Just Watch.

We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Pervert Schedule: Non-Pervert European Cinema

Just to let you know: if you are in the NYC area and have nothing to do Friday night you should really go to the screening of Dreyer's Ordet (which I wrote about all the way back here.) It's a truly unique and astonishing film that makes you think long and hard about faith and the metaphysical, all while being truly human and endearing at the same time.

I won't be able to make it as I will be toasting bon voyage to my friend Ben in Brooklyn, but I promise to raise a glass to Kierkegaard. And think some lascivious thoughts about men who think they're Jesus. Mmm...

Sorry. That perv switch is hard to turn off. 

European Pervert Cinema Week Part 2: The Lickerish Quartet

Yes it's become a week, OK? What do you want from me? Mama's tired.

The short version of the version of the story is that if you think you want to see Abre Los Ojos, you should see this film instead. 

The long version is that it's soft-core porn. Soft-core porn that Andy Warhol described as "outrageously kinky" (of course it says that on the cover of the DVD box). Porn that's smart enough to quote Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of An Author at the beginning of the film. 

 And it's just as eloquent and interesting a meditation on the nature of erotic obsession and desire, and how elusive and mercurial they can be, as Vertigo or even Bunuel's That Obscure Object of Desire. Which we'll be discussing next. Yes, I know we said we'd start with that, but TypePad ate the posts three times. and I just don't have the energy right now. 

One of the critics who voted in the 2002 Sight and Sound List was Joel David of the University of the Philippines, who added the following comment to his list ten films:

"So are American porn films better than Citizen Kane? Almost all of them aren't, but a precious handful are."

And I say amen to that, I'm very much for legitimizing porn, especially porn that manages to reach for something higher than your groin.

Continue reading "European Pervert Cinema Week Part 2: The Lickerish Quartet" »

Sorry, I know we said we'd start with Bunuel, but as always I have a lot to say about him, and I'm already late, late for a very important dim sum date with Sarge Baker and Lovely Lulu, and I thought this would be a quicker post to concoct.

Plus there have been tedious lack of internet issues, so we may stretch out the foreplay and make it a 3 day European Pervert Cinema Weekend. Is that OK everyone? Get your fake coughs ready, call in sick, and we'll spend the day in bed together. Let's live a little: it's the European way, after all. 

The other interesting news that's developed since last we spoke, dear readers, is that I may in the future have a fellow traveler on this cinematic hajj, who we'll call the Russian. This means that I have become very much like a cinematic Jesus, attracting followers as I wander through the godless multiplexes.

That's right, JC, I'm comparing myself to you. And if I'm wrong, sue me.

The point is I was telling the Russian that when you're on a quest like this, there becomes a kind of banal Sisyphisian element to it, where you just want to get it done as soon as possible, so you watch the movies that are the shortest just to whittle down the list faster, thereby ignoring great movies that are over 90 minutes long. (But for all my moaning, remember that, as I told the Russian, and as Camus wrote, we must imagine Sisyphus happy, and I very much am.)

Anyway, I took Jeux Interdits (Forbidden Games) out of the Janus set simply because I was afraid I was lagging and it was short. I had no idea it would turn me into Humbert Humbert. 

But the fact is that the romance, the deeply charged and deliciously conspiratorial relationship between the two children, Paulette (Brigitte Fossey) and Michel (Georges Poujouly) is just incredibly sexy and erotic and arousing.

Yes, Jesus, I said it. Come and get me. In court.

Continue reading "European Pervert Cinema Weekend Part 1: Jeux Interdits, or How Rene Clement turned me into Humbert Humbert" »

So next week the newest season of Dancing With the Stars, America's favorite poularity contest/cornball extravaganza begins. And I am excited. I will be watching, because I both love and love to hate this show. It seems to bring us back to an earlier, hokier time of brodcast television, and at the same time resists going for the whole hog nostalgia campiness that could make it truly awesome. It's an infuriating, fascinating and utterly unmissable paradox.

With that in mind, a look at what the  new season has to offer and some advice on what the show could change to truly reach the apogee of its CheezWhiztastic glory.

INTERESTING NEW PLOT TWISTS:
-Olympians are perennial favorites to win (see Ohno, Apolo Anton and Yamaguchi, Kristi) and this year there are two of them on the roster: sprinter Maurice Greene and beach volleyballeuse Misty May-Treanor. History would favor the male candidate, but I question whether a powerhouse sprinter has the grace and agility to take it all the way to the top. May-Treanor, on the other hand, has the advantage of having spent most of her career barely clothed, which means she could give professional Edyta a run for her money.

AUTOMATIC DISAPPOINTMENTS:

-The Jonas Brothers are appearing again? Look, the whole notion of the filler musical acts during the results show is kind of ridiculous; most of them seem like they haven't the vaguest clue what they're doing there (Def Leppard last season, anyone?), and making a band repeat the humiliating experience just seems torturous to everyone involved, especially when the musical number involved sucked as long and hard as the Jonas Brothers did. Honestly, their version of "Take on me" by A-Ha was much less impressive than the one my friends Evan and Jon did with a karaoke video game whilst stoned and drunk one night last summer. All those teenybopper Byronic poseurs had on my awesome friends were sweatbands and bigger Jewfros.

-Really low level celebs. I mean, I Iknow this format is basically structured to revive seriously flagging careers...but the neighbor from Married with Children? Come on! Brooke Burke? There's no way I'll be able to distinguish her from Shannon Elizabeth or that girI who's maybe still dating the Ex Mr. Jessica Simpson. I have no idea who this Warren Sapp is, but I don'timagine I'll like him anywhere near as much as Kenny Mayne or Jerry Rice.

Which brings us to DTWTS prescriptions, or ways we can make the show better this season.

1. More  Dance Center please.  It's the only one of  the filler segments that's reliably entertaining ot remotely watchable.

2. Fire  Samantha Harris. There's no nice way to put this: she sucks. She can't even ask a contestant "So how do you like dancing?" without making it incredibly awkward. Drew Lachey was affable and charming when he filled in for her during her pregnancy, he's also clearly fallen in love with dancing, which is very endearing, and it's not like he's finding a cure for cancer, so why not have him co-host instead?

3. Pay Tom Bergeron more money. He's always quick with an off-the-cuff quip that's just a little to risque for an allegedly family friendly show, and right now he's working overtime to make up for the charm vacuum that is La Harris. The man's an absolute goldmine.

4. Have Kim Kardashian and Toni Braxton do a booty-off.

5.  Introduce more character work into the dances. Make Cloris Leachman do all her routines as Frau Blucher. Have Susan Lucci incorporate soap opera catfight moves into all her all her choreography. Likewise, Rocco DiSpirito should have to flambe desserts during his paso doble and Lance Bass should be constantly moonwalking.

6. We all know the judges are ridiculous and should be guest stars on The Love Boat, so why not up the ante on that? Bruno's obviously a poor man's Roberto Begnini, so let's give him a Super Mario outfit and have him constantly prattling on about making love with Jupiter in the firmament. Len Goodman should portray a different character from a Monty Python sketch every week. Carrie Ann, you actually give good criticism and seem to actually care, so just stop wearing dresses from my junior prom and crying all the time.

Will we see any or all of these changes come Monday night? Probably not, but who are we kidding, we're all going to tune in anyway. Mambo!

:

I liked this a whole lot more than I thought it was going to, most of it is really great, the end is a little slow and makes you want to kill yourself but I think that's sort of the point. I had to whip this one up pretty fast, so I don;t know that I did the greatest, clearest job describing what makes this movie interesting and pretty awesome. And I might have used some cheap tricks. They boys I asked to read it seemed less than impressed, but hat do they know> They're stupid enough to date me. Ah, low female self esteem! Never gets old!

Anyway, you should show NY Cool some love by hitting the link here:

http://www.newyorkcool.com/archives/2008/September/film-reviews.html#duchess

But the full review is here.

When you see an advert for the latest British period film, you have a pretty good idea of what you’re in for should you choose to shell out your ten clams. Odds are good that, at some point, a symbolically potent handkerchief will be dropped in slow motion and a woman in a cape will be standing alone in a desolate landscape, staring stoically ahead and contemplating the tragedy of her existence.

To some extent, this all holds true for The Duchess, Saul Dibb’s biopic of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, adapted from Amanda Foreman’s biography. All the traditional elements are here: heaving bosoms, tightly laced corsets (much credit is due to costume designer Michael O’Connor and the hair and makeup department for creating some of the most deliciously flamboyant dresses, wiggery and hattery ever to grace the screen).There’s also the common themes of the repressive consequences of aristocratic obligation, the oppression of women, and the British stiff-upper-lip standby of sacrificing love for the abstract notions of honor, duty, and children who are barely seen and even less frequently heard.  

At this point you’re probably thinking, haven’t I’ve seen this one already, only with Emma Thompson?  But with The Duchess, Dibb has managed to skillfully subvert and the conventions of the costume drama and breathe new life into a traditionally staid and stuffy genre.  

He’s got the rather incredible real-life story of Georgiana of Devonshire working in his favor: When your heroine was a notorious gambler and fashion plate who endured her brute of a husband and his live-in mistress by engaging in electioneering, bedding a future prime minister and bearing an illegitimate child, you’re pretty safely out of the stuffy, fiddling with teacups territory of many British period pieces. 

Continue reading "Latest NY Cool Review: The Duchess" »

Now that I've got your attention, vote Skiff Boffington for frat president!

In all seriousness, I've been watching a lot of sexy pervert European films of late because...well, have we met? And we're going to be rounding them up and discussing the lot all weekend long. So strap in and get out the lube kids, cause its gonna be fun.

I'll kick it off, after I deal with the barnacle on my ass that is Battle in Seattle, with (who else?) Luis Bunuel.

Sorry, I just became my grandma for a second there. 

Oh my God, puppets, get your hankies out.

I think I wrote in my review of Dog in a Sidecar that there are few narratives more heart-wrenching than that of a young child discovering that their adult hero is less than perfect. And when the innocent child is an adorable little French moppet and the flawed adult is a staunch British domestic barely keeping it together...wll all I can say is that chez AJ, it was very much a case of apres The Fallen Idol, le deluge.

The very weepy and affecting emotional core of Fallen Idol lies in the strong performances and rapport between the two characters in question, the French diplomat's son Philippe (played with a fantastic mix of endearing, joful naivete and remarkable restraint by the young Bobby Henrey) and his confidant nd parter and crime, the Butler Baines (played to the apogee of British dignity and repression by the sublime Ralph Richardson. Their shared nemesis and general spoiler of fun is Baines' wife (Sonia Dresdel), a housekeeper who's Mrs. Danvers and Mama Bates rolled into one on the creepy emasculating continuum.

 It's all done so beautifully, with a real understanding of how things are seen through the eyes of a child. The lies and secrets of adulthood are strange and mysterious; their consequences huge and terrifying. It's almost like a thriller for a kid. Reed does an excellent job representing this visually, especially in scenes involving the dreaded high windows and staircases, where extreme angles make everything look huge, ominous and precarious.

The technique is even more pronounced when Philippe flees the embassy and takes of through the wide streets of london. The buildings look vertiginously high and scarily angular. It's a look that Reed would use to great effect in his next and most famous film, The Third Man.

If you're at all familiar with the zeitgeist of the blog, you know that god damn do we love us some crazy bitches over hear at Just Watch, so it was high time to celebrate the wacky unhinged broads of cinema by inaugurating the Bitches Gone Crazy feature. And what fabulous bitch is more suited to kick this project off than the awesome Pam Grier in Coffy, one of her finest blaxploitation films made in her heyday.

So let's not talk too much about the plot. Nurse with social conscience goes vigilante and poses as prostitute to avenge her addict sister by breaking up a drug ring. She proceeds to kick ass and take names. And then kill those names.

Obviously, it's awesome.

So instead, let's examine Coffy's crazy bitch bona fides, shall we?

HAS OWN THEME SONG: Check. And it's just as ridiculous as you might hope.

HAS ARCHNEMESIS WITH OWN THEME SONG: Check: the peacocky, chest puffin' pimp/pusher King Charles. His theme song is even more ridiculous.

HAS FABULOUS WARDROBE: Check. Flared '70s ass-flattering pants, halter tops galore, hot knit mini dresses, and slinky gowns cut down to there that magically convert into bikinis. All topped with one of the most beautiful afros to ever grace the screen. Pam's looking damn fierce.

HAS ARCHNEMESIS WITH FABULOUS WARDROBE: Check. King Charles sports full seventies pimp regalia. Bishop Don Magic Juan wishes he looked this good.

This post is dedicated jointly to the waning of sweet summer evenings and to my dear Sophie and Edouard, who were married on Saturday.

This was the movie that they saw on their first date, which definitely proves that seeing a Bergman film with a potential mate does not automatically doom you to an angsty, Woody Allen film type of romantic entanglement.

Smiles was also the inspiration for the wonderful Stephen Sondheim musical A Little Night Music.  Sophie walked down the aisle to one of the songs from it, thus giving the ceremony an Aristotelian sense of unity much favored by both 18th century French dramatists and the groom.

The stereotypical black-clad hardcore Bergmanite will dismiss Smiles as fluff, or, more ridiculously, state that it "doesn't count" as part of his cannon. You must counter this argument by saying that Bergman himself took no such austere view of the matter.

European Pervert Cinema Weekend Part 1: Jeux Interdits, or How Rene Clement turned me into Humbert Humbert

Sorry, I know we said we'd start with Bunuel, but as always I have a lot to say about him, and I'm already late, late for a very important dim sum date with Sarge Baker and Lovely Lulu, and I thought this would be a quicker post to concoct.

Plus there have been tedious lack of internet issues, so we may stretch out the foreplay and make it a 3 day European Pervert Cinema Weekend. Is that OK everyone? Get your fake coughs ready, call in sick, and we'll spend the day in bed together. Let's live a little: it's the European way, after all. 

The other interesting news that's developed since last we spoke, dear readers, is that I may in the future have a fellow traveler on this cinematic hajj, who we'll call the Russian. This means that I have become very much like a cinematic Jesus, attracting followers as I wander through the godless multiplexes.

That's right, JC, I'm comparing myself to you. And if I'm wrong, sue me.

The point is I was telling the Russian that when you're on a quest like this, there becomes a kind of banal Sisyphisian element to it, where you just want to get it done as soon as possible, so you watch the movies that are the shortest just to whittle down the list faster, thereby ignoring great movies that are over 90 minutes long. (But for all my moaning, remember that, as I told the Russian, and as Camus wrote, we must imagine Sisyphus happy, and I very much am.)

Anyway, I took Jeux Interdits (Forbidden Games) out of the Janus set simply because I was afraid I was lagging and it was short. I had no idea it would turn me into Humbert Humbert. 

But the fact is that the romance, the deeply charged and deliciously conspiratorial relationship between the two children, Paulette (Brigitte Fossey) and Michel (Georges Poujouly) is just incredibly sexy and erotic and arousing.

Yes, Jesus, I said it. Come and get me. In court.

Continue reading "European Pervert Cinema Weekend Part 1: Jeux Interdits, or How Rene Clement turned me into Humbert Humbert" »

So next week the newest season of Dancing With the Stars, America's favorite poularity contest/cornball extravaganza begins. And I am excited. I will be watching, because I both love and love to hate this show. It seems to bring us back to an earlier, hokier time of brodcast television, and at the same time resists going for the whole hog nostalgia campiness that could make it truly awesome. It's an infuriating, fascinating and utterly unmissable paradox.

With that in mind, a look at what the  new season has to offer and some advice on what the show could change to truly reach the apogee of its CheezWhiztastic glory.

INTERESTING NEW PLOT TWISTS:
-Olympians are perennial favorites to win (see Ohno, Apolo Anton and Yamaguchi, Kristi) and this year there are two of them on the roster: sprinter Maurice Greene and beach volleyballeuse Misty May-Treanor. History would favor the male candidate, but I question whether a powerhouse sprinter has the grace and agility to take it all the way to the top. May-Treanor, on the other hand, has the advantage of having spent most of her career barely clothed, which means she could give professional Edyta a run for her money.

AUTOMATIC DISAPPOINTMENTS:

-The Jonas Brothers are appearing again? Look, the whole notion of the filler musical acts during the results show is kind of ridiculous; most of them seem like they haven't the vaguest clue what they're doing there (Def Leppard last season, anyone?), and making a band repeat the humiliating experience just seems torturous to everyone involved, especially when the musical number involved sucked as long and hard as the Jonas Brothers did. Honestly, their version of "Take on me" by A-Ha was much less impressive than the one my friends Evan and Jon did with a karaoke video game whilst stoned and drunk one night last summer. All those teenybopper Byronic poseurs had on my awesome friends were sweatbands and bigger Jewfros.

-Really low level celebs. I mean, I Iknow this format is basically structured to revive seriously flagging careers...but the neighbor from Married with Children? Come on! Brooke Burke? There's no way I'll be able to distinguish her from Shannon Elizabeth or that girI who's maybe still dating the Ex Mr. Jessica Simpson. I have no idea who this Warren Sapp is, but I don'timagine I'll like him anywhere near as much as Kenny Mayne or Jerry Rice.

Which brings us to DTWTS prescriptions, or ways we can make the show better this season.

1. More  Dance Center please.  It's the only one of  the filler segments that's reliably entertaining ot remotely watchable.

2. Fire  Samantha Harris. There's no nice way to put this: she sucks. She can't even ask a contestant "So how do you like dancing?" without making it incredibly awkward. Drew Lachey was affable and charming when he filled in for her during her pregnancy, he's also clearly fallen in love with dancing, which is very endearing, and it's not like he's finding a cure for cancer, so why not have him co-host instead?

3. Pay Tom Bergeron more money. He's always quick with an off-the-cuff quip that's just a little to risque for an allegedly family friendly show, and right now he's working overtime to make up for the charm vacuum that is La Harris. The man's an absolute goldmine.

4. Have Kim Kardashian and Toni Braxton do a booty-off.

5.  Introduce more character work into the dances. Make Cloris Leachman do all her routines as Frau Blucher. Have Susan Lucci incorporate soap opera catfight moves into all her all her choreography. Likewise, Rocco DiSpirito should have to flambe desserts during his paso doble and Lance Bass should be constantly moonwalking.

6. We all know the judges are ridiculous and should be guest stars on The Love Boat, so why not up the ante on that? Bruno's obviously a poor man's Roberto Begnini, so let's give him a Super Mario outfit and have him constantly prattling on about making love with Jupiter in the firmament. Len Goodman should portray a different character from a Monty Python sketch every week. Carrie Ann, you actually give good criticism and seem to actually care, so just stop wearing dresses from my junior prom and crying all the time.

Will we see any or all of these changes come Monday night? Probably not, but who are we kidding, we're all going to tune in anyway. Mambo!

:

I liked this a whole lot more than I thought it was going to, most of it is really great, the end is a little slow and makes you want to kill yourself but I think that's sort of the point. I had to whip this one up pretty fast, so I don;t know that I did the greatest, clearest job describing what makes this movie interesting and pretty awesome. And I might have used some cheap tricks. They boys I asked to read it seemed less than impressed, but hat do they know> They're stupid enough to date me. Ah, low female self esteem! Never gets old!

Anyway, you should show NY Cool some love by hitting the link here:

http://www.newyorkcool.com/archives/2008/September/film-reviews.html#duchess

But the full review is here.

When you see an advert for the latest British period film, you have a pretty good idea of what you’re in for should you choose to shell out your ten clams. Odds are good that, at some point, a symbolically potent handkerchief will be dropped in slow motion and a woman in a cape will be standing alone in a desolate landscape, staring stoically ahead and contemplating the tragedy of her existence.

To some extent, this all holds true for The Duchess, Saul Dibb’s biopic of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, adapted from Amanda Foreman’s biography. All the traditional elements are here: heaving bosoms, tightly laced corsets (much credit is due to costume designer Michael O’Connor and the hair and makeup department for creating some of the most deliciously flamboyant dresses, wiggery and hattery ever to grace the screen).There’s also the common themes of the repressive consequences of aristocratic obligation, the oppression of women, and the British stiff-upper-lip standby of sacrificing love for the abstract notions of honor, duty, and children who are barely seen and even less frequently heard.  

At this point you’re probably thinking, haven’t I’ve seen this one already, only with Emma Thompson?  But with The Duchess, Dibb has managed to skillfully subvert and the conventions of the costume drama and breathe new life into a traditionally staid and stuffy genre.  

He’s got the rather incredible real-life story of Georgiana of Devonshire working in his favor: When your heroine was a notorious gambler and fashion plate who endured her brute of a husband and his live-in mistress by engaging in electioneering, bedding a future prime minister and bearing an illegitimate child, you’re pretty safely out of the stuffy, fiddling with teacups territory of many British period pieces. 

Continue reading "Latest NY Cool Review: The Duchess" »

Now that I've got your attention, vote Skiff Boffington for frat president!

In all seriousness, I've been watching a lot of sexy pervert European films of late because...well, have we met? And we're going to be rounding them up and discussing the lot all weekend long. So strap in and get out the lube kids, cause its gonna be fun.

I'll kick it off, after I deal with the barnacle on my ass that is Battle in Seattle, with (who else?) Luis Bunuel.

Sorry, I just became my grandma for a second there. 

Oh my God, puppets, get your hankies out.

I think I wrote in my review of Dog in a Sidecar that there are few narratives more heart-wrenching than that of a young child discovering that their adult hero is less than perfect. And when the innocent child is an adorable little French moppet and the flawed adult is a staunch British domestic barely keeping it together...wll all I can say is that chez AJ, it was very much a case of apres The Fallen Idol, le deluge.

The very weepy and affecting emotional core of Fallen Idol lies in the strong performances and rapport between the two characters in question, the French diplomat's son Philippe (played with a fantastic mix of endearing, joful naivete and remarkable restraint by the young Bobby Henrey) and his confidant nd parter and crime, the Butler Baines (played to the apogee of British dignity and repression by the sublime Ralph Richardson. Their shared nemesis and general spoiler of fun is Baines' wife (Sonia Dresdel), a housekeeper who's Mrs. Danvers and Mama Bates rolled into one on the creepy emasculating continuum.

 It's all done so beautifully, with a real understanding of how things are seen through the eyes of a child. The lies and secrets of adulthood are strange and mysterious; their consequences huge and terrifying. It's almost like a thriller for a kid. Reed does an excellent job representing this visually, especially in scenes involving the dreaded high windows and staircases, where extreme angles make everything look huge, ominous and precarious.

The technique is even more pronounced when Philippe flees the embassy and takes of through the wide streets of london. The buildings look vertiginously high and scarily angular. It's a look that Reed would use to great effect in his next and most famous film, The Third Man.

If you're at all familiar with the zeitgeist of the blog, you know that god damn do we love us some crazy bitches over hear at Just Watch, so it was high time to celebrate the wacky unhinged broads of cinema by inaugurating the Bitches Gone Crazy feature. And what fabulous bitch is more suited to kick this project off than the awesome Pam Grier in Coffy, one of her finest blaxploitation films made in her heyday.

So let's not talk too much about the plot. Nurse with social conscience goes vigilante and poses as prostitute to avenge her addict sister by breaking up a drug ring. She proceeds to kick ass and take names. And then kill those names.

Obviously, it's awesome.

So instead, let's examine Coffy's crazy bitch bona fides, shall we?

HAS OWN THEME SONG: Check. And it's just as ridiculous as you might hope.

HAS ARCHNEMESIS WITH OWN THEME SONG: Check: the peacocky, chest puffin' pimp/pusher King Charles. His theme song is even more ridiculous.

HAS FABULOUS WARDROBE: Check. Flared '70s ass-flattering pants, halter tops galore, hot knit mini dresses, and slinky gowns cut down to there that magically convert into bikinis. All topped with one of the most beautiful afros to ever grace the screen. Pam's looking damn fierce.

HAS ARCHNEMESIS WITH FABULOUS WARDROBE: Check. King Charles sports full seventies pimp regalia. Bishop Don Magic Juan wishes he looked this good.

This post is dedicated jointly to the waning of sweet summer evenings and to my dear Sophie and Edouard, who were married on Saturday.

This was the movie that they saw on their first date, which definitely proves that seeing a Bergman film with a potential mate does not automatically doom you to an angsty, Woody Allen film type of romantic entanglement.

Smiles was also the inspiration for the wonderful Stephen Sondheim musical A Little Night Music.  Sophie walked down the aisle to one of the songs from it, thus giving the ceremony an Aristotelian sense of unity much favored by both 18th century French dramatists and the groom.

The stereotypical black-clad hardcore Bergmanite will dismiss Smiles as fluff, or, more ridiculously, state that it "doesn't count" as part of his cannon. You must counter this argument by saying that Bergman himself took no such austere view of the matter.

Swaying About With Some People You've Kind of Heard of: Predictions and Prescription

So next week the newest season of Dancing With the Stars, America's favorite poularity contest/cornball extravaganza begins. And I am excited. I will be watching, because I both love and love to hate this show. It seems to bring us back to an earlier, hokier time of brodcast television, and at the same time resists going for the whole hog nostalgia campiness that could make it truly awesome. It's an infuriating, fascinating and utterly unmissable paradox.

With that in mind, a look at what the  new season has to offer and some advice on what the show could change to truly reach the apogee of its CheezWhiztastic glory.

INTERESTING NEW PLOT TWISTS:
-Olympians are perennial favorites to win (see Ohno, Apolo Anton and Yamaguchi, Kristi) and this year there are two of them on the roster: sprinter Maurice Greene and beach volleyballeuse Misty May-Treanor. History would favor the male candidate, but I question whether a powerhouse sprinter has the grace and agility to take it all the way to the top. May-Treanor, on the other hand, has the advantage of having spent most of her career barely clothed, which means she could give professional Edyta a run for her money.

AUTOMATIC DISAPPOINTMENTS:

-The Jonas Brothers are appearing again? Look, the whole notion of the filler musical acts during the results show is kind of ridiculous; most of them seem like they haven't the vaguest clue what they're doing there (Def Leppard last season, anyone?), and making a band repeat the humiliating experience just seems torturous to everyone involved, especially when the musical number involved sucked as long and hard as the Jonas Brothers did. Honestly, their version of "Take on me" by A-Ha was much less impressive than the one my friends Evan and Jon did with a karaoke video game whilst stoned and drunk one night last summer. All those teenybopper Byronic poseurs had on my awesome friends were sweatbands and bigger Jewfros.

-Really low level celebs. I mean, I Iknow this format is basically structured to revive seriously flagging careers...but the neighbor from Married with Children? Come on! Brooke Burke? There's no way I'll be able to distinguish her from Shannon Elizabeth or that girI who's maybe still dating the Ex Mr. Jessica Simpson. I have no idea who this Warren Sapp is, but I don'timagine I'll like him anywhere near as much as Kenny Mayne or Jerry Rice.

Which brings us to DTWTS prescriptions, or ways we can make the show better this season.

1. More  Dance Center please.  It's the only one of  the filler segments that's reliably entertaining ot remotely watchable.

2. Fire  Samantha Harris. There's no nice way to put this: she sucks. She can't even ask a contestant "So how do you like dancing?" without making it incredibly awkward. Drew Lachey was affable and charming when he filled in for her during her pregnancy, he's also clearly fallen in love with dancing, which is very endearing, and it's not like he's finding a cure for cancer, so why not have him co-host instead?

3. Pay Tom Bergeron more money. He's always quick with an off-the-cuff quip that's just a little to risque for an allegedly family friendly show, and right now he's working overtime to make up for the charm vacuum that is La Harris. The man's an absolute goldmine.

4. Have Kim Kardashian and Toni Braxton do a booty-off.

5.  Introduce more character work into the dances. Make Cloris Leachman do all her routines as Frau Blucher. Have Susan Lucci incorporate soap opera catfight moves into all her all her choreography. Likewise, Rocco DiSpirito should have to flambe desserts during his paso doble and Lance Bass should be constantly moonwalking.

6. We all know the judges are ridiculous and should be guest stars on The Love Boat, so why not up the ante on that? Bruno's obviously a poor man's Roberto Begnini, so let's give him a Super Mario outfit and have him constantly prattling on about making love with Jupiter in the firmament. Len Goodman should portray a different character from a Monty Python sketch every week. Carrie Ann, you actually give good criticism and seem to actually care, so just stop wearing dresses from my junior prom and crying all the time.

Will we see any or all of these changes come Monday night? Probably not, but who are we kidding, we're all going to tune in anyway. Mambo!

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Latest NY Cool Review: The Duchess

I liked this a whole lot more than I thought it was going to, most of it is really great, the end is a little slow and makes you want to kill yourself but I think that's sort of the point. I had to whip this one up pretty fast, so I don;t know that I did the greatest, clearest job describing what makes this movie interesting and pretty awesome. And I might have used some cheap tricks. They boys I asked to read it seemed less than impressed, but hat do they know> They're stupid enough to date me. Ah, low female self esteem! Never gets old!

Anyway, you should show NY Cool some love by hitting the link here:

http://www.newyorkcool.com/archives/2008/September/film-reviews.html#duchess

But the full review is here.

When you see an advert for the latest British period film, you have a pretty good idea of what you’re in for should you choose to shell out your ten clams. Odds are good that, at some point, a symbolically potent handkerchief will be dropped in slow motion and a woman in a cape will be standing alone in a desolate landscape, staring stoically ahead and contemplating the tragedy of her existence.

To some extent, this all holds true for The Duchess, Saul Dibb’s biopic of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, adapted from Amanda Foreman’s biography. All the traditional elements are here: heaving bosoms, tightly laced corsets (much credit is due to costume designer Michael O’Connor and the hair and makeup department for creating some of the most deliciously flamboyant dresses, wiggery and hattery ever to grace the screen).There’s also the common themes of the repressive consequences of aristocratic obligation, the oppression of women, and the British stiff-upper-lip standby of sacrificing love for the abstract notions of honor, duty, and children who are barely seen and even less frequently heard.  

At this point you’re probably thinking, haven’t I’ve seen this one already, only with Emma Thompson?  But with The Duchess, Dibb has managed to skillfully subvert and the conventions of the costume drama and breathe new life into a traditionally staid and stuffy genre.  

He’s got the rather incredible real-life story of Georgiana of Devonshire working in his favor: When your heroine was a notorious gambler and fashion plate who endured her brute of a husband and his live-in mistress by engaging in electioneering, bedding a future prime minister and bearing an illegitimate child, you’re pretty safely out of the stuffy, fiddling with teacups territory of many British period pieces. 

Continue reading "Latest NY Cool Review: The Duchess" »

Now that I've got your attention, vote Skiff Boffington for frat president!

In all seriousness, I've been watching a lot of sexy pervert European films of late because...well, have we met? And we're going to be rounding them up and discussing the lot all weekend long. So strap in and get out the lube kids, cause its gonna be fun.

I'll kick it off, after I deal with the barnacle on my ass that is Battle in Seattle, with (who else?) Luis Bunuel.

Sorry, I just became my grandma for a second there. 

Oh my God, puppets, get your hankies out.

I think I wrote in my review of Dog in a Sidecar that there are few narratives more heart-wrenching than that of a young child discovering that their adult hero is less than perfect. And when the innocent child is an adorable little French moppet and the flawed adult is a staunch British domestic barely keeping it together...wll all I can say is that chez AJ, it was very much a case of apres The Fallen Idol, le deluge.

The very weepy and affecting emotional core of Fallen Idol lies in the strong performances and rapport between the two characters in question, the French diplomat's son Philippe (played with a fantastic mix of endearing, joful naivete and remarkable restraint by the young Bobby Henrey) and his confidant nd parter and crime, the Butler Baines (played to the apogee of British dignity and repression by the sublime Ralph Richardson. Their shared nemesis and general spoiler of fun is Baines' wife (Sonia Dresdel), a housekeeper who's Mrs. Danvers and Mama Bates rolled into one on the creepy emasculating continuum.

 It's all done so beautifully, with a real understanding of how things are seen through the eyes of a child. The lies and secrets of adulthood are strange and mysterious; their consequences huge and terrifying. It's almost like a thriller for a kid. Reed does an excellent job representing this visually, especially in scenes involving the dreaded high windows and staircases, where extreme angles make everything look huge, ominous and precarious.

The technique is even more pronounced when Philippe flees the embassy and takes of through the wide streets of london. The buildings look vertiginously high and scarily angular. It's a look that Reed would use to great effect in his next and most famous film, The Third Man.

If you're at all familiar with the zeitgeist of the blog, you know that god damn do we love us some crazy bitches over hear at Just Watch, so it was high time to celebrate the wacky unhinged broads of cinema by inaugurating the Bitches Gone Crazy feature. And what fabulous bitch is more suited to kick this project off than the awesome Pam Grier in Coffy, one of her finest blaxploitation films made in her heyday.

So let's not talk too much about the plot. Nurse with social conscience goes vigilante and poses as prostitute to avenge her addict sister by breaking up a drug ring. She proceeds to kick ass and take names. And then kill those names.

Obviously, it's awesome.

So instead, let's examine Coffy's crazy bitch bona fides, shall we?

HAS OWN THEME SONG: Check. And it's just as ridiculous as you might hope.

HAS ARCHNEMESIS WITH OWN THEME SONG: Check: the peacocky, chest puffin' pimp/pusher King Charles. His theme song is even more ridiculous.

HAS FABULOUS WARDROBE: Check. Flared '70s ass-flattering pants, halter tops galore, hot knit mini dresses, and slinky gowns cut down to there that magically convert into bikinis. All topped with one of the most beautiful afros to ever grace the screen. Pam's looking damn fierce.

HAS ARCHNEMESIS WITH FABULOUS WARDROBE: Check. King Charles sports full seventies pimp regalia. Bishop Don Magic Juan wishes he looked this good.

This post is dedicated jointly to the waning of sweet summer evenings and to my dear Sophie and Edouard, who were married on Saturday.

This was the movie that they saw on their first date, which definitely proves that seeing a Bergman film with a potential mate does not automatically doom you to an angsty, Woody Allen film type of romantic entanglement.

Smiles was also the inspiration for the wonderful Stephen Sondheim musical A Little Night Music.  Sophie walked down the aisle to one of the songs from it, thus giving the ceremony an Aristotelian sense of unity much favored by both 18th century French dramatists and the groom.

The stereotypical black-clad hardcore Bergmanite will dismiss Smiles as fluff, or, more ridiculously, state that it "doesn't count" as part of his cannon. You must counter this argument by saying that Bergman himself took no such austere view of the matter.

All this Weekend: Dirty European Pervert Cinema!

Now that I've got your attention, vote Skiff Boffington for frat president!

In all seriousness, I've been watching a lot of sexy pervert European films of late because...well, have we met? And we're going to be rounding them up and discussing the lot all weekend long. So strap in and get out the lube kids, cause its gonna be fun.

I'll kick it off, after I deal with the barnacle on my ass that is Battle in Seattle, with (who else?) Luis Bunuel.

Why Don't You Just Tear My Heart Out, Carol Reed: The Fallen Idol

Sorry, I just became my grandma for a second there. 

Oh my God, puppets, get your hankies out.

I think I wrote in my review of Dog in a Sidecar that there are few narratives more heart-wrenching than that of a young child discovering that their adult hero is less than perfect. And when the innocent child is an adorable little French moppet and the flawed adult is a staunch British domestic barely keeping it together...wll all I can say is that chez AJ, it was very much a case of apres The Fallen Idol, le deluge.

The very weepy and affecting emotional core of Fallen Idol lies in the strong performances and rapport between the two characters in question, the French diplomat's son Philippe (played with a fantastic mix of endearing, joful naivete and remarkable restraint by the young Bobby Henrey) and his confidant nd parter and crime, the Butler Baines (played to the apogee of British dignity and repression by the sublime Ralph Richardson. Their shared nemesis and general spoiler of fun is Baines' wife (Sonia Dresdel), a housekeeper who's Mrs. Danvers and Mama Bates rolled into one on the creepy emasculating continuum.

 It's all done so beautifully, with a real understanding of how things are seen through the eyes of a child. The lies and secrets of adulthood are strange and mysterious; their consequences huge and terrifying. It's almost like a thriller for a kid. Reed does an excellent job representing this visually, especially in scenes involving the dreaded high windows and staircases, where extreme angles make everything look huge, ominous and precarious.

The technique is even more pronounced when Philippe flees the embassy and takes of through the wide streets of london. The buildings look vertiginously high and scarily angular. It's a look that Reed would use to great effect in his next and most famous film, The Third Man.

Bitches Gone Crazy!: Coffy

If you're at all familiar with the zeitgeist of the blog, you know that god damn do we love us some crazy bitches over hear at Just Watch, so it was high time to celebrate the wacky unhinged broads of cinema by inaugurating the Bitches Gone Crazy feature. And what fabulous bitch is more suited to kick this project off than the awesome Pam Grier in Coffy, one of her finest blaxploitation films made in her heyday.

So let's not talk too much about the plot. Nurse with social conscience goes vigilante and poses as prostitute to avenge her addict sister by breaking up a drug ring. She proceeds to kick ass and take names. And then kill those names.

Obviously, it's awesome.

So instead, let's examine Coffy's crazy bitch bona fides, shall we?

HAS OWN THEME SONG: Check. And it's just as ridiculous as you might hope.

HAS ARCHNEMESIS WITH OWN THEME SONG: Check: the peacocky, chest puffin' pimp/pusher King Charles. His theme song is even more ridiculous.

HAS FABULOUS WARDROBE: Check. Flared '70s ass-flattering pants, halter tops galore, hot knit mini dresses, and slinky gowns cut down to there that magically convert into bikinis. All topped with one of the most beautiful afros to ever grace the screen. Pam's looking damn fierce.

HAS ARCHNEMESIS WITH FABULOUS WARDROBE: Check. King Charles sports full seventies pimp regalia. Bishop Don Magic Juan wishes he looked this good.

The ODBFF, Our Most Joyous Edition: Smiles of a Summer Night

This post is dedicated jointly to the waning of sweet summer evenings and to my dear Sophie and Edouard, who were married on Saturday.

This was the movie that they saw on their first date, which definitely proves that seeing a Bergman film with a potential mate does not automatically doom you to an angsty, Woody Allen film type of romantic entanglement.

Smiles was also the inspiration for the wonderful Stephen Sondheim musical A Little Night Music.  Sophie walked down the aisle to one of the songs from it, thus giving the ceremony an Aristotelian sense of unity much favored by both 18th century French dramatists and the groom.

The stereotypical black-clad hardcore Bergmanite will dismiss Smiles as fluff, or, more ridiculously, state that it "doesn't count" as part of his cannon. You must counter this argument by saying that Bergman himself took no such austere view of the matter.