Dying On Stage

I’ve been wanting to continue with my coverage of what’s what with the Paddywacking project, but lately I’ve had a hard time tearing myself away from CNN’s round-the-clock coverage of Terri Schiavo‘s demise and the punditry from both the pro-death and the pro-sticking-your-nose-up-other-people’s-asses sides of the debate. Everyone on the network from Larry King to that mighty pillar of journalistic intellectualism, Carol Costello, has had their own daily (sometimes hourly) crack at the story. Good thing there’s no other news happening in the world. Anywhere. At all. Unless Terri’s feeding tube is reinserted soon, I fear there will be no choice for Western civilization but to turn its attention back to those tiresome headline hogs: war, the economy, and the environment. That or Carol Costello can start reading the funnies out of the morning papers live on the air. That should keep her busy for awhile, because, you know, Garfield uses all those big words and stuff.

In other non-news, the post-Oscar buzz has finally subsided. And now that the whole world has collectively forgotten who was nominated, not to mention who won, the Academy can get back to planning how they’ll make next year’s ceremony even more boring. I only mention this because it has particular significance to me. The awards for the 2004 film year were particularly trying for me thanks to the multiple nominations for Alexander Payne’s movie, Sideways. Thankfully, with the passage of time, fewer and fewer people persist in telling me I look like Paul Giamatti. Though terribly flattering in a bearded, balding, pudgy sort of way, it gets old after awhile. Now that the dust has settled, I look forward to comparisons to Brad Pitt resuming as per usual.Commiserating Oscar losses with my good buddy Thomas Haden Church

But I don’t have that much to complain about when it comes to the Oscars. Sure the awards themselves sucked, but they also managed to pull in an extra fifty bucks for me. Called in as a ringer for an Oscar party I didn’t even attend, my brain was tapped for best guesses as to what would take home a gold statuette. My picks smoked the competition, not because I was good at choosing the most deserving nominees, but because I was good at selecting who would win the political race. One tip for all who might find themselves mixed up in an Oscar gambling pool: Best Editing always goes to the longest picture. Bet the farm on it. I think the logic goes that whoever has to suffer through the most footage earns the award.

Despite the fact that the winner shared her gambling-vice cash with me, there were still accusations of foul play. After all, I’m a film industry peon who spends all his spare time watching movies and actually gives a shit about petty rubbish like the Oscars. It hardly seems fair to go consulting someone who can make an educated guess about who might win in the short documentary film category. Even the winners didn’t go to see their film. Yet there I was, with an inkling of a notion that proved correct again and again in all the nothing categories that never made it to a full-blown stage presentation. After getting a dozen right in a row, I was starting to scare even myself, because, after all, who gives a fuck? Apparently, I do. I’ve never been a ringer before, and entering a competition with a grossly unfair advantage is a new experience for me. At last I know what it feels like to be the Olympic men’s basketball dream team. All of them, all at once. Minus the huge regular season paycheck and the homoerotic group showering.

No, It’s Not Actually Made Of Ice

I’m not a location scout. But last month I felt it was my duty to make an excursion out to a couple of obscure Montreal locales to snap photos for the benefit of the Irish half of the Paddy Whacking development team.

They’d come over recently to debate the merits of the material as it stood at that time and do some research, but our tour of the city’s underbelly failed to include two key locations. Both figure prominently in the story, and I was compelled to share a virtual tour with them so we would all know what we were writing about.

The Black Rock is a monument to the Irish immigrants who died on the fever ships on their way to a new life in North America during the potato famine. Thousands perished after arriving in Quebec, as did many here who tried to care for them through this epidemic. The rock is placed in the middle of what used to be the cemetery where so many of the victims were buried. Currently the penultimate scene of the series is set there during an official gathering of the local Irish community. Depending on when the shoot happens however, I would never be surprised to see this same scene relocated to take advantage of Montreal’s St. Patrick’s Day parade, the largest in North America. We’ll just have to see when the time comes, but until then, here are some photos of a corner of the city even most locals have probably never seen.Always place your monuments in the middle of a busy streetBe sure to advertise your company when honouring the deadJust in case you forgot it was Irish

I felt it was particularly important for me to make it out to the ice bridge because we have pivotal scenes set there at the beginning and end of the series. All sorts of nefarious goings on happen, at least in our fictional world, out on that barren stretch of pavement that stretches over the St. Lawrence. If you’re familiar with this, the most obscure bridge off the island of Montreal, it’s probably because you’ve crossed it in its context as a foot and bike path. There’s enough space for vehicles to get on, but only city vehicles are authorized to do so for maintenance purposes (specifically to change the bulbs in the lights, I imagine). Its actual function is to break up the ice flow coming down the river in winter, before it hits the bigger and much more expensive Champlain Bridge.

That’s about all I know about the ice bridge. What I didn’t know was that it’s closed to foot and bicycle traffic in winter. Which is why I had to break in to get these shots. Although I’m happy to commit a misdemeanor in the name of fair and accurate screenwriting, I was hardly alone in doing so. There was already a convenient hole torn in the wire fence at the top of a muddy embankment, allowing awkward but reliable access to those who would not be deterred from crossing at any time of the year. Indeed, I passed several joggers and bike riders as a strolled from one side to the other and back again, firing off shot after shot of bland industrial architecture. I won’t bore you with all of them, but these should give you a sense of what it’s like out over the river in February.Champlain Bridge left, ice bridge rightShot through the locked gatesOn the bridge after minor scrapes and cutsA view of the real bridge from the lesser bridgeA chunk of ice makes it through to the ChamplainHeading back to Nun's Island as the sun sets

The most interesting thing to occur on my tour happened when I heard a slow, steady crashing noise on one side of the bridge. I ran over in time to see a huge sheet of ice breaking apart on one of the supports. Only moments later, another sheet came bearing down on the same spot, so I whipped out my camera and grabbed these action shots showing exactly what an ice bridge does during a Canadian winter.Look out!Crack!Sploosh!The ice bridge earns its keep

In other news (at least in news I find interesting), The Passion of the Christ is getting recut and reissued. The new edit of the movie is supposed to remove six minutes of violence so as to make it a more family-friendly snuff film. I doubt the tinkering will end there since, these days, no cut of a movie is the final cut. The director has had his cut. This, I suppose, is the marketer’s cut. The producers will probably have another stab at it. And eventually we can all look forward to the caterer’s cut with plenty of missing Last Supper footage reinserted.

I’m sure, as the years go by, more violence will be deleted with each subsequent release, and eventually the film will be:

FADE IN:

Judas fingers Jesus. Jesus is busted.

CUT TO:

Children hunt for Easter eggs.

THE END

This will be convenient to all those who like their pop culture salvation to come in three-minute doses. Sure, we want to be saved, but does it really have to kill and entire afternoon? Me, I think I’ll stick to my own particular brand of religious cinema. If people can find the Lord in a piece of toast, I can go looking for him here.

And before I sign off, I’ll point you all at the movie night minutes, which is up to date for the first time in months. Go make snide comments at my expense. That’s what the forum is for.

Rewrites Starting With The Title

In case you were wondering, checking in here on a daily basis hoping for news, I am indeed back from Ireland. My vicious sinus infection from flying with a cold is all cleared up, the mucus has been safely expelled, and my ear canals are relatively pus free. Hurray!

I have a number of interesting stories to tell and loads of digital photos to share. But the time for that will have to wait another week or two. There’s a new deadline for a new draft of the miniseries hanging over my head, and it’s too important to be swept aside by my desire to eat bandwidth with even more self-indulgent blog entries (now second only to porn as the primary product of internet technology). What I can do here and now, however, is finally share the nature of this mysterious TV miniseries I’ve been mentioning for months. As it’s now listed on any number of publicly accessible CBC documents as being in development, the cat is long out of the bag, shitting in your flower garden, and having noisy yowling sex with the unfixed tabby down the street.

The Irish Connection is the working title, but that’s likely to change in the near future to address two issues that have come to light. The first being a documentary with the same name that has recently aired on Irish television and may cause confusion. The second being that everyone who hears the title hates it. This four hour miniseries co-production will, if all goes well, air at some future date on Canada’s own CBC, and RTE in Ireland. Set in the present day, it concerns the nefarious criminal and social goings on of the Irish mob in Montreal and Ireland, and will feature generous helpings of sex and violence and murder. Therefore, at least until a better title presents itself, I will simply refer to the show as Paddy Whacking for clarity’s sake.

I’m responsible for the second two hours of this epic storyline, so a lot of my time has been spent coming up with solutions to questions like: How do we reveal the secret family ties between various characters? Who should we keep alive for a possible series renewal? And how do you write a torture scene for prime time? As a result, other projects have had to suffer. But since we have to make a March 1st deadline for a funding application, my calendar should open up again soon.

Which is a good thing because I’m woefully behind in my movie viewing habits. It’s awards season, and I haven’t even been out to see half the films I’m allowed to catch for free. I’ve just received my Genie Awards ballot and I haven’t seen a single nominee. Worse, I haven’t even heard of most of them. That’s not a good sign for the Canadian film industry when a guy like me, who can see any Canadian movie for free, and watches many more movies a year than most shut-ins, hasn’t heard a word about most of the flicks that are supposed to be our country’s top offerings for 2004.

For that reason, I’ll make the same offer to the nominees I did last year. Buy my vote. It’s cheap. Just send me a screener on video or DVD. If the American Academy members can get piles of freebie screeners every year, so should their Canadian counterparts. I’m not taking time off from work or the rest of my life in general to run across town to the Academy offices to borrow copies I’ll just have to return the next day. Fuck that shit. Send me my own copy. I’ll watch it and I’ll vote for your film regardless of its quality. Because I am a whore and you can have your way with me for two bucks worth of video tape and postage. Surely my bending over for you is worth that much. Even street whores in Tijuana charge more. I know, I checked.

As for the American Oscar nominees, I’m really going to have to be selective about which ones I need to run to in this last week before the envelopes are opened, read, discarded and forgotten about a day later. I may have to skip the ones I know I’ll hate in favour of the ones I know I’ll merely dislike. It’s all about time management.

Lost in the netherworld of rewrites as I’ve been, I’ve failed to acknowledge the passing of Valentine’s Day in any way more meaningful than film selections for Movie Night. To rectify this, allow me to point you at this involving documentary about the origins and manufacturing of the modern greeting card — a Valentine staple every bit as important as obesity-inducing chocolates in novelty boxes.

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The Ticking Clock

I had the best of intentions, with all sorts of updates I wanted to add and things I wanted to talk about. But the clock has run out. Another trip to Ireland is upon me. I’m on the red-eye to Heathrow tonight, and then on to Dublin for heated debates concerning the second draft of the miniseries. By Friday, we’ll have reinvented the show half a dozen times (as opposed to the usual even dozen) and we’ll be another step or two closer to figuring out what it is exactly we want to put in front of the cameras. I don’t expect I’ll go into the same gory detail as to my activities when I get back again, but I’ve been booked for a trip outside the city limits for one day so I might get into some trouble worth reporting. A digital camera will also be making the trip, so expect more photos.

Among the updates I’ve failed miserably to complete are the movie night minutes. I have, however, added a few episodes to the forum lately, and should be able to finish them off once I’m back. I know you’re all dying to find out what shit we forced ourselves to sit through over the holidays. Sadly, I’ll be thousands of miles away from whatever the gang decides to view this Wednesday. That means, if my accounting is accurate, I no longer hold the single greatest attendance record for the event. I must now share that title with Eric, who tends to show up for a lot of movie nights because they conveniently take place in his home. I’ll have to find some way to drive him away in the coming weeks to damage his average. More episodes of Strangers With Candy might fit the bill.

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Trapped At Home For The Holidays

The television miniseries I’m co-writing progresses, a first draft has been delivered, and my long absence from this site is over. At least for this weekend. I might be back at it by tomorrow, and then all through the holidays. Joy to the world. Oh well, at least it beats writing for children’s television.

It seems like this one project is all I’ve been doing, but that’s not accurate. It’s merely been occupying my every waking thought. The problem with being a writer — as opposed to being a plumber, brick-layer, or barkeep — is that you never get to go home after work and turn the job off. It’s always with you, eating at your brain. The only job I can think of that might compare is a gynecologist. A male heterosexual gynecologist. It’s female genitalia all day at work and then, like the rest of the heterosexual male population out there, it’s female genitalia on the brain all night.

This is why so many writers drink. Not to forget, but to stop thinking entirely. Being a novice drinker myself, I mostly have to rely on video games to numb me. At least until I develop a serious substance abuse problem.

And speaking of drunks and junkies…

This week in world news, Bush finally found Canada on a map and decided to pay us a visit for the first time since he became president a million years ago. He dropped by Ottawa (the capital) and Halifax (the capital of drinking) in a whirlwind tour that went by so quickly, the army of protesters didn’t even have time to catch a chill in their designated civil disobedience zones. With Canada-U.S. relations at their lowest ebb since the War of 1812, this first state visit by the Bush White House poses a serious question for our two nations in these times of crisis. Namely, why can’t Halifax ever blow itself up when it might actually do some good?

If you’re wondering why it’s been so long since there’s been any new Movies in Longshot, it’s because I wanted to revamp that section so it would be a little easier to navigate. The newest entries now all appear on the top, with an archive below that arranges the previous strips alphabetically. I know that’s not much of an excuse for the lack of new material, but now that things are all orderly, I feel comfortable rolling out my latest cinema adaptations. Once again, there will be a new one each week, starting today and ending whenever I run out — which probably won’t be next week, or even the week after that. So drop by regularly.

And as I get back into the swing of things here, one of my priorities was to update the month’s worth of Wednesday Movie Night screenings I’ve fallen behind on. My one social indulgence each week, this has at least kept me in practice when it comes to watching movies. Otherwise I’m woefully behind in my viewing habits, despite the deluge of eBay imports that keep showing up on my doorstep, beckoning, “Shane, stop working for a living and come watch us. Watch us. Watch us…” I’d really feel better about the DVD backlog around here if I could only take off a month and watch five movies a day, every day. That would truly make my holiday special.

Write If You Get Work

Will this really be my one and only blog entry for the entire month of November? I’m truly sorry about that, but the irony of the very concept of this website has now struck me. It’s here mainly to keep people updated about what I’m working on, yet when I have a project going, I don’t have the time to write and tell everyone all about it.

There’s a big fat deadline looming on the miniseries I’m writing half of, and time is limited. It can be difficult thinking up new and more gruesome ways for the criminal underworld to whack each other so television programming can spiral further down the drain of sex, violence and degradation. I hope, once it’s all in the can and broadcast over the airwaves, that what I’ve spent so much time and effort on will shock and horrify the viewing audience — and maybe corrupt a child or two who stayed up past their bedtime. But who am I kidding? We’re competing with reality TV and pay-per-view porno. Our stab at the form will barely make a ripple compared to the time Dipsy anally raped Tinky-Winky in a very special episode of Teletubbies.

Last weekend, I took exactly fifty-four hours off to run to Toronto for my father-in-law’s birthday bash. I don’t really have a free moment to describe the spectacle of all those ex-hippie baby boomers descending on an unsuspecting deli to eat mounds of greasy meat in an Atkins orgy and then sing flower child anthems from their drug-hazed past while a former Ontario premier (NDP of course) played keyboard. Hopefully enough photographic evidence will surface to prove this even happened. However, I can direct you to this interview with my father-in-law that happened largely because of my website. After surfing to Canuxploitation through one of my blog links, Bob found a couple of errors in their review of My Bloody Valentine, a flick he produced back in the day. A phone interview about his years in the trenches of Canadian cinema resulted. Bob called me a couple of weeks ago to let me know it was up, and then proceeded to tell me all the stories he couldn’t tell the Canuxploitation guy. I guess we’ll just have to wait for the book.

Imitation – The Sincerest Form Of Flattery; Theft – The Greatest Mark Of Legitimacy

I have arrived.

Seeing my work made available to pirates around the world is heartening. The fact that someone took the time and bother to make a video capture of one of my Fries episodes and upload it to a bittorrent site fills me with a sense of accomplishment as great, if not greater, than when I submit my quarterly taxes to reaffirm my status as a contributing, exploited member of society. Out of the fifty-two episodes of Fries With That? currently in the can, only my episode “While Supplies Last” has surfaced on the web. Although I’d like to think this is the result of my writing being so sharp, my nuanced plot being so intriguing, and my keen sense of social satire being so irresistibly witty, it probably has more to do with the actual subject matter of this one particular episode. Being about nerd culture, it appeals to the same nerd culture that fuels the online piracy industry. The psychological aberration that leads an otherwise genetically stable human being into an obsession with fantasy, science fiction and comic books also leads them towards a symbiotic relationship with their home computers. It’s these people who become obsessed with digitizing everything they hold near and dear (like the aforementioned fantasy, science fiction, and comic book products) and making it part of the great hive brain we call the internet.

I fully encourage you to go download it. If enough people swap this file, I’ll have staked out another tiny claim to immortality in cyberspace. Perhaps, in time, it might even overtake the most pervasive thing I’ve ever contributed to the internet (before there was even a web), that bloody Mr. Pink transcript from 1992. This thing has been bouncing around for twelve years now in various incarnations, and has lately picked up some accompanying sound files to backup my findings. One day I’d really like to accomplish something that will serve as a better legacy for my existence on Earth.

Busy? Yeah, I’m busy. I’m now in full-swing draft mode for the new show I’m working on and have to come up with two hours worth of must-see TV over the next month and a bit. People from the Irish end of the project flew into town and forced me to partake of more fine food and expensive wine as we addressed broadcaster concerns about our material so far. It wasn’t all dinners and conference room marathons, though. I also got to spend part of last week hanging out with real-life gangsters in the name of research because the show we’re developing is about the Irish mob. I keep saying we should be developing a show about nymphomaniac strippers so I could research that instead, but so far, no dice. I really don’t understand that because everyone wants to watch more television about nymphomaniac strippers. The concept sells itself. One day those producer people will listen to reason.

The ’04 campaign in the States has entered the stretch, and the political rhetoric has reached a pitch so shrill only dogs can still hear it. As America settles down to decide which war criminal it likes best, there’s an awful lot of contradictory statements and shifting positions to sort through. Despite the sheer volume of bullcrap in this shitstorm, I have to award the hypocrite of the week award to none other than… Saturday Night Live.

Following last week’s very public outing of Ashlee Simpson as a lip-syncher on their own show, the cast of SNL spent a good chunk of this week’s show tearing her a new one over the whole embarrassing incident. Sure, she deserves a good roasting, but it’s not like SNL itself holds the moral high ground in this case. Are they trying to suggest they weren’t complicit in the affair, or that Lorne Michaels somehow didn’t know he was booking an act that had no intention of uttering a word that wasn’t safely pre-recorded? Please. You can bet any sum of money that the guy who pressed the “play” button during Ashlee’s segments was a unionized employee of NBC, and that everyone on the show knew the score, from the pages in the monkey uniforms on down to both token black guys who get no air time. Everyone except Amy Poehler. I have to believe she was out of the loop because I could never believe dear, sweet Amy was part of such a nefarious deception.

I very much doubt this was the first case of lip-synching on the show, but following such an obvious cock-up, perhaps it will be the last. And then maybe, maybe the “live” in Saturday Night Live will apply to the musical portion of the show as well.

Have a happy Hallowe’en folks because in two more days, that’s when things will truly get scary.

They're my ticket for '04

On November 2nd, vote Kerry. His daughters are hotter.

Missing Links And Throwbacks

Whenever possible, I like to slip the latest links of note into my blog in as unobtrusive a way as possible. This means mixing them with links both positive and rewarding, as well as those that are utterly meaningless and silly. Lately, there have been a few that I’ve been really anxious to point you at, but unable to find a reasonable way to work them into the conversation. So let me be purely crass for a moment and tell you, point blank, where to go.

Superhero geeks may know all about the fanboy favourite Batman films out there, namely Batman: Dead End and a mock trailer called World’s Finest. But I’ve been shocked at the general lack of discussion about the Greyson trailer, certainly the best example of this geek subgenre. Another mock trailer for a film that doesn’t and (in many ways, sadly) will never exist, D.C. comics fans should have orgasms over the number of cameo appearances sprinkled throughout. Most others will consider it shamelessly overdone. Nevertheless, there’s more heart and soul in these five minutes of superhero ecstasy than in just about any Hollywood feature counterpart.

I’m sure you’re all aware that BBC radio has reunited the original cast (minus the one dead guy) to do two new seasons of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Due to Douglas Adams also being inconsiderately dead, the new material is derived from the last three books of his Hitchhiker series. As such, they don’t match up with the continuity of the original radio plays, but why split hairs on a project that is, otherwise, so very positive? You can stream the most recent broadcast here, although you’ll probably have to hunt the net if you want to listen to the previous episodes.

While I’m at it, I’ll also direct your mouse pointer at the latest Star-Wars inspired bit of Flash fun. This, like the Star Wars films themselves, has been reduxed to death from the original creation. The only way these guys differ from Lucas is that they’ve managed to improve their work instead of detract from it. It is, of course, a bit hip-hoppy for my tastes, but I feel obliged to link to it since it was submitted to me by my friend Rosalind. I’ve linked to everything else she’s ever emailed me because, unlike the legions of unconscionable spammers out there, she always sends me cool stuff. You may remember this one from a much earlier blog entry. Well, she was the person who found it and correctly identified it as something I would think is neat.

Rosalind, bless her black heart, also sent me this link to The Exorcist — as performed in 30 seconds by bunnies. I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.

Then we have an interview with Fred Dekker. Fred remains one of my favourite genre writer/directors, although he’s been largely marginalized by Hollywood for years. Responsible for classics like Night of the Creeps and The Monster Squad, I continue to pull for him and whatever project he may currently be trying to bring to life. Frankly, before this, I’d never seen a single interview with him, so when I found this one I became all titillated. Okay, it doesn’t take much. But my tits were most definitely lated.

I’m not one for jokes. Really. I don’t like it when someone says, “Hey, did you hear the one about…” or “Knock knock…” or “A priest, a rabbi and a monk walk into a bar…” But I have to ask you, just this once — Did you hear the one about the Newfie who tried to support his drug habit by stealing cheese? NB: Newfie jokes are the Canadian equivalent of Polish jokes and are equally unfunny. There’s no worthwhile punch line here either, so just file this one under, “Huh?”

Feel free to add your own favourite hot links of note to the comments section. And should I ever again fall too far behind in bringing you the latest in web-browsing nonsense, by all means badger me for more.

Sofa Spuds And Couch Potatoes

The idea for Wednesday Movie Night crawled out of the primordial ooze earlier this year when someone stated the obvious.

“Shane has a lot of cool movies we’ve never seen. Or heard of for that matter.”

“Maybe we should get him to bring one over every week,” was the next bright idea forwarded.

So began a series of film screenings at a venue known far and wide as “Eric’s Place.” People gather, food is served, movies are endured.

As I try to broaden the cinematic tastes of people who would prefer to have their experience with film narrowly focused on the occasional Star Wars prequel and whichever Ben Stiller comedy came out this week, I try to make somewhat entertaining choices. Often I cart along a selection of titles I’m in the mood to defend, and then put it to a vote, so that the audience itself bears some of the responsibility when the choice of entertainment edification tanks horribly. This democratic process has been put on hold for the month of October, and already there’s dissent at the polling stations.

The Hallowe’en fest began in earnest this past Wednesday after we got some preliminary short material out of the way. The trailer for Water to Wine was streamed from the net to a confused crowd who only understood why I was showing them this after they took a second look at the opening shot. As I pointed out, in only a few months time we will be celebrating an important anniversary. 2005 will mark twenty years since Harrison Ford made a good movie. Considering the state of his career, I think his appearance in a shitty snowboarding home video is a step in the right direction.

Following up on a bit of unfinished business, we screened what I had originally meant to show as a companion piece to Zatoichi a few weeks back. Episode VII of Samurai Jack had a blind samurai motif to it that I thought would complement the feature nicely. Sadly, I forgot my season one set at home the night Zatoichi unexpectedly won the “let’s watch that” vote, so I was caught with my pants down. Those in the room who were Samurai Jack virgins seemed genuinely impressed with the design of this quintessential episode.

And then there was the feature. After so many weeks of skipping over my horror collection for the sake of the self-professed wimps in the audience, it was time, at last, to take off the gloves. The horror festival of October had been announced well in advance, word of which movie we’d be watching was on the street, and everyone should have been well forewarned. The turnout was encouraging with a record number of attendees, and one who travelled an extra 5000 miles to get there (I’ll pretend it was specifically for movie night). The movie was Haute Tension, winner of this year’s FantAsia top prize for international film, and it wasn’t meant for the faint-of-heart. Since there’s still no Region 1 DVD to be had, this was brought to us through the miracle of internet piracy.

Allow me, for a moment here, to make no apology whatsoever for partaking in this kind of blatant film theft. I would be delighted to buy a legitimate copy of any and all films I want to screen at movie night. Have a look at my collection and you’ll notice it doesn’t take much to get me to plunk down the cash for a disc. But if the slack-jawed yokel distributors can’t get an interesting film into my hands in a reasonable amount of time (as in the same year of release, not three years later like Hero) then I’m going to find another way to get it. And if that means surfing a bittorrent site or greasing the palm of some eBay bootlegger, so be it. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow, but at least I’ll die having seen the movies I wanted to see. And on a side note, I’d like to add that someone better release Cypher in Region 1 soon, or we’ll be watching a rip of that too. I’ll still buy the legit copy when it comes out like a good little movie buff, but I would prefer to show a proper DVD come the inevitable Vincenzo Natali fest. And so, I’m sure, would the folks who own the rights. Rant ends here.

I skipped the usual introduction I give for our feature presentations because I couldn’t talk about Haute Tension without blowing the whole film. Besides, what was I to say?

“Ultimately, this film is an abject failure, but it’s an interesting failure and therefore I think you should see it.”

Not terribly encouraging, particularly to a crowd who has illustrated to me in no uncertain terms that they have zero academic interest in film. Still, I think Haute Tension works wonderfully for a whole hour. Then it starts to fall to pieces, and finally, desperately, makes a wholly unnecessary turn into twist-ending land. Ironic how the surprise twist has become such a cliché in film lately, it’s now utterly predictable. Too bad, because while this horror flick was simply about a girl being terrorized by a relentless serial killer who doesn’t actually know she exists, it’s quite a pleasant variation of the familiar stalking-slasher genre.

Ultimately, however, the fact that the movie doesn’t hold water all the way to the end mattered little to our squeamish crowd. Many of them were driven away from Movie Night en masse following the very first killing. Haute Tension isn’t misnamed. It’s quite a tense film experience, to be sure. But apparently the release of that tension — in the form of decapitation by credenza — proved too much, and the body count in the room decreased faster than the film’s body count could rise.

“See you in November,” was the parting sentiment expressed by many as they reached the door. November, I assured them, would be strictly G-rated.

Pussies.

Up until now, the very moment of this posting, Movie Night was discussed online solely at Eric’s own private domain (a site protected by more security features than most internet banking transactions). I decided to move the discussion here, to my own site, for several reasons.

One: There are other people out there, friends and strangers alike, who might like to read about our ongoing film series (even if they can’t attend) and maybe weigh in with an opinion.

Two: Actual discussion, meaningful or inane, has ground to a halt over at Eric’s forum.

Three: Ditto for my own forum. At least now I’ll have something regular to post on the board to give it purpose and some much-needed traffic.

Go here to read the first post, which will give you a quick checklist of what we’ve sat down for so far. Jump in if you like. You don’t even have to register to post, so you’ll be free to mock us in complete untraceable anonymity. And isn’t that what internet forums are all about?

When I said paint the car, I meant the OUTSIDE.

“No, Shane! Not another horror movie!”

Intolerable Intolerance

Enter just about anything into a search engine and you can come up with porn. It’s happened to all of us, much to our chagrin or delight, depending on our mood or morality of the moment. You might go looking for My Little Pony merchandise and end up with photos of crack whores sucking off a mule. We know that shit’s out there, but it can catch us off guard when it shows up on our screen unexpectedly. Sometimes these surprises can go beyond simple porn.

I’d never been to a white supremacist web site before. But I got directed to one after a perfectly innocent research query in Google produced what I thought sounded like a promising discussion thread. I nearly made it all the way through one post before I said, “Wait a minute… This isn’t your usual garden-variety, knuckle-dragging, internet-forum hate rant.” Most anonymous posters out there these days seem to want anyone who disagrees with them to drop dead. These guys would like to see everyone else dead too. Just to be safe.

I couldn’t resist the urge to read what pearls of wisdom such great intellects had to offer about current events and the state of the world today. But any thoughts I had about checking out a political message board got completely sidetracked when I saw the movie forum. How could I resist? At least it’s a topic I know something about.

Or at least I thought it did. It seems these guys appreciate cinema on a whole new level that never even occurred to me.

I didn’t realize, for instance, that Resident Evil: Apocalypse was a race-issue film, nor that Cameron Diaz can grudgingly be referred to as white, even though she’s not technically a 100% pure member of the Aryan race. Hell, I didn’t even realize that John Wayne was such a riddle wrapped in an enigma for having small feet and a penchant for Asian women. Thanks Hitler-lovin’, gay-bashin’, Bush-votin’, middle-American, white-dude douche-bags! I feel all enlightened now. Praise Jesus!

Wait, wasn’t he a Jew? Then fuck him.

Goosestep on over here if you want to know which movies currently playing are safe to take your precious white babies to.

In other news, Scott Taylor (as mentioned in my last entry) has written an account of his ordeal, confirming my opinion that Iraq is the number one vacation hotspot in the world today. Screw Disneyland. Book your ticket on the next crusade shipping off to this sunny Middle East dream destination. If you want thrills and chills, The Haunted Mansion and Space Mountain have nothing on multiple near-executions as you’re shuttled between enraged groups of martyr-mania insurgents. Make your reservation now and receive a free return airport taxi ride for you or your severed head. Luggage is extra.