And yet another shot at the title (part xxv)

Kat’s cold and sterile office on the third floor faced Burbank International Airport. I liked to go there, drink bourbon, puff on cigars and pray to god that those Boeing 737s would make it off the ground. This would always annoy Kat. But if I pestered her during her busiest hours that’s usually when I could pry a yes from her. So that’s what I did on that particular Friday afternoon.

“What do you think about Casper Van Diem?” I asked her while she busily signing paperwork.

“I liked him in that Star Track movie,” she replied, not looking up.

“Star Track?” I ask. “Don’t you mean Starshit Troopers?”

“No, he was in a Star Track movie. The one with all those space zombies.”

“Oh! I think you’re referring to Neil Dylan McDermott.”

“You mean Dermot Mulroney?”

“No, McDermott was in Star Track. Diem was in Starshit Troopers. I don’t think Mulroney was in anything.”

Kat continued to thumb through papers. “Why are thinking about actors no one has thought of in 30 years?”

I took another drag off my cigar. “I think he’d be good for the lead in Chatty Cathy.”

“Dermot Mulroney?”

“No! Casper Van Diem!”

Kat took off her reading glasses and leaned back in her chair. “I’d be fine with whoever you and Greta agree upon,” she said. “But wouldn’t someone with more, ya know, star power be better?”

“Star power?” I shrugged. “If we wanted to power a star, we’d need an untold amounts of energy compressed together to create nuclear fusion. But we’re not physicists. We’re filmmakers! Do you think anyone ever heard of Harrison Chevrolet before War of the Stars came out? Or what about Leonardo DeVincio for that movie about that boat sinking! Star power means nothing in today’s Hollywood.”

“Fine,” said Kat. “But why Diem?”

I turned back to the window to watch the latest plane depart. “I’m not sure,” I said thoughtfully. “I guess in my later years I want to be more like Quittin Tarantino. Ya know. Give actors a second shot at fame. I want to feel like I’m leaving behind a legacy.”

Kat was puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be this reflective,” she said. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you show an ounce of self awareness at all.”

“Yeah well, you get soft in your old age,” I said as I puffed. “You’ll learn that eventually.”

“We’re the same age James.”

“Whatever,” I said then tapped out the cigar. “There’s something else I need to talk to you about. I need to bring on another producer. Now don’t worry. He’s only going to be a creative consultant.”

She started rubbing her temples. “Who is he James?”

“Dick Warburton. He’s my spiritual guru I guess you can say.”

“Fuck me!” Kat yelled as she threw up her arms.

“What? This isn’t any weirder than all the other things I’ve done. In fact, this one’s kinda mild.”

“No it’s not that,” she explained as she tried to think. “It’s that Greta is also bringing her guru on as a consultant!”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Everyone is wrong about everything

I kept waiting for them to “nuke the fridge” in Indiana Jones and Dial of Destiny but the damndest thing happened…that moment never came.

Internet trolls have had a string of successes in their criticisms of Disney and Kathleen Kennedy specifically and because of this, consensus among the mainstream media has been lukewarm towards the latest Indiana Jones feature. As a result, it is expected that it will underperform at the box office.

It’s unfortunate. The movie is pretty good and it’s critics completely missed the mark:

Antonio Banderas’ brief appearance? Neither here nor there.

It’s absurd time travel plot? No more absurd than the Ark of the Covenant killing a bunch of Nazis.

The CGI? Uneven, yes. But no more uneven than in the other films (which added to their charm) and the de-aged Harrison Ford is done quite well.

Phoebe Waller-Bridge? Perhaps this is the most telling criticism because she’s actually quite good.

Of course it has its issues. But it’s problems can be found in EVERY Indiana Jones movie. The ones I found to be legitimate were the pacing issues and the cinematography, both of which can be easily fixed with a fan edit or director’s cut.

Additionally, the filmmakers don’t try to hide Harrison Ford’s age which probably explains why he doesn’t loom as large over the picture as he does in other films. But this is Ford’s swan song. As a result we get a more personal Indy. While this may not please all fans, I think Ford gave his best performance in the series.

But I’m pleading with my readers: don’t let the trolls win. Go see this picture!

Unresolved anger issues

Everyday I ask myself ‘should I start therapy?’

Let’s take a look at my dreams for example. I assume that dreams for most people, when they’re not nightmares, are mostly nonsensical and benign. For me though, they’re an opportunity to engage in rage-fueled fantasies.

From last night, I dreamt that I was getting a mani/pedi/massage from some high end resort because someone felt that I needed a stress reliever. Don’t know why they thought I needed a mani/pedi, but there I was. Suddenly the power went out so the resort thought it was a good idea for all the patrons to go outside for a jog.

I didn’t like my fellow patrons because they were a bunch of stuck up, rich, white people. You know the type: they wore plaid flannel shirts with North Face vests and thick rimmed glasses. Anyway, the activities director suggested we all go for a jog. Halfway through it, the director announced that whoever finishes their lap first will get all their expenses paid.

Naturally, I bolt for the finish line but some jackass and his wife were in lockstep with me. I eventually run out of steam and the couple cross the finish line first. Afterwards, when I was cooling down, the asshat that beat was annoyed, saying something like “if you didn’t start sprinting, you might’ve beaten me!”

I fly off the handle, replying with something like “maybe if you weren’t such an old sack of shit, I’d kick the fuck out of you!”

Then the dream ended.

The next dream was a bit more unusual. So I was at a Six Flags when I get off a rollercoaster that took you around the galaxy. It was really fuckin bitchin tbh. Unfortunately I walk out the wrong door and accidentally leave the park.

Unable to get back in, a police officer…who’s obviously a homeless guy and not a real police officer…stops me and asks to see some ID. I play along because I felt sorry for the guy, so I take out my wallet and pull out my driver’s license. Right then, I get distracted by ANOTHER “police officer” and the homeless guy grabs my wallet but bungles the attempt at thievery. He drops the wallet on the ground and I shrug. “Look, you don’t have to steal my wallet, I’ll happily give you $15,” I say to him.

But it was all a set up. Some odd gang of sociopaths kidnap me and subject me to a series of tests. They inform me that if I survive, I’ll be initiated into their gang even though they kidnapped me and I never asked to be initiated to begin with. So I thought fuck this and instead of playing by their rules, I instantly begin a reign of terror where one by one, I track down individual gang members and torture them.

The dream suddenly shifts narratives of the same story. Word reaches the CIA that I’ve been kidnapped. Harrison Ford is my father and Jon Hamm is his partner. Hamm informs Ford, my father, that I’ve been kidnapped. But my father proceeds to do nothing believing that he’s teaching me a lesson in “trusting strangers”.

So Don Draper takes matters into his own hands and he’s off to the rescue. Together we torture, mutilate, and kill my kidnappers in a glorious and satisfying bout of revenge.

I don’t know what any of these dreams mean but they are not uncommon. Clearly there’s a deep rage seething inside of me. Thankfully I’m not dreaming about murdering random strangers because that would be cause for concern. But clearly I’m looking for someone, anyone, to start some shit so that I can indulge in some indignant rage..

Blade runner

Soooo, did I ever talk about Blade Runner on this blog?

I’ve always had a lot of opinions about the film, but it seems like every film buff has wrote a dissertation on it. So what’s the point of clogging up the internet with one more, ya know?

But after ripping off it’s ending in my latest short story, I can’t stop thinking about it.

For the record, and I’ve been very open about this, Blade Runner 2049 is the superior film. By a fucking mile too. Ridley Scott is an interesting visual filmmaker, but all of his movies lack heart. This is true for not only Blade Runner, but Alien, Gladiator, The Martian, etc, as well.

Additionally, I find the script to be underwhelming. Even the film’s most memorable moment (the Tears in Rain monologue) was largely the result of actor Rutger Hauer’s ingenuity and not so much the writer’s. I don’t blame Hampton Fancher and David Peoples for this (the latter would later write Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven). The final script was probably the result of compromise during a troubled production.

Nevertheless, Blade Runner works because everyone else behind the scenes CRUSHED their role, from F/X artist Douglas Trumbull, DP Jordan Cronenweth, composer Vangelis, concept artist Syd Mead, production designer Lawrence G. Paull, and everyone in between.

In Scott’s defense, I believe he sees himself as more of a “CEO”-type filmmaker, or one that brings together highly talented people to do their thing, as opposed to being an auteur himself. So in that respect, he did his job really well. Nevertheless, likely because of this approach, there is an “it” factor that’s lacking in Blade Runner which prevents it from becoming one of the great classics in cinema.

Strangely, I think MOST cinephiles agree with this: Blade Runner is visually and conceptually one of the most influential films of all time. But is it a great movie?

Personally, I think that question is more interesting than the film itself.

But where I disagree with most other fans of the Blade Runner universe are on the Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer) scenes. Hauer feels like he’s acting on an island in this film. While that’s a deliberate choice, his scenes drag the movie down. And to be completely honest, the movie is not nearly as interesting without Harrison Ford on the screen.

Now Ford’s performance is somewhat controversial. It’s noted for being his first “mature” role, and a lot of people don’t like it. He often comes across as detached, grouchy, and needlessly aggressive in some parts. Ford’s performance is a bit dialed back, as opposed to Hauer, who isn’t afraid to be hammy and childish. Unfortunately, Ford acting choices were better suited to the Blade Runner universe and, despite being the leading man, he doesn’t feel like he’s in the film enough.

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got to say 🤷‍♂️

like harrison Ford im getting frantic

Speaking of movies that I had no business watching as a kid…infamous sex pervert Roman Polanski’s Frantic is another forgotten gem.

I saw it around the same time as Paris, Texas and it came on HBO after school. I also watched it for the same reasons as Paris, Texas (thought I’d see some titties, but only saw side boob and Harrison Ford’s pubic hair).

I’m not a huge fan of Polanski, but he can manage to maintain your attention although nothing is happening on screen. The first 30 minutes are just Ford and his wife at a hotel in Paris. Then Ford takes a shower and his wife goes is missing.

This is one my favorite sub genres: an everyday man has to traverse an unusual circumstance, in this case exploring the seedy underbelly of Paris in order to save the day.

I wouldn’t say the film was entirely successful. The ending was kinda underwhelming. But I enjoyed the hazy cinematography mixed with Ennio Morricone’s soundtrack. And the this might be Ford’s finest hour as he plays the perfect fish-out-of-water Everyman.

I usually talk shit about the French, but they know how to do noir.

shoot me, deadly II: slow death

I took the Sunday drive up to San Luis Obispo in my Chevy SSR to visit Isabella’s father, the mafioso Roberto Benigni Vittorio Stararo. Or “Vito”.

The county sheriff pulled me over.

“You don’t know what you’re getting into James,” the sheriff said.

“Just hand me the ticket so that I can be on my way,” I replied.

The sheriff wrote up the ticket and gave me another warning: “I better not see you or this piece of shit vehicle in my county again.”

Asshole.

I pulled up to Stararo’s estate. His wife came out to greet me.

“I’m Michaela Sabine Stararo,” she said. “Vito is fox hunting. He’ll be joining us shortly.”

She was wearing a white blouse tucked into her equestrian pants with boots. Her figure could make a man wish he wore roomier trousers.

Michaela invited me in and offered a Chardonnay.

“Are you Isabella’s mother?” I asked.

“Her step-mother. Poor girl. She never got to know her real mother,” she replied.

I took a sip of the Chardonnay. It was Laguiche, ‘09.

“It must be rough being an LA detective,” Michaela said.

“If people quit disappearing and fucking around on their spouses, I’d be out of a job.”

Vito walked in with his Winchester. “È questo il detective idiota assunto dal mio socio?” he said.

“The fuck did he say?” I asked Michaela.

“Vito welcomes you into his home,” she replied.

Vito had to of been 90 if he was a day. Michaela was clearly a distraction from that fact. Still, tough old man. He pulled out a cigar and poured a Chardonnay.

“Quindi questo perdente pensa di poter trovare mia figlia?” he asked.

I looked over to Michaela.

“Vito is prepared to give you all the information you need to find his daughter,” she said.

“I need to know her entire background. Who her friends are. Her lovers. Her enemies. And any enemies that you might have, Mr. Stararo,” I said.

“Chiamami Vito,” he replied.

We talked for hours discussing the case. We went through the bottle of Chardonnay. Then another. Then came the brandy.

As I prepared to leave, Michaela came up to me. “LA is a long drive,” she said. “Why don’t you stay in the guest house. I’ll have the servants prepare it.”

Why not, I thought. It sure beats sleeping in a burned down apartment building.

As I was laying in bed, Michaela came in wearing a silk robe. She slowly walked towards the bedside.

“Stanotte siamo solo io e te,” she said.

Michaela dropped the robe and climbed into bed.