Black-ish. However, I spent most of the duration of the film simply enamored by the fact that I was indeed watching Robert Downey, Jr. and Tom Cruise make self-deprecating asses of themselves for the sake of the silver screen. It became easy to stray from the mindless action in order to gawk with craned neck at the strange transformation of both men and think to oneself, How can this be possible? But the real scene-stealer is a personal favorite of mine, the adorably endearing Jay Baruchel (most noted for his lead in the unjustly cancelled Undeclared).
Every scene boasting Baruchel was an unadulturated delight and aided in keeping the story line even the tiniest bit grounded. Though often noted for his awkward comedy, Baruchel’s character acted as the veritable glue of the chintzy film by offering a sympathetic turn amongst an army of twits. Would I see Tropic Thunder a second time? I’d probably save the ten bucks and buy a venti jamocha instead. But the semi-likable and somewhat entertaining romp in the jungle provided most nearly what I had originally intended – guilty pleasure stupidity in its rawest, most primal form. And scene.
Filed under: Movie Reviews | Tags: evan goldberg, james franco, Movie Reviews, pineapple express, seth rogen
It’s not often that a supposed stoner comedy can pack an intelligent punch, but the the quick-witted ganja-induced joyride Pineapple Express almost nearly pulls it off. After favorable reviews from a strangely varied demographic, I was ready for second-time co-writers Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg (you may recall the same monikers from the raunchily hilarious empire that is Superbad) to entertain the pants off of me. While perhaps falling just short of stripping me of my jeans, Express does prove to be a strangely sometimes-hilarious comedy of near-epic proportions. Slightly-tubby self-effacing Rogen still manages to charm the audience despite his character’s unsalvageable mannerisms while James Franco, a venerable Freaks and Geeks alum (another Apatow gem partnered with Rogen), channels his best Daniel Desario incarnation as the winsome and witless pot dealer/BFFF.
However, Express isn’t nearly flawless, and awkwardly long and disturbingly music-depraved fight scenes drag down the quick-tempered flow that is the remainder of the flick. Misplaced bouts of gut-wrenching violence shadowed by far-too-realistic blood-and-guts leave the audience wincing rather than laughing before awkwardly reverting back to silly stoner fun. Danny McBride, while rather comical as friend-turned-foe Red, obviously took a cue or two from dead-pan deliverer Will Ferrell, prompting me to believe that the role might have been originally intended for the funnyman himself. The comedy also tromped over the fine line that divides unrealistic slapstick (see: character shot seven times, needs not seek medical attention) and plausible plot lines (well, plausible for Hollywood), and the inconsistency tends to come off as somewhat alarming.
As I exited the theatre, I maintained that I enjoyed a semi-smart yet hole-filled two hours of pure entertainment, which I might expect Rogen and Goldberg would endorse. While sloppy editing and strange effects slightly denouced the film’s credibility, I wouldn’t be concerned with taking it all too seriously. The writing is perhaps the most important aspect of a shebang such as this one, and I’d go so far as to say I enjoyed more than a few riotous belly laughs, even sans reefer. Well played, Seth Rogen. Well, played.
Filed under: Movie Reviews | Tags: in search of a midnight kiss, kabluey, movies
Every once in a while, a trailer for a film comes along that grabs me in a certain way. I can’t exactly describe the feeling, but all I know is that whatever I do, I simply must see this movie. Today, I’ve had the misfortune of stumbling upon two such trailers for films that have already been released but are magically not playing anywhere on God’s green earth. I assume I’ll just have to save them on my ridiculously long Netflix queue and compulsively check to find a DVD release date. Oh, for shame. In the meantime, check them out for yourselves:
Boyfriend meandered over at 1:30 am last night after playing a show, and, being the old woman I have newly become, we were both clinging desperately to the concept of sleep and passed out soon thereafter. In an effort to break the monotony of our usual chain-restaurant binge, we headed to the grocery store today for some fresh ingredients for dinner. I love to cook, but I’m highly experimental, which can end up being quite, well, interesting. Luckily, Boyfriend and I both enjoyed a semi-delicious meal of:
- Balsalmic London broil with Gorgonzola cream sauce and Portabello mushrooms.
- Fresh-cut red bliss French fries.
- Spinach and Gorgonzola salad with Portabello mushrooms and balsalmic vinaigrette.
- Currently reading: Factotum, Charles Bukowski.
- Currently listening: I’m the Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side, The Magnetic Fields.
In one month from tomorrow, I will join the ranks of the semi-adults and forever leave behind “home.” It’s not so much a shock to me; I lived away at school all four years and then moved again, having rented a brothel of a beach house (in which I inhabited the laundry room) in order to finish up some “straggling semesters.” I meandered home as all good girls do, pitched in with the dishes and gardening for a few months, and am now prepared to push off for good. I’ve got a steal of a house and a bedroom window that overlooks the ocean waiting for me, as well as three antsy roommates and a neighboring boyfriend.
However, I cannot seem to shake one undying desire to mark the beginning of my adult years. The signs are everywhere, haunting and taunting me until I give in. It’s what every little girl dreams of – expressing her nurturing, loving, snuggly side with a lifelong companion. Yes, it’s true – I’ve got kitten fever.
Despite the fact that the disgustingly adorable one-month-old-kitten my previous roommate saved and took in (he was cowering in a broken television set out to the curb during a torrential downpour) turned out to be the largest, cruelest cat with a personal vendetta against me, I still have faith that whatever little creature I foster will love me to bits instead of scratching me to them. I’ve already begun the mental process – first, ask the roommates politely. ”Hiya. Cat cool? I’ll make sure she doesn’t urinate all over your comforter.” Second, approach landlord with favorable excuse. ”It’s a medical condition. I have severe depression, and only tiny, furry things can make this horrific pain go away.” Third, procure fuzzy beast of choice. Fourth, take enough allergy medicine to sedate a Clydesdale.
Rest easy, little one, you are so close to being mauled to death by an overbearing new owner. So close!
- Currently reading: The Iron Giant, Ted Hughes.
- Currently listening: Your Ex-Lover is Dead, Stars.
Filed under: Movie Reviews | Tags: dvds, Movie Reviews, sisterhood of the traveling pants
Despite denying being a “material girl,” I do take great pride in my DVD collection. I routinely spend the few measly bucks I have left to my name buying gads of them, and spend the few measly hours I have left to myself color-coding them (according to the spectrum, no less. Sadly). However, my collection, littered with Wes Anderson Criterion Editions, pretentious French films, and Coen Brothers gems, possesses a few inexplicable wildcards. When cornered as to why I own a copy of Coyote Ugly, I usually attempt to attribute it to a roommate with ridiculous taste. The Little Mermaid is chalked up to nostalgia, and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was “given to me by a friend.” However, one movie I can’t seem to explain, for better or for worse, is the lovable and horrifically cheesy Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.
My friend with a similar affliction texted me at work with a brief request: Pants tonight? Oh yes, oh yes, Pants tonight. Tonight shall be full of The Pants.
So we sauntered off in my borrowed mini-van (really, could this get any more cliche?) and spent a heartwarmingly nauseating two hours with four girls and a pair of bedazzled pants in the second installment of the series (based on a line of books by Anne Brashares). And honestly, I use the term “nauseating” in the most complimentary way possible. I laughed, I cried, I nearly peed my own pants. I felt as ooey-gooey inside as a flaming marshmallow over a campfire pit. And what’s more? I really fricken loved it.
Amber Tamblyn shone as the dry-rot wit of the quartet, her deadpan lines, which fell flat on paper (I might just have read the book as a tween) were delivered in the snarkiest form of sincerity. Blake Lively, of obnoxious Gossip Girl fame, brought sappy audiences to their knees in her gut-eviscerating subplot focused around the suicide of her ill mother. Alexis Bledel, though sadly lacking Gilmore gusto, was simply adorable as a heartbroken art-student, and America Ferrara shed her character’s irritating undertones (a complaint of the first film) to become the most effortless and earnest girl-next-door.
Sure, you’re in for a cheesy, girly, false-confidence-building run, but a substantial cast and sturdy story (however, greatly divided among the four) make it all the more bearable, and heck, even a whole lot likable. And when it comes out on DVD, I’ll be sure to color-code it in and attempt a flimsy excuse for yet another wonderful wildcard.
