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…

Mer Rouge (Part 18)

The priest waddled nonchalantly across the unkempt yard. His eyes ogled the dilapidated church. When DuPont saw him, he stepped out of the cruiser and rested his hands on top of the opened door. He watched the priest. The West Carroll sheriff had presumed that this man of God noticed his squad car roll up. He had presumed wrong. The priest seemed oblivious. He was mindlessly gawking off into nothing with his thumb up his ass. The sheriff loudly cleared his throat.

“Oh, forgive me! I didn’t see you there!” the priest lied. “What can I do for you, officer?”

DuPont removed his Stetson and extended his hand. “I reckon I should introduce myself. I’m Sheriff DuPont.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Ya know, I’m ashamed to admit this, but I didn’t know we had a Greek Orthodox Church until someone pointed it out to me the other day.”

“That’s quite alright, sheriff. The diocese just sent me out here. This church hasn’t been used in years, so I’m just wandering around trying to figure out what bullshit needs to be done to fix the place up.”

“I see,” said the sheriff. “Well I won’t keep you long. But there was an incident last night involving an explosion. It occurred about half a mile away from here. Off Kurtzy Road. Did you happen to see anything? Hear anything?”

“No sir. Don’t believe so.”

“Are you certain? The incident occurred about that-a-way,” the sheriff pointed towards the northwest. “It would have been a very loud explosion. You certainly would have heard it from this distance.”

“No sir, didn’t hear nuthin. What time did this happen?”

“Couldn’t say at this point. Probably before midnight.”

The priest squinted his eyes and stroked his long, grey beard. “Hmm. Well I went to bed quite early last night. And I’m a pretty sound sleeper.”

“What time did you lay down?”

“Oh I couldn’t say. Round eight.”

The sheriff nodded. “I see.” Then he placed the Stetson back on his head. “Well if you hear anything, please let my office know.”

“Yes sir. I will.”

DuPont sauntered back to his cruiser and the priest resumed gawking at the church. But as the sheriff opened the door, he spoke up once more. “One other thing, padre.”

This Priest bit his tongue.

“We don’t get too many new faces around here,” the sheriff said. “But you’re always welcome to stop by the sheriff’s office. We like to work closely with the faith leaders in our community. And besides, we need a new chaplain. I encourage you to apply.”

The priest smiled and waved. “I may do that, sheriff!”

DuPont returned the wave and planted himself in the driver’s seat. The priest turned around and walked back toward the church. But before the sheriff started the engine, he called out again. “Also, father!”

The Priest concealed his annoyance.

“There’s a gentleman we’re on the look out for,” DuPont shouted. “A black fella, about five foot eight. His name is Oren Waits. He’s not in any trouble, at least not with us, but if you see him, tell him I want to talk to him.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Move over citizen Kane

Why do we watch movies?

I don’t have an answer here, I’m genuinely asking why do we watch movies? Is it to think? Feel? Be entertained? Be turned on? To mindlessly pass the time? I really wanna know. I’m asking because I’ve come across a startling problem. Well, it’s not so much of a problem per se as it is something that we as a society have overlooked. And not just the average movie goer either. Critics and the film intelligentsia have long disregarded what they have known all along—Raiders of the Lost Ark is the most competent movie ever made. Of course, the AFI continues to acknowledge this. It remains ranked in the top 100 movies of all time. But somehow I feel it doesn’t get the respect it deserves. Like, we know it’s great. We just can’t comprehend how great.

I’ve racked my what little of my brain is left trying to address why that is. Raiders came at a time when Steven Spielberg was shitting out hit after hit. First came Jaws. Then came Close Encounters of the Third Kind (let’s forget 1941 for the moment). A year after Raiders, Spielberg released what some might call the pinnacle of his blockbuster era, ET. Meanwhile, George Lucas was in the middle of producing the OG Star Wars trilogy staring Harrison Ford, who was in the midst of cementing himself as the greatest leading man in Hollywood history. So we had three great minds at the height of their creative powers converging on one project. And it worked. It worked so well that we’re still struggling to understand it.

First the casting of Harrison Ford. As is well known, Tom Selleck was originally selected to play Indiana Jones. No doubt, he would have been good. But I implore anyone reading to go watch Selleck’s audition tapes. He’s intense. A little on edge. Kurt Russell gave a similar reading for Han Solo. When you compare Russell’s audition to Ford’s, you realize what an inspired choice it was to roll with Ford. Why? Because Harrison Ford looked liked he couldn’t have given less of a fuck. And that’s part of his charm. Lesser filmmakers, perhaps even filmmakers that many would consider great, might have gone with Kurt Russell or a more intense “actor’s actor”. But Lucas and Spielberg didn’t and their careers were rewarded because of it.

But something that always bothered me about the movie was its conclusion. If you recall, Indiana Jones was dispatched to find the Ark before the Nazis did. After some back and forth in Egypt, Jones secures the Ark in the greatest action sequence of all time and then stows it away on a ship. While in the Mediterranean, the Nazis intercept the vessel, take the Ark, and bring it to an isolated island with Indiana Jones secretly in tow. Jones is caught and is forced to be present when the primary antagonist opens the Ark, which unleashes the wrath of God, killing all the Nazis on the island and leaving only Jones and Marion alive. So if you think about it, Indiana Jones didn’t do much to save the day. IN FACT, it would have been better for the United States to not dispatch Indiana Jones and let the Nazis find the Ark for themselves to presumably open it in Hitler’s presence where he and all of the other high ranking Nazis would have been violently killed. So had US officials done nothing, World War II would’ve never happened. In other words, Indiana Jones started World War II.

But the important thing here is that none of this matters. Your brain didn’t notice this wild act of incompetence because writer Lawrence Kasdan tried to tell you this would happen in the opening scene. When we’re introduced to Indiana Jones, he’s in the middle of a South American jungle trying to steal a golden idol. After surviving numerous threats to his life, he achieves this only to have it pried from his hands by a rival archeologist. This sequence of events establishes Jones as an incredible archeologist in addition to being a scrappy survivalist, but in the world of Raiders, the field of archaeology is filled with treachery and avarice. So Indy can’t win em all. Even though Jones ultimately ends up with the Ark, it is pried away from him by higher powers, allegedly to be studied by “top men.”

And that’s the genius of this film. It begins as it ends. Where many might see a mindless, albeit well executed action/adventure movie, is actually quite well thought out. It’s little pieces like this that make Raiders of the Lost Ark the most competent movie ever made.

Mer Rouge (Part 17)

Oren was drenched in his own sweat while stowed away in a hotass shed behind Saint JohnChrysostom Greek Orthodox Church near Oak Grove. His brain was pounding. He stepped outside to heave and he found a puddle of petrified and fly infested vomit resting in the ankle high grass. He reckoned that it must have come from him. He didn’t recall. He didn’t recall much of anything from the hours prior. But the late summer mugginess beared down on him like a woolen blanket and he stumbled back into the shed and reached for an old aluminum canteen with only a speckle of water remaining. The piss warm liquid soothed his throat momentarily and then he coughed and collapsed to his knees. While fetaled on the ground, the priest came in. The holy man helped him back to his bed and offered him a white paper cup. When Oren looked at the cup’s contents, he nearly heaved again. After stirring the orangish ooze, the priest placed a small pill in his hand and Oren side eyed him.

“The fuck is this?”

“It’s Beano.”

“What for?”

“It’s for them boiled peanuts. Them things are fart bombs.”

Oren shrugged and swallowed the pill. He picked up the stem of the fork and swooshed it around the cup. Then he sampled the food. It occurred to Oren that the devil himself must be nothing compared to the wrath of a Cajun man’s asshole. And despite a famished stomach, his throat resisted.

“Is this what you people eat down here?” he asked the Priest.

“Well, that and moon bugs.”

The priest reached into his cassock pocket and pulled out a small lobster-like creature. It crawled slightly in the palm of his hand. “I have a whole pool of these things out back. I can get a pot boiling and get em fixed up for ya.”

Oren shook his head. “I’ll stick with the boiled peanuts.”

The priest lifted his shoulders and placed the creature back in his pocket. Then he handed Oren a fresh canteen of water. “Who was that feller you was with last night?”

“What feller?”

“That white feller in the back of your truck.”

“He’s my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“I was adopted.”

“No shit?”

Oren winced as he shoveled more soggy legumes into the face hole. Then he took the fresh canteen and swallowed. “Think he survived the crash?”

“I know he did. The sheriff got him. But I reckon they think you’re dead.”

“Shit.”

“You’re goddamn right shit. Don’t know what they’ll do when they find out you’re not.”

“I gotta get him out of there.”

“Your brother? Good luck.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Not even the best pettifrogger from New Orleans can get a man out of a Moorhouse Parish jail. You have to consult with a higher power.”

“You?”

“That might not even be enough.”

The Priest’s ears perked up as the sound of crushed gravel whispered its way into the shed. He sprung up from the ramshackled cot and glanced through mud smeared glass to see a West Carroll Parish Sheriff’s cruiser pull up to the church. The priest turned to Oren. “Stay here,” he said.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 16)

For Chuck Norris

Hutch couldn’t help but gape at the Judge’s long and gnarly fingers as they danced across the ancient church organ. He couldn’t see his face. From behind, stringy white hairs dangled from beneath a black felt pork pie hat and what little skin showed was as white as a fantail pigeon. He didn’t speak. He only communicated through that haunting and ungodly organ. Hutch couldn’t help but jest. “The fuck is this? Transylvania?” he smirked.

The tall and gaunt man turned his attention away from the sheriff and shot him a bone chilling glare. “Show some respect you pissling!”

Hutch backed down. “Forgive me. You must be Riff Raff.”

The gaunt man, not getting the reference, lifted a finger to the air as if to make a great proclamation. “I am the mayor of Mer Rouge!” he declared.

Hutch was rueful. “Oh forgive me,” he explained. “I am honored to be in your presence.”

The mayor nodded. “Much better,” he said. Then he straightened his tailcoated tuxedo jacket and polished out his accent. “Now, you are responsible for killing two of my men. Why?”

Hutch became apoplectic. “Hey bud! I didn’t kill nobody! We were chased away by the sheriff and his gang! One guy got shot and one guy got ran over but that was they own damn fault!”

“Poppycock!”

“No it ain’t no poppycock neither!”

“But you knew that priest,” Dirk chimed in.

“I don’t know that priest from Adam!”

“He seems to have known you.”

“Shit. Maybe he was just a nice guy. You don’t seem to have too many of those around here.”

The judge laid onto the keys and the ghostly sound of a church organ again pummeled its way through the ether. All eyes shifted to him. After a moment of unearthly silence, the judge raised his decrepit finger and a gargantuan hooded figure resembling a Byzantine eunuch stepped forth and presented him with a grail. The judge took the chalice and raised it to his lips. His head slightly turned and Hutch could see the folds around his mouth. His pail skin pierced through the faint candlelit shadows. As the judge lifted the cup, the water dripped from both ends of his crinkled lips. When he finished, he returned the chalice to the eunuch and again turned his back towards Hutch. The Mayor and Dirk stood as still as a boggy creek bed. As the judge held his fingers over the faded white keys, the eunuch leaned forward. The judge turned to him and whispered in an unintelligible if not ancient and demonic tongue. The eunuch’s face turned sullen. When the judge completed his fiendish dictate, the eunuch stood straight up and turned his ghoulish eyes towards Hutch.

“Find the priest,” he ordered.

TO BE CONTINUED…

And moreover again…

The NFL team in Nashville is having an identity crisis. This problem should be enough to keep us all awake at night. Thankfully I have a very simple solution. As you are aware by now, I have advocated for restoration of the Oilers name. I don’t do so because I prefer the old name, but because Amy Adams Strunk has painted herself into a corner and this is the only way out. Now, she’s already brought back the Oilers uniforms. So it’s time to go the extra mile.

But I have another suggestion, and this suggestion might not be as popular but nonetheless necessary. An emphasis with the new uniforms is its Nashville identity so they subtly incorporated “guitar strings” onto the helmet. Yet again, as I have complained so many times before, this is a half measure. So this is where I may kick up a hornet’s nest: the Nashville football team shouldn’t be called the “Tennessee Oilers.” They should be the Nashville Oilers.

Now I know what you’re thinking. It doesn’t necessarily roll off the tongue. But neither did “Houston Oilers” for that matter. Additionally, this might mean dropping the iconic “stars of Tennessee” from the team emblem. Whatever my detractors might think, I believe that this is a necessary measure to emphasize exclusivity; this is a team for Nashvillians and Nashvillians ONLY. And let’s just be honest, Nashville is where the cool kids of Tennessee hang out. The fair weather fans of Memphis couldn’t care less. The people of Knoxville are too busy cheering for that team of roadside construction workers. And Chattanooga might as well be in Georgia. If you want your club to be cool, you don’t make it appeal to the largest group possible. You make it exclusive. And the Oilers aren’t “Tennessee’s” team. It belongs to the cool kids of Nashville.

The Friedkin Connection

So I often wonder: if you put the three titans of American 70s auteur cinema – William Friedkin, Paul Schrader, and Michael Cimino – in a room with a loaded gun and a gram of coke, who would come out alive? Personally, my money is on Billy Friedkin. I am only more convinced of this after listening to Friedkin’s retelling of his autobiography The Friedkin Connection.

If I’m being honest, the French Connection and Exorcist director seemed like a massive asshole. They say never meet your heroes. And I definitely never wanted to meet Billy. In fact, I’d probably jump his ass in a parking lot. But there’s no doubt that he’s the most underrated filmmaker to come out of the era which produced Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, Steven Spielberg, and George Lucas. Some would argue that his run during the 70s is unimpeachable. The Boys in the Band (1970) was a turning point in LGBTQ cinema. The French Connection (1971) personified the grittiness that later define the decade. The Exorcist (1973) needs no introduction. Sorcerer (1977), then a box office bomb, now considered Friedkin’s magnum opus. The Brink’s Job (1978), never seen it. Had Billy been able to keep his ego in check, he might’ve coasted his way into the GOAT conversation. With that said, I’m sure Friedkin had no complaints on his deathbed. He ultimately won an Academy Award and married actress/Paramount CEO Sherry Lansing.

What’s interesting is that Friedkin claimed that he never subscribed to the ‘auteur’ theory of cinema, stating that film is a collaborative medium. Mind you, all of his actions with writers, actors, and studio executives say different. But there is something unpretentious and almost proletarian about his direction. That’s probably due to the fact that he was a high school educated kid from Chicago who worked his way up through live television. This greatly contrasted with his peers who attended film school and/or were mentored by Roger Corman.

Now you can talk your shit about audiobooks, but I’m tellin ya, I doubt The Friedkin Connection would hit as hard without Billy himself reading it. So do yourself a favor. Drop a few shrooms, shutter the windows, turn up the sound system, and waste the next 20 hours by listening to William Friedkin tell his story.

Mer Rouge (Part 15)

Hutch and the deputy stepped across the red brick threshold and onto the well manicured terracotta floor. The interior was a Spanish design which conflicted with the eclectic modern exterior, but at least the foyer provided much needed shade from the rising temperatures outside. The butler immediately stopped them. “Please remove your shoes.” The deputy cursed under his breath while he removed his leather boots and placed them by the door. When Hutch took off his prison slippers, he revealed his patchy and rancid socks. As the butler noticed, the stench of raw asshole and landfill trash filled his nostrils. “On second thought,” the butler told him, “I’ll permit you to keep yours on.” A passing Persian cat slinked past the foyer and began to yak. Hutch shrugged and slid his feet back into his shoes. Soon after, the butler guided the men into the mansion while the deputy held on to Hutch’s elbow.

From inside the living area, they could see the inmates on the outside pointlessly toiling around while dust kicked up around them. When they approached an immaculate staircase, Hutch presumed they were about to ascend it. Instead, the butler proceeded to the right just under the staircase where an old rotted and wooden door was positioned. The butler opened it and ordered them inside. Hutch was to go in first. He stepped to the edge and looked down the passageway descending beneath the staircase. He noticed the walls were made of a combination of stucco and shit brown mud. Then he turned to the deputy. “How about you go down first?”

The deputy nudged him along. “Boy! Get yo ass down them stairs!”

Hutch slowly proceeded down the corridor with only dim candles guiding the way. The other two were close behind. Trickling water echoed down the passageway and then muffled voices were heard. At about the halfway point, the haunting blast of a church organ filled the air and Hutch jumped backwards. “Keep going you dumbfuck!” the deputy ordered. He cautiously moved forward. The muffled voices grew louder and more clear. When they reached the bottom of the steps, the corridor continued leftward. And when Hutch turned the corner, a cleared out underground den awaited him. Sheriff Dirk was there. A tall and gaunt man was reaming him out, using words that Hutch didn’t understand. Both of their eyes turned to meet the visitors. Dirk, sullen and gloomy, spoke first. “Mr. Waites, allow me to introduce you to Judge Castor.”

The sheriff stepped aside. Behind him was a fellow seated and turned away from them. His fingers placed on the unsettling organ.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Judgement Day

As the internet is well aware, after the ill advised firing of Mike Vrabel by the Tennessee Titans, I renounced my fandom for NFL franchise in Nashville and proclaimed my allegiance to new titans of mediocrity in Los Angeles, the Chargers. So far, that decision has paid off in spades. Yet Tennessee still had one ace up its sleeve – or, in football parlance – one last Hail Mary to bring me back into the fold. And that hand was played today by the unveiling of new uniforms.

So. The final verdict?

Underwhelmed.

For the record, this is not a bad uniform. But I’ve made my opinion clear to anyone who would listen. If the Titans want to be the Oilers, then they should stop with these half-assed measures. Go FULL ass. BE the Tennessee Oilers for fuck sake.

But alas, we get this halfhearted nod. Which is fine. But if they really want to send this uniform over the edge, do a light blue alternate for the helmet 👍