As I type this the digital clock at the right corner of the menu bar on the bottom of my laptop screen reads 12:53 a.m. (though I'm sure this won't be finished/published until well into the evening) which means that today is 18 July of the year 2016. That means that this blog hasn't been updated in well over a year. Well, why not, then? Did I lose my fingers? Was there a terrible accident? Have I run out of things to say? Respectively: no, kind of, and absolutely not. Over the past year-and-some-change I have had much to say about many of the many goings-on. For those of you just joining us in the middle of 2016, the past seven months have been quite eventful. There have been multiple mass shootings, killings, deaths, a slew of spilled blood, and two American presidential candidates who are both likely to disappoint an entire country, at the very least. But let's not get into that. What matters is I am back, here, right now, to talk about movies and stuff. I'm sure I'll go into yet another hibernation at some point in the near future, but for the time being, let's talk about Stranger Things.
This weekend Netflix released yet another first season of yet another promising new series, Stranger Things - a total throwback to 1980s science-fiction/horror/creature feature films. Imagine if Stephen King wrote E.T. and mashed it up with The Goonies and a little bit of X-Files (among other ingredients, such as Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Twin Peaks, Poltergeist, Monster Squad, Super 8, Firestarter, and more) with Steven Spielberg at the helm, J.J. Abrams producing, and John Carpenter doing the score, and you've got one healthy helping of Stranger Things. And yet even with all of the nods and references and blatant inspirations, Stranger Things still manages to be a compellingly original masterpiece.
That word may be thrown around far too often, but make no mistake about it: Stranger Things is, in fact, a masterpiece. Granted all of this is subjective. Many folks out there who dislike '80s nostalgia and just don't enjoy horror and science fiction are likely to ignore this series. And that's fine. Let 'em miss out. If it ain't for you, it ain't for you. But for those of us who this is clearly meant for, well, you're going to love it. That is a guarantee.
In a small town in Indiana, 1983, someone or something has kidnapped young Will Byers. The whole town comes together in search for the missing child, but nobody seems to be quite as affected as his best friends - a tight-knit group of D&D-playing, Tolkien-reading 12-year-old boys who come into contact with a mysterious little girl who just might hold the key to finding their lost pal. Equally disheartened are Will's mother and older brother, played by the talented Winona Ryder and Charlie Heaton respectively. As their search continues, something is very amiss, and a handful of the town's denizens find themselves caught in the midst of something inexplicable; shrouded in mysteries, parallel dimensions, government conspiracies, and not nearly enough Eggo waffles. Paranoia runs rampant while the hideous truth unfolds - in the form of a foul and deadly beast known to the children as "The Demogorgon" - and our youthful protagonists are soon caught up in a Stephen King-worthy series of supernatural events.
Child actors tend to be hit or miss in general. Either they really nail the performance or they create something cringeworthy that just feels like a horrible pre-teen actor doing a poor job acting like a normal pre-teen human being. The young actors in Stranger Things - all of whom are relatively new to the game - each bring with them, individually, something unique and refreshing and utterly fantastic. Their acting chops are superb. In the case of Millie Bobby Brown, who plays the basically-mute and endlessly fascinating Eleven, the acting isn't just great: it's on par with most seasoned adult actors. Many have compared Brown's role in Stranger Things to that of Natalie Portman in 1994's Leon: The Professional, and this is a fair comparison. Millie Brown takes center stage throughout, and if there's any justice in the world she'll be a household name in a few years. But while Brown certainly steals the show, her youthful peers shine for all eight episodes as well. They capture with awe-inspiring ease the look, behavior, and mentality of 1980-something 12-year-old kids just like the ones we know by name in aforementioned flicks like The Goonies, E.T., and Monster Squad. Their performances are so believable, in fact, that it's at times legitimately difficult to remember that these are kids from the early 21st century in lieu of the early 1980s. While the kids themselves do a wonderful job, the adult performers - including Winona Ryder, David Harbour, Natalia Dyer, and Charlie Heaton - bring much to the table, too. The chemistry among everybody involved is seamless, endearing, and, most importantly, convincing. Were it not for the fact that this is a television series and not a movie, I'd say most of the actors in Stranger Things would be worthy of, at the very least, a nod from the Academy.
But is Stranger Things really a TV show, in the commonly-accepted sense of the term? It can be argued that this first season is more of a ~7-hour movie, as it plays out in a binge-worthy manner and so many of its viewers have chosen to treat it as such. This format - the Netflix-binged single-sitting TV-show-season - seems to really be picking up these past few years, and films released on the silver screen lately tend to exceed the common length of 90-minutes, often clocking in at two-and-a-half hours with no break or intermission. Could this be the dawn of a new era of epic-length motion pictures? For cinephiles who leave the theatre feeling dissatisfied and underwhelmed, such a new fad in film wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing. Anymore it feels as if a 90-minute runtime just doesn't cut it - we need more. We want more. And, considering we're perfectly okay with sitting through roughly seven hours of quality "television," it would seem as though we're perfectly content with having more.
And more we shall receive, as Netflix continues to dish out top-of-the-line original TV series that we love to shamelessly binge. A second season of the extraordinary Stranger Things is most likely to break through the Upside Down and find its way into our reality and, at the risk of being cliche, our hearts. Judging by the rave reviews this brand new '80s homage of terror and curiosity has been receiving, we'll be welcoming season two with open arms.
All eight episodes of Stranger Things are available on Netflix.
18 July 2016
19 September 2014
Tusk: What Horror Needs
Kevin Smith has found yet another niche, and this time it’s B-horror-comedy flicks.
The slacker master of the 1990s has never been one to censor himself, whether his array of Jersey-born characters are stink-palming Michael Rooker, discussing the disadvantages of going ass-to-mouth, or sucking 37 dicks (not necessarily in a row). But if you were to have told me during the blossoming years of the aughties that the same man responsible for Chasing Amy would turn the kid from Waiting… into a twisted, man-made walrus… actually, I probably would’ve believed it.
Kevin Smith is a force to be reckoned with. It doesn’t matter whether you dig his flicks or not, because he is always going to be here with something outrageous, be that a good or a bad thing. While 1990s Smith brought us raunchy slacker comedies and the early ’00s saw K-Smizzle going total meta, with the you-love-it-or-you-hate-it Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, 2014 shows us a darker, more disturbing side of the Clerks kid. And “you love it or you hate it” can be used to describe basically all of Kevin Smith’s films to date. He is an acquired taste, like a rich New Jersey craft beer. Any beer aficionado will know that craft beers either fly or they crash — there is rarely an in-between. That’s Smith for ya.
The horror film genre has been in desperate need of resuscitation for quite some time now, and most directors have chosen to bring horror back to life by incorporating a bit of humor and a lot of gore, and you know what? It’s working. Horror is breathing with a steady heartbeat once again. The past decade has seen movies like Slither, Shaun of the Dead, Drag Me to Hell, Trick r Treat, and The Cabin in the Woods, all of which were divine horror flicks with the perfect amount of humor mixed in (and the ideal dose of gore and blood and flesh and all of those disgusting things us horror fans so vehemently crave). Tusk shows us all of that and a little bit more.
Tusk has heart. Tusk has a soul. Tusk has wacky fucking insane characters, genuinely smart and witty dialogue, pure K-Smizzle-brand dick and fart jokes that are actually hilarious, and wonderful acting by a wonderful cast. Add this to the obvious horror elements and we are given an awesome nod to classic B-horror, with a script that doesn’t read nearly as awful as your average B-horror flick. And unlike most 1980s B-horror movies, Tusk gets pretty fucking emotional. It gets sad, man. It gets brutal. It’s a carnival of emotions. And it just might be an instant classic.
I know I’m throwing around all the typical buzz terms, like “instant classic” and “acquired taste” and the like, but so what? Modern horror needs more buzz. And all of these pathetic attempts at reviving horror via another exorcism/possession flick and Paranormal Activity 12 and a fucking Conjuring spinoff are half-assed at best and fatally embarrassing at worst. So many writers and directors are attempting to convince the general public to take horror seriously, but that’s not the point of horror. We’re fine with being ignored by the Academy. Or, at least, we should be. Instead of prancing about trying to make a horror film the old white dudes who control the Oscars will maybe offer a bored glance, horror directors need to go balls-out I-don’t-give-a-fuck, raunchy, dirty, gruesome, vomit-inducing, horrible, incredible, disturbingly awesome all while managing to thrill us, the horror fanatics, the people who love this shit, who eat this shit with our grimy hands and beg for seconds. We will pay to see your movie. We will talk about it for years. Entertain us and we will empty our wallets into your bare hands, eagerly purchasing the four-disc blu-ray collector’s edition and the entire line of action figures.
And that’s exactly what Kevin Smith has managed to do. He has given us an eerily sadistic film that sates our need for gore perfectly without going overboard, makes us laugh hysterically and cringe horrifically, and might even bring a tear to our eyes. Tusk is another small step for horror, for good horror and for bad horror, because, you see, that’s the thing about horror — sometimes it’s so goddamned bad that it’s good. And not “bad” in the way that the last twenty-something exorcism movies have been, but bad in a beautifully nostalgic way that takes us back to a time when horror was just pure fucking grotesque fun.
Like I said before… Tusk is that and a whole lot more. It’s a unique and exquisite film and a fabulous addition to the long list of horror cult classics. Thank you, Kevin Smith. Please give us more.
The slacker master of the 1990s has never been one to censor himself, whether his array of Jersey-born characters are stink-palming Michael Rooker, discussing the disadvantages of going ass-to-mouth, or sucking 37 dicks (not necessarily in a row). But if you were to have told me during the blossoming years of the aughties that the same man responsible for Chasing Amy would turn the kid from Waiting… into a twisted, man-made walrus… actually, I probably would’ve believed it.
Kevin Smith is a force to be reckoned with. It doesn’t matter whether you dig his flicks or not, because he is always going to be here with something outrageous, be that a good or a bad thing. While 1990s Smith brought us raunchy slacker comedies and the early ’00s saw K-Smizzle going total meta, with the you-love-it-or-you-hate-it Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, 2014 shows us a darker, more disturbing side of the Clerks kid. And “you love it or you hate it” can be used to describe basically all of Kevin Smith’s films to date. He is an acquired taste, like a rich New Jersey craft beer. Any beer aficionado will know that craft beers either fly or they crash — there is rarely an in-between. That’s Smith for ya.
The horror film genre has been in desperate need of resuscitation for quite some time now, and most directors have chosen to bring horror back to life by incorporating a bit of humor and a lot of gore, and you know what? It’s working. Horror is breathing with a steady heartbeat once again. The past decade has seen movies like Slither, Shaun of the Dead, Drag Me to Hell, Trick r Treat, and The Cabin in the Woods, all of which were divine horror flicks with the perfect amount of humor mixed in (and the ideal dose of gore and blood and flesh and all of those disgusting things us horror fans so vehemently crave). Tusk shows us all of that and a little bit more.
Tusk has heart. Tusk has a soul. Tusk has wacky fucking insane characters, genuinely smart and witty dialogue, pure K-Smizzle-brand dick and fart jokes that are actually hilarious, and wonderful acting by a wonderful cast. Add this to the obvious horror elements and we are given an awesome nod to classic B-horror, with a script that doesn’t read nearly as awful as your average B-horror flick. And unlike most 1980s B-horror movies, Tusk gets pretty fucking emotional. It gets sad, man. It gets brutal. It’s a carnival of emotions. And it just might be an instant classic.
I know I’m throwing around all the typical buzz terms, like “instant classic” and “acquired taste” and the like, but so what? Modern horror needs more buzz. And all of these pathetic attempts at reviving horror via another exorcism/possession flick and Paranormal Activity 12 and a fucking Conjuring spinoff are half-assed at best and fatally embarrassing at worst. So many writers and directors are attempting to convince the general public to take horror seriously, but that’s not the point of horror. We’re fine with being ignored by the Academy. Or, at least, we should be. Instead of prancing about trying to make a horror film the old white dudes who control the Oscars will maybe offer a bored glance, horror directors need to go balls-out I-don’t-give-a-fuck, raunchy, dirty, gruesome, vomit-inducing, horrible, incredible, disturbingly awesome all while managing to thrill us, the horror fanatics, the people who love this shit, who eat this shit with our grimy hands and beg for seconds. We will pay to see your movie. We will talk about it for years. Entertain us and we will empty our wallets into your bare hands, eagerly purchasing the four-disc blu-ray collector’s edition and the entire line of action figures.
And that’s exactly what Kevin Smith has managed to do. He has given us an eerily sadistic film that sates our need for gore perfectly without going overboard, makes us laugh hysterically and cringe horrifically, and might even bring a tear to our eyes. Tusk is another small step for horror, for good horror and for bad horror, because, you see, that’s the thing about horror — sometimes it’s so goddamned bad that it’s good. And not “bad” in the way that the last twenty-something exorcism movies have been, but bad in a beautifully nostalgic way that takes us back to a time when horror was just pure fucking grotesque fun.
Like I said before… Tusk is that and a whole lot more. It’s a unique and exquisite film and a fabulous addition to the long list of horror cult classics. Thank you, Kevin Smith. Please give us more.
24 July 2014
Take One More Orwellian Ride with Terry Gilliam
Nobody does Orwell quite like Orwell, but Terry Gilliam arguably comes second. The Monty Python-alumni wields a unique ability to tackle the human imagination with a little brown bottle of adrenochrome and a six-pack of dutch angle-soaked paranoia. His films are visually stunning, inherently perplexing, and oftentimes emotionally draining. Gilliam's newest masterpiece, The Zero Theorem, is all of those and so much more, making it perhaps his best - and most important - film to date.
The final installment in Gilliam's self-named "Orwellian Triptych" is just as bleak, heavy, and darkly humorous as its predecessors, 1985's Brazil and 1995's Twelve Monkeys. But Zero aims to be more Brazil than Monkeys, and its aim is true. From the get-go we are introduced to Christoph Waltz's monkish Qohen Leth, a solitude-junkie and genius computer programmer residing in a decrepit old church. But outside of Leth's pew-filled abode buzzes a world which could only be concocted by the same twisted mind that brought us the duct-riddled, dystopian world depicted in Brazil. The world Qohen Leth despises and fears beyond the crumbling walls of his literal haven is definitely more '80s-Gilliam, but with a wicked modern twist - civilians and bystanders can be seen constantly glaring at the glowing screens of handheld tablets and smartphones, futuristic video-ads loop on the walls of nearly every building, a pair of massive red lips informs consumers of a local sale called "Occupy Mall Street." At its core it is a 1980s-inspired dystopia, but the modern satire is everywhere.
Christoph Waltz's Qohen Leth is obviously insane. Not even a half hour into the film we are informed via a virtual therapist (expertly portrayed by Tilda Swinton) of the reclusive man's agoraphobia, antisociality, haphephobia, claustrophobia, crippling neurosis, and blatant paranoia. Along with his seemingly infinite bundle of phobias, Leth is suffering from some clear albeit unclear existential crisis involving the delusional and consistent hope for a phone call that will supposedly change his life - or maybe just give meaning to it.
Despite his laundry list of fears and anxiety disorders, Qohen Leth is sort of loveable. In fact, he's actually quite relatable. Qohen Leth, like us, is human. He is filled to the brim with flaws. But while modern cinema has a big boner for quirky mentally-anguished characters, Waltz's Leth is miles from "quirky." At times he is actually frightening - frightening because it isn't difficult to see ourselves in his unfortunate position. It's a realistic sort of frightening, one which really struck a chord, at least with me.
The world around Leth is a bright but dark one. Consumerism is obviously just as rampant as it's always been, if not more so, and corporations continue to control most everything. Despite the lack of a governmental presence, much like that featured in Brazil, the recent-and-currently developing real life NSA scandal may play a huge role in The Zero Theorem, as throughout the film a mostly-unseen authority-figure aptly named "The Management" appears to control everything and, quite literally, watch over everyone (there are black-and-white security cameras placed everywhere, including within Leth's church home - sound familiar?). Matt Damon plays the Management in a role he's never quite portrayed before. Though he's rarely seen throughout the movie, his character is absolutely essential to the plot, but I won't spoil anything beyond that.
What differentiates The Zero Theorem from Brazil is, for the most part, its ending - no worries, I'm not going to give anything away. All I'll say is that while Brazil had a pretty ironclad dismal and rather terrifying conclusion, Zero's ending is a bit more... bittersweet. Where Brazil left a nasty taste in your mouth (one that did not, in any way, hinder its brilliance), The Zero Theorem will leave a lump in your throat and a quivering smile on your face, and, perhaps most importantly, a hushed uttering of "wait, what the fuck?" Yes, without a doubt, The Zero Theorem is a movie you cannot watch just once and fully comprehend. And even if you do understand the film in its entirety after the first go, you're almost guaranteed to want to re-watch it immediately. Do yourself a favor and spend just under another two hours re-watching The Zero Theorem. And then maybe even give it a third watch. You'll notice things you hadn't noticed before. You'll pick up on little details that may or may not answer previously unanswered questions. You'll gain, for sure, a better understanding of the film, and by the end of it all you might no longer feel the same pity you originally felt for our struggling hero, Qohen Leth.
Or maybe it'll just make you feel even worse.
Each view of The Zero Theorem is bound to provide a different experience than the one prior. Zero will never equal one hundred percent.
From the brilliant soundtrack (including a haunting cocktail lounge-esque cover of Radiohead's "Creep") to the absolutely spellbinding performances of the lovely and seductively lucid Mélanie Thierry, the immensely talented David Thewlis, the enigmatic Matt Damon, and of course the ever awe-inspiring Christoph Waltz, The Zero Theorem is a movie not to be forgotten. Terry Gilliam's wildly satirical and distinctly whimsical final piece to his Orwellian Triptych is a definite must-see for any fan of Gilliam, George Orwell, dystopian existentialism, or just anybody who fears for society's Facebook-ruled, privacy-stripped, and tragically soulless future.
The final installment in Gilliam's self-named "Orwellian Triptych" is just as bleak, heavy, and darkly humorous as its predecessors, 1985's Brazil and 1995's Twelve Monkeys. But Zero aims to be more Brazil than Monkeys, and its aim is true. From the get-go we are introduced to Christoph Waltz's monkish Qohen Leth, a solitude-junkie and genius computer programmer residing in a decrepit old church. But outside of Leth's pew-filled abode buzzes a world which could only be concocted by the same twisted mind that brought us the duct-riddled, dystopian world depicted in Brazil. The world Qohen Leth despises and fears beyond the crumbling walls of his literal haven is definitely more '80s-Gilliam, but with a wicked modern twist - civilians and bystanders can be seen constantly glaring at the glowing screens of handheld tablets and smartphones, futuristic video-ads loop on the walls of nearly every building, a pair of massive red lips informs consumers of a local sale called "Occupy Mall Street." At its core it is a 1980s-inspired dystopia, but the modern satire is everywhere.
Christoph Waltz's Qohen Leth is obviously insane. Not even a half hour into the film we are informed via a virtual therapist (expertly portrayed by Tilda Swinton) of the reclusive man's agoraphobia, antisociality, haphephobia, claustrophobia, crippling neurosis, and blatant paranoia. Along with his seemingly infinite bundle of phobias, Leth is suffering from some clear albeit unclear existential crisis involving the delusional and consistent hope for a phone call that will supposedly change his life - or maybe just give meaning to it.
Despite his laundry list of fears and anxiety disorders, Qohen Leth is sort of loveable. In fact, he's actually quite relatable. Qohen Leth, like us, is human. He is filled to the brim with flaws. But while modern cinema has a big boner for quirky mentally-anguished characters, Waltz's Leth is miles from "quirky." At times he is actually frightening - frightening because it isn't difficult to see ourselves in his unfortunate position. It's a realistic sort of frightening, one which really struck a chord, at least with me.
The world around Leth is a bright but dark one. Consumerism is obviously just as rampant as it's always been, if not more so, and corporations continue to control most everything. Despite the lack of a governmental presence, much like that featured in Brazil, the recent-and-currently developing real life NSA scandal may play a huge role in The Zero Theorem, as throughout the film a mostly-unseen authority-figure aptly named "The Management" appears to control everything and, quite literally, watch over everyone (there are black-and-white security cameras placed everywhere, including within Leth's church home - sound familiar?). Matt Damon plays the Management in a role he's never quite portrayed before. Though he's rarely seen throughout the movie, his character is absolutely essential to the plot, but I won't spoil anything beyond that.
What differentiates The Zero Theorem from Brazil is, for the most part, its ending - no worries, I'm not going to give anything away. All I'll say is that while Brazil had a pretty ironclad dismal and rather terrifying conclusion, Zero's ending is a bit more... bittersweet. Where Brazil left a nasty taste in your mouth (one that did not, in any way, hinder its brilliance), The Zero Theorem will leave a lump in your throat and a quivering smile on your face, and, perhaps most importantly, a hushed uttering of "wait, what the fuck?" Yes, without a doubt, The Zero Theorem is a movie you cannot watch just once and fully comprehend. And even if you do understand the film in its entirety after the first go, you're almost guaranteed to want to re-watch it immediately. Do yourself a favor and spend just under another two hours re-watching The Zero Theorem. And then maybe even give it a third watch. You'll notice things you hadn't noticed before. You'll pick up on little details that may or may not answer previously unanswered questions. You'll gain, for sure, a better understanding of the film, and by the end of it all you might no longer feel the same pity you originally felt for our struggling hero, Qohen Leth.
Or maybe it'll just make you feel even worse.
Each view of The Zero Theorem is bound to provide a different experience than the one prior. Zero will never equal one hundred percent.
From the brilliant soundtrack (including a haunting cocktail lounge-esque cover of Radiohead's "Creep") to the absolutely spellbinding performances of the lovely and seductively lucid Mélanie Thierry, the immensely talented David Thewlis, the enigmatic Matt Damon, and of course the ever awe-inspiring Christoph Waltz, The Zero Theorem is a movie not to be forgotten. Terry Gilliam's wildly satirical and distinctly whimsical final piece to his Orwellian Triptych is a definite must-see for any fan of Gilliam, George Orwell, dystopian existentialism, or just anybody who fears for society's Facebook-ruled, privacy-stripped, and tragically soulless future.
19 July 2014
Finally, a Weird Summer
The year is 2014. Germany has just won the World Cup. A massive hole recently appeared seemingly out of nowhere in Serbia. For some reason, The Purge got a sequel.
But the world has no time for any of that during this particularly humid summer. That's because we're all too busy being swept up in Weird Al fever.
Thirty-five years ago the world was introduced to a legend with long curls, a small mustache, and an accordion. Weird Al's first parody song, My Bologna (a take on The Knack's My Sharona) was goofy, brilliant, and... weird. Since then he's released fourteen studio albums and a movie in 1989, one that went mostly unseen and remains today an underrated comedic gem.
For the time being this is about that movie, not his brand new album (which is called Mandatory Fun and you should totally buy it right now). The film in question is, of course, UHF. UHF stars our hero Weird Al Yankovic as George Newman, a day-dreaming job-drifter who thinks he's made it big once his uncle lets him work at a local UHF station, Channel 62. Newman hires a pre-Seinfeld Michael Richards to be the studio's janitor, but he quickly becomes the star of Channel 62 when Newman lets him host one of the kid shows.
The movie is filled with parodies, from the opening Raiders of the Lost Ark segment, to a show called "Conan the Librarian," and about a hundred others between. These absurd parodies were more akin to those of Airplane or The Naked Gun, and not of the unwatchable atrocities spewed by modern filmmakers Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer. UHF existed in a time when parody films were actually, you know, funny. They were hilarious, oftentimes brilliant, and even surprisingly charming. At the risk of giving off a "le wrong generation" vibe, parody films were quite simply a hell of a lot better back then.
Unfortunately, though, UHF basically bombed. But isn't that the Cinderella story of all classic cult films? Didn't Mallrats leave critics unimpressed despite later being regarded as a total necessity to Kevin Smith's View-Askewniverse? Didn't it take the world a good decade or so to appreciate the brilliance of Office Space? The ideal catalyst for a cult classic is initial failure - and that is most definitely the case for UHF.
Watching the film 25 years later one can easily see why it didn't hit the proverbial ball out of the park. The parodies, funny as they may be, seem to be scattered almost incoherently, or not really essential to the plot at all. One can argue that disastrous parody flicks like Disaster Movie or anything by the aforementioned Friedberg and Seltzer follow a similar formula: throwing around any random parody simply for the sake of doing so. What makes UHF different from those movies is that UHF actually has likeable and consistent characters, an underlying plot that remains for the most part steady and stable, and some genuinely hilarious scenes. Yes, several jokes fall flat. Yes, one or two may even feel just a tad unnerving. And no, it isn't as good as Airplane. But overall, UHF is a movie we should be happy exists. It doesn't do anything groundbreaking, it doesn't set a certain standard for parody films, but that doesn't stop it from being an enjoyable flick starring everyone's favorite polka-man, Weird Al. And did I mention Michael Richards is in it? I did mention that. That's just one of the many reasons you should watch UHF.
When I was fourteen all I listened to was Outkast and Weird Al. An unusual mix, sure, but I was fourteen and unaware of the variety of music that existed all around me. Limewire was a thing and I brought a portable CD player with me for the bus ride to school. Every time the bus so much as hit a bump or a pothole or a pebble, the CD would skip. And when you're trying to listen to Amish Paradise or The Alternative Polka, that can get a little frustrating.
I remember how kids reacted when they asked what I was listening to and I told them, reluctantly because I already hated them, "Weird Al..." They laughed. But it wasn't a "Haha I love Weird Al, too!" so much as a "Haha you fuckin' faggot!" Actually, I think they even added that exact phrase. This is because throughout the nineties and at least the early aughties, despite his massive presence a lot of people just didn't like Weird Al. Why? Because he's different, and we're a generation that was raised to believe that being different is good so long as it's not too different. Al Yankovic was too different. Had he existed several decades prior, he would've been labeled a communist and probably lobotomized.
Last week Weird Al released his new album, which I already told you is called Mandatory Fun, and you should have already listened to while reading all that bullshit between then and now. It gives me hope and just a little bit of faith in humanity to see that many people are not only accepting the craziness of Weird Al, but embracing his wild, accordion-soaked tunes and loving every second of it. It has been thirty-five years since the man started releasing cleverly-written parody songs and his time has finally come. Sure, folks like me have loved Weird Al in the past, but this year just feels different. It doesn't feel like a triumphant return so much as a way-overdue emergence into the mainstream. A triumphant albeit delayed worldwide acceptance. This is the long-awaited and much deserved Year of the Al. The Yeird, if you will. Summer 2014 belongs to Mandatory Fun and the artist who made it possible (along with the parodied-artists who obviously made the parodies possible).
And for all of us weird kids out there, that's something to be proud of.
But the world has no time for any of that during this particularly humid summer. That's because we're all too busy being swept up in Weird Al fever.
Thirty-five years ago the world was introduced to a legend with long curls, a small mustache, and an accordion. Weird Al's first parody song, My Bologna (a take on The Knack's My Sharona) was goofy, brilliant, and... weird. Since then he's released fourteen studio albums and a movie in 1989, one that went mostly unseen and remains today an underrated comedic gem.
For the time being this is about that movie, not his brand new album (which is called Mandatory Fun and you should totally buy it right now). The film in question is, of course, UHF. UHF stars our hero Weird Al Yankovic as George Newman, a day-dreaming job-drifter who thinks he's made it big once his uncle lets him work at a local UHF station, Channel 62. Newman hires a pre-Seinfeld Michael Richards to be the studio's janitor, but he quickly becomes the star of Channel 62 when Newman lets him host one of the kid shows.
The movie is filled with parodies, from the opening Raiders of the Lost Ark segment, to a show called "Conan the Librarian," and about a hundred others between. These absurd parodies were more akin to those of Airplane or The Naked Gun, and not of the unwatchable atrocities spewed by modern filmmakers Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer. UHF existed in a time when parody films were actually, you know, funny. They were hilarious, oftentimes brilliant, and even surprisingly charming. At the risk of giving off a "le wrong generation" vibe, parody films were quite simply a hell of a lot better back then.
Unfortunately, though, UHF basically bombed. But isn't that the Cinderella story of all classic cult films? Didn't Mallrats leave critics unimpressed despite later being regarded as a total necessity to Kevin Smith's View-Askewniverse? Didn't it take the world a good decade or so to appreciate the brilliance of Office Space? The ideal catalyst for a cult classic is initial failure - and that is most definitely the case for UHF.
Watching the film 25 years later one can easily see why it didn't hit the proverbial ball out of the park. The parodies, funny as they may be, seem to be scattered almost incoherently, or not really essential to the plot at all. One can argue that disastrous parody flicks like Disaster Movie or anything by the aforementioned Friedberg and Seltzer follow a similar formula: throwing around any random parody simply for the sake of doing so. What makes UHF different from those movies is that UHF actually has likeable and consistent characters, an underlying plot that remains for the most part steady and stable, and some genuinely hilarious scenes. Yes, several jokes fall flat. Yes, one or two may even feel just a tad unnerving. And no, it isn't as good as Airplane. But overall, UHF is a movie we should be happy exists. It doesn't do anything groundbreaking, it doesn't set a certain standard for parody films, but that doesn't stop it from being an enjoyable flick starring everyone's favorite polka-man, Weird Al. And did I mention Michael Richards is in it? I did mention that. That's just one of the many reasons you should watch UHF.
When I was fourteen all I listened to was Outkast and Weird Al. An unusual mix, sure, but I was fourteen and unaware of the variety of music that existed all around me. Limewire was a thing and I brought a portable CD player with me for the bus ride to school. Every time the bus so much as hit a bump or a pothole or a pebble, the CD would skip. And when you're trying to listen to Amish Paradise or The Alternative Polka, that can get a little frustrating.
I remember how kids reacted when they asked what I was listening to and I told them, reluctantly because I already hated them, "Weird Al..." They laughed. But it wasn't a "Haha I love Weird Al, too!" so much as a "Haha you fuckin' faggot!" Actually, I think they even added that exact phrase. This is because throughout the nineties and at least the early aughties, despite his massive presence a lot of people just didn't like Weird Al. Why? Because he's different, and we're a generation that was raised to believe that being different is good so long as it's not too different. Al Yankovic was too different. Had he existed several decades prior, he would've been labeled a communist and probably lobotomized.
Last week Weird Al released his new album, which I already told you is called Mandatory Fun, and you should have already listened to while reading all that bullshit between then and now. It gives me hope and just a little bit of faith in humanity to see that many people are not only accepting the craziness of Weird Al, but embracing his wild, accordion-soaked tunes and loving every second of it. It has been thirty-five years since the man started releasing cleverly-written parody songs and his time has finally come. Sure, folks like me have loved Weird Al in the past, but this year just feels different. It doesn't feel like a triumphant return so much as a way-overdue emergence into the mainstream. A triumphant albeit delayed worldwide acceptance. This is the long-awaited and much deserved Year of the Al. The Yeird, if you will. Summer 2014 belongs to Mandatory Fun and the artist who made it possible (along with the parodied-artists who obviously made the parodies possible).
And for all of us weird kids out there, that's something to be proud of.
17 July 2014
"Room 237," or "The Shining: A Didn't-Really-Go-to-Space Odyssey"
You know that feeling you get - that sort of tickle in your throat, the chills down the back of your neck, the sudden surge of energy deep in your gut - when you've just spent an hour or two learning about a conspiracy that has managed to shake you to your very core and rip open your eyes, forcing you to see some brand new, previously-unbelieved truth? It's the sensation many of us felt while researching the JFK assassination, or the existence of extra-terrestrials. It's that feeling that crumbles the very fabric of the reality with which you've grown and thrusts you into a frightening, arousing new world filled with the temptation - and shocking validity - of conspiracy.
This movie will not give you that feeling.
What it will do, however, is show you that although recently-leaked information involving the NSA may suggest that the tin-foil-hat donning conspiracy nuts of old weren't entirely wrong after all, some of those nuts still remain critically misinformed.
The interviewees in the documentary Room 237 have their hearts set in the right direction. It's the inevitable gullibility in their tedious search for the truth that holds them back and prevents them from reaching any semblance of sensibility. Listening to them ramble on about these absurd, substance-lacking ideas behind the supposed secrets of Stanley Kubrick's The Shining is not unlike watching an argument unfold between an atheist and a theist. The truth is, you can't know for certain who is right and who is wrong, but the ensuing spat is usually at least mildly entertaining. In the case of Room 237, the promise of entertainment does not disappoint.
While it's true that the interviewees throughout the film (whose faces we never actually see as the documentary consists almost entirely of footage from The Shining) spout increasingly kooky crackpot conspiracies, the passion each of them exudes is easy to get caught in. No, you won't finish this movie believing Stanley Kubrick filmed the fake moon landing. No, you won't start telling your friends that The Shining is actually about the holocaust. But Room 237 isn't about brainwashing or persuading its viewers into believing the theories laid out. Room 237 is merely a glimpse - a hotel room keyhole, if you'll pardon the cheesy metaphor - looking into the sometimes naive but always amusing minds of folks who have taken up Stanley Kubrick's The Shining as a personal religion. And like any religion worth its salt, this one teems with contradictions, unintelligible gibberish, hokey coincidences, and a big fat helping of passionate, unstirring, almost inspiring devotion.
You do not watch Room 237 in order to become a believer. You watch Room 237 because you are a lover of The Shining, or Stanley Kubrick, or Stephen King, or all of the above, and you're curious enough to listen to the admittedly screwball theories surrounding that wonderful staple of horror and general classic cinema.
So no, you probably won't hear anything worth changing your perspective over. What you will do, though, is laugh a little, do a facepalm or four, and applaud in awe at the endless world of fascination Stanley Kubrick has created.
And then you'll probably go and watch The Shining for the thousandth time.
This movie will not give you that feeling.
What it will do, however, is show you that although recently-leaked information involving the NSA may suggest that the tin-foil-hat donning conspiracy nuts of old weren't entirely wrong after all, some of those nuts still remain critically misinformed.
The interviewees in the documentary Room 237 have their hearts set in the right direction. It's the inevitable gullibility in their tedious search for the truth that holds them back and prevents them from reaching any semblance of sensibility. Listening to them ramble on about these absurd, substance-lacking ideas behind the supposed secrets of Stanley Kubrick's The Shining is not unlike watching an argument unfold between an atheist and a theist. The truth is, you can't know for certain who is right and who is wrong, but the ensuing spat is usually at least mildly entertaining. In the case of Room 237, the promise of entertainment does not disappoint.
While it's true that the interviewees throughout the film (whose faces we never actually see as the documentary consists almost entirely of footage from The Shining) spout increasingly kooky crackpot conspiracies, the passion each of them exudes is easy to get caught in. No, you won't finish this movie believing Stanley Kubrick filmed the fake moon landing. No, you won't start telling your friends that The Shining is actually about the holocaust. But Room 237 isn't about brainwashing or persuading its viewers into believing the theories laid out. Room 237 is merely a glimpse - a hotel room keyhole, if you'll pardon the cheesy metaphor - looking into the sometimes naive but always amusing minds of folks who have taken up Stanley Kubrick's The Shining as a personal religion. And like any religion worth its salt, this one teems with contradictions, unintelligible gibberish, hokey coincidences, and a big fat helping of passionate, unstirring, almost inspiring devotion.
You do not watch Room 237 in order to become a believer. You watch Room 237 because you are a lover of The Shining, or Stanley Kubrick, or Stephen King, or all of the above, and you're curious enough to listen to the admittedly screwball theories surrounding that wonderful staple of horror and general classic cinema.
So no, you probably won't hear anything worth changing your perspective over. What you will do, though, is laugh a little, do a facepalm or four, and applaud in awe at the endless world of fascination Stanley Kubrick has created.
And then you'll probably go and watch The Shining for the thousandth time.
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