Still Trying to Figure Out Your Face Implodes In My Experimental Film
And thus begins my long journey into indie horror! Plus, I got to give my friend Amy Judd a shout-out and her film Yeast. Well, not her film, but Mary Bronstein’s film. But I know Amy, and not Mary, so I call it Amy’s film. Do the math!
I have just experienced my first ever Earthquake (with a capital E) in Los Angeles. Well, actually, Van Nuys. Apparently, there were others that we slept through, but this one we felt. Higginbottom works downtown in the DGA building, and when she called, she said none of them had cell phone service, and the building was still doing a little shimmy.
It was strange, because it felt like when I lived in Allston, and big trucks would drive by the windows. The ground kind of rumbled, and that was it. Then a bigger rumble, and you could hear the building sort of settling. Everyone started dashing towards the outside, grabbing cell phones and calling loved ones to make sure everyone was safe. A box of parts toppled from a warehouse shelf and crashed to the floor. I guess I should have been more scared than I was, but it didn’t feel like shit.
Apparently, it was a 5.8 outside of the Pomona area. I don’t know what that means either.
But I’ll still say hurricanes and blizzards are fucking creepier than forest fires and earthquakes. Pussified state don’t know what a weather holocaust is. If you don’t hear from me for a couple days, that’s because God has visited retribution upon me Day After Tomorrow Style.
For those of you who have questions of me about Comic-Con or different things I will attempt to answer them here, in this forum, the People’s Court. Sorry, my brain in delightful figgy pudding after all of the rigamarole of the four day surge.
Let me address two things: 1) Re: Joss Whedon. I haven’t actively been avoiding his work. It’s just never been one of those things that I’ve felt the need to leap out at. Especially since so many of my friends (especially the one who works the Comic-Con as a volunteer) LERV his stuff so much. Firefly is on my list of stuff to watch, it just keeps getting pushed back and pushed back. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is something I feel like I’ll want to watch in one massive strain. The weirdest part is that of Whedon’s work, the only things I have actually seen are the musicals.
2) The Watchmen panel. The convention center is huge. It’s about the distance of two football fields, maybe three. Or at least when measured out in wee hobbit legs. Fill that with sweaty people in tight costumes and families who feel the need to pause every fifteen feet and jam up traffic with a deadly combination of stroller and camera (Here She-Ra! Hold baby!). Now add to that the fact that there are seventy billion comic book fans who are also clamoring for the Watchmen, and that the lines typically are already several hundred deep with the wretched hive of villainy and scum, carry the four, and voila! Plus, all they were doing for the most part were showing the trailers. Occasionally and rarely were they actually giving us sneak footage. I heard through the voice of Kevin Smith himself that the just ran the trailer twice. No sneak footage. All the info you have is what I would have had. I actually got more dirt sitting in the EW panel. Because Snyder felt obligated to satiate Smith’s slavering fanboyishness.
I also impart this awesomeness. My beloved Higginbottom, the Lady Clevername, Dutchess of Hippoheino, attended Sunday. She didn’t care about the horror stuff, so she left the hall and wandered about. The Comic-Con tain’t so much her scene. Instead, she went around, asking people if they would give her the free Magic card pack that came in their con swag. She gathered up 20 packets of cards. She’s a diabolical genius. Me? I would have played video games and eaten pretzel dogs. So if that isn’t devotion, I don’t know what is.
Alright, kids, leave me questions in the comments, and I’ll try to answer as best I can, as soon as I can. I do have a day job. Just like all the best superheroes. Up, up, and to the bus!
Did Cartman Just Crap Treasure?
My turn up to bat to fire up the latest in the controversial Top 20 Seasons of the Last 20 Years at Pajiba. I chose South Park, mostly because it belongs there. South Park Changed Television. the end.
No doubt my selection will irk most folks, and cause further moans of “How could you leave off Seinfeld?” and “If Gilmore Girls doesn’t make it, I’m going to hold my breath until I turn gay!” Fact of the matter is, both of those were excellent shows. But they don’t hold a candle in the wind to Cartman’s anal probe in relation to totally modifying the entertainment landscape.
F/X wouldn’t even be a network if it weren’t for South Park swearing its way to the forefront. So hop on over and read my opus, and stay for the firestorm of controversy, since I chose a show that started in 1997, but a season from 2005. I’m the dev-il.
My younger brother is a technophiliac. I’m not saying I’ve seen the dude actually fuck a VCR or anything. I’m just saying he may have. Any time any sort of new gizmo hit the market, Todd must own it. He owns all of the gaming systems, all of the little portable gaming systems, etc. So when the iPhone first came out, he of course needed to own it. I made fun of him mercilessly, with all his unnecessary gadgets and gewgaws and crap. It’s a motherfucking phone! Right?
Yeah, then Todd came out to visit a few months later. We pretty much used the Google Maps function to get around everywhere. He was able to look up information (albeit really f-in slowly, since it worked on that EDGE system.). It was awesome. Brian want. Todd, however, suggested I wait until they do iPhone 3G, because it would be faster, and no doubt fix most of the glitches in the first phone. Plus, he sagely advised that if the new iPhone sucked ass, I could always get a first gen really supacheap. So I was determined that I would purchase one the next go-around. I saved my nickels and scrimped.
But who knew when the hell that would be? I was rocking a two-year old Razr, which was a piece of shit. I could never hear people when they called. It would cut out most of the time. I would miss calls, never get messages, all sorts of nonsense. I hated it. So when I was eligible, in March, for a new phone, I went for a Samsung Blackjack II. It had 3G already, so it was superfast, and I just wanted it for the mapping function (to find locations for film shoots/acting gigs) and to check my email. However, most of the phones cannot check Hotmail accounts for some reason. I tried on the Blackjack II, but couldn’t set it up, so I brought it back to the store the next day and told them I’d wait for the iPhone 3G. I know you can check Hotmail on those. I had done it with my brothers.
Now, when I went to pay my bill in March, it said that I wasn’t due for an upgrade until August of 2009. So I went back to the store. They said, don’t worry, it’s in the notes what happened. Just come in, and we can give you the upgrade. The contract was reversed. Don’t worry.
So I called online and asked if they could adjust it on their records, because I wanted to ensure that I would be eligible for an upgrade. They said, don’t worry, it’s fine, it’s in the records, you’re eligible, you can upgrade anytime you want.
Rumor had it that the iPhone 3G was going to be released in June. So I checked in with the store. They said, don’t worry, you’re eligible for an upgrade. Just get in line with everyone else. I called online. They said, you can get an iPhone when it comes out, you are eligible for an upgrade, you’ll pay the contract fee of $199 for the 8GB, you’re fine. I said, yeah, but it still says online that I’m not eligible. She said, don’t worry. It’s in the notes.
They finally gave the release date. I called online again. Don’t worry. It’s in the notes. I called the store last night, just to make sure, before I decided to go and camp out for a telephone. The guy said, yeah, man, you’re eligible. Don’t worry.
So I thought I’d set my alarm for 4:00 AM, and then just get over there at 5 to stand in line, and I should be fine. But I woke up in the middle of the night, a raging case of insomnia, and I panicked. I didn’t know what the demand would be for these, what with all the other companies putting out touchscreen clones and shit. So in the dark, I fumbled around to find a shirt from the laundry pile, threw it on, and decided I would make a quick pass by the store to see if there was any people waiting. This was at 1:30 AM. I got to the place, and there were already 10 people in line. So I parked my car, pulled out awesome backpack camper chair, and started reading the foils and foibles of young Nick Twisp.
The crowd was mostly guys smoking weed and drinking loudly. They would canvas the line, taking amusement in the fact that white boy wanted to buy the black phone. NoHo is hardly Compton, but around 3:30, a cop pulled up to make sure nobody was bothering us or, and I shit you not she fucking said this, “shooting at us or anything”. 3:30 AM rolled around, and the line was 20 deep. I asked my standin’ companions to watch my spot while I ran over to Yum Yum Donuts to pee. They had no bathroom. So of course, I bought a water and a Red Bull.
The line is steadily growing, so that had I gotten there at my appointed 5 AM, I would have been 40th in line. I still have to go to work by 9 AM, mind you. By the time the employees show up, there are well over 70 people waiting in line.
At 7:30, the girl starts coming around, checking our numbers, making sure we’re eligible according to her little computer phone deal. She gets to me, and says, “Your bill is past due.” I said, “Yeah, it was due yesterday, but I have to pay the $30 data plan fee, so I figured, let’s do it all at once.” She gets a scowl. So I go on my phone and call up the internet and auto-pay it. Payment clears, we’re good. As a lark, I have her check my status again to make sure the payment went through. The computer keeps checking, and checking, and checking. She’s moved down the line giving her spiel and she’s about twenty feet away when she shouts out, “You’re NOT ELIGI–” She apologizes and comes over and whispers. “You’re not eligible. You can’t get a phone today.”
I have just been standing in line, in the dark, getting accosted by hoodlums, for over 6 hours. I have to now go to work, which I fucking hate, without an iPhone. My birthday (which was a clusterfuck of epic proportions that I will blog about later) got all kinds of fucked up. All I wanted was a fucking iPhone 3G. But I don’t need to kill this sweet girl in the face. Not yet.
I calmly explain to her what happened. The employee at this store didn’t properly reverse my contract, and change my eligibility, and I was assured not to worry. She said, “They can’t check the notes today. I’m sorry. ” Because it’s crazy iPhone release day. I explain, calmly, because I’ve been on the other customer service end of this conversation, “But this was YOUR mistake. Your store. This very store we’re here in front of.” Then she ran in to plead my case with the manager while I immediately called customer service.
I couldn’t hear shit on my shitty Razr, but the gist of what the customer service dude says is, “I need someone from the store to verify that the return occured.” I say, “Yes, but you don’t understand, they can’t check their notes today. It’s crazy iPhone release day!” And also, I’m not in the store yet, because it’s not 8 AM out here yet. Customer service guy says he’ll wait on the line with me while I go in. Meanwhile, the store girl comes back and says to me mysteriously, “You’re going to go home happy. You’re not going to getting a phone today. But you’ll be happy.” I was waiting for her to pull out a fucking flute and trill whimsically on it as she winked and wandered off. I thanked CSG and told him that they can’t do what he asks, so I’ll just go in and try my chances at “leaving happy without an iPhone.” He offered to call me back later today.
So the line moves, and I go in to the store. I explain to the manager, Mike, and the manager, Gustavo, what happened. That I’m a special case. They have no idea what I’m talking about. I point at the Store Girl and say, “She says I’ll leave here happy.” He goes, “Oh, you’re the reversal guy.” They scramble, and are trying to deal with the myriad of other bullshittery as iTunes don’t work, and people are getting rejected like it’s speed I Love New York. Mostly ghetto swearing and a lot of cobra necks going on. From DUDES. Higginbottom texts me: How’s it going? I respond. Bad. Really bad.
I get up to the next available person. Robert punches up my number. He’s two customers in, and he’s already losing his patience. Robert’s gonna stab a motherfucker before the day is out. Robert is dealing with Suprisingly Calm Brian who’s mostly exhausted from the awesome reading and the two hours sleep. Robert says, “You’re not eligible for a phone.” I smile and say, “Yeah, no shit.” Robert then says, “Well, your contract was zeroed. You returned the phone on March 23rd.” I say, “It says that on your computer? You can confirm it?” He says yeah.
By this time, Mike has arrived with the Monty Hall deal. We’re not going to be able to get the phone for you today. In 72 hours, we will send you an iPhone 3G 8GB phone. We will give it to you at the contract price. $199. Then we will credit your account $200. I pause, as Robert calls up Customer Service to see if they can make the necessary adjustment with the store confirmation to get me the phone today. But wait a minute, I pause. Mike’s plan involves sending a message to the district manager’s district manager. But according to what Mike just told me, that would mean my phone is free. I would be getting a free iPhone 3G, just three days later.
Customer Service turns out to be a total bust. Meanwhile, Robert’s got his first customer irate because they’re telling him that he couldn’t get an iPhone, and he checked LAST NIGHT IN STORE. I’m like, Join the fucking Club, Mickey. So I give him the phone, while Mike is trying to work out deals with all the clusterfuck this is slowly becoming.
I go up to Mike and tell him, I’ll take your deal. But let me be explicitly clear. You’re promising me an iPhone in 72 hours, for $199, and I’ll be getting a credit for $200, so the phone should be free, completely free correct? He says, yes. He gives me his business card. I insist that he writes it on the back so that I have IN WRITING his guarantee. He tells me to call him either today or tomorrow. I tell him, I’ll call you tomorrow, because you’ll probably have enough to deal with today.
So I left, with the possibility of getting a totally free iPhone 3G on Monday. I have to admit, I did leave happy.
For now.
Fuzzy Navel: Book 5 of the Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Series by JA Konrath
Oh, JA Konrath, I hate you, you fucking motherfucker. And I mean that with all the love in my black brittle heart.
For those of you not in the know (and seriously, I’ve been pimping this shit so hard, I’ve got blisters on my bitchslap hand), Jack Daniels is steadily blazing past all the other snubnosed, hard edged detectives to quickly become the cop I’ll quickly call if someone I love is horribly murdered, and the shock drives me catatonic to the point I’ll be cradling a Sesame Street phone in a padded room. She’s on speed dial between Grover and El Mariachi. The novels take place in Chicago, or as I prefer to think of it, “New York or Boston if constant tornados cleared the streets of garbage and thin folks.” They are a delicious black and tan on a seething hot day blend of side-splitting sarcasm and wit and stomach churning gore and violence. It’s everything a growing kid needs to fill the time between comic book movies this summer.
As I oft waxed whiner about on here, for both literature and cinema, series well past the range of trilogy can get stale and repetetive, like a piece of bubblegum or sex with me. (See: Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter. Serious, Laurell, I love you, but what half-animal, half-soap opera character is your tough but fragile huntress going to fuck this novel. It’s like she’s got a giant Speak and Say, only it’s got wereporn. Anita fucks….a werepig. The Pig says, “I don’t want to be food. Protect me from the werecoyotes that will end up betraying you.”) And what’s particularly intriguing about this series is that Jack and her portly man-at-chubby-arms Herb Benedict, seem to be after bad apples from the same serial killer tree each time. Yet, it never feels gimmicky, and the crime portions are always juicy and disturbing.
The titles are always alcoholic beverages and plot related, though this one was a bit of a groaner. I won’t give it away, only to say I actually Ughhed out loud. I didn’t know how he would possibly top the topical and frightening homemade terrorist plot of Dirty Martini. Turns out all he had to do was take everything that makes his novels amazing and toss them into a pressure cooker. If you haven’t read the other novels, this might get a little spoiler-y, so I first suggest you get a hold of the books and read through them. (Then buy them as gifts for your friends. They’re tiny! They mail easily!)
All Jack wanted was a nice quiet dinner at home with her mother and her potential fiance, Lantham, at the Daniels family homestead. Instead, a crazy psychopath she thought dead forever returns to torture her and all the people she cares about. If this weren’t bad enough, the house is surrounded by three thrill-kill vigilantes who want to take out the cop who can stop them. And the events all pretty much take place in a single evening, bounding in perspective from character, to villian, to other villian, to heroine at lightning pace. There are so many fucking twists and turns and alliances, it’s like watching an episode of Survivor if the goal was actually to murder the other players. Which, come to think of it, would spice up any reality show. American Gladiators for real, bitches.
In the hands of any other author, this easily could have deteriorated into some sort of cheesy-ass Movies for Guys Who Like Movies type horseshit. But because we’ve learned to love all these characters, to see any of them hurt, or murdered, or killed is heartwrenching. Even Harry, the best flat-out perverted prick son-of-a-bitch character in literary history. Konrath ratchets up the tension, playing his typical shell game with lives and deaths. You never know who’s going to die, or why, or from what. And it still manages to be chuckleworthy. You’ll be holding your breath between giggles. It’s like watching kids play with hot potato with a real potato. Someone’s taking a tater to the dome.
The novel comes boiling to a dynamite in a gopherhole finish, making me literally scream with unabated rage. I swore like a sailor falling on a pack of Girl Scouts at the finale, because Konrath committed the unforgivable cliffhanger ending. It’s worse than Who Shot Mr. Burns? Imagine instead, if Mr. Burns coldly walked into the Simpson homestead and we saw a gunshot go off in a window. Isn’t that Bart’s room? What if Lisa were in there? Someone doesn’t survive this novel. And we won’t find out who until Cherry Bomb hits shelves in the summer of 2009. And it wouldn’t burn so bad if the writing wasn’t so sharp.
If you’re looking for a badass breakroom book or a killer beach read, accept no substitutes. Konrath will whet your jones in a hurry, in books that you can breeze through. The dialogue is sharp, the characters are hilarious, and the murders are sticky-sweet. In fact, you can download the first novel, Whiskey Sour, for free from his website! (www.jakonrath.com).
I can’t wait for the sixth book to hit shelves. So hurry up, Konrath. You unbelieveable bastard.
Catch Me Trippin On Earth When I’m High On Sunshine
This is the first time I was genuinely a-scaired’ of doing a review for Pajiba. I knew how much many of the supreme overlords (if we’re the greek Pantheon, I’m Hephesteus, Dionysus in the ol’ days) admired this film. And I don’t like weed comedies. I don’t think Pineapple Express looks all that great. So I was worried that I wouldn’t like it, since I’d already pissed of Zeus Rowles with my feelings about Rocket Science.
Luckily, I did like it. So the review is up. I was also pretty psyched I got to review it, because it’s a major indie film, and I like when I get the majors.
But in looking over my last few reviews, I need to find something I hate. I write for a scathy and bitchy website, and it’s been nothing but flowers and fucking roses since Postal. Stupid quality summer movie releases. Actually, I don’t go into movies looking for something to hate. I really want things to be awesome. But I find that I hate more movies as I go along through life. I tend to dislike everything. So for me to find a couple I thought were pretty good, wow.
God, again, another movie I really wanted to like more than I ended up. I thought it would be a cute little indie-coming-of-age film, which is pretty much my fucking bread and apple butter. I love me some quirky indie.
It a film about a young boy with a stutter who is recruited by an overachieving girl to be partners on their New Jersey debate team so she can win States, and best debater. The stuttering boy falls in love with the girl, and so he tries to be the best he can be at the debates. He’s amazing at developing arguments, but he has such a debilitating stutter he can’t overcome.
What I loved about this movie is that it does not follow an easy or obvious path. He doesn’t learn to overcome his stutter. He doesn’t become the master debator and win the championship. He doesn’t get the girl. He doesn’t win in an obvious way. The characters are so strange and bizarre and exist in this insane microcosm outside of Trenton, New Jersey. It’s not a happy film, but it makes you happy.
The problem I have is that it seems so intent of careening off the tracks into this hinterland to fly in the face of how a mainstream comedy would have handled this, that it doesn’t really go anywhere. It sort of starts in the middle of nowhere, goes nowhere, and ends nowhere. Sure, there’s plenty of character development and it’s wonderfully nice to see a movie that isn’t afraid to take risks. But the problem is that there isn’t much to the movie, and so by the time it sort of drifts to a stop, you’re sort of shrugging and walking away from the movie none the richer.
I had a lot more hope for this. It seemed like a great idea. A fake documentary about a fake documentary about a documentary. It really was convinced that it was a more clever movie than it was.
It was imagineered by Zak Penn, screenwriter of many, many big budget comic book mistakes. Zak Penn looks like Casey Siemazkso trying out for the Lex Luthor role in Superman Returns. He’s essentially starring as himself as he convinces Werner Herzog to make a documentary about lies and what people will believe about the Loch Ness Monster.
Every second the film starts to veer in what might be clever or thought provoking territory, it immediately takes a turn towards to absurd and cheesy. And all of these moments involve Zak Penn. I simultaneous admire the shit out him for making this movie, and hate the fuck out of him for ruining it with his own arrogance.
The premise is pretty amusing. Zak Penn convinces Werner Herzog to make a documentary about the Loch Ness Monster. Herzog is pretty keen on doing it in his usually insane way, proving that people are lunatics. Penn wants to secretly fake the documentary, using a rubber motorized monster, and “expert testimony”. But then, the crew may or may not get savaged by the “real” Loch Ness Monster. It’s played up like the Blair Witch, what might be true, what might not. The problem is, it’s too uneven. It tries to be a mockumentary, and it tries to be a horror movie, and it misses on both ends.
The most amusing part of the movie is, of course, Werner Herzog. He’s hilarious to watch, as he lampoons himself. But the thing is, Herzog never struck me as someone who takes themselves all that seriously, so it feels really naturalistic. It’s enjoyable to watch him. Just not Zak Penn hamming his way all over the moors.
I do like me some beer. I enjoy playing beer related games. Card games, beirut/beer pong, other sorts of alcohol involved activites. So I should like Beerfest, right?
Wrong. Incredible chugged amounts of wrong. I can’t tell what’s more uncomfortable — grown men well into their 30s attempting to make something designed for frat guys to slam PBR tallboys to or the fact that you can tell that Broken Lizard could potentially be funnier than this.
Jurgen Prochnow and Cloris Leachman are both in this, shilling so hard I just want to start a telethon or something to get a cinderblock wall with barbed wire on top built around them to keep the communism in and the comedians out.
I’d explain the plot, but seriously, what plot? It’s essentially 90 minutes of five idiots drinking lots of beer for no good reason. For no reason. It’s like the movie was designed to become a drinking game that would put stupider froshs in alcohol based comas. It’s an embarassment in every regard, and I’ve got better things to do with my life than talk about it.
You need me, I’m going to be over here with a case of Miller Lite, swigging every time Bruce Campbell gets hit in the face during Army of Darkness.
