First Light

Things are at a fever pitch within the James Bond universe. B-heads are in a tizzy. For the first time in a long time, a new Bond video game is coming out, First Light, with the title song by Lana Del Rey. Additionally, we inch closer to production of the Denis Villeneuve-directed installment. And until the cast and title of the production is announced, this will probably be the last time I will discuss James Bond for the foreseeable future.

I’ve discussed what I think will probably happen — we’ll probably get a cerebral look into James Bond’s origins. I’ve stated my objections to this premise but it’s out of my control. The best I could offer is how to make that premise work, assuming that’s the direction they’ll go down.

But the question is: what do I want?

I’ve said time and time again, the objective for screenwriter Steven Knight and Denis Villeneuve is simple: just tap the ball. Audiences are already primed so there’s no need to do too much. I’m sure Steven Knight is more than capable of delivering a solid script. My concern is for Villeneuve. I’ve seen nothing in his filmography that would suggest he could handle the James Bond aesthetic. But time will tell. To be honest, I’d rather have a non-auteur behind the camera, someone who knows how to deliver the goods. I’m thinking of someone like Top Gun:Maverick director Joseph Kosinski.

But if I had a shot at the script, I’d simply restore the formula: a cold open that’s unrelated to the main plot, a complicated and hilariously convoluted plot, and an over-the-top yet simple villain. Are all of those things somewhat out of step with modern storytelling? Absolutely. But that’s part of the charm. James Bond is a callback to escapist cinema. Besides, it would be refreshing to see at this point. In our dark and cynical times, seeing a crazy villain out for world domination, without respect to global politics, would be a return to an older era: when good guys were good guys and bad guys were bad guys (even if Bond himself is a morally grey character working for the good guys). It would be a good jumping off point for the main plot: world leaders on edge over some realistic crisis are suddenly brought together to handle an ACTUAL bad guy. So the level headed British dust off the world renowned alcoholic, gambling addict, womanizer, and borderline sociopathic serial killer James Bond to save the day. And save the day he does. By the end of the film, the nations of the world are united thanks to Bond’s PP and his Walther PPK. Meanwhile, Bond himself couldn’t give less of a shit. While the United Nations uncork Champagne bottles and cigars, he’s in some mountain hideout and fuckin his way from one end of the room to the other. And the ending title card reads James Bond Will Return.

Audience applaud.

As for actor playing James Bond, I have no opinion. Villeneuve expressed a desire for a Sean Connery-like portrayal and I’m fine with that. But if that’s the direction they want, they’ll have to get an actor in his late 30s to 40s. In fact, Bond should perpetually be late 30s and 40s. He’s a force of nature and not necessarily a character with an origin and an ending. He’s a living myth. So no need to give him a biography or motivation. Just send him on a mission and let him cook.

THAT’S the James Bond movie I want.

Mer Rouge (Part 23)

On the city outskirts, where the cliffs drop sharply, the motorbike pulled off into a gravel pit where a shanty ice cream shack overlooked the mighty Mississippi. The brothers dismounted the bike and joined the gaggle of denizens standing in line for a tasty summer treat. When their turn arrived, the server sporting a white soda jerk hat, removed the pencil behind his ear and put it to paper. “What can I get you boys?” he asked them. But the brothers only glared at him from behind their reflective shades, their faces as unflappable as a clear midnight moon. The man nodded. “Oh okay. I’ll just get y’all a vanilla cone,” the server said. He brought them the cones, already dripping from the excessive heat, and the brothers wandered off to a lonely corner of the pit and gazed upon the wide river below with the green flats on Louisiana on the other side.

This puzzled the Priest. There was something hauntingly serene about these two men as they shared their moment of solitude. It didn’t appear that they exchanged a word. But the priest watched them from afar. He tailed them stealthily in a nondescript beige Chrysler that he stole in a parking lot in Memphis. He’d occasionally break visual contact down Highway 3 to avoid detection. Yet the priest was beside himself when he discovered the charred remains of Deputy Ricketts and his squad car. He had only been minutes behind. Now he laid low. He looked to the backseat to check on the 12 gauge Mossberg and then he reached into his cossack to check the chamber of a Smith & Wesson .38/44.

Meanwhile, the brothers took their sweet ass time munching down the cones. But when they finished, one climbed back on the bike and one into the sidecar and they roared their way on into Vicksburg. The priest trailed behind. A couple of miles later, the brothers entered the nearly deserted downtown area and the priest pulled off into an alleyway and readied his weapons. A block away, the brothers stopped by a lonely barbershop and dismounted. With a shotgun under his smock, the priest sauntered over to mainstreet and saw the deserted motorbike. Not wishing to attack them head on, he continued towards the alley behind the barbershop and picked its lock. Once inside, he held the Smith & Wesson and tiptoed his way through the back end of the shop. He could hear the brothers on the other side of the wall.

“Are you Fornier?” a voice asked.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Tax day II: it happened AGAIN?!

So am I against my tax dollars being used to fund Ice and various military aggressions in the Middle East? Yeah yeah yeah. I’m against that shit too. But really pisses me off is that my tax dollars go to Florida. You know, that piss pit that hangs off the continental US? If my money should be used for anything, it should be to make that place not exist. Both as a major population center and a geographical location. It’s an abomination to god. The only thing that state is good for is drunk driving, meth lab explosions, old people fuckin, and college football. It should be outlawed. All of it. Does Trump want to boost his popularity? Then invade Greenland, let the ice melt, and let’s sink that landfill once and for all.

THAT’S something I’d give money towards

Tax day

I slipped into a slight depression after filing my taxes because, for the 83rd year in a row, I learned I will be paying in. I thought I had Uncle Sam this time. I thought I had him bent over a barrel and I was gonna slap his butt cheeks blood red. Yet that wily bastard got away from me again.

Instead I fell asleep for 12 hours straight and I dreamt that I was at a protest in a Walmart parking lot where I was chatting it up with a girl. A guy, presumably her boyfriend, got protective of her, and I, reading the room, told them to have a good day and I walked away. The next day, I’m at the airport waiting for my flight. I noticed the same group of hooligans, including the girl, were setting up shittily designed explosives in the terminal. Counselor Deanna Troi and I foiled their plot and saved the day but naturally I caught the eye of the FBI. They noticed I was at both locations where the alleged terrorists were being monitored. Denying any association, I asserted that it was merely a coincidence that I was both locations. Skeptical, the feds order me to go “undercover” to track these folks down, which led me to a power plant in West Virginia. The dream trailed off from there.

But isn’t this essentially the plot to One Battle After Another? (Still haven’t seen it.) I feel like no matter how much I contribute to the economy, no matter how much I try to be an upstanding member of society, it still ain’t enough. It’s one battle after another. (Maybe someone should really explain that movie to me)

Mer Rouge (Part 23)

The screeching cicadas pierced through the cold silence as the sweat built up on the deputy’s neck. Not a peep was uttered by the suspicious duo. Not even a slight movement. They sat there hard and still like marble statues. The deputy stepped toward the grass and spat out the last remaining hulls between his teeth. “Well boys, are you gonna show me some identification?”

Nothing changed. He looked them up and down but couldn’t make heads or tails on what they might be hiding. They didn’t seem nervous. Not even a bead of sweat was apparent under all that leather. The deputy nearly asked them to step off the bike but before he did, a rickety pickup rounded the corner and sounded the horn. “Evening deputy!” the driver shouted. It was Hopper returning to his farm. The deputy turned his back and waved before resuming his duties. And when he did, the duo was gone. Vanished. Only the bike and the puny sidecar remained.

Ricketts drew his service revolver and searched the treeline. When he came up with nothing, he charged across the road and looked there. Out of options, he returned to the squad car and radioed in. “This is Ricketts. I’m out here on Highway Three and I urgently need another deputy…”

Before he could finish the request, a gigantic fireball exploded underneath his vehicle, lifting it a foot or two in the air before crashing back down. Then, out of the shadows, the brothers reappeared and assessed the carnage. The flames flashed brilliantly through their reflective shades. Satisfied with the destruction, they boarded the bike and kickstarted the engine. But clinging on to dear life, Ricketts pushed the drivers side door off its hinges and fell face first onto the pavement with revolver still in hand. His legs were blown off below the knees, left arm mangled, and his hair and clothes were burning into black carbon. “I’ll kill you!” he screamed with his dying breath. And in his final act, he emptied the revolver in the duo’s direction. Befuddled, the brothers flattened themselves to the ground and drew their weapons. But they watched the deputy pitiably claw his way across the road before the patches of fire spread and consumed him whole in the middle of the asphalt.

The brothers stood up and straightened themselves out and they faced each other for a hot moment. One nodded and the other returned it. Then they climbed on the bike and roared on into Vicksburg.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 22)

The putrid and rank possum’s corpse laid on the southbound lane headed into Vicksburg. For three days it festered under the sweltering August heat, with red guts spattered on both sides of the road before spoiling and flattening into a pancake with a few scant shit flies picking at its remains. On the northbound side, Deputy Gene Ricketts rested his squad car underneath the large sweetgum lined up on the left side entrance to the old Hopper farm by the lonesome highway. With the driver’s side door open, he spat countless sunflower seed hulls into the unkempt grass while Don Williams softly played. But when the sunflower seeds couldn’t keep his mind off the spittin tobacco, he turned to the 100 proof Jack in the concealed thermos on the passenger’s side floor. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the heat ratcheted up ten degrees every hour. As the time slowly passed, the deputy would dab a rag across his forehead. Eventually, the song faded out and the radio station transitioned to the latest country hit. And as it did, the deputy looked down the road towards the north. A mile or two ahead, through the unbearable Mississippi heat and mirage waves, a small motor vehicle came barreling towards him—an easy speeding ticket, likely his only for the day. He squinted his eyes. It was a motorcycle clearly, but with something peculiar. It had a sidecar. The deputy closed the door and cut on the engine and waited for the bike to roar past him. And when it did, the siren blared and the Warren County squad car sped away from the dirt patch on the side of the road and left a cloud of red dust lingering behind.

The bike didn’t put up much of a fight. Upon noticing the deputy behind, the driver pulled over and braked. The squad car stopped two or three meters away. Deputy Ricketts climbed out, shades concealing his eyes, and he slowly sauntered towards the offending vehicle. There were two men—one on the bike and one in the side car. Neither turned around. Neither made a sound. “Well boys,” the deputy said, “that’s one helluva knucklehead ya got there. Not sure if the sidecar is street legal. But I might let it slide.”

The two men—decked out in black leather, mud washed denim, and wearing German-made half helmets—remained silent. The deputy looked at the license plate. “Ontario?” the deputy beamed. “Canadian, eh?”

They said nothing.

The deputy strolled up to the front of the bike to gander at their faces. His brow furrowed. Like him, the two men had their eyes concealed behind reflecting shades. Their faces looked cut from stone, each sporting a dark chevron mustache. If the deputy had to have guessed, he would have reckoned they were twins. “My my,” Ricketts spoke, “don’t you two make quite a pair.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 21)

Oren lifted his head back as the smoke of freshly lit tobacco filled his eyes. He squinted a tad as he glared at the priest. He exhaled. Then he waved away the smoke. “I’ve heard the name before,” he told the priest..

The priest nodded. “You should have. He was a famous conquistador.”

Oren smirked, spat on the floor, and took another drag. “So you’re saying he shares a name with a famous conquistador?”

“No. I’m saying he is Hernando De Soto.”

Oren failed to contain his disbelief. He quickly guffawed then shook away his doubt momentarily. But before he said anything, he took the jug of shine. He drank of it and tried to work through the priest’s logic. “Let me get this straight,” he said, “Hernando De Soto is still alive because he found the fountain of youth. Now he’s hoarding it and pretending to be a judge of some city in the armpit of America. Did I get this right?”

“That’s a pretty asinine way of putting it. But yes.”

“It’s asinine. But that’s what you’re telling me.”

“Look son. I ain’t asking you to believe me. But I am asking you for your help. This fountain is the last of its kind. We destroy it, save your brother, and this curse on mankind is over with.”

“Last of its kind?”

“Yes. There were other fountains all around the world. I was a part of a holy order sworn to destroy all of them. Now I’m the last of that order. I destroy this fountain and my life’s mission is complete.”

“Uh huh. So, uh, how do you propose we destroy this fountain?”

The priest leaned back and stroked his long white beard. Then he gazed out past the shit smeared windows to the tall, scraggly grass outside and thought. “I haven’t thought that far ahead,” he said. “As I’m sure you can imagine, it ain’t gonna be easy. Of course, it doesn’t help that we ain’t the only ones lookin for it either. The Nine boys seem to have gotten a head start.”

Oren’s headache was starting up again. “Oh for fucks sake, who are the Nine boys?”

“Well, really they’re just called the Nine. But there’s only two of them.”

“Are they out to destroy the fountain too?”

“No. They aimin to take it.”

While struggling to understand this convoluted quandary, Oren thought it best to start pounding the shine. And in the midst of lingering between inebriation and a full blown concussion, it occurred to him that his objective remained—retrieve his brother and get the hell out of Louisiana. If he could find those stolen vacuum cleaners, that would be nice too. He kicked the tires with the priest. Maybe there was a solution in all this nonsense. “So are you gonna let em take it?” Oren asked.

“Shit. I don’t know which is worse—the Nine boys or Moorhouse Parish Sheriff’s Department.”

“How fuckin bad could it be? You said there were only two of them!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 20)

The priest took out a pack of matches and struck one. He lit his cigarette and then Oren’s and flicked his wrist a few times to snuff out the flame. And like all the other crap he had owned, he tossed the discarded match onto the floor. His eyes narrowed as the smoke rose. He took a drag and then another and leaned forward as his voice lowered to a haunting gist. “Mer Rouge is a sinister place,” he spoke.

Oren, non plexed, looked the priest dead in the eye. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

“I mean, the sheriff. The mayor. The judge. They ain’t what they seem.”

“Uh huh”

The priest dabbed on the cigarette and let the ash fall to the floor. “They come from a cursed past that should be buried under the sands of time. No man hailing from this age should ever utter their names. Their conquests. The things they discovered here. Humanity should have never of found.”

Oren, slightly irked, rubbed his forehead with the cigarette dangling between his fingers. “I’m not following,” he said.

“Here. Have some more shine,” the priest said. He handed him the jug and Oren took a small swig. The priest tapped on his cigarette again and continued. “No man was meant to live forever,” he warned. “I’ve been around the world and if there’s one lesson I’ve learned is that death is as vital as the air we breathe. Despite our instincts, immortality is a curse. It’s damnation. It chains us to an inescapable and abominable past that must be castigated.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

The priest slapped the cigarette out of Oren’s hands. “Listen to me goddamnit! There’s something here! In Mer Rouge! Something that needs to be destroyed and sent back to Hell!”

“Well spit it out damnit!”

“Alright alright.” The priest calmed himself and picked up the shine jug. “It’s the fountain of youth,” he said. “Judge Castor controls the fountain of youth.”

Despite his instinct to laugh, Oren entertained this story. “I thought that was in Florida.”

“No. It’s here in Louisiana.”

“That’s even worse.”

Oren reached for the priest’s smock and took out the pack of cigarettes along with the book of matches. He took one out and put it to his lips. “So uh, how did this Judge Castor come to control the fountain of youth?”

“Cuz he ain’t Judge Castor.”

“Is that right?” Oren asked with a shade of snark. Then he waved out the match.

“That’s right,” the priest nodded. “His real name is Hernando De Soto.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Chappie

I was driving 90 in a 35 in my brand new Fiat 500L when my mind started to wander. Whatever happened to Niell Blomkamp, I thought. So after crashing my Serbian-made piece of shit into the side of a Cracker Barrel, I crawled home with a lacerated artery and put on my copy of Chappie to see where it all went wrong. And truth be told, I had some mixed feelings. But thankfully, after losing several liters of blood, my thoughts suddenly became clearer.

Was it a bad movie?

Was it a good movie?

So it was just a meh movie?

Also no

Like any movie that swings for the fences, it is all of the above. So Blomkamp is like Icarus in many ways. And he shouldn’t be punished for that. He should be celebrated. But the problem with Chappie is that it tries to do too much in the span of two hours. As a result, this is one of those rare films that I think deserves to be longer. Yet, with that said, in an era prior to the 2010s, this story could have been easily told within a 120 minute timeframe. Blomkamp did it in 2009, very very successfully. District 9, the film that put him on the map and is the spiritual predecessor to this movie, clocks in at 1 hour and 52 minutes. The very same techniques that Blomkamp deployed there were also used for Chappie.

So what changed?

I felt that District 9 asked a lot out of its audience by sacrificing plot minutiae in favor of style, flow, and emotional resonance. It worked. But this Blomkamp recipe is quite exacting and elusive — it won’t work every time. It arguably didn’t work for Elysium and it didn’t quite work here. Strangely, in my view, what failed Elysium and Chappie were two different things. For Elysium, it was casting (Matt Damon was horribly miscast). But for Chappie, it is a more common and recognizable reason—an uneven script. I can applaud Blomkamp for wanting to explore the nature of consciousness, soul, and one’s relation to their maker, but it was done too heavy handed. Additionally, the set up was clumsily executed as it’s about 20 minutes and heavily contrived. “Chappie”, or the robot that would become Chappie, needed to land in the hands of Die Antwoord at around the 10 minute mark. Hugh Jackman’s character, and his inter office rivalry with Dev Patel, needed to be introduced with the primary plot already underway. The performances are effective, including the ones from Yolandi and Ninja of Die Antwoord, and especially from Dev Patel. The problem though is that Patel’s character is undercooked. Or overcooked depending on how you want to look at it because the quality of this movie is so hard to describe. A studio note from me would have been to make Patel less of an idealist and more of a tech-savvy but self-serving businessman whose appreciation of Chappie grows over the course of the film. Of course, his inter office rivalry would have made the film even more derivative of Robocop. But as I often say, who gives a shit? The point is to make Chappie the emotional core that all the violence and chaos orbits around.

But for all of its faults, for better or worse, Chappie is undeniably Blomkamp’s vision. The final sequence of action set pieces and the confrontation with Jackman feels earned. This is where Niell Blomkamp shines — the movie has a strong heart with blood pumping through its veins. (Which I won’t have for much longer until the paramedics arrive 😬)

Mer Rouge (Part 19)

The priest stomped back into the shed with his head a-buzzin. He couldn’t help but gnaw on his fingers as he tried to figure what the police knew. While lost in the fog of his own mind, Oren initially paid him little attention. But as panic mounted, the priest’s belly rumbled. First he ransacked the small cupboard of goods, littering more crap and much needed food onto the already cluttered floor. Then he turned his eyes toward Oren and barked. “GIMME THEM GODDAMN PEANUTS!”

Oren looked up from his nearly depleted cup. “But I almost ate them all!”

“Just give em to me!”

The priest yanked the cup from his hand, fork and all, and frantically chowed down. Oren was vexed. The ceaseless slurping and moaning wasn’t helping either. When the priest finished the last of the peanuts, he threw the cup over his shoulder and released a hellish fart. “Much better,” he said. Then he uncorked a jug of moonshine and gulped down.

Oren scratched his head. “So I take it that wasn’t the cops that chased us last night?”

“Nope,” he said and then loudly belched.

“Then who were they?”

“It was the West Carroll Sheriff.”

“And?”

“He was asking me about your truck explodin. He had to have gone to the Moorhouse Parish Sheriff but I don’t reckon they told him shit.”

“Was he lookin for me?”

“Yeah he was lookin for ya.”

“Is there a warrant or something?”

“No. But I wouldn’t trust these fuckers as far as you can throw em. So don’t go runnin to the West Carroll sheriff for help! Ya hear?”

“I know that. But how the hell am I gonna get my brother out of jail?”

“Just shut the fuck up. I’m thinkin.” The priest took another gulp of shine. And then another. He didn’t have the courtesy to offer some to Oren. Finally, after drinking nearly half a jug, he sat it down on the frail wooden table and lifted his leg. A second passed and then a tiny, pitiful fart eeked out of his asshole and he leaned forward while clutching his stomach. “Oof. Peanuts and shine are kickin in. Just a moment,” he uttered. Then he stood up, arms still wrapped over his belly, and he stormed out the back of the shed. After about five maddening minutes, the priest came back inside fully refreshed. “Goddamn,” he kept repeating. Then he sat back down at the rickety ass table and pulled out a cigarette, this time offering one to Oren. “Okay son,” he began, “better start drinkin this shine because you ain’t gonna believe what I’m fixin to tell ya.”

TO BE CONTINUED…