I've seen a few of these picture memes out there and finally decided to throw one together based on the one I saw on while browsing flickr.  I should have been sleeping... Originally seen on my bro's blog, http://marktheintern.blogspot.com/ (you'll have to search for his Game Time post on October 4th, because every attempt I make to link to it directly get's blown up by myspace).

Instructions were as follows:

To play, you must answer the following questions {listed below with my corresponding answers}. Once you're confident in your answer, head over to Flickr and type in that answer into the search box. Browse the first page of matches that comes up {no more than that cheater}, and select the image that you feel best represents your answer. Combine, post, and voila. Oh, and remember that you can change your search to include the "most relevant", "most recent", or "most interesting". I think it's okay to look at all three pages for a result - I'll give you that.

My answers:
1. What is your first name? :: Peter.
2. What is your favorite food? :: Karjalanpiirakka.
3. What high school did you attend? :: Springville High School.
4. What is your favorite color? :: Green.
5. Who is your celebrity crush? :: Eva Green
6. Favorite drink? :: XXX Vitamin Water
7. Dream vacation? :: Mars.
8. Favorite desert? :: Tiramisu.
9. What do you want to be when you grow up? :: Noticed and remembered.
10. What do you love most in life? :: The natural world.
11. One word to describe you? :: Grumpy.
12. Your flickr name? :: popebabylon.

I told someone a little earlier tonight that "helping other people might be a better plan."  Should be something I tell myself in the mirror.

Took the metro today down to Hollywood, smartest thing to do on a Friday night to avoid traffic (as long as you catch the last train back, which I've missed in the past).  I cranked the volume on some Bosstones implanted in my ears, to try and compete with the thundering walls about me.  I didn't have much luck.  Eventually hustled out onto the star-studded and smelly sidewalks of Hollywood, and down Vine to the glow of the ArcLight.  I had intended all along to go see "Slumdog Millionaire," the new Danny Boyle flick that's had rave reviews.  I did forget that it was a Friday... at the Arclight... in Hollywood... and so my intended show was sold out.  With a little calculation I figured I could still catch the last metro train home if I took in the 10:35 show.

So I bummed around Hollywood for a bit.  Sat alone in a chic cafe having a swiss and avocado panini.  Refused drinking straws out of some vestigial reaction based on last month's psycho-environmental fad.  Thought about flirting with the waitress but as expected, talked myself out of it.  And wandered through a few shops hoping to be inspired for a few remaining holiday gifts I haven't picked up yet.  (I did re-formulate an interesting thread I'd imagined on eco-gifting, but that's something for another blog).

In any case, settled in to watch "Slumdog" in the plush ArcLight, watching with mild envy the couples planting themselves around me.  For those who don't know, I'm a BIG Danny Boyle fan.  See my previous blog on Sunshine as an example.  So I was expecting big things.  And... I... Well...




Aw, hell... I loved it!  (those who've heard my Quantum of Solace review may be surprised to hear I like anything again).

I don't believe, however, that this is Danny Boyle's best.  But it is a damned head and shoulders above anything else that's out at the moment.  The not-so-warm-and-fuzzy growing-up and coming-of-age story of a boy born in the Mumbai slums is nicely bookended by a convenient "Millionaire" gameshow in which the kid is about to win big... and a local cop is tasked with figuring out if he cheated.  The game show, although utilizing some cute tricks, really isn't the story though.  The real deal is about Jamal trying to find his childhood sweetheart, Latika.

The film cuts together colorful, enjoyable, and sometimes downright disturbing anecdotes from Jamal's life into a Boyle-fueled fusion of gritty realism, Bollywood, and Lola-esque escape scenes.  The action is music-video paced, but not in an annoying way.  In fact I grew to love Danny Boyle's style even more.  He uses a lot of the same fast cutting and chaotic imagery that is in vogue today (ala 50% of my issue with Quantum), but somehow it seems to work for him.  A lot of that may be in the fact that while the action is close and speedy and sometimes hard to follow, his DP doesn't have the cameras shaking around like they've been impregnated by an industrial strength vibrator!

Casting was fantastic.  I took a little while to warm up to the older Jamal, but thankfully the story helped that along.  His brother Salim was well cast but perhaps not written perfectly.  He has a darker life path than Jamal, but I still wanted a little more out of the brotherly connection they obviously shared.  And the older Latika was yummy...  erm, very good too.   ;-)

The locations and sets were sumptuously Indian without being over the top Bollywood.  There was some grit and something of the harsh lives the majority of the world lives pasted throughout.  While it was, as some critics have pointed out, maybe a bit calculated in it's sweetness, it was still an enjoyable story told in an unique fashion, with just the right amount of flair from the director and his team.

So I stepped out of the theatre into the cool Los Angeles night, mildly pleased, and glanced at my watch.  12:40.  Last time I remember catching a train to NoHo from this area it was 12:30, so a part of me already fears I'll have a long walk home ahead of me (or an expensive taxi ride).  I begin jogging up to the train station passing the drunk girls on the arms of lascivious boys, passing a few comatose bundles of parka and pavement, passing the few clubs and bars still active (though decidedly quiet).  I trip the light fantastic down the cold stairs into the red belly of the metro station and pass an obviously drunk fellow who asks if the trains still run.  I say that I hope so.  He takes this as an invitation to throw his arm around me and proclaim, rich breath and all, that he's been shat on today, some club or pub refusing to let him perform his rap.  I smile and pray I'm not about to become an unwilling audience of one.  And I try to keep him an arms length away from my iPod and wallet.  Paranoia.

A helpful monitor shows another train leaving in fifteen minutes, so I sigh a sigh of relief and excuse myself from the rapper, sidling up to the ticket machine.  Stumbling towards the platform the rapper mumbles that there's no need for a ticket at this time of night, but I buy one anyway, being one of those detail oriented members of society (i.e. detail of $1.25 versus $250.00 should he be wrong).  I haven't missed a train and I enjoyed the film, so tonight looks like it will end well.

Heh.

On the quiet platform, waiting for the train, earphones back in to help me ignore the drunk or the destitute around me.  The Crystal Method on now.  Out of the corner of my eye I see drunk rapper perched on a bench talking to a pile of brown parka and grey hair.  A light appears deep within the rail tunnel, a familiar rush of air sweeps by.  Hey you, calls drunk rapper.  I politely pull out an earpiece.  This guys breakin' down, man.  The brown parka hunches over on the bench and drunk rapper looks mighty concerned.  Um, something wrong, I ask.  Don't let him fall.  Seems like a sensible suggestion so I put out a hand to break the parka's descent to the red and yellow tile.  Four steel cars come bustling along electric rails and fall from roar to whisper alongside the platform.    Man, he needs help, says drunk rapper.  Hey buddy, you okay, I ask as drunk rapper bolts into the train.  The parka begins banging his head on the floor and the fucking train takes off.

Well.

I'm the kind of guy who walks past drunk bums, doesn't do handouts, and tends to ignore the smell by giving a wide berth.  I make myself feel better by telling myself I'll give boatloads to charity once I'm rich.  And that I recycle.  On the one hand it's middle-class white guilt and on the other it's a little bit of skeptical derision.  The last homeless guy who asked me for some food was pulling a beer can out from under his shirt and taking wee nips at 11:30 in the morning.  Yes, I understand that many have circumstances or conditions they cannot control.  I don't believe that can be helped by me funding breakfast alcohol.

In any case, there I am holding brown parka's matted and stinking head lightly against the cold tile so he can't pick it back up and bang it on the ground again.  I'm trying to decide if he's faking me out for a handout or if I have a real medical emergency on my untrained hands.  The head-banging seems mild, even controlled, so someone faking seizure rather than having one.  But I don't have a real professional opinion to back that up.  His breath smells of just enough tequila to pickle most internal organs.  He seems to relax so I hazard a question.  You alright?  Something wrong with my head.  Do you need help?  Do you need medical attention?  Eventually he mumbles out a yes.  So far the only other soul nearby is a drunk black fellow in a throwback black panther uniform who asked me if trains were still running as I hunched over the prone parka and then backed way off.  I don't see a security station.  Parka seems relaxed, but lying on the tile, so I make a rookie move and bolt upstairs to get a cell signal.

Trying to get the number for the Los Angeles Sherrifs Department at 12:15 on a Saturday morning is easy if you dial 411.  It's harder if you try searching the posted signs or using Free411 before giving up and paying the fee.  Eventually I pass on the info that a guy in a green parka (my mistake) was lying on the platform and banging his head on the tile to someone I assume is the appropriate party, but as I tell them I'm half thinking he'll be gone when I go back down.

Parka is still there and I watch the 12:16 train leave as I figure I should wait for help to arrive.  I get a name, Willy.  Willy claims he is a Vietnam vet, saw all of his buddies die, got his insides pickled by Agent Orange, and that he has something wrong with his head.  Then chest pains.  Then a broken ankle.  He walked all the way down from Canoga Park.  He shows me a valid metro pass.  Asks if I'm a cop.

And he's getting too old for this and wants it all to end.

He says he has the gun.  Just wants to put it in his mouth...

I ramble off some shit that maybe "helping other people might be a better plan."  The word almost catch in my throat as I try to look beyond the smell and booze and self-destruction wrapped up in long yellow fingernails and three layers of overdue laundry.  Is handing you over to the Sherrif's Department really helping you, Willy?  Is the Emergency Room you end up in tonight just going to dump you back on the street again?  Despite misgivings I keep looking over my shoulder for a badge or a purpose.  The last train to NoHo will shows up in 15 minutes and... yeah, I'd rather be able to pass the buck by then and get home.

Despite keeping a little distance his ramblings throw some spittle across my face.  My nose wrinkles at the troubled reek, but a small part of me wants to show compassion for the tears running down his ragged and weatherbeaten cheeks.  His eyes remain somewhat hollow and he rolls into the same spiel as before, collapsing slowly to the ground.  I keep him in a sitting position and ask him to relax.  Help is on the way.  A puddle of drool on the bench behind him glistens with a malevolant off-white fluorescent glow.

When the Sherrif's Department show up they intitally walk right past Willy.  I think perhaps they're securing the area or something else tactically romantic.  But they just were looking for the green parka that didn't exist.  I introduce them to Willy and they tell me paramedics are on the way to check him out.  Although a little stand-offish they handle Willy calmly.  Even had a smart way to handle his seizures, slipping their boots softly under his head to prevent him from banging it against the ground.  I applaud the boot trick.  It's real hard to bite through leather, they reply.  Then one shows a moment of mild concern and retrieves a revolver from an ankle holster and puts it in his pocket.  Out of Willy's reach, just incase.

When Willy finally sits back up he doesn't appear too worried about the cops.  He repeats a lot of the same, looks worriedly for a while at the black female officer who's tapping her flashlight against her leg, but eventually rambles off into his many injuries again.  I stand aside, uneasy, checking my watch and the rails for that incoming train.  For a while I stand with my hands behind my back until Willy becomes agitated, thinking that I've been cuffed.  Is there something to say to Willy, any spell to break him out from the addled world he's stuck in (whether it's Agent Orange caused or tequila caused)?  All I feel is self concious.  The female officer says I was doing my part as a concerned citizen.  I feel I was just reacting to guilt and a long history of looking the other way.

Willy notices the gun on one of the officer's belt.  He rambles back into his suicide dream, extending a yellowed and contorted claw towards the firearm.  The officers offer platitudes with a twist of laughter.  When Willy gets up and staggers towards the officer he is easily, swiftly, softly sat back down by another officer.  A nugget inside of me wants to repeat the mantra I tried to emptily offer him earlier, but Willy has a new audience now.  And I hear the 12:36 train approaching.

I did ask the officers if they needed anything else from me before I hopped on the train.  Just my name and birthdate.  The paramedics came down the elevator with a comfortable looking wheelchair/stretcher, and it looked like Willy was going to get taken care of as the train thundered into the tunnel.  Drunk kids in the same car sing Ace of Base and Sublime loudly and poorly.  I don't put my earphones back in.  I half imagine Willy putting up a fight and really going for a gun.  I half imagine hearing the gunshot over the roar of the train.  I half wonder if Willy getting his wish wouldn't be a bad thing.

In the end, as I walk slowly back across the cracked NoHo pavement, under the dark skeletons of upcoming offices and apartments, I wonder what in the hell possessed me to say to a down-on-his-luck bum "helping other people might be a better plan."  I should have been, or was, saying it to myself.  Perhaps the fears of litigation, of being hoodwinked, of funding booze or drugs or terrorism, perhaps all those I need to kick.  Perhaps I should risk missing the last train again, if only to make sure someone doesn't end up on the tracks.

And dear reader, what should you get from this?  Nothing really.  Except go see Slumdog Millionaire.  It's fun.   ;-)

Link found on Neil Gaiman's Journal (http://journal.neilgaiman.com/).

So, the Daily Mail is edited by idiots.  To those unfamiliar it's a right-wing tabloid.

Which is why I'm surprised that they let Terry Pratchett write this brilliant little piece...  http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1028222/I-create-gods-time--I-think-exist.html

Oh, yeah, it's so they can fuck up the headline and make the dumb-masses who don't read the whole thing feel better about themselves.

Caught a late weeknight showing of the new Narnia movie to avoid the kiddies and overzealous Christian parents.  To be honest, I can't say I was particularly psyched for this installment.  After rewatching "The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe" last week I'd been reminded of what hadn't worked and how CG a lot of it had looked.  Plus, I'm still married to my personal religion of avoiding trailers or other spoilers like a viciously-black-plague-with-hints-of-yellow-fever.  So I'd seen next to nothing.

Can I also say I was a little squeamish about the whole Christian angle?  I mean, as days go by and modern culture becomes more and more polar I find my reactions to faint strains of fundamentalism getting more and more extreme (which means I'm probably becoming more and more fundamental in my interpretation of skepticism and logic).  I quietly decried the Christian co-opting of the first Narnia film (and the subsequent marketing blitz), feeling that C.S. Lewis was being discredited.  I know the man was an adult convert to Christianity, and I've read "The Screwtape Letters" (bloody brilliant, BTW), but I also know he fashioned the Chornicles of Narnia on other, sometimes older and more varied mythological and allegorical constructs.  The fact is, most Christian allegory is itself based on far older traditions.  Lewis may well have included a lot of his own personal ideology in these children's tales, but he was also a member of the Inklings and a student of medieval literature.  He knew these parallels were not just Judeo-Christian alone.

I suppose I need to reevaluate my reactions to matters of religion.  Christianity in modest, modern interpretations is a good faith (as is Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, etc).  It's only fair that these fables apply to beliefs that I once grew up with.  It's just that the thought of some nutter on the far right using the sweeping fantasy of "Prince Caspian" to brainwash his or her kids into thinking gay marriage is an abomination... that thought, it makes me very, very bitter.

Back to the subject at hand.  Andrew Adamson's adaptation of C.S. Lewis' fouth Narnian Chronicle, "Prince Caspian."  Yes, "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" was book 2 of 7, this one book 4 of 7.  I doubt we'll ever see "The Magician's Nephew" or "The Horse and His Boy" as Disney/Walden productions, but the continuity between what was seen in the first film released in 2005 and this one was perfectly sufficient to keep the series succinct.  In fact, adaptations of either of the other two novels would probably have confused folk.

The film starts with a nice dark tone and a night scene shot mostly right.  The cinematography was perhaps a bit safe, but it avoided the nasty contrasty blues or whites often associated with "night" shoots.  The tension was well built, the story clearly told, and the production value outstanding.  There was a little disconnect in caring for Caspian as much as I should have right off the bat, but his peril was obvious and the beginning of his tale simply told.

Once the Pevensie children get back on screen the growth from "Lion, Witch, Wardrobe" became far more apparent.  And I don't mean the kids growing out of their parts or putting on six-packs and guns like Harry Potter.  In fact the small changes in Edmund and Lucy actually fit the production extremely well.  And as a whole the pacing, scripting, and production value felt more mature, more tightly woven, and more confident.  The kids had a nice re-intro from the real world to Narnia, then a rough and tumble run in to the Telmarines and Trumpkin.  Trumpkin, a dwarf who becomes deeply involved with the Pevensies, was absolutely perfectly cast and played by Peter Dinklage.  I mean, ideal.  The man nailed the nuances of suspicion, grouchiness (and I'd know), fear, and eventually caring, all within a, yes, kind of typical fantasy dwarf shell.

Furthermore the intro to Trufflehunter the badger (as voiced by Ken Stott) showed more growth in the animation department, the fully CG badger being leaps and bounds ahead of the CG we saw in "Lion."  (see how my abbreviation of the first film gets shorter every time?).  There were still some issues, especially with facial expressions on some animals; Aslan the lion, faced straight on or smiling, always seemed badly faked, although his profile or distant animations looked awesome!  Reepicheep (voiced by cross-dressing Eddie Izzard to stick it to the fundamentalists) and the other mice were also quite good, although occasionally a little disparate from their surroundings.

There was also a healthy use of pratical effects, the Minotaurs especially still looking as good as in "LWW."  In fact one very particular moment had some extraordinary "acting" by a Minotaur character which looked entirely practical (but not in the 1980's BBC way... it actually looked extremely good!).  The Narnian creatures were all just a little more worn, a little more visceral, a little more realistic and placed nicely throughout the background and in key scenes in such a way that the world became alive far more than in the earlier film.

Production design throughout was fantastic, the most memorable being the weapons and armor, especially Telmarine masks (although someone may want to coach William Moseley as Peter on fighting in full armor -- I don't think leaping and rolling around are that easy in real plate!).  Narnian interiors were also as unique and vibrant as Mr Tumnus' home from the first film, and the Telmarine castle was equally resplendant.

Beyond all the technical and visual achievements this film just flowed.  I was cackling with glee at the tricks and humor laced throughout (I think Reepicheep has something on Sam Fisher!), and although the redemption and guilt aspects could have used a different acting approach (or perhaps just another scene slipped in) the young cast proved themselves in what could have been comfortable repeat roles.  Instead they grew a little, hit their timing and ripostes a little better, and generally created a believable web of relationships to frame the fantasy eye-candy.

In any case, SFX and acting aside, the battle-heavy and darker "Prince Caspian" really did feel like a little-bit-more grown up version of the first film, fixing many flaws.  Perhaps to really appreciate it you need the back-story and relationship with the characters from "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe," but in general I felt it could stand alone as a great fantasy film.  The action was well shot, the story well told, and there was plenty to see.  And if I can be made to cackle aloud in the theatre, there's something fun happening on screen!

Times gone by.  Each moment a new history.  The ever slipping sands of our lives in an inexorable dive towards the end, and what have we to show for it?

I remember reading (sadly I don't quite remember where) someone responding to Carl Sagan's famous address regarding the "Pale Blue Dot" photograph.  I believe it was someone making a comment on Phil Plait's Bad Astronomy blog, although my attempts to rediscover the quote have proved futile.  In any case, with all respect to the person who first said it, they pointed out that while Sagan's touching speech makes each single human infinitesimally small, a mote of dust upon a mote of dust, we are all of the same scale and therefore, "you're a dot, and I'm a dot, and that makes us special to each other."

It could be said that it is a call to arms for every dot to fight for the rights of every other dot.  That every human is so intrinsically important that we must all be provided the same unalienable chance to be rich, famous, and happy.  Real life, of course, doesn't work that way.  In a recent discussion ranging across spousal abuse, poverty, education, and "No Country for Old Men" (don't ask) I got the distinct impression that my pessimism about our abysmal species wasn't far off the mark.  That the majority of us are vicious and very stupid animals disguising it with a thin veneer of civilized behavior.  We tend to pretend.  Some of us lucky ones can throw it all away to martyr ourselves for those unlucky.  Some can lead by example.  Some can simply pretend it doesn't matter, and live only for themselves.

But then what worth is living, really?  If it's all this ugly circle, why try?

I think the genius in that anonymous quote was revealed to me the other night.  Although it would be justifiably poetic for me to toss it all away and join guerrilla movements in the third world or adopt four-hundred needy kids, I can't.  I'm too selfish.  And when I think of me as a dot and those other dots that are special to me, I think of friends and family.  See, the dots that you and I have the most impact on are the dots immediately surrounding us.  The world is too large (and by extension the universe is mind-shatteringly too large) for us to impact every dot.  We do our best work close to home.

This conversation I mentioned came on the heels of some games and socializing at my apartment and I think it made me ponder my impact on the connected dots.  I have a number of dots that put up with my cantankerousness, and some dots that while not as close as blood, still have a positive impact on my life that I might not always appreciate.  I also have dots far away that I very seldom have the chance (or make the effort) to communicate with.  This "mote of dust" we call Earth gets smaller and larger every day.  Smaller in that it's far easier for us to move vast distances, larger in that it makes it very hard for those connected dots to share a hug or a laugh.  Many times those near and dear to us are often not in touching range.  But I am again reminded of my luck.  How old dots separated by miles and not having spoken sin' auld lang syne can still make an impact from time to time.  Can still leave bad voice-mails reciting the "Maladjusted Jester."  Can fall back into easy camaraderie despite the trickling of sand.  And although this transplanted and stoically grumpy bugger of a dot can be a handful, all the dots near him (metaphorically speaking) better know they can rely on him (literally speaking) when the real dot shit hits the real dot fan.

We are still the human animals and walk a fine line on the lip of civilized behavior.  Amongst close dots there's a tendency to let our guard down.  And that's where we need to be careful.  This dot to dot relationship is fragile.  It's unbalanced chemicals floating in a vast and empty sea.  We need to always remember that each dot, because of it's relative size to the universe, is only important to the dots around it.  That means we need to treat every dot in our vicinity, the dots that impact us, with respect and/or love.  Of course, if one dot forgets this and hurts a dot close to it, it might mean nearby dots need to consider friendly reminders involving baseball bats and kneecaps...  Heh.  So much for my attempt at positive social change.  Hmmm, or in all seriousness they could call the dops... I mean cops.

Fuck it.  All I mean to say is, in this achingly beautiful and empty universe, what matters to me is my friends and family.  Those close to me.  I won't forget to make an effort for dots elsewhere, through example, through assistance, through saving furry animals (coz, frankly, they're better at being dots than we are).  But I'm starting to get what matters in life, even for a skeptic like myself.

And there's a hand my trusty fiere!
And gies a hand o' thine !
And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught,
for auld lang syne.

(that's right, I still know all the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne, and will belt them out given opportunity...)
(and if you haven't yet done so, please check out the wikipedia entry on "Pale Blue Dot" and read the excerpt from Sagan... seriously).


No, I ain't been drinking.
Just thinking.


I LOVE MY DOTS!

I have to admit I was initially drawn into the marketing campaign for "The Orphanage" ("El Orfanato") by the allusions that it was heavily linked to Guillermo del Toro's beautifully poignant and dark fairy tale, "Pan's Labyrinth."  The ad execs and poster designers made very sure that everyone was aware of the fact that del Toro was Executive Producer on this film and they made especially sure to use similar thematic elements in their designs.  As is my custom, I avoided the trailers (and I'm very glad I did), but when the Spanish film finally appeared in US theatres there was a little trepidation on my part.  A brief synopsis that I had glanced at made it apparent that this was themed more as a horror flick, and it reminded me that del Toro may just be a name attached, not actually involved in a hands-on sense.  But on a moody and raining LA afternoon I bought a ticket for the film and hoped it wasn't dark when I exited the cinema (y'know, incase it was real scary!).

To be honest, I was a few minutes late and missed some of the opening scenes.  Thankfully that synopsis I'd read gave me enough information to not be lost, and I joined the story still in the establishment of stasis.  The basic premise is that Laura (Belén Rueda) returns to the coastal orphanage where she grew up and begins restorations with her doctor husband, Carlos (Fernando Cayo) in order to use it as a home for disabled kids.  Her son, Simón (Roger Príncep), meets some imaginary friends (imaginary in a "The Sixth Sense" kind of way) and as a result begins fighting with his mother.  One day he runs off, and Laura begins to believe his "imaginary friends" had something to do with it.  Spookiness ensues.

This was not "Pan's Labyrinth."  There were, in production design and mood, some small thematic elements that were similar, but this was by far a darker and scarier ghost film, not a tragic fairy tale.  That being said, I was not dissapointed.  The understated pacing and mood of the film, coupled with a couple of shocks and some exsquisitely crafted rising tension, made it an instant spooky classic.  I was immediately taken in by Laura and her family, charmed as it were, but also applauded a couple of gutsy moves to make this "family" quite real.  There was the possibility that listening to them in a foreign language would add an unfair level of exotic charm, but in the end I felt the integrity in story and the wonderful performances from Rueda and Príncep actually brought me into their lives.  Cayo was also quite good as the husband, but truthfully his role was written as a weak foil or sounding board for Laura.  Still, he completed the family picture nicely.

Now, there were some inconsistencies, and as the film progressed there were a number of questions that went unanswered and some things that didn't make sense.  In many films, as some will attest, these would bring on a barrage of criticism on my part, a nit-picking attack at the core logic and story of the film.  But not so with "The Orphanage."  Why not?  I believe the genius of this film, beyond the more European pacing and style, was the caring put into the heroine's family.  So many movies I just don't give a shit about the characters, but the effort made to make this couple and their kid real, kind but flawed, emotional, and at times a bit crazy, was well worth it.  I was rooting for them every step of the way.

Any ghost film is only as good as it's scare, and I have to say, inspite of a couple of weaknesses, this one was one of the scariest I've seen.  It wasn't torture porn, it wasn't super gory (save one particularly awful moment), and it wasn't exceedingly dark.  In fact, the classic ghost movie moment was probably quite early on.  However, instead of us then being inundated with scene-upon-scene of rehashed horror, "The Orphanage" suddenly became empty of cheap scares.  There were a couple of shocks, but the story as a whole unfolded with a brilliantly paced tension and gravitas.  I'm not one to get too freaked out by a film (save jumping a lot at quick shocks) but there were moments in the theatre that this film had my heart rate through the roof and my legs trembling!!!  Not easily done.  With all the irrational moments and coincidences that usually pull me out of a story, I can only surmise that the performances and characters kept me so engaged that their fear or peril just flowed across the divide of that fourth wall and chilled me to the bone.

Phew!

So, all in all, a well worthwhile move.  I may be becoming something of a "Europhile," but I gotta say this was better than most American flicks I saw this winter.  I'm happy del Toro was attached and am very exited for his upcoming projects ("Hellboy II," and maybe one day, if we're lucky, "At the Mountains of Madness").  The director of "The Orphanage" may have been overshadowed by del Toro's name, but I'll be sure to take a look at what else Juan Antonio Bayona makes.  Óscar Faura's cinematography was quite beautiful, reliant on a lot of those horror-film dutch angles, but very real and thankfully not as cold as it could have been.  While Fernando Velázquez's score did not have the same quality as, say, the nursery-rhyme refrain from "Pan's Labyrinth," it was a forgettable companion to the on-screen fear (and I believe that's usually the best way a score can be).  And, as I mentioned, the production design, costuming, make-up, editing, and so forth, all brought a dark and slighly twisted (but ultimately real) European ghost story to life.  Kudos all around!

On imdb at http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0464141/

Hey look!  I'm in the background!!!

Now if only the imdb editors would add my name to the film credits!!! 

And tomorrow I work on a PSA to protect Orangutans.  So, I either get kisses or my arms pulled off!

    So, I'm still processing 2007 in the back of my mind and trying to come to grips with 2008.  My wee holiday from the most recent film I've been lucky enough to work on (a mockumentary called 'Stuntmen') has been short and mostly uninteresting, but at least I got some snow.  Had no need of a hangover this morning either (welcomed 2008 in the back seat of a car with none of the otherwise interesting connotations that implies available to me), so went out to catch a film.

A classic revenge-tragedy set in the dark, filthy streets of old London and steeped in blood and music.  A harmony of contrast, black, white, and blood red.  Twisted paths, grim tales, the agony of misspent revenge, and really good meat pies!

"Sweeny Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street," the classic Sondheim musical, was something I was once very close to performing in.  Dr. Susan Whiteknight wanted me to do a bit part during a production at UVSC, but I declined based on my lack of singing.  A wise decision at the time.  Doubt I'd have had any place in the newest production, Tim Burton's film starring Johnny Depp, unless I'd been able to get in as an AD!

Saw Burton's interpretation today with Mum at a pretty full matinee in Provo.  Was a little nervous after somewhat lame shows of "I Am Legend" and "AVP:Requiem" over the holidays.  And Burton hasn't always been on key ("Planet of the Apes" was pretty blah).  "Sweeny Todd," was, however, a perfect project for Burton's macabre style, and although the nepotistic casting of Depp and Helena Bonham Carter was somewhat trite, they performed exceedingly well.  Depp, while channeling a little of Captain Jack Sparrow, slipped nicely through despondent depression to violent rage to absolute madness, and his singing, while not Groban-esque, was vibrant and full of character.  I was a little too interested in Bonham Carter's, um, corset at first, and her uber-pale make-up got old, but she balanced her yearning for Todd with the requisite comic-timing for the role quite well.  Alan Rickman was a nice Judge Turpin, although I felt his singing moments were below the grade for the rest of the cast, and Sacha Baron Cohen (of Borat fame) was surprisingly appropriate as the foppish mountebank, Pirrelli.  Wasn't as fond of Jamie Campbell Bower as Anthony (a little too pretty and clean as a "sailor," unless simply used as a buggering tool), although his singing was good.  Jayne Wisener as Johanna was sweet to look upon, but a little high in register for me to enjoy her voice.  Ed Sanders as the boy, Toby, was extremely well played, and his rendition of "Not While I'm Around" to Mrs. Lovett was particularly stirring, especially due to Bonham Carter's reactions.  Brought a tear to my eye the way no other prepubescant boy can.  Extremely well played and filmed.

As is standard in a Burton piece the production design was beautifully gothic and evocative of the story. Grim and grey, although occasionally off key with obvious (although somewhat necessary) CG work.  Nothing was too terribly outstanding, this is Burton after all and his sensibility does tend to get comfortable in it's own niche, but it all worked quite well for the piece.  The bloody throat slashes, cuts, stabs, and slits were all nicely blood red against the pale toned skins, and each was appropriately gruesome for the R rating.  The geysers and gurgles were cringe-worthy, and although I could understand my Mum's desire for a slightly less graphic rendition, I still argued that the bloodiness informed the story, depicting Todd's true madness and descent into the vicious circle of revenge.  This was a tragedy in the classical sense, and I felt it really delivered on the macabre cautionary tale with all it's twists, turns, ups, downs, hamartias and hubris'.  The comic relief, inherent in Sondheim's original, was also top-notch, performed and staged with a kind of sinister glee.  I was quite happy with the production, as happy as one can be with a bloody tale of revenge and vermin and pies.  Except for one thing.


SPOILER WARNING...  DON'T READ THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPH UNLESS YOU'VE SEEN SWEENY...





SPOILER AHOY!





The only performance really missing, I felt, was at the end.  Todd's discovery that he had mistakenly killed his wife (whom he'd thought long dead) prompted in him a momentary madness that ended with Mrs. Lovett in the oven.  He then returned to Lucy's body and sat dejectedly looking over her until a slight realization of his impending death which is delivered by Toby.  While the imagery and the performances were nice and nuanced, I wanted a greater realization on Todd's part, a more visceral reaction to the understanding that he had cut his wife's throat, that his lust for revenge and inability to see beyond that goal had robbed him of the possibility of finding happiness with his family again.  Needed a dash of wailing and gnashing of teeth I suppose.  Again, his return to dejected despondency was nicely done, but I felt the theme of the piece needed a little stronger push, the big reveal that thirst for blood had claimed Todd himself as a victim long before the razor slid across his throat...







END SPOILERS




Anyway, a fine if bloody film for New Year's Day.  Reminds me of the artistry and passion I once respected in musicals, and also reaffirmed a faith in the comfortable gothic stylings of Tim Burton.

And I also bought a DVD of the classic Danny Kaye flick, "The Court Jester."  Slightly less bloody, that one.  :-D

So I've found there's something disconcerting about the life of a freelance film junkie, one negative that I haven't been very good at handling.  The lack of work when you hit a wee dry spell, the inevitable glumness following a wrap.  Can't say I've ever been good at self-motivation from a dead stop.

So since finishing "The Naked Eye" back in October (remember the thing with my shins?  No?  Then take a peek at my flickr page at http://www.flickr.com/photos/popebabylon/) I didn't have much going for me.  Sat about, applying to gigs online and sending a few emails, but in general awaiting the inevitable need to get a job at Toys-R-Us over the holidays.  Wasn't in the best mood.

Did manage to get a few days working for a company that made spots for expertvillage.com.  Mostly logging timecode and trying to help with coordination, but the few days I did were a little frustrating due to the constraints of the budget and time versus the expected amount of footage (four 15-30 minutes episodes in one 6-hour day).  Still, kept my head on, enjoyed the company and the cooking tips, and also did some graphic design for Creative Media Partners (posters for the HD Expo) and kept applying to other gigs.

Felt like the long haul kinda paid off last weekend when I volunteered for a PA gig on a spec pilot.  Busted my ass taking care of paperwork and talent on set and earned myself a 1st AD credit (although I was only doing 2nd AD work... I think the 1st AD was, um, not supposed to be there).  And worked for a night in a working topless bar...  errrr.  I suppose that should've been a perk, but knowing me, just can't enjoy it.   ;-)    In any case, made some awesome contacts and a little bit o' money for the pilot, and now Tyson can't threaten me with strip clubs anymore!

Now all this is good, great even, but not going to pay my bills for the month ahead or really push me to the next level.  Then I got a call from a fellow named Roger who's producing a wee piece being shot in Burbank.  I think I'd originally applied for a 2nd AD or PA position, but seems their 1st AD situation was weak, so they started talking to me about that.  Part of me felt I wouldn't get the nod, but part of me really hoped for it to the point where I told another interview "there's this other opportunity..." before I was even remotely sure.  But I was hungry for this gig.  I kept telling myself to "nail it right to the effing wall" in my best Sigourney Weaver impression.

So...

Here I am.  Somehow hired as the 1st AD on an special-effects heavy independent film version of Ray Bradbury's short story, "Chrysalis."  See http://www.chrysalismovie.net.  I've burned the midnight oil and worked out a solid 1st pass at a schedule, made some solid adjustments to call sheets and PR's I've used in the past (thanks Katie and David!!!), and so far impressed the shit out of the director and producer.  And to really get me excited?  Went by the effects house that's doing the "chrysalis" today and was completely BLOWN AWAY by their work...  http://www.romairestudios.com/.  Absolutely amazing!

In any case, if you don't hear from me for three weeks just know I am in a whirlwind, but am absolutely digging it!  This is going to be a great experience, is gonna help the resume immensely, and above all, it's sci-fi!  How can't I love it!  :-)

I am a better man, because I know I am not a better man.




re: manta 1, mantra 2