A Slice of Grice

In Time, Justin Timberlake: Cheated.

2011-11-04T11:28:00.004-04:00

My bud and I saw "In Time" last night, the new Justin Timberlake movie. It was, perhaps, one of the worst movies I've ever seen. So bad that I now will probably see it again just to torture myself.

Story goes a little something like this: You pay for everything (from coffee to cab rides to hitmen) with minutes of your life. Or "minutes, hours, months" and then you grab hold of whomever you're paying's wrist and you exchange time through some Total-Recall-like function. AND, everyone lives only until they're 25 -- or, that's when everyone stops aging. So, some dude on the street will say, "How old are you?" "I've been 25 for the past 175 years."

WHAT?

It reminded me of a Christopher Nolan interview I read way back when, where he said that he thought of the concept of "Inception" when he was a kid. And I had the thought back then, "Uhhhh, yeah, when I was about 7 I was thinking about worlds upon worlds upon worlds, too. Why are you wasting my time?"

This was a horrific movie, and I never, ever want to see Justin Timberboots running around through the streets of a made-up town as if he were a real movie star. And, it was really sad because all the previews they played beforehand were of some great-looking action movies (new "Mission Impossible"!) that made you think that this stupid movie might be ok. It was not, those cheats.

I will have to see something good tonight.

That said, I will definitely be buying "In Time" because bad movies are also awesome movies. And watching people slump to the ground as a Timekeeper comes running toward them is never a bad thing.

Paul Newman, Revisited, Part 2.

2011-09-29T10:57:00.003-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about it, and it's bothering me that I didn't mention in my last bloggle post a very big deal this past summer.

I went on a date in early June -- something Ms. Grice never does, or doesn't like to do. This boy took me to the Museum of the Moving Image. In Astoria, Queens! It was such a trek that I thought to myself, "Well, self, if this boy doesn't get that making me go all the way up here is a big to-do, we know where he stands."

However, I got there and holy Toledo. This was a palace. If I could've found a nook to sleep where I wouldn't be found, I'd have been sleeping there every night for the past 4 months.

Best part was, I ran up to the ticket-taker, and he gave me the paper listing out what exhibitions were on display.

The guy says: "Yuh know, it's Paul Newman week."

My jaw dropped down to the floor and I swallowed many mosquitoes.

"Ahbadabada, whaaaaaaat?"

"Yeah, we're playing The Hustler and The Color of Money tonight. For free since you already paid for your entrance ticket. [$10!]."

I felt like I had stumbled into my Heaven.

The date after half an hour of bumbling around said: "So, let's go get dinner?"

Me: "Uhh, no. Yeah right. Did you hear that guy? The Hustler AND The Color of Money?"

He looked at me curiously; I stared back, my Texas spine finally putting itself to use. "Nah, good to know you," as I furrowed my brow. "But, I gotta go see Paul."

In between films, I called Mama G and told her about my good fortune. She was so excited for me -- until I told her I gave up on a date. Then: "MORGAAAAAAAAN!!!!!"

Paul Newman, Revisited.

2011-09-27T10:26:00.003-04:00

A couple weeks ago, I was tossing and turning in my bed, per usual, thinking about something inevitably inane. I was probably trying to think about the efficiency of euphemisms. Or something. All the sudden, something struck me. No, not "struck me" -- came hammering down on me like a ton of Anna Karenina-sized bricks.

What I remembered was that it was mid-September and: Yesterday was the third anniversary of Paul Newman's death.

If I'm honest with myself, and you, my lone reader, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about Paul Newman. Maybe I'll watch a movie of his (my first born will be named Lucas); someone will joke about my love for PN, thereby reminding me; I'll glance at my a/c and see his handsome face smiling at me from an autographed still from Cool Hand Luke -- doesn't matter. Each and every day, something comes up where I'll stupidly reference a phrase from his movies or dote on him, just because.

I'll just re-post my first, initial reaction:

Now. I’m wiping the sleep away from my beady eyes and jolt upright in shock. My lips start to quiver, my jaw starts trembling – and it happened. I cried thankless, shameless tears as I sat there on my little air mattress in my new room (which is finally coming together, by the way).

I’ve joked a thousand times about how I’d cry when PN died. I wrote about it on this silly bloggle (and jinxed it? Believe you me, that was the first reaction I had … Hell hath a place for me now, I’m sure) but I didn’t think I actually would workout the old tear ducts, like some love-stricken fan who wanted to impale themselves after the loss of a Beatle.

It takes some pretty heavy things to make me cry; and it just made me realize how much I really did, and do, admire PN – everything from his early career and movie choices, to his lifestyle, and – perhaps most selfishly – how handsome and righteous his roles most often were. He will be an everlasting love.

Then, there was last year's post:

Today is the second anniversary of Paul Newman's death. Crestfallen.

I'd been thinking about this day all month, ever since I visited a friend in Westport, CT for a few days, where Paul Newman lived until his death. As we drove from the train station to my friend's home, he pointed out the window through the trees to the Westport Country Playhouse, where Newman's wife Joanne Woodward was artistic director and where Newman himself was part-owner of the restaurant next door.

It took a dozen swallows to loosen the knot in my throat.

And, now it's year 3 of no more Paul Newman. "Just passin' time, Boss."

Quadruple Feature: Final Destination 5, etc.

2011-08-22T07:57:00.009-04:00

Just when I think that my existence sounds depressing enough on paper, I manage to push it just a little bit further. This weekend, I deigned to see four films in the theater on one bright (and thunderous) day, and I succeeded. A quadruple feature! It really loses its ring after "triple feature," I fear.

The day started like any other. I clumsily smacked at my face in the morning to make sure it was still there; I looked out my un-curtained windows to see if others were stirring across the building (always a good measure of what time it is in the morning); I yawned heavily, scooping any residual drool off my chin -- and thought: "Wait, no work today! Wonder what time the first movie starts?!" (10:45 a.m.) The West Village likes old people, or those who eat and sleep like they're old (me).

Now. Mama G wonders where she went wrong with me. Why, say, didn't I think -- let me go shopping! Or, I bet there's a great exhibit at _______. That Borders is going out of business, how 'bout some new books, Grice? Nope. Just movies. Can't change what we are, I s'ppose.

So, I saw: Final Destination 5 (yup); One Day (Nick Sparks knock-off); Harry Potter 77k (should've watched the last one again right before this one ... those names are so hard to keep up with); and, Clash By Night ('52 at Film Forum -- got to keep up with the hipsters).

Final Destination 5. Well, what can I say? After I saw the flick, I went to Best Buy and bought the four preceding films; I figured that if I were going to write anything about the movie, I might as well do my research since my knowledge had some gaping holes since my 16-year-old dreamy girl's crush on Devon Sawa in Final Destination (one), ca. 2000.

In this latest iteration on the same take of the first film's premise, a bunch of young 20-somethings are headed off on a corporate retreat; once they reach the suspension bridge that holds their wilderness-bonding in its grips, our protag, Sam Lawton (Nicholas D'Agosto) has a vision, err, a premonition, a feeling, a sense, a notion that something's off? Well, he sees the traveling bus toppling into the ether, his friends not spared by gut-splintering boat masts or neck-breaking falls -- all delightfully depicted on-screen. Perhaps it's his imagination. We don't know! We haven't seen any Final Destinations before this one!

I will say that this was the most enjoyable FD since the first one; I actually almost wish I'd seen it in 3D - the opening credits, which consist of a series of shattered glass pieces, cigarette butts, pieces of trash, etc. lobbed at you, probably would have been neat - and, there was one set of projectile lower intestines that clearly would have looked cooler in 3D than on my thankless 2D eyes.

The prize of the show was third-billed Miles Fisher, who plays the business-jerk kid amongst his friends, Peter. He's the guy who slaps you on the back and says "Good job!" all the while telling your boss that you're a lout. It's not giving anything away to say that he sticks around for a good 95% of the movie (such is the formula for FD), but, his charm and ability to channel a multitude of personae is very apparent here. I'd dare say, he's one to watch.

Most people on the gods' green earth have seen him here already as Patrick Bateman in American Psycho; or, here as Tom Cruise, the Crazy

And there's a newer installment of Mr. Fisher's inimitable charades: Saved by the Bell, Final Destination-style. Here's "New Romance," a studio-funded track that let MF and cohorts kill each other in a very Final Destination-way, while acting out our favorite themes of SbtB. Very catchy.

More on the yes-I-have-feelings, sigh. "One Day" later.

Double Feature: Rise of the Planet of the Apes, Conan the Barbarian

2011-08-19T02:42:00.005-04:00

After about a week and a half of a most awful illness, my Friend took me to the Union Square cinema to celebrate my return to the world of the living. On the agenda were two films I'd had no real intention of seeing, certainly not at the cineplex for fourteen bucks a pop: Rise of the Planet of the Apes and, much (much!) more unfortunately, Conan the Barbarian.

Rise of the Planet of the Apes features actor/oddball James Franco as the idealistic geneticist dead-set on beginning human trials for his Alzheimer's-curing drug, after it's proven to stimulate previously deteriorated parts of the brain in chimpanzees--or enhance healthy apes' brain power without any side effects whatsoever. Of course, as with any movie miracle drug, we learn early on that there may be a few latent side effects after the star experimental chimp bursts into a board meeting, in which Franco is wooing greedy investors to green light the next stage of the drug's development.

After exterminating all remaining apes and closing down the trials, we find that a tiny baby chimp is still alive; Franco takes the little guy home, where he lives with his Alzheimer's-afflicted father (John Lithgow), names him Caesar, and begins to raise him as his intellectually accelerated son. Cute scenes ensue as Father Franco bonds with the baby and for a while, the three are a pretty happy, functional family unit. It's all relative.

The film wastes no time watching Caesar go through his nascent years, and we fly through the first three years, then five years, until the tyke is a ripe 8 years old--though, it's clear that ape-years are something equivalent to dog-years because Caesar is now at least an adolescent if not something of a testosterone-filled, volatile young man of his early 20s. He's beginning to ask questions (he can sign words with Franco, of course), he doesn't want to be treated as a pet, and he evinces some feelings of jealousy when Franco strikes up a relationship with the beautiful veterinarian, played by Freida Pinto of Slumdog Millionaire.

After a particularly egregious show of protectiveness, Caesar lands himself in the ape pound (a thinly veiled ape prison), where he faces bullying by the other apes (who don't like that he wears human clothes--how un-apelike!) and faces some torture at the hands of the ape-prison's sadistic floorwalker, played by Tom Felton (aka Draco Malfoy). And, then the movie follows its few storylines, incorporating the sentimental, the sad, the humorous, the somewhat scary, and, of course, the utter ridiculous.

I must say that my friend and I both giggled the moment we saw a stern-looking Mr. Franco in his white lab coat in the first minutes of the movie. While I think he is a fine--and at times, great--actor, I was unsure if I'd be able to take him seriously as a genius geneticist, albeit in a summer blockbuster about an ape revolution. But, after a while, I got used to Franco, that slight condescending smirk he typically wears replaced with a lot of furrowed brows and angst-ridden faces.

Though she doesn't say too much or steal too many love-romance scenes in the movie, I have always thought Freida Pinto is so gorgeous that it's almost distracting; she doesn't disappoint here.

And, the CGI was extremely impressive. I was very skeptical going into the film, imagining a bunch of apes whizzing around the trees a la Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (admittedly Apes would be spared the ever-annoying presence of Shia LaBeouf); but, the scenes of apes scaling massive redwoods and flipping about were quite stunning. There is a scene of a score of the beasts swinging about the Golden Gate Bridge that is particularly pleasing to watch.

Though the film is ultimately choppy and sometimes a bit emotionally hollow, I had a great time and the movie made me want to sneak into the Bronx Zoo and free all the monkeys, or at least listen in on their conversations.

Conan the Barbarian was one of the worst movies I have seen in a long time. Period.

Welcome back, blog!

Guest Blogger Returns: Thoughts on "The American"

2010-09-28T16:51:00.018-04:00

As the eight or so of you remember, Papa Grice has had the mind to pass on to me some of his film reviews; they're better-written, have a better historical take on film v. society, considering he's old [Happy recent birthday, again, Pops!], and are typically more viewed than my own. So, he's sent me his take on "The American."

Having seen this film a few weeks ago with a buddy of mine -- the two of us hoping that we'd appreciate the slow, dawdling nature of the film we'd both heard or read about -- I can say I almost wholeheartedly agree with Dad Grice on this one. It near-put me to sleep, and I didn't like seeing Clooney's "chicken-wings" -- as Pops puts it below -- enough to counterbalance the lack of original story.

I should say that when editing Pops' piece, I took out a small rant about Clooney's politics -- in short, my dad thinks his (Clooney's) Leftist inclinations cloud his film choices (to put it nicely). He didn't like "Men Who Stare at Goats," and he thought "Up in the Air" was overrated (as did I) -- soooo, I think that about covers it. :-D There has to be something left to argue about over Christmas.

On to the soapbox!

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In most of our pedantic pasts there exists a Big Book of Storytelling, planted over time. Be it by a series of English teachers or, simply, the intuit influence of common sense – likely a combination of both -- we learn from it what makes a good story.

It speaks to such things as "character development," "protagonists," "antagonists"; "plot development"; "conclusion." All things lead to caring about the characters, discerning a coherent plot and, wonder of wonders, having a scintilla of interest and desire to know how to goad attention.

“The American” director Anton Corbijn must have missed those lessons.

"The American" starts nebulously with our hero and hit-man, Jack (George Clooney), engendering some real goodwill with us viewers as he shoots what appears to be, as we are later tangentially made aware (kind of), a love interest in the head in some snowy, Siberian-esque landscape. Such is his need for remaining surreptitious as a couple of faceless thugs lay waiting to ambush. This leads to his escape into the wilds of Olde Italy, as Jack's wary of a double cross, possibly, for wanting “out”?

This theme, that of putting together a box of parts with directions written by an English as-a-fourth-language writer, becomes clear early on. [Editor's note: Perhaps this is why the movie is so conspicuously devoid of dialogue?] Jack makes some attempt at hiding, though not really...again, it would appear? Huge amounts of slow, slow moving footage intertwines all and, adding insult to injury, it isn't even set in an attractive part of Italy, so our scenic cinematography is lost on one vacant-seeming village upon another.

In watching the unfolding of one half-baked subplot after another – say, the footsy played with Jack's compadre hitwoman Mathilde (Thekla Reuten); a tangential brush with spirituality (?) via the start of a never-shaken-out relationship with the town's Good Father (Paolo Bonadelli) and his illegitimate son; the pursuit of those from Jack's last job now resulting in a shift to Jack-as-target based on probably some good reason (that we're unaware of); Jack's noticing a “rare” butterfly, I guess, in shorthand to demonstrate his “sensitivity” -- we hope these ever-slow sideshows coalesce into the semblance of order and sense.

Alas, they do not.

One point that is finally made clear is that Jack wants out of his line of business.

This awakens our sensibilities like an alarm clock via the strangely, awkwardly juxtaposed red-hot love scene with local prostitute Clara (Violante Placido), with whom Jack has been dramatically smitten; he has found an urgency for his escape (this movie, clearly, could have used more Clara-facation). [Editor's note: “Zing!” And/or, “Gross,” if taken the wrong way.]

Without spoiling the end, Sensitive Jack, now with two feminine notches on his gun, and that rare, annoyingly symbolic butterfly, are faintly shown in the final scene to be sadly sympatico.

At least that is what I think I saw.

I was left with a couple of overriding observations.

George shows off his physique via push- and pull-ups, reminding me of the newly arrived football season – unfortunately not for muscley appearance, but because of the chicken wings. [Editor's “Zing!”] Body-double time approachin', Georgie.

George further cements his cinematic image as lady killer (though, also literally), seemingly to set him sail for James-Bond land. While this isn't all bad, I would hope he finds more introspective and/or eclectic roles where he can better utilize his gifts.

Finally, could the book upon which this is based possibly have been as bereft of essential story elements as was reflected here? Or, was the problem with the scriptwriting and direction?? It really should not have been difficult to spot the lack of coherence/dissonance. Next time, at the very least, Anton should send his scripts over to the local high school creative writing club for a second opinion before unfurling such a mess.

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I received a text message from Dear Old Dad, saying that he "Wanted to add that it wasn't a total loss. It did spawn a saving system of sorts.

I would give it 2 "dry heaves": Wretched, but sans substance.

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Editor's post-post-note, I should say that I doubt Papa G has seen Corbijn's awesome "Control," which is why I went into "The American" wanting more than I got. Know what to get Dad for Christmas, just to settle the Corbijn CV.

Breaking the Bloggle Hiatus and Remembering Paul Newman Two Years Later

2010-09-26T12:45:00.013-04:00

When I awoke this morning, I had a most unusual feeling -- one I hadn't felt in months: I really want to write today.

Considering my short stories from the past few years have all but fallen by the wayside, as I sink ever quickly into the acknowledgment that I may never be a real writer, I figured that maybe I'd unlock the old bloggle and toss some words out into the Interwebs.

But, still, it was curious that I had such a hankering. I've been seeing more movies than ever lately; the past couple of movie weekends have included triple features. First, there was "Machete," "Scott Pilgrim vs. The World," and "The American." Then, "The Town," "Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps," and "Easy A" (couldn't help myself on the last one).

And, a couple weeks ago, I wrote a few film reviews for Bloomberg, my old favorite place of employment. Yet, while I had -- as always -- much to say about the films, I thought maybe I'd outgrown the little bloggle (several of my jerk friends would be relieved!).

As I sat down to tip-tap away about how amazing Danny Trejo is in "Machete" and how I relished director Robert Rodriguez's racist treatment of my people (The Mexicans) -- and treatment of my other people as trigger-happy racists (The Texans); or, how disappointed I was with George Clooney for making me want to stick toothpicks in my eyes to stay awake during "The American"; or, how overrated "The Town" is, just as "Gone Baby Gone" (Affleck's directorial debut) was three years ago -- my Favorite Food Critic signed on and reminded me what today is.

Today is the second anniversary of Paul Newman's death. Crestfallen.

I'd been thinking about this day all month, ever since I visited a friend in Westport, CT for a few days, where Paul Newman lived until his death. As we drove from the train station to my friend's home, he pointed out the window through the trees to the Westport Country Playhouse, where Newman's wife Joanne Woodward was artistic director and where Newman himself was part-owner of the restaurant next door.

It took a dozen swallows to loosen the knot in my throat.

But, somehow I'd forgotten the significance of today this morning, or how I felt two years ago when Brother G called to tell me the news. I was in such a sad place at the time, that the blow of my One True Idol dying made me more depressed than I'd have imagined.

From the morning of Paul Newman's death:

Now. I’m wiping the sleep away from my beady eyes and jolt upright in shock. My lips start to quiver, my jaw starts trembling – and it happened. I cried thankless, shameless tears as I sat there on my little air mattress in my new room (which is finally coming together, by the way).

I’ve joked a thousand times about how I’d cry when PN died. I wrote about it on this silly bloggle (and jinxed it? Believe you me, that was the first reaction I had … Hell hath a place for me now, I’m sure) but I didn’t think I actually would workout the old tear ducts, like some love-stricken fan who wanted to impale themselves after the loss of a Beatle.

It takes some pretty heavy things to make me cry; and it just made me realize how much I really did, and do, admire PN – everything from his early career and movie choices, to his lifestyle, and – perhaps most selfishly – how handsome and righteous his roles most often were. He will be an everlasting love.

Thankfully, I'm much happier than I was two years ago, but as my all-time favorite "Cool Hand Luke" plays in the background -- the beloved scene where Dragline beats poor Paul into a pulp, but he won't stay down ... because he's Luke -- I'm sure I'll cry a few quiet tears throughout the afternoon.

And, for anyone interested, Roger Ebert's article on Newman is amazing. Upon reflecting on his obituary, Ebert writes:

I never really thought of him as an actor. I regarded him more as an embodiment, an evocation, of something. And I think that something was himself. He seemed above all a deeply good man, who freed himself to live life fully and joyfully, and used his success as a way to follow his own path, and to help others.

And, of his third meeting with Newman, he writes:

Never mind what happened in 1969. I'll dig up the old magazine and put it on the web site. Let's move forward to 1995, and listen very carefully. When I walked into his room, he said, "Aw...it's you again." The point is not that he remembered me. The point is how he said "aw..." Imagine it in Paul Newman's voice. It evoked feelings hard to express in words. The "aw" wasn't "oh, no," as it sometimes can be. To me it translated as, "Aw, it's that scared kid, grown up." Whatever it meant, it put me right at home.

Oh, no, the tears. At least it gave me a reason to write. Silver-linings.

"You Don't Know Jack [Kevorkian]" ... HBO, You're Genius.

2010-06-20T06:14:00.002-04:00

I thought I should put out a few words about "You Don't Know Jack," the new (well, April, "new") HBO-released movie about Dr. Kevorkian. It's got several actors we all know and love, playing out a debate that is near and dear to my heart.

It's a biopic about "Doctor Death," starring Al Pacino as Kevorkian, Susan Sarandon as real-life Janet Good, a trusted, integral participant in the aiding of right-to-die medical lawsuits back in the 1980s-90s, and John Goodman and Brenda Vaccaro as Kevorkian's right-hand men in the video-taping and documenting of assisting suicides to patients who had no will to live.

By many accounts, people have the right to be put out of their suffering, so long as they are cognizant and, actually, suffering; Kevorkian has always been played out in the media as a masked-murderer cloaked in doctor's garb.

At the end of the movie, and after endless chats with Mama G on the issue, jury's out? Which, for this type of film, is interesting and successful.

It's rare that I take movies actually seriously.

I mean, my favorites involve gunmen having showdowns, gangsters being awesome, spies stealing intel, vigilantes (the real favorite!) wreaking revenge on any and all who deserve it...or Tom Hanks falling in love with ladies I'd like to be (embarrassing, but true).

In short, I run the gamut, in terms of taste ... but I always just love tales, not the idea we should really think of the parables with regards to our own lives.

Sadly, in this life, I doubt I'll ever own a gun, be a gangster (sigh), be a spy (bigger sigh), go vigilante on someone (biggest sigh) and ... love's for the birds (no sigh needed, there).

But, this film really got to me. Got to me.

I grew up in a family of rational scientists, healthcare professionals, cynics, agnostics -- some crazier than others, sure -- but ... it was formative. No one liked that I graduated with a lib-arts degree, but everyone cheered when I started working at Popular Science, even as a grunt.

And, I grew up with a Mama G who has always told me: "Morgie, when I'm old and sick ... you just pull the plug. Pull it." -- she's seen too much in her 30-some-odd years of helping the sick and decrepit to imagine herself being kept alive for the sake of her kids not wanting to see her pass.

I always respond: "In yo' dreeeeeams! I couldn't do that ... you don't have enough dollars to leave me for me to let you go and not be able to gossip with you! Even if you're just laying there, I can still chat at you."

I kid, kind of. But the principle of believing that, in theory, you should relieve someone of their insufferable pain by telling them how to "go," painlessly -- which can be argued is part of a doctor's duties -- it's quite unthinkable to think about doing to a loved one unless you're in that situation.

The film really makes you think -- you watch how Kevorkian's ego, his pride, his honest-to-the-gods belief in progressing medical-history informs his logic; how he challenges current medical practices in the name of ushering in a transformative period of medical assistance against odds.

To me, it was pretty eye-opening.

Of course, when I discussed it, again, for two hours with Mama G, she said: "Well, now, sheesh, I'll have to watch it; don't go pulling the plug on me too soon!"

Never, and mission accomplished on the movie front!

Cyrus: "I Will Knock You Out."

2010-06-13T05:14:00.006-04:00

A couple weeks ago, I dragged an old Favorite Friend of mine from school out to Crooklyn to the New York premiere of "Cyrus," the new film starring Marisa Tomei, John C. Reilly, Catherine Keener and the ubiquitous Jonah Hill.

Tomei and Reilly, Brooklyn natives, were introducing the film at the opening of the BAMcinemaFest; post-viewing, they were to be mingling in the crowd with us plebes, where beer and scotch sponsors gave us all free drinks and hot dogs and sugar-coated peanuts.

There were so many hipsters there that I think my bud and I were the only two who had circulation to our feet.

It was awesome.

A PopSci colleague gave me the tickets after he heard me chewing the fat about how much I wanted to see the film, and how I'd likely die if I ever saw Marisa Tomei in person -- the tickets were very much appreciated.

I'm sure we've all seen the trailer for Cyrus by now, and the premise is pretty original. I'd been waiting months to see Hill play Tomei's son (not to be impolite, but ... such a spawning could never happen, I'd dare to say), and John C. has been a favorite for years.

Reilly plays the Loserville guy, John, who meets the woman of his dreams, Molly (Tomei). Suddenly, he's rapt by love, his life is going to go somewhere, he's head over heels.

Then.

There's Cyrus (Hill), and he's rather Hell-bent on his Oedipal Complex; he's not too keen on having the likes of some guy moving in on his mother.

Catherine Keener plays Reilly's ex-wife, Jamie, in a weirdly amicable divorced situation - she champions Reilly to plug on after Tomei, and if you can suspend reality enough (or just wish that it was always that peachy), they have an endearing relationship that helps you root along Reilly/Tomei.

Jonah Hill is hilarious, as always, in his weirdo persona as a 21-year-old son who's too protective of his hot mother; Tomei is just ... breathtakingly gorgeous as always, and endearing to boot; and, we always root for John C. because -- he's got a root-for face.

I really loved the movie -- kooky, weird, unbelievable, sure ... but, fun.

I leave you with a favorite Tomei scene from "My Cousin Vinny."

"Splice": Oh, What You Could Have Been.

2010-06-11T13:51:00.006-04:00

Oh, "Splice," what you could have been.

I saw this sci-fi flick Opening Night, last Friday. Because I am an unabashed watcher of MTV, I'd seen the Splice trailer some 17,000 times while watching a "True Life" marathon the previous Saturday (some really sick phenomena take place on that wonder of a show -- kind of makes you feel better about your own dysfunctions, such as watching "True Life" for hours on end when the sun is out and shining.)

I was quite floored about the movie -- I figured it would be a schlock-filled horror/thriller film that'd make me cringe at puss and goo, while telling a good story about corporate n'er-do-wells, trying to stymie some important genetic research - a pet issue of mine.

Buddy, was I wrong.

Adrien Brody stars as Clive Nicoli, an egotistical geneticist who's been (somewhat) successful at breeding blobs of gooey flesh via multi-hybrid animal DNA. The blobs are supposed to be critical to solving livestock health issues, amongst sundry other vague health conditions of science-fiction lore.

Clive and love-interest partner Elsa Kast (Sarah Polley, notable in "Go" and for writing/directing "Away From Her"), who is also a NERD -- that's actually the acronym for the corporation they work for, and fitting for her geeked out character -- decide to take matters into their own hands when the higher-ups dictate that the two are not allowed to mix in a few human ova into their animal genetic mix.

This, after one of their blobs explodes on stage after a press conference, spurting out goo-junk onto all the Helen Thomas's in the science world. Perhaps the old NERD higher-ups considered liability or, oh, ethics, when they decided not to let these two make an animal-human hybrid.

What results is "Dren" (NERD spelled backwards) - a hilariously conceived part-human that has the legs of a horse, wings of a ... dragon? ... a pointy tongue, fish lungs, a weird crevice in the skin that runs down the symmetrical vertical of her face -- and some G.D. crazy incestuous plot lines that make you want to hug your knees to your chest, even though you're laughing at the ridiculousness of it all at the same time.

I will say that I was entertained; much like everyone in the audience, I was chuckling at each and every new horrible plot twist. When we find that Dren is aging like Benjamin Button, my only question was: Does this mean the movie ends sooner? One can only wish.

I ruin nothing in talking about the plot, because - the moment these guys get on screen, the stilted acting, the early twists, the ... everything ... spells the movie out before it even gets going. Director Natali does, however, drop in a couple last-minute twists that are hard-to-bear and not fit even for this genre.

I'll keep those to myself, though.

Next up, "Cyrus," (awesome) and "The Karate Kid" (mini-Fresh Prince is so great).

City Island and Misconceptions on North v. South

2010-05-21T08:23:00.018-04:00

This week, one of my best Dude Friends from high school has been hanging his hat with me in Crooklyn. He's done with his fourth semester at grad school (a Syracuse poet, la-dee-da), so he ambled on down to my neck of the woods to keep me company and visit our other jerk high school friend who's just graduated law school.

"Other Jerk" High School Friend, Rusty, Me, Ashlee, Carmen, Jaclyn, Cheryl Crabb ;-)

(When I look in the mirror, all I see is: Underachiever.)

When we three buds are hanging out with our Northern friends, I think we feel remiss if we don't talk about the greatness of the South. Somehow, every conversation comes back to the wonders of Texas, even though we have no plans of living back there any time real soon.

Food? We speak of Southern specialties, and bask in our ability to tell the difference between good Tex-Mex and, well, pitiful Northern knock-offs. We've got a hold on all good music and writers, too.

As much as we three'll gossip til everyone in the room's ears are ringing, we've also got the sweetest Southern hearts (ahem); too bad you [Northerner] weren't lucky enough to grow up with the cows, spending every weekend trying to figure out how to have a guilt-free amount of fun.

So, it goes. And, I'm sure we're insufferable.

But I guess the Northern-folk do have some pride, as well. And, after I saw "City Island" a few weeks ago, I realized that while I've lived in New York for all-too-long now, when someone makes a movie about a fictional place nearabouts where you grew up, no matter if it's North or South, we all have loyalties. If you feel a movie slights you and your community, you might take umbrage.

Food Critic thought "City Island" encapsulated much too many stereotypes of Long Island culture to whet his palate.

I thought City Island was pretty great; after I saw it, I called Mama G/Brother G to tell them to get to the nearest theater because they'd surely appreciate the film. It was on limited release at the time, so there's the (one-and-only) knock against the South, but I gave them the gist of the movie.

Andy Garcia plays Vince Rizzo, a corrections officer (he reminds us of the titular distinction between "corrections officer" and "prison guard," or, I don't know, "clink manager" multiple times) during the day, an aspiring actor by night. Julianna Margulies plays Vince's suspicious wife, Joyce. And, for a former "ER" devotee (ca. 1994), it was nice to see her on the big screen.

Emily Mortimer plays Molly, a lady who's in Vince's acting class -- and, she's really sweet as can be and it was comforting that her friendship with Vince doesn't lapse into a typical philandering affair (because I don't like feelings). Rather, the joke falls more on the Vince/Joyce relationship--they have a tightly-knit family (dysfunctional, of course, but still close) yet Vince is too embarrassed to tell his wife that he's taking acting classes.

Their son, Ezra Miller (of TV's "Californication," "Royal Pains"), is endearing in his horrible awkwardness; his best line, with regards to his infatuation with obese young ladies, pertains to wanting to feed his next-door Love donuts.

Ezra, "Donuts," Miller

I don't normally chuckle at those scenes, but in this case, it was out-of-the-blue and the chuckles were certainly warranted.

The film really spins a good little tale about family dysfunction that dissuades you from being cynical, yet lets you sigh in relief about your own familial troubles.

While on the job in the jailhouse, Vince discovers a son whose whereabouts were a mystery; he brings him home, and that beauty of an actor (Steven Strait, or Tony Nardella in the film) is someone who'll--crossing my toes--be gracing my dreams in some fictional future.

I thought the movie was pithy, cute, dysfunctional (not in a "Greenberg" way) and overall "real."

That said, if I were from the NY-area, I might feel how I felt when "Varsity Blues" came out, years ago. That is, I might feel that they got the whole story wrong.

But, for me, [Northern family-dynamics] ignorance is bliss.

Guest Blogger, and Thoughts on the Utility of Bad Directors

2010-05-13T16:14:00.014-04:00

Young James Cameron, trying to put a choke-hold on himself

Papa Grice e-mailed this morning. I sighed, readying myself for whatever political debate he was trying to trick me into (ahem). But, no! Pops G bloggled into my inbox, Slice of Grice-style. Having just recently seen "Avatar," he needed to get some things off his chest.

I was almost as appalled by the fact he was just seeing Avatar as I was by the movie itself. This, from a guy who sees almost as many movies a week as I do. But, I forgive, just won't forget.

He had some musings on Cameron, his oeuvre (cough), and the appreciation gained from suffering through bad directors. On to the soapbox!

-------------------------------------------------------

That James Cameron. The man with the Midas Touch, his alchemy this time turning mere straw into wood—much as with Titantic, where an ordinary seashell was turned into granite. While I think he was aiming for gold, both resulted in something far less, far more forgettable and far more uninspiring.

Though, if the end desire is huge monetary largesse, the products were both diamonds.

Once you have arrived into the rareified climes that he has reached, I would think that you desire more—to leave a true imprint that will make you happy in your very old age. It should be that feeling that Hitchcock, Scorcese, William Wyler (Funny Girl, Ben Hur) must have—or, have had. But Cameron seems to either be bereft of the potential to stir up new ground or just satisfied with the tweaking, albeit with huge bells and whistles, of old, banal themes.

Alfred Hitchcock, Martin Scorsese, William Wyler ... James "Unworthy" Cameron

I felt like I was back in the roaring 70's, where the big, bad, heartless, misanthropic corporation discarded all that represents real life in its scorched earth march towards a higher EPS (earnings per share) [Editor's note: "Yeah, I know, Dad."]. It seems futile to keep alive the delusion of a runaway, new industrial state that, unfortunately, does seem to dovetail with the Left's lean that has become pervasive--though rapidly unclothed. [Editor's note, "Boo."]

Be that as it may, the insipid, banal theme did provide an easily-understood and, hence, an oft-sold package that has satisfied the masses. With the inclusion of very special, special effects, it was a doozie that had the American Idol mentality all aglow. The formulaic love-hate-love pattern of the designated Love Situation was equally uninspired. The device of duality in time was a tweak on, and on loan from, Terminator et al, but did make for a slight bit of intrigue.

But overall, this movie was a yawner, one that made me so appreciate the Merchant-Ivory's and those who spin great stories that inspire. It is similar to the glitzy, easy-patterned top 40 songs of the past which just do not have the “stuff” that makes them “stick to the ribs.” Instead of shooting for "Dizzy"—though it makes you rich— why not aim higher?

Cameron has shown no real spark that would lead one to imagine such a thing, ala the Coen's or Tarantino, so I expect his bag’s to remain full, getting fuller, as he feeds the dumbed-down masses more of his forgettable fodder.

So as this uninspired trickery will serve as a good contrast and base to judge the more unforgettable directors, this too has its value.

-------------------------------------------

Amen, Pops.

Mama G, Brother G, Papa G, Me.

Iron Man 2 and the Power of Charm

2010-05-11T19:40:00.020-04:00

Ever since I worked on a PopSci piece about the making of the new Iron Man 2 suit (that doesn't link to the article, but the linked article has such a dreamy headline), I'd been waiting anxiously for May 7 to arrive. When friends or strangers wondered aloud when the film was coming out, I'd snap "May 7th!" often without even looking up.

Then I'd sigh, audibly, and think to myself "God, what dolts!"

Sometimes I forget that people have other things to think about.

So, bright and early Saturday, Food Critic and I skipped on over to the Kip's Bay theater for some awesome afternoon movie action, in the front row of the IMAX theater, no less.

Was all that anticipation energy well spent? Correct, sir.

My love for Robert Downey Jr., as Tony Stark/Iron Man, marches on; Mickey Rourke, as Ivan Vanko/Whiplash -- who I was told is "one of The Ugliest Men" my friend has ever seen in person (ouch.) -- with his betattooed body, speaking in a scary-sounding Russian tongue while wielding electric whips, joins the long list of people I'd like to be in my next life.

Scarlett Johansson, as sexy Natalie/Black Widow, had remarkably few lines, so I had little to cringe at (she also proved that she can pull off some really awesome martial arts, roundhouse-flipping-wall-climbing fight scenes); Gwyneth, returning as Pepper Potts and the new head of Stark Enterprises, was, well, annoying, but she always is, so what's director John Favreau supposed to do?

Oh, and Sam Rockwell. Rockwell was brilliant -- and briliantly cast -- as Justin Hammer, the wonderfully sleazy weapons maker who smells opportunity now that old Tony Stark (swoon) is off promoting peace and trying to survive his curious health condition caused by his suit. Honestly, Rockwell's ability to channel sleaze is rivaled only by Gary Oldman.

Oldman in "The Professional"

As the film opens, Stark walks out onto a stage in front of roaring fans; he's got sweet shades on, he walks with a strut and swagger only a superhero's alter ego can pull off, and, at that, I knew I was already a little in love with a movie that certainly packs in some unnecessary mini-plot points and lacks a bit of the last script's bite.

The gist: The U.S. government wants Tony to turnover his secret Suit's technology. A walking, talking specimen of Cool, we're treated to a delightful court scene where Tony tells the senator (Garry Shandling) demanding the tech to go jump in a lake, donning his ubiquitous sunglasses, and bowing out with a "But, I have successfully privatized world peace." Bam.

At that, Hammer (Rockwell) recruits Rourke to help develop new technology; conveniently, the Russian has old scores to settle with the Stark family.

Enter, more villains, several sequences that involve Whiplash working on a fleet of new robot suits, many, many close-ups of Johansson's ridiculously pouty lips that are pretty to look at, and, of course shots of Whiplash using those wonderful electric whips to slice cars in half.

I thought it was very, very fun, and rarely did my mind wander during the action scenes, something it's prone to doing.

There's a great little piece over at Entertainment Weekly that discusses the film's notably high appeal to starry-eyed ladies like myself and why they flocked to IM2 and walked out with a smile: The power of the film's characters' overwhelming charm. (And, having talked to many males about the subject, I don't think the seduction of the charm-laden film is limited to ladies.)

According to a studio distribution exec, EW quotes, “You would expect such numbers from a film like Sex and the City 2." The author then puts into words better than I could've mustered what I, and most everyone I've talked to about it, seems to agree with:

Iron Man 2 succeeds on the charm of its characters rather than on the ka-chunk, ka-chunk of its warfare and impersonal CG action sequences. And chicks like charm. Heck, everyone likes charm, real charm. Which is why Robert Downey Jr. is currently the master of his domain. It also helps that in Iron Man 2, Gwyneth Paltrow is spunky-charming, Sam Rockwell is smarmy-charming, Mickey Rourke is psycho-charming, Scarlett Johansson is slinky-charming, and Samuel L. Jackson is eyepatch-charming.

For someone who claims RDJ as one of her first loves (Bueller may have come first, and Newman certainly later surpassed him -- but just like with all real loves, some part of it never dies.), it warms my Ice Cold Heart (let's be honest, the only "real loves" I have exist on-screen) to know that RDJ is once again "master of his [charm] domain."

As for the PopSci article on the IM2 suit, the top half of it was engineered by some very high-tech designers who told me in detail about the intricacies of his gloves, down to how many metal braces went around each of his digits; the bottom half of the suit was CGI.

Iron Man/RDJ was pants-less in the filming -- or, at least he wasn't wearing the Iron Man legs throughout. That also kind of warmed the Ice Heart, and made me giggle at the idea of him protecting world peace in his undies.

Movie Trivia: Sam Rockwell was the "Head Thug" in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, back in 1990 (ripe age of 22). Awesome.

TMNT trailer:

"Date Night": That's a Kill Shot!

2010-04-17T10:23:00.005-04:00

Now for a bit more optimism.

"Date Night" -- the two belles of the TV ball get together (Steve Carell, Tina Fey) to make a very Matthew McConaughey/Jennifer Aniston-type movie. You get what you pay for.

I'm a sucker for these types of movies, especially when put on by two of the wittiest sitcom folks of our age. To not like it would be like knocking a Belushi flick, or a Steve Martin movie, or a John Candy send-up. Sure, the material could've made their lights shine brighter, but those two are golden, and the movie was entertaining enough to warrant many second-viewings on cable.

Claire and Phil Foster are two average Joe-Americans, living in New Jersey and looking to spice up their married life a little. Claire (Fey), after hearing of her good friend's marriage's demise, decides she should wear a hot number on her date (with her husband, Carell). He notices, dresses up himself, and they venture into Manhattan for a nice date at "Claw."

"Claw" is the stand-in for any swank restaurant that anyone has ever tried to get a table at, at the last minute, only to be rebuffed by a well-groomed man who thinks his position at the podium gave him a nod to be a Jerk.

Carell decides to go for someone else's reservation (an enduring joke throughout the film), and while the couple is eating risotto and drinking wine, a couple of thugs roll on up and take them out to the alley for "a talk." The Fosters think they're being taken to task for being sneaks on the reservation; the thugs have a case of mistaken identity that they don't believe.

Yadda, yadda.

Hijinks ensue, laughs are had, and, who'd've thunk it, but we all end up safely in our beds.

Best line of the movie: "That's a Kill Shot!" -- when the Bad Guys turn their guns horizontal, Carell claims it the "kill shot," which was very on-point.

Nothing was ruined, but nothing was gained.

One thumb up, one sideways.

"Kick-Ass" ... I Wish.

2010-04-17T09:34:00.005-04:00

"At some point in our lives, we all wanted to be superheroes."

So began what I thought was going to be a new favorite Stupid Movie: Kick-Ass.

I walk around the streets of New York, twiddling my thumbs, staring up at the sky, stepping over cracks, mostly pretending that I'm a spy. Might as well be a "superhero." I've never grown out of that sense of "What would it be like, if ...?" It's how I get through the day, when not seated in a theater or whatnot.

Well, "Kick-Ass" promised to be a spy-lover's dreamer like me's raison d'etre. I envisioned "Wanted" (fraternity of assassins) with a sprinkle of Zombieland, Eagle Eye (awful), Superbad, whatever.

I thought it would be good.

Let the record state: I hated this movie.

With an opener like "...we all wanted to be superheroes," I put down my popcorn, curled up my legs and was ready to let the movie take me wherever it wanted to go.

But, instead of taking me somewhere awesome, I got super flat jokes, the most obnoxious voiceover the ENTIRE TIME -- and, I'm amenable to some V.O. when it's Cera or Eisenberg eking out their measly awkward lines for the sake of humor -- and just wounded stunts over and over.

This New Guy, Aaron Johnson, really felt like a poor man's Michael Cera. He's not as cute/endearing, and when he voiceovers, it's like you can see him sitting in a studio reading out his lines. Not good. When he dons his "Kick-Ass" suit -- because he feels like there are no Samaritans left in this world, as people are just desensitized to all the cruelty and violence on the NY streets, these days -- he mugs for the camera a few bazillion times and then hits the pavement to take on villains.

The movie was the pits.

Clark Duke (of "Hot Tub Time Machine") is fine in it; Nic Cage is ... skinny, reminiscent of his "Raising Arizona" days, but the man's career choices should still -- as always -- be put into question.

The foul-mouthed 12-year old, "Hit Girl," Chloe Moretz, (and Cage's "daughter") is cringe-worthy; I'm biased there because I'm a Texan, and anyone speaking like that deserves a big old slap in the face -- but, more importantly, the only other mentionable thing this child has done thus far is "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" -- and that I cannot get behind.

Two big, old thumbs DOWN.

Movie Glut: "Hot Tub Time Machine," "Diary of a Wimpy Kid"

2010-04-03T09:24:00.010-04:00

I've seen a few movies in the past couple weeks (Surprise!). Maybe I've seen seven, but two were repeats ("Shutter Island," and "How to Train Your Dragon") -- eh, who's counting, anyway?

Some high-lights/-lows:

"Hot Tub Time Machine"

The title was insidious. The trailer was awful. I saw it opening night.

I guess I was never one for transitive logic.

When John Cusack headlines something, and Steve Pink's behind it ("High Fidelity," "Grosse Pointe Blank"), there's no point in pretending I have free will -- even if the plot is: three near-middle aged men and an agoraphobic 20-year-old go to a ski resort for a doldrums-curing weekend reprieve, only to find themselves whisked away into the 80s after falling into some wormhole of a hot tub.

Even then, opening night.

We meet Adam (Cusack), Nick (Craig Robinson) and Lou (Rob Corddry) in present day, the three of them just about as miserable as Kevin Spacey in "American Beauty."

Adam's long-time lady has just left him (we learn from an outraged answering-machine message, which, come to think of it, is more 80s than present-day, but, I digress.); Nick works at a pet store, where we find him having to reach into a dog's rear-end -- our first of many, many foul potty-humor jokes; and Lou's an alcoholic lunatic whose near-death is what brings the three old friends back together again.

They decide to take a jaunt up to an old ski resort to relive their youthful, glory days, bringing along Adam's basement-dwelling, unwilling nephew, Jacob (Clark Duke).

Of course, once we arrive at the ski resort, the romanticized place of parties, booze, and hot women is a dilapidated, depressing old lodge.

But, they charge forward; fueled by a lot of booze, they can still make it a fun night. And, hey, there's a hot tub fit for four grown men to squeeze into!

After passing out, the four fools awake to some startling realizations. One, their reflections look strikingly smooth-skinned and young; two, people downstairs and on the slopes are dressed really ... 1986.

"Dude is rocking a cassette player... Leg warmers!"

I typically balk at bad -- err, off-color -- humor. The first time I saw "Superbad," I felt myself blush throughout the entire penis-drawings scene -- ever since, I skip over it. I can't even really get through normal conversations that involve (what-I-consider) "grody" things -- and this movie had some of the most raunchy lines, and some otherwise, very off-putting stunts I've seen in a long while. Or, maybe it just had such a glut of them.

But, somehow, it worked.

Maybe it's because Cusack plays his normal-guy role, and most of the raunchy jokes are left for Corddry and Robinson, so I wasn't so grossly offended and old Cusack gets to remain a shining, do-no-wrong celeb Love in my eyes.

Maybe.

Or, maybe I'm just getting so desensitized to this type of humor that my knee-jerk blushing and embarrassment is becoming minimized?

Nah, I don't think that's it.

Really, what kept me so engaged in this completely manic movie was the deference and homage it paid to so many movies that came before it (I can't believe I'm using "deference and homage" with respect to HTTM, but ... it's somehow deserved.). The allusions and straight references to "Back to the Future" (down to Crispin Glover's role in the movie -- who was George McFly) kept me giggling throughout. The writers preempt the viewer from over-thinking the trouble with time-travel movies by addressing "concerns" (ha.) in dialogue and through referring to old movies ... all those questions you inevitably think of:

"Wait, what about ripples in time if you change something?"

"Wait, what if you see yourself, and your old self sees the new you, and then ..."

"Wait, what if I Biff buys an Almanac and ..."

For instance, Glover (or, G. McFly) plays a one-armed bellhop who greets the quad when they arrive at the lodge in present day. He's been there since they were younglings. When the group time warps back into 1986, he's got both his arms -- so, it's one of Corddry's missions to see just how he lost one; it makes room for plenty of jokes -- some side-splitting, some just stupid.

Overall, I really enjoyed it - despite many flaws.

"Diary of a Wimpy Kid"

I won't bore any of the five of you with a review on this movie. It was Awful. Awful. And, it's the last time Little Morgan gets to choose a movie when we have our Movie Dates.

Also, it's too nice out in New York to be sitting around bloggling.

The next few reviews: "Greenberg," "How to Train Your Dragon," "Date Night."

One of those is my favorite movie since Daniel Plainview drank our Milkshakes.

[Edited Addendum: A good buddy just reminded me that the Milkshake Scene is one of the best of the decade ... I responded that, yes, it is. The close second is "Call It" from NCFOM -- so, I figured I should gratuitously link it. YW.]

Alice in Wonderland, Home -- Then Excuses for Poor Movie Choices

2010-03-11T02:21:00.007-05:00

Houuuuuston for nearly 2 weeks. :-D

We sat in the second row of the theater, our three heads cocked back at an uncomfortable angle. There were 7 lbs. of diet sodas in our laps, and an aching urge to throw the 3-D, IMAX lenses at the screen, due to the unsettling effects brought about by the first few minutes.

Yet, they looked so cool that by the time we left the Times Sq. theater, we'd deigned to thieve the theater eyeglasses.

Thus was how we three (me, and two lovely Irish sisters) entered the land of Alice -- err, Tim Burton -- world of wonderment.

I'd only ever seen one other movie in 3-D, the wretched "Avatar," and I realized rather quickly, that had we chucked those shades at the screen, we'd have missed out on some of the movie's most awesome aspects.

The movie was brilliantly done, and I am certainly no across-the-board Burton-lover.

Some of the criticism I've read (couldn't help myself) calls it soulless or not true to the original text. These jokers chide Burton for his preoccupation for visual greatness, while overlooking a more jointed, sequential story line. These folks are fools.

There's no denying that Burton deviates from the original text. But, in a way similar to "Where the Wild Things Are," Burton (like Jonze -- who had Sendak's live approval) took a text with themes and tales so incredibly open to interpretation ("Alice" is an archetypal piece of "literary nonsense" after all -- so, in my book, nonsensical things should be interpretive) and embellished, but remained true to the spirit.

All that aside, the performances were fantastic, in every sense of the word.

Johnny Depp was awesome as Mad Hatter. From the previews, I thought we were going to see a repeat of "Willy Wonka," but Depp had more gravity about him in this role, which I appreciated.

New Girl, Mia Wasikowska, was beautiful and endearing -- one of my movie dates compared her to "what we thought Kirsten Dunst was going to be after 'Interview with a Vampire'," which was incredibly apt.

She also looks to me like a young Martha Plimpton:

Then, there was Helena Bonham Carter (as the "Red Queen") and Anne Hathaway ("White Queen"), and Alan Rickman ("Blue Caterpillar"), Crispin Glover ("Stayne" -- Knave of Hearts) ... and, Cheshire Cat (Stephen Fry) -- pictured above. Cheshire was maybe my favorite character.

They were all so good. There were moments I felt like I was watching "The Neverending Story," "Beetlejuice," and several other fantastical movies I grew up loving -- except nowadays things come flying out at you from the screen and you feel like you can touch the leaves falling from trees within the Rabbit Hole. Awesome.

It was frabjous.

"The Yellow Handkerchief," Kristen Stewart

2010-03-08T08:24:00.009-05:00

I've always known I can't walk past a movie theater without finding an excuse to duck in. Even broke as a joke, I find a way to rationalize:

"These old guts could use a good few days without eating," I think.

Yesterday, the excuse was to see "The Blind Side" because it was the only film I hadn't seen for The Oscars; only, it wasn't playing at Lincoln Cinemas.

So, while I was twiddling my thumbs round the theater, three very zealous ladies approached me and asked if I could take their picture in front of the poster for "The Yellow Handkerchief." I hadn't heard of the movie, and while I obliged their picture-taking (for near-on a dozen photos), I became intrigued.

"It's supposed to be an amazing movie," one said.

"I've heard it's supposed to be greeeeaaaat," said another.

When I waltzed into the theater they slapped my shoulder and said, "We convinced you! We're here to support Kristen Stewart."

I should've left right then and there; but, I didn't -- William Hurt is in the movie, so I thought it might turn out fine.

It did not.

This horribly disjointed movie made me cringe and get unwarranted goosebumps multiple times. That means, manipulative. I'm all for goosebumps and girlish feelings, but when you goad me along in your story, thinking I'm going to find some big pay-off -- don't play me for a fool, especially when you're taking my Ramen-noodle budget with you.

Premise: Brett Hanson (William Hurt) gets let from prison, and all he wants is to feel the free air on his hands and get himself a beer. He does so -- he goes to a local Southern (yes!) diner and sits down to some food and a beer ... but then.

He looks out the window and sees Martine (Kristen Stewart) getting into a tiff with her assumed-beau; then we start the flashbacks to Hanson's perpetration and things get a bit eerie. We see toes that are feminine and wonder if his wrongdoing was r@pe; we wonder if his jail-time was due to his primal nature, as they show so many flashbacks making us want to think that.

But, he seems like a good guy.

Then, enter "Gordy" (Eddie Redmayne -- who I haven't written about since "Savage Grace") who's his same unbelievably gaunt-looking weird-guy character; but this time, he's ostensibly trying to look after Martine. The three of them -- Hurt, Stewart, Redmayne -- have to deal with being alone (really alone ... think: post-Hurricane Katrina/Zombieland) for a few days.

The problems with the movie were plenty. I love apocalyptic-sensation, zombies, and non-linear timelines; but this movie didn't get it right. They try to trick you, but you're so bamboozled already by the close that you're predicting a sedate ending. Which is what you get.

Two big Grice-thumbs down.

The (Inexcusable) Oscars, and Cyrus: "It's Like a Crippled Tree, Reaching for Heaven."

2010-03-08T06:31:00.012-05:00

Well, that was supposed to be a fun night. Sure, we all knew 2009 had been a year of movie mediocrity, a crime against our collective sensibilities. But, I'd been awaiting Oscar night since the turn of the year -- and, now I'm going to have to hesitate each time I fork over my $12 to see anything.

That was the most piss-poor performance of hosting I've ever had the (un)privilege of watching. In the past few days, I'd watched "Parenthood," "My Blue Heaven," "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels," "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles," and "The Jerk," in homage to Steve Martin; I've always been caught up on "30 Rock" (for Mr. Baldwin) but, I even re-re-re-watched "Beetlejuice."

All those hours of being glued to the screen, just so I was sure I'd catch any movie-references and/or jokes that were going to be put forth on stage.

And, what'd we get? Nothing.

To jab/twist the knife further, "The Hurt Locker," really?

Sandra Bullock in "The Blind Side," REALLY?

Perhaps the Academy of Jerks is waiting to give Meryl a Sidney Poitier-esque Honorary Award in the years to come when she's an old lady, but ... Wow, to snub her Julia Child performance in "Julie and Julia" to laud Ms. Bullock? -- even I, with the heart of ice, doesn't approve.

82nd Oscars, thumbs down -- just like all the sh*t movies 2009 presented.

(Disclaimer: Thank the gods that Jeff Bridges won for "Crazy Heart," and Cristoph Waltz for "Inglorious Basterds" -- else, all would be wrong in the world.)

To get our minds off of this travesty, let's watch a trailer I saw yesterday at the moofies. "Cyrus":

"What are you doing here in the forest, with Shrek?" -- "It's like a crippled tree, reaching for Heaven." -- "I will knock you out." Awesome.

A Needed Winter Triple Feature: Third, Cop Out

2010-03-06T12:14:00.006-05:00

When I was 10, I went on my first secret-date with a boy at the Dollar Cinema, the esteemed place which I've written about on this here bloggle many times before. We saw "Loaded Weapon 1," and I hated it. My next secret date was to "Blankman" (in the same cinema: we were kids and broke ... oh, how things have changed... [cough]).

I hated that one, too. I was a cynical little jerk, looking back.

I'm all for spoofs, irony, parodies, mocks, whatever -- but as a little kid, I had no time for it. I thought those rung stupid and too silly; I guess I was a tiny snob.

Because "Cop Out" was pretty awesome. Maybe my sensibilities have regressed over the years - or, maybe I've just been yearning for a silly buddy-cop movie and hadn't realized it. I thought this movie was pretty hilarious, and so refreshing for the movie environs we're given right now.

I went with a movie friend of mine, and we both entered with extremely low expectations. Over dinner, we thought if the food took too long, it might be better, in fact, if we didn't make it to the picture.

But, we scarfed down our nachos and sauntered over to the theater -- as we walked out, we were both still chuckling.

I don't need to describe the movie premise in any detail; it's Bruce Willis (as Jimmy Monroe) and Tracy Morgan (as Paul Hodges) playing bumbling police partners who are looking to take down some bad dudes. Within the first five minutes, we see Paul (Tracy Morgan) interrogating a perpetrator; his method is to use every line in every movie involving bad/good guys in pop culture to get the guy to squeal.

I was grabbing my guts from laughter, and testing myself internally to make sure I got all the references at the same time.

The self-referential stuff goes on throughout the movie -- and for someone like me - someone who tends to speak in movie lines because she's incapable of normal human interaction - it was so great, if incredibly stupid.

When we walked out of the theater, my friend and I both agreed that if you haven't seen every movie under the sun in the past 50 years, it likely might strike the viewer as too slapstick or off-the-wall.

If you are a movie geek, it's quite the little riot.

Ahhhhhh, Oscars in less than two hours!

Just saw "The Yellow Handkerchief" on my walk home from my best friend's apartment on a whim. Probably should've saved those 12 bones.

Again, for giggles, "Loaded Weapon 1"

And, "Cop Out"

A Needed Winter Triple Feature: Second, Shutter Island

2010-03-05T08:52:00.006-05:00

Oh, Martin Scorsese. How my heart is torn.

After seeing "The Crazies" the other night, I steeled myself and looked suspiciously around at my fellow movie compatriots and wondered what airborne infectious disease I was going to catch if I ventured back into the theaters to see "Shutter Island."

I figured, "Go hard, or go home," and at 10:40pm, I certainly wasn't going home without a fight.

So, off I went. "Shutter Island" it was.

(I should give a disclaimer that I was one of those 14-year-old girls who saw "Titanic" in theaters 9 times back in the day, so DiCaprio has always been sort of a pet-idol of mine, not like Paul, but still, even when his career was waning. And, per Scorsese, I'm also a sucker for pretty much all he does, minus the "Cape Fear" remake of '91.)

Enough disclaimers.

"Shutter Island"

The assumed premise is easy: Teddy Daniels (DiCaprio) and Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) are two U.S. Marshals sent to an island holding the criminally insane to investigate the disappearance of a very dangerous and disturbed lady.

Once on the sequestered sands of old Shutter Island (near Boston), Dr. Crawley (Ben Kingsley, awesome) begins to put weird obstacles in front of Teddy and Chuck's investigation.

Oh, you want to access patient files? Hmm, I don't think that's allowed. At the Marshals' protest, Crawley and cohorts invoke obsolete chapter 3.06.11.9 rules of some handbook that gives them seniority over even the most top officials' queries.

Teddy (DiCaprio) is given some pills; we have some hallucinations of his dead wife (Michelle Williams), some head-spinnery, and the appearance of George Noyce (Jackie Earle Haley, who I hadn't seen since "Little Children"), the man that DiCaprio has a seemingly-rightful vendetta against.

Of course, there's the mysterious and creepy Dr. Naehring (Max von Sydow), who is the man in the trailer who asks DiCaprio: "Going somewhere?" Yikes.

So as not to spoil it, just know that you get distracted by the staginess of the movie -- which is clearly an intentional Scorsese move. The allusions to the old noir-ish days of long takes and very-conscious camera glances are palpable; but, for me, they worked so well.

You get Hitchcock, "The Shining," and an awesome mystery that makes you remember the days of "Clue" all in one. I know I'm the movie geek, but ... even just writing that sends shivers down my spine.

And, by the end, I had the same feelings I had from "A Beautiful Mind" and "Vanilla Sky." As I walked out of the theater chucking my popcorn in the trash and sighing, it was the first time in a long while that strangers asked me if I knew what the true ending was.

That made me smile.

Thumbs up!

And, for sh*ts, "Clue":

A Needed Winter Triple Feature: First, The Crazies

2010-03-05T01:31:00.010-05:00

Over the past couple days, I've managed to stuff into my very (un)busy social schedule three movies that sent me reeling back into the awesomeness of the 90s/early 2000s.

On one night, I saw "The Crazies" and "Shutter Island." The next night, I found myself clutching my ever-growing gut as I giggled at Bruce Willis and Tracy Morgan in "Cop Out." Yes, I willingly saw "Cop Out" and quite liked it.

I haven't had that much unabashed fun at the movies in quite some time.

"The Crazies"

Back in 2002, I'd just moved to New York from Houston and hadn't a friend in the world within 1,000 miles. I went to the movies everyday and somehow sauntered into "28 Days Later" as tiny teardrops eked from my eyeballs, wishing I were home with friends instead of alone in a theater. Yet, as soon as the Infected individuals of the movie graced the screen, I realized I was watching an effective zombie movie of yore; I relaxed and the world was right again.

Little did I know that when I waltzed into "The Crazies" this week, I was about to see the same movie -- and love it all over again.

The Crazies stars Timothy Olyphant (of TV's "Damages" and "Deadwood") and Radha Mitchell ("Henry Poole Is Here" and, awesomely, "Phone Booth") as a Midwestern couple, David and Judy Dutton, respectively, who are about to watch their Midwestern brethren become bloodthirsty human-demons with a will to kill.

It all starts off nicely enough. He's the sheriff, she's the town doctor -- both are well-revered within the community, and she's expecting a baby. David Dutton (Olyphant) has a chummy sidekick deputy sheriff (Joe Anderson) who'd just about lay down in front of a bus before his boss got hurt.

One day, the whole small town is watching a little-league baseball game, when the Town Drunk walks out onto the field with a glint of Crazy in his eyes, wielding a shotgun no less. Olyphant scurries out onto the diamond and admonishes the drunk to put the gun down; no one wants to get shot out on the green.

Well, that glint of Crazy gets Old Man Drunk shot dead, right there on the field.

After an autopsy, we quickly learn that the town drunk had been sober for months; there was something infectious in his blood that drove him to be a wavering, zombie-like psychopath.

When Mrs. Dutton encounters a patient with the same look in his eyes shortly thereafter, we realize we have a Situation on our hands.

I thoroughly enjoyed this movie. I was a balled-up block of angst the entire time (blood, guts, gore, thrills, etc.), but there were some surprisingly sweet twists, and the dynamic between the three protagonists wasn't without some clever quips.

The only problem I had was my mind not being able to turn off the internal: "This is just like '28 Days Later," "Village of the Damned," "I Am Legend," "Outbreak," "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," "Last House on the Left," etc. -- but, those are all good throwbacks in my book.

Next up, "Shutter Island" -- fantastic, and awful, at the same time.

"The Crazies" trailer:

PS: Any movie trailer that includes that "Mad World" music from "Donnie Darko" gets me every time.

Sherlock, Edge of Darkness, a Single Man: Phew.

2010-02-08T00:24:00.005-05:00

Well, that was a whirlwind week. I feel like I just lost time, like Edward Norton in "Primal Fear" -- one minute, you're looking straight ahead, the next you've gone and committed a cruel crime against a man of the cloth.

Maybe not that bad, but time seems to have slipped by for a few days, and I haven't even written about the movies I've seen. And, there've been plenty.

I finally saw "Sherlock Holmes," the film I'd been wanting to see for weeks (months), but somehow got sidetracked each day that it was on my to-do list. Had to go watch a corporate intramural game (you know who you are), had to go eat a roasted bird (you know who you are), had to ... well, doesn't matter.

I saw it in the Times Square theater, much to the chagrin of ... myself. And, know what? I loved it. There, I said it.

My Favorite Food Critic hated it, and wrote publicly that he thought it was a waste of time. This, after I'd just gone and rambled on about how great a film Guy Ritchie'd put out. I want to say I loved it in the way I loved "Wanted" -- a bad movie that was entertaining, and great -- but I think Sherlock was even better.

Opening scene:

A mesmerizing look at how to immobilize your opponent. A whack here, a whack there; a blow to both sides of your head, so as to discombobulate your victim. You see it in slow motion, then watch it in fast motion ... it's as if you had a VHS player and went rewind-fast-forward in the span of 15 seconds.

I thought it was beautiful, and so dream-making.

Then I saw "Edge of Darkness," the new crazy Mel Gibson flick. I went to the theater out in Crooklyn, where people chat and make a mockery of the movie-going experience. I had to do it, though. My earliest memories involve Mama Grice taking me to action films that were well-beyond my capacity of understanding all the elements; but, I looked forward to each and all of them, and I surely didn't miss one. So, DUI-Mel puts out something these days? Must go see.

It was actually a treat -- I sat, balled up, the entire time and enjoyed the holy smokes out of it. Jumped a lot, ooh-ed at his dapperness here and there. They even give you a little twist on the old cop story. It was Law & Order ^2. The only thing I can relate it to is "Righteous Kill," which I panned -- but that was because I was trying to be high and mighty.

I also saw "A Single Man," which is so bad that it needs another post to talk about.

"The Last Station" and Other Thoughts

2010-01-25T14:59:00.005-05:00

I was asked to do a screener a month or so ago of "The Last Station," a movie I'd heard no hype about, and now that it's released, haven't since.

I did some perfunctory poking around the Interwebs about it after I'd agreed to go, and once I saw "a period piece" on some bloggle, I looked no further. Perhaps it's my uncultured sensibilities, but I generally hate period pieces about anything. Give me Spartans? I give you yawns. Big bouffant hair, or corsetted ladies? Count me out.

So, I wasn't looking forward to it.

Little did I know that it was going to be one of my favorite movies of recent memory. (My movie memory is rebooted rather often.)

If I'd read a little further and hadn't let my flippant brain get the best of me, I'd have seen "The Last Station" is about Tolstoy, one of the old Grice's favorite writers of all time. And, it stars Helen Mirren (as Tolstoy's wife, Sofya), and Christopher Plummer as Tolstoy himself.

My pulse quickens just writing that.

Sure, Paul Giamatti's there, too, as his usual surly, somewhat-deranged self, playing Vladimir Chertkhov -- the zealous disciple of Tolstoy. And, James McAvoy (as Valentin, Tolstoy's new ... assistant), a young man I hadn't come around to as an actor warranting my love until this film (I didn't like "Atonement," and I didn't think he was of action-hero stardom-worth in "Wanted," though that was one of my favorite Bad Movies of 2008).

Tolstoy's dying, and he knows it. He has, perhaps, around a year to live and his legacy is to be determined by some vying factions: his wife, who thinks that his life's work needs to be kept proprietary, in the hands of his family; and, Chertkhov, who is so disturbingly adamant that old T's work be offered to the Russian people like an open source file.

There's a parallel story going on the entire time via Valentin and his nascent love for Masha (Kerry Condon), this gorgeous teacher at the Tolstoy estate (think: a self-sustaining commune in the middle of the woods who've taken Tolstoyan theory to heart/life) who's trying to break Valentin's vow to remain celibate.

It was heart-breaking, passionate, so, so well-acted and well-done. I walked away blown away. And, oh, the music. Great.

I know not a lot of folks will see this movie, mostly because they'll brush it off in some flip way as I first did.

But that's a shame.

Please watch the trailer, and know that I wanted to hate it. "The Last Station":

"Youth in Revolt": 'Are You Cera'd Out Yet?'

2010-01-18T21:15:00.006-05:00

Last week, when I was piddling away my time after work at PopSci, one of my many bossmen (let's call him PopSci BMOC) knew that I was really binging on post-work movies. I told BMOC that I was going to see Michael Cera's new "Youth in Revolt" movie.

"Are you Cera'd out, yet?"

"I might be, I'll tell you tomorrow."

I wasn't. The movie isn't amazing -- there are twinges of "Juno" (which I hated), and there was a moment I thought I was going to feel all "Igby Goes Down" (unfortunately, I never got there). But, watching Cera play himself, capitalizing on his 16-year-old self-ish stock character, while acting like a cigarette-smoking alter ego in the interim was quite nice.

I haven't read the book, but it really was the first time we've gotten to see Cera not be just his "Superbad" character.

I didn't love Portia Doubleday, who plays Cera's love interest. I found her quite cloying, and certainly an unbelievable teenager. I loved Dawson's Creek growing up -- so I can usually extend belief, but she looked my age. At least Cera's baby face allows you to forgive knowing he's in his twenties.

On the rubric for this week:

"Sherlock Holmes" (can't believe I haven't seen it yet, especially since RDJ stars in it.)

"Fish Tank"

And, just so we can all remember old "Igby":

"Gettin' Loose, and Killin' Time" -- More Pertinent, "Avatar" and "Youth in Revolt"

2010-01-18T13:38:00.006-05:00

So, three weekends, three different high school friends staying at the old Chez Grice. Lots of Texas music has been played; the other two Brooklyn roommates have been roped into dinners and late-night foretelling of what may come to be: embarrassing. I promise we're not from the deadlands of ... Waco? We're not.

I hereby state, and hope, that no Texan come within 50 feet of our domicile, for fear of a mass exodus to Austin. Agreed? Agreed.

And, Randy Travis doesn't want to whine away on my computer anymore. I know it, err, I feel it -- as Texans do.

How 'bout a little Clint?: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mc-1uPnMnPY

Back to movies:

"Avatar" was maybe one of the most hyped up, fell-on-its-face films I've seen in recent movie history. I would never air it publicly, but I saw Titanic 9 times in the theater (I was 14 yrs. old!) so, I'm so ready to be Cameron's pawn. But, Avatar was so bad that I couldn't even stay awake while they were getting love-y and ... swinging around floating mountains should make any lady put down her swords -- my swords were still up, and it just wasn't good.

The dialogue in "Avatar" is so bad, it's almost offensive. When Sigourney pops out of her little chilled preservation box, you want to smack her for her abrasive stumbling around for a cigarette; when the meatheaded Sully, wheelchair in tow, narrates to you in his beef-heady way ... it's all you can do to not puke into your (requisite) popcorn.

Youth in Revolt -- to come.

Happy New Year, "Invictus" Rant

2010-01-08T11:03:00.007-05:00

After “Crazy Heart” a couple weeks ago, I left the theater feeling buoyant, if somewhat heavy-hearted. Having felt such unlikely love and empathy for a nasty, old, drunk country singer who seeks redemption he doesn’t deserve, there was nothing else I could do but see another movie. You can't let a wonderful glut of movie-feelings go to waste!

So, as I love double features, after “Crazy Heart,” I chose “Invictus.”

Oh, brother, did I choose wrong.

Whereas the old, drunk cowboy in “Crazy Heart” warmed my cold heart when he swore and swigged and scratched himself, the do-gooders of “Invictus”—namely Nelson Mandela (Morgan Freeman) and rugby superstar Francois Pienaar (Matt Damon)—made me want to poke out my eyeballs and think that had Clint Eastwood (“Invictus” director) been in the theater, the man would’ve had one sore, old face from my fists.

It all starts out fine. Mandela's the recently-elected president of South Africa; the country's in civil-warring pieces; and, we have the story of Pienaar's Springboks rugby team, replete with lots of scenes of grown men suiting up and ramming into one another on the field.

I (once upon a time) care(d) about politics, and who doesn't like to see Matt Damon traipsing around some green, grunting and tossing balls to other men in sweetly-accented voices? I sure do. Or, thought I would.

The movie has almost no character development. Damon's character is boring and un-endearing: we see him at home a couple times with his close-minded father making middling comments about change being bad for the country; we know he has a 2D girlfriend who shows up at his games and drops him off to see the president; and, we know he's the captain of his rugby team and can crack a good whip when need be.

Mandela's portrayed to be a capped-teeth (I liked seeing Mr. Freeman with some big pearly whites, I must admit), wizened man who essentially shirks all actual presidential responsibilities—like, oh, economic policy concerns, international diplomacy, poverty, etc.--to court his country's rugby star (who, half of the country hates due to preexisting prejudices) and leave it up to him to win the World Cup, and thus save the country from its seemingly impending demise.

And, then there were the rugby scenes. The last hour or so is filled with an endless amount of mind-numbing World Cup scenes, with only brief cuts to the people of South Africa rejoicing in bars, on the streets, blacks and whites, lots of hugs, cheering, whatever—it bordered on the satirical.

I'm all for sports scenes (Friday Night Lights is my favorite show, after all.), and lord knows this lady gets more goosebumps in one episode of How I Met Your Mother than should ever be admitted (so, it wasn't the cheesiness of affection that bothered me)--but this? This was just awful.

I started the night loving an old, pitiful drunk for no reason other than good movie-making; I ended the night with a bad taste in my mouth about Mandela and his (exaggerated) poor political judgment. Eastwood, I'm offended.

On that happy note, Happy New Year!

Slice: Merry Christmas Eve, Cinema 2009 YT

2009-12-24T11:57:00.006-05:00

So, my roommate just sent me this YouTube -- as I watched it, I sounded like I had Tourette's ...

"Public Enemy!"

"District 9!"

"Inglourious ..."

"Where the Wild Things...!"

"Twilight: New ...!"

"500 Days of ...!"

"Serious Man!"

"Amelia!"

"Pirate Radio!"

"An Education!"

"Away We G...!"

"Zombielan...!"

"Up in the...!"

"Zomb...!"

"Julie and Julia!"

I dare everyone to try to name them all ... it goes so fast! By the end of the 7-minute mash-up, I realize I missed a few. I tried so hard to see so many, many movies -- even some of the worst (G.I. Joe, 2012); I spent so much money that it's despicable.

But, as mediocre as I thought 2009 was movie-wise (personally-wise ... it was the pits, but, that's what movies are for!), I know that in 2010 I can go back and watch a bunch more 2009-ers as I try to tread the '10 waters.

Back to Bad Blake, Crazy Heart

2009-12-23T17:21:00.012-05:00

As expected, I fell pretty hard for the characters in “Crazy Heart.”

Jeff Bridges as Bad Blake, a rundown, alcoholic cowboy singer, and Maggie Gyllenhaal as Jean Craddock, the young, beautiful journalist who becomes Bad’s unlikely darling—all set to dreamy folk songs that take me back to my roots (Fictional Bad Blake is from my hometown of Houston).

How could I not fall hard?

From the start, Bad is despicably charming. In the opening scene, he slams shut the door to his beat-up Suburban—Bessie—sidles out unsteadily, and looks up to see he’s been booked to play at a bowling alley in the rural Southwest. At that, he swears, spits, and shoves his hand inside his truck to pull out his portable toilet—a plastic jug (looks like it once housed anti-freeze?) and dumps the contents on the pavement.

Maybe that gesture’s only despicable, and not charming, but to each his own.

Despite this delightful start, as the film moved forward, I didn’t expect to find the story as – perhaps, predictable? Rote?

After we watch Bad give a few performances where he barely (though still, somehow, charmingly?) makes it on stage because he keeps stumbling behind the bar to retch; after he sleeps with the dregs of these honky-tonk bars; after we see him repeatedly fall asleep with McClure’s whiskey on his big belly, only to wake up face first in his own filth; after we … well, understand just how dire his situation is, he meets Craddock and suddenly he’s somehow got a will to live. His whole demeanor changes, if not his unsavory habits.

Though there are certainly some spins on this tried-and-true story of an old, washed-up drunk who seeks redemption and perhaps a new lease on life, I guess I wished for a little more originality.

Bridges is more than fantastic as Blake, as everyone’s saying, and he sings all of his own songs in the movie; Gyllenhaal is too gorgeous for words, per usual. And, there is a great story there.

I’ve just seen it so, so many times.

Next up, "Invictus," which I saw last night as part of a double feature.

I should've gotten 2+ more hours of sleep and saved my pennies (I really tried to like it, too!)

Slice: New Paul Posters, Abalone Shells, "The Sting," Etc.

2009-12-20T12:46:00.005-05:00

It's been a good while since I've done some doting on him.

I've spent the past couple weeks fixing up my new Brooklyn digs, and I've been surprising myself at how adept at adult life I've managed to be. I wended my way to IKEA by myself, after standing underneath a Crooklyn overpass, where I heard none other than:

"Baby, you can't take me ANYWHERE without a condom and some money. I know, KNOW, you don't got either of that. bye bye!"

At that, i almost started to run for fear of some airborne VD, but then the bus came and i went to IKEA. I took a car service home.

But, I bought a desk, a lamp, a trash can, etc. and managed to tote it home all by myself. Might've sprained my back (nothing like a fractured femur!) getting everything up the four flights, but, nothing a little bed rest couldn't cure -- a bed I'd managed to get up those same four flights alone.

While I twiddle my thumbs, thinking of what should adorn the wall facing my bed, there's only one thing -- one man -- I want to wake up to every morning.

The large prints are ordered, the frames will be bought today -- I'll get to wake up to Paul every morning, staring at me, as I stare back into his dreamy blue eyes.

Some good Newman clips -- oh, how I miss him being around this dreamworld.

"Cool Hand 1":

"Cool Hand 2":

"The Sting":

Slice: Bad Blake, The Dude, "Crazy Heart"

2009-12-18T15:27:00.010-05:00

"I'm Bad Blake. My tombstone'll have my real name on it--til then, I'm just gonna stay 'Bad.'"

It's finally out! I've been waiting for "Crazy Heart" to grace the silver screen for months, and today I get to see it. The Dude (err, Jeff Bridges) and Maggie Gyllenhaal star in this film about a hard-living, disaster of a country singer, Bad Blake (played by Bridges), and a journalist (Gyllenhaal) that's doing some exposé on the man behind the music.

I'm such a sucker for these two, (and, secretly, sad folksy country music), that I can't imagine I won't love it. Angelika Film Center, here I come to empty my (shallow) pockets, once again. Will report back.

"Crazy Heart" trailer:

And, for shits, a "The Dude" clip because there can never be too many viewings:

Slice: Ode to Ms. Portman, and her New "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" Film

2009-12-17T02:00:00.012-05:00

My fondness for Natalie Portman has grown readily, if unsteadily, over the years; the early infatuation began with her role as Mathilda, opposite Jean Reno, in “The Professional” (a film I was much, much too young to have seen in 1994, but that was also the year that “Pulp Fiction” became a favorite—thank you, unaware parents). That fondness subsided when Portman began accepting roles in “Anywhere But Here” and “Where the Heart Is”—and I really thought I'd never regain my affection when she took part in ruining “Star Wars”—not once, but thrice.

But, somewhere around “Garden State” and “Closer,” she became a mainstay in my favorites list of young leading—or, supporting—actresses. She's always been so beautiful, can be so endearing, yet now she seems to make all the right movie choices.

And, no Great Choice tops the fact that she's signed on to star in and produce “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies,” a film that's based on the book by the same name, by Seth Grahame-Smith “and Austen.” [quotes mine.] This is too great.

From Variety:

“Described as an expanded version of the Austen classic, the book
tells the timeless story of a woman’s quest for love and independence
amid the outbreak of a deadly virus that turns the undead into vicious
killers.

Portman will play feisty heroine Elizabeth Bennet, who is distracted
from her quest to eradicate the zombie menace by the arrival of the
arrogant Mr. Darcy.” [Sweet. Darcy was always such a needling foil.]

Given my infatuation for Portman, and my tried-and-true love of good zombie films—I'm keeping my toes crossed that this was yet another right choice. If not, it's at least bold; and, that's great, too.

"The Maid," Screen Comment, Chilean Films

2009-12-17T01:06:00.009-05:00

I originally wrote the following for ScreenComment.com, but I think once the publisher puts them in my column, they disappear once the next thing's posted (I've written a few other things). So, I'll repost here my thoughts on "The Maid."

The film: Quite compelling and good, if very different.

After watching ten films in twenty-four hours a couple days ago (thank you, Netflix!), a feat I've achieved but a few times, I decided it was time to rejoin the real world by going to the movies—-to sit in a darkened theater--by myself.

So, I arrived at my favorite East Village cinema to find only one movie of interest playing: Chilean writer-director Sebastian Silva's “The Maid” (“La Nana”) about a crazy housekeeper/nanny who's dead set on keeping her position of twenty years in a Chilean upperclass household.

Raquel, played by Chilean actress Catalina Saveedra, is bug-eyed, has atrociously frizzy hair and about as much social grace as a goat. She also has a curious hatred for the eldest girl of the household; a creepy infatuation with the young sons; and a "Single-White-Female" streak during scenes where she tries on the lady of the house's clothes and later buys them.

Raquel begins having health problems, so it's suggested that the family hire additional help. This leads to some evil jealousy, yet pretty hilarious exercises by Raquel to eliminate the new maids by driving them away screaming, humiliated, and scraped up.

That is, until the younger, sweeter Lucy turns up as the new help and is more unwilling to be battered around by the bullish Raquel.

The movie takes some quite curious detours, and you're often left wondering what tone Silva was going for. It was often very funny, but there were many moments I found myself cringing and tense, worried that Raquel had really lost it and that just-around-the-corner we were going to find one of the new maids with her head lopped off. I thought for sure she might try to grind up the cat and serve it for dinner a few times.

And, there were certainly some loose ends as to the matriarch's motivation for keeping the crazy maid on for so long—as if there was some bond, or back-story, between them that we're missing. But, all in all, it was a pretty great film, if uncomfortable, confusing in tone, and meandering. Catalina Saavedra as the maid was fantastic.

PS: The movie starts out with Raquel, the maid, not wanting to be celebrated on her birthday; those who know Grice's adamant ways about Birthday Week know this was as unsettling as the movie, itself.

"The Maid" trailer:

"Brothers," The Clink, Afghanistan

2009-12-14T03:16:00.010-05:00

For a couple months now, I've been subjected to the tremendously melodramatic trailer for "Brothers." When I was home in Texas, trying to enjoy an art-house film at the Angelika, so I could keep my nose up in the air when strangers passed me -- of course -- I'd be sent some unwanted goosebumps while previews ran.

Jake Gyllenhaal, with those man-whiskers.

Tobey Maguire, his hair shorn and about 40 lbs. lighter than anyone should ever care to see him at.

Natalie Portman, looking more like a lady than she has in the past -- this time, caught in the cross-hairs of two brothers that both love her; one's a vet, who's meant to be dead (Maguire), the other's a ruffian who's recently been let out of the clink and who's surprisingly fatherly (Gyllenhaal).

The film's a remake of a Danish movie called "Brodre." Tobey's a soldier who gets sent off to Afghanistan, leaving his three ladies back home (two daughters, and Ms. Portman). Everyone thinks he's dead early on, while Gyllenhaal gets released from prison, starts to take care of the family -- then, bam, Tobey's back home again.

It's a good movie; sure, it's insanely melodramatic at times (Tobey's made to take a crobar around his newly-done kitchen ... and he's got to say the F-word a couple times when accusing his wife of sleeping with his brother -- when he's thought to have been dead.), but it was enjoyable.

I was a little shocked that they got all three of these Young Hollywooders to play their parts, given the material and the cliched subject. But, it all worked out well enough.

It didn't help that I'd had my heart broken a couple hours earlier in "Up in the Air," but I didn't let too many tears leak out.

2 1/2 stars.

Food Inc., Put Me Out of My Misery: "It's a Notional Idea of a Tomato"

2009-12-14T02:08:00.008-05:00

So, I saw Super Size Me; good old Morgan Spurlock telling us the evil ways of quarter-pounders. He nearly gave himself kidney failure for that film, all for the sake of documenting the bad ways of McDonald's and its sort.

I probably patted myself on the back as I waltzed out of the theater with a tub of half-eaten popcorn in my paws, saturated with movie-theater butter, no doubt.

But, Food, Inc. -- that really took the cake.

I eat roughly a dozen eggs a week; that's a very meager estimate. I toss in some tofu from time to time, just to make myself feel I'm doing myself some protein service. I don't think about the chickens; I certainly don't think about how my little eggs are procured.

I had to turn that movie off: exploitation of Mexican workers (my people!), inhumane treatment of dirty animals (my people!), and all for making corporate brass richer (my future husband(s)!)

I didn't like it one bit. See below my angst:

Margaret Sandwich: sure thing.

and hey, learning things is painful

me: this is a bunch of hippie b.s.

Margaret Sandwich: good rebuttal

me: incorporate my food, just don't let me know about it. Don't Let Me Know.

Margaret Sandwich: or, just get normal food

me: good night, hippie

Movies of the Year, Guess I'll Go Ahead and Do It

2009-12-13T06:54:00.006-05:00

I don't like following in the footsteps of David Denby. I get it; we're both blowhards who tend to think our opinion means something. That said, what follows are some notable flicks that I likely saw while twiddling my thumbs and making sure that 10 fingers still exist. That is, there weren't a boatload of speakable movies this year (There was no "No Country for Old Men" or "There Will Be Blood") -- sad to say.

We end the decade on mediocrity.

Chin up, move forward --I'm refusing to look at DD's list, which is going to make this blindly hard:

The Informant!

No, this was nothing to write home about (Hola, Mama and Brother G!), but it was certainly a compelling film -- and one that deserves to be spoken of, given its sweet choice in movie ditties and voice-overs. Matt Damon had to pack on some pounds to play a Midwesterner; his efforts were duly noted, and appreciated, by this old Grice.

District 9

I said it once, and I'll say it again: this was a fantastic film. It looked silly in previews, a bunch of 28-Days-Later-esque zombies coming to sink their teeth into you; but D9 wasn't about that at all. It was/is a film about a manufactured problem involving racism amongst us humans, and second-class citizens, nicely named the "Prawns."

Zombieland

I don't really know what to say. I saw it twice in theaters; I have it queued to be sent to me ASAP. I've always loved Woody Harrelson -- Bill Murray was just an amazing treat, unexpected. This movie had laughs in all the right places -- Brother G and I just kept looking over at one another to make sure we'd gotten every reference --and, despite its name, it should become a comic classic.

500 Days of Summer

OK, let me go get my barf bag -- but, before I do so, I should admit that I fell in love with this movie quite readily. Joseph Gordon-Levitt ... his aspirations toward love are vulnerable-making, even in just watching the film -- I think it cracked the old Grice impenetrable spine. I'll still die (willingly) sad and alone, but JGL made me remember that some people consider that failure.

Julie and Julia

I loved this horrid movie! Meryl Streep, steeped in a cast that boasts Stanley Tucci and Amy Adams (of "Catch Me If You Can," "Enchanted," etc.), plays Julia Child, while Adams is JulIE --a notable difference. And we get to watch a young blogger (why, hello?) play to Julia Child's cookbook, making herself and her young husband's dishes every night.

3 stars.

Slice: Movieclips.com, Heavenly-Dire Clips, Time-Suck

2009-12-09T13:52:00.028-05:00

Last week, the movie gods unveiled a sweet online paradise when Movieclips.com went live. I was straight off the heels of remembering my first (and, hopefully, last) layoff from a corporate behemoth, The Blerg, and I was looking for fictitious commiseration. This website provides cinephiles like myself with most anything they need.

You can hover over the tiny icons that promise a minute or two of your favorite movie scenes; it suggests a bunch beneath your search results to entertain yourself while your specific movie-choice loads.

While we close PopSci for February, I've been checking out some favorite scenes of telling the "Haters. Gonna Hate." (see above animation) of the corporate world to go shove off.

See below iterations of a couple fun movies from the past decades, where the characters tell their bosses and/or stories of their disillusionment--and their desire to QUIT.

Lordy, me, the resolution and nice capsulized versions of these bits gives me goosebumps. Please check out the Movieclips site, yourself.

"Half Baked"

Steve Martin, in "Parenthood": ("I have been KILLING myself, aren't you Dazzled?")"a3378e13c236db439401a8e6020aa428fe203335","url":"http://cdn.movieclips.com/swf/controlbar.gm.galious-3.1.1.7.swf","autoHide": "always","hideDelay": "2000","clipMode": false},"rtmp": {"url":"http://cdn.movieclips.com/swf/flowplayer.rtmp-3.1.3.swf","netConnectionUrl":"rtmp://media.movieclips.com/ondemand/" }}}">

A seven-figure settlement in "Office Space." This is from YouTube, since the MC site is giving me errors (it could be my fiddling with the html so it won't Autoplay), but ... I can't watch/relate this scene enough. It's brilliant. I work hard and very, very well at PopSci; at The Blerg, I was Peter:

And, finally, a new tawdry favorite, "Wanted" scene:

Up in the Air, Double Feature, Rare Loneliness

2009-12-09T02:32:00.003-05:00

Hide all
Well, tonight turned out to be an impromptu double feature.

After a late day at work (Pop Sci's February issue is closing this week, so it's all push, push, push), I decided to go see “Up in the Air,” the new George Clooney movie about a man whose sole purpose in life is to ruin everyone else's. His job is to travel from corporation to corporation to rid them of pathetic souls. The first minutes of the film feature a series of poor dopes getting the ax (shot from Clooney's point of view), and I must admit I found it a little unnerving—it brought me back to the morning when I was the poor dope, and the Blerg was letting me go.

No matter how much I hated that job—and, oh, how I hated that job—the indignity felt from being told to leave instead of leaving on my own volition ... well, I suddenly remembered the rush of tears and expletives that fell from my face and spilled from my mouth.

I imagine that millions of Americans will feel a similar sting once they see this film (if they can afford it—zing.)

Clooney's character is Ryan Bingham, a wry, cynical (if devilishly handsome) man who prides himself on being able to live out of a figurative backpack (or carry-on). Possessions are baggage, weighing one down (“Moving is living.”); personal relationships are burdensome anchors, to be avoided at all costs. (I'd heard from a colleague that Clooney plays a pretty despicable, unlikeable character, but, in truth, I rather liked him, and one day aspire to be him! I digress.)

Bingham considers the sky his home, airports a refuge, and his permanent residence in Omaha, NE, a veritable hell. He averages 300,000 miles of air travel a year and loves the elite status it affords him at hotels, car rental places, airports, etc. And while he doesn't delight in ruining people's lives—he's not evil—he seems to think that on the whole people are better to be cut loose from their shit jobs to pursue some latent passion; and, a job's a job, and his affords him the ability to be accountable to no one (Sweet.).

Of course, old Bingham's every-man-is-an-island world gets rocked by two ladies. First, he meets Alex (the beautiful Vera Farmiga) in a hotel bar; she's his female equivalent, and they start a steamy little romance that they manage to find time for by arranging meetups in airports across the country. Second, there's the young Cornell grad who's begun to work for Bingham's company. The little go-getter (Anna Kendrick) has hatched a plan to save the company millions of dollars by conducting layoffs remotely via the Interwebs.

This would obviously ruin Bingham's ideal existence. He'd be grounded.

Bingham's boss (Jason Bateman) decides it'd be a good idea for the new kid to join Clooney on the road. He and Alex carry on.

Etc.

I really liked this movie. While there were some predictable elements, all does not end hunky-dorily for everyone; it feels realer, and sadder, in a somewhat refreshing way. I loved Farmiga and Clooney, and this Kendrick kid was quite good as a neurotic square.

By the end, I was feeling super lonely and sad, imagining my ultimate fate of dying sad and alone—something that usually doesn't trouble me as I think of how I'll be able to watch 18 hours of movies a day in peace when I'm old, without fear of social reprobation.

As I was walking out of the theater, I glanced over my shoulder just to see what some of these happy couples surrounding me were going to see … and I saw that “Brothers” was playing in 10 minutes.

So, I somehow decided it'd be a good idea to tend to my uncharacteristically-aching heart by going to watch a movie about the tumult and suffering war bestows on families.

Smart!

More on that later or tomorrow. Needless to say, I feel like someone just broke my heart, then water-boarded me. Must fall asleep to something uplifting before I toss myself out of my fourth floor window.

"Brothers" trailer:

"Broken Embraces," Almodovar-ian Thoughts

2009-12-08T03:32:00.007-05:00

Walking out of “Broken Embraces” (Los Abrazos Rotos) last week, I was
rambling, per usual, about the movie’s merits and demerits compared to director Pedro Almodovar's
the other films. As we strolled down
Houston St. from Sunshine Cinema, I asked my old friend what he’d
thought of the movie, relinquishing my death-grip on the conversation.
He sort of shrugged his shoulders, cocked his head, and said: “Eh, his
films all run together to me.”

While my heart palpitated a bit, thinking of the intricacies of each
and every one of Almodovar's films, how he's a filmmaker's Film Man –
a film student who's never grown up – I took a deep breath and said,
“Yeah, I can see that.” Sure, I could tell you the ins and outs of
“Talk to Her,” “All About My Mother,” and, lately, “Volver” – but
there's an elemental sameness to all Almodovar films that make them
unwittingly Almodovar without need for credit recognition. Every
character has a twisted, twisted back-story – and they all tie
themselves seamlessly together in a beautifully-shot sequence of
events, somewhere down the line.

That said, there've been some Almodovar stand-out scenes that
couldn't erase themselves from my memory, were they to be Magic
Ink-erasable. I'll never forget the images and themes from “The Bad
Education” (La Mala Educacion), with one of my old loves, Gael Garcia
Bernal – he plays a fledgling actor-cum-transvestite-cum-deceptionist.
Those images and sequences are so engrained in my warbled movie memory
that I'll never lose them – and I'll never forget making many a soul
watch that film.

So, back to “Embraces.” Penelope Cruz plays the gorgeous protagonist lady;
she's the star in Almodovar's immediate film that we're watching, as well as his film
within-the-film – he shoots a comedy within an atypical drama. We
learn early on that her father's sick, she's an assistant at a huge
corporation—which is run by an ineptly ruthless CEO-type (aren't they
all?)—and she's got to make the all-too-rough (not) decision whether
to sell her beautiful self to the sexually voracious old man, or let
her Pops die in the hands of an unsympathetic hospital.
Enter the dreamy man protagonist (who's been involved in the story as
a narrative from minute 1), an oft-used Almodovar standby, Lluis Homar
(of “La Mala Educacion”) – a dreamy director who's fallen for Cruz's
beguiling looks and clutchable soul.
Well, no point in going on with the narrative arc.

It's a great story, fantastic role-playing on both sides (Cruz and
Homar's), yet only a good movie. It's a great effort, and it's so, SO Almodovar; it's just not told
in the same deft, clever way that he usually spins his tales,
unraveling them layer by layer till we're left with just the most
brute forms of humans—which he's so good at. This feels like he
started in the middle of opening a can of worms, got nervous and made
sure he closed the can back up.

It's good, but not great.

Still worth a see.

Broken Embraces trailer:

Editing Papa Grice, Movie Marathon Needed in 6 Hours, "The Natural"

2009-11-29T04:53:00.007-05:00

Papa Grice, a man not too often featured here on this old Bloggle, recently sent me a piece he's submitting to some Southern magazines; he asked me to edit it.

The charming daughter that I am (ha, ahem... ahem), I opened the .doc file and went to work; we have had our differences, many -- plenty -- but, he's still my Pops.

I'm not one to turn something like that down.

Well, my Dear Old Dad sent me something great. It was a great editorial piece - something that I'd have kissed the sweet e-mail gods for sending me a few years back, had it been submitted by an old Crimson writer.

It involves a memory he has from when he was 16 - he was at a family get-together in Louisiana, and part of his family shuns another part. He was put in-between everyone, and made to take sides.

I've thought of old Papa G as a rationalist, much like myself, forever. And, I realized that he is kind of -- deep down -- sort of a silly irrationalist. At least, that's what's conveyed in his writing.

I don't think he reads this Bloggle, but I wish he did sometimes. My writings so clearly come from his influence.

The above YouTube is something he'd love -- a movie he made me watch a bazillion times, and I was all the better for it. "The Natural."

Second Chapter of Morgan Chronicles, Etc.

2009-11-28T23:42:00.003-05:00

Here's a bit more on the Morgan Chronicles -- Chapter Two can be read here. What can I say? Nothing - nothing that'll not make her hate me later in life. I don't think she will ... I try to be mindful of her, thoughtful in not making her an antagonist.

She's a brilliant little girl -- I hope the documenting of her life - a very vulnerable-making thing - is received well when she's older. I have many years to wait.

Read it!

Movie List! (The Start), Informant, Inglourious, September, Bright Star ... Etc.

2009-11-28T13:42:00.006-05:00

I've finally got the energy to post the Movie List. I've finished four chapters of The Morgan Stories, I've beaten down the swine flu (or, its relative), and the Band of Horses song ("The Funeral") has been removed from my YouTube playlist. It had to be done if I was going to stop staring at the wall and letting myself get adrift in my head. God, that song has awful effects.

"The Informant!"

I saw this one twice -- once with a friend in Houston, once with Mama G at the good old Dollar Cinema. I really liked this movie. I loved the whimsical music and his (Matt Damon's) narration mostly involving the production of corn syrup in the Midwest. It had a feel of "Stranger than Fiction," mixed with "The Hoax" and "Catch Me if You Can." Not a lot of folks saw "The Hoax" (Richard Gere, Alfred Molina), but I'd dare say they should've. One of the FBI Special Agents in the movie is Joel McHale, who's now one of the leads in "Community," a show I could take or leave -- but he's rather dreamy, and has an impressive range.

"Inglourious Basterds"

I had to see this one twice, too, as I'd fallen asleep during the first viewing. I'm an unabashed, cliched Tarantino-lover, so I was likely going to like it no matter what. But, I really did enjoy it on many levels. Its fabrication of this faux-group of Nazi killers was good in its concoction of characters that would have believable motive to go and skin the skulls of some Nazis ... it was steeped, of course, in Tarantino's bizarro world of comically extreme characters, but -- it was great. Femme Fatale-ish, revenge-strewn, etc. I wouldn't hope it wins many Oscars (a little too long, a little too Tarantino-living-out-his-comic-book-dreams), but I'll watch it plenty, plenty of times.

"The September Issue"

Lordy me, I haven't thought about my viewing of this at the River Oaks theater in Houston in quite a while -- it's a hoity-toity place that I only visited because of circumstance. It's a documentary on Anna Wintour, the lady that makes Vogue en vogue. It was well done - nothing to write home about (hello, Mama G!), but good nonetheless. It made me reminiscent of my old days in the fashion world - a place I'd never, ever go back to, but reminiscent nonetheless.

"Bright Star"

I briefly mentioned this movie before, but it deserves a second mention. This was a fantastic film -- about John Keats and his magical love for Fanny Brawne ... I might've cried a little in this one. It's beautifully shot, the story is great - and makes you a hopeless romantic for a while, until you slap some sense into yourself. I really loved this movie ... and I was on such a movie kick that day that I drove (DROVE!) over to another theater to see ...

"The Boys Are Back"

Clive Owen, that be-whiskered face, those eyes, stars in this one. No one saw it, save for me and some old ladies, I suppose. It's based on a true story -- he's a journalist, married to a lovely, lovely lady. Right early on in the movie, she keels over and dies -- after sharing some nice, slight glances at each other at a dinner party. Boom, she's gone. He has to assume responsibility of his family, and is bequeathed another young soul to look after as well. My good gods, that movie made me feel like "The Constant Gardener" was child's play, in terms of jerking my feelings around. I like to think I have none! And, these movies ... they make me pinch myself.

I can't write about the rest just yet. There are too many -- I should've been more judicious in my time.

Little Morgan, Movies, First Chapter

2009-11-28T12:33:00.006-05:00

I've spent the good part of my last week talking to Little Morgan all day on G-chat. She's 10 years old, and I'm able to relate to her on a remarkable level; she's at an age where she's no longer as malleable as aluminum foil, but still lovably naive and sweet. And very, very smart.

That I can relate so well to a 10 year old is ... well, telling.

Over the summer, I was her effective caregiver during daytime hours -- Mama G and Brother G were at work all day, while I was "working" at home on the computer. When Morgan The Little would get bored of ABC Family or building her dream doll house, she'd quietly come peek around the corner from the hallway to see what I was up to. I'd always pretend that I didn't see her nosy eyes, but then I'd get up from my chair, saunter over, slowly, to my purse and fetch out the keys. I'd jingle them a bit and say, "Let's go, kid."

If I were feeling rich that day, we'd go to the regular theaters; more often, I'd take her to the second-run Dollar Cinema (now $1.50, those jerks). We did this nearly every single day for three months.

I miss her.

I've been working on a "book" about her -- the first chapter can be read here, for anyone interested.

Precious, Popular Science, Happy Thanksgiving

2009-11-25T18:40:00.007-05:00

I strode on over to the Loews in Kips Bay today, pivoting my penny-loafers (I placed the pennies there myself) eastwards from the steps of my new office at Popular Science. I was en route to see "Precious: Based on the Novel PUSH by Sapphire."

I'd already heard things about the movie, sure, but I hadn't really read much on it. My old best lady friend from home, who's now a social worker in Houston, had told me how she and her co-workers had made a field trip out of the movie; on a planned group-outing, they'd opted to see this movie instead of growing merry at some Happy Hour -- and given her affinity for making me and others watch educational videos on the importance of psych therapy this summer (something I tend to find as rationally-acceptable as voo-doo dolls), I knew what I was getting into, sort of.

I walked into the theater a few minutes before showtime, and it was empty. I had my popcorn and Diet Coke in hand (go hard, or go home), and seated myself. In the next ten minutes before the movie began, only three bespectacled old women -- alone -- sauntered in and took seat before the big screen.

It's the day before Thanksgiving, I'm in a theater with three little old ladies who gave me quiet smiles as they passed me, about to see the most depressing (questionable) movie in a good long while. I was comforted by what my future holds.

The movie stars newcomer Gaburey 'Gabby' Sidibe (who's roughly my age, yet plays a 16-year-old) as a horribly neglected, abused, yet innately bright youth, Precious. At the film's start, we find she's about to have her second child -- by her own father. Her mother (played by Mo'Nique) routinely throws pans or glass projectiles at Precious's head or generally demeans her to an inhumanely degree (Mama G, take note!) She, Precious, is tremendously overweight, has hallucinations about being a lithe, light-skinned woman, and is just generally one of the most tragic figures of film in (my) recent memory.

Stylistically, I'm not sure if I loved the choppiness, the intermingling of flashbacks with blurred-in fascinations of what-could-be -- but, overall, it was a great tale to tell. I shed some tears into my popcorn, perhaps.

However, given my transient nature of late: Texas, NY, back to Texas, back to NY, new job, etc., I've been shedding tears like never before when I'm accompanied by my screens, silver or small.

When I was sick lately, I watched 34 episodes of Friday Night Lights; there wasn't one where I didn't have to sit up (weakly) and utter: "Grice, do not cry, you big baby. Do not."

I'm going to post my list of ... Lord, 20+ movies that I've seen lately, tomorrow. I'll just do stars-value. These old fingers can't type out all the thoughts!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Jesse Eisenberg (Michael Cera?) Wants to Murder Me! Today's a Good Day ...

2009-10-07T19:12:00.008-04:00

I saw eight movies in the theater this past week -- outside of the theater, it's too embarrassing to advertise [17-ish]. So, I'd been working on a bloggle post that would run through the list of films, highlighting the best and worst. (Summer has ended! I can return to the cinema [daily ... or twice, daily -- I slapped my wrist for admitting that] without my head hung in shame for filmmakers).

When what do my wandering eyes behold in my Inbox this morning?

An e-mail from a Crimson alum list group member ...

"Subject: [133-l] Jesse Eisenberg and his vendetta against Morgan Grice"

The body of the e-mail read, which went out to a whole slew of old classmates, friends and acquaintances -- and I'm sure more than a few frenemies:

"I think he's [Eisenberg] referring to this (http://www.thecrimson.com/article.aspx?ref=506154)?
Even if this is a bit of some kind that Woody Harrelson and Jesse Eisenberg do,
it's hilarious.

PST
http://www.avclub.com/articles/woody-harrelson-and-jesse-eisenberg,33580/
AVC: Jesse, you’ve been on a lot of lists of up-and-coming young stars to
watch, that sort of thing. What has your experience been, having recently been
thrust into the limelight?
JE: Well, you’re not supposed to read what they write about you,
because it’s just debilitating. And people have written mean things
that I’ve read, and they make you feel terrible about yourself and feel like:
How could I go be a creative person when people think it’sbad? [:-/]
WH [Woody Harrelson]: Let go of that Harvard Crimson
review.
JE: Fucking Crimson. A few years ago, somebody wrote
something bad inthe Harvard Crimson; then we were in Boston yesterday,
and I thought the girl who was coming to interview us was the girl, and she
never showed up. Smart move. But I have everybody’s name on my bathroom wall, on my stall shower actually, and I just read their names as I soap up
and plan on murdering them.
WH: That’s his way of saying you better write some nice stuff.

So, Jesse Eisenberg thinks about murdering me in the shower?!! ME?!?!? Little, old me.

It was the neatest thing I'd read in some time, though I'm not dumb enough to think it wasn't some PR person feeding his lines. Still.

I should mention that I adored "Zombieland," and that any of the predictions I made in that blasted Crimson article were false. I wish he'd murder me for the quality of the article, rather than the opinion. Because, excuse my candor, "Cursed" sucked.

And who knew Eisenberg was going to be someone people can't differentiate from Michael Cera?!!! Sigh.

More on those other movies from this week later. One hour til my next movie...

I will say that I did love, uncharacteristically, "Bright Star." I don't love romantic movies, and I suuuuure don't love romantic, sad movies about POETS (Keats) ... but I loved this one.

Dallas Cowboys, District 9, Robin Williams -- Nothing in Common

2009-09-24T02:36:00.012-04:00

Like a little angel, my Favorite Food Critic, and former-colleague (and one of the few fine folks I miss from Up North), sent me a note sometime last week to the effect of:

"Lady Grice, big news: your old employer ["The Blerg"] has sprung for a big trip down your way for my column. Any interest in going to the opening Dallas Cowboys game on Sunday? See the new stadium?"

"I'm sorry, I just read that aloud to my brother," I began in response, "I believe he must've swallowed some mosquitoes just now -- he hasn't picked up his jaw from the floor. Are you serious?"

"Tell Brother Grice he's welcome to come, too."

So, Brother and Sister Grice took another trip, flying past little tiny Texas towns until we came upon that snobby city 4 1/2 hours to our north. Dallas.

Food Critic had to be driven to an anonymous-looking building to get the tickets; we drank cocktails from glass cowboy boots. It was an unforgettable trip.

(Thank you, again.)

I won't lie and say I'm the hugest football fan; every Friday night growing up was spent at my high school stadium, but the moment I'd sit down, I'd swing my feet around the bleachers in an about-face to talk to my buds -- always ignoring the game in full.

But even I knew how big a deal this whole Dallas event was, and how Bro G would appreciate the weekend. So, we went, we ate, we saw, we cheered, we swam, we toured, we ate...and ate, and ate.

And then we saw those old Cowboys let the Giants shame them.

Dawson wouldn't have wanted Tony Romo's life this weekend, I'm sure.

A whole month (to the day) since the last post. I don't even remember how to write on this old bloggle.

Leeeeettt's see. I was bogged down with a bunch of editing (I know so much about Texas teaching standards these days ... fun stuff, she says, lying through her teeth.), but I've managed to keep up the movie watching.

"District 9" -- I was so late in the game on that one. Mama Grice saw it and told me that she didn't care for it because the aliens were "ugly"; for some reason that deterred my better judgment for some time, delaying my viewing for well too long.

I really, really enjoyed that film. It felt a lot like the "28 Days Later"/"28 Months Later" movies, which I liked perhaps too much. It had the same sort of realistic-feeling special effects, not ruined by slap-you-in-the-face CGI bologna that's wrecked so many could-be/would-be good movies. The social allegories were also welcome, and a fun twist on traditional sci-fi fare.

And I really adored the South African government agent Wikus Van De Merwe (Sharlto Copley), who hopefully has more up his sleeve.

Importantly, for the past several weeks, that movie has inspired me to speak in clicks and twitches (a la the alien "Prawns") -- something that might've been frowned upon before this film's arrival.

My Friend and I were at a movie loss recently and decided to head to the Houston Angelika to see a more indie-trendy film and stumbled upon Robin Williams' recent "World's Greatest Dad" ... hmmm.

Williams plays Lance Clayton (great name for this role), a somewhat depressing yokel of a man who's a creative writing teacher -- who's never published a thing. He's the single dad of a jerk teenager whose ... "extra curricular activities" are rather unsavory; his teacher-girlfriend toys with his heart. Etc. When a tragic (ahem) event takes his son's life, Lance is suddenly thrust into the public eye -- which leads to some counter-intuitive outcomes.

It's good, but not great. It feels as though writer-director Bobcat Goldthwait needed just a few more months of tweaking to make it a little funnier, poignant, dark ... something. And, perhaps a few more months to find a better actor to play the son's character (Daryl Sabara).

Towed Cars, Cousins -- "Inglourious Basterds"

2009-08-24T00:29:00.009-04:00

"Hey, it's family," he said, as he slid over to My Friend the piece of paper that showed he'd knocked off 40 bucks from the car-towing fare.

Nothing like a big, hulking man -- in the middle of Nowheresville, Houston -- telling your Bud that he was once married to your cousin, through some bulletproof glass, no less.

The humiliation only topped off the saddest Movie Night ever.

It'd been planned in advance: "Inglourious Basterds," Friday night, 9:30 pm. My Friend, his brother, another, and I were meeting with already-purchased tickets to go see the film; I'd been awaiting this day for months. For the past few weeks, I've been marching around like a little idiot mimicking Brad Pitt's "We gonna be doin' one thing, one thing only: Killin' Nat-zi's." I couldn't've wiped the grin off my face all week if I'd tried.

Well, turned out that one of the friendos got mixed up and didn't buy his ticket in advance; they were sold out. Didn't seem to make no never mind -- we could see the 10:30 showing, after all. We exchanged tickets, played some Big Buck Hunter at the theater arcade ... but, I knew.

I knew that after having eaten at the restaurant next door, where Friend and his Brother left their cars (allusion to the "car-towing" start of this), on top of my predilection for falling asleep in ANY movie after roundabouts 8pm, I was in trouble.

For all my talk and anticipation for this movie, would I make it?

Short answer, "no."

Halfway through, I felt the magnetic forces of the eyelids; had I toothpicks, I'd have shoved them in there without regard for permanent damage to the old eyeballs.

I'm doing a double feature tomorrow ... after Friend's glare jolted me awake (I hadn't even realized I'd fallen asleep), I made it through most of the movie, but I feel I missed some good plot points worthy of revisitation -- and, Lord knows I'll watch "Inglourious" 200 more times in the next couple years, just 'cause it's Tarantino.

One great takeaway from the first half hour, though, reminded me why I can't hate myself for being a cliched Tarantino-lover.

It's his ability to write-in conversational bits into the most intense situations; just like the Coen Bros., he reuses his formula, so that the written patterns are undeniably recognizable in all his films ... they're inimitable without feeling too worn or overdone.

Fooooooor instance, during the "Pigs are filthy animals. I don't eat filthy animals." end scene in Tarantino's "Pulp Fiction," he has Jules and Vince discuss (after having experienced "Divine Intervention" via dodging bullets as they fulfilled their hitman duties) why we attribute dirtiness to pigs and not, say, dogs, while by logical standards the two species aren't exactly cleanly. In "Inglourious," Tarantino starts it off with the awesome, awesome Christoph Waltz delineating the difference between rats and squirrels ... one animal is seen as a disease-carrying, awful nuissance of a creature, the other's a harmless tree-dweller.

I just like his style, s'ppose. Tomorrow, I'll get a fuller feel. I got 2 hours annnnd maybe 12 minutes of Inglourious on Friday (out of the 2 hrs and 33 minutes) ... tomorrow'll be better.

When we all toddled out of the theater that night, me half-asleep and the others beat as well, the cars were gone; next morning, we made our way to where they housed the errant vehicles ... and that's where I was met with a double-take, a stare and a "Are you Morgan? I'm your cousin." He's been running the tow-truck place for ten years he said.

Ahhh, ahhh.

Sometimes there's nothing to be said for full-on humility.

Corrupting Little Morgan's Belief in Love; "500 Days of Summer"

2009-08-13T03:21:00.007-04:00

"I didn't really understand it," she said, staring up curiously at my somewhat somber face.

I looked down at Little Morgan and shook my head slowly; with a melodramatic sigh, I said: "I hope you never have to."

We were walking out of "500 Days of Summer," a film about the rocky relationship of Tom Hansen (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) and Summer Finn (Zooey Deschanel), two Los Angelans who work together at a greeting cards company. My response to Little Morgan was referring to my hope that she never has to understand the ups-and-downs, confusions, woes, heartaches, bitterness, abandonments, etc. that accompany relationships.

Of course, Little Rat was referring to the non-linear timeline of the film, which follows 500 days of Tom and Summer's relationship, certainly not my cliched and embarrassing projections that came out in the form of a slow head shake and a short-lived clutch of her shoulders.

The film jumps around from day 1, to day 26, to day 149, back to day 4, for example, so each scene is preceded by a number in parenthesis to indicate the day and guide you as to the state of the relationship. Hence her confusion.

Tom is a hopeless, hopeless romantic who falls madly in love with Summer upon first sight ([Day]1); Summer is a colder sort, one given to casual liaisons and defensive diatribes on the falsity of love. ([Day] 1, 2, 7, 147, 208, 49). Tom quickly wins her over, during a company karaoke night; her knees buckle, but her heart doesn't. All that jazz. She's a jerk, but he's stuck in love with a girl who doesn't want him.

I got teary-eyed, again. I think it's something in this Texas water ... Little Morgan kept looking over at me, and while I usually send back a Death Stare to tell her not to bother me with her little questions about whatever film's plot, this time I just gave her a sad face and took her hand. Combined with Julie & Julia, that kid's gotten more Big Morgan love than she's probably seen in the last few years put together (give or take).

Bah.

Overall, I thought the film does a fine job of depicting the nuances of a relationship. When you relate to the boy, Tom, you're overcome with all the feelings you've had when you've been with someone who took you for granted; who didn't give their all to you; who didn't ask you seemingly-little things ... like how your day was.

When you side with Summer, you feel she's right for being selfish; her casual flightiness is suddenly acceptable because you remember the times when you yourself were a jerk to someone because maybe you didn't think they were worth your time. Scruples were lost on you at that time, and you rationalized your not-so-kind behavior.

When I explained this to Heathen Child, The Rat didn't seem to understand why the higher in number the days went, that didn't necessarily correlate to a higher level of happiness.

I had to resist the urge to say, "All in good time, Child, all in good time." Instead, I took her to Wendy's for a Frosty, though I miiiiight've said she ought to break up with her little boyfriend Dustin:

"Hey, it's your last year in elementary school -- you really want someone tying you down?" I intoned.

What's wrong with me?

Little Morgan's Evil Games; Julie & Julia

2009-08-11T09:09:00.007-04:00

For everything you can call Little Morgan -- Heathen Child, Little Rat, Big Chunk, Snaggle[tooth], Clone, Number 2 ... and, I'm wont to call any of these things -- you can't call her Dumb. She long ago mastered the art of getting her way in an increasingly creative array of approaches.

In the mornings, when I'm asleep in my room, on my bed (read: in the living room, on the couch) after having taken Mama G to the metro around 5:30am or 6am (woe, woe), if she happens to awake before noon, she begins her tricks.

Normally, if the phone rings throughout the day, she has the habit of turning the phone on, then off if it's someone she doesn't recognize (I can't fault her there, it's one of her redeeming qualities); however, when I'm snoozing, suddenly she's interested in whomever is calling and races to the phone. I hear her big Flinstone Feet running across the tile, though I don't open my eyes so I can assure myself that she's the Devil Incarnate.

"Hello??? WHAT?? Hello??" she bellows, her country-accented voice, grating to any human's ears, carrying its way to my couch.

"Who?!? Ummmmm..." she draws out, as she starts stomping around the living room. "Ummmm, let me see if they're home." She knows that no one's home (I don't count, because I, well, because I adhere to the phone on/off approach), but nevertheless she plods over to me.

"Aunt Morgan?" she whispers in a pseudo-sweet voice. Tap, tap. "AUNT MORGAN??!? DO YOU WANT TO TALK TO [insert anything]???"

I snap my eyeballs open wide and glare at her, not moving my neck -- which has been undoubtedly propped up in some crick-inducing way, while she's been sleeping soundly in my old room all night -- as I mouth, "No."

After that, the games begin.

Yesterday, I was sitting at my desk, working on a story (an ongoing one that involves her), when I see out of the corner of my eye her peek out from the hallway. She must've been honing her approach. I didn't acknowledge her and kept typing.

"Aunt Morgan?"

"Mmm?"

"Well, umm, I was wondering..." she began quietly, sweetly.

Oh, here we go, I thought.

"Mmm?"

"Well, if you're not too busy..."

A likely jab, I thought, she's commenting on how I'm not at work.

"Mmm?"

"Could we maybe do something?"

Revenge!

"Maybe," I said with a gravely doubtful intonation, "I really want to get some work done on this."

I could feel the pouting, but I was going to be adamant today. Right.

Oh, I'd say ten minutes later, after some careful conniving in her (my) room, she came out in her rollerblades, putting her grubby paws all over the walls as she tried to steady herself and slide her way across the tile.

"What are you DOING!?" I blared, "You know you can't rollerblade in the house. Jesus, you Big Rat, take 'em off."

Attempt 1 averted. I didn't last much longer, after she pulled out the big guns.

A bit later, I heard her again stomping out of her (my) room, and I could hear some heaving and things dropping in the hallway. She entered with a huge mound of clothes, her new school clothes, replete with all the new underwear that Mama G recently bought her (no shame, this kid).

"What are you doing?"

"I just wanted to show you my new clothes."

"They look nice. Lots more than I ever got, that's for sure." (Can't help throwing those in any chance I get.)

"I wanted to do a fashion show for you," she said, smiling as if she didn't know she'd just won.

"I'll check the movie times."

So, we saw "Julie & Julia."

I must say, that in all the headache and frustration this Horrid Doppelganger causes me, yesterday she brought me much unintended joy. I neeeeeever would've seen that movie, but it was the only one we both hadn't seen or that I absolutely wouldn't go see ("Aliens in the Attic," "G-Force," "The Ugly Truth," etc.)

I thought it looked awful, something like "Mamma Mia" (which I admittedly never saw, but -- whoof). It's the story about Julia Child (played by Meryl Streep) and her rise to success, alongside a contemporary story of a New York City girl named Julie Powell (Amy Adams) who hates her job and begins blogging in an attempt to assuage at least a part of her drive to be a writer. (I think my teary-eyedness began there, and didn't stop throughout ... though I'll never admit it.)

The film does a great job depicting the parallels in the two womens' lives. After portraying yet another setback to Child's attempts to get her masterpiece cookbook published as she and her ambassador husband move all over Europe as Joseph McCarthy and Co. were conducting their witchhunts here in the U.S., we jump back to present-day Powell struggling with her horrible work life while trying to achieve her goal of cooking everything in Child's book in one year (and blogging about it). And each time one of the women has a meltdown or becomes a raging mess, we see a scene where their doting, adoring husbands (Stanley Tucci as Paul Child, Chris Messina as Eric Powell) save the day and stick by their sides, which would normally make my stomach turn.

But, it was probably after one of these parallel scenes when I began making Little Morgan hold my hand like a big baby.

I really just loved the movie; it had its faults, but Streep was so great as Julia Child -- and the ever-adorable Amy Adams was characteristically cute, even as she treated her husband like dirt.

I'm sure lots of people won't see it, but I hope they do.

And, after all that emotional boohooing, I suddenly thought the Rat Child wasn't so bad after all and took her to get ice cream; but I made sure it was just a cheap McDonald's cone -- got to keep her honest.

Today, I believe we'll see "500 Days of Summer."

Julie & Julia trailer:

G.I. J...ust Shoot Me

2009-08-10T00:54:00.012-04:00

It was supposed to be an even trade.

In exchange for not complaining (too much) for being dragged (kicking and screaming, but in a quiet, uncomplaining way -- ahem) to G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra and promising not to fall asleep, My Friend agreed to a double feature of my choosing; I was planning on Pulp Fiction and perhaps The Night of the Hunter, one of the creepiest, most awesome movies I know of -- or another childhood favorite. I recently introduced the kid to Old Boy, so I was looking forward to showing off my movie tastes.

Plans have changed.

After that God Awful 2-hour experience, I believe now I'm fully prepared to chop off the old nose to spite my face. Yes, I believe I'll be Netflixing "Love in the Time of Cholera" or "Music and Lyrics" soon -- better, both.

It's not much worth going into the details; in fact, on the drive home, neither of us could stop repeating how awful, unimpressive and seemingly neverending the worthless waste of time was. (I was secretly hoping it'd be one of these hate-yourself-for-liking-it summer Blockbusters that I'm still inclined to love). After leaving some of my brain cells back in the theater, ten minutes later we were quickly forgetting many of the main "plot points" -- all I could do was shake my head, give Friend a haaaard time (naturally), and comment on how sad it was that I respected some of the actors and their normally decent choice in roles.

Basically, the uber-elite Joes (including Marlon Wayans as "Ripcord," and Channing Tatum as "Duke" -- a man who would be after my heart, had he not contributed to this cinematic slop) are given the mission of saving the world from widespread destruction, and ultimate domination, via some nano technology that was developed by an evil doer who has a longstanding hatred for the French; something to do with his ancestor being made to wear a scalding hot mask that deformed him and relegated him to the outskirts of, say, society.

The choice of the French as a main target of hate was fitting, as this movie is about as dumb as a stereotypically Big American Blockbuster can get. This nano technology -- I believe it manifested in "nanomites" -- is some green junk that descends upon people and places and eats them up (think images of the Eiffel Tower being attacked by those little bugs in "The Mummy" that come swarming out ... only in The Mummy, you feel sorry for those characters being swarmed on, whereas in G.I. Joe I was hoping the green bugs would fly off the screen and start to eat away at my very own flesh).

There's a beautiful "Baroness" (Sienna Miller) who's working with the bad men, at one point all major cities are being threatened and Wayans flies his crazy jet, which you knew he was going to comandeer about 2 minutes into the movie, from one side of the planet to the other in, oh, about 12 seconds. Of course, during the action scenes you don't know which way is up or who's really heading where. Sadly, my long-maintained respect for Joseph Gordon-Levitt (The Lookout, 500 Days of Summer) has diminished after his taking part in this mess; and, I suppose Dennis Quaid (who plays the gung-ho, hardcore head military man) hasn't exactly been making movie magic in his films the past good while with the gems "Vantage Point" (God, that was awful) and "American Dreamz" to his name ... but it's sad to see the native Houstonian in this bunk nevertheless.

It was aw-ful.

I guess they're banking on nostalgia and the Transformers crowd to come out en masse (two showtimes were sold out this afternoon, which was fine because it just led to some Big Buck Hunter playing in the theater arcade to work on my shooting skills in preparation for my upcoming trip to the gun range, but I digress).

In other news, I haven't worked at the University (of Houston) in a WEEK because of some conference that has dragged my professor-bosses off. Buuuuut, hopefully they'll put me back to work this week; I miss the smell of the classrooms, driving to campus with my bosslady and gossipping about the faculty, and just feeling for the first time that I'm doing something useful at the workplace.

Also, idle afternoons with Little Morgan leads to movie marathons (can't complain) or days spent wandering the Kemah, Texas, boardwalk attempting to entertain her while the greedy little rat spends all my money.

But, I'm happier for many reasons than I have been in quite some time. People (or maybe just the pace) may be slower in Tejas than in that cold, hard New York city, but goooood lordy, the people sure are nice, thoughtful, generous and I'm re-picking up all the crazy old sayings I grew up repeating. Moreover, there are so many opportunities to get into drag-down political debates because people are crazier here!

In the event that I decide to take pity on Friend and myself, I maaaaayyy still dig out The Night of the Hunter -- it's so-uh-oh good:

BruNO

2009-07-20T04:42:00.015-04:00

I've made plenty of mistakes when choosing appropriate movies to see with Mama G; that's probably because there were never any rules on what I could or couldn't see growing up, so perhaps my filter is a little less sensitive than it should be.

When I mentioned that I was going for a Sunday-night movie (I'm still used to going alone), Mama G blurted out that she'd like to join.

"Don't you need to finish folding the wash?" I asked, as I shuddered, noticing the overwhelming mound of clothes piled next to her.

She shot me a stare that smelled of a Death Wish, so I followed up with: "Well, we're seeing 'Bruno,' f-y-i."

And, on that, I turned on my heel and put my fingers in my ears so I didn't have to listen to anything after: "You're doing it on purpose, Mija! You just don't want me to go with you."

Well, she joined; I should've listened to her concerns.

When we got to the lovely, sprawling Cinemark (I don't miss the towering Manhattan theaters -- it always seemed sort of unnatural, seeing a movie on the 12th floor), we sauntered up to the box office and were met by a pimpled young man who said:

"I am supposed to warn you that 'Bruno' is extremely offensive, vile, and crude. There are homophobic, pedophilic, offensive, dirty, disgusting, unGodly, unsightly, immoral, amoral, and quite liberal overtones in this film." (More or less.)

I was pretty shocked, wondering whether this kind of cautionary overbearance was being tolerated everywhere. (As it turns out, I don't think it is, as it seems some theater in Navan, Ireland was written up for such antics.)

We went inside and ... well, gratuitous private parts aside (many, many minutes of them -- or so it seemed), it was more the almost incomprehensible lack of a point to any of it that was the real letdown.

I wasn't a huge fan of "Borat"; I wasn't offended or seduced by its targeted tricks on us ignorant Americans and our prejudiced ways ... I simply wasn't very impressed. I was much more of a fan of Bill Maher's "Religiosity," given its (ostensible) attempt to take aim at all religions as an unnecessary and harmful form of soma. Sure, it was Maher, and you could see right through his Jerry-Springer-esque ending where he denounces any and all forms of religion, advocating full eradication, but at least ... there was a point.

With "Bruno," sure we're shown a(nother) dose of worldwide homophobia -- via a martial arts instructor who says gays will attack from behind; a character who, upon adopting a child, dresses him in a "Gayby" shirt; a gay-to-straight converter who, as in Religiosity, is exceedingly effeminate; and attempts at sleeping with backwater boys out in the Sticks on a hunting trip.

Yes, these people are treating our flamboyant fashionista like a worthless social outcast, but ... he's a horrible human being. We're not being shown hilarious scenes of a gay man being treated unfairly by jerks the world over; we're shown an @sshole, who's not terribly funny and who makes me hate the term "mockumentary" even more than I used to.

Though, I did enjoy the Ron Paul scene, the Swingers scene (kind of), annnnnd ... perhaps that's it.

A couple nights later, a New Friend (well, old friend from High School) and I saw the new Harry Potter movie; I maybe fell asleep for a few minutes in the theater, but overall it was quite good. Hermione is such a stud-lette now, and seeing as how I haven't read the books (save for the first), I was rather enthralled. The following night, New/Old Friend and I watched "Defiance" ... with Daniel Craig and Liev Schreiber -- perhaps I fell asleep a bit in that one, too, but it was getting late and I've been WORKING on a 75-page grant for the past two weeks. (more on that tomorrow)

Overall, Defiance was ... a little slow at times, not very inspiringly shot (by a Harvard dude, no less), but had a great true-story premise about Russian Jews who took to the wildnerness for several years to survive during WWII.

Tomorrow begins a five-day weekend, following a two-week stint as a grant-proposal writer with no sleep - yet the most satisfying sense of doing something worthwhile since I've graduated.

Also, to a former Senior Tutor (ahem) who used to needle me daily with Crimson criticisms, I'm glad you're reading; I will respond to your thoughts tomorrow ... with my usual defenses in tact ;-)

Slice(s) of Grice, Episode 3: My Sister's Keeper

2009-07-14T05:36:00.006-04:00

The above is quite boring, and perhaps more should be said on "My Sister's Keeper," but -- not really.

Well, must be up in three hours. For two times in one month, Papa Grice has unexpectedly come through bearing gifts: the first time was with his load of AP Physics, Chemistry and Biology books (teaching camp begins innnn 11 days, sigh); the second time was today with...a JOB.

Say what?

Starting tomorrow, I will be working on a contract basis for the University of Houston, writing grant proposals for a professor who is one of Papa G's clients. I spent all afternoon in the League City library (when I should've been watching movies on my back all day ... or working on my stories, I guess) researching what goes into these grant proposals. I'm a littttttle nervous. These things are super particular, require a lot of analysis and there's a lot riding on them.

May my writing juices not fail me in the coming week(s), dear gods. And, I'll be earning non-severance, non-dole dollars for the first time in ... FIVE months.

How depressing!

Slice of Grice(s), Episode 2: Jack

2009-07-09T22:22:00.005-04:00

Sigh.

(Brother G is making me add a disclaimer. That's as far as I'll go: Disclaimer.)

17 Again, Slice of Grice(s) Explanation, Orphan

2009-07-09T14:13:00.009-04:00

Before wasting time making the Slice of Grice(s) episode yesterday, I should've thought to include the inspiration for filming the rambling mess: The Rat Child had ambled over to me at the computer as I brusquely preempted her by saying, "I have to get another page written!!" She'd been making routine visits to my "workstation," showing me how fat Jack the Hamster has gotten, or how relentlessly her lizard hangs to her shirt -- no matter how hard she shakes it around -- or how much money she just won on Webkinz (??????).

"Oh, well, I was just going to see if we could go see a movie," she began quietly, "At the Dollar Cinema? Grandma [my mom] said you're broke, but it'd only be three dollars. [inflation!]."

"She did, did she? She said I was broke!? Well, I am broke, but ... well, what would you like to see?" My eyes were flicking between my short story that was going no where and her eager face.

Her eyes lit up ... "Well, I really, want to see that movie, 'Orphan'? Have you heard of it???"

Ha, have I heard of it? Child, you know not to whom you speak.

"Not out yet. But, really, you want to see that?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, genuinely. "They showed a preview for it when I watched 'Untraceable' a while back."

"Who'd you see 'Untraceable' [awful movie] with?"

"I just watched it by myself on On Demand. It wudn't real good."

Oh, my God, you do share my blood.

"I'll check what's playing at the Dollar Cinema."

The only thing we hadn't seen was "17 Again," which is what she's describing in the video below. I ... I ... well, Zac Efron is quite a cute kid (though I learned that amongst 10 year olds, he's not really hot stuff anymore -- High School Musical is no longer en vogue), but the movie by no means can join the ranks of "Big," "Vice Versa," or "Like Father Like Son." In "Big," we had the Zoltar machine grant Mr. Hanks his wish to grow up; in "Vice Versa" some mysterious skull with transformative powers gave Judge Reinhold and Fred Savage their due perspectives; in "LF LS" Sean Astin introduces old Kirk Cameron to some "brain transferrence serum" ... in "17 Again," it's just an unexplained spirit soul guider. Pfft, someone doesn't have an imagination.

Today, I think I'm going to make her watch "Elephant Man" with Anthony Hopkins -- I don't know, so much to choose from. Mama G said to make sure she goes outside, "otherwise she'll just sit and watch movies all day."

Here's to enabling.

Slice of Grice(s), Episode 1: An Introduction

2009-07-08T21:27:00.007-04:00

Papa Grice, Physics, and "Pi"

2009-06-25T14:35:00.006-04:00

I was paid an unexpected visit by my father, Papa Grice, yesterday afternoon. I've been panicked (and driving Mama G crazy) about the upcoming exam that okays you to teach Sciences in 8th-12th grade; upon hearing that, Pops went through his old things and carted over a boatload of physics and chemistry books (he was an engineer).

"Ahh, Morgie, I don't think you need to worry. You were always best at math and science. I bet you don't even really need to study. What was that tournament you used to do? Math...Math...?"

"Math Triathlon! HA! Several of my friends in New York don't even believe I can count!"

"Oh, you'll be fine." He started flipping through one of the books, plucking a page from one that read something about "The Basics." "Here, here's an easy one."

That's just about the worst way to begin an impromptu physics lesson for someone like me. It's not an easy one, but now when I get it wrong, I'll want to drill a hole in my head. Sigh.

As the words dribbled out of his mouth, I wanted to curl up in the fetal position.

Though, a day later, I remember how much I used to love these problems.

Speaking of drilling holes in heads, I'm reminded of a scene from the movie "Pi." Excuse the somewhat graphic nature.

Movie Nights at Home: "Planet Terror" (Grindhouse), "Firestarter"; Writing, Remembering How to Study (?)

2009-06-18T09:05:00.005-04:00

It's 5:30 a.m. in the Grice Household; I'm scrambling eggs. Mama G emerges from her bedroom and: "Ooohhh, mija, you're already up! I thought I was going to have to drag you out of bed by your hair!!" she exclaims with genuine surprise, but with a touch of disappointment that she didn't get to yank the old mop.

I have to take her to the Metro in the mornings if I want to use a vehicle.

"Yeah, I don't know -- I just woke up. I was having nightmares ... something involving being chased and being shot at ... and explosions, yeah, I could see faces exploding!"

"Oh, mija."

"Yeah, I don't know why ... well, maybe it was because of the movie last night."

"HA! You didn't watch the movie!"

"Lies! I did so."

"I kept throwing things at you. And you kept lying, saying you weren't sleeping. You always lie, you big horse."

"I was awake!"

"What happened at the end?"

Sigh. "Aren't you going to be late?"

Since being back home, things have gone right back to normal. Well, "normal." The night before, we ended our days as we usually do -- with a movie. Mama G and I sit in the living room, while Brother G shouts at us from the other room and comes out periodically to make sure we're still watching. Nine times out of 10, I "fall asleep," (or so they say), and Mama G begins yelping crazy things at me, throwing pillows, or kicking me with her Flinstone Feet -- depending on how close she is.

Up that night was Robert Rodriguez's "Planet Terror" of "Grindhouse," which I was so embarrassed to say I hadn't seen. While I won't admit that I fell asleep that night (or any other of the thousands of nights before -- I can't help it!), I have now watched it in full. What a crazy film.

"Grindhouse" trailer:

The day before, I had a Drew Barrymore marathon (unintentional!), which consisted of "Never Been Kissed" (still cute), "E.T." (sigh), and ... Steven King's "Firestarter" (!!!!!!) God, I forgot how awesome that movie is.

In "Firestarter," a drug, LOT-6, is administered to Andy McGee (David Keith) and Vicky McGee (Heather Locklear), Charlie's (Barrymore) parents. Charlie develops pyrokinetic powers (her parents develop telekinetic, not nearly as cool). Now "The Shop," a secret organization, is after Charlie and her Dad ... poor Mom died a sinister death ... and Little Charlie goes around exploding police cars, houses, making misogynists' boots blow up in flames. Highly recommended.

I think I made it through 8 movies a couple days ago ... though, I'm "working" while I watch - what I'd do without a computer near the TV (be more productive).

In other news, road trips to the Hill Country and Austin start next week with Brother G; upon returning, Mama G and I begin the long road trip to little New York City the following day. Throughout this time, I'll be writing, watching, reading and studying.

As for the studying, I have some tests to take and some classes to attend ... upon Mama G's urging, I should be certified to TEACH by the beginning of August. (!)

Twiddle, twiddle in JFK; Airplane! and The Terminal

2009-06-15T14:06:00.003-04:00

"Does my displeasure please you?" I asked, my three huge bags tottering tenuously in the SmarteCarte that held them.

"Of course not, mijita, never," defended Mama G. "You just have to look at it as a good thing."

A good thing. How, praytell, can being stuck in JFK for a good ... oh, another 8 hours, be a good thing?

"Well, didn't you say you needed to send off that story by midnight tonight? Now you're stuck! You have to finish it and send it off. So, go find somewhere you can be by yourself and finish it, and send it off."

"MAMA! I'm in the loneliest airport known to man, in Terminal FIVE, of all places; you want me to make lemonade? Where is your sympathy?!?"

"You don't need my sympathy. This is good for you. Go and finish your story."

"I can't even get a little bit of sympathy, you awful woman?"

"No, you don't need it."

"You know, I haven't shaved my legs in several days and the hairs are staring at me, menacingly; I'm wearing shorts and now I'm going to have to lug THREE huge bags around with me as I try to talk to strangers, as they stare at my legs, I'm sure -- still, nothing?"

"No, you should've gotten up earlier. And you should've shaved your legs."

"I got up at 7am! For an 11am flight. There was a lockjam in Lincoln Tunnel! I even tried to get Brother to check-in for me online (Brother G, I'm changing my password, don't you worry. I've been down the Internet Rat path before, and I don't want you to see what I say about you in my emails.)."

"Mijita, just go write your story and stop worrying; we'll come pick you up."

"You better."

"We will."

"11:47pm. I know y'all'll be late."

"We won't!"

"You will."

Sigh, "Mijita."

Sigh, back at you.

A couple good airport movies:

This scene in Airplane! was one of my earliest memories of being so comically entertained.

The Terminal -- not super great, but good premise.