Trying extremely hard to be beautiful, succeeding in an obviously fake way, and possessing no real substance beneath the pretty.
I have a nerd notebook in which I write nerd notes about nerdy things. I wrote this about Avatar. I honestly don’t even remember writing it, but it made me laugh this morning when I discovered it while looking for something else in my notes.
My apologies to Avatar and James Cameron for the harsh comparison.
Happy Ides of March, denizens! Watch your back and don’t trust your BFF Brutus today. Actually, don’t ever trust someone named Brutus. It’s a weird name and sounds too much like Bluto. Don’t trust people named Bluto either. Only trust Loba.
So I’ve been having a bit of a resurgence of horror love as of late, thanks in part to my DVDregs project as well as the discovery of a new podcast (let’s see how well my denizens pay attention to their surroundings; this new podcast recently made the list under “Sounds Sweet” to the right).
I love horror movies. I love the coronary jolt, the acrid tang of fear and adrenaline. I’ve been a horror fan since I was a wee pup. Back in the day, it was all about gore for me. I was mad into slasher flicks. Freddy Krueger was my all-time favorite at the time, simply because he was all about the gore and camp, two things that when combined provide an unstoppable tsunami of entertainment for those so inclined to enjoy such a combination.
Actually, Freddy is still pretty high on my list of favorites, but I think I’m far more apt to choose the original movie over any of the sequels. That first appearance of Freddy was so very dark and grotesque and disturbing. The guy was a child killer when he was alive, which is one of the darkest of all the criminal acts one can choose for their villain…something that I think is completely glossed over in sequels, which trade in the disturbing truth of this burned boogie man for the camp of one-liners like “Welcome to prime time, bitch!” or “Better not dream and drive!”
As much as I enjoyed watching Robert Englund chew the scenery like a pit bull on steroids in all the sequels (and, really, there is no other reason to watch most of the sequels than Englund’s performances as Krueger), it’s that first appearance of Krueger that keeps pulling me back. That’s the defining Freddy movie, the one that most deserves its place in the horror pantheon.
[I'm still flipping a razor-sharp middle finger to the remake, though. I'd rather be forced to watch one of those craptacular sparkly vampire movies than have to endure watching Hollywood botch up another of my favorite horror movies a la Zombie's Hallowhathafu.]
So what scares me now? Atmosphere. I think I pretty much pushed this idea home significantly in my Halloween posting from last year. Almost every single movie on that list was frightening because of story rather than how much red dye and corn syrup they used in the making of the film. Even the gorier picks from this list depend more heavily on clever writing than on the gore factor (okay, so Billy from Black Christmas isn’t the most eloquent obscene phone caller…I’ll give you that).
It’s atmosphere. I remember my first realization of this truth came when I was about 12 or 13 years old. I was well entrenched in my horror phase by this point thanks in part to cable television and the local Nightmare Theater movie presentation every Saturday (followed, of course, by Freddy’s Nightmares and Friday the 13th: The Series). That Halloween, the community newspaper ran a contest in which they asked their younger readers to submit a scary story that would be judged for inclusion in their special Halloween section. Prizes were involved as well, but I don’t really remember what they were.
I also don’t remember what exactly I wrote for my submission. However, it was something horribly slasherific, something trite and predictable. Something that to me, at that point in my life, possessed all the trademarks of great horror. Needless to say, I didn’t win. But to this day, I still remember the story that did win that year. It was about a harlequin mask. No blood. No gore. No death. And it was scary as hell. Why?
All together now: Atmosphere. Something like that crawls under your skin and sleeps there, not jolting you immediately, but slowly releasing its venom through your blood, where it seeps and trickles until it’s permeated through to your very core. That’s the kind of horror I find myself loving most now. That doesn’t mean that I don’t like cheap scares as well…but the cheap scares are transitory. It’s the deeper scares that stay with you, make you squirm over and over.
Know what one of my favorite examples of this type of horror in recent years is? 2008′s The Brøken. It’s all the things that instantaneous shock seekers abhor: slow, brooding, surreal, and stylish. Would I recommend this movie to most horror fans? No, not really. It’s a bit too avant-garde for a lot of people’s tastes, and there are admittedly several WTF moments in which it seems as though something integral was cut too close for editorial comfort. However, I still very much enjoyed this film.
Same with 2005′s The Skeleton Key. Again, not a movie designed to slam you with constant jumps and starts. But I found that it crawled into my brain and hung around for quite a while, bothering me with its simple premise and simply creepy ending.
I guess what I’m saying is that I very much enjoy scary films that tamper with my senses and my sensibilities. Cheap thrills are just fine, but give me a movie that’s going to leave me afraid to open a closet (stupid Ring) or make the natural settling noises of a building set my teeth on edge, and I’m one happy wolf.
That’s all I really wanted to write about. Sorry if you were expecting something a bit deeper. How about this? I promise a book review soon and possibly even another DVDregs review. Ooh, ‘citin’!
A Star Trek/X-Men crossover? Wouldn’t that be the most awesome thing ever?
Actually, no it wouldn’t be. Okay, sadly, I own this book. It’s sitting on my bookshelf right now. Mocking me with its blatant mediocrity. I have nerd shame about very little, but this book sends nerd shivers through my spine. And not the good kind.
Anyway, I whipped this up after random afternoon geek-dreaming in which I tried to figure out a way of fixing the X-Men movie franchise while crossing it over and tying it in with the aftermath of the TNG episode “The Host.” You know, the episode that introduced us to the Trill…and also introduced us to the uncomfortable realization that Beverly and Riker did the nasty, Trek-style (but only after Bev made sure Deanna was down with that).
No one checked with Professor Xavier…er, Captain Picard, though. I suspect he might have been a bit miffed, don’t you?
Like I said…silly geek-dreaming. Of course, this actually sounds better than that shit bog of a third X-Men movie that they actually made.
We have a habit of turning sentimental about celebrities who are struck down—Muhammad Ali, Christopher Reeve—transforming them into mystics; still, it’s almost impossible to sit beside Roger Ebert, lifting blue Post-it notes from his silk fingertips, and not feel as though he’s become something more than he was. He has those hands. And his wide and expressive eyes, despite everything, are almost always smiling.
Siskel & Ebert were my prophets when I was a wee wolf. I remember tuning in to listen to their argumentative sermons on the latest Hollywood offerings, at first always paying obeisance to these scions of cinematic debate, later processing their opinions with my steadily developing disagreeable demeanor.
Gene Siskel’s death broke that magic spell, and I never felt quite right about watching the partially patched ship of Ebert & Roeper. So, sadly, I didn’t even realize at first that Roger Ebert had slipped away from the public eye, his voice lost to a series of surgeries to save his life from the insidious spread of thyroid cancer.
So to see Ebert, profiled in this extraordinary Esquire article, was quite a shock to me. I’m sure it was a shock to most people, since he really hasn’t been seen by the public in almost 4 years. At first blush, we might be tempted to already start eulogizing him in our minds, his surgery-misshapen face and gaunt frame leading us to automatic assumptions that, when we read this article, prove to be greatly exaggerated.
Yes, Ebert is, as the article states, “dying in increments, and he is aware of it.” (Then again, as Ebert points out in his blog, aren’t we all dying in increments?) Not only can he no longer speak, he can no longer eat or drink. His is now a life of many vicarious pleasures. But it is also a life refocused. He has returned to the written word with a vengeance, not only as his sole means of communication but once again to the passion of his prose. He journals profusely, continues to review movies, continues to write books, continues to wield the power of his thumbs like a samurai wields his sword. He is, as the article states most factually, The Essential Man.
I cannot praise this Esquire article enough. Chris Jones has written, not a eulogy, but a tribute of eloquence and intimacy to a man still full of life in all its opinionated glory. Though quite a lengthy piece, I assure you, you will reach the end and be left craving more.
I’m foregoing Flashback Friday this week, denizens. Today was hella busy at work (it was the first day back in the actual office since last Friday), and the more I thought about writing a flashback, the more irrationally irascible I became. So instead I’m posting my latest Gates McFadden/Beverly Crusher-inspired PhotoShop trickery.
Do I really need to say how much this poster delights me? If only this had been the movie Cameron made…
Oh, and you can see ZomBeverly here, in case you missed her the first time around.
Better stock up on the fava beans and Chianti now…
(Really, this was just an excuse to finally use this photo, from Empire magazine’s 20th anniversary photo shoot. I do loves me some Silence of the Lambs. )
I set out tonight, hoping to watch something with the parental units that was as un-Christmasy as you can imagine. Then I realized that TBS was yet again running their “24 Hours of A Christmas Story.”
Oh, how do you resist Ralphie? You simply can’t, can you? I think that A Christmas Story is to my generation what It’s A Wonderful Life was to its generation. Only A Christmas Story is actually enjoyable. 
So we watched it twice. And now the SyFy Channel’s Ghost Hunters marathon is playing. And I’m about to refill my wine glass.
Could this be a more perfect start to Christmas?
I wish for you all a wonderful day, regardless of what holiday or beliefs you may hold. In fact, I wish for you wonder and merriment every day. And I hope that 2010 holds amazements unimaginable for each one of you.
And here, before I depart, is a special holiday wish from my favorite dancing doctor. I designed this for two very special ImagiFriendsTM. I hope they don’t mind if I share it with all my denizens…but how can I resist?
So I griped and complained about the snow all Saturday. Then Sunday came and went, and nothing. Why? Because I spent a large portion of that day, digging out from under all that you see to your right. When all was said and done, we got a little more than 2 feet. That might have just been the final measurements due to drifting, though. The numbers people on the telly were saying more along the lines of 16 inches. My arm muscles disagree…but that’s okay.
When all was said and done, I felt much better once Sammy was no longer being held prisoner by the snow. So Sunday evening was spent relaxing and being in a far more agreeable mood.
Then the news came from WaPo: All federal agencies will be closed on Monday.
I’m not a federal employee, but I help make federal employees look spiffy. So if they’re not there, we’re not really needed. Which meant that my company closed for the day as well. And the silver lining shone through brightly.
So where the heck was I all day? At the movie theater. Watching Dances with Na’vi Avatar. For 3 hours. My butt still hasn’t woken up. Which is why I’m getting ready to go exercise…and maybe even attempt to process how I feel about this movie. I’m still not sure. I did, however, make sure this was available as soon as I got back online. Seriously, Sigourney Weaver as a feline alien must become part of my collection. As soon as possible.
Oh, one more thing. Expect some serious 50BC09 posting in a little while. Maybe not now. But soon. And for the rest of…er…the year?
…but sometimes it’s simply bad.
What am I babbling on about this time? Well, have you ever set out to watch a movie because you know it’s going to be 100-percent undeniably awful? Sometimes these are the best movies in the world. They’re so horrifying that they somehow transcend their awfulness and become something wonderful, something to be treasured far above rubies. Or rubes. Whichever is your pleasure.
I sought out such a movie last night. I remembered all the hype and bashing of it when it hit the theaters. I knew there was no way in Sto-Vo-Kor that I was going to pay to see it then, but I logged it in my mental vault of things to watch out for on cable.
And then…there it was in the OnDemand Free Movies section: I Know Who Killed Me.
Oh. My. God.
I’m beginning to think that I have deeply ingrained sadomasochistic tendencies that choose to surface in my entertainment choices, because this movie should be listed as a viable torture option for Gitmo detainees.
Yes, before you ask, this is that “big girl” movie that Lindsay Lohan made 2 years ago, as a means of defining herself as being more than the little girl who used to star in all those Disney movies. Seems that somewhere along the line, someone in Lindsay’s confidence convinced her that undulating around a stripper pole somehow equaled gravitas and maturity on screen. From what I’ve read about Miley Cyrus’s latest performance at the Teen Choice Awards, this same person is now in Miley’s confidence. Billy Ray, you have been warned.
This movie is atrocious, and most definitely not in any sort of transcendent way. I’m amazed that any recognizable name would sign on to what should have been a direct-to-DVD flick starring the actress who played “Goth Girl in Crowd” in one of a slew of teen parody flicks that recently clogged Hollywood…or something like that.
What made it impossible for me to laugh at it is the fact that, beyond having severe torture porn moments, this seemed to be the line of delineation for when Lindsay Lohan wandered into the woods of her own very public personal meltdown. Actually, though, I think the meltdown had already begun, because the release of this movie seemed to be almost secondary to all the craziness that was going on IRL.
I can’t help but draw a comparison between Lindsay Lohan and another actress who started out as a Disney girl: Jodie Foster. The comparison is made even stronger by the fact that both played the precocious teenager in their respective versions of Disney’s Freaky Friday.
The same year that Jodie Foster made Freaky Friday, she also did a little movie called Taxi Driver. One could argue that this was the equivalent at the time of Lindsay’s role in I Know Who Killed Me. Only with a much better…everything. Jodie Foster was 12 years old when she played Iris, the runaway prostitute. I’ve heard Foster discuss how she had to meet with a psychiatrist to make sure that she was well-adjusted enough to play the role of Iris.
That might sound silly to us now, but think about the significance of that: Here were people involved in filmmaking who were concerned with how such a role would affect Foster’s well-being. And from what I’ve read of the role Foster’s mother played early in her career, Foster had no dearth of people around her, protecting her and making sure that she made right choices while still retaining as much of her privacy (and, subsequently, dignity) as she could. Looking at Foster now, you kind of have to agree that she grew up pretty well for someone who has spent practically her entire life in front of a camera.
Do you think there were any such people on the set of I Know Who Killed Me, looking out for Lohan’s well-being? No, Lohan wasn’t 12 when she was sliding down a pole in her stripper garb…but I kind of get the feeling that even when she was 12, there were more people in her life trying to figure out how to make a buck off her than there were people trying to help her realize that while there might not be such a thing as “bad” publicity in this celebreality we live in, there are such things as bad decisions that can have as damaging an effect on you as all those horrible chemicals in your Oompa Loompa spray-on tan.
I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say with this post. All I do know is that I’m so tired of watching celebrities self-destruct in the media. And I can’t help but notice that it’s mostly young women doing the destructing. I’m also tired of how we’ve become a culture addicted to lapping up the viscera of these meltdowns like kittens bogarting the milk bowl. I don’t understand how people can make a living highlighting (exacerbating?) other people’s flaws and stumbles. With all this instant global connectivity, shouldn’t we be striving to build each other up, to support each other, to find common grounds and ways to work and live together? Or is that simply too namby-pamby for what seems like a large swathe of the population who finds comfort in the celebration of famous people schadenfreude?
Wow. I’ve gone way down the rabbit hole on a post about I Know Who Killed Me. Let’s reel it back in, shall we?
One final thing. Lindsay, sweetie, I say this with all sincerity: I would love to see you succeed. I remember seeing your cute little Disney movies and thinking that you had something special that could be turned into something great. I wish that you had more people in your confidence who felt the same and said similar things to you. I wish there were more people in this world rooting for you to succeed as opposed to angling for how to make a buck off you when you stumble and fall.
Fall, not fail. I don’t think you’ve failed. You’ve just strayed away from the path that’s going to lead you out of your woods, that’s all. I hope you find your way back on track soon.
Talk about the perfect weekend: First it’s my favorite holiday, then it’s the weekend in which our clocks “fall back” an hour, pretty much giving us a free hour to use as we see fit. Me? I’m using my spare time to catch up on some commentary tracks on some tasty terror flicks. I’ve listened to the commentaries for Halloween and A Nightmare on Elm Street, and now I’m at the beginning of the track for The Exorcist. If there’s time, I might pop in the commentary for Blair Witch, which is one of the most amusing commentaries I’ve ever heard.
In between all this horror movie indulgence, I also finished my latest 50BC09 choice. I’m probably not going to write the review just yet, as I’m still trying to process it and figure out what I want to say about it. But now I’m one book away from being finished with library books. W00t, indeed.
I also wanted to tack on two honorable mentions to yesterday’s list of my favorite horror flicks (oh, and in case you were wondering, Halloween and The Haunting were both viewed yesterday). The reason these weren’t on my list is because I don’t own one of them, and I own the other but I’ve never had the courage to watch the DVD.
First is Tobe Hooper’s 1974 mind rip, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. This is the one that I don’t own, and I don’t think I ever will. If you’re looking for a movie that cuts way too close to the bone (ha ha) and leaves you feeling completely freaked out by the shear possibility of the entire plot, then you need to see this movie. Taking place along the back roads and secret pathways of Nowhere, Texas, Hooper drops you right into the steamy, sweaty, claustrophobic terror of his story and doesn’t relent until the very last frame. There’s slight exposition at the beginning, but the horrifying action is quick to begin and doesn’t let up for an instant. There is no reason for the terror…simply the fluke of being on the wrong property and encountering the WRONG person at the very wrong time. If you’re easily disturbed, this is probably a movie you’ll want to avoid. There are several squirm-inducing scenes, including the introduction of Leatherface, one that involves a meat hook, and a dinner scene in which Hooper brings us right into our protagonist’s face, filling the screen with an unflinching and unforgiving shot of the terror in her eyes. This is definitely a genre must-see, but it’s one that I think I can go without ever seeing again. That’s a kind of fear that you don’t need to repeat to remember.
Speaking of which, my second honorable mention is Gore Verbinski’s 2002 film The Ring, a remake of the Japanese horror movie, Ringu. I own this one, but I’ve never watched it. Why? The visuals messed with my head so badly that I couldn’t shake them for weeks after seeing this movie in the theater. I really can’t explain the rationale behind this. After all, I’ve seen dozens upon dozens of horror movies. Some stick with me longer than others…but I daresay none has messed with my mind quite as dramatically as The Ring. This fact actually irritates me, because beyond being a wonderful horror movie, this is gorgeously filmed. Again, if you are a film aficionado, you need to see this movie. Verbinski does wonders setting the perfect atmosphere through colors, shadow, and light. And all the actors were amazing, including Daveigh Chase as Samara, the freakiest little girl to hit the big screen since Linda Blair as Regan MacNeil. I so desperately want to watch this one again. I just need to figure out how I can do it without seeing those scenes that freaked me out so badly the first time. Is it wrong to watch an entire horror movie through the spaces in between one’s fingers?
