Sunday marks that high-honored tradition when the elite, the powerful, the rich, the beautiful, the famous converge together to pay and give homage to … themselves. Yes, the Academy Awards, in theory, are to gift those deserving recognition for their contributions to entertainment and pop-culture but, those with real power, those producers and studios complete with the pull of money, ultimately decide what is considered beloved, usually their product, and what is drivel. Just like how many heroic and noble deeds are unrewarded with attention, so too do certain elements of much-enjoyed celluloid get lost in the wind of those Hollywood political airbags.
There is a fine balance between accolades deserved on the basis of financial – and popular – success and those of critical. For most instances, these are as separate as Hitchcock and Van Sant’s versions of PSYCHO. Of all of 2008’s winners, the highest box office draw was THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM’s US $227 million. ULTIMATUM won Best Achievement in Editing, Sound and Sound Editing and was not nominated for film, director or actor. And perhaps it should have. By contrast, the award-winning, and quite good, mind you, NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN, grossed US $61.9 million at the time of the ceremony and took home statues for Directing, Picture, Actor and Screenplay. ULTIMATUM and NO COUNTRY are two completely different movies filmatically (although not, perhaps, in terms of body count), but each equally good on their own and should have perhaps contended against each other.
In 2008, THE DARK KNIGHT grossed US $532 million with a total of more than $900 million worldwide making it the 4th highest grossing film in history (Cameron’s TITANIC still leads the pack by a tip of the iceberg). Runaway hit SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE, which has so far accumulated US $88.1 million, and THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON – US $122.5 million – far lead their competition: FROST/NIXON (US $16.9 million), MILK (US $26.7 million) and THE READER (US $19.4 million). However, would it not make sense to honor architect Christopher Nolan for his film that has accrued 8 nods, let alone a gross that is almost double of all nominations combined?
The answer, unfortunately, is that genre films do not get respect. Having the haughty Academy recognize the merits of a popcorn film will occur around the same time as total and complete sense is made out of the two PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN sequels. Because of this, HELLBOY II: THE GOLDEN ARMY will not win the Makeup category even though the likes of entire Troll Market scene out scopes the Creature Cantina from the original STAR WARS (BENJAMIN BUTTON will win).
Comicbook films are not the only ones that are to be singled out here, so let’s include Westerns and Sci-Fi into the genre niche. 2008 did not produce much from either stable but two noteworthy exceptions should have at least made a few of the minor nominations such as editing, cinematography (both of which really should be held in higher regards along with the Top 6), sound and costume. Those films? Ed Harris’ APPALOOSA and J.J. Abrams’ CLOVERFIELD. By comparison, last year’s Academy did see THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES (2 noms, no wins), 3:10 TO YUMA (2 noms, no wins) and TRANSFORMERS (5 noms, no wins). No wins, just like if you are a Thrasher’s fan, means no respect.
Ignoring THE READER, which most of the American cinema-going population did, along, rightly so, with SWING VOTE, then who was slighted? Aside from the aforementioned Christopher Nolan, perhaps Josh Brolin should have been nominated in the Leading Actor role for his spot on portrayal of George W. Bush in Oliver Stone’s W. Brolin was able to both lampoon and credit the 43rd President and such acting should not be overlooked. But it was. The family-friendly, and OLD YELLER-ending, MARLEY & ME could not sit, heel or run with Adapted Screenplay and Beyonce Knowles cannot scream, “At Last” for her Etta James casting in CADILLAC RECORDS either.
On very rare occasions, the Academy gets it right allowing style and sense to outweigh the politics of the Hollywood Illuminati. In this Century, CRASH and ONCE rightly brought home Oscar over the heavily-favored BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN and not-so enchanting ENCHANTED.
This year, two first-time directors are getting much-deserved recognition and hopefully one of them will be awarded. Danny Boyle is single-handedly responsible for making Ewan McGregor a star (they did three films together, two of which are as slick as Techno), giving heroin a new slang and injecting life into the undead. David Fincher went from directing pop biggest names (Madonna, Michael Jackson, Sting) to giving pop to some of Hollywood’s A-listers (Sigourney Weaver, Brad Pitt (also with a hat trick), Jodie Foster). Regardless of Sunday’s outcome, let’s home this is not the only Red Carpet trip either of these two see.
Not all is lost. Hollywood is the place where dreams can come true and the impossible is all too possible. How else can you explain Uwe Boll’s constant employment? Look at it this way, the Academy even allowed a popcorn movie – and a trilogy at that – to sweep it all it 2004 giving fanboys – and the genre market alike – a little hope and some smiles.
(Side note: supporting actor Sir Ian McKellen was most outrageously snubbed for the first LORD OF THE RINGS installment in 2002 to Jim Broadbent’s performance for IRIS, a film that only grossed US $5.5 million.)
As Always,
theJOE
22 February 2009
08 November 2007
Shear-ly a One-Joke Movie
Obviously connections between Jonathan King’s horror-comedy BLACK SHEEP, a ridiculous little film about genetically-engineered sheep that bleat to a murderous rampage, and the early works of Peter Jackson can easily be made. After all, not since DEAD ALIVE – or perhaps the very-underrated FRIGHTENERS – has New Zealand been the backdrop for a schlocky horror film.
Unfortunately, BLACK SHEEP spends entirely too much time deciding if the film is to be either a gory horror-fest, or a light-hearted Spielbergian romp ala ARACHNOPHOBIA or GREMLINS. Nathan Meister’s fear of sheep is a little too forced and the obligatory romance between his character, Henry, and that of Danielle Mason’s lacks any sort of chemistry, genetically-engineered or not.
What was missing from the film is the element of pure sarcasm; an event where the actors can almost get away with winking to the audience in shared knowledge. In a film featuring zombie sheep, the audience is not looking for the sophistication of THE RING or even the horror of NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET, rather something akin to what should be this film's goofy contemporaries: the EVIL DEAD trilogy, SLITHER and even SHAUN OF THE DEAD.
BLACK SHEEP does have its charming moments, charming, that is, for those lovers of zombies. The attack during older-brother Angus' speech is the highlight of the film. That and the movie downright looks great. Even aside from Weta’s high-caliber practical effects, the lighting and, in particular, the sets provided a top-notch feel to the production. That creepy drop of nervous anxiety running down your spine was the only feeling missing.
As Always,
theJOE
Unfortunately, BLACK SHEEP spends entirely too much time deciding if the film is to be either a gory horror-fest, or a light-hearted Spielbergian romp ala ARACHNOPHOBIA or GREMLINS. Nathan Meister’s fear of sheep is a little too forced and the obligatory romance between his character, Henry, and that of Danielle Mason’s lacks any sort of chemistry, genetically-engineered or not.
What was missing from the film is the element of pure sarcasm; an event where the actors can almost get away with winking to the audience in shared knowledge. In a film featuring zombie sheep, the audience is not looking for the sophistication of THE RING or even the horror of NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET, rather something akin to what should be this film's goofy contemporaries: the EVIL DEAD trilogy, SLITHER and even SHAUN OF THE DEAD.
BLACK SHEEP does have its charming moments, charming, that is, for those lovers of zombies. The attack during older-brother Angus' speech is the highlight of the film. That and the movie downright looks great. Even aside from Weta’s high-caliber practical effects, the lighting and, in particular, the sets provided a top-notch feel to the production. That creepy drop of nervous anxiety running down your spine was the only feeling missing.
As Always,
theJOE
07 October 2007
Soup
I like soup. Although I don't partake of soups with every meal, they make a great - and often tasty - compliment or appetizer. Here is a list of my favorites.
1. Tomato
2. French Onion
3. Italian Wedding
4. Chicken Noodle
5. Chili
6. Wonton
7. Cream of Mushroom
8. Steak Stew
9. Miso
10. Ramen
11. Minestrone
12. Pasta Fagioli
13. Avgolemono
14. Pho
15. Revenge (best served cold)
As Always,
theJOE
1. Tomato
2. French Onion
3. Italian Wedding
4. Chicken Noodle
5. Chili
6. Wonton
7. Cream of Mushroom
8. Steak Stew
9. Miso
10. Ramen
11. Minestrone
12. Pasta Fagioli
13. Avgolemono
14. Pho
15. Revenge (best served cold)
As Always,
theJOE
27 September 2007
Lone Wolf and Cub for the X-Box Generation
Glorifying violence - and perhaps even depravity - SHOOT' EM UP certainly revels in the fact that its nothing more than a stunt-laden, high-octane, 21st Century Warner Bros. cartoon. Paul Giamatti's hitman, like Elmer Fudd before him, carries a big gun and certainly doesn't let a thing like wounded pride get in his way. Clive Owen's good-guy, Smith, bounces around and eat carrots continually like the ancestor his character is derived from.
Pure, unadulterated action keeps time with Paul Haslinger's rock-n-roll rhythms coupled with the likes of NIRVANA, AC/DC, MOTORHEAD and MOTLEY CRUE as the ridiculous action and well-choreographed stunts builds on, yet also mocks, all the cinematic gifts once presented by the MATRIX.
Owen's Smith makes a perfectly rascally rogue. Likeable with his own set of morals and is even fatherly as he invincibly flies between bullets with Oliver, his surrogate son, ironically trying to find a safe haven for the little guy.
When not racing, diving, driving or shooting, however, the pace of the film dies in a manner that the two main characters do not. A little background is given hinting at Smith's time as a Black Ops agent and the tragedy that haunts him. Giamatti's Hertz was a one-time profiler. But none of that information is confirmed as it isn't needed. Smith, like Clint Eastwood's Man-With-No-Name, does not need a past as he's clearly a creature of the present. Such in-between scenes do nothing more than create a lag as the viewer anxiously awaits the next scene of action.
Another detouring element is the inclusion of Monica Bellucci's character, Donna. Aside from the cheesecake factor that Bellucci is flatteringly good at, allowing a girl into this guy's action world detracts both Smith's already responsibility-laden mission as well as the plot.
SHOOT 'EM UP, just like any video game, has each scene's stakes getting higher and higher until the final meeting with the big bad boss and the film's farcical end. Writer/Director Michael Davis obviously wanted to give audiences a treat where a thinking man could unplug and enjoy mindless fun with a story that doesn't make much sense to begin with. Davis simply needs to learn not to let go of the accelerator in the case of a sequel.
As Always,
theJOE
Pure, unadulterated action keeps time with Paul Haslinger's rock-n-roll rhythms coupled with the likes of NIRVANA, AC/DC, MOTORHEAD and MOTLEY CRUE as the ridiculous action and well-choreographed stunts builds on, yet also mocks, all the cinematic gifts once presented by the MATRIX.
Owen's Smith makes a perfectly rascally rogue. Likeable with his own set of morals and is even fatherly as he invincibly flies between bullets with Oliver, his surrogate son, ironically trying to find a safe haven for the little guy.
When not racing, diving, driving or shooting, however, the pace of the film dies in a manner that the two main characters do not. A little background is given hinting at Smith's time as a Black Ops agent and the tragedy that haunts him. Giamatti's Hertz was a one-time profiler. But none of that information is confirmed as it isn't needed. Smith, like Clint Eastwood's Man-With-No-Name, does not need a past as he's clearly a creature of the present. Such in-between scenes do nothing more than create a lag as the viewer anxiously awaits the next scene of action.
Another detouring element is the inclusion of Monica Bellucci's character, Donna. Aside from the cheesecake factor that Bellucci is flatteringly good at, allowing a girl into this guy's action world detracts both Smith's already responsibility-laden mission as well as the plot.
SHOOT 'EM UP, just like any video game, has each scene's stakes getting higher and higher until the final meeting with the big bad boss and the film's farcical end. Writer/Director Michael Davis obviously wanted to give audiences a treat where a thinking man could unplug and enjoy mindless fun with a story that doesn't make much sense to begin with. Davis simply needs to learn not to let go of the accelerator in the case of a sequel.
As Always,
theJOE
26 July 2007
Comic-Con preparation... of sorts
Time for geeking out - and doing something that I have ignored the past three or so years. This coming week is the San Diego Comic-Con, the Super Bowl of Geekdom. I’ve never been to Comic-Con as my preference has always swayed towards the Chicago Wizardworld, which is parallel to Geekdom’s Stanley Cup Finals.
Truly, it is no secret that my passion for the comicbook medium has diminished since the start of this century. Naturally, I still collect and stay on top of most major storylines but after collecting for twenty plus years I am beginning to witness past story ideas, originally new and fresh to me, recycled and updated for the new readers. This generation has already – and is currently undergoing – retellings of the origins for such stalwarts as Superman, Batman and Green Arrow, classic beginnings that were updated, for me, in the mid-eighties.
There are other factors that have no doubt contributed to this slight sense of ennui. Too many mega cross-over storylines. Too many changes in creative teams - a problem which once was becoming near incestuous has, in recent years, opened to celebrated non-comic writers, which are truly hit-or-very-seriously-miss. And, heaven-forbid, too much reliance on the Internet.
Even the mighty lure of the comic convention – a time of celebration, reunion, business rumors, digging through long boxes searching for that elusive key back issue and the brigade of Darth Vader wannabes – has since been bagged and boarded, at least for a little while.
However, one of the upcoming Chicago convention spectacles has once again intrigued me.
The event referred to is voting for the Wizard Fan Awards, something which is analogous to, and holds as much weight as, the MTV Movie Awards. Yet, in similar regard to the MTV awards, any chance for the creators to shine and be given some sort of recognition, even if only in their insular community, is considered both harmless and welcome.
Unlike other fan-based awards, Wizard has set up, Academy-style, nominations for events and creators they deem worthy. Many times these lists contain similar names, thus the desire for that all-important and strangely-absent write-in, but this year’s noms caught my attention. After reading through the list, I soon found myself voting and a little bit of that hard-edged passion began to surface. And I began to smile.
So with that smile still growing, allow me to present, for what it’s worth, my picks along with obligatory commentary.
FAVORITE WRITER
A nice rounding in selections. Brian K. Vaughan (Y: The Last Man and Ex Machina) writes two of the best – and mainstream friendly – comics currently published.
Ed Brubaker might have been the man who killed Captain America, and made the story damn compelling, also writes Daredevil, which is one of the only conventional superhero monthlies I subscribe and proclaim to.
Joss Whedon writes Astonishing X-Men with the same pop-culture mannerisms that made Buffy: The Vampire Slayer great.
My pick went to Geoff Johns who crafted the Infinite Crisis event, a story 20 years in the making.
FAVORITE PENCILER
Both Steve McNiven (Civil War) and Phil Jimenez (Infinite Crisis) deserve accolades for their ability to deal with cast-heavy events.
John Cassaday’s facial expressions perfectly compliment Astonishing X-Men.
But it’s Steve Epting (Captain America) whose stark realism and high-action gets the vote.
FAVORITE INKER
Danny Miki (Moon Knight)
FAVORITE COVER ARTIST
J.G. Jones (52)
But James Jean’s paintings (Fables) are a very close #2.
FAVORITE COLORIST
Dave Stewart (B.P.R.D)
FAVORITE LETTERER
Todd Klein (Fables), whose lettering is easy to read and fun to look at!
FAVORITE EDITOR
Although Tom Brevoort does a good job with Marvel’s heavy-hitters, it’s Scott Allie (B.P.R.D.) who I feel has a better vision on his titles, one of which is Hellboy.
FAVORITE MALE HERO
Daredevil. Again, the single best-written superhero title on the market. And if you are curious, DC’s Justice Society of America is the best team mag.
FAVORITE FEMALE HERO
Just got into the collections of She-Hulk’s new legal-based series; quite fun. However, the nigh-self destructive Renee Montoya (52) is a much more complex and interesting character. Plus she’s the new Question.
FAVORITE VILLAIN
Always a great category. Lex Luthor (52) is the perfect default choice and the inclusion of the sadistically-evil Governor (The Walking Dead) is another great nomination. My choice went with Superboy Prime (Infinite Crisis). What made this version of Superboy so evil is that he never thought of himself as such. In fact, he saw himself as the ultimate hero stopping corruption at every level. And we all know that cliché about the corruption of power. Geoff Johns did a fantastic job scripting this character.
FAVORITE SUPPORTING CHARACTER
Foggy Nelson (Daredevil) is always the perfect candidate for this selection, but loyalties, as always, have been with The Question (52).
FAVORITE ONGOING SERIES
Daredevil. To quote Stan Lee: ‘Nuff Said.
FAVORITE MINISERIES
Infinite Crisis (DC). Marvel's Civil War, which ended in 2007, will no doubt get high marks next year for a truly original story.
FAVORITE ONE-SHOT
Villains United Special (DC)
FAVORITE PUBLISHER
DC
FAVORITE COMIC MOVIE PROJECT
Lots of fun releases this year. High marks to Terry Zwigoff'sArt School Confidential (Sony) and Bryan Singer’s Superman Returns (Warner Bros). My vote goes to the Wachowski’s rendition of V for Vendetta (Warner Bros). They adapted a tight psychological and political mystery into a damn fun action flick.
BREAKOUT TALENT
Ed Benes (Justice League of America), is definitely a good artist and performing an admirable job on a usually cast-heavy title, but sometimes his characters come across too similar in style. Thus, my choice goes to Ivan Reis (Green Lantern). I’ve been a fan of Ivan’s since his first monthly job on Dark Horse Comics’ Ghost.
COMICS GREATEST MOMENT
Spider-Man unmasks (Civil War #2). In front of the entire world. Including J. Jonah Jameson. Does any other event come close? Okay, there was one. The death of Booster Gold (52 #15). But the dude’s a time traveler. He got better. Spidey is still unmasked.
FAVORITE TV SHOW
Outside of sports, there are not too many shows I catch regularly on network TV. One of them is The Shield (FX Networks), which was not nominated. Another one, which was nominated, is Lost (ABC). But season 3 focused – and revealed – way too much about the Others. My vote, then, was easy, but came as surprise seeing as how I didn’t begin downloading the show until very late in its existence: Heroes (NBC). Cannot wait for season 2 to begin.
FAVORITE DVD RELEASE
The aforementioned V for Vendetta (Warner Bros) and Superman Returns (Warner Bros) were both ace releases. Props, and votes, need to go to Superman II: The Richard Donner Cut (Warner Bros), which provided a similar, but also different, version of the well-loved film. Remember, since the original release of Superman II back in 1980, there was not a fan-worthy cinematic super-hero/super-villain duke out until 2000’s X-Men. That’s a twenty-year wait, folks. Special mention to the not-nominated Season 1 of Doctor Who; wish Christopher Eccelston stayed on for another go round.
As Always,
theJOE
Truly, it is no secret that my passion for the comicbook medium has diminished since the start of this century. Naturally, I still collect and stay on top of most major storylines but after collecting for twenty plus years I am beginning to witness past story ideas, originally new and fresh to me, recycled and updated for the new readers. This generation has already – and is currently undergoing – retellings of the origins for such stalwarts as Superman, Batman and Green Arrow, classic beginnings that were updated, for me, in the mid-eighties.
There are other factors that have no doubt contributed to this slight sense of ennui. Too many mega cross-over storylines. Too many changes in creative teams - a problem which once was becoming near incestuous has, in recent years, opened to celebrated non-comic writers, which are truly hit-or-very-seriously-miss. And, heaven-forbid, too much reliance on the Internet.
Even the mighty lure of the comic convention – a time of celebration, reunion, business rumors, digging through long boxes searching for that elusive key back issue and the brigade of Darth Vader wannabes – has since been bagged and boarded, at least for a little while.
However, one of the upcoming Chicago convention spectacles has once again intrigued me.
The event referred to is voting for the Wizard Fan Awards, something which is analogous to, and holds as much weight as, the MTV Movie Awards. Yet, in similar regard to the MTV awards, any chance for the creators to shine and be given some sort of recognition, even if only in their insular community, is considered both harmless and welcome.
Unlike other fan-based awards, Wizard has set up, Academy-style, nominations for events and creators they deem worthy. Many times these lists contain similar names, thus the desire for that all-important and strangely-absent write-in, but this year’s noms caught my attention. After reading through the list, I soon found myself voting and a little bit of that hard-edged passion began to surface. And I began to smile.
So with that smile still growing, allow me to present, for what it’s worth, my picks along with obligatory commentary.
FAVORITE WRITER
A nice rounding in selections. Brian K. Vaughan (Y: The Last Man and Ex Machina) writes two of the best – and mainstream friendly – comics currently published.
Ed Brubaker might have been the man who killed Captain America, and made the story damn compelling, also writes Daredevil, which is one of the only conventional superhero monthlies I subscribe and proclaim to.
Joss Whedon writes Astonishing X-Men with the same pop-culture mannerisms that made Buffy: The Vampire Slayer great.
My pick went to Geoff Johns who crafted the Infinite Crisis event, a story 20 years in the making.
FAVORITE PENCILER
Both Steve McNiven (Civil War) and Phil Jimenez (Infinite Crisis) deserve accolades for their ability to deal with cast-heavy events.
John Cassaday’s facial expressions perfectly compliment Astonishing X-Men.
But it’s Steve Epting (Captain America) whose stark realism and high-action gets the vote.
FAVORITE INKER
Danny Miki (Moon Knight)
FAVORITE COVER ARTIST
J.G. Jones (52)
But James Jean’s paintings (Fables) are a very close #2.
FAVORITE COLORIST
Dave Stewart (B.P.R.D)
FAVORITE LETTERER
Todd Klein (Fables), whose lettering is easy to read and fun to look at!
FAVORITE EDITOR
Although Tom Brevoort does a good job with Marvel’s heavy-hitters, it’s Scott Allie (B.P.R.D.) who I feel has a better vision on his titles, one of which is Hellboy.
FAVORITE MALE HERO
Daredevil. Again, the single best-written superhero title on the market. And if you are curious, DC’s Justice Society of America is the best team mag.
FAVORITE FEMALE HERO
Just got into the collections of She-Hulk’s new legal-based series; quite fun. However, the nigh-self destructive Renee Montoya (52) is a much more complex and interesting character. Plus she’s the new Question.
FAVORITE VILLAIN
Always a great category. Lex Luthor (52) is the perfect default choice and the inclusion of the sadistically-evil Governor (The Walking Dead) is another great nomination. My choice went with Superboy Prime (Infinite Crisis). What made this version of Superboy so evil is that he never thought of himself as such. In fact, he saw himself as the ultimate hero stopping corruption at every level. And we all know that cliché about the corruption of power. Geoff Johns did a fantastic job scripting this character.
FAVORITE SUPPORTING CHARACTER
Foggy Nelson (Daredevil) is always the perfect candidate for this selection, but loyalties, as always, have been with The Question (52).
FAVORITE ONGOING SERIES
Daredevil. To quote Stan Lee: ‘Nuff Said.
FAVORITE MINISERIES
Infinite Crisis (DC). Marvel's Civil War, which ended in 2007, will no doubt get high marks next year for a truly original story.
FAVORITE ONE-SHOT
Villains United Special (DC)
FAVORITE PUBLISHER
DC
FAVORITE COMIC MOVIE PROJECT
Lots of fun releases this year. High marks to Terry Zwigoff'sArt School Confidential (Sony) and Bryan Singer’s Superman Returns (Warner Bros). My vote goes to the Wachowski’s rendition of V for Vendetta (Warner Bros). They adapted a tight psychological and political mystery into a damn fun action flick.
BREAKOUT TALENT
Ed Benes (Justice League of America), is definitely a good artist and performing an admirable job on a usually cast-heavy title, but sometimes his characters come across too similar in style. Thus, my choice goes to Ivan Reis (Green Lantern). I’ve been a fan of Ivan’s since his first monthly job on Dark Horse Comics’ Ghost.
COMICS GREATEST MOMENT
Spider-Man unmasks (Civil War #2). In front of the entire world. Including J. Jonah Jameson. Does any other event come close? Okay, there was one. The death of Booster Gold (52 #15). But the dude’s a time traveler. He got better. Spidey is still unmasked.
FAVORITE TV SHOW
Outside of sports, there are not too many shows I catch regularly on network TV. One of them is The Shield (FX Networks), which was not nominated. Another one, which was nominated, is Lost (ABC). But season 3 focused – and revealed – way too much about the Others. My vote, then, was easy, but came as surprise seeing as how I didn’t begin downloading the show until very late in its existence: Heroes (NBC). Cannot wait for season 2 to begin.
FAVORITE DVD RELEASE
The aforementioned V for Vendetta (Warner Bros) and Superman Returns (Warner Bros) were both ace releases. Props, and votes, need to go to Superman II: The Richard Donner Cut (Warner Bros), which provided a similar, but also different, version of the well-loved film. Remember, since the original release of Superman II back in 1980, there was not a fan-worthy cinematic super-hero/super-villain duke out until 2000’s X-Men. That’s a twenty-year wait, folks. Special mention to the not-nominated Season 1 of Doctor Who; wish Christopher Eccelston stayed on for another go round.
As Always,
theJOE
06 July 2007
Necessary Ingredients to B-Movie Magic
Ridiculous? Sure. Gory? Without a doubt. Cliché? Certainly at times… but aren't those three ingredients the necessary spices that marinate the typical b-grade film to that of a choice cult classic? You bet!
Slither, you see, is bred from a high pedigree of b-film classics, and that’s even ignoring director James Gunn’s connections to all things Troma, attributing the over-the-top gory camp to its grandfather, Evil Dead II, and the sci-fi wackiness to that of its father, Tremors. Gregg Henry’s dialogue is easily imagined as coming from Bruce Campbell while the romantic tensions between Nathan Fillion and Elizabeth Banks are on the same route as Kevin Bacon and Finn Carter. Other family likenesses include snappy one-liners, a well-intentioned and likable rogue who must stand alone against an invasion of body-snatching space slugs and, of course, unexplained dead things. Slither is an entertaining chase that consistently brings just as many laughs as it does screams.
Even before the likes of Shaun Of The Dead, genre-blending flicks of comedic horror have always been one of the most difficult theatric tricks to successfully pull off as that delicate balance of acceptance comes into play. For instance, how much camp can be digested before being conceived as ridiculous or simply too much must fit in with the comedic style and tone of the script. Then, how scary and how gory can the film go without being visualized as either an outright terror or a gooey mess?
Usually, the answer to those questions is probably luck. However, talent and a true desire for the story does go a long way. Aside from the aforementioned films of Sam Raimi and Ron Underwood, examples of these can be seen with Peter Jackson's Dead Alive, Joe Dante's Gremlins and John Carpenter's comedic-actioner Big Trouble In Little China.
There is one more element that must be added to the mix: enjoyment. Regardless if the film brings laughter or shrieks, the final result must be satisfaction in the story, the involvement of the characters and the entertaining aspect that the afflictions within are not happening to you. Slither satisfies all three desires.
So add Slither to that "must see" list of spectacles where the silliness can become real and accepted and experienced over and over.
As Always,
theJOE
Slither, you see, is bred from a high pedigree of b-film classics, and that’s even ignoring director James Gunn’s connections to all things Troma, attributing the over-the-top gory camp to its grandfather, Evil Dead II, and the sci-fi wackiness to that of its father, Tremors. Gregg Henry’s dialogue is easily imagined as coming from Bruce Campbell while the romantic tensions between Nathan Fillion and Elizabeth Banks are on the same route as Kevin Bacon and Finn Carter. Other family likenesses include snappy one-liners, a well-intentioned and likable rogue who must stand alone against an invasion of body-snatching space slugs and, of course, unexplained dead things. Slither is an entertaining chase that consistently brings just as many laughs as it does screams.
Even before the likes of Shaun Of The Dead, genre-blending flicks of comedic horror have always been one of the most difficult theatric tricks to successfully pull off as that delicate balance of acceptance comes into play. For instance, how much camp can be digested before being conceived as ridiculous or simply too much must fit in with the comedic style and tone of the script. Then, how scary and how gory can the film go without being visualized as either an outright terror or a gooey mess?
Usually, the answer to those questions is probably luck. However, talent and a true desire for the story does go a long way. Aside from the aforementioned films of Sam Raimi and Ron Underwood, examples of these can be seen with Peter Jackson's Dead Alive, Joe Dante's Gremlins and John Carpenter's comedic-actioner Big Trouble In Little China.
There is one more element that must be added to the mix: enjoyment. Regardless if the film brings laughter or shrieks, the final result must be satisfaction in the story, the involvement of the characters and the entertaining aspect that the afflictions within are not happening to you. Slither satisfies all three desires.
So add Slither to that "must see" list of spectacles where the silliness can become real and accepted and experienced over and over.
As Always,
theJOE
29 May 2007
RUSH - "Snakes & Arrows"
RUSH
“Snakes & Arrows”
Atlantic
Once again the Boys from the Great White North change their sound; something they do every three or four albums either to press their artistic limits or to capture – and redefine – the score of the current music scene. Coming off 2002’s Vapor Trails, a bass-n-grunge heavy set of riotous and catchy anthems, Snakes & Arrows is still cool and, albeit, even slightly counter-contemporary, but definitely mellow and lo-fi not making it the most complementary of pieces.
Vapor Trails was released after a six-year-long wait and jumped with intensity. If there was any message the release seemed to generate it was, “We’re RUSH. We’re back. We’re louder than ever.” Snakes & Arrows, then, has a slightly different message. Perhaps it’s, “We’re RUSH. We’re a little older, a little wiser, and maybe don’t have to be so damn loud.”
There is a definite acoustic feel to this release, which plays heavily into the mellow mood. Even Alex Lifeson’s electric work has more of a 6- and 12-string organic rhythm rather than the normal crispness of technicality. As a result, unfortunately, some tracks become instantly forgettable.
RUSH opens the release with their rocking new single, “Far Cry”. “Armor and Sword” has a beautiful composition and arrangement, but the band then tunes it down too quickly as the next three tracks all have a too-similar feel that suppresses any individuality. The second half picks up the pace with “Faithless”, a song that has that great 80’s style b-side quality, the progressive “Good News First” and closes, as it began, with the rocker “We Hold On”.
Snakes & Arrows has three instrumentals interspersed throughout the CD and all of them are complex, beautiful, attention-grabbers that makes you remember why you’re a RUSH fan in the first place: fast licks, pounding bass and beyond-tricky fills. In fact Lifeson’s son, Lexrt, composes and performs the second one, “Hope”, which captures all the magic of the band.
RUSH has built a long-lasting career on artistic changes, longer than many of today’s bands can ever dream of accomplishing. They no longer need to prove themselves as the Tech Masters of Prog Rock who have assumed control. Nor do they need to outdo themselves in the limelight with each new release like a new world man. But nor are they today’s Tom Sawyer. Snakes & Arrows is occasionally clunky both in Peart’s lyrics and Lee’s serious vein of music, but it also knows when to jam, when to sing and yes, the instrumental “Malignant Narcissism” evens allows you an air-drum solo.
As Always,
theJOE
“Snakes & Arrows”
Atlantic
Once again the Boys from the Great White North change their sound; something they do every three or four albums either to press their artistic limits or to capture – and redefine – the score of the current music scene. Coming off 2002’s Vapor Trails, a bass-n-grunge heavy set of riotous and catchy anthems, Snakes & Arrows is still cool and, albeit, even slightly counter-contemporary, but definitely mellow and lo-fi not making it the most complementary of pieces.
Vapor Trails was released after a six-year-long wait and jumped with intensity. If there was any message the release seemed to generate it was, “We’re RUSH. We’re back. We’re louder than ever.” Snakes & Arrows, then, has a slightly different message. Perhaps it’s, “We’re RUSH. We’re a little older, a little wiser, and maybe don’t have to be so damn loud.”
There is a definite acoustic feel to this release, which plays heavily into the mellow mood. Even Alex Lifeson’s electric work has more of a 6- and 12-string organic rhythm rather than the normal crispness of technicality. As a result, unfortunately, some tracks become instantly forgettable.
RUSH opens the release with their rocking new single, “Far Cry”. “Armor and Sword” has a beautiful composition and arrangement, but the band then tunes it down too quickly as the next three tracks all have a too-similar feel that suppresses any individuality. The second half picks up the pace with “Faithless”, a song that has that great 80’s style b-side quality, the progressive “Good News First” and closes, as it began, with the rocker “We Hold On”.
Snakes & Arrows has three instrumentals interspersed throughout the CD and all of them are complex, beautiful, attention-grabbers that makes you remember why you’re a RUSH fan in the first place: fast licks, pounding bass and beyond-tricky fills. In fact Lifeson’s son, Lexrt, composes and performs the second one, “Hope”, which captures all the magic of the band.
RUSH has built a long-lasting career on artistic changes, longer than many of today’s bands can ever dream of accomplishing. They no longer need to prove themselves as the Tech Masters of Prog Rock who have assumed control. Nor do they need to outdo themselves in the limelight with each new release like a new world man. But nor are they today’s Tom Sawyer. Snakes & Arrows is occasionally clunky both in Peart’s lyrics and Lee’s serious vein of music, but it also knows when to jam, when to sing and yes, the instrumental “Malignant Narcissism” evens allows you an air-drum solo.
As Always,
theJOE
19 February 2007
Comicbook Actioneer is an Easy Ride
The problem with comicbook films is that once the filmmakers decide to distance themselves from the source material, a necessary step that all films face upon adaptation, the core audience immediately goes on the defense. Pleasing said fans is always a difficult task. GHOST RIDER, then, succeeds on the level that it is a fun, comicbook adapted film. However, placed against some its more successful contemporaries, the campy nature of GHOST RIDER is its chief detractor.
The Marvel Comics anti-hero Ghost Rider got his start in Marvel Spotlight #5 in 1972 and the film’s origin resembles the comicbook tale close enough: motorcyclist Johnny Blaze makes a deal with the devil transforming him, at times, to be an fiery instrument of vengeance. Marvel then revamped and updated the character in 1990 completing the skull-like visage with a flaming chain and spikes. Writer/director Mark Steven Johnson takes elements from the classic story and incorporates it with the stylizations of the more modern version in an attempt to please both worlds.
Opening with an origin that unfortunately lasts the entire first – and lengthy – act, the film finally roars into action as the damned Blaze (Nic Cage) fights against the devil’s son, Blackheart (AMERICAN BEAUTY’s Wes Bentley) and his demonic horde. Bentley pulls off the rogue with a smile but at times he and his cronies’ post-MATRIX get-up have all the posturing of an upstart emo band. Even Cage and Sam Elliott, playing his mentor, camp it up at times playing mere parodies of themselves. Topping off the cast is the ultimate Easy Rider, Peter Fonda, playing a laughably-scary devil with a grin-and-a-wink that seems to channel Jack Nicholson.
Once the action begins, the film pits the flaming Ghost Rider up against elemental demons and, predictably, the police. And like all cliché Westerns or their rock-n-roll, comicbook counterparts, there seems to be nothing his American Chopper-possessed bike cannot do, which even comes to his side when whistled like a loyal steed.
What the film desperately lacks is any sense of a real and natural environment. Story aside, what made the SPIDER-MAN and X-MEN films successful is the fact that these unreal events were happening the world right outside the window. Here, the humor – both intended and ridiculous – prevents that barrier from ever entirely withdrawing. Another impediment is the film’s rating. Taking a similar path to the BLADE films and first CROW, Marvel should have pushed for a R rating to truly give the devil his due. More dark horror and less toothy one-liners would have made an electrifying film, something that video game-looking ghosts and goblins cannot properly achieve.
At best, Ghost Rider is a b-grade superhero; his film falls into the same classification. But true fans should already be aware of this. After all, boyhood fantasies of a flaming skull warrior on a tricked out bike can only go so far. This film meets you half the way.
As Always,
theJOE
31 December 2006
Los Angeles - Day 5
"I hope I was able to serve your travel needs today," said the outsourced voice on the other end of the connection. His accent placed him somewhere in South Asia, certainly not in a stuffy LAX terminal where I was standing making the call. I had a sharp intake of breath allowing me a second to contemplate my hopefully resentful and sarcastic answer but then realized I was not in the mood for such biting humor.
"You've got to be kidding me," was my reply quickly adding, "You most certainly did not."
According to an unfriendly United employee obviously unhappy with his unfriendly minimum wage position, I was late for my check in. United's decidedly non-customer friendly policy states that check-in must occur at least 45 minutes prior to boarding. Doing so gives airport security more time with their secondary screening of white senior citizens. After all, it was white senior citizens who were the cause of the terrorist threat that was foiled in Heathrow two weeks before my departure thus preventing me from including Old Spice deodorant in my carry-on.
My Asiana flight arrived late in LAX. My run from the far-away overseas terminal to domestic check-in almost proved to be successful. And here comes the second culprit in my personal blame game.
I was stopped mid-run by a smiling African-American gentleman wearing a light, comfortable-looking blazer. Apparently this was an airport employee; his photo was laminated to a badge hanging from said jacket. Thinking I was going to be informed to slow down – although outside of the Olympics and your neighborhood park, where else can one spy a number of individuals sprinting? - I stopped to listen to this man who asked me for my flight info. I easily procured this memorized information and he calmly told me I had plenty of time. He even went on to tell me exactly which terminal I need to head to.
Thinking I heard the starter pistol fire with his conclusion, I was just about to take off when he then – with that same smile – began to hit me up for money. You see, he wasn’t an airport employee as I am sure you knew from the beginning. I cite jet-lag for my error of judgment. He was collecting money for some sort of charity, although it was probably just for his own wallet. All I had in my pocket was one thousand won – probably worth about one US dollar – that he greedily snatched from my hand proclaiming in satisfaction that his charity accepts all currencies.
I gave up the last of my souvenirs and continued my dash.
But I was late. And no one at the United terminal or at their call center a world away was the least bit helpful. The next flight I could get on included a 10 hour wait. Stuck in LA, I decided to do what everyone in LA does – head for a mall.
The visitor's center in LAX is productively-hidden next to the unclaimed baggage carousel and was staffed by a tiny man who more-than resembled Mr. Miyagi. Unfortunately his wax-on, wax-off advice was no help to this Daniel-san. He told me I should go to the beach at Malibu. I had no intention of heading to a beach with luggage and a laptop so he pointed out two malls for me on a direction-less map. Thank God my taxi driver was much more helpful and dropped me off at the Howard Hughes Center, no more than four miles outside of the airport.
This outdoor mall was as perfect as the weather: a bookstore to waste time in, plenty of eateries to refuel, and a multiplex complete with an IMAX theatre. Even better, there was a bus that went directly to LAX for $1.75; much cheaper than my $15 cab fare out there.
I arrived back at the airport of my discontent two hours early with a belly full of popcorn and lighter attitude after seeing Little Miss Sunshine, an attitude which immediately became heavier.
United informs me that my 10 PM flight has now been pushed back to 1 AM. I am now numb with wasted time. My first thought is to become even more numb by consuming massive amounts of airport-priced alcohol. Unfortunately, everyone else trapped in this particular terminal has the same thought. The tiny airport bar is packed. I doubt that even Mr. Miyagi could slip in and saddle up to the bar for his after-work hit of sake. Plus, baseball playoffs are about to begin and the Angels game is contributing to the crowd.
I look to be entertained by the game from afar by peaking over patrons' heads as I try to get a buzz from secondhand alcohol fumes. I am successful in neither.
Looking back, I should have rented a locker for my bags at the airport. I should have taken one of those "Stars of LA" tours. I should have called the airport and checked on my departure time allowing me to catch a double feature. I should have changed flights back in the Philippines taking me to Tokyo instead of Korea. But limited sleep and well-more than 24 hours of wearing the same clothes can impair anyone’s judgment.
I find it unfortunate that an otherwise successful and interesting trip to a completely different part of the world – a brand new adventure – end so dismally in Los Angeles. I also find it unfortunate that LAX is as unaccommodating for its patrons in function and support as TO is in accepting critiques from the press. If Seoul Incheon International is the Taj Mahal of airports, then LAX is the dumpster situated behind Lincoln Financial Field. Midway, by the way, would be the living room of your crazy neighbor who owns five cats.
Back at work I'm informed that I'll be heading out to South Dakota before the year's end. Here's hoping such plans do not involve LAX or United.
As Always,
theJOE
"You've got to be kidding me," was my reply quickly adding, "You most certainly did not."
According to an unfriendly United employee obviously unhappy with his unfriendly minimum wage position, I was late for my check in. United's decidedly non-customer friendly policy states that check-in must occur at least 45 minutes prior to boarding. Doing so gives airport security more time with their secondary screening of white senior citizens. After all, it was white senior citizens who were the cause of the terrorist threat that was foiled in Heathrow two weeks before my departure thus preventing me from including Old Spice deodorant in my carry-on.
My Asiana flight arrived late in LAX. My run from the far-away overseas terminal to domestic check-in almost proved to be successful. And here comes the second culprit in my personal blame game.
I was stopped mid-run by a smiling African-American gentleman wearing a light, comfortable-looking blazer. Apparently this was an airport employee; his photo was laminated to a badge hanging from said jacket. Thinking I was going to be informed to slow down – although outside of the Olympics and your neighborhood park, where else can one spy a number of individuals sprinting? - I stopped to listen to this man who asked me for my flight info. I easily procured this memorized information and he calmly told me I had plenty of time. He even went on to tell me exactly which terminal I need to head to.
Thinking I heard the starter pistol fire with his conclusion, I was just about to take off when he then – with that same smile – began to hit me up for money. You see, he wasn’t an airport employee as I am sure you knew from the beginning. I cite jet-lag for my error of judgment. He was collecting money for some sort of charity, although it was probably just for his own wallet. All I had in my pocket was one thousand won – probably worth about one US dollar – that he greedily snatched from my hand proclaiming in satisfaction that his charity accepts all currencies.
I gave up the last of my souvenirs and continued my dash.
But I was late. And no one at the United terminal or at their call center a world away was the least bit helpful. The next flight I could get on included a 10 hour wait. Stuck in LA, I decided to do what everyone in LA does – head for a mall.
The visitor's center in LAX is productively-hidden next to the unclaimed baggage carousel and was staffed by a tiny man who more-than resembled Mr. Miyagi. Unfortunately his wax-on, wax-off advice was no help to this Daniel-san. He told me I should go to the beach at Malibu. I had no intention of heading to a beach with luggage and a laptop so he pointed out two malls for me on a direction-less map. Thank God my taxi driver was much more helpful and dropped me off at the Howard Hughes Center, no more than four miles outside of the airport.
This outdoor mall was as perfect as the weather: a bookstore to waste time in, plenty of eateries to refuel, and a multiplex complete with an IMAX theatre. Even better, there was a bus that went directly to LAX for $1.75; much cheaper than my $15 cab fare out there.
I arrived back at the airport of my discontent two hours early with a belly full of popcorn and lighter attitude after seeing Little Miss Sunshine, an attitude which immediately became heavier.
United informs me that my 10 PM flight has now been pushed back to 1 AM. I am now numb with wasted time. My first thought is to become even more numb by consuming massive amounts of airport-priced alcohol. Unfortunately, everyone else trapped in this particular terminal has the same thought. The tiny airport bar is packed. I doubt that even Mr. Miyagi could slip in and saddle up to the bar for his after-work hit of sake. Plus, baseball playoffs are about to begin and the Angels game is contributing to the crowd.
I look to be entertained by the game from afar by peaking over patrons' heads as I try to get a buzz from secondhand alcohol fumes. I am successful in neither.
Looking back, I should have rented a locker for my bags at the airport. I should have taken one of those "Stars of LA" tours. I should have called the airport and checked on my departure time allowing me to catch a double feature. I should have changed flights back in the Philippines taking me to Tokyo instead of Korea. But limited sleep and well-more than 24 hours of wearing the same clothes can impair anyone’s judgment.
I find it unfortunate that an otherwise successful and interesting trip to a completely different part of the world – a brand new adventure – end so dismally in Los Angeles. I also find it unfortunate that LAX is as unaccommodating for its patrons in function and support as TO is in accepting critiques from the press. If Seoul Incheon International is the Taj Mahal of airports, then LAX is the dumpster situated behind Lincoln Financial Field. Midway, by the way, would be the living room of your crazy neighbor who owns five cats.
Back at work I'm informed that I'll be heading out to South Dakota before the year's end. Here's hoping such plans do not involve LAX or United.
As Always,
theJOE
21 November 2006
Korea – Day 4
I don’t know why Americans complain about the hassles at airports. Manila’s Ninoy Aquino International Airport has it that you cannot leave the Philippines without paying a deportation tax. The cost was 500 PHP, which equates to just under $5 USD. Or the price of a Whopper. I turned my bill – among the last of my pesos – over into the waiting hand of a federally-licensed employee, a dark and slimy slug of a man, who I am certain pocked the money instead of placing it into the cash register.
At least he performed the deed with a smile.
Manila gave me two final send offs. The first was salesgirl working in one of the promenade stores that are squeezed into the margins of the isles. She informed me that her co-worker thought I was cute. I stated that my wife agrees with her.
The second was the furry little rodent, a small mouse or chipmunk, that kept darting throughout the Asiana lounge.
Korea was beautiful. I sat in the main terminal of Incheon and watched the sun’s rays triumphantly arc into the tall, curved windows allowing total access to the skyline knowing that these same rays recently surrendered to darkness back home. With the sun came life. More and more travelers, vacationers and commuters alike, began filling the airport. Lights turned on as the various bodegas sprang to life and commerce.
My day trip into Seoul wasn’t scheduled to depart until 10 AM, giving me four hours to roam around, get breakfast, chat with a few locals, get rid of breakfast in their extremely clean restrooms, and watch a football match’s results from the previous day. As nice as Incheon is, it simply cannot fill in four long, jet-lagged hours when you are on the wrong end of customs.
The day trip into Seoul was extremely pleasant but perhaps too short. This was the guide’s first solo expedition and occasionally struggled with her English. My excitement of seeing this Asian country won out over her detriment and my lack of sleep.
Seoul presented itself as any international city. The new, the modern, the hi-tech was crammed right into the mountain relegating the old, the antique, the historical to back ways and malls. For, as is the case with many old cities, especially on an island, space is always limited.
The tour highlighted the top tourist traps. The Blue House, South Korea’s equivalent to the White House – minus the cowboy hats – was beautifully snuggled between the mountain and river Han as a perfect symbol of power. Next came the Jogye-sa Buddhist Temple and Gyeongnuigung Palace, Seoul’s yin-and-yang representing the current with the display, and the Seoul Museum of History, which would have been much more impressive if English was more prevalent. Perhaps this was simply South Korea’s answer to the entirely-French Louver.
Lunch consisted of …get ready for this… Shabu-Shabu. It was presented as a Korean barbecue, which made the marinated chopped steak come out a lot more tasty then the seafood mess presented back in Manila. My full belly prevented me from saying “thank you” in Korean. Either that or it was my inability in learning the multi-syllabic phrase.
And any tour just would not be complete without shopping. Actually, this tour could have withstood the stop as Korean trinkets are even more cheaply-made there than the junk pedaled in America.
Then, with Shabu-Shabu in my belly, the tour bus headed back to the airport for my eventual flight across the ocean and home. Customs was a breeze and after two Jack-and-cokes, the lights in the cabin dimmed, as did my eyes. America waited for me.
My connecting flight in LAX did not.
As Always,
theJOE
At least he performed the deed with a smile.
Manila gave me two final send offs. The first was salesgirl working in one of the promenade stores that are squeezed into the margins of the isles. She informed me that her co-worker thought I was cute. I stated that my wife agrees with her.
The second was the furry little rodent, a small mouse or chipmunk, that kept darting throughout the Asiana lounge.
Korea was beautiful. I sat in the main terminal of Incheon and watched the sun’s rays triumphantly arc into the tall, curved windows allowing total access to the skyline knowing that these same rays recently surrendered to darkness back home. With the sun came life. More and more travelers, vacationers and commuters alike, began filling the airport. Lights turned on as the various bodegas sprang to life and commerce.
My day trip into Seoul wasn’t scheduled to depart until 10 AM, giving me four hours to roam around, get breakfast, chat with a few locals, get rid of breakfast in their extremely clean restrooms, and watch a football match’s results from the previous day. As nice as Incheon is, it simply cannot fill in four long, jet-lagged hours when you are on the wrong end of customs.
The day trip into Seoul was extremely pleasant but perhaps too short. This was the guide’s first solo expedition and occasionally struggled with her English. My excitement of seeing this Asian country won out over her detriment and my lack of sleep.
Seoul presented itself as any international city. The new, the modern, the hi-tech was crammed right into the mountain relegating the old, the antique, the historical to back ways and malls. For, as is the case with many old cities, especially on an island, space is always limited.
The tour highlighted the top tourist traps. The Blue House, South Korea’s equivalent to the White House – minus the cowboy hats – was beautifully snuggled between the mountain and river Han as a perfect symbol of power. Next came the Jogye-sa Buddhist Temple and Gyeongnuigung Palace, Seoul’s yin-and-yang representing the current with the display, and the Seoul Museum of History, which would have been much more impressive if English was more prevalent. Perhaps this was simply South Korea’s answer to the entirely-French Louver.
Lunch consisted of …get ready for this… Shabu-Shabu. It was presented as a Korean barbecue, which made the marinated chopped steak come out a lot more tasty then the seafood mess presented back in Manila. My full belly prevented me from saying “thank you” in Korean. Either that or it was my inability in learning the multi-syllabic phrase.
And any tour just would not be complete without shopping. Actually, this tour could have withstood the stop as Korean trinkets are even more cheaply-made there than the junk pedaled in America.
Then, with Shabu-Shabu in my belly, the tour bus headed back to the airport for my eventual flight across the ocean and home. Customs was a breeze and after two Jack-and-cokes, the lights in the cabin dimmed, as did my eyes. America waited for me.
My connecting flight in LAX did not.
As Always,
theJOE
03 October 2006
Manila - Day 3
Welcome to the 21st Century, where the Internet has made our world, our cell phones and attention spans smaller. From SMS IMing and digital communications to MySpace and YouTube to television adverts for web sites. If you are not online, well, you’re totally off. In the Philippines, however, a Third World Asian country, where priorities are obviously different, not being online for a day isn’t the greatest of worries. Or at least it wasn’t for our clients on my third day in Manila.
Wednesday had me hopping around a bit as visiting a couple of different clients were on the agenda. Saw a number of jitney-type buses out on the streets that were totally wild. These vehicles of public transportation were no higher than a standard SUV, certainly not taller than Ford Expedition, but about three times as long and with an open back that the passengers used as a hop-in/hop-out portal. Generally these bus were all stainless steel in appearance like a Hot Wheels car or perhaps like the buses that still appear in old or period-piece movies before businesses realized that moving billboards made much more sense. Luckily America’s mighty corporate influence has yet to make its full presence known in the Philippines, allowing these buses all to sport their own unique look as the drivers seemingly decorate their steeds with outlandish themes: surfin’ Hawaii, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Sylvester & Tweety, Bob Marley and on and on and on. What is equally amazing is that the insides of these buses must totally be tight as one certainly could not stand upright in it. But they were everywhere.
The drive around also allowed me to get a good look at Metro Manila where tall, glass skyscrapers complete with helipads stood side-by-side with shanty-town sheds and their peeling plaster facades and rusted tin roofs. Hardly a love shack. Across the street from the Pan Pacific stood a Buddhist Temple that looked equally out of place as our 21-story hotel. Unemployment, I was told, is not all that high as menial jobs are created simply to keep a workforce in place. Pulling up to our hotel, as an example, would have two or three attendants opening the cab’s door and seeing you into the hotel where another employee would actually push the elevator call button.
None of these sights, however, prepared me for the fact that one of banks we visited, one of the largest Philippine banks, responsible for million of dollars in transactions coming in from abroad, was totally offline for our visit. Problems with their DNS provider. And hey, stuff like that happens, but the point here is that they didn’t really care .”No Internet,” they said with a shrug of their shoulders.
I shrug right back. After all, they flew me around the world on their dime. However, I feel slightly more foolish with my shrug that their indifference swallows whole with a smile. Their lives are right outside, across the street at the Shabu-Shabu. I’m a six-foot Anglo that still has recycled airport air residing in my lungs. But this world is small. I can comfortably retreat digitally: photo gallery of my most recent trip to England, getting the new Ghastly Ones’ release from iTunes, news on the Phillies, even this blog.
”No Internet,” they said.
No good tacos either. But I leave tonight.
As Always,
theJOE
Wednesday had me hopping around a bit as visiting a couple of different clients were on the agenda. Saw a number of jitney-type buses out on the streets that were totally wild. These vehicles of public transportation were no higher than a standard SUV, certainly not taller than Ford Expedition, but about three times as long and with an open back that the passengers used as a hop-in/hop-out portal. Generally these bus were all stainless steel in appearance like a Hot Wheels car or perhaps like the buses that still appear in old or period-piece movies before businesses realized that moving billboards made much more sense. Luckily America’s mighty corporate influence has yet to make its full presence known in the Philippines, allowing these buses all to sport their own unique look as the drivers seemingly decorate their steeds with outlandish themes: surfin’ Hawaii, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Sylvester & Tweety, Bob Marley and on and on and on. What is equally amazing is that the insides of these buses must totally be tight as one certainly could not stand upright in it. But they were everywhere.
The drive around also allowed me to get a good look at Metro Manila where tall, glass skyscrapers complete with helipads stood side-by-side with shanty-town sheds and their peeling plaster facades and rusted tin roofs. Hardly a love shack. Across the street from the Pan Pacific stood a Buddhist Temple that looked equally out of place as our 21-story hotel. Unemployment, I was told, is not all that high as menial jobs are created simply to keep a workforce in place. Pulling up to our hotel, as an example, would have two or three attendants opening the cab’s door and seeing you into the hotel where another employee would actually push the elevator call button.
None of these sights, however, prepared me for the fact that one of banks we visited, one of the largest Philippine banks, responsible for million of dollars in transactions coming in from abroad, was totally offline for our visit. Problems with their DNS provider. And hey, stuff like that happens, but the point here is that they didn’t really care .”No Internet,” they said with a shrug of their shoulders.
I shrug right back. After all, they flew me around the world on their dime. However, I feel slightly more foolish with my shrug that their indifference swallows whole with a smile. Their lives are right outside, across the street at the Shabu-Shabu. I’m a six-foot Anglo that still has recycled airport air residing in my lungs. But this world is small. I can comfortably retreat digitally: photo gallery of my most recent trip to England, getting the new Ghastly Ones’ release from iTunes, news on the Phillies, even this blog.
”No Internet,” they said.
No good tacos either. But I leave tonight.
As Always,
theJOE
29 August 2006
Manila - Day 2
Am I allowed to discuss clients’ name, work details and meeting specifics in my personal blog? More importantly, do I want to have my work, which is already more invasive than kudzu, occupy space that is supposedly designated for personal freedom? The answer to the latter is obviously no, however, certain events within have a personal demand insisting that some light reveal that which was once hidden.
Not that any of which I am about to reveal was all that hidden to begin with.
Apologies.
The bank, a large, successful bank in the Philippines, had an impressive edifice. The marble walls that greeted us were gray in both stature and ascetics. Gray in attitude was the armed guard who did not make eye contact, but was certainly watching. His M-16 rifle slung over his shoulder pointing down, but ready to unleash the murderous rage that it was assembled for in a second’s notice, a wish that the guard perhaps secretly wanted to grant. The lobby was sunny as was the attitude within. The large atrium with its long teller window was amply staffed welcoming its customers in a style that is very quickly being forgotten in the US. But as we progressed higher, the sun, light and attitude rapidly changed.
The meeting was scheduled for the fifth floor. Within a server room. Not the usual place to display an online system, but seeing as how this was primarily a meet-and-greet to high-level IT staffers, not entirely shocking. But this fifth floor hadn’t seen a paint job since the 1970s. Hallways, offices and cubicles were cluttered, stocked to overflowing capacity, with boxes, monitors and PCs. The computers lining this mass grave were easily 286 and 486s as three-and-a-half-inch drives could be spied on all of them. I was looking for the much-more elusive five-and-a-quarter knowing that they had to exist within the pile. In the server room itself sat an immense dot-matrix computer and more monitors – just monitors – their black soulless screens crying out to be turned on displaying their VGA action just one more time before their eventual retirement.
Here was to be our stage. Fourteen chairs of all different colors and sizes pulled from any available cube or office, sat lined up in two rows. And so we began.
Stage two of the presentation involved a conference call overseas. With London. And New York. Yes, the humor of the situation most certainly did not escape me. I actually traveled to the Philippines in order to have a phone conference with New York City. I had a laugh over that when the agenda was released. But not one of those boisterous, hearty, deep-from-the-belly-and-laugh-out-loud kinda laughs. Nor was it one of those damn-smart, getting-the-in-joke type of short, hilarious burst of laughter one can get from seeing Anchorman or American Splendor. Oh no. This was one of those situations where your body doesn’t know what to do, so instead of crying, you laugh. It’s a weak, sweaty and totally phony laugh. And I laughed.
The time zone difference actually worked out well for this instance. The conference call was scheduled for 8 PM, allowing my party to conduct the affair from the hotel’s business center, which actually ended up being pleasant. Contributing to this change of attitude was the fact that just across the hotel lobby from the business center was one of the lounges and in that lounge was San Miguel beer. Nothing beats conducting business than doing so with a friend or two. Or six. Or seven. And Saint Mike and I were becoming fast friends.
As Always,
theJOE
Not that any of which I am about to reveal was all that hidden to begin with.
Apologies.
The bank, a large, successful bank in the Philippines, had an impressive edifice. The marble walls that greeted us were gray in both stature and ascetics. Gray in attitude was the armed guard who did not make eye contact, but was certainly watching. His M-16 rifle slung over his shoulder pointing down, but ready to unleash the murderous rage that it was assembled for in a second’s notice, a wish that the guard perhaps secretly wanted to grant. The lobby was sunny as was the attitude within. The large atrium with its long teller window was amply staffed welcoming its customers in a style that is very quickly being forgotten in the US. But as we progressed higher, the sun, light and attitude rapidly changed.
The meeting was scheduled for the fifth floor. Within a server room. Not the usual place to display an online system, but seeing as how this was primarily a meet-and-greet to high-level IT staffers, not entirely shocking. But this fifth floor hadn’t seen a paint job since the 1970s. Hallways, offices and cubicles were cluttered, stocked to overflowing capacity, with boxes, monitors and PCs. The computers lining this mass grave were easily 286 and 486s as three-and-a-half-inch drives could be spied on all of them. I was looking for the much-more elusive five-and-a-quarter knowing that they had to exist within the pile. In the server room itself sat an immense dot-matrix computer and more monitors – just monitors – their black soulless screens crying out to be turned on displaying their VGA action just one more time before their eventual retirement.
Here was to be our stage. Fourteen chairs of all different colors and sizes pulled from any available cube or office, sat lined up in two rows. And so we began.
Stage two of the presentation involved a conference call overseas. With London. And New York. Yes, the humor of the situation most certainly did not escape me. I actually traveled to the Philippines in order to have a phone conference with New York City. I had a laugh over that when the agenda was released. But not one of those boisterous, hearty, deep-from-the-belly-and-laugh-out-loud kinda laughs. Nor was it one of those damn-smart, getting-the-in-joke type of short, hilarious burst of laughter one can get from seeing Anchorman or American Splendor. Oh no. This was one of those situations where your body doesn’t know what to do, so instead of crying, you laugh. It’s a weak, sweaty and totally phony laugh. And I laughed.
The time zone difference actually worked out well for this instance. The conference call was scheduled for 8 PM, allowing my party to conduct the affair from the hotel’s business center, which actually ended up being pleasant. Contributing to this change of attitude was the fact that just across the hotel lobby from the business center was one of the lounges and in that lounge was San Miguel beer. Nothing beats conducting business than doing so with a friend or two. Or six. Or seven. And Saint Mike and I were becoming fast friends.
As Always,
theJOE
22 August 2006
Manila - Day 1
Monday in the Philippines was considered to be an off day. Sent here to work, though, this relaxing day of wishful sightseeing and recovering from a touch of jet lag no worse than the Phillies current Wild Card standings was instead spent upgrading our soon-to-be sold-and-recently-downgraded-to-three-star Hyatt Hotel to the very opulent five-star rated Pan Pacific deeper into town and going through my work for the upcoming two-day Q&A blitzkrieg presentation for which this trip was all about. Plus, the monsoon season, much like Kevin Smith’s humor, had yet to fully surrender saturating the island with rain and humidity.
The Pan Pacific features two lounges, one public, one strictly for guests, and boasts a casino, nightclub and eleven different eating establishments. We tried two that night, and kinda wished that number was divided by itself.
Initially my boss, and Indian-by-decent who can generally eat anything, and I were coaxed into the Shabu-Shabu. Sort of like Benehana back home, Shabu-Shabu had a grill sitting in the middle of the table. You then selected from a long, stainless steel buffet table your choice of raw – let me say that again, raw – meat to go into the pot and see it cook before your very eyes. Well, in front of eyes that were interested, which this American was certainly not.
We then settled, no, I think the proper word should be resorted, to eating at a Chinese restaurant across the main hall. Where everything was deep fried. And covered in some sort of seafood-based paste with appetizing names like “oyster paste”. And greasy. And stringy. Haven’t the Philippines yet discovered the ancient recipe for general’s chicken?
Fortunately the Palm Lounge, residing at the top of the hotel’s twenty-one floors, became our saving grace. I was introduced to San Miguel, the Philippines’ answer to Heineken. The lounge offers comfortably-dim lighting and a smashing pool table. Smashing, of course, is what I ended up performing on it as I am certainly no Minnesota Fats. Although, I can twirl a pool stick just as charmingly as Tom Cruise. Plus I’m not a freako Scientologist, so I have Tom beat there as well.
It is with a belly full grease, a bladder waiting to pass San Miguel and my boastful one-upping of an A-list star that my first full day on the other side of the planet came to an end. My room has a magnificent view of both the bay and the streets below me. And it’s still raining. Tomorrow, clients await.
As Always,
theJOE
The Pan Pacific features two lounges, one public, one strictly for guests, and boasts a casino, nightclub and eleven different eating establishments. We tried two that night, and kinda wished that number was divided by itself.
Initially my boss, and Indian-by-decent who can generally eat anything, and I were coaxed into the Shabu-Shabu. Sort of like Benehana back home, Shabu-Shabu had a grill sitting in the middle of the table. You then selected from a long, stainless steel buffet table your choice of raw – let me say that again, raw – meat to go into the pot and see it cook before your very eyes. Well, in front of eyes that were interested, which this American was certainly not.
We then settled, no, I think the proper word should be resorted, to eating at a Chinese restaurant across the main hall. Where everything was deep fried. And covered in some sort of seafood-based paste with appetizing names like “oyster paste”. And greasy. And stringy. Haven’t the Philippines yet discovered the ancient recipe for general’s chicken?
Fortunately the Palm Lounge, residing at the top of the hotel’s twenty-one floors, became our saving grace. I was introduced to San Miguel, the Philippines’ answer to Heineken. The lounge offers comfortably-dim lighting and a smashing pool table. Smashing, of course, is what I ended up performing on it as I am certainly no Minnesota Fats. Although, I can twirl a pool stick just as charmingly as Tom Cruise. Plus I’m not a freako Scientologist, so I have Tom beat there as well.
It is with a belly full grease, a bladder waiting to pass San Miguel and my boastful one-upping of an A-list star that my first full day on the other side of the planet came to an end. My room has a magnificent view of both the bay and the streets below me. And it’s still raining. Tomorrow, clients await.
As Always,
theJOE
21 August 2006
Manila - Getting There
The lightning arced sideways in the sky; its electric white and hot blue appearing as a flashbulb pop at a birthday party. Being several hundred feet in the air while viewing this didn’t quite have the same affect however. Surprisingly, the flight was still quite smooth. Or perhaps going on twenty hours of flight-time, I was just numb.
I was going to the Philippines, I was informed, making this not only the longest trip I’ve ever been on for work, but also personally – my previous excursion to a Pacific island was my Hawaiian honeymoon. The itinerary that was provided to me established that I would safely be in the air for most of the day. The term "safely", of course, being the variable, "most" being the constant. From the time I woke up on Saturday morning, which seems like three or four days opposed to the two that the date on my watch shows me, my life was full of acronyms. PHL to LAX to ICN to MNL.
LAX was insane. Not only was the weather extremely hot outside, but the bustle and congestion inside did not alleviate the heat any. A fun observation from LAX’s International terminal was that tall, English-speaking Anglos were definitely in the minority; but that could simply be LA for you. The company sprang for business class, which allowed me access to the Asiana lounge, another treat. Finding it, however, was a bit more of a trick. The end result was pleasant enough, and that’s all that matters.
Asiana’s business class was both comfortable and spacious and the stewardesses did their best to make the 12-hour flight quite not feel like 12-hours. Maybe 10-and-half instead. Between reading, perhaps a three-hour nap and the in-flight movie (The Sentinel starring Michael Douglas, Keifer Sutherland and Kim Basinger, mediocre but watchable, 6 out of 10) it wasn’t until the final hour-and-a-half that I really wanted to be on the ground more than anything. No, there was one thing that I wanted more. I really just wanted to turn around and go back home.
Seoul Incheon International was beautiful. Sleek modern designs placing tall windows in between walls of neutral grays, calming off-whites and wood-paneled floors. Flat screen monitors were conected in every gate broadcasting news and sitcoms. While waiting for my connecting flight – standing, mind you, no use sitting at this point – I was greeted by a church youth group heading to Manila for a week’s vacation. They were a fun and lively bunch with plenty of smiles, everything a church-based youth group should be. I think they were excited to see an American and were able to practice their English a little. We just went through the absolute basics first.
Where was I from? Philadelphia.
Do you know where that is? Just below New York.
How old was I, they asked. I lied and said thirty. They lied right back and said I was both young and handsome.
They wanted to know what I thought of Korea. I truthfully told them I could not wait to explore Seoul some upon my return.
We parted with waves and more smiles.
Flying from Seoul to Manila is when I noticed the lightning. And the rain. Still, the flight itself wasn’t bad. Perhaps business class has better stabilizers than coach.
Manila International was everything Seoul was not. Cafeteria-tiled floors, institutional greens, low ceilings. I was greeted with a blue flag welcoming me to "Bird Flu Free Philippines", which I guess is welcoming in that manically humorous way. What was surprising was customs. Unlike some of the European countries I’ve been to – Italy and France – where incoming customs are a joke, Manila actually has queues, scans your passport and collects the customs form.
The rain hadn’t let up even though monsoon season is coming to a close and the taxi’s heavily-tinted windows did not allow me to get a good view of the ride in. One of the elements of travel that I enjoy the most is that first ride in a foreign city. Even if it’s just a highway, I like to see how the signs are laid out, what the lights look like, the cars on the street. Through the black-glazed windows, I was afforded none of that as only the brightest of signs penetrated. Also penetrating was the driver singing to love rock love ballads. Not much else to listen to on a Sunday night, I suppose.
Monday morning and the rain started up again with a clap of thunder. Hopefully I will be able to post again this evening with a report on my day in Manila.
As Always,
theJOE
I was going to the Philippines, I was informed, making this not only the longest trip I’ve ever been on for work, but also personally – my previous excursion to a Pacific island was my Hawaiian honeymoon. The itinerary that was provided to me established that I would safely be in the air for most of the day. The term "safely", of course, being the variable, "most" being the constant. From the time I woke up on Saturday morning, which seems like three or four days opposed to the two that the date on my watch shows me, my life was full of acronyms. PHL to LAX to ICN to MNL.
LAX was insane. Not only was the weather extremely hot outside, but the bustle and congestion inside did not alleviate the heat any. A fun observation from LAX’s International terminal was that tall, English-speaking Anglos were definitely in the minority; but that could simply be LA for you. The company sprang for business class, which allowed me access to the Asiana lounge, another treat. Finding it, however, was a bit more of a trick. The end result was pleasant enough, and that’s all that matters.
Asiana’s business class was both comfortable and spacious and the stewardesses did their best to make the 12-hour flight quite not feel like 12-hours. Maybe 10-and-half instead. Between reading, perhaps a three-hour nap and the in-flight movie (The Sentinel starring Michael Douglas, Keifer Sutherland and Kim Basinger, mediocre but watchable, 6 out of 10) it wasn’t until the final hour-and-a-half that I really wanted to be on the ground more than anything. No, there was one thing that I wanted more. I really just wanted to turn around and go back home.
Seoul Incheon International was beautiful. Sleek modern designs placing tall windows in between walls of neutral grays, calming off-whites and wood-paneled floors. Flat screen monitors were conected in every gate broadcasting news and sitcoms. While waiting for my connecting flight – standing, mind you, no use sitting at this point – I was greeted by a church youth group heading to Manila for a week’s vacation. They were a fun and lively bunch with plenty of smiles, everything a church-based youth group should be. I think they were excited to see an American and were able to practice their English a little. We just went through the absolute basics first.
Where was I from? Philadelphia.
Do you know where that is? Just below New York.
How old was I, they asked. I lied and said thirty. They lied right back and said I was both young and handsome.
They wanted to know what I thought of Korea. I truthfully told them I could not wait to explore Seoul some upon my return.
We parted with waves and more smiles.
Flying from Seoul to Manila is when I noticed the lightning. And the rain. Still, the flight itself wasn’t bad. Perhaps business class has better stabilizers than coach.
Manila International was everything Seoul was not. Cafeteria-tiled floors, institutional greens, low ceilings. I was greeted with a blue flag welcoming me to "Bird Flu Free Philippines", which I guess is welcoming in that manically humorous way. What was surprising was customs. Unlike some of the European countries I’ve been to – Italy and France – where incoming customs are a joke, Manila actually has queues, scans your passport and collects the customs form.
The rain hadn’t let up even though monsoon season is coming to a close and the taxi’s heavily-tinted windows did not allow me to get a good view of the ride in. One of the elements of travel that I enjoy the most is that first ride in a foreign city. Even if it’s just a highway, I like to see how the signs are laid out, what the lights look like, the cars on the street. Through the black-glazed windows, I was afforded none of that as only the brightest of signs penetrated. Also penetrating was the driver singing to love rock love ballads. Not much else to listen to on a Sunday night, I suppose.
Monday morning and the rain started up again with a clap of thunder. Hopefully I will be able to post again this evening with a report on my day in Manila.
As Always,
theJOE
02 July 2006
Superman Returns, Upgrades and even Reprises
“They can be a great people, Kal-El, they wish to be. They only lack the light to show the way.” And the words of Jor-El via Marlon Brando, both spoken from beyond the grave, can not only be referring to the human race, but also director Bryan Singer and his able contingent of writers and fellow producers who delivered a Superman film the likes of which has never been seen – although one could easily ponder that if Dick Donner had access to modern-day technology, this would have been his film as well.
From the ground up, Superman Returns flies. It picks up, in case you haven’t heard, five or so years after the events chronicled in Superman II. Lex Luthor is out of jail and eager to pickup on a real estate scheme similar to his plan in the original Superman: The Movie but this one is of planetary proportions. As a result, Singer and screenwriters Michael Doughtery and Dan Harris wisely move away from bringing in a comicbook-inspired super-baddie to rough up our hero and instead focus on Luthor’s hatred of a “god in blue tights” revolving much of the main fight in a (Super)man vs. nature spectacle.
Whereas the main star of the film is probably the extensive but-brilliantly-done CG F/X, most of the actors step up to bat as well. Brandon Routh’s Reeve-esque performance highlights his ability to be both heroic and commanding as well as stammering and sheepish while performing as the titular bespectacled civilian identity. Two-time Oscar winner Kevin Spacey channels Gene Hackman and plays up Luthor’s sharp smile conning the audience one second and killing them the next. Even Frank Langella’s Perry White seems comfortable. Only Kate Bosworth’s Lois Lane, although adequate enough, seems to lack that passionate fire that makes Lane such a compelling character.
The film is filled with Breakfast of Champions scenes and action staged to please both the general audience and fanboys as well. For those who care, be sure to take note of the nods to Action Comics #1 (1938), Man Of Steel (1986) and a very clever re-cap of Superman’s first two films all told via Luthor’s model train room.
Unfortunately, not even this film is perfect as the results of the finale are dealt with in a depressing manner that not only spoil the mood but also the tempo of the film. Then there is the sub-plot dealing with the mysterious lineage of Lois’ son that perhaps boldly goes into territory that even the much-more brazen monthly comics have yet to go. The pondering of this question really only proves that maybe those comics are best left to such exploration allowing the movies to grow as fantastical companion pieces. Spider-Man’s Sam Raimi might be only director to fully grasp this concept. Until, at least, Christopher Nolan creates another Batman film.
As certain as believing that a man can fly, Singer crafts a tale full of magic and wonder that almost makes the 20-year wait manageable – as long as Singer’s follow-up appears faster, than say, a speeding bullet.
As Always,
theJOE
From the ground up, Superman Returns flies. It picks up, in case you haven’t heard, five or so years after the events chronicled in Superman II. Lex Luthor is out of jail and eager to pickup on a real estate scheme similar to his plan in the original Superman: The Movie but this one is of planetary proportions. As a result, Singer and screenwriters Michael Doughtery and Dan Harris wisely move away from bringing in a comicbook-inspired super-baddie to rough up our hero and instead focus on Luthor’s hatred of a “god in blue tights” revolving much of the main fight in a (Super)man vs. nature spectacle.
Whereas the main star of the film is probably the extensive but-brilliantly-done CG F/X, most of the actors step up to bat as well. Brandon Routh’s Reeve-esque performance highlights his ability to be both heroic and commanding as well as stammering and sheepish while performing as the titular bespectacled civilian identity. Two-time Oscar winner Kevin Spacey channels Gene Hackman and plays up Luthor’s sharp smile conning the audience one second and killing them the next. Even Frank Langella’s Perry White seems comfortable. Only Kate Bosworth’s Lois Lane, although adequate enough, seems to lack that passionate fire that makes Lane such a compelling character.
The film is filled with Breakfast of Champions scenes and action staged to please both the general audience and fanboys as well. For those who care, be sure to take note of the nods to Action Comics #1 (1938), Man Of Steel (1986) and a very clever re-cap of Superman’s first two films all told via Luthor’s model train room.
Unfortunately, not even this film is perfect as the results of the finale are dealt with in a depressing manner that not only spoil the mood but also the tempo of the film. Then there is the sub-plot dealing with the mysterious lineage of Lois’ son that perhaps boldly goes into territory that even the much-more brazen monthly comics have yet to go. The pondering of this question really only proves that maybe those comics are best left to such exploration allowing the movies to grow as fantastical companion pieces. Spider-Man’s Sam Raimi might be only director to fully grasp this concept. Until, at least, Christopher Nolan creates another Batman film.
As certain as believing that a man can fly, Singer crafts a tale full of magic and wonder that almost makes the 20-year wait manageable – as long as Singer’s follow-up appears faster, than say, a speeding bullet.
As Always,
theJOE
25 June 2006
Patience. And not just from youth.
With the release of the second full trailer and an extensive article in this week’s Entertainment Weekly, I am quickly reaching the end of my fanboy-induced patience regarding the new film, Superman Returns. Wednesday can’t come soon enough it seems. Startlingly enough, this is the first time in a while where that fanboy sense, which has been steadily been disappearing over the past three or so years, has been allowed to make a quick return engagement.
Superman: The Movie was released in December or 1978, just in time for the Christmas holiday. Star Wars came out a full-year earlier, but to my second-grade mind, Star Wars’ appeal, not to mention its merchandising, which I was sure to strike big-time with a little help from Jolly St. Nick, was still growing strong. However, literally being weaned on comicbooks thanks to my Grandfather, Darth Vader, X-Wing fighters and the entire mystical Force couldn’t compete with the likes of Superman. After all, this movie had promised me that I would believe a man could fly.
On opening day, my parents pulled a totally unexpected move, and one that would endear me to them forever: the took me out of school early to catch the matinee premiere. My folks were rather hardened with me skipping school for fake illnesses, so deliberately pulling me out just past lunch to see a movie – and a superhero movie at that – was nearly inconceivable.
With the advent of the Eighties getting ready to warm up and replace Disco with New Wave, theater multiplexes were still in their pre-historical state. One of the nearby malls’ General Cinema boasted an incredible six screens (I would see Superman II at this theater in just two summers) while the Eric at another mall had the much-less mind-blowing four. There were still three one-screen houses in the area that presented first-run movies. The Harwan was in Mt. Ephraim and would end up lasting the longest and go on to show second- or third-run screenings right up to the new Millennium. The Westmont, located in, you guessed it, Westmont, sported a balcony. In later years the Westmont spilt its room into two screens and later became a village playhouse. It is now closed up and sitting on what I’m sure is pretty valuable land. Finally, The Century theater sat directly on the corner of the White Horse Pike and King’s Highway, about a mile-and-a-half East from the Harwan. The Century was abandoned, eventually torn down against a lot of public protest, became a drug store for a fortnight and is once again abandoned. In 1978, however, when the Century was still king, I saw that film and I believed.
Almost 30 years later, a new Superman movie, one to rival Dick Donner’s 1978 epic is about to be released. Responsibilities will not permit me to skip work for a matinee, nor do I have the patience to wait in a queue with teenagers and college students for a midnight showing. I will most assuredly being seeing the film in the 24-room strong corporate-sponsored and equally-soulless theater complex that’s in walking distance from my Cherry Hill house. But my wife will be there with me. We’ll hold hands during the exciting parts and she’ll smile as the youth returns to eyes that are quickly forgetting childhood dreams. And I can’t wait.
Much like that winter in 1978, I find that it’s not just the film of Superman Returns that is exciting my inner-child, but the build up for the event. Already-forgotten is X-3 and the Pirates of the Caribbean sequel is sure to be a fun film, but when is that being released anyway? There is another film being released this July that should relate to and produce excitement from my college years with just as much fervor as Superman has to my primary school days, but sadly isn’t. The film: Clerks II.
No need for a discussion or breakdown here on Kevin Smith’s rebellious and nigh-vulgar look at the convenience store industry that debuted in 1994 and spawned a short-lived animated series and couple of comicbooks and, oh yes, four more features all based on his characters. But then Smith said goodbye and looked eager to continue his growth as a filmmaker, which I applauded. Jersey Girl was released ten years after his debut and although not his strongest film, took him out of the pool he was playing in, which definitely seemed to quickly be running out of water.
Clerks II just seems like a retread, a return to comfortable ground, a way to play it safe, which is definitely uncharacteristic of Smith and perhaps one of my wary reasons and the cause of lukewarm feelings. If he is giving in, no longer catering to the rebelliousness of youth and refusing to live by his dreams, then why should we as viewers or fans? Staying in comfortable environs means commuting to college instead of living on campus, giving into the past is like continuing to use the air popper when microwave popcorn is just so much quicker and comes pre-buttered.
And perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe this feeling is exactly what Smith is counting on and looking forward to disproving. Maybe his jokes will still be relevant, much like a man in blue tights and a red cape is still relevant, and still needed.
I will see Clerks II. Not on opening night, but with my friends. Maybe once the crowds have calmed down. I’ll sneak in my flask and divide the warm liquor into each of our cool cups of soda. I’ll laugh and permit my non-jaded youth to once again jump free in the twinkling of my eyes.
As Always,
theJOE
Superman: The Movie was released in December or 1978, just in time for the Christmas holiday. Star Wars came out a full-year earlier, but to my second-grade mind, Star Wars’ appeal, not to mention its merchandising, which I was sure to strike big-time with a little help from Jolly St. Nick, was still growing strong. However, literally being weaned on comicbooks thanks to my Grandfather, Darth Vader, X-Wing fighters and the entire mystical Force couldn’t compete with the likes of Superman. After all, this movie had promised me that I would believe a man could fly.
On opening day, my parents pulled a totally unexpected move, and one that would endear me to them forever: the took me out of school early to catch the matinee premiere. My folks were rather hardened with me skipping school for fake illnesses, so deliberately pulling me out just past lunch to see a movie – and a superhero movie at that – was nearly inconceivable.
With the advent of the Eighties getting ready to warm up and replace Disco with New Wave, theater multiplexes were still in their pre-historical state. One of the nearby malls’ General Cinema boasted an incredible six screens (I would see Superman II at this theater in just two summers) while the Eric at another mall had the much-less mind-blowing four. There were still three one-screen houses in the area that presented first-run movies. The Harwan was in Mt. Ephraim and would end up lasting the longest and go on to show second- or third-run screenings right up to the new Millennium. The Westmont, located in, you guessed it, Westmont, sported a balcony. In later years the Westmont spilt its room into two screens and later became a village playhouse. It is now closed up and sitting on what I’m sure is pretty valuable land. Finally, The Century theater sat directly on the corner of the White Horse Pike and King’s Highway, about a mile-and-a-half East from the Harwan. The Century was abandoned, eventually torn down against a lot of public protest, became a drug store for a fortnight and is once again abandoned. In 1978, however, when the Century was still king, I saw that film and I believed.
Almost 30 years later, a new Superman movie, one to rival Dick Donner’s 1978 epic is about to be released. Responsibilities will not permit me to skip work for a matinee, nor do I have the patience to wait in a queue with teenagers and college students for a midnight showing. I will most assuredly being seeing the film in the 24-room strong corporate-sponsored and equally-soulless theater complex that’s in walking distance from my Cherry Hill house. But my wife will be there with me. We’ll hold hands during the exciting parts and she’ll smile as the youth returns to eyes that are quickly forgetting childhood dreams. And I can’t wait.
Much like that winter in 1978, I find that it’s not just the film of Superman Returns that is exciting my inner-child, but the build up for the event. Already-forgotten is X-3 and the Pirates of the Caribbean sequel is sure to be a fun film, but when is that being released anyway? There is another film being released this July that should relate to and produce excitement from my college years with just as much fervor as Superman has to my primary school days, but sadly isn’t. The film: Clerks II.
No need for a discussion or breakdown here on Kevin Smith’s rebellious and nigh-vulgar look at the convenience store industry that debuted in 1994 and spawned a short-lived animated series and couple of comicbooks and, oh yes, four more features all based on his characters. But then Smith said goodbye and looked eager to continue his growth as a filmmaker, which I applauded. Jersey Girl was released ten years after his debut and although not his strongest film, took him out of the pool he was playing in, which definitely seemed to quickly be running out of water.
Clerks II just seems like a retread, a return to comfortable ground, a way to play it safe, which is definitely uncharacteristic of Smith and perhaps one of my wary reasons and the cause of lukewarm feelings. If he is giving in, no longer catering to the rebelliousness of youth and refusing to live by his dreams, then why should we as viewers or fans? Staying in comfortable environs means commuting to college instead of living on campus, giving into the past is like continuing to use the air popper when microwave popcorn is just so much quicker and comes pre-buttered.
And perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe this feeling is exactly what Smith is counting on and looking forward to disproving. Maybe his jokes will still be relevant, much like a man in blue tights and a red cape is still relevant, and still needed.
I will see Clerks II. Not on opening night, but with my friends. Maybe once the crowds have calmed down. I’ll sneak in my flask and divide the warm liquor into each of our cool cups of soda. I’ll laugh and permit my non-jaded youth to once again jump free in the twinkling of my eyes.
As Always,
theJOE
16 May 2006
5 A.M.
I harshly and suddenly woke from a dream at 5 AM by a thunderclap signaling the oncoming apocalypse. This wasn’t simply God bowling his strikes, rather the Almighty had decided to completely demolish the entire bowling alley with pins, balls and vending machines complete with unwinable trinkets that truly have no place in Paradise still inside. This happened directly above my house.
By the time my breathing got under control and the coolness of my skin warmed with the beaded perspiration, the awareness that the end of the world was not upon us just yet slowly rolled to the surface of my consciousness like a wobbly gutter ball moves with lackadaisical determination towards its final destination. It was still 5 AM. Plus eight minutes. I would be pounding the clock/radio silent in another 90 minutes. It would ignore my pleads, beckoning me to arise and prepare for an 8 AM conference call to Toronto. But seeing as how I am presently awake, and the rain showering on my roof is certainly not contributing to the pleasant return to sleep, I move forward.
My legs swing off the mattress and I smile inwardly with the smallest sense of satisfaction that I have beaten the radio, at least for this morning. Its commands will go unheeded today; the impotence of its digital display no longer necessary.
The remainder of the early morning passes without much significance. Shower. Coffee. A weary treading of footfalls. Sometime in-between, the rain stops and the sun does its best to try to break through the cloud cover. What rays that do penetrate accentuate the greenness that abounds in the aftermath of a spring storm. The azure leaves on the hickory tree stand out vividly against the slowly-breaking grey sky.
But I have no time for beauty. I cannot allow my mind to drift before the caffeine releases the racehorses of my synapses from their starting gate. The wetness in the atmosphere hangs equally heavy with the thoughts of the day before me. Toronto this morning, California at lunch where the day’s sun is still new, New York this afternoon. My company’s phone bill lights up like a North American passport. Most use the stillness of the morning to begin their day with calm reflection. I use this break to debate calling in sick, ignoring all responsibilities that have become accustomed to this adult life.
The sky is quiet now. God’s obviously taking a coffee break reading the Washington Post with a Boston crème because He obviously doesn’t need to watch the calories. And with the end-of-the-world obviously on hold, I boot up my iMac and get to work because, after all, there’s much to do.
As Always,
theJOE
By the time my breathing got under control and the coolness of my skin warmed with the beaded perspiration, the awareness that the end of the world was not upon us just yet slowly rolled to the surface of my consciousness like a wobbly gutter ball moves with lackadaisical determination towards its final destination. It was still 5 AM. Plus eight minutes. I would be pounding the clock/radio silent in another 90 minutes. It would ignore my pleads, beckoning me to arise and prepare for an 8 AM conference call to Toronto. But seeing as how I am presently awake, and the rain showering on my roof is certainly not contributing to the pleasant return to sleep, I move forward.
My legs swing off the mattress and I smile inwardly with the smallest sense of satisfaction that I have beaten the radio, at least for this morning. Its commands will go unheeded today; the impotence of its digital display no longer necessary.
The remainder of the early morning passes without much significance. Shower. Coffee. A weary treading of footfalls. Sometime in-between, the rain stops and the sun does its best to try to break through the cloud cover. What rays that do penetrate accentuate the greenness that abounds in the aftermath of a spring storm. The azure leaves on the hickory tree stand out vividly against the slowly-breaking grey sky.
But I have no time for beauty. I cannot allow my mind to drift before the caffeine releases the racehorses of my synapses from their starting gate. The wetness in the atmosphere hangs equally heavy with the thoughts of the day before me. Toronto this morning, California at lunch where the day’s sun is still new, New York this afternoon. My company’s phone bill lights up like a North American passport. Most use the stillness of the morning to begin their day with calm reflection. I use this break to debate calling in sick, ignoring all responsibilities that have become accustomed to this adult life.
The sky is quiet now. God’s obviously taking a coffee break reading the Washington Post with a Boston crème because He obviously doesn’t need to watch the calories. And with the end-of-the-world obviously on hold, I boot up my iMac and get to work because, after all, there’s much to do.
As Always,
theJOE
01 May 2006
Marillion
The latest version of iChat allows the user to broadcast their current iTunes track, a nifty little app that allows other iChat (or higher end IM users) participants to get a little insight as to what you are doing or what you are listening to. Plus, this is simply a great way to proudly show off your snobbish tastes in music to those who are deemed less-enlightened.
My best friend, Scott, doesn’t have iChat, nor is he allowed to use an IM program in his workplace. Instead, he emails a network of people a list of whatever tune he is bopping around to in hopes that this happy vibe is picked up on and continued.
A number of these recent emails have been directed around the Scottish prog-rock band, Marillion. Marillion never hit it big in the States (only 1985’s Misplaced Childhood had two singles chart in the US, “Kayleigh” and “Lavender”), but had a fair-sized and committed fan base here whose fanatical ways could almost be considered cultish. For a while in college, I was such a member. But not any longer.
Scott was responsible for the initial Marillion introduction, but I didn’t immediately jump on-board like I was doing with other such new found discoveries; after just sampling Dream Theater, as an example, I bought their current discography as quickly as possible. At the time, Marillion’s original lead singer, Fish, got fed up with the group and their label and struck off on a solo career only to be replaced by Steve Hogarth, whose somewhat effeminate ways that were oh-so stylish at first became more and more annoying as the Century concluded. I thought Fish sounded like a Peter Gabriel knock-off (and he did, but unlike Hogarth, as the Century ended I gained a deeper respect Fish) and Hogarth’s Marillion tended to be a little quieter, kind of in a similar manner as how Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, Howe is quieter to the balls-out rock Yes presented during the early Trevor Rabin years. But after a while, much like drinking bad diner coffee, the saturation set in.
The end of Fish’s career and Hogarth’s first two releases were the prime recording years of the band, in my mind as a fan anyway (1984’s Fugazi, 1985’s Misplaced Childhood, 1987’s Clutching At Straws, 1989’s Season’s End, 1991’s Holidays In Eden ). They maintained a hip progressive status by allowing those four or five releases to maintain a loose theme, mixed up the ballads with the rockers, varied the length of songs from 11-minute epics to two-and-a-half radio cuts and came across as artsy, haunting, raw and silly with their lyrics.
What especially made it fun to be a fan in the early 90s were their occasional US tours. The band solidly understood that without these passionate fans their US sales would be a lot worse, so they eagerly did meet-and-greets sometimes before, but mostly after, their shows. They listened, shook hands, signed autographs and eagerly accepted alcohol. Often times their shows would feature little surprises in the set list. My knowledge of their library was growing but still limited when compared to Marillion long-timers, known as “Freaks” taken from one of their lyrics, “All the best freaks are here” - or at least I called them freaks. I also call my motorcycle-riding, volunteer firefighter neighbors freaks as well, so that title might not be considered canon. Still, it was that unexpected element, that possibility of that one gem heard live, that certainly keep the crowd interested.
Their future releases, unfortunately, became significantly uninteresting.
After two efforts, it was as if Steve Hogarth played artistic traffic cop and purposefully directed Marillion’s efforts away from anything remotely related to a Fish-y progression. After all, such an endeavor worked for Van Halen. Right?! Hmmm, next question please.
Alright then, how about this one: why did Marillion move away from foot-tappin’, moody, memorable Prog Rock and embrace a much-more obtuse and significantly more moody style of Prog-Rock?
Two easy answers. The first, obviously, being that all music is subjective to the listener. Not being much of a blues fan, I can honestly say that I never got personal enjoyment from Stevie Ray Vaughn’s music. I would have been kicked out the local record exchange if the guys there ever knew that. But then MP3s kinda kicked out the local record exchanges, so my secret is safe.
Answer number 2. Maybe Marillion understood that Prog Rock was dying quicker than the memory of gas prices falling under a buck. Maybe they wanted to truly embrace that indie spirit and make music that could not fully be classified into one genre.
Another answer exists that is just as easy. Maybe my own tastes changed. Maybe as I got more into classical, jazz, electronica and instrumental scores I cared less and less for this new alternative, this new direction, a band was taking.
1994 saw the release of Brave, a morose concept album that just didn’t have sustaining power. Brave, however, did have one treasure – the love ballad “Made Again”. This was one of those truly beautiful songs that you would sing to your wife on your wedding date, even though I did not.
After Brave, the band put out their last great work, 1995’s Afraid Of Sunlight. Truly progressive and filled with atmospheric works that harkened back to Fish’s time without being derivative. Unfortunately, this trend would not last.
By the time This Strange Engine and Radiation were released (1997, 1998) I was out. Gone. Vanished like a puff of smoke ala Keyser Soze. I listened to tracks that Scott threw at me. I eventually threw them back. Scott, like the loyal friend he is, remained loyal to the band much longer than my scant 6 years. However, he too, rode off into the wind sometime after the Century mark.
Scott stills likes from time-to-time to, as the Boss commands, capture a little of the glory of. For this rocker though, well time slips away and leaves you with nothing mister but boring stories.
Here’s hoping this wasn’t one of them. And no, I'm not signing off with a Marillion lyric either.
As Always,
theJOE
My best friend, Scott, doesn’t have iChat, nor is he allowed to use an IM program in his workplace. Instead, he emails a network of people a list of whatever tune he is bopping around to in hopes that this happy vibe is picked up on and continued.
A number of these recent emails have been directed around the Scottish prog-rock band, Marillion. Marillion never hit it big in the States (only 1985’s Misplaced Childhood had two singles chart in the US, “Kayleigh” and “Lavender”), but had a fair-sized and committed fan base here whose fanatical ways could almost be considered cultish. For a while in college, I was such a member. But not any longer.
Scott was responsible for the initial Marillion introduction, but I didn’t immediately jump on-board like I was doing with other such new found discoveries; after just sampling Dream Theater, as an example, I bought their current discography as quickly as possible. At the time, Marillion’s original lead singer, Fish, got fed up with the group and their label and struck off on a solo career only to be replaced by Steve Hogarth, whose somewhat effeminate ways that were oh-so stylish at first became more and more annoying as the Century concluded. I thought Fish sounded like a Peter Gabriel knock-off (and he did, but unlike Hogarth, as the Century ended I gained a deeper respect Fish) and Hogarth’s Marillion tended to be a little quieter, kind of in a similar manner as how Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, Howe is quieter to the balls-out rock Yes presented during the early Trevor Rabin years. But after a while, much like drinking bad diner coffee, the saturation set in.
The end of Fish’s career and Hogarth’s first two releases were the prime recording years of the band, in my mind as a fan anyway (1984’s Fugazi, 1985’s Misplaced Childhood, 1987’s Clutching At Straws, 1989’s Season’s End, 1991’s Holidays In Eden ). They maintained a hip progressive status by allowing those four or five releases to maintain a loose theme, mixed up the ballads with the rockers, varied the length of songs from 11-minute epics to two-and-a-half radio cuts and came across as artsy, haunting, raw and silly with their lyrics.
What especially made it fun to be a fan in the early 90s were their occasional US tours. The band solidly understood that without these passionate fans their US sales would be a lot worse, so they eagerly did meet-and-greets sometimes before, but mostly after, their shows. They listened, shook hands, signed autographs and eagerly accepted alcohol. Often times their shows would feature little surprises in the set list. My knowledge of their library was growing but still limited when compared to Marillion long-timers, known as “Freaks” taken from one of their lyrics, “All the best freaks are here” - or at least I called them freaks. I also call my motorcycle-riding, volunteer firefighter neighbors freaks as well, so that title might not be considered canon. Still, it was that unexpected element, that possibility of that one gem heard live, that certainly keep the crowd interested.
Their future releases, unfortunately, became significantly uninteresting.
After two efforts, it was as if Steve Hogarth played artistic traffic cop and purposefully directed Marillion’s efforts away from anything remotely related to a Fish-y progression. After all, such an endeavor worked for Van Halen. Right?! Hmmm, next question please.
Alright then, how about this one: why did Marillion move away from foot-tappin’, moody, memorable Prog Rock and embrace a much-more obtuse and significantly more moody style of Prog-Rock?
Two easy answers. The first, obviously, being that all music is subjective to the listener. Not being much of a blues fan, I can honestly say that I never got personal enjoyment from Stevie Ray Vaughn’s music. I would have been kicked out the local record exchange if the guys there ever knew that. But then MP3s kinda kicked out the local record exchanges, so my secret is safe.
Answer number 2. Maybe Marillion understood that Prog Rock was dying quicker than the memory of gas prices falling under a buck. Maybe they wanted to truly embrace that indie spirit and make music that could not fully be classified into one genre.
Another answer exists that is just as easy. Maybe my own tastes changed. Maybe as I got more into classical, jazz, electronica and instrumental scores I cared less and less for this new alternative, this new direction, a band was taking.
1994 saw the release of Brave, a morose concept album that just didn’t have sustaining power. Brave, however, did have one treasure – the love ballad “Made Again”. This was one of those truly beautiful songs that you would sing to your wife on your wedding date, even though I did not.
After Brave, the band put out their last great work, 1995’s Afraid Of Sunlight. Truly progressive and filled with atmospheric works that harkened back to Fish’s time without being derivative. Unfortunately, this trend would not last.
By the time This Strange Engine and Radiation were released (1997, 1998) I was out. Gone. Vanished like a puff of smoke ala Keyser Soze. I listened to tracks that Scott threw at me. I eventually threw them back. Scott, like the loyal friend he is, remained loyal to the band much longer than my scant 6 years. However, he too, rode off into the wind sometime after the Century mark.
Scott stills likes from time-to-time to, as the Boss commands, capture a little of the glory of. For this rocker though, well time slips away and leaves you with nothing mister but boring stories.
Here’s hoping this wasn’t one of them. And no, I'm not signing off with a Marillion lyric either.
As Always,
theJOE
14 April 2006
Smerconish
Got to be a guest on the Michael Smerconish Morning Show today discussing if all the technology at our disposal here in the 21st Century has indeed made live better …easier?… or if it’s contributing to more and more cases of ADD.
Okay, I wasn’t a guest. I just called in. But it was cool. Smerconish puts on a good show where he uses common sense to deal with daily topics; common sense that remarkably enough tends to make things controversial in today’s morally ambiguous PC world.
My contribution to the show came as a result of Michael mentioning that his voice mail message prompts his callers to email him stating that he can answer them quicker through email rather than returning a call. I wholeheartedly agree because this is the exact set-up I currently have on my business line. In fact, I went on to say, that clients who contact me via email get preferential treatment and priority than those who strictly leave VMs.
Smerconish enjoyed hearing that and took delight in that matter that he wasn’t alone in this. I responded saying we should start a revolution.
He called me his “pal.” Yeah.
Good way to start the morning.
Okay, I wasn’t a guest. I just called in. But it was cool. Smerconish puts on a good show where he uses common sense to deal with daily topics; common sense that remarkably enough tends to make things controversial in today’s morally ambiguous PC world.
My contribution to the show came as a result of Michael mentioning that his voice mail message prompts his callers to email him stating that he can answer them quicker through email rather than returning a call. I wholeheartedly agree because this is the exact set-up I currently have on my business line. In fact, I went on to say, that clients who contact me via email get preferential treatment and priority than those who strictly leave VMs.
Smerconish enjoyed hearing that and took delight in that matter that he wasn’t alone in this. I responded saying we should start a revolution.
He called me his “pal.” Yeah.
Good way to start the morning.
26 March 2006
Continuity – An Introduction
One of the best aspects about reading sequential comicbooks month-by-month is looking not at the minutiae, that is, the fine aspects of the story – and don’t get me wrong, it is this very same minutiae that draws a reader in and gets them involved with the character and moves the story and defines the moment – rather, where does the story go in the span of years other than months. How does the character grow and react to a continually changing environment. Does the one moment that is hyped as “nothing will ever be the same again” actually have long term effects?
Looking at complete runs on a title throughout the months where new challenges are met, races are run, moral differences are breached and key relationships wind up being just as trivial as stopping the generic bank robber, my date-conscious mind seeks to place these events in a particular order. Where do key crossovers fit in with the general direction of a run? Certain matchups have to happen before certain events because of location or costume updates. Key characters that have multiple monthly titles obviously are not performing these deeds simultaneously, regardless how supernatural they may be.
This is definitely a tall order and even borders on the insane. After all, all these comics were written, drawn and edited by entirely different people at entirely different times. But finding this proper sequence can be fun – not to mention a unique insight to the psychological ordering of my mind. Yes, issue 324 occurs after issue 323 numerically, but issue 324 happens to be a flashback tale chronicling events leading up to issue 300. This continuity presents such a timeline.
Now, to quote the immortal Beatles, do you want to know a secret? The creation of this continuity timeline, this linear representation of a shared universe that always seems to be a buzzword amongst us geeks, is truly nothing more than a grand excuse to go back and re-read all these countless titles amassed over 20+ years of collecting. Going through back issue upon back issue has allowed the re-discovery of long-forgotten treats as well as the unearthing of a number of blunders that once were an embarrassing part of my collection are now fodder on eBay (so to paraphrase a well-worn saying here in Philadelphia politics: bid early, bid often).
Parts of this blog will be highlighting such treats, as well as the occasional blasting of a youthful and shameful purchase. As always, being an ambassador of the medium, I totally invite you to check out any titles or storylines mentioned in upcoming posts. If you have questions, feel free to join in a discussion.
As always,
theJOE
Looking at complete runs on a title throughout the months where new challenges are met, races are run, moral differences are breached and key relationships wind up being just as trivial as stopping the generic bank robber, my date-conscious mind seeks to place these events in a particular order. Where do key crossovers fit in with the general direction of a run? Certain matchups have to happen before certain events because of location or costume updates. Key characters that have multiple monthly titles obviously are not performing these deeds simultaneously, regardless how supernatural they may be.
This is definitely a tall order and even borders on the insane. After all, all these comics were written, drawn and edited by entirely different people at entirely different times. But finding this proper sequence can be fun – not to mention a unique insight to the psychological ordering of my mind. Yes, issue 324 occurs after issue 323 numerically, but issue 324 happens to be a flashback tale chronicling events leading up to issue 300. This continuity presents such a timeline.
Now, to quote the immortal Beatles, do you want to know a secret? The creation of this continuity timeline, this linear representation of a shared universe that always seems to be a buzzword amongst us geeks, is truly nothing more than a grand excuse to go back and re-read all these countless titles amassed over 20+ years of collecting. Going through back issue upon back issue has allowed the re-discovery of long-forgotten treats as well as the unearthing of a number of blunders that once were an embarrassing part of my collection are now fodder on eBay (so to paraphrase a well-worn saying here in Philadelphia politics: bid early, bid often).
Parts of this blog will be highlighting such treats, as well as the occasional blasting of a youthful and shameful purchase. As always, being an ambassador of the medium, I totally invite you to check out any titles or storylines mentioned in upcoming posts. If you have questions, feel free to join in a discussion.
As always,
theJOE
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