Will Menaker

A Serious Man

2009-10-05T14:18:59-04:00

The Jew Who Wasn't There...

Big questions about faith, God, and mortality surround small people and the even smaller vagaries of fate and circumstance in the work of the Coen Brothers. However, all those big questions are posed not as religious or philosophical queries but more as punchlines in the great cosmic joke of life. Old Testament references are sown throughout their work, be it the Song of Solomon in Miller's Crossing, Genesis and The Book of Daniel in Barton Fink, and probably the whole thing somewhere in The Big Lebowski. Yet, if there is a common denominator to the Coens' entire body of work it is the utter absence of any controlling order, morality or meaning in the universe, so why then would God figure so largely in their films? I think the answer lies in the fact that the God of the Old Testament is their favorite fictional character. They relate to him, because who other than those sarcastic tricksters could get one of their favorite creations to try and butcher his own kid, or inflict any number of other cruelties for a bit of a laugh? So, it is fitting that their latest would be a take on the Book of Job, a biblical shaggy-dog story already in The Brothers mold. Much like the God of Abraham, the Coens know that there is nothing funner than to create a universe, fill it with interesting characters, beset them with all manner of major and minor calamities and disasters and then listen to the cries of "Why? Why? Why?" roll in, from both your creations and their audience.

A Serious Man is maybe the Coens most personal film to date and as Todd McCarthy of Variety points out, the kind of the movie you can only make after winning a few Oscars. Who else could do a black comedy about Judaism set in the suburban Minnesota of the late 1960s? The film opens with something of a Yiddish ghost story set in the "old country" where an encounter with what may or may not be a dybbuk, (a cameo by Fyvush Finkel), sets in motion what may or may not be a curse which plays itself out through the generations all the way to 1967 and our lead nebbish, physics professor Larry Gopnik, played with hilarious deadpan by Michael Stuhlbarg, whose life goes to complete shit in the weeks leading up to his son's Bar Mitzvah as circumstances conspire to test his faith. His tenure is threatened by anonymous letters denigrating him, a Korean student tries to bribe him for a passing grade, he has unwittingly joined the Columbia Records Club, his possibly, maybe anti-Semitic neighbor is encroaching into his lawn, his daughter is stealing from his wallet, his son is in turn stealing from his sister to buy a lid of pot, his semi-insane brother (Richard Kind) is crashing on his couch and perpetually hogging the bathroom, and to top it off his wife is leaving him for a smarmy, over-touchy widower.

It's enough to make even the most devout confront the lyrics to the Jefferson Airplane song that bookends and forms something of a coda to the film. Indeed, what Larry thought to be the truth was lies, and what's more, all the joy within him dies. In other words, in typical Coen fashion, these events snowball into a bizarre series of mishaps, all of which our lead character has absolutely no control over, save for mounting financial obligation. Larry seeks solace in the Jewish tradition and attempts to find meaning for his suffering in the counsel of a series of Rabbis. Why would Hashem give us all of these questions but none of the answers? And what good is religion if its only answer is that it's not our place to ask? Of course, Larry gets no satisfaction from consulting the rabbis and maybe more surprisingly, gets no answers from smoking weed with a foxy neighbor given to nude sunbathing. Larry's search for meaning and reason for his numerous tribulations stands in contrast to his job as a physics professor, where in front of a giant blackboard filled with mathematical equations, he tries to explain things like Schrodinger's Cat -- and similar to Tony Shalhoub's monologue in The Man Who Wasn't There -- the Heisenberg Uncertainty principle. All things which point to the essentially random nature of the universe, be it in quantum mechanics or the trivialities of everyday life, in which these principles find their expression. For Larry, in physics as with Judaism, the only true meaning to be found is in uncertainty.

Because A Serious Man, takes place in the Coen universe, it is given to demonstrations of not so much the banality of evil or suffering, but rather their absurdity. And similar to the one we inhabit when we leave the theater, the Coen universe is so meticulously crafted that the absence of an inherent order seems almost impossible. How could something of such exquisite function arise from something so absurd and meaningless? As such, we are left to pour over every detail and scene with an eye for an ever elusive tidbit or revelation that will bring the grand narrative into sharp focus. Of course, with the Coens and God we see everything through that glass darkly and the joke is always on us...and God doesn't even have Roger Deakins as his cinematographer.

Bonus -- Stay seated for the entire credits and you'll get an Easter Egg assuring you, "No Jews were harmed in the making of this film."

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The Leader TV Guide, Fall 20

2009-09-28T14:04:16-04:00

Teacher, Mother, Secret Lover...

After a long summer of re-runs and nothing entertaining to watch but old people demonstrate their senility at town hall meetings, finally the days have begun to shorten, a crisp chill is carried on the air and network and cable television again turns their glowing, all-seeing eye upon us, providing both meaning and brief, blessed distraction from reality with a crop of exciting new shows. Let's take a look!

....

FratForward

In an epic new mystery, the entire human race simultaneously blacks out at the same moment and receives eerie and cryptic visions of lost time, disturbing behavior, and a shared global sense of deep, deep shame. The race is on to decode the meaning of this phenomenon and discover who or what is responsible for scrawling crudely drawn penises and swastikas on the faces of billions, and to get rid of these fucking headaches.

The Misremembered

In the United States as many as 40,000 people daily and routinely misinterpret or willfully ignore their own experiences and the actions and thoughts of other people. Now a team of experts in fields of forensic psychology, investigation, and Facebook dedicate their lives to helping others recall the names, faces, and actual intentions of that girl that might have been flirting with you at a friend's birthday, but really has a boyfriend or that co-worker whose bare-minimum level of courtesy and interest in your weekend maybe quite possibly could signal interest in a serious romantic relationship. Anywhere there is someone thinking of calling an ex or imagining and ignoring reality to make their life more palatable, the skilled and compassionate team of The Misremembered will be there to deliver closure, bitter, bitter closure.

PUMA Town

In this hilarious new situation comedy, a recently divorced Mom and Hillary Clinton supporter discovers the rules of the game have changed as she struggles to cope with single life living under the presidency of an inadequate black man. Orly Taitz guest stars.

American Meth Lab

From the basements, backwoods and rented trailers amidst the economic and cultural tundra of rural America comes a reality show from the producers of Deadliest Ghosts and Man vs. Wall, which takes a look at the competition and rivalry among the nation's best crank cooks and speed addicts. You can't script characters this colorful as these tight-knit clans wheel, deal and struggle to keep their family businesses afloat. It's real life danger, high stakes and big pay days as we watch the daily grind of procuring large quantities of cough syrup and industrial methane, preventing chemical explosions, inhaling deadly toxic fumes, and staving off the relentless assault of the shadow people and the bugs they implant under your skin.

MM: Merchant Marines

There are approximately 465 ships in the United States Merchant fleet, the civilian auxiliary to the Navy, each one staffed by the brave men and women of the Merchant Marines working everyday to protect and facilitate international commerce. The creators of NCIS and PTSD bring you the latest pulse-pounding vaguely crime-related drama, as the dedicated and sexy crew of the ~~USS~~ USNS Edwin Meese uses the latest in GPS technology to track and transport cargo, avoid safety hazards, and measure water depth. MM: Merchant Marines is our first and last line of defense in the import and export process.

Community Wife

What happens when one woman leaves the big city behind and accidentally winds up married to every man in a small Alaskan village? Hijinks, polyamory, and extreme social/cultural deviation ensue as one-time career gal discovers she really can have it all as she juggles the egos, schedules, and bizarre sexual hang-ups of her thirty husbands, all while running her own outsider art gallery. They may not be perfect, but when you add them all up, you get one dream guy! Nobody said matriarchy would be easy!

The Specialist

Sonny never wanted to be the leading civilian consultant to the Chicago homicide division, all he wanted was a bowl of Easy-Mac and hot dogs, but his savant-like intuition, and unusual strength make him the perfect cop: a cop with Down's Syndrome. Sonny and his partner/handler/Mom are God's very special gift to law enforcement and very special nightmare to criminals. His eccentric and rock-star like behavior and unwitting flouting of authority make The Specialist a loose cannon and wild card in any investigation.

Modern Anarchy

The first TV show with no plot, no actors, no script, no reality, no producers, and really nothing other than a steady assault of discordant images and sounds that document the ongoing decay of every single institution that governs American life. Almost everything in this wacky, mixed-up modern world, is a living demonstration of the Second Law of Thermodynamics: the universal principle of increasing entropy or the simple fact that all systems are in a constant state of breaking down. Chaos rules the endless void of the universe and Thursday nights! Coming this fall.

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"Pain Don't Hurt": RIP Patrick Swayze

2009-09-15T22:24:28-04:00

It was a bittersweet bit of kismet last night as I saw the news that Patrick Swayze had passed away as I was perusing the Internet for material I could use in a possible review of Steel Dawn, (aka Post-Apocalyptic Road House) a film I had just recently re-discovered with much of the same glee and cheeky affection that so defined the Swayze canon for me. Indeed, I could say much of the Swayze oeuvre were guilty pleasures, but then again I feel no guilt at my unalloyed enjoyment of so much of his work.

In looking back on his career, I'm struck by the fact more so than almost any contemporary actor, Swayze was defined by equal appeal to both the ladies and fellas. I don't know of any woman of my generation who doesn't know Dirty Dancing front to back, and I don't know of, or rather don't want to know of, any man who can't liberally pepper any conversation with quotes from Road House and Point Break. "Utah! Get me two!!" Okay, that was Busey, but you get the idea. Swayze was a genuine pop culture icon, the star of both chick- and prick-flick classics, all marked by a certain trademark silliness and charm, but more than anything the pure enjoyment that only movies can deliver. Here is my tribute to three of my favorite Swayze characters.

Dalton, Road House

As the legendary "Cooler" brought in to clean up the shit-kicking Double-Deuce, with Dalton, Swayze defined his quintessential action character: the sensitive ass-kicker, the stranger who comes to town and saves the yokels from Ben Gazzara. Throughout Road House, Dalton smashes bottles over heads, breaks legs, ribs, necks, and tosses grown men around like bags of laundry, but also fits in time for a bit shirtless Tai Chi, meditation, and even brags about his Philosophy Degree from NYU to the local doctor and the rest of the toothless drunks and rubes. You half-expected Dalton to discuss Kierkegaard after a putting some redneck's head through a table, and yet the complete ridiculousness of it all never seemed out of place. Never just a thug, Swayze always made sure to include some element of vaguely Eastern spirituality or self-discipline into his serial-beatings and killings of many, many men. I think this bit of dialog nicely captures the gentleman-like approach to ass-kicking that separated Swayze from many of his contemporaries -- that and the perpetual shirtlessness.

All you have to do is follow three simple rules. One, never underestimate your opponent. Expect the unexpected. Two, take it outside. Never start anything inside the bar unless it's absolutely necessary. And three, be nice.

Bodhi, Point Break

In the Bromantic masterpiece, Point Break, Swayze continued and expanded his philosophical thug routine with radical surfer/Ex-President bank robber, Bodhi, who continued to marry his brand of super-intense, lifestyle-zen to mayhem and violence. Like Road House, Point Break is the kind of movie that if I was switching through channels and happened upon it, I would be set, no matter what point I joined in. Not technically a "good guy" this time around, Bodhi was a New-Age killer out for the next adrenaline fix, and one can tell that Swayze relished the role of the "bad guy" you root for. The ideal foil to Keanu's unintentional straight-man routine, and the perfect embodiment of the budding and brainless culture of "extreme" to bubble up in the nineties, where any experience can and would be justified by the "rush" it provided. Swayze was perfect, and in the end, when we see Bodhi take off down a Tsunami size wave in Australia, one can't help but wonder, and hope, that he pulled it off. As he said, perhaps befitting the occasion:

If you want the ultimate, you've got to be willing to pay the ultimate price. It's not tragic to die doing what you love.

Jim Cunningham, Donnie Darko

This was a bit of purely inspired casting, as Jim Cunningham and his "Fear vs. Love" self-help empire was the perfectly evil parody of the supernaturally-energetic, guru-figure Swayze cultivated throughout his career. The dark heart lurking at the center of every motivational speaker and youth counselor, Jim Cunningham's blank stare, good looks, idiotic self-help jargon and mindless followers was such a dead ringer for the Joel Osteens and legions of "Secret" loving pod-people, relentlessly lowering the standards and IQ of our culture--or as Bill Hicks would say, "the fevered egos tainting our collective unconscious"--that never has the phrase, "I think you're the fucking Anti-Christ" been more aptly applied.

RIP Patrick Swayze. He died too young and will be missed, but he leaves behind a body of work -- I didn't even mention Black Dog and Next of Kin!--that has brought us the hilarity, joy, endlessly quotable enjoyment, and fun that only film -- or possibly a well-oiled and shirtless man -- can bring.

New Rule...

2009-09-09T13:18:46-04:00

Tim Pawlenty:

KING: Let me move on to another issue, another big issue on the president's plate, where, in Congress, he's largely getting more Republican support than Democratic support, and that's Afghanistan.

George Will, a very influential conservative columnist wrote this earlier in the week, "Forces should be substantially reduced to serve a comprehensively revised policy. America should do only what can be done from offshore, using intelligence, drones, cruise missiles, air strikes, and small potent special forces units concentrating on the porous 1,500-mile border with Pakistan, a nation that actually matters."

Is it time for the United States to pull almost all of its troops from Afghanistan?

PAWLENTY: No. I recently returned from my fourth trip to Iraq and my second trip to Afghanistan. The administration has defined the mission in Afghanistan as to to disrupt and destroy the Taliban and Al Qaida and other terrorist forces that represent a threat to the national security interests of the United States.

We need to make sure that mission is successful. And the rule needs to be, when the United States goes to war, the United States wins, and so we need to make sure we do those things to complete that mission successfully, and that includes putting more troops into Afghanistan if needed.

.....

Otto: You know your problem? You don't like winners.

Archie: Winners?

Otto: Yeah. Winners.
Archie: Winners, like North Vietnam?

Otto: Shut up. We didn't lose Vietnam. It was a tie!

Archie: [going into a cowboy-like drawl] I'm tellin' ya baby, they kicked your little ass there. Boy, they whooped yer hide REAL GOOD.

As of late, our record against out of conference, and even un-ranked opponents has been rather pitiful. We thought changing coaches would solve our problems, but we need to re-dedicate ourselves to a culture of winning, a renewed commitment to excellence, because right now we're the Notre Dame of super-powers, coasting on long-past glory and sweet-heart TV deals. Reduced to playing a rigged, cream-puff schedule designed to get us into the big game, and yet still taking embarrassing losses against Navy and Air Force, or rather countries without a Navy or Air Force.

District 9

2009-08-21T15:14:30-04:00

Alien Apartheid

It took until the doldrums of the late-August dumping grounds for the best movie of the summer, if not the year--made for a paltry $30 million and starring zero-name to non-professional South African actors--to creep in under the radar and absolutely embarrass/destroy the bloated glut of thoughtless, joyless, CGI chumsicles currently clogging the multiplexes. Soderbergh's The Girlfriend Experience may have been the smartest movie I've seen this year, but Neill Blomkamp's District 9 is definitely the most fun. However, this does not imply that amidst the glorious, instantaneous splatter produced by alien hardware shooting rich arcs of electricity at Nigerian voodoo gangs and corporate death squads, that the film is merely a spectacle or a good time. Far from it, Blomkamp has created a movie that manages to be a more genuinely moving and dare I say, compassionate take on the process of dehumanization than dozens of other more serious films. District 9 is a film about man's inhumanity to man, but like the best horror/sci-fi it simply substitutes the new flesh of the zombie, cyborg, or alien for a situation or socio-political dynamic common to our species that already exists all-over our lonely, fractured planet.

By now I'm sure we're all familiar with the plot details: thirty years ago a massive alien monolith/mothership appears over the city of Johannesburg, South Africa. Coming neither in peace nor for conquest, the floating city merely hovers ominously in mid-air, and here Blomkamp references the sci-fi canon to great effect, peppering the film with sly quotes from other classics. The mothership brings to mind the city-destroying saucers of Independence Day and V, but this city above a city is not the director winking at his fellow geeks, but rather the conscious referencing of the common sci-fi trope, that a more technologically advanced civilization is always to be feared. After all, throughout our own history, those civilizations that were able to master guns, germs, and steel invariably dominated and enslaved those that hadn't. The arrival of the first, fully-armored conquistador on horseback was almost surely as alien, and not to mention apocalyptic, to the Aztec empire as any flying saucer would be to our own society. However, when us humans finally decide to pop open this massive tin can in the sky, what they find is not an onslaught of overpowering alien marauders, but rather a scene more reminiscent of the liberation of Dachau or Auschwitz, as they find a million or so hideous and emaciated life-forms living in their own filth. The film is a disturbing take on the shop-worn line, "take us to your leaders." Indeed we do, and what they decide is to cram them into a massive concentration camp.

The aliens, referred throughout the film by the Kaffir-like slur of "Prawns", adapt to life in "District 9" living in shacks, sifting through garbage, eating the occasional hog-head, and developing a junkie like addiction to cat food. Their grotesque appearance--a slender, lanky crustacean-cockroach hybrid--and utterly degraded state of existence test the limits of our empathy towards a form of life so well, alien. We hear many of the same things about the Prawns as we do about so many other troubling groups of people or "others" scraping the bottom of the social barrel: they breed out of control, decent, normal people must pay for their welfare, they're violent, they're animals, child-like and most of all accustomed to a firm hand above reason or cooperation. Can't someone just do something about them? The Prawn, far from displacing the racial politics of contemporary South Africa, falls right into place at the basement of the hierarchy. A film less attuned to the reality of how oppression affects human beings would have had the impoverished South African blacks forming some kind of solidarity with their alien brothers, but District 9 has no such pretensions, instead showing that the arrival of the Prawn gives even the poorest, slum-dweller a whole new class of beings, below even them, to exploit for fun and profit.

For all its rich subtext and imagination, the success of District 9 is due in large part to the brilliant performance of Sharlto Copley--in his first film--as Wikus Van De Merwe, our everyman protagonist. Wikus is a dweebish, office drone in the "Alien Affairs" dept of MNU--multinational united--a private corporation, and surprise, surprise, defense contractor that generously offers to take over the maintenance and security of District 9 from the beleaguered government. The opening scene, an improvised, documentary take of Wikus, accompanied by a merc army of execute-at-will sadists, "evicting" prawns from their hovels in preparation for their "evacuation" to a more secure facility is a chilling sequence, where Copley obscenely mugs for the camera as he pumps himself up and jokes about the squalid conditions that surround him, pretending to be an important and tough man. The whole thing vaguely reminded me of almost every Discovery or Nat Geo host I've ever seen. Copley manages to do the near impossible in a summer-film, which is basically undergo a completely genuine and affecting evolution (in this case a literal one) of character from a totally unsympathetic dork, as Eileen Jones at The Exiled points out, straight out of The Office: South Africa, to a tragic Seth Brundle figure, who loses a humanity it's not certain he even possessed to begin with. Even as circumstances force him into the role of the dreaded "other", Wikus is no more or less selfish--or human--as he was before. By the end and the film's poignant last frame, Wikus may have achieved a form of grace, but by and large no one has learned anything. The humans aren't any more compassionate and the prawns aren't anymore free, there is no real hope, save for that of escape from District Earth.

I don't normally seek to defend movies I consider worthy or important from critical wrong-think and thought-crime, but I just want to highlight something particularly galling that Eileen Jones pointed out in her review, and that would be the complaint of one of Slate.com's stable of "contrarian" flatworms. In short, critic Daniel Engber doesn't like District 9 because of it's "dull, anti-corporate politics." You see Engber is disturbed that corporations have been slandered by so many sci-fi films, which both in film and print, starting with Dick and running through Gibson among others, seem to be troubled by the anti-democratic, anti-human nature of the multi-national conglomerate. As Ms. Jones says, "why oh why, bright bulb Daniel Engber asks, are sci-fi films so tiresomely fixated on evil corporate overlords running our dystopian future? What could be behind this strange fixation? What could it be? What cooooouuuuld it beeeeeeeeee?" I mean, aliens are one thing, but who could believe a film where a corporation could be complicit in genocide or use a private army to murder, steal and lie at will?

This is pretty standard fare for Slate.com, as their M.O. is usually something like: "Feeling Hungry? Here's Why You're Not" that often involves staking out a position seemingly at odds with their upper-class liberal readership, that for some reason always seems to dovetail with the free-market/reactionary take on most social or economic issues, but I'll just link to these two items from just the past two weeks, and leave it at that.

The Hurt Locker

2009-08-14T16:29:15-04:00

Death Trippin'...

"That was good." Says Staff Sergeant Will James (Jeremy Renner) as he exhales a freshly lit cigarette in a near post-coital moment, after pulling apart and defusing a car wired with a half-dozen or so artillery shells stuffed in its trunk. This steady rhythm of the build-up and release of tension as well as the drug-like effects of being intimately close to death forms the backbone of director Kathryn Bigelow's The Hurt Locker, a film that follows the daily grind of an Army "EOD" (explosive ordinance disposal) unit as they squirrel away the last forty days of their rotation in Baghdad at the height of the Iraq War in 2004. The men of the EOD unit don astronaut like bomb-suits, which give the distinct feeling of walking on Mars, rather than down the alleys and streets of Baghdad. Each one filled with more garbage and dead animals than the dumpster behind a veterinarian's office, with every pile of trash possibly concealing a booby-trap and each cell phone call the possible trigger. Admirably free of plot, the movie unfolds as more of collection of five or six vignettes as the bomb squad spends their days negotiating a series of increasingly hair-raising death-traps as they dig up and defuse IEDs buried in garbage, cars, and strapped both in and on human bodies.

The arc of the film concerns the aforementioned Sgt. James, a hotshot bomb-tec, who is brought into the unit after the original, by-the-book leader of the tight-knit squad (Guy Pearce) meets a bit of explosive-ordinance that carries out its intended purpose before he can do his job. Sgt. James is a certified cowboy who loves his job and is good enough at it to get away with a seat of his pants attitude that considering the work is both suicidal and completely rational. After all, when looking at a trunk filled with enough explosives to level a city block, why bother with a cumbersome bomb-suit in 120 degree weather? Much to the dismay of fellow EODers, Sergeant Sanborn and Specialist Eldridge (Anthony Mackie and James Geraghty), Sgt. James is a magnet for danger seeking out his next adrenaline fix with the same grim enthusiasm of a junkie.

The film begins with a quote from journalist Chris Hedges' War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning that compares the experience of combat to an incredibly potent drug. War it seems, doesn't just give us meaning, it also gets us high, really high. Of course with the glorious highs there is the accompanying cycle of jones, come-down, and withdrawal. Sgt. James doesn't like getting closer and closer to death, anymore than a heroin addict enjoys the daily routine of securing their next hit. It is merely the all-consuming need for that next rush, be it the form of a needle or in this case, suicide time bombs and snipers, that drives him. However, for the junkie no high ever lasts long enough, no cut is pure enough, no release intense enough, save for the inevitable and final one.

The Hurt Locker arrives at a time when the Iraq war has mostly drifted off the front page without any definitive cinematic moment, so it comes as no surprise that it would reach a level of critical mass and Oscar-nom inevitability. It separates itself from the pack and nourishes movie critics hungry for the perceived verisimilitude of movie combat mostly with its hand-held camera work and a talented cast free of big names, although Renner is sure to be one soon enough. Eschewing both traditional narrative and for better or worse, a point of view about the conflict it seeks to portray, the film approaches the kind of unaffected, unmediated portrayal of war and the men who live within its strange, parallel reality, but for all its "grittiness" and "realness" it can't help but indulge several Hollywood war movie cliches instantly recognizable to anyone with even a passing familiarity with the genre. We have the looming date of returning home as a drama-enhancing device, the arrogant hotshot and his friendship with the little Iraqi urchin who sells bootleg DVDs on the base ("You want donkey-movie? I hook you up with the good shit!"), as well as the clueless, rear echelon, Army shrink whose fate is sealed the second we hear that he'll be accompanying the crew "outside the wire." By the end of the film, when we see James return to the requisite, estranged wife (Lost's Evangeline Lilly) and kid, it's not exactly a revelation to find out that the safety of domesticity and a "normal" life of cleaning gutters and shopping for cereal stateside holds no appeal to our protagonist.

The question is whether or not The Hurt Locker engages these tropes to expose them or because through film, they've become so engrained in our perception of war that we can't imagine otherwise. I'm not sure I can answer this question, but in thinking about it, I wondered how much the American war movie has shaped the perceptions of those men and women actually involved in the real thing. I think specifically of Anthony Swofford's memoir of life as Marine sniper in the first Gulf War, Jarhead, in which he relates that many of the hours spent waiting and preparing for combat were filled with repeat viewings of Apocalypse Now and Full Metal Jacket. Whether The Hurt Locker will eventually be watched by soldiers in the next generation's wars remains to be seen, but what we have now is a meticulously executed and mostly admirable portrait of men at work in America's biggest business. Through film, we may better know ourselves, but as Louis Proyect points out, for a movie about the whos, hows, and whys of the men who locate and diffuse bombs, the second, and arguably much more important half of this equation concerning those who plant them and why--perhaps much of the same primal death-trip addiction--remains almost completely alien and unknown.

PS- In addition to Guy Pearce and Evangeline Lilly, be on the look out for several delicious cameos from David Morse and Bigelow-vet Ralph Fiennes.

Lou Dobbs Demands to See Proof of Obama Conception

2009-07-23T13:55:08-04:00

WASHINGTON DC -- CNN cable news pundit and radio host, Lou Dobbs, has joined the growing chorus of voices concerned about the legitimacy of the Obama presidency, based on lingering questions regarding the President's birth certificate and status as a natural-born U.S. citizen. "There are questions here, folks," said Dobbs on his nightly CNN program. "Questions that could be easily resolved if only the president would produce a copy of his birth certificate, a copy other than the one he already released." Not content with the document already certified by the State of Hawaii, or the notice of birth in published in the local papers, Dobbs speculated that this issue would remain relevant, until it was adequately dealt with to his satisfaction. Saying, "we need some real solid proof other than these 'documents.' A photo or footage of some kind, clearly depicting Obama's alleged parents engaging in some kind of unprotected intercourse or sexual congress while holding up an American newspaper with a date corresponding to his birth in August of 1961 would go a long way towards dispelling these rumors, but unfortunately the White House has been less than forthcoming on this matter."

Dobbs' demand for proof of the Obama conception picked up steam on the Hill, when several Republican Reps. co-sponsored a bill that would require all future presidential candidates to provide, "detailed video or photographic documentation of their mothers and fathers having sex." "This bill is about clearing up any potential doubts there may be in the future," said Rep. John Campbell (R-CA). A grainy or badly blurred copy will not do either, "As Americans we demand nothing less from our leaders than a clear, unaltered, unedited shot of the moment when their fathers' erect penis ejaculated sperm into their mothers' vagina on God-given American soil," Campbell stated, before qualifying his comment by declaring, "As far as I know, that is how U.S. children are made."

The "Where American Babies Come From Act" has gained support from Fox News and Talk Radio, including rising star Glenn Beck, who suggested setting up an independent "people's commission" of "patriots and citizens" to verify and bear witness to any sex act that could potentially produce an American president. "This is dangerous people" intoned Beck. "Mark my words, as we speak illegal immigrants and ACORN operatives are impregnating American women on foreign soil and planting forged documents ahead of time, so that in forty or fifty years they can get one of these 'children' elected president and complete their final goal of destroying liberty in America."

Proof of birth and conception may not go far enough for some, including former Presidential candidate Alan Keyes, who warned of a looming "constitutional, philosophical, and existential crisis" unless the "usurper" Obama could provide some proof of his actual existence. "My perception of the figure called 'Obama' does not necessarily correlate to an objective reality," said Keyes. "Obama's existence cannot be known unless identified through thoughts, memories, and feelings, all of which are subjective, and so it is not unreasonable to question the reality of his very being." It is likely that these questions about Obama's citizenship and alleged existence will continue until such a time as when The White House can prove something is not to someone who has experienced a reality of something that is.

Public Enemies

2009-07-03T13:22:16-04:00

Tommy Gun, you ain't happy less you got one...

There is a moment in almost every Michael Mann film when the camera lingers just over the shoulder of one of our protagonists, filling the screen with the back of their head and maybe a bit of ear as it follows Mann's clockwork men mechanically pursuing their work. The camera follows them as if it is the unseen and largely unquantifiable force or weight driving them. This signature shot nicely sums up Mann's body of work: the thoroughly detailed and somewhat detached procedural of men at work and the existential drift that moves them on either side of the thin line between law and crime. This has produced results both sublime -- The Insider -- and ludicrously awful -- Miami Vice -- so it was with some trepidation that I approached his latest, Public Enemies, an ambitious, but flawed epic of the Golden Age of American crime.

Shot all in HD Cam, Mann and cinematographer Dante Spinotti have created a movie that looks fantastic, as the light-weight of this new technology allows for all those unseen forces to become even more fluid and omnipresent, creating a hyper-real canvas of extreme close-ups and a muted palette of browns and blacks that is both ugly and gorgeous, a fitting look for the film's depression era setting. Of course, it is really Johnny Depp's movie, whose performance as John Dillinger eclipses almost everything else in its orbit, and remains the most interesting and engaging part of the film. The movie is shot with technical brilliance, but it is really only Depp that manages to captivate or engage. The film is littered with a who's who of character actors who crop up again and again without much to do or say. You have Giovanni Ribisi, Stephen Graham, Leelee Sobieski, That Dude from Lord of the Rings, Shawn Hatosy, Stephen Lang, Rory Cochrane, Billy Crudup, Lili Taylor, Channing Tatum, Stephen Dorff, Jason Clarke, and probably a dozen other people you may remember from such films and tv shows as ____. They're all quite good, they just don't really matter, drifting in and out of the movie or being gunned down without much rhyme or reason. Christian Bale is mostly a zero as the straight-laced G-man, Melvin Purvis, who pursues Dillinger. However, I should give Marion Cotillard her props as a non-prostitute, female in this sausage party of a movie. She does great work in a role that I nonetheless have the sneaking suspicion was thrown in to attract skeptical girlfriends on a Friday night.

The problem with Public Enemies is that much like the utterly listless American Gangster, it wants so badly to be the next great American crime epic, the next Bonnie & Clyde, the next Goodfellas, or even the next Heat for that matter. It aspires to be a grand statement on crime, celebrity, and the country that worships them, but it lacks any coherent idea of what it really wants to say. To be sure, it's much better than American Gangster, but watching Public Enemies basically left me with two thoughts. The first being that even when compared with hardcore sociopaths like Baby Face Nelson and Frank Nitti, the FBI -- or in this era, just the "BI" -- are far more evil, as they will gladly torture, kill, or destroy anything that gets in the way of expanding the powers of a small group of unelected, pseudo-fascists, or as Crudup's J. Edgar says, "a modern law enforcement agency made up of the best sort of young men," you know, WASPs without conscience. The second thought the film left me pondering was, why on Earth did we ever stop using Tommy guns? Because, man they look like they get the job done.

Ultimately, when taken as a whole, Public Enemies is a film not quite as good as its best moments. However, its best moments are really quite good. The bank heists, jail breaks, and one amazing shoot-out with the feds in the Wisconsin woods are thrilling and might be worth the price of admission, but I found that the movie was most inspired in its little throwaway moments, including one scene near the end where Depp asks a group of men the score to a baseball game, I'll spare you the set up, but it actually is worth the ticket price. There are also two really great meta-moment, scenes of Depp/Dillinger watching and seeing himself in the movies. It is here where the movie breaks out of itself and shows glimpses of the greatness it aspires to, although fans of history will already know how one of those trips to the movies ended.

Hitting Rails: An Afternoon On The High Line

2009-06-26T11:13:37-04:00

Last Wednesday afternoon, I decided to take advantage of a brief window of merely overcast, but not raining weather here in NYC and visit the long-awaited, much-hyped, and recently opened High Line Park. For those not in the know, the High Line is about a mile and half of abandoned freight tracks sitting thirty above Chelsea, unused since 1960, and overgrown with weeds and grass. The High Line cut a green swath through the old industrial buildings and warehouses on the Lower West side, and has now been refurbished by a public/private partnership into a unique promenade and "green" space here in Manhattan.

It is suiting that this long-gestating venture was born out of a public-private partnership, as the original High Line freight tracks were built as an infrastructure project in the 1930s between the city and private industry. This current relationship is between the city who owns the space, the several architectural firms who designed it, and perhaps most importantly the "Friends of the High Line," a group of Chelsea residents who maintain it and organized to save the demolition of this rusty link to a past New York from the ever-rapacious forces of development and their stalwart allies in the Rudy Giuliani administration.

In the 30s, this freight viaduct was a valuable commodity to New York's heavy industry. In aught-nine New York's most valuable commodity is the city itself, and the views, news, and real estate potential generated by such a unique space -- something that does not seem to be lost on one of the High Line's biggest supporters, Mayor Bloomberg.

This iron artery stretches in and out of movie billboards, through warehouses, and under luxury condos. Walking down the High Line is slightly surreal, as one gets the sense that they are simultaneously inside the city, but quite literally above it all. Having your gaze met by giant supermodels and Transformers robs them of a certain authority. Seeing these gods and monsters of advertising eye to eye adds to the pleasant surreality. Similar to the unspoken purpose of all parks here in New York, the High-Line breaks up the merciless grid that rules all locomotion in Manhattan, and the horizontal and vertical lines of the streets and avenues below appear as naturally-occurring curiosities. From the stadium seating looking up 10th ave, the stream of cars and people are just part of the view to be enjoyed.

As skeptical as I am of the entire concept -- as it usually connotes the destruction of public space in favor of private concerns -- this bit of urban renewal does seem to offer the best of past and present New York. A cheery collision of the ivy-covered death of a grittier, older city with the re-birth of the -- at times regrettably -- family-friendly playground of 21st century Manhattan.

The easy-going feel of the High Line stems from the fact it was designed around the naturally-occurring growth of grass and weeds that rose out of the tracks when the trains stopped running for several decades, rather than in spite of them. There is no over-design, only the slight manicure of the strange beauty of urban decay. With chest-high wild grass emerging from beneath rusted iron, the High Line feels like a contained and human-friendly version of the History Channel's Life After People. Is this the harbinger of things to come when all our infrastructure collapses and is abandoned? Perhaps we should view this as a pilot project, a partnership between the city-dwelling public and the most ruthless private developer of them all: nature, and our lady landlord's eventual regulation, reclamation, and redevelopment of many of our species' most valuable commercial, residential, and industrial spaces. We should be so lucky.

Bro-Hood and its Discontents -- The Hangover

2009-06-12T16:19:29-04:00

Manchilds in the Promised Land...

What is the state of the American bro? Hollywood has been preoccupied with this question as of late, offering several recent, more sentimental, anthropological studies (mostly with Paul Rudd: Knocked Up, Role Models, I Love You, Man, etc.) that seek to examine the meaning of bro-hood and its discontents. We can now add Todd Phillips' The Hangover to this canon of films documenting the truck loads of anxiety and sublimated bad behavior always lurking just beneath the surface of "adulthood" and respectability. In many ways this has been the central focus of the Phillips ouevre. With films like Old School, Road Trip and his semi-fictional documentary, where he underwent frat-hazing, he is a director well versed in the codes, rituals, and rites of dudes, bros, and guys, who despite outward appearances of refinement or maturity know deep down that getting royally fucked up and the ensuing swan-dive into self-destruction is always the path to an elusive self-fulfillment in a world over-stocked with jobs, kids, and worst of all, women.

There of course could be no setting other than Vegas for our protagonists' amnesiac odyssey of bro-itude, as it remains the officially designated zone of legalized bad behavior for men seeking respite from the stifling vaginocracy of everyday life. Much like that earlier study of the fragile male ego attempting to navigate an increasingly cruel world, Swingers, "Vegas, baby" is shorthand for escape and all the fun you should be having were it not for the horrible self-negating constraints of adulthood. There is a definite existential quality to the journey, as our bros wake up in the desert and are forced to ponder exactly how and why they have arrived at this point in their lives. Our heroic dudes, here played by Bradley Cooper as the married schoolteacher and weekend bad-boy, Ed Helms, as the hideously henpecked dentist, whose girlfriend, played by Rachel Harris, takes sexless, shrewish, totalitarianism to new heights, and Zack Galifianakis, as the Pilkington-esque brother-in-law of their soon to be married--i.e., castrated and enslaved--friend. The Vegas bachelor party remains the gloried last-stand of masculine entitlement, the Alamo of immaturity, irresponsibility, and overindulgence--all the things that make life worth living.

The strongest part of The Hangover is the casting, particularly of Helms and Galifianakis, who in many ways are much funnier than the source material they are offered. Galifianakis' innocent stupidity and beardo-weirdo quality kept me laughing throughout, and Helm's high-strung, high-wire act, of a man who nobly suffers the lashes of the pussy-whip, is just about the only character with any interiority. I remain convinced that writing comedy for movies has got to be one of the hardest things to do as a screenwriter, as maintaining the hilarity for longer than 40 minutes seems like a feat that almost no one can accomplish. The beginning of the trip and the immediate aftermath of the night in question hold the funniest parts of the movie, and while there are some genuinely hilarious moments throughout, by the time Mike Tyson and the effete Chinese gangster showed up, the central gimmick and gags were getting more than a bit waterlogged. However, it all picked up again at the end credits, which featured a hysterical montage of photos documenting the blacked-out night in question that was as funny as anything that preceded it, and more importantly displayed a genuinely debauched and bizarre flair--such as blow with Carrot Top, and blowjobs from senior citizens. This was telegraphed in the opening credits, which seemed to anticipate the dark and hopefully, hilariously disturbing side of Vegas that was mostly soft-peddled even in this "R" rated movie.

Old School began with a wedding, and The Hangover ends with one--both featuring the same infamously foul-mouthed wedding band. The ceremony of matrimony may have begun as a patriarchal institution, but in this modern context of brohood it remains a monument to emasculation, the appeasement of tyrannical female prerogatives, and the destruction of anything that might even slightly represent authentic identity. What's odd about The Hangover is that unlike Old School, it offers no hope of escape from this outside of a lost weekend in Vegas. In this world, women are either strippers, played by Heather Graham (i.e., fun), or undermining harpies "freaked out by sperm" (i.e., enjoy the rest of your miserable life.) For a movie with such a dim view of women and marriage, it tries to have it both ways with the sacred institution. Even though Helms ditches his awful girlfriend, Bradley Cooper returns to his perfect wife and kid with nary a peep from the spouse, and the groom promises his beautiful bride that he'll never put her through anything like this again. Their perfect day remains unspoiled--a cop-out if ever there was one. The conclusion of the bro canon seems to be that guys must be allowed to cut loose, but following brief and blessed release in a segregated, corporate-sponsored desert fantasy land, must knuckle under to an inevitable and inescapable life of responsibility, children, and servitude to our brutal female overseers.

Perhaps more than anything, the rise of the bro-movie and its female counter-part, Sex and the City and all its various knock-offs, offers the proposition that for all society invests in the process of coupling, relationships between men and women can't possibly hope to be as fulfilling, meaningful, or fun as those among members of the same sex.

Review -- The Girlfriend Experience

2009-05-25T13:04:26-04:00

In the course of reading review after review and interview after interview about Steven Soderbergh's The Girlfriend Experience and its star Sasha Grey, one invariably gets to a point where the writer, usually a middle age man, pauses to sheepishly assure their readers that they've never seen any of Ms. Grey's "other" work. Reading such suspiciously innocent and steadfast assertions of ignorance adds a meta-layer to watching The Girlfriend Experience, because such claims regarding Grey and her day-job have a similar air to the relationship her character Chelsea has with her various rich, married, middle age clients, who would probably also never cop to watching porn even as they shell out thousands for a few hours with a similar fantasy experience. Dear Readers, I will put on no such airs, and admit I was well familiar with the Sasha Grey Experience long before this movie, so I can say anyone looking for something even 1/10th as dirty (or fun) in TGE will be sorely disappointed. It is a credit to Soderbergh that he's made a movie about sex work, starring a porn star that has no on-screen sex and only the barest and most circumstantial nudity, in favor of a completely cerebral and detached meditation on intimacy and commerce.

In the film Grey plays a high-class Manhattan escort, whose services make the fucking part almost incidental. In the opening scene she goes to a movie and dinner with her client and then back to his super-luxury apartment where she talks to him about a friend who keeps borrowing money before sipping some wine, making out on the couch and spending the night. Not exactly what we usually think of when we imagine prostitution, but the film positions love, sex, and intimacy as just another form of transaction, that while not shying away from some of the seedier aspects of sex work does so in a completely un-hysteric way that departs from the usual 'Oh my God, capitalism has commodified even our bodies!' sort of preachiness. Nonetheless, there is the distinct and disturbing presence of the marketplace in almost every interaction in the film. This theme is further laid out in the relationship between Chelsea and her live-in boyfriend Chris, who is aware of her job and is just the kind of insanely good looking dolt you would expect to work as a personal trainer for many of the same kind of men that patronize Chelsea. Both Chris and Chelsea earn a living by inflating the egos of rich pricks by pretending or more troublingly, not-pretending to form a personal connection with their clients.

In Soderbergh's semi-experimental style we lose a sense of time as we drift in and out of each scene or transaction between Chelsea and the various people in her life, not quite sure of when it is taking place. If there is one constant throughout, it is the ever-present specter of financial decline and the Great Fall of 08' -- several of her clients even counsel her to invest in gold, and in one hilarious scene a client makes sure to remind her to vote for McCain: "the State of Israel must continue," he says as he drops his pants. Maybe more than anything else TGE creates a fascinating and almost real-time portrait of contemporary Manhattan, a place deeply insecure about the future yet still clinging to seemingly anachronistic trappings of wealth and class. Chelsea, as a free agent in a kind of sexual economy -- one that seems deeply intertwined with the national and global economies -- moves through an almost interchangeable series of sleek interiors from high-rise condos, to high-end boutiques, gyms, restaurants, and hotels. The city itself, outside a few exterior shots, is largely obscured, a blur seen through the windows of a town car or hotel room.

This focus on interiors and the artifice of style and appearance mirrors the film's themes about the inscrutable and ambiguous nature of its lead, her job, and the negotiated nature of human relationships. How much of our "authentic" or inner-self do we allow into our jobs, boyfriends, girlfriends, families and how much do we have to? How much is just a role we play to get by? To what degree does such authenticity even exist? Grey brings much of the same kind of assuredly affectless quality to this role as she does in her work in adult film, and it is this kabuki interplay between the various characters she inhabits both in and outside of the world onscreen that adds to the film in a way a "traditional" actress would not. This vague overlapping between individuality and economy, between the roles we play and our supposedly real "inner-life" reflects a universal tension present in almost everyone's life. Like the cold, ultra-modern apartments and interiors the film drifts through, both Chelsea and Sasha's interiority seems both well-designed though illusive and transitory. Emotions remain thoroughly opaque throughout, perhaps the one aspect of our lives that remains frustratingly outside the control of the marketplace of human desires.

NON-DVD BONUS EXTRAS --

In this clip we learn that the self-proclaimed film buff and "existentialist porn-star" is most definitely no joke when it comes to her movie game. Among her top five we learn that along with the works of Herzog, Cassavetes, Goddard, and Breillat, her number one choice is John Carpenter's Escape from New York. I don't think I've ever been more turned on in my life. We should all be so lucky to have a "girlfriend" or boyfriend experience with someone with such a strong Netflix Queue.

VP Biden Reveals Nuclear Launch Codes, Existence of Aliens

2009-05-22T10:26:58-04:00

While speaking to reporters, a gaffe made by VP Biden may have accidentally distorted the space-time continuum.

WASHINGTON -- Long known for his penchant for verbal gaffes and slip-ups, Vice President Biden may have endangered national security as well as permanently altered the course of human history during the course of a freewheeling interview, where the VP seemed to accidentally reveal America's nuclear launch codes, something called the "Book of Secrets", and perhaps most consequentially the existence of a decades-long plot to conceal the colonization of Earth by extraterrestrial entities. What began as a casual luncheon with reporters, ended up having potentially world-shattering implications, due to VP Biden's loquacious personal style.

The apocalyptic revelations began as Biden was asked to discuss some of the changes in his life since he became Vice President. After sharing a long and themeless story about meeting with a waitress who lacked health insurance and then detailing what he had for breakfast, Biden said, "Well, I guess you learn a lot of new things when you switch to the Executive Branch. Like on my first day, this guy from the Pentagon, a good guy named Stan, a tall fella with a bunch of medals told me, 'Joe this suitcase has the controls to our Doomsday Device, and should the President be killed in an attack, you may have to retaliate. In which case just type: USA 1,2,3 into the control panel to access our nuclear arsenal.' That's all CAPS by the way."

When asked a follow-up question about his access to highly classified, top secret information, and whether he should be sharing it, Biden discussed the menu options aboard Air Force One and the time he visited a McDonald's in Kuwait, before claiming that as VP, he was given a copy of the "Book of Secrets," a volume that supposedly houses all of the clandestine projects and activities recorded throughout US history. "After they gave me the book, they took me into this dark room under the Pentagon, and my friend Charlie--I know Charlie from my days on the Judiciary committee when we'd go get a Reuben at Katie's Deli and I'd say, 'Chuck I can't confirm any more of your clones to serve on the bench,'" said Biden inadvertently revealing what he later described as a project to stack Federal District Courts with the fruits of a human cloning program. Biden continued, saying that he was made aware of the clones during his days in the Senate, but once he became VP, the man he called "Chuck" told him the clones were just one part of our government's collaboration with an alien species seeking to colonize our planet.

"He told me, 'Joe, the clones are just the half of it, aliens are real, they're here, we can't get rid of them, and now you're going to have to work with them, and I said, 'Chuck, I've had to work with Clintons and the Senate Republicans, this bug-eyed fella's got nothing on them!" When the room reacted nervously to news of what Biden referred to simply as "The Project," as well as his confirmation that the "harvest" has already begun, he attempted to walk back his earlier statements with an anecdote about the conductor on the Amtrak train he takes to his home in Delaware, and assured the audience that top government officials have already traveled back in time to remedy this situation. "It's like I've always told my twelve year old self, 'Joe, The Red Sox will eventually win another World Series, so just work hard and dream big, and anything is possible, even the defeat of our future alien overlords.'"

"Michele Bachmann" Revealed as Elaborate "Borat" Style Hoax

2009-05-06T15:14:58-04:00

"Character" (seen above) created by radical performance artist to, "confront issues of gender, patriarchy and the mainstreaming of authoritarian politics in America."

Minneapolis MN --- In news that stunned both the political and media world, it was revealed today that the outspoken and at times controversial Republican congresswoman from Minnesota's 6th district, previously known as "Michele Bachmann", is actually an elaborately staged performance by experimental artist "Trinity Ohm." Ms. Ohm, born Rebbecca Greene, explained that while she was satisfied with the direction of what she calls her "Cycle of Rage", she felt that the Bachmann character she had created, defined by her extreme right-wing politics and propensity to spout thoroughly outrageous claims on TV and radio, had run its course. "I was hoping that as of late, I could sort of 'out' myself by running off a series of the most paranoid and ludicrous swill imaginable," said Ms. Ohm in an interview. "Like when I seemed to imply the Democrats were responsible for spreading Swine Flu or that Obama's Americorp program was tantamount to the creation of 'government re-education camps', or when I suggested that (fellow Minnesota congressman and Muslim) Keith Ellison was connected to terrorists, but unfortunately it only seemed to further my credibility." Ohm said she simply, "wanted to expose how the media phallocracy normalizes racism and homophobia in American society," but eventually found that she had gotten more than she bargained for. "I never thought I would actually get elected, but when I did, I guess I just ran with it."

No stranger to outlandish and "guerrilla-style" art projects, the openly-gay Ohm said she created the Bachmann character as part of her ongoing mission to use experimental performance art to, "confront issues of gender, patriarchy, and the mainstreaming of authoritarian politics in America." Previously, Ohm was best known for her video art project "Tyrannosaurus Sex", a five hour video, which featured a nude Ohm, with a latex phallus attached to her forehead, making then destroying balloon animals, as well as her attempts to book herself as a children's entertainer who performed in full black-face. "When I spoke at CPAC and said 'You be the man' to Michael Steele, I was like 'this gig is over. I must have made someone suspicious that I was putting them on,'" said Ohm. "I mean, anyone can awkwardly try to relate to a black man by dropping 'you da man', but 'you be the man?' Really?"

According to Ohm, previous attempts to "out" herself, and end "this stage of the cycle" include the promotion of her "husband" Marcus'--a fellow actor and artist--"Christian Counseling Center" that advertised itself as offering "spiritual counseling" on "men's and women's issues" relating to "shame." "I would have thought connecting our society's attitudes about gays and lesbians to shame and repressed or sublimated sexuality would have been a dead give away," said Ohm, who continued, "when Marcus claimed that there were high levels of sexual abuse in the GLBT community without a shred of evidence to back up his claim, we thought 'this is great, someone will finally call us out on this,' but no one did. I think that's when we first started to question the utility and direction of this project."

Much like Sacha Baron Cohen's popular "Borat" character, a Khazak TV reporter whose satirical "reports" often solicit shocking responses from unsuspecting people, revealing a hidden bigotry that often lingers just beneath the surface of polite society, Ohm tried to see just how far she could push the mainstreaming of "eliminationist propaganda" by representing "ignorant and paranoid fantasy"--such as the time she appeared on Hardball and called for an investigation of "anti-American" members of Congress--in the guise of an attractive, all-American "Mom" figure. In a statement released to the press Ohm stated that, "the patriarchy often co-opts motherhood and the sacred feminine as a means of opression, so it seemed like the obvious thing to do. I mean, when you say violent and ugly things and are a violent and ugly person, people expect you to equate being gay with being a pedophile, but when you say those same things behind a pretty face, big smile and wide, dead eyes, then sadly, you can get elected to congress."

Unfortunately, recent studies of programs like The Colbert Report have shown that Americans' ability to distinguish satire from reality has been dramatically degraded in recent years, especially in terms of right-wing politicians, media personalities, and those who lampoon them. This only further complicates the work of Ohm and other artists who often use exaggerated claims and feigned sincerity to mine the rich vein of sexual and racial anxiety in American culture. A special election will be held to fill her vacated seat, and Ms. Ohm said she will now focus her energies on long percolating projects such as creating a tampon in proportion to the Statue of Liberty and mailing herself across state lines in a Fed Ex box.

Outbreak of Deadly Swine-Flu Infects Cable News

2009-04-27T17:00:30-04:00

Increase in portly, pig-like humans on television has officials at the CDC concerned about possible epidemic. Symptoms include intense jowlification, bloated self-regard, and fever-inducing levels of absurd braying and snorting. (Fatal case seen above.)

Atlanta GA -- Officials at the Centers for Disease Control have issued a public health warning concerning the recent outbreak of swine-flu on cable, and even network news programs. Pundits and hosts from all three of the major networks, CNN, MSNBC, and FOX have reported symptoms of this latest outbreak of swine-flu, or pig-man disease. "The public should be aware of the symptoms and report any possible infections," said a doctor with the CDC involved in pandemic research, "though Anglo-Saxon males over the age of fifty are particularly at risk, any person displaying increased jowl-size, chubbiness, baldness, a pasty or pinkish complexion, and displaying abnormally high levels of smug bullshit should be considered a potential career of PM, or Pig Man's."

Officials at the CDC have urged the public to be aware of the potential risks involved in exposure to fever and nausea inducing sophistry, but not to panic. "No one in America has yet died of the cable television strain of swine-flu," said Dr. Margaret Cross with the Dept. of Health and Human Services, "thankfully over the years most Americans have dealt with some level of exposure to Pig Man's, and have developed some level of immunity to the claims of bloated, porcine men who appear on television." However, researchers at the World Health Organization are concerned that this latest strain may be even more virulent than previous outbreaks, citing abnormally high levels of douchebaggery, blatant hypocrisy, racist demagoguery and amoral equivocation.
PM bears many similarities to other degenerative neurological disorders such as Creutzfeldt-Jakob's disease, such as rapid and progressive dementia coupled with speech impairment that often results in carriers affecting a whiny, nasal, and high-pitch squeal, and an increased propensity to spout the latest pseudo-populist outrage.

The WHO fear these men and women are not just carrying the common 'douche-virus', but may be hosts for a mutated version which has elevated what would normally be a standard case of inflated self-image coupled with brutal lack of self-awareness to a possibly deadly hybrid of both the human douche and pig viruses, making them even more appalling and physically painful to look at.

"Cable and network news is a fertile breeding ground for this strain of the swine-flu," said Dr. Marvin Joseph an expert on Pandemics at Stanford Medical School. "Sadly, many TV producers do not take any of the common sense precautions that could stop an outbreak like this such as washing their hands with soap and water or not booking spokespeople from the National Organization for Marriage," continued Dr. Joseph, who claimed that the issues of torture and gay marriage are particularly strong vectors for Pig Man's, as they elicit a high level of inhuman disregard for the lives of others, moral posturing, and swine or stock-animal like behavior from the media elite, whose close contact with pig/human hybrids, and incestuous self-congratulation help to spread the disease.

The CDC has told citizens that precautions such as covering one's mouth when they cough, reading a book, or perhaps getting or even buying a fucking clue can help prevent and contain infection.

Casting Call: 08' Election, Pt. I

2009-04-16T10:44:51-04:00

Both amateur and professional casting directors alike are abuzz with the glorious possibilities contained in the news that HBO Films has optioned the upcoming book Game Change: Obama and the Clintons, McCain and Palin, and the Race of a Lifetime. Game Change is written by Time Magazine's Mark Halperin and New York's John Heilemann. You might remember Halperin from his last book "The Way To Win: Taking the White House in 08," also known as "Every Single Thing I Said About The Election and Politics Was Dead Fucking Wrong, So How About a Sequel?" Indeed, basing a movie about the "real story" of the 08' election on a book written by Mark Halperin is sort of like having Erich von Daniken as your historical advisor for a movie about ancient Egypt, but enough about how the Internet is a dead end for political organizing and how the road to the White House runs through Matt Drudge and Karl Rove, let's get down to business, who is going to play whom? Even the NY Daily News has gotten down on the action with some good (Regina King as Michelle) but mostly bad suggestions (Will Smith as Obama? Paul Giamatti as McCain??), so I humbly submit to the HBO gods, my mostly serious casting call...

The Leads:

Barack Obama -- Harry Lennix

Hi I'm Harry Lennix, you might remember me from such television programs and films as...everything. Seriously, if you've turned on your TV anytime recently, chances are you've seen Mr. Lennix's work. He can currently be seen on Dollhouse and in the upcoming State of Play, but according to imdb this veteran of stage and screen has had guest and recurring roles on: House, ER, Ally McBeal, Judging Amy, JAG, Little Britain USA, The Practice, 24, and Commander in Chief. He was also the leader of the free world in the Matrix sequels. Don't remember him in those? That's probably because you've repressed that memory. Lennix is a Chi-Town native so that gives him some extra street cred, and let's be honest as soon as Obama won the election, you know he's been sitting by the phone waiting to hear this call from his agent. So, it's either him or Billy Dee Williams, because he's just so damn smooth.

Hillary Clinton -- Annette Bening

Julianne Moore is slated to portray her in HBO's upcoming movie about the "Special Relationship" between the US and UK--I think it's about international swinging or something--but for my money only Annette Bening is fit to fill this pant-suit. She's one of America's greatest actresses and over the course of her career she has played a variety of women from smart to ruthless to desperate to ambitious to deranged. Now she can bring it all home. She has also mastered the look of a permanently frozen death mask smile hiding deep seated terror, and as a bonus she's married to Warren Beatty. Do you think she can empathize with someone sick of playing second fiddle to a meglomaniacal cad?

John McCain -- Michael Hogan

Now I know I'm not the first nerdlinger to point this out, but just because something is popular doesn't mean it's not true. Not only does Battlestar Galactica's Michael Hogan look exactly like John McCain, he's already been playing him for the last five or so years on BSG. Let's run down the Saul Tigh/John McCain checklist: grizzled, bitter, short-tempered vet? Check. Foreign Policy Hawk? Check. POW experience? Check. Crippled? Check. Cindy McCain=Ellen Tigh? Check and Check. But perhaps more than anything as Saul, Hogan knows what it's like to play a man who has spent his entire life fighting for what he thought to be true, only to discover his entire identity was a fraud that could be conveniently cashed in at a moment's notice. America just wasn't ready for a Cylon president. (Spoiler Alert!)

Sarah Palin -- Laura Dern

Ahh the real star of the 08' campaign--this was a hard one, and I don't want to go over the same territory twice, but Dern was so good as right-wing ditz Katherine Harris in HBO's Recount, why not double up? She already has experience acting excited and animated next to a dinosaur and is well versed wandering through a deeply disturbing and seemingly unending nightmare devoid of all logic and narrative interpretation, so she could easily do any one of Sarah's answers to questions about the economy or foreign policy.

The Brain-Trust:

David Axelrod -- Richard Schiff

The only potential snag with Mr. Schiff playing David Axelrod is whether or not he would be willing to reprise his role as David Axelrod from all those years on The West Wing.

Steve Schmidt -- Michael Chiklis

Playing the former "Bushie" that was brought in to "shake-up" the McCain campaign during the summer (i.e., go negative) would be casting somewhat against type, because Mackey--I mean Chiklis--usually plays completely hairless men who are gruff, tough, and unethical, and to play Schmidt he'd have to be a completely hairless man who is nebbish, monotone, and unethical. If Chiklis won't go for it, then we could try one of those giant babies you see on Maury every now and again.

Mark Penn -- Graham Beckel

Another actor you might recognize from everything, Graham Beckel is probably best known for playing greasy, amoral creeps like his small part as Russell Crowe's sleazy, corrupt partner Dick Stensland in L.A. Confidential and as Jake Gyllenhaal's father-in-law in Brokeback Mountain. He's almost repulsive enough to play "micro-trend" guru and chief Clinton strategist Mark Penn, but if it doesn't work out, you could always go with John Carpenter's The Thing.

That's all for now. I wholeheartedly welcome suggested additions to this ensemble cast from you, my Dear Readers. In Part II, we'll cast The Runner-Ups and The Sideshows.