The Gospel According to Prisco

So I’ve joined Twitter.  If you really want to hear what my brainfarts sound like, now you’ll have a direct link.  I probably don’t use it as much as I could.  Especially once I get a fancy new phone.  Then I can spatter the interwebs with my delicious.

I don’t care if I spelled the title of this blog correctly.  Eat me.

I think I just started a religion.  I always figured I would, just not this one.  More on that later.

I think I’m just going to start randomly adding other people’s blogs to my blogroll.  If you feel in anyway this is some sort of interweb rapery, feel free to cry about it to the Internet Police.  Or, seriously, drop me a line, and tell me to fucketh offeth. 

I am still behind in my postings.  Dagnabbit. 

I am about to purchase a camcorder.  I am going to do horrible, horrible things in the name of artistic validation.  All over your face!

That is all.  Go in the name of the Godtupus.

All In The Suit That You Wear

It’s sad when you realize how something this shoddily crafted actually happened.  You see Woody Allen is a sexually transmitted disease.  Ewan and Hugh have WAEDS, Woody Allen Entertaino Deficiency Syndrome.  It’s a rare disorder where once shining brilliant minds slowly deteriorate in talent and ability due to prolonged exposure to the lovable mensch.  Have we seen much of Edward Norton since Everyone Says I Love You?  Mira Sorvino after Mighty Aphrodite?  Actors wander from bad movie to worse movie, fading into the five dollar bins at Best Buy. Then they suffer madness, and a breakout of wineries, commonly referred to as Coppola’s Sarcoma.  Eventually the star’s Bright Cell count dims so low, they disappear completely from the universe, only to pop up occasionally on VH1 to find love, lose weight, or overcome their addictions.  Perhaps one day they’ll find the cure.  

Gonna Take More Than A Shot to Get This Poison Outta Me

This movie made me fucking sick.

I can’t say I’m a Wong Kar Wai fanatic.  He does beautiful stuff, and he’s extremely nuanced and stylistic.  But, I don’t know.  I’m not one of those die hard cinemophiles who masturbates all over himself with every foreign indie release.  But the cast intrigued me in this, so I decided to check it out.

Essentially, it’s a series of vignettes following a lonely girl as she travels from town to town, seeking enlightenment and love and blueberry pie.  I think?  It’s a bit artsy for even my tastes, but it’s very well acted.  Norah Jones is the lead, and who fucking knew she was an actress?  I just thought she was a songstress, but here she is, throwing down a hell of a performance.  There’s not much for her to do but stare forlornly at the ground and make frowny faces for most of the film, but she does it quite alluringly. 

It’s good to see Jude Law back to work.  I sort of forgot why I liked him until this movie cropped up.  Jude Law’s a good actor DESPITE all the roles he’s taken.  And then we’ve got David Straithairn and Frankie Faison putting forward pretty dependably solid performances.  Both of these guys are just go to for interesting characters.  Rachel Weisz has a terrible accent and a powerful delivery that will be cropping up in casting sessions from here to eternity.  And I don’t know why, but Natalie Portman is playing a poker gambler, and for some reason, I just love her.  It’s one of those roles that will let the haters hate on her, and the lovers love on her, and I am staunchly in the latter camp. 

Hell, I loved Garden State. 

The camera work is smart and sparkly.  Wai kind of turns the camera on America’s view of itself.  Everything is neon and nighttime, vaguely garish.  Which is how most of us view Asian cities, particularly China or Japan.  I got a little fed up with the slow-motion shots, where inexplicably the action suddenly goes all dramatic and slow motion.  Norah Jones features on the smoky sultry soundtrack, because you’d have to be an incredible fucking doofus to cast her in your movie and not ask her to throw in a couple songs for the benefit of all.

It’s a sweet film, and a short film, under 90 minutes.  I would definitely recommend this as a DVD purchase, or as a nice date film. 

Damn that George Clooney.  He’s just such a charming motherfucker, isn’t he?  And now, he goes and directs a movie that’s not half-bad.  It’s not offensive enough to the senses to rail against it, but I really don’t think anyone needs to dash out to the theatres and watch it.  It’ll be a wonderfully successful DVD rental, and that’s about it.  And that’s about all it deserves.  I mean, director-wise, he’s done better: Confessions of a Dangerous Mind.  And actorwise, he’s certainly done better.  I won’t even count his Oscar nominated stuff. 

I like Renee Zellweger.  I’m sorry.  I know she’s gotten whomped on for her scrunch-face and her diva attitude.  But she was great in Empire Records, she was very good in Chicago, she was marvelous in Cold Mountain, and by god, she’s fantastic here.  I’m sure there are any number of actresses who would have done better with the part, but she’s terrific as the plucky smartmouthed reporter.  It’s no Jennifer Jason Leigh in The Hudsucker Proxy, but she’s very fun to watch.  And John Krasinski.  Hmm.  He was alright, because he’s a nice guy, but I just don’t think he’s got enough chutzpah to be sharing lead status with these two.  I really want to see him take a Ryan Reynolds route, sort of jibber jabber along in the supporting fields and then jump into the lead stuff.  But hell, he’s still good. 

That’s kind of the metaphor for this movie.  It’s alright.  The plot’s not that intriguing, and it felt weirdly long.  There’s not much football action, it’s more screwball comedy than anything else.  But if you want something to watch with the folks one quiet weekend, go for it.

Angels Flight by Michael Connelly

It’s almost impossible to write reviews of a series that has so many novels in it when you are six or seven deep.  Essentially, you can’t cover new territory from your old reviews.  All I can do is say whether or not it’s gotten stronger or weaker.  Which is particularly problematic with the Harry Bosch novels.

Harry Bosch is a hard-boiled detective in Los Angeles.  I’m so glad I waited to read these novels until I came out here, because I appreciate them all the more.  And Connelly infuses the stories with a sense of historical imprint.  The OJ Trials, the earthquake that decimated the city in 1994, the Rodney King riots.  It helps to layer the novels, which are deftly written.  It’s such a strong series, but it’s also relatively of the whole world-weary gumshoe variety.  A smoking dick, who hates the rules and who hates corruption.  He’s just a man, with a badge, trying to do his job.  It’s not a cliche here though. 

It’s a beach read style novel, paperbacks that you load into your back pocket.  I would never buy a Connelly book in hardcover, because I don’t ever have that much fever for the series.  But I own most of them in paperback.  Because it’s a solid read, and I know it’s going to be good, and I know I’ll want to read the next one.  Even his Mickey Haller lawyer novels, and the stand alones, they’re all solid. 

And Angels Flight is no different, this time tackling a high-profile lawyer who was seemingly assassinated.  What makes it so fiery is that the lawyer made his career suing the LAPD in the early wake of OJ and Rodney King.  And that he was probably iced by a cop. 

It’s a great book, but only more so because of what came before it.  You have to start with Harry Bosch from the beginning, and if you like detective stuff, pick up The Black Echo.  It’s more of a LA Story, but it’s a quality read.

I Love You, Beth Cooper by Larry Doyle

I loved this book so much.  Oh, Jeebus, not only was it a rapid fire read, but it was so much fun.  Every chapter is headed with a quote and an illustration of our hero’s head during the progression of the storey.  The quotes are all from high school comedies, attributed to the characters from such faire as Heathers and Can’t Hardly Wait.

The premise is incredibly over the top, and the ground has been so desperately well-trod, but to blame him for both of these is like yelling at a baby for spitting up food.  High school is the fertile ground of the writer, and lord knows I’ve plumbed it with many of my screenplays.  But even though it has those hurdles to clear, it’s such a sparklingly hilarious narrative, and the writing style just pops off the page, that you don’t care.  You’re with them, no matter that the hero’s bully is ex-military, and is quite literally trying to kill him.

Our hero is Denis Cooverman, The Coove to his friends (okay, well just the one) and The Penis to everyone else.  His best friend is Richard Munsch, and despite the fact that YES he really did name a character Dick Munsch, it so fucking works in the narrative.  Denis is a nerd in every sense of the word, so of course he’s valedictorian.  And he takes the opportunity to write a speech where he essentially confesses his love for the head cheerleader as well as outing his movie-quote spouting, sexually-ambiguous buddy and dissing the richest bitch in the entire class.

The rest of the story takes us through the night after graduation.  To say the plot progress suspends disbelief would be the equivalent of saying that Cheetos are “kinda orange”.  But as I said, the characters are so well-developed and interesting, and the narration is fucking brilliant, so you are willing to go along for the ride, even when it involves driving a Hummer over someone’s front lawn and an asswhooping that would make John McClane shout, “Oh, come ON!”

I don’t know how well this will translate to generations below the drinking age.  I feel like it’s one of those perfectly capsulated novels that while taking place today, is written for twentysomethings and thirtynothings, because of all the references.  It’s for the generation that grew up on John Hughes, and when trying to show teens that today, some get it and some just…don’t.

My only regret is that this was immediately snatched up for option and will be a vehicle featuring Hayden Panietteire as the titular crush, Beth Cooper.  Not that I have anything against her (she’s obviously got a few badass cheerleaders on her resume, and I love her despite what they are doing to her in the press and on Heroes).  No, what disappoints me is that the movie will be undoubtedly lamed down to PG-13, when the novel is unabashedly R, and potentially NC-17.  Also, since most of what makes this so funny is that it takes place from Denis’s viewpoint and internal narrative, so I’m not sure what they will do with it, except horribly water it down and spike it with cat piss. 

Either way, snag the book and read it first.  It’ll go down smooth like microbrew.

Just Put Me In A Wheelchair And Get Me To The Show

My first “legitimate” review for the site.  Actually something that is in the theatres!  I’m pretty psyched about it.  You probably won’t be able to see it, because I had a bitch of a time finding it, and I live in fucking Los Angeles.  Dredge the arthouses, peoples. 

My grandmother worked at McDonalds for over 40 years, getting a ride from one of my aunts or riding the bus to the store at 5 AM every morning to open and to serve people with a smile.  She worked there right up until she was too weak to handle it, and it wasn’t the fraility of old age that knocked her down, but leukemia.  My grandmother wedged a wiffle ball in a chain link with an underhand speed pitch, she beat my brother at basketball by dribbling in and shooting layups because she knew he was too pussy to throw a pick.  She snuck us into line to buy movie tickets, literally shuffling in front of people who were standing there.  When I called her on it, she said, “What are they going to do?  I’m old.”  She accidentally called Fuddrucker’s Ruddfuckers. 

Old people can be pretty fucking awesome.  So long as they aren’t driving in front of me.

The Circus Fire by Stewart O’Nan

I was looking through the libraries selection on The Lost Colony of Roanoke (most of which were children’s books…sigh) when I noticed this book.  It’s about the tragic fire that killed 167 people in Hartford during an afternoon matinee of the Ringling Brothers Circus.  It was written by Stewart O’Nan, who just had a movie adapted from his novel Snow Angels.  

It was a fascinating read from a historical aspect, basically capturing the whole history of this terrible event, and the legends that rose from the incident.  But, as far as historical fiction, I’ve read better.  I much more enjoyed the Erik Larsen stuff.  It’s not that it’s not well-written, or informative, or heartbreaking.  It’s just that there’s not much going on other than a huge, drawn-out explanation of what happened. 

I’ll probably pick up Snow Angels and read that, maybe some of his fiction, but his style doesn’t translate as well in non-fiction.  

Holy crap, do I love me some John Darnielle.  While there’s a lot to be said of the charm of the early Mountain Goats recordings, done with pops and hisses in an almost guerilla release format, the later stuff just gets epic.  The swelling strings, the haunting poetry of the lyrics, the simple enjoyment I get from each album.  Heretic Pride doesn’t have any stand out songs for me like the last few releases, but overall, it’s a strong, strong album.  I know I’m going to have this one on constant loop for a while, just because I love that nasally voice so much.  It reminds me of weird friends I had in high school who probably were on mad amounts of drugs, who would write in composition books and speak in rhymes.  Just words that had no meaning to me at the time, but sounded so fucking cool. 

It’s pretty impossible for Darnielle to improve on The Sunset Tree, because that was such a personal album about abusive childhood, but Heretic Pride, to me anyway, is a much more comprehensively better overall record than Get Lonely.  But like Ween, it’s difficult for me to point out a favorite album.  It’s all good, always good, even when it’s insanely bad or crazy.