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Nothing 'Bout My Baby
Nov. 12th, 2007 08:20 pmWell, it's recently come to my attention that it's been pretty fucking boring up here in this mother lately, probably because the only thing I do it bitch and moan about somebody else's cognitive dissonance. So...screw that, for now. A brief run-down of stuff which has nothing, whatsoever, to do with Cal follows:
On Friday, I caught up with Blood Ties and Death Note, and thought about how I really, really like Blood Ties. Yes, it's cheese--prime-grade Canadian cheese, to be exact--but every part of the whole is routinely enjoyable, from series premise to episodic concept to execution on out the other side. Plus, EVERY DAMN PERSON ON IT is smokin' hot; Kyle Schmid (Henry) just gets better and better at that feral Prince of Men thing, Gina Holden is the perkiest Goth around, Christina Cox has only gotten more luscious since her Better Than Chocolate days, and I'm surprised to find I actually like the snarky, metrosexual, vaguely-pissed-all-the-time version of Mike Celluci that whoever that U.S. soap star they have playing him is pumping out. They even local-cast accurately for hot sexy sexness--last week the guest star was Lisa frickin' Ray, for God's sake. Case closed.
On Saturday night, meanwhile, after the Small Press Book Fair, Steve and I were finally able to see American Gangster. As usual, I'm not too sure what most of the critics I've read about it thus far are on, since it is neither slow nor self-important--and BTW, Gleiberman? If you think Frank Lucas has "no rage" just because Sir Denzel is playing him, you are a MORON. (Not to mention that I don't think you watched Malcolm X quite as closely as you think you did.) No, we aren't really supposed to see him as any sort of role model (helped bring in drugs that killed more people than lupus, etc.); yes, it's nevertheless too bad that a racist society and general lack of other opportunities to get into a position to make $250 million by age forty cheated us of what could have been one of Harlem's most amazing legitimate business success stories. No, I didn't think there was too much Richie Roberts, considering he's the co-lead. No, I wasn't let down by them only having one extended scene together...can I introduce you to a little movie called Heat?
My favorite moments include: Realizing that every time Frank wants to kill somebody but knows it's not a good idea to do it right then and there, he tics out a wide smile and says: "MY man..."; the fact that his downfall basically hinges on having agreed to dress like a pimp on one particular night (by wearing a chinchilla coat and hat his wife bought him); and the wonderful visual/sonic irony of the fact that the minute he steps out of jail in 1995, somebody's car instantly starts blasting "Can't Truss It" by Public Enemy (Beware of the fist when it's comin' from the left, I ain't trippin' just watch your step, can't truss it...now the judge everyone, watch it, here he comes; DON'T sentence me, judge, I ain't done NOTHING to NO BODY...). All in all, a good night out, though we were up 'til 2:00 A.M.
Today, OTOH, I spent catching up with the $14.95 used copy of the THX 1138 Director's Cut I bought at BMV--and man, I think that's one of the single best upgrades I've ever seen, particularly considering that George Lucas was involved. Flawless restored print, incredible sound, and all the (mainly) little background retools look organic in ways the Star Wars retrofits never, ever will. And it's good, too! Granted, I hadn't seen it since I was thirteen, which may be why I remember it as a bit of a snore, but...even so.;)
In other news, I've finally figured out what I dislike so much about the whole "no, Dumbledore's gay, seriously" thing. Yes, it's nice to have confirmation that one can be integral to the plot and universally beloved and yet gay (though since he seems to have been completely celibate for his whole adult life, the point's a bit moot)...but it would have been very nice indeed, J.K., had you actually slipped that piece of info into the book(s) somewhere. The last one, maybe--after all, you were already richer than God, and the audience base was supposedly composed of seventeen-year-olds. Just a mention, alongside all the other info-dumpy crap; too much to ask? Because now, in twenty years, no one who wasn't in that room with you will remember anymore. Oh, they'll be able to Google it, I suppose (unless Western Civilization crashes before then), but it's not quite the same thing as getting it as canon, is it? It's almost like you were just pulling stuff out of your ass to amuse/tease the fen on your way out the door, or something.
Also: Owen Gleiberman, yet again--when somebody writes in to tell you you're unfair for automatically hating on all horror movies, the way to deal with that is probably not to just go: "Listen, I'm okay with horror for ten minutes or so, but then there has to be a movie to go along with it." Smarter (and less fucking arrogant) might have been to come up with a list of horror movies you like--I doubt you love any--and then compare/contrast them with what you find lacking in stuff like Saw IV or 30 Days of Night. Instead of, um, hiding on your elevated media pedestal, striking a pose and being all, "oh, SNAP, bitchez!" You unbelievable fucking dickhead.
Like I said, the haps inside my brain. Otherwise, Cal has a cold, and is acting whacky. More on that later, inevitably.
On Friday, I caught up with Blood Ties and Death Note, and thought about how I really, really like Blood Ties. Yes, it's cheese--prime-grade Canadian cheese, to be exact--but every part of the whole is routinely enjoyable, from series premise to episodic concept to execution on out the other side. Plus, EVERY DAMN PERSON ON IT is smokin' hot; Kyle Schmid (Henry) just gets better and better at that feral Prince of Men thing, Gina Holden is the perkiest Goth around, Christina Cox has only gotten more luscious since her Better Than Chocolate days, and I'm surprised to find I actually like the snarky, metrosexual, vaguely-pissed-all-the-time version of Mike Celluci that whoever that U.S. soap star they have playing him is pumping out. They even local-cast accurately for hot sexy sexness--last week the guest star was Lisa frickin' Ray, for God's sake. Case closed.
On Saturday night, meanwhile, after the Small Press Book Fair, Steve and I were finally able to see American Gangster. As usual, I'm not too sure what most of the critics I've read about it thus far are on, since it is neither slow nor self-important--and BTW, Gleiberman? If you think Frank Lucas has "no rage" just because Sir Denzel is playing him, you are a MORON. (Not to mention that I don't think you watched Malcolm X quite as closely as you think you did.) No, we aren't really supposed to see him as any sort of role model (helped bring in drugs that killed more people than lupus, etc.); yes, it's nevertheless too bad that a racist society and general lack of other opportunities to get into a position to make $250 million by age forty cheated us of what could have been one of Harlem's most amazing legitimate business success stories. No, I didn't think there was too much Richie Roberts, considering he's the co-lead. No, I wasn't let down by them only having one extended scene together...can I introduce you to a little movie called Heat?
My favorite moments include: Realizing that every time Frank wants to kill somebody but knows it's not a good idea to do it right then and there, he tics out a wide smile and says: "MY man..."; the fact that his downfall basically hinges on having agreed to dress like a pimp on one particular night (by wearing a chinchilla coat and hat his wife bought him); and the wonderful visual/sonic irony of the fact that the minute he steps out of jail in 1995, somebody's car instantly starts blasting "Can't Truss It" by Public Enemy (Beware of the fist when it's comin' from the left, I ain't trippin' just watch your step, can't truss it...now the judge everyone, watch it, here he comes; DON'T sentence me, judge, I ain't done NOTHING to NO BODY...). All in all, a good night out, though we were up 'til 2:00 A.M.
Today, OTOH, I spent catching up with the $14.95 used copy of the THX 1138 Director's Cut I bought at BMV--and man, I think that's one of the single best upgrades I've ever seen, particularly considering that George Lucas was involved. Flawless restored print, incredible sound, and all the (mainly) little background retools look organic in ways the Star Wars retrofits never, ever will. And it's good, too! Granted, I hadn't seen it since I was thirteen, which may be why I remember it as a bit of a snore, but...even so.;)
In other news, I've finally figured out what I dislike so much about the whole "no, Dumbledore's gay, seriously" thing. Yes, it's nice to have confirmation that one can be integral to the plot and universally beloved and yet gay (though since he seems to have been completely celibate for his whole adult life, the point's a bit moot)...but it would have been very nice indeed, J.K., had you actually slipped that piece of info into the book(s) somewhere. The last one, maybe--after all, you were already richer than God, and the audience base was supposedly composed of seventeen-year-olds. Just a mention, alongside all the other info-dumpy crap; too much to ask? Because now, in twenty years, no one who wasn't in that room with you will remember anymore. Oh, they'll be able to Google it, I suppose (unless Western Civilization crashes before then), but it's not quite the same thing as getting it as canon, is it? It's almost like you were just pulling stuff out of your ass to amuse/tease the fen on your way out the door, or something.
Also: Owen Gleiberman, yet again--when somebody writes in to tell you you're unfair for automatically hating on all horror movies, the way to deal with that is probably not to just go: "Listen, I'm okay with horror for ten minutes or so, but then there has to be a movie to go along with it." Smarter (and less fucking arrogant) might have been to come up with a list of horror movies you like--I doubt you love any--and then compare/contrast them with what you find lacking in stuff like Saw IV or 30 Days of Night. Instead of, um, hiding on your elevated media pedestal, striking a pose and being all, "oh, SNAP, bitchez!" You unbelievable fucking dickhead.
Like I said, the haps inside my brain. Otherwise, Cal has a cold, and is acting whacky. More on that later, inevitably.
