Category: Visual Club

Well, we’re at war.

(Pause while washed by wave of despair.)

Yeah, fuck that. Let’s make fun of things.

So, movie wasteland. While most of us (the ones who like their shit solidly blown the fuck up, anyway) eagerly await The Hulk, The Matrix II & III, X-Men II, LOTR:ROTK, and of course BARL:VPN–NAMBLA III, the studios are having a field day flinging poo-balls at a slavering audience and watching us make terrible faces as we tentatively lick their dire swill. Basically, spring and fall movies are proof positive of Hollywood’s fundamental contempt for its audiences. “Look at those fucking jackals,” they hiss, “twisting our dicks over release dates on the blockbusters. Christ, I hate them. That’s it, I’m greenlighting Autumn in New York, just to see them howl.” How else do you explain such ghastly, unwatchable, incomprehensible movies? Oh, and now would be a good time to point out that I am passing judgment on all these movies purely on their ads and some judicious faux-research at IMDB. I haven’t seen any of them, and have no plans to, barring some sadomasochistic impulse. So yes, I’m full of shit.

But you can’t tell me any of these movies are any good. Well, you can. I just won’t listen to you.

Anyway! What else have we got? Oh, yes, there’s The Hunted, with slumming Oscar-huggers running around playing soldier; one evidently hacks civilians into chum, and the other one tracks him with silent, steely, baggy-eyed determination. Maw! Best take the bottle away from Brian Dennehy and give him a sponge bath! He’s gonna be pissed when he finds out they remade First Blood without tellin’ him! Directed by William Friedkin, a man who actually seems uncomfortable with dialogue, but who has obviously found his dream actor in Benicio Del Toro, a man who seems to revel in incomprehensibility. Also featured: minor characters with names like Crumley, Stokes and Boggs. At least one of these people, I am certain, will be chomping on a cigar.

Moving right along, we find Basic, a troublingly eponymous title. One is further discouraged by a relentless ad campaign that features an anonymous radio “critic” being quoted as saying “John Travolta proves once again that he’s one of America’s best actors!” Yes. And Jenna Elfman shall be his queen. Give me a fucking break. But the biggest danger sign here is the heart-stopping phrase, “Directed by John McTiernan.” AIIIEEEE! This is the same man who last year perpetrated the Rollerball remake as well as such turgid, humorless fare as The Hunt for Red October, Predator and the execrable Last Action Hero, itself an immortal Hollywood joke. A final stake in the heart: the IMDB capsule review from the user boards (always a pithy bunch) simply contains the rather direct summation: “AWFUL FILM.” I bet Ain’t It Cool News spends about three pages of gibbering ink to this effect.

Then there’s Stephen King’s latest, Dreamcatcher, which is of course directed by . . . Lawrence Kasdan? Oooookaaaay. Anyway, this movie is obviously about the voracious insects that live in Jason Lee’s brain and eat the sections of his mind that would normally allow this talented person to select good roles in good movies. He used to have this ability; I cite Almost Famous and . . . uh . . . Almost Famous. Okay, maybe he got lucky once. Perhaps Kevin Smith (this is flamebait, but it’s sincere flamebait: Kevin Smith is an awful hack who should be slow-roasted to an internal temperature of a million.) gave him this awful infestation. But things are looking up for Jason, yessirree! IMDB lists such stellar upcoming roles like “PR Exec #1” and “Dishevelled Man.” Yes, I’m serious. Anyway, this movie is evidently about weird aliens who inhabit human hosts and then are birthed via explosive, bloody anal expulsion. WHO WANTS POPCORN?

And finally, because I can hardly bear to go on, we have the obligatory Screemy-Queeny Offering! Fags are soooo funny, aren’t they? Especially to straight people! Hence, Boat Trip, which features the further horror of watching the Toboggan Ride of Terribleness that is the horrific career of Cuba Gooding Jr. See, Cuba is straight! And for some idiotic reason, he finds himself on a cruise! A gay cruise! Then he mugs a lot and runs away from the Scary Fairies until oh no! He has to pretend to be a ca-razy gay person! Holy fucking shit! Somebody kill me! Better, someone kill Cuba. He’s clearly begging for it. BONUS: I know the IMDB site chops off plot summary quotes on the main movie pages more or less arbitrarily, but the cut-off point for Boat Trip’s is really good: “Jerry and Nick are two best buddies whose love lives have hit rock bottom, Jerry’s especially, having just vomited… (more)”

Yes! More! More!

It’s just too bad we have to wait until fall for Autumn in New York II.

We’re still in that no-mans land between winter movie season and the feeding frenzy of the summer season, so the current crop of movies in release (or about to be released) are, of course, rotten piles of shit; the outcasts, the lame, the crippled, the unwanted. I say this with the attendant admission that I have seen none of them, nor do I intend to, because a mere look at most of the ads for these things is enough to confirm their intrinsic badness. I admit as well that this is not fair; I don’t care. It’s basic preservation instinct; sort of the same instinct that whispers to me, should you ever need a lawyer, you probably should not call one that advertises on TV in drag, or also, avoid eggplant at all costs, as it is a violent emetic and is harvested from old, deserted Superfund sites.

There are, as ever, the kids’ movies. For the youngsters, we’ve got Piglet’s Big Movie, a sensible enough title for a movie whose ads relentlessly feature, uh, Tigger, who is still tirelessly bouncing around, wisecracking maniacally. The really unfortunate thing about Tigger is, for me anyway, is that he just continually reminds me of Robin Williams any more. Have you seen any of the man’s horrible interviews? He’s up! He’s down! He’s speaking in an allegedly funny voice! Christ, he’s a fucking firecracker! Won’t he please stop the schtick for one goddamn second please? That’s Tigger. But if you’ve got little bastards, well, you’re probably fucked, because they’re going to scream until you go see it, and you wouldn’t want to miss Disney’s last bit of horrible money-grabbing before they lose the rights to pillage Pooh’s good name, would you? Of course not.

So while you and the little screaming bastards are gritting it through Piglet, you can send your twelve-year-old daughter off on her own–because as far as she’s concerned, you’re a frightening embarrassment-beast now anyway–and she can crack her bubblegum all the way through the not-at-all formulaic What A Girl Wants, in which another gleaming teenybopper girl–this time her name is Amanda Bynes, whom I’m evidently supposed to be familiar with, but I’m old and creaky–asks the question, duh? What does a girl want? Apparently, it’s to lose her dad at an early age, and then discover that he’s actually a really wealthy British guy who lives in a manor and has ready access to harmless cute boys who will indulge her in a bit of chaste necking before she scurries off to put on a godzillion-dollar gown and just knock the shit out of the stuffy English people, who all turn out to be really nice after all and everybody lives happily ever after. I don’t think that’s too much to ask! But then again, I’m not Colin Firth, whose every second even in the TV ads, appears to be broadcasting the message “I’VE MADE A HORRIBLE MISTAKE! CONTACT MY AGENT!” on all psychic airwaves.

But maybe you’re lucky and you don’t have kids. Whoops! You’re not lucky at all! There’s many fresh horrors lurking out there ready to indian-burn your helpless mind! My favorite guilty pleasure so far–right out of the gate, and I’ve already taken many shots at it–is The Core. This is a movie so strange, it almost cries out for the inclusion of Angelina Jolie, but alas, it has an almost aggressively b-list cast: Aaron Eckhart (“Call me Mr. Brockovich, won’t you?), Hillary Swank, Stanley Tucci, and Delroy Lindo all apparently have to go to the center of the Earth for some reason because the planet is going to stop spinning, and they have to go blow something up. The whole idea just makes me giddy, giddy like Amanda Bynes!!! in a Dior dress!!! because, well, what? This might be up there on the fun-o-meter in the “so bad it’s good” way were it not for a couple things: one, the actors. I have a feeling that Mr. Eckhart and Ms. Swank are going to be taking the whole thing way too seriously, while Mr. Tucci and Mr. Lindo are going to be skulking around wearing hunted, Colin Firthlike expressions. Oh, also, Alfre Woodard plays a character named “Stick,” which is a bad omen recognized by all rational people. And two, there’s the whole problem that this thing is clearly so fucking dumb, you’re going to be stuck in a theater filled with science dweebs who are going to loudly bitch about the stupid technical aspects and theatrically groan at every violation of natural law, which one assumes will be frequent. Geeks cannot be quiet at the movies.

The less said about Bringing Down the House the better. It is clearly a hateful thing created by sociopaths to punish the stupid and weak.

Certainly the most baffling entry out there crabwalking for your movie bucks is the unexplainable widget called View From the Top. This thing is pretty evidently a cookie-cutter bit of feelgood glop, but it features people who ostensibly have much, much better things to do with their time, such as Gwyneth Paltrow and Michael Myers. It then teams them up with people who probably really didn’t have anything better to do, like Christina Applegate and Rob Lowe. It’s kind of like you and a buddy going to the gym and finding Kobe Bryant and Allen Iverson hanging out waiting for a game: it just doesn’t make much sense. So: Gwyneth is of course the small town girl who with just a little gumption and whole fucking lot of positive attitude makes it big time in the stewardessing game! You go, girl! Please? Will she succeed? I wonder if she finds true love somewhere along the way? Maybe she sportfucks Rob Lowe, and then gets a riotous case of the clap? Whatever. Oh, and also, Candace Bergen is lurking around in there somewhere biting the heads off pigeons and throwing hateful looks at Christina Applegate, who still looks really great in a bikini.

You know what? This is good fun. And I don’t even have to know what I’m talking about! It’s the whole premise! I may have to do more tomorrow. Whoopee!

By Harold Pinter.

Skot sits facing a television. It plays advertisements. Skot lights a match and watches it burn.

TV: We’ll tell you how the flooding can affect your commute.

S: I live on a hill in an urban center. I walk to work.

TV: Be prepared for the Romulans.

S: I always am.

TV: Q13 Fox shows you the latest ads to get you to go see the Mariners in action.

S: They do, and I almost always resist.

TV: What does Boonie think?

S: I guess he’s disappointed in me.

TV: WILLARD!

S: Rats.

TV: Foster Farms Chicken.

S: Chicken is good too.

TV: That, my friend, is the sweet smell of Windex.

S: Uuuuuuuuuuuhh.

TV: Somebody hasn’t discovered the new Metamucil.

S: Please.

TV: You can enjoy eggs without the cholesterol.

S: Please.

TV: Inspector Gadget is back with even more gadgets.

S: You’re making me sick. My fiancee will be worried.

TV: Dont trip! U luv her?

S: Of course.

TV: This mother’s day, why not show her you care?

S: Mother’s Day?

TV: Give someone special the night off.

S: I’ll try.

TV: Foster Farms Chicken.

S: I’ll try.

TV: You can enjoy eggs without the cholesterol.

S: I wanted–I wanted–I wanted–

TV: Which came first?

S: She wanted–

TV: Chicken?

S: I–

TV: Egg?

S: I–

TV: Which came first? Which came first? Which came first?

Skot screams.

TV: Do you know your own face?

Silence. He is crouched in the chair.

S: It was a lovely party tonight.

TV: You were the belle of the ball.

S: I was?

TV: Oh yes.

S: Oh, it’s true. I was. (Pause.) I know I was.

Curtain.

So there’s apparently a movie called Irreversible coming out now making the outrage-rounds. You see, it apparently features a very graphic anal rape scene. And it’s nine minutes long. Nine. Minutes. Are you very surprised to learn that it’s a French movie?

Now honestly. There’s no fucking hope in hell that I’m going to willingly watch a movie knowing that for nine endless woe-washed minutes, I will be watching an anal rape scene. I’m just not; fuck that, if I want to immerse myself in hopeless anguish, I can always watch Emeril. I can’t get over it. Nine minutes is an eternity of screen time.

Someone once tried to make the argument with me regarding the immortal Caligula that the “what the–?” out-of-nowhere X-rated sex scenes were an experiment in confronting the viewer with how much they could take; forcing them to understand their own mental limitations. Or something. So I watched the movie, and afterwards I was all, “Uh, dude. That’s just porn.” I mean, fine, watch porn if you want, but let’s not gloss it over with any bullshit.

And frankly, even the idea of commiting a graphic rape scene to film is one thing, but to stretch it out to nine minutes just strikes me as a cruel device, just rubbing the viewer’s face in it because . . . I don’t know why because. Because someone could? That’s not good enough for me. And I don’t wanna come across all shrill and dumb and bluenosy; I’m not saying don’t go see it, or it should be banned, or anything of the sort. I’m just saying why I’m not seeing it. I don’t see how it’s anything other than nasty and cynical and almost worst of all, probably totally unneccessary to the film overall.

But as I pointed out, I haven’t seen the film. Knock wood.

I’m waiting for The Core. Now that’s going to be some horrible, insulting filmmaking I can really enjoy!

7:00 USA Network

JAG Rabb is joined by Mac to help defend their friend Comb against false charges. They are not helped by hostile Judge Berm or their suspicious commanding officer Admiral Yurt. Facing burnished Republicans at every turn, Rabb and Mac enlist the aid of CIA special agent Beet (Dabney Coleman). Also featuring Justin Bateman, Eric Bogosian and Danitra Vance as Gunnery Sgt. Womb.

7:30 FOX

Friends The familiar five friends disinterestedly read an old “Mad About You” script from metal folding chairs in front of one camera, and then rise up and hector the terrorized staff for “paychecks, fucking paychecks!” In this special one-hour episode, they all make foul, unwatchable movies, and weakly rail against their individual fates, which all clearly point to tedious, unnoticed deaths.

8:00 NBC

Law & Order An aging, ferret-gnawing detective and his younger, attractive, possibly ethnic partner discover a dead body of some sort and make trenchant observations about the perils of New York City life. While eating at a hot dog stand, one of the detectives gets an idea, and is seen running off determinedly, the hot dog forgotten yet symbolic of forgotten hot dogs. Various people lie, and then immediately come clean under the laser-like interrogation of either lizardy Michael Moriarty or maybe Sam Waterston, who has small stones in his throat to aid in digestion. Interchangeable female attorneys slink around uselessly, giving nothing away about the deus ex machina twist that will happen in the last five minutes, shocking everyone into a dazed walk to the elevators, where they will trade trenchant observations about the perils of New York City life.

8:30 FX

The X-Files Mulder and Scully investigate an eerie lagoon whose black waters appear to be harboring a mysterious creature that is claiming the lives of young women; Mulder suspects government conspiracy. Scully disagrees, snapping at Mulder, “You’ve got piles, and nobody likes you.” It turns out to be a dog. Whatever. Guest starring Bruce Vilanch.

9:00 CourtTV

NYPD Blue Andy is tossed between extremes of violence and grief as everyone he knows and loves is raped, tortured, killed, and then horribly defiled before his very eyes by a succession of frightening ethnic people. In an edge-of-your-seat confrontation with his boss, he at once seems to be lashing out while lacerating himself in the process, culminating in a savage mooning. A montage at the end showcases many side-boobs; tasteful luxuriating asses; and finally three minutes of Jimmy Smits listlessly masturbating on camera.

1. Get up at last possible minute. Practice morning ablution rituals with machinelike precision. Execute efficient coffee transaction. Discard cigarette 1 second before entering office doors, no strides broken. Arrive ten minutes late anyway. Feel stupid.
2. Take note of tech people hurling themselves around the office, weeping brokenly and babbling in their creepy alien tongue, and occasionally bursting into flames. “Oracle! SQL! Down! Hardware! Two network drives! Fucked! Firewalls! Remote servers! Choking on vomit! Noam Chomsky!” Eventually tire of this puzzling scene, go to office.
3. Read sweaty, dense emails from aforementioned incontinent tech staff. Finally decipher that all databases are somehow royally fucked all to hell, and might be for some time. Note with rising pleasure that this means it is basically totally impossible for any work to be done.
4. Get bored, torture office mates. Hang sign on Tiny Administrative Girl’s office that reads “ACTUAL SIZE SHOWN.” Maliciously inform Caftan Guy in dark tones that the database was no doubt “a problem way, way down on the hardware end. I’m pretty sure a backbone got hit with a DDOS, because the staff is saying that the DNS issues here are propogating across multiple networks.” He nods sagely.
5. Leave work early to walk to theater to get ready for inexplicable Wednesday afternoon preview performance. Greet other actors and note that they–a notably nocturnal species–look kind of grey and wilted in the bright sunlight, like old mushrooms left forgotten on a countertop. The sun beats down with oppressive, cheery wrath; enter the vaguely sinister dank theater for refuge from the awful sleet of photons.
6. Greet tech staff, who are performing their mysterious preshow functions while gabbling amongst themselves. Like the tech staff at work, these are freakish, incomprehensible beings with a chittering, insectoid language. “Leko fresnel!” Or something. Then, incredibly, someone on a ladder says something murky about Phoebe Cates, and everyone laughs. What? Run downstairs.
7. Walk into dressing room, immediately deal with the psychic strain of inadvertantly being presented with fellow actor’s bare ass, pointed directly at you as he bends to change pants, as if it were some sort of siege weapon from a William Burroughs novel. Note also that actress in next room (actually just a curtained-off area) is singing along to Sting’s “We’ll Be Together.” Hazily think that God really did exist, He would probably be a lot like Adam Sandler.
8. Shave angry, overshaved neck, while fellow actors struggle with their ties. They look like clumsy fishermen wrestling with handfuls of madly thrashing eels. Stare at own tie, which you realize appears to be a sophisticated homage to quantum string theory. Actors, for no explainable reason, cannot dress themselves.
9. Perform! Huzzah! It’s showtime! Aaarooogah! It’s two o’clock on a Wednesday! There’s twelve people in the audience, including the director, who is furiously writing a note chastising you for some awful, bumbling thing you just did! Also, there’s the twisted local amateur drama critic, who is writing down a cutting remark about your belt, for some reason! Listessly wander through rest of show. The acting all around is half-speed and blunted. Receive perfunctory applause at curtain call.
10. Immediately feel nine times better upon removal of costume. Note sudden re-animation of rest of cast, exactly two minutes after leaving the stage, where it was so desperately needed. Reflect: this is why you never, ever go to the preview performance of a show.

Cate Blanchett: “Stealing Roles From Tilda Swinton Since 1998!”

Kate Winslet: “Pay Me to Take Off My Bra and I Throw in the Panties for Free!”

Sandra Bullock: “Why Have Jumbalaya When You Can Have Plain Rice?”

Jm J Bullock: “Are You Going To Finish That Sandwich?”

Aaron Sorkin: “Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.”

Andrea Dworkin: “Get Away From That Sandwich, Jm J Bullock!”

I started working on a new show this week; AR Gurney’s Far East. And if I am not mistaken, tonight I will be given a paycheck. A paycheck! For acting! Weekly! This is a great feeling; it’s like at the end of the week, they’re so moved by my artistic prowess, they’d love to give me an enthusiastic handjob, but it wouldn’t quite be proper, so here’s a check. Fools! With that check, I can buy several handjobs!

Most of the time in “fringe” theater (read: community theater without the bored housewives), you get a “stipend” at the end of the run. A stipend can mean anywhere from a hundred bucks down to, uh, simple good will. (Rarely a handjob. Those happen during the cast parties, and are not considered taxable income.) And I do appreciate them; I understand that these producers are doing the best they can, and I’m certainly not doing this for the riches.

But a paycheck! I can’t get over it. When I get home tonight, I’m going to throw it on the bed and roll around on it, Scrooge McDuck-style. Then I’ll probably have to peel it off my back and iron it. That’s cool. Paycheck!

And what did I do to earn it? Of the four hours I spent at the theater last night, approximately fifteen minutes of my time was spent onstage “working” (read: acting, so technically, not working). In fact, I was literally taking my first steps onstage to say my very first line when the stage manager called out: “Okay, we’re done, folks, time to go home!” And everyone laughed at me, because I was standing there onstage with my metaphorical dick in my proverbial hands. Laugh away, suckers! I’m the one getting a paycheck for sitting around eating potato chips and taking luxurious smoke breaks!

It’s incredible to have a job where they pay you good money to sit around and not do anything. It’s even more incredible to have two of them. The grass is always greener, though. Somewhere, someone is getting a handjob.

There is a co-worker of mine who is a stage actress. We frequently talk about theater, etc. commiserating about lack of work or whatever. She is currently in a production of Dylan Thomas’ A Child’s Christmas in Wales, which is surely one of the most boring shows in the world. I was in it once in college, and I got bored even while acting in it. You could be operated on while watching it.

My co-worker approached me today.

“It’s the last weekend of my show.”

“Oh, that’s right. You must be excited.”

“Yeah. So . . . are you going to come see it?”

(I pause. I am caught. Quick! Make an excuse!)

“No.”

(You shithead.)

“Oh . . . how come?”

(This is horrible! MAKE AN EXCUSE!)

“Because I’d rather die. I’m sorry.”

(I fold.)

“Yeah, I can understand that. It’s a boring damn show. See ya.”

Is there anything sweeter than a completely undeserved success? I think not. UN-DE-SERVED! UN-DE-SERVED! UN-DE-SERVED!

It is with caution that I inform you that I often watch the Food Network. It’s kind of embarrassing, really; I like to cook, but I’m a total amateur. I am cautious about fucking with recipes too much, and it would never occur to me to, say, add fennel to anything unless specifically directed to. But that doesn’t have much to do with the Food Network, because the Food Network has about as much to do with cooking as Hustler magazine has to do with human relationships. Most of the time, cooking is utterly ancillary to what is actually going on, whether it be cult (or, depending on the person, “occult”) of personality (the odious Emeril, the cloying Wolfgang Puck, the unclassifiable asshole Bobby Flay), naked advertising presented as infotainment (how do they make Milk Duds? We need a half hour on this!) or simple addleheaded travelogue tripe (The Thirsty Traveler mugs his way through Spain! Somebody forgot to ask the important question, “Who gives a ripe fuck?”).

It’s not wholly without its pleasures. If you’re not a fan of the Iron Chef, that’s fine, but I must question why anyone couldn’t like a show that combines incredible, over-the-top theatrics with such utterly conspicuous consumption, and finally culminates in forcing cheerful, ridiculous rich people to eat concoctions such as deep-fried chicken brains and eel-flavored ice cream. (“It tastes like Autumn to me.” Groovy! I prefer my food to taste like . . . food. But sadly, I’m not a fatuous rich person.) Another good show–and it goes without saying that because it is fairly intelligent, it is woefully underpromoted–is Good Eats, in which the affable Alton Brown patiently explains in lay science terms why cooking works the way it does. It’s smart and charming and endearingly low-fi.

And of course there are the cooking shows. They are, to varying degrees depending on your affinity for whoever’s hosting, all basically intolerable (apart from Good Eats, which is really a different animal). I won’t even go into Emeril, unless I have a hatchet, in which case I will enthusiastically “get into him.” Wolfgang Puck carries the lingering stink of the Eighties, and just kind of looks desperate and tanned in that panicky way that says, “I can’t possibly be irrelevant. I’m tan!” And Bobby Flay is about as entertaining and informative as formica. He is resolutely unenthusiastic as he tours America, tasting various regional dishes, and invariably pronouncing said dishes in a bored monotone, “Delicious.” “Delicous,” in his context, makes it sound like it means “This gives me a wasting, consumptive disease.” He speaks of other people’s cooking as if he were clinically evaluating their toilets by licking them.

And finally, there is Jamie Oliver, a young, handsome Brit who makes food as if someone off camera has a rifle trained on him. But in a fun way! This moppet is so relentlessly cuddly that they gave him two shows, neither of them watchable (though I obviously managed, because I suck). Hyperactive Jamie scooters about London terrorizing fishmongers and vegetable stands, and then goes back home (or wherever–I think one episode had him cooking halibut on an agreeable Tony Blair’s engine block) and maniacally cooks the fucking shit out of whatever he has found. He grabs . . . something. You don’t know what. It’s green. “Gitchyer mortar en pessle and bash the hell ou’ uvvit!” And bash it he does, as if the food owed him a lot of money, his curly blonde locks flying madly. “There we are thin luv!” He’s thrown the mortar and pestle into the plaster wall of the set and has now flung the whole green mess on to some fish morbidly shrinking in a pan. “Stir it oop, mates!” he screams, as if in the grips of a fever. Twenty minutes of this, and you can feel your pulmonary capillaries howling for oxygen, but whew, now he’s done. and he’s finally calmly devouring the ninety-two dishes he’s prepared along with two dozen of his ridiculously pretty friends, also known as “paid extras.” His demeanor suggests a man who, having come off of a shrieking adrenaline rush, has now made his peace with the unseen rifleman.

Food Network is, as I said, not without its charms. It is, in fact, a little more charming than the equally awful major networks, if only because of its single-minded nature. You can’t really claim undue surprise from the Food Network the same way you can with the Big Four when they assault you with something as soul-wrenching as, say, Joe Millionaire. The Food Network is, after all, going to be about food. The worst they can do is prepare it.