Pathology

I wasted some time today with a Comcast On Demand movie, Pathology.  Pretty typical film, predictable and gory, but well-acted by a talented cast.  I especially liked Michael Weston as the villan. He has the creeepy psycho routine down pat.

While predicatble, I liked the character development. Hero/bad guy stereotypes have their place, especially in campy movies, but in general I find them monotonous and irritating. It was refreshing to see an uncharactaristicly flawed and nihilistic hero.  All of the cast did well, making the somewhat preposteous plot believable. The film was raw, but I could see the good and wounded side of the characters without having my intellect insulted.

Triangle

review

Isty Bitsy Flu Bug

I'm going to die if I read this once more!!! Six times today! My day started out swell with dual shopping trips to Sears and Market Basket in the snow. Tyoma protested me putting his hood up by stiffening up like a board. Why bother with the hood when the end result is still a face full of snow?

Aww, well. After I stuffed my astonished snow covered child in his carseat, I was overcome by fatigue. I still had to drive home and haul him up two flights of stairs. Sigh. During the tiny one's nap, I watched Feast. It was a surprisingly good movie for a lowbudget horror/comedy. It was very gory at the beginning, and with an upset stomach, my tummy lurched a few times, but I soldiered through. It was damn funny. Unexpected! BTW, Henry Rollins, you sexy beast, thank you for owning your grey hair and for being a convincing actor. :) Super campy!

John Waters Gave me a Divine Nightmare

I watched Female Trouble last night. Too funny. Too vulgar. Too...real? Anyway. I was a fan of Divine long before I ever heard of John Waters. Sure, Hairspray was cool, but I only watched it for Divine. She was beautiful, brave and brilliant. An old VCR tape in my collection features her music videos, complete with interviews. Her soft breathy voice barely concealed the intelligent person behind it. How sad she left us so soon.

Because of Divine I watched John Waters movies. Initially, I considered them too lowbrow for my rarefied tastes. Would someone please pop some Herzog in the DVD before I totally barf?! But seriously, how can you laugh your ass off at Southpark and not love John Waters? Getting older can be kinda cool.

I’ve revisited his films with delight, embracing my inner white trash. Last night I chuckled and guffawed my way through Female Trouble. And I had such a nightmare! Hopefully, you’ve seen the movie, so you’ll understand where I’m coming from.

My hair was fantastically coiffed by my stylist Rodeyo, who bears and uncanny (but slimmer) resemblance to Divine. The voice match, BTW, is dead on. Continuing with my dream. I waited an hour “checking out” from a prestigious salon in a line that was half farmer’s market and half posh department store,. The proprietress (Mrs. Dasher) overcharged me ten dollars, to which I protested. She called forth a sinister, but Monty Pythonesque Spanish Inquisition crew to harass me for the money.

My punishment was not the comfy chair, but banishment from the stylish salon. In my dream, I could conjure no greater punishment than being forbidden to visit Rodeyo for a periodic haircut and highlight (yes, he's that good!). Horrified by my own shallowness, I woke up. This is probably unrelated, but today at the local grocery store, I tracked down a sales associate to insist on a reduced price for brand name milk ($2.99) since the store brand on sale ($1.79) had run out.

Gummo

“If you make people think they’re thinking, they’ll love you. But if you really make them think, they’ll hate you.”
—Don Marquis

Odd I should encounter this quote the same day I watched Gummo. Riveted and disturbed by the film, I identified many vignettes from my own life. I suspect this was the director’s point.  I’ve sat in living rooms piled high with unwashed, unwanted clothing. I’ve witnessed troubled youths tormenting animals. I’ve even eaten spaghetti in the bathtub.

I believe most of us could point to multiple scenes (even the disturbing ones), and say “I remember that from my youth.” What crawled under my skin, however, was the director’s skill in making the film so credible. Even the absurd elements fit together smoothly, enhancing the realism of the piece.

So, hey, I liked the movie so I spent some time surfing the net for reviews. I was surprised by the hatred and disgust people had for Gummo. Then while reading a history book later in the evening, I came across the quote above and thought, “Ah-ha!”

Scrutinizing the mundane and pathetic in our lives yields an acknowledgement of the nihilism of our existence. We question God, Humanity and Purpose; a quite unsettling proposition for most. But of course, not for me, the agnostic, who refuses to make any idealistic commitments whatsoever. Does this mean that Gummo only made me think I was thinking?

Hey Asshol!

Have you ever watched a foreign movie with characters whose names translate obscenely into English?

Saturday, Tennisfiend and I watched Scarlet Sails, a predictable and sugary sweet adaptation of a traditional Russian fairytale. The main character is a naive and (unintentionally) delusional seventeen year old girl named "Asshol." Although IMDB spells her name "Assol," the subtitles added an h which, along with the distinctive pronunciation, sent me into an 87 minute Beavis and Butthead paroxysm.

Perhaps because of her name, every scene seemed to include at least one character shouting “Asshooooool!” across an expansive meadow of wildflowers. When they introduced a kindly old man named “Doushe,” I though that I might die of laughter-induced tummy cramps. Initially offended, Tennisfiend joined in my mirth during the last 45 minutes of the film. Hee!

Achooey

That lingering feeling of malaise that muddled my brain over the weekend finally turned into a series of forceful sneezes yesterday morning. By late afternoon my head was swimming; it was time to quit working and watch movies. As usual, feeling unwell=horror movies. Fortunately, two unwatched horror movies remained from our weekend trip to Hollywood Video. (No spoilers)

Amityville 2005. I should know better than to rent popular horror. Seriously. Tedious and trite, its only redeeming factor was the uncanny resemblance that the lead, Ryan Reynolds, bore to .

Blood Dolls. I chose this offering from Full Moon Pictures over Dr. Moreau’s House of Pain believing it would be more Tennis Fiend friendly. He watched the entire movie stone-faced and serious, as if Blood Dolls was an arthouse film that required personal interpretation and reflection. At the end, his single comment: “How strange.” I laughed my butt off throughout, and considered how fun it would be to watch with a group of like-minded friends.

Movie Marathon

Blah. Still sick today. Sadly, I haven’t the mental energy to read, but I did I burn through my Netflix cue and even a few TV movies. I’m pleased to report that Ravenous was quite an agreeable cannibalism movie, and it put me in the mood for a horror movie marathon. For the hundredth time I scrutinized my movie collection and recalled that I never buy anything that I can find at Hollywood video (exceptions being Willard, Dead Man and any Tim Burton film). To satisfy my horror craving, I would have to haul my feverish achy self to the video store.

Anyway, at Hollywood Video, I picked out a classic double feature, Village of the Damned and Children of the Damned. Conceding to the new release aisle, I added The Ring Two to my selections. For a foreign movie, I chose Takashi Miike’s Gozu. Regretfully, opted to leave Frankenfish and The Jackhammer Murderer behind, instead preferring Asylum of the Damned (I love mental institution horror movies). Finally, my crowning movie choice: the Re-Animator. I’ve been seeing too much of Dr. West lately to resist another viewing.

I was surprised to be checked out by a genuine Stepford wife; complete with a white ribbon tied sweetly around her blonde bouffant-pony tail. She was all eyes and fingernails. When I asked her to please check my DVDs for scratches, she fumbled anxiously with each disc and then scrutinized them carefully. She vigilantly cleaned two discs, much to the annoyance of the man behind me. I was charmed. Although she won’t replace Henry Rollins’ younger brother as my favorite Hollywood employee, she will definitely be favorite employee number two.

Beautiful Things

Last night we watched Greenaway’s The Pillow Book (again). What a sensuous and evocative film! It inspired me to create my own list of Beautiful Things:

• Rain falling on a tin roof.
• Bright orange fish in a lucid green pond.
• Roosters crowing at dusk.
• Finding something unexpected in a pocket.
• Sleeping in a very cold room.
• Walking barefoot on damp moss.
• Being awake while others sleep.
• Ice cold water in the searing heat.
• Boxes, in all shapes and sizes.
• Seeing a penny, face-side up.
• Strolling an ancient city after midnight.
• Wind whistling through a window on a stormy day.
• Dark bitter chocolate with sweet red fruit.

Dr. Twinkie and The Corpse Bride

(This is last night's post. An electrical storm prevented me from completing my update.)
I went to my annual physical exam today. Despite my tendency towards hypochondriac speculation, I loathe an actual doctor appointment. I guess I prefer my fanciful but dreadful illnesses to the reality of a legitimate diagnosis. Naturally, I arrived fifteen minutes early, ostensibly to soothe myself with crossword puzzles. Actually, I intended to reassure myself by observing other apprehensive patients.

Only one seat remained in the crowded waiting room. I crammed myself between an anxious looking grandmother and a nondescript magazine table. I smiled at the grandmother and she immediately averted her eyes. Across the room from me sat a trio of sorority sisters. Two girls flanked their sister, who was obviously very unwell. I was touched by their concern, especially since I noticed that each girl held one of their sick friend’s hands. Everyone else seemed to be nervously shifting in their seats and sighing. As I began to study people more closely, my name was called.

How fortunate we are to live in a society that allows both men and women to become doctors. Physical contact seems less invasive when performed by a sister (or brother). Dr. Twinkie performed her annual squeezing, probing, thumping, listening and measuring. She responded to my catalogue of neurotic questions with compassion and gentleness. I felt healthier and a bit embarrassed each time she responded, "That’s perfectly normal, Bestfiend." I was grateful to have culled half my list of questions the night before. When my appointment was over, I felt relieved to the point of joviality.

**Potential Spoilers**

In the late afternoon, I went to see The Corpse Bride with two friends. Princess Jeanne made me snort water out my nose when she whispered that the Corpse Bride looked just like LaToya Jackson (the boobs, the make-up and the tiny nose). Wonder Warthog was delighted by the song "Remains of the Day," and did an improvised song and dance as we left the theater. He continued to serenade us as I drove them home. He is probably still singing to Princess Jeanne as I write. I am still recovering from the dancing black widow scene--there is no such thing as a "cute" black widow.

The movie was so incredibly beautiful you could easily overlook the cliched plot. It was bittersweet, just as the critics from Rotten Tomatoes promised. Every scene was painstakingly crafted to entertain on multiple levels. Yet it left me feeling strangely unfulfilled. I scratched my head all evening, trying to understand exactly what was troubling me. It finally occurred to me: the movie was too hurried. Victor and Victoria rush towards marriage, but then the Corpse Bride abruptly takes him as her husband. Frightened, Victor dashes away, the Corpse Bride flits after him. Suddenly, Victor decides to marry the Corpse Bride afterall, etc., etc. It was as if all the characters were in a frantic race to end the movie as quickly as possible.

The Corspe Bride seemed to be a Reader’s Digest treatment of a more substantial work. Fifteen minutes of footage was clearly missing. The charm of a good Tim Burton film lies in his poignant characters and their gradual development. Thus, the progression of even a simple plot is given depth and verisimilitude. This aspect far outweighs the slickness and visual wizardry of the usual big budget films. The Corpse Bride seemed to put more emphasis on the gee-whiz graphics and clever sight gags, than the actual characters. It looked like a Tim Burton film, but it did not feel like a Tim Burton film. Nevertheless, I would have been outrageously thrilled with this movie as a kid. It’s the adult in me that is disaffected. Am I missing something? Well, after I have bought the DVD and watched it ten more times, I’ll let you know.

Pasolini's Decameron

I watched Pasolini’s Decameron tonight, a sampling of nine tales from the famed eponymous classic. The Decameron is a collection of 100 short stories written by Boccaccio in the fourteen century--it’s basically an Italian Canterbury Tales.

While Pasolini’s film was tagged as erotic, I found it far from salacious. I suppose some labeled it such due to nudity, in particular the frank depiction of an aroused young man’s majestic ruddy manhood. Not something you see at the local Cineplex (well, at least not in Southern New Mexico).

I’ve never been troubled by the lascivious aspect of adult movies, having been inured long ago by a cherished friend and aficionado of pornography. In college, his imposing collection of movies was shockingly diverse and disturbingly obscure (more on that another time). Consequently, I feel qualified to classify the Decameron as "bawdy," an innocent yet candid celebration of sex and humor--an excellent rendering of Boccaccio’s stories.

 An erotic film would be In the Realm of the Senses, a fact-based Japanese tale of obsessive love. This film is as blunt as the Decameron in depicting nudity (featuring instead a liver-colored member). However the extended graphic scenes obliterate any pretense of innocence. Despite its unabashed portrayal of sexuality, this film is not pornographic. The explicit scenes illustrate the story of obsessive love instead of standing alone for prurient pleasure.