The Wandering Narrative

I (Still) Really Hate Rob Zombie's 'Halloween' Remake

2011-11-06T10:24:00.000-08:00

Believe me - I realize that criticizing Rob Zombie's Halloween remake is a lot like kicking someone when they're already down. It's already been four years since the film was released and it's endured a pretty savage beating from both fans and critics alike. So what's the point? Why drag the corpse of this movie over the same old minefield of complaints? I haven't seen it since it was first released and after revisiting the original Halloween and a few of its sequels over the past few weeks, I wanted to see if maybe Zombie's take on the material played a little bit better now than it did back in 2007.

I have to start by saying that I don't have anything against Zombie as a filmmaker. I actually really enjoyed The Devil's Rejects and thought it showed a lot of promise in terms of his future as a writer/director. It's still the most confident entry in his filmography and whether you like it or not, it also established him as something of an auteur. I firmly believe that he's going to make a genuinely great film at some point. Unfortunately, the combination of Rob Zombie and the Halloween property represents a horribly flawed mismatch of director and material.

The reason Halloween 2007 doesn't work is the same reason that the recent A Nightmare on Elm Street remake failed - there was a fundamental misunderstanding of the franchise's villain. The filmmakers behind both projects didn't seem to realize what made Michael Myers or Freddy Krueger so scary in the first place. However, the worst that can be said about Freddy in the Nightmare remake is that he's boring and somehow detached from all of the mayhem that he's causing. Michael, on the other hand, is a completely different character. I understand that Zombie wanted to bring something new to the table and he had every right to try and make it his own. The franchise had long since run out of steam and it certainly needed someone brave enough to come along and shake things up. The problem is that Zombie introduced completely uninspired changes to the mythos and didn't even have the courage to commit to them.

The easiest way to point out Zombie's mishandling of the character is to examine the way he was presented in John Carpenter's 1978 original. After the iconic opening shot, we learn that the murderer whose POV we've been following is actually a small child. Six-year-old Michael Myers is a normal looking kid from a normal upper middle-class family. He's locked up in an institution where he remains mute and completely unresponsive to treatment. We don't know why he snapped and we can't understand his compulsion to kill. There's no reason Myers should be so evil... he just is. That's what's so terrifying. His family, his neighborhood... they look just like yours. He could be living next door to you.

The script refers to him as 'The Shape' - a reference to the fact that although he has all the identifiable characteristics of a human being, he's something else entirely. He's The Boogeyman. Pure evil personified. Once he escapes the mental institution that he's been locked away in for all of his life, he returns to his hometown and starts stalking a group of babysitters on Halloween. That's all we ever know about him. He never speaks. Through the exposition of Dr. Loomis (the Captain Ahab to Myers' white whale), we learn the how of this character, but never the why. That's part of what makes that original film so successful - the complete absence of motive. Even the way Myers dispatches his victims is cold and perfunctory. He never even breaks a sweat.

In my opinion, it's Carpenter himself who did the most harm to the franchise with his script for Halloween II. Introducing the idea that Laurie Strode, the first film's heroine, is Michael's sister instantly demystifies him. Suddenly, there was a motive and a list of rules - rules that most of the sequels would be forced to adhere to. Regardless, the way Myers is presented in the original Halloween still makes for one of cinema's all-time scariest antagonists. We naturally fear what we don't understand and the vagueness of that character (perfectly echoed in that expressionless mask) is simultaneously frustrating and terrifying.

Now let's look at the way Zombie depicts Myers...

In Halloween 2007, Laurie Strode is no longer the main character - Michael is. Instead of appearing briefly in the opening scene, the entire first half of the film is dedicated to a young Michael Myers. This is clearly where Zombie felt he had the most room to make the film his own. This was the one chapter of the character's history that was was largely undocumented. I obviously can't be sure about this, but it seems like maybe fleshing out the back story was the only way he could justify this film's existence.

I do have a serious problem with becoming so intimate with Michael right from the get-go. Knowing too much about him erases the power of his character and it goes back to what I said at the beginning - it's a fundamental misunderstanding of why he worked so well in the first place. My biggest issue, however, is not that Zombie wants to explain why Michael is so evil - it's that he does so with a series of cringe-worthy cliches.

It's just bullet points from the Wikipedia page on serial killers. Abusive home environment? Check. Bullied at school? Check. Tortures small animals? Check. Mommy issues? Check.

This version of the Myers family is pure white trash and their depiction is so hilariously over-the-top that it borders on parody. These are no longer your friends and neighbors - they're a carnival freak show that we're meant to point and laugh at. The other problem is that there's no real progression when it comes to the evil growing inside Michael. From the moment we meet him, he's already as fucked up as he gets. Ten minutes in and we're watching him dispatch his first human victim. We don't see a change in him. We don't see the moment where the switch flips. He's already someone we can believe would take another person's life.

There's no drama or sense of tragedy because the film starts with all of the psychological damage firmly in place. In short, there's no reason we need to spend so much time with young Michael Myers because we barely learn anything new about him. Forget all the Psychology 101 bullshit - all we really get is a more detailed account of the events that eventually result in Myers putting on a mask and picking up a knife. Carpenter effectively relayed all of that information in a few minutes. Zombie makes us sit through almost an hour of it.

The film half is seemingly designed to explain why Michael is so fucked up, but the film answers that question immediately. How does this do anything but detract from what comes later, though? Are we supposed to feel bad for him? Zombie certainly puts a lot of effort in humanizing Michael Myers and if that's not to generate some level of sympathy, what's the point of it? By putting a human face on him and such a detailed back story behind it, it completely destroys what Zombie attempts to construct in the second half of the film.

This is what I meant before about him not having the courage to completely follow through with his vision. After the adult Michael Myers breaks out of the institution, it stops being a character study and becomes a beat-for-beat retelling of Carpenter's original film. Myers is no longer the film's focal point. We suddenly switch to Laurie Strode and now experience the remainder of the movie from her POV. It's jarring and falls apart for several reasons - the biggest being that Zombie has already removed any sense of suspense or dread because we know exactly what's hiding around the corner.

In the original, we knew as much about Myers as the main characters did. In the remake, we know his entire history, motive, what he's going to do next, and why. It doesn't matter how creepy Zombie tries to make him look - he's already robbed the character of his mystery. If Seven began with John Doe's traumatic childhood and chronicled him planning all of his crimes, it would destroy the rest of the film. We'd be able to put a face on our villain and we'd be one step ahead of the detectives.

One of the biggest flaws with Zombie's film is that it evidently wants Myers to come off as some sort of antihero in the first half of the film and then a genuinely threatening bad guy in the second half. It's one or the other with Michael - but it can never be both. A more nuanced filmmaker may have been able to pull something like that off (Mary Harron's work in American Psycho comes to mind), but the subtlety that's required to achieve that is not one of Zombie's strengths.

That's why I don't agree with those who claim that if this were an original film and not a remake of Halloween, it would have fared better. It might have helped a little, but it's still an awkwardly paced film with conflicting aspirations. The bottom line is that Halloween is the wrong franchise for Zombie. He has an obvious love and admiration for the old Universal monsters and that's probably why his version of Myers has more in common with someone like Frankenstein's monster than The Shape. To be honest, I think Zombie would have been more at home making a Friday the 13th film.

I've always disliked the hulkier versions of Michael. The first two films and H20 had the right idea - a nondescript individual with an average build. It again reinforces the idea that it could be anyone under there. In Zombie's film, he's a brute who stomps around and actually growls when he makes his kills. That's the antithesis of Michael Myers. Again, I understand the need to put your own spin on things - but if you're going to sell your film using the Halloween monicker, there has to be some level of respect for the spirit of the core concept. If you stray that far off course, what's the point?

Tim Burton's Batman and Christopher Nolan's The Dark Knight represent vastly different takes on the source material. Both take certain liberties with the characters and diverge from the established mythology in many significant ways - but both stay true to the essence of what Batman is all about. So it's not that I expected or even wanted the exact same movie Carpenter made in 1978. I'm only arguing that if they absolutely had to remake Halloween, it deserved a filmmaker who had a more substantial connection to the original and an understanding of the elements that continue to make it resonate so strongly.

Aside from Brad Dourif as Sheriff Brackett and maybe Malcolm McDowell as Dr. Loomis (though to be honest, I'm not as enthusiastic about his work here as most people), the performances are terrible, the dialogue is embarrassingly awful, and the score is a disorganized mess (the main theme is introduced way too early and continues to be used somewhat improperly) - but none of those things actually sink this ship.

It's the complete mishandling of the Michael Myers character that makes Halloween 2007 such a crushing disappointment. So unfortunately, it didn't play any better this time than the first time I saw it. Luckily, the original isn't going anywhere and I can still revisit it whenever I choose.

I am looking forward to Zombie's next film The Lords of Salem as it's a return to his own original material. As for Halloween, I really have no idea where the franchise goes from here or if there actually is a way to make Michael Myers scary again. I only hope that if it does continue, they move forward instead of going back.

Do You Remember... Are You Afraid of the Dark?

2011-10-13T17:28:00.000-07:00

Submitted for the approval of The Midnight Society...

Here's the first entry in what I plan on making a regular feature here - a look back at some of the more memorable movies & tv shows from my childhood. Since Halloween is right around the corner, it made sense to start with the series that was probably responsible for 70% of my nightmares as a kid. I was going to say 90% at first, but then I remembered how into alien abductions I was after reading Communion and holy fucking monster balls you guys... just do a google image search for the cover. Anyways, where was I...?

Right. So I think I was in fifth grade when my younger sister Erika came home from a sleepover and asked me if I'd ever heard of Snick. It was a block of programming that aired Saturday nights on Nickelodeon (get it?) and at this point in time the line-up included Clarissa Explains It All, Roundhouse, Ren & Stimpy, and... Are You Afraid of the Dark?

I wasn't familiar with any of these shows, but it was the title of that last one that really piqued my interest. I asked Erika what it was about and she said, "It just shows you monsters and stuff." I interpreted this description waaaay too literally and imagined a huge slot machine that just kept rotating and displaying different creatures for thirty minutes. Let's be honest, though - I would have watched the shit out of that show too.

The following Saturday, I sat down with Erika to break my Snick cherry. I rolled my eyes at Clarissa's annoying brother Ferguson, pretended to understand the appeal of Roundhouse's sketch comedy, and laughed my ass of at Ren & Stimpy's flatulent pal Powdered Toast Man - but the whole evening was essentially just a warm-up and a waiting game for this final show.

It only took thirty seconds for Are You Afraid of the Dark? to completely win me over. That's how long the opening credits ran for. I'm sure anyone who grew up with the series remembers them vividly, but just in case...

When you're in fifth grade, that is legitimately unnerving imagery. The episode hadn't even really started yet and already I was pulling my feet up so that anything hiding under the couch couldn't grab me. On a brief side note, do you realize how impossible it would be for something like this to air today? I'm so thankful that I grew up in an age where it was still okay to give kids a good scare from time to time. But I digress...

You can find nearly every episode of AYAOTD online and after revisiting more of them than I care to admit, it's pretty obvious that the majority do not hold up all that well. There were definitely more clunkers than nail-biters, but the episodes that did deliver were so memorable that it's easy to see why I anxiously tuned in each and every week hoping to beat the odds.

The premise was simple - a group of kids who called themselves The Midnight Society gathered in the middle of the woods and took turns telling scary stories around a campfire. Each member's story was that week's episode. It was a cool framing device and a neat way to have an anthology show in the vein of The Twilight Zone or The Outer Limits for kids.

As it turns out, my inaugural meeting with The Midnight Society featured a story that's widely regarded as one of the series' best. It was an episode called The Tale of the Dark Music. Here's the synopsis: A boy, his mom and his bratty little sister move to his uncle’s old house in a new neighborhood where things don't start out well with a neighborhood boy until he figures out that there's something evil hidden inside his basement that comes out to feed everytime he plays music on the radio.

Let's be blunt - he feeds people to the monster. Seriously. This is a show for children where the protagonist feeds human beings to the monster living in his basement. Oh, and he's rewarded for it. I can't even express what a mind fuck this was to me as a kid. I also never looked at the little metal door in our basement's crawl space the same way ever again. It probably wouldn't have much of an effect on you if you watched it today, but I love the fact that in regards to its target demographic, this was an episode that didn't pull any punches.

Needless to say, I was hooked. After that, it was the same routine every Saturday - patiently sit through the other Snick shows until it was time for the main event. I saw just about every episode (although I had outgrown it when it came back with a new cast in 1999) and some of my other favorites include The Tale of The Dollmaker, The Tale of the Quiet Librarian, The Tale of Midnight Madness, and my personal favorite... The Tale of Laughing in the Dark. If that title doesn't ring a bell, its antagonist certainly will...


Zeebo the Mother F'n Clown.

This is probably the most memorable character from the show. They tried to recapture the success of this episode with several other stories that featured creepy clowns, but none of them ever came close to instilling the same level of fear that this magnificent bastard did. What's impressive is that I'm pretty sure he only actually appeared in two scenes very briefly. That was all it took.

Ordinarily, Erika and I would discuss each episode during the commercial breaks. During the weaker entries, we'd do our best Statler & Waldorf impression and laugh at the goofiness of what we were watching. But Laughing in the Dark was a different story. I vividly remember how quiet both of us were throughout its entire running time. As soon as we realized that Zeebo was stalking the main character, we looked at each other with genuine concern.

There was also a quiet excitement that started to build the moment Zeebo was introduced, because I was not a kid who put on a front and acted like nothing ever scared him. I loved being scared. I welcomed it. I didn't read the title of AYAOTD as some sort of a challenge to prove how much of a man I was. I wanted it to make me piss all over my Batman underpants. Well, maybe not literally... but if it had scared me that badly, it would have been epic.

That's what I loved most about the show and why it still sticks with me after all these years. Sure, the silly episodes outnumber the good (the one where aliens are living on the top floor of an apartment building is astonishingly stupid), but it wasn't about the stories that disappointed me. It was about the nights that I'd shut off the TV, go up to my room, and hesitate just a second before turning the light off.

Was I afraid of the dark? Not typically. But on those nights I was. And that is so awesome.

'X-Men: First Class' was Surprisingly Solid

2011-06-16T15:51:00.000-07:00

My experience with X-Men: First Class is probably going to sound like a lot of other people's. I was unbelievably skeptical of the film's premise, the characters they chose to fill out the team's roster, and the limited amount of time the filmmakers had to shoot it in. Lo and behold, it turned out to be one of the better entries in the X-Men series - and one of the most satisfying films I've seen all summer.

Almost.

See - as much as I liked the movie, there's one aspect of it I just can't seem to make peace with. First Class attempts to simultaneously serve as a prequel to the other X-Men movies as well as a full-on reboot of the franchise. It never truly commits to being either one, though - and that strikes me as a really baffling decision. Take a look at the film's IMDb page and you'll see scores of passionate fans trying to convince everyone else that it's one or the other. They're all wrong. And they're all right. That's the point. You can present a strong case for either scenario and I just don't get it. Were they trying to play it safe in case it worked better as one instead of the other?

There are two types of X-Men fans who are going to be a little upset with the changes they've made to the mythology here. The first group is comprised of those who are well-versed in the comic book source material. See, in the X-Men comics the "first class" is famously made up of Cyclops, Beast, Angel, Marvel Girl, and Iceman. They're all recruited by Professor Charles Xavier and the first issue pits them against a fascinating character who would go on to become their most recognizable nemesis - Erik Lehnsherr/Magneto.

Part of the reason X-Men has remained so popular and relevant since its introduction in 1963 is the relationship between Professor X and Magneto. One of the main underlying themes in X-Men is the struggle that mutants face when it comes to being accepted by society at large. It's an interesting parable to the civil rights movement - with Charles as a stand-in for Martin Luther King and Magneto taking the Malcolm X role.

First Class preserves that core idea and James McAvoy as Xavier and Michael Fassbender as Lehnsherr are hands-down the best parts of the film. However, that's essentially as far as the filmmakers go when it comes to respecting the source material. They make significant changes to the actual origins of both characters, how (and when) they meet, and probably most controversially - to the team of titular characters.

Because First Class masquerades itself as a pseudo-prequel, they can't use the original line-up of X-Men (except for Beast), because they've already appeared in the other films. Since this is a period piece that takes place in the 1960s against the backdrop of the Cuban Missile Crisis, their inclusion wouldn't make an iota of sense.

So instead we get C-list replacements like Havok (who's actually the younger brother of Cyclops in the comics), Banshee, and Darwin. They also made the slightly unusual decision to have Mystique be Xavier's foster sister and one of the first members of the team. Basically, it makes an absolute mess of the established X-Men mythology and bears almost no resemblance to the series of First Class comics it was originally supposed to be based on.

Frankly, I'm not sure the film commits any bigger sins than the other X-Men movies in this regard. They're all guilty of changing character's ages, origins, appearances, powers, etc. And they all do a pretty exceptional job of completely mucking up the comic's timeline of events. However, I can understand how completely revamping this chapter of the team's saga would be a little upsetting to a hardcore fan.

The second group that's going to be upset by the changes they've made are fans of the previous films who appreciate continuity - and seeing characters they recognize brought to life. If you've never picked up an X-Men comic, you probably at least know who some of the major characters are. Even my mom could identify Wolverine. Not only does First Class feature a bunch of people you've never heard of, it doesn't even pretend to care about contradicting events established earlier in the series. It ranges from minor details like Xavier telling Wolverine that he met Magneto when he was 17 (he doesn't) or that they built Cerebro together (they don't) to fairly major alterations like when Xavier loses his ability to walk - a seemingly superfluous change that actually instantly throws X-Men: The Last Stand and X-Men Origins: Wolverine out of continuity (which may not be such a bad thing, all things considered).

Ssshhh... let's pretend this never happened.

The casual viewer probably won't care (or even notice) many of these changes, but anyone with more than a passing investment in these films is likely going to be confused by these choices. Which brings me right back to my original problem - both groups would have been better served by a film that wiped the slate clean and started from scratch. The filmmakers could have used the original line-up of X-Men and there would be no confusion regarding First Class' connection to the other films.

In fact, the stretches where the film takes a confident and rather brazen approach to breaking new ground are easily its best. Which is what made it so distracting when they'd randomly throw in a cameo or some other reference to the previous X-Men movies. These were moments that really didn't add anything to the story and immediately reminded me that the film was trying to straddle the fence instead of deciding which side it really wanted to be on. I get it - the brief appearances from some familiar faces were fun, little moments where they got to wink at the audience - but take them out and it has absolutely no effect on the story whatsoever.

Don't get me wrong, I really did enjoy X-Men: First Class - and some would argue (and I'd agree) that it's more important that it function as a good movie rather than a faithful adaptation. I just can't help but feel that it could have been both. The focus is firmly on Charles and Erik so the fact that the actual X-Men are made up of lesser-known characters isn't as huge a letdown as I expected it to be - but there's no denying that I would have been a lot more interested in watching Charles training Scott, Jean, and Bobby and seeing them all suit up for the first time.

My other problems with First Class probably have a lot to do with its rushed production. There's quite a bit of hokey dialogue and a few questionable line readings - but overall, the bits that work really work. And the score by Henry Jackman is probably my favorite of the entire series. I also liked the 60s setting, but was disappointed that they didn't really make any mention of the civil rights movement. Instead, they recycled a subplot from X3 about curing mutation which struck me as incredibly redundant.

I understand that Bryan Singer's X-Men films introduced the idea that these characters also worked as a metaphor for gay rights and I think he managed to do that with a sense of grace and subtlety that later entries like The Last Stand tried to mimic, but couldn't. They instead came off as heavy-handed and obvious. I feel the same way about First Class' "Mutant & Proud" moments. I'm sorry, I like the message - but I think the way its handled is too on the nose. As is the close-up of the team's only African-American member when Sebastian Shaw (Kevin Bacon) talks about enslavement. Don't let the audience connect the dots themselves - make sure we know exactly what you're getting at.

I suspect that director Matthew Vaughn was more interested in revamping the X-Men franchise, but that there were others involved who wanted to play it safe just in case things didn't work out. I think the climax makes this incredibly obvious. The evolution and eventual collapse of Charles and Erik's relationship could easily have encompassed three films. First Class almost does a disservice to the incredible performances by McAvoy and Fassbender by trying to cram their entire history into one film. By the time the credits roll, all of the characters have to be well on their way to where we find them at the beginning of the first X-Men - just in case First Class doesn't work as a reboot. This really robs the other X-Men movies of their best aspect - the sense that Charles and Erik had a long and complicated history together - that these two men shared a unique a bond, despite their opposing viewpoints. It would have meant so much more if their journey together had been given the time it deserved. One film just really isn't enough.

In spite of a few missteps and missed opportunities, I think that First Class is still the best X-Men movie since X2: X-Men United. For me, it's on par with the first film. Both have a great deal of thematic depth to them and a lot of really interesting subtext for a superhero film, but there are certain areas where they fall short that prevent them from being great. And that's really too bad - because First Class almost was.

Almost.

'Scream' Should Have Stayed a Trilogy

2011-04-17T17:37:00.000-07:00

Here's my main problem with Scream 4 - acknowledging the cliches of a genre or summarizing its current state is not the same thing as satirizing or commenting on it.

This is a film that uses a couple of lines of dialogue to take shots at the Saw franchise (and torture porn in general) and denounce Hollywood's recent affinity for horror remakes and reboots, but brings absolutely nothing new to the table itself. Scream 4 utilizes the same bag of tricks as the past three films, believing that what worked a decade ago will still work today. It doesn't. Not for me. It has a few jump scares that manage to catch you off guard, but the sad fact is that this movie has nothing resembling genuine suspense or terror.

Now - some might argue that this series was never that frightening and always placed its emphasis on humor, but I'd have to disagree. It's certainly been diluted by how many times it's been ripped off, but the opening of the original Scream was legitimately horrifying in 1996. In fact, that first scene was so strong that it was enough to keep you on the edge of your seat for the rest of the film - despite the fact that the next murder doesn't occur until right before the final act kicks into gear.

I also think Scream 2 boasts some incredibly successful sequences including Sidney & Hallie trapped in the cop car and Gale being pursued through the dubbing stage. Those scenes showcase Wes Craven at the top of his game. Nothing in Scream 4 ever feels as remotely dangerous or inventive. You can see the story beats coming from a mile away and not only has Ghostface chasing someone become slightly stale, but when he ultimately makes his kills you probably don't know enough about the character getting cut up to even care - an attribute of recent horror films that Scream 4 actually has the gall to make fun of in its opening scene. And I don't buy for one second that's exactly what they were going for. I think to purport that the filmmakers purposely made a bad movie is an incredibly lazy excuse with unbelievably questionable logic.

Let me be honest for a second - just in case someone wants to make the argument that we're in Indiana Jones or Star Wars territory here and that my nostalgia for the earlier films set impossible standards for its belated follow-up. I re-watched all of the previous Scream movies last week and I have to say... I think in some ways we give them more credit than they deserve.

The first Scream proclaimed to be a deconstruction of the horror genre. And yes, it featured characters that were aware of many of its conventions - but the film was sold under the premise that you needed to follow the rules of these films in order to survive. However, Randy's famous speech about said rules doesn't even occur until right before the climax. Look, I'm not saying that the movie doesn't work - just that it's not exactly as sharp as some of us may choose to remember it.

It was a welcome change of pace and a revitalization of the slasher genre - but Scream doesn't truly earn its "social commentary" points until after the killers reveal their identities. I think it starts with a bang and packs a similar punch with its ending - but everything in between didn't hold up all that well for me. Obviously, I'm more jaded now than I was upon its release, but that's not really the point - the point is that I haven't elevated the status of the first three movies because I loved them when I was a teenager (well... I never loved Scream 3 actually) - if anything, all of their flaws are that much more apparent to me now. Having said that, Scream 4 is still easily the weakest of the bunch.

For me, the single most intelligent moment in the entire franchise is the opening scene of Scream 2. It may not be as scary as Casey Becker's death in Scream, but I think it's infinitely more interesting. Not only is the set-up fantastic with the film-within-a-film (which I'd argue says more about the horror genre than the first movie's snappy dialogue did), but it has an absolute gut punch of a payoff. It isn't just another death scene. When Maureen dies in front of a cheering crowd that suddenly goes deathly silent, Craven has you by the throat. You know exactly what he's saying and for a moment you almost feel bad for sitting down to enjoy the rest of the film. That's powerful stuff - and nothing else in any of the movies even comes close to approaching that level of sophistication. That's the best example of how the Scream movies can have their cake and eat it too. It was a pitch-perfect balance of humor and scares that proved you can satirize horror films while simultaneously unnerving your audience.

So... here's how all of that ties into my disappointment with Scream 4. Please be warned that I can't discuss a lot of this stuff without revealing spoilers. So if you haven't seen the film and plan to - you might want to stop reading now.

Like I said in the beginning - this films expresses a lot of thesis statements about other horror franchises and the current state of the genre, but doesn't really explore any of those ideas. It doesn't even really address the fact that this type of slasher film is pretty much passe at this point. Randy once mentioned that Jason & Freddy can't possibly be scary after they've been diluted through endless sequels. The same is true of Ghostface and I wish the film had acknowledged that.

Rather than have a new generation of kids who still worship him via an annual marathon of all the Stab movies, why not have them react to his reappearance with apathy or even laughs? Why not have these kids look at him the same way Sidney and her friends viewed slashers in the original Scream? The way that real life audiences look at Ghostface now? Because you know what? I'd be willing to bet that most kids today who grew up with Saw and Hostel view the Scream franchise as a little bit silly, mild, and dated.

That puts pressure on the new killer(s) to step up their game and make Ghostface scary again. But like I said before, this dog doesn't have any new tricks. It doesn't account for the fact that audiences in this decade are slightly more savvy than audiences were in the 90s. Just like audiences in the 90s were hip to all of the cliches from the 80s. If Scream 4 wanted to make this series relevant again, it should have done more to turn the series inside out rather than regurgitate moments we've already seen on three other occasions.

Let's talk about the idea that this a quasi-reboot of the series or that someone has set out to remake the original Scream. My problem with this is that Scream 2 and Scream 3 already did more with this idea than Scream 4 does. In Scream 2, Ghostface begins by patterning himself after the original murders. This is not a new idea - and it isn't exactly as intriguing the second time around. Now, Scream 2 never really follows through on that premise (at a certain point they just mention that the killer has broken his pattern and now everyone's fair game again), but the fact is someone else set out to repeat The Woodsboro Murders already.

In Scream 3, the production of Stab 3 re-creates iconic settings and moments from the original film. I don't care what anyone says, having Sidney walk through her old home and eventually re-create her first encounter with Ghostface is a more effective re-visitation of Scream than anything that appears in Scream 4. The production of Stab 3 already essentially looked like a remake of the events from Scream. Hell, it was subtitled Return to Woodsboro - we've seen all of this before. Sidney's already been forced to come to terms with her past TWICE.

Which leads into another huge problem I have with Scream 4 - Sidney is a static character. She's almost irrelevant. When the film ends, she's no different than when it began. She doesn't learn anything new about herself and she doesn't grow in any way. That's not the case with the other three films. Scream 3 is widely regarded as the worst in the series, but Sidney's character arc is incredibly well-defined. She goes from being a paranoid recluse hiding out in the middle of nowhere to someone who has faced her demons and has learned to live without fear. The final shot of Scream 3 was the end of her story. That one quick moment communicated all that was left to be said about Sidney Prescott.

"But, wait!" You might be thinking, "Scream 4 wasn't about Sidney! It was about Jill! That was the whole point!" That may be the case, but why then does the film still choose to make Sidney the protagonist? The story doesn't follow Jill - it follows Sidney, Dewey, and Gale again. Three characters who all had their loose ends tied up in Scream 3. Sidney never passes the torch to Jill or to a new generation. It's still all about her, even when the film proclaims that it's not. Had Sidney been offed halfway through, the point would have been driven home and it would have created an uneasy atmosphere where no one was safe and anything could happen. But nope - it was just the same old Scream formula right up to the end with almost everyone dying except our original trio. The film never really nails the juggling act between the old and new cast and the result is that we can't really get invested in anybody.

Scream 3 had the chance to do something ballsy by killing off one of the three remaining central characters, but it chickened out. It didn't really have a moment that you were still reeling from as you left the theater. Scream 4 also drops the ball in this regard. Imagine for a moment that the third act had ended with Sidney bleeding out on the floor, Jill waking up in the hospital with Dewey, smiling when she realizes that her plan played out exactly as she expected, then fading out on all of the reporters outside proclaiming her to be a hero. Cue the end credits, the lights come up, and you can almost picture all of the "What the fuck?!" expressions as the audience files out.

I like Jill's motive. I really do. I think it's probably the most effective one since Billy & Stu's in the original. It says more about our culture than anything else in the film and if they had the balls to really run with it we would have had the first truly shocking ending to a Scream film since the original. Wasn't that one of the cornerstones of Scream? Taking audience expectations and manipulating them? The one thing these copycat Ghostfaces never acknowledge is that Sidney always gets away - and yet they all assume that their poorly devised plans will pan out differently than the last guy's. Well, what if this time Jill was right? What if this time the movie didn't end exactly the way we were all expecting it to?

Talk about being able to set up future sequels that really leave you with the sense that the franchise is headed into uncharted waters. Alas, Sidney saves the day again. Dewey and Gale survive again. And Scream 3's satisfying conclusion for these characters is uprooted by an insignificant footnote to Sidney's story that doesn't have the same stakes or provide a remotely meaningful emotional journey for her.

Sure, the opening scene is cute and sort of clever - but once we finally land in the actual reality of the film it just immediately regresses to the same old schtick. Despite what it wants you to think, Scream 4 ultimately has nothing new to say or offer.

Scream 3 may have had a curious lack of blood and too much goofy humor, but in my opinion this one is the real black sheep of the franchise. It should have stayed a trilogy.

Through Thick & Thin

2010-04-23T17:51:00.001-07:00

2:30 am on a Saturday. My first weekend back in Chicago. I was in the passenger seat of a brand new Mustang GT that was doing 92 mph down Lake Shore Drive. The girl behind the wheel was drunk. I was drunk. And a famous NBA player was in his Hummer desperately trying to run us off of the road. Not even 48 hours earlier I’d been in Carbondale crying my eyes out over an ex-girlfriend and wishing for death. Now I was digging my nails into the dashboard and praying my life wouldn’t end like this…

You may remember my old roommate Jen from a previous post. The Friday that I moved into our apartment was a miserable one. I’d just been dumped, I didn’t know a single person in the city, and my parents were down to their last shred of faith in me for switching schools… again. It was a tumultuous time with a whole lot of change charging at me all at once. After I unpacked a few boxes Jen and I sat in the kitchen drinking beer and trading war stories about our ex’s. The conversation left both of us feeling pretty rotten and she decided we should do something fun the following night. A bunch of her friends from UIC were going to a nearby bar and she insisted that I come along.

The north side’s “Hogs & Honeys” is the Wal-Mart version of “Coyote Ugly”. If you’ve ever wanted to see overweight and angry women “dance” in complete boredom on top of a bar then brother have I got the place for you. As for the patrons it was basically me, Jen, her friends, and old guys with ponytails. If you’d taken me out of our group it would have looked like a CW show so I definitely felt like the odd man out. But Jen’s friends were nice and pretty generous as well. They kept insisting on buying me drinks to welcome me to the city. It didn’t take long to get me good and drunk. I don’t just mean regular old drunk either. I mean “I’ve just been dumped” drunk. If you’ve been there, you know the difference. The night dissolved into a blurry mess of digital camera flashes, pounding bass, and too many conversations happening all at once. It was like listening to dozens of people scream underwater. There aren’t many details I remember. There was the skinny Indian kid who insisted he knew me that I’d never seen before. And Jen’s friend who asked me to dance and started whispering all sorts of dirty things in my ear as her boyfriend watched us. But the next thing I can recall with any sort of clarity is Jen finding me and telling me she was ready to go.

In the earliest hours of a frigid Chicago morning, we trudged through the snow and Jen wrapped her arm around mine. “Chris, can I ask you something?”

I was too drunk to respond properly so I just strung some syllables together that indicated it was okay to proceed. “Are we gonna be best friends?” She asked. Sure. Why the hell not? I was freezing and she was my ride home. At that moment there wasn’t anyone in the world more important to me. So I nodded. “Good. Through thick and thin then.” She said as we got into her brand new Mustang with the “pull me over red” paintjob.

She started the car and began flipping through her collection of CD’s. “There we go…” She said as she slid one of the discs into the stereo. She found the track she wanted and cranked that fucker ALL the way up. She explained: “This just really sums up my life right now, y’know? Like everything I’m going through. Everything I’m feeling. Just… everything. Y’know?”

It was Britney Spears. The song? “Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman”. I couldn’t make this up.

She slammed on the gas and peeled out of the parking lot. As we recklessly tore through the mercifully empty streets she began singing along at the top of her lungs. Jen was a smoker. And she was tone-deaf. Auto tune meet no tune. I was massively hammered and could barely speak, let alone insist that she pull over and we take a cab the rest of the way home. I knew she was too drunk to drive. I knew there was a good chance this was going to end very badly. And I was terrified because there was nothing I could bring myself to do about it.

The car screeched to a stop. But we weren’t at our apartment. We were parked across the street from an enormous house in a very well to do neighborhood. “That’s his house.” Jen said opening the door. I shot her a look of concern. “I’ll just be a second…” She shut the door and went running towards the garage. He was the famous NBA player whose name I can’t mention that Jen had jus t broken up with. When she’d been telling me the story the night before I wasn’t totally convinced she was being honest with me. But now here I was watching her put in the code to his garage door and stepping inside his house. I thought back to our conversation in the kitchen with her proudly declaring that she was over him. That statement wasn’t carrying much weight at the moment.

I saw some lights go on and off and a few minutes later Jen came running back towards the car. She got in and stared at me confused. “There was an away game. But he should be home by now.” We peeled off again and I couldn’t help but wonder exactly what her plan had been.

We pulled onto Lake Shore Drive and Jen started talking on her cell phone because drunk drivers should always have as many distractions occurring simultaneously as possible. I knew she was calling him and asking where he was but by this point I could barely keep my eyes open. I don’t know how long I drifted off for but her screaming “OH SHIT!!!” woke me up right away.

SMASH! Something rammed the back of the Mustang and we went sliding wildly across both lanes of traffic. A gigantic black Hummer pulled up alongside us. The windows were tinted but I had a pretty good idea who was driving. It was him. And he wasn’t too happy to see some strange dude in Jen’s car. She was still on the phone screaming at him but as he swerved into us the car jolted and the phone went flying behind my seat. “You’re f*cking crazy, asshole!” Jen screamed. I could have reminded her that the windows were up and the music was still on so he couldn’t hear her, but we had more important things to deal with. Like not dying in a fiery blaze of bad decisions.

She punched the accelerator and tried to outrun him. I watched the speedometer travel impossibly high and dug my fingernails into the dashboard. Hey, Death? Remember me from just a couple days ago there in Carbondale? I was the one wishing you’d come along and end my misery. Yeah, so I appreciate that you were paying attention and all but this is not actually what I had in mind.

Good. God. Please don’t let it end like this. Not with Jen. Not with the overpaid NBA player. Not with God damn Britney Spears as the soundtrack.

The Hummer pulled in front of us and he slammed on the brakes. Those glowing red tail lights should have been the last thing I ever saw. But somehow Jen swerved out of the way. I don’t know how she did it. It would have been an impossible maneuver for a sober person. Ironically I guess maybe that was the key. Regardless, we STILL should have been dead. Because there should have been a giant concrete barricade waiting to decimate us. But there wasn’t. There was an exit. OUR exit. THE Fullerton exit we lived off of. Completely and utterly by chance.

I kept checking behind us to see if he would follow. He didn’t. Jen pulled over and got out to examine the car. I waited in stunned silence. She got back in and started crying her eyes out. Sufficiently sobered up by the previous few minutes, I asked her: “Is it bad?” She didn’t respond. She just kept crying. “Jen… is it totally f*cked?” She shook her head and wiped the tears away.

“There are barely any scratches.” She wrapped her hands around the steering wheel and buried her face in it, crying even harder.

I took a deep breath… and threw up all over the place. Jen stopped and looked at me. I looked back at her. She started laughing through her tears. I just shook my head. “Thick and thin, Chris…” She started the car back up and rolled down the windows. “Thick and thin…”

It wasn’t the last time I saw him. But that’s another story for another time.

Geeky Cool

2010-04-23T12:18:00.000-07:00

These are custom made action figures that re-imagine the Star Wars characters as if they were in an Akira Kurosawa movie. Some of my first toys were the original Star Wars figures my dad bought for ~~himself~~ me before I was old enough to even play with them. And "Seven Samurai" and "Rashomon" are among the most badass movies I've ever seen. So this is hands down one of the geekiest and coolest things I've come across in a long time.

On a side note, my dad was so fanatical about ~~his~~ my Star Wars toys that not only do I have almost every single one ever produced but it was incredibly important to him that the army of storm troopers was actually an army. So I don't have just a couple... I've got like thirty. Suck it, nerds... *hides in corner, re-examines life*

'Boondock Saints II' is a Terrible, Terrible Movie

2010-02-24T08:59:00.000-08:00

Let me clarify something right off the bat - I am not hating on The Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day just for the sake of hating on it. Over the years, the original film has become something of a cult classic with a pretty rabid fanbase that remains as defensive as they are passionate about the movie. Conversely, it's also become one of those films that hipster intellectuals have decided is cool to hate. Anyone who pretends to have discerning taste when it comes to cinema probably scoffs at the very mention of the title, whether they've actually seen the movie or not.

I have seen The Boondock Saints... and I don't particularly like it. BUT - I don't hate it either. In fact, I think the reason I dislike it so much is that it had a great deal of potential. It has a really great premise, a pretty solid cast, some very iconic imagery, and a cool title. Seriously. It looks good on a poster. It has all the ingredients for something seriously badass. Not revolutionary, just fun.

Unfortunately, it's all just completely wasted on a (then) first-time director who has no idea how to shoot action scenes, no understanding of pacing or three-act structure, and no clue what the definition of subtle is. But you know what? I get why some people dig it. Even though everything about it is stolen from better films and more talented filmmakers, it still has a really infectious style.

And then there's this God damn sequel...

Before I get into the bulk of this, I need to mention a documentary called Overnight. It chronicles the very quick rise and fall of Boondock Saints writer/director Troy Duffy - beginning with the amazing deal Miramax offered him and ending with him burning all of his bridges and winding up right back in the dive bar he started at. It's the stuff of legend at this point - and this behind the scenes look at The Boondock Saints is also a hell of a lot more entertaining than the actual movie.

The reason I need to bring it up is because Overnight makes Duffy out to be such a horrendous douche that it would be easy to hate anything he did from this point on just because he seems like such a jackass. So of course, that's the point a lot of Saints fans try to make when someone doesn't like these movies: "You don't really hate these movies, you just hate him!" As if I don't know the difference. Look, Michael Mann is one of the biggest assholes in the industry and I still like a lot of his movies. I think Christopher Nolan is pretentious and humorless, but I love most of his stuff. I can place those feelings aside. So even if Troy Duffy were a down to earth and decent guy, his movies would still blow ostrich cock.

Ostrich fellatio > The Boondock Saints II

To be blunt, I can't even believe this sequel is for real. Duffy had eight years to write this script and it still comes across as something he desperately threw together the weekend before they started shooting. Or maybe the problem was he had all that time to dream up loads of ideas and he tried to cram all of them into the same movie. Either way, the result is a plot that is complicated for all the wrong reasons. Right from the get go, the set up exists as little more than an excuse to get the boys (again played by Sean Patrick Flannery and Norman Reedus) back into their pea coats and shooting guns.

See, they're living on a farm in Ireland with dear old dad (Billy Connolly) doing their best Brokeback Mountain impressions - but don't you dare make a gay joke bro, because this script is homophobic to the degree that you start to wonder why Duffy's being so defensive about it. Anyways, along comes some uncle we've never heard of to tell them that back in Boston a priest has been killed - and the murderer tried to make it look like the Saints did it. Alright... I'm assuming the brothers knew this priest. He wasn't in the first movie and the film gives me no reason why I should care that he's dead. But the brothers do. Oh baby, they care. Without a word they leave the room, and enter one of the most hilariously bad montages I've seen in recent memory - which includes slow motion shots of both of them showering (but don't make a gay joke, bro).

Look, there's nothing at stake here except someone tarnishing their names (which I'll get into in a second). It's not like they're hiding out in or near Boston and they've been framed for the crime. There's no pressure to prove their innocence before the police hunt them down (they're hiding on the other side of the God damn world). It's not the latest in a series of murders that only they can stop. They don't even seem to have a particularly significant relationship with the victim, so even trying to chalk it up to good old-fashioned revenge is a pretty thin explanation. I'll say it again: THERE'S NOTHING AT STAKE. It's essentially just sticks and stones, but away they go anyways...

We then move to the crime scene where we're reintroduced to the detectives from the first movie - and we discover that in the last eight years they've evidently turned into The Three Stooges. Their characterization in the original was always a little broad, but in the sequel they're full-blown cartoons. Anyways, Willem Dafoe couldn't be bothered to shoot for more than a weekend, so they replaced him with a female protege named Eunice Bloom (Julie Benz). She arrives on the scene and in a couple of seconds determines what anyone with half a brain would have already figured out: the Saints didn't murder this guy. But since Larry, Moe, and Curly were on the case, this is of course a huge revelation to them. So boom - already the Saints names are cleared. They're not wanted for the murder and no one in the city thinks they did it. So, uh... why are they coming home exactly?

But wait! See the movie isn't really about that priest anyways. In fact, forget about the mysterious guy who killed him. He's not actually our antagonist and he'll be dead in a few scenes anyways. See, what the movie is really about is a scenery-chewing Judd Nelson, who plays the son of the main mobster from the first film. He wants revenge for dad's death, so he needs to call out the Saints. Remember... that's his plan... to get them back in Boston. And because this movie thinks that you're as dumb as its characters, that plan works and the Saints finally arrive...

...and immediately start pulling this shit again.

Wait, what?! The Saints are back in Boston??? Oh my God! Everybody hide! Seriously. That's what Mobster Jr. does once he hears that the Saints have returned. He gets exactly what he wanted and then just hides in a panic room. Guess he didn't really think this through. Don't be too hard on him, though - he only had eight years to come up with this plan.

But wait! See, the movie's not really about him either. He's not actually our antagonist and he'll be dead in a few scenes anyways. See, what the movie is really about is this old gangster named The Roman (Peter Fonda) who was apparently friends with the Saints' dad back when they were both kids.

What do you want to bet that Duffy googled "best sequels" and after reading about The Godfather Part II, decided to add in a subplot about Papa Saint's origin story? On an amusing side note, Papa Saint (who is 100% Irish) speaks with an American accent when he's a young man. We learn how Papa Saint became the killing machine we met in the original film - including a sequence dedicated to showing us how the six-holster vest he wears was made (because we were all dying to know... *makes dismissive wanking motion*). The point of all this is to reveal that Papa Saint and The Roman were allies in a war on crime until The Roman betrayed him. Great. So if this is the actual premise of the movie, why was so much time wasted on that other bullshit? Instead of starting with one of these flashbacks and introducing The Roman right away, the audience is asked to endure two other plot threads that ultimately go nowhere. Fonda is only in one scene because so much time has already been wasted on characters that essentially do not matter.

I could summarize the rest of the movie for you, but honestly I'm just getting angry typing all of this - because essentially none of this fucking matters even a little bit. Subplots are introduced and dropped on a scene by scene basis and I can't even begin to try and tie all of this together because The Boondock Saints II is clearly not interested in developing anything that remotely resembles a cohesive narrative. Here's the bottom line... this never at any moment feels like a deeper mystery with layer after layer being pulled back. It feels like Duffy sat down at his computer and just let his first draft wander any direction he felt the impulse to go - and it really feels like that's the draft they shot. "Nah, fuck this guy who murdered the priest. I don't like where that's going... " Enter Judd Nelson's character. "Nah, fuck this guy, too. We've seen all of this before. I know! How about an old enemy of their father's?" Enter The Roman. There's no set up and payoff. The twists aren't satisfying because they're not earned. They just happen, even when they contradict earlier information or basic common sense.

Here's an example of what amounts to some of the laziest screenwriting you'll ever encounter... Agent Bloom is working with the Saints. We don't know this until halfway through the movie and neither do The Three Stooges (who are also friends of the Saints). You know why Bloom doesn't just tell The Three Stooges right away that they're all on the same team? Because (and this is the exact quote) "a girl's gotta have her fun". You know what that really means? That Duffy probably decided halfway through writing that scene that this development was the only way to move the plot where it needed to go.

Not that the script gives them much to work with, but I'm embarrassed for these actors - many of whom have been good or great in other movies. With the exceptions of Connolly and Fonda, everyone cranks it to eleven and overacts the everliving shit out of every line. The scene where the brothers argue about rope (again) is just awful. There's no other word for it. Not one second of it feels genuine. They're playing to the cheap seats. Oh, and the cops aren't the only ones who are zany cartoons - so are the bad guys. Aside from The Roman, everyone is made to look like a complete and total dumbass. Which begs the question: why should I feel like the Saints are in even the slightest bit of danger? These are not formidable opponents. So once again... NOTHING IS AT STAKE.

They never walk into a room that you know they're not going to blow their way out of (don't make a gay joke, bro). In the first one, there's at least a moment where they're kidnapped and their friend is killed that you think maybe they've gotten in over their heads. When they first meet Il Duce (who later turns out to be Papa Saint), you believe that guy could really wipe the floor with them. They have oppositions to their goal (which was a much clearer and logical one than whatever they're shooting people for this time). That's the daffiest part of this review for me - I'm using the first movie as "the good example"! But that's the sad state of this piece of shit. That's where we're at.

Like I said, the action scenes in the first film were nothing to write home about. It was a lot of creative ideas that just weren't photographed as well as they should have been. This one doesn't even have good ideas. Not only is there barely any action in the film to begin with, but when there is it's BORING. Every single action beat consists of slow motion, techno music, and the Saints standing (or sitting!) in plain view and not getting hit once (until the end when the script requires them to). It also lifts quite heavily from scenes from the first movie. So you get second rate versions of stuff from the original - which were already second rate versions of stuff from better movies. Everything in The Boondock Saints II is like Michael Keaton's third clone from Multiplicity: a copy of a copy and completely stupid.

It also just feels smaller and cheaper than the original. The settings in the first one seemed real and dirty. We got a sense of the blue collar life in Boston. This one feels like it was shot on sitcom sets. There's also a curious lack of extras, which makes it feel like our main characters and villains are the only people in the city. I learned after watching it that this one was shot in Canada, not Boston - presumably to save cash. Look, it's not like the first one had a gigantic budget, but Duffy did as much as he could with very little. I'm sure some of the blame falls on the cinematographer and production designer - but there's no reason every scene should be so bland and fake looking. And tone wise, this is just all wrong. The first one did a much better job of balancing the humor, action, and drama. This one's a mess. In the last eight years, Duffy seems to have forgotten the very short list of things he actually did right with the original

There were a million directions they could have taken this in. The ending to the first film set up a somewhat intriguing idea that the city was divided on whether or not the Saints were good guys. There were also implications that since they now had some of the police on their side, they were going after bigger game and that the events of the first film were just the appetizer. But nope. Never mind all of that. Let's just recycle everyone's favorite moments from the first movie, find some excuse to string them together, and do it without a fraction of the already minimal creativity exhibited in part one.

In the end The Boondock Saints II is just a crappier version of The Boondock Saints. A movie that already kinda sucked.

Dinner for Toot

2010-02-08T14:36:00.000-08:00

I know I wasn’t the only kid who had a crush on his babysitter. And I know I’m probably not the only kid who got my babysitter to innocently pretend we were on a date. But I’m fairly certain that no one else’s date ended the way mine did. No, this isn’t some scandalous tale of an older woman who torridly teaches me the ways of love and lust. That would have been nice.

This is me we’re talking about, though - so of course this story ends with embarrassment of the highest order.

Allow me to set the stage…

Gina lived across the street from us. My mom’s decision to hire her had less to do with her qualifications and more to do with convenience I think. Not that Gina was a bad babysitter (we'd certainly had worse), but my parents might have thought twice about leaving us alone with her if they'd known what kind of an influence she could be on us.

See, Gina was the one who taught me how to curse properly and respect profanity as an art form. Once I had that down, she introduced me to the innuendo-laced alternative music that my mom would spend years trying to keep out of my stereo. She also showed me the kinds of clothes the 8th graders were wearing and how lame my wardrobe looked by comparison. Basically, I was under the impression that everything she said or did was cool and I would have followed her off of a bridge if she’d asked. But when exactly did this admiration turn into unrequited love? I remember the exact moment…

I can’t recall who found it or why we were going through my mom’s things. Perhaps my sister Erika and I had been bored. Perhaps Gina had encouraged us. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that this thing existed and it was right in front of us. At first it had looked out of place. Why was this tucked away and not on our bookshelf? Then I got my first glimpse at the title.

“The Joy of Sex”

Indeed. I didn’t even have to open it. Just staring at the word “sex” had turned me into a half-retarded smut zombie. But then I saw four other magical words: “illustrated by John Raynes”. ILLUSTRATED. It may have been the first time I cried out of happiness.

With Gina looking over our shoulders, Erika and I began flipping through the pages. At first it was horrifying. All kinds of parts I’d never seen in detail before with all sorts of names I couldn’t pronounce. What were these people doing to each other? Didn’t that hurt? And why were they so impossibly hairy? But then Gina began to explain what we were looking at. More than that she was using her own personal experiences as an example.

She was pointing to different positions and saying, “Did that… did that… haven’t tried that… did that… wasn’t enough room in the back of his car for that…”

I stopped seeing the naked hippies in the book. Instead I saw Gina committing and endless string of deviant deeds that teased my libido into coming out to play. I felt dizzy. Where was all the blood in my head rushing to? And why were my pants getting so tight? She was still talking but I couldn’t make out a single word. I thought I was going to pass out and slip into a nudity coma. And that… that was the moment my admiration for Gina turned into quite a bit more.

So the next time she came to babysit us I was ready. I had talked Erika into helping me set up a date. Like I said in the beginning, it was all very innocent. I didn’t for one second believe we were going to re-enact our favorite illustrations from the book (*cough* page 157 *cough*). I just knew I liked her and that this is what kids her age did when they liked someone. I dressed up in my church clothes (oh, irony), dimmed the lights in the dining room, and had Erika play the role of our waiter. But since I was too nervous to actually ask Gina out, I came up with what I thought was a better plan… I hid under the table. No, seriously. All freaking night. I was there before my parents left and waited patiently while Erika explained to Gina why she was talking in an English accent (waiters always did in the movies), why the lights were so low, and why Celine Dion was playing in the background. Gina went along with all of it.

I saw their feet enter the dining room. Erika showed her to her seat and I began feeling very, very nervous. Then I started to consider what a terrible idea this might have been. Me popping up to surprise her right before the main course wasn’t romantic… it was straight up creepy. “Hi, Gina… yeah I’ve just been down here staring at your nether regions for the last twenty minutes. Shall we order?” I mean what the hell? Where did this idea even come from? The only thing I knew about seducing women was what I’d seen in James Bond movies. And it’s not like there’s that seminal moment in Goldfinger where James waits patiently under the table for his date to arrive. But it was too late now. There was no way to sneak out and there was no way to get word to Erika that I wanted to abort.
This was happening.

Gina asked Erika what we’d be serving that evening. Obviously, we hadn’t actually cooked anything - at that age, our culinary expertise was limited to Pop-Tarts. If we'd had any in the house, that probably would have been my first choice. Alas, the only thing we had available to us was leftover Halloween candy. To me, it seemed like the perfect dinner. So Erika began listing the choices: “Snickers, Butterfinger, M&M’s, and the rolls of Tootsie”. I’m not kidding. She actually said that. In her terrible English accent. Then she suggested that Gina start with a beverage because she knew serving drinks was my cue to emerge. I was a mess of nerves. My stomach had never felt like this.

Gina never had the chance to order her drink. I interrupted her. I don’t mean I stood up and revealed myself the way we’d planned. And I don’t mean I said anything from under the table. Not with my mouth anyways.

To say I farted would be putting it lightly.

I was in pain. My butt was burning. And what passed through me had felt so solid, I had to look down and make sure I hadn’t dropped anything. My ears were ringing from the volume of it. I felt weak and lightheaded. And then I remembered I wasn’t alone...

God bless Erika. You know what she said without missing a beat? “That… was me.” In her terrible English accent. I broke wind, but she didn’t break character. It was in vein though. The detonation had obviously come from down below. This plan had already been incredibly flawed… now I just looked like a dick. Never mind how disturbing it is that your “date” has been hiding right in front of you the entire time… now he’s God damn farting on you?!

I won’t describe the smell of it because I don’t hate you. But I will say that it hit me, snapped me out of my daze, and made me realize that I had two choices. The first was to try and salvage the date as best I could and not let this unexpected setback stand in the way of what might have been a fantastic evening. I didn’t go that route. I went with my second choice - which was to run up to my room, lock the door, and stay there all night.

It wouldn’t be the last time my body betrayed me. This blog will probably prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt. But so far it’s the only time that one of my farts has had lasting ramifications. It wasn’t as if I could ask my mom to find a new babysitter because I’d tooted on this one. But I knew I’d never be able to look Gina in the eye again. And it would be years before I could associate “The Joy of Sex” , Halloween candy, or Celine Dion with anything else. Our entire relationship changed. I spent most of her visits hiding out in my room not saying much. There were no more music recommendations, no more cool kid makeovers, no more sage wisdom from an upperclassman. It was all over. Thanks, ass.

Eventually Erika and I became too old for babysitters and soon after Gina’s family moved away. I don’t know what happened to her or if she ever got around to crossing the rest of those positions off her list. I only know I wasn’t meant to be her page 157.

Podcat Bonus Clip

2010-01-04T11:12:00.000-08:00

Here’s a bonus clip from the “Batman: Black & White – One Year Later” podcast. I thought it’d be cool to share some of the material that was cut out for time reasons.

Topics include…
My two favorite nights of filming, the last day of shooting, Kristen’s narcolepsy, why production is the most stressful phase, sound design, the controversy of using existing music, and the limitations of Batman’s cowl.

It runs about 17 min. What can I say? We talk a lot. And by that I mean I talk a lot. Sorry. You can find the full podcast on the ‘Extras’ section of 27thLetterProductions.com.

I also just want to say thank you again to Kristen, Charlie, Renee, Harold, and Victor for taking part in this. Doing the podcast brought back so many memories not only during the recording but in the days that followed as well. I love you guys. Sincerely. The attempts to explain my gratitude are a never ending endeavor.

Happy New Year

2010-01-02T14:05:00.000-08:00

Who is that masked man? I don't want to give away too much info but it's a piece of concept art for "Prologue", the upcoming Legion comic book. It's one of several projects 27th Letter is working on and that we're excited to share with you in the upcoming year. We've got several pretty cool updates that'll be popping up in the very near future so don't be a stranger.

$200 The Hard Way

2010-01-02T13:28:00.000-08:00

As will often be the case, certain names in the following entry have been changed for reasons that should be incredibly obvious by the time you’re done reading.

You know it’s going to be a story about my former roommate Jen when it starts with this simple question: “Chris, can I ask you something?” Those six words were the catalyst for every shit brained, logic bending scenario we got ourselves so hopelessly tangled up in. This was the second time I waltzed right into this trap (the first is another story for another time). Jen’s adorable little smile was the hunk of cheese for your dumbass rat Narrator.

We’d only been living together for a couple of months and while the transition back to life in the windy city had been a jarring one, Jen had been one of the few things helping me to keep my head on straight. We couldn’t have been more different. She dated NBA players and her parents had just bought her a brand new red sports car. When I went out with her friends it was like being inside of a beer commercial. Our paths should never have crossed. But her old roommate had left suddenly and I only had a few days to find somewhere new to live. And for some strange reason it worked. Both of us had just gone through a pretty rotten break-up and in sharing our stories we discovered that we had a similar sense of humor. It wasn’t a lot. But it was enough to make our living situation an agreeable one.

I know, I know. All the back story is an anchor on this ship and we’re going down. You’re thinking to yourself, “I’m not writing your biography so just get on with it chucklehead.” Fair enough…

So I told Jen to go ahead and at first what she was proposing didn’t seem like a big deal. It never did. She said some other film students from my school were in desperate need of a location to shoot one last scene for their movie. She was pretending to ask my permission when in reality she had already agreed to let them use our apartment. I asked how she knew these guys. She didn’t. They had posted an ad on Craigslist. Normally it would have been hard to hear anything that followed over the sound of the Shady F*ckers alarm ringing in my head. But believe it or not way back in 2005 Craigslist was still new to me. I’d never even heard of it until that very moment. The way Jen described it seemed completely legitimate. And in retrospect, entirely incorrect.

They only needed our living room and it was only going to take a few hours. Jen and I were also going to get $200 each. I was going to be in class when they wanted to shoot but Jen promised she’d keep an eye on them the entire time they were there. We knew the two guys who lived next door to us and we made sure one of them was going to be around in case something went wrong.

The next day was my day off. No class, no work, no alarm. So I was irritated as hell to be awakened by the sound of our buzzer. The talk button on it never worked the entire time I lived there. So if you weren’t expecting somebody you had to go downstairs and open the front door of the building to see who it was. Which I did. Half asleep, still wearing my pajamas, and with my hair sticking up like Edward Scissorhands.

When I opened the front door there was a man standing outside with his back to me. A man wearing a bathrobe, sneakers, a bluetooth headset, and nothing else. He was holding up a digital camera and taking a picture of our street. “Hello…?” I called out to get his attention. He spun around and a big smile stretched across his face. He was approaching middle age and if it weren’t for the Bluetooth and camera I would honestly have thought it was a homeless person. And then there was the issue of this damn bathrobe. It wasn’t even tied all that well. A huge flesh colored triangle spread out from his waist exposing greasy curls of chest & stomach hair. His swollen belly was laughing at the little cotton belt attempting to contain it. “Ha ha ha… it’s so cute that you’re trying!”

“Hi! You must be Jen’s roommate!” He said as he grabbed my hand. I hadn’t even offered it. He just snatched it right up and shook it. He explained that he was the director of the film and Jen had told him it was okay to come by and take some photos of the apartment. So we walked upstairs, both of us in our pajamas. At least I’d just gotten up. What was this clown’s excuse?

Naturally I was suspicious and I started asking questions about what class this was for and who was working on it. Because despite his age, I was still giving him (and Jen) the benefit of the doubt. He clarified that this wasn’t a student film but that most of the crew went to Columbia. I asked him what the movie was about. He said it was about a couple of thieves who pull off a robbery but wind up on the run for longer than they had planned because of one particular cop who’s on their trail. Apparently they were almost done shooting and as he talked about how the production had gone up until that point I realized he knew his stuff. He talked about equipment, video formats, permits, and he was using all the right jargon. So although this man still weirded me out considerably, I was starting to feel a little more at ease.

He snapped a couple pictures of the living room and noticed some photos we had hanging up on the wall. I told him we could take them down if we needed to. He stared at one of Jen and her friends and said, “She’s got cute friends. Think they’d want to be in the movie?”
“Yeah, probably.” I replied and we laughed. Then it occurred to me I never got his name.
“Call me, Peter.” He said, “But that’s not my name.” Right. Fine. I was too bewildered to even inquire further. “Oh, you’ve got a papasan chair.” Not Really Peter noticed. He suddenly looked very deep in thought. Then he said something that sent us crashing into a whole new level of crazy. Not Really Peter inquired to himself out loud: “I wonder if they can f*ck on the papasan chair?”

I nodded along with him for a second and then froze suddenly. What did he just say?! Can who do what where?! Then, just in case it hadn’t sunk in yet he walked over to our bathroom and turned on the light. “Hmmm, yeah…” He shook his head, “Jen said this was way too small a space to shoot the threesome.” Instantly the puzzle had been completed and all the confusing threads left hanging tied themselves together neatly. Of course Jen would agree to let them shoot a porno in our freaking apartment. And of course this is what the director looked like.

Not Really Peter took a phone call and exited the building without saying a word to me. I couldn’t bring myself to sit in the papasan chair so I waited on the couch for Jen. When she finally returned home from work I told her the director had stopped by. “What? He said he was coming tonight to-” She stopped when she realized what this meant. The jig was up. Her excuse for all of it? She knew that if she told me it was a porno I would have said no. Now look, I’m no prude. I have no problem with pornography. I also don’t have a problem with monster truck rallies. It doesn’t mean I want to host one in my damn living room. And it’s not like this was some Vivid Video production with the slightest degree of professionalism. It was some skid mark off of Craigslist who couldn’t even dress himself. So I put my foot down and said no way in hell is that dude coming back into our apartment and letting people soil our furniture. Jen tried to persuade me by saying they had promised to clean up when they were done. Again, we were dealing with a man who couldn’t figure out pants. Now we’re trusting him with bodily fluids? Survey says get the f*ck out of here.

But there was a problem. Jen had already spent the money she’d been promised. And she reminded me that I’d recently been complaining about the cash I needed to shoot my next film. I kept saying no over and over and she spent the next couple of hours begging me to reconsider. I don’t know how it happened. I guess she just wore me down. Because I agreed. They’d be in and out in a few hours (in more ways than one), we’d clean the whole place like it was a crime scene, and then never speak of it again.

I did not go to class the day of shooting. I wasn’t letting anyone out of my sight. They used our kitchen as a green room for “the talent”, the bedrooms were off limits, and they set up all their gear in our living room. Which included very expensive, and very hot lights (which become important later). Jen and I were introduced to the cast (and I know you’re wondering and the answer is no, none of them were even remotely attractive) and crew. I did recognize a few students and asked them how they had become involved with this. They told me work was work and after awhile you become completely desensitized to it. So apparently the scene in question involved the two thieves (who were lesbians) hiding out in the apartment of one of their friends (who was also a lesbian). They decide to have the threesome that was too large for our bathroom to host when suddenly the hunky pursuing officer bursts in. Instead of arresting them, he joins in. You know… that old story.

Jen and I stayed in the kitchen for most of the shooting. But as they got ready to do the last part of the scene that involved all four performers, Not Really Peter asked if we’d like to watch. I immediately said no. Jen immediately said yes. “You’re coming with me.” She grabbed my hand and I resisted. “I’m not going if you don’t go and I want to see this.” She insisted. So I went. And I received the answer to Not Really Peter’s question… they could f*ck on our papasan chair. Our poor, poor little papasan chair.

There wasn’t a single moment during this entire experience that was even the slightest bit tantalizing in any way. Unless this film was called “People That Should Never Be Naked 7” I don’t understand how any of them were hired. But whatever, it was easy enough to divert my attention to other spots in the room. As I did this I still heard some choice pieces of dialogue. Most of it was routine porno silliness but there was one line that really caught my attention. It was when the hunky officer asked one of the girls:
“Are you my donkey? Huh?! You my little donkey?” She didn’t answer so I guess we’ll never know.

Although I was sparing myself the visual, there was something else I couldn’t ignore. See, all the windows had been closed because they were recording audio. And remember those hot lights I mentioned? They were doing us no favors. It felt like a swamp in there. And it was just as pungent. For the life of me I couldn’t take the smell anymore. As soon as they stopped to set up a new shot I bolted for the back porch.

Sweet, clean oxygen filled my lungs. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. Jen joined me and lit a cigarette. “That’s appropriate.” I said. We both started laughing.
“You’re not really mad are you?” She asked.
“Yeah… a little.” I replied.
“What? Come on, this is kinda funny…right? Just a little?”
“Yeah… a little.” I smiled. Not Really Peter stepped out and said that while they had a minute he wanted us to write down our names so they could credit us in the finished film. “No.” I shook my head, “This is not going to be my first IMDB credit.” After giving it some thought Jen declined as well.

We stayed outside until they were finished. When it was over we each got our $200. And the crew did clean the apartment as promised. Then we cleaned it again. And again. I don’t know what became of that film, but I do know that neither one of us ever sat in that papasan chair again.

"I'll never make another movie again!"

2009-12-01T16:55:00.000-08:00

I've heard that so many times. I've said that so many times. And if I didn't say it I was thinking it. It's inevitable. Each project I've been a part of has a "why do I do this?" moment. Most of them have several. There's that old saying... something along the lines of it not being about the destination but the journey. Filmmaking... at least for me... is the total antithesis of that statement. It's the end destination that makes you forget the war you just fought and anxious to sign up for another tour of duty.

That's why I enjoy editing so much. It's where you finally see exactly what kind of film you've made and watch it all come together. It's nearly identical to the same process I go through with writing. At first it's a collection of scattered ideas and at first none of them seem to want to work together. It's impossible to reconcile between the version you initially had in your head and the reality of what's actually there. But you keep refining and experimenting and eventually you start to see something resembling that original vision peeking out around the edges. They're never exactly the same but that's what's so amazing to me. To see aspects of your own work you didn't know were buried in there is as strange as it is satisfying.

And like writing, it's a solitary experience. I may get frustrated and overwhelmed but there isn't the pressure of an entire set waiting for you to make up your mind. Production almost always feels like you're completely and savagely butchering your idea. Editing is where you get to take the pieces of the corpse, put it back together, and breathe new life into it. And quite often you discover it's better than its original incarnation.

I'm still in the earliest stages of editing "The Surprise Party". I've probably only cut together about six minutes of footage. And as I learn to navigate new software and keep my patience with the inevitable learning curve, there are parts of this that are so wonderfully familiar. I've got hours and hours of footage sitting on this hard drive. Somewhere inside it a movie is hiding.

That's so daunting. And so f*cking awesome.

The Naked Scavenger Hunt

2009-11-15T16:34:00.000-08:00

I had sick friends. There's just no way around it. Sometimes I think maybe I'm being too hard on them and that we were all a little bizarre when we were younger. But then I remember stories like the one I'm about to tell you and I say to myself, "Nope. Guilty as charged."

It was near the end of our 7th grade school year and it was supposed to be a typical sleepover. I thought we’d set up camp in someone’s basement, maybe steal a few beers from the garage, and stay up all night talking about the girls we had a crush on, who was better at Street Fighter II, and why Batman Forever was going to be the worst movie of the summer.

But this one was different.

At this particular sleepover someone proposed a game of truth or dare. Yes I know, this is a game typically designed to be played in a co-ed environment but our version was a little different. If you chose a dare and refused to do it, the other three guys got to beat on you for a solid minute. That doesn't sound like a lot but count out ten seconds. Go ahead. And imagine being positively pummeled six times longer than that span of time. It sucks. You make that mistake exactly once and then realize there's no dare worse than that.

I guess maybe I had a lot to hide or just valued my privacy because I chose dare. So the other three guys went to another corner of the basement to plot out what they were going to make me do. The conversation was taking waaay too long and I heard lots and lots of giggling. I got the feeling I had made the wrong choice.

So the guys came back and explained to me what my dare was. Basically, I was to strip naked and then go on some bizarre scavenger hunt around the house. They had made a list of objects I was supposed to bring back and what rooms I would find them in. Ridiculous? You bet. But not impossible when you take into consideration that the other people in the house (the parents and two sisters) were fast asleep. However, their rooms were on my list. Which meant Naked Chris had to sneak into them, search for a certain item, and get out without waking anybody up.

And if I failed to bring back any of the items on the list... you guessed it... a solid minute of ass kickery.

I spent a decent amount of time deliberating this. It was not an easy choice. Ultimately I found the courage to agree but on one condition. I had to receive some sort of prize for this, as it was no ordinary dare. One of the guys promised me his collection of Playboys. And let's face it, in junior high that's better than gold. Porn WAS currency and I was about to become the Secretary of Treasury.

So I made them all turn around and then I got undressed. I told them I was about to go upstairs but one of them asked how I was going to prove that I was actually naked if they weren’t allowed to look at me. So I grabbed a pillow, held it in front of my one-eyed wonder weasel, and let them have their visual confirmation. I walked upstairs backwards so they didn't see my badunkadunk and then threw the pillow back down. And so the adventure began...

I decided to start on the second floor for two reasons. 1) I wanted to get the whole sneaking into bedrooms thing done with and 2) it made more sense that if I was going to wind up with a pile of crap in my hands, to keep the load light until right before I returned to the basement.

So the parents room was first. Their door was open and I listened just outside it for a very long time. When I was positive they were sleeping I looked in. The list specified that I was to take the mother's pair of reading glasses which were supposed to be on the nightstand next to the bed. I couldn't see them from where I was, but I did see the nightstand. So I very carefully entered the room and realized my heart was absolutely pounding. I swore that I could hear it and I was afraid they would too. I also remember thinking that I should have gone to the bathroom before I started this trek because I could feel my bladder swelling.

I got next to the bed and realized that if the mother were to suddenly wake up she would be staring square at my yoohoo. I felt around the surface of the nightstand and panicked when I realized there were no glasses. I was going to have to search for them. As it turns out I wouldn't have to search for long because I very quickly saw that the mother was in fact wearing them. Not over her eyes. They were pushed up over her hair, resting on her head. She must have moved them up there before she went to sleep and forgot she had them on.

I don’t know why I decided to go for it. I don’t know why I didn’t just go back downstairs, receive my beating, and be done with it. But I guess I couldn’t have known then how much simpler everything would have turned out if I’d just left that damn room.

Instead, I carefully placed my thumb and index finger around the bridge of her glasses and gave it the faintest of tugs to see if she'd respond. She didn't. So I tugged a little harder. Then I tugged a little more. Then a little more. Finally I felt sweet release and quietly stepped out of the room with my first successful capture in hand.

The next room belonged to one of the sisters. She was three years older than us. But back then 16 felt light years ahead of where we were. This wasn't a girl. It was a woman. With boobs and shaved legs and the whole deal. And she was sleeping in her underwear. Okay, I don't know that for sure because she had the covers over her. But in my mind she was. And this did certain things to my thirteen year old brain. Certain things that caused that brain to send messages to other parts of my body. Parts of my body that were very, very exposed.

"Just get the stuffed animal and get out..." I told myself. So I searched the room for this stuffed parrot I was supposed to grab (Polly want a boner?). It was on the dresser with a bunch of other assorted animals. I grabbed it and was on my way out when something occurred to me. Maybe I could peek under the covers?

Yeah, I know I know. Gross. I'm not proud of it. But I was thirteen. And at a point in time where he who controls the Playboys controls the lunch table, this was a very big opportunity.

So I walked back towards the bed and using my free hand I started to lift up the edge of the covers near her feet. As more of her legs came into view, she suddenly turned over, pulling the covers out of my hand in the process. I dropped the parrot which made a squeaking sound when it hit the ground. Terrified, I scooped it up and left.

The other sister was ten. Never mind how creepy it felt to be naked in a ten year old girl's room, but I also had to grab her Little Mermaid night light. But what I saw was not a conventional night light. It was an 8x10 light up poster type thing. And it was hanging right above the head board of her bed. No. Way. I was not climbing up onto this chick's bed and reaching for this thing for a long list of reasons. Not the least of which was I was still at full salute from visiting her sister. She'd tell her mom she had a dream this snake was trying to bite her face and that would be the end of it.

But when I turned around to leave I saw a glorious sight. There on the wall, right next to her hamper, a sea shell shaped night light with Ariel's face on it. Bingo.

My upstairs chores were done. I made my way back downstairs to collect what I needed from the kitchen. I set down the items I'd already gathered on the counter and started searching through the cabinets for a bottle of vinegar, just like the list specified. It was too dark to read the labels so I had to pull out bottles, unscrew them, and take a whiff. I finally found the vinegar and something about the scent drove my bladder crazy. I reminded myself I was almost done and went on my way. That's when I saw it...

I wondered where that light near the front door was coming from. Then it hit me: it was light from the upstairs hallway. And it most definitely had not been on before. "Joe?" The mother's voice called out. And since she said "Joe" and not "Naked Chris" I realized I might be in a bit of trouble if discovered. As she descended the stairs I searched for a hiding spot. The kitchen offered none. I went into the dining room/living room. She was off the stairs and in seconds she'd be in the kitchen. She heard me moving around and asked "What are you guys doing?". "Nothing ma'am," I should have replied, "just a naked scavenger hunt". I saw the kitchen light go on. And she saw the pile of goodies I left on the counter. I had about five seconds until I was caught.

I had two options. The first was to run upstairs and try and find a better spot to hide. But the hall light was now on and I couldn't risk someone else waking up and seeing me in the full glory of my birthday suit. So I went with my second option which was to hide behind the couch. The problem was the couch had a decorative shelf behind it with some lamps and other knick knacks on it. And the space between the two was too narrow for me to crawl through. It also meant that if I moved the couch out it would be obvious due to the gap between the couch and the shelf.

So I was fu-diddly-ucked.

I lept onto the couch, pulled the decorative rug off the back of it, and held it against my junk. The mother stepped into the room and I will never in all my life forget the expression that fell over her face. And it was completely warranted. I mean, there was a thirteen year old holding her very expensive decorative rug against his genitalia.

So she flipped. Big time. And for some unearthly reason I found this to be really hilarious. The combination of her anger, my embarrassment, and the absolute ridiculousness of what was happening just made me laugh my ass right off. And here's where I learned that I DEFINITELY should have gone to the bathroom before I started my journey.

Ladies and gentleman, I had to pee. And when I say I had to pee I mean this was going to be nothing short of a geyser. And since I was laughing so hard I knew there was a good chance that I wasn't going to be able to stop it. You know that feeling. It's on its way and there's nothing you can do about it.

So I just rode the wave. I exploded. And because i was holding the rug so close to that area, and because it was shooting out of me with such force, it was LOUD. And the volume of it made me laugh harder. Which made it rush out faster.

So let's review: she knows someone's been stealing things from the house because of the pile in the kitchen. She can safely assume that the perpetrator is the naked junior high student in her living room. And now, not only is he holding her expensive decorative rug against his johnson, he's also pissing all over it. So yeah... not a good night for mom.

Meanwhile, old faithful here is letting out the last drops of his fury and still laughing like a madman. My friends, upon hearing her screaming, come upstairs and get a good look at the atrocity I've just committed. One of them ran back downstairs to get my clothes and I got dressed in the bathroom after being instructed to leave the rug in the tub.

Surprisingly, the aftermath of this was nowhere near as terrible as I'd assumed it would be. At my friend's insistence, the father was told that the family's dog was the one who'd peed on the rug (even though it was outside all night and the whole scenario was completely implausible if you gave it more than five seconds worth of thought). Rather than looking like a budding serial killer who just snuck into people's rooms with his man-meat swinging around, it was made clear that I'd been put up to this. Sure, I was the idiot that had agreed to it - but at least I wasn't one of the sickos who'd dreamed it up in the first place.

I also begged that none of this be mentioned to my mom, who could not have arrived sooner to pick me up the following morning. Most surprising of all, however, was that this was hardly ever brought up again. At an age where all you do is find reasons to make fun of one another, I think these guys must have realized that this far transcended a normal embarrassing story. There were a few cracks made about it over the years, but always with nude-nudge-wink-wink attitude. It was always in whispers and none of it was ever meant to hurt my feelings.

And even though I technically didn’t complete my quest, the guys unanimously agreed I still deserved the stack of Playboys.

With friends like these...

2009-11-15T15:37:00.000-08:00

Patrick was easily two heads taller than the other second graders in my elementary school. Evidently he was growing faster than his mother could keep up with because his jeans were never quite long enough and you could always see his socks. Similarly, his shirts never hung past his belt. A little bit of belly was always exposed. Years later this particular fashion trend would come to be known as a mid-driff and it was a sad day when the principal banned them from my high school. But on Patrick this was not sexy. He looked like Bruce Banner had gotten stuck halfway through his transformation into the Hulk.

He had curly red cabbage patch doll hair and freckles that made his pale skin look like it had been sand blasted. His obesity had turned his walk into more of a waddle and while this tickled my funny bone something fierce, I didn't dare chuckle in his presence because quite frankly he looked entirely capable of completely absorbing me.

Our conflict started in the cafeteria one day when he saw me walk in with my Batman lunch box. "Hey!" He called out to me. I slowly turned around, ready to surrender anything this beast wanted from me. I raised my eyebrows inquisitively, waiting for him to continue. "Batman swallows." He informed me. I was eight. I had no freaking idea what that meant. Patrick had twin older brothers in 8th grade who did, and who had shared that information with him. "Do you swallow?" He asked me. This was not a fair question. We were in uncharted waters.

"Everyone swallows." I said matter-of-factly, not realizing how badly I was incriminating not only myself, but the whole of the population as well. Patrick's booming & wicked churchbell laughter echoed off of the walls. His grin became a scowl and with one of his ruddy meat paws he reached out and swiped the lunchbox out of my hand. It hit the floor and its contents spilled out. The bag of goldfish crackers, the ones my mom had packed knowing they were my favorite, slid and came to a stop at Patrick's feet. Without hesitation he crushed them, digging his heel in until only an orange power remained. "My mom made..." was all I got out before the tears hit. I was angry and ashamed in equal measures. Patrick was well-versed in the concept of adding insult to injury and he took this opportunity to say:

"I'm gonna take a shit on your mom."

Wow. What an image. I stood there spellbound as he shoved past me and walked on in search of his next victim. And this was the way things continued for the next several months as Patrick expressed his desire to defecate on all the things that I loved: my Thundercats backpack, my Optimus Prime action figure, my copy of Charlotte's Web, even Brandice... the brown haired blue-eyed goddess the entire school knew I was obsessed with. None of them were spared the threat of his renegade butthole.

Then a funny thing happened. My step-dad was transferred to Chicago and I moved in the middle of the school year. On my last day the entire class made going away cards for me. Crudely scribbled in crayon, they're still one of my favorite possessions. And even more amazing than the drawing of a rainbow with a heart next to it from Brandice was the card I received from Patrick. "Goodbye Chris" it said on the front. Inside I had expected to find one last threat that made good use of the brown crayon, but I was wrong. It said simply "Chris, you are my best friend". I stared at that for a long time. Was it some kind of joke? A life lasting mindfuck my brain would never conquer? Or was he being completely sincere? Either way, I couldn't be mad. Only sorry.

License to Lie

2009-11-15T15:09:00.001-08:00

I was very lucky with my first car. It was a 1990 Ford Probe GT. All white with silver rims, pop-up headlights, and a spoiler. I loved that damn car. Even if my friends insisted that its name was a clue to the fact that it had been designed to look like a penis, I didn’t care. I saw nothing wiener-esque about it. My enthusiasm was matched by my mother’s tender trepidation. She said a prayer every time I peeled off in it. In fact, I loved that car so much that I couldn’t wait till I got my license to drive it.

It was November, two achingly long months before my birthday. My parents were out of town. My sister was at a sleepover with that girl who smelled like glue and whose older brother had tried to make love to a "My Size Barbie" doll. I was on the phone attempting to finalize the night’s plans with my friend Darren. My parents hated Darren. He was the antithesis of all their hard work to mold me into a responsible young adult. The number one thing Darren and I had in common was trouble. Planning it, causing it, and laughing at its results. In each other we knew we had found a partner for the most outlandish transgressions we could ever dream up. And we were always trying to top each other with how bad we could get. A bizarre bond, for sure… but it was a bond nonetheless.

Darren was explaining to me that if Allyson was going to go with us to the movies that night then she was going to need a ride. This was a problem. The rest of us were all walking distance from the theatre. I asked if his mom could drive but he said she was passed out in a drunken stupor on their recliner. Asking our other friend Mike’s mom was out of the question. She was still a little upset with me for accidentally lighting part of her deck on fire.

But Allyson had to go. Just thinking about her made it feel like my heart had burst open and covered my insides in warm, unrequited love. I fixated on the keys to the Probe hanging next to the garage door. No risk seems that daunting when going head to head with the sexual frustration of a teenager. I let Darren trail off and boldly replied: “I’ll drive.”
     “Yeah you will…” Darren laughed.
     “I’m serious. If her mom asks, tell her to say I have my license.”
     “For real?” Darren asked, “For real real?”
     “For real real.” I assured him.

Later that night, Darren and I stood in my garage staring at the car. We were joined by Mike. He lived on the street behind me and just sort of showed up one afternoon. He always seemed so damn happy to just be hanging out with Darren and I that neither one of us really had the heart to tell him to go.

I was a mess of nerves. Thoughts ricocheted inside my skull moving too fast for me to hold onto one. Darren was smiling ear to ear. Of course he was. He practically had a P.H.D. in juvenile delinquency and to him this was small potatoes. Mike on the other hand looked more nervous than I was. He was staring at me, begging me with his eyes to back out of it. I could sense him praying that I didn’t have the backbone to go through with this.
     “Three kids in a car like this?” He scoffed, “Why don’t we just spray paint ‘Pull Us Over’ on the side of it?!”
     “Maybe we can make one of us look older.” I suggested, “Like a parent or something. They’ll think I’m driving with my permit.”
     “You are driving with your permit dumbass.” Darren reminded me.
     “Well you’re the tallest.” Mike pointed at him.
     “And you’re retarded. Who’s going to tell when I’m sitting down?”
     “You do look the oldest.” I chimed in.
     “Not old enough.” Darren shook his head.
     “We could draw a mustache on him.” Mike laughed. He was only kidding, but my brain instantly went to work.

Ten minutes later Darren had a magic marker mustache, a clip-on tie, and a baseball cap that proclaimed him to be the “World’s #1 Dad”. Of course this was a red flag to anyone paying any kind of attention to us and we would have been better off just going as we were. But in our minds we had just made ourselves invisible.

We piled into the car: Mike in the back, Darren on the passenger’s side, and me behind the wheel. I put the key in the ignition, started the engine, flipped up the lights, and hit the garage door opener. We all stared straight ahead as our neighborhood came into view. “Are we really doing this?” Mike asked. I responded by sliding that beautiful beast into drive.

As I pulled out of my driveway I tried telling myself that this was no different than any of the other times I’d practiced with the real world’s #1 dad sitting next to me. If I remembered the rules of the road, kept my hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, and paid attention we were all going to survive this. As I navigated through the mercifully quiet streets of my neighborhood I had to admit… this felt pretty good.

We were a little more than halfway to Allyson’s house when Mike pointed from the backseat. “Isn’t that Allyson’s mom’s car?” We all started straight ahead at the green Lincoln Continental in front of us.
     “Shut up, man. I’m scared enough as it is.” I replied.
     “No, I’m serious. Look! That’s her hat.” Allyson’s mom always left her big straw gardening hat on top of the backseat. The same straw gardening hat the three of us were now staring at.
     “Oh, balls!” Darren started to sink down in his seat.
     “Relax,” I told him, “she doesn’t know I don’t have my license.”
     “Yeah?! Well she sure as shit knows I don’t have a mustache!” I grabbed his shirt and forced him to sit up straight. I reminded him it looked worse if we were trying to hide.
     “She’s turning!” Mike cried out happily at the sight of her blinking turn signal. But our joy was short lived as we realized this meant we were going to pull up right next to her at the intersection.
     “Don’t make eye contact.” I ordered as we slowly crawled to a stop to the right of her. We all stared straight ahead, occasionally sneaking peeks with our peripheral vision. I watched the red light, trying to change its color with the power of my mind. My knuckles tightened around the wheel and I got that really bizarre and uncomfortable feeling of my armpits moistening up.

Now I knew that Allyson’s mom had only seen Darren and I once before. Which may have been advantageous except that we had been hanging from a tree in her front lawn and such an image may have been difficult to forget. But hey, wait a second… this wasn’t Darren sitting next to me. It was the World’s #1 Dad! I remembered something Darren had told me about shoplifting. You have to look calm. You have to walk with a purpose. If you carry yourself like nothing’s wrong and every move is intentional, no one will question you. I thought perhaps the same idea applied here. If I believed I was a licensed driver in no danger of being punished then that’s what she would see. I took a few deep breaths and finally the light switched. “At least we know she won’t be at the house.” Mike said as we left her behind us. An excellent point. And exactly the kind of encouragement I needed to complete this voyage.

But a funny thing happened. I got so lost in playing the part of Chris Schrader, licensed driver that I stopped paying attention to incidental things… like the speed limit. I was on such a high after getting past that last obstacle that I began to feel a little too indestructible. Darren, meanwhile, was frantically searching through the glove box for the hand wipes I’d promised him were there. But apparently I was not only a criminal, but a liar as well. “I don’t see ‘em.” He panicked.
     “They’re there.” I assured him.
     “How am I gonna get this shit off my face, dude?” I looked into the glove box and pointed to the corner I’d remembered seeing them in. As he dug further I lifted up the partition between our seats and searched in there. My attention was effectively removed from the road.
     “Chris!” Mike suddenly cried out. I looked up expecting to see a deer, another car, or maybe a small child dead ahead. But there was nothing.
     “What the hell?” I asked.
     “Stop sign.” He pointed behind us, “You went right through it.” And just in case I had any doubt at all that Mike was telling the truth, red and blue lights suddenly lit up in my rearview mirror. As I pulled over, Mike put his hands over his face. Darren kept repeating the word “No” over and over again. I thought about how strange it was to actually recognize that you’re living the moment where your life is over. A moment so big it could never feel real. Suddenly you’re in the front row of a theatre watching all of this happen to someone else because there’s no way it’s actually happening to you. The repercussions of this adventure would be endless and my mind was playing out every last one of them. I thought of Allyson. I thought how I’d just destroyed any chance we had of being together. I was going to be grounded indefinitely and it was foolish to expect her to wait for my sentence to be lifted. There would be another guy waiting to pick up the ball I’d dropped. Probably one with a license.
     “Should I make a run for it?” Darren asked, clutching the door handle. I slowly turned to him with an “are you fucking kidding me?” scowl on my face.
     “Take that hat off.” I said grabbing it from him. I shook my head and looked out my window. I could hear Mike crying behind me. The police radio seemed to be broadcasting the sounds of our impending doom. I looked into my side mirror and saw the door of the cop car open up and the police officer set his foot on the ground. “This is it,” I thought to myself, “enjoy your last few seconds of freedom.”

Then we heard something. Mike was the first to turn his head, followed by Darren and myself almost simultaneously. It was an engine. And it wasn’t mine. It was getting louder. Headlights appeared behind the squad car. A black Camaro shot past us, easily doing eighty in a twenty-five. The cop pulled his foot back into the car, slammed the door shut, and squealed off after the Camaro. We all sat there in stunned silence for a moment. I slowly looked to Darren who stared back at me with his smeared marker mustache and all I could do was laugh. He started laughing too. We looked back at Mike who still had tears in his eyes. He erupted in laughter as well.

Now this is the point where a rational person decides “screw this” and heads home. But there’s nothing rational about love. So on we went, pressing our good luck and pissing in the face of danger.

As we turned onto Allyson’s street I lowered the volume on the radio, the way you always do when you’re trying to concentrate. There were few street lights and everything looked different in the dark. I knew her house was on the right side of the street and slowed down to carefully examine each one.

And then suddenly, there it was: a home with one downstairs light on and Allyson’s silhouette standing in front of it. I slid the car into park and smiled. Allyson stepped out the front door, her golden hair glowing under the porch light. She seemed to glide, not walk, over her front lawn and towards the car. Darren got out to let her in the front seat.

     She sat down next to me, raised an eyebrow, and slowly shook her head. “What?” I asked.
     “I think my mom was right about you.” She smiled.
     “What does that mean?” I asked defensively. She didn’t give me an answer. Instead she just grabbed my hand and gave it the faintest of squeezes. I slid the car back into drive and as I punched the accelerator she asked:
     “Why does Darren have a mustache?”

Ralph

2009-11-14T05:40:00.000-08:00

His name was Ralph. Robbie, Jeff, and myself had found him in a window well on the side of Robbie's neighbors' house. He had been running in circles, kicking up dirt and dead leaves. We thought we were doing him a favor by sealing him in that shoebox. But Ralph's new digs probably weren't that much more accommodating than his previous residence. Searching through window wells was a regular part of our summer afternoons when we were eleven. It's how all three of us had found our pet toads. Mine had recently escaped to glorious freedom underneath our deck and I was looking for a replacement. But Ralph was better than any toad. This was a one in a million find. I hadn't quite figured out how I was going to warm my mother up to the idea of a pet mouse but that was a minor detail.

I carried Ralph to the elementary school playground, feeling the weight shift in the box as he ran from one end to the other. We put him in the large circular sandbox and laughed as he ran laps around it. It was impossible to hide my smile as I daydreamed about all the fun I was going to have with my new friend. When my toad had run away I was heartbroken. But his replacement was infinitely superior. If they had been girlfriends my buddies would have unanimously agreed that I was trading up.

The first auburn streaks of the sunset began to settle weightlessly against the horizon. I announced it was time for me to be getting home. I scooped Ralph back into the shoebox and we went on our way. As we walked down the street I kept lifting up one corner of the box to steal peeks at my new pet. He'd run over to the source of light and hold his head up towards me, his nose twitching and his eyes squinting. "That's right," I thought to myself, "It's me, Ralph... your dad."

My playful euphoria was interrupted by Robbie's concern of something up ahead. "Oh shit..." His pace slowed just a bit, "It's Russ." His name alone caused all three of us to stiffen up and swallow nervously. Russ Lehman was a year older than us and made a career out of tormenting kids in our grade. Somewhere there must have been a bully factory that turned out these cookie-cutter assholes and shipped them to all corners of the globe. With their blonde crew-cuts, crooked smiles, broad shoulders, and their capacity to tower over everyone else, there was little doubt they'd been created to serve any other purpose. They must have had a checklist with every suburban street on it and deposited bullies in such a fashion that every neighborhood had maximum asshole coverage. Whoever made such decisions had decided that Russ was our bully and he'd relished the assignment like he was getting paid for it. This was a kid who had shot at us with his bebe gun, flattened the tires on my bike, held me down on the ground with his knee and spit in my ear, and gave a Robbie a bloody nose for stepping on his lawn.

It was too late to turn around. Russ and the three friends he was standing with had already seen us. Russ stood up from his throne of a front porch and started walking towards us. His goons obediently followed. "Aren't these the ugliest kids you've ever seen in your life?" Russ called back to his posse. They chuckled. "No, I'm serious. Aren't they ugly as shit?" We kept our heads low and said nothing. I gripped onto Ralph's box tightly and wedged myself in between Robbie and Jeff. "What's in the box?" Russ asked. Robbie and Jeff looked at me nervously. I couldn't walk any further. Russ was standing right in front of me.
     "Nothing." I replied. Russ raised one eyebrow inquisitively.
     "Oh yeah? Then let me see it." He reached for it and I pulled the box back. His brow furrowed and his determination grew ten fold. "I said let me see it!" He ripped the top off and looked down at Ralph who was huddled in one corner. Russ looked at the mouse, then up at me, and started laughing. "It's a f*cking rat." He called back to his friends who got closer to take a look.
     "He's a mouse." I corrected him.
     "Let me see him." Russ said with genuine curiosity. No trace of macho bullshit. I shifted apprehensively. "Come on, man. Let me see. I used to have tons of these things when I was little." He reached in and grabbed Ralph by his tail, lifting him up into the air. Ralph squeaked a little and wiggled wildly.
     "Careful!" I said as Russ put his palm below Ralph and lowered him into it. It was the first time I saw a smile born from happiness and not some malicious intent spread over his face. He lowered Ralph down towards the curb. "What are you doing?" I stepped in to snatch him back.
      "Relax, relax." Russ held his hand out to stop me. "He'll stay near the edge of the curb. Watch." And he was right. The same way Ralph had run around the perimeter of the sandbox, he ran up and down the curb, never veering off into the street. Russ got to his knees in front of his driveway. He motioned for me to sit down a little further down the road. Ralph ran between the two of us, stopping when he reached someone's sneakers and then turning around and running back in the other direction. Russ laughed and smiled and I couldn't believe me and my one time foe were bonding over this tiny mouse.

Robbie and Jeff traded concerned looks with each other. They knew what I didn't... that Russ Lehman could never be trusted. No matter how convincing the facade. Ralph ran up to me for the last time and I had an impulse to grab him and go home. An impulse I will always regret ignoring. He began running back towards Russ who got to his feet. "Why is he standing?" I wondered, "What if Ralph runs between his legs?" And that's exactly what my new friend tried to do. But Russ never gave him the chance. He lifted his leg and slammed it down onto Ralph's head. I screamed and ran towards him. He was laughing and bending over to get a closer look at the damage he'd done. Ralph was laying on his side, half his skull sunken in, and blood spilling out of his mouth, staining his teeth red. He was taking short and desperate breaths, his entire body heaving. I reached down for him but Russ kicked him. He rolled down the curb and fell into the sewer. I dove to grab him but I was too late. I looked down and saw him floating in the water. His tiny, broken body in the center of that darkness. He was still breathing, but he couldn't move. And that's how Ralph died. With a mouthful of his own blood and dirty sewer water. I felt like I had been stabbed in the heart. Every daydream, which had seemed so alive and vibrant only moments ago, was now shattered into pieces too tiny to ever put back together.

"You asshole!" Robbie screamed and charged at Russ. Russ' friends grabbed Robbie and threw him onto the lawn. Jeff ran in to try and get them off but soon found himself on his back receiving the beating of his life. Me... I ran. I ran towards my house, tears streaming down my cheeks, and screaming at the top of my lungs in an effort to empty out the anger festering inside of me. No matter what I did I could not get the image of Ralph's last moments of life out of my head. And I couldn't let go of the fact that I had had a chance to save him. I looked across the street at the construction site and saw a dumpster filled with discarded pieces of wood, dry wall, and other materials. On any other afternoon, during any other confrontation with Russ, what happened next would never have been an option. It would never have crossed my mind. But my friend had just died at that bastard's hand and I couldn't stomach the idea of him not being punished for it. I ran to the dumpster and grabbed a piece of a broken 2x4. Instead of running the rest of the way home, I started walking back towards Russ's.

He heard me before he saw me. He was too busy pummeling Jeff to notice me walking up the sidewalk. But he heard me dragging the 2x4 behind me. He stopped and smiled. Not even a trace of fear. "If you love that stupid mouse so much maybe I'll throw you down in the sewer so you two can be together." He called out. I said nothing. I just kept advancing on him. I was not as big as Russ or nearly as strong. And I knew I didn't intimidate him. There were a lot of reasons this wasn't going to work. But I thought of Ralph and it all became very easy.

I was a few steps away from Russ who started to rise up. Before he could get to his feet I swung the 2x4 and struck him clear across the face. He landed on his back and I never gave him another chance to move. I kept swinging and screaming. His friends backed off with terrified looks on their faces. I don't know how long it lasted but when it was done the end of the 2x4 was covered in Russ's blood and chunks of it had broken off. Robbie pulled me away after seeing neighbors faces in the nearby windows.

As we walked home, the emasculated wails of our former bully rang out behind us. But it didn't feel like a victory. One hand still clutched the bloody 2x4. The other, an empty shoebox.

Buried now to blossom later...

2009-09-01T13:48:00.000-07:00

There are memories I have so deeply buried that it almost feels like a story I heard about someone else rather than something I lived through. The most random things can act as triggers that turn these vague recollections into visceral detonations. Today it was a morning run. It made me think about junior high and how awful it felt to go to gym class only to learn we'd be running The Mile that day. The whole class would march outside like prisoners on their way to the guillotine. And not once was it ever any less awful than you'd expected it to be.

I was remembering one of these runs in particular. I stopped to walk for just a minute and became aware that the two girls walking behind me were whispering about me. I strained to make out just a few words that might help discern the context of this conversation. But let's face it... I was not the sort of 7th grader who ever got whispered about in regards to how cute he was or anything of that nature. So it didn't take long to figure out I was being made fun of. And then I managed to make out one word very clearly... and my stomach sank. One. Fucking. Word. That's all it took to shatter my entire twelve year old world. You know what it was? You know what she said?

"Batman..."

Sweet mother of monkey balls... these two knew my secret! The cape & cowl wearing skeleton I'd worked so hard to keep in the closet had just escaped. But how? Who had broken my trust and stabbed me in the back?

No, I was not operating under the delusion that I was a pint sized Caped Crusader. That phase had passed a few years prior. But I was still dressing up as Batman... for movies. My first movies as a matter of fact. We had just finished shooting our fourth that weekend. But nobody knew that. Because what we were doing was not cool. Liking Batman was not cool. Making movies was not cool. And I was not cool. The only thing I had going for me was that there were some people less cool than I was. But once word got out that I was jumping around my basement in a cape... forget about it. Game over.

My friends were unwilling participants in these endeavors. And they made sure to let me know it every step of the way. I know they had better things to do than sweat their balls off in a Mr. Freeze costume (oh, the irony) or paint half their face green, but they were there every time I asked and now I realize that makes them better friends than I gave them credit for. Still, their reputations were at stake too and I very selfishly understood that meant they might never help me make another movie again.

I started running again. Away from the girls. Away from everything. But that single word haunted me. I tried telling myself I could have misheard them. Maybe they were talking about someone else entirely. These were hollow consolations. I knew very well what I'd heard. And I knew no 7th grade girl had any business uttering the word Batman in a normal conversation.

It didn't take long to discover what had happened. We'd asked my sister's friend to be in the latest movie. She had played Batman's love interest. And like so many of the women in the Dark Knight's life, she turned out to be one hell of a femme fatale. See, this girl wasn't living by the same rules as the rest of us. She didn't care about being cool or what people thought of her. So when the teacher started homeroom by asking what everyone did that weekend she told them. The whole class. Then they told more people. Who told more people. Who told one of the girls in my gym class.

By the end of the day everyone knew. I had people singing the 1960's Batman TV theme as I passed them in the hallway. As I got on my bus someone yelled "Did the Batmobile break down?". My friends hated me. I hated me. I went home and cried, completely ashamed of myself.

It's amazing how the things you try to hide early in your life can wind up so strongly defining you later.

I make movies. I love Batman. That's pretty cool.