Important Findings in the Album Art for Christina Aguilera’s Bionic June 11, 2010

Over on Facebook, a friend of mine described Christina Aguilera’s Bionic as mostly consisting of “transparent attempts to pander to obnoxious queens.” I recognize that taste is a subjective thing, so he could be wrong, but he did study music production, so I’m willing to trust his critical assessment on this matter.  Besides, it probably explains why I’m enjoying Bionic so damn much.  After all, if Christina Aguilera’s latest album was an early-to-mid-90s Marvel Comic character, she’d be Nymphomaniac Robotranny Joan Crawford 2099:

In which case, how could I not love this nonsense?

Some of the songs, like the “I Am” (co-written by Sia and painfully lovely in its chamber pop minimalism) and the glorious “My Girls” (a Le Tigre-penned track with a Peaches rap interlude, so electropop fantastiche), are legitimately good songs; other songs, like the ode to muff diving called “Woo Hoo” and the oh-so-unsubtly titled “Sex for Breakfast,” feature lyrics so cartoonishly sexual that they could fit right into Showgirls: The Musical (book and lyrics by Joe  Eszterhas, music by Andrew Lloyd Weber on a burritos and meth bender).  And then there’s “Vanity,” a song that scales to such heights of camp absurdity that it’s another post all unto itself.  Bionic may be neither a work of high art nor a pop masterpiece, but much of it’s so frequently batshit crazy and so thoroughly listenable that I find it irresistible.

ANYWAYS, as I was flipping through the album art for Bionic (which is as bonkers and fabulous–if not even more so–than the album itself), I had a revelation, and that revelation was that Christina Aguilera and I both share a love of Karen Black in The Day of the Locust.  Here’s Karen Black on the poster for The Day of the Locust:

Happy Star Wars Day! Now Let’s All Watch This Epic Review of Attack of the Clones May 4, 2010

True story, y’all: in my youth, I spent about as much time in my parents’ bedroom watching the classic Star Wars trilogy as I did prancing about pretending I was the star ballet dancer (affectionately nicknamed “Spotlight Spotlight Dancer”) in a production of Tchaichovsky’s The Nutcracker.  Both activities were encouraged by my parents, which–looking back–explains so very, very much about the man I am today.  That, and the one time I washed my neighborfriend’s Barbie’s hair in the bathroom sink.

ANYWAYS, as a result of of my upbringing, there aren’t many things in life that I miss quite like Carrie’s puns (it’s a homo thing), but those halycon hours I as a wee gay in spent in a galaxy far, far away most certainly are one of them (it’s a nerd thing), so it’s without reservation that I bid you all good tidings on today’s most joyous of fake holidays:

It goes without saying that this pun is like Darth Vader force choking your ear drums, so yeouch!  But it’s also a nice little way to take a moment out of your day and appreciate how Star Wars might have made your life a little better.  Or, if you’re feeling like a regular ol’ Scrooge, so much worse.  For your eyes.  And your soul.  You know exactly what I’m talking about:

The 70-Minute Star Wars: The Phantom Menace Is the Best 70 Minutes You’ll Spend All Day December 19, 2009

I’ve never fully understood the Star Wars: The Phantom Menace backlash.  It’s damn painful in parts (mostly the parts with Jar Jar Binks or Jake Lloyd), but I’ve always been willing to allow for its (frequent) missteps as inevitable the result of George Lucas being rusty and out of touch with what made the original trilogy a cultural milestone; after all, taking twenty-some-odd years away from the story that made you famous can do that.  I’m not saying The Phantom Menace is an unheralded classic, but I am saying we’re all allowed to make mistakes, and at least those mistakes don’t involve sloppily borrowing from not one but two Ridley Scott movies.  Whoops, Attack of the Clones, that’s your bad-idea cross to bare.

Anyways, there’s now a thorough (70-minutes long) and compelling (utterly hilarious) argument for The Phantom Menace being the nadir of the series.  That may seem like too much time to commit to one nerd’s take down of a movie that wasn’t worth its own bloated running time in the first place, but it’s not:

The Final Destination? I Seriously, Sadly Doubt It September 3, 2009

To be certain, I’d already seen the trailer for The Final Destination, which is unquestionably asinine:

It looked–and still looks–ridiculous.  And stupid.  So, you know, everything that makes the Final Destination series so enjoyable.  It’s the same plot and practically the same dialogue; only the actors and accidents change.  But now it’s in 3D, so it’s new to you!  I guess, Hollywood?  Whatever.  Sold.

Still, having now seen The Final Destination, I have to admit that it’s incomparably more ridicudumb than I could’ve ever imagined.  I should have probably expected this when the central accident involved race cars.

There’s very little that’s spectacularly inventive about the kills save for the fact that they really play up the 3D gimmick.  It’s always some part of some person that’s flying towards the screen, and such redundancy will probably be even more evident if you watch it in 2D on DVD.  Still, the 3D experience is what you’re paying for (unless you’re me, in which case you saw it for free thanks to your cable company’s rewards program), so the filmmakers of The Final Destination deserve a “well played” for delivering it in spades.

On the other hand, though, the movie is painfully lazy in the script department.  The barebones story is now so gaunt and transparent that you want the movie to just eat something (preferably starches)!   Added to that, while the Final Destination franchise has never been about subtlety or depth, there are characters in this movie with credits like Cowboy and Racist.  The Cowboy gets his name because of his hat, and the Racist really hates black people, and both of these characters actually have relevant roles in the story!  I’m pretty sure this sort of character development doesn’t even constitute half a dimension.

Fortunately, when it comes to Racist at least, Death seems to have a sense of humor.  And a membership with the NAACP (SPOILER ALERTZ!):

The Magnum Opus of Nobody Puts Baby In A Horner: Reactions to Powder Blue August 9, 2009

Well, dear readers.  It is Saturday night, and the work week is done.   Nothing remains other than a complete and utter surrender…to excess.  The wine is chilled, the movies are bad, and the desserts are filled with empty calories.  So without further ado, let me introduce you to…

Allow me to introduce your hostesses this evening.  I am Shmathana, Comtesse de Homósexualitat and joining me is her exalted majesty, Benjilina, Duchess of Gaylandia.  And this evening, it is our delight and privilege to bring you at last, and as so long promised, the official Nobody Puts Baby In A Horner review of…Powder Blue.   You’ve longed for it.  You’ve dreamt of it.  And now, it is within your reach.  Yes dear readers…

And without further ceremony, let’s pop the bottles, and dive right in! (Please Note, this post is NSFBM…Not Safe For Benji’s Mom)

So Orphan Is Pretty Much the Best Movie. Ever. July 27, 2009

I’m not even joking, y’all.  If you haven’t already seen the instant camp/cult classic that is Orphan yet, you know what you have to do:

Seriously, this completely insane movie still should be reason enough for you to suddenly feign illness and catch the earliest possible showing.  This is a movie that uses a black-lit aquarium as a plot device!  And when you see what said black-lit aquarium reveals, the absolute batshit insanity of it all will make your head explode.  Twice.  And that’s just tip of the crazy iceberg.  

It has been ages and ages since we’ve seen anything so unrepentant in its ridiculousness.  Orphan has a go-for-broke, let-us-shock-the-shit-out-of-you zeal that is truly inspired.  It’s so ridiculous that it needs to come with protective glasses that keep your eyeballs from rolling out of your skull.  It’s incredibly well made, genuinely creepy, and–to be completely frank–in the worst possible taste imaginable.  And it’s so over-the-top in its bad taste that you can’t really fault it for arguably being total garbage.  I’d like to be more articulate, but I’m honestly still trying to digest it.  Having your head explode 37 separate times during a movie tends to do that to you.  That, and you really can’t discuss Orphan‘s sublime pleasures without spoiling the living hell out of it.

Still, allow me to tantalize you with the following decontextualized phrases:

In Defense of Mediocrity: Musings on Carolina Liar July 25, 2009

You may remember that back in April, Ben turned into a screaming queen over the trailer for Post Grad. One of the devious mechanisms by which this insidious preview wormed its way into our favorite cinephile’s consciousness (besides the utter deliciousness of Zach Gilford) was the overpowering pop hook of its theme.  There was some initial confusion over the title and artist of the song.  I asserted that it was “Show Me What I’m Looking For” by Carolina Liar.  Shmarker doubted my musical powers, and labeled it a Keane song.  I was right (hah!), but Shmarker was entirely justified in thinking it originated with Keane.  After all, it shamelessly aped Keane’s piano-heavy ballads and Chad Wolf seems to be painfully straining to imitate Tom Chaplin’s distinctive warble.  If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Tom must be downright charmed.

Now, the song has been popping up a lot lately.  From its humble beginnings as the backing theme to the Post Grad trailer, the song has appeared on everything from car commercials to new TV spots for The Time Traveler’s Wife, even promotions for Major League Baseball.  This certainly proves yet again that any band seeking a modicum of notoriety need only produce an un-offensive pop ballad with a catchy chorus, a 3 chord progression, and a suitably emotional tone.

Jane Austen + Supernatural Creatures = Heaven July 16, 2009

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a thing without zombies must be in want of zombies.  I firmly believe that.  For you see, I love zombies.  I pray daily that the Zombie Apocalypse will occur in my liftime; hopefully, when I still possess the majestic biceps that will enable me to wield a chainsaw with surgical precision.  Just ask Benji, with whom I spent many a lovely evening viewing such cinematic classics as Dead Alive and Dawn of the Dead.  They left many fond memories, and led to many a pithy a comment by Benji, though I must admit I was most amused by his reaction to 28 Days Later:  “Oh FUCK THIS! I did not sign on for fast zombies!!!“  While my love of zombies perhaps does not quite equal my love for Daniel Cudmore, it runs firmly and deep–just as a deep as my adoration for a certain Ms. Austen.

If You Haven’t Already Seen Drag Me to Hell, You Must Change That IMMEDIATELY June 30, 2009

This past weekend, when I wasn’t screeching like an enthusiastic howler monkey at the passing drag queens in the Pride Parade, I managed to finally get my ass into the city and I finally caught Drag Me to Hell.  Needless to say, I loved it.  In fact, quite frankly (bad pun alert CODE RED!):

I mean, I could be biased, and by “biased” I mean “completely lacking in taste, good judgment, and (quite possibly) sanity.”  After all, I did find Spider-Man 3 curiously entertaining in a campy, train wreck sort of way; so much so, in fact, that I saw it three times opening weekend. Then I bought the DVD.  My only rationale is that I find the musical numbers fascinatingly out of place with the rest of the film.  That, and I wrote the handbook on making good choices.

My point is that Sam Raimi, even in his missteps, displays an incredible understanding of genre and how to manipulate it and push it to the brink of shlock and camp without it becoming something eye-rollingly ridiculous (in the not-fun way).  He’s capable of taking genre filmmaking seriously without making it laborious; his direction always has levity to it, and Drag Me to Hell is by no means an exception.  

The plot is simple enough: Alison Lohman plays Christine Brown, a well-meaning loan officer determined to leave her small-town past by climbing up the ladder at her bank.  In a bid for the open assistant manager position, she refuses to grant a mortgage extension to a sickly old gypsy (Lorma Raver), gets cursed by said gypsy, and spends the rest of movie being tormented by a goat demon (yes, a goat demon) that will in three days time drag her to hell.  Gross-out gags, tons of scares, and darkly comic humor with the perfect touch of B-movie camp abound.  You can’t necessarily argue that Sam Raimi’s aiming for art with Drag Me to Hell, but it’s impossible to deny that he’s made an incredibly smart and rather merciless thrill ride.  

The scares, while mostly of the easy boo! variety, are at least genuinely earned by the way Raimi builds a mood of dread and suspense, and the ending is simply jaw-dropping perfection.  The second the film cut to the closing credits, I blurted out, “Holy shit!” like I’d just gotten a rather nasty case of verbal/real diarrhea.  It’s just that exceptional in execution.  Drag Me to Hell is, as was advertised in the trailer, a return to true horror.  Oh, and best of all?  Raimi’s created a wonderfully rich and intriguing Final Girl with Christine.  

Why So Serious(ly Awful), S. Darko? June 8, 2009

Back when I saw the trailer for S. Darko, I had high hopes that it was going to be a campalicious train wreck.  It seemed to have the pedigree, after all.  It’s a straight-to-DVD release, it has a truly bizarre cast (Elizabeth Berkley, Ed Westwick, and Daveigh Chase???), and it’s automatically one of the worst ideas ever.  Seriously, a sequel to the cult classic Donnie Darko is pretty much the one thing absolutely nobody asked for, but that’s never stopped Hollywood before, so all we can do is cross our fingers for a new camp classic as we watch the bad ideas pile-up like a multi-car highway accident.  At least it’s got Elizabeth Berkley as a Jesus freak, so that’s something, right?

On one hand, I really shouldn’t be surprised by how bad S. Darko ended up being.  Everything that could have made it the great camp sensation is also a liability.  Straight-to-DVD is always a coin toss between fabulously bad and just plain bad, so I guess for every Powder Blue there must also be an S. Darko.  Still, it’s an impressive feat to witness just what a spectacular failure S. Darko actually is.  Not in a fun way, mind you, but in a whoabitch-is-this-movie-terrible sort of way.

The plot involves Samantha Darko (Daveigh Chase) heading out on a road trip with her rebellious friend (Briana Evigan) only to end up in a small town when their car breaks down.  There’s a crazy Christian cult in the town, disappearing children, and a crazed war veteran the town refers to Iraq Jack (James Lafferty).  Iraq Jack keeps seeing a Samantha ghost warn him of the impending end of the world, everybody in town loves Samantha because behaving like a melancholic zombie is the new sexy to Chuck Bass and the town nerd, and then a weird geometric shape travels through one of those space/time worms, bursts into flames above Earth, and becomes a meteor shower.  Meteors that give you nasty skin rashes and drive you violently insane.  Of course.