Author Archives: Shane Simmons

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

February 7, 2010

Posted under

Film and Television, Video Games and Computers

Comments

Leave a comment

Suppose They Gave A Press Conference And Nobody Came?

So many big announcements in the last couple of weeks, so little time to make snide comments about them.

In an act of pure optimism (or pure marketing, depending on which side of the film-buff/film-industry-cog line of demarcation you lie on) the Academy has decided to give us ten nominees for best picture this year. While most of us may be hard-pressed to even name ten decent movies that came out last year, Hollywood tells us they had to double the number of nominees just to squeeze in all that high-quality entertainment they’ve been milling.

In no particular order, we have…

District 9 // I hate it when movie critics complain about plots holes. When they do, it’s usually a sure sign that they don’t even know what a plot is, let alone what a hole in one might look like. I won’t try to claim there are all sorts of plot holes in District 9, but there are gaps in logic you can drive a truck (or, indeed, a convoy of eighteen wheelers) through. While everyone was being dazzled by seamless special effects that gave the film a documentary level of realism, no one seemed to notice all the questions about the basic premise of the story that went flying by unanswered. Maybe a sequel can spend an hour or so of its running time explaining all the stuff that didn’t make any goddamn sense in the first movie.

Precious // Haven’t seen it, and it doesn’t seem like such a fun night out at the movies. My main concern is that it’s been endorsed by Oprah Winfrey. In my experience, anything endorsed by Oprah has turned out to be awful or fraudulent. On a side note, I’d like to address Oprah personally: O, I know you’ve recently announced the date you’ll be retiring from your talk show. Please, for everybody’s sake, don’t promise to hand it over to Conan O’Brien and then change your mind. We can’t live through that again.

Avatar // Proving, once again, that in Hollywood you don’t have to tell an original or engaging story, or even have any interesting thematic points to make, in order to receive all sorts of critical praise and awards. You just need to make boatloads of money. I mean, how can the biggest money-maker of all time not be the greatest movie ever? It’s simple math, people.

The Blind Side // Sandra Bullock plus football. I can’t imagine why I haven’t already seen this. Oh wait. Right. Sandra Bullock plus football.

An Education // Wow. We haven’t had a good Oscar-bait jailbait movie since Lolita. Except maybe The Reader. But it doesn’t count when hot chicks do it to underage boys.

Inglourious Basterds // Spoiler alert! Every Jew on Earth owes it to themselves to go see Hitler get machine-gunned in the face.

The Hurt Locker // The year’s most over-praised movie. It’s still quite a good movie, and I’ve been a long-time Kathryn Bigelow advocate. But honestly, I don’t even think this is her best film. Or her second best film. Maybe not even her third.

A Serious Man // If there’s one thing racists have taught me, it’s that Hollywood is run by Jews. So I guess it’s no surprise that the latest Coen Brothers movie, the Jewiest film since Yentl, got a nomination. It also happens to be the densest and most impenetrable movie of the brothers’ career, so that must mean it’s profound — although I have yet to meet anyone who can explain all of its nuances, let alone sit through it enough times to determine where all those nuances may lie.

Up // You mothercusser Pixar cusses. Isn’t it enough you’re already nominated for Best Animated Feature Film and will probably end up stealing an Oscar from Fantastic Mr. Fox (not to mention Coraline)? Seriously. Cuss!

Up in the Air // If I had to pick one to win from this batch, this would be my choice. What can I say? I just like movies about sad people in depressing jobs. George Clooney living in planes and airports and hotels while he flies around the country firing people? That is such a cooler job than, I don’t know, being a space marine and going hunting with a bunch of giant blue people on a pretty planet.

*

And yeah, I know I’m totally behind the Twitter world media on this, but I just have to mention the big iPad announcement that rocked the world to sleep a couple of weeks back. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely respect Steve Jobs’ Rasputin-like ability to survive his own body’s frequent attempts to murder him. But really? An iPhone you can’t put in your pocket, take a picture with, or use to make a phone call? That’s the announcement all you Apple fanboys were on tenterhooks waiting to hear?

Maybe I just don’t understand the phenomenon of Apple worship. I’ll readily admit, as a long-time PC user, that PCs suck. It’s just that Macs suck even more. True, we’re utterly beholden to Microsoft who, when it’s time to release a new operating system, apparently flips a coin to decide if it will be a good and useful operating system, or the worst thing since smallpox. But the trials and tribulations of PC use, particularly back in the day when I got my first one — a 286 that was a big upgrade from my Commodore 64 — have taught me to troubleshoot against the odds, and bring a finicky machine back from the blue-screen-of-death. Learning to rewrite batch files every ten minutes so you could squeeze out that extra byte of memory to play Jumpman was good training in computer maintenance. Unfortunately for Mac users, they live by the credo that you should just be able to plug-and-play anything. As a result, when anything goes wrong, they flop around like a fish on land, gasping for air and begging tech support to toss them back into the ocean. It’s sad to watch, really. As is their zombie-devotion to anything that rolls off the Apple assembly line. To quote one friend from a few short days before the iPad was announced, “I don’t know what they’re coming out with, but I’m getting one.”

As for me, iDontcare.

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

January 15, 2010

Posted under

Film and Television, Politics and Sociology

Comments

Leave a comment

You’ve Ruined It For Everybody

Ever since Captain Underpants tried to blow up a commercial jet with explosives hidden under his ball sack, air travel has turned into an ordeal only slightly less luxurious than a prison bus trip to the new wing of the super-max detention facility. Very nearly known as the Christmas Day Taint Massacre, the thought of what might have happened if this would-be suicide bomber had been competent enough to light a fuse has gripped a worried world. I mean, MY GOD, one flight out of the ten million airliner passenger runs last year may have possibly, perhaps, we’re-not-quite-sure, ended in disaster. Which would have increased the number of airliner disasters last year…um…slightly.

Remember when air travel was glamorous and exotic? Back when you could smoke and drink to your heart’s content and stewardesses, most of them blonde and Swedish, would perform any variety of sexual acts with you in your choice of toilet stall or first-class seat. Well I remember that, and a great many other things I learned from watching 1970s pornography, and I miss those times terribly. Mostly because I never experienced them due to inconvenient age issues.

Well those heady days of hot stewardess head are gone forever. If a stewardess touches you inappropriately now, it’s probably because she’s performing a digital cavity search for banned substances like finger nail clippers, tweezers, or C4. New security measures are in place, with more on the way, and we won’t see them rescinded in this lifetime. I expect we’ll be stuck with this crap forever — or at least until Brundlefly perfects his teleportation machine. Yes, congratulations Captain Underpants, you’ve ruined it for everybody.

Which brings us to James Cameron.

I finally saw Avatar or, as I like to call it when I’m feeling snide (which, let’s face it, is pretty much all the time), Dances With Smurfs. Third time was lucky, because 3D IMAX tickets are booked weeks in advance, with any convenient days sold out completely as I found out the hard way twice before. Avatar has become the fastest movie to reach the one billion box-office mark. Apparently, the secret to accomplishing this feat is to charge people damn near twenty bucks for a ticket. If only someone had thought to charge, say, a hundred bucks a pop to go see Hotel for Dogs, that could have become the box-office champ of the year. Or at least the opening weekend.

After ten years of development, Avatar is being rolled out as the big game-changer. There’s innovative special effects technology poured into it by the tanker load. It’s just too bad the story itself doesn’t offer a single drop of originality. There’s not one thing here I haven’t seen before at some point, and the overall plot can be traced back to somewhere around the genesis of literature itself. In case you were too busy being dazzled by the eye candy and weren’t paying attention to what you were told by the often clunky exposition, it goes something like this: Invading imperialist-colonialist comes to appreciate the beauty of aboriginal culture and goes native, turning against his former masters in a righteous battle to avoid all-out genocide. Yeah, seen that one before. About a hundred times. Just not with smurfs.

Nevertheless, because Cameron’s new film is so successful, we’re going to see a million billion knock-offs and copycats in the coming decade. Everyone will want to make their own 3D movie, ignoring the fact that 3D has always been a gimmick, revived once a generation, that does more to take you out of a movie than draw you in. Everyone will want to fill their movie with computer-generated motion-capture performances, even though you can never replace real acting by a real human being. And everyone will want to plagiarize whatever content they saw in the last World of Warcraft patch and turn it into an action sequence or plot point. Sure, I liked the part where he got his epic flying mount, but did the movie really have to cut to a loading screen right after that?

Yes, congratulations James Cameron, you’ve ruined it for everybody. Again.

That’s right, again. He’s just too damn influential, and whatever shit he tries in whatever movie he’s shooting catches on and spreads like the swine flu (you know, like if the swine flu had actually spread and become the promised pandemic… Sorry, bad analogy).

Movie titles referred to by acronyms? T2. His fault. Movies with an unstoppable killing machine? Terminator. His fault. Monster movie sequels where all they can think to do with their cool monster design is multiply it a couple hundred times over? Aliens. His fault. Movies where the creatures are all computer graphics that don’t quite gel with how physics actually works? T2 and The Abyss. His fault. Movies where some spectacular historical event, recreated with an unsurpassed level of detail, is ultimately ruined by a trite and stupid romantic sub-plot? Titanic. His fault. Movies where carnivorous flying fish terrorize humanity by soaring through the air and being all bitey? Piranha Two: The Spawning. His bloody fault.

Goddamn you James Cameron, who elected you king of the world? Oh wait. We did. At the box office.

Zoe Saldana tries to form an expression for director, Papa Smurf, despite slow computer processing times caused by pop-up ads, cookies, MMORPGs, telesynch bit torrents, Windows Vista, virus definition updates, Nigerian identity theft spam, Youtube cat videos, Chinese hacker assaults, IP crashes, and Steve the new intern who doesn’t know which button is the “any key.”

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

December 13, 2009

Posted under

Politics and Sociology, Weather and Disasters

Comments

Leave a comment

Request For Fire

It snowed a few days ago. The first real snowfall of the season. And with it began the national festival known as The Kvetching of the Canucks. “I’m cold,” “I can’t feel my toes,” “Three of my fingers have turned black and fallen off.” Bitch bitch bitch. It’s the same thing every year and I’m sick of it. So sick, in fact, that I was tempted to skip the Chase-the-guy-with-the-fire-stick ritual.

Canada, as you know, is a primitive and backwards land, full of ice and tundra and people apologizing for things that aren’t even their fault — like all the ice and tundra, for instance. We do have things like cars and airplanes and cell phones and wireless internet. Fire, however, remains an elusive technology.

For much of the year, we don’t really need fire. The weather is reasonably temperate and unless you’re really into barbecuing those caribou ribs on an open grill, you can get by fine without it. But then the north winds whip through our log cabins and everyone starts to think we should have poured more tax dollars into fire research instead of dumb technologies like skidoos and insulin. That’s when it’s time for our Minister of Fire to blow some of that hot parliament air on the single ember we keep archived just in case winter comes back to haunt us — which it always seems to do on an annual basis. Once a modest flame is sparked, our fastest runners are dispatched to deliver fire via torch to all the remote Canadian hamlets and villages so that at least some of our nation’s modest population might hope to survive until the thaw.

The fire-stick runners are celebrated heroes of the winter months and, as such, are greeted by many grateful citizens wherever they go. The masses wave and cheer and then mob them and tear them into little pieces as each individual tries to gain control of the magic fire-stick for themselves. Occasionally, if it’s been a particularly weak harvest, the runners are roasted over their own fire-sticks and devoured. Like all great world heritage traditions, such as slavery or honour killings or hockey riots, this is legally sanctioned.

Thanks to my participation in this great Canadian tradition, I now have a small flame burning in my home. I will nurse it carefully all winter, feeding it fuel regularly so it won’t go out. It will be there whenever I need to get warm or see in the dark or heat up some food. And then, when spring comes at last, I’ll douse it with a garden hose, content in the knowledge that I’ll never need fire again.

The fire-stick runner raises a hand defensively, pleading for mercy as she approaches the crowd waiting in ambush.

The crowd caught up with her moments later with expected results. This year’s fire-stick runner was, I must say, exceptionally tasty if slightly overcooked.

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

November 30, 2009

Posted under

Website Updates

Comments

Leave a comment

Neglected

November was one of those months that was full of suck and grind. I’ve been running in place on the pitching treadmill lately, and the only writing I’ve been doing is contractually obligated and paid. After I wrap up the year-end cash grab, I’ll see what I can do about composing something a little more interesting and informative in this space. Until then…

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

October 30, 2009

Posted under

Film and Television

Comments

2 Comments

Starfucker Memories

Last week I attended “An Evening with Don Hertzfeldt” at the Cinematheque Quebecois, which was a treat since so many speakers, acts and performances skip Montreal out of concern that it’s going to be too French here and no one will turn out to see them. I shudder to think that some people reading this might not know who Don Hertzfeldt is, and if that’s the case, stop reading this crap and go immediately to his website bitterfilms.com to learn more. Suffice to say, I consider Don Hertzfeldt to be the single most important animator working in the world today. It may sound like hyperbole, but that’s my opinion, this is my blog, and if you don’t like it you can get the fuck out now. There’s the door.

Now some of you will rattle your sabres and try to bitch about Hayao Miyazaki, Brad Bird and Henry Selick, and I’ll agree with you. They’re all fantastic, and you can probably rub my nose in a few other names that don’t immediately spring to mind. Granted. Good on you. But I hate it when people soft-peddle their statements about individuals, places and events and pussy out with a “one of the greatest” or an “among the best” bullshit. If you have a reasonably broad grasp of a subject, make a clear and concise statement. Like Niccolo Paganini was the greatest violinist of all time. Or George W. Bush is the most successful retard in history. Or brussels sprouts are the suckiest vegetable ever. And then stand by your assertion.

Not only are Hertzfeldt’s films hilarious, poignant, innovative, brilliant and all those typical adjectives — they’re also a solo act. Don does just about everything himself, alone in his studio, just him and his pen and his camera. The results are a completely unfiltered vision of an individual, rather than another example of committee-think that fuels most animation out there. I like following careers that grow and evolve, and it’s been fascinating watching Hertzfeldt develop his craft from his early, silly, dark comedies like Ah, L’Amour, Lily and Jim, Genre and Billy’s Balloon, to his profound The Meaning of Life, Everything Will Be Ok and I Am So Proud of You, with immortal cult favourite Rejected acting as the precise point of transition. Despite people’s tendency to laugh through Rejected from start to finish, I consider the crumbling-fabric-of-reality climax to be on my short list of most disturbing things I’ve ever seen in a motion picture.

Even though there was a long question and answer period with the audience, there were surprisingly few people I wanted to hold down and knee repeatedly in the testicles. Usually, when you turn a microphone over to any yahoo willing to queue up to speak, you can count on a broad spectrum of morons and assholes. The only comment that kind of offended me was the one guy who encouraged Don to never stop making funny films, even while he continues to delve into more serious subjects.

I was reminded of Stardust Memories, one of the best films about an artist in transition BY an artist in transition (oops, I mean THE BEST film about an artist in transition by an artist in transition — clear, concise assertion). Specifically the part where Woody Allen is confronted by aliens who tell him, “We enjoy your films, particularly the early funny ones” echoing the same criticism he was hearing from his fans in that film and, doubtless, in reality circa 1980. There are always fans out there who want artists of every ilk to keep doing the same thing over and over again, asking their idols, ever so nicely, to never grow or experiment. Personally, all I want to see out of Don Hertzfeldt is his next film, exactly as he wants to make it, whatever it may turn out to be.

Having said that, he showed us an untitled new film in post production that’s currently only known as “That Tooth Thing.” It’s a silly dark comedy. The more fickle fans will be appeased before Don goes on to complete the final act of his sombre “Bill Trilogy” next.

The day after the Evening, I was up early to have breakfast with friends. The occasion was the return visit of our pal, Nic Wright, who was on a break from his sitcom Accidentally on Purpose. After years of slogging in the Canadian film and television trenches, Nic moved to L.A. and got a gig on the new CBS sitcom. He plays the Fonzie of the show. And by “Fonzie” I mean “supporting character who so distinguishes himself in the ensemble cast that he becomes key to the success of the show.” I could also call him the Urkel of the show, but that doesn’t sound as cool. Having known Nic for years, I can assure you that he’s not a scruffy stoner, he only plays one on TV. You can go to the official website and check out his video blog and see him talk about finally learning to drive at the advanced age of 27. I know there’s not much choice in the matter living in L.A., but I called him a traitor just the same. I’m a teensy bit older and remain steadfastly determined to never get my licence. Of course, I don’t live in a concrete desert, so my lifestyle choice is still a viable option.

Also in attendance was Rebecca Croll, AKA “Becky,” AKA, “Oh no, here comes one of the Crolls, let’s cross the street and keep our heads down and maybe she won’t notice us.” I’ve known Becky since she was eight. Now she’s all grown up with full ACTRA membership as of this month. She just appeared in a scene for Barney’s Version opposite my doppelganger, Paul Giamatti. Barney’s Version, which will forever be known as the movie that fucked up Twilight’s casting continuity, is based on the Mordecai Richler novel and is therefore, fittingly, being shot in Montreal. Sadly, Becky had no on-set scandals to relate, but I was gratified to hear that despite our uncanny resemblance, I, at least, tower high above Mr. Giamatti and his modest stature. Take that you Hollywood bigshot with all your fame and wealth! Your money and your celebrity ain’t gonna buy you an extra half-foot of height! Yeah, that’s right. Choke on it.

Pictured: Nicolas Wright, Rebecca Croll and Shane Simmons all lean forward to obscure everyone else at the table whose importance is diminished to nothingness without a current film or television project to their name. Losers.

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

September 29, 2009

Posted under

Criminology and Law, Film and Television, Politics and Sociology

Comments

1 Comment

New World Extradition Order

So they’ve finally brought that criminal mastermind, Roman Polanski, to justice. Well sort of. I’m sure that justice will totally happen once they go through a lengthy extradition appeals process in Switzerland followed by motions to dismiss back in the States. He’s like the Hannibal Lecter of horny French-Poles who shagged some jailbait back in the ’70s. For decades he’s brilliantly evaded police by hiding in plain sight in Europe and cleverly not returning to America, even when they tried to bait him with an Oscar. They only managed to nab him after more than thirty years by baiting him with a lifetime-achievment award in Switzerland. This will, no doubt, go down in history as the greatest law enforcement take-down since Frank Hamer and his men pumped 130 rounds into Bonnie and Clyde by employing subtle Machiavellian techniques such as not offering a fair warning before opening fire.

The fact that Polanski, a holocaust survivor, got busted in Switzerland, the favourite bank for the Nazis and long-time repository for heaping piles of loot stolen from Jews on their way to the gas chambers, shows exactly where the Swiss priorities for justice lie. Murder six million civilians and they’ll happily hold your cash for you and pay interest, no questions asked. Dope up an underage model and fuck her at Jack Nicholson’s house and they will cut your throat the first chance they get.

Of course, it never mattered that Polanski’s victim was paid a cash settlement years ago and has begged, on numerous occasions, for the authorities to drop the issue. Nor has it mattered that the only reason Polanski skipped town was to avoid a hefty sentence after judge Rittenband renegged on the plea bargain agreed upon by the prosecution and defence because he thought it might tarnish his carefully crafted image. And, of course, no one particularly cares that the prosecutor himself still thinks Polanski did the right thing by leaving the country rather than stay and get screwed over by an incompetent and corrupt media-whore judge.

Personally, I’m all for letting some of the genius-level artists among us get away with shit from time to time. Their petty, self-indulgent crimes are eventually lost to history, but the work remains. I know I, for one, can forgive Polanski for something he did so long ago, because hey, it’s not like he raped MY daughter.

For a better perspective on the Polanski rape trial and aftermath, I highly recommend ignoring the commentator hyperbole polluting the airwaves and internet and watching the documentary Roman Polanski: Wanted and Desired instead.

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

September 5, 2009

Posted under

Comics and Graphic Novels, Film and Television

Comments

Leave a comment

Jam And Preserves

It was a productive comic jam at Rick’s last night. Since so many of the usual suspects couldn’t make the last official jam, a supplemental evening was scheduled a week later by certain key members. After bailing on a bunch of past gatherings, I made sure to attend this one before everybody took a vote and decided to hate me. Besides, unlike the usual pub venue, Rick’s condo has cats to play with.

I was able to reacquaint myself with some of the comics that had been in circulation for months. The increasingly legendary “Fucking Raccoon” page resurfaced after a failed attempt to have it inked resulted in it going missing since last summer. Adding some rudimentary scribblings to a few of the other pages-in-progress, I was able to fill in the blanks and bridge missing panels on several stories. A long-stalled Michael Jackson page, in particular, suddenly presented itself with a new and unexpected punchline to make it relevant in this post-Jacko world. I was even able to rough out the whole story for my Inglourious Basterds parody, Inkongroois Fukheds. Now that it’s in the hands of much more talented illustrators, it should end up looking very pretty and be ready to print in time for the 10th anniversary HD-DVD special edition release of the movie it pokes fun at.

On the home office front, I’m back to work on a new season of Kid vs Kat. The renewal came out of left field for me. I didn’t even know a second round of episodes was pending until my agent called around noon one day and told me to expect an urgent email. I was writing new material for the show within a few hours.

At the same time, eight drafts in and counting, I was wrapping up work on an animated short called Les Enfants Libres. This project has been in the mill for about a year now. We narrowly missed getting financing last time at bat when the government funding agency decided to back Ryan Larkin‘s final film instead. It’s hard to compete with those posthumous projects. I promised to drop dead unexpectedly as part of our submission if the producers thought it would help our chances any. I’m still waiting to hear back on the offer.

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

August 31, 2009

Posted under

Criminology and Law, Film and Television

Comments

1 Comment

Pitching Not Catching

We’re all still reeling from the tragic celebrity deaths of late. Any recent dead Kennedys aside, the last week of June was like Christmas morning for dead-pool organizers everywhere. Of course, out of the pile of famous bodies left in the wake of these recent terrible days, one pillar of pop culture towers above all others. Taken from us suddenly at the age of 50, struck down by a surprise heart ailment brought on by a drug overdose, can we really pick up the pieces after the shattering death of Billy Mays?

What? You were expecting somebody else?

Billy sported the world’s most improbable beard and a booming voice that never stepped down from an all-out scream throughout the running times of his many TV spots. Many, many TV spots. Too many, let’s face it.

Although his commercials still play regularly, his ear-shattering voice louder than ever, struggling to be heard from beyond the grave, we’ll never see Billy Mays shill for a new product. Now that he’s gone, there remains one pitchman unchallenged for airwave dominance. I am, needless to say, referring to “Vince” the Sham-Wow guy. Not his real name.

Proud owner of the greatest terrible Jewish name ever, Offer Shlomi, AKA “Vince,” looks like Steve Buscemi and Johnny Knoxville had a love child. As a pitchman, his first infomercial was made to sell DVD copies of his failed film The Underground Comedy Movie — an attempt at humour so poor, my frequent efforts to download it and see for myself have been fruitless since no one out in bittorrent land wants to reseed it. His attempts to turn a profit on the project by suing everyone who contributed to its failure didn’t do the trick, but direct sales finally managed to move a few copies.

Experiencing more success as a pitchman than a filmmaker, Shlomi went on to great infamy and reasonable success as the front man for the Sham-Wow and the Slap Chop. And then, perhaps inevitably, he got arrested for beating up a prostitute who bit his tongue. It’s the old familiar story. Humble beginnings, rise to power, prostitute tongue-biting scandal. Just like Gandhi, Lincoln and Alexander the Great before him. Same shit, different era.

When I read his biographical details I knew, at last, what I wanted my next film project to be. How could I not write this biopic that demands to be made? As biopics go, I’m picturing it as the Lawrence of Arabia of the 21st century. Only without all the sand or camels or Arabs or class or dignity or broad audience appeal or…well, you get my drift. It’s a niche project. Limited release. Straight to DVD, much like The Underground Comedy Movie. So far, I’ve only written the title:

Shlomi the Money: An Offer You Can’t Refuse

Eight words in, I’m practically done. The rest writes itself. It’s a slow burn up to the moment when “Vince,” still coasting on the success of the Sham-Wow, resting uncomfortably on his considerable laurels, lacking the creative direction to find his next masterpiece, consoles himself with the comforts of a woman. For a modest negotiable price to be paid up front.

This at last brings us to the climax of the picture — the moment of divine inspiration after he extracts himself from a particularly bitey prostitute. Slapping her in the face, he declares, “Crazy bitch! Whatcha tryin’ to do, chop my tongue off?” And then that look would cross his face. The look of a man who has been touched by the angels. The look of a man who, in a terrible moment of personal crisis, has rediscovered his muse.

“Wait…chop. Slap? Slap Chop… Of course!”

And then our hero is back on top. After the trip to the hospital, some stitches, battery charges, and sentencing of course. Everybody leaves the theatre happy — or at least ejects their rental DVD from the player not feeling totally ripped off.

Another masterpiece in the can. Pay me.

Billy Mays and Offer Shlomi. There can be only one.
(No I didn’t have to Photoshop this myself — that’s what the internet is for)

ADDENDUM:

Damn. Couldn’t buy the life rights. Go figure. I guess I’ll just have to write that Billy Mays biopic then. At least he’s safely dead and can’t sue.

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

July 31, 2009

Posted under

Film and Television, Sex and Perversion

Comments

Leave a comment

Good Career Move

So Rachelle Lefevre got kicked off the Twilight series. And a stunned world mourns.

I actually don’t know too much about it. I’ll never read the books, and as far as watching the movie goes, all I hear is “Oh good Lord, DON’T!” which is never a glowing recommendation. What I understand about this pop culture phenomenon is that it’s vampire porn for 13-year-old Mormon girls who are still too young to handle a Buffy season set. I saw an interview with the author, Stephenie Meyer, and all I could think was “Wow, she’s such a geek, she makes Anne Rice look like Harper Lee.” Since then, I’ve kind of avoided it all and haven’t regretted ignoring the whole multi-media experience for one second.

I did take notice of the scheduling conflict dispute that got Rachelle the boot, though. Rachelle’s a local kid. I’ve worked with many Montreal actors of that generation on various shows, and it’s always fun seeing what they get up to as their careers progress. Ah, there’s Jamie Elman doing a scene with Gary Sinise on CSI: Some Damn City Somewhere. And there’s Ross Hull anchoring the Weather Channel, poor bastard. And there’s wee little Ricky Mabe, all grown up and being strap-on-dildo ass-fucked by Traci Lords in the new Kevin Smith film.

I never worked with Rachelle. I almost worked with Rachelle, back when she was in Big Wolf on Campus. But then all my material got tossed away because I had no produced credits yet and wasn’t in the union. Sweet memories. Oh, how I don’t miss those days at all.

But now, after making it big playing some redheaded vampire chick in a movie I can’t bear the thought of sitting through, she’s throwing it all away to come back to Montreal and shoot ten days on Barney’s Version. Good career move. Not only will she get to work with people like Dustin Hoffman and Paul Giamatti, but she gets to bail on the third angst-ridden brooding high-school vampire douchbag flick. Everyone thought the first movie blew, so by the third in the series the box office should be collecting tumbleweeds.

What does Rachel Lefevre need with silly schoolgirl vampire crushes anyway? She’s already a huge star. I know this because she was featured on TMZ a couple of months ago in a does-the-carpet-match-the-drapes moment outside her home in L.A. Apparently her doggie needed a whiz early one morning, so she took him out in her bathrobe. Prowling paparazzi plus untimely breeze plus flimsy garment equals photo op. You get the picture. And if you don’t, it’s probably somewhere in TMZ’s archives.

Surprise celebrity nudity is also, incidentally, a good career move. These days you haven’t really made it in showbiz until someone has immortalized your inadvertently exposed Brazilian wax job in the tabloids, or absconded with the secret sex tape you thought was safely hidden away from the migrant workers renovating your Malibu beach house.

Speaking of which…another good career move is handing in your feature screenplay in time to make your contractual deadline. Which is exactly what I just did today with Sex Tape. Now to consider other projects. There’s this epic biopic I’ve been considering… Stay tuned.

Infinitely scarier than any of those school-kid fang-faces from Twilight.
Plus he’s better at math.

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

June 26, 2009

Posted under

Criminology and Law, Death and Morbidity, Politics and Sociology

Comments

1 Comment

Tales From The Slab

Breaking news: Michael Jackson is still dead. We’re all freaked out at losing one of the giant icons of the music industry, and one of the very few superstars in the world who actually justified the use of the term “superstar.” Hint: if you won last season’s American Idol, you ARE NOT a superstar, not matter what Ryan Seacrest’s hyperbole tells you. Jackson was an ubiquitous pop culture icon all my life, and it will be weird living in a world where he isn’t around making the world weirder.

The toxicology results are still weeks away, but the autopsy is complete and, as promised, it was a real show-stopper. I called in some favours and got the scoop on the most shocking revelations from the coroner’s report. The bullet points are as follows:

* Malformed conjoined fetus discovered in abdomen indicates that they were really The Jackson Six back in the ’70s.

* Wasn’t a real zombie for the Thriller album, but had been the genuine article since Bad.

* Surgical mask was actually a retractable third eyelid.

* Face was a removable façade worn on a timeshare deal with La Toya.

* 8.75% not of this Earth.

* Navel transplanted to form chin cleft.

* First nose inverted and reattached to form the lining of his mangina.

* Extra nipples plentiful, but original two inexplicably missing.

* Bone structure was actually that of Joseph Merrick.

* Sex: male.

Fascinating revelations all. Some surprising, some fairly obvious, but all destined to become the stuff of medical journal legend.

On the brighter side of things, judging from the reduced amount of news media coverage, Iran’s problems have ceased to exist. Hurray! Good job, Iran! I knew you could sort it all out on your own.