by Dan Tester

I have heard, through the Hollywood grapevine, that Oliver Stone is making a movie about this century’s greatest two-term president, GW Bush. Many are screaming that it is inappropriate. Many say it is “too soon.”  I say…BRING IT ON!!!!  Hey, GW said the same thing to the terrorists, so I can say that to Oliver Stone. Stone has made films about a number of our country’s most dubious presidents, and the films have all been wonderful. He made a film called JFK. It was about a Roman Catholic president who fucked starlets in the White House swimming pool while his wife was out shopping, and then he was shot dead in Texas. Great movie! Then Stone made a film called NIXON. It was about a Quaker president who used the Constitution as if it were unscented toilet paper, and then he shot himself dead. Great movie! It only seems fitting that Stone will now focus on George Walker Bush. It will be about a Christian president who used the Constitution as if it were unscented toilet paper, and then drank too much whiskey while watching a Dolphins’ game one weekend and fell down and bounced his head off of the coffee table while “choking on a pretzel.” Sounds like a great movie to me!!!!

Much has been made about the casting of the film. Josh Brolin as GW? I just can’t see it. But then again, when I first heard that Anthony Hopkins would be playing Richard Nixon, I thought the same thing. How could a Brit play a Dick? It seemed preposterous. But when I saw the film, I realized it was a Shakespearean tragedy and it was beautiful casting. Now we have a Goonie playing Bush. I think it might work. The chick that is playing Laura Bush is unfamiliar to me, so I have no opinion I suppose. According to IMDB, she was in WET HOT AMERICAN SUMMER, so I tend to like her. Although, I see she was also in SWEPT AWAY with Madonna. Oy. Ellen Burstyn as Barbara Bush??? That is a weird one. Babs has a few too many “Texas Toasts” on her gluteous maximus for Burstyn to pull off that role, but maybe the film will ultimately be nominated for Best Prosthetics come Oscar time. On that note, it is only fitting that James Cromwell has been cast as George Bush, Sr. I can only dream of the scene where Barbara slinks into the bedroom wearing sexy lingerie, her bulbous buttocks flowing out of the thong like the head of warm beer tapped too quickly from a Miller Lite half barrel, and Cromwell mutters “That’ll Do Pig…That’ll Do.” Fade to black, mercifully. I have also heard that Thandie Newton has been cast as Condoleezza Rice? Wha huh? Is Stone just going for the “hot” here? Thandie is hot. Condy is not. Sorry, but Condy should be played by David Letterman in blackface. WHAAAAAA???? That is racist!!!!!!!!! No it’s not. It’s all about the teeth.

But there is a lot more casting to go. Who will play Dick Cheney? Rummy? Wolfie? Rovey? I have a few suggestions. Believe me, I am no Lynn Stalmaster, but I have my own casting opinions. By the way, did you know that Lynn Stalmaster is a man??? Blew my mind. I remember, even as a youth, seeing the name “Lynn Stalmaster” during the opening credits of almost every movie I saw, and I always figured it was a broad. Who knew?

Dick Cheney is a tough one. Who could capture the subtle humanity? To be fair, Willem Dafoe already pretty much did it in AMERICAN DREAMZ, but that movie just sucked. I would not recommend that movie whatsoever. I think the perfect person to play Dick Cheney would be Joy Behar. Why not?  Evil, outspoken, small penis.  Stone could really make a statement here. Donald Rumsfeld? That is easy…Ted Knight from CADDYSHACK. Paul Wolfowitz is a tough one. He is spindly. He is weasly. He licks his comb before he combs his own hair, and then relicks. I GOT IT!!!!!!!!!!!! Ba-Ba Booey!!!!!!! Well, Ba-Ba Booey is not spindly I suppose, but I think I saw him eat his own boogers one time on a special Howard Stern VHS from years ago. A perfect Wolfie.

Which brings us to Karl Rove. Who could play this man? Is he Machiavelli? Is he Buffalo Bob Smith? Fuck, is he Clarabelle? Rove definitely has to be played by a guy who has his hand up a puppet’s ass and makes him say funny things. I haven’t seen the Jerry Lewis Telethon lately, so I am not sure who the “hip” puppeteers are nowadays. How about that guy who had his hand up Madame’s ass back in the 70s? Is he even still alive? I could check IMDB, but either way, he doesn’t have ‘box office” written all over him. I know I saw a guy recently that had his hand up a camel’s ass, and they made hilarious jokes and stuff. But I don’t know his name. Isn’t it weird that we never know the name of the puppeteer, only the goofy puppet? Oh wait…I just remembered the name of the guy who had his hand up Madame’s ass. It was Wayland Flowers. But it doesn’t matter now. Oh hell, Karl Rove is just too difficult. I don’t think there is a human on the planet that could perfectly convey his essence, hand up an ass or not. For Karl Rove, I will just cast a character-generated Pol Pot. Maybe “Industrial Light and Magic” can partake in the endeavor, but I doubt it. Jar-Jar was enough.

So anyway, I look forward to the new Oliver Stone film about GW Bush. Quite frankly, I can’t wait. I think it should be called TURDBLOSSOM. It is a title that is resonant of the content, but is also the kind of “wacky” name that might attract the “kids” to the theater, who are considered a major filmgoing demographic. Unless, of course, this war continues on until the release date. Then, these same demographic kids will just be considered casualties.

by Memo Salazar

Let’s begin with this: I love Todd Haynes’ films. His first major release, Poison, caught my young college-aged eye immediately, with it’s crazy stylistic shifts and interweaving stories. It was a little lacking in the substance department, but showed lots of innovative storytelling promise. Then came Safe, Haynes’ best film to date. Quiet and subtle, it tells the story of a woman who believes her environment has become hostile to her. Is she right, or is it psychosomatic? Haynes uses an unobtrusive visual style to keep you considering all points of view, and ends up with one of the best films of the decade. After that thoughtful masterpiece came the flashy Velvet Goldmine, a glamorous film about… glam. This one wasn’t too popular, but I was on board with Haynes’ tribute to Bowie and his stylish revolution, contrasting the excitement of a homosexually-liberated 70’s with the stark, cold reaction of the Reagan 80’s. Perhaps it wasn’t his deepest film, but it wasn’t supposed to be- it was a love sonnet to a time who’s spirit was thankfully preserved in the music that it spawned. Haynes managed a film where the style fit its subject matter perfectly, even without the presence of any actual Bowie music (which actually helped make the film more mythical and poignant.)

Haynes loves to pillage past filmmakers’ oeuvres for his own needs, usually in an overt way, as he did in the Douglas Sirk-drenched Far From Heaven, which also goes for using a high-concept conceit to frame his story (in this case, subverting the stereotypically sterile 1950’s Hollywood style with two overtly non-1950’s tales of racism and homosexuality.) Four films, four winners for Haynes- five if you count his Mattel-banned Superstar, which tells the Karen Carpenter story via animated Barbie Dolls. That’s Todd for you- an unapologetic formalist through and through.

I’ve always been of the belief that, if an artist proves himself to be a genuinely creative person who’s always trying to challenge himself and expand his medium, anything he produces should be given the benefit of the doubt. I don’t mean we should blindly love everything that person does- simply that, if the question of “Is this film a piece of shit, or am I just not getting it?” comes up, we should be a bit more reticent to jump to conclusions. Each of us ends up making that decision for ourselves every time we watch something new, whether we do it consciously or not. It’s unfair to write a given work off as crap simply because it doesn’t suit our own prejudices and tastes; rather, it’s our responsibility as the audience to get off our mental asses and try to figure out, if we’re lost, why an artist has done something the way they did- especially if they’ve proven their worth with previous works. Sometimes the work clicks perfectly with our sensibilities, and love at first sight ensues, but other times, it takes effort; as with any relationship we might find ourselves in, it’s not always an easy road- but when it comes to art, we rarely put in the energy that it takes to come around to someone else’s point of view. If it doesn’t cater to our sensibilities, we’re not interested- especially not in these days of instant gratification.

That’s a stupid, though common, way of thinking. It limits our ability to appreciate -and even love- something that’s good, simply because it’s not good the way we want it to be. The first time I saw Blue Velvet, I thought it was weird for the sake of being weird; the first time I heard the Pixies, I thought they were just making noise. That was a long time ago, and both David Lynch and the Pixies have since become dear, dear pals, but it took me a conscious second try to come around to their manner of speaking. Lynch’s seemingly nebulous imagery makes perfect sense if you stop thinking linearly and tune in to the emotional terrain he’s trying to depict; the Pixies sound has been ripped off enough times to make it pretty accessible these days, but there was a time, believe it or not, where it was a pretty aggressive sound to the ears of someone more into jazz and classic rock. Speaking of the Pixies, Frank Black, iconoclast that he is, has since estranged himself from his fan base by moving into less hip, but more musically challenging, directions. He’s another artist who’s unique vision has been well established, and I’m willing to go wherever he wants to take me, because he’s pretty much always on the money.

After such an eloquent introduction, you’d think I’d be defending Todd Haynes’ latest big-budget art flick, I’m Not There, with vigor- but I’m not. For once, I’m of the opinion that he’s tipped the scale between style and substance a bit too far over towards “style”, a line he’s always flirted with and usually succeeded at touting. It’s not the hype, it’s not the overload of attention to whatshername’s “groundbreaking” Dylan portrayal, and it’s not the constant inter-cutting of 60’s film styles or the Christopher Guest-quality of his documentary recreations. It’s not the overly theatrical dialogue, the emotionally-vapid performances, or the assortment of clichés dressed up as rock n’ roll lifestyle motifs. It’s that, ultimately, this movie is little more than a fancy, artsy film version of a Bob Dylan wikipedia entry. It provides no insights into the artist or the person, nor does it take any interesting creative liberties (i.e. making shit up in the name of inspiration) save for the one Richard Gere storyline that taps into the mythological nature of Dylan’s persona… but even that is peppered with easy cliches rather than anything thought-provoking. Because I know and love Haynes’ methods, I’m Not There didn’t bother me as much as it did, say, the person fidgeting with boredom in the seat next to me, but I completely understood why they were as frustrated as they were. I’m Not There spends its entire time basically telling you that Dylan just wanted to be left alone to do his thing, clearly uncomfortable with the cultural-icon status he was thrust into. The more society pushed, the more he pulled away, retreating into his many facets, stages, and personas- a fact which Haynes bases his whole film on, literally, by using different actors to portray dear ol’ Bob.

But, like, so what? We already knew all of it- if not with Dylan specifically, then certainly with celebrities in general. The world doesn’t need another movie about people floating astray in the world of celebrity as their personal lives spiral down into chaos; La Dolce Vita said it best several decades ago. Nor do we need another movie about Dylan specifically- any memorable line you might have heard in the film probably came straight out of the quintessential Dylan documentary, Don’t Look Back, which provides more insight into Dylan’s mental and musical personality than the sum total of everything that’s been made since- I’m Not There conspicuously included. If the movie doesn’t say anything new about fame in general, nor about Dylan specifically, then maybe it’s, at least, an excuse for Haynes to flex his creativity. The problem here is that he already did this with more focus and to better effect in Velvet Goldmine by having his Bowie-esque protagonist change looks and personalities to adapt to the ever-changing climate of our times. Not only was the style of the film part of the story, but Velvet Goldmine actually had something interesting to say about our culture and times. Both films are stylistically-daring reworkings of pop music history, but I’m Not There’s hubris allowed Haynes’ obsession with detail to get in the way of providing a compelling narrative. Despite its grand ambition, I’m Not There is basically a stylistic and expensive cultural scavenger hunt: I spy, with my little eye… Richard Lester! Joan Baez! Film and music geeks can feel superior catching references and appreciating the arty cleverness while everyone else falls asleep.

I’m Not There isn’t bad… it’s just hollow, like one of those chocolate rabbits you get during Easter- looks yummy, but once you bite in, there’s nothing inside. It is beautifully-made, because Todd Haynes is a master of his craft, and that was enough of a reason to keep me watching… but I’m not sure why anyone else should. Like Milos Forman’s Man On The Moon, all the best bits of I’m Not There can be found in the original source material; Jim Carey’s rubbery Andy Kaufman isn’t nearly as brilliant as Kaufman himself, and Dylan’s numerous interviews make for a much more interesting time than all the cutesy Haynes deconstructions ever will. Now that our more recent historical figures can live on forever through archival footage, merely recreating the life of someone famous isn’t quite enough- you have to one-up them. Haynes employs all his old tricks with the hope of doing so, but it’s tough to talk about an over-exposed cultural icon without falling into “VH1’s Behind The Music” territory.

To his credit, I must say, Mister Haynes is definitely not irrelevant. He’s managed to make a movie some love and others hate even as they all seem to agree on what it’s basically doing. One person I know claimed the opening shot is “the greatest in cinematic history” while another gave a convincing doctorate dissertation on it’s artistic pretensions. From this perspective, I can’t really fault Haynes at all, since he’s doing exactly what he should be doing- following his own muse and pushing people’s buttons while doing so. As long as he keeps doing that, I’m willing to go wherever he wants to go, even if I’m not always there.

By Memo Salazar

The internet, being an infinite depository of ideas, has a lot of bad ones. Dumb videos, boring music, blowhard opinions… though I support this new democratic playing field in principle, I’m not oblivious to the overload of utter intellectual dreck we have to suffer for such freedom. When it comes to “film criticism” or “movie reviews”, there are plenty of self-appointed “critics” who’s ego can’t help but masturbate endlessly on cyber-paper, even if no one is watching. The thrill of seeing your opinion “in print” is still alluring enough, apparently, to convince hundreds of geeks to take a break from their X-Box and start typing away…  a leftover idea from the days when “being in print” meant that someone important actually thought you had something worth saying.

One could argue that Cinemaspeak is just such a place- one of countless movie blogs that exist for purely self-serving reasons. Maybe it is- but the truth is I see value in this here little site, full of idiosyncratic thoughts put forth by individuals, rather than committees. I try to write about movies that receive little coverage, movies that truly inspire thought and provoke reaction. This is not a paid gig, so I am under no pressure to have something snappy and clever written every week; I speak up only when I have a reason to, and that usually happens when I see something worth talking about. For the most part, this involves writing about worthwhile films that escape the mainstream media’s myopic eye, but sometimes it means writing about the opposite- movies that bypass our eyes and get shoved right up our asses for no good reason. Which brings us to Juno.

It all started with The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. This is a great film- one that lets you see the world through the eyes of a fully-paralyzed man, unable to communicate, save through his left eye. Beautifully shot, it could have come off as artsy and pretentious if it hadn’t been made with such intelligence and creative vision. On paper, it reads like a shitty Hollywood feel-good movie: arrogant rich guy awakens from a coma, paralyzed and cynical, eventually finding a newfound appreciation for life via his imagination, which culminates in a best-selling autobiography. Sounds like something stupid enough to earn the title Awakenings II. Leave it to the French, however, to take a much more interesting route, employing several cinematic techniques that come off as inspired rather than gimmicky. I’m sure a lot has been written about it already, so I’ll just say it’s definitely worth your time. What isn’t worth your time is the movie we decided to sneak into right after watching this one- Juno, which begged the question “how bad can it be if it’s free?”

Let’s see. The opening scene, in which we are introduced to our spunky, wise-cracking young protagonist as she purchases her third pregnancy test that day, has got to be one of the biggest pieces of cinematic shit I have ever witnessed: horribly-written dialogue, the kind worthy of MTV Corporate Suits hoping to sound hip and current; completely unlikable, un-redeeming, uninteresting characters, speaking to each other in pure ironic drivel. One-dimentional, cold, cruel and crass… these are just a few of the many words applicable to the unfolding mess. In a mere five minutes, this movie was already worse than three other over-hyped pieces of shit I could recall: American Beauty, Reality Bites, and Napoleon Dynamite. All of those mediocre efforts, if you recall, captured the hearts and minds of American audiences, which goes to show you how a good marketing campaign can fool everybody most of the time. But none of those corporate-minded movies could seem to compete with the utter stupidity and lack of talent found in Juno, and as the film trudged through it’s first half hour, the lack of clothes on this cute little empress was just more and more obvious. Michael Cerra did his best to add a little genuine humanity to the thing, but his humble performance did little to curb the tide of shit spraying all over the audience. For the first time this century, I was seriously considering walking out.

That is, until our heroine encountered a young couple hoping to adopt her child, played by Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman. Only then, finally, did something genuine finally start to seep through. Juno’s relationship with this young father-to-be, who’s really an overgrown college student incessantly reliving grunge music’s early-90’s glory days, rings true. Despite the film’s completely unsuccessful attempt at making her the sharpest, hippest 17-year-old you’ve ever known (basically an updated Punky Brewster- older and pregnant, but just as contrived) Juno’s character finally achieves a little depth vis-a-vis her pseudo-crush on this older dude. Though their conversations remain dumb and completely unrealistic [Juno is clearly every 30-year-old male hipster's wet dream: a 17 year old non-comformist who happens to be an expert on late 70's punk rock, who can recognize a Les Paul guitar from across the room, and who's ready to debate the Stooges vs Sonic Youth on demand- in other words, a nerdy, white, Brookyln-music-geek with boobs- about as realistic a portrayal of a teenage girl as Chasing Amy was of lesbians. Amazing, when you consider the screenwriter is a woman. Moviemaking tip #42: kids, once you graduate from film school, you no longer have to share the same pop-cultural tastes as your lead characters, and they certainly don't need to double as an on-screen blog entry about your all-time favorite album.] Pardon me- as I was saying, though their conversations remain unrealistic, the characters’ situation itself rings true… at least, truer than everything else we’ve seen so far. Amazingly, the second half of Juno begins to develop a little charm, despite the repeated faux hipster-speak and the completely derivative use of old 60’s tunes (clearly, the filmmaker has been jerking off to Wes Anderson films for the last several years)- a now-clichéd device which may have permanently ruined some of my favorite songs (thanks a lot, “director” Jason Reitman!) The Velvet Underground, the Kinks, and Belle & Sebastian all fall victim to a completely neanderthal use of pop music in movies. While Wes Anderson uses his songs as counterpoint to the action on screen, Jason Reitman, clueless director that he is, merely blasts them in our faces every time a scene ends and a new one begins… and then rapidly fades the song out, with no craft or thought, the same way every tv sitcom has done for the past 50 years. The “original” songs by Kimya Dawson fit perfectly into this uncreative stew, since they echo the sensibility of the movie: faux-sentimentality that thinks it can bullshit its way into being “raw and honest” simply because said artist can’t sing or play her way out of an open mic night. Dawson’s “bad” voice is so contrived and insincere it makes Wesley Willis and Daniel Johnston sound like Juilliard graduates; her songs’ pretensions are even more obvious since they share soundtrack space with Moe Tucker’s beautifully untrained voice on the Velvet Underground classic I’m Sticking With You. As usual, those without a clue think that by copying the surface characteristics of something great, they too can create something great. They forget that you have to have something to say first.

By the end of the film, I will concede, Juno does have a little bit to say. Not much, but it’s something, at least, which comes as a total surprise after its painful beginning. Shallow, airheaded wifey actually ends up faring better than her cool, rock n’ roll hubby- a clever reversal from how they were first introduced to us. Even Juno’s stepmom transcends her “parent trying to stay young” schtick, providing some of the film’s more insightful lines of dialogue by the end. Were this a friend’s little indie film, shot on DV for a few hundred bucks, I’d be impressed and remark that, if they got rid of all the contrived dialogue, their script showed some promise. But, alas, this is a Hollywood film, with professional actors, a real budget, and an Oscar nomination for… Best Picture? Are you fucking kidding me? The fact that this script was able to pass through the gauntlet of readers and studio heads without having someone edit out much of its obviously-poorly-written dialogue shows you just how clueless Hollywood has become. No big revelation there, I guess, but with its critical acceptance and awards, Juno has achieved newfound heights of cultural irony; this is what we call our country’s best effort in 2008. In a couple of decades, Juno will be all but forgotten; youth culture will view this emo-induced bag of fumes with the same cynical eye that Gen-X-ers viewed hippies, a new set of sensibilities leading Hollywood into further areas of contrived exploitation. Until then, however, we’ll have to endure our retarded culture’s “It Girl” of the month a little while longer: Juno, now playing at a waste of time near you. If you’ve yet to see this little nugget, consider yourself warned.

 by Warren Curry

Next month there is a film being released called “Never Back Down,” which sounds like an updated version of “The Karate Kid,” except it’s set in the world of mixed martial arts instead of karate. Oscar nominee Djimon Hounsou plays the Mr. Miyagi role, and I’d have to say it’s questionable if this is a good career move for the actor.  If you’ve seen a TV ad for the film, you’ve also probably noticed that it looks a lot like any Jean-Claude Van Damme straight-to-video vehicle (here’s a treat for you Van Damme fans: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOIJtS4gbaY). Whether or not that’s a bad thing is up to you.  I’m not criticizing, simply observing.  And this leads me to…

(Warning: what you’re about to read has nothing to do with movies.  Proceed with caution)

It’s around 10:30 PST on the night of Saturday February 16, 2008, and I’m lying on my living room couch listening to my iPod.   My wife is already fast asleep in our bedroom (yes, married life is that exciting), and a little over an hour ago I finished watching a decent boxing match between Kelly Pavlik and Jermain Taylor.   It’s at this point that I recall seeing ads for a mixed martial arts event that was to air on Showtime at 10:00.  The ads mainly remain in memory because headlining the telecast is a guy named Kimbo Slice (that’s a picture of him above; a difficult person to forget).  He’s been described as something of a mythic figure — “a street fighting legend” is an exact quote, if memory serves.

Mixed martial arts — or MMA, as it’s more commonly referred to — is a relatively new sport, at least inasmuch as it’s made a dent in American popular culture.  UFC is the dominant MMA organization, and I recall watching their first pay-per-view event with college roommates in the fall of 1993.  We had seen commercials for weeks, showing us clips of combatants being pummeled into oblivion.  To state the obvious, we couldn’t wait to watch.  Predictably, our high expectations weren’t close to fulfilled.  Instead of the mayhem that had been advertised, we were given a bunch of matches where the competitors wrestled each other to the floor before one guy would choke his opponent into submission.  It wasn’t dynamic, exciting or even obviously violent (except when the sumo wrestler got several teeth kicked out by a fat, balding French guy).  That was my first and last real exposure to MMA.

Until this past Saturday night. 

I’ve been a hardcore boxing fan for about 15 years now, and in the past few years I’ve seen MMA grow significantly in popularity.  A major aspect of its marketing campaign has been to position itself squarely against boxing, drawing an indelible line in the sand, because the powers that be (namely UFC president Dana White) apparently believe the world isn’t big enough for two equally popular combat sports.  MMA proponents would have you believe that boxing is for generations long since past, and because boxing is only one facet of MMA, it’s undeniably a lesser sport.  Regardless of what boxing purists (count me among them) think, it’s tough to argue with the numbers.  MMA, as evidenced by its live attendance and pay-per-view figures, is a thriving sport and seems to connect with younger fans to a degree that boxing does not and perhaps never will again. 

I haven’t avoided MMA due to any need to defend the tradition of boxing.  In fact, I’m of the opinion that both can co-exist and each can garner a sizeable audience.  But in my mid-30s, I just don’t feel any sort of inclination to suddenly start following a new sport.  Couple that with the lingering aftertaste of my one MMA experience, and it’s been easy for me to avoid.

But on Saturday, I succumbed to the temptation of watching “street fighting legend” Kimbo Slice.  I mean, just take a look at the guy.  Now think about the chaos he can potentially create while locked in a caged circle with some poor sap.  How exactly could one not tune in?

From what I can deduce (and I’m not exactly going out of my way to do a whole lot of research), Kimbo Slice fights for an MMA organization called Elite XC.  I have no idea if this group is affiliated with UFC, nor does it matter to me, though I bring this up because it’s possible Elite might be similar to UFC’s minor league.  While watching the telecast, I’m immediately struck by how much in common MMA appears to have with pro wrestling.  A horde of fans (mostly male, under 35, from what I can tell) proudly hold signs that read “Kimbo Kick Ass” while music blares from the arena’s PA system any time there’s no action in the ring.  A group of scantily clad women serve as round card girls, but also line up on a catwalk and dance between fights.  I concede that MMA certainly links sport and entertainment much more aggressively than boxing does, and at this moment I’ve never been happier to be a boxing fan.  As if to hammer the connection home, former pro wrestling champion Bill Goldberg serves as the third member of the broadcast team and interviews the winner of each match, immediately following the contest, in the ring.

As I wait for the main event, I sit through a couple of undercard bouts.  In one, a guy takes a knee to his face, drops to the ground and is then blasted by a right cross, prompting the referee to the stop the fight.  In another, an Australian dude is knocked semi-conscious by a punch and falls flat on his back, completely defenseless. But even in this prone state, his opponent wastes no time rushing over and smashing the guy in the face with a follow-up punch.  Wow…boxing has never looked like such a tame, peaceful sport.

After an uneventful fight, it’s the moment I’ve been waiting for — the entrance of Kimbo Slice.  As the crowd’s excitement builds to a fever pitch, Bill Goldberg exhorts, “he puts asses in seats!”, which isn’t amusing simply because a sports announcer enthusiastically bellowed the word “asses,” but also because the countless shots of a packed arena the television audience has seen all night render this among the most unnecessary observations in the history of broadcast journalism. Kimbo squares off against a fat 42-year-old named Tank Abbott, whose most impressive feature is his beard and who sports a record of something like 8 wins and 14 losses.  You needn’t know anything about MMA to realize this guy, who vaguely resembles a plumber, stands no chance.   The fight lasts about 30 seconds, and the action goes like this: Kimbo punches Tank in the face, Tank is on the ground, Tank gets up, tries to tackle Kimbo, Kimbo punches him in the face again, Tank falls down, Kimbo waits for him to get back up, punches him in the side of the head, Tanks falls on his face, the referee stops the fight.

Instead of criticizing this for being an obvious mismatch, the giddy announcers pontificate as if they’d just seen the second coming of the US hockey team beating the Soviet Union in the 1980 Winter Olympics.  Goldberg, of course, is soon in the ring interviewing Kimbo.  As has been the case all night, Goldberg begins his questions strongly, before it becomes clear he really isn’t asking anything.  A typical query falls along the lines of, “You trained hard and faced a difficult opponent tonight.  We all know how much you love the sport….you’re a good man.  Let’s all put our hands together for Kimbo!”  It’s less an interview than a public coronation, which underlines an important difference between the current state of MMA and boxing.  MMA is all about incredibly obvious (tasteful or not) self-promotion and self-glorification, while the boxing media (separate from the general sports media that basically ignores boxing) is often the sport’s biggest critic.  If a similar match-up and result had occurred on HBO Championship Boxing, analyst Larry Merchant, in all his curmudgeonly glory, would have called the fight a farce and questioned the winner why he wasting everyone’s time by being involved in it.  MMA’s complete lack of modesty might be its biggest asset.  Boxing, on the other hand, could be too self-aware for its own good.

In the post-fight “interview,” Kimbo claims that his dream has always been to fight “Tank or Tyson.”  I assume he means Mike Tyson.  This strikes me as being the equivalent of an aspiring actor saying his/her dream is to share a scene with Ted Lange or Gene Hackman.  Goldberg returns to broadcast position, and his inability to complete a coherent thought continues.  He remarks to his broadcast partners about Kimbo’s performance (and I paraphrase), “I know you’ve seen a lot of fights in Japan, but wherever, you know, you have to say, uhhh, well…uhhh…he puts asses in seats!” apparently wanting to make sure the point is not lost on the audience, or his co-broadcasters, by uttering the phrase twice in less than ten minutes.

After a few closing comments, the show ends, I turn off the TV and go back to my iPod (which I now lament listening to during most of the undercard fights, pondering all the inspired Goldberg analysis I missed).  So what did I learn from this experience?  Well, nothing, really. If I needed further proof that MMA isn’t my bag, I got it…but it’s hard to deny that I derived some enjoyment from the event, and not all of it was ironic.  I can’t imagine ever becoming even a casual MMA fan, but I wouldn’t rule out tuning in to see Kimbo Slice in the future.  After all, it’s not every day that a street fighting legend with the power to put asses in seats comes along.

And look for “Never Back Down” in a theater near you on March 14.  But only the box office numbers — and not Bill Goldberg — will tell us if it, like Kimbo Slice, can put asses in seats.   

by Memo Salazar

I’ve been a “New Yorker” going on six years now. Before then, New York was just a big city to me, and New Yorkers were these creatures who had convinced themselves that they could never live anywhere else, because they had already discovered the Greatest Place On Earth. Yawn, I thought, who wants to live with such snobs? Next thing I knew, I found myself here, among the rich and the insane, and quickly discovered that those New Yorkers were kind of right- this is a city that never stops giving. There’s always something new to discover, something waiting for you to learn, and someone fascinating for you to bump into. I’ve lived in bigger cities, but, despite its overpriced real estate, its annoyingly rich patrons and its occasional pretensions, New York gets under your skin in a good way.

H.L. “Doc” Humes was a New Yorker, too. Other than being remotely familiar with the name, I had no idea who this guy was, or why I should care to watch a full-length documentary on the man. But I did, anyway; Doc, lovingly made by Humes’ daughter, Immy, is both a riveting tale of one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever heard of, and a tribute to a father by a daughter who clearly loved him, despite the difficult and challenging life he crafted for himself. As with My Architect and Tell Them Who You Are, this “first-person” portrait of an influential creative person from the point of view of the subject’s offspring provides an intimacy (and access to some wonderful interviews) no one else could achieve. Doc is different than those other films in that it’s really not about the parent/subject - child/filmmaker relationship, but rather a simple, chronological biography of Humes. Nothing flashy, nothing clever- which is just perfect, as there is so much substance to the story, a straightforward approach is just what the doc… er… doctor ordered. Immy Humes wisely lets her father’s peers, and not the editing room, do the talking.

And what a list of peers! Interviewed are such fascinating figures as Norman Mailer, George Plimpton, Tim Leary, and Paul Auster, not to mention Hume’s own family and illegitimate offspring- all in all, a really diverse group of human beings. And that’s what the film is really about- one of the most dynamic human beings to emerge out of our 20th Century culture, a man so full of energy and creativity that his mind had clearly left his psychological and emotional selves far behind. Humes wrote 2 acclaimed novels, shot an independent film, hung out with great artists like Ornette Coleman and Richard Wright, founded one of the most influential literary journals (The Paris Review), designed and built low-cost paper houses as aid to third-world countries, experimented with LSD way before it was considered “cool”, was an avid supporter of the legalization of cannabis, communicated with clouds, hung out on college campuses dispensing words of wisdom as well as thousands of dollars in cash to whomever happened to come by… I mean, this guy clearly had a restless soul, one that hungered for whatever challenge life could throw at it. As is often the case, one’s devotion to such a lifestyle doesn’t jive well with structure, whether the societal structure of jobs and the law (being arrested for protesting a citywide ban on folk music is one of his several inspiring arrests) or the interpersonal structure of a family. Doc clearly loved his children, but his mental state was simply not the ideal one to be in while fulfilling the role of father. Even so, Doc is a dignified portrait which never dips into the easy button-pushing of scandal and daytime-TV faire; the film doesn’t shy away from detailing his darkest moments, but it doesn’t linger or milk the story for dramatic effect. Yes, he was paranoid, but yes, he had every reason to be- Doc does a wonderful job of bringing the viewer around to see the world through Doc’s eyes, so that, by the end, you really feel like you, too spent time with the guy, shooting the shit every day in Harvard Square for hours. I actually do have vague memories of seeing a man very much like him hanging around that area in the late 80’s while I hunted used records… though, perhaps, it’s just wishful thinking. Even in death, Doc’s magnetic personality is in full effect.

Doc is, ultimately, a story of redemption- for Doc, after a lifetime of stubborn self-fulfilment, spends his last few years with the people he loves the most, developing relationships that had been put on pause decades earlier. The fact that his own daughter- someone who could have resented him the most for his negligent role as a father during her childhood- had, at this stage in his life, the presence of mind to be lovingly celebrating his final few years of life by way of a video camera is evidence of Doc’s powerful and positive influence on the people around him. Though his body was on its way out, his mind was as sharp as ever, providing one of Doc’s best lines in the film, when he insightfully proclaimed that you never really stop loving people- after all the anger and animosity recedes, the love is still there, waiting for you to pick up where you’d left off. It’s as much a statement about himself as it is about the amazing collection of people Doc had gathered across the decades and continents of his journey, all of whom speak of the man with a combination of admiration and compassion- a testament to Doc’s mind as well as his heart.

I have no idea where or when you’ll be able to see Doc, but the film’s website might be of service in that regard. Check it out, as it’s definitely worth your time.

By: Dan Tester 

I think I am about to list for you my Top Ten Favorite Movies of All Time!!!!!! I have been informed that this is a risky venture. Critical types are well aware that exposing such definitive precision of personal love is utter madness. Warren Curry told me I am crazy to attempt such a feat. Memo Salazar told me that I am “Garbanzo as a Bean” to even consider such honesty in a public place. Gene Shalit told me that I must be insane. Michael Medved told me that not only am I insane, but so is Michael Medved. Byron Allen told me that he will work for food. Richard Roeper told me that Michael Medved is insane. Peter Travers told me that I am foolish to expose myself like this, and that one time he saw Gene Shalit eating a chalupa from Taco Bell without using his hands. Wilford Brimley told me that if I have “dia-a-beetis” he can provide me with testing supplies. John C. Ardussi told me to go for it. Roger Ebert told me that Gene Shalit and Wilford Brimley are insane, and that one time a shirtless Michael Medved threatened him with a broken beer bottle at a bowling alley. And Rex Reed said, and I quote “If it’s really funny, I’ll laugh. I don’t need 40 other people to laugh to remind me that I should be laughing. I mean I, I don’t respond very well to mass hysteria anyway.”

There is nothing that gives the dry heaves to a “movie critic” more than having to lock down a list of their Top Ten Favorite Movies Of All Time. This is because, of course, movie critics are not human beings. They are robots. Movie critics will watch CADDYSHACK and NATIONAL LAMPOON’S VACATION so many times that their critical heads will spin with pleasure, and yet…when it comes time to announce their favorite movies of all time, they will of course list RULES OF THE GAME and THE SEVENTH SEAL and YOJIMBO and BLAH BLAH BLAH because they “have to.“ Those are definitely great films, and you are supposed to say they are great films if you are a “critic” and don‘t want to be shunned at a dinner party.  But are they really favorites? Do these critics really watch them over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again? And then when they are done, do they watch them again…and again??? To be fair, some probably do. But not many, I would surmise, based on my personal experience.

Many years ago, I attended a glamorous Hollywood movie critic dinner party, and I was actually witness to Rex Reed and Bill Harris bitch-slapping each other for about 25 straight minutes in a dispute over their picks for greatest movie of all time. I could never tell whose pick was whose, but I definitely heard YENTL and THE MAIN EVENT bandied back and forth between the sounds of effete palms slapping flocculent cheeks. Dixie Whatley unsuccessfully tried to intervene but only succeeded in spilling her mimosa all over Joel Siegel’s mustache. A panicked and drunken Leonard Maltin ran up to the microwave and screamed, “We’ll be back after these messages!!“ Gene Shalit yanked at his collar and made a strange “Yuuung Yuuung Yuuung” sound in a pathetic attempt to divert all the attention onto himself with the worst Charles Nelson Reilly imitation I have ever seen at a dinner party. Jeffrey Lyons started breathing heavy as he watched the violence unfold and suddenly, and quite frighteningly, threw his Zima bottle against the wall and started screaming “Candy Colored Clown!!!!!“ And as if on cue, a tipsy Gene Siskel, and an even tipsier Roger Ebert, climbed onto the dinner table and started dancing in unison to Roy Orbison’s “In Dreams.” Truman Capote just laughed and laughed and kept saying, “What a lovely night for a murrrrrrrder”. And Peter Bogdanovich grabbed Pauline Kael’s dildo out of her purse and began to spontaneously review the slap fight in an amazingly condescending manner while holding the dildo as if it were a microphone, until an angry Pauline Kael strutted over and hit him in the face with an unopened and partially frozen package of Oscar Mayer bologna. I swear to you, I just stood there and watched this seemingly endless insanity unfold until, finally, Larry King slunk over and began to whip Rex and Bill with his suspenders, while a shirtless Michael Medved shattered a beer bottle in half and tried to stab Rex Reed in the thigh.  Boy, I sure do miss those old movie critic dinner parties. Once Ronald Reagan got elected, they just seemed to fade away.

I love movies. I especially love movies that I love. Sometimes I love movies that “critics” love. Sometimes, I love movies that “critics” hate. But almost all of the time, I love movies that I love. So sue me.

Most film critics, from my observation, are full of shit. They are mostly children, seeking attention more from their submissiveness than from their individuality. What happened to real film criticism in this country??? Did it ever “really” exist in the first place? I can tell you, from my sources in Hollywood, that most of the one-liner reviews you read in newspaper print ads are written by “critics” who are so deep into Hollywood back pockets that they actually smell like poop if you meet them in person. Well, okay, they don’t “actually” smell like poop, but they definitely have a scent of taint about them. God help me, nothing guarantees cinema excellence more than a one-liner newspaper print ad rave from Larry King.

Yes. These are my 10 Favorite Movies Of  All Time. I put a lot of thought into this list. It wasn’t that hard, to be honest. I just thought about the movies that are my favorites and then I compiled them into a list format. And I will be honest with you…not once while I was compiling this list did I ever take a step back and wonder if anyone would question it. I don’t care if anyone questions it.  Quite frankly, SCREW YOU if you don’t like it.

At the outset of my list I just want to say…I have often found it is difficult to truly convey my thoughts and emotions regarding my favorite films within the constricting confines of a single “oh so clever” paragraph. So, in lieu of  “oh so clever“ paragraphs, I will instead supply visual evidence for each pick. Feel free to click on the “internet” links next to my picks for my evidence. SO HERE WE GO!!!!

ONE FINAL NOTE: In an grand experiment, I will count my picks down in a “descending” order, instead of the establishment preferred “ascending“. For any readers out there that are not “good“ with big words, or for any regular viewers of the Fox News Channel, this simply means that I will list my picks “backwards-like,“ starting with my Number 10 choice, and then progressing in a “them numbers are gettin‘ smaller“ style, until I eventually arrive at, you guessed it you numbnuts…My Favorite Movie Of All Time!!!!!!!!!

(10) SLAP SHOT (1977)- Those Guys are RETARDS!!!

(9) THE BLUES BROTHERS (1980)- Did You Get Me My Cheese Whiz, Boy?

( Blake Edwards’ “10” (1979)- Did You Ever Do It To Ravel’s BOLERO?

(7) LOCAL HERO (1983)- Look to the Sky.

(6) THE KING OF COMEDY (1983)- Pupkin. P-U-P-K-I-N.

(5) THE CANNONBALL RUN (1981)- DUHNNN DUHNNN DUHNNNNNNNN!!!!

(4) Blake Edwards’ S.O.B. (1981)- The only comment I will make here is that there was precious little online visual evidence of the greatness of S.O.B. So what I offer here is the actual opening credits sequence to the film. But please keep in mind, dear reader, that the syrupy sweetness of this opening number is only the candy that juxtaposes the ugly, hideous, horrible, beautiful, hilarious Hollywood vinegar to follow. Nooooo, That’s SPICY, Mrs. Zuckerman!!!

(3) NETWORK(1976)- I’m As Mad As Hell…

(2) BEING THERE (1979)- I Like To Watch…

(1) LOST IN AMERICA (1985)- There was limited online visual evidence for this film as well. So what I will provide you with is the original Siskel and Ebert television review from 1985. Unfortunately, this clip begins with the review a really bad movie from 1985, but at about the 5:00 minute mark, Siskel and Ebert enthusiastically review Albert Brooks’ LOST IN AMERICA. And not only is this “critical” evidence of the greatness of the film, it is also evidence of why it is my favorite movie of all time! A Bird Lives In a ROUND STICK!!!!!

by Memo Salazar

…and with a clever title like that, we’re off to a great film review. Last year’s Palme d’Or winner, Christian Mungiu’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days is truly an amazing film. Shot in a simple, elegant neorealist style, 4 Months is a story about a 1987 Romania- communist, harsh, bleak. With beautifully long takes and honest, straightforward dialogue, 4 Months gives us a flavor of daily life for Gabita and Otilia (a pair of female college students) so convincing that by the time we slip into the film’s main focus (illegal abortions during the communist era) we feel quite familiar with the rhythm of their life, so foreign to Americans, where scoring a pack of Kent cigarettes is both difficult and essential in maintaining some semblance of humanity in this otherwise grey world. The film’s subtlety lies in the background details; in their dorm, the girls’ cheap, plastic dining tablecloth is so old, the top of it has faded to pure whiteness- only the sides reveal the pattern it once had. It’s the kind of thing you only notice if you’re paying attention, because the film never once cuts away to close-ups of anything; it doesn’t tell you where to look, or what to think- it leaves that kind of thing up to you. Characters look inside briefcases and bathrooms, but their facial expression provides our only hint as to what they may have seen.

The historical background, which I was not privy to at the time of the screening, is that Romania banned all abortions in 1966, resulting in a vast population increase just a few years later. Those that sought an abortion anyway had to do so illegally, to the point that, two decades later, more than 500,000 women had died from the dangerous, illegal procedure. In this context, 4 Months is clearly a political film, showing the stark reality of what women had to go through due to this political mandate. But the film is also a statement on morality, and how it goes by the wayside when people are forced to deal with the practical realities of getting by in such a harsh, uncompassionate world. 4 Months does not judge, but it certainly does not shy away from presenting the consequences of both ill-conceived law and personal choices, providing a lot of food for thought without any easy answers. The characters are neither praised nor scorned; they are simply acting out within a given paradigm. We sympathize with the protagonists without ever losing sight of their own shortcomings. Gabita, especially, displays a naive, irresponsible nature which is clearly portrayed as such; any empathy we might feel for her situation is matched by our frustration and anger at her unnecessarily bonehead decisions, who’s consequences extended far beyond her own life’s suffering. Some reviewers, like The New York Press‘ Armond White, trashed this film for taking abortion lightly and presenting the girls as some kind of feminist heroes. Clearly, he was so wrapped up in his own issues with abortion (and with conjuring up as many pop-culture references as he could muster for his precious review) that he forgot to pay attention to the actual film, which does nothing of the sort. 4 Months is honest and fair to its subject and theme.

Ultimately, though, 4 Months is much more than a political statement. It is a snapshot of human life, albeit an unjoyful one, proving how visual a simple, character-driven, dialogue-heavy movie can be. I found myself wishing I understood Romanian in order to avoid reading the subtitles during an extremely long, single-shot scene at a birthday dinner party. Watching Otilia’s worried face as she sits, surrounded by an older generation of gabbing adults oblivious to her current ordeal is riveting. The contrast between their superficial, well-meaning banter and the harsh experience reflected in Otilia’s face is about as visual a scene as anything Hollywood could ever churn out, with only a fraction of the typical Hollywood budget. 4 Months’ minimalist, efficient elegance is a genuine cinematic treat, even if it does come encased in one of the most depressing subjects a film could hope to deal with. Sorry, Armond, this one did deserve Cannes’ top prize.

by Dan Tester

Good Lord, man. I recently realized I have been writing for CINEMASPEAK for nearly six years now. This means that about a year ago, I passed the online requirement to become an official “entertainment journalist.” I am so relieved. I can now, without any reservations, report on the things that are truly important, without the contempt of my show-biz contemporaries who, up to now, have judged me as an unworthy hack. I have been MADE. To be honest, I started feeling the symptoms of “entertainment journalist” worthiness in the last year or so, but only now can I understand them. I remember hearing that Heath Ledger was dead, and I immediately decided that I needed to know all of the sordid details. I remember when I heard that Benazir Bhutto had been assassinated, I instantly wanted to know who she was wearing. When I heard that Brad Renfro was dead, I immediately camped out on his parents’ front lawn to be the very first to ask them about their emotions upon hearing the news of their son‘s tragic death. On the day that Gerald Ford passed away, I asked Betty “On your very worst day, how drunk was ‘drunk‘?” And when I heard that GW Bush was proposing a troop surge in Iraq, I wanted to know who the President sided with in the ROSIE v. TRUMP battle. Yes, these pipes are clean. I am a journalist.

But I am not interested in a 30-second gig on ENTERTAINMENT TONIGHT every Thursday, nor do I seek a featured anchor role on INSIDE EDITION. No, no. I want a Pulitzur (or however you spell it.) So I decided to take on a true journalistic endeavor. I wanted to do something important. So, at the outset I want to thank Mr. Warren Curry, the owner of CINEMASPEAK, for giving me the funds to promote my dream, and also to promote the website. He knows my passion, and he knows my vision, and he just signed a blank check and said “Tester, when you stop reaching for your dreams, take a swig of Gatorade and reach a bit further.” God bless you, Mr. Curry. You are a mensch. So I decided to travel to Iraq. This is where the buzz is, from what I hear. I have heard from some “liberal” friends that this area of the world is a virtual war zone, but I don’t care. I am an entertainment journalist. I wanted to know what the Iraqi people thought about the Academy Award nominations. And believe me, I am glad I took this mission. It is Pyulitzer worthy (or however that is spelled.)

When I first arrived in Iraq (in an undisclosed location for my safety), I have to be honest, I was shocked. What a mess that Iraq is. I saw homes that would never pass building codes back in the US. Wild cows, sheep and piglets were wandering through restaurants. People were just running around without any shoes on, wearing terribly distasteful attire. A shoeless elderly woman ran past me, and I quickly tried to ask her what she thought about the nominations for Best Supporting Actress, but she just started screaming “Yalllllla Yalllllla Yallllla Yemsheeeeeee” and threw a piglet at me. I realized quite quickly that I would need an interpreter of some sort. I yelled out, “Does anyone here speak English???” and out of nowhere TVs Byron Allen appeared, wearing a chef’s hat and a t-shirt that read “Eat At Raheem’s”. I was astonished to see Byron in Iraq, but as he explained, “A job is a job, no one can beat my ma’mounia, and I just happen to speak the language.” Thank God, I thought. Now we could proceed.

Byron secured a number of Iraqis for quick interviews. The first was Mohammed, a Sunni father of six whose entire family had been massacred by Shiite rebels. I asked him who he predicted to win the award for Best Actor, and he said, without hesitating, “George Clooney for MICHAEL CLAYTON.” I congratulated him on a fine pick, but informed him that Clooney just won an Academy Award two years ago, and that Lady Oscar does not like to pile on wins too quickly for anyone, not even George Clooney. Mohammed seemed a bit confused, and then continued “Fine then, I will go with Daniel Day-Lewis, although he was really not who I would vote for.“ Next was Farah, a lovely twenty-something woman who in her youth had been raped repeatedly by the Republican Guard, was thus banished from her village, and had only recently returned home from an unbearably long distance after hearing Dick Cheney announce that the insurgency was in its last throes, only to discover that her entire family had been killed by insurgents a few days before. I asked her who she thought would win Best Picture, but she only wanted to know, ”Who will Cameron Diaz be wearing to the Red Carpet Festivities?” I told her I simply did not know, and that the red carpet might be canceled if the writer‘s strike is not settled.  She spit on the ground and murmured, “The red carpet is all that keeps me going….but to answer your question, I will go with JUNO.” As I thanked her and started to walk away, she tugged at my bulletproof vest and quietly asked, “How is Britney doing?” I informed her that Ms. Spears was not nominated this year, and Farah just started to laugh and said “Ohhhhh, I know that! I know. I just hope that sweetheart is back on her meds.”

There was sudden mortar fire near our klieg lights, so we had to pack up and move elsewhere. Our next stop was Tikrit, and I was informed that this was the birthplace of Saddam Hussein. I wanted to see the house Saddam grew up in and to ask nearby residents if he was a decent neighbor or if he ever had loud late night parties like Dennis Rodman, but Byron Allen told me we should just get a few quick interviews and get the hell out of there. Although I smelled a scoop, I reluctantly agreed. Our first interview was with Mahmood, who seemed to know what I was going to ask, and just kept screaming “Why no nomination for Joe Wright??? ATONEMENT did NOT direct itself, sir!” I told him I understood his sentiments and asked who he would pick for Best Director in any case. He told me “P.T. Anderson, of course! P.T. should have won for BOOGIE NIGHTS, and HARD EIGHT was a lovely little sleeper, and this will be his recompense”. 

As I wandered the streets of Tikrit, I stumbled upon a small comedy club. Intrigued, I entered. Onstage was popular Iraqi comedian Shiskatop, a prop comic. I was stunned that his entire opening act was a word-for-word recreation of David Letterman’s opening monologue from the 1995 Academy Award ceremonies. The audience just ate it up, but when Shiskatop strolled from one end of the stage to the other, saying “Omarrrrrrrrr…Abduuuuuuuul…Abduuuuuuuul…Omarrrrrrrrr” the audience literally roared with laughter. It occurred to me that, even in this hell-torn foreign land, where imminent death was constantly hanging like a vulture over their heads, the people of Iraq truly had Oscar Fever warming their blood. Hollywood magic.

The next interviewee was a horribly disfigured, nice man named Yusuf. The entire right side of his face had seemingly melted away in a house fire after a sneak attack from insurgents, his entire family had perished, and he looked quite freakish. For my American audience, he looked a bit like the Nazis at the end of RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK when they stupidly looked at that Ark, even though Indiana Jones was quite clearly screaming out loud that it was not a good idea for anyone to look at that Ark. I was very mad at Byron for choosing Yusuf for an interview, because he was not “camera friendly”, but I decided that if he gave good audio we could always use cutaways. I asked him who he liked for Best Actress, and he just stared at me for a few moments, and then started screaming “Ratatouille!!! Ratatouille!!!” And then he ran away. As I tried to explain to him that RATATOUILLE was nominated for Best Animated Film, and not for Best Actress, I was suddenly blown off my feet by a huge explosion. I later found out that the word “ratatouille” is Iraqi slang for “Look out, you idiot, there is a missile about to hit your ass.”

So unfortunately, as a result of the explosion, I suffered a severe case of turf toe and had to return home to America before I really got a good report worthy of a Poohlister (I think that is close). But I still feel this is an important document regarding swarthy people and their Oscar picks. I got hurt, so that should at least garner some sort of award consideration. Hell, I’ll even accept a Webby. And if anyone is concerned, Byron Allen is fine, although I am a bit miffed at him. He kind of stole one of my ideas. Next month, his new syndicated show BOWLING WITH THE KURDS is premiering on SPIKE TV. I would ask you to please not watch. It is an absolutely sickening thing when a colleague steals another’s ideas, don’t you think? To be honest, I would expect more from American journalists in this day and age.

by Warren Curry 

It’s 2008 and CinemaSpeak rolls along stronger than ever (I’m purposely ignoring the fact I haven’t contributed to this blog in…ummm…a long time).  To commence with a logical observation, the beginning of a new year means we just ended an old one, right?  And in the movie world, the end of a year means it’s time for critics, reporters, friends, relatives, co-workers, Larry King and anyone else who’s seen ten new movies in the past 12 months to author their own “Best Of” list. 

If you’ve never done this, well, it’s simple.  Just make sure to see 10 movies released in 2008 by December 31, and on January 1, 2009 find a blog, website or bathroom stall to list your ten favorite movies of the year.  You might even discover that friends and acquaintances will think of you as a movie authority after reading your Best Of list.  Heck, maybe you can turn trading Best Of lists with family members into a New Year’s Day event!   After all, do you really want to watch The Rose Bowl halftime show?

I’ve been reviewing movies on the ‘ol Interweb since 2002, but hadn’t compiled a personal Ten Best list since, I think, 2004…that is, until this past year.  Breaking with tradition, the editor of the website I write for, Einsiders.com, asked a few members of the staff to contribute their own Best Of lists rather than just posting one cumulative Top 10.  It’d been a while since I had an outlet to do this, so I, of course, jumped at the opportunity.  We all know that everyone likes lists.

As I narrowed down the field of movies I’d seen in 2007 to my favorite ten, I started to question my qualifications to do this.  While I was able to see (and review) a bundle of 2007 releases, there are so many other movies I didn’t see.  As you may have guessed, I don’t make my living as a film critic.  I have a regular old day job, a wife and other responsibilities/interests (like playing cheap blackjack in seedy Las Vegas “locals” casinos), which prevent me from catching five new releases every week.  Additionally, I don’t partake in many big studio movies…a few here and there — and that’s a very literal estimate.

Despite my misgivings, I carried on and cobbled together my Best Of list.  In fact, you, lucky reader, can view this list (and others) with just one click of your mouse on the following link: http://einsiders.com/features/columns/show_article.php?article=370.  So have fun perusing the titles; perhaps you’ll find a good recommendation or two. 

But back to my point — I’ll be the first to call my Top 10 inconsequential for the reasons stated above.  I’ll be even more specific and list five 2007 movies I didn’t see, which any self-respecting film critic should have seen before being allowed to pen a Top 10.  So here’s one more list (arranged alphabetically) to toss on the pile… 

American Gangster: Believe you me, I had every intention of seeing this movie when it opened.  Its release happened to coincide with the beginning of the AFI Film Festival, which kept me busy for two weekends, and when the fest ended, I was bombarded with too many other screenings to make this a priority.  I had a chance to see a pre-release screening, but regrettably opted for the dismal “Margot at the Wedding.”  Looks like I’ll be Netflixing “American Gangster” (it’s getting a 2-disc AND limited 3-disc release). 

Charlie Wilson’s War: Blame the Las Vegas Review Journal.  When I was visiting my parents over the holidays, I planned to take my mother to see this one afternoon.  We checked the paper, agreed on a start time and arrived at the theater 15 minutes before it was supposed to begin.  My attempt to purchase tickets was met with the unfortunate realization that the Review Journal’s movie listings were incorrect.  It was playing at the theater we chose, but not at the time it was supposed to start.  Instead of returning a few hours later, I consulted Moviefone for other theaters playing the film, but none of the times were convenient.  So we drove to another theater and instead saw the very obvious, but also fairly well-executed, “The Great Debaters.”  After the movie, my mom said, “I’m glad we saw this instead of Charlie Wilson.”  And if mom’s happy, then I’m happy.  I doubt I’ll see “Charlie Wilson’s War” in the theater, so Netflix it is. 

I’m Not There:  I guess I’m just not that interested in Bob Dylan, because it’s strange I’d skip Todd Haynes’ follow up to his fantastic “Far From Heaven.”  I don’t dislike Dylan’s music; I just haven’t heard much of it (even though in high school a few friends and I used to love poking fun at “Lay Lady Lay”).  Perhaps Haynes’ use of multiple actors to portray Dylan at various stages of his life is a successful experiment, but it sounds like a ploy that portends a pretentious, overly “arty” movie.  I’m mildly curious about this film, but will I ever see it?  Maybe if I stumble across it on cable. 

Michael Clayton: If you were to sing this movie’s praises to me, I wouldn’t be skeptical in the least.  I’m sure it’s a fine film.  In fact, I’ll go ahead and agree with your assessment as long as you promise I never have to watch it.  Two of the past three years, George Clooney has starred in critically acclaimed films (”Syriana” is the other one) that look about as fun to watch as knocking back a jar of fish oil in one gulp.  Maybe the movie is more palatable than I presume, but the incredibly “serious” advertising just leaves me cold.  And I’ve always been ambivalent about Clooney; he’s an actor who just can’t seem to check his celebrity arrogance at the door when he steps on screen.  I consider him more of a presence than a talent. This Just In:  Warner Bros. is re-releasing “Michael Clayton” in theaters nationwide on January 25!!!  Thank you, Warner Bros., for giving me another chance to miss it!

P2: To subvert the premise of this piece somewhat, “P2″ makes this list, not because I didn’t see it, but because I did.  The last time I spent money on a movie I knew going in would be utter junk was when I parted ways with a ten dollar bill to see “Paparazzi.”  “P2″ has a few satisfyingly ridiculous moments, decent enough gore and star Rachel Nichols isn’t hard on the eyes.  Overall, however, it’s terrible enough that I wished I could escape through a trapdoor in the theater, directly into my car, so no one would spot me walking out of this movie.  Wasn’t Wes Bentley a budding star at one time?  His post “American Beauty” career makes Thora Birch’s look like a smashing success by comparison.  I wasn’t forced to see this movie — I wanted to.  “American Gangster” was even playing in the same theater, but the allure of “P2″ was irresistible.  Do you need any more reasons why my Top 10 can’t be taken seriously?

And on that note, I’ll sign off hoping you enjoyed this list.  If not, feel free to make a Top 10 list of reasons you didn’t and leave them in the comments.

by Dan Tester

It has been 20 years now. It is time to come out of the closet.

It is time for me to openly admit a dark secret. This is kind of a momentous occasion for me. It is not easy to reveal such private inner feelings in public, and certainly not on a little-read blog base. I assure you, it is not because I am ashamed, but it is because I know I will be judged. I will immediately be scorned, and disdained, and possibly pitied. But I don’t care any more. I am tired of living in this secrecy, and I will no longer allow ignorance to regulate my lifestyle. So I say it now…I say it loud….I say it proud…I scream it from the hills……

I LOVE ISHTAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I still remember the day I first saw the theatrical trailer for ISHTAR. I was at a high school party in a classmate’s house and I was sitting next to Alex, a Mexican exchange student. It was 1987. It was a low point of the party, and the TV was still audible. The ISHTAR ad came on, and I watched. And I was intrigued. So was Alex. I think he was intrigued. I exclaimed “I gotta see that one” and he turned to me and said “Si, Si.”  Just to test him, soon afterward I turned and said “The crockpot is cookin‘ that ham quite nicely Grandma, and a burrito is really just a glorified taco with some added Poop-Poop-de-Doop!!” And Alex turned to me and said…”Si, Si.” Honestly, I am not sure how he was even in our high school. But I sure loved his camaraderie.

I remember about a week later, I went on a date with a nice girl named Anne. Well, it wasn’t really a date I guess. We were at another high school party, and it was kind of a dud, so I asked Anne if she wanted to see ISHTAR. She said “Uhhhhhh…you mean with you?” So we went, and we both loved it. But then, nothing happened between us. I was a geek unable to understand the connections that could be cemented from such a potentially aesthetically physically bonding mutual experience. About a week later, I lied to my best friend Matt, and told him that I hadn’t seen it, and that I really wanted to, so he went to see it with me as well. And Matt liked it too. Somehow, I found a way to see ISHTAR a few more times in the theater.  I just couldn’t get enough. I loved this smart, funny comedy. And I still do.

The plot is not deep. ISHTAR is about two horribly untalented New York singer/songwriters named “Rogers and Clarke” (Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty) who are so bad they can only find a booking in Morocco. So they book it. They are dreamers. Of course, upon arriving to the desert, they become the pawns in a power struggle between the CIA and the evil dictator of the neighboring nation of Ishtar…a situation that can completely destabilize the status quo of the Middle East. You see, these two nincompoops, through a series of misunderstandings, are mistaken as the two “Messengers of God” who have been predestined to stabilize the region, and thus must be stopped at any cost. I will take a step back now and allow you to make your own analogies, 20 years later, to George W. Bush and Dick Cheney.  As far as I can tell, neither of those two knuckleheads can carry a tune either.

Speaking of tunes, the songs of “Rogers and Clarke” in this film are brilliant. It is hard to write stupid as smart. But Elaine May and Paul Williams obviously put great time and effort into perfecting the naïve amateurishness of the songs in ISHTAR. It would have been easy to just write dumb songs, and then allow the protagonists to appear as simple fools. But it is something else to write dumb sounding songs that are so perfectly representative of the innocently non-cynical nonsense from untalented creative types out there who think they are writing the next “Bridge Over Troubled Water.“ And ISHTAR allows us to see the birth of these songs, as we watch Rogers and Clarke toiling over their tortured art, struggling to make each word sound just right, resulting in Hoffman castigating Beatty to forget the word “herb,” because there has never been a hit song with the word “herb” in it. May and Williams really capture the inner struggles of a couple of schnooks who have no talent whatsoever but have really put their heart and soul into potential hits such as “The Lawnmower Song,” “I‘m Leaving Some Love In My Will,” and my personal favorite, “Wardrobe of Love“…. “She Said Come Look, There’s A Wardrobe Of Love In My Eyes. Take Your Time, Look Around, And See If There’s Sumthin’ Your Size.”

As I have told people for 20 years (well, those that cared to listen), the true beauty of this film is in the performances. Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty are great trading filmic personas, Charles Grodin is at his dry witted best as a duplicitous CIA agent, and Isabelle Adjani is as cute as she is subversive as the Ishtari freedom fighter who complicates matters for our fearless duo.  Due to time constraints on this review, I will just leave this point at that. I mean, if I really have to push this aspect of the film to convince you…just stop reading and go rent RUSH HOUR 3 immediately, now available nationwide on DVD, Blu-Ray and Betamax. It has a really, really funny Black guy in it, and a hilarious Chinese guy too, and they never understand what each other are saying!!!!!  And there‘s lots of car crashes too! I’ve been told it is “3…3…3 TIMES THE FUNNY AND WHITE PEOPLE WILL LOVE IT!!!!!!!!”

(This has been a paid political advertisement from the CONFORM AND SUBMIT GROUP, a political action committee affiliate of the ELECT RUDOLPH GIULIANI FOR PRESIDENT consortium.)

But back to focus here…

The writing and direction of Elaine May is evidence that ISHTAR is…brace yourselves now… the last great 1970s film. I defy you to watch the first half hour of ISHTAR and not think “70s.” ISHTAR has classic ’70s cinema written all over it. Unfortunately, it was released in the budget-aware apocalypse of the 1980s. 

And on that note, I would like to address a personal message to my dear sweet Elaine May.

Dear Elaine May:

I love you. You made great films in the 1970s - MIKEY AND NICKY, THE HEARTBREAK KID, A NEW LEAF and HEAVEN CAN WAIT (oh I am sorry, Elaine, you only “co-wrote“ that one…my mistake). An impressive list amongst your contemporaries of the great 1970s. But in an unfortunate set of timing, you were a “female” directing a major film in the soul-sucking decade of the 1980s. Had you been a man, you would have survived, as did your male contemporaries of the ’70s who had similar “profit margin” diversions in the 80s - Scorsese had THE KING OF COMEDY and AFTER HOURS. Coppola had THE COTTON CLUB and ONE FROM THE HEART. Georgie Lucas had some nonsense about a DUCK. But I still love you, Elaine May. You should have gotten the second and third chances these fellows got. Because you are wonderful.

Love, Dan

A lot of hoo-hah was made about the budget of ISHTAR, long before the film even graced the screen. I remember as a youth reading stories about how horrible ISHTAR was, months before it ever even premiered. I will be proud to go on record here and say…brace yourselves…that the authenticity the budget allowed for makes ISHTAR that much better. The wide shots of the Moroccan desert, as Rogers and Clarke try to negotiate their blind camel to safety are not only beautiful, but they accentuate the import and reality of their dilemma. I guess you could have shot this film on a Hollywood soundstage, utilizing cardboard cacti and Gilligan’s Island lagoon sand, but ISHTAR wouldn’t have been as good. The location shooting was vital for the import of the tale to work, particularly in reference to the classic “desert gunrunner” sequence. I dare you not to laugh during this scene.

And if we are really talking about budget ramifications here, then Kevin Costner should have been executed for THE POSTMAN. Kevin Costner should have been hung by his neck until he was dead for THE POSTMAN, if we are really talking about the penalties of financial deficits and creative self-indulgence. If Elaine May was blackballed in Hollywood for ISHTAR in the mid-1980s, then I am sorry, Kevin Costner should have been put out of our misery in the late 1990s. And this scenario only works if we all assume that Costner actually survived the firing squad he faced for WATERWORLD. But Costner is still going strong, ain’t “he”? Where is my beloved Elaine May????? Unfortunately, “she” is gone.

In conclusion, I will leave you with this…

If you watch ISHTAR, and hate it, then all I will say is…thanks for taking the chance.

If you watch ISHTAR, and like it…please send an email. I would love to correspond.

If you haven’t watched ISHTAR, and still say it sucks…GO FUCK YOURSELF. (Twice)

At the bottom of this article will be a link to a great ISHTAR fan website. Please do an old white boy a favor…click the link below, and when the page appears, click on the “Watch The Trailer“ option. It is the original promotional trailer that I saw on TV that day in 1987 while I was sitting on a sofa next to a Mexican exchange student at a high school party, and I was hooked. I mean, come on. It’s Dusty Hoffman!! And Warren Beatty!! And Chuck Grodin in his prime!!! And…and….well, either check it out or don’t.  There is nothing more I can do.

http://www.ishtarthemovie.com/

ISHTAR is also available for your Netflix queuing, by the way…right here!!!!

http://www.netflix.com/Movie/Ishtar/60035967?trkid=189530&strkid=1775528404_0_0

In the immortal words of Rogers and Clarke - “Life is the way we audition for God. Let us pray that we all get the job.”