Rare Praise: The Dark Knight

WARNING: If you’re one of the six people left in the world that hasn’t seen The Dark Knight yet, there may be spoilers below. If, like me, you’ve already seen it three times, then read on.

I hate hype. Rarely, if ever, does a big summer movie live up to the hype that inescapably accompanies it. The recent Indiana Jones and Star Wars poop-farms come to mind, although as far as I’m concerned, those franchises are still only trilogies. Let’s just pretend those other four “films” never happened, shall we? Oh, sorry; five “films”—someone keeps letting George Lucas make Star Wars movies, only now they’re fully computer-animated instead of being only 95% computer-animated. Don’t you have enough goddamned money yet, George? FUCK!

But I digress. I’m not here to chastise Hollywood for butt-fucking yet another good idea to death. I’m actually here to praise them for somehow managing to churn out what is arguably the best piece of summer entertainment I’ve ever seen. The Dark Knight’s hype was grandiose, yet the movie itself still managed to deliver more than any ad campaign could have ever promised. Try swallowing this: from the same studio that brought you Batman and Robin comes yet another comic book sequel…but with a dark and complex story, featuring stand-out performances by an all-star cast, one of whom posthumously gives us one of the best villains in movie history. Sounds like total bullshit, right? Nay, good readers. It be the gospel.

Now I’m not saying this film is flawless. Even after three viewings, I still can’t figure out why Batman doesn’t just send Gordon to save Dent and rescue his beloved damsel in distress himself (aside from the fact that blowing up your love interest is fucking NAILS, Brothers Nolan!) And I just can’t shake how forced Heath Ledger’s laugh seems to me throughout the film. (In the dead man’s defense, that shit ain’t easy to pull off, and it’s the only chink in an otherwise masterful performance.) AND, in a movie filled with Batmen and Jokers and Eric Roberts of all people, my disbelief only became unsuspended when not one of those ferryboat passengers was able to blow his condemned counterparts straight to hell. (But perhaps that’s more telling of my own lack of faith in mankind than any glaring misstep by the filmmakers.)

Which brings me to the point of this little column, dear readers: the fact that a Batman movie can make me question such things as my faith in mankind is nothing short of extraordinary. The mere notion that an escapist popcorn fantasy could elicit such thought and emotion from even one its viewers is simply astounding. If for no other reason than that, this movie has raised the bar for me. Not just for action movies or comic book movies, but for movies in general. The Dark Knight showed me that movies don’t have to be just 90 minutes worth of mindless, useless drivel aimed at temporarily satiating an increasingly apathetic, idiotic public. Movies can make you feel, they can make you THINK. Hell, they can inspire you to write blogs about how inspired you are to finally be inspired again by this medium that once so inspired you! In short, movies are still everything I hoped they could be.

So I add my voice to the hype for The Dark Knight. But now I’ve probably built it up too much. Maybe you should go see The Clone Wars instead. I hear George Lucas needs the money. Douchebag.

Crapping on My Childhood: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

WARNING: SPOILERS ABOUND BELOW. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED. THAT'S WHY IT'S CALLED A WARNING.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull Plastic Head, as it shall be referred to heretofore, is an awful, awful movie. It peaks during the opening credits (an Elvis-scored drag race) and begins a long slow spiral downward thereafter. Peach Basketeers, consider your childhood crapped on. How so? Let me count the ways:

1) Harrison Ford sucks. Maybe it’s not his fault. His performance after all resembles that of an actor forced to read every line of execrable dialogue at gunpoint. This would not surprise me, if he had not been paid something along the lines of 30 million dignity-sapping dollars to star in this flaming bag of poo. It’s not even that he’s too old to play the character of Dr. Henry Jones, Jr., anymore (he’s not). It’s that he’s too poor an actor.

2) The Crystal Skull Plastic Head sucks. The rumored budget for this movie was approximately $185 million. Of that, about $3.99 went towards the ARTIFACT MENTIONED IN THE TITLE. It’s a plastic bubble stuffed with cellophane. I would say it probably has a “MADE IN CHINA” label on it somewhere, but that would unfairly insult Chinese craftsmanship.

3) David Koepp sucks. It might surprise you to discover that I don’t have a big issue with the film’s underlying alien premise. In theory, I could have bought it… if Koepp had bothered to put together a remotely plausible or entertaining framework around which to build said premise. Instead, it’s a slapped-together cause-effect-plotpoint bouillabaisse. They waited 20 years to make a sequel and this is the script they approved? I hate Hollywood.

4) Steven Spielberg sucks. Remember Raiders of the Lost Ark? (If you don’t, he will hit you over your plastic head with it several times during the current installment.) If you’ll recall, Spielberg took his time unspooling the story for you. Yes, it was far-fetched. Yes, it was action-packed. But the time was taken to create a universe in which a) you believed said action was possible, and b) said action appeared to have motivated and tangible consequences. This “film” jumps – nay! – teleports from CGI action sequence to CGI action sequence with Ford and Shia LaBeouf yammering some gibberish about oxen and cities of gold in between. It’s the worst parts of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom crossed with the worst parts of Artificial Intelligence: AI. (That would be all of them, Stevie. You thought we’d forgotten, didn’t you? Never forget, my friend. Never forget.)

5) Cate Blanchett sucks. Just kidding. She’s actually the only thing that’s watchable for the entire running time. And hey, look, we’re hating Commies again! Awesome!

6) George Lucas sucks. Mutt, Jar-Jar. Jar-Jar, Mutt. Even Short Round thinks he’s annoying.

7) Shia LaBeouf sucks. This is not entirely his fault, anymore than it’s Warwick Davis’ fault the Ewoks sucked. He’s just entirely miscast as an unlikable 50s greaser rebel. Even Homer Simpson’s formidable powers couldn’t make Poochie a beloved character.

8) The first three movies suck. OK, not really, but believe me, you liked them all much better the first time you saw them. This is not a new movie. It is the cinematic equivalent of a clip show retrospective, complete with expository “Unfortunately, Sean Connery and Denholm Eliot couldn’t be with us tonight, but ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to…”

9) “…Karen Allen” sucks. Not Karen Allen so much as her character. If this is a clip show, she’s sort of around as a “Where are they now and Jesus do they look old?” interview. (And where the fuck is John Rhys-Davies? Apparently, Sallah has moved on to greener cinematic pastures.) By she and Indy’s third fight, you’ll be rooting for the fire ants or the Commies or the deadly natives or anything on earth to kill either you or them and put you/the film out of your/its misery.

10) Aliens suck. Chris Carter can sleep well knowing that he can now only release the 2nd worst why-the-fuck-are-they-doing-this-sequel-now alien movie of the summer.

Oh, and, just because I can, whatever you do, do not click on the following very offensive (NSFW, big time) pun-based image of how you'll feel after the movie. Seriously, don't.

L.A. Story - In The Public Domain: Part One

As I make my Peach Basket debut, I feel compelled to live up to the quality of the posts that precede this one.

Over the last eight years, I have worked in the television industry so I have had plenty of free time on my hands. During that time, here is just a sampling of the unique and exciting things I have been witness to on the streets of Los Angeles and Hollywood.

Reminder: All of these things happened in public and most of the time in broad daylight.

Saw a man taking a crap standing up - On the corner of Kinglsey and De Longpre in Hollywood, this man decided that he had to go and that it would not wait. Good for him. I don't think I can possibly overstate how shocking this was to watch. Why did I not avert my gaze you ask? Well, for some reason seeing a man with his pants down kinda grabs your attention. And when that man has what you think to be a tail but then it turns out to be just a really long shit coming out of his ass, that image just gets seared into your mind's eye.

Multiple instances of bums lunging at/striking random passers-by - Every time I witness a confrontation between a bum and a non-bum, it just reinforces by belief that whenever you're accosted by a bum just give him some damn change and keep walking. I don't need my obituary to read: "He was having a day just like any other day... until he ran into Hobo Joe." Just ask yourself, do you really need that dollar? The most recent instance happened on Hollywood Blvd. right in front of the Pig'n Whistle. The innocent bystander was some douchebag in a corduroy sportcoat. He probably had it coming.

Smoking hot chick picks her nose and eats it - OK, I know what you're thinking. I just finished telling you about some guy taking a dump in the middle of the street. How is picking your nose and eating it even close? Well, I'll tell you. I was driving to work one afternoon on the 101 and just as I passed the Vermont off-ramp, I spotted a gorgeous brunette in the car next to mine. Think Jessica Alba-hot. I mean, she was unbelievable. But, I was sitting down in my car and she in hers. How could I possibly tell? Dude, sometimes you just know. Anyways, I digress. We kept driving along for a few minutes as I stole occasional glances her way. She then proceeded to pick her right nostril, the one facing me. After digging out whatever was ailing her, she fucking stuck her finger in her mouth! I almost crashed my car.

I hope I have lived up to the lofty standards set by my fellow bloggers. Part Two coming soon.

Crapping On My Childhood, Part II

I have really mixed feelings about this one. And it looks like it's going to happen:

Movie: Red Sonja
Director: Robert Rodriguez
Star: Rose McGowan

Now don't get me wrong. I like Robert Rodriguez. I don't even mind if he goes over the top a little. Just not Grindhouse over the top, or Sin City over the top. Ok, Sin City over the top might be cool for Red Sonja.

But Rose McGowan? She's attractive and all, but she's not Red Sonja. RS needs to be really tall, for starters. And tan. And ripped. And never have dated Marilyn Manson. She's too....pasty. I just don't see it.

Still, it's an improvement over the original casting idea. Are you ready for this? Lindsay Lohan. And yes, I am completely serious. The only reason they didn't go with her? She gets in too much trouble. That's it! Otherwise, she would have been perfect for the role.

This company could fuck up a soup sandwich.

Crapping On My Childhood, Part 1

I may or may not know of a company that is planning a Conan movie. They may or may not have interviewed an actor the other day for the lead. That actor may or may not have been from AMERICAN GLADIATORS.

He was.

Unemployment Benefits: The AM BM

I work freelance in film and television as a production assistant. As such, I tend to spend vast swaths of the year (8 weeks or so) gainfully unemployed. Since I’m not drawing a paycheck during these times, it’s best to take what solace I can from the free time it affords me.

I am a morning shitter. My best dumps are routinely taken about an hour after I get out of bed, after my first cigarette and between my first and second cups of coffee. They are generally large deposits, made quickly and healthily.

Unemployment grants me the freedom to take my morning constitutional in the privacy and comfort of my own home. The importance and joy of this occasion cannot be spoken of highly enough. While on a set, such business is relegated to confines of porta-Johns, cramped stalls at the back of a trailer, or in the hustle and bustle of studio restrooms that see more traffic than the 101 at rush hour. Out of necessity I have overcome any public shit shame I may have had, but I believe that defecating, particularly at the start of one’s day, is akin to meditation or a morning prayer, and best done in solitude.

At home, in the quiet, friendly confines of our cozy lavatory, I can relax. The deuces dropped in public restrooms tend to be hurried affairs, messy and unkempt, unlike their much more solid and comely home-brewed brethren. They are hopelessly interrupted by squawks on the radio, noises from the next stall, or the knowledge that that one annoying grip saw me enter the stall, and if I don’t hold it in until he leaves, he will share with the crew that, yes as a matter of fact, something did crawl up my ass and die. There is no judgment in the privacy of one’s own water closet.

And what of reading material? At home, novels and subscriptions abound to pass the time till my legs go tingly. Out there, I have only my mobile phone’s occasionally tenuous connection to the internet to keep me entertained, and the erratic load times and data network availability do not jibe with the metronomic rhythms of my sphincter.

Ah, yes, the sphincter. During a good AM BM, the colon’s governor should be as lithe and powerful as a well-yogaed abdomen: firmly holding everything in place, yet flexible enough to allow one’s waste to pass unobstructed. When deprived of the tranquility required for a diurnal defecation, it is common to experience fits and starts in the anal region, as if somehow one’s ass has contracted anal-expressive Tourette syndrome.

Finally, at shit’s end, one is sadly forced to take potluck with the elements of post-excretal rites. I myself am a 2-ply man. I appreciate the dry familiar abrasion of well-constructed bathroom tissue against my soiled derriere (You can keep your moist wipes, thank you very much!). I simply cannot abide the shoddily crafted roughness or fragility of the single ply garbage so often found on the rolls of the public restroom. And, for the love of God, is warm water and a freshly stocked paper towel roll too much to ask for? The only thing worse than an unsatisfying crap is capping the trip to the crapper with cold hands that must be forced to drip-dry afterwards due to a lack of aforementioned drying material.

So it is with bated breath that I await these stretches of fiscal drought. For though I know my coffers may soon be empty, so will my bowels, and I will start my days feeling as clean and vacuous as the bowl I have just defiled.