You are a furry thing

I have been trying like an evil fiend to learn the last five songs off Pearl Jam’s 1998 album Yield on the bass guitar.  Mind you, I have not yet learned the first eight but there is something so incredibly magical about the sequence of those final five and I would love to be able to play those songs in order to a rabid group of 10,000 fans.  Maybe I would just go around serenading people with my bass guitar, spreading love, joy and music to the emotionally impoverished citizens of the world.  Yield is one of my favorite albums and it sounds particularly astounding while driving on snowy roads at night alone or with a loved one in the passenger seat.  Playing the bass provides me with such unspeakable pleasures.  Is there anything that feels better than the A string?  Truth be told, I am a supremely incompetent bassist.  Even that term – “bassist” – is a gross (disgusting even) misnomer when discussing yours truly.  I frequently wonder why I am so inadequate at everything I do.  PJ’s bassist Jeff Ament is a frequent inspiration on the instrument and he crafts some truly creative and tasty basslines.  Should I ever meet the man I would love to compliment him on the tastiness of his bass licks.  Just listen to “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town”: that is full, supple, beautiful support.  Or the incandescent slides on “Sometimes” or the chunky rock of “Why Go” or the simple majesty of “Faithfull”.  The song “In Hiding” has such perfect bass that it sends me into convulsions and leaves me writhing on the floor where I promptly a take large steaming dump right into my formerly white Hanes.  Amen to Ament is what I say!  Fuck, I’ll even say it again for all those hard of hearing and all the haters who stalk me on the message boards: Amen to Ament!

Lately, I’ve been listening to the 2001 album Invincible by Michael Jackson.  Fans know this was his last album proper before his death though I’m sure posthumous albums will continue to be released for millions of years until the sun goes supernova and obliterates us all from this humble universe.  Final albums are a tricky thing indeed.  Off the top of my cerebral cortex no artist has ever knowingly released something which could definitively function as a final work (though The Who at least came somewhat close as the song “Tea and Theatre” from their as yet last album – 2006’s Endless Wire – serves as an amazing final song and summation of the band’s music/history.  Also Warren Zevon’s final album definitely touches upon some heavy things as he knew the final curtain call was soon to take place.  I bet there are many more but I’m too dumb to think of them).  Due to Invincible’s place in his discography it is tempting to ascribe something deeper to the music contained on the disc rather than listening to or examining it on its own terms.  However, even with that understanding the album still presents a unique set of problems for the listener.  

I should preface any further commentary by saying I am perhaps that rare breed of Jackson fan who prefers his nineties work to his more universally celebrated eighties output.  Until the end of my miserable days I will always prefer Dangerous and HIStory to Off the Wall, Thriller and Bad.  I don’t know that the reasons behind this preference are particularly important or revelatory but suffice it to say I simply find the music – the propulsive new jack swing of Dangerous and the sharp angular funk of HIStory – and lyricial sentiments behind those later albums to be more interesting and impacting.  HIStory in particular is such a densely layered, paranoid and cutting album that it demands repeated listens to dig deeper into Jackson’s anger and discover whatever truths lay within.   

It was easy to think Invincible would follow the lead of those previous two releases but though it begins as a hard electronic urban album it soon devolves into a frustrating series of ballads which grind the flow of the record to a dead crawl.  Oddly, the dividing point is with the attempted comeback single “You Rock My World”.  That song in itself represents what I feel is the major overarching flaw of the album: far too reserved.  Jackson seems to be holding back in the music, lyrics and his singing.  It does not come across as laziness or even half-baked ideas but more like a man actually frightened to make too bold a statement.  Perhaps it was a reaction to the continued controversy that followed him so close through the nineties and until his death (but if that’s the case then why did HIStory turn out so forceful and compelling?).  Or maybe he simply was not sure where he would fit in the ever changing musical landscape after his extended leave of absence and decided to play it safe.  Either way or any other way, so few of the songs here seem to come alive and scale those majestic heights of his previous work.

Jackson’s ballads have always been difficult for me as their careful craft often comes across more as rigidity rather than feeling and the sentimentality more saccharine than effectively heartstring tugging.  I will never pick “You Are Not Alone” over “They Don’t Care About Us”.  One sounds more calculated and one more genuine just as one has burning passion to spare and one only a careful rubric to follow.  This turn toward excessive slow numbers and stilted dance tunes makes Invincible a frequently difficult album to appreciate or even get through.  However I plan to persevere a bit more as I know how rewarding his music can be and maybe there was a plan and design for all these ballads that I simply cannot see yet.  I will keep you posted dear readers. Also, I’ve always loved the cover to the album, whatever that’s worth!

I spent a shocking amount of time over the weekend watching giallos and kung fu flicks.  I would sit or lay on my bourgeois sofa with a large bowl of Lucky Charms cereal positively swimming in whole milk and delight in world cinema.  In between these installments I would pop in a movie like El Alacran Ataca or El Chacal de la Frontera that I may witness once again the glory of actress Yamila Herrera.  I love her you must know.  With all my heart.  Yet there is precious little information about her save the films in which she stars.  She’s a complete enigma and part of me wonders if she truly exists at all.  Her beauty is nigh unparalleled.  Yamila, I swear…I swear….  At any rate in watching some of these giallos such as those directed by Lucio Fulci or Dario Argento and some of those Shaw Brothers Martial Arts films I noticed the blood is the same gleefully impossibly bright red in both genres.  If I were a character in a giallo I would no doubt die in a horrifically gruesome and excruciatingly painful way and this makes me sad that it will likely never come to pass.  Along the lines of martial arts, I recently ordered from a local conglomerate the Angela Mao Ying Collection which contains 6 of the martial arts queen’s films. My hopes are that the item will arrive in time for the holiday weekend that I may have time to place an order with my local butcher (we’ve since patched things up after the St. Patrick’s Day fiasco) as well as purchase a couple of nylon wearing prostitutes who will use my face for a footrest in between the times when we are all watching martial arts cinema and eating large chunks of undercooked meat. 

All these smiling faces I see, so unlike my own.  I walk through the doors and I feel the hateful stares on me.  I no longer wish for anything.  Angels of finance (or are they financial angels?) dance before my eyes while burning lamps are inserted into strange places in my body. 

I think I'll bake a cake tonight and eat it while going on a 27 mile hike through the woods!

Please use the triangle choke!

I recently watched In the Blood starring Gina Carano, Luis Guzman, Stephen Lang and the ever ubiquitous Danny Trejo.  From the moment I first heard of this film’s development I knew my healthy Carano obsession would lead me to a purchase and I checked for news on a daily basis until the moment of its release.  So it was that I found myself at Best Buy staring at this item on the rack.  My eyes were as wide as saucers full of milk and my heart was pounding with all the intensity of one man savagely beating to death another with his bare hands due to a racial dispute.  I made the purchase, went home, drew the curtains, poured myself a scotch, loosened my neck tie and watched.  

Truth be told I found the film to be quite enjoyable.  In a shell of nut the story concerns Ava (Carano) searching for her missing husband in the Caribbean and kicking lots or arse along the way.  It is a blissfully simple tale at its heart yet with enough layering and nuance to add just the right amount of depth and an excellent star vehicle for Carano’s growing talents as an actress. I had and continue to have even in this modern age misgivings about Haywire (though the scene where she fights Michael Fassbender is one of the few things that makes my failed life worth living, how I wish she would...), the former MMA fighter’s feature film debut but In the Blood is an altogether more straightforward affair and therefore more satisfying in an immediate (though perhaps narrower in the long run) sense.  John Stockwell’s direction is assured and confident and he thankfully employs an unobtrusive editing style to tell his story and his story’s action scenes.  He and cinematographer P.J. Lopez make the most of the beautiful Caribbean setting which gives the movie a unique flavor amongst its brethren (Stockwell seems to thrive on these settings as a glance at his filmography shows he as the man behind the camera on similarly attractive movies such as Blue Crush, Into the Blue and Turistas). 

The performances are good all around – no one necessarily exceptional yet no one hitting any false notes either.  Carano is a more than credible action heroine and she has a charming presence which has caused me to fall deeply in love with her and thusly unable to really render an accurate review of her acting prowess.  I won’t hide it anymore: I adored every second of the film in which she appeared and burst into tears several times at the sheer power of the love I felt.  Guzman and Trejo are always delights to see and though I wish Lang had more screen time his role is pivotal and well played.  As alluded to, the actions scenes are quite well done with some tense stunts and refreshingly above average hand to hand combat where Carano continues to impress though one does wish there for a bit less gunplay and bit more of those MMA skills.

Subsequent to viewing the feature film I also watched the making of documentary included on the disc.  I found this to be immensely satisfying and it enriched my appreciation for the flick when I saw and heard the passion that Stockwell and my Gina have for it.  No doubt they knew they were not reinventing the wheel or producing something quite as profound as a Schindler’s List yet this knowledge of their limitations seemed to push them to provide the best possible version of the film they were making and that is the key.  It is truly amazing how many filmmakers try and push their movie in a direction for which it is obviously not suited.  Make no mistake: In The Blood is a B movie but it is a lovingly made B movie and that is what turns it into a good time.  They seem to have a genuine fondness for the old fashioned meat and potatoes action type movie and this is quite endearing to me as I have grown to greatly miss meat and potatoes style filmmaking.  In fact, I dare say this newfound affection of mine for this style of cinema is the source of my recent love and admiration of Mark Wahlberg films (as I alluded to in Monday’s post, helpful link here for new readers: http://creamybrandenblog.blogspot.com/2014/06/i-can-feel-like-child.html). Wahlberg’s movies are frequently stuffed full of meat and potatoes.  

I also can’t miss this extraordinary opportunity to point out that Carano is dating Mr. Man O’ Steel himself Henry Cavill and the two make a strong, strikingly beautiful couple. Unfortunately I burned what clout I had at Warner Bros. Studios during the summer of 95’ and I have been persona non grata with the brothers ever since otherwise I would have strongly pushed for Carano to play Wonder Woman in the upcoming film Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice (what a fucking unholy mouthful of a title that is!) as well as the subsequent Justice League and Wonder Woman solo films.  Carano has the presence and strength of character to pull off the role of the Amazon princess with grace and ease.  Seeing her as Diana of Themyscira would literally make all my dreams come true.  Gal Gadot is just too damn thin for the role and scholarly opinion has repeatedly echoed this sentiment since the moment of her casting.  

I’m sorry everyone.  I realize now how guilty I’ve been of thin shaming toward Gadot in the press.  I once knew a gal (not Gadot) who said being called too skinny was just as hurtful as being called fat.  It is difficult for me to believe this – most likely because I am repulsive bloated hog of a man and it hurts greatly when people point it out – yet I know it is not right to single someone out for their thinness either.  I take back what I said.  I believe in Gal.  I believe she’ll do a fine job in the role and I eagerly await her performance.  It’s not right to judge her in the part before I’ve seen it.  What a bastard I am.  What a hopeless, miserable bastard.  Still, Gina would have been great.  I have a fantasy where I’ve just had my head bashed in by a violent smuggler/local crime kingpin and I wake up in the hospital, look over and Gina Carano is sitting by my bed.  She puts a strong but gentle hand on my shoulder, kisses me on the forehead and tells me it will be okay.  In another we are dancing at a ball and she suddenly mistakes me for an undercover counterintelligence agent and she beats me to within an inch of my life before realizing her mistake and then carries me to a hospital.  I pass out upon entering the hospital and the last thing I see before it goes black is her beautiful face. 

I want to write something about objectification in one of my next posts.  

I can feel like a child

My excitement threatened to bubble over into raving insanity when the trailer for Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman went online last week-and-a-half.  Those who know me best know of my deep, undying love for actor Michael Keaton and that he is still my Batman of choice.  Every time a movie with his name in the credits is announced I squeal with girlish glee and eagerly count down the days until its release.  To that end Keaton’s increased cinematic presence this year has certainly been welcome though it‘s a blubbering shame it had to be in the horrifying form of the predictably bad Robocop and the predictably yet somehow unbelievably bad Need for Speed [despite the latter being an unquestionably worse and all around horrible movie (Aaron Paul, you are going to destroy your film career in a flash of golden lightning if you keep picking movies like this) it is the former which actually hurts more since it also stars Gary Oldman].  The trailer for Birdman was certainly more enjoyable than either of those movies but I stopped trusting trailers years ago after losing several thousand dollars and the use of my left pinky.  Still, it is the rich combination of Keaton, the trailer (which truly is glorious) and Iñárritu which gives me high hopes for this particular cinematic entry.  Though I was able to find all sorts of enjoyment in 21 Grams and Biutiful (not as much in Babel) I feel Iñárritu has never quite matched the heights of his debut Amores Perros.  To be fair, that is an insanely high standard to set for anyone and I would personally posit that film as one of the best of the aughts decade.  Still, I have faith he may again scale those heights and would love for that to happen with this upcoming feature.  As many have pointed out the strange parallels to Keaton’s own career suggest this film could be to him what The Wrestler was to Mickey Rourke.  The only thing making me apprehensive about this movie is Ed Norton but I think I can use the next few months to grow as a human being and accept his presence.  Oh Keaton, I will do anything for you.  I await this feature with bated breath.   

I was inside the palace at last.  I was here so many times before but never in real life.  This time the taste was so sweet.  There were guards and goblins at the gates and I felt afraid but I was allowed to pass.  You allowed me to enter.  Everyone assembled and on display and I was terrified.  I could not intellectualize or contextualize the situation as everything was moving far too fast.  Brass nails held things in place and there were gears and pistons and many moving parts.  I saw a man who was half machine, the pale skin of his body becoming rusted metal, one eye a rotating reflective lens, a circuit board his stomach, his manhood half organic but ending in a splay of wires connecting to a battery the size of a cinderblock.  He smiled and his teeth were glistening sharpened steel.  “I can feel the energy inside of me; it tickles me and makes me tremble and smile.  When I touch it, the spark is so wonderful, I can feel it in the center of my body and it makes me laugh and bleed and I love it.  I can bring the pleasure outside of myself when I am being shocked; I live for the sweet torment.  Please don’t tell the children and please don’t tell Annabelle.  My brain belongs to the stars now and my body is in a perpetual state of ecstatic damnation.  I don’t know who I pray to anymore”. 

There are times where I weep uncontrollably as I realize what a horrible person I am.  In those moments I think of all the fragile, wonderful people around me and how I wish they would all be happy and never have to feel pain. I know I am the source of sadness for many and this makes me panic and scream and I so badly want to omit myself from all future proceedings.  I am sorry to everyone, I truly am.  I know I am a waste.  I am a fucking disgusting, ugly waste and I do not why I am allowed to continue. 

Mark Wahlberg consistently appears in some of the most generic mainstream movies of our generation and for that I treasure him.  I used to loathe him and his filmography but now I find his films soothing, akin to slipping into a warm bath of the man’s saliva.  And he is a far better actor than I originally believed. 

I’ve been doing some deep soul searching lately on the band Creed and I realized how unfair I was to this group.  For years I slagged them in the associated press and to my compatriots yet they are truly no worse or better than a band like Stone Temple Pilots.  In fact the similarities could not be clearer!  Simply put, they are both highly derivative bands that pilfered a huge amount of things from groups like Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains and spun some calculated, catchy and arena ready songs in the process.  Honestly, take a listen to “What If” by Creed and “Wicked Garden” by Stone Temple Pilots and the only thing really separating them is slightly (and I mean slightly) slicker production on the Creed track.  They are both very faceless tunes, retreading shadows of better songs by the aforementioned bands however both are enjoyable in their own way and perfectly harmless.  “What If” could have appeared on 1992’s Core by STP and no one would have found it out of place.  I’ll even go so far as to say you are a damn hypocrite if you love one of these two bands but hate the other!  Stone Temple Pilots and Creed are my new favorite bands and the wiry Scott Weiland and the nimble Scott Stapp are my new favorite singers.  The two Scotts make my heart burst with joy and with their faux-angsty showmanship.  I wonder how history will view them?   Already STP enjoy a more flattering reputation than in their heyday when Rolling Stone listed them as worst new band (Creed also enjoyed a similar accolade by that very same magazine) and I submit that Creed will be likewise revered in 10 or 15 years. 

Even when I bought the blu-ray of The Shining I could still not part with my DVD copy due the difference in aspect ratios – the dvd in 1.33:1 and the blu ray in 1.78:1 – and the continued debate over which was Kubrick’s true preference for the flick.  I used to beat myself up over owning two copies of this movie but I’m done feeling guilty.  I’ve removed those oppressive shackles and made the decision to go forward in my life as someone who loves himself and is at peace with the world around him.   

Kicking my ass would be a pleasure. 

Johnny wants to suck on a Coke

My night bequeathed to me an extraordinary dream wherein I was sitting front row at a Shakira concert in a curious venue no larger than the average high school auditorium.  I do not recall any of the songs in her setlist save for a rather unexpected cover of David Bowie’s I’m Afraid of Americans.  The overall narrative flow of this experience was largely lost to the sands of time yet I clearly remember suddenly being with her at an impossibly massive and colorful backstage area.  She was so kind.  She seemed to have a genuine interest in talking to and interacting with me.  I wanted to confess my love but I was not able.  And at once the cruel and ugly morning tore me away from a life far sweeter than any I’ve ever known.  Please shed a tear for me my friends.  Life has killed the dream I dreamed. 

I recently ventured to the cinema to watch X-Men: Days of Future Past.  I found the movie to be predominantly enjoyable though it is already fading fast in my memory.  Still, I would like to see it a second time in order to really get a firm grasp on my feelings.  However one thing I can say with all the certainty of a man who recently had his hand eaten by the same aquatic lifeforms he could so recently communicate with via marine-oriented telepathic powers is that I did not like the ending(s) one iota.  Superhero movies in recent years have developed a rather disturbing trend to end things with a sequel hook – either in a pre-credits end scene or in those horrible post-credit scenes – as opposed to providing an actual conclusion to the narrative.  I have several very close friends who love this trend but I’m convinced they are all drinking Drano. 

These weak and stilted setups for sequels do nothing but cheapen the movie in which they appear.  It is as if to say “We do not have enough confidence in this particular film nor do we view its story to be of any significance to actually provide it with a self-contained conclusion, instead we are just going to set up the next one which we promise will be ZOMG so much cooler!!!”.  The result frequently leaves me holding a bag of unresolved emotion and I leave the theatre with a dawning feeling of dissatisfaction. 

It boggles my feeble brain why this happens (logically I know it happens for the money, the moulah, the dough, the shickles, the greenbacks, the pesos, the bread, the coin, the bank, the cabbage, the dead presidents but this does little to calm my spirits) because the final scenes in these flicks can be so beautiful if they are actually treated like final scenes and not commercials for the next installment.  2008’s The Dark Knight had a perfect ending.  The characters all end up in spots which are logical to the story – not forced due to sequel demands (this is especially proven true given the unexpected and controversial path taken by 2012’s The Dark Knight Rises).  Just recall it right now in all its ending glory: arch-fiend is caught, tragic backbone-of-the-story character took his figurative and literal fall from grace which mirrors the hero’s own journey and key supporting character gives excellent theme summarizing monologue, he’ll haul ass because we’ll chase him, he’s not a hero, guardian, or protector, he’s a strong silent type, a watchful eye in the sky, the Knight Before Christmas, boom, fade to black, The Dark Inky Knight, perfect ending because it is an actual ending to that particular story.  

Last year’s Man of Steel also had an actual ending which was even more ass-jigglingly shocking to see given the glut of superhero films between Knight and Steel which insist on concluding things with sequel teases.  Another great finale: villain defeated, world saved, lessons on humanity learned, I’m taking a leap of faith, father is proud of me, I need a high profile, fast paced competitive job, this is our new cub reporter Bark Bent, welcome to the Daily World Mr. Bent , happy to be here Cloris, Boom! Fade to orange! Man of Metal!  Perfect fucking ending.  And the thing those two movies – and in particular the endings – both have in common you are no doubt screaming at the top of your tar stained lungs?  That’s right: Hans.  Hans Zimmer scored both those feature films and as both movies cut to the title and subsequent end credits his score drives it all home with the subtlety and strength of a brown bear lopping the head of a hapless national park tourist (the kind that wears khaki shorts and socks with sandals).  Am I saying that Zimmer’s presence is what secures a legitimate ending to a superhero movie?  I’m not not saying it, that’s for sure.  

Yet I also recall that before either of these Sam Raimi’s 2002 Spider-Man movie also had a perfect ending, thus undoing the Hans theory I spent years researching and developing.  Raimi’s ending: villain vanquished, characters developed, funeral, love you but can’t be with you, uncle taught me lots, power, responsibility, who am me?  Me Peter Spiderman, photographer for Daily World, cue web-slinging, sticking to buildings, CGI American flag, Boom!  Fade to brown, Man-Spider!  Raimi did it before everyone!  Except now I am remembering that Bryan Singer’s original X-Men had a reals honest ending and so did Timothy Burton’s Batman movies before that and Richard Donner’s Superman movies before those so really it is only some horrific unholy trend in recent years that has brought about all these unnecessary teases and meaningless endings and mid-credit scenes and post-credit scenes and post-post credit scenes and extra holographic 4-D post-post-post credit post-next-day and post-two-weeks in the future pre-pre-Superbowl-pre-show scenes.  I credit this to movie audiences being far less intelligent in a general sense these days but that’s just because I’m an old curmudgeon ruled by his fears and insecurities. 

But come on!  Some entire movies – Iron Man 2 and Captain America: the First Avenger among others – take it to even further vomit inducing extremes and feel like nothing more than stopgaps released solely as prologue and promotion for the “big and important” movie, in this case The Avengers.  If this trend continues – and Thor: The Dark World certainly suggests it will and I am terrified of Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice for this very reason – then I will have no choice but to make a turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread with lettuce, tomato, mustard and mayo and eat that sandwich while perusing a book of delightful nature photographs.    

I was watching a sitcom when a strange demonic voice kept speaking in my ear.  It said my name and told me terrible things.  I started to cry and tremble.  There was a man standing in the corner of the room.  There was something so horrible and off about his appearance.  He took slow, measured steps toward me and while doing so began to smile. 

I was a rabbit wondering who I would be.