Two Starring Bob Hoskins

The Long Good Friday

The opening five minutes of this 1980 British gangster masterpiece are completely baffling. Shady types meet up and part. Communications are exchanged and deals are made. Cars are driven in opposite directions. But there's no rhyme or reason to the sequence. Who are these men? What are they planning? Why should we care?

And the whole time, there's this driving, pulsating early 80's saxophone music on the soundtrack (compliments of Francis Monkman). The overall effect is disorienting. We sense that we're missing something, that these are important events, the significance of which lies just beyond our grasp.

The film's anti-hero, crime lord Harold Shand (Hoskins) spends the entire film in this state. Hoskins' turn as the alternately charming and despicable Shand won him considerable acclaim back in 1980, and with good cause. Like James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano, Hoskins invests Shand with confounding nuance and complexity, creating a man who is a violent criminal but not defined by violent criminality. Far from a gangland caricature, Shand's most commonly boastful about presiding over a decade of relative peace in the London Underworld, and always treats his mistress (a fierce Helen Mirren) with respect. Misanthropic and openly disdainful of his enemies, Shand longs for the kind of respect in the community that money can't buy.



On the most important weekend of his life, when he's right on the cusp of realizing his most outsized and grandiose ambition, Shand's entire world will fall apart. He and his girlfriend Victoria (Mirren) are entertaining some American Mafiosi, hoping that they will invest in a large gambling venture on the Central London waterfront. If the deal goes perfectly, it's a chance for Shand to come out of the shadows and finally go legit, to actually become the sophisticated businessman he has always just pretended to be.

And then, at the worst possible time, bombs start going off. First, his long-time chaffeur is killed while waiting for his mother at church. Then, his best friend and close associate (Paul Freeman) is stabbed to death in a locker room. (And by Pierce Brosnan, no less!) Once his favorite pub is destroyed and more undetonated bombs are found in his casino, it's quite clear that someone is out to destroy Shand.

The more desperate the situation becomes, the more Shand turns into a mad dog. In the film's most famous sequence, he rounds up all the local hoods he can find and hangs them upside-down in a meat locker, interrogating them all together. (It becomes clear soon enough that none of the men know anything anyway).

Like all the classics of the rags-to-riches crime genre - and I include films like Little Ceaser and both versions of Scarface - much is made of Shand's hubris, how the arrogance and excess of ambition that caused him to succeed will also bring about his downfall. More than once during The Long Good Friday, people will express to Shand the significant power of his enemy, how he's embarking on a larger battle that cannot be won. I was struck by the unviersal application of the film's closing message. The fearsomeness of Harold's foes are not their strength or cleverness, but their size and their commitment to his destruction. He will not succeed because his power is based on greed, while his enemies work off of passion and true belief.

As I said, Hoskins brings a lot of different shades to Harold Shand. Sure, he's evil and ceaselessly self-serving and cruel, but he probably wasn't always a monster. He's simply grown into the role a little too well. And director John Mackenzie's final shot is mesmerizing, a seemingly never-ending close-up on Hoskins face that really summarizes the entire story in a way no dialogue ever could. Brilliant.

There was already a Criterion disc of Long Good Friday available, but Anchor Bay has just put out a new version that's cheaper, looks better and has more special features (including a director commentary!) Just so you know.

Mrs. Henderson Presents

British comedies are obsessed with nudity (like in The Full Monty and Calendar Girls) and British comedies are obsesed with cute old people (like in Saving Grace and Waking Ned Devine and every British comedy). So I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone figured out how to combine the two concepts. Which brings us to Mrs. Henderson Presents, in which an elderly widow circa WWII runs a topless revue in London.

Fortunately, director Stephen Frears manages to take what could have easily been a pedestrian trip to brain-dead High Concept Hell winds up as a fleet and entertaining comedy with a couple of dynamite lead performances.



Dame Judi Dench plays the titular Mrs. Henderson, a rich snob who discovers a love of the theater after her beloved husband dies. Still nursing the pain of losing a son to the First World War and bored with the idle life of a wealthy widow, she buys a West End theater and hires a respected producer (Hoskins) to manage the establishment for her.

At first, they have great success by running constant shows all day, one right after another. But soon, the crowds stop coming, and they have to resort to a topless act. In some of the film's most amusing passages, Mrs. Henderson must use the power of her status as well as her gifts for pursuasion to convince the uptight Lord Cromer (Christopher Guest, in a rare role outside one of his own movies) to allow her performers to remove their clothes.

And remove clothes they do. Unlike some other British comedies, that play suggestive nudity for laughs, almost all the leads in Mrs. Henderson really do get naked during the course of the film. (Well, with the exception of Mrs. Henderson herself...thank goodness...) It's nice to see that level of commitment from actors.

Martin Sherman's script does remarkably well in creating memorable personalities for Dench and Hoskins to inhabit. The characters of Mrs. Henderon and her colleague, Vivian van Damm, feel sketched in and tangible. We laugh at their sequences together less because they are filled with jokes, but because they are simply likable together.

But a lot of his transitions are awkward and he doesn't handle dramatic sequences nearly as well. The decision to turn the Windmill Theater from a music hall and into a burlesque house completely blindsides the audience. There's a montage showing the theater as a success, then a brief scene in which Hoskins explains that profits are down, and suddenly Dnech is stomping around demanding to see breasts. Another scene to set up this fairly significant change of course might have helped.

Eventually, World War II intrudes on life in the Windmill Theater, and it's here that the movie starts to go astray even further. A late sub-plot about a featured performance (Kathy Reilly) and her brief romance with a soldier feels rushed and inconsequential. And the resolution for her character is sudden, cruel and deeply unsatisfying. This whole segment of the film, honestly, feels surprisingly awkward coming from Frears, whose films are generally tight and well-calibrated throughout.

These problems notwithstanding, it's hard not to at least enjoy Mrs. Henderson Presents for for its considerable charms. Hoskins and Dench are simply great together, and when the film is focused on their relationship, it's a lot of fun.

Braffy Nominations in Just One Month

Oh, it's going to be exciting, Braffy Season 2006. I know, I know, it's early yet. We don't officially hold the Braffies, the Crushed by Inertia award for the Worst Person Alive, until July, and nominations don't hit until late May-early June...but obviously, I'm already well into the planning stages.

Here's the situation. Last year's winner by a ridiculous, retarded landslide was the Soon-To-Be-Former Pennsylvania Senator Rick "Santorum" Santorum. Basically, like another Republican leader whose name I won't mention, Rick stole the title. No one else could possibly make more asanine, insipid and flat-out evil statements in public than Rick Santorum last year. It's a mathematical impossibility. Joel Osteen, I'm sorry, but you had no goddamn chance!

Last year, I tried to nominate people from various different categories. The Worst Entertainer Alive (Toby Keith), the Worst Author (Osteen), the Worst Politician (Santorum), the Worst Masked World-Domination-Obsessed Foreign Dictator (Dr. Doom) and so forth. But this year, I think it's obvious that all the actual worst people alive come from a certain sector of the population. Namely, that sector that's obsessed with torturing and killing.

It's hard to come up with a nominee from a random area of American life - say, an annoying reality TV show host - that feels up to competing against Donald Rumsfeld. I mean, guy's a war criminal. I love to hate Tyra Banks...but come on...

That's why, I think, we'll be doing the Braffies a little different this year. Rather than one big vote for one big award, we're gonna have categories. Worst Musician(s) Alive. Worst TV Producer. Worst Advertising Mascot. Worst Wafer-Thin Celebrity Cocaine Slut (oh, man, that's gonna be a good one).

And then the big daddy, The Worst Person Alive, which will be an intense battle between people who genuinely deserve the nomination.

I don't want to give the game away, but did you guys hear Bay Buchanan say this just today?

"I think Katrina has worn its welcome.- I think the American people are tired of it."

- Bay Buchanan on CNN's Situation Room

I'd say that's exactly how I feel. "Man, will those people who we left to drown in their own filth for nearly a week just shut their stupid traps already! I'm tired of this crap! I want to hear about who's doing well on 'American Idol' and whether or not Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes baby - or TomKitten as it will surely be known - is named after the Sanskrit word for 'vaginal dryness.' I'm starting to wish all of you New Orleans people had just drowned so we could turn your stupid city into some kind of theme park or outlet mall and be done with it. I mean, 'boo-hoo, I don't have a house any more, my Uncle Chester was found several weeks after the hurricane upside-down in a barrel with one leg missing in Central Mississippi covered in his own feces, sob-sob, and I'm still not safe this hurricane season because no one's done anything to improve the Gulf Coast's woefully inadequate levee system, wah-wah.' Cry me a river, you know what I mean? We're all making sacrifices. I work in a video store in a big city called Los Angeles and there could be a terrorist attack on our store at literally any moment, but you don't hear me whining and carrying on and crying about it. No, I just bravely go about my life, and all your Hurricane Katrina so-called victims should just be quiet and take it like a man (or woman, or baby)."

Ah, yes, the wit and wisdom of Bay Buchanan. Hope she's got some extra room on her mantle next to those White House Christmas Cards...

My iPod is a Dell Digital Jukebox

I'm probably the only person I know who owns an mp3 player that isn't an iPod. When Apple's omnipresent device was just taking off into the public consciousness, my parents bought me a Dell Digital Jukebox for my birthday. The thinking was...my computer's a Dell, it's almost the same price, and it's approximately 8 times the size of an iPod. Bigger is better, am I right?

It works about the same, but I do occasionally get weird looks in public when listening to the think, on account of its massive bulk and large screen. It looks like I should be able to play Lumines on there, but no...Just indie pop albums and comedy CD's.

And here's what I've been listening to lately:

The Flaming Lips - At War With the Mystics



The Lips have been on a fairly incredible creative run since their 1993 masterpiece Transmissions from the Satellite Heart (which gave the world "She Don't Use Jelly"). Each album since - the infectious and radio-friendly Clouds Taste Metallic, the theatrical psychedelic freakout The Soft Bulletin and the more mellow, anime-inspired Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots - sounds like The Flaming Lips, but takes on a personality all its own. Their 1997 experimental album Zaireeka had to be played on four different stereos simultaneously for maximum effect.

So when I say that the new album is essentially just another Flaming Lips album, I hope I'm understood. It's not that the music is bad. It sounds a lot like The Flaming Lips, only with a little more emphasis on straight-ahead guitar rock this time out instead of the more loungy, ethereal soundscapes of Yoshimi. And it's not even that the lyrics suck, at least not more than they usually do on a Flaming Lips album.

The whole enterprise just feels familiar and kind of uninspired. Some of the songs, like "Mr. Ambulance Driver" or "It Overtakes Me" sound like inferior bands riffing on The Flaming Lips style. Unlike Soft Bulletin or Clouds Taste Metallic in particular, there aren't very many solid hooks on display here either. Even the catchier, more immediately satisfying listens like "Free Radicals" or "The W.A.N.D." aren't infectious on the level of Lips classics like "Fight Test" (which admittedly cops Cat Stevens), "The Gash," "Lightning Strikes the Postman" or "Turn It On."

All that being said, there are flashes of inspiration throughout. "Free Radicals" is a pretty amusing song with lead singer Wayne Coyne showing off his highest voice registers. (Rumor has it the song's taunting former Lips tourmate and noted Scientologist Beck with its chours of "You think you're radical/But you're not so radical/In fact, you're fanatical.") And some of the instrumental or mostly-instrumental tracks in the album's second half develop into a kind of prog-rock, Pink Floyd homage, which is always welcome. (The second-to-last track is, after all, entitled "Pompeii Am Götterdämmerung.") And "Vein of Stars" is just a classic Lips tune - hallucinatory and melancholy at once.

Mercifully, the whole album's better than lead-off track (and, unthnkably first single) "The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song," surely destined to be one of this year's most annoying songs not written by the Black Eyed Peas. I mean...Wayne...what the hell, man? If your name is not Dean and/or Gene Ween, don't mess around with the sped-up chirpy voices, please.

Destroyer - Destroyer's Rubies

It's a bit early in the year to start talking favorite albums, but I'd say this album's leading the pack four months in. I've heard Dan Bejar before as a guest on all the New Pornographers albums, to which he tends to contribute one or two songs. ("Jackie" off of Mass Romantic is a personal favorite). He doesn't consider himself an actual member of the group, and he wasn't present on the one occasion I've seen the band perform live, preferring to focus most of the time on his solo musical project, Destroyer.



I've become very involved with the latest release from the Vancouver musician, Destroyer's Rubies, a significantly great, a collection of 10 gorgeously expressive, intense, wiry pop songs. There's definitely a Dylan-esque quality to Bejar's rambling, jangly, narrative song-epics, and also a few songs that remind me of Jeff Buckley's oddly intimate tone. (Not that I'm saying he's neccessarily on par with to these two legendary artists, but the album's phenomenal 9.5 minute opening track "Rubies" pretty much invites the comparisons.) And Bejar's distinct warble has all the personality of The Decemberists' Colin Meloy or Sufjan, but additionally an angry, sharp intensity, off-set by the lilting and graceful piano accompaniment of Ted Bois.

Every song here is terrific, but early favorites include "3000 Flowers," "European Oils" and "Painter in Your Pocket."

(Preview "Painter" as well as "Looter's Follies" over at Very Good Height.)

The Fiery Furnaces - Bitter Tea

Sigh...I'm starting to lose my patience with Matt and Eleanor Friedberger, the siblings who together comprise the creative core of The Fiery Furnaces. They are capable of writing and performance immaculate, other-worldly and ridiculously infectious indie rock, but insist lately on bizarre studio experiments that at best make the music less approachable and at worst make it excruciating and unlistenable.



Following two amazing releases, the bouncy, schizophrenic Gallowbird's Bark and the children's book inspired theme album Blueberry Boat, The Furnaces have retreated into a coccoon of self-aware, navel-gazing art school myopia. Last year's Rehearsing My Choir found the duo perofmring with their elderly grandmother speaking over all the songs. Even charming Fiery Furnace originals like "We Wrote Letters Every Day" or "Guns Under the Counter" are marred by an overly-elaborate narrative structure (the album recounts their grandmother's life story) and this old woman's voice-over popping up at odd intervals.

Though their new album, Bitter Tea, doesn't include any actual old people rambling in the middle of songs, the Furnaces have designed an all-now torment for fans just trying to hear actual songs. Now, in the midst of all the music are a lot of BACKWARDS LYRICS and RANDOM SOUND EFFECTS! Seriously. You're listening to a perfectly enjoyable song, and all of the sudden backwards vocals start coming in at random moments and interrupting the melody, along with annoying little synthesized noises. Why? It's certainly not pleasant or melodic.

Some songs survive the backwards carnage. "Police Sweater Blood Vow" is a straight-ahead funky rock song that could have come off Gallowbird. "Benton Harbor Blues" is a fun little story-song that sounds like a holdover from the Blueberry Boat or EP days. But most of these songs are annoying. Some, like the title track, might have been good songs without all the over-production jackassery. Others, like "The Vietnamese Telephone Ministry" were probably annoying to begin with.

I've seen these guys play live twice, and they rearrange all the songs and rock them out, proving that they haven't lost their ability to sound like a real band. So why diddle around endlessly in the studio and mess up the recorded versions of all their songs? Are they trying to force people to check out the live shows in order to hear the "real" Fiery Furnaces? Do they not realize that the human voice played backwards on a loop gets irritating and pointless quickly? Are they just jerks? I honestly don't know...

The Islands - Return to the Sea

A few years ago, 2004 I believe, these French-Canadian weirdos called The Unicorns came out with a crazy pop confection called Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone?, an upbeat, goofy album about the fear of dying. (This was back when only 90% of the cool bands were from Montreal).

They did a tour of the US, and I saw them at the Knitting Factory, and the show basically sucked. The crowd was full of rude fratboys, the band was seemingly so upset about playing in LA that they gave a half-assed performance lasting less than 45 minutes. It was not a great experience.

Then, they announced they were breaking up and forming a hip-hop act called Th' Corn Gangg. Then, nothing. And now 2/3 of the Unicorns, J'aime Tambour and Nick Diamonds) have come out with an album that sounds a lot like The Unicorns, mixed themselves in J'aime's bedroom. Everybody got that?



Still obsessed with death and Brian Wilson, still writing an average of 3 great melodies per song, but evidencing some newfound interest in calypso, Return to the Sea finds The Islands taking off where the Unicorns stopped. Therefore, it's a tremendous LP, fun the first time you hear it but gaining nuance and complexity with each repeat because the songs are so clever and dense.

The early Islands tracks that leaked online, "Abominable Snow" and "Flesh," were obviously constructed around solid hooks, but were really rough and didn't prepare me for how slick and polished the final product would sound. Return to the Sea is every bit as lush and sweeping in design as its title would imply. And, of course, it's also very weird.

Songs like "Humans," "Volcanoes" and the grandiose, extended opener "Swans" hint and deep and troubling mysteries beneath their bouncy, effervescent exteriors. In this way, some of The Islands stuff kind of reminds me of the Masters of Creepy Indie Rock, Xiu Xiu, and I mean that in the best way possible.

The Passenger

Michaelangelo Antonioni's 1975 The Passenger is a mystery film in which many puzzles are presented and none solved. In North Africa, a freelance reporter named David Locke (Jack Nicholson) finds a dead man in the room next to his own. Rather than reporting the incident, he assumes the man's identity and decides to keep his appointments.

Why would Locke want to escape his life so desperately? Looking at the IMDB page for the film, I see that both of the authors who have submitted plot descriptions provide their own reasons for Locke's decision, but none are provided in the film. I suppose, like the ennui that haunts the idle rich of the director's L'Avventura or the paranoid obsession driving the photographer hero of Blow Up, it's some unspeakable, indescribable desperation deep within the soul. Perhaps Locke simply hoped that the new guy's identity would be more enjoyable than his own, rather mundane, existance.

Without missing a beat, Antonioni (who co-wrote the film with Mark Peploe) moves on to another conundrum. Locke keeps all the appointments in the dead man's book, and it soon becomes clear he's some sort of arms delaer in the midst of a large deal with some shady characters. We're denied, however, any suggestion of what objects might actually be in negotiations, or what if anything Locke is actually supposed to be doing for the gentlemen with whom he meets.

Finally, Locke encounters a girl (known only as Girl, and played by Last Tango in Paris vet Maria Schneider) who decides to come with him as he keeps his appointments with destiny. Who is this girl? What is she doing wandering around Europe with mysterious strangers who admit to assuming false identities? Could she secretly be involved in the arms negotiations and even the dead man's death?



Antonioni pretends for a while that there will be answers. Unlike a lot of his other films, which drift along, contemplating the meaning of life while characters pose in front of imposing architecture, The Passenger unfolds mainly like a traditional thriller. It's probably the director's most accessible work. And yet, at heart, it's another of his explorations into the pain of boredom and the sad inevitability of life and death.

Even after it becomes clear that he's in over his head with this new identity, and that he can't control the forces that threaten him in this new life, Locke doesn't waver from keeping up appearances of becoming this different man. Why keep meeting up with gangsters and killers if he has no real business with them? Now that he's faked his own death, why not disappear somewhere far away and start over? It's almost as if Locke has an appointment with death, and he's just pausing for a brief period to have a love affair and explore scenic Barcelona.

The movie could really be interepreted in any number of ways. It feels specific and detailed, but also ambiguous. Clearly, it's analyzing the nature of identity, how a few small traits and ticks and pieces of identification essentially add up to a person. Locke and this dead man are basically interchangable commodities. So long as they provide that which is expected of them, show up at the right places at the right times with an ID card, no one cares if it's the actual same man.

And who is "The Passenger" of the title, anyway? David, who rides around Europe on another man's reputation, taking a vacation through some stranger's life? Or The Girl who joins him on his adventure? Because when we become romantically involved with someone new, it is almost like creating a new persona in which to reside, a unique entity unlike the you you'd be if you were still alone.

Despite giving a performance that embodies some of the excitable, passionate qualities for which he's known, Jack Nicholson does a remarkable job of maintaining this emotional distance. Never once betraying why he might choose to give up on his entire life (save for a frustrated road trip to get an interview with a guerilla leader early in the film), Nicholson plays Locke as a tormented man but not a whiner nor a particularly melancholy sort.

He's inhabiting a new identity, and genuinely does seem to adapt his behavior to his new personality. Only after he's spend some deal of time with the Girl do his old David Locke ways seem to reappear.

And then there's the famous final shot...By my count, it's nearly nine minutes in length, an astounding technical achievement that additionally manages to tie together all the ideas circulating throughout the film. Nicholson lies on a bed in a motel room in the foreground. The camera looks out a window, then moves through the window as we watch several mini-sequences play out on the street. No action is actually shown on screen, but the entire conclusion to the movie will play out in the audio, and everything's clear enough.

Perhaps, this final moment seems to suggest, we the audience have been the passenger all along, watching Locke adopt a senseless new identity and romance a sexy stranger for our entertainment. And, finally, Antonioni says no more and denies us any sort of satisfaction or closure. Or maybe it's jsut supposed to be an incredibly cool shot. Either way, I'm impressed.

Elevator to the Gallows

Louis Malle made this impressive, tightly-coiled 1958 thriller at the tender age of 24. To say the least, it's a precocious directorial debut, gracefully mixing Hitchcockian suspense with some of the more experimental, intimate flourishes that would become the hallmarks of the French New Wave a few years later. The story of twin murders gone wrong on a single Parisian night, the movie lacks some of the emotional insight of later Malle films (or those by his mentor, Bresson, whom he claims directly influenced Gallows) and struggles for resonance in the final few moments that never quite arrives. But overall, it's hard to fault such a great-looking and well-plotted noir. Oh, and did I mention that the soundtrack features original music by Miles Davis, recorded in an improvisational session two years before Kind of Blue?



That's Jeanne Moreau, one of the great all-time French actresses, as the murderous Florence. Along with her boyfriend Julien (Maurice Ronet) plots to perfect crime - he will secretly murder her husband, his co-worker, secretly at the office, right before end of the work day, then leave the building with plenty of other people around as alibis.

It's a fascinating role, in that the plot pivots around her character but provides her with nothing to actually do until the very end. Julien stupidly forgets some crucial evidence back at the crime scene, and on the way to retrieve it, becomes stuck in the elevator. He'll spend much of the remainder of the film in this elevator, while two rebellious kids (Yuri Bertin and Georges Poujoulin) make off with his car and commit a nefarious homicide of their own.

While all this action goes on (including an amazing sequence in which Julien attempts to escape his stories-high prison cell), Florence wanders the streets of Paris looking for her beloved, wondering if her husband has been killed and what's to become of her. These are, quite simply, phenomenal sequences of filmmaking. Malle's cinematographer, Henri Decae, had already shot one of my all-time favorite crime films, Bob le Flambeur, with Jean-Pierre Melville 3 years before, and would go on to collaborate on Truffaut's 400 Blows and several Chabrol films. His black and white compositions in these street scenes, isolating nightscapes with harsh, esxtreme and occasionally unflattering light on Moreau's face, are stunning and expressive.

And I'm not the kind of guy to throw on free jazz and groove out for several hours, but the Miles Davis tracks perfectly compliment Moreau's panicked, half-crazed energy. (The film's original title, Frantic, refers to her mental state throughout.) The entire film's well-made and intense, but it's these moments that will likely stick in my memory.

As I said, the only real fault I can find in the film comes at the very end. Without giving anything away, allow me to say that certain films end on a perfect little moment, the ideal coming-together of everything that has come before. Has everyone seen The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3, where Martin Balsam sneezes at the very end at it gives the whole game away, and Walter Matthau opens the door and gives him that look. Like he just figured out the entire movie in that one second?

Elevator of the Gallows sets up a scene just like that. It's the moment when the jig is up, essentially, and ironically it's also the first time we'll ever see the film's main couple together. And yet, the moment just doesn't come together. It's a sensible conclusion, in that it naturally follows all that has come before, but it's not a great closing, one of those dazzling cappers that sticks with you months later. Perhaps this is asking too much, but when a movie builds to a moment like that, how else are you to judge it but the parameters it has set for itself?



Anyway, I still thought this was a pretty tremendous little movie, clearly influential to the New Wave (particularly in helping to launch the career of the iconic Moreau) and even to contemporary filmmakers. (Woody Allen's Match Point, in fact, treads on similar territory in spots, and shares a similarly pessimistic take on the nature of love).

Kirk Cameron Will Devour Your Soul

Hey, what are you doing for the next half hour? If your answer didn't involve "knee surgery" or "trial for manslaughter," cancel your plans and watch this video instead. In it, Kirk Cameron and some guy named (I swear) Ray Comfort are going to not only convince you there's a God, but tell you how you can brainwash enlighten your friends by spreading the Good News about his son Jesus!

They're both extremely enthusiastic and seated in front of a serene backdrop, like in an infomercial. But they only product they're selling is fervent, creepy evangelism! Ray starts with that old teleological argument for God's existence, one you may have heard before if you had any loopy Jesus kids in your high school.

In Ray's example, say you find a soda can on the sidewalk. (Ray holds up a soda can painted red, white and blue, like the flag, which isn't the design for any soft drink I've ever seen. What does America-flavored soda taste like? Apple pie? Bald eagle? Huddled masses yearning to breathe free?) Anyway, if you found a can of America Drink on the ground, would you assume that it was made in a factory somewhere, or that it sprung up magically out of the earth?

Obviously, you'd assume it was made in a factory. Therefore, there's a God.

Seriously. That's what Ray Comfort argues (in an accent that at first seems Australian, then American, then just like Ray's a douchebag). Cause the world's a complicated place...You know, like a soda can. So it must have been made by somebody. And seeing as it wasn't Coca-Cola bottling, it must have been THE BIG GUY UPSTAIRS, right?

Ray demonstrates this amazing insight with a banana. You really have to see this part for yourself. It's priceless. He claims that God placed a tab at the top of a banana to make it easy for a man to open it without, and I quote, the contents squirting out into your face. Um, Ray, isn't that just where we pulled the banana off of the tree where it was happily growing? God didn't put that there...Chiquita Corporation did, you silly bastard! Also, and I hate to break this to you, God didn't make the little sticker with the dancing girl on it, either.

Then, as if this weren't enough, he notes that the banana is tapered at the top "for ease of entry." Ease of entry where, you sick bastard? You don't need a banana to be slightly curved to fit it into your mouth!

Okay, so Ray's not exactly Thomas Aquinas with the theological wisdom. Cut him a break...He might be nervous. He's sitting next to Kirk Cameron.

The whole video's just chock full of idiocy. The whole next section is about how to make an atheist "backslide," how to prove the existence of God to people. I must admit, as a non-believer, I was curious. Perhaps, in addition to being one of the finest actors of his generation, Mr. Cameron would manage to save my soul.

Nope. It's just more of the same teleological crap. If you see a painting, some guy painted it, and if it's all blurry or full of young ballerinas, it was a French guy. Therefore, because you see a universe, some dude fashioned it with his mighty God-head, or some such thing. Blah blah blickidy blickidy blah.

Do I need to debunk this for you? Really? There's lots of ways. You know what...I'm going to give my readers the benefit of the doubt and not explain to you why it's a load of horseshit. If you're still curious on how reasonably sane people easily debunk the teleological argument for God's existence, just Google that or e-mail me. Here's the wiki to get you started.

I'm not going to summarize the entire video. Allow me, in closing, to say that it's also really really gay. The guys are always touching themselves, even rubbing their bodies. I've already discussed the lengthy section about how bananas are perfectly curved for comfort and insertion. And then Ray says that he's interested in physical fitness, "as you can tell from my physique." Now, I'm fine with whatever lifestyle choice suits Kirk Cameron. He could marry eight dudes and a monkey in an official Pentacostal ceremony and I wouldn't give a shit. I just thought these guys were supposed to not like the gay guys. Or maybe they're trying some radical new evangelical policy wherein they convert the guys after convincing them that Christianity is really all about man-on-man love. Come on, you know it isn't that off-base.

[With massive thanks to The General]

Aeon Flux

Realizing, I guess, that there's no reasonable way to affordably bring Peter Chung's animated creation to life, director Karyn Kusama and producer Gale Ann Hurd have completely altered the aesthetics of Aeon Flux. Bearing little to no actual visual resemblance to the decade-old MTV series it proposes to reimagine, Aeon Flux nevertheless succeeds in capturing the spirit of Chung's enterprise, that initially found life as a series of nihilistic shorts on the network's "Liquid Television."

Screenwriters Phil Hay and Matt Manfredi have captured the deadly serious, montone delivery of the show's characters, the confusing 180's in narrative and the obvious references to anti-totalitarian literature like "1984." But is this a good thing? It kind of feels like all that made "Aeon Flux" the show worth watching has been left behind for the film, and all the pointless exposition and inscrutable characters with never-explained motives have remained intact.

The show was never particularly memorable for story in the first place (almost all of those shorts ended with Aeon dying without even completing her unexplained mission), but was enjoyed by stoners everywhere for its bizarre animation and ingenuitive visual invention. Chung's world was a freaky, cyberpunk dystopia in which everyone was muscular, androgynous and into leather, so who cares what's actually going on in the 20 minute cartoons? Just get to more suggested nudity!



An above-average genre film probably could have arisen from the raw materials of Aeon Flux. A futureworld in which a tyrant named Trevor Goodchild (Marton Csokas) rules a repressed populace through brainwashing and fear provides a reasonable, if somewhat familiar, setting. Sexy chicks who kickass in tight spandex are all the rage these days. The central twist, though reminiscent in some ways to The Matrix or Dark City, provides for a more thoughtful and melancholy conclusion than most blockbusters. And as I said, the screenwriters clearly have an imagination fruitful and perverse enough to channel Chung; telepathic brain implants, retinal microscopes and surgery to replace one's feet with an additional set of hands are all inventions wacky and invasive enough to imagine existing in the world of Aeon Flux.

In some ways, it's the character of Aeon herself that keep the film from succeeding even on those modest terms. Former model and Oscar winner Theron doesn't make a strong case as a credible action heroine here. Like Angelina Jolie in the Tomb Raider movies, it's a good casting idea and a reasonably-good resemblance to a previously-existing character that simply doesn't work at all. Like Jolie's take on Lara Croft, Theron seems confused in how to approach the character, and never once seems to actually get inside the head of this larger-than-life cartoon. Is she aware of her sexuality and using it to her advantage, or is her sexiness merely a byproduct of ambition, single-mindedness and athleticism? Does she think of herself as a massive hero-badass, or just a simple girl caught in an out-of-control situation? Why does she have to seem so bored all the time, even when jumping through a field of dagger grass while evading dozens of guys in silly helmets with shotguns?

Kusama (whose only previous film, Girlfight, was an indie with no large-scale action whatsoever) employs far too many cuts during the action scenes, and even artificially speeds-up some of the shots to make Theron seem faster. I don't know for sure if this is compensating for Theron's inability to "sell" her character's agility or toughness.

This is both a failure in terms of performance and physicality. Of course, Theron can't really jump around and contort her body like Aeon. It's a fantasy of human movement, not realism. But we simply never believe she's a badass. The fights seem fake, the stunts flowery and ridiculous, and the visceral impact of the hits connect even less than the punches.

Really, she has no presence in the film at all. Possibly as an homage to the cartoon, all the characters, save Johnny Lee Miller's villain, speak and behave in the most monotone, stoic manner possible. Again, it works in brief animated form, when all the viewer's really focused on is the design, but the technique just saps all the energy from a feature-length film. Miller, as Goodchildn's scheming younger brother Oren, gives the film's most scene-chewing, bellicose performance, which also makes him the only even marginally interesting character. Too bad he has so little screen time and such bad dialogue.

In all honesty, bringing Aeon Flux to the screen in a live-action film was pretty much doomed to fail. Like Judge Dredd or the Super Mario Brothers or even Howard the Duck, this was an idiosyncratic work that happened organically in another form, and trying to squeeze something so peculiar and unexpected and of itself into the format of a mainstream Hollywood blockbuster movie is a fool's errand, destined from the first to come out watered down and unsatisfying. Far more mystifying than the forgettable final product is what could have motivated the genesis of such a concept in the first place.

A Real Meeting of the Minds

ARNOLD: Nice to see you, Mr. President. It's an honor to haf you here in the great state of Caulifornya.

BUSH: Thanks, Conan, it's nice to be here.

ARNOLD: You really didn't need to come. Like I toll you on de phone, I haf this upcoming re-election well in hand.

BUSH: Always a pleasure to help out a fellow Republican.

ARNOLD: No, seriously, sir...You've got to stop coming around here or ve're going to haf a problem. Seriously. No more visits. Being seen shaking hands vit you right now is like being seen making out vit Lindsay Lohan. It causes a major drop in de credibeelity.

BUSH: Actually, McBain, I had a favor to ask you.

ARNOLD: Alright, alright. Who do you need raped und murdered this time?

BUSH: No, no, not that kind of favor. I was sort of hoping you'd go over to Afghanistan and Iraq and kill a whole bunch of terrorists for me. Sure would help us out in the press. I am getting hammered out there these days.

ARNOLD: Vat makes you theenk I could go over dere and do this sort of thing?

BUSH: I saw this movie once where you went around just killing all kinds of people, all by yourself, sometimes with your bare hands. It was totally awesome.

ARNOLD: Commando?

BUSH: No, it wasn't that one.

ARNOLD: Maybe Predator? Or Total Recall?

BUSH: Wasn't them, either...No, you looked kind of differnt, and you was in a headband with all your muscles sticking out...

ARNOLD: You are theenkeeng of dat last Rambo sequel. That's with Sylvester Stallone, not me.

BUSH: You sure?

ARNOLD: Yes.

BUSH: Yeah, I guess I was only half paying attention. I don't have much patience for art films anyways.

ARNOLD: Much as I'd like to help, sir, I don't reely theenk I'd be too good at fighting terrorists. I haf a heart condition, you know.

BUSH: Yeah, yeah, I know all about that stuff. Cheney's got a bum heart. Me, too, probly...Cause of all that cocaine I was always doing.

ARNOLD: Ah, yes, I know all about that. Didn't you ever see Pumping Iron?

BUSH: Naw, I don't watch gay movies. Anyway, I figured you used to be a diplomat for Nixon, so you could help me out. Your country, by which I mean me, needs you.

ARNOLD: Now you're theenkeen of Henry Kissinger. That's not me. I'm Arnold, the movie actor, bodybuilder and Republican governor of Kaaleafurnya.

BUSH: Oh, yeah, I get mixed up, cause you both talk funny.

A Long Day's Journey Into Los Angeles

It's 10 a.m. in Los Angeles, earlier than I'd normally wake up. But I'm still on Florida time, so it feels like afternoon. Also, my body's craving heavy, syrupy food, as I've grown accustomed to actually sitting down and eating a large breakfast. That's a habit I doubt I'll maintain as the weeks drag on.

The car my parents hired to pick us up from the airport arrived at the Delta terminal 30 minutes late.

"Isn't this their entire job, to pick us up on time?" I queried. "I mean, even the amateur airport picker-uppers manage to get there while you're still waiting for your last duffel at the baggage claim. And this woman is a professional ride home from the airport. She does this for a living."

My criticism, which was being offered constructively, was met with a harsh rebuke from my weary fellow travelers. Apparently, people who have been herded around airports and rental car services and then shot through the stratosphere in an aluminum tube while being blasted in the face with bacteria-laden recycled air don't appreciate constructive criticism. Anyway, this was the end of the trip, and it was a shame to leave the week away in Florida on a sour note. Because, overall, I think we all had a pretty good time.

Oh, sure, there were the occasional petty squabbles and inconveniences. Yesterday morning, my brother and I got into an argument about something having to do with celebrities and the papparazzi. I was saying that it's dumb for people like Lindsay Lohan to bitch and whine about the trappings of fame, because she chose a life in the spotlight and could easily give it up at any time. My brother felt that it's unfair for me to judge celebrities, who are free to complain about crap like anyone else, and that I am a total shithead.

Also, there was the incident involving me stabbing myself in the thumb with a fishhook. And the fact that I had to wake up on more than one occasion before 9:30 a.m., which would be an uncivilized hour even if I were not on vacation.

But these sorts of unpleasantries were few and far between. On the whole, it was a very fun vacation.

As noted in previous, and apparently largely unread, posts, I spent several days with my family visiting my Uncle and his girlfriend Debbie in Ponce Inlet, a narrow strip of land dangling out to sea from Daytona Beach. All in all, the area reminded me a lot of old pictures of Orange County, California, before it grew into the bloated, overpopulated urban monstrosity we all know and love today. Back when there were oranges and other naturally-occuring phenomenon in evidence all around, when the streets wound between and around actual trees and vegetation, and not Golden Spoon frozen yogurt shops and 18-screen cineplexes.

Ponce Inlet and the surrounding areas (including the oddly-titled Wilbur By the Sea) are kind of like that now. It's a really beautiful area with mostly nice weather, and there are basic comforts like big supermarkets and malls and movie theaters, but it's still kind of unsettled and wild. The streets don't have street lights. Half of the bars look like places where anyone without visible bicep muscles and scars will get the shit kicked out of him. There are lots of gorgeous villa-style mansions and yachts, but also a surprising amount of liquor stores, serial killers and Confederate flags.

About those boats...My Uncle has one, and I went out with him and my father into the actual inlet the morning that we left the Daytona area. It was a great ride. Much of his neighborhood remains governmentally-protected wetlands, so there's a surprising amount of wildlife around every turn, when it's not being scared away by some doofus on a Sea-Doo swilling domestic beer and splashing his friends.



That sign, for example, indicates that the area is a Manatee Zone, populated by large, gray, somewhat hippo-like creatures who are slowly going extinct. One Manatee came up right beside our boat while we were heading back to my Uncle's place. Honestly, despite the fact that itwas a lot of fun, and this might affect the value of my Uncle's real estate, I'm not positive they should let all these boats and pleasure craft out on these heavily-populated waters. Fortunately, no manatees were harmed in the making of this vacation, but I could easily see a boat propellor or jet ski moron turning one of these charming creatures into ground round. (What Dave Barry, I believe, has called "the meatloaf of the sea.")

(Trivia: In the background, you can see the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse, one of the few American lighthouses I've ever seen that's still fully functional and operational.)

The next day, after a delicious meal at one of Central Florida's many, many, many, many, many International Houses of Pancakes, we took off for Orlando, Florida. Home of about 100,000 theme parks and some of the most insane, ridiculous heat imaginable. Why, you may ask, would all these companies decide to build family-themed, outdoor attractions in a region that, temperature-wise, rivals the Earth's core?

What kind of maniac would feel not only this heat but this retarded humidity and declare, "Yes, this is where I will encourage people to over-exert themselves over the course of 12 hours, with young children and the elderly in tow! Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun!"? Is the Walt Disney corporation really just a front for bottled water companies and Skin Cancer concerns? Are they marketing some kind of new heat stroke medication under a different name? After two hours, everyone in the park looks more exhausted and beet-red than W.C. Fields on the Heineken Brewery Tour. It's like Attack of the Killer Tomatoes around every turn. All in all, I'd rather be in Philadelphia. Or the fucking Arctic Circle. Or, hell, Narnia. Eternal winter under the oppressive thumb of a Turkish-delight armed tyrant sounds good when you're pouring buckets of sweat in a 90 minute line.

Yes, we went to a Disney Park. The Animal Kingdom, actually, which turned out to be a lot of fun. It's kind of like a zoo combined with a theme park. There are some rides, including a kickass one they just opened called Expedition: Everest, but mainly it's a safari tour around a simulated African environment and a lot of exhibits and walking paths where you can see animals.

Unlike, say, the San Diego Wild Animal Park, a place run by zoologists and conservationists concerned mainly with protecting endangered species, the Disney park is all about giving you your money's worth in animal sightings. Go to a real zoo, and there's a chance you won't get to see your favorite animal, because they're sleeping or hiding in the shade or something. But at the Disney park, they make sure you get to actually glimpse a gorilla and a tiger and an elephant and a giraffe. They don't want angry Solvenian tourists up their ass about paying $63 to stare at dirt and grass.

So, I'm just saying this place might suck if you're a warthog. But for a person, it's pretty damn interesting. There were these two gorillas leaning right up against the glass for people to see, and another one sitting just in front of us, eating fruit off of the ground. The animal, one of four bachelor gorillas living at the Disney park, was amazingly human, more so than a good 20% of the people I help at the video store. How can anyone not see that we're directly descended from these creatures? Obviously, it wasn't even that long ago. The gorilla sits around, eats, scratches himself and picks at this butt. That's everyone I know!

We spent most of our day just checking out the animals. And then at the end, we went on Expedition: Everest, which I must say is the best Disney roller coaster I personally have ever been on (bearing in mind that I've only ever been on the ones at Disneyland, and only the ones that were there a decade ago which is the last time I have been to a theme park). You go down a few twists and drops in the dark, and then come to a stop where it looks like a Yeti has destroyed the track. They actually switch the track on you and send you down, backwards, on another track, in total darkness. You actually kind of feel like you're about to tip over. It's sweet.

Then, there's a Splash Mountain-esque drop at the end. I felt it was about the same size as Splash Mountain, but my brother insisted it was a bit smaller. Either way, a good time was had by all.

We stopped to eat at a theme restaurant called the Rainforest Cafe while at the park. The food's alright and the ambience is kind of spiffy (animatronic animals and imitation foliage everywhere). They have this dessert, the Volcano, a coronary-inducing compilation of chocolate brownie, ice cream, caramel and hot fudge. (I think it comes wiht a side of Lipitor).

This is unfortunate, as the vast majority of the Disney Animal Park visitors were the sort of people who really don't need to add magma-themed desserts to their diet. There were fat people everywhere. When we passed the hippo paddock, I'm sure several guests spotted close family members. There were more fat asses on display than an Atlanta strip club on amateur night.

The worst part was, whenever a server brought out a Volcano for a table, he or she were instructed to yell at top volume "VOL-CAAAAAAAAA-NOOOOOOO!" surely in an attempt to make the dessert "fun" and encourage other tables to indulge. We were seated right next to the kitchen, which meant having "volcano" shouted directly into your ear every thirty seconds. Now I know how the Waponi Woo must have felt. (Did you get that joke? Neeeeeeeeeeeerd!)

And then, yesterday, we took a flight home. But only after having to kill several hours in Orlando. We went to this Baja Fresh-esque Mexican place called Moe's Southwest Grill, where all the entrees are named after random movie and TV references. (I had a quesadilla, called a "Sherman Klump." My brother got a burrito named "Art Vandalay." Odd.) And we wandered around a mall, where far too many people were looking at Da Vinca Code-themed books. Will you people get over this idiot crap already, for the love of Christ's illegitimate children?

And then, da plane...da plane...Mainly, it was a nice flight. This airline, Song, which is an off-shoot of Delta, has nice planes with actual TV's in the back of every seat. And you get to watch Satellite TV for free. Now they don't have A TON of channels, but I was able to check out some MSNBC shows and Woody Allen's 1989 masterpiece Crimes and Misdemeanors on Turner Classic Movies. Can you imagine? An actually good, older movie on an airplane? On the way to Florida, I was subjected to the cruelty of Rob Reiner's abysmal Rumor Has It, which somehow still manages to improve on Alex & Emma. Rob...what happened to you, man? You used to be cool...

And that's where you all came in to the story. So, I guess everyone's all caught up, then? Good. Now back to your regularly scheduled bilious rants and half-assed film reviews.

The Decider (With Apologies to Destiny's Child)

Now that I'm inside Iraq, it's so much better
You libruls thought it'd be fine with Saddam in power
You thought I didn't know how to fight a war on Terra
You thought you'd listen to Shinseki and Jack Murtha
You thought I relied too much on Condoleeza
You thought I couldn't find any of al-Qaeda

But Ima Decider (WHAT)
I'm not gonna give up
Gonna kill that insurgency
Even if we go bankrupt

Ima Decider (WHAT)
I'm gonna make it
I will decide to keep on decidin'

You thought I didn't really understand the mission
Thought I was incapable of making a decision
My inability to speak caused me derision
You thought I focused too much on religion
You didn't know that I had a vision
You thought I'd encounter an endless insurrection

But I'm The Decider (WHAT)
I'm not a felon
To save my ass
I'll fire Scott McClellan

Ima Decider
So says my Advisors
I'm gonna decide to keep on decidin'

Star Tours

Long day today. This morning, around 9:30, I was sleeping in the beach-front condo in which my Uncle set us up, when there was a loud pounding on the door. Mercifully, my brother was more alert than I at this early hour, and let the dudes in who apparently needed to fix the air conditioning. Sigh. That was just about it for sleep today.

A few hours later, my father, brother and brother's girlfriend and I were on our way to Kennedy Space Center. I had envisioned a dry tour around a scientifically-impressive but ultimately dull facility. Once, on a Vegas trip, my parents took us to Hoover Dam, and this was among the most boring possible vacation destinations. Leaving Las Vegas, the entertainment capital of America, to walk around a large dam for several hours is like leaving Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory to claim a half-eaten granola bar across town.

But instead, the Kennedy Center's an interesting place. In addition to the launching pads for most rocket and shuttle launches, it's also a huge wildlife preserve. We saw egrets, wood cranes, gophers, alligators, even a bald eagle, which I'd never seen before.

The day's highlight, however, was probably checking out the Saturn rocket, the propulsion unit that powered the vast majority of Apollo missions.

I don't know if you can really appreciate the scale of this bad boy from the photo, but it's friggin' huge. Suspended over the entire large room, which also features a moon rock exhibit, a mock-up of and a spacesuit, a gift shop and a cafeteria featuring delicious freeze-dried ice cream dots.

We also took a bus tour around the grounds, where they bring you pretty close up to the launch pads themselves. They still use the same ones that launched the missions that first went to the moon back in the 60's. A real palpable sense of history around the whole place. It's really something impressive to see.


I know it looks really small...They got us a bit closer, but this turned out to be the best shot.

Also massive is the VAB, the Vehicle Assembly Building. They actually build spacecraft inside the building, which is taller than the Statue of Liberty and big enough to fill with almost 3 Empire State Buildings, by volume. You can see the back of my brother's girlfriend's lovely scalp in the shot, because I am a poor and uncareful photographer.


Again, the photo doesn't do justice to the scale of the actual building. That American flag? It's the size of an NBA regulation basketball court.

Finally, we took a look at a simulation of the Apollo 8 launch, housed in the actual Mission Control facilities from the 60's. It was like a mix of a science museum and one of those Universal Studios backlot "experiences." Only not totally cheesy and hosted by Ron Howard.


The only downside to the trip was the massive line to get on the bus to take you back out of the park. It was huge. Took forever for us to get through. And there was this one woman near the front of the line with this bulbous gut that proved quite troubling to my entire family. I thought she might be pregnant, but if this was the case, then the baby had accidentally slid down several inches to reside in the stomach area as opposed to the uterus. Instead, I think she was just a chick with a beer gut who insisted on wearing midriffs for some inexplicable reason.

So it's been a super-long day and I'm about to head out to bed. I'm somehow doubting I'll get a chance to blog until I get home on Friday, so you'll just have to do without my witticisms for a few days. I'm sure you'll make it.

Florida on 12 Brain Cells a Day

Here I am, writing to you live from my Uncle's living room in Ponce Inlet, Florida. I won't be able to make this post as amusing as it might be, and for this I apologize, but my mother's sitting next to me on the couch looking over the laptop, so I'll have to censor all the swear words and overly honest commentary.

We flew in to Daytona Beach International Airport the other day. I'm not 100% convinced it's actually an international airport. Most of the flights go to Atlanta and back, and though it's occasionally difficult to understand people from the ATL, I'm not sure it counts, technically, as international. My Dad suggested flights might go to the Virgin Islands, but is this enough to qualify your airport as International? I think, if your plane's not landing somewhere they want to kill all the Americans, it's not truly been an international flight.

Daytona Beach announces to you immediately that it's the Birthplace of NASCAR. Honestly, the whole town is pretty much structured around this fact. All around the airport, before you even have a chance to find the baggage claim area where you'll be spending the next several days of your life, you see the huge signs announcing that, yes, you have arrived in the actual place where guys first figured out that rednecks would pay them to drive around in circles on the off chance that you might crash and seriously hurt yourself. The main road? International Speedway Boulevard. The main tourist attraction? The Daytona NASCAR museum. There are even tourist trap souvenier stores specializing in nothing but NASCAR-related merchandise.

They even let you drive on the beach here. Can that possibly be safe? Particularly in a town where 90% of the local economy relies on Spring Break-related drink-a-thons? One minute, you're slurping down the day's fourth blended Strawberry Margarita, the next moment, you're hurtling across the sand-covered promenade snugly attached to the undercarriage of a '94 Honda Accord.

I guess the town focuses on NASCAR because the only other notable source of local pride is serial killer Aileen Wuornos, who stalked johns in this area. Tonight, we even drove by the house she stayed in (it's about 5 minutes away from my Uncle's place). Interestingly, right now, there's another serial killer working the town, this time killing prostitutes. It's like a reverse copycat crime, or something. I'm not sure what it is about this neighborhood that drives its residents to kill, but I'm going to go ahead and guess it's the humidity, the massive bugs and the proximity to a NASCAR museum.

My Uncle doesn't actually live in Daytona. He lives in a small community called Ponce Inlet, about 20 minutes down the road. And when I say "the road," that's precisely what I mean. You get on the one road leading out of Daytona, drive down it for a few miles, and then you're in Ponce Inlet. And if you keep going on the road, you wind up in the Atlantic Ocean. The whole inlet is only about three streets wide. His actual house backs right up to a river, where you can even fish right off the dock in his backyard.

Naturally, I have caught absolutely nothing thus far, although I did plunge a fishhook directly into my thumb trying to stab a shrimp. They bought live shrimp for use as bait, because apparently they are appealing to the fish, but unfortuantely it's very unpleasant for the fisherman. Live shrimp are really disgusting and slimy, and hard to actually even grab in the bait box. And then, once you grab one, they squiggle around so much, you just might stab yourself in the hand trying to get them on the end of your rod.

Aside from the fishing and the constant imbibing, I've spent my time mainly playing with my Uncle's girlfriend Debbie's dog, Ivy, who is a 10 month old Cairn Terrier.


She's extremely adorable, but unfortunately has not mastered the art of not peeing all over the house and her houseguests when excited. Right now, she's pushing a tennis ball into my leg trying to get me to toss it down a hallway for the 800,000th time this evening.

We also went to Target today, so we could pick up some CD's for the car ride to Orlando later this week. I bought the new Stereolab album, this first new CD I've actually gone to a store and paid for in some time. Years, maybe. They don't just have Target here...they have Super-Target. It's a Target, a grocery store, a department store and a villainous corporate monstrosity, all wrapped into one. You'd need a team of trained Shirpas just to find your way to the sportswear in this place. 32 different checkout lines...FOR ONE STORE!


There's also a Super Wal-Mart right across the street, but I won't even go to that place. For obvious reasons. These seem to be just about the only games in town, large store-wise. At least, in terms of large stores that don't sell exclusively NASCAR-related merchandise. You want a Richard Petty jacket? Youve got 100 options. Groceries? Wal-Mart or Target.

Driving to the Target today, we noticed more than one man brazenly walking down the street, sporting a mullet. I had always thought the mullet jokes were purely for nostalgia, that everyone had figured out mullets looked ridiculous, and we were all just having a good laugh at the silly fashions and styles of a bygone era. BUT NO! Dudes down here are still thinking that's a good look! For real!

It does seem like pop culture stuff takes a long time to get down here. Listening to the radio today, every song on the classic rock station was played out in Los Angeles by the late 90's. It's nothing but Sublime, Cracker and Eagle Eye Cherry around the clock. Once, they played Audioslave, and it felt like a revelation.

But that's enough bitching and moaning. Actually, we're all having a pretty good time, just relaxing and fishing and hanging out and playing with the dog. I got into a swimming pool for the first time in a decade, so I got that going for me. And tomorrow, we're going to check out the Kennedy Space Center, which should be at least kind of interesting (even though I'm not exactly Mr. Astrophysics).

And then, in a few days, we're going to Orlando to check out some of the Disney Parks, which should be kind of interesting. I want to check out that Wild Animal park, although I'm troubled by the travel guide's indication that the park "combines real and animatronic animals and attractions." Combines real and animatronic animals? Shouldn't the wild animal park have all real animals, don't you think? Is it, like, one actual gazelle and then an entire theme park filled with robot giraffes and dinosaurs? I'll report back when I find out.

Florida? But It's America's Wang!

I'm flying out to Florida tomorrow morning with my family to visit my Uncle, who lives now in Daytona Beach, possibly due to some long-ago, never-diagnosed head trauma. Honestly, I can't understand why any person of means would move from Beautiful Southern California to Muggy Central Florida short of an impending Mafia hit.

I mean, yes, if Joey Bag o' Donuts knows you turned State's Evidence on Louie "The Fish" Vinatero and has tracked you down to your home in Laguna Niguel, you might have to get out of town for a while. But a man, of his own free will, selling a home in Orange County in favor of Daytona Beach, a place where the local economy depends entirely on flip-flops, oranges and Larry the Cable Guy CD's? Surely, there must be something I'm not getting...Maybe he's importing cocaine up from Central America for sale in the U.S. That makes a bit more sense...

Here's something odd...Every time I talk to a member of my family about the town where my Uncle lives, they say something complimentary paired with something derogatory. Every time. Like, "What are we doing to do while we're in Daytona?"

"Oh, there's tons of stuff to do! It's so beautiful there! The only store within 50 miles is a Wal-Mart!"

It gets really confusing.

"Does Uncle live in a city or a housing development or what?"

"It's an amazing place right on the water! You'll love it! The whole area is teeming with bikers and rednecks!"

Those concepts don't go together, goddamnit!

This will mark the first time I have traveled with my parents and brother in a really long time. We didn't stop going places together because of any particular animosity or anything like that...We just stopped ever wanting to go to the same place.

On vacation, my mother essentially develops the same habits as your average iguana - she needs a warm spot in which to lie out. Keep her watered and fed regular, and she'll basically take care of herself.

I've never understood the appeal of laying out in the sun for hours, particularly on a beach covered with gritty sand. You do it for a few minutes, you get really hot and dirty...that's enough for me. I get it. Outside, warmth of the sun, nice coppery tan, waves crashing and all that. But, really, you have to be out there all day? Flipping over and greasing yourself down and all that? On the ground? Or those hideous, uncomfortable chairs that still kind of hurt your back even after you put towels down on them?

Why is it that people don't mind sitting on the filthy ground all day just because there's sand instead of dirt. The ground outside is still gross and covered with crud. Normally, you wouldn't just plop yourself down in a fetid clump of earth, set up a chair and read "Left Behind" for 6 hours. So why do we assume that, because the earth has been finely diced into small granules, that this behavior is now somehow acceptable?

And it's really hard to read or something while I'm laying out there, because it's usually too bright and I never know quite how to balance a book while I'm spread out. It's awkward. I much prefer reading on a sofa or something, where you can keep the book open to the proper page and have something to do with your arms aside from letting them dangle in white-hot sand. Plus, if you need another beer or soda or something, the kitchen's right there, and everything doesn't have sand all over it.

Another thing my parents do on trips, they both enjoy looking at real estate they have absolutely no interest in purchasing. What's the point of looking inside a house where no one lives and where you would not potentially live, ever? I mean, touring stately British manors or something...That's one thing. I mean, I'd likely still find it boring, but at least then the houses are huge and decorated and occasionally historical. But touring through suburban homes where no one lives? Why not just go to the public library and study blueprints? Or go out to coffee with some architects? At that point, I suppose it's just some nascent, unexplored interest in structural engineering or whatever, because it can't be fulfilling otherwise.

As for me, I'm generally partial to wandering around cities to which I've never been. It's nice to check out museums and landmarks and that sort of thing, but I find that the most fun times I have while traveling are those occasions when I stumble on to something unexpected and get a little taste for what life must be like somewhere different. A few years ago, I went on a trip for a few days to Boston to visit an old friend, and wound up spending a large chunk of my time just taking the subway around and checking out the town. My favorite day included the Natural History Museum at Harvard, a trip to a popular comic book store, a quick slice of pizza from a random place near Boston Common, a walk around Cambridge with stops in a few pubs and a Lou Barlow concert at a bar called The Middle East, where you have to go down into the basement below this restaurant to see the band play.

I don't really know what my brother likes to do on vacation, as he was probably 14 the last time we went anywhere in earnest together. Once, when he was in college, he and a few friends traveled in a Winnebago from Los Angeles to Alaska and then back, which leads me to believe that he and I have drastically divergent notions of what constitutes a fun, relaxing trip. I'd rather take a walking tour of Skull Island than spend a few weeks crossing the Yukon in an RV with five other smelly idiots.)

I hope to be able to continue posting semi-regularly during my week's stay in the Sunshine State. That is, if the Internet has come to Central Florida. Last I heard, they were still communicating via tin cans and long pieces of string, but I'm sure Jeb Bush has brought a few innovations down there by now. He's a Bush, after all, and they're nothing if not progressive.

The Cartoon Wars

The "South Park" two-parter that concluded last night was particularly hilarious and rather brilliantly constructed. Episodes about the Danish cartoon protests throughout the Muslim world actually turned into a referendum on Comedy Central's self-censorship. Would the network refuse to let Trey Parker and Matt Stone animate an image of Muhammad into their cartoon, despite the fact that a cartoon depicting of Muhammad had previously caused rioting throughout the Middle East?

It turns out, no, Comedy Central would not. Following an impassioned, in-show plea by regular character Kyle, (accurately referring to Comedy Central President Doug Herzog by first name urging him to "do the right thing"), "South Park" ran an advisory noting that the network would not let them air an image of Muhammad. They finished up by crudely animating President Bush and Jesus defecating on an American flag.

As I said, as a scripted piece of comic television, it worked beautifully. The episode was really funny, particularly in its digs on that other crude cartoon show, "Family Guy." But I'm still not sure Trey and Matt really get it, either. I laughed at lot at "South Park," as I always do, but I cringed a few times also.

Once again, they seem much more upset and angry over this rather insignificant media issue rather than anything that is actually happening in the world. The Muslim cartoon protests can be simplified into a Free Speech issue, sure. They want to intimidate the West into not publishing offensive material to Muslims, and they are using the threat of violence. "Insult us in the newspaper and we will murder your civilians," in other words. It is detestable behavior. I will not defend any attempt to use terror for the purpose of censorship.

However, that is the most basic way to understand the situation. A more complete view, I think, would take into account that the largest Western nation has been bombing the Middle East for the past 4 years or so. We have murdered thousands of innocents, jailed and humiliated and tortured thousands more. We have repeatedly insulted and slandered these people for longer than that in our culture, in our media and in our daily conversations. They are very angry with us, and for very good reasons. Naturally, they will seize on any opportunity to demonstrate for us this uncomfortable truth.

Additionally, please bear in mind that the rioting crowds were shown images that never did appear in the Danish cartoons. The Arab man in the street, easily convinced to begin with that American thinks he's a fool and a buffoon and a lamb for the slaughter, simply believed what his religious leaders told him. Is this really so hard to comprehend?

So, I agree that Comedy Central should do the Free Speech thing and show Muhammad. Although, contrary to what Matt and Trey seem to insist in the episode, it's not a First Amendment issue. That's just about the government making laws about what you can and can't say. A flag-burning amendment, to my mind, violates the First Amendment because it involves Congress passing a law defining how an anti-American statement can be made and phrased. A network deciding that to air an inflammatory image might cost them down the road isn't a violation of the First Amendment. It just sucks. But there is no law stating that Comedy Central has to air anything Matt Stone and Trey Parker can come up with.

Beyond this point, I don't think it's as cut-and-dry as Trey and Matt. There are issues to consider in throwing gasoline on an international crisis such as this one. Again, I'm not saying they shouldn't air the cartoon. I doubt any ill would have come from a fleeting image of Muhammad on "South Park." (And lest we forget, Muhammad has been depicted on "South Park" before, as one of the Super Best Friends along with Moses, Joseph Smith, Jesus and Sea Man.



See? That's him on Jesus' right, with the beard and turban. Don't everyone start rioting at once!

Finally, last night's "South Park" included a scene on which I simply must comment. The President, George W. Shrub, holds a press conference in which he must explain to the censor-happy reporters why it's wrong to cave in to terrorist demands.

Umm...what? George Bush explaining the Constitution to reporters? What the hell was this supposed to even be about? Was this ironic?

Why, can anyone tell me, is "South Park" so hesitant to actually attack the government, and in particular this administration, on the show? It seems they always want to go after certain targetrs - celebrities, religion, so-called "political correctness" - but they never want to go after other, just as important if not more important, targets. Like anyone with any real power.

Sure, there's a place for a show that makes fun of Scientology and Mormonism and the trans-gendered. But to make fun of these groups exclusively, without reserving any venom for the actual decision-makers like G.W., indicates a general lack of perspective and a sophomoric viewpoint. I'm not even saying that the show should attack the President all the time. For all I know, Matt and Trey think he's right on and want to support him.

But if that's the case, they should make a show about why they support the guy. Don't just use him as a prop for exposition - a guy to explain to the reporters why the First Amendment matters. I mean, when you think of a sensible, sane guy who could clearly explain Constitutional principles to the American public, do you really think of G. Dubs? Here they've created an animated character based on the sitting Presdient, and he says nothing interesting or funny. What the hell?

I've been saying for a while that "South Park" leans to the right. That's still true, but I think it's as much a function of apathy as it is strongly-held political views. Matt and Trey just don't want to take on anything too nuanced, too complicated or too important. They're content to use their show to pick on egomaniacal celebrities, cults, Arabs and Jews. It's still entertaining, but it's not what it could be.

[UPDATE: Check out this article from the AP about last night's episode. In it, William Donohue of the Catholic League proves two things: (1) That he's incapable of following straight-forward satire and (2) That he watches "South Park" every week. Awesome.

A frequent "South Park" critic, William Donohue of the anti-defamation group Catholic League, called on Parker and Stone to resign out of principle for being censored.

"The ultimate hypocrite is not Comedy Central — that's their decision not to show the image of Muhammad or not — it's Parker and Stone," he said. "Like little whores, they'll sit there and grab the bucks. They'll sit there and they'll whine and they'll take their shot at Jesus. That's their stock in trade."

See, Bill, the thing is...It's not a shot at Jesus. It's a shot at America. They are saying that we're perfectly will to insult and degrade our own people - to show the preferred religious figure for the vast majority of our countrymen and our President shitting on one another - but we are afraid to insult and degrade anyone else.

You get it? Cause Comedy Central won't let them show Muhammad just standing around, but it will let them show Jesus covered in feces! Try and stay with me!

So, Bill, in conclusion, "South Park" is not saying that George Bush and Jesus like to shit all over one another atop American flags. It's just a joke. However, I would like to suggest, independantly of "South Park," that President Bush probably likes to shit on people for sexual gratification, because he's just sick and twisted like that. But that's just my theory.]

R.I.P. Raj Kumar

Raj Kumar was one of India's most beloved actors. I've never seen any of his films, because Indian movies largely don't make it over here to the States, unless you count stuff made by M. Night Shyamalan. (I can't even find an IMDB listing for a guy named Raj Kumar with this many movies to his credit.)



Holy shit, this guy was a total mack.

Normally, I wouldn't post an obit article for an international celebrity about whom I know less than nothing, but a few things jumped out at me while reading the Associated Press' account of his passing.

Hundreds of distraught fans rioted in Bangalore when police prevented them from forcing their way into the late actor's home, New Delhi Television reported.

Police used bamboo canes to drive away angry fans who shattered the windows of several buses and set a half-dozen cars and motorcycles on fire.

Is there any Hollywood star whose death today would cause a full-scale riot? Harrison Ford? Clint Eastwood? It kind of seems like celebrity is just more disposable here than in other parts of the world. If Bruce Willis died tomorrow from cardiac arrest, sure, a lot of people would be bummed. And I'm sure it would be discussed on TV for about a week straight. But people would essentially move on with their lives. I can't see the good people of Los Angeles turning over cars and lighting them on fire or throwing flaming refuse and stones at police officers and firemen just because the star of Blind Date died. They reserve that kind of enthusiasm for big Laker victories.

But in India, apparently, the passing of a beloved movie star will set shit off. Also, the police were using bamboo canes? Don't they have guns in India? They have the technology available to take all our networking and IT jobs away, but they can't give the police some 20th Century weapons in case things get out of hand?

Really, though, this article gives you a sense for the kind of hero worship celebrities get in other parts of the world. The only American who receives treatment like this, near as I can tell, is Paris Hilton.

His fans called him "Annavaru" meaning "respected elder brother" in the Kannada language.

Movie reviews often told of audiences in cinema halls booing villains who tried to pick fights with him on the big screen. Fans were known to worship his image and pray that his films would be successful at the box office.

Worship his image? A movie star? Wow. Imagine trying that with Josh Hartnett. It's just not the same, somehow.

He was in the news again in 2000 when he was kidnapped by Veerappan, a famed bandit who had spent decades eluding police in the forests of south India. Kumar was freed by Veerappan after 109 days living in the forests with his gang. Local reports said a large ransom was paid, although Kumar denied that.

Are you reading this shit? This story would itself make an excellent movie. A big action film star is kidnapped by an infamous bandit and secreted to the forests of South India, where they live together for 109 days. It's like The Way of the Gun meets Brokeback Mountain! I see Bruce Willis as the film star (if he doesn't die soon) and Billy Bob Thornton as the bandit! Cause they even did that movie Bandits together, which will help with the branding!

Anyway, I don't mean to make light of this guy's death. I'm truly sorry he's dead, and that despite his massive Indian fame, that none of his films ever even made it over to America. He clearly was an extremely popular and well-liked celebrity, and the last thing I need is thousands of pissed-off Indian readers. (Actaully, I could use thousands of readers in any context, even if they are all pissed-off Indians, so never mind.)

Are You Saying Boo or Boo-Urns?

Check out this hilarious video of Dick Cheney being loudly booed by the crowd at the Washington Nationals' season opener. Present to throw out the ceremonial first pitch (and who knows, maybe even shoot at some old guys, if the mood grabs him), Dick comes out and waves to the crowd only to be greeted with the same kind of hooting and jeers that Carrot Top must get whenever he shows his face publicly. (Imagining the video with the Benny Hill music cued behind it only makes the thing more hilarious, by the way).

Then, ol' 5 Deferments throws out a limp first pitch that doesn't cross the strike zone and the booing gets louder for a moment. Then he holds up the failed pitch triumphantly into the air, like James Cameron foisting an Oscar over his head and declaring himself Global Monarch, completely oblivious to the fact that the fans sound merely moments away from leaping over the barricades and rushing the pitcher's mound to rend the man limb-from-limb, Dead Ayatollah-style.

Could it be that Bush anad Cheney are both legally blind and deaf, and just felt this information was too embarrassing to release to the public? (After all, being deaf kind of makes you a wussy...Who ever heard of a deaf cowboy?) How else to explain sheltered confusion about the state of the world of this magnitude?

Anyway, as an interesting side note, and with a tip of the hat to the fine bloggers of Firedoglake, here are some of the press reports covering Dick's Grand Day Out.

THE WASHINGTON POST

The first pitch of the Washington Nationals’ second season at Robert F. Kennedy Memorial Stadium was low and away, bouncing in the dirt before being scooped up by catcher Brian Schneider. For that, Vice President Cheney received a round of boos from the home crowd this afternoon.

"For that"? This clipping implies that the crowd booed because Dick failed to throw the ball across the plate. It's true that the booing gets louder after the weak pitch, but it really begins the moment the crowd sees Dick Cheney's ugly face. Sure, Dick failed at throwing out the initial pitch, but I think the crowd was more upset at how he's failed as Vice President for going on six years now. Baseball etiquette, while important, can kind of be overshadowed by two bungled wars.

REUTERS

The vice president, whose popularity is slumping along with that of President George W. Bush, walked out on the field to cheering and booing from the near-sellout crowd. The boos appeared to be little louder than the cheers at RFK Memorial Stadium.

"A little louder"? Go watch the clip. The entire crowd is booing, except for a few people who are cheering. It might just be Lynne Cheney cheering, really, with everyone else sounding like they are on pre-riot watch. One appropriately timed and amplified call of "Let's tear this place apart!" and the Washington Nationals season opener might have been a whole lot more interesting.

Isn't it pathetic that these news sources still feel the need to brown nose Dick Cheney? We're talking about a man who is despised by very nearly the entire world, including a vast majority of his own countrymen. His relative level of infamy makes OJ Simpson seem like Jessica Simpson. Why keep pretending that he's beloved, and taking credibility hits to stand up for his pathetic weasely ass? It would be like the LA Times running favorable profiles on Count Dracula.

"Though his critics constantly refer to his penchant for blood-sucking and turning young virgins into Satan's Whores, those close to Vlad insist that these very public activities are the exception rather than the rule for the elusive undead Transylvanian.

'In person, he's a very warm, gracious man, and a great wit,' said Devil's Concubine Mary Matalin. 'Inside the Beltway, we all know him as a great dinner companion who happens to feed on the bodily fluids of the living. It's just too bad the Mainstream Media won't tell that side of the story.'"

Worshipping the Rude Pundit as a God

I mean, if this isn't the best quote you've read anywhere all day...I want to check out your bookmarks.

In any sane nation, Rush Limbaugh would be a homeless junkie, shouting on street corners before he pissed himself again. If Rush Limbaugh was in a crack house, havin' those jittery rock comedowns, the shakes before the pipe, the other crackheads would be screaming at him to shut the fuck up or someone's gonna shove a cock in his mouth.

Yeah...What he said...

More With the Chimp-in-Chief

Check out this video, of a first-year Asian Studies major totally stumping the President and making him look like an idiot. Granted, that's not hard. All the President needs to make himself look like an idiot is a podium and a television camera. But the fact that this issue, an issue being debated by pundits way back in 2004 on television, completely boggles his mind and forces him to turn to pathetic pseudo-stand up comedy as a way out is very telling.

http://willdo.philadelphiaweekly.com/archives/2006/04/this_video_of_p.html

The man is stupid. Very very very stupid. Stupider than even I had thought when he ran for election in 2000, and I already thought he was really stupid.

Ellie Parker & Pray

Two smaller new releases likely to get overlooked this week, in favor of more high-profile schlock like Fun With Dick and Jane. I can't say either of these two movies is an unmitigated success, but hey, it's a slow Tuesday for new releases so I won't let that stop me. And what else am I going to do with my time...Isometric exercize?

Ellie Parker

Just about every hopeful screenwriter I know started with a really self-indulgent, low-budget autobiographical indie as their first script. It's just the sort of thing you have to get out of your system. First, you write that story you've been burning to tell, about how the cruel, uncaring world of corporate power and a string of unsatisfying romances has stifled your precious creative genius.

I wrote a script like this. Everyone does. It's almost a rite of passage. And then, once you've told that story and decie that you'd like to write something that can actually be sold to studios for real money, you move on to thinking up wacky ideas for Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson. (What if they operate competing taco stands? Or train seeing-eye dogs? Or magically transform into old black women?)

To his credit, actor/writer/director Scott Coffey just went ahead and filmed his navel-gazing, autobiographical first script. Well, okay, to be technical, in 2001, while working as a bit performer in David Lynch's Mulholland Drive, he filmed a short about a struggling actress called Ellie Parker, featuring his co-star Naomi Watts.

And now, five years later, he has turned that short into a feature-length film. The good-natured but frustrated Ellie (Watts) has reached a crossroads. She's fed up with vying for stupid parts as hookers in badly-written low-budget features that will likely never be made. Her boyfriend Justin (Mulholland Drive vet (Mark Pelligrino) has been cheating on her with a low-level casting agent. And she's starting to feel that living in Los Angeles might be killing off her will to live. (If this sounds strange to you, I'd suggest that you've most likely never lived here, or seen photos.)

It has all the flaws you'd expect from a digitally-shot, extremely low-budget movie made by actors about the awful pain of being a professional actor. It is self-important in the extreme. (At one point, Ellie wonders aloud to her best friend, "What happens when you turn into the person you're pretending to be?" Ugh and double ugh.) It is whiny, in that Ellie doesn't seem to have any actual employment, is incredibly beautiful, has a lot of friends and seems poised on the brink of possible stardom, and yet she's constantly bawling to her friends and therapist about how she hates her life.

Not to mention that it features some of the most remarkably shallow "industry satire" you're likely to see. Among the film's startling observations about the film industry: many of its members are on drugs, how you look is far more important than how talented you are to Hollywood types and lots of people in Los Angeles are perverts. You don't say, Scott!



But this isn't the whole story about Ellie Parker. Yes, it's annoying and facile. But it's also pretty charming and occasionally quite funny. Naomi Watts has proven herself, between this the vaudeville bits in King Kong and her screwball turn in I Heart Huckabees adept at physical comedy, and she manages to take a fairly generic role like 'struggling actress' and turn out a nuanced, three-dimensional character. Ellie can get whiny at times, but her neuroses are always balanced out by an open playfulness that keeps the film light and nimble.

So, sure, a lot of the movie features Ellie darting around Los Angeles on a string of humiliating auditions, and then returning to her apartment for a good cry. But in between those scenes, you get idiosyncratic, well-observed little moments, like Ellie eating and then regurgitating blue-colored Baskin Robbins sherbert or watching apes cavort at the zoo for no explicable reason. And a sequence in which Ellie talks on the phone and changes costumes and does her make-up while speeding down the LA freeway is remarkable, and almost shocking, in its realism. Everyone in Los Angeles really behaves in this reprehensible fashion, adjusting their persons and conducting business while rocketing their vehicles through crowdded space at speeds upwards of 80 mph. I've just never seen anyone call us on it so blatantly.

Not just the lifestyle but also the appearance of LA is satisfactorily rendered. The DV cinematography, as expected, looks grainy a lot of the time, and many shots become unclear from overexposure. But Coffey does figure out how to make the format work for him at times. In particular, scenes shot inside a car or through a windshield work well for him. These scenes feel more natural than most movie-car scenes, which always feel like they were shot in front of a blue screen even when they weren't. There may be one or two too many random LA street montages with lilting indie rock playing on the soundtrack. Shots with random streets going by while we hear music playing always feels like filler to me, except in Lost in Translation, where it feels fairly vital to the story.

At a quick 90 minutes, Ellie Parker was over just before I really got tired of it. Some scenes really turned me off; A cameo appearance by Keanu Reeves' band Dogstar seems awkwardly inserted into the film and seriously affects the overall Hipness Quotient, a late cameo by Chevy Chase goes nowhere and isn't remotely funny, the scenes making fun of acting classes are cliche and ridiculous. But I watched it all the way through. And there's no denying that Naomi Watts in her underwear knocking herself half-unconscious with a garbage can lid is something you ought to see at least once before you die.

Pray

As MC Hammer once said, "We've got to pray just to make it today." That has absolutely nothing to do with this movie. In fact, I don't even know why this movie is called Pray. (The original Japanese title apparently translates as Prayer, but this title makes no more sense than Pray, so I'll just ignore that little tidbit). I just bring up the Hammer song because it's incredibly bad, and therefore amusing, whereas this film is just bad but not amusing at all. An important distinction.



It's a shame, too, because Pray starts with a terrific premise. A young couple (Tetsuji Tamayama and Asami Mizukawa) kidnap a young girl and hold her for 50 million yen ransom, hoping to buy drugs. Holed up in an abandoned school attended by the guy, Mitsuru, they call the girl's parents, who claim their daughter died exactly one year before.

So is the girl they kidnapped someone else's daughter? A ghost? Maybe even a spirit from Mitsuru or his girlfriend Maki's past?

The premise is intriguing, but damned if writer Tomoko Ogawa or director Yuichi Sato know what to do with it. The vast majority of the film finds Mitsuru, Maki and their miscreant friends wandering around the darkened corridors of the school, shouting one another's names and then getting spooked by doors slamming or ghostly apparitions. Once again, the Japanese fall back on a spooky little girl with long hair as a villain, a device so overused and trite that it has now officially turned into self-parody.

As if sensing that there isn't enough going on in Pray to sustain even a short movie, Sato throws in some obligatory double-crosses and jerky, color-saturated flashback sequences, filling in the details of a largely-inconsequential backstory. As well, there's an extra sub-plot about a missing teenager whose ghost may also be holed up in the school. The reveal of this story is kind of cool - we initially think the parents are talking about the young kidnapped girl being dead, before we find out they are talking about a completely unrelated case - but once that little bit of business is over, this whole story becomes pointless.

There's just nothing to Pray at all. It just sits there on screen, taking up your time without giving you anything in return. It's not scary. There's very little on-screen action, and even the gore feels muted and inconsequential. Everything after the first 10 minutes kind of feels like an afterthought. Once we get inside the school and the little girl runs off, it's time to go through the J-horror motions for 75 or so minutes.

Stop. Hammertime.