RIP: Patrick Swayze. You made the world a little more radical.
Film Threat Review: Baby on Board
2009
Rated R
95 minutes
*
In these trying times, it’s difficult to say what the world needs. But I can tell you what the world didn’t need. And that is a little film called “Baby on Board.” I suspect the pitch meeting went a little something like this: “It’s ‘Baby Boom’ as directed by the Farrelly Brothers. A successful businesswoman accidentally gets knocked up. It’s something the ladies can relate to but we also throw in that D.J. from ‘Northern Exposure’ to make lots of poon jokes so the dudes don’t get bored.” Green means go!!
Heather Graham plays Angela, the businesswoman in question who must impress her hardass boss (the barely recognizable Lara Flynn Boyle, puffy in the face and nowhere else), by selling a perfume for pregnant ladies to the Japanese. Angela’s husband, Curtis (Jerry O’Connell), is a lawyer with a guilty streak regarding his knack for finding the loopholes in pre-nups. He really wants to start a family but Angela isn’t sure she’s ready. Her best friend Sylvia’s kids are assholes. (What if her kids are assholes?) Plus, she might have a very successful perfume career ahead of her if only she could stop farting and ruining presentations.
Meanwhile, Curtis’ best friend, Danny (husband to Sylvia), is going through the ultimate mid-life crisis – in that he can’t stop getting blowjobs from hookers. He’s not apologetic, and he doesn’t make any attempts to hide it from his wife. He also tries to coerce Curtis into the whole hooker/blowjob scene whenever possible. I take it Danny is supposed to be the comic relief, but most of his jokes involve telling his wife she’s ugly and unfuckable and he would rather get it from a prostitute. That’s more mean than funny.
Things get really hairy when Angels discovers she’s pregnant just as she begins to suspect Curtis of cheating on her with a client. Astute viewers may have seen this coming because Angela can’t stop farting or puking. She does both constantly, leading one to conclude that the writers, never having met a real pregnant lady, did all their script research on Yahoo Answers. To further complicate matters, Curtis decides Angela must have cheated on him because he has been “double bagging” so there’s no way that baby is his. They have a Three’s Company argument in which neither party actually says what’s bothering them, leading them to assume the worst. What follows is a madcap series of misunderstandings. Will these two ever work it out? What about those other two? Whatever! Probably!
In a nutshell, this is what we can learn from “Baby on Board”: All men are pigs and all women are crazy because they spend all their time wondering if their pig husbands are cheating on them. Half the time, they’re right. But it’s only because some men don’t know how to express love. Also, when you’re pregnant, you fart and puke a lot, but it’s still possible to hold down a job. There. I just saved you 95 minutes of your life. Time enough to get a blowjob from a prostitute! You’re welcome.
Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).
NFT Radar: Brown Derby
Hollywood has produced a lot of silly screenplays. But now, there’s something more fun than getting drunk and making fun of these movies with your friends. And that’s getting drunk and watching the professionals do it. Ian Bell has assembled an amazingly talented cast to lampoon the crap out of titles like Total Recall, Sixteen Candles, The Goonies, and 9 to 5. No film is safe so long as it can be punched up with men in shoddy drag, prosthetic body parts and a little dry humping. Each show comes with its own surprises. For Aliens, local dance troupe The Buttrock Suites dressed in scary black leotards and boogied their way in and out of our hearts. Unfortunately, Brown Derby is a little like a bolt of lightening. You never know when it’s going to strike. But keep your eyes peeled for the fliers and get there early because they don’t take reservations. If you’re really lucky, you might catch local celebrity and theatrical genius, Nick Garrison, play the female lead. His Sharon Stone in Total Recall was awe-inspiring. But no matter who’s on stage, you can be sure they’ll bring the hilarity. Also, sometimes there are cupcakes.
Rebar
1114 Howell St 98101
www.rebarseattle.com
X-posted from Not For Tourists.
Nine Months of Full Moons
I just finished the first season of “Being Human”, a terrific BBC supernatural drama about a ghost, a vampire and a werewolf who live together in a flat. It sounds a little silly, and I’m not sure how those pitch meetings went, but the show really works. It’s funny and heartbreaking all at once with a delightful bit of gore thrown in. I knew I was sold when an episode opened with a voice over about the process of changing into a werewolf, and the excruciating physical toll it takes on afflicted.
“He should be dead within 30 seconds. The werewolf heart is about two-thirds the size of a human’s. But in order to shrink, first it has to stop. In other words, he has a heart attack. All of the internal organs are smaller, so while he’s having his heart attack, he’s having liver and kidney failure too. If he stops screaming it’s not because the pain has dulled, his throat, gullet and vocal chords are tearing and reforming. He literally can’t make a sound. By now the pituitary gland should be working overtime, flooding his body with endorphins to ease some of the pain, but that too has shut down. Anyone else would have died of shock long ago. But it won’t kill him and that’s the thing I find most remarkable. It drags him through the fire and keeps him alive and even conscious to endure every second…An impossible lethal curse spread by tooth and claw, victim begets victim begets victim. It’s so cruel, it’s…perfect.”
It probably seems like pregnant ladies think that every situation applies to them and maybe that’s true. But I do think, at least for me, that the werewolf metaphor quite perfectly parallels pregnancy and childbirth. I haven’t gone through childbirth yet, but I’ve talked to people and seen some videos. It really seems like something that should kill you. It doesn’t. It tears you apart temporarily and then you are fine. During pregnancy, the growing fetus pushes all of your other organs out of the way to make room for itself. Last week in birth class, our teacher showed us illustrations at various intervals of gestation. By the final month, you can hardly see the intestines, as they are smashed up against the stomach. It’s a wonder you poop at all in the third trimester. But that’s not where the similarities end.
*WE CAN SMELL OUR OWN. OK, so maybe it’s obvious to everybody when someone is knocked up. But get a couple of pregnant ladies together and let the bitch-fest begin. They are so relieved to be able to talk about what’s happening to them with someone who really understands.
*YOU REALLY CAN’T UNDERSTAND UNLESS YOU ARE ONE. Sure, there are things that everybody knows about being pregnant. We have weird cravings, we’re moody and only a silver bullet can kill us. But there are also things that happen to us that people don’t talk about. Gross things. Bloody, awful, ugly things. We don’t talk about it because if we did, no one would ever let themselves be turned.
*THERE’S AN ANIMAL INSIDE ME. And that animal is hormones. It’s like the worst PMS I’ve ever experienced but it’s not going to go away in a couple of days. One second, I’m fine, and the next I’m crying because Tim Gunn said something supportive to a contestant on Project Runway or I’ve got a DVD due back and I haven’t had a chance to watch it yet. Or maybe my husband said the wrong thing or did something I perceived as inconsiderate and I freak out because this is the man I chose to father my child and how will he be good a father if he can’t even find me green tea ice cream at the grocery store. The worst part is that I KNOW I’m being awful and unreasonable but I can’t do a damned thing about it. The monster is in control, not me.
*I HAVE NO CONTROL OVER MY OWN BODY. At least werewolves only have to deal with this shit once a month. For the bun-bakers, it’s every day for what seems like FOREVER. I can stick to my work out regimen or even ramp it up (I’ve been doing the latter. It’s the only way I can let off steam.) but I’ll still feel like I’ve never been more out of shape. That’s because all the blood in my body is being re-routed to my uterus. The result is that even though I’m used to physical activity, just carrying a bag of groceries into the house can put me out of breath. My joints are loosening to prepare for childbirth, so there’s a lot of cracking and popping going on. I’ve lost interest in some of my favorite foods. Others make me physically ill. I’ve become fixated on cereal. It’s the only thing I get excited about anymore. I have weird, disturbing dreams. I’ve started cleaning obsessively. I forget things that never would have slipped my mind before. I don’t even know myself anymore.
*I HAVE AN INSATIABLE HUNGER. I need to eat. A lot. Constantly. And if I don’t get to eat, for whatever reason, the beasty gets angry. God help anyone who gets in the way of me and my mid-afternoon snack.
I don’t know who has it easier. Us or the werewolves. But these days, I definitely feel a kinship to those furry bastards.
An Insignificant Day
Today is my birthday, but I’m not doing anything to celebrate it. Instead, I’m working and then going to a birth class which begins and ends at precisely the right times to prevent me from going out to dinner anywhere. It’s OK though, as going out to dinner is the only thing I would have wanted to do anyway. As a result of my “condition”, I can’t drink and I get tired early. So mostly, I’m OK with this non-birthday. I’m 31 which isn’t all that significant, as far as birthdays go. Besides, I have made plans to go out to dinner on Friday and then see a Misfits cover band and an Operation Ivy cover band. But part of me is a little sad. It’s the first birthday in 16 years that I will spend completely sober. That makes me sound a bit like a drunk but it’s not really like that. It’s just that drinking is something my friends and I do. I’ve been doing OK with the not drinking. But at my husband’s birthday part on Sunday, abstaining was the hardest it’s ever been. Not in a shaky, alcoholic way. There is no way I’m going to cave and drink a bottle of Cook’s. I know what’s at stake and I’m not willing to do that under any circumstances. But it was hard from a mental standpoint. In a nutshell, being pregnant is the ultimate buzz kill.
For a while, I was having a great time with everyone and then, at some point in the evening, their amusing, jovial lubrication turned into total obliteration. There were a few people who weren’t completely hammered. But most people were. It was the nature of the day. It became difficult to talk to them. It became work. I felt like an asshole because I understood where they were coming from. I’ve been there. But I was also pretty annoyed and kind of wanted to just go to bed. I didn’t though. I rode it out because it was my husband’s birthday party and I wanted him to have a good time. I apologize to anyone if I came off as a raging bitch in the process.
Today is my birthday and I’m doing nothing fun or frivolous. Everything I do today is out of responsibility and duty. It will be a very adult day. I never did like the idea of becoming an adult. Of course, it’s mostly unavoidable. The alternatives are either death or Peter Pan-ism. I chose adulthood. I will instead remember last year’s birthday fondly. I was in a band. We played a battle of bands right here in my house. We won and I’m convinced that our votes were not pity votes. It was a great time. I will also remember that I can have great times again. Maybe not exactly like that. I don’t want my kid’s earliest memories of me being how smashed mommy was. But KIND of like that because my friends are awesome and will always be awesome and we will find other ways to party with babes in arms. But not this year…
Film Threat Review: Reunion
2009
Un-rated
12 minutes
*
“Reunion,” which tells what the lives of those lost during the Columbine tragedy might have been like, is eye-rollingly corny. I’m sorry, dudes. It is.
This is the sort of movie review that makes people think I have a big black hole of hate where my heart should be. I promise I don’t. What happened at Columbine was indeed horrific, and I’m absolutely not belittling that tragedy. It’s terrible when anyone dies, let alone young people with their whole lives ahead of them. But “Reunion,” which tells what the lives of those lost might have been like had they not been snuffed out on that fateful day, is eye-rollingly corny. I’m sorry, dudes. It is.
With the gimmick of a 10-year high school reunion, the film is (mercifully, I suspect) sparse on dialogue and uses flashbacks set to music to show the alternate future/past that the 13 victims would have had. Mislaid careers include a pilot, a biologist, a famous singer, and a novelist. Apparently, everyone would have been very successful, the Columbine shooting being the only thing standing in the way of a full and happy existence for all. Hilariously, in this idealized version of events, the teacher who was killed would have spent a couple more years inspiring students and then still dying before the 10 year mark. Maybe he had a terminal disease that I’m unaware of but, if not, it’s a strange choice for an otherwise rosy-colored parallel universe. And then the reveal we all knew was coming: None of this happened. These people are all dead because two jerks decided to play “Doom” with real guns.
The heavy-handedness and cheese with which “Reunion” illustrates this point makes it feel more like a report on “Inside Edition” than a tribute film. We all know it was an awful day. The victims were cheated out of a future and the rest were left to try and make sense of a senseless act. It never should have happened. But why revisit it in such a trite way? If you don’t have anything insightful to say, why say anything at all? Leave the dead to rest in peace.
Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).
Enlightened in Oregon
Recently, the fella and I went on a nice, romantical vacation to the Oregon coast. We had a transcendent encounter with sea lions on the beach near our hotel. They were just kicking it on the beach and didn’t seem too bothered by our approach.
I guess when you weight up to 2900 pounds and you’re napping on the beach, you want to be really sure that something is a threat before you decide to make a break for it.
After watching the sea lions for a while, another family approached on bikes. They were less respectful. Two of them lay down on their backs and began writhing and barking at the animals. Not the least bit fooled, several sea lions got a little sketched out and decided to scamper. A scampering sea lion is pretty cute and kind of hilarious.
At this point, we decided to take our leave. I don’t think sea lions are particularly violent toward humans unless they feel threatened but we felt we’d disturbed their nap time enough.
On the way back to the hotel, we passed by a boy and his sister making a sand castle. Just as we were walking by, I overheard the boy say to his sister, “Open your eyes! Everything is ALIVE!”. Wow, kid. That is a very enlightened thing to say. Maybe you should stay away from empty swimming pools for a while..
NFT Radar: Knee High Stocking Co.
In true speakeasy fashion, you have to know about it to get in. The door is locked from the inside so if you were just wandering, you’d think the place closed. But if you ring the doorbell, a friendly chap answers, welcoming you inside and handing you a large menu full of old timey cocktails, mostly involving gin. Every day, they craft a new punch and serve up cups for $3 during happy hour. The beer selection is small (and includes currant cider), but people don’t come to a speakeasy for beer. They come for the hooch. Soak up all those bathtub libations with a little nosh. The chow selection is small but more than sufficient, including lamb sliders, spicy mac and cheese, hot dogs and a crustini and cheese plate with pear butter. Oh, and don’t forget to obey the rules or you’ll be eighty-sixed. No cell phones, pictures, or standing. It’s for your own good, pops. There will never be more people than there are chairs. That means you will always be able to use hushed tones to plot with your cohorts. Chin chin.
1356 E Olive Way 98122
206-979-7049
X-posted from Not For Tourists.
Film Threat Review: Run! Bitch Run!
2009
Un-rated
90 minutes
Freak Show Entertainment
***
There’s no question about what director Joseph Guzman was going for with “Run! Bitch Run!” He aimed to make a 70’s-style sexploitation film and that’s precisely what he accomplished. Quentin Tarantino and Rob Zombie would be proud. If sex (well, mostly rape), drugs, and constant bleeding aren’t your bag, you’d best stay the hell away from this film. If you like a bit of the ultraviolence, however, read on.
“Run! Bitch Run!” follows two Catholic teenagers who are on a mission to sell religious paraphernalia and raise money for their school. It’s not a bad idea, actually. If anyone’s going to sell bibles to heathens, it’s young girls in a shorter-than-regulation plaid skirt. In true Catholic schoolgirl fashion, one of them is just a little slutty. Unfortunately, the townspeople of Mosely (a tribute to Bill, perhaps?) don’t see it that way. The girls are met with profanity, slammed doors, shotguns, and a punk kid who rips them off. And those are the nice folk. Their persistence is punished when they knock on the door of Lobo’s brothel just as he’s blowing a hole into the head of a disobedient whore. What happens to them next is bloodier and more sinister than the brimstoneiest pages in the Old Testament.
Rest assured, as the poster indicates, there’s also payback. Hell hath no fury like a Catholic schoolgirl disillusioned. But before the payback, there is MUCH scorn. Lobo isn’t the only bad wolf in the den. There’s also Marla, a whore with an insatiable libido and a nasty habit of killing her customers, and Clint, a meek but violent lackey. Marla also has a bit of a Lady MacBeth complex. It seems these three have seen “The Devil’s Rejects” one too many times.
Speaking of, fans of Rob Zombie’s work might notice a few convenient parallels (“Run rabbit, run,” anyone?), but it’s not an overt rip-off by any means. “House of 1000 Corpses” and “Devil’s Rejects” are more of an homage to films of that era, while “Run, Bitch Run!” could easily be mistaken as the real deal. Guzman and Robert James Hayes aren’t quite as effective as Zombie at writing compelling evil characters or memorable dialog, but that actually gives “Run! Bitch Run!” more authenticity. You’ll never find yourself endeared to Marla and Lobo as you might Baby or Captain Spalding. Thus, the revenge portion of the narrative is all the more satisfying. The gore effects are terrific and there’s good use of pacing, which is key in a story with so many rape and torture scenes. The cinematography also deserves a mention as they’ve deftly captured the lovely, warm, 70’s film look. “Run! Bitch Run!” may not be a repeat-viewer, but it’s absolutely worth a first look.
Originally posted on FilmThreat.com (now defunct).
Dis-illusion
In light of this recent story about a woman who is suing “Illusionist” David Copperfield for sexual assault, I would like to share a childhood memory.
When I was a little girl, I went with my family to see David Copperfield perform live at the Richmond Colosseum. During the show, he called on several volunteers from the audience to help with his little tricks (That’s right, I called them “tricks”). The audience was full of kids who eagerly waved their arms, hoping to be chosen. However, he only chose young, blonde women and flirted with them ferociously throughout their time on stage. I called bullshit on him at that moment. I was officially creeped out. And thus, my lifelong distrust of and objection to magicians began.
Just saying.
Effed by the Wind 