Joey

It's the writing, it's the writing, it's the writing.

Whenever Hollywood sees a success (like, f'r instance, "Friends"), the hacks in suits try to figure out what makes it a success:

"Hmmm...we need a show with attractive young people bantering"
"We need a show with 3 boys and 3 girls in apartments."
"Get me 6 unknown actors!"

"Friends" was not funny because of the premise, such as it was. "Friends" was just funny. Funny is funny -- and it's the writing!

Doesn't seem that hard to grasp, but apparently it is. The character of Joey Tribiani was funny when the scripts were funny. It's okay, moving the character to California, giving him a quirky sister and a quirky nephew and quirky neighbors and a quirky agent and quirks abounding....it'd be more okay if those quirks were actually funny. And they would be if the writing were funny!

Hmm....maybe I'm being redundant and repetitively redundant -- but "Joey" could be funny if....well, you know. The fact that it isn't is largely because, um....well, you know that, too.

I wish it were funny. Matt LeBlanc was pretty darned humorous on "Friends". Too bad that they didn't bring that quality to this vehicle.

The 60's, The 90's, and Now

During the Vietnam War, I was in high school -- prime draftable meat, although since I knew I'd be going to college, I wasn't particularly worried about being drafted. Still, I thought the war an abomination -- being waged by a corrupt president for the express purpose of building the coffers of The Man, the military-industrial complex.

Pretty sure I didn't know what the phrase "military-industrial complex" meant (or what "The Man" meant, for that matter). Still, I completely sympathized with the protesters, and considered them at the time to be true patriots. I (mostly) still do, for that matter.Of course, a fair share of them joined the protests simply because it was the thing to do -- young people are nothing if not peer-sheep -- but that doesn't (in my mind) demean the goals or ideals of those who were committed to the movement.

As for me, I didn't participate (much) in the anti-war protests -- I was a little young. I made some posters and put 'em up in the high school; I wore a black armband to school, but that was about it. In fact, some part of me always felt a little sad that I wasn't able to participate. By the time I got to college, the war was long over, Nixon was history, and nobody protested nothin'. I'm sure I would have been a war protester had I been in college earlier....and on some level, a part of me always felt a bit ripped-off that I missed it.

Later, from the perspective of the 90's -- from the perspective of a decade in which I (and most of us) had become The Establishment, with neatly grazed lawns and heavy mortgages and a healthy disdain for modern music -- I wondered how much (if any) difference any of that made. Maybe -- maybe!! -- the social climate fostered by the cynicism and protests ended the war a little earlier, but I'm not so sure about that....and the grand and glorious vision we all had about a new society somehow became smoke and moonbeams. This, also, made me a little sad.

Now, just like the 60's, we're at war again. I, personally, happen to disagree mightily with this war...and I'm not so sure that it's not also being waged to prop up an economy and keep The Man in power. And just like the 60's, people are facing ridicule and hatred, risking careers and relationships to try to bring this war to an end.

But as for me, I do nothing about it.

My point is not about the rightness of the war. My point is about my own social conscience. If, in fact, I believe this war to be wrong, shouldn't I be trying to do something about it? Shouldn't I have the courage to take a stand? If I'm a true "child of the 60's" (whatever the heck that's supposed to mean), shouldn't I be somehow involved in trying to evoke change?

I can't come up with a single good justification for my own inaction...yet I get up, go to work, come home, pull my weeds....

Star Wars III (I)

Geez.Stop, already.

You hooked us with "Star Wars"...and then really haven't told a good story since then.

The problems with this script (and indeed, all the Star Wars scripts) is epitomized in the scene in which Anakin Skywalker becomes Darth Vader. He sees the emperor (or governor (or some such needlessly titled bad guy))) in a battle with one of his fellow Jedi Knights.

"No!" he screams, in disbelief. "I can't believe it! You've been evil all along! I can't stand evil, and I'll never accept you!"

"Come to the dark side, young skywalker" says the (governor?).

"All righty," says Anakin. "Want I should kill all the little children back home, too?"

I may have paraphrased the scene, but not by that much.

Please. stop. making. these. films.

Star Wars III (II)

And shouldn't someone buy the future Dark Lord, the newly named Darth Vader, a facial expression? Even one?

No wonder he started wearing that mask.

Monday Night Football

It might be just me, but I wonder: is there still a real person hidden (deep) within John Madden?

Or has he now become nothing more than a combination of tics and meaningless phrases and "booms"?

He reminds me of a poorly written character in a would-be noir novel -- all eccentricity with no reality. I could comment that he could use some fleshing out, but when I think about seeing him in the camera shots within the booth, perhaps he's plenty fleshed out already.

The Constant Gardener

Ah, political thrillers. Such a fine line they usually have to walk -- twixt preaching and politically-correct nonchalence -- daunting enough in and of itself. Set the movie in Africa, stir the pot with corporate greed and the never-ending tension of race relations, and good luck, Mr. Director.

"The Constant Gardener" intrigues and infuriates, tempts you and teases you and forces you to re-examine and re-think as the plot unwinds. Ralph Fiennes and Rachel Weisz give empassioned (and in the case of Fiennes, understated and intense) performances, and the plot thickets through which the film navigates keep you guessing. Ultimately, however, "The Constant Gardener" becomes a polemic on the world's indifference to Africa and the free world's obsessive love affair with corporate profit; and ultimately, the film makes its points at the expense of a satisfying film experience.

It begins with the mysterious death of a British diplomat's wife, and then spins immediately back in time to their humble beginnings (a scene which begins with her standing on an unrequested (and largely unwarrented) soapbox and interrupting his tidy little speech; and which ends with the two of them (absurdly) in bed). Now, this film is most definitely not a romantic comedy, and the point of the film is most definitely not how this seemingly mis-matched couple (Hanks and Ryan, anyone?) get together -- but if you're going to include a scene in which they meet and fall in love, at least give it enough flesh so as not to cause the viewer to simply roll his eyes.

Still, together they end up....and once together, her unrelenting activism juxtaposed against his mealy diplomacy generate great tensions. How far will she go to achieve her altruistic aims? Is she, in fact, cheating on him? With multiple lovers? As he realizes that there is more to her undercurrent than to her waves, he tends to keep his knowledge to himself...and as we know only what he knows, we too are awash in mystery. Ralph Fiennes shines here, as a man whose "need to know" wrestles with his "need to pacify". After her death, as he slowly uncovers the mysteries she has kept, he finds himself embroiled in her cause, discarding his mollifying personality and taking up her memory as a knight errant.

Director Fernando Meirelles has chosen to enliven (one imagines) the mystery and surreality of the whole exercise with camera work that is as annoying as hell. He is in love with twitchy, handheld camera shots that are virtually unwatchable (and which, no doubt, would send the average epileptic into seizure) -- and those shots that don't quiver like Jello over the San Andreas tend to focus on Fienne's nostrils, or the back of Rachel Weisz's neck, or some other equally off-putting shot. Two actors of this intensity ought to be seen within the character they portray, and not as the oddly disjointed appendage. They teach in Film 101 (or if they don't, they should) that style is terrific, but style that exists only for its own sake is pointless. "Film Style" is cake icing -- even when tasty, too much of it simply makes for an inedible cake.

Oh, and New Rule: anyone who writes a scene in which the bad guy (for reasons imagined only by the writer) explains (in hoary detail) all the events and motivations that the protagonist would never have ferreted out on his own will be forced, as punishment, to watch all the Gilligan's Island movies over and over and over (and to write an essay explaining how the professor could make a radio out of coconuts but can't patch the damn boat).

So. Should you see it? Probably. The lessons learned here are real, and the scenes shot within real African slums are both disturbing and, in their own way, elegant. The people in such inimaginable poverty still have lives full of music and color, rich and full (and sans television, if you can imagine)...but after you see it, you'll feel more like you attended a strident lecture than a thoughtful film.

Napoleon Dynamite

Well, I admit I was late to this party. Furthermore, it's the kind of party I hate -- filled with buzzwords and catchphrases; more bumper sticker and t-shirt than script.

It's a pretty reliable rule-of-thumb that the likelihood of my enjoyment of a movie is inversely proportional to the osmosis of said movie into popular culture. And make no mistake about it, "Napoleon Dynamite" is (for now, at least) as thoroughly enfused into popular culture as a weevil into bolls.

So. Attached to this movie are all the things (well, most of them, anyway) that drive me monkey about popular movies.

And yet. And yet.

I liked it very much. I might have loved it, truth be (shyly) told. It's a script like no other -- ever! -- and the perfomances (as filled with pecularity and uncommented oddness as they may be) are spot on. Napoleon is a geek -- Napoleon is a geek's geek -- he's the ubergeek....as played by Jon Heder, he may be the pure distillation of geek.

But here's the thing: this movie is kind to him. We laugh at his quirkiness and (uttter!) lack of social skills, but we never laugh at him. He's not a caricature to be mocked -- he's a fleshed out young man, struggling to find himself. Just like I did. Just like we all did.

And there are those who claim the movie to be plot-free. To this, I say first that Socrates might have been a little overly enraptured by plot, but I also say that this movie absolutely does have a point....and that point is brilliantly captured in his solo dance.

"Napoleon Dynamite" is about friendship and loyalty and individuality and even (especially as seen in the (unimaginably bizarre) courtship of Kip and LaFawnda) embracing one's place in the universe. This movie is important to young people for far more than the collection of quotes they have incorporated into their speech -- even if they don't know why it's important to them. This movie is about all of us, and the way we all struggle to dance through our own dysfunctions.

Even when our lips hurt real bad.

College Football

I attended an OSU football game (thats The Ohio State University, doncha know) last weekend. I attended a small college (whose football team was excellent (in that small college football way (which is to say we had the best players among the worst group of players in football))). Football games at Dinkburg U. were pretty much a fun diversion if you didn't have anything else to do, and weren't overly hung over.

At the horseshoe, however, it's a different universe.

Now, I'm not stupid or naive (although I did once say that we should give poor misunderstood Albert Belle a break, so I may not be the best judge of my own naivete). Still, I was not prepared for the roiling sea of scarlet and grey, for the mountain of noise within that stadium, for the passion that exploded when the players entered the field.

Three rows ahead of me sat a little old lady, hair as grey as a Cleveland winter....with scarlet spots painted on her head.

I know, I know, college sports has become a hypocritical big business, one in which the primary employees do not participate in the profits. I know, I know.....but the pageantry and ritual and unabashed love there gave me a warm and happy feeling anyway.


When the best damn band in the land spelled out the script "Ohio", I literally got goose bumps...and that's been a while.

Ender's Game

I used to read science fiction fairly avidly, although (trust me) I never fell (too too deeply) into the SF Nerd pool (No "Live long and prosper"s or Empirial Storm Trooper outfits for me).

Still, somehow I never quite got around to reading "Ender's Game", despite the almost cult-like love for the book (especially (but not exclusively) among young people). I suspect that on some level, the appeal to youth probably made me feel that the book was not an adult book.

Wrong. So terribly, misguidedly, blindly wrong.

"Ender's Game", while concerned with the life of a young man, examines themes of life, and destiny, and dedication and heroism and the triumph of the oppressed. It touches upon xenophobia and genius and what makes a man a man.

"Ender's Game" is a work of unquestioned brilliance.

Prior to the opening of the book, the earth had been attacked by an alien race (and had barely survived). To prevent future attacks, the combined countries of the world decide to seek and destroy the home of the aliens, eliminating the fear of future attacks. Ender Wiggins, a young man in a world set in a recognizable future world, is recruited by the government to participate in their "Battle School".

Battle School is a school located off-planet, populated by a group of super-genius children, bred specifically to act as the military planners that will lead humankind to eventual victory. Ender is both the smallest (and most resourceful) of these children, and he quickly rises to prominence within the Battle School.

Juxtaposing Ender's growth as a leader against his questions about his destiny; watching him find ways to win his battle games while still struggling to survive in the real world of jealousy and politics and youthful exuberance makes for compelling reading....and, unlike many such works, the ending is both satisfying and thoroughly thought-provoking. Ender, and "Ender's Game" will linger long after the book has been read.

Reality TV

Explain 'Reality TV' to me.

Now, I'm not talking about the whole issue of how unreal reality television is (although the concept of a carefully scripted reality show is pretty oxymoronish)...nor am I talking about the passion with which many viewers identify with the 'contestants'.

After all, it's a fine line, in many cases, between reality shows and game shows....so I do understand the vicarious thrill that's possible when a player wins. Doesn't do much for me, but at least I understand how that could have some appeal.

What confounds me is the ubiquitous and selfish meanness rampant in (most of) these shows. The contestants make no secret of their complete obsession with self (in fact, the shows themselves are set up to reward self-obsession). Moreover, the contestants (often) indulge in taunting and braggadocio not unlike the ugliest WWF or NBA player.

But as viewers, do we -- are we supposed to -- identify with them? Are we supposed to care about and cheer for any of a group of self-promoting, unrepentantly greedy people?

And if we do, what does that make us?

Law And Order

Yeah, it's a franchise....and a franchise that has lived a long full life. Pasture, anyone?Sam Waterston is still brilliant as the scratchy curmudgeon district attorney, but most of the rest of the luminaries have slowly been replaced by lesser stars. The loss of Jerry Ohrbach was massive -- his cranky cop attitude, his acceptance and struggle with his alcoholism, his wise-guy demeanor and smart mouth, his decaying relationship with his offspring, his reluctance to give in to age...all facets of an intriguing and compelling character.

The guys that replaced him and Jesse L. Martin (fine actors and exemplary citizens in their private lives, I am sure) just didn't have it. I couldn't make myself care about them. And Waterston hasn't had a good foil since Angie Harmon (whose unyielding press for hardline justice made him seem almost gooey). The blond (Elizabeth Rohm) never became more than a bimbo (and no, it's not just because of the hair (although it might have been the pouty lips (kidding, kidding))). I really think it had much more to do with her wooden approach to acting. Couldn't at least one director suggest she employ a facial expression or two?

And who knew how central Steven Hill was? His tough but pragmatic approach to justice brilliantly counterpointed Sam Waterston's inflexibility, creating a weekly dynamic that only grew more sizzley as the years went on. Fred Dalton Thompson just seems hard-assed and unemotional.

Is there hope for this franchise? Maybe, yeah...but I fear (since I watch so little television, anyway) that I won't be around to see it. Very few shows make my short list of must-sees...and "Law and Order" is no longer on that list.

Cinderella Man

While on vacation, my wife and daughter wanted to see some movie about travelling pants (my 'y' chromosome is blocking my full recall of the flick's title, doncha know). My son and I debated about the list of things we would rather do than view this particular movie....jogging in barbed wire boxers made the list.

So. At the particular multiplex wherein we so waffled, "Cinderella Man" was showing. I didn't have a huge desire to see the movie (despite good reviews), and Russell Crowe is certainly a jerk. But the movie promised scenes of guys punching other guys, and in comparison to the estrogen-fest my girls chose, we decided to see it.

At the very least, we'd be able to indulge in the requisite buttery corn snack.

Turns out that "Cinderella Man" is a terrific movie. Jerk he may be, but Russell can act. The movie itself is a pretty sentimental morality tale centered on a cardboardly heroic figure. In terms of character arc or dramatic flow or even passable dialoge, Russel Crowe received no favors from the script writer.

By the way, do all protagonists have to be unrelentingly good? Whatever happened to the flawed and tragic hero?

Anyway, despite the gooey and flawed script, Crowe's performance was (almost) oscar-worthy. He made an uninteresting guy (albeit one with an unusually interesting story) into a character worth spending time with....even one (dare I say it) that could serve as a viable role model.

Being older than dirt, I've seen roughly 9,000 boxing movies....yet this one made me almost cheer out loud. Ron Howard may plumb the depths of sentimentality, but recognizing that doesn't mean I can't fall for it anyway, when the performance and directing are good enough.

"Cinderella Man" is good enough.

Talk Show Bullies

I leave the office every day to go to lunch. I find that sitting at my desk for lunch causes all of the following to happen:

1) Everyone living toddles into my office to talk to me, ask me to do things, borrow aspirin, generally disrupt my (mostly derailed) train-of-thought.
2) My blood pressure, stress level, and head-achiness grow like bamboo.

When I leave the office and eat out, the following things happen:

1) No one talks to me (except to say "You want fries with that?"), no one wants anything from me, I get to think about the Browns and the next season of The West Wing" and whether we'd all be better off being hunter-gatherers.
2) My cholesterol and weight grow like the Andromeda Strain.

It's not a perfect set-up, granted, but it's better for me to go out to lunch.
So. Since I take lunch at mid-afternoon, I always hear Jim Rome (who is on opposite Rush Limbaugh) as I drive to my gourmet repast. Both these guys disturb me. Well, truth be told, their listeners disturb me far more.

There's an unpleasant undercurrent in (many) Americans today, a sneering superiority, a build-myself-up-by-slamming-everyone-else attitude, a "Me me me" mode that is, at the very least, unbecoming to a country that prides itself on diversity and acceptance and free speech.


Rush Limbaugh and Jim Rome and Bill O'Reilly (especially Bill O'Reilly) (oops, did I let a bit of my petticoats (otherwise known as "disdain for the right") show?) cater to the most unthinking, mean, and bully-attracted among us. Now, this comment is not meant to convey any opinions as to the general rightness or wrongness of these guys and their ilky ilk....rather, it's the trend of so many people to choose to align themselves with the loudest and pushiest among us that distresses me. Rome and his clones, Limbaugh and his ditto-heads....these are people who choose snideness over kindness, clever put-downs over thoughtful discussion, closed-wall entrenchment over any sort of interpersonal relationship.

These are bullies, no different from Spanky's Butch or Franklin's Adolph....they're small men who speak loudly, and who attract an even louder following full of pride in their own thoughtlessness.

I find it all distressing.

Hidden Prey

This is yet another of the Lucas Davenport "Prey" novels. I happened upon this series by accident (basically, I was preparing to eat a Whopper (with (plenty of) cheese, thank you very much) and I needed something to read. The CVS next door had about 6 books in their cheesy paperback book section, and one of the Prey novels was there.

1 minute (and 6 bucks) later, I was reading John Sandford and noshing on about 1800 calories of greasy bliss.

What I learned (before my arteries completely clogged) was that Sandford could write, and Lucas Davenport is a heck of a character. Intelligent and tough, dark and multi-faceted (without being noir-brooding-cliched), I found the book an excellent read. Subsequent novels hooked me -- each novel maintained its own raison d'etre (which, I know, sounds vaguely like fruity french cooking) while building interest in the arc of the character.

In "Hidden Prey", Lucas ends up investigating the death of a russian sailor. Soon, he is embroiled (although he does not know it) in an old russian spy ring. The book shifts back and forth between Davenport and the two main spies (Grandpa, an elderly spy who has waited years to be called upon, and Carl, his grandson and would-be protege (and the murderer in question)). Davenport is assisted by Nadya, a russian cop (who, of course, turns out to be a spy herself).

Lots of opportunities for mystery and betrayal and the deliciously slow unfolding of the enigmas within the mysteries. Unfortunately, "Hidden Prey" had none of that. Davenport, for the most part, simply muddles from place to place, accompanied (and frequently annoyed by) Nadya. Nadya, for her part, seems to offer nothing to the investigation or the book (except the observation the America has "too many signs").

Ultimately, the bad guys are outed (much more by luck (and fortuitously absurd plot twists) than by any real detecting)....but about 5 minutes after finishing this book, I had already forgotten most of it. Sandford is better than this. Much better than this.

As Simple As Snow

I just finished the book "As Simple As Snow"

Um, what would be the emoticon for "absurdly, passionately, bone-chillingly frustrated"? If there was one (and if I used emoticons), this would be the place for it.

Well-written and haunting, the book creates memorable characters with mysterious backgrounds and inexplicable motivations. The plot layers mystery upon mystery, grabbing you, begging you to read to the conclusion....

....said conclusion then containing no answers at all.

Stick a damn needle in my eye, willya?

I mean, I'm not (one hopes (or at least I hope)) a total cretin, and I like having my brain engaged in a good read. In fact, if I remain unengaged I'm unlikely to want to finish the book. But c'mon. You can't make me read it and then explain nothing!

Anna disappears...is she dead? Or pretending to be dead?
Anna communicates with the narrator from the dead...or does she?
Anna hated the art teacher, for no reason we can readily discern (yet the art teacher is a mysterious character, so we want to know what happened there).
Anna listens to shortwave radio channels that broadcast nothing more than continual strings of numbers. What's that about?
The narrator's best friend leaves town (or is he dead, too?). Later he returns -- where was he? Why did he leave?

These and a kabillion other mysteries create a dense and intricate, fascinating world...but they all remain unanswered. Nothing at all gets answered. Nothing.

Especially the most mysterious question of all -- why did I spend so damn many hours reading the stupid thing?

The Day After Tomorrow

Last night, my daughter and I ordered a pizza and sat down together to watch a movie. We rented "The Day After Tomorrow" (which was her idea). I have to admit I (sorta) liked it. It was not what you might call a good movie, in the sense of having a good script, or good characterization, or good, you know, anything....but it was entertaining, and Roland Emmerich really does know how to blow stuff up .

Pretty dumb, though, really....especially when Dennis Quaid felt he had to travel -- on foot! -- through a storm supercell that had already been identified as being capable of freezing a man solid in seconds. Why? To save, apparently, his son (who was doing just fine in a warm library).

When he got there, what exactly did he do? He hugged him (and got warm (thanks to the son's fire)). This is almost as dumb as the bimbo venturing into the dark basement alone when she knows there's a killer in the house.

No, it isn't -- it's dumber.


The movie then adds really dumb scenes, like the (really! dumb!) scene in which they characters race down a hallway, pursued in some odd and unconvincing way by.....frost.

But he does know how to wreck buildings...and did I enjoy cuddling on the couch with her and eating pizza while watchin' it? Yep. Very much yep.

And my brain was not exhausted afterwards, so there's that.

Million Dollar Baby

Everything everyone has said about "Million Dollar Baby" is true -- this is the work of three actors on top of their game, and a competent and understated director who stays out of the way.

The performances by Clint Eastwood and Morgan Freeman were (as usual) filled with nuance and unspoken power....but Hillary Swank's performance just blistered off the screen. Glowing with an innocent charisma enfused with the fire of her inner drive, she carried the film as the titular character, the driving force of the plot, and the center of the moral storm.

If I were to fault this movie, it would be for the one-sided presentation of the right-to-die debate. A movie that had, until the ending, been colored in shades upon shadows of gray became a fairly black-and-white examination of the issue. Now, my own liberal sensibilities were not particularly offended by that, but I wish the movie had been a little less sure of itself, had agonized a bit more about the difficulties of the decision.

Still, while perhaps not a perfect movie, "Million Dollar Baby" is nothing short of terrific, and (yet another) tour de force for Clint Eastwood.

Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince

"Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" is far darker and more intense than any of the others, and I liked it very much.

The one thing I always found a little weak in the books was the unrelenting nastiness of Snape and Malfoy. Yes, earlier Snape did have his (sort of) moments of redemption (when he tried to save Harry during the Quidditch match in the first book, for example); and yes, Snape did become a (slightly) more sympathetic character in the 5th book (when we saw Harry's dad cruelly taunting him). But Harry never felt anything but hatred for either character, and I found that a little one-dimensional.

(MAJOR SPOILER ALERT -- SPOILER'S A-COMIN'!)

In this book, though....in this book, Snape reveals his true evil duplicity, and Malfoy (after becoming a Death Eater) shows some fear and even compassion (or at least an unwillingness to utterly embrace evil). Harry gains a small sympathy for Draco and a final and complete hatred for Snape. Both character arcs made this one far more interesting to me....although it's still hard to fathom Snapes coldly murdering Dumbledore. I wonder if we've actually heard the last of Dumbledore (I've been wondering the same thing about Sirius).

This one was a thrilling read, and Harry's embracing of his cold loneliness and singular destiny made the ending of this one uniquely dark and compelling.

I have to admit, I enjoyed them all, but this is the first one that I legitimately enjoyed on its own, without needing/wanting to share it with my wife and my son. I just liked it.

The Dark Tower, Book 7

Earlier this year, I finished Stephen King's "The Dark Tower" series. After 7 books (and many thousands of pages), Roland (the last gunslinger of Gilead) finally reached the tower. This has been -- make that had been -- a hell of a series. Inventive, engaging, and wholly unlike anything else he's written.

In the end, Roland's ka-tet (his unbreakable group of friends, joined by ka (destiny) and their unique love for one another) breaks up. This made me sad, although the book never promised that the ending would be purely saccharinely "happy". Part of the quest always included the risk of death, and the risk of severing the ka-tet. Roland still makes it to the tower and protects it.

However. How-damn-ever.

Roland finally enters the tower, alone (which had been his destiny and lifelong pursuit)....and then Stephen King drops the bomb. Roland has been in hell all along, and when he gets to the tower, he is doomed to REPEAT his quest again....as he has already done innumerable times before.

What the hell is that? I ask you -- what the hell is that? How dare he? How DARE he? How could King let me invest this much time in his "magnum opus" only to find that I've been wasting my time? That I was not really travelling with the "last gunslinger" on a quest of glory, but rather was watching a small portion of a good man's journey through unending hell (and Roland is in this hell for no good reason, I might add). King does sort of imply that Roland was trapped in this torture because he failed to pick up a glove during a battle, for whatever idiotic sense that makes (then he sort of implies that on Roland's next trip to the tower, he may find relief (because the next time, he did pick up the glove)). Still. How stupid, how unsatisfying, what an utter betrayal of my loyalty as a reader.

Yes, indeed, I sorely wasted my time and energy reading it.

It makes me so angry and put-upon that I swear I am done with Stephen King. Other than this series, I had not been a fan for a long time anyway, and now I am done.

The Sign of the Book

I just finished "The Sign of the Book". This was the fourth in a series about an ex-cop turned rare book dealer. The first was fascinating in its details about the book collecting world, and Cliff Janeway, the lead, was an interestingly tough/upright (if only a bit cliched) character.

By now, though, the series has run out of steam. For most of the book, this was a pretty good read -- John Dunning does know how to make you turn the pages -- but the ending was preposterous.

First of all, the "who" in the "whodunnit" was ridiculous. Worse was a looooong scene in which -- for no apparent or good reason -- the killer spent pages explaining everything that happened and why they did it. Yeesh.

This kind of scene felt cliched to me when I used to read it in The Hardy Boys.

The Longest Yard

For most of "The Longest Yard", I sat there hating it. Adam Sandler is no Burt Reynolds (and if
that ain't damning, nothin' is). The movie had no subtlety, no charm, no charisma....and frankly, no reason to exist.

That said, the final football game -- with its formulaic and utterly predictable ending -- still grabbed me. Not enough to recommend that anyone should see this movie, mind you....

And, just out of curiousity, who deemed the original as worthy of remake? If we're remaking films, shouldn't we at least remake good ones?

Okay, okay....I did like the original. But formula and charm do not equal classic.

Adam Sandler should go back to making other films.

Or not.

War of the Worlds

"War of the Worlds" was not bad -- not even close to the "A-" the Cleveland Plain Dealer rated it -- but not bad.

The movie had its moments. In particular, in one scene, a group of dazed survivors approach a train track when the crossing gates suddenly close. A passenger train roars past them, utterly engulfed in flames. Flames pour out of every window. It's a shocking image; made more shocking when the camera then cuts back to the survivors. The gates open, and they cross the tracks, showing no real reaction to the blazing train. They've already been scared and scarred beyond reaction.

Dakota Fanning, the newest child darling of the critics, proved that she can scream. Any acting ability beyond that remains undisplayed (in this movie, at least -- I hold out the possibility that in a different (and better (denser)) movie, she'd show some mad skills....like nunchuck skills, or computer hacking skills). Possible digression -- sorry.

Cruise is Cruise -- all teeth and charisma and intensity. Tim Robbins is wasted in a weird basement hidey-hole, although much of that fault may lie at H.G. Wells' feet.

Worth seein'? Yeah. Worth spendin' a lot of cash (or brain cells) on? Nope.

The Da Vinci Code

In the course of building my profile, I had to ponder my list of favorite books. I read mostly fiction, and about a book a week (give or take), so this was a hard one (which sounds like I'm talkin' dirty, but I ain't). I managed to list a few that, eclecticly, have delighted me in one way or another.

Thinking about my books sent me spinning about books in general, which sent me contemplating the best seller list (which juuuuust possibly might have as little to do with good reading as a Big Mac nutrition list has to do with good cooking).....which sent me to "The Da Vinci Code"

Sheesh. This book has been near the top of the list for WAY over a year, which is remarkable in that it may well be the most over-rated book in the history of publishing. Besides a convoluted plot that was less engaging than it was befuddling, the guy filled the book with deus ex machinaish resolutions. F'r example....after travelling the world to figure out the double secret probation password (I paraphrase) to an ancient container owned by the female protagonist's uncle, they finally discover that the password is.....the daughter's name. Now, besides the obvious breakage of all password security standards, did they really have to globe-trot to figure that out?

Hell, the author thinks that Leonardo's last name was "da Vinci", which actually means "of Venice"....yet some cottage industry has sprung up trying to explain all the deep secrets this guy seems to know.

Gimme the kool-aid.