Happy New Year, "Invictus" Rant

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!

Back to Bad Blake, Crazy Heart

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

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?")

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:

Fraud, Mama and Brother G -- Adventure, Resumed

How does one write fraud, without really writing it?

When I was "let go," restructured out of "The Vision," etc., I was given an agreement. I'd be paid through such and such a time, given my awarded bonus for the following year at an earlier time, considering I was being restructured out of The Vision, and all.

No such bonus came, of late.

I twiddled my thumbs; I checked and rechecked my account; I clucked my tongue each time at the un-fattened bank account that stared me in the face.

As Mama G and Brother Grice kept sending me emails aplenty, about how much fun our road trips are going to be, I kept refreshing that old bank account, wondering where it was. Those few pennies I was depending upon.

Finally, I just sent an email to the whoa-man who's supposed to be taking care of me, during these times. To think I'd almost just sat there doing nothing.

"The rest should be paid this coming week - I apologize for this mistake. Any questions please let me know. Thanks, XXX"

MISTAKE?!?!?!?!

I almost didn't even send an email, for fear of sounding or coming off as too forward; had I not sent that email, so you could send me a gummy-faced, horrid response, telling me I'll get my due this week ... I'd had never received it.

I sent back a decent response, but one that was appropriately piqued, I'd say.

Brother G, we's gonna have a fine time out there tubing on the river and Mama G, New O'lens never looked so fine.

On Being Wrongly-Convicted, Shawshank, Santa Barbara

"So, what would your last meal be?" I ask, creepily. "Let's say you're on death row, and you've to send in your final food request. What would it be?" I clarify, more creepily.

"Oh, I don't know -- my tastes have changed so much over the years. You know? Like when I was a kid, it would've been ..." he responds, thoughtfully, as we shovel Santa Barbaran Mexican food into our fat faces. "Yours?"

"Pancakes, with scrambled eggs. And I'd want to eat as much as I could before I felt it all sink in to feel full and terrible. Then they could flip the switch," I respond, seamlessly. Yikes.

[Blink, blink]

"Hmm. Well, the real question is, Why did you end up on death row, Grice??"

The mind went aflutter.

Brother Grice has been shot dead. I find the villain and retaliate, vigilante-style. No. Little Morgan's been 'napped; I've found where they're holding her hostage and I snipe the perps, SWAT-style. No, no. Mama Grice has fallen comatose. The man whose fault it is is about to pull the plug in a stealth hospital-worker move. I knife him, saving her, of course; I'm found at fault for taking matters into my own hands.

No, no, no. None of these work -- I'd plea insanity (after having secured an un-securable top attorney) and probably would be left to rot in the jailhouse for all eternity. But no death row. Sigh.

I'd have to be wrongly convicted, I fear. Like Mr. Robbins in Shawshank.

One of my favorite Morgan Freeman scenes:

"