The Curious of Case of Life & the Movie Star

Beholding Brad Pitt in various states of undress alone is a sight to behold, but to behold Mr. Pitt twinkle with ache and humanity in crescendoing stages of CGI-assisted gorgeousness and decay illuminates the sheer sway of movie magic and movie stars.  Except for his cliche star vehicles that dominated his filmography (Troy, Spy Games, Meet Joe Black) in the Aniston era, one has to give credit to Pitt's fan boy approach to choosing his most notable roles after turning A-lister. It is in his wonkiest, kookiest and scruffiest do we detect a depth or an aspiration for it, in those geneticist-confounding good looks. 

There could not be better examples than his jaunts with David Fincher. In Se7en, we first get to glimpse an indulgent hotshot, runt-like (in contrast to Morgan Freeman) and uncouth ("Marquis de Sha-arday") with mock-worthy intonation ("What's in the baa-aahx!?"). There's soap-making, unhygienic and ripped Tyler Durden in Fight Club. Lofty and subversive often he aims yet, he still has been just window dressing to more sublime thespians like Freeman and Norton.

In their third collaboration, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, gone are the 90's pretty boy dark, dank nihilistic status symbols. In its stead is seamless edge and languid cool--the quintessential showcase of Pitt-- the son, father of six, idealist, other half, citizen of the world, all-American boy and yes, accomplished actor. Perhaps it's the effect of his flawless Babel co-star, Cate Blanchett or, just age itself. The package is the same but the wine is of vintage age. For now instead of image and swagger, we have restraint and a (gasp!) resignation to the fates of storytelling and character. In doing so, the world's biggest moviestar may have just become one of us.

 

There may be Oscar buzz and some mixed reviews in the ether but for movie lovers, this is a popcorn epic that brings people together into cinemas in the grand tradition of movies-- a suspension of disbelief, transportation from the mundane, and reaffirmation of box of chocolates, kings of the world, angels getting their wings and yes, life is beautiful.

This movie has all the stuffings & fixings of an  Academy contender: technology, music, dance, poignancy, a love story, glossy sex, Americana and even comedic strikes of lightning. The story is a signature Eric Roth (Forrest Gump) ouevre tempered by Fincher's Andersen's fairy tale-like strokes.

In a somber time in my life in this most trying of seasons, watching this movie conjures memories of loved ones and generations that have lived, died, crossed paths and took care of each other through it all just because. Watch this with a room full of people wether with someone you know or random strangers. As you tear-up or chortle in unison inside the darkened cinema, you find that people share a common thread so much more than you think. Even with Brad Pitt.

Click here for the Baltimore Sun review.

Charlie Brown Christmas II

Thank you so much Mr. Charles Schulz. 

A Charlie Brown Christmas

To simpler times and the enduring wisdom of Peanuts...

A Dose of Paul Rudd

Finally, a viral clip of the SNL skit from last November that hasn't been swallowed into NBC's corporate copyrighting vortex-- never to be seen in it's original state except in regurgitated YouTube tribute videos--pure and warm like dance biscuits. Features the yumminess that is Paul Rudd, Sasha Fierce and some interesting uses of leotards. Harkens me back to my Saturday ballet/jazz/hula lessons except instead of high heels (or in this case, Stride Rites) I wore these shaolin/mary jane/chinese shoes and had a bowl haircut. Nothing like a good laugh on nasty days like these.

   

"Happy Birthday, Samantha. Make a Wish."

or The Tao of Long Duk Dong and Other Wisdoms for the Ages From the 80's

"You know a girl in a hat is just so...vogue."--Farmer Ted

Eureka, HDTV! For reasons beyond my brain cells, my cable unit can finally grant my humble Sylvanna flatscreen/DVD combo to beam in pop culture images--rendered sharp, shimmery as a fond memory, courtesy of all-American hi-def mania-- into my confined hideaway in Suburbia. The landmark paean to teenage nadirs and nirvanas, seemed less dated and vintage and more like an ad tribute to John Hughes styled by American Apparel and Urban Outfitters. It also illuminated the fact that at least four or five of my grade school attires from '84 to'86 are different versions of  Molly Ringwald's outfit in the opening scenes. The hat came later.

"Why do you think you're a dork? I don't think you're a dork. I don't think Mom thinks you're a dork. "
"Mike thinks I'm a dork."

" Mike is a dork."  

"So am I."

 --Jim and Samantha Baker

"That's why they call them crushes. If they were easy, they'd call them something else."-- Jim Baker.

The dorks-and-crushes scene is every heart-to-heart father-daughter talk I've ever shared with my own Dad, down to the sleeveless undershirt and the pajamas and the sofa and the assurance of personal happiness only a father can conjure.

"I do independent study with her. I catch her lookin' at me a lot. It's kinda cool, the way she's always lookin' at me. "
"Maybe she's retarded." -- Jake Ryan and jock friend.

Question 1.  After 1984 and exponentially through the early to mid-90's, why is it that every teenage dream object of lust for the every-girl looks like this?

(Of course, until Jordan Catalano came along and started leaning on things and haunted the school hallways of our redhead psyches did we have an alternative but, that is another Zeitgeist and a whole other blog post... or website.) As one aptly titled essay succintly breaks down:

"... Jake stands the test of time, even in his good looks. His wardrobe -- cargo pants, plaid shirt -- portends an Abercrombie vibe years before it came. His haircut requires only minor tweaking in a mental update of the fantasy. "

Question 2. Why do above-mentioned teenage dream objects of lust always own a pair of topsiders?

"I can't believe I gave my panties to a geek." --Samantha.

For the past three years or so, before my friend Shivaun, before my parents, before my sisters, my BFF since birth, and whatever number of friends I have, way before I have no choice but to remember, without fail, the first entity to wish me Happy Birthday is... Victoria's Secret. And it always comes with an offer to get a free panty.

"Would you stop feeling sorry for yourself? It's bad for your complexion."--Randy to Samantha.

How many best friends in my life, including my mother, have said this to me in one way or another. And most times, in all grateful angst, I  reply, 

"It's really human of you to listen to all my bullshit."-- Samantha to Farmer Ted.

Then, there is the immortal utterance from Samantha that still echoes,

"Donger's here for five hours, and he's got somebody. I live here my whole life, and I'm like a disease."

Oh well, like she said to Farmer Ted,

"Well that’s pretty cool. Hey, but a lot can happen over a year. I mean, you could come back next fall as a completely normal person."

A girl can always hope, sixteen and twice over and more. 

BTW, the opener of this YouTube tribute brings back memories of my eldest sister dancing on top of somebody's tomb (pan-tyon) in my Dad's hometown a day before All Saint's Day

And in closing (and I could be paraphrasing),

"No more Yankee my wanky. Donger need food!"

SHOOED!!

Uhm, perhaps the phrase, "May the fleas of a thousand camels invade your armpits!" did not suffice?


Embedded video from CNN Video.

What do you think Carrie Bradshaw would have done?

Huhh?! WTF?

ANG YAYA NI ZUMA

 Click here to connect to No Doubt official website

Somehow in the last three of the alphabet generations, a girl is never just a girl until she (even remotely) admires Gwen Stefani or, emulates Gwen Stefani, or wants to be like Gwen Stefani, or mentally befriends Gwen Stefani or, dye her hair pink like Gwen Stefani or, projects conjurations of girlish dreams acquired and evolved by the years, through Gwen Stefani. It is not Gwen Stefani's world that we happen to live in. It is a world where a girl wouldn't mind being Gwen Stefani. She is the every-girl Malkovich. This is further compounded by that gorgeous hubs of hers. Like who wouldn't do THAT? Even so after all these years, one can not help but be vicariously titillated by thought of her and Tony Kanal. There are Sid-and-Nancys, Cobains-and-Loves and Fleetwood Macs but Stefani and Kanal are the Julia & Richard, the Tom & Meg of rock--adorable in fantasy, but they're probably better off and far less dysfunctional as friends. 

After years of hits, personal anthems, pop forays, fashion spreads, fragrance lines and genetically endowed offsprings No Doubt of the Orange County is to reunite for a world tour. It is not the Beatles reunion, or the end of wars, or the splitting of the atom but it comes in really fierce heels.

So in honor, here's hoping they play this song. It is my personal soundtrack for all couple-ly buffoons who like to ram couple-dom and all its saccharine glory down my throat and such a manner couple-righteously so.

Bringin' Bitches Back

In the cusp of Hillary Clinton becoming Secretary of State, this is in honor of a role model or in this clip, three. After 18 million cracks at that glass ceiling, here's to hoping at running down the walls of a world where this is nothing but for women.

And thank you too, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. You called it last February. You said it all.

Enough Said.

November 4, 2008 11:00 PM EST. Two beautiful, poignant speeches. One historic night. One day we ALL thought we would never get to see in our lifetimes. John McCain concession speech in Arizona.

Barack Obama acceptance speech in Grant Park.

another Mad night

Before the New York Magazine article, my writer sister has already alerted me through my Facebook wall about the works of this talented New York lady on Flickr. She captures immortal scenes from the beloved cult series down to it's essence. She might as well have pinned down every Mad Men fanatic and dissected their brain with a laser and looked into that smoky corner in their cerebrum where they hold Sterling Cooper dear.

I, of course, have the Twistin' Peggy from the Hobo Code and this eerily familiar set-up from the pilot with Ms. Olson and a not so noble physician. I have not been a fan of Betty Draper until Season Two when I've finally decided that January Jones may just be an actress to reckon with. Check out Dyna Moe's punk-rock take on everyone's favorite Nordic model-turned-homemaker. Ah, how's about Joan Hollaway? To adore the redheaded office Marilyn is a given.

Rumor alert! A certain gun-toting, former beauty queen Republican running for VP may just be in next Saturday's SNL and may be running into Donald Draper. Hmmm, I can envision a Bobbie Barrett kind of scenario ala The Benefactor ep. I'm sure they have a lot in common. Really.

dawn can decide

Well, I'm going through the 80's revival still with my dignity intact and have not given into squeezing my lard ass into this. Oh you poor kiddies in full on 80's headbands, leg warmers and iridescent-colored leggings. You'd have to figure out for yourself how to justify those to the grandbabies.

Now here comes the 90's. I'm emotionally not over 1995 so this won't be much of a stretch. I have my Chucks and my Docs patiently stored away waiting for their moment in the sun instead of being conversation pieces in one of my outfits. I honestly miss the baby dolls, granny clothes, and the the flannel, oh the flannel. Ratty wide-leg denims have advance order wait-lists with (in the state of the global economy,) rather obscene price tags. Ah, irony. So '94. 

As for accessorizing, my angst is so well and intact, it's practically vintage. So bring on the pain, purveyors of IN. While you're at it, how's about a Soundgarden reunion? "Won't you come, won't you come..."  

more Fey, yay to the Queen, Marky Mark, & PBS

I was working Saturday night but I did get to catch this opening clip while transfusing PRBC at one of my darling ladies' bedside.

 

I caught these other two clips from the NBC website the next day. The first one is spoof of my favorite underwear-modelling, "little brother". Wink, wink to my fellow New Kids fans.

The second one is dedicated (warm fuzzies & all) to my two sisters and befittingly, our parents who had never resorted to whoring us out despite our many talents and my incessant whinings to join Little Miss Philippines  and Binibining Agham (Miss Science). I ran for the Senate seat in my Catholic high school with nary a beauty title, except maybe Miss Grade One and failed attempts to get past the talent portion of Miss Future Homemakers of the Philippines (my talent was to beat the shit out of a boy. Yeah, seriously!). Thanks, Nay & Tay.

Palin comparison to Fey genius--the goddesses have spoken II

Another reason to worship on the altars of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. What blows the mind is that they still maintain the dynamic of Fey as the straight man and Poehler as the manic Jerry Lewis-type despite that the latter has been assigned to the more "serious" role, i.e. Rodham-Clinton, Couric. The fact that Fey's Palin still comes out the wacky one in this equation reflects on Palin pretty much like how this New York Magazine article depict the state of her political image. Or this one on her comparable inarticulateness to another SNL character.

the Goddesses have spoken: "AND I CAN SEE RUSSIA FROM MY HOUSE."

If you can not see the video on this site, it is likely because EVERYONE is watching, embedding, sharing and emailing this instant classic skit as soon as it hit the Net for our downloading pleasure.

It speaks volumes about how despite the rhyme and rhetoric-- ranging from the lofty & beaming to Paris Hilton & idioms on porcine cosmetology--about change and making history, it still is an old boys club and they still get to choose who plays in the tree house.

There is ten times more forthrightness in beholding Roger Sterling going, "Crab, Duck. Duck, Crab."

In my humble (non-voter) opinion, CUT THE FUCKING TREE DOWN!

Hail La Fey!! Viva El Poehler!!! Kudos to Seth Meyers, you little cutie.

in an alternative universe, born in the first world

I Will Possess Your Heart by Death Cab for Cutie. Album: Narrow Stairs (2008)

A waif wandering the globe restlessly, eyes wide, haunted & taking in everything, face framed by arty bangs swept aside casually way to many times, hair tousled enough to be eccentric, and a rock band of of nerds serenading me with similes about "a book elegantly bound" from a giant meat freezer: this succinctly portrays my fantasy life.

As a matter of fact this may unwittingly be my life right now.

Add butt-loads of crap, errands for ice water & pain meds, constant assignments by married coworkers to CMV and almost every isolation case--for no other reason than I'm single & therefore (by their implication) have not much at stake--and the burning varicose veins, life unfolds like Urban Outfitter vignettes elegantly bound, love.

Killing Time Until The Season Premiere of Mad Men

House of Cards by Radiohead. Album: In Rainbows (2007)

Sorry fellas but Camden, NJ is just a tad too far from my side of the East Coast for one grrl to drive alone to. The area around Tweeter according to my Googling sure ain't no Columbia, MD. Please consider stopping by the BW area next time or maybe if you decide to extend your north American leg.

out-culture vulture

Click on title to know why then read on.

Well bless my bulgur and call me UNDRA queen. This third world progeny is hoisting the overtaking dirty finger at the New York literati for being slow to have caught on the show that is her "Freudian death wish," as Pete Campbell would put it. I may just be getting as cocky as the show's period chauvinists. My sister, Melissa, & I have dissected the disturbing deja vu Mad Men can incite from our sibling psyches despite that we have not really known that we both are obsessed with it until we get to reunite and catch up in my Vegas hotel room (yes, my life is never tawdry) which was kinda apropos (had to use the word. Hah! Take that Dan Kois and Lane Brown). Like Andy Garcia in the baby carriage-down-the-train-station-steps in the Untouchables she shoots, "Doesn't it remind you of old BISCOM?" I still have to turn our eldest sib, who has a namesake in the show btw, into a convert. Give in to the pomade, girdles and claustrophobia, sistah! As I am a Miranda (according to a Facebook app) in the SATC universe, I definitely am a Peggy (complete with irrational attraction to brainy, irascible jerks in the workplace) in this alternate thread.

The series plods but not in a bad critique kind of way but much like the eerie, poignant strains of an impending (symbolic?) suicide permeated by the music of the opening credits. We just sit back and watch the countdown of lives imploding in an era at the cusp of radical change. We tsk-tsk at the archaic standards of couthness and perceptions as much as we inwardly wish ourselves back into that world.

Personally, the lead character, Don Draper, is both the tip of this iceberg and the cherry on top. Jon Hamm is hot damn! I have not even bothered to mull on his Golden Globe-winning, Emmy-nominated performance. His Draper though is an antithesis but somehow reminds me of my father as I've seen him as a girl growing up. It's the immaculately combed hair, the white t-shirts, perspiring over a playhouse on a hot day, a hand laying on his sleeping daughter's forehead as he piles on the blankets after coming late from work and the scent of pomade, after-shave & nicotine that came with the strong, implacable air that both lead, awed and cowered lesser men. Ala FPJ.

Anyways, back to the middle finger. Even New York Times & Vanity Fair are in the bandwagon that dollies through the office of Sterling Cooper. Hmmm? So can you blame my cockiness? Perhaps I am just the product of my roots? As the saying goes, "Guina pala kag guina piko ang kwarta!"  and of course the immortal, "Indi kami tikalon!" To the literati, go figure that out.

Click here for Season Two teaser.

P.S. Thank you J. Harvey, you lovable, snarky Boston bear and the old Socialite Life site.

this made me cry first thing in the morning while watching the today show and damn you david gregory you prematurely grey giant

This picture is from the UK Daily Mail article. Click on title or link for the YouTube clip (please feel welcome to mute out Whitney) that got featured in Today, made Meridith cry & Gregory ruin the moment. Nevertheless, my diggings about Christian drew out memories as a little girl watching this movie in our Paglaum living room about lion cubs which might have been Born Free. Fuckin' traumatized me. Like that Dumbo movie when they were all mean to Dumbo and locked away his mom who was just being protective and in Aristocats with the kittens & that conniving butler. Bastards. I didn't get to watch Bambi until I was probably over 18 for a reason. Those Wonderful World of Disney specials with the movie clips gave me a spoiler heads up, thank God.

"And here we go..."

Click on link for The Dark Knight's box-office news.

This pretty much encapsulates why I wanted to kick myself for not booking at Fandango for the midnight screenings in advance specially in the face of "artsy" Starbucks-cashier-girl-taking-my-latte-order gloating through her piercings that she had hers a week before. TEN THEATERS at the AMC Lowes ALL SOLD OUT. I thought my blue state suburban corner in the East Coast would be immune to an albeit foreseen phenomenon rampaging the major cities of this country. Damn it.

Anyway, I did get to watch it at 10AM. Bright & early (for me). Front & center. Close enough to count Ledger's pores. Enough to get slobbered by his Joker as he licked his gashed maw and even taste the salt & metal of sweat and blood from a wound that never scabbed over. To get totaled by an exploding truck in trajectory. To snigger at nurse Joker sharing a hairstyle curl for curl & the exact shade of red with someone I work with. Enough to feel the loss of him rubbed into the psyche.

I need to sleep. Maybe I can think up a better written review. 

And fuck you Dr. Zahiri. (Totally unrelated, btw). 

CONSIDER MY ASS LOCKED INTO THAT THEATRE SEAT

I am having one major geek-out right now right now after happening upon this clip during my somewhat pointless wanderings into Perez Hilton but WTF. The sound is atrocious. The video quality is shotgun. But 10 seconds into this 5-minute clip of the opening scene of Dark Knight I have found myself trying to stop the spontaneous drool from spilling out of my awestruck maw onto my long-suffering Mac's keyboard while declaring, "Oh my God, I so have got to see this movie!!!!"

Heath Ledger is officially a deity and with SO MUCH LOVE, as the Joker, is one crazy motherfucker. My heart aches. My soul cries. Hope you're happy surfing heaven's Bondi, mate!

Click on link to movie website. Now, lemme go to Fandango. Or maybe I can harass the nice people at the Maryland Science Center if they're showing this on IMAX.

ANOTHER VIRGIN SUMMER

Yep, that time of the year is rolling closely again. Nice to meet you finally, Dave! Closer, Trent Reznor. We meet again, Scott. Mano po, Lolos Bob, Iggy & Chuck. Ola mader Moby.  Manash Kanye don't pull a Bonnaroo, ok girlfriend? It's the days of crab cakes & Southern Comfort again!!

Damn you, Weezer, Rage vs. the Machine, Beck & Radiohead. Love you but damn you. Next year perhaps? A grrl can hope.

Click on title for the the updated line-up and on links for the Spin & RS article, bitches!

SEX DREAMS

"Year after year, twenty-something women come to New York City in search of the two "L's": labels and love. Twenty years ago... I was one of them."

It doesn't start with once upon a time, the middle is a shattered attempts at happily-ever-after, and ends with the possibility of a lucrative sequel. That is the most I can tell about the plot for I loathe to spoil this for my friend Shivaun who introduced me to the series and these characters whose lives we aspired for and the city we dreamed about.

Sex in the City has always been a personal thing for me that I watch alone except for my cat, Rodman and occasionally my sister Melissa, only to share and discuss extensively via text with Shivaun. After watching the movie surrounded by the literally well-heeled, pre-movie inebriated equivalent of Trekkies and Star Wars fanatics, it pretty much is the same with every fan wether they are into Gucci and Vuitton or Proust and Bronte.  This is more than just a chick-flick, it is a major catch-up with one very dear friend with some very pleasant surprises:

1. It's got something to do with the NY Public Library which by the way behind it is Fashion Week mecca, Bryant Park which I know could induce a sigh from my writer friend and fellow bibliophile Shivaun.

2. Charlotte Yorke whom I considered the fluffiest and scoff-worthy of the four, in three pivotal scenes brought in the biggest laugh (hint:Mexico), the loudest applause (with Big) and one rather out-of-character, feral moment on the street by Bryant Park which I didn't think Kristin Davis had it in her.

3. The two kids they casted as Charlotte's and Miranda's respective children, Lily and Brady provide precious touches, from Lily being the precocious, unwitting participant in the girl talk, to red-headed Brady sharing his mother's smile.

It just goes to show how much the actors have embraced their characters and how invested we are in their journey. The movie feels like one continous season marathon and like every season four years ago, we laugh, sigh, shed a tear or two, and say, "Oh shit!" fervently, religiously. Just like any night with your best friends.

teenage goddess

I intended to post about this movie after I marched through the wet, windy chill to the Loews of The Avenue at White Marsh in my McGuffian homage of hoodie, stripes and Chucks but after the age of sixteen and specially after a harsh introduction to winter, I had always been in some kind of funk during Decembers.

Oh well, I have the DVD now, naturally, for I love indies. I always somehow associate them with a contented state of unemployment which have, once upon a time, existed for me-- living at home, taking trips to Bacolod to buy my Lola's insulin then rent 3 free 1 laser discs at Quadtech.  

I was never this succinct of mind, words and spirit as Juno. I struggled with self-expression and my only decisiveness was not go without umbilical approval from my Nanay & Tatay. I had the pretty, developed teen-queen BFFs but had to ape as their personable but weird token friend whose behavior had to be explained by the cuter members of the clique to win the senatorial elections by a hair. I owed my popularity by being one of the few who gets driven to school. I may have been part of the in crowd because of family Volkswagen Brasilia, but I wish I was this cool enough not to give a fuck what people said. In college, oh boy, I was an amoeba not even known enough to be a reject. The only thing I could be proud of was how resolute I was to not become a cliche. Specially in the LaSalle School of Nursing.

My Torontonite sister tells me her curmudgeon co-worker and fellow Flip remarked, "Sana inangkin nya na lang yung bata tutal sila naman pala yung nagkatuluyan (She should have held on to the baby since she ended up with the father, anyway)," pertaining to the Ellen Page and Michael Cera characters. Pregnancy and marriage have never been options for me back in my Third World hometown let alone solutions. Books, films, music, education and Marc Jacob Sgt. Pepper jackets are and still is. 

By the way, this Penny Saver scene I swear seems like it's totally been shot at the park behind my sister's apartment in Vaughan Road even though the film was shot in BC. I also could definitely tell the film wasn't shot on US soil. The whole environment was too.. too.. well-adjusted to be American. Sorry, Jason Reitman.

So is living like a snarky sixteen-year-old Stooges and Patty Smith fan hiding from life? Should one feel less alive for not-so popular choices? Don't ask me. I'm still figuring it out. All I know is that it takes a certain amount of spine to stand by my shenanigans (just had to sneak the word in, hehehe). Honest to blog.

closing walls and ticking clocks...

Oh summer, how much can one cram into three wee months of sun before the cruel grays of the cold months take over?

They may not be necessarily the greatest band ever although they are one of the biggest, there is something about Chris Martin & co. that stirs an ardent, polarized yet somewhat civilized wide-scale kaffeeklatsch. There are far more brilliant lyricism and far more innovative musicianship but they are far from middling either. Perhaps casting comparisons and A-list affinities and proximities and being in the know aside, these blokes just happen to make good music that happen to resonate in our joint existentialism. The song below is a prime example and a particular, personal fave other than Shiver (see past blog post).

Much like the summers that come and go into our lives and the questions wether we have made the most of them the song ticks and tocks with an urgency and constancy like a timepiece that seemingly verges but refuses to bog down-- "cursed missed opportunities..."

Speaking of summer, with several fellow greats have albums out and are of course touring. Foos, check. NIN, check. Dylan, check. Cornell, maybe. Have to check my sched. REM, have to find somebody to switch with at work. Radiohead, I wish but Chicago is too far. Pearl Jam may be out of the question. Damn PJ for being too expensive (why Eddie, why?)!!! Coldplay.com please pick me for the free Madison Square gig, PLEEASE!!! After all these, I'm going to be broke. Damn it.

Coldplay is releasing their fourth album taking part in series of unconventional releases by big acts in a show of middle fingers to the evil record company traditions.

Clocks
Coldplay
from A Rush of Blood to the Head, 2002

Lights go out and I can't be saved
Tides that I tried to swim against
You've put me down upon my knees
Oh I beg, I beg and plead, singing
Come out of things unsaid, shoot an apple off my head and a
Trouble that can't be named, tigers waiting to be tamed, singing
You are, you are

Confusion never stops, closing walls and ticking clocks, gonna
Come back and take you home, I could not stop, that you now know, singing
Come out upon my seas, curse missed opportunities, am I
A part of the cure, or am I part of the disease, singing

You are, you are, you are, you are
You are, you are
And nothing else compares
Oh no nothing else compares
And nothing else compares

You are
Home, home, where I wanted to go,
Home, home, where I wanted to go,
Home, home, where I wanted to go,
Home, home, where I wanted to go.

allegory & irony, man

It all starts with an explosion in the deserts of Afghanistan.

Summer is a-nigh. Time for bikini's, snarky tees, bare feet, music fests and superheroes. Blasting the door over for the sun to come in and annihilating the wintry doldrums is the somewhat unlikely Ironman.  Despite the CGI ammo and Oscar A-list artillery of a cast, this could have been easily just another summer cheese platter from the big studio craft service. Much to everyone's surprise the fanboy also-ran (except for the hard-core ones, natch), grossed over the 100-million mark domestically and as the last of the credits roll, the geek in everyone gets awakened and wriggling for sequel.

Perhaps it is of  little faith to ever doubt an actor's actor like Robert Downey Jr. who, according to Zodiac costar Jake Gyllenhall, has a 100 & 1 different ways to approach a scene. He so engulfs the role that even after the snazzy CGI armor comes to fore, his presence still pretty much takes over through the virtual Titanium.  The analogies to Downey's real-life persona may help but his Tony Stark is a glib, bacchanal, unapologetic yet downright charismatic, campy brat ("Press conference. Cheeseburger first") who's claim to superhumanity are merely acing MIT and a trust fund-- a quasiatom of Gates & Jobs and Paris & Nicky. Taking a lesson from the Fantastic 4 fluff care of Jessica Alba, Jon Favreau  puts his Swinger ethos to good use using the ably nuanced Paltrow as stoic and even-keeled Virginia "Pepper" Potts who provides more veritas than just being able to sprint in escape from a killer robot in strappy stiletto Louboutins over iron grates. Terence Howard poses a heroic and heretofore portentous figure to eventually fill in the iron suit and then War Machine. As father figure and nemesis, Obadia Stane, Jeff Bridges is both reassuring and menacing--the Dude transmogrified as evil capitalist. The horror.

The critics, the fanboys and the random audience talk about the makings of this superhero and the criticism of America's wars. I read in one Yahoo review, complaints about using AC/DC in the opening as a little cliche which pretty much is representative of certain points that escape the American movie-goer. On the get-go Tony Stark is introduced as somewhat of a dick. With due respect, what can be more fitting soundtrack than Back in Black, the theme song of the all-American dickhead? Seriously. In its pivotal points the film flings popcorn, albeit lovingly and glossily, at not just the American war but the American way which most superheroes or superhero films protect, uphold and concentrate on:

1. In his first attempt Ironman doesn't rescue a blonde or red-head in distress falling from a skyscraper or a family in perilous car trouble in Iowa but an Afghan family in some obscure village on the verge of being torn apart by the devastating crossfires of bullies with big guns.

2. The usual hangouts of Stark are in Vegas, Malibu, & LA--superficial wonderlands of lights, cars, mansions and easy women. The only reference to NYC, the city of the world, is by a Box of Ray's Pizza flown in by private jet.

3. In a press conference, Burger King in hand, Stark looks back on the loss of promising American lives with MySpace pages and witnessing firsthand the havoc of  the American system of "zero accountability". 

4. By the way, Tony Stark in the comic book world is a Republican.

Watch out for the fallout from the Red State-folks, once there is a lull in the election coverage. Or the point may just go over people's heads which is well, quite ironic.

ApaTAOism

Cutie New York rich kid of E!'s The Daily 10, Ben Lyons has mentioned a lull in the series of comedic meteorites from Judd Apatow  with star factory-releases like Walk Hard, The Dewey Cox Story (snigger) and Drillbit Taylor. I beg to differ. This is Hollywood Natural Selection 101. With all due respect to Messrs. Apatow,  John C. Reilly, Owen Wilson, and Seth Rogen these flicks are merely necessary evils to appease the Sumner Redstones/Weinsteins clones of this Wal-world so they can go on doing the likes of Hard Eight, Darjeeling Limited, Superbad and/or this summer's Pineapple Express which thankfully brings bourgeoning leading man, James Franco back to to his Freak and Geeks origins as if f**in Tristan & Isolde never f**in happened.

 Anyway, all is well again in Apatopia with Forgetting Sarah Marshall wherein Apatow falls back on his own blue-ribbon recipe for box-office classicism of all-story and-no-big-stars. He utilizes his Freaks cohorts, writer Nicholas Stoller to direct and actor Jason Segel who starred in, wrote and conceived the tale complete with YouTube and Blogger back stories. In the vein of Isabel-Evans-versus-Izzie-Stevens Katherine Heigl, the film is serviced by TV pin-ups Mila Kunis (That 70's Show & Family Guy) and Kristen Bell (Veronica Mars & Heroes) who are both a fair balance of Maxim popularity and geek cult-dom. In this world, the heroes are averagely cute, adorably funny in their typically clueless manhood. The heroines on the other hand are typical creations from the mind of such men in real life-- impossibly gorgeous and fit both in actuality and in the Wii; a dude's girl he can both hang and have sex with. The shrill, cliched bridezillas most of this men are likely to end up within real life are satirized into the background or as villainess. Thus, this makes the stories and the characters so involving for there is enough fantasy and happily-ever-afters copulating with the not so pretty reality.

Segel, who played the strangely appealing pink-eyed stoner uttering the immortal, "Dude, keep your baby away from him! He wants to rear your child," in Knocked Up, like Rogen, is the quintessential Apatow lead every man--a smart, schlubby, horny teddy bear with a heart of gold. Russell Brand, playing Sarah Marshall's pretentious but harmless lothario rocker boyfriend with a vacuous cool, delivers the loud guffaws with only a look and a shrug best caught in the sex war scene and the rejection of the fanatic advances of Jonah Hill, another Apatow staple. Bell draws nuance & sympathy from the cookie cutter Life & Style title character to her credit. Kunis, once the raving brat Jackie Berkhart, is irresistibly winning as the rebound girl and a surprising movie screen face. Both she and Bell in their little beach outfits make me want to swear off carbs, a normal life and sanity altogether. 

Perhaps it may be a little early to see how beings and things unfold and are explored in the growingly Lucas-like universe of Judd Apatow. We've seen some of his Phantom Menace but not necessarily its Jar-jar Binks' or worse, Howard the Duck. There are no conventions in his honor or for his movies so far, but we watch in bated bong breath for his next observations on life, sexuality and the American Way.

P.S. Seriously considering abandoning my ambitions and just move to Hawaii and just surf on my days off instead of brining my life in ennui, Perez Hiltons and ANTM marathons. Shit.

pro bono, edge, adam, and sigh, larry...

...also my family and then some other creatures

Click on title to link to movie site.

This was worth braving through the salty, biting winds of the Inner Harbor, the labyrinthian rush hour of Pratt St. looking for the only IMAX theatre within 10 miles of my zip code not to mention $18 for parking and a lost ticket for space on the other side of the Harbor. 

Somehow Friday seemed to be the day that the well-to-do East Coast urbanites of nearby Federal Hill would come out of their Ethan Allen-ed lairs and their JC Penney ad-styled world. They seemed to be everywhere that I would have checked myself if I was still in Baltimore had it not been for the homeless guy who asked for change and the crab cake platter I ate over fries and hush puppies while waiting for the 7:30 pm show.

 At an Urban Outfitters (love their stuff btw but), with the mean girls and the catholic school-garbed gossip girls and the artsy hipsters loitering as clientele, I could not help but think of this hilarious other blog I stumbled upon. Side note: I'm into about 85% of the entries and by default, fall into entry #11 (which kinda makes me glad for my choice of a Hestia-esque existence, btw), so does that make me white or just pretentious?

As my fellow audience members started to mill into the Science Center theater, I could not help thinking I'd intruded into some neighborhood party and exclaiming, "Shit I'm the only black person in the room!" I picked a center seat third row from the front--nausea central--but could not care less for I intended to be un-bothered by the more ideally-seated mob behind me and other than the old couple five to six seats down, I was the closest to U2's virtual genitals like I had wanted to.

Anyways, on with the show. Any bitch-fest I had hatched up prior to it became null as the lights dimmed and the IMAX place became a rock arena and fittingly enough the familiar opening count of Vertigo sucked us all into U2-pia. 

Uno! 

Dos!

Tres!

KATORSE!

Anthem after another, the rock arena became a religious experience as Adam Clayton (the group's resident true rock star) handed me his bass; Edge (the token prodigy/deity) let me strum his guitars and; I fly over the stage close enough to kiss Larry Mullen's nape. The audience were clearly intended to feel more than a sense of being there but to be like spirits floating around basking it all. Bono sang One and stretched out his arm and our palms met. He angles his a certain way and I found my pedestrian hands ensconced in the virtual palmar that touched those of the late Pope and lead one of the world's greatest rock bands. The other star was rather very heard than seen. The sound engulfed and washed one into the core of the event. Screw DVDs and HD TVs. This film could only be truly experienced in an IMAX. 

Behind me, the Fed Hillites sang-along, woo-whooed and shouted Free Bird. Grams and Pop-pop five seats down were not immune and Grams did not hide her appreciation every time we panned close to Bono's designer jeans. Speaking of which I should be happy about the crotch shots but up close to one of the sexiest men alive I could not help but think that the way he wore his $5,000 denim kinda reminded me of how my Tatay would wear his pants. NOT GOOD. Good for my dad cause he's analogous to Bono but for me, nooo! Not good at all. Aargh! It shouldn't be. Aaack! You are #1 in my list of sex symbols I'd like to hear singing in my shower. Why, Bono? Baah-keht?

The song below is a favorite from their How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb album and has driven me to tears early into U23D. I once have "theme-songed" this to the wrong couple of people in the past tarnishing one great song every time it plays in my i-Pod. Stupid me when I needn't have looked farther than my own blood to dedicate this to. If there's one thing these Irish lads have taught me is that family is the greatest rock band in the universe.

Nay, Tay, and all the rest of my lovies click on play  below or click here for the lyrics. Thanks for all the unequivocally loving and supportive e-mails. Love and miss you.