http://chud.com/articles en-us N/A nicknunziata@gmail.com Sat, 21 Nov 2009 14:41:48 EST 20 http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1569/Dispatches-from-The-Film-Graveyard.html Theaters are terrible right now. There is currently such a dearth of reasonable choices that the Landmark Sunshine here in NYC is still showing Synecdoche, New York. And have been for the past 5 or 6 months.

Here's why:

He's Just Not That Into Your STDs.

Paul Blart: Ugh.

Confessions of a I'm Boring Myself Typing This.

Before I lived in New York, I would watch the Oscar flicks around this time, since they would just be trickling into my local cineplex. But I already blew my wad on films like The Wrestler and Slumdog Millionaire so I'm left with no options at the cinema. At least until The Watchmen.

To bide my time, I've taken my Netflix queue in a whole new direction, using this typical "movie graveyard" as a time to try out films that were wrongly slotted into this category by most respectable non-nerds.

Such selections as Death Wish, Assault on Precinct 13 (original, fuck Ethan Hawke), 1990: Bronx Warriors, Death Race, Hell Comes to Frogtown, Streets of Fire, They Live, Final Destination 2, Doomsday and Dragon Wars (this one was bad, not in the good way), just to cover the iceberg's tip.

When I say that non-nerds don't seem to appreciate them, try getting recommendations of these types of quality B-movies from family or non-film oriented friends. Chances are you'll be told to check out Serpico or Dog Day Afternoon. Not that Serpico isn't fun, but it lacks the presence of Fred Williamson, so clearly it falls a bit short.

Anyway, while the studios are trying to fuck you with a knife blade, I suggest you follow suit. To hell with the studios. If they provide nothing worth watching, show them why Netflix is making a dent in their ticket sales. And maybe next January, February and March they can give us more Doomsday and less Bride Wars. Show us what a real cinematic graveyard looks like and B-movie the shit out of us.

At least until next weekend, when my sidekick kindly reminds me we are blessed with Madea Goes To Jail and Fired Up. Really? Fired Up? Who shat that onto celluloid?
]]> no@spam.com (Sean Gardner) Sat, 14 Feb 2009 00:00:00 EST http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1569/Dispatches-from-The-Film-Graveyard.html http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1533/Dispatches-from-The-Oscars.html So the nominees were announced. Which you know by now if you read this site. Caring is another thing all together. Since, you know, our specific pooled film-nerdery tends not to spill over into award nominated films. But there are always exceptions. And there are always surprise nominations. Which I shall cover for you now.

M.I.A. is now an Oscar nominee. Which is fitting, since she owes her success to movies and their trailers. This nomination is cooler to me than Three Six Mafia taking home the gold. Cause I'm a hipster. Which means I've been bobbing my head to M.I.A. for a quite a while. This also means that she's probably fleeing my radar now that she has success, if hipster stereotypes prevail.

Bruce Springsteen, on the other hand, is not. Maybe he's been nominated before, I don't know or care to Google it. So let's just say that this surprised me, especially since Tomei got the nod for being a perfectly nude counterbalance for having to look at Rourke's ground-beef face for nearly two hours. The song, however, is more of a meh. And the lyrics, as are often the case with Bruce, are a bit embarrassing. Don't give me shit for this, I love the guy and have most of his early stuff on vinyl, but he's never been a brilliant lyricist:

"Just wrap your legs round my velvet rims and strap your your hands across my engines." Enough said.

Richard Jenkins is a Best Actor nominee. This makes me happy.

Robert Downey Jr. was nominated for blackface.

I know, I know, it technically wasn't, blah, blah, blah. But you know what? As a guy who writes comedy, it was.

Stiller pulled off a great feat in comedy, making an historical abomination funny. And was nominated (maybe not rightly) for it. The parentheses indicate not a disapproval of the concept, but more the deserved nature of the nomination. James Franco, if we're talking comedic performances this year, was far superior and impressive for his turn in Pineapple Express. I love Downey, probably a lot more than the next guy, but this wasn't his nomination to have. I already forgot Tropic Thunder exists. It doesn't matter though, the award goes to Heath.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button landed 13 nominations! And I've yet to speak with anyone that actually enjoyed the film. No joke. I haven't seen it (Shame on me? Or you, from what I've heard), but was warned by upward of 20 people to avoid it. Including my mom. I made the choice to Netflix it, even though my Fincher love (The Game is one of my favorite films to show people who somehow didn't know of its existence, I know, right!?!) knows no bounds. I'm sure someone likes the film, I just haven't met that person yet. They are probably Oscar voters.

Martin McDonagh is an Oscar nominee again. And possible two-time winner. Which is amazing, since he went from being my favorite playwright to one of my favorite filmmakers. Yes, it's early to declare such things but the guy is an immense talent. If you've read or seen any of his plays you know this already, and he's only going to make a much larger impression in the film world over the coming years. And since the cool film always wins the Best Original Screenplay (Pulp Fiction, Eternal Sunshine, Juno, others that I don't care to Google and you will try and shut me down over), hopefully this year will follow suit and bring with it a win for In Bruges.

And speaking of In Bruges, no nomination for Colin Farrel? Or Brendan Gleeson? But Downey pulled one down? Eh...

As you can probably guess, In Bruges was a favorite this year. Here's my other top films, so you get an idea who this is coming from:

Son of Rambow.

Slumdog Millionaire.

Rachel Getting Married.

Burn After Reading.

The Visitor.

The Wackness. (Kingsley got a Razzie nom for this. That confounds me.)

Pineapple Express.

I haven't seen a bunch of the others. Including Let the Right One In. And Timecrimes. And Vicky Christina Barcelona. The Reader. Revolutionary Road. Man on Wire (to be remedied tonight). The Happening. Doomsday. And The Wrestler just brought about an "eh" in my soul. First Aronofsky letdown. It happens.

That is all.





]]> no@spam.com (Sean Gardner) Thu, 22 Jan 2009 00:00:00 EST http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1533/Dispatches-from-The-Oscars.html http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1467/Dispatches-from-Robin039s-Jockstrap.html So Devin's article this evening got me thinking about Robin. But what about him?

Let's be honest, the character is largely terrible, serving as little more than a gay joke in modern times and will likely not figure largely, if at all, into Nolan's "why so serious" Batman films (And while we're at it, why so serious? The terrorism metaphor is numbed by this point in time, why even propose such a scheme for a superhero film?).

So let's say, for poops and guffaws, if such a character were to enter the fray, silly as it may be, who should portray the fey boy wonder?

Here are my Top 5 Choices for Robin:

1. Jonah Hill. Mostly because every top five of mine involves his name somehow. Sequel to Zorro (again)? Why not Jonah Hill? The new Jack Ryan? Jonah Hill! Carrie Bradshaw in need of replacement? Jonah Hill!

2. Michael Cera (see number one).

3. Justin Long. He may be the Mac kid, but he's also got chops. And he fucked Drew Barrymore, so he's obviously good at being someone's bitch.

4. Abe Vigoda. Mostly cause it would be incredible. Seriously, think about it. Abe Fucking Vigoda.

5. Jay Baruchel. Seriously. If we're being realistic, this kid should be the boy wonder. Hands down. Unless my friend Babak Gharei-Tafti is available, in which case, use him. For real, the kid's got chutzpah. Christopher Nolan, if you're reading this, first off, hook a brother up, and secondly, give this Babak kid a look. His name may be Persian and scary but he's the next big thing, trust me.

And that ends my plea. Which is mostly for my friend to take over the role of Robin, but also to help promote the good work being done by my boys in the comedy world. Just because they make you laugh doesn't mean they're out of consideration for an "oh so serious" role in a superhero flick. Fuck, Ledger's whole career was a laugh up until he played the Joker, and not in a good way.

Runners Up: Ricky Gervias. Hugh Grant. Tom Cruise (obviously the gay aspects of his closeted self). Dev Patel (outsourcing much?). Fred Armisen ( he's been ripping it up on SNL lately, for serious). McLovin (Does he have an actual name? Does it matter?). John Cusack (only if he talks to the camera).

And yours? Please, bring those suggestions to the table!

Who cares what you think? You do, obviously, so let's hear it!
]]> no@spam.com (Sean Gardner) Fri, 19 Dec 2008 00:00:00 EST http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1467/Dispatches-from-Robin039s-Jockstrap.html http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1437/Dispatches-from-The-Recession-Depression.html So we made it.

Hence the gap in coverage on this here blog. But yes, the long haul is over.

By that, I mean to say that we have indeed found a place to live, with a very cool roomie and reasonable rent. We've moved our shit in (most of which is something like 1,000 records and 200 DVD's) and it all fit inside the three floor walk-up.

The other part of the haul is still hauling. And by that, I mean the job part. Given our excessively terrible timing for relocation, we're finding jobs hard to come by. Yet still, there is hope.

Obama.

I'm counting on him to hook me up. In fact, Ive decided that all problems are to be solved by our man.

An example, I was at the post office the other day, waiting on line for upward of an hour just to pick up a package. That's when I decided to call for help. He never did come, but I cried out "Yes We Can!" nonetheless, picturing our President-Elect coming running to our rescue. Maybe opening an extra window, moving the line along at a speedier pace.

Such would be a thing of beauty. And so I've decided that every situation, regardless of how wasteful it may be for him, is a time for change.

Need an organ? Yes We Can! He'll give you an extra liver, he produces them for hobby!

Run out of toilet paper mid-dumpage? Yes We Can! Pockets full of the fluffy tissue follow him wherever he goes.

Trampled to death by gluttonous Black Friday shoppers? Um...

Okay, he can't do EVERYTHING.

But he can do at least one thing. Employ me. Or, you know, just hook me up. You've got connections with some high powered people, let me get you on my references sheet and I'll take it from there. When they call you and ask you if I'm responsible, just give 'em the old "Yes We Can!"

Sure, it makes no sense, but it will work, I'm confident.

And either way, it's gotta work better than this Craigslist bullshit.
]]> no@spam.com (Sean Gardner) Mon, 01 Dec 2008 00:00:00 EST http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1437/Dispatches-from-The-Recession-Depression.html http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1353/Dispatches-from-The-Grind.html First, let me just say: finding a job in New York sucks.


I'm not sure how many of you can empathize with this plight of mine, but there it is. Maybe it's the economy gone to shit that's messing with my chances, maybe it's my lack of a skill-set (I was a Theatre major, so that's helpful), and maybe it's the universe working against me. I'm beginning to lean toward the latter. And let me tell you why.

The plan was for my girlfriend and I to drive my dad's car back to New Mexico from Cape Cod for him, dog in tow, and hang for a few weeks while we took care of some business.

Business being: sell my car, attend a graduation, apply like crazy for jobs, have a yard sale to sell off some of my bigger furnishings and assorted useless belongings, attend a few birthday parties, see some friends and then pack a small U-Haul and head back to Cape Cod, where we would continue the job hunt and when interviews appear, take the train to NYC and hope to not screw anything up. If we accomplish all of this, we would then do the apartment hunting thing, which, from all accounts, is a miserable experience.

So we got back just fine, dog in tow, and a few days later, head to the graduation.

In my car.

Which I had just secured a sale for.

And that's when shit hits the fan. Or perhaps timing belt would be more specific.

Let me preface this by admitting to a childish knowledge of automobiles. Seriously, I'm not even sure what kind of engine my car has.

With that out of the way, here's what happened. My girlfriend and I are chugging down the highway when the coolant light begins flashing red.

We pull off, and after consulting the book, discover that red is bad. Like in an M. Night Shyamalan film.

The car had just been taken in for a complete check-up, however, and the diagnosis was a failed coolant temperature gauge. I take this to mean that the red is a malfunction. So we drive.

Check engine light illuminates.

A loud, irksome clicking sound emits from the engine.

Red coolant light disappears.

Blue coolant light appears.

Red coolant light reappears.

White smoke plumes from the bumper.

We pull off at the nearest exit, in the geh-het-ooo, stopping first at a light, where it appears Cheech and Chong must be in our car, as it is surrounded by smoke. Engulfed. Blanketed.

It's in the shop as we speak, where they will undoubtedly screw me out of money I don't have and I'll bend over and take it cause shit if I know how to fix it.

Next comes the yard sale.

We rent a truck, move everything out of storage and bring it back to my dad's garage.

We sort through the rubble, cut our belongings in half, and start pricing.

That's when my back died. Bad. Real bad.

So bad I couldn't get out of bed the following morning from the excruciating pain.

So bad that when I got out of bed, I couldn't get in the car.

So bad that when I got to the hospital, the nurse looked at me and asked, "How old are you?" before chuckling gleefully at my response of 26.

But they gave me drugs. Vicodin and muscle relaxants, and the pain is beginning to subside. I can get up without aide of a cane now.

I'm a firm believer in the rule of three. As in, everything comes in threes. As in, Samuel L. Jackson should be a dead man after his Soul Men co-stars Bernie Mac and Isaac Hayes bit the proverbial dust.

Three could come in any form, I realize this. After a thrown out back and trashed car, three could be an ugly son-of-a-bitch. Like McCain getting elected. Or butthole rape. Out of the two, I'd take the butthole rape.

But fuck it! Bring whatever you got! Cause if there's one thing I'm taking out of this, it's that God doesn't want people moving to NYC, cause that's where all the gays, Jews and liberal elite live.

And that's exactly why I'm going.
]]> no@spam.com (Sean Gardner) Mon, 20 Oct 2008 00:00:00 EDT http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1353/Dispatches-from-The-Grind.html http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1320/Dispatches-from-The-Fall.html This is the time of year that I typically start listening to melancholy music, spend many hours in movie theaters and think deep thoughts about my life and how it's gone wrong.

Not this year.

Well, let me go back a step. Keep the melancholy music part. Subtract the thoughts about failure. Keep the deep part. There, improvement achieved.

My life is looking exactly how I've always pictured it. I'm moving to New York in a couple of weeks, one of my life goals. And I'm doing it with a woman I love. I've shaken off the remnants of a bad marriage and found all that I'd been missing. And myself.

So this fall, I've done without endless hours of Elliott Smith cradling my ear. Or The Smiths. Bon Iver's close, but MGMT, the new Eno/Byrne and TV on the Radio are finding themselves in heavy rotation as well, a new phenomenon from a guy who usually inhabits a singular musical shell through the fall and winter months.

The other major difference is that I haven't exactly spent a whole lot of time in theaters this fall. And it bugs me. And yet, it also doesn't.

There certainly haven't been a shortage of films. Quite the opposite, as it seems each weekend has brought an onslaught of offerings I'd normally flock to. But something is off this year. Films such as Blindness, Religulous, Choke, Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist and How to Lose Friends and Alienate People have come and gone without my love. Well, not gone yet. Certainly going though. Especially the latter. But my not having seen them opening weekend is a big change.

It could be because I've been spending a whole lot of time working on my resume, driving back to New Mexico and planning the big move to New York City.

Or my proclivity to spend that ticket money on Guinesses in dives with my girl.

Or spending many, many hours obsessively watching the debates and following all things related to the elections on the internet, in papers, magazines and any other medium I can get my hands on.

The ache to spend time in dark theaters remains present. The act of doing so is all that's changed.

The last film I saw in a theater was Burn After Reading. Which was excellent. Beyond excellent, in fact. And a treat since we just got a Coen Brothers' film last year that was also beyond excellent.

And now that I think of it, that's a lie. I saw Ghost Town. And loved it. Way more than I thought I would.

So there, that's two in a month. But keeping in mind that I usually see four a month, minimum, there is something odd going about. I chalk it up to the move. And the resumes. And the debates. Which are enthralling. And the fact that keeping track of politics is much more fun than spending time in a theater.

So then what's the problem? We're talking about a Mierrelles film here (one with poor reviews and even worse word of mouth), a film openly attacking religion and starring one of the more progressive and important comedians working (though it's a bit of preaching to the choir given my proud standing as an avowed atheist), two films on popular books that appealed to a certain audience of people my age (both books I disliked) and the new film with Michael Cera, a kid I'd follow anywhere after his career choices thus far.

I guess that puts it into perspective a bit. Maybe I shouldn't be feeling so guilty, especially given my plans to see Nick and Norah this afternoon, before I indulge in my other favorite fall love, watching the debates and drinking Guinness (tonight, the drinking cues are Maverick, Main Street and Crisis, I should be shitfaced by the end).

As far as melancholy music goes, try Nilsson Sings Newman. It's been on the record player for a few days now and I can't seem to shake it. Until next time, enjoy your fall.



]]> no@spam.com (Sean Gardner) Tue, 07 Oct 2008 00:00:00 EDT http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1320/Dispatches-from-The-Fall.html http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1260/DISPATCHES-FROM-My-Super-Tuesday.html This Tuesday, September 23rd, has been on my radar for the past few months. And here's why it should be on yours:

Jenny Lewis.

TV on the Radio.

Kings of Leon.

Ben Folds.

The Foot Fist Way (on DVD).

With that taken care of, let's investigate why these names matter.

First, Jenny Lewis. As some of you may be aware, she is the lead singer of Rilo Kiley, not to mention a child actor in films such as Pleasantville and the Fred Savage masterpiece The Wizard (yeah, the one about the Nintendo championship that featured the first footage of Super Mario 3, sweet, sweet celluloid that it was). After three albums with Rilo Kiley, Lewis stretched out and released her first solo work (though not entirely solo, as she armed herself with The Watson Twins on backing vocals), Rabbit Fur Coat.

The band-less work continued the sound they had been working toward together, albeit with a bit more country twang. Perhaps this evolution came along because this was a sound Kiley would abandon on their next album, Under the Blacklight, which came off as more than just over-reaching. Though who knows, apparently the album was well received in the critic's circles and widened the band's fanbase. Even if most of it sounded like a mediocre Heart record. But never mind all that, because those roots are likely back and hopefully, her new work is as ethereal as Rabbit Fur Coat.


TV on the Radio. Arguably, the creator of 2006's best album, Return to Cookie Mountain (and continuing the Super Mario connections). After a sidestep to produce Scarlett Johansson's record of Tom Waits covers, Dave Sitek is back with his band, making beautiful noise a staple of winter '08. The band's sound is genuinely indescribable and the lyrical content leans toward incomprehensible. Or maybe just too smart for me to make out. None of that matters, because the overall picture is so damn good.

And even though I just labeled the sound as indescribable, I'm now going ahead with a noble attempt to do just that. Here goes:

Imagine a soul singer howling lyrics over the conjoined twin of Nine Inch Nails and Aphex Twin who bear-hug Radiohead before making sweet love with the Beach Boys, thereby inheriting their harmonic qualities, only to then slather on layers of sound that would make Phil Spector blush (to be fair, he may be all blushed out at this point) while at all times accounting for their penchant to drop everything and sing a Capella. Phew!

I gave it a shot.

Their new work continues delving into their groundbreaking sound while at times veering into a much heavier electronic vibe that plays around with elements of hip-hop (namely the new single "Dancing Choose"). I've ingested about half of the album so far and what I've heard only furthers my excitement to gorge on the full setlist.


Kings of Leon. When the band's last album Because of the Times dropped, incredibly enough, early last year, we were treated to another masterwork from the "Southern roots rock and then some" band. While not as immediate as Aha Shake Heartbreak, the Tennessee boys matured considerably on the record, both musically and personally.

Their initial release ushered in a down-and-dirty Southern sound resulting from their upbringing on Lynyrd Skynyrd, PBR and a preacher father/uncle.

Then they had sex with groupies. And the second album followed them into bed.

A few years passed, they grew into men and relationships blossomed. And so it was on the third record, full of songs about the difficulty of adult decisions and attempts at settling down that may not have worked out, if their new work is any indication.

Led by the hooky as hell single, "Sex on Fire," Only By the Night sees them returning to their Southern roots for further examination and, according to Caleb Followill, a more rocking sound. Perhaps a break-up is just what the boys needed to propel them back to their crunchy origins.


And then there's Ben Folds.* Let's be honest, he stopped mattering years ago. Yet to this day, there remains a place in my heart for my high school favorite, so I will probably always feel a twinge of excitement whenever something new comes along, sort of like my dad with Jimmy Buffett (sans the vacuous songwriting and devastating lack of talent).

So I'll listen. Once. Maybe three times. And I'll hope that it clicks. But it probably won't. And then I'll go back to the three aforementioned mentioned albums and allow those to fill my fall evenings with sweet, quivering audible nectar.


Finally, The Foot Fist Way might have me more excited than any of the above. Since it wasn't released on the Cape this summer and I was too lazy to drag my ass to Boston for a viewing, I am frothing at the mouth to see my favorite new comedic talent chew some serious scenery.

After stealing just about everything he's been in, including two of the summer's biggest hits, Pineapple Express and Tropic Thunder, the idea of him as the central character in a ridiculous comedy is cinematic heaven. It's been a long time coming, so hopefully the guy who brought us Bust-Ass in David Gordon Green's criminally under-seen All the Real Girls has the chops he's been hinting at all along.


So there you have it. If you don't care about this Tuesday now, nothing can convince you otherwise. I tried. And if you do care, I'm glad I could make an impact.

Unless I didn't. You might have already known all of this and made me waste an hour of my time informing you of my unbridled passion for indie rock, in which case, good for you.

Either way, you can sleep safe with the knowledge that there is another geek out there desperately waiting for the same hot commodities you are.**


*Last week, I found myself in the midst of karaoke night at the town bar (that's right, singular, as in only bar in town), wrestling with the idea of singing "Brick," mostly so I could shout "This song's about abortion!" mid-song. But I didn't. Maybe I wasn't drunk enough. Maybe I thought people would drown themselves in beer. But at least I came up with a more depressing bar song than my brother's favorite, The Eagles' "Desperado." But then, there's always next week.


**Please note that if you like any of these suggestions, you should already be listening to Bon Iver's record For Emma, Forever Ago. It's maybe better than all four of these albums. I may regret that statement next Wednesday, but I doubt it.
]]> no@spam.com (Sean Gardner) Wed, 17 Sep 2008 00:00:00 EDT http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1260/DISPATCHES-FROM-My-Super-Tuesday.html http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1151/DISPATCHES-FROM-Science-Fiction.html The release of Death Race this past weekend got me to thinking a few things. First, fuck them for remaking it. Second, fuck them for remaking it with Statham and McShane, not to mention Joan Allen, cause now I'm probably going to see it. On Netflix, mind you, but still.

The next thing I got to thinking was my love of the original upon which this latest abortion is based. Loosely. Very loosely. Death Race 2000 is one of my favorite films in the "kinda crappy sci-fi" genre. In order to further introduce you to my definition of that term, allow me to invoke some titles you may know.

Barbarella.

The Running Man.

They Live.

Escape From NY.

And allow me to explain why said titles are invoked.

Orgasm machine.

American Gladiators with kills. And two Governors doing battle.

Shades, man. And how can we forget the fight to end all fights. Seriously, the greatest.

And finally, the whole fucking movie. Not only one of my favorite "kinda crappy sci-fi" films but one of my favorite any kind of films. Ever. Let's just say that I undertook a serious addiction to alcohol and/or narcotic, Snake might just be my Higher Power to pull me through.

The other thing this points out to me is that John Carpenter is the tits. As if I hadn't thought that before.

That is all.
]]> no@spam.com (Sean Gardner) Mon, 25 Aug 2008 00:00:00 EDT http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1151/DISPATCHES-FROM-Science-Fiction.html http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1094/DISPATCHES-FROM-Aronofsky039s-Questionable-Practices.html Word on the street is that Darren Aronofsky's latest film, The Wrestler, is screening at the Toronto Film Festival in the impending future. Let me explain why this worries me.

First, it's a film about a wrestler. Starring Mickey Rourke.

Before the fanboy rage spews forth faster than you can say "George Lucas raped my childhood!" allow me to explain. While yes, Mr. Rourke did a fantastic job being a goon in Robert Rodgriuez's pointless and insipid adaptation of Sin City, not to mention a brilliant turn feeding Kim Basinger fuck-fruits in 9 1/2 Weeks, the presence of the man in something Aronofsky's attached to doesn't exactly inspire joyful noise in this writer.

He's fine as a nod and wink choice, like something Tarantino would pull out of the hat and make you think, "Man, that guy's badass!" But badass is far from the thought of, "Man, that guy's got nuance like a motherfucker!" Nuance isn't Tarantino's strong-suit, nor is it Aronofsky's persay, but Darren's never struck me as one with aspirations to make B-level films.

And yet here he is, presenting his fourth film to the world. Fourth. Right, you read that correctly. As in Pi, Requiem for a Dream, and The Fountain. A track record that is exquisite. Untouchable by most artists in the field, really.

Now this. Rourke. Wrestlers. A stripper with a heart of gold. And estranged daughter. A fucking wrestler! And it's called The Wrestler. Which wouldn't be as much of an insult if his next film wasn't holding strong to The Fighter as its title. This shit stresses me out, man.

Yet there is no amount of stress that can prepare me for nail biting freak-out that occurred after reading that this impeccable filmmaker has signed on to direct a sequel to Robo-Cop. Fuck.

Now, to be fair, I've only read this news twice. Both times on Defamer, once as a rumor, and once as an approved story courtesy of Variety. And I hope to whatever higher being that I don't believe in that the story isn't true. I mean, how could it be? That would be the most fucked up news ever.

It isn't like he's taking the path he was steering in when he signed on for Batman: Year One, before getting booted in favor of Nolan and his newly minted bags of money.

Or Jon Favreau taking Iron Man.

Or fuck, even Bryan Singer accepting X-Men.

This isn't a glorified opportunity, it's schlock. The first R-rated film I ever saw, but still mindless drivel. Doesn't Brett Ratner need some franchise to shit on? I mean, a guy turning into slush after a dip in a sewage bath and a face-to-face with an errant auto can't be the cinematic level Darren's reaching for. Surely not. So please, someone tell me this has been redacted. Please.

So, needless to say, I'm upset. Which isn't fair, since I haven't seen the film. Or any of the other, as yet unfinished or even officially agreed-upon films.

I should be going in with an open mind, like I did with The Fountain after so many critics used it as celluloid toilet paper and still found it breathtaking. A film I've now shared, discussed and gushed over with many, many people. People who are probably sick of hearing me talk about it. That good.

So I won't be upset. I'll try to shift my gears, downgrade a bit, slam the brakes and transition into worried. And worried I will stay until the lights dim and I hear that familiar whir of the projector on opening day. Very, very worried.
]]> no@spam.com (Sean Gardner) Tue, 12 Aug 2008 00:00:00 EDT http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1094/DISPATCHES-FROM-Aronofsky039s-Questionable-Practices.html http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1023/DISPATCHES-FROM-Signs-of-Life.html After close to two months on Cape Cod, I had a smile on my face, my psyche brimming with hope about the culture on this, Massachusetts' crooked penis. As I shoveled a delicious breakfast into my mouth, a couple next to me, both in their early 20's, were discussing the films of Jim Jarmusch. Yeah, you heard me. And you can now picture the smirk creasing my face now, can't you?

This wouldn't be such a revelation to many of you, but to see it from my perspective is to be a touch depressed by the lack of nerd life here. You see, during my first few weeks out this way, my references were shot down by most of the teenagers I work with and the older generation, who, to be fair, never got them to begin with. So all those Anchorman quotes, lines stolen from YouTube and Funny or Die videos, even those musical references to Rolling Stones and Kinks songs, missed. Totally, completely, miserably missed.

Suddenly, I was the out of touch guy. Me. The guy on Defamer daily, checking CHUD constantly, being on the Danny McBride bus before it even left the station, staying up on all those vacuous indie rock bands that won't matter by next month (I'm looking at you, Vampire Weekend) and generally being the biggest fucking nerd ever. And now I'm the square. Or just more square than normal, if I'm being fair to myself.

The final straw was when I wore my Team Zissou shirt to work for the fifth time a few weeks back and still, nothing. Not one person has said anything about it. One lady commented that she liked it, but had no clue what the film was, just that she liked the Z's. Ugh. I mean, I knew Wes was on the fringe, but this is fucking ridiculous.

Does no one know what this movie is?

What beauty the modern day Bill Murray holds?

What my life is?

But then that's the real problem, isn't it? That the life I so identify myself with, that was so well understood in Albuquerque, is now something foreign to these people. And there is nothing I can do about it.

There's no way to build a hipster culture from the ground up. It's not as if I can rent a whole group of twenty-somethings all the necessary films worth watching, or play them every song worth knowing, read them every cool, post-modern piece of hip lit on the market. It's exhausting. And let's be honest, I don't even read, listen to or watch all that stuff. I have a life too. But I expect it of others.

The real problem is that even if I could develop a whole society of underlings, it wouldn't work the way I want it. It's not supposed to be what I expect. It's supposed to be a collective conscience that develops, born out of a shared taste in the offbeat, be it musically, artistically, cinematically and in the larger view, culturally.

I don't know how that happens, but it does and a scene develops. And you discover it. You form a small group that finds another small group that leads to another small group and before you know it, people around you all listen to LCD Soundsystem, drink Schlitz and Hamm's ironically and can discuss the latest superhero film in the same breath as Jarmusch's work.

And that brings us back around. See how I did that? Yeah, that's right, suck it.
]]> no@spam.com (Sean Gardner) Thu, 31 Jul 2008 00:00:00 EDT http://chud.com/articles/blogs/1023/DISPATCHES-FROM-Signs-of-Life.html