So, yeah...

I obviously haven't been blogging in a while. Over a month, in fact. Something clicked when I started thinking about what I want to do in 2008. I realized I want to write more, but not just for my blog. I want to write bigger and better, dedicating more of my energy to submitting to magazines. Maybe even working on a larger project that's both quieter and more demanding than blogging and magazines, writing a book. So I realized something had to give and that something, for now, is this blog.

After two and some years of always thinking/worrying about what my next post is going to be about, after dedicating entire weeknights or even weekends to put together a post that, quite frankly, not a lot of people read, I decided that I've done it and I'm done with it. I've tried it, I've had my ups and downs with it, I've written posts that I'm really proud of and posts that I'd go back and delete if I was that kind of blogger. Some posts even helped lead to a freelancing gig which has lead to a permanent staff position with a magazine I really like and respect and really, what more can you ask than that?

And you know what? So far it feels great. After sitting in front of a computer all day at my regular job, I can come home and not sit in front of a computer all night if I don't want to. I can cook! I can bake! I can watch TV! I can have dinner with friends! I can work out! So many not-really-exciting-but-
exciting-for-me-because-let's-face-it-I've-been-blogging
-for-over-two-years-and-I-have-low-standards-for-what-
I-consider-exciting activities!!!

Notice what wasn't on that list of activities I can indulge in now that I'm not blogging? Writing. The funny thing is with all this new time on my hands I haven't exactly gotten around to doing the things I gave up blogging for in the first place. But we're now, what, 3 weeks into the new year? I can enjoy myself for a while, right? Plus, have you seen the new American Gladiators? It's pretty awesome.

Some people started blogging a long time before I did and are still going. I think that's great. Some people didn't blog nearly as long as I did before giving it up. I laugh in their faces. And I'm not saying I'm giving it up for a good, anyway. Just for now. Who knows? Maybe after three months or six months or a year I'll be clamoring to bust out a bunch of new posts on the latest pop culture shenanigans. I still haven't finished blogging about making all 125 (127?) recipes in Giada De Laurentiis' Everyday Italian even though it's been, um, quite some time since I started that project. So maybe when that happens I'll have to blog about it for closure and, you know, evidence. (If a virtual text few people read actually counts as evidence that I finished a project.)

The point is: I may pick this back up again, I may not. Who knows what the future holds besides God and Kanye West? In the meantime, here are a few of the things that I'll be doing/reading/consuming/eating whilst not blogging:

Reading Project Rungay - The best way to keep up with Bravo's addictive reality competition and enjoy the witticisms, snark and dead-on fashion critiques of Tom & Lorenzo. Project Runway's 4th season may not be its best (Oh my dear Lord, Ricky has to leave), but this blog makes it a lot more enjoyable.

Reading Janet Xone - With Miss Jackson's latest album, Discipline, hitting shelves on February 26th, this is really the best way to know about all the news, performances, reviews and stories concerning Janet. And if you haven't checked out her latest video for "Feedback," click here. Watch it more than once - it grows on you, especially once the killer choreography kicks in.

Eating Aromatic Noodles with Lime-Peanut Sauce - Part of the reason I've put Giada's Italian cookbook aside is because I picked up fellow Food Network host Ellie Krieger's latest book, The Food You Crave. So far the Pumpkin Muffins, Energy Bars, Baked Onion Rings with Ranch Dip, Vanilla Hot Chocolate and Whole Wheat Pancakes with Strawberry Sauce have all been great and healthy (another New Year's resolution). I loooove me some Asian peanut sauces because I basically love anything with peanut butter, so I'm thinking this recipe from Ellie will make me silly happy.

Using my new Netflix account - I just started my subscription and finally watched 2005's An Inconvenient Truth. Next up is the new, Oscar-nominated documentary No End in Sight. I'm going to be so smrt, s-m-r-t!

Reading Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach - After reading Roach's Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, I've been dying (no pun intended, especially because it's not a very good pun) to read her follow-up. If she explores the soul with as much humor, eye-opening research and intelligence as she did corpses, then the wait will have been worth it.

Rooting for Atonement at the Oscars - I just saw it and am hoping it wins something big, even though I haven't seen There Will Be Blood yet. Seriously, this adaptation of the Ian McEwan novel (which I really liked) is gorgeous, well-acted and, to employ a cliché, heartbreaking. Knowing the general rule that the movie is never as good as the book, I was surprised to fall in love with this movie so much. Even though it drags in the middle (just like the book), I couldn't help but completely buy into the whole production. And it has James McAvoy looking adorable and delivering a fantastic performance? Done and done. Dear Striking Writers, The Oscars better take place so I can see Mr. McAvoy in a tux. Sincerely, Me.

Well, that's it for now. Enjoy.

Take care.

Goodbye?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Dear Filmmakers of The Road

What's up, boyeeez? I'm writing this letter to discuss your adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's best-seller/Oprah pick/Pulitzer Prize winner that actually lives up to the hype about a father and son traveling through a barren, post-apocalyptic land. Yes, I know it's not news anymore that you're making this, and I know the book didn't just come out, so this may seem a little late. But from what I can tell you've barely gotten started, so you still have time to incorporate my ideas. And lest you get the wrong idea by my writing you a letter for basically my own amusement and assess your entire careers based on a few IMDB entries, let me just reassure you, I'm not crazy! Got it? Awesome!

First off: who the hell are you guys? Let's see...Joe Penhall, you adapted Ian McEwan's Enduring Love, which I thought got mixed-to-good reviews until I saw one comment thread on the IMDB message boards titled "Worst book-film adaption ever?" Ouch. That's got to hurt, even a little. But you have worked with Daniel Craig twice, which leads me to believe that you might have good taste and might even try to cast him as the nameless, ageless Father, but more on casting later.

Moving on to you, John Hillcoat, Mr. Director. Let's see, you directed an 80's documentary about INXS and something called Digital Hardcore Videos. Rock and porn? Seriously? But you also directed The Proposition starring Guy Pierce and some obscure 1996 movie with Rachel Griffiths, so that means...nothing. Or something. I'm not sure. I'm still focusing on the rock and porn 1-2 combo and what that means for this movie and, well, humanity in general.

But let's face it: you're both random choices. I mean, geez. At least the Coen brothers are adapting and directing the other upcoming McCarthy adaptation, No Country for Old Men.

In fact, it looks like Hollywood actually may not be screwing up NCfOM, with its stellar filmmakers and pedigreed cast. Of course, they did take seriously sexy actor Javier Bardem and make it look like he smooshed his face into a brick wall. That may be so we, the audience, don't focus on how sexy he is. But then, all I'll be thinking about is how I'm being deprived of his sexiness, which will bring up all of my deprivation issues I thought I had worked out in years of therapy like how this one time? My mom? Made a batch of Rice Krispie treats the first day of my sugar-free week for a 5th grade science project so I couldn't eat them and by the time Sunday came they were all eaten which just, like, symbolizes my whole childhood, ya know?!?!

Sorry. Digression. Still not crazy!

Anyway, let's talk about a few points, shall we? First, that Variety report said you guys were waiting for the right script and star. Seriously, don't even think about Tom Hanks/Da Vinci Code-ing this thing just for international interest. The Road is gritty and austere, reeking of flesh and disease. If you pop in some Shiny Pretty Movie Star, the whole world McCarthy created would become just a backdrop to SPMS' squinty, steel-jawed Acting. You can already hear the James Lipton's affected whisperings of "Oscar" and "credibility." Go with the right guy, no matter what. I'm not going to give you suggestions because, due to the character's lack of distinguishing external characteristics in the novel, you could go 50 different ways. Just don't screw it up, k?

(And, despite what I said before, Daniel Crag would probably not be a good choice as he looks like he's probably eaten a few people himself to get where he is in Hollywood. I'm not sure we'd ever doubt his survival skills).

Also, I swear on the career grave of Keshia Knight Pulliam, if you take fucking Dakota Fanning and put her in a pair of Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls to pass her off as a precocious five-year-old(-ish) boy, I will find you both and I will break you. (Not crazy!) Again, go with the right boy. You'll probably have to pick an unknown (not too many famous male kiddies, luckily), so take your time and get it right. This kid will have to get through some pretty scary scenes - babies roasting on spits, cannibalism and maybe even (gasp!) unshaven women - so make sure he's tough enough. Maybe lock him in a room with Donald Trump for five hours and see how he holds up. That would drive even the hardest of us absolutely insane.

And finally, respect the source. That seems so simple and obvious, right? Why would someone love a book so much they wanted to turn it into a film only to then arrogantly think they can make the story better somehow? But it happens all the time. The Road is already cinematic, and the story is much like its characters: no extra fat or gristle on its lean frame. So don't go adding backstory, don't insert information because you think the audience is too stupid to keep up, don't spell it all out. So, I guess, don't just respect the source. Respect us, too.

OK, I think that may be it. See? Just a simple document of ideas. No reason to be scared. Unless you screw up this movie. Then you should be scared.

Sincerely and maybe just a tad crazy when it comes to one of the best books I've read all year,
Me

Also check out: Babies Are the New God.
And: Update: Oprah Rips Frey a New One.

Of Booze and Political Statements

Since I live in a city with a large gay population, a gay-friendly mayor and two neighborhoods heavily populated by my fellow 'mos, it's sometimes easy to forget that not every gay person has it so easy. Granted, my boyfriend and I know not to hold hands in certain neighborhoods, and there's always going to be some bigoted asshole who has a problem just to have a problem, but Chicago has its advantages. There are plenty of stylish gay bars, gay publications and even Hamburger Mary's, a national gay burger chain (the waiters are actually ponies and the burgers are made out of glitter and Cher's old noses).

It's not like I live in, oh, say, Mississippi. When you open a gay bar there, it's right down the block from a Confederate-flag-decorated straight bar where the patrons say things like, "If [the queers] fuck with me, I'm-a bust their heads wide open." Obviously, he's never tasted a queer burger. Chicago 1, drunk redneck 0.

Luckily, that guy doesn't get too much air time in Small Town Gay Bar, a new documentary out on DVD today. A grand jury prize nominee at the 2005 Sundance film festival, the film documents the struggles to open and maintain a gay bar in rural areas of the "Bible Belt." Faced with prejudice that sometimes leads to violence, the owners and patrons of these establishments risk social alienation and physical harm just to toss back a few Bud Lights.

The film starts by interviewing many of the customers, who endlessly reiterate how much they need Rumors, the local gay bar - how it creates a sense of community, how it's the only place they feel safe and comfortable (once actually inside), how they'd have to travel up to 2 hours away to the second-closest gay bar without it. It then jumps, somewhat jarringly, to the tale of Scotty Weaver, a local boy who dressed in drag. He was tied up, strangled, mutilated, partially decapitated, then dragged to the woods and set on fire. The filmmakers tie this to the danger rural gay men and women face by being themselves. Anyone who follows the news knows that many gays are the victims of hate crimes all over the country, even in such gay-friendly cities as Chicago. But the film reminds us that the large scale of cities offers an element of anonymity, whereas everyone knows who are in a small town. Sure, the local gay men and women could flock to a larger, more accepting city, but whether for personal or financial reasons, they choose to stay and live in the place they call home.

In the film, we meet Rick, the owner of Rumors who isn't even out to his parents ("I know they love me and accept me, but if I told them that I don't think they could accept that"). There's Rumors' "show director" (pictured singing here), the fantastically glamorous, sharp-tongued drag queen Jim Bishop, aka Alicia Stone ("Let us be the grown adult taxpayers that we are and make our own decisions"). There's also Lori and Ruby, the lesbian couple that buys the abandoned, dilapidated gay bar Crossroads and put all their time and money into opening it up as a new gay bar, Different Seasons.

We also get a long, in-depth interview with the Fred Phelps, leader of the Westboro Baptist Church that picketed Weaver's funeral (I'd compare his balding, pockmarked, squinty looks to Mr. Burns, but I would never, ever insult Mr. Burns like that). Phelps blames homosexuality on parents who don't teach their children about God 'n stuff and actually says, "I'm the only one telling [homosexuals] the truth, for God's sake. I'm the only one that loves them." Of course, that would be a lot more believable if he could actually supress his smirk when he says that all gays are going to hell.

We also get to meet Tim Wildmon, president of the American Family Association, located in nearby Tupelo, MS. Wildmon describes his association's acceptance that other people are allowed to "exist" (gee, how big of them) while others explain how AFA members would read on the radio the license plate numbers of cars parked at gar bars the previous night. So, you can exist, just don't be different and drink beer at the same time.

The film gets a little repetitive. Not to take away from anyone's problems, but there's only so many times in a 76-minute documentary you need to be told that being gay in a small town is really, really hard. Maybe it's because I'm part of the choir, but there's only so much preaching necessary to make your point - and isn't this documentary probably going to be viewed only by the choir anyway? Also, after a moving, silent montage of proud gay men and women who promise to keep attending their local gay bar despite local prejudices, director Malcom Ingram strangely decides to end his film with one more offensive spit of verbal bile from Fred Phelps. Not exactly the note on which you'd expect him to end his tribute to tough, perseverant gay men and women. (To make up for that, if you get the DVD, definitely watch the hilarious extras with executive producer Kevin Smith, director of Clerks and friend of the gays.)

Still, with the national debate still focused on gay marriage, it's easy to overlook the small, daily battles that gay men and women go through just to peacefully live their lives. These aren't activists marching in parades or providing commentary on national news shows. They're the local veterinarians and DJs and post office workers trying to escape from the daily grind like we all do. When you see all the effort they have to go through just to drink beer, laugh with some friends and maybe dance to something other than Hank Williams, Jr., you have to stop and think. The AFA and others accuse them of trying to push a homosexual agenda or revolutionize mainstream culture. In some parts of our smorgasbord country, grabbing a beer bottle - next to a rainbow American flag - truly becomes something radical.

Also check out:http: You Win.
And: Kinsey Sicks Wanna Be Republicans.

You Win

What is it about sassy gay men that make them so hard to write as on-screen characters? It might work if they're sidekicks to the protagonist (and therefore taken in small doses) as in Kissing Jessica Stein or Will & Grace. But if one is the leading man of a mediocre movie, you're often spending two hours with a wannabe-Wilde who very quickly seems brittle, forced, condescending and phony. It takes a very talented writer to make an him likeable and a very talented actor to let the wit roll off his tongue with panache.

Unfortunately, we have no such luck with Nathan, the leading man in writer/director Russell Brown's Race You to the Bottom. Brown seems to like the idea of writing a young, successful, unabashedly sexual man (scratch the above "gay" adjective and make that "bisexual"), but Nathan is also narcissistic, inconsiderate, rude and sexually inconsiderate. And if you're going to make him "sassy" or "witty" or whatever, then you better give him some good lines. That doesn't happen.

For a brief summary, Nathan (Cole Williams) and Maggie (Amber Benson) abandon their respective boyfriends to take a trip to Napa for an article he's working on for a travel magazine. As soon as they leave, they're making out! Sassy! I think we the audience are either supposed to be so shocked (rubbing our eyes in disbelief, "say wha...?) or cheering them on ("Yeah, you go, sexual rule-breakers!"). But all I could think was "Really? She's cheating on her supercute boyfriend with a greasy Clay Aiken clone wearing way too much eyeliner?"

Some people mistakenly believe that they have to "identify" with the protagonists in art. While I didn't mind that I couldn't identify with Nathan (he actually tells Maggie "the taste of another man on your lips makes me hot." Who talks like that? And...really?), I at least wanted to understand what was so attractive about him to Maggie. The movie offers few clues: He spontaneously dances in hotel rooms! He...um...likes to drink wine! He can get erections!

That last quality is apparently what gives him an edge over Maggie's devoted but pouty boyfriend, Milo. When her friend points out what a great guy Milo is, Maggie guiltlessly shrugs it off. Apparently, to her, it's perfectly okay to cheat on your long-term boyfriend if he can't get it up. And it's perfectly okay to do this with a man who has a boyfriend of his own. The movie's tagline is "Maybe their boyfriends should worry..." Yeah, about STDs.

It's too bad, because the movie could really have approached a unique situation. There aren't many films out there that deal with bisexuality as a legit sexual orientation or, at least, worth exploring as such. The fact that she deems Nathan a "70/30" kind of guy is perfectly fine with Maggie, and I know a lot of women in real life who wouldn't mind if their gorgeous gay best friends were 70/30s as well. And I'm sure relationships like this do exist, however underrepresented in film they may be. But Brown can't do his subject justice, and his dialogue bounces from unrealistic to overused clichés. When Maggie's friend explains Nathan's sexual preference with "bisexuality is just one stop on the road to gayville," I was expecting one of the Sex and the City girls to pop in with "that was my line!"

In fact, Nathan is just so gosh darn sexual that he basically whips it out in front of every attractive guy he comes across. (But not around attractive women besides Maggie. Hmmm, maybe he's more 95/5.) Or he encourages them to whip it out. When they visit some friends during their road trip to Napa, Nathan effortlessly seduces the hunky husband, Joe (Justin Hartley, the only man in this movie who doesn't have the skinny, hairless build of a 12-year-old). But as he gives Joe a hands-on workshop in new masturbation techniques, Mr. Overly-Sexed-Up Nathan spaces out and we cut to an utterly pointless flashback. (Focus, Nathan! Aren't Gen Y-ers overly-medicated on ADD pills?) By the time we're back to the present, Joe zips up and gives the most unconvincing "wow" in cinema history. Geez, this movie about sexual boundary-breaking can't even get handjobs right.

As they ascend the hills of their vineyard-hopping adventure, they become irritated and annoyed with each other - he at her clinginess and prudery, she at his pursuits of his 70% side. One review generously compared this to Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf? for Generation Y (or whatever the hell we are), but I think that's a bit of an overstatement. They say such awful things to each other (especially Nathan) that you're not quite sure why you want to be around them anymore. You could argue that Nathan is intentionally turning Maggie off after she declared her love for him - to save her, to protect her, to break her heart now because it would be even crueler to lead her on - but that would mean Nathan would have to think of someone besides himself.

First Maggie tells him that his need to seduce everyone is due to his self-loathing, then she accuses him of only loving himself. Which is it? Just like Nathan, the movie tries to have it both ways, mistaking snark for charm. And like Nathan, Race You to the Bottom sorely lacks the latter.

Also check out: Kinsey Sicks Wanna Be Republicans (Or At Least Just Sing About It)
And: Movie review: Rent.

Kinsey Sicks Wanna Be Republicans (Or At Least Just Sing About It)

Are you a depressed Democrat, looking for a cheap laugh at your political counterparts' expense? Or maybe you're a repressed Republican who needs an injection of pride? Then you might want to think about checking out The Kinsey Sicks. These funny, talented drag queens have been performing since 1994 and have finally captured their four-part harmonies and bawdy political humor on their first live concert film, I Wanna Be a Republican (due June 12th).

I admit, I had never heard of them before watching this new DVD but quickly found myself attuned to their patented brand of campy sarcasm. I mean, there's over-the-top, and then there's the Kinsey Sicks. Self-billed as "America's favorite dragapella beautyshop quartet" (because, really, we have so many to choose from. Thank you, democracy!), these four feisty drag queens stage a mock GOP fundraiser to announce their switch to the Republican party. According to anal Winnie, "your contributions this evening will help eradicate such rampant social evils as social security! Evolution! Pleasure!"

The following 84 minutes are not only entertaining but, really, educational as well as they sing (in impressive a capella four-part harmonies) the benefits of conservatism. One by one, the group - which also includes glamorous Trixie, horny Rachel and spiritual Trampolina - take to the podium to explain why and how they decided to cross party lines. At the end of the fundraiser, we're promised that "George W. Bush himself will be here to deliver his first ever coherent public policy address!"

During their personal speeches, they take on numerous subjects, reveal personal confessions and hold nothing back. On why she's a pro-choice Republican, Trixie says, "We cannot go back to the days of back-alley abortions. I myself have spent much time in those back alleys and believe me, nothing ruins the moment more than a mangled fetus."

On Trixie's decision, Winnie assures her that "it's fine for you to be a pro-choice Republican as long as you're content to have no influence whatsoever."

And that's just the between-song banter. To kick things off, the ladies outline their motivations in their anthemic title song, singing "I'm tired of thinking about you when it's all about me, me, me!...Now I'm in a place where I'm embraced for being selfish and mean!"

Apparently, joining the Republican party has its advantages. "Don't you just love flesh-colored bandages?" Trixie sings in "All the White Places." And in "Money," the title subject "buys you noses and elections, it buys you pills that buy erections." Plus, you can can have politically correct cocktail parties while exploiting those you oppress: "Rent a homo for your party, you will have a barrel of fun! Rent a homo for your party, every party should have one."

The only part I found confusing was Trampolina's gospel-tinged "Be A Slut," where God told her to, well...I think the title explains it (in case it doesn't, the chorus goes: "Be a slut! Be a slut! No ifs, no ands, but lots of butt!"). The "abstinence-only" Republican party doesn't exactly seem pro-sex but hey, if every Republican drag queen was as inspiring as Trampolina, they might just change their policies. Girl doesn't just sing, she can sang.

Filmed before a game audience in San Francisco (tough crowd to convince of the powers of Republicanism), the Kinsey Sicks doo-wop, meditate, seduce audience members and hire minorities for photo ops. Does W. ever show up for his public policy address? I won't spoil it, but they do perform his personal anthem called "When You're Good to Dubya," a take on Chicago's "When You're Good to Mama."

Watching a concert on TV is always strange as there seems to be a disconnect between you and the live audience. Some things are just funnier in person, even if you're watching the same joke in your living room. And I admit, I never want to see a drag queen acting out the party game "Bobbing for Butt Hairs" ever again. But on one of the DVD's many special features, more than one of the cast members reveal that their conservative parents enjoyed the show. By the time the Sicks close with "We Arm the World," you might be singing along, too.

Also check out: Laughs and Tears, Courtesy of the New York Times.
And: Magically Delicious.

What Hath Hilary Swank Wrought?

The Reaping isn’t the zero-star catastrophe that some critics have claimed, nor is it as good as it could have been. But somewhere before producers and editors slashed the movie into tiny incoherent pieces is a movie that could have been both a topical commentary on current events and a throwback to when horror movies were actually respected (and respectable).

Hilary Swank plays Katherine, a former Christian missionary whose husband and daughter were ruthlessly sacrificed by local savages while on a humanitarian mission in Sudan. Now a faithless professor who specializes in using science to debunk religious “miracles,” she’s asked to investigate a small town plagued by, well, plagues.

In Haven (get it? Oh, the subtlety), Louisiana, the river runs red, frogs rain from above, and victims of boils beg for Dr. 90210 to save them. Instead, they get Katherine and Ben (Idris Elba), her hunky, faithful and faith-full assistant who believes the plagues have a Biblical explanation after all.

The screenplay practically screams “Current Events!” as soon as our independent, scientist heroine is greeted by the God-fearing, breeding, family-centric Christians. Katherine hangs on to her scientific theories as long as possible, even delivering a fantastic monologue scientifically explaining the origins of the original Egyptian plagues, before things just get too weird.

This sets up a story brimming with religious-thriller potential, and the fact that the writers are smart enough to create a character as three-dimensional as Ben – a teacher who can devote his career to science yet still wear a crucifix around his neck, a scarred beefcake with a rough past who can cradle Katherine in his arms after a nightmare – makes me believe they started with an interesting screenplay. But then the filmmakers drown the story in overly long flashbacks and unnecessary special effects.

[Warning: spoilers ahead] Worse, the writers overly complicate their own logic as soon as we learn that the Bible-thumpers are actually Satan-worshippers. The townspeople originally want to "stop" the little girl, Loren (the impressively creepy AnnaSophia Robb), they blame for the plagues. But when their true Satan-worshipping is revealed, they want sacrifice her to…appease their Dark Lord…or something (all the special effects kind of distracted from that plot point).

But it seems like the writers were on to something there, even something as provocative as this: is religious fanaticism dangerous, no matter the denomination? Are God-fearing fundamentalists just as (potentially) destructive as Satan worshippers? Is it really so easy to equate them as two sides to the same coin?

Back in the early to mid-70’s, horror flicks were both respected cinema and cheap-thrills exploitation, sometimes in the same movie. Films like The Omen and The Exorcist used religious, specifically Biblical, references and scared up big business at the box-office and garnered critical raves. The latter was even nominated for a Best Picture Oscar.

Then, in 1978, came Halloween’s Michael Meyers, a silent, faceless antagonist onto which we could project our own fears, however secular they may be. The 80’s brought us Freddy Kreuger of the The Nightmare on Elm Street fanchise – a snarky villain who stood in for the audience by mocking the horny teenagers he terrorized.

From Scream to Saw, recent mainstream horror films have excluded religion entirely. Even 2005’s The Amityville Horror remake significantly reduced the role religion played in the original book and film from the late 70’s (this prompted the Chicago Reader to headline its review of the remake “Secular’s Not As Scary”).

The Reaping comes at a perfect time to return religion to the cinematic spotlight. With evolutionists fighting creationists, marriage and civil rights being tied to the Bible and a president that has repeatedly used God to justify his occupation of the Oval Office, a thriller could tap into the national tension created by these issues. Instead, we get bad direction, lazy references to those Biblical thrillers from the 70’s, plus a ridiculous Rosemary’s Baby twist thrown in at the end for no good reason.

The film never answers its own questions about religious extremism. I’m not even sure they knew their screenplay was asking those questions in the first place. An even bigger question might be what Swank is going to do now that she’s too old to play the tomboyish underdog. Because if she wants her third Oscar by the time she’s 35, she’ll have to wring something better than The Reaping.

Also check out: Spoilers!
And: Boo.

Random Thoughts: The Devil and Miss Stone, 300-Pack Abs, and Akon's Vibe

Some pop-culture-related nuggets that have been floating around in my head:

- Last summer I posted my positive review of The Devil Wears Prada to Blogcritics and got some feisty comments. “It’s not as good as the book!” “It glamorizes unhealthy female body image!” “There’s no conflict!” To which I say: no, yes and kind of. Now that I’ve rewatched it on DVD and also read the book, I still want to praise Meryl Streep, Emily Blunt and Stanley Tucci. What Lauren Weisberger, the book’s young author, couldn’t understand was that her boss could be both a bitch and a brilliant woman who is incredibly good at her job. It is too bad that the heroine deems slimming down to a size 4 (from an elephantine size 6) as a major accomplishment, and yes, the boyfriend is lame (he’s an aspiring chef and he’s complaining about her schedule?), but overall, the film is still entertaining fluff.

- In the spirit of re-thinking, or amending past reviews: my love, or should I say my really like, for Janet Jackson’s 20 Y.O. has sufficiently waned to wonder what exactly is wrong with it. I know it’s underwhelming, and I know I’m tired of her obsession with sex, but what else is there? It didn’t hit me until I listened to the chorus of “Show Me” for the 800th time: “Show me, ‘cause actions speak louder than words.” No shit? I mean, she’s forty, and this is what she’s learned? A cliché that’s older than she is? Since the whole album is based on how she’s a forty-year-old woman who still looks/feels/acts like a twenty-year-old, I had to ask: should a forty-year-old want to think like a twenty-year-old? How is that a good thing? If it means trite “insights” like that, then guess what? It’s not.

- Why are songs that are about how inspiring music is so uninspiring themselves? I was reminded of this when listening to Joss Stone’s new CD and her song “Music.” It’s so laid-back it’s practically asleep. I mean, the song is fine, I guess, but if music is really so awesome then why is its tribute so comparatively boring? It reminded me of Leela James' "Music" (even these titles are boring) which I found equally odd – all about how amazing music is, yet so underwhelming itself. Which made me think about Lauryn Hill’s “Superstar” which at least had good lyrics but was still a mid-tempo chill-out that embodied her own accusations: “everything you drop is so tired.” Ironically, Hill guest-raps on Stone’s “Music.” It doesn’t help.

- What is up with AfterElton.com’s horrible book section? They feature only four items right now – scratch that, make it three, as they actually repeat the same link twice. And the big feature is an interview with Augusten Burroughs from May 2006! Their other sections like movies and especially TV are chock-full of articles, columns and recaps. Granted, if the site is about how gays are portrayed in the media, then I guess TV probably has a bigger impact than literature, but when Bookslut features new interviews with Edmund White and Andrew Holleran in the last two months, you have to wonder who’s asleep behind the wheel at AfterElton.

- In his gorgeous new Italian cookbook, Jamie's Italy, Jamie Oliver recommends a local treat: drizzle really good olive oil over really good vanilla ice cream and sprinkle with sea salt. I tried it. I think I need better olive oil.



- I love how, in his new interview in Vibe, Akon basically admits over and over again that he lies whenever he feels like it, leading one to believe that you probably shouldn't believe anything he says. And yet, somehow, I don't think that will affect his career at all.



- And finally...I finally saw 300. There’s a minor hubbub in the gay community over its portrayal of the villains in the movie. I was doubtful going in, but now I kind of agree. Frank Miller, who’s historically inaccurate graphic novel the movie is based on, clearly has some (probably unconscious) prejudices that he needs to work out. His heroes apparently have to be white and very heterosexual, virile, macho and hirsute who live to sleep with only women (again, historically misleading) and kill people. His villains, on the other hand, are be-jeweled, manicured, effeminate RuPaul clones who stage massive orgies with lesbians, trannies and hunchbacks. It’s not just offensive for the stereotypes and negative associations he’s passing on to young straight men everywhere (as if an R rating is keeping out the teens), it’s lazy, outdated shorthand to contrast the “other” from the straight, white, male protagonist.

I wonder if it would bother me less if I really enjoyed the movie, but I hope not. As it was, the special effects were cool, the Abercrombie & Fitch models - I mean, the cast - looked good in leather briefs and capes, but I didn’t care about any of the characters.

(Thanks to AfterElton for the pic.)

Also check out: If She's the Devil, Then Hell Must Be Fabulous.
And: What Do I Call Her If I'm Not Nasty?
And: Soul Sisters: Amy Winehouse and Joss Stone.

Spoilers!

See? Right there. In the title. Don’t read this if you don’t want to hear specific plot points about The Host. I must admit that most reviewers for this movie have been pretty good about warning their readers, but in general I feel like print publications have gotten exceedingly worse at giving away major plot points about a movie without any warning, much like the majority of movie trailers (coincidence?). I'm not even giving away anything surprising, so this review won't ruin anything for you. I'm just warning you: plot points. That's all I'm saying.

Anyway, you may or may not have heard about the South Korean monster movie The Host, as it’s receiving a lot of buzz but is still in only 71 American theaters as of this weekend. Already the most popular film in its native country, The Host is receiving all sorts of raves from American critics and audiences. A film this daring, enjoyable and outside-the-box deserves a large audience, but almost unanimous praise always raises the chance that people will be disappointed due to high expectations.

Just go and see it even if you don’t like monster movies, as it really will engage you on multiple levels.

The movie begins in a Korean science lab, where an American scientist orders his Korean underling to pour gallons upon gallons of formaldehyde down the drain since the bottles are dusty. (Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see Phil Hartman play this guy as an evil scientist version of his anal-retentive [chef/fisherman/fill-in-occupation character]: “First, we wrap the beakers full of poison in plastic wrap. Then we stuff each one into its own paper bag with packing peanuts. Now where did I put my duct tape?”) Interestingly, the director, Bong Joon-ho, admits that this scene was inspired by real events.

Leaking into the Han River, the toxins mutate a fish. It first develops three tails (all the better to slap three-eyed Blinky if he gets too fresh), then grows into a bus-sized monster with multiple mouths and an appetite for human flesh.

Cut to the Park family: Hee-Bong (Hie-bong Byeon) runs a food stand by the river; his fiery son, Nam-Il (Hae-il Park), is an aimless college graduate; his quiet daughter, Nam-Joo (Du-na Bae), is a professional archer; and his other son, Gang-Du (Kang-ho Song), is a sleepy, slothy father to an adorable, sharp little girl, Hyun-Seo (Ah-sung Ko).

Once the monster starts terrorizing people, the Park family becomes the center of the film’s attention, moreso than even the monster itself. Hyun-Seo is kidnapped by the creature (who likes to save bodies to snack on later), and the Korean government, claiming that any touch by the monster spreads a deadly virus, pursues Gang-Du after learning that he was sprayed with the monster’s blood.

Even though it’s a cliché, the film really is a rollercoaster. Believing Hyun-Seo is dead, the family’s public grieving goes from heart-touching to over-the-top, as they writhe around the floor, punch and kick each other and draw a circling crowd of paparazzi. Moving drama gives way to slapstick comedy...which can then overlap with suspenseful chase scenes that are cut with genuinely scary moments. If it sounds like the movie is all over the place, it is, but the results are fascinating even if sometimes uneven.

That’s not even the half of it. Just as many monster movies are viewed as metaphors for larger themes (Godzilla is a result of hydrogen bomb test and therefore represents the fear and fallout of using nuclear bombs), The Host has already been dissected and debated as a commentary of, among other things, the U.S. government, the South Korean government, the media and the Iraq War. Joon-ho admits that any social commentary had to take the back-burner to the family’s story, citing Signs as a major influence of how a scary movie can focus more on the family than the monster(s).

However, there’s a lot to look into here, with some references being obvious and some more subtle. For instance, the American government decides to step in after the Korean government mishandles their national crisis (a possible critique on both countries). The U.S. unleashes a chemical weapon named Agent Yellow, a barely-disguised derivation of Agent Orange, a similar chemical attack used in the Vietnam War.

Not much has been made about the title itself. A slightly deranged American official (is there any other kind?) confesses to a Korean doctor that, despite the U.S. and Korean government’s public statements to the contrary, there so far has been no proof of any virus, echoing certain claims made about WMD’s. So if Gang-Du is not an actual host to the virus, who is the host? Is Korea the host to the U.S.? Or is Korea hosting the monster? And is the “monster” really the U.S.? And can my brain please explode now?

Back to the film itself, one of the most refreshing aspects of the film is Joon-ho’s defiance of rules regarding the monster/horror/action movie genre. We see the entire monster early on and in complete daylight, instead of the climactic build-up leading to the shocking reveal in some shadowy haunted house or sewer system. Unlike everything from Godzilla to Starship Troopers, the monster isn’t huge and is therefore more limber, swinging under bridges like an amphibian Kerri Shrug. Our heroes, the Park family, are a rather bumbling group, antagonistic to each other and unlike the typical, invincible he-men heroes of other movies.

So: fine acting, seamless special effects (until a strange, eleventh hour dip into cheesy, low-budget effects that look sub-Photoshop), engaging use of multiple genres to tell a multi-tiered, metaphorical story, and actual, seat-jumping scares. Just so I don’t oversell the film, I will admit that it is a touch long and certain scenes drag. And, I guess if you're the type of person who doesn't like to "read movies," then the subtitles will bother you, but I didn't find them to be a problem.

OK, so I didn’t give away that many spoilers. I just wanted to make sure. I’m kind of anal-retentive that way. Now where’s my duct tape?

Also check out: Boo.
And: Sweet, Sour, Stupid.

The Top 10 List of Top 10 Lists

It's that time of year again when editors need to fill space and people need to be told what to buy lest they actually think on their own. Thus, we have not only have The New York Times' Top 10 Books of the Year, but also their Top 100 Notable Books of the Year list which, now that I think about it, is a strangely vague title. Are they notable because they're good or just because they got the biggest PR, media and critical attention? Well, Nicole Ritchie's "novel" never made the list, so their credibility is intact for now, no matter how boring and obvious the list may be.

A more interesting list, however, is The Atlantic's 100 Most Influential Americans of All Time. This title is decidedly not vague, but it is a little unambitious. I mean, geez, only 100? "Of All Time"? Slackers.

The list is full of predictable (which I don't use to imply they're undeserved) choices: Abraham Lincoln (#1), George Washington (2), Thomas Jefferson (3) and Martin Luther King Jr. (8). What's interesting is reading about how the ten historians chosen to vote by The Atlantic made their decisions...

No celebrities! What? Are they all living in some stuffy, TV-less, elbow-patched-jacket vacuum? Historian Walter McDougall "eliminated celebrities altogether on the grounds that their influence is shallow, ephemeral, and replaceable." David M. Kennedy said entertainment is "highly evanescent" and that most entertainers "leave no lasting legacy." How colorless and asexual are their sad little worlds.

Of course, there is Elvis Presley (66) and Louis Armstrong (79), but, I mean, come on. Interestingly, Walt Whitman is ranked 22nd. Haven't they heard? Poetry is so 60's! A-duh hickey, too-cool-for-school (or should I say, too-cool-because-of-school?) historians. Since poetry is such a floundering, uninfluential medium today, how could Mr. Body Electric rank so high? (Please note: the last 39 words are totally sarcastic. Poetry isn't floundering. It's dead. Dead as a rotting carcass on top of a dried skeleton on top of Richard Grieco's career.)

So allow me, at the risk of making those so-called "historians" jealous, to make some of my own suggestions for this sorely lacking list:

3) John Travolta. Bear with me here. OK, in Grease he was this totally studly, good-looking, popular guy who could also sing and dance and wear fitted t-shirts all while appearing 100% heterosexual. So, thanks to him, a whole generation of women could believe that the studly, good-looking, popular guys who could also sing and dance and wear fitted t-shirts who went to their high school were actually straight, and those guys could actually convince themselves and others that they were all about chasin' the cooter. Thus, with one jut of Travolta's slithery hips, a whole generational high school survival system was solidified: millions of guys can avoid getting beat up and get to have prom dates and millions of girls can convince themselves that it's normal for really sensitive boyfriends to bake banana bread for their girlfriends. God bless this American tradition. God bless John Travolta.

2) The Sumerians. Because my .5 seconds of online research taught me that the Sumerians inadvertently invented beer 6,000 years ago (although it doesn't say specifically where they were when this happened, it's safe to assume it was either Vegas or the University of Wisconsin-Madison). Anyone who invented this sweet nectar must have been the celebrities of their time (even if we're talking about an entire culture). Sure, they may not be "American" (what does that even really mean anymore, anyway?) but because of them, ugly people get to have sex, frat boys accelerate the Darwinian process by killing 90% of their brain cells within two months of their freshman year and I get through life every day. (Please note: that last part was totally sarcastic. I also use pot. And Starbucks.)

1) Phil Donahue. Not because he introduced whiny, self-absorbed validation-seeking as self-help. Not because he taught us that the best way to communicate is through confrontation and televised humiliation. And not because he was a totally intellectual stud muffin paving the way for the Matt Lauers and Stone Phillipses (remember Stone Phillips? No? Neither do I) of the world. No, Donahue is influential because without him there would be no Oprah, and without Oprah there would be no Tyra Banks. 'Nuff said.

Yeah, so suck it, Thomas Edison. Eat you heart out, Walt Disney. And it's more like the "Wrong Brothers," Wright Brothers.

But, of course, these are just suggestions. The Atlantic's list is still kind of pretty good. I guess.

Kiwi, Tab and Turkey

In February I shared a poem and a video to celebrate Valentine's Day. Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, is coming up, but I can't exactly reach through the screen and give you all a plate of steaming mashed potatoes with turkey and cranberry sauce. So I thought I'd do the next best thing and share two videos...that have nothing to do with Thanksgiving whatsoever.

Unless, of course, your Thanksgiving feast is enjoyed with a tall, frosty glass of ice-cold Tab. And if it is, then maybe you also enjoy Thanksgiving wearing leg warmers and torn-up sweatshirts hanging off one shoulder, but that's not the point. The point is, Tab is awesome. And so is this commercial for Tab from the late 60's/early 70's (I'm estimating). I was directed to its brilliance via Elizabeth Crane's awesome blog, and I urge each and every one one of you to watch it. Description cannot do it justice, but the lyrics allude to its dizzy hilarity: "When you can't be with him, be in his mind. Be a mind-sticker." Yes, I'm serious. Tab was all about appealing to the ladies: "Being in good shape - shape with Tab. Keeping your shape in shape has its rewards." All being said in a creepy/sexy male voiceover as a husband comes home to his foxy, Tab-chugging wife.

Watch it below or check it out here.



Um, yeah. Totally makes me want to drink Tab. Or trip on acid. Or both.

The second video is completely different. By way of Popwatch, this is a master thesis from film student Dony Permedi entitled "Kiwi!" It's about a bird who can't fly who goes to great lengths for one last grande attempt. It's cute, funny, sad, complicated and - ultimately - heartbreaking. It's also three minutes long, so break away from your work and spreadsheets and emails to watch it at least once. But you'll probably want to watch it more than once.

Check it out below or watch it here.



So what do these have to do with Thanksgiving? Um, let's see...one is reminder for an underappreciated, overlooked beverage to take its rightful place next to your spiced apple cider, and the other is about being thankful for the things you have rather than dragging yourself down about the things you don't.

Maybe that's a stretch.

OK, it's totally a stretch.

But my brain is already so distracted by the inevitable pleasure overload of pumpkin pie that I can't think straight. So enjoy!

Boo.

"Spine-tingling!" "Toe-curling!" "Keeps you on the edge of your seat!"

Apparently, watching a scary movie, as opposed to any other genre, is a very physical spectator sport. In the spirit of Halloween and with only a few more months left in the year, I just wanted to take a step back and look at some of 2006’s scary movie offerings, which is actually a fairly solid sampling of what scary movies have to offer, from atmospheric thrillers to straight-up slashers. (Note: because I haven’t yet seen Saw II, I just figured I wouldn’t understand anything in Saw III, so I haven’t seen that yet. The Saw storylines can get pretty intricate. Like Tolstoy.) In order from worst to best:

4) Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning - If you’ve already seen one of the Texas Chainsaw movies, then you know exactly what to expect when you hear they made a prequel. The movie does not offer one surprise or original idea. The filmmakers were so transparently lazy it’s almost insulting. Grainy footage! Hand-held cameras! Crazy hillbillies! Doesn’t it just feel creepy? Not quite. Oh, and memo to horror filmmakers: gore does not equal scary.

3) Final Destination 3 - Horror movies often walk a fine line between scary and funny, often by going so over the top that we're laughing at the filmmakers' audacious perversity than at the characters' misfortune. But FD3 has it all backwards. No film has made me feel older, and less funny, than the third (final?) installment in this trilogy. As Death once again comes up with creative ways to kill of a batch of teenagers (since they defied Death, he/she/it/whatever won’t stop until its mission is accomplished), I couldn’t help but feel that the filmmakers were just soulless assholes. While many horror/slasher movies could use the originality shown in FD3’s death sequences (#4, are you listening?), the writers barely take the time to think of even one personality trait per character, such as valley girl, jock, goth couple, etc. Then the filmmakers take such uninhibited, sadistic glee in dispatching them (let’s watch these bimbos fry in a tanning bed for five minutes!) that any fun is offset by the self-conscious expectation that we’re supposed to laugh and cheer along. Ugh. I know, I know. Just hand me my walker now.

2) Hostel - This movie is what we would call “progress.” The director, Eli Roth, obviously knows his shit. He knows what’s been done before and is obviously trying to tweak old stereotypes and expectations. Yes, it’s too self-aware for its own good and also relies too much on gore. But, refreshingly, it at least tries to aim higher than just sliced Achilles heels and gouged eyes. It’s suspenseful, well-paced and even fun. There is something hollow at its core, which I think is because there's no single, memorable villain in the movie. It's just Paxton (Jay Hernandez) and his buddies against a bunch of sadistic, generic Europeans. Still, it will be interesting to see what Roth does next, besides Hostel 2. And the gang of murderous kids bribed by candy? Awesome.

1) The Descent – Easily the best scary movie of 2006 (except for Little Man). This British import starring six unknown actresses may not have had the marketing hype of, say, The Grudge 2, but it surely deserved it. Six women decide to explore underground caves…and that’s as much as I’ll tell you. Yes, the symbolism of lithe young ladies trying to fit through really tight tunnels is rife for parody. But the film is so confident in its premise that it doesn’t even bother to introduce the creepy-crawly creatures that attack them until halfway through (okay, so I just told you a little more). Employing claustrophobia, smart editing, psychological mind games, complicated group dynamics and some serious ass-kicking female characters (rare indeed in Hollywood horror movies, see #4-2 above), The Descent stands out among the rest. My only problem is that the decision to trim the truly creepy, ambiguous ending from the British run for the American’s easy, lazy, cheap final scare. (For more about The Descent, its influences, references and the deal behind that truly creepy poster, click here.)

So what do these movies say about the modern state of horror movies? Sequels and prequels usually suck and there’s more crap than good ones. But you could say that about movies in general, right? Every other genre has its so-bad-its-good gems, but scary movies are consistently either genuinely great or hilariously God-awful. To paraphrase a quote, when they're good, they're great, when they're bad, they're even better. It's fun to dig through the losers even as you search for the one that truly tingles your spine.