Maborosi

I rented this 1995 Japanese film from the director of After Life and Nobody Knows (both unseen by me), on the strength of this youtube clip, which would be gorgeous if youtube were capable of such a thing. The overhead shot with the snowfall beginning -- fantastic. Unfortunately, the US dvd from New Yorker is wretched, much like my attitude in this post. Looks transferred straight from vhs, exactly the opposite of what this carefully composed film demands. Nevertheless, judge this 6 1/2 minutes for yourself.

Another unnecessary sequel!

Fuggedabout Schmidt (2009) - Jack Nicholson returns as discontented retiree Warren Schmidt, and this time he's teaming up with mob boss Frank Vincent to steal -- aaaah, fugeddaboutit! Directed by Linc Cassavetes (yup, there's another one).

Well, they say that Santa Fe is less than ninety miles away...

The term “media circus” didn’t emerge until the mid-70’s, but by 1951, Billy Wilder had already literalized the concept onscreen in his caustic satire Ace in the Hole, recently rescued from oblivion by a much-celebrated Criterion dvd release. When a miner is trapped in a cave-in while scavenging for “Indian artifacts” in New Mexico, opportunistic reporter Chuck Tatum (Kirk Douglas) spins the predicament into an epic human interest story that attracts hordes of gawkers, reporters, entertainers, and yes, even a full-fledged carnival (not-so-subtly titled “the Great S&M Amusement Corp.” in a sneaky move past the censors) to the site. While the disgraced, ex-big time reporter seeks to prolong the rescue mission until he can leverage his way back to his old job with a New York paper, the miner’s discontented wife (Jan Sterling) plans to skip town once the story blows over; lining her coffers in the meantime by charging admission to the site.

Ace has a reputation as Wilder’s most cynical study of human nature, and indeed Douglas’ Tatum is one of the meanest bastards ever to appear outside of a gangster picture in a Hayes Code-era Hollywood film. Stridently unethical and verbally, as well as physically, abusive, Tatum seemingly embodies every negative trope of the 50’s-era news business that Wilder and co-writers Walter Newman and Lesser Samuels could throw in; and the film’s contempt for the broadly drawn “Mr. and Mrs. America” types who lap up every tragic detail of the story (and ostensibly resemble a large segment of Hollywood’s usual target audience) is almost equally pronounced. Not surprisingly, the film was such a box office bomb that Paramount never even released it on VHS, and in fact recouped some of its losses from Wilder’s salary on his next hit, Stalag 17.

Unfortunately, Wilder’s cynicism isn’t as perfectly realized here as in masterpieces like Double Indemnity and Sunset Boulevard; occasionally coming off not only as one-note but insultingly obvious. Tatum’s canny deflection of suspicion from the obviously unwieldy drilling plan also seems like a stretch, until you recall the mainstream media recently took their own sweet-ass time before raising hard questions about the deadly Utah mine disaster. Nevertheless, the film is a must-see not just for its uncompromising tone but because its audacity is complemented to outstanding effect by Wilder’s typically pimped out dialogue and some of the sharpest cinematography of his career.

Ace in the Hole would also make a great double-bill with the even-more prescient A Face in the Crowd (1957). While most Americans today can probably at least acknowledge the distasteful overkill of most media circuses, even as they devote their unhealthy interest to them, plenty are still wholly, gullibly snookered by the sort of sinister, phony folksy charm Andy Griffith lays on in Elia Kazan’s cautionary tale, as evidenced by George W. Bush and that doofy red pickup truck that future washout presidential candidate Fred Thompson uses exclusively for campaign appearances.

"Where am I going to get a pair of beautiful women's legs on such short notice?"

(Above: a possible still from Napolean Dynamite 2: Awkward Boogaloo)

Roger Ebert has been covering the Toronto Film Festival and gives a typically generous heads up (Yes, I said "heads up." I dare not infringe his copyright) about the latest Quirky Indie Comedy that will be driving me nuts in a couple of months... probably without me ever actually seeing it. Juno stars Ellen Page as a 16-year-old pregnant with Michael Cera's mumbleseed, and everything Ebert writes about it gives me an uneasy feeling: The film received a warm, loud, standing ovation (So did Clerks II at Cannes. Means nothing. Plus, the audience was probably packed with these shills); The characters in this situation are unlike any others he's seen before (i.e. they're all driven by precocious child logic that has no bearing on reality); and he predicts the film will be "quickly beloved when it opens at Christmas time" -- most likely by an audience suddenly demanding their comic heroes stride across the screen decked out in a demeaning mish-mash of 70's/80's/90's retrogeek fashion. Michael Cera doesn't need a goofy costume to be funny, but such sloppy visual cues are apparently the new definition of crowd-pleasing for nostalgia-addled... whipper snappers (there, I said it!) who watch too danged much VH1. Why doesn't that channel ever play Amy Grant videos anymore, anyway?

But, we'll see. I could be very wrong, as I was in my little-read 1997 essay on The Sweet Hereafter, "Tragically Hilarious: Atom Egoyan's Bus-Crashing Laff Hoedown." First-time screenwriter Diablo Cody previously adapted her blog Pussy Ranch - which chronicled her time as an "unlikely" stripper - into a book that landed her this Letterman appearance. Wikipeida not-inaccurately notes that Dave was "imbued with fascination with the sex industry and her observational prowess" during the interview. Hey, it beats listening to Paul Schaeffer's constant cackling. I just found out about Cody 20 minutes ago, but my cold assessment is that her friendly demeanor, calculated wit and anime-ready moniker clearly mark her as a savvy purveyor of Fleshbot-friendly geek chic (I demand that appear as a blurb somewhere). Ultimately, that means she would probably charm me out of my nothin-happenin' schlubdom with ease if we ever met, before she returned to her multitude of fulfilling projects and I to my pretentious Netflix rentals, respectively.

Boy, this post really went in an unintended direction. It's almost like I got my just desserts for complaining about a movie I haven't seen yet; But how could that be?

Update (non-all caps version): I waited until after I posted this to read Michael Hirschon's notes on the proliferation of quirk in The Atlantic, which gets off to an immediately shaky start with its use of the term "Gen-X" but mostly recovers. Looks like I avoided too much overlap, except for a shared disdain of Napolean Dynamite, as Hirschon's big target is Ira Glass. Between this and the Onion's recent smackdown, isn't it odd how there's apparently a This American Life backlash suddenly brewing? For what it's worth, I agree that the one episode of the tv version I saw didn't work at all, with Glass' "And now for something completely different" transitions serving as the nadir. As for a couple of Hirschon's other examples, if anything Arrested Development is more zany than quirky, and Flight of the Conchords ended up charming me to the point where it was my favorite show of the summer. Granted, the only other competition was John From Cincinnati, but still.

Yet more about TheWirethewirethewire

A good read from the Washington Post about the last day of filming. They report the s5 premiere date as Jan 6 - sooner than I thought. So you know what that means: S4 arrives on dvd Dec 4.

As Philly Boy Roy would say:

"Who does he think he is, Omelet Ertegun?"

Sunday's New York Times Magazine had a feature article on former wanna-be wrestling manager/current Columbia Records co-chairman Rick Rubin, detailing his efforts to save the music industry without having to get up from the comfort of his zabuton. First, I should mention the article is amusingly bookended by Rubin's discovery of a "new" band called the Gossip, who I first saw when they opened for Sleater-Kinney in 2000 and are so popular in England that Beth Ditto bared her corpulent flesh on the cover of the NME. Second, this is more like Rubin-as-Guru PR stuff, rather than an astute appraisal of his credentials as a producer. I'd like to read more about just how "hands-off" his role is during the recording process; surely Slipknot can't be the only band with grievances? That said, one need only type the words "Def Jam" to shore up Rubin's cultural cache, and he was unquestionably a godsend for Johnny Cash's career. There may not have been a Walk the Line and probably a lot fewer reissues if the Rubin-helmed American albums hadn't made Cash marketable to Gens X, Y, XY, YX, MXPX, and so forth. He also deserves credit/blame for extending the Red Hot Chili Peppers' career by at least 15 years, thereby establishing Chad Smith as a national treasure (and ensuring that I will now get tons of google hits for "Chad Smith" + "national treasure").

The article also details some of Rubin's ideas for saving the major music labels, who at one time could weather storms like home taping and the Rock 'N' Wrestling Connection but are now in genuine danger of collapse. I have doubts about Rubin's proposed $19.95 subscription model, but at least he seems to be bringing something to the table other than flailing gestures and the usual contempt for consumers and artists alike. Take Steve Barnett of Columbia's suggestion in the article to start gobbling up artists' touring and merchandise revenue; Not exactly the kind of idea that'll prompt Steve Albini to shutter his recording studio and start a supergroup with Ashlee Simpson, Taylor Hicks and Gibby Haynes.

As for me, I don't pretend to know what could solve the major labels' woes, but I did think of a couple of possibilities while writing this post:

1) Have prominent Dead Boys fan Jim Cramer go on CNBC and beg the Federal Reserve to bail out the music industry like he did in response to the mortage crisis.

2) Expand upon a curious new phenomenon I witnessed firsthand at a club the other night: band elections! Normally, you couldn't drag me out to H St in DC on a Wednesday night to see Rogue Helicoptor Pilot open for These Cupcakes Are Delish, but this was more like a riveting microcosm of our political process than a standard indie rock show. The guitarist, bassist, drummer and glockenspielist of TCAD were all campaigning onstage for the title of Band President, to be chosen by the audience at the end of the show. The lead singer told the crowd he was ineligible to run "under the Van Halen Fairness Doctrine," but that he was promised some sort of honorary title and a specially designed, gold sequined robe from American Apparel as compensation. The singer also introduced scattered "campaign ads" projected on the wall throughout the night - I was struck most by the glockenspielist's heartwrenching tale of having to pay 4% of his art school tuition - and moderated a heated debate during the encore break in which the guitarist called the drummer a "leaden-footed flip flopper," holding up a gasp-inducing cameraphone pic of his rival drumming while wearing flip flops to bolster his claims. The band then handed out golf pencils and paper scraps to the audience and waited until the results were tabulated before playing the last three songs of the night. Unfortunately the voting ended in a tie, necessitating a run-off gig later in the month, but I'm sure Sony or whatever would have the wherewithal to rig it so that doesn't happen very often. At least I hope so, as some of the miffed indie rockers in the crowd started poking each other with the golf pencils, spilling their cheap beer and hurling subtle sarcasm at the visibly cowed band until the club owner politely asked everyone to file out in an orderly fashion, which they did. Maybe next time these kids will learn to run on the only political platform I care about: The Uplift Mofo Party Plan.

That's it! I'm buying a video camera.

There's literally no reason why you and I should not be making movies and cashing in on awkwardness when a film can be released with this title:

My pitch is for a real-time movie called BRB, about a bunch of hip, underemployed college grads who've recently moved to Brooklyn (i.e. the most fascinating, culturally relevant people on earth), waiting on line to buy the latest iGadget. It'll delve into their very mild disaffection; their slightly inarticulate confusion; their somewhat dwindling trust funds; their struggles to recall the perfect Family Guy scene for every social situation. I don't think "mumblecore" adequately describes what I'm going for. I've been kicking around "shirt-edge" as a genre title. What do you think?

People like lists, right? Please tell me people like lists.

Robert Christgau, the Dean of American Windbags, has every Village Voice "Pazz & Jop" critics' poll going back to '71 archived on his website. For no discernable reason, I went through each list and picked my own personal winner for each year from their album and singles lists. In many (i.e. most) cases, my own personal favorite didn't make the list so I had to make due with their choices.

For my own sanity's sake I didn't try to document every snub and absurdity, but I did notice:
- At no point during their 31-year career do The Fall appear to have made either the albums or singles list, yet the Mekons pop up regularly.
- The Go-Betweens were shut out, amazingly, until The Friends of Rachel Worth in 2000.
- Critics reeeeaally hate metal.
- They hated Pink Floyd almost as much.
- I think I've pinpointed 1994 as the year when mainstream pop singles crap out entirely and never recover. There seem to have been surprising numbers of choices in years previous.

Albums:

1971: The Rolling Stones: Sticky Fingers
(Led Zeppelin IV finished last on their list @ #30, right below Delaney & Bonnie. Haterz.)
1972-73: No poll. Projected winners: Hot Tuna
1974: Big Star: Radio City
1975: Bob Dylan: Blood on the Tracks
1976: Ramones: Ramones
1977: Television: Marquee Moon
(Overrated, according to the spritely lad from Franz Ferdinand, who while explaining his reasons why here clearly illustrates why his band isn't built to last)
1978: Elvis Costello: This Year's Model
1979: Buzzcocks: Singles Going Steady
1980: The Clash: London Calling
(a controversial pick, I know. When are the tastemakers finally going to rediscover this obscure gem?!?)
1981: Mission of Burma: Signals, Calls & Marches EP
(winner should either be Black Flag - Damaged, or Minor Threat's first EP. Or Juice by Juice Newton)
1982: Flipper: Album/Generic Flipper
1983: REM: Murmur
1984: Minutemen: Double Nickels on the Dime
1985: Hüsker Dü: New Day Rising and Flip Your Wig
(oh yeah, ties are allowed, apparently)
1986: Beastie Boys: Licensed to Ill
(they manage to bounce a few Budweiser cans off the Smiths' heads)
1987: Prince: Sign "O" the Times
1988: Sonic Youth: Daydream Nation
(I know, God forbid someone shouldn’t pick “It Takes a Nation of Millions…” Also, the Pixies’ “Surfer Rosa” didn’t even make their list)
1989: Beastie Boys: Paul's Boutique
1990: Public Enemy: Fear of a Black Planet
(happy now?)
1991: U2: Achtung Baby
(Yes, I unreservedly love it. Bite me).
1992: Pavement: Slanted and Enchanted
(not even my favorite Pavement album - that would be CR, CR, while acknowledging Wowee Zowee might be the "best" - but my favorite of this list)
1993: PJ Harvey: Rid of Me
(winner should be Wu-Tang Clan - Enter the Wu-Tang)
1994: Guided by Voices: Bee Thousand
1995: PJ Harvey: To Bring You My Love
1996: DJ Shadow: Endtroducing…
1997: Radiohead: OK Computer
(Yet another bold, divisive pick. Look, I'm not afraid of a little controversy! The point of this is to set tongues wagging).
1998: Neutral Milk Hotel: In the Aeroplane Over the Sea
1999: The Magnetic Fields: 69 Love Songs
A few of the following picks are not-so-emphatic:
2000: OutKast: Stankonia
2001: New Pornographers: Mass Romantic
2002: Neko Case: Blacklisted
2003: Cat Power: You Are Free
2004: Elliott Smith: From a Basement on the Hill
(winner should be Reigning Sound - Too Much Guitar)
2005: Sleater-Kinney: The Woods
2006: Scott Walker: The Drift

Singles:

1979 - The Records: "Starry Eyes"
(I hate "My Sharona")
1980 - Joy Division: "Love Will Tear Us Apart"
1981 - Gang of Four: "To Hell With Poverty"
1982 - New Order: "Temptation"
1983 - Prince: "Little Red Corvette"
1984 - Prince: "Let's Go Crazy"/"Erotic City"
(mostly for the B-side)
1985 – Kate Bush: "Running Up That Hill"
(I'm sure Alan Partridge would agree w/ me)
1986 - Pet Shop Boys: "West End Girls"
(... and its 2007 descendant)
1987 - Public Enemy: "Bring the Noise"
1988 - Rob Base & D.J. E-Z Rock: "It Takes Two"
(provides the soundtrack to a summer of mayhem in David Simon's Homicide)
1989 - Public Enemy: "Fight the Power"
1990 - Deee-Lite: "Groove Is in the Heart"/"What Is Love"
1991 - Geto Boys: "Mind Playing Tricks on Me"
1992 - Cypress Hill: "How I Could Just Kill a Man"/"The Phuncky Feel One"
(the Suicidal Tendencies reference @ the end of HICJKM helps seal the deal)
1993 - Dr. Dre: "Nuthin' but a ‘G’ Thang"
aaand here's where the rot sets in:
1994 - Nine Inch Nails: "Closer"
(you can toss everything else they did in the garbage if you must, but this was like the goth/industrial/safely freaky/Skinemax "Nuthin' But a G Thang")
1995 - Elastica: "Three Girl Rhumba '95" (aka "Connection")
1996 - Blackstreet: "No Diggity"
("Common People" would've won if we were talking about William Shatner's version)
1997 – Yo La Tengo: "Autumn Sweater" (a really shitty list. Sleater-Kinney's "One More Hour" was my favorite song of this year)
1998 - Aaliyah: "Are You That Somebody"
1999 – N/A; an even worse list. I can't even pick a winner unless I go up my nose [sorry]! No hope; no hope....
2000 - OutKast: "B.O.B."
2001 - Missy "Misdemeanor" Elliott: "Get Ur Freak On"
2002 – fucking Missy Elliott again: "Work It"
2003 - OutKast: "Hey Ya!"
(People were practically in shock that an awesome song could still become a ginormous hit by this point. I still maintain that they ripped me off though, as I was using the expression "Hey ya" years before this was released. Plus, I was sued by Rosa Parks before they were. No originality these days!)
2004 - Jay-Z: "99 Problems"
(might've been the 3rd best song on LL Cool J's Radio, but in 2004 it's single of the year)
2005 - Kelly Clarkson: "Since U Been Gone"
(on the level of an okay Pat Benatar song, but by 2005 standards it's practically runnin' s-hit)
2006 - Gnarls Barkley: "Crazy" (winner should be late-period Crazy Frog)

My ancestry's brush with fame... and infamy!

While he's all but unknown to even the most knowledgable historians today, my great-great-grandpa Venison Plowe (our family dropped the silent "P" shortly after his death, although the "l" remained lowercase) was at one time arguably the third or fourth most famous lip reader in western Maryland. I hardly need to remind my readers that entertainment options were scarce around the turn of the century, centered as they were mostly on bible reading, deer tickling and poisoning one's spouse. Therefore, an accomplished lip reader could dazzle crowds far and wide with his "feats of verbal verification," as the posters used to say. Yes sir, folks would travel from as far as Johnstown, PA to see ol' Venison practice his craft. One time he even performed in front of 1,500 people at the county fair, although it's possible that most of the crowd was there to see the follow-up act: a pig blowing into a jug.

Still, it was pretty impressive whenever great great grandpa Venison strapped beaver tails to his ears for soundproofing and attempted to repeat back whatever people said to him from a distance as great as 1.9 yards. I say "attempt" because despite the relatively close proximity and the faultiness of the beaver tail earphones, his guesses were almost always wildly off the mark. An audience member might remark "the fire engine is red" and Venison would interpret it as "The Duchess is swathed in jump rope and blubber." But ol' Venison's piss-poor lip reading skills didn't matter because he had a secret trick: he was also a trained hypnotist! No matter what someone would actually say, he'd hypnotize them and the entire audience into thinking the correct phrase was something like "Zeus has crashed through my skylight wearing a mu'umu'u." Whenever I heard stories as a kid about great great grandpa Venison I'd usually ask why he didn't just bill himself as a hypnotist, since they made a lot more money than lip readers anyway. This usually resulted in me getting a belt to the face from the nearest relative for "asking too many gay-ass questions." Later I discovered that Venison was kicked out of the Western Maryland Hypnotists Guild early in his career and blackballed for "theft of ceremonial robes, improper clucking instructions, and suspicion of buggering somnolent bystanders." All in all, I can't say I blame them.

After the demand for lip readers dried up - along with his hypnotizing ability - Venison "fharted around for a whyle," as he later wrote in his "jhournal." He eked out a living writing trashy stories under a pseudonym ("The Stupendous Gus") for hypnosis magazines like Mesmerised Lasses and Wacky Trance, wallowing in profanity by day and moonshine at night, until he accidentally swallowed a toenail clipper and died in 1917. Not a pretty story, I know, but hey I'd like to see some of the sleazeballs and slave traders in your family tree... jerk!

Teddy Rockstar: Powered by (a) Starbucks (van)

Coincidentally, this went down four years ago tomorrow (it's also on the Dirty Old Town dvd):



In other news, the (most likely series) finale of John From Cincinnati was packed w/ gibberish and malarkey, even by their obtuse standards. The parade at the end was like the goofiest movie Robert Altman never made, although Ed O'Neill had me cracking up. This after the episode kicked off with maybe the greatest non-Al Bundy moment of the series: an aerial shot and montage set to Bob Dylan's "Series of Dreams," culminating in Shaun and the titular Cincinnatite surfing back down to Earth. It would have been even better with a "Lawrence of Arabia"-style POV shot of Butchie and Kai watching them emerge as a speck on the horizon. The tragedy of all this is that future generations will never understand the unique grip that John From Cincinnati held on our collective psyche, and we'll have to settle with telling our grandkids exactly where we were when Palaka's tattoo got infected.

Oh, and you want some unexpected synergy between Ted Leo and JFC? Here ya go.

Patton blows my mind again

I'd give THREE kudos if I could!

New Derrière Rising

Jon Swift picks apart the "Derrièrists," thankfully only a few of whom are publicly enjoying another touchdown dance following the deaths of Bergman and Antonioni. For my part, I love, love Bergman, obviously, and liked L'avventura when I saw it a few years ago, but I couldn't get into The Passenger at all (I'll give it another chance at some point) and really don't care for Blow-Up, aside from this wicked scene and maybe one or two others. Check out this great letter to Ebert from the actor who played the corpse in Blow-Up. He was originally supposed to have a bigger role, but the film was shut down and pieced together in editing due to Antonioni going over-budget. The producer was a tad peeved that Antonioni was spending money on painting grass a different shade of green and sprucing up houses and the like.

Also came across this quote on Bergman's passing: "I am proud to say he treated me exactly like his other children - with no interest whatsoever." - Lars Von Trier

Ingmar Bergman RIP

(Taken mostly from Nostalgia Party No. 2 and DVD Beaver)

Guess what I found at a yard sale for $2

A 1967 acetate of the Velvet Underground covering Christmas tunes, including "Here Comes Santa Claus" with an unusually festive Nico on vocals, a 37-minute "Twelve Days of Christmas," and a version of "European Son" with sleigh bells. It also includes an untitled Thanksgiving song about a guy who stuffs his head in a turkey to impress a transsexual and then falls off a construction beam to his death. You can even hear Lou Reed yelp at the end after John Cale drops a viola on his foot. Look out, eBay!

Will success spoil... uhm, this guy?

(Above: Steve Carell, the beefy version)

If watching a dozen or so characters on John From Cincinnati enact their own personal "Waiting For Godot" each week isn't doing it for you, and if you're like me and have come to the cold, hard realization that once The Wire is done, HBO's golden age of dramas is offically kaput (have you heard about their softcore, utterly tedious-looking , relationships-are-hard show?), you might find something watchable on AMC, of all channels. The first episode of Mad Men (check out that blatant HBO ripoff website design), Matthew Weiner's new show about advertising executives in 1960, shows promise of developing into something good. Weiner was a writer and executive producer of The Sopranos, and if you're guessing a Sopranos writer's take on early 60's ad men might be a bit jaded, well then perhaps you can tell me whether or not magic plays a role in the new Harry Potter book. Even for the time period, the first episode overdoes it a bit with the "hey toots" office sexism, and revels too easily in the irony of a prominent tobacco campaign (see this disappointed Slate review for more gripes), but compellingly square-jawed protagonist Don Draper shows enough flashes of Tony Soprano-like duality and shading - mainly during scenes with a female client - that you'll probably want to know where Weiner is taking his character within the context of the boozy, socially uneasy time period. By the final scene, the glimpse of the seemingly unattached Draper's home life even constitutes something of a surprise. The show's production values are also easy enough on the eyes to make us think we're in capable hands. Strong, burly, capable hands. What? You said something? No? Huh. Man, that redheaded secretary is stacked.

The next encore of the premiere is this Wednesday @ 10. As you can tell by the opening paragraph, The House Next Door is pretty enthusiastic about it and has promised the next few episodes turn it up a notch. And hey, what's that in the preview for episode two, a therapist's couch? Oooh, they really are trying to ease my Sopranos withdrawl.

"When do this shit change?" - Bunny Colvin

Alan Sepinwall succinctly summarizes just a few of the reasons why the Emmys are a joke here, and it's a bitter joke indeed that The Wire has been so pointedly ignored every year aside from a writing nomination for season three. Amazingly, it didn't even crack the list of top 10 Best Drama finalists that leaked a month or so ago. Of course, the Emmys are just continuing their tradition of shunning anything that comes out of Bawlmer, beginning with their repeated Homicide snubs in the early 90's (I checked and The Corner did get some nominations in the miniseries category). At this point, I even picture the voters sending David Simon anonymous, taunting e-mails: Hey Baldy, hope you're enjoying your lake trout subs in "Charm City." I was playing squash w/ Kelsey G. when I got a text about your latest goose egg. Maybe some day you'll make a grown-up show in a real city with an actual star like Billy Baldwin or Billy Pullman... or even Billy Connolly (news flash, Mr. Reporter: he's versatile). Until then, go choke on a crabcake, loser. Yerrrp! Sincerely, "Olympia Bukakis"

Of course, Deadwood hardly fared any better, aside from some production nods (nice to see that backbreaking budget pay off!), but that's no surprise as you can only throw out the word "cocksucker" so many times before you start to turn off voters (just ask Bill Moyers). 30 Rock did get a comedy series nom, but a win probably wouldn't do them any more good than it did Arrested Development. And where, oh where, was the love for Daddy's Hoes on the CW, starring Michael Rappoport's brother, Ahmnott? This was their year, cocksuckers!

I've pulled out all the stops for your Friday afternoon frolicking

Back in my "nomad years" (as Bush once referred to a significant chunk of his adult life), I would occasionally kill a few minutes by filling out sarcastic answers to mind-numbingly pointless surveys on MySpace. Some people said they found these amusing, which I could tell meant they actually considered them to be "incandescent bursts of epoch-defining hilarity" (their thoughtwords, not mine). I don't know whether or not the following survey ascends similarly glorious heights, but since I've got a whole blog to sustain with my regurgitated nonsense I thought I'd spit one up and let you be the judge.

Things you may or may not know about me - in particular order

A) Four jobs I have had in my life
1. Pudding impresario
2. Voice actor on “Lil’ Allman Brothers” cartoon
3. Dick Gregory impersonator
4. Manager of legally permissible “Chuck F. Cheese” restaurant

B) Four movies I watch over and over:
1. Lilya-4-Ever
2. Lilya-4-Ever
3. Lilya-4-Ever
4. Is that weird?

C) Four places I have lived:
1. Funny answer
2. Hilarious answer
3. Sidesplitting answer
4. Existential answer peering into the bottomless depths of the human soul

D) Four TV Shows I watch:
1. 30 Rock
2. QI: Quite Interesting
3. John Gibson From Cincinnati
4. Dateline NBC Will Decide Who Lives and Who Dies

E) I have been to:
1. the mountaintop
2. heaven and back
3. paradise, but I’ve never been to me
4. Crackerjack Cal’s Peanut Butter-and-Rape Whistle Emporium in Gaithersburg

F) People who e-mail me (regularly):
1. Jimmy Two Arms
2. Jimmy Four Legs
3. Jimmy Seven Nipples
4. Jimmy Thirty Helens Agree

G) Four of my favorite foods:
1. Veal Smoothie
2. Kiwi Burger
3. G. Gordon Liddy’s Cinnamon Bologna Treats
4. Spice Must Flow… wait, no, that’s my favorite Spice Girl

H) Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Australia (“Lotta flies there.”) What about New Zealand? (“Uhhh…”) Sold.
2. Japan (“What? No you wouldn’t”). Yeah, you’re right. I just wanted to seem worldly.
3. Norwegian cuddle party. Norwegians are renowned for their excellent, highly refined cuddles (“That’s it. I know I’ve said this before, but I’m done with you.”) What do you mean? (“The lame, smart-alecky tone; the stunted frame of reference; the desolate, lonely existence") Hey! ("Look at you, wasting time on this adolescent bullshit at your age because you know that after twenty-eight years treading this planet you've still got nothing original or interesting to say. Well, I can’t take it anymore. You. Are. Pathetic. Goodbye.”) Ah, you’ll be back. You're totally at my mercy. Hey! What time are we going to Chipotle later? (“….”) Hello?
4. The world from Tron. The denizens of Tron reportedly have access to better health care than the United States. (“….”) No? Nothin’? (“….”) Huh. He’s really gone, I guess. (“Oh thank God, you’ve gotta help me!”) Huh? (“Right after I left you I ran over an old lady with my Lexus. I killed her!”) You drive a Lexus? (“What? Didn’t you hear me?? I’m in serious shit here, man!”) … (“Hell-ooo!”) Heh… oh, look a daffodil… heh. (“….”) Certainly are a lot of them this time a year (“You fucker. You fucking… pigfucking… fucker.”) Hey, come on! (“You’re not going to help me are you?”) Well, you were the one who said you were done with me and put on a big production about it. (“You were being stupid! C’mon, remember when I saved you from those drunken frat guys who were going to kick your ass?”) That’s not how I remember it. (“WHAT?”) I was about to put that one guy in the Crippler Crossface. (“Come on, man, don’t do this now, I hear sirens!”) Of course, I would never use that move now, for obvious reasons. (“Oh God, I gotta get outta here. I’ll see you in hell!”) Hey, can I have your Playstation?

I ) Four friends I think will repost:
1. Friends. Hmph. Some friend I am.
2. When my friend needed me, because he murdered an old lady, where was I? Well, I was standing in front of him, but my point is, what was I doing? Nothing except nursing my all-too-easily bruised ego over some petty slight, that’s what.
3. I mean, the way I am, I let my nuts hang everywhere I go. That’s just a fact of life. But where’s it gotten me? Why do I run away from everything and leave the earth scorched behind me? Is it because of some innate flaw in my genetic code or do I have the capacity for change?
4. Oh, I know who will repost this: my dumbass cousin, Leslie. She’ll probably answer with a bunch of stupid shit though LOL.

J) Things I am looking forward to this year:
1. New Coen Bros and PTA movies
2. Exciting new internet memes.
3. Anything that will continue to distract me from the black, tangled morass that is my life
4. Disrupting a hot dog eating contest for no reason. I wonder if bagpipes will suffice or if I should go the IED route.

Edward Yang: a belated RIP.

I didn't want to say anything about the terrible, untimely passing of Edward Yang on June 29 - after a seven-year battle with colon cancer - until I had a chance to rewatch his outstanding, international breakthrough film Yi Yi (A One and a Two), regarded by many as a masterpiece and sure to go down as one of the best films of this decade. It seems like I'm always saying I don't have time to review anything on this blog beyond a couple of paragraphs, and although that's lately been true, I would like to say something more in depth about this film at some point, since a simple description can't convey the deeply cinematic impact of this thoughtful, ambitious study of urban family life in Taiwan (full disclosure: I'm never actually going to get around to it). Unfortunately, this is the only Yang film available on dvd here, or indeed in much of the world, apparently, although maybe distributors will finally get a move on now that the Unintended Spotlight is shining. Criterion released a typically handsome and much-needed edition last year with an absolutely perfect cover (once you've seen the film, you'll know why) that I highly recommend.

And really, how can you not trust me after I proclaimed the Jodorowsky box set to be the release of the year back in January, despite the fact that I can really only recommend the symbolism overload of Holy Mountain? Yes, I'm backing off that claim now that I've come down from my pineal gland high, although I did finally get around to watching HM with Jodorowsky's predictably entertaining commentary and will soon do the same for El Topo. I lost count of the number of times Jodorowsky took credit for inventing or presaging some later trend or event in the film, everything from the internet to the Shining Path to rock stars wearing black nail polish. Just think if Cameron Crowe or somebody had ever filmed their own scene where an androgynous old man breastfeeds someone from two baby leapord heads on his chest. There'd be no end to his crowing (no pun intended).

Does anyone remember that Jane's Addiction album, "Rich Hall Will Hit You All?"*

I just discovered this popular and not-dumbed-down in the slightest (Trebek!) UK quiz show, QI: Quite Interesting, hosted by Stephen Fry, where the panel of comedians are asked seemingly odd questions as an excuse to reaveal and riff on obscure facts. Points are awarded not for boring or obvious guesses but for the most creative. There's lots and lots of episodes on YouTube that I can tell are going to be cheering me up regularly for the forseeable future... once I've exhausted all the Tay Zonday clips, that is. Here's one random excerpt:



*Still one of my favorite Jon Wurster-isms

Yes, Stop Making Sense could have been even better.

Embedding has been disabled, but check out these shit hot Talking Heads live clips filmed for Italian tv in 1980, starting with Psycho Killer. The only thing hotter than Tina Weymouth here is Adrian Belew's ridiculously great guitar work. I'm saying this for free!!!

Oh, and speaking of SMS, I attended an outdoor screening of it a month or so ago in Silver Spring as part of this year's Silverdocs festival, where Jonathan Demme got the lifetime achievement award thingie. It's virtually impossible to tire of the film, and I was surprised by the number of indie-looking kids who joined the thirty-and-forty-somethings in the impromptou dance section. There was even a bit of audience participation during "Life During Wartime" when a group of kids and possibly their parents mimicked Byrne's jogging* by running circles around the screen. Unfortunately, my attempt to dance with a lamp was met with outright mockery and hostility, as it was a table lamp I made in woodshop in eighth grade, and I kept beaming people in the head with it and anachronistically yelling "Y'all ready for this?" until I was chased away by festival organizers. I consoled myself by pondering what the early Rocky Horror pioneers must have endured.

*also pronounced Will Ferrell-style as "yogging," just as I similarly refer to "blogging" as "bjogging," much to my family's shame.