Movie Review: The Amazing Spider-Man

Thesis of my discontent: Everyone here does fine work but I struggle to really list superlatives because the script does not allow anyone to shine but also does not allow the story work as an ensemble piece.  Instead everyone is simply shortchanged at the expense of a flimsy and familiar plot.

Caveat emptor: this review is really phoned in.  It will be up to you, dicerning reader, to decide if I am making a clever statement on the creatively bankrupt movie that is today's discussion or if I am just not very good at this.  Hint: the answer is C!

I remember seeing the first Spider-Man movie way back in the summer of ought-two.  My anticipation was higher than a kite.  As a young man who fantasized extensively about Lynda Carter (more accurately Diana Prince AKA Wonder Woman) I also read a stupid amount of Spider-Man comic books.  The quantity never quite reached the heights of Batman and my heart always belonged to the Dark Knight but the fact remained I was definitely a Spidey fan.  There was just something so damned cool about him and his supporting cast of heroes and villains.  Until I discovered The Flash years later (oddly after nearly being struck by lighting and after writing some very dubious checks) I considered Spider-Man’s rogues gallery second only to Batman’s (they are now behind Batman’s and Flash’s and tied with Superman’s).  I simply loved the character, his mythology and his hipness.  When that first movie hit, sitting in the theatre as the credits rolled I was as happy as a man who has been physically shrunken down to the size of only a couple meager inches and forcibly placed inside the pantyhose of the aforementioned Ms. Carter, made to lay under the arch of her sole or between her toes before she jams her foot into that glorious red and white boot and begins a long, hard and very warm and sweaty day of extensive running and jumping superheroics.  I greatly enjoyed the film.  What was not to love?  The tone was sumptuous.  I was never one of THOSE (italics and caps!) fans who insist everything must match up to the comic.  I wisely understood changes must always be made from translating thousands of issues and dozens of years worth of material into a two-hour feature film.  I had a similar enthusiasm for Spider-Man 2 though soon Batman Begins and X2 came out and took their place above Raimi’s vision.  It’s sad and pointless to compare all superhero movies but I am as guilty of it as the next lady or gentleman.  

Then Spider-Man 3 hit and diminished nearly all my enthusiasm for the character by taking a huge narrative step back and basically just being a steaming pile of rotting vegetable matter, an awful crammed movie.  The comics were going through a particularly frustrating point during that time as well and I jump shipped after the thousandth ret con (fanboy jargon for retroactive continuity or something like that, basically rewrites).  Now comes this new version starring everyone’s favorite lasagna loving orange feline and Emma Stone (I originally had a similarly sly joke here instead of her name but felt it could be misread as mean spirited and therefore opted not to include it as I have no ill will whatsoever for Miss Stone).  Was it amazing?  If you read the first sentence of this review you already know my answer but I thought I’d pose the question anyway.   

Not since Superman Returns have I had so many mixed, conflicting thoughts on a comic book film.  And not since Green Lantern from last year have I been so disappointed in one (that’s a sadly short amount of time). 

When I first heard the mysterious “they” used to describe movie studios were rebooting the Spider-Man franchise I was not surprised but I was also not noticeably enthusiastic.  As stated, Spider-Man 3 was dismal but it still seemed strange to scrap all the momentum the original films had built up and start over from scratch.  My intrigue grew a bit when I learned of who was to play the titular hero and then I pretty much forgot about this movie in favor of others. 

I try my damndest to go into every movie with an open mind and leave my expectations (along with my pride, shame and inhibitions) at the door.  But I am seriously, absolutely 100% tired of origin movies.  Last year alone we had four, FOUR (sure it’s less than five but it’s still a hell of a lot more than just two or three) origin movies, two of which were pure trash (not to be confused with Alice Cooper’s 1989 album “Trash” which I find to be a great, underrated gem in his catalogue!).  

To that end this movie is simply not necessary.  I do not buy the argument that a new generation needs their own version of the origin.  All those lazy entitled bastards can watch the old movie or take a few minutes to read the comic reprint in a store or take thirty seconds to look it up on wikipedia (or better yet search for it using searchwithkevin.com which still all these years later is my preferred way to navigate the ever growing and treacherous information super highway!).  It is especially true with the huger, more iconic characters – which definitely includes Spider-man – that everyone knows the origin anyway so there is no need for a retelling.  There’s good reason why the second film in these franchises is typically better and that is because they do not have to waste any time with exposition.  Tim Burton’s 1989 Batman movie had no extended origin sequence, just a three-minute flashback to Wayne’s parents being killed and no one complained.  The origin is even less necessary this time around since the last Spiderman movie barely came out five years ago.  Even if they wanted to separate themselves completely from the Raimi films (which honestly doesn’t seem to be the case) they could have done it without telling the same story.  The Incredible Hulk clearly wanted to be different from Hulk but they did not waste time telling Banner’s origin again, instead it was shown in a montage during the opening credits (that the original Hulk is still a better movie is an ironic twist that does nothing to diminish my point). 

The repetitive feel of this movie is made even more intense due to all the brilliant Sony marketing that promised “the untold story” about Peter Parker and his parents   However there is no such thing here.  There was no significant new information addressed in this film that was left out of the original.  The history of Peter’s parents was brought up in the first fifteen minutes and then discarded for the rest of the movie.  Some folks are saying that it is unfair to criticize the movie simply because it is a reboot and unnecessary to constantly compare it to the original movie.  I can definitely respect this point of view and would even agree if there was a sense of freshness here, like opening a new package of pressed meat and savoring the scents.  However this is a not a case of Tim Burton’s Batman and Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins where the two movies are completely different and seem to have different intentions.  Amazing Spider-Man does not bring anything new to the table and hits many of the same beats of the first Spider-man movie but in a weaker way.  It begs me to ask the question why it even exists in the first place?  The answer is of course that Sony would lose the rights if they didn’t make another movie and they were too scared after Spider-man 3 backlash to have another go in that universe so they decided a numbing rehash would be preferable. 

To be clear, almost all problems I have with this flick can be traced back to the script so let me give some credit to the actors here who all do an admirable job with what they’ve been given.  Andrew Garfield is a great and memorable Peter Parker/Spider-man.  Garfield’s body language in the suit really does look like Spidey stepped out of the pages of the comic book.  Emma Stone is sweet and effortlessly charming.  Despite the lazy writing that accompanies her character and their romance the audience can clearly see why any man – even those of the arachnid variety – would almost instantly fall for her. 

I first became truly appreciative of Rhys Ifans work in Enduring Love and hoped a scene of he and Daniel Craig making out would find it’s way into this movie but I was not destined to have my wish granted.  Despite playing the central antagonist his role is pretty thankless and I have the feeling many of his scenes were left on the cutting room floor.  Still, he’s certainly game all the way through and it is testament to his abilities that he makes such a thinly written character at least almost somewhat intriguing.  I credit any depth or interest in Connors to Ifans and wish he’d been given a chance to show off his true talents. 

Denis Leary, Sally Field and Martin Sheen also do well with so very little.  It is a true shame such a strong cast was not given a meatier script. 

A couple more positives: the score is quite good here.  The only other superhero movies I can think of that have tried to incorporate a truly notable score are the old Richard Donner Superman movies with John Williams at the musical helm and the Burton/Nolan Batman movies with Danny Elfman and Hans Zimmer respectively.  The spider sense was also handled well throughout the movie and the subway scene is rather funny. 

Now the negatives which have a better lead-in if you ignore the previous positive paragraph: Oddly, the first movie – and other comics movies since – have had a much larger supporting cast yet balanced the characters in a far superior way.  There is nothing particularly compelling about a majority of this movie and despite the length of many scenes – notably those at the OsCorp tower or even some between Peter and Gwen – none of the characters are well developed.  Instead, clichéd dialogue and contrived situations stretch on to awkward lengths.

Pacing issues reign supreme!  Ben’s death seems glossed over in relation both to Peter and Aunt May (it also doesn’t help that this depiction makes Peter look like a world class turd for his hand in Uncle Ben’s death being over a bottle of chocolate milk).  Then the movie stalls for romance scenes then speeds up for whatever goofball things the Lizard is concocting.  There was no flow here at all (as far as modern day goes, I would still say Nas has the best flow, fuck Jay-Z!)

Even scenes that should be simplistically epic like the crane scene have missteps.  I never minded the scenes in the first two Spider-man movies where average New York citizens help the star in their own heroic, “awe shucks” kind of way (it really is weird how much this movie borrows from the Raimi films) so I was not bothered at all by these citizens helping out.  However after the musical build up and Spiderman’s run across the roof the pacing is completely ruined by the same thing we’ve seen in a thousand other movies where the hero seems to miss his mark, the music cuts out and then everything swells when we realize he did make the jump, just not in the way we thought.  That may sound like a nitpick but the whole movie is filled with these contrivances and they start to weigh heavily after awhile. 

We now have to discuss Dr. Curt Connors AKA the Lizard.  I am a huge fan of the original Amazing Spider-Man comics by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko and have several different reprints for reading as well as fine to near mint copies of the first nineteen issues (and Amazing Fantasy #15).  One of the many genius things about those early stories is that the legendary creative team invented almost every major Spider-Man rogue in the first thirty issues or so.  Those are the classic villains and have had no problem passing the test of time.  The Lizard is among those classic villains and first appeared in Amazing Spider-Man #6.  Growing up on those original stories as well as thrilling to later arcs featuring the character such as Todd McFarlane’s “Torture” storyline in the 90’s was a delight and I have always been a Lizard fan.  I can’t say he’s my favorite Spider-Man villain but I’ve always had affection for him.  However, he is a very strange choice as a launching pad villain for a new franchise and unfortunately his inclusion and depiction is one of the absolute weakest aspects of this movie.  

I’ve always felt giant creatures are not the best way to go for the big screen adaptations and most of these films have wisely avoided them.  Personally, I am rarely able to find enjoyment from two CGI personality-less creations duking it out.  In the end his plan seems to be to turn everyone in New York into giant lizards to cure their imperfections which played out as terribly in the movie as it does in this sentence (or when I tried to do the very same thing during Miami back in 96’), even a character as undeveloped as he is painfully inconsistent.  One moment Connors is intentionally injecting himself with more lizard juice to go and murder Peter Parker and then in the next he is saving him from falling down a building (which I would think Spider-man could just stick to anyway).  One moment the Lizard ignores Gwen hitting him with a flamethrower and then in the next he murders Captain Stacy.  I know some are going to say he was conflicted and the lizard side of his personality was dominant during the more villainous scenes and the Connors side in control during the other moments but this was honestly only suggested one time when he was talking to the voices in his head (a la Willem Dafoe in the first Spider-Man) and was not explored in any meaningful way that it can excuse weak writing and poor characterization.  I do like the two minutes or so where the Lizard is wearing his lab coat, it was a nice visual.  In the end it was a bit too difficult to take a giant talking lizard seriously and his overall story seemed like a hacked up and watered down version of Doctor Octopus’s from Spider-Man 2 except without the added gravitas of a family (which is odd since Connor’s family in the comics has always been a major plot point with the character) and with a layer of gooey, smelly cheese piled on him.  

 

This is one of those instances where every single money shot was given away in the trailers.  I don’t think this would necessarily be problematic (or even noticeable) if the narrative itself stood up well.  But it does not.  The movie is around 2 hours, 20 minutes and it definitely feels that length.  Despite all that time, the characters have very little depth, the story is thin and there aren’t many moments that stand out as impressive, interesting or exciting.

Despite my aforementioned fond memories I am by no means a Raimi fanboy and none of the original Spider-man movies make it on any of my best films lists.  But I cannot immediately think of anything that this new movie does better than his original.  With the possible exception of the crane scene there is not a single moment of this film that has the sense of wonder, awe and fun that Raimi’s original brought to life so effortlessly ten years ago. 

This is not a terrible movie by any stretch (Armstrong) of the imagination nor does it represent the worst of the genre.  It is however an inexcusable, workman-like disappointment.  In a time where we’ve had films like Batman Begins, Thor and the original Spider-Man this is a sadly pedestrian and unnecessary movie.

Lately, I’ve been listening a lot to Dragonforce’s new album “The Power Within”.  Great album is all I have to say.  Check it out, all ye metal fans.  Roadrunner records is such a great label I should sacrifice myself in their honor.  Good gravy this review sucked!  Trent Reznor (swoon!) once said he would never release anything he does not fully believe in.  I am no Trent Reznor.  Oh Reznor, my life for you....

Music Review: Oceania by The Smashing Pumpkins

“Quasar” starts things up and immediately forces you to pump your fists and grit your teeth with its rock power.  Corgan’s signature walls of guitars are all over this album and welcome as ever.  Everyone in the entire world is going to be comparing this song to “Cherub Rock” from the great Siamese Dream and the similarities are undeniable.  Regardless, the only important thing is this serves as a fantastic way to kickstart the album, a sign to fans new and old that they are welcome to enter and discover what waits inside.  Let me state up front that William’s new band is uniformly great throughout.  Much has been made about the Smashing Pumpkins or yore being a Billy Corgan project where he pretty much does everything except drums (and I have no reason to doubt this) but this new bands seems to have had much more of a say in the music and they are all excellent.  Jimmy Chamberlin being the best drummer in the world would be slightly intimidating to most newcomers but Mike Byrne – a precocious young lad – makes his presence known as a powerhouse drummer in his own right whose beats will cause your brains to liquefy, ooze through your nostrils, and stain your filthy unwashed shirt.  Of course, afterward you won’t even be able to have a firm grasp on the rest of the album but it won’t matter because you’ve just heard this inspired, blistering opener. 

The new Smashing Pumpkins record is great in the way only records by this band can be, let’s get that out of the way.  But as with any great work there always comes a fair bit of exposition. 

I was sitting in an authentic Indian restaurant about to stuff my bloated ugly face full of naan and chunks of unknown meat coated in equally enigmatic orange sauce.  Palatial Gold is a restaurant I always frequent while in the Chicago area, which was where I happened to find myself for a recent two-week period.  A friend of mine was getting married but I also wanted to take the opportunity to catch up with some other comrades.  I’d worked at a now defunct movie magazine called Cinema Estado during the early two thousands and fostered several strong friendships.  Some of these were strained to the breaking point after a few too many drunken skirmishes – nearly all of which were my fault – but a few managed to survive against all odds.  Back in the day we would all go to Palatial Gold after the end of a hard week and chow down while watching clips from the latest Bollywood film.  I was delighted to find that little had changed in the decade and a half since I’d last frequented the establishment.  Lisa, Caroline and Alice sat at the booth with me, Lisa to my left and Caroline and Alice across from us.  They were all as beautiful as I remembered, the years had been kind and I was delighted and perhaps unfairly surprised to find that none had decided to opt for any kind of surgery to combat the aging process.  Their beauty was strong but natural.  Still, as we ate and talked I couldn’t help but feel that beneath the beautiful faces lurked a searing, consuming hatred for me.  How could they not hate me after all?  Despite all the laughs, and good times we shared in the past it was clear the years since had only tarnished those memories rather than give them a rose tinged hue.  

As we sat there masticating, I took a good look around the place, realizing for the first time how seedy it all was.  Cockroaches scurried across the floors and flies conversed over the steaming piles of food in the buffet area, vomiting their life stories and waxing melancholic over their blissfully short lives.  I use the word blissfully because my life is so inherently without meaning that I have often cursed Mother Nature and Father Time in equal measure for making it last so many years.  As I’ve often written in the past, if I had any courage at all I would have ended this farce long ago.  But I have no courage.  I only have you dear readers and the slim hope that perhaps these words will find one of you, perhaps someone in a similar situation as I and maybe prevent someone else from heading down the blood stained path that is now my curse.  People told me not to use hard drugs, people told me not to drink so much but what other forms of relief can we turn to in this day and age?  This world of throwaway sex and empty house music wears on a person until one day you wake up and realize that all you have left are your own corrupt vices for they will always be there for you and never judge.  Addiction is a warm bath, filthy and relaxing.   

There were countless underhanded dealings going on at Palatial Gold.  Pay offs and marathon oral sex sessions were taking place beneath the tables.  The kitchen reeked of meat left out in the heat too long and of broken promises and shattered dreams.  Fights broke out like clockwork every four point two-nine minutes and surely no less than seven different tables’ occupants were planning the murder of a friend or family member.  I did not feel scared to be here, I welcomed the danger.  Maybe there was a brave soul finally willing to do what was necessary.  I tried to talk to my former friends but realized we shared nothing in common, there was no way I could relate to them and they had no chance of understanding the oily inner mechanics of my mind.  I wondered if one of them had poisoned my food while I was not looking or maybe only introduced a sedative into the mix.  Was torture on the menu for tonight?  Would they pluck out my eyeballs and fill the sockets with sawdust or maybe use Exacto knives and a cheese grater to create a thousand and one tiny cuts and open sores all over my hirsute body before covering me in Bear Brand honey and throwing me onto a hill of red ants.  The question was not did they want to kill me.  The question was who wanted to kill me the most.  Their smiles were both beautiful and savage, three great whites circling me, all sharp deadly teeth and cold black eyes. 

But this was not truly them I knew.  This was simply my own insecurities and self-hatred being projected onto them.  Oh God, why can’t I be normal, why can’t I just sit through a cordial dinner and watch Aishwarya Rai on the television and love life as though it were a huge stuffed bear won at a Vegas game where the Nevada Gaming Commission (anything for the NGC says Andy Garcia, star of the under appreciated little gem Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead along with the great Christopher Walken who starred in the film adaptation of the most terrifying book I have ever read) looks the other way because everyone realizes the bear is stuffed with unmarked millions from a drug trafficking scam and you are about to reap the spoils and subsequently buy everyone on the same floor as you a drink of their choice before immediately proceeding to call an escort service and humbly request the trashiest and biggest hipped latina they have working (please let her have naturally coal black hair that has been dyed blonde, oh please!)?  I remember the first time I saw Ms. Rai.  It was at least fifty-nine years ago but I remember it as though it were only twelve and a half years into the future from the thirty-seventh minute after you began reading the second sentence of the third paragraph of this review.  I was home alone on a Sunday night and watching the program 60 Minutes.  Outside a large black dog was barking and I somehow knew that all the waking nightmares in my life – all the unimaginable horrors I’d seen in recent weeks – were somehow a product of his mind.  He was causing all of this.  I was a part of his game and the shadows that danced across the walls of my bedroom at night would soon perform his bidding, such as it was. 

But then the wise and comforting face of Bob Simon appeared on the screen and I was able to ignore the black dog for the following nineteen minutes.  Simon introduced the story as discussing the most beautiful woman in the world, which the public at large was deeming Aishwarya Rai at the time.  He challenged the humble viewers to see if we felt the same.  Beauty is of course an entirely subjective thing, but I must admit when I saw Ms. Rai’s face pop up on the screen for the first time I forgot all about Mr. Simon and immediately felt all sorts of butterflies and other insects like moths and locusts fluttering around my stomach.  She was undeniably stunning and seemed like a genuinely sweet person as well.  As the years progressed I have only watched her beauty and talent grow.  She was recently with child and certain unscrupulous members of the press were calling her “chubby” but these were probably ugly folks (like myself but without my kind and lustful heart) who are in full support of Mayor Bloomberg’s proposed ban on large size sodas (damn that liberal agenda, they love government interference, it’ll be Clockwork Orange in the year 1984 on a blistering hot day of Fahrenheit 451 degrees if they get their way!).  It’s true Ms. Rai gained some curves during her tenure with baby but this soft and supple bodily addition only made her even more insanely attractive.  Oh Aishwarya, don’t let the bastards grind you down (says Paul David Hewson), you are a beacon of positive energy in this negative cesspool of a world.  

Incidentally, I ended up leaving Palatial gold after four helpings of food, seven glasses of water, one bowl of rice pudding and sixty-seven consecutive minutes of wide eyed staring at my female companions.  It was not my night to meet my bread maker.  On the way back to my gloriously seedy hotel room (the kind where you find hair in the sink and on the sheets) I stopped by at the local Samuel Goody to pick up the new Smashing Pumpkins album entitled Oceania. 

It’s been on constant rotation since this purchase but I am finding it difficult to express my opinion, pretty great for a writer, huh?  I’m such a worthless poser.  Everywhere I go I’m always posing, flexing my deltoids and showing of my chiseled six-pack of abs.  But it is no secret that I love the Pumpkins.  I think why I am having trouble expressing myself here is because this album is just so darn good!  I wish more things were like that and yet I don’t; it’s so easy (and fun) to spew anonymous hate speech when something is bad. 

Highlights are so frequent that I could practically pick any of the songs and write ad naseum (not to be confused with ad nazism which is likely how I would have made a living had I graduated with a journalism degree in Germany in the early forties!  Don’t go to college kids, a degree ain’t worth the diamond studded brick of gold they emblazon it on.) about them. I am not going to do that however.  Part of it is simple laziness but part of it is that people need to listen to this damn record!  It is a truly great album, not a collection of songs but an actual album where each song seems to be a different shade of some beautiful color on a rainbow that only the Pumpkins can see. 

The word cohesive has been thrown around a lot to describe this new release.  I tried to think of another word so as not to simply copy everyone else but I could not.  This album stands up from beginning to end as an extremely consistent listen.  Consistent is such a boring word that does no justice to the hour of great music here, an hour that passes incredibly fast each time precisely because of the quality. 

As I bite off what little skin remains on the tips of my fingers let me try and articulate some of the things that are jumping out to me on this latest work. 

“Celestials” has some eye-gougingly awesome bass parts. One of the things I loved on the aforementioned Gish was the tasteful bass playing that elevated almost every song.  It was an aspect of the music that often seemed downplayed on later releases but has made a triumphant return on Oceania where the bass often acts as a lovely layer of warmth. Nicole Fiorentino is the latest in Corgan’s never ending supply of lovely lady bassists and her skills are formidable.  I consider myself something of a bassist but the truth is despite my Julliard education she could play trapezoids around me.  The other element she brings to this release whose importance cannot be understated is her backing vocals.  On some previous discs Corgan often just used his voice for backing vocals, which is fine, but this feminine element adds a lot to the material.  She doesn’t sing on every song but her contributions are always stellar and always elevate the track

I have seen some people slagging the song “One Diamond, One Heart” but I think it is absolutely beautiful; a majestic track that soars in washes of guitars and syths with Billy’s uplifting vocals the guiding hand.  This song will sound great if one listens to it while driving around Seattle at night, it’s a city kind of song.  I will try it some day; Seattle is a great city to drive around in at night.  Truthfully, this song reminds me a lot of Zooropa era U2 and that is always a good thing.  I know a new relationship is going to last for at least 59 dates if after the first kiss I can say to myself “This woman reminds me a lot of Zooropa era U2”.  If I cannot make that claim then I typically end up wrestling with various emotions and trying to decide if I am staying with her because I want to or because I am simply afraid of being alone.

Speaking of which, I have always been a wrestling fan and the nineties was something of a golden age for me with the famed Monday night wars.  I must confess to siding with WCW on this one and I can recall with glee great things like the N.W.O. storylines, Rey Mysterio Jr. and Dean Malenko (two of the most technically gifted wrestlers of their era) series, Sting turning heel and still being the best and Goldberg with his never-ending wins. It seemed like wrestling was never quite the same after Vince bought the company but I do see things slowly turning around.  From what I’ve seen Resistance Pro looks great and recalls the classic style without being a slave to it.  Someone should buy me the dvd’s from their website as a gift since I am a lousy freeloader.  I commend Corgan for his commitment to music and wrestling because they are two passions I have always shared.  My wrestling love goes so deep that I have often wished I would be tortured and killed by a luchadora!  What death could be more delightful than falling by the sweet, sumptuous and powerful pantyhose clad legs of these gorgeous Mexicanas!  And after they humiliate me in a match they use me as their footrest, calling me “patetico” “asco” “feo”.  

  

I have always found the life of a luchadora to be among the most noble.  This interview with Amapola just reminds me of that, her passion for the sport is a grand thing to see, and she’s also one of the best luchadoras around.  If I met her I don’t know if I would praise her or intentionally say something to make her mad so she would challenge me to a match and bash me brutally.  

The first couple instrumental minutes of “Pinwheels” are just so gorgeous.  It would make me incredibly mad if the rest of the song didn’t measure up but it does!  This is the sound of a hope filled summer where you will either find your true love or rekindle that fire with the one that got away.  This is the feeling the band has given us since the first notes of “I Am One” from Gish. 

“Oceania” is a fittingly epic title track. The word epic is thrown around so much that I should receive a stipend each time it is used since I was the one who it brought to the mainstream public consciousness way back in 71’ when I used it in an old Toronto newspaper article to describe Spielberg’s directorial debut Duel.  The word is so overused it has started to lose meaning but it applies here.  As ever, the rock side of the track is really rocking and the softer side – always my favorite side of this band – is gentle acoustic glory that is a massage for the ears of anyone tired of all the homogenized chuff on the radio today. 

“Pale Horse” with that recurring piano part (I think it’s a piano but I could be wrong, I am a complete idiot when it comes to identifying instruments but it should be obvious what I am talking about, it’s kind of chimey, percussiony and pianony).  There is some great bass and some wonderful subtle backup vocals and synths in here too and combined with that piano part the whole song paints a portrait of that strange beauty: the gentle thunderstorm.  It is a perfect image to evoke for feelings of a lost love.  This is my favorite track on the album and is best-heard wearing headphones.  The first section of this album is classic Corgan rock but it is this middle section – specifically this trilogy of tracks – that is the album’s heart and a pure statement of beauty.  If “Pinwheels” is the sound of a summer day and “Oceania” the majestic sunset then this is the unexpected thunderstorm on a summer night, calling you to run through the rain and scream your passions to the night sky. 

Everyone and their ermine has noticed how Zwan-like “The Chimera” sounds and that is most definitely a good thing.  I disagree with the folks [and oaks (and James K. Polks)] who say this song sounds like it could be from Siamese Dream.  However if any of them want to vehemently disagree with me I would happily invite them out for some carbohydrate rich pasta and bread – my treat of course – where we could discuss the matter at greater length and possibly come to some sort of happy medium or simply set aside our differences and agree to disagree like all the great leaders of the world and all the great pioneers of science and art throughout the ages who have had equally fantastic but diametrically and didactically opposed ideas but can still come together to play backgammon over glasses of merlot and jars of green olives and sliced up sausage and cheese when the situation calls for it.  

If there is something I have to fault the album with it is a seeming lack of melodic vocal hooks.  Don’t get me wrong dear readers, Corgan’s voice sounds great and the backing vocals are consistently lovely and much appreciated.  But most of the hooks really come from the guitars or the synths with the vocal melodies taking a backseat.  I said seeming at the beginning of this paragraph because I remember Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness feeling like a large unshapen musical mess the first few listens where I also voiced a similar complaint.  However now so many years, listens, experiences and heartbreaks later that album has become one my favorites of all time, a life imprinting and affirming piece of art that never ceases to reward or fails to yield new discoveries.

I cannot say that this new record touches the classic original trilogy (so many damn trilogies in this world) of Gish, Siamese Dream and Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness.  Were to say that I would be promptly executed if I lived in a country that sent 64,000 volts of fine imported electricity surging through the bodies of those bawdy enough to speak in minced untruths.  But luckily I don’t live in this highly hypothetical land and instead live in the good United States of America where the people are so free and spoiled that they complain about tuition after they obtain they party and drink their way through college to obtain worthless degree and “rally” against government and capitalism by lounging around in their own filth, ordering pizzas and playing games on their iphones while watching movies on their laptops and tightening the strings on their GAP sweaters.  Real anti-corporate folks they are, real intelligent, fuck you all!  I cannot believe the different ways people find to waste time these days.  Why don’t you all go get a job instead of whining and expecting everything to be handed to you?  But in all seriousness, I love the protesters.  They’re fine people.  I actually participated in the protest for a few days.  After all, we’re in this together!  What chance does middle America have if we don’t stand together, hold signs and yell about how mad we are!  Sorry!  Sorry, I told myself I wouldn’t get involved in politics, in part because they’re dreadfully boring and in part because I don’t know enough to have any kind of relevant opinion.  If you don’t know enough you probably shouldn’t be screaming your opinion at people, right?  Zing!  Ouch!  My prose is both elegant and hard-hitting, I love the written word!  The keyboard is mightier than the sword!  With these words I can build or destroy an empire.  I am a force to be reckoned with and I will not be ignored!  If I don’t say these things no one else will, no one else has the guts!  Everyone just wants to build careers in things they care nothing to make money so they can buy garbage they don’t need.  This is life, huh?  This is what was intended?  What a mistake we will all are!  Dance puppets; pretend that you don’t see the strings! 

Speaking of strings, the strings sounds in “Wildflower” are a lovely and subtle touch, as are (once again) the backing vocals. And even though they actually sound nothing alike this song reminds me a lot of “Dance Dance Dance” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers from their last album.  They both seem to mine from the same dreamy territory.  This is a rich concluding the track, the kind we fans have all come to expect and look forward to on their records, the serene inescapable almost lullaby that takes us to a gentler place and reminds us why we love this band. 

There is clearly an abundance of effort and Pumpkin sweat all over Oceania and it is very possible that a few years from now the songs will be as ingrained in my soul as those from Mellon Collie.  It speaks to the quality of this new disc that I can make such a claim.  Perhaps then I will have no complaints about vocal melodies or hooks or other things that I only have a passing knowledge on.  Hell, why even bother comparing two albums?  I always hate when reviews do that!  The artist is at a different point in his/her/their lives, the work should sound different.  This album doesn’t sound anything like Mellon Collie and that is a good thing. 

I was driving around the other day with my windows rolled down.  It was a brutally hot day of summer and with all the driving I had to do to reach various courthouses and attorneys offices I actually had time to listen to the entire Mellon Collie album.  As “Jelly Belly” and “Porcelina” and “Thirty Three” hit me all over again I began to have a conversation with myself while pretending that I was speaking to my beloved friend Calvin Black.  Black asked me who my favorite singer slash vocalist was.  Strangely, I began to spit green bile all over my windshield as I struggled to answer the doozy of a question.  So many fantastic people came to mind: David Bowie, Bruce Dickinson, Prince, Eva Amaral, Katia Guererro, Shakira, Ana Gabriel, Miles Davis, Eddie Vedder, Trent Reznor, Tom Waits, Jim Morrison, Gustavo Cerati, Luz Rios, Diana Reyes, george Clinton, James Brown, Vicky Terrazas, Natalia LaFourcade, Elida Reyna and countless others.  Billy Corgan did in fact come to mind and I considered that choice for the duration of eleven minutes while discussing my reasoning with the always-curious Black with his sponge like brain and caring blue eyes.  I ultimately decided that Corgan was not my favorite but that he held a special place in my dark bitter heart.  His voice is a unique and instantly recognizable instrument, a feat not many can claim.  But I further believe it is the combination of his voice and lyrics that make the whole package such a success.  I have never met the man (we came close during my stint with Rolling Stone Europe back in 96’ but a severe bout of tendonitis on my part kept me bed ridden for what would have been my interview, damn you Keith Moon for inspiring me to pick up drum sticks! On a quick side note while editing this review I was listening to the fantastic album Quadrophenia by The Who.  The BBC just aired a rollicking retrospective documentary on the album called “Can You See the Real Me”.  It’s all over youtube so be sure to check it out!).  His lyrics have an impassioned romanticism that is sadly lacking in most of today’s popular music.  Just listen to “Thirty Three” or “To Sheila” or “Luna” or “Crush” or from this album: “Violet Rays”, “My Love is Winter”, “Pinwheels”, “Pale Horse”, “Wildflower”, “Inkless” or darn near any of the songs.  Some might find his lyrics flowery but it is the simultaneous conviction and fragility in his voice that makes them believable and oddly beautiful.  The combination of voice and lyrics gives the listeners a sense that they and the band have the same history, the same memories and are connecting on those most sacred and intimate of moments through these songs.  It is a true gift.    

You know what?  This is just a gorgeous album.  I am thankful to kick off the summer of the earth’s last year with a new – and excellent – Smashing Pumpkins album. 

Movie Review: Superman vs. The Elite

So I recently finished watching Stanley Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon.  All of my homeboys in the hood will beat me senseless when I confess that until last night I had never seen this movie before.  I know it is a sacrilege for us movie lovers but for whatever reason this film was always strangely elusive to me, never in any rental stores, I never had a friend from whom I could steal a copy and I have not seen it on Netflix.  Finally, I was able to obtain a copy through a special order down at my favorite retail conglomerate and once said copy was purchased via several Federal Reserve notes I sat down with a large bowl of Frosted Shredded Wheat and watched away.  I loved the film, it is a gorgeous work.  God, I love Kubrick so much.  Though it clocks in at a meaty three hours I’m sure I will be watching it again very soon.  In the meantime I will do a little research to pick up on all the nuances and art references which I could only understand on the most basic of levels since a college education is worth absolutely nothing these days.  I left Barry Lyndon feeling as though I had experienced something beautiful and majestic.  The film was much like sipping a sumptuous earthy red while nibbling on brie.  Two nights ago I watched Inland Empire – David Lynch’s last movie (please make more soon Dave, I love you and I need you!) and that movie was much like drinking several bottles of red before dropping acid and then taking copious amounts of angel dust.  That was also a three-hour epic and also a film I will watch again very soon for it too moved me.  I can’t say I understood it at all but I was severely creeped out before experiencing an amazing euphoric relief in the final scene (very common when I watch Lynch films).  I have often wished that my life at some point would become a David Lynch movie or an H.P. Lovecraft story, I will never stop hoping for this.  Lovecraft is so good!  Damn you Kubrick and Lynch and Lovecraft!  You are all so amazing it makes me realize how little I have done and will ever do in my life!  The sheer splendor of your art makes me want to leap from the top of the highest skyscraper and then realize too late what a mistake suicide is and consequently die feeling nothing but intense fear and regret.   

Oddly, I’m not here today to talk about either of those movies or a Lovecraft story but rather the latest film in Warner Brothers and DC Comics slate of animated flicks: Superman vs. The Elite. 

I was once speaking to my beloved friend Calvin Black (student of the dark arts and master of distortion) about various comic book heroes.  I recall the scene with such clarity it is as though I am now watching it on an anamorphic widescreen blu-ray recording via a Sony blu-ray player and a 56” Panasonic high definition television set.  We were having dinner at Lizarraga’s, a great little Mexican place in the dark heart of downtown Portland.  Truth be told, Portland is not world renowned for it’s Mexican food however this fine establishment seems to live well within its own pocket universe.  The waitress was a lovely woman named Chopita who was only just starting to show in her pregnancy.  I said a silent prayer that future pregnancy weight would also be distributed to her already generous hips and thighs and that I may see this glorious sight again upon a return visit. 

Without warning Black turned to me while chewing on a thick and greasy piece of chicken enchilada and with sauce running down his chin and staining his Green Bay t-shirt said, “The complexities of the narratives and the undeniable talent inherent in the creation and continued evolution of sequential art notwithstanding, I am a bit nonplussed by the seemingly stagnant and frankly dogmatic views on the vigilante’s role in punishment doling so commonly ascribed to Spider-Man, Batman and especially Superman, particularly in this contemporary post modern world.  How do you rationalize that character trait?”

I took a greedy gulp from a bottle of Corona and followed Chopita’s full figured sway as she walked by our table.  I reminded myself she was with child and vowed to find her one day on the other side, where all are equal.  And though I can recall all the details of her sumptuous curvature I cannot recall with any degree of clarity the answer I gave to Black on that great evening, where friends were friends and lovers were lovers and we could all be free if only for a moment. 

Fortunately we have this new movie that answers his question a lot better than I ever could.  In a tortoise shell the premise of Superman vs. The Elite finds the man of steel wondering if he is outdated, particularly in his choice not to be executioner to the criminals he apprehends.  A new super group called the Elite shows up and they are willing to take the step that ol’ blue eyes won’t.  As the world reacts with approving applause to their extreme ways Superman must question the validity of his moral code in today’s more violent world and if there is a still a need for his brand of justice.

The premise is gold (not to be confused with The Artist Formerly Known As Prince song “Gold” from the superb 95’ release The Gold Experience) and is one explored before in the comics medium.  Knightfall, Knightquest and Knightsend were all long running story arcs in Batman comic books throughout the 90’s which saw the Dark Knight put out of commission through a brutal injury and replaced by an increasingly more extreme mantel-bearer.  The stories really examined the need for restraints, the need for a moral code and why even these heroes should not be above the law in these respects.  

Flash forward to 2001 and Action Comics #775, a beefy anniversary special that condensed some primary themes of the aforementioned several years worth of storylines into a single splendid issue titled “What’s so funny about truth, justice and the American way?” (Elvis Costello rocks so hard!).  The comic itself has received countless accolades with some calling it the best Superman story of all time and one of the best comics of the past 30 years (I can’t be bothered to find out who said those things but I am sure they were said).  But I am not here to review the comic but rather the animated film adaptation.  Does this stand up as it’s own separate work?  Will folks who don’t read comics be able to follow and appreciate the narrative?  Are the themes fleshed out enough to bring it all home like Mark McGrath after a juicy cocktail of roids and self-loathing (eagle eyed observers and sports or pop music enthusiasts will note that in my attempt to bring a bit of acerbic humor into the mix I foolishly confused famed baseball cheater Mark McGwire with Sugar Ray front-man Mark McGrath, truly both men are giants in their respective field but only one do I consider worthy of inviting to my upcoming 59^th birthday where we will share a piece of tres leches cake while waxing poetic on the frivolities of life and reveling in our own oily disenchantment with it all)?  I am pleased as a rat bastard to answer yes to all of these questions. 

Let me hit on all the main points.

The story is as smooth and captivating as it was in the source.  It is always a delight to see these much beloved tales brought to life and that excitement has not diminished from the very first of these releases several years ago.  Very often these animated films are better than their live action counterparts.  The writing here is excellent and the central question at the story’s heart is addressed and more than adequately answered in a way that feels organic and quite thrilling.  Especially noteworthy is the climax, which I will touch upon again in a moment. 

The voice is acting is superb with the two leads George Newbern as Superman and Robin Atkin Downs as Manchester Black – charismatic leader of the Elite and one of the more memorable Superman antagonists of recent years – doing great work.  Newbern in particular brings his A-game in a performance that really hits a high during the last ten minutes.  Indeed the last ten minutes is an intense and phenomenal scene.  Without spoiling any fruit the scene in question begins with an organized televised confrontation in the streets of Metropolis and then goes to the moon.  Speaking of the moon I know the Zelda game Ocarina of Time received all the accolades and it’s an amazing game to be sure but am I the only one who prefers Majora’s Mask?  That was a killer game!  The moon crashing into the earth would be such a downer. 

There’s something I need to address here.  Two of my favorite artists of all time are David Bowie and Amaral (which is technically a band though the only permanent members appear to be Eva Amaral and Juan Aguirre).  Is it just me or does Amaral seem to borrow a bit of the melody of the stupendous, classic Bowie track “Rebel Rebel” for their own great song “Todo La Noche En La Calle”?  Seriously, listen to the damn songs, the feel of them, the rhythm; it’s similar, right?  It’s damn near exactly the same, right?!  I’m not just a crazy old bastard imagining things!  The songs are both below, pay extra special and extra loveable attention to the post chorus section of the Bowie song at 1:24 with that crazy awesome iconic guitar riff and where he sings “do do do do do do do do”, that is the EXACT same melody Eva Amaral uses in the chorus of their song at 0:44 when she sings “todo la noche en la calle”!  Hell, at 3:12 she even starts singing in the background something like “na na na na na na na na” which sounds just like what Bowie does in his song!  I know it’s the same, I know it is!  I’ve lain awake at nights, endless nights, with those melodies rolling around in the dark inner corridors of my mind.  Turn on both songs at the same time and blow out your speakers and you will see that I’m right!  Could be a coincidence, who knows?!  They are both great songs and I will continue to love them both.  They should tour together and duet on these respective songs.  I would kill anyone – except these artists – and bath merrily in their blood to see that happen.  Oh Eva, oh David, I’ve prepared the room, won’t you join me tonight?  Please just hold me for awhile…I’m so alone…I’m so cold….  

Sadly, there are faults to this release and it’s pains me to list them as is this is typically a line of films of the utmost quality.  The animation here may actually be the worst of this entire series of DC animated movies.  Doug Mahnke (the penciller for Action Comics #775) has a very distinct exaggerated but detailed style of art and it is obvious why it was difficult to translate to an animated setting.  Unfortunately it does not seem like nearly the same effort was put into the attempt in comparison to past movies.  Stacked up against the gorgeous animation in Batman Year One, Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths, Wonder Woman or the other two Superman movies – All Star and Doomsday – it is hard not to view the renderings here as something of a lazy let down.  There are moments when the animation really clicks (again, EVERYTHING during the last, most pivotal scenes is near flawless) and it definitely works better in the close ups where more detail can be brought in.  Overall, I do not feel this movie will be revered or remembered for it’s animation and it is a letdown that this aspect could not have been as top notch as the story. 

Actually, upon watching the movie again after completing the last paragraph I realized it’s not the animation I should criticize but the character designs.  The animation is actually as smooth and precise as ever but the designs are too sloppy.  What a dumbass I am, not able to distinguish between the two, simply content to hide behind the security of my computer screen and type away on my sticky keyboard, spewing my venom.  Sorry animators, I owe you all a drink.  What the hell, I’ll buy drinks for the fine folks who did the character designs as well, who am I judge?  I’ve never done anything worth a damn in my life.  The only thing I know how to do well is push away those I love most. 

The blu-ray/dvd itself comes with the usual set of special features we’ve all come to expect from these releases.  The commentary track by the writer (of the comic and movie) Joe Kelly and editor Eddie Berganza is informative and fun.  I have slavishly adored past commentary tracks by the voice actors, casting director and Bruce Timm and miss those folks but these gentlemen are obviously very close to the material and their commentary is of near equal delight.  This track is the main noteworthy special feature here.  The two documentaries – one on the Elite themselves and the other a philosophical examination of Superman’s code of honor – will only interest hardcore fans who will likely already know all the information discussed.  Trailers, bonus episodes from Superman: the Animated Series and a sneek peek at the next movie in this series (an ass-penetratingly awesome looking adaptation of Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns which will actually be divided into TWO movies!!!!!) round out the set.  The feature itself is definitely the main attraction here, as it should be. 

Ultimately, some dodgy animation does nothing to diminish the hearty recommend I give to this latest release.  The storyline and acting are fantastic and thematically it stands up against the best Superman movies including the Christopher Reeve films.  This is a major contender for the best film of this entire animated line and I hope everyone has a chance to see it.  I especially hope Calvin Black watches it at some point during our miserable lives.  Hopefully it will answer his question in ways my ignorant, inadequate largesse never could. 

Movie Review: Dark Shadows

The credits rolled and the lights came on.  I began to exit the theatre alongside my faithful friend Willem Joseph Montejamo and the two lasses we’d met at the deli section of WinCo earlier in the day.  Our cravings for meat can rarely be satiated.  As we began descending the stairs like Gods riding down on their hallowed chariots from the heavens Willem Joseph turned to me and with his chin jutting out at a grotesque angle he dared to ask me the question which had sat unspoken between the two of us for the duration of this latest Timothy Burton adventure:

“Branden,” he said, his voice like wet gravel, “would you have rather watched this movie or a video of famed Telemundo journalist Maria Celeste – host of Al Rojo Vivo con Maria Celeste – while she is wearing nylons for the equivalent amount of time?”

We continued to descend and his words echoed in my ears like a haunting refrain that damned me with its uncompromising insistence.  In that instant I wanted to grab him by his layered collars – one navy blue and one yellow sherbet – and hurl him down the stairs in a brazen act of random, unprovoked and unqualified violence.  The only thing that stayed my trembling hands was the sweaty, naked truth that beckoned to me from his coldly cavalier question. 

There was no contest, no need for thought or consideration, the answer was as painfully obvious as the cheap cologne I’d selected for the evening’s festivities: Of course I would have rather watched the lovely Maria Celeste in nylons for the equivalent amount of time.  How was any other option even worth a passing though?  Oh Senora Celeste, you only grow more voluptuous and beautiful with each passing year, you report the news directly to my dark heart, you leave me quaking in a mass of journalistic jelly.  I wanted to scream these proclamations from the steps for the fleeing audience to hear.  Maria, you are pure class, pure full figured glory.  Murders, scandals and life-claiming natural disasters never sound as seductive and alluring as they do coming from your honeyed lips.  And the sight of you in nylons is one of the increasingly few reasons I have to go on living.  Oh I imagine…on a warm day…after you have been on your feet the whole time in those heels, running from one breaking story to the next…and then you finally stop for a break…demanding I act as your foot rest…and then that sweet sound – like the gates of heaven opening – as the nylon parts ways with the leather and the air is perfumed with divinity…

Yes, I would much rather watch two hours of this than 2 hours of this new Dark Shadows movie.  

The past few weeks have been a real doozy, hum-dinger, ball-breaker, butt-shaker and elbow raker for your faithful writer.  I am listening to the 1993 album Lastima Que Seas Ajena by Vicente Fernandez as I write this.  El Chente is in fine form on this release but when isn’t The King always putting his best foot forward?  That’s a question I would only dare ask myself while lurking at the very edges of the night itself, seeing strange faces behind doors that have been left ajar and hearing conspiratorial whispers coming from my balcony.  I personally had a chance to see El Chente back in 1984 (a real dystopian year for me unfortunately) at a concert in Mexico’s Plaza de Toros and I can attest that his voice is even more powerful live that what a mere disc is able to capture.  The man has a presence few others can even approach and it is truly a blessing that he is still recording music.  While working for the Monterrey based periodical Voz de la Gente I was even able to interview The King by telephone as part of the press junket for his 1990 album Palabra de Rey.  He is a generous, unstoppable musical force and that interview – brief though it was – remains one of my favorites from all my years of beat-walking and lead-chasing.  Incidentally, the aforementioned concert was recently released on CD and DVD entitled Un Mexicano en la Mexico and is well worth checking out. 

The evening I was discussing before this tangent started out as any other but would sadly culminate in viewing perhaps the most irrelevant film of Tim Burton’s career.  As such, I am not sure whether to consider the night a success or failure. Before I continue please allow me time to indulge in the requisite praise of this man’s work before detailing my feelings on his latest release. 

I remember vividly watching the movie Beetlejuice during its initial release at an old one-dollar theatre on the east side of San Francisco.  I was dating a woman named Amalia at the time (this was during a great era where the border patrol was just as misguided but far more underutilized).  As this was the roaring 80’s – a time where the industrialization of America was just reaching a fever pitch – Amalia had a rather distinct and stunning style.  Her hair was a lush mountain of black curls that she teased to impossible heights.  Her makeup was bold purples, blues and greens and it’s application was almost as generous as her hips and thighs which constantly threatened to tears the seems of her impossibly tight black spandex pants.  Those pants lived a very noble life and I often associate their place in the universe with my more personal thoughts and wishes on reincarnation.  Amalia enjoyed the film but the language barrier prevented her from fully appreciating many of the subtle nuances (she and I remain good friends to this day and when the DVD came out I mailed her copy for her birthday, she loved it and said she was going to watch it with her children).  Burton was able to illicit manic, unhinged performances from all his leads; Michael Keaton and Winona Ryder were impeccable (this would become a pattern for both these fine performers, damn fine actors the both of them!) and Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis were super fine as well (both in acting and appearance.  Brother Baldwin may have let himself slip in recent years but when has Ms. Davis not been bizarrely attractive?).  But it was the sheer creativity on display that blew my mind as though someone had stuck a shotgun in mouth and finally did what my parents desired but never had the courage to see through.  Burton had birthed a wholly unique creation, something audiences can still view today and truthfully say that there is nothing similar.  I immediately hunted down a copy of Pee Wee’s Big Adventure and was delighted to find the same level of artistic insanity.  A year later when the young director brought the Dark Knight himself to the big screen in a way more grand and sense shattering than anyone could have imagined I knew this man – nay, this artist – was someone to be reckoned with.  Follow up films like Edward Scissorhands, Ed Wood and personal favorite Batman Returns only solidified my love. 

Batman Returns is such a beautiful movie, such a gorgeous piece of art.  I will put it up there any day with the new Christopher Nolan movies and I will brutally murder anyone who dares challenge my assertion.  I could probably write at least 547 pages in brail on my love and interpretation of that film but I will save that for another blog post.  But damnit!  The chemistry between Michael Keaton and Michelle Pfieffer!  I have rarely seen it paralleled in any other movie, which shows the almighty importance of proper casting (ditto for Shaq in the classic Kazaam).  Burton, you made a movie that will stay with me for all my miserable, worthless life and for that I am forever in your debt…

Flash forward the to booming 00’s in which we now live and this once dark creative force has been reduced to a glossy parlor trick that impresses less with each subsequent turn.  Big Fish was beautiful but those moments of beauty have sadly reversed and become the exception of this man’s work rather than the rule.  We can add Dark Shadows to the ever growing list of disappointments, the same list that includes Alice in Wonderland and Willa Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and Planet of the Apes (the one with Marky Mark, not the one with James Dean).  I brought up those bat-films earlier since Batman is well known to comics aficionados as being the world’s greatest detective.  However we don’t need the Dark Knight to deduce the common factor in the stinkers of recent years (except for Planet of the Apes!  God, all my arguments are flimsy at best): Johnny Depp. 

If I accuse Burton of resting on his laurels where would I even begin with Johnny Depp?  I know this man is a great actor.  I know he has been in great movies.  And I believe that at any time he has the potential to unleash another stellar performance.  Heck, he could be doing it right now in a hotel room somewhere or at dinner with a girlfriend or just on the streets of L.A. to some lucky sightseeing tourists.   But he tries that faith with every movie he is in these days.  Honestly, when was the last time he gave an honest to Gosh dramatic performance and didn’t just play an over the top cartoon?  It has to be that movie Blow from like 27 years ago!  That was a good flick and Depp gave a good performance.  The man has so much talent and I am not saying these characters are without merit but is this all he has left?  Pirates and vampires and mad hattering chocolate factory owners, all the same with each successive one more boring and predictable than the last.  Damn you Depp!  You used to be one of my favorites and now you break my heart almost as much as Burton.  What the hell is the matter with the two of you?  And what does he have coming up?  Hmmm, let’s just peruse the internet movie base of Data (such an asskicking character!  Brent Spiner is truly underrated as an actor): The Lone Ranger, that is next in store for Depp, a movie where he plays the Indian sidekick in a costume that looks exactly the Mad Captain Wonka from his last few movies.  Fuck!  It’s that sort of thing that makes me hate the DJ’s of today; you’re just using a laptop motherfuckers!  Where are the actual records?  The vinyl, the bacon grease?  I can string together beats in 5 fucking seconds using any number of basic programs (I just can’t think of any of the names right now).  When did it become the norm to go on autopilot?  Damn everything! Depp’s charisma is so raw – like a hunky slab of uncooked beef that I want to sink my teeth into and let the juices roll down my stubbly chin – that he has a lot more leeway on these things than almost anyone else but I still hope the next forty years of his career will be more than simply variations on this tired theme. 

There are some positives to be found.  The movie looks spectacular; with a rich color scheme and a slickness that would be more easily appreciated if it didn’t look exactly like every movie Burton’s made in the past 7 years or so.  Odd that this paragraph started out as a list of positives only to devolve so quickly into a negative.  It’s in these moments of blinding negativity that I try and think of The Neill.  He always makes me feel better about myself and better about life in general.  He fills my spirit with positive energy and lets me know that it will all be okay.  Those who know me best know how much I love this man.  The Neill walks among us mere mortals and we are helpless to do anything but look on in slack jawed awe.  What are my favorite films of The Neill you may be wondering?  My Brilliant Career?  Jurassic Park?  The Piano?  The Vow?  Possession?  Merlin?  I can’t get into something like that now for the amount of pages I could write on Batman Returns is dwarfed dramatically by the literary tomes I could fill analyzing the works of this man.  I just love him so much; I can’t even express it poetically because the love pours out of me before I have a chance.  Thank you sir, for everything.  

But I think I know the answer to the aforementioned enigma on why a list of positives turned so quickly into negatives.  As hard as some try to forget I think we all remember the Star Wars prequels of recent years.  Personally, I found those movies to be a good shot better than many gave them credit for but who really give a flying fuck, am I right?  However, something that did always grind my gears were the visuals.  It took me years and endless nights spent at the seediest of taverns, grinding my teeth and getting rear ended in filthy bathroom stalls to figure out why the visuals bothered me so: there was nothing grimy in this new display of the old Star Wars universe, nothing had a speck of dirt or left a trail of slime.  All the environments, a hero’s home, a villain’s lair, a restaurant, every muthafuckin’ ship in the universe was completely sterile and clean.  As a result nothing quite looked real.  It’s like the uncanny valley everyone and their dog Shiloh keeps talking about these days (actually, even the slightest bit of research shows that my comparison to the Uncanny Valley is deeply flawed).  I think I once read a digital recording of Tom Waits where he wrote that one of his problems with Sci-Fi movies these days is everything looks too darn clean and he wondered why there is nothing dirty in these hypothetical futures and alternate universes.  Tom Waits has an amazing voice just like the previously mentioned Vicente Fernandez but I find their musical stylings strangely difficult to compare.  If I were a big shot record producer I would organize a duet between these two men and subsequently have a massive crossover hit that would momentarily cross borders and unite us all in musical jubilation.  We would all join hands and merrily skip naked through the streets, finally realizing once and for all that size and skin color does not matter.  Speaking of musical jubilation I hope everyone has heard the song “Walk Away Renee” at least once in their lives.  That is such an amazing song.  A lot of dope fiends and martial artists mistakenly think it is by The Four Tops and though they did a slamming, soulful version it is originally by The Left Banke and this remains the definitive one, the one to seek out and listen on repeat for 29 hours straight.  Truly, it is such a good song that almost every version sounds great.  I bet Jack White couldn’t even make this song sound like garbage (though I’ve lost many a bet on that man). 

Aside from Johnny D. there is a lot of other great talent in this movie.  Jackie Earle Haley plays some kind of servant to the main family who then becomes a slave to Depp’s character.  Fans will likely remember Haley as the tortured, incredibly creepy pedophile from Little Children.  They may also remember him as Rorschach from Watchmen or Freddy Krueger from the God-awful Nightmare on Elm Street remake.  In many ways Freddy Krueger was like a father to me whilst I was growing up and Platinum Dune’s travesty broke my heart worse than the first 20 girls I ever asked out who all said I was too ugly to date.  But he does good reliable work here.  Three super attractive dames figure heavily in the story: Michelle Pfeiffer, Helena Bonham Carter and Eva Green.  They all look weird and Burtonized but this oddly makes them more appealing.  This is especially true of Green who oozes evil in most of her scenes.  I have always found evil to be devastatingly attractive and have longed to meet a woman who would viciously torture me while cruelly laughing and mocking my many deficiencies.  Beginners in the arts of sadomasochism always go for the physical stuff right away but that is a mistake.  It is the verbal jabs and the emotional abuse that really make degradation and humiliation an irresistible cocktail that I come back to again and again. 

Untold days after watching Dark Shadows I was sitting alone in my living room and drinking copious amounts of alcohol.  I drink quite often, always in an increasingly futile effort to block out the shame of my worthless life and as such I have a great deal of trouble in acquiring even the slightest buzz but my passion for the task remains undaunted.  On this particular night in question I was watching the movie Godzilla 2000.  Those unfamiliar with the rich mythology of the original G-ster may confuse this feature film with the late nineties Hollywood movie Godzilla directed by Roland Emmerich (he of such classics as 2012, Independence Day, and the 10,000 B.C. remake) but they would be as equivalently wrong as I was right when I famously slammed Emmerich’s film in my old column at The New York Times (“Emmerich’s Godzilla Has No Bite”, NYT volume 218, issue 167, June 1998).  Godzilla 2000 is actually the first film in the third incarnation of the screen icon and it truly is a GREAT movie.  The storyline is clear and moves at a good, smooth pace.  The characters are all fleshed out and have clear motivations.  The dialogue avoids unnecessary exposition and serves the story.  Organic events lead to logical outcomes and the whole thing moves to a stirring climax.  These are all qualities that cannot be found in Dark Shadows.  If someone is threatening to slit your throat unless you watch one of these movies you would do well to pick Godzilla 2000.

I actually ventured into the wide world of web in the middle of writing this latest masterwork and saw that I was a bit hard on Burton earlier.  Sweeney Todd and Corpse Bride were both groovy and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t pissing my pants at this very moment in excitement for Frankenweenie!  Forgive me Burton!  I was a bastard for being critical.  Maybe my tastes have just changed over the years.  He is still doing good work, I’m the fool!  I’m the son of a bitch who doesn’t deserve to live!  I was wrong about Depp too.  Every few years there’s a Public Enemies or a Rum Diary or a Rango.  Good Lord, you would think I could take 2 minutes to do a little fucking research before crapping out these reviews but I guess that would be giving yours truly a little too much credit, huh?  I guess I just wish the ratios were reversed for both these gentlemen.  Depp, you are far too good looking for me to ever chastise.  I feel no shame in admitting this, facts are facts after all.  But damn if you are not a fine actor as well, I will never stop hoping good sir.  Nevah. 

By now all my loyal fan (the plurality was left off as a clever joke to indicate that no one actually reads my blog) will have noticed this review to be unusually rambling and seemingly a pastiche of only peripherally related paragraphs.  This was actually an intentional act done to mimic and illuminate the structure of Dark Shadows.  There is no real story to this movie, only peripherally related scenes stitched together.  A love story is introduced early on and then forgotten until the last ten minutes.  Dead-beat fathers walk in and out, something about a fish business seems important, a werewolf pops up out of nowhere and even Alice Cooper stops by to liven things up a little (by the way, The Coop is a kickass rocker who shows no signs of slowing down.  Seriously, check out his newest albums like Along Came a Spider or last years Welcome 2 My Nightmare.  I’ll be damned if they aren’t as killer as his older stuff and I’ll damned if I see another chick on your arm!) 

I am now listening to the new Santana album which came out a couple weeks ago entitled Shape Shifter.  It is a surprisingly great album.  I say surprisingly not because Carlos isn’t talented.  He and his band have always been super talented and albums like Abraxas, Caravanserai and III are legendary for a reason.  But for over a decade prior to this most recent release he’d been churning out nothing but insipid collaborations with everyone from Bobby Thomas to Michelle Branch to the Insane Klown Posse (man those Juggalos are like just the coolest, sure wouldn’t want to mess with them, come at me bros!  I’m calling all you sleaze bags out right now!) to Engelbert Humperdinck.  I had desperately been hoping for the return of the classic Santana sound and this new record delivers in a huge way.  Great summer record, so says I.  Savvy readers will no doubt pick up that I’m trying to relate this return to form to my hope that perhaps one day Burton and Depp will have a similar creative revival.  But that in turn leads to an odd bit of harsh self-reflection.  What makes my opinion better than anyone else’s, what gives me the right? 

“I’m not wearing hockey pads,” I say to myself in a gravelly voice. 

Cut.  End scene and a crisp brand new fifty-seven dollar bill to the first full figured, dark haired woman in cheetah print pants that can corner me in a dangerous alley and tell me what I was just referencing in that last paragraph. 

Movie Review: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

We took our usual seats in the back row right hand side (if one is facing the seats). This spot is perfect for making out with liberal groping and maximum saliva exchange but the subject never came to light during the course of the film. I glanced around the theatre and noted the attendance was expectedly low with perhaps ten other patrons present for the enjoyment of this spy flick. The previews began and were of such variety as to through off our expectations. Typically the trailers inform one of the type of film that shall immediately follow. But these previews included drama, action, horror and comedy thus making it difficult to commit to a proper emotional state. The January Liam Neeson actioner seems to have become an annual fixture and I await The Gray (or is the Grey?) with much anticipation (of course now the movie has come out and I have already seen it but I refuse to change that line. It adds to the verisimilitude of this review. Richard Donner spoke often of verisimilitude when directing Superman: The Movie, saying it was an absolute must that the film possesses this quality. He succeeded and that film has great verisimilitude which is one of the many reasons it remains a classic to this day, I could watch that movie twelve times a day for the rest of my life and never tire of it) I’ve been a fan of Neeson’s since I first watched Darkman back in an old dollar theatre in Detroit when I working for an underground music magazine reporting on the local ambient music scene. Drum N’ Bass was still years from taking off as a viable genre but I’ve since received numerous accolades for those early articles for really being at the forefront of the house music movement. Neeson’s performance in the pulply Sam Raimi directed thriller was not so unlike that innovative sound: it was propulsive, electric and with an air of danger. I had the fortune of meeting Mr. Neeson a few years back when he was doing press for K-19: the Widowmaker and he is without question one of the most respectful and intelligent individuals I’ve come across.

I showed up at the bookstore wearing a sharp looking suit and black winter overcoat. I love winter and feel I truly look best in that cold climate. I was late on this particular evening and committed the discourtesy of leaving my good friend Willem Joseph waiting for at least 30 minutes. My heart yearned for a good excuse that could act as a panacea for the ache I had inadvertently aroused in our friendship but it was truly nothing more than poor planning on my part. Those of us from the city know how grueling the traffic can be on the freeway - especially during that peak rush hour - yet I brazenly ignored common sense and did not bother to leave early. If I’m honest with myself I have to admit I do enjoy the road in those crammed moments. Everyone darting in and out of lanes, passing on the right and braking suddenly when they spot a police officer, the sight of my car’s headlights hitting the black street and casting a haunting glow. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to just stare and allow my car to go careening into whomever is to the front or side me. I like to imagine in those moments my seatbelt suddenly subject to manufacturer’s error and tearing free before my body is violently hurled through the windshield (even though I know the glass on cars is specially designed not to cut human flesh in my imagination I have a thousand cuts on my face and upper torso, the blood streams out and the glass cuts through my eyes like good conversation cuts through monotony) like a human missile and then landing on the aforementioned pavement where my skull is unceremoniously cracked open and my brains spill out in a delightful undercooked stew. Nothing like that happened of course and I made it to the bookstore in good physical shape and fine spirits save for my regret of tardiness.

Willem Joseph was reading a fitness magazine of the sort which was always has a massive piece of chiseled, rippling beefcake on the cover. I always prefer the ones with female body builders as I like to imagine their hands around my throat, squeezing the life out of me while telling me how useless I truly am but this was not to be. For the better part of eight months my friend has been training for an extensive body building competition. Long have been the conversations held over his philosophical viewpoints on the matter. Willem Joseph views his body as a portal through which he can communicate with a higher power, whether that is God or something else - perhaps something a few degrees warmer if the murmurs of strange writings and ancient occultist texts found in lockers are to be trusted - is anyone’s guess. To that end, he worships his body as the vessel for this communication and eventual ascension where he shall be granted the true immortality he has always sought. I asked him once how he planned to bulk up and he told me the easy answer to bulk is very simple and can be found in thick juicy cheeseburgers with three or sometimes four patties and extra slices of Colby Jack cheese as well as generous helpings of maple bars, ice cream and tall frosty glasses of whole milk, the kind that have the pink and not light blue caps. Indeed, this was the diet he stuck with for several months before adding in a delightful combination of weight training, including aquatic weights (the likes of which can be found at any local gym or fitness center which has a swimming pool. Incidentally I can recall with great clarity the instructor who taught me how to swim as a child. Her name was Jenni and she was tall, generous in thigh and free in spirit. I can still feel the way she gently put her hands on me, one on my stomach and one on my back as I mastered the floating technique. Outside my concentration was firmly locked on the backstroke but inside I was already floating in a sea of unrequited love, I gazed into her large dark eyes and wondered what secrets they held. How I wanted to swim in those eyes, how I wanted to kiss those full, red lips….) Now, whenever he is in public his firm buttocks are barely contained in the tight hip hugging jeans he insists upon wearing. They draw many a stare from female admirers and when he pulls off his jacket to reveal his trademark muscle-tee everyone gasps and blushes, as they all want to feel his ever-growing biceps. He would never admit to it but I know his favorite part of the competition is the oiling up before the show, his muscles glisten and his eyes come alive with boyish enthusiasm. After each competition he always secures a hotel room and requests an order of two large plates of oysters while entertaining whatever guests he has purchased for the evening. I never ask what they do behind closed doors. I have received several kind-hearted invitations to these post competition rituals but due to bad luck have been unable to attend.

The movie began in earnest and despite its slow pace never seemed to drag and was over in a second. I was completely taken by its dense, interlocking narrative. Now, if one were to put a standard police issue glock nine millimeter handgun to my head and ask that I reveal my favorite actor I don’t know that I would have the presence of mind to come up with a cogent response before having my head blown clean off. However during the thinking process I am sure that Gary Oldman would be one of the absolute top contenders. The man has a Bowie-like chameleon nature that allows him to simply become whatever role he is taking on and this is no different. He becomes George Smiley and what we see on screen is a careful, highly intelligent, calculating man whose eyes only reveal exactly what he wants. But in little moments throughout the film – particularly an astounding monologue type scene where he reenacts an early encounter between himself and his nemesis Karla – we see that this is a man who carries a tremendous amount of emotional weight with him at all times and we also sense that he is an individual capable of great violence when the situation calls for it. The film implies so much so well and this is a like a feast for patient viewers who have a thirst for subtle story telling. It is a Powerade of subtlety (Gatoride has always been trash, except for G2 which is easily far and away the greatest drink ever known to man, though extremely overrated) and it is a privilege to see this seasoned master in a top shelf performance.

The movie was set to begin in around 35 minutes. This did not afford us a lot of time for dinner, which was unfortunate, as we both agree that dinner is something to be savored and not rushed. We briefly considered having dinner after the film but Tuesdays in the city are notoriously slow when it comes to the restaurant scene. There was actually a study done a few years back that found the increased immigration from Japan and parts of Europe coupled with the inordinate amount of fiscal matters that build up o Mondays and Tuesdays (Everett Electric is used by nearly 70% of the population on the east side for electricity and their bills are uniformly sent out to businesses and citizens on one of those two days) actually contributes to a diminished early week return in restaurants, golf courses and some specialized interests such as helicopter of scuba lessons. Understand, Willem Joseph and I were not looking for a nutty night on the town - both of us had work the next day - but there is something in the ambience of a nice full restaurant that we were both craving. For my part there may have been another motive for not wanting to postpone our meal.

Yes, the restaurant was already a foregone conclusion [Oddly, I was watching Michael Mann’s classic Manhunter earlier today and Dennis Farina’s character also used the phrase “foregone conclusion” in reference to saving a family before they became the next victims of Tom Noonan’s character. Savvy folk will know that Dennis Farina plays Jack Crawford in that movie, a character played by Scott Glenn in Silence of the Lambs and Harvey Keitel in Red Dragon. It is strange yet fascinating that such a largely inconsequential character should have three very different – yet very talented – actors across three films. It’s hard to say who my favorite Jack Crawford is. Farina was slick and hard-edged, Glenn was subdued and intellectual and Keitel was rough and stony. I’m feeling depressed and suicidal right now, wondering why I lead such a worthless life and knowing that I will never achieve any of my dreams but that I will always be too cowardly to try harder or take the necessary action to end my futile existence. These thoughts are substantially clouding my ability to judge who is the best Crawford. However I can still say with absolute certainty that Manhunter is a much better film than Red Dragon (and no, I am not a Brett Ratner hater, the Rush Hour movies are great fun, X-Men: The Last Stand was a superb surprise and After the Sunset is an underrated little gem that deserves praise if only for all scenes which feature Salma Hayek, oh Salma please stay with me…forever…. Still, there is no comparison; Manhunter is a rich feast for the senses.)] If it’s Tuesday then there really is only one logical choice: Federico’s. This is a Mexican restaurant located on the lower east side, down the street from the Four Seasons and conveniently right next to our favored multiplex. While true that the location helped with our endeavors this is not the reason why the restaurant was selected. The lovely Claudia and the lovely Irma were the true motivating factors here. Oh sweet Irma, with your bold makeup, the lovely blue eye shadow, thick brows and radiant smile. How I long to hold one of those heavily bejeweled hands. And Claudia, do you know the dangers you present to my cholesterol strained heart with those pants you wear? You are even shapelier than Willem Joseph! These two women - these two Diosas - know me well and the rapport between us deepens my unhealthy obsession on every return trip. W.J. has long since learned to cope with my obsessions, he understands that we are all merely slaves to our passions just as he understand the necessity of concealing the true darkness in his own blackened heart.

Though Oldman is exceptional I’d be remiss if I did not mention the rest of the cast. Tom Hardy, who is appearing in more and more flicks these days (and who has amazing lips) is particularly effective as Ricki Tarr, the scalphunter whose tragic Russian liason may hold the key to the rotten core of the Circus (spy central for these guys). Perhaps the centerpiece of the movie is the flashback where he details this meeting and the shocking events that followed its discovery. This in itself feels like a small movie within a movie and is one of the most captivating sequences in recent memory, made all the more effective by the haunted looks in Hardy’s eyes throughout the film. Mark Strong turns in another strong performance (haha, God I’m good!) and shows why he is the one of the best and perhaps most underutilized actors around today. The man’s face is an emotional palette rife with expressive color. Benedict Cumberbatch, aside from having a great name, also turns in stirring work as Peter Guillam, a character of fierce integrity who has some interesting and unexpected secrets of his own.

With bellies full of chicken taquitos and my heart full of lust we stole through the night and arrived at the Regal Cinema with only minutes to spare. An elderly couple in front of us bought tickets for New Year’s Eve after a lengthy search for their rewards card. I briefly ruminated on the strange enchantment discounts seem to hold for those in their golden years and wondered if I too would turn out the same. With tickets firmly in hand we made our to the concession stand where Willem Joseph promptly purchased an extra large helping of Nachos and two ball park franks. He applied extra cheese to the nachos and extra mustard, relish and sauerkraut to the hot dogs. I noted the elation in his eyes as he watched that gooey cheese drip down and spread across the hard, angular chips. He consumed one of the dogs before the “stubs” were even ripped from the tickets. Dear reader, you most certainly noticed how the word stubs appeared in quotation marks, indicating some type of extra significance. One of the chief joys in my life has always been that moment right before entering the theatre where the stub is torn along the perforated line and then handed back to me. I would hold my breath to see if the tear would be perfect or if my stub would be returned uneven or bent. I keep my stubs secure in various tomes on my bookshelves. Sometimes I take them out, spread them on the floor and admire them while cracking my knuckles in a threatening way. But it seems those days are numbered and I am helpless to do anything but punch myself in the face and watch old recordings of the legendary luchadora Lola “Dinamita” Gonzalez. The nobility, skill and beauty of this woman are incredible. Her talents as a luchadora were unparalleled in her time and she still remains a living legend, her presence in the ring still a pure display of power and grace that commands the utmost admiration and respect. One day, when I have untold billions of dollars I will track down all recordings of her and digitally remaster them George Lucas style (except I won’t add any additional, superfluous scenes or dodgy CGI, damn you Lucas!) and then release an amazing, lush set of dvd’s, blu-rays, ultraviolets, red lightnings, purple passions or whatever format is popular. I will also produce a multilayered in depth documentary on her life and wrestling career, if anyone wants to help with this project now, feel free to contact me. Oh Lola! Why have you forsaken me (in your heart, forsaken me)? One day I will see this promise to fruition, I promise! For you Lola, oh Lola, oh Salma, mi Salmita, oh Irma, oh Claudia, how can I go on living when there is so much beauty in this world? How can I be so useless and miserable when I am surrounded by such wonders? And has the economy really become so fragile that movie tickets can no longer made on the stiffer, thicker card stock and must now be relegated to that thin, cheap, easily smudged receipt paper?



The mystery aspect is quite compelling in terms of who is the mole within the organization but in many ways seems to be beside the point of the narrative. This is a meticulous portrait of the lifestyle and mindset of individuals whose entire existence is predicated upon secrets and what that does to external personal lives and their interior selves. The crisp, assured writing allows the ensemble cast to reveal so much with only the smallest lines of dialogue or quick facial tics. There is no information spoon fed to the audience at any point and crucial moments are displayed as seemingly offhanded as throwaways. The score is appropriately unassuming, creeping in unnoticed at first but adding immensely to the overall tension-filled tone. This is most evident during the “climactic” scene where the mole’s identity is finally revealed. This flick also has one of the best-structured finales I’ve witnessed in a good long while, all set to the tune of Julio Iglesias’s “La Mer” (not to be confused with the also excellent “La Mer” by Nine Inch Nails, The Fragile owns my body and soul…)

I’ve been listening to a lot of Krautrock, a lot of electonic music and a lot of Tom Waits and Captain Beefheart as of late. Aside from the obvious sonic similarities between artists like Waits and someone like Brian Eno or Klaus Schulze the principal unifying factor in that music is the precise and practiced pacing. The albums by those artists are masterful with the mature understanding that so much relies upon those spaces between the notes. The passion that music exudes is as much from the carefully crafted restraint as it is from the moments of reckless cacophonic abandon. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is the filmic equivalent of those albums and a glorious slow burn of a movie. Layers upon layers of names, numbers and information, it is a rich, delicious cake of nuanced performances and meticulous detail. This is actually one of those rare instances where I feel this could (not sure about should) have been a bit longer. But this is a not fault of the film but rather a compliment to director Tomas Alfredson and his crew who have all crafted a wonderful film that repeatedly rewards concentration and complete submission (which I love) to the art form and the narrative. This movie becomes even more satisfying on subsequent viewings where one can fully grasp the story and appreciate the careful craft in its execution. I have seen it twice and would have gone back to see it a third time had it not left the theatre in a such a hurry (looks like Brooks from The Shawshank Redemption was right). I am currently ass deep in the book and am thoroughly enjoying that as well however this film truly stands on it’s own. I would love to call it the first must see of 2012 – this, the year of our reckoning – however that wouldn’t really be accurate as it came out in 2011. Maybe I could call it the last must see movie of 2011 but I can’t say for sure if that is true either. Perhaps it is best to just leave it as a must see movie, beautiful, impeccably crafted art that reaffirms my faith in film and reminds me what I love so much about this medium. No doubt, I will rush to a local conglomerate the day it comes out on blu ray to purchase it that I may lock myself in my home and watch it in privacy, while gulping down tall glasses of red wine. For two hours I was completely immersed in this world of intrigue, danger, political machinations and lives treated as pieces on a chessboard. It is an experience I look forward to having again and again.