Along with "Cool Guys Don't Look at Explosions"

Far be it from me to simply re-blog a good line, but this one from an opinion piece (which The Age has apparently re-blogged from The Guardian anway) requires dissemination, praise and envy. Here, the writer is thinking about remakes and shark movies and comparing the near-perfect Jaws with Open Water, which I didn't see because I thought it was about Moses:

"The long and the short of it is: you don't send a bunch of five-metre, slightly-out-of-focus great white sharks to do a humongous eight-metre mechanical shark's job. It's a basic rule of cinema."

Quick review of Where The Wild Things Are movie

BOW-WOW.
What a complete dog of a film. And not those dogs which stay with you forever, even though they only live for fifteen years and the last two or three are a bit iffy because of canine dementia. I'm talking about the kind of dog that has fleas which live in warrens of mange on its bum. The kind of dog that chews its genitals, loudly, for hours, next to the dinner table, while slowly releasing something liquid onto the carpet.

It was that bad. Don't see it. They managed to turn a delightful children's book into a story about a bunch of whinging Gen-Xers who are over-sized muppets. The monsters literally spend the entire movie talking about what a bummer their lives are. Or something. We fast-forwarded most of it. There was no story, no drive, no interest and the magical land that appears as a forest in Max's bedroom is replaced by "and then he gets in a boat for some reason and travels to an island with various bleak landscapes." It was as magical as an IGA car-park at 6pm on a Sunday.

Franzy fights on

And here's what I wrote in the (surprisingly ample) feedback section of the Greater Union customer survey after buying some online tickets:

"You cinemas need to start being up front about why allocated seating has been introduced. No contacts know. The staff shrug and smile and take your wad of cash. It inconveniences patrons and restricts the enjoyment of my movie-going experience to be sat next to a stranger and not be able to choose the location of my seat upon entering the cinema.
Sharing elbow room with someone I've never met was never on my list of Things To Do At The Movies.
Why the gritted-teeth is it on there now?
To phase out ticketing staff and ease us into online bookings and buy-your-ticket-here pillars? You're competing with 50" plasmas and surround-sound in people's homes! The only thing you've GOT over that is customer service. I've had friends who now avoid going to the cinemas now because of allocated seating. My mother gave up her 10-year membership to Palace Nova on the back of this short-sightedness. She wrote them a long letter to explain why. Customer service? She didn't even receive a reply. You try telling me that you're a different company who listens to the concerns of its patrons? Rubbish. To theatre-goers, you are now all one and the one same. Brand loyalty is dead dead dead.
Don't give me that bluster about Gold seating, either. $35 for the chance at a hot nachos in the second reel is NOT a fun family outing. OR a low-pressure date. The cinema used to be the place where teenagers could meet up and not have to make awkward conversation. Now you've priced them right out of the market. Wake up.
If you don't want customers, just shut down now with dignity and stop taking everyone's money and enjoyment with you."

You may thank me in the comments when allocated seating is abolished and a quiet young man with a side-part and a small torch is guiding you to your $5 seat.

Maybe in the sub-cockle area

I would like to talk to you about the American Dream. Afterwards, there will be a short film. The American Dream is one that has those who hold its fine tenets in their brave hearts believe that they can succeed against all odds. It is the belief in freedom. Freedom to live. Freedom to succeed. Freedom from oppression.

The following short film shows exactly that. A man is facing some tough times, but he's still trying to make his way, against the odds. Being captured by the Las Vegas police isn't exactly an orthodox struggle, but going to toe with the declared authority is what founded the United States in the first damn place. In this piece you can watch as he takes an inner journey from despair to hope to belief and finally, to knowledge.
His despair arrives with realisation. The epiphany strikes, even as he cries out to an uncaring world.
"There's always someone trying to stop me from making my money." The tremored strain in his voice speaks of a life spent under the boot of oppression.
But watch. Watch on as this man, reduced to nothing but the being he is, reaches deep, deep inside himself and finds that spark. The spark from which wars are won and upon which nations are built.
This is it, he says to himself. I must fight and win, or vanish.
This is not some motivational mumbo jumbo. This is the very ideal, indeed the very idiom which spawned the United States of America as we know it today. "Give me Liberty, or give me Death!" cried Patrick Henry to the Virginia Convention in 1775. Thus began the Revolution and the war for independence.
"Success is my only motherfucking option, failure's not," said Eminem, more than 200 years later, echoing an identical sentiment. Glory or nothing.
Our man in Las Vegas carries the same fight in his chest.
This is America. He takes a deep breath. I must be free. I will be free.
He speaks out loud. He voices his singular manifesto of freedom:
"I can break these ... cuffs"
The oppressor speaks: "You can't break those cuffs."
This is America, cries the spirit of every soul who ever fought for the dream.
What does this man do? In the face of all the odds?
Watch.
Watch and be uplifted.

An admission

I suppose it's time I came clean:
Go to the Movie Lounge and watch Testimonial No. 1 (Second clip from the right).

I call paedophilia on Twilight

Since Twilight seems to be the movie of the moment, I'll jump right in. For those who've never heard of it, a quick plot summary: teenage girl goes to new school, falls in love with hot vampire guy, smouldering and sexual restraint ensue. They're in high school love, they protect each other. Cute. Andy Pants begs to differ, but I believe there is a more pressing concern yet to be addressed.

As mentioned above, the girl is a teenager, seventeen. The guy she falls in love with is also seventeen. At least, he looks seventeen. But about half-way through he explains that he was actually 'made' a vampire in 1918 when he was really seventeen. He's more than 80 years old.
And lusting after a 17 year old girl.
And everyone is okay with this??

Surely, even after decades of attending school with school children, he would have gathered enough experience to know that romantic involvement with children is not on.
But no. Everyone is flocking to the movie and simpering over Captain Hotness.
Neh.
Franzy no like.
Bad medicine.

***
GTH - Many points. Moify for coming out of the Enya closet (if you could get back in and lock the door, that'd be greeeaat), Shippy for Rick Price, River - not for the classic music, but for extolling her son's many many talents and Kath for sticking by ABBA.

She said "Yeah?" I said "Aw Yeah."

I godda jawb.
Ahm gonna payda reynt.
An then she wuz so nais!
Lawd she wa' lubbydubby.

The sound of my phone ringing has always made me apprehensive. I hate to be the one without the info. I hate it when the tingle goes up and it could change your life. The wait after a job interview is in the top ten worst times for a phone to ring. At least when you get the little white letter, you know what's up before you answer the call.
But when the phone rings it could go either way.
Or it could also be a telemarketer. Especially at 5:15pm on a Wednesday.

"Hello, Franzy speaking."
"Hello Franzy, it's Mr Employer here. How are you?"
"I'm well." (gather strength, take deep breath). "How are you?"
"I'm fine, thank you. Would you like the good news, or the bad news?"
(Cover mouthpiece to muffle audible groan. Fail to muffle audible groan). "Uhmn. Gimme the bad news."
"The bad news is, my friend ... that you have the job."
(Access mental replay. Confirm information. Thrust fist in air). "What? That's great! Fantastic! Thank you!"
"No problem."
"What's the good news?"
"The good news is ... that you have the job! Aha!"

So, yes. The transformation is complete. We have moved back from Queensland and I am now employed at somewhere far less useless and more productive than The Coffee Club on Bribie Island. Now I'm drinking the coffee, motherfuckers!



Well - not quite. I start in January. And I'm apparently working for quite a prankster.
Thanks to Shippy for the job-search help. Points for you, buddy.

***

Everyone who was madly searching for The Mysterious Seven Story Structures can take a clue from a wonderful series I recently read called Action Philosophers! Joseph Campbell did many interesting things, but one of them was to analyse stories and myths from a lot of cultures and came up with A Definitive Story Structure, otherwise known as The Hero's Journey. I have scanned it in with complete disregard for copyright below, but please, click the image and have a good look.



That should settle a few arguments.
Or start them.

Update - Ryan Dunlavey, Illustrator of Action Philosophers! has somehow found me! And directed me towards the real deal full colour Hero's Journey poster available for just US$3 (plus postage) (which makes it about $AUS4,507) from the Action Philosopher's website (please click on the image above). I urge everyone to either buy a poster or get their hands on Action Philosophers!

***
Far be it from me to heap scorn upon my learned brothers and sisters but mostly brothers in the sciences, but these two news items couldn't have popped into my reader with finer congruity or better timing.
The first "From nerd to word: maths geeks reclaim their cool" is about a new campaign by the Australian Association of Mathematics Teachers to boost the previously "dorky" image of maths. They are attempting to sell the many exciting and lucrative careers options offered by maths.

"It's all to do with imagination," says mathematical stand-up Simon Pampena.
"Most people if you say, `What attracts you to maths?', they wouldn't say, `Imagination'.
"It's usually what repels you from maths and they'd say `Because it's not cool, I'm not going to get a girlfriend doing maths'."

Which brings us neatly to news item number two:
"Male science students uni's most likely virgins: study"

Apparently maths can teach you many things, but good timing isn't one of them.

***
Enthusiasm for last week's movie clippette was so dramatically blunt that I have decided to take my revenge upon you readers who refused to inundate me with copy about your memorable movie moments so that I could rest upon my laurels.
What would you call the scariest movie you've ever seen?
The Grudge?
Saw?
War of the Worlds?
The Ring?
The Omen?
The Sixth Sense?
Scary Movie?

Nuh-uh. Be prepared for a new champion. It is only three and a half minutes long, but trust me on this: you will be curled up in horror as you watch. Many of you may not even make it through. Some of you may actually throw up.
It's safe for work and there's no gore. Just an ill feeling about your entire existence.
Think I'm joking? There's no punchline.
Just watch The World's Scariest Movie.



***

GTH - Points to Kath for the mental image of me busting a shit capoeira-style over a rural French toilet. Or 'toilette'.

Pint of Pale, thanks

Every year, I make a video birthday invitation.
This year is no different.

If you're a regular reader, come along and say hi.
If you're one of the sweet folks who've landed here from you Google searches for "blazer teachers fucking students", "gear shift fuckers" or even "what's wrong with a 100 dollar mattress", then perhaps give it a miss, eh?

***

GTH - With her double-entendre, Mad Cat Lady takes the point, said the actress to the bishop. The photo was actually taken by me out of a hostel window in Derry on my first night in Ireland. The night before the Orange Marches were due to take place. Being a moronic backpacker, I had no idea of the perfect storm that the significance of date and place would have upon my stay. Garda vans patrolled the old city walls and cops with riot gear and machine guns barracaded every entrance with shipping containers and barbed wire. The riots the next day made the international news and I was forced to call my mother and explain that not all Derry was on fire, just the Catholic bit.

Heeeeeere's Emery!

I tend to resist the sinful blogger's temptation to post youtube videos and call it a blog. Unless I've made the film myself. But I was reminded of the video below recently when I saw the film again on SBS. Apart from being a great scene, it always reminds me of a certain time in my life which makes for a story in itself.

I once lived in a hostel in Belfast. For about six months between the summer and winter, I shared a room with four other guys: two drug dealing turkey pluckers and a masturbating Scotsman* who played in the Salvation Army band every Sunday. The number of times I woke up to go to my regulation Traveller's Kitchen Job only to hear a squeaking noise and look across and see those long hairy red toes curling over in Celtic ecstasy was not a healthy way to come to terms with being alive.

The hostel was a terrace house in a row of terrace houses down the road from Queens University. What made this terrace house distinct from the other terrace houses was the fact that it was the only one that wasn't a condemned shell. We had all the luxuries a modern traveller could want: a laundry, two kitchens, a communal lounge room, a short walk to all the swanky, funky businesses which were springing to take advantage of Belfast's richest students, the internet. We even had an extremely loud stereo for parties.
There were a few problems (apart from the Onanistic Glaswegian): The greasy owner. The occasional Garda raid. The Comedy/Booze Hall across the street which closed at 1am like every other pub in that stupid, stupid city, flooding the streets with angry, horny drinkers, fresh from the 12:30 binge, who would roll around fighting and raping each other in the streets until I would lean out of my window (third storey window - I'm not a complete idiot) and tell them all to shut the fuck up and go the fuck home at which point they would lob beer bottles at the hostel for me to walk through on my way to work at 7am the next morning.
But worst of all was the lack of available media. Seems insignificant now, but for some reason, there was only one CD and one video. The CD was Bob Marley's Greatest Hits. It took me 8 years to be able to listen to "Jammin'" again.
The one video was discovered by every "over-nighter" (that's what us long-termers called the backpackers with enough cash to keep moving) who found us in whatever out-of-date travel guide the greasy owner had managed to bluff his way into. Invariably American or Britsh. Always male. Even on the days when I returned home and it wasn't already playing, it wasn't long before that fateful, daily yelp reverberated through the paper-mache building:
"Oh awesome dude! Full Metal Jacket! I love this fuckin' movie!"
And we'd all sit there, watching the movie again because this loud-mouthed Yank loved the Marine Corps and could have like totally got in while his stupid London mate would be asking all these homoerotic questions about whether the Corps was really that tough.

That said, this scene is one that bears watching again and again. R. Lee Emery became synonymous with the image of the American military and there are many amusing anecdotes on his Wikipedia page, but watch the scene, think of it as tight-arse Tuesday for the really tight-arsed.

If anyone has a story to do with a scene from a movie, I'd love to hear it and post it, a la Sing A Song For Us Tonight. Since SASFUT is on hiatus over the summer, maybe Cheap Arse Chewsday can fill in for it. Let's hear those stories about movies! Pick a scene! Spill your guts!

* These are not euphemisms.


***
GTH - There was actually a bit of stiff competition this round. Miles had a truly stallion effort and has been the only reader to really have a shot at unpacking the little bit of quote I've taken to putting up along with the picture. TOoS came in strong with his speculation about the identity of Aussie Stig and Shippy tickled my fancy with "Not watch, analyse!". Kath was lucky not to lose a point for outing herself as a hat-wearing Volvo Driver and Squib might have come away with glory by explaining why she hates a TV show in which borish, white, middle-aged men behave as such and are applauded for it. But she never wrote back.
The winner then is none other than Third Cat for her sniper-style comment critique of my brilliant ideas for improving Australian Top Gear: "but you wouldn't really want another show where men put on dresses and we're supposed to think that's funny? Would you?"
You make a good point, comrade. So here's one in return.

Throw another struggle on the fire, my darling

Scene - Suburban Super Mall - Gargantuan Cineplexiopolis. Mele and Franzy have spent an annoying day shopping for boring clothes and have decided to see a movie.

Franzy: Two students for Eagle Eye, please.
Ticket Seller: Where would you like to sit?
Franzy (sharing a puzzled look with Mele): In a chair?
Ticket Seller (assuming the polite smile of murderous fantasist): Ha. No, I mean where in the cinema? Front or back?

*Freeze frame*
Franzy strolls into view, wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and smoking a pipe. His speaking voice is so nasally that he must surely be endowed with all the useful knowledge of the universe and must be listened to.

Tweed Jacket Franzy: Rest assured, dear people, that this is not some bungle in the storytelling. We are not about to discover that in fact Franzy and Mele are at the front of the queue for the world premiere of this film. The diehard fans have already come, absorbed and left. Friends, this isn't even a whimsical anecdote about stumbling into the wrong mall, the wrong cinema or even the wrong queue. This is the twelfth showing for Eagle Eye this week. 3:40pm is not a popular time to be lining up outside the movie theatre to watch a film that will surely cut into the regularly regimented times associated with school holiday dinners, sleepovers and twilight football matches. Our stunning heroes are not going to go Seatless in Seatle or anywhere else this fine afternoon. There is plenty of room at the inn.

Tweed Jacket Franzy flourishes his pipe like a conductor's baton.

*Unfreeze*

Mele: Uh, in the middle.
Ticket Seller (barely restraining himself from spitting into the hand with which Franzy is taking his change and tickets): Okay, you're in K 18 and 19, Cinema 21, up there on your right!
Franzy: What the fuck was that all about?
Mele: They don't need allocated seating! There's no one here!
Tweed Jacket Franzy: I just told them that!

Mele and Franzy walk into the 300 seat cinema. It is entirely empty. They ignore their allocated seats and sit wherever the fuck they feel like. Around the middle somewhere. Mele puts her purse on the seat next to her. Franzy puts the box of popcorn next to himself. They relax and listen to the kind of cockless musak in which the singer sounds as though he has decided that the voice of a grown man singing about the emotional struggle of declaring his undying love for his sweetheart should sound just like that same grown man straining on a four-steak turtle-head and losing. You know: Matchbox 20.
Teenagers march in declaring exactly how the ticket seller can deal with himself and his seating allocations and sitting defiantly up the back.

Enter Tiresome Couple Number One. They are hunched over their tickets, checking the letters on each vacant row before arriving at whatever row Mele and Franzy ended up in the middle of. They edge along the row, checking each seat number. Finally Tiresome Woman Number One stops in front of Franzy's popcorn.

Tiresome Woman Number One (looking first at popcorn, then at Franzy, then at popcorn again): Is this ...? Would you ...? Does that ...? I got a ticket for ...? Can I ... just ...?

Franzy gazes glaze-eyed first at woman, then popcorn, then woman again. He picks up the box of popcorn just in time before Tiresome Woman Number One engages the considerable landing gear and touches down, filling up the entire seat, right next to Franzy, in the middle of an almost entirely empty cinema. Franzy manages to keep his beefy arm glued to the armrest, but Tiresome Woman Number One is taking off her jacket, tossing her hair all over the damn place and generally acting as though she and Franzy were on a first and last date. Franzy and Mele share a second puzzled look, even more puzzled than the last.
Franzy, stubborn prick to the last, decides that he will die rather than move.

Enter Tiresome Couple Number Two. They also carefully navigate the confusingly arranged seating using their tickets as treasure maps and arrive at the same destination, this time on Mele's side.
They check their tickets. They confer with one another. They check their numbers, their tickets, one another, the breeze and some handy fish entrails.
Mele and Franzy grit their teeth.

Tiresome Man Number Two (doing his Kindly-Cop-Produces-Arrest-Warrant bit with their ticket stubs): Excuse me, what seats do you have?

Tweed Jacket Franzy (puffing on pipe): Bear in mind that the entire cinema is still empty at this point, some six minutes before the feature presentation is due to begin ...

Mele (sighing in a charming manner while looking about the cinema): These ones.
Tiresome Woman Number Two (tossing out a well-practised Anything To Avoid A Fuss Titter): Ha ha. Sorry, I mean: what does your ticket say?
Mele (turning to Franzy): What the fuck is going on here?
Franzy: I have no idea. (To Tiresome Couple Number Two) I don't know. Do you want me to look? They're here somewhere.
Tiresome Couple Number Two watch Franzy and Mele slowly and unenthusiastically go through some of their things, digging in handbags and thrusting hips to reach low-access back pockets.
Tiresome Man Number Two (this time treating us all to his finest Traffic Cop Letting Young Driver Off With A Warning): Oh, look, don't worry about it.
Tiresome Woman Number Two (overbaked relief): Yes, we'll just sit up there.
She indicates the completely vacant row behind Mele and Franzy.
Tiresome Man Number Two (to Tiresome Woman Number Two as they shuffle back out):If anyone else comes along, it'll be tough luck.
Tiresome Woman Number Two: Here, it's just where we were supposed to be, but one seat back.
Tiresome Man Number Two: But if anyone comes along, it'll be tough luck.

No one else came along.

***
GTH - Oh lookie! Squib takes out two points! Hooray! Hooray for Squib!

Indiana Groans, Grunts and Has a Sit Down and a Cup of Tea

It is 3:25pm on a sunny Bribie Winter Day. I have been fixing my Phd novel since this morning and have just finished an easy chapter which was so brilliantly written that the only editing needed was patting myself on the back for twenty-five minutes for being such a clever boy.
The following chapter, however, was not written by me, but dictated by the last Indian telemarketer who found my number. I promised to sign up for a home loan renegotiation in return for her writing a difficult linking chapter in my otherwise flawless* manuscript. I basically explained what had happened previously in the book, what was going to happen next and told her to keep it under 2000 words.
She messed up. Totally. Don't give me all that English being her second language bullshit either. A woman who is that conversant with Australian mortgage regulations should at least understand the concepts of maintaining tense and 'show, don't tell'.
So now I'm totally stuck fixing up the mess she made of my otherwise perfect novel and I still have to buy dinner ingredients, attend Gun Club and prepare dinner.
I could either:
a) Embark on the long and arduously adjective-laden journey that is rewriting an entire chapter so that it doesn't suck goats' balls. Or,
b) Post a movie review I wrote just after I arrived on Bribie Island and was treated to my first experience of The Twin by my lovely Aunty Brenda.

"a" huh?
Guess again, mum.

Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls

It ain’t natural. Indiana Jones movies are modern fairy tales told with panache and honesty and heart. Harrison Ford is a genuine masculine action hero: beaten up, brash, mostly hard-boiled and just serious enough. I’ve watched all three Indiana Jones movies many, many times. They are boysy escapist fantasies with clever believable stunts which treat their audiences with enough respect to know that it’s all in fun.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls looks as though it were made by those greasy advertising hotshots from the Commonwealth Bank commercials. The background research appears to have consisted of watching all three classic movies on their Blackberrys in between sales meetings. The scenarios and basic concepts for the stunt set-pieces were all stolen or copied from the other movies. The beginning set-up (bad-guys masquerading as top brass shoot their way into top secret military test sight) didn’t even come from an Indiana Jones movie. They photocopied the first few pages from The Rock and changed the time of day. That’s it. Set up, execution, follow-through, reasoning, background, everything was the same.

I’ll give it to those suave little media-savvy greaseballs behind the screenplay, they certainly picked up on what gave the other Indiana Jones movies their backbone (except for Temple of Doom, perhaps). The political undercurrents driving Raiders of the Lost Ark and Holy Grail shifted them from Biggles Goes Digging to, well, Indiana Jones. Indy wasn’t just fighting against greedy bad guys, he was fighting Nazis! We all know who the Nazis were and we all understood why they wanted the Ark or the Grail. But in Crystal Skulls, the Nazis are long-gone, the war is over and we are all expected to be able to transplant ourselves into the McCarthyist era of the late 50s where everybody was either a commie or shitting themselves about commies. Reds under beds: ring any bells? Probably not, because the enemy has since been revealed (via other, better-executed films such as Good Night and Good Luck and even The Iron Giant) to actually be McCarthy and the US administration itself, which was running around pointing fingers at everybody. So when some actual reds turn up in this latest film as the real bad guys, it is as though Indy is suddenly fighting real live witches and we’re all expected to eat our popcorn and believe it. They say 'Stalin' a few times and speak in Russian but as interesting and distinguishable bad guys, they are simply a lesser, sillier-looking lot of mustard-uniformed henchmen. The big joke about the communist threat is that when The Wall came down, it was all revealed to be mostly stone-age technology riddled with corruption, incapable of actually taking over anybody or anything. It was precisely this kind of ineffectual “ve vill contrrrol ze verld by psychic power” thinking that rendered the Soviet Union such a toothless tiger in the first place. We all know that now, so it’s a bit flaming rich to ask the audience to believe A) that world-ruling psychic power represents an actual danger in the film and B) that Indy wouldn’t automatically snigger behind his leather sleeve and lead those morons wherever they wanted to go because he knows that option A) is a lot of hocus-pocus bullshit.

Our Cate is a fine actress, but here she is a non-threatening waifette with an inexplicable penchant for sword-play. She doesn’t get to torture anyone to make us scared. She doesn’t push a henchman into a trap in order to see what happens. The scariest thing about her is her severe, black little haircut and her ill-fitting little trousers. There is an old theatrical maxim: never show the audience a gun unless it is going to be fired. Chekhov famously flouted this rule for dramatic tension and realistic effect. However, Indiana Jones is not Chekhov. I severely doubt the fact that Rrrrrussian Cate never gives anybody the old run-through with her rapier is a tip of the bear-skin hat towards The Cherry Orchard. There ain't no dramatic tension around here, pardner.

Harrison Ford is old. Old old old. He even says so in one of his first lines. Soon after which he goes scampering over mountains of wooden crates to outrun a jeep. Lethal Weapon 4, for those of you who didn’t watch it, showed an aging, fat Danny Glover and a Just-About-To-Grow-A- Salt’n’Pepper-Beard-And-An-Outlet-For-Anti-Semitism Mel Gibson somehow managing to beat an agile Jet Li to death using their pudgy American fists against Jet Li’s three decades of rice, vegetables and daily martial arts training. That the film-makers ask you to believe this shows their real lack of respect for their audience. Crystal Skulls does this spit-in-your-drink trick over and over and over and over again. You can see Ford puffing even as he raises his fist to deliver a knock-out punch to one of the glass-jawed sissies Cate has chosen to protect her as she scours the earth for “artefacts she believes have paranormal properties”. You ever see John Howard bowling? Watching Harrison do a fight scene is the same, but with a more sympathetic camera crew.

Then the girl turns up. And Harrison turns into a simpering old dolt. No one wants to see Indy sorting his garbage or writing a birthday card to his grandma. So exactly why we are expected to enjoy watching the man who guns down Nazis and runs back into collapsing temples for his hat making kissy-boo-boo faces is beyond me. The girl is Karen Allen. She was gorgeous in Raiders and still has the pinball-extra-game# smile, but she, like Ford, has aged. So what? Ten out of fucking ten to the advertisers-I-mean-film-makers for bringing her back and sticking her in the film. Hooray for older women in film. If only she actually got to do something. All of her lines are spoken to either Indiana Jones or her kid and all of them either repeat something they have said first or are intended to poke some tedious fun at the fact that she’s a middle-aged mom. In Raiders she was drinking Nepalese goat-herders under the table for extra cash. In Crystal Skulls she is immediately running around after the tedious men in her life, one of whom gets to be madly in love with her again because the focus groups wanted a romance.

The worst part about all this is that there were no 22-year-old advertising executives from California brought in to creative consult the Indiana Jones franchise into a modern-day flash-crash flop. This one was made by Lucas and Spielberg. The same two guys who brought you a lot of other movies you may have heard of and enjoyed. Like the first three Indiana Jones’, for example. Mad with power, they drank eight litres of civet espresso each, made out a little and put together something they thought everyone would enjoy if they had seen and/or remembered and/or had ever heard of the first three movies. They ruined their own good work. It ain’t right.

Booo. Boooooo. The only good bit was Shia Le Beuf and even he had to do and say stupid things for ninety-seven percent of the time he was onscreen. Boooo.

* It cannot be proven otherwise, I tell you!
#Apologies to Grant Naylor.

***
GTH - Points to Kath for Tron reference. That thing as actually a weird floating sculpture in Brisbane's South Bank near the Art Gallery. Posted for the sheer joy of looking at something that exists purely for art.

*Tag* I'm it.

Memes are always a bit naff. And I'm actually quite bad at them. But, at the end of a long day of advanced bogonics (you'll find out what that means in due course), it seems like the perfect wind down. Milly Moo has tagged me and I accept the challenge!

1) Eight things I am passionate about:
The people I care about
Writing
Cooking
Music
Travel
Happiness
Comics
Stories

2) Eight things I want to do before I die:
Go to Japan and eat the cuisine.

Go to Scandinavia in the winter.
Eat an entire pig.
Own a Nissan Skyline despite how embarrassed or mockful everyone I know and love will be.
Drive a Ferrari. Fast.
Publish a(nother) book and have it not be trashed as badly as I have trashed others.
Get my PhD.
Cook for someone famous. (I'm scraping the barrel here).

3) Eight things I say often:
Fuck.
Motherfucker.
Champ.
Chief.
No.
Bro.
Yo.
Hmm.

4) Eight books I've read recently:
The Cursed.
My Swordhand is Singing.
Lemon!
Extra Lemon!
Dreamrider.
The Trial of Colonal Sweeto and other stories.
The Arrival by Shaun Tan.
Monster Blood Tattoo by DM Cornish.

5) Eight songs I could listen to over and over:

Blue Monday by New Order
Jambi by Tool
Know Your Enemy by Rage Against The Machine
Got Glint? by The Chemical Brothers
Nessun Dorma as sung by Pavarotti
Rez/Cowgirl (live) by Underworld
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger by Daft Punk (I liked it way before Kanye mashed it up)
In White Rooms by Booka Shade

6) But if I were doing a triple CD set, I’d include (8 x 3 = 24)
I mentioned above that I was passionate about music, so much so that I don't believe that I can restrict I my music taste to 24 songs within an efficient time limit. That is, if I were to do justice to this question - whittling down my favourite music to just 24 - I would not be doing justice to the other things that I am passionate about: writing, friends, family, cooking. It would be a full time job and one for which I would not get paid. And after all that, I couldn't possibly do justice to my passion for music by cutting it down to 24 songs. Sorry.
Next!

7) 8 things that attract me to my friends:
They laugh at my jokes.
They tell good stories.
They are all very successful.
They are all part of me.
We agree on most things, but thankfully not all.
They still surprise me.
Most of them can juggle to a certain extent.
They would say the same things about me.

8) 8 movies I've watched at least into double figures
Life of Brian
The Holy Grail
Wayne's World
The Meaning of Life
Terminator 2
Star Wars
... and that could be about it. Which is surprising, because I'd always rather watch a movie I've seen before than one I haven't, but I suppose my saner friends have restrained me from the kind of madness that takes this practice into double figures.

So who do I tag?

327
Lion - Welcome to Blogworld, buddy. Here's something naff for your second post!
Jimmythins - Something to do until those movies get posted
Sf_dtail_49
Jono


***

GTH - Will of the 'not public' profile has taken the first cherry from his tree! It was indeed from the San Fransisco Museum of Modern Art. And as I explained, this was an illegal photo (see previous post's comments about museum guards and life-sized porcelain sculptures of Michael Jackson and Bubbles). Welcome Will, to the honour wall!

It's My Birthday Party.

Please join me and raise a glass.

THIS is what's next!

And it's not even all there is.



But what next after this? Tune in Friday for full details ...

Harry blahblahblahclevertitlerhymeswith-otter

Just got back from the latest Harry Potter film. First things first: I went with Mele, Dan and Marc, all of whom think nothing of bringing a literal shopping bag of sweets to the movies. Before dinner. Needless to say I am scratching the sugar crystals from my skin as they osmosise and solidify, it's both beautiful and scary to watch. I am also on a sugar crash. Ouchy yuck.

How was the movie?
Just like the book. In fact, they relied solely upon the audience having read the book before seeing the film - an extremely safe bet. After every single scene, I kept waiting for the director to lean into shot, expectant grin on his face, and say encouragingly 'You know - like in the book!'
It was kind of lazy in that way, and that's the problem with making a movie from such a long and involved book: you can't show every nuance of character and twist of plot because there isn't the time, nor can you cut too many things out or it just becomes a crazy zombie of a movie. The only solution present is to do what they did tonight and brush over everything as briefly or as thinly as possible so that at least no one can accuse you of missing something out.
Well, to the directors and writers of Harry Potter and the Order of The Phoenix I say this:
J'accuse!
Yes, indeed. You missed out something. You missed out something big. And that was heart. And balls for JK's sake! The books are getting better and better because they are getting darker. The reason they are getting darker is because they aren't just delving into the evil within the individual person any more, they are beginning to expose just how evil manifests itself into society. The whole Stazi/Secret Police storyline courtesy of the wickedest character in the Potter series after Voldemort himself, Dolores Umbridge, was treated with all the darkness and danger of a Paul Robinson prank on Neighbours. Too much zany and not enough panoptical, self-surveilling fear.
So, yes, not so much a Harry Potter movie, as a slide show of the Harry Potter book upon which it was based. But, in the category of Movies I Have Watched This Week, it wins all the Oscars and a meat tray.

***

In true double-post tradition, before I fall into bed, I have discovered via The Chocolate Witch, Blurb from the 'Burbs's Blog Award Sticker a new webcomic. I'm happy to say that it is far too intelligent for me at this stage. Either that, or it's not funny. But if it weren't funny, I wouldn't be posting about it after a sugar crash at one in the morning. It's called The Flowfield Unity and here is the first comic from its archives to make me laugh. Well, not so much laugh, as nod my head sagely and say "...aaaahhh ... I get it."