Star Trek: Into Darkness – Couldn’t Be Any Better

The newly revamped Star Trek movies scare me; I’m not embarrassed to admit it. I saw Star Trek: Into Darkness last weekend, and here’s my short review: I was in fetal position the whole time.

I love the Star Trek franchise. Love. When I want to relax and be entertained, I watch the original episodes (you remember: when William Shatner was hot). The original films are hilarious, due to the time period in which they’re made and the crew’s overwhelming affinity for getting fat and old. The TV show and original films are different animals, but I love them both. Same can be said for the newly realized JJ Abrams vision.

The first Abrams film came out in 2009 and featured a revamped, youthful Enterprise crew. Not only did I find the casting to be impeccable (Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto are the perfect Kirk and Spock), but the movie itself was one thrill after another, with comic quips to keep the tension at least somewhat lessened. However, much like Into Darkness, I watched the first modern Star Trek curled in a little ball. Abrams knows suspense, man; no joke!

When I saw the first trailer for Star Trek: Into Darkness, I was concerned, because the movie looked so serious! How could Star Trek be so serious?

I wanted to see the movie no matter what. I had to see it, because I knew Benedict Cumberbatch played the villain. Ever since my introduction to BBC’s Sherlock, I’ve been a self-admitted “Cumberbitch” (or member of the “Cumber-Collective;” the name has been changing ever since Ben revealed that calling ourselves “bitches” sets feminism back a few decades). Regardless of what we Cumber-fans call ourselves, I couldn’t wait to see him play a bad guy—and a super bad guy at that. The skinny Brit went up two suit sizes due to an extensive work out regiment and eating “like a foie gras goose,” as he put it. Sexy. Mmmmmm … What was I talking about? Oh, yeah, the MOVIE.

Although the trailers do try to make Into Darkness something serious, it really isn’t. I laughed just as hard, if not more so, in Abram’s Star Trek, part deux. The actors nailed their roles. I must apologize to the original Star Trek cast, but you’ve been replaced by the modern cast—because they, each and every one of them, are perfect, especially the leading men, but also background character Scotty in particular (Simon Pegg), who was a repeated source of comic relief.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve heard that Cumberbatch does actually play Khan (it’s been rumored for, like, a year). He is one creepy dude, and good old Benny has now joined the ranks of Javier Bardem: versatile, talented men who can play heroes, yes, but their mastery is in evil.

The fight scenes: stupendous. Action shots: wonderful. Jake and I often complain about action films moving too fast. I hate when you can’t tell who’s punching who or who’s shooting at what. Abrams did a good job of keeping everything clear. When Khan blows up a bunch of Klingons, you know. When Spock tosses guys onto their backs in crazy Vulcan flip-moves, you know. However, the film isn’t only action, action, action.

The film has feelings. The film has emotion. The film has character development, and at times, you’re not even sure who you’re rooting for. I love the actors in this movie. Love them. And although sitting in fetal position for two hours isn’t exactly comfortable, my reaction speaks to the directing and impressive cinematography. Into Darkness is a well-made film, and if there was an Oscar for “Best Collective Effort by Cast and Crew,” I’d say this movie should win.

I don’t often suggest people spend inordinate amounts of cash, but Into Darkness is one for the big screen. Pony up the dough and go see it in a theater, would you? You can thank me later.

“Excuse me. I have to go kill a bunch of people.”

Read Full Post »

Why Gatsby Used to Suck

I first read Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby in high school, and I hated it. I found it to be boring, pretentious, and pointless. With the upcoming release of Baz Luhrmann’s film version, my curiosity was peaked, and I decided to give Gatsby another try. I was stunned, because now, at the age of thirty, I love The Great Gatsby. I want to shake my high school self and shout, “What the hell was the matter with you?”

But then, I came to a realization: it’s no wonder my high school self hated Gatsby; there was no way my high school self understood the book at all.

The Great Gatsby is about living in the past—dreaming about the past. The novel is about regret and trying to regain old glories, old feelings. Gatsby is about gluttony, drunkenness, and the overwhelming appeal of wealth … and the emptiness wealth brings to relationships and life. As a teenager at Perrysburg High School, I had no past to dream about. I had no old glories to re-attain. I had yet to attend my first fancy drunk-fest. I knew nothing about life, nothing at all, outside the context of my GPA and college applications.

Now thirty, I recognize the gluttonous party scenes, because I’ve lived them. I recognize the empty speak, practically comical in its vapidity. I recognize Gatsby’s longing for things past and his futile grasping for love lost, never again to be regained. At thirty, I get it, which is why Gatsby is now one of my favorite books.

In a similar vein, I reread The Awakening this week—another blast from the past and another book I could not possibly have appreciated as a spoiled honor student. The Awakening is about a wife and mother who feels trapped in her existence. She escapes the confines of duty and runs free, even falling in love with another man. In the end (spoiler alert), she realizes there will always be another man, another dream unfulfilled. She will never be satisfied, so she kills herself.

Question: why are kids reading these books in high school? You know me. You know I’m thoroughly against censorship of any kind. However, I’m not talking about censorship. I don’t think books like Gatsby and The Awakening should be removed from high school curriculum because of their questionable content. I think they should be removed because high school students have absolutely no chance of relating to or understanding what authors like Fitzgerald and Chopin are trying to say.

I was a nerd in high school—AP everything, especially English—yet even for me, Gatsby was pointless, because at the age of eighteen, I had yet to truly live. I had no life experiences that I could relate to poor Jay Gatsby. I had no idea why sad Edna Pontillier would drown herself at the end of The Awakening. I’m not saying that, at thirty, I’m suicidal; however, I am saying that now, I understand Gatsby. I understand Edna. I have lived. I have failed. I have felt horrible heartbreak, and I have based empty relationships on alcohol. I am an adult; these books have become more than homework assignments—they have become masterpieces.

Like I said, I’m against censorship, but I think the American education system should seriously reevaluate what kids are reading. I know they’re supposed to read “the classics,” but the classics (as evidenced by Gatsby) can easily be despised when youth have an inability to relate. There are so many amazing, spectacular books written about high school. There are books like The Sledding Hill and The Perks of Being a Wallflower—books high school kids could read, love, and understand. Arguably, in the hands of young students, books like Gatsby and The Awakening are wasted.

If not for the movie remake, I never would have picked Gatsby up again. Imagine what I would have missed because of my stupid high school self. I suggest you take a look back at some of the books you “hated” in high school. You’ll be surprised at the affect they have on you, now that you have lived.

Read Full Post »

Safety Not Guaranteed

“WANTED: Someone to go back in time with me. This is not a joke. You’ll get paid after we get back. Must bring your own weapons. I have only done this once before. Safety not guaranteed.”

Would you do it? Would you answer this ad? Sure, there’s a chance the guy who wrote the ad is a serial killer just shopping for victims—but what if he’s not? What if the guy is serious, and you get the chance to time travel? This is the question posed in the indie flick Safety Not Guaranteed.

The whole movie is based on an actual classified ad which first appeared in Backwoods Home Magazine in 1997. The “joke” was written as last-minute filler by an employee of the magazine (Jon Silveira, who is credited in the film as “Time Travel Consultant.”) However, first-time feature film director, Colin Trevorrow, got the joke and ran with it. He says, “I have the original magazine it was printed in.”

Safety Not Guaranteed follows a Seattle journalist and his two interns as they hunt down the writer of this mysterious time travel ad to see if the guy’s for real or just a nut job.

The female lead, Darius, is played by Parks and Recreation comedienne Aubrey Plaza. Our time travel guru, Kenneth, is played by cutie patootie Mark Duplass, known as “Pete” on The League, possibly one of the funniest shows in the world.

Darius has always been an outcast; so has Kenneth. As she delves deeper into her investigation, at the coaxing of her journalist boss, Jeff (played by funny guy Jake Johnson), she builds a rapport with Kenneth. They begin to trust each other, and for the first time in both their lives, they’re actually honest with another person. Is this a love story? Not necessarily, although love is involved. Is it sci-fi? Eh. Do you laugh out loud and feel really, really great by the end? Yes. Absolutely.

Jake and I watch so many violent, dark movies; it’s nice to stumble upon a film with some joy. Just like The League (which is based almost entirely on improvisation), much of Safety Not Guaranteed earns its charm from the improvised one-liners of its comedic cast. Lines like “I have no funk. I’m totally funkless” or “What kind of lasers? I don’t know. I’m not a freakin’ storm trooper” add to the allure.

Safety Not Guaranteed is really about connections, though. For instance, Jeff only accepts the time travel assignment in an effort to get back with his high school sweetheart. Darius takes it because she’s always been alone, always been strange, so why not get stranger? And Kenneth, who is painfully alone, is just looking for a time travel pal. Of course, each character gets a lot more than he or she bargained for, which is why the title, Safety Not Guaranteed, is more than an allusion to an ad in a newspaper.

From the film:
Kenneth: To go it alone or to go with a partner. When you choose a partner you have to have compromises and sacrifices, but it’s a price you pay. Do I want to follow my every whim and desire as I make my way through time and space, absolutely. But at the end of the day do I need someone when I’m doubting myself and I’m insecure and my heart’s failing me? Do I need someone who, when the heat gets hot, has my back?
Darius: So, do you?
Kenneth: I do.

Safety Not Guaranteed is not just a movie title; the line refers to life in general. Taking chances, building relationships: these things are dangerous, because whenever we take a leap of faith, there is a chance we could fall, in love or on our faces. In the end, what happens to Darius and Kenneth? Do they really go back in time? You need to see the movie to find out, but remember, in the world of film and in day-to-day living, safety is never guaranteed.

Read Full Post »

Who Wants to Visit the Roaring 20s?

Hotel del Coronado, 1925.

This blog post was not inspired by Midnight in Paris, just to be clear. Instead, this blog post was inspired by San Diego and the Hotel del Coronado. I’ve decided I want to take a trip to the Roaring Twenties and live there for nine years—you know, right before everything went to hell when the market crashed in ’29.

The Hotel del Coronado (famous for the exterior beach scenes in the classic film, Some Like It Hot) was a very pleasant part of last week’s visit to San Diego and the nearby Coronado Island, where I had the chance to freeze my feet off in the ocean and see dolphins. I also admired the hotel: a 125-year-old architectural monster filled with crystal chandeliers, dark wood décor, and 1920s jazz music.

Although the hotel made me happy, it also made me sad. Let’s face it: I don’t always like Phoenix. Phoenix considers architecture from 1970 to be “historic,” and after living in Charleston, South Carolina, I have to tell you people, there is nothing historic about the 1970s. Phoenix is shiny and new, and I do have a place in my heart for skull décor and wild graffiti.

However, San Diego made me realize how much I miss walking the streets of Charleston, surrounded by flickering gas lamps, ivy that’s older than me, and houses that were around during the Civil War.

My need to time travel is more than just architectural. I did love the film Midnight in Paris, because not only did it embrace one of my favorite cities, but the movie embraced a golden culture and a specific time: the “Roaring Twenties,” what the French dubbed “The Crazy Years.” It was the era of jazz music, flappers, and the right for women to vote.

I adore jazz music. As you know, I’ve recently developed a girl-crush on Melody Gardot. Then, on the drive home from San Diego, Pandora showed me Koop and Devil Doll: two other modernized jazz/burlesque groups. Most modern music blows. The stuff you hear on the radio is crap. I’d much rather be enveloped by the trumpet of Louis Armstrong or the quavering alto of Billie Holiday.

Then, there’s the fashion. Oh, the flapper gowns! And feathers! If I lived in the Roaring 20s, I could wear feathers—feathers everywhere—and people would think I was cool, not a Big Bird wannabe.

Plus, let’s not forget: in the twenties, men used to wear suits. Sleek, stylish, expensive suits every single day. I love men in suits, but unfortunately nowadays, most men only wear suits when going to weddings or funerals. Imagine Jake in a suit every day. Glorious!

Let us also bask in the decadence. Not only would I fully be expected to swing dance and bust out the Charleston at all hours of the night, but I could get away with slurpin’ whiskey and smoking cigarettes out of a big, ivory cigarette holder. There would be no Non-Smoking sections. I wouldn’t be a pariah for the occasional coffin nail; the behavior would be expected. Okay, so this isn’t the healthiest reason to go back in time, but hell, I feel like we’re all too damn worried about vitamins and vegetables nowadays. Wouldn’t it be nice to be bad for a little while?

I guess we all have an era: a time when we believe we were supposed to be born. My brother, for instance, would have been perfect in the 60s. Jake would have been happy dancing to Hall & Oates in the 80s. I think I would have enjoyed the 1920s. I miss old things, old places, which were easy to find around every corner in Charleston. I love 20s fashion. I love jazz. Literally, of course, I can’t go back and dance with the flappers. However, maybe I’ll start wearing feathers more often. I can easily add some flapper-esque attire to my wardrobe. I can lock myself in my house and listen to the music I like. And I can visit places like Hotel del Coronado—places that make me feel like, yes, I am home.

Read Full Post »

“Frankie Forever” in the Gila River Review

The winter issue of The Gila River Review features one of my essays: “Frankie Forever,” an homage to Rocky Horror Picture Show and how it possibly saved my life as a troubled junior high kid in Perrysburg, Ohio. No, it’s not Christmas-related, but consider it my Christmas present to you anyway.

***Beware: includes explicit language.***

“Frankie Forever”

by Sara Dobie Bauer

There’s something about a big pair of red lips—something like salvation. I didn’t know it as a seventh grader at Perrysburg Junior High School, but I was about to find out, following the death of my Grandma Dobie. Grandma and I were close, maybe best friends. She was my babysitter and a constant fixture at Sunday dinners and weekend picnics. Then one day, I came home from school and my dad’s car was in the garage. I knew damn well he should have been at work, and I remember thinking, “Grandma Dobie is dead.” I hated being right.

Before the start of eighth grade, I demanded to dye my hair black. I stole black eyeliner and nail polish and wore huge t-shirts with Kurt Cobain’s mug on the back. He’d killed himself the year before, and I associated with the guy. So did plenty of people, but I didn’t know it. I was too busy raging to Nine Inch Nails. Writing notes to myself that said “I hate you” and “You are ugly.” Using little pocket knives to scrape my skin.

They call it “teen depression.” How was I supposed to know? I lived in Perrysburg, Ohio. The yards were perfect. The clothes were perfect. Everyone was perfect. Except me. I was messed up, but no one in Perfect-ville talked about depression, suicide, or sex.

It’s estimated that one out of every eight American teens experiences depression. It’s considered a national epidemic, and I was the poster child, wallowing in death fantasies, hopelessness, and fear. There were ways to treat my condition, of course: medicines like Prozac, Zoloft, Effexor … the list was endless, but in teens, certain antidepressants had been shown to actually increase suicidal tendencies, so that option was out.

I did see a therapist the summer after Grandma died. He wanted to talk about my dreams and what they meant. I remember how much I hated him. He was fat with a big beard, and he never laughed. He made me angry and nervous, and after sessions, I would bury myself under my bed like some skinny corpse in a tomb. Asshole, I would think. Conventional treatments weren’t working; my parents were running out of choices.

Then, I met Jannelle through church. Our moms were friends, and we shared a bond of introverted misery. It was like she knew, just looking at me, that I wasn’t right. She wore big, white bandages up her arms and around her wrists. She was even bonier than me, and none of her clothes fit, so she always appeared to be drowning. I loved her. I loved her even more when she gave me my first cigarette and said, “You should come over this weekend. We’re going to watch Rocky Horror,” to which I replied, “You’re doing what?”

###

When asked about the film Rocky Horror Picture Show, actor Barry Bostwick said, “I just thought we were making a musical.” Well, he was right and he was wrong. Rocky Horror was a musical, released in 1975 to horrible reviews. The film was a total bomb, until one advertising exec in Hollywood suggested the Waverly Theater make it the midnight show. It’s been shown continually in movie theaters ever since, making it the longest theatrical run in history. How did this happen, when the movie was originally such a flop?

In 2005, it was selected by the Library of Congress to be preserved in the National Film Registry for being “culturally, historically, or aesthetically important.” I don’t know about the aesthetic part, but culturally, I get it. Rocky Horror was one of the first films to openly portray a transgender lead male who just wanted to screw. And it’s easy to root for the guy, because who doesn’t want to screw Tim Curry in a corset and high heels? I know I did, sitting on the carpet at Jannelle’s mom’s house that weekend for the popping of my RHPS cherry. As soon as Magenta’s big red lips started singing “Science Fiction Double Feature,” I was hooked, done for, obsessed. I have been ever since.

The plot is simple … in that science fiction, alien porn kind of way. Janet and Brad are college kids who just got engaged. Out for a night on the town, they get lost and end up at the mansion of Dr. Frank-N-Furter (Tim Curry, better known as “Frankie”). Frankie is a bi-sexual transvestite from another planet. He’s having a party with all his transsexual alien friends and celebrating the creation of his “monster”—a hunky dude with blond hair who was born to become the doctor’s sex slave. As you might imagine, the innocent virtue of Janet and Brad is soon compromised by Frank’s servants: Riff Raff, Magenta, and Columbia. Of course, they get some sexin’ from Frankie, too, and well, that’s the movie, with some outstanding song and dance numbers and finally, a mansion that takes off and disappears into space.

I recently asked a fellow Rocky Horror fanatic why the film was so important. His response? “The movie itself is not important. It’s the people who are attracted to it.” ….

(Read the essay’s conclusion at the Gila River Review website!)

Read Full Post »

I Am Sherlocked

Never, in a million, billion years would I have thought to replace Robert Downey Jr. in my heart. Then, I met Benedict Cumberbatch, and a new Sherlock Holmes was born.

Sherlock is a BBC production, featuring a modernized version of the famous Sir Arthur Conan Doyle mystery novels. The show was created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, well known for their work as writers on another acclaimed British series, Doctor Who. Basically, they were intrigued by the idea of a modern Sherlock Holmes, able to utilize technologies like cell phones and the internet to hone his sense of deduction.

Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock is played by thirty-four-year-old British actor Benedict Cumberbatch; silly name, sure, but this boy will now and forever be my Sherlock Holmes. Prior to Sherlock, he is best known for roles in Tinker, Tailor, Solider, Spy; War Horse; and Atonement (the film which convinced Moffat and Gatiss that Cumberbatch would be the perfect Sherlock).

Since the show’s enthusiastic reception by British audiences, Cumberbatch has become a household name overseas. He is quoted as saying, “I am very flattered. I have also become a verb, as in ‘I have cumberbatched the UK audience’ apparently.” Despite the fact that he’s not conventionally attractive, women respond quite nicely to dear Benedict, as evidenced by the Facebook and Twitter “Cumberbitches.” Tagline: “The most glorious and elusive society for the appreciation of the high cheekboned, blue eyed sexbomb that is Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch.” And okay, yes, I’m a member. The guy oozes charisma.

Sherlock and the dreaded Moriarty!

Dr. Watson, recently returned from war in Afghanistan, is played by Martin Freeman, who I first saw in Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, followed by Love Actually. He’ll be playing Bilbo Baggins in the upcoming Hobbit series, and he is a perfect comic foil to Sherlock’s rude, uncouth, and egotistical behavior.

Other notable characters are, of course, Jim Moriarty (played flamboyantly by Irishman Andrew Scott). Moriarty is so twisted in his utter evil, and even though you gotta hate the guy, you have to like him, too, if only for his repartee with Sherlock.

So far, there have been six hour-and-a-half long episodes, divided into two seasons. Each episode title is a play on words based on the original Conan Doyle novels (for instance A Study in Scarlet becomes “A Study in Pink”). The relationship developed between Sherlock and Watson is stellar, and the mysteries are never easy to unwind. The acting is a certain strong point, but so is the rapid dialogue. Jake and I needed subtitles, and frankly, it was hard even then to keep up with Sherlock’s mile-a-minute discourse.

Comedy mixes effortlessly with violence and drama. In fact, one of the most interesting aspects of the show is how badass and violent these two pale, British boys can be. Watson is a sharpshooter with perfect aim, and Sherlock is just as willing to give a fist to the face as shake a hand.

There is never a dull moment in this BBC masterpiece—just another example that Europe is winning the battle for entertainment quality. Yes, there are already talks of a season three, set to start filming in March of 2013, since both Cumberbatch and Freeman are currently working on other projects. That means I will obsessively watch the only six episodes I have over and over, because I can’t get enough of the characters, the writing, and the ever-present comic undertones of this, my new favorite show.

Read Full Post »

Halloween Town: Sinister Movie Review

Of course I saw Sinister. Of course I did. The trailer was enough to reel me in, as was a quote I saw on one such trailer: “This movie is going to f#@% a lot of people up.” Well said, reviewer. Well said. The first shot the audience gets is of four people being hung from a tree alive, two of whom are notably small children. And it only gets worse. Trust me.

Director Scott Derrickson has scared me before, in The Exorcism of Emily Rose. The thing about Emily Rose was that it wasn’t gory or violent. It was the suspense that got ya, and Sinister is no different. It’s not like freakin’ Saw or Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It’s a smart, psychological thriller that will probably give you nightmares.

Sinister follows a family to a new home. The father (Ethan Hawke) is a true crime writer, and he’s moved his family to a new city where a crime recently took place. He plans to write his masterpiece about this crime, which involved the hanging of four members of a family and the disappearance of the youngest daughter in said dead family. He hopes to unravel the murder mystery and find the missing little girl. What he doesn’t tell his wife is that they’ve actually moved into the house where the murder took place. Nice job, buddy.

While unpacking, Hawke discovers a box of old super 8’s in the attic. Being of curious mind, he watches them and soon realizes that each super 8 features the murder of a different family, spanning decades, but in each case, the family is murdered and one child ends up missing, never to be found. The super 8’s have clever, sick titles like “Yard Work” and “Pool Party.” You’ll understand why once you see the movie.

There is a supernatural element to all this, involving a strange figure that shows up in various places in each super 8. Who is this figure? How is he involved? And is he possibly still haunting the house where Hawke has knowingly moved his innocent family?

This is not a film for the highly sensitive. It’s not for people who dot their I’s with little hearts. This is a dark, SINISTER movie. Again, like Emily Rose, it’s not gory. It’s what you don’t see that scares you the most. Or it’s what you see just along the edges. My own imagination did most of the work, to be honest, because behind every dark corner, there is sure to be something lurking. Be certain of that.

Director Derrickson also wrote this film, and the writing is impeccable. The storyline is horror, sure, but there’s excellent mystery here. The actors (especially Hawke and Juliet Rylance, who plays his wife) are intense, believable, and spot on in their performances. There were several moments when Derrickson “got me”—moments when I would whisper “no, no, no,” and then latch onto my poor husband in the darkened theater. There were also a couple moments, however, when I wondered why Hawke didn’t get his family and get the hell out of that house. I mean, seriously, how bad can things get before you admit to yourself they’re TOO BAD? Suspension of disbelief; yeah, you’ll have to do a little of that to believe a father would really put his wife and kids in such peril.

In conclusion, it’s like I told my parents: “Mom, don’t see this movie; Dad, you’ll probably like this movie.” It’s all up to you. Keep in mind, though, this is the best time of year to be scared out of your wits, and Sinister guarantees at least that.

Read Full Post »

God Bless America (This Blog Post Is Not What You Think)

In the same riotous vein as Hobo with a Shotgun, Bobcat Goldthwait’s recent film God Bless America is filled with rage, vengeance, and senseless violence. Last year, a good friend suggested I watch Idiocracy, because he claimed the slapstick comedy would appeal to my own sense of injustice over “the state of things in America.” Idiocracy had a good message, but its execution was vapid. Well, where Idiocracy failed, God Bless America succeeded with flying colors—or with flying spurts of blood at least.

Frank (played by Joel Murray; yes, one of Bill Murray’s brothers) has had enough of the downward spiral of American culture. Divorced, recently fired, and terminally ill, Frank has nothing left to live for. Instead of taking his own life, however, he buys a gun and decides to take out his frustration on the cruelest, stupidest, most intolerant people he can imagine, starting with some particularly odious reality TV stars. Frank finds an unusual accomplice in a high school student named Roxy, who shares his sense of rage. Together they embark on a nationwide assault on our country’s most irritating celebrities.

Goldthwait directed and wrote this clever rant. He is quoted as saying, “Some of it is how I really feel and see the world. Some of it is how my wife and daughter see the world.” After watching God Bless America, I can say with confidence that I’d pay money for a seat at their dinner table.

This film is not for the faint of heart. At one point, Frank imagines shooting a crying baby (as horrific as it sounds, this scene works fabulously). Together, using guns, knives, and the occasional piano wire, Frank and Roxy kill tons of people, from teens who refuse to turn off their cell phones in a movie theater to religious extremists touting signs that say “God Hates Fags.” Blood is everywhere. I think Goldthwait did this on purpose, to make the images—and the incumbent message—stick in the subconscious of his viewers, because the viewers are the only ones that matter. The characters in the film itself are beyond hope, considering, well, most of them end up dead.

Want a better idea of the message? “My name is Frank. That’s not important. The important question is: who are you? America has become a cruel and vicious place. We reward the shallowest, the dumbest, the meanest and the loudest. We no longer have any common sense of decency. No sense of shame. There is no right and wrong. The worst qualities in people are looked up to and celebrated. Lying and spreading fear is fine as long as you make money doing it. We’ve become a nation of slogan-saying, bile-spewing hatemongers. We’ve lost our kindness. We’ve lost our soul.”

Ouch. And the movie does hit where it hurts the most. God Bless America is hard to watch, not for its violence but for its honest portrayal of modern America through our media, our teens, and our general lack of intelligence. I would never let my mother watch this movie, but I bet my father would love it. It’s certainly not an anti-patriotic film. If anything, the hero, Frank, yearns for the patriotism we now lack. He has a vision of himself as JFK, waving to an adoring crowd, surrounded by American flags. He wants innocence back. He wants people to be nice. When he finally realizes Americans have stopped caring about the things that really matter—respect, patriotism, and goodness—that’s when he goes bonkers and starts shooting.

I’d say Goldthwait’s only fault was in the gratuitous cussing. It’s perfect when the annoying people who deserve to die cuss a lot, because it achieves Goldthwait’s point. When his heroine does it—all the time—it gets kind of annoying, because this overabundance of cussing is part of our country’s problem. I wish he would have left out Roxy’s torrent of bad words, but hey, no film can be absolutely perfect … although God Bless America is pretty darn close.

Read Full Post »

My Week with Marilyn

What is it about Marilyn Monroe? It wasn’t just her looks. She was America’s sweetheart, “The Blonde Bombshell.” She was everything men wanted and everything women wanted to be—curvy, charming, and maybe a bit wild. Her memory lives on and on, generation to generation, yet I’m not sure we can even call her a gifted actress. Put it this way: she was no Vivien Leigh or Elizabeth Taylor. However, Marilyn—little Norma Jeane Mortenson—is possibly the most recognized actress in history.

Last year, My Week with Marilyn was released with a new take on this goddess of film. Based on the detailed journal of Brit Colin Clark (who worked as a gofer on the 1957 film The Prince and the Showgirl), the movie garnered Michelle Williams an Oscar nomination and a Golden Globe win for portraying the ageless diva. It is a film not to be missed, if only for Williams’ performance.

Uptight Sir Laurence Olivier is making a movie in London. Colin Clark finagles himself a job on the set. When Monroe arrives for the start of shooting, all of London is excited to see the blonde bombshell, while Olivier struggles to meet her many demands and acting ineptness. Basically, Monroe is a mess, addicted to her alcohol and pills. Young Colin’s can’t help but be infatuated with her, however, and soon, she invites him into her inner world where she struggles with her fame, her beauty, and her desire to be a great actress.

The real Marilyn, on the set of The Prince and the Showgirl, 1957.

As I said, this film is based on a true story, documented in Colin Clark’s book, The Prince, the Showgirl, and Me: Six Months on the Set With Marilyn and Olivier. Internet Movie Database—the best movie reference site in the world—backs up Clark’s story. According to IMDB, Olivier was driven so mad by Monroe’s difficult behavior that he practically abandoned directing. Also at the time of filming, Monroe suffered from various illnesses and a miscarriage. No wonder the woman was a mess!

But what a beautiful mess. The transformation of Michelle Williams is incredible. It’s easy to believe she really is Marilyn Monroe. She embodies the classic actress’s movements, voice, and look flawlessly. She also embodies Monroe’s pain in a fashion that is truly Oscar-worthy. Kenneth Branagh plays a pitch perfect Olivier (he even kind of looks like the guy!), while young actor Eddie Redmayne is wonderfully believable as the love-struck Colin Clark.

My Week with Marilyn made me think a lot about Ms. Monroe. I do not believe she was a happy person, if Williams’ portrayal is anything close to fact. She was so beautiful and so adored, but she was constantly afraid of being left alone—just like when her father abandoned her as a child and her mother left her for the insane asylum. Monroe is something of a tragic hero, a drug addict who probably suffered from deep, deep depression. It’s sad to think of her dying so young, at the mere age of thirty-six, all alone, after having taken too many pills. I wish she could have found lasting happiness, like so many of the characters in her films.

Will the real Marilyn please stand up??

Although Marilyn Monroe’s life ended in tragedy, the film My Week with Marilyn is not tragic at all. It is more focused on Colin Clark’s devotion to the starlet, the first real love of his life. The snippet of Monroe’s life portrayed in this picture is a troubled time during her short and tumultuous marriage to playwright Arthur Miller. However, we know (thanks to IMDB) that she went on to act in my favorite of her films, Some Like It Hot, right after. We know she continued to be America’s sweetheart, and it’s safe to say she still is, even today.

Marilyn Monroe lives on through her films and through films like this one. My Week with Marilyn is an honest, painful glimpse into the life of a distressed, beautiful young woman and the thousands who loved her then, and let’s face it—still love her today.

Read Full Post »

Thank You, Magic Mike

A movie about male strippers? I’m in. I attended a showing of Magic Mike this past Saturday night with, of course, about six other girls. When I walked in, I passed a guy with a soda in his hand. I actually stopped him and said, “There’s a guy in this theater?” He wasn’t amused.

Unlike seemingly all the women in America, I’m not a Channing Tatum fan. Granted, I’ve never seen him in anything, but he never made a movie I wanted to see. Did you really expect me to watch Step Up, Dear John, or (gag me) The Vow? I don’t think so. Finally, here we have a movie about male strippers. Finally, Channing Tatum, something I can watch.

Did I expect Oscar-worthy performances? Hell no. This movie is all about fun. It features a full cast of super hotties, including Tatum (who, although he has a lovely body, also has a butter face), Matthew McConaughey (does the man ever wear a shirt? No? Good), and I Am Number Four English actor Alex Pettyfer. It was kind of weird seeing Adam Rodriguez from CSI: Miami half-nude, but whatever; it worked. They all worked—they worked it hard.

The dance scenes are phenomenal. Channing Tatum is a born performer. Admittedly, during a career slump, he was even a stripper in real life. I’m not surprised. He knows how to work a stage and work a crowd, as did the rest of the fellahs in this flesh-fest. True, they do get down to the nitty-gritty of night life. It’s made very clear that the life of a male stripper isn’t all money and chicks. The drug use was prevalent, occasionally with unfortunate results. Punches are thrown. People end up bleeding and practically hospitalized. After all, there’s gotta be some drama in a movie based solely on Channing Tatum’s abs, right?

And sure there were moments deep thought. Tatum’s character has to figure out his life path. Does he still want to be a stripper at the age of forty, or does he want to go after his dream of being a furniture designer? Does he want to keep having threesomes, or does he want to settle down with a good girl? Decisions, decisions. I could have done without some of the drama, sure.

Drama isn’t really Tatum’s strong suit. However, comedy is his preferred medium. I don’t know if we can thank the writers or the actors, but the dialogue was priceless. I almost wonder how much of it was ad-libbed, because at times, it felt so natural, you’d think these guys really did spend every Saturday together, drunk and covered in women. Hell, maybe they do. Crude, yes. Offensive? Of course. What did you expect? It’s a movie about male strippers!

I thoroughly enjoyed my Saturday night experience, especially surrounded by a bunch of women who screamed at the screen as if we really were at an all-male revue. Magic Mike isn’t going to win any awards (unless there’s an award for Best G-String), but you gotta see it to believe it. You can thank me later.

Read Full Post »