The One Trick Pony

The Power of Travolta is a Terrifying Thing

2009-07-17T20:37:00.011-04:00

You know that story of the guy in Scotland or Ireland or wherever, who went to the local pub to watch a football match, announcing to his fellow patrons that if such-and-such a team doesn't win, he'll cut his balls off? And then they lose and the guy marched home, literally CUT OFF HIS BALLS and carried them back to the pub for all to see? And, upon hearing this, after dry-heaving a couple of times, you think to yourself, How can anyone care about sports that much? And you're pretty sure it's the strangest, most disturbing anecdote of passionate obsession you've ever heard? Well, I'm willing to bet Tony Manero is stranger. And more disturbing. And it involves this man:

The film takes place in Chile around the time of Saturday Night Fever's theatrical release, in the midst of Pinochet's dictatorship. Raul is the unspoken leader of a pathetic, little dance troupe that performs once a week at a ramshackle restaurant on the outskirts of town. He, the troupe's three members - his girlfriend, her daughter and her daughter's gay friend - all live in a small apartment above the restaurant with the restaurant owner, a matriarch of sorts. In these weekly performances, Raul unleashes his passion and admiration for Fever, performing only choreography lifted directly from the film, set only to music from its soundtrack. When a popular television program announces a Tony Manero Look-Alike Contest, his homages grow increasingly elaborate and his obsession escalates, causing him to commit a series of brutal crimes, some even against his roommates, already vulnerable under investigation by the regime's secret police.

Raul's eerily quiet demeanor makes the shift from creepy fan to vicious psychopath entirely indecipherable and profoundly disquieting. Nothing is beneath him, including snuffing out a close friend to steal high-density glass for his light-up disco floor, defecating on his loved ones' prized possessions, and murdering the elderly. He would go on a raping spree, too, but 52-year old Raul is entirely impotent and most sexual experiences take a real toll on his self-esteem. Though such stories of escapism gone awry in dismal circumstances are fairly common, I don't know another quite like this one. There are only faint traces of Pinochet's ominous presence; the subplot of Raul's roommates' involvement in counter-regime activities is nearly unconscious in the world of the film. In fact, what we see of Raul's life isn't terribly terrible. He's got a roof over his head, two women who love him, a job he seems to relish. What's your damage, Raul? It seems to me, many of his Chilean contemporaries had it a whole lot worse. Perhaps this is why his actions are so staggeringly unforgivable, and why the film is so nauseating: we're made to identify with a heinous individual, who is, apparently, heinous for no just cause.

Shag: Perverted Title, Squeaky Clean Campfest of a Movie

2009-01-15T23:56:00.005-05:00

It was my obviously misguided understanding as I added this flick to my Netflix queue that I would be watching a cheeky, sexy, 60's B-movie. Instead, I got Phoebe Cates and Bridget Fonda with teased hair going on a road trip to Myrtle Beach, which would surely be insert cliché as long as their Christian characters avoided vague, hackneyed innuendo. Ironically, the one thing these uptight twats do manage to deem an acceptable activity upon their arrival in the drunken, horny piss pot that is Myrtle Beach in the 60's is something called a Shag Contest. Um, what in Evangelical off the wagon hell kind of movie is this? As it turns out, "shagging" is dancing. Wao, wao, waoooo.

Despite the ridiculous set up, there is eventually some real shagging, followed, of course, by, "You went all the way?" and a stream of squeals that could shatter the ear drum of a small squirrel. And I have to say, it's a sweet, playful, well-structured story with that 60's, campy, pastel vibe that I lurve. Moreover, it ultimately strips the Evangelicals of their pretty, little pictures of what life is supposed to look like and forces them to actually live for a change. It reminded me very much of my beloved Hairspray - John Waters' 1988 version - namely in that they both use dancing as an obvious, borderline literal metaphor for sexual liberation.

In a way, my first instinct kind of hit the nail on the head. Jesus, even that sounds perverted now.

You Think Your Family's Crazy? Stick Around.

2009-01-01T19:00:00.006-05:00

There is nothing I love more than an alcoholic, drug-addled, obscenity-slurring, tells-it-like-it-is, brazen, old slag except for an alcoholic, drug-addled, obscenity-slurring, tells-it-like-it-is, brazen, old slag on Broadway. Not only does August: Osage County feature two such characters, it also has your basic pot-smoking, squeaky-voiced jailbait, a horny, old pervert with a cellphone literally attached to his hip, an aging though totally deluded about it Southern Belle, a reclusive, balding manchild, a sexually ambiguous schoolteacher, a horny and desperate 30-something woman, and, of course, your token Native American custodian. Even though it's over three hours long and the seats at the Music Box Theatre were clearly made for pigmies, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

This play is the contemporary equivalent of Eugene O'Neill's A Long Day's Journey Into Night: painful, hilarious, heartbreaking, breathtaking. It's a vibrant and brave illustration of the disturbing dance between time and the individual, how so much of what becomes of us has to do with things left behind and put off. Sometimes, it's useful to be totally numb from the neck down like those glorious alcoholic, drug-addled, old slags - it's the only way you don't feel the nag of time reminding you of something you let yourself forget.

Click HERE for tickets before it goes away, like everything else great in this world.

Wear Black in Memphis, Get the Death Penalty

2008-12-22T11:35:00.006-05:00

I recently read that one of those jazzy Dixie Chicks ran her mouth on stage about the bogus trial of the West Memphis 3 - a group of kids convicted of brutally murdering three, 8 year old boys back in 1993 - and got booed off the stage by their cousin-kissin' fan base. Pretty sure those Dixie Chicks oughta start making music open-minded American citizens with IQ's above the 100 buck mark can relate to, or shut their goddamn holes. But after reading about their blunder, I realized I happened to have the HBO documentary on the trial at home from Netflix. Naturally curious, I took a gander and - holy Hulk Hogan in a car wreck! - no wonder that Dixie Chick couldn't hold it together!

For those of you who aren't familiar with the case, three little boys were found mutilated, sexually abused and murdered in the woods of Robin Hood Hills, Tennessee. Evidence suggests that the murders occurred the evening of May 6, 1993 - and that's the only conclusive piece of information authorities were able to obtain about the case. There was no physical evidence on the site, which lead them to believe that the atrocities performed on the little boys were inflicted under water, in a nearby stream, but many of the wounds were intricate and far too difficult to perform in the dark, much less under water. There were a couple fibers on the boys' shirts but fiber evidence was not conclusive, particularly given that everyone in West Memphis buys their garments at Wall Mart, and they could match the fibers they found to any number of townsfolk's sweet duds.

Basically, the cops were fucked.

Damien Echols (pictured above) was a peculiar student at the nearby high school - he was unusually intelligent for a dumb hick, dressed in black, listened to Metallica and studied the occult in his spare time. He was also trailed by two supremely stupid lackeys, Jason Baldwin and Jesse Misskelley. The police arrested all three boys, claiming that their "Satanism" played a hand in the murders due to several hackneyed tropes such as the repetition of the number three - three little boys, three killers, 1993 - and the importance of pure blood in human sacrificial rituals.

After being held in custody for some time, the dopey, barely literate Misskelley confessed to participating in the murders. But his confession was inconsistent with the crimes and suggested leading. It sounded something like this:

COP: Tell us what happened on May 6, 1993.

JESSE: Um, well, myself, Damien and Jason, we went that morning into the woods ...

COP: In the morning? It would have had to be later than that, right?

JESSE: I guess it could've been around noon. So we saw the boys, I chased one and held him down -

COP: Let me stop you there, Jesse - these crimes happened at night, didn't they?

JESSE: Okay, yes, it was night. So I held one down while Damien ...

Despite numerous experts attesting to the fact that this "confession" was not credible, Jesse was convicted of triple homicide based on the confession alone and faces upwards of 70 years in prison. Several months later, when Jason and Damien went on trial, the prosecution tried to cut a deal with Misskelley, offering to reduce his sentence by half if he agreed to testify against Jason and Damien, and he refused, leaving the prosecution with only a knife buried a short distance from Jason's home, which was not only clean, but recovered 6 months after the murders occurred, one female witness who claimed that she overheard Damien talking about murdering little boys but could not remember anything specific about the conversation, one witness from Juvenile detention who was later deemed incredible due to mental illness, and a couple of fibers that matched some tee shirts found in their closets. Oh, and that they read Stephen King books - what sickos!

The plot thickens: the stepfather of one of the little boys who was murdered, a kooky presence in the HBO documentary, reciting scripture and revisiting the murder site in flamboyant costumes, gave the filmmakers a thank you gift towards the end of shooting - a knife. That knife contained blood in the hinges, which matched his blood type and his stepson's. He claimed he had never used the knife before, until they found the blood, and he said he may have "nicked his finger." Blood does not get into the hinges of a knife by nicking a freaking finger. But the Jury didn't seem to think anything was peculiar about this and convicted both defendants on all counts anyway.

Wait, there's more:

After 14 years of prison, DNA evidence determined in 2007 that none of the DNA found on the bodies matched any of the defendants. Most of it matched the victims, some of it matched neither the victims nor the defendants, but none matched the defendants. And they're still rotting away in the big house.

Yuka Put a Spell on Me

2008-12-09T21:49:00.001-05:00

Yuka Honda, musician/composer/producer extraordinaire, played a show at Joe's Pub in honor of her birthday this past weekend that was so scrumptious it cured my chronic nausea. It reminded me of the way scientist, Michio Kaku, describes humans in relation to other dimensions like fish in a pond who can't see the surface of the water above them. Hearing Yuka's performance was like looking up and seeing the surface of the water for the very first time - spectacular and weird and joyful all at once. Here's Yuka, her band, Helenka, and Cyro Baptista on Saturday night covering "I Put a Spell on You":

When Jerk-Offs Procreate

2008-11-27T15:09:00.001-05:00

I understand the impulse to christen your pride and joy with a name that makes a statement, that isn't worn out by every other Dick and Jane in preschool. But naming your kid after a borough you've never set foot in and a politically incorrect Disney character is not an act of originality, but one of such acute, rampaging stupidity I'm embarrassed to even address it. Bronx Mowgli Simpson-Wentz sounds like a cat hacking something up, not the adorable, little buggar this moronic couple undoubtedly produced. I'm all for unique, unisex names - as long as they mean something to you that's important enough to withstand the endless scrutiny and ridicule that will surely follow. Otherwise, why not name the kid Shithead?

Play Muppet God

2008-11-27T14:21:00.001-05:00

I wouldn't typically shamelessly peddle cheap pieces of crap, but I felt somehow compelled, what with the holidays around the corner and a sharp whiff of capitalism in the air. I also happen to be a sucker for the Muppets and their perverse, snarky, little shenanigans. I mean, Fozzie and Rowlf are clearly homosexuals of the "Bear" variety, Miss Piggy is a borderline personality and nymphomaniac and Kermit obviously has a "mean mommy" Oedipal complex. I won't even go into Gonzo and his ménage à trois with those two chickens who can't even speak English. At least if they were parrots, I might give him the benefit of the doubt. But I digress...

FAO Schwartz has a new kiosk this Christmas where you can make your own muppet for a measly 130 bones. It's the type of thing that's so irresistible, you're immediately compelled to drop a grand, then scatter about the store collecting props and presents for your new muppet family, and before you know it, you're one of those "adult toy collectors" who's 43 and still a virgin working at a video store and living in his grandma's attic. Isn't that what the American consumer is all about? Accumulating embarrassing amounts of cool shit to disguise your pathetic existence? Yes we can! Here's Peter Sellers and Kermitt in a twisted sketch from The Muppet Show:

'The Last Dragon' is not the Last 'The Last Dragon'

2008-11-26T16:27:00.001-05:00

Why? Because they're making a remake. How? I haven't the foggiest, considering the original was a bizarre, poorly-crafted amalgamation of the plots of Purple Rain, The Karate Kid and The Bodyguard. But Dallas Jackson plans to write and produce this fresh hell with Samuel L. Jackson signed on to reprise the legendary role of Sho'Nuff, originally played by Julius Carry, who passed away this past August. Dallas Jackson claims they will be keeping the original plot, just "updating" it for the 21st century. I can see it now: all the fight scenes CGI'd to the point you can't tell who's who, Beyoncé playing a wooden attempt at coy as Vanity, and Snoop Dogg replacing shy, Asian enthusiast, Taimak, with a stoned, gibberish-spouting lunatic warrior in a kimono. He'll probably change Sho'Nuff's name to Sho'Nizzle.

Here's my issue: The Last Dragon's whole appeal is that it's an earnest, 1980's wreck. Recreating that delicate chemistry would be a downright miracle. But I guess that remains to be seen ... In the meantime, let me pay tribute to the original with the following clip:

Brigid Berlin: American Original

2008-11-19T20:07:00.001-05:00

While the month of October belonged to the love of my life, Roger the Alien, this month, I have to give credit to one of my idols, little-known Andy Warhol muse, Brigid Berlin. Not only did she get kicked out of the very same Catholic school I lament on a regular basis for being a downright fabulous hooligan, she is also the artiste who birthed "Tit Paintings," made from, as you might imagine, dipping her bare breasts in paint, and The Cock Book, in which she had all of her friends take a page to sketch their best wang. (On Leonard Cohen's page, there is no cock, only the words, "Let me be the shy one in your book...") The Cock Book ultimately sold at an auction to Richard Prince for $175,000 smackers.

A self-proclaimed victim of OCD, Berlin compulsively photographed every element of her life with her Polaroid - a chronic appendage. She also tape-recorded all of her telephone conversations. Warhol soon thereafter mimicked her behavior and called it art. They were competitive in the Polaroid/tape mediums up until his death. Nowadays, Berlin is selling needlepoint pillows of iconic tabloid covers for $15,000 a pop.

She's vibrant, shocking, unique, utterly unselfconscious and, as my other idol, John Waters famously said, "She has great self-esteem for a fat girl." Does she ever.

'Weird Science'? More Like, 'Perverted Magic'

2008-11-06T19:04:00.003-05:00

Did you ever wonder, "What do the geeks fantasize about when they self-abuse into their tube socks?" The answer is not, as many of your high school comedies would have it, landing the most popular girl in school. The popular girls are too bitchy - if the dweebs fantasize about them at all, it's all about getting back at them by becoming wildly rich and showing up at the reunion with a Playboy bunny on their arm. The thing the pocket-protector clan really wants is to develop technology to make their blow-up dolls come to life and be their sex slaves. Forever. Or until they get real girlfriends.

John Hughes is apparently the only person ballsy enough to expose this salacious truth in his priceless film, Weird Science. Though the technology isn't quite realistic or even remotely logical - the developmentally-delayed duo basically scanned a bunch of images of fragmented lady parts into their computer then connected some cable chords to a Barbie doll and poof! Behold Kelly LeBrock! - and the romantic scenes between this mature, curvacious woman and the 120-pound pip squeaks that were Anthony Michael Hall and Ilan Mitchell-Smith were so uncomfortably similar to child pornography I felt a hard knot of shame in the pit of my stomach, the movie is funny and endearing and ultimately makes an interesting point about fantasies in general: sure things are never as much fun as the genuinely attained.

Fireworks in My Brain

2008-11-05T20:16:00.001-05:00

Barack Obama has been elected the first black president of the United States, so now it's time for me to share a little anecdote that I will one day tell my grandkids. It's a conversation between myself, waiting on line at the polls, and the guy guarding the curtain at my district - goes something like this:

Guy: "How're you feeling tonight?"

Me: "I'm ready for some change." *Smirk*

Guy: *Smirk* If the first black president of the United States is elected tonight, there are gonna be fireworks.

Me: *exuberant* You're gonna to set off illegal fireworks?!

The guy shakes his head with his eyes closed.

Guy: Fireworks in my brain.

I think we can all agree that there are fireworks in the brains of Americans today. And that's a wonderful thing.

Let's Play War

2008-11-03T20:09:00.001-05:00

I stumbled upon this artist while trespassing in Chelsea. After sizing up the blahartworks at several name galleries that shall not be named here, I broke into an artists' studio (and by "broke in," I mean some irresponsible flake left the door propped open) and finally found something worth remembering. Margaret Roleke creates amazing mosaic-design wall art out of children's figurines and stickers, primarily war toys. At a close proximity, they are candy-colored, innocuous playthings, but with just a few steps back and a little perspective, Roleke's pieces become bold, violent abstractions. It's a smart, simple and relevant idea with iconic execution.

Get it Together, Warner Brothers

2008-11-03T19:41:00.001-05:00

The reason you've probably never heard of this masterpiece is because its distributor, Warner Brothers, has not managed to get a DVD deal for the restored version. The Criterion Collection puts out The Life Aquatic for chrissakes, but they can't manage Ken Russell's The Devils? If that isn't cultural blasphemy, I don't know what is.

I had the distinct pleasure of hearing this from the horse's mouth at midnight on Halloween, at a limited engagement screening at the Anthology Film Archives in New York. Mr. Russell was there in person doing his crazy, cockney, old guy schtick. Between randy jokes beginning with "Methinks ..." and somehow involving "me mum" or "me dead wife," Russell revealed some pretty interesting details about his classic film. Namely, that though he adapted the screenplay, he claims that nothing in the film is fabricated "right down to the lady's green lipstick." He added, "Apparently [green lipstick] was quite à la mode for about half a season during the 1600's." Every detail is taken directly from Aldous Huxley's extensive research documented in The Devils of Loudon.

The Devils takes place in a sheltered French town during the 17th century, where sexually active and lovin' it Protestant priest, Father Grandier (Oliver Reed) has informally usurped control after the death of its beloved governor. While Father Grandier is a rational and headstrong leader, much like some of America's beloved presidents, he does have a strong weakness for the pussy. And, lucky for him, the pussy has a strong weakness for him, not excluding the girlish members of the town nunnery. The Mother Superior, played by an extraordinary and hunchbacked Vanessa Redgrave, has a particularly perverted obsession with Father Grandier, and, upon discovery of his covert wedding, claims in a jealous rage that she was sexually assaulted by Grandier and is now consequently possessed by the devil. Cardinal Richelieu, a confidant of the Kings' who has long awaited an opportunity to gain control of Grandier's town, uses the Mother Superior's accusations to his advantage. He hires a witch-hunter to perform an "exorcism" on the Mother Superior and several other nuns. These "exorcisms" are so torturous, the nuns become convinced that they, too, are possessed by the devil after being sexually assaulted by Grandier. The result is scapgoatism at its most spectacular - equipped with naked dancing nuns, blood, vomit and burning at the stake.

This is the only film I can think of that successfully merges a historical drama with a horror flick, and does so impeccably artfully. Russell described his first encounter with the production designer, Derek Jarman, as a love-at-first sight experience. He walked into Jarman's studio and the walls were lined with clear, plastic cardinals' robes filled with various things like trash or fish heads or scrap metal - but he said the one that struck him and ultimately sealed the deal was filled to the neck with dollar bills. Any artist that would starve to prove a point like that is certainly one worth knowing.

At the end of the talk, Russell implored the audience to write to Warner Brothers and tell them they're assholes for not releasing the film on DVD. I will humbly implore you to do the same but in the meantime, you can watch the entire film in 12 parts on youtube.

Somebody's Mouse Ears Are on Too Tight

2008-11-02T17:45:00.001-05:00

Selena Gomez (above) - who just turned 16 - has formed a production company, July Moon Productions. I'm pretty sure the original company name was Turquoise Dancing Unicorn in Magicalville Productions, but her partner company, XYZ Films, had to tone it down a bit.

XYZ will finance the development of at least two films for the Disney tween princess to produce and, inevitably, star in. The deal allows Gomez to option material, hire screenwriters and sign on talent. Um, let's try not to be surprised when July Moon Productions' first announced project is called, Happy Sexy Cute ... Puppies!!! xoxox and stars Selena, her teacup terrier, Chloe, and Juicy Couture Beverly Hills Barbie.

This a statutory rape defense waiting to happen: she can run a production company, but she can't deal with a little hanky-panky? Let's just hope she's got a good head on her shoulders and smart people surrounding her.

Flimsiest Movie Concepts, Part 1: 'Zack and Miri Make a Porno'

2008-11-02T16:24:00.001-05:00

When you're dead broke, living in a rat trap you can't afford, weeks from eviction and official homelessness, you have to think outside the box. That much is true. But making a porno for extra dough when you don't have a camera or even an internet connection and can't quite guarantee a sustained erection is so far outside the box, the box is now a pixel.

In Kevin Smith's latest comedy, Zack (Seth Rogen) an Miri (Elizabeth Banks) enjoy one of those phantom, platonic boy-girl relationships in which nothing is awkward. Miri takes shits with the door ajar, Zack puts hand warmers on his balls - each knows every drunken, embarrassing story about the other and yet they remain close as family. When the two hit dire straights - the night after their humiliating high school reunion, no less - and their water and electricity are shut off, Zack, inspired by Miri's high school crush's boyfriend (Justin Long), a gay porn actor, gets the "brilliant" idea to make a porno and use their alumni list serve to sell it on the internet, the hook being, who wouldn't want to watch two kids they went to high school with have sex?

Okaaaaaaay, fair enough, except there are just a couple of speed bumps. Most notably, the ONLY thing that could threaten Zack and Miri's flawless and rare relationship is if they were to have sex. Now, I understand that this is the crux of the film, but it's a tenuous one, and can only hold together if it happens impulsively. For instance, if they had a cheap camera, and in the inebriated and depressing after hours of their high school reunion filmed themselves doing it in night vision à la One Night in Paris, and sent an email blast to their entire graduating class asking for $5.00 to watch them do it. But the story doesn't take that route. On the contrary, the two have about 7 neurotic on-screen conversations about having sex and subsequently go through a seemingly exhaustive production process, hiring a producer, four actors and a camera man, renting studio space and, after much deliberation, writing a script called, Star Whores. If they were going to cast actors, why did they need to have sex with each other? Moreover, after all that trouble, couldn't they have just gotten a second job?

By the time the two actually do have sex (and, as you may have gleaned, fall for each other), you can't really give a damn because you're wondering what happened to the box - to the two cute, broke kids who had to come up with some cash. How the hell did those kids get HERE, to a porno set with Traci Lords and Katie Morgan?

While Smith's script is funny and certainly entertaining, it's poorly conceived and, as a broke, lazy person, I can say it's by no means indicative of actual broke, lazy person behavior.

I Can't Pay My Rent, But I'm Fucking Gorgeous

2008-10-29T19:37:00.001-04:00

Let me talk about the most exhilarating, trashtastic concert lineup of my 24 years of living. Try not to be jealous.

Amanda Lepore (pictured above), transsexual extraordinaire, and her bridge-and-tunnel back-up boys, Peace Bisquit, were the opening-opening act, as in they opened for the opening act. Do I care that Amanda can not sing and just bitched into the microphone while doing the robot? No. Was I disappointed that her multi-color metallic tracksuit clan of white rappers had hesitating rhythm and rhymed about as deftly as Vanilla Ice after a minor stroke? Not a bit. Because I love a good ol' fashioned American gimmick. That, and Amanda made me think fondly upon my Barbies when she got naked at the end of the set and had no genitals to speak of.

Next up were the Semi Precious Weapons (above), the naughty little devils to whom I owe the title of this post. They are punk-stylish and cheeky as hell, dropping c-bombs like overzealous terrorists, shouting in response to applause, "Louder, cunts! Louder!" and even naming a track, "That Cunt." Needless to say, it was love at first sight and sound. But don't get me wrong, these sexy hooligans are no cheap gimmick - their dance-y rock songs are smart and exhilarating. If you don't trust me, trust The Village Voice, who named them the best band in New York.

Now, the big kahuna. Lady Gaga. Quite possibly the worst pseudonym ever, but perhaps that's my own bias. I have to overcome the fact that I went to high school with this shit brick house, back when she was a sweet little musical theater enthusiast. Now look how far she's come: she's a gay icon for her hot tranny high fashion burlesque look and compulsively dance-able original tunes with two tracks on Britney Spears' latest record. I have to say, she's the best female performer that's come along since Britiney Spears, but with more talent. Pretty sure her campy, melodramatic persona equipped with video narration lamenting, "Pop Ate My Heart" will make people love to hate her, but it won't take long for them to admit that she's the real deal.

Hollywood Preps for Recession, Reluctantly Tackles Surplus of Humble Pie

2008-10-28T19:44:00.001-04:00

Party's over, Hollywood. These are troubled times. Joe Schmo isn't coughing up 12 bones to go see half century-old DeNiro and Pacino scowl while spitting hackneyed cop-beat and shooting people. So whattaya gonna do about it, huh?

Employees will get axed and salaries will be chopped, that's for sure. Hollywood is awesome at cutting budgets by crushing dreams. But what we're all wondering - and by "we all," I refer to myself - is how they'll handle their upcoming slates. Will there simply be fewer movies? Or will they finally smarten up and start making quality films on a smaller budget as opposed to hemorrhaging $50+ mil for Tyler Perry's Big Momma's House Bunny on Haunted Hill 7 directed by Michael Bay?

When some of the greatest films of all time were made on a significantly smaller scale, you have to wonder what these inflated budgets are really compensating for. I'm no industry insider, but I'm pretty sure the main factor is stroking the stars' egos. Beyond the insane salaries, there's also the town cars, hotels, first class tickets and dressing room requests. Another monstrous chunk of change probably goes to various forms of movie plastic surgery - special effects, CGI, ADR, ASPCA, CP3O and a bunch of other technical anagrams I don't understand that serve to either distract audiences from how hideously bad the movie is or cover up the more embarrassing inconsistencies. But now that all bets are off, I'm thinking maybe producers can afford to be a little more conscientious about the writing, a little less superficial about the casting and make some quality movies for $10 million or less. After all, the last serious recession that plagued Hollywood spawned classics like The Godfather and Rosemary's Baby.

While my wallet wants to beat the total and utter crap out of me, I am thankful for this economic crisis because it may just be an opportunity for change and growth as far as movie production is concerned. Since there's enough humble pie for Hollywood to eat its heart out, it should probably find the beating organ in its chest that's been long on the fritz so it can take a deep breath, put What Happend in Vegas 2 on hold and get to work on the next Citizen Kane. Don't worry, I won't hold my breath.

Wao, Wao, Waaaaooooo

2008-10-23T19:49:00.002-04:00

The second season of 30 Rock came out on DVD last week and I, way too cheap to subscribe to cable but apparently not to buy DVD box sets, immediately sprinted to Virgin Megastore and purchased it. Even though I ripped through the entire season in two sittings, I have to say, in the end I was not so much filled with joy. On the contrary, much like ripping through a pounder of gummi bears, I ended up borderline sick to my stomach.

The show is so magical because it achieves a harmonious balance between reality, surreality and self-referentiality, the result of which is sidesplittingly funny. As a viewer, you can feel that the show is aware of you - from the obvious product placement jokes to the simple fact that it's a show about making a show - and you get the sense that it's taking care of you. That is, until the second half of the second season, when this harmonious balance is abruptly thrown. I say, ABRUPTLY thrown. I felt so uncomfortable and betrayed, I was compelled to get the morning after pill and scream drunk outside of 30 Rock's window, "I thought we had a connection! I TRUSTED you!"

I think it all starts when Jack promotes Liz (Tina Fey) to an executive. Liz's initial resistance to corporate whoredom melts away with her first sip of single-malt scotch, at which point she starts wearing business suits and acting like a clown. Then in a bizarre, forced, absurd chain of events, Jack is pushed out of the company and moves to Washington, D.C. to work for the Bush administration, where the offices are falling apart and Matthew Broderick makes a lame cameo. The whole thing is like watching an amateur hairstylist having difficulty getting a straight line across the client's back so he keeps cutting layer after layer trying to get it straight until all of a sudden, the client looks like Joey Bonaduce circa 1987. At the end of the second season, 30 Rock has one jacked-up mullet.

I beg of you, makers of 30 Rock, get your shit together. Put Alec Baldwin back in the extravagant office where he belongs, cut it out with the awkward cameos and dark humor - you're not South Park, for crying out loud - and forget about your Emmy because it obviously wasn't deserved. I'm not mad, just hurt. Deeply hurt.

Puberty Can Do a Thing or Two to a Boy

2008-10-22T20:35:00.001-04:00

Guess, just GUESS who this is. You'll never guess. It's Jonathan Lipnicki, the sweet, little, four-eyed rugrat from Jerry Maguire. He turned 18 today.

While he's grown into a pretty decent-looking chap, this forced sexiness makes me want to hurl into my shoe. Did he learn nothing from Midnight Cowboy? Ladies haven't been into the pervy cowboy thing since Rock Hudson was "straight." And while the gay community embraced this look for a while, I'm pretty sure it's on the outs.

More importantly, when the world knows and loves you as a child, you've got to tread lightly with the seduction tactics in your adult life so as not to make your target audience feel like a total pedophile. This gimmicky get up, the hard, brooding stare, the posturing like he's a tiger ready to pounce ... it crosses a line. He'd do better asking me if I knew that the human head weighs eight "poundth," spraying saliva all over my forehead.

Button your freaking shirt, Lipnicki! And happy birthday.

Oliver Stone, You Crazy Bastard

2008-10-19T11:54:00.001-04:00

Let me start by saying that I love America. Any country in which you can make a ridiculous melodrama about the current president is one I am proud to be a part of.

There's something terribly exciting about seeing a film based on current events, particularly one involving a leader as ... colorful ... as President Bush. Oliver Stone's biopic, though incredibly ambitious, ultimately paints "W" as a sweet, well-meaning dummy with daddy issues who just wanted to be number one at something. Unfortunately for us, he chose the President of the United States.

While I appreciate that Stone's above choices streamline the narrative, when considering Mr. Bush's presidency, the movie's bottom line is an oversimplification and even an insult to the American government. The film alludes to major complexities such as Bush's religious views and his greedy, manipulative advisors, but these elements are ultimately glossed over in favor of a more traditional, Hollywood structure, i.e. "What do I have to do to make daddy love me?"

The film focuses far too much on Bush's youth. We all know he was a drunk who couldn't hold down a job, if I wanted to watch 30 minutes of a sauced pig acting like a moron, I'd go to happy hour at a midtown sports bar. Stone interviewed renowned investigative journalists including Bob Woodward to prepare for this film; couldn't he have made the movie about the Bush years without the schmaltzy Freudian crap? Apparently not, because he's Oliver Stone. As though there isn't enough ammo. I was particularly disappointed that there was no mention of hurricane Katrina, which, despite being a massive, natural disaster that desecrated a beloved American city, is apparently just a drop in the bucket compared to the war in Iraq.

The most fascinating parts of the film were the scenes between the president and his advisors. Karl Rove, played by Toby Jones, is depicted as an ideological genius with a homosexual obsession with our fair "W." Thandie Newton is an uncanny Condoleezza Rice - so much so, in fact, that the audience is compelled to burst into gleeful laughter every time she delivers a line - but ultimately her motivations for taking the country to war remain unclear. Richard Dreyfuss does a great Dick Cheney who talks to W like he's a six year old with Attention Deficit Disorder. And Jeffrey Wright, in my opinion always a revelation, plays an eloquent yet ultimately yellow-bellied Colin Powell. Essentially, Rumsfeld (Scott Glenn) and the rest of the gang, minus Colin Powell who is skeptical, convince Bushy to take a preemptive strike and to do it fast. Bush is psyched because he imagines they'll "wipe out all the bad guys and explode freedom all over the world." But when it turns out that there are no weapons of mass destruction, Bush throws a temper tantrum and the others shrug their shoulders and shove him down shit's creek without a paddle.

In an interview, Oliver Stone describes Bush as the great and powerful Oz, who unfortunately is just a little, frightened man hiding behind a curtain. While this very well may be true - he may be a sweet man who is simply endlessly misinformed - that doesn't make me feel better about all that's gone awry and moreover, it doesn't make the past eight years okay.

I remember Bush shouting into the audience during the 2004 debates, "Bein' the president is a hard job! It's really HARD!" Um, DUH. That's why it's called "the president," not, "some guy." It takes more than sweet stupidity to be the type of national leader who refuses to read the newspaper or any document longer than a few pages. That's more than ignorance, it's more than arrogance or laziness or irresponsibility - it's neglect. If the United States were a kid and Bush was its father, the United States would be a 14 year old crack whore KKK member who gets knocked up by the son of the devil and abuses her kids, just to get her daddy's attention.

I understand Oliver Stone's desire for dramatic flair, but frankly, nice guy or not, I could give a flying undercooked hotdog in hell. You're the president. Get yourself some vocab flashcards, pick up the paper (the Sports pages don't count) and stop to THINK every now and then. You're not John Wayne and the world is not a glorified pissing contest.

Porn Stars are Actresses Too

2008-10-18T13:08:00.001-04:00

I never said they weren't - in fact, I always thought Traci Lords had as much star power as Johnny Depp in Cry Baby. I just think it's hilarious that Oscar-winning director, Stephen Soderbergh, thinks he's being revolutionary by casting 20-year-old Sasha Grey, who at her ripe age already has a reputation for being the greatest porn star since Jenna Jameson, as a high class hooker in his upcoming indie flick, The Girlfriend Experience. Even Ron Jeremy's lame cameos in third-rate comedies are less pathetic than this. I know transitioning from "Cum Fart Cocktail 5" to playing a prostitute in an indie drama seems like a giant leap forward, but it's actually more like standing in exactly the same place but in a cuter outfit. It's type-casting with a synthetic wig.

I want to see Milos Forman cast Sasha as a nun in a period piece. (Time's a-ticking, Milos. That third Oscar isn't going to win itself.) Or maybe Woody Allen could write her the part of a hysterical, frigid woman instead of casting Scarlet Johansson ... AGAIN. My feeling is, if you're going to put faith in someone who's only acting credits consist of doing the nasty on screen, have a little more faith than Mr. Soderbergh did or don't bother.

Bun In the Oven: Pregnancy Movies are Good Because They're Easy

2008-10-18T11:53:00.001-04:00

I know you love Juno. Trust me, we ALL love Juno. She's quirky, she's got that dry, deadpan delivery, she knows her Dario Argento movies and her punk rock music and - here's the kicker - she's got an effing hamburger phone. A HAMBURGER PHONE! I know everyone watching was like, "Why, oh why, God, WHY didn't I think of that? And now I can't get one, of course, because I'll look a total Juno-poser."

I also know you love Knocked Up. Again, we ALL love Knocked Up. That Seth Rogen is such an endearing, relatable loser. Every male moron at or around the college age went online immediately following the credits and bought themselves gas masks so they could try smoking herb through it. Similarly, Katherine Heigl is the girl next door all girls want to be friends with. Females could really relate to her when she's screaming in the car, "MY VAGINA WILL NEVER BE THE SAME!" And the whole thing made chubby slacker guys hopeful that they could land a fox like Katherine Heigl, and moderately slutty, insecure girls hopeful that a mistake one-night-stand could actually end in love and happiness. And it's that kind of promise that encapsulates the American Dream.

I get it. Really, I do. These movies are of the most adorable and hilarious of the past few years. They made me want to revisit all the other pregnancy movies I know and love like Nine Months and Look Who's Talking? and Father of the Bride 2. But let's just be frank for a second here, okay? In reality, these chickadees would have been first on line at the abortion clinic. But without hurling myself into a topic as taboo as embryo murder, the crux of the problem with pregnancy movies for me is that they're just too easy. The narrative structure is already in tact: courtship, insemination, confrontation, optimism, conflict, resolution, baby/joy. Moreover, it doesn't take a lot to hit the emotional beats you want to hit in a pregnancy story because they are arguably innate human emotions. You don't have to win anyone over, so it's sort of a cheap gimmick.

I'm not saying these movies aren't good. I'm just saying they're not that impressive. Let's face it: when you've got a bun in the oven, all you have to do is sit on your ass until the timer goes off and you have to take it out.

Death Scenes to Die For

2008-10-16T19:06:00.001-04:00

People always ask me if I'm morbid. I'm not morbid. I just appreciate the dark things in the world, because they're what make the good stuff good. Death scenes, in particular, are one of those "off" things that give me cheap thrills. They're often indicative of the Point of No Return in the story, and thus the most climactic moments, but even if they're just part of a gratuitous killing spree, every snuffed out motherfucker ups the stakes for the rest of the movie. And for that, I find death scenes more memorable even than love scenes. Here are a few of my personal favorites:

THE FLY: DEADLY DISGUSTING

I think this movie is the reason why Jeff Goldblum never played the leading man. No one could be attracted to someone they saw regurgitate onto a pile of doughnuts and then eat it. This film had to make the list, not because I cared about any of the characters, or because it was frightening or upsetting or moving, but because it was one of the grossest things I've ever seen - like oozing, giant, fleshy, deformed insect gross - and I'm no squeamish chick.

L'AVVENTURA: THE DEATH THAT WASN'T THERE

This film masterfully revolves around the inexplicable disappearance of the film's main character. Though it's not technically a death scene, it's one of the more disturbing losses in a movie that I could recall, simply because the subtraction of one person shifts every other element in the story and transforms into something unrecognizable from what it started out to be.

THE GODFATHER: A DEATH SCENE YOU CAN'T REFUSE

"They massacred my boy!" If you don't choke up when Marlon Brando delivers that line in the first Godfather film, you're going straight to hell. You have no soul. Throw in the towel. It's over. Finito. It's the type of death scene that turns you into a raving lunatic, shouting, "No!" and, "Why him? Anyone but HIM!" over and over while rocking back and forth, grinding your teeth. It's so devastating that even in the masterpiece that is Part II, which delivers unlike any other sequel in the history of time, you're like, "You know, this is great but I kind of miss James Caan."

ALL ABOUT MY MOTHER: DROP DEAD GORGEOUS

Pedro Almodovar's movies are so damn deliciously gorgeous I want to eat them with a spoon on a summer's day. Near the opening of this film, the protagonist's son gets hit by a car - it's nothing less than kaleidoscopic. There are candy colored vehicles, umbrellas and street lights and everything is moist and glowing from the rain at night. Never has death looked so good.

MOUCHETTE: THE LITTLE ENGINE THAT COULD BE THE MOST DEPRESSING DEATH SCENE EVER

This French New Wave film by Robert Bresson is so heartbreaking it's branded on my mind's eye. This poor little girl with greasy pigtails goes through life in abject poverty with a mother on her deathbed, an alcoholic, abusive father, a wailing infant sibling, perverted lumberjack neighbors and nasty, derisive classmates. We watch all of this in excruciatingly lengthy though humble scenes, wondering how this could possibly crescendo - what more can this quiet, little rugrat endure? What happens made my jaw drop to the floor and stay there through the credits.

SCANNERS: EXPLOSIVELY DEAD

The guy's head explodes. Enough said.

American Mascot

2008-10-14T19:21:00.001-04:00

He's sassy. He's grouchy. He enjoys a fine boxed wine and Pecan Sandies. He knows the closing monologue of The Breakfast Club by heart. He's not quite sure where all his orifices are. He's about 35 pounds overweight but prefers the term "Rubenesque." He anthropomorphizes his television. He has a wig collection. He waddles but he's not knocked up. He has the voice of Paul Lynde and the soul of Roseanne Barr.

He is my touchstone - and everything I love about America.

Isabella Rossellini, You Creepy Crawler

2008-10-14T18:58:00.001-04:00

What do you do when you're the daughter of a world class movie star and a legendary film director and have 20 years of big-screen roles under your belt? Reenact insect sex on youtube, of course!

Isabella Rossellini and filmmaker, Jody Shapiro, teamed up to co-direct a series of 1-minute short films called GREEN PORNO, which depicts the mating habits of various species of insects. In other words, Ingrid Bergman's daughter dons a unitard and humps a bunch of guys in insect suits. I will never be able to take Casablanca seriously again. Whenever they flashback to Bogart and Bergman in Paris, the screen will get all fuzzy and there Isabella will be, railing a house fly from behind.

Don't get me wrong, I fully appreciate how uncomfortable these films make me. They have the tone of a children's story - the soothing voice, the simple structure and primary colors - then, just when you feel snug as a bug (pun intended), WHAM! Intercourse. After three views, I'm still not used to the ultra-femme Rossellini as the male insect in this good old-fashioned cross-species drag show/educational video. Enjoy, if you dare:

The Incredible Melting Man is Such a Narcissist

2008-10-13T20:58:00.001-04:00

In this D-grade horror flick, an astronaut named Steve is catapulted out of our atmosphere along with two other guys on a mission to apparently see the sun through the rings of Saturn. I use the term "mission" lightly since they didn't do anything aside from gawk out of their puny spaceship window like numbskulls repeating, "You've never seen anything 'til you see the sun through the rings of Saturn," over and over. For no known scientific reason, a ball of fire gets detached from the sun and lurches towards the ship. The next thing we know, the astronauts are dead, except for Steve, who howls into outer space ... alone.

I guess Steve was just being a big ol' baby since he makes it back to Earth and into a hospital bed. As soon as his room is empty, he rips out his IV's, leaps out of his bed and frantically unravels his bandages in front of the mirror. Upon sight of his grotesque reflection, he throws a world class hissy fit and flees the building. The doctors are all up in arms because apparently the radiation has melted away some of his brain so he's incapable of rational thought. Meanwhile, Steve promptly goes on a full-blown killing spree, punctuated by dramatic pauses to lament his gooked up mug at every reflective surface he stumbles upon. For someone with a partially melted brain, Steve does a pretty decent job of obsessing over his physical appearance.

This film is so rampagingly stupid it fills my heart with joy. But actually, considering it features acting so wooden it has termites, dialogue that would make PASSIONS sound like Jane Austen and an editor apparently on Quaaludes, it's ultimately not bad. The makeup made me want to upchuck my Sour Patch Kids - always a good sign. And once you get through the awkwardly-paced and predictable first three quarters, the ending is surprisingly iconic and makes an intelligent statement about the tension between technology and humanity. It's like if you were to put the ending of Citizen Kane on Showgirls. Incredible, I know.

Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead

2008-10-12T16:20:00.002-04:00

A horror/comedy/musical about fast food chicken zombies - if that isn't the apex of American pop culture I don't know what is.

The film opens on the above-pictured teenagers fooling around in a graveyard. Wendy (Kate Graham) declares between moans, "My God, Arbie, you're the best dry-humper in school!" Their hairless teenaged bodies are sadly pried apart by college - Wendy's going, Arbie's not - and Arbie (Jason Yachanin) decides to make something of himself and get a job. He is hired by American Chicken Bunker, a fast-food joint that's basically a poor man's KFC with a military theme. I guess it would more aptly be the hepatitis-infected Nam veteran's KFC, but I digress. On the day of its grand opening, there's an angry throng protesting outside. Arbie discovers that the crowd is pissed because they built the American Chicken Bunker on an ancient Native American burial ground. He also discovers that his ex and dry-humping enthusiast, Wendy, is in the crowd and has transformed into a crunchy lesbian. But that's the least of his woes. It turns out building on an ancient burial ground was more than just a political no-no. The enraged Native American spirits inhabit the fast food chicken meat and wage war on the customers of American Chicken Bunker. The result is a gloriously disgusting schlock fest filled with blood, chicken guts, shit, zombie goo and perverted musical numbers like, "Bumpin' Tacos."

The DVD and the soundtrack are both available on amazon.com.

The Holy Land is also a Theme Park in Orlando

2008-10-12T13:35:00.001-04:00

Even though I was born and raised in Manhattan, home of the agnostic hippie, self-loathing Jew and angry atheist, I went to Catholic school so I thought I knew a thing or two about religious fuckery.

When people asked me about my teachers when I was a kid, I described old ladies who all claim to be married to a guy named Jesus, some sort of old time-y magician who dresses like he’s homeless and kind of died but is expected back and apparently can still see and effect our every move. Then when I got a little bit older and made a short film, my teachers wouldn’t screen it with all the other art projects because it depicted a boy putting on lipstick, which is apparently an affront to God, who made boys boys and lipstick for girls. But I think my transformation into a bitter, disgruntled freak who wears all black and reads existentialist literature wasn’t complete until my graduating year, when I spent months writing a thesis paper examining the four Gospels alongside Martin Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of Christ. I saw each work as an interpretation of human morality and pored over it like an obsessive compulsive on crystal meth, even driving through a fucking snowstorm at 1 AM to get the goddamn thing printed and bound at Kinkos. When I finally handed it in, my teacher at the time took me into her office and apologized, explaining that I deserved an A, but the administration found my comparison sacrilegious.

Needless to say, religion was not a positive influence on my life. It was limiting and unfair and I thought the whole thing was a joke. That is, until I saw Bill Maher and Larry Charles' movie, Religulous, and I realized that religion is at best an epidemic, at worst, a catalyst for global destruction.

I won’t really get into the film because I think everyone has to see it. Bill Maher is hilarious, smart and informed (how obvious is my crush right now?) but most importantly, he gives religious fundamentalists - now a frighteningly powerful American demographic - ample opportunity to present their views. Here’s what I learned: having a conversation with a religious fundamentalist is about as productive as bashing your head against an exposed brick wall. It goes something like this (and when you see the film, you'll know I'm not exaggerating):

- “You believe dinosaurs and humans walked the earth together?”

- “Yes. The bible says that all creatures walk together with man, and the bible don’t lie.”

- “Well, how to you explain forensic anthropologists’ analysis of dinosaur fossils, which determines that they existed millions of years before humans?”

- “God put ‘dem fossils in the ground to test us.”

- “But what is he testing?”

- “Our faith. Whether we believe them foreign anthologists or him.”

- “What about evolution?”

- “God didn’t make me come from no ape. I was built from the bone of Adam, the first man alive.”

- “Where did Adam come from?”

- “God.”

And so on. They have an answer for everything, because God can be or do anything. It gives them an excuse to never ask questions, to never doubt or consider the complexities of this planet, basically to never learn a thing. Religion is hurling us into a nouveau dark age. We may have iPods the size of assholes, but our Vice Presidential candidate doesn’t know where Russia is. I understand the need for faith in something greater than we are. The mysteries of human existence can be overwhelming, and it’s sometimes nice to have hope in something like God to fall back on. But that’s all it should ever be: a back up plan. It’s not an answer.

Moreover, I don’t think God would be too pleased to know that we’re whoring out his son in the form of action figures and theme-park attractions. If Jesus were around to see what a massive celebrity prostitute he’s become, he’d probably be barricaded inside a crack den with Amy Winehouse somewhere, or adopting thirteen children and giving them nose jobs or something.

Oh, and if you're curious about the title of this post, go to www.holylandexperience.com and try not to piss your pants.

Breast-Feeding is Sexy After All … or is it?

2008-10-12T13:31:00.003-04:00

Angelina Jolie could make a gynecological exam sexy. But here's my question: is public breast feeding really okay? Most people don't have bazungas quite like Angie's, but I'll put that aside for now. No, actually, I won't. Forgive me for being shallow but I have this nightmarish vision of this issue of W hitting stands and saggy-chested mommies whipping 'em out across America in some sort of fucked-up gesture of liberation ... Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.

But even if a great set of tatas is part of the package, there is something disquieting about seeing a stranger breast-feed. It's a bit like seeing your cousin's penis by mistake: shameful and just not right. The thing is, breast-feeding is not just about watching a baby eat and it's not even just about boobies. It's an intimate act between mother and child, which initiates the oedipal complex, among other human psychological burdens. In fact, it's the reason why we're all slaves to the boob today - they've been branded as fun bags on our memories since infancy. Maybe I’m squeamish, but I see this as a borderline perverted phenomenon that should be properly squirreled away in the private sector.

If the most beautiful woman in America wants to share this intimate act with her public, fine. But all the anonymous baby mamas out there should probably keep the public breast-feeding limited to emergency scenarios only.

R.I.P. [Title of Show]

2008-10-12T13:28:00.001-04:00

I had the distinct pleasure of catching this show on Broadway before it closed today. It's the kind of genius that can only stem from a seed so stupid it blows your mind. For those of you who haven't heard of it, it's a musical comedy based on the true events of four people writing and putting on a musical comedy. They even adapted the Broadway version from the original off-Broadway version at the Vineyard Theater to include how they got to Broadway. Packed with brilliant and catchy tunes such as, "Die, Vampire, Die" and quips like, "I'd rather be 9 people's favorite thing than 100 people's 9th favorite thing," this play is hilarious through and through and moreover manages to challenge conventional narrative time and space constructions and tie the whole thing up with a touching message of individuality. It's post modernism at its very finest, and I'm sorry to see it go.

Where Have I Seen This Before? Oh, right. Everywhere.

2008-10-12T13:04:00.001-04:00

The thing about this vein of action/conspiracy/nightmare movies is that on the rare occasion that I go to one, I feel like I've seen it countless times before. Eagle Eye is no exception, despite its lame attempt at revolutionary casting of the homely yet curiously adorable Shia LaBeouf. You kind of want to feed him grape Pez from a panda dispenser, not watch him run all over town, crashing cars and getting fucked over by a malfunctioning, evil computer. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

The movie starts with a bunch of white guys sweating in a windowless room while a suspiciously intelligent computer analyzes surveillance footage of some guy in the Middle East, who may or may not be a terrorist suspect. When the computer deems insufficient data to attack, the guy from The Shield calls up the President and lets him know. At which point, the President says something like, 'Whatever, bomb 'em anyway" and we close in on a trembling finger as it approaches the button that will apparently blow up this indiscriminate point in the Middle East. The explosion that ensues precipitates a whole mess of fuckery helmed by the computer who, pissed at the President for disobeying her orders, sets an incredibly intricate government coup into motion, which somehow involves cuddly LaBeouf and Michelle Monaghan as an appealing single mom. Basically, the film borrows the central plot from 2001: A Space Odyssey and applies it to the fear-fueled, anti-terrorist sentiments of the American government.

That said, Eagle Eye is at least a rip off of something good. In addition to 2001, it's taken a little from the classic film noirs, with the computer as its sexy, femme fatale. (Don't ask me how a computer can be sexy, you have to see it - it's to do with the voice, I think.) It also swiped a hint of the technophobia from films like Blade Runner. In the end, it's pretty fun and shoves a surprisingly resonant point down our throats: our fear-based government is going to royally screw us over. Not surprisingly, however, the movie's similarity to every other film of its elk makes it about a memorable as ramen noodles.