Movie Review: Double Dip: Say Anything and Chronicle

In Cameron Crowe’s Say Anything, your parents f*ck you up and you get to lose your virginity to John Cusack:

Sorry, John Cusack:

In Chronicle, directed by Josh Trank and written by John Landis, one of my new heroes (he gets Schopenhauer and Plato into the movie, sorta), your parents also f*ck you up, and while you don’t get to lose your virginity to John Cusak, you do almost get a blow-job from a cute girl with pink hair (and some pretty awesome telekinetic powers).

Movie Review: Double-Dip: Contraband and The Artist

Contraband:

In Contraband, Mark Wahlberg’s character's life gets out’a whack when his brother-in-law (Banshee from the most recent X-Men movie) throws drugs off a boat and gets in trouble with some scary guy (Giovani Ribisi, over-acting, maybe...) who comes after Mark Wahlberg’s family (Kate Beckinsale + soccer-playing kids) and Mark has no choice but to go down to Panama to try and get his hands on some funny-money--MARK WAHLBERG IS THE BEST SMUGGLER EVER--but winds up also getting his hands on the drugs that the scary guy really wanted all along because he really works for Mark’s blood brother, a guy whose construction business is going under thanks to his coke/booze/loan-shark problems that Mark was totally unawares of, and who tries to kill Mark’s wife, which makes him angry:

The Artist:

In The Artist, Jean Dujardin’s character's life gets out’a whack when the movie industry moves from silent films to talkies and he refuses to adjust, for reasons all-too human:

The choice is ours.

Movie Review Douple Dip: TTSS and A Dangerous Method

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is a wonderfully crafted, slow movie about how complicated, convoluted, and forlorn life can be when we repress our sexual desires:



A Dangerous Method is a wonderfully crafted, slow movie about how complicated, convoluted, and sexy life can be when we stop repressing our sexual desires:



The choice is ours, sort'a...

Movie Review DOUBLE-DIP: Melancholia and MI 4

Melancholia:

          Lars Von Trier’s Melancholia, starring Kirsten Dunst and Charlotte Gainsbourg and Kiefer Sutherland and that guy from True Blood and Generation Kill:



(Alexander Skarsgard) And so many other talented people that I’m, frankly, flabbergasted the movie wasn’t more widely released... Wait, no I’m not: Melancholia is a beautiful (the shots/lighting/misenscene, the pace, the music), mesmerising film about how we--you, me, and everyone else we know--deal with our awareness of our own mortality, of what Hegel/others have called the “Absolute Master” (death).

Option 1: Avoid thinking about it, but also secretly obsess about it (Charlotte Gainsbourg’s character’s response).

Option 2: Lie to ourselves about it/make up comforting stories that make it seem less scary, less abyssal, less unknowable (the child in the film’s response).

            Option 3: Live as if we’re already dead (Kirsten Dunst’s character’s response), i.e., mourn the loss of life prior to losing it (MELANCHOLIA, also what most people understand Socrates to be saying in The Apology about what it means to be a philosopher...).
            Option 4: Lie to others about it while, supposedly, being honest with ourselves (Kiefer’s character’s response).


Mission Impossible 4:

            In MI 4, we’re also... ALL GOING TO DIE!!!

However, unlike Melancholia and its fateful, lovely blue-green planet, our mortality will be wrought upon us by human hands and nuclear weapons:

In MI 4, however, we’re presented with an alternative to the above four possible responses, a possible response that was GLARINGLY absent in Melancholia (as a function of just how sh*tty/broken everyone in that film was): Have a “well-functioning team,” i.e., surround ourselves with people we can trust to help us face death with courage, integrity, laughter, etc...

           Of course, in MI 4, the well-functioning team manages to avoid their deaths; Tom Cruise proving himself to still be the immortal Lestat:
 


Unfortunately for the rest of us, we’re just not vampires, ultimately. Actually, fortunately for the rest of us...

I CAN HELP WHOMEVER'S NEXT!!!

            It was a little out of the blue, a little after the fact, and almost an aside when my assistant manager pulled me into the back of our store the other day and said, “Hey, don’t say ‘I can help whoever’s [sic] next’ any more. J.P. [our district manager] says he doesn’t want to hear that phrase come out of anybody’s mouth, it depersonalizes...” blah, blah, blah.
            My A$$.M. was referring to instances in which me or another of my coworkers are working the register. We’ve just finished a transaction/interaction/whatever with a customer and are now able to help someone else, someone new, i.e., whomever’s next. And there’s a line of people, a line which may/may not be well formed. And nobody seems to have ID’d that there’s an opening at our register because nobody removes themselves from said line for the purpose of beginning a new transaction/interaction/whatever with us.

“What should I say?”

“Just say ‘Hey’ or ‘Hi,’” said my Assist-M., waving his hand in the air demonstratively. “Less mechanical, more personal, more human.”

            My face has gone red by this point. I grit my teeth. I hate, hate, hate having language, especially useful language, taken away from me. I also hate having to use language that sucks,“But ‘Hey’ or ‘Hi’ don’t necessarily communicate that I can help whomever’s next!?!”
            “But John [our D.M.] doesn’t want to hear that anymore, ‘I can help whoever’s [sic] next,’” said my assistant Man., his face slack and disinterested.
            “But it doesn’t need to be said like that,” I said, face still red.

“But people have been saying it like that. You don’t say it like that.”

“So, rather than correct someone else’s abuse of an effective phrase, you want to take that phrase away from someone like me, someone who uses it properly and in a way that doesn’t depersonalize others?!? That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Just do it. Don’t argue with me...”

            And I’m reminded of what Kant says in his “Perpetual Peace” essay: “Do your job when you’re supposed to do your job, argue about it some other time and some other place." So I ask my Asst. Mnger. “Can I email John and argue my case?”
            “No. He’s got more important shit to deal with right now.”
            No!?! MORE IMPORTANT SH!T TO DEAL WITH RIGHT NOW?!? BUT I CAN HELP WHOMEVER’S NEXT!!!

Novel+ Review: Crime and Punishment

            It took me over 27 years to read my first Dostoevsky novel. Literally. The reasons for this delay were multiple.

Reason 1: I’ve just never really connected with The Russkies, just never gotten into Russian history, art, music, film, boxers:

Or lit. No Tolstoy. No Chekov. No Gorky. No Nabokov. One book of Bulgakov’s (Master and Margarita). OK, so I do love me some Lenin:



But... that’s because Lenin’s a bad-a$$.
            Reason 2: I’ve never really ID’d with the people who claim to love Russian literature. This doesn’t mean that I haven’t found such people engaging, interesting, and friend-worthy (you know who you are), merely that I’ve never wanted to become them, like, I’ve never seen the broody, scarf-wearing, smoking, pale guy scoffing at his fellows and said, “Yes! I wan’t to be like him!”

This is the same reason why I previously avoided things like Deleuze, Country Music/Nascar, and Harry Potter. (Recently, I did overcome my Deleuze aversion and am now one of the obnoxious a’holes I previously loathed; don’t expect the same Country Music//Nascar! ‘Arry Potta’, on the other hand...)

So what the he!! happened to me and my prejudices? Well, per usual, a bunch of crap out of my control.

First, a guy gifted me a copy of Crime and Punishment a few months back.

Second, I reread a David Foster Wallace article about Dostoevsky/Joseph Frank (“Joseph Frank’s Dostoevsky”).

And third, I started reading Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment for myself.

            What did I find? Humor. Moral seriousness. A willingness to both sympathize and not sympathize with Them That Think They’re Better than the rest of their fellows. Characters so lively I couldn’t forget them if I wanted to (if only I could remember their names!!! Porfiry?!?). A story both well crafted and unwieldy and deeply in touch with the issues of its time.

All of which is to say that in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment I found a novel that was both the kind of novel I love to read and the kind I hope to write. And there’s no higher praise I can give a book.

            I do, however, think C & P could’ve used a solid, like, 200-page edit. Just sayin’...

Occupying My Parents' Basement

I wish I had some funny, anecdotal way to get into This, but I don’t. The following is going to be about the Occupy Movement in general, Occupy Portland in partic...

Wait, WAIT!!! I do, I do have a funny, anecdotal way to get into This:

4:15 in the morning. Sunday morning. 13th of November.

There I was in my parent’s basement, in my PJs.

Yeah, I’m 27 years old. Yeah, I live in my parents' basement. Yeah, they live in a multi-million dollar home that isn’t just in Lake Oswego, Oregon, it’s on Lake Oswego, Oregon. Lake Oswego, Oregon. a.k.a. “Lake No Negro,” a.k.a. “The Land of Oz,” a.k.a. the richest suburb in the Portland-Metro Area.

Anyways, there I was ready to start my morning stretching/exercise routine:

I’d prepared the juice I always drink while stretching (OJ cut with water and Emergen-C).

I’d angled the downstairs television into optimal viewing position.

Yeah, my parents have a downstairs television, and a mid-level one, and an upstairs one, and another downstairs, and one in my little sister’s room, and....

I turned on the TV hoping to find out whether or not the Ducks had beaten Stanford the night before, but instead of being on its usual channel 735 (ESPN, HD) my parent’s cable-box was set to channel 702 (ABC, also HD).

*Breaking News*

The Occupy Portland camp had not been broken up like Mayor Sam Adams promised!!!

Now, I want you to let your own personal reaction to that news wash over you. Get frustrated. Get excited. Get whatever you got back when that was the news. Heck, get whatever.

   

Actually, scratch “whatever” off your list.

If your reaction to the Occupy Movement has been some kind of indifference then you probably need to go to a hospital: Some vital part of you is dead and/or dying.

Don’t believe me?

Think I’m being melodramatic?

            Or Captain Obvious?
 

How about this: The Occupy Movement isn’t just protesting corporate greed:

Or government hoo-ha twaddling:

 

It’s protesting the way of life of any/all those of us who’re doing well enough Right Now to not be a part of the Occupy Movement.

There.

I said it.

My new definition of the 1%.

Less this:

More this:

 
(For some reason, my computer won’t let me upload images I download from facebooooook; I wanted a picture of myself for the above and apologize for the somewhat shameless mirror-mirror maneuver I decided to go with instead.)

And you know what? Me and my would-be-ESPN-watching/PJ-wearing/stretching/exercising/juice-drinking/Lake-O-with-parents-living/somewhat-gainfully-employed/health-insured/college-educated/pretty-d@mn-Happy self actually thinks the Occupy Movement is onto something.

And not because I think it’s “good.” (I don’t).

Or because I think it’s going to “work.” (What do we even mean by “work” any more?)

Or because I think it’s got a “clear message.” (It doesn’t, at least not in terms of being able to articulate the kind of concrete desires that we seem to want from others, e.g., "I want X")

Or because I think it’s going to find the kind of charismatic leader necessary to unify/organize it in such a way that news reporters stop asking stupid questions of hapless-weirdos and pundits just shut the f*ck up.

I think the Occupy Movement is onto something because it shows us something true about ourselves.

And by “ourselves” I mean my new definition of the 1%.

And by “something true” I mean something that most of us don’t like seeing when we look in the mirror and say, “Mirror mirror...”

Or something we don’t want to hear from others when we ask them, “Do these jeans make a$$ look fat?”

What the mirror is showing us isn’t what we want to see.

What our friend is telling us isn’t something we want to hear.

And what are we being shown/told?

Occupy Portland has shown/told us that we have such a substantial population of crazy, drug-addled, homeless people in our city that our iteration of Occupy basically couldn’t do anything more than merely admirably try and fail to take care of said crazy, drug-addled homeless people.

            Anyone who saw the Occupy Portland camp on the news (me, you, everyone else we know), anyone who went into the camp for any period of time (not me, admittedly), couldn’t help but see who/what was there.
            Even Occupy Portland apologists, people who say things like, “But it wasn’t all homeless, crazy, drug-addled people! There were families there, too!” are basically admitting, via good, old-fashioned de-Nile--

--the truthfulness of what Occupy Portland has shown us, namely, that there are people living in the United States of America, the most prosperous nation in the history of the world, who are not being taken care of.

We sure-as-sh*t aren’t taking care of them.

Nobody else appears to be taking care of them.

They sure-as-shei$$e aren’t taking care of themselves.

Like it or not, this is the Truth.

Like it or not, when Occupy Portland finally got disbanded in its camp-form, all the crazy, drug-addled homeless people that made Occupy Portland such a volatille, ineffective iteration of Occupy, i.e., which made Occupy Portland what it was, didn’t go nowhere.

They just went somewhere else.

            They went back to Burnside.
            They went back to that three-four block radius around Pioneer Square.
            They went back to...   

Well, at least they didn't go back to Lake Oswego, Oregon.