Eastern Market fire!

This morning I woke up to learn that there was a fire at DC's Eastern Market last night! Apparently it started out of a dumpster and caused significant damage to the south end of the market building. I saw some shots on TV, and from the exterior, the only damage I could see was the charred and warped southern roof, but I'm afraid to see what it looks like on the inside. I certainly hope that the interior damage isn't too terrible, and that the building can be fully restored.

Last night's fire actually breaks my heart, because Eastern Market has become a staple of DC culture, and I've always found it to be a very soothing and comforting place. Several weeks ago, I had a pancake breakfast there one Saturday morning, and I've often browsed their outdoor flea market. But hopefully Eastern Market will follow in the footsteps of The Capitol Lounge and The Vienna Inn (two other venues that suffered fire damage) and be back on its feet soon.

Early Simpsons Movie buzz

You know, this is kind of surprising! For as big a Simpsons fan as I am, I keep forgetting that there'll be a Simpsons movie coming out this summer. The show is now in its 18th season, and it was only in college that I started watching it—which was kind of unavoidable, for The Simpsons were almost a rite of passage at Penn State: every night at 6:00 sharp, every TV in every dorm was tuned into The Simpsons. Just like every Wednesday at 10:00, every TV in every dorm was tuned into South Park (back when it was in its first season, with novelty and originality written all over it).

Newsweek recently did an article on the upcoming Simpsons movie, and while I certainly hope that Al Jean's line of thought isn't valid, I've long since seen how The Simpsons poke fun at so many things in life. You might say nothing gets away clean with them—particularly the Fox network, on which The Simpsons are syndicated.

Though one interesting question was asked in the aforementioned article: did The Simpsons wait too long to move to the big screen? Newsweek doesn't seem to think so, and as for myself, the thought honestly never occurred to me! But I must confess, I can't quite wrap my mind around the notion of a Simpsons movie. I guess it's partly because I'm so used to seeing them on TV . . . but there's also a feeling (with me, at least) that the shows kind of changed over the years. I more or less stopped watching the new episodes during the 13th or 14th seasons, feeling that they were straying too far from their original patterns and storylines. That's not to say I'm against change, but in this case, it didn't seem like the material was quite as unique as it had been previously. And when I watch the show generally, I stick with season 3 to about season 12 . . . and given that we're now in season 18, I'm wondering if maybe the movie will signal the end of The Simpsons' era. They've been on the air for so many years now that maybe it's time for them to be laid to rest.

Now before you brand me blasphemous, think about this: all good things in life must come to an end, and The Simpsons have had one hell of a run! They've evolved from a back-room creation to become a staple of American culture (hell, I even own the book The Simpsons and Philosophy!), and even though it would pain me to see The Simpsons leave the air, I definitely want the show to go out on a high note—not when it's become tiresome and forgettable.

But as with all things in life, only time can show us the way. So with that, I eagerly await the release of The Simpsons Movie on July 27! Rumor has it that it'll be released in the Springfield of an undetermined state. Hopefully it'll be Springfield, Virginia!

Borat

Does anyone remember Dr. Katz from Comedy Central? The cartoon with the fidgety animation where the main character was a Hollywood psychologist? I only bring this up in reference to Borat because of a certain exchange at the end of one Dr. Katz episode. The good doctor was at a bar with some of his friends, and one person said, "High fructose corn syrup", pronouncing it FRUCK-tose. Everyone tried to correct him, but he stood his ground on his pronunciation—whereupon someone asked him, "Okay, and do you say 'go foock yourself'?" I was a freshman in college at the time, and upon hearing this exchange, my roommate and I looked at each other in surprise, both of us wondering, "Um, can they do that???"

That was exactly what I kept asking myself while watching Borat for the first time, because while laughing at a particular scene, I was simultaneously in shock that the central character had actually done what I saw him do on screen.

Borat is apparently an offshoot of Sacha Baron Cohen's Da Ali G Show, with Borat being one of his characters. We first meet our hero in his native village in Kazakhstan, where he happily introduces us to all of his friends and family. Let me say this much before moving on: when he passionately kisses a woman and then proudly proclaims, "This is my sister!", I knew it was going to be all downhill from there. But along with his producer Azamat, Borat makes a journey to America for what is supposed to be a media correspondence piece for Kazakhstan—but as soon as Pamela Anderson enters the fray, things change for our hero.

Opening up in New York to the strains of "Everybody's Talkin'", a big send-up to the opening of Midnight Cowboy (itself another fish-out-of-water tale), Borat has his first encounter with Americans . . . only they're not so open to his friendly ways—in particular his desire to kiss everyone he meets on the cheek. The general reactions from people are downright hysterical, because you know that Borat's just trying to be friendly in his own way, but you know precisely how badly people are going to react to his ways, especially in a town like New York.

Seeing American culture up against Borat's allows us to see American culture from outside the box—and in the process, offers some social commentary, but it's ever so slight. Even so, with Borat coming from a culture that's obviously far less taboo than ours, the cultural differences provide the most shock value for first-time viewers. In fact, my one big concern when watching Borat for the first time was whether or not the film would hold up on subsequent viewings—i.e., if viewers would still feel shocked, uncomfortable, amazed, or as fresh with the material as they did the first time. Let it be known that I did this review after two viewings of Borat, and on second viewing, even though I knew what to expect most of the time, the material was still able to elicit a reaction from me, as though it were as fresh as the first viewing.

If I said Borat isn't a film for everyone, I'd be making the understatement of the year!!! (Remind me again how many people are suing Sacha Baron Cohen right now?) IGN sure liked the movie, though, going so far as to liken Cohen to Will Ferrell—though there's no way in hell Will Ferrell could have pulled off a role like this! As for me, I have a pretty high threshold for what kind of humor offends me. If this tells you anything, a day without toilet humor is a day without sunshine in my book. But having said that, Borat pushed even my limits, which is almost scary. All the same, though, I still found several scenes rather funny.

I think my favorite scene is when Borat is chasing the chicken through the subway car, or when he stops at the yard sale and keeps calling the lady a gypsy, or when he's driving that ice cream truck with the bear across country—and I have to say, the driving instructor early in the film was a pretty good sport! Borat's interview with the feminist group wasn't nearly as disastrous as I thought it would be, but that was more than made up for at the Confederate antique store and Georgia dinner party later! And my friend Colby made a very good point: it's downright amazing that Borat made it out of that rodeo alive!

I really have to give kudos to Cohen for integrating into American culture as brazenly as he did, and not once breaking character—not to mention having the balls to knowingly put himself in harm's way by being so generally offensive. I'll admit, there are a few scenes that made me uncomfortable, like the "running of the Jew" at the beginning of the film, or the Georgia dinner scene. And I'd like to know just how Sacha Baron Cohen got up the cajones to film the "wrestling" scene in his hotel. The Christian revival scene was a tad predictable, but it nevertheless worked in the context of the story. And I'm curious to know just how often Pamela Anderson does come across nutty fans like Borat. (Though when he finally meets her, there's no way that Borat could have bundled her up like he did. Security would have been all over him in a second.)

I honestly don't know how to rate a film like Borat, but after two viewings, I think I'll give it a 7.5—along with a declaration that Sacha Baron Cohen has raised the bar for shock humor more than I ever thought possible! Because with Borat, he's essentially made this generation's Blazing Saddles.

April birthdays

April 19: This month, my grandmother adds another year of wisdom to her belt. And in celebration of her birthday, rumor has it that my cousin Joel (who has a pilot's license) is going to take her flying in his plane!


April 29: Best birthday wishes to Jen in Florida! If the weather's as wonderful there as it is here, go out for a sail!

Mystic River

I first heard of Mystic River way back when it was still in production. I was at my friend Colby's house reading a movie magazine, which talked about many upcoming theatrical releases—one of which was a new film by Clint Eastwood starring Sean Penn, Tim Robbins, and Kevin Bacon, with the mysteriously enticing title Mystic River. The general description of the film intrigued me greatly, and left me excited to see the movie when it came out.

Only I did something I usually don't do when anticipating a theatrical release: I read the book first.

One night in early 2004, I noticed a worn-out paperback of Mystic River sitting on a shelf in my friend Bentje's house, and I picked it up and started reading it. The first 30 or so pages (taking place in 1975) were decent reading, but I wasn't really hooked until section two of the book started (taking place in 2000). The novel Mystic River was written by crime novelist Dennis Lehane, and I read much of the book while on a business trip to Chicago in March 2004—mostly on the plane—and my timing for finishing the book was almost too perfect: only a few days after I finished it, the movie started playing at the Drafthouse! So naturally I had to go see it.

Mystic River essentially tells the story of three boyhood friends: Sean Devine, Dave Boyle, and Jimmy Marcus (Marcus was the last name in the book; in the movie, the last name was changed to Markum—a change that I didn't really like). The story opens when the boys are all like 12 or 13, coming from blue-collar families in Boston. Jimmy is kind of a punk at that young age, and decides that he and the others should carve their names in wet cement—not a major crime in itself, but they're nevertheless witnessed by two men who claim to be cops. Quickly falling into an authoritative mode, the two men order Dave to get into their car so they can take him home and talk to his parents. Only problem is, the two men aren't cops . . . and Jimmy and Sean only realize this after Dave is taken away. Dave manages to escape his kidnappers after a few days, but the whole experience leaves him badly scarred on the inside (we're left to presume that he was molested during his capture), and the Jimmy and Sean don't really talk to Dave anymore after he returns home.

Fast-forward to the present, where Sean (Kevin Bacon) is a Boston detective, Jimmy (Sean Penn) is a reformed ex-con running a coffee shop with his 19-year-old daughter Katie, and Dave (Tim Robbins) is still living with the scars from his kidnapping many years ago. The trio don't necessarily make an effort to reconnect regularly, even though Jimmy and Dave are now related through marriage (Dave's wife is cousin to Jimmy's wife). But one morning, the abandoned car of Jimmy's daughter Katie is found on the streets of Boston . . . and not long after that, Katie's dead body is found nearby. And only the night before her body's discovery, Dave returns home covered in blood. So naturally, the question arises: did Dave have anything to do with Katie's death?

Not surprisingly, Sean is the detective who takes the case, along with his partner Whitey Powers (Larry Fishburne, who didn't strike me as all that comfortable in the role, I might add). Sean ultimately is the one who has to break the news to Jimmy, in what is probably Sean Penn's most famous scene by now—crying out in agony as the cops hold him back from the crime scene. But not only must Jimmy and Dave carry the burden of Katie's death; so must their wives. Dave's wife Celeste (Marcia Gay Harden) obviously suspects Dave of somehow being complicit when he comes home covered in blood, and Jimmy's wife Annabeth (Laura Linney) has the ultimate "Lady Macbeth" moment at the end of the film. That scene stayed very true to the book, I might add, even though it caught a lot of viewers off guard.

But I felt Mystic River was, in large part, a character study about friendship, about loyalty, about tragedy—and ultimately, about unfulfilled deliverance. Watching Jimmy's reformed facade begin to crumble under the anger of his daughter's death, of his thoughts for vengeance, was fascinating. Although it's not a motif that's entirely new to director Clint Eastwood, having explored it once already in Unforgiven several years back. But with Jimmy, in both book and movie, his relapse into his old criminal ways was so genuine and authentic . . . but as we see, in the end it was the wrong path to follow, because it doesn't lead to the redemption of Katie.

All around, the acting was pretty impressive! A lot has been made about Jimmy's eventual breakdown and ultimate "getaway", if you will. Having read the book, Sean Penn nailed Jimmy's character perfectly, and I can't really disagree with his Oscar win (though part of me was crossing my fingers for Bill Murray that year). Jimmy's more of an anti-hero than a hero, not someone you're supposed to like. Even though he does what so many parents want to do when their children are taken from them, Jimmy's actions are ultimately meaningless, and he knows this—which is probably why he shows only marginal regret at learning that he's killed the wrong guy at the end. Kevin Bacon did a pretty good turn as the old friend who's caught in the middle of all this ugliness, but it's ultimately Tim Robbins who fills the screen as the emotionally deteriorating Dave Boyle, whose old demons come out as both Jimmy and Celeste suspect his involvement in Katie's death. Robbins performs masterfully in Mystic River, superbly showing all the hidden anxieties of Dave, his inability to let go of what happened to him as a child, afraid to admit even to himself some of the truths he's come to realize over the years. Robbins fully earned his Best Supporting Actor statue. And I had to laugh at the surprise cameo of Eli Wallach as the shopkeeper who introduces Sean and Whitey to Just Ray Harris. I had to laugh because a) Eli Wallach has to be in his 90s if he's a day, and b) there's the inevitable throwback to Eastwood's The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, where Eli Wallach played villain Tuco opposite Eastwood's Blondie.

The Eastwood movie stayed pretty true to the book, though my one complaint about the movie is that it felt cramped. It was adapted to the screen by Brian Helgeland, who had also adapted L.A. Confidential several years earlier. In its adaptation, though, I felt a lot of the story was really compressed, with little breathing room to allow for pacing—and that's with a running time of 2 hours and 20 minutes! Maybe it's because I'd read the novel that I noticed this, because the novel allowed for easier pacing. Much of the dialogue was lifted almost verbatim from the novel, too, without much liberty taken by Helgeland. Though I loved the authenticity that Eastwood lent to the film. He filmed it right in Boston, perfectly capturing the blue-collar feel to the city, not to mention the accents. I'll admit, some of the poorer, more blue-collar elements of the story were depressing, but I'm a huge fan of local color and authenticity. (I just wish we'd have a film taking place in DC that imparts the same strong and authentic feel to life here.)

I can proudly say that I picked out Katie's killer in the novel! It wasn't predictable by any means, but more of a lucky deduction on my part. And as Bentje explained to me when reading the novel, the clues are all right in front of you—in both book and movie—but so subtly masked that you don't even notice them the first time around. It's a genuine case of the solution being right out in the open, but somehow still invisible.

When rating Mystic River, I give the movie a 7.5, though I give the book a 10. The movie translated pretty well to the big screen, with the usual ups and down, but as is often the case, the movie can never truly measure up to the book.

A quick afterthought on Teddy

According to Barry Svrluga's write-up on last night's game, there was a second President's Race at RFK last night, during the 13th inning. (The first one ran around the 2nd or 3rd inning, much earlier than customary.) Teddy, this season's favorite, once again failed to score—though it certainly hasn't been for a lack of trying. (I personally loved how he repelled onto the field during Opening Day.)

My prediction on Teddy: he'll have a most glorious victory during the last-ever home game at RFK in September.

Sports dizziness

Last night I made it to my second Nats game of the season, but it came at a rather awkward time. I say awkward because, on Opening Day, it was close to 80 degrees and sunny. The following Saturday, I walked outside in the morning to find snow flurries on the ground! Ever since then, it's been unseasonably cool, and the last few Nats games I've seen on TV (home games, I mean) have showed players wrapped up in warmer clothes underneath their uniforms. Add to this the fact that, in Cleveland, they couldn't make the opening game official because it was snowing too hard, and I find myself asking, "Are you sure this is baseball season?" Normally I'd associate long, sunny, warm evenings with baseball—not bundled up against the freezing cold. I usually associate that with football.

Speaking of which, this weekend I am going to a football game at Penn State! So now that we're totally confused by juggling two sports with mismanaged weather, I think at this point it would be appropriate for Abbott and Costello to step in.



Last night's weather wasn't too bad, though, staying somewhere in the high 40s and low 50s for much of the game (though it got noticeably chillier as the evening progressed). The Nats pulled out a 13th-inning victory over the Phillies, with a score of 5-4. I didn't stay for the whole game (I left after the 9th), but Will and I managed to score some pretty sweet (and free!) seats from a friend of his: down in the 200-level, just a short distance into left field! A few foul balls came in our general direction—one even landing a few seats away from me! (Dad, did you pass that luck onto me, too?) Lots of Phillies fans were in attendance, not to mention one or two really drunk party girls in front of us.

The second inning was utterly beautiful, putting the Nats ahead by a score of 4-1 on a spectacular 3-run homer, though the Phils came back in the 7th to make it a 4-3 game (never have I been more grateful for a 7th Inning Stretch, just to get out of that rotation). Cordero gave up one run in the top of the 9th to tie the score, and I left RFK with a sinking feeling that the Phils would take the game. I was quite stunned to turn the TV on when I got home to find it already the 11th inning and still tied! I missed the game-winning sacrifice fly by Lopez in the 13th, but I was nevertheless grateful.

But getting back to this weekend's football game at Penn State, it's the annual Blue/White spring scrimmage, where the first squad plays the second . . . so you know what that means? It means Penn State's gonna win on Saturday! :)

Man on Fire

If you'd have asked me a month ago if I'd ever watch a movie starring Denzel Washington and Dakota Fanning, I would have said those were two good reasons not to watch said movie. Once upon a time, I thought Denzel was a spectacular actor, but like so many actors, at some point he just sort of fell into acting oblivion. Time takes its course with them, and as the years go by, they tend to be forgotten; their glory days past. And Dakota Fanning? Generally annoying with her sweet girl, halo-like persona (though to her credit, she seems to be moving away from that image with recent films—exploring out-of-the-box, more adult roles). So with all this in mind, I entered Man on Fire with some trepidation. And given that it was directed by Tony Scott, I figured his general film template would be followed: lots of stylish, MTV-flashy editing; plenty of stylized violence and action that manages to trump any manageable story; and probably another "Mexican standoff" ending (think Enemy of the State, True Romance, and Domino).

But I have to say . . . on all fronts, I was proven very wrong! And gladly so, for Man on Fire ended up exceeding all my expectations.

In a lot of ways, Man on Fire was a mix between an action flick and a character study: an examination of a man who's near the end of his rope, searching for some kind of road to rebirth and redemption—all mixed together with an action-packed kidnapping tale. Denzel plays John Creasy, someone who's clearly burned out, unkempt, haunted by his past, drinking too much, and finding solace only in his friend Rayburn (Christopher Walken), whom Creasy visits on impulse down in El Paso. This here would be a good point to mention my one big complaint about Man on Fire: it's that the acting power was somewhat underutilized. Christopher Walken, always a joy to see, just gave a by-the-numbers supporting performance as an old colleague and friend of Creasy. Add to this Mickey Rourke's brief stint as the family attorney, who looks far more shady than he really ought to in this role, and you have two actors who needed more screen time and character development than they were given.

But the heart and soul of the film belonged to Denzel, who I think gave one of his best performances in years as Creasy. For a change, it felt like I was watching a character evolve on the screen rather than an actor. His rock-bottom mentality at the film's outset was authentic, genuine. Creasy was a man on his last legs with life, looking for the least excuse to end it all because he can't cope with his mysterious past. Fortuitously, Rayburn suggests that Creasy go to Mexico City to become a bodyguard—because as the opening scene depicts, kidnappings are rampant in Mexico City, so it doesn't hurt to have lots of extra (professional) protection. So Creasy interviews with a rich family who wants a bodyguard for their young daughter Pita (yup, you guessed it—Dakota Fanning!), and he reluctantly accepts.

I was obviously concerned that Dakota Fanning's Pita would be the annoyingly sunny and totally moral character she's become associated with, but she instead played Pita as a genuinely curious and engaging child. Though somewhat precocious, she still embodied all the right elements of youth that showed to me, the viewer, that she wasn't playing a miniature adult but rather a young child who's still overcoming various youthful obstacles (like choosing her own life path rather than the one her father plans for her). Her interest in Creasy could almost be akin to a school-girl crush, but her gradual view of him as something of a father figure—and likewise Creasy's slow tearing down of his emotional walls to allow himself to feel close to Pita—actually felt real. (And I absolutely had to laugh during Pita's "burping" scene.) Thus, the relationship that Pita and Creasy forged felt real, and not the least bit Hollywood—so that when her kidnapping took place, you almost felt the same pain Creasy did when he struggles yet ultimately fails to save her . . . and it's this inability to save Pita that ultimately gives Creasy the motivation to take down everyone involved in her kidnapping, no matter how high up the food chain he has to climb.

If there was ever a point where it felt the bounds of plausibility were tested, it would have been in Creasy's somewhat superhuman ability to withstand bullets. During Pita's kidnapping, I lost count of how many times he got shot, but he barely lost momentum in taking down at least half of the kidnappers. Now I've heard of adrenaline rushes, but c'mon! (Though why he wasn't wearing a bulletproof vest, I'll never know.)

The dialogue was surprisingly good here. It was sharp, but not obnoxious—sharp only insofar as to make its point. The one recurring line of the film, often spoken by Creasy when referencing the truthfulness and deceit of life, is, "A bullet always tells the truth." I think it was Rayburn, perfectly capturing Creasy's brighter spirit after befriending Pita, who said, "She taught him that it's okay to live." And my personal favorite, spoken by Creasy when surveying Fuentes, and in response to an old man's suggestion of forgiveness: "Forgiveness is between them and God. It's my job to arrange a meeting." Kinda fitting that he's assembling a rocket launcher when he says this, too.

While it didn't work so well in Domino, the flashy, MTV-like editing worked perfectly for Man on Fire. I was kind of surprised, though, that Tony Scott chose to put subtitles in sections where you didn't actually need them. I figure he did that for dramatic effect, for originality—and while it succeeded in all those aspects, it seemed a tad redundant from an editorial standpoint. Though the flashiness worked very well in such scenes as Creasy's interrogation of Fuentes, or during the slo-mo kidnappings, or during the montages of Creasy's drunken despondencies. It certainly helped enhance the dark, dangerous, gritty, yet almost surreal depiction of Mexico City—a depiction that reminded me strongly of Amores Perros.

Given Creasy's penchant for vigilantism, I kind of thought the ending would be predictable. Though I was surprised to learn that I was actually wrong. A few things I was able to figure out early, but not all of them—which is good, because an ending that surprises you is always a sign of good storytelling. When Creasy met with "The Voice's" squad at the end, I couldn't help but notice the absolutely beautiful green landscape set against the mountains of Mexico—and it made me think of the perfect visual and literary association: "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures."

I give Man on Fire a score of 9. Surprising me with its excellent acting and storytelling, Denzel, Dakota, and Tony all deliver the goods.

More casting for Indy 4

I just saw an article on IndianaJones.com stating that young actor Shia LaBeouf, currently starring in Disturbia, will be cast in Indiana Jones 4. Obviously he's very excited about it, though I find myself wondering what kind of character he'll play. My first thoughts were actually of Short Round from Temple of Doom, but alternatively I wondered if he may play Indy's son (presuming he has one, of course). Time will tell, though.

Can I get a "Bang Zoom!" here?

No, I'm not talking about my sex life. I'm talking about tonight's surprise victory of the Nationals over the despised Atlanta Braves! This was a long-awaited victory for the Nats, who have only scored one win since Opening Day.

I tuned into the game in the top of the 8th, just after the Nats had scored their second run, and watched with glee as the Nats held the Braves down—though Cordero had me shivering as he started to lose composure in the 9th, throwing more balls than strikes. And the game-winning out was actually off a wild pitch! On 2 outs, Cordero pitched, the catcher dropped the ball—but since the bases were loaded, all he needed to do was tag home plate to end the game. Thus, the Nationals brought home a delicious, long-awaited victory! And the fact that it was against the Braves made this win even more sweet. (I've hated the Braves since I was 13, when they defeated the Pirates in the 1991 National League playoffs. The tomahawk chop got very old in that series.)

On that note, let's have a rousing "Bang Zoom!" for the Nationals!!! If there was ever a time for one, it's now. :)

RIP Kurt Vonnegut

On the radio this morning, I learned the sad news that famed author Kurt Vonnegut died yesterday at the age of 84. His signature novel was Slaughterhouse Five, though he's also remembered for his cameo as Rodney Dangerfield's tutor in Back to School.

May you rest in peace, Mr. Vonnegut.

Spaceballs

I've been waiting a long time to write this review. :) And upon reflection, maybe I should have titled this "Spaceballs: The Movie Review".

But since its release in 1987, Spaceballs has captured the hearts and minds of many—particularly me! Largely a parody of Star Wars (though it also touches upon Star Trek, Alien, Planet of the Apes, Lawrence of Arabia, Looney Tunes, and even his own films), director Mel Brooks has created in Spaceballs possibly one of the best spoofs ever put to film.

The story is pretty well known by now (and if you don't know it, go out and get the DVD pronto!). Princess Vespa, daughter of Planet Druidia's King Roland (Dick Van Patten), flees her wedding, dragging with her the Maid of Honor, the robot Dot Matrix (voiced by Joan Rivers herself), only to be kidnapped by the evil Spaceballs. Led by overlord Dark Helmet (Rick Moranis), the Spaceballs hold the princess for ransom, and in exchange for her return, King Roland must reveal the secret code that will give the Spaceballs access to Planet Druidia's planetary shield—so that the Spaceballs can steal Planet Druidia's entire supply of air. In desperation, King Roland calls upon Lone Star (Bill Pullman) and his half-man/half-dog friend Barf (John Candy) to jump in their interplanetary Winnebago and save Princess Vespa. The only catch is, Lone Star and Barf are themselves on the run from Pizza The Hut (Dom DeLuise) because Lone Star owes him a million space bucks, so their price for saving Vespa is—you guessed it!—a million space bucks.

Wow, where to begin my analysis? There's too many memorable moments and hilarious scenes to sort through! I think the best starting point would be Rick Moranis, who completely steals the show as Dark Helmet, the saggy-clothed Darth Vader wannabe. His entrance into the film is about as fabulous as any entrance John Wayne made into his films.



Moranis was perfectly cast in the role of Dark Helmet, as his ability to instantaneously switch back and forth between evil, dark overlord and complete, utter moron is nothing short brilliant. Like the infamous dolls scene here.



Aiding Dark Helmet is his second-in-command, Colonel Sandurz (George Wyner), a whole family of cross-eyed "Assholes", and the leader of Planet Spaceball, President Skroob (Mel Brooks). Bill Pullman's Lone Star is more Han Solo than Luke Skywalker, but he and Barf make an excellent pairing as a couple of down-on-your-luck space travellers. And let's face it—any movie with John Candy is a good movie! I will admit, Daphne Zuniga's turn as Princess Vespa was a little annoying at first, but as she moves from spoiled rich girl to outright Rambo (from her hair getting singed by gunfire, no less), she grows on you fast.

One of the best elements of Spaceballs, though, is its refusal to take itself seriously. In fact, it even pokes a little fun at itself! After the introduction of Yoda Yogurt (Mel Brooks again, only miniature), we're treated to a barrage of Spaceballs marketing paraphernalia: the little store in Yogurt's lair that sells Spaceballs shirts, lunchboxes, dolls, even flamethrowers. I must definitely give kudos to the creativity of Mel Brooks for his lightheartedness here, for not that many directors would be willing to poke as much fun at themselves in making a movie, even when making a parody! My personal favorite of these moments, though, is when Dark Helmet and Colonel Sandurz view Spaceballs: The Movie in order to locate Lone Star and the escaped princess—with the full knowledge that they're right in the middle of making the movie!



Spaceballs is definitely a movie that stands the test of time (though sadly, we'll probably never see the promised Spaceballs 2: The Search for More Money). The only element that feels a little dated, though, is the robot Dot Matrix. The dated feel comes not from her modeling after C3PO, but in her name—Dot Matrix. Computers and printers have come a long way since 1987, so probably the only people who'll recognize the pun within her name are those around the age of 30 (like me). (On the bright side, though, at least she wasn't named Commodore 64 or Atari.) But that's my only real quibble with Spaceballs, for we're otherwise treated with many classic and unforgettable scenes. To start with, I'm sure every parent would love to have a "virgin alarm" for their son or daughter. And "ludicrous speed" is a send-up of warp drive from Star Trek, but far funnier.



And who can you forget "jamming" the radar?



It's hard for me to say whether or not this is Brooks' best film (others I'm sure would argue that Blazing Saddles, Young Frankenstein, or The Producers occupy that slot), but I'm tempted to say it all the same. And I almost feel odd giving Spaceballs a perfect 10, because I usually reserve that for the most superlative films that are filled with the best acting, directing, camerawork, plot, style, and legacy. But at the same time, Spaceballs occupies such a special place in my heart—and in the hearts of other Brooks fans—that to score it anything less than 10 would be an insult to the film. So on that note, I give Spaceballs a 10.

And on that note, may the Schwartz be with you!!!

In need of a laugh (II)

I know it's only an insurance commercial, but the dialogue here is just priceless.

L.A. Confidential

Today, ladies and germs, I'm going to do a combined movie and book review, much like I did for The Black Dahlia a while back. A fitting association, I might add, because today's review is going to be L.A. Confidential, the third installment in the L.A. Quartet series of novels, of which The Black Dahlia is the first entry (L.A. Confidential is the third).

Set in the early 1950s against the persona of a glamorous and glitzy Los Angeles and Hollywood, L.A. Confidential essentially tells the story of how corrupt and duplicitous life was underneath the veneer of Hollywood glamour. This motif gets illustrated right from the opening credits, where we're treated to the voiceover of Sid Hudgens, a scandal/tabloid reporter for Hush-Hush Magazine (played by Danny DeVito), who points out all the clever marketing techniques that portray Los Angeles as the perfect city for the perfect family. (And where else can you see swimmers bathing in a pool filled with oranges?) But underneath the surface, L.A. is ruled by the ironclad mob fist of Mickey Cohen, at least until his arrest for income tax evasion. So with crime in the city now out of control, all is not well in paradise.

Russell Crowe plays Bud White, a hotheaded, bulky cop who hunts down woman-beaters. In just his first scene, he and his partner Dick Stensland are parked outside someone's house while Bud observes a fight brewing between a husband and wife. Bud naturally intervenes, beating the living hell out of the husband and helping the wife find refuge. From there we move to cool Hollywood gladhandler Jack Vincennes, played by Kevin Spacey in a sort of Dean Martin-esque portrayal. Jack is a police consultant on the TV show Dragnet Badge of Honor, and in the meantime gives Hush-Hush writer Sid Hudgens insider tips about Hollywood scandal, always for a $50 fee. And lastly we have Guy Pearce portraying Ed Exley, an opportunistic, politically-minded, rookie cop who has weird ideas about justice, and won't think twice about ratting out other officers in the name of justice (and his own ambitions).

Two major events happen early in the story to set the stage. The first is a major jailhouse beating of prisoners on Christmas Eve, labeled by the press as "Bloody Christmas." In an attempt to quell public outrage against the incident (not to mention preserve the niceties of Los Angeles P.R.), the mayor and D.A.'s office quickly step in and ask several police officers to testify before the grand jury against designated scapegoats in the Bloody Christmas affair. Ed Exley is the only one to testify, so as to further the cause of justice and give him a big promotion. In the process, though, he earns the wrath of many other officers—not the least of whom is Bud White and Dick Stensland, the two designated scapegoats.

The second major event is a late-night shooting at the Nite Owl coffee shop, where every patron is shot to death, along with the entire cooking staff, and left on display in the men's room. It appears to just be a robbery at first, but one of the dead is Dick Stensland, which prompts Bud White to wonder if there's more to this shooting than what's on the surface. And as the investigation into the Nite Owl progresses, a lot of old skeletons are unearthed, and a lot of shady characters come to the forefront:

• Pierce Patchett (David Strathairn), a real-estate developer who also runs a business on the side, one where he runs call-girls who are surgically-altered to resemble period actresses.
• Lynn Bracken (Kim Basinger, who won an Oscar for her efforts), one such call-girl who's altered to resemble actress Veronica Lake, and who serves as the mysteriously seductive love interest for Bud White.
• Ellis Loew (Ron Rifkin), the slimy district attorney who has his own ambitions and skeletons in the closet.
• And last but not least, Dudley Smith (James Cromwell in a pitch-perfect portrayal), the larger-than-life police captain who, along with Bud White, runs a mob unwelcome wagon at a nearby abandoned motel for any would-be thugs looking to take over Mickey Cohen's rackets. It's Dudley Smith who's truly the center of the story, though, as the question continually arises about which side of the law this guy is truly on.

Set to a perfectly-pitched '50s soundtrack, with dead-on-target dialogue to reflect the times, L.A. Confidential is actually a very densely layered, enormously complicated story where ethics are questioned and morals are redefined. My one complaint about the film is that, by the end, the audience is practically spoon-fed the solution rather than given the chance to figure it out—though this spoon-feeding is almost necessary, given the enormity of the story. That's not to say it's unfulfilling, because by the end, you're left very satisfied with this epic tale of blackmailing, scandal, and corruption set against '50s Hollywood idealism. And in both the movie and the novel, I loved how real-life figures were interwoven into the actual story. Mickey Cohen was actually a real-life gangster in the 1950s, as was his bodyguard Johnny Stompanato. (And I loved the scene in the movie where Exley and Vincennes stumble upon Lana Turner.)

I recently read the James Ellroy novel upon which the movie was based, and let me tell you, that was an enormous story! Far more broader and epic than the movie, I'm amazed that it translated as well as it did to the big screen. But having said that, I'm puzzled by one thing: why this won an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay, because the movie took a great many liberties with the story in its big-screen adaptation—far more than I thought warranted an Oscar. The book, you see, took place across the span of 5-8 years, and featured many more characters and storylines than the movie allowed. A few major breaks from the book, just off the top of my head, are as follows:

• Buzz Meeks was only featured in the opening of the novel but had a far greater role in the previous Ellroy novel, The Big Nowhere. And it wasn't his body found under Mrs. Lefferts' house in the book. That was a man named Duke Cathcart.
• In the book, Dick Stensland didn't die at the Nite Owl, but instead someone impersonating the aforementioned Duke Cathcart. In the book, Dick Stensland died in the gas chamber because he robbed a liquor store after being thrown off the force (I think there was more to it than that, but I can't remember).
• In the book, Ed Exley's father was a central character, so the "Rollo Tomasi" story was created for the movie. But along with Ed Exley's father was a family friend named Raymond Dieterling, who clearly was supposed to be Walt Disney because he'd just opened up a cartoon-themed amusement park called Dream-a-Dreamland, featuring characters like Moochie Mouse, Danny Duck, and Scooter Squirrel.
• While serving as Dudley Smith's muscle, Bud White also searched for a killer of young hookers, which tangentially involved a pornography angle that was briefly touched upon in the movie.
• Jack Vincennes wasn't the cool Dean Martin-type guy that Kevin Spacey portrayed. He still gave high-profile tips to Hush-Hush Magazine, but in the novel, he was a man who had many skeletons in the closet, and started to unravel under their weight.
• The overall tone of the book was much darker, more noir-like, whereas the movie was more stylistic and suave, more of a fun ride.
• The ending between the two was completely different, and Dudley Smith doesn't die in the novel. He goes on to appear in the next entry into the L.A. Quartet, White Jazz.

There are many more than the ones I've listed, but these are the biggies for right now. L.A. Confidential was up for several Oscars in 1998, only taking the aforementioned Adapted Screenplay and Supporting Actress awards. It lost Best Picture to Titanic, which disappoints me, as I would have preferred this or Good Will Hunting to have taken Best Picture. But all the same, L.A. Confidential succeeds well as both book and movie, and I give both a score of 9.

Is Manny Acta counting the days yet?

Well, let's review the situation here. I listened to the Nats-Diamondbacks game on the radio today as I drove home from PA, and the Nats fell 3-1, thus giving them a record of 1-6 after just their first week—which is downright horrendous. This is the first full season under the leadership of the Lerner group, as well as incoming manager Manny Acta—which leads me to wonder, if we're already 1-6, often losing games by a score of 7 points or more, how long will Manny Acta be our manager? He was hired to fill the void left by Frank Robinson, and while I want to give him a fair chance to prove himself as manager, at this rate it's going to take a lot for him to turn things around.

In the meantime, Happy Easter!!!

Memo to Mother Nature: stop messing with us!!!

I woke up this morning to find snow flurries on the ground and my car coated in white. I couldn't believe my eyes because, only last Monday, it was 80 degrees out and I was sitting at RFK watching the Home Opener under a beautiful, blue, sunny sky! How can you go from lovely spring weather to the polar opposite in just a week—especially in spring? If I get sick, I'm blaming Mother Nature.

Dreamgirls

When I first went to see Chicago, I didn't know going into it that it was a musical. It was only 20 minutes and 3 musical numbers later that I finally realized what I'd gotten into! But when all was said and done, I was left reasonably impressed with Chicago—though going into Dreamgirls, after all the Academy Award hype (not to mention the controversy surrounding Jennifer Hudson's Oscar win), I fully expected to hate Dreamgirls. But rather, I was surprised at how well it was executed, how epic its scope is, and how full of heart and pain the story is.

With the aforementioned Chicago as my major comparator, I expected a much bigger musical experience—i.e., musical numbers and highly choreographed dance scenes running every 5 minutes. Dreamgirls certainly had plenty of music, but there was plenty of room in between numbers for story and character, which is actually the way I prefer it: a medium amount of musical numbers, so that way the plot doesn't become secondary to the music. Spanning what I'm guessing is about 10 or 15 years, Dreamgirls follows a group of singers known as the Dreams/Dreamettes as they move from lounge to soul to pop/disco/Motown. Jamie Foxx's Curtis was always talking about a "fresh new sound", and in a very unique way, Dreamgirls was almost educational in how it illustrated the growth and changing face of music as the years went by—not to mention how the artists themselves had to adapt to the changing times.

One thing I noticed right away is that Dreamgirls wasn't very subtle about who the various groups were supposed to personify: the Dreams/Dreamettes were clearly supposed to be The Supremes, Eddie Murphy's James "Thunder" Early was most likely supposed to be James Brown or Little Richard, and I got a good laugh out of the group of young kids who were clearly supposed to be The Jackson Five (complete with a young Michael). And Beyoncé Knowles's character Deena Jones . . . can it be any more obvious who she's portraying? Deena—Diana? (On another note, I was surprised to learn that Diana Ross herself authenticated the historical accuracy of Dreamgirls—i.e., the story told in Dreamgirls very closely resembled the real-life story of The Supremes.)

The acting, all around, was very impressive! Filled with plenty of acting talent, including Danny Glover, Jamie Foxx, Beyoncé Knowles, a surprise cameo by John Lithgow, and even a brief appearance by Jaleel White (known to the rest of the world as uber-nerd Steve Urkel), everyone stepped up to the plate and hit it out of the park! I think that's more because of the roles themselves, which seemed to be quite deep and complicated—not to mention conflicted and pained. Eddie Murphy's performance as soul singer James "Thunder" Early was very refreshing, because for so long I'd been seeing him only doing hit-or-miss family comedies, and while I love Murphy as a comedian (particularly his '80s comedy, when he was fresh off of Saturday Night Live), I gladly welcomed his return to serious, dramatic acting. And if I'm not mistaken, Murphy used to sing during the late '80s, so his turn as a soul singer was quite authentic to me.

Jennifer Hudson's Effie White was really the focal point of Dreamgirls, though, as the story was largely about how Curtis relegated her status in the Dreamettes to backup, even though she had the best voice of the group. Effie's pride and stubbornness didn't react well to this, and coupled with emotional heartbreak and betrayal from Curtis, sent her into something of a downward spiral as she eventually broke away from the group. I still would have preferred Rinko Kikuchi to have won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar this year, but after watching Dreamgirls, I can definitely see why Hudson won: on the strength of her singing and on the physical presence of her character Effie. Some of her songs were very powerful indeed (the girl can sing, no doubt about that!), and even though this was her first acting role, she seemed to convey the drama and the pain equally as well—even during the non-singing moments. I've heard many complaints about her acting (or her perceived lack thereto), but to be fully honest, I found her to be very impressive as Effie White.

Jamie Foxx, though, delivered a somewhat wooden performance, which I wasn't expecting. I don't know if that's because of the way his character Curtis was drawn (as the manipulative, controlling manager), but I guess I was just expecting more passion and depth from his performance, because that's how all the other characters were: they commanded a strong physical presence that was almost electric. Like when Murphy's James "Thunder" Early was on stage, it may as well have been James Brown himself.

After watching Dreamgirls, I'm quite surprised that it didn't receive a Best Picture or Best Director nomination! If this isn't Best Picture material, I'd love to know what is. Because Dreamgirls delivered with unbelievable heart, gave superlative performances from its actors, and had flawless directing by Bill Condon. Why Best Picture and Director were denied Dreamgirls is really beyond me. Though the three nominations it received for Best Original Song actually puzzled me, largely because there wasn't one that stood out more than the others—i.e., there didn't seem to be a "signature song" to Dreamgirls. Though the songs themselves were quite well written and performed! (For all its simplicity, I can still hear the lyrics to "Cadillac Car.")

I give Dreamgirls a 9 out of 10. The acting was superb, the songs were delivered flawlessly, and it's a shame it didn't receive the Oscar attention it deserved. On another note, the other day when I went to BestBuy, I found a DVD of Cleopatra . . . and I checked to see if it starred Diana Ross (it was Elizabeth Taylor). You'll know what I mean by that when you see Dreamgirls. ;)

RIP Bob Clark!

Bob Clark, the director of such well-known movies as Porky's and A Christmas Story, died today after being in a car accident. Evidently it was a head-on collision with a drunk driver.

Beam me up, Scotty!

According to a CNN article, the ashes of actor James Doohan, who is fondly remembered by many as Scotty from the original-series Star Trek (as well as the 6 subsequent original-series films), will be blasted into space on April 28. A fitting tribute, I believe—especially when you consider his legacy on Star Trek. Though I didn't realize that the same tribute was paid to Gene Roddenberry, too!

Opening day recap

Well, it's official: spring has sprung, and baseball season has begun!!! (And no, despite the rhyming scheme, I'm not a poet.) The Nats fell to the Marlins, 9-2, but despite the loss, it was nevertheless an fun and exciting afternoon—starting with a pre-game tailgate hosted by MissChatter.

A few quick highlights:

• The weather was unbelievably beautiful for Opening Day!!! It easily made it up to 80 degrees, and the sun shined brightly for much of the day. A cool, refreshing breeze every so often made it the perfect baseball weather, too.
• Adrian Fenty did, in fact, throw out one of the first pitches! Because of this, I must now live up to my claim that I will forgive his earlier opposition to the Southeast ballpark deal.
• Baseball fans came out in droves to fill RFK. Though attendance was never, in fact, announced! But I'm willing to bet it was well over 40,000.
• Teddy Roosevelt made a remarkable entrance into the President's Race by repelling down from the roof of RFK (right above where I was sitting, in fact!) straight to the finish line—but he didn't quite make it, and was disqualified for his efforts.
• Center fielder Nook Logan made a remarkable catch in the 4th inning to prevent a Marlins home run, but hurt his foot and had to leave the game early.
• Pitcher John Patterson had a somewhat decent start, but only lasted 4 innings. Pitching is something we'll clearly need to work on this year.
• Lines at the concessions were surprisingly long (I think Will waited an hour just to get the hot dogs), and I'm willing to bet there'll be a lot of complaints about the slowness of food service. And while I didn't make it down to the food court above the main entrance, there's a rumor that Hard Times has been replaced by a hot dog vendor, which saddens me because I loved eating the chili nachos from Hard Times last season. I'll have to go down there soon to see if Cluck-U Chicken Cluck University is still there, too.

With that, we now begin season 3 of the Nationals! I'm not entirely disheartened by the Opening Day loss (though I was hoping for a few more runs from the Nats to make the loss a little more bearable), but as Will so aptly stated when we took our seats, "It's good to be home."

Home opener!!!

Today, my beloved Washington Nationals kick off their season . . . at home!!! I can't believe we're already in the third year of the franchise, and it sure has been a wild ride since they first announced in 2004 that the Expos would be coming to Washington.

Will and I made it to the inaugural 2005 game in Philly, meeting up with his ombudsman Cliff (himself a Phillies fan) for the game, and it amazes me just how much things have changed since that first game: we now have an owner, we now have a TV deal (however corrupt it may be), we have a new manager, the team has cycled through many players, and we're promised a new ballpark by this time next year! That means that on a late September day, on the home closer, we will be stepping out of RFK Stadium for the last time. I may be the only one, but I'll be saddened, because even though I look forward to the new ballpark, I'll always fondly associate RFK with the Nats in their infancy.

But enough sentimentality; today starts season three! There's been some talk that Hank Thomas, the grandson of Washington Senators pitcher Walter Johnson, will be throwing out the first pitch today, which I can live with. It's shame that it won't be Adrian Fenty, though, given how much he opposed the stadium deal while serving on the DC Council—yet it would be the sweetest comeuppance if he had to throw out the first ball at the new ballpark next year! And if he does, I'd then and there forgive his previous opposition to the ballpark.

It won't be the same without Frank Robinson coaching, either. I may be the only one saying this, but I actually do miss Frank Robinson. I'm sure Manny Acta will prove worthy with time, but there was something special about Frank and his first season in Washington, and I miss that.

But today we set sail on baseball season, and what else can I say in closing except . . . "Play ball!"

Happy April Fool's Day!