I am alive! In the last month, I've shoved all my stuff into a storage unit in Chicago, seen my little sister get married, spent a whirlwind two weeks traveling to London, Amsterdam & Vienna, and am now about to move to Los Angeles, with an apartment almost lined up.
Hopefully at some point in the near future, I can get up my reviews of Henry IV, Parts 1 & 2 at the Globe and a revival of Noel Coward's Design for Living at the Old Vic. And maybe a brief thing about some of the movies I've seen lately. Or about reading Schiller's Mary Stuart after seeing her tomb in Westminster. Or my travels in general.
Anyway, a lot of stuff has been happening these last few months. I hope once I get to LA, I'll have more time to blog. And since I don't have a job lined up there yet, there's a chance I'll blog enough to get you guys sick of me.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
I think Netflix is broken...
because the under-rated Anthony Mann western The Last Frontier, starring James Whitmore, Victor Mature, Anne Bancroft & Robert Preston and shot in Cinemascope (!) is garnering the same rating of three and a half stars as Saw & Death Sentence.
I know there's no accounting for taste, but this has to be a technical problem with the site, not that people actually like Saw or Death Sentence that much, right?
I know there's no accounting for taste, but this has to be a technical problem with the site, not that people actually like Saw or Death Sentence that much, right?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Standing on the blog where nobody posts...
Dear blog,
I'm sorry I abandoned you, but I've been busy fulfilling stuff that is more essential according to Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, i.e. figuring out where I'm going to live.
I've seen some pretty interesting films recently, such as Don't Bother to Knock (d. Roy Baker), Marilyn Monroe's almost psycho-killer role, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, and Piranha 3D (which I have more and more mixed feelings about, re: misogyny & sexism, but which has some pretty clever visual gags). And I want to watch both Casablanca & Cheyenne Autumn this week. But I've also got to move all my stuff into storage and say goodbye to most of my friends.
Sorry, blog. Maybe I'll see you in September?
Love,
Robby
I'm sorry I abandoned you, but I've been busy fulfilling stuff that is more essential according to Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, i.e. figuring out where I'm going to live.
I've seen some pretty interesting films recently, such as Don't Bother to Knock (d. Roy Baker), Marilyn Monroe's almost psycho-killer role, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, and Piranha 3D (which I have more and more mixed feelings about, re: misogyny & sexism, but which has some pretty clever visual gags). And I want to watch both Casablanca & Cheyenne Autumn this week. But I've also got to move all my stuff into storage and say goodbye to most of my friends.
Sorry, blog. Maybe I'll see you in September?
Love,
Robby
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
"I promise you, things are about to get a whole shit-load brighter": BEACH PARTY AT THE THRESHOLD OF HELL
Director: Jonny Gillette/Kevin Wheatley
Starring: Kevin Wheatley, Paul Whitty, Jamie Bullock, and quick cameos from Daniel Baldwin, Jane Seymour and Tony Hale
In case Kevin Wheatley serving as both star and (one of the) director(s) wasn't enough, he also wrote the screenplay. Also, his biggest credit other than this is a recurring role on "Dirt". And if that didn't kill your interest, the fact this movie's official title includes "National Lampoon Presents" probably might.
Wait, wait, come back!
Okay, those of you that are left might be wondering, "why did you watch this movie, Mr. K?" Well, one, I'm a masochist. And two, it's a post-apocalyptic comedy.
A low-key, low-budget, poorly-executed comedy that mostly reminds me I still need to see Six String Samurai. But it has a slight charm.
The plot, such as it is, is this. In 2075, something called the Sunstroke Corporation apparently obliterated America, leaving only a few hundred thousand survivors, mostly underground. While underground, the survivors were comforted by Clarke Remington (Daniel Baldwin, basically being a low-rent version of his brother Alec), a used car salesman who convinced people he was King of America and that his half-mad, blind, albino nephew Benny (Bill English) was his sucessor. When the surviving Americans finally emerged, Tex Kennedy (our star, Kevin Wheatley, trying for a Kennedy impersonation and mostly failing) makes it his mission to let America know Benny is their king, and hopefully get the Vice-Kingship in the process. Unfortunately, he's opposed by a bunch of Satanic spring-breakers, Clarke's pyschopathic son Jackle (Lea Coco) and his mysterious advisor from the "Republic of Arizona", Marcellus St. Joan (Ted Schneider).
That's a lot to take in. Also, that really doesn't represent what the story is. It's a hell of shaggy dog story. The Sunstroke Corporation? Not mentioned after the first five minutes. What the Republic of Arizona represents (if it exists), what Benny's visions are, who killed Clarke Remington, why a bunch of spring-breakers were protected by the Devil from the nuclear fall-out, and if Tex Kennedy will actually become Vice-King are not answered either. Don't even get me started on a half-assed framing device that includes Tony Hale and a few other people pretending to be historians commenting on this film as if it were a documentary.
Now, comedies have a tendency towards rambling, disconnected narratives (though both Hot Fuzz & Shaun of the Dead prove this isn't necessary). Some movies, like Monty Python and the Holy Grail, even turn this to their advantage, using the loopy and disjointed nature of the plot to make fun of the way stories about King Arthur and his knights are cobbled together from a variety of sources with a variety of different motives. At the very least, digressions in a comedy should lead to something funny. Why does Stryker's flashback in Airplane! turn into a Saturday Night Fever parody? Who cares, because it's unexpected and (more importantly) hilarious.
Now, to be fair to Beach Party, it does have a few funny moments. But way too much of the film is devoted to setting up an incredibly developed mythology that isn't funny and is clearly setting up another film. This mythology isn't even interesting enough to build up my interest in another film. It's just distracting and confusing. And not funny.
In my estimate, a good 20 minutes of exposition, mostly in the beginning of the film, are spent setting up characters and situations who don't even figure into the climax, and the last 13 are spent setting up the next film. Beach Party is only an hour and a half! You don't need to remember your Robert McKee to see the structural problems.
It certainly doesn't help that, even when Beach Party is trying to be funny, their reach exceeds their grasp. The low-budget and inexperienced actors make the movie feel like a collaboration between a college improv troupe and the film department. Daniel Baldwin is probably the best actor in the entire movie, and he's just on auto-pilot (Tony Hale and Jane Seymour are completely squandered). Most of the other performances give off that strange mix of apathy and over-acting that people new to improv display. Though at least Lea Coco and Ted Schneider go all the way into scene-chewing, and are frequently the funniest because of that.
This is a shame, because there are some good ideas in the mix. A movie set in a post-apocalypse where the survivors are incompetent assholes pretending to be tough guys is a great concept. When Mr. Jackle is trying to chainsaw an offending minion and takes five minutes to get the chainsaw started, it's hilarious. The idea that one of the new Founders ends up inspiring a holiday devoted to cannibalism, complete with cheesy patriotic commercials, is comedy gold. And a failed car salesman who ends up becoming king of (part of) New America merely because he's the most charismatic guy with a radio is an inspired character.
But throughout, Wheatley and company are trying to convince the viewer that they're ready to play in the big leagues, squandering whatever charm their laid-back approach sometimes earns. Cannibal! The Musical is only slightly less hit-or-miss, but the low-key, communal feel to the film draws you in. And the "National Lampoon Presents" label suggests a level of professionalism and polish that just isn't there. Maybe if Troma had released it, it might have done better.
As for why National Lampoon might have decided to release this film, it's probably because of the titular Beach Party, which is about as salacious as a TV edit of American Pie, and a torture scene with a lesbianic catfight. Trust me, it sounds more interesting than it actually is.
Grade: C -
Starring: Kevin Wheatley, Paul Whitty, Jamie Bullock, and quick cameos from Daniel Baldwin, Jane Seymour and Tony Hale
In case Kevin Wheatley serving as both star and (one of the) director(s) wasn't enough, he also wrote the screenplay. Also, his biggest credit other than this is a recurring role on "Dirt". And if that didn't kill your interest, the fact this movie's official title includes "National Lampoon Presents" probably might.
Wait, wait, come back!
Okay, those of you that are left might be wondering, "why did you watch this movie, Mr. K?" Well, one, I'm a masochist. And two, it's a post-apocalyptic comedy.
A low-key, low-budget, poorly-executed comedy that mostly reminds me I still need to see Six String Samurai. But it has a slight charm.
The plot, such as it is, is this. In 2075, something called the Sunstroke Corporation apparently obliterated America, leaving only a few hundred thousand survivors, mostly underground. While underground, the survivors were comforted by Clarke Remington (Daniel Baldwin, basically being a low-rent version of his brother Alec), a used car salesman who convinced people he was King of America and that his half-mad, blind, albino nephew Benny (Bill English) was his sucessor. When the surviving Americans finally emerged, Tex Kennedy (our star, Kevin Wheatley, trying for a Kennedy impersonation and mostly failing) makes it his mission to let America know Benny is their king, and hopefully get the Vice-Kingship in the process. Unfortunately, he's opposed by a bunch of Satanic spring-breakers, Clarke's pyschopathic son Jackle (Lea Coco) and his mysterious advisor from the "Republic of Arizona", Marcellus St. Joan (Ted Schneider).
That's a lot to take in. Also, that really doesn't represent what the story is. It's a hell of shaggy dog story. The Sunstroke Corporation? Not mentioned after the first five minutes. What the Republic of Arizona represents (if it exists), what Benny's visions are, who killed Clarke Remington, why a bunch of spring-breakers were protected by the Devil from the nuclear fall-out, and if Tex Kennedy will actually become Vice-King are not answered either. Don't even get me started on a half-assed framing device that includes Tony Hale and a few other people pretending to be historians commenting on this film as if it were a documentary.
Now, comedies have a tendency towards rambling, disconnected narratives (though both Hot Fuzz & Shaun of the Dead prove this isn't necessary). Some movies, like Monty Python and the Holy Grail, even turn this to their advantage, using the loopy and disjointed nature of the plot to make fun of the way stories about King Arthur and his knights are cobbled together from a variety of sources with a variety of different motives. At the very least, digressions in a comedy should lead to something funny. Why does Stryker's flashback in Airplane! turn into a Saturday Night Fever parody? Who cares, because it's unexpected and (more importantly) hilarious.
Now, to be fair to Beach Party, it does have a few funny moments. But way too much of the film is devoted to setting up an incredibly developed mythology that isn't funny and is clearly setting up another film. This mythology isn't even interesting enough to build up my interest in another film. It's just distracting and confusing. And not funny.
In my estimate, a good 20 minutes of exposition, mostly in the beginning of the film, are spent setting up characters and situations who don't even figure into the climax, and the last 13 are spent setting up the next film. Beach Party is only an hour and a half! You don't need to remember your Robert McKee to see the structural problems.
It certainly doesn't help that, even when Beach Party is trying to be funny, their reach exceeds their grasp. The low-budget and inexperienced actors make the movie feel like a collaboration between a college improv troupe and the film department. Daniel Baldwin is probably the best actor in the entire movie, and he's just on auto-pilot (Tony Hale and Jane Seymour are completely squandered). Most of the other performances give off that strange mix of apathy and over-acting that people new to improv display. Though at least Lea Coco and Ted Schneider go all the way into scene-chewing, and are frequently the funniest because of that.
This is a shame, because there are some good ideas in the mix. A movie set in a post-apocalypse where the survivors are incompetent assholes pretending to be tough guys is a great concept. When Mr. Jackle is trying to chainsaw an offending minion and takes five minutes to get the chainsaw started, it's hilarious. The idea that one of the new Founders ends up inspiring a holiday devoted to cannibalism, complete with cheesy patriotic commercials, is comedy gold. And a failed car salesman who ends up becoming king of (part of) New America merely because he's the most charismatic guy with a radio is an inspired character.
But throughout, Wheatley and company are trying to convince the viewer that they're ready to play in the big leagues, squandering whatever charm their laid-back approach sometimes earns. Cannibal! The Musical is only slightly less hit-or-miss, but the low-key, communal feel to the film draws you in. And the "National Lampoon Presents" label suggests a level of professionalism and polish that just isn't there. Maybe if Troma had released it, it might have done better.
As for why National Lampoon might have decided to release this film, it's probably because of the titular Beach Party, which is about as salacious as a TV edit of American Pie, and a torture scene with a lesbianic catfight. Trust me, it sounds more interesting than it actually is.
Grade: C -
Thursday, July 22, 2010
There are no guilty pleasures...
... but there are things to be guilty over, especially once the pleasure is gone.
So I'm going through my CD collection, weeding out stuff I don't listen to any more or that I have a digital copy of already. And yikes, I forgot how many bad or embarassing CDs I own. And yes, I say this despite the fact I now admit to liking Grand Funk Railroad.
For example, I own/owned:
Most of these purchases I can blame on growing up in the '90s, but still... blech. I'm pretty sure there's even a Korn CD somewhere in there. It might be the one that Todd McFarlane did a music video for. Even more reason to be ashamed.
So, what's the most embarassing album/CD you have trouble admitting you owned?
So I'm going through my CD collection, weeding out stuff I don't listen to any more or that I have a digital copy of already. And yikes, I forgot how many bad or embarassing CDs I own. And yes, I say this despite the fact I now admit to liking Grand Funk Railroad.
For example, I own/owned:
- a CD by Powerman 5000
- both Iggy Pop & Henry Rollins' attempts to jump on the funk-metal bandwagon
- two Everclear CD (!). They didn't even have two different songs!
- Matchbox 20's Yourself or Someone Like You (this was one of my first pop albums)
- that Papa Roach CD that had that song about suicide on it
Most of these purchases I can blame on growing up in the '90s, but still... blech. I'm pretty sure there's even a Korn CD somewhere in there. It might be the one that Todd McFarlane did a music video for. Even more reason to be ashamed.
So, what's the most embarassing album/CD you have trouble admitting you owned?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Words for writers to live by...
Danilo Kis' A Tomb for Boris Davidovich, a sad and moving short story collection that recounts various Soviet-era apparatchiks, traitors, criminals and dissidents, ends with the tongue-in-cheek "The Short Biography of A.A. Darmolatov". The true meaning of this piece, about a minor poet who survives years of Soviet rule without getting sent to a work camp or put on trial, only emerges at the end with this postscript:
He remains a medical phenomenon in Russian literature: Darmolatov's case was entered in all the latest pathology textbooks. A photograph of his scrotum, the size of the biggest collective farm pumpkin, is also reprinted in foreign medical books, wherever elephantiasis (elephantiasis nostras) is mentioned, and as a moral for writers that to write one must have more than big balls.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I couldn't agree more...
From page 24 of Fear & Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72 by Hunter S. Thompson:
I'm doing well these days, but that sums up a lot of how I feel about my time in Chicago. And that's why I'm moving elsewhere at the end of the summer.
... Back to Chicago; it's never dull out there. You never know exactly what kind of terrible shit is going to come down on you in that town, but you can always count on something. Every time I got to Chicago I come away with scars.
I'm doing well these days, but that sums up a lot of how I feel about my time in Chicago. And that's why I'm moving elsewhere at the end of the summer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)