Anti-Bark Machine: Bust. And some movies
As promised, I plan to review The Worst Movie I've Ever Seen. But first, some old business:
The Pet Safe Outdoor Bark Deterrent ended up being a spectacular failure. Either the dogs' stupidity, or boredom, or pigheadedness proved more than the device could handle.
I had given up on it earlier, even emailed Amazon for a return authorization. No sooner had I got it boxed up ready for shipping than the dog let loose with the longest jag I'd heard since installing it. Hmmm, perhaps it WAS doing something. So I put it back for a week until I eventually determined that there really was no relation between the presence of the unit and the dog's activity (or lack of). Certainly not for the amount I paid.
We have video evidence of Tracey peering at the device, which had a very obvious green blinking light on it. Tery thought it would be funny just to keep putting up things with flashing LEDs and then randomly taking them down, just to fuck with her. I concur.
*~*
Now, onto the movies:
Momma's Man is a quiet little indie about Mikey, a man who travels back to New York to visit his folks and decides to stay. The word of warning in that sentence is "quiet."
His parents are quite the eccentrics: they live in a space as big as a warehouse, except stacked floor to ceiling with STUFF, so much stuff that the only space not overtaken is the kitchen table, the beds, and a narrow pathway to the door. It turns out these are the director's real life parents and this is their real life flat. Incredible.
The problem with the movie is that literally nothing happens. Mikey hangs out in his tiny loft/bed area pawing through old notebooks from school and reliving his childhood -- but all in his mind. Occasionally he flips out his phone to argue with his wife (left behind in LA with his daughter) or to halfheartedly try to book another plane ticket.
It was at this point (15 minutes in) that Tery admitted she had never been more bored in her life and really didn't want to watch any more. I respected her wishes, but then mistakenly went back to finish it on my own later.
More nothing happens, like trying on an old tablecloth he had made into a superhero cape, shuffling into the dining area for breakfast, watching movies in bed with his parents -- all shown in painful real time detail.
Then -- some action! He gets wind of an old buddy back in town (out of jail) and decides to visit him. Nothing much happens the first time. The second time there's a truly LOLworthy scene where they're hanging out and Mikey slowly becomes aware that the song in the background is The Indigo Girls "Closer to Fine."
"Dude, is this THE INDIGO GIRLS?" Mikey asks incredulously, as any of us would.
"Yeah!" the tough-looking street punk ex-con enthuses. "When I was really down, they were my rock!" Then he starts singing along, complete with gang signs and rap moves. I LOLed and LOLed and LOLed.
Apart from that the only interesting thing that happens is he looks up an old girlfriend and they meet for coffee, only to realize that after all this time apart there really wasn't much there to begin with. The good that comes of it is sharing photos of their children remind him that he does have responsibilities elsewhere and perhaps it's time to end this little regression trip.
That's literally it. The rest of the film is spent following Mikey's tediously boring exploration of the flat and revisiting of his childhood treasures -- with no dialogue (or monologue), no other human interaction, no indication of why he's hiding from his life, nothing whatsoever to hold our interest.
I totally should have listened to Tery.
They say the opposite of love is not hate, but apathy. It is on these grounds that I elect this movie The Worst Movie I've Ever Seen. Because I've seen plenty of bad movies, but usually they at least give you the pleasure of mocking them to entertain yourself. This movie is so "meh" it doesn't even do that.
Lots of film snobs over at IMDb are raving about it. "Poignant." "Touching." "Love letter to his parents." I think I originally added it to Netflix based on a favorable review in "Entertainment Weekly." I must have skimmed over the part where they compare the director to Jim Jarmusch. Had I read that I would have run screaming. Because Jarmusch directed my previous Worst Movie Ever Seen, Dead Man, equally stultifying but at least starring Johnny Depp. Momma's Man is the new bar to which all other bad movies will be held up.
Next, the honest-to-goodness last Rickman movie I hadn't seen, Bob Roberts (I had previously thought it was Michael Collins). This will be short so I won't cut.
Tim Robbins is Bob Roberts, the fictional grassroots, anti-60's, vaguely evangelical folk singer turned senatorial candidate. Rickman is his shady Karl Rovian campaign manager and barely appears at all in the movie, which was my fear.
There's an impressive cadre of cameos, mostly playing reporters and news anchors: James Spader, Susan Sarandon, Peter Gallagher, as well as John Cusack as a subversive SNL type comedian and, most amusingly, a young, wee, skinny bit of a thing Jack Black as a wild-eyed zealous young Republican type.
The movie is eerie for the way it foreshadows the descent into religious conservatism the country took after it was made (not to mention the underhanded stunts used by the party to manipulate the public and achieve its ends). Robbins has the perfect glassy shark eyes and vacant Howdy Doody smile of a rightwing politician with strong spiritual leanings. Rickman is really hot (deep in his blond feathered hair phase), even as he's playing sinister. The movie is worth a gander even despite his shameful underuse.
Finally I saw Ghost Writer. Not that it's anything to brag about.
My love for Alan Cumming wasn't much of a secret. He was how I discovered LJ, and my beginning posts revolved around him. I didn't realize how far I drifted away until watching this movie.
John Vandermark (Cumming) is an aging, marginally talented music teacher with a penchant for lapsing pretentiously into Italian when discussing opera and supporting young, attractive, homeless men in whom he imagines he sees potential for artistic greatness. The latest of these is Sebastian St. Germain (David Boreanaz), but as we join the story it is immediately apparent that he is proving to be an enormous disappointment.
John first doubts his credentials as a writer when he doesn't know who Samuel Beckett is. Not to mention his habitual grammar and spelling errors. Then there's the fact that he's always carousing with women, staying out for days at a time when he's supposed to be having dinner with John.
All this is explained in histrionic detail to John's first protegè, Eric (Henry Thomas), who tries to be supportive but John is absolutely inconsolable. There's also the uncomfortable matter of an opera score John wrote that Eric finally has to admit wasn't good enough to give to his connections in the biz. John doesn't take the news well.
Things boil to a head the night Sebastian stumbles home with an aging stripper. She's kicked out, John and Sebastian tussle and somehow Sebastian is knocked unconscious (he must have hit his own head on something, because there's no other way I'll buy 98-pound weakling Alan overpowering hulking David Boreanaz).
Sebastian wakes up tied to a chair with Christmas lights and duct tape over his mouth. John, it seems, has gone right round the twist and begins a sick quiz, promising to tear up debts owed by Sebastian for every correct answer. Wrong ones earn him a slash with John's cello bow, which again would have to be wielded with more power than I believe Alan to possess to result in the deep gashes he inflicts.
John appears to sink deeper and deeper into madness as the game goes on, giggling and weeping uncontrollably. Which is why when he's distracted momentarily and Sebastian effects his escape, I truly thought maybe Sebastian (or at least his torture) was a hallucination of John's. And for once, I thought that made some kind of sense and worked for the story.
So for once, I was disappointed to learn that wasn't the case.
Sebastian tries to pounce on John, falls through the open cellar door and lands on a hatchet at the foot of the stairs and dies. Well, didn't expect THAT.
John doesn't dispose of him right away though, keeping the remains around long enough for his young pupil to notice the stink. So John takes him out to the garbage truck, presumably in pieces inside a voluminous duffel bag, and again, in pieces or not, I found it very hard to accept that noodle-armed little Alan could carry any amount of David Boreanaz singlehandedly. Suspension of disbelief, let the art flow, suspension of disbelief, let the art flow....
I honestly thought that was the end of the movie despite only being an hour in (there's even a shot of Alan watching the truck drive off with a street sign reading "End" behind him), but then realized the credits claimed this movie also starred Jane Lynch and Carrie Fisher, and we hadn't seen hide nor hair of them. Damn.
What follows is about 24 minutes of denouement, where John rewrites Sebastian's novel, sells it, becomes a huge success overnight, then suffers a tragic accident the night of the release party that leaves him paralyzed from the neck down. All while being goaded and mocked by Sebastian's ghost (reminding me if nothing else of evil!Angel -- it's puzzling why David keeps playing stoic, strong silent types when he does gleefully demonic so well).
The movie ends when John is being interviewed by Carrie Fisher, who intimates that she knows about Sebastian living with him. John is left wondering if she suspects his crime. Roll credits.
The movie was....bizarre. Written and directed by Alan Cumming, the entire point of the film seemed to be to create a flimsy pretense to sadistically and pseudosexually torture David Boreanaz.
Alan as John was especially trying. He was offensively flaming and unbalanced, and I just wondered through the whole thing if he'd always been this bad an actor and I was just too besotted to see it (and wondering that made me sad). Is Alan Rickman not that great (as Tery maintains) and I'm too blinded by lust?
The script also struck me as very film school, very college theater, very amateur. It was painful, only because I used to love him so much. As an indication of how far I'm over him, the special features consist of commentary by him, and I flat out couldn't stomach the idea of watching the movie a second time. Sorry Alan. Perhaps if your last name was Rickman we could talk.
The Pet Safe Outdoor Bark Deterrent ended up being a spectacular failure. Either the dogs' stupidity, or boredom, or pigheadedness proved more than the device could handle.
I had given up on it earlier, even emailed Amazon for a return authorization. No sooner had I got it boxed up ready for shipping than the dog let loose with the longest jag I'd heard since installing it. Hmmm, perhaps it WAS doing something. So I put it back for a week until I eventually determined that there really was no relation between the presence of the unit and the dog's activity (or lack of). Certainly not for the amount I paid.
We have video evidence of Tracey peering at the device, which had a very obvious green blinking light on it. Tery thought it would be funny just to keep putting up things with flashing LEDs and then randomly taking them down, just to fuck with her. I concur.
*~*
Now, onto the movies:
Momma's Man is a quiet little indie about Mikey, a man who travels back to New York to visit his folks and decides to stay. The word of warning in that sentence is "quiet."
His parents are quite the eccentrics: they live in a space as big as a warehouse, except stacked floor to ceiling with STUFF, so much stuff that the only space not overtaken is the kitchen table, the beds, and a narrow pathway to the door. It turns out these are the director's real life parents and this is their real life flat. Incredible.
The problem with the movie is that literally nothing happens. Mikey hangs out in his tiny loft/bed area pawing through old notebooks from school and reliving his childhood -- but all in his mind. Occasionally he flips out his phone to argue with his wife (left behind in LA with his daughter) or to halfheartedly try to book another plane ticket.
It was at this point (15 minutes in) that Tery admitted she had never been more bored in her life and really didn't want to watch any more. I respected her wishes, but then mistakenly went back to finish it on my own later.
More nothing happens, like trying on an old tablecloth he had made into a superhero cape, shuffling into the dining area for breakfast, watching movies in bed with his parents -- all shown in painful real time detail.
Then -- some action! He gets wind of an old buddy back in town (out of jail) and decides to visit him. Nothing much happens the first time. The second time there's a truly LOLworthy scene where they're hanging out and Mikey slowly becomes aware that the song in the background is The Indigo Girls "Closer to Fine."
"Dude, is this THE INDIGO GIRLS?" Mikey asks incredulously, as any of us would.
"Yeah!" the tough-looking street punk ex-con enthuses. "When I was really down, they were my rock!" Then he starts singing along, complete with gang signs and rap moves. I LOLed and LOLed and LOLed.
Apart from that the only interesting thing that happens is he looks up an old girlfriend and they meet for coffee, only to realize that after all this time apart there really wasn't much there to begin with. The good that comes of it is sharing photos of their children remind him that he does have responsibilities elsewhere and perhaps it's time to end this little regression trip.
That's literally it. The rest of the film is spent following Mikey's tediously boring exploration of the flat and revisiting of his childhood treasures -- with no dialogue (or monologue), no other human interaction, no indication of why he's hiding from his life, nothing whatsoever to hold our interest.
I totally should have listened to Tery.
They say the opposite of love is not hate, but apathy. It is on these grounds that I elect this movie The Worst Movie I've Ever Seen. Because I've seen plenty of bad movies, but usually they at least give you the pleasure of mocking them to entertain yourself. This movie is so "meh" it doesn't even do that.
Lots of film snobs over at IMDb are raving about it. "Poignant." "Touching." "Love letter to his parents." I think I originally added it to Netflix based on a favorable review in "Entertainment Weekly." I must have skimmed over the part where they compare the director to Jim Jarmusch. Had I read that I would have run screaming. Because Jarmusch directed my previous Worst Movie Ever Seen, Dead Man, equally stultifying but at least starring Johnny Depp. Momma's Man is the new bar to which all other bad movies will be held up.
Next, the honest-to-goodness last Rickman movie I hadn't seen, Bob Roberts (I had previously thought it was Michael Collins). This will be short so I won't cut.
Tim Robbins is Bob Roberts, the fictional grassroots, anti-60's, vaguely evangelical folk singer turned senatorial candidate. Rickman is his shady Karl Rovian campaign manager and barely appears at all in the movie, which was my fear.
There's an impressive cadre of cameos, mostly playing reporters and news anchors: James Spader, Susan Sarandon, Peter Gallagher, as well as John Cusack as a subversive SNL type comedian and, most amusingly, a young, wee, skinny bit of a thing Jack Black as a wild-eyed zealous young Republican type.
The movie is eerie for the way it foreshadows the descent into religious conservatism the country took after it was made (not to mention the underhanded stunts used by the party to manipulate the public and achieve its ends). Robbins has the perfect glassy shark eyes and vacant Howdy Doody smile of a rightwing politician with strong spiritual leanings. Rickman is really hot (deep in his blond feathered hair phase), even as he's playing sinister. The movie is worth a gander even despite his shameful underuse.
Finally I saw Ghost Writer. Not that it's anything to brag about.
My love for Alan Cumming wasn't much of a secret. He was how I discovered LJ, and my beginning posts revolved around him. I didn't realize how far I drifted away until watching this movie.
John Vandermark (Cumming) is an aging, marginally talented music teacher with a penchant for lapsing pretentiously into Italian when discussing opera and supporting young, attractive, homeless men in whom he imagines he sees potential for artistic greatness. The latest of these is Sebastian St. Germain (David Boreanaz), but as we join the story it is immediately apparent that he is proving to be an enormous disappointment.
John first doubts his credentials as a writer when he doesn't know who Samuel Beckett is. Not to mention his habitual grammar and spelling errors. Then there's the fact that he's always carousing with women, staying out for days at a time when he's supposed to be having dinner with John.
All this is explained in histrionic detail to John's first protegè, Eric (Henry Thomas), who tries to be supportive but John is absolutely inconsolable. There's also the uncomfortable matter of an opera score John wrote that Eric finally has to admit wasn't good enough to give to his connections in the biz. John doesn't take the news well.
Things boil to a head the night Sebastian stumbles home with an aging stripper. She's kicked out, John and Sebastian tussle and somehow Sebastian is knocked unconscious (he must have hit his own head on something, because there's no other way I'll buy 98-pound weakling Alan overpowering hulking David Boreanaz).
Sebastian wakes up tied to a chair with Christmas lights and duct tape over his mouth. John, it seems, has gone right round the twist and begins a sick quiz, promising to tear up debts owed by Sebastian for every correct answer. Wrong ones earn him a slash with John's cello bow, which again would have to be wielded with more power than I believe Alan to possess to result in the deep gashes he inflicts.
John appears to sink deeper and deeper into madness as the game goes on, giggling and weeping uncontrollably. Which is why when he's distracted momentarily and Sebastian effects his escape, I truly thought maybe Sebastian (or at least his torture) was a hallucination of John's. And for once, I thought that made some kind of sense and worked for the story.
So for once, I was disappointed to learn that wasn't the case.
Sebastian tries to pounce on John, falls through the open cellar door and lands on a hatchet at the foot of the stairs and dies. Well, didn't expect THAT.
John doesn't dispose of him right away though, keeping the remains around long enough for his young pupil to notice the stink. So John takes him out to the garbage truck, presumably in pieces inside a voluminous duffel bag, and again, in pieces or not, I found it very hard to accept that noodle-armed little Alan could carry any amount of David Boreanaz singlehandedly. Suspension of disbelief, let the art flow, suspension of disbelief, let the art flow....
I honestly thought that was the end of the movie despite only being an hour in (there's even a shot of Alan watching the truck drive off with a street sign reading "End" behind him), but then realized the credits claimed this movie also starred Jane Lynch and Carrie Fisher, and we hadn't seen hide nor hair of them. Damn.
What follows is about 24 minutes of denouement, where John rewrites Sebastian's novel, sells it, becomes a huge success overnight, then suffers a tragic accident the night of the release party that leaves him paralyzed from the neck down. All while being goaded and mocked by Sebastian's ghost (reminding me if nothing else of evil!Angel -- it's puzzling why David keeps playing stoic, strong silent types when he does gleefully demonic so well).
The movie ends when John is being interviewed by Carrie Fisher, who intimates that she knows about Sebastian living with him. John is left wondering if she suspects his crime. Roll credits.
The movie was....bizarre. Written and directed by Alan Cumming, the entire point of the film seemed to be to create a flimsy pretense to sadistically and pseudosexually torture David Boreanaz.
Alan as John was especially trying. He was offensively flaming and unbalanced, and I just wondered through the whole thing if he'd always been this bad an actor and I was just too besotted to see it (and wondering that made me sad). Is Alan Rickman not that great (as Tery maintains) and I'm too blinded by lust?
The script also struck me as very film school, very college theater, very amateur. It was painful, only because I used to love him so much. As an indication of how far I'm over him, the special features consist of commentary by him, and I flat out couldn't stomach the idea of watching the movie a second time. Sorry Alan. Perhaps if your last name was Rickman we could talk.