A one-page story for my last writing assignment this term. This assignment called for an anecdote, well-used sentence fragments, characterizing quotes, and imagery. One-page stories are HARD. I wrote five two-page stories before I found a concept that worked in one page. I had to sever half of the imagery, but I'm satisfied. I wasn't thrilled, but Sam was.
The Innocent
"Listen close now, boy," Old Nya croaked. "Some men go their whole lives thinking the world is theirs. Thinking they know the shape of it. Us Naeglish, we know different." Nya clasped her rheumy hands around her cane and laid her sagging chin upon them. Light still danced in her eyes as she fixed them on her grandson Jack. Jack smiled and stared back at her, listening intently.
"The world's full up with spirits. Every rock, every tree. These aren't the invisible gods of those Southrons, no. They hear your prayers and see your deeds, and they favor the innocent. When I was a girl, I could see them." Old Nya leaned closer, and Jack's tight-lipped smile spread into a gap-toothed grin. "I can't see them anymore. I'm an old woman, so they hide from me, but I know they're there. We all do."
From that day forward, Jack made it his goal to capture a spirit for Old Nya. Every day, he planted himself on the big smooth rock by the river, fixed his eyes on the widest tree, and waited. Jack prayed and watched until his eyelids drooped and the sun set. He knew it was only a matter of time until the spirit showed itself to him.
And eventually, it did. Jack leapt from the rock, quick as a spider, and brought a jar down around the writhing spirit, its mossy fists pounding on the glass in tinkling protest.
Jack ran back to Old Nya on springs, shouting and laughing all the way. When he reached her tent, he took one last look at the jar, but the spirit was gone. Vanished. Lost.
Like the indestructible constructs it features, Terminator seems to be a franchise that just won’t die. The Governator appears only as a cameo in “Terminator Salvation”, which systematically destroys at least half the reason for the series’ existence. “Salvation” still serves as a passable action movie, but the horrendous script and too-serious tone render the movie almost unlistenable when the action stops.
“Salvation”
opens in 2003 with the execution of Marcus Wright (Sam Worthington).
Before he’s executed, he agrees to donate his body to science, raggedly
foreshadowing what we’ve already suspected from the trailers. (”He
thinks he’s human.”)
Flash-forward to 2018 during the war of the machines, just before John Connor’s rise to leadership of the human resistance. Connor (Christian Bale, miles away from Batman) is sent out on a mission to sabotage the robot-corp Skynet’s operations. Instead, he uncovers Skynet’s plot to kidnap humans to make a new line of Terminators.
In Los Angeles, Marcus Wright awakes to scenes of urban holocaust and meets Kyle Reese (Anton Yelchin, also known as Chekov in this season’s “Star Trek”). Reese is meant to be John Connor’s father. Reese helps Wright into the new decade, but will not follow Wright to Skynet for a flimsily-constructed revenge quest. Reese and Wright don’t get to resolve this conflict before Reese is kidnapped by Skynet as part of the Terminator R&D project.
Rating:
Starring: Christian Bale, Sam Worthington
Directed by: McG
Written by: John D. Brancato, Michael Ferris
Through a series of coincidental events and single-use supporting characters, Connor meets Wright, and Wright discovers he’s the first of the new hybrid Terminator line. Connor is looking for his father; Wright knows where Reese is. Dismissed by the token submarine military authority, Connor rebels and turns to Wright for help rescuing Reese from Skynet.
The plot is rather moth-eaten, and sports many lines that will make audiences groan aloud (what else can we expect from the team that brought us “Primeval” and “Catwoman”?). Fortunately, most of the time is spent on action sequences, which are mostly stunning. If you can suspend your disbelief to synchronous orbit and ignore basic physical properties, you can enjoy a good half of the movie. The giant robot scene is particularly nice, eschewing jiggly-cam and fast editing for tracking shots that jettison Reese and Wright from an exploding gas station to a car chase, an aircraft chase, and eventually, the bottom of the a river gorge.
The film is predictably cinematic, with half of its scenes taking place in the pouring rain. The palette is alternately dusty and chrome, accented with lots of red. Skynet seems particularly fond of open flames, hanging wires, and strobelights in all of their facilities - perhaps this is the robot equivalent of New Colonial decorating. They even feature such amenities as unsecured computer terminals in standing water, open vats of molten steel, and nuclear power sources, all in keeping with the robot lifestyle choices we know from some of the previous Terminator movies.
The
questionable choices aren’t limited to Skynet’s retinue. Humans make
some head-scratchers too, like not using the anti-robot codes to
protect their own facility once Connor has developed them. Plot holes
have ever been the bane of action movies, but many manage to patch them
with efficiency. “Salvation” seems too wrapped up in its Serious
Business to see its own security breaches.
The casting and acting don’t help. It’s hard to tell who to blame for this - the actors or the director McG (of “Charlie’s Angels” and “We Are Marshall” fame). Bale screams half of his lines in a way reminiscent of his now infamous tirade. He shares a very awkward face-off with Worthington that was meant to be a dramatic turning point, but read more like two bulldogs barking at each other from the ends of choke chains: ineffectual.
For your own Salvation, I recommend waiting for a DVD release so that you can turn the sound off and provide your own industrial or hard-rock soundtrack, a-la Pink Floyd with the Wizard of Oz. You may also want to leave the movie right after Connor escapes from Skynet. The last five minutes of the movie were apparently covered with processed cheese food product, and making an early escape may help you retain the movie’s good qualities instead of losing them in the ensuing goo-massacre.
Originally posted to http://pixielate.com/booksmovies/?p=145
Instead of doing a traditional review of Wolverine, I thought I’d highlight my feelings for this piece of work by writing a drinking game.
TAKE 1 DRINK:
- Each time claws or swords emerge from someone’s skin in slow motion
- Each time a new mutant is introduced
- Each time an exotic locale is revealed in an an aerial shot.
- Whenever an item is shown for the sole purpose of re-enforcing something that was said in dialog just seconds before.
- Whenever an item is shown for the sole purpose of destroying it
- Whenever Wolverine accidentally destroys something or injures someone
- Each time a non-Wolverine mutant says something snarky
- Each time a character implies or discusses Wolverine being “an animal”
LADIES ONLY: TAKE 2 DRINKS
- Each time Hugh Jackman is naked or partially naked
TAKE 2 DRINKS:
- Whenever Wolverine walks away from a combat when he totally had an opportunity to kill his foe
- Whenever a mutant engages in solo combat, even though other mutants are around to help him/her
- Whenever the moon is mentioned or shown
- Whenever you see an ax
POUR DRINKS FOR EVERYONE ELSE
- When a character loses in combat, even though they had the tools/knowledge to prevent a loss
- When a character *realizes* they had the knowledge to prevent a combat loss
DRINK YOUR NEIGHBOR’S DRINK
- Whenever Wolverine switches sides (or the sides switch for him)
- Each time Wolverine shouts “NOOOOO!” “ARGHHH!” “RAWRRR!” or another one-syllable expletive
"One day I happened upon a big book buried deep in the ground."
"The Soloist" is based off a true story. L.A. Times columnist Steve Lopez (Robert Downey Jr.) has a chance meeting with a mentally ill street musician, Nathaniel Ayers (Jamie Foxx). Lopez discovers that Ayers is a dropout from the prestigious Julliard School of Music, and begins writing columns about Ayers' struggles. Lopez has a difficult time defining his relationship with Ayers, who doesn't want psychiatric care or a permanent residence.
It would've been easy to rewrite history, as movies are so fond of doing, in favor of a tidy story where Lopez rescues Ayers from the streets, but this doesn't happen. Lopez's story is given far more screentime than Ayers', and though it's not as compelling, it serves to deliver an important lesson in philanthropy: you cannot presume that the disadvantaged are the same as the unfortunates. The strength of this atypical message is never lost, though the flim does plenty to obscure it.
"The Soloist" may have been an Oscar contender, but was bumped to spring, and it's fairly obvious why. (It's also amusing that Jamie Foxx has a movie out at the same time Miley Cyrus does, but that's an article for another day.)
Robert Downey Jr. does a good job of being Robert Downey Jr., and while that's always entertaining, his portrayal of Steve Lopez is really nothing new. Jamie Foxx avoids overplaying schizophrenia, but the movie almost treats him like a supporting caracter, so the overall effect doesn't have much depth. Catherine Keener plays Lopez' stressed ex-wife, and while I really like Keener, I'm tired of seeing her typecast as a snarky feminista.
The film's treatment of social issues is equal parts piano and forte. In one scene, Lopez tells Ayers that he can't loiter in front of the L.A. Times building with his shopping cart of belongings. Lopez and Ayers are good friends at this point in the film, so Lopez telling Ayers to get lost is stone cold. The audience experiences guilt if they've ever looked down on a vagrant for being an eyesore. Shortly afterward, the police round up homeless on skid row, arresting vanfulls of innocents for illegal posession of shopping carts and milk crates. Individual arrests like this are real, but the scene happens more or less out of context, and is of questionable scale. As a statement against classism, the first scene would've stood alone without the ham-fisted addition of the second.
The details are equally perplexing. There are not one, but two urine jokes. There is a prick in khaki shorts overselling Christianity to an unreceptive, already-faithful Ayers. There is a firelit music montage, a scene following birdflight when Ayers gets a new cello, large rats in the streets where Ayers sleeps. These details don't add much to an already vivid portrayal of disorder, they only serve to shock or amuse you, and they're annoyingly peppered through the film.
Conversely, there are several details that add real artistry to the film. Overhead shots of cookie-cutter suburbs, ordered parking lots, and clover-leaf freeway interchanges highlight Los Angeles' unwelcome attitudes towards the chaos of homelessness and mental illness. Sound bleeds across scenes: soft music that lingers or voices that are so quiet that you wonder if they're on screen or in the row behind you. Graphics bridge decades too, as flashbacks to Ayers' life are neatly spliced with his modern interactions.
"The Soloist" offers plenty of food for thought, but doesn't offer you quite enough context to digest it. If the overstatements and unnecessary details were removed, the story and relationships would have more room to develop depth and subtlety. As is, this plays like an orchestra full of unobservant soloists. All of the necessary components for a provocative and sensitive story are there, and are completely destroyed by a lack of good blending and dynamics.
More writings for school. I doubt this will go anywhere, since I know next to nothing about Latin American Catholicism. Sam really liked it, so I thought I'd share again.
When the sun began to dazzle him, Juan ended his prayers. He looked to Paloma, who was curled up on a sunlit patch of soil. "Time to hit the road, old girl," he said. Paloma perked her ears, rose, and shook the dust from her silver coat. Dutifully, Paloma padded after her master as Juan climbed into his rig and started the thundering truck.
Juan drove west, following the rising sun's path across the morning sky. He'd been a truck driver for more than twenty years, and he loved his work. Juan was a solitary man, preferred to spend his days admiring the wondrous landscape of the Americas with Paloma as his only company.
Like many in his line of work, Juan's cab was covered from floor to ceiling with photos, candles, and statues of Our Lady of Guadalupe: a moving shrine to the Mother of all. Though his devotion ran deep, few would guess at just how personal his relationship with Guadalupe was.
Five hundred years ago, Our Lady of Guadalupe appeared to Juan and asked him to serve. Juan agreed to his Lady's request, and in return, She blessed him with long life. Guadalupe warned that the quest would not be easy, and it may take him many lifetimes to find what he sought. Juan obeyed, cast aside his old life, and began the first steps of his sacred quest.
Juan
took jobs in every country in the hemisphere, favoring those that
demanded travel. People everywhere accepted Juan as a drifter: a man
without a family or a home. It was easy, then, to quest for Guadalupe's
lost artifact across the Americas, where Guadalupe promised his quest
would end.
Today, Juan felt a familiar twinge of warmth in
the back of his head. All of his tension seemed to expand and melt
there, covering his skull in a pleasant, tingling sensation, as if he
were bathed in sunlight.
Juan glanced at Paloma, who was staring at some unseen point to the northwest. Paloma's stance was eager and alert, her ears pointed and her legs straight. Her ancient frame seemed almost puppyish as she gazed far ahead.
"Well, should we go see
what it is, then?" Juan asked. Paloma thumped her tail in approval, and
Juan patted her back vigorously. Juan changed gears, sped up, and made
way for the radiant mountain range ahead.
Creative writing is not my forte. I can count the number of creative things I've written in the last 10 years on one hand. I have little snippets and ideas: I make up little stories about people I see on the bus, or take something a friend says and turn it into a crazy children's story, and will occasionally wax poetic while under the influence.
But when I'm forced to write, I can produce, even if the results are laughable. In the case below, I'm a little proud. I wrote this story introduction for my grammar course:
Deborah strolled along the shore, careful to avoid the icy tide. The sky was metallic and the wind whipped mercilessly at her tear-stained face, but walks like this were Deborah's only weapon against despair.
Deborah cared for her ailing mother over the last ten years. She had plenty of time to prepare herself for the inevitable, but when Charlotte passed quietly in the night, it was still a shock, followed by an icy numbness. Deborah didn't have the best relationship with her mother; Charlotte would point out Deborah's deficiencies on a daily basis, leveling double-barrels of unemployment and Deborah's single status against her. In spite of all this, Deborah found some comfort and purpose in caring for Charlotte. Now that Charlotte was gone, Deborah was a woman undone, with her mother's last insults tolling in her ears.
The sound of the ocean helped Deborah escape this dull ringing, and as she walked, she looked for seashells that might echo the sounds of their origin. Deborah owned hundreds of seashells, scattered throughout the shared cabin as if they'd drifted in with the winds. She'd learned the truth about seashells and their sea-echoes when she was still a girl, but these tiny treasures never lost their appeal.
Deborah found a small shell and held it to her ear. She heard a woman's faint sobs instead of the ocean's roar. Deborah dropped the shell and looked around her, but the beach was deserted. Convinced she was just hearing things in grief, Deborah set aside her silly thoughts and picked up the shell again. The woman's sobs grew louder.
"Hello?" Deborah ventured. "Who's there? This is a private beach," she shouted with a note of growing anger.
"Hello?" a soft voice, not her own, echoed from the shell. "Can you hear me? Are you really there? Oh thank god!" the young woman cried, and started sobbing again.
"I must be going crazy," Deborah muttered to herself, inspecting the shell closely.
"No, you've got to believe me, you're not going crazy," the shell answered. Deborah blanched and was quiet, listening cautiously. "Please, help me," the woman in the shell pleaded. "Please, I'm trapped!"
"What, you're trapped inside the shell?" Deborah said, and inspected it again.
"No! I don't know how this works. I've been praying for help, and now I hear your voice, and I guess you can hear me too," the woman in the shell reasoned. "Please, will you help me?"
Originally posted to http://pixielate.com/booksmovies/?p=123
Creating a movie from a cultural icon is tricky business. Do you please the fans, or do you create a good movie? The two aren’t mutually exclusive, but it’s a perilous tightrope. I’m not familiar with the Watchmen comics, and coming out of the movie, I felt like someone’s guest at a work party: politely smiling and nodding at inside remarks I don’t really understand. Watchmen is beautifully marketed, the heroes look interesting and sexy, the concept of not-so-good-guys is intriguing, but this is all just a glossy cover for several stories shoddily bound together.
Watchmen
takes place in the mid 80s that never was. Richard Nixon is spending
his fourth term nervously fingering the big red button that will send
the world into nuclear holocaust. The Watchmen are bound to stop this,
but Tricky Dick legally disbanded their team when public pressure
turned against the vigilante justice. The Watchmen we’re introduced to
in this movie are actually the second generation of super (and
not-so-super) heroes. The opening credits nicely montage the first
Watchmen’s progress, demise, and retirement.
This second crop theoretically kicked some ass in the 70s, but we don’t see them really spring into action until the second half of the movie. Through the first half of the movie, we’re not even sure what their superpowers are, with the exception of the Vishnu-like Dr. Manhattan (Billy Crudup). The movie begins with sketchy Rorschach (Jackie Earle Haley) investigating the murder of the ironically named Comedian (Jeffrey Dean Morgan). There’s also a love triangle between Manhattan, Silk Spectre II (Malin Akerman) and Nite Owl II (Patrick Wilson). With all these subplots and seven characters worth of backstory, the movie is slowly muddled over three hours.
Rating:
Directed by:
Written by:
Starring: Malin Akerman, Billy Crudup, Matthew Goode, Jackie Earle Haley, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Patrick Wilson
The visuals are great, though sadly, most of the stunners were revealed in trailers. True to great comic movies before it, Watchmen features lots of dark or high-contrast lighting and sharp camera angles. The use of slow-motion is a little overused, but helps to frame the action in the same way a graphic novel or comic does. The movie accomplishes the rare coupling of both frequent and relevant CGI. I do think someone should get Dr. Manhattan a thong so we don’t see his dongle waggling back and forth as he strides through important dramatic scenes. (Maybe it’s just my dirty, easily distracted mind.)
That’s not the only distracting feature of Watchmen. Women are frequently brutalized through the film, and some of the violent themes are a little difficult to stomach. A vivid sexual assault and a child’s death are particularly gruesome if not graphic.
Though
the art direction is generally very good, if not a little open-handed,
the music is often painful. Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower” meets
the tone and has a great lyric match as two heroes stride up to a
villian’s fortress. Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” is incongruous with
a violent murder, and I understand that artistic dichotomy. Nena’s “99
Luftballoons” serves only to remind us it’s the 80s as Nite Owl and
Silk Spectre meet for a sensual dinner: not appropriate. But Leonard
Cohen’s “Hallelujah” took the cake and ground it into the dirt by
ruining what would’ve otherwise been a perfectly steamy sex scene. So
much for my dirty, easily distracted mind.
Apart from having a slow start and two main characters that never get developed, Watchmen does have some interesting story and dialog. Rorschach’s contempt for the scum of the earth, The Comedian’s fatalism, and Manhattan’s neutrality are all built with internal dialog that occasionally reads false, but is generally engaging. There are even a few great coup de grâce lines, but these vie for attention with all the movie’s bad one liners. I loved the bittersweet ending, but many of the subplots wrapped up in cliched reveals.
I’m not sure what place Watchmen has in comic movie history yet. You can’t watch the three hour movie with earplugs in and enjoy the eye candy; it’s just not that kinetic. You can’t hail this as message-heavy Cinema either, as the attention paid to deeper social issues is rather slipshod and rushed in the reveal. I have a strong suspicion that if these themes are interesting to you, you’re better off reading the comics.
"The International" is the latest entry in a long list of action movies with bad writing. Unlike many of the films on this list, "The International" isn't saved by it's great cast, cinematic action scenes, or lavish locations. It's not even saved by the timely ire of bank-hating U.S. taxpayers. It's simply schizophrenic in its composure, trundling between truly orgiastic destruction and some of the worst dialog issued to A-list actors in recent years.
Clive Owen and Naomi Watts co-star as Louis Salinger, an Interpol agent, and Eleanor Whitman, Manhattan assistant district attorney. They're working to crack the case of the I.B.B.C., an international bank foraying into weapons dealing to third-world nations. The unlikely pair romp around the world trying to find weak links in I.B.B.C.'s chain and fighting the bureaucratic red-tape their own organizations install along the way.
For action movies, we can usually ignore the story as improbable or scanty and focus on the bounding action. For "The International", so much time is devoted to story development that we're forced to consider the writing at great and excruciating lengths. I don't know why director Tom Tykwer decided to go with an unknown writer for this film when he's had relative success with his own writing ("Paris, J'Taime", "Run Lola Run"). Whatever the reason, nearly three quarters of the film is dedicated to exposition that sounds like it's read straight from B-rate novels you pick up from the checkout aisle at the grocery store.
Not only is the premise ridiculous, the dialog is ghastly. Congenial Clive Owen barely manages to choke lines down with a semblance of intensity. Naomi Watts fails completely, being cursed with both cliched dialog and a role that renders her insignificant to the story's progression; she's reduced to Indignant Female Co-Star Type A, and accomplishes nothing in her quest to bring down the I.B.B.C.
The film has a few high points. The sound design is detailed and disturbing, often signaling plot points that may have otherwise been opaque. The locations are also incredible, and plenty of photography is dedicated to showing off architectural treasures around the world. The action offers mostly minor thrills, but there is one amazing action scene at the Guggenheim. Owen completely destroys the interior of the clean and modern New York museum: waterfalls of glass and bullets, spiraling down to hell, against a backdrop of art films with blooming red roses and virulent disease.
This single scene is action at its best, but sadly, it's alone in the sea of "The International"'s mediocrity.
Sequels are always compared to the original, regardless of whether or not it's fair to do so. In the case of Quantum of Solace, it may not be fair, since the film has a different director and head writer than it's predecessor, Casino Royale. I remember the skepticism that Dainel Craig faced as the first blond Bond, and how quickly that turned around with the elegant, moody, story-driven success of Casino Royale. Quantum of Solace shares a common plot thread and the some of the same characters, but doesn't share much else. This new chapter delivers plenty of car chases and fight scenes, but emerges as only a mildly entertaining chapter in the Bond franchise.
In Quantum of Solace, the newly minted 00 James Bond (Daniel Craig) follows his bloodlust to uncover the organization responsible for his lover Vesper's demise. The little-known Quantum has "people everywhere," even within the special service. Bond eliminates more leads than he interrogates, prompting his boss M (Judi Dench) to question his motives and take him off the case. Bond continues pursuing Quantum anyway, fueled by more of a selfish revenge than for any duty to Vesper.
This is Marc Forster's first action-heavy film, so some rather easy editing is employed. The shake-cam and super-fast cuts make it difficult to focus on the copious action scenes. True to the tone of Casino Royale, we're rewarded with occasional glimpses of despertate men fighting dirty, and the effect is cringeworthy. Unfortunately, these scenes are often interrupted with more motion-sickness-inducing camerawork and editing.
The story doesn't hold much water, either. Precious little time is given to establishing the tone, apart from M's "I thought I could trust you, I thought you weren't motivated by revenge" theme, which is treated like an interruption to the action scenes. We know from Casino Royale that Bond is angrier at himself than he is at Vesper, and his quest for revenge is as disconcerting and narrow as staring down a gun's barrel. It's interesting to see how Bond could transform from a quippy globetrotter into a ruthless, womanizing killer, but unless you're viewing Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace back-to-back, this transition may seem too quick.
We might feel differently about Bond's quest if Quantum's bad guys were more interesting or ire-worthy. Instead of the cruel and calculated snake that was LeChiffe, we're introduced to Dominic Greene, a banker, politico, and worm. The villanry for nearly all of the men in the movie is established more by their constant rape threats than their evil plots. Instead of the campy "save me James!" scenarios, the dark tone of the movie makes these attacks more disturbing, until they start occurring with more frequency, as if the writers were asked to make the bad guys more evil and weren't creative enough to come up with a better way. To be fair, there is some attention given to the socio-political manipulations and master plan of Quantum. Not enough screen time is given to these machinations, so their danger seems remote.
Quantum of Solace may be acting as a sort of bridge between Casino Royale and the rest of the franchise. Between the dark and emotional Casino Royale and the campy Bond we know from the rest of the series, Quantum seeks to wedge in the destructive protagonist with nothing to lose. Here's hoping that the next Bond will develop a sense of humor and a steadier camera.
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janicu said:
[this is good]I keep hearing the "it was bad, I don't understand, Christian Bale was in it!" from people I trust. So..... read more
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Someone found an article about major script rewrites - which Bale insisted on - that played a big part in... read more
on Movie: "Terminator Salvation"