The Gospel According to Prisco

Every time a new television show comes out, everyone splatters it with their joyous sticky goodness and decries, “This is the greatest show on television!”  And in most cases, while the show is indeed fantastic, it surely does not earn that crown.  And then, it eventually loses its way, or starts to downgrade in quality, or even worse, it just flat out sucks.   It’s almost the Sonya Blade/Kitana Kiss of Death, causing its followers to run for cover as it explodes with digitized gore all over your hopes and dreams and expectations.   The FX Network has pretty much built their network on doing this. 

And then there was The Wire, which lived up to every bit of hype.  And then some. 

I love me some HBO.   I’m talking back to the hallowed days of Larry Sanders, which being young and impressionable, I didn’t get, and Dream On, which being young and impressionable, I liked for the constant boobies.  Tales From the Crypt I worshipped on an unholy pedestal.  And I’ve been a loyal follower for many moons.  I got so offended at the Sopranos Season 5, that I just didn’t care enough about the finale season.  I actually loved Carnivale, and was pissed they took it off the air.  And Oz was a force to be reckoned with.  All the assrape and hate crimes a body could handle.

And then there was The Wire.  Quietly asserting itself, never gaining any of the acclaim it so richly deserves, and basically getting ignored.  But every new season would fight to come back to the table, and it got more word of mouth, and more, and more.  And unlike most shows, it changed around every season, and got more powerful, and more rich, and more intense, and just better.  Culiminating in this season, which will go down in fucking history. 

The Wire follows all sides of the Baltimore drug trade.  It tracks the cops and lawyers, and their attempts to set up a wiretap on the local drug trade, and all the bullshit and red tape and politics they have to dance around.  And it tracks the drug dealers themselves, clever Machiavellian princes, who guard their turf and beat on their serfs.  It even tracks drug users.  It goes beyond the job to personal lives, without ever getting soap opera-y, or trolling for ratings.  And it is simply put the most incredible work you will ever see on the small screen. 

Season 1 follows the basic setup, the cops are attempting to get evidence to convict the drug dealing organization run by Avon Barksdale and his family.  It gives an incredible feel for all the scraping and begging the police have to do to get anything on drug dealers.  How you can kill the small potatoes, but you’ll never get near the higher ups.  And the best part for me is how they portray the drug dealers.  They are never rap video stereotypes, though there are guys like that.  They talk street without sounding fake, and they are treated as incredibly intelligent. These are robber-barons, and they got where they are for a reason.   They are clever and they are almost always getting a few steps ahead of the police.  It’s awesome to see the two sides sparring, to watch how it affects people on and off the job. 

Season 2 actually introduces us to a virtually brand new cast of characters, as it takes place on the docks, and shows how drugs and other illicit goods through the waterfront.  It just ups the ante and they weave it deftly into the original story set up by the first season.   It keeps the same premise, while giving us an insight into how this affects other areas.  How petty politics and tyrannical little dicks can stir up a whole mess of shit.

Season 3 is fucking unbelievable good.  Not only does it feature the most fucked-up double crossing, backdooring and assholery this side of Iago in fucking Othello, but it also puts forth one of the most mind-blowing scenarios in the history of television.  Namely, a rogue police captain decides to block off already bad areas of his district, where nobody lives or can be bothered, as areas where drugs will be legalized.  Holy fucking shit.  Just watching this motherfucker unfold will have you headscratching and pondering if it’s not really such a terrible idea.  I will not ruin it any further with pontification.

How will they top that?  With fucking Season 4, which follows for the most part a group of middle schoolers and their part in the drug trade.  Yep.  MIDDLE SCHOOLERS.  10-12 years old.  How some struggle with addict parents, how they deal with violence, how they become drug dealers, how they interact with police, the city, the school system, all of it.  It never once looks away, and it is never anything less than jaw dropping and gut wrenching.  It’s been getting massive amounts of press but no respect. 

Look, you all need to fire up the Netflix queues (since none of you dare have Blockbuster accounts!) and rent this series.  You’ve been waiting, you’ve been wondering, well wonder no more.

It’s got all the grittiness and fierceness of the best HBO series.  And the characters are the best you’ll ever see anywhere.  And the top of the crop for me, is Omar Little.  Omar is a scarfaced Robin Hood, who robs dealers of their stashes and money.  He swaggers around with a shotgun, always staying ahead of the game, and has become a damn folk hero to the kids of the neighborhood.  And as if that weren’t amazing enough, the motherfucker is openly gay.  A gay street thug.  And never for a moment is it done to get laughs or to exploit the situation.  Where a majority of gay characters are played for stereotypes, or in the case of Project Runway an entire series is based on wrist bending and squealing, this show has gay characters who are played with all the same heart and sincerity as any of the straight. And that’s powerful TV. 

But where the fuck are the awards and accolades?  Most people hear about this because anyone who watches the show becomes a rabid fan.  If you like Law & Order, CSI, Homicide, 24, any crime drama, you need to watch this.  Rent Season 1.  Even if you’re kinda “Eh.” because of my fervant foaming at the mouth, go into Season 2.  If you aren’t hooked by then, cash in your chips and turn on American Idol. 

Season 5 is starting on HBO in January.  It’s very likely going to be the last, though they can carry this motherfucker on forever.  It never gets stale.  They have so much they can develop.  The politics alone are worthy of the best Sorkin smile.  I don’t know if he’ll go into a Season 6, though there are rumors.  But as strong as this series has gotten in the later seasons, they could afford it.  I’m just waiting for the rest of the fucking world to catch up.  Because I’m actually going to buy HBO just for the three months that The Wire is on, so I can watch it.  That’s how good this fucking show is. 

It’s worth $5 more dollars on a cable bill.  And that’s best endorsement I can give.

I switched from Netflix to Blockbuster, because for the same price, I could exchange my movies in store for three immediate new films while they sent me the others.  AND they send you a monthly coupon for a free movie or video game.  It made sense.  It was awesome.  Also, Netflix puts you on a list.  If you exchange movies too fast in too short a period of time, they send your films out staggered.  So even if you mail them in at the same time, they’ll send on out one day, then the next day, then the next day.  It’s kind of shady, and I forshamed them with my cancellation email.

So I was in Blockbuster heaven.  Especially when you consider I’m in Burbank!  So surely, in an industry town, they’ll have a great selection in store, right?  WRONG.  You are very fucking wrong, sirs and madams.  Blockbuster has the worst in store selection I’ve ever seen.  If the film is actually there, usually it’s checked out.  Which is because there are no late fees.  So fuck if I’ll bring shit back on time.  So even though they bring in nine thousand copies of the latest release, its usually not there.  So sure, you get free exchanges.  But for what? 

Well, then I go into the store, and after browsing, I finally scrounge together the three films I’ll watch.  It’s shit like this that leads to Epic Movie rentals.  I bring them to the register.  I am informed, not by email, but in store, that I have exceeded my quota for the month.  Mind you, it’s November 7th.  So I say, “Isn’t it unlimited?”  They tell me, “That’s how it was.  You have to upgrade to get the unlimited.”  And by upgrade, they mean, you now have to pay $25 a month to get unlimited exchanges.   Instead of $18. 

I agree to the blood money.  But I’m really pissed.  First that I have to get embarassed in store by not being able to return shit, but second that I have to pay $25.  And third, that they discontinued the motherfucking free monthly coupon.  It was how I addressed my Wii addiction.  Because to rent a game costs $8 at Blockbuster.  And I despite my constant reviewing, I don’t have that much free time to spend playing games to afford Gamefly or Gametap or Tapfly or Vidcrotch or whatever they call it these days. 

Well, fine.  So I’m continuing my trend.  Then I get an email. 

The email informs me that blockbuster will be increasing the monthly amount for 3 at a time and unlimited instore to $35.  As soon as the number got above $30 my blood pressure burst a vein in my forehead like Sweeney Todd trimming my bald dome.  Also, I think I had just gotten done watching Epic Movie.  So I sent them an email. 

Much to my chagrin, I had to forego a lot of my poetic profanity because the complaint department only reads 255.  So it read like a sailor sending a telegram.  Fuck you Blockbuster.  STOP.  How dare you ask me to fucking shill out more money for your crapass DVD collection?  STOP.  Fuck you in the face.  STOP.  Netflix, which I’ll be returning to, has a much much better selection of films.  Unlike your garbage assortment.  STOP.  And that doesn’t even begin to touch on the bevy of retards you have working at your stores who couldn’t find their assholes with both hands, a flashlight, and a starved dog.  STOP.  Fuck you and your shitty in store selection as well.  You know who needs forty copies of I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry?  Someone stupid enough to fucking shop at your garbage store. STOP.  I will not only fucking promise to cancel my account immediately, but I will my make it my life’s quest to ensure that nobody ever dare speak your name in my presence.  You just fucked with the wrong bitch.  STOP.  Again, my sincere hopes and wishes that you get promptly and vigorously fucked in the face.  STOP.

So yeah.  Cancel your Blockbuster accounts if you do the online.  If you shop in store, well, that’s your business.  Go back to Netflix.  Sure they’re doucheshady with their blacklist.  But fuck it.  For $25 you can get 4 movies at a time.  Even with their mail system, that comes out to almost 13 movies a month if you watch fast.  That’s less than $2 a DVD.  And you don’t have to try to park in the worst fucking parking lot ever.  Blockbuster parking lots suck, have always sucked, and will always suck, world without end.

This is not me shilling for Netflix.  I don’t get paid endorsement.  In fact, motherfuck Netflix.  This is about casting hell on the blue and gold cocksacks at Blockbuster.  They will rue the fucking day they crossed this little bald motherfucker.  RUE!

I dare you to watch this movie, and not conjure up fond and partially nauseating thoughts of the Brothers Zucker.  I mean, this film screams its pater familias so loudly, I’m surprised Leslie Nielsen or Kareem Abdul-Jabaar didn’t make cameos.  Cause everyone else sure as fuck did.

The Zuckers, for me anyway, are sort of the forefathers of the dumbass comedy.  And with all dumbass comedy, it has the option of merely being ass.  For every Dumb and Dumber, we’ve got a Dumb and Dumberer.  For every Airplane! we’ve got a Hot Shots! Part Deux.   And so on and so on.  Much like the Farrellys, the Zuckers haven’t brought much to the table as of late.  And frankly these guys do it best.  They supposedly have had a hand in trying to freshen up the Scary Movie franchise (allegedly responsible for most of 3 and 4).  And supposedly, they brought in Kevin Smith as a puncher-upperer.  Which brings me sloppily to my inevitable rambling point.  (Bear with me, folks, it’s been quite the bitchmas.)  Collaboration on slapstick, grossout comedy.

Sometimes, things just work better together.  The first Scary Movie was sharp and funny for what it was, and once the team decided to part ways with their new found high opinions and bigger bank accounts, we started seeing shit like White Chicks, Date Movie, Little Man, and the forthcoming Meet the Spartans.  Watch In Living Color, the Wayans know how to be funny.  For some reason, when given money, they forget this.  Now, I know, for most of the movies I’ve listed, there is inevitably some that hold a sweet place in your heart.  There are probably some that you’ll keep on the channel, cause it’s playing on TBS, and you’re hungover, and frankly there’s not much else on, and you catch yourself giggling.  There are always one or two funny parts to most movies of that ilk.  But for the most part, they are pretty much crapfests akin to most of the last decade of SNL.  If you want to wade through all that shit for the occasional nugget of joy, be my guest.  I’ve got the Mel Brooks Collection. 

My thesis for this argument is Baseketball.  This movie should have been much worse that it was.  The Zucker Brothers were trying to do up a comedy to compete with the burgeoning Farrelly trade.  So they wrote up this script about two slackers who invent a sport that becomes famous.  It’s a treatise against the commercialism of sports.  It’s virtually Swiftian in its parody.  But this is why: they brought in Trey Parker and Matt Stone from South Park, and let them have their way with the project.  They were smart enough to know if you’re going to play in the dirt, get the kids who make the best mud pies.  And you can see the underlying Naked Gun-osity of the script and how it metes out the story.  But the rest is geniusly played out by the cast.  And yeah, the slap in their usual cameos.  We’ve got Dian Bachar and Kareem, and the hilarious Bob Costas and Reggie Jackson.  And it works.  It may not be the best film ever made, but goddamn, it works. 

Then we’ve got Dewey Cox.  I love John C. Reilly.  How he doesn’t have an Oscar yet, well, it’s kinda Philip Seymour Hoffman’s fault for ganking up the quality indie roles, and probably the influence of Will Ferrell.  That’s for another rant.  But, I didn’t think he could carry a film.  He does for the most part, but it’s the same way Leslie Nielsen does.  It’s not with the magnetism of your Denzels, Pitts, Clooneys, or Hankseses.   It’s like an ADD Terrence and Phillip skit, if someone else replaced Philip every five minutes when they told fart jokes.  Sure, there’s parody, and there’s smart jokes, and some brilliant cameos, but it’s been all nicely wrapped up in the brown paper bag that’s become Judd Apatow and lit on fire.

Can you blame the guy?  Or any of his followers?  They’re smart to an extent, they know they’ve got a limited shelf life.  Freaks and Geeks is on my short list for greatest television program of all time, and I’m fucking thrilled that those kids are getting recognition.  But Judd Apatow has become like Krusty the Fucking Clown, slapping his name on any project that comes along so they can put the magic words 40 Year-Old Virgin, Knocked Up, or Superbad on the poster.  For the record, I thought all three were good, not great.  I didn’t see them as the second coming like most of the rest of America.  But they were good.  And the American Pie kids were intent on fighting the National Lampoon for who can put the most boobs in a movie without a plot.  And well, Andy Samberg proved that in small doses he’s a motherfucking unadulterated genius (if you don’t laugh at “Dick in a Box” you’ve got a fucking wire crossed) but when stretched to long term, he’s unfunnier than Patch Adams in the cancer ward.  Chemo?  I barely knew her! 

But like dairy products, eventually your time has come.  Doesn’t matter if you ate all 64 delicious individually wrapped slices of American Cheese or just one, your time is up.  So Judd Apatow has sought fit to cram our collective gullyholes with as much of him and his ilk as possible.  Which is a shame.  Because you can’t taste fine wine if you’re funnelling it through a beer bong.

And this is the major problem with Walk Hard.  Sure, there are some funny parts.  And sure, it pretty much nails the biopic parody.  But the rest of the movie plays out like they got stoned watching Walk the Line and decided to reenact it in their backyards like the kids in the forthcoming 5-25-77, whenever the fuck that comes out.  (Go look it up on IMDB.  The only movie I want to see more than this is Be Kind, Rewind.)  Because the ultimate failure is that when you play a movie like it’s going to be a Yuk-A-Minute like Naked Gun, you can’t go back to trying to play serious parts.  You lie to the audience and they don’t know what to expect. 

The cameos are ultimately where it’s hit or miss.  Frankie Muniz plays Buddy Holly and Jack White plays Elvis, and both are funny.  One because he does nothing but look stupid, and the other because he’s so over the top, it’s brilliant.  Then there’s the scene with the Beatles.  I laughed really hard.  It’s supposed to be over the top.  But again, it’s sort of like community theatre.  It’s like, which ones of our friends can we throw in here?  So they can’t do Liverpool accents, that’s what’ll make it funny!   Besides, America loves these guys!  Until they make their next couple of romantic comedies and then we want them all to die, die, die.  Which is a fucking shame.  I mean, you’ve got Paul Rudd, Jason Schwartzmann, Jack Black, and Justin Long as the Beatles.  Fine.  But then you decide to throw Jonah Hill a bone, and horribly miscast him as the older version of the younger brother.  What the fuck?

This is the same kind of tag-team SNL style casting that fucks up most movies like this.  It’s part of the reason why Wet Hot American Summer, Strangers with Candy: The Movie, and Kids in the Hall: Brain Candy, will be cult classics and not great films.  Sure, each might have a soft spot in your heart (I know I love me some KITH and will still watch that movie every time its aired with unflagging passion), but it doesn’t make it a good movie.  If you’re supposed to laugh every couple of minutes, and you don’t, and worse yet, you REALIZE you aren’t laughing, that’s not a comedy.  That’s fucking tragedy.

And it’s all doomed to go downhill from here.  Judd Apatow is starfucking himself and his friends.  Someone needs to just lock the motherfucker up in a room at the top of a tower and just give him time to cool off.  Because he’s way too talented to worry about what’s going to happen to him.  I’d be willing to bet if they stretched that shit out by a year or so, people would be lapping it up with a motherfucking spoon.  Right now, they’re just stomping it out on the front porch and sniffing their shoes.

I fondly remember Sweeney Todd from my days in middle school music class.  We watched the musical, with Angela Lansbury as Mrs. Lovett, and I’m pretty sure this was just another peg in the slippery downward sanity slope I rode into my horror/dark comedy obsession, along with Heathers, The Dark Crystal, and Labyrinth.  It sort of shaped me as a child, with all it’s throat slitting, baking into meat pies glory.  I also enjoy a good Tim Burton romp, because he’s obsessive with his imagery.  So I was looking forward to this movie with baited breath. 

I didn’t think batshit crazy was sexually transmittable until I saw the results of Helena Bonham Carter’s vag on Tim Burton as an artist.  I respect both of these people individually, and before the two begat their unholy alliance, there were already semblances of the insane genius that addled the minds of Poe and Lovecraft.  But the combination of these two became a goth kid’s wet dream, spattering their Hot Topic underwear with groin juices and sharpening the razors to drink their own blood.  It were as if Marilyn Manson and Emily Dickinson decided to have a child, and the little bastard sprung forth from their loins with batwings and Invader Zim tattoos. 

Not to say that this is always a good thing.  Sometimes the combining of too much of the macabre leads to…well, boring shit.  And that’s pretty much what happened here.  I won’t blame Helena Bonham Carter for the downfall of Tim Burton, because it just makes sense.  He was already front loading Lisa Marie in all of his films before that, it’s just HBC became his new muse.  Which again, makes pefect sense.  Tim Burton is a goth kid at heart, and so why would he not fawn over the Goth Queen?  It’s just that he’s got the two toys he loves so much, he refuses to let them go, even when it might have been stronger without. 

If you’ve seen Sleepy Hollow, you knew what would happen with Sweeney Todd.  Except I had slightly more hope for Johnny Depp in this one.  Sweeney Todd, the barber, is not exactly a bright shiny happy monkey, but Depp decides to play him like a scowling maniac.  So you can’t sympathize with him, or even empathize.  Which is a problem.  Because the whole point of Sweeney Todd is to enjoy the revenge.  To root for him against the bastards who done him wrong.  And you can’t side with Depp’s Todd.  He’s not fun.  I obviously wasn’t expecting the over-the-top camp of Jack Sparrow or Willy Wonka, or even the bookish milquetoast of Ichabod Crane, but his take on Sweeney Todd just seems off.   Sweeney Todd is so obsessed with vengeance that he will kill everyone he can to get to Judge Turpin.  But there was always a sense of dark enjoyment.  And there’s none of that with Depp’s interpretation.  So until we get to ”A Little Priest”, one of my favorite numbers, which comes nearly halfway through, we’ve been saddled with this rather uncouth storyline.

Other than the two young lovers, Anthony and Johanna, everyone does a servicable job.  This isn’t one of Sondheim’s most musical musicals, so the numbers aren’t going to be these lavish numbers.  It’s more like an opera.  So when a character suddenly breaks into song, it’s almost comical.  But not in the way they intended.   Helena Bonham Carter impressed me with her take on Mrs. Lovett, filling the shoes of Angela Lansbury in a way I didn’t expect.  She is the only bright spot in this morosely obsessive picture.  That seemed to be the angle Burton was going for, the sheer OBSESSIVENESS.  Sweeney is obsessed with revenge, Judge Turpin is obsessed with possession, Beadle is obsessed with greed, Mrs. Lovett is obsessed with Sweeney, Anthony is obsessed with Johanna.  And it’s not the typical romantic comedy obsessions, but something darker and unseemly.

So while it’s sort of unpleasant movie to listen to, it’s a phenomenal movie to watch.  Tim Burton’s obsessiveness with detail is breathtaking.  London is a dark sooty black and white town.  The only spots of color in the movie shine so perfectly, one in a dream sequence and the other with Adolfo Pirelli, which features a surprising performance by Borat Himself.  Tim Burton paints a visually awe-inspiring film, that just looks so perfect.  It’s a dark looking film, to add to the attitude.  Then, we have the blood.

Make no mistake.  This is a bloody motherfucking film.  He even colors the blood a paint thick bright red.  And it comes out in GOUTS.  When Sweeney Todd slits a throat with his razor, it’s like an anime orgasm.  Blood fountains across the sky, spraying window panes, the floorboards, Sweeney’s face and sleeves, even the camera.  And then, as an added gory touch, he drops them down the chute into the basement, where they land with a sickening crunch next to a massive meat grinder full of body parts.  I mean, this is the stuff of gore legend.  It’s a brutally violent movie, up to its massively sickening crescendo of a finale.  Parents contemplated bringing their kids to see it, and while there is nary a breast, buttock, or f-bomb to be found (he does say “shit”), this is a savage bloodbath worthy of the R-rating.  As with Sleepy Hollow, Tim Burton knows how to kill a motherfucker.  And how.

However, as much as I enjoyed the carnage and carnivality of the final hour of the movie, you have to sit through the cloying boredom of the first hour.  And while some of the uninitiated would slough this off to “character development”, it ain’t.  Brooding and pining for an hour doesn’t mean they’ve developed.  Because by the time the film lands in a blood-soaked heap of meat at your feet, nobody is the better for all of this.  Including the audience. 

I’ve decided not to become an Amazon Affiliate.  This is sort of a pre-emptive strike, kind of like dumping a girl because you’re pretty sure she’s going to dump you, or finding a boyfriend before you leave your current one.  I guess what I’m saying is, I’m bisexual. 

I’m not going to take the tags down from the other ones, and frankly, it’s just a pain in the ass to keep tagging all this shit.  Let my laziness and illness abound.  Plus, it’s holding me back from riddling you with my witticisms. 

Onwards and upwards, people.  Onwards and upwards.

Remember how back in high school, especially if you were a dude in the company of other dudes, you would go to a diner or other eating establishment, and as your food came, people would fill a water glass with various foods and liquids?  You know: creamer, ketchup, salt, pepper, sweet and low, coffee, soda, milkshake, pieces of lettuce, mayonnaise, lemon, whatever happened to be lying around the table.  And then you would pay someone a dollar or five dollars to drink it?  And someone would do it, even though they knew it was going to be gross, even though they knew it would be fucking horrible, they were stronger than that.  Because you knew that no matter what was in it, it wasn’t something that could actually harm you.  It wasn’t Windex or rat poison or Pimp Juice.  Well, I rented Epic Movie on the same dare.   

It’s the cinematic equivalent of playing Ookie Cookie with a bunch of syphillitic lepers.  (Ookie Cookie, to the uninitiated or those who may know it by one of it’s many other names, is where a bunch of guys circle jerk on to a cookie or cracker, and the last one to come on it has to eat it.  Presumably a game to reward premature ejaculators.)  I mean, I knew it was going to be bad.  But, I could not possibly imagine it would make me actually physically ill.  It’s not just an unfunny, terrible movie.  It’s a crime against humanity.  It honestly would have been a more appropriate move to have Geraldo Rivera dig up JonBenet Ramsey’s little corpse, dress her up like a teddy bear, and take turns with his camera man tagraping her and punching her in the face.  Yes, that’s one of the most disgusting things I can think of, and for fuck’s sake, it does not even begin to come close to the unmitigated horror I felt watching this movie. 

You know the premise by now.  Some piece of garbage claims they are parodying popular movies by essentially ripping direct scenes and characters from them and then putting them on screen in what might pass for a movie.  Scary Movie makes fun of the horror movie premise, but it actually pretends to have a plot, albeit lined with stupid jokes.  Epic Movie reads like a severely retarded eight year old’s memory of movies they saw last year. 

First of all, it’s supposed to be parodying epic movies.  Pirates of the Carribbean?  Epic movie.  Chronicles of Narnia?  Epic movie.  Nacho Libre?  Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?  The Da Vinci Code?  Not fucking epic movies.  Just because a movie has top shelf actors and has action in it DOES NOT make it a fucking epic movie.   

So there’s that. Then there are the jokes. The movie has four orphans who are secretly related (and isn’t that funny because they’re all of different ethnicities!) and must stop the White Bitch of Gnarnia.  Yeah.  They changed a letter!  Holy shit!  Comic fucking genius!  Seriously, the jokes fall into two categories.  One, potty humor.  Dude, I love dick and fart jokes.  They are the two tablets from which I preach.  But when the joke is “Look!  He’s eating shit!” or “non-stop projectile vomiting!”  That’s fucking horrible.  It’s like Adam Sandler after a major stroke.  I’m talking a Kirk Douglas facemelter.  Poop!  AHAHAHAAHAH!  Poop again!  AHAHAAH!  It’s not even clever.  It’s like someone telling a horrible joke and then just letting the punchline sit there while you stare at it.  It’s like a lineup of corpses after a planecrash.  That one your dead loved one?  Nope.  Okay, next one.  This them?  Nope.  Okay.  Moving on.

The second style of joke has to deal with the parody themselves.  The point of a parody is to lampoon the original.  Not to treat it like you’re guest hosting The Chris Farley Show.  Remember how in Superman Returns how he stopped a bullet with his eye.  Wouldn’t it be awesome if he didn’t.  And he said, “Ow! You shot me in my fucking eye!  That really hurt!” (And seriously, that’s exactly the scene.  Out of the fucking middle of nowhere.  Like the laziest episode of Family Guy).  This is just like that fucking guy who quoted Napoleon Dynamite and Austin Powers over and over until you finally asked him to stop.  And by asked him to stop, I mean pushed him under a bus.

The four kids are played by three actors who will we never have to see again if there is a just or willing creator or if I can gather up the funds necessary to have them scarred with acid.  The fourth is Kal Penn, who has no fucking excuse.  Way to sell all that The Namesake credit you built for yourself, Kumar.  You just got a handful of shit, not even magic beans. 

Then there is the supporting cast.  Darrell Hammond is funny as fucking shit on SNL.  Sean Connery on Jeopardy! can make me almost wet my pants.  Here, he is virtually unrecognizable as Captain Jack Swallows.  That’s right.  They named him Swallows.  You know.  Like he swallows sperm.  In case you didn’t know, they make that joke for you.  For the four high football players in the back getting gangblown by a flag girl.  He sounds like Johnny Depp.  That’s about the nicest thing I can say for him here.  Much like Chris Parnell, he’s quickly selling off his street cred in the name of his SNL brethren. 

Jennifer Coolidge and Crispin Glover must have both lost bets with God.  They really needed these checks.  Jennifer Coolidge for more plastic surgery, and Crispin to make another one of his….movies?  Actually, it makes complete logical sense for Crispin Glover to pop up in this movie in perhaps the most fucked-up Willy Wonka ever.  To see him inspires fear.  But so far Crispin’s film career has been steadily comprised of parts that make fuck-all sense.  So bully for him.  There’s a special place in Hell being prepared for him in a cauldron next to Willem Dafoe.

This movie made me so angry that money was actually spent on this movie being made, I was literally going to boycott every actor from here on forth.  I seriously want to find the two fuckstains who shat this filmic abortion out, and break their fucking arms and legs so they can never work a laptop again.  I want to learn the Aztec language so I can have the infinite and unending rain of Quetzlcoatl rain down upon them and their families.  I want rabid dogs to piss in their skull-fucked eye sockets.  I hate them in the face.

So yeah.  Best skip this one unless you want eye herpes.  Honestly, I actually vomitted after watching this movie.  It may have been a stomach virus, but we all know the truth.   

Let me set the scene.  It’s Fall of 2004.  I just find out my girlfriend of two years had been cheating on me for several months.  I’m fucking DEVASTATED.  I freak out, go home for some time, and then come back for the start of my second and final year of grad school.  I’m essentially an emotional wreck.  Having been a skeevy manwhore in high school, I’ve never really had a serious relationship before this one.  The closest was a girl 5 years my younger that I paused a Nintendo game to break up with over the phone.  So I was wrecked.  (I’m not rehashing this whole incident again for those who’ve had to bear with my emo kid caterwauling over the past few years, it’s just to make a point.)

John Berry, of the afforementioned -the jb show-, had lyrics up on his myspace page.  I asked him, what are those from.  And thus I was introduced to the awesome fury of boy sets fire’s The Day the Sun Went Out. It is a CD full of screaming, shrieking vocals straight from the mouth of Hell, and the guitar work is heavy and angry.  This guy wasn’t just angry at the break-up and wanted her dead.  He had been wronged on the level of Beatrice Kiddo, and he wanted not only to kill the girl who done him wrong, but he wanted to break every bone in her body, shit on her chest, piss in her face as she dies, anally assault the corpse, and leave her remains on the front porch of her grandmother’s house.  A taste from “Another Badge of Courage”: 

And I’ll remember what you did to me
Lying on your kitchen floor
Burning with hate
I want to rip your hands off
I want to rip your tongue out
For every time I have cried
Every time you have lied
Pushed down
Laughing in my face
Pain I’ve never felt
Hate I’ve never screamed
And I can still remember that fucking look in your eyes
Screaming at me like it doesn’t matter at all
And now eyes will always lie

This was brutal.  And it was right where my head was at at the time. 

The emotion in the singer’s voice, the pure unadulterated rage and hatred, screaming each word like a prayer of vengeance against this heartbreak.  This was frenzied, standing at the top of a hill in a torrential downpour, damning the heavens anger.  It’s almost impossible to understand what the man is saying at times.  It’s not something you listen to while you’re driving in the car, unless you plan on going Burnout on the other vehicles.  But it has a place and a time and that is in the eye of your mournful heartache. 

So when jb told me to check out The Casting Out, he described it as a grown-up, slowed down version of boy sets fire.  It even features some of the members, definitely the vocalist.  So I went and got my hands on their self titled EP. 

Mother of God.

This blew me away.  At first, it’s impossible to believe it’s the same band.  It sounds like a slightly heavier Toad the Wet Sprocket or even Jars of Clay’s The Eleventh Hour.  The screeching hardcore guitars have been replaced with more laid back rock and in some cases piano.  It’s lush and pleasant and powerful. 

But the most outstanding thing is, they haven’t lost any of the rage of the days of The Day the Sun Went Out.  It’s just that they’ve learned to channel it into this more accessible format.  I don’t want to give them impression that any of the passion is out, or that this is somehow pussy rock.  I mention Jars of Clay because their fervor and Christianity comes through on a rock level, the message riding on their strong musicality, and the passion of the breakup rage is here with The Casting Out.  This is a deep, festering passion, that’s merely gotten more distilled.  He doesn’t have to shriek anymore, now he’s going to sit outside your house in his car and just watch you.  Follow you.  This is a serial killer who murders girls who look like the girl that broke his heart, and then sends her pieces of them in the mail. 

But they’ve channeled it into something that’s great to listen to.  You don’t get that punch in the face rage that you do listening to boy sets fire.  This is anthemic.  This is your average pop-punk love song ten years later and still smoldering over the ashes of what isn’t.  Story of the Year and blink-182 and A Simple Plan, and to a lesser extent Something Corporate and Yellowcard.  They’re those high school kids who are crying about losing the girl they dated for four whole months to a guy who just found out after being married for seven years that the son he raised wasn’t his.

And while I’m using this as a breakup metaphor, I need to stress the most important quality.  This is a really GOOD album.   It’s easily worth a listen to, and I wait with baited breath for a full-length album. 

In the interest of making some money, I decided to take up a suggestion of  the ever so wise Matt Wolfe, and become an Amazon Affiliate.  What does that mean?  It means whenever I mention something I like, I’m going to set up a link through my blog to Amazon.com for it.  So you can go and you can buy it from Amazon immediately.  Or at least check it out.

If you buy it from my link, I get paid money.  So it’s beneficial for everyone.  How’s that for being a fucking whore?  If it becomes too annoying to have the little links flash up all the time, please let me know and I’ll probably discontinue the practice.  But hopefully, everyone thinks it’s neat.

And you buy shit, and make me money.  I’m like those fat shut-ins working from the safety of their couch!  My guidance counselor was right!  Dreams do come true!

Ah, the love is shiny and fresh and new this week, like a gentle snow that carpets your lawns and cars.  Presumably.  I don’t know anymore, because I live in Southern California now, and everything goes grey and rainy.  But at least I don’t have to shovel rain.

As I watch my nefarious little project come to fruition, I gather new followers and admirers to my flock.  Most of whom are to be admired themselves.  So to your immediately left, you will find two more blogs for your eyes to giggle at.

Filled With Monkeys! is the illustrious Matt Wolfe’s blog, randomly updated whenever the mood should sway.  Matt, besides being a superb friend, has been my artistic boot in the ass, pretty much catapulting me towards my creative glories.  Matt was the one who read a short story and told me, “Dude, just make it a play.  You’ve been in enough of them.”  And thus began my career as playwright, which led to my screenwriting career.  And this year, he started me on National Novel Writing Month, which restarted the stalled motor of my writing.  He also was the one who convinced me to get blogging on my own.  So all this is his fault.  Hit him snowballs.

Hispanic! At the Disco is the blog of one of the illustrious Pajiban commentators, Manny.  It’s hard not to like Manny, if not for his witty and mean-spirited commentary, then at least for his fine Lucha Strongbad mask.  He’s a fine example of why federal agents need funding to patrol the internet.  I am a fine example of why Megan’s Law is in effect.

I have made it a rule to get permission before linking websites (except Pajiba!  I just took you like I wanted you and you liked it, didn’t you?  DIDN’T YOU?) to my own.  So if you want to share in the sparkly shiny love, and have even more random strangers look at your unmentionables, please, drop me a loving email at priscogospel@hotmail.com

Also, since I’ve been hurtling past the one book, one new artist, one movie parameter I’ve set for myself, more suggestions are always welcome.  Me likey food. 

“May you be in heaven half an hour before the Devil knows you’re dead.”  A quote so awesome, that I quite literally have pondered having it tattooed on my bicep.  But written up all cool so it looks like barbed wire, and then crossing itself so that if you read it straight across it says “May you be in the Devil half an hour before Heaven knows you’re dead.”  But you don’t need to know about my perversions and sexual proclivities and trendy douchebag tattoo desires.

Sidney Lumet’s back, motherfuckers!  He’s old as hell, and he’s not going to take it anymore.  Before the Devil comes off as your typical heist movie, two shitty brothers decide to make a quick buck off a suburban jewelry store robbery.  But that’s where they get you.  The story becomes a palimpsest (that’s a five dollar word, for you educated motherfuckers), repainting itself with more and more nuance until the crashing conclusion.  Well, not that crashing, if you don’t see this ending coming, you obviously haven’t been watching enough Law and Order.  And thanks to the writer’s strike, now you’ll be able to catch up!

In anyone else’s hands, this would have been a bloated Law and Order: Criminal Intent, a poorly-cobbled, simply-plotted narrative about greed where you know the clever little red herrings because frankly, they wouldn’t hire on Martin Short or Michael Gross unless they were planning on making him the focus.  But the powerful acting and continual re-upping of the stakes helps to up the ante on this film.

Philip Seymour Hoffman is in this, because he’s in fucking EVERYTHING this year, and he’s just as pasty and red-faced as ever.  He’s the more douchey of the two douchebag brothers, and he does a fantastic job of playing the white-collar greaseball.  Ethan Hawke actually does some fantastic work as the weaselly loser brother, playing him with a real manic nerdishness that makes me wonder if his agent might finally slap some fucking pretention out of him and tell him to stop making shitty indie films and start playing nebbishes.  He needs to hurry, because he won’t be able to bank on his boyish good looks for long, and that’s part of the charm of his character.  You can tell he was the pretty boy in high school who’s now working a dead-end loser job and living a dead end loser life that’s so despondent, even his daughter calls him out on it.  Albert Finney is in the movie as the family patriarch, and I think he’s one of our finer actors.  I think any other actor in that role would have played the part differently, but with his eternally gaping jowls and downturned gargoyle face, he comes off like an awakened golem hellbent on revenge without the need to emote strongly.  I can’t decide if it’s a brilliant performance or not. 

The female roles are essentially throw-away, one dimensional parts there strictly to benefit the men.  Kinda like what happened in No Country For Old Men.  The meatiest part by far goes to Marisa Tomei, but only by virtue of the fact she’s naked for every other one of her scenes.  Which, hey, when the old career reaper is a-coming for you to take you to the land of the over 40 actresses, you flash like a college sophomore desperate for beads and someone to tell her she’s still pretty.  They dreadfully underuse Amy Ryan (who is also in EVERYTHING this year) as the shrewish ex-wife of Ethan Hawke.   Her primary purpose seems to be to caw “Fuck you, you loser!” so that the slow folk in the back get that he’s a loser worth of our fuck you scorn.  Even with the mother, the wonderful Rosemary Harris, I can imagine this screenwriter sitting at his/her laptop (Kelly as we all know can be a girl’s or a boy’s name and since this is its first credit, fuck if I can be bothered to research it) saying, “Dude, I’m gonna make her so feminist.  Cause she has a gun!”  Then take another toke and eat some Funyuns.  I mean, I’ve bitched before about the dearth of good female roles, and this movie is a prime example.  It’s funny, but a woman actually can have a character arc, if you give her the chance.  Having her leave her husband isn’t character development, it’s using her to demonstrate his inability to function.  Having her look like she might cry isn’t character development, it’s her reacting to her male counterpart.  Here’s an idea, pretend you’re writing for a dude, and then give him boobs.  It might be the start of a beautiful writing opportunity.

As I said, when breaking out the ol’ college degree, this movie retells itself, and works mostly because as it unfolds, the stakes get raised internally.  Normal movies would have the robbery, then the cops show up, then there’s somebody after them for money, then they have to evade another person, now they’re running from three people.  It’s called an obstacle course.  This alters the characters.  And that’s what makes it work.

The two brothers are going to rob a jewelry store.  Then you find out the jewelry store belongs to their parents.  There isn’t supposed to be violence, but people get shot.  The old woman who runs the store is supposed to be Doris, but instead it’s their own mother.  And that makes it all the more intense.  Not necessarily the what, but the whos and whys.  So that’s what would make an otherwise clunky heist movie intriguing. 

They use this transitional device, fucking with the timeline to go back and redo the story from different time periods, that’s flat out annoying.  It literally freezes the scene, and then flashes with a loud ominous tocking sound between the beginning of the next scene and the last.  Like some sort of 80’s New Wave MTV video, back in the days when they actuall played music.  It’s distracting, and lame, and the more it happens, the stupider it seems.