A BBC preview of all of its upcoming holiday programming featured brief glimpses of the upcoming Doctor Who Christmas Special, which include period costumes, the great Sir Michael Gambon (Dumbledore!) and the Eleventh Doctor making a rather Dickensian declaration.
Could this be A Christmas Carol TARDIS-style? We can only speculate and caress our replica sonic screwdrivers (Yes, I went there.) as we await Mr. Steven Moffat's holiday tale, and perhaps a reappearance of the infamous fez (Because, you know, fezzes are cool.).
Some nice person managed to cull the 17 seconds worth of Doctor footage from the entire BBC preview, and it's here for you to watch. Enjoy!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Greg Giraldo, comic, 1965-2010
As if losing two film legends this week weren't enough, news broke Wednesday afternoon that comedy legend Greg Giraldo - roastmaster, stand-up icon and all around hilarious person - went to that great Improv in the sky.
Details (still evolving, apparently) are available at The Wrap, along with a bevy of other sites.
Giraldo was a truly outstanding comedian, the kind that I couldn't stop watching. Everyone knows him for his appearances on many of Comedy Central's recent roasts, ripping celebrities new ones, but I knew him first, and best, as a stand-up, and a damn good one.
Here's a small sample of his work:
The Twitterverse was alive today with fellow comics declaring their love and admiration for a fallen comrade. I think Patton Oswalt said it best: "If there's a heaven then Einstein, Asimov, Voltaire and Anne Frank are getting the shit roasted out of 'em tonight."
Giraldo had perfect rhythm, amazing timing, deadly wit and a voice like no other. His act had the rare quality of being well-honed and yet spontaneous, and most importantly, he was constantly funny. The world has fewer laughs in it today.
Details (still evolving, apparently) are available at The Wrap, along with a bevy of other sites.
Giraldo was a truly outstanding comedian, the kind that I couldn't stop watching. Everyone knows him for his appearances on many of Comedy Central's recent roasts, ripping celebrities new ones, but I knew him first, and best, as a stand-up, and a damn good one.
Here's a small sample of his work:
The Twitterverse was alive today with fellow comics declaring their love and admiration for a fallen comrade. I think Patton Oswalt said it best: "If there's a heaven then Einstein, Asimov, Voltaire and Anne Frank are getting the shit roasted out of 'em tonight."
Giraldo had perfect rhythm, amazing timing, deadly wit and a voice like no other. His act had the rare quality of being well-honed and yet spontaneous, and most importantly, he was constantly funny. The world has fewer laughs in it today.
Arthur Penn, director, 1922-2010
After losing Sally Menke earlier this week, news broke today that yet another film legend has left us. It's been a sad 48 hours for film buffs.
News broke this morning that director Arthur Penn, the auteur behind classics like The Miracle Worker and Bonnie and Clyde, died Tuesday night just a day after his 88th birthday.
You can read coverage of his death from the New York Times here.
Though he's best known for the envelope-pushing Bonnie and Clyde, which was considered revolutionary both for its sexuality and violence at the time of its release (what a death scene), Penn was also known as a sensitive and finely-tuned social commentator, and the quintessential actor's director.
My first encounter with Arthur Penn's work, like many of my generation, was a classroom viewing of his second film, The Miracle Worker. I was too young then to really know what filmmaking meant in terms of either art or science, but I knew the flick was powerful. It's a testament to Penn's precision and deep sensitivity to emotional rhythms. Every scene is pitch perfect.
And as for Bonnie and Clyde, well...few films will ever reach the level of cultural impact that one had, and still has. I, of course, wasn't alive when it was initially released, but simply measuring in terms of how often it's written about, discussed and re-affirmed by those of us who care about such things, it's right up there with Birth of a Nation, Gone with the Wind and Star Wars. It's a defining moment in American cinema, plain and simple.
Most of all what I think of when I think of Arthur Penn was his ability to teach. I've watched countless hours of Inside the Actors Studio, but I never learned more than in the single hour he spent sitting across from James Lipton. He was a selfless emissary of great film, great theatre, great acting and great storytelling.
News broke this morning that director Arthur Penn, the auteur behind classics like The Miracle Worker and Bonnie and Clyde, died Tuesday night just a day after his 88th birthday.
You can read coverage of his death from the New York Times here.
Though he's best known for the envelope-pushing Bonnie and Clyde, which was considered revolutionary both for its sexuality and violence at the time of its release (what a death scene), Penn was also known as a sensitive and finely-tuned social commentator, and the quintessential actor's director.
My first encounter with Arthur Penn's work, like many of my generation, was a classroom viewing of his second film, The Miracle Worker. I was too young then to really know what filmmaking meant in terms of either art or science, but I knew the flick was powerful. It's a testament to Penn's precision and deep sensitivity to emotional rhythms. Every scene is pitch perfect.
And as for Bonnie and Clyde, well...few films will ever reach the level of cultural impact that one had, and still has. I, of course, wasn't alive when it was initially released, but simply measuring in terms of how often it's written about, discussed and re-affirmed by those of us who care about such things, it's right up there with Birth of a Nation, Gone with the Wind and Star Wars. It's a defining moment in American cinema, plain and simple.
Most of all what I think of when I think of Arthur Penn was his ability to teach. I've watched countless hours of Inside the Actors Studio, but I never learned more than in the single hour he spent sitting across from James Lipton. He was a selfless emissary of great film, great theatre, great acting and great storytelling.
"Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps" is messy, but intense
 |
| Michael Douglas grills Shia LaBeouf on how, against all odds, he managed to bag Carey Mulligan. |
If there’s any director on the planet that knows about ups and downs, it’s Oliver Stone. The guy has gone from the height of cinematic glory (Plattoon) to the deepest valleys of box office and critical failure (Alexander), and everywhere in between. But it’s not because he has strange luck, or because he’s not talented, or even because the world wasn’t ready for his movies. It’s simply because he takes risks, visually, emotionally and thematically. He’s the Hollywood equivalent of a Wall Street broker.
Which is appropriate, because Stone has now made two films, in two very different eras, about the financial system. Wall Street, released in 1987, is widely considered a classic, if condemning, portrait of the Reaganomics era, and garnered an Oscar for Michael Douglas. And now, with a vastly different money world, Stone has released a sequel, his answer to the 2008 financial collapse: Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps.
Gordon Gekko (Douglas) is released from prison in 2001 after serving eight years on a bevy of insider trading charges stemming from the events of the first film. Seven years later, Gekko has a new book about his experiences that’s rising up the bestseller lists, and begins making the rounds on talk shows and university speaking circuits.
Jake Moore (Shia LaBeouf) is a rising star in the world of investment banking under the tutelage of a legend in the field, Lou Zabel (Frank Langella). He’s also dating Gekko’s estranged daughter Winnie (Carey Mulligan), who refuses to talk to or about her father.
After the massive, Bear Stearns-esque failure of his firm causes his hero, Zabel, to jump in front of a subway train, Jake sets out to get the man he feels is responsible, fellow investment banker Bretton James (Josh Brolin), while simultaneously attempting to begin a relationship with Gekko.
The financial ins and outs of the plot are fast-paced and often elusive. I didn’t like the first Wall Street as much as many did, simply because I don’t care about all the market mumbo-jumbo. Money helps me buy DVDs and comic books, OK? Call me childish, but that’s where I’m at, so a film about investments and sneaky trading is going to be inherently hard for me to follow.
But the emotional basis of the elements at work here is plain enough. Jake is attempting to juggle his own success with revenge for his mentor, his private life, his deepening friendship with Gekko and his interest in an alternative energy company that’s about to go under if new money doesn’t begin to flow to it. All of this proves much too much when Jake realizes he’s not the only person manipulating the powers at work. In fact, everyone is. It’s a film rife with secrets, and it’s how they unfold that makes Money Never Sleeps sometimes hard to watch.
Stone is famous for the message in his films, and it’s clear that this flick has that too. The problem is that at times it seems like he’s not sure what he’s preaching. There’s an element of self-righteousness among the characters that is often overlaid or even walking hand in hand with smug vindictiveness. It’s impossible to figure out any of the characters (except Winnie, who is the victim, of course) right up until the very end, and even then we’re not sure. Maybe that was the point, but when your plot is already more complicated that one brain can handle, making your characters individual puzzles in and of themselves is a bit too much.
There’s also a kind of sensory overload at work in the film’s visual style and sound design. Everything overlaps, visual metaphors fly past at breakneck speeds, and songs by David Byrne and Brian Eno, while cool, seem out of place and grating against the rest of the flick’s tone.
But, weirdly enough, the emotional oomph of the flick often makes all of that irrelevant. This oomph of which I speak generally emanates from the actors, all of which (yes, even LaBeouf, and I rarely say that), perform at incredible levels of skill. Douglas steals the show even more than he did the first time he played Gordon Gekko, and to watch him work is to watch a true master. Mulligan, as she was in last year’s An Education, (and in "Blink," my favorite Doctor Who episode EVER) is spellbinding, Brolin is searing, Langella and the legendary Eli Wallach are scene stealers (and Wallach manages this in spite of having only three lines). It’s proof that a great cast can overshadow sloppy filmmaking.
In the end, I think Money Never Sleeps is a film that’s trying too hard to be as relevant as its predecessor, and it simply can’t be done. The world is a more complicated place now, and attempted to place yourself in the heart of the financial crisis and create not only a morality play but a sweeping social commentary borders on a fool’s errand. Stone is still a talented risk-taker, and his film works, but it’s hard not to see flaws.
Matt’s Call: It’s a film unlike anything else at the theatres right now, and it’s often quite thrilling to watch, but don’t expect greatness. There’s too much going on here for anything to rise up and be stellar.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Sally Menke, editor, 1953-2010
You can read the tragic circumstances of her passing in this story from the LA Times.
Unless you're a major follower of the film world, you might never have heard of Menke before today. You might have heard of Tarantino himself, and you've definitely heard of Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill and Inglourious Basterds, all of which would have proved very different without Menke's inspired touch, but the woman herself, the woman who slaved over thousands of feet of film to splice together masterpieces, stayed in the background.
Editors are, I think, perhaps the most minor of minor film industry celebrities. Cinematographers get to do those cool through the viewfinder publicity shots, art directors get the concept art street cred, even screenwriters get to bask in a little bit of glow now and then. Editors live in the dark, in the celluloid-scented murkiness that comes after all the excitement of production has died down and the excitement of the premiere has yet to begin. Editing is often called the third draft of a flick (writing being the first and filming being the second) and as such it's the last best hope to polish a film that's mediocre, muddle or manic into something great.
And in spite of this understanding of the importance of their job...Quick, name an editor! How many did you get, other than the aforementioned Ms. Menke? I'll wager it wasn't many. You might have thought of Thelma Schoonmaker (famous for her connection to Martin Scorsese), or maybe Roderick Jaynes (famous for not existing), but I doubt you've ever really thought of editors as rockstars.
But Menke, in her way, was a rockstar, a quiet talent leaving a light yet undeniable touch on some of the most influential films of the last 20 years.
I mean, this is Quentin Tarantino we're talking about, the eclectic cinemaphile notorious for throwing everything and the kitchen sink into his flicks, and the fact that Menke could take all of the wild energy and abandon of his work and hone it into something razor sharp and blazingly clear is a testament to a bright talent.
Consider the infamous adrenaline shot sequence in Pulp Fiction.
Nearly six minutes pass from the time Vincent and Mia arrive at Lance's house to the time Mia shrieks back to consciousness. It's a scene out of Grand Guignol play, a slow-burning anxiety trip that all leads up to that all important hanging moment right before that needle drops. It seems simple when you watch it, but that's because it was probably a sonofabitch to put together. One false move, and the whole thing gets too funny, too scary, too bleak or just plain jarring, and the viewer is lost. The pieces are all there courtesy of Tarantino, Travotla, Thurman, Stoltz and Arquette, but without Menke putting it all together, it could have very well been a mess.
That's an example of Menke's ability to hold tight control over a scene, to sculpt and craft it pain-stakingly like a Renaissance painter. But then there were those times when she just let go, hurling out inspired, blood-soaked celluloid ballets, like this sequence from Kill Bill Vol. 1.
These are just small dips into hundreds of minutes of work, crafted over thousands of hours by an irrepressible talent, and I'm not just saying that because she's gone. Sally Menke was one of the most versatile, gifted and distinctive editors working in film. She could run with the best, and there will be very few who can ever match her. Sally Menke, a wife, mother and filmmaker, will be missed.
New on DVD: "Iron Man 2." The "you complete me" scene better be in the special features.
 |
| Tony Stark and Pepper Potts discuss the ins and outs of Mickey Rourke's face. |
Iron Man 2, really the only superhero treat we got this year, is new on DVD today. Here's my original review from The Huntsville Item.
Iron Man 2 is bigger and badder, but still second best.
I must confess that, prior to seeing “Iron Man” hit the big screen in 2008, I was never much a fan of the superhero. He didn’t have the mystery and darkness of Batman, or the mythological bite of Superman, or even the youthful energy of Spider-Man. The Tony Stark I knew from comic books was a dry, distant figure, often self-righteous, and sometimes just plain dull.
Then Robert Downey Jr. stepped into his shoes, and the billionaire playboy with the powersuit became one of my new best friends. He’s quirky, he’s flawed, he’s got an honest to God sense of humor, and he’s just plain cool. Cross that character with one of the finest actors of his generation, and you really can’t miss.
“Iron Man” is also one of the best two hour investments of time I’ve ever made. Movies don’t come much more fun that that, and if you haven’t seen it, you really are missing a milestone of awesomeness.
All of that is just a long way of saying that all the hype surrounding the release of “Iron Man 2” was and is absolutely justified. Trailers painted the flick as something with all the wit, action and breakneck velocity of the original, but with more stars, bigger effects, and more blockbuster polish. It’s rare that a sequel lives up to its predecessor, but “Iron Man 2” really did look like it had a shot.
Notice I used past tense there. It had a shot.
While it’s still a blast to watch, the biggest problem with “Iron Man 2” is that it’s trying too hard to be the ultimate superhero movie. It’s all ambition and no heart, all glory and no guts, and in the end it amounts to what you get when you buy generic ice cream. It’s good, but it ain’t Blue Bell, if you can dig that.
It’s been six months since Tony Stark (Downey) became Iron Man and changed the world. Countries are at peace for the first time in decades, Stark’s business is booming, and he’s staging a giant, yearlong Stark Expo for the first time since his father held one in 1974.
But under the surface, something menacing is lurking. The palladium that powers the ARC reactor (that big shiny thingy in his chest) that’s keeping him alive is slowly killing him at the same time, turning his blood toxic. And if that weren’t enough, in a dark tenement somewhere in Moscow, Ivan Vanko (Mickey Rourke) is building his own powersuit, readying himself to bring a decades-old vendetta against the Stark family to fruition.
Oh, and the Senate Armed Services Committee is trying to take the Iron Man suit away, Stark’s got a sexy new assistant (Scarlett Johansson), his best friend Rhodey Rhodes (Don Cheadle) is torn between helping him and helping his own career, government ops guru Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson) won’t get of his back, and a rival arms manufacturer (Sam Rockwell) is bent on building a suit of his own.
Don’t worry, stretch all that out over two hours and it’s a little easier to follow, but even then, we’ve got a classic case of overstory on our hands. Plot lines are run out so far that by the end of the film they’re cut short more than they’re tied up. Characters drift in and out, tension builds and then crumbles, and there’s no clear sense of something big looming on the horizon (not necessarily a problem, just something I like to see in action movies).
Still, in spite of all that, director Jon Favreau (“Iron Man”) and screenwriter Justin Theroux (“Tropic Thunder”), ensure that there’s never a dull moment. The action in “Iron Man 2” is still hard and heavy, even if it doesn’t feel as organic and fresh as it did the first time. From a Monaco racetrack to a Japanese garden, the fight scenes still hold their allure, and even when the action isn’t at full throttle, there’s enough gadgets, effects and visual charm to make even the slow moments just plain, well…Boss.
Downey Jr. continues to prove his meddle on the blockbuster circuit in his reprise of the Tony Stark role. He’s every bit as charming as he was the first time, and even more comfortable in Iron Man’s skin. Gwyneth Paltrow returns to give a deeper, albeit smaller, performance as Pepper Potts. Don Cheadle is excellent, taking over the Rhodey Rhodes role from Terrance Howard. Rockwell oozes sleaze (in a good way) and plays the snob like he’s having a blast. And Rourke…well, he’s pretty much just Mickey Rourke with a Russian accent, and that’s just fine with me.
If it seems like I’m double talking with my dual criticisms and praises of this flick, I do apologize, but I really did have a blast while seeing some very noticeable flaws at the same time. “Iron Man 2” is one of the best blockbusters we’re likely to see in 2010. It’s funny, it’s cool, it’s action-packed, everything you want for popcorn cinema bliss. But it’s also muddled, stiff, and tries to force too many elements into too little time. If there’s an “Iron Man 3” (and come, you know there will be), Marvel Films needs to take a cue from Tony Stark and his magnificent suit. Streamline it.
Matt’s Call: It doesn’t beat the original, but it’s still worth seeing (several times, if you like). Take the whole family, buy a lot of popcorn, and take in all the cool. Oh, and stay for the credits. I was shocked at how many people were walking out. It’s a Marvel flick, folks. There’s a coda. Stick around.
Monday, September 27, 2010
New on DVD: "Get Him to the Greek."
 |
| Russell Brand and Jonah Hill run from Diddy after a Biggie Smalls joke in very poor taste. |
Get Him to the Greek drops on DVD tomorrow. Though the year isn't over yet, it's the flick that's made me laugh the hardest thus far in 2010. Here's my original review from The Huntsville Item.
Get Him to the Greek is a rock 'n' roll riot.
Most of you out there probably know Russell Brand as “that guy from ‘Forgetting Sarah Marshall,’” or “that guy from ‘Bedtime Stories,’” or perhaps even “that guy who’s engaged to Katy Perry.” Don’t feel bad. You’re in the same boat as most Americans.
While he’s just beginning to make a dent on our side of the pond, in his native United Kingdom Brand is a megastar, known as much for his sharp yet raunchy wit as for his reputation as the top “shagger” in all of Britain. He’s a blend of a Sid Vicious and Monty Python, a comic rock star whose humour (yes, I spelled it the English way) is even more bizarre than his haircut.
And, wonder of wonders, the guy is actually talented. His standup is hilarious, his talk show persona is simultaneously charming and scandalous, and he can actually act, and nowhere is there better evidence than “Get Him to the Greek,” the latest product of comedy factory Apatow Productions starring Brand and Apatow veteran Jonah Hill (“Superbad”).
The film begins with background on the very public, drug-laced downfall of rocker Aldous Snow (Brand reprising his “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” character), who, after releasing a highly offensive album and single called “African Child,” has fallen off the sobriety wagon, lost his girlfriend of seven years (who also now has custody of his son) and descended into the land of the has been.
Meanwhile, low level record label grunt Aaron Green (Hill) is looking for a big break that will impress his boss Sergio Roma (Sean “Puffy Puff Daddy P.Diddy Diddy then P.Diddy again” Combs). He lands the chance of a lifetime when his idea to book Aldous Snow in a 10th anniversary performance of his “Live at the Greek Theatre” album is well-received. Impressed with his creativity, Sergio assigns Aaron a task: go to London, pick up Snow, and get him back to Los Angeles within 72 hours for the show.
What follows is a strange odyssey of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll that reveals both Snow’s inner demons and Aaron’s bevy of insecurities while making you laugh until it hurts.
“Get Him to the Greek” is just as outrageous, just as wrong (in a good way) and just as flat out hilarious as the trailers would have you believe. It’s also refreshingly brash, and there’s no attempt at all to disguise either the excess or the strange breed of loneliness that follows rock stars through their lives. Aaron finds himself catapulted into a strange world of furry walls, all night cocktails and airheaded women, all while his girlfriend (Elisabeth Moss) sits at home and wonders what he’s up to.
Meanwhile, Snow spends his few quiet moments pining for the life he once had, all the while fighting to keep his rockstar surface nice and glossy. It’s not Shakespeare, to be sure, but the little moments in between the big laughs make the characters feel more human, lending this flick an emotionality that so many raunchy comedies are painfully lacking these days.
The flick is supposed to be a buddy movie, and it achieves that, but from the get-go Brand is stealing every scene. Hill sports his usual remarkable comic timing, but Brand is positively effortless, even in the deepest and darkest of Snow’s scenes. Before he was a comedian whose job in films was essentially to be funny to the tune of pre-written lines. Now, he’s an actor.
Apart from the hilarity and the dominant personalities helming the flick, it’s also just plain well-made. Director Nicholas Stoller (“Forgetting Sarah Marshall”) keeps it unpredictable, well-timed and even streamlined in comparison with many of the comedies out there. He’s also smart enough to know that comedies aren’t all about making us laugh; they’re also about reminding us why we’re laughing, about holding that mirror up and letting us know that there’s a human being somewhere in all those dirty jokes. It’s not perfect, but “Get Him to the Greek” does that better than any comedy I’ve seen in ages.
Matt’s Call: If you don’t like the raunch, don’t go see it. If you love to laugh, go see it. If you go see it just so you can complain about the raunch later, do the rest of us a favor and stay home for a bad sitcom on TBS. Oh, and remember Russell Brand’s name. He’s not done yet.
The "True Grit" trailer is up. My doubts are gone.
I'm not a remake guy, but I am a Coen Brothers guy, and so I have been approaching the news that they've been out to remake the legendary "True Grit" with a healthy dollop of hopeful trepidation.
But today, the teaser trailer for this bad boy blew up on me, and my only response was HOLY SHIT THE COEN BROTHERS RULE!
Of course I can't truly be sure until I see the flick in its entirety, but gospel music, guns, an amazing cast and the obligatory beautiful photography make it seem like the deal is sealed. December can't get here fast enough.
But today, the teaser trailer for this bad boy blew up on me, and my only response was HOLY SHIT THE COEN BROTHERS RULE!
Of course I can't truly be sure until I see the flick in its entirety, but gospel music, guns, an amazing cast and the obligatory beautiful photography make it seem like the deal is sealed. December can't get here fast enough.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Wine, Women and Sweat
The above title is the best I could muster for the moment. An alternate title was "Eat, Drink and Be Merry, for Tomorrow We Melt," but I thought that either too esoteric or off-putting. (If you haven't noticed yet, I tend to ramble when I write, some would argue in a slightly Dickensian manner. (Incidentally, did you know Dickens had a secret room in his house behind a bookshelf?) Did I just put a parenthetical passage inside of another parenthetical passage? Damn, I need help.)
I attended the Inaugural Houston Wine Fest in the gorgeous and remarkably un-pretentious Theatre District Saturday, and in spite of the gallons of sweat brought forth from my pores (This is Texas; Fall doesn't happen until Halloween.), it was a good time, though my view of that might have been skewed by the company I was keeping. Even the lamest (and sweatiest) of gatherings can be brightened by the companionship of someone lovely (Big sitcom-style "Awwwww" right here.). By the way, my companion's name is Kimberly. She's a librarian. She's beautiful and she's altogether amazing. She will be appearing periodically in the tales I spout here, and those are the only clues you get to her identity (Also, she's not a Kardashian, but I hope that would be self-evident).
Anyway, if I have a complaint about the HWF, it's that everything felt compressed. Not dull, not hurried, just compressed. The event was in Sam Houston Park, which is beautiful, but small, and half the place was still just open grass. When we came in we were given a wine-holding tote bag (which is awesome) and a complimentary souvenir tasting glass (which is also awesome). Because we bought the tickets through a promotion, we were also given 10 tickets for free tastes. By the end of the day, I was fighting to use them all.
Booths were clustered really close together, and half of them weren't even necessarily wine-related (there was a guy there trying to sell fencing). The international wine booth advertised wines from the U.S., France, Italy, Argentina, Australia and Spain, but often came up with only one wine per country, although that was the place where I discovered the frothy goodness that is Lambrusco (Italy).
The stars of the show were the Texas wineries, many of whom are relatively new, but all of which delivered tasty product (the ones we visited, anyway). Among these booths I enjoyed a spicy Sirah and a sweet Pinot Grigio, the latter of which took a slightly amusing hassle to get.
See, the booth that contained the Pinot Grigio was manned by a lady who, being a winery employee, thought it best to dictate the way I taste my wine. I'm not a wine expert. The most expertise I can profess on the topic, other than drinking something and saying "this is tasty, I'll have some more," or "this is not tasty, no thank you," is having seen the flick Sideways several times (Best Line: "You need to get your joint worked on, Miles."). But in spite of not being a wine expert, I think I've earned the ability to decide for myself what I'd like to taste and what I'd not like to taste, thank you very much. This woman disagreed. What followed was an amusing exchange.
I approached the booth, a little more friendly than usual, having just consumed a healthy dollop of very sweet Moscato.
"Hello," I said, smiling and turning my head slightly to showcase my handsomely-squared jaw (It's my story, and in my story I have a handsomely-squared jaw).
"What can I get for you?" she asked.
I looked down at the table in front of her. There were several open bottles of wine - some red, some white- fitted with pour spouts. At least two of them had their labels turned inward, making them unidentifiable.
"What do you have here?" I asked, my Superman-esque features gleaming.
"I've got everything," she said. "What do you like?"
My smile faded as I became very suspicious of the claim that she did, in fact, have everything. I looked back down at the bottles on the table, still curious as to what was written on the labels I couldn't read.
The Lady Who Has Everything smiled, caught my gaze, and did her best to pull it away from the mysterious bottles by asking still more questions about my taste.
"Do you like wine that's a little sweeter?" she asked.
"Sometimes," I replied. I do like wine that's a little sweeter, but I'm on a mission to try new things here, and it's easier to try new things if you know exactly what's new to you and what's not. I'm still in the dark at the moment.
"Well, do you want something sweeter?" she asked.
Had I been feeling snarky, my next question probably would have been "Sweeter in relation to what? Do you have a wine made from pure distilled Care Bear you're not telling me about?" I was not feeling snarky however, or even snide. I was feeling good, and therefore eager to just get some more wine in me. I craned my neck just enough to be able to read the label on one of the mystery bottles. It was a Pinot Grigio. I like Pinot Grigio, and having never tasted a Texas-made version, opted to try it.
"I'll have some of the Pinot Grigio," I said.
The lines behind us were long, the day hot, the choice made, but The Lady Who Has Everything still seemed intent on steering me in some mysterious direction.
"So you do like wine a little sweeter," she said. "Do you want to try something else?"
Again, snarky things could be said ("I want to try you re-enacting that scene from I Love Lucy where they stomp the grapes while I watch and eat cupcakes"), but my mood was good.
"I'll just try the Pinot Grigio," I repeated.
She complied, took my ticket and poured my taste (a rather small portion, even for a sample, if I do say so myself). When she moved on to Kimberly, she took a more direct path to what she'd been getting at all along.
"I'm going to pour some of this," she said, holding up the remaining mystery bottle. "You try it and tell me what you think."
"O...K," Kimberly said, unsure why she'd been suddenly thrust into this woman's unsuccessful sales pitch for a wine neither of us had yet heard anything about.
She poured a swallow from the mystery bottle for Kimberly. Kimberly tried it and said that it was good.
The woman nodded. "It's a little sweeter, right?"
Kimberly returned the nod. Neither of us were sure what this wine was supposed to be sweeter than.
"Now try some of the Pinot Grigio," the woman continued, and poured Kimberly a swallow of the wine I had opted for.
Kimberly also tasted this, and said that it was good.
At long last, after much circular rhetoric, the woman turned the mystery bottle around and showed us the label.
"This is our Pinelli," she said. "It's like Pinot Grigio, but it's a little sweeter."
We both nodded, though I think we were also both thinking that it would have been much easier for all involved if this woman had simply told us up front that the mystery wine was their Pinelli and that it was like Pinot Grigio, but sweeter.
Then she said something simple and seemingly helpful that really meant I know more about wine than either of you could ever hope to, so you should have listened to me all along and we wouldn't have had these problems.
"That's how you do a real tasting," she said.
We both smiled (though Kimberly probably smiled a good deal more sweetly than I did), walked away, enjoyed our Pinot Grigio and wondered why a small taste of wine (which was good, but far from earth-shattering) had to be so much trouble.
In the end, I left the festival with only one purchase. I stumbled upon a husband and wife team from La Grange who make their own mead and are very fortunate to have been gifted with the surname "Rohan."
Yes, Tolkien's horse lords of old were in the heart of Houston, and they were selling the honey-wine of the Northmen, both in its traditional form and with fruit added. I tasted the traditional mead (excellent), but opted to purchase a bottle of the blackberry mead (also excellent). I'm told they're also working on raspberry and orange meads, which I would eagerly purchase if given the opportunity. You can find out more about Rohan Meadery here.
I left Houston Wine Fest sweaty and tired, with mead in my bag, wine in my belly and an amusing story about a pushy wine saleswoman in my head. It was a successful journey. My only hope is that the festival is bigger, better, and cooler, next year.
I attended the Inaugural Houston Wine Fest in the gorgeous and remarkably un-pretentious Theatre District Saturday, and in spite of the gallons of sweat brought forth from my pores (This is Texas; Fall doesn't happen until Halloween.), it was a good time, though my view of that might have been skewed by the company I was keeping. Even the lamest (and sweatiest) of gatherings can be brightened by the companionship of someone lovely (Big sitcom-style "Awwwww" right here.). By the way, my companion's name is Kimberly. She's a librarian. She's beautiful and she's altogether amazing. She will be appearing periodically in the tales I spout here, and those are the only clues you get to her identity (Also, she's not a Kardashian, but I hope that would be self-evident).
Anyway, if I have a complaint about the HWF, it's that everything felt compressed. Not dull, not hurried, just compressed. The event was in Sam Houston Park, which is beautiful, but small, and half the place was still just open grass. When we came in we were given a wine-holding tote bag (which is awesome) and a complimentary souvenir tasting glass (which is also awesome). Because we bought the tickets through a promotion, we were also given 10 tickets for free tastes. By the end of the day, I was fighting to use them all.
Booths were clustered really close together, and half of them weren't even necessarily wine-related (there was a guy there trying to sell fencing). The international wine booth advertised wines from the U.S., France, Italy, Argentina, Australia and Spain, but often came up with only one wine per country, although that was the place where I discovered the frothy goodness that is Lambrusco (Italy).
The stars of the show were the Texas wineries, many of whom are relatively new, but all of which delivered tasty product (the ones we visited, anyway). Among these booths I enjoyed a spicy Sirah and a sweet Pinot Grigio, the latter of which took a slightly amusing hassle to get.
See, the booth that contained the Pinot Grigio was manned by a lady who, being a winery employee, thought it best to dictate the way I taste my wine. I'm not a wine expert. The most expertise I can profess on the topic, other than drinking something and saying "this is tasty, I'll have some more," or "this is not tasty, no thank you," is having seen the flick Sideways several times (Best Line: "You need to get your joint worked on, Miles."). But in spite of not being a wine expert, I think I've earned the ability to decide for myself what I'd like to taste and what I'd not like to taste, thank you very much. This woman disagreed. What followed was an amusing exchange.
I approached the booth, a little more friendly than usual, having just consumed a healthy dollop of very sweet Moscato.
"Hello," I said, smiling and turning my head slightly to showcase my handsomely-squared jaw (It's my story, and in my story I have a handsomely-squared jaw).
"What can I get for you?" she asked.
I looked down at the table in front of her. There were several open bottles of wine - some red, some white- fitted with pour spouts. At least two of them had their labels turned inward, making them unidentifiable.
"What do you have here?" I asked, my Superman-esque features gleaming.
"I've got everything," she said. "What do you like?"
My smile faded as I became very suspicious of the claim that she did, in fact, have everything. I looked back down at the bottles on the table, still curious as to what was written on the labels I couldn't read.
The Lady Who Has Everything smiled, caught my gaze, and did her best to pull it away from the mysterious bottles by asking still more questions about my taste.
"Do you like wine that's a little sweeter?" she asked.
"Sometimes," I replied. I do like wine that's a little sweeter, but I'm on a mission to try new things here, and it's easier to try new things if you know exactly what's new to you and what's not. I'm still in the dark at the moment.
"Well, do you want something sweeter?" she asked.
Had I been feeling snarky, my next question probably would have been "Sweeter in relation to what? Do you have a wine made from pure distilled Care Bear you're not telling me about?" I was not feeling snarky however, or even snide. I was feeling good, and therefore eager to just get some more wine in me. I craned my neck just enough to be able to read the label on one of the mystery bottles. It was a Pinot Grigio. I like Pinot Grigio, and having never tasted a Texas-made version, opted to try it.
"I'll have some of the Pinot Grigio," I said.
The lines behind us were long, the day hot, the choice made, but The Lady Who Has Everything still seemed intent on steering me in some mysterious direction.
"So you do like wine a little sweeter," she said. "Do you want to try something else?"
Again, snarky things could be said ("I want to try you re-enacting that scene from I Love Lucy where they stomp the grapes while I watch and eat cupcakes"), but my mood was good.
"I'll just try the Pinot Grigio," I repeated.
She complied, took my ticket and poured my taste (a rather small portion, even for a sample, if I do say so myself). When she moved on to Kimberly, she took a more direct path to what she'd been getting at all along.
"I'm going to pour some of this," she said, holding up the remaining mystery bottle. "You try it and tell me what you think."
"O...K," Kimberly said, unsure why she'd been suddenly thrust into this woman's unsuccessful sales pitch for a wine neither of us had yet heard anything about.
She poured a swallow from the mystery bottle for Kimberly. Kimberly tried it and said that it was good.
The woman nodded. "It's a little sweeter, right?"
Kimberly returned the nod. Neither of us were sure what this wine was supposed to be sweeter than.
"Now try some of the Pinot Grigio," the woman continued, and poured Kimberly a swallow of the wine I had opted for.
Kimberly also tasted this, and said that it was good.
At long last, after much circular rhetoric, the woman turned the mystery bottle around and showed us the label.
"This is our Pinelli," she said. "It's like Pinot Grigio, but it's a little sweeter."
We both nodded, though I think we were also both thinking that it would have been much easier for all involved if this woman had simply told us up front that the mystery wine was their Pinelli and that it was like Pinot Grigio, but sweeter.
Then she said something simple and seemingly helpful that really meant I know more about wine than either of you could ever hope to, so you should have listened to me all along and we wouldn't have had these problems.
"That's how you do a real tasting," she said.
We both smiled (though Kimberly probably smiled a good deal more sweetly than I did), walked away, enjoyed our Pinot Grigio and wondered why a small taste of wine (which was good, but far from earth-shattering) had to be so much trouble.
In the end, I left the festival with only one purchase. I stumbled upon a husband and wife team from La Grange who make their own mead and are very fortunate to have been gifted with the surname "Rohan."
Yes, Tolkien's horse lords of old were in the heart of Houston, and they were selling the honey-wine of the Northmen, both in its traditional form and with fruit added. I tasted the traditional mead (excellent), but opted to purchase a bottle of the blackberry mead (also excellent). I'm told they're also working on raspberry and orange meads, which I would eagerly purchase if given the opportunity. You can find out more about Rohan Meadery here.
I left Houston Wine Fest sweaty and tired, with mead in my bag, wine in my belly and an amusing story about a pushy wine saleswoman in my head. It was a successful journey. My only hope is that the festival is bigger, better, and cooler, next year.
Friday, September 24, 2010
The 80s-Tastic Moment of the Week [John Hughes knew how to empower kids.]
Author's Note: I'm obsessed with pop culture in general, but there's something about 80s pop culture that really puts the boom-boom into my heart. I was born in 1986, so I have no idea where it came from, but I've learned to roll with it through years of retro movie watching and "I Love the 80s" marathons. Every Friday at A Walrus Darkly you can stop by and see an 80s tidbit that I find amusing. Might be a music video, might be a movie moment, might even be a commercial (My Buddy!), but it will always be 80s-Tastic.
Everybody knows that in the 80s, if you were stuck in detention and wanted to declare yourself in rebellion from the constraints of the social institutions that had labeled you a high school archetype, all you had to do was break out some tunes and dance with people you previously disliked. Here's the best example of this phenomena, in John Hughes' The Breakfast Club.
The Brain, The Athlete, The Basket Case, The Princess and The Criminal are grooving to Karla DeVito's "We Are Not Alone" (and if that's the only thing you gain from reading this, so be it). And please don't think I'm making fun here. The Breakfast Club may well be in my Top 10 films of all time, and among the many reasons for that are this very scene. Plus, if you didn't have one already, by the end of this clip you'll have a crush on Molly Ringwald circa 1985. Also, don't feel sorry for Emilio Estevez and his lack of dancing skills. Things worked out OK for him. He went on to coach a very successful fictional hockey team, and he's not Charlie Sheen.
Everybody knows that in the 80s, if you were stuck in detention and wanted to declare yourself in rebellion from the constraints of the social institutions that had labeled you a high school archetype, all you had to do was break out some tunes and dance with people you previously disliked. Here's the best example of this phenomena, in John Hughes' The Breakfast Club.
The Brain, The Athlete, The Basket Case, The Princess and The Criminal are grooving to Karla DeVito's "We Are Not Alone" (and if that's the only thing you gain from reading this, so be it). And please don't think I'm making fun here. The Breakfast Club may well be in my Top 10 films of all time, and among the many reasons for that are this very scene. Plus, if you didn't have one already, by the end of this clip you'll have a crush on Molly Ringwald circa 1985. Also, don't feel sorry for Emilio Estevez and his lack of dancing skills. Things worked out OK for him. He went on to coach a very successful fictional hockey team, and he's not Charlie Sheen.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
'The Town' doesn't quite finish the job
I’m a rabid consumer of crime fiction. I’m not talking about detective fiction here, or psychological thrillers, or gangster films. Those are all in their own league, as far as I’m concerned.
I’m talking about stories that pit cop against robber without ever making you question who is who, stories that put you smack-dab in the living rooms of cold-blooded crooks and killers, stories that let you explore that world without a sense of moral or emotional limit.
It’s not that I harbor some secret desire to be a criminal; it’s just that I’m fascinated by the code those people live by. Crooks are people too, after all, whether we like or not, and each of them has their own justification for why they do what they do. Crime fiction, when it’s really good, can be boiled down to one simple principle: “The villain is the hero of his own story.”
In “The Town,” Ben Affleck’s sophomore film as a director (following up the acclaimed “Gone Baby Gone”), we get a first class ticket to Charlestown, a Boston neighborhood that has purportedly spawned more bank robbers and armored car thieves than any other place in the world, and an inside view of the lives of a group of Townie crooks.
Doug (Affleck) is the ringleader of a quartet of robbers who have just hit a major Boston bank. After his best friend and cohort Jim (Jeremy Renner) bashes in the skull of a bank employee during the job, the gang decides to temporarily abduct the bank’s manager, Claire (Rebecca Hall), as possible collateral. They make a clean getaway and Claire is dropped, unharmed, at a Boston beach.
In the wake of the heist, FBI Special Agent Adam Frawley (Jon “Don Draper” Hamm) begins attempting to track down the gang, and turns to Claire as his star witness. Fearing imminent discovery, Doug begins keeping tabs on Claire, befriends her, and (…wait for it.) falls in love with her.
The rest of the film is a sprawling roller coaster of action, moral dilemmas and dark pasts, some of which resonates deeply, and some of which merely clangs. Affleck, who also co-wrote the screenplay, is doing his best to show us something profound about the Charlestown neighborhood, to show us something about why the young men there turn so readily to crime, something that ties into substance abuse, poverty, families with criminal histories and simple desperation. There are moments when this thematic treatise soars like a deeply insightful American novel. But many times, what begins as an introspective view into the life of someone who long ago lost their chance at redemption morphs into something trite, or hokey, or predictable, or all of the above. One could make the argument that many of the things I call predictable are simply hallmarks of the genre, but I know the genre too well to be fooled with that claim. Like westerns, sci-fi and epic romance, the originality of a crime piece lies not in the situations or the observations, but in the execution, and it’s here that “The Town” could have used a little more fine tuning.
A good deal of that lack of fine-tuning, though, is masked over by a skilled cast. Affleck, buffer than ever, is remarkably subdued and strong. Hall is a gem, Hamm achieves the tough cop persona without pretending he’s an action hero, and even Blake “Gossip Girl” lively grunges up admirably as Doug’s on again, off again flame.
As in his previous screenwriting effort, the wonderful “Good Will Hunting,” Affleck and his cohorts deliver skilled characterization. Most of the chief players here are well-sculpted, but as with the development of the flick’s themes, the development of motivations becomes muddled amid all the gunfire and shriveled nun masks. There are moments where the nail is hit on the head, but in between are a plethora of almost moments. The brutality of Renner’s character is almost logical. The decisions of the heroine are almost justifiable. The denouement of Doug’s journey through a personal hell is almost moving. Most of the time what you get from “The Town” is enough, but running through the whole thing is a film that was almost great, like a heist with a broken down getaway car.
Matt’s Call: It’s a good film, a thrilling film, and in some ways even a touching film, but “The Town” seems at times like it doesn’t know what it is. Crime films can be balls to the wall, wrecking crew blasts, and they can be twisted, violent morality plays, but when you try to make them both, you’re almost always going to be chasing something you can’t catch.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
A cinematic leap for the DC Universe
DC Comics announced Tuesday that they will be splitting their forces, placing their multi-media team (i.e. filmmaking) on the west coast while keeping their publishing wing squarely in the heart of Metropolis.
I read about this courtesy of the blogomancers at io9.com, and you can read what they have to say about it here.
What this means for DC films is something still left for guessing, as their upcoming superhero film lineup (which, we hope, will include Christopher Nolan's next Batman film, a Wonder Woman film and a Superman reboot) has yet to be fully announced. Short of the Green Lantern looming on the horizon, we don't have much to go on.
What I hope for more than anything, though, is an increased output. I'm a DC man, largely because I'm a Batman fan (Nothing against Marvel, there, True Believers. Spidey's cool and all, but, come on....BATMAN!), and I'd love to see more of the characters among that half of the Eternal Comics Duel come to light. We're finally getting Green Lantern on the big screen, yes, but where are the reliable adaptations of The Flash, Captain Marvel, Martian Manhunter, Green Arrow (Would an Aquaman movie really be so bad? Don't answer that.) or even the whole glory of the JLA at its finest? Maybe dividing and conquering means we'll finally get those up on screen (And for the love of God, can we make a good John Constantine movie?).
Marvel's done wonderful things in the last three years; gathering their forces, marshalling their stories into one massive geek steamroller of ambition and energy. I mean, who didn't flip their lid at that nerdgasm-inducing photo of The Avengers cast? But DC is not Marvel, and this is where we could run into trouble.
Marvel has always thrived on the hugeness of its projects. Civil War, Secret Invasion, Saga of the Phoenix, etc. And cinematically we've got the ever growing linked universe to consider that began in Iron Man and The Incredible Hulk and will hit its apex when Joss Whedon rolls out The Avengers in 2011. Marvel is all about big and bold and, well...MARVEL-ous.
DC can do well with big and bold (see books like Justice and Kingdom Come if you don't believe me), but when DC attempts to transpose that bigness to film, at least in terms of bells and whistles thrown at the screen, the results have been mediocre (Superman Returns) or even dismal (nipples on the Batsuit). No, DC is at its best when the films are focused on the epic intraversion of its heroes. Stan Lee had a formula for Marvel heroes, and it's a formula that works very well with what Marvel's got going at the multiplex. Transpose that same formula to DC, however, and you've got a muddy juxtaposition of ideas that feels more like parody than good cinema.
I want DC's cinematic wing to grow. Hell, I want it to explode. I also want it to still feel like DC is at the wheel. The next two years will tell the tale.
P.S.: If you clicked the io9.com link, poke around on that site some more. They've built a wonderful little Nerdvana over there, including a current poll pitting various cinematic and literary mad scientists one against the other.
Of Fist Bumps and Douchebags
The laughmeisters at Cyanide and Happiness are pontificating today on fist bumps and what they mean to you.
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
I'm not sure I agree that these are mutually exclusive. I've seen a lot of tools who fist (bump), but I would pose the caveat that you're really only a tool BECAUSE you fist bump if you learned it from watching Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby.
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
I'm not sure I agree that these are mutually exclusive. I've seen a lot of tools who fist (bump), but I would pose the caveat that you're really only a tool BECAUSE you fist bump if you learned it from watching Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby.
New on DVD: 'Robin Hood.' I think I preferred the one with the talking rooster.
Robin Hood, Ridley Scott's retelling of the legendary English outlaw's origin story, drops on DVD and BD today. I saw the film back in May when it was released, and I was unimpressed, so unimpressed that I don't even think an appearance by a villainous Alan Rickman could have saved it (though it never hurts). Here's my original review from the May 20 edition of The Huntsville Item.
Robin Hood misses the bulls-eye
It probably seems like a cop-out to you for me to put an archery joke right up there in the headline when we’re talking about Robin Hood, the great archer of English legend. It is a cop-out, a blatant one, but it probably brought a smile to your face nonetheless.
Speaking of cop-outs, let’s talk about “Robin Hood,” the new film by director Ridley Scott that purports to tell the story of how the legend of the outlaw began. I was excited about “Robin Hood,” largely because it taps into that oh-so-underexposed field of the medieval epic, something Hollywood has largely forgotten unless it involves wizards and dragons.
This flick excited me mostly because I’m a medieval history geek, but also because Scott has trodden that ground successfully before. His mega-epic “Kingdom of Heaven” (2005), a highly underrated film, is one of the best examples of what a great director can do with a solid cast, a ton of money and boatload of swords. For “Robin Hood,” Scott teams up yet again with his favorite star, Russell Crowe, (they’re best known for their collaboration on “Gladiator,” for which both won a boatload of acclaim) and adds the resplendent Cate Blanchett (“Elizabeth: The Golden Age”) and villain extraordinaire Mark Strong (“Sherlock Holmes”) to the mix. Swords, a strong cast and a wonderfully historic backdrop: how could he lose?
Where do I begin?
It’s the turn of the 12th century, and an English archer named Robin Longstride (Crowe) is making his way back to his homeland after a 10 year crusade in the army of King Richard the Lionheart (Danny Huston). When Richard is unexpectedly killed during the siege of a French castle, the kingdom is thrown into uproar as his spoiled brother John (Oscar Isaac) works to consolidate his newfound power and the devious Lord Godfrey (Mark Strong) seeks to find power of his own by helping the French king land on English shores and seize the kingdom.
When Robin unexpectedly takes possession of a sword belonging to a recently deceased nobleman of Nottingham, he opts to return to the sword to the nobleman’s family, where he meets the beautiful Marion of Loxley (Blanchett), newly-widowed and trying to find a way to pay fealty to the king even as the church is making off with all of her seed for the next planting season. As the powers that be close in, Robin transforms from lowly archer to fearless leader, and begins his crusade of robbing from the rich to give to the poor.
All the pieces are here for why Robin Longstride becomes Robin Hood, right down to the appearances of Little John and Friar Tuck, but it all seems forced, not unlike a bad date you want so terribly to be good. Robin Hood is a character so universally recognized that you find yourself almost squinting at the screen in the hope that you might in some way recognize what’s happening, but it all keeps coming up short.
The biggest reason for the film’s unpleasantly skewed feeling is the characterization. Scott and screenwriter Brian Helgeland (“Green Zone”) seem to forget that they’re dealing with people rather than chess pieces they can simply move into place across their dashing English landscape. When we meet Robin, he’s an opportunist, and for much of the film’s first two acts he’s doing his best to make himself rich, and then suddenly he’s doing his best to make everyone else happy. He seems to go from selfish to selfless faster than you can say “Cate Blanchett is really pretty.” As for why, it’s never really explored. Something to do with a motto on the sword, I think, but honestly I was on the verge of dozing off by that point. In movies, lack of heart equals lack of energy, and that leads to lack of investment from your viewer.
Still, I have to give Scott props as always for a stellar visual style. The film’s look is truly epic, from castle siege to beach assaults. It’s not “Kingdom of Heaven” epic, but it’ll do, and it’s more proof that when it comes to action camerawork, Scott is not one to be trifled with.
None of that matters when the characters start speaking though, and much of the film’s lack of heart that I was talking about a moment ago stems from the fact that everyone seems to be going through a series of very archetypal motions. Crowe is the lonely hero looking for his place in the world. Blanchett is the women in over her head trying to appear that she’s not scared to death. Huston is the king who’s tired of being king. The only one who has any life at all is Isaac, who gives a brilliantly superior performance as John, stealing scenes from under Crowe’s nose with remarkable wit and charm (or maybe it just seemed remarkable in comparison to everyone else. Either way, it’s fun to watch.).
All of this is a really long way of saying that I wanted to like “Robin Hood.” I wanted to love it, wanted to relish in all the medieval glory thrown up on the screen. But, as they say, you can’t have glory without guts, and “Robin Hood” is, in a word, hollow.
Matt’s Call: If you must go, don’t expect much, and be prepared to take a bathroom break. Honestly, you’re better off finding other medieval fare on Netflix, or watching the Disney “Robin Hood.” At least it had a talking rooster.
Don't Ask What the Title Means
A Walrus Darkly is a phrase I cooked up five years ago when I needed an email address and I didn't want to just use my name. I have no explanation other than that.
I stuck with it because it amused me, and because it was a hard phrase for people to forget. God knows why.
I'm a nerd, more specifically a pop culture nerd, and I've long since stopped being sorry about it. I was the kid who was mocked because he knew the whole Pulp Fiction screenplay and could name all the Bond films in chronological order. I've since parlayed that mockery into a gig as a film reviewer and entertainment editor. My friends, many of them writers, have long-believed that my reviews could be a blog, but being a nerd, I have a short attention span, so writing solely about movies was always out of the question.
You will find posts about movies here. Lots of them. At least one per week, provided things keep going the way they are. But I want to go further than that. I want to write about comics, books, television, music. Why is my favorite Doctor David Tennant? Who would win in a space battle between an Imperial Star Destroyer and a Colonial Battlestar? Why am I a Batman geek? All these things and more, because this is my little corner of cyberspace and, like most writers, I have megalomaniacal tendencies.
We're going to talk about a lot of things here, and hopefully have a good deal of fun doing it. I've never been an organized writer, so I feel that in order to set a realistic goal, I have to say that I hope A Walrus Darkly will end up a sprawling, random, hysterical, not safe for work mess filled with things that some people call insight and other people call insanity. Yeah, that'll work.
On a slightly more practical note, I'm quite aware that the joint looks a bit Spartan right now, but it will grow into itself. I'm also aware that I'm either setting a very tall order or just being extremely vague about what I intend to do here. All I can really hope for is that I write about the things I care about in a voice that is genuine and enjoyable and wholly mine, and that if you can in some way relate to that voice, you'll stick around a while.
I stuck with it because it amused me, and because it was a hard phrase for people to forget. God knows why.
I'm a nerd, more specifically a pop culture nerd, and I've long since stopped being sorry about it. I was the kid who was mocked because he knew the whole Pulp Fiction screenplay and could name all the Bond films in chronological order. I've since parlayed that mockery into a gig as a film reviewer and entertainment editor. My friends, many of them writers, have long-believed that my reviews could be a blog, but being a nerd, I have a short attention span, so writing solely about movies was always out of the question.
You will find posts about movies here. Lots of them. At least one per week, provided things keep going the way they are. But I want to go further than that. I want to write about comics, books, television, music. Why is my favorite Doctor David Tennant? Who would win in a space battle between an Imperial Star Destroyer and a Colonial Battlestar? Why am I a Batman geek? All these things and more, because this is my little corner of cyberspace and, like most writers, I have megalomaniacal tendencies.
We're going to talk about a lot of things here, and hopefully have a good deal of fun doing it. I've never been an organized writer, so I feel that in order to set a realistic goal, I have to say that I hope A Walrus Darkly will end up a sprawling, random, hysterical, not safe for work mess filled with things that some people call insight and other people call insanity. Yeah, that'll work.
On a slightly more practical note, I'm quite aware that the joint looks a bit Spartan right now, but it will grow into itself. I'm also aware that I'm either setting a very tall order or just being extremely vague about what I intend to do here. All I can really hope for is that I write about the things I care about in a voice that is genuine and enjoyable and wholly mine, and that if you can in some way relate to that voice, you'll stick around a while.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)