Movie Maven

I'm still alive!!!!

Yeppers, I'm still kickin, just blew in from Europe, changed my life, etc. pretentious, etc. I am revitalized and ready for a blogging bumper crop for 2008. Eat my dust, Kos.

Whilst you're getting over your shock that I still reside upon this plane of existence, please look at the full preview for The Dark Knight. Pay special attention to my love, my man, my mister, Heath Ledger as the Joker, who could give king-of-leering Jack Nicholson a run for his money. And there's a welcome shot of lovely Maggie Gyllenhaal, who usurped Katie Holmes' dead-fish performance as Rachel Dawes. That's the way to start the New Year off right.

Greetings, lovers, from Northern Ireland! I haven't sent postcards yet, I'm sorry, they're in the mail. I'm currently on Study Abroad, for those who don't know, and spending the semester in lovely Belfast. This gives me a rare opportunity to view Irish film in its native habitat, something which I will share with you as the season of "serious, Oscar-worthy" films progresses.

For my first selection, I give what is probably my favorite film this year, Once. I actually saw this in the States at a tiny art theater in Toledo. And when I left it, throwing myself into the heady Ohio summer night, I felt like I had been changed in some irrevocable way. I've been processing it ever since, listening obsessively to the soundtrack and telling everyone within earshot to watch it immediately.

It's a deceptively simple film; shot on a shoestring in the streets of Dublin, the story features Guy (Glen Hansard of The Frames and the future father of my children) who busks on Grafton St. He meets Girl (Marketa Irglova) a Czech immigrant and a piano player. In an intense period of a few days they feverishly write, record a demo, and fall in love. It's a musical of sorts, but quieter, more reflective, and ending in a way that these stories really do in life, despite what mainstream Hollywood would have us believe.

In Hollywood the story would be about the meeting of two lovers. They would be played by Matthew McConaughey and Sandra Bullock. There would be scene at the airport where she runs after him as he's leaving, and they kiss, and the people around them clap and they live happily ever after.

That's the not the case here. Here, the story is primarily about the meeting of two artists, a far rarer and much more significant relationship. They are played by two unprofessional actors who are nonetheless luminous and true in their performances. There is no tearful scene at the airport. And though the ending is happy and hopeful, it is not neatly wrapped up with a bow.

Also significant is the setting: the grey, dirty Dublin streets, gorgeous and mysterious and sad... indeed, very much like the music that is played in the film. Every detail in the film is meant to portray the beauty, mystery and sadness of very ordinary life.

And even better, it seems to have been made by people who actually know what ordinary life is like.

It's your beloved Movie Maven's birthday. She is 21 today, and though she is at work right now, is jonesing terrifically to wander over to the local imbibement establishment to purchase herself some gin.

Finding a bathroom in Harvard Square is proving more difficult than usual. The restaurants are closed to anyone not willing to buy alcohol and the coffee shops are full of wizards.

It's 10:30 on Friday July 20, 2007. There's an hour and a half to go until what is considered D-Day by many: the release of the final Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

I have been here since 7:30 p.m. Harvard Square has been turned into "Hogwarts Square" for the night. In the early evening Harry Potter-themed bands played in Harvard Yard (Draco and the Malfoys, for example, who periodically scream things like 'party like you're evil.') I sat and devoured Qdoba with a few cohorts on the steps of the Harvard library, viewing the melee of devoted fans, pointing out exceptionally well-done costumes (my favorite being a high-school aged girl dressed as a giant golden snitch.) It was a beautiful day with blue skies and a gentle breeze, not humid as is customary for Boston in July. At the foot of the steps small children in capes pretended to curse each other with sticks. A couple below us made out, the girl wearing a witch's hat.

The stores are open late to accept the throngs of costumed people milling around. A candy shop off Mass. Ave. has been turned into "Honeydukes," the magical sweet shop Harry and his friends frequent. While people were wandering in the Harvard Coop earlier, getting wrist-bands and meandering through the shelves, the place is now locked tight, and a security sentinel guards the door like one of Hogwarts' suits of armor.

People are lined up around the block at 10:30, the smart ones bringing lawn chairs and coolers full of snacks to keep themselves sated. My copy will be arriving tomorrow, courtesy of Mother Maven who pre-ordered it for me. So I am free to walk about. I peruse the line and drop in on conversations. A group of college guys my age are dressed to the nines as a quidditch team. One of them has a cricket back emblazoned with the word "Ravenclaw". They're discussing at length the million-dollar question: Will Harry Potter survive? The guy carrying the cricket bat thinks not, but one of his friends believes that J.K Rowling could not be so cruel as to kill off their hero. "I mean, come on, it's a kid's book," he says.

Speaking of costumes, one of the most intriguing things about these gatherings is how people like to dress for the occasion. There are the people who simply wear a wizard's hat, or a cloak, or perhaps carry a kitchen broom. Then there are the people who go all-out, with the robes, and the wigs and the hats and the wands, and the trademark lightening-shaped scar etched in eye-liner on their foreheads. There's a small contingency of Goths, the girls with their dark hair in their pasty faces, looking very much like Severus Snape in drag. I'm still not sure if they were there for Harry Potter, or if that's just how they dress. And finally, my dubious favorite, a cacophony of teenage and young-adult girls who decided that the best way to dress for Harry Potter was to dress like a slutty boarding school wench. There are more tiny plaid skirts and knee-high socks here than at a themed frat-party at BU.

By 10:30 the place is packed, and lines stretch around the block. The Curious George shop apparently has rented red spotlights that sway over the store. The roads around the square have been closed down, to allow the throngs to spill into the street. There's singing and laughing and fervent discussions of characters and plot-twists and complicated spells. It's something like a block party that has erupted here. Except instead of neighbors, Mass Ave. is covered with people from all over the city (and probably the suburbs,) brought together by the shared love of a fantasy series. A series originally made popular in the most organic way: by the excited whisperings of school children. I'm suddenly struck by the fact that a book made known by simple word-of-mouth could become the PR powerhouse that it is today.

Suddenly I hear an amplified voice. Two guys running along the Harry Potter lines are shouting through a bull horn, spouting supposed Potter secrets that were revealed online. I can't hear what they're saying, however, as the crowd erupts in boos and shouts of rage. Suddenly a sweet, round-faced girl breaks out of line and goes chasing after the two guys, to general cheering. I waver between amusement and consternation that there are people who are so willing to spoil every one's fun.

With the two boys chased off, and the clock nearing 12, the tension seems to grow. There are the usual suspects in Harvard Square: the guy who plays Goo Goo Dolls covers, the bearded man with no shoes who uses giant puppets to tout the benefits of legalizing marijuana. The card sharp who asks if anyone can find the Queen. But though they are a normal part of Harvard Square's funky vibe, it seems like they too are a part of the carnival. Because that's what it's like: a carnival, simultaneously a PR stunt and a natural community gathering; genuine love and the shilling of a publishing company.

So there we are in this carnival, and as the clock strikes 12, and the sentinels throw open the doors, there arises a hue and cry, a cheering that goes on for minutes. A cry that is probably similar to the cries of people who waited upon the docks more than a hundred years ago, waiting for the next installment of Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop and famously shouting to the sailors, "Is Little Nell dead?!"

I have since finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in a weekend reading spree that remained almost completely unbroken, save for sleep, food and bathroom breaks. I usually only review films on this site, but I think I can make an exception for the boy wizard who has been a part of my life for almost ten years (I liked the books before they were cool). So my review will follow over the next few days, completely awash with spoilers. But I have a feeling that when I look back on my experiences as witness to the making of a classic I will not only remember the plot points and character developments. I will remember the spirit, the soul of the Harry Potter phenomenon. The sheer energy and will that made adults leap out of bed, don their wizard's caps and rock out to "wizard rock" in the middle of venerable Harvard Yard.

You may have heard this awhile back, but director/writer Joss Whedon (my love, my soulmate) has snapped. In the wake of the horrific (and caught on tape) "honor-killing" of 17-year-old Dua Khalil Aswad, Whedon went on the venerable fan site Whedonesque to discuss what he sees, from the dusty streets of Iraq, to the tragic wasteland of modern horror "torture" films. About his viewing of the grainy cell phone video, in which Aswad's battered face was "nothing but red," and his shock at seeing the same sadistic bent in the recent horror flick Captivity. It was possibly the most compassionate and fiery speech about violence against women I have ever heard, a voice calling out for our global culture to look at itself and ask why there is still the agreement that there is something inherently "wrong" with the female sex.

It’s no longer enough to shake our heads and make concerned grimaces at the news. True enlightened activism is the only thing that can save humanity from itself. I’ve always had a bent towards apocalyptic fiction, and I’m beginning to understand why. I look and I see the earth in flames. Her face was nothing but red.

I count Whedon as one of the precious few male filmmakers (besides, perhaps, Quentin Tarantino) who shows women not as sex objects or victims, but whole beings, simultaneously human and goddess-like. And his call for true action seems to have been heard. A handful of activists have begun an arts anthology, who's profits will benefit Equality Now. The blog, and how you can help is here.

To the chagrin and consternation of my boyfriend, I am enraptured by period pieces. Specifically anything British. I may just have spent two hours in ecstasy at a Live Free or Die Hard screening, but a good bodice-ripping adaptation of Austen or Bronte also has the ability to put a sparkle in my eye and spring in my step. Due to the fact that Hollywood has pretty much given up on any original screenplays, there's a new slew of period adaptations, biopics, remakes, etc. etc. Perhaps the granddaddy of them all is Jane Austen's masterpiece Pride and Prejudice. There's the quintessential BBC version, starring that hunka hunka burnin love Colin Firth, the uneven but satisfying Keira Knightly version, the modernized (and adapted) Bridget Jones' Diary, a new fictionalized biopic of Austen's life Becoming Jane, set to open this year, and an adaptation of The Jane Austen Book Club.

There's nothing more cringe-inducing than watching a group of talented animators beat on a dead horse.

Shrek 3, aside from one hilarious scene at a medieval high school (Worcestershire High) is pretty much just that. Lots of adult-themed jokes, lots of sweet-natured lessons about loving thyself, blah blah blah. This was wonderful and revolutionary... the first time. Since the dawning of the Age of Shrek, we have seen nothing but computer-animated pictures with adult-themed jokes and sweet-natured moral tales. The ani-clusterfuck had begun to grate on me about three penguin movies ago, and like Paris Hilton, there's no end in sight. So, Shrek, you also look like I need a drink. Before you were adorable and life-affirming. Now I don't even want to rent you on DVD.

This is the statement that occurred to me last week, when I turned on CNN to see this:

"You look like I need a drink" is an Against Me! song, and the phrase has always tickled me. And when I saw Paris Hilton, paraded in all her entitled, stupid glory through the streets back to prison, as she wailed and gnashed her teeth and rent her garments, I couldn't help but think, "Man, Paris, you look like I need a drink."

The moment Paris was released from prison for being too whiny, my detached annoyance at her presence was morphed into a profound, fiery hatred that turn my eyes red and caused an unholy wind that blew down anyone in my presence. She was the result, nay the symbol, of the easy corruption and favoritism practiced in our justice system. As Mother Maven said so astutely, "If her name was LaQwanda and she lived in South Central LA, we wouldn't even be having this conversation right now."

But, unfortunately her name is Paris and she most definitely does not live in South Central LA. But in the end, apparently the judge had the same facing-God's-wrath reaction I did, because he cheerfully sent her back. There were tears of joy, and dancing in the streets at her less-than-dignified departure, and all manner of schadenfreude marked the weekend admirably. But after my vengeful wrath had been sated by Baby Paris' tears, a dawning crept over me. Oh dear God. We will never be rid of her.

Because then there will be the prison exposes and the appeals, and the release, and the aftermath, and the Diane Sawyer interview, and it will never end.

And that is why I need a drink. Not just for poor Baby Paris, who's facing 23 days of uncomfortable mattresses and the prospect of being someone's Veronica to their Betty. But for all of us, condemned to look at her stupid lazy-eye until she inevitably drops dead from a cocaine overdose in P.Diddy's bathroom.

The US Color-Coded security thingamajig will turn a violent shade of red this September with the national debut of Girl Authority on the CBS Early Show.

For those who do not know the newest terror threat to the nation here's a quick run-down, according to the people on the internets:

-They are a Manson-like cult of nine sprightly blondes, ranging in ages from 10-15 years.

-They were formed in the ravaged backwoods Sudbury, MA by Executive Producer/Cult Leader Samantha Hammel (also known as Islam Hussein-Moon Star). The band began when Hammel/Moon Star used contemporary brainwashing techniques on one of the terrorists' fathers- who in turn conditioned the other eight comely street urchins to join the crowd.

-To become this elite squad of terrorist assassins, they had to give up all of their possessions and pretend they were members of the Brady Bunch. They also had to relinquish their given names and take on meaningless titles designed to destroy their sense of individuality (examples include Country Girl, Fashion Girl and Boho Girl).

-They are currently traveling the country, doing lame renditions of classic rock and spreading their message of hate and world domination.

While President Bush has so far retained a diplomatic silence on Girl Authority and its growing number of followers, we here at Movie Maven will not stand idly by and watch our sacred 'tweens fall under the thrall of the blue-eyed army and its propaganda machine. Please, parents, teach your thin, musically-inclined daughters the difference between true Depeche Mode and the hideous, soulless version produced by The Authority. Keep your eyes and ears peeled for the signs of brainwashing, including references to the "Authority Sorority" and screeching banshee-music emanating from your daughters' bedroom.

There is one positive outcome of the rise of The Authority. Agents at Guantanamo Bay have reported that incidents of water-boarding have vastly decreased since the introduction of Girl Authority music to the interrogation procedure, due to increased productivity.

For Steve Gilliard, one of the dynamos of the blogging scene and a fearless journalist. We in Blogland will dearly miss him.

Of her lack of posts as of late. Sorry to my five fans who lurk this blog, hoping in vain for a new, hopelessly genius deconstruction of the cinematic art. I could make excuses: I work 60 hours a week, I don't get paid for this, I've got writer's block, I've got the ebola virus and am currently sweating blood.... Ok the last one might be a lie. But the truth is there is no satisfactory excuse for the shirking of my responsibilites to my adoring fans/parents and friends.

So. Let us carry on.

Neddie Jingo is possessed periodically with the spirit of Al Swearengen... would that I had such a haunting....

Do you know why I'm doing a post on the Errol Flynn version of Charge of the Light Brigade?

Because I just saw it in my History Through Film class.

And I just could not pass up that snappy title.

The Errol Flynn version of Charge of the Light Brigade is NOT about the Charge of the Light Brigade, a vastly mis-managed British military maneuver in which 600 cavalrymen rode at full speed into Russian cannon fire in some valley in Turkey during the Crimean War.

Into cannon fire.

You never, ever gallop horses headlong into cannon fire. I don't know anything about the military but I know that.

But none of this really matters, because the Errol Flynn version is not really about the charge of the light brigade (then again, neither really is the Alfred Lord Tennyson poem of the same name, but that's a different discussion). It's actually about imperialism and British superiority, made by a conflicted Hollywood. Most Americans in Hollywood felt about British imperialism the way most Americans in the rest of the country felt- that it was stupid and wrong (from a personal level) and that it was getting in the way of our manifest destiny (from an economic level.) The limeys were interrupting our trade routes and it was really starting to piss us off. But there was also a large minority of British producers, directors and actors hanging around at this time who felt differently and had quite a bit of sway. Remember also that this was 1930s America. As irritated as we might have been with the British for constantly mucking up other countries, deep in our social darwinist hearts we believed that people in, say, India needed looking after. They are, after all, so very unintelligent, so innocent and childlike, so thoroughly... ethnic. And British rule, we believed, was better than the third world running itself. Combine that with the natural fear of chaos and political panic of the Great Depression, and you've got the perfect makings for the development of the British Raj film. Where manly Brits like Errol Flynn's Geoffrey Vickers, Cary Grant's Archibald Cutter, and Gary Cooper's Alan McGregor battle demonic and brutal South Asian hordes and (surprise, surprise, Russians) to save the innocent natives and their own brethren.

Of course the Crimean War had absolutely nothing to do with India- it was actually Turkey where most of the fighting took place. But the producers probably figured, what the hell, they're all wearing turbans and talking gibberish so what's the difference? So Errol Flynn rides around India for most of the film, waging war against the evil Surat Khan, and seeking bloody vengeance upon him in Turkey after he slaughters a couple hundred women and children in some village. All of his men die in the aforementioned charge, but he gets to stab Khan so its a happy ending.

Very different from a stupid military maneuver, no?

I mention this film not just as an excuse to show my cleverness from blog titles, but also to demonstrate the importance of historical film in context. I love costume dramas, no matter how inaccurate- maybe even because of their inaccuracies. One can learn through these films not just about the time period being portrayed, but the time period in which the film itself was made. They're priceless artifacts of the 20th century- they're part of the reason we know so much about the collective American psyche of the 20th century.

A swashbuckling hero? Or symbol of conflicted feelings of colonial oppression? You decide.

To all of those in the blogosphere getting their flannel pyjamas in a wad over whether 300 is a film for or against the Bush administration, I have only this to say:

Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

It's a modern take on the sword-and-sandals epic, starring lots of digitized, bare-chested men killing each other in bloody and profane ways. That's all. It's about a different take on filmmaking, perhaps a vehicle for discussion about the new wave of computer-generated films are increasingly looking like video games (and vice versa.)

Was Snakes on a Plane about social fears of airport security in a post-9/11 world? Was Reno 911: Miami a statement about the impending marshal law that threatens us under the Patriot Act?

No. No, they were not.

300 is adapted from a graphic novel written in 1998- before the Bush administration. Furthermore its based on the Battle of Thermopylae... and something tells me the Spartans did not have any cultural statements regarding George W. Bush. In any case, most of the people commenting on this flick haven't even seen the damn thing yet. This, of course, is only to be expected among the Right, who'll ban anything under the sun before viewing it if they think it'll upset their delicate Rush Limbaugh-lined stomachs. But I'm a little chagrined that those on the Left are denigrating something based on the preview. And has it occurred to no one that the fact you can't figure out if Bush is the hero or the villain maybe points to the idea that he's not involved at all? Has everyone gone completely batshit insane?!

I'm going to see 300, because I loved Sin City with a fiery passion, and have a newly developed enthusiasm for graphic novels. Plus I just have a hankering for some good old-fashioned bloodletting. If I feel there's a political bent, I'll let you know, but I don't think it matters one way or the other. I get the strangest feeling that 15-year-old boys wired on Mountain Dew and nachos really aren't going to know the difference.

The beloved, darling, fabulous, fascinating, titillating and stimulating Ira Glass has put This American Life on Showtime.

Finally, something good on Showtime.

I've been a long time whore of This American Life, the weekly radio program on NPR, which has individual stories and essays on a given topic each week. David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell have been long-time contributers, among others, and I have it automatically downloaded to my Itunes every week.

I listen to it at work while I'm sorting mail.

I think people are beginning to wonder why sorting mail has the capacity to make me laugh hysterically or weep gently into the daily tearsheets.

Anyway, now it's been transformed into a television show. This is no easy feat, as Mr. Glass will tell you in this interview with Terry Gross, possibly the greatest living interviewer on the planet.

Here's the trailor for the show. It looks mysterious and hauntingly beautiful. The distinctive music, a long-time TAL trademark, has been happily incorporated to absolutely stunning effect. It premiers March 22 at 10:30 p.m. (Eastern.)

Here's the website. There's a picture of Ira Glass there, as well as above. Isn't he just the most adorable thing ever? I could put him in my pocket and walk around with him.

Here's the website for the radio show if you're unfamiliar with it.

If you're lucky enough to get Showtime, watch it. It looks different. And new. Let's call it the thinking man's Engaged and Underaged. That can only be a good thing.

Gah!!! Midterms! Deadlines! My laptop monitor's broken and I have three papers to write!! GAHHHHHHH!!!

Sorry folks, no Oscar coverage for a few days, until I can put my life back together. Read Salon and Newcritics (handily situated on the side blogroll for you.) Their coverage is better anyway.

Now if you'll excuse me I have to go bang my head against a wall until the major ideals of late-nineteenth century Republicanism pop out. I know they're in there somewhere....

Movie Maven is exhausted.

Between the fucked-up crazy blonde-athon that's really starting to disgust me, the start of the Yuletide FAFSA and tax time, college midterms and Michelle Malkin's comedy, I am in desperate need of a vacation. Preferably somewhere without a computer, or TV or.... people. But no matter. I have blogs to write.

In honor of it being Oscar weekend here at Movie Maven, I have decided to, *sigh* make my predictions for the Academy Awards. The only problem is.... I haven't seen a lot of these films. Yes, I know, I need to be more on the ball, but come on. Does anyone really want to see The Queen? Like, pay ten dollars for it and everything? I know I will eventually, but apparently I'm content right now spending my hard-earned cash on Catch and Release, God help me.

So instead of making my predictions of who will win the Oscars this year, I'm going to make a list of the films I have seen at least 10 minutes of, which shouldn't win anything. I mean, EVER. The worst, flattest, most boring, mind-numbing, disgusting and nauseating films and performances of the year. You'll notice that many of the actors and actresses seen here are actually very good performers. they're just misguided. Don't be too hard on them.

So, my darlings, let me present you with the first annual Dubious Honor Awards- the DOOBIES!!

I'm sorry, the joke was right there.

Best Supporting Actor:
Woody Allen: Scoop
Why can't he just DIE already?! Return to form, my ass.

Jeff Bridges: Stick It
Oh, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff. I am so sorry.

Timothy Olyphant: Catch and Release
Apparently after Deadwood got canceled, he lost his mind and decided to stalk Jennifer Garner.

Eugene Levy: American Pie 5: The Naked Mile
I don't know what Eugene Levy did in a past life to deserve these films, but the cosmic universe of karma is a cruel mistress.

Best Supporting Actress:
Jennifer Coolidge: For Your Consideration
I had to sneak For Your Consideration in somewhere, it was just too awful. Jennifer Coolidge just plucked the short straw.

Jacinda Barret: The Last Kiss
I had no idea that a woman screaming at her cheating man could be so boring.

Vanessa Lengies: Stick It
She made me want to pirouette to the door... and bang my head against it repeatedly.

Angelica Huston: Material Girls
Oh Angelica, Angelica, Angelica. I am so sorry.

Best Lead Actor:
Channing Tatum (aka The Chan-Man): Step Up
There aren't a lot of brains in that pretty little head of his. I'd still sleep with him, though.

Martin Lawrence: Big Momma's House 2
Stop it, Martin. Just, stop it. I mean it Martin. Knock it off, it's not funny! Mom, Martin Lawrence won't stop dressing up like fat black woman and he's bothering me!

Adam Campbell: Date Movie
I don't really remember which one Adam Campbell is. I just saw Date Movie on TV last night and hurled into my mozzarella sticks.

James Franco: Annapolis
Or Tristan +Isolde, it doesn't really matter which.

Best Lead Actress:
Allyson Hannigan: Date Movie
She was the fat one that got "pimped"- you know, like Pimp My Ride? There was a midget there. I have nothing else to say.

Scarlett Johannson: Scoop
She tried to do Woody Allen neurotic and just came off looking disarmingly slutty.

Sara Paxton: Aquamarine
I know, it's a kid's movie, I should lighten up. Then again, her blonde hair and perkiness almost blinded me. It was like looking at the sun for two hours with the Teletubbies going on in the background.

Hilary Duff: Material Girls
That brainwashing teenybopper got Angelica Huston to participate in this film. Show her no mercy.

Worst Film of the Year:
Date Movie
ugh
Step-Up
double ugh
Stick It
ughity-ugh ugh ugh
American Pie 5: The Naked Mile
Straight to video. No "ughs" can describe it.

"Why do we listen to Oscar when he has such crappy taste?"

Nevertheless, I'll be live-blogging the Oscars next week. There's nothing better than slogging back G and T's and making snide remarks about the endless blinding trail of Skeletors in Balenciaga gowns.

I'll see you there.

I’m intrigued by the media clusterfuck that’s surrounded Anna Nicole’s death.

Friends of mine have expressed derision of the media coverage surrounding her death. “People are dying in Iraq,” they say (or Haiti, or Darfur or any other number of hideous places strewn with bodies.) “And this is what people care about. It’s sickening. And indeed it is. It is a truly Western journalistic ideal to care more for the sexy death of a former porn star and meth freak more than, say, the UN’s fight to stop the spread of street gangs in Haiti. But one thing I’ve noticed about the media coverage is how full of contempt it is for Anna Nicole. The words “famous for being famous” crop up a lot, laughable at least for the irony that they’re denigrating the fame of a woman that they themselves helped to establish and hold in place.

Larry King’s interviewed her friends for God’s sake.

I myself could not help from making a bet with my boyfriend- that by next season, Law and Order will no doubt bear a “ripped from the headlines” about Anna Nicole.

I’m totally going to win, by the way. But I feel a bit guilty about poor Ms. Smith. The girl was so obviously miserable. Everyone who compared her to Marilyn Monroe was most correct, in that Monroe was also a mess of a person. And I always remember something Mother Maven usually says when someone of Anna Nicole’s caliber dies.

“Oh look at her.” she says. “She was just a baby once.”

Indeed she was. Her name was Vicki Lynn Hogan. She was born in Texas. She was undoubtedly a gorgeous little girl. I know next to nothing about her past, but I wouldn’t be surprised if her childhood was miserable. Would not be surprised if she lost her innocence in some irreparable way- a way that put her on the road to being a Playboy Bunny, a model, a porn star, and a reckless drug addict. But, at some point in her life, Vicki Lynn was a baby. A child. Someone who needed and deserved love. So perhaps that’s how I’ll remember her. She was a human being, not chum for the sharks. And if nothing else can be said about her, then man, she was a beautiful dame.

A quick post today, as I am all hopped-up on uppers and Mountain Dew and will be spending the night catching up on reading about anti-Whig politics in The Scarlet Letter. Any adult who dares tell me again about the days of wine and roses that is higher education can kiss my strung-out, sleep-deprived, painfully-indebted ass.

On a happier note, Sundance ended today with a bang, and several intriguing little indie morsels should be coming our way very soon (read coverage here and here, from people who are lucky enough to bask in the shameless self-absorption and absurd wind chill factor of Park City, UT). The film that has my canine-like ears pricked up is Black Snake Moan, with my beloved Samuel L., Christina Ricci and Justin Timberlake. Ricci plays a nymphomaniac who is chained to a radiator by Samuel L., who wants to save her soul.

It's southern, just go with it.

Anywho, Samuel L. sings the blues in it, and the few bits I've heard are raw and haunting to listen to, filled with Southern Gothic humidity and growling, wrenching sorrow. A little download provided for your listening pleasure is below.

Samuel L. Jackson- Stackolee

Enjoy!

Here is my list of the Top Ten Movies of 2006. Let it be known that I am only doing this because all the cool kids are doing it, and I want to be cool too. After this I'm going to go start smoking and doing whippets.

Let it also be known that I have not seen many of the films that have universally been considered to be the best this year including The Queen, Children of Men, Pan's Labyrinth, Shortbus, and Half Nelson. This is because that, unlike the other cool kids, I am not paid to do this. I do this because I have a big ego.

So here's the list. Those I have reviewed, I'll link to that review, and those I've been too lazy to review, I'll give a brief mention as to why I love them.

Now then.

The Top Ten Best Movies of 2006 (among those I have seen):

1. Little Miss Sunshine
2. Borat
I kept meaning to write a review of this little number, which is probably the funniest, most subversive movie of the year. But I got lazy, and then I got busy, and then I was otherwise occupied stuffing my face over Christmas. But, to keep things moving, let's just say it was filthy, offensive, exploiting and unbelievably hilarious. I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks and my stomach hurt from the workout. I also exited deeply ashamed at the preponderance of the greedy, hate-filled, racist, sexist, bastard Americans that are highlighted in the film (and who are now all suing for being portrayed as the loathsome creatures they are.)
3. Thank You for Smoking
4. Brick
5. The Science of Sleep
6. V for Vendetta
7. When the Levees Broke
While everyone else will mention one of the Iraq docs, and, of course, An Inconvenient Truth, as the best docs of the year, for me it was Spike Lees requiem for New Orleans that had the most value as a documentary. It's alternately captivating, enraging and reflective- an undulating serpent on the spectrum of human emotion. Rent the DVD immediately.
8. An Inconvenient Truth
9. The Notorious Bettie Page
10. Snakes on a Plane
Let me explain. While the film is, technically bad, it's also the most bloody entertaining movie of the year. It gives credence to the philosophy that sometimes a movie doesn't need to have a moral, or anything important to say. Sometimes you just want to see snakes devour people. And that's enough.