LA

I thought the summer was over, and it was 93 today, and looks to be just as hot tomorrow. Crazy world.

Not much of a post, I guess. Though we finished the first draft and submitted it to the WGA on Monday, I've been working almost nonstop since. Which is great, but I thought this was going to be a down week. Though that may come to pass as work has hit a bit of a slowdown, and I may be pulling nine hour days more than twelve. At least for a week or so. This weekend I should be watching Inside Deep Throat, more Star Trek Original Series, and Independance Day (for research, actually).

Did Walter Brennen ever get groupie ass?

The world wants to know.

I think I figured out why this pisses me off

Because with the constant US vs. Them of fandom and slavish devotions to such stuff, geek culture seems to have moved in parallel orbit to Pop singer culture. Sith, Serenity, etc. seem so Britney Spears, N'Synchish to me. Inorganic.

The Math on Serenity

On my test screening card I wrote of Serenity that it is more Star Trek the Motion Picture than Wrath of Kahn, but on careful reconsideration, I think it is best compared to Star Trek Nemesis. Both suffer from similar problems deficiencies in auteurs. Stuart Baird and Joss Whedon get themselves into sequences that seem to bore them, and specifically combat sequences. I guess in both cases you could argue it was a money thing, but I tend to think of the Go-Go Yubari sequence in Kill Bill - we know the outcome, it's the how it goes that makes it exciting. But Whedon stages sequences of the character Psychotic Little Girl who seems a Lot Like Buffy (PLGWSALLB for short) getting into fights with no flair. When you show things that have to happen to advance the story - but the director has interest in stageing them with any excitement - you've run into a situation where the film is damned, because though it only takes one uninspired non-set piece to ruin a film, and having more than one is cinematic death.

This might be palatable if the writing was as great as Whedon's rep makes it out to be but sadly none of the main characters are interesting. You have the slightly gay Han Solo clone, the slightly dumber Han Solo clone, PLGWSALLB, PLGWSALLB's brother - who is a personality vacuum, the cute bad actress who wants to fuck PLGWSALLB's bro, Alan Tudyk and his character's wife. Sound like memorable characters? There may be another character I've forgotten, if so I'll include the name Shecky as a fall back (I haven't seen this film in months). There's also Slightly Gay Han Solo's girlfriend, who's also a whore - but again, not all that memorable. They all also talk in that way that makes you think Kevin Williamson without the total referentiality, more in that Kevin Smith way of sameness in that the snark is interchangeable. Ultimately the film relies upon the audience's interest from the previous TV show to flesh these characters out. Going in cold, I didn't give a shit.

So then you have the plot which is that the GOVERNMENT wants PLGWSALLB, while the crew of Firefly don't want to give her up mostly... it's just PLGWSALLB is psychotic, but CBA really wants to fuck PLGWSALLB's bro, so they run around the world until they unveil the CONSPIRACY which kills a supporting player off, but only after he's delivered... The info... The main... Characters.... ne..ed...ed...

Whedon could be commended for his penchant for killing off characters (though that will be more effective for those who've watched the show), but in the end you're still stuck with a conclusion that revolves Fistfight With Obvious Conclusion, that never jumps to the how of it. In that way I was reminded of I, Robot, though partly for the setting. And reminding of I, Robot is never a good thing.

If Firefly was simply a throwback to the altogether preferable mold of Spacehunter then it might be easier for me to walk away from, but in the end this film has delusions of grandeur that only point off that it heavily sampled it's beat from Godfather of Pop Culture Fantasy (that being the mighty, mighty GL) but lost the funk in the mix. All swagger, no stones.

And still, I know people who really enjoy it. Now were I at Portland in a bar on Thursday night, I'd simply say "You're wrong" and be done with it. But as I've droned on before the fickle and selective nature of fandom celebrates certain mediocrities above others based on whims and needs, and is drawn into creating self fulfilling prophecies. Batman Begins is a rather good film, but it irrevocably and inarguably falls the fuck apart in its last act. I guess you can still enjoy the picture and note that, but it needs noting. And I don't think the flaws of Serenity should be swept under the rug, but since the film won't make that much money, maybe it's unfair for me to pick on it. But I can't help it, bad is bad.

A weekend of crap

I watched Zapped, Above the Law and Hard to Kill this weekend. Why? Why? These aren't even good movies. Also, I thought - by law - Zapped had to have a scene where Scott Biao turns invisible and wanders through the girl's locker room. This did not happen. For the love of god, what's wrong with this movie? The Seagal films were also a bust, with Above the Law mildy boring, and Hard to Kill just sort of bad. I'm not even nostalgic for these movies.

Also, I've determined I like Revenge of the Sith better than Serenity.

On the good news front, I finished a screenplay I was working on, and I'm pretty happy with it. Now I've got new ideas, and I'm excited about them too. Yay.

This weekend I'm watching Zapped!

And someday soon I hope to find a copy of Up the Creek. Curiousity killed the brain cells. Next thing you know I'll pick up that Moving Violations DVD. I mean, she's no rocket scientist.

Damon can be used as a flirtation device

It's true. I am a horrible, horrible flirt. Horrible. Terrible.

I grew up watching bad television. I've now been watching really good television, like Undeclared and Newsradio. And, yes, Star Trek. Very laughing out loud funny. Also, Maura Tierney gets me bad, maybe it's that in the first couple episodes she has a lot of sex with Dave Foley's character.

Coyotes

I was outside reading the script I'm working on, and two coyotes wandered by. They trotted down the street with no care for my presence, but both took a look at me as they passed. One entered the driveway of an apartment complex across the way the other walked by it, and the other paused for a moment, waiting to see if the other would join him, only to keep going.

No, I don't want to talk about it with you...

God: Hey.
Damon: So...
God: Yeah.
Damon: Yeah.
God:... What's up?
Damon: Not much. How you doing?
God: I'm fine, how are you?
Damon: Doing all right.... Yeah.
God: Um... Yeah.
Damon: So...
God: Yeah, well. I don't know. I thought I should give you a buzz.
Damon: Yeah. Yeah, we haven't talked in a while.
God: So...
Damon: Yeah...
God: Yeah.
Damon: You heard?
God: What?
Damon: Well, I guess he's getting a bit better.
God: Oh. Oh. Yeah.
Damon: Yeah.
God: Well, that's not why I called.
Damon: Cool.
God: So...
Damon: Yeah?
God: You seen anything lately?
Damon: Theatrically dick all. At home, shit I haven't had too much time. I squeezed in Naked, and Mallrats, and threw on Hitchhikers guide for the fuck of it. Eh.
God: Jesus and I caught the Exorcism of Emily Rose. I walked out at the halfway point and went the the Cat and Fiddle. Got me a good drunk going when Jesus got out. He said it was the comedy of the year, but I ain't got time for that shit.
Damon: You shoulda done a double feature of that with Just Like Heaven.
God: SNAP!
Damon: Snickety Snap snap snap.
God: You're my boy, Damon.
Damon: I know.
God: And, yeah, you know, you're my boy, so whatever man.
Damon: Thanks.
God: Yeah.
Damon: Yeah.
God: And you can call any time. You know that.
Damon: Yeah, well, right now it looks like a false scare. Dunno. I'll know more this week.
God: Yeah, I know.
Damon: But thanks.
God: Ain't no thing, dog.
Damon: Yeah.
God: But if you want to talk about it.
Damon: I know who to call.
God: Fair enough.
Damon: Yeah.
God: Hit me on my cell tomorrow, if you've got a moment.
Damon: I will.
God: Cool. PEACE.
Damon: Peace.

These weren't so bad.

Mallrats
Naked

sometimeswhenifuckyouiwanttokillyou, sometimeswhenitrytokillyouiwanttofuckyou

Mr. and Mrs. Smith is a movie that works without being good. It's the sort of film that (as the filmmakers seem aware) has no interest in its setting and abandons its pretenses for a conclusion that works in terms of character but offers little resolution.

The main thing that's problematic about it is that it reverses the sex roles (standard for a film like this) making Brad Pitt the emotional female, and Angelina Jolie the no nonsense male. Which works in theory, but then it must give each of them balance in their actions. But what it does is it allows Pitt to be wacky, and turns Jolie into a man. In the final sequence both put on suits, and it points out that the film is essentially a homosexual love story, as to make the people equals she must become a man. Where Pitt is allowed to be goofy in his hits (and is tied with Vince Vaughn, more on him in a minute), Jolie is the consumate professional, even when dolled up in a domanatrix outfit, and is surrounded by boring women (though some are rather attractive). As such there's no real balance to the proceedings, and for some reason it's more fun to watch Brad Pitt beat the crap out of his wife than vice versa, perhaps because of the role reversals.

Pitt and Jolie do have chemistry (obviously), but for a film essentially about sex and violence, it features no nudity or blood. The best reason to see the film is Vaughn, who improvs like a motherfucker and steals scenes with a verve that suggests this is the year of Vaughn - seriously his speech about chocolate and vanilla is one of those great moments of "what the fuck" comedy.

I guess, on some level, you can't really follow up my last post. My father is on antibiotics, and may or may not pull through his pnuemonia. It's weird to want my father to die, but that's the way it goes. More on movies soon.

The perfect excuse to not see Elizabethtown

Oh, well. I guess it's fair to say it's more serious than that. I got a call from my mother Monday while I was at work. She wants/ed me to come visit her at a friend's home next weekend that's about halfway between where we live now. I've been fidgety about this, mostly because it's more for her than me. Selfish, whatever. So she calls, and I'm at work, and I don't know. But the call is to tell me my father has pnuemonia. Fluid in his lungs. And my mom's first response was to get him antibiotics and see what could be done, but my father (who's in his early 60's) has been ill for a very long time.

I'm pretty sure, though not positive, the timeline was that after I "graduated" from college I found out that I needed one credit to complete my schooling, the 16mm camera I borrowed to make an independant film broke, and my father was diagnosed within a three month period. When I was twenty, around the time of my 20th birthday in fact, my father was laid off from the job he had for the majority of my life. I'm sure he had it for at least twelve years. I don't know exactly as I was too young. I still have one of his cards from that time. After he was laid off he got another job that didn't particularly suit him, and he spent the next two years awkwardly getting along. And then, things started happening. My father, more than once, ran out of gas and had to call us to pick him up. My father, who I could always count on for a ride whenever wherever. And for a couple months after college I lived at home. And things got worse, compacted by my mother, who made it clear that the family could get by with or without his help. And so my dad was jobless for a while, and he could never adapt to the ways of computers (my mom has also found this especially troubling). And sometime that summer of 98, we realized that what was going on with my father wasn't just ennui, or whatever, but something serious.

A couple trips to the doctor, and it was revealed my father had been suffering minor strokes for a while. One night, while at dinner, my father had one in front of my mom and I. We rushed him to the hospital. Sometime around that time, or perhaps the same night, my father told us that all he really wanted was to die. My father told me and his wife that all he wanted in life was to die.

I moved out at some point, and at the begining of summer in 1999 moved in with some musicians, and by the end of summer had a new job and new digs (I had morning wake up calls, and musicians aren't good for that shit). Shortly thereafter, my mother moved my father into a home. The first one he couldn't stand, but after a waiting list came to a close, he moved into another home. Around this time he started doing charity work (though I think the people there mostly humored him) and began attending church with my brother. Again, in the second effort I think that was mostly to get closer to my brother. My duty, Sunday mornings, was to take my father from Church to his home. I can't remember how long this lasted. I know I was doing it when I was with Autumn and had my own home, or at least, I cut a short film out of the drive to and from while at the new pad (or shortly before I moved into it).

By this point, my father would sometimes drop by on me at work unexpectedly. People I worked with thought he might be homeless. Often I'd take him out to lunch. My father always had a peculiar sense of humor, and he often made jokes, though they were often less funny. Some time before I got laid off my mother moved him into a home in the Dalles, which was out of sight and mind. I'd visit sporadically, and as little as I could. It was a three hour drive back and forth, and seeing him, well he'd get bored after an hour or so. Often they revolved around us taking him out to eat. I remember sitting in a Dairy Queen while my father regaled me with a story of having loved sitting through the Martin Short film Three Fugitives.

After my two year passed on my house, and I knew I wouldn't get gouged for taxes (even now it seems weird that for a spell I owned property) I sold my home, and moved in with one of my closest in Portland as I waited until the end of October to move. I saw my father before I left I think, at least I'm pretty sure. Butsince my move (all of ten months ago), I haven't spoken to my father, nor would I really want to. I don't think he could handle a phone conversation.

And so now we get to the point of it. My father has pnuemonia. and my mom called to ask if it was okay that we didn't go through the whole antibiotics route and just give him morphine and let him ride it out. Which took me a bit to realize was fine by me. Around 2000 my father gave my mother and I legal control for such actions, and he wanted us to not resuscitate him. Perhaps he could get over this pnuemonia, perhaps he will, perhaps he won't. The days become a waiting game. I called my brother shortly after my mom contacted me, and due to him being on the East coast it was the evening and he had a couple of drinks (as I have had typing this). His response was similar to mine: It's a grave responsibility, but... At some point, a long time ago, my father stopped being the man he was, and if that man still exists in some shred in his current vessel he would be horified with the person he is now.

Ultimately, I have had seven years at least to grieve my father's passing. But like watching a child grow, it's been a slow and steady progress, and it has the ability to creep up on you. And so here I am, facing the fact that my father could die any time now, and I'm not crying. I don't know when or for what reason I will lose my proverbial shit. Talking about it is hard. But here I am.

I have, in the past on this blog, talked about what I'm willing and not willing to talk about on this blog, and the main thing I don't want to talk about is the people that I know and my interactions with them. That's mostly because people interpret things differently, and I am no different. Were I to relay a story that involved three of my closest, perhaps we would all have different takes, and mine is no better or worse, you drag girls and sexuality into that equation, what I read on someone might be totally different than someone else. Am I right? Are they right, who fucking cares? Again, it's the balance of all things, who's to say, especially when it's a tentative you were there moment.

But I write this not simply to dig a hole and whisper in the dirt, but in knowing that friends read this. I'm doing all right. And I'm sure I'll be seeing my Portland friends sooner rather than later. Know that I'm doing okay, but it looks like my father is dying. Which is a relief and something of a burden. And there you go.

It's tricky to rock a rhyme

Too busy watching Undeclared. So Brilliant:
Career Girls
The Chase
Satisfaction

War of the Worlds (2005)

After The Terminal, there was a sense that Spielberg wanted to address 9/11 but didn't know how to (The Terminal is a film that is about September 11 without actually being about it). And with War of the Worlds he took it head on. This though may be building to his next film, Munich or Revenge, or whatever it will eventually be called. And after A.I. (a career changing film if there ever was one), Spielberg seems on a more introspective path, as A.I. seems more important to Spielberg's "Adult" career than the myriad of films that proceeded it (with Empire of the Sun left out of this equation as I haven't seen it since it hit video... When I was 12).

Ultimately the crisis in War of the Worlds is that it is balls to bone a summer picture, and as such the final twenty minute allow for some as reductively done as possible heroics that make Tom Cruise's Ray Ferrier character at least something of a good guy. I don't know if this is a problem of the film, per se, so much as the nature of the beast. Spielberg is ultimately smuggling, and that's okay. It just weakens the tenor of the picture and keeps it from being a masterpiece. But it's a pretty remarkable "Incoherent text"

The biggest flaw of the film is Ray's son Robbie, who feels more a plot device than character. As has been discussed elsewhere, he must be an ass to Ray the entire time. At first this works. Any person interested in the craft of filmmaking would do well to study the sequence in which Ray and Robbie play baseball. From Robbie donning the hat, to their conversation, and aggressions, Spielberg rightfully can call himself a master. Alas, Robbie runs off to join the Army at one point, and then returns for the end. This is the inherent compromise of making a nine figure picture, as Robbie is shown going into a situation that looks to be apocalyptic and offers no hope, which gave me the sense that the last 20 some minutes (on first viewing) could be read as a fever dream of relief. Alas, that interpretation doesn't hold water under the numerous repeat viewings I've given the film.

This also ties into some of the elements that become more glaring after first viewing. Ray tries to keep his daughter Rachel oblivious to the death and destruction around them as often as possible (in a way that recalled for me a film Spielberg supposedly HATED, Life is Beautiful), and as the film is told subjectively through Ray, we're not sure what Robbie's seeing that would make him run off to war, to think that there was something he could do. His character is meant to represent a mindset, but over the course of the film, with the aliens kicking mucho anus, it's hard to see why he'd feel the way he does. I guess though that has more to do with me. But even so, the biggest problem with the film is that characters keep complaining once they've seen the shit. Rachel complains about sleeping in the basement, and the films already hit a point where Rachel should have seen enough to know that maybe listening to Dad in this situation might have merit. So certain sequences have greater power than others, like the car ride (a remarkable CGI'd one shot, again, Spielberg is an absolute master), but characters keep yelling to cover up the fact if they sat down and listened then they might stop yelling. I guess that's fine, but when the world looks to be going to the shitters, you know, you think there might be a moment of taking stock. Again, fever dream.

Another thing is that there is a lot of inconsistency to the vision. There's a great crashed jet plane that landed on Ray's ex-wife's house, and a crew of reports are ransacking the plane for food. We see a reporter chug water like she hasn't had any in a day or so. And yet this neighborhood seems unaffected, and their piracy seems more a point of having a set piece (and allowing for some exposition) then it behaving organically. And opening the question of food and water (which Ray's kids refused all but ten minutes earlier) points out that we're in movie land. This sort of "Huh" also hits in the ferry scene as people are in cars (cars with their lights on) when not but two scenes earlier people were dragging Ray's fam out of their working car because they wanted transportation. That sequence, the car theft scene, is impeccable, but between it and the ferry sequence (where people are sitting in working cars) it again points out that much of the film is done more for effect than coherence. I guess though one could argue the whole piece is meant to be a fever dream.

And this sense of "okay" becomes even more problematic in the third act, when Tim Robbins character Harlan Ogilivy switches at least two and possibly three gears, as he goes from war battled Ambulance driver, vigilante, to scared paranoid (the final transition allows for the film's bleakest sequence) but Harlan having been an ambulance driver... It just feels off. And what sets Harlan off is the Alien's use for humans, which, again, doesn't feel in tandem with what we've seen previous.

I say these things, but what I'm left with is that Spielberg made so much right, so many sequence of merit, and honestly commenting on the times, that I'm left weighing it's problems against the sum of its parts, which are all quite great. Spielberg knows how to put sequences together, and its an impressive feat, it just doesn't congeal.

Cats and Dogs living together

Two of my best friends are marrying each other (male and female, since the govenator forbid otherwise). I'm gonna be a best man. There you go. I gotta be honest, any time I told friends about it, I got a bit teary eyed.

5:30 AM, the next day

Damon: (weak) hello?
God: Why is it always my fault? Don't people understand fucking free will impacts everything? Things like who's in charge when, the weather, how people respond to facts... I'm not in charge of this. I left it to you bitches. It's not my fault, I swear. I had nothing to do with this, and Satan, Satan could give a fuck all. Actually (hands phone).
Satan: Hey, what's up?
Damon: Satan, damn, I haven't heard from you in a long ass time. How you doing.
Satan: God wanted me to come over. Have a little pow wow.
Damon: You still living in Burbank?
Satan: Hell yes.
Damon: (laughs)
Satan: Oh, oh. Fuck it's early.
Damon: Yeah, I'm gonna crash out.
Satan: You got my cell?
Damon: Nah, but I don't have my glasses on, so hit me on the email. If you're free this weekend, it's been too long.
Satan: God mentioned you guys were going to hang out.
Damon: Maybe Friday or Saturday after work?
Satan: Sure.
Damon: Aight.
Satan: Good morning.
Damon: Good morning.

A very Special Conversation

Damon: You've reached Damon and this is my answering machine.
God: Pick up. Pick up, pick up pick up. (Click)
Damon: What, it's three thirty in the morning.
God: Oh hey, Damon, how's it going.
Damon: Tired, I was sleeping. I've been watching a lot of movies, writing. What's up?
God: You're asking me what's up?
Damon: Yeah, you're probably pretty busy these days.
God: My phone has not stopped ringing for the last week and change, and I haven't talked to you in forever.
Damon: Well, people want to know what's up.
God: That they do.
Damon: How you hangin?
God: Oh, I'm exausted. Fucking hell.
Damon: I won't even get you started on it then.
God: You see that Kanye West thing?
Damon: Yeah, it made me chuckle.
God: That's some great rock and roll suicide, right there.
Damon: I don't think it'll hurt his career, but it may politicize him in the future.
God: We shall see. The problem with events like this is people want to call it like they see it, but unfortunately they see it blinded by their emotions.
Damon: If ever there was a time to be.
God: True dat.
Damon: So, you seen anything lately?
God: What is this free time you speak of.
Damon: Hey, you're God.
God: I know. All right, all right, I was on the phone and watched Babe with the sound off.
Damon: The pig movie?
God: Yeah. It was a nice pick me up.
Damon: I was watching some Star Trek lately.
God: Jesus Damon, how long's it been since you've had a girlfriend?
Damon: Long enough, but that's not the point.
God: Look if you start down that road, you know, your dick could fall off before you date someone.
Damon: It's mostly at work.
God: Mostly.
Damon: Mostly.
God: Yeah right.
Damon: Anyway, I saw this footage on the supplements...
God: You get paid to watch supplements now?
Damon: Yes.
God: And...
Damon: Well George Takei talked abotu growing up in an American Concentration camp, and it made me think how we're only sixty years removed from that. I mean, I grew up in the cold war, but it was always a removed threat. My generation saw no wars, but not so long before I was born people like LBJ were buying elections. I guess I find it sort of comforting to know that we're not all that far removed from primitive times, and we've made leaps and bounds in the last half a century. It's not much of a hope, but it's something.
God: I was afraid this would all be a roundabout criticism of me.
Damon: Nah, I'm not like that.
God: I don't think this is going to settle down for a while.
Damon: Not until a lot of people are fired, for one, and, you know, New Orleans...
God: Look, why don't we plan some down time this weekend. Maybe just you and me. I got herb, I got drinks, we can get our chill on.
Damon: Herb? Oregano?
God: I'm just saying it's been a rough couple, and I might want to get stoned.
Damon: Does that mean I'm driving?
God: Probably. Maybe hit a tittie bar or three.
Damon: You paying?
God: Shit, I'll even buy you a lap dance if you like.
Damon: Not my scene, but, you know, I can't say no to you.
God: And that's what I like aboucha.
Damon: Bull shit.
God: Nah, I know. Sorry for waking you.
Damon: You know, man, any time. For you. I know how bad it's got to be.
God: You have no idea. PEACE! (Click)

Fucking Amal

Elin Olsson(Alexandra Dahlström) is the girl everyone thinks is going to be in trouble. She's already been labeled a slut, even though she's never done much more than third base, while her sister seems more aggressively sexual (while also the less attractive of the two). She finds men boring. Agnes (Rebecka Liljeberg) has lived in Amal for two years and the only friend she's come close to making is a girl in a wheelchair. Both are so low on the social totem pole that they will turn on each other hoping to somehow get away from the stink of their outcast status. Agnes is also in love with Elin, and tells no one. During a birthday party for Agnes (more arranged by Agnes's mom then anyone else), Elin shows up out of boredom and on a bet from her sister kisses Agnes, which shatters the young girl's mind. But there's something there. But Elin can't come out because she is among the popular kids, and does have a social status to maintain.

Lukas Moodysson's feature debut is one of those films that is a small slice of perfection. It also suggests that certain ideas, moods, and beliefs transcend geographical boundries. I got a collection of his films as a gift, and I think the person who sent them to me (who's read some of my scripts) knew what he was doing. Pretentious as it may be to suggest, but I share some ideas with Moodysson in that we are interested in similar modes of storytelling: there's something to stripping a story and characters to their truths that can make a film transcendent, and what I have tried to accomplish with something I've written is very much what he filmed.

I think Fucking Amal is a fucking masterpiece.

Today was a waste

Outside of writing these:
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
Dressedto Kill
Whirlpool

I'm tired, I'm headachy, I had a good weekend all things considered, but not a particularly productive one.

No excuses

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4213214.stm

It sounds like Edmond could be the film of the year

God Bless Stuart Gordon. I've seen Spielberg's War of the Worlds a lot lately. I'll offer in depth analysis tomorrow when I sober up some. I spent all day moving shit for a friend. The N.O. coverage makes me angry, and then sometimes happy when the obvious is spoken.

You know it's hard out here for a pimp

And I'll add some comments tomorrow or Sunday, but jesus, New Orleans. I mean, chatting about movies... it seems so silly. God Bless Kayne West, and let's hope our nation's journalists grow some (or retain their) balls.