Slowly Going Bald

I saw the midnight show at the ArcLight, and Patton Oswalt and Brian Posehn sat right in front of me. It was like geek mecca. Seriously, buy this DVD and laugh yourself silly, or at least beyond reasonable composure.

Anyway:

Clickety-click.

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Holy crap, I'm taking over the world.

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You know the drill:

Time for the trade round-up.

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I don't know what's more interesting:

1.) A documentary called The Railroad All Stars, about a group of Guatemalan prostitutes that band together to form a soccer team (wherein soccer terms like "dribbler" and "diving header" are bound to take on all sorts of wacky new connotations).

Or,

2.) The fact that searching Google News for "soccer prostitutes" brings up 87 results.

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Excerpt:

The problem, as Lopate remarks in his fine introduction, is that "the job of the American film critic is complicated by the fact that virtually all Americans regard themselves as astute judges of movies." Lopate thinks this is because we've all seen so many films in theaters and on TV, but I suspect it's really because reviewing combines an activity that almost everybody does -- watching movies -- with an activity that almost everybody thinks they can do: writing. The rub here is that almost nobody has to see as many movies of such widely varying quality as film critics do, and that writing well turns out to be a lot harder than it looks.

Otherwise: ugh. The daily grind of the movie reviewer consists of trying to drum up something worth saying about films that are stupendously ordinary and supremely forgettable -- tepid romantic comedies with no laughs or style; respectful, well-mounted adaptations of plays and novels no one cares about; incoherent action movies populated by annoying stock figures whose every line of dialogue can be predicted in advance, and so on. A terrible movie gives a critic something to be funny about (that's assuming you can be funny, on command, and honestly -- can we assume that?), and a fine movie gives you something to praise, but the vast majority of new films are utterly mediocre, and that's what wears you down. Anyone can turn being chased by a tiger into a good story, but almost no one can do the same for an afternoon of standing in line at the post office.

Of course, for indiscriminate journalists -- the sorts of writers who have filled the post of movie reviewer at a lot of American newspapers and some American magazines for decades -- the preponderance of dull, average movies isn't a problem. They can't tell much difference between "Wedding Crashers" and "Failure to Launch" to begin with and are happy to be dazzled by the stars. But good reviewers, remember, must also be good writers, and good writers want subjects that fire them up. The kind of person who sees, say, "Ultraviolet," then goes home, looks up a review online, marvels at the critic's vitriol and fires off an e-mail saying, "Chill out, dude, it's just a movie. It was fun," is not someone whose opinions anyone wants to read at length, on a regular basis -- or ever, really. (And, confidentially, if you are the kind of person who sends those e-mails: What gives? If you don't think certain movies should be taken so seriously, why even bother to read the reviews?)

Call me arrogant, or a racist, or feel free to make up something I haven't heard before, but given my natural interest in the subject and my desire to check out Lopate's book, I thought this review was worth posting. Also, I'm far from the worn-down critic Miller seems to think we all become, or at least I don't feel worn down. Probably the hubris of youth, but I'm running with it for now.

The rest is here.

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Just a quick reminder to anyone who happens to read the blog on even the most occasional basis:

If you enjoy the comedy stylings of Carlos Mencia and/or the Blue Collar Comedy Tour and/or "Drawn Together," go to the window, open it wide, and plunge to your death. If you're on the ground floor, run out into traffic. If the roads are clear, simply have a friend or coworker beat the life out of you with whatever's handy, like a stapler or a chair leg.

Maybe if we kill everyone who thinks they're funny, they'll go away. I'm willing to give it a shot.

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King's latest column in Entertainment Weekly is all about the glorious addictive properties of complex, layered, season-long story arc, emotionally intense TV. And while I've never gotten into "24," in part because I don't have the DVDs and in part because 24 hours in L.A. should really involve being stuck in traffic a lot more than Keifer is (there should be two entire episodes that take place in the carpool lane on the 405), I like the rest of the list. I might as well come out of the closet and admit that "Veronica Mars" is 19 kinds of addictive, and I'm still a "Lost" devotee (even though Season 2 has sucked) because of its near-unbeatable first season, which ranks among one of the most well-plotted and all-around entertaining seasons of TV ever.

And now, thanks to TV on DVD, I barely watch broadcasts any more. Most of my TV viewing is old shows that I own. And, well, for no other reason than that I feel like it, I leave you with this:

"Either of you interested in participating in the sport of kings?"

"We're gonna race horses?"

"We're gonna play poker."

"That's not the sport of kings."

"What's the sport of kings?"

"Racing horses."

"What's poker the sport of?"

"People who play poker."

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• I like the trailer for The Fountain, Darren Aronofsky's upcoming film. Aronofsky actually turned the story into a graphic novel when he knew the entire tale wouldn't fit in one film. Writer-director Richard Kelly is taking a similar approach to Southland Tales; the film will technically be the final three installments of a six-part story, with the first three parts being released as graphic novels.

• The Washington Post has canned Ben Domenech, a conservative blooger and generally unstable little guy who plagiarized in his writings. Granted, his calling Coretta Scott King a Communist maybe wasn't the best way to ensure a long-term career with WaPo. The idiot's blog didn't make it a week. Good riddance.

• It's almost too good to be true, that the Fox News jokes everyone's been making turn out to be so sadly accurate. Omitted from the rider: the crushed-up bones of unwed mothers, which Cheney alternately snorts like coke or gobbles up like Pixy Stix.

• The fact that someone took the time to put this timeline together is both awe-inspirinrg and more than a little sad, since they actually went to the effort to include Alien vs. Predator. It's an interesting idea, to try and create some fictional chart wherein many, if not all, movies co-exist, but the repeated phrase "Predators arrive for their ritual feasting on xenomorphs" pretty much ruins the whole thing.

• I'm looking forward to this.

• Although Bogdanovich's tone occasionally veers into bitter old man area, making him sound like a grizzled prospector railing against the onslaught of horseless carriages, and his wobbly thesis is all but obliterated by the straight-out-of-left-field closing line, he still makes some good points about the necessity of viewing films on a large screen.

• Go ahead. Test yourself. And also here. And, of course, here.

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"Because what does it remind you of? 'I believe in hope, not fear. I'm a leader, not a politician. It's time for an American leader. I before E except after C.' It's the fortune cookie candidacy! These are important thinkers, and understanding them can be very useful, and it's not ever gonna happen in a four-hour seminar. When the president's got an embassy surrounded in Haiti, or a keyhole photograph of a heavy-water reactor, or any of the 50 life-and-death matters that walk across his desk everyday, I don't know if he's thinking about Immanuel Kant or not. I doubt it. But if if he does, I am comforted at least in my certainty that he is doing his best to reach for all of it, and not just the McNuggets. Is it possible that we would be willing to require any less of the person sitting in that chair? The low road? I don't think it is."

Back before "The West Wing" turned into "E.R. in the Beltway" under the clumsy hand of producer John Wells, creator and showrunner Aaron Sorkin wrote some amazing stories during the first four seasons about people too virtuous to actually work in real-world politics. Many of the most emotionally resonant story lines were carried over from "Sports Night," and I could go on at length about that, but my focus today is elsewhere. Simply put, "The West Wing" was political porn for progressives, an emotional pleasure-ride about a well-educated president who grappled with religion and complex thought while striving to do his best to lead the country. Bartlet was re-elected in the fourth season, facing off against Southern Republican candidate Robert Ritchie, a fairly obvious nod to the George W. Bush. Sorkin said his guideline in the debate episode, in which Bartlet righteously destroys Ritchie, was the 2000 elections, and that he wanted to show that intelligence wasn't a vice.

Sometimes I'll just put on an old episode, like "20 Hours in America" or "Take This Sabbath Day," and try to forget the world for a while. It doesn't always work, but I still try.

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Let's rob the place and go to Bolivia:

Clickety-click.

UPDATE: Somebody asked why my review didn't live up to the "scathing" and "bitchy" promised in Pajiba's tagline. I lack the ability to understand why I should be scathing about a movie I liked. It's like I was asked, "Hey, why isn't your positive review of this movie, you know, meaner?" I stared at the comment, trying to make sense of its bizarre logic, but then blood started running out of my ear.

Anyway, just to clear this up for any friends, family, or other readers: If I like a movie, I'll give it a positive review. If I don't, I'll give it a negative one. If that confuses you, well, you're beyond my help.

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Say it with me, everybody:

Snakes on a Plane

The countdown to August 18 begins …

now.

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A few weeks ago, I reviewed Unknown White Male, a documentary about Doug Bruce, who claimed to have suffered near-total amnesia and forgotten his past. I thought it was a well-made if languid movie, though there was no way to know if Bruce wasn't faking it. Yesterday, a piece in the Washington Post went even further in refuting Bruce's claims. Had I the resources, I would have conducted a similar side inquiry when preparing my review, but not having the WaPo name behind me and being only a barely employed schmo from SoCal, I doubt my phone calls would have been returned.

Perhaps the most damning evidence against Bruce is director Rupert Murray's refusal to have had Bruce submit to an fMRI before filming the documentary. In the kind of logic worthy of politics, Murray says: "I was telling his story. Not your story, not the story of a journalist. The story of a friend, and I don't have to f***ing prove anything to anyone." However, this isn't a legal proceeding, and pleading the Fifth can only incriminate you in the court of public opinion.

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One of the newer additions to Pajiba. I got to co-author this one:

The trade round-up.

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My friend and I needed someplace to eat dinner. We'd each slept till around noon, then watched TV till about 4:30 or so, and were in the mood for a meal. But it was Thanksgiving, and nothing was open. After buying tickets for a movie, we drove around in search of some fast food joint or hole in the wall where we could get dinner, and the only place open near the theater was Numero Uno pizza. We sat at the tiny bar and watched the game while we ate.

I sat to the left of my friend, but two stools to his right there was a loud girl on a cell phone. She was eating a slice of pizza and nursing what was pretty obviously not her first glass of wine that evening as she blared/honked into the phone. She hung up, and despite my best efforts to put out the normal don't-talk-to-me vibe people radiate on elevators and in other situations, the girl turned to my friend and me and introduced herself.

"My name's Barb," she said.

She asked us our names and what we did, and after lying about most of it, my friend got a phone call, during which Drunk Barb scooted over to cut his pizza while he talked on the phone. She hadn't stopped talking the whole time. She just wouldn't shut up. She had sideburns, too, and not the kind of faint whisps of hair that are commonplace on most women, but some serious chops. It was almost fascinating.

We eventually paid and left, leaving Drunk Barb behind. I drive past that Numero Uno every day on my way to work. I could say I wonder what happened to Drunk Barb, but I don't.

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I like Rilo Kiley okay enough; I've got "The Execution of All Things," though it's been a while since I gave it a spin. But, as I mentioned here just the other day, I really enjoy bandmember Jenny Lewis' solo effort, "Rabbit Fur Coat." I guess what I'm saying is I'm familiar with her work, but not to the level that, apparently, I should be.

It was pointed out to me today by a coworker that Lewis, the go-to hottie for shoegazers and indie fanboys, is none other than the the girl from Troop Beverly Hills. She's done other stuff, too, like a spot in Pleasantville, as well as appearing as two different characters on "Growing Pains" and its spinoff "Just the Ten of Us," which should have sent that particular fictional universe spinning into the kind of paradox and eventual meltdown like when Ron Silver saw himself at the end of Timecop. But I think it's her work with Shelley Long that will somehow change the album for me from now on. It won't taint it, per se; I still love some of the songs, and I don't regret buying it. But from now on, whenever I listen to it, I don't think I'll be able to hear a note without thinking, "Man, I can't believe this is that girl. That's just too weird."

And in case you needed even further proof that Rilo Kiley is somehow at the center of the pop culture universe, Lewis' bandmate Blake Sennett (he's on the far right) was F***ING PINKSY. Seriously. My mind is about to cave in on itself.

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Another video from a former roommate. Enjoy.

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I usually don't do much in the way of music promotion other than cycling new albums through the sidebar, letting you go the trouble of keeping up with what's currently on the stereo. But I feel compelled to share this one with you on a larger scale.

First of all, if just looking at the cover doesn't make you want to buy this album, or at least give it a look, then you should check to make sure your heart hasn't been replaced by an unfeeling lump of ash.

But it is a good album. Really. I highly recommend it. The guy at Amoeba, when I bought it, kindly joked and asked me if I'd like to buy Cat Power's "The Greatest" while I'm at it. I didn't know I was that predictable, but then the guy said that everyone that's bought one has bought the other, or anyway that's what it seems like to him. So I guess I am that predictable. Below is a link to the ironically (because that's the only way hipsters do things, man) retro video. And, if I may add, Jenny Lewis is 18 kinds of cute. Okay. Enjoy.

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Clickety-click.

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You, Brett, are not Wolverine for the following reasons:

• You are a hack director on par with Renny Harlin.

• Wolverine is fictional.

[Plus, and I don't know who's responsible for this, punctuation goes inside the quote marks, unless it's a special circumstance like a semicolon, which this isn't. It's just a comma, and you really should have known better, faceless copy writer who doesn't deserve their (likely) high salary.]

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Filmmaker Rik Swartzwelder has crafted a blunt, mocking rebuttal to the commercialization of his faith that he witnessed in the marketing blitz surrounding Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. His four-minute video, "The McPassion," is available online, though the site's navigation is a little clumsy. [To watch the video, click "Watch" at the bottom of the page, then scroll down and select format and speed.]

Shocking and occasionally wince-inducing, the video is also really, really funny. Swartzwelder has said that his goal in making the short was to inspire debate, and I'm glad he's doing it. Churches are sacred places, and using them to push a commercial product or political agenda is a dangerous thing. The purchasing hype surrounding Gibson's film was disturbing, especially the upsettingly casual merchandise.

There's a world of difference between telling people to vote with their conscience and heart versus telling them that one political party is doing the Lord's work while the other is catering to atheists and abortion doctors. Similarly, using the pulpit to turn a profit makes me queasy; I know you want people to go see The Passion or The Chronicles of Narnia, but be careful not to sound like you're doing PR for the studio.

Swartzwelder sums up his position: "We're on the brink of prostituting our pulpits beyond recognition. When we start showing movie trailers during worship services and telling the faithful it’s their duty to buy tickets to the Cineplex … or to buy anything … I believe that’s as offensive as anything in 'The McPassion.' I'm not judging anyone's motives; by and large, I think people's hearts are in the right place … but I believe it's time for a fresh look at this issue."

I'm glad Swartzwelder's doing this, though I disagree with him that crapfests like End of the Spear can be considered progress for faith-based filmmaking. That film makes Left Behind look like, well, a slightly less crappy version of Left Behind. Anyway, I hope Swartzwelder's short stirs up debate.

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Words fail me. All I can do is direct you to the video and let you see for yourself:

Angry German Boy.

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Will & Grace & Grace's Friend Kristi

Leave It to Beaver

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Not great, but not too bad:

Clickety-click.

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I didn't even know his name until a couple weeks ago. Coworkers would mention a guy named Andy, to my blank look of confusion; I would ask what's the deal with the guy that walks really fast around the office, and was met with similar uncomprehending stares. But now that I know his name is Andy, I still feel better calling him The Guy That Walks Really Fast, since he's constantly plowing through the office, leaned forward, as if he's ascending a steep hill.

TGTWRF is also an avid hoops fan, and has announced several dozen times that he's running this year's NCAA office pool. Now, I didn't mind playing the Oscar pool because (1) I could stand to part with $5 and (2) I figured I had a good chance, even though I wound up in a three-way tie for fourth, meaning 10 people or so in my office did better than my score of 18 for 24. But, since I've written before about the permanence of art vs. the transient nature of athletic glory, coupled with the fact that I just don't care, I've decided not to participate in TGTWRF's pool. Not to mention that it costs $10, and I'd be better off shoving the ten-spot up my butt than filling out a bracket and pretending I know anything about players' stats. You want me to talk about how the styles of Wes Anderson and David Gordon Green can be seen in the work of Phil Morrison? Can do, and will gladly do. At length. But asking me to parse the Sweet 16 is a waste of everyone's time.

Plus, The Guy That Walks Really Fast is just creepy. I was standing at the soda machine, near the bathroom, when he pauses before entering to ask if I'll participate in the pool; since I'm from Texas, he expects to see Texas in the Final Four, he says/jokes/mumbles. I don't know how he knows I'm from Texas, since I don't recall ever telling him this, but I move on, asking him what the price is for the pool, knowing full well that it's $10 but hoping that he can ramble long enough for me to get a Dr Pepper and edge slowly away. TGTWRF then launches into how he decided to set the $10 entry fee: "It used to be $5, but this is my 20th year doing it, and I figure after 20 years, dammit, I can do it because it's not like it was 19 years ago when I was 14 I'm 33 now and I've been doing this for 20 years…"

… at which point blood starting running out of my ears. Thinking quickly, I threw my can of soda at TGTWRF's face. It connected with a solid thunk; he hit the carpet, blood pouring from his forehead. I ran all the way home.

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"You might be wondering, So what? So what if critics don’t get to see a movie—for free—in time to review it and are forced to watch it with the rest of the riffraff? Two things: 1) Movies are expensive and getting more so. Factor in concessions, parking, and transportation and you’re easily talking about a couple paying $50 for two hours of amusement. 2) That, whether it’s politics or entertainment, incredibly expensive publicity comes between what is and what others want you to know." …

"Meanwhile, film journalists, like the journalism profession in general, have earned public mistrust with their eagerness to praise mediocrity, and paralyzing fear of losing access to all-expenses-paid junkets featuring stars tutored in parroting publicity’s party line. All of which has led to, as New York Press critic Armond White noted in 2003, 'The current lunatic notion that film journalists are part of the movie industry, rather than unbiased reporters, commentators, watchdogs. You know, critics.' "

Read the rest here.

I guess I just wanted to say that if I don't like a movie, you'll hear about it. Granted, this was probably obvious already, but I felt like reminding you.

Carry on.

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Mt. Vejewvius

The Hasidic Hatestorm

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Wait, what's that you say? You want a television review? Well, I'm no TV Whore, though I do share his love for Sorkin and Mamet.

But okay:

Here you go.

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I sat there on the toilet, minding my own affairs, when the door to the bathroom literally burst open as Tony barged in, announcing his presence to the urinals like an autistic Santa Claus, bellowing "Hello howareya?" to the online guy, who had the misfortune to be at the sink and thus in Tony's line of conversational fire. I unconsciously cowered on the toilet, hoping he wouldn't start banging on the stall door to ask how my day was going. Old people do weird stuff like that.

Tony sauntered (I imagine) over to the stall to let go and let flow, and as he stood there, doing the do, I heard him breathing, almost heavily, this open-mouthed sighing that was like the aural manifestation of depression. It's like it took so much energy to summon every slow breath just for him to stay alive, and that's about as depressing as it gets.

He finished and washed his hands, and I heard him talking while he cleaned up, muttering some unintelligible nonsense and then, as he opened the door to leave, he said "Let's see what we got here!," almost as if he were proclaiming his intentions to seize the day, or at least seize as much as his arthritic paws could grasp.

So that's my challenge to you, constant reader: Greet each day as if you were Garrison Keillor with Alzheimer's, old and defiant and too stubborn to do anything but what you want to do. Talk to yourself in the bathroom. Dream big, kiddos.

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Because I'm too lazy to be creative.

• There's a real-life Simpsons intro over at YouTube. A rare show of cultural awareness from the folks at Fox, but it's too little, too late: Between the untimely deaths of Arrested Development and Firefly, you guys are dead to me.

• NBC, on the other hand, has forced YouTube to remove the copies of its SNL digital shorts, especially the pioneeing "Lazy Sunday," which wasn't that great to begin with, but had the fortune to come along after several consecutive years of Saturday Night Live sucking pretty bad. YouTube saved SNL this season, and NBC doesn't quite seem to understand that.

• A San Antonio judge quoted Billy Madison in his decision. I was kind of hoping the plaintiff would respond with, "A simple 'no' would have done just fine."

• I dare you to try and escape the crimson room.

• Mr. T visits the Fishers.

• I'll admit that this trailer gets me excited, because let's face it, the four original Superman movies were steaming bowls of elephant crap. Giant, poisonous, Margot-Kidder-love-poem-voice-over pieces of crap. Crap crap crap. No one ever mentioned that after Christopher Reeve's accident, which I guess makes sense, since he probably had other stuff on his mind, but come on. Those movies were awful. This series has nowhere to go but up.

• Conversely, the latest trailer for X-Men isn't as good as the teaser, and I'm more than a little wary about the film, especially since it's being directed by uber-hack Brett Ratner, who's on cinematic par with Renny Harlin. It's too bad Bryan Singer jumped ship; who better to channel the latent themes of sexual discrimination than an actual gay director? Ratner, on the other hand, is a tool. Thanks a pantload for Rush Hour, Brett. Enjoy ruining X-Men.

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First Pirates of the Caribbean, now this. Johnny Depp, please turn your career around:

Clickety-click.

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I went to Baja Fresh to grab dinner Thursday after work, and was struck by the racial diversity in the restaurant. I've seen Crash, so, needless to say, I was well aware of the potential hotbed of activity into which I'd thrown myself. Would I get out alive?

The girl behind the counter that takes my order is Mexican. In fact, all the employees are. Is there some kind of work-release program for illegals? Check on this later.

A black man brushes by me while I stand in line. Is that a knife in his pocket? Why's he wearing a cap? Is that a disguise? Maybe it's gang-related. I edge slowly away. I see he has his son with him; are those stolen Timberlands? Man, this place is a deathtrap.

I see another black guy sitting in the corner. Maybe they're here to watch the Spurs game on the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall next to the salsa bar. Typical.

The action on the TV cuts from the game to a crowd interview with Steve Nash. I feel a flood of recognition: This is what the Mexicans have been waiting for! Commie propaganda!

Seriously, we're one trash can through a window away from some serious riots here.

Before I saw Crash, I would have just thought we were all trying to grab a late-night taco. But now I know better.

Thank you, Paul Haggis.

Thank you.

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I get a pretty steady flow of traffic on this site ("low" can still mean "steady"), so I've decided to open things up a bit for anybody who might have something on their minds but just can't figure out how to leave a comment. I enjoy reading comments left here, and especially the feedback I get on reviews over at Pajiba, where I'm known as both literate and a racist (which I guess is better than being illiterate but culturally sensitive).

So if you've got any questions or complaints, or just like e-mailing strangers, drop a letter in the mailbag by clicking here, or just send it to danielwcarlson(at)gmail(dot)com. Who knows; if I get enough letters, they just might get published.

UPDATE: In the interests of ego, and because I just figured out how to do it, I've added a permanent link to my e-mail to the upper right corner of the page. Fire away.

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The flash-based free radio signal, anyway.

Everyone out there should check out Pandora, an online radio station that asks you for your favorite tunes and throws out songs by artists you might like. It also provides links to buy the music you hear from Amazon and iTunes.

On my first visit, I entered Old 97's. After giving me the band's "Streets of Where I'm From," which is one of my favorites, I was given, among others, a song by Richmond Fontaine (a great band more people should know about), as well as "They All Come Back For More" by Tommy Womack. Pandora told me: "Based on what you've told us so far, we're playing this track because it features country influences, a subtle use of vocal harmony, mixed acoustic and electric instrumentation, a vocal-centric aesthetic and major key tonality." Aside from omitting the series comma, which is just pleasing, their recommendations are pretty good.

Just to try and get a feel for the site's breadth, I entered The Format to create a new station. First up was The Format's "On the Porch," and then a succession of some solid indie-pop.

Anyway, go there. It's free. Pandora.

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Coincidence?

No way.

UPDATE: A much-appreciated reminder from Weck the Sec: The Wayniac is on Hot or Not.

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"Take this year's Best Picture nominations: Brokeback Mountain, Capote, Crash, Munich, and Good Night, and Good Luck. What all of these films have in common is that they have virtually nothing to do with the real business of the Hollywood studios. For Hollywood to choose them as a public display of its virtue is almost as absurd as international oil companies presenting awards to avant-garde artists who happen to paint in oil. Just as Exxon, Royal Dutch Shell, and British Petroleum do not make their living from oil paint (which, after all, is typically not made from crude), Hollywood studios do not make money from producing (or distributing) the occasional art or social-commentary movie."

Click here for the rest.

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At my former place of employment, Amanda recently sent out a department-wide e-mail asking if anyone had seen an extra copy of the Chicago Manual of Style; the e-mail actually said it in the cutesy/mildly retarded prose to which many women seemed to gravitate in that office, saying that the style book had "sprouted legs and walked away," which I think we'll all agree is a pretty elementary way to address a group of working adults.

But the best part of her e-mail is her typo, one that, tragically and more than a little ironically, could have been prevented if she'd actually had said manual in the first place. She asked in her letter: "Has anyone seen an extra Chicago Manuel of Style"?

I've never seen Manuel of Style, but I bet he's one smooth operator. I'll keep an eye out for him.

[She's never going to find the style book, either, since it's currently sitting on my bookshelf. Suck on that, nameless academic publishing company in Thousand Oaks.]

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I know I expressed some concerns recently about the internal consistencies of Lost, and though I still maintain that some hygiene issues are just too big to be ignored, and that Jack's hair should really be noticeably longer, I've got a bigger bone to pick with the show.

Nothing's happening.

Sure, on the surface there seems to be plenty going on, especially compared to most other shows on network TV. But creator J.J. Abrams sets the bar high, and the show's not living up to it. The first season of Abrams' Alias was a phenomenal display of action, mystery, and emotional conflict; except for the random clip show episode where Sydney is interrogated by the FBI (repped by Terry O'Quinn), the entire season is tight, and almost flawlessly paced. Lost took the same mix of soap and sci-fi to epic new heights in its groundbreaking first season, a year that may prove impossible to top. Maybe it's because Abrams' energies have been focused elsewhere of late, but Lost is definitely suffering from a sophmore slump. The best evidence of this?

Nothing's happening.

The show's myriad plot lines, once so tightly interwoven, have become almost helplessly unraveled. Michael's been off in the woods looking for Walt for who knows how long, and except to make a few cameos to welcome Shannon to an apparently pretty Twin Peaks-ish afterlife, Walt hasn't been seen all year. Sawyer finally went bad again and swiped the island's stockpile of guns, an arc which was summarily dropped the next episode when Sawyer spent his time chasing a tree frog.

We're 14 episodes along in season two. At this time last year, Locke and Boone had already found and begun to excavate the hatch; it was revealed that Sawyer knew Jack's father; Claire had been kidnapped; the anagrammatically evil Ethan Rom had made his presence known; Sayid had already been captured by Rousseau and escaped; Charlie had already kicked the monkey off his back; and, of course, Walt was psychically manifesting giant polar bears, and possibly the daily rainfall. Last season was packed with drama, while this season has slowed to a crawl.

Maybe it was impossible for the show to continue on the stellar trajectory it charted its first year. But rather than continue to push the characters forward, to have them grow, the writing this season (again, with the exception of "The Long Con") has been stuck in neutral. The best dramas are ones whose characters show marked change over time, which Lost pulled off in its first year: The characters weren't the same at the end as they were when they started. But this entire season has felt like one long, turgid answer to the question posed in last year's finale of just what's down the hatch. The answer, it seems, is less than we hoped.

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Dave Chappelle's Block Party

The Libertine

"The Apprentice"

[link goes to PopMatters.com]

Ask the Dust

Thank You For Smoking

Inside Man

Slither

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[Much thanks to Defamer for the heads-up.]

Also, if you're looking to blow off a little steam about any or all of last night's awards, or if you think Jack Nicholson pulled a Jack Palance and called the wrong winner, feel free to join the fray over at Pajiba.

UPDATE: Even the bunnies wanted Brokeback to win.

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I sit here, wiping the blood from my eyes, trying to fight off flashbacks to the 2004 election, wondering just how things went so wildly wrong.

Of the 24 Academy Awards categories, I successfully predicted 18 winners, which puts me at an even 75% accuracy. At the start of the show, I had guessed I would hit 20 of 24, since I didn't expect to sweep, but I did think I had made reasonably smart decisions. Ang Lee was a lock for best director, in a year that saw all five best picture and director nominees match up for the first time since 1981. Likewise, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Reese Witherspoon, George Clooney, and Rachel Weisz all seemed like the strongest contenders in their categories, and I was right.

And then Crash had to come along and ruin my entire day.

For those who haven't seen it, or for those who have seen it and are simply a little slow, Crash is a cheesy, ham-fisted melodrama that makes Peter Jackson look like Wim Wenders. It's bloated, predictable, filled with flat characters, and unpleasant to watch. It's a tale about racism that never stops reminding you in bright colors and monosyllabic words and arbitrary plot points that you are watching a movie about racism, and it's your duty to be moved by the film. If not, you don't understand it. It's a movie for people who don't understand enough about movies to pick a good one from a fake one; it's the cinematic equivalent of Ayn Rand, a film for posers and wannabes and that guy in your philosophy class who thinks he's on the ball but pronounces the first "s" in "Descartes."

I'm literally at a loss. I'm monumentally disappointed that Crash won over the powerful Capote, the amazing Good Night, and Good Luck, the thought-provoking Munich, and above all, the phenomenal Brokeback Mountain. In a year when the new version of independent film (small budgets, big names) seemed to be everywhere, Brokeback balanced an emotional story, a solid cast and crew, a well-written script, and an eye to the cultural zeitgeist to become something bigger than the sum of its parts. It's more than a film; it's an idea about where film is heading.

But, like I said, Paul Haggis pretty much screwed that up.

There were some nice surprises in the evening, including the best song win for Hustle & Flow, and there were some bad surprises, like Brokeback losing the cinematography award to Memoirs of a Geisha, a truly insipid period piece that was luck to win for costume design and art direction. And, of course, Jon Stewart was a great host.

But man, this stings. This hurts. I'm reminded of Titanic winning best picture over L.A. Confidential, As Good As It Gets, and Good Will Hunting. Except that was a bad romance beating out legitimate human dramas, and tonight's awards feel like we're taking a cultural step backward. Other films were better, but the Crash DVD is going to have the best picture sticker on the box at Wal-Mart, and that hurts.

Anyway.

Below is my list of predictions and the actual winners. Overall, I'd say I did pretty well, and except for the best picture heartbreaker, I'm pretty happy with the results. The Sis made predictions in 22 of the 24 categories, and most of our picks were the same. (She excluded animated short film and live-action short film.) I got 17 of those 22 correct, and she went 15 for 22. Sis, I accept cash or check.

Best Picture

Prediction: Brokeback Mountain.

Winner: Crash.

Best Actor

Prediction: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote.

Winner: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote.

Best Actress

Prediction: Reese Witherspoon, Walk the Line.

Winner: Reese Witherspoon, Walk the Line.

Best Supporting Actor

Prediction: George Clooney, Syriana.

Winner: George Clooney, Syriana.

Best Supporting Actress

Prediction: Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener.

Winner: Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener.

Best Director

Prediction: Ang Lee, Brokeback Mountain.

Winner: Ang Lee, Brokeback Mountain.

Best Original Screenplay

Prediction: Paul Haggis, Robert Moresco, Crash.

Winner: Paul Haggis, Robert Moresco, Crash.

Best Adapted Screenplay

Prediction: Larry McMurtry, Diana Ossana, Brokeback Mountain.

Winner: Larry McMurtry, Diana Ossana, Brokeback Mountain.

Best Cinematography

Prediction: Rodrigo Prieto, Brokeback Mountain.

Winner: Dion Beebe, Memoirs of a Geisha.

Best Film Editing

Prediction: Hughes Winborne, Crash.

Winner: Hughes Winborne, Crash.

Best Art Direction

Prediction: John Myhre, Gretchen Rau, Memoirs of a Geisha.

Winner: John Myhre, Gretchen Rau, Memoirs of a Geisha.

Best Costume Design

Prediction: Colleen Atwood, Memoirs of a Geisha.

Winner: Colleen Atwood, Memoirs of a Geisha.

Best Original Score

Prediction: Gustavo Santaolalla, Brokeback Mountain.

Winner: Gustavo Santaolalla, Brokeback Mountain.

Best Original Song

Prediction: Michael Becker, Kathleen York, "In the Deep," Crash.

Winner: Jordan Houston, Cedric Coleman, Paul Beauregard, "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp," Hustle & Flow.

Best Makeup

Prediction: Howard Berger, Tami Lane, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Winner: Howard Berger, Tami Lane, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Best Sound Mixing

Prediction: Paul Massey, Doug Hemphill, Peter F. Kurland, Walk the Line.

Winner: Christopher Boyes, Michael Semanick, Michael Hedges, Hammond Peek, King Kong.

Best Sound Editing

Prediction: Mike Hopkins, Ethan Van der Ryn, King Kong.

Winner: Mike Hopkins, Ethan Van der Ryn, King Kong.

Best Visual Effects

Prediction: Joe Letteri, Brian Van't Hul, Christian Rivers, Richard Taylor, King Kong.

Winner: Joe Letteri, Brian Van't Hul, Christian Rivers, Richard Taylor, King Kong.

Best Animated Feature

Prediction: Steve Box, Nick Park, Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit.

Winner: Steve Box, Nick Park, Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit.

Best Foreign Language Film

Prediction: Gavin Hood, Tsotsi (South Africa).

Winner: Gavin Hood, Tsotsi (South Africa).

Best Documentary (Feature)

Prediction: Luc Jacquet, Yves Darondeau, March of the Penguins.

Winner: Luc Jacquet, Yves Darondeau, March of the Penguins.

Best Documentary (Short Subject)

Prediction: Kimberlee Acquaro, Stacy Sherman, God Sleeps in Rwanda.

Winner: Corinne Marrinan, Eric Simonson, A Note of Triumph: The Golden Age of Norman Corwin.

Best Short Film (Animated)

Prediction: Mark Andrews, Andrew Jiminez, One Man Band.

Winner: John Canemaker, Peggy Stern, The Moon and the Son.

Best Short Film (Live Action)

Prediction: Martin McDonagh, Six Shooter.

Winner: Martin McDonagh, Six Shooter.

So there you go. Really, I'm almost too depressed to think about it. I'm going to go home and watch some TV on DVD and sleep in and try to move on. I expect that many of you might be pleased with Crash's victory, and to you I can only say: One day you'll know better.

I hope.

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Thank you, Second Spin. Thank you.

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Trunk full of coke, rental car from Avis:

Clickety-click.

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I hadn't planned on participating in one of these things this year, but I'm playing in the office pool, so I might as well do this here, too. I'm actually competing with The Sis when it comes to the predictions; winner gets bragging rights. (Next year, when she's gainfully employed, we're playing for real money. Like maybe as much as $20. You heard me.) I also realize that by even writing this list, I'm being a bit of a hypocrite, since I wrote that while good movies are better than bad ones, it's almost impossible to pick which good movie is "better" than the others. I stand by that, too. But the nature of the show is to try and predict the winners, and who am I to argue?

Also, I don't plan on listing every nominee in every category. Just go here if you want the full list.

Best Picture

Prediction: Brokeback Mountain. A solid leader. If Crash comes from behind and wins, it will be a sure sign that most people in the industry are committed to creating good works of art but heaping praise on absolute crap.

Preference: Brokeback Mountain. I started anticipating this movie when I saw the trailers last summer. Something about that shot of Heath Ledger in front of the fireworks, plus the music, plus the talent. My only consolation in the ongoing wave of Brokeback humor and hype is that Sideways got a lot of hype last year, too, though admittedly not nearly as much, but now that things have calmed down and most people have forgotten it, it's still a good movie. I hope this is what happens with Brokeback. I'm eager for Fox News pundits and Final Cut wizards to move on and let me have the movie back.

Best Actor

Prediction: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote.

Preference: Philip Seymour Hoffman, Capote. This is a hard choice, since he's up against Joaquin Phoenix, Heath Ledger, Terrence Howard, and David Strathairn. There hasn't been an actors' race this packed with talented performances since the supporting actor category in 1999. Still, I have to give the slight edge to Hoffman.

Best Actress

Prediction: Reese Witherspoon, Walk the Line. She did an amazing job, and she sounded just like June Carter.

Preference: Reese Witherspoon, Walk the Line.

Best Supporting Actor

Prediction: George Clooney, Syriana. However, Matt Dillon could come form behind with his stilted, two-dimensional cop from Crash.

Preference: George Clooney, Syriana. A smart movie that seemed to get overlooked. Clooney earned it.

Best Supporting Actress

Prediction: Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener. But if Brokeback does even better than expected, Michelle Williams could take it.

Preference: Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener. Another great film that seems to have been lost in the shuffle, maybe because of the title.

Best Director

Prediction: Ang Lee, Brokeback Mountain. Has to be.

Preference: Ang Lee, Brokeback Mountain. Seriously, has to be.

Best Original Screenplay

Prediction: Paul Haggis, Robert Moresco, Crash. Sad, but almost inevitable. It shouldn't take any top prizes, but this one's almost certain.

Preference: Noah Baumbach, The Squid and the Whale. It'd be nice to see Baumbach get the recognition he deserves.

Best Adapted Screenplay

Prediction: Larry McMurtry, Diana Ossana, Brokeback Mountain.

Preference: Larry McMurtry, Diana Ossana, Brokeback Mountain.

Best Cinematography

Prediction: Rodrigo Prieto, Brokeback Mountain. Who knew Canada looked so good?

Preference: Rodrigo Prieto, Brokeback Mountain

Best Film Editing

Prediction: Hughes Winborne, Crash. Looks good on a resume.

Preference: Claire Simpson, The Constant Gardener. The editing was a crucial storytelling element here, and turned a spy thriller into a sad, retroactive love story.

Best Art Direction

Prediction: John Myhre, Gretchen Rau, Memoirs of a Geisha. This was a pretty crappy movie, and this is one of the only awards it can win.

Preference: James D. Bissell, Jan Pascale, Good Night, and Good Luck. The lack of exteriors, and the period-era sets, made the film feel genuine.

Best Costume Design

Prediction: Colleen Atwood, Memoirs of a Geisha. Again, one of the only categories Geisha can take.

Preference: Arianne Phillips, Walk the Line. The '60s clothes were accurate but not distracting. Plus, anything's better than Geisha.

Best Original Score

Prediction: Gustavo Santaolalla, Brokeback Mountain.

Preference: Gustavo Santaolalla, Brokeback Mountain. An amazing score.

Best Original Song

Prediction: Michael Becker, Kathleen York, "In the Deep," Crash. Likely.

Preference: Jordan Houston, Cedric Coleman, Paul Beauregard, "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp," Hustle & Flow. I'd love this to win. Rap songs can take the category, like Eminem did with 8 Mile's "Lose Yourself." And Hustle & Flow is an infinitely better film than Crash.

Best Makeup

Prediction: Howard Berger, Tami Lane, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Preference: Howard Berger, Tami Lane, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Yeah, why not.

Best Sound Mixing

Prediction: Paul Massey, Doug Hemphill, Peter F. Kurland, Walk the Line.

Preference: Paul Massey, Doug Hemphill, Peter F. Kurland, Walk the Line. The sound and music were phenomenal. Granted, it's hard to make Johnny Cash music unlistenable, but the audio here was amazing.

Best Sound Editing

Prediction: Mike Hopkins, Ethan Van der Ryn, King Kong.

Preference: Mike Hopkins, Ethan Van der Ryn, King Kong. Sure. Who cares.

Best Visual Effects

Prediction: Joe Letteri, Brian Van't Hul, Christian Rivers, Richard Taylor, King Kong.

Preference: Joe Letteri, Brian Van't Hul, Christian Rivers, Richard Taylor, King Kong. Better than Narnia, and more involved than War of the Worlds.

Best Animated Feature

Prediction: Steve Box, Nick Park, Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit.

Preference: Steve Box, Nick Park, Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. Funny, smart, a technical feat.

Best Foreign Language Film

Prediction: Gavin Hood, Tsotsi (South Africa). Although Palestine Now could take it, if the Academy resolves to completely alienate Wal-Mart shoppers, which might not be a bad move.

Preference: Gavin Hood, Tsotsi (South Africa).

Best Documentary (Feature)

Prediction: Luc Jacquet, Yves Darondeau, March of the Penguins. Probably inevitable, because people are stupid and like trends.

Preference: Henry Alex Rubin, Dana Adam Shapiro, Murderball. Such an amazing story. It's on A&E now, but it's really worth the rental or purchase.

(We now leave the area where I pretend to be knowledgable and enter the realm where I freely admit I know nothing.)

Best Documentary (Short Subject)

Prediction: Kimberlee Acquaro, Stacy Sherman, God Sleeps in Rwanda. Anything with "Rwanda" in the title has a good shot.

Preference: Kimberlee Acquaro, Stacy Sherman, God Sleeps in Rwanda.

Best Short Film (Animated)

Prediction: Mark Andrews, Andrew Jiminez, One Man Band. When in doubt, vote for Pixar.

Preference: Mark Andrews, Andrew Jiminez, One Man Band.

Best Short Film (Live Action)

Prediction: Martin McDonagh, Six Shooter. Um, I like the title.

Preference: Martin McDonagh, Six Shooter.

That's about it. If my predictions turn out to be wrong, I fully intend to eat my words and admit my mistakes. However, anyone that supports a Crash victory should refrain from mocking my losses, as I do not consider your opinions valid. Thanks.

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Got to get a quick plug in for Rhett Miller's latest, "The Believer." If you don't own it, you should, and if you do own it, you should tell people about it. And whether you do or you don't, you should click here and check it out. Jon Brion plays on several tracks, and so does Gary Louris. What more do you need to know?

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Movies always come in trends, and for some reason, pairs of movies dealing with the same topic seem to keep cropping up. Let's do a rundown:

Prefontaine (1997) vs. Without Limits (1998)

Hard to pick a winner here. They're both about Steve Prefontaine, but no one cares about running, so let's move on.

Volcano (1997) vs. Dante's Peak (1997)

Linda Hamilton and Pierce Brosnan ran around in a bunch of ash in Dante's Peak, which was gray and uneventful, though Grandma did get boiled in the lake, which was pretty cool. But Volcano had lava pouring through the heart of L.A., and there's nothing better than watching a river of fire slide past the place you get bagels.

Winner: Volcano.

Armageddon (1998) vs. Deep Impact (1998)

Almost too easy. Elijah Wood comes of age while a meteor heads to earth, compared to the Aerosmith-ballad-wielding, animal-crackers-on-the-stomach crapfest that had simple-minded girls everywhere bawling over Ben Affleck.

Winner: Deep Impact. (It barely wins, though, since it was directed by Mimi Leder, who also brought us Pay It Forward, who for doing so should be beaten and chastised.)

Now, the main event: Capote (2005) vs. Infamous (2006)

I feel bad for Douglas McGrath. An actor, writer, and director, McGrath is currently helming Infamous, formerly titled Every Word Is True, which Warner Indepent Pictures has slated for a fall 2006 release. The film follows Truman Capote as he researches the lives of two murderers in Kansas for his upcoming "In Cold Blood." This should sound familiar to you all. I feel bad because his film entered production at roughly the same period as Bennett Miller's Capote, but there's now no way his film can carve out its own identity. Despite its all-star cast, it will only ever be known as the movie that isn't Capote. Worse, it's the movie that came after Capote. And worst of all, while Philip Seymour Hoffman transformed himself for the film and gave an amazing performance, Toby Jones just looks creepy:

That photo scares the crap out of me. I see it in my nightmares. Also, I'm not buying Gwyneth Paltrow as Peggy Lee and Sandra Bullock as Harper Lee. Sandra Bullock was never talented, just popular, and it's a shame that too many people saw Crash and thought it meant something and that, consequently, its cast deserved newfound recognition. Shame on you.

Winner: Capote, hands down.

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This is the order:

Rushmore (Obvious.)

Bottle Rocket (Close choice.)

The Royal Tenenbaums (Tries a bit too hard.)

The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou (Enjoyable but distant fourth.)

This is the order. It is unchangeable, and it is good.

Do you doubt the order? Go make thyself clean, and return when your soul has cleared.

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FCC Comissioner Deborah Tate has come out in favor of the family-friendly cable tiers some programmers are now offering for consumers who want to keep "racy" content from entering their homes. Additionally, John McCain, whom I like, and the Parents Television Council, whom I openly despise with every ounce of my soul, are pushing for cable companies to offer more family tiers and a la carte programs, so that parents can pick and choose their content and keep blood and breasts and whatever else scares them away from their kids. Now, I'm not sure why the parents are willing to give up the options for a variety of content in an effort to protect their kids when they, as parents, should probably be a bit more proactive in their kids' viewing habits; if your 11-year-old is watching "Nip/Tuck," maybe you should try turning it off before calling on the government to intervene.

Nevertheless, there's a good idea at the bottom of all this insanity. Tate has said that friends of hers express displeasure at paying for a full block of channels and having to block out "half the stations they are paying for." This is a good point.

I'm sick and tired of paying a cable bill and having the money support OLN, the Golf Channel, FSN, ESPNs 1-27, the weird Asian channel called AZN, MTV Espanol, Fox News, BET, HSN, Lifetime, E!, and G4 Tech TV. Mainly all the sports crap, since CNN and Bill Simmons keep me in enough headlines and commentary to pass for normal at the office, and the rest of the channels I just plain don't need.

My complaint has nothing to do with "decency" in programming; I'm single, have no children, and enjoy all the stuff you're not supposed to let kids see, anyway, so asking me to give up HBO and Comedy Central is a bad idea. I'd like to see the a la carte plan happen because I'm tired of paying for stuff I never use. I know there are legions of men and women out there happy to pay for that stuff. Let them have it.

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I love Lost, but:

How can Jack and Sawyer maintain that perfect Indy-level of stubble? And how can Locke stay clean-shaven?

Shouldn't Kate's dye job be fading?

Where do the women get the makeup?

What happens when the women run out of tampons? (This could be an amazing, murder-filled season finale.)

Why isn't Jack's hair growing?

Why hasn't anyone suffered food poisoning or some kind of food or plant allergy?

How many olive-colored wife-beaters did Sayid bring with him?

Why aren't the castaways tanner and thinner? According to the show's chronology, they've been stranded for like two months. Their bodies should really reflect it.

And on a completely unrelated note, how can Ferris be so smart but still expect the odometer to roll back by driving in reverse? This is unacceptable, and takes me out of the movie every time. It's like when Johnny goes from evil to good in the literal final seconds and hands Daniel the trophy. It just doesn't hold water.

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