I literally just got home from a late-night showing of "Cloverfield" with Snowden, and I want my $8.25 back. It's the kind of film that makes me want to choke a baby. It started out with such an enticing premise. I'm actually amazed at how badly they screwed it up. "Cloverfield" commits the cardinal sin for any monster movie: it's painfully boring.
It starts out looking like some sort of lost "earthquake" episode of "The OC." At the beginning, we're treated to plenty of poorly-framed shots of people about whom we know or care absolutely nothing. Our tour guide is a doofus named "Hud," a guy whose range of emotion runs from "indifferent and confused" to "scared and confused" to "tired and confused" to "dead." Now I realize "dead" isn't an emotion. Rather, it's the state I was wishing upon myself about forty minutes into "Cloverfield." Some jerk-ass named Rob is apparently moving to Japan. I guess he was promoted to Vice President of something or other (which, based on his behavior in the rest of the film, probably means that he's working for a company that only hires people with crippling mental illnesses). The film begins with his surprise going-away party, and Hud has been assigned the task of recording the night's events.
The monster (what little we actually see of it) is, surprisingly enough, not a cloud of black smoke, as I'd originally assumed. It's a spider-like creature with a squid-like face and an uncanny ability to hide in plain sight among buildings that look nothing like it. Also, it appears that the video camera Hud is carrying (the one we're supposed to believe lasted over seven hours without recharging) is made of some kind of material that draws the monster to it like a moth to a flame. Despite all the visually interesting parts of New York City, the monster is enthralled by the sight of a twenty-something idiot with a Canon XL-2.
Hud, who serves not only as our trusty cameraman, but as our default narrator as well, is clearly supposed to provide the comic relief. Instead, he just makes you wish the monster would just eat him and be done with it. Among his best lines is this little gem (asking another character about a bunch of mini-monsters that attacked them in a subway tunnel): "So those things just came out of nowhere, didn't they?" Brilliant, Hud. You should give Bob Saget a call. I hear they're always looking for bright young people to join The Mob, and as long as all the questions on your particular episode of "1 vs 100" involve things that you just witnessed four seconds ago, I'd say you're a shoo-in to win it all. Hud makes Spicoli, that insufferable moron from "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" (played by insufferable moron Sean Penn) look like Will freakin' Hunting.
The vast majority of the film consists of incoherent footage of random people running away from an unseen monster, interspersed with two of the nine lines that make up the entirety of the film's script: "Oh my God!" and "What the hell is that?" The dialog was clearly written by an autistic child, and I, for one, am glad to finally see big-budget Hollywood films embracing a demographic that is normally reserved for slave labor and makeup testing.
In spite of two... maybe three great set-pieces, "Cloverfield" is, after all is said and done, an immensely disappointing movie. Too much Hud and crappy dialog; not enough destruction and Hud-killing. I will give it this: It's got hands-down the best sound I've ever heard in a monster movie. Everything in the entire film that works... well, it works solely because of the sound. The good scenes may actually be worth the price of a rental if only for the sound.
With a Certified Fresh rating at Rotten Tomatoes to "Cloverfield"'s credit, I'd shed a bit of my cynicism before walking into the theater. Too bad. It deserved none of its hype, and every critic who gave this film a positive review was either high or lying. Or paid. I think my whole opinion can be summed up in what I said to Snowden as we left the theater: "Now that would have been a great movie for MST3K." He agreed.
Incidentally, if you're interested in seeing a good monster movie, you should go out and rent "The Host."
26 January 2008
15 January 2008
Six reasons why being an executive is easier than getting punched in the face while you're asleep
Today was my last day of employment at a certain four-star hotel in southern Colorado (hopefully forever, but at least until summer), and I have to admit I'm pretty relieved. I was a bellman/valet for a good year and nine months, and I'm not sure how much longer I could've lasted. It's not that I didn't like the money; it's just that I can only stand being around stupid people for a short period of time before I start looking for sharp objects with which to maim them, and no one is stupider than rich, old, white people. I know, I know... I sound like some sort of FemiNazi or something, but it's the truth. If common sense were wealth, then these people would be living in refrigerator boxes and doling out sexual favors in exchange for cold leftovers and heroin.
The worst offenders are the guests taking classes at the Center for Creative Leadership, which is a local organization that draws CEOs from around the world and teaches them how to lead creatively, or whatever. One guy couldn't figure out how to open an unlocked van door from the inside. Another tried to give us his flight information so we could pick him up at the airport, but since the information included an airline that doesn't exist, we found it rather difficult to locate him. Yet another gave us the proper information for his departing flight out of Denver, and then promptly hopped a shuttle to the Colorado Springs Airport. Then there was the guy who gave us his information, waited at the airport twenty feet from our shuttle (which is clearly labeled on all sides with the name of the hotel) for an hour, and then hired a taxi to take him instead. Oh, and there was one guy who hopped on the shuttle and, upon arriving at the hotel (which is a good thirty minute drive away), informed the front desk attendants that he'd left his luggage at the airport.
These aren't your average Joes, either. I can't go into details, but most of these people are high-ranking executives at major international conglomerates and multi-billion dollar companies. Clearly, these individuals are no smarter than myself, and in fact, many of them are dumber than a sack of wrenches, but somehow they've managed to reach the upper echelons of business. How is this possible? I think I've stumbled upon a few reasons:
1) Business classes are easier than Britney Spears on coke. As someone who took several business classes early in his college career, I can attest to the fact that most business students would get migraines if they tried anything more intellectually taxing than wearing pants.
2) There will always be someone dumber than you at work, and all you have to do if you want to get ahead is just look a little better than that guy.
3) If you dress for success, use words like "utilize," "synergy," "memorandum," and "expense account," and trim your nails on a semi-regular basis, most people will simply assume you're management material (especially your manager, who got his job the same way).
4) If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: Everyone will think you're better at your job than you really are if you wear glasses and shower at least a couple times a week.
5) It's easy to look competent when you blame your assistant and/or ethnic minorities for all your mistakes.
6) Being an executive is about as hard as beating Michael J. Fox in a standing still contest. (Too harsh? I have others: "... as beating Renee Zellweger in an acting contest." "... as beating Dennis Kucinich in a relevance contest." "... as beating Christopher Reeve in a moving-any-part-of-your-body contest.")
I used to be a business major, but then I realized my life would be more fulfilling if I lived in a pile of garbage.
The worst offenders are the guests taking classes at the Center for Creative Leadership, which is a local organization that draws CEOs from around the world and teaches them how to lead creatively, or whatever. One guy couldn't figure out how to open an unlocked van door from the inside. Another tried to give us his flight information so we could pick him up at the airport, but since the information included an airline that doesn't exist, we found it rather difficult to locate him. Yet another gave us the proper information for his departing flight out of Denver, and then promptly hopped a shuttle to the Colorado Springs Airport. Then there was the guy who gave us his information, waited at the airport twenty feet from our shuttle (which is clearly labeled on all sides with the name of the hotel) for an hour, and then hired a taxi to take him instead. Oh, and there was one guy who hopped on the shuttle and, upon arriving at the hotel (which is a good thirty minute drive away), informed the front desk attendants that he'd left his luggage at the airport.
These aren't your average Joes, either. I can't go into details, but most of these people are high-ranking executives at major international conglomerates and multi-billion dollar companies. Clearly, these individuals are no smarter than myself, and in fact, many of them are dumber than a sack of wrenches, but somehow they've managed to reach the upper echelons of business. How is this possible? I think I've stumbled upon a few reasons:
1) Business classes are easier than Britney Spears on coke. As someone who took several business classes early in his college career, I can attest to the fact that most business students would get migraines if they tried anything more intellectually taxing than wearing pants.
2) There will always be someone dumber than you at work, and all you have to do if you want to get ahead is just look a little better than that guy.
3) If you dress for success, use words like "utilize," "synergy," "memorandum," and "expense account," and trim your nails on a semi-regular basis, most people will simply assume you're management material (especially your manager, who got his job the same way).
4) If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: Everyone will think you're better at your job than you really are if you wear glasses and shower at least a couple times a week.
5) It's easy to look competent when you blame your assistant and/or ethnic minorities for all your mistakes.
6) Being an executive is about as hard as beating Michael J. Fox in a standing still contest. (Too harsh? I have others: "... as beating Renee Zellweger in an acting contest." "... as beating Dennis Kucinich in a relevance contest." "... as beating Christopher Reeve in a moving-any-part-of-your-body contest.")
I used to be a business major, but then I realized my life would be more fulfilling if I lived in a pile of garbage.
03 January 2008
Of facial hair and men
Just last night, I joked with Snowden that when I go any longer than six days without shaving, my facial hair takes a nasty turn. On that seventh day, it stops looking like stubble, and it transforms into a creepy pseudo-beard with wiry hairs sticking out every which way, and bits of egg and marinara sauce seem to magically appear in its nether regions.
Later that same night, I turned on the TV to watch the return of David Letterman and Conan O'Brien to their respective shows and time slots. It wasn't until Letterman was over and I was three quarters of the way through Conan when I noticed something was amiss: They were both sporting massive beards. In both of their monologues, they explained that they were growing the beards as a means of showing solidarity with striking members of the WGA (Letterman, whose company struck a separate deal with the Writers' Guild, came back with his full writing staff, while Conan did his entire show without input from any other WGA members). Presumably, neither will shave until the strike is over. Of course, a better sign of solidarity would be to remain off the air entirely until the strike is over, but keep in mind the hundreds of non-writing employees at those shows who've been out of work for over two months.
In a way, I feel like I was involved in three separate conversations about facial hair in one day. That seems like a particularly odd coincidence, and in hindsight, I probably should have bought a lottery ticket yesterday. In any case, I was amazed that any network executive would allow a talk show host to grow a beard. You know how they always say, "Never trust a salesman with a beard because it makes them look like they have something to hide." It's so true. Letterman looks like Ted Kaczynski, and Conan looks like an Amish child molester. People with beards, especially escaped kidnapping victims and lost hikers, should never be allowed on television.
Oh, and I almost forgot: Conan was hilarious, even without his writers. He spent a good five minutes of the show explaining his practice of spinning his wedding ring on his desk when rehearsals get tedious, actually spinning the wedding ring, and then getting frustrated when he didn't break his previous record of keeping the ring spinning for 41 seconds straight, and he was STILL funnier than Leno. I'd happily watch an entire episode of Conan's show in which he did nothing but dance like a gangly spazz on his desk for an hour.
Later that same night, I turned on the TV to watch the return of David Letterman and Conan O'Brien to their respective shows and time slots. It wasn't until Letterman was over and I was three quarters of the way through Conan when I noticed something was amiss: They were both sporting massive beards. In both of their monologues, they explained that they were growing the beards as a means of showing solidarity with striking members of the WGA (Letterman, whose company struck a separate deal with the Writers' Guild, came back with his full writing staff, while Conan did his entire show without input from any other WGA members). Presumably, neither will shave until the strike is over. Of course, a better sign of solidarity would be to remain off the air entirely until the strike is over, but keep in mind the hundreds of non-writing employees at those shows who've been out of work for over two months.
In a way, I feel like I was involved in three separate conversations about facial hair in one day. That seems like a particularly odd coincidence, and in hindsight, I probably should have bought a lottery ticket yesterday. In any case, I was amazed that any network executive would allow a talk show host to grow a beard. You know how they always say, "Never trust a salesman with a beard because it makes them look like they have something to hide." It's so true. Letterman looks like Ted Kaczynski, and Conan looks like an Amish child molester. People with beards, especially escaped kidnapping victims and lost hikers, should never be allowed on television.
Oh, and I almost forgot: Conan was hilarious, even without his writers. He spent a good five minutes of the show explaining his practice of spinning his wedding ring on his desk when rehearsals get tedious, actually spinning the wedding ring, and then getting frustrated when he didn't break his previous record of keeping the ring spinning for 41 seconds straight, and he was STILL funnier than Leno. I'd happily watch an entire episode of Conan's show in which he did nothing but dance like a gangly spazz on his desk for an hour.
01 January 2008
Thinking outside the taco shell
Watching the Rose Bowl today, I couldn't help but notice the glut of Taco Bell commercials. Apparently, strenuous physical activity and greasy, freeze dried ground beef (read: "shoe leather") go hand-in-hand. I also noticed the fact that Taco Bell hasn't changed their slogan since the Reagan administration. We get it, Taco Bell. You don't sell hamburgers. Very subtle. Congratulations to you.
My question is a simple one: Why exactly is it supposed to be a good thing that Taco Bell doesn't sell hamburgers? Was there some sort of anti-hamburger summit I missed? Or perhaps it was more of a pro-GI-tract-erosion type thing. And when are they going to get off their asses and come up with another slogan? ("Fourthmeal," being a non-word, doesn't count.) I suppose it's hard to come up with a slogan that doesn't paint Taco Bell in a dysentery-inducing light.
Actually, I've come to the realization that Taco Bell only has eight ingredients. Somehow, they have a 900-item menu that consists of slight variations in the combination and proportion of those ingredients. That's quite an amazing feat in my book. I can just imagine that somewhere in the heart of the gringo-style Mexican food revolution, there exists a highly paid statistician whose sole function is coming up with new combinations of which they haven't yet thought. He's just sitting in a basement somewhere in the Midwest with a graphing calculator and a ream of scratch paper, exhausting all possible combinations of beef, chicken, lettuce, cheese, microwaved beans, rice, and debilitating self-loathing. By my calculation, they have nearly 70,000 as yet unused dishes. That's one combination for every man, woman, and child who actually eats there.
My question is a simple one: Why exactly is it supposed to be a good thing that Taco Bell doesn't sell hamburgers? Was there some sort of anti-hamburger summit I missed? Or perhaps it was more of a pro-GI-tract-erosion type thing. And when are they going to get off their asses and come up with another slogan? ("Fourthmeal," being a non-word, doesn't count.) I suppose it's hard to come up with a slogan that doesn't paint Taco Bell in a dysentery-inducing light.
Actually, I've come to the realization that Taco Bell only has eight ingredients. Somehow, they have a 900-item menu that consists of slight variations in the combination and proportion of those ingredients. That's quite an amazing feat in my book. I can just imagine that somewhere in the heart of the gringo-style Mexican food revolution, there exists a highly paid statistician whose sole function is coming up with new combinations of which they haven't yet thought. He's just sitting in a basement somewhere in the Midwest with a graphing calculator and a ream of scratch paper, exhausting all possible combinations of beef, chicken, lettuce, cheese, microwaved beans, rice, and debilitating self-loathing. By my calculation, they have nearly 70,000 as yet unused dishes. That's one combination for every man, woman, and child who actually eats there.
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