Looks great. I have a feeling it will probably be the best film of the first half of the year.
Check out the trailers.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Sarah Marshall brings down the Times
Damn you, LA Times. The Sarah Marshall ads have infected your story like a virus, and even you don't know what to do. Quote the ads as they are, or insert the vacant comma? How about both? Oh, LA Times, you cut me to the quick.
Why does "You Suck Sarah Marshall" get no added comma? Did the writer assume that Sarah Marshall and "you" are not the same person... and then decide to miscopy all the other ads? I'm not gonna bug the author, Alana Semuels, about it, nor am I gonna take to task the copy editor who mangled that paragraph. But seriously. What the hell?
They proclaimed, in black letters scrawled against a white background: "I'm So Over You, Sarah Marshall," "You Suck Sarah Marshall," "My Mother Always Hated You, Sarah Marshall," and "You Do Look Fat in Those Jeans, Sarah Marshall."
Why does "You Suck Sarah Marshall" get no added comma? Did the writer assume that Sarah Marshall and "you" are not the same person... and then decide to miscopy all the other ads? I'm not gonna bug the author, Alana Semuels, about it, nor am I gonna take to task the copy editor who mangled that paragraph. But seriously. What the hell?
poem
I wrote this, approximately, in October of '05.
I apologize for the length. It's not structured... just meandering thoughts.
It's political and if it makes you angry at me, that's fine. But remember this is just a poem. It's neither legislation nor a dead body, both of which mean much more than this poem.
Epiphora:
Frozen Tulle makes Lovely Armor Just So Long As You Don’t Wear it in the Desert
The comedian says
“I feel your
scorn and I accept it;”
within
irony’s punctured lungs
beats a weeping honeyed heart
and lays it out on the scarecrow’s table,
hysteria hugged close like the passport
of a man preparing to run
“What you do is not honest.
What you do is partisan hackery.
You have a responsibility to the public discourse,
and you fail miserably.”
control, teeth set
hard within the gum
how to stay calm
and keep the numbness at bay
The man in a bowtie says,
“Allowing women to get shot to death, or blown up, or mutilated and disfigured in
war – particularly in a voluntary particularly in a voluntary
war – is horrible. It’s unnecessary. It’s
barbaric.”
Men make war. Voluntary war. It is their barbary alone. Goes the argument.
Condoleeza Rice is not a woman. Madeline Albright is not a woman. It seems.
Women could get hurt in war.
A man. However.
with shrapnel speared through
his jaw
Is not horrible. Is not barbaric.
Fragments of testicle and pelvis strewn across the sand
Is not barbaric. Is not horrible.
And this breakage
would not touch women. Women who are kept from war are just
fine. Saved to wait for the broken
soldiers to float back
home.
“Those willing to give up a little
liberty for a little
security deserve neither security nor liberty.” Bright ol’ Benjamin fled to Paris.
French fries were invented in Belgium.
American idiots were invented again
for the festivities of a
new millennium.
A pair of generations ago, we scurried to the moon
not for the moon
but for the sake of showing the muscle of
capitalism was predestined to outwrestle the upstart
in red…
But still, the moon!
That anabatic desire, to rise further, higher!
How to exclaim it more and longer and
stronger: the moon, the moon!
To look outward rather than inward, to long beyond
the pauses
of the nitrous sea
The leader of the free-falling world says,
“We’re making the right decisions to bring the solution to an end.”
The ice cubes in the water cannot say
what forces fuels this agitation
They can only say
they are shaken.
they were, you know, underprivileged anyway
our troubadours rally for the troops with songs about nothing at all
where is your rage? where
is your rage?
raise funds, raise spirits, entertain yourselves, sedate yourselves
with festivals and no new stories, no outpouring of true music
of true fury-infused music that questions why are we allowing
these villains to plow through our
folktales, why do we step back
not clapping, but
still permitting the parade to pass on
it is not enough, for the thunderous thumping of fists and booted feet
on the sticky tar streets, the thugs trumpeting and hollering
drown out the furrowed brows, the crossed arms that bear no bullets
slashed at the throat by decorum, by a straight and narrow
middle and proper
[fucking]
upbringing
that depression in swaddling clothes
rumpled nose and gourdling face
chattering to the reluctant warrior, saying nothing
maybe: goodbye, don’t go
you won’t see me defile myself
scythe open the jade heart, mushing north to an uncertain future
stem cells sleeping in Petri dishes, discarded on a dusty shelf
you won’t see me migrate out of here to a Nunavut neighborhood
get an illegal abortion and an unsure suture
the smog sugar-coating the candles of remaindered redwood
the rounding seals cannot be bothered, sleek and
full with the botulistic swell of mediocrity
the man in the beard and bleary eyes says,
you are so poor
and you are so black
and you are so watching the television, expecting that the answers
will be there
or the people you can blame will be there
or something
will be there
to hold to touch
but you
are so poor and you are so
black and eventually
the anchor will sign (you) off
for the night
for he is tired
and there are no answers, no criminals, no victims, no
tragedies just news and sometimes, facts to go along
my rational self says rabid liberalism, foaming and fanged
will accomplish nothing
will do such damages as I cannot dream
and my honest self says moderation will make of us mat men
hung on the line and beaten with brooms,
if we are remembered at all
nailed against that white, white wall
with my signature, I assign
I shall not be violated, my rights, my
dear dear dear rights
shall not be violated, for they are mine
and mine things go with me, I sew them into my heartskin
security for an illusion
liberty of a mass deception
(abstracts were always such)
confined to words and understandings between two men
a shake and faith
and America said, let us play that we can be better
than our nature
let us save each other by granting each other fantastic rights…
My faith is shaken.
The holding hands are breaking.
if the lacrimal levees break along the borders of my eyes
just call it an epiphora of our times
flooding the banks of our battered lives
I am too young to be so inundated with gussied-up lies
their swag skirted dress
the corset a fashion of orphaned whalebone
and a spout of fear to
geyser us out of the mess
God, in his heaven, sticks a finger in the air glow
tastes the myrtle blue
and lays his eye upon the Hubble lens
to say, what I have wrought they have brought
crashing down
I am not needed
they will bring about
their own Armageddon
just call it the epiphora of our times
and fill the next sandbags with the lead
of our sorrow to make sure
there be no more epiphora
that no more lines can break through
to douse the half-drowned and
the three-quarter-dead
I apologize for the length. It's not structured... just meandering thoughts.
It's political and if it makes you angry at me, that's fine. But remember this is just a poem. It's neither legislation nor a dead body, both of which mean much more than this poem.
Epiphora:
Frozen Tulle makes Lovely Armor Just So Long As You Don’t Wear it in the Desert
The comedian says
“I feel your
scorn and I accept it;”
within
irony’s punctured lungs
beats a weeping honeyed heart
and lays it out on the scarecrow’s table,
hysteria hugged close like the passport
of a man preparing to run
“What you do is not honest.
What you do is partisan hackery.
You have a responsibility to the public discourse,
and you fail miserably.”
control, teeth set
hard within the gum
how to stay calm
and keep the numbness at bay
The man in a bowtie says,
“Allowing women to get shot to death, or blown up, or mutilated and disfigured in
war – particularly in a voluntary particularly in a voluntary
war – is horrible. It’s unnecessary. It’s
barbaric.”
Men make war. Voluntary war. It is their barbary alone. Goes the argument.
Condoleeza Rice is not a woman. Madeline Albright is not a woman. It seems.
Women could get hurt in war.
A man. However.
with shrapnel speared through
his jaw
Is not horrible. Is not barbaric.
Fragments of testicle and pelvis strewn across the sand
Is not barbaric. Is not horrible.
And this breakage
would not touch women. Women who are kept from war are just
fine. Saved to wait for the broken
soldiers to float back
home.
“Those willing to give up a little
liberty for a little
security deserve neither security nor liberty.” Bright ol’ Benjamin fled to Paris.
French fries were invented in Belgium.
American idiots were invented again
for the festivities of a
new millennium.
A pair of generations ago, we scurried to the moon
not for the moon
but for the sake of showing the muscle of
capitalism was predestined to outwrestle the upstart
in red…
But still, the moon!
That anabatic desire, to rise further, higher!
How to exclaim it more and longer and
stronger: the moon, the moon!
To look outward rather than inward, to long beyond
the pauses
of the nitrous sea
The leader of the free-falling world says,
“We’re making the right decisions to bring the solution to an end.”
The ice cubes in the water cannot say
what forces fuels this agitation
They can only say
they are shaken.
they were, you know, underprivileged anyway
our troubadours rally for the troops with songs about nothing at all
where is your rage? where
is your rage?
raise funds, raise spirits, entertain yourselves, sedate yourselves
with festivals and no new stories, no outpouring of true music
of true fury-infused music that questions why are we allowing
these villains to plow through our
folktales, why do we step back
not clapping, but
still permitting the parade to pass on
it is not enough, for the thunderous thumping of fists and booted feet
on the sticky tar streets, the thugs trumpeting and hollering
drown out the furrowed brows, the crossed arms that bear no bullets
slashed at the throat by decorum, by a straight and narrow
middle and proper
[fucking]
upbringing
that depression in swaddling clothes
rumpled nose and gourdling face
chattering to the reluctant warrior, saying nothing
maybe: goodbye, don’t go
you won’t see me defile myself
scythe open the jade heart, mushing north to an uncertain future
stem cells sleeping in Petri dishes, discarded on a dusty shelf
you won’t see me migrate out of here to a Nunavut neighborhood
get an illegal abortion and an unsure suture
the smog sugar-coating the candles of remaindered redwood
the rounding seals cannot be bothered, sleek and
full with the botulistic swell of mediocrity
the man in the beard and bleary eyes says,
you are so poor
and you are so black
and you are so watching the television, expecting that the answers
will be there
or the people you can blame will be there
or something
will be there
to hold to touch
but you
are so poor and you are so
black and eventually
the anchor will sign (you) off
for the night
for he is tired
and there are no answers, no criminals, no victims, no
tragedies just news and sometimes, facts to go along
my rational self says rabid liberalism, foaming and fanged
will accomplish nothing
will do such damages as I cannot dream
and my honest self says moderation will make of us mat men
hung on the line and beaten with brooms,
if we are remembered at all
nailed against that white, white wall
with my signature, I assign
I shall not be violated, my rights, my
dear dear dear rights
shall not be violated, for they are mine
and mine things go with me, I sew them into my heartskin
security for an illusion
liberty of a mass deception
(abstracts were always such)
confined to words and understandings between two men
a shake and faith
and America said, let us play that we can be better
than our nature
let us save each other by granting each other fantastic rights…
My faith is shaken.
The holding hands are breaking.
if the lacrimal levees break along the borders of my eyes
just call it an epiphora of our times
flooding the banks of our battered lives
I am too young to be so inundated with gussied-up lies
their swag skirted dress
the corset a fashion of orphaned whalebone
and a spout of fear to
geyser us out of the mess
God, in his heaven, sticks a finger in the air glow
tastes the myrtle blue
and lays his eye upon the Hubble lens
to say, what I have wrought they have brought
crashing down
I am not needed
they will bring about
their own Armageddon
just call it the epiphora of our times
and fill the next sandbags with the lead
of our sorrow to make sure
there be no more epiphora
that no more lines can break through
to douse the half-drowned and
the three-quarter-dead
Friday, March 28, 2008
the weirdest thing
I saw this woman in plaid shorts standing next to a plaid recliner outside on Magnolia this afternoon.
Also, I had the craziest dream last night. I won't bore you with the details, but imagine The Devil Wears Prada meets Saw meets my family photo album, and you start to get the general idea.
Must finish taxes, poetry thing, and start packing my world to move down the street. Different appartement, same arrondissement.
Also, I had the craziest dream last night. I won't bore you with the details, but imagine The Devil Wears Prada meets Saw meets my family photo album, and you start to get the general idea.
Must finish taxes, poetry thing, and start packing my world to move down the street. Different appartement, same arrondissement.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
confused
Oh, about so many things.
1) Both Flawless and Priceless are bowing this weekend. I think the latter is the French film, but that's only because I just read an email. Still, at least two people should be fired for this scheduling phenom.
2) What the hell is this cough about?
3) How can something have a candy coating? Isn't candy just a catch-all term for sweets (anything with sugar in it)? How can a piece of candy then have a candy coating?
There are more things, but they're personal, and y'all know too much about me as it is, which is really unfair, considering I'm not getting any reciprocal blog action. Actually, you could say "action" and I aren't really on speaking terms at all lately in any capacity. Action sees me walking across the street and inevitably ducks into a Baja Fresh to escape. I pretend not to notice, not to care, but deep down, it hurts.
1) Both Flawless and Priceless are bowing this weekend. I think the latter is the French film, but that's only because I just read an email. Still, at least two people should be fired for this scheduling phenom.
2) What the hell is this cough about?
3) How can something have a candy coating? Isn't candy just a catch-all term for sweets (anything with sugar in it)? How can a piece of candy then have a candy coating?
There are more things, but they're personal, and y'all know too much about me as it is, which is really unfair, considering I'm not getting any reciprocal blog action. Actually, you could say "action" and I aren't really on speaking terms at all lately in any capacity. Action sees me walking across the street and inevitably ducks into a Baja Fresh to escape. I pretend not to notice, not to care, but deep down, it hurts.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Regarding Jesse
Having not seen The Assassination til today, I thought I was stating my film appreciation for last year with some ignorance. But now I've seen it.
First, the DP, Roger Deakins, who also did No Country is a genius. My favorite part, probably of both films, was how they were shot. He's actually responsible for the "look" of more of my favorite films than any other human being. If Roger Deakins ever needs a spare organ, I would happily give it. The man has done more for American cinema than any other single human being I can think of, including writers, actors, and directors. I may take this back later, but I doubt it.
Second, the film is not particularly active. More contemplative. In that it's supposed to be more about Robert than Jesse, I think, it works. We're outsiders who are almost insiders. There's a lot of boredom. Crime's not exciting, not really. It's a character study, this film, and yes, apparently, Casey Affleck is capable of being on the screen for 2 and a 1/2 hours without making me want to punch him. Who woulda guessed?
And yet, the film didn't get under my skin. Maybe it was the biographical, historical aspect of the film. The voice over. But while truly excellent, it didn't have the effect on me No Country did, or heck, even There Will Be Blood.
And yet, I have nothing to criticize. The criminal underuse of Zooey Deschanel and Mary Louise Parker, two of my favorite actresses, makes sense, considering they weren't really central to Ford's story with Jesse. And, of course, Paul Schneider worked the supporting cast quite well, as did Garret Dillahunt and Sam Shepard. Sam Rockwell's a bit too much for me. He would have felt more at home, I think, in There Will Be Blood, but I did love his last few scenes.
I think it would have done really brilliantly on HBO as a miniseries. Just a thought.
First, the DP, Roger Deakins, who also did No Country is a genius. My favorite part, probably of both films, was how they were shot. He's actually responsible for the "look" of more of my favorite films than any other human being. If Roger Deakins ever needs a spare organ, I would happily give it. The man has done more for American cinema than any other single human being I can think of, including writers, actors, and directors. I may take this back later, but I doubt it.
Second, the film is not particularly active. More contemplative. In that it's supposed to be more about Robert than Jesse, I think, it works. We're outsiders who are almost insiders. There's a lot of boredom. Crime's not exciting, not really. It's a character study, this film, and yes, apparently, Casey Affleck is capable of being on the screen for 2 and a 1/2 hours without making me want to punch him. Who woulda guessed?
And yet, the film didn't get under my skin. Maybe it was the biographical, historical aspect of the film. The voice over. But while truly excellent, it didn't have the effect on me No Country did, or heck, even There Will Be Blood.
And yet, I have nothing to criticize. The criminal underuse of Zooey Deschanel and Mary Louise Parker, two of my favorite actresses, makes sense, considering they weren't really central to Ford's story with Jesse. And, of course, Paul Schneider worked the supporting cast quite well, as did Garret Dillahunt and Sam Shepard. Sam Rockwell's a bit too much for me. He would have felt more at home, I think, in There Will Be Blood, but I did love his last few scenes.
I think it would have done really brilliantly on HBO as a miniseries. Just a thought.
Monday, March 24, 2008
nutflush is a super-gross term, by the by
The chicken I am eating at present is quite revolting. Whole Foods deli section, consider your nuggets off my list.
Applied for a writing thingamajigger today. Cross your plentiful digits that they deem me jig-worthy.
Came up with some good sketch ideas.
Been reading Arsonist's Guide, which isn't as good as its title, but am still working through it.
Love captioning World Poker Tournament. LOVE IT.
Gorgeous day. To be succeeded by less gorgeous days.
Sold my bureau. Went on grocery shopping spree with my earnings. Huzzah, applesauce!
That is all. G'night.
Applied for a writing thingamajigger today. Cross your plentiful digits that they deem me jig-worthy.
Came up with some good sketch ideas.
Been reading Arsonist's Guide, which isn't as good as its title, but am still working through it.
Love captioning World Poker Tournament. LOVE IT.
Gorgeous day. To be succeeded by less gorgeous days.
Sold my bureau. Went on grocery shopping spree with my earnings. Huzzah, applesauce!
That is all. G'night.
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