Silver and Gold

Tomorrow I will be graced with the chance to see the original Batman movie (Keaton, not West. Yeeguda.) and I don't believe I've been this excited about a movie... let alone anything else... in quite some time.

This is largely due to the fact that, were you to ask half my friends what my favorite movie is, they would tell you it is undoubtedly that same film, the picture of pictures, "Batman."

Of course, were you to ask the other half, they would tell you it was Kubrick's "The Shining."

Weird thing; they'd all be right.

From the start, I've never much been one for picking favorites very convincingly or even accurately. I've experienced too much I enjoy, I think, or the things that I do enjoy I enjoy so much that they're all pretty much on the same level, that it's difficult for me to choose one that I like above all others. And this doesn't just go for films. I'm talking food, music, places, people, I really can't decide. Actresses is my least favorite one. I have trouble thinking of an actress I like in the first place, let alone one that's my favorite.

For the most part, when faced with these questions, they do little more than put the seed of dissention in my head, and make me want to have a favorite of whatever category has been chosen. I simply won't answer whoever asked me, but by the next day I will have thought about it enough and become so sickened with my own indecision I'll arbitrarily pick one thing to like above all others. There's precious little that goes into making these choices, but I think there's one large factor that applies to these picks, and I think that factor applies to a lot of people when we talk about our favorites.

When I'm speaking to someone about what my favorite film is (which is a question I'm asked repeatedly, being a film student) my answer depends greatly on the person I'm talking to. If I think the person well-versed in film and honestly interested in my ideas and thoughts concerning it, of which I have a great deal, I'll tell them "The Shining" is my favorite. However, if I think the person is making conversation or just wants to know more about me, I'll say it's the original "Batman." Both of these are right answers, but they cater to different audiences and, most importantly, different intents.

"The Shining," I think, is one of the best made films ever to have been shown to mortal man. It's art at its highest form, and it elevates the viewer to something more than what he was before watching it. If I really wish to discuss (read: debate) this with someone, or I think they really want to do so with me, that's the film I'm going with. However, "Batman" is the much more frequent answer, because of this. Most people don't ask your favorite film because they want to talk about movies. Most people don't ask about any favorite thing to talk about that kind of thing. They ask their favorite thing, and most people choose their favorite thing, as a reflection of who they are.

I love "Batman." I think it's a great movie. But more importantly, of all the films I can think of off the top of my head, when I'm talking to someone about what kind of movies I like, I picture myself or at least want to be pictured as the sort of person who would have "Batman" as their favorite movie. It's how I'd like to be viewed. I didn't necessarily think this as I was deciding it was my favorite, but later I realized that people really do choose their favorite whatevers as tools to building a general idea of the person they are.

For the most part, I think this is true for a lot of people. In fact, for the most part, I'm pretty sure that people's favorite whatevers are the same things that are going to paint a good picture of them. Most people have maybe one or two broad subjects in their lives that they really look into and enjoy, and perhaps they have a favorite thing of those, but for the most part everything else they could take or leave. It's the people who like everything, or bits of everything, that need to find favorites among the myriad of things they already like, and favorites of favorites within those favorites that really have it tough when picking their most liked items.

For the most part, people are pretty one-dimensional. It's the multi-faceted ones that have a hard time.

I also have a theory that there are people who only like dogs, there are people who like both cats and dogs, but there aren't any people who honestly only like cats. When I say "people," here, of course, that hinges on the person not being evil... or cronish. Evil and cronish beings aren't people. They're assholes.

Anyway, that's a whole other thing.

I'm taking the missus, and I'm seriously considering dressing in my Joker costume.

While Brushing My Teeth

There are worlds. There are worlds within worlds. And, just as there are worlds within worlds, there are worlds without worlds.

These are the unworlds. Thought worlds. Oceans of concept. Worlds not visible or even tangible by our sensibilities, but infinitely more important than these mundane dimensions we inhabit or hope to deduce. We merely exist in this plane, while other unseen existences shape the world and worlds around us.

These unworlds. These guideline dimensions that exist only as markers by which all other existence must measure itself. Known only from the shape and movement of the palpable, maleable dimensions governed by a plane of being unseeable to them. These dimensions of rule. These lattices of law. These principle supports.

There are those who can exist in these unworlds. Those who can live within them.

There are those who can destroy them, fraying the fabric of space and time as they see fit. There are those who can unravel the universe just as surely as we can destroy our own existence.

There are those who would love to.

Oral hygeine really brings it out of me.

Take

The other day, at my place of employ, a woman took part in what is swiftly becoming the new American Pasttime right in front of my eyes.

No, not that.

This new broadly accepted and even oft boasted phenomenon is the practice of complaining your ass off until you get something, usually that something being what you want plus. Plus what? Plus whatever it is that whoever's life you're making miserable is willing to give you to make you go away and never darken their ticket booth again.

Mayhap I should explain.

We have a pretty strict schedule at my place of business, as we have a limited amount of space and large groups of people coming through said area. By keeping to the schedule, we're able to herd these mind-cattle along at a good pace and keep everything running smoothly and, at the same time, keep everybody happy. Now, to make sure the groups understand their schedule so they can plan accordingly, they are mailed pre-visit packages of information weeks before they come, detailing their day, the time frame, the specifics, even the information they'll cover. We take care of any contigency in the packet, so that their day will go smoother when they actually arrive.

This does not sway some people from their "I DO WHATEVER I WANT" mentality.

They don't read the packet we sent them (it ain't a small packet, people. Anything in the mail you could hurt someone with by throwing it across the room is probably important) or they choose not to read the specific part of the packet that pertains to the ONE THING they coincidentally don't want to acknowledge... so on.

One such group came through, in this instance arriving a good hour before their start time. There are other groups in the Center at this point, and to let them in would not only throw off the schedule, affecting every other group and demonstrator on the floor, but populating the floor with way too many kids for anyone to be able to enjoy their time. We suggest that, it being such a nice day, they go over to the park for a bit and get some sun. Vehemently this sugestion is struck from the air.

Basically, the woman screamed and yelled until we compromised, letting the kids wait in an on-site restaurant until we could move them into the orientation area, show them a video in the interim, and then finally get them out on the floor fifteen minutes early.

So... after that epic... here's my problem...

When did we lose our balls, people? When did the American business acumen become one of bowing and scraping? Yes, be courteous. Yes, be respectful. But don't kowtow to these bullies who do nothing but perpetuate the idea of complaining-for-profit. If you whine, you get something. Period. That is not how things should be. If the business has legitimately done something incorrect, then yes, of course, you should be compensated. But just walking into a place and accusing and complaining until you get a free dessert is low. LOW.

We cared that the kids got there early, and didn't want them just sitting around for an hour waiting for the fun to start. The woman in charge of them simply didn't want to have to watch the kids to any great effort on her part, thinking taking them to the Center would have easily put them out of her hands. She whined and we caved. This is not how things should be.

I remember back when I was manager for this small, independent movie theatre, sometimes there'd be no one else working but me. I'd be selling tickets, then selling concessions, then starting the film, then cleaning up after the swine that watch movies (and yes, we are all pigs, as I learned working there). After all that work, running the place by myself, I considered it as much mine as it was the owners. Lord knows I was spending more time there. People would come in with attitude, making themselves known a mile away, and rather than just giving in and handing over whatever they wanted, I stood my ground. If they acted politely, they could have the same complaint but be given more just for their good handling of the situation.

Teach these people a lesson, you droves of entrepeneurs! Let them know you won't be bullied anymore.Yes, you might make slightly less money at first, but soon the face of the business world will shift, and people will realize they aren't getting anymore freebies from their basic preset of being assholes.

Perpetuating the idea that assholishness=free shit only darkens the image and nature of our society as a whole. The overall average of people acting like spoiled shits and demanding morons will only increase and only propagate the negativity we see so prevalently these days until we decide not to give ground to them anymore. Stand up for yourselves for once, people! Put money aside for a second and look to your dignity. When you hand them that free pass, that free candy bar, that sooner-starting-time, you are giving them a peice of your dignity.

They're being assholes, and you're losing face. We are all damaged in the face of hate, aggression, and everyday, socially-accepted nastiness. We all grow bleaker and darker because of it.

Be a better person. Think of others. Stand up for yourself, and respect those around you. It's its own reason.

Seriously. Watch Ghostbusters II.

Direction

So today at work I got the latest of many comments which, while varying in semantics, all boil down to the sentiment that I should be in the teaching profession. I often wonder about pursuing education as a possible career path, though I am loathe to use the expression. I love the art of film, I love the meaning and process of film, I love the physical act of filmmaking. Film is such a deep, red passion for me that I feel as if I would be betraying something, probably not the least a floating-leaf-on-a-river's-surface tendency, were I do abandon it for a perhaps more suitable, definitely less enjoyable, but undeniably more plausible future. It is a canny genital, this problem is.

Mary Jane, one of the heads of education at the ol' Center, recently rescued a clutch of kittens out of a junkyard near her home, and I adopted one of them for me ma, knowing her utter enfatuation with the little loaves of fur (ap. Lore). MJ was calling it Direction, due to four tortoiseshell spots on its head (it is otherwise wholly white save the tail and a spot on its back), which I suppose could be construed as the point of a compass, but I think that speaks more to the namer than to the namee. It could just as easily be the "4" side of a die. You could call the thing Pip.

She hasn't named it yet. She's leaning toward Chapeau, ha HA ha, though she won't be able to make a final call on the subject until Gene comes over and talks to it. Apparently, cats tell the guy what their names are. Two of his cats are named Battleship Gray and Smudge. I leave this statement hanging, as it were, too kind to swat it out of the air as violently as I could.

I've been offered a better paying job, possibly, after the holidays. Closer to home, too, which will be nice considering I'll be driving more once I'm back in school. This is all assuming I take the job. Yes, considerably more money; yes, nicer position; yes, closer to home; but the real things that are affecting my decision here have nothing to do with such 21st century claptrap. An employee of the place I work, a rather high-up employee, recommended me, went to bat for me, and I've been doing a lot of good work there. I'd like to think I've represented the guy well and justified his recommendation, but to leave now might be considered disrespectful, even ungrateful. On the other hand, I have been doing a lot of good work there, and I don't always feel so fantastically recognized for it. Perhaps I deserve a bump up in my field. Perhaps it's time I got my due. WHEN'S GON' BE MY TIME???

At any rate, there's much to think on, if nothing else. Let the pondering begin.

Personally, I'm leaning toward Stand, because that what it does.

Aural

When did we stop listening to The Darkness, people? It seems like only this morning I was getting into my car and putting Permission to Land in my portable CD player, which was plugged into a cassette adapter which was in turn inserted into my car's tape deck. And now I have to settle for singing "Love on the Rocks with No Ice," to myself in a sadly unsatisfactory falsetto compared to Justin Hawkins'. Where did we go wrong? Where did our glam revolution go? When did we forget?

ODB died. That's a hell of a thing.

My buddy Summer, one of the most talented damn people in the whole damn world, played a coffee shop gig the other night, and I guess a lot of our mutual friends managed to make it out there. Personally, I'm not all that into the whole "scene" thing, standing venues have never held much appeal for me (I was born 54, it seems) so I didn't end up going. Chilled with the missus. I think Summer understands. We're both pretty elastic when it comes to stuff like this.

Summer is a big chunk of our mutual musical malaise we call "I Killed A Bear." IKAB has played no shows, barely has any reputable practice record under its belt, and yet I am convinced that it is totally awesome. My buddy Jake plays the Irish whistle, which is great in its singularity, and is learning to play his dad's left-handed base which, while lacking in cerdibility, is overflowing in kitsch, for lack of a better word (that isn't "awesome"). Dave's on drums. Summer and I sing and play rhythm and lead, respectively. It's a combolation of many, many talents, and a lot of fun playing with so many talented people. I just enjoy the dynamic of it.

I want to start another band, and will as soon as the opportunity presents itself, only for the opportunity to name it. Jacob turned me on to one of the best band names I've ever heard, and should I ever form that combination, I will definitely dub it just that. Until then, it will have to stew in my little mind, gaining steam pressure and algae, synchronously.

I've been catching "Battle for Ozzfest" on MTV lately... and I must say that I relate to none of these kids. They all have this outward mentality of 'metalmetalmetalmetal,' and I have trouble believing there's nothing else to these people. It just feels front-ish, as so much of the music scene does to me outside of the actual art aspect of it. Too often I find the music industry moves out of art and into sociology. I often find the intent behind the music I hear directly affects my opinion of it, or perhaps more accurately the intent I perceive, and in this age of cross-overs and guest-spots and genre... it's difficult for popular artists to seem as if they're doing anything worthwhile to me.

That being said, I want Ahmad off the damn show. STOP WHINING. ACT PROPERLY.

I went to my Uncle's for the weekend about a week ago, to see my kid cousins and spend some time with ol' Unkie Chris, probably one of my more favorite relatives, and I have this to say: If you'd like to hear nothing but Morrissey for three days, go and see my Uncle. Mind you, I'm not complaining, I could listen to Morrissey for three days. In fact, I think if you're the kind of person who likes Morrissey, it goes hand in hand that you are also the kind of person who could listen to him for three days. Anyway, what struck me was that, during my visit, a package arrived at the house containing The String Quartet's covers of Morrissey songs. So not only was I hearing Morrissey all the time (awesome) I was now hearing Morrissey as dinner music in a completely appropriate manner for dining accompaniment (super-awesome)! Blew my mind.

I've decided to buy the kids a starter guitar kit. Probably for my Uncle too. They have a guitar, but the thing weeps at me whenever I see it and begs me to aid it off this nickel coil, as the pun may be. I'm not sure if it's what the kids would like were they to know their cousin was going to drop a hundred bucks on them... but that's what they're getting. Deal.

Also, I'm adopting a cat. So yeah. Kitten time. Further bulletins as events warrant.

R.I.P O.D.B. B.B.J. Dirt McG.

Livid

I just heard back from Caelfind, who responded to my last e-mail relatively fast compared to the other Riversides of time between our points of correspondence. I can only assume its due to her mood. She is pee-ossed. To a degree.

I suppose I can't blame her. It is her wedding and all. Still, she paid two hundred bucks for labor and product that, ultimately, would have cost fifteen hundred to three thousand dollars from a professional videographer. And this coming from me who told her to start out with, nine months ago, that I'm not a videographer by trade.

Anyway, she's pissed, but I'm holding firm and saying that I won't be able to edit the video any further. Time to put that load behind me, I've dragged it for too long. Thing is, I do feel pretty awful that she's unhappy with it. It is her wedding day, and she deserves to have a nice rememberance of it. Truth be told, I had that in mind the entire time I was editing it, and I'm more surprised none of that intention came through.

At this point, I can only hope that eventually this whole problem boils away and we're friends again. At the worst, she'll hold this against me for the rest of our natural lives, but if that were to become the case, I think I'd feel more justified in my position and, probably, it wouldn't really bother me that much after a fashion. She got a lot for a little, and though I consider her and her husband friends, I really only see them at war and perhaps a few of the more inclusive societal functions. It shouldn't affect my paradigm to any great extent, as calculating and Anthony-esque as that sounds.

Speaking of war, there's no practice today. I was looking forward to it. How to occupy my time until Adult Swim comes on.... hmmm....

Oh... I have a friend named Anthony who is very calculative, and I'm in a group called the SCA that straps armor to themselves and hits each other with large sticks, which sometime occurs at large gatherings we call "wars." There... that should clear all that up.

The State of Things

On my mind: Halo 2 being the un-spectacular, un-dissapointment that it is. "Halo 2" party could have slipped into being "Halo" party with only an omitted "- 2" and I wouldn't have noticed save for the springy gun (boo) and "hide the sausage" mode (yay). This is not to say the party wasn't fun. Party=awesome. Game=awesome. Any more awesome than Halo 1? Meh.

In my car: An Eleanor of Aquitane timepeice, given to me by my loving other, which tells the time by the sun (like a portable sundial, but not the Filntstone wristwatch style) which is awesome, and a chunk of the outside of my car.

ON my car: A dent on the right side from where I scraped against a large, white van that decided it wanted to invent a lane while I was trying to make a right turn. SIGNALING. DAMMIT. Two months ago, my new car gets totaled by a drunk driver, with my girlfriend in the car (which, I don't feel less of a man by saying, scared the hell out of me), and now, two months later, I get in another accident (victim) and AGAIN she's in the car. She commented she was wearing the same underwear she wore at the time of the other accident. I am hesistant to hold that fact as the root cause.

Incidentally, all above references to "my car" could just as easily read "my grandmother's car," as I'm driving her rocket BMW since all vehicles belonging to me have exploded.

In the hot water I got to refill my tea at Denny's last night: A single, floating chunk of sausage.

On my plate: "Underground," a documentary I've been meaning to get to editing for some time now, sitting in my DV tapes, collecting magnetic impurities. "Fossil Dig Video," a practical instructional video I'm making for work (a children's science museum in Santa Ana), starring a puppet named Bovo made of two rubber ball eyes, an orange frock of muppet-mohawk, and a deer skull. The kids seem to love it. And, waiting in the darkner corners of my obligations, is this video I need to compile for my grandparents. Kind of an anniversary/this-is-your-life thing. My family loves to throw these projects at me, not knowing how much effort goes into making these things.

In my Inbox: An e-mail from my friend Caelfind (pronounced Key-lin. I know... Gaelic) telling me some changes she wants made to her wedding video I shot and edited for her. I shot the video which took about three days of shooting work in total, I edited the video in whatever free time I had, which took about six months of trying to get it done, dealing with technical problems, and finally getting it off my computer, all for only two hundred dollars, which barely covered my expenses of fixing my car after it broke down having to drive up to Crestline to film the thing in the first place. Yay.

I've returned her e-mail, explaining I have too much going on right now to continue editing the film, and that anyone else could edit it at this point just as easily as I could, which is true. Perhaps I feel a little underappreciated, perhaps my vision wasn't meant to be used in a "family video" context, but in the end I'm done working on this thing. Six months I saw nothing but an Italian Renaissance period wedding, and I'm over it. My dad asked me if they were to pay me more money, would I keep working on it. My answer; "It'd have to be a LOT of money."

That's not a joke. That's just true.

In theaters: "Saw" was another of the myriad "spooky as hell" films that was released recently. Rolling Stone reviewed it as being "gross as hell." To the fine people at Rolling Stone, I say, "Grow some goddamn balls and stop living in Victorian England. Have these people seen "Se7en" (or however the hell you spell it), "Silence of the Lambs," even "Jason Goes to Hell"? Come on, guys! This is the same thing as the public's general capricious dissatisfaction during the Clinton administration. Don't blow your wad on "Saw"! People spent Clinton's entire time in office complaining about what a bad president he was, the the country was going down faster than a Mexican at a Morrissey concert (write me letters, motherfuckers!), and that we'd never recover.

A brief history of Herr Clinton: Better international relations under his leadership than we'd had in the previous fifty years, the first time we'd had a balanced budget in the previous forty years, and a budget surplus that guaranteed a cushion of security for our national financial future.

Now, we have a president starting wars at the drop of a hat and with no nod from Congress, insulting madmen dictators with nuclear capabilities on nationwide television, putting us in the biggest deficit (trillions of dollars) we've seen since the first Depression (which still doesn't come near it), and literally restricting our rights as Americans, which is all that the concept of American really is to begin with. And now people are saying, "I don't like this president." Yeah? Well that might have meant something had you not been whining about Clinton for the first eight years, huh? I'm as against Bush as anyone else, I just don't see any credibility in bashing him when so much time was wasted bashing Clinton. Choose your battles, that's the point here.

"Saw" (yes, we're talking about "Saw," remember?) is shocking at times, definintely a taught thriller, but gross as hell it isn't. It isn't even gross as "Se7en."

Now the movie itself is a neat concept. The story is good, the cinematography is excellent, especially for its genre (cringe), and the writing isn't bad MOST of the time. What really flies this film directly into the battleship of its choice is Cary Elwes.

Now, I love this man. Apart from his role as Welsey in "The Princess Bride" (pause for cheers to subside), he's become known as the "self-assured-sensible-choice" when it comes to love interests, be it either the pitied, puppy-like Elwes in "Bram Stoker's Dracula" or the haughty, cocksure Elwes in "The Jungle Book" or "Liar Liar." People like myself may have even admired his work in lesser known films such as "The Pentagon Wars" or "Shadow of the Vampire," but the point is that the guy has his chops, and he's a great actor.

Why then, o why has he turned in this performance? As the movie builds momentum, he maintain his British situational calm, but as things get more desperate for him, he reverts into this mewling, pathetic voice that almost sounds as if he's attempting to spoof Ben Stiller's title character in "Zoolander." Sure, the writing doesn't help, but it isn't always bad, and even during the good parts Cary's struggling, so that's no excuse. It's the sign of a good actor to make bad dialogue sound good. Watch "The Musketeer." There's not one damn line in that film that's worth more than the paper it's printed on, and even then only if it's recycled. From bathroom tissue. From Afghanistan.

But you watch Tim Roth's performance in that movie. His sneering, cycloptic antagonist was fueled by nothing more than Roth and bad, bad writing, and the boy made the character sing. Hell, you wanted him to win.

Now, citing precedent, I know Elwes to be a good actor. I'm not ready to believe just yet that he's become blunted with age, nor am I prepared to hand over all the blame to really, really awful writing, as this is not the case in "Saw." I am forced to blame the director. From what I understand, the boy wrote the story of "Saw," someone else wrote the screenplay, and then he directed it. After seeing Cary's performance, I am inclined to suggest you allow someone ELSE to direct, Mr. Wan, while you attempt to corral the writers turning your awesome story (for it is an awesome story) into a poorly-written film. Maybe just get an acting advisor to be there for Mr. Elwes, mmm? Mr. Wan? Nothing to say for yourself?

Apart from the acting, and bits of the writing, "Saw" was a truly fascinating movie. It was like watching people try to work through a real-life, macabre game of Myst. Little clues, little hints, breakthroughs that dead end exactly at the point you were trying to get around. It's a lot of fun. The ending is fantastic, especially once you realize all the little hints you'd gotten throughout the movie that you were too preoccupied to notice, and the film has some truly terrifying moments in it (Pighead in the closet! PIGHEAD IN THE CLOSET!), but ultimately the poor writing and Mr. Elwes' performance brings it below the passing line. The commercials for it are bothering me now, too, just for that movie-voice at the end saying, "See 'Saw.'" See-saw. Come on, people, did that make it past marketing without anyone saying, "You know, that's going to make anyone who ever came within a hundred yards of a kindergarten playground laugh at our intentionally-frightening movie through their nose."

But that's beside the point.

Any way you look at it, be it upways, downways, sideways, or Elwes, "Saw" was so-so, and should be seen, but see "Saw" for the shooting, not solely for stagecraft.

Off my computer: Now.

I like alliteration.

Evisceration

The Grudge

One of my main motivations for finally starting something like this, where I can go off on my own little individual tyraids as I see fit, was to have the opportunity to offer my angle (thinking it singular, if nothing else) on many of the films that come out. Being a film student/lover/buff/afficionado/worshipper, living in the time that I, as the rest of you, do, it affords me the opportunity to discuss some very important, I think, developments in the world of film art as a whole.

The Grudge was not one of those developments.

After seeing The Grudge, I felt almost obliged to start writing openly, not hidden away within myself, that I could at least attempt to illuminate someone, something other than myself as to why, o why, this was as bad as it was. For, without the proper attention and guidance, someone might unknowingly think they had just watched a good movie.

The Grudge's validity can be summed up in one phrase: If a film doesn't do what it sets out to do, it has failed. However, if a film does what it set out to do, that doesn't mean it necesarily succeeded.

Ol' Grudgie, as I have come to call the film and the main character (the one who doesn't slay vampires), is a remake of a Japanese horror film by the same director. That is to say, a Japanese director made a movie in Japan, then decided to make it again in America. But in Japan. What?

Fine. Let's not think too hard about that. In this, it does not fail. Far from it. Film has been said to never be finished, merely abandoned, and perhaps the purest manifestation of that theory is to completely redo a project, even if it is in the much more profitable international market with the hot young starlett at the helm.

Meh...

But no, we will not even hold this against the film. Yes, the casting seems to be a bit of a phone in. Let's throw Sarah Michelle Gellar in the mix because Jennifer Love Hewitt's cred has already been blown after "I Know What They Did That Time," and that's nothing to hold against either of them. Maybe next sequel you could snag Jennifer Jason Leigh or Tiffany-Amber Theissen or Tommy Lee Jones or any of the other tri-named tits floating around in the Hollywood ether. TOMMY'S STILL GOT SOME GOOD YEARS IN HIM. THROW THAT KID IN A HALTER TOP AND HAVE HIM RUN FROM A ZOMBIE, DAMN YOU!

Yeah, Tiffany-Amber Theissen. I said it.

Not that any of this is even that detrimental to the film. The glaring, gaping hole in the film's validity rests solely on its startling, undeniable, and relentless similarity to a little film you may have heard of called...

"The Pokemon Movie."

No. "The Grudge" is just "The Ring" redux. Seriously.

Startling, because you're amazed at either the stupidity or the lackadaisical japanese-scary-movie-utilitarianism the director seems to be riddled with; Undeniable, because you can't look at that spooky chick, who was drowned and now has all that stringy black hair in front of her face as she crawls erratically around on all fours (... jesus... just typing it...), without it envoking "The Ring." And there's something to be said about envocation in film, but not when it's blatant plagiarizing; and Relentless, because the film never stops reminding you that it is, in fact, ripping off "The Ring."

I saw this movie with my brother and a bunch of our friends. Usually, I'm not a big talker during movies, or at least I keep the people around me from talking so they don't miss out on my hilarious commentary. Throughout the entire length of "The Grudge," I could not stop myself from nudging my brother over and over again and muttering, "That's the girl from Ring... that's the mirror from Ring... that shot's from Ringu, which was the original Ring... this film was shot on the same immulsion as Ring..." etc.

I mean, it's one thing to do an American remake of a Japanese horror movie, especially if it's your own, but why would you want to do exactly what the other American remake of the Japanese horror movie did? Why would you not be confident enough in your own work to hope your own style, your own ideas, your own cinematography would connect with us idiot Americans? Why would you not get NEW PROPS?!

I guess I should be thankful that, during the security-camera-room-scene, she didn't actually come through the screen and give other-white-chick the Ring curse of the green-ass-face... but I'm just not. I could spend a few pages listing, LISTING the straight rip-offs that "Grudge" hopes to abscond away from "Ring" with... but I don't have the strength. Besides, that's not the important issue here. The issue here is this:

That was a fucking scary movie.

I'm not going to sit here and say I wasn't scared. I'm not going to say I didn't give a little yell every now and then, flinch every few seconds or so. I'm not going to say that, once I got home and my brother had gone to spend the night at his friend's, not wanting to be alone after the movie, and finding myself alone in a big house, I didn't just stand in the living room for a while, resisting the urge to look to either side. Didn't go and sit on my bed and read for a while, terrified to look up and see anything at all give the slightest inkling of movmement down the long, dark hall outside my door. Didn't tuck my blankets estra-special hard underneath my feet and legs to ensure nothing would... say... crawl up from the foot of the bed and perch horrifically on my chest while I looked to see what it was.

I'm not going to say that.

But the fact is this. People will walk away from these theaters, they'll leave these houses of art and cinema, saying, "Man, The Grudge was good. I was so scared." They are wrong.

"The Grudge," indeed, was a frightening film. A few parts in particular stick out for me, and haunt me to this day. I have trouble going into dark closets at work alone, lest I never be heard from again, after reaching out in the darkness for the lightswitch and finding only the slightly damp and tattered rags of a nightgown worn by a very angry and very ugly avenging spirit. Frightening, terrifying film. Good film? No. Sorry. No dice.

Now, "The Ring" was unforgiveable. The only times I was ever frightened in that movie were when I was startled by the violin trill and the sudden change of image on the screen, which could be counted on to occur at the crest of every swell on the soundtrack and every scene change, each of which could be predictably, and reliably, counted down to. "The Grudge," on the other hand, does have some honestly scary moments, but for the most part it's the same game. DuuuuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHH BAM!!!!

Weak.

Perhaps the best thing I can say about "The Grudge" is that it succeeds in making you afraid of something that, should you even suspend your disbelief long enough to accept the rules of the universe they're presenting, could not logically affect you. In "The Ring," you have to see the video that the dead girl made (having gotten her AA in digital editing and producing, evidently (EVERY... STUDENT FILM... EVER.)) in order to be targeted and supernaturally "whacked." You also have to be home to recieve her phone call, otherwise you don't know when your window is, you miss the appointment, you have to reschedule your green-ass-face-ing... it's a pain. The audience technically saw the video, but they saw film OF the video... and who knows if that counts? I'll tell you who knows. Everyone who's still alive seven days after they see the movie. After that, you've won. Statute of limitations. At least Ring leaves you the option of being scared for a week. Living Dead Girl from "The Grudge" can't get you, won't get you, unless you go in her house. Very, very specific stuff. I know I've never been in her damn house. In fact, I've been in very few houses that aren't intimately familiar to me lately, if any at all. And I know for a fact there are people who live in those houses routinely. Yet still, "The Grudge" managed to scare me more than "The Ring." Maybe shady real estate scares me more than telemarketers.

In any case, even this glimmer of hope in the dark, clouded, clogged-up sink of death that is "The Grudge" is not enough to save it. Yes, it's scary. Yes, if you're just out to see a scary movie, it'll suffice. But good movie it isn't. And good movie you should not purport it to be. Proclaim proudly, my picture-show praisers, "Yes, it was scary, but it wasn't that good!"

Ah. I feel cleansed. Go forth, and spread our message of "The Grudge"'s mediocrity. Remember, in art, as it is in life, there is no partial credit.


Yeah. Tiffany-Amber Theissen. From "Saved by the Bell." So what?

Sounding

And here we are, off and running. Now that I know this is working and, therefore, that my voice will be heard by the myriad creatures catapulting through cyberspace with nothing better to do than look at MY WRITINGS, I suppose a brief missive as to my motives is... m... m...

Called-for.

Basically, I plan on using this space as breathing room for the quandaries and musings I experience in the cluttered and disorganized storage-space of my mind, both to express and to share but, perhaps more importantly, to impose some semblance of order. Perhaps my thoughts, laid out in such a linear manner, will provide some hint, some broad stroke of a greater importance, some intuitive truth that, festering in my brain, would have otherwise never shown itself.

And there you have it. I'll be writing on books, culture, daily life, pornography, relationships, goings-on-internet-wise, pornography, (in a strained, painful voice) politics, religion, pornography, and, the subject of all subjects, the one true faith, the Great American Art Form and the conflagration, combination, and indeed the surpasser of all other art, Film.

Stay tuned. Perhaps there will be porn.

(there will be porn.)

Erst

So...

I blog now. Evidently.

Won't my parents be proud.