Bad Boys (1983) - Movie Review

Bad Boys hosts one of Sean Penn's earliest roles; at the very least, the first of his many feature films, and there are times when this movie almost feels like an afterschool special that were so prevelant in the 1980's, but there is enough foul language and effective violence to snap the viewer out of any such idea.

Sean Penn plays Mick O'Brien, a  teenage, wannabe street thug in Chicago that feels like he is on his way to the top. The only redeeming quality about himself is his girlfriend J.C. played by Ally Sheedy. Drossingly vying for her affections is Paco Moreno (Esai Morales), an up and coming drug runner who thinks he's a kingpin.

One evening, Mick attempts to rob Paco, but things go horribly wrong; Paco's younger brother ends up dead, accidentally because of Mick, and Mick gets sent to a juvenile prison while Paco is left out in the streets, thristing for vengeance, and he does what he needs to get it.

Anyone watching this film during its initial release could tell that Sean Penn was something special. They may not have been able to predict the "superstar" he was to become, but his talent grandly shows. The casting, overall, was perfect for this film from Penn and Morales to Clancy Brown as Viking Lofgren, the bully of the prison; even Jim Moody plays the perfect supervisor while Roman Herrera is exactly the kind of counselor one would expect to find in a place like the hell these young men place themselves in.

This movie is dated, but the emotions are not. For being so young, all of these young actors, some future stars, others future bit players, deliver great performances that will impress you and creep you out equally. The film was directed by Rick Rosenthal (Halloween II), and there is an old school easter egg hidden within the middle of the film that gives a shoutout to Halloween fans.

Bad Boys was a film that I wasn't expecting to keep thinking about days after I watched it, but I am; and while it is not the best piece of cinema, for the subject matter and the era it was made - the tone and violence were well ahead of their time.

Double Barrel on Movie Remakes and Sequels....and Those That Care

Remake, re-imagining, reboot, sequel; I have grown numb to all of these things. Hollywood can redo whatever the hell it wants. Do-overs have been part of the Hollywood staple since Hollywood's inception. Frankenstein was one of the first films ever made (1910); how many times in how many years has that been redone? I officially don't give a fuck.

Let Steven Soderbergh remake Citizen Kane for all I care - and right about now there will be dozens of trolls bashing, "WHAT?! TRAVESTY!" No, he's not - but if anyone did, I think he'd be the better choice - not the best one, just the better one. Because right now there are several generations that feel Citizen Kane is overrated anyway.

Remakes are easy to make, and easier to financially capitalize on, easier to sequelize, and the only difference between remakes, horror films, and horror film remakes are the budget; horror is monetarily cheap - and much like the music industry; anyone that says they aren't in it for the money are full of complete, narcassistic shit.

Blame comics for all I care. If comic books can get away with rehashing, re-thinking, and recreating someone's origin, or erasing someone's death just to sell a book, well guess who Hollywood's looking at for inspiration these days. If comics have been doing it for a near century, Hollywood has every right to tell its consumers to stick two fingers up their ass, straight into their wallets because you are either stupid or apathetic enough to pay for it.

You don't like it, don't watch it; otherwise, be prepared to Eat Hollywood Dick like the sadistic whore you are because they are not paying you to get yourself fucked in the ass with razorblade dildoes, you are paying them to fuck you in the ass with razorblade dildoes.

Just be thankful that the internet is around for you to vent your frustration for dozens of people to read, because there are millions more who don't give a damn about what you think .

....And guess who's one of those millions.

I Sell the Dead - Movie Review

I Sell the Dead is the story of two happy-go-lucky grave robbers, Arthur Blake (Dominic Monaghan) and Willie Grimes (Larry Fessenden) during the 19th century. The film is set in a prison after Arthur and Willie have been arrested for their crime, as Arthur recounts his and Willie's career to Father Duffy (Ron Perlman, Hellboy), who is interested in keeping these tales in print for his own personal collection.

As a young boy, Arthur learns the art of grave robbing from Willie, and the two form a unique bond that carries them over the years through poverty and a bevy of rascals.

They are painfully employed by Dr. Vernon Quint (Angus Scrimm, Phantasm) to dig up the dead so he may perform experiments on them. They are paid in cheap wages and threats of blackmail until one night, the dead body they exhume from the grave turns out to be rather undead. Then, they discover that there is a market for these kinds of beings with reclusive clients that are willing to pay more   money than either Willie or Arthur ever expected to see in their lifetimes.

 I Sell the Dead is a fun movie that harkens back to the gothic-horror legacies of the original Hammer Horror films mixing in with British humor. Director and writer Glenn McQuaid seems to be heavily influenced, visually, by Sam Raimi as there are scenes with the similar texture, reminiscent of Evil Dead 2 and even Drag Me to Hell.

Like most British horror, the pacing is slow allowing room for character development, and when the frights occur, they aim to shock, surprise, and humorously entertain the viewer. So, if you enjoy gore-soaked horror, this isn't the film for you, but if you like your mania witty and playful, this movie is worth a look.

Man-Whore Begins

Gwar - The Salaminizer

This song is an example of why music has always been fun for me. And the only reason I still listen to Gwar is because they've never failed to deliver an enjoyable live show, and when in the 7th grade my two-year-crush asked to borrow their albums. I warned her, told her she wouldn't like them. She didn't, but she gave'em a chance because they were different.

She was an unbelievabally beautiful person the last time I ran into her. She said she was happy, and that was good enough for me.

And after the first night I  ever saw Gwar; I remember only being at school - - Algebra 2 - flicking off what was, hopefully, pseudo-blood and pseudo-sperm from my shirt, pulling out flakey chunks of the concoctions from my hair.

DB & a Movie: X-Men Origins - Wolverine

I love this piece of shit. Why? Liev Schreiber and Hugh Jassman's monologue setting up the acme, and then his young-Brando exit with some James Cagney in the mix.

I love this film the way I love Ang Lee's Hulk; Nick Nolte's Shakespearian rant just before one of the crappiest slugfests in comic-book movie reality, and it has actors acting, although Wolverine also has rappers needing to talk less. I did get a kick out of Kevin Durand's Blob. Ryan Reynolds refuses to avoid every other movie I've seen for the past four years and I  now want to punch a midget-pimp that pimps midgets, or just pimps.

The movie's story is a mix of Watchmen and the first Superman film, including someone being naked in all three films. Why I know that is the only reason psychology majors are able to make money.

Christopher McQuarrie (Usual Suspects, writer) scripted the sequel. I've enjoyed all film things involving Christopher McQuarrie, plus he wrote/directed one of my favorite films - Way of the Gun with Ryan Phillipe punching the shit out of Sara Silverman and some intelligent criminals provided with wicked dialogue. 

Liev Schreiber is the shit. An excellent dickhead in Repo Men. Schreiber and Jackman make me enjoy this flick It's a guilty pleasure with a pleasant aftertaste post-wretching.

Doube Barrel @ the Movies: Book of Eli

Book of Eli was Denzel's segue into the comic book world. I have no idea what his personal take or history on comics are, but I know the Hughes Brothers are hooked - they directed Deppster in From Hell, adapting it from Campell's and Moore's likeable but challenging graphic novel. Book of Eli had the feeling of a back-to-basics approach for everyone involved, catching up with technology.

I can only speak for myself; personally, the story went to a variant of an expectation, leaving me wanting more chilli-cheese nachos.

Side Note: I had zero tolerance of Mila Kunis pre-70's Show; now.....putting it lightly, she was the only reason I didn't scalp my scrotum with a severed popsticle stick while watching Max Payne. And she's never been better, I think, than in Book of Eli. Still don't want to watch American Psycho 2. It still feels....dirty.

Listening for an Exit

I once had sex with a woman - - young(er) woman, because she reminded me of another woman: one of the few that I cared about, but this particular whisper had been thousands, even hundreds of thousands of miles away for over a decade, according to my functioning memory-relays. Our lives were not crossing paths, physically, any time soon and I had to download the memory of her through my cranial zip-drive - I wouldn't wanted to have explored living an existence without remembering her smell, her texture - her ideas.....her voice.

The reasons behind our attraction were rarely agreed yet never defined. We knew how to push each others' buttons and still come out laughing about it, and her only bio-enhancement was medically relevant unlike the rest of us that indulged in the body modification craze of 2013.
.........Wait, did I say "...still come out laughing." or   "still come out lacerated?"  This relationship shit is a tricky, mind-raping business

The Secret of Magic Canopy Street

There is a street that I sometimes use when the red light two blocks away and a trail of traffic convince me to make the turn instead of staying forward. It is a simple street; a routine route for those living on that road and for those living nearby or that hold jobs within the area.

The street is not the important part, however; the trees (some bright Hackberries, others melancholy Mesquites) on this street do something enchanting. All along the street, the opposing trees are parallel from one another; they have a counterpart on the other side that seems to be anxiously awaiting their touch. After decades of growth, hurricanes, lightning storms, heatwaves, cold fronts, and all other agrarian blitzkriegs that the Earth unleashes, and the waste stream that drunken men and quivering dogs unleashed, these trees have found their ways into each others arms, forming a beautiful canopy of nature; green and gray hovering over the worn, weary gravel, sanctifying the people and their homes.

Like every act of beauty, there are secrets behind the majesty. During the day, most folks leave for work while some cars remain parked in front of the houses. But at night, after nine-thirty in the evening, Magic Canopy Street is barren; no cars anywhere in sight, no lights on within any of the houses, and the only light signifying any life at all stems from the moonbeams stretching from the galaxy halo encircling the moon.

An uneasy, quixotic feeling blankets my insides every time I drive down Magic Canopy Street after nine-thirty at night. I know the names of everyone murdered on that street, in the last six years, right when the tree limbs began to touch, the last murder occured; and while the deaths have stopped, disappearences have not, so I wonder, as I drive down this dark, lifeless avenue, if other stranger things have not already begun.

Nooner Movie Reviews

Wolfman - enjoyed it. Far from perfect but still felt like an upgrade of the 50's. Needed more scares, but there was some nice action; the CGI gypsy bear was harsh, but this flick better CGI/live-action blends than most flicks.

Repo Men - laughed me arse off. Dug it quite a bit.

Hot Tub - nicccccce.

Imaginarium of Doctor...- I think the crowd wanted to see a deceased man acting more than the movie, but I was surprised by the turnout, pleased even; despite the draw being thespian zombies. Tom Waits was coolness, yet again. Terry Gilliam set a nice standard for himself, all things considered.

Brooklyn's Finest - Review

With Brooklyn's Finest, Antoine Fuqua returns to the cop-genre; returning with him is Ethan Hawke. Also coming for the ride-along is Don Cheadle, Richard Gere, and the re-emergence of Wesley Snipes to the big screen.

The film weaves three different tales of three different types of cops, each caught in a career crossroads. Don Cheadle is an undercover agent on the brink of ending his case, which has cost him his regular life as his wife is ready to divorce him, but once he sees it through, he'll be settled behind a desk. Ethan Hawke plays a loving husband and father of what seems like a dozen children with twins on the way. He needs to get his family out of their home and in to a bigger and better one, but money is the one thing he doesn't have. Richard Gere plays a self-loathing street cop on the verge of retiring from an uneventful, unimpressive, two-decade career. Wesley Snipes, back as an actor not an action star, is the boss of a drug ring that has been freed after eight years in prison, and it is up to Don Cheadle's character to end his operations.

The performances expected from actors of their caliber are great. Ethan Hawke earned an Oscar nomination working on Training Day with Fuqua, and while he will probably be overlooked he should earn another one for his performance in this film. He went the extra mile to not only act as a morally, deeply conflicted officer, but his appearance alone shows you that he is under some kind of stress, and the opening sequence (with a surprise cameo by the uber-talented Vincent D'Onofrio) lets the audience know what his limits are, only so he can continue to push them even further.

Don Cheadle seems lost at times, which is exactly what the character is. He wants to do himself and his dwindling home-life right by his actions, but he has been undercover so long, he has found himself caring too much for the one person necessary to return normality to his life, which is Wesley Snipes, who, in my opinion, didn't get enough screen-time, but that is my opinion as a fan of his work, but he can still act finely without throwing a single punch.

Richard Gere's character, the retiree, comes off as almost a coward, if not in fact a coward. He has spent his entire time on the police force wanting to just stay alive rather than serve and protect. No one really respects him because no one really knows him, except prostitute whom he sees as his only viable relationship; and once the ending draws near, anyone with a brain of healthy oxygen can tell where the story is going for all three men, which imposes a crushing blow to a film that could have been great but ends up being only good.

Antoine Fuqua brings a damaged, pot-hole gritty look to the film, once again using color sequences to stimulate the visuals and the tone of the moment. You see darkness because there are dark things happening, and the lighted segments are few and far between as they show you the tiny traces of hope that the story and its characters cling to.

Brooklyn's Finest had all the capabilities of being something special but falls just flat of it. There are performances worth seeing from everyone involved but if expectations are too high, the grade of disappointment will vary from person to person. One thing is certain though, if you do not live a life like these characters, you will be much more appreciative of it because sometimes the only silver lining is the one people see once their heart stops beating.

Buried Enlightenment

I stumbled down another gravel road with cars parked all along each side. I figured I was on Roseberry St. because there was a lady sweeping the sidewalk in front of the restaurant with the red door that brewed good coffee, and I figured that lady was Mrs. Maldonado. It must've been because she bid me a good morning, like she knew me, or like she really wanted me to purchase a cup of the eatery's coffee.

I said hello when I walked in; to whom, hell if I know. A publicly jumbled retort replied, but some arms waved in the air where the cooks were, so they must've known I was a regular, which was great, but I was clueless. I just know I liked the smell of the place, but not the people in it. Not even myself.

The coffee arrived - so did questions.

"Did you hear about Mr. Dreg?" Mrs. Maldonado asked.

I murmured something that must've been a "No" as I tasted the coffee, but instead of a taste I just got a new numbness, but it was an awakening numbness, so it was either bad coffee or Irish coffee.

"Si', he died," said the blurred lady that was starting to form into Mrs. Maldonado, but I was still ready to punch it if it wasn't her.

"There's a wake?" I asked as I dove back into the bad coffee.

"Right now," Blurry Maldonado said. "Across the street, at Mr. Garza's funeral home?"

It made me wonder, which made me ask, "What time is it?"

"Enrique!" the Mrs. Blurry Maldonado shouted. "Qual es el tiempo?"

"Nine!" the voice said.

I walked across the street - Garza knew me too well, so he let me in.

"Was he a friend?" he asked.

"He was somebody," was all I could say. "Is he ready for show?"

"Yes."

"Can I see?"

He was apprehensive, like always, but - like always - he let me have first look. He always let me have first look when it was someone I knew.

There he lied, in his pearl casket. I tried to remember who he was, but I couldn't; but, apparently, my tongue could because I started licking the back of my mouth, gathering saliva, and as I opened my mouth to pay my respects, the only thing that came out was a gigantic gob of spit that landed right between his eyes.

I was satisfied. I bid Garza a good day, and a good show, and muddled my way some place that was serving other things besides bad coffee and bitter dead.

Watched Monsters vs. Aliens; very bleh. Nice effort, but still bleh.

The Price of Knowing

I post shit on the net, yet other than me - who really needs to know these things? There's a needful shadow that surrounds communication; the most necessary delivery is the point. The point can be made with three words or with fifteen dozen; as along as the end-result is a success - what level of success depends on the indivudual's state of mind the moment judgement is cast.

Surviving proves that we are aware of life. Changing our minds proves that we are aware of existence.

I'm typing with a bloody right hand. The weather has been schizophrenic, and being in the recovering-end-stages of an inner ear infection and congestion; My sinuses are not doing too well, being drier than a redheads' bottle of lube. Clearing them proved messy.

Infected Pt.1

A grim horizon sledged its way with cold rain and twisting winds, demolishing the formerly blue, cloudy skyline like it was glass beneath a bulldozer. I waited in my car until the crewman arrived to unlock the warehouse.

There was myself and one other person stationed in the heaven-like clean waiting room; an older lady with a limp that came with the bitter weather, but she never let it sully her pride and thanks for living another day. All I wanted was to get this deed done with sanze decapitating any of the infected with a clipboard I was forced to break in half.

I read through a book I hadn't touched since junior high as my zeal for life found itself drained by the events of the last couple of weeks. My dog had been run over (I had to sweep it's left-hind paw in to the gutter), my mother was about to have both of her legs amputated (because of those damned infected), and my health-coach suggested I should go on a diet despite the fact that I weighed just under three-hundred pounds, could run five-miles a day, and my blood pressure - as the health analyst would soon express - was "excellent." Which continued to confirm my beliefs that once someone left medical school, they knew nothing about people, the human body, or preserving life - only how to open someone's mouth and throw handfuls of pills at them, and whichever one's actually made it inside the mouth were downed with water, the one's that fell to floor were turned into suppositories.

Being a new patiet to this warehouse-clinic, I began filling out the info-sheet when a wheezing hacker limped in and sat next to me. My hands quickly gripped each sides of the clipboard, ready to snap it in half. Jabbing the pen through its larynx would have been a bonus and I would have spilled blood in heaven, but the symptoms of the infected subsided, and I resumed fillling out a contract made unreadable as the final draft had obviously been tossed at the mercy of the computer's spell checker. "I hereby sign his letter of life examination authorization...." unless, these scrub-draped bastards were working for someone - a Him.

Why were there delivery trucks in the back? What went in to this clinic that had to be distributed throughout the city?

Why I Can Never Be a Family Man

I can already see myself - already well on in my age, should I live long enough to experience these fool's-golden years; my sixties, maybe seventies.

I can already feel it - my mind slipping, sanity filtering itself out through life's will, my blood and my shit stains. My wife and children hovering over me like a puppy run over by an the ice cream man after he dropped some bad acid and thought the Berry Swirls were trying to eviscerate his essential scrotum parts with seven different "berry-good" flavors and fiver different "berry-licious" selections.

"Couldn't you just shove the Creamy Puffballs up my ass?" the laced-out, mobile food-provider would whimper.

In my bed I would lie, whithering away in my bed; no one having a clue why. Doctors find no reason for my deteriorating mental health. My family prays. It brings them hope.

Eventually, wife and children grow accustom to changing my diapers, drying my urine-sprayed belly, wiping my crap-stained tushy; and constantly dabbing my drooling mouth. And after the months, or even years; however long I still find the whole thing funny, on the inaugural day of the fourth month, I will prop myself up just as my daily changing is going on, pop to my feet on top of the mattress, and hysterically scream "APRIL FUCKING FOOLS, YOU BASTARDS!"

The last thing I will hear is my own laughter as my family predictably, lovingly, obediently beat me to death because THAT, ladies and gentleman, is how I show people I love them.

Alice in Monotony-Land

When I first heard about Tim Burton filming Alice in Wonderland, I really could have cared less. Even as photos and movie images were released, while displaying Tim Burton's knack for capturing beauty in darkness I still wasn't the slightest bit interested until I started hearing about the story.

I was under the impression that this was another remake coveted in the 3-D format to make money on something that the world has seen a billion times over, and perhaps some people have even read the book. What finally bashed my contemptuous scepticism was finding out that this is a continuation of the story rather than a remake/reboot/re-fisting-up-my-ass.

This brings back to me the time I saw Return to Oz, where a young, pre-psychotic Fairuza Balk donned the mantle of Dorothy, and may I say she performed splendidly, even evoking mannerisms and accents of Judy Garland. It was a fine amalgamation of the previous film with Frank L. Baum's books.

Still - - how many times can someone watch the same story over and over? Alice in Wonderland, The Wizard of Oz, Coraline; all are the same story - a young girl enters an mystical realm, befriends odd creatures, and terrorizes a sex-deprived diva in order to get back home. Then again, how many martial arts films can someone watch until they find one that has nothing to do with acting vengeance upon an evil master? How many superhero films can someone watch before it hits them - IT'S ALL THE SAME SHIT.

But, if it entertains, that's the important part, I suppopse; but even new material can be entertaining as well. However, I look forward to ripping off Lewis Carrol, Frank L. Baum, and Neil Gaiman in the near future.

Dogg-Style Day

Here we are again......Screw Like Pooches Day, or as known better since its reboot - Valentine's Day.

When I hear Duran Duran's Hungry Like the Wolf, I'm reminded of Valentine's Day. It all started with K-9s.

Prior to Christianity's overtaking of Rome, succeeding St. Valentino as the inspiration for this often misconstrued, expensive holiday - which if it were any kind of holiday, if it landed on a weekday, working people would get the day off - - Rome celebrated love through the Parentalia and Feralia Festivals of Purification. February 14th was the second day of this multi-facated event. It was dubbed Lupercalia, supposedly dedicated to Juno-Lupa, the She-Wolf. Priests called Luperci would congregate at the Cave of Lupercal to sacrifice dogs, wolves in other areas, and goats, then smeared the baptised blood across the foreheads of children of nobility. I'm just going over the relevant detailse, there's much more to this pagan"s party.

In Northern Europe, wolves were sacrificed - their intestines used by males to swipe the blood across their desired female's forhead. I'd written a piece on that particular sect many years ago. Sadly, I've lost all materials related to it. And it dawned on me just today - the coincidence(?) - of The Wolfman being released on Valentine's weekend. I haven't stopped laughing.

I want to just flick your ear. And annoy you. But you then smile anyway.

Curly

I knew Curly because I remembered his driver's license with his photo suffering from pube-like growths hovering over his scalp, and because his friends were gracefully replenishingh him with shots and chasers, meaning it was an important night for Curly. Unfortuntely, Aldo had received complaints about Curly. He couldn't keep his hands to himself, and that was not good for business, particularly on a night that was bumpin' like this one was.


I made the call - toss Curly - but only for the first time in a long time did I want in on the experience.

The mystique about "bouncing" is that you kick ass every night, that whole Road House feel, which is what most other bouncers masturbate to once they leave work. Unlike those limp-dicks, I prefer to fall asleep with the tv on. But when you're frustrated, and a long day has been just that, a "long day," the idea is there, festering in your brain - - - I wish this muthafucka would pull something. That night, Curly pulled a knife on me and Aldo. Aldo pulled the knife out of his hands. I lifted Curly off of his feet. Frustration coupled with velocity bounced Curly off of the pavement in front of the club.

Philosophy and Physics are a dangerous combination.

WWWW I.....and the Aftermath

I could see the fire. When no one else would comment or even twitter, fearing for their jobs, their sense of importance - I saw the fire. And it was an electrical one.

Growing up, recognizing the importance in words carefully strewn together not just to make sense, but to deliver relevance; to deliver purpose.

Then, World Wibe Web War One (I) hit us.Wx4I wiped out most of the remaining hospitable environments, once the Aquatic Age was over.

Some peopel want to compare our eras to the Dark Ages, yet the only difference between us and the Dark Ages - the Dark Ages had no electricity. We did. At least up until the.......................................................................