Let It Snow, Man

When I was in the third grade, my class huddled into our classroom on a frosty December night. We were waiting to march single-file to the auditorium where we'd sing in our school's annual holiday concert. (Although I think back then they were still actually called Christmas Concerts.) To placate the rowdy group while we killed time, our teacher, Mrs. Handiwerk (I swear to Santa that was her real name) popped in a video.

I was expecting "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or "Frosty the Snowman" - you know, something with bright animation, maybe some songs, maybe some characters rendered out of clay, the usual Christmas kids movie stuff. What came on was The Snowman, a 1982 animated movie based on the popular children's book by British author/illustrator Raymond Briggs. Instead of bright, sparkling colors, I saw muted, gorgeous animation renderd out of colored pencil. Instead of "gee whiz!"-style Important Lessons, here was a children's movie entirely dialogue-free, accompanied only by beautifully haunted music by Howard Blake. And the only musical number was the ethereal "Walking In the Air," sung by a young man (Peter Auty, a St. Paul's Cathedral choirboy) with such a clear, high voice, I couldn't tell if it was a boy or girl.

For the next twenty-seven minutes, I, along with a few of my classmates, was hypnotized. The more hyper members of our group couldn't be bothered by such a subdued movie, but the budding, brooding little drama queen in me was instantly attracted to the story of a snowman who comes to life and takes the boy who made him flying around the world. It's cute and whimsical and somewhat melancholy, all of which, to me, perfectly sums up Christmas.

I'm not sure how I feel about someone uploading the entire movie to YouTube. I'm not saying you need a flat-screen plasma TV to appreciate it - obviously that wasn't the technology we were dealing with in 1989. But even a small, quiet movie like this doesn't work so well when viewed in the little YouTube box. But the movie is so good and, unlike other obscure Christmas movies that grew a cult-like fanbase into mainstream popularity (A Christmas Story), still without a sizable American audience (even though it was nominated for the Best Animated Short Oscar in 1983), that I'll share it however I can. Whether it's on a computer monitor or in your living room (or both), you should ideally be wrapped in a blanket with a mug of hot cocoa. (Not hot chocolate. Hot cocoa.) If you're watching this at work, counting down the minutes until you can get away for the upcoming holidays, that's okay, too. (In fact, the movie might help.)

This might very well be my last post of the year, so I thought I'd wrap up my second year of blogging with one of my favorite movies...



Also check out: A Scrubbed-Up Charlie Brown Christmas (and a Christmassy Update!)
And: Sexy and Seasonal.

Best Music of 2007

Okay, maybe these aren't the "best" from a critical viewpoint. These are just my favorites...which makes them the best. Because I am the best. So there.

Aaaaand here we go! (In no particular order...)

Prince - "F.U.N.K." Yes, Prince released a perfectly fine album, Planet Earth, earlier this year that no one noticed. But because he's Prince and can do whatever the hell he wants, he also released this digital-only single in November. "F.U.N.K." lives up to its all-caps title: this is a monster-sized, 7-and-a-half minute funk jam, kicking off with an appropriately monster-sized guitar riff, followed by punches of horns and Prince's helium voice and ending with his stream-of-conscious monologue over a piano. This is not just Prince how we love him, it's Prince loving what he's doing.

Rihanna - "Shut Up and Drive" I know, I know. "Umbrella" was her ubiquitous hit single this year, you couldn't go anywhere without the "ella, ella, ella" ringing either in someone's stereo or your head, it was No. 1, blah blah blah. I prefer the second single from her album Good Girl Gone Bad. It's three and a half minutes of such perfect, slick, cheesy, catchy, danceable pop, I couldn't ask for her or her producers to improve upon it in any way. (The boring, uncreative video, on the other hand...) If you haven't completely spazzed out to this in the middle of a club after four too many vodka lemonades...well, then you're obviously not me.

KT Tunstall - "Beauty of Uncertainty" Kelly Clarkson's "Irvine," from her battle-scarred new album, My December, is indeed a surprisingly mature, dark ballad from the young singer. But for a truly haunting, cinematic piece of music, Tunstall's "Beauty of Uncertainty," from her sohophomore album Drastic Fantastic, elicits goosebumps. Play this on your iPod when walking down a sidewalk lined with autumn leaves or through a peacefull nighttime snowfall. When her vocals start to stack and swirl at a climax both ethereal and gritty, you'll be surrounded by echoing layers of poetry.

Kelly Clarkon - "Irivine" Oh, who am I kidding? Put this song on the list, too! It's really fucking good!

Junior Senior - "Can I Get Get Get" Jesus Christ, this list needs to lighten up before it kills itself. Luckily, Danish duo Junior Senior finally released their sophomore album after it came out two years ago in Japan. Lead single "Can I Get Get Get" combines not only their love for repetition but the slinky synths and guitars that make you want to clap your hands to the, well, synthesized handclaps. Whatever you want, yes you can can can.

Of Montreal - "Gronlandic Edit" If you like dancing to completely depressing songs about isolation and existentialism, then "Gronlandic Edit" is for you! The indie band comes up with a strangely danceable pop song with unending harmonies bursting like sunbeams in a prism while questioning the usual pop quandries like death and religion and beauty and stuff. Nerds like to dance, too, you know!

Feist - "My Moon My Man" If you want more sexy, moody indie pop, this highlight from iPod Nano superstar Feist is a must for you. In the video, when Feist breathily croons "Take it slow, take it easy on me" while seducing you with her sexy trenchcoat and military marching in an airport, you know she can handle the exact opposite. And how cute it is that, for someone who's album, The Remainder, is mostly ballads, she loves full-out choreography in her videos?

Grace Potter & The Nocturnals - "Mastermind" A while ago, I posted a query concerning the lack of new female rock stars. This year, I found at least one answer in Grace Potter & the Nocturnals. Not only does This Is Somewhere rock more often than not, they're even better live (the album doesn't actually capture just how good they can be, but hopefully the next one will). On this rocking, rollicking hightlight, Potter lays out the recipe for...enlightenment? Peace? Not sure, exactly. But when she belts out "1 part sugar, 2 parts feeling, 3 cups full of bottled lightning," you'll want to whip up a big batch of whatever she's cooking.

Mika - "Grace Kelly" With "Grace Kelly," Mika burst onto the scene with his flamboyant musicality and ambiguous sexuality. Even though he appeared on the cover of Out and sings songs about married men falling in love with men, he refused to reveal whether or not he's gay. (Ooh, the suspense!) So even if his personality is a little annoying, "Grace Kelly" is such a strangely giddy song about professional rejection you can't help but bop your head along. Even Stephen King likes it! And trust me, that man is fickle.

Office - "Oh My" If you prefer your pop with a dollop of rock, then buzzed indie band Office should probably be on your list. (Full disclosure, the owners for the magazine I write for also manage this band.) They not only finally released a full-length album, A Night at the Ritz, but a hilarious video for lead single "Oh My" where they spliced footage of themselves in with 80's porn (totally safe for work). I love the pounding drums and shimmering synths. Thank you, Office, for making it okay to dance at rock shows in Chicago!

Andrew Bird - "Imitosis" And then there's Andrew Bird, making it okay to scratch your chin philosophically at rock shows as you question life, love, relationships and the glockenspiel. Seriously, Bird plays so many instruments that it was only a matter of time before the glockenspiel made its way into his music. (Can you tell I love the word "glockenspiel?" It's second only to "smorgasboard.") As you can see in this live footage, Bird uses recording equipment to layer all the music right there in front of the crowd, each plunked violin string stacked on top of the next. The end result is a sad, quirky little number that gives you an idea of the musicality, melody and moods found on Armchair Apocrypha.

The Attorneys - "On A Whim" Another indie band with an ear for actual musicality, The Attorneys will hopefully release the video for this song soon. (One of the band members, John, actually emailed me when he saw on my blog that I was listening to their album, Stereocracy, and told me a video was in the works.) When I heard this pop/rock gem with the whimsical flourishes like a slide whistle, I was like, why don't I hear more music like this? The album is full of various influences, from Elvis Costello to Queen, but William Ryan George's incredibly strong, expressive voice carries you through the whole experience. It looks like they may change their name to Flying Machines, but whatever they're called, Stereocracy was unlike any other rock record I bought this year.

Amy Winehouse - "Me and Mr. Jones" You really couldn't get away from all the press regarding Winehouse's self-destructive behavior and relationship, but luckily all that hype actually serves a fantastic album (unlike other mediocre pop stars always hogging the pages of Us Weekly). Producer Mark Ronson updates Phil Spector's Wall of Sound for our generation, clearly honoring his sources without sounding derivative. But this show is all Winehouse, from her rich, cabernet voice to her seasoned songwriting. Sure, "Rehab" was a bigger hit and "Back to Black" is both beautiful and chilling, but "Me and Mr. Jones" really shows off Winehouse for the funny, sexy, crass, defiant, difficult creature she is. Hopefully she survives long enough to produce another album like Back to Black, one of the best of the year.

I think 13 is a good number to end, don't you? No? Oh, well then, here are some runner-ups I didn't feel like writing a whole damn essay about.

Britney Spears - "Toy Soldier" Easily the hottest song on Blackout.

Justice - "D.A.N.C.E." One of the biggest dance songs of the year, with a video to match.

The View - "Same Jeans" God, the way Scottish men role their r's is cute. So it this little anti-snob anthem.

Mark Ronson featuring Daniel Merriweather - "Stop Me" Ronson's own music doesn't get nearly as much exposure as the artists he produces (Winehouse, Joss Stone, etc.), but this cover of The Cure should have changed that.

James Morrison - "Pieces Don't Fit Anymore" More British blue-eyed soul (again: Winehouse, Stone, etc.), but Morrison has the goods: lyrics, music, smoky voice and timeless songs like this heartbroken ballad.

The Bird and the Bee - "Again & Again" One of my favorite records this year was from this indie duo. It's light, ethereal and, strangely enough, funny synth pop. While "Again & Again" isn't quite as good as "Fucking Boyfriend," there was no good video/audio of the latter, so the former (with lyrics like "say my name, say my name, say my stupid name") will have to do.

Okay, now we're done. Thanks, 2007, for filling my days with enough sonic goodness to crowd out the endless crap record companies insist on calling music.

Also check out: Top Five Art Moments of 2007.
And: Get Get Get Your Party Party On On.

Top Five Art Moments of 2007

Yes, I'm doing my own Best Of lists. Future posts might include such classic gems as "Best Music of 2007," "Best Books of 2007" and "Best Amy Sedaris Quotes of 2007." Yes, you're going to enjoy them, and that's that. Don't give me that attitude or we'll turn this blog right around and go home.

That's better. On to the not-at-all-comprehensive recollections of a totally amateur yet enthusiastic art seer/goer/observer/taker-in-er!

My year in art started at the Museum of Modern Art's Richard Serra exhibit, Sculpture: Forty Years in June. (I know, my "year in art" didn't start until halfway through - see "amateur" comment in previous paragraph.) As the title implies, this was a comprehensive survey of the artist. Serra's smaller sculptures seem to flout gravity and physics, making heavy metals seem as light as a penny and fragile as glass. But the real story is Serra's work with sheet metal. Huge, sprawling slabs are erected in swirling, angled mazes that, again, seemingly defy the laws of nature. As you walk through the twisting halls, your own sense of balance becomes compromised. This isn't art that forces the audience to question or engage with their relationship to it - this is art that will literally get inside your head, flicking your equilibrium like a light switch, as if reminding the materialistic modern world to appreciate and be awed by its powerful industrial roots.

I missed MoMa's Jeff Wall exhibit by about three weeks, so I was glad to catch it when it showed up at the Art Institute of Chicago. Wall's large, back-lit, incredibly detailed photographs often look candid but many are in fact staged, employing casts, crews and special effects. While some seem genuinely spontaneous, like Mimic, and some stretch the suspension of disbelief while still looking downright cool (for lack of a better word [and why shouldn't "cool" be good enough a word to describe art, anyway?]), like Milk, pictured above, in some the artist insinuates himself to the forefront. Sure, The Flooded Grave, pictured left, looks great, with its open grave filled with sealife, but you can't help noticing the falsity of the moment. Is that the point? Even more distracting is the inconsistent seams that appear through the exhibit in Wall's larger, panoramic works. Some had clearly visible seams, some didn't. Were they unintentional? Or just more of Wall making us question not just the art itself, but the process of how he created it? (As opposed to say, Barry Frydlender, exhibited at MoMa at the same time as Serra. Frydlender's large, digitally composited photographs were perfectly seamless.) Worthwhile questions, to be sure - I still haven't figured out how I feel about it all. Like filling, stick-to-your-ribs food, this is stick-to-your-mind art, provocative not just for the (often beautiful) end product, but the means Wall used to get there.

In a stroke of a good luck, another photographer, Richard Misrach, was showing at the AIC at the same time as Wall. The AIC was the first museum to collect 20 of Misrach's beach-themed photographs into an exhibit that began a two-year tour. On the Beach showcased large, color photographs of seaside portraits, with the photographer somehow magically floating above the scenes at incredible heights like a voyeuristic angel. The photos often have no horizon and just one or two people either on the sand or floating in the water, presenting a beautiful, strangely peaceful post-apocalyptic (post-9/11?) world. Walking through the narrow halls of the AIC's basement, surrounded by Misrach's expansive shots of endless waves of water, it was serene, melancholy and creepy all at the same time.

On a cold November evening, my friend Laura and I hopped over to the River East Arts Center for Red Bull's The Art of Can exhibit. Yes, you read that right. Red Bull, the liquid crack of energy drinks, hosted a touring art exhibit with sculptures primarily featuring - what else? - Red Bull cans. This appealed on numerous levels: using the Official Sponsor of Underagers, All-Night Ravers and Wannabe Playas to make pop art; the contrast of a cheesy, nasty-smelling, chemical-laden beverage and the occasionally beautiful art made out of its cans; and the potential awfulness of it all. High on a mixture of invigorating winter chills and numerous vodka and Red Bulls (smells like feet!) provided by the gallery, Laura and I toured the many attempts of making treasure out of trash. Some succeeded, like the hovering, fluid, mythic dragon, and some failed, like the uncreative flower-blooming-out-of-a-Red-Bull-can. (Seriously? That's all you could come up with?) These mostly small, shiny objects were like DIY toys - not all art has to take itself seriously, right? But we were the real winners, as where else could you get drunk enough to both enjoy product placement art and blatantly mock said art under the alibi of said drunkeness?

My year in art closed recently with a quick bus ride over to Western Exhibitions, a small studio space in an isolated Chicago warehouse. John Parot's Biological Exuberance, influenced by and named after Bruce Bagemhi's book documenting gay behavior in animals, explores the mating rituals of modern gay men. Multimedia wall art featured cookie-cutter, mask-like faces (using the eyes and mouths from pictures of real-life models and porn stars cut out of magazines) playing out predator and prey roles. Floor installations group Diet Coke cans, whiskey and wine bottles and porn tapes, memorializing clichés that become even more interesting when tied to pink ropes attached to the wall, as if they're bait used to lure the unsuspecting. Most disturbing is Parot's use of color and 80's reference points: black paint drips down over Dead Can Dance and Velvet Underground paraphernalia and very 80's colors like hot pinks and electric blues, like how the death scare of AIDS began to overwhelm gay nightlife in the 80's. An interesting, if not entirely original, concept (human mating rituals mimic those found in nature) is served with a twist, if you will.

Okay, we made it! That wasn't too bad, was it? Everyone get out and take a bathroom break because we have a few more Best Of lists to go, coming up soon.

Also check out: Black and White and....
And: Blood, Boys and Bambinas.

Feedback on Janet Jackson's "Feedback"

Is there anyone who can disappoint us like our idols? Is it even fair to be disappointed if an artist's new work can't compare to her prime years? Should we just take her new work on its own terms, as a sign of where she is today as opposed to where we want her to be?

So many serious questions for just one new song, especially a song so desperate not to be taken seriously. Janet Jackson's newest single, "Feedback," from her upcoming album, Discipline, leaked online yesterday. (If you go to her new website, it starts playing automatically.) It's a funky, electro-pop club-banger with a music-as-sex metaphor. "Strum me like a guitar, blow up my amplifier," she demands. "Crank it up, give it to me some more...I want some feedback! Feedback!"

The song is getting understandably mixed reviews: It's hot, it'll be great in the clubs or for working out, finally Janet is competing with Britney and Rihanna for the dancefloor and the pop charts. Or: it's not hot, there's way too much vocoder, doesn't anyone actually sing anymore?, Janet shouldn't have to compete with Britney or Rihanna.

Both sides have a point. This is a hot song. Producer Rodney Jerkins gives it heavy percussion and some fat, juicy synths. This is what you want to hear at 2 a.m. when grinding on that stranger after too many rum and Cokes. But, at the same time, people expect more from Janet than just a modern yet generic dance song that sounds like a cast-off from Britney's Blackout. Jerkins, in his urge to put Janet back on the dancefloor, was too eager to make sure Janet's doing what everyone else is doing. He forgot he was working with Janet motherfuckin' Jackson. Janet's sound has never been especially trendy. Listening to Rhythm Nation 1814 or The Velvet Rope doesn't illuminate the musical landscape of their times, it just illuminates what Janet was doing at the time (and what her longtime producers Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis were doing to complement it). "Feedback" just tells us that Jerkins picked a track he could have used for anyone - a good track, mind you - and gave it to Janet. (I'm also pretty sure he wants the phrase "feedback" to be 2008's "sexyback." We'll see.)

So what does "Feedback" tell us about where she is in her life now? Um, she still feels sexy. So, good for Janet, yawn for the rest of us. Wasn't it great when Janet had actually had something to say? She doesn't have the pipes of Mariah or the media manipulation skills of Madonna, but Janet used to actually have ideas and thoughts, some even tough or challenging for the normally superficial world of diva pop. In "Feedback," when the lyrics aren't generic, they're downright strange. "Flyer than a pelican"? I didn't know pelicans are fly. With those enlarged pouches underneath their breaks, I always thought of them as the deformed, goiter-afflicted cousin to the supa-dupa fly swan. And "my swag is serious, I'm heavy like a first-day period?" For real? Janet, it's called a Rough Draft. Just because you think it, or just because you write it down, does not mean it should make it to the Final Draft, you know? As you so directly demanded during an interlude in Rhythm Nation: Edit.

Looking ahead, what does "Feedback" tell us about the album? (Especially considering the title Discipline doesn't tell us anything.) Her strongest lead singles have always told us what to expect from their sources. 1986's "What Have You Done for Me Lately" gave us both the defiant young woman and Jam & Lewis' heavy beats that dominated Control. 1993's "That's the Way Love Goes" introduced the softer, warmer, sexier sounds on janet. And 2001's "All For You" revealed Janet's new post-depression, post-divorce liberation covered on All For You. So what should we get from "Feedback"'s ridiculous overuse of the vocoder - that Janet is so intent on objectifying herself that she's reduced herself to something barely human? Or that she and Jenkins are both lazy?

Also, now that Janet's signed with a new record label, her boyfriend Jermaine Dupri's Island Records, it will be interesting to see how they market her compare to Virgin, her previous label. Many fans were upset with how badly Virgin could screw up even a solid Janet record (only 3 singles from All For You?), but I'm not sure Dupri is objective enough to work his magic with his girlfriend the way he can with her competitor, Mariah Carey (Dupri engineered her major comeback a few years ago). Is "Feedback" the official first single from Discipline or are they just throwing it out there to whet fans' appetites and get some, well, feedback on Janet's new direction? It's still almost two months before the album actually drops on Feb. 26, 2008 and "Feedback" hasn't even been released to radio yet. Will there be a video? Will people be sick of it by the time they see her perform it again and again during her inevitable onslaught of media performances in February?

As for that new promo pic, seen here above: too much Photoshop, I'm over the bangs and the clothes? Like a hooker in A.I.: Kubrick up top, Spielberg on the bottom. The weird thing is, that sounds like I hate it. I don't. But again, like the entire booklet included with 20 Y.O., this is a pretty straightforward magazine editorial, not an iconic, memorable image for a new Janet Jackson album.

With "Feedback"'s futuristic (read: modern with an ego) sound and the plethora of new producers working on Discipline, it sounds like Janet's trying to step up her game. Here's hoping they're actually paying attention to "Feedback"'s feedback so they can make her flyer than a pelican, swan, pigeon, booby, or any other aviatic creature they find so strangely hip.

Also check out: Mag Hag Reviews the News.
And: What Do I Call Her if I'm Not Nasty?

A Scrubbed-Up Charlie Brown Christmas (and a Christmassy Update!)

So this is actually a few years old, I guess, but I just found it. The cast of Scrubs dubbed over and edited that perennial holiday classic, A Charlie Brown Christmas. At first it just seems pretty straight-forward, but then it gets sassy, raunchy, and downright perversive. I especially like the new, smooth-talking Schroeder, the flashbacks to Christmas parties past and the crowd's one-liners upon seeing Charlie Brown's pathetic tree. ("Time to deck the halls with your incompetence.") It probably helps to actually know the characters on the sitcom, but I don't and I still enjoyed it.



*UPDATE - Speaking of Christmas traditions being tampered with, did you know that in 1994 they made a sequel to the modern-day classic, A Christmas Story? They called it My Summer Story (ugh) with Charles Grodin (eh) as the dad, Mary Steenburgen (love!) as the mom and Kieran Culkin (wasn't he, like, 3 years old in 1994?) as Ralphie. Like A Christmas Story, this one is based on short stories by Jean Shepard. Unlike A Christmas Story, this one has not snowballed from obscure, cultish hit into mainstream popularity.

Wow, Hollywood, yet another reason to hate you.

Also check out: Sexy and Seasonal.
And: Multimedia Love.

Emmy, Enya. Enya, Emmy.

With little television or radio airplay to support it, actress Emmy Rossum quietly released her first album, Inside Out, this past October. You may know her from The Phantom of the Opera or The Day After Tomorrow or, based on the album's sales, browsing the bargain bin at Wal-Mart.

The strange thing isn't that a young, cute actress wanted a singing career. Remember the stunning vocal stylings of one Lindsay Lohan? Or Jennifer Love Hewitt? Or Raven Simone? The weird thing is that Rossum has been classically trained since she was, like, an embryo and yet she eschewed classical music in favor of what she calls "pop." Interesting, since she doesn't even have a very high opinion of pop right now. She told Glamour, "I'm so frustrated listening to the radio these days. There is so little emotional honesty" (which is way more blunt and interesting than anything she says in her songs, all of which she co-wrote). Her website even claims: "With a lush, sensual style, Emmy Rossum sings every note on her debut album." Wow! Every note? How far do they think pop has sunk for that to be an accomplishment for a singer?

So it's not Britney pop, or even Vanessa Carlton pop. Strangely enough, it's adult contemporary, lite-FM pop. There's a reason Amazon lists her album with Josh Groban and Celine Dion. You know how seven years ago, everyone was wondering if Britney or Christina would be the next Madonna? Well, climbing her way to the seat of a very lonely throne, Emmy might just be the next generation's Enya - pretty voice multiplied dozens of times in one song, musically competent, a little boring. (Of course, Enya's major hit, "Orinoco Flow," was so long ago, the next generation is like, "who?")

Just take a look at Emmy's first video, "Slow Me Down." Proving that even classy girls need to show a little skin, she rolls around on a bed and runs slow-motion-ly down the street. But there's no choreography, no sweat, no explicit sexual overtures. It's all youthful bewilderment about how she just wants someone to take her hand, slow her down and show her love. I like how, despite her sweet, girl-next-door vibe, it's all directed to just "someone." Not too picky there, eh? For someone so disdainful of the debased sensibilities of her contemporaries, Emmy is awfully nonchalant about anyone just reaching out and grabbing her. You know a hundred creepy basement boys are going to end up with restraining orders and be all, "well, she said 'anyone'."

Even stranger is that Emmy's first single is a capella (that means "with a tiny cape" for the musically disinclined). According to a press release, she recorded approximately 150 different (incredibly breathy) vocal lines for the song. Even with no music, the song still feels overproduced and metallic, like all the sharp edges were buffed and her vocal chords were shellacked with corn syrup. Still, it's definitely a different direction for a young, wannabe-pop star, especially one with such a low opinion of her musical context.

If she actually duets with either Dion or Groban, she could be huge. (Hell, even John Tesh would help at this point.) If not, she can at least take pride in knowing she sits on the most pristine throne in the Young Female Pop Singer universe. It just might also be the smallest, too.

Also check out: It's Britney's (Inner) Bitch.
And: Why I Hate Hollywood.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes: Stephen King's The Mist

There have been a lot of films based on Stephen King's stories so odds are, since we're talking about Hollywood, most suck. But after 1990's Misery, filmmakers seem to have an especially hard time with King's horror stories. Dolores Clairborn and Needful Things had their moments, but that's about it. So, it's either surprising or extremely logical that it took the director of two of King's most well-respected non-horror adaptations (The Shawshank Redemption and The Green Mile) to finally rise to the challenge.

Frank Darabont's The Mist, an adaptation of King's short story of the same name from Skeleton Crew, starts with a thunderstorm forcing the inhabitants of a small Maine town to crowd into the local grocery store for supplies. Out of nowhere, a huge rolling fog descends from the nearby mountains and blankets the town. When large, slimy tentacles emerging from the mist slide under the loading dock's door and snatch the awkward teenage bagboy, the customers decide that maybe they should stay put for a while.

As fear consumes them, locals clash with out-of-towners, middle-class clashes with working-class, and the secular clash with the religious. The latter is led by Mrs. Carmody (Marcia Gay Harden), a mean, judgmental Bible-thumper who's status as the town crazy slowly ascends to leader as her apocalyptic predictions start coming true.

And how do they come true? Oh, well, because of the giant bugs that emerge from the mist, of course. And the pterodactyl thingies that eat the bugs and break into the store. And the giant spiders that shoot deadly webs. And a giant, clawed squid/scorpion thing. And a giant thingy thing with six feet and tentacles and claws and other giant things. Yeah, needless to say, they're creatures not of this world (or my vocabulary). And the effects, not counting the first cartoon-ish attack from the tentacles, are mostly believable. The details on the bugs' and spiders' faces are so clear, you can practically see them viciously grinning before taking a chunk out of someone's spinal cord. And Darabont deftly maneuvers through the store during the creatures' attacks, making us aware of the actions and location of all the major characters without using the current, clichéd style of ADD-style jump-cuts.

Strangely, as fun and scary and gorey as the "monster movie" aspect of the film is, the real guts (if you will) is King's and Darabont's commentary on crowd dynamics. With a cast of sixty people stuck in one location, Darabont has a lot to deal with. As the situation goes from bad to worse, paranoia and desperation escalate. Their survival instincts turn from the beasts to each other. Cliques soon almost feel like tribes as allegiances switch and fractions grow and dwindle in both number and power. Early on, people think nothing of slapping or throwing canned peas at Mrs. Carmody (and Harden is so good and scary you'll want to as well). But, she keeps on keepin' on, and her preaching soon attracts more and more people desperate for answers.

On the other side is David (Thomas Jane), his five-year-old son, Billy, and an assortment of town oddballs and store staff. While David emerges as the early leader, Mrs. Carmody's influence outpaces his and soon her rabid crowd is throwing people outside as human sacrifices and demanding that Billy be next. While they're never explicitly described as atheists, David's group clearly doesn't agree with Mrs. C's viewpoint. It's as if Pat Robertson (dressed in cardigans and frumpy floral dresses) and Christopher Hitchens (suddenly both ruggedly muscular and sober) were battling inside a CVS and everyone was invited.

What's fascinating is, at first, the film seems to be taking sides. Religous lady = crazy. Easy, right? Yeah, a little too easy. Instead, David's actions, which Mrs. Carmody condemns as "hubris," often get him and others in serious trouble. Trying to save people only ends up with some getting killed for their efforts. On the other hand, at least the proactive ones are also the ones defending the store from attacks, unlike Mrs. C and her followers who stand around praying or pointing fingers (or, you know, sacrificing people to appease an angry God, which I guess is a sign of proactive tendencies).

Even better for a scary movie, Darabont, as the screenwriter, never overestimates the importance of an explanation. There are references to "The Arrowhead Project" that is taking place in a top-secret military compound in the mountains next to the town. A soldier who was stationed there finally admits that scientists tried to open a window to another dimension and...that's pretty much all we get. Since the characters don't know any more, neither do we. Explanations for scary stories are rarely satisfactory, since the answer either sucks out all the suspense (like in Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow), tidily overexplains (like many episodes of The X-Files) or feels lazy or even too over-the-top (King's own It).

The point isn't how the people got into their situation, the point is how they react once they're in it. And King obviously feels the same way as store assistant manager Ollie, who states, "As a species, we're fundamentally insane." If you take away communication systems and electricity, how long until we just lose it? If our lives are in danger, how quickly do we throw someone else in front of a giant man-eating beast?

To top it all off, Darabont tweaks King's original ending. Instead of King's mildly depressing ambiguity, Darabont goes full-out cruel (and, interestingly, it's against David and his posse, so who wins?). Without giving too much away, the twist at the end is so heart-wrenching, so balls-out vicious in its mocking of anything we originally took for courage (not to mention sound values, reasonable judgment calls and actual compassion) that I may hate Darabont.

Except for the fact that I love him. Because he infused a horror movie with topical religious debate with confidence (unlike The Reaping), post-9/11 paranoia with just enough distanced respect (unlike the War of the Worlds remake), heart-breaking emotional depth without schmaltzy clichés (unlike...well...how many horror flicks even attempt that?) and, most importantly, actual scares (unlike 99% of the rest of them), that I hope he gives up on the Oscar-winning dramas forever. Stephen King has written over 200 stories, including over 50 novels, so there's a lot left for Hollywood to screw up. Here's hoping Darabont is already saving another one right now.

Sexy and Seasonal

I realized that, not only is Britney's "Gimme More" a perfect dance-floor anthem, it might also have to be my Thanksgiving anthem. When I'm sitting in front of my empty plate, waiting for seconds, I might just have to start chanting "Gimme gimme more! Gimme more! Gimme gimme more!" What can I say? I'm a brat for sweet potatoes.

And just for the fun of it, some pics that popped up when I Google Image-d "Thanksgiving." I thought the title of this post would apply only to Britney's song, but I think the last pic nicely fits the theme, too.







Food porn is real, y'all.

(Thanks to Elephantitis of the Mind, Natalie Dee and GetSheila for the pics.)

Also check out: Kiwi, Tab and Turkey.
And: Multimedia Love.

Mag Hag Reviews the News

I'm such a follower of magazines that I could assemble a fort with all the piles around my apartment. Maybe I have already, but that's not the point. The point is that I kind of ignore them until I'm between books and then I go through my "magazine purge" to catch up. So I just thought I'd summarize some of the best and worst articles, issues and stories that have finally landed in my hands in the past few weeks.

The Advocate - September issue: Hey, did you know that Every. Single. Homosexual. in America is already planning on voting for Hilary Clinton? You didn't? Really? Me neither, until I read this cover story on The Hils. (Get it? Like "The Hills" but with less bleach!) I really wish someone would warn me what my peeps are planning for my future so I don't get my membership card revoked when I accidentally think for myself. I also wasn't aware that signing on for this whole "gay" thing included pre-determined presidential candidates. Sorry, Obama! See ya, Edwards! Nice knowing you...um...other guys! I can't wait for the mag to tell me what else is in my future: the jobs I'll choose, the cars I'll buy, the turkey I'll eat (well, that one will be true in like 3 days). It's so comforting to know that my glossy-paged future will show up on my doorstep twice a month.

Time - 10/15 issue: Great. Just as my love for yoga blossomed this past summer like a lotus flower in spandex, I find out from this Time article that 50 minutes of yoga burns as many calories as a 50 minute walk, or less than are in three Oreos. I wasn't getting into it because I thought it was the best cardiovascular exercise (like, say, checking on my Trader Joe's gingerbread spice cake in the oven - up! down! up! down!), but this is still disappointing.

Details - October issue: Hey, did you know that Brad Pitt has, like, four kids? Which makes him a dad?!?! Luckily, Details illuminates the mystery that is Lé Pitt with a full two-page profile that also includes such nuggets of trivia as: he has a new movie! He's "partners" with Angelina Jolie! He's a worldly do-gooder! Although I will say in their favor, since they're profiling probably the most photographed man on Earth, photographers have to become more creative in what they do with him (not that you can tell by the waxy cover shot, but whatevs). Lé Pitt has a huge spread where he's saturated, inverted, negative-d, overlapped and more. It doesn't quite top his Rolling Stone-cover-in-a-skirt from a few years back, but it shows effort, however schizophrenic it actually appears.

Also, I never quite understood their whole "Gay or _______" feature on the last page of every issue. Is it satirizing how much gay culture has seeped into the mainstream? Or the two were blurred to begin with? Well, apparently, I won't have to worry about that anymore. Details is quitting the four-year-old feature like an inconveniently misbehaved orphan.

The Economist - 11/3 issue: Holy shit! Did you know that there are 218 million laborers worldwide who are under the age of 14? I was kind of skimming through the cover story about religion when I came across a column about Gap and how the retailer found out one its subcontractors was using child labor (more info here). 218 million. That's crazy. A positive twist, however: "Rather than simply cutting off factories employing children, Gap imposes and enlightened form of punishment: it requires suppliers to stop using child workers and to provide them with school instead, while continuing to pay them regularly and guaranteeing them a job once they reach the legal age." Wow. Even if it is just a PR move, that's pretty great. Too bad their clothes still kind of suck.

Jet - 10/22 issue: Jermaine Dupri wrote his new book, Young, Rich, and Dangerous: The Making of a Music Mogul, because, as he says, "No one is giving these young kids a book to read about something they love nowadays." Which is pretty cool and probably true considering how huge music is as a common reference between people. However, I don't really care about Dupri. I do care about the fact that he's dating Janet Jackson. Whenever anyone asks her about marrying her long-time boyfriend, she does her shy shrug thing and is all "if he wants to" or "if it's supposed to happen." But the article, unlike others, also mentions that if she does, she'll be a stepmother! No one brings that up! Dupri has a 9-year-old daughter. Can you imagine Janet as a stepmother? That poor girl will need earplugs to sleep through Janet and Jermaine's sex-a-thons. And the eating habits she'll pick up? One day it will be waffles and ice cream, the next a single lettuce leaf. It's a good thing she's cute.

Out - November issue: Out has this kind of great article about how aging gay authors, after chronicling the post-Stonewall life, now tackle something many of them only hoped to experience after watching many of the friends succumb to AIDS: aging. It's interesting to see how writers from Andrew White to Felice Picano address the issue differently.

However, the article then kind of address the so-called ageism of gay culture. White complains that while aging straight guys like Hugh Hefner are surrounded by young, beautiful women, the same can't be said for Gore Vidal. I'm kind of over this argument. Hefner is an exception. Yes, there might be more May-December romances between straight older men and younger women but so what? For the most part, most twenty-something women are not attracted to sixty-something men, and if they are, it's not always for the most heart-tugging reasons. Relationships between young men and older women are even rarer, something proven by the necessity of the term "cougar." (It's such a novelty that our culture is only now getting around to nicknaming it.) Notice, too, he compares a porn king to an author. Is any elderly author, straight or gay, ever surrounded by scantily-clad groupies 24 hours a gay? If White wants to live with a gaggle of gym bunnies, then maybe he should start a porn mag like Hefner did.

But it's the hypocrisy behind White's statements (he's comphttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.giflained in other articles, too) that really bug me. As a 67-year-old man, he wants the attention of twenty-something men in bars because they're the most sexually attractive, right? So, if he thinks they're the most attractive, wouldn't they also find other twenty-something men the most attractive and not, say, sixty-something men? I mean, if White isn't even attracted to men his own age, why should I be? The kicker is that White does have a partner...twenty-five years his junior. Something tells me that if his aging isn't exactly graceful, it should at least be grateful.

There's so much more, but those are the facts and follies that caught my attention. Until next time, mag hag out! (Aaaand gross. I need a new sign-off.)

Also check out: 3 Reasons Why I Love Kelly Clarkson.
And: Why I Love The Onion.

The Preacher and the Teacher

Novels are dead! Readership is down! No one likes books!

The Virginia Quarterly Review had a very good essay a while back about how "the death of the novel" is an old cliché, so I won't opine here. I was, however, reminded of this for two reasons. First, I just finished Tom Perotta's latest novel, The Abstinence Teacher. And second, Camille Paglia, that lover of literature, that Amazon of the arts, declared in her most recent Salon column, "I don't care about any novels published after World War II." Say wha?

One of the supposed reasons for our country's supposedly declining interest in novels is our supposedly hyped-up attention spans. So, although she can devote an entire book to poetry, I guess it's no surprise that with her mile-a-minute mind and hectic life of teaching, public speaking and raising a son with her partner, Paglia might not have the attention span or time for novels. You'd think that our mosquito-on-speed lifestyles would actually make the usually shorter form of poetry more popular, but it has as much do with accessibility as with length.

Another alleged reason for the novel's alleged death is the medium's lack of relevance. Yet, major authors such as Jay McInerney and Don DeLillo both wrote "important" 9/11 novels, but did anyone besides their most rabid fans read them? I've heard people blame the fact that, even if a novel is tackling a relevant current event, novels by nature take so long to produce that the topic is already outdated by publication. But then, didn't audiences stay away from the two 9/11 movies (a medium generally considered more accessible), even with their great reviews and Oscar nominations, because it was too soon?

Tom Perotta seems to have found the right moment for his latest novel. After the evangelical Christian voting surge tipped the scales in the 2004 presidential election, Perotta told the New York Times he wanted to find out more about these people. Who are they, besides their religion? How did they organize for and respond so passionately to the election? He's tackling a current events issue with his usual, accessible, page-turning style.

Even better for Perotta, though the book is released three years after the fact (which isn't too shabby, actually), we're still in the middle of public religious debates - church vs. state, creationism vs. evolution, Project Runway vs. Top Chef (Bravo is my God), etc. Plus, the 2008 election is right around the corner and, even if religion doesn't play as big a role as in 2004, we still have supposedly progressive Democrat candidates who blame their religious upbringing for opposing gay marriage.

So this could have been a great time for a novelist, hot off the best-seller-turned-major-movie-adaptation Little Children, to explore religion's role in public lives. The Abstinence Teacher does just that...kind of sorta.

The story follows Tim, an ex-alcoholic/druggie/rocker turned born-again Christian. After his wife divorces him, Tim tries to stay clean, help raise his daughter (mostly by coaching her soccer games) and move on with his life thanks to the local church group, the Tabernacle of the Gospel Truth, and its leader, Pastor Dennis.

In the same "sleepy" suburb we have Ruth Ramsey, an atheist Sex Ed teacher who responds to a student's question about oral sex with a list of the STDs you can contract from it but finishes with "some people like it." Oopers! The Tabernacle hears of this and, even though they've only recently set up shop in the town, insist that the school teach abstinence instead. Caving to pressure and media scrutiny, the school officials agree and Ruth is forced to teach a curriculum she doesn't believe in.

When Ruth then witnesses Tim leading his soccer team in prayer after a big win, a team that includes both of their daughters, she creates even more of a public spectacle by grabbing her daughter and yelling at Tim. The two adults then begin a strange, interesting relationship, sometimes prickly, sometimes affectionate.

All of this is fine and good, with Perotta's usual astute observations and humor. Ruth imagines returning the Sex Ed curriculum back to her own: "In her mind, it played like a Hollywood movie, Michelle Pfeiffer standing before an audience of earnest, good-looking teenagers, rolling a condom onto a cucumber as triumphant music swelled in the background." A dated pop culture reference, sure, but appropriate for a forty-something woman.

The problem is that after luring the reader at first with multiple chapters about Ruth, Perotta clearly prefers writing about Tim. He devotes chapter after chapter to Tim's new marriage and his relationship with Pastor Dennis, slipping in one chapter here and there on Ruth. Isn't she the title character? Isn't this book supposed to be about her?

Also, even though Pastor Dennis is set up as Tim's spiritual guide and mentor, he's also almost the antagonist to Tim, constantly prodding him to behave against his natural instincts, to reject himself and find God. It's a complicated, tumultuous relationship. Again, Ruth doesn't fair as well. She's up against Joann Marlow, the beautiful, blonde abstinence advocate in heels and pearls who, in a presentation to the students regarding the new curriculum, makes abstinence seem both sexy and realistic. Even though Ruth and Joann have some tense, funny battles, Joann is nowhere near as realized as Ruth, Tim or even Pastor Dennis. Isn't she Ruth's foil? All we know is that she's religious and therefore a virgin. But considering Perotta devotes so much time to exploring the contradictions of human nature, is Joann who she says she is? And is it really so easy for her?

I wish that Ruth's story was as fleshed out as Tim's, but for Perotta to do that he would have had to give her an equally developed, sympathetic antagonist. It's telling that Perotta is able to humanize a character like Pastor Dennis. Dennis, after all, received his call from God while working as a top-notch, electronics-obsessed Best Buy employee. Perotta vividly draws the religious character who also happened to have lived in our mainstream, materialistic world. Joann, for all we know, has never had a spiritual crisis, never regretted a decision she's made, never doubted herself or, more importantly, her beliefs. Isn't that the person Perotta was trying to write about? Isn't her story of doubtless faith just as worthy (if maybe not as dramatic) as Dennis'? Perotta is usually so good at both satirizing and respecting his characters, he could have had a lot of fun and insight with her instead of just using her as a plot device. If he wanted to focus more on Tim, Pastor Dennis and both men's influence on their town, then maybe he should have called the book The Abstinence Preacher.

I'm not sure the book will be considered an important piece of "relevant" art - it's neither challening nor controversial, and probably won't be considered as anything more than a perfectly good book. Perotta gets all his usual details right - the stifling suburbia, the contrast between public personae and private doubts, the sacrifices necessary to live the way we think we should. I just wish he had been as curious about one of his most important characters as he said he was going to be. It's ironic that in a novel about abstinence-only education programs, he left out some of the most imporant stuff.

Also check out: Cradle to Tears.
And: Dear Filmmakers of The Road.

Blood, Boys and Bambinas

After breaking 2007's record for Most Posts in a Single Month (October. 9. Sad.), I have been largely absent from blogging due to crazy work hours and other writerly side projects. So, before I get to pop culture goodies that have been rattling around in my brain like so many Jawbreakers, here's a three-point update:

1) Spent any good time in an ER lately? Yeah, I have. On a Saturday night. Because I apparently swallowed glass or a thumbtack or a chainsaw or something. So my experience at the Illinois Masonic's ER is featured for a week at GapersBlock, a Chicago-themed website. Click here to read about blood-spattered equipment! Crazy patients! Communicating without cell phones! If you're still suffering from a post-Halloween hangover, consider this your literary hair of the dog.

2) November is also time for Reeling Film Festival, Chicago's 26th annual gay and lesbian film festival. I wrote about it for UR Chicago Magazine here and, after enjoying the opening night's film, Shelter, reviewed it here. Click on the links to read about sexy surfer boys! International gay scandals! And did I mention sexy surfer boys?!

3) In news that has nothing to do with me, Chicago, writing, or really anything already covered in this post, I recently found out that our Italian Culinary Princess, Miss Giada de Laurentiis, is pregnant! Food Network Musings has the scoop. Can you imagine Giada pregnant? Remember how, um, top-heavy Salma Hayek became during her pregnancy? Giada will be like the Italian equivalent. I hope she doesn't tip over. But it's very exciting news for her and her husband...as long as she's not lying. (Just kidding!) (Or am I?)

Enjoy these stories while I mentally upchuck the Jawbreaker ideas in my head onto paper. (Lovely image, eh? I think that time in the ER has kind of stayed with me.)

(And, P.S., I said "upchuck." I just thought I'd point that out.)

Also check out: UR Out. Seriously, You Are.
And: LOL @ NPR.

It's Britney's (Inner) Bitch

I so, so wanted to get this post up yesterday on Halloween because, really, what's scarier than the above image and all that it throws in your face? The bad wig, the bedazzled hat, the recycled picture with a bad hypnosis-meets-downward-spiral symbol, the title's threat (promise?) of a mental, physical or sonic blackout - it all screams "Boo!"

You know what's scarier than all of the above? The fact that I bought my first Britney album at the exact same moment that I could not be more sick of hearing her name. Embracing my inner trash-pop afficionado is one thing, giving money to an artist who will only spend it on Funions and sequined thongs is another.

I've been hesitant...no, completely uninterested, really, in buying Britney's earlier albums. The first 3 were clearly just crappy platforms for 1 or 2 good singles. In the Zone, however, seemed more grown-up and more in touch with what people who aren't 13-year-old girls actually want to listen to. But I couldn't get over the feeling that her newly-explicit sexuality was just a tired choice by an unimaginative singer unable to find any road for herself other than Madonna's well-worn sex-parade route.

But now, here she is, with bad wigs and no custody of her kids, plus what seems like a complete lack of interest in actually putting any effort into her music (hence the spacey VMA performance and lazy "Gimme More" video). After years of working her ass off to make sure everyone loved her - tweens, old men and every record-company-approved demographic in-between - the fact that Britney now doesn't give a shit could have produced a cringe-worthy album. It's what her fans dreaded and her critics (and, hey, everyone else) expected.

Instead, miraculously, the opposite happened: Britney's bad-girl, I-don't-care, I-don't-need-Timbaland-or-Timberlake attitude has produced a hot, balls-out album that's sometimes weird (in a good way), sometimes generic (also in a good way - more on that below) and almost always eager to shake its ass (obviously good).
There's nothing she could say that would shut up her critics or disperse the papparazi, so why not just get her dance on?

Most of the songs feature lyrics about how some Hot Guy has turned her on. Cool, fine, whatever - that's pretty standard. But within the typical girl-gets-boy, girl-rides-boy-like-Bronco scenarios is a pretty bold Britney who's obviously not interested in restraint for her critics' sake. Despite attacks on her weight, she's confident ("Get Naked (I Got a Plan)": "I'm not ashamed of my beauty"). Despite constant attacks on her thin voice, she's co-opting black gospel culture even though it highlights how reedy her instrument is ("Hot as Ice": "Can I get a witness?/"Preacher, preacher, I'm a teacher you can learn"). And even her porn-star growls are tempered with some sweet sentimentality, such as in "Heaven on Earth" when, for the first time, her naked, unmanipulated, unmultiplied voice declares "I'm in love with you."

But a pop star is only as good as her producers, and Blackout's crew (Timbaland protogé Danja, Bloodyshy & Avant, The Neptunes, etc.) seems to enjoy surrounding Britney's breathy moans with fat synths and unexpected extras. A Spanish acoustic guitar scaling up and down the rollicking "Ooh Ooh Baby" literally makes Britney giggle. "Break the Ice," otherwise a perfectly good club banger, never bothers recovering after its break-it-down bridge. And the baroque male vocal dominating "Get Naked" turns the song into a creepy, almost haunting ode to - duh - stripping.

The apex of the album is "Freakshow," a song that lives up to its title. First: Britney raps! And it's not awful - how freaky! Second, for a song about Britney's freak factor, there's something strangely musical theater about it all. It's like if J.J. Fad wrote a song for the "Rocky Horror" soundtrack. This is a perfect example of a song walking the fine line (if Britney didn't snort it) between so-bad-it's-great and just genuinely great pop.

All this outside-the-box thinking would reek of a post-Gwen/Fergie, weird-just-because-she-can viewpoint if Blackout wasn't rooted so firmly in pure dance music. "Radar," "Gimme More" and "Toy Solider" are all sassy, sexy, perfectly crafted club anthems. The only misfire is "Perfect Lover." It's a throwaway track that Britney - and Danja - seemed to forget about.

There's only two songs that showcase self-awareness and reflection and, as it has been pointed out by everyone, Britney didn't even co-write them. (She, in fact, co-wrote very little this time around) "Piece of Me"'s lyrics brilliantly wrap up everything Britney (and we, the audience) think of herself: "Don't matter if I step on the scene or sneak away to the Phillipines/they're still gon' take pictures of my derriere in the magazine." There's a point here: what is she supposed to do to protect herself at this point? Even if she cleaned up and reverted to her old, perky, bubbly self or escaped to a country cabin somewhere, we'd still find her and follow her every move. Closing the album is the only midtempo song in the bunch, the melancholy "Why Should I Be Sad" (too...easy...must...resist...so...many...answers). It's like 11 straight songs of dance music wore down her guard. Now all of a sudden we're getting lyrics like "my friends said you would play me, but I just said they're crazy." Britney's that much cooler for only devoting a single song to her ex, and it's a fairly gorgeous ballad at that.

She's aware, she's vulnerable, but, as she (or the songwriters) says, it's time for her to move along. Luckily, the attitude she's bringing with her - the attitude that has failed her so much in the media - works so well on record.

Also check out: Gimme More, Britney. Please. I Beg You.
And: 3 Reasons Why I Love Kelly Clarkson.

Why I Hate Hollywood

Reason #437:

Michelle Pfeiffer is set to appear in a remake of 'Grease'. The 'Stardust' actress, who starred in the 1982 sequel 'Grease 2', has been approached to join the cast for a new version of the original 1978 hit musical and has her heart set on playing an older character.

Michelle said: "It's a great idea and I hear they would like to get Jessica Simpson for the role of Sandy, she would be good."

Oh, come on! When will Hollywood (and by "Hollywood" here, I mean Jessica Simpson's dad) realize that Jessica Simpson is not a star? She is not an actress. Dukes of Hazard and Employee of the Month were not big hits and she wasn't even the main draw anyway. And don't get me started (don't even get me started!) on that supposed Working Girl remake, Blonde Ambition. Even more importantly, as a singer, she's never even had huge success. In eight years, she's had exactly one Top 10 hit. That's pathetic. Even LFO had two Top 10's. Yes, that LFO, of "Summer Girls" and "Girl On TV" fame. Yeah, the "she did a donut on my lawn" guys. They literally crapped out more hits than Jessica Simpson.

Please, please stop jamming this girl down our throats. We'd all be much happier, and I'm sure she would be, too, if she just laid low somewhere, eating her buffalo wings and chicken/tuna (chuna?), humming along to a karaoke machine in her living room.

Oh, and a remake of Grease? That would be Reason #438.

Source: All Headline News by way of Dlisted.

Terrible Twos

OK, so do you see this little blog post? And these two posts? The first is my 200th post, the others frame my 2-year blogging anniversary.

Yea.

I kind of let both milestones slip by for opposite reasons. The 2-year mark because I was super busy with other writing projects outside of blogging, the 200th post because I had a surge of inspiration for posts and didn't want to slow down just to toot my own horn.

But now, I guess I'm tooting.

This past year of blogging has felt so much more...inconsistent? haphazard?...than the first year. I don't know if I expanded my purpose for blogging or if I just lost focus. I think something happened around this post in December when I changed my blog's template for the 2nd time, which really wiped out a lot of its design (links, content, etc.) that I had to recreate. It became a Catch-22: I felt more disconnected from my readers and commenting slowed down, so I felt more disconnected from my readers. One's the chicken, one's the egg.

But for my first year, I really took the blog's title to heart. Focusing on pop culture, food, Chicago and myself, I really tried to find a balance and cover each subject equally. Then, I added "media" to the list and, separately, broadened my idea of what could be included.

Maybe I was getting bored as a writer. Maybe I realized there were more materials to use for writing than Showgirls and Paris Hilton. Maybe my new writing assignments on the side, while amazing and a direct result of this blog, were sapping my creative energies. I don't know.

But whatever - this is supposed to be a happy post! 2 years! 200 posts! Hooray! So, just because this post about tooting my own horn has come out as a pretty flat, atonal toot, I'm going to indulge myself a bit and list some of my favorite blogging moments from the past year (in no particular order):

Oysters and Mussels and Squid - Oh My! - In which I list the ways sea creatures required for cooking might attack me for trying to kill them. Also: British accents!

Kiwi, Tab and Turkey - In which I commemorate my favorite holiday - Thanksgiving - with two totally unrelated videos. Since Thanksgiving is yet again on the horizon, now might be a good time to revisit them: one's a hilarious vintage commercial for Tab, the other a beautiful, haunting, short animated movie. Also: "mind-stickers"!

Top Chef Check-In - In which I give Bravo some tips on how to spice up Season 3, which naturally include such ideas as making sure the judges make sense and showing off cute guys in tank tops. Also: brothy broths!

Of Booze and Political Statements - Besides my new writing gig, another new benefit of this blog is receiving promotional materials from PR companies to consider for review. One of the highlights was the documentary Small Town Gay Bar. So including this is more about the subject, not the writing itself. Also: homosexual hamburgers!

In Defense of Amy Winehouse - In which I take the local media to task for criticizing the idiosyncratic singer's bewitching flaws instead of appreciating them as quirks that make her stage presence that much more interesting. Also: singing vaginas!

So, that's it for now. Here's to another year!

(End tooting.)

Also check out: 1 Y.O. (Or, 26 is the New 1).

Got to Keep Your Head Up

If you live in an Alaskan town that experiences nighttime for one straight month, you basically want to be eaten alive by vampires. That was the main point I learned from 30 Days of Night, a new horror film based on a popular graphic novel.

The real-life town of Barrow, Alaska is the country's northernmost settlement and doesn't experience sunlight for two months straight. In the film, however, the writers mercifully cut it down to one month. Maybe the second month is being reserved for the sequel? I don't know.

Anyway, on the eve of the 30-day blackout, the majority of townspeople are smart enough to, you know, leave. Josh Hartnett plays squinty-eyed, and apparently not smart, Sheriff Eben (actually, any character Hartnett plays could be preceded by "squinty-eyed" - seriously, his eyes look like a baby's nostrils) who is investigating weird crimes like stolen cell phones and murdered sled dogs. Hmmm, I wonder if it has anything to do with the creepy stranger that just randomly popped into town that day? "The Stranger," as the movie creatively bills him, is played by Ben Foster. If Hartnett has cornered the market on squinty-eyed guys, then Foster owns the intense, male-authority-figure-worshipping, meth-faced creep. (See: "Six Feet Under," 3:10 to Yuma) It's apparently quite an in-demand niche.

Turns out The Stranger is just a seriously unhinged asshole who wants to become one of Them - the vampires that are staking out Barrow due to its constant darkness. With all communication systems destroyed, they launch their attack on the townspeople like The Matrix characters with fangs. They're leaping, flying and throwing people around, plus they're really pale and wear stylish long black coats and boots. Marlow, their ruler, waxes philosophically about his victims right before, during or after he crushes their heads or strangles them. Luckily, he's subtitled, because their vampire-language sounds literally like this: "Rowr maka laka. God? Maka laka rowr."

Eben alternately hides from and fights the vampires along with his estranged wife Stella (Rachel McAdams look-alike Melissa George, cornering the market on horror hotties - see: Turistas, The Amityville Horror), his, um, "sensitive" younger brother, Jake (sorry, pretty boy, the big, burly sweaters aren't fooling anyone - see you soon in the gayborhood!), and a group of racially- and age-diverse neighbors.

Despite the open fields around them, the town feels claustrophobic due to its 80-mile isolation from any other town. The dark sky and snow along with grainy cinematography lends the film a sometimes black-and-white look. Director David Slade has much more to work with than in his ridiculous Hard Candy, combing elements of horror, western and action films to create a vampire film that's actually scary and suspenseful. Unlike so many other ADD-afflicted horror films, this one takes it time setting up the characters and environment while still slicing in the occasional car crash or heated confrontation to ratchet up the tension. To appease the gore-fans, these vampires can only be killed by decapitation. Sometimes Slade cuts away when a noggin is hacked off (like when Jake is finally able to prove his manhood by attacking an infected little girl who terrorizes the group in a crazy grocery store scene), and sometimes he doesn't (mostly every other time).


However, the film frustrates with its inconsistencies. Sometimes the characters act the way real people would, i.e. most people would not only not know how to react to this situation, they would actually feel extreme grief when they come upon their friend's head mounted to a stake in a field. But sometimes the characters act like, well, characters in a movie. As powerful and numerous as the vampires are, they tend to just stand around as their victims run away. The survivors complain that bullets don't stop the vampires, yet a few scenes later we see the token crazy guy blowing them all away with a shotgun.

Sometimes it's predictable, sometimes not. Like, I wonder if that giant grinding machine in the town's utilidor introduced in the first act will somehow be used to kill someone later in the film? But, to the film's credit, a lot of my other predictions didn't come true. As the survivors spied on the town while hiding in an attic, I kept waiting for a vampire to appear right outside their window as Stella peeked out. It never happened.

For a good Halloween film, you could do a lot worse (let's just say I chose to see this over Saw 4, and not just because I haven't seen 2 or 3 and would therefore have no idea what was happening, right?). For a lesson in real estate, you could not do better: DO NOT MOVE TO A TOWN THAT HAS 30 DAYS OF NIGHT.*

* - Unless you want to get eaten by vampires, in which case, enjoy indulging your death wish, loser.

Also check out: What Hath Hilary Swank Wrought?
And: Boo.