Movie Maven

on this blog? Many apologies for the lack of programming of late. As usual, I have simply gathered too much on to my plate, and now am busily engaged in choking it all down, bit by gristly bit, until I either finish it all or vomit the myriad responsibilities into the nearest trash can (how do you like that for a bit of nifty metaphorical footwork. And such visuals!)

Anywho, after this week I'll be back at it. Lorda mercy I can't wait until the semester's over.

Josh Levin is officially my hero of the week, for his stunning rip on the woe-begotten state of parodic film, as exemplified by the atrocious-looking "Meet the Spartans."

This was the worst movie I've ever seen, so bad that I hesitate to label it a "movie" and thus reflect shame upon the entire medium of film. Friedberg and Seltzer do not practice the same craft as P.T. Anderson, David Cronenberg, Michael Bay, Kevin Costner, the Zucker Brothers, the Wayans Brothers, Uwe Boll, any dad who takes shaky home movies on a camping trip, or a bear who turns on a video camera by accident while trying to eat it.

In this day and age, one becomes a connoisseur of adapted screenplays. The good. The bad. The updated Shakespeare teen comedy. The Harry Potters. They are money in the bank for the production companies, and delicious fodder for book lovers, who wail against the cheapening of great literature, rending their clothes and gnashing their teeth.

Out of this distracted melee comes "Atonement", the adaptation of the Ian McEwan novel of the same name. It would be criminal to discuss the plot in any detail in you haven't read the book. Set in the mid-1930s, the first half of the film takes place during one fateful day, when fanciful young writer Briony (Saorise Ronan) witnesses an altercation between her sister Cecilia (Keira Knightley) and their gardener Robbie (James McAvoy). She terribly mistakes the situation, and her mistake becomes an event that shapes all their lives. The second half of the film finds them all in very different circumstances, during the British retreat from France. It's a truly brilliant book, and director Joe Wright, who helmed the recent adaptation of "Pride and Prejudice", shows again his agility for capturing not just the plot and characters of a novel, but also it's essence.

Wright does magical things with natural light, turning a precocious 12-year-old into something out of "A Midsummer Night's Dream", and generally transforming the English countryside into something simultaneously idyllic and unsettling. As the ethereal Briony skips through the sparkling woods around her house, and her sister basks in a bathing suit in the dappled sunlight, you know it won't be long before something truly awful happens. The music is nothing less than perfect; the pounding keys of a typewriter mingle with the conventional violins and piano, and the beat that results is steady and maddening in a way. It's the audio embodiment of these characters marching blindly into disaster.

Parts of the second half of the film are problematic. The depiction of the hellish conditions at the Bray Dunes in Dunkirk is spectacular in the conventional way, but one does feel a strange sense of disappointment looking back on it. It misses the slightly otherworldly quality of the first half of the film, though this can still be observed in other scenes, particularly in the hospital where the older Briony works. In many ways it looks like every other mass scene of carnage, with digitized soldiers and little actual substance. Some of the most harrowing pieces of McEwan's novel are his descriptions of the Bray Dunes, and though Wright has the noise and chaos of the physical place, it lacks McEwan's subtle examinations of the soldiers' inner chaos.

Where Wright and his performers succeed most is in the restraint of the performances. Knightley is exceptional, playing a wealthy young woman with all the education in the world, but, as her social status dictates, with absolutely nothing to do. McAvoy, while not as mature an actor, is still able to command the screen (and he doesn't look so bad either). But perhaps most risky of all, Wright doesn't make you look at them all the time. Briony, both as a child and in her older manifestation, is what you look at. Her character is the most provocative; she can lead your sympathies one minute, and draw ire the next. Ronan has been nominated for an Oscar for her performance as 12-year-old Briony, and indeed she seems to exude an intensity and depth far beyond her years.

The film is not as "good" as the novel, perhaps. But this of course makes the assumption that a story can work the same way, effectively, in every medium available. It is appropriate that an adaptation is sometimes referred to as a "translation." There are always things that are lost in translation. Wright, I think, understands this concept. It is the mood, the tone, and the heart of a story that is important. Bring these things to the film, and the plot will follow.

(File Photo Courtesy of the New York Post)

Well, unfortunately, my dears, the work that I have left to do has surpassed me by a considerable amount, so I've not a lot of time this week for brilliant strokes of criticism genius. Later on in the week, I'll be expertly reporting on Atonement, which I finally got to see last weekend, but for now, I'll leave you with just a few tidbits:

1. Check out the Oscar Noms

Oh, yes, they're out, and the nominees look as boring as ever. Pretty much everything that's to be expected- though Ratatouille up for best original screenplay is an interesting little diamond of originality.

2. Heath Ledger

I've gotten three text messages, two phone calls, and several emails about the untimely and unbelievable death of one of the most promising actors of my generation. No doubt E! will be spewing all the awful unnecessary details: the autopsy reports, the tearful interviews with people who barely knew him, the "what went wrong" scenarios. I will simply say that he was a beautiful and talented man. He was a wonderful artist who had a great career ahead of him. My thoughts and sympathies go out to his family and friends.

Jane Austen.

Sigh.

I love Jane Austen. I loved her before she was cool, too. I loved her best when I was a bookish teenager, whose heart fluttered at the notes of passionate longing and stolen glances scattered in Austen's novels. I loved her characters- those magnificent women, clever and witty and sometimes plain, who peopled the upper-middle class lodgings of her genteel English settings. And the men. Gentlemen, cads, fiends, scholars, attractive but conniving cousins- these were my kind of heartthrobs. Forget J.T.T and Brad Pitt. I was a Darcy kind of chick.

The recent rash of Austen adaptations, pseudo-adaptations and references have had me simultaneously enthralled and a little perturbed. Though I will always be a Colin Firth woman, the Keira Knightly adaptation of Pride and Prejudice was a gorgeous revelation of a movie. It was lavish and brilliantly cast, and had a cinematic color palette like a nineteenth century oil painting. And I'm sorry, but I stand by Clueless, a vague interpretation of Emma. I thought it was funny when I was eleven, and I think it's funny now. I was, unfortunately, vastly disappointed with Becoming Jane last year, which seemed to have the notion that only way Austen could have written about love was to have experienced it herself. There is absolutely no factual evidence of any love of Austen's life, save for a few mentions in her diary of a flirtation or two. But since then everyone and their mother has been leaping on the Austen bandwagon- buying their I Heart Mr. Darcy t-shirts and their "An Elizabeth in a Darcy-less world" book bags.

Philistines.

There is a lot of speculation as to why Austen has been graced with so many adaptations of her novels and her life (the only one who appears to have had more is good old Bill Shakespeare.) But PBS, doesn't seem to mind, as long as it rakes in the donation dollars from Viewers Like You. Last Sunday, PBS will air six adaptations of Austen's novels, as well as a biopic Jane Austen Regrets about all these proposals she was supposed to have turned down.

Yesterday was the airing of a 90-minute adaptation of Persuasion.

It wasn't that great.

There's only so many scenes we can have with Sally Hawkins as Anne Elliott, writing in her diary and then looking up at the camera pensively. How much pining can one audience endure? The film unfortunately falls into the genre of the interminable Masterpiece Theater drawing-room drama, with little substance (or provocative dialogue) to back up the gorgeous shots of the English countryside.

I have greater hopes for some of the other films, many of which have been written and/or directed by British adaptation guru Andrew Davies, who directed both the quintessential Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth, as well as a version of Charles Dickens' Bleak House that haunts me to this very day. They'll be airing every Sunday from January 20 to April 6, with a two-week break for the beloved PBS telethon.

Yes, the search for Thenextlittlemisssunshine is officially over, and the winner is Juno.

It would have been really cool if I could have played the caustic film critic, and denounced Juno in all of its mousy brown glory, said it's trite, it's too precious for its own good, it's annoying, etc.

But, dammit all, I can't. It's adorable. And not in an annoying way, either. It's genuinely sweet, and funny, and well-executed and honest. It has a marvelous cast, and a bittersweet ending and a fragility that makes you think if you blow on it too hard it will burst into little dandelion spores and float away on the breeze.

But again, NOT in an annoying way.

How Jason Reitman managed to achieve this, I'll never know. At the beginning I fretted, for it seemed like Reitman was going to make it the Quippy Show with Ellen Page. "I'm going to be so quippy and wise-cracking it's going to BLOW YOUR MIND!" But it seemed like about a quarter of the way through, Reitman and his cast loosened up, stretched their legs, and created something genuine. Something that sounded like how real people talk and associate with each other.

You all know the plot: after a halting, awkward bout of lovemaking, precocious 16-year-old Juno (Page) becomes pregnant by her best friend Paulie (Michael Cera, every nerdy girl's crush.) She decides to give up the child for adoption to cool Mark and frigid Vanessa (Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner), a wealthy couple who might not be what they first appeared to be.

It's hard to get around the fact that the film does romanticize teen pregnancy in a few ways. As a girl who saw more than one round belly waddle down the aisle at her high school graduation, the choices that people make in these situations are far more fraught, and far more emotional than the movie would have you believe. What it does do a good job on is the stigma attached to teen-aged girls who get pregnant, the looks and sense of shame hailed down on girls who made a bad decision. There is a sort of devastation in the way the school receptionist witheringly eyes Juno's swollen belly as she signs off on a doctor's slip. But in the end, Juno triumphs. The divine forces of retribution (also know as the Lifetime channel) do not wreck their havoc upon her life. Juno is no "fallen woman."

The ending is a bit problematic from the audience's standpoint, at least in my personal experience. Without giving too much away, I thought it ended quite happily, or as happily as the circumstances would have allowed. A few of the friends I saw it with, however, said that it depressed them, though they weren't too sure why. It may have to do with the views each of us takes regarding teenage pregnancy and adoption, as well as child-rearing in general. But rest assured that this film is, as a whole, a comedy, and a lighter approach to a very serious matter. The philosophy of the film may be summed up with Juno's comment to Vanessa upon meeting her at the mall:

"The kids at school are constantly grabbing my stomach- they call me the cautionary whale."

Over the last few years, in the course of many parent conferences and

elementary-school curriculum nights, I’ve become familiar with the concept of the “just-right book.” This, my children’s teachers patiently explain, is a book that is perfectly suited to a child’s reading ability: neither too easy, in which case he or she will grow bored, nor too difficult, which risks frustration and confusion.

I defer to the pedagogical expertise of the professionals, but something in me nonetheless rebels against the idea that the books children choose should always be safely within their developmental comfort zone. There is pleasure to be found in bewilderment, in the struggle to make sense of what is just above your head, and there is wisdom as well.

Scott then goes on to point out the value in finding the unusual film for your children. Not just basing what your kids can see on the rating a film receives (which anyone with any kind of film industry knowledge knows is inherently biased) but rather based on the child's maturity level and engagement. This unbelievable few paragraphs of unrestrained sense and rationality most likely got its own special kind of hate mail, but I for one applaud Scott for getting up and saying that film is not an enemy, nor a bastion of demonic threat. It is a medium, some of which is appropriate for children, some of which is not.

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....