Matt’s Week in Dork! (9/7/14-9/13/14)

    This past week I spent much of my time at Rehoboth, Delaware, a beach resort town right up against the Atlantic Ocean.  My goodness, it was swell.  We hit just after the end of the Summer season, as much of the community was winding down, so we had the place largely to ourselves.  This meant that some businesses and activities were closed (no mini-golf that we could find), but much of the vacation madness and crowding was over.  That’s more my cup of tea anyway, being somewhat averse to large crowds as a general thing.  Consequently, there’s not a lot in the way of movies for this week, but plenty of other cool stuff.

    On the journey up, I read the first volume of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, this month’s graphic novel club book.  It was one of the first comics I read when I started getting into the medium about 12 years ago, and this was my first re-reading of it.  I enjoyed the heck out of Alan Moore’s referential smorgasbord of Victorian literature.

    We arrived in Ocean City, where we hailed the first cab to come along…the craziest, most 70s, adventure cab you could ever want.  Despite having a Huey Lewis and the News cassette (along with the Big Chill soundtrack!), it was not, as we were briefly worried, a murder van.  It did have a sweet surfboard on top and a rubber skeleton hanging out the back window.  Bam!  In that character filled van, with a character of a driver, we crossed the length of Ocean City to catch another bus, the Dart, which took us out to our lodgings.  Sadly, the public transit in the Ocean City-Rehoboth corridor is not the most user friendly, with very little helpful info on their website, and no ability to track bus progress.  And when you’re talking about bus routes that can be as much as an hour and a half, easier tracking would be very helpful.  Still, in Rehoboth itself, the buses seemed pretty frequent, even in this off season.  The buses were nice (and clean), but their website could use some work.

    When we hopped off the bus, we were greeted by a cute little farmer’s market, called Fifer’s.  The folks running it were very friendly, and the food we snagged was quite good.  I’d recommend the apple cider donuts, and their tubs of snacks (dried fruit, trail mix, etc.) were quite good.  The chocolate covered pretzels even used real chocolate, not that waxy crap you get in most grocery stores.  Oh, man….

    Though the weather was a bit drizzly, we took the short walk to the beach after getting settled in, and it was simply beautiful.  I’ve been to precious few beaches in my day, and most of them were on the frigid and rocky shores of Maine.  This was a classic resort town beach.  Stretching off into the misty fog  at the far end of either direction, the sand gently sloped down to the rolling waves, giving plenty of room for people to set up and enjoy.  However, due to the lateness of our visit and the wet weather, the beach was mostly deserted.  Perfect.

    After the peaceful view of the rolling ocean, we headed to Rehoboth proper, where there’s an awesome, old-timey boardwalk that looks like what Atlantic City would look like without the sleaze.  I was reminded of the Bangor State Fare mixed with the usual tourist trap shops.  But it was all pleasant and fun to walk around.  But first up was The Frogg Pond, which we had heard had the best wings in town.  I don’t know if there are better, but they were sure as heck delicious.  I was only disappointed that I wasn’t hungry enough to eat another round.  The general atmosphere was of a typical sports bar, but it was pleasant and clean, and the staff was friendly.  There was some live music of moderate quality and perhaps a touch too much volume, but nothing offensive or too off-putting.  After our meal, we stopped by a Candy Kitchen, a shop more common in the region than Starbucks in New York City to purchase some extra snacks and sweets.  Again, I was reminded of the difference real chocolate makes.  You know it’s good when it starts melting on contact with your skin.  Wowzer.  Good stuff.

    Tuesday morning, we had breakfast at The Sunrise Restaurant, a highly rated local favorite.  I have to admit, I found it a bit underwhelming.  The portions were enormous, but the food was sort of middling.  It had that awesome local diner type vibe, but I can’t really rave about it.

    After a trip to local outlet stores (I needed a new pair of sneakers) we walked back into Rehoboth and had a drink at The Summer House.  I drank The Painkiller, which did it’s job.  It was on these walks through town that we discovered the whole place seems to be ruled by a benevolent dictator, Jack Lingo.  His signs are everywhere, and he seems to be the name behind nearly ever real estate deal going.  His office complex is quite impressive, and looks like a historic monument.  We never met or saw the man, and that’s too bad.  I would love to have a face to put with the name.  I’m sure it’s handsome, well quaffed, and accompanied by a rich, smooth voice.  After passing the massive palace of the Mighty Lingo, it was on to the boardwalk where we ate some fries at Thrasher’s, which were quite good.  And we made our first stop at The Ice Cream Store with its dizzying array of flavors.  If we’d stayed another week, I would not have grown tired of trying ice creams and if there were more hours in the day, we’d have likely been hitting the place up a couple times each one we spent in town.  Another walk on the beach brought us home, where we quickly turned around and headed down to the water, putting our feet in for the first time.  While it was a bit cloudy and windy, the water was amazing.  And standing there with the surf breaking around us was pretty darned spectacular.  It was what I’d always wanted the beach to be, not the shiver inducing, dirty green harshness of Sand Beach.

    Later that evening we walked back into town to have dinner at Dogfish Head Brewpub.  My lady was very pleased with the selection of beers, being so near the actual brewery.  (Heck, even I enjoyed sips of a few of those beers, and I normally can’t stand the stuff).  Their burger special was excellent and easy on the wallet.  And the service was exceptional.  I think this may have been my favorite eating experience of the week (a week full of good eating).  It would appear that there is a Dogfish Head close to me, and I definitely plan on visiting sooner rather than later.

    Early Wednesday morning, we walked down to the beach to watch the sunrise.  While the clouds didn’t cooperate as much as we might have hoped, it was still quite lovely.  After that, we grabbed some breakfast sandwiches from Fifers and settled in for a relaxing day.  We were feeling kind of lazy, so we spent much of the early day lounging and watching a couple movies.  Each of us brought along a few the other hadn’t seen, just in case we were stuck inside.  So, I’ve now seen Dirty Dancing, and she’s now seen Buckaroo Banzai.  Ain’t love grand?!

Dirty Dancing:  Apparently set in the early 1960s, this extremely 80s film is filled with everything you expect.  Dancing (sometimes dirty), cheesy dialog (“Last month I was eating Jujubes just to keep alive!”), and hacksaw editing.  Oh, and surprise After School Special/“very special episode of Blossom” B storyline.  Jerry Orbach is particularly awesome as the greatest dad ever.  Plus, like all good 80s films it ends in a dance/concert/big game.

The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension:  One of the most madcap, off the wall, weirdly involved, sprawling, never explains who the deuce these people are movies you’ll ever see.  It hits the ground running and it runs all over the danged place.  A bunch of hard rocking scientists/crime-fighters/doctors led by Peter Weller face off against criminal aliens in the form of the best 80s movie villain actors, John Lithgow, Christopher Lloyd, Dan Hedaya, and Vincent Schiavelli (yes, not ONE, but all FOUR!).  The movie feels like what a good comic book movie should be.  There’s little in the way of origin story, and lots in the way of implied history between various characters.  It feels like you’ve been thrust into their world and you’ve got to figure out what’s happening and why.  Infinitely quotable, funny, weird, and often outright bugnuts.  It’s kind of amazing.

    Wednesday afternoon we had the best weather of the whole week, so we went down to the ocean again, enjoying the heck out of the surf, getting pretty well soaked, and even laying out for a while in the sun to dry off.  There were so many people with dogs, too, which were having a great time.  The vibe of the beach was really chill all week, and while never crowded, everyone seemed to be into the water.

    Wednesday night, we walked to Bramble & Brine, a classier place than I’m used to, but quite nice.  It had a slightly hoity-toity, very family-owned feel to it, while not being too stuffy.  The food was excellent.  Not cheap by any stretch.  But excellent.  Both of us were blown away by the lamb porterhouse, which was just an appetizer, but was darned good.  Darned good.  And they had a bunch of Prohibition era cocktails, which you know I’m into.  The service was exceptional, friendly and attentive, without hovering.  On the way back, we hit up The Ice Cream Store again, and Gidget's Gadgets, a kind of nicknack and kitsch shop.

    Thursday morning began the clean-up and return trip prep work.  With another round of breakfast sandwiches from Fifers, we set about tidying up.  By around noon, we were out the door and heading for the bus pick-up.  Once back to Ocean City, with suggestions from a friend, Rebecca directed us toward Ocean City Taphouse.  Good burgers and good homemade chips (with Old Bay).  From there it was back on the bus with a few stops, transfers, etc. and back home.  On the return trip, I read the second volume of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, which I enjoyed even more than the first.  I’m pretty sure I’ll be rereading Black Dossier and Century in the coming weeks.

    This was, without a doubt, the best danged vacation I’ve ever taken.  And I’d recommend Rehoboth to anyone looking for a fun, relaxing time by the beach.  I’m sure it is crazy during the peak season, and maybe not as much fun for introverts like myself.  But generally, it was pretty amazing.  The people were wonderful and the food fantastic.  Getting home, I understandably fell into a post-vacation funk.  Still, it was a great week. And I sure as heck want to give a big thank you to the owners of the place we stayed at.  You can check out the listing here: http://www.vrbo.com/513559.  Excellent location, wonderful and friendly owner, and spacious enough for a larger group, if you're interested (one group that stayed there before us was a bachelorette party/week).  I can't say enough good things.

Muppets Most Wanted:  After hearing some pretty bad press about this film, I found myself enjoying the heck out of it.  Plenty of the usual Muppets antics, lots of blink and you’ll miss ‘em cameos, and some fun musical numbers.  While it’s not going to change the world, it’s a very fun movie, and lots of fun for the family.  If you like the Muppets, you should find plenty to like here.

    Saturday, Brad and I headed out to SPX.  I feel more and more each year that I’ve lost the thread (if I ever had it) of the whole SPX thing.  I enjoy going, but I’m usually done with the place relatively quickly, and a bit relieved when I leave.  As the years have gone by, I’ve found the Baltimore Comic Con has become more diverse, more interesting, both in content and in attendees, while SPX has become more homogenous.  Table after table of similar, often not especially impressive work.  And the crowd seems to have all gone to the same clothing shop and the same stylist.  Purple or blue or pink flannel shirts, skinny jeans, thick-rimmed glasses, Converse sneakers, and haircuts that looked a heck of a lot like Pete White’s from Venture Bros., all mixed into a kind of ugly, utilitarian androgyny.  And almost everyone in attendance was white.  Jim Rugg and Tom Scioli were there, and I was glad to get some stuff from them.  But overall, it didn’t get me too awful pumped, as it has in years past.

The Phantom:  This serial is a bit longer than I was expecting.  15 chapters, instead of the 12 I’m more used to.  It’s better than some, but not among my favorites.  It features the usual ‘Mysterious Lands’ that are some vague hodgepodge of Africa, South America, the American West, and tropical islands of the Hollywood cliché factory.  Tom Tyler, who I enjoyed so much as Captain Marvel in The Adventures of Captain Marvel, one of my favorite movie serials ever, is super dull in this.  His lifeless performance as the Phantom is one of the weaker elements, which is rough when he’s the main character.  Good but not great.

Blood Money (aka: The Stranger and the Gunfighter):  It’s not just East Meets West.  It’s East Meets West with spaghetti sauce.  Unfortunately, as with several of these attempts at genre mashing, the end result is a diluted, half-way version of both, not a good synthesis of both.  Lee Van Cleef is pretty much phoning it in, and Lieh Lo lacks the charm to make up for it.  It’s not terrible, and less dull than a good number of forgettable Spaghetti Westerns, but don’t go out of your way.

    And that was that.  A fine week, with plenty of good food, good fun, comics, movies, and more.  Who’d have thought an after season beach in Delaware would be so darned nice?

-Matthew J. Constantine

Brad's Week in Dork! (1/12/14-1/18/14)

Wow, I really knocked em out this week.  A double feature of Dr. Strangelove & Buckaroo Banzai at The Alamo on Sunday launched me into a Peter Weller-A-Thon I was not expecting to partake.  But then the retail plague took over my life, and I pretty much bunkered down in the apartment, and did nothing else except watch movies.  Not too different from my normal day to day activities, just accelerated.  Next week I need to get back to my comics, gotta finish Sailor Twain for book club, and Grant Morrison's Animal Man is singing her siren song.

Dr. Strangelove Or - How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb:  Yikes.  This is one angry film.  Behind every snarky laugh, or straight up goofy punchline, you can feel the daggers of Stanley Kubrick's white hot rage.  Not at the (doomsday) machine, but at the careless dolts who run it.  The underground politicians, the meek military minions who should know better, the marching order pilots with the bomb between their legs - there are a million and one scenarios that could save us from total annihilation, but we can't be bothered to back down.  Dr Strangelove is a tremendously silly movie with bumbling fools named Jack D Ripper & Bat Guano helping our way to THE END, but every chuckle is accompanied by a pang of guilt.  On this latest rewatch I was reminded of the recent assault from Martin Scorsese, The Wolf of Wall Street.  Both films are comedies by way of auteur wrath - searing condemnations against America's head-in-the-sand populace.  No wonder Strangelove drove The Wife to tears, as the credits rolled she could not bring her self to eek one giggle while a Nazi Scientists sprung to life, and mushroom clouds littered the landscape.  Hi-Larious?  God no.  But...yes.

The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across The 8th Dimension:  James Bond.  Indiana Jones.  Buckaroo Banzai.  The holy trinity of cool.  These are the guys 8 year old Brad wanted to grow up to be, role models for my developing morality and lady killer destiny.  The thing is though, he may not be as popular these days, but Buckaroo Banzai has Bond & Jones beat in the coolness department.  Not just a super spy or a nazi smashing archeologist (although I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Banzai's done a bit of that too), Buckaroo is a bestselling rock 'n' roll scientist neurosurgeon adventurer who breaks dimensional barriers as easy as ringing a bell.  Possibly the first film to truly understand the appeal of a comic book universe, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai drops its audience into its wild world of Red Lectoids & watermelons, and lets you catch up rather than explaining its peculiarities.  That's a lesson more movies should learn; it's not about the origin, it's about the hero in the thick of it, whether it's Buckaroo Banzai, James Bond, Indiana Jones, Superman, Spider-Man, or The Wolverine.  So, is the world finally ready for a rebooted Buckaroo Banzai Against The World Crime League?  Probably not.  The 1980s seems like the only decade to properly spring such oddball fruit, but I'm willing to watch if you're will to try Hollywood.

Leviathan:  Such a wannabe film.  John Carpenter's The Thing + James Cameron's Aliens = nice try.  But it's fun to watch George P Cosmatos work out his aspirations.  Peter Weller is obviously the best thing about this movie - his One Minute Manager struggling to handle his asshole minions (I'm looking at your Daniel Stern!), and that's before the fishy genetic monstrosity starts downsizing the staff.  It's a goofy movie with an obviously shoddy practical effect hiding in the shadows, but there is enough charm in the players to make Leviathan a passable movie night.  The question remains, is Deep Star Six the superior aquatic retread?  It's been a decade or two, but I think I'll side with Leviathan - gotta snag Deep Star for the rewatch.

Robocop:  "Somewhere there is a crime happening."  How many times have I watched Robocop?  50? 100?  A lot is the answer.  I don't even know how to talk about it anymore.  It's hilarious.  It's badass.  It's genius.  Paul Verhoeven directed both a sendup of consumerism and a righteous action film filled with the best bloodwork of the 1980s.  Kurtwood Smith and his gang of tyrants are possibly the scariest batch of hoods in cinema history, and I find it impossible to separate myself from the first time I saw them butcher Officer Murphy with their cackling shotgun fire.  It's the first murder on screen that truly disturbed me as a child, and for years I could not watch the movie without fastforwarding through the opening execution.  I don't know what Jose Padilha's remake has to offer, but a PG-13 shoot 'em up seems to miss the point of Verhoeven's massacre.  Robocop is a heightened attack on Gordon Gecko's America, and if you loose yourself in the torrents of red, you might miss the giant middle finger stretching out from the Netherlands.  But it is also undeniably a glorious genre picture with cyborgs and CEOs.

Of Unknown Origin:  Certainly one of the strangest forgotten gems of yesteryear.  Peter Weller is Bart Hughes, a yuppie businessman climbing the corporate ladder while basking in the success of his recent town house renovation.  Everything is just gravy until a beastly little rat tears a hole in his dishwasher's drainage line.  A small beginning that quickly escalates to all out war between vermin and man.  Don't believe the trailers or the poster.  Yes, this is a horror film.  But there is not mutant monster here.  No supernatural terror.  The villain here is simply an NYC rat and Peter Weller's deteriorating sanity.  As much as I enjoy films like Tombstone, Cobra, Leviathan, and First Blood Part II, Of Unknown Origin is George P Cosmatos's masterpiece.  This is a claustrophobic siege film in which the terror burrows up from within, the rat in the walls as well as the one nibbling inside Weller's brain.  Another film scratching at the villainy of greed, and possibly the best character to showcase Weller's talent - the entire film thrives on his ability to crumble in front of us.  No one talks about Of Unknown Origin, but now is the time for its moment in the sun.  The DVD is long out of print, but you can snag one pretty much anywhere for less than 10 bucks.  It's worth the blind buy.

Lone Survivor:  This is a tough movie.  And it sparks complicated emotions from this viewer.  It's a helluva story.  Based on the book by Marcus Luttrell and ghostwriter Patrick Robinson, four Navy seals battle it out against a hundred Taliban soldiers in the mountains of the Kunar provence, after they release a shepherd and his two sons from their custody.  The film is absolutely punishing.  Obviously, the title is a spoiler, and you go into the story knowing that these guys are doomed.  It's nearly a sadomasochistic act waiting and watching these guys catch bullets in their bodies and crash down the mountainside.  My heart was in my throat for the entire film, but when the Afghan Villagers took up arms against the Taliban I suddenly felt the pangs of the "Based On A True Story" hypocrisy.  All films are fiction.  Whether their narrative or documentary.  A camera is present, so is a storyteller.  There might be truth to be found, but Lone Survivor is not a FACT, and it bothers me when people react to "True Stories" as Truth.  The machine gunning villagers just felt wrong, and the movie absolutely fell apart for me at that point.  Marcus Luttrell committed a noble act in bringing this story to the public.  He wanted to tell the story of those friends he left on the mountain.  But it's also big business now.  He's making a lot of money on this tragedy, and however virtuous his action may be, that collection of wealth bothers me a little.  And the liberties the film takes nag on me.  The film Lone Survivor is certainly a rousing saga of military triumph, and I'm weary of criticizing something that has become so (wrongfully) politically charged.  But Lone Survivor is a fiction - like Saving Private Ryan, The Dirty Dozen, and Battleship.  Filmmaker Peter Berg seriously loves and respects the armed forces, so do I, but I'm reaching a point where our blind belief in the True Story distracts from what should simply be a Good Story.  And I recognize this as a weird (possibly hypocritical) point of view coming from the guy who put Pain & Gain on his Top Ten Films last year.  Like I said at the start, complicated emotions here.

Bottle Rocket:  In anticipation of the March release of The Grand Budapest Hotel, The Wife and I decided to work our way through Wes Anderson's films in chronological order.  She had never seen Bottle Rocket before, and my last (& only) experience with Anderson's first movie was a negative one.  Not sure what my initial problem was, but on this second go-round I really took to Luke Wilson's romantic plight - it feels like a dry run on to the mentally fragile heartache found later in The Royal Tenenbaums.  Is there another actor out there who can pull of Sweet as perfectly as Luke Wilson?  Every expression, a bird's broken wing.  Owen Wilson is also fantastic as the film's bad influence.  He's an imp, a sad creature desperate to remain attached to his childhood buddy.  I'll take a million Dignans over one You, Me, & Durpee.  It's impressive how well formed Wes Anderson's world already is in this first venture into filmmaking, even when he's still working out his artificial world - the slomo, the soundtrack layering, the color palette.  Some herky jerky story beats, but Bottle Rocket succeeds more often than it fails.

You're Next:  John Carpenter's name gets thrown around a lot when talking about this festival crowd pleaser, but it's less Michael Myers then it is Assault on Precinct 13.  What begins as a run-of-the-mill stalk & slash cabin film quickly transforms into a root 'em, toot 'em table-turner in which Sharni Vinson steps up to the predatory challenge.   In that regard, the film actually feels like a tip of the hat to Ridley Scott's Alien - a haunted house picture in which the likely heroes are dispatched and the audience is left with one badass Final Girl to cheer on.  You're Next is not a peek-from-the-cover horror, it's an action fist-pumper worthy of your raucous popcorn screams.

Short Term 12:  VODed this in the middle of the week, and I'm left curious as to why this film ranked at the top of several critic's Best Lists last year.  Brie Larson is the lead supervisor of a residential treatment facility, not quite juvenile detention, and certainly not a hospital.  Got a problem child?  Dump 'em here.  Shortly after college I spent some time teaching English & Creative Writing at a private school for troubled kids, and I felt a lot of those frustration pangs rise to the surface while watching this movie.  However, I never connected with Larson's relationship troubles or her twenty something worries.  I don't flat out reject this film the way I did Frances Ha, but I also recognize that the psychological troubles of youth do not interest me anymore (if they ever did).  There is sweetness in this story, and some strong performances.  It probably is Brie Larson's best work to date and I look forward to future roles.

Thief:  "Lie to no one."  After penning some solid teleplays for shows like Starsky & Hutch and Police Story, Michael Mann entered cinemaland with a straight up crime classic.  James Caan's journeyman thief has a lot in common with Richard Stark's Parker series - he's just there for the job.  Don't get in his way, and he'll pay you no nevermind.  Stand between him and his score, or him and prison, and you'll get dropped quick.  Mann is obviously entranced by the process of burglary, and his camera lingers on the minutia of the job.  The director is obsessed with getting the fiction right.  He goes as far as placing known thieves in the roles of detectives, and actual Chicago cops in the roles of henchmen (the most famous being Dennis Farina).  The film is slick as hell, with some gorgeous night shooting that tingles with Tangerine Dream's neon synth score.  I've seen this film a handful of times, but the 4K Restoration on the new Criterion Blu Ray reveals an array of details I'd never noticed before (ex. Caan's sideburn scar), and it's essential for fans of the underworld subgenre.

Elite Squad - The Enemy Within:  Picking up several years after the first film, Wagner Moura is still heading up Rio De Janeiro's Elite Squad despite a dissolved marriage and a son drifting into liberal ideology.  His second in command Andre Ramiro is a Frankenstein Monster of sorts, and when a prison riot escalates into a quick-trigger assassination the Brazilian people turn against Moura's necessary fascism.  Just when you though Rio was a Dante-like Inferno, the government corruption sinks to new horrific depths, and no white shining morality goes unscathed.  The Enemy Within is a solid sequel to the original horror show, but I feel about it the same way I feel about The Godfather Part II - I got the gist in the first film, and I pretty much already saw where this film was going to take its demons after the original's credits rolled.  Again, the message being, don't go to Rio.

Twenty Feet From Stardom:  For the first time ever, I have already seen all of the Best Picture films nominated for the Academy Awards.  The only categories I need to bone up on are Best Actress & Supporting Actress (gotta see August: Osage County), Best Animated Film (haven't seen a single nom), and just two films in the Best Documentary Category - both of which I tackled this week.  Twenty Feet From Stardom is a fluffy, glorified VH1 Behind The Music about the unsung background singers behind Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, Ray Charles, etc.  It's fun enough.  Lethal Weapon's Darlene Love naturally being the highlight for me.  However, the idea that this is the frontrunner, when powerhouse docs like The Act of Killing & The Square (see below) are standing next to it seems like another idiotic example of America's head-in-the-sand mentality.  After all, another feel-good musical, Searching For Sugarman, took home the gold guy instead of the far superior, socially conscious docs like 5 Broken Cameras & How To Survive A Plague.

The Driver:  "I'm going to catch the cowboy that's never been caught...dessssspperado..."  Ryan O'Neal is an impossible to catch getaway driver who captures the dogged determination of police detective Bruce Dern after one too many successful robberies.  Too bad Dern is not the star.  His wildman cuckoo routine is endlessly watchable, but O'Neal is a big sack of human boredom.  His dead eyed stares are less cool then they are annoyingly dull.  The man has no emotion.  He drifts through the screenplay, playing googoo eyes with the mysteriously sultry Isabelle Adjani, but things don't get exciting until he hands the reigns over to the stunt drivers.  Walter Hill knows how to crash a car.  When the engines are racing, and the various array of cardboard boxes are getting smashed, The Driver is certainly watchable.  And again, Bruce Dern spitting foul hate and screaming whacko at his mollycoddle partner is delightful.  Watch his movie, ignore O'Neal's, and you can have a good time with The Driver.

A Fantastic Fear of Everything:  Simon Pegg plays a disgraced children's author who abandons talking hedgehogs for London's most vile serial killers.  Unfortunately, his exploration of the Jack The Rippers of this world has driven him into a catatonic state of agoraphobia (as well as various other maladies).  Who doesn't love Simon Pegg?  Assholes.  But I gotta admit that he makes poor picture choices outside of his Edgar Wright pairings (Star Trek & Paul not withstanding).  A Fantastic Fear of Everything has its moments thanks to Pegg's commitment to fear, but the story deteriorates into a mediocre mystery involving launderettes and finger chopping.  I wanted to love it, but after I finish typing this sentence, the film will most likely drop from my memory immediately.

The Square: In 2011, Egyptian filmmaker Jehane Noujaim was determined to document the people's revolution, in which thousands of Christians & Muslims gathered in the Tahrir Square in Cairo in an effort to overthrow President Hosni Mubarak.  But once they succeed...The King Is Dead, Long Live The King.  Noujaim had several years to record these events, and The Square practically takes us up to the present day, and thanks to Netflix it can stream into your home tonight.  Idealists find their cause shaken, but not shattered.  What is victory?  What is loss?  It's a powerful piece of journalism, and if not for the revelatory experience that is The Act of Killing, I'd give Oscar to The Square.

Drive:  "You look like you're hard to work with."  What is this?  My tenth rewatch?  Sounds about right.  This time around I can't help but see the influence of both The Driver & Thief.  The opening scene is a straight up lifted from Walter Hill, and Ryan Gosling's anonymous wheelman has the facebashing meanness of James Caan mixed with Ryan O'Neal's don't-give-a-shit blankness.  Drive is homage cinema, and I'm not sure it quite elevates it the way a Tarantino film can sometime achieve.  But it's slick, cool, and twisted.  It respects its characters enough to take them through the black hole of violence and leave them appropriately shattered.  Until that last breath in the second to last shot.  Hope?  In a Refn picture???  Yep.  This is also my first time through the film post-Breaking Bad & Inside Llewyn Davis, so I found myself paying close attention to both Bryan Cranston & Oscar Isaac.  Cranston's gimpy Shannon is light years away from Walter White, a soft low-rent entrepreneur who shakes hands with all the wrong people.  Almost from the moment he walks on screen you know he's fish bait.  Isaac's reformed convict is just a puppy dog.  It's a cliche story the audience doesn't bother to sympathize with because it's simply the catalyst to spring Gosling's Driver into action.  Still, I believe every word he says at his Welcome Home party.  Drive is a fun crime film.  But it's no Only God Forgives, a film that currently ranks at the top of Refn's work for me.

The Dark Knight Trilogy:  "There are many forms of immortality."  Are you ready?  Christopher Nolan's Batman Saga is my absolute favorite cinematic trilogy.  Sorry to Star Wars, The Godfather, and The Lord of the Rings.  All fine films, but The Dark Knight Trilogy is the only set of films that takes its material as seriously as the comic books.  This is Frank Miller's world, Neal Adams's world, Jeph Loeb's world, etc, etc.  Batman Begins is still my favorite of the batch.  It's the only story (including comic books and animated series) to truly detail the psychology of Bruce Wayne.  The use of fear is exceptional - young Bruce's fear of bats essentially kills his parents, that fear becomes his weapon, and Ra's Al Ghul uses it to assault the people of Gotham.  Of course the Scarecrow has to be involved.  The Dark Knight is the only comic book film to up the villain ante and succeed.  The Joker is Gotham's response to the presence of The Bat Man and the dream of Harvey Dent's savior smashing upon the rocks.  And The Dark Knight Rises takes the saga to its epic heights with the siege of the city dropping its players into a Dickensonian nightmare.  The films are not without their flaws, like any trilogy, but I can forgive the exposition and the questionable shakey cam battles and even the leaps in logic.  I am simply thankful for the gravitas Nolan grants these characters.  An epic worthy of David Lean.

--Brad

New Robocop Makes His First Move

A few days ago the first trailer for the Robocop remake dropped, and today we get the first poster.  I don't want to go all Internet hatey over it (this ain't Batfleck), but I am certainly not optimistic for this February release.  I've got a few friends who tell me Jose Padilha is a madman for action with his Elite Squad movies, but the below trailer just screams Total Recall remake.  You know, brilliant Verhoeven splatterfest/satire cleaned up & polished for a bored contemporary audience.  No thank you.  You can toss in all the Michael Keaton, Sam Jackson, and Gary Oldman you want - The Killing's Joel Kinnamen simply seems confused.  I want to believe...

--Brad

Brad's Week in Dork! (9/1/13-9/7/13)

After a rather abysmal Summer I found myself aching for Great Cinema.  I'm sick of disappointment.  How to cure these Blockbuster blues?  Well, after the last Barnes & Noble sale, I found myself with a massive pile of Criterions stacked next to my television set.  What better way to enter the Oscar Bait season than with a month long Criterion-A-Thon.  Yes, I'm one of those hipster assholes that drinks the Kool-Aid that is The Criterion Collection.  I'm not going to say that every one of their releases is a classic, but I've never encountered a film from them that I didn't find redeeming in some fashion.  You'll notice a theme of Anger running through most of the films listed below.  Does that reflect on the builders of the Collection or my own current mood?  Serious Cinema tackling the big issues.  That being said, this week is mostly filled with genre content, and that is certainly a reflection on my own tastes.  Next week I'll have to branch out with some foreign film, but for now I was just giddy to jump from Seconds to Lord of the Flies to Robocop to Black Narcissus.

The week concluded with the Baltimore Comic Con.  Maybe not as popular on the Internet as say San Diego or New York, but Baltimore is the real deal for fans of comic books.  At the very least it's an assault on my wallet.  Of course, despite the con, I actually didn't get any reading done this week.  Gotta work on that.  I've certainly have a lot of options right now, and SPX is just right around the corner.  No trips to the theater, and I only watched one film not a member of the Criterion family; Matt finally planted me down for The African Queen.  But I gotta say, this was one of the most pleasurable Weeks in Dorks that I've had in months.  Watched a lot of my favorite films, discovered some new ones, and had a blast spending money on the four colors.  I think I made a good call with this particularly broad movie marathon.

Seconds (Criterion Spine # 667):  "I thought you had a better chance."  Like the best Twilight Zone or Star Trek episode, John Frankenheimer's Seconds is an angry, trippy exploration of morality safely filtered through the science-fiction genre.  After receiving a mysterious phone call from a friend thought once dead, bored old husband John Randolph travels to the city's meatpacking district where he encounters an organization promising an escape from his failed existence and a chance at a new life.  One teeth cracking surgery later, and John Randolph is now Rock Hudson.  He has a new passion for painting, a beautiful woman randomly discovered on the beach, and a cadre of friends willing to STOMP THOSE GRAPES!  But how long can this new life hold his interest?  Can this new man just accept his past failings?  Of course, Frankenheimer directed The Manchurian Candidate, so there are no happy endings.  Hudson certainly delivers his finest performance, and Murray Hamilton is extraordinaire in his one scene, but the real stars of this flick are Lewis John Carlino's screenplay and James Wong Howe's cinematography.  It's a biting brutal story shot & cut in the fever of a nightmare.  An absolute highlight of the Criterion Collection, and certainly this year's strongest blu ray release.

Homicide (Criterion Spine # 486):  Not to be confused with the equally excellent Baltimore based crime show, David Mamet's Homicide is a mystery when unravelled that cares less about the answer and more about the horror exposed along the way.  Joe Mantegna is a rage-fueled detective pulled off a flashy cop killer hunt to investigate the murder of a Jewish shopkeeper.  What begins as a distraction from glory slowly grinds into an obsession of newly found faith.  A lot of typical dark territory is explored in Homicide, and it's all layered in that too-smart Mamet dialog, but the racial anger stirred by the events is infectious.  This film will leave you mad.  Mad at people.  Mad at the system.  Mad at yourself.  So basically, it's everything you expect and want from Mamet's rabble rouser.

Lord of the Flies (Criterion Spine # 43):  "After all we're not savages, we're English!  And the English are best at everything!"  Everyone knows the story.  A group of prep school kids shipwrecked on an island.  Fending for themselves against the elements, and an unseen monster, the boys quickly form a society of rules and regulations....superstition and greed brings it all crashing down.  Too often regulated as High School Summer reading, William Golding's novel is a violent declaration against hypocrisy, and Peter Brooks' film manages to perfectly capture the author's contempt.  But where other adaptations have failed in kiddie performances, Brooks' films succeeds solely because he gathered an exceptional cast of children.  There is no difficulty in supplanting your emotions into James Aubrey's Ralph; the young actor balances youth and wisdom perfectly, and you never cringe at the "acting" on display.  And then there's Tom Chapin's Jack.  What a monster.  So easy to hate.  He never went on to do anything else, but he takes on your disgust as easily as Aubrey takes your heart.  Kids as strong as these are certainly a real rarity in movieland.

Eating Raoul (Criterion Spine # 625):  "He was a man.  Now he's just a bag of garbage."  Another graduate of the Roger Corman school of filmmaking, Paul Bartel leaves behind the exploitation brilliance of Death Race 2000 for this equally broad & whacky ribbing of American consumerism.  Bartel and Mary Warnov are a financially strapped married couple who resort to killing swingers as a means of funding their country restaurant.  This demented endeavor finds real success after partnering with Robert Beltran's cat burglar, but can their marriage survive someone so handsome?  The answer may surprise you.  Bartel's comedy is certainly not for everyone, and I found his special brand of odd more successful in Death Race, but Eating Raoul certainly nibbles a funny bone or two.

The Last Temptation of Christ (Criterion Spine # 70):  "Fear.  Look inside me and that's all you'll find."  Martin Scorsese has made a career of exploring man's relationship with the divine, but never has he been more blunt with this struggle than here.  The Last Temptation of Christ portrays Jesus as both man and god, as such he is victim to both doubt and desire while fulfilling his role as messiah.  This is not the masterpiece the director or his followers might have wanted, but it is a fascinating insight into the creator's religious struggle.  The film certainly suffers from budgetary constraints, and Scorsese's bullpen of performers don't quite jive with the average vision of these characters.....however, there is something incredibly refreshing about Harvey Keitel as Judas or Harry Dean Stanton as Paul.  Scorsese is reaching for the humanity in these characters, to shake the dust off, and treat them as real-deal human beings.  As such, I think he succeeds.  The Holy aspects of the film work less for me, the miracles come fast and loose and feel like the highlight reel from a Super Hero film - capes & spandex stuff.  The final temptation on the cross certainly stirs the pot, but only the most stringent of terrified censors will take umbrage with this postulation.  And Jesus's confrontation with Paul over his manipulation of the crucifixion is probably the most brilliant sequence of the whole movie, and absolutely makes Scorsese's cinematic quest.

Monty Python's Life of Brian (Criterion Spine # 61):  "If we didn't have crucifixion, this country would be in a right bloody mess!"  While Scorsese attempts to deconstruct belief, the mad buggers that assemble Monty Python sharpen their swords for war.  Brian Cohen is born on the same night and just a few doors down from Jesus Christ, which confuses The Three Wise Men and sets the idealistic young Brian down an absurd parallel path.  Religion is such an easy target for Python, and no other comedy troupe can match smart & silly with as fierce precision as these nutjobs.  I dare you not to laugh within the first five seconds of the movie, and once you start you will not stop.  After all, what good have the Romans ever done for us?!?!

The African Queen:  Another Cinematic Resolution has been met.  Why did it take me 34 years to see this John Huston classic?  I love Bogie.  He's the king of cool.  The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca, The Big Sleep.  The man can't be shut down.  Katherine Hepburn...never been a fan...never tried to be.  What little snippets I had previously seen of this movie highlight Bogart's five o'clock shadow, and Hepburn's virginal old maid.  Just never screamed "WATCH ME!"  And, yeah, it's a weird one.  Bogart is utterly gross and pathetic in this film.  Never seen anything quite like it from the actor.  Sure, he's done pathetic (gin diving in Casablanca & gold scumming in The Treasure of Sierra Madre), but his stomach growling steamboat captain is just an absolute mess of a human being.  And Katherine Hepburn is simply angry and shrill.  I found it hard to wrap my brain around this Beast & Beast romance, but in war torn Africa all they have is each other...and mosquitos.  I only wish the film followed the inevitability of their romance instead of ditching doom for Hollywood happy.

Robocop (Criterion Spine # 23):  "Excuse me, I have to go.  Somewhere there is a crime happening."  In a lot of ways, I think of Paul Verhoeven's Robocop as the ultimate geek film.  You've got the endless outbursts of squibby violence to appeal to the savage teenager inside us all, and then you have the blunt force trauma of the consumer satire to appease our wannabe intellectual side.  This is the Wall Street for the genre crowd, but Verhoeven has no use for Oliver Stone's subtlety -- HA!  And has there ever been a gang of villains as despicable or as terrifying as Kurtwood Smith's posse of cop killers?  The murder of Alex Murphy immediately establishes these villains as demons of capitalism, joyously toying with the hot shot cop before delivering the coup de gras.  It's gut wrenching; so much so that you'll cheer when Robocop rediscovers his humanity by delivering some arterial revenge.

Black Narcissus (Criterion Spine # 93):  "We're all human, aren't we?"  A group of nuns are charged with the establishment of a convent in the himalayas, but their contract with god is challenged when they find themselves seduced by their surroundings.  Attempting to forget the failed romance of her youth, Deborah Kerr's Sister Superior finds her heart reawakened by David Farrar's brusk British official, but the man's good looks also draw the attention of Flora Robson's twisted Sister Ruth.  Directed by the dynamic duo of Michael Powell & Emric Pressburger, Black Narcissus is a sensual British melodrama that practically descends into the realm of horror when the bent eventually snap.  And as strong as the performances are, Jack Cardiff's transformative cinematography deserves equal billing; who wants On Location filming when British backlots can look this damn good?  Of all the films I watched this week, Black Narcissus takes top prize.

The Game (Criterion Spine # 627):  Not my favorite David Fincher film (that's Zodiac).  Not my least favorite either (that's The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo).  But what earns The Game entry into The Criterion Collection?  Popular filmmaker + attainable rights = Criterion.  Simple as that.  Still, I have to admit that I was a bit perplexed when I first got the news.  There is a lot to like about this film.  Michael Douglas is an assholey mess of a human being, and the wringer that Consumer Recreation Services puts him through is thoroughly entertaining even if the payoff is not exactly what this genre fanboy desired.  I have just never bought into that anticlimax.  And starting this week with Seconds really established The Game as a pretender to the paranoia throne.

The Baltimore Comic Con 2013:  As much as I drone on & on about the real Comic Con (San Diego), there is nothing that can top the comic book goodness of Baltimore.  You want movies and celebrities than grab your ticket for the west coast.  You want to score an obscene amount of funny books?  Baltimore is the place to be.  Sure, you've got your comic book creators (snagged an autograph from Joe Hill), but the main attraction are the half-off trades.  This year I came away with a complete run of Grant Morrison's Doom Patrol, the latest Animal Man, Scott Snyder's Gates of Gotham, and Alan Moore's Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow.  Plus a few toys (Magnum PI Hot Wheels, a Frank Frazetta beer stein).  Baltimore can fill up with panels and autograph sessions, but I pretty much treated this year as a bazaar.  And with Matt working the Warrior27 table with Dan & Chris, and The Wife busy with her day job, I was free to spend the hours roaming the dealers room with my buddy Robert.  Spending far too much money.

Baltimore, like every convention nowadays, is also a great excuse for Halloween Part II.  Cosplay.  When I was younger, I never quite understood the appeal of dress-up, but the more conventions I attend and the crazier a display of costume I witness, I swell with fanboy pride at the passion on parade.  Twenty years ago, Comic Conventions were a collection of 30 year old white guys and the occasional wandering child.  Now we have boys & girls of every race SHAZAMing it up as Iron Man, Deadpool, Poison Ivy, Captain Marvel, Jack of Hearts, and...holy cow - Hulkbuster Iron Man.  I got a taste for the giddiness of cosplay when The Wife & I participated in the Alamo Drafthouse Shaun-Off a few weeks back, and it was fairly thrilling.  Can I see myself one day dawning a cape and browsing the convention floor as Darkhawk?  Maybe.  But don't hold your breath, I'm shy.

The Most Dangerous Game (Criterion Spine # 46):  This film is most famous for being a coproduction with the 8th Wonder of the World, King Kong.  The same jungle sets used for Skull Island can also be seen as the hunting ground for the diabolical Count Zaroff.  The film also stars Fay Wray & Robert Armstrong, but the hero of the piece is an incredibly young Joel McCrea zigzagging the island in an effort to turn the tables on the big game madman.  The Most Dangerous Game might not be as famous as its primate brother, but I would argue that it's nearly as thrilling.  At just over an hour in running time, the film races to its finish and has no time for narrative fat.  It's all action.  Character moments last no longer than a wink & a smile.  Oh McCrea, you dog.

--Brad