Defending the Enemy

I cannot stand Kathy Griffin. I find her to be the epitome of Hollywood hypocrisy, someone whose entire shtick of trashing the superficial, narcissistic nature of celebrity is rooted not in a genuine disdain for it, but a jealous narcissism that’s every bit as despicable as the behavior of those she excoriates (I’ve heard stories from people who know her that back this up). I never thought she was funny (remember when she had a fifteen minute “bit” that was just about the fact that she had a line in PULP FICTION? Hilarious!!!), and still don’t.

NOW, having said that, I gotta back the bitch. For those who missed it, upon receiving an Emmy® for her Bravo reality show (at the B-Level Creative Arts Emmy ceremony, which I guess makes sense), Griffin said, "A lot of people come up here and thank Jesus for this award. I want you to know that no one had less to do with this award than Jesus. Suck it, Jesus. This award is my god now."

Immediately, of course, the Christian community came out against Griffin as if she were the Antichrist (as opposed to simply being anti-Christ). Catholic League President Bill Donohue called her comments “Hate Speech” (and he should know, being an expert practitioner himself against gays and non-Christians) and successfully lobbied E! to censor her statements from the broadcast when it aired.

Of course, as an avowed atheist who finds the concept of God to be the most damaging invention in the history of mankind, I found Griffin’s speech to be hilarious. But beyond that, I thought it was a refreshing change of pace and a challenge to the insipid tendency of award winners (in any field) to be so presumptuous as to declare that God (if it does exist) actually took an active hand in the acquisition of their shiny trophy. “Forget all those starving people, victims of war and general injustice in the world, I have to make sure that Rihanna wins a VMA!”

Now, I know that a lot of times, award winners aren’t LITERALLY claiming that the Almighty made their award win a personal project for that day, that they’re just giving general thanks to the deity in which they believe. But a lot of times, they DO seem to be taking that ridiculously self-absorbed notion of a guiding hand to a petty, ludicrous extreme (joining the silly ranks of God-thanking lottery winners, disaster survivors and game-winning athletes). If that idea is offensive not just to atheists like myself, but lots of Christians as well, then can we just please allow ONE PERSON to make a blasphemous gag about a lack of divine guidance?

Apparently not.

All Trick, No Treat

I went to see Rob Zombie’s remake of John Carpenter’s HALLOWEEN with fairly low expectations, but was completely amazed at the bland, unfrightening misfire I experienced. It’s almost as if the filmmakers decided, “I know! Let’s remake one of the most iconic, groundbreaking horror films of all time and take out all the scary stuff!” Yes, the long backstory (which shows Michael Myers’ bad childhood) is utterly superfluous. Not only does it remove all of the mystery from the character, but why make Michael sympathetic if you’re going to continue to show him as an utter psychopath? Also, switching most of the climactic action from the mundane suburban home of the original to the spooky, decrepit abandoned Myers home makes the terror less relatable to the audience. The whole film is over-designed (the more intricate mask is not nearly as scary as the simple original).

But the movie’s remarkable lack of suspense is its worst affront. To wit, one of the most horrifying scenes from the original is the one in which Laurie (Jamie Lee Curtis), after discovering the dead bodies in the house across the street and being attacked by Michael, runs back to the home in which she’s babysitting and bangs frantically on the locked front door for Tommy to open it. The camera cuts from Laurie to the view over her shoulder of Michael leisurely walking across the street, knife in hand, while Tommy, asleep upstairs, slooooooowly awakens and agrees to come down and let his babysitter in… it’s a beautifully agonizing scene, but in the remake, after Laurie discovers the bodies, she runs back across the street and bangs on the door…. But there’s NOT ONE SHOT OF MICHAEL FOLLOWING AFTER HER!!

What makes it so mind blowing is that writer / director Rob Zombie is an avowed acolyte of the genre, the film and the film’s auteur, John Carpenter. Is it possible that he simply doesn’t understand the elements that made 1978’s HALLOWEEN so terrifying and successful? It is possible that, based on nothing more than Zombie’s tattoos, the concept of “Less is More” is a foreign aesthetic to him.

But what’s even sadder is that it was obvious at the showing we attended that most of the young audience had never seen the original. Two girls next to us were screaming and jumping and talking through the whole thing, and their response to my opining that the film wasn’t at all frightening compared to the original was, “It was scarier than THIS?”

So I stabbed them in the necks with knitting needles (Good thing I always knit at the movies).

Autumnal August, SUPERBAD and Other Unpopular Opinions

It’s 85 degrees, and humid as a cheesemonger’s armpit today. Back to normal for August.

For three days last week, northern New Jersey and much of the east coast became wrapped in the most unseasonable weather. In the midst of August, traditionally my most hated month… it felt like Autumn. It was gray and chilly and rainy. Tuesday the temperature hit a high of 59 degrees. It was glorious.

Of course, not everyone agreed with me. One of my coworkers referred to the weather as “gloomy.” Janice Huff, the meteorologist for WNBC in New York (aka TODAY SHOW Tryouts) was practically apologizing for the cool weather, promising that by the weekend, things would be “better.” Why do weather people always have to editorialize about the weather? Isn’t it all subjective?

I found the wind and the rain and the cool brisk and invigorating in a marked contrast to the stifling, oppressive, soul-sucking humidity of a dog summer day. But then again, I don’t like a lot of things that are popular.

Which brings us to SUPERBAD. Despite my ever-increasing distaste for Judd Apatow (don’t even get me started on the bullshit conservative fairy tale that was KNOCKED UP or the fucked up mixed message of THE 40-YEAR OLD VIRGIN), the fact that he didn’t write or direct SUPERBAD gave me false hope. I loved the ads for it, particularly the bit about Seth (Jonah Hill) and Evan (Michael Cera) declaring their best-friend-love for each other, capped with a “Boop!” on the nose. I was hoping for an atypical comedy about some awkward teens’ friendship during that key transition from high school to college. What I got was a typical comedy about teens trying to get laid, full of dick jokes and unfunny slapstick and characters so broad they might as well have been cartoons. Whoopee. It’s not hard to believe that Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg started writing this when they were kids.

I absolutely despised the entire half of the film that followed Fogell / McLovin (Christopher Mintz-Plasse, the Neo-Screech) and the fun-lovin’ cops on their booze-fueled escapades. The awkwardness of Evan quickly went from charming to annoying. And worst of all, Seth… is an asshole. He thinks nothing of using people (even his so-called friends) and doesn’t give a shit about anyone except himself (and Evan when he feels like it). His ultimate plan is to get the girl who seems to like him drunk so he can fuck her, and “make” her be his girlfriend for the summer so he, uh, has experience when he gets to college, where he thinks he’ll be able to fuck anyone he wants. What a winner. Why should I root for a lead character in a movie that I’d hate in real life? (And don’t tell me we’re not supposed to root for him; This ain’t ELEPHANT here).

Maybe my problem is that I didn’t spend every waking moment in high school trying to get laid or loaded (not that I was pursuing loftier goals), I just can’t relate to the notion that it’s what everyone did during their teenage years. I laughed out loud numerous times during SUPERBAD, but there were long stretches where everyone around me was in stitches while I sat in silence, kinda wishing I were home watching DAZED AND CONFUSED or RUSHMORE.

I’m also bemused by how excited people are about the Van Halen reunion. Um, Van Halen always sucked, regardless of its frontman. But again, I chant my mantra: “It’s All Subjective; It’s All Subjective; It’s All Subjective….”

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COMING SOON: A 40-year old conundrum solved! Who were those mysterious twins and the spikey haired kid in A CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS? The answer will astound you!

Less Than Meets the Eye

As life gets back to normal (for now, anyway), I can return to the mundane…

I saw TRANSFORMERS. Not because I wanted to so much as I felt I had to (see here for reason why). The movie itself was silly and loud. But more than anything, it made me feel old. In fact, no piece of pop culture, not SAVED BY THE BELL, not that book about Emo, not even BRATZ: THE MOVIE has ever made me feel more ancient than TRANSFORMERS.

There’s a shift in every nerd’s life that can be a jarring epiphany. When you’re a kid, everything you ingest from food to TV shows is made by people older than you. When you hit your late twenties, you start to notice advertising and other elements of consumer culture that prey on nostalgia… your nostalgia. I remember freaking out when a car commercial put a vehicle at the start of an enormous orange plastic Hot Wheels track. Realizing that the guy who wrote that ad was my age was kind of an signpost of adulthood. Suddenly, movies were being made of comic books from my youth, documentaries were produced about bands I grew up with (as opposed to those from the 1960s), nostalgic tomes about food packaging I remember picking up with Mom at the A&P were being published by Taschen and Chronicle.

Time marched on. And then one day, another car commercial. As the camera rotated around some vehicle lost to memory, the announcer asked what kind of lunch box I had as a kid. As I pondered the metal (now) collectibles that carried my Chef Boy-ar-dee Beefaroni and Fritos to Rohrerstown Elementary (Superman, Batman, the Green Hornet), the punch line came: “Was it THE A-TEAM?”

Wha--- NO! I was in COLLEGE when that stupid piece of crap premiered! I realized at that moment that I was no longer a part of the prime demographic, that even though I lived the life of a 25 year old, I was now in my thirties. Madison Avenue was done with me.

And now Hollywood is kissing the collective tuckus of the generation that followed X. True, I was (and remain) enough of a pop culture geek to know what Transformers was, to even have a snippet of the old theme wedged in my head (the “more than meets the eye… robots in disguise” bit, of course). But I’d never seen the show, never owned a toy, never read the comic book. I had zero… ZERO interest in seeing this movie.

And on top of that, when I’d see the trailer in the theater or a commercial on TV, I’d get very confused… “What’s happening? I can’t tell what’s going on in that shot! Is that a truck?” It all just looked like a jumble of CGI machinery with almost no discernable design.

And yet, there Y and I were, plunked down at the AMC Loew’s 19th St. Theater in Manhattan, loaded up on margaritas and cheese, as Peter Cullen’s voice explained the origin of the Allspark… well, sort of. Actually, very little is explained in this movie, and even less makes sense if you’ve never owned one of the toys. I sat there feeling as if I had snuck into someplace I really didn’t belong, waiting for the lone nerd whooping and clapping behind us to notice my befuddled ambivalence and have the usher throw us out.

Of course, the fact that the movie had Michael Bay written all over it didn’t help. His patented rat-a-tat clichéd dialogue spoken by caricatured humans, the frat boy humor, the extreme angles and rapid-fire editing, the way that every woman is filmed like she’s in a soft-core porno (or, worse, an ad for Tag or Axe), the utter shamelessness of the product placement and the blasting music that should only come out of an IROC all made the experience even more alienating. Then again, it’s doubtful that a Transformers movie would’ve benefited from the light ironic touch of Sam Raimi or the introspective gentility of Bryan Singer.

TRANSFORMERS is what it is. And I am forced to remember my mantra, the words with which I try to ground all of my opinions, written and spoken: Everything’s subjective. Having no tie to the source material and no affinity for the style of filmmaking, I am in no position to judge this movie any more than I am BECOMING JANE. Then again, that movie at least has Anne Hathaway.

But I gotta say, I will NOT be going to MY LITTLE PONY: THE MOTION PICTURE.

Cut to Black

So, after re-watching "Made in America," the much-dissected and highly controversial final Sopranos episode, I tend to side with the theory that it wasn’t Tony (nor Carmela nor AJ) that got whacked in those last seconds of the show… it was us.

I’m not speaking metaphorically as a disgruntled fan who thinks the episode was anti-climactic and sucked; I’m speaking literally (well, figuratively literally, if that’s not too oxymoronic). I mean that we, the people sitting at home watching the TV show have been cut out of the Sopranos’ lives, not the other way around.

Think about it: The 11 seconds of black screen seem to refer back to Bobby’s statement in “Soprano Home Movies” about getting killed and how he thinks (or hopes) “You probably don’t even hear it when it happens.” But the final shot is not a subjective POV from Tony’s perspective of Meadow coming through the door, it’s a shot of Tony looking up. So for whom do things go black in that scene? The viewer. We’re out. The music stops and there’s no song accompanying the end credits (I wouldn’t be surprised if David Chase even tried to ditch those).

We were so distracted by trying to figure out the motives of the strangely familiar background characters (are those the guys who tried to kill Tony? Is that Phil’s cousin? I think no to both) and the (ironically?) uplifting power ballad and trying to suss out the actions of the leads (why can’t Meadow parallel park in that huge space?) that, like with so many departed characters in the show, we never saw it coming.

Maybe Tony got whacked right after we did. Maybe not. Maybe life goes on, at least for a while. Carlo’s flipped, so that’s going to be a mess, and when Agent Harris said, “We’re gonna win this thing,” was he talking about New Jersey over New York or the Feds getting the evidence they finally need to take down Tony Soprano? Maybe Meadow’s pregnant, maybe AJ’s going to slip back into depression. The point is, it doesn’t matter.

We’re dead. And I think that’s fucking brilliant.

I also don’t think it’s a stretch to view the last episode as a sort of kiss off to the obsessed, nitpicking and impossible to please fans from David Chase (and by proxy James Gandolfini). One song in the episode, Vanilla Fudge’s version of the Supremes’ “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” is about someone being badgered by an ex-lover, someone who really wants to just move on to the next phase in their life, someone who asks, “Set me free, why don’t you babe? Get off my life…” If Chase sought some kind of catharsis by whacking his audience, well, I grant him that. He earned it. The Sopranos may have had a few off episodes, but I would not go so far as to say it ever let me down. Its perfect send-off makes me miss it even more.

Don't Stop Believin'

So, like millions of others last night, a bunch of friends gathered at my apartment in Northern New Jersey, the home of The Sopranos, to watch the final episode of the series. And as with so many other groups, the climax (or anti-climax, depending) spurred a flurry of “WHOAs!” and immediate heated debate. The more action-oriented were disappointed, while those of us who thrived more on the personal drama thought it was great. I thought the ambiguous, yet nerve-wracking ending was absolutely perfect, and I never thought I’d enjoy a Journey song ever in any context.

And so what if every single prediction I made over the past two months was completely wrong… actually, I love that was the case. Say what you will, The Sopranos was never predictable, and how often can you say THAT about TV?

But just as much fun was the party surrounding the event. While I’m normally not a fan of themed parties in which masquerade is required, last night became a pot luck Italian dinner where everyone came dressed in character. Lysa cooked while in full Dr. Melfi regalia (while dealing with the amorous approaches of this Tony, sweating under the fat suit pillow). Hitman Gary showed up with homemade Limoncello and whipped up some Lincoln Log Sandwiches. Davie Walnuts brought homemade pasta and roasted peppers while Haven / Adrianna made sauce and meatballs, Claudia / Meadow brought chicken and sauce and Ann / Janice brought bruschetta. I made a tomato / basil / Vito’s Mutz salad and there were many sugary Italian desserts courtesy of Kenny Uncle Jun’ (who brought a spookily authentic Meredith / Adrianna) and Melfi. Johnny Uncle Junior, Andrea (the still-grieving Kelli Moltisanti) and Carm’ brought more wine (and later Junior ran out for plastic forks). And Banana Paulie Walnuts muffins were made by the most authentic costume of all, Lauren, as the girl standing by the stage at Johnny Sack’s daughter’s wedding (because that was her in the episode).

We took a vote and Iloire’s Carmela won the best costume award (with Kenny as Uncle Jun’ coming in second due to a commitment to the character that included a shaved head!). The night was so much fun, the only bad thing I have to say is that today I can’t seem to get “Don’t Stop Believin’” out of my head…. Curse you, David Chase! And thanks.

WHACK!

So, it looks as if my previous prediction as to the end of THE SOPRANOS is NOT going to come true. AJ is obviously still too fucked up to step up (how agonizing was the attempted suicide scene?). So what then? It does seem as if all signs are pointing towards Paulie Walnuts switching his allegiance to New York, due probably to nothing more than the poor showing at Nucci’s funeral. “It’s a fundamental lack of respect and I’m never gonna forget it,” swore Paulie. And what was up with him speeding off in his Cadillac when he saw the hitmen getting their instructions outside of the Bada Bing? And let us never forget his desire to go to New York in Season 4. While it’s been reported that Tony Sirico said he wouldn’t allow the character to be “a rat,” does that apply to switching families or just cooperating with the Feds (something Tony’s been doing, albeit in reference to Agent Harris’ Anti-Terrorism unit).

So, if that’s the case, if Paulie’s setting himself up to be Phil Leotardo’s cross-Hudson underboss when New York fully integrates New Jersey’s activities and soldiers, what happens on Sunday in the final episode? Is he successful? Does the series end with its most sociopathic longtime character getting his way at long last? Does Tony die? At Paulie’s hand? Or does Tony figure it out in time? And even if he does, what happens? Paulie’s whacked and Tony’s left with a completely crippled family: Bobby and Chris are dead, Silvio’s in a coma from which he’s unlikely to recover… that primarily leaves Meadow’s potential future father-in-law Patsy and Carlo (whose cousin was just killed by Sil… is there a connection there, too?). So, is this the ultimate tragedy of The Sopranos? Not jail, not death, not Phil’s declared “decapitation” so much as a castration?

Regardless, odds are it’s going to be a hell of a finale. These last nine episodes have been across the board spectacular, with the tension, the shocks and the drama amped up with each successive episode.

My only complaint: I don’t buy Dr. Melfi’s dumping of Tony as a patient due to the study she read that says sociopaths use therapy to become better criminals, and for one key reason (which was the topic of discussion at last week’s Sopranos Sunday): Tony is not a sociopath. The entire concept of the series lies in the fact that Tony Soprano, despite being larcenous, murderous, selfish, violent and duplicitous, DOES have a conscience! That’s why he has the panic attacks! That’s why he’s in therapy! True, he’s been less than honest, and he’s not likely to ever be “cured,” but after sticking with him through some pretty rough shit, it felt like a forced cap to their story.

But that is, as I am fond of saying, a minor quibble. And while I am greatly looking forward to the final Sopranos Sunday (featuring a pot luck Italian dinner and semi-requisite costumes), it’s gonna be a sadder TV landscape when this show is officially a thing of the past.